I couldn't sleep.
The mattress under me was soft compared to stone or dirt, but the weight in my chest wouldn't let me relax. Something pressed against me like an unseen hand, not painful, but suffocating. My breaths came shallow. My body shifted restlessly under the thin blanket until I finally sat up, sweat clinging to my neck.
That was when I smelled it.
Smoke.
At first faint, like a hearth burning too close to my door. But then stronger, choking, curling through the cracks of the wooden frame. My lungs tightened, eyes stung. This wasn't a dream.
I swung my legs off the bed and reached for my gear. My armor was still scuffed from the road, but I forced it on piece by piece, strapping buckles with hurried hands. The amulet Taarie had given me pressed cold against my collarbone as if reminding me to move faster. My sword came last, its weight grounding me.
The suffocating pressure in my chest wasn't just smoke anymore. I'd felt this before. That sense of eyes drilling into me, unseen yet inescapable. Miraak.
The door groaned as I pushed it open, a wave of smoke and screams crashing over me. The inn was chaos. Flames licked the rafters, wood crackled, and shadows darted between overturned tables. My eyes adjusted, and I froze.
Bodies.
The innkeeper lay crumpled near the counter, her apron scorched and blood soaking through her chest. A man slumped over the hearth, unmoving, his body already burning as flames consumed him. Near the corner—
God.
The old woman from the carriage, the one with the basket, lay sprawled face down, her withered hand reaching out as if she'd tried to crawl. Her basket had spilled beside her, its contents charred, useless.
My grip tightened on my sword until the leather creaked.
And then I saw them.
Figures moving through the smoke, robes black as ash, masks that covered their faces—grotesque, alien designs with beaks and ridges, like something dredged from nightmares. I recognized them instantly.
Cultists. Miraak's.
They moved with purpose, blades dripping, their chants low and harsh even as the fire raged.
One turned and spotted me. His muffled voice hissed through the mask. "There! The vessel!"
I didn't think. I charged.
Steel met steel, the clash ringing sharp in the smoke-choked hall. He swung wild, but I ducked low, my blade cutting across his side. He staggered, stumbled into a burning chair, and flames caught his robe in an instant. His screams mingled with the roar of fire as he collapsed.
Another cultist rushed me from the side, dagger flashing. I twisted, his blade slicing shallow across my arm, the sting hot. I rammed my shoulder into him, sending him into the wall. Before he could recover, I drove my sword through his chest.
Two down. More shadows still moved.
I forced myself forward, coughing against the smoke. My boots crunched glass as I stepped over shattered mugs and broken chairs. I caught sight of another body slumped against the bar—a traveler, maybe one of the men from the carriage. His face was unrecognizable beneath the blood.
The cultists hadn't come for plunder. They hadn't come at random.
They'd come for me.
The thought was a blade of its own, sharper than the steel in my hand.
Another roar split the air—this time not fire, but fighting outside. The sound of steel on steel, men shouting, the clash of battle. Survivors. Soldiers maybe. Whoever they were, they were still alive.
I cut down another cultist who lunged too close, then kicked the body off my blade and sprinted toward the door. The inn's entrance was half caved in from falling beams, flames biting at the frame, but I forced my way through, raising an arm against the smoke.
The night outside was worse.
The village burned. Houses lit up like torches, flames crawling across rooftops. Screams echoed from every direction—villagers, soldiers, dying. The cultists swarmed the square, their black robes a tide of death amid the orange glow of fire.
But the Imperials were fighting back. I spotted them near the bridge, Captain Aldia himself at the front, sword drawn, barking orders as his men held the line. Their red cloaks snapped in the heat, their blades flashing against the robed attackers.
Dragon Bridge was a battlefield.
And in the middle of it, I stood, sword raised, smoke clawing my throat, my heart pounding with a single truth—
Miraak wasn't going to wait for me to find him.
He was bringing the fight to me.