For a moment, there was stillness.
No breath. No heartbeat. Just the wind, howling across the stone canyons of Markarth, dragging ash and dust like a funeral shroud. The sky, bruised and burning, stretched wide above the mountains. Smoke curled from rooftops. Screams echoed distantly. Somewhere, a raven circled.
And then—everything began to tilt.
The world turned sideways, slow at first. Towers slanted. The horizon rose unnaturally. The sky slid from its throne above the Reach.
Stone filled the view. Cold, gray, blood-flecked.
And then it spun.
Once. Twice.
A final glimpse of the broken city he fought so hard to reclaim.
So this is how the Reach forgets me, Madanach thought, as the light fled his eyes.
Slowly, his vision faded into white.
Then—nothing.
The silence broke with a scream.
Not of rage or grief—but raw exertion.
Taviiah stood, shoulders heaving, her blade still dripping. Blood soaked her tunic, her arms trembling from the final strike. Around her, the remnants of the battle crackled and hissed—burning debris, scorched stone, Forsworn bodies crumpled like discarded dolls.
She didn't move. She couldn't. The weight of what she had done—and what they had all survived—kept her locked in place.
From below the cliffs, a low, lupine growl rolled through the smoke. Passha dangled precariously in Gavhelus's monstrous claws, her body bruised and torn but alive. The werewolf's claws were dug into the rock face, straining to hold them both.
"You call this a rescue?" she muttered, voice dry.
The werewolf snorted, a puff of steam rising from its nostrils as it climbed the rest of the way up and dumped her unceremoniously onto solid ground. She groaned, spat blood, and rolled onto her back.
"So this is what being a part of the team feels like." she huffed, "I must say, its very... dramatic."
As Gav lowered his aching body to the ground, his bones began to crack. Slowly, he reverted back to his original body, covered in scars, bruises, and lacerations. He lay naked on the ground, chest heaving, the exhaustion leaving not even room for a joke.
Minevi stood not far off, shield cracked, armor scorched, but upright. She had been guarding their flank, fending off the last of the Forsworn stragglers while the others fought Madanach. Now, she slowly lowered her mace, eyes scanning the ruins of Markarth.
The city burned. Fires leapt from rooftops. Ash drifted like snow through the streets, catching in her hair and clinging to her lashes like soot-kissed snowflakes, soft and suffocating all at once.
She turned—and saw him.
Kin.
On his knees.
He was quiet, shoulders slack, breathing shallow. His head hung low, locs heavy with sweat and blood. The vines that had once erupted from his arm were gone, but a trail of them—now dried and cracked—snaked across the stone behind him.
He looked like someone who had barely made it back into his own body.
Eradros reached him first, leaping down from a scorched ledge with his bow slung over his shoulder.
"Hey," he said, not gently, but not unkindly either. "Still with us?"
Kin didn't answer at first. Just stared at the ground.
"I couldn't stop it," he finally murmured. "I felt it. Every strike. Every word. But I couldn't move. Couldn't speak."
Eradros crouched beside him, resting one arm across his knee.
"Yeah. The whole thing was something straight out of a nightmare. Scared the shit out of me, honestly."
That earned a weak exhale from Kin—almost a laugh.
"You? Afraid?" Kin asked, incredulously.
"Serious, kiddo." Eradros' smile faltered to a more serious look. "For a moment... I thought we wouldn't get you back."
Kin looked at Eradros, feeling the concern in his voice. He knew that this could've been way worse, and all because of a dirty trick. He was careless. Taviiah almost lost her life at his hands because of it. All the things that could have gone wrong flooded his mind. Dread seeped into his face like a fractured dam—only broken by a hand landing firmly on his shoulder.
"Hey, I get it," Eradros leaned in close, a touch of ease in his voice. "You're not the only one rattled, you know. Gav's probably licking himself somewhere. Minevi and Passha have definitely seen better days."
"What about Taviiah? Is she alright?"
"Ah—Taviiah... well. She killed Madanach." Eradros paused for a moment, taking in their surroundings before looking back at Kin with a smirk. "All in a day's work, I'd say."
Kin blinked at that.
"Wait... she did?"
Eradros nodded. "One clean strike. We did it, lad."
That almost got him to smile, but the weight of the day was a bit too heavy to shake off. Kin tried to stand, faltered. Eradros helped him up without a word.
Behind them, the others began to gather—bruised, bloodied, battered—but breathing.
Together again, at least for now.
Kin took a good look at them all. Everyone looked like they were just spat out of an oblivion gate. His gaze landed on Taviiah, her expression unreadable as usual.
"Thanks for saving us back there." He said softly. "I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost one of you."
Taviiah folded her arms and sighed. "That was Passha's doing, I'm afraid. I just ended it."
"I think we all played our roles." Passha said, stepping forward. "For what's it's worth, the worst seems to be behind us. But there is still one problem. We're missing the fur ball."
Gav sat off to the side, struggling to put his armor back on over the many injuries he'd accumulated. "Ow ow ow ow….ow. Dammit all."
Minevi stepped over to check on him. "You ok, big guy? We promised Aela we'd bring you back in one piece. She's one person I'd hate to disappoint."
He cut his eyes up at Minevi. "Oh right. Glad it wasn't genuine concern for me or anythin'."
"Oh I'm joking, you big baby." She smiled, waving off his attitude. "You know we'd be lost without you."
"Tell me about it," he grunted with a smirk. "I'm gonna throw my back out carryin' you lot."
They chuckled as she helped him to his feet. He grunted through putting the rest of his armor on. Now it was time to address the problem. They were still short one expert—the whole reason they even journeyed to Markarth. They all gathered in what was left of the town square, battered and bone-weary. For all their survival, the truth was unavoidable: their target, Bhishiir, was gone—and with him, the knowledge they came here to find.
That's when they heard it—faint clicks echoing against the cobbled stone, rhythmic and urgent. Out from the smoke and ruin skittered a familiar shape: Spindle. The automaton spider moved with sharp, deliberate taps, pausing just a few feet away.
He waved his spindly limbs frantically, pivoting in place before darting a few feet in the opposite direction—then circling back, repeating the motion. Urging them.
Taviiah stepped forward, frowning. "Is it me, or is the little guy trying to get our attention?"
Eradros scratched his chin. "Wait... That's Bhishiir's spider. But why is it here?"
"Id' it obvious, mate?" Gav said, leaning down toward Spindle with a smirk. "Cat's got 'imself in a pinch, I reckon. Why else would it come lookin' for us?"
Minevi looked closer. "He has a... pet mechanical spider?"
"That settles it then," Kin said, looking around at everyone. "If Spindle knows where Bhishiir is, then that's where we head to next."
But Taviiah's eyes moved past Spindle to the city's broken skyline. Smoke still bled into the clouds. The wounded cried out in the distance.
"Wait," she said firmly. "The city's in ruins. And we had our part to play in that."
Kin tensed. "But Bhishiir—he's our only lead. We need him. We have to find him before he disappears for good."
Taviiah met his eyes. "Kin... we can't leave them like this." she said, gesturing to the rubble, the survivors, the bloodstained streets. "We'd be no better than Madanch and his dragon."
He clenched his fists. For a moment, he looked ready to argue. But the words caught in his throat and died there. She was right. Again.
Passha stepped forward, brushing ash off her coat. "I'll go."
The others turned.
"I'm the least banged up, and let's be honest," she smirked, "being rescued by a member of the brotherhood might strike some as bad omen to come. I think it's better this way."
Spindle skittered to her side as if in agreement.
Kin hesitated, but nodded. "Find him, please. Bring him back kicking and screaming if you have to."
"Assuming he's not dead in a ditch somewhere," Passha quipped. Then she glanced over her shoulder. "You lot patch up. Be useful. I'll handle the furball."
Minevi and Eradros split off to search for wounded. Taviiah moved to tend Gav and Kin's injuries. And without another word, Passha followed Spindle into the smoke, vanishing like a shadow into the broken veins of Markarth.
[Meanwhile]
Far from the cries of Markarth, deeper into the mountain's broken veins, another story unfolded.
The ruin sat nestled in the cliffside like a wound in the mountain—jagged, half-buried, and long forgotten. A crumbled Dwemer outpost, rusted piping snaked through cracked stone, and old steam valves hissed from the weight of time.
Inside, dim light filtered through collapsed beams and shattered bronze. There, slumped against a wall in the ruin's main chamber, Bhishiir sat with legs splayed and eyes half-lidded. A faint orange glow from a discarded dwemer lamp flickered beside him, casting shadows that danced with his every twitch.
He took a long pull from a skooma bottle, letting the haze settle over his features.
"Spindle," he mumbled. "Spindle, come meet the nice man who brought this one treats... He's not nearly as charming as you, but he knows how to share."
There was no answer.
Only the soft clink of glass.
A figure stood in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame. An Argonian—tall, quiet, and dressed in the unmistakable black-and-red leathers of the Dark Brotherhood. The skooma bottle dangled from his clawed hand like bait.
"That's right," The Argonian said coolly. "You just sit tight and wait. I'm sure our guests will arrive soon enough."
Bhishiir blinked at him, unbothered. "You've got good posture for a hallucination. Excellent balance. Must be the tail."
The man chuckled under his breath. "Hallucination huh? The ramblings of a junky can be most amusing."
Bhishiir raised a hand to point. "Awfully judgmental for a hallucination too. Don't think this one didn't recognize that outfit?"
The man raised a brow, curious as to what Bhishiir would say next.
"A wandering circus performer!" Bhishiir announced, snapping his fingers. "That outfit's got 'stabby mime' written all over it."
The Argonian rolled his eyes, dismissing Bhishiir and his ramblings. He tossed another bottle onto the floor next to the him.
"I've got more where that came from if you shut it for the next 20 minutes. Deal?"
Bhishiir didn't answer. He scooped up the bottle with a grin on his face. The Argonian watched him with disgust. The cat had no regard for safety, danger, or anything with that bottle in his hand. He had to wonder how someone like this hadn't died or been killed a long time ago.
Some time had past, and his pondering was soon disturbed by the sound of clicking, accompanied by the faintest footsteps. His head snapped in that direction. "They're here."
At the entrance of the ruin, Passha walked steadily behind Spindle, eyes scanning her surroundings for anything amiss. Spindle moved with urgency, quickly leaping over pipes and maneuvering around rubble in its path. They made it to the end of a corridor when Passha heard the hiss of the Night Mother in her head.
"Be cautious, child. I sense a dark presence ahead. It is familiar."
Passha didn't respond. She heeded the warning with a raised hand, outstretching her her fingers to elongate their blades. Then she proceeded slowly into the next room. That's when she noticed Bhishiir, slumped against the wall, several skooma bottles strewn about beside him. Her jaw clenched, taking in the pitiful sight with a hint frustration. She began moving toward him.
"Fun-time's over, cat. You're coming with—."
Bhishiir cut her off, mockingly waving a finger. "Ah ah ah…"
He then slowly pointed the finger past her. Passha turned, but before she could register what she saw, a figure leapt out at her. A dagger blade swiped past her face. She quickly pivoted to dodge. Then came another attack. Before she knew it, she was in deadly scrap with an attacker dressed in similar clothing.
Bhishiir watched with childlike amusement as the two clashed, each attack met with a parry, and then a counter. The attacker was relentless, each attack she blocked or parried was followed up quickly with another. The assailant jumped in the air, spinning before delivering multiple kicks. Passha blocked the first two, and ducked the last, swiping their feet from under them just as they landed.
The attacker landed on their back, but quickly sprung back to their feet with ease. They backed away, then began laughing.
"Sharp as ever, sister." The Argonian chuckled. "I see time away from the family hasn't dulled your skills at all. Good."
Passha dropped her guard, eyes squinting in recognition. "What is this about, Veezara? I'm not in the mood for games."
"Games? No, no. This is work." He tilted his head, circling her. "Astrid thinks you've gotten… uppity. Listener or not, you've been playing queen of the crypt for too long. Ignoring orders. Disappearing. You of all people should know—there are consequences for disobedient children."
Passha huffed. "I see. So this is about her ego then. Couldn't she have just sent a letter?"
Veezara flung his arms out wide. "I am the letter, sister. A sharply worded one at that."
Passha sighed. "That sneak attack wasn't exactly you using your words."
Veezara smiled, putting his daggers away. "Oh no, that was just a little present from your loving brother. I'm afraid she only sent me with a message for you this time."
"Then out with it already." She hissed, annoyed by his antics. "I'm very busy."
Veezara began stepping slowly away from her, the smile on his face turning into an unfriendly scowl.
"I'll only say this once." He said, tone serious. "Come home, sister."
Then he shimmered, form bleeding into the ruin's shadows until only his voice remained, coiling through the chamber like smoke.
"Or the next visit from me won't be for a sibling reunion."
With that, he vanished. Passha stood motionless, jaw tight, listening to his footsteps vanish into nothing. Spindle, who had been hiding behind a broken barrel during the attack, slid out and made its way over to Bhishiir. His eyes widened at the sight of the spider.
"Spindle? Is that you?" He asked lazily, struggling to sit upright. "You missed one hell of a show. This one almost forgot that you abandoned him—it was so good."
Spindle turned to Passha, waving its two front appendages high to get her attention.
"I'm coming I'm coming." She huffed.
She scanned the area a second more before moving toward Bhishiir, her brother's words still echoing in her mind, leaving a bad taste in her mouth. Her position as Listener was causing distrust between her and brotherhood—a problem she didn't have time to address. Her orders from the Night Mother were clear. Aid and protect the dragonborn. All else was insignificant. She knew Astrid, the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, wasn't going to just let this go. This was only going to get stickier for her.
But for now, she'd found Bhishiir. The only thing left was to get him back to the others. She knew it would be difficult. The Khajiit seemed barely able to stand, let alone make the trip back to Markarth.
Bhishiir looked up at her as she approached. He grinned while tucking the last skooma bottle into his coat. "Dont worry. This is one is in no condition to run. This one will come quietly. As soon as we find Spindle."
Spindle jerked, moving around to the front of Bhishiir, waving its appendages as if scolding him.
"Spindle!" He blurted, eyes widening with renewed excitement. "Where on Tamriel did you run off to?"
Passha rolled her eyes, then moved to help Bhishiir off the ground. He sagged against her, dead weight in more ways than one. She wasn't going to complain. After dragons, Forsworn, and family drama, dragging a half-conscious cat through the wilderness was just one more chore on the list.
Chapter End—