Jarl Korir, Winterhold
Insert image of Jarl Korir here
I had faced storms that tore ships apart in the Sea of Ghosts. I had stood before angry crowds with torches and barely contained rage in their eyes. I had even survived court politics in Solitude, which some days felt deadlier than war.
None of that prepared me for pacing in a hallway while my wife screamed on the other side of a wooden door.
I wore a groove into the stone floor outside the birthing room, back and forth, back and forth, my boots striking the same places again and again. Every cry from within twisted my gut tighter. I clenched and unclenched my fists, trying not to imagine all the ways this could go wrong.
The pregnancy had started normally. Divines know I'd insisted on that much. The midwives had smiled, the healers had nodded, the priest of the Nine had assured me everything was fine.
Then her belly kept growing.
And growing.
By the eighth month, it was obvious this was no ordinary child. I'd had the priest examine her personally, casting his restoration spells with careful precision. He'd frowned, muttered prayers, then told me not to worry. Mother healthy. Child healthy. Just… large.
"It's your bloodline, my Jarl," he had said carefully. "The Titanborn strain. Old giant-blood, thinned over generations, but not gone."
That word had haunted me ever since.
Titanborn.
The stories said our ancestors once carried the strength of giants in their veins. Not full giants, of course, but something close enough that the line earned its name. Over centuries it had faded. We became men again. Large men, strong men, but men nonetheless.
Now, apparently, the blood had decided to remember itself.
I stopped pacing and pressed my palm against the wall, breathing slowly. I would be a broken man if I lost either of them. Wife or child. Divines forbid both.
For a moment, bitter regret stabbed through me.
If I hadn't stirred up the hold against the College of Winterhold so fiercely… if I hadn't leaned so hard on blaming the mages for the Great Collapse… maybe I could have swallowed my pride and sent for Savos Aren himself. The Arch-Mage watching over the birth would have eased my mind.
Insert image of the College of Winterhold here
Insert image of Savos Aren here
But no. I'd burned that bridge too publicly for that. No time for regrets now.
At least I hadn't chased out the priest.
That much foresight I'd had. The man knew restoration like few others, healing the poor and sick when no one else would. A quiet, stubborn sort of faith. If things went wrong, there was no one better I could have asked for.
I resumed pacing.
Then I heard it.
"It's a boy!"
The words cut through my fear like sunlight through storm clouds.
A heartbeat later, a raw, furious cry echoed from the room.
A newborn's cry.
My knees nearly gave out.
A laugh bubbled up from my chest, half sob, half prayer. "Thank the Divines," I whispered.
Then another voice—one of the nursemaids, sharp with alarm.
"What's wrong with his eyes?!"
The relief shattered instantly.
I was through the door before anyone could stop me.
The room smelled of sweat, blood, and incense. My wife lay back against the pillows, pale and exhausted but alive, Divines bless her. In her arms was the child.
My son.
He was enormous.
Not just big for a newborn. Big, period. Broad shoulders, thick limbs, fists already clenched with surprising strength. The Titanborn blood, plain as day.
But that wasn't what froze me in place.
His eyes were open.
Wide.
And solid blue.
Not blue irises. Not pale newborn haze.
Solid blue orbs, like polished sapphires, with no iris, no pupil.
My heart dropped straight into my boots.
"What did you do?" I demanded, my voice sharp enough to make the nursemaids flinch. "What did someone do to my son?"
My hand went to the hilt of my sword without thinking.
Daedra. Curses. Mage retaliation. All the ugly stories I'd encouraged over the years came rushing back to mock me.
If a mage had done this—
"My Jarl, please," the priest said firmly. "Calm yourself and look."
I rounded on him. "Look at his eyes!"
"I am," he said. "And now you should too."
He gestured.
"Walk."
I hesitated, then took a few slow steps across the room.
The child's head turned.
Smoothly. Precisely.
His gaze followed me.
I stopped.
He stopped.
I moved again. His head tracked me perfectly, unblinking but focused.
The room went quiet.
I swallowed hard.
"He… he can see," I said.
"Yes," the priest replied softly. "He can."
Relief flooded through me so fast it left me dizzy.
"Then what's wrong with his eyes?" I demanded, weaker now, fear giving way to confusion.
"Nothing," the priest said. And there was awe in his voice now. Real awe. "But allow me to be certain."
He placed his hands over the child, murmuring a diagnostic spell. The air shimmered faintly with magic. He frowned, then stiffened.
Then his breath caught.
"By the Divines…" he whispered.
My heart skipped. "What?"
He looked at me, eyes wide. "This child is blessed by an Et'Ada."
The word hit me like a thrown rock.
"An original spirit?" I snapped. "Be clear, priest."
"Very," he said. "And not just any."
He turned back to the child, reverent now.
"The Great Architect. The God of Magic. Magnus."
For a long moment, I just stared.
Then all the tension drained out of me at once. My legs gave way and I collapsed into a nearby chair, laughter bubbling up in shaky bursts.
"Thank god," I breathed.
Magnus.
Not a Daedra. Not a curse. Not some vengeful mage.
Magic itself.
My wife shifted, cradling the child carefully. Thaena Ravencrone Titanborn, my fierce, sharp-tongued wife, looked up at me with a tired but radiant smile.
Insert image of Thaena Ravencrone Titanborn here
"Isn't he beautiful?" she said softly. "Two little blue pearls."
I couldn't help but smile back, shaky and wide.
"Yes," I said. "He really is."
She reached out and squeezed my hand. "We truly are blessed, honey."
I laughed weakly. "Of course we are," I said, falling back on the easy confidence expected of a Jarl. "We're the ones responsible for Winterhold. If an Et'Ada were to bless anyone's child, it would be ours."
She smiled at that.
I did too.
But inside, irony twisted sharply.
Me. The loudest voice blaming the College for every ill. The man who'd made magic a convenient scapegoat for bad crops, bitter winters, and a town rotting under neglect.
And now I had a son blessed by the god of magic himself.
Magnus had a sense of humor.
A cold, sharp one.
I glanced at the child again, really looking this time. There was intelligence there. Awareness far beyond what a newborn should have.
No. Not awareness.
Focus.
Something fierce looked out through those blue eyes.
I swallowed.
Things would have to change.
Carefully. Quietly.
If Magnus had laid a hand on my son, then burning bridges with the College was no longer acceptable. I'd need to mend fences. Slowly. Discreetly.
Savos Aren… maybe not yet.
Tolfdir, though.
Insert image of Tolfdir here
An old man. Ancient, really. He'd lived through the Collapse as the previous archmage, through my grandparents' rule. One of his people still lived in the town, even served in my guard. I'd always been too cautious to drive him out entirely.
Good foresight, indeed.
I'd start there.
I turned back to my wife. "Are you alright?" I asked gently.
She gave me a flat look. "I just gave birth to a giant child," she said dryly. "I wouldn't use the word 'alright.' But I'll live."
I chuckled, relief loosening something deep in my chest.
Then the baby cried again, loud and indignant, like the world had already offended him.
Thaena shifted him slightly. "Well," she said, looking at me. "What should we name him?"
I froze.
A name.
Not just any name. A name fit for a Titanborn heir. A child touched by Magnus. A boy who would carry Winterhold's future on his shoulders, whether he liked it or not.
I looked down at him.
At the blue eyes.
At the strength coiled even in his tiny fists.
A special name for a special child.
I took a slow breath.
"Hmmm…"