4E 201, Shor's Stone, A month later
Serana
Shor's Stone was a quaint little town nestled in the Rift's pine-coated lowlands, and Serana found herself… content.
She didn't expect that word to ever apply to her. Not after everything. But here she was.
Gerron was of course busy being the de facto leader that he was. While Filnjar is officially titled the town master, he acts more like Gerron's steward if anything. Grogmar was officially the Captain of the Guard, his responsibilities revolving around the town's growing militia.
Even now, aside from teaching the blacksmiths of the town and smithing his own new weapons and armor from the dragonbone and scales, Gerron handled whatever decisions of defense, infrastructure, or governance were concerned.
Serana had decided she would help him do that. In her own way.
"Destruction is much easier if you choose which element to focus on early," she said to the circle seated around her. "Fire, Frost, or Lightning. Meditate on one. Understand its nature. Only then will it obey your will."
Around her sat eight of her new apprentices. While they were far from the quality of mages she's used to being surrounded by, they were the ones with the most potential she had found in the town.
Seven of them were young—no older than twenty—and still green in the ways of magic. The last one was quite different from the others.
Erandur was a Dunmer man in his fifties and claimed to be a wandering Priest of Mara, looking for a place to settle after months on the road. That much was true perhaps, but Serana had detected something beneath the surface.
His shoulders carried a weight unspoken. His smile, while genuine, had a tremble. He wasn't fully forthcoming with his identity, and Serana assumed it had something to do with the way he kept watching the others with a protective gaze, like a man atoning for something in his past.
Still, his mastery of Restoration was even better than hers. And when he proposed a small temple of Mara in Shor's Stone, Gerron approved without hesitation—on the condition that Erandur provided at least a quarter of the funds and helped Serana teach the apprentices.
Serana didn't trust him yet and was prepared to keep an eye on him, just in case.
The days passed, and autumn crept in like a quiet guest, draping the hills in burnt gold and copper red. One of the first things Gerron had done in the month of their arrival was to turn his old house into a workshop, a paradise for any blacksmith, alchemist, or enchanter to be.
All the stations and instruments were state-of-the-art Dwemer make, containing every tool and appliance that a craftsman would need. The room of reagents alone could rival most apothecaries, the ingredients he had gathered in his travels that were all previously stored in his storage space.
He had allowed her access to the alchemists station, and she kept herself busy. She asked him for more of the blood potions Gerron called Redwater Skooma to study, to see if she can create more and perhaps even improve it.
The blood potion created by Venarus Vulpin was decent, though there were many flaws. The first was that it was highly addictive, though she was thankfully spared from it due to her status as a pureblooded vampire. The next was that the boost in strength was not only temporary, but it also left the user fatigued for days on end.
It had extremely high potential, one she intended on perfecting. If she was right, then this potion would be a massive boon for vampires in all of Tamriel. If she succeeded in refining the recipe, Serana believed it could provide an alternative for vampires everywhere—a substitute for human blood.
Aside from the busy days, she found herself enjoying her time here. Serana had spent her entire life in a castle, with servants and maids looking after her every whim. But here, she found herself to be in the inner council of the leader of the town.
Most of her time was spent on teaching, and to her surprise, she enjoyed it. The act of watching her students' eyes light up when they reach a certain milestone brought for a satisfaction she never felt before.
There was an appeal in staying and looking after a small town in the countryside. Though of course, it wouldn't stay a small town forever. Even now, new houses and businesses were cropping up almost daily. Shor's Stone now had taverns and inns aplenty.
Whatever free courtyards were used by children to play or by the militia to train in. From what she last heard, their numbers had swelled to at least a hundred men, a mix of heavy and light infantry as well as archers. Serana had heard Grogmar planning to include horse training to the men to at least have a few cavalry in there.
A few horse breeders were found among the many new refugees, and Filnjar had ordered some of his pages to ride to Riften to buy a fresh batch of horses. Stables were already being built in one of the corners of the rapidly expanding town.
Serana stood at the edge of the training hall now, arms crossed as she watched the apprentices practice. Novice level spells erupted from their fingers—Flames, Frostbite, and Sparks—towards the wooden targets she had set up on the other side.
They were far from ever being ready to be court mages that Gerron expected them to be, but it was a good start. Erandur was of course much better, having four decades of experience over the rest.
He was currently knelt beside a younger boy, muttering softly as he guided his hands to form a ward—a clean, translucent curve of magical energy that shimmered in the torchlight. It held firm. The boy beamed.
That was when the doors to the training room opened and one of Filnjar's pages entered. "Lady Serana, Master Filnjar bid me to invite you to the long hall. There's news. Master Gerron is already there."
"What happened?" Serana arched her brow.
"They say Windhelm was attacked by a dragon."
…
4E 201, Mythic Dawn Headquarters, hidden deep in the Reach
Calixto
Calixto narrowed his eyes, sweat trailing down the curve of his brow, though his body remained light—almost airy. His grip tightened around the training dagger in his hand. Custom forged to match the length and weight of Mehrunes' Razor, it served him well enough for practice spars such as these. The real Razor was sheathed on his belt, never leaving his person.
Three acolytes encircled him. All clad in deep crimson robes, their faces marked with golden symbols of Dagon's flame. They moved in rhythm, each trained to work in tandem. Two held curved blades, one wielded a long spear.
The months of training had proven fruit. Every day from dusk till dawn he spent it in the yard, perfecting his already formidable skill in combat. While his pride rankled in being taught and beat by the people he believed his lessers, the results spoke for themselves.
Apprentice level mastery in both the Destruction and Illusion schools of magic, as well mastering one-handed dagger combat were only the few things he had learned.
After being chosen as Dagon's champion, his combat instincts had turned supernatural. He could move faster, think clearer. It was as if the world slowed, allowing to see everything around him with clear precision.
So when the spearman lunged forward in a clear motion to stab him, Calixto didn't think. He simply moved.
He sidestepped with supernatural grace—his heightened senses slowing the world around him. The wind brushed against his skin as he caught the spear's shaft mid-thrust, yanked it forward with a sudden jerk, and slammed his forehead into the acolyte's face. A crunch of cartilage. Blood burst from the man's nose as he reeled backward, stunned.
Another moved behind him, blade arcing for Calixto's side.
He dropped low, rolled under the slash, then came up behind the attacker in a flash. Before the acolyte could react, Calixto whispered a word in his mind—"Drex."—and thrust his palm forward.
A pulse of red magicka pulsed out, a Fear spell glowing sickly crimson as it struck the man's face.
The reaction was immediate.
Eyes wide with panic, the acolyte dropped his weapon, screamed, and fled across the yard like a whipped dog.
"Two left," Calixto muttered, pivoting back to the spear-wielder just as the third came from his flank with another blade.
The two remaining acolytes tried to coordinate, pushing him toward the edge of the sparring ring. But their mortal bodies lacked the reflexes Dagon had gifted him. Their strikes felt telegraphed. Slow and predictable.
He parried the first strike, twisted his blade under the spear's shaft, and locked the weapon down with his forearm. With a sudden step forward, he drove his dagger across the third acolyte's chest in a slicing arc—not enough to kill, but enough to drop him to the ground in pain. A Firebolt followed from his other hand, singing the edge of the spearman's robes and forcing him back.
Calixto gave him no room to retreat.
He rushed forward, thrusting his dagger under the man's ribs, a non-lethal strike that could easily be fixed by one the healer acolytes. He pulled out the blade, letting his opponent fall unceremoniously to the ground.
The courtyard fell silent, save for the groans of the defeated.
He stood there, surrounded by fallen bodies, his chest rising steadily—not with fatigue, but exhilaration. His training had borne fruit.
And it felt good.
"Bravo."
The sound of clapping echoed from the archway.
Calixto turned, face tightening as Ruma Camoran approached with a smirk filled with mockery. She wore similar red robes to the rest of the order, though there were certain embellishments to mark the difference in status. Her eyes were pale red rubies that Calixto once thought to be beautiful. Though of course, that was before he realized beneath the exotic exterior, the only daughter of Mankar Camoran was a hateful and jealous woman to her core.
"Looks like you're now capable enough to take down three of the Mythic Dawn's acolytes," she said, arms crossed. "Such a proud achievement for the Chosen of Dagon.
He rolled his eyes. He had long since grown tired of her passive-aggressive jabs. Since the day he was chosen by Mehrunes Dagon, she had made no effort to hide her contempt. She, born of a Daedric zealot's bloodline, overshadowed by a relative nobody like him.
She had made her feelings known and Calixto merely ignored her words. After all, he was the chosen one, not her. Nothing she could say could ever change that.
"What do you want, woman?" he asked dryly, wiping his sweat with a cloth.
Ruma's smirk faltered for a moment before she mirrored his indifference and turned her head. "Father wants to see you. He has news."
"News?"
She didn't elaborate. He put down the training dagger and followed her, a hand on the Razor's hilt. He could see her eyes lingered on it—hungry, jealous. She said nothing as she turned and walked away, leading him deeper into the bowels of the stronghold.
The corridors of the Mythic Dawn's sanctuary were a maze of stone, lit only by blue torches enchanted with ever-burning flame. Ancient banners bearing the Daedric letter "Oht" fluttered with unseen wind.
When they arrived, Mankar was standing by the balcony of his high chamber, overlooking the mist-cloaked mountains of the Reach. Beside him was Raven Camoran, who mirrored his father's action in gazing at the high mountaintops.
Unlike his sister, Mankar's sole son was an agreeable man that Calixto had surprisingly good relations with. He was a capable warrior and an expert Conjuration mage, having earned the loyalty of many of the more zealot acolytes.
"Ah, Calixto," Mankar said, not turning to face him. "We've found it."
Calixto blinked. "Found what?"
Mankar turned at last, revealing the satisfied gleam in his smile. "An Elder Scroll."
Calixto's eyes widened.
"One of our agents arrived not long ago," Mankar continued. "Rushed halfway across the Reach on horseback. He saw something… curious."
"He was among the ones stationed hidden in the Hall of Vigilants. Around a month ago, he saw a vampire woman arrive with Vigilant Tolan and a man with ebony armor. They met Keeper Carcette and her daughter in private. Whatever conversation happened behind closed doors, but what matters was that she carried the scroll on her back." Mankar's smile widened. "She left the next day without it."
"Which means it was given to the Vigilants," Raven said. "Protected in their hall."
"What business does the Vigilants have with a Vampire? They abhor anything Daedric related." Calixto asked with a raised brow.
Raven snorted. "Does it matter what the reason is? This is an opportunity of a lifetime. If we could procure the scroll for our own use, then—"
"We could open as many Oblivion Gates as we need. Anywhere, anytime, thus bringing forth a new crisis to Tamriel." Ruma continued, her voice tinged with fanatic zeal. "A real one. One worthy of Dagon's glory."
The thought sent a ripple of thrill through Calixto's chest. The image of cities burning, of Tamriel falling beneath Daedric flame—it filled him with purpose. Destiny.
Mankar turned to him. "You shall lead the attack, and both my children shall go with you as your lieutenants. Many of our acolytes still look at you with doubts, Calixto. Prove to them that you are Dagon's Champion and put these worries to rest."
He paused, then added with an ominous glint, "Retrieve the scroll, and burn whatever stands in your way."
Calixto nodded slowly, an evil grin spreading across his face.
"Consider it done."
The Mythic Dawn would rise again.
And this time, nothing would stop them.
…
AN: Serana's finding a new purpose in life as a teacher. The visit to the College of Winterhold is bound to be interesting at the very least.
Not hiding the scroll in her first visit brings about consequences. The Hall of Vigilants is about to get some pretty nasty visitors.
As always, more chapters are available on my Pat_reon. Chapter 38 should be available by the time this chapter was posted. Just look up my name and you'll find me.
Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Cheers!