Prologue

Prologue

"They're here! They've returned! They…"

In an instant, a black-feathered arrow pierced through the sentry's flimsy leather cap and into his forehead. The others on the walls immediately sounded the alarm. Combat drums thundered everywhere, horns bellowed, summoning the entire, albeit small, army to arms. All of them, dissenters of the Cult's reign, were ready to fight here, at High Hrothgar, in the last major bastion of humans, elves, and beast races who refused to kneel before the tyranny of dragons. Children cried, and women—at least those who could not or did not bear arms—tried to comfort them, while others prepared to tend to the wounded and maimed. Everyone understood that if they lost this battle, all would be lost. Prayers and ritual chants had long since ceased. All the survivors knew—the Gods would no longer aid them. Neither Mara, Kynareth, nor Akatosh would shield them. Nothing would protect them.

The enemy army was not yet in sight, the terrain and the unfortunately settled fog hindering the defenders from seeing what was happening on the approaches. It was no wonder, after all—High Hrothgar was never truly a castle or fortress, but rather a monastery that bandits, kings' armies, jarls, vampires—who had recently become a real scourge for all of Tamriel—and even dragons, fearing the wrath of the Greybeards, had never dared attack before. But everyone knew—a gigantic army was now approaching the gates of the old monastery, hastily closed and protected by spells from the best of the surviving independent mages. Well-armed, clad in the finest armors, trained and prepared for battle, and most importantly—fanatically loyal to their masters—the dragons. The "masters" themselves, however, did not disdain to personally appear on the battlefield—the roar of at least a dozen gigantic lizards was already audible in the air, and they were becoming visible on the horizon.

"Ballistae to battle!" shouted General Tullius, formally in command of the monastery's defense. "Mages! Cover the artillery teams!"

The small group of mages—only six well-trained gifted individuals were at the rebels' disposal—immediately divided responsibilities and prepared for defense. There were only three ballistae. A well-trained team could make up to two shots per minute at a distance of up to a mile. But that's if the team was well-trained, which it was not—all the experienced warriors capable of handling the heavy weapons had been wiped out at the beginning of the Second Dragon War. So now, the ballistae were manned by peasants who were somewhat trained, full of enthusiasm, strong and sturdy lads, but completely incapable of operating at the level of Imperial ballisteros. General Tullius understood that the chances were slim, but prepared to do everything he could. How many times could the ballistae fire before the dragons swept them away? Two times? Three? And how many of the bolts would hit the moving targets? Hopefully, half. So, three to five dragons, if lucky. But the rest… What to do with the rest?

"Tullius!" A Nord in a huge black bear fur coat burst through to the general. "My men are ready to fight. Do we move out?"

"Not yet," the general shook his head. "These beasts are just waiting for us to open the gates."

"If we sit here, they'll pick us off like ptarmigans!"

"They won't pick us off if you listen to me, your failed majesty!" General Tullius pointed to the slope adjoining the monastery slightly to the side of the main gates. "We have archers there, they'll delay them a bit, then retreat down the slope. Only then will you strike, making a sortie. Let them pull back—and then retreat. Wait for my order, got it?"

"Could it be any clearer…"

The Nord nodded and hurried to his warriors. The general just shook his head. Who would have said three years ago that Ulfric Stormcloak would be his ally—and the general would have ordered the jester hanged. But now… Now there was a far more serious enemy. At least, strong enough to put aside old feuds and come together in arms. Windhelm, before it was captured by cultists, willingly provided the resistance with ebony, from which weapons and armor were forged, ships for evacuating the population, and transporting goods and people capable of wielding swords and axes.

It all started fifteen years ago in Helgen when that very Ulfric was supposed to be executed. I remember, then Elenwen, the ambassador from the Aldmeri Dominion, very much asked to postpone the execution to personally interrogate the chief worshiper of Talos and separatist. But alas, it did not happen—the general wished to finish with the rebels as quickly as possible. That's when the first attack occurred. Just at the moment when they were about to execute some strange Breton. He had already been laid on the block when a black, tar-like, gigantic dragon appeared in the sky. Just like in the terrible tales and legends. Alduin, the World-Eater. The harbinger of the end times. He then left not a stone upon a stone of the fortress, and that very Breton, who had attracted the general's attention, disappeared as if he had never existed. That was the first attack in the subsequent series of many. In the future, the Breton was seen at almost every major dragon attack. Only at first, he fought against the oldest of horrors.

The general personally attested to the fact that the recent prisoner, casually strolling through Solitude—since in the eyes of the Jarl of Solitude, he was clean before the law—slain one such monster attacking the capital of Skyrim. And personally saw how the Breton, having killed the dragon, absorbed its soul. Dovahkiin... Oh, yes. Dragonborn. A warrior with the soul of a dragon in the body of a mere mortal. A rare and great gift of Akatosh, passed down in the line of the Septims from generation to generation. And, as it turned out, a terrible curse if the gift falls into the wrong hands. At first, everything was fine, but then… Then the dovahkiin disappeared for a long year and a half. Vanished, as if he had never existed. And when he returned—the world was washed in blood. Eadric—that was the Breton's name—returned not alone, no. He returned, leading a small squad of people clad in strange dark armors. As it turned out later—armors made from the scales and carapaces of dragons. The faces of all his companions were covered with monolithic masks. Very elegant and, according to the mages who survived after meeting the mask bearers, extremely powerful. Some even claimed that these masks allowed their owners to violate the properties of space and time, but the general didn't believe it much—after all, what can seem especially—from fear.

At first, the dovahkiin led only a small group of comrades, but very quickly—perhaps, even abnormally quickly—his organization began to gain tremendous influence. And how it gained… At first, everything seemed completely innocent, and the dovahkiin even assured that he was acting for the good of thepeople. In three holds, three gigantic estates were built, turned into closed schools. The dovahkiin and his people picked up orphans from the streets, offered them food, shelter, and education. They gave yesterday's street rats a path in life. Naturally, many orphans clung to the chance as if to a lifeline. And the jarls, by the way, did not object—why would they, when they no longer had to strain the guard with investigations of petty thefts, nor had to pay orphans any benefits. Some of these orphans, by the way, began to be noticed in cities again a few years later. Dressed to the nines, fanatically loyal to their benefactors, excellently trained and educated. Many of them soon found themselves at the courts of jarls—some became perfectly trained and loyal servants, stewards' assistants, and some even managed to displace previous court mages and advisors. The Dragonborn did not skimp on means, spending huge amounts of money even by Imperial authorities' standards, equipping cities and villages, his people helped peasants with work and training, assisted city guards by cutting out bandit dens and killing monsters, helped traders by financing them for substantial sums and advising on investments… In three and a half years, the influence of the dovahkiin spread almost throughout the Empire. There was no city or settlement larger than forty people where there was no representation from the Dragon Blood clan. Then, literally within a year, almost two hundred important and respected people throughout the Empire died—jarls, Imperial senators, guild heads or assistants across all of Tamriel, officers of the Empire, and high-ranking servants of the Gods… And, of course, their places were almost without a fight taken either by clan members or those sympathetic to them. And then… Then the dragons themselves appeared.

Of course, at first there was panic. People didn't understand what was happening, feared the gigantic winged lizards. However, the unrest soon subsided when it turned out that the dragons did not intend to destroy all life. Quite the contrary—the dragons showed unexpected loyalty to the Dragon Blood clan. One might even say—respect. Not a single human, elf, or beastfolk allied with the clan suffered harm. Naturally, discussions began in many shrines, taverns, and simply on the streets about how the dragons were indeed harbingers of the end times. Only not of all times, but of the bad, filthy times. And that those who followed them and the clan would surely enter a golden age. If not them, then their children or grandchildren. Gradually, the Dragon Cult, hastily organized and under the clear favor of the new power, began to gain momentum. Other gods, of course, were not banned, but worshipping them quickly became somewhat unfashionable. Indeed, why pray, say, to Kynareth, begging her for longevity and life, when one could go to the Shrine of Dragons and for a fee, quite comparable to the average donation in the temple of the same Kynareth, receive not abstract assistance in the distant future, but very real help, in the form of a potion to be taken by the teaspoon daily. The cultists themselves prepared this potion, rumored to be made from parts of dragons. And this seemed to be true, as those who took the potion indeed began to feel better. Thus, the Dragon Cult gradually seized power throughout Tamriel. No, of course, officially the cities were still ruled by jarls, lords, magisters, caliphs, and other crowned individuals, but one only had to dig a little deeper—and it immediately became clear that not a single jarl or city ruler dared move a finger without the cultists' instructions.

Of course, there were those who found the new order distasteful. Mainly, the old authorities, who suddenly found themselves out of power. There were plenty of such throughout the Empire, and so gradually small resistance groups began to appear, whimsically named the Tongues—apparently to make the situation fully correspond to the previous turn of history. Among the Tongues were quickly many legionnaires, former officers, some mages who refused to side with the Cult... Little by little, a serious force gathered, and people dissatisfied with the dragon's rule, led by the Blades who appeared out of nowhere... The Blades were the ones who incited people to armed conflict. At first, everything went well, even managed to drive the cultists out of several cities, completely destroying dragon lairs, annihilating the cultists' supply bases, and hanging them to dry in the sun in the square as a lesson to others. And then… Then the cultists recovered and began to retaliate for their own, suppressing the uprising. The land blackened with spilled blood. Many arrested were fed to the young dragons, just born. Several were demonstratively sacrificed… The Blades were among the first to be destroyed, and the skin of the order's leader, Delphine, was flayed alive in the main square of the Imperial City. Then leadership somehow naturally passed to the Greybeards—the only ones who had some understanding of dragons and, in theory, knew how to stop them. Of course, the Greybeards' policy was initially much softer than the Blades'. Even, it seemed, at first they tried to negotiate a truce, but then, upon learning who was at the head of the Dragon Cult, they became significantly more severe. Destroying the renegade dovahkiin became a matter of honor for them.

Moreover, the Greybeards somehow found Lyra, a girl who also possessed immense abilities in the Voice. They named her the dovahkiin. True, she could not steal the souls of dragons to destroy them completely, but this was not required—Eadric, always personally present in punitive expeditions, easily, perhaps even against his will, stole the souls of the slain dragons. Actually, now all hope was on Lyra—the girl was here, in the monastery, currently receiving her final instructions from the Greybeards. The dragons approached striking distance, the artillery gave the first volley. One of the gigantic lizards caught a bolt right in the skull—and plummeted behind a rock like a stone. Another bolt significantly damaged another dragon, piercing through its chest but obviously not killing it on the spot. The dragon swayed, turned away, and heavily, rapidly losing altitude, went down to land outside the archers' range. The third managed to evade the shot. The bolt was wasted.

"LOK VAH KOR!"

The thunderous roar shook both sky and earth. Everything fell silent for a moment—and the fog, thickly veiling the approaches to High Hrothgar, instantly dispersed. Tullius flinched. At the very gates of the fortress stood hundreds of warriors. Clad in identical garments, well-armed... Several fireballs flew into the monastery's gates with a crash. The Cult's mages acted surprisingly in unison, especially considering they were covered by numerous archers, infantry with tower shields, and dragons ready to strike from the sky at any moment. The Tongues' archers struck from the slope. They managed to cut down many warriors, but did not manage to retreat themselves—within a minute, the cliff drowned in the devilishly hot flame of the surviving dragons. From their breath, stone melted, turning into lava, snow that had not melted for centuries evaporated in an instant, and the air was filled with the smell of burnt flesh. There were no screams—the archers died instantly, not even having time to cry out. The general grimaced. Of course, the squad on the slope was not very numerous, but now, when every man and elf counted, losing two dozen archers at once was a serious loss. Ah... If only they had a minute more time... If the people had managed to reload the ballistae... But alas, it was too late to regret. The second wave of spells hit the gates with a crash. The semi-transparent blue sphere of the magical shield-ward dimmed and shrank slightly, one of the two mages fueling this protection collapsed onto the snow, unconscious. Even the general, who understood nothing of magic, realized that the next strike might still be withstood by the shield, but the subsequent one would hit the gates directly.

The ballistae crews reloaded their weapons and opened fire again at the targets in the sky. One of the squads of archers, positioned on the slope of the Throat of the World, joined in. Another lizard bid farewell to life, crashing into a crevice, crunching its bones and, most importantly, wings. However, the ballistae could do no more—the next beast went into a dive.

"Get down!"

Those who could, dropped to the ground, burying themselves in the snow. Those who couldn't were far less fortunate. In an instant, flames destroyed two of the three ballistae, and the third was severely damaged and effectively also out of commission. Out of the nine people manning the siege weapons, five died immediately, another two were rolling on the ground trying to extinguish the flames. And then, finally, the third strike on the gates. The shield crackled and screeched as it collapsed, the second mage also ended up on the ground—exhaustion caught up to him before he could reach for the saving blue flask on his belt.

"Out of the way!" a shout came from behind the gates. "I'll handle them myself. Fus Ro Dah!"

The gates were blown off their hinges, flying across the small courtyard and crashing into the inner wall of the monastery. In the passage stood Eadric—general recognized him immediately. Unlike his brethren in the Cult, he did not hide his face. Moreover, he didn't even wear a mask. Instead of a mask, the head of the Dragon Cult preferred to wear a crown. The very Jagged Crown, personally retrieved by him from the sanctuary of the last of the ancient kings. Behind Eadric stood warriors. Many warriors. However, soon all of them charged through the breach, sweeping everything in their path.

Eadric led the squad, not stopping too long and entrusting the simple Tongues to his subordinates. He himself rushed to the main sanctuary. General Tullius attempted to confront the Breton, but was prevented from doing so. Right in front of him, as if woven from the air, appeared a majestic figure in a mask. The general managed to parry a few blows, but within a few seconds, the figure spoke in a high female voice:

"Zun!"

General Tullius cried out in pain that pierced his hands. His fingers involuntarily released the sword. The next moment, the cultist's short sword pierced the joint of his armor, puncturing his lung. The general fell onto the snow, which quickly reddened with spilled blood. The cultist pulled the sword from the old general's body, leaned over him, and took off her mask.

"You-u-u?" Tullius gasped, choking on blood. "Rikke... You... You're with them?"

The former legion legate sneered crookedly, put her mask back on. Her sword trembled above the general's body. With a hoarse laugh, Rikke said:

"Rebels have no banners..."

And the next moment, the sword strike deprived Tullius of life.

Meanwhile, Eadric had already reached the main sanctuary. More precisely—the inner gates leading into the fortress itself. Indeed, the Tongues fought desperately. It was only fair to pay tribute to how they, completely devoid of mass popular support and any consistent supply, had held out for so long. Perhaps everything could have been resolved differently. But now it was too late. Alduin had given the order—and this order would be carried out. Moreover, Eadric himself also had a personal interest in this matter.

"Hey, you, rat-face!"

Eadric snorted. A primitive trick that, however, works well on simple mortals. A voice heard from the nearest shadows and constantly moving away as one approaches. A convenient way to make someone look where you want them to. Therefore, Eadric looked not where he was supposed to, but in the completely opposite direction, simultaneously deflecting a thin katana, likely forged in Akavir. A formidable weapon of dragon slayers. It would make a fine addition to the collection…

"Did you really think, my dear, that a single Word would make me vulnerable to your attack?" the true dovahkiin asked mockingly, kicking away the novice. What was her name? Lyra?

"You cannot win!" the girl roared menacingly. Eadric chuckled.

"Yet, here I am," he stepped forward, releasing a firebolt that forced Lyra to retreat and squint slightly. The next blow knocked the katana from the girl's hands. Eadric understood that she was put here not just by chance, but to buy some time in the fight against him. "And you are a step from the grave. Your Voice will need time to recover. So now, you are defenseless…"

"Even if I die," Lyra tried to buy more time, "others will…"

She couldn't finish. A member of the Cult, cloaked in the mask of Krosis, emerged from the shadows and struck Lyra's back with a paralysis spell. Looking at the girl collapsed on the floor, the priest hissed:

"Move on… Durnehviir will take care of her."

"Ensure no harm comes to her," the dovahkiin reminded. "I need her alive and, if possible, unharmed."

"It will be done…"

Eadric proceeded to the temple's backyard. There, where the path to the Throat of the World began, previously blocked by an impassable storm. Once, he had revered this place as sacred, and those four corpses, now slowly cooling under the watchful eyes of the other Priests, he considered his only true teachers, heeding their every word… Until the moment they renounced him, deeming the dragon within him to have grown far greater than the man.

Then, exiled and humiliated, he sought his place. And found it. Revenge led him to the Grove of Kyne, where he kneeled before Alduin, becoming his faithful disciple and his instrument of vengeance. Long months in Skuldafn, constant training, absorbing the souls of rebel dragons, summoning the massive army of draugrs—at least, those of them who remained loyal to their masters… And then—years of struggle for power on the side of those truly worthy of it. Following him were his two most faithful companions—his beloved and his best friend. One—under a mask made of wood, granting the ability to move to the past. A perfect reflection of who she really was. Over time rules she, over whom time itself has no dominion. Serana… It seemed centuries had passed since he freed her from her tomb and helped her avoid her father's wrath. The other wore a mask given by Alduin during the previous dominion of dragons, named in his honor. Miraak.

"I never thought I'd climb here again," Miraak chuckled, taking pleasure in viewing the corpses of the Greybeards. "But remember, Eadric, I'm still not entirely convinced that Alduin alone deserves to rule us. After all, how are we three any worse?"

"Because we are far younger, far less wise, and far less powerful than Alduin. Even considering that both of you are nearly a thousand years old, that you, Miraak, served Hermaeus Mora, and that I have absorbed the souls of several dozen dragons."

"Who would argue? But still—we'll talk about this later."

"Of course…"

The trio walked the path to the very last arch leading up to the mountain. At the very Throat of the World, at the peak, at the entrance to the traitor's lair, all three paused, gathering their thoughts. They discarded their weapons—they were no longer needed. For the last enemy, they had prepared the ultimate vengeance. Alduin, the great Firstborn of Akatosh, had spent several centuries imprisoned. Now it was time to repay the dragon-traitor in kind. He didn't even attempt to flee. It seemed the old dragon had already resigned to his fate.

"Dovahkiin…" Paarthurnax rumbled, looking at Eadric. "Drem Yol Lok…"

"Greetings, my precious former teacher," Eadric emphasized the word "former." "It seems, after all, the path of the warrior is better than that of meditation and contemplation."

"No," Paarthurnax disagreed. "Vik nuz ni kron… The path of the warrior is simpler. But not better… Your understanding of Zah… As limited as before."

"Perhaps," Eadric removed the cap from the tube in his hands, as did Miraak and Serana simultaneously. "But unlike you, I have time. Now, I have plenty of it."

The Elder Scrolls. All three related to the prophecy of the Dovahkiin. "Dragon," "Blood," and "Sun." Kel. Ancient relics, parts of creation, granting unprecedented powers even by themselves. Once, Eadric had already used them together to overcome the vampire threat. And they had also helped to resurrect the dragon race. And now, they were intended to seal the traitor in a loop of time.

"You won't even resist?" Eadric scoffed.

"I am not afraid," Paarthurnax growled. "I have never been afraid. Drem… Inevitable for each of us."

The Scrolls unfurled, the world around trembled from the power of the unleashed magic. Alduin—a true genius, if he managed to direct this energy. Creation itself shuddered, obeying the will of Akatosh's Firstborn and the will of those who led his army. Eadric closed his eyes. No man or dragon had ever spoken more than four Words of Power in a row. It was deemed impossible. Even four Words could only be spoken in succession by Miraak. The rest, mostly, were satisfied with up to three.

But not now, not when the magic of Nirn itself submitted to their speech. All three in chorus began to recite words of the ancient tongue:

"Yol!"

Paarthurnax was enveloped in white radiance, the dragon roared in pain.

"Zah!"

The radiance intensified, the great dragon… The great traitor of his kind collapsed onto the snow, bound by a terrible force that scorched his very essence.

"Frul!"

The noise became unbearable. The temporal rift, the very one into which the Tongues had sent Alduin, creakily opened. A black maw began to suck in everything within reach. Even time itself.

"Fein!"

The radiance around Paarthurnax turned purple, the three warriors of Alduin felt the ancient dragon's soul tear apart. They watched as waves of energy, detaching from the essence of the Traitor, were sucked into the vortex. There was no more strength. Even the power of the entire world couldn't sustain such potent magic for long. The phrase needed to be finished. Eadric understood this was the end. But he could no longer stop. If the magic wasn't maintained—the temporal rift would start to grow and soon engulf the entire world.

"Dinok!"

Paarthurnax's body shuddered, the radiance around him extinguished. The spirit escaping the dying body passed through the Dovahkiin, rushed into the vortex, and soon disappeared, crossing the Boundary.

However, Eadric was no longer concerned by this. Touched by the cursed soul of the dragon, subjected to such a powerful spell, he was instantly stripped of life. For a while, his own soul struggled with the icy, scorching cold that burned all nature. And then darkness fell.

"You have won, but not conquered," implying "you won the battle, but not the war."