The blacksmith handed back my sword after examining it. He told me that the blade was chipped but still usable. That it was not the kind of weapon anyone would want to bring into a Dwemer ruin. But since I had no other choice, it would have to do.
He agreed to fix it. And I agreed to pay him double if I survived. If I did not… then he could keep it. That was how we settled the deal.
When I stepped outside, Zavir was waiting for me. He asked if the blacksmith had accepted. I told him yes.
"Good," he replied, then patted me on the shoulder. "We leave tomorrow."
I felt the weight of those words the whole evening. Tomorrow.
…
That night I lay awake in my room. The bed was not uncomfortable, yet I could not fall asleep. My mind would not rest.
I imagined the bandits we would face. Their weapons. Their eyes. I imagined their blades cutting into me, faster than I could react. My chest grew tight every time I pictured it.
But then I thought of something else. That maybe I could survive. That maybe I could fight back. The thought stayed longer than the fear, though it never erased it.
The candlelight flickered against the wooden walls. I counted every creak of the inn, every muffled sound outside, just to pass the hours. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw blood. Yet morning still came.
…
The next day, Zavir had already prepared what we needed. He carried most of the supplies while I carried only my sword and a few things he gave me.
We walked for hours through the snow. My breath turned white in the freezing air. The road seemed endless, stretching far into the pale horizon. My legs felt heavy even before we reached the mountain pass.
Sometimes we said nothing. Other times Zavir pointed out tracks in the snow—wolves, deer, a cart long gone. To him it seemed routine, but to me it was all a reminder of how far I was from anything familiar.
By the time the sun began to fall, I could already see the outline of Mzinchaleft. A ruin buried in the mountain. Its shadow stretched across the snow, sharp and unyielding.
The great iron doors loomed ahead, tall and unbroken by time. They seemed too large for any normal hand to open. Even from afar, I felt it. The ruin was not just stone. It was a weight pressing against the air itself.
And it was full of bandits.
Zavir slowed his steps and drew his weapon. His voice was calm, but firm. "Be ready."
My hands gripped the sword tighter, though they were already trembling.
Before we reached the door, two bandits stepped out from the snow as if the ruin itself had spat them out. One carried an axe, the other a sword.
They grinned when they saw us.
"Well, look what we have here. Travelers. Easy pickings."
Zavir did not waste words. He stepped forward and told me to stay behind him.
But the bandits were not patient. One of them rushed at me right away.
The sound of his axe meeting my sword rang so loud I thought it would shatter. My arms shook from the weight of his strike. The force rattled all the way to my shoulder.
He attacked again. I stumbled aside, barely avoiding the swing. His blade cut the air close enough to chill my skin.
I swung back without thinking. My sword cut across his arm. Not deep, but enough to make him stumble. His eyes burned with anger, and he came for me again.
I thought it was over. But Zavir's blade cut him down before he reached me. The man collapsed instantly, lifeless in the snow.
My chest rose and fell too fast. My arms were trembling. I nearly dropped my sword.
"Keep moving," Zavir shouted. He was already clashing with the other bandit.
That one came at me too. Maybe he thought I was the easier one. Maybe he thought he could break me.
He swung low. I ducked, almost slipping. My sword lashed out without thought.
The blade cut across his stomach.
He gasped. His hands reached to stop the blood but it poured too fast, staining the snow. He fell, his body curling in pain before going still.
The air seemed to stop. My sword felt heavier than stone. The blood on the snow spread wider, too red against the white. My stomach turned and my throat burned. I wanted to vomit.
But I stood still. My face stiff, my body unmoving. Inside, I was breaking apart. But outside, I looked calm. Detached.
Zavir glanced at me as he wiped his blade clean. His tone was steady, almost approving.
"Efficient. Quick. You didn't hesitate."
He thought my silence was the silence of a man who had seen this before. A veteran. My stillness tricked him.
I looked down at my sword. It was stained red. I had actually killed someone.
I wanted to deny it. I wanted to scream. To say I was not made for this. But the truth was there in front of me.
If I had not fought back, it would be me lying on the ground instead.
I wiped the blood from my blade. My hands were still trembling. But to Zavir, it must have looked like calm.
And that was the mask that kept me alive.
We dragged the bodies off the road before continuing. I tried not to look at them again.
The doors of Mzinchaleft grew closer. They were tall, cold, and made of iron that had not rusted even after centuries.
My legs felt heavy. But my grip on the sword no longer shook.
I had survived my first fight. My first kill.
But I knew that inside those ruins, the real trial was waiting for me.
As we approached, the air grew colder still. The silence deepened, swallowing even the sound of our steps. I could see the seams of the great door, but no handle, no sign of how it should be opened. It was not made for hands like ours.
A shadow lingered in the doorway. Not a person, not a bandit. Just the darkness itself, thick and unmoving.
I swallowed hard. My stomach twisted the same way it had when I saw that man fall.
Zavir stopped, his eyes fixed ahead. "This is where it begins."
I nodded, though every part of me wanted to turn back.
The ruin waited. Silent. Endless. And I knew once we stepped inside, nothing would be the same again.
And I feared it would not let me leave.