The last undead fell in a heap of bone and singed, rotting flesh. Its skull cracked against a headstone, and the faint, sickly light that had been flickering in its eye sockets guttered out like a candle in the wind.
Torin stood in the middle of the clearing, his chest heaving, his axe lowered. The lightning that had been dancing along the blade flickered once, twice, and then faded, leaving only the cold gleam of silver.
The runes on the axe head dimmed to a dull glow, then went dark.
He let out a long, slow sigh, the breath steaming in the cold air.
The spells affecting his body began to unravel.
Ebonyflesh receded, his skin returning to its normal color. Gigantize followed, his frame shrinking, his shoulders drawing in as he reverted to his normal size.
He looked at the pile of bones at his feet. At the scattered remains of the other corpses, the ones he'd cut down before they could even make it out of the earth. At the torn ground, the cracked headstones, the frost that had been stained with harvester blood.
And then his gaze lifted, past the clearing, past the trees, to the hill where Camilla's grave stood.
He couldn't see it from here. The fog was too thick, the distance too great. But he knew it was there.
Thank the gods, he thought, and the words felt inadequate, small, nothing close to the relief that was flooding through him. Thank every god that ever listened that this fight happened here. Far away from her.
Just the idea of having to face her animated corpse—of seeing that face, that face he'd known as a child, twisted by necromancy into something that would try to tear out his throat—made his heart cramp in his chest.
If that had happened... if the harvester had raised her... he really didn't know what he'd do. What kind of choice he'd have to make. What kind of man he'd be after making it.
He didn't want to think about it. Couldn't think about it. Not now, not when there was still work to do.
Footsteps.
Fast. Multiple sets. Coming from the direction of the town.
Torin turned, his hand tightening on his axe, but he didn't raise it. The rhythm of the footsteps was wrong for an attack—too many people, too much noise, the kind of uncoordinated hurry that meant panic, not purpose.
The fog parted and the guards spilled out.
Four of them, fully geared, swords drawn, shields up. They fanned out as they entered the clearing, their eyes wide, their breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
One of them—a woman with a scar across her jaw—took the lead, her sword held low but ready.
She stopped about ten feet away, her eyes sweeping the clearing. Taking in the bones, the blood, the torn earth. The axe in Torin's hand.
"What happened here, Storm-Caller?" Her voice was steady, but there was a tremor underneath it. The kind of tremor that came from seeing things you weren't prepared to see. "Runil sent us. Said he sensed something... ominous."
She looked at the heap of bones nearest her, then back at Torin. "By the looks of things, he wasn't wrong."
Torin shook his head slowly, letting his axe drop to his side. The tension in his shoulders eased, just a fraction.
"No. He wasn't."
He looked at the guards—at their faces, pale in the fog, at their hands, white-knuckled on their swords. They were brave, coming out here. Braver than most.
"This was the work of a harvester." He kept his voice calm, measured. The voice he used when he needed people to listen without panicking. "A Daedric creature. Powerful. Can reap souls. Raise the dead." He gestured at the scattered bones with his axe. "Which you can see for yourself."
The sergeant winced, her grip tightening on her sword.
"Daedra." She said the word like it tasted bad. "Then this means..."
Torin nodded.
"Your murders aren't the work of some madman with a knife." His voice hardened. "It's a cultist. Maybe an entire cult." He looked at the tree line where the harvester had disappeared, his jaw tightening. "I can't say whose serving who at this point, but it's clear they're helping each other..."
The guard's expression shifted—from fear to something more complicated, then to something that might have been relief.
She seemed to remember something, some piece of information that had been buried under all the horror and the fog and the sudden appearance of Daedric creatures in her town's cemetery.
"If that's the case," she said slowly, "then we can send for the Vigilants of Stendarr. Once more." Her shoulders relaxed further, like she was already picturing someone else handling this problem. "When we first called them, they said they only interfere in incidents that involve Daedra. Well..."
She gestured at the scattered bones, the purple blood staining the frost. "This certainly qualifies."
Torin's eyebrow rose.
The Vigilants of Stendarr. He'd run into them before, here and there, on the roads, in the wilds. Grim-faced men and women in steel armor with the god's symbol on their shields, always asking questions, always looking for something to purify.
They had a reputation—for zealotry, for stubbornness, for burning first and asking questions never. They also had a reputation for taking credit, not intentionally at least, but it didn't seem to bother them.
In the eyes of the locals, the Vigilants were the foremost experts at subjugating daedra. While that might not be exactly wrong, such notions would make it very difficult for Torin to prove his contributions to this case, no matter how much proof he can produce if they were to involve themselves.
There was this one time when he was hired to exterminate a wild Ice Atronach that had occupied an important mine in Winterhold long ago. Simply because the Vigilants were passing by, the man who hired him assumed it was they who exterminated the daedric creature, and that Torin was trying to fleece him.
Torin, of course, had to calmly and politely correct him by dragging him to the Vigilants' camp to clear the misunderstanding, but that's neither here nor there.
He didn't like what he was hearing. Not one bit.
The rage was still there, simmering beneath the surface. The cruelty he'd witnessed had made this personal.
Not professional. Not political. Personal.
If he let things be, then his time and effort so far are as good as wasted. His entire reason for being here would be worth nothing. The Arch-Mage's seal on his shoulder would be just a piece of metal. His name would be a footnote, if it was mentioned at all.
Still, Torin didn't say anything.
He wanted to. Wanted to say that the Vigilants had their chance, weeks ago, and they'd done nothing. Wanted to argue, to insist, to demand.
But his feelings didn't matter here. His personal gain, his losses, his plans for the College's reputation—none of it mattered.
A child was out there somewhere, alone and terrified, running from something that wanted to drag her soul to Oblivion.
He couldn't stop the people of Falkreath from calling for help. Wouldn't, even if he could.
All he could do was pick up the pace. Find the killer before the Vigilants arrived. Put him down. End this. The Vigilants wouldn't show up instantly—they had no bases near Falkreath, and their members were always roaming about in search of daedra and daedric cults.
He had time. Not much, but enough.
If he was fast. If he was smart. If he didn't make any mistakes.
He looked at the guard, his voice steady.
"Where's Auri?" He glanced around the clearing, as if the elf might materialize out of the fog. "The Bosmer who came with me."
The guard's eyes widened. She turned, scanning the tree line, the fog, the space behind her where Auri had been standing when they'd arrived. Her confusion grew as she searched, her head swiveling, her shoulders tightening.
"The Bosmer came with us... she was right behind us when—" she started.
"I'm right here."
Auri's voice came from the treeline to Torin's left, calm and unhurried, like she'd just stepped out for a walk and had returned to find everyone making a fuss for no reason. She emerged from the fog with her bow in her hand, an arrow nocked but not drawn, her amber eyes bright against the grey.
"I saw someone running," Auri said, her gaze meeting his. "A figure. Heading north. They were moving fast—not running from something, running to something. Purposeful." She paused, her expression unreadable. "I decided to give chase."
"The north," Torin muttered, more to himself than to Auri. "The one who ambushed me with a firebolt ran that way..." He glanced at her. "Did you get a good look at him?"
Auri shook her head, her ears flattening slightly—a rare show of frustration.
"No. He was too quick, and the mist was too dense." Her jaw tightened. "I managed to graze him with an arrow. That's all." She reached into her quiver and pulled out an arrow, holding it up for Torin to see.
The shaft was dark wood, fletched with black feathers, the point still wet with something dark that caught the faint light. Blood.
Torin stared at the arrow for a moment, holding back a sigh.
If he'd learned necromancy, using that blood to track the firebolt thrower would be easy. A simple spell, a flick of the wrist, and the magic would pull him toward whoever it belonged to like a hound on a scent.
Better yet, he could have dug up the victims, called their souls back to testify.
There were elves in the Merethic Era who'd used such methods—Ayleid inquisitors before the world decided such practices were too extreme. Useful as they are, such methods died out for a reason.
And not just because they were illegal, or because the Mages Guild had banned them.
Torin himself had been raised in a certain way. Kodlak's way. The way of the Companions, of the old Nords, of people who believed that the dead should be left in peace. You honored them. You remembered them. You visited their graves and left flowers and told their stories so they wouldn't fade.
You didn't use them. You didn't pull their souls back from wherever they'd gone and make them relive the worst moments of their lives, even if it is to catch their worst enemies.
There was no honor in that, nor consolation for the dead.
Torin shook his head, pushing the thought aside.
"Well," he said, forcing a shrug, "I'm sure you can pick up his tracks again."
He pointed south, toward the pool of purple blood that still steamed in the cold air, the frost around it blackened and dead. "But first—can you track the harvester? Big bastard. Four arms, snake tail, missing one of the arms. Hard to miss."
Auri followed his gaze, studying the blood. Her expression didn't change, but her ears swiveled forward, focusing.
"What are you hoping I'll find?" she asked. "And what do you want me to do once I find it?"
Torin grinned. There was nothing warm about it.
"Hopefully, its lair. I'll catch up with you once I've finished some things here. Then we kill it." His eyes met hers. "And if we're lucky, we might even find out who brought it here."
Auri let out a low hum, the sound thoughtful, considering. She looked at the blood, then at the tree line, then back at Torin.
"One trail north," she said. "One trail south. You want me to follow one while you do... what, exactly?"
Torin's grin widened. "I need to talk to the guards. I need them to do something for me." His expression hardened. "And I'll need to talk to a few people in town, ask some questions... just in case this doesn't turn out as I hope it would."
Auri held his gaze for a long moment. Then she nodded once, sharp and decisive.
She turned away from him, crouching by the pool of purple blood, her fingers hovering over the frost. Her eyes narrowed, her head tilted, her ears swiveled, and suddenly she wasn't Auri the College student or Auri the traveler or Auri the woman who followed Torin around like a shadow.
She was the huntress. The one who'd tracked things through the forests of Valenwood, who'd learned to read signs that other people couldn't even see.
Torin left her to it and turned back to the guards.
The sergeant was directing her men, getting them to spread out, to secure the perimeter, to keep anyone from wandering into the clearing and stumbling over what was left of the dead. She looked up as Torin approached, her expression wary.
"As for you lot." Torin's voice was crisp, leaving no room for argument. "There's a Khajiit child somewhere out there. Young. Small. Grey dress, black fur. She disappeared in the mist." He paused, letting that sink in. "I need you to find her. Before the harvester does."
...
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