The group lingered just outside Markarth's broken gates, the glow of fire still painting the horizon in red and ash. They had Bhishiir back, but in his current state he was more dead weight than ally. He lay sprawled on a slab of rock, cloak pulled tight, fur soaked with sweat. His breathing came in ragged fits, mutters bubbling past cracked lips. Passha crouched nearby, arms folded, tail flicking with irritation.
"He's useless like this," she said flatly. "Barely walks straight. And the breath... don't get me started. I vote leave him."
"Not yet," Kin said, crouching near the Khajiit. His eyes darted to Bhishiir's coat, its copper pipes wheezing steam in irregular bursts. "He knows something. He has to."
"But he can't share it." Passha said as she stood up, folding her arms again with a sigh. "Not like this. And if we don't do something, he will only get worse."
Bhishiir stirred, his head lolling back against the stone. His good eye cracked open, bloodshot and watery. "Spindle," he slurred. "Fetch… fetch Bhishiir the thing. You know the one."
The little automaton spider, faithful as ever, tilted its body. Then it tapped its bronze leg against the dirt—once, twice, three times—and began scuttling toward the jagged cliffs.
Everyone watched it go.
"Where the hell's it going?" Eradros muttered.
But then it came back, waving its front limbs as if trying tell them something. It all looked like random movement to them, but Bhishiir stirred. He groaned, waving a shaky hand.
"No no, Spindle. No need to involve *total strangers.* Just go get it, would you?"
"He definitely wants to tell us something." Eradros said, curiously.
"Ignore him. Just a spider. Talking spider nonsense."
Spindle stopped, turned, and tapped again with almost petulant precision.
Minevi's eyes narrowed. "Cat's out of the bag now. What's it saying?"
Bhishiir's tail flicked. He leaned up, glaring daggers at the little construct. "It is not a secret lab…" he hissed through clenched teeth. Then, louder, snapping at Spindle: "IF YOU TELL EVERYONE!"
The group blinked.
Taviiah smirked, eyes deadpan. "That sounded like a confession."
Eradros crossed his arms. "A workshop. Out here. In the middle of Forsworn country."
"Of course."—his lips curled into a faint grin—"Bhishiir likes to stay close to his supplier."
Passha arched a brow, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. "You mean the museum you steal from?"
Bhishiir coughed—sharp, wet, almost a laugh. *"What makes you think this one stole anything?"*
Kin frowned, arms crossing. "Well—we rescued you from a prison, for starters."
Bhishiir tucked his chin into his chest like a sulking child. "Say what you want. This one is innocent."
Bhishiir groaned, pulling his hood lower over his face. "Spindle, you traitor." Then he sighed, a trace of sincerity slipping into his tone. "Fine. Yes. This one… may have borrowed a few things. But that is irrelevant."
He struggled to pull himself upright. He was covered in sweat and shaking like a wet kitten. He leaned forward with great strain, pulling the blanket around him tighter. "This one has a room there, specifically for dealing with the withdrawal sickness."
Minevi sighed and gestured toward the direction Spindle had gone. "Secret lab or not, if it keeps him alive long enough to be useful, we're taking him there."
The spider clicked triumphantly and scuttled ahead, its bronze legs glinting in the firelight as it vanished into the mountain's shadow.
Bhishiir muttered under his breath, glaring after it. "Singing metal betrays the kettle."
Hours later, they arrived at the cliffs where Spindle guided them through a narrow crevice masked by brush and stone. The path opened into a cavern lit with flickering lamps and glowing tubes of magicka. The air hissed with steam and clattered with gears. Pipes wound along the walls, valves wheezing, contraptions stacked in crooked towers. Some of the machines twitched and blinked as if alive, their bronze eyes following the intruders. To the others, it felt less like a workshop and more like stumbling into a Dwemer ruin that had gone mad.
Bhishiir walked through the room like a sickly old woman while everyone gawked at the bizarre structures. He sharply raised a finger, standing in front of a door, not turning to look at anyone.
"Do not," He said sharply, smoothing his voice after. "touch anything. Everything here can kill you. But if you wish to die... be my guest."
He stood in the doorway of his detox room, glaring at each wall like he'd done this too many times. In it was a cot, a wooden table with only chair and lamp. In the far corner was something that looked unfinished. Maybe the last thing he was tinkering with.
He stepped sluggishly into the room. "Home sweet home."
Spindle scuttled to a heavy iron door at the far end and clicked rapidly. The lock clamped shut, and with surprising force, the spider tossed the key into a vent where no one—including Bhishiir—could reach it.
Bhishiir groaned but made no move to protest. "Do not let Bhishiir out until he recovers. This one can be… persuasive. And crafty. So someone will have to keep watch."
Kin stepped forward almost immediately. "I'll do it. The sooner he sobers, the sooner we get answers."
Minevi glanced at Eradros, then nodded. "Then we'll fetch supplies. Markarth may still be smoking, but the people there still have to make a living. Someone's bound to have opened up shop by now."
Eradros adjusted his hood, muttering, "Lovely. Shopping through shambles."
"What... a day out with me that much of a chore?" Minevi questioned, smirking at him.
Gavhelus, who had been quiet the whole way there, was dealing with a massive headache. Scores of newly dead spirits were about because of the siege, and they all had a voice. But his ears perked up at Minevi's question. He knew Eradros wasn't ready to sort out his feelings for her, and watching him squirm would've been too good of a show.
Eradros jumped nervously, unable to form words at first. A smile found Gav's face quickly.
"Never said that." He said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just sure to be slim pickings is all."
"Good. Come along then." She said with smile. She turned, walking toward town, almost prancing."
Eradros started after her, glancing back Gavhelus, knowing he was enjoying this.
Kin lingered by the door, listening as Bhishiir shuffled inside, the clink of tools already echoing through the pipes. It was going to be a long few days.
[Meanwhile]
Back in the broken city, Minevi and Eradros walked causally through the makeshift market, where citizens were picking through wreckage and selling what little goods they had left. They came up to a stall where a weary merchant sat on the ground beside a meager spread of food and supplies. Minevi bent down, asking how much, but the man's eyes went wide with recognition. He scrambled to his knees, bowing his head.
"You're the ones who fought the Forsworn," he breathed. "Please m'lady… choose whatever you like."
Before she could refuse, the man insisted, lowering his head with a wave on his hand. Reluctantly, Minevi picked a small bundle of food, thanking him with a nervous but quiet grace.
As they walked away, Eradros let a small bag of coin fall to the ground and gave it a nudge with his boot. It rolled and tapped the merchant's leg. By the time he looked up, they were already bending the corner, Eradros tossing him a smirk and a casual wave.
"I saw that." Minevi said, never turning around.
Eradros smirked. "Can't get anything past you, can I?"
She didn't answer, just smiled and continued on. Silence fell between them while they strolled. She eased into it with something almost playful. "It's been a crazy few months, hasn't it? When's the last time you got me all to yourself like this?"
Eradros answered without thinking, "It has been a while." He paused, then glanced up to see her smiling at him. Flirting—open, obvious. It caught him off guard, stirring feelings he hadn't had room for in months. He still loved her, but tomorrow was a fog of uncertainty, and he didn't know if he wanted to carry that weight again.
Minevi stopped short, forcing Eradros to pull up or barrel into her. She turned, the firelight catching her face just enough to show it wasn't one of her usual smirks. Something heavier sat there, dragging her eyes down.
He raised a brow. "What, market too crowded for you?"
"During the attack on Markarth," she said, ignoring him, "I saw you. I saw what you'd become."
Eradros frowned, cocking his head. "You're gonna have to be more specific. I become a lot of things when people are trying to kill me."
He grinned, hoping his joke lightened the mood, but her worried expression persisted. She looked at him, eyes scanning his.
"The way you cut through those Forsworn—" she hesitated, biting the inside of her cheek. "It wasn't just fighting, Eradros. You looked… gone. Like death itself had possessed you."
He sighed through his nose, stepped closer, and took her hands before she could fold them away. His touch was warm but stubborn, like he was daring her to pull back. "I've actually done it, Minevi. Don't you see? I have the strength to protect him now. Isn't that what we needed?"
Her frown deepened, though her fingers stayed tangled with his. "Strength like that always comes at a cost, luv. And don't pretend you don't hear it in your bones. This stinks of Daedra, and that never ends well for anyone but them."
"My soul's my own," he said firmly. "If that's what worries you."
She arched a brow. "You seem so sure."
He opened his mouth, then faltered. The silence stretched between them.
Minevi softened, but her words pressed harder. "I know you think this is all for Kin. But the two of you… you're both ready to burn yourselves out over this dragon business. I don't want that. Not for him. Not for you."
Her thumb brushed the back of his hand, tentative, hesitant. "I want to look forward to something after all this. With you. If the Divines allow it."
Eradros' throat tightened. He wanted to scoff, to dismiss it, but the warmth of her hand anchored him. He forced a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "If we don't stop Miraak, Minevi… there won't be an after."
She searched his face, as if hoping for more. For promise. For a future. But he let her hand slip free.
She turned, red sash swaying behind her as she started walking again.
Eradros lingered, watching her silhouette disappear into the broken stalls. Then he called after her, his voice low but certain:
"I know you care. I see it every damned time."
The words left him heavier than before. He followed in silence, wondering if hers were hope, or prophecy. He didn't know what to say to ease her mind. He searched for the words, but they never came. The rest of their trip was quiet, both bogged down by the weight on their hearts. She could only hope that he knew best, but Deadra, like most gods, can always do worse.
[Later That Night]
The moon's glow pressed quiet against the mountainside, broken only by the chatter outside where Gavhelus, Passha, and Taviiah traded stories. Most of them were Taviiah's stories about Kin as a child, which Gav found absolutely hilarious. It was calm around the fire, but the peace wasn't shared by everyone, it seemed.
Inside, the workshop hummed with the faint hiss of cooling metal.
Kin sat with his back against the heavy door to Bhishiir's detox room, knees drawn up, face dug into his scarf. He'd been there long enough for the hinges to feel etched into his spine. The muffled clink of tools had gone on for hours, steady and unbroken.
A sharp skitter cut through the silence.
Spindle crept into view, legs clicking over stone. The little automaton paused, tilted—and promptly threw itself onto its back. Its legs flailed stiffly in the air, kicking at nothing like a skeever choking on moon sugar.
Kin blinked, then let out a short laugh. "What are you doing, you daft thing?"
Spindle twitched, flipped upright, and scampered in a proud little circle before parking itself on his knee.
Kin shook his head, a faint smile tugging at him. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. Just got a lot on my mind, that's all."
The clinking inside stopped.
"Something troubling you, boy?" Bhishiir's voice came muffled through the door.
Kin startled. "You heard that? Sorry… it's nothing."
"Bhishiir didn't need to hear it. You've been clinging to that door like the answers to life are carved on the other side. Plus you've taken sixteen long breaths since you sat down. Seventeen now. Out with it, before we run out of oxygen."
Kin rubbed the back of his neck, smiling nervously at Spindle. "…You were counting?"
"This one counts everything." Bhishiir replied, dryly.
"Sorry about that. It's just…there's a lot riding on you—you know that?"
Bhishiir chuckled a bit, almost mockingly. Then the clanking paused.
"Bhishiir can be useful, yes." He started. "But pinning so much hope on one person… surely, you of all people should know that is folly."
Kin didn't respond. He pondered Bhishiir's words, watching Spindle prance back and forth.
"You are—Dragonborn, yes?"
"Apparently." He answered, brow raising at the question.
"Everyone's hopes walk with you everywhere you go. This one imagines that is a great burden, one that never lightens." He paused, then scoffed. "A terrible thing for a child to endure."
Kin leaned his head against the door, gazing up at the pipe-lined ceiling. "You sound like you're speaking from experience."
The tools inside stopped. For a long moment, Bhishiir said nothing. Then—
"Once, when Bhishiir was still a cub, he had a mentor. Grandmaster of the Blades. Jauffre, they called him. To most, he was a shadow. To Bhishiir…" His voice wavered, then steadied with that usual sing-song eccentricity. "…he was father, teacher, tormentor, compass. All rolled into a balding old man."
Kin stood, turning to the small slit in the door.
"What…happened to him?"
"The same fate all blades eventually met. He was murdered by the Thalmor."
Bhishiir's voice grew quieter, as if in reflection.
"This one was thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Old enough to know what was happening. Young enough to be helpless. I remember the sound—their boots on the stones of Weynon Priory, their voices like knives. He pushed me through the cellar door, pressed the key into my hand, and told me to run until my legs bled. Said there'd be no Blades left if I didn't." A pause. "So Bhishiir ran. And I never saw him again."
Kin fell silent. The story was all too familiar. Losing the one person that was everything to you, knowing you were powerless to save them. It was starting to make sense now.
"My advice to you… put faith only in yourself. Others will let you down. Some won't have a choice in the matter. Tis life."
Kin's brows knit as he leaned heavier against the door. The words rang familiar — too familiar — echoing things he'd told himself after Helgen, after Riverwood, after every death he couldn't prevent. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, softly: "If I believed that, I'd still be hiding in the ruins of Helgen."
The faint scrape of metal stopped on the other side of the door.
Kin let the silence linger, then went on. "People do let you down, sure. Sometimes they die, sometimes they run, sometimes they just… can't be what you need them to be. I know that. Better than most. But if I only trusted myself, I'd have nothing. And I don't think I'd still be standing here."
Spindle clicked quietly and crawled up onto Kin's shoulder, almost in agreement.
He smiled faintly at the little machine. "The others — Gav, Minevi, even you, Bhishiir — you're the reason I keep moving. You say putting faith in people is folly… but it's the only reason I haven't burned out yet."
There was no answer from the other side. Only the low, steady sound of breathing.
When Bhishiir finally spoke, his voice was quieter than Kin had ever heard it. "Hmph. Foolish. Dangerous. Naïve." A pause. "…But perhaps not entirely wrong."
The clatter of tools resumed, sharper now, like Bhishiir was working harder than before.
Kin leaned his head back against the door, closing his eyes. For the first time that night, the silence between them felt a little lighter.
Two days later, the workshop door finally groaned open. Spindle skittered out first, legs clicking as it dragged a key half its size. With a neat hop, it jammed the key into the lock and twisted until the bolt clacked free.
The door swung open.
Bhishiir stepped out into the dim morning light. He looked… better. His fur was groomed, his eyes sharper, his posture straighter than it had been in weeks. For an eighty-something Khajiit, he still looked ancient—but there was fire in him again.
He carried something behind his back.
"This one has done it," he announced, tone theatrical. "Bhishiir has solved your problem."
The others turned. Eradros narrowed his eyes. "…That sounds ominous."
Bhishiir ignored him, a grin splitting his whiskered face. "Behold!"
With a flourish, he revealed a gleaming metal arm, forged from Dwemer steel. Intricate etchings ran along its length, and at the center of the forearm pulsed a violet glow—a soul gem embedded in the metal like a beating heart.
The group froze, exchanging wary glances.
"…Wait," Eradros finally said, brow furrowing. "That's a metal limb. How does this solve our problem again?"
Bhishiir held the arm aloft, smiling with manic pride. "Because the Dragonborn is not whole. And Bhishiir despises unsolved equations."
Kin blinked, stepping closer. "You… you were making that the whole time? For me?"
Bhishiir nodded gravely, then immediately ruined it with a shrug. "You said it yourself, lad. One cannot overcome great odds singlehanded. Or… something like that. Bhishiir forgets."
Minevi folded her arms, eyeing the construct warily. "What exactly does it do?"
"Ah!" Bhishiir's tail flicked as he held the arm out like a prize. "Two soul gems. One here—" he tapped the joint where the arm would attach, "—implanted directly into the stump. Painful. Permanent. This gem will draw the magick already within him."
Kin's throat tightened. "And the other?"
Bhishiir tapped the glowing stone in the forearm. "This gem is the conductor. It channels what the first draws out. Insert a filled gem, and the arm becomes a focus for spellcraft. Fire, frost, lightning—whatever the boy has in him. With proper attachments, the forearm can even be swapped out. Different models, different functions. Bhishiir has sketches already!"
Eradros pinched the bridge of his nose. "Of course he does."
Bhishiir ignored him, tone growing heavier. "But listen closely, boy. Should you cast without a charged gem in place, the arm will draw directly from your life force. It is extremely dangerous and foolish to do so. The magick will be stronger yes, but it will burn you out, piece by piece, until there is nothing left."
He let that sink in, whiskers twitching. "So. Always keep a charged gem on hand. Always. Unless you wish to die spectacularly."
The group went silent, staring at Kin.
Passha tilted her head. "Correct me if I'm wrong. But did we not seek him out for his knowledge of the dragons?"
Bhishiir waved her question away, clearly uninterested. "Yes yes, there will be time for the boring stuff later."
Kin swallowed, eyes fixed on the arm. "I can't believe you built this in less than three days."
Bhishiir smiled, softer now, almost proud. "Bhishiir has built many things. Tools. Traps. Companions. But this… this may yet change the world… or save it. Whichever comes first."
He held the arm out in front of Kin like a blade being given to a knight, his eyes gleaming with ambition. "Well, Dragonborn? Shall we see if it fits?"
Chapter End—