As the creature died and dissipated—those eerie blue light particles floating upward like ghosts escaping a grave—Auri couldn't help but relax.
Her bow lowered. Her shoulders dropped.
The tension that had been coiled in her muscles since they'd entered the cave began to ease, just a fraction. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, and the air left her lungs in a long, slow sigh.
But then she noticed the look on Torin's face.
He was staring at the shrine. At the statue of Molag Bal. His expression wasn't satisfied. Wasn't relieved. Wasn't even tired.
It was troubled. Dark. The kind of look he got when something was bothering him and he couldn't quite figure out what.
Auri frowned.
"What's the matter?" she asked, stepping closer to him. Her voice was quiet, careful, the way you'd speak to someone standing on the edge of a cliff.
Torin sighed and extended his hand. His axe flew back to his open palm, the haft slapping against his fingers, the blade still warm from the lightning that had coursed through it.
He didn't look at it. Didn't check the edge, didn't wipe the blood—what little there was—from the steel. His eyes were still fixed on the shrine.
"Just deliberating the ironies of fate," he said. He shook his head slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "If yesterday you told me I'd be glad to see a Vigilant of Stendarr one day, I'd have laughed in your face."
He paused, his expression turning grim as he looked at the shrine. "But now..." He let out a humorless chuckle. "I'd be happy enough to kiss them. Passionately."
Auri couldn't help but chuckle. The sound was small, surprised out of her by the unexpected image.
"The shrine is eerie, granted," she said, nodding at the statue. "But it's just rock. Infused with magicka, maybe, but still rock. Nothing to worry about now that the harvester is dead."
Torin shook his head. "If that were the case," he said, walking closer to the statue, "it would have exploded into pieces."
He pointed at the small ridge where his axe had struck—a shallow gouge in the black stone, just big enough for the blade to get stuck. "That wasmy intention when I hurled the axe. To bring the whole thing down." He turned to look at her, his grey eyes hard. "But I barely scratched the damned thing."
Auri looked at the shrine. At the glowing eyes, the pulsing hearts, the blood that showed no sign of stopping. At the shallow gouge that should have been a gaping wound.
Then she grinned.
"It seems," she said, her voice light despite the weight of the moment, "that you can't help but rely on others after all..."
Torin rolled his eyes—a dramatic, exaggerated motion that was half exasperation and half grudging acceptance.
"For now," he said, the words clipped. "For now."
He turned away from the shrine, his eyes beginning to scan the chamber. The walls, the floor, the shadows in the corners. The basin of blood, still rippling, still warm.
The passageways that led off from the main cavern, dark and inviting and probably full of things they didn't want to meet.
"We'll leave this cursed thing to the Vigilants to deal with once they arrive," he said. "Let them earn their reputation for once."
He hefted his axe, settling it across his back. "In the meantime, let's look for clues. Anything that might help us find the sick bastard behind all this."
Auri nodded, already moving, already scanning.
The hunt wasn't over just yet.
...
Standing before the obliterated section of the cavern wall, Torin stared at the pieces on the ground—fragments of rock and something else, something that flickered in and out of existence like a candle flame in the wind.
The illusion magic that had hidden this place was failing now, unraveling without the harvester's presence to maintain it, and the pieces of the false wall were caught between what they had been pretending to be and what they actually were.
Torin scoffed.
"Do they know no other tricks?" He shook his head, stepping over the threshold into what appeared to be a dark, small chamber—only a little bigger than a personal dwelling. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of old herbs and something metallic, something that reminded him of blood. "Illusions. Hidden passages. It's always the same."
Auri walked in behind him, her bow still in her hand, her eyes scanning the shadows.
"It's a good enough trick," she said, her voice neutral. "Just didn't work on us."
Torin simply raised an eyebrow at her—a long, pointed look that said humble-brag noted—but said nothing. He didn't need to. The slight smirk on his face was enough.
With a flick of his wrist, several spheres of magelight flew from his palm, streaking through the chamber like tiny suns. They spread out, hovering near the ceiling, illuminating every corner, every shadow, every secret this hidden room had tried to keep.
The light revealed a space that was almost... domestic.
There was a bed in the corner—narrow, with a thin mattress and a single woolen blanket, neatly made. A table beside it, holding a half-empty cup of something that had long since gone cold and a plate with crumbs scattered across its surface.
Then there were shelves near the table, stacked with books—old ones, by the look of them, their spines cracked, their titles faded.
Some distance away, an alchemy workbench dominated the center of the room. It was cluttered with mortars and pestles, glass flasks of various sizes, drying racks holding herbs that Torin didn't recognize.
The scattered remains of dozens of experiments lay across its surface—dried leaves, crushed petals, powders in shades of green and purple and black.
And finally.
At the far end of the room, on a display stand carved from black wood, a stone hovered.
It was beautiful, in a terrible way. Transparent blue, like a frozen tear, with a polished surface that gleamed in the magelight. Blue flames swirled within it—dancing, twisting, alive—and crawled along its surface like serpents made of fire.
The stone pulsed with a light that had no source, a rhythm that matched nothing natural.
Torin's expression shifted.
The weariness that had been there a moment ago drained away, replaced by something complicated. Concern, yes. Dark and heavy. But beneath that, threaded through it like gold in ore, was relief. Weary relief, the kind that came from realizing something terrible hadn't happened, but could have.
Auri frowned, her eyes fixed on the stone.
"Now what?" she asked, her voice careful.
Torin sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"That's a Stone of Cold Fire," he said quietly. "Used to conjure and bind powerful Daedra, amongst other dark purposes..." He nodded at the hovering stone, at the flames that danced within it. "Which explains how the harvester got here. Someone used this to pull it out of Oblivion and keep it here, bound to their will."
Auri let out a low hum, her ears swiveling forward.
"What's the problem, then?" She looked at him, her amber eyes sharp. "We can just destroy this thing, and that'll be the end of it. No more harvesters. No more summoned Daedra. Problem solved."
Torin nodded slowly.
"You're right," he said. "That's the right move." He paused, his jaw tightening. "Although... destroying it is a bit difficult. Stones like this are made to last. You can't just smash them with a hammer." He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on the hovering stone. "That's not what's bothering me, though."
Auri waited.
"I'm concerned," Torin continued, "because a harvester is hardly the most powerful Daedra this thing can summon." He winced, the expression flickering across his face like a shadow. "It could even bring about one of Molag Bal's Daedroth generals. Something that would make that harvester look like a house cat."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy and cold.
Auri looked at the blue flames, the polished surface, the terrible beauty of the stone hovering on its display stand. Her amber eyes reflected the light, making them seem to burn from within.
"How difficult is destroying it, exactly?" she asked, her voice slightly more concerned now—the first crack in her usual composure. "And how soon can you get it done?"
Torin groaned, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
"Very difficult." He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand, already feeling the headache forming behind his eyes. "It requires powerful magic. The kind I can't cast at will. Not yet, anyway." He shook his head. "I'll need time. Materials. A lot of both."
He stepped forward, reaching for the stone. His fingers closed around it—and he nearly dropped it immediately. The cold was intense, almost freezing, like gripping a chunk of ice pulled from the depths of winter. The blue flames licked at his skin but didn't burn. They just... watched. Waited.
Torin gritted his teeth and held on.
He carried the stone to the bed in the corner—narrow, thin-mattressed, covered with a woolen blanket that had seen better days. He ripped the blanket into strips, using the cloth to wrap the stone carefully, layer by layer, until the blue light was completely hidden.
Then he tucked it into his satchel, the weight of it settling against his hip.
"Alternatively," he said, turning back to Auri, "I can just keep this thing with me. That way, no one else can use it." He patted the satchel. "Out of sight, out of mind. Until I have the time and resources to destroy it properly."
Auri gave him a blank look. The kind of look that said I have no words for how foolish that sounds.
"Genius," she said flatly. "Simply genius."
Torin chuckled bitterly, the sound devoid of humor.
"Enough of that." He turned back toward the entrance, looking past the shattered remnants of the illusion wall to the shrine of Molag Bal in the spacious cavern beyond. The statue's red eyes still glowed, still watched, still seemed to follow his every movement.
"This place is old," he said quietly. "Much older than the killings. The shrine, the cavern, the stone—all of it. It's been here for centuries, maybe longer." He paused, his brow furrowing. "The fact that people are being killed in Falkreath might not be as coincidental as we first thought."
Auri nodded, her expression thoughtful.
"Agreed." She began to look around the chamber again, her eyes sweeping over the bed, the table, the scattered herbs, the alchemy workbench. "Whoever is killing the people of the hold was definitely here. Recently, too. I can smell it." Her nose wrinkled. "Old blood. Old magic. And something else—something that doesn't belong."
She gestured at the room, at the evidence of occupation.
"I'd guess he stumbled into this place by accident. Maybe while hunting, maybe while hiding from something. And once he found it..." She trailed off, her amber eyes darkening. "He found inspiration."
Torin agreed with a grunt.
"Aye." He turned to the shelf full of books near the table. Their spines were cracked, their titles faded, but they were still readable—still full of whatever knowledge had drawn their owner here in the first place. "And we need to find whatever might have inspired him."
He walked toward the shelf, his hand reaching for the first book.
"That looks like a good place to start."
Auri moved to the alchemy bench, her fingers already sifting through the scattered herbs, her nose twitching as she identified each one by scent alone. She didn't say anything. Didn't need to. They both knew what they were looking for.
Clues. Answers. The identity of the monster wearing a human face.
...
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