4E 202, Shor's Stone, Gerron's Workshop
Gerron Ironbreaker
The workshop was quiet in the way only a forge at rest could be.
There was no roar of flame. No ringing of hammer on anvil. Only the low hum of the enchanting table and the faint ticking of cooling metal somewhere in the room.
Gerron held the blade beneath a focused magelight, slowly rotating it between thumb and forefinger.
Mehrunes' Razor.
Even now, after everything it had done, it was beautiful.
The edge caught the light without reflecting it, as though the blade drank illumination rather than returned it.
The ebony was flawless—no grain, no impurity—its surface dark as a starless sky. Gerron could feel the Daedric Heart that had been used to temper it, its presence fused so completely into the metal that it no longer felt foreign. It pulsed faintly, like a memory of heat rather than heat itself.
Dagon's work no doubt.
As much as he despised the Prince of Destruction, Gerron would not insult craftsmanship by denying the truth.
This weapon was worthy to have been made by a god. Daedric artifacts always were.
Throughout history, whenever catastrophe struck—whenever empires fell or the world itself seemed to tilt toward ruin—there was almost always a Daedric artifact lurking somewhere in the shadows.
The Mysterium Xarxes. The Mehrunes Razor. The Ebony Blade. Tools of power, given freely, with a price always paid later.
Gerron's eyes narrowed as he traced the enchantment lattice with his senses.
This was not the first time Gerron studied the Razor. He had held this weapon and analyzed it deeply just after the Night of Convergence. He came to the same conclusion now as he did back then.
The Mehrunes Razor bore a unique enchantment. Something simply known as the Ashen Curse.
A truly elegant, if horrifying thing.
The curse did not merely burn or disintegrate. It converted. Matter touched by the blade was reduced to ash on a conceptual level, its structure rewritten into something inert and dead. Armor, stone, flesh—it made no distinction.
Anything without sufficient divine or arcane reinforcement simply ceased to exist as it once had.
That was why even the strongest mundane steel meant nothing against it. Why a single nick could kill. Why Keeper Carcette had nearly died.
The only objects capable of holding against it were artifacts that held divine power, or artifacts with enough magicka within them to resist the effect.
It was why the Mercury Hammer, along with Dawnbreaker and Isran's warhammer of light could contend against it.
Weapons and armor made of Dragonbone or Dragonscale could potentially resist it as well, depending on the strength of the Dragon that the materials came from.
His mind went back to Carcette's arm, ashen veins spiderwebbing outward from the wound.
Even Master-Level restoration magics barely held the curse at bay. It was only due to immediate intervention by Tolan, along with Carcette's own mastery of Restoration that she didn't crumble from the inside out.
A flaw, Gerron thought. Not in the weapon's lethality, but in its design.
The curse functioned independently, raw and uncontrolled. Powerful, but wasteful.
The user could never determine whether or not they wanted the curse to activate, yet simple raw magicka in large amounts were also capable of nulling its effects.
His gaze flicked toward another blade resting nearby.
Spellbreaker.
A weapon designed not to overpower magic, but to unmake it. To strip enchantments down to their smallest components and disperse them harmlessly.
If the Ashen Curse were refined—filtered, guided, constrained—then combined with the Spellbreaker…
Gerron's lips slowly curled into a grin.
Applied correctly, the Razor's curse could become absolute. A killing edge that nothing short of true divinity could resist. Not enchanted plate. Not dragonbone. Perhaps not even the scales of a Kruziik-tier dragon.
It was a terrifying thought, one that made his insides feel giddy.
He set the Razor aside, carefully, respectfully, and turned his attention to the other artifacts arrayed on the worktable.
A total of four Dragon Priests had now fallen. Hevnoraak, Rahgot, Vokun, Volsung. Each bore a unique Dragon Priest Mask with their own unique effects.
Each one sat motionless, yet the air around them felt thick, as though the world itself bent slightly in their presence.
Gerron had seen and tested each extensively. Fire, frost, shock, blunt force.
Nothing. Not one thing had successfully even scratched the mask.
Even when Kiera used her more powerful shouts, even after Savos killed Rahgot with a Master-Level destruction spell, the mask remained unscathed.
They were made of ordinary materials, that much he was sure of. Rahgot's were oricalchum, Hevnoraak iron, Volsung corundum. It was magic weaved into them that made them unique.
The enchantments woven into these relics were not merely layered, they were integrated. Bound into the structure of the masks in a way modern enchantments simply didn't replicate.
This wasn't basic spellcraft like it was taught at the college. This was a level of mythical engineering. A level that Gerron could only reach due to the Forge Eternal.
If he could unravel how those wards functioned, how they anchored themselves against overwhelming force, then armor forged with similar principles would be just as strong.
No more would he stand and see death and destruction rain upon his home. Alduin and his dragons had enough damage. The next time they meet, Gerron would not be so helpless.
A faint clatter echoed through the open window of the workshop—a mix of voices, boots, and the sounds of the city at large.
Even here, he could feel the tension growing amongst the people. A strain in the infrastructure. Refugees flooding in, builders racing to keep up, crime rising in the gaps left by expansion.
Village charters would help. New towns, new trade routes, pressure spread outward instead of inward.
Filnjar was currently handling that, speaking with the few people that had the potential to raise a town and a village. Even Maven Black-Briar was in the talks of receiving one, since her movements of gaining influence had been severely limited here in Shor's Stone ever since Serana talked to her.
Gerron had no opinion on that woman, he trusted Filnjar's judgement.
Ralof and Grogmar were already rallying the men. Two hundred of Shor's Guards and thirty of the Automaton Guardians.
In two days, they would march on Riften.
That would be the place and time for him to observe them in battle.
The automatons had, till now, only participated in training and basic patrols across the city. Never had they been taken out into real life combat scenarios.
The orcs hunkering down on Riften would start. Gerron would see their performance and make proper upgrades, all for the purpose of making the dragon-killing machines.
He rolled his shoulders once, steadying himself, then turned toward the heart of the workshop.
The forge waited.
Gerron Ironbreaker reached for his tools.
It was time to get to work.
…
4E 202, Solitude
Kiera Fendalyn
The port of Solitude was a flurry of activity.
Kiera stood at its edge, watching the legion work below. Red-plumed helms bobbed through the crowd like a tide of embers as soldiers moved in disciplined lines.
They checked ballistae, loaded crates of rations and ammunition, and secured mooring lines into the Imperial transports that would soon carry them Northwest.
Shouted orders filled the air as well as a few muted conversations. War was never quiet, even in times of wait like these.
"The men are ready, Lady Kiera." Tullius said, hands clasped behind his back. "With the mobilization for Castle Volkihar, we do risk leaving the Reach and Hjaalmarch thinner than I'd like." He paused, then added, "Fortunately, Ulfric Stormcloak has sent word. Stormcloak forces will reinforce the Holds in our absence."
Kiera's gaze did not leave the port. "That is… reassuring," she said. "Strange times, when the Empire and the Stormcloaks trade words instead of blows."
Tullius allowed himself a small, humorless smile. "Strange times indeed."
Her eyes traced the Legion banners snapping in the wind. "Many rise in wars like this," she continued. "The Harbinger of the Companions is already spoken of as Ysgramor reborn. Many call Galmar Stone-Fist as the Brown Bear of Windhelm. And Hadvar…"
She paused, faint amusement touching her voice. "They're calling him the Unbroken Sword of the Legion."
Tullius exhaled sharply through his nose, a quick breath of laughter. "The man earned it," he said. "From the reports that I have read, the Night of Convergence might have ended very differently had he not charged with you, Lady Kiera."
Kiera inclined her head, a small smile on her face. Indeed, Hadvar's voice still echoed in her memory. In her charge to Vokun, Hadvar's cry was what rallied the other Legionnaires to aid her in her advance, allowing her to reach the Dragon Priest unscathed and slay him.
"It certainly would have. That night bore a great price, but the results speak for itself I believe."
"Indeed, my lady." Tullius replied, "Despite this war calling for the existence of truly great figures like yourself and the other Champions, the might and grit of us mortals is still enough to make a difference."
"It always has." Kiera affirmed, eyeing the gathering before her.
Three thousand Legionnaires would sail from Solitude to lay siege to Castle Volkihar. Another thousand would march with the Dawnguard to reclaim Northwatch Keep, securing a forward harbor for the inevitable evacuation.
Supplies from Dawnstar were still inbound, slowing the final preparations, but the plan was sound.
Kiera would be the spearhead.
With Vermithor at her call and her mastery of the Thu'um nearing legend, she could have reduced Castle Volkihar to rubble in an afternoon. But that was not their purpose.
The castle's dungeons held thousands of prisoners. Men, women, and children kept as cattle by the vampires, preyed upon in the shadows for centuries. Ending that horror took precedence over destruction. Artifacts and treasures claimed by Harkon would be seized, yes, but the living came first.
And still, Volkihar was no simple target. Its walls were ancient and formidable, its remaining defenders fewer than before but entrenched, desperate, and fighting on home ground. A siege was unavoidable.
Kiera's thoughts were broken by the crisp sound of armored boots.
Legate Rikke approached and snapped a sharp salute. "Lady Kiera. General Tullius." Her expression was professional. "Forgive the interruption, but Lady Kiera's presence is requested by the Emperor."
Kiera turned and nodded, before looking back at Tullius. "Duty calls, General."
"Of course," Tullius replied. "The full debriefing for Volkihar will be held in Castle Dour in four days' time, after the wedding. I'll see you then."
Kiera inclined her head once more before following Rikke into the city proper. Her steps echoed on the cobblestone streets, she wondered what the Emperor wanted to talk about.
Then again, considering recent events, there was truly much they needed to discuss.
The Night of Convergence, the death of Harkon, the coming siege of Castle Volkihar, the Mythic Dawn…not to mention the Emperor's recent visit to the Thalmor Embassy.
It had been a risky maneuver, but a calculated one. Emperor Titus Mede II had immediately marched to the Thalmor Embassy in broad daylight to demand answers, right after the Penitus Oculatus had finished extracting information from the imprisoned Ancano.
The information they uncovered was dire. Not only had the Thalmor actively sabotaged many of Skyrim's infrastructure and welfare as a whole, but they were also responsible for fanning the flames of war in the first place.
The Thalmor were the ones running things in the shadows. Specific intelligence or information, withheld. Couriers from both sides, assassinated. A few staged and sabotaged events that openly created discourse and nurtured the Civil War.
The Thalmor wanted the rebellion to happen and to continue, simply due to the act itself weakening the Empire as a whole.
Suffice to say, the Emperor was livid. The man gathered the Penitus Oculatus, and had General Tullius amass a small force of elite Legionnaires.
Half an hour later, the entourage left for the Thalmor Embassy from Solitude, the Thalmor none the wiser for what was coming to them.
No one knew what words were exchanged behind the Embassy's closed doors, but all knew this much: the Emperor had left unscathed, and the message had been delivered.
Kiera doubted the Dominion would forget it, but now neither would the Empire.
While the Empire did not have the numbers it did back in its prime, the Empire stood stronger than it had in generations. Seven champions now aligned beneath its banner, herself among them. Gerron. Serana. Isran. Aela. Karliah. Aranea. And beyond them, the first stirrings of new Voice-wielders training under Paarthurnax atop High Hrothgar.
Power was shifting and Titus Mede knew it, which was why he made the first move. If the flames of war were ignited once more, the Empire had the strength to fight back.
The sound of voices snapped Kiera back into focus as she and Rikke walked through the streets of Solitude.
Even now, the preparations were in high order. The wedding of Vittoria Vici was like a balm to a burning wound. In a land currently wrought with war, almost everyone—noble or civilian alike—clung to any semblance of normalcy they could find.
Despite the fact that the wedding would happen in the square of the city at the front of the Temple of the Divines, the celebrations and decorations had spread into the entirety of the city, and even to the surrounding farms and stables.
Banners draped the stone facades, ribbons fluttered between archways, and merchants shouted cheerfully as they set up stalls for the coming crowds. Visitors poured in from every Hold.
It was a festival in all but name, and Kiera can't help but smile at it all.
When was the last time she had a chance to relax like this? For a moment, Kiera felt the tension in her shoulders ease. She had forgotten how much she missed peace, even a temporary one.
Rikke noticed and offered a brief, knowing smile before duty reclaimed her expression.
They passed beneath the towering arches of the Blue Palace, its grandeur unchanged despite the storm gathering beyond its walls. Guards parted at Rikke's approach, and soon they stood before a closed door, heavy oak bound in gold filigree.
Rikke opened it.
Kiera stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the chamber where Emperor Titus Mede II awaited.
…
AN: A new chapter!
This one was surprisingly fun to write despite the obvious lack of dialogue or action scenes. It merely encompassed the actions and activities of the two main characters of the fic, one Gerron and Kiera, the two champions who shall shine the brightest.
A small tidbit of normalcy for the both of them, though a few inner monologue and peeks for future events could be seen here as well.
I really enjoyed writing the Kiera and Tullius sequence though, that part felt good.
Anyways, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 100 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers!