4E 202, Shor's Stone, two weeks later
Gerron Ironbreaker
Two weeks after the Night of Convergence, the world had not grown quiet. But things have slowed somewhat.
Gerron returned to Shor's Stone beneath overcast skies, wagons rolling behind him in solemn procession. Draped in black and crimson cloth lay the bodies of the Shor's Guard, armor polished one final time, banners folded with reverence.
He had carried many of them himself from the battlefield, refusing to let their remains be treated as cargo.
The gates of Shor's Stone stood open.
Cheers rose first, before grief followed close behind.
Families stood waiting, tears streaking faces that tried and failed to stay strong. Filnjar, Grogmar, and Ralof were there, standing at attention despite the weight in their eyes.
The Night of Convergence had already begun to take shape in history.
Scribes, scholars, and priests had seized upon the name with fervor. A single night where champions of Divines and Princes alike clashed upon the same field.
The men and women who fought within it—Companions, Legionnaires, Dawnguard, Shor's Guard—were all hailed as heroes across Skyrim.
Here, in Shor's Stone, the Shor's Guard were acclaimed the most, being their home.
Captain Renly most of all.
Gerron spotted her in the crowd before anyone else—a young Nord woman hugging a six-year-old boy to her chest. Her eyes were red, her jaw clenched tight, as though sheer willpower alone was holding her together.
He broke from the procession and approached.
"Mira," he said gently. "Right?"
She looked up sharply. "Y–Yes, m'lord. I—I am—"
"Renly's wife, I know," Gerron finished, nodding once. "He spoke of you often."
That was enough.
Her composure shattered. She wept openly, shoulders shaking, while the boy tightened his grip around her waist, trying to appear strong.
Gerron knelt before him.
"You must be Inggar," he said, placing a steady hand on the boy's shoulder. "Your father was a brave man."
Inggar swallowed hard and nodded.
Behind them, Filnjar met Gerron's gaze. Pride and grief warred openly across the older Nord's face. They exchanged a single nod, no words needed.
Rising to his feet, Gerron addressed Mira again.
"You will be cared for," he said, voice firm enough to carry. "You and every family who lost someone that night. You have my word."
The words rippled outward. Cheers rose again, not jubilant this time, but resolute.
Gerron turned away and proceeded forward, the members of the Shor's Guard parting the crowd as they escorted him toward the Ebony Palace, the newly named keep that now served as the heart of Shor's Stone.
Serana wasn't here since she had departed days earlier with Savos for the College of Winterhold. With the Staff of Magnus lost and the Eye still sealed, Gerron knew Alduin would eventually make a move.
She was there to keep an eye on it. With her, Savos, Mirabelle, Tolfdir, and Faralda—that's five Master-level Wizards holding down the College. A force to be reckoned with.
Of course, Serana had her own reasons to go there as well. She had spoken of her interest in the Soul Cairn, the realm Harkon said her mother was in.
The way to open a gate and a pathway into the realm of souls had long been buried in forbidden texts. If any place in Skyrim held those answers, it was the Arcaneum.
Kiera, meanwhile, had ridden northwest atop Vermithor, bound for Solitude.
After all, Castle Volkihar still stood.
Harkon was dead, but the man had lived for thousands of years. There were still stockpiles of blood, magical tomes, and whatever relics the man had kept and found over the years.
Not to mention the hundreds of thralls, a handful of vampires, and prisons full of captives who might not survive another winter.
Kiera would lead the siege alongside Isran. The Legion would rally at Solitude's port under the Dragonborn's command, while the Dawnguard struck Northwatch Keep in tandem.
Hopefully, with a clean and surgical strike like that, the threat of Harkon's court will be snuffed for good.
The Vigilants of Stendarr, meanwhile, will be responsible for Calixto. Under escort of twenty of their best Vigilants, along with Tolan and Carcette, they hope to keep him imprisoned and questioned, before eventually executing him.
After all, the Vigilants have written authority by the Emperor to handle all business pertaining to the Daedra. As the Champion of Molag Bal, Calixto fit the bill.
The Mehrunes Razor however was given to Gerron for safekeeping. None in Nirn bore more expertise on magical artifacts, Daedra or otherwise, than the bearer of the Forge Eternal.
It was now sitting in his storage, and Gerron couldn't wait to study it further. He had taken a quick look before, to study its enchantment when he created the tincture for Keeper Carcette's wound. But being a Daedric Weapon meant it held plenty more secrets to unfold.
But before he could do that, duty and responsibility takes precedence.
Twenty minutes after his arrival, he stood once more within the council chamber of the Ebony Palace.
His desk was filled with reports and documents, which he read and completed in rapid succession. Trade figures. Refugee counts. Patrol rotations. Weapon output.
Most of them were already handled by Filnjar, these ones merely being the ones that require the Jarl's personal signature.
Then Filnjar, Grogmar, and Ralof entered together.
Gerron did not waste time.
"Ralof," he said, turning to the Nord. "How would you like to be Housecarl?"
Ralof blinked. "I'd… be honored, Gerron," he said, surprise giving way to pride. "Truly."
Gerron had sent Bronze, his homunculus servant, out with a letter towards Ulfric, requesting if he was willing to let Ralof serve as Housecarl for the Jarl of the Rift.
Ulfric's answer had come swiftly. One Bone-Breaker in exchange for goodwill in the Rift was a bargain the Jarl of Windhelm was happy to make.
With that settled, Filnjar stepped forward.
"The Automaton Armada has exceeded expectations," he reported. "The Builders have taken over in maintaining roadwork, wall repairs, even quarry operations. With most of the menial work out of the way, manpower has been freed across the board."
Gerron nodded. That much he had expected.
Then came the problem.
"We're growing too fast," Filnjar continued. "Refugees are coming in from every Hold to the point that crowding is becoming an issue. We lack housing, Gerron. Builders can raise them quickly, but not fast enough."
Gerron mulled it over. The Ebony production was going well, which is probably what most of the refugees came for. Shor's Stone being delegated as the main production for weapons for the war means plenty of labor was needed.
Caravan drivers, miners, haulers, even smiths were all positions that needed to be filled.
A lot of desperate people would kill for a chance of learning that kind of trade.
The Builder Automatons were capable of building quick and strong houses, but they were only ten of them. A paltry number compared to the thousands of refugees coming in every week.
Grogmar chimed in then. "Crime is on the rise as well. Bandits have been slipping with the crowds, trying to get their hands on the ebony weapons and armor. While I kept security tight, there were drunken riots set up in times and places where an attempted burglary would be carried out the next few hours."
"They're drawing in our guards." Gerron realized.
The Master-at-arms grunted. "We've managed to contain it for now. But if nothing changes, the men will get overwhelmed."
Gerron leaned back, steepling his fingers. This wasn't exactly a failure, but more like success without structure.
The core problem was the mass expansion caused by the streams of refugees. There was an easy solution to this.
"I'll issue village and town charters," he decided. "We'll spread the population even further."
After the fall of Riften, nearly most of the settlements within the Rift were torched and its people rerisen as undead.
Of the surviving villages, a further half were razed to the ground when Alduin sent his dragons.
The only other major settlement that remained was Ivarstead and the Sarethi Farm far in the western borders, and a few dozen hamlets and mills. Everything else had fallen. Which means it was time to rebuild.
[The Architect]
'A deep study into Dwemer architecture has allowed you to mimic—and even enhance—their design. Mighty walls and grand fortresses are merely the beginning.'
Blueprints came unbidden into his mind. High stone walls that curved with the land. Fortified trade roads. Settlements placed strategically where they could thrive and prosper.
Shor's Stone was developing as a capital city, the size of which was enough to rival Windhelm. What it needed now was more time to develop, time and proper satellites to support it.
Ivarstead was slowly growing. When Paarthurnax offered to train people in the Voice, all the sent volunteers moved to Ivarstead with their families, quickly ballooning the small town in size.
Sending a few traders, smiths, and carpenters to help it grow would allow it to flourish.
"Give me two days to plan out the charters," he finally added. "Then give them to people you think can handle it, Filnjar."
The man nodded, glad that a plan and solution was forming.
Big changes were happening to the Rift. Gerron never wanted this position given to him on a whim, but he was never one to stride from his responsibilities.
Give a Nord a task and he'll move even mountains to complete it.
With those words ringing through his mind, might as well go all in, right?
"Ralof," he looked at his new Housecarl. "How far are the Stormcloaks patrols going?"
"All the way to Dayspring Canyon, my Jarl." Ralof answered. "We work with the Dawnguard to patrol much of the base of the Velothi Mountains."
"Which means you've seen the ruins of Riften yourself?"
"Yes, my Jarl." Ralof nodded.
Reclaiming the former capital of the Rift was something that had been on Gerron's mind for months now. It was too much of a waste to just let it rot away.
It was sitting on many natural resources, sitting on the larger wayside of Lake Honrich. With proper resources and planning, they could revive the port and set up a trading post, sending supplies to all the settlements located on the banks of the river, which was long enough to reach Windhelm and meet back out into the Sea of Ghosts.
"What is its current state?" He asked Ralof.
Ralof replied. "While Rahgot tore the gates wide open, the walls remained largely intact my Jarl. Most infrastructure survived if not for a few crumbling towers and houses. The problem is the Orcs."
"Orcs?" Gerron asked.
"Survivors from Largashbur," Ralof explained. "My scouts tell me that giants wiped their stronghold out weeks ago. The survivors fled east and took over the ruins of Riften, killing the bandits that hunkered down there. Ever since then, they've been raiding all across the countryside, led by their new chief, Gularzob."
Gerron leaned forward slowly, a thoughtful frown on his face before it turned into a smile.
'Perhaps,' he thought. 'This would be the perfect opportunity to see the Automation Soldiers in action.'
…
4E 202, College of Winterhold
Serana Volkihar
Serana stood at one of the long tables in the Arcaneum, nearest to Urag gro-Shub's desk, a small stack of books set up atop the table. Urag himself loomed nearby, arms folded, watching her with the weary patience of someone long accustomed to scholars searching for half-myths.
For that was what the Soul Cairn was, at least to most people.
Around them, the library lived quietly.
The Hagraven student sat hunched in a shadowed corner, feathers twitching as she scribbled frantic notes. At another table, Dexion Evicus read with slow deliberation, his fingers tracing the line of a thick tome.
Serana's eyes widened in pleasant surprise. The Most Priest was forced into a deep slumber after reading the Elder Scroll all those months ago. It seems he has finally recovered.
"Ah, Lady Serana," Dexion said warmly, lifting his head. His left eye, fully clouded white, stared past her without focus. "It is a pleasure to see you again."
"It's good to see you too, Dexion," Serana replied with a genuine smile. "You're looking better."
He chuckled softly. "Time, rest, and a very persistent Restoration mage will do wonders. Collette would not accept anything less than a full recovery."
"I owe you my thanks," Serana said. "If it weren't for you, we might not have ever defeated Harkon. If you ever need anything—anything at all—please just say the word."
Dexion waved a dismissive hand, amusement dancing in his voice. "Nonsense. A scholar lives for moments like those. To read an Elder Scroll and survive long enough to tell the tale? To contribute in an act that would save the world? I'd do it all again in a heartbeat." He laughed. "Every little bit helps, as good people tend to say."
Serana raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't call reading an Elder Scroll 'little.'"
Another laugh, deeper this time. "Perhaps not."
She inclined her head respectfully and left him to his studies.
Hours blurred after that.
Urag had been… thorough. Between his guidance and Serana's own searching, she'd narrowed her focus to three texts that stood out among the sea of vellum and parchment.
Feyfolken Volumes I and II, as well as The Book of Life and Service.
The Feyfolken texts were the most promising. They took the form of recorded lectures—dialogues, almost—between a figure called the Great Sage and two of his students, Taksim and Volguldak.
Much of it centered on the ethics and mechanics of soul trapping, with sharp contrasts drawn between the research through the Mages Guild's pragmatism and the Psijic Order's… restraint.
More importantly, they contained some of the earliest recorded mentions of black soul gems.
The Great Sage spoke of a realm where such souls were sent, a place beyond Aetherius and Oblivion alike. A realm watched over by something ancient.
The Soul Cairn.
There were also cryptic references to the Feyfolken themselves, described as an ancient Daedric-adjacent spirit, neither fully bound to Oblivion nor Mundus. Even then, the authors admitted much of it was conjecture.
It was enlightening.
It was also frustrating.
None of it told her how to actually get there.
The Book of Life and Service was even worse.
It was dense and obscure. Written in this maddening tale of mystics who believed truth lost meaning if spoken plainly. Much of it was prophecy layered atop metaphor, hidden meanings buried under pretext.
Two passages, however, stood out.
The first suggests classification of entities to be encountered on the Soul Cairn.
Bonemen, Mistmen, Wrathmen, and something else. A mysterious entity spoken of only as the Masters.
The second was shorter, but no less mysterious.
The Boneman's Oath
We die.
We pray.
To live.
We serve.
The Master's Voice
You swore.
To Serve.
Your Lord.
Commands.
Serana stared at the words for a long time.
They felt… old. Not metaphorical. Not symbolic. Like instructions or a command.
She committed them to memory before closing the book with a quiet sigh.
She had combed the library for a week and still nothing concrete. No way of opening a gate, or even any hints of a ritual that would transport her there.
The only possible solution she can think of right now was to soul trap herself inside a black soul gem. But that involved actually dying, which was something she was not interested in the slightest.
She pushed back from the table and approached Urag's desk, irritation slipping through her usual composure.
"Urag," she said, arms crossing. "This is pointless. There are thousands of books here. Reading them all would take decades."
Urag grunted. "You're looking for answers about a realm most folks think is a fairy tale. Was never going to be easy."
She exhaled sharply.
"You're doing this to find your mother, aren't you?" he added. "You're both vampires. Time ain't exactly your enemy."
True. Objectively true. A decade was nothing to pure-blooded vampires like her and her mother.
Emotionally? It did nothing to ease the ache in her chest.
Centuries had passed since she last saw Valerica. Centuries of unanswered questions. Centuries of wondering if her mother still thought of her at all.
Urag watched her for a moment, then sighed.
"Look," he said gruffly. "If you're that desperate, there is something you can try."
Serana perked her head up. "What?"
"The Augur of Dunlain."
Her brow furrowed. "Who?"
"The Augur was an old Breton student that used to study here in the College, a long time ago. He was obsessed with divination and restoration magic, even more than Collete I'd say." Urag explained. "He attempted to make a new Master-Level Restoration spell, which ended up botched and caused him to…fuse with the energies of the College. Not exactly alive, not exactly dead."
"That's…comforting."
"He's wise," Urag went on. "Annoyingly so. Knows things he shouldn't. Probably a side effect of the experiment or something. Whatever it is, the other teachers don't like talking about him except Tolfdir. The man goes down and talks to him in the Midden sometimes. If anyone here knows about realms beyond realms, it's the Augur."
Serana stood so abruptly her chair scraped across the stone floor.
"Thank you, Urag."
He snorted. "Don't mention it."
With a flick of her wrist, she cast a precise telekinesis spell, sending the books gliding back to their proper shelves without disturbing a single scroll. Then she turned and left the Arcaneum, determination replacing frustration.
Getting down the stairs, she arrived in the Hall of Elements. The Eye of Magnus still floated at the chamber's center, slowly rotating, the runes etched on its surface still glowing in intervals like a heartbeat.
Even now, it unsettled her. The amount of magic it contained was truly staggering, though she had gotten somewhat used to it.
She had barely taken three steps when a voice called out.
"Serana!"
Mirabelle Ervine approached at a brisk pace, expression tight, all traces of academic calm stripped away.
"What's going on?" Serana asked.
"We have a visitor seeking an audience with the Archmage." Mirabelle stated, pursing her lips. "He calls himself Quaranir, of the Psijic Order."
…
AN: Gerron is back in Shor's Stone and immediately putting in the work. With a new artifact in hand in the form of Mehrunes Razor, Gerron's next workshop session is about to be productive.
This chapter was quite meaty in terms of information, I hope you didn't mind that. A lot of things could happen in two weeks, especially in a fic as fast paced as this. So I thought just letting Gerron narrate what everyone was doing would be better instead of going through everyone's POV's one by one.
That'll be too much of a slog fest.
Anyways, Serana plans to seek the Augur of Dunlain, but Quaranir finally pops in regarding everything that's been happening after nearly all the threats have been neutralized. Classis Psijic Order moves.
Anyways, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 99 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers!