I ran. I ran as if the entire world was crumbling behind me, as if death itself was on my heels. My breath tore through me, turning into fire that scorched my lungs. I ran until my legs buckled, until every shred of strength left me. And then, it happened.
As I collapsed to my knees, the fog around me thickened, its milky, red-tinged haze wrapping me like a burial shroud. I could barely see, but that didn't matter. The horror that had driven me to flee was gone, devoured by something even darker: despair, guilt, and grief. They hit me all at once, like a tidal wave, dragging me under. The weight of my own failure, of everything I had lost, crushed me.
And in that moment, as I screamed—a raw, guttural cry that ripped through the fog and echoed into nothingness—I knew something inside me had shattered.
I no longer cared.
Not about the others.
Not about their lives or their pain.
I wanted to go back.
I wanted to find Gregorius Clegius and rip his heart from his chest with my bare hands. To taste his blood, to feel the warmth of it spill over my fingers, as if that could somehow quench the fire devouring me. But I couldn't even stand. All I could do was kneel there, trembling, staring into the swirling fog that borrowed its sinister glow from Masser's red light.
And then the visions began.
I saw cities aflame, their people screaming and falling beneath the cold gleam of steel. I saw endless lines of grey-faced souls, their backs bent under the weight of misery, driven forward by the overseers' merciless whips. The smell of death—thick, choking, and relentless—clung to everything. Above it all, crows swarmed in black clouds, their cries a grim symphony. Among them, ravens feasted on the scattered remains of the fallen.
In the midst of this disaster, I felt its source. A presence—powerful, hollow, and cursed. It had forsaken both Gods and Daedric Princes, a lonely soul devoured by its own void. Its essence was sharp and vivid, an intoxicating mix of incense, freshly tempered steel, human and horse sweat, nightshade, musk, and blood.
And then I knew that abysmal entity was no stranger to me; oh, no! She had a very familiar figure—one I knew I'd see every time I dared to look into a mirror...
I came to my senses trembling and weeping; I got up and set off through the damp and cold streets; I wandered around the deserted neighborhood at that hour and, when the darkness of the night began to turn into the sickly gray of these rainy spring mornings, I slipped into the city bowels.
I hid in the sewers, searched for my old hiding spot, cleaned the vermin around and took refuge there.
I waited.
I sharpened my knife and lingered.
I cut my hair, smeared myself with ash, and waited.
I slept and dreamed. I dreamed of my family—my mother's stern gaze, my father's gentle voice, the laughter of my brothers and sisters echoing through our lost home. They felt so close, so alive, and yet so far, unreachable. I wept for them and for the beast I'd had to become.
I killed rats and ate their flesh, drank their blood.
I lingered...
Once a month, the Brotherhood had the custom of holding public executions, and before these, the Grand Master would give moralizing speeches. I waited for the day, and at dawn, when the first pale rays of light pierced through the city's filth, I emerged from the sewers, like a shadow reborn.
I went to the Arena where these events took place and entered, sitting where all the beggars of the city sat, receiving significant alms in the form of money, drinks, and food from the Brotherhood on this day.
Late in the afternoon, the Grand Master entered the arena accompanied by his personal guard and ascended the scaffold. I watched, imprinting his figure in my memory forever. But at the same time, I noticed that he wore no armor, not even the usual light chain mail shirt.
I approached the stockade surrounding the fighting area and listened to the Mountain's first words.
My hands trembled as they rested on the fence, my knife hidden beneath the rags I wore. The Grand Master's voice echoed through the arena, but I heard nothing but the blood pounding in my ears. Suddenly, my body felt light, as if I no longer controlled it, as if an unseen hand guided me forward; and my mind cleared while I heard Daedra's mocking voice:
"Go now, worm. Go and fulfill thy pointless madness. I shall watch over thee..."
I leaped like an arrow, jumped the tall fence as if I had wings, covered the distance to the scaffold in a rush, and passed through the Mountain's guards unnoticed. I climbed the steps and looked Ser Gregorius in the eyes. He continued his wretched speech with a calm and confident look, so pleased with himself.
"Enjoy this, little one!"
Nocturnal purred.
Suddenly, the Mountain's eyes filled with stupor and then terror; my blade found its mark before I even realized I had moved and I severed his jugular vein in a single motion. He choked and fell to his knees... Blood sprayed, warm and thick, over my hands and face, and in that instant, the world narrowed to a single point: his dying eyes. I fell upon him and began ripping him apart with my knife, bathing in his blood, drinking from it. I was in a special state; the nearby guards were like specters... Only his blood, my knife, and the raw ecstasy of my own awakening were real! I didn't even feel the brutal blows from the heavy clubs of the monks, nor did I hear the roar of the crowd. I only heard the Mountain's choking and felt a paroxysmal pleasure I had never known, one I would later experience but in entirely different circumstances...
They beat me mercilessly, dragged me away like a sack of filth, but at that moment, I felt nothing until, when they were about to take me out of the arena, I sensed two burning points on my face. I looked and saw the shining eyes of my brother Rasha beyond the fence. He nodded once, pulled his hood over his face, and disappeared into the crowd...
I didn't stay imprisoned for long; on the next day, they dragged me before the judges, who sentenced me to death by hanging and burning alive at the stake for murder and witchcraft. Their eyes barely brushed over me as they spoke of my crimes—words that fell flat, hollow, irrelevant. I stood before them, not as the accused, but as something beyond their reach, beyond their comprehension. The pain ravaged my body, unbearable, consuming... but it was still overcome by the ecstasy of the revelation taking root inside me. In that moment, I realized: I was no longer subject to their judgment.
I was the judge, the executioner—and I had done what had to be done.
After the trial, I was taken to a fortress of the order, a grim structure perched along the Black Road, not far from the shores of Lake Rumare. It was part of the same complex as the orphanage where I had spent some months years ago; inside the keep, the halls echoed with distant prayers and the hollow clang of armor, like every place where these warrior monks lived, studied, or prayed. They locked me in a small, bright room within the fortress and tended to my wounds, even setting my broken ribs. Those days were filled with suffering for me; the pain was searing and relentless, reducing me to a trembling heap. It was so all-consuming that even the thought of the torments awaiting me in an uncertain future seemed distant and unimportant. Time dissolved into a haze of agony, and the only relief came in fractured, brief moments of sleep, though even those were tormented by feverish nightmares.
Nights were the worst. I would wake very often in the dark, jolted by every unconscious movement my body made in sleep; and then, although exhausted by the constant and terrible pain, I couldn't fall asleep again for long stretches of time. Naturally, in moments like that, terrifying thoughts invaded my mind. Now that the heat of the action had faded and the ecstasy I felt during my revenge had vanished, I began to understand my grim situation very clearly. And I feared the future; oh, my mind conjured vivid images of the torments they would inflict upon me! Above all, I feared death... Just days ago, I had thought life held no meaning for me, that I had nothing left to lose. But now, lying broken and powerless, I desperately wanted to cling to life, even in its misery, as though it were a fragile thread keeping me from slipping into an endless nothingness. Still, there was nothing I could do about it, and, between the pain and dreadful expectations, my body began to heal.
Eventually, the pain subsided just enough for me to feed myself and sleep. But soon, a priest began visiting me every night, always reading lengthy sermons that were dreadful to endure. He spoke only of the torments my soul would face in the afterlife if I did not renounce the devils that possessed me and truly repent for my sins. During the day, a novice of the cult of Stendarr would read to me from the same thick book, though her tone was different. She recited endlessly about the delights awaiting the righteous in the dull, lifeless realm of their god.
That young, naive girl annoyed me more than I could bear. While I hated and feared the priest, I wanted nothing more than to scream at her or lash out, to silence her endless, tedious voice.
And so, between dreadful threats and boring, sanctimonious sermons, time passed. My body healed, but my mind grew sick—oh, so sick!—from the lack of sleep and the relentless thoughts of the horrifying tortures that awaited me...
Then, one night, when the priest asked if I regretted my actions, I nodded, tears streaming down my face. I begged for forgiveness, crying pitifully. He smiled, turned, and left without another word.
The next day, they moved me to a dark, damp cell in the keep's basement. Oh, damp is an understatement; those who know these centuries-old fortresses near rivers or lakes understand that, no matter how well repaired or maintained, their bowels are always sick with water and mold. The air was heavy, thick with the stench of decay, and the cold seeped deep into my bones like a second skin. They reduced my food to a piece of bread a day and half a liter of water (about one pint in Altmeri language). Time lost all meaning in that place. No one entered my cell except to bring me food, and even that felt more like an afterthought than an act of mercy.
At first, before I was completely drained by the lack of food and water that would later torment me deeply, I tried with all my strength to regain my clarity and search for a way to escape. After all, here in the underground, I was in a place that felt strangely familiar. The lock on the barred door was an old, heavy model, corroded with rust. The man who brought me my pitiful daily ration always came alone, carrying a torch to light his way through the surrounding darkness. It would have been enough to extinguish the torch, leaving him helpless in the shadows that enveloped the place. But I felt afraid and powerless. I tried to suppress these sensations—feelings that had been foreign to me for so many years—but I failed. As time passed and my strength ebbed away, I was horrified to realize that, mentally, I had regressed into a frightened little girl—one who reminded me all too vividly of the small blonde child who had wept bitterly while clinging tightly to the gravestone on her mother's freshly dug grave.
With each passing day, this state of mine only worsened so, when the fortress commander finally appeared and informed me that my execution would take place the next day, I was nearly mad.
I laughed. A harsh, grating sound that even startled me. I spat at him, lurching forward as if to claw his eyes out. His boot found my stomach, sending me sprawling to the floor, gasping for air. I kept laughing, though, like a madwoman, until my ribs ached and my voice cracked. Then, as suddenly as it began, the laughter stopped. Terror and despair rushed in, filling the void. I screamed, a raw, animal sound, and flung myself wildly around the narrow cell. My fists pounded the damp, mold-covered walls; my head struck the cold stones until the pain became unbearable. At some point, I must have fainted, for the next thing I knew, I woke with my mind as clear and bright as it had been the moment I paid our debt to Ser Gregorius.
In that instant, I heard a soft chuckle resonate within me. Nocturnal's voice, velvety and calm, whispered into my thoughts:
"Small dove, dread not, and vex thyself no more. Thy faithful, virtuous, and righteous kin hath wrought sufficient. I shall linger with thee until the conclusion, to behold and sense the trivial joys of mortals. Slumber now."
I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, only to awaken in the ethereal realm of my mistress—Evergloam, as it is called. For the first time, I wandered freely through its tranquil beauty, awestruck by the serene charm of her dominion. It is nothing like the grim depictions spun by the priests of Stendarr. Evergloam is a land of fairytales, cloaked in enchanting shadowed forests that seem alive with whispered secrets.
Streams of clear, swirling waters sparkle in the half-light, their surface dancing with silvery reflections. The air hums with the songs of vibrant, jewel-like birds, their melodies weaving an otherworldly harmony. Gentle and harmless creatures, some strange and others familiar, roam the glades, embodying the peace that reigns in this place.
In the heart of the shadowed forest stands the Tree of Life. Its branches stretch endlessly into the heavens, radiant with a peculiar, ever-shifting light, while its roots burrow deep into the shadowed soil of Nocturnal's realm. The tree is the essence of creation itself, its presence a nexus of arcane power. Its whispers carry the secrets of the mortal world, speaking directly to those who dare to listen. And in that moment, as I stood before it, the Tree offered me solace, strength, and an understanding of the infinite. It anchored me, its presence a balm to my fractured soul. Even in the depths of despair, I found hope within the embrace of my mistress's realm.
I woke only when the heavy metal door creaked, and my old acquaintance, the priest, entered my cell accompanied by two vigilants. They chained my hands and feet, nearly dragging me to the fortress's inner courtyard. After so long in darkness and confinement, I no longer knew how to walk properly, and the heavy chains overwhelmed me.
Outside, the day was brilliantly sunny, and the sudden flood of light blinded me. My eyes burned, my legs buckled under me, and I collapsed, unwilling or unable to rise. One of the vigilantes quickly put an end to my defiance with a few heavy kicks, forcing me upright before roughly hauling me into a cart pulled by a donkey. The priest climbed into the cart beside me, and from the moment we departed, he began reading aloud from his cursed book, his droning voice a constant torment.
The road was crowded with onlookers, and most of them greeted me with boos, jeers, and foul insults. Some laughed with obscene joy, their cruelty fueling a fire of hatred within me. Their faces blurred together, but in my mind, I saw clearly the gentle face of my father, Ra'ha, and the calm voice of my mother, Shaira. In that moment, I swore I was nothing like these wretched beings. I belonged to my kin—those who truly understood honor and loyalty. And things worsened when the cart reached the bridge. My former kin—those upright and faithful followers of Stendarr—were there waiting. They hurled filth at me: rotten food, trash, and dung. The priest wrapped himself in his cloak to shield himself from the onslaught, yet never stopped reading. Meanwhile, I was left to endure the full brunt of their mockery and contempt.
At last, we arrived at the heavy, ornate gates of the city. One of the vigilantes handed the execution order to the sergeant of the gate guards. He read it, nodded, and then, to my shock, he and the other guard attacked my captors without warning. Behind us, three Argonians sprang from the crowd, striking the convoy from the rear. Chaos erupted. Somewhere in the distance, a bolt of lightning split the air, striking the crowd that had gathered to mock me. The clear blue sky suddenly darkened, and two more bolts followed, creating an inferno of screams, burning flesh, and unbridled panic.
That's when I saw the second truly horrifying sight of my life: the dead began to rise. Their lifeless forms, animated by some dark force, turned on the frenzied crowd with insane fury, tearing them apart and feasting on their flesh. The air filled with dreadful sounds—screams, moans, and the wet, sickening crunch of tearing flesh. The stench of charred bodies and rot hung thick, making it nearly impossible to breathe.
One of the gate soldiers removed his helmet, leaped into the cart, and without hesitation, ran his sword through the terrified priest. Then he turned to me, lifting me into his strong arms. For a moment, I didn't recognize him, but then I saw his beloved face—my brother, Rasha. His eyes held grief, pride, and something else I could not name.
"I am here with you, Elsie," he said, his voice steady and full of resolve. "Nothing will separate us now." He kissed me, his lips trembling with emotion.
The others dropped ropes from the bridge, and one by one, we descended. Rasha carried me on his back, and we climbed down to a waiting boat. As soon as we reached it, the oarsman began rowing furiously across Lake Rumare, desperate to escape the horrors unfolding on the bridge. When we reached the far shore, the oarsman held out his hand for payment. Rasha only laughed before cutting him down with a swift stroke of his sword. The mage in our group cast a spell, and my chains fell away with a metallic clatter.
Rasha cradled me in his arms as the others rushed toward the edge of the forest guarding the Green Road. There, seven horses awaited us, tended by an old man. He, too, held out his hand for payment, and once again, Rasha laughed before breaking his neck with a single, brutal motion.
Ah, that laugh—so rare, yet so dear to me. I can still hear it now, echoing in my mind. He looked at me then with unspeakable love, kissed me again, and we mounted our horses. Together, we galloped down the Green Road, heading south.
"Elsweyr is somewhere there," I murmured softly, a faint smile on my lips.
And in the depths of my mind, I heard Nocturnal chuckling softly once more...