Isaac didn’t want to stay in Windhelm a minute longer than he needed to. His boots slipped on snow and stone as he emerged from the narrow slum street leading back towards the city’s centre. The sun was high overhead; Sadri had told him Riften was at least a day’s travel on the road south, back the way he had come. If he’d had some more money, perhaps he could have hired the carriage he’d seen half buried in snow at the bridge’s entrance, but he didn’t much like the idea of running into whatever problem had started his journey in the strange land – the fire, and the dead cat. If he was on foot, he’d be less of a target and could move at his own pace.

He pushed a hand into his shallow tunic’s pocket and found the note from Annekke’s husband – for the White Phial. He sighed. Isaac doubted there’d be any sort of reward in it, but he had time to kill.

As he stepped into the small square between the city’s enormous gates and the inn, Isaac stopped. Three men in helmets, furs and chainmail looked up at him. A fourth man – the one who’d been with Rolf – pointed at him.

Oh, good.

The three guards walked towards him, and Isaac smiled. His heart beat out of his chest.

“Hello there,” Isaac called out. “Are you looking for me?”

The lead guard stopped and puffed out his chest. He thrust out a finger and aimed it at Isaac. In a thick, Nordic accent he said: “You’re coming with us, Imperial.”

Despite his innocent pleas, the guards surrounded him. One wrapped a strong, gloved grip around his bicep. They were each taller than him by at least a foot, and looked down on him through visored helmets, their faces obscured against the cold midday breeze.

“What is this about? I- I need to get this note to the White Phial – do you know it?” Isaac produced the scrunched-up parchment and one of the guards snatched it out of his hand.

“I’ll be taking that, Imperial.”

“It’s for the miners – at Darkwater Crossing. It’s important it makes it to the shop.”

He felt the guard narrow his eyes through his helmet. “You can tell it to the High King, spy.”

“…Spy?” Oh, dear.

--

With a strong grip on his shoulder, Isaac was guided deeper into the city. More than once, he lost his footing on the jagged stone steps, weathered and uneven. The second time, he left the lockpick and hook slide from his sleeve and soundlessly thud to the snow. He scuffed his boot over them to be sure the guards hadn’t seen. It was a gamble – Isaac said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t find himself in a situation where he needed them. No, he wouldn’t let it come to that.

“Get up,” the guard spat, and dragged him back to his feet. The trio – no longer with the snitch – pressed him on. The rear guard didn’t shout – his trick worked. Now to hope it’d pay off.

He darted his eyes to the left and right as they crunched past side streets and dark, windowless metal doors hidden in alcoves between the stone. Ahead, the walls of the labyrinth came together like the jaws of a fossilised beast – an open maw led into an enclosed courtyard and up to the palace beyond. The building itself did not stand alone but grew out of that cold stone like the head of a huge, shelled creature. Either side of the two, tall front doors stood guards, their arms crossed across chainmail and furs, backlit by more of those burning braziers.

The palace’s hall was not warm. As the doors banged shut behind them, Isaac shivered. Even in his new garments, he was not prepared for exposure like this. Candles and wall-mounted torches interspersed with blue banners produced a dim light, but their heat was no match for the breeze that whipped around the room - an unseen serpent teasing the weak flames. It whistled in response to the howling gale that assaulted the city above its protected streets. A long table covered in plates and goblets and platters piled high with roasted meats and charred vegetables ran the length of the hall taking pride of place in the centre of a royal blue carpet – the same blue as the guards wore in sashes over their furs.

As Isaac was pushed around the side of the table, he tore his gaze away from the food on the table, at which no one sat. As he did, a voice spoke out.

“Balgruuf won’t give us a straight answer.” The voice was raspy, each word like violence dragged across a bed of rocks. “We’ve intercepted couriers from Solitude. The Empire’s putting a great deal of pressure on Whiterun. If he’s not with us, he’s against us.” There was a breathlessness to the speech – a desperation, or perhaps an eagerness for action – a hunger.

A second voice replied, deliberate and sultry, but with no less aggression: “He knows that. They all know that.”

Isaac was guided around the far end of the long table, and he looked up to identify the speakers. A dull grey light filtered through floor-to-ceiling glass windows, each criss-crossed with metal lattice and frosted opaque. In the light, a stone dais rose above the carpet, atop which a surprisingly modest stone throne had been built out of the back wall of the room. On the throne sat a man wrapped in furs and deep blue sashes and ringed in chainmail. From between his shoulders and the dark pelt of some large mammal, a hard, handsome face – cold as walls around them – crept over every inch of Isaac. The High King was every bit the monarch of the Nords.

The King lifted a large, gloved hand in a subtle gesture to the guards as his attention was with the first man, who spoke again.

“How long are you going to wait?” By comparison, he was dressed fiercely. He wore brown furs rather than black, and more sparsely. Where the King and his guards wore sleeves, this officer or advisor showed off his bare arms, which were ringed with bands of black paint or tattoo, and other sigils of war. In place of a hood, he wore the head of a bare pulled around his face – its upper jaw exposing a row of bone-white canines the size of Isaac’s forearms. Its glassy, black eyes scowled sightlessly in a roar it would never finish.

The man was armed – Isaac saw the glint of metal in the grey light, and his gaze met the heavy head of a brutal axe at the man’s hip.

“You think I need to send Balgruuf a stronger message?” The King’s eyes finally met Isaac’s and he held the gaze.

Isaac fought the rogue urge to throw his captor an awkward smile.

“If by message you mean shoving a sword through his gullet.”

“Taking his city and leaving him in disgrace would make a more powerful statement, don't you think?"

“So, we’re finally ready to start this was in earnest, then?”

“Soon,” the King said, and with a brief flick of his hand commanded the conversation to turn to the newcomers. “We’ll finish this discussion in private, Galmar. We wouldn’t want our Imperial visitor to learn all our plans, would we?”

Galmar threw a look at Isaac and grimaced. “Of course, my King.” He bowed and walked away from the dais.

“Now…” The King said, and the guard in front of Isaac bowed as Galmar had.

“My King,” said the guard through a plated helmet. “Forgive our interruption – we have apprehended the Imperial troublemaker as you ordered.”

“Indeed. What is your name, Imperial?”

Isaac began to take a step forward but stopped mid-motion as he felt the two guards at his sides bristle. He took a breath and made the quick decision to bow as the others had. As he did, he spoke: “My name is Isaac, my King.”

He felt rather than saw the raised eyebrows of the Nords around at his unexpected supplication. Though, he was unsure whether that meant approval or distrust.

“Isaac … a strange name. It is almost … Dwemer. And where do you come from, Isaac?”

Isaac lifted his head and looked the King in the eye. He sat with a confident slouch, his hand at his chin. This man would not be easy to lie to. “That is a matter of some confusion,” he said, and held his breath.

“Answer the High King when he asks you a question, Imperial.” The guard who had presented Isaac turned on him, but the King lifted himself from his chair.

“Stop, Torsten,” the King’s voice boomed, and the guard stepped back. The King looked down at Isaac, his face unreadable. “You do not know?” The question was directed at Isaac.

He let the breath loose and said: “I woke up only a few days ago with an empty skull and no clothes … erm, apologies for the …” He trailed off, but a smile twitched at the corners of the King’s mouth with humour – or so he hoped.

“And so, if I were to accuse you of spying on my city for the bastard Emperor,” the King rose his voice. “You would not be able to confirm nor deny it?”

Isaac felt the hand on his shoulder tighten. “No, my King.” He bowed his head again. “I am simply passing through. I’m looking for someone.”

The King said nothing, that glare boring into Isaac searching for any hint of deception or malice. Isaac knew it would find none, but he worried about whether its owner was willing to take chances. Clearly, Isaac had stumbled into a situation here that was far more volatile than he was worth his trouble. If he made out it out this, he’d leave the city immediately.

“Who are you looking for?” The King spoke calmly.

“A young woman – she’d be impossible to miss - short, slight, long black hair, looks as though she hasn’t slept in a week. Pale skin.”

The King nodded to himself, his gaze not leaving Isaac. “To my knowledge, we’ve not had anyone of that description enter the city, but … had you not almost frozen to death at the gates and then started a fight, I might not have known you had entered the city, either.”

Isaac wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

“You could check with the Argonian population down at the docks, or in the Grey Quarter.” The King sat back into his throne, but that threat never left his posture.

“…I can?”

“Yes, you may go. I believe you, but I do not believe you will find what you need here.”

The adrenaline drained from Isaac’s limbs, and he took a deep breath of that cold, winter air. The heavy hand left his shoulder.

“Thank you, my King.” Isaac bowed again.

“Try not to start any more fights before you leave my city,” was all he said, and Isaac felt he was dismissed.

With some confusion, he turned to the guards who stood around him – he could feel their scowls through their grated faceplates. “Okay. Great. I’ll be going then.”

“Forgive me, my King, but there is one more thing.” The guard named Torsten spoke up and Isaac looked back to see the white parchment between his gloved fingers.

The King held up a hand and one of the other guards stepped into Isaac’s path before he could start to leave. The King nodded to Torsten.

“We found this in his pocket.” Torsten unfolded it. “A note for the elf, Nurelion. It’s an order for a shipment of supplies to Darkwater Crossing.”

The King listened in silence, his eyes landing on Isaac again.

“Let us take him there to make sure it’s not a secret meeting.”

“…Very good, Torsten. You may accompany Isaac to the alchemist. I’ve heard the old elf has run into some trouble – perhaps our guest may prove that his loyal words are more than dressing and perform a service to Windhelm. After all, he still owes gold to Candlehearth Hall…”

Isaac blinked between the guards and the King. This was becoming such a farse.

“Er, of course. If I can help, I’d be … glad to.” But the guards were already shoving him away from the throne.

“Get moving, Imperial. We’ll find out if you’re a spy one way or another.”

--

Back out into the cold, across the courtyard and down a side passage; the guards marched him. They passed down some slippery stone steps and into what looked to be a small graveyard. Hemmed in by the high walls, slabs of grey rock lay like exposed coffins, surrounded by the occasional brushy plant or coarse, dull flower – Isaac wasn’t surprised that nothing pretty would grow in such desolate city streets.

As they turned up another set of steps, Isaac saw movement out of the corner of his eye – a man in a dark blue robe, his face mostly obscured by a large hood of the same material, scowled at them through a withered, bearded face. His hunched figure stood over one of the graves.

Their eye contact was broken as Isaac was forcefully guided around a corner at the top of the stairs, and the walls opened out into a marketplace. Several stalls ringed yet another of the city’s courtyards. Each stall was built of a dark wood and was covered by faded parasols of a rough, weather-worn fabric that rippled in the wind. Below, bloody meats, root vegetables, metal helmets adorned with various horns and antlers, weapons, and more were presented for purchase. A few Nords wandered the space, wrapped up in warm clothing, and spoke with the stall keepers.

Isaac and the troupe of guards drew odd looks, including from one other armoured guard who rotated their helmet in his direction. The guard didn’t move away from the low wall they leant against, keeping their arms folded against the chill.

The White Phial was, like many of Windhelm’s buildings, built into one of the city’s great stone walls. A couple of narrow, opaque windows looked sightlessly onto the market square, and as Torsten pushed his way through a pair of heavy, wooden doors, the warmth of a healthy fire embraced his shivering frame.

An argument lingered in the air, plucked from the atmosphere and placed on hold as the four entered.

“Wait outside,” Torsten spoke over his shoulder to the two other guards bringing up the tail, and they exited the room, pulling the doors shut behind them. The sound of the wind and the market cut off, replaced with the crackling of wooden logs and the awkward sense of a conversation interrupted.

A far cry from Sadri’s shop, The White Phial was in a good state of repair. It had a high ceiling, and several candles burned on holders arranged on various low tables, shelves and the shop’s counter, behind which stood two men – a young human and an older looking elf – who affixed the newcomers with looks of confusion and irritation, respectively.

A moment of silence passed before the older man – the elf – shooed the younger away from him and said: “Bah. If there was a tonic that could help me, I’d have found it by now. Begone.”

The younger man looked between Isaac and Torsten, and the elf, before shaking his head in visible frustration and walking away from the counter. He disappeared around a corner, leaving the three alone.

“I don’t appreciate loiterers, if that’s what you’re here to do.”

Torsten shifted at the old man’s clear disregard for his authority. “Watch your words, elf. I’ve brought someone to help with your treasure hunt.”

Apart from his long, pointed ears behind which was tucked a scruff of long, greying brown hair, the old man looked nothing like the dark elves Isaac had so far encountered. Instead of a deep grey, his skin was a yellowy green, and his eyes were large, coloured not dark or ominous red but radiant gold. And he was tall, even despite his hunched and frail frame – he stood perhaps an entire head above Isaac, or maybe more. At Torsten’s words, the elf straightened up against a visible effort, and Isaac saw he was even taller than the hulking Nord. He fixed Isaac with a studious look.

“Yes … you look rough enough.”

“Hello,” said Isaac. “My name’s Isaac.”

“I’ve finally derived the location of the White Phial,” the elf said, speaking past Isaac. “You will get it for me. Quintus!” He shouted over his shoulder, presumably to the man who had just walked away. “Quintus! Come back here! Have you got the map?”

“Yes, master, I’m here.” The other man appeared around the corner again.

“I said have you got the map? You damn fool.”

“The map?” Quintus paused and looked between Isaac, Torsten, and his master with that same frustrated confusion.

“Yes, Quintus, the damn map.”

“Oh,” said Quintus. “The map, of course. Let me get it.” He disappeared around the corner again and returned a moment later holding a folded piece of parchment. He reached out to place it on the wooden counter, but the elf snatched it from his hands and held it towards Isaac.

“It’s buried in a long-forsaken cave to the west of here. This map will lead you to its entrance.”

Isaac took the map and unfolded it. Drawn in a wispy black ink, he understood what looked to be a basic sketch of a river. At one end, a blocky drawing that must have been Windhelm; at the other end, a large lake. At the lake’s northern edge, a circle was drawn with an ‘X’ crossed over it.

“Okay,” Isaac said. “Is there anything I need to know about this ‘long-forsaken cave’ before I trundle into it?”

The elf narrowed his eyes. “The phial is buried with its maker, Curalmil, and he was a crafty one, even in death.” Just as Quintus was backing out of the room again, the elf turned his head and said: “Quintus!”

Quintus stopped walking backwards. “Yes, master?”

“Fetch the mixture.”

“The mixture?”

“Yes, you fool, the mixture! Do you not listen when I speak?”

“Oh, yes, the mixture.” Again, Quintus disappeared around the corner before returning with a small glass bottle, coloured a deep green and stoppered at its top. He started to place it on the counter, but reconsidered and passed it to the elf, this time anticipating the swiping hand.

“You would need the skills of a master alchemist to reach his resting place. Luckily for you, I’ve already made the mixture.” He held the bottle out to Isaac, but before Isaac could take it, the elf whipped his hand back and said: “Don’t dally. And don’t get killed. I’ve wasted enough time arguing with my useless assistant here.”

“…Why would I get killed?”

The elf scoffed. “Pah. Some adventurer you are.” He handed the bottle to Isaac, who took it. As he held it, he tipped it one way and then the other, observing the dark, soupy liquid within. “Curalmil was an alchemist so great even the brutish Ancient Nords understood his worth – he was Altmer, you see. Upon his death, they enshrined him in one of their tombs.” The old man narrowed his eyes into shards of glass. “You’re not about to tell me you’re afraid of ghosts, now, are you?”

“Ghost aren’t real,” Isaac said with a forced grin and no confidence. Nords, elves and potions? Who was to say ghosts wouldn’t be next?

“If we’re done here…” Torsten said.

“Yes, yes, run along.” The elf made the shooing gesture again, but as he spoke, he broke into a raking series of coughs, bending double over the counter.

“Master!” Quintus dashed to his side, but the elf pushed him off.

“I’m fine! I’m fine!” He said between coughs. He stabilised himself and pushed himself back up to his full height. “Why are you still standing here? Go get me the phial, you fool.”

--

“He seems pleasant.”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“Quiet, Imperial.” Torsten pulled the doors shut behind them and addressed Isaac and the other two guards: “We’ll take you up to the barrow at first light. All of you - get warm meals and rest – you’ll need it for tomorrow.”

The two guards nodded and with glances towards Isaac, they swaggered back through the market in the direction of the palace.

“Don’t try to leave the city,” Torsten said, towering over Isaac. “My Stormcloaks will be watching you.” He turned to leave.

“Can I have my note back?”

Torsten paused then looked back at Isaac. For moment, he hesitated, but then he pushed a gloved hand into a pouch on his belt and produced the crumpled note. He held it out to Isaac.

Isaac stepped forward to take it, but Torsten flipped his hand and let it flutter to the snow.

Isaac chewed his mouth and sighed. “I have a feeling you and I aren’t going to get along.”

Wordlessly, the Nord turned and walked away.

--

Lying on the rickety bed of his room-on-loan, Isaac watched how the light failed to penetrate that strange liquid within the elf’s bottle. He’d so far resisted the urge to uncork it and-

“That’s an interesting looking bottle.”

Isaac sat up and looked towards where Susanna leant against the doorframe, her eyes barely reflections in the low candlelight.

“What, this?” Isaac tossed it into the air and caught it in his palm, feeling the treacle-like substance within command gravity as it arced satisfyingly back into his control. “Do you know anything about potions?”

“Potions?” He could hear the amused smile on her face. “Next you’ll be asking me if I can perform magic.”

“Can you?” Isaac placed the bottle on the small table next to the bed and swung his legs over the side, resting his arms on his knees and regarding her in the half light.

“Hah!” Susanna laughed a single syllable. “No,” she said. “Magic isn’t particularly welcome in our great city. Elda is already concerned with how I don’t believe the Dunmer should be ostracised. If I started performing magic, well … I worry she’d start to confuse me for one of them.”

“The people here seem paranoid,” Isaac said, lowering his voice. “How right are they to be?”

Susanna’s silhouette looked over its shoulder before answering: “Many Nords suffered greatly in the war. Their … mistrust for elves is understandable.”

“But that doesn’t mean they’re right to.”

“To mistrust them? I don’t believe so…” Suzanna spoke quietly, too, and a smile tinged her voice. “But I’m just a lowly barmaid – who am I to say who is right and wrong.”

“Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Just a lowly barmaid? Forgive my ignorance but you seem … smarter than that.”

There was a pause, and then: “You seem to have your own matters of mistrust, too.”

Isaac smiled. “I do. Forgive me.”

There was a clatter of what sounded like tankards and a humorous shout from the floor above.

“Suzanna.”

“That is my name.”

“You must meet a lot of people, working here.”

“…I meet enough.”

“What is the latest news? Think big. Anything weird happening?”

“Weird?” Susanna said with incredulity. “You mean aside from this news about dragons returning? Is that weird enough for you?”

“Dragons returning, of course. What do you know about it?”

There was a moment before Suzanna spoke again. “…Only what everybody else knows. The Jarl – I mean, the High King - returned from Helgen not three days ago with the news that their execution was interrupted by a dragon!”

Isaac chewed his mouth. “And where abouts is Helgen from here?”

“From here? Oh, it’s a bit of a journey – or so I’ve heard, I’ve never actually been there. It’s up in the Jerall Mountains, just before the border to Cyrodiil. When we heard the news of the Stormcloak defeat near Darkwater Crossing we feared the worst. Somehow, I worry that this is even worse.”

Yes … someone else had mentioned Ulfric – the High King’s capture outside the sleepy little mine. This couldn’t be a coincidence.

“Did the king mention any other details of the dragon attack? Any … magic, I suppose? Any strange characters?”

He felt Susanna’s frown. “That’s an odd thing to ask.”

“The person I’m looking for might be connected to this event. Any details at all …”

“Are you being vague on purpose?”

“No.”

“Hmm…” There was a moment, and then: “The talk has been rather limited. Most people here are just happy that the Jarl – I mean, that the High King is back and safe. Apparently, Helgen was destroyed. It sounds like a miracle anyone survived.”

“Yes … a miracle certain people might be prepared to weaponize.”

Isaac flexed his fingers and his knuckles popped. “Thank you, Susanna. If I don’t die tomorrow, I’ll make sure your boss gets her money.”

“No problem, stranger. You have sweet dreams, now.” Susanna’s silhouette backed out of the room, pulling the doors closed as she went. “If you need anything at all, just yell.”

--

Morning came accompanied by the stomping of heavy boots and Torsten’s miserable voice.

Torsten was with two other guards who were presumably the same from the previous day – though they still wore their identical face-plated helmets so he couldn’t tell.

The four left the city early. Isaac had been ready – all his meagre belongings packed, the map in his shallow pocket and the potion safe in his backpack, as well as the lockpick and hook stashed safely in his sleeves. He’d awoken to the tools – identical to the pair he’d dropped the previous day – on the table next to his bed, left with no note or sign of how they’d found their way back there. Very strange.

As the heavy city gate was pulled open and the bridge revealed beyond, the wind rushed in and around the party, threatening to infiltrate the confines of his cloak pulled tight about himself. He shivered against the unrelenting cold. The three guards seemed to be just fine, though.

They crossed the bridge with relative ease. Torsten kept his hand on Isaac’s shoulder – certainly to keep him from falling, rather than from running off…

A dup of large, thick-maned heads watched them with bored interest from the snow-covered stables.

When they hit the road, they turned right - or westwards, as Isaac’s map suggested, and followed the river. They passed the crossroads that Isaac first took to arrive at the city and continued down the valley instead – the grandeur of which was then revealed; from within the city’s high walls, the jagged peaks of the mountains had been visible only above Windhelm, but as they walked, Isaac saw how the entire range extended on either side to create a chasm valley that looked to have been carved from the earth by a stray god. At its centre, the wide, icy river that ran below Windhelm’s bridge gradually grew narrower until it reached a series of waterfalls. These were marked on the map with a number of swishing scribbles. The elf – or Nurelion, as one of the guards had referred to him – was evidently not as good at drawing as he claimed to be at potion-making.

A short stone bridge crossed the river an arm’s length from the cascading glacial waterfall. Long icicles dripped and glistened like crystals in the rising sun.

The conversation was minimal – something Isaac was grateful for, as his breath came out in clouds of mist, and he clenched his cheeks against their frigid tingling. The first few hours of travel had been brutally cold, but it grew slightly more bearable as the sun rose higher at their backs.

After the waterfall, the road began to climb. It led them through a small settlement comprised of a few cobbled stone and thatched houses – their construction closer to the humble miner’s cottages in Darkwater Crossing than Windhelm’s bleak and rigid design. Another open-air structure built of the same materials appeared to be a lumber mill. At its side, a large waterwheel dipped into the river’s rapids, guiding the mechanism that sawed lengthways through a pine log. From its platform, a large figure bundled in furs watched the group walk by.

The road crested the top of a hill and levelled out, and Isaac saw the lake. The echoing of the lumbermill and the crashing of water on the mountain walls died away at the expanse before them. The lake’s surface was still and stretched on for at least a mile. At its banks, tall pine trees grew from sparse thickets into what appeared to be a deep forest at its far end. Flat chunks of ice floated on the lake’s surface at various points, perhaps thick enough to walk across.

“We rest here,” Torsten commanded, and the other two guards nodded.

Isaac crouched at a sawn tree trunk and pulled his bag from his back. Susanna had kindly left him a few slabs of salted meat, and he pulled one out with a gloved hand, shoving it into his mouth. It was chewy and thick, and charred on the outside. As he ate, he looked around at the others.

One of the guards stepped up to the lake’s edge, his hands going to his waistband. Moments later, Isaac heard the splash of water. The other unnamed guard was looking back the way they had come.

Isaac tore off another chunk of the mystery meat before putting the remainer back in his bag. He strolled over to where Torsten was checking the straps on his large fur boots. “Torsten.”

The large guard grunted. “What do you want?”

“Can you take a look at the map? I’m not sure exactly where we need to be going.”

Torsten sighed, the sound metallic through his faceplate, and straightened up. “I will worry about where we are going. You make sure you’re ready.”

Isaac put his hands on his hips and looked at the bank opposite. They were still stood at the part of the lake where it transitioned into a river. The current was weak, but the banks were close together. “You say that as though you won’t be joining me.”

Torsten uttered a dry laugh. “Of course we won’t, Imperial. The danger is all yours.” Torsten snatched the map from Isaac and turned to look down the path, the way they were headed.

“Ah.” Isaac silently unsheathed his knife. “That’s a shame. I was hoping it would be a good chance for us to bond.”

The first thing he did was pull it under the thatching that kept Torsten’s left boot tied. He gritted his teeth and pulled it up, making sure to angle the blade as he did so it would cut through the material with more leverage.

With relative ease, the knife did indeed slice through the thatching.

Then, before Torsten could put two and two together, Isaac sprinted at the guard who was relieving himself in the lake. Throwing his whole body behind the shove, he caught the guard completely unprepared, sending the heavy armoured figure stumbling forwards and into the ice-cold lake water hands first with a cry.

Isaac took his chance and leapt onto the sheet of snow covering the lake. He closed his eyes as he did, praying beyond belief that it would take his weight.

He landed with a soft thump on the thick snow and gasped with relief.

“Hey!” Torsten shouted behind him and turned to give chase, but as he did, his boot fell apart, and he stumbled over. “Stop!”

The other guard threw himself out of the freezing water, shouting various obscenities.

The third guard gave chase.

But Isaac was already ahead. The snow underfoot seemed thick, he weighed considerably less than his armoured captors. If his gamble paid off, the river would separate them long enough for his escape into the trees.

Isaac lunged across the ice, planting his feet carefully so he wouldn’t slip. He dared not look over his shoulder in case he lost his footing.

There was another soft thunk at his feet and he looked down to see the haft of an arrow sticking out of the snow, inches away from his foot. Ah, so the guard in the river had brushed himself off. Isaac needed to move fast.

Then, the entire slab of ice tilted and rocked as what could only have been the heavy frame of one of the soldiers jumped onto it. Isaac lost his balance and stumbled to all-fours. He scrambled to retain his balance as those footfalls grew closer.

Damn, he’d barely slowed them down.

Isaac turned, his dagger in hand.

The punch, even through a fur-gloved knuckle, rocked his world, and Isaac crashed backwards to the snow. He blinked black spots from his vision as the outline of a helmet entered his view.

Before he could push himself out of the way, the guard reached down with two hands and picked Isaac up by the collar. The huge Nord threw him back across the ice, towards the shore he had come from.

Shit! Shit, shit, shit! No. This was bad.

Then came Torsten’s voice: “Clever little man. You think you’re so clever.”

Isaac felt the kick in his ribs before he could anticipate it. Pain bloomed like a tumour as the boot stomped down again, and he coughed, winded.

The Nord picked him up from the ice and threw him again, this time towards the water. Isaac managed to stop himself from sliding over the edge and tried to spin but the heavy boot came down again, this time on his back, and he cried out.

Those gloved fingers grabbed his hair through his fur hood and dragged him upwards before plunging his face into the clear lake water.

Isaac tried to hold his breath, but the shock of the glacial melt sent shockwaves through his entire body, and he screamed in bubbles. He thrashed his right arm sideways, bringing the dagger into a reverse grip, and tried to plunge it into Torsten’s leg, but all he pierced was air.

Isaac’s lungs burned and the panic rose in his chest. His knees scraped against the rock-like ice, pushing the snow away and banging on the hard surface below.

Just as he felt his strength begin to sap, Torsten yanked his head back – Isaac drew in an almighty breath – and the Nord flipped him painfully onto his back, slamming him down onto the ice.

Isaac scooped air into his lungs, his body wracked with shivers, and vomited a stream of lake water to his side.

Torsten stood over him, watching.

When Isaac’s eyes finally focused on the figure stood over him, Torsten reached up and removed his helmet. As he pulled it over his head, it revealed a long, braided, blonde beard that covered the lower half of his face, piercing blue eyes, and a razor-shaved bald head. Down one entire length of his face, a thin scar had threatened to take away his eye and contorted it into an ugly visage of battle.

Torsten smiled at him. “Try that again, and I’ll kill you.”

--

The cave mouth was an unassuming, narrow maw, identifiable only by the rubble it vomited onto the snow at the foot of the mountain wall it gaped from, set back away from the lake and the road. As the party approached, Isaac noticed the rubble, partially covered by heavy snowfall, its strange, wavy and unnatural motifs crumbling but still visible.

Isaac shared a look with Torsten who jerked his head in the direction of the opening, his expression hidden by the helmet he had replaced.

Isaac spat, specks of red in the white snow, and wiped his bloodied nose with his hand. His hood and hair were drenched, and clenched his jaw shut to stop from shivering against the freezing temperature of the day.

Isaac approached the cave and inspected the opening. Parts of the rock had cracked and collapsed inwards, suggesting that it had once been wider and more accessible, but it did not look man-made.

Where the snow drift died away and turned into damp earth, he did not like what he saw: several scuffs in the shale and grit. Someone, or something – perhaps several – had gone in and left the entrance more than once. The daylight touched a corner in the rock as the passed snaked into the mountain and out of sight.

Isaac took a deep breath and looked back at his captors, shrugging. “Anyone got a light?”

Those visors stared back at him in silence.

Isaac sighed. “Great…” He turned back to the opening, and with one hand on the hilt of his dagger, he pushed his way through.

The space was easily wide enough for him to duck into. The going was slow, but he could dip around the curves and shifts in the rock with relative ease. He doubted the guards would be so graceful – he heard their mail and weapons clanking as they began to follow him.

The light began to be a problem, however. When Isaac rounded the first few bends, the daylight began to drop off until he was in near blackness. With squinted eyes, he could just about see ahead of himself, and felt his way through.

Just as the tendrils of claustrophobia began to coil around his guts, the passage opened into a wider space, and he could breathe again. He took a deep breath, loud in the quiet of the cave around him.

Behind him, the guards were just about through. As the first made his way through, Isaac heard him unbuckle something from his belt, and then a clatter of what sounded like stone on stone. From the silhouette’s hands, there came a spark, and then another, and then a flame erupted, flooding the cave with the warm firelight.

“Great. Thanks.” Isaac rolled his eyes and turned back the way he’d been heading.

The cave interior was surprisingly spacious, extending perhaps five or more feet above them, and several times that in length. In the gloom ahead, he saw where the natural cave walls ended and the man-made began; glinting in the light of the torch, a set of black doors stood closed. They were set into a wall of that strange, chiselled stone that he’d seen outside. The construction looked liminal, holding back the weight of the mountain cave as though the mountain had grown out of it, instead of the other way around.

Isaac took a few steps forward to make way for Torsten and the final guard to enter the cave, and the hard leather of his boots crunched on something that sounded suspiciously like dry bone. Slowly, he looked down at his feet, and the flickering of the torchlight on enamel-white validated his worries. He crouched down to inspect the long, thin spinal column – it looked as though it had come from a small canine. It was difficult to tell in the low, orange light, but it looked worryingly clean, as though it hadn’t been there that long.

There were no animals or animal-devouring predators in the cave with them – that would have been easy to see or hear, but the scuff marks at the cave’s entrance did not bode well. It seemed they had arrived just in time to miss the cave’s inhabitants, but who knew how long they would be gone. His first thought was wolves, which he assumed would not attack a decently sized group of four scary men, but he was beginning to accept that anything was possible.

“What are you doing, Imperial?” Torsten’s voice echoed off the stone. “Get a move on.”

A few steps had been built into the cave’s floor leading up to the door. As Isaac approached, he could feel the weight of the thing. Curving lines and strange flowing symbols had been drawn into the dark metal, and an angular design jutted out of its centre to form some deranged artist’s bizarre and impractical take on handles. As far as Isaac could see, there was no keyhole to lock the entrance with.

Isaac drew a breath and placed a hand on one of the doors. It was indeed heavy, and he felt it shift slightly under his weight, groaning. He placed his other hand on the other door and pushed harder, and they slowly gave way, opening inwards with a screech of rusted joints, awfully loud in the quiet of the cave. As they did, dull yellow light intersected with the torchlight at his back, and he jumped, not expecting the sudden life.

Ahead of him, a narrow corridor extended away before it led out and into a room at the end. What looked like the light of fire, perhaps from candles, illuminated the space. Isaac’s heart raced and his breath quickened. Was this place inhabited?

Isaac turned to look at the men behind him, trying to hide his fear.

Three closed visors stared back, the message clear: we’ll wait here.

Isaac grinned to himself in grim acceptance and looked back down the corridor. It was just a tomb – what did he have to fear?

He took his first few steps into the corridor, wincing against the sound of his boots scuffling on the stone floor. When he reached the end, he saw that it culminated in small, rounded room with a domed ceiling. At its centre, a wooden pillar like a stripped tree trunk ran from the wooden floor to the apex of the stone dome. A single, small metal brazier had been nailed into the post above head height, holding a single lit candle, its flame flickering in the wisping breeze that trailed in behind him. Who had lit it?

Isaac studied where the stone corridor ended and the wood began, and realised it was a platform – a set of stairs descended from an opening on the other side of the pillar, spiralling downwards, deeper into the rock.

“Oh, boy,” he said under a shaky breath, and stepped onto the wooden platform which creaked under him.

The stairs were narrow, low-ceilinged, and tight. They didn’t descend far, however, and continued through an archway which led into another corridor. More candles were clustered around its edges and had been tucked into alcoves in the walls, guiding his way forwards.

Inching forwards a step at a time, he took slow, deep breaths, and listened.

The candles were placed at random intervals, meaning he had to walk through patches of drowning darkness. As he went, he tapped his toes ahead, feeling for any signs of weakness in the floor, or worse …

He almost missed another set of stairs, catching them in the light of another torch beyond. The corridor turned, then, and as he descended and peered around it, he saw what appeared to be a wider chamber that opened out. Guiding himself along with his gloved hands on the stone, Isaac made his way towards it.

When he reached the archway, he stopped to listen.

The breeze had followed him and whistled through the rock and potholes around him. He didn’t know how deep he must have entered the mountain, but the sturdy construction of the tunnels was incredible, even in spite of the occasional crumbling section of debris.

Isaac closed his eyes and strained his ears, trying to separate out the different frequencies. He thought he heard the dripping or trickling of water – a stream? Perhaps melt from the snow above trickled through the mountain.

He felt the soreness of the soles of his feet, the creeping wave of tiredness that crept down his facial muscles, and the gnawing pain of what he hoped was not a broken nose.

Then, he heard something else, and his heart threatened to stop. It almost blended in with the gentle sounds of water, but the padding, slapping sound of approaching bare feet was unmistakable, and it grew louder.

A person? The keeper of the tomb? It sounded as though there was only one of them. Why were they bare-foot? In this freezing temperature? It didn’t make sense.

At least, he didn’t want it to make sense. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, his subconscious had already confirmed his worst, unimaginable fear.

The footsteps stopped what sounded like several metres away from him, and he winced in preparation for their owner to call out into the low candlelight. Would they take kindly to his intrusion? He doubted it – this was clearly a sacred place.

But no call came, and after a moment, the footsteps started again, this time getting quieter. Had their owner heard him open the doors to the tomb? Or were they patrolling? Neither idea thrilled him.

Finally, he opened his eyes again and looked around the corner of the archway. Candles lit a wider corridor, its ceiling slightly higher and its walls much wider, with space for several people to stand comfortable abreast. This corridor was clearly in worse repair than the other. Rockfall had broken through the ceiling and walls at points, and what looked like broken pottery was scattered across the floor – he’d have to avoid stepping on that.

The corridor reached a far wall and seemed to turn another corner, out of his sight. Against the wall stood the ominous figure of a strange metal statue, seemingly taking the shape of a large claw or perhaps, at a stretch, some kind of bird. It was of a similar design to the entrance doors and commanded just as much inanimate foreboding.

Sticking to the righthand wall so as to avoid crossing the candles and creating a shadow, Isaac moved down the tunnel. Thankfully, all of his clothes were of soft leather, fur or canvas, and so made minimal noise.

Isaac stopped again as he heard the footsteps coming back towards him.

Plat. Plat. Plat. Plat.

Plat.

He held his breath as they stopped again, this time barely metres from him, just around the bend.

This time, he was close enough to hear their owner’s ragged breathing. In, out, in, out, like a saw across sun-dried wood, all but confirming his disbelief.

The person, or thing, moved away again.

Isaac crept to the edge of the tunnel to where it turned and continued, and he caught a glimpse of the figure as it walked away from him. Metal glinted in the candlelight.

Taking his chance, Isaac darted across the space. The turn in the corridor was not a bend but a jagged offshoot that led briefly one way before turning again to continue in the same direction the corridor had taken him, shaped like a lightning bolt, or a rigid squiggle.

With light feet, Isaac crossed to where the corridor continued and settled into a small alcove in the stone wall, embracing the darkness. From his hiding spot, he could no longer see the patrolling guard, but he would see them as they passed again, and he could skirt around behind them before they turned. He’d just have to be quick and absolutely silent.

Plat. Plat. Plat. Stop…

Plat. Plat. Plat. Plat.

The guard reached the culmination of its patrol and began to walk back towards him.

Isaac took a deep breath and held it as the guard walked passed him and into his line of sight.

Even in the yellow light of the flickering candles, that withered, grey skin was unmissable. Isaac willed his heart to slow down as he stared at the back of a living dead person. A vest of leather straps held a plate of dark metal armour around its lower back, exposing bony shoulder blades that moved below the sinewy, aged flesh.

The thing stopped, and Isaac knew he had seconds to act. Clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth, he emerged from his hiding place and slipped around the corner of the corridor. Against the screaming of his survival senses, he turned his back on the undead guard and made his was down the remainder of the corridor. Isaac willed his dilated pupils to strain against the dark, praying that he wouldn’t stumble into any rubble and alert the thing.

Just in time, Isaac reached a doorway that led out of the wider tunnel and into another narrow one. He had to skirt a rockfall, but he made it and resisted the urge to let out his held breath, forcing his lungs and diaphragm to obey with slow, controlled movements.

The guard was moving back towards him, the disgusting sound of its dry feet slapping against the cold floor.

Isaac shrunk back into the darkness as the thing walked parallel with his hiding space and stopped. He stared as he saw two glowing blue orbs where its eyeballs should have been, unmissable even from a perpendicular angle. At the thing’s hip, the ugly, jagged shape of an axe revealed itself, its blade thin and sharp-looking.

The guard stopped and looked blankly ahead for several seconds that passed like lifetimes. It breathed that awful, dry sound.

The thing turned, fortunately with its back to Isaac, and patrolled away from him.

Isaac took a second to compose himself, but knowing he didn’t have long, turned to continue further into the tomb.

Gods only knew what horrors awaited ahead of him.

Isaac grunted as he stubbed his toe on something solid and tripped forward. Throwing his arms out in front, he caught himself in a plank position on a set of stairs that led up. His muscles buckled as he slowed his fall and allowed himself to breathe, dispersing the sudden shock in a quiet exhale. He let his body fall against the dull stone edges of the steps, feeling their chill through his clothes.

He pushed himself up again and scrambled up the steps into yet another narrow tunnel-corridor. Down and left and down again, he took more stairs, before freezing in a crouch in the dark.

That horrid sound of bare feet found him again, and another guard stalked out of the darkness ahead.

What Isaac had first thought was a continuation of the tunnel in fact ran in a square, with a wall-pillar at its centre, and paths branching off at intersections. Straight ahead, the corridor continued, and small candles beckoned to him with tiny waves. The creature turned away from him and continued to patrol the square.

As it passed around the central pillar, Isaac crept towards it and into the space. Small alcoves had been dug into the stone walls like shelves, holding various crude-looking implements and more candles. He almost cracked his knee into a low stone bench that displayed a number of skulls. Isaac couldn’t help but look at them as he crept past – all of them looked old – yellowed, unlike the carcass he’d stepped through in the cave. Most of them looked human. In the centre of the bench sat a much larger skull. It looked as though it could have been an ape’s, but it was far too large. It sat on an enormous jutting jaw with teeth longer than his hands from fingertip to wrist. Most strangely, it looked as though it had a third eye socket in its forehead.

Isaac wanted to inspect it further, but the patrolling corpse had already reached the other side of the pillar and would soon come back around behind him. He pressed himself forward, keeping low to the floor so as to keep his footsteps as light as possible, and stepped around the corner of the tunnel beyond.

On the other side, the tomb opened out into a much larger chamber. This one was almost two storeys high, and equalled that in width. The floor began to slope steeply downwards, and dug into the wall were much larger alcoves, like beds. This was not just a tomb but a crypt. In the dull candlelight, Isaac saw pale arms draped over the sides of the alcoves, and the outlines of what looked like mummified remains.

His heart was in his throat.

There must have been seven of them, maybe more. The wide hallway continued down the slope before it turned off around another corner. The place was huge – far more extravagant than Isaac had expected. The building technology that must have been required to hollow out a network of tunnels under the mountain would have been incomprehensible compared to anything he had yet seen around the city of Windhelm.

And how did these undead creatures work? Could any of these bodies simply wake up?

He took a moment to calm his heart, but his mind raced. This had very quickly fallen out of hand. Even if he got the phial, how would he make it back out of the place?

I’ll make it back out by being slow, methodical, and very, very quiet, he told himself, and returned his focus to what lay ahead.

The next section did indeed open up even more, the wide chamber growing even more so. Rather than a tunnel it became a room with no obvious path to follow. Thick pillars of chiselled rock held the mountain up, and Isaac suddenly felt very small. Most concerningly was the light. At various points throughout the expansive catacomb, ancient metal braziers burned bright, throwing orange light across the room filling the space with the choking taste of smoke. They weaved shadows between the pillars and thrust them against the walls, which were constructed with columns of those deathbeds, some occupied by ragged, limp humanoid forms, and some empty.

One shadow moved beyond the flickering of the flames, and Isaac knew what it was before the wheezing figure emerged around one of the pillars.

Thrown across the centre of the chamber, dissecting it in half and obscuring the view to the far wall, was large bed of rubble. One of the supporting pillars had cracked and collapsed – Isaac imagined the horrendous noise it must have made as it acquiesced to the mountain and permitted rock and debris to crush the room below. It had taken some of the wall with it and piled up halfway to the ceiling.

Without thinking, Isaac rushed towards this, rolling the balls of his feet as he ran to stop his footsteps from echoing across the stone, and he leapt onto the pile of rock debris. It remained stable as he climbed to its height, making sure to put the closest pillar between him and the undead guard.

A few loose pebbles scattered as he threw his legs over the peak of the mound and slid down to the intact floor on the other side. This seemed to be the right way to go to continue deeper – a doorway passed into yet another dark corridor – but he had no way of knowing whether he was about to hit a dead end or get lost entirely. How Nurelion had known this place existed was a mystery. Had the elf expected the tomb to be as extensive as this? How would he have ever made the trip himself?

At least Torsten and his cronies hadn’t followed Isaac in – who knew what their noise would have woken up?

The next room was a smaller chamber lined with dilapidated shelves that held a few small urns, wraps of some kind of linen, and several strange-looking corked glass bottles – potions, he supposed, though whether they were still fit for consumption was anyone’s guess.

At its end stood another set of those heavy-set metal doors, with engravings identical to the entrance.

A shallow pool of viscous dread settled in Isaac’s stomach. It was time to go deeper.

--

The walls of green pine that enclosed the road became thinner and interspersed with flecks of orange and gold birch, and the cobbled road began to slope upwards. The beacon of warmth that illuminated their steaming breaths and toyed with them from behind thin clouds reached its climax and began to arc back towards the horizon once again – a vigil nearly complete. Even at the foot of the colossal titan’s tooth that they would soon climb, it was chilly.

They’d passed over a foaming lake, listened to small creatures rushing out of sight in the brush, and enjoyed the pine spiced breeze – or at least she had; Lydia had continued to stomp her boots into the stone several metres ahead, leaving Uthgerd to entertain her with everything from anecdotes about adventuring in her youth to Whiterun gossip – something she wasn’t particularly partial to, but heard her fair share anyway.

When the party reached the southern edge of the mountain bowl, it became clear why the carriage had not been an option. The road began to incline suddenly, scaling the enormous cliff. Doing this wouldn’t have been much of an issue beyond being slow and tiring for the horse – the main issue was that the road headed in the complete opposite direction, away from the mountain. The southern ridge curved out from the Throat of the World’s midsection and wound its way around the bowl, all the way to another jagged row of mountains in the far east – visible only because of their sheer enormity. The path they would be taking to Ivarstead was not cobbled, but dirt and even steeper, winding up through those pines and birches and disappearing out of sight amongst dark branches.

Soon, she thought, and looked up at the mountain looming high above, its many ridges clothed in clouds that thickened the higher it rose. Soon she would have some answers.