Kinetrius, Minevi, and Eradros stepped out into the city. Whiterun was deathly still, as if the world itself had paused to listen. Not even the wind dared stir. According to Gavhelus, the masked men were close—just outside the gates, perhaps watching even now. Whatever they planned to do, it was better to meet it head-on than wait.
At the steps of Jorrvaskr stood Aela, arms folded, gaze steady as she watched them pass.
"Good luck to you, young master," she called out. "We will not interfere—as this is your quarry."
They were far enough away that words weren't necessary. The group simply lifted their hands in silent acknowledgment before continuing forward, preserving the silence that hung like frost over the town.
Eradros's eyes flicked toward the walls. The guards were still posted—stationary, vigilant, and unaware.
"This doesn't make any sense…" he muttered.
Minevi, ever sharp, turned to him. "What's wrong?"
"If the men are close by, how has none of the guards seen them?"
"…Strange indeed," Minevi murmured, glancing at the stone walls. "They were given a description of the men, I presume?"
"Maybe they're just good at hiding," Kinetrius offered, glancing between the two. "What's the matter all of a sudden?"
"It's possible we're dealing with an enemy adept in Illusion magic," Eradros replied. His tone was calm, but edged with concern. "Minevi, you know the guards' exit from the city, yeah?"
"A passage through the front walls, yes," she confirmed.
"I want you to take it and meet us outside of the city," Eradros instructed. "I'll take the high ground and let Kin walk out of the gates alone. If anything moves between us… we'll have our prey."
Minevi narrowed her eyes slightly. "How do we know they won't have eyes on us already?"
"We don't," Eradros admitted. "But they still haven't made a move. So the goal is to create the opportunity for them."
She regarded him for a moment—calculating, searching for any flaw in the plan—then gave a nod. Without another word, she turned and made her way to the gate's passage.
Kinetrius remained behind, scanning the immediate area. Nothing appeared out of place. The guards walked their patrols as usual. Even the alley cats and stray mice went about their nocturnal routines, as if nothing had changed. But that calm—after everything that had happened earlier—was its own kind of alarm.
He approached the main gate, nodding to the two guards stationed there. They said nothing, only nodded back as he passed between them.
Above, hidden in the shadow of the rooftops, Eradros climbed swiftly and silently, taking to the high ground. He moved with practiced ease until something—something subtle—made him stop mid-stride.
Then, like a blade unsheathing into the night, he sprang forward to the nearest rooftop and shouted with sudden urgency.
"Kin—the guards!"
Kinetrius spun around at the sound of Eradros's shout—but it was already too late.
One of the guards near him was smirking.
Then the world snapped.
In a flash, the guards dropped their disguises. Before Kinetrius could react, he was seized—tight arms locking around him—and in an instant, the masked figures vanished with a blink of light, teleporting through the gate and out of the city.
"Dammit!" Eradros growled from above. "Hang on, lad!"
Without wasting another breath, Eradros launched into motion, sprinting across the rooftops. The buildings weren't close together, but he moved with the agility of a seasoned thief. He vaulted chimneys, cleared wide gaps, and sprinted over sloped shingles until he landed atop Whiterun's main gates.
There—just outside the walls—one of the masked men stood, still holding the boy.
Eradros raised his bow and drew it taut.
"Not another step!"
The man paused. For a heartbeat, he stood still in the road—calculating.
Then a voice slithered from Eradros's flank.
"Makin' threats like that…"
Eradros pivoted hard.
Another masked man was charging straight toward him, sword drawn and fire spell kindled in the other hand.
"You're gonna make me angry, y'know," the man sneered.
The fire spell launched, exploding near Eradros's feet with a burst of light and debris. Dirt and stone blasted upward, forcing him to raise his arm and shield his eyes. His vision blurred with smoke and ash.
Then—movement.
Through the smoke, the figure lunged—strikes swift and brutal. Eradros parried the first blow with his bow, then the second, but each clash forced him backward. Still half-blinded from the blast, he barely kept pace. Another strike—he deflected it, pushing the attacker back just long enough to recover his footing. He tumbled off the gate's edge, twisted midair, and landed in a low crouch, bow still in hand.
The masked man grinned, circling, blade at the ready.
"You might as well forget about the kid for now… it's just you and me."
Eradros smirked. "Kinda romantic when you think about it."
His opponent didn't laugh.
With no more words, the two of them surged into battle, blades clashing atop the gates of Whiterun—shadows dancing in the moonlight.
Outside the gates, Kinetrius was locked tightly in the arms of his captor. The masked man attempted to move forward with him, but the boy thrashed violently.
Then something changed.
Kinetrius's breath shifted—deeper now, heavier. His eyes sharpened, and his muscles tensed. Adrenaline flooded his veins. With a growl of exertion, he broke free, yanking himself out of the man's grip and throwing him to the ground with explosive force.
The masked man scrambled upright, stunned.
He stared at Kinetrius, appraising him with new eyes.
"Redguards…" he muttered. "This must be the heightened instinct we were warned about."
Kinetrius said nothing. He reached behind him, pulling his shield from his back. A bound blade shimmered to life in his other hand. He dropped into a low stance, eyes feral, breath slow and deep—like a predator.
The masked man narrowed his gaze.
"Fighting for your life, eh? Commendable… Let's see the power that killed two of our brethren five years ago."
Kinetrius lunged.
He moved almost faster than the eye could follow. His sword streaked through the air, barely missing the man's throat. The attacker dodged—barely—and countered with a vicious kick that sent the boy skidding back. He drew his blade, but had no time to adjust.
Kinetrius was already upon him again.
Blow after blow rained down—fast, controlled, relentless. The masked man parried and dodged, but the boy gave no room to breathe.
Another counter.
The man swung hard, but Kinetrius blocked with his shield, then used the momentum to spin and bring his blade slicing back around—again aimed for the throat. The attacker had to twist his entire body to avoid it, barely evading. He rolled back, creating space between them.
Breathing heavily, the masked man eyed the boy. "It's just as the True Lord says… you really are dangerous. Come! This time I won't underestimate you, youngling."
But as Kinetrius moved to charge again—his legs buckled.
He dropped to one knee, his sword stabbing into the ground to steady himself.
"Why…?" he gasped. "Why am I so tired all of a sudden? Dammit… I almost had him."
He couldn't move.
He could only breathe, trying to pull strength from the air.
The masked man didn't wait. He advanced slowly, savoring the shift in momentum. Ice began to swirl in his hand, frost particles forming into a massive shard.
"You are an abomination that must be purged," the man said coldly.
He drew his arm back—took aim.
And prepared to end it.
Just as the ice spike launched toward Kinetrius, a figure darted into view—moving fast, vaulting over crates, sliding under wooden overhangs with practiced grace.
Right before the spell struck its mark, a shield intercepted it with a loud crack. The ice shattered violently against it.
Minevi had arrived—leaping between Kinetrius and death itself.
High above, Eradros was still locked in combat with the other cultist atop the Whiterun gates. He swung his bow in a powerful arc, aiming to finish the fight—but the masked man vanished just as the blow was about to land.
In a blink, the cultist reappeared behind his companion below.
"You go too far," the first cultist snapped, voice low and sharp. "He was nearly killed by that!"
The second cultist gave a dismissive scoff. "The True Master's going to kill him anyway. I'm just speeding up the process."
He raised his arm again, charging a new spell—energy swirling with deadly intent.
Minevi readied herself, planting her feet and raising her shield.
Kinetrius pushed himself back to his feet, still breathless, arms trembling. He couldn't lift his weapon. Not yet.
"I said you go too far…" the first cultist warned again, his voice colder now.
Then came a terrible sound.
A gruesome, wet crunch—like steel piercing soaked wood.
The ice spell fizzled out. The spellcaster's arm dropped to his side.
He staggered slightly, his face twisting in confusion and pain.
Behind him, the first cultist stood close, hand buried in his comrade's back—shoving a glowing soul gem deep into the spine with nothing but his bare hand.
"What… is the meaning of this betrayal?" the wounded cultist gasped, barely able to turn his head.
"We have clear orders not to kill him," the first one replied calmly. "You are jeopardizing the mission. Therefore, you should be eliminated. But don't worry. I'll make sure your soul is still put to good use."
The soul gem pulsed—light swelling brighter and brighter, visible from every angle.
Suddenly, tendrils of glowing essence began to rise from the man's body—his very soul energy siphoning out and into the gem. His body began to shrink, muscles deflating, skin tightening.
He screamed—a bloodcurdling, animal howl—as his corporal form withered. Bones cracked. Limbs collapsed inward. By the time the soul was fully extracted, only brittle remains clattered to the ground beneath his robes.
The surviving cultist stood taller now, stronger, still clutching the soul gem as its glow dimmed. His hood shadowed his face, but a strange, unnatural vitality radiated from him.
Eradros dropped from the gate and sprinted to Minevi and Kinetrius, eyes wide in disbelief.
He hadn't just seen a murder—he'd seen a harvest.
Minevi stepped forward, fury etched into every word. "Your own comrade. Is there no one you people won't hurt to get what you want?"
The cultist chuckled, low and eerie. "He will serve in… other ways, my dear. You needn't worry about that. Now… where were we?"
Without warning, he charged.
His blade cut through the air with shocking speed.
Minevi barely raised her shield in time. The impact sent her sliding backward—her boots grinding against the dirt—until she slammed into the stone wall behind them.
Before she could recover, the cultist vanished.
He reappeared right in front of Eradros and Kinetrius. With one brutal kick, he knocked Eradros away from the boy, then lunged again. His blade arced toward Eradros, who raised his bow to block—
Too late.
The strike cleaved the bow in two and cut deep across Eradros's chest.
He cried out and fell to one knee, blood soaking through his shirt.
The cultist raised his sword for the killing blow—aiming for the neck.
But Minevi was already moving.
She dove between them, swinging her shield hard, deflecting the blade mid-swing. In the same breath, she brought her club around and slammed it across the cultist's face.
Crack.
The man stumbled back, falling to his knees.
He clutched his face with a groan, and for a moment, everything paused.
Then he pulled his hand away.
His mask was crumbling—splintering apart in flakes and chunks.
Minevi and Kinetrius rushed to Eradros, who was struggling to rise.
"Are you okay, love?" she asked quickly. "Can you stand?"
Kinetrius knelt beside them, his expression twisted with guilt. "This is my fault… I couldn't do anything to stop them."
Eradros grunted, grabbing onto Minevi's arm and pulling himself upright.
Blood ran down his torso, but the wound didn't look fatal. Not yet.
"Don't be so hard on yourself, lad," he said through gritted teeth. "You still haven't recovered from your injuries. Most men wouldn't have taken to the field in your condition."
Minevi scanned his chest. "Your injury… will you be alright?"
"I'm fine," he growled. "Eyes up. We're not done here yet."
They all turned.
The cultist stood again, breathing heavily, shattered pieces of his mask falling from his hand. From beneath his hood, blood trickled down his brow. Matted locks of hair spilled out, framing a face they hadn't yet seen.
But now… they would.
"That was a good hit," the cultist growled, brushing blood from his brow. "Too bad you won't get another."
His mask had finally fallen away—and for the first time, they saw his face clearly.
What they saw stopped them cold.
He was a Redguard.
Eradros stepped closer, disbelief spreading across his face like frost.
"Are you bloody kidding me? This can't be real…"
Kinetrius stared, his breath catching in his throat. Recognition struck like lightning.
"Dad…?" he whispered. "Is that really you?"
The man's eyes were empty of warmth. "I am no father of yours, boy. I live only to serve the one true Dragonborn."
Eradros's voice was tight with emotion. "Falwon… what's happened to you? Why are you doing this?"
"It is true," the man said, raising his arms as if presenting himself. "This body may have belonged to this… Falwon. But my master recruits the souls of powerful warriors to do his bidding. This vessel is now in service to the True Master. The man you once knew is no more."
Kinetrius dropped to his knees.
The wound left by his father's death had never truly healed—and now it had been ripped open anew. He was forced to watch the man he idolized stand before him as a servant of the enemy. No one should have to bury a loved one twice—let alone raise their sword against them.
"Is this…" Kinetrius muttered, barely able to breathe, "a joke? Is someone getting a laugh out of watching me live every kind of nightmare imaginable? Why is this… happening to me? To my family?"
"You are not fit to walk this earth, child," the cultist said darkly. "Your very existence disrupts all that should otherwise remain harmonic. Have they not told you what you are by now? Do you still not yet know the truth?"
Eradros stepped forward. "The lad is Dragonborn! You—Kin—are Dragonborn."
Kinetrius's head snapped up. "The previous Dragonborn… wants to kill me? For what? Why are dragons even returning?"
"It is not a matter of want," the cultist replied. "The return of Alduin and his kin is punishment. The people of Skyrim have placed their faith in false gods for far too long. When it was my master who delivered them from the World-Eater. Your existence, left unchecked, would only hinder the glory that is rightfully his."
"So that's the rub?" Eradros spat. "Until we bow down to his 'grace,' he won't lift a finger? What kind of lord sends assassins to kill a child? It's fine if he won't help—but he can get the hell out of our way."
"Did you not hear me?" the cultist sneered. "The boy cannot be allowed to live. And Skyrim must learn to fend for itself—or give my master the respect he truly deserves."
"Enough!" Minevi barked, stepping between them.
Her face was hard now—deadly serious. She stood in front of Eradros and Kinetrius, her shield raised and her stance aggressive.
"All this talking is going to make me bash my own skull in," she snapped. "You want the boy? Then come get him. Otherwise, run back and tell your boss he'll have to wait until I'm ready to give him up."
"Don't let that lucky hit go to your head, girl," the cultist warned, forming a fire spell in his palm. "You might just lose it."
Minevi slammed her mace against her shield—once, twice—and readied herself.
The cultist smirked. "Have it your way."
A blast of energy erupted in his hand, forming a massive fireball—far larger than anything typical. It hovered like a miniature sun, glowing with lethal promise.
Then… a purple mist began creeping in at his feet.
Eerie whispers echoed from the fog, as if the mist itself were speaking.
The cultist hesitated.
"But my lord," he muttered to the mist, "I have him in my sights."
The whispers continued—urgent, insistent. And after a pause, the fireball dissolved in his hand. He lowered his arm and turned his back to them.
A portal opened.
He stood before it for a moment, gaze unreadable.
"Consider yourselves spared… for the time being. My master has other tasks for me to perform."
Minevi stepped forward, her voice dripping with contempt. "How does it feel—laying your life on the line for a coward?"
"I'm afraid I've been unburdened by things such as feelings," the cultist replied. "For a very long time now. Until we meet again."
Kinetrius scowled. "Oh, and tell your master he doesn't need to send you lot anymore. The next time we meet… we'll be paying him a visit."
"…Quite," the cultist said. "He'll be glad to hear it."
With that, he stepped through the portal—and was gone.
The night fell still again. The silence that followed was heavy and strange.
The three of them stood exhausted—battered, bruised, and barely standing. Kinetrius winced as the pain from his reopened injuries surged through him. Eradros stared blankly at the ground, his expression haunted.
"I… I can't believe it," Eradros muttered. "After all this time. Why now?"
Minevi placed a hand gently on his shoulder, grounding him.
"Come now," she said softly. "You're both injured. Let's get you back inside and have you looked at. I know this must be a lot to process… but we can consider this a victory nonetheless."
Eradros gave a weary nod. "I suppose you're right. The lad didn't get himself killed tonight. Which was the biggest worry for me."
Kinetrius scoffed. "Seriously? Did no one have any faith in me? Ow!"
Minevi chuckled under her breath. "You did good today, Kin. But with those injuries, it's no wonder you almost passed out mid-fight."
"To be completely honest," Kinetrius admitted, "the whole thing's kind of a blur. I remember everything, but the way I attacked him… it was like I was someone else."
"Your adrenaline kicked in," Eradros said, helping steady him. "I've seen it happen to your father once or twice. You Redguards have a knack for getting more aggressive the more danger you're in. But man, does it kick your ass afterward."
"Thank the divines I got to you two in time," Minevi said, exhaling. "I hate to think where we'd be if he'd gotten ahold of our precious Dragonborn."
"Speaking of…" Kinetrius looked toward Eradros. "When were you planning on telling me about that part?"
Eradros scratched his head, sheepishly. "In my defense… I had my suspicions, but I wasn't certain. That day you burned the stables in Riften… I heard the Greybeards call out from their monastery."
"The Greybeards?" Minevi echoed, surprised. "But they don't communicate with anyone."
"This is true," Eradros said. "But I imagine the Dragonborn might be an exception. It makes more sense than them suddenly deciding to be social after hundreds of years of silence. Forgive me, lad. I should've made this clear to you sooner."
"Don't worry about it," Kinetrius said with a shrug. "I know this is confusing for both of us. Seems my father liked to keep everyone in the dark… not just me."
"C'mon, you two," Minevi said gently. She wrapped her arms around both of them to help them walk. "We'll sort it all out in the morning. I've got a report to give to the Jarl anyway."
The three of them began the slow walk back into Whiterun. As they passed through the gates, Kinetrius turned for one last look—at the corpse left behind by the man who had worn his father's face, and the shattered mask beside it.
It had all happened so fast. Too fast to truly understand.
But for now, he only wanted rest.
They had seen only a glimpse of the danger still to come—but that was for another day.
That night, Kinetrius lay in bed with more thoughts in his mind than he had ever carried before.
But something within him stirred. Not just the hope Eradros had given him. Now… he had purpose.
And he was determined to find out exactly what it meant to be Dragonborn.
Chapter End—