Chapter 17

Amon’s mismatched gaze flickered over to Fen, who responded with a mischievous smile that only deepened the unease gnawing at me.

As the door creaked open, granting us entry, I could feel the rage simmering within, threatening to consume me. But why? Was it the lie he had woven about himself, or the realization that his appearance at the crossroads had been a calculated maneuver? The uncertainty clawed at me as I trailed behind Fen and Amon through the dimly lit hall of the Sanctuary.

“Ashenblade,” Astrid’s voice took on a suspicious edge as her eyes briefly flicked over Amon, “You’re back early, and with company?”

“The most unexpected!” Cicero’s voice was a near-silent hiss, but it drew a cold gaze from both Astrid and me, causing him to shrink back into his chair.

Taking a step forward towards Astrid, Amon introduced himself with a soft yet steady tone, “I am Amon, Speaker. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

The words hung in the air, but the tension in my body only intensified. My jaw clenched involuntarily, the dull ache in my neck fueling my frustration. Astrid’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment before shifting to me, her eyes probing, searching for an explanation.

It was the same look she’d given Nazir when he first brought me here—a look that demanded answers, that questioned the intrusion into her sanctuary, our sanctuary.

“Well?” Her voice was a quiet, cold echo, devoid of warmth or welcome.

“He wants to join Falkreath,” Fen’s voice interjected, unbidden. “A fugitive from Dawnstar.”

The words hit the room like a spark. Cicero’s sharp gasp echoed behind us, filled with a mixture of disbelief and outrage.

“A fugitive?” Astrid’s eyes snapped back to Amon, her gaze now piercing, challenging him to reveal the truth behind Fen’s statement.

“Degrading, don’t you think?” Amon stepped closer to Astrid, a silent grin playing on his lips. “I prefer to be known as a powerful asset for you and your sanctuary. If you’ll have me,”

Astrid remained still, her gaze locked with his, unflinching as he whispered, “I am yours.”

Before she could respond, the heavy thud of approaching footsteps interrupted the moment. Arnbjorn, clearly roused from one of his drunken slumbers, stormed forward. “Back off.” he growled, his voice thick with both irritation and warning.

Amon’s eyes flicked to Arnbjorn, lingering just long enough to convey a faint disappointment, as if the werewolf’s interruption was nothing more than a mild annoyance. He looked back to Astrid, but whatever he was about to say was cut short as she took a step back, her expression unreadable.

“Colymna knows about this?” Astrid’s eyes darted toward me, the weight of her gaze sending a silent shiver down my spine.

Forced to repeat the truth I had been fed, I crossed my arms in frustration. “She sent him off to the College, that’s it.”

“The College?” Astrid echoed, her tone laced with suspicion.

“Well, yes,” Amon interjected smoothly, cutting through the tension before I could respond. “She was rather faint-hearted when she learned of my true nature.”

Arnbjorn’s heavy steps reached Amon, and he loomed over him like a towering shadow. Disgust twisted his features as he spat, “A vampire.” His eyes then snapped back to me, filled with accusation. “She brings a vampire to the Sanctuary!”

“How are you any different?” The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them, my brow arching in defiance.

“Enough! Both of you!” Astrid’s sharp voice cut through the rising tension, filling the hall with her authority. Her frustration was palpable as she turned to her husband. “Take him down to the dungeon.” she commanded.

With a grim satisfaction, Arnbjorn reached toward Amon, clearly eager to carry out the order.

“Dungeon?” Amon’s voice carried a hint of indignation, as if the very word was an affront to him. He took several steps back, his gaze flicking between Astrid and Arnbjorn.

“You,” Astrid’s eyes locked onto mine, the intensity of her stare nearly knocking the breath out of me. “You owe me an explanation.”

“Come here, you pale monster,” Arnbjorn growled, his strength evident as he lunged for Amon. But Amon was quicker, sidestepping his attempt with a fluid grace. In a blink, he was behind Arnbjorn, swirling around on his heel before making his way back to Astrid.

“Speaker!” His voice dripped with wicked amusement, his smirk dark and unsettling. Sharp fangs, glimmering ominously under the dim light of the sanctuary as he darted forward with his unnerving speed.

In that split second, the memory of my own moment of vulnerability crashed over me. I could almost feel the cold steel of a dagger pressed against my skin, the mismatched gaze that pinned me in place, and the ghost of those fangs grazing my flesh. The way the taste made me feel.

The taste.

Will he do the same?

“Stop!” My voice rang out as I stepped forward, my heart racing. Amon stood mere inches away from me and Astrid, his weapon drawn. The tension in the air was thick, and Arnbjorn’s frustration deepened as he watched the scene unfold, his hands twitching with the urge to intervene.

Amon's eyes flicked toward me, something unreadable passing through them. The room held its breath, teetering on the edge of violence, as if the entire sanctuary was poised for a single misstep.

“You bloodsucker!” Werewolf’s growl reverberated through the hall as he took a step closer, only to be stopped by Astrid’s icy gaze.

“If keeping him here will unsettle Colymna, then he’s more than welcome,” Astrid declared, her words laced with a calculated defiance that sent a shiver down my spine. “But he stays in the dungeons. Nowhere else.”

“My love—” Arnbjorn began, but Astrid’s sharp retort silenced him instantly.

“Enough, Arnbjorn!” Her voice rang out, commanding and unwavering, causing him to lower his gaze. She turned back to Amon, her eyes narrowing with cold determination. “You are mine now, and your place is the dungeon. Take it, or leave.”

Amon’s smirk faded, replaced by a glare that simmered with barely restrained fury. His eyes—one dark, the other unsettlingly bright—traveled over Astrid, lingering on Arnbjorn, and finally settled on me. The intensity of his gaze made my blood run cold.

“I accept.” he said, his voice dripping with venom.

What?

“Good.”

“As if anyone cares,” Arnbjorn muttered, stepping forward, but Amon moved with unnatural speed, positioning himself beside the werewolf in an instant.

“Touch me, and I’ll end you, dog.” Amon hissed, his voice low and lethal.

“Husband!” Astrid’s warning was the final word, her tone brooking no further argument. With a begrudging growl, Arnbjorn relented, leading Amon toward the dungeon. The vampire cast one last, lingering look at me before disappearing into the shadows, leaving a cold, unsettling silence behind.

Astrid’s voice sliced through the air, cold and commanding. “Out, Fen. Cicero, now!” The words left no room for argument, and both figures scurried out of the hall, their hurried footsteps echoing as the heavy doors closed behind them.

It was just the two of us, the silence in the hall pressing in from all sides, making the space feel smaller, more suffocating with each passing second. Astrid moved with deliberate grace, turning on her heels and making her way toward the table where a pitcher stood. She poured the golden liquid into two chalices and without a word, she slid one across the table to me.

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“Honey wine.” she offered softly, sensing my hesitation.

I took the chalice, swirling the liquid thoughtfully before bringing it to my lips. The taste was sweet, but the tension in the room lingered like a bitter aftertaste.

“So,” Astrid began, her voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and caution, “tell me about this vampire of yours.”

“He is yours.” I countered as I settled into one of the chairs, leaning back as I propped my feet on the table, crossing them casually. “He was just… there,” I added, taking another sip of the wine, this one deeper than the first. “He witnessed the incident with the dragons too.”

“And?” Astrid pressed, her gaze sharp.

“And they are very much real.” I answered, lifting my chalice in a mock toast.

“Cheers,” she responded with a sarcastic smile, raising her own chalice in kind.

The sister in her stood before me, not the Speaker, not the leader—just Astrid. The heavy bags under her eyes were visible under the dim light of the candles on the table; she was exhausted. I knew the Brotherhood was not faring well in Skyrim with the civil war tearing the land apart, but the toll it had taken on her was stark and heavy. For a moment, I dared to pity her.

“There are a lot of witnesses other than him,” I added, the weight of my words hanging in the air as I reached into my belt and pulled out the rolled, unsealed letter. I slid it across the table toward her, watching as she set down her chalice and began to read.

As her eyes scanned the parchment, her expression grew more severe. When she finished, she took a large gulp of her wine, clearly trying to process the implications.

I hated to add to the burden on her shoulders, but being a leader meant to take up such responsibility didn’t it?

“We can’t stay out of it anymore,” I said, my voice earnest, though her icy glance in response told me she wasn’t so easily swayed.

“And pick a side like that fool Colymna?” Astrid’s tone was sharp, her frustration evident as she continued, “Risk the lives of my family for someone else’s lost cause?”

She refilled her chalice, the wine pouring out in a steady stream as her brow furrowed in thought. “No,” she said firmly, “we need to be careful about this.”

I couldn’t help but notice the contradiction, and before I could stop myself, I remarked, “You weren’t so careful with your decision making earlier.” Her gaze snapped to me, cold and piercing. I held it, undeterred. “You weren’t so welcoming of the last stranger brought to this hall.”

Her eyes narrowed, the weight of her authority pressing down on me like a vice, but I held my ground. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy, until finally, Astrid sighed, setting her chalice down with a deliberate thud.

“We do what we must to survive,” she said, her voice quieter now, tinged with a hint of vulnerability she rarely showed. “And survival sometimes means making difficult choices.”

“And those choices?” I asked, leaning forward, “Are they just for survival, or something more?”

Astrid didn’t answer right away. Instead, she lifted her chalice once more, taking a slow, thoughtful sip. When she finally spoke, her voice was measured, almost resigned.

“They are for the family.” she said, her eyes distant, as if seeing something far beyond the walls of the Sanctuary. “Always for the family.”

The finality in her tone left no room for further argument. I took another sip of the honey wine, letting the silence settle around us once more.

Family was the last thing I wanted to talk about with Astrid.

“There is a rumor, a legend—" I hesitated, gathering my thoughts to share what I knew. "Someone called the Dragonborn."

Astrid's eyes sparked with interest for a brief moment before she turned to me. "A tale!" she scoffed, rolling her eyes. "One of those silly stories Nana would tell us." She shrugged, bringing the chalice back to her lips.

“We need to find a way.” I hissed, the frustration boiling within me. I was tired of my hopes against the dragon war being crushed by everyone.

"We can only dream," she sighed softly, "that Father will take us into his arms before it all worsens."

I rose from my chair, turning to leave, but her voice followed me.

“Have you thought about what I offered you?”

“I haven’t had time to consider,” I replied, glancing back at her. “Since we're all going to die sooner or later, does it even matter?”

Her silence was all the dismissal I needed. I left the hall, making my way through the dim corridors to my small room—my haven.

When I reached my small room, the first thing I did was tear off the cloth that covered my neck. The sight of the small, vertical slit that refused to heal was unbearable.

As I undressed and crawled into bed, the familiar warmth of my pillow offered a small comfort, a fleeting solace against the turmoil that gnawed at my mind. But sleep, as it had been lately, evaded me, slipping through my grasp like sand through fingers.

How could Astrid accept Amon into the Sanctuary so easily? Was she truly so naive to believe the bars of our dungeons could restrain him? She called it survival. Survival in a dragon war meant power. To Astrid, power was everything, and in Amon's nature, she must have seen a potent ally—one she could bend to her will. But power, I knew, was a treacherous thing, and Amon wielded it with a subtlety that was far more dangerous than raw strength. I couldn't fathom why he had chosen to remain in the Sanctuary, despite the indignity of being forced to sleep in the dungeon. This stubborn acceptance gnawed at me, fueling my unease. What was his true game, and why couldn't I escape the unsettling feeling that there was more beneath his calm facade?

I turned onto my side, but his silent, mocking smirk flashed in my mind, an unbearable taunt that twisted the knife of doubt deeper into my heart. If I hadn’t stopped him, would he have done to Astrid what he did to me?

Would he taste her? Would she tremble as I did, lost in that same intoxicating darkness?

A shiver of heat raced down my spine, pooling in my core, and my legs tensed, my knees pressing tightly together. The faint tinge in my neck, once a mere memory, now coiled around it like a serpent, tightening its grip until it felt as though I were suffocating.

I gasped, my breath catching in my throat, as the sensation dragged me deeper into that dark, forbidden pull. I despised it with every fiber of my being, yet it felt so dangerously easy to just surrender.

The possessiveness in his eyes—

“How about you get used to us?”

The growl in his voice—

“No one calls you that and walks free.”

That damned smirk on his lips—

“You are, darling, quite intriguing.”

I bolted upright, heart pounding in my chest, my brow furrowed in a deep frown. I shook my head, as if I could shake off the intoxicating grip he held on me, that creeping, unwelcome intrusion.

He was nothing to me. Nothing. Just as I was nothing to him. We were mere tools, steps on a ladder, nothing more.

But he is family now.

Above all, he belonged to Astrid.

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No one could tell if it was midday or midnight on a day of Rain’s Hand; the Sanctuary’s halls were shrouded in calm, perpetual darkness.

“And the courtyard is just over there.”

I stepped into the hall, my heart tightening the moment I spotted Fen guiding Amon through the shadows. A bitter taste lingered on my tongue as I realized how desperately my eyes had searched for him the instant I entered. He stood there, draped in the deep red leather armor of the Brotherhood, though most of it had been exchanged for black—an armor that suited his nature too well. His tousled silver-white hair hung over his face, partially obscuring his mismatched eyes that were locked onto Fen.

The breakfast was meticulously arranged on the table, each item in its place, as if trying to uphold some semblance of normalcy. But the air was thick with an eerie quiet, a silence that felt like the breath before a storm’s wrath.

I sank into one of the chairs, exhaustion pressing down on me like a weight I couldn’t shake. The sleepless night had taken its toll; my body was drained, both from the torment inside my mind and the turmoil outside of it.

“Here you are.”

His voice sent a jolt through me, and I swallowed hard before daring to look up. Amon stood beside me, his palm resting on the table with a casual confidence that only served to infuriate me. A sly grin curled on his lips as his gaze traveled slowly down my neck, lingering on the wound I had so carefully concealed with fresh cloth after cleansing it earlier. I could feel the heat of his eyes, the silent mockery in his stare.

“How was the dungeon?” I forced a smirk onto my lips, though it felt like a fragile mask, ready to shatter at any moment. I leaned back in my chair, trying to feign nonchalance.

His expression darkened briefly, his brows knitting together in irritation. “Horrible. Can you believe the Brotherhood uses real silver chains and locks?” He shook his head, sliding into the seat next to me with an ease that made my skin crawl. “Tch, tch, tch, it burns like the fire of the Deadlands.”

My gaze instinctively traveled down his arm, seeking proof of his suffering, but his hand and wrist were covered by black leather gloves, hiding whatever marks might lie beneath. I knew better than to probe further; the dungeons had never been a place for me, and after my first active duty, I swore they never would be. Interrogation, pain—it wasn’t my skill, it wasn’t my way.

“You’re lucky she welcomed you,” I said, my voice sharper than intended as I took a sip from my cup, trying to drown the tremor in my hand. “And you should be thankful for the dungeons.”

“I prefer your company.”

His words struck me like a physical blow, sending a rush of heat to my cheeks that I couldn’t control. I struggled to swallow, the water burning its way down my throat as my heart raced against my will.

“The cave was much better than the dungeon.” he continued, his voice laced with dark amusement as he pulled out a small black bottle and uncorked it.

My eyes dropped to the bottle, tracing the stains on its surface with a mix of disgust and morbid curiosity. I knew what it contained—blood, thick and dark. He brought the bottle to his lips, drinking deeply, and I felt the eyes of the others in the hall on us. A few disgusted glances were cast his way, from those who still hadn’t grown accustomed to the presence of a vampire among us. I felt their unease mingle with my own, a collective tension that coiled in the air, ready to snap.

The door behind the table burst open with a crash that echoed through the hall, shattering the tense silence. All eyes turned as Astrid and Arnbjorn strode in, with Leona at their side, her Imperial armor clanging against the stone floor like a war drum.

Astrid’s gaze lifted from the paper in her hands, her face pale and drawn as if the words on the parchment had drained the life from her. Leona’s expression was taut with worry, her eyes flicking between us before settling on Astrid, who finally spoke, her voice heavy with a mix of disbelief and dread.

“He did it! The lunatic finally killed the High King.”

The weight of her words crashed over me, leaving me breathless, the world tilting as the gravity of the situation sank in.

The storm had arrived.

To be continued…