A frown made itself at home on Torin's face, the expression settling into the lines around his mouth and eyes like it belonged there.
"They had to?" He parroted the words back, his voice carrying a note of skeptical curiosity. "What do you mean, they had to?"
Qasim nodded firmly, his expression serious.
"Apparently, these sea giants live by hunting giant whales—leviathans, they called them—in the depths of the Sea of Ghosts and beyond." He paused, letting the image settle. "There used to be enough prey all year round. The whales were plentiful, the hunting was good, and the giants wanted for nothing."
He shook his head slowly.
"But for some years now, every winter, a gargantuan creature would appear and wantonly consume everything in sight." His voice dropped. "The whales, the fish, the horkers—anything that lived in the water. It left nothing behind. And the giants, with no prey to hunt and no food to store, were forced to look elsewhere."
Torin let out a low hum, his mind already turning over the implications.
"So maybe we don't have to come to blows with them after all." He grunted, rubbing his chin. "If they're solely doing this to survive, that is."
Again, Qasim nodded.
"I thought as much, and so I suggested to officially parlay with them." He smiled bitterly, the expression carrying a weight of frustration. "She then asked me if I could speak for the masters of these lands. I answered her honestly."
He shook his head, his jaw tightening. "She told me to send someone who does, if I wanted to negotiate. Someone with the authority to make promises that would be kept."
Torin hummed, his gaze drifting to the broken shield on the table, then to the window, where the first pale light of dawn was beginning to creep over the horizon.
"I'll take it up with the queen and her people. Offer to speak for them." He paused, his voice hardening. "If they'll have me."
Bragi snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive.
"If it's just talking, then I'm sure at least a dozen of the slimy bastards would volunteer." He crossed his arms, his expression sour. "It's not like they need a Nord telling them how to run their mouths. They've been doing it their whole lives—lying, scheming, twisting words until they mean the opposite of what they say."
Torin chuckled, the sound low and genuine despite everything.
"You're not wrong there." He turned to face Bragi, a glint of dry amusement in his eyes. "And if they do refuse our help, it'll allow us to go home and not worry about them reneging on us in the future."
He paused, his expression shifting to something more thoughtful.
"Though I do hope they take me up on my offer." His gaze drifted back to the window, to the grey light spreading across the sky. "It would be a shame to come all this way and leave with nothing but a broken shield and a dead knight's blood on my hands."
Bragi raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting to one of dry amusement.
"The blood of one very famous knight on your hands." He gestured vaguely toward the window, toward the sea where Garran's body had fallen. "That in itself should be more than enough to satisfy any Nord. Songs will be written about this duel. They'll sing of the Storm Caller who crossed the sea and felled the Bannerless Knight in single combat."
Torin's face darkened, the words settling over him like a shroud.
He wanted to retort—to say that there was nothing honorable about killing a man who fought simply because he had no other choice. That Garran had been a pawn, a desperate man driven to his death by a duke who didn't even have the decency to retrieve his body. That the whole affair had been a waste of a good warrior's life.
But he swallowed the words before they reached the tip of his tongue.
He already saw Nords as his people—had long accepted it, embraced it even. That didn't make him blind to their flaws. In fact, it made him very aware of them. The Nord love of glory, of honor, of a good death sung about in mead halls for generations.
They wouldn't care why someone like Garran had fought so desperately. They'd only care about his reputation as a warrior, and the fact that they'd beaten him. Oh, the honor and glory they'd claim, before the eyes of gods and men alike.
And yet, Torin thought, they're my people. Flaws and all.
Quickly, he was brought out of his daze by Bragi's voice.
"What are you hoping to achieve by parlaying with these giants, anyway?" The skald's tone was skeptical, his arms crossed. "Surely, you're not doing this to the benefit of the Bretons, are you?"
Torin's smile rose a little, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through his exhaustion.
"Well, satiate my curiosity, for one." He shrugged. "I've read about their kind in old texts—fragments from the First Era, mostly. But I've never met one. Never spoken to one. The scholar in me wants to know what they're really like."
Qasim merely smiled at those words, a knowing expression that suggested he understood the sentiment all too well.
Bragi scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive.
"Curiosity killed the cat, you know."
Torin waited for a moment before adding, his voice more serious now.
"Be that as it may, there are much more practical reasons besides my own curiosity." He uncrossed his arms, his gaze steady. "These giants seem like a powerful force. If even their runts are enough to give Qasim pause, if they can survive in the deep waters of the sea of ghosts that would kill any normal ship..."
"Let's just say the Bretons will have much to gain if they manage to befriend them."
He paused, his jaw tightening.
"I just hope their coward—" He stopped, cleared his throat. "Their cautious nature won't allow them to hog this opportunity for themselves. Skyrim could never have enough friends in these times..."
"If the Bretons secure an agreement with the giants and shut us out of it, we'll have to go through a lot of trouble to secure one of our own."
...
The throne room reflected the way the Bretons of Daggerfall saw themselves—cultured, noble, and superior to the petty kingdoms surrounding them.
The ceiling was high, supported by massive pillars of pale marble veined with gold, their capitals carved into intricate depictions of Kynareth's winged servants. The windows were arched and huge, their stained glass casting prismatic light across the polished floor in patterns that shifted with the sun's slow crawl across the sky.
Banners descended from the ceiling in long, graceful folds, bearing the sigils of the royal family, the kingdom, the city, and the most prominent noble families—each one a history unto itself, woven in silk and thread.
The throne sat atop an elevated platform a few steps high, carved from dark wood and inlaid with silver. It carried the young King Lucien, who commanded it with a surprising dignity that one wouldn't expect from someone so young.
His back was straight, his hands resting on the armrests, his eyes—sharp and observant—fixed on Torin with an intensity that belied his years. Beside him stood Queen Regent Melisande, her posture regal, her expression unreadable.
The royal guards, dressed in their gleaming plate armor, stood motionless at attention, their halberds held upright, their visors down. They added to the imposing atmosphere of the throne room, their silent presence a reminder of the power that resided here.
Torin stood before the throne, his posture respectful but not subservient. He had cleaned up since the duel—his wounds had been healed by the palace's finest Restoration mages, and he had been given fresh clothes, simple but well-made.
His spear was absent, left behind in his quarters as a gesture of good faith. But his presence alone seemed to fill the room, his massive frame a stark contrast to the slender Bretons who surrounded him.
The queen looked at Torin with an unreadable expression, her hands clasped before her.
"So you wish us to believe that these giants are willing to negotiate." She paused, her gaze sharpening. "But only with an accomplished warrior."
Torin smiled, the expression calm and measured.
"That is indeed the truth." He inclined his head slightly. "They will only talk to those they find worthy—mighty warriors who have proven themselves in combat."
Technically, Torin wasn't lying.
There had been skirmishes between the navy of Daggerfall and the sea giants in past years—brief, bloody clashes that had left ships shattered and sailors dead. The Bretons had tried to communicate, had sent envoys and translators and even a few brave souls who volunteered to board the giant vessels under a flag of truce. None of them had returned.
The giants had never bothered to speak to them, had never shown any interest in negotiation. They had simply killed anyone who approached and continued their raids.
They had only communicated with Qasim because he had earned their respect. Because he had boarded their ship alone, had fought their champion, and had emerged victorious. In their eyes, he was worthy of words.
And luckily, the Redguard hadn't reported what had happened to the Bretons. He had told Torin and Bragi the full story, but the queen and her advisors knew only that Qasim had survived the encounter—that he had fought and won, and that the giants had let him leave.
They didn't know about the conversation, about the giantess who spoke Tamrielic, about the offer of parlay.
So no one could call Torin out on his bluff.
The queen studied him for a long moment, her dark eyes searching his face for any sign of deception. She was good—very good—at reading people. Torin had to give her that. But he had spent years learning to hide his thoughts, to present the face that people expected to see, and he met her gaze without flinching.
"And you," she said slowly, "are the accomplished warrior they will accept?"
Torin shook his head, the motion casual, almost dismissive.
"No, that would be Qasim. The Redguard who boarded the giants' ship." He gestured vaguely toward the door, toward the palace where the Redguard was likely meditating or polishing his broken sword. "It was him they tested, not me." He shrugged, a faint smile playing at his lips. "Though I'm sure I can earn their respect if need be."
Queen Melisande didn't respond instantly. She merely stared at Torin in silence for a few seconds, her dark eyes searching his very soul. Her expression was unreadable—calm, composed, the mask of a woman who had spent a lifetime navigating the treacherous waters of Breton politics.
He simply maintained eye contact, his smile easy and unbothered, as if he had nothing to hide.
The queen's lips finally rose into a very thin smile—a ghost of an expression, gone almost before it appeared.
"Very well, Storm Caller." Her voice was smooth, measured. "You are our champion. Our benefactor." She crossed her fingers in front of her, a gesture that seemed almost casual but carried a weight of calculation. "We are well inclined to take your words at face value."
She turned aside, lightly clearing her throat.
"And so I formally declare Torin Kodlaksson as our envoy, and assign him the grave task of brokering peace between us and the giants." She paused, her eyes flicking back to him. "Or driving them away from our shores with force."
Torin's head dipped ever so slightly into a casual bow—respectful, but not subservient.
"I'm honored."
The queen nodded, a gesture of dismissal.
"You are excused."
Torin offered another casual bow before turning around and heading toward the exit, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You are our champion, so we're inclined to believe you, he mused, turning her words over in his mind. She was basically saying, I know you're full of shit, but I'll pretend to believe you because you did me a big favor.
Or maybe she didn't know. Maybe she was just saying that in case he was bluffing—just so she could make Torin feel indebted. To create the illusion that she saw through him and let him get away with it... even if she didn't.
He really couldn't tell which was which.
Not that it matters, he thought, stepping through the heavy doors and into the corridor beyond.
What mattered was that he had the authority he needed. The queen's blessing—however reluctant, however calculated—meant he could act. And if everything went according to plan, he would return to Skyrim not only with one alliance, but two.
...
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