Torin let out a hum, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on his arm.
"And you are certain that it was the gods that showed you that dream? How?"
Qasim looked at him with even more confusion, his brow furrowing deeply.
"Who else could have done it?" He gestured vaguely at the world around them. "Who else would have the power to send a vision so clear, so... purposeful?"
Torin let out a long, slow sigh.
"I don't know. Any jumped-up entity with a shred of divine might, maybe? He shook his head. "Not all that shines is gold. There are things out there that wear the mask of gods and angels while hiding something far darker beneath."
Qasim looked at him strangely, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"Are you telling me that I've been misguided by something wicked?"
Torin shrugged, the motion casual but his words anything but.
"I'm telling you it's possible." He gestured dismissively. "And I'm telling you that you shouldn't blindly do what is asked of you. Stop. Think. Question whether this is something a divine would ask you to do, or something a demon would."
Qasim turned his gaze back to the sword, his fingers tracing the edge of the blade, his expression troubled.
"But I've never had a reason to doubt my revelations so far. Every step I've taken has led me closer to my goal. I've helped more people than I care to count. I've restored the Shehai. And now I only need to ensure it is passed down."
He looked up, his eyes searching Torin's. "Everything I've done has been for the good of others. How could that be the work of something wicked?"
Torin rolled his eyes.
"Maybe that's part of the trick." His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "String you along long enough to earn your trust. Make you feel like you're doing good, like you're on a righteous path. And then, when you least expect it, when you're completely convinced of your own virtue..."
He shook his head. "Suddenly, you're sacrificing someone's newborn child to save the world."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"There are things out there that have been deceiving greater and shrewder men than you for thousands of years. Entire civilizations have been led astray by beings who wore the face of gods. Don't assume you're immune just because you have good intentions."
Qasim nodded his head slowly, his fingers still tracing the edge of the ancient blade.
"Perhaps you are right," he said quietly. "Perhaps not. I cannot know until I reach the end of this path." His expression turned bitter, his jaw tightening. "And the fact remains unchanged. I do not know how to proceed. I've lost the way."
Torin ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
This is why deeply religious people are such a pain in the ass to deal with, he thought. Expecting the gods to make every decision for them. Waiting for divine intervention instead of using the brain between their ears.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to speak calmly.
"Well, if this is the will of the gods, interpreting their intentions is the way to go. It's not easy, but it isn't impossible either." He pointed at the sword. "You simply need to read the signs."
Qasim looked at him quizzically, his brow furrowing.
"What signs are there to read?"
Torin pointed more emphatically at the sword, his finger tapping the air.
"Your path—supposedly paved by the Divines—has led you to Skyrim. To this sword. A sword that is the natural enemy of the undead."
He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as if explaining something obvious to a particularly slow student. "Do you even realize how many undead threats are in Skyrim? Draugr. Vampires. Dragon priests. Maybe you should start looking for your so-called way there."
Qasim looked deep in thought for a moment, his eyes fixed on the blade. Then he nodded slowly, but he didn't say anything. He just kept staring at Torin expectantly, his expression waiting, patient.
Torin rolled his eyes.
"There are at least ten dragon priests slumbering between Skyrim and Solstheim who would wreak havoc if awakened." He crossed his arms. "You can start there when we go back."
Qasim's expression turned thoughtful for a moment, his brow furrowing as he seemed to weigh Torin's words. He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he was about to say died in his throat at the sound of the butler's voice.
"The Count Gautier de Clairmont, representative of Her Highness the Queen, has arrived." Mathis gestured at the dining table with a practiced sweep of his hand. "Please take your seats."
Torin turned to Qasim, his expression flat.
"I've helped you as much as I can. The rest is up to you."
With that, he turned around, scanning the room with the specific goal of finding the furthest chair from Qasim to sit. He was already calculating the distance, already imagining the blessed silence of being at least three seats away.
He didn't go far before a maid appeared at his side, her hands clasped demurely, and led him to his intended seat.
Right next to Qasim.
Torin sat with twitching brows, his jaw tight, as he settled into the chair beside the quietly thoughtful Redguard. Qasim seemed to be literally deliberating his life's choices, staring at the empty plate in front of him as if it held the answers to all his questions.
It didn't take long before Bragi showed up as well, his expression carefully neutral as he took his seat across from Torin.
He was followed by the master of the estate, Baron Maxwell—a rotund man with a perpetually flushed face, seemingly always sweating. He continued to wipe the sweat off his brow with a silk handkerchief an entire two minutes after sitting down, his eyes darting nervously around the room.
Finally, the count arrived.
He was a middle-aged man, his dark hair streaked with grey at the temples, his face sharp and angular. He was dressed in red pants and a doublet with yellow and green embroidery at the hems, the colors of House de Clairmont, and a black cape resting on his shoulders.
A decorated thin-bladed sword hung on his hip, its pommel set with a small ruby that caught the candlelight.
"My greetings to you, fine gentlemen and warriors of the North."
The count removed the sword and offered it to Butler Mathis, who received it with two hands and a bow before leaving the dining room.
The count sat down at the head of the table, his eyes scanning the room with the practiced ease of a man who had spent a lifetime reading people. His gaze lingered on Qasim and Torin for a moment—a flicker of assessment—before he spoke.
"I'm sure you have many questions." His voice was smooth, diplomatic. "And so I've come to answer them on behalf of the crown."
Before anyone could say anything, Torin spoke, his voice cutting through the polite murmur of the dining room.
"I have a question. What's with the secrecy?"
The count looked at Torin and smiled—a practiced, diplomatic smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"You must be the famous Mountain Breaker." He inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment. "Your bluntness is indeed appreciated. In other circumstances, I'd welcome such candor. "
He paused, his fingers drumming lightly on the table.
"The courts of Daggerfall, however, require subtlety to navigate. With the coronation of His Highness the Prince fast approaching, many parties are..." He stopped there, almost as if to pick his words carefully. "...jealously, and perhaps nervously, guarding their power. The arrival of a force of mighty warriors such as yourselves in such a delicate time might cause misunderstandings."
Torin's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing.
"That seems overly paranoid." His voice was flat, unimpressed. "And if that's the norm, then I might be inclined toward suspicion myself—whether people should really worry about our presence or not."
The count let out a chuckle—a low, warm sound that didn't quite match the sharpness in his eyes.
"You'd be wise to be suspicious, my young friend. Only a fool would trust a courtier so easily." He shook his head, his expression shifting to something more serious. "Still, our actions so far were not paranoid at all. If anything, we weren't cautious enough." He paused. "I'm here to rectify that."
It was Bragi's turn to speak up now, his voice carrying a note of skepticism.
"What do you mean?" He gestured around the room, at the modest estate, the village outside, the distance from Daggerfall's towers. "This—bringing us here, to this village—is already unusual enough. Will you host us in Daggerfall's dungeons next?"
The baron, who had been silently wiping his brow, began to sweat even more profusely.
The count shook his head with an amused expression, though his eyes remained sharp and assessing.
"No. You will be hosted within the best accommodations our capital has to offer." He gestured aside, a vague motion toward the window, toward the distant city that none of them could see. "The manner in which you reach your accommodations, however... you might find disagreeable."
Bragi's frown now mirrored Torin's, his brow furrowing deeply.
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
The count cleared his throat, his fingers steepling on the table.
"Well, we've discussed this matter at length, having noticed that tensions were higher than expected within the court." His expression turned more serious. "The queen and her closest advisors—myself included—have decided that it's best to discreetly escort you and your entourage into the city individually, to avoid raising suspicions. A small group entering the capital would attract attention, but a series of travelers entering separately, over the course of several days... that would pass unnoticed."
Bragi just stared at him in shock, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Before he could gather his thoughts, it was Torin who spoke.
"Now that's just ridiculous." His voice was flat, cold. "We're not thieves nor assassins. We're warriors, and we came here to aid you in hopes of strengthening the bonds between our people."
His eyes narrowed, boring into the count's.
"And you—the supposedly ruling factions—wish to smuggle us into your own city like rats. As if you're afraid of something."
He tapped the table twice with his index finger with enough force to shake it, the silverware clinking.
"I'm beginning to question whether you people are the allies our High King wishes to find in High Rock."
The room went silent.
Baron Maxwell's sweating had intensified to the point where his handkerchief was soaked through. Bragi looked like he was trying to decide whether to back Torin up or apologize for him.
Qasim, for his part, seemed utterly detached from the conversation, his gaze still fixed on some distant point of contemplation.
Count Gautier studied Torin for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
Then he smiled.
"A man who speaks his mind. How refreshing." He leaned back in his chair.
"Very well, Mountain Breaker. Since you prefer directness, I shall give it to you. There is a faction within the court that would prefer to see Skyrim's delegation fail. They would like nothing more than to embarrass the queen by exposing her 'secret alliance' with the Nords—or, failing that, to ensure that your mission here ends in failure. They have eyes and ears everywhere."
He spread his hands.
"Simple politics."
...
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