Coldharbour did not know seasons, but it knew silence.
The throne of black iron stood above an ocean of chained souls, and upon it the Prince of Domination watched a vision that was not meant for him.
Golden fields.
Wind through wheat.
A girl with mud on her hands laughing as a vampire failed — again — to plant a straight line of seeds.
Family.
The word curdled the air.
Molag Bal did not move. He did not breathe. He simply watched as the Dragonborn — his Dragonborn, the soul that had slipped from his grasp beneath his own blade — leaned against the wooden fence and smiled at a life that had no fear in it.
No chains.
No obedience.
No despair.
Something ancient and immeasurable tightened in the darkness.
Below his throne lay the remains of the Elder Scroll.
Not whole.
Never whole.
Torn edges that refused to become dust.
Fragments that bled light like wounded stars.
He had taken them back.
Not for the ritual.
Not for Corypheus.
Not for the failed wars of mortals.
For her.
The vision shifted — just for a moment — and the Dragonborn paused in the field, her head turning slightly toward a horizon that did not exist in her world.
As if something had touched the edge of her soul.
Molag Bal's voice did not echo. It did not need to.
It existed in the bones of Coldharbour itself.
"You were taken from me."
The chains below his throne began to move.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Not in rage.
In certainty.
The torn Scroll at his feet trembled — and for the briefest instant, the golden field in the vision flickered with a shadow that had no sun to cast it.
Then the image shattered.
Coldharbour remained.
Waiting.