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They moved quickly through the hidden path, the narrow tunnel winding steeply upward before finally spitting them out near the dead sentries at the mouth of Swindler's Den. They stepped out into the freezing night air, the biting wind feeling magnificent after the suffocating dampness of the cave. They untied their horses and mounted up, turning away from the rocky ridges and riding hard across the open plains back toward Whiterun. For the first mile, the ride was silent. But as the adrenaline finally began to recede, the questions started.
"Patron," Jenassa called out, riding up beside him, her brow furrowed. "Why did we let them walk away? We had them cornered. We could have slaughtered them all and kept your gold."
"We are warriors, not butchers, Jenassa," Aerion responded smoothly, his voice carrying over the wind. "Kematu and his Alik'r are elite, highly trained mercenaries. Fighting them in that enclosed cavern would have been a bloodbath. Even if we won, one of you likely would have died, or taken a grievous wound. I will not spend your lives unnecessarily."
Eisa nodded slowly from the rear, rubbing her newly healed thigh. "And the gold?"
"Gold is infinite," Aerion assured them, a confident smile playing on his lips behind the mask. "I can make a thousand septims in just one day. But securing a bloodless victory? Making a highly capable elite mercenary commander feel indebted to me? Securing future, powerful contacts in Hammerfell without drawing my sword? That is the perfect path. There is absolutely no need to worry. The investment will pay for itself."
The three women absorbed the logic. They couldn't argue with it. Aerion's pragmatic, bloodless approach to problem solving was exactly why he was rising to power so quickly.
They rode across the quiet, moonlit tundra, the massive, imposing shape of Tundra Homestead finally appearing in the distance.
They reached the estate well past midnight. The mercenaries on the walls opened the gates quickly, allowing the exhausted strike team inside.
They stabled the horses and dragged themselves into the manor. They were shivering, their armor and underclothes completely soaked from the freezing waterfall in the cavern.
Aerion stood in the center of the main hall. He raised his hands, focusing his Magicka, and cast a highly controlled, ambient Destruction fire spell. He didn't project a flame; he simply radiated an intense, dry, localized heat that washed over the group, rapidly evaporating the freezing water from their clothes and armor, warming them to the bone in seconds.
"Go to sleep," Aerion ordered softly, dismissing the spell as the steam dissipated. "You fought well tonight."
Lydia, Jenassa, and Eisa offered exhausted, grateful nods, retreating to their respective quarters.
Aerion walked into his own room, unbuckling the heavy straps of his Nordic armor. He let out a long, slow breath as the heavy steel plates clattered to the floor.
Saadia's life was secured. Kematu was dealt with. A violent bloodbath had been perfectly avoided, and a new connection had been forged in the sands of Hammerfell that he could use in the future.
Aerion crawled into his bed after taking off his armors, staring up at the dark wooden ceiling for a long moment. He had played the board flawlessly once again. Sleep finally overtook his active mind, pulling the Thane of Whiterun and Morthal, Expert Of College of Winterhold, and Praefect of the Imperial Legion into a deep dreamless sleep.
The morning air across the Whiterun tundra was usually a source of profound tranquility for Aerion. After the chaotic, blood soaked raid on Swindler's Den the night before, he had slept deeply, his body resting after the physical and magical exertion.
When he finally woke, the sun was already climbing high above the sprawling plains. He washed his face, dressed in a comfortable linen tunic and dark trousers, and stepped out onto the front porch of the manor, expecting to hear the familiar, rhythmic ringing of the blacksmith's hammer or the low rumbles of the mammoth herd.
Instead, he was met with the shrill, furious sound of a woman screaming.
Aerion frowned, his golden eyes narrowing against the morning light as he looked across the courtyard.
Near the sparring ring, a chaotic scene was unfolding. Valdemar was standing with his feet planted shoulder width apart, his hand resting warningly on the pommel of his sword, physically blocking the path of an incredibly irate older woman. Aeloria stood just behind Valdemar, her hands raised in a placating gesture, looking both exhausted and deeply uncomfortable.
It took Aerion a moment to recognize the woman in the dusty leather traveling cloak.
It was Delphine.
Aerion felt a flicker of genuine surprise. Amidst his meteoric rise through the Imperial Legion, the establishment of his massive estate, and the brutal realities of the civil war, he had completely forgotten about the paranoid innkeeper of Riverwood. The last time her name had even crossed his mind was weeks ago, when she had sent frantic, coded letters attempting to persuade Aeloria to undertake a suicidal infiltration of the Thalmor Embassy during High Emissary Elenwen's grand party.
Aerion had immediately, and ruthlessly, dismantled the logic of that plan, easily convincing Aeloria and Valdemar that walking into the most heavily fortified Thalmor stronghold in Skyrim on a hunch was strategic suicide.
Clearly, Delphine had finally run out of patience.
"I cannot believe I put my faith in you!" Delphine shrieked, her voice cracking with raw, unadulterated frustration as she tried to step around Valdemar. "Do you have any idea what you have done, Aeloria? The party was our one chance! The only window we had to slip past their wards and find out exactly what the Thalmor know about the dragons!"
"Delphine, please, lower your voice," Aeloria pleaded, glancing nervously at the mercenaries patrolling the walls who were beginning to stare. "We evaluated the intelligence. It was too great a risk with too little guarantee of reward. I am the Dragonborn, yes, but I am not an invisible phantom. If we had been caught—"
"If you had been caught, you would have died fighting for the truth! That is what the Blades do!" Delphine interrupted fiercely, her face red with exertion and lingering paranoia. "How could you be so foolish? I placed the legacy of the Blades in your hands! How can our order ever rise from its ashes if the one we are sworn to serve, the Dragonborn herself, is too terrified to trust her own protector?"
"You are not her protector," Valdemar growled, his deep voice rumbling as he shifted his bulk to block her again. "You are an innkeeper with a death wish, trying to use my Thane as bait for your own vendettas. Step back."
"You know nothing, mercenary!" Delphine spat, her eyes wild. She looked back at Aeloria, her expression twisting into deep, bitter disappointment. "I waited for you. I arranged the distraction. I had the contact inside! And you simply didn't show up. The party has passed. The opportunity is gone. The Thalmor are plotting the end of this world, and you are sitting on a farm playing at being a soldier!"
Aerion had heard enough.
He stepped off the porch, his boots crunching loudly against the gravel as he closed the distance with long, purposeful strides.
"Step aside, Valdemar," Aerion commanded smoothly, his voice lacking any of Delphine's hysteria, yet carrying an unshakable, cold authority.
Valdemar immediately stepped back, allowing Aerion to seamlessly insert himself into the center of the confrontation.
Delphine glared up at the towering Altmer, her eyes filled with venom. She knew exactly who he was. She knew from Aeloria's letters that it was Aerion's counsel that had ultimately derailed her grand operation.
"Are you quite alright, Delphine?" Aerion asked, his tone perfectly polite, yet dripping with a chilling, analytical condescension. "You are screaming in the center of a personal estate of mine. You sound entirely delusional."
"Do not speak to me with that Thalmor arrogance, elf," Delphine snarled, her hand twitching toward the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. "This is your doing! You poisoned her mind! You convinced her to abandon her duty!"
"I convinced her not to throw her life away on a spectacularly stupid, poorly conceived suicide mission," Aerion corrected her seamlessly. "How exactly can you stand there and blame the Dragonborn for refusing to walk into a heavily garrisoned fortress based on a paranoid theory you concocted in a basement? Only someone completely blinded by her own archaic hatred could fail to see the sheer tactical absurdity of your plan."
Delphine's face contorted in absolute rage. Aerion's cold, flawless logic struck every single one of her insecurities.
She knew he was right. The party was over. There was no second opportunity to infiltrate the embassy. Her grand, desperate plan to prove the Thalmor were behind the dragon crisis had collapsed completely, and she had absolutely nothing left to lose.
"You think you are so clever," Delphine hissed, stepping closer to Aerion, her voice dropping into a dangerous, ragged whisper. "You think you can just manipulate the Dragonborn? Keep her locked away here while the world burns? You are just like the rest of them. The Thalmor pulled the strings of the Empire, and now you are pulling hers. I won't let you ruin the only hope Tamriel has left!"
Aerion stood perfectly still, his expression an unreadable mask of calm. He simply let her vent, letting the furious, aging spy exhaust her vitriol against his immovable presence.
When she finally paused to draw a breath, her chest heaving, Aerion tilted his head slightly.
"Have you said enough?" Aerion asked quietly.
Something in Delphine finally snapped. The desperation, the decades of hiding, the crushing failure of her life's purpose, it all boiled over in a single, fatal instant.
With a sharp, metallic shring, Delphine drew the Akaviri katana concealed beneath her cloak.
She moved with the sudden, explosive speed of a highly trained grandmaster, lunging directly at Aerion's chest with the lethal, razor-sharp steel.
She never even got close.
Aerion did not reach for the massive greatsword harnessed to his back. He didn't even flinch. Operating on pure accelerated combat instinct, he raised his right hand, his palm glowing instantly with blinding, superheated magicka.
He cast a concentrated Fireball directly into the ground at her feet.
The detonation was deafening.
A massive shockwave of kinetic force and roaring flame erupted between them. The blast instantly threw Delphine violently backward, lifting her completely off her feet. She flew through the air like a ragdoll, crashing brutally into the heavy wooden fence of the sparring ring with a sickening thud before crumpling into the dirt, her katana clattering away across the gravel.
The edge of the explosion caught Aerion, singeing the edges of his linen tunic and pushing him back half a step, while Aeloria and Valdemar were thrown off balance by the concussive wave of heat, shielding their faces from the blinding flash.
The smoke cleared in seconds, leaving a ringing silence in the courtyard.
"Delphine!" Aeloria gasped, recovering her footing instantly.
She rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside the crumpled, smoking form of the older woman. Delphine's leather cloak was charred, and a nasty cut on her forehead was bleeding freely where she had struck the wood. Aeloria placed two fingers desperately against Delphine's neck.
Aeloria let out a massive trembling sigh of relief. "She's alive. She's unconscious, but her pulse is strong."
She looked up at Aerion, who was calmly dusting a few embers from his sleeve. Aeloria didn't look angry, she looked resigned. "I don't blame you, Aerion. She drew steel on you. She left you no choice."
"She let her paranoia override her training," Aerion noted clinically, walking over to the unconscious woman.
He knelt beside Aeloria, his hands glowing with the soft, golden light of Restoration magic. He didn't use a massive spell, just a controlled stream of Healing to close the bleeding gash on Delphine's head and stabilize the burns on her arms, ensuring she wouldn't die from the shock of the blast.
Aerion stood up, looking toward the mercenaries who had drawn their weapons and were rushing toward the commotion.
"Sinmir! Bring me heavy rope!" Aerion barked.
"Right away, Boss," Sinmir grunted, jogging toward the stables and returning seconds later with a thick coil of hemp rope.
Under Aerion's direct supervision, Valdemar and Sinmir bound Delphine's wrists and ankles tightly, ensuring the knots were secure enough to hold a trained escape artist.
Aerion turned to Aeloria, his golden eyes dead serious.
"She has completely lost her mind, Aeloria," Aerion stated bluntly, keeping his voice low. "She is a massive liability. If we let her leave, she is going to do something crazy one hundred percent. She will run through the holds screaming about the Blades and the Dragonborn, or try to breach the embassy alone. Either way, she will say words that could permanently besmirch both of our reputations, or worse, she will lead the Thalmor directly to our doorstep."
Aeloria swallowed hard, looking down at the bound woman.
"My name has already begun to attract Thalmor detection within the province," Aerion continued, outlining the brutal political reality. "And as the Dragonborn, you are their ultimate nightmare. If they discover that we are actively harboring, or even associated with, the last surviving Grandmaster of the Blades, they will not send assassins. They will send an army of Justiciars. We cannot afford that kind of heat while preparing for a civil war."
Aeloria closed her eyes for a brief moment, her shoulders slumping. "You are right. It is too dangerous. For her, and for us."
"It is vastly better for everyone if we place her under strict house arrest here," Aerion finalized.
As if on cue, Delphine groaned, her eyelids fluttering as consciousness began to return. She weakly strained against the heavy ropes, her eyes widening in confusion and rising panic.
Aerion didn't give her the chance to start screaming. He raised a hand, his fingers weaving a complex, subtle pattern of blue light. He cast a powerful Calm spell from the Illusion school.
The blue light washed over Delphine's face. Instantly, her frantic struggling ceased. Her eyes glazed over slightly, the burning, unhinged rage completely evaporating from her mind, replaced by a dull, highly suggestible lethargy.
"Strip her of all her weapons," Aerion ordered the mercenaries. "The katana, her boot daggers, and check the linings of her cloak for lockpicks. Then, carry her down into the cellar."
Sinmir and Valdemar executed the order efficiently, confiscating a surprising amount of hidden weaponry before lifting the lethargic woman and carrying her into the manor.
They then get walked passed the warm, bustling kitchen and descended the stone ladders into the cellar. Aerion had recently contracted the construction of a secure, iron barred holding cell in the deepest corner of the basement beside the room, originally intended for holding hostile bounties or dangerous prisoners. Luckily, it was currently entirely empty.
They placed Delphine inside the cold stone cell, leaving her bound, and locked the heavy iron door with a resounding, definitive clack.
Aerion stood outside the bars, watching the spell bound woman slump against the wall, before turning back to the stairs. The immediate threat was neutralized.
As they walked back up into the main hall of the manor, Aeloria let out a long, heavy breath, leaning against the wooden dining table. The adrenaline of the morning was finally beginning to fade.
"Aerion," Aeloria said quietly, her voice lacking its usual warmth. "Delphine... Delphine wasn't the reason I came looking for you this morning."
Aerion paused, pouring himself a cup of water. He turned to look at her. "Explain."
Aeloria met his gaze, her expression turning incredibly grim.
"I was sent here by Jarl Balgruuf," Aeloria revealed, her voice steady but laced with heavy tension. "He requested that I ride out and find you immediately. He needs us to return to Dragonsreach. He said there is a problem that requires both of our attention, and he refused to discuss it with his council until you were present."
Aerion's eyes narrowed slightly. Jalr Balgruuf was a cautious, proud man. He did not summon the Praefect of the Imperial Legion and the Dragonborn simultaneously unless the situation had completely deteriorated.
Aerion set the cup down. He didn't ask questions. He simply nodded his head.
"Wait here," Aerion commanded.
He walked swiftly into his private room. He stripped off his comfortable linen clothes and methodically, silently strapped on the heavy, fur lined steel plates of his Nordic Carved Armor. He fastened the jagged, bronze mask of Krosis to his belt, secured his quiver, and slid the massive Ebony Greatsword and Bow into their leather harnesses.
When he stepped back out into the hall, he was no longer the relaxed estate manager. He was the Praefect of the Legion, and the Thane of Whiterun.
"Valdemar, Jenassa, Lydia, Eisa," Aerion called out sharply. "Gear up. We ride for the city."
Within ten minutes, the heavily armed group was mounted. They rode hard away from Tundra Homestead, leaving the mammoth herds and the cheese production behind, the rhythmic pounding of their horses' hooves eating up the distance to the capital.
They reached the sprawling outer gates of Whiterun in record time. Aerion and his group did not bother slowing down for an inspection, they dismounted near the stables, handing their reins to the stable owner.
The Whiterun guards at the main gate took one look at the towering, masked Praefect and the Dragonborn, and immediately stepped aside, raising their halberds in sharp salutes and allowing them to enter the city without a single word of challenge.
They walked swiftly through the bustling market of the Plains District, ignoring the stares of the merchants, and ascended the long, sweeping stone stairs leading up to the Cloud District.
They pushed open the massive, heavy oak doors of Dragonsreach and strode into the great hall.
The usual lively hum of the Jarl's court was completely absent. The atmosphere inside the grand wooden structure was suffocatingly heavy, feeling more like a tomb than a seat of power.
Aerion and Aeloria walked at the front of their group, their boots echoing loudly on the stone floor, approaching the raised dais.
Jarl Balgruuf was sitting heavily on his throne. Gathered tightly around him were Proventus Avenicci, Irileth, Commander Caius, and Hrongar.
Every single one of their faces was completely ashen, drained of color.
As Aerion stepped up to the fire pit, his golden eyes locked onto the object resting across Jarl Balgruuf's lap.
It was a steel battleaxe. It wasn't ornate, nor was it magical. It was a simple, well forged, brutal weapon of war.
Aerion, drawing instantly on his deep, encyclopedic knowledge of the game and Nordic lore, knew exactly what that axe meant the second he saw it.
Jalr Balgruuf looked up, his eyes weary and heavily bloodshot.
"Aeloria. Aerion," he greeted them, his voice lacking its usual booming strength, sounding older than he had just days ago. "Thank you for coming so quickly."
He lifted the steel axe slightly, the firelight gleaming off the sharp edge.
"Aerion," Jarl Balgruuf said, his gaze locking onto the masked Altmer. "You are a scholar of our history. You are a Thane of this hold. Tell me... do you know what this means in the ancient traditions of the Nords?"
Aerion reached up and slowly pulled the bronze mask of Krosis away from his face, revealing his stoic, golden features.
He nodded his head slowly.
"I do, my Jarl," Aerion answered, his voice ringing clearly in the silent hall. "It is an ultimatum. A challenge delivered between Jarls. If you return the axe, it is a formal rejection. It means you will not submit."
Aerion paused, letting the heavy reality settle. "It means war."
Jarl Balgruuf closed his eyes for a long, agonizing moment, letting out a heavy, rattling sigh. He nodded his head slowly, his fingers tightening around the leather haft of the weapon.
"Ulfric's patience has finally run out," be said quietly. "His messenger arrived at dawn. He demands that I accept this axe, swear fealty to his rebellion, and allow Stormcloak garrisons to man the walls of Whiterun. If I return it... he marches on the city."
The Jarl opened his eyes, looking around at the grand wooden arches of Dragonsreach, the seat of his ancestors.
"I never wanted it to come to this," Jarl Balgruuf murmured, his voice thick with genuine sorrow. "I never wanted my people to suffer the horrors of a siege. I wanted to keep Whiterun out of this madness. But Ulfric Stormcloak will not allow us peace. He wants to force his way into my city, depose me, and drag my people into his bloody rebellion against the Empire."
Jalr Balgruuf sat up straighter, the sorrow fading, replaced by the hardening resolve of a true Nordic king. He looked directly at Aerion.
"Since it has come to this," he declared, his voice finding its strength, "we have to prepare. Don't we?"
Aerion stood perfectly still, his heart beating with a fierce, quiet triumph. The moment he had spent weeks engineering, negotiating, and bleeding for had finally arrived. The hesitation was over.
"We do, my Jarl," Aerion agreed firmly. He took a deliberate step forward, crossing his arm over his breastplate in a formal salute. "If you will allow it... I will have the Imperial Legion informed of this situation immediately. I will ask for their support. Whiterun cannot stand against the entirety of Ulfric's army alone. But with the Empire at your back, this city will not fall."
Jarl Balgruuf was silent for a long, heavy moment. He looked at Proventus, who nodded frantically. He looked at Irileth, who offered a grim, supporting nod. He looked at Aeloria, the Dragonborn, who stood firmly beside the Altmer.
Finally, Jarl Balgruuf nodded his head.
"Do it," he commanded. "Send word to Solitude. Tell General Tullius that Whiterun accepts the Empire."
Aerion did not waste a single second. He spun around, his cloak flaring, and locked eyes with Eisa.
"Eisa," Aerion ordered, his voice cracking like a whip. "Ride hard for the Imperial camp at Rorikstead. Tell Tribune Valerius that the waiting is over. I want all five hundred legionnaires heavily armed and marching on the city immediately. Furthermore, commandeer their fastest courier and send a priority dispatch directly to General Tullius in Solitude. Tell him Ulfric has delivered the axe. The siege of Whiterun is imminent."
"Consider it done, Praefect," Eisa confirmed instantly. She turned and sprinted out of the great hall, her boots pounding against the stone.
Jarl Balgruuf watched her go, a grim, determined fire finally lighting in his eyes. He handed the steel axe to Hrongar, who gripped it tightly, his face set in stone.
"Send the messenger back to Ulfric," Jarl Balgruuf ordered his brother. "Give him back his axe. Tell him we will meet him on the field."
The Jarl then stood up from his throne, his presence expanding to fill the room.
"Now since it have come to this everyone," Jarl Balgruuf siad, the weary politician entirely replaced by a warlord preparing for battle. "Let's go to the second floor." Then he turned and strode up the wooden stairs leading to the second floor of Dragonsreach, as they then stood on the strategic map room overlooking the city. Aerion, Aeloria, Valdemar, Lydia, and Jenassa followed closely behind, gathering around the massive wooden table covered in maps of the hold.
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[Main Panel]
Name: Aerion
Race: High Elf (Altmer)
Health: 930/930
Stamina: 970/970
Magicka: 980/980 [External Capacity & Regeneration: ∞]
Level: 245
Skills: Animal Affinity (MAX LEVEL), Fast Skill Levelling (MAX LEVEL), Fast Magic Mastery (MAX LEVEL), Instant Shout (MAX LEVEL), Dragon Master (MAX LEVEL), Eye Of Magnus (MAX LEVEL), Summon Dragon (MAX LEVEL), Destruction (Fire(+5)/Lightning(+3)/Frost(+2)) (Level 13/7/76), Restoration (Healing(+2)/Purify(+2)) (Level 76/98), Alteration (Level 43), Illusion (Level 62), Conjuration (Necromancy/Summoning(+2)) (Level 37/0), Persuasion(+3) (Level 28), Smithing(+1) (Level 79), Sneak(+1) (Level 64), One Handed(+2) (Level 0), Two Handed(+1) (Level 29), Lockpicking (Level 55), Archery(+1) (Level 0), Enchanting(+1) (Level 23), Light Armor(+2) (Level 10), Block (Level 70), Pickpocket (Level 8), & Heavy Armor (Level 59)
Shouts: Fus Roh Dah (Force Balance Push), Tiid (Time), Krii (Kill), Feim Zii Gron (Fade Spirit Bind), Su (Air), Laas (Life), Yol Toor (Fire Inferno), Kaan (Kyne), Zul Mey Gut (Voice Fool Far), & IIZ (Ice)
[Inventory Panel]
1x Small Sack, Poacher's Axe, the Golden Claw, Arvel's Journal, Inkwell & Quill, Thief Book, Parchment Rolls Of Mammoths Farm And Loan, Ebony Claw, The Mirror, Ring of Pure Mixtures, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), Deed to Tundra Homestead, Dawnbreaker, Traveling Backpack (Supplies), Vampire Armor, Vampire Boots, Movarth's Golden Ash (Unique), Potion of Healing, Mage Boots Of Weight, Master Robes Of Destruction, Staff of Jyrik Gauldurson, Gauldur Black Bow, & Dwarven Battleaxe
2x Common Soul Gem (Empty), Black Soul Gem (Empty), & Potions of Plentiful Magicka
3x Potions of Minor Stamina, Petty Soul Gem (Filled), Potions of Minor Magicka, Grand Soul Gem (Filled), & Greater Soul Gems
5x Mod Chests
8x Iron Arrows, Ancient Nord Arrows, & Common Soul Gem (Filled)
9x Potions Of Minor Healing
10x Lesser Soul Gems
12x Black Soul Gem (Filled)
Weight: 49.21 KG / 785 KG
Septims: 252,867