4E 202, Shor's Stone, Four days later
Gerron Ironbreaker
It took days, but it was finally finished.
Gerron exhaled slowly, dragging his forearm across his brow as sweat and soot smeared together. The forge behind him still glowed a dull orange, embers breathing softly like a slumbering beast.
Sitting on the stand in front of him was the newly upgraded Ebony plate armor. The armor gleamed with a deep, obsidian sheen, its surface polished to a mirror-dark finish. It was heavier than standard plate, thicker in key areas, yet crafted with such precision that its weight would distribute perfectly across the wearer's body.
A fur-lined cloak draped across the pauldrons, the pelt thick and dark. Two curved horns of dragonbone protruded from the helmet, shaped not crudely, but deliberately, and slotted within it was the Crown of the Rift.
The symbol of a hammer was interworked into the cuirass as his personal sigil, and the Arcanic rune scripts could be seen lining the sides of the plate, currently deactivated. On the inside, hidden from sight, Caraxes' dragon scale vest was fitted snugly as a secondary layer.
The armor was probably his best creation yet, multiple enchantments folded seamlessly into the steel, powered initially by the best soul gems he could find. With the working of Atronach standing stone enchantment, it'll never run out of power either.
He could only hope it was enough.
The fluttering of mechanical wings caught his attention as Bronze flew in from the open window, a rolled letter clutched at his talons.
Gerron opened and read it, before nodding.
The College and Winterhold was on the way to Shor's Stone, with three hundred of the Winterhold Guards as well as over three hundred mages who chose to fight for Skyrim, Idecta the Hagraven and Dexion Evicus included.
That was way more than Gerron initially expected as he huffed out a quiet laugh. According to Mirabelle, a little over half of the mages wanted to attend simply because they wanted to attend the wedding. The bits of friendship he and Serana had forged during their brief time at the College had borne fruit.
Even now, people came not just for war, but for celebration. For something good.
With the six hundred of Winterhold, the three thousand Haafingar soldiers, eight thousand legionnaires, and four thousand Shor's Guard; the city would be boosted with over fifteen thousand defenders. And that wasn't yet counting the reinforcements from the remaining holds, as well as the Dawnguard, Stormcloaks, and Vigilants.
While news of the campaign in Bthardamz had yet to reach Gerron regarding the number of losses, at least twenty five thousand souls should be prepared to man the walls of Shor's Stone.
Gerron's grip on the letter tightened slightly. 'Twenty five thousand…''
It was everything left that Skyrim could offer, the very last capable soldiers they had at their disposal, short of pulling out the garrisons from each fort and city root and stem.
Gerron already heard the whispers, the final fight, the fated battle for the freedom of Skyrim. It was a tale worthy of song, one that had his blood singing.
Yet Gerron had to stem those feelings, things were different now. He was no longer that lone warrior who freely volunteered to fight a dragon in the Western Watchtower of Whiterun. He was a Jarl now, and every one of those lives… rested on his decisions.
His jaw set. There would be no waste, no pointless deaths. Not while he still drew breath.
That said, there was still the matter of Skuldafn. The Blades had departed a few days ago, accompanied by ten of the finest scouts in the Shor's Guard. The temple could not be reached easily, not by an army. So their mission was to find a pathway, abandoned or otherwise, and to map the route.
Meanwhile, Gerron's job in all this was to determine the how.
He turned from the armor, dousing the forge before leaving the workshop behind. The heat faded with each step as cooler air replaced it.
His steps went to the throne room, where he knew Filnjar was already knee-deep in preparations for the wedding. Servants moved to and fro, carrying bolts of cloth, crates of supplies, and lists that seemed to grow longer by the hour.
"Gerron?" the older nord asked as he spotted him.
"Walk with me, Filnjar," Gerron said. "And send a runner to Grogmar. Tell him to meet us at Zenithar's Square."
Filnjar nodded, waving for a young Breton page named Faldir, who dashed off immediately to do the job.
The moment they left the gates of Ebony Castle, Ralof and three other Shor's Guard immediately shadowed them as they entered the city.
They went past the gardens where Gerron could see Ranessa standing guard by the grove, Serana meditating a stone's throw away.
Gerron allowed himself the faintest smile before casting a glance at the new sworn shield.
The choice of the position initially went to two people; Ranessa herself, as well as a capable mage called Marcurio, who had been a wandering mercenary frequenting the Bee and the Barbs Inn back when Riften still stood.
Yet when given the choice, Gerron much preferred Ranessa, for a man shadowing his future wife in all her future endeavours was woefully inappropriate. Instead, Marcurio was inducted as a captain into a new branch of the Shor's Guard for mages, now already numbering a hundred strong.
Eventually, he and Filnjar arrived at the aforementioned Zenithar's Square, which was aptly named for the massive thirty-foot tall statue of Zenithar that dominated the space.
It held the depiction of the Divine in all of his glory, both arms aloft. In one hand, he held a metal anvil—the most common symbol most would associate the divine with. But on the other was something Gerron personally crafted, a floating rendition of a blue star, its likeliness crafted with the same one he saw in his visions the first time he awakened all that time ago.
Many children gathered at its base, pointing upward in awe. When Erandur first saw it, he had smiled and told Gerron that the statue had the potential to become a new famed shrine of Zenithar, where pilgrims might visit to pay respects. Doubly because it was a statue of God of Commerce and Labor designed and carved by his own champion.
'Perhaps it would be.' Gerron thought with pride. But until that day comes, the statue would simply serve as a symbol. Of work, creation, and everything they were building here.
The square itself bustled with trade, as this was the place where all craftsmanship-related pursuits were put into. Cures and Curses was here, along with a few other new alchemist stores that opened up in the past few months. Though the first remained the most popular, Gerron could see a long line of at least twenty people waiting by the doors.
One of the roads that stretched for a few hundred meters from the square was named the Street of Steel, where different smithies all manned by Gerron's former apprentices now opened.
From the Ironclad, Hammers and Tongs, the Steelwork Forge, the Silver Armaments, and a dozen others. The sheer number of smithies was one of the points of pride of Shor's Stone.
With the Redbelly Mine relatively close by, a hundred swords and brigandines could be forged each day with ease. Even more so should the other holds continue supplying them with iron, charcoal, and wood.
It was the backbone of their war effort, the forges roaring day and night with the type of efficiency that had allowed them to supply their armies and clad each man head to toe with steel.
Gerron and Finjar did not linger. Instead, they went to the massive warehouse located right to the west of the Statue of Zenithar. It was a wide estate, at least four times the size of his workshop within the Ebony Palace.
He had bought the land himself from its previous owners, now firmly belonging to the crown of Shor's Stone. The purpose of it was simple, it was the location and place for Gerron to work on his rather larger projects.
Ralof and the Shor's Guard immediately spread to guard the entrance as Gerron and Filnjar approached the entrance.
Only when they passed through the threshold of the iron doors did the heavy sounds of ringing metal and hissing steam could be heard. Gerron had written down the muffling runes on the walls himself, to make sure that the larger populace wasn't bothered by the noises coming from within.
"What in the nine…is this what you've been working on, lad?" Filnjar said, eyes agape.
Gerron grinned as he nodded. "Aye, it is."
Before them stood ten massive behemoths that filled the interior of the warehouse, towering machines of Dwemer steel, each one as tall as a mammoth and twice as broad. Four legs supported their immense weight, each joint reinforced with intricate gyroscopic systems. Their backs were fitted with seating—rows upon rows, enough to carry thirty men apiece.
Toiling around them were Automaton Builders, doing finishing touches on each one.
"I call them Carrowhulks, a new line for the Automaton Armada." Gerron said, stepping forward. "They have a few purposes, with potential to become beasts of burden or perhaps even mobile siege engines. But right now, their true purpose is to be troop carriers."
He gestured toward their legs.
"Their feet are lined with climbing spikes, and combined with the gyros on the four legs, they can traverse steep terrain without losing balance, similar to the way mountain goats can hold themselves upright on mountainsides."
Filnjar's eyes widened. "Skuldafn…"
Gerron nodded. "An imperfect solution. But it'll get three hundred men up that mountain."
"My Jarl," Ralof's voice came through as he peeked his head through the door to pierce the threshold of the muffling runes. "Grogmar is here."
"Let him in."
The Orsimer master-at-arms walked through the doors, and immediately let out a low whistle.
"By Malacath's balls, is that what I think it is?"
"Aye. With this, an assault on Skuldafn is at least possible." Gerron said. "Though the numbers aren't great, three hundred of our most elite should be able to do something while Alduin and his ilk are busy attacking the city."
"And who'll get the honors to do that?" Grogmar asked.
"At least a hundred of the best that the Shor's Guard could offer. The rest could be filled with Companions, Vigilants, or Dawnguard volunteers." Gerron stated.
"I got some ideas." Grogmar said, one hand to the chin. "I'll send you the list of names by tomorrow."
"What of the townsfolk, Gerron?" Filnjar asked. "Truth be told, despite most people now knowing that the wedding is a trap meant for Alduin, not many people choose to leave."
Gerron blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Our initial goal was to evacuate at least half the city, aye?" Filnjar said. "At least to Windhelm or Riften so they'll be safe. Well, less than two thousand took the offer. Everyone else chose to stay within the city. For better or for worse, they choose to stand with us."
Gerron was silent before a slow, disbelieving chuckle escaped him. "Those stubborn fools."
But there was no anger in it, only something warm, something proud.
"They're staying," Filnjar added. "Even Maven Black-Briar said she would be sending a small force of a hundred men to reinforce us from Briarwood."
Gerron shook his head, still smiling faintly.
'They chose this.' Not out of obligation. But belief.
'The enemy this time aren't fellow nords like back in the Civil War. No, this was a battle fated within prophecies, one that would be inked down into the history books. A cause worth following behind.'
His gaze drifted across the Carrowhulks.
"…Then I suppose we'll need more ale."
Filnjar raised a brow.
Gerron's grin widened.
"Tell the breweries to double production, and butcher our newest herd of cattle," he said. "Make sure the wedding feast is one worthy of song, Filnjar."
Filnjar smiled. "Aye, my Jarl. I'll have that done."
…
4E 202, Shor's Stone
Kiera Fendalyn
It was…difficult to explain the rush of power she had felt when she activated Dragon Aspect.
Even now, hours after the shout had faded, the memory of it lingered in her bones. It was not merely strength, it was presence. A weight that settled into her being, as though the world itself acknowledged her.
The only other time she had felt this way was at the summit of High Hrothgar, when she had struck Alduin and wounded him.
Back then, it had been fleeting. A moment of defiance against something ancient and inevitable.
But now…now it felt within reach. Intoxicating.
Her fingers curled unconsciously.
Was this what it meant to be dovah? To have so much in her fingertips and wield it so effortlessly?
It was no wonder Alduin saw mortals as nothing more than insects. Gnats to be scattered by a flick of the wing.
Kiera closed her eyes for just a moment as the wind rushed past her, fingers tightening slightly against the chains of Vermithor's saddle.
Kiera exhaled slowly.
"…Not anymore."
Her voice was lost to the wind, but the thought remained.
Things have changed now. The strength of men and mer were not so weak that Alduin could snuff them out so easily.
Vermithor's great wings beat steadily, each stroke carrying them further across the sky as Kiera chanced a look below.
The lands of the Rift stretched far and wide miles across, with plenty of new towns and settlements dotting the landscape. The great Velothi Mountains rose from the east, large and massive.
'Gods, it's peaceful here.' Kiera smiled faintly.
It always struck her how quiet the world could seem from above. No war. No fear. Just wind, sky, and endless horizon.
She had flown like this countless times, yet it never got old. The feeling of wind passing through her hair, the way the droplets of water would stick to her face whenever Vermithor flew over the clouds, the sheer freedom of seeing the world from this perspective.
Vermithor let out a low rumble beneath her, as if sharing the sentiment.
"You're enjoying this too, aren't you?" Kiera murmured, patting his neck.
The bronze dragon huffed softly in response.
Autumn had well and arrived, and everything below was painted in shades of amber, crimson, and gold. Winter would arrive soon, and with it, the heavy snowstorms that made life in Skyrim that much more difficult.
They had left High Hrothgar just a few hours ago at sunrise, and now the sun was starting to peak in the sky as they reached midday.
A few days of training had allowed Vermithor to get used to his new strength. The Bronze Fury was stronger now, faster too.
Kruziik.
His new title had not been merely ceremonial, it had transformed him. His muscles carried more power, his wings cut the air with greater efficiency.
A flight to Shor's Stone from High Hrothgar usually took at least eighteen hours. Vermithor was now capable of making it at a third the time.
Paarthurnax had given one last piece of advice before they left. "Remember to always spare time to meditate on your mastered shout, Young Vermithor. Your kopraan, physique, shall be fully ingrained into the Thu'um. Kos ahst drem, be at peace with the words, and your strength will continue to grow."
Vermithor had bowed deeply. "I shall remember it, Paarthurnax."
Kiera had followed suit, lowering her head with a respectful smile. "Thank you for everything."
The old dragon had inclined his great head. "It was an honor to teach you once more, Kiera."
Her gaze then shifted to Arngier. "The Emperor should arrive in Ivarstead in a few days."
The old Greybeard nodded. "I shall make sure the new students are prepared. All hundred and eighty of them."
One hundred and eighty.
Kiera still found it hard to believe.
A single usually isn't enough for anyone to become expert in the Thu'um, but under Paarthurnax's tutelage, it was enough for people to at least be capable of a single three-worded shout.
They were not masters, not even close.
But each of them wielded the Voice. Each of them had chosen a shout to pursue—Unrelenting Force, Disarm, Clear Skies…
One shout, one focus.
They were not Kiera, nor did they even have Ulfric's proficiency. But a hundred and eighty tongues that wielded the power of the Voice would tip the scales of any fight.
"We are approaching the city, Kiera." Vermithor's voice rumbled into her mind.
Kiera's eyes opened. And there it was.
Even from the sky, the city of Shor's Stone looked grand, and it was active and alive.
It was midday still, yet there was no denying it. Caravans stretched along the roads like veins feeding into a beating heart. Horses, wagons, merchants, soldiers—all flowing toward the city.
She could even spot a circus troupe slowly ambling their way to the city, no doubt one of many bards and entertainers who wished to perform during the celebrations.
The massive spire in the center that was the Ebony Palace still looked incredible as always, a tower of black stone and steel that stretched halfway into the skies, rising above everything else.
"So ridiculous." Kiera had thought the first time she saw it. There was no other word that could describe the damn building. Even now it looked unreal.
Vermithor let out a low, amused snort. "I could try clipping it with my wing before we land."
"Don't you dare."
The dragon huffed again, almost smug.
As they approached, Vermithor released a thunderous roar that echoed across the valley.
The response came instantly. A horn call from the walls, one that she knew meant recognition and permission.
Her arrival was forewarned from weeks ago, so she wasn't surprised. Kiera leaned forward slightly.
"Take us down."
The bronze dragon flew forward, approaching a large courtyard on the side of the Palace that had specifically been cleared for her and her partner.
Vermithor landed with a heavy thud, wings spreading wide as the force of his descent sent gusts of wind spiraling outward.
Waiting for her there was Serana, her cowl pushed back by the wind, revealing the dark hair that spilled free as a smile broke across her face. Beside her stood another figure, a tall Breton woman clad in armor.
But Kiera barely registered her, because in the next heartbeat, she leapt from Vermithor's back, landing lightly before closing the distance in quick strides and pulling Serana into a tight embrace.
"Congratulations!" Kiera said excitedly. "I'm so happy for you!"
Serana laughed softly, returning the hug just as firmly. "It's been too long, Kiera. I take it you've heard of the news?"
"Who hasn't?" Kiera smiled, eyeing the amulet of Mara dangling around Serana's neck. "You have to tell me everything. How did Gerron ask the question? How did this all start? When did you realize—"
Serana laughed, the sound bright and unrestrained. "Kiera—"
"I'm serious," Kiera pressed, grin widening as they both began moving toward the palace. "I've been gone for months. You can't just drop something like this and expect me not to ask questions."
"I wasn't planning to hide it," Serana shot back with a smirk.
"Oh, good," Kiera replied. "Then start talking."
Behind them, Vermithor gave a long, rumbling snort before lumbering off toward a quieter corner of the courtyard, curling up with a satisfied huff.
…
AN: Carrowhulks are basically buses walking on four legs that can climb mountains, something I teased all the way back in Chapter 6. It was the solution I came up with on how to move an army up there. Of course inspired by the powerful horses of game Skyrim that could traverse a near 90-degree angle.
Anyways, this chapter marks the beginning of the wedding arc. Kiera's arrival marking the next step as more and more of the guests begin to trickle into the city.
I hope you enjoyed this one, the reunion of Kiera and Serana was also really fun to write. It's been a long time since all three of our party have shared a scene together. (Last one was during the Night of Convergence, 34 chapters ago).
12 advanced chapters are available on my P-word. Chapter 125 should be available by the time this chapter is posted. Just look up my name, TeemVizzle, and you'll find me.
For free users, you can get 2 chapters ahead instead if you're interested.
Cheers lads.