Fall of the First Dragonborn
"You're truly strong, current Dragonborn… Tell me, what is your name?" asked a man in a raspy voice, his body covered in wounds and wrapped in the scorched remains of what was once a mighty armor. He was known as the First Dragonborn, the original chosen of the Thu'um, now standing on the corrupted ground of Apocrypha—the dark realm where he had been imprisoned for centuries, enslaved by one of the most feared Daedric Princes: Hermaeus Mora.
He had gathered power for countless generations, feeding on mortal dreams, devouring forbidden knowledge—all for the sole purpose of escaping. But in the process… he had lost himself.
He betrayed the dragons who had granted him power as a Dragon Priest.
He betrayed Hermaeus Mora, who had given him the knowledge to bend even the winged beasts to his will.
And more than anyone, he betrayed himself.
"Einar," replied the young man with a firm voice, just before unleashing his final shout—a Thu'um that shook even the roots of the dark realm. A roar filled with determination that pierced through the defenses of the First Dragonborn, weakening him once and for all.
Miraak—the immortal, the corrupted, the rebellious slave—fell to his knees. He had lost.
But just as he prepared to strike back, a black tentacle emerged from the shadows and pierced through his back without mercy.
"Miraak has fulfilled his purpose. It is time for him to return to the void," declared an unmistakable voice—that of his eternal jailer. Hermaeus Mora, Daedra of Knowledge and Memory.
As the tentacles wrapped around him, dragging him into the darkness of nonexistence, Miraak did not feel fear.
He felt frustration.
He had waited so long, planned every move, only to be betrayed once more. Like before. Like always.
But this time… something was different.
Einar's final Thu'um hadn't just wounded him—it had fractured the very fabric of Apocrypha. Hermaeus Mora failed to fully absorb his soul. The power Miraak had amassed over millennia was too vast. He would not die easily.
So, in one last decision, Miraak gambled everything.
He condensed every remaining fragment of his essence, his body like a bomb about to detonate. He raised his hand and threw his gear toward Einar.
"You've earned it."
And then he exploded.
A brutal wave of energy shook the Daedric realm, tearing through tentacles, structures, and even reality itself. A final act of defiance. A direct wound to the domain of a Daedric Prince.
Einar, bloodied and covered in dust, stepped back and frowned. He had fought Miraak for twenty days and twenty nights without rest—a battle that could only be described as legendary. And yet, he hadn't witnessed its full end. It was a victory interrupted. One he wasn't sure should be celebrated… or feared.
For a brief instant, Miraak looked at him through the shadows of his own destruction. And he understood. That boy's aura was not ordinary. He wasn't just a Dragonborn. There was something more.
And then… he fell.
…
Darkness.
Absolute darkness.
A void without time, without space. True nothingness. And a broken soul, exhausted, suspended in what might be the cruelest hell: to exist without existing.
Perhaps that was his punishment.
Or maybe it was a place so deep, not even Hermaeus Mora understood its limits.
Years—centuries, maybe millennia—dissolved into an eternal present. But Miraak kept his consciousness. And with it, his memories. And those memories… began to repeat endlessly, like divine punishment. He relived every wrong choice, every betrayal, every mistake.
He remembered the evil he had committed.
And for the first time… he accepted it.
Perhaps, truly, he deserved the punishment.
And just as that thought settled… he felt it.
Something pulled his soul downward. As if the void itself spat him out.
He fell. Though he could neither see nor feel clearly, he sensed the fall.
And then… light.
Stars. Artificial lights. A sky torn by a glowing crack. And then, the wind. True wind.
Miraak opened his eyes.
He was falling from the sky, straight into a city of steel, lights, and noise. Around him, metallic carriages moved without horses, and buildings so tall they would make the ancient Dragon Temples tremble with envy.
He crashed into the ground with violent force, creating a crater that rocked the area. The mortals nearby fled in terror, believing a meteorite had struck the city.
Miraak slowly pushed himself up with a rough groan. His body, strong and muscular, ached like in the oldest days. He hadn't felt pain since his final battle against Einar.
He looked around. Blinding lights. Overwhelming noise. Images moving by themselves on gigantic screens.
And him… almost naked, with only an ancient garment barely covering him. His face was stern, weathered by time, his blue eyes radiating wisdom and danger. His hair, a pale golden shade, fell over a firm brow, and his unshaven face gave him the air of an eternal warrior.
"Am I… free?" he murmured, extending his senses. He could feel it. The lives, the thoughts, the emotions all around him. As if the whole world was whispering to him.
Several people stared at him, a mix of horror, confusion, and… curiosity. After all, it wasn't every day that a half-naked man fell from the sky.
Miraak felt the weight of their gazes. For a moment, irritation flickered in his mind. But he remembered the darkness… he remembered his punishment. And he let the rage go.
He vanished.
When he rematerialized, he stood atop a building, observing the city from above, the wind brushing against his face.
"This is not Tamriel," he said solemnly, sensing the obvious.
"Another plane…?"
The air felt different in this world.
Too clean. Too dense. As if it were saturated with invisible noise and strange energy floating between buildings like an artificial whisper.
Flickering lights. Moving symbols on giant screens. Mortals—humans—watched him from the streets with wide, confused eyes, as if they were witnessing an aberration fallen from the sky.
Miraak did not look back.
He stood at the edge of a building that seemed impossible—taller than any tower in Morrowind, more imposing than the temples of the Ancient Dragons. The wind tossed his hair, and his body, forged through millennia of battle, remained steady and composed.
But then he felt it.
A tremor. Subtle, like a shiver in the soul of the air.
A presence. Not a creature, nor an army, not even a god… but a will—distant and powerful—that watched him from above, as if passing judgment.
The sky, which until that moment had ignored him, now seemed to loathe his existence.
There were no words. No warning.
He simply felt it coming.
A celestial discharge descended with impossible speed. A pure, perfect lightning bolt—like the burning finger of a divine throne.
And it was aimed at him.
There was no time for analysis. No time for awe.
"WULD… NAH… KEST!"
The world bent. Reality folded around him, and his figure turned into a fleeting blur.
He vanished just before the bolt struck.
BOOM.
The explosion rocked the rooftop with brutal force. The blast tore chunks of concrete loose, sent shards of glass flying across dozens of buildings, and triggered alarms several blocks away. A column of smoke, fire, and raw electricity rose over the city.
From a nearby rooftop, Miraak reappeared.
Smoke drifted from his skin.
His face showed no expression—not because he felt nothing, but because he had long since learned not to show it.
"The master of this plane attacks without question… interesting," he murmured calmly, sensing the clouds swirl once more, hungry.
The sky roared like an ancient beast.
Miraak slowly raised a hand. It hurt. Part of the lightning had grazed him, searing his unprotected body. Not as much as the punishments of Apocrypha… but enough to remind him that danger still existed, even here.
He placed his hand on his chest and inhaled.
"FEIM… ZII… GRON."
His flesh turned to mist.
His silhouette, a whisper.
He vanished completely, like a shadow that did not belong to this world.
He needed time.
Information.
A place to think.
And above all, to savor the strange sensation he was only just beginning to understand.
Freedom.
After centuries of slavery, suffering, and darkness… he was free.
–
Classroom – New York
Percy was staring out the window.
It was a sunny day. No storms. No clouds.
And yet… something fell from the sky.
First, a light.
Then, a thunderclap.
As if the world had been torn by a divine spear.
A lightning bolt descended from a clear sky, so perfect it looked crafted by a god himself. The shockwave made the windows rattle. A distant alarm wailed. Several students screamed.
Percy didn't.
He simply felt a knot in his stomach. A strange pressure. As if his body, by instinct, had recognized that something had just changed.
"What was that?" he muttered, eyes still fixed on the sky, wide open.
He didn't know…
But at that very moment, a new presence was crossing the skies above the city.
One that had no thread in the loom of the Fates.
An existence that was never meant to be there.
And whose mere presence could unravel every destiny it touched.