Feeling a sudden chill in his spine—a cold, creeping sensation that seemed to originate from somewhere deep within his bones—Torin's eyes shot open. He sprang onto his feet from the bed in a single, fluid motion, Skaldrfong materializing in his hand before his feet even touched the floor.
The familiar weight of the spear grounded him, its ancient bone cool against his palm, and his eyes darted around the room, scanning for threats.
His body's complete recovery was the first thing he noticed. The wounds that had covered him—the gash across his chest, the exposed bone on his leg, the countless cuts and bruises—were gone.
His skin was smooth and unblemished, as if that grueling battle had never happened. His left arm, which had hung limply at his side, was strong and responsive, and his muscles hummed with a vitality that seemed almost unnatural.
Then he noticed his surroundings. He was inside a luxuriously decorated room, its walls adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of Breton history and its floors covered in thick, ornate rugs. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm, dancing shadows across the room. The bed he had been lying on was large and soft, its sheets made of fine linen, and a tray of untouched food sat on a nearby table.
Probably a room in the palace, Torin mused as he continued to scan the room, his grip on the spear still tight. But what is this strange chill I'm feeling?
Just as he was about to dismiss the feeling as a remnant of his exhaustion, the shadows in the corner of the room began to shift. They deepened, darkened, coalescing into a familiar figure shrouded in a black hood. The figure stepped forward, its movements smooth and deliberate, and Torin's face darkened.
"You again," he said, his voice flat, his grip tightening over the spear.
This was the same man who had tried to convince Torin not to participate in the duel—before Torin even knew it was a duel. And then again, after the white stag trial, he had tried to have Torin arrested by the city guards. His persistence was almost admirable, if it weren't so annoying.
The hooded figure didn't seem to even register Torin's words. He took another step forward, his voice low and smooth, carrying a note of bitter accusation.
"Are you satisfied with yourself?" He paused, letting the question hang in the air. "Sir Garran could have lived. Could have returned to his family if you had simply taken the easy path as I suggested." He shook his head slowly, the gesture carrying a weight of long-held frustration. "But no. You had to let your trifling honor get in the way. And now my plans—plans that have been in the making for years—are in ruins."
Torin scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive.
"I wonder which of them you regret losing more," he said, his gaze hardening. "Garran, or the effort you put into your plans?"
He tilted his head, studying the hooded figure with cold, calculating eyes. "His death was undeserved, and I imagine that I'll carry it with me for a long time." His voice dropped, carrying an edge of steel. "But that does not mean a dog of Armand can reproach me for it."
The figure's lips curled into a thin smile, a expression that held no warmth, only bitter satisfaction.
"You think yourself clever. Wise." He took another step forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper that seemed to slither through the air like smoke. "And perhaps you are—to an extent. But you do not understand the depth of the mire you've stepped into."
His hands moved behind his back, his posture shifting to one of calm, almost paternal condescension.
"This is not over, Storm Caller." His voice carried a note of finality, like a door slamming shut. "Far from it."
Torin snorted, giving the hooded figure a derisive look.
"What, you want to kill me?" He shook his head slowly. "You're not the first to try. You won't be the last."
The hooded figure's smile widened, his teeth glinting briefly in the dim light.
"Kill you?" He let out a soft, almost amused hum. "No. If I wanted you dead, I would have slit your throat while you slept. Nothing so dramatic would have been necessary." He paused, his eyes glinting beneath the hood. "I'll have you suffer, boy. Until you understand your folly."
Torin didn't respond with words. He raised his arm, his muscles coiling, and hurled his spear at the figure with a fluid, practiced motion. The weapon cut through the air, its tip aimed directly at the hooded man's chest—but it passed right through him like fog, shattering the wall behind him with a deafening crash.
The figure began to dissipate, his form melting back into the shadows like ink dissolving in water. His voice echoed in the room, fading as he went. "Enjoy your victory," it said, the words dripping with mockery. "Cherish this fleeting moment of triumph."
A pause, and then the final whisper.
"You can't begin to fathom what you've cost me... but you will."
As soon as he was gone, the door swung open, and the palace guards barged in, their weapons drawn, their eyes scanning the room for threats. The lead guard, a stocky Breton with a scarred face, looked at the hole in the wall, then at Torin, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"We heard loud noises, Lord Envoy." His voice was wary, his gaze lingering on the spear embedded in the wall. "What happened?"
Torin simply shrugged, his expression calm, almost bored.
"Just a rat." He gestured vaguely toward the shattered wall. "It's gone now."
The guard stared at him for a long moment, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. Then he nodded slowly, turning to his men.
"Search the palace for intruders." He looked back at Torin. "We'll secure the perimeter. Stay here until we return."
Torin nodded and watched as the guards spread out, their boots heavy on the wooden floor.
...
Two hours later, after a meal and a hot shower that had done little to ease the lingering ache in his muscles, Torin was sitting inside the workshop built for him inside the palace.
His attention was fixed on what remained of his shield—now a broken heap of twisted metal and shattered mechanisms, its intricate gears exposed like the innards of a slain beast.
He turned a piece over in his hands, studying the fractures that ran through its surface. It had been capable of absorbing the blow from a giant's club and stopping the charge of an enraged troll, yet it had given way under the relentless blows of Garran's sword until it was nothing more than scrap.
The Bannerless Knight had been a worthy opponent—perhaps the finest Torin had ever faced—and his strength had been immense. But the shield's failure still gnawed at him.
Still, he mused, I can always make a new one. A better one.
It would take gold, effort, and time—certainly, he didn't intend to pay for it from his own pocket. The shield had been lost while doing the High King's bidding, and it was only fair that Torygg should compensate him for it.
He'd have to draft a letter, formal but pointed, explaining the circumstances. Perhaps he could even negotiate for better materials—something that could withstand the force of a Daedric prince's blow, if necessary.
Just as Torin was ready to inspect another part of the shield—the core mechanism, still intact despite the destruction—a knock came at the door. It opened before he could respond, revealing Gautier's figure, followed by Bragi and Qasim.
The count looked tired, his usual composure frayed at the edges. Bragi's expression was dark, his jaw tight, while Qasim seemed distant, his gaze fixed on something beyond the room.
Torin stopped what he was doing and stood up, his eyes fixed on Gautier.
"Let me guess." He crossed his arms. "You couldn't find the bastard."
Gautier nodded with a long, weary sigh.
"Not so much as a trace." He rubbed his forehead. "Whoever this man is, he knows what he's doing. For all we know, he wasn't even in your room—not truly. His presence may have been nothing more than an illusion."
Torin nodded slowly, his mind turning over the possibilities.
"I figured as much when I watched my spear pierce through him like smoke." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Finding him will be easier once we find out who he was. And I have it on good authority that he's an associate of the good Duke Armand."
Gautier nodded, his expression grim.
"I came to the same conclusion. Unfortunately, neither of our spies have spotted anyone matching his description in the duke's inner circle." He paused, his gaze sharpening. "And they keep a very close eye on him. If this man were truly close to Armand, we would have seen him by now."
Torin clicked his tongue, the sound sharp and impatient in the quiet workshop. He set down the broken piece of his shield and turned to face Gautier fully, his arms crossing over his chest.
"Or he simply had a change of clothes." He let out a long, slow sigh. "Either way, Duke Armand would be able to point me in his direction." His gaze hardened, his voice dropping to a measured, deliberate tone. "And speaking of which—where can I find Armand?"
Gautier's face immediately hardened, his jaw tightening as if the question had physically struck him.
"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to refrain from approaching Duke Armand." He raised a hand, a gesture of appeasement. "The situation is rather delicate."
Before Torin even had a chance to respond, Bragi lashed out, his voice sharp and cutting.
"Oh yeah?!" He stepped right up to Gautier's face, his eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. "And what's so bloody delicate about it?! You people are in power now—thanks to us—and Armand is our enemy because of it! Now that bastard is making threats, and you want us to just sit and do nothing?!"
Gautier shook his head, his expression weary but firm.
"Like I said—it's complicated." He held up his hands, as if trying to calm a snarling beast. "Those who allied with Armand have already abandoned him. But his vassals—the ones who served his family for generations—cannot do the same."
His face darkened, shadows flickering across his features. "Armand gathered all his forces and holed himself up inside his territory." He paused, his voice dropping to a grave murmur.
"A direct march on him would be successful, yes, but highly costly. Having him killed now that the duel is done with isn't an option either. His vassals would be honor-bound to rebel. Either way, we'd be left vulnerable to a Thalmor invasion—and in no place to fulfill our obligations as allies of Skyrim. So the queen has decided to dismantle his influence safely. Slowly."
Torin's eyes narrowed, his gaze boring into Gautier's. "How slowly?"
Gautier's face was apologetic as he spoke, the words heavy with resignation.
"It could take years."
Torin stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire. Then he let out a breath, long and low, and turned away.
Years, he thought, his gaze distant. I can't wait years.
But as his eyes fell on Gautier's weary expression, on Bragi's simmering anger, on Qasim's quiet, unreadable stillness, he knew that for now, there was nothing else to be done.
...
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