4E 202, College of Winterhold
Gerron Ironbreaker
"The Thalmor has certainly gotten bold," Tolfdir idly commented. With practiced gestures, he lifted the broken bodies of the elven attackers with Telekinesis, forming a pile at the base of the tower steps.
Gerron stood amidst the remains of the battle. They were just outside the Hall of Elements where most of the fighting had happened.
"This was no regular attack." Savos Aren mused, wiping ash off his Archmage's robes. All the Dremora Lords he had summoned had already vanished into Oblivion, leaving the scent of sulfur behind.
"What did you say their targets were?" he asked, turning toward Mirabelle. "A Moth Priest and Gerron?"
Mirabelle nodded. "That's right. While I don't know what interest he has in the Moth Priest, Gerron himself is self explanatory."
Savos gave a grim hum of agreement. His eyes flicked briefly to Gerron, who crossed his arms and offered a dry smile.
"Heh. I knew all the forging, enchanting, Dragon killing, and vampire hunting would eventually earn me attention. Still, thanks for covering me."
"We always protect our own, Gerron," Savos said with a nod. But Gerron caught something else behind the Archmage's expression—guilt, maybe. Or sorrow.
"Your healing potions have also been very helpful." Mirabelle stated, holding up a vial filled with silvery red liquid. "Though three students died, a lot more were prevented thanks to your efforts. The potions are certainly more potent than the regular ones you find with standard brewers."
She looked at Gerron then, a small sigh with a small smile. "So not only are you a blacksmith and an enchanter, but an Alchemist as well?"
Gerron shrugged with a smile. "I dabble."
The White Phial truly worked wonders, Gerron mused. The moment he had it fixed with the unmelting snow that Kiera had brought, he used it to create a whole batch of healing potions.
Unlike the standard healing potions colored blood-red, his potions have a silvery tint behind them.
"Nevertheless, the Thalmor won't resort to trickery after this. This was practically a declaration of war." Savos said, his hands behind his back. "Despite capturing Ancano, he's proven stubborn enough to not say anything."
Gerron grunted at that. They currently have him locked up in the Midden. The Archmage had made sure to seal the entrance that the Thalmor had used to enter the College.
They had tried to question Ancano, but to no avail. The College has no access to anyone who is an expert interrogator. Even Gerron, for all his strengths, did not have the stomach to actually torture someone for information.
Mirabelle had tried an Illusion spell to lower his mental defences, but it did nothing to take away his reluctance to speak.
The only other solution was to ask for Jarl Korir, but Savos was reluctant to do so. Giving a Thalmor Agent to a Stormcloak Loyalist without due cause could only ignite the flames of war and make it even worse. Something that none of them wanted.
Gerron snorted. "That man is as hateful as they come. Are all of the Thalmor like this?"
"Not all, but most." Savos smiled amusedly.
The conversation shifted as silence settled again. Despite the attack, things were slowly returning to normal—or as normal as they could be.
Gerron was forced to change his opinion on the Hagraven student, who he learned was named Idecta.
He'd seen her incinerate an entire squad of Thalmor soldiers with terrifying precision, her claws weaving flame in ways that defied traditional casting techniques. That by itself had earned Gerron's respect.
And not just her, but Nirya as well. The woman had turned sullen and quiet after the battle. Gossip had spread—Serana had even mentioned it to Gerron in passing.
Nirya and Faralda used to be best friends, attached to the hip even. They were two Altmer prodigies in the School of Destruction, both having dreams of claiming the title of Master of the College.
But when it was time for the final trials, all of Nirya's research vanished. It was her life's work, unique yellow flames hotter than the norm and will not hurt those she doesn't want to. It was an impressive magic, one that would easily have earned her the title of Master.
She blamed Faralda for she was the only one who knew. She accused her of betrayal. Things became even worse when Faralda succeeded in becoming a Professor of the College, claiming the title of Master.
But the flames Ancano used during the attack—those flames—were Nirya's.Gerron still remembered the look on Nirya's face when she realized the truth of it all.
Ancano had stolen her research. Probably not just hers. How many cases did the College have of students with immense potential, gone missing after an excursion or a field trip?
Ancano had been crippling the College ever since he was stationed here. Everyone was just too blind and prideful to see it.
She planned to apologize to Faralda when she returned from Saarthal, where she and Colette were still leading a contingent of students for a study trip. They were scheduled to return in a few days.
That was good. Colette's healing expertise would be invaluable in checking up on survivors. Gerron's potions were strong, but nothing beat hands-on Restoration from an Expert.
Heavy footfalls approached. Gerron didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Isran.
The Dawnguard commander's boots crunched against the blood-slick stones as he entered the courtyard, his eyes scanning the ruins like a veteran surveying a battlefield.
He had been the sole reason Dexion Evicus wasn't abducted.
Isran had been doing his morning routine when he heard of the commotion.
He ran to Dexion's room and covered the door, prioritizing the safety of the meditating Moth Priest above all others. This foresight proved beneficial, as six Thalmor agents tried to take Dexion not seconds after Isran arrived.
Suffice to say, all of the Thalmor was splattered on the ground, smashed by Isran's warhammer of light.
"Dragonslayer. Archmage," Isran greeted, nodding to both men. "I think it's time we discuss our next steps."
Mirabelle raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
Savos cleared his throat. "Gerron, Isran, and I have been discussing this at length. After everything we've seen—the dragons, the Daedra, and now the Thalmor—it may be time for the College to involve ourselves in the workings of the world once more."
That made both Mirabelle and Tolfdir blink.
"You're sure about this?" Tolfdir asked, clearly surprised.
"Oh yes." The Archmage nodded. "We'd hardly be alone either. Gerron and Isran here make for fierce allies. It's not like we're dealing with politics. Dragons and Daedra threaten our realm as we know it. The College cannot remain neutral in these circumstances."
Mirabelle nodded slowly. "True enough."
"Kiera and Serana should be back in a few days or so." Gerron spoke up. "By then, Dexion should be able to read the Elder Scrolls for us. That should, at the very least, tell us what we need to do or know to fight Alduin and Harkon."
Isran continued, "After which we will all convene for the Peace Summit in High Hrothgar, where all the leaders of Skyrim will converge. The Vigilants, the Dawnguard, the Greybeards, and the College will be there."
Savos looked resolute. "I will attend the summit in person as the representative of the College. When the time comes, Mirabelle, I'll be leaving the day-to-day workings to you."
Mirabelle bowed her head. "Of course, Archmage."
…
4E 202, Shor's Stone
Esbern
When they crested the ridge above the town, Esbern nearly stopped in his tracks. The last time he had seen Shor's Stone, it had been a humble mining village—barely more than a smattering of homes near a failing iron vein. Now, it was something entirely different.
The outer walls were thick slabs of grey mountain rock, reinforced with iron bands, crowned with battlements wide enough for three men to walk abreast. Along the battlements, soldiers in dark leather uniforms paced with precision, each bearing the new emblem: a black hammer smashing down upon a mountaintop—unmistakably the mark that the Dragonslayer had taken for himself.
Mangonels were perched beside reinforced ballistae, and siege shields were stacked neatly against parapets. Unlike the worn and indifferent guards of Riften, these warriors stood proud, clean, and ready. Their eyes followed each group that approached the gate, not with suspicion, but with alert calculation.
"This place is incredible," Esbern murmured, adjusting the hood of his robe as he took in the scene.
"I'll say," Delphine agreed, her eyes flicking between the stationed guards and the intricate gate mechanisms. "More secure than Riften ever was, that's for certain."
Ahead, Maven Black-Briar was already speaking to a guard who stood behind a lowered portcullis. She gestured to herself, and to her entourage. Though Esbern couldn't hear the words exchanged, he could clearly read the body language. The man at the gate, a pale-bearded Nord with a bored expression, only nodded once before turning and shouting to someone unseen.
The sound of boots echoed as more guards arrived, including a few archers who took up casual positions on the battlements above the gate. Moments later, the sound of heavy footfalls announced the arrival of the guard captain.
He was an Orsimer, tall and broad as a warhorse, clad in full polished ebony armor. A massive war axe made of the same material hung from his back. His tusks were trimmed and his face bore the calm, seasoned look of a warrior long past his prime—but still dangerous.
"What's going on?" Delphine questioned.
Delvin Mallory snorted. "Sounds to me old Maven over there came in thinking she owns the place. Now we got the local guard all weary and tense. How lovely."
Vex scowled. "She thinks she can flash her name and get the keys to the city. Most of the Black-Briar wealth was left behind in Riften. Her name carries no weight here."
"I sure as Oblivion ain't working for her anymore," Delvin muttered, shooting a glance toward Vipir and Rune, who nodded in agreement. "Riften's Hold guards were pathetic and we all know who is to blame. We might have benefitted from it once, until we didn't."
Mjoll the Lioness, who heard the conversation, chimed in. "Now you people know why I tried so hard to fix things. Whiterun and Windhelm managed to defend themselves from a Dragon attack, yet Riften fell to an army of Draugr. A pathetic showing of one of the major holds."
Sharp and harsh words, but not incorrect. Nords were a warrior race with plenty of pride. It was too bad that the Jarl and Maven herself weren't here to hear them.
"I don't give a crap who you are." The large Orsimer, who had introduced himself as Captain Grogmar, stated. "You're a refugee, like plenty of others who decided to stay in these walls. You wanna meet the Dragonslayer? Well too bad then, cause he ain't here. You're free to enter, but make no trouble or I'll kick you out myself, you hear me?"
Maven's lips pressed into a thin line. "I understand," she said through clenched teeth.
Behind her, her bodyguard Maul tensed, hand sliding to his sword, but Grogmar only gave him a withering stare. Maul thought better of it and backed down.
Grogmar grunted and turned. "Gate's open. Don't cause trouble."
"Well that went well," Esbern said, loud enough for Delphine and Fultheim to hear.
"No kidding," Fultheim grumbled. "Shor's bones, it's gonna be a joy living with that woman in town."
Once inside, the transformation was even more dramatic. Shor's Stone had swelled with life. The roads were cobbled now, flanked by timber-framed buildings in various stages of construction or repair.
Blacksmiths worked openly on the streets, and a bustling market square pulsed with energy—caravans unloading, children playing, merchants shouting. A banner bearing the same sigil on the guards' armor flew from the town hall's watchtower.
The population was diverse. A pair of Khajiit from the Baandari were selling silk scarves near the town center. A Dunmer priest of Mara was tending to a wounded townsfolk. Argonian dockworkers—dockworkers, in a mining town!—hauled barrels toward a half-constructed pier being built into the river.
"This is… something else," Esbern said.
Maven and her entourage made their way toward the richer district—if such a thing existed in this newly built city—while the Thieves Guild melted into the crowds to survey the surroundings. Mjoll and Aerin went northward, already speaking with townsfolk.
Esbern turned to Constance Michel, the matron of Honorhall Orphanage, who clutched the hands of three of her wards tightly. "This is as far as we can take you, my lady. Please, take this." He passed her a pouch of septims.
"Try to speak to the townmaster," he continued. "Perhaps an orphanage is something they'd support."
Constance bowed, her eyes wet. "Thank you, Esbern. We'll never forget your kindness."
The children waved up at him. "Bye-bye, Grandpa Esbern! Visit us soon!"
A warm ache pierced his chest at that. He was not unused to being called sage or master. But grandpa… that was something else entirely.
He turned to follow Delphine and Fultheim deeper into the town. They walked together through the main road, passing by inns and supply shops. A sign labeled The Smoked Mammoth creaked on its hinges beside a lively tavern.
"You did good," Delphine said softly.
"Thank you," Esbern replied, smiling. "I rather think they'll thrive here."
"I'll miss the kids," Fultheim said. "They had spirit. Reminded me of the war orphans in Bruma. Tough little things."
"So what now?" Esbern asked.
"We look for leads," Delphine replied. "The Orc Captain said the Dragonslayer isn't here. But someone might know where he went. Hopefully he'll be open to conversation when we find him."
They had barely gone three steps deeper into the bustling market square when a young man in a courier's tunic approached them, panting slightly. "Hey, got something I'm supposed to deliver. Your hands only."
Delphine frowned. "From who?"
The courier shrugged. "Didn't say. Just told me to wait here in Shor's Stone and give it to someone with your description. Here you go."
She took the note. Her expression tightened as she broke the seal.
It was simple. A stark, dark symbol in the center of the parchment: an inked black hand. Beneath it, written in clean, deliberate script were just two words.
We Know.
Silence fell between them.
"…Well that's not ominous at all," Fultheim said with a nervous chuckle.
Delphine folded the note, her face unreadable. "Come on. We need to talk somewhere private."
And with that, they disappeared into the alleys of Shor's Stone.
…
AN: All the playable major factions in the game are now finally mentioned. Companions, College of Winterhold, Thieves Guild, and Dark Brotherhood. Let me tell you, it was quite difficult to think of a way to include all of them in one story. But I think I figured out a way to make it work.
Delphine gets an anonymous note while an alliance is created in the College. Gerron, Savos, and Isran are about to be an insane trio.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 59 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!