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Chapter 47 - Chapter 47

Chapter 47: Dragon blood

4:17 PM

The sun clung stubbornly to the sky, its light softening into a burnished orange glow that set the mountain peaks ablaze. It had not yet reached the horizon, but the hours of daylight were numbered. Klimmek stumbled down the winding path, his boots crunching heavily on snow-dusted stone. His breath misted in ragged bursts, chest hammering like drums.

Every shadow seemed to stretch longer, every gust of wind carried a whisper of danger—he was too close behind that monstrous troll encounter for his nerves to settle just yet.

Not until the timber frame of Wilhelm's Inn came into view did his shoulders sag, and even then only a little. He forced his weary legs to carry him the last stretch until at last the door creaked open and the Inn's hearth-fire spilled over him.

Inside, the air was thick with the mingled scents of roasting meat, spilled ale, and smoke-strained wood. The common room was quieter than the peak hours of midday, though laughter and voices still bounced easily between the walls.

Lynly sat in the far corner, finally able to breathe after a rush of hungry patrons. Her eyes half-lidded in the rare quiet.

Near the hearth sat Gwilin, shoulders hunched, still sulking from missing the midday meal. Beside him, like a looming shadow, was Temba, both his master and taskmaster, the one who had made him miss the meal.

At the counter's far end, Bassianus leaned lazily against the wood, Klimmek's closest friend, and his tenant of sorts. His easy grin faltered when Klimmek's shadow fell across him, then quickly lit into recognition.

 "What? Did you sprint up the mountain and fall back down? Bassiabus asked, smirking. "How in Kyne's name did you make it down before sundown?"

Klimmek didn't answer; he turned to Wilhelm, "Mead, the strongest one you have." Wilhelm's brow lifted, but he saw the wild, frightened look in Klimmek's eyes and thought better of prying. He nodded, stepping back toward the shelves.

"We are out of the strongest," Wilhelm admitted, his hand already reaching for another cask. "Second strongest will have to do," he didn't wait for protest, pouring a heavy tankard and sliding it across the counter.

Klimmek seized it with both hands, drinking deep, the bitter bite of alcohol barely touching him. His eyes stayed fixed, unblinking, because when he closed them, all he could see was the white blur of fur, the gleam of tusks, and that guttural roar that rattled in his skull.

Bassianus and Wilhelm exchanged a glance.

At the hearth, Gwilin's curiosity aroused. They weren't exactly friends, but he's the only one he's got in Ivarstead aside from Temba and Wilhelm. Temba followed his gaze, her own eyes narrowing as Klimmek slammed the empty tankard down.

Only Lynly seemed unbothered, reclining in her corner with her eyes closed, catching what little rest she could before the evening crowd swelled and the Inn became no less noisy than Riften's marketplace.

Finally, Bassianus broke the silence with a grin, trying to lighten the mood. "What's got you looking like you've stared into Oblivion? Did you see that black dragon whole of Skyrim's been whispering about?"

Klimmeks's lips parted, the word rough in his throat. "A troll. White one."

Bassianus froze, the grin vanishing, his eyes widening in recognition. He slapped the counter and leaned closer, almost whispering with excitement.

Bassianus's eyes lit up. "By the Nord's toes… the mountains walking disaster itself, A frost-troll. And it let you live?" His tone was half incredulous, half impressed. 

Klimmed wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the afterburn of mead lingering but doing little to steady his nerves.

Klimmek exhaled, "I thought it was the end. That thing knocked me down, and lunged. Then—" He sighed, "—They appeared, there were three of them, two women, black haired, one tall man, golden hair like an Altmer."

He swallowed hard, "It was the woman with him that saved me. Gods, the way they moved… one with a shield, the other with a giant sword, swinging it around like it were some feather."

The room stirred.

Wilhelm's brows drew tight. He leaned forward on the counter, his face lit by the fire's glow. "I saw them," he muttered. "Came through here not long past noon, stopped for midday meal," Wilhelm said, leaving the white-haired woman who came with them out of it.

Temba's head turned sharply, her lips pressing into a thin line. She turned to Gwilin, who was eating his food while listening to Klimmek, "The one who laughed at you?" Gwilin turned to her, a flat, unimpressed stare on his face.

"What?" Temba asked, unaware of her own derision.

Gwilin shook his head, exhaling through his nose. Y'ffre, why did I have to end up here of all places? He cursed his luck.

From the corner of the room, a faint clatter sounded. Agna stood near the doorway, an empty water jug limp in her hands. Her face had gone pale, her eyes wide with worry. She had been silently listening from a distance, unnoticed.

—High Hrothgar

The hall of Hrothgar monastery seemed to grow quieter with each of his steps. The cold air itself holding its breath. Lydia and Uthgerd shifted on either side of me, hands brushing the hilts of their weapons.

"So…" the man began, his voice low, heavy, resonant, shaped by the stone, "A Dragonborn appears, at this moment in the turning of age."

"You can tell I'm the Dragonborn?" I said, stepping forward as Lydia and Uthgerd's shoulders eased even if slightly.

The man shook his head slowly, "We can only guess. No one who has not been summoned would wander inside with a spine unbowed."

"We?" Uthgerd muttered—and as if on cue, three more figures descended the stairs behind him. Their steps fell in unison, perfectly measured, robes identical to his but with cowls drawn lower, shadows erasing every feature.

"Now."

"We will see if you truly have the gift," the first said, the others flanking him in a half circle, light from the ceiling's carved openings spilling over their robes, silver thread glinting like frost. "Show us, Dragonborn. Let us taste your Voice."

I smirked faintly, gesturing Lydia and Uthgerd to step back. "I just hope it doesn't kill you. I still have a lot to learn from you."

Uthgerd smiled behind me, taking a careful step back along with Lydia.

While I drew a deep breath, the air seemed to thicken in my chest until my ribs strained, then let the Word erupt.

Fus!

It broke from my throat like thunder in a storm. The air buckled, bending the torch flames flat against the stone, dust shaken from the ceiling in a fine stream. The stone underfoot groaned, its carved seams spitting grit as if the monastery itself tried not to recoil

But the Greybeards did not fall

Their robes whipped violently, sleeves snapping like banners in a gale. One Greybeard's foot slid back half a step, stone grinding under his heel, another's shoulders swayed as if pressed by the weight of a mountain.

For a brief moment, their hoods lifted from their face, shadows peeling back to reveal long beards thrashing in the wind, pale skin creased with age and discipline.

Then the echo passed, fading into silence that rang sharper than steel.

I glanced at the flagstones beneath me. It was still there. Reinforcement magic? What else was I expecting? They constantly practice their Shouts here. But… what are those robes made of?

"Dragonborn." The man muttered, his knotted beard settling as the air stilled. His eyes gleamed with conviction. "It truly is you. Welcome to High Hrothgar."

I bowed lightly, though the gesture soured in my chest. And here I was thinking of leaving them speechless.Am I still this weak, or are they simply just that strong?

"I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards." He said, gesturing to the other three that remained silent even after the Shout.

I nodded to the three.

"Now tell me, Dragonborn, why have you come here?" Arngeir asked, his voice suddenly hardened, firm as if everything ahead depended on my answer.

I faltered. Why was I here? Miracle? Chosen? A trick of fate? Why did he send me here? My brows flinched as I tried to recall his face, but couldn't.

Arngeir's eyes grew sharp, curious, but he remained patient, like the other Greybeards; that was their nature, silence shaped into flesh.

"I… I want to find out what I really am," I said, not letting them wait any longer.

Arngeir sighed, before his lips curved into the smallest of smiles, "And we are here to guide you in that pursuit, just as the Greybeards have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood that came before you."

"You mean I'm not only Dragonborn?" I played the part of an ignorant stranger. I trusted the two behind me, but suspicion buds even in the staunchest of hearts, especially of something they couldn't possibly understand.

"You are not the first," Arngeir replied. "There have been many of the Dragon Blood since Akatosh first bestowed that gift upon mortalkind." He stepped into the diamond square etched in the stone at the hall's center, the others moving with him, each taking a corner with solemn precision.

"Whether you are the only Dragonborn of this age… that is not ours to know,"

Miraak, I thought. They don't know, or they will not say.

"You are the only one who has been revealed thus far. That is all I can say."

I nodded.

"Now," Arngeir muttered, his voice dropping to a command.

"You have shown that you have the Inborn gift. But…" Arngeir paused, "Do you have the discipline and temperament to follow the path laid out for you? That remains to be seen."

"Without training, you have already taken the first steps towards projecting your Voice into a Thu'um, learning the first word of the Shout; Unrelenting Force." Arngeir gestured toward the youngest of the Greybeard, the one whose balance had faltered at my shout. "Master Einarth will now teach you 'Ro,' the second Word in Unrelenting Force."

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