Prologue
In the far south of Skyrim, somewhere not far from Helgen, on a summer night...
Two women ride stirrup by stirrup on the road leading to the Cyrodiil border. Both are very young. One is a brunette with dark, curly hair and a frightening scar furrowing her face. Her features are carved in stone and might have been pleasant, if not for her gaze—black, fierce, and unyielding. Her eyes rarely blink, and they cut through clothing, bodies, and stone alike, so sharp, so merciless as though they could pierce even the finest armor once forged by the People of the Deep.
The other is quite tall for a woman, blonde, with short hair, cut above her ears. She’s pretty, has gray, soft eyes, and could be considered very beautiful, truly stunning, if she weren’t so thin! She looks so slender that at times she appears almost ethereal, as if woven from shadows and moonlight; when a gust of warm wind blows in, you might expect her to vanish like a wisp of mist fading into the deep vault of the starry summer sky.
But perhaps this is only an illusion; if you look more closely, you notice that the long, hooded cloak in which she is wrapped is embroidered with silvery arabesques and runes that shimmer with their own life. Sometimes they glow with a ghostly light in the spectral gleam of Secunda, at other times they move gracefully, like foam upon waves, giving the impression that the dark-blue cloak is the surface of a sea, calm above, yet tossed by strong currents in the depths.
The dark-haired woman carries a child across her chest in a black bundle clasped to her shoulder, in a manner often used by the women of these lands who must work or hunt while still nursing their babies. This realm is rough and poor, and many of its men are often far away—some conscripted young into the Empire’s Iron Legions, others gone to sea on secret, savage raids along the southern coasts.
Not far from the fortified gate on the border, the two women halt their horses and dismount. Without a word, the brunette loosens the baby’s bundle and hands it to the other. The blonde’s eyes soften with warmth, and she even sheds a few tears...
Or perhaps this is another illusion, for everything Kiersten does, every movement, every breath, is veiled in a translucent haze where eerie flickers of light dance in peculiar, deceitful patterns—false lights that fed the darkness rather than dispelling it. Oh, Kiersten sure is more than just a pretty girl! Her eyes, those seemingly grayish eyes, often shift in color, and look how they glow now, reflecting the pale light of Secunda! And those tears... where have they gone?
She hastily stretches out her arms to receive the bundle in which the child sleeps peacefully. Then, with graceful, supple movements, she lets out a soft, satisfied sigh and draws it to her chest. Her gaze seizes the other woman’s eyes, and she speaks in a crystalline voice, like the melodic, sweet chime of a silver bell.
“Are you sure, sis?”
The other woman mumbles a hurried “Yes!” and tries to break free from Kiersten’s stare. But she fails. Her eyes remain locked on Kiersten’s as the blonde whispers further, her voice barely more than a breath now:
“Keep in mind that if you entrust her to me now, she will be mine forever. I’ll be her mother... and I will never mention you to her!”
“So be it,” the other one chokes out, then adds:
“Where I’m going now, there’s no place for children. And she... She herself is a mistake. I’m sure Elsie was meant for you, and I was wrong to steal your man.”
Kiersten bursts into laughter, as sweet and melodious as the warm, gentle wind rustling through the leaf-laden branches of the trees.
“Oh, Astrid, why are you being silly?” she teases. “You know very well that since we were children, we have always shared everything we found good in this world.”
“Yes, I already told you—I’m sure!” Astrid replies sternly. With a sharp effort of will, she finally tears her eyes away from her sister’s and reaches for a rather bulky bag from her horse’s saddlebag. She holds it out, her voice steady as she says, “Take this, Kiersten, and may Nocturnal always guide your steps.”
The blonde grabs the bag, and then the two women throw themselves into each other’s arms.
“Farewell,” they murmur, before parting ways—Astrid turning north at a slow, hesitant trot, while Kiersten rides south, her movements light, almost playful.
To the east, beyond the mountains, Masser has begun its slow ascent, casting a reddish glow over the land.
Somewhere, not near but not too far, an owl begins to hoot...
Kiersten barely turns her head at the sound. And she even smiles!
Never mind, I don’t believe in omens, and I am strong enough to defeat or avoid any threat, she whispers while gazing lovingly at the baby at her breast.
