Torygg gestured grandly from his throne, his voice carrying through the Blue Palace's hall.
"I've decided to send you as Skyrim's official Envoy to Daggerfall. To help rid their shores of the wintertime raids they suffer at the hands of Sea Giants."
Torin opened his mouth to start spewing obscenities—a flood of words that would have stripped paint from the walls and sent the nobles fleeing for cover. But he quickly closed it, knowing better than to give in to the urge. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. His hands curled into fists at his sides.
Torygg noticed his reaction and seemed entirely unbothered.
"I'm sure you have many questions," the High King continued, his tone light, almost cheerful. "And I'll answer them soon enough." He gestured dismissively at Torin. "Matters of the court demand my attention for now, so get some rest. I'm sure you need it."
Torin held back a sigh—barely—and offered a slight bow.
"Very well, Your Majesty."
He turned and left, Auri trailing behind him. Her footsteps were silent, but he could feel her eyes on his back, could sense the questions she was holding back. She waited until they were out of the Blue Palace, out of earshot of the guards, before she spoke.
"Sea Giants?" she asked.
"Sea Giants," Torin confirmed.
"That sounds... like a giant pain in the ass."
"Probably will be."
They walked in silence for a while.
...
Soon enough, it was evening. The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple, and the first stars were beginning to appear. Torin was lounging in the courtyard of Castle Dour, waiting for Torygg as per the High King's invitation.
He watched the soldiers train.
Swords clashed against shields. Officers shouted orders. Recruits stumbled through formations, their movements awkward and uncoordinated.
It was a typical scene, you'd find in any of the holds, but something about these soldiers seemed... extra familiar.
He studied them more closely.
There—the tall one with the scar on his chin. He'd been in the courtyard that day, the one where Auri had faced down the Thalmor soldier. He'd been standing near the back, his eyes wide, his hand frozen on his sword.
And there—the short one with the red hair. He'd been closer to the action, close enough that he might have caught a stray swing if he was any closer.
Torin was almost sure at least three more of them had been present back then.
It hadn't been that long since then, but it certainly felt that way. Those young men looked much more confident than they had back then. Their shoulders were straighter, their grips firmer, their eyes more focused.
But overall, still green. Only a real battle will change that.
As for Auri, she had declared that she wasn't interested in whatever he and Torygg had to discuss. She'd found herself a group of hunters and invited herself to their table to share drinks and stories.
Torin had watched the hunters receive her enthusiastically, shaking his head.
Dainty elf privilege, he thought. The best reaction he'd get, if he tried the same thing, would be awkward silence, and that's only if he put on his best friendly smile.
He leaned back against the stone wall, closed his eyes, and waited for the High King.
It didn't take long for Torygg to walk into the courtyard.
He was followed by a towering Nord in full armor—a man who moved with the easy confidence of someone who had spent his life in service to a king.
His face was hidden behind a helm, but his eyes swept the courtyard with practiced efficiency, cataloging every face, every shadow, every possible threat.
Torygg turned to the man and said something, his voice too low for Torin to hear. The towering Nord nodded once, then turned and left, his boots thudding against the stone in a steady rhythm.
The High King then turned to Torin and began to walk toward him.
As soon as he was close enough, Torin pushed himself off the wall. He pointed at the axe hanging on Torygg's belt—the simple woodcutter's axe, still there, still worn, still a reminder of the bond they'd forged.
"When I gave you that axe," Torin said, his voice flat, "it was because it would give me an excuse to fight on your behalf if Ulfric challenged you." His gaze shifted to Torygg's eyes. "Not to give you the right to order me around."
Torygg shrugged, seemingly unbothered by Torin's tone.
"I'm not ordering you to go to High Rock." He smiled. "I'm asking." He spread his hands. "In fact, the mere fact that you were considered for this task is a great honor. Even if you refuse, it will only benefit you. Your name will be spoken in the courts of every jarl. Your reputation will grow. The College's reputation will grow."
Torin let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Let's hear it, then." He crossed his arms. "Why should anyone outside High Rock's shores care about these raids? Let alone us Nord folk." He paused. "And why I should be the one sent to help them."
Torygg gestured for Torin to follow him. He began to head toward the courtyard's other exit—the one leading to the temple of the Nine, as it had once been called. The stone archway was old, worn smooth by centuries of worshipers, and the path beyond was lined with flickering torches.
Once he heard the sound of Torin's footsteps behind him, Torygg began to speak.
"Not long ago, you told me the Empire is poison to Skyrim. You told me to win over the Bretons and Redguards into one front." He glanced back at Torin. "To protect us from both the Empire and the Thalmor.
Torin said nothing, just kept walking. His boots echoed on the stone path, a counterpoint to Torygg's lighter footsteps. The High King gestured vaguely as he spoke, his hand cutting through the evening air.
"I reached out to both. Hinted at the idea." He paused, waving at some of the people who had noticed him—a group of priests, a few nobles, a merchant in fine silks—all of whom offered bows or curtsies once they entered the temple's courtyard. Torygg acknowledged them with a nod and kept walking.
"The Redguards' reply was... enthusiastic, to say the least." He smiled.
"They need every ally they can get right now. The Thalmor have been causing trouble in Hammerfell for years—stirring up old grudges, funding bandit raids, undermining every attempt at stability. They're desperate for friends." He glanced at Torin. "Desperate enough to overlook many things."
Torin grunted. "And the Bretons?"
Torygg sighed, the sound heavy with frustration.
"They're the least affected by the war between the Empire and the Thalmor. Their lands are far from the front lines, their ports are still open for trade, and their nobility are more concerned with their own petty squabbles than with the fate of Tamriel."
He shook his head. "What's more, every Breton can trace their bloodline back to Aldmeris. They have elven blood in their veins—something the Thalmor would look upon favorably."
He stopped walking, turning to face Torin.
"Even if the Thalmor overrun the whole of Tamriel... the Bretons' treatment would differ from ours."
Torin couldn't help but scoff.
"By how much?"
Torygg stopped at the temple entrance, his hand resting on the iron-bound door. He turned to give Torin a bitter smile.
"Would it even matter?" He pushed the door open, the ancient hinges groaning in protest. "As subjects of the Empire, all men are equal—Nords, Bretons, Imperials, all bleeding together for the same cause. But if we all came under the Thalmor..."
He stepped through the doorway. "The Bretons would lord over us. Their elven blood would make them superior, in the eyes of our new overlords. And the prospect alone is enough to tempt many of them."
He walked into the temple, his footsteps echoing off the vaulted ceiling. The smell of incense hung thick in the air—the sweet, cloying scent of prayers offered to gods who might or might not be listening.
Some of the priests noticed him and stopped what they were doing. They made as if to approach, their hands folding in greeting, but Torygg quickly signaled for them to not mind him—a wave of his hand, a shake of his head, the easy authority of a man who was used to being obeyed.
The priests returned to their duties.
Torygg began walking toward the shrines at the far end of the temple—nine alcoves, each one dedicated to a different god, each one bathed in the soft glow of candles. One, however, sat empty.
"I contacted the rulers of multiple territories in High Rock," he said. "Wayrest. Evermor. Camlorn. Northpoint. All of them refused—politely, in some cases, but refused nonetheless." He shook his head. "None of them were amenable to any such agreement."
He stopped in front of the empty alcove—the one where Talos was supposed to be. The stone niche was bare, the offerings absent, the space conspicuously vacant in a way that made the whole temple feel incomplete.
Torygg's hand reached out, his fingers hovering where the statue should have been, touching something that wasn't there.
He sighed.
"Only Daggerfall was somewhat vague in their response." He turned to face Torin, his expression weary. "When I pushed them a little... they presented me with this task." He grimaced. "Which is akin to boiling the Sea of Ghosts."
He let his hand drop.
"For ten years, they've tried to rid themselves of the sea giants. Ten years of failed expeditions, drowned sailors, burned ships. And now, they're indirectly telling me to solve their problem if I wish to win them over as allies." He shook his head. "Solve our impossible problem. Then we'll talk."
Torin just stared at Torygg blankly.
This was more of a pain in the ass than he had expected. Those scheming Bretons in Daggerfall were definitely playing some kind of game—stringing Torygg along, setting him an impossible task, perhaps, to keep their options open while the High King of Skyrim jumped through their hoops. Or it could be something else entirely.
Torin couldn't even begin to guess what kind of game it was, but he knew he didn't like being dragged into it.
He sighed.
"Alright." He crossed his arms. "Why me specifically?"
Torygg's smile returned—small, tired, but genuine.
"It's clear they're plotting something. That much is obvious. And you've proven both your strength and wisdom." He paused. "What's more, I know how eloquent you can be. You managed to make me listen, and I'm a king. I have people to do my listening for me."
He cleared his throat and gave Torin a meaningful look.
"If not you, then there's only one man I could send."
Torin's face darkened.
"Ulfric fucking Stormcloak."
Torygg nodded.
"I can't think of anyone else I could send to Daggerfall without making it sound like an insult, lik like I was spitting in their faces. Sending a common mercenary? A minor noble? A court functionary?" He shook his head. "It would be seen as a dismissal. Maybe even scorn."
He spread his hands.
"Until recently, even you weren't accomplished enough for me to send you. You were... powerful, respected. But you hadn't done anything that would make the Bretons sit up and take notice. Which is why I wanted to appoint you as my thane—to give you the status you needed."
He smiled, almost ruefully.
"But then you broke a mountain."
Torin ran a hand through his hair, the strands tangling around his fingers.
"I understand your logic," he said slowly. "But even then..."
He shook his head. "I'm exhausted. Not just in the body. Even my soul feels heavy." He paused, staring at the empty alcove where Talos should have been. "And if that isn't enough, I lost my weapon. My axe is buried under a mountain of rubble. Probably crushed to scrap by now."
Torygg smiled as if he had been expecting those exact words.
"It's not like you have to go now." He leaned against the shrine, casual and relaxed. "The winter's almost over. By the time you reach Daggerfall, the sea giants would be long gone—slipping back into the icy waters where they spend the warmer months. No, it'll have to wait until next winter."
He spread his hands. "You have time. Months, at least. Maybe longer, depending on how things go."
His smile widened.
"As for your weapon..." He pushed himself off the shrine, straightening his tunic. "I most certainly can't have you go empty-handed. Not to mention the reward you received from Jarl Siddgeir, which I personally found lacking."
Torin raised an eyebrow. "The land?"
"An acre of lakeshore and twenty years of tax exemption?" Torygg scoffed. "Hardly fitting for someone like you. It's our tradition that kings and jarls should reward fine warriors with even finer weapons."
As he spoke, Torin heard the sound of footsteps approaching.
He turned.
A priest was walking toward them—a middle-aged Nord with grey in his beard and kind eyes. He was carrying something long and thin, wrapped in silk cloth, held across his arms like an offering. The cloth was deep blue, embroidered with silver thread, the kind of fabric that cost more than most people made in a year.
The priest stopped a few feet away and bowed to Torygg. Then he turned to Torin and extended his arms, offering the wrapped object.
Torygg's smile was knowing.
"Go on," he said. "Take it."