The air outside was thick with ash. Smoke clawed at my lungs, each breath a punishment, but I didn't have time to care.
The night sky above Dragon Bridge glowed red as if the heavens themselves burned. Roofs collapsed in the distance, sparks and embers rising with every crack of timber.
And in the middle of it, the cultists carved through the town like carrion crows. Their robes were black silhouettes in the flames, masks gleaming like the faces of drowned corpses. Every chant from them tightened that pressure in my chest—the same oppressive feeling I'd known back in Kilkreath. Miraak's gaze.
I tightened my grip on my sword and pushed forward.
A cultist broke from the smoke in front of me, blade raised high. His war cry was muffled behind that grotesque mask.
I caught his swing on my steel, sparks flaring between us, then shoved hard, sending him stumbling back. I didn't give him the chance to recover—my follow-up slash cut across his chest, and he folded with a scream that vanished into the roar of fire.
Two more rushed from the alley, curved blades glinting orange in the firelight. My body moved before thought. A step back, a parry, steel rang against steel, then I lunged forward, my sword sliding between ribs.
The second cultist's swing grazed my shoulder, pain flaring sharp, but adrenaline drowned it. I drove my boot into his gut, forcing him into a burning wall. Flames licked at his robe, and he shrieked as the fire caught.
I pulled free and kept running.
The square was a nightmare of smoke and screaming. Villagers lay where they'd fallen—men, women, even children. Blood stained the cobblestones, dark and glistening in the firelight. A soldier staggered past me, his armor dented, his shield shattered, only to be cut down from behind by a masked figure before I could reach him.
I roared and swung, cleaving the cultist in two, but it was already too late. The soldier was gone.
Ahead, through the blur of fire and steel, I caught sight of a line holding against the tide. Red cloaks. Imperial soldiers, battered and bloodied, shields raised as they fought back the cultists swarming them. At their front stood a man in officer's armor, barking orders with a voice that carried over the chaos. His blade cut clean arcs, his stance unshaken despite the odds.
Captain Aldia.
I forced myself toward him, hacking and pushing through anyone who got in my way.
A cultist lunged from the side, slashing wild. I caught his wrist, twisted hard, and felt bone snap under my grip. He screamed, dropping the blade, and I shoved my sword through his stomach before spinning on the next one. My arms burned, lungs screamed, but I kept moving, the weight of the amulet at my neck like a reminder: I had no right to stop here.
By the time I reached the Imperials, my sword was slick, my breath ragged. I stumbled into their line just as another wave of cultists crashed forward.
"Hold!" Aldia roared, his voice like iron through the smoke. "Push them back! Don't give them the bridge!"
The soldiers answered with a collective shout, shields slamming forward as steel rang again.
I took my place among them without question, blade rising.
The first cultist came at me, shrieking a chant in some twisted tongue. I cut his legs out from under him, then finished the job with a downward strike. Another lunged for Aldia's side, but I intercepted him, steel catching the cultist's dagger just inches from the captain's ribs. Aldia nodded once, brief, then returned to barking orders.
And then, amid the chaos, I heard a voice I hadn't expected.
"Chad!"
I turned.
There—among the battered line of survivors, sword trembling in his hands, face pale but alive—stood Daric. His eyes were wide, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and soot. His chest heaved like he'd run miles, but he was standing, sword raised, refusing to fall.
"I—" He gasped, ducking as a cultist's blade swept overhead. He scrambled back into formation, eyes darting to me again. "I can't believe this is happening!"
Relief punched through me, brief but real. In this burning hell, at least one familiar face had survived.
I cut another cultist down and met Daric's eyes across the line.
"Stay close to them!" I shouted over the clash of steel. "Don't break formation, no matter what!"
Daric nodded frantically, swallowing hard, before turning his blade back to the enemy. He didn't look like a fighter. He looked like a man clinging to life with everything he had. But he was alive.
For now, that was enough.
The cultists pressed harder, their chants rising as if the fire itself answered their call. And above it all, I felt that weight again—eyes watching, suffocating, distant yet near. Miraak wasn't here in body. But his will was.
And if Dragon Bridge fell, it would be my fault.
So I raised my sword again and roared into the fire.