Torin's stunned silence was broken by the creak of the stairs. Qasim descended with calm purpose, his curved sword held low and ready, while Echo padded hesitantly behind him, her nose twitching at the strange, cold energy in the air.
"A spirit…?" Qasim murmured, his dark eyes scanning the blue-lit room before settling on the pantry door. "How unexpected."
Torin let out a long, slow sigh, the adrenaline finally starting to bleed away, replaced by a deep, weary bewilderment. "Tell me about it." He turned his gaze back to the innkeeper, who was still trembling on the floor. "Alright, out with it. Who did you piss off so badly that they came back from the grave to haunt your pantry, woman?"
The innkeeper shot him a look that was a volatile mix of terror and deep offense. "Who do you take me for, you whelp?! I'm just an innkeeper! I serve ale and roast meat! I've never harmed a soul in my life!"
Qasim quickly stepped between them, his voice a placating murmur. "Let us not be hasty in our conclusions. The dead rarely linger out of simple resentment. It is a weak tether."
His own gaze grew sharper, more focused, as he studied the pulsating light around the door. "This one… it speaks of searching. It has the sound of a duty unfulfilled, or a wish that outlasted death. That is likely why it has not attacked. Yet."
The 'yet' hung in the chilled air. The innkeeper flinched, but then her eyes widened with sudden, desperate recollection.
"Wait… I remember now! My mother told me about this, once!" She took a shaky, deep breath, pulling herself up to sit. "The man she and my father bought this inn from… he warned them. Said the place was haunted by the ghost of one of Tiber Septim's own soldiers. But that it almost never appeared, maybe once in a blue moon…"
Her voice trailed off, and she looked horrified by her own words. "I always thought… I always thought it was just another ruse. Another story to tell, like the—"
She clamped her mouth shut, her face flushing a deep, guilty red.
Torin shot her a knowing look, one eyebrow creeping toward his hairline. "Like the… bed?" he finished for her, his tone dry.
The innkeeper's expression turned deeply nervous, caught in her own gimmick.
Torin just chuckled, a low, humorless sound, and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "No need to worry. I won't go out of my way to interfere with your livelihood."
Truth be told, Torin wasn't even upset about the extra ten coins for the room. It was larger, it was warm, and the stone bed, while hard, was a damn sight better than the wind-whipped, damp ground by the river.
He was a Nord, born with a tolerance for the cold, but even he had his limits. A roof and four walls were worth a small premium, gimmick or not.
None of that mattered now, though. He had a ghost in a pantry to deal with.
He cleared his throat, addressing the still-shaken innkeeper. "Well, look. If this spirit only shows up once in a blue moon and hasn't hurt anyone, maybe the best course is to just… let it be. Ignore it. If you have to do something, hire a proper priest of Arkay. Or send for the Vigilants of Stendarr. Wandering spirits are their line of work."
The innkeeper shook her head vigorously, her earlier bravado completely gone. "A traveling priest of Arkay stayed here last winter. He blessed the whole common room for good business. Didn't bat an eye. Didn't sense a thing."
She rubbed her temple, looking exhausted. "And the Vigilants… they came through once, hunting some Daedra-worshipper. Turned the place inside out, questioned everyone. They didn't sense the spirit either."
Torin let out a thoughtful hum. That was strange. Either the ghost was incredibly weak, or it was… specific. "Then maybe it's not haunting your inn. Maybe it's haunting this specific patch of ground. The old fort. It just happens to be inside your pantry at the moment for whatever reason."
He offered a casual shrug, the Haste spell's last remnants making the gesture feel too quick. "Not that it matters to me. My business is with the living. I'm heading back to sleep."
He turned on his heel, ready to put the eerie blue light and the lonely voice behind him. A ghost that didn't bother priests or monster-hunters was a ghost he could ignore.
He'd only taken three steps toward the stairs when Qasim moved, a blur of dark robes, to stand directly in his path. The Redguard's face was set in an expression of serene, immovable resolve.
"This," Qasim said, his voice calm but firm, "is not something we should turn away from."
Torin's lips instantly pursed into a thin, irritated line. He fixed Qasim with an expression of pure annoyance. "And why is that? Give me one good reason."
Qasim looked him straight in the eye, his gaze unwavering. "Because it is what we must do. A duty presents itself. To ignore it is a choice, and not a virtuous one." His tone was calm, but it radiated a rock-solid resolve. "Just because this spirit is not causing overt harm does not mean we should allow it to continue suffering, trapped between worlds. If we can help it find peace, then we are obligated to try."
Torin let out an exasperated sigh, the sound harsh in the cold, blue-lit room. "Obligated? Listen to yourself. Just because you can do something doesn't mean you must. Half of wisdom is knowing when to act. The other half is restraint. Knowing when to walk away."
"Then you should be able to restrain yourself from turning away," Qasim countered smoothly, "even if you wish to. That is the higher discipline."
Torin opened his mouth to fire back another retort, but the words died. He just rubbed his temple, a headache blooming behind his eyes. "Whatever. I'm not going to stand here and debate philosophy with you in the middle of the night while a ghost whines in a cupboard. I want nothing to do with this. I can practically hear my stone slab of a bed calling my name."
With that, he deliberately stepped to the side and walked past Qasim, aiming for the stairs and blessed, ignorant sleep.
Again, he only made it a few paces before he paused. This time, Qasim didn't move to block him. He just spoke, his voice cutting through the eerie quiet.
"So, you wish to keep running?"
Torin froze. He turned around slowly, a deep frown carving lines into his face. "What did you just say?"
Qasim met his gaze, utterly calm. "I said, you wish to keep running. You have been running from that cursed book for over a month now, throwing it away only for it to return. And you tried to run from the trouble in Granite Hill as well, before duty compelled you otherwise."
Hearing those words, the only coherent thought in Torin's mind was: Is this guy serious?
The more he stood there, the more incredible it seemed that Qasim had made it all the way from Hammerfell to Skyrim without getting himself killed.
This fool's head was so stuffed with idealistic straw and holy proverbs that there was no room left for caution, let alone common sense. He wandered into bandit-infested woods to hunt spriggans for half-price and now wanted to have a chat with a millennia-old ghost.
The only reason someone could act like this, Torin reasoned, was because they'd never been properly corrected. Never been sat down—or knocked down—and had reality explained to them in simple, painful terms.
Torin himself hadn't even reached the point of arrogance before life had beaten it out of him. He'd been an infant when he learned about helplessness. Then came the crazy beggar with the blood-red book, a lesson in cosmic... in something.
And even inbetween, growing up in Jorrvaskr, surrounded by the likes of Kodlak, Aela, and the twins, that kind of self-righteous attitude had no room to breathe.
They were all incredible warriors who'd be more than happy to put a swollen head in its place with a well-timed punch or a grueling training session.
Sure, he'd beaten Vilkas in a spar once, but Torin wasn't under any illusion that made him the better warrior. He was almost certain the clever twin had gone easy on him, testing his limits rather than trying to break him.
But Qasim? Qasim acted like he'd never had that lesson. Like the universe just bent around his sense of duty.
To be fair, Torin thought with a grimace, this is partially my fault too. He'd let the guy have his way one too many times. Helping the trapped miner, saving the hunter from the bear… there was no real harm in it, and the coin was good. He'd written it off as the price of traveling with a walking moral compass.
But now? Now, Qasim was accusing him of running. From a cursed book of horrors and from his duty that wasn't even his. The audacity of it, the sheer, preachy gall, lit a fuse in Torin's gut. The warm, sleepy feeling was gone, burned away by a cold, sharp anger.
He was starting to seriously consider if he should be the one to finally give Qasim that long-overdue lesson. To show him, in terms a swordsman would understand, exactly where sticking your nose into other people's business—and their private struggles—could get you.
Torin's grip on the warhammer tightened until his knuckles were white. Maybe if he cracked that self-righteous skull open just a little, it would make some room for a dose of common sense…
Qasim himself was quick to notice the sudden, dangerous shift in the air. He saw the murderous intent flashing in Torin's eyes and realized, perhaps too late, that he had stepped far over a line.
Torin took one heavy, deliberate step toward him, the floorboard groaning under his weight, his entire posture radiating a promise of violence.
That's when the blue light erupted between them.
It wasn't just light; it was a physical force, a wave of icy, spectral energy so intense and heavy that it stole the breath from Torin's lungs. Both he and Qasim were thrown back a step, throwing their arms up to shield their eyes from the blinding glare.
Across the room, they heard a yelp and a crash as the innkeeper was sent tumbling across the dining area by the shockwave.
By the time the brilliance waned to a bearable, pulsating glow, Torin lowered his arm—and froze.
Standing between him and Qasim was an ethereal figure. It was massive, towering so tall and broad-shouldered that Torin, who was used to looking men in the eye, had to take an involuntary step back just to take it all in.
The spirit's form shimmered, its features blurred like a reflection in disturbed water, but its outline was unmistakable. It wore ancient, heavy Nordic armor, ornate and brutal, and upon its head sat a great, horned helmet.
And it was looking straight down. At Torin.
"HJALTI!" the spirit boomed, its voice a chorus of echoes filled with desperate, joyous recognition. "You finally returned! I knew you would!"
A massive, translucent hand reached out towards Torin, a gesture of brotherly greeting from across the centuries. It froze halfway, hovering in the air. The joyous energy vanished, replaced by a crushing, palpable disappointment. The spirit seemed to… deflate.
In a voice that was suddenly small, shaky, and utterly downcast, it murmured, "You… you are not Hjalti. Though… his token hangs upon your neck…"
Torin's hand flew instinctively to his chest, his fingers closing around the cool, uneven metal of the hawk amulet he'd bought in Falkreath. The silver-ish metal seemed to hum faintly against his skin.
All thoughts of throttling Qasim vanished, burned away by a surge of white-hot, undeniable curiosity. This ancient ghost, this soldier of Tiber Septim, recognized the amulet.
Suddenly, the twenty septims for the room felt like the bargain of the era, and Qasim's insistence didn't seem so foolish anymore.
...
I'm motivated by praise and interaction, so be sure to leave a like, power stone, or whatever kind of shendig this site uses, and more importantly do share you thoughts on the chapter in the comment section!
Want more chapters? Then consider subscribing to my pat rēon. You can read ahead for as little as $1 and it helps me a lot!
-> (pat rēon..com / wicked132)
You can also always come and say hi on my discord server
-> (disc ord..gg / sEtqmRs5y7)- or hit me up at - Wicked132#5511 - and I'll add you myself)