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….
We had been navigating the damp, narrow corridors of the ancient tomb for about an hour.
The air in the crypt was thick with centuries of dust and the metallic stench of old blood.
I let out a quiet sigh as I stepped over the crumbling remains of another Draugr. For the past hour, the undead had been little more than a nuisance. With my current stats, I could have cleared this place blindfolded. But honestly, watching Farkas and Vilkas work was a spectacle all its own.
If any normal person saw how the two brothers moved, they would have been terrified. They didn't just fight the Draugr; they dismantled them. A swing of Farkas's greatsword cleaved through ancient iron and bone like wet paper, while Vilkas moved with a lethal, calculated precision that left no room for counterattacks.
While they cleared the path, I focused on the locked iron chests tucked into the alcoves.
[Skill Level Up: Lockpicking Lv 28]
It was a simple skill to grind. Most of the locks were Novice or Apprentice level, so the tumblers gave way with just a flick of my wrist. I pocketed the usual dungeon fare—flawless amethysts, handfuls of gold septims, and a few minor healing potions. Vilkas had tossed me a heavy burlap sack earlier, telling me to hold onto whatever valuable gear I found until we reached the surface.
We pressed deeper into the ruins, the architecture shifting from ancient Nordic stone to something more heavily reinforced with fresh timber.
That was when the Draugr stopped, and the bandits started.
Or, at least, I thought they were bandits at first. A group of five armored men ambushed us in a narrow corridor. Their gear was brand new, meticulously maintained—a massive leap in quality compared to the rusted iron standard highwaymen usually wore. But against Farkas, Vilkas, and my newly acquired shield techniques, they didn't stand a chance. We cut through them in less than thirty seconds.
As the last man dropped, I walked over to his body. My eyes caught the gleam of the blade he had dropped. It wasn't steel.
I picked it up, the metal strangely heavy in my grip.
[Silver Sword]
[Attack: 16 + (10)]
Description: A masterfully crafted blade. Deals devastating bonus damage to the undead, spirits, and lycanthropes.
Silver, I thought, my eyes narrowing. We aren't fighting bandits. We're fighting the Silver Hand.
The pieces clicked into place. This wasn't the standard Dustman's Cairn quest from the game. Not only was I here with both Farkas and Vilkas, but the layout of the dungeon was completely different. The timeline was shifting.
Before I could dwell on it, a faint, flickering orange light caught my attention at the end of the hall.
"Vilkas," I whispered, pointing down the dark corridor. "Up ahead."
He saw the glow of the torches and gave a sharp nod.
I kept my center of gravity low and crept forward, pressing my back against the damp stone wall near the arched entrance. The voices inside were muffled, echoing off the high ceilings. I carefully peeked around the corner.
The room was massive. At least twenty men and women were scattered across the chamber. Most of them were archers, taking up defensive positions behind thick stone columns and wooden barricades.
And then I saw the leader.
He was a heavily built Nord, wearing a pristine set of carved steel armor with a massive battleaxe strapped to his back. He was barking orders, directing a few of his men to lay down bear traps and tripwires along the flanks of the room.
I pulled my head back and retreated quietly to where the brothers were waiting.
"They're digging in," I whispered, keeping my voice barely audible. "They're setting up traps on the left and right flanks. The center of the room is a kill box. There's about twenty of them, heavily armed, mostly archers hiding behind the pillars. The leader is in there, too. Big guy, carved armor, steel battleaxe."
Vilkas stroked his chin, his expression darkening into a tactical scowl. Farkas just leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, completely unbothered.
"A fortified position with a chokepoint," Vilkas muttered. "An almost impenetrable obstacle if we charge in blind. How do we want to handle this?"
Farkas grinned, a feral glint in his eyes. He looked over at me. "Why don't we use the kid's magic? Let him go in and confuse them with a spell. While they're panicking, we rush in from the sides and slaughter them. Quick and easy."
Vilkas looked at his brother, then turned his calculating gaze to me. "It's not a bad idea. A distraction would break their firing line. But Shiro, can you handle the concentrated fire from the center if we split up?"
I drew my Dwarven sword, the golden metal catching the faint light, and strapped the heavy banded iron shield to my left forearm. I gave him a confident nod.
"Good," Vilkas said. "You take the center. Draw their eyes and break their formation. Farkas will take the left flank, I'll sweep the right. Let's go."
I took a deep breath, stepping out from the shadows and walking directly into the open archway.
The moment I stepped into the room, the idle chatter stopped.
The first thing I noticed wasn't the archers. It was the altar in the dead center of the room. A man was chained to the blood-stained stone. He had been brutally tortured, his body mutilated beyond recognition. The Silver Hand didn't just hunt werewolves; they enjoyed breaking them.
From behind one of the massive central pillars, the leader stepped out.
"My name is Omnuroor," the man called out. His voice echoed across the chamber, starting as a mocking chuckle before twisting into the fanatical sneer of a zealot. "I'm surprised the Companions would be arrogant enough to send only one whelp to our door."
He drew his battleaxe, the heavy steel scraping loudly against his armor. He pointed the weapon directly at my chest.
"You filthy werewolves," Omnuroor spat, his eyes wide with hatred. "You are a plague. We will extinguish your kind from Skyrim, so that the people of these lands may finally be safe!"
He snapped his fingers.
Clack-clack-clack.
Fifteen archers stepped out from behind the pillars and barricades. Fifteen arrows were drawn back, the bows groaning under the tension, all aimed directly at me.
Omnuroor smiled, a giddy, triumphant expression plastered across his scarred face. He wanted to see me flinch. He wanted me to drop my sword and beg.
I didn't flinch. I just smiled back.
"Any last words, mutt?!" Omnuroor yelled.
I lowered my shield just an inch, took a deep breath that pulled from the very bottom of my soul, and let the ancient draconic power tear out of my throat.
"FUS-RO-DAH!"
The shockwave didn't just hit them; it erupted like a bomb.
The very air warped, a visible distortion of raw kinetic force that tore up the stone tiles as it traveled. The roar shattered the silence, echoing so violently that dust rained down from the ceiling.
The archers in the center of the room didn't even have time to release their bowstrings. The force hit them like a battering ram, launching grown men backward through the air. They slammed into the stone walls with sickening crunches, dropping their weapons as they crumpled to the floor in groaning, broken heaps.
Omnuroor was caught on the edge of the blast. The shockwave threw him off his feet, sending him tumbling violently across the blood-stained floor.
I didn't wait for the dust to settle. I charged.
Omnuroor was scrambling on his hands and knees, gasping for the air that had been violently forced from his lungs. I closed the distance, planting my boot and aiming a vicious kick right at his jaw.
His combat instincts saved his life. He managed to throw his weight backward just enough. My boot missed his head, but it connected heavily with his stomach. He collapsed with a wet thud, completely winded.
I raised my golden sword, ready to plunge it cleanly through his neck.
A sudden blur of motion in my peripheral vision forced me to stop.
From my left, a surviving Silver Hand bandit was sprinting at me full tilt, a silver dagger gripped tightly in his hand. He lunged, aiming the blade directly for the exposed gap above my collarbone.
Athis's training took over. I didn't swing my sword. I pivoted, bringing my left arm up, and drove the heavy iron rim of my shield directly into the attacker's path.
CRACK.
The shield bash met the bandit's arm mid-thrust. The sound of his forearm snapping was incredibly loud. He shrieked, dropping the dagger, his momentum completely broken. Before he could stumble away, I thrust my sword forward, driving the blade straight through his heart. I kicked him off the steel, pulling the blade free.
Thwack!
I instantly snapped my shield up, tucking my chin. An arrow slammed into the banded iron, the arrowhead biting deep into the wood just inches from my eyes.
I peered over the rim. Another archer had recovered near the back of the room. He was already nocking a second arrow, his eyes frantic as he drew the string back, aiming squarely at my exposed head.
I was too far to close the distance before he fired.
I didn't hesitate. I shifted my grip on the Dwarven sword, stepped heavily into the throw, and hurled the blade like a javelin.
The golden sword spun end-over-end through the air. The archer released his bowstring, but the arrow flew wild as the heavy blade slammed hilt-deep into his throat. He choked, the bow dropping from his hands, and collapsed backward against the stone wall.
….
Hey guys if u like the fanfic and want to read ahead by 10+ Chapters or just want to support take a visit on my patreon.
(P).(A).(T).(R).(E).(O).(N)
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