Blood Ties - Igornerd - Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter 1: A Child Is Chosen, A Child is Found

Chapter Text

It was a cold winter, this one. Even for Skyrim, a land known for its rigid climate, it was a difficult one for its inhabitants.

The denizens of the village of Helgen were all barricaded inside their homes, away from the biting cold. Laughs could be heard coming from the inside of the local inn, and sounds of music and songs.

But no laughs or songs were heating the Harissen household. Husband and wife were sitting quietly on different sides of the common room, ignoring each other in an almost embarrassing way.

After all, this was the last night they would spend under the same roof.

They already stopped sleeping in the same bed. It wasn't like they hated each other, or one of them had an affair. They had married too quickly and realized too late that they just didn't work as a couple. It happened every day, in every part of Tamriel, after all.

So they had decided, in common agreement, to divorce. They brought their case to the jarl and the priest of Falkenrath and asked for the annulment of the marriage. But it was more difficult that they would have believed it to be.

A wailing came from upstairs. Soon, another cry could be heard.

The soon-to-be-former couple met each other's eyes. That was the sound of the only reason why they hadn’t already said their goodbyes to each other a week ago.

The woman nodded and rose, moving towards the stair that took to the house's upper floor. Following the noise, she arrived in the main bedroom where a crib was placed beside the bed she had shared with her husband.

Inside the cradle a pair of toddlers, not even nine months old, were crying. One of the twins had probably woken up and his noise disturbed his brother's sleep. Sitting herself on the border of the bed, the young mother started to swing slowly the cradle and singing a lullaby. She hoped that they would go back to sleep, the last nights had been almost deprived of rest, between the twins waking up and the tension between her and her husband.

They had tried to stay together, for their sons' sakes, they really did. But it wasn't fated to be, it seemed. The worse part was that by decree of the jarl, they would have to split the children. It was a compromise of sorts. None of the parents wanted to lose their offspring. And she had been given the right to choose, by the jarl and the priest alike.

She tried to talk about it with her former husband, but he just washed his hands about the whole thing. The choice was hers, and only hers. Nobody had objected at that, not even the jar. May the Nine—may the Eight damn these men, torturing a mother with such a decision!

High Rock could been safe enough, but then she would have to journey either to the Aldmeri Dominion or Hammerfell.

The Aldmeri Dominion was out of question. That meant no docks at the Summerset Isle, Valenwood or their client-state, Elsweyr. Better to avoid the Thalmor if at all possible.

Hammerfell was independent and devastated since the end of the war. Very few travellers and merchant ships went there. But should she have succeed in finding a passage through it, she could arrive in Cyrodiil, either with a caravan or by docking at the city of Anvil

On the other route, the eastern one, her first stop would logically be Morrowind, but that unfortunate land was in a chaotic situation since the explosion of the Red Mountain in Vvarderfell and all the invasions it had suffered.

Black Marsh had always been hostile to travellers and seceded from the Empire almost two centuries ago and after Umbriel appeared in the skies above Lilmoth...No. She would skip Black Marsh altogether. It wasn't a difficult choice.

But back to the children. She would think about how to travel later.

Should she take with her the healthier and stronger twin, more likely to survive the travel to her home? Or the frail one, hoping that his health would fare better in the warmer Cyrodill?

“Nines, forgive me,” she murmured.

Two days later, she was on a carriage that would have taken her to the city of Solitude, the biggest commercial dock of the entire province. In her arms, sheltered from the cold by a layer of blankets and furs, was one of her sons.

The twins would never see each other again.

At least, not while alive.

In his long career as a shinobi, Sarutobi Hiruzen had seen a lot of things.

Most of them involved blood, pain, and mortal peril. He had fought in the first Shinobi World War, became Hokage before reaching twenty, led his village in the other two wars and thanks to the assistance some of the greatest, more powerful jutsu known from the times of his generation, he was still alive to tell the tale.

So he should have been prepared for everything when his students finally come back from their first unsupervised, outside of Fire Country no less.

That was a true testament to their potential and talent, and they were just twelve.

But nothing could prepare the Sandaime for what they carried inside his office to submit their mission report. Such a thing had never been rarely seen in the office of a Kage, and probably never in the hands of a twelve-years old girl.

In Tsunade’s arms, covered by a small bundle of cloth, was a sleeping baby. And a very young one, too, if he could see correctly. Probably only a few months old.

He was slightly baffled by this. Even if he was sure that there was an explanation, it was really something he had never seen before.

His musings where interrupted by a soft cough from Jiraiya and the Hokage realized that he had tuned everything out for minutes out of shock.

“Welcome back,” he said, hiding his embarrassment. “Report.”

“Our mission in the Land of Tea was completed successfully and under the expected time, Sarutobi-sensei,” Orochimaru said, coming closer to the desk and pulling out a scroll out of his backpack.

He accepted the scroll, but instead of opening it, he stared idly at his students, silently demanding an explanation.

“We are sorry for our tardiness,” his pale student added hastily.

“You were supposed to arrive two weeks ago. I was almost at the point of sending a search party after you. What happened?” he asked, sparing a glance to the sleeping infant.

“The day before our departure, a violent storm hit the western coast of the Land of Tea,” Tsunade answered. “It was very strong, and it lasted for days. Even for a shinobi, travelling in that climate would have been dangerous, so we decided to wait until it was over.”

Sarutobi nodded. True, rumors of the massive storms coming from the ocean had reached even Konoha, but not one of those had mentioned how much damage they could cause.

“There was water everywhere!” Jiraiya complained. “A real flood! And we had to save everyone! That’ll show them what an awesome ninja the Great Jiraiya is!”

There was quite a bit of pride in his loudest student's voice.

“We helped because we were paid to, Jiraiya,” Orochimaru sneered. “After we checked into an inn, word spread around and the local lord summoned us. He offered a substantial sum in exchange for our services in helping his people.”

The boy rummaged a while into his rucksack and took out of it two items, a scroll and a large pouch.

Sarutobi wanted to approve of his white-haired student’s altruism, but he decided to refrain. After that contract signed on the field would give an advantage in the region to Konoha, giving to the village a better reputation and as such, more potential clients.

And the unexpected money was good, too.

But he was reminded of the other matter at hand when the baby woke up and started to cry.

“And what about him? Or it is a her?” he asked, smirking a little at seeing not only Tsunade, but also Jiraiya trying to calm down the screaming little bundle of joy.

With little success. The Hokage noted how Orochimaru’s left eyebrow had developed a small tick. Their trip back home must have been… interesting.

“It’s a he , sensei,” Tsunade clarified, as she slowly lulled the baby.

“When we finally started our journey,” Orochimaru started explaining, “we decided to pass by the coast. The whole region had been devastated by tidal waves. We navigated through it with ease, but five days ago we spotted the ruins of a village on the coast. We would have just carried on, but…”

“But Jiraiya started running towards the ruined village, screaming that he saw something,” Tsunade muttered, after having finally been able to stop the child’s screaming.

“Well, there was something! That’s why I wanted to check!” Jiraiya whined loudly.

“You could have just said that instead of rushing in there! What if it was a trap?!” Tsunade yelled.

They all flinched when a loud wail erupted from the baby. All Sarutobi could do was sigh in frustration.

“There! Look! You made him cry again!” Jiraiya pointed out.

“It was your whining that made him sad, idiot!” Tsunade accused, throwing a jab at Jiraiya’s head.

“You can’t use a genjutsu against someone this young, idiot! It could harm him!” Tsunade hissed, trying to calm the baby once again.

“And I didn’t bear his and your wails all the way back to the village to see such an idiotic thing happening,” Orochimaru said, frowning to his white-haired teammate.

“I presume,” the Hokage said, interrupting his students’ antics, “that the ‘interesting thing’ Jiraiya saw was the baby?”

“No, sensei. It was a ship wreck,” the white-haired boy stated matter-of-factly, like it was perfectly normal.

“Oh, well, of course,” Sarutobi indulged. After all, the boy was still a twelve years old. “Would you tell me about this… ship?”

“It was huge ! And it didn’t look like any other ship I saw before! And, and―”

“The ship had obviously been slammed against the shoreline by the storm,” Orochimaru interrupted. “And somehow it wrecked exactly in the ruins of the village’s dock.”

Orochimaru hesitating when giving him a mission report? Unheard of!

“Sensei, it was made of a wood I wasn’t able to identify,” his student admitted finally, looking ashamed for his ignorance.

Now, that was really unusual.

“Really now? Could you please describe the design of this ship?” he asked.

“It was long! Really long!” Jiraiya started, enthusiastically. “And there was a wooden animal at the… What’s it called? Prow! There was this wooden horse at the prow of the ship!”

“It was a wooden snake , idiot,” Orochimaru said, rolling his eyes.

“Nooo,” the other boy denied. “You’re saying that just because you’re obsessed with those things.”

“Also, the entire ship was clearly heavily damaged by the storm and the impact with the dock,” Orochimaru added.

Sarutobi remained silent for a few seconds, frowning because of his confusion. That didn’t sound like any kind of ship he’d seen, or even heard of.

Had it not been for the baby, he would have already lit his pipe.

“So, you just saw this unusual ship? What happened after that?”

“We arrived besides Jiraiya, who was just looking at the ship wreck with wide eyes, standing right there in the open,” Tsunade said, giving a poignant glance at her teammate, who was now massaging his head.

No doubt Tsunade had clobbered the boy when they had reached him. That would have been typical.

“As they started to argue, we heard a waling cry from above the ship,” Orochimaru said. He launched a brief look at the baby.

“I see,” Sarutobi said. He had already figured out that much. “And what happened after that?”

“I jumped on the ship!” Jiraiya proclaimed co*ckily.

Of course he did. Always so brash and impulsive...

“And what was on that ship?” Sarutobi asked, giving his students a disapproving frown to stop the bickering. “Besides your new… responsibility , of course.”

“Our what? ” the children cried in unison.

“Kidding, kidding,” he said with a mirthful tone. Children these days would believe everything. “But now stop bickering and tell me what did you find on that ship.”

Jiraiya and Tsunade exchanged glances. Apparently they didn’t know how to explain what they had seen.

“Bodies, sensei,” Orochimaru said. Trust him, to be so blunt. “The ship’s bridge was littered with bodies.”

“There was blood everywhere!” Jiraiya said dramatically.

“ Most of them?” Hiruzen asked, ignoring the boy’s outburst.

“There were signs of jutsu being used, too!” Jiraiya proclaimed.

Well, that changed everything. Were the other villages planning something?

His eyes narrowed.

Sarutobi accepted that scroll, too. Sparing a single glance at his students whose faces were full of expectation, he opened it.

The stored contents cluttered in a cacophony of metal all over his desk. Swords shaped unlike any katana he had ever seen composed the majority of the metallic mess that was covering his precious paperwork. There were also axes, maces, and other offensive tools scattered among the blades.

He reached for one of the weapons, and unsheathed it, examining the double-edged blade that departed from the vaguely cross-like guard. The metal showed some sign of rust, probably due to having been left uncared on the sea for days. The hilt’s leather felt rough under his hands, and the weapon, even if heavy, looked well balanced.

“Sensei, look at this one! The steel is really hard!” Tsunade said enthusiastically, indicating one that was almost on the end of the pile.

“Steel tends to be hard, Tsunade-chan,” he said as he felt the blade’s edge with his finger.

“Senseeeiii! I mean that its steel is harder ! And it doesn’t even rust!”

Frowning in confusion, the Hokage put the exotic-looking sword in place, deciding to examine this ‘harder steel’ her student was talking about.

Shuffling around the various metal objects, he noted that among them there were also small jewels, pieces of armour, books and other mundane items, and under the whole mass, one of those round shields the kids had told him about. It was made of wood, with a metal border, and it looked really thick. A strangely painted animal was sported on it.

On the top of the shield, was laying the strangest sword he had ever seen, besides the Raijin no Ken that used to belong to the Nidaime Hokage.

The sword didn’t have a scabbard, so he could see the exposed blade. The weapon was a beautiful black color, like a sliver of midnight.

The blade, the guard, and the hilt seemed to have been forged from a single metal piece. If he had thought that the other sword was exotic, this one looked utterly alien.

He grasped the sword and slowly lifted it, surprised by how heavy it was. The metal was cold, and looking at it from a closer distance, he realized that it was not steel. It was a metal unknown to him.

He had never seen anything like this before, indeed .

Where was the ship from? And the child, of course. There was also the matter of the child. Speaking of which...

“Where did you find him?” he asked, carefully lowering the weapon on the rest of the pile.

“We didn’t find him immediately, it took us a few minutes,” Jiraiya started, with a sad tone. “He was bound in a blanket, besides the body of a woman. We think… that she was the baby’s mother.”

“They had the same hair,” Tsunade confirmed. “And she was embracing him, when she died.”

But she couldn’t have been one of the attackers, otherwise why would she have taken with her a baby, one that seemed almost a newborn?

Pirates, maybe? Pirates with a missing-nin among their midst, that attacked the ship before, or even during the storm?

“Sensei?” his students said, trying to gain his attention.

Blinking his eyes, Sarutobi realized that he had doze off again, lost in his thoughts. He glanced at his students, and saw that another scroll was offered to him, this time by Tsunade.

“We have stored the remains of his mother too, sensei,” said the girl, gesturing with her head towards the baby. “We thought that our medics could have examined her, to see if they could understand something about her.”

Sarutobi knew that Tsunade was referring to the potential secrets that the body could hide within it. He nodded grimly. An autopsy would have probably revealed something about the origin of their mysterious woman.

“Thank you Tsunade, now let’s focus again on the child… how was he when did you find him?”

“On the brink of death,” she said. “He had spent spent all that time in the cold, without food. I immediately started an emergency treatment, but to save him I almost suffered from chakra exhaustion.”

“Once the child was no longer in danger of death, we had to stop her,” Orochimaru clarified, causing Tsunade to be a little embarrassed.

“And she fell asleep soon,” Jiraiya added, adding more reasons to Tsunade’s chagrin. “The baby, too.”

“And what happened next?” Sarutobi asked.

“We… disposed of the other bodies,” the white-haired boy said sadly.

“Only because you were so damn stubborn about it,” Orochimaru said, crossing his arms.

“Hey, snake bastard! We couldn’t leave them to the animals!”

“Yes, we could. We lost time with that stupid task,” the pale boy replied.

“But Tsunade was unconscious, we would have lost time anyway!” Jiraiya insisted.

“Hey!” the girl protested, offended by that remark.

“How did you dispose of them?” Sarutobi asked, wondering how his two pupils had managed such a grim duty.

To his surprise, the two boys, instead of answering immediately, looked at each other’s eyes, hesitating.

“We burned them with the ship,” they said in unison.

Sarutobi remained silent for a moment, before finally nodded approvignly. Destroying the remains had probably eliminated all the evidence of its presence, and probably left Konoha as the only Hidden Village that knew of its existence. That way, only Konoha would have gained from this strange encounter.

“I was the team leader, Jiraiya. It was not your decision to make. We’ve already talked about this.”

“And what decision would this be?” Sarutobi asked, smothering another argument between the boys before it could start.

Jiraiya looked away, apparently disapproving Orochimaru’s call.

“The baby is obviously an orphan with no ties that we know of, sensei. Searching and finding a family that would adopt him would have taken time. And since the region had just been flooded—”

“The research for such a family would have probably been unsuccessful, yes,” he interrupted. “But why take him here to Konoha, Orochimaru? You could have just found a family or an orphanage… even a temple, here in Fire Country.”

“Because Konoha needs more shinobi, sensei,” the boy answered.

He nodded, understanding what his student meant. It was not exactly an orthodox recruiting method, but it had already happened in the past.

And the mother of the baby had been obviously some kind of shinobi, even if her origins were unknown. They probably would never know.

And if the boy had inherited some talent from her mother…

“Now, what is his name?” he asked, smiling.

There was a long silence, as his students looked at each other’s eyes, their expressions a mix of embarrassment and realization.

“What? You’ve travelled with him for days. Surely you should have given a name to him? After all, you had to call him something when you spoke about him, right?” he asked, hiding his puzzlement.

“We called him ‘baby’... Wasn’t that enough?” Jiraiya asked, honestly confused.

For being so talented shinobi, his students were so clueless about some things. Once again, he had to remind himself that they were only twelve years old.

“Give him to me, Tsunade,” he said, sighing softly as he spread his arms towards her.

The girl came closer to him, passing around the desk, and Sarutobi accepted the infant with a sense of caring that seemed completely out of place with an experienced killer sitting besides a pile of sharp weapons.

The baby didn’t protest as he was gently lulled by the Sandaime’s arms.

Jiraiya tried to suppress a snicker, and failed miserably.

“Something on your mind, Jiraiya?” the older man asked, caressing the child’s spiky blond hair.

“No, sensei,” his student replied quickly. “Sorry sensei.”

“Good. Now, let’s see…” he said, examining the child’s features. “He was taken to us by the storm that hit the coast of the continent, mmh… waves and winds.”

“He was taken here by us , sensei,” Jiraiya muttered. That earned him a slap on the head, courtesy of Tsunade.

“And you said that you found him in the ruins of a dock, right?” Sarutobi asked, without reprimanding the girl’s action.

“Yeah! You could say that the ship managed to dock, no matter what!” the white-haired boy laughed, amused by his own terrible joke.

Nobody else was laughing. Tsunade gave him another slap, and Jiraiya stopped laughing.

“I’ve got it,” Sarutobi announced, grinning. “You will be known as Namikaze Minato.”

“That’s a dumb name, sensei,” Jiraiya whined. Tsunade slapped him one more time.

The now named Namikaze Minato giggled in the Sandaime Hokage’s arms.

Chapter 2: Where A Last Stand Is Held

Chapter Text

The door opened slowly, letting the freezing air from outside enter in the inn's common room.
A tall figure donning a hooded cape and sporting a long walking staff entered, and closed the door behind him, shivering for the cold.

It was a small building, this inn. Little more than a house turned rest stop for any travellers who crossed the road that cut through the Hjaalmarch.

The man—he was clearly a man since there was a beard attached to the chin that peeked through the hood—knew he could have travelled further before the sun set, but he was tired. He was still a day from crossing the Karth River and arriving at Solitude, and he wanted to rest on a warm bed for once.

He quickly scanned the inn, and was surprised to see that he was the only customer there.

The innkeeper was a woman in her thirties, probably the late half. Pretty, but he was not in the mood.

He saluted her with a gesture of his hand and she seemed to relax a bit. She had actually seemed afraid of his presence.

It was only expected, given the tattered weapons and armour dangling from his belt were visible from under his half-cape: a simple dagger that he carried as a last resort weapon and as a tool, and his trusted axe.

A Nord that hated the cold. Funny.

A little souvenir left to him by a close encounter with a hagraven.

The woman nodded hesitantly and went into the kitchen to fetch a meal for her customer. Why was she so nervous? He hadn’t threatened her, right?

She returned soon, carrying a tray with a full mug, a loaf of bread and a steaming bowl of soup. Apple and cabbage, by the smell.

Why did she look so afraid?

He thanked her and took the tray from her hands. She returned behind the counter and observed him from time to time.

He still hadn't touched his meal.

Why did she seem so afraid?

He took the mead. The sweet alcohol was erupting from it. He lifted the mug, foretasting it. It was his favourite beverage, after all.

He stopped when he saw the woman expression.
Why was she so afraid?

He putted down the mug, looking at it.

Yes, she was very afraid, now.

“This is a trap, isn't it?” he sighed.

The innkeeper's eyes widened. It that was all he needed.

He rose from his seat. The mug fell down.

The woman escaped to the kitchen, screaming for help.

He ran after her. She was reaching for a knife. He didn't give her a chance.

With a jump, he grabbed her and pinned her on the wall, keeping her firm in place with his arms.

“Poison. Deadly. Rare. Not your idea,” he hissed. It wasn't a question.

The woman seemed on the point of pissing herself. She managed to nod.

“Who did this?”

“You know who,” she said, starting to cry.

Yes, he knew who. But if they were able to plan something like this, in a random tavern he was just passing through, that would mean...

That would mean that they had been following him for days. Weeks, even.

But that was not possible. His journey to Solitude had been a secret, and he had travelled for days in the wilderness, avoiding villages and cities and stopping only in their hideouts.

How could it be—

He widened his eyes in realization. Someone had betrayed them. Someone had betrayed the Blades.

Faint noises of metal rustling could be heard, coming from somewhere outside of the inn.

He sighed again, closing his eyes. Then slowly, gently, he let go of the woman.

She immediately fell on the ground, sobbing, her head lowered.

“How many?”

“Too many,” replied the innkeeper quickly. “Even for you.”

He undid the lace of his mantle. It would hinder him in the impending fight.

“We'll see. Hide,” he said to the sobbing woman, leaving the kitchen. He left his mantle on the counter, and paid for his uneaten meal.

As he tossed the empty phial away, he could already feel the fortifying effect of the potion in his body.

He opened the door and left the inn.

Thalmor.

Dozens of them.

As he ordered to his mer to surround the entrance of the inn, Ederion knew something had gone wrong.

If the stupid woman who they had coerced into playing the role of the innkeeper hadn't called them yet, then their target had suspected something. Probably he had killed her; she was expendable after all.

That's what Ederion would have done, in his target's place.

Following their target in the wilderness without being detected while leading so many soldiers had been a difficult task, but he had been able to do it.

He was the best of the best, after all.

The various elves had barely finished to get in position, that the door to the wooden shed opened.

His soldiers tensed immediately. A shield wall was raised, spears were pointed towards the entrance, and arrows were nocked.

A man left the building, walking like he was just going for a stroll.

Whispers started among the ranks. Even if the soldiers under his command were not all veterans, they weren’t green either. But they all had heard the stories of the Dragonborn.

The sworn enemy of the Aldmeri Dominion, and of the Thalmor especially.

The warrior who had slain dragons, men and mer alike during Skyrim’s Civil War.

The right hand of the gods-damned Blades’ leader.

The boogieman that the elven mothers had started using for scaring their children, so that they would eat all the soup at dinner.

In the eyes of his mer, the man out there was a legend.

Ederion was just looking at the man, instead. A fool, weak man that looked a little more than a tattered vagrant, with a scarred face, an old armour and a walking stick.

True, he was the Dovahkiin, but he was getting older now. The man had passed his physical peak at least ten years ago, and with time he would just grow weaker and die.

But still, it was always best to tie up loose ends. After all, he had proven quite a threat in the past, and he could possibly keep being one for decades.

The Justiciar was sure that almost all the man’s biggest achievement were just exaggerations. Tales overstated by the bards that seemed to infest this forsaken barbarian country, the most dangerous thing about the man standing before them wasn’t his battle prowess: it was his reputation.

He and his few companions represented the single greatest resistance the Aldmeri Dominion had to face since before the Great War, and that would not be tolerated anymore.

He raised his hand, ready to give the signal for the archers. Today, the Dragonborn’s legend would come to an end.

But as he was savoring the idea of turning the man to a pincushion with only a gesture of his hand, when something that he had never expected happened, which made him hesitate.

The man let go of his staff, who fell on the frozen ground. He remained there, unmoving, looking at the company of soldiers in front of him.

Then, slowly, he raised his open palms and placed them behind his head.

Murmurs could be heard among the mer once again, but this time they were caused by shock and surprise.

The Dragonborn was surrendering.

Ederion smirked, signaling to the archers to stand down.

The man knew he could not win here. Not against this many trained soldiers.

Ederion’s mind was abuzz. If he could manage to take that man alive… as his prisoner and back to Alinor in chains…

The glory… he could already feel it.

No.

No, the Dragonborn was too dangerous to be just kept prisoner, and executed into the capital's main plaza.

But the glory could still be his.

After all, what was the difference between taking prisoner one of the greatest enemies of the Dominion, and bringing back his head instead?

He advanced towards the surrendering man, slowly extracting the sword. The man was just standing there, looking at the ground. Ederion came closer.

He was going to be the one who did it, he was going to be the slayer of the Dragonborn!

“Conrad Harissen,” he spoke, full of righteous glee. “By the authority given to me from the Thalmor, for the crime of being a Talos worshipper, and for your multiple aggressions against the Aldmeri Dominion, I condemn you to—”

“FUS—”

I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes...

With a voice wielding power of the ancient nord art

“—RO DAH!” he shouted, watching the Justiciar soar through the air and finally slam against the shields of the Thalmor soldiers with a stupefied expression plastered on his face.

Sucker.

Too bad the elf hadn’t hit one of those spears.

Conrad quickly knelt, grabbing his fallen staff and avoiding the few arrows that the archers who weren’t completely shocked had managed to shoot.

He’d better find a solution for them. Fast.

Raising his right hand, he quickly channelled his power, moving his fingers through the necessary phases. Flames flickered between them, caressing his palm.

Various fireballs departed from his extended hand, exploding on the Thalmor’s shield wall. This resulted in dozens of pained screams, a few dead soldiers, and smoke.

Lots and lots of smoke which blocked the archers’ line of fire, giving him a few seconds to formulate a strategy.

Running away was not an option. The terrain around the inn was almost completely composed of snowed plains. The salt marshes of the region were too far, and he would have an hard time losing such a force among them. If he wasn’t killed by the archers while he made a run for it.

Levitation was not an option either because he would have just made himself a flying target, instead of a running one.

To fight was the only choice he had.

To annihilate was his only option.

As arrows sailed over his head, he kept moving, still half-crouched.

With precise movements of his free hand, he twisted the very fabric of reality for a brief moment, summoning an ally from a different plane of existence. A being made of flames, its form vaguely feminine, materialized besides him. It was hovering a foot above the ground, looking at Conrad with anticipation, waiting for its master’s instructions.

“Kill the archers!” Conrad yelled. The atronach departed immediately, unleashing a jet of flaming fury against the soldiers.

Conjuring the daedra after that volley of fireballs had taken its toll on his magicka reserves,he could already feel the effects of the potion, refilling his spent mystical energy steadily.

Getting up, he used the few recuperated energies to weave a defensive barrier around his body. Once the protection was set, he sprinted towards the Thalmor’s barely-visible lines, taking his axe from his belt.

He emerged from the smoke, right in front of an Altmer who clumsy attempted to stab him with his spear. A simple spin, and the charging Dragonborn knocked the weapon away with his staff, driving the blade of his axe deep inside the elf’s unprotected neck.

The soldier died almost instantly, and with a twist of his right hand he freed the weapon, sending the corpse slamming into his comrades’ ranks.

He pressed on, breaking the skull of a shocked Thalmor with another swing, splitting his helm in two. He did a hastened pirouette to side-step the lunge of his enraged companion, while channelling his power into his staff, shooting an hail of lighting into the spearmen—err, spearmer.

They fell, fuming from the joints of their armours, still twitching even after their death by electrocution.

The confusion among the Thalmor soldiers was bloody hilarious.

Too bad it didn’t last for long.

Conrad ducked, feeling a broadsword cutting the air above him, where his head had been a split-second ago. He lunged the sturdy oaken staff in the middle of the warrior’s legs, and twisted, tripping him and making him fall on the ground on his back.

Before the elf could even try to get up, Conrad had already brutally struck his chest with his axe three times.

“Is this all you've got?!” he questioned as he dislodged the weapon from the fallen’s rib cage, grinning at the golden-plated soldiers that were surrounding him.

The response he received was an arrow that would have hit him in the chest, hadn’t it been stopped by the magical protection around him. A faint flash of light, and the projectile bounced harmlessly on the ground.

Apparently, the flame atronach was not doing such a great job at distracting the lot of them, since there were so many.

He couldn't afford to stay in the open, but the middle of a melee, even the Thalmor would not risk to hit one of their own.

With a mighty battle cry, he charged his enemies, that were waiting for him not far away, spears raised.

He waited until the last instant, then he shouted again. The blast of the Unrelenting Force opened a wide hole in the middle of their ranks, sending the soldiers in the front flying backwards as the others staggered to maintain their footing.

Running directly among the prone Thalmor, stepping on them, he quickly hit the dirt with his staff one, two, three, four times.

Each time the end of the staff struck the ground, a different elemental rune was created on the spot. He had barely the time to outrun them as they exploded one after another, triggered by the movements of the dazed warriors.

As flames, bursts of cold, discharges of electricity and rocks blasted out of the very ground beneath him, he lunged forward, without looking back.

It's an end to the evil of all Skyrim's foes

A loud explosion, or maybe a series of explosion in close succession, was the first thing he heard clearly when he was able to breathe normally again.

Ederion had been almost knocked out from the impact against the soldiers under his command, and was suffering from aches on his whole back.

Groaning in pain—something that ashamed him greatly—he rolled on his flank, trying to get a better footing.

He looked around. He had lost his sword during his unexpected flight, and he hated being unarmed in a dangerous situation.

But his blade was not what he found, searching around from where he was laying.

What he saw instead was a man that had just slaughtered a good third of his soldiers.

How was this possible? Was it that difficult for those incompetents fools to kill a simple human?!

He should have ordered to bring him down with multiple volleys of arrows.

The Justiciar felt someone grabbing his arm, and pulling him up. Sparing it a glance, he recognized one of his trusted battlemages.

“Don’t touch me!” he shouted as he slapped away the armored hand. “And go to kill that lowborn bastard!”

Instead of joining the melee, setting him on fire or wasting him with bolts of lighting, the battlemages looked at each other, hesitantly.

“Forgive me, my lord. But shouldn’t we try to eliminate the target w—”

“Just DO IT!” he snapped, almost frothing in his frustration. “DO IT, DO IT DO IT!”

Intimidated by his sudden explosion, the elite spellcasters unsheathed their weapons and jogged towards the battle, spilling out in a fan formation. Their march was a solid line of metal and magic, ready to destroy the enemy.

“AND SOMEBODY DESTROY THAT DAEDRA,” Ederion ordered, not really caring about them anymore. “I WANT THOSE ARCHERS READY!”

He was on the point of ordering someone, no matter who, to fetch his weapon, when he heard it.

A cry of pain, from the fight. And not an elven one.

Snapping his head in the direction of the combat, he saw that the Dragonborn had been wounded, a slash had struck true in his arm, in spite of the armour the man was wearing.

Now he was staggering, his staff lost, swinging his axe to keep the lancers at bay while walking backwards. Crimson rivulets were clearly visible on his wounded limb.

Ederion smiled.

No matter how formidable the man was, he was still just a man, a man fighting a great number of trained soldiers.

Victory would be his.

For the darkness has passed

And the legend yet grows

“f*ck off, you murdering BASTARDS!” Conrad yelled, as he killed another Thalmor with a crude blow of his weapon.

The last jab had shattered his magical protection, and the spear’s sharp end had left a deep gash on his forearm, causing him to let go of his staff. The limb felt so heavy, after the wound he had received, but he was still able to move it, and clench a fist.

Which was good.

The fact that he was surrounded, and he had lost momentum… that was not good. The trick with the four runes had cost him almost all his magicka reserves, so frying the pansy elves was out of question.

The effect of the potion he had he had drunk before leaving the inn was almost due, and it wasn’t replenishing his magical energies like before.

He fumbled on his pouches, the blood on his palm rendering the leather slippery.

An elven warrior, noticing his lapse of concentration, lunged towards him, spear pointed at Conrad’s belly.

He side-stepped, batting the polearm away with the blunt part of the axe. The spear’s point hit the ground, piercing it, and he kicked the Altmer with all his strength in the groin.

As the elf’s face contorted in a pained expression, as knelt, gasping for air. Conrad finished him with an horizontal slash aimed to the mer’s cheek, and finally retrieved another vial from his pouch.

It was one of his weakest potions, though. In his haste, as he stumbled with his pouches, he had opened the wrong one.

Well, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He swallowed the potion in a single, short swill, just in time to notice another incoming attacker, charging at him and yelling like a madman.

He wouldn’t be able to dodge, this time, so he reacted reflexively.

He threw his axe, that plunged its head completely into the elf’s chest, breaking the armour. The Altmer just stared at it with a stupefied expression, before finally collapsing.

“Come on, let’s rush him now!” someone among the Thalmor lines said. “He’s unarmed!”

“Unarmed my ASS!” he cussed at them, gnashing his teeth while unsheathing his dagger with his left hand.

Seeing that his defense was only a glorified steel knife, they charged in unison.

Idiots.

Conrad went to meet their assault, dagger ready while he raised his free hand in the air. He could feel his inner power, feeble as it was after too much usage.

He called upon it, and a sword appeared in his hand, conjured in the same way he had summoned the atronach. The newly created blade descended, and daedric metal met moonstone.

Moonstone lost, and elven blood splattered on Conrad’s metal breastplate.

The retribution for this latest kill was not late to come.

He tightened his grip on the two weapons, and he moved, like a whirlwind, dodging, parrying and redirecting the incoming strikes. The few ones he couldn't, he had to count on his armour to protect him.

Conrad didn’t restrict himself to idle defense. He moved the sword in wide, powerful swings, while stabbing quickly with the shorter blade every time he saw an opening.

More and more Thalmor fell under them.

Two spearmer tried to attack him from both sides at the same time, but he just averted their thrusts with a simple turn of his body and rotating his sword.

They collided with each other, losing balance. The daedric blade beheaded the first, while the dagger punctured the second's lungs.

He freed the shorter blade with a strong pull, doing a low sweep with the conjured weapon at the height of another elf’s legs, cutting deep. The warrior fell, wailing in pain.

Conrad helped ease his pain, with the courtesy of a a dagger in his eye socket. As he wrested the weapon from there, he could hear a squelching noise.

“Come on now!” he taunted. “Who’s ne—”

He wasn’t able to finish his question, since a fire bolt exploded on his torso, sending him back, sprayed on the ground. The center of his breastplate had become almost red-hot, and his beard had been singed.

It hurt like Oblivion.

Who was the asshole he had to kill, now?

He forced himself to stand, and saw the asshole, and his battle brethren.

An entire squadron of battlemages.

It had been years since the last time he had fought a squadron of battlemages.

He grinned, finally on his feet.

“TIID KLO UL!”

You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come...

Ederion could barely believe his own eyes.

A part of him started to realize why the songs portrayed the Dragonborn as someone able to do such amazing feats, and he had to see on his own the human’s battle prowess.

The Nord had made short work of everyone who had tried to bring him down so far.

But now...now it looked like he was not even trying, and he was cutting them down like a sickle through weed.

He moved at an unnatural speed, none of his movements seemed to be wasted, and each swing of his weapons slayed a elf.

It was then, when the last of the spearmer fell and their single enemy started to kill the battlemages with ease, that Ederion understood.

That was not a man.

It was a monster.

And he had to be dealt as such.

He looked through the surviving archers. There were still quite a lot of them, but they weren’t able to deal with a simple fire atronach.

Pathetic.

Walking towards them, he snatched a bow from the hands of the first he reached. Without stopping, he took an arrow from the second.

In a single, fluid motion, he nocked the arrow and released the string.

The projectile pierced the flaming daedra’s neck, who shrieked in pain, losing quickly physical consistency and finally disappearing.

He tossed rudely the weapon to the archer he took it from, not really caring if the mer caught it or not.

He had to prepare his trap, and quickly.

“Listen to my orders now, and prepare, we’ll have only one chance!” Ederion yelled at the stupefied bowmer. “I don’t care how many of you have died! KILL the motherf*cker!”

Dovahkiin, Dovahkiin

Naal ok zin los vahriin

Parry, deflect, thrust in the stomach.

Slowing time itself with that dragon shout and exploiting the openings that normally he would not be able to see could be interpreted like cheating from others, or playing dirty.

Side-step, hack, stab in the neck.

Which was fine for Conrad. He had learned decades ago that there was no ‘honorable combat’, especially against an higher number of opponents.

Feint, slash, puncture liver.

And being able to dodge with ease the incoming spells of the battlemages he was butchering was a pretty nifty bonus. No matter how slow the time flowed, flames and ice shards still hurt if they touched you.

Slice, thrust, sink both blades into an armored chest, watch as it erupts with blood.

Turning slightly, Conrad saw one elf going for his head, warhammer raised and ready to strike.

At the worst possible moment, time chose to start flowing normally again.

Conrad swore.

He barely avoided having his head smashed in, but the weapon managed to impact with his shoulder instead.

The blow was enough to make him stagger, desperately grasping for some semblance of balance.

The battlemage didn’t lose the chance. Moving on his flank, he slammed a second blow, harder than the previous, straight into Conrad’s back.

Conrad fell to his knees, gasping for air and barely able to hold his weapons.

He felt the steps of the heavily-plated spellcasters behind him come to a stop. The Thalmor was probably raising the hammer again, this time for a finishing blow.

Was this the way all the dragons he had slain felt, before the end?

He felt despair claw at his soul.

Was this how his journey would come to an end? Killed by a no-name servant of his enemies, on a snowy field littered with bodies?

Well, this was a surefire way to the gates of Sovngarde. Again, and this time forever.

At least there would be mead there.

He heard a slight scrape on the snow behind him. The Thalmor had shifted his position to land better hit.

It was coming.

No.

No.

He wouldn’t die like this. He refused to die like this!

He stabbed blindly behind him, hoping for the best. A pained groan was his answer.

Conrad had no clue what he managed to hit, but he didn’t give a damn. He twisted the blade and pulled.

The action was rewarded by the sensation of warm blood spraying his hand, and by a loud, metallic thud.

Only two battlemages left, a few feet from him.

As he got on his feet, the two Altmer looked at each other. They nodded, and started to circle him from different directions, charging offensive spells

He would not be able to reach one of them without being hit by the other’s magic.

But he could try.

He lunged forward, running on the snow and reading his right arm for a killing swing.

That was the moment when the daedric sword dispelled, having reached the limit of its existence.

There was no time to conjure another weapon, so he had to improvise.

Closing his right hand in a fist, he punched the battlemage in the face. The opening in the helm was wide enough, but he had probably broke his pinkie because of the contact with the solid metal that framed the mer’s face.

It really hurt, and he cried in a mix of rage and pain. He was satisfied to have broken the Altmer’s nose, though.

The battlemage faltered, dazed by the blow.

Conrad could feel the other one, feel as the magic hummed in the air. He was a short distance away, finishing his spell.

Grabbing the dazed Altmer's neck, so hard that he was choking him, Conrad turned, pushing the elf into the path of the deadly magic.

Ice shards stabbed the mer, and he fell to the ground.

The last of the battlemages was not long in joining his bretheren past the void when Conrad's dagger soared into the air and buried itself in his eye.

Lucky shot.

Turning around, Conrad realized that he was standing alone in the middle of the bodies, in the open, with no weapons, and standing right in front of the remaining archers.

Almost twenty of them, and their arrows were already knocked and aimed at him.

Stupid daedra, it only had one job!

But there was no time for that.

The Justiciar gave an order.

The bows shot.

Conrad raised his left arm, once again calling upon his power.

He hadn’t enough magicka or time to create a protective barrier like before, so he opted for the next best thing.

A shield, a daedric one, appeared already strapped to his forearm.

He had no magicka left, and his mind was slightly foggy as a result. Still, he was able to raise the shield to protect his head and chest from the incoming arrows.

The projectiles bounced off the hard metal surface, becoming virtually useless as they lost their momentum.

Too bad the shield couldn’t protect his legs.

One hit his left leg, but it was the right that had it worse, and various arrows snaked their way into his muscle and bone.

Screaming in anguish, he fell on his side.

The Thalmor were cheering, especially the Justiciar

So, this was how he was going to die? What a joke! The great and almighty Dragonborn, slayer of Alduin World-Eater, brought down by an arrow to the knee.

Pathetic.

They were coming.

He had maybe one shout at disposal, two if he strained his throat.

Unable to move. No weapons. No magicka left. Bleeding from the wounds...

Aye, he was screwed.

Unless he used that shout.

The one he hated using. Mostly because the place from which he called that power from gave him the creeps.

But when the alternative was having your body paraded through the Aldmeri Dominion as some elf’s trophy...

He saw the Justiciar picking up a discared sword from the ground and looking at him like if his head was the best thing the he had ever seen.

Conrad’s rage erupted, and his dragon blood sang.

“DUR NEH VIIR!”

Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal

Ahrk fin norok paal graan

That morning, as he marched in the snowy region, at the head of his soldiers, Ederion was expecting an easy task.

Collect body of a deadly poisoned man, a criminal, bring him home, and claim the glory.

Then, said man had left the tavern, and started his single-handed slaughter.

And Ederion had got frustrated.

So he had sacrificed more and more soldiers, but nothing worked.

His frustration had deepened.

He had even been tossed away by one of those shouts! Humiliated in front of his own soldiers!

Screw that, he was FURIOUS!

And FINALLY, the Dragonborn was hit with a volley of arrows. As it should have been from the very beginning.

As he had saw the fallen warrior gasping on the ground, he had started to move closer, willing to give the final blow himself.

Then, there was another of those gods-damned shouts.

A black and purple sphere of ethereal flames swirled in front of the Dragonborn’s prone form.

Then, the stench of death and putrefaction.

And then, Ederion and his bowmer were staring at a dragon.

The Justiciar was speechless, shocked beyond belief.

The plan was f*cked.

Some of the archers screamed and made a run for it, mad with terror.

This, unfortunately for them, caught the dragon’s attention.

With a beat of leathery wings and a foul miasma, the massive creature was on them.

That was the last straw.

All the remaining elves, all but Ederion, started running, trying to escape the dragon’s wrath.

Ederion had failed.

He had put his reputation on the line with this mission, taking with him an entire company of trained soldiers and even a battlemage squadron.

And now none of them would make it back alive.

There was no way in Mundus that he would be able to survive to the thing that was soaring in the sky, freezing the fleeing soldiers with his breath, or assaulting them on the ground.

He heard the sound of bones breaking, of armour and organs squelching as a one thing under the creature’s jaws.

No way he would survive the summoned dragon.

Wait.

Summoned?

The dragon… it was a summoned creature!

Summoned creatures followed some rules, ways how the magic that conjured them worked.

For example, unless a ritual or something else was used, the summoning would not be permanent.

And if the summoner was killed, the conjuring spell would cease, and the creature would disappear.

He turned immediately to the still prone form of Conrad Harissen.

Tightening his grip on the sword, he charged.

He was going to survive this!

The glory could still be his!

“DIE!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, as his blade descended on the man.

There was a metal clang as the sword clashed against the daedric shield littered with arrows.

How dared the bastard defend himself?!

“DIE! DIE! DIE! DIEEE!” Ederion shouted like a madman, striking with all his strength each time he yelled the word.

And each time, the shield would save the Dragonborn’s worthless life.

Snarling, Ederion kicked the wounds on the man’s legs.

The pained howl that followed his action made him smile inwardly.

With a sweep of the sword, followed by another powerful kick, he was able to rip the shield out of the Dragonborn’s grasp.

The daedric item disappeared, having lost contact with its summoner’s body.

He raised the long blade, the tip pointed down, ready to descend on the man’s heart.

It was over.

His assurance was betrayed when the man punched him in the groin. Hard.

He fell down besides the man, moaning in pain.

His sword fell, and a pair of strong hands went for his neck.

Ederion struggled, escaping from the Nord’s attempted grab.

And received another punch, this time in the left kidney.

He retaliated with a kick on the man’s right leg.

They were now grappling, wrestling, punching, kicking and rolling over each other, screaming in pain, rage and frustration.

Finally, Ederion was able to overcome the wounded man, and reach for the sword.

Without getting up, he tried to slit the man’s throat with it, almost succeeding.

Almost.

The Nord was actually stopping the blade with his own hands!

Growling like a beast, Ederion applied all his weight on the sword. As the edge started to deeply cut his palms, the Dragonborn hissed.

Then his azure eyes met Ederion’s golden ones.

“Yol,” the man said, in a non-human voice. His eyes made something strange, and Ederion hesitated in front of the strange phenomenon.

“Toor,” the Dragonborn continued. Small embers left the man’s mouth.

The azure yes...Ederion could see it clearly now. They had become slitted.

Like those of a dragon.

“SHUL!”

Ederion’s head was lambed by flames hot as a dragon’s breath, his brain cooked almost instantly.

He never saw the human pushing his corpse away.

He never saw the Dragonborn reaching for the pained neck, strained because he had used too many shouts in quick succession. Or how he extracted a big, red vial out of one of those pouches and tried to drink it.

And he never saw the Dragonborn fall unconscious for the wounds he had suffered, potion still in hand, bleeding in the now red snow.

Fod nust hon zindro zaan

Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal

In the world contained in the depths of the Shinigami’s stomach, a lonely white-cloaked figure stirred inside the ruined tower he used as a hiding place.

He could feel a new presence in this terrible realm, and it wasn’t one of its terrible denizens.

Who had just arrived in this wasteland dominated by the dead and lost souls?

Chapter 3: Regrets, Hopes and a Dragon

Chapter Text

Conrad slowly opened his eyes.

The first thing his mind registered was that he was not in pain.

The second was that he was not feeling cold.

That was a relief, actually.

The dark purple, constantly storming sky was not.

His nostrils were assaulted by how wrong the air felt, on an almost metaphysical level.

And by a foul stench.

“Qahnaarin, you’ve awakened,” a deep voice resounded behind him.

Durnehviir.

Turning his head, he saw the putrefied dragon sitting on the grey dirt, in the arena where he had fought him so many years ago.

He was in the Soul Cairn.

Why was he in the Soul Cairn?

“Am I dead?” the Nord asked, rising slowly on his feet. He didn’t try to hide the apprehension from his voice.

If it turned out that he had to pass the whole afterlife in such a terrible place, it would be a major case of rotten luck.

And something he would expect, given his lifetime’s experience with it.

“No, Dovah. You are only mostly dead.”

“And that’s better… how?” Conrad asked, voice rife with sarcasm. The dragon was unperturbed.

“Your body, back in the Mundus, is not dead, yet. Should it survive, you will be able to return to it.”

“My… body? You mean that I’m not here physically?” he asked, gesturing to their surroundings. “And now that I think about it, how did you manage to take me here? And why?”

“Our deal. When you summoned me for the first time, our contract was sealed. Since you are now very close to Dinok, to death, I was able to take your spirit here. Temporarily, of course. Unless you die.”

“Well, I thank you for informing me of this possible use of our agreement… a decade later,” he deadpanned, not pleased by this revelation at all.

“You’re welcome.”

It was difficult to tell between the deep voice and decaying flesh.

“Would you just tell me why you brought me back with you?”

“I was asked to.”

Now, that was not Conrad was expecting.

“You were asked?!” he asked, incredulous. “By who?”

“By him,” the dragon said, indicating with a single talon somewhere behind the Dovahkiin.

Conrad turned.

When Namikaze Minato sealed the Kyuubi into his newborn son so many years ago, sacrificing his own soul to the Shinigami, he was expecting to experience either an existence of unimaginable pain, his very soul slowly consumed by the death god’s stomach, or a complete, utter void with nothing for eternity.

Instead, it turned out that the bottom of the Shinigami’s stomach was the resting place of this weird dimension, filled with strange ruins, lost souls, terrible creatures that preyed on them, reigned by those malignant beings that referred to themselves as the “Ideal Masters”.

Masters who were apparently unaware of their being somehow similar to parasites, living in a god’s belly.

Minato was still wondering if being consumed or existing in a complete void wouldn’t have been a better option.

When he had gained awareness of his surroundings after his death, he was bewildered.

Not only was this strange world dark, dangerous, and terrible, it was also incredibly foreign. Alien, even.

Even in his dead and incorporeal state, he had to learn how to survive against the monsters that dwelled in the barren wastes.

Apparently, there were not a lot of souls that spoke his own tongue. He had actually met one once, but that shinobi had been in this place for so long that his sanity was in tatters.

Inwardly, Minato was utterly afraid of becoming like him with the passing of the decades.

But he would not surrender to his fate, waiting for that slow descent into madness, year after year, until there was just a husk with barely a mind inside.

He was, or had been during his life, the Yondaime Hokage of Konohagakure. He didn’t like to boast his title, but if the creatures of this place and their masters wanted to destroy either his soul or his sanity, they would have to fight him for it.

The first years had been pure hell: there was no other way to describe it.

Followed, stalked, chased, even hunted down. He lived months of continuous conflict.

But he was dead. Not having to deal with mortal necessities like sleep, thirst, or hunger had their own advantages.

Then one day, the creatures stopped coming.

They still attacked him if he came too close to them, but they stopped hunting him like they had before. Apparently, destroying legions of them had made them realize that it was a waste of time and resources.

Even if the Ideal Masters seemed to have a neverending supply of them.

Having more time to do something else beside fight, run, and hide, he was able to interact with the other less-aggressive denizens of his new world.

Slowly, he had learned the language spoken from the majority of the souls that filled this strange realm. Learning a language from scratch was not easy, but he had time, after all.

It had been a long and tedious task, mostly because a lot of the souls in this place were cursing their fate or generally being miserable about it.

As his mastery of the language improved, he learned more and more bits of pieces of cultures and histories of what seemed to be another world entirely.

Who would have guessed that a whole different continent existed on the other side of the great ocean? Filled with lands, nations, people, traditions…

There were even different species. Races that weren’t even human, with their own civilizations.

And nobody in Konoha… nobody in the Fire Country… no, scratch that. Nobody in the whole Elemental Nations knew about any of it.

He was eager to learn all he could, and speaking for a few days—or weeks—with the rare souls willingly to, helped him remain in good mental shape.

After all, he needed to think about something besides his family’s fate.

Kushina… what had been her soul’s fate? He prayed that she had gone to a better place. Surely, there had to be one.

And Naruto, his son…

Was he growing up well? Had he been taken care for? Was he fine? Was he safe?

Not knowing that, above all things...that hurt more than any torment he had suffered since he arrived in this forsaken place.

Being completely unable to change that, he had opted all the time his train of thoughts for a simple solution. Think about something else, because it hurt too much.

And for the longest time he had not strayed from that pattern.

It had continued that way, year after year, for the longest time, until a fortuitous encounter.

Since then, Minato had been given a ray of hope in this damned place.

He had formed a plan, and put it in motion. It had took a long time but now the older—who was not really older—man was standing in front of him.

It was a strange experience, like looking at a mirror that twisted the image reflected on it.

The older-looking blond had shorter hair, and broader shoulders, but that could have been an impression given from the armour he was wearing. A short beard covered his face and three long scars were etched into his right cheek.

And the eyes, even if they had the same shade of azure, were a little colder. And right now were completely widened.

But the resemblance was uncanny.

The only problem now, was how to tell him—

“Who the f*ck are you?” the man snarled, his expression morphing to a scowl.

Well. That was a good way to start, no matter how blunt.

He scratched his head, thinking how to reply. Should he…?

Well, there were not a lot of ways to answer to that question.

“I,” Minato said, pointing to his chest with his hand, “am your brother.”

The man in front of him—his brother, he had to remind himself—just stared at him, blinking for a few seconds.

“Say what?” was the question he received, a little more than a whisper.

The great undead dragon was looking at the whole scene, apparently amused.

“I said, I am your—”

“I heard that! I’m not deaf!” his brother snapped. “What are you blabbering about?!”

Minato sighed. He had been afraid of a similar reaction.

After all, they both hadn’t been aware of each other’s existence, and Minato had learned of Conrad’s only after his death.

In his brother’s eyes, he was probably just a random ghost that somehow resembled his appearance, claiming to have some blood ties with him.

“I understand that it’s difficult to believe, but—”

“f*ck OFF!” his twin snarled, interrupting him again. “If you think you can just tell me something like that and—”

“Vazah, Dovahkiin,” the dragon Durnehviir said, with his deep voice. “It’s true.”

That stopped the outburst, and the man turned towards the great dragon, slowly, an accusing finger still pointed towards Minato.

“What? Durnehviir, don’t tell me that you believe this—”

“I was the one who told your Zeymah, your brother’s soul, that you’re of the same Sos, the same blood.”

There was a moment of complete silence, disturbed only by the winds of the desolate place.

Then, slowly, Minato’s brother turned to face the dragon unable to die, his eyes slitted.

“How can you be sure of this?” he hissed.

“The last time, you said?” Minato’s brother asked, looking pensive. “But that was...five years ago.”

“Geh, yes. When you and your Aar attacked your enemy’s stronghold. It was a good fight.”

“The Blades are not my servants, dragon,” the man said, bitterly. “I’m not their master, and I don’t want to be.”

Minato was a little confused by his brother’s statement. From what he had learned in these years, he was supposed to be some kind of champion, a leader of men. And even some mer, too.

That was how he had been told about, at least. So why was he denying that?

“They follow you in battle, Dovahkiin. They follow your orders, that makes you their In.”

“As I came back to the Ideal Master’s dominion, I saw him. He soon proved to be a Bahlan Kendov. A worthy warrior. We fought quite often.”

“It was just a random encounter,” Minato said sheepishly, thinking that he should add his own account to the dragon’s tale. “I was just travelling on the plains, and Durnehviir appeared from nowhere, and attacked me immediately.”

“We fought and fought for months, because he was a good adversary. He met me blow for blow. A distraction from my cursed existence.”

“Yeah, well… I was not really happy about it, actually,” the Yondaime said.

Durnehviir ignored him.

“Grah Pruzah, we had. I usually won.”

Minato rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to reveal the real wins and defeats ratio. He had learned that the dragon had an ego bigger than his body, and often liked to boast his power.

He suspected that the same could be said for all the others of his kin.

“But as time went on… I started to have my suspicions,” the dragon continued. “Even if he was a just a Sillesejoor, the soul of a mortal, he was able to resist me. Even beat me, a few times.”

“You know, you’re still not telling me why—” the Dragonborn tried to say.

“He resembles you very much, Dovah—”

“A lot of Nords resemble me! We’ve all blond hair and beards, or so the stereotype says. Get to the point!”

“And his Sil, his soul… even if it is a human one… he smells like a Dovah.”

For the second time, silence filled the great arena before Minato’s brother interrupted it.

“Are you saying… that he was Dragonborn, too?!”

“No. His soul is a Joor’s, a mortal’s, of the Jul, a human soul…” Durnehviir spoke, slowly. “But he had been close to a Dovah when the souls entered both of your bodies. In his… and yours… Monah. When both of you were in your mother’s womb.”

“You think that he is my brother because… his soul… smells funny,” the other man deadpanned.

“Actually—”

“You, shut up. Dragons are speaking here,” his brother said, waving his hand at Minato dismissively. The Yondaime was taken aback. This was not going how he had planned. “Are you sure that you’re not just bored and making stuff up to entertain your—”

“I AM SURE!” Durnehviir thundered, causing the ground to shake in the face of his fury. “I HAVE LIVED FOR MILLENNIA, DOVAHKIIN! I SPENT MY CURSED EXISTENCE HERE, SURROUNDED BY SOULS. I RECOGNIZED YOUR DOVAH ZIIL WHEN I LAID MY EYES ON YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME! IF I SAY, THAT THE SIL OF A JUR SMELLS LIKE A DOVAH FRON, THEN I AM SURE!”

"You… have a point. And the only way for his soul to 'smell' like a dragon's one would be..." the Dragonborn said slowly, turning towards Minato.

The blond Hokage tried to offer a reassuring smile.

"Aaah, I can't deal with this!" his brother yelled, throwing his hands in the air. "I find out from and undead dragon that I've a brother… and he's dead! Oh, and I'm dying too!"

Apparently, his smile had not been as reassuring as he had hoped.

“Look, I know it’s not exactly something you find out every day, but—”

“Wait a moment,” his brother interrupted him. Again. Seriously, it was becoming a habit and they had met just ten minutes ago. “If you’re here… that means…”

“That my soul is trapped here?” Minato asked rhetorically, shrugging. “Yes.”

“Who did this to you?” the older-looking blond asked, growling.

That was another question that Minato was expecting. And once again, there was no other way to explain it without being blunt.

“I did,” he stated.

Minato had expected the silence, the visible shock, and the open wide mouth.

He hadn’t expected the punch sailing towards his face. Which he easily dodged anyway.

“You idiotic, imbecile, moronic, stupid FOOL!” his twin snarled, without stopping to try to hit him.

His movements were not sloppy, and far above the level of a civilian, but they were not what had been expecting when he’d heard of his brother, the great warrior of an unknown land.

Even a genin would have a fair chance against him, if the fight was a only-taijutsu—

“FUS!”

Minato felt the violent push, and used it to put some distance between himself and his enraged brother, landing gracefully.

So this was the power of the Voice of which Durnehviir had spoke. Impressive, and even faster than a jutsu.

His brother had started to slowly advance towards him, cracking his knuckles.

“Please, nii—Please, brother! Calm yourself! I had good reason to—”

“WULD NAH KEST!” and the enraged Dragonborn was right in front of him, snarling, a fist raised.

Minato barely dodged it. Whatever that shout was, it was more or less on the level of a shunshin.

“Reason?! What reason could you possibly have? POWER?!” the fuming blond hissed, still pressing his attack. “Did you hope that making a deal with the Ideal Masters would increase your magical might?!”

Alright, that was enough.

Minato punched his still-living brother in the gut, knocking the breath out of him.

The Yondaime didn’t know how that was possible, since the man was not physically present inside the Shinigami’s stomach, but he didn’t care.

“I did what I did because I had no choice. There was no option left,” he said coldly, with just enough remorse in his voice.

His brother just growled quietly as he gasped for air.

“No choice? No other option but to condemn yourself to this?!”

There was a flicker around the man’s hands, and a spray of lightning was aimed towards Minato.

But the Yondaime was not in front of the Dragonborn anymore. Tendrils of electricity zapped at the ground, throwing up sand wherever they hit.

“Calm down,” Minato said, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He had shunshined behind him as he had started to prepare that jutsu—no, not jutsu. Spell. He had to remember the difference. Spells were much faster to use, not requiring the more complex handsigns that jutsu did.

There was also the difference between chakra and magicka, but this wasn’t the time to delve into that.

“It’s true, I condemned myself to pass all my afterlife in this place,” Minato said in a gentle but firm tone, hoping to finally tranquilize his long-lost sibling. “But in doing so … I saved thousands of lives, who otherwise would surely be lost.”

For a moment, his twin’s stance became more tense. Minato wondered if it was because of his explanation or a reaction to his speed.

“That,” the man said, turning his head towards him, “is a good enough reason. But what happened to force you to such a choice? A siege?”

“Not exactly… you see—”

“Oblaan? It’s over already?” the dragon demanded, with a bored tone. “I was enjoying seeing the Dovahkiin beaten.”

“Beaten my ass,” the man said, turning to face Minato with a slight grin. “So… you are my brother?”

“Yes, I am,” Minato said, happy that the hostility was now gone.

“I’m Conrad, by the way,” his brother said, offering his hand.

“Yeah, I know that,” Minato replied, shaking his sibling’s hand. “Durnehviir and some other souls told me that. I am Namikaze Minato.”

“Na-mika-ze?” Conrad said, slowly, trying the unfamiliar sounds. “Well, Namikaze, why have you asked our rotting friend to take me here at the first chance he could?”

“I am here, Dovah,” the dragon said, not liking being ignored.

“Err, Namikaze is not my name, it’s the surname,” minato said sheepishly.

“What? Why did you introduce yourself like that, then?” his brother asked, confused.

Right. There were various cultural differences between them… how to explain this…

“You see, in the place where I grew up, it’s customary to introduce yourself using the surname first.”

“That’s… a strange tradition, you know,” Conrad said, blinking. “Where did you grow up? Who gave you that name? I’ve never heard of such a thing, and I’ve travelled a lot.”

“A land far away from Skyrim. Actually, far away from Tamriel.”

“What?” Conrad asked, flatly. He seemed torn between incredulity and confusion.

“I’m not sure how, exactly, but I was found in a shipwreck that washed up on the shores of the Elemental Nations.”

“Never heard of them,” his brother said. The confusion had won and was clearly visible on his face.

“They’re very far, far across the ocean. Don’t ask me which ocean because I haven’t figured that out yet. As for my name, well… it was given to me at the orphanage, I presume.”

“Orphanage?” Conrad asked, his face falling.

“Well, yes. I passed my childhood in one and… wait,” Minato trailed off, realizing that something was wrong from his brother’s eyes. “You too…?”

“No, no… I lived with Father until I was… seventeen or something. But he never talked about our mother, he refused to,” Conrad said, with a mournful tone.

“How is our father?” Minato asked, with a pang of jealousy. True, he could feel that Conrad had hoped to know about their mother, but at least he had known one of their parents.

“I don’t know,” Conrad whispered.

“What?”

“I don’t know! When I came back to Skyrim, two years after I left, Helgen...that was the village where we lived...was burned down,” Conrad replied, hastily. “I’ve met only three other survivors from that day. I have no idea if Father is still alive.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sincerely. “How was he? Was he… a good father?”

“Yes,” his brother replied, after almost a full minute of silence. “Yes he was. Is. Whatever. He’s just… not an easy man to live with.”

Minato wanted to ask more questions, so much more, but the pain in his brother’s eyes made him hold his tongue.

“What kind of spell did you use to get behind me that fast?” Conrad asked, probably to change the subject. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Oh, that was not a spell. It was just a shunshin, a jutsu—”

“A what?” his brother asked, confused once again.

“Please Conrad, stop interrupting me. It’s a… look, it’s complicated to explain, but you basically you pump your chakra into—right, you don’t know what chakra is… it’s like magicka… only it’s not. You don’t die when you run out of magicka right? And you can’t restore chakra with a potion,” Minato rambled “But now that I think about it, shinobi never tried to create potions. Only poisons. And antidotes for the poisons. We got only those soldier pills, and they’re dangerous—”

“I have no idea what the f*ck you’re talking about.”

“Are you always that vulgar?”

“You should see me when I drink.”

“You should avoid doing that, you know. It’s not good for you,” Minato scolded.

“Great. I get a dead brother, and not even half an hour later I’m already receiving a lecture about—” Conrad started, before trailing off, looking at his hands, freezing with widened eyes.

They were fading.

“Durnehviir!” the Nord called. “What’s going on?!”

“You’re waking,” the dragon said, apparently not really interested. “Your Kopraan, your body is not dead. Your Zii is going back to it.”

“What?!” Minato shouted, panicking. “Already?”

Conrad was now fading quickly, he was little more than a floating torso, but that didn’t seem to cause him physical pain.

The brothers met each other’s eyes, knowing that they would probably never see each other again.

There were so many things Minato would have wanted tell his brother, so many things that he wished to learn, but he knew there was no more time.

He flashed through a quick combination of handsigns, required for the jutsu he had prepared especially for the occasion, and slammed his right hand on Conrad’s face.

There was a burst of energy, and Conrad screamed as the tendrils of chakra burned a picture inside his mind.

“What the f*ck?! Why did you—”

“There is no time!” Minato interrupted him. “It will help you find the place I’m from. You must go there! Tell them about the masked man that attacked the village twelve years ago! Help them! Help Konoha! Help—”

Before he could finish his request, there was a blinding light, and what was left of Conrad’s spiritual form soared to the sky, like fireworks in a summer festival.

“—my son…” Minato whispered, fully knowing that his brother had not heard it.

Silence descended once again on the arena, now occupied only by a dragon unable to die and the lost soul of the Yondaime Hokage.

“f*ck!” Minato’s voice thundered in frustration, at such volumes that even the spirits far away from the place heard its echo.

“You should have asked your request at the very beginning, Joor,” Durnehviir remarked after a few of minutes of silence where the Yondaime had just sat in the grey sand.

Minato looked at the dragon straight in the eyes, flooding the area with killing intent.

All those years… for probably nothing. There was no guarantee with his brother would follow his request, after all. He had not given him enough details, or reasons to.

“Do not direct your Rahgot, your rage towards me, shinobi. It was your own fault.”

Yes, it was. The dragon was right.

Such an opportunity, wasted, and all because he had to get so emotive instead of—

“No Paak, don’t feel shame. Every Joor would have done the same. The Dovahkiin will grant your Waan, I know this.”

“How can you be so sure?” he asked, staring into the dragon’s general direction.

“He had always been… curious. Vomindok, the unknown, had always fascinated him. It still does. It is because of his curiosity that his Laas has been so… interesting.”

Minato said nothing as the dragon slowly got up, but inwardly he was relieved.

For the first time after his death, he had hope for his son and for his village.

“Now, the pact among us is over. I granted your request, and now I demand my payment.”

“That would be… what? Six months of battle, without stopping?” he smiled bitterly.

“Eight,” Durnehviir corrected. “Come now, Yondaime Hokage. Show me what you can do when your fury is unleashed!”

Minato’s grin was pure evil. If the dragon wanted a real fight, he would give him a real fight.

This time, he was hurting over his whole body, and and he was feeling cold too.

Even under the thick layer of furs.

Wait. Furs?

He moved groggily his head, disturbed by the loud, constant noise of something moving. The ground itself felt like it was bouncing and rolling, sending flashes of pain all over his back, irritating the bruises where the warhammer had hit him.

He opened his eyes and saw the sky moving in front of him. The sudden light and the ache of whatever Minato had done were doing a mess of his head—

Wait!

Minato!

Was that just a dream? Could it have been true?

Or had it been just a weird, really weird near-death experience?

… Maybe he could summon Durnehviir again and ask him, just to be sure.

“He’s awake!” someone shouted. He didn’t recognize the voice, but from the tone he could tell that they were actually happy he wasn’t dead.

“What? Now?” another voice said. This one was familiar, but he couldn’t put a face to it.

“There’s a patrol coming from behind the hill. Cover him!”

He felt something heavy being pulled over his body and his head. Darkness.

“Now be quiet,” the familiar voice hissed.

Conrad had no idea what was going on, but he realized something when he heard the sound of the horses being forced to slow down.

He was on a wagon. Someone had found him and saved him.

He wondered if, had he died, he would have remained in the Soul Cairn.

If he hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing.

He heard someone ordering to the wagon to halt, and once they stopped, someone started to ask questions.

“Who are you? What business to you have on the roads of the Whiterun hold?” a gruff voice said.

Whiterun hold? But he had lost consciousness in the Hjalmarch. How much time had he been knocked out?

“Me and my wife are trappers, good sir,” the familiar voice said, changing his voice to sound the most uneducated as possible. “We’re going to sell our pelts to Whiterun. See? They’re good pelts. I can’t make a lot for them in Rorickstead.”

“And why are you escorted by four armed mercenaries?” the gruff voice asked, suspiciously.

“Well, sir, it’s a lot of pelts. Bandits could try to steal them, yessir. And kill us, too.”

Other questions followed, but Conrad could feel his mind getting foggy again.

He tried to focus, but his body was really in bad shape, he was tired, and he was hungry.

The Dragonborn slowly but surely swept back to into the blissful unconsciousness.

He woke up to the smell of stew and sweetrolls.

“Hey! Give it back!” someone shouted.

Conrad opened slowly his eyes, and noticed that it was night, the stars were greeting him. He felt the heat of a campfire in his proximity.

Somewhere, someone snorted.

“What? Are you really going to say that someone stole your sweetroll?”

There was a collective laugh at that. Not too loud, but it was clear that the joke had eased the tension of the people in the camp.

Now, where in Oblivion was he? And who saved him?

He rolled onto his side. His legs hurt like two Riften bitches, and he grunted in pain. He had forgotten about that wound.

“Oh, welcome back, boss,” the familiar voice said. “How sweet of you to join us.”

Conrad’s head snapped in the direction of the speaker. He immediately recognized him.

“Haming. I’m not your boss,” he said, nodding towards the young hunter.

The young man shrugged, and Conrad knew that he would just ignore his protest. Again. Haming was one of the few survivors of Alduin’s attack at Helgen, along with Conrad and other two people that they knew off. Maybe that, and the idea that the Dragonborn was from his own, now destroyed and almost forgotten village, had sealed the archer’s loyalty towards the older Nord.

After all, people tended to be loyal towards those that killed the dragon that had killed their parents.

“Where are we?”

“An old bandit lair, between Whiterun’s and Falkreath’s holds,” Haming replied, filling a plate with steaming stew. “Not exactly one of our most fancy hideouts, boss. But it’s safe.”

Cornad grunted, and looked around.

They were in a cave, one wide enough to have a nice living space for all of them.

The air was cool, and even the faintest sounds echoed through the place’s walls.

Conrad hoped that they had chosen a good point to hide the wagon and the beasts they were using to drag it, otherwise their presence would have been much less discrete.

Besides him and Haming, there were other five people.

One of them, to his surprise, was the innkeeper that had tried to poison him. The woman was sitting in an angle of the cave, eating alone.

He had no problems with that.

The other four, though…

They were looking at him with those eyes.

Those eyes, almost bulged out, that were looking at him like he was some kind of f*cking god descended on the Mundus to save them all.

And he had saved them all.

The problem was that now they were expecting to be saved again, and had chosen to fight at his side.

Unlike most of the continent, actually. Poor bastards.

That didn’t ease the Dragonborn’s worries. The resistance against the Thalmor didn’t need fanatics ready to rally behind his shadow.

No matter what Delphine said.

Haming passed a portion of stew towards him, and Conrad accepted it with a nod, before starting to practically devour the dish.

“Our… partners discovered the mole, and dealt with him,” the archer started.

Conrad nodded. Among the group inside the cave, only him and Conrad were aware of the Blade’s existence, with Conrad being actually a member of the order.

It was necessary, because their struggle against the Thalmor and the Aldmeri Dominion had to be fought with guerrilla tactics, on all the provinces.

So the fighters could not know about the Blades’ existence. It could have been a disaster. Every group of fighters was not aware of the other groups, for security reasons.

Every Blade agent supervised a bunch of this parties, coordinating their effort in the territory.

Haming was one of those agents, Conrad himself had recruited him.

“So, we were sent to fetch you before the Thalmor got you, but they had days of advantage,” the hunter kept explaining. “The Thalmor won our race.”

Conrad snorted at that, watching the bandages wrapping his palms, where the Justiciar’s blade had cut deep.

“By the way, boss. Nice work with that,” the young man smirked “News about how an entire company of Thalmor soldiers disappeared spread fast. There are patrols everywhere, scaring the jarls sh*tless.”

Great. Just great.

He had given the Thalmor an excuse to put more troops into the Imperial Province.

Maybe in the other ones, too.

The archer kept talking, pointing towards the woman sitting alone at a brief distance away..

“It was her, Feida, that saved you, you know.”

Conrad turned towards the woman, arching an eyebrow curiously.

“I waited, and waited,” she started, “until the battle outside was over. And after that...I waited more. Once I was sure that nothing was moving out there...I peeked through the door. There were so many bodies…”

For a few minutes the only sound in the cave was the cracking of the flames. It was clear that the woman was not used to violence.

One of the armed men placed a log into the fire.

“I found you, barely alive,” the woman continued. “You were laying in a pool of your frozen blood… your legs were a mess. I gave you one of your potions, and dragged you inside the inn. It wasn’t easy. You’re quite heavy.”

“We arrived a few hours later,” Haming started again. “We loaded you on a wagon we stole and took you away from there, the fastest we could.”

Conrad massaged his temples, having finished his stew.

“What about her?” he asked, motioning towards (what was her name?) Feida.

“She saw you, and us, so… we gave her the ‘join or die’ option,” the archer said sheepishly.

“We don’t have a ‘join or die’ option, kid.”

“She didn’t know that,” Haming replied, smirking.

“It’s fine,” Feida interrupted. “After that fiasco, the Thalmor would have hunted me down anyway. Either I stay with you guys, or I’m dead.”

“Whatever,” Conrad snorted. Only to add something quickly when he saw the annoyed look Haming gave him. “We’ll find a use for you, I suppose.”

“I’m a good cook, and—”

“Stop it. It’s not my job to find what you can do,” he interrupted, ignoring the woman’s offended expression and turning towards the young archer. “Where is my stuff?”

“We hid your bags and your metallic junk under the pelts and—”

“Junk?!” Conrad exclaimed, indignant. “My nordic carved armour is not junk!”

“With all those scratches and dents, it looks like a piece of junk, boss,” the archer smirked. “Oh, and I’ve managed to save your axe, too. And your walking stick.”

“It’s not a walking stick, it’s a mage’s staff! A mage staff carved to look like a walking stick, to not be recognized for what it is!” Conrad seethed, tired of having to correct his self-proclaimed minion about the nature of the totem pole. Again.

He winced, his head was throbbing now. At first, when he had woken up, he had thought it was because of the exhaustion, his wounds or both.

But when he closed his eyes, he could vividly see… something.

Four symbols, exotic-looking and with an unknown meaning, gleaming in the dark of his closed eyelids.

The encounter in the Soul Cairn had really happened. And Minato had done, or given, something to him.

“Just admit it, boss. Sooner or later, you’ll have to—”

“Paper,” he interrupted harshly. “And ink. Now.”

Haming looked at him for a few seconds, confused from this unusual reaction during their traditional banter, but gestured towards his subordinates neverless.

He heard someone rummage somewhere as he kept massaging his temples.

“Here it is, boss. Do you have to write a message or—”

“Later,” Conrad hissed, snatching the pen and paper sheet. He started scribbling furiously, slightly put off by the unfamiliar symbols.

“Whatever you say, boss,” Haming sighed, before getting closer to him and starting to whisper. “Look, I’ve received orders from Delphine. I’m to take you to the ruins of the Cloud Ruler Temple, in Cyrodiil, before the borders will become impassable because of the checkpoints—”

“Shush, Haming. You’re distracting me,” Conrad said, discarding the paper sheet, unsatisfied with the result.

“But—”

“I said, shut up, Haming!”

Haming fell silent, knowing that whatever he was doing, was somehow important.

Once Conrad was finished, he examined his handiwork. Scribbled on the parchment, the four symbols were almost gleaming, the light of the fire reflected off the fresh ink.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do with this. But he would find out, with time.

“I won’t go there, no matter what Delphine says.”

“But… they’re looking for you everywhere! You’re gravely wounded, you have to hide—”

“I will hide, but I have stuff to do, and I know where I have to go to do the necessary research. And you’ll take me there.”

“Delphine won’t be happy about this, boss.”

“Like I care about what the old hag thinks—” he said, only to drift when he saw Haming’s worried face.

“Alright, alright! I’ll write a letter to her and tell her that it’s not your fault, boy. Happy?! Now gather your things and give the orders to your men, and whatever her name is. We’re moving.”

“Moving? To where?”

“To Winterhold.”

Chapter 4: Simpler in Hindsight

Chapter Text

Winterhold was almost exactly as he remembered it.

Cold, freezing, and ugly.

At least it wasn’t snowing. Yet.

But there were differences, which was expected after all the time he had not visited. It was the kind of differences that was surprising him.

New buildings had been erected, mostly small wooden houses, and even a few shops. There were more people around, and the whole settlement seemed to be booming.

“What happened here? The jarl ban all the taxes?” he asked as Haming helped him get down from the wagon.

“Why don’t you ask him? I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”

“I have other things to do,” he said, hobbling over with his crutch. The wounds on the legs were not healed yet, even with the use of magic.

“Yes, you told us this. But what are we supposed to do?” the young archer asked, gesturing to his fighters and what-was-her-name… Feida, or something like that.

“Drink something in the inn. Find out about what’s going on in the region. Don’t draw attention to yourself. The usual.”

“What about your stuff? The junk and the—”

“I will send someone to take my belongings, among which the ancient armour stands out,” he said drily.

“Whatever you say, boss. Are you sure you don’t want a hand with—”

“I bet that the place has still a policy about ‘mages only’, even if the town has changed. I’ll go alone.”

“Suit yourself, boss. Join us at the inn later?”

“I’ll try,” Conrad said, as he started to limp towards the College, at an extremely slow pace.

A cacophony of hooves and rusty spokes, of hammers on hot metal, and loud, brash voices that filled the air.

All things that were found in other settlements.

But there was one thing that was missing. There were no childish laughs.

There were no children.

How was it possible for a city that had gained so many inhabitants and seemed to be in an expanding stage to have no children?

As he struggled to think of a good reason for this, Conrad suddenly stopped.

He felt his honed instincts kicking in, and his free hand went to the handle of his axe, concealed under the heavy fur mantle he had been given by Haming.

He had found himself under the scrutiny of a small number of onlookers who were lingering around the entrance of a tavern, mugs and flagons in hand.

And weapons on their belts.

Since when had Winterhold had more than one inn, anyway?

They looked like seasoned fighters, their eyes were too shifty for Conrad’s tastes, and they were interested in him.

That was never good.

Was it because he was a ‘new’ arrival in town, or for other reasons?

Conrad was suddenly happy that his cowl was concealing the scarred side of his face from their view.

Now that he thought about it, something seemed off ever since they had arrived, and now he realized what it was.

Everyone was carrying a weapon. Everyone.

What had happened to the dying town?

“What are you looking at?” he growled, giving his best angry Nord performance. He was sure that he could beat them if they tried anything funny.

But without his armour on, he felt so exposed. Walking with it on would have been asking for trouble for his wounded legs.

“Heh, another ‘tough guy’,” one of the group snarked, derision dripping from his words.

Conrad blinked at him, stupefied. Had this tavern trash just—

“Look at him. He can barely stand!” another laughed, to be quickly joined by his companions.

The tension seemed to evaporate completely as they forgot about him and turned back to their drinks.

On any other day, Conrad would have taught them a lesson. In his younger days, he would have crushed them. He could feel his soul, his dragon soul, screaming in outrage, eager to rain down his righteous fury on these weaklings who dared to insult him.

But he couldn’t risk being arrested or kicked out of the town.

He had things to do, and this was not worth it.

Grumbling, he swallowed his pride and resumed his walk towards the College.

At least Haming and the others would pass unnoticed around here.

A pair of hooded figures were walking along the arcade that surrounded the College’s courtyard. They were both wearing the clothes associated with the apprentices of the school, but while one of them was walking in long, elegant strides, the other did so in an undignified manner, nervousness showing with each of her steps.

“I tell you, Beta, you worry too much,” the controlled one said.

“But what if they expel me because I can’t do it?!” his companion asked, panic in her voice.

“None have ever been expelled from the College because they were less than adequate in Restoration. Calm down!”

She went ahead and did the opposite.

“It could happen, Sven! I could be the first! I could—”

“What’s going on?” the young mage asked suddenly, looking ahead of his companion.

“I’m having a panic attack, that’s what’s going on!”

“No, not you,” Sven said, gesturing to the entry of the courtyard. “There.”

Beta followed her friend’s line of sight and noticed the commotion at the entrance of the courtyard, right in front of the statue that greeted the newcomers to the College.

A group of students of various classes were staring too something, whispering to each other frantically.

They heard yelling, but the little flock of scholars were obstructing their view.

“What do you think has happened?” Beta asked. Her friend kept moving.

“Probably another sellsword that tried to sneak into the College while the bridge wasn’t being watched. Come on, let’s check.”

As they approached their fellow students, they could hear the voice of one of the senior students—for the good of her, Beta couldn’t remember his name—intimidating a stranger into leaving.

The stranger was a tall, blond-bearded Nord around his fortieth winter, leaning heavily on a crutch. A hooded fur mantle concealed his attire, but Beta saw an axe strapped to his belt.

“I insist that you, sir, evacuate the property,” the senior apprentice said, almost disdainfully.

“And I insist that you step aside, before I break your nose,” the stranger said in a gruff voice.

“Told you,” Sven whispered. “Typical sellsword.”

“That’s an axe, Sven,” she replied.

“So what? Axe, sword, same thing.”

“Access to the College of Winterhold is currently restricted to its members, sir. So if you will not leave, I will be forced to—”

“I would love to see you try… mageling,” the stranger snarled.

“I’m warning you! If you don’t vacate the College now, I’ll be forced to make you vacate it!”

“Come on, Beta. Let’s go,” Sven said, having lost interest just like a few other students.

Reluctantly, the Nord girl followed him.

“Are you sure it will be fine? That guy could attack them.”

“They can handle it. We have stuff to do, and it wouldn’t be the first time a nobody was kicked out of he—”

“FUS!”

The sound resounded along the arcade, alongside the startled yells of a few students.

Silence followed, quickly substituted by expressions of confusion and awe.

“Impossible,” Beta whispered. The only person still able to use the Thu’um, besides the Greybeards, was—

She turned, only to see that the stranger was plowing through her fellow students who were utterly still, their eyes widened in surprise. The senior apprentice was flat on the ground, slowly getting up, still in shock.

All of the novices were whispering like a bunch of gossipers, but a single word was on everyone’s lips.

“Dragonborn,” Beta said, never turning her sight from the living legend that was walking right in her direction.

Well, more like limping in her direction, but that didn’t matter in her opinion.

She was sure that she was going to have another panic attack.

“You!” the limping legend exclaimed, pointing in her general direction. Beta wasn’t sure if he was pointing at her or Sven, but she was too panicked to care. “Tell me where the Archmage is! And someone explain to me why the bridge hasn’t been repaired yet after all these years!”

“You have always known how to make grand entrances, Conrad. Tea?” Mirabelle Ervine asked, from the other side of her desk in her private quarters.

“Yes, please. I was freezing on that bridge,” he replied gratefully. The long trip on the snow hadn’t helped.

“I’ve never met a Nord that hates the cold like you do,” the Archmage said, as she poured a cup for Conrad and one for herself.

“I’m not a typical Nord,” he snorted.

“You use an axe, you’re proud of your beard, and you love mead so much that you’d like to swim into it,” the older woman said as she put down the kettle on a wooden coaster.

“Your point?” Conrad said, sniffing his cup’s content.

“Around here, that makes you a Nord. Especially in the eyes of the students used to dealing with the new… townsfolk.”

“Just because I’m not a skinny little sh*t doesn’t make me a barbarian! I mean, look at Urag gro-Shub. By the way, how is the old Orc?”

“Wait… you didn’t know?” Mirabelle asked, becoming really serious.

A long pause followed between the two long-time acquaintances.

“When?” Something in Conrad’s voice sounded a bit broken at that moment.

“He died two summers ago. Passed away in his sleep,” the Archmage replied sadly, lowering her gaze.

Mirabelle stared at him, as Conrad sipped silently from his cup.

He could feel moisture forming in his eyes.

"Sorry, something got in my eyes," he said, drying the unshed tears. Time to change subject. "What happened at the city?"

“It grew up,” the woman said, taking a sip of her own.

“... I can see that. Care to explain why? There was nothing around of interest here, aside from the College.”

“That’s simple, Conrad. It’s your fault.”

Conrad blinked, taken aback.

“My fault?!”

“You’re the Dragonborn of legend, the man who slew Alduin, the hero of the Siege of Whiterun and of the Battle of Cold Rock Pass. And who knows how many other things you’ve done. Everyone knows you’re a Nord spellcaster, everyone knows that you were trained right here. Did you really think that people wouldn’t flock to your fame?”

“I think I need something stronger than this,” he muttered, placing the half-empty tea cup on the desk.

“Third drawer behind you,” Mirabelle said, taking a sip of tea.

“And they all want to come to the college?!" Conrad asked, as he retrieved a bottle of sujamma from the counter.

"At the start, yes. We gained quite a few students, we even had to build a few more rooms."

"I thought that magic was scorned in Skyrim. Even more than the other imperial provinces. Not even my fame justifies such a flow of new apprentices," Conrad said skeptically as he poured the liquor in his own cup.

"It's not. Magic is still distrusted in the holds, but lot of students came from the rest of the Empire, too. But we couldn't take all of them."

"So why’s the city full of armed thugs? I doubt they want to start using magic."

"They came with the mining company. A lot of new mines were opened along the Sea of Ghosts—"

"And they were paid to assure the mines’ safety, I get it. Wait... Who owns the mines?"

Mirabelle's face tightened in a grimace.

“The jarl does. It was his idea to revive the city, and convince all the families that followed to stay, since the College would not help. As if we could,” she snorted. “And when news spread, people with troubled pasts started showing up here to find a fresh start. When the new inhabitants are not working or guarding the mines, they usually laze around the town or in one of the inns. From what I gathered, it was difficult to keep order in the first months.”

“So what did our young jarl do?” he asked, tasting the sujamma in his mouth.

“He gave them a purpose. Now, they are useful for various things.”

“What things?”

“Fighting bandits, hunting down monsters, search for treasures in the ruins on the coast, or explore what remains of the old Winterhold.”

“Are you saying… that the jarl turned Winterhold in a city of adventurers?”

“Yes,” Mirabelle said, with a glum expression.

“That… that is hilarious,” he said, barely containing his laugh.

“I don’t find it entertaining at all. We get harassed from them every time we get in town, and—”

“Alright, alright. Having your isolated College sitting beside a town full of people that raid ruins for coin is bad for you, I get it. Let’s speak of more serious matters, now,” Conrad said, pouring again the sujamma. “The Thalmor.”

“Ah. Took you long enough,” Mirabelle stated, proffering her cup.

“Did they cause problems for the College?” he asked, serving the liquor to the Archmage.

The ‘because of me’ went unsaid.

“They tried, but not for long,” she said, savoring the exotic liquor. “We may be a little school of magic, but they know that is better to avoid the ire of mages. And you have been absent for… nine years?”

“Eight and a half,” Conrad corrected drily.

“Yes, well, with your long-term absence, we could avoid suspicion from the Justiciars, even with your… independent activities.”

“Independent activities? That’s the understatement of the year, Mirabelle.”

“Why did you come back, Conrad?” she sighed, knowing too well that this was no courtesy visit. “I suppose it’s not to finally accept the title of Arch-Mage, right?”

“You guessed right,” Conrad said with a small smirk.

“This is the fourth time it’s been offered to you, you know.”

“And for the fourth time, I refuse it. You know too well that I can’t manage this place, since I’m always on the move, and my name’s at the top of the Thalmor’s hit-list.”

“That’s a shame. But at least I get to keep the biggest room around here,” Mirabelle smirked while leaning back on her seat. “Now spit it out.”

“Did you heard of what happened in the Hjaalmarch?”

“Just that a few days ago, the Thalmor Embassy sent more patrols inland. And I think that it’s better if I don’t know anything else.”

“Good. Let’s just say that I need to stay in a quiet and cozy place for a while. And since I had some research to do, I decided to make a visit.”

“Research? What kind of research?” Mirabelle asked, arching an eyebrow.

“About these runes,” Conrad said, retrieving the parchment he had written in that cave in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t really need it anymore. He could clearly see the symbols every time he closed his eyes.

He silently observed as Mirabelle Ervine, the Archmage of Winterhold College, raised an eyebrow in confusion at the paper sheet spread on the desk.

“Conrad.”

“Yes?” he asked, distractedly pouring another serving of sujamma in his cup.

“What in Oblivion is this?”

“I have no idea,” the man responded. “But I want to find out.”

“Is that even writing? Even the dragon language looks decipherable,” the woman said, leaning over to take a closer look. “This is just… gibberish!”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Where did you find it? Was it inscribed in a stone? A mural? In one of the ancient tombs where you like do dwell?”

“Do you really want to know?” he asked, smirking.

Mirabelle snorted.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”

He knew that Mirabelle had an open mind concerning the supernatural, being a mage and the Archmage to boot, but saying things about long-dead brothers’ lost souls and undead dragons didn’t sound very smart to him. Who would have believed it?

Even he was still trying to make up his mind about it.

“Still… are you sure you need the College resources for your research? I don’t think—”

“It has something to do with magic, or at least I think so.”

“Conrad, this looks like chicken-scratch.”

“... Yes. Your point?”

“Why would you even think it has something to do with magic?!”

“It has to do about how I found it, and I can’t—”

“You can’t tell me, I got it,” Mirabelle said, slightly exasperated.

“The library of the Arcaneum is my best shot at finding answers. Will I be able to access it?”

“Of course you will, Conrad. You are still part of this College, after all,” the Archmage smirked. “There will be some… conditions, of course.”

Conrad blinked, unsure if he had heard her right.

“Conditions?”

“It’s been quite a lot since you last came here in person, or even wrote to us for that matter. So, you’ll have to… make amends.”

“Come on, Mirabelle. You know I couldn’t—”

“Since your research will take some time, I have the perfect task for you in mind. As I said to you earlier, we now have an unprecedented number of students.”

“So?” he asked, even if he had a bad feeling about Mirabelle’s ramblings.

“Conrad, students outnumber teachers twenty to one. Our lessons are now not focused on small classes, and—”

“Am I dreaming? Mirabelle Ervine, lamenting about the number of new apprentices she has to manage?” he snickered.

“Do you really think the quality of our education system hasn’t declined? Do you really think—”

“Alright, alright. I see your point, but what does that have to do with me?”

“You are more than qualified to take a few of our classes, to make the lives of our regular instructors a little easier.”

There was a small pause as the two mages, Archmage and four-time candidate for the title, met each other’s eyes.

It should be noted that one of them looked distinctly panicked.

“No way in Oblivion, Mirabelle.”

“Oh, yes. You are going to take some apprentices, Conrad.”

“Give me one, valid reason why I should—”

“Welcome, apprentices. I am Conrad Harissen, and I’ll be your… mentor in this class,” Conrad growled, doing his best to ignore the youngsters’ wide eyes that were almost surrounding him.

There were so many of them, especially if he compared this lot with his own class when he’d joined the College. They looked so young… which make him feel older than he really was. And they were whispering and looking at him in awe.

He already hated them.

With the aid of his crutch, he started to pace in front of the students assembled in the Hall of Elements, the place traditionally used for the spellcasting classes and practice. Conrad wanted to look them right in the eyes, hoping they would get scared and never show up anymore.

“Today, I’ll show you the basic of the most known school of magic: Destruction,” he said, trying to ignore the pains coming from his right leg. He made a mental note to speak with Colette Marence later, the wound was healing too slowly for his liking.

“As you may know,” he said, “Destruction has only one use and purpose. To do harm to your enemies. Behind all the fancy words, all the theory, all the preparation… it’s a weapon that uses magicka to rain death upon your foes.”

To underline that last statement, he made some flames flicker in his free hand, so that all the apprentices could see. That ceased all the whispering at once.

“Since I can’t let you kill yourselves, we’ll start with the basics to protect yourselves. That would be the lesser wards to repel a magic attack,” he said, inwardly smiling at the memory of his own first lesson. Tolfdir had been a great teacher, and Conrad still thought fondly of the old man.

“If you have any questions, ask them now,” he said quickly, realizing that he had spaced off for a few seconds.

It was obvious that they were intimidated by him, because nobody was asking questions, and most of them were avoiding his gaze.

“Look,” he sighed, “I’m just a teacher here, alright? So, ask a question, I won’t burn you.”

Probably.

Slowly, a hand timidly raised among the flock of students. Maybe he could be able to start this, finally.

“Yes, you there. Ask away!”

“Could you tell us about the dragons, master?”

“Boss, over here!” Haming waved from his seat inside The Frozen Hearth, as Conrad made his way towards him.

“Two weeks without looking for me, boss. I’m wounded!” the younger man wailed as the blond sat at his table.

“I was busy. And don’t call me that!”

“Relax,” Haming said, passing him a mug of mead. “Nobody’s giving a damn about us. They just want to drink and forget their problems. So, what have you been busy with? Your research?”

“I wish, I wasn’t even able to start my research yet.” Conrad said, gritting his teeth. “I’ve been too busy with teaching a group of talentless rats how to not burn their own fingers with the excess magicka they put into the spell which would make them risk losing control of the power they’re waving around.”

“Wait, what?”

“Mirabelle made me a teacher for a bunch of brats who can’t even light a candle on their own.”

Haming blinked for a moment, before bursting out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” Conrad grunted.

“Yes it is! Just wait until I tell Feida and the others—”

“Who?” the blond asked, confused.

“Feida. You know, the woman who tried to poison you? Because the Thalmor forced her to? Nice curves?”

“Oh, her,” he muttered, tasting the mead. “Did you interrogate her? Are you sure her story is genuine and she’s not a double agent planted on us?”

“I’ve sent a few letters while you were playing with the mages. Her story is good, so she’s just another victim of the Thalmor—”

“—or she has a damn good cover. We have seen it happen before.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye on her, right?”

“Damn straight you’ll have to. Just don’t get distracted by those nice curves, kid.”

“Look who’s talking. Boss, if I remember correctly, a few years ago, with that brunette from Riften—”

Conrad frowned, looking Haming right in the eyes, not uttering a single word.

“Er, what I meant to say is, yeah, good advice?” the younger man quickly back peddled, not looking him in the eyes.

“Yes, I thought so. Now, tell me what have you done in the last weeks, and what you’ve found out about the town.”

“Well… By the way, your eyes are slitted, boss. Let's start from the guys then… I found them a job!”

“What job? No, let me guess. Guards at one of the mines?”

Haming had the decency to look slightly offended.

“Hey! It’s a good deal! Me and the boys are paid to hunt down monsters around the city. And bandits, if they become too pesky, but it hasn’t happened so far.”

“They’re scattered on the whole hold. But most of the ores are not close to the surface, so the miners must dig deep. And I mean, deep.”

“f*ck,” the older man said, gulping another sip from the mug. “How long, before the excavation catches the attention of the Falmer?”

“Worst or best chance?”

“Never been an optimist, Haming,” Conrad said, cleaning his beard from the remaining drops of mead.

“Less than one year. Then some miners will start to disappear.”

“It always starts that way,” he admitted, grimly.

“The jarl won’t listen to us, you know. The city is expanding, it’s growing, all thanks to those mines.”

“Then we do what we always do. We hope for the best, but prepare for the worst,” Conrad simply stated.

“How?” Haming asked after a small pause.

“You have already inserted your men here, their cover is solid for now. Form a cell, and recruit more.”

“Recruit—Boss, the people here are mostly mercenaries, sellswords...sh*t, I’m sure that some people were bandits, once! And when they’re not working, they’re either drunk or in a brothel!”

“I know. Can you blame them?”

Haming’s jaw went open wide, before he was able to formulate his next question.

“How can you think of recruiting them?”

“Not all of them, of course!”

“So we—”

“So you need to observe them. Look, see those two guys at the bar? The Orc and the Dunmer? What do you think of them?”

Haming followed his eyes, and looked at a pair of mercenaries who were enjoying their own drink without caring about the people around, not even each other.

“I don’t know,” the younger man admitted after a few seconds. “A green guy who loves heavy shields and a skilled archer?”

“The Orc is a former legionnaire. Do you see the tattoo on his left arm? It’s barely visible, but it’s there. He probably deserted during the Civil War, and now he’s hiding in this frozen hole,” Conrad said, not even looking away from his drink. “The Dunmer, however, has killed a lot of people with his bow. You can tell by the way he’s carrying it, and how he moves, like a predator. That guy kills for sport, Haming. Be careful around him.”

Haming looked at him, and then at the pair at the bar, speechless.

“How did you—”

“The eyes, Haming. Look how he watches everyone. He’s imagining how fun it would be to aim an arrow at them. His eyes are surprisingly honest.”

Then he took another sip, which by the counts of most other people was actually a very, very large gulp.

“Where’d you learn how to do it? This… looking at people and reading them.”

“Riften,” Conrad said drily, and his tone didn’t permit further questions about that.

“Alright. So, we prepare the city for the inevitable meeting with the Falmer, in secrecy?”

“People still think that the blind bastards are like goblin tribes, just an occasional nuisance. Or just a fable to scare the children. They won’t listen. But maybe establishing a group here is a good thing.“

“Really? How so, boss?”

“In the last few years, we’ve ignored the western holds, contentrating our efforts on the regions where the Thalmor are more influential. But we can’t keep going on like this forever. We need more people, weapons, food—”

“You’re starting to sound like Delphine, boss,” Haming smirked.

“I take offense to that.”

“Speaking of her, boss… I’ve received a letter from her. For you.”

“Great. Something about the fact that I’ve not gone to Cyrodiil to hide in the ruins of that temple?”

“Something like that. Do you want to see it now or…” Haming rambled, pointing towards the inn’s patrons.

“Just give it to me. I’ll surely need a drink after reading it,” Conrad said, urging the archer with a gesture of his hand.

As Haming extracted a parchment from his satchel, Conrad swiftly snatched it and began scanning the content.

After a few seconds of reading the letter, Conrad flinched.

“Yep,” Haming acknowledged.

“Well, at least she’s happy that I went to a place that the Thalmor avoid.”

That night, once he was back in his room inside the teachers’ quarters, Conrad dreamed of leaves.

“This, my unworthy students, is the College’s library, better known as the Arcanaeum. I suspect that a few of you could be already know this, but I wanted to be sure.”

Conrad ignored the students’ various expressions of curiosity and enthusiasm—or lack thereof—as he guided the brats into the room full of tomes and ancient texts.

His leg was still hurting, but at least he didn’t need a crutch anymore. The healing sessions with Colette were doing their job, along his own limited knowledge.

“You might be curious as to why I’ve decided to move our lesson on Alteration here, instead of meeting you in the usual place, the Hall of Elements. A mage should study not only how to cast his spells, but also the theory behind them. In addition, even knowledge of not-magical nature could be useful once you’ll leave the College. Trust me on this one,” he said, starting to take a few books from the shelves. “So, instead of exploring the great possible applications of the basic Alteration spells, we’ll do a session in the library.”

“Is this really necessary, master?” one of the students said. Sten, Sven, something like that. “I mean, we already know the theory, and it’s not that—”

“Tell me, whatever your name is, do you know how the Dragon Priests died out?”

“My name is Sven!” the youngster sputtered indignantly. “After months with us, you would think that—”

“The question, Sven. It’s ancient Skyrim history, you know.”

“I—I don’t know, master,” the apprentice admitted, blushing.

A few snickers could be heard around, but Conrad was sure that very few of them knew the answer.

“Right, so you can all see my point. You never know when this,” he said, gesturing to the bookshelves surrounding him and his class, “may become useful.”

This time, the snickers were a little louder.

“Should we focus on something in particular, master?” a student asked.

What was his name? Not that Conrad cared.

“Choose on your own. I’m not here to tell you what you should read. Just don’t bother me too much.”

“Oh, I see now,” Sven said, smirking like he had resolved some kind of enigma. “You just want an excuse to do your own research, don’t you master?”

He knew? But how?

“What research?” one of the girls asked.

“Those runes that master Conrad has been researching since the day he came back to the College. With no result so far,” Sven explained smugly.

sh*t, the little twit was on to him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, student.”

“I’ve heard the other teachers—”

“The other teachers should teach, instead of chatting like midwives,” he growled, and a few of the students looked a little intimidated by him. But they were starting to get used to it. Conrad didn’t like that at all.

“I’m just saying that it’s something we could do on our own time, instead of not doing our usual lessons,” the young Imperial insisted. A few voices expressed their support for his statement.

“True,” Conrad conceded. “Too bad that your whole bunch is terribly lazy on your own time, just hanging around in the campus. Or going to the brothel. Yes, I’m speaking to you, third guy in the last row! I saw you sneaking out the other day! Who do you think you’re fooling?”

The apprentice in question looked like he wanted to die instantly. The girls around him shuffled away, a little disgusted.

“Alright class! Enough drama for today. Pick a book, or even better, a lot of books, and start studying! Except for you, Sven. You’re going to read this, and I’m expecting you to memorize its contents,” he said, taking a small volume from a shelf and placing it in the lad’s hands.

“‘Uncommon Tastes, by the Gourmet’?” Sven read from the cover, before realizing, “Master, this… this is a cookbook!”

“A fine guide to the Bretonian cuisine, actually,” Conrad deadpanned, starting to search for the other tomes he needed.

“Why should I study a book about cooking?!”

“Do you know any spell that can cook a fine Bretonian soufflé? Because I don’t.”

Not having an answer for that absurd statement, the young Imperial went to look for a seat, grumbling under his breath. It was then that Conrad noticed one of the other students, looking lost among the shelves.

What was her name? Stupid kids…

“You! Bertha, right?”

“B-Beta, master Conard, sir,” whispered the poor thing. She looked like a deer who had seen the hunter aiming a crossbow at its neck.

“Whatever. Come here, lass.”

Slowly the young apprentice came closer to him, and with each step she looked closer to having a panic attack.

“You’re still having trouble with your Restoration spells, right?” he asked as he reached for a volume.

“Yes, sir. I do. I’m sorry, I promise that—”

“Here,” Conrad said, giving the poor girl a copy of ‘Racial Phylogeny’. “This should help. Study it and experiment a little with your spells.”

The young girl was speechless for a few seconds, but slowly reached for the book.

“Thanks, master,” she whispered, before departing in long, nervous strides.

Satisfied that his good deed for the day was done, Conrad opened one of the tomes he had selected.

“Pardon me, master,” a raspy voice said behind him.

Conrad snapped his head, turning suddenly. One of the apprentices, a Khajiit, was standing right behind him. How did he sneak up on him unnoticed?!

“Ta’Sava has problems with Illusion. Would master recommend a book about that?”

Stupid kids. The only thing stopping him from outright throwing books at the students as they pestered him with questions about what texts they should study was the respect he had for Urag gro-Shoub’s memory.

That, and the certainty that the old Orc’s ghost would rise from the grave if any dared to damage his precious books.

“Mirabelle? A word, if you please?” Kaden asked as the Mirabelle crossed his path.

“Of course, my old friend, walk with me. You seem distressed, is there something wrong?”

“It’s about… well, it’s about Conrad Harissen.”

“I see,” Mirabelle said, frowning slightly. “Has he done something that troubles you?”

“Yes, but it’s not something that he did. More like… how he did it. And how he’s still doing it.”

“Kaden, what are you talking about?”

“His teaching methods are… unorthodox at best.”

“Oh, yes, I can see that,” Mirabelle smirked. Kaden had studied and started his career as a Teacher during the years of Conrad’s absence, so it was natural that he would not have been used to him.

“The other day he forced all his class to exercise, Mirabelle!” Kaden said as he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “While throwing spells! And—”

“I’m sure that a little exercise will not hurt our students, Kaden. It could even be good for them. Actually, I’m sure that a few of them are enjoying it.”

“And he’s so… so unlike a mage! I swear, if you didn’t force him to, he would never wear his robes. And he’s rude, and—”

“Even if he’s not a typical mage, I want you to remember that he’s never been ‘typical’. And that he was considered for the title of Archmage on multiple occasions, long before my name was even brought up. And the only reason he’s—”

“RUN! HE’S CRAZY!” a voice resounded in the hallway.

As both teacher and Archmage turned their heads, they saw a small group of students sprinting in their direction.

“Ta’Sava did not sign up for this!” a young Khajiit said frantically as he passed the stupefied pair.

“What—?”

“PRACTICAL LESSON?!” another voice thundered. As Conrad came around the corner, his hands cloaked with electricity. “I’LL GIVE YOU MAGGOTS A PRACTICAL LESSON!”

He was not gaining on the students, but he was more than making up for that with his lightning bolts.

Before the flabbergasted Mirabele and her fellow mage could react, both Conrad and his students were long gone.

As Mirabelle turned towards the teacher, she saw that he was looking at her, arching an eyebrow.

“He was missing them on purpose… I hope,” Mirabelle sighed. “I’ll talk to him.”

“So, how’s your research going?” Colette asked, while pointing to a student where to move his hand.

“No luck so far,” Conrad muttered as he closed and discarded another priceless tome about ancient runes. “And it’s getting on my nerves. It’s been five months, and I’ve still got nothing!”

“Please, master Conrad, remain calm. Otherwise I will not be able to properly heal the damage to your ligaments,” Beta, the insecure apprentice, said.

Since his leg was still aching, but the damage was now minimal, Colette had asked to use his limb as practice for her own teachings. Outside of the normal studies, of course. So while a number of apprentices in their late teens hovered around his leg, casting pathetically weak spells, he had decided to try to keep going with his own research. After all he didn’t need to move for studying, and after Sven’s little number a few weeks ago, all the campus knew about the mysterious runes.

Conrad was aware that the students had started a betting pool about whether he would be able to figure them out or not, and how long it would take.

He was reaching for another volume—a fine edition about symbols and their usage in magic of other countries, which was sadly a very limited knowledge—when he felt a weird sensation in the right knee.

“Are you sure a group of apprentices is good enough for this, Colette?”

“Masteeeer!” Beta wailed, her fellow students looking as offended as she.

“Bear with us for a little more, Conrad. Then you’ll be fine,” the Restoration teacher assured.

“I hope so,” he said, before turning to the study group in front of him. “If I can’t walk straight after this, I’m sending a Storm Atronach in your rooms tonight. Again.”

“No, you will not. Not after Mirabelle’s telling-off,” the old Breton woman said.

“Spoilsport. They didn’t know about that,” Conrad said, as he saw the apprentices relaxing a little.

“You know, you would have healed at least two months early if you had practiced this on your own. Is your knowledge of the healing spells so rusted?”

“It’s not rusted. I was just… busy doing other stuff. For various years.”

“Sure you were,” the healer mused, smiling slightly. “There, all done. You can stop now, students. Conrad, try to flex the leg please.”

Nodding, Conrad slowly got up, testing his limb’s recovered strength. He flexed it, made a few steps and finally put all his weight on it.

“Well?” Beta asked, nervously as always.

“No pain, no aches… I’m finally fine. Thank you, students,” he proclaimed, with a slight smile. “Now, where are my pants?”

“On the desk behind you, master.”

“Why, thank you,” Conrad said as he started to put them on. “Now—”

“SVEN HAS MADE HIS SOUFFLÉ FOR EVERYONE, PEOPLE! COME TO EAT!”

To say that everyone was startled would be an understatement. The students jumped, Colette looked alarmed, and Conrad was searching for a missing weapon on his belt.

Ta’Sava was standing right in the middle of the crowd, no one having noticed his arrival. His furry eyes twitched in amusem*nt, and he beamed at his peeved peers mockingly.

“Damn Khajiit,” Conrad grumbled. “I should never have taught you that spell of invisibility.”

Said Khajiit only grinned even more.

“Alright, kids. Go enjoy your meal before it gets cold,” Colette said to the students, who gladly started to gather their few belongings. “And don’t be too hard with Ta’Sava, Conrad. After all, you’re proud of him and the others.”

“HA! As if!” he snorted in a maybe too forceful manner. Too bad that his eyes were probably betraying his denial.

Damn azure pool-like eyes.

“I think that young Sven missed his calling. He would have been an excellent chef,” Colette remarked as the group, teachers and apprentices alike walked towards the room’s exit.

“Don’t tell him that, master Colette! I had to force him to start using those recipes!” Beta protested.

Conrad couldn’t help but chuckle at the poor girl’s expense, watching as her face turned red while she tried to defend herself from that statement.

“Yeah,” another student joined in. “Sven ended up popping his soufflé!”

As the students’ chatter started to become louder, Conrad found himself remaining a little behind the others.

Their voices grew dimmer and dimmer, until they were but echoes bouncing off the stone walls of the ancient building. Conrad suddenly realized that he hadn’t yet set foot outside of his room.

A sense of… wrongness had intruded his mind, and he couldn’t explain why.

He looked around. The room looked perfectly normal, not a single thing out of place. Then where did this horrible sensation come—

Behind him!

Conrad whirled, using the momentum to swing a power fist towards this intruder.

Fortunately the far shorter Khajiit managed to dodge, ducking right under it.

“Master, master! It is just your disciple!” Ta’Sava pleaded, throwing up his empty hands to show that he carried no weapon.

Conrad remained silent for a few seconds, his other hand still raised to strike. Obviously it wasn’t the young student the cause of his uneasiness, because he could still feel it, reverberating all over the room.

“How many times have I told you to not sneak on me when I’m alone, Ta’Sava?” he asked. Nice save. Maybe the apprentice would not take him for a madman.

“Ta’Sava is sorry, master. Ta’Sava was sent to fetch master Conrad when master Colette realized that he had not followed us,” the beastfolk explained. “Is...master alright? Master Conrad looks...suddenly troubled.”

“I… I am fine, Ta’Sava,” he replied. Or at least he hoped to be. “I was just—”

As Conrad was searching for an answer, he felt the room getting slightly colder, like heat was fleeing the room. A change too sudden to be natural.

“Master, what—?”

Then the smell of rotten fish came.

“f*ck,” Conrad hissed. He had to get the kid out of here, now. “Something has come up, Ta’Sava. It may take a while, I’m afraid.”

Conrad hoped that the Khajiit would just take the hint and leave, but apparently the tension in his voice was thick and palpable.

“Is Master sure that—”

“GO, Ta’Sava,” Conrad said, gritting his teeth. “And tell everyone that for tonight, this room is off limits.

The student’s ears went flat as the chill reached him, and he felt the same sense of unease that had assaulted Conrad only moments earlier. His pupils dilated and his fur bristled while he looked around for a threat he couldn’t see. Talos, the kid was going to panic.

“Go,” the blond Nord said, posing a hand on the Khajiit’s shoulder, trying to shake him out of it.

Ta’Sava didn’t need to be told again. With a last look back to his teacher, he fled from the room.

Conrad slammed shut the door behind him, locking it.

That’s when the chuckles started, a deep, rich sound.

“My, my, Dragonborn. Perhaps your student’s fear was quite… warranted,” a condescending voice resounded behind his back.

“What. Do. You. Want,” he said, without turning. He was walking on the edge between cold fury and unleashed rage.

“What do I want? Oh, no, Last of the Dragonborns. That is not the right question.”

"And what is the right question... Hermaeus Mora?” he asked, turning towards the floating, formless mass of slick darkness and eyes. “You are not welcome here, or anywhere around me. You should know that—"

"I have what you seek, Dragonborn," the daedric prince said, silencing him for a few seconds.

"... Of course. I should have thought as much,” Conrad sighed. “You know every secret, don't you?"

"That is not a matter of importance. I have the knowledge you require, and it could be yours as well... for a price," it stated smugly, as though it were savouring the moment.

"Oh? And that would be...?" the Nord mage asked, inwardly cautious of the poisoned honey that he was being offered.

"The price? All you need to do is come work for me once you've completed this little... quest," the Lord of Secrets whispered all around him, while a tendril touched Conrad’s shoulder, like it wanted to assure him.

"No matter what you ask, or what I would gain,” Conrad snapped, slapping the cold tentacle of darkness. “I will not serve you. I made that more than clear in Solstheim, years ago."

This was Conrad’s statement, but inside him...inside him, a small part of him was tempted to accept. It would have been so simple. In five months he had achieved nothing, and he was almost out of options.

"So high and mighty,” it hissed. And it was a terrible sound. “I suppose I could sweeten the deal with some knowledge about your brother's life, and of the people that took him as one of their own."

"You—you knew of… of course you did. You bastard."

Rage blossomed as the words were ripped from his lips. The Daedric Prince had always known about his missing twin, even before they met on the icy island that was now part of Vvenderfell.

"I know everything, Dragonborn. The more a thing is unknown or secret, the more precious it is for me,” Hermaeus Mora explained with a condescending tone. “Now, make your choice. Serve me and gain that which you desire, or drown in your own ignorance."

A pressure engulfed the room as the Daedric Lord made his presence ever stronger. The pressure was terrible, and Conrad was already feeling his head spin.

"CHOOSE," it boomed, and the Dragonborn fell on one knee. Like he was pleading, humiliated.

No way he would give in. No way in Oblivion.

"I—” he gasped, “I don't need the help of a mass of floating eyeballs with an ego to figure this out."

The pressure was dispelled instantly, as it had never been there. Conrad was able to breathe normally again, but the foul stench of corruption was still present.

"You're making a mistake, Dragonborn,” the Deadric Prince said, his—its—voice seemed more disappointed than angry. Good. “You will serve me in the end. It is inevitable. Why struggle? I could make your life so... easy."

Yes, it could. It could. But—

"In your wet dreams,” Conrad growled. “Now get out of my room!"

"Very well, but remember, we will meet again—”

“Not if I can choose so. Get out.”

“—because in the near future, you will stumble across a great number of secrets… S-rank secrets."

"What?" Conrad blinked, confused by the unfamiliar term.

But the Daedric Prince had left, leaving behind no proof of his presence. Even the foul smell was fading fast.

Stumbling, Conrad managed to get on his feet. He had sent a Daedric Prince away, verbally flipping the bird to it. And one of the more dangerous ones to boot.

Somehow, this didn’t taste like a victory. The fact that the Lord of Secrets showed an interest in those runes, and Conrad finding out their meaning, was worrisome.

Maybe the thing had an agenda in… wherever his brother had lived? But even then, why ask him? The Dremora should have known that he would refuse, even if the temptation had been great.

A gamble, perhaps?

“Minato, what mess have you gotten me into? And I haven’t even started yet,” he sighed.

Maybe Sven’s soufflé would raise his spoiled mood. He still had to plan tomorrow’s Alchemy lesson, after all.

That night, Conrad simply passed out on his bed once he finally came back in his room, his belly full of mead.

In his drunken slumber, he dreamed of four faces of stone, carved on the side of a small mountain.

He ignored the whispers, and started the lecture as programmed.

"As you may know, before the facts known as the Oblivion Crisis, the Mages Guild was a single organization, widespread on all Tamriel. After the Crisis, and the Thalmor's claims that they had saved the Mundus from the invasion of daedra, the general public started to believe that magic, and all magic users, were somehow responsible for those terrible events,” Conrad said, not really interested if his students were listening to him.

The last week after Hermaeus Mora had been terribly stressful and had taken its toll. But it was not the Daedric Prince that had annoyed him.

It was the rumors.

“Both of these claims… are lies," Conrad growled to the students. Maybe he shouldn't have done that during a lecture, but damn it felt good.

He observed passively the young faces in front of him, who were now focused on his person.

"If you wish to know more about the Oblivion Crisis, I suggest you to check the Arcanaeum, or wait until we'll speak about it in another lecture."

He remained silent for a few seconds, more absorbed from his own thoughts than from the lecture he was supposed to give.

Normally he wouldn't have minded the rumors. He would have just ignored them. Nines knew that there were already a lot about him.

“The Mages Guild was dedicated to the study of magic, much like our own College today. Unlike the College of Winterhold, though, they provided their services to the general public.”

He didn’t blame Ta’Sava, he really didn’t. The poor kitten been scared out of his fur, and it was not his fault if someone had seen him in such conditions and he hadn’t been able to explain why.

“Which mostly means that they financed themselves selling potions and minor magical items and spells. More advanced—and dangerous—knowledge was reserved for the members, who were properly trained by the guild.”

Conrad knew that it was influencing him. Because among the frustration of how badly the secret war against the Thalmor was going, being forced to lay low, and the fact that his research going nowhere, he now had to face the worried and even scared expressions of his students.

All his problems in the College, though, had origin in his research. His obsession with the runes that Minato had imprinted in his mind, and that somehow Hermaeus Mora was interested in giving to him that knowledge, for its own agenda.

Speaking of those, why couldn’t the dead idiot implant more stuff in his head with such a spell?! An explanation, a way to use them...something.

But no, he had messed with Conrad’s brain to give him four symbols and a wish from beyond the grave. And Conrad was an idiot like his deceased brother apparently, because he wanted to fulfill that request.

“This doesn’t mean that they were a magic shop spread on all Tamriel. I just want you to understand how different the perception of magic was back then,” he said, trying to concentrate again on the lecture. “They were mostly researchers, studious, archivists. But some of them were pioneers, who explored new ways to apply the power of the magicka, creating most of the spells that we still use these days.”

It didn’t work. Somehow, he couldn’t put himself in the—boring, he admitted that much—lesson about the past glories of the Mages Guild.

His mind kept thinking about the unexpected visit from Hermaeus Mora.

“Their first concern, as stated from their charter…was ensuring that all of Tamriel would benefit from their knowledge,” he sighed, more because of his inner turmoil than from a genuine nostalgia for such days.

He had to admit it, after almost six months of work. He was stuck at the very first step, because the Arcanaeum couldn’t help him. Whatever those runes were, no mage had ever seen them and put them on text, and without some reference, it could take years to decipher them and discover their purpose.

“The philosophy and politics of the guild changed various times since its founding during the Second Era. The change that we can still painfully feel, after two centuries, is the ban of the necromancy applied by the Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven," he continued, before doing a totally planned pause. "I can see that you're confused. How could a decision like that, done for the good reasons, influence us badly? Anyone wants to take a guess?"

A few seconds of silence passed. Strangely, Conrad couldn't decide what was the worse alternative: his students' newfound fear of him, or their inability to gather a conclusion from the given information.

"Fine, you asked for this. You!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger in a random direction, without even looking. "Answer the question."

The poor guy squeaked, like if Conrad had pointed a finger that was charging a deadly spell in his direction.

"It's, uh, it is because—" the student managed to ramble, somehow, "It is because the, um, necromantic cults?"

Conrad blinked. The little rabbit had managed to reply, after all.

"Exactly. You've all probably heard of them. Hiding in ruins, in caves, in the wild. Experimenting with things that should not be disturbed," he droned to his students, before changing his voice to a dangerous tone. "Should you ever join one of those bands of so-called 'mages' who only wish to use their power to inflict harm on passerbies, much like common bandits… I will hunt you down myself."

Maybe he was being too hard on them. But he didn't care anymore. He was angry, and he wanted to vent.

Even if he was angry at himself.

“Now, to continue our lecture,” he said, ignoring the shock on some of his student’s faces. “The various cults and groups of outlaw spellcasters have the same origin. During the Oblivion Crisis, the Mages Guild had to face their own crisis. Mannimarco.”

A part of him, a very small part of him, thankfully easily squashed...was regretting refusing the deal with The Lord of Secrets.

“Mannimarco, who had secretly survived for centuries, gathered a large number of followers after the ban of the necromancy,” Conrad said forcefully, not wanting to dwell on those thoughts. “His forces attacked, weakened and effectively crippled the Mages Guild, who was forced to rely on their own strength since the Empire was busy dealing with the invasion of Daedra.”

His mind just couldn’t let it go, of course.

Because he had hoped to be a better person. He was not a knight on a white stallion, rescuing damsels in distress, but he had always thought that he would have been able to resist such an obvious temptation.

Or at least, resist it with more firmness.

“Mannimarco was finally destroyed in a duel with Hannibal Traven’s successor, but the troubles for the guild were not over. As I briefly told you before, people’s perception of magic started to change after the Oblivion Crisis, and the Mages Guild were among the suspects. Even if it was widely known to the higher-ups of the Empire’s government that the responsibilities were the cult known as Mythic Dawn, accusations were made.”

f*ck, why couldn't those thoughts leave him alone? This was the reason why he hated to deal with Daedric Princes. They always messed with his head.

Even the two he could at least tolerate.

And Hermaeus Mora reminded him of a too personal matter.

“In the end, the Mages Guild was dissolved. A schism occured, in more ways that you may think. Two organizations raised by the ancient guild’s ashes: the Synod, and the College of Whispers. These two groups are rivals today, competing with one other in the pursue of ancient, often forgotten knowledge. But they’re not the only ones, no. Even our College used to be part of the Mages Guild, and like the College, there are now some small, independent magic schools scattered all around Tamriel.”

And of course, he had been tempted because his research hadn't advanced at all.

Damn, he was thinking in circles now.

Repeating the same things over and over again was a symptom of madness, right?

It wasn't like he could ask Minato again. The portal to enter inside the Soul Cairn was inside Castle Volkihar, deep within Thalmor territory.

With the whole "laying low" situation, it wasn't a good idea.

And he couldn't summon Durnehviir to ask him to ask Minato. The dragon probably would have asked for a fight in exchange, and doing such a thing in an inhabited area was an even worse idea than hiking in hostile ground while the enemy was actively searching for him.

And he would not attempt to enter the Soul Cairn like the last time, almost dying. He doubted it would have worked without the dragon’s help, which would mean, a fight.

He hadn’t felt this frustrated, helpless and angry since the woman he loved had tried to kill him—

“Master…?” a voice dared to interrupt him.

“WHAT?!” he snapped viciously.

Only to realize that he had lashed against the poor, concerned Beta. The girl instinctively retracted, her expression full of hurt.

It felt like he had just kicked a puppy.

Why were all looking at him like that? Maybe he had overdone it, but—

He had stopped talking, completely lost in his thoughts. How long had he remained silent, before Beta, of all people, had found the courage to talk to him?

Conrad understood perfectly that he was losing control, that he was letting himself lose control.

What if he hadn't just screamed at the poor girl? What if he had reacted as if an enemy had sneaked up on him?

He had to stay away from the kids, for their own good.

"Conrad, what in Oblivion is wrong with you?!"

"Mirabelle, please..."

"Yelling at the students like that? You're not their blasted drill-master! This is a COLLEGE, Conrad. A MAGE'S college. Or have you forgotten?"

"So, throwing fireballs at them is fine, but not yelling at them?"

Mirabelle's features darkened. "Conrad, do not test my patience."

"Alright, sorry, Mirabelle. It's just—I don't really know. That's the problem."

"Conrad, what am I going to do with you?" the Archmage sighed, rubbing her eyes in frustration.

"I don't know. Maybe I should leave. I can pack my things in an hour."

"That would be for the best, Conrad," Mirabelle nodded gravely. "Feel free to come back once you've… cleared your mind. Take care of whatever you need to."

Conrad nodded in return, and without any further words, he left the Arch-Mage's office.

He debated immediately going towards his room to leave, but he decided against it.

He had left a little mess in the Arcanaeum the previous night, too tired to put the books in the right shelves. Since the new librarian was not… efficient like the old Orc had been, he supposed he could check it.

Then it was just a matter of prepare his bag, getting out of the robes Mirabelle had forced him to wear for months, and… and what?

He doubted he could complete his research, unless he wanted to try the Arcane University of the Imperial City. But he had no contacts there. It would be a fruitless journey.

No, he knew what he would do. He would find a nice spot to lay low without being a problem, wait until the Thalmor didn't expect anything, and go straight to Serana's former home.

Maybe even ask Serana to join for a ride.

Then he would punch Minato in his incorporeal face, over and over again, while screaming "Six months wasted!"

And only then would he ask to his brother to explain better.

If entering into Castle Volkihar revealed itself to be too risky…

Well, he had tried, at least. He could just go back doing what he had done for the last years. Even if the idea of surrendering didn't suit him at all.

As he entered the College’s library, he found himself face to face with the last person he wanted to see now.

Beta was frozen in place a few meters away, a stock of books and scrolls balanced precariously in her hands.

She stared at him, moving her lips like she wanted to say something.

Conrad just ignored her and went to collect the books he had consulted. They were exactly how he had left them.

“Master,” the girl finally managed to say, after just staring at him for some minutes. “I—”

“I’m not your master anymore, Beta. It’s better this way,” he interrupted her, without looking away from the books he was piling. “You kids will get a better teacher. A more patient one.”

“We don’t want a different teacher. We just want to know what happened to you, Master Conrad.”

Damn, why couldn’t she just… hate him, fear him, or avoid him? This was unbearable.

“It’s complicated, Beta. And as I said, I will not be your teacher anymore. I’m leaving the College today.”

Silence descended again in the Arcanaeum, interrupted only by the soft shuffle of paper.

“It has to do with you being… well… the Dragonborn?” she asked, timidly.

“Not really. Yes. Whatever… Look, Beta. This is not… easy for me. Could you just leave me alone?”

Once again, he was rewarded with a hurt expression. Why had he started to care for these kids?!

“I was here before you, Master,” Beta sniffed stubbornly, clutching her papers tightly.

“You know what? You’re right. I’ll go then,” Conrad said, putting the books on a shelf, not really caring if the placement was correct. Urag gro-Shub would probably punish his not enough diligent successor, anyway. He would have been long gone before the old Orc raised from the grave to punish him.

“Do you really have to leave now?!” the girl exclaimed while he started to move towards the exit.

“The sooner, the better,” he said, not looking back once. He reached for the door’s handle.

“I—I… Since you’re leaving, could you at least help me with this research I need to do for a class!?”

What.

He slowly turned towards the girl, knowing that the right now he had the most incredulous face that Nirn had ever seen.

“What did you say?” he asked, unable to understand why the girl had asked him that.

“I asked… if you would help me with a research of my own? For the extra curriculum?”

“What are you working on?” he sighed, caving in. Those pleading eyes could have convinced a troll to not eat the girl.

“I… I’m reading these old scrolls,” Beta said, not believing that it had worked. “They describe a spell of… Mysticism?”

“Ah, yes. The so called ‘Lost School’,” he mused, slowly coming closer to the girl to check the texts she was showing him.

“Lost?” Beta blinked.

“Well, have you ever heard of it before?” Conrad smirked, grimly. “After the fall of the Mages Guild, a lot of things changed. Some traditions were lost, as well. Mysticism was a school that was slowly abandoned. But its spells, or the majority of them, were incorporated in other schools, mostly Alteration.”

“Oh,” was all that Beta managed to say.

“Now, this spell you are studying?”

“Here it is,” she said, handing over a large, thick scroll. “It’s supposed to allow the user to teleport himself, but—”

“Let me guess,” Conrad interrupted her after checking the details of the scroll. “You can’t teleport at all, right?”

Beta’s eyes widened, and she looked to panic for a second before deciding to go for embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’m sorry that I’m not that good.”

“It’s not your fault, Beta,” he sighed. Seriously, the girl was a ball of yarn made of insecurities. “The fact is, you have only half of the spell.”

“Huh?”

“Which doesn’t surprise me, since a lot of the old Mysticism lore has been scattered and half-forgotten,” he mused. “I’ve heard of this spell. It’s composed of two separate ones. This is quite a good find, Beta. Be sure to tell to Mirabelle about this, if she doesn’t already know.”

“But… what use is it? If it’s just half of a spell…”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that with enough time, a mage could reverse-engineer the other half. See, this part of the spell, ‘Mark’, is the one that is casted first. It creates a magic rune in a location or an item. The other part of the spell, that you don’t have, allows the user to teleport back to where the first rune—”

It was right then that an idea bright as a fireball exploded in Conrad’s brain.

And for a few, long seconds, he just remained completely silent, staring at the scroll in his hand.

“Master… you’re kinda scaring me again,” Beta tried to laugh, but her voice was full of apprehension.

Conrad blinked, and stared at her, and then at the scroll.

“Sorry, sorry, I just… realized something,” he half-whispered, more talking to himself than the girl. “Would you mind if I borrow this… for… a while?”

“But… my research?” the student asked, confused.

“No matter! You just made top of all my classes as far as I’m concerned!”

“What? But… weren’t you leaving?”

“Leaving?!” Conrad exclaimed loudly. “Preposterous! I have a research to finish first!”

And with that, he left the poor, confused Beta in the Arcanaeum.

He was back in the game.

A loud knock disturbed him. He was tempted to shout the good old Fus-Ro-Dah at the intruder, but sadly he had closed the door from the inside.

“Go away! I asked to not be disturbed!” he yelled without stopping scribbling notes on a parchment.

“Masteeer!” a voice lamented from behind the thick wood barrier.

“Beta, I’ve told you I don’t wish to be disturbed! I’m at a breakthrough, here!”

“Ta’Sava told you guys that it was not a good idea.”

“Oh, shut up, fur-face! You were worried more than any of us!”

“Does Sven want to start a brawl with Ta’Sava?!” was the angry reply.

“Guys, shut up! You’re not helping. Master, you’ve not left your room in days! We’re starting to get worried!”

“I’ll leave when I’m done! Just a few more minutes…”

“Master, it has been two weeks!”

“We’re trying to get master Conrad out of his room, Arch-Mage,” was the explanation given.

“Conrad? When did he came back?”

“I never left!” he shouted towards the door. Then he added another scribble on the paper and crossed other two. “Didn’t you notice?”

“What?! Why has no one informed me about—”

“How did you even survive, master?! What did you eat? Books?!”

“Food is for the weak!” he argued. Also, he had eaten. Two days ago. Three. Whatever.

“Master… if you come out, we have mead for you.”

Conrad remained still for a full minute, not responding to the obvious bait.

"Give me that!" Mirabelle ordered.

Then he heard the sound of a bottle emptying.

She wouldn't dare...

And to his absolute horror, the precious nectar began to trickle in from under the door.

"Conrad," Mirabelle said, "If you don't come out right now, this mead will never go past your lips."

Conrad gritted his teeth. He was almost done!

"Oh, look at that. One bottle down, nine to go."

He heard a loud gulping noise. “Ah, delicious. There’s nothing like honey mead.”

Conrad’s eyes went flat.

"Alright, alright! You win! I'm coming!" he replied, hurrying to open to unlock the door.

It was almost time to field-test his newest spell, anyway.

As he opened the door, he found himself face to face with a not pleased Arch-Mage who had an empty bottle in her hand.

And various students were watching the scene. Conrad absently noted the other bottles, safely in Beta’s hands.

“You monster,” he hissed.

“What are you doing in my College, Conrad? Didn’t you said that you would leave?”

“I did. Then I changed my mind when I realized how to complete my research!”

“Master smells bad,” Ta’Sava lamented, stepping back along his fellow classmates.

“Wait, you realized what?”

“No time to explain! Follow me!”

“Follow you where?”

“To the roof! And you may want to send someone to clean the pots inside my bedroom.”

As he walked in the hallway in the direction of the stairway, he heard Mirabelle ordering to the apprentices to do something about the horrible smell and whatever it originated from.

A small fight amongst themselves as to who had to do it. In the end, Sven was shoved forward.

He had almost reached the door to the highest place of the College, when Mirabelle—and some of his students, minus Sven—caught up with him.

“Conrad! Why are you going to the roof?” the Arch-Mage asked, now more curious about what he had in mind than the fact that he had practically stolen a room for weeks.

“Just need to test a spell I researched, and I’m afraid it can’t be done with walls around. Or a roof over your head,” he explained, pushing the door.

“A spell that can’t be used inside—Please tell me that you have no intention of experimenting with the Icarian Flight! There are less idiotic ways to kill yourself!”

“What? No! I have no intention of imitating a long line of idiots that could not even figure out that they had to land. I just need to do this in the open,” he said, stepping in the snow-covered terrace.

“Fine, but I expect you to give me an explanation afterwards,” Mirabelle mumbled.

“No promises, but I’ll try,” Conrad said as he stopped right in the middle of the roof.

There, the moment of truth. Either he had guessed right, or he had to punch Minato’s ghostly face as soon as possible.

Even if he knew that his theory was a longshot, he had to try.

Conrad started to charge magicka in both of his hands, ignoring the students watching him curiously, held in place only by a protective gesture from Mirabelle.

A azure-white ball of magicka appeared in his hands, looking highly unstable.

He kept concentrating on the spell, overcharging it with arcane energies… before releasing it, high above him.

The ball of light immediately soared, at high speed, moving in a precise direction…

“East,” Conrad whispered, before smirking. “Sneaky little bastard…”

“Conrad, was that—”

“Wait a moment, please,” he interrupted, charging again the very same spell and releasing another ball of light that imitated the previous one. “Mmh, the direction is constant, so it’s not a fluke.”

“Conrad,” Mirabelle said with a hard voice. “What. Was. That.”

“It was a clairvoyance spell. A modified version, created by me to cover longer distances, and to search for a precise thing,” he replied, still watching the still visible light that was still moving towards the horizon. “It uses quite a lot of magicka, though.”

“The runes you showed me,” Mirabelle realized. “Are you going to explain me why they’re so important to you now?”

“Later, in your office. For now, let’s just say that I think they’re similar to a foreign version of the ancient ‘Mark’ and ‘Recall’ spells. Kids, time for a question of geography,” he said, looking towards his confused students. “What lands lie at east?”

“...Vvanderfell?” Beta meekly asked.

“Well, yes. But...what lies further? On the other side of the sea?”

“Akavir, master Conrad?” Ta’Sava replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Conrad sighed. “I am going to need a ship.”

Chapter 5: Ships, Gold and Journeys

Chapter Text

Two figures moved in the cold morning.

They were following the White River upstream, along the strait just south of the point where it joined the Sea of Ghosts.

The two men were walking towards a precise destination, but they had been forced to take the harder route to reach it. They were proceeding on freshly fallen snow, the older one forging a path through it almost effortlessly, using his staff to keep from slipping.

Even if months had passed since that accident in Hjaalmarch, it was still a bad idea to travel the main roads.

Technically speaking, Conrad and Haming were not even on any sort of road or a path.

There was nothing in the land around the river, besides cold water, cold snow, cold ground and cold rocks.

If you didn’t count wild animals and the fish, of course.

But the relative monotony of the trip was not the reason for the silence between the two adventurers. Conrad’s mind was completely focused on his new objective, after months of failed experiments and research that had led nowhere.

Just traveling to Akavir would take weeks, maybe months, by sea. But it was the only feasible way to reach the distant land.

What he would do once he arrived there, was another problem. He could follow the tracer to find the places his brother had inscribed those mysterious runes, but after that… his plans were nebulous at best.

But he had every intention of trying to satisfy his dead brother’s wish, to alert the people that had raised him about that masked man or whatever.

He would have to improvise once he reached Akavir’s shores.

Haming’s state of mind, however…

“I hate you, boss,” the younger man spat, glaring at the being that was probably the only other survivor of the inhabitants of Helgen.

“Are you really going to be like that the whole way?” Conrad asked.

“Probably. I really hate you, you know.”

“No, you don’t,” he said dismissively without looking at his protégé. “And if I recall correctly, when we arrived in Winterhold I ordered you to not get distracted by her curves.”

“I was not distracted! I was keeping my eyes on her,” the archer protested while adjusting the weight of his backpack.

“I found you in her bed,” Conrad said smirking. True, discovering that the young hunter did indeed have some interest in the greatest mystery of creation, the woman, had been amusing.

“You dragged me out of her bed!” Haming pointed out vehemently. “I waited patiently for months—while executing your orders about what to do with my group, I might add—while you were busy with your research in that fancy College. Then you suddenly decide to drop everything and leave without notice. Couldn’t you have waited one more hour?!”

“You should thank me, you know,” Conrad said as he climbed over a small gap. Once steady, he turned and offered his hand to the younger Nord. “Now you’ll be able to tell your children, one day, about the time their uncle Conrad saved you from the clutches of a busty older woman.”

“Feida is only seven years older than me. Almost eight. But I refuse to listen to age jokes from someone that used to f*ck a millennia-old vampire,” Haming rebutted, accepting Conrad’s help.

“Former vampire,” he said, feeling that pointing out such particular was important. He pulled, helping his younger fellow villager.

“And by the way,” Haming started again when he’d regained his footing, “my children, if I ever have them, will not call you uncle.”

“Oh, I’m terribly wounded,” Conrad mocked, as he started to lead again.

“They’ll call you grandfather,” the younger man scoffed.

It was a dig about his age, Conrad knew. He kept walking in silence, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing it affected him.

Still, he was aware of the tiny bit of, badly hidden, pride in Haming’s voice when he had proclaimed such a thing. And he understood the meaning behind it.

A small part of him was moved by such declaration.

In any case, he punched Haming’s arm when they arrived on a safer ground a few minutes later.

Hard.

“Here we are,” Conrad said, pointing towards the walled city on the horizon. “Windhelm.”

"Oh good. A change of scenery. I'm sick of this river, boss."

"We're almost there, Haming. Come on, we're burning daylight,"

"For days, only snow and fish. Snow and fish. I want to eat meat!"

"Oh, quit your yapping. We're almost there."

For a good hour, the two men marched in silence, one dreaming of juicy, hot slices of roast, the other thinking about his next move.

A journey to Akavir was no easy task. Legend said that the last person who had tried had been the Nerevarine.

And he had never returned. If that story was even true.

Conrad had learned to not completely trust the stories of the Empire of old, but finding a ship and a crew up to the task would still be a pain.

As they finally arrived at the gates near twilight, just in time before the guards locked them for the night, he decided that he would not plan too far ahead for this foolish quest of his.

No sense in making long-term schemes with so many unknowns. You would get screwed anyway.

“Finally,” muttered Haming. “Can we find a tavern, now?”


“Yes, yes. Follow me,” the older man said, keeping his pace on the paved road.

“Wait, where are you going?” Haming asked, confused. “The Candlehearth Hall is that way.”


“I can’t go to that Inn. We’re going to the New Gnisis Cornerclub.”


“Oh. Uh, I don’t mind being around Dunmer, boss, you know that, but… why?”


“The current owner of the Candlelight Hall used to be a Stormcloak,” he said with a regretful tone.

No other explanations were given, or necessary. The short walk to the other inn was as silent as their walk in the snow, if not more.

That night, he dreamed of a woman with beautiful red hair.


It was not the flame-like red he had seen on other people. Her hair was red like blood.

She was speaking a tongue he could not understand, but she was smiling at him.

And her smile was like sunshine.

“Stupid dream, stupid leaves, stupid dead brother,” Conrad mumbled as he chewed his breakfast. It was clear that Minato’s spell had done more than just plant four funny symbols in his head.


He just wished he had told him that it would have messed with his dreams.

“What dead brother?” Haming asked in confusion.

“Nevermind, it’s a long and crazy story. I’ll tell you later.”

“... Fine. So what’s the plan now?” the young archer questioned as he split the dark bread in two rough halves and offering one to the older Nord.

“Simple. I have to find a ship,” Conrad said before taking a gulp of ale.

“That shouldn’t be a prob—”

“Without telling them the destination, yet. Just that it’s far away, it’s risky, and that the ship will beach on a foreign shore.”

Still eating, Conrad just pulled a folded piece of paper from one of his pouches and offered it to Haming.

“Boss… what is this?” the young lad asked in confusion after opening it and reading its contents.

“A list of provisions that could be useful. You know, food. Ingredients for potions. Scrolls and blank papers. One or two extra weapons. Mead. Stuff like that.”

“Can’t I just search for a ship instead?” Haming pleaded.


“No.”

“Are you crazy, pal? I’m not moving my ship without knowing where!” the Breton merchant said, laughing a little.

“Get lost!” the Dunmer said, emphasizing his words with a rude gesture of the hand.

“Wait, don’t I know you?” a woman asked, looking at him with a curious eye. The one not covered by an eyepatch.

The man just laughed, hard, for several minutes. Finally, when he seemed at the point of attempted suicide by asphyxiation, he began to regain control of himself. Which required another few minutes.

Finally, he spoke to Conrad.


“f*ck off!”

“Stupid captains, with their stupid ships that I need,” he growled in the dim lighted room of the tavern, clenching his fists on the sides of the table he was sitting at.

“No luck, boss?” Haming asked, placing a pair of large sacks on the wooden surface before sitting on across from him.

“A whole day, wasted. Nobody is interested in a well-paid journey on an uncharted route without knowing what exactly to expect at our destination.”

“Can’t imagine why…” the younger man said, rolling his eyes.

“Did you find everything on the list?” Conrad asked, gesturing to the sacks.

“Well, everything but—”

Conrad saw Haming’s gaze move from the rude Dunmer to him. He was probably wondering how the older Nord would have reacted to such mockery.

The few patrons inside the inn grew silent, as the innkeeper arrived at the two men’s table, the face set in a frown.

“What’s it to you, grey ears?” he growled, narrowing his eyes.


The two of them stared each other down, blue and red eyes, for a tense few minutes. Haming seemed on the point of using one of the mugs on the table as an improvised weapon.

Then Conrad and the dark elf started laughing, much to Haming’s confusion.

The other Dunmer in the inn snickered a little, like they were seeing a familiar scene, before focusing on their drinks again.

“Took you long enough to get out of that counter to see an old friend, Malthyr.”

“I had to wait until there were less customers. I run a business, Conrad,” the dark elf said, placing a jug and three cups on the table. “Here, the best matze you’ll find outside of Morrowind.”

“I didn’t ordered it, Mal,” Conrad said, looking at the liquor with confusion.

“Nonsense! It’s on the house,” the innkeeper said while serving the two Nords and himself a good portion of the beverage. “This, and more, for the man that killed Ulfric Stormcloak!”

Conrad’s jaw clenched. Of all his achievements, that was the one that he regretted the most.

Not that Ulfric was exactly a saint. Conrad had even hated the man after he had discovered the agreement with the Thalmor the man had put in place during the Great War.

He just wished things could have been different.

So as not to offend his Dunmer friend, he accepted the drink.

“So, how’s it going, Conrad? The boy with you seems a little shocked,” Malthyr said, gesturing towards Haming that was still looking at them, not even registering the full cup in front of him.

“Never mind him, he can’t understand our old inside-joke,” Conrad said, smirking. “Haming, this is Malthyr Elenil, leader of the local Dunmer and owner of this hole—”

“Hey, I take offense in that,” Malthyr scowled again. “It stopped being a hole after I took over. Also, having Brunwulf Free-Winter as a jarl helped.”

“I can imagine,” Conrad resumed. “And, Mal, this is Haming. My minion and lackey.”

“Hey! I’m only a lackey. Not your minion,” the younger Nord protested.

“Sure you are,” Conrad snorted, ignoring the fake affront on Haming’s face. “After all, you just call me ‘boss’ all the time.”

“A pleasure, young lad. So, what’s this story about a ship?” Malthyr asked, pulling closer a stool to sit on.

“I need to rent one for a few months,” the blond mage simply said.


“Rent one? What do you want to do? Travel around the continent?”


“Something like that. But I can’t tell the captain—or you—the destination until the ship will sail.”


“No self-respecting independent captain would accept such a thing. Why don’t you go to speak to the jarl? A lot of people consider you a hero. I bet he could help with an expedition—”


“It must remain… unofficial,” Conrad cut him short. “I can’t put attention on Brunwulf. He’s already in the Thalmor’s sights just by being a former Talos worshipper.”

“Former? You should just see how he looks at the barred temple,” Malthyr said, shaking slowly his head. “Alright, no official help, you say? I may—mind you, I may—know something that could help you two.”

“What do you mean?” Haming asked expectantly, tired of being cut off the conversation.

“You see, no self-respecting captain would accept such deal. Unless they were desperate enough for money.”

“And do you know of a captain so desperate that hasn’t sold his own ship already?” Conrad asked with evident interest.

“I think that is our man,” Conrad whispered, indicating the person that had just left the Candlehearth Hall at a late hour.

“How can you tell?” Haming asked in a similar tone, peeking from the alley they were using as a hiding place.

“He has the typical walk of a man that is full of debts. Also, he’s a Breton—”

“That’s slightly racist, boss.”

Their mark was moving towards the docks in a straight, direct path. It was not a difficult task to remain unnoticed by him even if he stopped continuously to look around.

Apparently, he was nervous about something.

Conrad was on the point of calling out to the man, so that they could discuss business, when he noticed a group of people coming out of an alley besides the street for the docks. The small crowd, all nine of them, seemed to be composed of an assorted mix of thugs.


The Breton saw them, tensing immediately once he sensed their presence. But instead of running, he stood his ground.

Then they grabbed the Breton captain, who started to struggle, and dragged him like a sack of potatoes inside an alley.

“Oh, great,” Conrad grunted.

“So, the plan is not just making a good offer to him anymore, boss?”


“Did you realize that on your own, or did you just have a hunch?” he asked rhetorically, while moving faster towards the alley where his ticket to Akavir had been yanked.

It was then that he heard the yells.

“SCUM-f*ckERS! SALT-DRINKERS! YA FILTHY SONS OF CHEAP WHOR—” a voice exclaimed at the top of his lungs, before being silenced by what sounded like a punch.

A few coughs, like if the man was not able to breath. Conrad slowly reached the corner and took a peek.

The gang of thugs was surrounding the fallen Breton. Most of them were armed with clubs, but a few blades were present on their belts. It was obvious that it was a gang of the bad side of town, the docks, in the middle of their usual business.

Reminding people who was boss around here.

“You were told that we would have come back for our money, Edvyval,” the ringleader of the gang said. “The fact that you were not able to sell the goods means nothing to me.”

“Oh, bite a squig, ya brain-dead fish!” the gasping Breton managed to say, ire in his voice. “I know it was ya and yor pals that stole my cargo. I owe you sh*t!”

“You can’t prove that. Nobody will listen to your claims. And you know what that means, right? Now I can just take your ship.”

“Ya wouldn’t dare, pus-ridden—”

“I just need a signature on a document. And you wouldn’t believe that,” the gang leader said, pulling a scroll out of a pouch attached to his belt, “I have one with me right now. You can sign, or we can see how many teeth I have to—”

“I’ve heard enough,” Conrad whispered to Haming. “Are we interrupting something?” he asked loudly, as he entered in the alley with the most menacing pacing he could do.

Haming imitated him, as the loyal self-proclaimed lackey he was.

The gang turned immediately, reacting to the potential threat, but Conrad couldn’t really take them seriously.


They had forgotten to so much as put someone as lookout during the thrashing.

“Who the f*ck are you?” the leader asked, rising from his knees and adopting what he thought was a scary position.

It just made him look fat, in Conrad’s opinion.

“Somebody that need to talk with the man you’re clobbering,” he said, taking out his hood and revealing his golden mane. “So, buzz off.”

The fat ringleader just snorted.

“Why should I? I’m not afraid of you two.”

“What did you say?” Conrad asked to the leader, in genuine surprise.

“I said that—”

“No, no. I got that,” Conrad interrupted. “You mean you didn’t recognize me?”

“Oh, I think I’ll remember you, after I’ll have added a few scars on that ugly face of yours,” the fat criminal sneered. Around him, the gang seemed to find more confidence.

Conrad just blinked.

“You know, this is… surprisingly refreshing,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “But to tell you guys the truth, I was counting on my reputation to scare the sh*t out of you.”

“It’s because you’re not like you are in the songs, boss,” Haming threw his own two septims while ignoring the confused gang. “You’re not wearing that horned helm,” he said, gesturing on the sides of his own head with his fingers.

“Talos,” Conrad growled. “I hate that stupid helm! I wore it for a year and now, because of those gods damned bards, people think I’m still using it!”

After that exchange, a couple of the thugs—probably the smarter ones—started to figure it out, and became quite pale.

Too bad their boss was not one of the smartest of the gang.

“Enough of this idiocy,” he said, taking a step ahead. “Guys, I want this two idiots—”

Conrad never had a chance of hearing what the fat*ss wanted, since he was on him in a heartbeat. The sight of the man’s eyes widening was incredibly comical.

Then he administered the old Riften’s Trio: a fast jab to the neck, a hook to the temple and, as the man was on the ground, a kick in the face.

The once tall and fat gang leader was reduced to a limp sack of meat and bones.

Haming capitalized on the surprise, charging an opponent of his own and delivering a classic one-two.

Conrad had no intention to be no less.

He saw one of the criminals attempting to hit him in the head with his club, snarling.

Conrad knelt, grabbing the man's wrist at the same time.

A simple twist, and he felt a bone breaking. The man screamed, and the club fell from his hand.

The Nord grabbed it, taking a step back to dodge a swing from another guy.

Counter, half-turn.

His burrowed club slammed on the second attacker's cheekbone, breaking at the strength of the impact.

The man went down.

Conrad saw a flash of metal, and dodged instinctively. The other man, the one with the broken wrist, was holding a short dagger in his functional hand, though he looked like he was hating every second of it.

Luckily for Conrad, he sucked with his left hand.

Conrad gave him the Ratway's Greeting.

The thug’s face turned an ugly shade of purple as Conrad's foot lashed out against his groin.

The Dragonborn didn't hesitate, and grabbed the man's head, slamming it against his own soaring, armoured knee.

Cruel, but effective.

He pulled up the almost unconscious man—Conrad had to give him credit, he was a tough bastard—and shoved him towards one of his fellows, causing the both of them to tumble down the cobblestone street.

The one still able to move got up the fastest he could, crawling away from Conrad, before turning tail and fleeing.

He was one of the gang’s more intelligent ones.

Since Haming seemed to being holding his own against his opponent, Conrad concentrated on an enemy that was trying to flank his pupil.

A rather burly Argonian.

Conrad made one, two fast steps, tapped him by the shoulder and punched the scaly face when he turned towards him.

The Argonian didn’t go down. Instead, he merely started to circle around Conrad, hissing while putting on a good defence.

Conrad took quite a liking to him.

Jab. Uppercut.


The Argonian passed on the offensive. Parry, counter.

Conrad took a step back, and the lizardfolk took the opportunity to try and bite him in the face.

He thanked him with a kick in the stomach. The Argonian charged.

Side-step, kick in the shin.

Ha! That had to hurt, even with scales on—

Conrad felt something hit both his legs, and he fell on the ground with a grunt.

sh*t. He had forgot to watch out for the f*cking tail.

The muscular Argonian was now stable again, towering over him, his hand on a knife’s handle.

Conrad decided that he didn’t like him anymore.

Oh well, nothing that a nice fire blast in the face couldn’t fix—

Conrad didn’t even made in time to call his magicka to him, that the Argonian fell face-first on the ground.

What the—

“CAME HERE, YA BLOODY DOGS!” a voice screamed, followed by various thuds. “I’LL SHOW YA!”

It was the captain, Edvyval whatever-his-surname-was.

The Breton had yanked the Argonian for the tail, and was now fending off another crook with a club, one he had probably picked up from the ground.

Conrad was really appreciating the fact that the sea captain had not fled at the first opportunity, and showed his gratitude by kicking the Argonian’s snout, which was right in front of his boots.

He repeated the process until the reptilian was out cold.

That gave the captain the opportunity to let go of the still tail and concentrating on his current adversary.

Who lost a pair of teeth, courtesy of the Breton’s club.

Conrad rolled on his flank to dodge the mallet that had been aimed at his head, stumbling onto his feet as fast as he could.

The goon threw himself at him, weapon raised.

He just grabbed the other man and headbutted him, breaking his nose.

The crook faltered for a second before falling down with a whimper.

The remaining members of the gang didn’t seem to be intimidated by this one bit. In fact, they were starting to take out real weapons.

It seemed they wanted to rush towards the three of them in a single charge.

Conrad’s axe left his belt in a flash of metal, appearing in his hand. He just remained still, waiting for them, with his head half-co*cked.

The crooks seemed to hesitate.

He raised an eyebrow, along with his axe.

What remained of the gang just turned and ran like there was no tomorrow.

Haming immediately started to check the fallen—and in one case, still moaning ones—for valuables as Conrad put his weapon away, turning towards the Breton captain.

“Who are ya?” the man asked, looking at him up and down, before spitting on Conrad’s boots. He had the club ready for any evanescence. “And what do ya—”

Conrad sucker-punched him, knocking him out cold.

“I think I like this one,” he grinned, grabbing the unconscious Breton before he hit the ground.

Haming just stared at him as though he were mad.

A moan was the first sign of the man’s recovery.

The Breton moved slowly his head, eyes half-closed while checking his surroundings.

Conrad and Haming had taken him back to the New Gnisis Cornerclub. Since it was really late at night and there were no guests for the night—besides them—Malthyr had granted him to use the common room to discuss business with their… patron.

“Oh, good. You’re waking up,” Conrad exclaimed cheerfully. He handed the man a glass of sujamma. “Here, drink this. It will help, if you’ve got a good stomach.”

The man accepted the drink slowly, not really sure where he was.

He touched his face where Conrad had given him a black eye.

Then his good eye snapped open.

"Ya little—"

He tried to get up from the chair, but Conrad firmly held him in place, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Firmly.

"The punch was just because I was pissed with you," Conrad said, showing a cruel smile.

"Jeez, boss. Way to go to get the guy's trust," Haming muttered from the angle where he was counting the money found on the gang of people that didn't listen to the songs.

Or that listened to them way too much.

"What do ya mean? I owe ya no money, I'm sure o’ that," the man proclaimed, confused by their behaviour.

"Because of the whole brawl in the alley. After all, I just want to speak with you."

"And you spit on his boots," Haming added. "What was he supposed to do?!" he cried dramatically, hands thrown up in the air. "His honor must remain intact or the world shall fall apart!"

"Shut up, Haming."

Haming snickered, then went back to counting the money.

"I don't even know who ya people are!"

"Oh, right," Conrad said, taking his hand off the Breton's shoulder and offering it to him. "Conrad Harissen, pleased to meet you."

The man frowned for a second, trying to recall where he had heard the man. His eyes widened like saucers.

"Ya're not—wait, are ya?"

"Yes, I am," Conrad said, becoming serious.

For a whole minute, nobody spoke and the only sound was the the tingling of the septims in front of Haming.

“What do ya want?” the Breton asked, the voice low.

"You could start with introducing yourself. It's common courtesy," he said, sitting on a stool right in front of the shorter man.

"Huh, yes, of course. I'm Edvyval Letons, merchant by trade."

"Very well, Edyval—I can call you Edyval, right? Sure I can, I already punched you. Now, Edyval… what can you tell me about your ship?"

"My ship? Why do ya want to know about my ship?!"

"Business. Now, tell me about your ship," Conrad insisted.

"My ship's called The Seeker. It's a good ship. Built it Dawnstar, with good wood. Not good like a honest Breton's ship, but—"

"How big it is? Is it fast?"

"It's bigger than a normal merchant ship. Probably around one hundred feet," Edyval shrugged. "I think it was commissioned as a recon vessel a little before of the Great War."

"It is good on the sea? And I mean, open sea."

"Sure it is—Wait,” the Breton stopped, looking at Conrad with suspicious eyes, “are ya trying to know about my ship so ya can steal it?!"

"Don't start spouting nonsense. I don't want to steal your ship. I want to rent it. Along with your services."

“Really?” Edyval asked, relaxing. “To go where?”


“Far,” Conrad replied flatly.

“How much? The other side of Tamriel?”


“Probably more far than that. But I can’t tell you until we’ve left Skyrim’s coasts,” he said, emphasizing the part about secrecy.

"If you're going to be like that, why should I—"

"Haming, please, fetch me the bigger sack," Conrad interrupted, calling the younger man without turning his gaze from the Breton’s eyes.

"The one I carried for the whole trip here?" Haming mumbled.

"Yes, that one," Conrad smirked.

The younger Nord complied reluctantly, rising from his seat and walking towards their room.

A few moments later, he came back with a big burlap rucksack, nearly as big as his torso.

"Thank you," Conrad smiled, relieving his younger companion from the massive weight.

Edyval looked curiously at Conrad, only to retract a little when the Nord unsheathed his dagger.

With a fast, precise movement of the blade, Conrad made a cut in the side of the sack, letting its contents spill out on the table.

A sea of gold, both septims and ancient coins from before the Empire, poured from the wounded rucksack with a metal racket.

Coin against wood, coin against coin, each shining in the candles' lights.

It took a few moments before silence fell down on the room again.

"Is this enough?" Conrad asked with a neutral expression, but inwardly he was smiling.

A life as an adventurer helped to find a lot of riches. Having places to hide them was another perk.

Having a loyal lackey to transport them in his place, instead, had no price.

Edyval started sweating.

That was a lot of gold.

Really, really a lot of gold.

It was more than enough to pay his debts and still have a lot of gold after this mysterious travel that the freaking Dragonborn wanted to do.

But he knew there was a trick somewhere.

He was aware that gold the Dragonborn had a lot of enemies. If he gold wanted to rent a ship to travel without telling the gold captain about the destination, it had surely something to do with them.

And the gold voices were almost unanimous about who these enemies were.

He was well aware that gold it was madness to join those gold lunatics as they tried to do whatever dangerous thing with gold an high chance of get themselves killed, but it was becoming way harder and harder to ignore the gold gold gold.

A week had passed since the deal between Conrad and Edvyval Letons.

He would have preferred to depart immediately, but even with his limited knowledge about sailing, the Dragonborn knew that such a long journey, on uncharted seas to boot, required an adequate preparation.

Conrad was sitting on the pier, facing the sea, organizing the letters he had prepared to explain his absence to the people he trusted and half-truths for his contacts in and outside of the province.

Once in a while, he could see the crew he and the Breton had recruited passing in front of him with crates, sacks, boxes and barrels. All the necessary supplies were been loaded on the ship.

After all, it was the day of the departure.

The Seeker was a magnificent ship, even with its half-century of age burdening its planks.

Sure, a few scratches were visible on the wooden hull.

And the single sail had to be replaced because Conrad doubted that it could sustain a long journey, as Edyval admitted. The crew had finished mounting the new one the previous day.


The ship had the typical shape of a Nord longship, but it was slightly sleeker. It had been designed for speed and maneuverability, which was suited for fast raids on enemy shores, or recons for a bigger, but slower fleet.

In the north of Tamriel, it was the perfect ship for a merchant.

Or a contrebandier, as Conrad suspected.

Honest merchants had less chances of being cornered by a local gang that pressed about disappeared goods.

As long as he had no trouble because of that, Conrad didn’t mind.

If Edyval was really a contrebandier, there were less chances of betrayal from him. After all, the “honest merchants” of the sea founded business only thanks to their reputation for being reliable people.

Also he had left half of the gold in a secure place, as a insurance.

His father had not raised a stupid boy.

Some of the men—and women, and mer, and beastfolk… Some of the crew members were moving three big barrels on the pier, under Haming’s supervision apparently.

“Hey boss,” the young Nord greeted. “Careful with those as you load them in the ship, people. Don’t damage them.”


“There you are, Haming. Where have you been? You disappeared for two days.”

“I was busy, boss,” Haming retorted.

“By what? More curves?” Conrad falsely mocked.

"No, I was just doing my own business. My life doesn't revolve around you." The younger man smiled.

"You wound me. What's with the barrels? I thought we loaded all the fresh water earlier?"

"Oh, I guess you don't want my gift for you then. Nevermind, people. Don't load them."

"Gift? What gift?"

"Well, the bottles of mead we bought are not really going to last much, with you onboard. So I decided to get you a few extra—"

"Don't listen to him! He's crazy! Put them in the hold, right now! And if one of them is scratched, remember that I know where you sleep!"

Haming really did care, afterall.

Each of those was big enough to contain a person. If said person didn't mind being really, really uncomfortable.

"Aohey, ya bloody Nords!" Edyval called from the ship. "We're almost ready to sail. My girl is ready, the sea is calm and the wind is propitious. We're just waiting ya!"

"In a moment, my Breton friend. I need to talk with Haming," Conrad said, pulling his pupil farther from the ship.

"What's wrong, boss? I thought you wanted us to depart as soon as possible?"

"True, Haming. But you're not coming with me."

"What? But… why, boss? I thought—"

"You're a good fighter, Haming. Also, you’re a good agent, and one of the few people I trust. But… I need someone to watch the fort while I'm away."

Haming remained silent, not looking away from his gaze.

"There are some letters in here," he continued, handing out his satchel. "Some are coded, some aren’t. They contain orders, strategies, stuff like that."

"You want me to be a messenger?" Haming said, offended.

"There's also the whole business with Winterhold to deal with. What if I'm not back in time? Somebody has to organize their defense."

"Boss, there are way more qualified—"

"It has to be you, Haming. You're already known in town, after all the months I spent inside the College. And your men are already in place."

"You want me to stay behind to protect Winterhold… and your students... from the Falmer," Haming sighed.

"Basically, yes," Conrad admitted with a sad smirk.

"Well… that's ironic…" Haming mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing," the young man said quickly. "Anything else I should do?"

"If possible, start circulating all the stories you can think of in regards to where I've gone."

"What for?"

"It should distract the Thalmor and their agents. Tell Delphine to insist that I'm somewhere around Elsweyr, or Valenwood… No wait, better yet, I'm infiltrating the Summerset Isles."

"That's… that's the craziest thing we could say about you, boss."

"That's why the Thalmor spies will try to find out if it's true. It could even distract them from our other agents."

"Or they could think that you've finally lost it," the archer muttered.

"Do you understand why it's important that you stay here, Haming?" he asked, seriously.

The younger man finally accepted the satchel after a few seconds of silence.

"I understand, boss. Don't worry. Skyrim will still be in place when you get back."

"Oh, good. Let's hope the rest of Tamriel will be, too," he joked.

"Come on, ya coming or not?!" the captain called.

"Coming, coming," Conrad called, before turning one last time towards Haming. "See you soon, boy. Be safe."

Conrad walked on the pier, taking a deep breath before putting foot on the Seeker.

"Let's move, captain," he said to the Breton, going toward the bow and not looking back.

"Ya heard what the bloody Dragonborn said? Cast off and set sail!" Edyval ordered to the crew with his loud voice.

His next journey had finally begun.

Naruto felt something being placed on his head, but he kept his eyes shut, as Iruka asked him to.

"Sensei, how much longer...?" he asked, impatient to see what the surprise was.

"Alright, you can open your eyes," Iruka said proudly.

The blond boy did so, seeing his sensei sitting in front of him, still wounded and battered, but without his forehead protector.

Iruka was smiling, even if he was in evident pain.

Naruto blinked in confusion, before he finally realize that Iruka had placed his own forehead protector in place of his old googles.

"Congratulations for graduating, Naruto.”

Chapter 6: Seas, Waves and Journals

Chapter Text

4E 220, 27th Sun’s Height.

We've left Skyrim's shores behind us, and The Seeker has now entered Morrowind’s waters.

The ship is still too far to see the clouds full of ashes that spread from what remains of the Red Mountain, but I can already feel the difference from my homeland's cold air.

Besides the terrible discovery we made, the navigation has been smooth and without problems.

Edyval's crew is surprisingly efficient, even if they’re nervous about the destination. Or the lack of one, at least.

Still, they’re going to do their job without asking questions, at least according to our crude Breton captain.

Seeing how much they’re paid, some people would even say that they’ve no right to ask questions.

For the time being, using my clairvoyance spell would just be a waste of magicka. I won’t even bother until the coast of Tamriel is far behind us to—

"Maaaaster!” an annoying voice wailed, daring to interrupt Conrad as he wrote in the journal bought specifically for the journey to Akavir.


“What is it, Beta?” Conrad asked, frowning. But his eyes didn’t leave the nib as he kept writing.

“Please, can we stop now?" the girl pleaded with the same tone of a mortal asking forgiveness and mercy from a god.

"The deck is not going to clean itself, Beta. Keep working," he said, destroying any hope the young Nord girl might have held.


Conrad was not inclined to let his so called students get off scot free after that stunt they’d pulled.

"Why do we have to?" Sven asked, as he squeezed a rag. The boy looked really skinny without his robes.

"You're the cabin-boys, Sven," Conrad deadpanned, searching for his ink bottle.

"Beta is a girl," Ta’Sava said as he scrubbed the deck. Strangely enough, the furred teen was the one that was complaining the least.

"Beta shouldn't have followed you in your idiotic plan," he growled.

“Actually, master…” the girl fidgeted with her fingers as she bit her lip, “...it was my plan. All of it.”

To his credit, Conrad didn’t snap immediately. Instead, he stopped writing, took a few long breaths and waited until the ink had dried completely.

Then, he snapped his journal shut, and slowly spun around on the crate he was sitting so that he could face his students.

Sven was avoiding his gaze, Ta’Sava was incredibly interested with the wooden surface of the deck and Beta was completely terrified yet still managing to meet his eyes.


Normally, during the lessons in the College, he would have taken pity on the poor girl.

But he was not in the College anymore. And neither were they.

“Why?” he asked in the harshest tone he could muster.

"We wanted to follow you," Beta squeaked, readying herself for a well-deserved scolding.

A long silence followed the statement, and Beta winced as Conrad raised an eyebrow, completely unamused.

"You managed to track me down, follow me unseen, sneak aboard the ship after enlisting Haming's help… because you wanted to follow me?"

“Well, we didn’t exactly track you down,” Beta started to speak, glancing at him nervously. “You left with your friend passing by the coast, we would’ve never made it. But Sven understood where you were going.”


“Did he, now?” Conrad deadpanned.

“Yeah, so, uh, we got a carriage and went to wait for you to Windhelm and—”

“Wait, just like that?” he asked in confusion. “Why didn’t your teachers—Sven, stop using magic at once!”

The young Imperial huffed in annoyance, and let the mops fall down, releasing his telekinesis spell.

“Don’t huff. Do you want me to repeat what happened that time people came from town to harass us? Do you?” Conrad hissed towards the boy.

The three froze and became paler. Or in the case of Ta’Sava, had his grey fur stood on end. Even if how their master had managed that particular incident was still the stuff of legend among the College’s student board, it had been a little disturbing seeing it in person.

“Good, you got it,” the Nord man growled, eyes slitted, before turning towards the speechless and slightly embarrassed Beta. “How come nobody stopped you?”

“Well, master, uh...it’s not like we’re forced to stay in the College. Every member can come and go as they please, as long as the rules are respected,” Beta said, gaining confidence with every word she spoke.

“I know that! But that should apply to grown-ups, not magelings like you!” he retorted. “That aside, you should’ve continued your studies—”

“It’s not like we left the College, we’ll go back!” Ta’Sava interrupted—how dare he?!—while passing a soap-covered brush over the planks. “We just wanted to help master Conrad.”

“Ta’Sava, go back to scrubbing the deck. And I don’t need your help!” Conrad grumbled. “Now, Beta. Tell me how you managed to persuade Haming to sneak you aboard the ship.”

“We met him in the marketplace...we were looking for you, see. And—”

“Beta. Why. Did. Haming. Help. You,” Conrad slowly growled.


The girl immediately took a step back and replied to the guttural question in a rushed and squeaky tone, eyes averted. “He says it had something to do with curves…?”

Conrad recoiled, like he had been slapped.

“Milk-drinking, arrow-loving youngster,” he whispered, gritting his teeth. “Leaving him to take care of things? Oblivion, once I’m back I will skewer his—”

“Uh, master?” the girl asked in confusion. “What did he mean by ‘curves’?”


“Nevermind that!” he barked, quickly hushing the clueless girl. “Keep doing your work. You're lucky I persuaded the captain to not throw you overboard."

"But why would he do that?" Sven asked, fighting a hopeless battle against a very old blot.

"You're stowaways, Sven. I would've gladly helped, you know."

"To let us onboard?" the girl asked, brightening in a noticeable manner.

"To throw you off the ship."

Beta's eyes widened dramatically.

"But Master, aren't there sharks?!"

"Sure there are. We’re in open waters, Beta. But at the very last moment I realized that I will need someone to carry my stuff while walking on a unknown, dangerous unexplored continent."

"... Master Conrad is evil," Ta'Sva lamented.

"And one more thing… you will continue your studies. Under my watch."

"Not really different from before, then," Sven observed, unimpressed.

"But this time… Mirabelle won’t be around to stop me."

Their faces were quite enjoyable to witness.

The masked man pulled a pair of small bells tied to a red string out from his pocket, showing them to the trio of brats in front of him.

"To pass, you have to take these from me before noon."

4E 220, 1st Last Seed.

Those three are getting used to the life on the ship, even if they complain about their cramping muscles.

puss*es.

Even if I can understand that they're not used to manual labor, it's no reason to be whiny about it.

Anyway, I have to start thinking about how to teach them. It's not like I can throw fireballs on the deck—

"Hey, what's that?" the young Khajiit asked, indicating something out of Conrad’s field of view.

Judging by the grey-brownish clouds that the Dragonborn could see, he already knew what it was. Since it was nothing dangerous to the ship, at least for now, he kept writing on his journal.

"It's snow. It always snow in the north," Sven dismissed his friend worries, and kept gutting his fish with the usual unexpected enthusiasm. Even if he had started to enjoy the art of cuisine, he was still annoyed by the idea of having to process the raw ingredients.

"Oh come on, that is not true Sven,” Ta’Sava rebutted. “And it is not—"

"So what? Even if we're not in the land of barbarians and cold, it's still snow—"

“It is not cold enough for snow,” Ta’Sava insisted as he opened another small fish’s belly. “Come on, Beta, tell him that.”

Before the girl could comment about it, the three were distracted by the sound of boots on the wooden deck and turned to stare at the newcomer.

"That's not snow, ya bilge rats," Edyval, the captain of The Seeker said grimly, as he walked closer to the scoffer.

"What? But, captain—"

"That's ash," Conrad said as he closed his journal. It was clear that he wasn’t going to get anything written for now, anyway.

“Oh? Ya’ve sailed under ash before?” the Breton asked, stroking his chin covered by two-days stubble.

“A few times, either to Solstheim or Morrowind’s coasts,” Conrad said, recalling his former experience with the region.

“Good, then ya can tell to your lads and the lass about what to do if we get an ash storm,” Edyval said, while gesturing the young mages present. “Get to it, Dragonborn. I’ve to tell my crew to prepare some buckets.”

Conrad nodded, and put away his journal for the time being as the captain moved towards the other end of the ship. He was well aware of his students’ stares so he decided to avoid the barrage of questions with a simple solution.

Talking for first.

“Yes, brats, it’s ash. Don’t make those faces. Now, we’re pretty far from any volcanoes for now, so we should not find any ash storms but—”

“Um, what is an ash storm, master Conrad?” Ta’Sava asked, blinking his eyes.

Conrad huffed. Of course they would ask questions anyway.

“To make a long story short, it’s a big cloud of ash that the winds have pushed away from the Red Mountain, or one of the other active volcanoes in the province. They can travel pretty fast actually, since ash is very light.”

“That doesn’t sounds dangerous, master. Why is it a big deal?” Sven asked in confusion.

“Because you could die from asphyxiation inside one, that’s why,” Conrad deadpanned.

“Die?” Beta whispered, barely moving her lips.

“Well, yes. You breathe the ash as it falls down from the sky and lingers around. It clogs your lungs. You die,” he explained. “That’s why so many Dunmer have fled to Skyrim in the past two centuries.”

Seeing their confusion, Conrad inwardly made a note for himself to tell the magelings about the downfall of Vvanderfell at a later date.

“Now, if we can’t outrun it, it means we’re probably in the middle of it. If that happens, I want you three to get a thick cloth and use it to cover your mouth and your nose. Got it?”

He waited long enough, so that the brats would have time to process his simple instruction. Since two or three of them had nodded, he decided to continue.

“And if it starts to pour down really thick, go under the deck and remain there until it’s passed if you know what’s good for you.”

“Master? What’s the water for?” Sven asked, indicating the crew that was busy with the buckets, throwing water taken from the sea onto the whole deck.

“Sometimes, if the volcano is erupting, the ash is still burning. If you’re not careful enough, the ship could catch fire. Soaking it makes it harder to burn, and it’s better not to waste water we can drink.”

“Couldn’t we help in case the ship catches fire?” Beta asked. “You know, uh, with ice magic?”

“That would be helpful,” Conrad considered, scratching his beard. “A simple spell like Frostbite should be sufficient. Just don’t overdo if that happens, we don’t want to freeze the deck.”


“Master, how come you can’t use some magic to send the ash away?” Sven inquired.

“I can shield the ship from most of it, but we're on a moving ship. Any barrier would not be very stable and I would start to breathe ash sooner or later. And I like to breathe,” he explained, crossing his arms. “As for the Thu'um, well...it's not like stopping an actual storm."

“You can stop a storm? You’re joking right, master?”


Conrad just gave his students a smug grin.

"Oh, come on! Another D-rank, sensei?"

"Hn."

"Ah-ha. Cute little genin are not supposed to whine about their missions. Now, go on and get that trash."

4E 220, 9th Last Seed.

I had to force myself to take a hard decision today.

In better circ*mstances I would have not done such a thing, but I have no choice.

From now on, I will ration the remaining mead.

Since we’re sailing on the north of what remains of Vvanderfell, I doubt I will found a commercial dock with lots of the only thing that makes life bearable on sale.

I hope Akavir has mead, they better have it!

On an unrelated note, the magelings saw the Red Mountain on the horizon today, since the weather was somewhat clearer than usual.

They were like little children, mesmerized by the alien and somehow beautiful landscape. How can anyone find a wasteland of ash beautiful, I’ll never know.

Maybe, as long as we can still see the crimson volcano, I should lecture my students about the less discussed events that led to the Red Year.

“So, how was your mission Naruto?” the young woman asked as she placed the bowl of miso ramen in front of her favourite customer.

“It was awful! We had to buy groceries. What kind of ninja goes to buy groceries?!”

4E 220, 12th Last Seed.

Tried to teach the magelings some Alchemy for a few days by now.

Alas, they are just beginners in this field. Even with a few simple experiments, they've put a noticeable dent in the alchemy supplies available onboard.

For this reason, they're forbidden to use the rarer ingredients. But I was able to find a suitable adjustment to that problem—

“Master?” Sven asked, pale as snow. “May I not drink the potion this time?”

“You botched it, Sven. Think of it as a learning experience: you’ll do your best next time, in order to avoid drinking an awful potion.”

“What if it’s poisonous?” the Imperial asked, looking with dread at the reddish-brown mixture inside the bottle in his hand. Which was actually a former mead bottle repurposed for another task.

“It’s not, trust me. Just unpleasant.”


“But—”


“Sven. Drink it,” Conrad ordered with a tone that didn’t brook a reply.

The youngster searched for the support of his fellow students, but they avoided his gaze with little or no shame, since they had been forced to do the same with their last failed potion.


If Sven was not good as them, or just unlucky with the equipment Conrad had brought on The Seeker, it was not their fault.

Sven finally resigned to his fate and after mumbling something that sounded like “traitors”, he drank the foul liquid.

“It wasn’t that bad, right?” Conrad asked, as the teen made a disgusted face.

“I need to puke...again,” Sven said.

Conrad rolled his eyes, and passed him the bucket.


What a fuss for a few fish guts mixed with salt. But at least it would teach the brats to not waste ingredients.

"This is ridiculous," the girl lamented, as she ran a paint filled brush across the surface of the fence.

"Hn."

"Heh. Don't worry guys, I've got this," the blond kid said, forming a cross symbol with his fingers. "We’ll finish this in no time.”

4E 220, 20th Last Seed.

Great news. We’re rounding Morrowind’s eastern promontory three days earlier than expected.


Once this is done, it will be open ocean, and the harder part of the journey will begin.

My mind lingers, and it's haunted by doubts.

Am I doing the right thing? I honestly don't know.

Minato's ghost gave me a task from beyond the grave, but I wonder if I'm doing this because of some sense of honor towards a sibling I never knew, or because I just want to go away for a while and forget all the problems that haunt me daily in my homeland.

Even if that was the case… so what if I am?

Maybe that's what I need after all these years.

A grand, ludicrous adventure, for old time’s sake.

Even if it is for something as stupid as a long lost twin.

Tamriel will survive without me for a few months.

I just hope to be able to find ‘Cornoah’ quickly, whatever—or who—it is.

“Master!” Beta called excitingly, distracting Conrad from his writing session. “Look, look!”

He turned his head, following her student’s extended arm and what he saw pleased him.

The Seeker had passed the promontory and in front of the ship was the ocean, with its deep, cold colours. Nothing else was visible on the horizon.

Leaving his journal on the crate he had been sitting on, he started to search for the captain, giving a pat on Beta’s shoulder as she and her fellow students watched the immense mass of water in front of them.

After all, this was not the unforgiving and frozen Sea of Ghosts. No surprise they were lost in their wonder.

But as Conrad walked among the crew, he could feel the nervousness in the air.

There was a reason ships remained close to the coastline. If sh*t went down, the sailors could try to reach the closest shore, either swimming or in a launch.

In open, uncharted waters, it was a different story.

“WHAT’RE YA LOOKING AT, SCUM?” Edyval’s voice exploded from the prow. Oh, there he was. “Never saw a little water before?! At yar posts! Prepare ta steer starboard!”

"Good to see you're keeping them busy," Conrad chuckled as he reached the Breton on the ship's bow, ignoring the people scurrying back and forth the ship’s deck.

"It's better that way. If they work, tha lads will think less," Edyval said, turning towards the sea with a frown, but the Nord saw a mix of concern and nervousness in his eyes.

"Having second thoughts, old contrebandier?"

"Nonsense!” Edyval scoffed. “I'll do tha job, we have a deal. But it will be a difficult crossing, for who knows how long."

"Well, nobody's dead yet. So we're going good so far," he commented grimly.

“They’re just a bunch of brats, especially the short one with a stupid face,” the burly man grunted, before taking a sip from a sake bottle. “Are they really ninja?”

“Who’s the short one with a stupid face?” the blond kid laughed, before freezing and widening his eyes. “Wait a second…”

4E 220, 24th Last Seed.

I made a great discovery today.

Being on a ship, in the middle of the ocean with nothing visible for miles, is incredibly boring.

The crew noticed this too, even with Edyval’s best efforts to distract them. The man can be a real slave driver when it comes to distract people with the necessary works that keeps this mass of wood afloat.

A little before dawn, all the crew wakes up, besides the guys that did the night shift, who can now rest a few hours. A small meal is consumed, consisting of the perishable food items. Once we run out, the only things left will be rock-hard biscuits, salted meat and fish.

The crew’s surgeon checks up on us as we eat. The guy is not really a surgeon, he’s more like a barber that acts as a surgeon. Beta helps him with the small wounds caused by the menial work, though. Magic doesn’t waste bandages and alcohol.

After this is done, the deck is scrubbed, the sail is adjusted, ropes are mended… we check our supplies too, to be sure they’re still good. And every now and then, the sailors fish.

As for me, every six hours I use my clairvoyance spell to adjust our route, and I try to teach something useful to the magelings when they’re not toiling around the ship. I’m also reading—again—all the notes about Akavir I could copy or borrow from the College’s Arcanaeum.

In the evening, all of us eat dinner on the deck. Personally I find the meal rather dull, without mead to entertain my tastebuds. I’m saving the sweet nectar for the special occasions.

The crew tries to find some entertainment, singing songs or playing games of chance.


Bastards won 100 septims from me.


Edyval has also started asking me to do the whole ‘Dragonborn thing’, to boost the crew’s morale.

I’m still not sure what he means by the ‘Dragonborn thing’ but apparently I’m doing it right.

“Everyone, get down!” the shinobi yelled.

A spinning blade bigger than a man swung over the heads of Team 7 and their client before embedding itself straight into the trunk of a tree.

In the blink of an eye, a man stood on its hilt.

4E 220, 31th Last Seed.

The last week’s evenings were a nightmare.

The magelings are now used to the life on the ship, and have learned to use their sparse free time in lots of troublesome ways.

For example, they decided to provide us with something they called ‘evening entertainment’, which means that they tried to play some instruments they found onboard.

I am sure it was Sven’s idea, since he was actually a pretty good player.

The problem was that the other two, well... they couldn’t play a good note to save their lives.

Edyval told me something about a bard leaving the instruments when he left the ship without paying the fee, but I was too focused on trying to tear my ears off.

So I robbed them of their free time for the whole week and forced them to practice. They seemed surprised that I knew how to play, especially Sven.

How come all those bards sing about me, but always forget to tell people about how I used to be one of them?

True, I was and still am a passable bard at best, but still…

Since I can’t do miracles in just a week, the two musically inept magelings improved just enough to not sound like a trio of horkers farting inside a flute, or battering a lute.

This evening they somehow managed to force me into singing something, the little brats.

Apparently Beta is from Solstheim because she recognized the verses and started to educate her fellow magelings about the story of King Olaf and how the Bards College worked hard to find the missing verse of the song.

Oh, if only she knew…

But I didn’t know about her being from Solstheim.

How much do I really know about my students?

"Kid, let me borrow your kunai," the wounded, broken man said, looking to his apprentice's body.

The blond boy hesitated for a second, before throwing one of his weapons in the man's direction.

The shinobi's sharp teeth caught the weapon by the hilt mid-air.

Without pause, he immediately charged the mob of thugs on the other end of the bridge.

The little man in front of the group panicked, deciding to retreat behind the ranks of his mercenaries.

"Kill them!" the businessman screamed in fear, not realizing that it would not help.

4E 220, 4th? 5th? Hearthfire. Who cares, I’m tired.

And I can’t go back to sleep now, so I guess I’ll just write what happened.

I was awakened in the middle of the night by one of the crewmen on guard and the first thing I thought in my dazed condition was that they had seen land on the horizon.

Which proved to be a false hope since I could hear some half-whispered prayers and even a pair of superstitious exorcisms thrown around by the sailors that were still awake.

So, how to write this… a moon has disappeared from the sky.

Yesterday night both were present, but today there are no traces of Masser, the bigger moon.

It was simply gone and only Secunda was soaring the firmament above us.

Which immediately caused the natural reaction among the crew of: call the wizard.

I tried to calm them down, but apparently not even the ‘Dragonborn Thing’ was good enough for such a case. I can see the reason right now above me, as I write.

Still, between me and Edyval’s motivational speech—which may have consisted mostly of taunts, insults and comments about the crewmens’ conception—they realized that they’re not in any immediate danger.

Especially because Edyval promised them that if any problems should arise, I would fix it.

Damn contrebandier.

Even if I’m sure that the ship is in no danger due to the sudden disappearance of a celestial body, I can’t help but wonder how it was possible.

And without knowing the cause, I won’t know if it’s actually dangerous or not.

It could just be a deception caused by the planet’s curvature.

The moon is still present. Has the curvature of the world affected our view of it? That could explain it.

But if that were the case, we would have seen that the moon rise less and less in the sky until it finally stopped rising at all instead of this sudden disappearance.

It has already happened in the past, the most recent example in 4E 98. And the Thalmor took credit of “restoring” both moons in the sky, gaining them the gratitude and the loyalty of the Khajiit—after a coup against the Imperial-friendly government, of course.

sh*t-eating bastards.

Oh, great. I’ll have to explain to Ta’Sava that one of the moons disappeared. At least he is still asleep now, so I can deal with it in the morning.

Why would only one moon disappear, though?

This just gives me new questions. Is the moon still visible from Tamriel? Has it disappeared only for us? Or is this some kind of astrological event that has happened for—

Just gave another look at the remaining moon, which is now proudly displayed in the sky.

The lunar phase is wrong.

And looking at it more closely, I can spot differences on its surface.

That moon is not Secunda.

Screw this, I’m opening one of the last bottles of mead.

For all I know, a daedra could be toying with us right now, and I wouldn’t give a damn.

"Don't overdo it, Sasuke. It will take a few days before you're completely healed."

"But—"

"No buts, you'll be able to train later."

"This is boring, sensei! If we can't spar, how're we supposed to pass our time?" the orange-clad genin lamented.

"Why don't you go helping at the bridge then? I'm sure they—"

But before the infamous Copy-nin could finish that line, his louder student had disappeared out of the door. The man shrugged and resumed reading his favourite literature.

4E 220, 15th Hearthfire.

Found a maggot in my hardtack today.

Which means that even our less perishable rations have started to go bad. Great.

I hope we will find more food before scurvy sets in.

On another note, Ta'Sava still refuses to leave his hiding place after the sunset.

I guess I can understand how he is feeling.

Sven and Beta look instead really homesick.

I've heard the three of them whispering about the College, about the places they're from... and about me.

Apparently they're interested in some aspects of my past.

This is troubling, to say the least.

I don't want them to find out about some specific things, like the Blades and our secret war.

If they found out, they would not be safe—

sh*t, I have to find a way to disassociate them from me once we get back.

The last thing I want is to pull those magelings in this whole mess.

And the fact that a little voice in the back of my head is telling me that each of them has great potential, the thought of them being recruited makes me disgusted with myself.

"Woah, look at that!" the loud genin yelled. "It's even better than before!"

"Of course it is. I know my stuff," the bridge builder declared proudly.

4E 220, 19th Hearthfire.

I hate this sea and everything in it.

Food stores are getting low, so most of the free hands are spent fishing. Fresh water is also running low, and there had been talk of possibly needing to break into my mead supply.

Had been.

I put an end to that fairly quickly. I set up a rotation with the magelings to freeze the buckets and let them melt. Not the highest quality water, but it’s better than seawater.

I started studying a spell to turn it into fresh water. I am so stupid, I should’ve started doing this before our departure.


If Toldfir could see me, he would be ashamed of his former pupil.


So far I still have to make it work since I can’t just make the salt disappear but I hope to make a breakthrough in one or two more days.

The cook says Sven is a wonder at helping him find new ways to prepare fish. I still doubt I’ll ever want to eat seafood again by the end of this.

Still, the crew is particularly nervous now, between the moon and these new difficulties. Some of them have started to huddle together, whispering to each other.

Everytime I or Edyval get close they stop. I suspect the same could happen with the magelings.

I immediately began making a habit of sharpening my axe in plain view.

The Wave inhabitants kept watch as the Konoha shinobi departed, heading back to their village now that their mission was complete; just as the bridge connecting their homeland to the mainland too was complete.

"Oh right," Tazuna said, as he had just remembered something very important. "We need to name this bridge, and I have a perfect name for it.”

"Oh?! What is it?"

"How about... The Great Naruto Bridge?"

4E 220, 24th Hearthfire.

Crew’s looking to mutiny, gotta go knock some heads in.

Either they calm down or it’s going to be a bloodbath.

I’ll be back soon.

Alright, I’m back.

They calmed down, I just had to give them a little reminder of who I was, and what exactly will happen to any man who actually mutinies.

I’m not sure they’ll be getting much sleep tonight—

A loud yell was heard across the bridge, which was pretty normal on a ship.

Conrad would've ignored it, since there was no accompanying sound of combat or other such nasty stuff, but he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it right.

"Edyval, did one of your crew's finest just shout something about land?" he asked, turning towards the ship’s captain, who was now staring at something out over the water with incredulous eyes.

“Yeap, he did. Ya’ve to look yarself.”

Conrad leaped from his sitting place, forgetting completely about the journal, quills and ink.

He saw it.


Peeking up over the horizon, a long, incredibly long, strip of land was clearly visible.

As the crew exploded into a cacophony of celebrations and rejoicings, he allowed himself to smirk a little before casting the spell that had guided them so far.

“Correct the route north-northwest, captain,” he said, not looking away from the azure orb that was running towards the continent of Akavir. “Let’s try to make landfall as close as we can to the destination of this journey.”

Chapter 7: Silver, Stone and Steel

Chapter Text

It was with a sullen mood that Team Seven approached Konoha's gates. Normally a genin team would've been happy to be finally at home, or the young shinobi would discuss about how exciting their first adventure outside of the village's walls had been.

Team Seven’s first time outside of the village had been very exciting, just not in a good way, and it had left similar scars on the three genin, even if they were reacting to it in different ways.

Sasuke looked like his normal self, but deep down he was berating himself for being too weak, not realizing that nothing could've prepared him for what had happened. The fact that that man would've been more than ready didn't help.

Sakura had been meek for the whole trip, a sad expression on her face as she realized how little she had helped during their battles on the mission. Facing Zabuza was a wake-up call for her. She had realized that she had to find her resolve, but she wasn't sure how.

Naruto could be considered an expert in hiding his emotions, but in the last days his mask just seemed to have evaporated. The deaths of Zabuza and Haku seemed to chase away his former cheer. Oh, he would put on a little show for his teammates when they had to camp, but Kakashi wasn't fooled.

At least he didn't seem to have been influenced by the beast sealed in his belly even if he had tapped into the Kyuubi's chakra. Not that he seemed to have noticed, something for which the copy-nin was incredibly grateful.

Sighing, not really looking forward to bringing that up with the village leader, Kakashi presented the identification papers to the chunin standing besides the gates, who accepted them with a nod.

It seemed that for once Izumo and Kotetsu hadn’t been assigned to gatekeeping duties.

"Here you go," the chunin at the gate said as he handed the documents back to Kakashi and let the genin team pass. "Welcome back!"

It was unusual for the blond to not return any greeting thrown his way, but Kakashi supposed it wasn't so out of place, given the circ*mstances. He would have to remind himself to talk to the kid later, even if he was hardly the right person to help genin overcome their trauma.

Out of the corner of his eye, Naruto suddenly froze, eyes widening. The one-eye'd jounin fought back a grimace as he tried to predict what new horrors were torturing the—

"ICHIRAKU RAMEN!" the boy yelled as he started to run towards the direction of the famous stand. Kakashi barely managed to snatch his jacket before he could go running off.

“Not so fast, Naruto. We have to report to Hokage-sama first,” he reprimanded his student with a bored tone, even if he was kinda relieved. Of course Naruto would’ve thought about his favourite food as soon as they had entered the village.

“What?” the boy asked indignantly as he squirmed, trying to get away. “Come on, Kakashi-sensei! It’s been almost a month since the last time I had ramen!”

“Report first, ramen later,” Kakashi said. He would’ve gladly let the genin roam around the village and do whatever they did in their free time, but the team had just came back from a mission and there was a protocol to respect. “It shouldn’t take long to—”

“Hey, what’s that?” Naruto asked, pointing a finger towards the sky.

“Naruto,” Kakashi sighed, hoping that he didn’t have drag to him all the way to the Hokage’s office. “That trick isn’t going to—”

“No seriously, Kakashi-sensei! What’s that?!”

Seeing Naruto’s insistence, Kakashi decided to humor him. After all, there was no way the boy could slip away from him. But as he moved his gaze from his loud student, he noticed that other people on the street were staring. And pointing in the same direction.

He wasn't able to raise his head to check what the whole fuss was about beforewhen some kind of blue light zipped briefly at the corner of his eyes.

Followed immediately by another.

He snapped his head towards the light and took a double-take at what he saw. Dozens of small blue trails where speeding towards the village from high in the sky, leaving a faint light at their passage.

As they came closer to the village, they started to quickly descend towards Konoha's streets, spreading out in an apparently random pattern.

Was it a jutsu? Who was casting it? Was the village under attack?!

Some departed from the group and went for the ground, reaching the streets around the gates in less than a second.

Widening his eye, Kakashi realized that one of them was going straight for his team.

Whereas his two other genin pulled themselves out of the way, Sakura froze, making Kakashi curse inwardly.

Fortunately, he’d already been in motion to snatch his genin out of the way, and plucked the pink haired girl back by her collar just in time.

Kakashi surveyed his surroundings, expecting to see shinobi swarming at the scene of the attack and civilians being evacuated, but he was shocked to see people not really doing anything except stare with worried expressions. Some of the villagers were even just carrying on with their business, almost like...

"Finally back, Kakashi?" a voice asked, causing the Copy-nin to snap towards it, still wary of any attack. It was Sarutobi Asuma, with his own genin team in tow.

"Ah, Asuma," he said, relaxing his posture slightly. "What's going on?"

"We're not sure," the other jonin said, shrugging. "It started weeks ago. Spread panic around the whole village, but apparently it's not harmful."

"Really now?" Kakashi asked, arching his only visible eyebrow and ignoring the antics of the two groups of genin who were meeting each other.

"Yeah, there's an investigation going on, but I'm out of the loop on this one," Asuma said as he lit a cigarette. "If they have found out anything about it, it's still classified. It's obviously a jutsu but—"

"AH!" Naruto yelled, distracting both the jonin-sensei. "You're going to do a D-rank? We just came back from a C-rank!"

Kakashi sighed and tried to ignore his loudest student's antics as he revealed his implanted eye so he could check the lights with the Sharingan.

He looked at one of the orbs that was still moving above the village with the eye Obito had given him as a parting gift, following it as it soared in the sky.

And he kept staring silently.

When the light had disappeared behind some buildings, he was still staring at where it had gone, completely oblivious of the weird look Asuma was giving him or how the genin were becoming a little too noisy for his tastes.

"And there was this guy that tried to kill us with a big badass sword, but he was a cool guy and—"

"Alright, listen up, my cute little genin," Kakashi said, interrupting Naruto’s rant, his tone serious despite his light-hearted words. "Nevermind the report. You're dismissed for today."

“What? But Kakashi-sensei, you just told us—”

“Why don’t you take Sakura and Sasuke with you? Unless you want to help me fill all the paperwork... “

“Bye sensei!” Naruto said, turning towards his teammates. Kakashi didn’t hear if he managed to convince Sakura and Sasuke to go to eat ramen with him though, since he left with a shunshin after giving a brief nod to Asuma.

He ran above the rooftops towards his destination, and in the span of a few seconds, he found himself outside the Hokage’s office. He gave a brief nod to the ANBU that had henged himself as the wall before jumping, perching himself on the window.

“Kakashi,” the Sandaime greeted him with a reprimanding tone. “My window is not a door.”

“If that’s the case, Hokage-sama, you really should keep it locked...”

“And get shards all over the office again when one of my shinobi tries to barge in? No thanks,” the Hokage sniffed before turning towards him, suddenly serious. “Where is your team? If I remember correctly, I think it’s still tradition to have your genin with you when reporting on a C-rank mission.”

“The mission may need to be reclassified, actually. But that’s not why I’m here alone.”

“I suppose you have questions about the… phenomenon that has interested the village these last few weeks?”

“For so long…? What has been—”

“We’ve taken measures already,” the Sandaime reassured him as he shifted some documents. “Before you ask… I expect that your mission report will be turned in soon?”

Kakashi gave a shrug, retrieving a scroll from the pouches on his flak jacket and placing it on the Hokage’s desk.

“About their origin… we’ll talk about it in a bit. We have suspicions, although it’s impossible to prove anything yet. I’m more worried about where they were directed, though.”


“The lights have a specific target?” Kakashi asked.


“You could say that,” Sarutobi said gravely. “It took a few days of stakeouts to confirm it, but beyond any doubt… each of those lights is tracking one of Minato’s seals. The Hiraishin seals.”

Kakashi silently stared at the village leader in a mild state of shock, while the Hokage calmly started to fill his pipe with his favourite tobacco.

“And I’m not referring to only those that Minato had placed in strategic key points around the village,” the Sandaime continued, ignoring Kakashi’s reaction. “ANBU patrols were able to follow some of those lights and discovered three of his old, secret safe houses. The ones that don’t appear on any official record… and inside of them we recovered some of his special kunai.”

Silence reigned again in the small office, but Kakashi’s mind was racing this time, thinking about the implications of such a thing. If someone had found a way to track down the Hiraishin, along with what he had seen...

“Which becomes even more worrying if you consider the supposed origin of those… tracking lights.”


“How is it possible that the man responsible has not been caught yet, if this has been going on for weeks?”


“Not for lack of effort, I can assure you. Apparently those lights arrive from outside of the country's border. The north-western border.”


“Iwa?”


“The most possible candidate, but without more intelligence, sending a team to infiltrate Iwa would mean risking a war because of a hunch.”

“I don’t think it’s Iwa’s doing, sir.”

“Really now?” the Sandaime asked, arching an eyebrow. “Please, do tell the reason.”


“I examined the lights with my Sharingan, Hokage-sama. And I know it sounds absurd but… I don’t think that they were made out of chakra.”

“I see. The Hyuuga have claimed something similar, but I wanted to know what the other doujutsu in Konoha’s possession saw, to eliminate any doubt.”

“How is that possible?” he asked. Such a thing was unheard of in all the Elemental Nations.

“Kakashi… I have no idea,” the Hokage admitted, as he lit his pipe before taking a long, slow drag. And if the Professor was saying such a thing...

Well. That wasn’t a good sign.

Conrad sneered at the short man, and the short man sneered back from behind the counter. He didn’t like the shopkeeper, and the shopkeeper didn’t like him. Not being able to speak the other man’s language wasn’t helping to improve the relationship.

But the language barrier was not going to stop them from performing an incredibly ancient ritual.

Gesturing towards the items he had placed on the counter, Conrad showed a handful of gold coins to the merchant. A more than fair price, in his opinion.

The shopkeeper vehemently shook his head, showing to the Nord both his open palms with a scowl.

With an unsatisfied grunt, Conrad took a few more septims from his leather purse and added them to his already filled palm, making them dance among his fingers. His eyes never left those of the short vendor.

With a scoff, the shopkeeper pointed a bony finger towards the gold coins, before shaking his head one more time.

Conrad added one more coin to the pile, narrowing his eyes. When the merchant tried to refuse again, he closed his hand around the coins, growling menacingly. A clear way to say that it was his final offer.

The shopkeeper, seeing the potential gain on the verge of disappearing out of his store, finally agreed with a nod, although there was no trace of satisfaction on his face.

He slammed the handful of septims on the counter and as the merchant examined the coinage, quickly put the purchased goods in his bag before leaving the emporium, unsatisfied and swearing to never return.

And he wasn’t even sure if he had made a good deal or not.

“I can understand you were in a rush, Minato,” he muttered to himself as he walked in the muddy street of the small mountain town. “But when you tinkered with my mind why in the name of every aedra and daedra didn’t you gave me some hints about the local tongue?!”

He decided to add it to the list of stuff to kick his brother’s sorry incorporeal ass for if he ever managed to pay a visit to him again, and started to look around for the magelings, hoping that they had not wandered off this time.

They didn’t need a repetition of what happened in the last village when Ta’Sava had smiled at a group of curious children.

That, along with the fact that in a week they hadn't met a single not-human, made Conrad suspect that the accounts of Akavir were either wrong, mistranslated or just plain bullsh*t.

Having to deal with such reactions, the missing moons and having to wear long robes and a cowl by necessity had turned the normally cheerful Khajiit into a brooding wreck.

Speaking of which, there was the gloomy furball himself, along with the other two.

They were beside a small stand, apparently enjoying some sweets-on-a-stick. It reminded him of those honey nuts he had enjoyed when he was younger, only smaller.

Well, Beta was enjoying it. Sven was apparently more interested in watching the stand owner like a hawk, studying how the sweet balls were made. Ta'Sava was sparsely munching his own instead.

“Master!” Beta called him, having noticed his approach. “You should try these, they’re really good!”

“No, thanks,” Conrad grumbled. “Who knows what’s in them?”

“I don’t know, but they’re good,” Beta replied, giving it another bite. “They’re called dan-go, I think, and—”

“I don’t really care what they’re called,” he interrupted her, having noticed the weird looks that the stand owner was giving them. True, it could’ve been just because they were talking in what may have sounded like a weird language and had different clothes, but these kids were so oblivious, dammit! “I’ve bought us some supplies, so let’s move on. We’ve only a few more weeks before we have to go back to the ship, and the journey is far from over.”

Grumbling complaints, his more or less forced apprentices gathered their belongings and followed him as he kept walking along the main street.

He tried to ignore the stares. They were not looking at him, not with the same awed or scornful expressions that he was used to back home, at least. But for some reason the first thing the locals did—or at least enough of them to be noticeable—after staring at them as a group was look at their foreheads.

Weird. But it made Conrad reach for his hood instinctually.

“Where are we going now?” Sven asked, still eating. “Same direction?”

“South, first. Then we’ll see,” he replied. Conrad didn’t dare to use his tracking spell in a busy settlement, not knowing how magic was seen by the locals. But last time he had checked, it was indicating roughly to south, away from the mountains that seemed to dominate the rocky region where the Seeker had took to shore.

“Master?” Beta asked, having finished her dan-whatever. “There’s something we wanted to ask…”

“Then ask, Beta. We’re not at the College anymore,” he replied without looking at her.

“He didn’t say that when I asked him about the Companions…” Sven muttered to Ta’Sava.

“Well, hm, how are you sure that the ship will be there when we’ll have to go back?” Beta asked, ignoring her fellow student. “Nothing prevents them from abandoning us here…”

“Let’s just say that I assured that it will not happen,” Conrad replied with a smirk.

Sitting on his beached ship’s bridge, Edyval Letos was absolutely livid.

He couldn't vent his anger, sadly. Not really. He had already used any insult, curse and blasphemy he knew of—and he knew a lot of them—against the Dragonborn's name, his parents, his family and distant relatives he may have.

In the Breton's fingers was a silver coin, the source of his ire.

Before leaving, Conrad Harissen had turned with a spell all the gold he had used to pay Edyval into silver.

As an insurance, he’d said.

Good luck finding someone willingly to reverse it for free, he’d said.

See you in one or two months, he’d said.

Damn mages.

Being forced to wait for their return, he had ordered the ship onto the beach. At least they had landed in a relatively good place, with the high cliffs around the bay protecting them from most of the winds.

The scouting party had returned almost immediately, having found a stream of fresh water nearby. Between the sea and the land, they had enough food to survive.

It was just a matter of surviving long enough. They hadn't seen any dangerous creature or monster yet, but he didn't want to take any chances.

A small but effective palisade was built around the camp, protecting the tents that had been mounted in relative order beside the ship.

Turns were organized between fishing, hunting, cooking, mending the ship, and simple sentry duty.

This gave lot of free time to Edyval to brood and wish he could incinerate people with magical fire, like any good Breton should be able to, as his grandfather used to say.

Damn mages.

He let the silver coin fall inside the chest that contained the whole pile, before slamming it shut with a kick. Still grumbling about his grandfather and the Dragonborn, he left the ship and went to grab the small axe that lay in the tools’ pile at the centre of the camp.

It was his turn to chop wood, after all. Imagining that the logs were actually the Nord’s head would help him.

There was also the fact that it made him look like he was part of the crew, struggling alongside them. Which was good.

The more they respected him, the less chance that they would try to slit his throat during his slee—

“People!” the sentry perched on the top of the mast cried, distracting the captain from his grim thoughts. “People are coming from the cliff!”

Edyval’s head snapped in that direction, and it was not the only one. Lo and behold, a small mob was becoming visible above them, small dark silhouettes against the sky from the captain’s point of view.

Most were staring at the ship, some were pointing at it while discussing with the ones close to them… but a decently-sized group was moving towards them, walking on the track that descended to the bay.

“Don’t ya stare there, idiots!” Edyval yelled. “All hands on deck!”

Conrad pierced another piece of meat with an improvised spit before admiring his work.

Four nice rows of juicy meat were ready in his hand, but he had no intention of stopping to cook them.

"Yol!" he shouted, a short-lived stream of fire leaving his open mouth. It was enough, and the meat was cooked—if a little charred—grease still sizzling.

He took one in his other hand and passed the remaining three to the students, who started eating the impromptu meal.

"Ugh, not even some spices," Sven lamented, peeling off some burnt pieces.

"Ta'Sava is not concerned,” the Khajiit said, shrugging as he took a considerable bite. “Ta'Sava quite likes it."

At least there was no snow, thank Talos for that. Although the mountains were more distant now, and smaller in size.

Hopefully they would find an easier terrain to navigate, and—

"Master?" Beta abruptly.

"Yes, Beta?" Conrad questioned, doing his best to suppress a sigh. He should’ve known that his peace of mind wouldn’t have lasted long.

"Is it true that you're a wanted man?" the girl blurted out, appearing to regret the question the moment it slipped past her lips.

"What," he said—didn’t ask, said—flatly, coming to an halt and turning towards the magelings, who were now standing beside each other. He couldn’t decide if it was to attempt to give an impression of a common front or if the boys wanted to protect the girl.

As if.

"I said—"

"Yes, I heard what you said,” he interrupted her, crossing his arms. “Where has this come from?"

"Well, on the ship…” Beta started, unsure how to put it.

“We heard a lot of stuff on The Seeker, Master Conrad,” Sven finished, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder as though to reassure her.

"Really now?" Conrad muttered, his mind already abuzz. Someone in the crew knew of the unofficial bounty placed on him by the Thalmor? It was not exactly a very well-protected secret, but it wasn’t that widespread. The Thalmor didn’t want to risk making a martyr of him so they couldn't try to move him against officially.

Nothing in the secret war he had inadvertently become involved in was official, though.

The problem was that rumors were around. One of the sailors had probably heard of them...

"Yes,” Beta continued, laughing nervously. “Some of it was utterly crazy, totally absurd. Like how you rode a dragon to fight vampires, or something."

"Uh-hu,” was Conrad’s unimpressed answer. Who even made up stuff like that? He had never rode a dragon during the vampire crisis!

"But we were told you were a wanted man, too. So..."

Yep, here it was. The moment they would ask him about the Thalmor hunting him down, the bounty hunters, the whole package he wanted to keep them away from.

"Look, I didn't tell you because I didn't want to—"

"So it's true!” Beta’s exclaimed in shock, covering her mouth with her left hand. “You are an outlaw in the Riften Hold!"

Conrad’s mind came to a stop. What the—She was not talking about the Thalmor?

"What? Riften?!” he exclaimed in outrage, mostly because he had almost spilled the beans. “I'm not wanted in Riften!"

"But Master Conrad,” Ta’Sava spoke. “They said—"

"Look, they just told you a lot of over-exaggerated stories,” Conrad assured them. “I'm just not... very welcome there. But I'm not wanted by the law."

"Not welcome?" Beta asked in confusion.

"It means they don't like seeing me inside Riften, and I've been asked to stay away from there," Conrad deadpanned.

"I know what that means, master! But... what did you do?"

"I—I destroyed a tavern," he grumbled, scratching his head as he recalled the tragic ending of that period of his life. Bittersweet memories.

"You... destroyed a tavern?” the girl said in disbelief.

“I can see that, actually,” Sven deadpanned. “Why would the whole city hold a grudge on it, though?"

"It was a very popular tavern," he smiled sadly. It was true, after all. The Ragged Flagon had truly been very popular once.

"Couldn't you have paid for damages?"

"I didn't have enough money," Conrad replied, getting irritated with the girl when he felt it; the same odd sensation that made his hair on his head stand on end.

He brushed it off, attributing it to another one of the odd things here. Everything just felt... off. He couldn't put his finger on what it was, though.

"But you could've—" Beta's speech was cut short by Conrad's hand clamping over her mouth to shut her up.

There it was again; that sensation.

When Beta lifted her hands to Conrad's hand to try and pull him away and speak, Conrad pressed harder, giving her a sharp look before listening to a faint noise in the underbrush.

"We're being watched," he realised. The magelings immediately tensed, looking around trying to locate the threat that had apparently put their master on edge.

Sven had even formed a small globe of fire already, ready to throw it.

Conrad on the other hand was slowly scanning their surroundings, moving his right hand to his axe's handle, ears opened.

Blasted rocks. Whoever was spying on them could've been—

There!

Conrad shouted, and the three words that formed the Whirlwind Sprint threw him towards the hiding place of the potential enemy.

He landed with his trusted weapon in his grip, lightning channelled at the point of the staff he was holding in his other hand and... nothing.

There was nothing behind the stupid rock.

"I could've sworn that..." Conrad muttered as he looked around, incredulous. Had he imagined it?

"Master Conrad!" Ta'Sava called, moving towards him with his fellow students in tow. "Are you alright?"

Conrad decided to ignore it, still on high-alert.

Where was he? He knew he was here. Where was he?!

“Master?” the Khajiit repeated, worry clearly audible in his voice.

He ignored the Khajiit, still eyeing their surroundings. The students were moving closer to him, oblivious to the possible danger.

He snapped his head towards them, opening his mouth as if to yell at them a warning—and the presence was gone.

Conrad's eyes widened in shock.

How was it possible? Had his senses fooled him?

No, that was not it.

Whoever had been there... was gone. In the blink of an eye, no less.

The thought unnerved him.

"Master?" Ta’Sava called again. Both him and his fellow students were now looking at him with worried expressions.

"Nevermind,” he grumbled, lowering his axe and relaxing only in appearance. “Let's just keep going."

“Master, are you alright?” Beta asked, sounding concerned. “What was that?”

"Yes, I'm fine... Must have been the wind or something," he replied, failing to sound completely convinced.

"Wind my ass. I think he’s just getting crazier," Sven whispered as he dispersed the spell he had prepared, not realizing that his master had heard his comment. Conrad had better things to do than reprimand the young Imperial.

Like keeping his eyes opened.

Sarutobi Hiruzen was sitting in his office, but for once the God of Shinobi was free from the tedious task known as paperwork.

Instead, he was studying a map of the Elemental Nations, covered with dots and markers. The rest of the desk was covered by reports from the patrols that had been appointed for the investigation.

Beside him were Nara Shikaku, the jonin commander, and the rest of Konoha's best and brightest strategists.

"Our scouts confirmed that there are a lot of Iwa patrols around the border, besides the regular forces of the Land of Earth."

"That's not unusual. The Earth-Fire border has always been heavily surveilled by both nations. Although, an increase of activity on the border as Konoha is experiencing such phenomena..."

"Iwa has always carried a grudge against the Yondaime Hokage, but like all the other Hidden Villages, envied his power. What if this is their attempt to study the Hiraishin?"

"Nonsense!” one of the other strategists blurted out. “The Hiraishin no Jutsu was created by Tobirama-sama. In decades, only Namikaze Minato was able to reproduce it, and only after studying the scrolls that are jealously guarded right here, in the deepest bowels of our vaults! The mere idea of someone understanding how it works without those is absurd!"

"Then how do you explain that each and every one of those lights has lead to a Hiraishin seal, huh?" was the almost mocking reply he received from one of his colleagues.

Sarutobi’s mind was a buzz of activity. Maybe it really was just a way to track the Hiraishin seals, but why now? Why more than a decade after Minato's death, when no shinobi able to use it existed?

No, it was something else. The evidence in their possession left no other explanation.

"I'm more concerned about this 'not-chakra' energy that the lights seem to be made of, according to Hakate Kakashi and the whole Hyuuga Clan," the Hokage said, eyes still on the map. "Have we made any progress on that front?"

"Our sensors are trying their best, Hokage-sama. Sadly those lights disappear as soon as they reach their target, leaving no chakra residue for analysis."

"That shouldn't surprise us, if they're not made of chakra but from... something else," Sarutobi mused, stroking his chin. "Maybe we can't detect anything because we don't know how it's made. The question is, how did Iwa—"

The door suddenly opened, interrupting the Hokage's musings and catching everyone's attention.

"Hokage-sama, forgive the intrusion, but a message with the highest priority has just arrived," the shinobi that had barged in said, presenting to the village leader a sealed scroll with a slight bow.

Sarutobi accepted it with a nod, before opening and examining its contents. The whole room was silent now, the bickering forgotten as they studied the Hokage's reactions as his eyes darted across the scroll's contents.

"It seems that our concerns were not founded as we thought," he slowly said after a few minutes, closing the parchment. "Our spies in Iwa finally managed to send a report. The lights are not their doing, and they're as baffled as us."

He took a deliberate pause before continuing, "Unlike us, though, they've a lead on their origins. Iwa patrols are stalking an unknown group that was apparently moving along the border."

"Another group involved in this?" Shikaku mumbled, eyes closed. "That leaves too many unknowns, even without considering the nature of the energy powering that jutsu."

"Indeed, but now we know where to look. This has become a race between us and Iwa, to see who will reach those responsible first," Sarutobi said, as he slowly rose to his feet. "Send an ANBU team to investigate."

Dawn was breaking over the mountain pass, and from their advantage point, Conrad was able to see the landscape in all of its glory.

The barren, snowless mountain range with all its peaks and spires almost suddenly ceased to be, leaving space for one of the most thick and lush forests he had ever seen in all of his travels.

The rising sun's rays were playing tricks with the scenery, painting the rocks and leaves in reds and blues.

Once upon a time, Conrad would've been breathless at seeing such a wonder. Now he was just wondering how much terrain they would be able to cover in one day.

In the end, the attack hadn't come.

That didn't mean that Conrad had relaxed completely.

The last few nights had been a nightmare, because he knew he couldn't rely only on the magelings to do watch duty since they had not even felt their stalker's presence the first time.

Thank the Divines for magic runes and summoned daedra. They were the only reason why he had managed to sleep at all.

No matter how paranoid the magelings thought he was.

Had it not been for their mysterious pursuer—or pursuers—he would've gladly used this opportunity to give the kids a cartography lesson. Their skills in that field were pitiful at best.

Instead, he had hastened them to break camp as he traced a map of what he was able to see from his perched spot in his journal. Sadly none of the lands they had crossed so far resembled the few Akaviri maps he had seen, which depicted only Septimia’s and Ionith’s surroundings.

They had probably landed in another part of the continent. Just his luck.

On the bright side, he was able to see at least two villages, so maybe they would be able to sleep under a roof that night.

Taking in the sight before him one last time, he stood from the rock he had been sitting on, turning towards the young mages.

Who were still having trouble packing their supplies.

Conrad groaned loudly and made a note to teach them how to do that properly on a later date, but didn't move to help them.

Let their errors teach them a lesson, first.

"Hurry up you three, or I'll leave you here," he barked as he picked up his backpack, walking away from the camping spot.

The sounds of their hurried bustling made him smile slightly, but he quashed it quickly. He had a reputation to uphold.

"Master Conrad?" Ta'Sava called, trotting behind him whilst cradling a canteen, a book and other various items. "How long before we arrive?"

"For the last time, I don't know," he replied, slightly turning towards his furried student. "We'll be there when we'll be there. Now put your stuff inside your pack while I check."

Conrad ignored the grumbling that ensued from that comment as he turned back to face the direction they were traveling in. They were getting closer, he could feel it. To what, he didn’t know, but he assumed he’d know when he got there.

Or else he’d have even more reason to hunt down his brother’s dead soul and beat it into Oblivion.

Turning his focus inward to cast the seeking spell—which he could practically cast in his sleep by now—he gathered the necessary magicka, and let it loose. The giant ball of magic had long lost its novelty, but this time something different happened.

Instead of the entire sphere flying off in one direction, it split up into multiple smaller orbs. A big cluster of them soared in the same general direction, while others shot off at seemingly random intervals. A few even landed in the forest, in the middle of nothing.

He stared at them, part of his mind noting the directions as the rest tried to process this new development.

He ignored the magelings’ comments as they tried to get his attention and question him, too busy trying to deny the conclusion he was coming to.

He was going to murder his brother. Repeatedly. He was pretty sure that the Soul Cairn would let him do that.

There were multiple objects they were tracking?! And they didn’t even have the decency to be in the same general area, no, they had be all over the damn place!

“I hate you, Minato,” he growled as he resumed walking.

“Who’s Minato?” Beta asked in confusion.

“My brother,” Conrad replied, not offering any other explanation.

“I didn’t know that the Dragonborn had a brother,” Sven whispered, once again not lowering his voice enough.

“Maybe his brother is not famous, so the bards never say anything about him in the songs?” Beta offered hesitantly.

Edyval pretended to mask his annoyance as he gave another bag of silver coins to yet another simpleton that had come to trade with them at their camp.

The fool smiled in satisfaction, and left with a deep bow, lots of smiles and words in that funny tongue of his, to which he replied with waves with his hand and smiles of his own.

Inwardly though, Edyval was gloating. He had just bought two crates of a spice never seen back home for an incredibly low price. Even if he was paying with gold-turned-into-silver coins, he would be rich once the stuff arrived on the Tamrielic markets.

And that was just with the last transaction!

One week ago, when he had seen those people on the cliff, he had feared that the camp would’ve been attacked. Instead it was a group of curious locals from a small village nearby.

At first they just gaped at the ship—something that he could understand and be proud of, since The Seeker was a great ship—but being looked at like he was a source of entertainment by these weird-dressed savages had quickly become annoying.

Then they started to trade with his crew. Although the language barrier was a problem, gestures and coin seemed to be universal. Especially the coin.

It was food at first. The crew was tired of the meager provisions that had remained after the long travel and wanted to try something new. After the weird but tasty food, they had started to buy other items from the peasants. Like those weird sticks that made light when you push a button on them—another thing that didn’t exist in Tamriel, and for which Edyval knew he could ask any price he wanted.

In a few more days, more people had started to come. Even real merchants, who had come with some bodyguards. A small camp surrounded their even smaller camp now, tents full of people that wanted to sell stuff to him.

Edyval was not stupid though. He knew that there was only so much silver—transmutated gold, he reminded myself—on the ship, and if he wanted to maximize his gains he had to be careful in choosing who he would make a bargain with. Which of course led to some screening.

Speaking of which, Edyval had some potential deals to attend to. He couldn’t deny that it was difficult to communicate to the merchants without seeming invasive or rude, but he could care less when it came to such fantastical business opportunities! His interests lay in just how low he could haggle the price, especially with imbeciles that had no idea the fortune they were laying upon him.

Edyval resisted the urge to rub his hands together gleefully as he proceeded look at the wares that had arrived that day—fabrics. Some familiar, some not, but it appeared his crew were just as eager as he to trade—with their own funds, of course. He had no doubt exclusive goods obtained from Akavir would catch an impressive price back home, and his men surely had the same idea in mind.

He scanned the camp, looking for that trader that had those weird dresses. Before seeing him, Edyval had always thought that the only men to wear a gown were mages and priests. Where was that—

“Captain, come here and take a look at this!” a sailor called Edyval from the nearby line of applicants that were waiting for their chance to talk to him.

“What do ya—” he started to call, but his eyes caught a strange sight in the middle of the camp.

A tall man in red robes was standing in there, but that was not what caught the seaman’s sight. In the last few days he had somehow become accustomed to the weird dress and fashion sense of these uncouth fools—mostly because of the prospect of future gains.

There was no way though to describe the man in red if not as eccentric, between the long—too long to possibly be practical—and thick mane of white hair and those strange red tattoos on the face.

What a land of weirdos.

He was at the point of turning away and getting back to his own business when their gazes locked. Edyval’s hair stood on end, his flesh crawling with the sensation of danger. He widened his eyes.

That man in red… he was dangerous. Incredibly so.

In a way the seasoned captain was not able to explain.

“Captain, come on!” the crewman called again, distracting him for only a second. “You must see this!”

Edyval nodded absent-mindedly, as he checked the crowd where the tall bushy-haired man had stood. He couldn’t see a speck of white, or red robes.

The man was gone. How was that possible—

“Silk, sir!” the sailor yelled to him. “This guy has silk!”

Edyval’s neck could have snapped with the speed he turned it. Trying to seem as unfazed as possible—a great effort, since he had just had one of the biggest scares of his life—he slowly walked towards the line.

“What did ya just say?” he whispered, placing both his hands on the sailor’s shoulders.

The crewman offered one of the bundles from a crate that one of the tradesmen had offered as sample of his merchandise. It was a folded cut of silk, of great quality, the texture almost flawless, and Edyval’s gnarly lips twisted into a greedy smile, his hand crawling to his money pouch.

“Tell him to—Well, let him understand that I want all of it,” he grinned, before turning towards the rest of the crew. “Ya idiots! Help this savage’s men to load the crates with the silk in the cargo bay!”

“Cap’n, I lost my sword!” someone among his men protested. “I can’t find it anywh—”

“Nevermind that! Do as I said!” he ordered, already imagining how much he could charge for the silk.

He didn’t think about the man in red for a long time.

“There's no way it's normal. What do you think?” Sven asked, still walking in the middle of the forest. “Do you think it’s normal?”

“I don’t see what the problem is,” Beta replied, slightly annoyed by her friend's insistence.

"It's just... I started to notice it on the ship, but it's only been a few weeks! How can it—"

"Ta'Sava is having a growth spurt," the Khajiit defended himself. "It's not Ta'Sava's fault if he is now taller than Sven."

"It's just not fair!" Sven wailed. "I've always been the tallest among us!"

"Sven is just jealous that Ta'Sava is the one that looks grown up, now," the feline said smugly.

"Guys... I'm a Nord,” Beta deadpanned. “Do you realize that when we’ve 'grown up', I'll probably be taller than both of you?"

"So what? The fact that you’re a Nord doesn’t mean that all Nords are giants!” Sven protested. “Master Conrad isn’t that tall!"

"Hey!” said Nord yelled, turning towards his students. “I'm just a little below average!"

The two boys blinked for a few seconds, before exploding in a loud laugh, much to the girl’s confusion and their teacher’s anger.

“Little... !” Ta’Sava managed to say between the giggles.

Conrad gritted his teeth and kept walking under the forest’s canopy. He would’ve gladly taught those two brats a lesson, but he had to admit—inwardly, of course—that he had served them that on a silver platter.

Which darkened his mood even more than the stupid woods they were in. The air was so heavy that he was covered in sweat, even after removing the armour’s heavy padding.

It was probably because of how thick and lush the trees were. He hated it already.

Conrad growled, reminding himself that torching a forest was not constructive. Speaking of constructive...

"We should be close now," he grumbled, catching the magelings attention. Casting his spell once again, he didn't spare a glance to the big cluster of lights that darted through the forest in the same direction.

Instead, he followed a single, tiny dot of light that slithered away.

Having to hasten his stride to not lose sight of it, he followed it through the trees, as the light bounced over roots and lighting up the undergrowth with a tiny blue glow.

The way it moved reminded the mage of an especially small wisp—nasty little bastards.

Bushes and shrubs were becoming thicker as Conrad was led away from the trail. He could hear his students' calls as they were left behind but he didn't stop. The Nord pushed aside a moss-covered branch, and found himself in a small clearing.

Just in time to see the small light orb disappear under the ground, passing through it as if it was a ghost.

Conrad remained still for a whole minute, still looking where the magical light had disappeared.

He had spent six months hiding in the College of Winterhold, teaching brats and losing his mind behind that research that had led nowhere. He had managed to create the tracking spell to find the runes that Minato had planted in his mind only thanks to a fortuitous intuition and used it to cross an Oblivion-damned ocean that nobody had dared to challenge in more than three and half centuries.

Spending a small fortune to rent that bloody contrebandier ship, too.

After all that, the first place he had managed to actually reach thanks to his clairvoyance spell was a small clearing in the middle of nowhere.

He felt his eye twitch.

Taking a deep calming breath, Conrad forced himself to think logically about the situation. What was so important about this place?

He started to examine his surroundings, walking slowly along the clearing. It seemed perfectly normal, just a bunch of grass and small bushes in the middle of the—

The thick forest.

The forest around was incredibly thick, so why did this clearing even exist? There was no reason for it to be natural, it should've been full of big and tall trees as the rest of the place. The soil was not poisoned or infertile. It was pretty obvious with all the underbrush he could see.

So nothing would've stopped the trees' growth.

He moved closer to the trees around the clearing. They were younger than the others in these woods, and noticeably smaller. Less than twenty years old, probably.

So the clearing was free of anything bigger than a shrub, and around it the forest was slowly reclaiming the lost ground. Maybe the clearing had been created by a fire? Lightning struck a tree and—No, no. With such a thick vegetation, the destruction caused by a fire would've been on a much larger scale.

Something had happened here, but it was too localized... a spell, maybe—

"There he is!" Beta's voice distracted him. Turning towards the end of the clearing, he saw the three magelings trotting towards him, clearly out of breath. He rolled his eyes, knowing that he would have to do something about that sooner or later.

"Dammit, Master! Don't just ran away like that, what if—" Sven said before tumbling unceremoniously on the ground, accompanied by the sound of tinkering glass.

Conrad's eyes widened.

"Sven, be more careful! You're the one carrying the alchemy equipment!" he barked, as he walked towards them. "I swear, if you broke my alambic I will—"

"It wasn't my fault!" the boy tried to defend himself, still gasping for breath. "I stumbled on something!"

"You were walking on grass, where could you possibly—"

"Wait. What's that?" Beta asked, pointing at something on the ground. Conrad followed her finger, and saw metal ring that sprung from the dirt, partially covered by the grass.

It was on that Sven had tripped up, and it was the place where the clairvoyance light had disappeared.

Conrad immediately let go of his staff and knelt besides it, scraping at the soil with his hands.

"What is Master Conrad doing?" Ta'Sava asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Digging. Either help me out or shut up," he replied. Whatever the thing was, it was connected to Minato's runes.

"I knew we should've taken a shovel with us," Beta lamented as she got to work.

"Why would anyone think to bring a shovel?" Sven muttered. "We're mages."

"Shut up and dig, Sven," Conrad said, deciding against biting back with a comment about how he had used shovels mostly to bury comrades and friends.

The deep-rooted grass and the hard soil made digging a long, tedious task, and the hot air didn't really help. Conrad was forced to remove his hood to clean off his sweat.

Finally, whatever had been buried was freed with a spray of dirt and filth and most importantly, it was in Conrad's hands.

It was a rusted knife. The oddest one the Nord had ever seen, shaped almost like a trident.

It also had the puniest and least menacing blade he had ever seen on something that was clearly a weapon. Most importantly, it had one of the runes Minato had planted in his mind inscribed on the handle.

Which was good news. It was a sign that he was not completely crazy.

"Hey, look! There's something else in there!" Ta'Sava exclaimed. The Khajiit immediately started to rummage in the hole, having to quench his curiosity.

Conrad glanced towards him, still studying the strange weapon. Why would Minato place those runes there? If it had been Minato, of course.

"Seems like a piece of cloth," his furred student mumbled, as he started to pull with a grunt. Despite giving it a good tug, the cloth seemed fixed into the ground, and refused to move. "Why it's not budging?"

"Look, it's stuck around a rock," Sven pointed out. There was actually a round shape covered by dirt and mud, that had apparently been caught by the piece of cloth.

"That's a very smooth rock," Beta said, arching an eyebrow. Ta'Sava ignored her and planted his feet into the ground before pulling even harder.

Slowly, the string of fabric began to rise, shuffling away mud and dirt as the feline boy tightened his fingers around it. Conrad managed to see a flash of metal placed on it before a whole chunk of dirt exploded outwards as the object was finally pried free from the ground, soaring right into Ta'Sava's hands.

"Yes!" Ta'Sava exclaimed excitedly because of his success, even if he had fell on his rear because of the sudden lack of balance. Then his eyes widened as he saw what he was holding.

The piece of cloth was tied around a skull.

The Khajiit shrieked in fear, tossing the body part away instinctively. Which landed right in Sven's lap, who had a similar reaction and threw it back in the hole where it had come from.

"Guys, what's wrong with you? It's just a skull!" Beta said, apparently bewildered by their reactions. "We have seen plenty on the College's shelves!"

"They all belonged to someone!" Sven retorted. "How can you not be disturbed by that?!"

"I know that but... they're just bones," Beta said meekly. "It's not like they're undead or something."

As the magelings bickered, Conrad picked up the skull, raising it to eye level to examine it better.

"Human," he mumbled, catching the three student's attention. "Judging by the teeth and the cranium's bones, he—or she—was around his twenties the time of death."

"How can you tell, master?" Beta asked, taken aback.

"I've studied it back in the days at the College," Conrad replied, not looking towards them,

"You studied how to read skulls?" Sven asked incredulously. "Why would you even think about learning how to read skulls?!?"

"I was bored," he simply said, turning towards the three of them with a small smirk on his face. "Now do you believe me when I say that all knowledge is useful?"

Silence fell among the apprentices as he turned back to the skull, hoping to find some other clues. He removed the strip of cloth that was barely hanging around it and examined it.

The only peculiar thing about it was the metal plaque at the center of it, rusted as the knife was. A symbol of some kind was engraved into it: two geometrical forms which he didn’t know the meaning of. It could be anything, from a heraldic emblem to a lucky charm. He didn't know enough about Akavir's traditions to understand it.

He placed it on the ground beside his staff and turned over the skull. To his surprise he felt one of his fingers slip through it, like if the bone had suddenly caved in.

Immediately checking, worrying to have damaged the skull, he saw that the bone hadn’t given way—there was a hole.

A very neat one.

His eyes moved towards the knife he was still holding in his other hand and slowly, very slowly, moved it towards the hole, letting it pass through.

"The weapon struck from the side, piercing through the bone, shattering it and tearing the brain apart," he grumbled. "A fatal wound, this guy was dead before realizing it."

“Why would the person that killed him leave the knife behind?” Sven asked, eyes fixed on the blade as Conrad took it out of the skull.

“If they have them here. That’s why this clearing exists, the forest was razed in this very specific spot,” Conrad explained. “Once the battle was over, the forces involved probably didn’t have time to retrieve lost equipment—or their fallen.”

“How can you be sure about that, Master?” Beta insisted.

“I’m not, it’s just a theory. I’m ready to bet one hundred septims that if we checked, we would find other bodies.”

“Then why did your spell take us here?” Sven asked in mind annoyance. “How come it led us to a clearing in the middle of nowhere?”

Conrad found himself unable to reply, much to his surprise. The spell had been created to track down those runes, but he had ignored—and still did—what their actual use could be. Finding them on a weapon, beside a dead body, was raising new questions in his mind.

What was the use of the runes during a fight? Had Minato just created them, or had he taken part in whatever skirmish—or war—that had raged here, years ago?

Who was his brother, really?

Those questions and more were whirling in his mind, and he was unable to find a—

Conrad's eyes widened, his body tensing slightly, as he tried to not make any sudden movements.

Their stalker was back.

He slowly put down the skull, like he wanted to leave it on the ground. Then, ignoring the weird looks the magelings were giving him, used the free hand to cast a spell, using his body to hide his actions at the best he could.

His senses expanded, sensing the location of every living being in the immediate surroundings.

The squirrels running on a tree's bark in the forest.

The birds, flying from branch to branch.

The magelings standing in front of him.

A group of four people hidden in the woods just behind him.

Conrad was baffled. He had thought so far that they had been chased down by a single person.

"So you brought friends, huh?" he whispered, reaching for his staff. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice..."

In a single sweep motion he grabbed the staff and got up, throwing the three-pronged knife towards the closest enemy before breaking in a sprint.

The short blade impacted on a tree, having been easily dodged by the human shape hidden in the bushes. As Conrad kept running towards them giving a warcry, the group of spies seemed mesmerized for couple of seconds by the knife's shape.

As they focused again on him, Conrad had almost crossed the clearing and was now able to see their figures even without the use of the spell, his right hand moving towards his axe's handle.

They panicked, for a reason the Nord wasn't able to discern. Scrambling out of their hiding spots, they fled with a nimbleness that Conrad’s gaze could barely catch. In the blink of an eye, they were gone, and out of the range of his spell. He wouldn't have been able to catch up to them even by shouting the Whirlwind Spirit.

Conrad stopped, knowing it was futile trying to pursue them. No wonder he hadn't been able to find their first stalker on the mountain pass!

He could still hear the echo of their screams, though, especially the two words they kept shouting over and over.

The Nord briefly wondered if 'Kiroi Senko' meant something like 'Run for your lives', but he was still puzzled by their reaction.

Why had they fled like that?

More importantly, he thought, as he looked at his right hand in confusion, why had he thrown that stupid knife, instead of using a good old-fashioned fireball?

In his years of duty as Konoha's Hokage, Sarutobi Hiruzen had taken to heart a single piece of advice: to keep a moment of his day to relax, a moment spent not having to think about the piles of documents, and being able to be part of the village by living among its inhabitants instead of being locked in his office all the time.

Sadly, the current state of affairs had greatly reduced the time he could slack off from his duties. He had even been forced to eat his lunch in the office in the last few days.

He didn't bat an eye as one of the lights that had become the bane of his existence entered from the window and moved towards Minato's picture hung on the wall, beside the other Kage before him.

"Five minutes late today," he mumbled without stopping his reading of the papers splayed out on his desk. His eyes widened before a scowl settled on his face. Just like a good part of the village's population, shinobi or not, he was getting too accustomed to the strange phenomenon that kept mocking all their defenses.

He went back studying the letters, hoping that the people responsible would be caught soon.

Tomorrow he would have to announce that Konoha had been selected to host the Chunin Exams. If foreign shinobi saw Konoha's "weakness" the word would quickly spread across all the Elemental Nations. Another village could even try something to test them.

Sarutobi really, really hated those lights.

“Minato,” he sighed, “maybe if you hadn’t left behind so many seals we wouldn’t have such a great security risk on our—”

His words died in his mouth as a small toad jumped in from the window, landing in the middle of his desk.

It seemed that Jiraiya had sent another report.

The small amphibian turned towards the Hokage, and with a barfing noise, it spat out a small sealing scroll that rolled amongst the important parchments, leaving a few drips of toad drool in its wake.

Then the toad looked at him almost expectantly, as Sarutobi stopped with a finger the scroll's drifting before more papers were soiled by it.

"Can I have candy now?" the summon asked eagerly. The Hokage frowned at the messenger toad, causing it to dispel in disappointment.

Once the puff of smoke cleared up, the now alone Hokage made some space on the desk and released the scrolls' contents.

There were only two items inside, but he almost didn’t register the handwritten message that was seemingly written in a haste.

His eyes were too focused on the bizarrely-shaped sword. A kind of sword he hadn't seen for almost thirty-nine years.

The feminine-shaped figure stretched itself, pirouetting less than a foot from the ground, the flames that framed its body lighting up the dark forest. Once it had finished, it turned towards its master.

“Patrol around the campsite,” Conrad ordered to the flame atronach. The summoned creature swiftly obeyed, and the Nord grunted in satisfaction. Between the explosive runes, the wards, and the creatures he had conjured around the woods, the camp was secure enough. He decided it was time to rejoin the magelings around the campfire.

Four days had passed since they had left the clearing where he had found the weird knife that was now hung on his belt, along with his dagger. There had been no sign of their pursuers after they had fled, but he hadn’t survived for so long without taking precautions.

“Supper is almost ready, Master,” Sven said, hearing him approaching as he took a spoonful from the firepot. “Wish I had more spices.”

“Ta’Sava doesn’t care about taste as long as it’s filling,” the Khajiit mumbled from the spot he was sprawled lazily. “Ta’Sava is hungry.”

“You all would be forced to eat this stuff raw, if it wasn’t for me,” Sven said smugly, indicating his fellow student with his wooden spoon.

“Ta’Sava is also too tired to insult Sven creatively,” the cat boy replied.

“Well, if Sven hadn’t learned how to cook, Master Conrad would be forced to burn all our meals with his fire breath,” Beta giggled as she mounted her tent.

“Eight preserve us,” the Imperial muttered, causing his two companions to burst out in a laugh.

Conrad snorted, sitting down at the base of a tree, a little away from the fire and not looking at it directly. He didn’t want the flames to ruin his night vision.

He started to unbuckle his armour, placing the single pieces carefully on the ground. He hadn’t taken it off at all in the last days and his whole body felt sore, every muscle aching with stiffness.

More importantly, he felt filthy.

The next river on their way, no matter what, he would take a bath in. The magelings too, if they wished.

So long as there were no limiting circ*mstances, of course. Like groups of armed people following them.

“Here, Master,” Beta called to him, handing a steaming cup to him. “Dinner’s ready.”

He accepted it with a nod. Rice and assorted roots. Well, at least it was a warm meal he could enjoy before resting.

"So what do you think?" Sven asked to his companions, passing Ta'Sava his own portion.

"About what?" Beta asked, stirring the contents of her bowl.

"About Akavir," Sven clarified.

Conrad sighed silently. Of course they would not eat their rice in silence. He sagely decided to ignore them and frown at his own dinner.

"Nothing much, it would be better if we could talk with people," the girl replied, sounding actually sad. "I would like to see one of their cities, too. Real cities, not those small villages we passed by."

"We saw some nice mountains, though," Ta'Sava butted in. "This forest, too. Is big and weird. Ta'Sava has never seen most of the plants here before."

"We should get samples!" Sven brightened up. "You know, to see how they could be used in alchemy."

"It's so exciting! Nobody from Tamriel did this in centuries... we may even write a book about our journey once we—"

"That may not be a good idea," Conrad interrupted abruptly, not liking where the discussion was going.

"What?” the girl asked, stupefied. Beside her, the two boys were having a similar reaction at his words. “Why?"

"It's—" Conrad hesitated, not really sure what explanation he could give. "I don't think it would be wise to spread the word of our expedition, that's all. Or at least of who was part of it."

"You mean... that we can't talk about our journey to anyone?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying," he said with a tone of finality.

"Master, are you—” Beta tried to ask, hesitating for a moment. “—are you ashamed of us?"

"What? No!” Conrad said, outraged. How could she think that? “That's not—I just want to—"

"Oh I see it now. You want all the glory, don't you Master?” Sven sneered, meeting his gaze.

"The glory? What are you babbling about, Sven?" the Nord asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You don't want to share it with your magelings," the young mage continued. "This is probably going to be the most important research expedition of the century, and you won't want to divide the spoils once we will be back home!"

"The spoils? Sven, I—we don't even know what we could find here!"

"Sure you don't. You didn't even tell us where you found those runes. You know? The one we are following?" Sven insisted, slowly raising his voice. "Who would believe that you don't know what we're supposed to look for?"

"I—"

"I thought that you were supposed to be a legend, but in the end you're just a selfish liar that cares only about himself!"

Conrad reeled from the comment, taken aback by Sven's biting tone.

He searched his other students' gazes—a half-hearted attempt to prove to himself that maybe they didn't really think anything so ridiculous—but the moment his eyes met Beta's, she cast them to the ground, her fingers fumbling in her lap. He turned to Ta'Sava, expecting him too to call up Sven on his insolence, only to be met with a submissive silence.

They weren't supporting Sven, but they weren't disregarding him either.

He turned back to Sven, and saw his student staring straight back into his eyes. Conrad knew anger when he saw it, and recognized it behind Sven's glare.

Along with another thing: challenge.

Well, the Imperial wasn't the only one getting angry.

Conrad’s blood was boiling now, and he was sure that his eyes had become slitted. He could tell because his soul was demanding to put the young Imperial back in his place.

Instead—showing what he considered a considerable dose of self-control—he slowly reached for his bag, briefly rummaging through it before taking out one of the last two mead bottles he still had.

“Believe whatever you want, kid. I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he growled, walking away from the camp without looking at his students.

Conrad kept strolling until he was almost at the limit of the perimeter he had created around the campsite. Somewhere in the distance he could see his summoned atronachs moving around the dark forest. At least they still had the decency of not putting the whole place on fire. Teaching them to not do that had been difficult, back in the days.

“Stupid kids,” he said, as he popped up the bottle. “Why didn’t they stay at the College?”

He drank roughly half of the bottle in one go, enjoying the sweet taste and how the alcohol smothered his ire.

What did they know about the risks they would incur if they became associated with him? Worse, if they became known as his students.

They were too young, they were too vulnerable, and they were not prepared for the whole mess their life could become. Like his had become.

What did they know? What did they know of having to watch your back all the time, or the whole cloak and dagger business, or having to be on the move the whole time, not staying in the same place for longer than necessary?

What did they know of finding their friends dead, their throats slit? Of the people disappeared in the night, never to be seen again? Of the companions and comrades dying for stupid reasons? Of the lovers—

“Oh no,” he muttered to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to dwell on that.”

He took another sip. He didn’t want to remember—

His bitter musings were interrupted as he felt his connection to one of his summoned creatures being suddenly severed. Not even a second later, he saw a bright explosion in the distance, and some trees were set on fire.

His eyes widened. Somebody was killing his atronachs. And the magelings were alone.

Conrad dropped the bottle and started to run the way he had come from.

"Stupid, stupid stupid!" he scolded himself as he called upon his magicka reserves. "Why the f*ck did I leave the camp?!"

He needed to be able to find their attackers. As the spell showed him the living beings in the surroundings, he felt some relief when he sensed the magelings.

They were alive, but apparently unconscious and there were more figures around them. Their pursuers, without a doubt. But there seemed to be more than four—

He heard the sound of something spinning beside him, nicking his left arm.

Conrad let out a grunt of surprise, the pain dull and not much compared to some past injuries, but what had he been hit with? That was too small to be an arrow or a throwing knife.

He needed protection anyway, and gearing up with his armour in the camp was not an option. He let the magicka pass through his skin, hardening it so that it was almost as resistant as iron.

It wasn't like wearing his armour, but it would do.

Next thing, he would need a weapon—

He blindly dodged to his right, avoiding being impaled by a sword that instead barely scraped his hardened forearm. It hurt, but it wasn't a deep wound.

The enemy had been fast, very fast. It had caught up with Conrad at an impossible speed, just like the four stalkers that had fled from him in the clearing days before. Maybe even faster. Hadn't it been for his spell, he wouldn't have seen the attack coming.

This guy was not one of them though. His attacker was wearing some kind of pale mask decorated with markings and a dark set of clothes that covered him from head to toe, with a matching armour to boot. In the dark of the forest, with the distant fire light reflecting off the smooth surface of the mask, it was actually disconcerting.

Whoever this masked freak was, he was more dangerous than those cowards. Not that it mattered.

Letting go of his Detect Life spell, Conrad sent two twin streams of lightning towards his still crouched opponent, who just evaded them with a somersault that reminded him of some acrobats he had seen during his travels.

As he was preparing another barrage, the Nord felt a strong grip on his right wrist and his shoulder and suddenly his whole arm was twisted behind his own back. Someone had put him in a grapple.

Damn, these guys were really fast.

Conrad tried to struggle away but the bastard was not giving up. Not even when he started to kick his shins—even if the muffled grunts of pain were a joy for his ears.

The masked attacker quickly came close, right in front of him as his partner was blocking his movements. Instead of attempting to strike him down with his sword, he started to do strange gestures with his hands.

Conrad decided to not waste the opportunity.

“FUS!” he shouted, causing the man in front of him to stagger at the sheer strength that his voice invested him. Before his capturer could do anything, he quickly gathered his energies and released another spell.

His body was immediately set ablaze, or at least it appeared so as the cloak of flames covered him without burning him.

The enemy behind him was forced to let go to not burn his hands. The fire drove away the darkness of the night, and Conrad could see that he was surrounded.

Four masked figures, holding an assortment of weapons, were all around him. Two of them were even hanging upside-down from three branches. Not that he cared how that was possible right now.

For some reason, they were hesitating. Maybe it was because of the fact that a man was on fire in front of them. It wouldn’t last for long though.

Manipulating the energies of the plane of Oblivion once again, he conjured a daedric axe into his hand.

The reaction was immediate. The attack, carried out without hesitation. A chain coiled around his arm and with a vicious tug, it tightened, biting his skin even through his clothes.

Taking advantage of his disability, the other three masked freaks attacked him at the same time.

Twisting his trapped arm, Conrad yanked the chain with all his might, unbalancing the man holding it, making him collide against one of his partners. Turning around he was even able to block the strike of one of the remaining two with his free arm. There was nothing he could do for the last one, though.

He was kicked—kicked, of all things!—on his left ear, the blow completely unexpected. A flash of pain exploded in his head as his vision became blurred. Conrad was pretty sure that hadn’t he hardened his skin, he would’ve been knocked out.

Freeing the right arm from the now loosened chain, he turned towards the now exposed attacker, taking a swing with the conjured axe. He grinned as he felt the impact of the weapon on the enemy’s body, only to widen his eyes when he realized what he had actually hit.

Instead of being impaled in a human torso, the axe’s head was stuck in a thick log.

Before he could even ask himself what had happened, Conrad felt something smash into his side, and he was sent flying through the air. The landing was not soft and he lost his grip on the daedric weapon as he tumbled across the dirt.

He finally stopped on his back, gasping for breath.

The grass around him was already alight as he rolled back to his feet. Something sprouted out of the ground, something big and Conrad instinctively tried to roll over to dodge it.

The Nord found himself unable to move in a blink of an eye, something grasping and squeezing his legs. Glancing down towards them, he saw a thick spiral of wood ensnaring his limbs.

In a different context he would’ve surely appreciated seeing such a marvelous example of Akaviri sorcery. Right now, though, he just yelled some profanities as he tried to blast away the wood that was trapping him—and the blasted thing refused to be be damaged from the flames shrouding his figure or his spells!

More curses followed when the branch continued to grow upwards, reaching his torso. He didn’t have time to deal with it, however, as one of his opponents had recovered and appeared with surprising speed right in melee with him. If not for Conrad’s decades of fighting experience, his reflexes wouldn’t have been fast enough to deflect the strike aimed for his head, and snatch the other man’s clothes.

Now speed wouldn’t matter so much, and the Nord wasted no time in abusing that advantage. Also, he was still on fire. That was kind of like playing dirty, thankfully he had no problem with that. Particularly not when the enemy had started it first, attacking a group of children.

Conrad yanked the man towards him, causing him to lose his balance. As the masked guy was still falling, he punched, aiming for the head. The sound of his fist impacting against the mask was very satisfying.

He punched again, and again, until the strange wood immobilized one of his arms, while his punching bag stopped his other one. But he was closer now.

Leaning his head back, he brought it forward with as much force as he could muster. The sound of a mask shattering, and the feeling of blood trickling down his face—not his blood—he counted as a small victory even if his defeat seemed inevitable.

Two times in less than one year? He was really getting old.

The not-anymore-masked man fell down besides him but he could hear the other three coming towards him. He had maybe the time for a single shout—again, twice in a single year!—and briefly considered using the Storm Call but... the magelings were too close.

Accidentally frying the magelings was not an option. And he needed something able to put down these guys.

Why not do another thing two times in the same year?

"DUR NEH—"

Pain blossoming against his temple was the last thing he recalled before unconsciousness claimed him.

-Dream-

He dreamed the red haired woman again. He ran his hand through her beautiful hair, and she smiled at him.

She kissed him for the first time.

Pain.

Pain was the first thing he felt. A throbbing headache that was comparable to the mother of all hangovers. Among various cuts and bruises on his whole body.

Which was good. It meant that he was still alive, even if it hurt like a bitch.

Besides the pain, though, there were other sensations that he started to feel as time passed and his mind started to work properly again.

He felt groggy, with a numbness that had probably not been caused by the strike that knocked him out. There was also a strange taste in his mouth.

He had been drugged.

He also felt the cold metal around his wrists, and the weight of the restraints placed on him.

He had been chained.

He was hungry and thirsty. Which meant that he had been unconscious for a long while.

He dared to open his eyes to check his surroundings. The light, even if dim, hurt. Conrad wasn't sure if it was because of the hit to his head or the drugs they had given to him.

It was a small room. Four walls, a door, and his chains. A cell.

He also found out that he had been sleeping on the floor.

At least it wasn't Cidhna Mine.

He tried to get up but his legs were not responding. Maybe the drug had some effect on his muscles?

Managing to sit on his butt,vaguely taking note that they had left him his clothes at least—whoever they were—he started to look around the empty cell.

It was actually a strange room. No stone, no bars in the door. A mirror, for some reason he really couldn't fathom. The strangest thing, the one that made him pause though, was the light source.

Conrad had expected a lantern or a torch.

Instead, stuck in the ceiling, there was a yellow light globe that seemed to radiate light on its own, without a fire.

Was it some kind of spell? Or an enchanted item?

Conrad thought about it for a moment. A spell would've required a constant source of magicka to not dissipate after a while, and if that was the case he would've sensed it. At the same time, who would throw away money placing a light in a prison cell?

It didn't make sense—

He heard someone clear their throat to his left.

Conrad's head snapped towards the sound, or at least he wanted it to. The drugs rendered the movement incredibly slow.

He found himself staring at a man that he was sure hadn't been there before.

A short, old man with white robes and a strangely-shaped red hat.

Chapter 8: Photos, Drawings and Memories

Chapter Text

Sarutobi Hiruzen had prepared himself for multiple worst-case scenarios he had imagined over the past few weeks.

However, the more they found out about the lights that were able to track the Hiraishin seals, the more worried he had become.

For one thing, he suspected Iwa’s involvement, as they had a history of antagonism towards Konoha—to say the least—and Minato himself. Finding out that the Tsuchikage was as confused as he was about the nature of the phenomena had only brought about more worry.

Dealing with unknown dangers was not something that a wise man, shinobi or not, was eager to do. Oh, it could be done, it would be done, if it was deemed necessary, but it wasn’t something to take lightly.

Then, while one of his best ANBU teams was tracking the—moving—source of the lights, his former student had sent a quickly-written report, complete with attached evidence, regarding a strange-looking ship that had anchored on the Earth Country’s shores.

A ship similar to another one that his students had stumbled upon thirty… eight years ago? Or was it thirty-seven?

A ship that, unlike the previous one, was still manned by weirdly-dressed men that had begun bartering for supplies with the locals. Paying in good silver, from what Jiraiya had written. And being cheated on the prices quite a bit as well.

Being tricked into buying cheap merchandize at bloated prices notwithstanding, the Sandaime was ready to bet his pipe that it had came from the same land Minato had come from—whenever that may have been. Not being able to give the young man more information about his origins was just one item on his long list of regrets, yet no matter the map, library or archive he had checked over the years, he had found nothing.

After Minato’s death, he had given up. With Minato gone and the village in disarray, there was no point in chasing old ghosts.

Hiruzen had not kept his village safe from certain doom by believing in coincidence.

He had to admit that when he had been informed of the mission’s success and the capture of the parties responsible, he had dared to feel a little relief. The team would bring them back to Konoha and questions could be asked.

Using any possible means deemed necessary to ensure the gain of the answers.

Of course, Sarutobi was an old fool to expect things to be that easy. You didn’t survive as a shinobi for so long by hoarding large amounts of good karma, at least not usually.

He struck a match on the cell’s wall and slowly lit his pipe, eyes not moving from the prisoner’s own.

There were differences, of course.

The man in front of him was older, three scars were running on the right side of his face and he seemed to cultivate an appreciation for facial hair.

Even so, the resemblance was uncanny.

The eyes, though… those eyes were completely different.

Minato's eyes had always been kind, warm and caring, unless the person under their gaze was a danger to the village. Then they turned cold, made of steel and you just knew the man was going to do anything in his power to stop you.

The stranger's eyes reminded Sarutobi of an old soldier, a man that had seen too many things and had carried too many sorrows and regrets. There was also something that he couldn't really place, but it could've been because of the drugs keeping him subdued..

He also seemed more interested into the light bulb than him, for some reason.

There were other differences as well, which confused Sarutobi a little more.

Posture, body language and mannerism. Everything was wrong, the most un-shinobi he had seen in a prisoner whose capture had required the effort of a whole ANBU team.

He would've almost bought it at face-value. Almost.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” he asked, not thinking that anything would’ve changed since the last attempt. “I am Sarutobi Hiruzen, the Sandaime Hokage. As you may have understood by now, you’re a prisoner of Konoha.”

At the sound of his voice the stranger looked straight at him once again, staring at him for a few seconds while visibly trying to balance his body, still numbed by the narcotic.

“Look, old man. I told you already, I don’t understand anything of what you’re saying,” the blond said in a tired tone. Sarutobi could understand most of the sounds but they made no logical sense to him.

He had tried in the last hour to ask the obvious questions to the man, but he had always answered in an unintelligible way.

The Sandaime was not a linguist, but he didn’t need to be to realize that this was not a weird-sounding accent. It was a completely different language. An unknown one.

While everything seemed to point at some unknown group from outside the known lands, he couldn't dismiss the chance that this was an incredibly contrived plot.

For all he knew Orochimaru—who was very aware of a few certain facts about Minato’s origins—could’ve been responsible.

"Bet you can't understand me either,” the man's gruff voice said. “Otherwise I would ask about those three magelins of mine."

The tone the stranger had used was detached, almost callous. Yet there was something hidden behind it.

Concern.

Was the stranger feeling concern for himself, or for his younger companions though?

"Pity," the Sandaime said, deciding that it was time to throw a little bait for testing the waters. "I was hoping you could tell us why you were tracking Minato's seals..."

At the mention of the Yondaime's name, the man's eyes shot towards him, comprehension clearly visible in them.

So, there was at least one word he understood. Which didn't really make sense.

How could someone from outside the Elemental Nations know the first name of the Yondaime Hokage, since it was Hiruzen that had given it to him? Or even know about the Hiraishin, for that matter. There was also the matter of how he had found one of those kunai, as well.

Ignoring the Minato lookalike, Sarutobi dismissed himself and his form exploded in a puff of smoke.

Back in the Hokage's office, the real Sandaime stopped reading some documents concerning the upcoming exams when he had the sudden idea of letting the original deal with the headache he was feeling.

He was still for a second before collecting his thoughts. Clone memory feedback could get confusing sometimes.

Sarutobi pinched his nose with a groan, momentarily forgetting about the stack of papers. Why did this have to get more and more complicated by the minute?

"Alright," he sighed placing the documents on the top of a neatly stacked pile. “Time to deal with this and get answers, no matter what.”

Quickly getting a hold of a blank sheet of paper and a few modules, the old Hokage started to scribble some specifications about the course of action in the prisoners' interrogations.

Specifically, adding a few unusual, rarely needed procedures.

Conrad blinked as the old man disappeared, seemingly exploding in a thick whiff of smoke.

He had seen a lot of strange things in his travels—and that was the greatest understatement of the Fourth Era—but this was new even to him.

Some kind of local spell, maybe? The old man really looked like the classic figure of the old mage, with robes, weird hat and all.

Oh great. Now he was rambling on his own. Whatever the masked bastards had given to him, it really made it difficult to focus.

Since he didn't have anything better to do, he could as well get his thoughts in order as he waited for its effects to wear down.

He was a prisoner, that was a fact. The cell and the chains were a big giveaway.

The manacles needed a special mention though. There were some runes inscribed all around them, and if he looked at them closely he could see the faint, ghostly glow that they were emitting at regular intervals. He felt like a fool for not noticing it sooner.

Those bracelets, or to be more specific those runes, were sucking away his magicka.

Not completely, thank the Nines. It seemed that the ratio to which he was being depleted was slightly inferior to the one at which his magicka reserves were replenishing themselves.

Starting to throw magic without care as he usually did would leave him seriously depleted though.

Even if he was an untalented enchanter at best, he would've really liked to study how they worked. Containing spellcasters was always a problem back at home, unless you restrained them completely. Or broke their hands, or resorted to even more... drastic methods if you wanted to be sure.

He considered himself lucky that they had limited his bindings to just these pair of glorified shackles.

They itched a lot, tough. Which was terrible.

Focus. You’re not senile yet, as nice as that would be. Focus.

Tapping to his magical energies wasn't different from the usual, manacles or not.

He could feel all the living beings around his cell. There were many, a few dozens at least. Some lingered around—guards? Other prisoners?—but there was a noticeable coming and going of people, especially above him.

Probably a keep's prison or a similar place, if he had to make an educated guess.

Even if he had left his cell using his magic or the Thu'um—thank goodness they hadn't gagged him—there was no way to tell where his students were. He didn’t stand a chance trying to look for them, especially if the guards were the masked freaks that had ambushed him in the forest.

No; Conrad knew that this would take subtlety, much more than he was used to.

What really worried him was that the old man had said something about Minato. The way his luck went, the man probably had an ancient grudge against his brother.

Hopefully they wouldn’t let him starve at least.

The tension in the room was palpable to every one of the people that had recently passed through it.

So palpable, in fact, even the villagers had started to gossip about what was troubling the shinobi of their village.

In truth, only the higher ranking individuals of the village were aware of the whole situation, though their subordinates had noticed that some had expressed their concern in the privacy of their own homes.

The rumor mill had done the rest.

The old Kage sighed, looking out over his village from his office window. He knew that the stories whispered on the marketplaces, bars and homes were either completely made up, or exaggerations of reality. He couldn't help but frown at the thought that just a bit too many were about the condition of his spine.

"Tsuchikage-sama...?" his secretary called meekly, daring to get Oonoki's attention after a few minutes of silence.

He turned towards his audience, the best shinobi of Iwagakure, who were all waiting for his decision on this delicate matter.

The investigation had led to nothing, even when he had sent his own teams beyond the border. Except for the discovery of an abandoned campsite. A campsite that had been attacked by shinobi.

The attackers had been good at concealing their traces, but Iwa-nins were not famous for their earth-based techniques for nothing. Creating rock spikes or throwing giant boulders at the enemy was just one of the many possible uses.

While the squad's tracker had not being able to discern everything that had transpired in that place, it was clear what direction the winning party had left toward, taking prisoners with them.

Konoha.

Which meant that whatever answers he may had hoped to get about this "Yellow Flash Sightings" were now somewhere behind the gates of their long-term adversaries.

Tree-hugging bastards.

"Are you sure that it was him?" the Tsuchikage asked, talking to the leader of the squad that had the closest contact with their target.

"Quite certain, Tsuchikage-sama," the kunoichi, Gareki Ishina said.

"Quite, you say? Do you mean that you have some doubts?" Oonoki asked, frowning. The jonin finched visibly at this, but didn't reply, avoiding the Kage's eyes.

The Tsuchikage knew that the woman was a loyal kunoichi, a veteran of the Third Shinobi War to boot, which meant that her opinion on this matter was highly valued. Sadly it seemed that her recent experience had awakened way too unpleasant memories.

Especially those involving the Yondaime Hokage. Still, there were more important matters than a jonin suffering from post-traumatic disorder at stake, here.

"Well? We’re not getting younger, girl. Out with it!” the old Kage pressed on.

"I... I can't say for certain, sir,” the woman replied, quickly regaining her composure. “The man was old enough, he resembled the Y—that man a lot but more importantly…Those eyes, sir,” she finally said, frowning. “I saw them as he threw one of those kunai towards my squad. I would never mistake those eyes."

“The reports collected from various villages describe this man wearing a suit of armour, though,” one of Oonoki’s advisers said, seeing the discrepancy. “And neither he nor his companions were wearing any identifying insegna, or standard shinobi gear.”

“It may have been an undercover mission,” one of the other ninja in the room butted in. “Masquerading as mercenary escorting some customers, or something like that.”

“Why go in an undercover mission if you start to cast a jutsu that fires multiple lights in the Land of Fire’s direction?!” the councilor exclaimed in outrage. “That’s preposterous!”

“Enough,” Oonoki said, immediately silencing the argument before it could start. “No matter how we look at it or try to rationalize this, we need answers. Even if the trail seems to go straight into the home of our enemies.”

“I volunteer for the task, Tsuchikage-sama!” Ishina declared, taking a step forward. The Tsuchikage looked straight into her eyes, but she didn’t break eye contact.

“No,” he said firmly, considering the kunoichi’s past. “You’re too involved, you may be a liability for the mission.”

“I insist, sir,” she replied, surprising everyone in the room. The woman had guts, nobody would deny that.

“Oh? So, you think you can do better than me, youngster?” Oonoki asked in a mocking tone. “Do you think that you can take a decision for the best interest of the village?”

She better had a good reason to defy him, otherwise he would send her to teach the brats at the Academy.

“No, sir. I believe that not sending me with the team would be a great a waste of our assets.”

“A waste of our assets? You have a high opinion of yourself,” one of her fellow jonin said scoffing.

“Excuse me?” she exclaimed in genuine surprise, frowning at her colleague. “I’m the only one here who—”

“Just because you ran as everyone was—”

“Don’t you dare, you—”

“Stand down, both of you,” Oonoki ordered, defusing yet another argument before it could turn into a scuffle. “Gareki-san, you better tell me one good reason to send you on this mission, and do it now.”

"Sir with all due respect, if we take in consideration the worst-case scenario, I have the most experience to deal with it,” she proclaimed, fully confident of her abilities. “I know what to expect and I will not be a liability to this mission. And more importantly, I should be sent because I will bring my team back alive, no matter what.”

“I see,” the Kage muttered, nodding solemnly. “Very well then, I suppose you should get acquainted with your genin at once if we want to be sure that our teams will be accepted.”

“My… my what?” the kunoichi asked in confusion, her confident expression evaporating at the unexpected news, much to the old man’s amusem*nt.

“The Chunin Exams are an international event, after all,” Oonoki said, a smug grin forming on his face, before turning towards his secretary. “Procure me a list of the youngest shinobi among our forces of any rank. If they find even a single trace of that blond bastard they'll report back immediately!”

"Isn’t it strange?" Naruto asked, slumped on the bridge's railing in an incredibly bored tone. He had spent the last hours pacing up and down the usual meeting spot, before finally give up because of the boredom.

"What’s strange?" Sakura asked from the other side of the bridge. "Kakashi-sensei is always late."

"No, not that," the blond said, looking at the bright and cloudless sky. "I was thinking about those lights. The ones from before that everyone was worked up over."

"What about them?"

"Well, they scared the whole village and kept coming for a while, but then they stopped all of the sudden," he murmured.

"Isn't that a good thing?" the girl asked. "I mean, it was obviously a jutsu… even if I never read about something like that in our books..."

“Of course it’s good," Naruto answered turning quickly towards the kunoichi. "It just bothers me how nobody is going to tell us anything about it!”

“If you’re so curious, why don’t you try to ask?” Sakura proposed.

“I tried to ask but I couldn’t even see the Old Man lately, he’s busy with something," he said, pouting as he laid his back against the railing, his hands coming up to lace themselves behind his head. "And neither Kakashi-sensei or Iruka-sensei would tell me.”

“If those lights have stopped, it’s probably because the responsible was dealt with,” Sasuke suddenly said, without looking towards his teammates.

“What do you mean, ‘dealt with’?” Naruto asked, looking at the Uchiha in confusion.

Instead of answering, Sasuke slowly turned towards Naruto and stared at him coldly. The blond’s eyes widened in realization, and so did Sakura’s.

“Way to ruin the mood for the day, Sasuke.”

“Excuse me if I think that an enemy was probably killed. Idiot.”

“Hey!”

“Maybe… maybe they have been killed, but don’t you think that the Hokage would want to find out why they did it instead?”

"You know, cute little genin shouldn't poke their noses in stuff that doesn't concern them," a familiar voice said behind them.

"YOU'RE LATE!" Naruto and Sakura immediately shouted, getting quickly over their sensei's sudden arrival.

"A nice lady asked me for directions, and—"

"LIAR!" the two loud twelve years olds yelled, interrupting the older shinobi before they could hear whatever half-baked excuse he prepared this time. Sasuke instead just sneered at his general direction.

"Alright, we had our fun. Time to start the morning training though. We've wasted enough time."

"And who's fault is that?" Naruto mumbled, glancing at him accusingly. It seemed that even Sasuke was agreeing with the blond, for once.

"After training, we'll go ask for some mission at the Hokage Tower," the jonin kept explaining.

"Oh great. More D-rank chores," the blonde groaned, while his teammates flinched at the perspective of another trash-collecting, fence-painting, cat-catching or other task a random villager needed that day.

"Maybe we could do some extra physical conditioning as well, once today's mission is over," Kakashi finished, taking his favourite book out of his jacket vest. A little exercise would do the kids good.

"What?! But—"

"NARUTO, SHUT UP!” Sakura scolded him. “Don't make it worse than it is!"

Kakashi ignored his students' antics as he led them towards their usual training ground, but he secretly understood why they were curious about the mysterious event. To tell the truth, he would've liked to know as well given the mysterious jutsu had something to do with his own sensei, or at least, his sensei’s signature technique.

The investigation was still in-progress though, and having been declared a S-rank emergency, it wasn't his place to question the Sandaime directly.

Although he could pester Tenzo a little about the prisoners his team had taken back to the village, once his team had been entered in the upcoming exams.

Conrad was sitting on a chair made of metal, of all things. It was incredibly uncomfortable, and he had the suspicion that it had been designed to be that way. On the other side of a polished table made of the same material, were two people: a man and a woman.

Besides the old man with a goatee, they were the first faces he had seen since waking up in his cell, and they were glaring at him like he was trash.

The man with the bandana was mostly unremarkable, except for the strong chin and the scars covering his face.

The woman, on the other hand, besides being very attractive, had purple hair.

Purple. Hair.

A dark shade, but still…

Purple.

Conrad had never seen—or heard—of someone with such a hair colour. It was probably dyed, but still… who dyed their hair purple?

The only accessory they both wore, besides pouches, was a metallic plate on their foreheads, similar to the one he had found on that skull. It had a different symbol though, which reminded him of a badly-drawn snail.

Hair colour and snails aside, they both gave him the same impression. They were dangerous and used to situations like this.

At the corners of the small room instead, there were four of the masked guards. They may as well have been carved in stone from how still they were standing, but he could feel the barely held hostility against him.

It reminded him of that time he had stumbled upon a reunion of some Stormcloaks’ veterans by pure chance, a few years ago. This time though, there was no mead.

The room itself was very plain, besides one of those not-magical bulbs of light on the ceiling and a large mirror on one side.

He had no idea what purpose the mirror served, given the rest of the room, but he remained wary of it.

The now named Scars and Purple exchanged a quick glance. Then, the man took a thin pile of parchment out of a bag, each sheet no wider than his palm. He placed one on the center of the table.

Conrad's mind immediately took a double take as he saw it. On it was a perfect reproduction of the swarm of the tracking lights generated by his clairvoyance spell.

Then, Scar placed another paper right besides the first, this one picturing a single light passing close to a panicked person in a weird outfit.

Then another one, showing a different scene. And another one, and another one again.

Why would anyone paint that? Who would waste their time painting that to such detail?!?

Although, after a careful look, he had to admit that whoever the artist was was really good. There were no brush marks or defects in the paint, and the surface was completely smooth.

Even if Conrad appreciated the art, albeit in such a strange form, he couldn't help but wonder what the point of it was.

“What’s with this guy?” the purple-haired woman said, arching an eyebrow. “It’s like he’s never seen a photo before.”

"We know you can't understand us, so that makes interrogating you quite difficult, no matter what ... measures we would employ," Scars said in a low, gruff tone, ignoring his companion and not breaking eye contact with Conrad.

The Nord had no idea what the man had said, but it sounded like he was trying to be intimidating.

How cute.

Sadly for him, he couldn’t hold a candle to most of the beings he had the displeasure of talking with. Especially because he couldn't grasp the unfamiliar language at all.

"We can still make you understand that we mean business though," the woman said, taking the remaining small paintings from her fellow interrogator and laying them on the top of the others with a wicked smile.

Conrad's blood froze.

Just like the previous ones, the image was perfect down to the most minuscule detail, almost like if a piece of the real world had been trapped on the small paper.

Ta'Sava was staring right at him with a worried and yet curious expression, his ears pointed forwards.

Sven had been painted mid-yelling, one finger pointed towards who looked at the picture. At his hands, manacles similar to Conrad's own were clearly visible.

Beta's eyes instead were red and puffy, like she had been crying for a long time, and she looked on the verge of one of those panic attacks she used to have as Conrad met her in the College.

And finally, the last painting, showing what was clearly a set of torturer's tools gleaming in the painting's light.

Conrad saw red.

Only when he felt his shackles restraining him he noticed that he had lunged for the woman, hands aimed at her neck.

And now there was a blade pointed at the Nord's throat, heart, lung and liver, one for each of the masked guards present in the room.

Scars and Purple hadn't even moved, not even flinched.

"Well... that's different. I'm pretty sure the Yondaime didn't have anything like that," Scars commented.

"Could it be that this guy has...?" the woman said hurriedly, pointing a finger at his face, a frown on hers. What was her problem?

Oh right.

Anger, lack of control, slitted pupils. Same old, same old.

Damn, he needed a drink. It had been way too long.

"No, there are no seals of any kind on his body. It may be a weird bloodline, though," the scarred man mumbled, looking at him pensively.

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here, you filthy—" Conrad yelled at them, only to stop the long and creative chain of insults he was on the point of shout as he felt one of the blades prickle against his skin, having been pressed against it a little more firmly.

Biting his tongue, Conrad moved his gaze from the smirking woman to the paintings of his foolish students.

Even if he tried to use magic or the dragon shouts, he would get skewered like a pig. That’d be no help to himself or his younger companions. Or his own well being.

Slowly, very slowly, he moved back to his seat, the guards’ weapons following his movements and yet not wavering from his vital spots. These guys were good.

He really hated them. Damn their skill and unnatural speed.

Finally sitting down, he allowed himself to growl a little while giving a bad eye at the two people on the other side of the table.

They didn't seem to care. Bastards.

The guards didn't remove their weapons for a few seconds, just to be sure that he had calmed down. Apparently they were satisfied by seeing him boiling in rage inwardly though because they finally went back to their places around the room without saying a word.

Conrad really, really hated feeling so powerless.

“Very well, now that you know how things are—” Purple chirped, reaching for the insides of her own coat.

Conrad clenched his fists, expecting another bad surprise.

Which turned out to be another stack of sheets, this time white as snow and around the size of a book. And a short, sharpened stick.

Conrad was at a loss of words. What was that all about?

His confusion was probably showing because the woman smirked a little before moving the stick on the paper, which produced some scratching noises.

The stick had a black point, and to the mage's amazement, a thin black line appeared where the stick passed. It didn't seem to be ink, maybe it was charcoal? No, the line was too clean and neat.

An instrument able to write so quickly and without having to stop to refill the ink like a quill... what would have he done to examine such a thing in a less hostile environment.

Purple finished her work and showed him the page with a grin.

Conrad was wrong, now he was at a loss of words. He wasn't even sure what he was looking at.

Seven runes of unknown meaning were present on the white surface, forming a column of single... letters? He couldn't make head or tails of them. It was then that he realized a terrible truth.

In this continent, he was technically an illiterate. For some reason, the notion of not being able to read was way scarier than that time he had dined with Sheogorath.

"Mitarashi Anko," the woman said, pointing at the symbols and then at herself, still grinning. The Nord, still a bit shocked by the concept he had just grasped on could only stare in confusion, not understanding what was the point of this.

After a few seconds the woman tried again, pointing at herself and at the runes, spelling the sound of each of them. Either she was asking for something or she was introducing herself.

But why would an interrogator introduce herself, especially if they had immediately resorted to threats instead of playing good guard and bad guard?

Frustrated by his lack of response, the woman just went back to writing on the white sheet for a few minutes. Her companion just remained silent for the whole time.

"Mitarashi Anko," she repeated slowly, like she was speaking to a particularly dumb child. That was not shocking to Conrad.

There was a humanoid figure scribbled besides the column of runes, but... it was incredibly wrong.

The head was oversized, as big as the rest of the figure's body. The eyes were bigger than they should've been, there was no visible nose and no lips around the grinning mouth. The limbs instead were small, and pathetically puny to look at.

Was this woman just bad at drawing or was it a peculiar style used in Akavir in these days?

It vaguely resembled her though, so at least he knew that she WAS trying to introduce herself.

"Anko?" he tried, pointing towards the woman.

"Yes, yes. Right. Whatever, let's just get going with this farce," said Anko muttered, while nodding. "Ibiki," she said pointed a thumb towards her silent partner, who gave a barely perceptible nod. After this she scribbled a few more runes, always on a column.