One day later, as the sun bled its last fiery light over the jagged peaks of the Reach, Torin and Qasim finally laid eyes on their destination. The city walls of Markarth, the capital of the hold, rose before them, ancient and imposing, with Echo padding wearily at their heels.
To Torin, it was both a familiar and an utterly unfamiliar sight. The basic framework was there, just as he remembered from countless screens: the formidable watchtower, the stables huddled outside the main gate. But it was more.
It was alive, noisy, and sprawling.
A line of heavy-laden carriages from High Rock was backed up near the gate, their owners—a mix of Bretons and tough-looking drivers—engaged in loud, gesticulating arguments with the stone-faced Markarth guards who were meticulously inspecting every crate and barrel.
Then Torin lifted his gaze to the city itself, and his breath hitched.
It was huge. Awe-inspiring was the only word to describe it, but even then, it felt lacking.
Markarth wasn't just built on a mountain; it was carved from it, a staggering feat of engineering that made Whiterun look like a child's block tower. Tiered levels rose in impossible steps, connected by stone stairways and bridges.
Towers, slender and strong, pierced the twilight sky, some crowned with gilded domes that caught the dying sun. Waterfalls, massive and thunderous, didn't just flow near the city—they cascaded through it, channeled into aqueducts and plunging into deep chasms right beside bustling walkways, the mist catching the last light like diamond dust.
It felt less like a natural occurrence and more like an intended, breathtaking part of the city's design.
The Nords were great builders of sturdy halls and high walls, but this… this was artistry on a geological scale. This was the work of the Dwemer. Every perfectly fitted stone, every gravity-defying arch, sang of a lost, hyper-advanced civilization.
It was a monument to a people who had looked at a mountain and decided to turn it into a living, breathing machine.
He was snapped out of his stunned daze by Qasim's voice, filled with genuine wonder.
"It is… breathtaking," the Redguard murmured, his eyes wide. "I have traveled from the Alik'r to the Pale, but I have never seen anything like it."
Torin gave him a sidelong glance but didn't bother to reply. The wonder of the city was momentarily overshadowed by the simmering annoyance of the past day. Qasim's unshakeable piety and preachy altruism had grated on him until his nerves felt raw.
He'd been so tempted that morning to just wake up an hour early, pack his things, and ditch the self-righteous pilgrim at the Old Hroldan Inn. But they'd made a deal. A contract, of sorts.
Torin had given his word to travel with him to Markarth, and no matter how much the guy made him want to scream, Torin wasn't in the habit of breaking his word.
A Companion's honor, however strained his patience, was still a binding thing.
But soon. Very soon, once they passed through those colossal gates, he could finally be rid of him. The thought was the only thing sweetening the last leg of their journey.
With a soft groan that had nothing to do with physical tiredness, Torin resumed walking, heading straight for the main gate, bypassing the snarled line of merchants. There was a queue for trade, but luckily, not one for single travelers.
He reached the massive, reinforced gates and was immediately stopped by a guard in the distinctive, heavy armor of the Markarth watch. The man looked him up and down, his expression bored but vigilant. "What's your business in the City of Stone?"
Torin simply reached up and pulled aside the wolf-fur collar of his cloak, revealing the clear, unmistakable Wuuthrad knot seared into his pauldron. "Need a place to sleep that isn't a rock," he said, his tone pragmatic. "And maybe to find a smith who can mend a dent in my shield. Companion business."
The guard's eyes flicked to the symbol, and he gave a curt, understanding nod. The Companions' reputation was a universal key in Skyrim. His gaze then shifted to Qasim and, more pointedly, to Echo. "What of the Redguard? And the… bear?"
Torin grinned, a genuine expression of relief. "The bear is with me. Her name's Echo. She's well-behaved and won't cause any trouble."
He let out a theatrical sigh and jerked a thumb at Qasim. "As for the Redguard… his name's Qasim. We've been traveling together for a bit. He's… let's say he's a bit stubborn about rules. Might want to give him a proper, stern talking-to about the laws of Markarth before you let him wander around. Wouldn't want any misunderstandings."
Qasim instantly shot Torin a look that was a perfect blend of confusion and deep offense.
Torin just grinned wider at him, the smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Well, Qasim. We're finally at Markarth. Contract's fulfilled." He gave the Redguard a casual, two-fingered wave over his shoulder. "This is where we part ways. Try not to get yourself arrested preaching at the wrong people."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned on his heel and stepped through the towering gate into the cavernous, lamplit entrance tunnel of the city, Echo padding obediently at his heels, leaving the outside world—and Qasim—behind.
"Wait! We still need to—" Qasim started, taking a step to follow, his hand half-raised.
The Markarth guard smoothly shifted his bulk, blocking the entrance. His previously bored expression had hardened into one of official duty. "You'll get your chance to enter, stranger. But only after I'm satisfied you've heard and understood the rules of this city. We don't take kindly to trouble here. Now, about those 'stubborn' tendencies your friend mentioned…"
...
A gentle but persistent nudge to his side roused Torin from a deep, dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the friendly, expectant face of the inn's young waitress.
"It's time," she said softly. "The smithy should be open for business right about now."
Torin nodded, his voice still thick with sleep. "Thanks." She took a step back as he pushed himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, sitting there for a moment to let the world settle.
A slow, jaw-cracking yawn escaped him. He rubbed a hand over his face and turned to her. "What about the Redguard? The one with the curved sword? He make it in?"
The girl smiled slightly, a knowing look in her eye. "Oh, he came. Just like you said he would. Must've been about two hours after you went to bed. Looked dead on his feet, poor thing."
She shrugged. "He should still be sleeping. I put him in the furthest room from yours, just like you asked."
A smirk touched Torin's lips. Perfect. He reached over to the small table where his coin purse sat and retrieved a small handful of septims—a generous tip for simple information and a bit of discretion.
The girl's smile widened into a bright, genuine beam as she held out an open hand. He dropped the coins into her waiting palm with a soft clink.
"You did good," he said.
"You're welcome, sir!" she chirped, quickly pocketing the coins. With a light, almost skipping step, she turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
She sure is easy to please, he mused to himself, stretching his arms until his shoulders popped. Though it probably just meant the coin was that important to her and her family. It was a heavy thought, not one he felt like deliberating on so early in the morning.
With a grunt that sounded like it came from a man four times his age, he pushed himself to his feet. He gave Echo, who was a shaggy, contented lump on the floor, a gentle nudge with his foot.
She opened one dark eye and gave him a look of profound, bear-like annoyance before making an enormous, toothy yawn that showed the full pink expanse of her mouth. With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world, she slowly, dramatically, pushed herself up onto all fours.
...
After a quick, bracing splash of water from the room's wash basin, Torin and Echo left the room. They stopped in the dining area, where Torin ordered a simple but hearty breakfast of porridge and dried sausage for them both.
They ate quickly, the morning quiet of the inn broken only by the clink of spoons and Echo's contented chewing. Once finished, they stepped out into the cool, misty air of a Markarth morning.
Outside, Torin paused, the city sprawling before him in its daunting, multi-layered complexity. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the mental map he had from another life. It was fuzzy, distorted by scale.
The smithy… down in the Warrens… near the waterfall… After a moment, he nodded to himself with more confidence than he felt and started walking, Echo falling into step behind him as they disappeared into the labyrinth of stone.
...
The trip to the smithy proved infinitely more complex than Torin had anticipated. Markarth, in reality, wasn't just larger; it was a vertical maze. Roads weren't just paths, but a confusing network of intersecting stone staircases, arched bridges, and tunnels that burrowed straight into the mountain.
He passed bustling market squares on one level, only to descend a flight of stairs and find himself in a quiet, residential alcove with a completely different view of the waterfalls. The scale was disorienting.
Still, after several wrong turns and backtracking, the steady, rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil finally led him to his destination: a wide, open-air forge built into a stone terrace overlooking one of the smaller cascades.
He had to pause at the scene playing out before him.
A young miner, his face streaked with dust, stood in the smithy holding a broken pickaxe, his expression a mix of frustration and anxiety. In front of him, a Nord man with a protruding gut straining against his leather apron was purple with rage.
He wasn't shouting at the miner, however. He was bellowing at an Orc woman who stood across the forge.
"It snapped clean through after half a day's work! This is your fault, woman! You tempered it wrong!"
The Orc woman was dressed in similar practical smithing gear, but where the Nord was soft, she was pure, corded muscle. She seemed to take the accusation as a personal insult.
With a snarl, she snatched the broken pickaxe from the miner's hand. She held it up, her dark eyes blazing.
"My fault?" Her voice was a low growl, sharp enough to cut stone. "Look at this fracture, you fool! This is your shoddy work. Your quenching trough is filthier than a skeever's den, your bellows wheeze like a dying horker, and you ignore basic forging principles a blind apprentice would know! This steel was stressed more than the emperor before it ever left your anvil!"
The fat Nord's face went from purple to a dangerous mottled red. "Are you calling me a liar?! You will know your place and speak to me with respect if you want to keep working in my smithy!"
For a second, Torin thought the Orc woman was going to break the man in half and toss the pieces into the churning waterfall below. Her knuckles were white around the pickaxe haft.
But then, with a visible, tremendous effort, she took a deep, shuddering breath, her broad shoulders rising and falling.
Without another word, she turned her back on him, stormed over to her own anvil, snatched up her hammer, and began beating a piece of glowing metal with a violence that spoke volumes.
...
I'm motivated by praise and interaction, so be sure to leave a like, power stone, or whatever kind of shendig this site uses, and more importantly do share you thoughts on the chapter in the comment section!
Want more chapters? Then consider subscribing to my pat rēon. You can read ahead for as little as $1 and it helps me a lot!
-> (pat rēon..com / wicked132)
You can also always come and say hi on my discord server
-> (disc ord..gg / sEtqmRs5y7)- or hit me up at - Wicked132#5511 - and I'll add you myself)