4E 202, Shor's Stone, Gerron's Forge
Gerron Ironbreaker
Sweat poured down his brow as the steady clang of hammer on steel echoed through the workshop, a rhythm as familiar to Gerron as his own heartbeat.
Gods he'd missed this.
Sparks leapt from the anvil like fireflies, dancing and dying before they ever kissed the soot-darkened floorboards. The forge roared behind him, its breath hot and heavy, wrapping him in the scent of burnt oil and smelted ore.
He lowered the hammer, wiped the sweat from his brow with a cloth already blackened by use, and inspected his work.
The Crown of the Rift, though in truth it was more a circlet than a crown.
Made of a mix of bronze and silver, it had the bearing of Dwemer fashion—very squarish and deliberate, with hammer-like designs adorning the front and sides. Thin circuits of silver traced across its band like veins of light, channeling power from the sapphires that weren't sapphires at all but soul gems, disguised for beauty's sake.
He studied the work the way a priest studies scripture. Every rune, every notch, every imperfection mattered.
Resistance to fire. Resistance to frost. Resistant to shock.
Basic enchantments, but amplified beyond the norm. The Arcanic Rune Script had allowed him to weave both enchantments into one vessel, and with a Grand Soul bound within, their strength bordered on the unnatural.
And yet, that wasn't what made it special. The crown held another ward, a failsafe, a shield that would activate the moment its wearer was struck down by a killing blow. It could only trigger once before the gem was spent, but that single breath between life and death… could be everything.
He turned it in his hands, the light catching in its grooves.
'The jewel of Shor's Stone', he thought. 'May it protect every Jarl who wears it after me.'
A rare smile tugged at his mouth. He wasn't old by any measure. Only twenty-six, in the prime of his strength.
But titles had a way of forcing a man to think further ahead than his years. The blessing of Zenithar might stretch his life to a century, perhaps longer, but the forge had taught him one truth above all. Everything breaks eventually.
He doesn't plan on dying anytime soon…but perhaps preparing for it was something he had to start doing. Of what he'd leave behind.
A flutter of wings pulled him from his thoughts. Gerron looked up as a pale spectral bat slipped through the open window. It circled once, then dropped a sealed parchment onto his workbench before dissipating into blue mist.
"Ah," Gerron muttered, setting the crown aside.
The seal of the College of Winterhold was etched on the parchment, glowing blue wax pressed with the sigil of the Eye.
He cracked it open, careful not to stain it with soot, and recognized Savos Aren's meticulous writing at once. Elegant, measured, and utterly precise. Though the words written were anything but.
An artifact was discovered in the heart of Saarthal, one that bore an uncanny similarity to a staff wielded by one of the Dragon Priests.
The rest was speculation, veiled concern, and enough underlined phrases to tell Gerron that Savos himself was uneasy. Gerron's brow furrowed as he read those words.
HIs mind rifled through the library of blueprints, magical schematics, and recipes in his mind, trying to see if the System would recognize it. He tried to picture what the artifact might be, but the thought was like chasing smoke.
He'll need to see it for himself.
He sighed and set the letter down. The forge crackled behind him, the heat of it seeping into his thoughts.
He didn't notice her at first, not until the faint chill of undeath brushed against the edge of the heat.
"You look troubled," Serana said, leaning against the doorway, her crimson eyes catching the light of the forge. Even in the dim light, she carried that impossible balance between poise and danger.
Gerron smiled faintly. "Savos sent word. Things are stirring within the College again. It seems Saarthal bore more secrets than they originally knew."
"Is that right?" she said, stepping closer. "I remember reading about it when word of the expedition came around. Was Saarthal not the former capital of Skyrim? It makes sense that a place with such storied history would have something buried within."
"Maybe," Gerron muttered. "But they've dug through it for years, finding nothing but some regular trinkets. Now suddenly they find something that worries Savos? That's not a good sign."
She folded her arms. "If you're worried about leaving, Ralof and Grogmar can handle the defenses. The few automatons that you've made are a wonder. The magicka turrets are aiming at the sky every second of the day. Stormcloak scouts patrol every inch of the Rift. They can handle things without having the both of us for a while."
"Us?" He gave her a look. "You're coming with me?"
"What kind of question is that?" Serana's lips quirked into a smirk. "Of course I am."
Gerron just chuckled while shaking his head. "You know I'm more than capable of handling myself, right?"
"Oh, please," she teased, walking past him to inspect the crown. "You'd be dead in a week without me there to make sure you don't blow yourself up working on another of your experiments."
Gerron raised a brow. "That happened one time."
"Twice," she corrected with a grin.
He just chuckled in defeat before gesturing towards the set of ebony armor currently affixed to a mannequin, a long jagged cut down its breastplate, a scar left by Odahviing himself.
"Savos mentioned that whatever Faralda and Colette found unsettled, even Mirabelle. We'll have to prepare for the worst. I'll need to finish these upgrades before we leave."
"Good instincts, both of them," Serana said, her tone softening. "Speaking of which… there's another matter you should know. Two new faces arrived in town this morning. Call themselves the Nightingales. One of them's the Champion of Nocturnal."
Gerron looked up sharply. "Another one?"
Serana nodded. "A Dunmer woman named Karliah. She and a Nord named Brynjolf. They came to me this morning with a prophecy, one apparently shared by Azura. It warns of a great conflict rising across Skyrim."
He frowned. "A prophecy. Wonderful. Because we don't have enough of those already."
Serana crossed her arms, giving him that look, the one that said she was amused and exasperated in equal measure. "You joke, but you know as well as I do that these things are fickle at the best of times."
He grunted, conceding the point. "So. What does this one say?"
"That a storm is coming," she said quietly. "One that'll draw every Champion of Aedra and Daedra alike into conflict. And according to them… you and Kiera stand at the center of it."
Gerron's eyes flicked to the forge, watching the flames twist around the metal bars. The heat shimmered, gold and alive. "Figures."
Serana tilted her head, amused. "You don't seem surprised."
"Of course not," he said simply. "When has my life ever been that simple?"
That earned a soft laugh from her. "Should've known better than to expect that to bother you."
He shrugged. "After dragons, gods, and vampires? This doesn't seem like anything else we haven't dealt with before."
Even so, a sigh of exhaustion left his lips and the never ending-ness of it all.
Serana stepped closer, her voice gentler now. "Hey, just remember, you're not facing any of it alone. You and Kiera, you've got me. Always."
He met her gaze, a flicker of warmth breaking through his expression. "I know. And for what it's worth… I wouldn't have it any other way."
The forge crackled softly between them, its light painting their faces in amber and gold.
Gerron smiled faintly. "Look on the bright side, all three of us are prophecy bait now. Kiera's Dragonborn, you're the Daughter of Coldharbour, and apparently I'm next on the list."
Serana laughed. A quiet, genuine sound that filled the workshop like a balm. "Sounds like quite the trio, doesn't it?"
He chuckled. "A smith, a vampire, and a Vigilant walk into destiny. What could possibly go wrong?"
The fire answered with a hiss, as if even it wasn't sure.
…
4E 202, Whiterun, Jorrvaskr
Aela the Huntress
The air above Whiterun hung heavy with smoke.
Preparations for the funeral pyre had begun before dawn, and by the time the sun crested over the Plains District, the courtyard of Jorrvaskr was cloaked in grey ash and solemn hearts.
No one spoke loudly. No one dared.
When Vilkas and Farkas returned to the hall, looks of shock and outrage on their faces, none had the strength to look them in the eye.
For they all had failed.
Vilkas' expression slowly turned to resigned acceptance, for they all knew they lived a life where death was waiting right in the corner.
When the grim finality appeared in his eyes, none questioned the sight of Vilkas picking and bearing Kodlak's axe. There was no contest nor debate. The Companions bowed their heads and accepted what was already decided.
Vilkas was named Harbinger before the pyre had even been built.
Just in time for Njada Stone-Arm to return from the Reach, her cloak torn and new scars bearing her form. She carried with her the fragments of Wuuthrad, wrapped in linen and blood, and a sealed urn containing the severed head of a Glenmoril Witch.
The head reeked even through the glass, a stench of rot and old malice, but Vilkas took it with both hands and carried it to the Skyforge without hesitation.
Eorlund was already waiting.
The old smith had not slept for three days. His hammer fell in a steady, mournful rhythm that matched the heartbeat of every Companion watching. Sparks lit his face as he reforged Wuuthrad, the silver-blue light of the forge flickering like stormfire across the blade's ancient runes.
By the time the weapon was done, it gleamed with the weight of both loss and legend.
When the hour came, they bore their fallen brothers and sisters to the pyre. Kodlak, Athis, Torvar, and the others who had fallen in the Battle for Whiterun. Each body wrapped in wolfskin, their weapons clenched in their hands.
The flames took them quickly.
The fire roared high against the night, orange light spilling over the stone of Jorrvaskr and the faces of the mourners.
Vilkas stood at the front, holding the witch's head aloft before casting it into the blaze. The sickly hiss that followed was like the breath of a dying god.
And then… stillness.
A single wolf's howl broke the silence. Long, mournful, rising from the wind above the Plains. None could tell if it was a beast or spirit, but Aela knew. She felt it deep in her blood.
The witch's curse was broken. Kodlak Whitemane had finally joined his forebears in Sovngarde.
No outsiders attended the funeral. There were no bards to sing their ballads,
For the entire city was in a state of mourning and recovery. Jarl Balgruuf had been cooped up in Dragonsreach for who knows how long, only making his way down to the city proper thrice these past two weeks.
Danica Pure-Spring was knee-deep in prayers and poultices, still doing her best to heal those who remain bed-ridden in the Temple. Priests of Arkay had arrived from the other holds, performing rites in the streets, their white robes stained with ash.
Even the Skyforge was quiet when the fire burned low.
Aela stood apart from the others, her eyes fixed on the dying embers. The wind tugged at her hair, carrying with it the scent of smoke and pine, and something else beneath it.
Something old.
When the others finally left the courtyard, she stayed. Alone. Listening.
And then she heard it.
A voice, deep, resonant, primal. It came not from around her, but through her, filling her chest like the echo of a hunt horn.
"Daughter of the Moon. My faithful huntress."
A breath let out of her lungs. She knew that voice as surely as she knew the sound of her own heartbeat.
"The fires of the forge burn bright," Hircine said. "Yet your hunt has only begun. Beyond your walls, dragons rise from the bones of the world. Their souls are mine to claim, through you."
Aela closed her eyes. The presence washed over her like a storm, her blood singing in its wake.
"Seek the woods outside Whiterun," the Daedric Prince whispered. "There, you will find my gifts."
When the voice faded, she was already moving.
The plains stretched cold and silent under the moonlight, the wind whispering through the tundra grass. She passed the western farms, crossed the stream near the old ruins, and followed the pull she felt deep within her chest.
It led her to the treeline.
The forest opened before her like a mouth, shadowed in waiting. In the clearing ahead, the air shimmered with silvery mist.
There, laid upon a bed of roots and moss, were two relics.
The Spear of the Hunter, its tip carved from silversteel and dripping faint trails of green light that hissed when they touched the ground. And beside it, a cloak of tanned hide that shimmered between fur and leather. The Savior's Hide, the pelt of a god's favored beast.
Aela knelt before them, awe and reverence mingling with something deeper. Pride.
Hircine's voice whispered once more, distant yet vast.
"Consider them a gift for the days to come. Take them, Huntress, and carry my will into the skies. Hunt the Dragons, and bring their souls to my realm."
The spear pulsed with power beneath her hand, and she could feel the heartbeat of the Hunt itself thrumming through the shaft.
She bowed her head.
"Yes, Lord Hircine," she whispered, her voice steady despite the wildness that surged inside her.
A smile touched her lips, one that had not appeared since Kodlak's death. "And may the next hunt be worthy of your gaze."
The wind howled in answer, rustling through the trees like the cry of a thousand wolves.
…
AN: The Crown of the Rift, the next artifact now in Gerron's list. While it may not seem powerful since resistance to fire, cold, and shock aren't much in the grand scheme of things, I have a lot more planned for this next tinkering session, don't worry.
Old Hircine finally makes his move. He had a small taste for dragon soul and now is determined to get more.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 79 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Cheers guys and see you next time!