Shattered Resolve #27

Erik forced himself to his feet, biting down on the agony that lanced through his body. His limbs trembled, his bones screaming in protest, but there was no time for weakness. Not now. Gritting his teeth, he whispered the incantations of healing spells, pale light flickering over his broken form as he mended fractured ribs, torn muscles, and bruised flesh.

It wasn't perfect, but it would keep him alive. His body still ached, his magicka drained to its dregs, but Brynjolf's stolen potions had bought him precious time. And that time was running out.

With what little mana he had regained, Erik reached out through the arcane connection to Snowhawk Fortress. His mind briefly touched the hoarded stash hidden in its depths—his cache of potions, scrolls, and supplies. With a flex of will, he summoned them into the ruins.

A rush of glass vials shimmered into existence, landing at his feet with soft clinks. He wasted no time, uncorking each one with a sharp twist, guzzling down healing, mana, and stamina restoration potions like a man parched after weeks in the desert. The bittersweet tang of the liquids hit his tongue, and he forced them down, his eyes never leaving Rahgot.

The dragon priest floated high above the rubble, encased in a shimmering ward that repelled every attack so far. His skeletal frame radiated with ancient power, the air around him crackling with the raw energy he was siphoning from the very stones of the ruin.

Erik's instincts screamed at him to start flinging spells, to lash out with frost and fire, but the weight of two millennia's worth of experience settled like cold steel over his shoulders. He had seen enough to know that rushing in blindly would be a fool's errand.

Breathing deeply, Erik allowed the ancient knowledge of his predecessor—Erik Deathsong—to wash over him, that old necromancer's hardened composure guiding him in this moment of desperation. There was no room for panic. Only precision and power would see them through this.

Surveying the battlefield, Erik's sharp gaze caught a familiar sight. "Geri!" he called out, his voice slicing through the chaos.

From beneath a mound of rubble, the demonic corgi emerged, his tiny form bounding toward Erik with an eager bark. In his mouth dangled the severed leg of a draugr champion, which he shook proudly like a prized trophy, his stubby tail wagging in excitement.

Erik couldn't help but crack a dry smile. "Enough with the playing, mutt. Throw everything you've got at that damned dragon-slave."

Geri gave a delighted yip and, without hesitation, his small, stocky body shimmered. With a burst of energy, the corgi split into three identical forms, each infused with elemental power—one crackled with lightning, another glowed with ice, and the third burned with fire. In perfect sync, the three Geri copies began flinging elemental spells with rapid-fire precision, their attacks streaking through the air toward Rahgot.

However, as the spells made contact with the dragon priest's barrier, they were absorbed effortlessly into the ward, dissolving before they could even scratch the surface. The shimmering wall of energy pulsed, mocking their attempts.

Erik narrowed his eyes. "Of course…" he muttered. Rahgot's defenses were formidable, layered with the strength of a soul that had accumulated magicka for many millennia. This wouldn't be easy.

He turned toward his undead creations, his gaze hardening with command. Surtr and Helrath, his skeletal minions, stood poised for battle, awaiting his orders. He shot them both a look that could curdle milk. "If you let a dog outdo you, I'll grind you both into bonemeal for my potions."

The effect was immediate. Alarmed, Helrath and Surtr sprang into action.

Helrath, his skeletal knight, planted his massive sword into the stone ground with a resounding clang. Purple magic surged from the blade, forming a glowing circle beneath him.

From the circle, aetherial chains materialized, their links shimmering with ancient power. The chains shot forward, snaking through the air toward Rahgot, seeking to bind the dragon priest in place.

But once again, the ward held. The chains struck the barrier and recoiled, unable to penetrate the protective field surrounding Rahgot. The dragon priest's skeletal head tilted ever so slightly, his eyeless sockets seeming to taunt their futile efforts.

Surtr, however, was not deterred. The flame-wreathed berserker lowered his massive frame, his molten eyes blazing with fury. With a guttural growl, Surtr opened his maw and unleashed a torrent of flames—a beam of concentrated, hellish fire that roared toward Rahgot's barrier. The heat was so intense that the very air around it shimmered, warping with the sheer ferocity of the attack.

The flames battered against the ward, causing it to shimmer and pulse, but still, it held firm. The barrier absorbed the onslaught, though it flickered slightly under the pressure.

Erik's mind raced as he observed the battlefield. The combined assault from his summoned minions was having an effect, but not nearly enough. The fiery sphere above Rahgot, which had been expanding with terrifying speed, now began to slow in its growth.

The magicka needed to maintain Rahgot's ward was clearly taxing the dragon priest, draining him—but it still wasn't enough. Erik could see that the barrier, though flickering under the pressure of flames, chains, and spells, held strong.

Gritting his teeth, Erik raised his hand, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Come to me!"

At his command, ten skeletal archers materialized from the void, summoned from the necromancer altar beneath Windhelm's bridge where Erik had created them long ago.

They were an unsettling sight—withered, gaunt forms wrapped in the remnants of ancient armor, their hands clutching ancient bows that creaked with age. But it wasn't the bows themselves that would catch the attention of an experienced archer; it was the arrows nestled in their quivers.

Each arrow was fitted with a gleaming crystalline tip, sharp as razors and glinting under the ashen sky. These weren't ordinary arrowheads—each one was a fully charged petty soul gem, crackling with contained magicka. Erik felt a surge of satisfaction as he saw them ready their weapons. He didn't need to issue commands. These skeletons knew their purpose.

"Fire!" Erik shouted, his voice thunderous.

Without hesitation, the skeletal archers loosed their arrows in perfect unison. The crystalline tips hissed through the air, striking Rahgot's shimmering ward with violent explosions. Each impact sent ripples through the barrier, arcs of energy sizzling across its surface.

The ward flared with every strike, absorbing the blasts of magical energy, but Erik could see the strain it was putting on Rahgot.

The dragon priest's skeletal arms trembled as he channeled more and more power into maintaining his defense.

Arrow after arrow hit the ward, the relentless barrage of enchanted projectiles lighting up the sky like a deadly fireworks display. Rahgot's barrier still held, but the momentum was shifting. Erik watched intently, his eyes narrowing as he studied the dragon priest's form. Rahgot was absorbing magicka at an ungodly rate, leeching power from the surroundings to keep his defense intact.

And though the flaming sphere above him had stopped growing, it still burned ominously, pulsing with unspent energy.

"We're close," Erik muttered, his voice low and dangerous. "Almost there. Just one more push…"

Erik took a deep breath, raising his hand. Magicka danced at his fingertips, crackling and sparking. He concentrated, focusing his will, and the sparks transformed into a swirling arc of lightning that shot from his hand.

The thin, bright stream of energy struck Rahgot's barrier with a sharp crack, spreading like the roots of a tree over the shimmering ward. Erik's eyes gleamed with cold determination as the continuous stream of lightning connected him to the dragon priest's defense.

It was a simple spell—Sparks—but Erik knew its potential. He poured more magicka into the spell, feeding it, empowering it. The concept was simple: amplify the spell's effect by overloading it with raw mana. The constant stream of lightning wasn't meant to break through the ward by brute force. Instead, it would erode it, disrupt the flow of magicka Rahgot was using to sustain his barrier.

The lightning hissed and crackled, digging into the ward, destabilizing it bit by bit. Rahgot's barrier shimmered violently under the continuous assault, the magicka within it wavering. The dragon priest's skeletal head twitched, his concentration faltering as he struggled to maintain both the barrier and the immense power of the fire sphere above him.

Erik gritted his teeth and pressed on, pushing every last drop of mana he had left into the spell while guzzling down magicka restoration potions with his free hand.

"Break, damn you…" Erik growled, his voice low and dangerous.

His entire body trembled as he forced more and more magicka into his lightning spell. His vision blurred from the exertion, sweat pouring down his face, but he could feel the breakthrough coming. Rahgot's ward was finally beginning to falter under the relentless assault.

The once-massive flaming sphere hanging ominously in the air above them, crackling with raw destructive power, began to shrink. It was subtle at first, but Erik's trained eyes caught it—the flaming orb's size was diminishing, ever so slightly, as Rahgot was forced to redirect more of his energy into maintaining the ward. The dragon priest's greed for power was working against him; the sheer magnitude of the spell he had created now demanded more magicka than he could absorb, leaving him with no choice but to siphon power from the very sphere he had conjured.

Rahgot's voice echoed across the battlefield in a shriek of fury and frustration, the words ringing out in the guttural, ancient language of dragons. "Zu'u los nid fahdon!"—"You are not worthy!"

Erik winced as the dragon priest's shriek resonated deep within his bones, but he didn't let up, the lightning in his hand growing fiercer, crackling with raw power. And then, finally, it happened—the ward that had protected Rahgot for so long flickered, dimmed, and vanished entirely. The protective barrier that had held back their combined assault was gone, leaving the dragon priest vulnerable.

In that instant, all of the attacks—Surtr's beam of flames, Helrath's aetherial chains, Geri's elemental spells, and the arrows from Erik's skeletons—rushed in to strike Rahgot down.

But just as the onslaught was about to connect, Rahgot raised his skeletal arms and screamed in the dragon tongue, "FEIM ZII GRON!"

Erik's eyes widened as the words of the shout tore through the air. A chilling wave of magic swept across the battlefield, and in the blink of an eye, Rahgot's form shimmered and became ghostly, ethereal. His entire body turned translucent, as if made of mist, and all the attacks passed harmlessly through him. Surtr's fire beam struck the spot where Rahgot had been, only to hit empty air.

Geri's elemental bolts fizzled as they passed through Rahgot's intangible form. Even the arrows, infused with the magicka of soul gems, whizzed right through, leaving the dragon priest untouched.

But Helrath's chains—anchored in the very essence of necromantic power—did not falter. The glowing aetherial chains wrapped around Rahgot's ethereal form, locking onto him with an unearthly grip. Rahgot's body shuddered as the chains coiled tighter, disrupting the flow of magicka within him.

The dragon priest hissed in fury, struggling against the binding power of the chains. The massive sphere of flames above him wavered, shrinking once more, losing nearly half its size as Rahgot's focus was broken.

Erik's heart raced. They had weakened him. But not enough.

Despite the chains disrupting his power, Rahgot remained undeterred. Even with the sphere reduced in size, the destructive energy it contained was more than enough to decimate them all. The dragon priest's skeletal face twisted into a snarl as he raised his arms, channeling what remained of his power into the sphere. His voice, filled with malice and triumph, echoed across the battlefield once more.

"Meyz Dinok !"—"Death!" Rahgot shrieked in the dragon tongue.

With a vicious motion, he hurled the flaming sphere down from the sky.

Erik's eyes widened in horror as the massive, blazing orb of fire plummeted toward them, its size and ferocity eclipsing everything in his mind. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, each second stretched to an eternity as his mind went into overdrive, desperately searching for a solution, a way out. His heart pounded in his chest, a relentless drumbeat of dread. Around him, the battlefield was a whirlwind of chaos, but none of it mattered—not now.

He could see Geri, the demonic little corgi, still barking with determination as he hurled spells at the descending inferno. Helrath and Surtr fought with all they had, the skeletal knight anchoring his chains to the ground in an attempt to pull the flaming sphere off course, while Surtr unleashed torrents of fire from his maw, trying to counter the flames with his own.

Erik's skeletons, though faceless and emotionless, methodically knocked arrow after arrow, aiming at the sky, their enchanted gems exploding against the sphere's surface in bright flashes of light. All of them—his undead minions, Geri, his summoned allies—they were fighting to the bitter end.

In stark contrast, Brynjolf and the surviving sellswords stood paralyzed with terror, their faces pale, eyes wide, hands trembling as they stared helplessly at their impending doom. The fear was palpable, an almost tangible force that hung heavy in the air around them. Their weapons hung limply at their sides, utterly useless against the overwhelming power descending upon them.

It wasn't their fear that gnawed at his heart, nor the destruction that was moments away from engulfing them all. It was the bitter taste of failure, the suffocating realization that he had lost, a strangely familiar sentiment.

He had come so far, fought so hard, only to be bested here, in his first true battle against the forces of this world. He had stared down the maw of death before, but this time, it felt different. This time, the weight of defeat bore down on him like a mountain.

His mind raced, weighing his options with cold, ruthless logic. He could survive. There were ways—there were always ways. He could minimize his losses and escape this death trap with just a snap of his fingers. His undead creations could be sent back to Snowhawk Fortress in an instant, safely tucked away in the crypts where they belonged.

As for Geri... well, Erik suspected that the demonic little dog would survive regardless.

Then there was Maven. He had no doubt that failing here would sever his connection with her, a significant setback considering all the plans he had crafted, and the schemes he altered after their chance meeting. But plans could be rebuilt. Allies could be replaced. Pawns could be found again, scattered across Skyrim like stones waiting to be picked up and played with.

Though at a hefty price, he could teleport away right now—leave the others to their fate. It would be costly, but his life was the only thing that truly mattered. The price of failure was steep, but survival was the ultimate priority.

And yet...

Erik hesitated.

Despite everything—the logic, the cold calculations—something deep inside him, something primal, tugged at his soul. It was a feeling he hadn't felt before, something buried beneath layers of cynicism and ambition.

The peril he faced wasn't merely a catastrophe; it was an opportunity. An obstacle that could not be overcome with mere cunning or retreat. It demanded more of him— and offered the very thing he'd been seeking: an opportunity for growth.

His instincts screamed at him to flee, to cut his losses and live another day. But something, deep in the marrow of his bones, whispered that this was a moment unlike any other.

He looked up again, at the massive, flaming sphere descending from the sky, its fiery glow casting long shadows across the battlefield. Rahgot was confident in his victory, his shrieks of triumph echoing through the air, but Erik's mind was already shifting.

This was no longer about survival.

It was about something more.

Following his instinct, Erik retrieved his sword from his belt, its worn leather sheath still attached. His fingers lingered on the hilt for just a moment as he muttered under his breath, "You've been with me ever since I left Snowhawk Fortress, but it's time for us to part ways."

The words carried a weight of finality, and as he hardened his expression, he turned his palm outward. The sheathed straight sword vanished in a shimmer of magic, leaving his hand empty for only a second.

In its place appeared a broadsword—one forged from a mixture of dwarven alloy and orichalcum, its edge gleaming under the fiery light of the descending sphere. Erik hefted the blade, feeling its weight, the familiar pulse of magicka coursing through the metal.

It wasn't the ideal sword he had always envisioned, far from the perfect weapon he had hoped to forge one day. It didn't have the hardness nor the durability of his old blade from Snowhawk. And yet, this sword had one unique advantage—a remarkable ability as a conduit for magicka.

"Good enough," Erik muttered, his eyes narrowing on the flaming sphere descending faster by the second.

Without wasting another breath, he thrust the blade forward and began channeling his magicka into the metal. His power surged through the dwarven alloy, weaving into the very essence of the sword, and something began to stir.

An ethereal, dark aura began to envelop it, wrapping around the metal like smoke, shifting and twisting. It wasn't a mere extension of the sword; it was as though the magicka had taken on its own form—a spectral blade that rippled with raw energy, sharper and deadlier than any steel.

The air around Erik shimmered with the intensity of his power, the ground beneath him vibrating as he concentrated everything he had into this one final strike. The weight of exhaustion threatened to crush him, but Erik gritted his teeth, forcing himself to focus. This wasn't just about surviving—this was about conquering.

"Rahgot!" Erik roared, his voice cutting through the chaos, carrying across the battlefield. The Dragon Priest's head snapped toward him, his hollow eyes narrowing behind his mask as he sensed the impending danger.

With a primal shout, Erik swung the broadsword in a wide arc, and the ethereal blade followed, cutting through the air with a sound like ripping fabric. The magicka-infused sword collided with the flaming sphere above, the impact sending shockwaves through the battlefield.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze again—fire met magic, and for a split second, it seemed like the sphere would overpower the blade.

But then, Erik pushed harder.

The dark, ethereal blade of magicka surged through the flaming sphere, cutting through it like a hot knife through butter. The flames split apart, dissipating into nothingness as the sphere collapsed inward, its power utterly destroyed. The battlefield was engulfed in a blinding light as the magic broke apart, and in the same fluid motion, Erik brought the sword down toward Rahgot.

The Dragon Priest barely had time to react, his ethereal form still struggling against Helrath's chains. The spectral blade sliced cleanly through Rahgot's body, the aura cutting through his ancient armor and rotting flesh with ease.

A shriek echoed through the sky as the Dragon Priest's form split in two, his bones crumbling to dust as his dark magic faltered. His mask fell with a hollow clatter, hitting the ground just as his skeletal body collapsed.

The clouds above parted slowly, as if Kyne itself recognized the end of the battle. Shafts of light pierced the darkness, casting their glow on Erik as he stood there, panting, the last remnants of his magicka flickering around the blade in his hand.

His body trembled with exhaustion, his legs barely able to support him as he dropped to his knees. The sword slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground beside him. But Erik didn't care. A victorious grin spread across his face, his chest heaving with each labored breath. He had done it. He had won.

As the battlefield fell silent, Erik looked up at the clear sky above, his vision swimming with fatigue. But there, in that moment, victory tasted sweeter than ever.

...

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