The fog had settled over Falkreath like a shroud, thick and damp, muffling sound and swallowing light. The thatched roofs of the town's buildings emerged from the mist like islands from a grey sea, and the trees that surrounded every home stood as silent witnesses, their branches dripping with condensation.
Hrogar's house sat at the edge of town, where the forest pressed closest and the shadows were deepest. It was a modest dwelling—wooden walls, a stone chimney, a small garden out back where the woodcutter grew vegetables in the summer months.
It was Ordinary. Unremarkable. The kind of home you'd pass a hundred times without ever really seeing.
Sergeant Helka crouched behind a mossy boulder, her sword in her hand, her eyes fixed on the front door. She'd been with the Falkreath guard for fifteen years, had seen her share of violence, had put down more than a few bandits and brawlers in her time.
But this—surrounding a man's home in the middle of the night, waiting to arrest him for the murder of his own daughter—this was new. This was the kind of thing that happened in other holds, to other people.
Not here. Not in Falkreath.
But the Jarl had given his orders, and Helka was a soldier. She followed orders.
She signaled to her men with a raised hand. The archers positioned themselves at a distance from the house—one north, one south, one east, one west—their bows drawn, their arrows aimed at the windows and doors.
The close-quarters team crept forward, hugging the walls, their swords and axes ready.
Three guards approached the front door. Helka had chosen them carefully—big men, experienced men, men who wouldn't freeze when things got ugly. They exchanged glances, nodded, and then one of them raised his boot and kicked.
The door burst open with a crack of splintering wood.
The guards surged inside—and stopped.
Hrogar was kneeling in the center of the main room, his back to the door, his shoulders hunched. His hands were clasped around something that gleamed in the firelight, something wet and red.
As the guards' eyes adjusted to the dim interior, they saw her.
His wife.
She lay on the floor in front of him, her eyes open, her mouth frozen in an expression of surprise. A dagger was buried in her chest, buried to the hilt, and her blood had pooled beneath her, dark and thick, spreading across the wooden floorboards like spilled wine.
Hrogar's hands were covered in it. His face was splattered with it. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest, the fabric dark and heavy.
One of the guards—a young man named Bryn, barely twenty-two, with more courage than sense—let out a roar of outrage.
"You bastard!" His voice cracked with fury, his face reddening. "I didn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it. But you—" He lunged forward, his sword raised. "You killed her! You killed them both!"
The other two guards followed, their weapons drawn, their faces set.
Hrogar didn't say anything.
He didn't rise. Didn't turn. Didn't flinch. He just knelt there, motionless, as the guards closed the distance between them.
And then—just as Bryn's sword began its descent—Hrogar raised his head.
His eyes flashed.
A blinding light erupted from them, white and searing, filling the room with an intensity that made the shadows scream and the firelight dim. The guards stumbled back, their hands flying to their faces, their shouts turning to cries of pain and confusion.
Bryn blinked, his vision swimming with afterimages. He could hear the others stumbling around him, cursing, trying to clear their eyes.
And then he heard something else.
Footsteps. Quick. Light. Moving toward them.
He blinked again, and the world swam back into focus just in time to see Hrogar charging straight at him. The woodcutter's face was blank, emotionless, but his eyes—those eyes that had just been blazing with light—were cold and hard as winter stone.
In his hand was a short sword. Plain steel, unadorned, but sharp—Bryn could see the edge gleaming in the firelight.
He tried to raise his own sword. Tried to block. But he was too slow, too blind, too caught off guard.
The short sword settled into his guts.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming—a hot, tearing sensation that made his knees buckle and his breath catch. He looked down and saw the blade buried in his stomach, saw the blood spreading across his tunic, saw Hrogar's hand gripping the hilt with a calm, almost clinical detachment.
The woodcutter wrenched the blade free, and Bryn fell.
Another guard, Torik, swung his axe at Hrogar's head. The woodcutter ducked, the blade whistling past his ear, and then he spun, his elbow connecting with Torik's temple with a sickening crack.
The guard's eyes rolled back. His knees buckled. He hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, unconscious before he landed.
Hrogar reversed his grip on the short sword, bringing the pommel up in a smooth, fluid motion. The heavy metal handle smashed against the second guard's forehead—a precise, devastating blow that dropped him instantly.
The third guard came at Hrogar with a desperate swing. His sword arced down, aimed at the woodcutter's neck, but Hrogar was faster. He blocked with his own weapon, the blades ringing against each other, and then he twisted, diverting the force of the swing away from his body.
Before the guard could recover, Hrogar stepped into his guard, drove his shoulder into the man's chest, and shoved him backward. The guard stumbled, hit the wall, and Hrogar was on him—one hand grabbing his collar, the other driving the short sword into his side.
The guard gasped, his eyes wide, his sword clattering to the floor. Hrogar held him there for a moment, their faces inches apart, and then he let go. The guard slid down the wall, leaving a smear of blood on the wood, and joined his comrades on the floor.
Hrogar turned toward the door.
Through the open doorway, he could see the shapes of more guards outside—archers, mostly, positioned at a distance. One of them saw him, raised her bow, and let an arrow fly.
Hrogar threw himself behind the wall, the arrow thudding into the doorframe where his head had been a moment before. He let out a low groan, his hand pressing against his side—not wounded, not yet, but the close call had shaken something loose.
He closed his eyes. Took a breath.
Then he raised his hands.
Magicka surged through him, visible even in the dim light—a shimmering, golden energy that gathered around his fingers, his palms, his wrists. He wove the spell quickly, efficiently, the way someone did when they'd practiced it a thousand times in the dark.
Five identical copies of him appeared.
They stood in a rough semicircle around the real Hrogar—same height, same build, same blood-spattered shirt. Their faces were blank, their eyes empty, but they moved when he moved, turned when he turned, mirrored his every gesture.
For one heartbeat, the archers outside couldn't tell which was real.
Then all six figures—the real Hrogar and his five illusions—ran out of the house, scattering in different directions, disappearing into the fog.
The archers loosed their arrows, but most struck empty air or dissolved illusions. By the time they'd nocked new arrows, the real Hrogar was gone.
Vanished into the mist.
Into the woods.
Into the darkness.
...
Torin stood before the Jarl's throne, his jaw tight, his patience fraying thread by thread. He'd spent the last several minutes summarizing his findings—the journal, the shrine, the harvester, the Stone of Cold Fire—while Dengeir listened with an expression that alternated between grim satisfaction and barely concealed impatience.
The old Jarl asked questions, some relevant, some not, and Torin answered them all with the same measured calm, even as every instinct screamed at him to leave, to run, to get to Hrogar's house before it was too late.
Finally, mercifully, Dengeir waved his hand in dismissal.
"You've done well, Storm-Caller," the Jarl said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who believed the matter was already settled. "My men will handle the rest. Go. Rest. You've earned it."
Torin didn't argue. Didn't thank him. Just turned and headed for the door, his strides long and purposeful, his hand already reaching for the handle.
He was determined to head straight for Hrogar's house, regardless of the consequences—to see for himself what the guards had found, to make sure the bastard was actually in chains, to—
The door burst open before he could reach it.
A young guard stumbled inside, his face pale as fresh snow, his chest heaving like he'd run all the way from the other side of the hold. His uniform was disheveled, his helmet missing, and there was something in his eyes—something that looked like fear.
"My Jarl!" His voice cracked, too loud in the quiet of the longhouse. "I bring terrible news! Hrogar has escaped!"
Dengeir's expression twisted instantly. The grim satisfaction that had been there moments ago vanished, replaced by something uglier—rage, hot and sudden.
"How can this be?!" The Jarl's voice rose, echoing off the rafters. "Explain at once!"
The guard took a moment to catch his breath, his chest still heaving, his hands trembling at his sides. When he spoke, the words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other.
"We surrounded the house. Just like you ordered. Stationed archers in all directions. Had men at every window, every door. There was no way out." He swallowed hard. "Three guards went in. Experienced men. Good men."
He paused, his eyes dropping to the floor.
"Only Hrogar came out."
Dengeir's face went red. His hands gripped the arms of his throne, knuckles white.
"He killed them?" the Jarl asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
The guard nodded, not looking up. "I don't know... I just saw the blood and froze, and then someone told me to report..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "He used magic, my Jarl. Some bright light... We only saw the flash outside..."
He finally raised his gaze, meeting Dengeir's eyes.
"He then used illusions to mislead the archers. Made shades of himself, and they all ran out at once. By the time we figured out which one was real, he was already in the trees. Already gone."
The Jarl opened his mouth to respond—to rage, to curse, to demand explanations that no one could give—but before he could utter a single word, a voice cut through the hall like a blade.
"Gods damn it all!"
Torin's exclamation was loud, sharp, and utterly devoid of the respectful deference he'd been maintaining since he arrived. He was already moving, his boots thudding against the wooden floor, his hand reaching for the door.
He pushed the young guard out of his way—not roughly, but firmly, the kind of gesture that said move or be moved.
"Go back to the barracks," he said, his voice cold and commanding. "Bring out the hounds. Bring out every able-bodied man and woman you have. Start searching the woods. He can't have gotten far."
The guard nodded, stammered something that might have been "yes, sir," and turned to run.
Torin stopped at the door.
He turned around.
Not to the young guard—the boy was already gone, his footsteps fading into the night. Not to the steward, who was standing frozen in the corner with an expression of pure terror. Not to the maids, who had pressed themselves against the walls as if trying to disappear.
To Jarl Dengeir.
Torin said nothing. He just looked at the old man—looked at him with cold grey eyes filled with simmering rage, and let the silence speak for him.
Then he turned, pushed open the door, and walked out into the fog.
Auri fell into step beside him, her bow in her hand, her amber eyes scanning the mist.
"Not to worry," she said quietly, her voice steady, confident. "With me here, he'll have nowhere to hide. I've tracked things through worse forests than this. I've tracked things that didn't want to be found."
Torin just nodded, his gaze fixed on the trees ahead.
"I'll be counting on you," he said.
The fog swallowed them both, and behind them, the longhouse's warm light faded into the grey.
...
I'm motivated by praise and interaction, so be sure to leave a like, power stone, or whatever kind of shendig this site uses, and more importantly do share you thoughts on the chapter in the comment section!
Want more chapters? Then consider subscribing to my pat rēon. You can read ahead for as little as $1 and it helps me a lot!
-> (pat rēon..com / wicked132)
You can also always come and say hi on my discord server
-> (disc ord..gg / sEtqmRs5y7)- or hit me up at - Wicked132#5511 - and I'll add you myself)