The Briarheart's single-minded aggression vanished. The moment that blade of solidified spirit-light flickered into existence in Qasim's hand, the creature froze mid-step. Its fiery sword lowered a fraction, as if the very nature of the light was a physical threat. A low, confused growl rattled in its chest, the sound echoing from within the elk-skull helmet.
Qasim, on the other hand, moved with a new, terrible calm. He turned the shimmering blade in his hand, adjusting his grip on a weapon that had no weight. His stance settled, all his previous frustration and retreat gone, replaced by a focused, lethal stillness.
He lunged.
He covered the distance in a blur, a silent streak against the grey stone. The spirit-sword, held low at his left side, was primed for a single, devastating upward diagonal slash—a classic move to open an opponent from hip to shoulder.
Torin saw it. The Briarheart, for all its cursed nature, saw it too. The opening was obvious, the intent clear. The Forsworn champion reacted with its trademark brute-force defense.
It took a heavy step forward to meet the charge, raised its dripping, flaming blade high, and brought it down in a crushing, diagonal parry meant to smash Qasim's attack aside and cleave into the Redguard in the same motion.
The two warriors met in the center of the courtyard.
The flaming sword descended. The spirit-sword rose to meet it.
They should have connected with a shower of sparks and magic.
They didn't.
At the precise moment of impact, the spirit-sword in Qasim's hand did something impossible. It flickered. One instant it was a solid, glowing blade, the next it was a wisp of ethereal light, and then it was solid again. It wasn't a parry. It was a phase.
The Briarheart's heavy strike met no resistance. Its flaming blade passed right through the insubstantial spirit-sword as if slicing empty air. The force of its own missed blow threw the creature slightly off-balance.
Qasim's attack, however, never stopped. His upward slash continued its graceful, unimpeded arc.
The spirit-blade, now solid once more, sheared through the Briarheart's torso. It cut through hardened leather, ancient scars, and cursed flesh with a sound like tearing silk. The glowing edge passed directly through the gaping hole in the creature's chest, bisecting the pulsing, thorny Briarheart plant at its core.
A sickly green light flared from the split heart, then died instantly, turning ashen and grey.
The Briarheart shuddered. A wet, sighing groan escaped it. The immense strength bled out of its limbs. The flaming sword slipped from its grasp, clattering to the ground, the unnatural fire snuffing out with a final hiss.
The massive body followed, collapsing in a heap like a marionette with its strings cut.
Qasim stood over it, breathing steadily. He looked down at the fallen champion, then at the shimmering weapon of light in his hand. With a slow exhalation, he relaxed his will.
The spirit-sword dissolved, unraveling into motes of pale light that drifted away on the cold Reach wind, leaving his hand empty.
Silence returned to the Sundered Towers, deeper and more complete than before.
Even Torin had nothing to say.
What he'd just witnessed was… impressive. And it wasn't the precision of the strike, or the sheer skill in timing the phase, or even the fact that Qasim's sword could momentarily become intangible.
What truly stunned him was the restraint.
He'd felt it the moment that spirit-blade fully materialized. A pressure in the air, a silent hum that vibrated in his teeth and made Echo's fur stand on end.
That sword hadn't just been a weapon; it had been a statement. It held enough raw, conceptual cutting power to not just bisect the Briarheart, but to probably slice the entire Sundered Tower behind it clean in two.
And Qasim had held it back. He'd channeled that impossible power into a single, clean, surgical cut. The discipline that required… the sheer force of will to not let it all flood out in a wave of destruction… that was something Torin could respect on a fundamental level.
It was admirable. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud.
He shook off the stray thoughts, the analytical part of his brain already filing the 'spirit-sword phasing' trick away for future consideration, and pushed himself off the crumbling pillar.
He walked over to where Qasim now knelt beside the Briarheart's corpse, the air still smelling of ozone and burnt, unnatural foliage.
Qasim heard his approach but didn't look up, his gaze fixed on the split, withered plant-heart. "This… thing," the Redguard said, his voice quiet, almost troubled. "It did not move with reason. Only instinct. Rage and a desire to protect this place. It did not feel… right."
Finally, he turned his head to look at Torin, his dark eyes searching. "Are they all supposed to be like this? Empty vessels of power?"
Torin couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "You just sliced open a magical abomination with a sword made of your own soul, achieving the goal you've been preaching about since I met you in a Falkreath tavern… and you want to talk about the nature of Briarhearts?"
Qasim shook his head slowly, looking back at the corpse. "My journey is far from over. I have yet to enter Red Eagle's tomb. To see the place where the Shehai was last awakened."
Now it was Torin's turn to frown, genuinely puzzled. He crossed his arms. "What for? You just made one. You've got the spirit sword. Isn't that the whole point? Mission accomplished, pilgrim. Time to go home and brag to your sword-singing friends or whoever."
Qasim shook his head, a stubborn set to his jaw. "It is clear the gods put me on this path for a reason," he insisted, his voice low with conviction. "And this… this awakening, it does not feel like an end. It feels like a step. A signpost."
He turned his intense gaze fully on Torin, the weight of it almost physical. "And that is why I am asking you about this creature. It felt… wrong. Not just evil. Broken."
Torin just stared at him for a long moment, then let out a short, exasperated breath. He ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, yeah. The gods, the path, the cosmic whatever. Fine."
He gave a dismissive wave, as if swatting away the grand theological implications. "You want a practical answer? Your instincts, for once, aren't leading you astray. Something is wrong with this guy."
He crouched down beside the corpse, ignoring the faint, acrid smell. He pointed a finger at the split, withered briar plant nestled in the cavity of the chest.
"See that? The Briarheart ritual is supposed to be a… a trade. A willing sacrifice. The Forsworn gives up his mortal heart for power, to become a champion for his people. The Hagraven performs the ritual, but the warrior chooses it. It's a pact."
He tapped the air above the ragged, torn flesh around the plant's roots.
"This? This was a butcher job. The Hagraven didn't guide the ritual; she forced it. Ripped his heart out and crammed this thing in while he was probably still screaming. She broke the process. Broke him in the process. That's why he fought like a rabid animal, all instinct and rage. No will left. That's… blasphemy, even for those feathered hags. It's messy. Inefficient."
Qasim's confusion deepened, his brow furrowed. "Then why? If it weakens the champion, why do it at all?"
Torin straightened up with a shrug, wiping his hand on his thigh. "I wouldn't know. Maybe she was desperate. Maybe she was experimenting. Maybe the poor bastard was the only one strong enough to survive the butchering, so she used him anyway."
He looked around the desolate courtyard of the Sundered Towers, his eyes narrowing. "But there's definitely a story here. One that's uglier than the usual Forsworn fare. And the only one who can tell it…"
He let the sentence hang, his meaning clear.
"…is the Hagraven who did this," Qasim finished, his voice grim.
Exactly. They weren't just clearing a ruin. They'd stumbled into the middle of someone else's very bad day.
Torin's grin returned, sharp and focused. His gaze slid past the fallen Briarheart to a small, hide-covered tent pitched against one of the less-crumbled walls, not far from the stone shrine. A large, iron-banded chest sat prominently beside it.
"There," he said, jerking his chin towards it. "If old Hjalti's blade is anywhere in this dump, it'll be in the big, shiny box. And that," he added, glancing at the dormant, blackened sword in Qasim's hand, "should be the one you're after. And you already know where Red Eagle's tomb is. So…"
He didn't finish. He just started walking towards the tent, his meaning clear: My business here. Your business there. Let's wrap this up.
Qasim hefted the ancient, now-cool sword, feeling its unfamiliar weight. He fell into step behind Torin, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. "Are you really so eager to part ways, Storm-Caller?"
Torin didn't even look back. "In a manner of fact tone, old friend," he scoffed, "like you wouldn't believe."
He reached the chest and dropped to one knee beside it. No fumbling for lockpicks. He simply extended a hand, his fingers curling slightly. Faint, shimmering tendrils of telekinetic force, visible only as a heat-haze distortion, snaked from his fingertips into the keyhole.
Torin's eyes lost focus as he 'felt' his way through the intricate tumblers with his mind. A moment of silent concentration, then a soft, satisfying click echoed in the quiet.
He flipped the lid open.
And frowned.
No legendary blade gleamed back at him. Just the usual dungeon fare: a pouch of gold coins, a few mediocre jewels, some basic potions, and a locked wooden box that, when he cracked it open with a thought, revealed a collection of grotesque alchemy ingredients—hagraven feathers, human hearts preserved in brine, glowing fungi—alongside a handful of petty soul gems.
His gaze flicked to the makeshift alchemy table inside the tent, the scatter of black feathers on the ground by the bedroll. The owner was obvious.
This was the Hagraven's personal stash. Her petty cash box and ingredient cupboard.
"Damn it," Torin muttered under his breath. He pocketed the soul gems and a few gems without ceremony—always useful—and slammed the chest lid shut, the gold and weird alchemy reagents utterly uninteresting to him.
He straightened up, his annoyed sigh pluming in the cold air. His eyes lifted, scanning past the shrine to the two crumbling, skeletal towers that gave the place its name.
They loomed against the grey sky, hollow and foreboding.
Fine. If the ancient sword wasn't in the big, obvious chest at the villain's bedside… then logic dictated it was hidden in the big, obvious ruins.
Qasim moved to stand beside Torin, following his gaze to the twin, crumbling monoliths. The silence between them was less tense now, filled with the shared fatigue after a fight and the pragmatic understanding of a job half-done.
"I can help you search for the sword," Qasim offered, his voice calm. It wasn't preachy. It wasn't laden with metaphor. It was a simple statement of fact: two pairs of eyes and blades were better than one in a ruin that size.
Torin looked from the daunting, shadow-filled arches of the nearest tower back to Qasim. He let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire Reach. Annoyance warred with practicality on his face.
The towers did look immense. And dark. And full of who-knew-what. He was tired, hungry, and the thought of meticulously picking through every rubble-filled chamber by himself was profoundly unappealing.
"Well…" he grumbled, the word dragged out with deep reluctance. He shot one last, baleful look at the silent towers. "They do look rather annoyingly enormous. And I'm in a hurry."
It wasn't thanks. It wasn't warmth. But it was an acceptance.
...
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