4E 202, Shor's Stone
Gerron Ironbreaker
The plans for the rebuilding of Riften were progressing steadily. It was a slow, deliberate work, one mercifully free of sabotage so far.
That alone felt like a miracle.
Scrolls were spread across Gerron's desk, weighted down by chunks of unworked ebony and brass paperweights he had forged himself. They detailed the expansion of the Rift: two small towns and six villages, most of them positioned strategically along the river that flowed from Lake Honrich.
Waterways were lifelines. Gerron had learned that quickly.
With the port of Riften reconstructed and fortified, goods could be shipped downstream toward Windhelm with a fraction of the cost and risk that plagued merchant caravans. From there, more trade could be made to the ports of Dawnstar and Solitude, enriching them even further.
There would be less banditry since robbing ships sailing down a river was immensely more difficult than their usual method of trapping wagons and carts. There would be less loss, faster trade.
The Khajiit Caravans would grumble, but Gerron didn't really care much for what they thought.
Ulfric's message had arrived by courier just the previous day. A request to increase trade between Windhelm and Shor's Stone. Gerron had agreed immediately.
Most of the finer details were already being handled by Jorleif and Filnjar, their respective stewards exchanging correspondence that bordered on polite arguments. Gerron trusted both men to keep things civil, and profitable.
At least some good news existed beyond politics.
His latest experiment had succeeded.
The Automaton Guardians were improving. He had identified multiple inefficiencies and structural weaknesses from their fight against the Orcish warband. The upgrades were underway, overseen by the Automaton Builders working tirelessly in the workshops.
The next generation of their brethren would be faster and stronger, more prepared to handle the threat of the dragons.
When this new batch was finished, they would have a new weapon to fight against Alduin and his ilk. One that would hopefully help in reducing the casualties they gained in these conflicts.
That mattered more than any title he held.
Speaking of projects, Gerron turned to see the Vox Matrix currently stationed in the corner of his office. It was quite an interesting artifact, though terribly inefficient.
It took too much power for a single use, which was probably why the Thalmor rarely used it. But Gerron had thought of at least a dozen solutions to fix it.
With the new blueprints in mind, he had pulled five of the Builders whose duties were road maintenance and assigned the manufacturing of Vox Machina's to them. Hopefully, he'll have a few ready by the next two weeks to start giving them out to the other holds and commanders of the war.
Communication was the backbone of all campaigns, and with battles sprawling all across the lands of Skyrim, a quick and instant form of communication would be a boon instead of relying on couriers all the time. Reliable as they were, couriers still needed time and supplies to traverse the terrain.
Gerron leaned back in his chair and cracked his neck, a low groan escaping him as the weight of the day finally caught up.
The work of a Jarl never truly finished.
It was ironic. The Battle Smith blessing of the Forge Eternal granted him endurance bordering on the divine. He could fight for days without faltering, clash head-on with the World-Eater, endure wounds that would kill ordinary men twice over.
Yet paperwork, petitions, and governance drained him faster than any battlefield ever could.
Mental exhaustion was its own kind of war it seems.
That morning alone, he had held court for nearly three hours. Petitioners came escorted by Grogmar, each bearing problems that could not be solved with a hammer or a smithy.
There were crop disputes, land rights, trade permits. Even in war, mundane problems like these still exist. It made him dizzy.
Then there was the last petitioner of the day, one Constance Michel.
The caretaker of the newly built Morningstar Orphanage here in the city had stood before him with tired eyes, humbly requesting an increase in budget. The number of orphans in Riften had grown—too many parents lost to the war and chaos of Skyrim.
Gerron had approved it without hesitation.
He could forge weapons capable of killing gods, but he could not bring parents back to their children.
That truth weighed heavy in his mind. Despite all his power, there were still things in this world that not even the Forge Eternal could solve.
A soft tapping broke his thoughts.
Gerron looked up just as a spectral bat entered through the window. It hovered briefly before landing on the sill, a sealed letter bound to its leg.
He took the letter. The bat dissolved into harmless motes of blue light.
He recognized the elegant and faintly archaic handwriting as Serana's. She wrote of the events that happened in the College of Winterhold, of the Psijic Order's sudden appearance.
The Altmer mages claimed concern for the 'safety' of all of Tamriel as they demanded custody of the Eye of Magnus, claiming that none but the Order could contain the power within.
Gerron snorted quietly.
Savos Aren, for all his measured restraint, had apparently told them where to shove their concern.
Good.
Serana's letter continued, detailing her encounter with the Augur of Dunlain.
That… caught Gerron's full attention.
A soul permanently suffused into the College's magicka—once a student, now something else entirely—had spoken of the Soul Cairn.
"The barrier must be shaped," Serana had transcribed carefully. "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's eyes narrowed slightly as the Artificer System engaged, parsing the information automatically.
A shaped barrier. A tuned focus. A resonance medium.
They needed a portal, not a breach.
Building one themselves would be far preferable to relying on whatever accidental rift Valerica had once exploited, assuming they could even find it. Gerron would rather not depend on something as dangerous as a partial soul binding, at least without proper precautions set in place.
Black soul gems being the standard anchor made sense. If that was the natural method, then it could be reverse-engineered and improved upon.
Blueprints and instruction ran off in his mind, Gerron idly breaking down all that was needed to construct a proper passage to the Soul Cairn.
Dragonbone and Oricalchum would be needed for the general base of the portal, with planks and bolts of ebony to hold it all together. All three he had in abundance.
What he lacked were the thirty Black Soul Gems needed, a handful of hag feathers, and a Daedra heart, to power it.
Some rather annoying ingredients to procure, but still manageable.
He penned a reply to Serana immediately, outlining the materials required and requesting whatever the College could spare. Once finished, he tied it neatly and handed it off to Bronze, his mechanical owl, which launched through the open window
Business concluded for the day, Gerron left his office and stepped into the main hall where Ralof was waiting.
"Taking a walk, my Jarl?" the Nord asked.
Gerron nodded. "Just a leisure one."
Ralof nodded and promptly motioned for two Shor's Guards to follow at a respectful distance.
Gerron resisted the urge to sigh. He was confident enough in his strength that guards such as them weren't really needed, but as Serana and Filnjar both said, there was a certain level of propriety that was needed in his position as Jarl.
The streets of Shor's Stone were alive with activity. People waved as he passed. Some bowed. Others simply smiled.
He wore his ebony armor openly, never going anywhere without it. It was good for the people to see that their Jarl was a warrior. Half the reason why so many people followed Ulfric to battle was because always fought with them.
The Crown of the Rift rested upon his head, the Mercury Hammer secured on his back.
Many children whispered excitedly as they pointed at the hammer. The weapon that had struck Alduin, the hammer that had defeated Harkon.
Gerron just shook his head. He didn't know how it started, but many lauded tales of his supposed artifacts had spread far and wide across Skyrim.
Most of it—like this one—was woefully inaccurate, no doubt the bards and storytellers took their own spins into each tale. It was the Spellbreaker Sword that he used to fight Harkon, not the hammer.
Despite that, there was no chance of stopping it. Legends grew so fast in cities like this.
Mira and Inggar were here as well, watching from a distance. Captain Renly's family had looked better in the month after Gerron's return. They were still grieving, but Mira had proven to be a strong woman as she raised her child by her lonesome.
It was then that Gerron noticed the man in dark clothes, standing amidst the crowd. Gerron looked up as their eyes met, Brynjolf nodding his head to the side.
Gerron sighed. 'Back to business, then.'
He glanced at Ralof, who immediately began clearing the area with practiced efficiency. The crowd dispersed quickly under the watchful presence of the guards.
Gerron walked to the alleyway, where Brynjolf was waiting. Ralof and the Shor's Guard made sure to stand guard by the entrance to make sure no one eavesdropped.
"What do you have?" Gerron asked.
Brynjolf smiled faintly. "We found it. The headquarters of the Mythic Dawn."
Gerron's eyes widened in surprise as Brynjolf passed him a sealed parchment. Gerron broke it off instantly, eyes scanning the content.
"We've had our suspicions on the Dwemer ruin of Bthardamz for a while now." Brynjolf stated, Gerron looking at the hastily drawn map of the Reach, depicting the Dwemer ruin in question.
"Vipir the Fleet, one my best scouts, camped by the ruin for a few days, noting all the comings and goings." Brynjolf continued. "It's confirmed. A runner came by just last night, men and women in red cloaks were seen exiting the ruin."
'Finally,' Gerron smiled at the bit of good news.
"Good work." Gerron conjured a hefty pouch of coins and tossed it at him. "Should be around two thousand septims. You'll get the rest from Filnjar."
Brynjolf grinned, testing the weight of the pouch. "Appreciate working with you, Dragonslayer."
With one last nod, Brynjolf turned and left, turning invisible the moment he left the mouth of the alley.
…
4E 202, Skuldafn
Alduin
The Soul Cairn.
A wasteland of rot and regret, where souls lingered without purpose—neither devoured nor reborn. To mortals, it was a place of dread. To Alduin, it was a harvest left untended.
Like Sovngarde, it was swollen with souls ripe for consumption. Souls that had slipped beyond the reach of Mundus, yet remained bound, trapped within a plane of Oblivion like insects in amber. The Ideal Masters believed this made them untouchable.
They were wrong.
Their realm existed to collect souls, to gorge upon them slowly, savoring despair over eternity. A mockery of the true cycle. Alduin did not concern himself with their petty dominion. He was the World-Eater. The end and the beginning. No pact, no plane, no self-styled masters could deny him what was his by right.
Yet worse of all, they had enslaved one of his kin.
Not a lesser dov. Not a nameless wyrm.
A member of the Kruziik.
Durnehviir.
The thought alone stirred a low, rumbling fury in Alduin's chest. Dragons were meant to rule the skies, to command the heavens with the Thu'um, not to rot as chained sentinels in Oblivion. To bind a dragon's soul was a sin beyond measure.
Unforgivable.
Durnehviir's mastery of necromancy, his understanding of the boundary between soul and flesh, would be invaluable in the wars to come. Alduin could feel the threads of fate tightening around him. Time pressed in ways even he could no longer fully ignore.
He had lingered too long already.
Morokei, Krosis, and Nahkriin will remain in Skuldafn to guard it. They were ordered to stay behind, a precaution for the unlikely event that the Dragonborn discovers the portal to Sovngarde.
All three bowed as Alduin delivered the command, their robes fluttering in the cold wind of the Velothi Mountains. He trusted them only as far as necessity demanded. Once, Dragon Priests were the apex of mortal devotion, those given masks were reflections of draconic supremacy given flesh.
Now?
Failures.
One by one, their brethren had fallen. Slain by mortals. By champions. By the Dragonborn.
Alduin felt no grief for them, only disappointment.
Their weakness was… strange.
Morokei had spoken of it in passing, of a disturbance in the flow of magicka. The Eye of Magnus. An artifact that bent power unnaturally, tethered to the Staff he now wielded. Alduin did not yet see its full shape, but he sensed its relevance.
Another variable.
Another complication.
But not one that mattered now.
Odahviing stood at his side, crimson scales catching the pale light that started to rise from the east. Beyond him, twenty dragons gathered, eager and restless.
"Alduin, truk se sil vey?" (Alduin, what of the soul restriction?) Odahviing rumbled, his voice respectful but cautious. "Soul cairn los aan suleyksejun voth aan rule. Fin nahl ziistmaas wundun." (The Soul Cairn is a realm bound by law. No living may enter.)
Alduin turned his head slowly, fixing Odahviing with a gaze that had broken gods.
"Ni wa dov." (Not to dov.)
The laws of Oblivion were written for mortals. For Daedra. For those who bartered and schemed.
A dragon's soul was not so easily constrained.
Their Voice was older than the Ideal Masters. Older than their bargains. Their power the most true.
Alduin spread his wings.
The air trembled.
He inhaled, drawing power not just from his lungs, but from the echo of creation itself.
"SIL MIIRAAD BEX!" (Soul. Path. Open.)
Dark violet light tore through the air as a gateway ruptured into being, its edges jagged and unstable. Beyond it lay the Soul Cairn in its full, wretched expanse.
A desolate horizon of jagged spires, drifting ruins, and endless ash. Purple lightning crawled across a dead sky. Countless whispers brushed against Alduin's senses, the murmur of trapped souls recoiling in terror.
In his prime, Alduin could travel between realms and dominions such as this without blinking an eye. Yet now, a significant amount of his strength was needed to do so.
Alduin surged forward, his massive form eclipsing the gateway as he entered without hesitation.
One by one, his kin followed. Their wings spread apart as eyes burning with fiery determination met with the hollowness of the undead.
For the first time since its creation, the Soul Cairn knew the shadow of true divinity.
Dragons had entered Oblivion.
And the Ideal Masters would learn what it meant to steal from the World-Eater.
…
AN: I don't really have much to say for this chapter, but some of my plans are finally put into fruition.
Gerron starts plans on making his own portal to the Cairn with Serana's notes from the Augur of Dunlain, though it seems Alduin beat him to it.
The Thu'um has always been the most versatile of all magics, a being such as Alduin would easily be able to open such gates.
The news of Bthardamz and the Mythic Dawn have also finally reached Gerron, we'll see what he does with it next chapter.
Anyways, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 104 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers!