Chapter 5

4E, 201

How long does it take to deliver a thousand souls to the Dread Father?

For me, it took four and a half years.

Years that blurred into one another, marked only by the mourning of my only friend.

Not a single day passed without the ache of missing Elamoril.

I believed the only path to healing and forgiveness was through devotion—a cause to fill the void. And that cause was earning my place in the most feared organization in all of Tamriel.

No, not the Thalmor.

A family. Brothers, not bound by blood but by duty and faith.

“Ah, Ashenblade,” Speaker Astrid’s voice echoed through the hall, “Honors the Sanctuary with her presence once more!”

I sighed, catching the undertone of disdain in her words. With a silent nod, I stepped inside and sank into one of the hall’s chairs.

“As usual,” Arnbjorn muttered, unimpressed, as he took a sip of his ale.

I never imagined I’d grow up to be an assassin. But to grow up cold—that, I deeply regret.

“A thousand souls—that’s worth drinking for!” Astrid clinked her wine glass against his tankard, smiling.

“Who’s counting?” I forced a smile of my own as I raised my glass of Jagga wine.

The Sanctuary had become my home, and the assassins within it, my family. Yet I always sensed their doubts about me.

Years of relentless bloodshed earned me some names like Ashenblade and I grew accustomed to this life—the blood, the pleas for mercy, the screams. It all became second nature; to always be a few steps ahead, to hunt my prey, and to vanish into the shadows.

I was unstoppable.

“I heard Nazir is visiting.”

Fen’s soft voice and the gentle touch of her hand on my shoulder startled me, pulling me abruptly from my thoughts. The mere mention of Nazir made my eyes widen. I loved and respected him, more than I could ever express. From the moment we first crossed paths—by some twisted stroke of luck—he had been a beacon in my darkest days.

“Do you know why?” I asked, reaching out for the cheese bread, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I thought you would tell me.” Her voice was laced with genuine curiosity.

“I have no idea, really.” I dismissed her with a casual tone, taking a bite, but the taste turned to ash in my mouth.

“Well, you must be happy to be seeing him again.”

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I stopped chewing, my breath catching in my throat.

“I mean—” Fen faltered, her hesitation palpable, “I mean after…” Her voice trailed off into silence as our eyes locked.

I did love and respect Nazir, but I couldn’t ignore the truth gnawing at me. The family he had given me was, in essence, an organization—a machine of ranks, hierarchy, and authority.

Yes, just like the Thalmor.

“You’re right,” I sighed softly, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace, “I am happy to see him.”

Fen’s tense expression melted away, replaced by a warm, cheerful smile. Her deep blue eyes sparkled faintly in the dim light, just enough to distinguish the blue from black.

An assassin is supposed to be nameless, faceless, hollow—as expected. All the same.

But I knew that here, we were more than that. We were distinguishable and different, each of us carrying our own stories and desires, hidden beneath the veil of duty.

As I lay in my bed, in a room that felt more like a forgotten closet, the weight of exhaustion threatened to swallow me whole. The suffocating walls closed in, but this space—this miserable, windowless box—had become my sanctuary. I chose it, rejected the shared quarters because I knew I could never sleep beside someone I didn’t know or trust.

And after four and a half years, trust remained a distant, elusive thing.

Turning onto my side, the familiar, crushing sensation overtook me—the hands of a thousand souls, pressing down with the force of their collective rage and despair.

Every night, I drowned in the storm of my own conscience and I wondered, in the darkest hours, if the Thalmor would find satisfaction in what I had become. Would they see the twisted irony in it all?

They had seen me many times since my escape. I made certain that each sacrament marked for a Thalmor was mine and mine alone.

Officers, Justiciars, Torturers—I hunted them all, delivering each to the Void with my own hands. It was never enough, not nearly enough to quench the burning desire for vengeance against those who had taken him from me.

And so, I forced myself to sleep, in the dark, trapped between the suffocating walls and the crushing weight of my sins.

“Nio!”

A sharp knock and the unmistakable voice of Nazir jolted me awake, cutting through the haze of sleep. I shot up from my bed, heart pounding, and hurried to open the door. The sight of him standing there brought an unbidden smile to my lips.

After all, he was the one who saved me.

“You look great!” he said, smiling. “You’ve become such a fair lady.”

Before I could respond, laughter echoed down the corridor, drawing both our attention. Nazir’s smile faltered, replaced by a frown.

“A lady?” Astrid’s voice cut through the air as she approached, arms crossed. “An executioner, at best.”

Nazir’s posture straightened, his gaze meeting Astrid’s with a nod of acknowledgment. His arrival here, directly at my door rather than reporting first to the Speaker, as his duty as the Listener, was unexpected.

“Astrid,” he greeted her softly.

She stepped closer, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Welcome back home, Nazir.”

“I won’t stay long.”

“This still doesn’t explain why you’re here,” Astrid countered, her voice steady, though a smile played at her lips.

“I—”

Before he could finish, a sudden, heavy thud echoed from the far end of the hallway, followed by a series of unsettling noises. The force of it was palpable, a shiver running through the air.

“Dragons?” Fen’s voice, tinged with amusement, filled the hall as we rushed to the source of the commotion.

“Dragons!” Festus’s breath came in heavy, labored gasps, his tone laced with worry. “Just near the Stormcloak camp! The Dunmer had seen them too!”

“He speaks true,” Grodyl scoffed and crossed his arms. With that, the portal that had brought them here vanished, leaving a charged silence in its wake.

“What’s going on here?” Astrid’s voice sliced through the tension, demanding answers.

“The old man and I were scouting in The Pale when it happened,” Grodyl began, voice heavy with a mix of disbelief and certainty. “We saw them. I know it sounds mad, but-.”

“What exactly did you see?” Nazir’s voice was laced with concern.

“Wings,” Festus’s voice trembled slightly. “Two pairs of wings—one ash-colored, the other black as the night itself.”

“Oooh,” a voice entered the hall, dripping with curiosity. Cicero, the Keeper of the Night Mother, walked in with a twisted grin on his face. “And they call me the madman!”

To be continued…