The last passage—the one about erasing memories, about becoming worthy, about living in the light—was like a weight lifted off Torin's heart.
For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to believe it. That the monster had truly changed. That Eydis's warmth had pierced through decades of darkness and found something human still buried in there.
He almost sighed.
Then he noticed the charcoal marks on the other side of the page.
They were faint, smudged, almost invisible against the aged parchment. But they were there—the ghost of words written in haste, pressed hard into the page, leaving indentations that had caught the charcoal dust over time.
With a frown, Torin turned the page.
And instantly regretted his actions.
The last entry was not, in fact, the last.
There was one more. Written in the same cramped handwriting, but somehow different. Sharper. More aggressive. The letters slanted forward, pressing into the page like the author had been in a hurry, like the words had been fighting to get out.
Only a few words.
I remember everything.
A line break. A smudge of charcoal, as if the pen had hesitated.
And I hunger.
Torin went into a daze.
The journal blurred in front of his eyes. The words swam, reformed, swam again. His mind, which had been so carefully constructing a narrative—a fallen man redeemed, a monster defeated by love, a father who had chosen his daughter over his god—shattered into a thousand pieces.
I remember everything.
And I hunger.
"Damn it."
Auri's voice cut through the fog, sharp and frustrated. She'd cursed—rare for her, almost unheard of—and the sound of it snapped Torin back to reality.
He gritted his teeth. His hands steadied. His breathing, which had gone shallow, deepened. He was a Companion. He had all manner of monsters and beasts. He would not be undone by mere words on paper.
Stubbornly, he held on to the book and began to inspect the handwriting.
It was almost identical to what had come before. The same loops, the same slants, the same way the letters connected and crossed. But there were differences—small ones, almost imperceptible. The pressure was heavier. The strokes were less fluid.
Still, it was clear they were written by the same hand.
Torin thought of Hrogar's hands. The callouses. The way the scarring on his fingers was twice as thick as the rest of his palms. That can change how a man writes.
He began to inspect the charcoal itself—the actual marks pressed into the page. He held the journal up to the magelight, tilting it, studying the way the light caught the indentations.
Sure enough, it was recent. Much more recent than the other entries. The charcoal was darker, less faded. This had been written weeks ago, maybe months. Not years.
Auri let out a long, slow sigh. Her shoulders sagged, just slightly—the only sign of the exhaustion she'd been holding at bay.
"So he remembered," she said quietly. "And he succumbed to his thirst." She looked at the journal, at the two terrible words, at the confession written in charcoal. "That would explain the other victims. The ones before Eydis. The ones who weren't... weren't her."
Her hand moved quickly, covering the pages of the journal before Torin could turn to the next one. Her fingers were warm against the aged parchment, her grip firm.
Torin's eyes shifted to hers.
She locked gazes with him—those amber eyes, sharp and steady, missing nothing.
"It's alright," she said. Her voice was softer now, gentler than he'd ever heard it. "You're only a man. You're allowed to make mistakes."
Torin just stared at her.
Bitterly.
He let out a sigh—long, heavy, the kind that carried the weight of everything he'd seen and read and learned in this cave.
She wasn't wrong, but it wasn't that simple.
Torin had never been more wrong about anyone than he was about Hrogar. Not once in all his years had he misjudged someone so completely.
And for someone who prided himself on being able to see through most people, that was a heavy blow.
He'd always had this ability. Even before Skyrim, in that other life he barely remembered, he'd been good at reading people. At knowing who to trust and who to keep at arm's length. At spotting the liars, the manipulators, the ones who smiled to your face while sharpening a knife behind their back.
It was one of the few aspects of his former life that had lingered. That had proven useful. That had kept him out of harm's way more times than he could count.
Over the years, he'd developed a system. Mental categories, neat and orderly, that helped him navigate the complicated web of human relationships.
There was family. Kodlak, Aela, the twins, Skjor, Eorlund. The ones who would never betray him, never hurt him, never be anything but what they seemed. Their number was small, but their place in his heart was solid and unshakeable.
Then there were the other people.
Friends, like Auri. His only real friend, if he was being honest—the one person outside Jorrvaskr who'd earned his trust through blood and time and shared hardship. She didn't fit neatly into any category, but she had her own special place, carved out just for her.
Troublesome acquaintances, like Qasim. The kind of people who brought headaches and trouble wherever they went, who were useful in their own way but not to be relied on, not to be trusted with anything that mattered.
And then there was everyone else. The casual acquaintances. The masses. The strangers. The faces he passed on the road and forgot by the next morning.
As for enemies—people who might be a threat, people who meant him harm—Torin had always been able to recognize them on sight. He'd learned to spot them after years of hunting bandits.
There was a hunger in their eyes. A cruelty. A willingness to do violence that you could see in their eyes if you knew what to look for.
Hrogar had fooled him completely.
Even after reading the journal—even after seeing the evidence of years of meticulous planning, of cold calculation, of a mind that had been trained to hide its true nature—Torin still struggled to reconcile the monster on the page with the man in the chair.
The man who'd tapped his fingers on the armrest impatiently at the stranger poking at his wounds. Who'd looked at his wife with something that might have been love...
How much of that had been real? How much had been performance?
And how much had Hrogar trained for this? How many years had he spent learning to seem ordinary, to blend in, to make people like Torin look at him and see nothing more than a grieving father?
That wasn't easy to accept. For someone who'd built so much of his identity on his ability to see through lies, to read between the lines, to trust his gut—this was a failure that cut deep.
Still. He had no other choice.
Torin closed the journal. The plain brown cover stared back at him, blank and unassuming, hiding the horror within. He tucked it into his satchel beside the Stone of Cold Fire, feeling the weight of both against his hip.
He turned toward the exit, his boots scraping against the stone floor, his eyes fixed on the passage that led back to the surface. The magelight spheres above his head flickered once, twice, then extinguished as he dismissed them with a thought.
"Let's take this to the guards," he said. His voice was flat, tired, drained of the rage that had been burning in his chest just hours ago. "They need to know what we found. Who we're dealing with."
Auri fell into step beside him, her bow across her back, her amber eyes scanning the shadows. She didn't say anything. Didn't offer comfort or advice or the kind of pointed observations she was so good at.
She just walked with him.
And somehow, that was enough.
...
The Jarl's Longhouse of Falkreath was a big building—by the hold's modest standards, anyway. Its base was made of stone, grey and weathered, the blocks fitted together so tightly that not even a knife blade could slip between them.
The walls were made of wooden planks, supported by logs that had been stripped of their bark and dark with age and pitch. The roofs were made of thatch, thick and brown, sloping gently to shed the frequent rains that swept down from the mountains.
Despite the simple materials used to construct it—despite the fact that it was built by local hands from local wood and local stone—the longhouse still looked imposing when compared to other buildings in Falkreath.
Most of the hold's structures were smaller, simpler, their designs more functional than impressive. The longhouse, by contrast, had presence. It had weight. It had been built to impress, and centuries later, it still did.
Torin had wanted to go straight to Hrogar's house. Confront the woodcutter. Arrest him, if he could, or kill him if he couldn't. The journal was evidence enough—detailed confessions, names, dates, methods. Any sensible authority would act on it immediately.
But the guards had been frustratingly insistent.
They'd listened to his summary with growing horror, their faces paling as he described the contents of the journal, the shrine to Molag Bal, the Stone of Cold Fire. And then, when he'd asked them to accompany him to Hrogar's house, they'd shaken their heads.
The Jarl's orders, the sergeant had said, her voice apologetic but firm. Anyone with information about the killings is to report to him directly. No exceptions. He wants to hear it himself before anyone acts.
Torin had argued. Pointed out that every moment they delayed, Hrogar could be packing his things, destroying evidence, fleeing into the woods. That the man was a monster who'd killed his own daughter and would kill again if given the chance.
The sergeant hadn't budged.
The Jarl's orders, she'd repeated. I'm sorry, Storm-Caller. Truly. But my hands are tied.
So here they were.
Torin pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the longhouse, Auri close behind him. The interior was warm—warmer than he'd expected—lit by torches set in iron sconces along the walls and candles clustered on every available surface.
The flames cast dancing shadows across the rafters, making the space feel both cozy and cavernous at the same time.
The longhouse was busy with activity. Maids bustled about, sweeping the floors and dusting the furniture and carrying trays of food and drink to various side rooms.
And on the throne at the far end of the room sat Dengeir of Stuhn.
The old Jarl was not what Torin had expected. His hair was white and thinning. His beard, on the other hand, was thick, long, and flowing. His face was lined with wrinkles, and his eyes—grey and sharp—seemed to miss nothing.
Above his head, mounted on the wall behind the throne, was the head of an abnormally large stag. Its antlers spread wide, casting branching shadows in the firelight, and its glass eyes seemed to follow Torin as he approached.
Dengeir's gaze shifted from the petitioners to the newcomers. His expression didn't change—didn't flicker—but something in his posture shifted. He raised a hand, a small, dismissive gesture, and the steward noticed immediately.
The Imperial nodded, murmured something to the petitioners, and began herding them toward one of the side rooms. The door closed behind them, muffling their voices, and suddenly the longhouse felt much quieter.
Dengeir offered Torin a small smile. It didn't reach his eyes.
"I always thought your reputation was exaggerated," the old Jarl said, his voice raspy with age. "The stories they tell about you, Storm-Caller. The bear. The foes you slew. The things you've done." He let out a hum, his gaze traveling up and down Torin's frame, assessing. "But you're even more impressive in person."
He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"You even remind me of Ulfric himself. When he was younger." His smile widened, just a fraction.
Torin's eyes twitched.
He barely resisted the urge to snap at the Jarl—to question him what part of him looked like a bigoted, impulsive fool, to ask what he did to earn such a harsh insult on their first meeting.
But he held back.
He reminded himself that, to most Nords, getting compared to the Bear of Markarth was probably the highest praise possible.
They didn't see the bigot. They didn't see the zealot. They saw strength. Leadership. The kind of man who got things done.
Torin took a breath. Let it out slow.
"Jarl Dengeir." His tone was respectful, but his expression was firm—the kind of firm that said I'm not arguing, I'm stating facts. "Thank you for seeing us. But we must dispense with the pleasantries for now."
He paused, letting his gaze meet the old Jarl's.
"There's a murderer on the loose. We need to capture him—or kill him—before he runs. Or takes another life."
The Jarl nodded slowly, his grey eyes still fixed on Torin's face. His expression was unreadable—neither impressed nor dismissive, just... watching.
"Indeed you are right," Dengeir said. "And I admire your dedication, truly. The College should be proud to have someone like you representing them."
He laid his elbow on the armrest of his throne and rested his head on his fist, his posture casual, almost bored. "But your work here is already done."
Torin's brow furrowed.
"What?"
Dengeir waved a hand, dismissive.
"My men have already gone to surround the murderer's house. By now, they've probably broken down the door. They'll bring him before me in iron cuffs within the hour." He smiled—thin, cold. "And if not him, his head."
Torin just stared at the Jarl blankly.
His mind, which had been racing through possibilities and strategies and contingencies, came to a screeching halt.
"Why would you...?" he said.
The Jarl chuckled—a dry, rasping sound that turned into a cough halfway through. He cleared his throat and settled back into his throne.
"It's as you've heard, Storm-Caller." His voice was lighter now, almost amused. "That bastard has been terrorizing my people for a while now. Do you think I was just going to sit here and wait for someone else to solve my problems?"
He leaned forward, his grey eyes sharp.
"I appreciate your help. I do. But if I rely on outsiders completely—if the people of Falkreath see that their Jarl can't protect them without sending for help from Whiterun or Winterhold—then their faith in authority would fade. And once that happens..." He spread his hands. "It's very hard to get back."
Torin opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
He wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that Hrogar was dangerous—that the woodcutter wasn't just some simple murderer, that he'd been trained, that he had magic, that he'd already killed more people than anyone knew.
But the look on Dengeir's face stopped him.
The old Jarl wasn't being stubborn. Wasn't being prideful. He was being political. He'd made a calculation—that sending his own men to make the arrest would strengthen his position, would show his people that he was in control, would remind everyone that Falkreath was his hold and he was still capable of protecting it.
And maybe he was right.
Or maybe he was about to get a lot of good men killed.
Torin didn't know. Couldn't know.
...
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