With a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, Torin began to read again. His eyes traced the cramped handwriting, the ink smudged in places as if the author's hand had trembled—or perhaps the page had been wet with something other than tears.
Ignorant as I was, I resisted. Benevolent as he was, my teacher persisted. He made me suffer, and suffer I did, until I did his bidding.
Torin's face darkened. He could picture it too clearly—a boy, broken down piece by piece until there was nothing left but the will to make the pain stop.
The experience was eye opening. The warmth of her blood. The agony on her face. Her screams, at times begging for mercy, at times cursing me, and finally begging for the sweet relief of death.
Ah, what bliss. To think someone as wretched as me could hold so much power. It was truly intoxicating. Nay, eye opening.
And so, with my mind clear, and my eyes ajar to the truth of this world, my life truly begins.
My teacher's kindness, I shall bestow it upon others. I shall free their loved ones from their ignorance, and share with them the truth. And if they show promise, then I will turn them into teachers of truth, like my own teacher... like I will be.
Torin stopped reading.
His hand trembled slightly, the pages rustling. He set the journal down on the table, careful not to damage it, and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm.
"I've seen and heard some harrowing things in my life," he said quietly. "Bandit dens. Battlefields. The things people do to each other when they think no one's watching." He shook his head slowly. "But this... this is new. Even for me."
Auri's expression was hard, unreadable. Her amber eyes were fixed on the journal, on the pages full of cramped handwriting, on the words that described the birth of a monster.
"Then pray you never meet Namira's more fanatical believers," she said. Her voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like she was describing the weather. "They don't just kill. They consume. Body and soul, if they can manage it. And they smile while they do it, all while singing praises of their rotten goddess..."
Torin winced.
Namira. The Lady of Decay. The Queen of Rot. Her cultists lurked in the shadows of every major city in Skyrim, hiding in plain sight, wearing the faces of ordinary people while they practiced their dark rituals in basements and abandoned buildings.
He'd never met any of them—had gone out of his way to avoid it, actually—but he remembered them. From that one quest in Markarth, the one in the Hall of the Dead, where you had to investigate a cannibal cult and either join them or slaughter them.
He shook his head, pushing the thought away.
"One nightmare at a time," he said, picking up the journal again. "Let's finish this. See if there's anything useful. A name..."
Auri nodded, moving closer to peer at the pages over his shoulder.
Torin shifted his attention back to the journal, his thumb carefully turning the brittle pages. The handwriting had settled into something more confident now—still cramped, still hurried, but with a rhythm to it that spoke of practice. Of someone who'd made this a habit.
The next entries were worse.
They started with lessons. Practical instructions, written in cold, clinical language, like a surgeon describing a procedure. How to make people suffer. How to prolong that suffering as long as possible—days, sometimes weeks, without letting the victim slip into unconsciousness or death.
The journal described restoration spells for keeping someone awake, for managing blood loss, for preventing infection when you wanted the wounds to heal so you could make them again.
Torin's stomach turned, but he kept reading.
There were lists of hideouts scattered across Tamriel. Caves, abandoned buildings, remote farmhouses—places where people like them could operate without fear of discovery. Each entry included notes on access, proximity to population centers, and "disposal options" for when a victim had outlived their usefulness.
More importantly, there was a section on how to hide in plain sight. How to avoid getting caught.
The author had been meticulous. He'd written pages on the importance of blending in, of appearing ordinary, of cultivating a persona that would make people lower their guard.
Jobs that gave access to unsuspecting victims were particularly valuable—caravan guards, tavern workers, traveling merchants. Anything that put you in contact with strangers who wouldn't be missed right away.
And then there were the notes on victims.
Vagrants, the journal explained, were fair game. No one would miss them. No one would come looking. But such people were far from pure, far from innocent—they'd witnessed the harshness of the world firsthand, had been ground down by it. Their suffering wouldn't please Molag Bal. Not one bit.
No, the Prince demanded something more refined. Something rarer.
The author called them "delicacies." Truly innocent souls—the kind that had been sheltered, protected, kept from the worst of the world. Children, mostly. Young women who'd never known hardship. People who still believed in kindness, in goodness, in the fundamental decency of others.
You couldn't have them often, the journal warned. They were too hard to isolate, too well-protected by the communities that valued them. And when you did take one, the aftermath was dangerous.
People would search. People would ask questions. More often than not, you'd have to change hunting grounds after a delicacy. Move on. Start fresh somewhere new.
Torin's hands were trembling now, though he couldn't tell if it was rage or disgust or something else entirely.
The training, according to the journal, continued for three years.
Three years of lessons. Three years of practice. Three years of the teacher molding the student into something that could pass for human while being anything but.
Finally, in the year 168, the training was complete.
I am free, the author wrote, the words larger than usual, pressed hard into the page. Free to spread the truth. Free to awaken the sleeping sheep. Free to serve my Prince as I see fit.
I have chosen my path. I will become a mercenary. The work is violent, the companions are disposable, and no one asks too many questions about what you do in your spare time.
It just so happens that the Crimson Shields are recruiting.
Torin stopped reading.
His eyes fixed on those last words. The Crimson Shields.
He looked up at Auri, his expression dark.
"The Crimson Shields," he said slowly. "That's the company Hrogar was with... he's Eydis' father..."
Auri's eyes widened, but she just stood there and stared at Torin, waiting for him to elaborate. She hadn't been there when he questioned the girl's parents.
Torin sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"When Hrogar told me he was part of a mercenary band," he said slowly, "I instantly suspected that this might be the doing of someone from his past." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You know how mercenaries are. The things they're capable of. The enemies they make."
He grunted, shaking his head.
"Hrogar disagreed. Said no one would know where he ended up besides the captain of the band. And according to him..." Torin's jaw tightened. "The captain wouldn't do something like this."
Auri hummed, a low, thoughtful sound.
"Even then," she said, "that doesn't mean the captain can't be threatened. Or bought." Her amber eyes were sharp. "Everyone has a price. Everyone has something they're afraid of."
She gestured at the journal. "Either way, there's no point in guessing. Keep reading."
Torin nodded.
With a complicated expression—half hope, half dread—he turned back to the journal and began to read again.
The following entries were a catalog of horror.
The owner of the journal had kept meticulous records. Dates. Locations. Methods. The names of victims, sometimes, though more often just descriptions—blonde, early twenties, soft hands, screamed beautifully—as if the people he'd killed were nothing more than entries in a ledger.
He wrote about mercenary life with something approaching fondness. The constant movement. The new faces. The way no one asked questions about where you'd been or what you'd done in your spare time.
He'd been able to indulge his appetites freely, moving from town to town, never staying long enough to attract suspicion.
There was even an attempt to groom a student of his own. Someone he'd identified as having potential, someone he'd tried to mold in his image. The journal entries about this were strangely clinical—almost bored—as if the author was describing a failed experiment rather than a human being.
His body gave out before training was complete, he'd written. A pity. He showed promise. But his constitution was weak. I will need to be more selective next time.
Throughout the entries, there were mentions of other mercenaries. Called by their code names—Wraith, Hammer, Mender, Shield-maiden—never their real ones.
Torin mused that he'd need to show this to Hrogar later. Maybe he'd recognize the handwriting, the names, or even some of the events.
But the most interesting entries came toward the end of the mercenary section.
The author had continued to sing praises of the mercenary life and its conveniences for someone like him.
But then.
The captain has grown suspicious, the journal read. The handwriting was shakier here, less controlled. He's been watching me. Asking questions. Following me when I leave camp.
I don't know what he suspects. I've been careful. Always careful. But there's something in his eyes when he looks at me now. Something that makes my skin crawl.
I cannot stay here. Not much longer. I will have to leave. Find somewhere else. Start over.
Torin looked up from the journal, his expression thoughtful.
"The captain," he said slowly. "The one Hrogar trusted. The one he said would never do something like this." He tapped the page. "He figured it out. Or started to, anyway. He knew something was wrong with this bastard."
Auri nodded, her eyes still fixed on the journal, her expression hard and focused.
"So he left," she said slowly, piecing it together. "And somehow ended up in Falkreath." Her brow furrowed. "Then he killed the daughter of someone who served in the same mercenary company."
She shook her head. "This doesn't make sense. He spoke of other mercenaries as if they were insignificant. There was no anger or hate in his words... only mockery. He even called them half-baked. Neither pure, nor aware of the so-called truth."
Suddenly, Torin had a bad feeling.
A very bad feeling.
It settled into his stomach like a stone, cold and heavy, growing larger with every beat of his heart. The journal had been a window into a monster's mind—but he'd been looking through the wrong angle. Focusing on the wrong details.
It was about something else. Something worse.
Without saying anything else, Torin began to read again, his eyes scanning the pages faster now, his thumb flipping through the entries with barely controlled urgency.
The author spoke of his travels all over Tamriel. Hammerfell, where the desert sun baked the bones of his victims white before he was done with them. High Rock, where the political turmoil made it easy for a monster to hide. Even Cyrodiil, and the its rampant corruption.
And the innocents he'd defiled along the way. The "delicacies" he'd savored and discarded. Dozens of them, maybe more—the journal didn't keep a clear count, as if the numbers had stopped mattering after a while.
Finally, he reached Falkreath.
And came upon this place. This cave. This shrine to Molag Bal, hidden beneath the mountain, waiting for someone to find it. One of many hideouts scattered across Tamriel, the author wrote, maintained by the true followers of the Prince of Domination for times when they needed somewhere to hide, somewhere to worship, somewhere to work.
It was here, in this place of ancient evil, that he was suddenly inspired.
I have offered many sacrifices to our Lord, the author wrote, his handwriting larger now, more excited. But none have been truly worthy. None have been completely, utterly, perfectly pure.
The innocents I have defiled—they were touched by the world before I found them. They had known some hardship. An unkind word from a loved one. The indifference of strangers... their purity was already splintered, already flawed.
What Molag Bal desires most—what he truly desires—is a soul that has never been tainted. A soul that knows nothing of pain, nothing of suffering, nothing of the darkness that lurks in every corner of this wretched world.
A soul that is pure because it has been sheltered. Protected. Kept in a cage of love and comfort, unaware that anything beyond that cage exists.
Torin's heart was pounding now. The bad feeling had intensified, like a bag of rocks suddenly dropped into his chest, crushing his lungs, making it hard to breathe.
He kept reading.
The author explained his plan with chilling clarity. He would find a woman—a pure woman, untouched by the world's cruelty—and he would sire a child with her.
And then, he would raise that child. Shelter it completely from the darkness of the world. Keep it innocent, keep it pure, keep it unspoiled until it was ripe for the picking.
And when the time was right—when the child had reached the perfect age, when its purity was at its peak—he would offer it to his Prince. The greatest sacrifice imaginable. A soul that had never known darkness, defiled by the very hands that had created it.
It is perfect, the author wrote, the words almost glowing with satisfaction. Who else would know more about the darkness of the world? Who else would be better equipped to keep that darkness at bay, to shield a soul from its influence, than one who has spent his entire life immersed in it?
I will be the shepherd. I will raise the lamb. And when the time comes, I will be the knife.
...
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