As he trudged the beaten path, his boots splashing through rainwater puddling on the ground, Torin's mind was in another place entirely. He was thinking back on his latest encounter with Kodlak—the old man's weathered face, the light in his eyes, the way he'd clasped Torin's shoulder and held on just a little longer than usual.
Kodlak had seemed more lively than usual. Not one bit absentminded, not lost in thought about his own mortality. He'd laughed at Farkas's jokes, teased Vilkas about his stern demeanor, even ruffled Athis's hair like the young elf was still a whelp, which, to the old man, most were.
Seeing Jorrvaskr flowing with new blood—young warriors eager to prove themselves, fresh faces around the fire, the sound of steel ringing in the training yard—alongside the prospect of ridding himself of the beast blood, seemed to have greatly invigorated the old Harbinger.
The sight of him had been enough to draw a smile to Torin's lips. Any notion he'd had about venting his ordeal in Falkreath—the harvester, the journal, the mountain, Krovos—evaporated the moment he'd stepped through Jorrvaskr's doors.
It didn't feel right to burden the old man with his troubles now that he finally seemed to be getting over his own.
Still, Torin mused, it seems I need to put more effort into finding a cure for lycanthropy.
The bargain with the creature in the void weighed on his mind, but that was a problem for another day. For now, he just needed to focus on the path ahead.
He was snapped back to reality by Auri's voice.
"We're here." She stopped walking, her amber eyes fixed on something ahead. "Whatever this place is."
Torin blinked once, then twice. The fog had cleared over the past few days, and the plains of Whiterun Hold stretched out before them—rolling hills, golden grass, the distant shape of the city on its rise. But directly ahead, jutting out of the ground like a broken tooth, was a cave.
Broken Fang Cave.
Torin had passed by it dozens of times over the years, but he'd never gone inside. Never had a reason to. The entrance was unremarkable—a dark hole in the hillside, half-hidden by tall grass, marked only by the jagged rocks that gave it its name.
"What are we doing here?" Auri asked, her head tilted. "This is the strangest cave I've ever seen. Just... jutting out of the ground in the middle of the plains. No mountain. No cliff. Nothing."
Torin chuckled, shaking his head as they approached the dark mouth of the cave.
"Since I made some contributions to the College this time around, I figure I could ask for a space of my own. Set up a workshop." He pointed at the jagged entrance. "I don't really have the money to build another workshop, so I'll just move my old one to the College."
Auri gave him an incredulous look, then turned to study the cave. The entrance was dark, uneven, the kind of place that seemed to breathe cold air into the morning.
"You have a workshop," she said slowly, "in a cave?"
She turned back to Torin, giving him an up-and-down look—the kind of look you give someone when you're trying to figure out if they're joking.
"What are you, secretly a necromancer or something?"
Torin shrugged, his boots squelching in the wet grass.
"I don't blame you for thinking that. This place does attract the sort." He smiled bitterly. "It was inhabited by vampires before I took it over. A nest of them. Took me a week to clear them out."
He cleared his throat. "And some necromancer wandered into it while I was sleeping once. Thought the cave was empty. Thought he'd found himself a nice little lair to conduct his experiments."
Auri raised an eyebrow. "What happened to him?"
Torin's smile didn't reach his eyes. "What do you think? He's dead."
Auri sighed, long and heavy, and rubbed her temples with her fingers.
"The more I know of you," she said, "the stranger you seem. The less sense you make." She shook her head. "It's like you're from a different world altogether. Like you don't quite belong here, no matter how hard you try."
Torin almost choked on his own spit.
He coughed, covered his mouth, and forced his expression back to something resembling neutral. Then he let out a low chuckle—half genuine, half nervous.
"Well," he said, "you caught me red-handed. I do come from a different world. A world where neither gods nor magic exist." He pointed at her. "Elves don't exist either. Just men and women with round ears. Can you imagine? No Thalmor. No Dominion. Just... people. Living their lives, arguing about things that actually matter."
He paused, a wistful look crossing his face. "It's so much better there than here. You'd hate it."
Auri scoffed, rolling her eyes.
"Alright, alright. Let's just get in and get your things." She stepped past him, toward the dark entrance, her boots echoing off the stone. "And you better not expect me to carry your belongings. I'm a huntress, not a pack mule."
Torin grinned and followed her into the darkness.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
Walking past the mouth of the cave and into the dark outer chamber, Torin took one step inside and prepared to illuminate the area. His hand rose, magicka gathering at his fingertips, the beginnings of an arcane light forming in his palm.
Then he blinked.
The cave was gone. The stone walls, the damp floor, the faint smell of old blood and older dust—all of it vanished in an instant. He found himself standing in an entirely different place. A rather familiar one.
A small islet amidst a sea of black ink. Green skies above, tattered pages floating through the air. The same stone pedestal, the same sense of wrongness pressing against his mind.
Torin's eyebrow twitched. His outstretched hand—arcane light still flickering in it—clenched into a fist, extinguishing the spell before it could fully form.
"Come on out," he called, not bothering to hide his annoyance.
As if waiting for exactly those words, the black ink sea began to stir. Ripples spread across its surface, growing larger, more agitated. The tentacles in the distance—those countless, writhing shapes—began to move faster, slapping against the ink, sending up splashes that made no sound.
Then, from within the black depths, a creature appeared.
It was a colossal mass of bark-green tentacles, each one thicker than a tree trunk, each one covered in indents that looked like eyes. The indents blinked—some in sequence, some at random, all of them focused on Torin.
At the center of the mass was one giant orb, its double, conjoined pupils staring intently at the Nord. The eye was half-submerged in the ink, its gaze unwavering.
The sight was intimidating. The kind of sight that would make most mortals shiver at best, or begin frothing at the mouth at worst. The sheer wrongness of it pressed against Torin's mind like a physical weight.
Torin only seemed annoyed.
He crossed his arms, tapping his foot on the stone islet, and waited. He knew full well the Daedric Prince was putting on a show—trying to intimidate him by appearing like this, all teeth and eyes and writhing flesh.
This was his own personal realm of Oblivion. He didn't need a physical manifestation to convey his intentions. He could have appeared as anything—a whisper, a shadow, or nothing at all. And yet he chose this.
He chose to appear like this because he wanted Torin to be afraid.
Torin simply stood on the stone islet, the ink sea lapping at its edges, the green sky pressing down from above.
Still, Torin mused, for Hermaeus Mora to go this far... he must badly want something.
The Daedric Prince of Knowledge didn't summon mortals to his realm for casual conversation. Every visit came with a price. And depending on what he wanted, this could be very advantageous for Torin... or very disadvantageous.
With a frown, Torin spoke.
"I assume you brought me here to determine the terms of our so-called bargain."
The Daedric Prince replied in the same lethargic, unhurried voice Torin had come to hate—each word dragged out, stretched thin, as if time meant nothing to him.
"Indeed... I have..."
Torin raised an eyebrow and waited for Hermaeus Mora to continue.
The mass of tentacles said nothing. The giant eye at their center stared at him—unblinking, unreadable, patient as the void.
Torin's frustration grew. He rubbed his temple with his fingers, the familiar ache of a headache beginning to form.
"Alright," he said. "What do you want?"
The tentacles shifted. The eye narrowed slightly.
"I... have always wanted... one thing... and one thing... alone." The voice echoed, slow and deliberate. "Knowledge."
Torin waited.
"In this... case... that knowledge... is only known... to you."
Torin let out a low hum. If all the Prince wanted was knowledge, then this might not be as bad as he'd feared. He wasn't a mage who hoarded secrets—he'd shared what he'd learned at the College freely, had taught younger students, had never been one to lock his discoveries away in a dusty tower.
"What kind of knowledge?" he asked hesitantly.
The tentacles seemed to writhe impatiently at his words. Even the voice, usually so unhurried, seemed to pick up speed.
"The knowledge... of a world... that I do not know." A pause. "That... none know." Another pause. "Except.... for you."
The eyeball in the center grew more intense. Its double, conjoined pupils dilated, and the weight of its gaze pressed against Torin like a physical force.
"Your home... world."
Torin's blood went cold.
He'd been careful. So careful. Never spoke of his past life, never hinted at the world he'd come from, never let slip anything that couldn't be explained away by cleverness or luck. He'd buried that secret so deep that even he sometimes forgot it was there.
His first instinct was to play stupid—to deny everything, to claim ignorance, to pretend he had no idea what the Prince was talking about. But he quickly suppressed the urge.
Hermaeus Mora was more than likely sure of his conclusion. A being like him didn't make accusations lightly. He wouldn't have brought it up unless he was certain.
Moreover, the Daedric Prince was anything but foolish. If Torin took him for one, the consequences would be unimaginable.
"How did you come to that conclusion?"
A low chuckle echoed through the void. The small islet shook beneath Torin's feet. The ink sea stirred, waves lapping at the edges of the stone. The tentacles writhed faster, their eye-shaped indents blinking in sequence.
"I... am Hermaeus Mora," the Prince said, his voice still slow, still lethargic, but somehow heavier now. "The Daedric Prince... of Forbidden... Knowledge. The Lord of... Secrets. The One... Who Knows."
He paused, letting the titles hang in the air.
"I scry the tides... of fate... as inevitably as the moons... scry the sleeping... world." Another pause. "And you think... you can escape... my notice?"
Torin just stared at him blankly.
"That doesn't answer my question."
A hum echoed this time—thoughtful, deliberating, as if the Prince was deciding how much to reveal and how to do it.
"Only because... you refuse to see... what is obvious."
The tentacles settled, their writhing slowing.
"I scry the fates... of those who... dwell the realm... you call Nirn... because it is the womb... of new knowledge... perpetually birthing... secrets for me... to reap."
Torin frowned. "And how does that relate to me?"
The giant eye blinked. The conjoined pupils seemed to focus more intently on his face.
"You made... too many waves..." The voice was slower now, more deliberate. "Through every... age... the number of people... discovering and creating... new knowledge... is always... limited."
Torin waited.
"You... have and will... entwine with the fates... of such people. You meet... them. You change... them. You alter... the course of their lives... and discoveries as I... saw them."
The tentacles stirred. "And, yet... your own fate... eludes me... that makes you... noticeable."
...
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