In the ancient prison within Fort Ilinalta, a place that once held prisoners of war, necromancers now kept their living "materials."
Across Skyrim there were many gathering places for mages, and it was common for them to use living people as experimental subjects. A mage who practiced Destruction magic might tie kidnapped civilians to posts, or stuff them into iron cages and hang them up as targets, then scour their flesh with fireballs, ice spikes, and lightning. By examining how damaged the corpses were afterward, they judged the power of their spells.
A living person's heart and flesh could be used as alchemical ingredients.
Corpses and souls could be used to practice necromancy.
In this savage era, the weak were treated like cattle and livestock.
Malyn's apprentices had come again to choose food for their master. They stood before the prison, picking through the captives and assessing the "materials'" health. Long hunger and wretched living conditions left them weak and sick; usually they died within half a month, so the mages would first consume the defective stock.
"Shouldn't we prepare some fresh, vigorous souls for our master?" a timid mage asked, seeing his companion pick yet another old man.
"Oh, come off it. The master's in Azura's Star now—he can't manage you anymore. Feeding him a few souls is enough. We worked our asses off capturing these living bodies. Keep the good ones for ourselves."
The half-starved old man spat, the saliva only reaching the mage's boot. Others behind the bars hurled venomous, grief-stricken curses, damning them to a miserable death.
The mages acted as if they were deaf. They didn't care about the prisoners' screams at all—if anything, they sounded pleased.
"Mm, still lively. Before they die… how about we do a dissection?"
"Sure. I need a gallbladder."
"I want a leg bone to make a flute. The last one broke."
"Then pick a woman too."
They dragged a frail young woman out of the prison, yanking her by the hair, ignoring her desperate begging as if it were nothing.
"Please… please have mercy, please! I'm afraid of pain! I'll do anything you want, I really am afraid of pain… oh, don't do this…" She struggled and rolled on the damp floor, her death-pale body like a skinned fish.
The mages took the two living captives away into another room. A miserable, hoarse, dying howl rang out—only a few seconds long—then abrupt silence.
After a while, a woman's scream rose. This time it lasted a full half hour, sharp wailing echoing through the flooded fort like a dirge—high, low, again and again—yet it could never pass through the enchanted barrier to reach the surface.
Souls tainted by necromancy could not even enter a divine realm. They could only shatter into ash little by little in a desolate place called the Soul Cairn.
Behind the iron bars, people squeezed their eyes shut in pain.
Lake Ilinalta remained so silent. The scenery was beautiful through all seasons, indifferent to the sins of humankind.
The flying vessel descended onto the rippling water.
Dumbledore looked at the collapsed fort, drew the Elder Wand, and tried to restore it with a Repairing Charm.
Amid the roar of water, broken walls rose. Ancient bricks and stone clacked together as ramparts and watchtowers regained their former outlines. But Dumbledore's magic did not fully succeed; the main structure of the ruined fort still lay buried deep beneath the lake.
Aranea had once watched Winterhold be restored—what she felt then had been far more shocking than this. Even so, she still found it wondrous.
Moonshadow offered her verdict. "Interesting magic. Aranea, this is not reversing time, so you needn't be surprised. It's awakening history's memory—and it will be impeded by magical energy. This portion of the fort is protected by enchantment, so it cannot be repaired."
"Looks like we'll have to go inside," Dumbledore said. To attract a new professor, he was truly putting in the effort. "I'll take the lead."
Moonshadow waved a hand, her tone flat—so calm it felt familiar to Dumbledore.
"Those treacherous rats in the water. Since they're willing to stay in a place like this and think themselves safe… then let them be buried forever beneath the depths."
She raised both hands and chanted. The magicka scattered through heaven and earth gathered into her palms.
A cluster of radiant starlight condensed, like a teal crystal.
[Starfall]
Dumbledore hurriedly stopped her. "Wait. There may still be innocents here."
The meteor of magic in Moonshadow's hands slowly dispersed. She looked at the old human wizard, her expression hovering between delight and disdain. "Is this the justice you're accustomed to?"
Dumbledore nodded. "To face great evil requires courage. To face lesser evil requires patience and caution. Justice is not the sun—it is a set of scales. Even a single grain of dust must be weighed clearly."
Moonshadow laughed lightly. "Then it seems we differ. But I really should learn human morality. In that case… let's drive the rats out of their holes."
She chanted again—an ancient spell never recorded in any archive—resonating with the earth's bones and calling forth the lake's furious tide.
Lake water tore through the flooded fort's barrier and surged through its corridors, crashing and ramming.
Dumbledore swung his wand. Under his profound Transfiguration, the lake water gathered into galloping horses and lions that chased the waves. The beasts slammed necromancers aside, shattered their iron cages, and carried the trapped innocents upon their backs.
Water billowed in layered surges, sweeping through every corner of Fort Ilinalta.
The necromancers inside panicked. The skeletons and corpses they raised could not withstand the overwhelming waves, and their crude Destruction magic could not halt the water-beasts' charge. One by one they were beaten down, wrapped in lake water and swept along like bloated bodies drifting with the current.
Moonshadow's chanting grew grander, piercing the lake and reaching every corner. The amassed surge on the northern shore rose high, like a waterspout, yanking the sunken fort upward. With a thunderous squeeze, thick masonry shattered and came apart under repeated impacts.
The currents inside and outside converged, carrying the people out like silt and washing them onto the shore.
Fourteen necromancers in black robes.
Twenty-one innocent prisoners.
Over a hundred sets of bones.
Exhausted, weakened survivors let out howls and threw themselves with what strength they had left at the unconscious necromancers.
The raised corpses threw themselves at the survivors as well.
They fought.
"No!—don't keep serving the devil! Let me give you release!"
Most survivors wore faces twisted with pain. The corpses they fought had once been people they knew.
"See?" Dumbledore let out a great breath. "There really were survivors. That alone makes it all worth it."
Moonshadow looked at the undead with genuine disgust. "A false revival is fouler than a lie. You will all be reduced to dust!"
Silver starlight flew from her hand. Every undead creature struck by it ignited at once, burning into ash in moments.
With the last obstacle gone, the survivors grabbed pebbles from the lakeshore and smashed the necromancers' skulls in, one by one.
Someone suddenly broke into a wail—then more joined in, until the shoreline was full of sobbing.
Dumbledore gently stroked his beard. He was crying too. Yet it was the survivors who comforted him. A Nord man, eyes red-rimmed, choked as he said, "Honored one, you needn't grieve for our suffering. If you must blame something, blame fate. Our tears were spent long ago. We only wish to know where you came from, so we may repay your kindness."
"We come from Winterhold," Dumbledore said, looking at their gaunt faces and bare, ragged bodies. "If you have nowhere to go, if you fear war and peril… then come to Winterhold. There will be people there who will protect you."
"Winterhold…" they murmured, standing on the desolate shore of Lake Ilinalta, bathed in sunlight after rebirth through calamity. Some chose to return home. Others wished to follow Dumbledore to Winterhold.
The shattered Azura's Star was washed onto the mudflat by the current—an odd gemstone shaped like a many-legged sea star. Aranea hurried over, picked it up, wiped it clean, and handed it to Moonshadow.
"Give it to that wizard Dumbledore," Moonshadow nodded. "He is Azura's chosen champion—merciful and strong. It should be he who purifies the unclean souls within this gem."
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