Torygg stared at Torin, his expression settling into a calm, unreadable mask. The young king was good at that—hiding the whirlwind of thoughts behind a placid surface.
Torin's proposal, for all its boldness and the blunt way it was delivered, wasn't some revolutionary, unheard-of strategy. Stripped of its 'Storm-Caller' bluntness, the core idea—Skyrim asserting its independence while forming a pragmatic northern alliance—had been whispered in the corridors of the Blue Palace before.
Some of his more… ambitious… advisors had presented variations of it, wrapped in florid language and self-serving justifications.
That wasn't why he'd invited Torin. He hadn't summoned a wandering Companion to receive grand political counsel from a teenager, no matter how formidable that teenager was.
Torygg was painfully, acutely aware of his own inexperience. He'd grown up in a palace, learning statecraft from scrolls and carefully curated conversations.
He'd never had to fight for his supper, or navigate the brutal, unvarnished realities of Skyrim's wilderness and its people.
Probing the worldview of someone like Torin—a warrior who'd grown up in the rough brotherhood of Jorrvaskr, who traveled the holds, who dealt with bandits, monsters, and dark mages with equal pragmatism—was a way to compensate for that lack.
He'd wanted perspective. A ground-level view. Raw, unfiltered opinion.
He certainly hadn't expected Torin to stride in and start offering a fully-formed, alternative future for the kingdom. Not that he took offense, or even found it particularly audacious. In a strange way, he found it admirable. The sheer, stubborn conviction of it.
What was truly fascinating was the contradiction in the man himself. Just yesterday, Torin had radiated an aura of intense reluctance, of wanting to be anywhere else. Today, he stood here, handing over symbolic axes and outlining wars of independence with a grim-faced certainty.
The shift was dramatic. Almost funny.
The critical question now wasn't about the merit of the plan. It was about the man proposing it.
Was his initial reluctance born from a genuine understanding of the weight of this matter? From knowing that meddling in the fate of kings could ripple out and ruin countless lives? And was his sudden boldness now born from a colder realization: that sometimes, the worst thing you can do is nothing?
Or was this all just… whim? The fancy of a powerful young man with strange knowledge, treating the destiny of a nation as an interesting intellectual puzzle? A simple game?
Torygg needed to know. The content of Torin's views on Ulfric, the Empire, and Skyrim's path were one thing. But his sincerity was everything.
If the conviction was real, if the reluctant sense of duty was genuine, then this unconventional young Companion could be an asset of immense, unpredictable value. A voice from outside the gilded cage, untainted by court politics.
If it was not… if this was just playacting, or the arrogance of youth mistaking cleverness for wisdom, then the kindest thing to do was to return the axe, wish him fair winds, and send him on his way before his ideas caused any real damage.
The King's gaze remained locked on Torin's, his voice dropping to something quieter, more probing. "And what of the axe?" he asked, the question pointed. "It is not just a symbol. You gave it with purpose."
Torin nodded. "The handle is inscribed. My name, in the old letters. And… some of the more notable foes I've slain. It's a—"
"—a part of your legacy," Torygg interjected smoothly, his understanding clear. "Your claim to glory. Your ticket, one day, to Sovngarde's mead hall. To give it to another man, especially a king, is to declare him your kin in all but blood. It binds your honor to mine from this day forward. But not the other way around. Not unless I present you with something of equal value in return."
He paused, his head tilting slightly. "So I ask again, Storm-Caller. Why? Why offer such a bond for… a conversation?"
Torin smiled faintly to himself. It had been foolish to think he needed to explain ancient Nord customs to the High King of Skyrim. The man understood the weight perfectly.
He cleared his throat, his tone shifting back to the grimly practical. "It's the how," he said simply. "How you can rid Skyrim of Ulfric. Cleanly. Without starting a civil war that bleeds the holds dry. Challenge him to a duel. A traditional challenge of honor, king to jarl. And name me your champion."
He let the idea hang in the air between them, cold and lethal. "I'll remove the biggest, most dangerous obstacle in your path. After that… the rest is up to you. Whether you continue to support the Empire from a position of renewed inner strength and unity, or break free from their influence entirely. But the rabid dog will be gone."
Torygg gave him a long, deeply strange look—a mixture of shock, calculation, and a flicker of something like admiration for the sheer, brutal audacity.
"If I didn't know any better," he said slowly, "I'd assume this entire audience, this whole 'unbiased perspective,' was an elaborate ploy you concocted. A scheme to get yourself a sanctioned duel with Ulfric Stormcloak and claim the glory of striking him down."
Torin couldn't help but let out a short, genuine chuckle. The idea was so ludicrously out of character it was almost funny. "I understand why you'd think that," he said, shaking his head. "Given the glory-hounding reputation of the Companions. But we're not that… subtle. Or that patient. If one of my shield-siblings wanted to fight Ulfric, they'd be more likely to just barge into the Palace of Kings, bludgeon their way through the guards, and challenge him to a brawl in the middle of his own throne room."
He shrugged. "This… this is different."
Torygg's smile returned, thin but real. "Aye," he conceded. "I suppose that is true. Your brothers and sisters are not known for their political delicacy." His smile faded, replaced by that probing intensity.
"But even then… you didn't even flinch as you suggested dueling a master of the Thu'um. A man who shouted many foes to pieces. You speak of it like clearing out a wolf den, not facing one of the most dangerous men in Tamriel."
Torin shrugged, the movement conveying a weary acceptance of necessity rather than bravado. "I'd rather not fight him at all unless I had to..." he admitted bluntly. "And yet… I do. Killing him in an ambush, or through poison, or in a mass battle… it just makes him a martyr. A symbol. And symbols are harder to kill than men. Once he's gone that way, another firebrand will just take his place, waving his banner."
He shook his head, his expression grimly certain. "A duel. A formal, public challenge of honor, to the death. It's the only way to dismantle him completely. You challenge his self-proclaimed destiny on the field he claims as his own—personal combat. You don't just kill the man; you shatter the legend." He gave Torygg a pointed, slightly exasperated look. "Which you should already know. So, with all due respect, Your Majesty, I'd appreciate it if you stopped trying to test me and just said what you're really thinking."
Torygg just offered a faint, unreadable smile, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. Then he let out another long sigh, the sound full of the day's accumulating weight. "Still… to hear even you, with your reputation, say you'd rather not face him… does that mean no one can confidently face a master of the Voice?"
Torin promptly shook his head. "No one with a shred of sense would be 'confident' facing a true master of the Thu'um. It's like being confident you can outrun a blizzard."
A dry, humorless smirk touched his lips.
"Fortunately for us, Ulfric is no such master. No matter how much he'd like the world to think otherwise." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. "The word-powers he's actually mastered? I'd be surprised if it's more than four. I doubt he even learned one full, three-word Shout before he stormed out of High Hrothgar. He's a dilettante with a divine crutch, not a Greybeard."
Torygg gave him a deeply skeptical look. "Even so. He did topple a section of Markarth's wall with his voice alone during the Reachman uprising. That's not the feat of a 'dilettante.'"
Torin's grin returned, sharp and edged with a cold challenge. "He'll find me a lot more persistent than some stack of millenia-old stone." He patted the massive haft of the axe on his back. "And who's to say I can't bring down a city's wall with my axe?"
Torygg crossed his arms, a thoughtful, almost amused glint in his eye. "Now that," he said, "is something I would genuinely like to see. A wall versus that axe of yours."
He turned and picked up the gifted woodcutter's axe from the rail, turning it over in his hands once more before tucking it firmly into his own belt.
The gesture was symbolic, an acceptance of the bond, if not yet the plan.
"I will have to think on your… offer," Torygg stated, his voice returning to a king's measured tone. "It is not a small thing you propose. And I do not believe Jarl Ulfric is quite the delusional, rabid fool you make him out to be. He is a complex man. A dangerous one, yes, but not without cause or charisma."
Torin's smile was knowing, almost pitying. "You only need to know where to look to see what I see. The evidence isn't hidden; it's just painted over with pretty words about honor and Talos."
He paused, then dropped the line like a hook. "I'd start with the circumstances of his capture by the Thalmor at the end of the Great War. And the even more curious circumstances of his… release."
Torygg's expression changed. The thoughtful amusement vanished, replaced by a flicker of sharp, uneasy recognition. The rumor was an old, ugly one, whispered in the darkest corners of political gossip.
"Aye," he said quietly, his gaze turning inward. "Perhaps… I will look into it. And if the man is as vile as you claim at his core… I might even act on your advice."
His grin returned, warmer this time, touched with genuine feeling as he patted the axe haft. "Either way, Storm-Caller, I am keeping the axe. I have never received such a… precious gift in all my life. Only my crown carries more weight..."
Torin inclined his head. "I would not do you the dishonor of asking for it back. It is yours. The bond is made."
He took a step forward, leaning on the balcony rail again, his eyes drifting down to the courtyard. Below, a third young recruit was now facing the Thalmor soldier, looking just as doomed as the last two. But Torin's mind was far from the petty spectacle of elven bullying.
He was deliberating, his thoughts a cold river flowing beneath a calm surface.
In truth, whether Torygg chose to break with the Empire or not mattered less to Torin than the man probably imagined. From the perspective of a Nord's pride and long-term destiny, an independent Skyrim, strong in its own right and leading a coalition of the northern provinces, was an ideal worth striving for.
It was audacious, glorious, and for the first time in centuries, it felt within reach. More than that—the seat of a new empire, a Nordic-led one, wasn't even an impossible dream.
But continuing to support the Empire wasn't a bad choice, either. It was the safer, more pragmatic path. Given time to heal and re-arm, the Empire would eventually be ready to face the Altmer of the Summerset Isles again.
They'd have a fair chance at victory next time. It was the path of least immediate bloodshed, the one that avoided a devastating civil war and a potential Thalmor invasion while the races of men were divided.
It just meant another era of playing second fiddle to the corrupt, decaying political machine in Cyrodiil. And even if a strong Emperor rose to cleanse the rot, it would always grow back. In a hundred years, a thousand. The cycle was inevitable.
The Thalmor would invade again, or some new threat would rise, and Skyrim would be expected to bleed for a distant throne that saw her as a resource, not a partner.
Both paths had their logic. Both had their costs. One was a gamble for lasting sovereignty, the other a bargain for temporary, managed safety. The wheel of history kept turning, crushing the same hopes, spilling the same blood, only the names changed.
Torin knew he couldn't break the eternal cycle of empires rising and falling, of corruption and purges, of war and fleeting peace. He didn't even want to. The scale was too vast, the machinery too old and too heavy.
All he could do—all he wanted to do—was to help make the things within his immediate reach a little better. To sand down a few of the sharper, more poisonous edges of the world directly in front of him.
And that could be done. Relatively easily, in fact.
It started with Ulfric Stormcloak's downfall. Something Torin was now certain he would bring about personally, especially now that Torygg had accepted the axe and the bond it represented.
One of the many topics Torin had focused on in his spare time, buried in ancient Jorrvaskr texts and dusty hold records, was Nordic tradition. Not just the songs and the mead-hall boasts, but the hard, legalistic codes of honor and kingship. That study had clarified things that had confused him in his half-remembered previous life.
Like how a Jarl could even have the right to challenge a High King to a fight to the death. And why that High King would be expected to fight himself.
The answer was nuanced. A High King's life wasn't solely his own; his death meant instability for the entire kingdom. So tradition did provide an out: the king could name a champion to fight in his stead. It was a right, but one that had to be invoked with care and preparation.
The problem with Ulfric's challenge, in that other timeline, had been its sudden, shocking brutality. It was abrupt, public, and utterly unprovoked in the moment.
Torygg, a young king trying to navigate a peaceful moot, would have had no time to find, let alone name, a suitable champion.
If he'd tried to delay, to invoke his right, Ulfric's supporters would have branded him a coward before the eyes of all Skyrim, undermining his authority more surely than any defeat.
And even if he had managed to name a champion… who, in all of Solitude at that time, could have matched Ulfric Stormcloak?
This, of course, was simply Torin theorizing. He would never truly know what happened, or would happen, on that fateful day. All of it would remain as a possible future. He would make sure of that.
What Torin did know was this: here and now, Torygg—whether he chose to proactively challenge Ulfric or simply prepare for the inevitable—would have a champion at the ready. One not afraid of Ulfric and with reason to fight for the High King. Him.
That was what he could do. That was the "better" within his reach. He could be the steel in the king's hand when the time came, the answer to the shouted challenge. He could fix that one, catastrophic mistake before it ever happened.
His gaze, which had been turned inward on these cold calculations, sharpened and refocused on the present. It settled on the smug, contemptuous expression of the Thalmor agent in the courtyard below, who was now lecturing the bruised and humiliated recruits on their 'fundamental inadequacies.'
A slow, vicious smile spread across Torin's face.
Well. While he was here, making things a little better within his reach… he could fix with something small. Something immediate. Something that involved wiping that particular smirk off a very specific pointy-eared face.
...
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