4E 202, Shor's Stone
Esbern
To be back within the safety of solid walls was a feeling Esbern could not properly describe.
The walls of Shor's Stone were solid, thick slabs of dark stone quarried from the mountains themselves. They seemed almost grown from the earth rather than built upon it, as if the city had clawed its way out of the bones of Skyrim. For a man who had spent years hiding in sewers and crumbling ruins, the sheer strength of the place felt… reassuring.
The central watchtower Esbern had seen the first time he had arrived here had changed greatly since then. Once simply a sturdy defensive tower, it had now grown into something far grander.
The Ebony Palace, seat of the Jarl of the Rift.
Its black stone rose above the town like a jagged crown. Thick banners bearing the new sigil of the Rift fluttered in the biting mountain wind, and even from afar Esbern could see sentries pacing along the parapets with disciplined precision.
The battlements themselves were unlike any fortress Esbern had ever studied.
Ballistae lined the walls, but not the ordinary kind. These contraptions were larger, reinforced with strange Dwemer-like mechanisms. Instead of a single massive bolt, they launched clusters of smaller ones with the same force—dozens of iron-tipped missiles that would scatter through the sky like a storm of death.
Even dragons would hesitate before flying into that.
Between the ballistae stood something stranger still.
Magicka turrets.
Esbern had seen one fire as they were escorted into the city. A glowing apparatus mounted upon a rotating base had unleashed a concentrated blast of blue-white energy that struck a distant boulder on the training grounds and shattered it into dust.
They supposedly worked similarly to the vaulted Mercury Hammer, capable of unleashing either a single devastating blast… or a rapid stream of smaller magicka bolts continuously.
The Shor's Guards themselves were equally imposing.
Each one wore ebony armor polished to a dull gleam, dark grey cloaks bearing the new sigil of the Rift snapping in the wind as they stood watch over the walls. More than five dozen among them wore full dragonplate—gleaming bone-white armor carved from the remains of slain dragons.
Esbern blinked at that sight when he first saw it. Last he heard, only the Jarls and their best men were given the courtesy of such armor. But the abundance of dragon bones harvested during the war had allowed the Dragonslayer to arm his most capable warriors with such gear.
The result was a sight Esbern could scarcely have imagined during the darkest days of the Blades' exile.
A city defended by dragon slayers clad in dragon bone.
When was the last time he had felt this secure?
When was the last time he believed the world might not crumble beneath his feet?
Esbern thought they would have died when that blast from Morokei came at them. He thought they would have died when they tumbled down the jagged slopes of the Velothi Mountains.
But his initial ward—cast with desperate instinct—combined with the thick winter snow had softened the fall just enough. Just enough.
By the grace of the Divines above, he, Mjoll, and Aerin had survived. Bruised and battered, but alive.
Yet despite the relief of survival, the safety of stone walls could not erase what had happened. Delphine was dead. Fultheim was dead. And somehow… somehow old Esbern still lived.
He stared into the mug of ale clasped between his hands.
He wanted to grieve, wanted to shout, to curse the heavens, to scream until his throat bled.
But the feeling of loss had long ago become an old companion for someone like him. He had already lived through the first great purging of the Blades, when the Thalmor hunted them across the Empire like animals. Friends, brothers, and mentors. All cut down one by one.
Back then, he had buried those memories in a locked chamber deep within his mind.
He had done the same now.
Just like he did in the Ratway beneath Riften… hiding like a frightened rat while the world above burned.
What mattered now were the final orders of his Grandmaster. Delphine had commanded him to report their findings. And report it he would.
"You're saying Alduin is there?!" Filnjar balked.
The steward of Shor's Stone had risen from his seat near the balcony doors of the council room, one thick finger stabbing toward the distant peaks of the Velothi mountains, barely visible beyond the window.
"Yes," Esbern said quietly, his voice sounding small even to his own ears. "It took months… but we finally found it."
Mjoll placed a steady hand upon his shoulder, squeezing it. The touch was firm and grounding.
"We were… caught off guard," she admitted, her voice measured but tired. "Our mission was only reconnaissance. Yet Morokei somehow sensed us. One moment, we were just watching, the next…our invisibility was dispelled and we were standing in front of three Dragon Priests."
Esbern glanced at the young woman. Mjoll had remained steady despite everything. It had been she and Aerin who made their survival possible.
Esbern had broken his leg in the fall and Aerin had carried him on his back for nearly two days across the frozen mountain ridges while Mjoll cleared their path ahead.
Esbern was not ashamed to admit that without them he would have died before reaching the first tree line.
Yet their survival owed something else as well, something remarkable.
The journey back had been… strangely peaceful. There were no bandits, no brigands, no marauders. The path and the road were surprisingly clear of trouble.
They had been found by a Shor's Guard patrol halfway down the mountain trail. The soldiers had offered healing potions, warm food, and even escorted them part of the way to Shor's Stone.
Esbern had expected suspicion, perhaps hostility. Instead he had been treated with quiet respect.
It seemed Skyrim truly was united now. A miracle he never thought he would live to see.
Esbern closed his eyes briefly then, remembering the fight at the mountain.
Morokei, Krosis, Nahkriin.
Three of the more powerful Dragon Priests, together. Truly, a nightmarish council.
"The staff," Esbern continued bitterly. "The Staff of Magnus."
He clenched the mug tighter.
"That artifact alone could tear down wards that would normally withstand a siege. In the hands of a mage like Morokei… it was catastrophic." He swallowed hard. "With Krosis and Nahkriin beside him… we never had a chance."
"But you found it," Gerron Ironbreaker said calmly.
The Dragonslayer sat at the head of the council table, leaning slightly forward, his blue eyes steady and unshaken.
"With much loss and sacrifice… but you found it."
Esbern lifted his gaze and met those eyes.
There was something about Gerron that reminded him of the heroes from ancient songs.
Men who could hold up the sky if it ever dared to fall.
'Perhaps he could,' Esbern mused. 'After all, is there anything that the Champion of Zenithar could not do, given time?'
"Aye," Esbern said softly. "True enough."
Gerron looked towards the distant mountains, its peaks hidden by the clouds. "So he was that close this entire time, eh?"
Grogmar grunted from his seat. "We've been increasing patrols around the foothills," the Orc said. "But none of them encountered dragons, at least not recently. Just trolls and ice wraiths."
"Probably because Alduin knew any ordinary dragon would fall to this city's defenses," Serana said thoughtfully. "As much as we hate to admit it… Alduin isn't a fool. After losing at High Hrothgar, he would be cautious. He won't be letting his pride control him at the very least."
Ralof spoke from behind Gerron's chair.
"Perhaps we should inform Jarl Ulfric and the Emperor," he said. "With the wedding coming, maybe we can gather another army and siege Skuldafn."
Esbern blinked. "Wedding?"
"Aye," Gerron replied with a small smile. "Mine and Serana's."
Serana's lips curved faintly beside him. "We plan to make Alduin our guest of honor."
A trap then. Even through his numbness, Esbern felt a flicker of admiration.
It was bold, dangerously so. But perhaps that was what this war required.
"Congratulations," Esbern murmured, but the words felt hollow on his tongue.
"Sieging the temple would be difficult, my Jarl." Aerin spoke as leaned against the wall nearby, arms folded, his previously handsome noble features was now marred with cuts and fresh scars, thin white lines crossing his cheek and brow.
Everyone turned to him.
"Skuldafn sits high on the mountain face," Aerin continued. "There's no proper road or path leading there."
Mjoll nodded. "Even we took nearly two weeks to reach it, a group of five with little provisions to carry. An army with supplies and with no proper place to set camp…"
"They'd be easy targets for dragons," Aerin concluded.
Gerron rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "So a small elite force, ideally. All transported by Vermithor. But we can't risk sending our champions away. Not if we need them here for the wedding."
"Knowing its location is already half the battle," Serana said, turning towards Gerron. "How long can Bronze operate after your upgrades?"
"About a month," Gerron replied. "If I disable some features. The blood-tracking vision isn't necessary if he's only scouting."
Serana nodded. "Then put him by the mountains. If any movement comes from Skuldafn, we'll know."
Esbern leaned forward slightly. Despite everything… despite the grief clawing inside his chest… He had a duty.
His mind was already racing as Gerron and Serana continued to trade ideas. As the foremost scholar of dragonlore present… he had to contribute.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, "We should send some scouts to map out the mountain."
Several heads turned toward him.
"The dragons did not build Skuldafn alone," Esbern continued. "They were prideful creatures. Architecture and masonry was considered below them, a lesser job for a lesser people, so they utilized slaves. Whether they were Hevnoraak's thralls or Rahgot's cultists… it was mortals who built that temple."
He lifted a finger slightly.
"There may be abandoned trails… forgotten routes… hidden passes still leading to the temple that the slaves used to get up there."
Mjoll's eyes brightened. "Then allow me to lead the scouting party."
Esbern blinked at her. "Mjoll?"
She nodded firmly, looking at Gerron. "You would need someone who knows where Skuldafn is, yes?"
Esbern stared at her like she had grown a second head. Was she not tired? Was she not grieving the same way he was?
Aerin just chuckled.
Gerron raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? You've all been through quite an ordeal. None would fault you if you chose to rest for a while."
"I would feel guilty doing so." Mjoll shook her head immediately, her hand tightened around the pommel of her sword. "I may be new to the Blades… but Grandmaster Delphine entrusted us with this mission." Her voice hardened. "I will see it finished."
Aerin sighed. "If she's going, I'm going."
Their eyes met. A soft, wordless exchange passed between them.
Esbern sighed as well. Young love. Even after a brush with death, some things remained much the same. "Then it seems the Blades have their new mission."
Several people looked at him in surprise.
"What? Did you think I'd sit here drinking ale while you youngsters did all the work?" He chuckled faintly. "Besides… with Delphine gone—may Uriel's spirit bless her—our order needs a new Grandmaster." His eyes settled on Mjoll. "And I see a fine candidate standing right there."
"What?" Mjoll blinked. "Esbern… I'm not—"
"You are strong, capable, more skilled with the blade than anyone. And frankly, the alternatives are slim." He gestured lazily around the room before tapping his own chest. "An old man," then he pointed toward Aerin. "Or a noble archer who'd rather avoid leadership if possible."
Aerin shrugged. "You're not wrong."
Mjoll looked utterly bewildered. "But—"
"The Blades need someone who believes in what we stand for," Esbern continued, smiling warmly. "You already carry that spirit. The fact you're willing to keep fighting after everything that happened… that alone proves your worth."
Mjoll swallowed. Her eyes slowly drifted around the room. To Aerin, Gerron, Serana, before finally back to Esbern.
"I… will do my best to make you proud."
Esbern smiled. "You already have, my girl."
Silence filled the chamber for a moment. Then Gerron leaned back in his chair with a smirk. He clasped his hands together.
"Well then. Congratulations, Grandmaster Mjoll." His grin widened. "I'll make sure both Kiera and the Emperor hear the news."
…
4E 202, Shor's Stone
Ulfric Stormcloak
The charge through the gates lasted only five minutes. Yet to him, it felt like hours.
Battle had a way of twisting time itself. The thunder of hooves, the clash of steel, the screams of dying men—all of it stretched the passing moments into something thick and heavy, as though the world itself resisted every heartbeat.
His sword flashed forward again. Elegance—the newly named dragonbone longsword—sang through the air with deadly grace as it swept through the neck of a Mythic Dawn cultist. The man's crimson robes fluttered as his head separated cleanly from his shoulders, tumbling into the churned mud beneath the charging horses.
The blade met no resistance as it effortlessly cut through the spectral armor and the flesh beneath it. Ulfric barely registered the kill before his blade moved again, cutting down a Kynval who had tried to thrust a spear upward at his mount.
Beside him, Galmar Stone-Fist roared like a mad bear. His great axe rose and fell in brutal arcs, splitting skulls and cleaving through the red-robed ranks of cultists and summoned Dremora alike. Blood sprayed across his armor and beard, yet the old warrior seemed to grow only more alive with every swing.
Their cavalry charge still carried momentum. Stormcloak and Whiterun riders thundered through the stairway of Bthardamz, trampling dozens beneath their hooves. Horses screamed, steel rang, and red banners bearing the sigil of Mehrunes Dagon were ripped apart.
Yet despite that, his throat never felt so raw. His breath rasped harshly as he forced himself to focus.
The pain clawing at his voice was familiar. He had felt it countless times before, standing upon the windswept terraces of High Hrothgar as the Greybeards pushed him to the limits of his voice.
Using the Thu'um once was easy for him, but doing it several times in quick succession… was another matter entirely.
His lungs burned and he could feel his stamina draining away with each shout.
But it was worth it, if it meant getting inside.
The column of horses finally reached the towering double doors of Bthardamz. The gates were immense slabs of Dwemer metal, their surfaces etched with intricate carvings and strange letterings Ulfric could not begin to decipher. Centuries of rust and grime had not dulled their strength, for they were sealed tight.
"The doors!" Balgruuf shouted from somewhere behind him. "How are we—?!"
Ulfric tightened his grip on Elegance.
He drew in a breath, feeling the ache in his throat as he prepared to unleash another Thu'um. If he had to shatter the gates apart with his voice, then so be it.
But before he could speak, a deep metallic clank echoed through the courtyard.
Gears began to shift within the mountain as massive mechanisms groaned to life. Ulfric's brows furrowed as the enormous doors began to open inward with a grinding shriek.
Confused, he lifted his gaze to the sound of fluttering wings. There, a shape burst through the opening gates. A spectral bird of midnight feathers soared upward into the night sky, its form flickering with faint silver light.
A Nightingale.
"Ha!" Galmar bellowed with laughter beside him. "The Champion of Nocturnal proves herself quite capable!"
Ulfric could not help the rasping chuckle that escaped his throat. "Indeed."
Karliah had clearly done her work.
Their charge thundered through the opening gates before the doors could close again. Only once they were fully inside did Ulfric finally pull back on the reins of his warhorse. The cavalry slowed.
What greeted them within was… unexpected.
The entrance hall of Bthardamz was enormous.
A cavernous chamber carved into the mountain itself, its towering Dwemer pillars rising like iron trees toward a high ceiling. Strange bronze pipes and mechanisms ran along the walls, many still emitting the occasional burst of steam from vents.
A massive stone staircase descended deeper into the ruin.
Yet the chamber itself was empty, suspiciously so.
Behind them, the distant sounds of battle still echoed faintly from the courtyard as their allies continued to fight the remnants of the cultist defenders.
"It's empty," Irileth said coldly as the Dunmer warrior rode forward slightly, her red eyes scanning every shadow. Her hand remained firmly upon the hilt of her sword. "This has to be a trap."
Balgruuf frowned, though his expression remained resolute.
"Perhaps," he admitted. "But it seems we have little choice."
One by one the riders began dismounting.
Even the most seasoned cavalryman knew better than to fight within tight corridors while mounted. This chamber was wide, but there's no telling that it would remain so further within.
Ulfric swung himself down from his horse.
The moment his boots hit the stone floor, exhaustion tried to drag his shoulders downward.
His body screamed for rest.
But Ulfric Stormcloak forced his back straight. His men were watching. A Jarl could not show weakness before battle.
Galmar and the Snow Hammers quickly formed around him as his battleguard, their presence as familiar and comforting as a shield wall.
Balgruuf turned to several Whiterun guards. "Arlnyn!" he called.
An older Nord stepped forward immediately. His beard was thick and grizzled, streaked with grey, and his broad shoulders carried the weight of a heavy warhammer.
"Yes, Jarl Balgruuf."
"Take four men and scout ahead," Balgruuf ordered. "Despite the Mythic Dawn inhabiting this place, it's still a Dwemer ruin. Sweep for traps and warn us if the path ahead holds enemies."
Arlnyn gave a firm nod. "Yes, my Jarl."
The five Whiterun guards moved out at once, descending the massive staircase with careful steps.
The rest of the soldiers quickly reorganized.
A few younger men took charge of the horses, leading them toward the stone pillars and fastening reins to ancient Dwemer beams jutting from the walls.
Ulfric watched the preparations in silence.
Moments later, more warriors arrived through the entrance.
Vilkas and Carcette emerged first, their armor splattered with blood.
Behind them came Tolan and Farkas—who had thankfully returned to his human form—alongside several Vigilants of Stendarr and members of the Companions.
"Njada, Ria, and Captain Aldis will guard the entrance." Vilkas reported. "Ten companions and sixty solitude guards should be enough to protect our rear."
Ulfric nodded approvingly. A good precaution.
Balgruuf met his gaze, and the two Jarls shared a brief nod of understanding.
No further words were necessary. With their lines formed and scouts already ahead, the assault continued.
Ulfric tightened his grip on Elegance as the warriors began their descent into the depths of Bthardamz.
Step by step, they followed the scouts down the massive Dwemer staircase.
…
AN: Hey ho! This chapter is done!
Sorry this one took a while, writing a siege and battle type of chapter was difficult even if I enjoyed it immensely. I had to look up the architecture of Bthardamz to make this work, and even that will continue to play in the next chapter.
Subtle reminder that Ulfric is not the Dragonborn. Using the Thu'um ain't easy if you weren't literally blessed with a dragon's soul. Spamming it in quick succession like he did in the previous chapter has consequences.
Anyways, poor Esbern and the Blades finally return to proper civilization where they share their findings. Mjoll is chosen as the new Grandmaster after the death of Delphine.
More chapters are available on my P-word. Chapter 118 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
Cheers!