As his consciousness returned to his body, Torin blinked—trying to shake the dizziness of his mind traveling between dimensions. The sight of Auri standing in front of him, arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently, didn't hurt the process.
"Did you say something?" he asked with a sheepish smile. "My mind wandered off for a second there."
Auri sighed—long, heavy, the kind of sigh that said I've been standing here waiting while you stood there staring at nothing like a stunned horker.
"I'm asking how you plan to move an entire workshop to the College without any pack animals." She gestured at the dark ruin within the cave—completely empty save for some horizontal sarcophagi stuck to the walls. "In the first place, where is the workshop anyway? Are you sure drifters didn't abscond with your things while you were away?"
Torin just grinned.
"No. Let me show you."
He pursed his lips and began to whistle a strange tune—high in some places, low in others, with a rhythm that didn't quite match any song Auri had ever heard.
Suddenly, the sound of stone grinding against stone echoed through the chamber. The lid of one sarcophagus slid open, scraping across its tracks, and from within—
A dozen and a half metallic spiders poured out.
They moved in perfect synchronization, their legs clicking against the stone floor, their eye-like gems glowing faintly in the dim light. They formed up in neat rows in front of Torin, standing at attention like soldiers awaiting orders.
Auri blinked slowly.
She walked up to the nearest spider and crouched in front of it, her amber eyes tracing the curves of its carapace, the joints of its legs, the faint glow of its enchantments. She tapped its hard metallic shell with her finger—tink, tink—and the spider's head swiveled to look at her.
"Dwarven spiders?" She turned to Torin. "Did you tame them?"
Torin couldn't help but chuckle at the term she used. He shook his head.
"You don't tame metal. It doesn't have a will to break or a spirit to bend."
He gestured at the spiders. "I bought broken husks from scavengers—the ones who raid ruins and sell whatever they can carry—and gathered others from sites I explored myself. Then I repaired them, recharged their enchantments, and adjusted their recognition matrices to see me as their master."
Auri rolled her eyes.
"So you took them home, nursed them back to health, and now they follow you around." She stood up and shrugged. "That's what we call taming."
Torin rolled his eyes right back.
"Whatever suits your fancy."
He headed toward a shadowed corner of the cave, where a section of wall had begun to grind open—a hidden entrance, revealed by the whistle.
The spiders followed him in a clattering tide, their legs clicking in unison.
"The spiders will carry the workshop. They're not pack animals, but they're much stronger than they look. One of them can lift ten times its own weight at least"
Auri nodded, more to herself than to Torin, as she followed him into the darkness beyond the hidden door.
"Then I suppose we can head straight to Winterhold." She glanced at him. "No more detours. No more side quests. Just the College."
Torin paused at this and turned to give her another sheepish smile.
"Not quite."
Auri's expression flattened.
"What now?"
...
Randel was an adventurer all his life—a surprisingly successful one—until he took an arrow to the knee.
Well, it was more of a bolt. Shot from the arm-mounted crossbow of a Dwarven Sphere in one of those Dwemer ruins in Markarth. But he was too lazy to explain the distinction, and most people didn't care about the difference either.
An arrow, a bolt—what was the difference, really? Either way, you ended with a lame knee.
The point was that he was no longer an adventurer. He was a guard. A particularly bored one at that.
He let out a jaw-stretching yawn, his hand moving to cover his mouth as he stood guard over the main gates of Solitude.
The stone walls loomed above him, the flagstones beneath his boots were worn smooth by centuries of feet, and the only excitement on the horizon was the occasional merchant caravan or the even more occasional courier running past with a message he wasn't allowed to read.
Physically, he was there. Mentally, he was already thinking about what to have for lunch.
"What's that?"
The voice of his fellow guard—Njord, a big man with a bigger beard—snapped him back to reality. Njord was pointing at something at the foot of the path, his brow furrowed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Randel squinted.
A golden glint was moving up the slanted path—slow, steady, mechanical. As it reached the straighter patch of ground in front of the Solitude gates, the shape became clearer.
A Dwarven Spider.
It was smaller than the ones Randel remembered from his adventuring days, its legs shorter, its body more compact. But there was no mistaking the design—the brass-colored carapace, the glowing gem that served as an eye, the rhythmic clicking of its legs against the stone.
Randel was confused and excited at the same time.
Confused, because he knew from experience that Dwarven constructs didn't wander far from the ruins they guarded. They were bound to their posts by enchantments that had held for thousands of years. Even if one did wander, there were no Dwemer ruins anywhere near Solitude. The closest were in the Reach, days away.
And excited, because those things—especially if you could put one down without damaging it too much—could fetch a good price.
"What's it doing?" Njord asked nervously, his hand tightening on his sword. The big man's knuckles were white, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the brass-colored construct clicking its way toward them.
Randel shook his head, his own hand resting on the hilt of his blade.
"I don't know what it's doing," he admitted. A grin spread across his weathered face. "But I do know what I want to do."
He took a step forward, already calculating how much a mostly intact Dwarven Spider would fetch from Calcelmo in Markarth. The old Altmer was obsessed with the things—he'd pay well for a specimen this well-preserved, especially since it seemed different from the usual Dwemer constructs.
Maybe Randel could even negotiate a finder's fee. Maybe he could finally afford that new—
Another spider appeared from the mist at the foot of the path.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
Soon, there were over a dozen of them—a clattering procession of brass and glowing gems, all marching in perfect synchronization, all heading straight for the Solitude gates, carrying strange objects.
Randel's eyes widened. His hand jerked his sword half out of its scabbard before his brain caught up with his instincts.
"They're back!" he exclaimed, his voice cracking with alarm. "Those damned Dwemer bastards are back and they're out for blood!" He turned to Njord, pointing frantically. "Sound the horn at—"
He swallowed his words.
Because walking behind the spiders, completely at ease, completely unconcerned, were two figures.
One was a Bosmer woman with amber eyes and a bow slung across her back. She was saying something to her companion, her hands gesturing, her expression animated.
The other was a very large Nord.
He was tall—taller than most men Randel had ever seen—with broad shoulders and a presence that seemed to fill the space around him.
He was walking with his hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he listened to the Bosmer's chatter. And he was looking at Randel with a strange expression—a mix of amusement and exasperation and something that looked a lot like pity.
The kind of look you give someone who's just said something incredibly stupid.
Randel felt his face flush.
The Nord stopped a few feet away, the spiders parting around him like a brass tide. He raised an eyebrow.
"Dwemer bastards?" he said. "Out for blood?"
He glanced at the spiders, then back at Randel.
"They're just carrying my things for me."
...
Soon after, Torin found himself standing in the Blue Palace. Auri was beside him—quiet, watchful, her amber eyes scanning the room with the same intensity she'd use to track prey through the forest.
They were standing in front of High King Torygg, surrounded by the king's attendants and courtiers, the air thick with the smell of perfumes and polished wood and the subtle tension of politics.
Other than Torygg—who still had the woodcutter axe Torin had gifted him hanging from his belt, a detail that made Torin's chest warm despite himself—there were many unfamiliar faces. Some seemed vaguely familiar, faces he'd seen in passing during his previous visit to Solitude, or faces he remembered from a game played in another life.
Three stood out the most.
The first was Elisif the Fair. Not yet wed to Torygg, standing behind one of the older Nord nobles, most likely her father.
Her hair was braided back from her face, her dress was simple but elegant, and her eyes kept darting to Torygg when she thought no one was looking.
The second was Falk Firebeard. Steward of Solitude, but a fair bit younger than what Torin remembered from the game—less grey in his beard, less lines around his eyes, less of the weariness that came from years of managing a kingdom's affairs in the stead of a clueless young lady.
He stood near Torygg's right hand, his expression neutral, his hands clasped behind his back.
And finally, Sybille Stentor. The court wizard. Her silver hair was pulled back in a severe bun, her robes were dark and practical, and her expression was one of utter disinterest. She stood behind Torygg's throne, her arms crossed, her eyes half-lidded, looking for all the world like she'd rather be anywhere else.
Torin knew her secret. He'd known it since the beginning. Sybille Stentor was a vampire—an ancient one, powerful and patient and dangerous. But she'd served the kings of Solitude for generations, had protected the city from threats mortal and supernatural, had never had any reason to doubt or chase her away.
So Torin kept her secret. It wasn't his place to expose it.
Torygg smiled at Torin, his expression warm, almost friendly.
"There you are." He spread his hands. "You certainly took your time."
Torin inclined his head, his voice dry.
"The possibility of thanehood, mentioned to a Jarl in passing, can hardly be considered an invitation, Your Majesty."
The words elicited an immediate reaction from the gathered crowd. Some chuckled, amused by the audacity. Others muttered—low, disapproving, the kind of muttering that came from people who thought commoners should know their place.
A few of the older nobles actually looked offended, their faces flushing with color.
Torygg just laughed.
Torin cleared his throat and continued.
"I also happened to be preoccupied with matters of grave importance."
Torygg's smile widened. He raised an eyebrow.
"Ah, yes." His voice was light, teasing. "Exposing a murderous cultist. Toppling ancestral ruins. Breaking a mountain." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "Not to mention your latest exploit—almost giving two of my guards a heart attack by marching a legion of Dwarven spiders through the front gates."
He shook his head, still smiling.
"Matters of grave importance indeed."
Torin offered a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Between keeping the High King waiting and alarming a few guards..." He spread his hands. "I chose the latter."
He straightened up, his grey eyes meeting Torygg's.
"Now, may I ask, Your Majesty, why you chose to put me and Jarl Balgruuf in such an... unkind position?"
Torygg gave him a dismissive wave, his expression almost apologetic.
"You don't have to worry about that anymore." He leaned back in his throne, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "I needed to give you an official position to entrust you with a certain task—or risk raising more than a few brows."
His eyes scanned the gathered crowd of nobles. Some of them shifted uncomfortably. Others averted their gazes entirely. A few—the ones who seemed most at ease—met his eyes without flinching, their expressions unreadable.
Torygg shifted his gaze back to Torin.
"Now, with your latest achievements, I can bestow that honor upon you. And no true Nord in their right mind would dare to object."
Torin barely stopped his eyes from twitching. He could feel something troublesome coming—the same instinct that had kept him alive in a dozen fights, the same sense that told him when something was wrong even when everything looked right.
He forced a smile that was hardly prettier than crying.
"And what is this task," he asked slowly, "dare I ask?"
Torygg's smile widened.
The nobles leaned in. The candles flickered. And somewhere behind the throne, Sybille Stentor's half-lidded eyes opened just a fraction wider.
...
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