Discover Top Posts Tagged with #shreddertheartist

Birth of a Dragon: A Skyrim Tale (Book 2)

Chapter 7: Blind Vendetta

Irkngthand rose from the land northeast of Whiterun like the bones of some forgotten golden giant.

Tall stone pillars crowned with weathered golden roofs stood against the dim predawn sky, connected by narrow bridges that led toward a larger central structure descending into the earth below. Even in ruin, the place carried an old, imposing majesty. At this early hour, the sun had not yet crested the horizon, and the world remained trapped in that cold, gray stillness before morning.

Bandits guarded the entrance.

They were scattered across the ancient grounds, posted along walkways, bridges, and crumbling platforms, watching for movement that rarely came. Some had long since grown careless from boredom. The air was so quiet that the sounds of insects and distant wildlife seemed louder than usual.

One bandit sat near a fire on the walkway leading up to one of the elevated platforms, soaking in the warmth with a drink in hand. He glanced toward one of his comrades standing several yards away and called out to him.

“Oy! You really think this job is going to be a game changer for us?”

The other bandit gave a shrug. “Mercer sure seems to think so. I’ve never seen him this excited about anything.”

The first bandit snorted into his drink. “I dunno. How much could these ‘eyes’ of his really be worth?”

No answer came.

The bandit frowned and waited a moment, expecting some smart remark in return. Instead, he heard the quick hiss of a blade and a muffled scream.

He lurched to his feet.

Above him, on the bridge overhead, his comrade’s body toppled over the side and crashed onto the stone below.

The bandit drew his sword at once, panic flashing across his face as he scanned the shadows. “Who’s there?” he barked, turning frantically.

Nothing.

No movement. No answer.

He opened his mouth to shout for the others—

Then a figure appeared on the bridge ahead of him.

A man clad head to toe in gray leather armor stood there, his face concealed behind a hood and mask. Only his eyes were visible, gleaming white in the dark like twin moons. Mist swirled around him, rolling off his body in pale, ghostlike strands.

Then he charged.

“Oh no, you d—”

The bandit barely had time to raise his sword before the man vanished into another curling cloud of gray vapor.

A heartbeat later, he reappeared behind him.

For an instant, the drifting mist took on the shape of a second figure—a human shadow mimicking the motion of a deadly slash. Then the shape dissolved.

The bandit froze, confused.

He looked down.

A cut had opened across him.

Then the pain hit.

Blood burst from his chest in a hot spray, and his sword slipped from his fingers. He dropped to his knees, staring wide-eyed at the cloaked man standing behind him.

“How...” he gasped. “What did you...?”

He never finished.

A moment later he pitched forward into a pool of his own blood.

The cloaked man did not linger.

He moved toward the entrance of Irkngthand like a wraith, cutting down several more bandits before they could even understand they were under attack. By the time he reached the main entrance, most of the guards had already been silenced. The few that remained were shouting in alarm, scrambling to find an enemy they could barely track.

He used their confusion to slip through the door unnoticed.

Once inside, he pulled back his hood and mask just enough to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Eradros exhaled slowly.

“That went much smoother than I expected.”

He lowered his hand and looked at it as he walked deeper into the ruin, flexing his fingers as though testing the feel of something new coursing through him.

“This power...” he murmured. “It’s unreal. I’ve never felt anything quite like it.”

The note of wonder in his voice faded quickly.

From deeper within the ruins came the unmistakable sound of battle—steel clashing against metal, voices raised in strain, and the sharp cries of Brynjolf and Karliah.

Eradros’s expression hardened. He drew his blade again and pressed forward.

The ruin opened around him in layers of ancient Dwemer architecture—stone corridors, bronze machinery, pipes and gears built by a race long vanished from the world. The Dwemer were gone, but their presence lingered in places like this, buried beneath Skyrim in rusted grandeur.

The fighting grew louder.

Eradros stepped into a broad chamber lined with massive metal pipes venting bursts of scorching steam into the air. Through the haze, he spotted them.

Brynjolf and Karliah were up on a high ledge, dodging violent blasts of steam while fending off what looked to be some kind of Dwemer automaton.

“Ah, you finally decided to join us, I see!” Brynjolf called as he leapt from one platform to another, narrowly avoiding a burst of steam.

“Had a run-in with the welcoming party outside,” Eradros shot back. His eyes flicked around the chamber. “And what in Oblivion is all this?”

He took in the room more carefully now. Broken automatons littered the floor around him, most of them small and spider-like, their metal bodies twisted and broken. Tiny soul gems had been mounted in the front of each one, likely serving as their power source. The construct still attacking Brynjolf and Karliah was something else entirely.

Its upper half resembled a gilded metal man, its humanoid torso polished in places despite the age of the ruin. Below the waist, however, it merged into a great bronze sphere that allowed it to move by rolling itself across the ground with surprising speed. One arm ended not in a hand, but in an attached crossbow.

The machine noticed Eradros the moment he entered.

Its attention shifted sharply.

The crossbow arm snapped up and fired.

Eradros did not flinch as two bolts hissed past his face. A third came straight for his throat, but he knocked it aside with a casual sweep of his blade.

“You’ll need to do better than that, I’m afraid.”

The automaton clicked and whirred, then retracted into its spherical base and launched itself at him, rolling across the chamber at deadly speed.

“Don’t underestimate that thing,” Karliah warned from above. “It is stronger than the others.”

“Noted.”

The machine barreled toward him, clearly intending to crush him beneath its weight.

At the last moment, Eradros planted one foot forward and stopped it cold.

The impact shuddered up through the stone, but he held firm.

The automaton sprang back out of its shell at once, a blade-arm snapping toward him in a vicious slash—

—but by then, Eradros was already gone.

Or seemed to be.

Where he had stood, there was now only a misty figure, a fading shape made of gray vapor.

Eradros reappeared behind the machine in the same instant and drove his sword into its back. The blade pierced straight through the metal casing and shattered the soul gem inside with a sharp crack.

The construct seized.

Then collapsed in a lifeless heap before it could strike again.

By the time Karliah and Brynjolf dropped down to join him, Eradros was already pulling his blade free from the ruined machine.

Karliah eyed him with quiet approval. “I see you have gotten acquainted with your new abilities. Faster than I expected, at that.”

Eradros glanced at his sword, then at the dissipating strands of mist still curling around his arm. “I must say... this power is incredible. It feels like I’m fighting side by side with myself.”

Brynjolf smirked. “Seems our abilities work differently according to our strengths. Might be why our capes aren’t all the same.”

“I am glad the two of you are learning to use your gifts,” Karliah said. “We will need them if we are to take down Mercer.”

“And judging by the mercenaries outside,” Eradros said, “he is definitely here.”

Brynjolf rolled his shoulders and adjusted his grip on his weapon. “Then let’s not dally. The sooner this is over, the better.”

The three of them pressed deeper into Irkngthand in pursuit of Mercer.

The ruin felt less like an abandoned city and more like the inside of some vast machine. Ancient traps waited in the walls and floors. Automatons lurked in forgotten chambers, ready to spring to life at the slightest disturbance. Wherever they could, the trio avoided needless fights and kept moving.

But the farther down they went, the more the place began to change.

It was subtle at first.

Then not subtle at all.

There were signs now that something lived in the deeper reaches of the ruin. Large hand-carved openings had been broken through the walls, connecting to tunnel-like passageways that the Dwemer had clearly not built. In one chamber they found what looked like a crude torch room, blackened with smoke and showing signs of recent use.

Brynjolf’s face tightened. “I don’t like this. Why do I feel like we’re not alone?”

“It is because we aren’t,” Eradros said.

No sooner had the words left his mouth than he heard it—movement in the tunnels lining the walls.

He stiffened at once.

“Get ready.”

A creature burst from one of the openings with a savage growl, sword swinging wildly as it launched itself at them. Brynjolf caught the strike with a sharp parry and drove his shoulder into the thing’s chest, shoving it back.

Then another emerged from the next chamber over.

This one wore a cruel, spiked mask over its face. It pointed at them and let out a shrill, piercing scream that echoed through the ruin.

Brynjolf recoiled slightly. “What in the hells are these things?”

“Falmer,” Karliah said grimly. “A feral race of elves that dwell in places like this...” Her eyes narrowed as more movement stirred in the dark. “And they do not like visitors.”

The masked Falmer drew frost into its hand, pale magic gathering in a crackling mass as another of its kind emerged from the hole in the wall. In the space of a breath, there were three of them standing between the thieves and the path ahead.

The first Falmer let out a vicious hiss and charged again, sword raised high as it rushed straight for Brynjolf. He planted his feet and braced to receive it.

Eradros moved first.

He stepped in front of Brynjolf and slammed his foot against the stone floor. Gray mist burst outward from beneath him, spilling across the ground in a violent swirl. In an instant it rose into the shape of a shadowy figure, vaguely human, and drove a blade into the charging Falmer’s chest before it could close the distance.

The creature stumbled, gave a strangled cry, and collapsed to the floor.

Brynjolf shot Eradros a look. “You trying to upstage me now?”

Eradros barely spared him a glance. “Sorry. Moved without thinking.”

“Focus, you two,” Karliah snapped.

The masked Falmer shrieked in fury and unleashed a sustained blast of ice. At the same time, the third creature lunged forward with its weapon drawn, trying to force them apart.

Karliah stepped into the line of fire and spread her arms wide. The gray mist curled around her instantly, forming a shimmering shield that caught the ice in a crackling wave of frost.

“Brynjolf!”

“Already on it, luv!”

He dropped to one knee, hands flashing beneath his cloak as he drew two daggers. Above him, the strange gray mist gathered again—this time shaping itself into two spectral arms that mirrored his stance, each one holding a knife of its own.

Brynjolf grinned.

Then all four daggers flew.

They struck the charging Falmer almost at once—shoulder, throat, gut, and chest. The creature jolted and collapsed in a heap before it ever reached them.

The masked Falmer screamed louder still, rage overtaking whatever caution it had left. Ice flickered out in an instant and was replaced by a surge of crackling lightning.

It fired.

The bolt slammed into Karliah’s shield and punched straight through it, shattering the mist apart. Lightning streaked onward and exploded against the wall behind them in a shower of sparks.

But Karliah was no longer there.

The Falmer jerked its head around wildly, blind eyes searching in vain as its agitation mounted. It hissed and snarled, unable to find her. Then it rounded on Eradros and Brynjolf and opened its mouth in another furious scream—

The sound cut off abruptly.

An arrow punched through the back of its mouth and burst out between its teeth.

The creature gagged, blood spilling down its chin as it clawed at its throat. A moment later it crumpled to the stone.

Karliah stepped over the body, emerging from the shadows behind it as though she had always been there. She strolled back toward the others with maddening composure, bow still in hand.

Eradros stared for a moment. “Wow... that was...”

“Amazing, I know,” Karliah said dryly. “Now let us press on.”

The three of them moved deeper into the ruin.

After winding through more ancient corridors and chambers, they eventually reached a vast room sealed off by a great golden gate. They approached it carefully, and Karliah stepped forward first, peering through the bars into the darkness beyond.

Brynjolf glanced at her. “Well? What do you see?”

“It’s Mercer,” Karliah said. “We’re catching up to him.”

Eradros and Brynjolf moved beside her and looked down into the chamber below.

There he was.

Mercer Frey crept through the great room like a ghost, cutting down unsuspecting Falmer as he went. One creature barely had time to turn before Mercer slit its throat and let it crumple silently to the floor. He moved with the ease of a man utterly in control, as if the ruin itself belonged to him.

Then, after killing yet another Falmer, Mercer paused.

He looked up.

Straight at them.

Even from that distance, his smirk was unmistakable.

Then he turned and continued on without a word.

Eradros slammed his fist into the wall beside the gate. “Damn it! The bastard’s toying with us. He’s been two steps ahead this whole time.”

“Don’t let him into your head, lad,” Brynjolf said. “That’s when he wins. Come on. We need to find a way down there.”

Eradros glared at the sealed gate. “First we need a way to open this blasted thing.”

“Or,” Karliah said, “we could just go through there.”

She pointed toward a large hole carved into the wall nearby—a rough opening leading into a tunnel that seemed to slope down toward the chamber below.

Eradros followed her finger and blinked. “Well now... that worked itself out quickly.”

“That’s all well and good,” Brynjolf muttered, “but keep your wits about you. Could be crawling with more Falmer down there.”

One by one, they slipped into the tunnel.

It was narrow and close, forcing them to move in a careful line. The only light came from the strange glowing flora clinging to the walls, casting the passage in dim shades of blue and green. The air smelled damp, stale, and faintly rotten.

As they crept farther in, the sound of movement began to drift toward them from the chamber ahead.

They slowed.

Carefully, quietly, they reached the end of the tunnel and peered out.

The room beyond was enormous and cloaked in shadow.

And full.

Falmer moved through the darkness in numbers, stalking among their crude camps and fungal growths. Worse still, the chamber also housed their beasts—large, insect-like creatures known as Chaurus, their chitinous bodies glistening faintly in the low light. The Falmer kept them for their armor, weapons, and other materials.

Brynjolf exhaled softly. “Well... that’s not ideal.”

Brynjolf peered out over the chamber full of Falmer and Chaurus, then looked back at the others with clear irritation. “Are we really going to fight our way through all of them?”

“I’d rather not,” Eradros said. His gaze remained fixed on the room below, measuring distances, movement, openings. “Besides... this is their home. We’re the intruders.”

Karliah folded her arms lightly. “So what now? How do you intend to get us to the other side?”

Eradros did not answer immediately.

He stood still, studying the chamber as though trying to read its rhythm. But while he thought, one of the Falmer had begun to drift closer to their position. It moved with slow, unnatural caution, head tilting as if it could already sense that something was wrong. Soon, the small gate separating them from the creature would not be enough.

Karliah noticed it first. Her voice sharpened. “Eradros... whatever you are going to do, you should hurry.”

His eyes narrowed.

Then he said, “I’ve got an idea. Quick. Both of you—place your hands on my back.”

Without waiting for a response, he dropped to one knee in the center of the passage and set both palms against the floor. The approaching Falmer was getting closer now, only moments from rounding the corner fully. Brynjolf and Karliah exchanged a quick look, then did as he said, each placing a hand against his back.

At once, gray mist began to pour from Eradros.

It spread over the floor around them like liquid shadow, then began to climb—up his legs, over Brynjolf’s boots, around Karliah’s ankles. It rose higher and higher until all three of them were wrapped in it.

Brynjolf looked deeply unconvinced. “I hope you know what you’re doing, lad.”

“Quiet,” Eradros muttered. “I need to focus.”

The Falmer quickened its pace.

It could feel them now. Not clearly, not yet—but enough to know something was there.

Just as it turned the corner to catch them, Eradros pressed harder against the floor.

The mist surged.

In an instant, it swallowed all three of them whole.

There was no flash, no flare of light—only the eerie sensation of their bodies sinking soundlessly into the pool of gray vapor as though the ground itself had become smoke.

The Falmer rounded the corner and found nothing.

It stopped, confused. Its blind face twitched as it searched the area in growing agitation, sniffing and listening for prey that had vanished in front of it. But the only thing left was the faint gray mist sliding away across the floor.

That was where the three thieves were now.

Moving through the chamber unseen, hidden within Eradros’s strange power.

The mist crept silently across the stone, sweeping beneath the feet of the Falmer and the skittering legs of their Chaurus. As it moved, fleeting silhouettes shimmered inside it—brief afterimages, ghostly impressions of the bodies hidden within. But none of the creatures noticed. They remained unaware as the living cloud passed through their midst.

The mist flowed across the chamber, up the stairs at the far end, and into the next hall beyond.

Only once they were safely clear did it begin to gather itself.

The gray vapor rose from the floor and folded inward. A breath later, Eradros, Brynjolf, and Karliah stepped back into solid form as though they had never left it.

Brynjolf let out a long breath. “That was insanely close, my friend.”

Eradros straightened, a little unsteady but pleased. “Yeah. But it worked.”

Karliah looked at him more carefully now. “Did you know you could do that?”

He glanced down at his hands, still faintly wreathed in dissipating mist. “Can’t say that I did. I just sort of... tapped into Nocturnal’s power.”

Brynjolf barked a quiet laugh. “Well, whatever you did, it was bloody brilliant.” He jerked his chin forward. “Now... on to the next.”

The hallway ahead sloped downward toward a great golden door.

It was immense, built of Dwemer metal and thick enough to suggest that whatever lay beyond it had once been meant to stay hidden. The three of them stood before it for a moment, gathering themselves for what might be waiting on the other side.

Karliah’s voice dropped. “This is it. Mercer cannot be much farther now. I cannot stress enough how dangerous he is.”

“Trust me,” Eradros said, “we’re all aware. Let’s just get this over with.”

He and Brynjolf stepped forward together and set their shoulders against the heavy door.

It resisted at first.

Then, with a groaning protest of ancient metal, it slowly began to open.

Beyond it lay a broad path leading into an enormous chamber dominated by a towering statue. The moment the opening was wide enough, they saw him.

Mercer.

He stood high upon the statue, prying what looked like large jewels from its eye sockets.

“There he is,” Karliah breathed. “And he hasn’t noticed us yet.” She glanced to Brynjolf. “Watch the door.”

“On it,” Brynjolf said, already moving into position. “Nothing’s getting past me.”

Mercer worked quickly. One jewel came free, then the other. He dropped both into his satchel without hesitation before hopping down onto the great book held in the statue’s hand, which jutted outward like a massive platform. The chamber below bore signs of the path he had taken—Falmer bodies strewn across the floor, blood staining stone and metal alike.

Then the moment the jewels came free, the entire room shuddered.

A deep, grinding tremor rolled through the chamber.

Water began pouring in.

Mercer landed lightly and looked toward them with infuriating calm. “When will you learn, Karliah?” he called. “You could never get the drop on me, sweetheart.”

Eradros cursed under his breath. “Damn it... so he did know we were here.”

Mercer’s smirk widened. “Don’t look so shocked, Era, my boy. This was always going to end with one of us on the wrong end of the other’s blade.” His gaze flicked between the three of them. “But three on one...” He clicked his tongue. “Now that’s just plain unfair. Why don’t we even the odds, hm?”

Black mist gathered in his hand.

Before any of them could close the distance, Mercer thrust his arm forward and hurled the dark magic straight at them.

The force of it slammed into Karliah and Brynjolf and sent both of them flying backward into the hallway they had just come from. The room shook harder. More water thundered in from above and behind the statue. Chunks of stone broke loose from the ceiling.

Eradros looked up just in time.

He threw himself into a roll as a cascade of rock crashed down in front of the doorway.

The rubble slammed into place with a deafening roar, sealing off the entrance.

Or nearly.

A jagged hole remained in the collapsed stone, just large enough for him to see through. On the other side, Brynjolf and Karliah were already back at the blockage, straining against the fallen rocks in a desperate attempt to clear a path.

On the other side of the fallen stone, Karliah slammed both hands against the rubble. “Eradros! Help us move the rocks! You should not fight him alone.”

Brynjolf shoved at the collapse beside her, teeth clenched with effort. “They won’t budge. Dammit—he’s separated us.” He looked through the jagged opening. “Can you move them from your side, lad?”

Eradros said nothing.

For a moment, he only stood there, watching them strain uselessly against the rubble. Then he reached over his shoulder and drew his sword.

Karliah stared at him. “What are you waiting for? Help us, damn you!”

Eradros turned his back to them.

“Sorry, guys...”

Brynjolf’s expression darkened. “What are you saying, lad? You don’t mean to fight him by yourself?”

“It’s better this way,” Eradros said quietly. “Trust me.”

“You cannot be serious,” Karliah snapped.

Eradros rolled the sword once in his hand, then settled it into place with a faint flourish. “I know this might be selfish of me... but he’s mine.” His voice hardened. “You two shouldn’t stain your hands with filth like him.”

Karliah took a step toward the gap as if fury alone might break the stone. “We all agreed to take him down together. That was the plan!”

“Well,” Eradros said without looking back, “plans change.” He started forward into the chamber. “For now... you two sit back and enjoy the show.”

“Don’t do this, lad,” Brynjolf called after him. “It’s not just your burden to bear.”

Eradros did not answer.

He walked deeper into the room as water continued to pour in around him. By now the lower floor was completely flooded, leaving only the giant book in the statue’s hand as a place to stand. The stone platform rose like an island amid the dark water.

Mercer waited there.

Soon the two men stood facing one another atop the great carved book, weapons drawn, the chamber trembling around them.

Mercer’s smile spread slowly. “You’ve grown mighty confident since we last saw each other. Guess that good old Nocturnal blessing’ll do that.” He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “I was sure I’d delivered a fatal blow that day. I suppose I have that wench Karliah to thank for having to see your mug again.”

Eradros’s grip tightened on his sword. “That you do.” His voice dropped to something colder. “And now you’re going to pay... for everything.” He glanced around the cavernous ruin, the rushing water, the towering statue above them. “I’ll admit, though... you picked one hell of a place to die.”

Mercer chuckled under his breath. “You lot still don’t get it, do you? Is Nocturnal resorting to brainwashing these days? Surely you can’t all be this daft.” He lowered his voice, almost pitying. “You can’t win.”

Eradros shifted into a fighting stance. “Then why bother explaining it to me?” His eyes narrowed. “Prove it.”

Mercer drew a second blade and lowered himself into stance.

Water swirled around their boots. Chunks of stone continued to fall from the ruined ceiling, splashing into the flood below. For one tense moment, neither moved.

Then Mercer grinned.

“You really think you’re on my level, huh? Fine. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

He sprang backward onto a staircase running up along the wall behind him. Black mist burst across his body, wrapping around him in a corrupted veil—

—and then he vanished.

Completely.

Only his voice remained, along with the faint echo of his movement somewhere in the chamber.

Eradros did not chase.

He stood perfectly still on the platform, head turning slowly as Mercer’s laughter bounced from wall to wall.

“And now, my friend...” Mercer’s voice rang out from nowhere and everywhere. “The real games begin!”

Then came the first splash.

A sharp burst of water off to one side.

Then another.

Then several more, growing quicker, closer, circling him.

Eradros remained calm, blade ready.

The splashes came fast now—Mercer running across the flooded surface, invisible save for the violence he left behind. Suddenly Eradros ducked as the air over his head split with the hiss of a sword. In the same motion, he brought his own blade up and caught the next strike with a shower of sparks.

To anyone watching, it looked like he was fighting empty air.

Mercer pressed the assault, attacking from different angles with impossible speed. Yet Eradros met every blow as though he could see the man perfectly. He parried one strike, sidestepped another, then turned to avoid a slash that would have opened his ribs. Water splashed wildly around his feet with every invisible rush Mercer made.

Sparks burst bright in the dim chamber each time steel met steel.

Mercer struck again.

Eradros caught the blade, spun with it, and swept his leg low across the platform.

For the briefest instant, Mercer’s body flickered back into view as he hit the shallow water on his back.

Eradros drove his sword downward at once—

But Mercer rolled, sprang to his feet, and vanished again in another wash of black mist.

He came back on the attack immediately, his laughter thinner now, sharper.

Eradros never lost his calm.

He stood at the center of the platform, trading blows with an unseen enemy as if the trick meant nothing. Through the hole in the fallen stone, Karliah and Brynjolf watched the fight with growing disbelief. All they could track of Mercer’s movements were splashes of water and the cutting streams of air left in the wake of his blades.

Karliah’s brow tightened. “Mercer has completely cloaked himself. I can’t even track his movements.” She stared harder, as if willing her eyes to pierce the spell. “Has his power truly grown so much that he can hide even from us?”

Brynjolf folded his arms tight across his chest. “Looks like it.” His jaw tightened. “I only hope Eradros can keep this up.”

Out on the platform, Mercer lunged again and again, but still he could not land a hit.

At last he drove one sword straight toward Eradros’s abdomen.

The blade passed through him—

No.

Through a gray, misty shadow.

Eradros dissolved before the strike could land, leaving behind only a ghostly afterimage where he had stood. Then he reappeared behind Mercer in a curl of pale mist and slashed across his back.

Mercer staggered and whirled.

Eradros was already gone again.

Another mist-shadow lingered for a heartbeat before he materialized beside Mercer and drove a spinning kick into his chest. The blow launched Mercer backward, sending him skidding across the wet surface to the edge of the platform.

This time, he remained visible.

Whatever cloaking spell he had been using had broken the moment Eradros’s attacks began landing. Mercer pushed himself up, breathing harder now, his confidence cracked for the first time.

“This...” he said, staring at Eradros in disbelief. “This shouldn’t be possible.” His eyes narrowed. “There’s no way you can see my movements with my cloaking spell.”

“You’re right,” Eradros said. “I can’t.”

Mercer’s lip curled. “Then what in Oblivion are you on about?”

Eradros leveled his blade and took another slow step forward. “I may not be able to see your movements... but I can see something far more intimate.” His voice sharpened. “The fear. The greed. The desperation behind every strike you throw.” He tilted his head slightly. “It’s like a warning bell every time you raise your blade.”

Mercer’s expression darkened.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you, Mercer?”

“I am not afraid of you,” Mercer snapped. “No one scares me. Not you, not Brynjolf, and certainly not that manipulative bitch Nocturnal.” His eyes blazed with defiance. “That’s why she sent the three of you. She knows I’m beyond her now. Beyond her reach. And there’s nothing she can do about it.”

Eradros lowered his stance, his body going still in that dangerous way that meant he was ready to strike. “Tell yourself whatever you need to. It changes nothing.” His eyes hardened like drawn steel. “You die today.”

Mercer bared his teeth and snatched up both blades again as he rose. Black mist began to gather around him once more, wrapping his body in the same foul cloak of shadow.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he hissed. “It’ll only make it harder on you when you lose!”

He lunged.

Water kicked up around his boots as he charged across the flooded platform, his form vanishing into black mist halfway through the rush. Eradros did not move. He watched the water instead, eyes following the splashes, reading the path Mercer carved through it.

Then Mercer struck.

His blade slashed through Eradros—

No.

Through another gray mist-shadow.

Eradros appeared behind him at once, sword already drawn back for the kill.

Mercer twisted and caught the strike just in time. Steel crashed against steel. Sparks burst between them.

Then Eradros vanished again.

This time there was not just one shadow.

There were many.

Mist gathered around Mercer in snapping, shifting forms—one, then two, then several shadow-selves all rushing him from different angles with inhuman speed. Each figure lunged with a blade. Each one dissolved into vapor the instant Mercer struck at it, only for another to rise from the mist and attack again.

Mercer was forced onto the defensive.

For the first time, he looked overwhelmed.

He parried one blow, ducked another, spun to meet a third. But the assault did not stop. It came in waves, every shadow replacing the last so quickly it felt endless. He deflected strike after strike, but just barely. The gray phantoms hounded him from all sides until one blade finally battered one of his swords out of his grasp and sent it skidding into the flood below.

Mercer swore and raised his remaining weapon to retaliate—

Too late.

A flash of steel.

Then a wet, horrible sound.

His sword arm was severed cleanly at the shoulder.

The limb spun away, still clutching the blade, and vanished into the water with a splash.

Mercer froze.

For one stunned heartbeat, he simply stared.

Then the pain hit him.

He dropped to his knees with a broken gasp, his face twisting in pure horror. Blood poured from the stump in dark sheets. He clutched at it with his remaining hand, shaking violently.

Eradros stepped out of the mist directly in front of him, blade extended, expression utterly cold.

“Do you understand now?” he asked.

Mercer looked up at him, wild-eyed.

“I’m not here because you betrayed the Guild,” Eradros said. “Nor because Nocturnal willed it.”

He began walking slowly toward him.

“My only role here... is to be your undertaker.”

Mercer began scrambling backward on one hand, dragging himself across the slick stone. “Wait—wait!” he stammered. “Listen. We can work something out.”

Eradros said nothing.

Mercer kept retreating, panic making his voice shrill. “If it’s the treasure you want, we can split it. All of it. Forget the Guild. Forget Karliah. We can leave all this behind.”

Still Eradros advanced.

Blood loss had already turned Mercer pale. He could barely keep himself upright, let alone fight. But his eyes stayed locked on Eradros as that calm, merciless figure drew closer with sword in hand.

“Seriously,” Mercer pleaded. “You don’t have to do this. We can both be rich beyond our wildest dreams.”

Eradros’s answer came like a verdict.

“Quit your begging,” he said. “And die with some dignity.”

Mercer’s breathing hitched. “No—wait—”

Eradros moved.

He raised the sword and vanished in the same motion.

Then he appeared behind Mercer.

The slash was so clean Mercer did not even seem to understand it had happened.

For an instant, his body remained upright on its knees.

Then his head rolled free.

It tumbled across the stone to the edge of the great book-platform, dropped into the black water below, and was gone. The body slumped after it, collapsing in a twitching heap.

Silence followed.

Eradros flicked the blood from his blade and sheathed it.

Then he crouched beside the corpse and searched Mercer’s satchel. He pulled free the Eyes of the Falmer—great pink crystals that glowed faintly even in the dim light, each one large enough to nearly fill a hand. He summoned gray mist around them, and in a breath the jewels vanished from sight.

Next he reached into Mercer’s pockets and retrieved the Skeleton Key.

The moment he did, the room shuddered violently.

A deep groan rolled through the chamber as more rock tore free from the ceiling. Water came pouring in harder than before. The collapse at the doorway began to shift under the growing pressure of the flood, and the rubble finally broke apart enough for Karliah and Brynjolf to force their way through.

They swam into the chamber and hauled themselves up onto the platform.

Brynjolf took one look at Mercer’s body and let out a breath. “You did it, lad.” His expression soured a little. “I’m still angry you did it alone... but you did it all the same.”

Karliah stared at the corpse for a long moment, almost unable to believe what she was seeing. “I cannot believe it,” she said softly. “It’s finally over.”

“Not yet,” Eradros said. “This room is about to flood completely. We need another way out.”

The water was already rising fast.

In moments it swallowed the platform up to their waists. Then their chests. Then their shoulders. The three of them waded and treaded water desperately, trying to stay above it as the chamber filled higher and higher.

“This isn’t good,” Brynjolf muttered, turning in a circle. “I don’t see another way out.”

By then the water was nearly at the ceiling.

Only a small pocket of air remained.

They searched frantically, but there was nothing to see except smooth stone walls and the drowning dark of the chamber around them. They were trapped. Seconds away from being sealed beneath the water entirely.

Then—

A crack above them.

A section of rock broke loose and crashed into the flood, opening a tunnel high overhead.

Eradros pointed at once. “Up there! Quickly!”

They struck out for it immediately, swimming upward through the new opening before the rising water could overtake them. One after another, they clawed their way out of the flooded chamber and into the narrow passage beyond.

Cold air hit their faces.

They had made it.

For the moment, they simply lay there or leaned against the stone, gasping for breath, soaked to the bone and exhausted from fighting for their lives.

Brynjolf finally let out a hoarse laugh. “That was... a close one. I can’t believe we made it out at the last second.”

Eradros coughed hard, bracing a hand against the wall. “I was this close to blacking out before those rocks fell.”

Karliah steadied herself and looked between them, her face tight with exhaustion and something deeper—relief, grief, vindication, all tangled together.

“It’s done,” she said. “Mercer is gone... and we have the key, and both Eyes besides.” Her voice softened. “Gallus can finally have peace.”

Karliah approached him slowly.

Eradros was still leaning against the wall of the narrow passage, coughing water from his lungs as he tried to steady his breathing. His hair was soaked through, his armor dripping, and yet there was a strange stillness to him now that the fight was over.

Karliah stopped in front of him.

“Thank you, Eradros,” she said quietly. “You have helped me finally bring all of this to an end. I do not know if I could have done it without you.”

Eradros gave a tired cough into his fist before answering. “Don’t... mention it.”

Then, after catching his breath, he lifted both hands slightly. Gray mist began to coil around them, swirling over his fingers in slow spirals. A moment later, the Eyes of the Falmer appeared—one resting in each palm, glowing faintly in the dim light of the tunnel.

“Oh,” Eradros said, glancing toward Brynjolf. “And I believe these belong to the Guild now.”

Brynjolf’s eyes lit up at once. “I’ll take those.”

He stepped forward and carefully accepted the jewels, one after the other, handling them with the reverence they deserved.

“We can finally start putting the Guild back where it belongs with these,” he said, unable to keep the satisfaction from his voice. “Nice work, lad.”

Karliah’s attention, however, had shifted elsewhere.

“There is something I wish to ask you,” she said.

Eradros looked up at her.

“That day,” Karliah continued, “when you spoke of someone who needed you... who did you mean?”

Brynjolf let out a knowing hum. “Let me take a wild guess. The Redguard boy who burned up the stables a few years back.” He looked over at Eradros. “Am I right?”

Eradros blinked, caught off guard. “How... how did you know?”

Brynjolf gave a small shrug. “Let’s just say I’ve been looking into the matter ever since it happened.” His expression sharpened. “What I don’t understand is why the lad matters so much to you.”

Eradros was quiet for a moment.

When he finally answered, his voice had lost its edge. It carried something heavier now.

“He’s the son of a close friend,” he said. “A close friend who’s dead now.” His gaze dropped briefly. “He asked me to look after the boy... because he’s special.”

Karliah and Brynjolf listened without interrupting.

“I’m sure you’ve both heard by now,” Eradros went on, “but dragons are returning to Skyrim. And the lad may be the only thing we have that can stop them.” He lifted his eyes again. “He’s Dragonborn.”

Brynjolf let out a low whistle. “A real, live Dragonborn?” He shook his head with open disbelief. “Now that is one hell of a piece of information.”

“Until now,” Eradros said, “the idea of standing against dragons felt impossible. I hated myself for pushing the boy toward a fate like that when I had no real way to protect him.” He flexed one hand slowly, as if still feeling the new power lingering there. “But now... I think I may finally be up to the task.”

Karliah studied him for a moment, then nodded, understanding settling across her features.

“I see it now,” she said. “This is the purpose Nocturnal saw in you. The reason she allowed you to bear her blessing.”

She reached up, unclasped the bow from her shoulder, and held it out to him.

“Here. I want you to take this.”

Eradros stared at it.

The bow was elegant and unmistakably hers—oak worked into a graceful shape, etched with intricate silver engravings that caught even the faint tunnel light. For a moment he did not move.

Then he looked up at her in disbelief.

“Your Nightingale bow?” he asked. “Are you certain?”

Karliah’s expression softened. “I do not need it anymore. But if it helps you protect the young Dragonborn...” She gave the slightest smile. “Then giving it to you would bring me joy.”

Eradros slowly reached out and took it from her.

For a moment he simply held it, as if unsure what to say. Then he slung it over his shoulder with quiet care.

“I don’t know what to say, Karliah.”

Brynjolf snorted and adjusted his hold on the jewels. “Say thank you, and then let’s get the hell out of this place. In case you two forgot, I’ve got a Guild to run.”

He turned and began making his way toward the exit, carrying the Eyes of the Falmer in both arms. For the first time in a long while, there was something light in his step—something almost boyish beneath the exhaustion.

Karliah and Eradros watched him go for a moment, both of them smiling despite everything they had just endured.

Then they followed.

Mercer was dead. The Guild could begin to heal. Gallus had been avenged.

And Eradros, at last, could turn his full attention where it belonged—

toward becoming Kin’s shield in the coming war against the dragons.

Chapter End—

#shreddertheartist

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#shreddertheartist