Eating his meal in the cabin—a simple gruel, because even if you level a mountain, your stomach can still get upset by hard food after sleeping for eight days straight—Torin had to stop. The spoon hovered near his mouth when the door suddenly swung open.
Through it came a Redguard. Big, bald, with a long, well-groomed beard that hung down to his chest. He wore the armor of the Vigilants—a practical mix between mage attire and a warrior's plate, all steel and leather and the symbol of Stendarr stamped on his pauldron.
His eyes, light brown in the afternoon light, bore into Torin's as he spoke.
"You have a lot to answer for."
Torin sighed. He put the spoon back into the bowl, giving the Vigilant an inspecting look.
Isran.
He recognized the man immediately. There was no mistaking that beard, that bald head, the hard set of his jaw. In another life, Torin had known Isran as the leader of the Dawnguard, the vampire hunters who operated out of Fort Dawnguard in the Rift... or at least they would, in the future.
Here and now, he seemed to still be with the Vigilants, though Torin suspected that wouldn't last much longer.
"Such as?" Torin asked with a tired smile.
Isran's eyes narrowed.
"Such as the fact that you reek of Daedric magic. And vampire blood." He sniffed the air, his lip curling. "I can smell it from here. The taint is all over you."
Torin slowly blinked. Then he reached for his satchel, hanging from the bedpost. He rummaged inside for a moment before retrieving the Stone of Cold Fire—still wrapped in cloth, still pulsing with that faint, terrible light.
He tossed it toward Isran without ceremony.
The Vigilant caught it, surprised. He pulled back the cloth, took one look at the stone, and his eyes widened as the tips of his beard began to frost over. Tiny ice crystals formed on the hairs, spreading toward his chin.
Torin shrugged.
"You should have heard about the harvester. The one that was prowling in the woods for... the souls of the dead?" He gestured at the stone. "This is the artifact that was used to bring it into this world. Took it off a cultist. Well, from his hideout, anyway. He's dead now."
He put on an act of sniffing himself—his armpit, his sleeve, his collar—making a show of it.
"As for the vampire blood..." He dropped his arm. "I annihilated an entire coven taking refuge in Shriekwind Bastion. Vampire lord, his spawn, the whole lot. You're welcome, by the way."
Isran stared at him, the frozen stone still in his hand, his expression caught somewhere between skepticism and outrage.
"And I suppose you did that before you toppled half the mountain, right?" He scoffed, tucking the stone into a pouch at his belt. "You don't really expect me, or anyone, to believe that?"
Torin gave him a pointed look.
"Honestly? I hope not. I'd rather be known as a liar than someone capable of breaking a mountain."
He was already feeling a headache coming on just thinking about it. He most certainly hadn't intended to go that far. The plan had been simple—bring the axe down with enough force to destroy the ruins, cause a cave-in big enough to bury that damned shrine below. Clean. Contained. Reasonable.
But then Kyne had decided to meddle. His amulet had glowed, and the mountain had shattered, and he'd fallen from the sky like a stone dropped by a careless giant.
Eight days he'd been out. Eight days, thanks to her power coursing through him, burning him out like a candle at both ends.
And then there was his axe, buried beneath all that rubble, its Lodestone most likely pulverized, seeing as he couldn't even sense it.
Whatever, Torin mused. I'll just consider it as returning the favor.
The goddess had guided him on along the Seven Thousand Steps, had helped him suppress his rage and keep it buried all those years. If she wanted to use him as a wrecking ball once, he thought he owed her at least that much.
He shifted his attention back to Isran.
"That should answer all your questions," he said. "So feel free to make yourself scarce."
He turned back to his gruel and winced.
"I have... whatever this is... to tend to."
Isran watched with narrowed eyes for a long moment. The frozen stone hung heavy at his belt, and his hand rested on it—not quite guarding it, not quite letting it go.
His gaze swept over Torin—the pale complexion, the barely contained exhaustion—and something flickered in his expression.
"Fine," he said. "I'll let things be. For now."
He stepped through the door, boots crunching on the frost outside.
"But this isn't over. I have my eyes on you now."
The door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Torin stared at it for a moment, then sighed and picked up his spoon.
"I'm sure you do," he muttered, and went back to his gruel.
...
Two days later, Torin was fully recovered. His strength had returned, his appetite had normalized, and the lingering ache in his bones had finally faded. Much to his discomfort, however, he found himself standing in the Jarl's longhouse right next to Auri, listening to Dengeir offer a speech to his thanes and the heads of Falkreath's important families.
The old Jarl droned on about what a great achievement it was to expose Hrogar for the murderous wretch he was—how the woodcutter had fooled everyone, how the guards had bravely surrounded his home, how justice had been served swiftly and righteously. All while hinting, none too subtly, at the "large" and "vital" role that he, the Jarl of Falkreath, had played in the entire affair.
Torin barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
Yeah, I'm sure sending a letter to Jorrvaskr promising them gold taxed from the hold's people was quite the chore.
His gaze grew more pointed as the Jarl continued. He thought of the guards—the ones who'd been stabbed, the one who'd been struck in the head, the sergeant who'd done her best to keep them alive. He thought of the orders Dengeir had given, the arrogance that had nearly cost good men their lives.
And don't even get me started on your "valiant efforts" in directing the guards that almost got three people killed.
Torin kept thinking of all the things he wanted to say but couldn't. The words piled up in his head, sharp and bitter. It would feel so good to actually say them. To watch the old Jarl's face twist, to see the thanes shift uncomfortably, to let the gathered families know exactly who had done what.
He was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of his own name.
"And finally," Dengeir announced, "to Torin Kodlaksson, the Mountain-Breaker representative of the College of Winterhold and chief contributor in bringing Hrogar to justice... I offer an acre of fertile land overlooking Lake Ilinalta."
He gestured grandly, his eyes scanning the crowd.
"It will be formally transferred to his name and exempted from taxes for the next twenty years."
Torin didn't look impressed. Not one bit. In fact, he was more annoyed than anything, knowing full well that he had just acquired another useless title that he neither needed nor wanted.
He took a single step forward and offered a bow that was barely more than a glance downward.
"Thank you, Jarl."
Then he stepped back.
Auri chuckled beside him, and a ripple of whispers spread through the gathered crowd. The thanes exchanged glances. The family heads leaned toward each other, murmuring behind their hands.
Jarl Dengeir awkwardly cleared his throat and continued presenting rewards to other contributors, his earlier enthusiasm noticeably dimmed.
Torin stood in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.
The acre of land meant nothing to him. The exemption from taxes meant nothing. What mattered was that Krovos was dead. What mattered was that K'hila was finally at peace. What mattered was that no one else would die at the hunter's hands.
The rest was just politics.
Then again...
...
Another day later. Dawn was breaking as Torin stood beside Runil before Camilla's grave.
The headstone was still the same as when he'd last visited—weathered grey stone, the words he'd carved still sharp beneath his fingers. But something had changed.
A new gravestone had been erected next to it, blank and smooth, waiting for words that hadn't yet been written.
Runil's expression was hesitant as he looked at the blank stone, his pale hands clasped in front of him.
"I hope I wasn't too presumptuous in doing this." He sighed, his breath steaming in the cold morning air. "It just felt like you cared for that child. The way you..."
He trailed off, shaking his head. "I thought she should have a place. Somewhere to be remembered."
Torin smiled—bitter, but genuine.
"Not at all. In fact, you did well."
He knelt next to the grave and brandished a knife, the blade catching the pale light of dawn. He began to carve, his hand steady, his focus absolute. The stone yielded to his blade, flaking away in small white chips.
As he worked, he spoke.
"They probably ended in different places. Camilla earned her rest through sacrifice—through love. K'hila... K'hila earned hers through pure grit and determination."
He paused, his hand stopping for a moment, the blade hovering over the stone. "But the idea that they might be together now—that Camilla might have found her, taken her under her wing, shown her the love she never had in life..."
He resumed carving.
"However far-fetched... it's more than a little comforting."
He finished carving and stood up, brushing stone dust from his knees.
Runil stepped closer, his eyes scanning the words Torin had carved into the blank stone.
K'hila the Bold.
A young, brave soul. Determined in life. Wise in death.
She rests her paws now, in warmer sands.
The old Altmer smiled, his eyes glistening.
"You honor her," he said quietly.
Torin chuckled, the sound dry and tired.
"Not enough. But I will."
He reached into his satchel and retrieved a coin purse—heavy, bulging, the leather stretched tight around its contents. He offered it to Runil.
The old priest took it from his hands and gave it a shake.
There was more than coins inside—he could hear the soft clink of gems, the heavier thud of precious metals. His eyes widened.
"This is..." he started.
"One thousand septims worth of coins and baubles," Torin said. "Give or take."
He turned his gaze back to the graves—to Camilla's weathered stone, to K'hila's fresh one, to the space between them where the morning light was beginning to gather.
"I want you to open an orphanage on the land the Jarl gave me. The acre overlooking Lake Ilinalta." He paused. "I'd prefer if you ran it yourself—you've got a good heart, Runil, and the children would be lucky to have you—but I'll understand if you find someone reliable to do it instead."
He looked at the old priest, his grey eyes steady.
"Either way, I'll handle the expenses. And a salary for whoever takes charge. I want there to be a place in Falkreath where children like K'hila don't have to sleep in graveyards or eat scraps from a priest's back door."
Runil stared at him, the coin purse heavy in his hands.
"Torin... this is... I don't know what to say."
Torin shrugged.
"Say you'll do it. And don't worry, I know this is barely enough to cover the materials needed, but it's all I have on me. I'll send more once I reach Whiterun."
Runil looked at the graves, at the rising sun, at the quiet dawn spreading across the hills. Then he nodded.
"I'll do it," he said. "I'll either run it myself or leave it to someone else, depending on who I find first, a qualified priest of Arkay or a caretaker. Either way, it would be an honor."
Torin clasped his shoulder, squeezed once, and let go.
"Thank you," he said. "Now let's go. I have a long walk back to Winterhold."
...
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