"Are you ready to receive my blessing?"
Akatosh's voice rolls through the Void like a bell struck inside the bones of the universe. I'm still just a floating soul, held together by divine workarounds and sheer stubbornness, but somehow I manage to straighten up as if posture matters when you don't have a spine.
"I… think so," I say. "As ready as I'm going to be."
Akatosh drifts closer. His presence is pressure and warmth at the same time, like standing too close to a furnace that also happens to be time itself. One enormous talon rises, and for a split second instinct screams at me to flinch.
But the talon doesn't rend.
It touches my forehead.
The tip of it glows white, not the harsh glare of lightning but a soft, ancient radiance. When it presses into my soul, the light sinks in like ink into parchment.
And suddenly I know.
Not guess. Not interpret. I know exactly what he has given me, because the blessing arrives with its own understanding, a sealed packet of certainty.
Blessing of Akatosh.
The ability to view my own time.
In mortal words? A retroactive photographic memory.
In my words? A cheat code.
The instant it settles, it's like someone kicks open a door in my mind that I didn't even realize existed. A flood of "new" knowledge comes rushing back.
Skyrim. Oblivion. Morrowind. ESO all the lore I read like a madman at three in the morning. Dialogue trees. Quest outcomes. Locations. Factions. Names. Dates. The little stupid details I used to forget, like which hold had what mines, which jarls were secretly compromised, which ruins were death traps.
But it doesn't stop there.
History channel specials. Documentaries. How steel is made. How soap is made. How concrete is made. How to manage supply chains. How to run a business. The entire graveyard of random hobbies and half-finished interests I accumulated over a lifetime.
Everything I'd let fade.
Everything I'd buried.
Everything I'd wished I could forget.
It all comes back at once.
If I'd still had a mortal brain, I think it would've melted right out of my ears. Even as a divine soul, the sudden influx hits like a tidal wave.
For a few seconds, I can't move. I can't think. I can't even panic properly.
Then the blessing's protective mechanism kicks in, smoothing the surge like a hand flattening wrinkled cloth. The overload recedes into order. Memories slot into place, neat as books on shelves.
My awareness clears.
I inhale out of habit and realize I don't need air.
Then I laugh.
Because I remember everything.
I remember the good.
And the bad.
All the embarrassing moments. All the things I did wrong. The people I lost. The stuff I told myself I was over, when really I'd just locked it in a box and buried the box in my mind.
My smile wobbles.
"Well," I say, voice a little quieter, "I guess it can't be all sunshine and roses."
Akatosh's gaze is steady and unreadable. "Knowledge is a blade. It cuts both ways."
"Yeah," I mutter. "No kidding."
Then, as if to soften the blow, he adds, "This is not a major blessing. When the others give theirs, I will grant you another."
That makes my chest flutter with something dangerous.
Hope.
Before I can respond, Sithis steps forward.
The air—or whatever counts as air in the Void—seems to darken around him, like the universe itself is bracing for mischief.
He doesn't ask permission. I doubt he ever does.
I expect a touch to the forehead like Akatosh.
Instead, Sithis reaches out and grabs something out of empty space.
At first it looks like a shadow, but it isn't. It's a pool of darkness, a floating disk of inky blackness that swallows light and concept. It ripples like water, but deeper. Like it connects to somewhere cold and old and hungry.
He holds it in one hand like a waiter presenting soup.
Then he shoves it straight into my chest.
I freak out so hard my thoughts turn into static.
"WHAT—"
There is a hand inside my soul.
A full arm, elbow-deep, like Sithis is rummaging around for spare change.
He looks delighted.
He silently laughs, the Void trembling with his amusement, and then he pulls his hand back out like nothing happened.
The pool doesn't fall away. It clings to me. It anchors. It becomes a callable thing, a doorway that isn't open yet.
And again, knowledge arrives with understanding.
Blessing of Sithis.
An affinity for shadow magic and I can summon the black pool that generates the horse shaped entity known as Shadowmere.
Insert image of Shadowmere here
My eyes widen. "No way."
Sithis tilts his head like, yes way.
The details come with the blessing, crisp and absolute: First, when I learn magic I will have a natural affinity for the shadow variety, next the pool will call Shadowmere into existence. If killed, it will be resummoned after ten days, reconstituting itself from the darkness like a nightmare remembering it had somewhere to be.
A divinely wrought, demonic-looking steed. Exceptionally large. Powerful. Smoky hooves. Black coat. Glowing red eyes. Immortal in nature, not requiring food to survive—though it enjoys eating raw flesh, preferably still attached to whatever was using it a moment ago.
A horse that isn't really a horse so much as an omen with hooves.
"A perfect ride for a would-be Witch King," I whisper before I can stop myself.
Sithis's grin widens since he heard that and approved.
"Okay," I say, giddy despite myself. "That's… that's so cool."
He pats my shoulder like we're buddies, then saunters away as if he didn't just violate every concept of personal space in existence.
Then Magnus steps forward.
Unlike the other two, he doesn't feel like time or nothingness.
He feels like light. Like the first spark of invention. Like the moment someone looked at fire and thought, I can use that.
He raises both hands, and they glow blue.
Not a soft blue. A bright, electric, impossible blue.
He points them at my soul's eyes.
I don't have literal eyes, not really, but I feel the place where perception anchors. The two points where my awareness looks out at everything.
Magnus snaps his fingers.
My eyes burn away in a flash.
For an instant I see nothing. Not darkness. Not Void. Just an absence of sight so absolute it makes my soul lurch in panic.
Then the sight returns.
My eyes regrow as solid blue orbs, no irises, no pupils—just luminous, unsettling sapphire spheres that feel like lenses made out of magic itself.
And immediately I know what they do.
Blessing of Magnus.
He calls them the Eyes of Magnus.
Advanced ocular abilities, stacked like an overpowered perk tree:
I can see magic.
Not just "glowy stuff." I can see the structure of spells. The weaving of wards. The geometry of enchantments. The stress points in a runic trap. The constituent parts of an illusion. Things that were never meant to be visible to mortal eyes.
Darkvision, too. Pitch black caves might as well be daylight now.
True seeing. Illusions, invisibility, glamours, hidden mechanisms—truth laid bare, whether it wants to be or not.
Eagle-eye vision. Distant mountains sharpen into detail. A man across a field becomes crisp enough to read his posture.
And then the one that makes my heart race: copycat vision. The ability to more easily replicate what I observe and recognize patterns—spellcasting gestures, sword forms, techniques. Not instant mastery, but a ridiculous advantage.
My brain supplies the most cringe thought possible:
OMG I HAVE A FREAKING SHARINGAN.
I clamp down on the thought immediately, because the gods can hear my thoughts.
Unfortunately, clamping down does not erase the thought.
Magnus's eye narrows.
Sithis makes an amused sound from the background.
Akatosh radiates the weary patience of a being who has watched mortals say dumb things for millennia.
I can't help it. I mentally scream for a full ten seconds anyway, the soul-equivalent of doing laps around a room while flailing my arms.
Then I take several deep breaths I don't need and force myself to settle.
"Okay," I say, trying to sound dignified. "That's… that's incredible."
Magnus's tone is casual, but I can feel the weight of power invested in it. He didn't go cheap on this one.
I look at him more seriously. "You put a lot into that."
Magnus diverts his gaze, suddenly pretending he doesn't care. "I want my investment well protected."
Akatosh's voice cuts in, dry. "You mean your new favorite mortal."
Magnus huffs. "I did not say that."
Akatosh continues, like he enjoys poking him. "The cost-benefit analysis is reasonable. You've been interested in new magic for too long while stuck here ensuring the Magna-Ge are safe. You would likely be happier leaving and traveling the Void yourself, but you feel tied by responsibility. This is a middle ground."
Magnus's hands fold behind his back. "That's not all, I am an inventor, a creator. I built one of the most amazing inventions in existence. The Eye of Magnus. It has gone unused for… a long time. It is difficult to swallow, now there is someone who can use it to its full potential and I would see to it that he is well protected."
He pauses, then adds quickly, "That is all. Do not read into it."
Sithis's grin says he's reading into it anyway.
I consider the three blessings.
Akatosh's gift is immediate. Memory, knowledge, planning. The kind of advantage that turns the fog of uncertainty into a map.
Sithis's gift is a tool. Increased shadow magic affinity and mobility, intimidation, survival, and a reliable companion that comes back from death like it's an inconvenient nap.
But Magnus's eyes…
Magnus's eyes feel like the most potential. Not power handed to me, but power that lets me understand and grow.
I look between them, suddenly aware of how much they're putting on the line.
Akatosh speaks again, shifting back to business.
"One more thing," he says. "After you are born, when you are able, visit a temple of the divines."
I frown. "Why?"
"I will do the legwork," Akatosh says, "to convince the other Aedra that each must give you a unique permanent blessing if you are to have even a chance against Alduin."
My stomach tightens. "And… they'll agree?"
Akatosh's expression is almost smug. "They are invested in this kalpa… this epoch of time. They enjoy their chess board that is this world. Their pieces. Their worship. Alduin threatens to end the game early."
I shudder at the casual way he says it.
Then Akatosh adds, quieter, "I will not tell them I… cheated."
My eyes widen. "Cheated how?"
Akatosh's gaze sharpens. "I summoned a spirit from another realm. I transformed it into a Dragonborn. I placed it into the soul-birthing mechanism of this world and guided it toward a reincarnation of my choosing."
Okay.
That's… definitely foul play.
"It is best you are born first," Akatosh continues, "so you are protected from Aedra and Daedra alike. It is not forbidden to discuss your origin, but choose who you share it with wisely."
Then, like a knife sliding between ribs, he adds, "Also be careful about revealing the Waymeet. Do not speak of portals to other realms until you are strong enough to defend yourself. Others may try to take it."
My mind immediately supplies the worst name possible.
Molag Bal - Daedric Lord of Domination and Rape. A guy nobody likes.
Insert image of Molag Bal here
Akatosh confirms the fear without saying the name. "Some would enslave you. Some would attempt to retrieve the Gatekeeper Crystal, destroying it and killing you in the process. Some would seek access to other worlds to harvest and dominate."
My soul goes cold.
Then I look at the three of them, really look, and for the first time I feel something close to gratitude that isn't tangled up in dread.
I bow as best I can without a body.
"With all the sincerity I have," I say, "thank you."
Akatosh snorts. "None of that now."
I blink.
"You are doing us a favor," he says, as if that settles it. "Now begone."
He lifts a hand.
Reality tilts.
And my soul is abruptly yeeted—ripped away like a stone flung from a sling—hurtling toward something distant and bright and heavy with fate.
I see Sithis laughing silently.
I then turn my head and the last thing I see is Magnus watching, his blue glow steady, like an inventor sending his best creation out into the world and hoping it doesn't break.
And then the Void disappears—
—and the long fall into life begins.