4E 202, Thieves' Guild headquarters
Brynjolf
It was truly surprising how one's life could change in the blink of an eye.
For Brynjolf, it felt even more so.
Half a year ago, he had been second-in-command to a Thieves' Guild that barely deserved the name. A shadow of a shadow, clinging to old routines and older regrets, bleeding members and coin in equal measure.
Riften had been their home, yes—but it had also been their cage. Every job riskier than the last, every success smaller than it ought to have been.
Then, to make things even more dramatic, Mercer Frey, the supposed Guildmaster of the Thieves' Guild turned out to be a traitor, and Karliah, the supposed murderer of Gaius, was a Nightingale and killed Mercer right in front of Brynjolf.
Then, he was invited to join the Nightingales by Karliah herself, a secret band of elite thieves that were filled with the highest ranking members of the Thieves' Guild.
At the time, Brynjolf hadn't known whether to feel honored or insulted. But he'd accepted nonetheless. Pride had nothing to do with it, survival did. And maybe, if he were honest with himself, a desire to prove that he was more than just a silver tongue and a quick pair of hands.
The months after that followed were filled with uncertainty, Brynjolf spending most of it sharpening his skills to become worthy of the title of Nightingale.
He was already one of the most proficient thieves in all of Skyrim, it was just his combat skill and lethal instincts that needed a little sharpening.
He'd remedied that with brutal efficiency. Sparring with Karliah until his arms ached. Learning where to strike, when to kill, and when to vanish. The difference between a thief who fled and one who ended the pursuit.
When Karliah received Nocturnal's omen, Brynjolf hadn't been surprised.
Seek the Dragonborn and the Dragonslayer.
Champions. Figures larger than life. Pieces on a board far grander than the Guild had ever played on before.
Brynjolf had never trusted words like good and evil. He'd stolen from starving nobles and desperate merchants alike. Morality, to him, was a matter of perspective—and survival. The Divines and Princes playing their games only reinforced that belief.
Still, when Karliah returned from meeting the Dragonslayer with Serana, there had been a new gravity in her voice. A sense that this conflict—whatever it was—would not leave Skyrim untouched.
Which was why Brynjolf had been given his task.
Find the Mythic Dawn.
Brynjolf leaned back against the stone railing overlooking the main chamber of their new headquarters. It was far from being a proper hideout, but it at least beat the Ratway, some forgotten sewers beneath a complacent city.
Here, torches burned steady and bright. There was a hum of quiet voices that filled the space, thieves conferring, runners delivering reports, warriors sharpening blades or cleaning bows.
When Brynjolf met back with the rest of the Guild and pitched the idea of working for the local Jarl, they were surprisingly eager.
It seems that even they had gotten tired of the constant vigilance needed to live as a thief in the city that the Dragonslayer had taken roost.
The guards were competent, and very few of them were dirty enough to take bribes. By Oblivion, the central tower with all the turrets truly sent a shiver down Brynjolf's spine the first time he saw it.
Getting permission to base out in a city as secure as this one, along with getting work in a time where all humans need to work together is a win-win.
So Brynjolf immediately got to work.
All professional thieves were sent to the nine major cities of Skyrim. Anyone else with a twinge of ranger or combat abilities were sent to the wilderness, places where Delvin and Vex had determined to be likely spots of a headquarters for a bunch of Daedric Cultists.
And finally, they found it.
He pushed himself off the railing and crossed the chamber toward the central table, where maps were spread wide beneath weighted stones and dagger hilts. Delvin Mallory stood on one side, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought. Vex leaned against a pillar nearby, twirling a dagger idly between her fingers.
"So," Brynjolf said, voice cutting through the low murmur. "What do we have?"
Delvin straightened and tapped a finger against the map, indicating a rugged stretch of the Reach. "Rumors, mostly. But the kind that keep cropping up. Outlying villages around this area have been getting raids by 'unholy' creatures. Not human, at least."
Vex snorted. "And they're not drunk farmers seeing things either. We cross-checked."
Delvin nodded. "Khajiit caravans near Karthwasten claim they fought off a group of red-skinned goblins.
Brynjolf leaned in, eyes scanning the annotations Vipir the Fleet had scribbled in tight, precise script. He was the lead scout that was sent to areas within the Reach.
'Red-skinned goblins. Only one thing comes to mind…Scamps of the Dremora Army.'
"Mythic Dawn loved their Daedra," Brynjolf murmured. "Wouldn't surprise me if they sent their minions to rob for supplies."
He straightened, folding his arms. "Of all the Holds in Skyrim, the Reach is already a mess from the many Forsworn bands that raid the countryside. With the Legions and the Stormcloaks united, they're also descending into the Reach in mass to clear out the rot there."
"Which makes hiding difficult," Vex continued his train of thought. "Too many patrols. Too many eyes. We would have heard about it if the legion's patrols had found something."
"Unless you're hiding somewhere no one wants to go," Delvin pointed to a location within the far western mountains that bordered Skyrim. "Bthardamz, just west of Karthwasten. Dwarven Ruins are filled with all kinds of crap that the Forsworn actively leave it alone, and the legion and stormcloak patrols haven't gone that far west yet."
Brynjolf studied the location in silence. Dwarven ruins were dangerous even without cultists squatting inside them. Automatons. Traps. Places where screams could echo forever without anyone hearing.
'A perfect place for a cult,' he thought grimly.
"Has Vipir gotten close enough to at least confirm it?" Vex asked. "Or is this all still just a guess?"
"A guess," Brynjolf said, nodding once. "But a damn good one. We've worked jobs with less intel."
Vex shrugged. "Fair."
"Send a runner to Vipir." Brynjolf ordered. "Make sure to have a set of eyes on Bthardamz at all times. Make a record of anything and everything that comes out of it. I'll take this to the Dragonslayer in the meantime."
As the Guild moved to carry out his orders, Brynjolf allowed himself a brief moment of reflection.
Once, his world had been coin purses and lock tumblers. Now he was helping decide the fate of Skyrim itself.
He didn't know whether that made him a better man.
…
4E 202, College of Winterhold
Serana
The last time Serana had visited the Midden was alongside Gerron, when they had sought out the Atronach Forge.
She remembered the heat of it most. The unnatural warmth deep beneath the College, despite its location being deep within the bowels of the coldest region of Skyrim.
It was where he forged the Dragonscale vest and bodice from Caraxes' scales. The thing that allowed her to survive her encounter with Alduin back on the Throat of the World.
Till this day, his craft was one of the few things that inspired genuine awe within her.
Gerron was a capable smith, probably the best that has ever walked the lands of Skyrim. If anyone could construct a stable portal into the Soul Cairn without tearing the fabric of Nirn apart, it would be him. But even Gerron needed foundations—knowledge to temper skill.
And knowledge was why she was here.
Urag gro-Shub had spoken of the Augur of Dunlain in the same tone one used for unstable relics or forgotten gods: wary, respectful, and tinged with irritation. A being of wisdom, no longer mortal, bound to the College itself. A scholar who had quite literally dissolved into magicka.
If anyone still walking—or lingering—on Nirn knew the truth of the Soul Cairn, it would be the Augur.
As Serana descended into the Midden, the air grew colder, thicker. The torches here burned with a strange, blue-tinged flame, their light bending oddly along the walls.
She could feel old magicka humming beneath her boots, a constant low resonance that seemed both eerie and calming.
She hadn't explored the Midden properly the last time she was here.
A mistake she regretted. Had she delved into it properly, scanning every nook and cranny back when she visited the first time, she would have discovered the secret entrance the cave bore that would lead to the College proper.
Had she done so, then Ancano and his ilk wouldn't have been able to utilize the same entrance in their ambush all those months ago.
It was pure luck that the College didn't suffer major casualties then. It was a mistake she would no longer make.
This was war, she realized. Kiera and Gerron were competent strategists and peerless warriors. They were the pillars of strength in the times to come, but wars were not won with strength alone.
They were won by information.
By secrets pried loose in silence.
By shadows.
Neither Kiera nor Gerron possessed the shrewdness needed to fulfill this role, which was why she needed to fill for them.
All of these were things that her mother had taught her.
Serana slowed, her thoughts turning inward as she moved deeper underground. Her mother's voice echoed faintly in memory, always reminding that power unused was wasted, and power misunderstood was lethal.
More than once in her life, the lessons that Valerica had imparted became the thing that she relied on. Serana missed her dearly.
"I'll find you," Serana whispered to the empty stone. "I swear it."
Arriving at the entrance to the Midden on the courtyard north of the Hall of Elements, she looked around to make sure that no one was near before entering.
It was quite difficult to find a proper time where the courtyard would be deserted. Most scholars and mages here lacked a sleep schedule, probably a side effect of their intense bid of learning.
Most people slept when they were tired, not caring what time it actually was. Which means that the College was always busy and every hour of the day. It didn't help that Urag kept the Arcaneum open at every hour of the day, the Orcish librarian using atronachs and familiars to watch over whenever he goes to sleep.
But she managed to find it, that small gap where none would see her. All the students were currently busy in the College cafeteria and the Arcaneum, while all the professors and master wizards were in a meeting to discuss their recent talk with the man called Quaranir.
Serana was there when Savos and Mirabelle spoke with the members of the Psijic Order.
The Altmer man had claimed that the Eye was too dangerous, and had seeked to take the Eye for themselves for 'safety'.
No one bought that reason in the slightest. None of them missed the fact that they waited until Morokei escaped until they showed themselves.
The Psijic Order knew of the relationship between the Eye and the Staff. Yet when Savos asked, they refused to disclose it.
So they saw no reason to commit to the request. Savos had told them to leave, and Serana had seen Quaranir's lips edge to a frown for a quick second.
All the Psijic Order members glanced at one another, then to Savos, Serana, and Mirabelle.
It seems they knew what would happen if a fight were to happen at that very instance, and chose to withdraw.
Savos had called for all the professors for a meeting, and Serana politely said that she had a personal business to attend.
And here she was now, ready to meet the so-called wise figure of the College.
The passage opened into the deepest chamber of the Midden, where the air shimmered faintly, as though reality itself had thinned.
Ancient runes carved by Archmage Shalidor glowed dimly along the walls, layered atop newer enchantments woven by generations of mages who barely understood what they were reinforcing.
At the center hovered the Augur of Dunlain.
Serana stopped.
She saw him—not just with her eyes.
Since becoming Meridia's chosen, her perception of the world had changed. Energy revealed itself to her in ways it never had before: a lattice of forces underlying flesh, stone, and spellwork alike.
The Augur was a contradiction made manifest.
Threads of living essence twisted through vast reservoirs of raw magicka, neither wholly separate nor fully merged. He was alive—aware—yet his body had long since dissolved. The enchantments of the College sustained him, stabilized him, but the original transformation… that bore Shalidor's unmistakable mark.
Power layered upon power. Mortal will forcing magicka into permanence.
A feat both brilliant and terrifying.
"So," the Augur intoned, his voice echoing from nowhere and everywhere at once, "another seeker descends into forgotten places. You shine… differently than the others."
Serana inclined her head slightly. "You see it."
"I see what touches you," the Augur replied. "Energy unbound. A hand not of this world, yet sworn against stagnation. Meridia's light rests uneasily upon a daughter of night."
Serana didn't bristle. She had expected that.
"I didn't come to debate my patron," she said calmly. "I came for answers."
"Answers are burdens," the Augur murmured. "And burdens weigh heavily on those who already carry too much."
Serana stepped closer, her boots echoing softly. "Then let me decide whether I can bear them."
Silence stretched.
The Augur's form pulsed faintly, magicka rippling like breath. "You seek the place where souls are caged. Where bargains echo forever."
"The Soul Cairn," Serana said. "You know of it."
"I know of paths," he replied. "And of prices."
Serana closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. "My mother is there."
The energy around the Augur shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.
"Valerica," he said, the name carried on a ripple of recognition. "Yes… I remember the wound her passage left behind."
Serana's breath caught despite herself. "Then you do know how she went."
"I do," the Augur said. "She did not tear a door open. She slipped through one already ajar."
Serana opened her eyes. "Tell me how."
"Coldharbour's lesser reflection is not reached by distance," the Augur intoned. "But by alignment. The Soul Cairn answers to souls promised, power offered, and thresholds weakened."
He spoke slowly, cryptically, but the meaning formed as he continued.
"A ritual of necromantic design. An offering of vitality, temporary and measured. Or the surrender of a soul's fragment, willingly given, anchored to an external vessel."
Serana's thoughts raced. A partial soul binding. Just as Valerica had done.
"The barrier must be shaped," the Augur continued. "A focus attuned to both realms. Black soul gems resonate most clearly, though other vessels may suffice if crafted by hands that understand more than metal."
Gerron.
Her lips twitched upward despite herself.
"The portal must be sustained," the Augur said. "Not by brute force, but by balance. Too much power shatters the path. Too little, and it collapses."
"I understand," Serana said quietly. And she truly did.
The Augur's presence dimmed slightly. "Then you have what you came for, child of night and light both. Knowledge, once given, cannot be reclaimed."
Serana straightened, something light and unfamiliar blooming in her chest.
Hope.
"Thank you," she said. And for the first time since entering the Midden, she smiled.
…
AN: A new chapter!
This chapter was fun to make, Brynjolf doesn't get many POV's but they're always fun to do. The HQ for the Mythic Dawn is discovered and Serana meets the Augur of Dunlain.
The whole dialogue between them both felt really good to write, I'm really satisfied with how it went.
More chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 101 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers!