As he came to, roused by repeated, rhythmic thuds, Torin opened his eyes to find himself in a sea of darkness.
It wasn't the darkness of a cave or a windowless room—it was something else. Something deeper. The kind of darkness that existed before the stars were lit, before the gods spoke the first words of creation.
He lay on what felt like solid ground, but when he reached out to touch it, his fingers passed through as if it weren't there at all.
His brow furrowed as he began to look around. The thuds continued—steady, patient, unhurried. He located the source quickly.
A small Khajiit girl stood before a stone wall. Black fur, grey dress, a goatskin ball held in her small hands. She threw the ball at the wall—thud—it bounced back to her. She caught it, turned it over in her fingers, and threw it again.
Thud. Catch. Throw. Thud.
She seemed oblivious to Torin's existence, to the darkness around them, to anything but the simple rhythm of her game.
Torin reached toward her.
"K'hila."
The name came out as barely a whisper, but in this place, it echoed like thunder. The girl didn't respond. Didn't look up. Just kept throwing her ball against the wall, over and over, patient and alone.
"K'hila!"
He called out again, louder, more urgent. Still no response.
Torin tried to walk toward her. His legs moved, his feet found purchase, but despite seeming so close at hand—despite the fact that he could see the individual strands of her fur, the worn patches on her dress, the scuff marks on her ball—he couldn't get any closer. He walked. He ran. He pushed against whatever invisible force held him back.
Nothing changed.
Eventually, Torin had to stop. His chest heaved. His legs burned. The girl kept throwing her ball, unaware of his struggle.
Then the moons began to appear.
Two of them, rising on the horizon—one large, one small, the same pale silver as the moons that hung over Tamriel every night. They rose slowly, inexorably, climbing into the sky until their light washed over the darkness and pushed it back.
The world came into focus. A shore stretched out before him, the sand colored in hues he'd never seen before—soft pinks and deep purples, shimmering golds and quiet blues.
The water beyond reflected the twin moons, the surface smooth as glass, the waves barely lapping at the shore.
It was beautiful. The most beautiful place Torin had ever seen.
A woman descended from the sky.
She had wings—not attached to her back like a bird's, but spreading from her arms like a hawk's, feathers of white and gold and softest grey. Her hair was long and dark, her skin the color of warm earth, and her eyes held the same light as the moons above.
She landed on the shore next to K'hila, her wings folding behind her, her bare feet sinking into the colored sand. She extended her hand toward the Khajiit—palm up, fingers open, the same gesture Torin had used when he first met the girl in the cemetery.
K'hila paused. Her ball stopped mid-bounce, frozen in the air, forgotten. She looked at the woman's hand, then at the woman's face, then back at the hand. Her expression was hesitant—wary, the way a stray cat looks at a stranger offering food.
The woman with the hawk wings smiled. It was a patient smile, full of warmth, full of understanding. The kind of smile that said I know you've been hurt. I know you don't trust easily. That's okay. I can wait.
K'hila's hesitation melted and she took the woman's hand.
The winged woman turned toward Torin and offered a simple nod—the same warm smile still on her lips—and then gently began to guide the little Khajiit toward the shore. Their feet left no prints in the colored sand. The water lapped at the edge of the beach, soft and rhythmic, as if welcoming them home.
Torin simply watched. His arms hung at his sides. His chest felt tight.
This would be the last time he ever saw the little Khajiit. He knew it with a certainty that went beyond logic.
She was leaving—not disappearing, not dying, not fading into nothing. She was going somewhere better. The Sands Behind the Stars. A true paradise for Khajiit who were found worthy, where they could rest, hunt, eat and drink at their leisure, and reunite with loved ones long lost.
He should be happy for her. He was happy for her.
But it still hurt.
The winged woman paused. She seemed to sense Torin's emotions—the conflict, the grief, the reluctant acceptance. She knelt before K'hila, her wings folding around them both like a sheltering canopy, and whispered something in the girl's ear.
K'hila's ears perked up. Her tail, which had been trailing listlessly behind her, curled into a question mark. It seemed like a veil had been lifted from her senses—like she'd been seeing the world through fog, and suddenly the fog had cleared.
She turned toward Torin.
The same smug, knowing grin split her face—the grin she'd worn when she demanded he explain himself, when she'd questioned his worth, when she'd promised to help him one last time. She raised her small hand and waved at him, fingers wiggling, her yellow eyes bright.
Torin's eyes watered.
For the first time since Camilla's death—for the first time since he was a babe—tears began to flow down his cheeks. They came silently, without sobs or gasps, just a steady stream that blurred his vision and dripped from his jaw.
He didn't wipe them away.
Seeing this, K'hila just kept smiling. Her voice, when she spoke, carried across the distance between them as easily as if she were standing right beside him.
"May we meet again on warmer sands, big and brave one."
Torin squeezed out a smile—shaky, watery, but real—and waved back at her. His hand felt heavy, but he raised it anyway.
She turned around and resumed walking toward the shore, guided by the winged woman. The water parted for them, creating a path of wet sand that gleamed under the twin moons.
They walked, and walked, and the farther they went, the more their forms seemed to fade—not disappearing, but becoming part of the light, part of the colors, part of the beauty of that impossible shore.
The last thing Torin saw was K'hila's tail, still curled into a happy question mark, disappearing into the glow.
Then the shore was empty.
And Torin was alone.
...
This time, Torin was awakened by the warmth he felt over his closed eyes.
It was gentle at first—a soft pressure, like a hand resting on his face—but it grew stronger, insistenter, until finally he had no choice but to stir. He slowly opened his eyes, blinking against the brightness, and realized he was sleeping inside a small cabin in the woods.
The sunlight that had disturbed his sleep was streaming through a window, casting golden rectangles across the wooden floor. Dust motes danced in the beams.
He turned his head toward the door, just as it opened.
Auri walked through, holding a jug full of some liquid. Her amber eyes landed on him, widened a little, and then she smiled—a genuine smile, not the sharp, knowing grin she usually wore.
"And here I thought you'd be out for another week," she said.
Torin's face darkened. He tried to speak, but only managed a cough—dry, rattling, scraping up from somewhere deep in his chest. His throat felt like sandpaper, like he'd swallowed a mouthful of dust and hadn't had a drop of water since.
Auri grinned and presented the jug.
Torin didn't think twice. He took it from her hands—heavier than he expected, the clay cool against his palms—and raised it to his lips. He took a deep gulp, then another, letting the liquid pour down his throat. Water. Just water, clean and cold and exactly what he needed.
He lowered the jug, let out a long sigh, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he sat up on the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the wooden floor, his head swimming.
"Another week?" He gave Auri a tired look. "How long have I been sleeping?"
Auri shrugged. "Eight days."
Torin groaned, rubbing his forehead with his palm. Eight days. He'd lost eight days. The mountain, the battle, Krovos—it all felt distant now, like a dream he'd half-forgotten. The details were fuzzy around the edges, but the weight of it was still there, pressing on his chest.
After a moment, he asked, "What happened to Hrogar?"
Auri shrugged again. "Hanged. Three days ago."
Torin's expression darkened even further. He muttered, low and bitter, "Well, shit."
Auri raised an eyebrow. "Hmm? What's wrong?" She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You're not going to tell me he's innocent or something, are you?"
She scoffed."Runil did say those remains couldn't have been his doing—the timeline didn't match. He couldn't have killed that Khajiit child. But that doesn't absolve him." She shook her head. "He still killed his wife. He still attacked the guards. He still ran... he made his choices."
Torin opened his mouth to refute Auri's words, but quickly closed it. His gaze dropped to the floor as he ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
Hrogar didn't kill anyone. Not since he renounced his past and sealed his memories.
Torin couldn't be certain—not without evidence, not without the kind of proof that had been buried under a mountain—but he suspected the woodcutter hadn't even killed his wife. That had been Krovos's doing. Another piece of the frame, another nail in Hrogar's coffin.
But what of it? With Krovos dead, the odds of proving any of that were slim to none. And even if he could prove it... would it matter?
Yes, Hrogar had changed his ways. Yes, he'd become a completely different man—a loving father, a devoted husband, a simple woodcutter who wanted nothing more than to live in peace. But that didn't absolve him of the lives he'd taken in the past. It didn't mean he could escape the consequences of his actions.
Krovos's atrocities paled in comparison to what Hrogar had done in his prime. Given time, the hunter would have surpassed him—would have become an even more heinous butcher, more cruel, more creative in his cruelty. That was neither here nor there. Both of them got what they deserved in the end, even if it came at the cost of innocent people.
Innocent. Torin's jaw tightened. K'hila. Eydis. The other victims, whose names he'd never know. They were the real innocents. Not Hrogar.
He reverted his gaze to Auri and flashed her a bitter smile.
"No," he said quietly. "That would be blaspheming the word."
Auri's expression shifted at that—the humor draining from her face, replaced by something more serious.
"Speaking of innocence..." She crossed her arms. "You should be ready to prove yours."
Torin blinked. "From what?"
Auri rolled her eyes. "Consorting with Daedra and vampires." She cleared her throat, then dropped her voice into a low, stern register—a poor imitation of someone else's voice, deep and masculine. "'I can smell it on him. The Daedric taint... and the scent of ancient blood.'"
She cleared her throat again and reverted to her normal voice.
"That's what the big, bald-headed Redguard with the Vigilants said after one look at you." She paused. "He's been asking questions. Lots of them. And he's not happy with the answers he's been getting."
Torin rubbed his temples.
Of course. The Vigilants of Stendarr. He'd almost forgotten about them in all the chaos. They'd been summoned before the harvester attack, before the shrine, before everything. And now they were here, poking their noses into matters that were already settled.
"Wonderful," he muttered.
...
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