4E 201, Borders of Whiterun Hold and the Pale
Kiera Fendalyn
Watching a mechanical owl fly through the sky was something Kiera never thought she'd witness in her life.
She'd seen Dwemer machines in ruins before—lifeless brass husks programmed to do their masters bidding—but Bronze was different.
He was alive—well, active, at least. The way he circled overhead, scanning the skies with glowing eyes and diving low before swooping back up to rest on Gerron's shoulder, made the thing feel more like a real creature than a construct. She had to admit—it was impressive.
Gerron Ironbreaker had called himself an Artificer, and she'd believed him. But seeing it? That was another thing entirely.
The four-day journey since they'd left Whiterun had been long but not unpleasant. They'd ridden past the golden fields and gentle hills of the plains, through quiet pine forests and creaking wooden bridges. But by the third day, the trees began to thin. The grass disappeared and the air grew colder.
Now, they were truly in the north, in the hold of the Pale proper. The green had faded into white, and the once-warm winds of Whiterun were now bitter gusts that stung her cheeks and bit through her cloak. Snow crunched beneath their horses' hooves, and even the sky seemed paler here—bleached by the wind and the altitude.
Despite the cold, Kiera found herself enjoying the journey. Gerron was great company, and reliable too. He was a good conversationalist, sharing stories of the Rift and his home of Shor's Stone. Riften was one of the few major cities she never had the chance to visit during her time in Skyrim a long time ago, it was refreshing to hear more of the land she had once called home.
They'd been given their horses after the dragon incident at the Western Watchtower. Balgruuf had insisted they needed them if they were to cross half of Skyrim. Kiera didn't protest—she didn't mind riding, though she was still getting used to how sore it left her legs after a full day.
Now, as they approached a fork in the road, Kiera tugged her horse to the side and raised a hand.
"This is it," she said, nodding toward the split. "Left takes us to the Hall of the Vigilants—just beneath Fort Dunstad's southern cliffs."
Gerron pointed toward the right path. "But our road leads this way."
"Yep," she confirmed. "This fork leads to Windhelm eventually, but there's a stop along that mountain path. That's where you said the Forsaken Cave is, right?"
"Aye. That's the one." He glanced skyward, gauging the sun's descent behind the jagged peaks. "It's getting dark. We should think about making camp."
Kiera grinned. "No need. If I'm remembering right, there's an inn about an hour ahead. I traveled this path years ago with my mother—we stayed there overnight. It's called Nightgate Inn. Sits right on a frozen lake."
"Truly?" Gerron raised a brow. "Well, that's a relief. I'd rather not sleep under another pine tree with frost in my beard."
They pressed on.
The road narrowed as they rode up into the mountains. Snow flurried around them, and the wind picked up, whistling through the rocky pass. Gerron didn't seem fazed by the cold—if anything, he looked like he belonged in it. Nords were always said to have ice in their blood, it seems those stories were true.
His massive frame was wrapped in slim furs over his armor, and his breath came slow and steady, like the puff of a forge bellows. Kiera, meanwhile, was layered in her Vigilant robes beneath a thick wool cloak, her gloved hands gripping the reins tight.
Just as night fully descended, they spotted the warm glow of lanterns up ahead. A crooked wooden sign swung gently in the wind, creaking on its hinges: Nightgate Inn.
It looked exactly as she remembered it. Nestled beside a frozen lake, the inn was an old, sturdy thing—half-buried in snowdrifts and crooked with age. A small wooden pier jutted out into the water where a patch of lake hadn't yet frozen over. A few fishermen lingered near the edge, bundled tight against the cold, their lines cast in silence.
They dismounted, leading their horses into the small stable on the side of the inn before stepping through the front door. A blast of warm air and firelight greeted them.
Inside, the inn was quiet but cozy. The hearth at the far end burned low, and a few scattered patrons sat hunched over mugs of mead. The smell of roasted goat and bread filled the room. Kiera sighed in contentment—days of riding and sleeping on rocky ground made her body ache uncomfortably. This was exactly what she needed.
They approached the bar, where a gray-haired man nodded at them. "Rooms? Three septims a head, five if you include a meal. Hearth's open, if you want it."
Gerron tossed a small pouch onto the counter. "That'll cover us both for a day."
"Fair deal," the innkeeper muttered, taking the coin. "There's stew on the pot. Goat meat and some salmon. Fresh."
Kiera sank into one of the chairs near the fire, stretching her legs. Gerron stood nearby, removing his vambrace and setting it beside him as he scanned the room. Bronze, in his compact orb form, hung from the warrior's belt like a brass trinket.
Then she noticed it.
Gerron's eyes weren't scanning the room idly—they were focused. Sharp. Watching.
She followed his gaze.
At the far corner of the inn sat a man—mid-fifties, maybe older, with a weathered face and a permanent scowl. He nursed a half-empty bottle of mead and stared into the flames as if seeing something long gone. His clothes were rough and patched, but what caught her eye was the bundle beside him: a long object wrapped in leather, carefully kept within arm's reach.
She remembered seeing him even years ago. What was his name…Fultheim? Mother had asked about him, with the owner simply saying the man to be a local drunk who was happy to waste away his septims drinking.
He never caused trouble and always kept to himself. That wrapped bundle had always made her wonder, but her mother had warned her not to ask.
Now, Gerron was looking at him the way a one would a potential enemy.
Kiera narrowed her eyes, suddenly alert. There was something more going on here.
…
Gerron Ironbreaker
[Akaviri Katana]
A light and quick weapon, utilized by members of the ancient order of the Blades.
'Well would you look at that.'
Gerron had asked Farengar about his supposed friend and the 'ancient order' Irileth had mentioned. The man had given little more than vague mentions regarding it, but it wasn't hard to piece it together.
The Blades—once the protectors of Tamriel and the Septim bloodline—had been systematically hunted down since the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. The Thalmor had done their work well, scattering survivors to the wind. Some had died while others went underground.
And Gerron had just found one wasting away in a bottle, in the middle of nowhere.
Gerron looked away, sighing through his nose. "I'll explain later," he murmured to Kiera when she followed his glance with a curious look.
She nodded, sensing it wasn't the right time.
They weren't alone in their observations. That night, a Stormcloak soldier stomped into the inn, shaking snow from his cloak and brushing ice from his hair. Young—barely twenty—with shaggy blond hair and eyes of dull grey.
Five minutes later, another man entered wearing a worn brown travel cloak.
Gerron watched him carefully.
He wasn't a local. Didn't talk much, merely ordering the bare minimum of a cup of ale and a sweet roll. Then spent his time in the corner near the back, eyes shadowed by his hood.
When Gerron and Kiera retired to their rooms for the night, Gerron put it away from his mind. But by morning, both the Stormcloak and the cloaked man were gone.
They left Nightgate Inn the following morning. They rode northeast along the narrow mountain pass, Bronze circling overhead once more, a small dot of gold amongst the morning mist.
The air was so cold their breaths were visible in thick, white plumes. The trees had thinned further, now barely appearing every few hundred meters.
It wasn't long before they found the stormcloak boy again—though not in the way they hoped. He lay face-first in the snow beside the trail, half-covered in frost. Gerron dismounted, eyes narrowing as he turned the body, a dagger wound on his neck that pierced all the way up to his head.
"That's the soldier from last night," Gerron said quietly.
Kiera let out a small exhale, a wisp of breath exiting her mouth in the cold air. "What is Skyrim coming into, if the roads aren't even safe to travel anymore?"
She shook her head before whispering a soft prayer. Together, they moved him beneath a snow-laden pine and fashioned a makeshift grave of stones. It was nothing fancy, just enough to keep the wolves from tearing apart his corpse.
Gerron gave a long glance back down the road. No prints remained in the storm's wake. But he knew who to blame. The man with the travel cloak was suspicious, he hadn't talked to anyone, hadn't even spoken a word. An empire spy most likely. Quiet work for a loud war.
It didn't really matter in the end.
They continued on their way, reaching their destination not ten minutes later.
Forsaken Cave was aptly named. Its mouth gaped open like the wound of some great beast, half-covered by fallen snow and jagged rock. Icicles hung from the stone like fangs, and cold mist poured from the entrance.
Kiera lit a magelight as Gerron led the way, Bronze activating with a click and shifting from sphere to bird as it glided ahead to scout.
"Keep alert," Gerron muttered, drawing his Mercury Hammer from his back.
The first sound they heard was the snarl before a pair of wolves lunged from the side passages. Gerron swung his hammer low and crushed the ribs of the first. Kiera's sword flashed as she sliced the second across the neck. The wolves dropped in seconds, but their howls echoed down the stone corridors—warning everything else that intruders had arrived.
Past the wolves, deeper into the cave, came worse.
"Frost trolls," Kiera warned, narrowing her eyes.
Three of them emerged, all muscle and matted fur. Gerron ducked the first's wild swing and brought the Mercury Hammer crashing upward into its gut. A satisfying crunch echoed through the cave. The second tried to flank him—until Kiera shouted, "FUS!"
The force slammed it back against the wall, chunks of ice raining from above. Gerron turned and his foot thundered forward into the third troll's knee, shattering it, before delivering a finishing blow that had it crumpling to the ground.
"Not bad," Gerron grunted, wiping blood from his weapon.
"I've been practicing," Kiera said, smiling. "Though I should probably be careful in doing it while we're inside."
"Yeah, don't want to bring the whole mountain down on us." Gerron agreed.
They moved deeper, the walls closing in around them. The next chamber revealed that the cave was used as a Nord crypt of some kind—an old one.
Several Draugr patrolled the inner caves, clad in rotting armor and all kinds of ancient nordic weaponry.
"Let's not wake them all at once," Gerron muttered, pulling out a spare hand axe he kept in his inventory.
He flung it hard, and it clanged off a wall. Four draugr stirred, just as Bronze dropped in from above and slashed one across the face. Gerron followed up, hammering one of their heads and sent it flying.
Kiera weaved from beside, her blade flashed as she decapitated the one Bronze distracted and immediately followed up with a stab through another's neck. The Draugr let out a few growls before the magic that moved them died and they fell unceremoniously.
It was when they arrived in the next chamber that Kiera paused. Gerron was busy opening a large chest filled with gold when Kiera stumbled onto a stone wall etched with ancient script.
Gerron knew immediately what he was seeing.
[Word Wall: Krii — Marked for Death]
There is considerable mystery surrounding the ominous Word Walls dotted all across Skyrim. The ancient carvings etched into the stone are believed to be words in the Dragon Language, for the characters of that language very much resemble claw marks or scratches.
It is believed that these walls were constructed by the ancient Nords who lived in the time of the Dragons. Either out of fear or respect, they somehow learned the language of the ancient beasts so they could use it for their own ends.
This particular Word Wall contains the Thu'um for the Mark of Death. The first word, Krii, means Kill.
Kiera—who was still entranced by the word—blinked.
"Are you alright?" Gerron asked.
"Yeah, it's just another word. I think I understand it." She closed her eyes before grimacing. "This one's power is quite disturbing. It weakens the lifeforce of anything affected by it."
"Sounds useful." He grinned. "Hope you don't use that one on me."
"I'll try not to." She matched his grin.
Finally, they passed a hallway lined with swinging axe traps and reached the final chamber.
The tomb of Curalmil.
As soon as they stepped in, the sarcophagus in the center groaned open. A massive draugr, adorned in ancient ceremonial robes, rose with a shriek—his eyes burning blue.
Three more draugr emerged from alcoves. Kiera struck first, casting Ironflesh as she dove toward the nearest one. Her blade met nordic axe with a screech. Gerron moved toward Curalmil himself, blocking the draugr lord's frost spell with the head of his hammer. He surged forward, catching the undead alchemist in the gut and sending him sprawling.
Curalmil rose again, laughing with a voice like grinding ice.
Kiera unleashed the shout she had just learned, "KRII!" and the draugr around her shuddered as their armor started to rust and their bones turned to dust. The curse sapped their strength with each second.
Gerron took the opportunity, swinging his hammer in a wide arc. He broke the ribs of one, then pulped the skull of another. Kiera finished the last one with a clean thrust to the chest.
Finally, it was just Curalmil.
The ancient draugr hissed and launched a stream of flames toward them. Kiera raised a ward to block it, Gerron hiding behind her. Once the wave of fire ended, Gerron closed the distance with a roar, swinging the Mercury Hammer overhead and slamming it down.
The impact shattered the draugr's chest, sending the body flying. Curalmil's body hit the tomb, revealing the small hidden passage underneath it. Gerron blinked before nodding. "All according to plan."
After making sure Curalmil was actually dead and wouldn't rise again, they walked through the passage. A basin stood at the end, to which Gerron poured in the mixture that Nurelion had given prior to leaving Windhelm. Stone ground against stone as another hidden door slid open, revealing a sealed chamber.
The air was thick with the scent of old herbs. It smelled rotten, ingredients long having been rotted to dust and time.
On the pedestal at the center sat a delicate bottle—white, etched with swirling patterns.
The White Phial.
Gerron stepped forward, a small smile on his face.
He reached out slowly.
It was quite beautiful, and he could tell the white bottle would do wonders for his future projects.
That's when he saw it. A small crack, running down its side like a jagged scar.
He exhaled. "Damn."
Kiera looked disappointed. "Is it… broken?"
"Cracked," he said, carefully lifting it from the pedestal. "But not beyond repair. I'm sure I could fix it somehow."
"You think it's still usable?"
"With some work." He tucked it gently into his satchel. "And a little luck."
Kiera nodded, then glanced behind them. "Let's get out of here, then."
They followed the final tunnel upward, through a winding stair and a pressure-locked door that Gerron opened with a crank. The stone wall slid aside.
They emerged back into the cave's entrance—where they'd first fought the wolves. Pale light greeted them from the distant sky. Dawn had come.
Gerron stepped out into the snow, the cracked phial secure in his bag.
…
AN: The White Phial is gonna be a pretty important artifact going forward. Potions are one of the most bullshit things to come out of Skyrim after all. Imagine what they could do when they could instantly be purified off of their imperfections?
Also, poor Fultheim. Man's just a retired veteran who wants to drink.
Anyways, advanced chapters on my Pat_reon and all that jazz. Chapter 27 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. That's a full TEN chapters ahead!
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