"My name..." Krovos paused, his grey eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if searching for something among the shadows. Then he shook his head. "My real name doesn't matter. It's of no consequence. That man died a long time ago."
He looked back at Torin, those flat, unreadable eyes meeting the Nord's burning gaze.
"As for who I am—you should already know, kinsman. If you read Hrogar's journal."
Torin just stared at him coldly, his axe still raised, the lightning still dancing along its edge. Krovos chuckled—a dry, rattling sound.
"I'm the so-called failed student."
Torin didn't seem surprised by this. His expression remained hard, unyielding.
"How?" he demanded.
Krovos shrugged, the motion casual, almost lazy.
"I'm not quite sure myself. One moment, I was dying. My body was broken beyond saving—shattered bones, torn flesh, the works. The last thing I remembered was the feeling of dirt as Hrogar buried my ruined husk."
His eyes grew distant, unfocused. "And then... the whispers. Soft at first, then louder. They filled my head, my chest, my lungs. They told me I wasn't done. That I still had work to do."
He chuckled again, shaking his head.
"And then I was just lying on the grass, good as new. Not a scar. Not a bruise. Like it never happened." He paused. "I've dared to guess this was Molag Bal's doing. Maybe he foresaw Hrogar's change of heart—the old man trying to weasel out of his bargain. Maybe he just thought it would be funny to sick me on him."
Torin's fists clenched at the casual tone Krovos spoke in, knuckles white beneath the dried blood. But he endured, forcing the rage down, keeping it contained.
"Why?" he asked. The word came out sharp as a blade.
Krovos hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head. "Why indeed... it certainly began as revenge."
He smiled—a fond, almost nostalgic expression, like a man remembering a particularly pleasant holiday. "That's why I tracked the Crimson Shields. Why I infiltrated their camp at night and burned their tents while they slept. Why I waited for the bandits they'd been hired to exterminate to fall upon them in the chaos."
His smile widened. "Why I captured their captain. Tied him to a tree and made him watch as his precious company burned."
He paused, his grey eyes gleaming with a light that had nothing to do with the candles around them. "My revenge was sweeter than honey, Storm-Caller. Sweeter than anything I'd ever tasted."
He chuckled, the sound low and satisfied. "But it was incomplete. Hollow. I'd burned the company, killed the captain, scattered the survivors to the winds. But the man I really wanted—the one who'd buried me in that shallow grave—was still out there somewhere."
He uncrossed his arms, gesturing vaguely.
"I needed to find Hrogar. And stubborn as he was, the good captain was more than happy to point me toward Falkreath after some... persuasion."
His smile widened. "The things people will tell you when you start removing fingers. You'd be surprised."
Torin took a step forward, his eyes almost spewing flames, the lightning on his axe flaring brighter.
"Then why?" The words came out harsh, ragged. "Why didn't you just kill him and leave? Why stay here for years?" His voice rose. "Why kill all those innocent people? Why kill—"
He stopped. An image flashed in his mind—small, grey, with yellow eyes that had seen too much. K'hila, holding his hand. K'hila, promising to help him one last time. K'hila, whose bones had been lying under that tree for two years, waiting for someone to find her.
Krovos sighed, the sound almost tired.
"There are no innocents, Storm-Caller. Everyone is guilty of something. Everyone has darkness in their heart." He shook his head. "But to answer your question—I didn't stay in this cesspit because I wanted to."
He began to pace, his boots echoing on the stone. "All I had to go on in my search for Hrogar was a fake name, the memory of a mask, and the knowledge that he'd been in the Crimson Shields."
He clicked his tongue. "The Great War was already starting to die down by then, but even so, countless refugees had fled toward Falkreath. They poured through the passes like water through a cracked dam. Hrogar could have been any one of them. Could have changed his name again. Could have died in the chaos."
He stopped pacing, crossing his arms.
"And Hrogar was a cautious man. Careful. Paranoid, even. He knew how to hide. How to blend in. How to be so utterly ordinary that no one would ever look twice at him." Krovos's expression darkened. "I had no choice but to linger here. To wait. To watch. To continue chasing the sweetness of my revenge, year after year, while that coward lived his peaceful little life."
He suddenly grinned—a wide, malicious expression that transformed his face into something almost inhuman.
"But after many years, I found something else. Completely different... but equally sweet." His eyes glittered. "I found the shrine below the mountain."
Torin's expression darkened, the arcane light in his eyes flaring like a storm about to break.
"And so you decided to serve Molag Bal," he said, his voice low and cold. "To become the very thing that harmed you."
Krovos chuckled, shaking his head.
"Not at all. I care nothing for Molag Bal. His doctrine, his rituals, his endless hunger for suffering—I appreciate them, sure. They're useful. Inspiring, even." He spread his hands. "But I'm not as eager to submit myself as Hrogar was. Why should I kill in someone else's name when I can do it for myself?"
His expression shifted, morphing into something fervent, almost religious. His hands raised high, as if preaching to a congregation.
"You see, at first I thought I was chasing the sweet taste of revenge. That's what I told myself, anyway. It sounded noble. Justified. But after reading those books in the shrine, after studying the rituals and the doctrines and the endless hypocritical justifications for cruelty..."
He paused, seeming to deflate slightly. "I began to suspect that I, too, was a hypocrite, that I didn't long for revenge, but craved the thrill of domination. The sense of power you feel upon subjugating those weaker than you to your whim."
His grin returned—wide, hungry, inhuman.
"And so I decided to confirm that suspicion. Test it out. See if the theory held up in practice."
He began to pace again, his excitement building.
"The Khajiit caravans happened to be passing through at the time. Easy targets. No fixed address, no one to complain to the guards, no one to come looking when someone went missing. I marked a prey amongst them—a small child, an orphan that no one would miss. The perfect target."
He cooed the words, almost affectionate. "I lured her away from her people. Told her I had warm food and a soft bed for her to lie her head on at night."
"The little thing was quite clever, though. Fierce, for her size. Once she realized my intentions, she put up quite the resistance. Bit me, kicked me, scratched at my eyes. Denied me the pleasure of taking my time with her." He paused, his expression almost regretful. "I learned the importance of preparation thanks to her. You can't just grab a child off the street and expect everything to go smoothly. You need a plan. A place. Tools."
He laughed—loud, sharp, echoing off the stone walls.
"In the end, it wasn't that bad. For my first time. It confirmed my suspicions... and the sensations I felt—how powerful I was in that moment, how completely I controlled her fate—"
That was all he could say.
Torin's fist clashed with his mouth.
The impact was brutal. Teeth and blood flew from Krovos's mouth as his jaw broke with a sickening crack—the sound of bone splintering, of flesh tearing, of something fundamental giving way. His back hit one of the stone totems behind him, the impact rattling his spine, and he slid down to the ground, leaving a dark smear on the carved surface.
He looked up and saw Torin still standing in the same place, his fist still raised, covered in blood that wasn't his own. The Nord stood still for a moment, chest heaving, breathing in frantic, ragged gasps as he fought to maintain control.
He failed.
His face twisted—contorted into something beastly, something feral, something that had been clawing to get out since the moment he'd seen K'hila's bones. He rushed forward, boots pounding against the stone, axe forgotten in his other hand.
Krovos let out a laugh—wet, bubbling, insane—even with his jaw hanging limp, even with blood pouring down his chin. His hand shot behind his back and emerged with a knife, wicked and sharp, and he charged to meet Torin halfway.
His free hand wove through the air, releasing one firebolt after another. The flaming missiles streaked toward the maddened Nord, but Torin didn't halt his stride. He slapped them aside with a hand covered in a shimmering ward, the spells detonating harmlessly against the stone walls, filling the chamber with the smell of ozone and scorched rock.
Soon enough, he was upon Krovos. His fist swung at the hunter's head—a blow that would have caved in a normal man's skull.
Krovos ducked under it, moving faster than he had any right to with a broken jaw and blood in his eyes. He stabbed at Torin's side—aiming for the gap in the armor, for the soft flesh beneath.
The knife connected.
With a metallic clang, the tip of the blade bent backward, flattened against whatever spell had hardened Torin's skin to iron. Krovos raised his head in shock, his grey eyes wide, and saw Torin looking down at him.
The way one might look at an ant.
Krovos let out another manic laugh—high, cracked, desperate—as Torin's huge fist filled his vision. It connected with his face once more, breaking his nose this time, sending a spray of blood across the stone floor. His head snapped back, hit the ground, and he lay there, dazed, still laughing.
He tried to stab at Torin's ankle. The knife scraped against Ebonyflesh, found no purchase.
Torin's axe came down, shattering the bones of Krovos's sword arm—the crack of radius and ulna snapping, the crunch of carpals grinding together. The knife fell from nerveless fingers, clattering on the stone.
Krovos tried to weave a spell with his other hand, fingers curling, magicka gathering.
Torin's boot stomped down.
The sound was wet, grinding—the sound of every finger shattering, of every bone in the palm of Krovos's hand being crushed to powder.
Again, the hunter tried to laugh—a wet, gurgling sound that died in his throat as Torin straddled him and drove a fist straight into his neck.
Krovos wheezed, air whistling through damaged cartilage, but even then, even with tears streaming down his ruined face, he just grinned manically.
Torin didn't seem to care.
He began to wail down on the hunter with his fists—breaking bone, tearing flesh, pulverizing what was left of Krovos's face. The blows came in a rhythm, brutal and relentless, each one fueled by weeks of frustration, by the image of a child's bones on a stone table, by the memory of Eydis's scars.
This continued for ten entire minutes. Ten minutes of Torin's fists rising and falling, of blood spraying across the stone, of the wet crunch of something that had once been a face being reduced to pulp.
Krovos only survived because Torin refused to let him die—casting healing spells between punches, knitting together the damage just enough to keep the hunter conscious, to keep him feeling every blow.
Finally, Torin paused. A thick red spray had hit him in the face—part blood, part mangled flesh, part something else he didn't want to identify. He blinked, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and looked down.
Krovos's face was a mess. Barely recognizable. The nose was gone, the jaw was shattered, the cheeks had been caved in. Only one eye remained relatively intact—grey, still watching, still aware. And above everything else, even through the mangled ruin of his features, even through the pain that should have driven any sane man to madness...
The hunter was still grinning.
Torin gritted his teeth. Raised his fist to strike again.
Then he lowered it.
He let out a tired sigh—long, heavy, the kind that came from somewhere deep. His arms ached. His knuckles were raw, split, bleeding. His whole body trembled with exhaustion and adrenaline and the sudden, unexpected release of tension.
Having vented some of his anger, the way he looked at Krovos seemed to change. The hatred was still there—burning, white-hot—and the anger too.
But beyond that, buried beneath the rage, there was something else.
A small hint of pity.
Krovos hadn't been born a monster. Neither had Hrogar. They'd been twisted into the monstrosities they were—shaped by pain and trauma and the disgusting doctrine of a Prince who saw suffering as a sacrament.
Someone had taken a boy and broken him, rebuilt him into something that could hurt others without remorse. And that someone had been broken themselves, once, by someone else.
How far back did it go? How many generations of victims had been turned into perpetrators before finally landing on Krovos? On Hrogar?
Would they not have lived their entire lives normally—married, raised children, died peacefully in their beds—if they hadn't been chosen by Molag Bal's worshippers, who had been chosen by their predecessors, who had been chosen by theirs, in an unbroken chain of suffering stretching back to the very first soul the Prince of Domination had claimed?
Torin didn't know. Couldn't know. And right now, it didn't matter.
He slowly stood up, his joints protesting, his muscles screaming. He grabbed Krovos by the shirt—soaked through with blood, clinging to what was left of the hunter's chest—and raised him off the ground. The mangled body hung limp in his grip, one arm dangling at a wrong angle, the other crushed to uselessness.
He turned toward the exit. Toward the overlook. Toward the open sky.
He dragged the hunter with him, boots scraping on stone, leaving a wet trail behind them. Krovos's one good eye watched him intently—not afraid, not angry, almost curious. Almost looking forward to whatever came next.
They emerged from the cramped tomb, out from under the ancient stone, into the open air. The sun was already rising, the night fading, dawn breaking over the mountains. But the sky was filled with dark clouds—heavy and low, churning like a living thing.
Torin let Krovos go. The hunter slumped to the ground, propped against a rocky outcrop, his one eye fixed on the Nord.
Torin kept his gaze fixed on the sky.
"A better man than I would at least try to help you see the error of your way," he said quietly. "I'm not that strong."
He raised his hand. His axe flew into it, the haft slapping against his palm, the blade already crackling with golden lightning. With telekinesis, Torin began to rise into the air—slowly at first, then faster, his boots leaving the stone, his body lifting toward the clouds.
"But I'll do you one favor before I send you on your way." His voice carried, amplified by magicka, echoing across the mountain. "I'll show you how wrong you were to walk this path in search of power."
He clenched his teeth, his jaw tight.
"I'll show you what real power looks like."
He stopped ascending. He was already higher than the top of the mountain—higher than the ancient pines, higher than the circling birds, higher than anything mortal had any right to be. The wind howled around him, tugging at his clothes, but he didn't sway.
He let go of his axe.
The weapon didn't fall. It rose. It floated above him, turning slowly, growing larger with every passing moment. Golden lightning danced across its head, arcing between the runes, filling the sky with the smell of ozone.
The clouds began to coalesce. They darkened, swirling together, drawn by something they couldn't resist. The sky that had been brightening with dawn grew dark again—darker than night, darker than the tomb below. Rain began to fall—fat, heavy droplets that hissed against the ancient stone.
Lightning struck.
Not the ground. Not the trees. Not the mountain.
It struck Torin's axe.
The blade absorbed it, drank it in, grew brighter. The axe continued to rise, continued to grow, until it blotted out the sky—a colossal shape, the size of a mammoth, wreathed in golden fire.
Torin's outstretched hand clenched into a fist.
"Disappear from this world," he decreed. "You and this horrid place."
He brought his fist down.
Krovos's one good eye widened at the sight.
The giant axe—no, not an axe anymore, something else entirely, something that had transcended its mortal form—began to fall. It spun in the air, tumbling end over end, golden lightning trailing from its edges like the tail of a comet.
The closer it got, the stronger its light became. Brighter than the sun. Brighter than anything Krovos had ever seen. The lightning reached him before the weapon did, arcing down from the spinning blade, searing his flesh, blackening his skin, cooking the blood in his veins.
His glee finally began to dissipate. The manic grin, the twisted satisfaction, the certainty that he had won something—all of it crumbled as the light consumed him.
A single bloody tear escaped his eye.
The axe hit the mountain.
The impact was deafening—a sound that wasn't a sound, that existed beyond hearing, beyond feeling, beyond comprehension. The ancient bastion shattered. Stone turned to dust. Dust turned to nothing. The mountain itself groaned, cracked, and a great portion of it simply... ceased to exist.
Krovos's body disintegrated. Flesh and bone and madness, scattered to the wind, erased from the world as if he had never been.
Torin watched everything unfold from above, suspended in the air, his arm still outstretched.
The golden light faded. The lightning died. The axe—his axe, the weapon that had carried him through so many battles—was gone, lost somewhere in the rubble, buried beneath a mountain of stone. He felt the weapon's presence winking out, like a candle being snuffed.
He turned to his amulet.
The symbol of Kyne floated in front of him, glowing faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. It had been there the whole time, he realized—holding him up, keeping him safe, channeling power he hadn't known he possessed.
Suddenly, it fell back. As if remembering that gravity existed. As if the goddess had withdrawn her hand and let him stand on his own.
And as it fell, Torin's vision darkened.
The exhaustion hit him first—a wave of it, crashing over him, dragging him down. Then the grief—heavy and suffocating, pressing against his chest. Then the anger—still there, still burning, but distant now, like a fire that had consumed all its fuel.
He began to fall.
The wind rushed past him, cold and sharp. The ground rushed up, distant but growing closer. His limbs were heavy, useless. His eyes were closed—he didn't remember closing them.
He fell, and fell, and fell.
And then there was nothing.
...
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