Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all Mundus;
Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs;
For the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land.
Torin muttered the inscription under his breath, a faint frown of concentration on his face. Beyond his curiosity about a potential "blessing," the words themselves were of interest to him.
In the game, they were just flavor text to be ignored. Here, they were a history. He quickly pulled a piece of parchment and a charcoal stick from his satchel, scribbling the words down to study later.
Deciphering their purpose should be fun, if nothing else.
Finished, he glanced over at Skjor. The veteran warrior was still standing with the two Altmer, his arms crossed and his expression one of profound disinterest. Torin had no patience for more of their simpering politeness.
"Come on," he said, brushing past Skjor without breaking stride. "I'm done here."
Skjor shot him an exasperated look but didn't argue. He turned back to the elves. "Farewell."
The word was a clear dismissal.
He caught up to Torin and Echo as they started up the first steep incline of the steps. "Was that really necessary?" Skjor grumbled.
Before Torin could offer a sharp retort, the male elf's voice called out from behind them, smooth and insistent. "Please, wait a moment, friends!"
Swallowing a sigh, Torin turned back, his annoyance plain on his face.
The elf offered another of his polished smiles. "Do pardon me, but I'd hoped you might allow us to accompany you. The Seven Thousand Steps are perilous, I hear, and we are no warriors..."
Skjor's frown deepened. "We're warriors, not bodyguards. We're on a contract."
"Of course, of course!" the elf said, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "We don't intend to trouble you or interfere with your work. We only ask that you allow us to follow behind you. There is safety in numbers, after all."
He paused, letting a meaningful silence hang in the air. "Naturally, we would offer compensation for the... implied protection."
Skjor let out a low hum, his hand coming up to rub his stubbled chin. He glanced at Torin. The boy's expression was a thundercloud; he clearly wanted nothing to do with this. But Skjor had already indulged him with the Ice Wraith detour.
It was time for a little pragmatism. A pouch of coin for simply letting two fools trail behind them was easy money.
"He'll just have to get over it," Skjor thought.
Finally, he gave a curt nod. "If you wish to follow us, then suit yourselves. But don't expect us to slow down for your sakes, and don't come crying to us if you can't keep up. Our pace is our own."
The arrangement was made. The hunt for the troll now had a pair of unwanted, well-dressed shadows.
...
Four hours into the climb, the air had grown thin and sharp with cold. The stone steps were slick with frost, and the pine trees had begun to look stunted and weary. A pair of white-furred snow wolves, all ribs and rage, had lunged from the rocks.
Torin met one's charge head-on, sidestepping its leap and bringing his warhammer down on its skull with a sickening crunch. He turned, breath pluming in the air, to see Skjor already wiping his blade clean on the fur of the second.
His gaze then drifted further down the path to their two unwanted shadows. The High Elves, who had introduced themselves as Larethil and Anariel, were still trailing behind at a respectful distance.
Seeing Torin look their way, Larethil offered a small, polite smile and a wave, as if they were all on a pleasant countryside stroll. Torin answered with an annoyed groan and turned his back on them.
He had to admit, if only to himself, that they'd been less of an annoyance than he'd expected. They kept to themselves, didn't complain about the pace, and hadn't tried to make inane conversation. He was perfectly content to pretend they didn't exist.
Shaking the thought away, he turned his attention to the third wayshrine they'd encountered, its stone worn smooth by centuries of wind and pilgrim hands.
The second emblem's words had been still and factual:
Men were born and spread over the face of Mundus;
The Dragons presided over the crawling masses;
Men were weak then, and had no Voice.
He approached the third shrine, the two elves already forgotten. Reaching out, he traced the ancient carvings with his fingers as he read the text aloud, his voice a low murmur against the mountain's silence.
The fledgling spirits of Men were strong in Old Times;
Unafraid to war with Dragons and their Voices;
But the Dragons only shouted them down and broke their hearts.
He froze.
Reading the embelems of first two wayshrines had been like studying a dry history text. This one was different. It was a story.
With every word his mind digested, a faint, foreign sense of indignation kindled in his chest, a steely resolve that wasn't his own yet burned within him all the same.
It grew with each syllable, a hot coal settling in his gut.
By the time he reached the final word, the vision hit him with the force of a physical blow. He could see it—the great wings blotting out the sun, the concussive roar of a Thu'um that shattered stone and spirit alike, the charred husks of homes, and the broken figures of men and women clutching the lifeless bodies of their loved ones.
And above it all, a great black dragon hovered, its serpentine neck coiled, drinking in their misery not with malice, but with the cold, detached satisfaction of a god surveying ants.
The dragon's gaze in his mind wasn't just a memory; it felt like a living presence. Its ancient, pitiless eyes seemed to cut through time, through the illusion of safety, and even through the simple logic of its own state of pshychic existence, locking onto him.
A profound, soul-crushing helplessness descended—a feeling so absolute it dwarfed the terror he'd felt as a helpless infant or the rage in the bandit cave. This was the despair of an entire species, the weight of untold centuries of subjugation.
Every hair on Torin's body stood on end. His breath hitched, coming in ragged, shallow gasps that did nothing to fill his lungs. A cold sweat traced a path down his spine, soaking into his tunic.
The world only snapped back into focus when a heavy, calloused hand clamped down on his shoulder.
The vision shattered like glass. Torin flinched, turning to see Skjor standing beside him, his single good eye narrowed with concern.
"You've been staring at that rock for a solid five minutes," Skjor said, his voice a low grumble. "You look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong with you?"
Torin dragged a trembling hand over his face, trying to wipe away the lingering dread. He took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing the air into his constricted chest.
"I'm… I'm alright," he managed, the words sounding weak and unconvincing even to his own ears. "Just… a dizzy spell. The thin air. I need a minute to catch my breath."
Without waiting for a reply, he walked on unsteady legs to a nearby, flat-topped boulder and sat down heavily. His expression was blank, his mind still reeling from the psychic aftershock.
Skjor's frown deepened. He'd seen men look like that after a near-miss with a giant's club or a close encounter with frostbite magic. It was the look of someone who'd stared into the abyss a little too long. He turned to the two Altmer, who were watching the scene with polite, detached curiosity.
"We're taking a break," Skjor announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Make yourselves comfortable."
He then found a spot of his own to sit, keeping a watchful eye on Torin. A moment later, Echo, sensing her human's distress, ambled over. She didn't nuzzle or whine, simply sat down beside the rock and leaned her warm, furry bulk against his leg.
The solid, living pressure seemed to ground him. Torin's blank stare softened. He reached down, his hand still slightly unsteady, and rested it on top of her head, the simple, tactile connection slowly pushing the dragon's ghost from his mind.
Skjor's eyes narrowed as he turned to the wayshrine.
What about this old thing was so alarming?
...
After several long minutes, the last chilling echoes of the vision finally faded from Torin's mind. He took a final, cleansing breath, the crisp mountain air feeling real and solid in his lungs again.
Of all the things he'd expected from this climb—a troll, an ice wraith, maybe even frostbite spiders—a psychic blast from the World-Eater himself was at the very bottom of the list. The sheer, mind-bending absurdity of it was almost as shocking as the vision's content.
And that gaze… that feeling of Alduin's eyes locking onto him, specifically… he was entirely convinced that had to be his own imagination filling in the blanks.
No matter how powerful the damn dragon was, it made zero sense for it to be aware of some random guy having a vision about it, especially in a time when it was still lost, spinning through the currents of time.
Right?
Still, the experience had felt less like a history lesson and more like someone had shoved a hot poker into his brain. It was a brutal, unwelcome reminder.
He might have conquered his fear of bandits. He might be growing stronger by the day. But this was a world where things that could blot out the sun and shatter continents were not just myths—they were a part of its fundamental fabric, waiting in the wings.
Torin wanted nothing to do with them.
Still, one couldn't easily hide from such things, and so he'd continue to grow stronger, not because he wished to stand up to such catastrophes, but to endure, or at least outrun them.
He was more than happy to let the Dragonborn do the heavy lifting, whoever they were, wherever they were right now, perhaps even some snot-nosed kid chasing chickens in a village somewhere.
That was their cosmic burden to bear, not his, and truth be told, Torin wanted even less to do with the future Hero of Skyrim than he did with the dragons.
An ancient, god-like beast was one thing; it was a force of nature, predictable in its destructive purpose. But a demigod with the fragile, unpredictable mind and will of a mortal?
That was a recipe for chaos he had no interest in tasting. He had enough on his plate just trying to survive and understand this world without getting tangled in the schemes of would-be gods and the mortals destined to kill them.
Still, that was enough existential dread for one day, Torin decided, giving his head a final, clearing shake. The monumental terror of Alduin had no place here on a snowy mountainside when he had a job to do. He gave Echo's head a firm, grounding pat, feeling the solid reality of her warm fur beneath his palm.
He took a breath, ready to stand and tell Skjor he was good to move, when the crunch of deliberate footsteps wading through the deep snow caught his ear. He looked up, his mood instantly souring.
It was the male elf—Larethil, that was his name—approaching them with that same polished, unreadable smile plastered on his face.
Torin's face darkened. He slumped back onto the rock with a quiet groan.
"Great," he muttered under his breath, the frosty air swallowing the words. "Just what I needed."
...
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