Madam Aveline smiled bitterly, the expression not quite reaching her eyes.
"No. It's just that I've had to suffer a number of unwanted guests lately." She shook her head, her leafy robes rustling with the motion. "And the villagers usually don't venture this deep into the forest. They know better... unlike that irksome bunch..."
Echo had already lost interest at this point, her massive head swiveling back toward the pond, her eyes fixed on the water with the patient intensity of a hunter waiting for her prey.
The fish would come eventually—or they wouldn't. She was in no rush.
Torin let out a thoughtful hum.
"Witch hunters who enter the forest whole but leave with broken bones?"
Aveline nodded, her expression darkening.
"Yes. A group of fanatics—former Vigilants of Stendarr who can't tell the difference between a druidess and a witch." She sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation. "They call themselves the True Vigil. They've been harassing the local villages, accusing anyone who doesn't follow their narrow interpretation of the faith of being in league with Daedra. They've even tried to burn a few innocent folk at the stake."
She paused, her eyes meeting his.
"If you would linger here, you should mind them. They're not above attacking travelers they deem 'suspicious.'"
Torin couldn't help but chuckle.
"I doubt they'd mistake me for a witch."
Aveline rolled her eyes.
"Well, there's about a hundred other things they'd mistake you for." She gave Torin another up-and-down look, taking in his massive frame. "A troll, if nothing else."
Torin stared at her for a moment, then let out a genuine laugh—warm, surprised, the kind of laugh that came from being caught off guard.
"Fair enough."
Aveline nodded in satisfaction.
"You look like you can handle yourself, but do be careful." Her expression grew troubled. "These men strike me as madder and madder every time they return. Soon enough, sending them back with broken bones might not be enough anymore."
With that, she turned to leave, her robes rustling as she began to walk back toward the greenery.
Torin quickly called out to her.
"Please wait."
Aveline halted her steps and turned to him with a quizzical look, her brow arched.
"What is it, young man?"
Torin put on his brightest smile—the kind that had charmed merchants, soothed nervous villagers, and occasionally convinced guards not to ask too many questions.
"Have you eaten yet?" He gestured behind him at Echo, who had already caught two fish and was now swiping at the water with her massive paw to catch a third. "I'll have the fish roasted with some venison right away. It's not much, but it's fresh."
Aveline gave him a skeptical look, her eyes narrowing.
"I might consider it, if you tell me what you really want."
Torin chuckled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well, I happen to be a scholar from the College of Winterhold, and our library..." He cleared his throat. "Let's just say it's very lacking when it comes to druidism. I was hoping to learn a thing or two from you about the subject."
Aveline's expression turned even more doubtful at those words.
"You're a... mage?"
Torin didn't say anything. Instead, he reached toward a small rock on the ground. Much to Aveline's shock, it flew into his hand—not thrown, not kicked, but pulled by some invisible force.
As he hovered his other hand atop it, the rock began to grow, expanding until it was double its original size. Then it crumbled, turning to dust that promptly fell to the ground in a soft grey pile.
Aveline blinked. Then she laughed—a warm, genuine sound.
"Sure enough, you can't judge a book by its cover." She shook her head, her leafy robes rustling. "It seems I've misjudged you twice."
She paused, then nodded.
"I shall gratefully accept your invitation. I owe you this much."
...
It was already night time when Torin returned to the village. The sky had deepened to a dark velvet blue, the first stars beginning to emerge, and the air had grown cool and damp with the evening mist rising from the stream.
A whole gutted stag hung across his shoulder, its legs tied together with rope, its weight a familiar, grounding presence. Echo trailed behind him, her belly full of fish and her pace slow and content, her tongue lolling from the side of her mouth.
Bragi was waiting for him outside the estate, his arms crossed, an impatient expression etched onto his weathered face. A handful of Torygg's soldiers stood behind him, their armor glinting in the torchlight, their postures relaxed but alert.
Bragi's eyes swept over Torin, taking in the stag, the bear, the general state of his clothes—torn in places, stained with blood and mud. He nodded once, apparently satisfied.
"Go. Take the prey from his hands and bring it to the kitchen," Bragi said, gesturing at two of the soldiers. They nodded and hurried over to Torin.
"We'll take it from here, Storm-Caller," one of them said, reaching for the stag.
Torin nodded and gently lowered the carcass, careful not to let it drop.
"Careful," he said. "It's heavy."
The two soldiers lifted the carcass with grunts of effort, their arms straining under the weight. They began to carry it toward the mansion, their footsteps heavy on the gravel path, their voices low as they discussed how best to prepare it.
Bragi walked up to Torin, his eyes still appraising.
"You didn't return empty-handed. Good." His expression shifted to something more skeptical. "But what took you so long? Surely such a dense forest is teeming with game. A hunter of your skill should have been back hours ago."
Torin shrugged, rolling his shoulder to ease the ache where the stag had rested.
"Game is plenty," he said. "It didn't take me long to find suitable prey." He gestured dismissively. "I simply met someone rather interesting and spent some time chatting with her."
Bragi blinked, his brow furrowing.
"You met someone interesting... in the forest?" His tone was flat with disbelief.
Torin grinned.
"Apparently that's where you find the most interesting people around here." He glanced at the mansion, its windows lit with a warm, golden glow. "I see you've been waiting for me. Is something the matter?"
Bragi shook his head.
"No. Queen Melisande sent her representative, and we've agreed to discuss important matters at dinner." He gave Torin a pointed look. "Your presence is naturally needed."
Torin sighed inwardly. Of course it was. It was always needed.
"I'll be there," he said. "Just let me wash up first. I don't think the Bretons would appreciate me showing up covered in deer blood and forest dirt."
Bragi's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile.
"Probably not." He turned toward the mansion. "Just don't take too long."
...
Exiting his room, Torin looked very much annoyed by his clothes. The black tunic was fine—simple, elegant, the fabric soft against his skin—but the grey embroidery at the edges seemed to catch on every surface, and the brown fur cloak that covered his shoulders seemed intent on blocking his peripheral vision.
His black pants had the same embroidery, and his brown leather boots were stiff and unfamiliar on his feet.
He promptly headed to the dining room in search of Bragi, his boots echoing on the stone floor, but found Qasim instead.
The Redguard was seated at a small table near the window, leisurely cleaning an ancient looking sword, its blade catching the pale moonlight filtering through the glass.
One look was all it took for Torin to recognize it—Red Eagle's sword, the one Qasim had taken from the enthralled Briarheart before they'd last parted in the Reach.
The memory was still fresh: the flaming blade, the shattered steel, the moment Qasim had awakened his Shehai to claim victory.
A second look made Torin realize the sword was different somehow. The blade seemed to have darkened, the metal taking on a faintly reddish hue that hadn't been there before.
The runes along its length had shifted, reformed, as if the weapon had grown and changed since he'd last seen it.
Torin frowned as he walked up to Qasim, his arms crossing over his chest.
"That sword looks different. What happened after we parted ways?"
Qasim turned to him and sighed, the sound carrying a weight of weariness and disappointment.
"I went to Red Eagle's tomb, of course." He shook his head. "The encounter went as you had expected. Red Eagle was nothing more than a mindless draugr. He attacked me as soon as he laid eyes upon me."
His gaze turned back to the sword, his fingers tracing its edge. "The sword changed once I returned him to his rest. I don't know how. I don't know why. It simply... became this."
Torin tilted his head, intrigued. He extended his hand.
"Sounds like magic. Give it here. Let me take a look."
Qasim didn't hesitate—he simply handed the blade to Torin, hilt first, his expression unreadable.
Torin took it into his hands, feeling its weight, its balance. He began to inspect it with narrowed eyes, his fingers tracing the runes, his magicka probing the enchantments woven into the metal.
After a while, Torin returned the sword, and Qasim took it, his fingers wrapping around the hilt with a familiar grip. Torin then took a moment to gather his thoughts, turning over what he'd sensed in the blade's enchantments.
"The enchantments changed." He gestured at the blade. "It's still capable of creating fire hot enough to melt steel—that much hasn't changed. But there's more now. Something else woven into the metal."
He paused, watching Qasim's hopeful expression. "It's especially effective against the undead now. The enchantment is layered, almost like it was waiting for the right moment to awaken. Whatever happened in that tomb, it triggered something."
Qasim's hopeful expression instantly turned into confusion. His brow furrowed, and he stared down at the sword in his hands as if seeing it for the first time.
"I... I don't understand."
It was then Torin's turn to be confused. He blinked, his arms crossing over his chest.
"What do you not understand?"
Qasim's face turned bitter, his jaw tightening. "I don't understand the purpose of this sword. I don't understand why the gods willed me to have it." He shook his head in distress, his fingers tightening around the hilt. "I just can't understand."
Torin looked at him with an annoyed look, an insult already forming on his lips. He was oh so tempted to just turn around and leave, to let Qasim stew in his own existential crisis. But he just couldn't bring himself to do it.
He sighed, trying to sound as patient as possible as he asked, "And why exactly do you think the gods willed you to have this sword? Who told you it would have a purpose?"
Qasim didn't answer for a moment. He just kept looking at the ancient sword, its darkened blade reflecting the firelight like a pool of old blood. Then slowly, he raised his gaze to meet Torin's.
"Do you know why I came to Skyrim?"
Torin paused for a moment to recall. The memory was hazy—it had been years ago, on the road to Markarth, when Qasim had first joined him.
"Some kind of pilgrimage, I think you said? Something about atonement?"
Qasim nodded bitterly, his eyes dropping back to the sword.
"Yes. I did something unforgivable." He paused, the weight of the confession heavy in the air. "I was young. Foolish. I thought I was following the right path, but I was wrong. Someone died because of my arrogance, my pride."
He shook his head. "So I took it upon myself to restore the Shehai to atone for my sins."
He was quiet for a moment, then added, "It was at my lowest point that the gods showed me the path to enlightenment. They guided me to Skyrim. Through a dream."
...
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