Something I posted on http://www.reddit.com/r/teslore/. Drink with Ovaltine.

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433, Last Year of the Third Era: Book 1, Morning Star

21 Morning Star, 433 Soulrest, Black Marsh

Stone-Carver Cuni-Rai sculpted away at the small but delicate lump of limestone on his working table. Usually he would not be awake this early in the morning, but he had received a special request – from the Royal Court itself – to fashion a beautiful statue for the King’s newly hatched son to mark the occasion.

So Cuni-Rai had stayed up all night working on the exact requirements the King had laid out for the statue, working extremely hard to get all of the measurements right, when he finally placed his head upon his palm and gazed at the finished product.

“It is everything I hoped it would be,” he remarked happily. “Hopefully the King believes so as well.” The Saxhleel carefully wrapped his creation in the strongest but softest of moss and wrapped his traveling cloak around himself as he left his hut of vines and hardened mud, his eyes adjusting to the glare of the sun.

“Today I shall honor my clan with this gift,” Cuni-Rai. “Today, my family’s disgrace shall finally end.”

24 Morning Star, 433 Skywatch, Summerset Isle

“Elf scum!” The Imperial slapped the flat of his sword against the right cheek of the young Altmer lad, causing his mouth to well up with blood. The lad yelped, spraying the blood unto the tiles of the secret underground chamber. He was bare-chested, and wore grungy pants that reeked of waste and vomit. His body was decorated with numerous fresh cuts and bruises, but the elf smiled arrogantly at his torturer.

“I told you I don’t know what you are talking about.”

The Imperial smacked the elf once again with the flat of his blade, sending his head colliding with the wall. The elf gasped and spat out more blood, before dragging himself back into a sitting position.

“You see, Ondolemar, that is where you are wrong,” the Imperial whispered. “We know that you and your friends have been stirring up trouble among your kind. Trying to boycott goods of the Empire. An Empire you are still a part of.”

Ondolemar smirked. “My allegiance is too Summerset, and Summerset alone, Imperial.”

The torturer swung his left fist upward and the elf, with his hands and feet chained, was unable to block the vicious attack as he was lifted into the air and crashed downwards on his back, his spine cracking.

“As a loyal Blade to the glorious Septim Empire, I order you to tell us the headquarters of your rebellion.”

The Imperial placed one heavy boot on Ondolemar’s heart, causing the lad to wheeze. “I’ll start cutting of pieces of you until you do.”

26 Morning Star, 433 Vivec, Vvardenfell, Morrowind

Lanla Tharys walked through the intimidating City of Canols, knowing fully well that her fellow Dunmer were watching her carefully.

Oh, how she missed her father! May his spirit rest and be respected eternally. He, like her brothers, would have never let someone make him nervous, even members of his own race. But Lanla was not her father. If she were, she wouldn’t even allow herself to be in the vicinity of this city.

She climbed the steps slowly to the Ministry of Truth, her eyes betraying her by gazing at the old and slightly dusty statues of Vivec, former member of the Tribunal. The Warrior-Poet had disappeared completely after the truth of the Tribunal’s divinity became exposed to all. The coward – he claimed to be a warrior but ran with his tail tucked between his legs when King Helseth’s men came knocking at his door.

Lanla reached the top of the steps and waited for the person she was meeting to show himself. It wasn’t long before a tall, grim Dunmer warrior came striding towards her in full Bonemold armor. He was rather handsome.

“Ah, dear lady,” the man said, extending his hand which Lanla shook. “You are Lanla Tharys, are you not?”

“I am. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Likewise. I am Chakran, former Ordinator of the Tribunal Temple. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Certainly, Chakran.” Lanla smiled, and allowed Chakran to led the her one of the deserted hallways on the roof. After making sure no other souls were present, the warrior turned to look at her with a face full of anxiety.

“Are you ready? To do this, I mean. If we walk down this path–”

Lanla raised a hand, silencing him. She took a deep breathe, and exhaled. “I am sure, Chakran. Now, please inform me of your plan to kill the Nerevarine.”

29 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Senchal, Elsweyr

J’Marr quietly stalked Legate Eliza in the palm trees while she walked upon the road. Although he had his shoes endowed with an muffle enchantment several weeks ago, the Khajiit enforcer still watched his step – dodging branches, stepping over rocks, and shuffling past any wild beasts in his way.

It had been getting harder in Elsweyr, of all places, to sell Moon Sugar and Skooma for a reasonable price without being discovered by the wretched Imperials. The Emperor had reinforced the troops already in the city with more soldiers to keep the suddenly booming business from gaining too much influence.

J’Marr’s employer had become enraged by the Empire’s new interest in stopping the Skooma trade, and had decided in performing acts of sabotage among the ranks of the Imperial soldiers to destabilize their plans.

When Eliza began to approach her destination, Fort Palmtop, J’Marr walked casually out of the forest and moved up behind her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small sack of the sweetest moon sugar. When he drew up close enough as he could, J’Marr quickly slipped the sack into her own pocket, and began to walk away when he heard a voice.

“What are you doing, fur ball?” she said in a dangerous tone, her hand subconsciously reaching for her sword.

J’Marr smiled. “This one hasn’t doing anything.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“This one hasn’t done anything at all.”

433, Last Year of the Third Era: Book 2, Sun's Dawn

6 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Skywatch, Summerset Isle

Ondolemar wheezed as much air he could while his torturer was away. He stared down at the floor from his painful spread-eagle position on the room’s ceiling, chained down and restrained by powerful magicka. Blood dripped from his various cuts and stab wounds onto the floor.

There was a creaking noise, and Ondolemar looked to his right to see the portion of wall slide away, revealing the secret entrance of his cell. The torturer walked in, clad in his usual attire of black, and his slightly balding head looked up and smiled.

“I’m…telling you,” the young Altmer gasped. “I…don’t know…where they are.”

The Blade chuckled as he walked over to a small fire near one of the walls, and grabbed a branding iron that had been heating up within its embers.

“You see, that’s where I know you are lying,” the torturer said. “I’ve been doing this for several years now, requested by the Emperor himself to root out traitors among you elves. Not better than my last assignment, however. Went from one island to another.”

The man walked underneath the Altmer, and with one swift motion pressed the branding iron to the flesh of his bare-chest. Ondolemar screamed as his skin blackened, and then the pain was gone. The torturer had removed the iron.

“You know I’m only doing this because the Empire wants me too, right?” he said. “I honestly take no pleasure in this. It would be easier if you just submit.”

“I would rather die!”

“You might just do that,” the torturer signed, and with little noise left through the secret entrance which closed behind him, leaving Ondolemar alone in the room.

7 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Argon’s Nest, Black Marsh

Cuni-Rai stood in the grand throne room alone with the King’s Honor Guard, nervously admiring the vast stonework.

As a Stone-Carver, he had been raised learning about the intricate designs of the ziggurats his people had once built long ago. He had been both surprised and delighted to discover that the royal city was built from stone. The palace itself was built from beautiful gray stone, and reinforced with marble. Dozens of aqueducts allowed water to constantly run through the small indentions within the floor, making the ancient inscriptions appear to move.

Rai was about to touch one of the walls to feel the pictograph etched there when there was a loud noise, and the Argonian King entered the room followed closely by a crowd of scribes and wardens. He quickly redrew his hand from the stonework, and made himself look presentable.

“Two more Imperial ambassadors have arrived,” one of his brethren said, reading from a report. Judging by his ornate jewelry and attire, he was the Head Scribe. “And–”

“Send them away,” the King mused as he made his way to the throne, sitting down. His beautiful headdress of hackwing feathers shifted slightly and his jeweled wrists clanged on the stone. “We do not need them meddling in our affairs.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“And the Slaver Outposts near Thorn?”

“They have been successfully razed to the ground. There are no signs that they even existed.”

“Good,” the King nodded. He looked to his right and noticed Rai for the first time and smiled. “Ah, the famous sculptor from Soulrest.”

“King, your words honor me and my clan,” Rai inclined his head, and kneeled before the king as he presented his work.

“But you honor me by bringing this,” said the King with a smile, and took the Egg stone from Rai and admired it. “This is well done, marsh-brother. My son and his son’s son will treasure it always.”

“My…my heart is filled with happiness that you believe so,” Rai said.

The King placed a hand on Rai’s shoulder. “Go now brother, in peace.” As Cuni-Rai got up from the floor, the King turned back to his assembly of advisors. “Now, we need to discuss the southern tribes. I believe–”

“I believe we must utilize force to get them to obey us,” a sharp voice issued from the entrance way. Rai found himself staring along with the King towards the intruder, who was dressed in odd green and red robes, and he wore a variety of necklaces and rings.

“Who dares interrupt me?” the King snarled. The Honor Guard readied their shields and spears, and immediately took a stance in front of the King.

The newcomer smiled coldly. “Terribly sorry for the interruption, King Hanxit, but I thought you might need some help. I am Thaxrieu, Hante Clanleader, and member of the An-Xileel. And we’ll no longer be needing your services.”

7 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Vivec, Vvardenfell, Morrowind

Lanla and Chakran sat within one of the old Ordinator offices inside the Ministry of Truth, the door locked tightly with a muffle spell enchanted on the door. Lanla sat behind the desk, rubbing her hands back and forth. Chakran stood in front of it, a strange mixture of nervousness and confidence etched across his face.

“Tell me again, from the beginning if you may.” She sipped sparingly on a glass of mazte, wanting to make the flavor last longer than it should.

“As you know, the Nerevarine left Vvardenfell shortly after returning from Solstheim. No one knows Nerevar’s reasoning, but it must’ve been very impromptu, because we never found any notes on the voyage.”

Lanla finally drained her drink, and set the cup down on the table. “Which is suspicious, or at least suspicious to me.”

Chakran nodded. “Very suspicious. Years passed, and no word. We hoped Nerevar had been lost at sea. But several days ago we received word from one of our spies that the boat the Nerevarine had set out on has docked in Ebonheart.”

“The Incarnate returned,” Lanla commented.

Chakran nodded again. “We believe the Nerevarine only came back for supplies. Our agent reported that he believes that after this last stop the Incarnate will not return to Morrowind – or Tamriel – again.”

“We need to strike soon then, and fast. We might not get another chance to end Nerevar’s life,” Lanla said with conviction. “Tell the others to get ready to travel to Ebonheart at once; we must get rid of the Nerevarine quickly but also quietly.”

Chakran frowned. “But if wasn’t for the Nerevarine, the Tribunal would have never been defeated–”

“I know that, Chakran,” Lanla said as she got up from her seat. “But all traces of our heresy, including the Nerevarine, must be destroyed. Sadly, that is how it must be.” With that she stalked out the door, leaving Chakran alone in the room.

“That is how it must be,” he mused, and reached for the bottle of mazte.

8 Sun’s Dawn, 433 Orsinium, High Rock

“When will that helm be finished, Dulzar?” asked Christophe, a weak looking Breton as he stood over the Orc blacksmith, who was cooling a pair of tongs in his water basin.

Dulzar gro-Yuk groaned and raised the tongs, causing Christophe to scurry away. “You just asked me too work on them, fool. By Trinimac’s name how am I supposed to work that fast?”

Christophe laughed at the sky. “Okay, I apologize for interrupting you friend. I just want a full set of armor for the farm, you know, the family.”

“What’s wrong, expecting trouble?”

The Breton shook his head. “No, of course not. It’s just…times seem to becoming darker. The Emperor is sick, the provinces appear to be on edge, and the rumors from Morrowind…”

Dulzar shrugged as he began to reheat the forge. “I don’t care to believe in rumors.”

“Still, something is going on over there. I just want to be able to protect my family in case things become unsafe around these parts.”

Dulzar stopped, and thought back to when he was a young child, barely able to lift a hammer, and how the Bretons and Redguards used to taunt and throw things at him whenever he was around them. Now, King Gortwog and the Lord of Wayrest were trading partners, and men like Christophe were moving around freely in his home like they owned the place.

The blacksmith snorted.

“When has it ever been unsafe around these parts?”

433, Last Year of the Third Era: Book 3, First Seed

1 First Seed, 433 Imperial City, Cyrodiil

Uriel Septim awoke in a pool of sweat on his bed, his teeth pvssyring as the images of the nightmare permeated in his head.

He had been in Oblivion again, twisted and tortured by the laughing cries of Daedra. One second he was being assaulted by creatures with crocodile heads, and the next he was being hung upside down by goblin-like creatures.

But then the dream had changed. He was being guided through a series of dark, dank tunnels by three of his Blades. He turned behind him and saw another face, the confused but hopeful face of one of the Imperial City prisoners. He wondered why a criminal was accompanying them, but he pushed the thought out of his mind. But then Uriel suddenly found himself within a small room, the sound of violence echoing around him. The Prisoner was in front of him, wielding a katana from one of the fallen Blades, and suddenly no longer looked like a criminal, but instead a mighty champion. The Emperor turned around, hearing a sound, and saw a man clad in red robes rush at him with a dagger. The Prisoner leaped to intercept the blow, but the convict couldn’t possibly move that fast…

The dagger rose…and then the dream had ended. Uriel clutched the Amulet of Kings, the heirloom of his ancestors, and spoke a prayer.

“May my fathers and their fathers watch over Tamriel,” the Emperor whispered. “Because there are dark times approaching.”

3 First Seed, 433 Ebonheart, Vvardenfell, Morrowind

Chakran and Lanla walked slowly in the dark of night, their clothing enchanted with muffle spells and their natural gray skin blending in with the darkness. An Imperial guardsman suddenly walked by with a torch, and the two quickly hid behind a wooden crate. The guard scanned the area, yawned, and turned back the way he came.

“Are the men ready?” Lanla whispered.

“Of course. They are just awaiting your command.” Chakran whispered back, and she smiled. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. With a nod, Lanla stalked off in search of her warriors.

Chakran was still unsure about this plan. He perfectly understood the reason behind the assassination of the Nerevarine. But that didn’t make him like it. If the Incarnate hadn’t arrived and destroyed Dagoth Ur, wiped out the Blight, and killed Mother Morrowind his people would have lived in blissful ignorance of the danger they faced. It just seemed…wrong.

He turned to look behind him, just in time to see the rest of his own men arrive in the shadows, a force of eight.

“The guards?” Chakran asked.

“Dead,” the nearest one answered with a grin. “Damn Outlanders.”

Now they were just waiting on Lanla. She had insisted on the dangerous part of the mission, to directly engage the Nerevarine while Chakran destroyed the boat.

A fireball soared into the sky. All of the guards had been killed on Lanla’s end. Just one more signal…

“Death to the Nerevarine!” Lanla’s voice echoed throughout the night, and suddenly the darkness was illuminated with light from magic as she and her men ran aboard the ship. There were sudden cries of surprise, anger, and confusion as the sailors aboard the boat awoke to the screams.

“You heard the lady!” Chakran roared to his men. “Burn the ship, burn it to the ground!” He ignited his hands with flames, and threw searing hot bolts at the ship, and the deck erupted with fire.

His men joined in and moved up, and soon the dock was ablaze with fireballs and torches wielded by the ships crew as they tried to fight off the Lanla and her men. Despite his doubt over the task at hand, Chakran found himself laughing with bloodlust along with his men, wanting to see the ship to burn into ashes.

And then suddenly screams of pain and horror pierced the night, louder than the previous ones, and triumphant yells come from the hull that causes Chakran to notch an eyebrow. He suddenly feels uneasy.

Suddenly a body flies past him and hits the ground a few feet from him, and the ex-ordinator runs over to it and looks startled at the bloody face of Lanla, her chest nearly sliced open and ablaze with flame.

“The Incarnate…too strong…” she said, and began closing her eyes. “Run, Chakran.”

Chakran looked in fright at her dying eyes. “No, not today,” he growled and began applying a healing spell to her wounds when he heard the footsteps behind him and turned around.

What was once beautiful clothing was now covered in blood splotches. Footsteps light as could be. A sword alight with the purest fire he had ever saw ordaining its blade was clutched in the right hand, causing the few blood drops splattered across it to sizzle.

“You can and should probably leave,” came the words from the mouth. “Before the Imperials in the fort arrive. I can fend for myself. But I will find you again. I feel like there is much we need to talk about.”

Chakran hoisted Lanla upon his shoulders, turned around, and ran from the Nerevarine.

6 First Seed, 433 Senchal, Elsweyr

“Good evening, J’Marr. Did you accomplish your mission?” the Khajiit said as the enforcer walked into the padded room of the Black Diamond Inn. He was an older Khajiit, with his fur turning silver from age and his whiskers longer than most. “Please, take some tea.”

J’Marr nodded and smiled, before sitting down cross-legged on one of the pillows around the table. “Ah, tea would be very nice.” He helped himself to a cup, and spooned in a couple spoons of moon sugar for added flavor.

“What is happening in Fort Palmtop?” the Old Khajiit asked as it curled up on his own pillow and began to lap up his bowl of tea excitedly, wanting to hear the news.

The enforcer smiled. “J’Marr has received word that the Imperials there have discovered the Skooma on the Legate’s person, and there is now eternal strife and suspicion amongst them.” He began to explain how the Imperials were now conducting routine checking of their own officers, which one could already see was making the soldiers quite mad. The two laughed, for it was quite the amusing tale.

“Ah,” the Skooma Dealer said. “That is very good news, it is J’Marr. You have done very well.” The Tojay-raht stretched, and stalked over to the corner of the room, where he picked up a moneybag within his teeth and handed it to J’Marr. The sun reflected off the brown spots on his fur when he walked pass the windows. “Your payment, as promised.”

The enforcer smiled and accepted the bag, which the Dealer dropped from his mouth. “Thank you, Rajhi. J’Marr must go now.”

“Will you return for more work?”

“J’Marr promises to return tomorrow to work, as long as you have more coin for him, yes?” The two laughed, and Rajhi smiled.

“Of course, goodbye J’Marr.”

The other Khajiit nodded in farewell, and left the room.

13 First Seed, 433 Kvatch, Cyrodiil

“And it is because of Akatosh, whose wings and breathe usher in the new minutes and days, that we are still living. Enjoy in his gifts, and never leave from him or any of his fellow council! Mara, Stendarr, Zenithar, Julianos, Dibella, and Kynareth, for the gods bestow many gifts to all that believe in their guiding light. May the Blessings of the Nine Divines never leave any of you. Have a great evening”

Martin finished his sermon and the townspeople applauded as he stepped away from the podium of the chapel and walked slowly to the back of the room, his nerves finally calming after spending the entire night dreading this moment.

Today had been the first time he had ever presided over and led the whole of Kvatch in prayer alone, and he had wanted everything to be perfect. His mentor, the old priest Michai, had told him not to worry about it.

“Clear your mind and leave your heart open to the gods,” Michai had grinned. “And nothing could possibly go wrong.”

The young man continued walking until he reached the end of the aisle, where Michai stood applauding with the rest of the townspeople.

“How…how did I do?” Martin asked quietly.

The Priest put a hand on the shoulder of the young priest in training, and frowned.

“Not bad for a Daedra worshipper, I would say.”

Martin’s face fell. And then suddenly the sound of laughing split the air.

“And I’m really proud of you.”

433, Last Year of the Third Era: Book 4, Rain's Hand

24 Rain’s Hand, 433 Argon’s Nest, Black Marsh

It had happened so fast.

King Hanxit, by order of the An-Xileel, had been removed and carted from the city. All traces that he and his family had even lived in the palace was now gone; it was if they had never been hatched.

The palace itself was going on redesigning. The An-Xileel had ordered all of the sculptors in Black Marsh to aid in their endeavor to remove all traces of a monarchy society from their culture. From here on, the Saxhleel were returning to their old culture. Or as the Underwarden had so gracefully put it, “We are scrubbing away the grime and filth that the rest of Tamriel has forced upon us.”

The only reason that Cuni-Rai was still in Argon’s Nest was because Thaxrieu had shown the Underwarden the statue he had carved for the hatching of the old king’s son and they now wanted him to lead the redesign effort on the palace.

As the Stone-Carver helped some of his egg-brothers remove vast parts of the walls – walls that had been standing before his father’s father had walked the soil – he could not help feeling a grave sense of loss.

Things are changing, Cuni-Rai thought as one of the other sculptors under his authority came up too him with a new set of orders from the An-Xileel, and maybe not for the good.

25 Rain’s Hand, 433 Skywatch, Summerset Isle

“Aaah!” screamed Ondolemar as the Blade prodded him again with the Staff of Lightning. The water that the torturer had poured onto him at the beginning of their new session had almost completely boiled away, but the pain still caused him to twitch and shake uncontrollably.

“Are you going to tell me yet?” the Blade said somewhat mournfully. “Once again, I would like to point out that I do not take any joy in this.”

The High Elf spat in his face from his current position on the wall. The torturer simply wiped the spittle from his cheek and sadly smiled.

“I suspected as much.”

The Imperial began to pace around the small room with his hands behind his back, and the prisoner watched him warily. This was what he did when he tried to think up new ways to make Ondolemar talk.

“Have you ever been to Morrowind?” the Blade said, and Ondolemar was so caught off guard by the irrelevant question that he found himself replying with a simple ‘no’.

“Eh, I should’ve known. You High Elves don’t mix in well with Daedra worshippers like the Dunmer.”

“They strayed from the path and decided to play in the rocks and the weeds,” Ondolemar replied with menace. “There’s no reason for me to care about them.”

“Care about the people? Oh, no. But you should care about what has been happening over there the last couple of years. The Dark Elves are coming under the Imperial sway. And they’ve been the only province, aside from Black Marsh, that has always resisted our rule. Now tell me Ondolemar, if an entire nation can’t stop the Empire from getting what they want, what makes you think one Altmer can?”

The young elf coughed and glared at his torturer with a look that would quail a god. “One person can always make a difference. As an Imperial, I thought you would understand that more than anyone.”

The Blade stood there, awestruck by the reply, before exploding in laughter. “Oh, that was a good one Ondolemar."

Suddenly, a knock could be heard from the secret entrance of the cell and the wall slid away to reveal the face of an Imperial Guard.

“Caius Cosades sir, the Commander would like to have a word.”

“Thank you, soldier. I will be out there in a bit,” Caius replied kindly before turning back to his charge. “We will talk again elf, of course.”

And with that the Blade left the room.

28 Rain’s Hand, 433 Snowhawk, Skyrim

“Play us another one, Grom!” cried out Hadni the Bold from his seat in the back of the tavern. The other warriors and farmers within The Snorting Troll shouted their approval before taking another drink from their mugs.

“Why certainly, my friend! What would you have it be? A song of old or a simple melody from my lute?”

“A simple melody would be preferred,” came a voice from behind him, and he turned around to see the face of his beloved Lela. “Your singing voice is rather terrible.”

The others within the tavern laughed at this jest, and Grom smiled brightly. “Oh, quiet with you!” he said with fake anger, and his wife went to take a seat giggling.

“This little melody tells the tale of a whale who hopelessly fell in love with a bird,” Grom announced to everyone. “Just imagine the beast that could be brought forth from that union.”

The villagers laughed as Grom began to play. It had been a good year all and all for the small settlement of Snowhawk. They had a great harvest, hunting had been superb, and the construction of the Imperial fort had finally been completed. And the new trade route with Morthal was causing everyone to be in good cheer.

Grom smiled as he turned to face Lela, who was rubbing her baby-full stomach. Their first child, and with Shor’s grace a son. It was not a bad time to live in Snowhawk at all.

30 Rain’s Hand, 433 Balmora, Vvardenfell, Morrowind

“Easy there now,” Chakran said as soothingly as he could as Lanla opened her eyes for the first time in weeks on the cot. “Everything is okay.”

If everything is okay then why does everything hurt? The Dunmer woman wondered to herself as she looked over the side of the bed and stared into the face of her fellow conspirator. She was suddenly conscious to the fact she had on no shirt – she could feel the coolness of the soft rag Chakran was using to rub the closed scar on her chest.

“The men,” she rasped. “What befell the rest of them?”

Chakran averted his eyes, and began to look out one of the open windows in the room. “They didn’t make it, serjo.”

Lanla gritted her teeth and tears began to run down her eyes as she silently mourned the deaths of her comrades in arms. How could she have known that the Nerevarine was not going to be onboard during the attack? That the damn Outlander was going to show up ready for a slaughter?

But she should’ve anticipated. She should’ve planned ahead in case things went horribly wrong. If her father and brothers knew of the failure she had caused…

“I was able to get us both out of there,” Chakran went on, “But you took a nasty bit of sword work to the stomach during the raid and you nearly died on me during the past couple of weeks. Twice.”

“That…would’ve been bad,” she smiled as the ex-ordinator finished his washing, and covered her back up with some sheets. “How long have I been out?”

“A month,” suddenly came a voice out of the corner of the room. “I apologize for having to cut you like that to begin with. But I have to say I don’t take people trying to kill me to kindly. It ruins my day.”

That voice nearly made Lanla jump in a combination of hatred and fear. She turned to the left corner of the room and stared into the shadows, seeing the outline of a figure. A figure she knew all to well.

“Nerevarine,” she hissed.

“I’m so glad you noticed. And now that you have awaken, I believe it is time the three of us had a talk.”