Having greeted his exhaustingly numerous acquaintances in Whiterun, Torin finally extracted himself and made leisurely for Dragonsreach.
"Leisurely" was the key word.
He'd learned years ago that rushing through Whiterun's streets was a fool's errand. Someone always stopped you. Someone always wanted to talk, to catch up, to hear about the College or the magic or the bear or whatever rumor had been making the rounds since he'd left.
Adrianne had wanted to show him her latest work—a stunning orichalcum greatsword that she insisted he test next time he fought something big. Carlotta had pressed a fresh-baked loaf into his hands and made him promise to visit more often.
Even the kids had mobbed him near the Gildergreen, demanding stories about Winterhold until an angry mother called them all inside.
He'd eaten the bread walking up the steps to Dragonsreach. It was still warm.
Now, climbing the final approach to the keep, Torin let out a sigh that steamed in the cold air. His conversation with Kodlak was still sitting heavy in his mind, refusing to settle.
The old man had finally agreed to accept help from the College.
Not easily, and not without conditions. But he'd agreed.
It had taken more than logic. More than promises about cures and research and the combined knowledge of Skyrim's greatest magical minds. What finally tipped the scales was something else entirely—something Torin had thrown out almost as an afterthought, barely formed, more hope than plan.
With the College's help, he'd said carefully, watching Kodlak's face, there might even be a way to reach the ones who've already passed. The former Companions who might not be so keen on Hircine's company.
He hadn't promised anything. Hadn't even hinted that it was likely. Just floated the possibility, let it hang in the air between them like smoke from the fire.
And Kodlak's eyes had lit up.
Not bright—the old man was too controlled for that. But there had been a flicker, a spark, something that hadn't been there a moment before. The kind of hope you only let yourself feel when you're old enough to know it might be your last.
Torin had watched that spark catch and grow, watched Kodlak work through his reservations, watched him arrive at a decision that probably should have taken days but somehow took only minutes.
Leading an assault on a Daedric Prince's realm. Freeing the souls of Nord warriors who'd been trapped for centuries. Guiding them to their rightful place in Sovngarde.
That was the stuff of legend. The kind of thing that would have the halls of mead singing Kodlak's name till the end of time—and maybe beyond, if the songs were good enough. It was exactly the kind of ending a man like Kodlak deserved.
And Torin had hinted at its possibility.
He wasn't sure how he felt about that.
The steps to Dragonsreach were long and shallow, built for processions and pronouncements, not for a single man climbing with his thoughts. Torin took them one at a time, letting his mind wander.
It was strange. Helping the man who'd raised him prepare for his own afterlife. Most sons never had to think about that—their fathers died, and they mourned, and that was the end of it. But Torin was sitting here, years before the fact, already planning how to make sure Kodlak's soul ended up in the right place.
Because Kodlak was growing old. That was just a fact. Still strong, still sharp, still the Harbinger in every way that mattered. But time didn't care about any of that. Time just kept moving, kept pushing, kept carrying everyone toward the same eventual end.
Someday—maybe soon, maybe not—Torin would get news that Kodlak had died with a sword in his hand. Or he'd be there when it happened. Stand over the old man's body and watch the light fade from those patient eyes.
The thought sat in his chest like a stone.
He shook it off as he reached the top of the steps. The guards at Dragonsreach's entrance recognized him—all of Whiterun did by now—and waved him through with nods and the occasional muttered "Storm-Caller" as he passed.
Inside, the keep was warm.
Torin let the heat wash over him as he stepped through the doors, shrugging off the chill that had settled into his bones during the climb. Fires crackled in braziers big enough to roast a mammoth, their light dancing across ancient stone and newer tapestries.
Servants hurried about their business—some carrying trays, others armloads of documents, one poor soul wrestling with what looked like an entire side of beef slung over his shoulder. Homey. In that "seat of regional power" kind of way.
Torin made his way deeper into the keep, following the sound of voices.
He could hear Steward Avbenicci before he could see him—that distinctive Imperial accent, clipped and precise, rising in what sounded like an impassioned report about something undeniably tedious.
"—and then Olfric Battle-Born told Vignar Gray-Mane that if he couldn't tell the difference between Imperial silver and excrement, he should stick to sniffing the latter. At which point Vignar suggested Olfric demonstrate the difference personally, since he seemed to have such extensive experience with both, what with his nose brown with imperial backsides and his pockets full of their coins...."
The Jarl of Whiterun sat on his throne like a man who'd rather be anywhere else—which, knowing Balgruuf, was probably true.
He was built like a warrior who'd gone soft around the edges, still broad-shouldered and solid, but with the kind of tired patience that came from decades of mediating arguments between people who should know better.
Still, Torin knew he'd easily cave the skulls of five men with his bare hands if needed.
"Let me guess," Balgruuf said, his voice heavy with long-suffering resignation. "It escalated."
"Almost an all-out brawl in the market district," Avenicci confirmed, consulting his notes with an air of seriousness. "Over trade with the Empire, of all things. Battle-Born supports it, Gray-Mane opposes it, and apparently that disagreement is now grounds for public fisticuffs."
Balgruuf let out a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere in his boots.
Torin, standing off to the side where they hadn't noticed him yet, couldn't help but chuckle.
The Battle-Borns and Gray-Manes. Some things never changed.
He'd done his part a few years back—a quiet word here, a subtle nudge there. Encouraged Jon Battle-Born to pursue Olfina Gray-Mane when it became obvious the two young idiots were head over heels for each other but too stubborn to admit it.
He watched from a distance as they'd courted, married, and started making the kind of loud, happy family that forced both clans to at least pretend to get along at public functions.
It had worked. Mostly. Jon and Olfina were solid, and the two families now had a reason to think twice before letting their feud boil over into something permanent.
But the patriarchs? Olfric Battle-Born and Vignar Gray-Mane?
Those two old bastards could barely tolerate being in the same hold, let alone the same breathing space. They'd probably go to their graves glaring at each other across the fire pits of Sovngarde.
Torin shook his head, still smiling. It didn't seem like they'd completely fall out by the time the dragons appeared—assuming dragons still appeared when they should, assuming that future hadn't already changed beyond recognition.
And he was proud of that. Proud that he'd helped, even a little, even in a small way.
But he wasn't going to meddle in their affairs twice if they found a way to fall out again. Once was enough. Whatever happened now, happened.
He stepped forward into the light, letting his boots click against the stone.
Balgruuf looked up. His expression shifted from tired frustration to something warmer—surprise, maybe, or genuine pleasure.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"And so the prodigal son returns to his home." The Jarl's voice carried across the hall, rich with amusement. "Tell me, boy. How has Winterhold treated you?"
Torin stopped a respectful distance from the throne and inclined his head. "Coldly, my Jarl. As expected."
Balgruuf laughed—a real laugh, the kind that crinkled his eyes. "Good. Wouldn't want you getting soft." He gestured to Avbenicci. "That'll be all, Steward. We can continue this later, when I've had a chance to fortify myself with something stronger than water."
Avbenicci nodded stiffly, gathered his notes, and departed with the air of a man who knew when he wasn't wanted.
As he passed, Torin caught his eye and offered a small nod. The steward returned it, just as small, and then he was gone, swallowed by the keep's shadows.
Balgruuf leaned forward on his throne, studying Torin with the kind of look that reminded him of Kodlak. Not as deep, not as searching, but close. The look of a man who'd learned to read people through years of practice.
Torin settled deeper into the chair, letting the warmth of the fires seep into his cold-numbed limbs. Balgruuf studied him with that familiar, measuring gaze—the look of a man who'd spent decades learning to read between the lines of what people said.
"And what of Solitude?" The Jarl's voice was casual, almost offhand. But his eyes were sharp. "I hear you've made some friends there."
Torin raised an eyebrow. "I doubt the people of Solitude would be flattered by the idea of making friends with a mere mercenary like myself."
Balgruuf's eyes narrowed slightly. Just a fraction. Just enough.
"Is that so?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A grin tugged at his mouth—not a friendly grin, exactly. More like a sabre cat who'd spotted something interesting. "I, however, personally spoke to a friend of yours in Solitude. Not long ago, actually."
The grin widened. "What was it you told him of me? Something about me being a good man? A good Jarl? With a tendency to overpraise the Companions?"
Torin felt his cheeks warm despite himself.
Goddamned High King Torygg.
Of all the things to mention. Of all the casual conversations to repeat. The young king had stood beside Torin in that balcony, accepted a woodcutter's axe, listened to advice about challenging Ulfric to a duel—and apparently filed away every word Torin had said about his Jarl for future use.
Why? Why would he do that? What possible purpose did it serve to tell Balgruuf that of all things?
Torin cleared his throat, buying time. "Did I say that? I can't say I remember." He scratched his chin thoughtfully, the picture of innocent confusion. "Either way, I'm sure it was with the intent to praise before our king. Nothing more."
Balgruuf just shook his head—slow, disapproving, but with that grin still lurking underneath.
"Either way." He leaned back in his throne, steepling his fingers. "It just so happens that our High King is the reason I've asked for your presence here today, boy."
Torin blinked. Slowly. Processing.
"Does His Majesty have need of me already?"
The duel suggestion had been months ago. Surely Torygg hadn't actually challenged Ulfric—surely Torin would have heard if—
"No, no. Nothing like that." Balgruuf waved away the concern. "This is... different. He's considering giving you the title of Thane of Solitude."
The words hung in the air between them.
Torin's frown came automatically, pulling at his features before he could stop it.
Thane. Of Solitude.
That was... unexpected.
"He contacted me directly," Balgruuf continued, watching Torin's reaction with obvious interest. "Wanted my permission, first. And to see if you yourself would be amenable to the idea."
Torin's mind started racing, piecing together implications.
Torygg wasn't stupid. Far from it. The young king had proven that during their conversation—sharp, thoughtful, aware of the political currents swirling around him. He wouldn't do something like this without considering how it would look.
And how would it look?
A Jarl, the high king at that, poaching a famous figure—and Torin could admit, privately, that he'd gained some reputation over the years—from under another Jarl's nose.
Why not Thane of Whiterun? they'd ask. What's wrong with Whiterun? What's wrong with Balgruuf?
Torin met the Jarl's eyes again, seeing the situation with new clarity.
Torygg had put Balgruuf in a tough spot. A really tough spot.
If Balgruuf said yes, he looked weak—like he couldn't hold onto his own people. If he said no, he looked like he was standing in the way of Torin's advancement, which would make enemies of anyone who thought Torin deserved the honor.
And Balgruuf had called him here specifically to discuss it. To what? To watch his reaction? To gauge where his loyalties lay?
Troublesome. Too troublesome.
Torin let out a long breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well," he said slowly. "That's... a headache I didn't see coming..."
...
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