4E 201, Forelhost
Rahgot
How long had it been?
Centuries? Eras? Eons? Time had no meaning within the abyss of undeath. The last coherent thought Rahgot remembered was the sealing of the crypt—his crypt, deep within the heart of Forelhost, once a bastion of the dragon cult's might.
He remembered the siege. The howling war cries of Skorm Snow-Strider and his legions, the Commander of the first Nordic King, King Harald.
He remembered the scent of blood and burnt stone, the wails of his brothers as their magic faltered, their bodies broken.
He remembered ordering his cultists to commit mass suicide, a sacrifice to deny the enemy any satisfaction. The air was thick with the stench of poison and death as loyal cultists slit their own throats or drank from tainted chalices, their prayers offered in choking gurgles.
He remembered sealing his own sarcophagus when his body had grown weaker, entombing himself in contempt, cursing the Nordic race with his last breath.
And then—darkness.
But now… the void was shattered.
With a dry, rattling gasp, Rahgot's ancient lungs pulled in a sliver of air. His eyes ignited behind the slits of his green mask, blue fire roaring to life within the empty sockets.
What had caused it? Was he resurrected? What kind of Necromancer was powerful enough to raise a warrior as mighty as he?
A voice—not a sound, but a presence—boomed in his soul.
Alduin.
The World-Eater had returned. His liege. His god. The one who had not forsaken them.
He immediately knew what it was he needed to do.
Rahgot's gauntleted fingers instinctually reached for his weapons. He had been entombed with them, as was the tradition of those chosen by the Dov.
The enchanted Daedric claymore on one hand, and the silver staff on the other.
The orichalcum armor he wore groaned as he moved, ancient joints and enchanted plate adjusting to his form. Covered from head to toe in green-tinged bronze, crowned by the mask that bore his name—Rahgot, meaning "Anger" in the Dragon Tongue—he was whole again.
He stepped out from the crypt, into the cold Skyrim air.
It was snowing.
A faint trail of smoke curled into the air from a small campfire nearby. A lone Altmer, likely a tomb raider, had made camp outside the ruin—unaware of the doom slumbering beneath the stones.
The elf looked up in horror the moment Rahgot emerged. He scrambled backward, hand fumbling for the elven dagger on his belt as his other hand took on flames.
But Rahgot was already upon him.
With the grace of a ghost and the weight of a mountain, he swung the claymore—a gift forged in the crucible of Oblivion itself—in a wide arc. The elf didn't scream—he didn't even finish drawing his weapon. The sword cut through his body like parchment, shearing flesh and bone as he was split from shoulder to hip.
His two halves slumped to the ground, steam rising from the spilled blood on snow.
He stood at the edge of the mountain ledge, gazing down at the land that once belonged to him and his kin. So much had changed. The forest spread thicker than before, the rivers deeper. But what caught his attention most was the city.
Nestled at the foot of the mountain, beside a wide lake, the city was new—not there when he was last awake. It sprawled along the shore, many of its homes and buildings standing on wooden piers. Its walls were pitiful, no higher than a child's toy fort, and it reeked of decay, even from this distance.
The weak always cluster near water, like rats.
He didn't know its name, and he didn't care. His liege, the World-Eater bid him to kill. And kill he will.
He raised his staff, one given to him by his brother, Morokei. The tip of the staff, which was a clear, polished Soul Gem encased in diamond, flared, refracting light into a prism of sickly hues. The air grew colder, the snow swirling in strange, unnatural patterns.
Not a minute later, a rumble echoed beneath the mountain behind him. From the catacombs, from the tunnels and burial vaults and hidden stairwells, came the sounds of movement. Dry feet scraping stone. Rusted armor groaning with each step. Hollow voices whispering chants of ages past.
His army.
The dead of Forelhost. Cultists who had died by their own hands, faithful beyond death. Their bodies had long decayed, yet their souls—bound by oath and blood—had remained tethered, waiting only for their master's command.
And now they rose. Skeletal warriors, ancient draugr, and wights. Three thousand strong.
They gathered behind him, forming ranks without a word, awaiting their command as the snow swirled like a funeral shroud.
Rahgot pointed his staff toward the city below.
"Meyz," (Come) he rasped in the Dragon Tongue.
Then, in a hollow growl that rolled like thunder over the cliffside, he gave the order:
"Qahnaar Niin!" (Vanquish them)
With a deafening roar, the undead surged.
…
4E 201, College of Winterhold
Isran
"So you're the Vampire." Isran said in a gruff voice, earning a raised brow from Serana and a snort from Gerron.
"That I am," she replied with a sly, dry smile. "And I take it you're Isran—the man who somehow predicted my father's ambition before he even made a move."
"That's right." He gave a single, slow nod. "I came to see you. To look you in the eyes and decide whether or not you're going to be a problem."
"And?" She asked amusedly.
"Well," Isran snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "You haven't tried to rip my throat out yet. That earns you a sliver of doubt's benefit."
Gerron, who had been standing nearby with arms casually resting across his hammer, chuckled. "You're just like what Tolan said you were."
But the air turned serious again when Isran reached into his cloak and pulled out a sealed scroll, placing it carefully on a nearby desk. The humor was gone from his voice as his eyes darkened slightly.
"Speaking of Tolan, thought you two should know," he said grimly, "the Vigilants were attacked by the Mythic Dawn recently."
Serana's face sharpened at the name. Gerron took a step forward. "What happened?"
"They attacked the Hall of Vigilants." Isran's voice was a low growl. "We have reason to believe they were trying to steal the Elder Scroll. We stopped them—but they came prepared. Carcette's injured. Badly."
Gerron's hands clenched. "Is she…?"
"She'll live," Isran grunted. "But the Razor, Mehrunes' damned Razor, sliced her left hand. It's cursed. She's out of commission. Can't even hold a sword properly yet."
Gerron furrowed his brow. "The Mythic Dawn hasn't pulled something like this in decades."
"Well, they're back now," Isran said. "And this time, they've got someone dangerous at the helm. Calls himself the Champion of Dagon. Looks like a milk-drinker, but he's got skill." He paused, glancing between the two. "And a purpose."
"Then it's a good thing they'll never find the scroll then," Gerron said.
"You have it?" Isran asked.
"It's safe."
Isran nodded, that's all he needed to hear. "Good, then reading it is the next step. Carcette and I are sure that Harkon's prophecy has something to do with the Elder Scroll. If we don't find out what it says, we're fighting blind."
Serana nodded. "That makes sense. But Elder Scrolls don't just open up and whisper their secrets. They can't be read by just anyone."
"That's why we're looking for a Moth Priest," Isran said. "One of them passed through Skyrim recently. Probably on Imperial business. They're the only ones who can read it."
"Skyrim's a big place," Serana murmured. "You're looking for one man in a land of snow and war. Whose to say this Moth Priest hasn't been picked up by the Empire or the Stormcloaks?"
Isran grunted, "We've tracked down worse with less."
Then Gerron just blinked. A slow grin spread across his face. "Well, as it happens... I might know exactly where to find one."
Isran raised an eyebrow. "You do?"
"Come with me," Gerron said, already walking toward the archway that led deeper into the College.
Isran paused for a second before following.
…
4E 201, High Hrothgar
Kiera Fendalyn
"Kiera, a courier came by when you were away. You have a letter," Arngeir said as soon as she stepped through the ancient stone threshold of High Hrothgar.
The mountain wind still clung to her cloak as she exhaled sharply, her muscles weary but her spirit light. She had just returned from Valthume, where Hevnoraak's ashes still lingered in her memory. Her final test was complete.
"A letter?" she asked, blinking. "From who?"
"Gerron Ironbreaker, from the College of Winterhold." Arngeir replied.
Her brows shot up in pleasant surprise. "Gerron?" she repeated, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
The old Nord monk handed her a scroll sealed with red wax emblazoned with Gerron's personal seal, a hammer on a mountaintop. She took it with gentle hands and excused herself to her modest room tucked behind the Hall of Whispering Winds. The room was sparse but warm, carved into the stone of the mountain itself. A small fire crackled by the corner, and her old Vigilant armor rested neatly beside the wooden bed, next to a folded cloak of grey—the sign of her new friendship to the Greybeards.
She sat down, broke the seal, and began to read.
The letter began simply, Gerron's handwriting as bold and meticulous as ever. It read with the tone of an old friend—casual and grounded despite the extraordinary tales it relayed. She found herself smiling at the updates: Serana adapting well to the College, Gerron's latest experiments in the Midden, their encounter with Ulfric Stormcloak in Windhelm.
Serana's name appeared often, usually linked with bits of unexpected humor or progress in her studies. That warmed Kiera's chest in ways she didn't expect. It was good—no, right—to hear that her friend was thriving, finding her place again in a world that had left her behind.
Then her eyes caught the real request.
Gerron needed Unmelting Snow, a rare alchemical reagent found only at the peak of the Throat of the World, to recreate the legendary White Phial. The thought made her laugh lightly. 'Leave it to Gerron to casually ask for something harvested from the roof of the world.'
It was a good thing she already planned on making that stop.
Kiera rose and walked to the northern balcony. Outside, the sky was a vibrant curtain of blue, streaked with wisps of clouds. Despite having seen it almost everyday for months, she could never get tired of seeing it.
Gathering the snow was easy. The peak was nearby, and she collected several handfuls into a leather pouch. If it was as 'unmelting' as Gerron described, then that should be fine. She took her time in doing it, staring out over Skyrim from the highest point in the known world. The sun kissed peaks of the distant mountains, the scintillating stars in the sky, the vast fields of green, gold, and white.
She descended the path to the monastery, fully clad once more in her armor. A new grey cloak flowed behind her, clasped at the neck with a sigil of the Greybeards. A carved silver pin of dovah script. A sign of appreciation to the people who had trained her.
This was her now. A daughter of the Voice.
Arngeir and Paarthurnax waited at the main gate, standing before the stone arch that marked the path down the Ten Thousand Steps.
"Time to leave, Dovahkiin?" Paarthurnax asked, the gravel in his voice rolling like an avalanche.
"Yes." she said, tightening the leather straps on her gauntlets. "With my training done, it's time I join back with my friends. We have a lot of work to do if Skyrim is to survive the coming conflict."
The Elder Dragon's wings shifted behind him, ancient and wide. "True enough. Know this—you will always have a place here, Kiera."
Arngeir stepped forward, his eyes lined with age but filled with pride. "Go with honor. And remember the Words we've given you. They are not just weapons. They are prayers. They are promises."
Kiera bowed deeply. "Thank you. Both of you."
With her oath spoken and farewells given, she turned and walked across the courtyard to where Vermithor waited. The Bronze Fury stood at the edge of the stone path, his eyes gleaming like molten amber. Steam coiled from his nostrils as his wings flexed in anticipation.
She climbed into the saddle nestled between his ridges, gripping the leather reins and resting a hand on his scaled neck.
"Where to, Kiera?" Vermithor asked, his deep voice echoing through her bones.
"The College of Winterhold," she replied. "And then... Mount Kilkreath. There's a Daedric Prince with a task I intend to finish."
With a thunderous beat of wings, the Bronze Fury rose into the sky, scattering snow and ice like dust behind them. Kiera leaned into the wind, her eyes locked toward the north, toward Winterhold—toward her friends.
…
AN: Three POV's instead of my usual two, I'm sure getting bold, huh.
Kiera's killing of Hevnoraak had spurged Alduin to awaken the rest of the Dragon Priests before they too get assassinated prior to their revival. Rahgot is among the first to be awakened and immediately goes on a rampage.
Isran meets Gerron and Serana, giving them the news of the Vigilants of Stendarr. Gerron also realizes that the old dude he's been talking to in the Arcanaeum could solve all their problems.
Kiera finishes her training, now confident and prepared to face the prophecy as a proper Dragonborn.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 50 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!