#darkknowledge

“Now, Dovahkiin. I would like that secret.”

Knowledge for knowledge.

That is what you promised Hermaeus Mora. A deal was made, and you must follow through.

“What sort of secret?” you whisper, leaning back as if you could escape the Daedric Prince. The four tentacles that hold you up in the air vibrate as you shift your weight away from Hermaeus Mora.

“Are you allowing me the choice?” He sounds amused, and you distinctly dislike it.

“No,” you reply, knowing that giving him the decision to select which memory to take is an unthinkable option. “I will make the choice.”

Hermaeus Mora hums softly, his tentacles tightening around your limbs. You’re perhaps a few feet off the ground at most. With these tentacles around your limbs, Mora holds you close to eye-level. In this humanoid form, Mora is tall, almost seven feet.

It is such a strange thing to see a god attempt to be human in any capacity. What was twisting around in Mora’s mind that made him take this form? Why did he believe this would ease your discomfort?

“Then it is your choice,” he replies. “And I will savor whatever you wish to reveal to me.” Mora’s voice is a subtle purr. It is a tone you might hear from a lover’s lips. Is the Daedric Prince taunting you on purpose?

As if human, Mora breathes deep, the inhalation loud. But there is no exhalation, and there is no warm breath against your skin. His form expands. Ripples slightly as if in pleasure. Revulsion blooms in your chest and creeps out into your limbs.

From over his shoulders come four slim tentacles. They slide over Hermaeus Mora and reach out for you. There is no possibility of your escape, and you watch as they move closer, the tips wiggling and stretching. Then they are on you, sliding everywhere.

“Those that follow me and bend to my will do not find my intrusions painful. But since you have yet to know my true influence, I will make sure there is none.”

“How will you do that?” You don’t recognize your own voice. It is soft. Nearly inaudible.

Hermaeus Mora does not tell you with a word but with a touch.

His hand lifts, hovering just above the fabric that separates him from your left breast. The singular eye in the center of his head is focused on that spot. The Prince of Fate hesitates for a moment before closing the distance.

There is nothing human about this touch.

Hermaeus Mora squints, as if thinking, and then his movement changes to that of what would happen if this were a mortal movement. He cups your breast softly, lightly squeezing before his thumb brushes over the nipple through the fabric.

An unknown urge, an eldritch pleasure, stirs in your core. The feeling is strange, and so at odds with what your mind is thinking. Your brain is a fire of revulsion and interest. It is intrigued and yet mortified that you are at his mercy.

One of the four tentacles slithers over and around his arm, accompanying the movement of his hand. Together, they form an unearthly dance of hand and tentacle seeking to draw pleasure from you. At first, the sensation is so odd that you don’t respond at all. But slowly, almost as if not realizing the change, your core begins to warm, and you sense a wetness between your legs.

A second tentacle appears, and it moves toward your other breast. It joins in the dance, and soon you begin to surrender, pieces of you fracturing like fragments of shattered stone. The second tentacle curls around the nipple, lightly tugging as the very tip swishes back and forth. The thin fabric draped over your body does nothing to dampen the sensation.

The two remaining tentacles delve downward, first wrapping around your calves, then venturing upward over your thighs and to the space between them. Hermaeus Mora’s hand draws away from your breast even as his tentacles remain.

“I have witnessed and recorded the mortal forms of mating,” says Mora slowly. “I have yet to put any of that knowledge to use until now.”

The two tentacles slide further up your thighs, and then branch outward, coming together between you and Hermaeus Mora’s bodies. Together, they sink down down down until the joined limbs press against your entrance.

“Look at me, Dovahkiin.”

Hermaeus Mora’s command is a blow. It is sharp as steel. There is no room for refusal. You are in his realm, and his voice holds authority here.

You glance away from the tentacles to his singular eye. While there is no mouth or nose or cheekbones to show his emotions, you still sense that he’s smiling somehow. That Hermaeus Mora is grinning with pleasure at his control over you.

Something wet brushes against your clit. It is not his horrid hand and you do not need to look to know that it is but another tentacle. Yet another appendage exploring your body. This one suctions against your clit, using its naturally, wet flesh to rotate back and forth, creating a vortex of motion that quickly pulls you to the brink of an orgasm.

The stuttering breath from your lungs earn you a deep, rumbling chuckle from Mora. It simmers, and then filters out, his shoulders heaving slightly as if the Daedric Lord is prideful of his actions.

“How does this feel?” he asks. There is a detachedness to his tone, as if he’s observing you like an experiment. But that is what you are after all. You are not the Dragonborn in Hermaeus Mora’s realm but a tool for him to hoard. There is no such thing as freewill or choices with him.

Everything is a game.

Everything is a trap.

“Your touch repulses me,” you reply, making sure your tone is biting.

“Oh. No.” Hermaeus Mora chuckles. “You cannot lie to me in my own realm, Dovahkiin. I see all. I know all.”

“Then you already know how I feel. Why ask?”

“Your venom is not nearly as deadly as you believe it to be,” comes his reply. You feel scolded, and that only makes you angry.

Your hands curl into fists. “Let me give you my secret and be done with this.”

Hermaeus Mora retreats slightly. The inky, watery flesh of his humanoid form ripples like the waters beyond this tower. But it is momentary. Quick. Like a pebble plopped into a still pool. It all returns to normal.

“You entered my realm. You came to me. You sought knowledge. Fate brought you here, and fate is what brings us together now.”

There is another light twist of the tentacle around your clit. This one pulls forth a moan from between your lips. It is unbidden, and completely surprising. It happens again, and that is when the two joined tentacles begin to push in.

The intrusion is not painful. It is actually pleasant and your body surrenders to it, feeding into the gentle, pulsing sway of them inside you. The tentacle at your clit works in tandem, the three appendages working you right back over the edge.

As you squirm, and writhe, the tentacles holding onto your limbs shift. They lift you a bit higher, and then you’re tipping slightly, legs brought upward, only to bend at the knees and be pushed toward your chest.

You’re being presenting and it is both demeaning and luscious.

Hermaeus Mora brings you closer, and then his arms are around your body, his head dipping in an act that seems far too intimate.

“I’ll have that secret now.”

Mora is right. There is no pain. The tentacles moving between your legs keeps all your focus there, even as he draws you closer to his body. You’re nearly pressed up against him. One of his arms slides up your back to wrap around your throat.

Sprouting from his head, little tentacles come rushing forward. They break over your face and meander toward your nose, mouth, and ears. You try to scream but only manage to choke around them as they enter your mouth.

“Relax,” coos Hermaeus Mora. “Let me in. Bask in my presence.”

The tentacles playing with your clit brushes over you in a way that has your body seizing. This flattens the barrier, and Mora’s connection to your mind is instantaneous.

It is a dull explosion. Bright. Loud. Yet also incredibly calm. He moves through your memory, and you can feel it, as if the tentacles are sliding over, around, and in your brain. It is awful, and yet it feels like nothing at all.

Your lips begin to form words, words that tell him that it is your choice. That the memory you pick is one that you select. He is not to grab and pull whatever he likes.

But Hermaeus Mora does not listen to mortal wishes. He shifts through everything, and then you sense the halt—the collective pause.

“What is this?” His tone is cautious but curious. At first, you’re unsure of what Mora is seeing, but as he accesses the memory, it all becomes clear.

“So…that is what the Greybeards hoard atop their mountain. How…selfish of them.”

Shredded wings, missing teeth, and aged dragon scales flare in your mind. You glimpse the eyes of immortality and power. Hermaeus Mora sees it all too, and he clings to this memory, not allowing it to slip away.

Around the image of Paarthrnax there is dullness, one that intensifies into bright white until you’re completely thrust from your own head and back into Apocrypha.

“Your memory is…delicious.” The word curls in the air as if Mora is savoring it like a fine meal.

All the tentacles have retreated from you other than the four that originally held you. “You said a secret. That is not a secret.”

“But it is, Dovahkiin. It is a secret you keep. And now it is a secret I know.”

“But I told you I would give you one.”

“And so you did,” he says simply.

Your lips curl back, showing your teeth. Hermaeus Mora seems unbothered by the whole affair, continuing like he doesn’t care about your display of anger.

“I see why Miraak’s devotees were after you. They sought to kill you, which is such a shame since Miraak only wants you brought to him.”

Your feral snarl ebbs slightly. “He—what?”

Slowly, the tentacles bring you back to the floor. They retreat suddenly, disappearing into Mora’s form.

Hermaeus Mora’s dark laugh swirls around you like his tentacles. “As a guest in my realm, you are under my protection.” The humanoid shape he molded himself into starts to melt. He begins to lean to the right, the shine of his body rippling like boiling water. The liquification of body and tentacle is horrid. Putrid. Even the eye molts.

You stumble backward, falling on your ass as Hermaeus Mora becomes liquid.

As if there are cracks in the floor, he starts to seep into the stone, disappearing into the rock before there is nothing left of him.

You don’t move. Every inch of you is cold and alert, completely startled by his sudden dissolving.

“Dovahkiin,” comes Mora’s voice and it is everywhere. “No harm will befall you. I will see to it that Miraak does not find you while you haunt my halls.”

Two Seekers drift into the small place, their hands outstretched instructing for you to follow them. You don’t want to go. This place is starting to worm its way inside you. Already, you feel Mora’s alluring pull.

Perhaps it’s because he dug around in your head. Or, worse, the Prince of Fate made you into a whimpering mess that gave in. The very thought is embarrassing, and shame rises in your stomach. You are no one’s property. You belong only to yourself.

And the words are a lie.

You peel yourself off the ground, and the Seekers float into position, one in front and one behind. When you enter the main room where Mora’s most loyal followers work, they do not even look up at you.

Did they hear you in there moaning for their god? Shame creeps in again, and you purposefully stare at the back of the Seeker in front of you. You’re returned to your cage, and you do not want to crawl inside. Now that you’re on the outside looking in, you are not a guest in Hermaeus Mora’s halls but a pet. A plaything. Something he can chew up and spit out once he’s drained you of your memories.

What will happen to you then?

Instead of resisting, you crawl back in, curling up in a tight ball. You keep your back to the cage door, gaze focused on the wall in front of you. The cage is built into it, the metal bars imbedded in the wall.

A plan begins to take shape in your mind. Slowly, you reach out, your fingers brushing at the wall. It is not as hard you first believed it to be. It’s not stone or rock but something slightly fleshy.

With the right Shout, could you rip a hole in the wall? If you manage that, where would it lead you to? Empty air? Another room? Would Hermaeus Mora know your intent before you did it and come to stop you?

Is he even capable of that?

You’re not entirely sure, and you certainly do not wish to dwell in this cage until he calls on you again. You refuse to be his puppet. The answers you sought when you entered Apocrypha are unimportant now. Miraak’s temple is heavily guarded, but you’ll take the risk infiltrating it rather than trying to seek out knowledge in Mora’s halls.

Breaking through will create noise, and you don’t even know if your Thu’um has returned to you. Hermaeus Mora did not take it away, but he did manage to silence it for a time. When does that expire? Can he reset the clock once it’s up?

Running your tongue over your teeth, you consider your options, and settle on a quiet Shout.

“Feim,” you speak into the air.

You’re pushed into the ethereal form, and though it is temporary and lasts for only a handful of seconds, your Thu’um is back.

Shifting until you’re facing the wall, you sit up enough that you’re not crammed into the small space. You scoot across the stone until your back presses against the bars. Steadying your breathing, you inhale, and then release an unrelenting force of power.

“Fus Ro Dah!”

The force of your Voice batters against the soft wall. Some of it gives, but most of it bounces back and smashes into you. The back of your head bangs against the bars and you slide to the floor, clutching your head, groaning. Through parted fingers, you glance at the wall.

It’s still standing.

You laugh and it sounds like drowning.

This is mad. This is insane. Crazy.

Is Hermaeus Mora’s control finally taking hold? Did his tentacles that moved inside you slip a bit of his influence into your body. He grew no appendage like a mortal man, nor did he finish like they do.

But Mora is a god. He is not bound to the laws that the races of Tamriel are held to.

Your spread out on your hands and knees, shifting your body across the floor like a Mudcrab until you reach the wall of your enclosure. Running your fingers along it, you test the portion of the wall where your Thu’um made contact. It gives a bit, and you flex your palm, pressing.

Some of that fleshy wall gives, until a small portion of it falls away. It isn’t large, and not big enough to put your hand through. Using your nails, you start to scratch and pull at the material, more of it falling away. The texture is almost gelatinous, and as the hole grows bigger, you’re able to stare into it.

Through the hole you glimpse towering spires and connecting bridges. You shift position, glimpsing the murky water below. A lone tentacle breaches the surface, slithering up from the depths, squirming around in the air as if seeking something. Maybe is senses you, and this is Mora’s way of silently instructing you to cease.

Yet, there is hope.

There is no deep drop or immediate fall. You glimpse bars. Black metal like your cage? At least, that is what it appears to be. You can’t reach it to find out, but it does look to be the same. You claw at the wall again, this time with renewed energy.

More of the fleshy material falls into the cell or outward. The hole grows larger as you pull more of it away. The smile that spreads across your face is a feral one. From behind you, beyond the archway that leads into the room holding your cage, comes the distinct screech of the Seekers. They heard your Thu’um, and you are running out of time.

With renewed vigor, you rip and tear, not caring is you split nail or skin. All of that can heal. Your freedom is the most important thing.

The screeching becomes louder, striking down to your heart, sending your limbs into an agitated, frantic spin as you try to make your escape route wider.

A hurling, rippling force of air slams into your back. It shoves you forward against the wall. When you make contact, it bends outward. Another rippling force of air follows the next. The wall gives a bit more.

You turn your head toward the room. Two Seekers float just beyond the bars, their face mandibles flaring with agitation. Their hands extended outward, and you put all your pressure against the crumbling wall.

Together, they release another wave, and you grin in victory.

The wall gives. You fall backward.

And roll out into the curved embrace of those black metal bars.

There is a peace for a few seconds. And that metal shifts, revealing not bars but tentacles. Sudden horror of the implication flows into you like a thunderstorm. The tentacles wiggle. Bend outward. Unfurl.

There is only air. A hover before the descent.

Then you’re falling.

On the island of Solstheim, deep within a cave, is a book.

Before you, the book rests upon an intricately carved pedestal large enough to hold the massive tome. The walls and floor around it are tentacles sculpted from stone. They form a tangled mural behind the pedestal and book.

It is a Black Book. A tome of esoteric knowledge. A Daedric artifact attributed to Hermaeus Mora, the Prince of knowledge, memory, and Fate. You’ve heard the tales—mostly from one of Master Neloth’s wayward stories. With your reputation, Neloth asked you to retrieve a Black Book, giving you its precise location.

Maneuvering through the cave was the easy part. Now that you stand before the massive tome, your feet have turned to solid steel. The book is bound in a black cover that appears soft to the touch as if it’s a living thing and not just Daedric reading material. On the cover is the symbol of Hermaeus Mora. Between the pages, a black mist leaks out and surrounds the book in its immediate vicinity. That doesn’t account for the oddly pulsing air, as if the book is vibrating, disturbing the space around it.

You do not move closer. You do not approach. You stand near the base of the stairs that you just descended. There is no eagerness in you to take a closer look.

“So. This is what Master Neloth wanted us to retrieve?” asks Teldryn Sero. The Dunmer mercenary stands directly behind you and to the right of your shoulder. He crosses his arms and also keeps a decent distance away. “Looks foul. I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”

Without looking away from the Black Book, you answer him. “Sounds like you’re starting to care about me, Teldryn.”

Teldryn snorts and leans in, his helmeted head appearing next to your face. “You pay me to care. Therefore, I shall. I like the coin. Keeps my pockets full.”

“Ever the poet, Teldryn.”

“Naturally.”

The good humor is just a front. This…thing is repulsive, and you’re not sure you want to touch it, let alone open it.

Master Neloth isn’t the only reason you’re after this thing. Back on Skyrim, during a visit to the town of Riverwood, a trio of cultist attacked you. Before they lashed out, they mentioned someone named “Miraak.” From there, you came to Solstheim, only to find parts of the local population seeking out stone pillars. There they toiled, repeating a mantra that made no sense.

It all led to Skaal Village where the shaman, Storn Crag-Strider, diverted you to Saering’s Watch to learn a Word of Power. The All-Maker stones, as Storn called them, are all cleansed. But it only pushed you deeper into this twisted treachery. Storn was adamant about not turning to Hermaeus Mora for assistance in defeating Miraak, but did mention Black Books and who would know more.

Master Neloth was that person.

Now, you’re here, staring at the thing everyone’s been talking about, and you’re not entirely sure who to trust.

As if drawn by an invisible tether, your left foot slides forward toward the Black Book. Your mind registers it only when Teldryn reaches out and grabs your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks with a whispered sharpness. Teldryn pushes you up against the stair’s central support pillar. “You are not touching that.”

“How else are we supposed to get it to Neloth?” you snap.

“We don’t,” replies Teldryn. “I love gold but I’m not stupid. We don’t need to do this. There are plenty of other jobs out there for us to do that don’t involve anything like that.” Teldryn emphasizes his distaste by pointing at the Black Book.

“But I’m the Dragonborn. I have to do this.”

“Do you? Do you really?”

You square your shoulders and stare Teldryn down. “Yes. That’s my destiny as—”

“Is that what those old loons up on the mountain told you?” interrupts Teldryn. “That you have to solve all of Tamriel’s problems?”

“No, but—”

“But nothing. You are not beholden to anyone but yourself.” Teldryn pauses a moment and then inclines his head. “Except me. Still owe me from that bet we made in Windhelm.”

“If I pay up, will you stop talking?”

Teldryn considers. “No,” he says after a few long seconds.

The two of you turn your heads in the direction of the Black Book. The black mist around it appears thicker, and distantly, you hear voices whispering. Yet this inaudible chorus seems miles away, their voices just existing at the edges of your hearing. Teldryn is Mer, and his ears are sharper than your human ones.

“Teldryn?” you ask softly. “Do you hear that?”

His head tilts to the right an inch. “Hear what?”

You focus in on the sound, pushing all your attention into deciphering the message. It is a chorus, a resounding force of voices all harmonizing together, but every time you try to pick a word out, the understanding slips and you’re left with nothing.

“Voices,” you murmur. “Do you not hear them?”

Teldryn shakes his head and then slowly pivots to face the dark tome. You take a step closer and Teldryn blocks your path.

“How can you not hear it?” You’re not speaking to Teldryn but to the air, thinking out loud rather than seeking an answer.

Teldryn is no barrier. You push past him and make it five full steps before Teldryn is able to cut you off. He places his hands on your shoulders, halting your forward momentum.

“The Black Book is speaking to you. Hermaeus Mora is calling you to him,” says Teldryn, shaking your shoulders.

Your nostrils flare and you smell ink. It is thick and viscous. “I should open it.” The words fall from your lips easily, as if you are one of the possessed and hearing Miraak’s mantra.

“This is insanity,” hisses Teldryn. “You’re not risking your life like this.”

The voices strengthen, and between each intake of breath, you hear their song. It is not one language but many, and they all speak in unison, their words matching up in syllable and pitch. Some of the voices sound entirely mortal. Others are odd. Primordial. You do not understand them and their strangeness batters away at your brain.

Something wet drips onto your upper lip. You don’t wipe it away.

“Your nose is bleeding,” murmurs Teldryn. Behind the Chitin helmet, all you can see are the Dunmer’s eyes. But they speak volumes. His concern is evident.

The tug to open the book is unyieldingly powerful. There is no part of your body that isn’t sizzling with the need to touch the fleshy cover and reveal the secrets inside. In the end, you will have to open a Black Book. In the end, you will have to involve yourself. All roads lead there. You know this in your marrow.

“They’ll never stop coming,” you say, and each word is laced with sadness.

This is your purpose. This is the life placed before you. The gift of the Voice is not one you asked for. It is not something you ever wished upon yourself. But there is no way to give it back. Time and Fate will eventually catch up to you.

Better to face it all now.

“You owe no one nothing.” Teldryn is not a liar. At least, not to you. He respects you even when he disagrees.

“I know.” The admission is painful.

“I can’t protect you once you open that book. We don’t know what will happen.”

You shake your head. “Miraak’s temple is too heavily guarded. I cannot seek answers there.”

“We cannot seek answers there,” corrects Teldryn, his voice breaking slightly. “Where you go, I go.”

“You only say that because I pay you well.”

Teldryn gently rests his helmet against your forehead. “You pay me shit.”

The bit of blood on your lip rolls down to your chin. “Don’t wait for me,” you whisper. “Whatever you do, Teldryn. Don’t. Wait.”

Teldryn’s chest heaves with a great sigh. “I get your homestead in Falkreath.”

“Deal,” you laugh as another wet drop falls onto your upper lip. Teldryn loves that house, and it’s been nothing but trouble for you.

With a final squeeze of your shoulders, Teldryn pulls away, moving out of your path, revealing the Black Book. What dwells inside the book is the unknown factor. You could go mad. You could experience visions. You could simply disappear from this plane. There is no telling what might happen.

The harmonious voices strengthen as you stride closer. On the cover, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora begins to glow a sickly green. Around the book, the black mist thickens. In its foggy depths, the shadows of tentacles unfurl. They are transparent. Faint, dark whisps. The tentacles venture outwards, reaching as if seeking an embrace.

Another step. Another. Another still and then you’re right there, staring down at the thing that won’t stop talking.

Neloth will have his book, but you need this to end.

The tips of your fingers brush against the edge of the Black Book’s cover. It is not fleshy as you expect it to be. It is coarse, but not sharp or scratchy. Slowly, your fingers curl around the edge. There is a hesitation just before you start to open the cover. Moving with you, the pages follow the cover, and then the yellowed papers inside present themselves.

At first, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time. It is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward.

The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your boots lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness. These are not the misty tendrils from earlier but real, tangible limbs that slide over and around you. They wrap around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push even as you thrash about, trying to break free.

Escape is impossible. You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet are on solid ground.

The abyss is gone, and instead…

You’re not entirely sure where you are.

Around you is an alcove made of black metal. Attached to it is an archway made of books that connect to a long hallway. The books within the archway are stacked on top of each other, almost seeming to melt together near the center curve of the arch. Beneath your feet is stone. Some of it is gray like the rock on the side of mountain. Other chunks of stone are black and dull. There are pages from books scattered all over the ground but they aren’t moving. They simply rest where they lay.

You bend at the knees and reach out, sliding a fingernail under the corner of the nearest page. Its only lifts an inch or so, and with it comes something syrupy and sticky. You immediately retract your arm and stand, wiping away the reside on your leather pants.

Slowly, you rotate, surveying your surroundings. It’s only when you turn around that you notice the Black Book. The symbol of Hermaeus Mora does not glow. There is no black mist or odd whispering.

Without second guessing the choice, you grab the cover and open the book, expecting to find what you did just seconds ago.

Nothing.

The pages are blank.

You flip the page. Nothing. Flip again. Still blank.

You go to the beginning, examining every inch of paper. No living words or symbols appear. The book is dead. Silent.

Frowning, you spin around and stare down the long hallway. The air is stale and absent of wind. Glancing up, you peer through the small holes in the black metal. A glowing, green sky greets you. There are streaks in the sky that move like clouds but their radiance is more like lightning. Shifting on your feet, you change perspective, and discover a black abyss cutting through the green sky.

Is that what you fell through?

As you watch the portal, black tentacles drop from its darkness and sway as if caught on a breeze. But you feel no wind against your skin. Then again, you don’t sense a temperature either. You’re not cold but you’re not warm, as if the very atmosphere is adjusting to your body temperature, making the stale air around you feel like absolutely nothing.

Wherever you are, it is an atrocity.

Without a way to go back, the only path is forward.

With overly slow movements, you unsheathe the sword at your waist. The hallway isn’t well lit, but there is enough light to see by. Crouching slightly, you move on silent feet, keeping close to the wall without touching it.

The stone floor gives way to twisted metal, and the walls are nothing but books. You do not stop to peer at any of them. This place is dangerous, and you need to be alert at all times. Survival is essential. Information is important. Any clues that you can take back to Neloth or Storn might help in unveiling the mystery behind this stranger known as Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora is not unknown to you. You grew up on stories about Aedra and Daedra. They were standard tales, but when you were a child, those beings seemed far from the reality of your life.

It is so very different now.

Neloth did not shy away from talking about the Daedric Prince. It was Miraak that the Dunmer dismissed, seeming more concerned with Mora and the Black Books.

What was it that Neloth said about Mora’s permanent influence? Madness. Loss of self-awareness. Black spots in the whites of the eyes. There are no mirrors and you cannot see your reflection in your sword. You’re not mad, but for a brief moment you thought you were when Teldryn couldn’t hear the voices. Your self-awareness is intact. At least, for now.

Storn called Mora the Skaal’s enemy, and spoke of hidden Skaal knowledge that Mora wishes to obtain only for the sheer pleasure of possessing it. But Storn did not say more, merely focusing on the destruction of Miraak’s influence.

As you round a corner, you arrive at an open platform. Instead of approaching, you hang back, observing your newly unobstructed view of the environment. From here, the glowing sky and black portals are in clear view. Various structures dot the landscape, and it stretches in all directions.

But there is no landscape. There are no trees or blades of grass. What should be the ground isn’t rock or dirt but a dark liquid that resembles black water. It is as dark as parchment ink, and the surface of it ripples slightly as if something moves beneath it. You have zero desire to know if its as fluid as an ocean or thick like honey.

The platform itself is rounded and juts out slightly from the opening. As you step closer, the platform shifts and fans upward, extending like the wings of a dragonfly. Another appears from above, connecting to it to form a bridge.

There is a tower there, the outside of the structure nothing but pillars of books. Your gaze sweeps across it and the surrounding area. Nothing jumps out at you except the strangeness of the place. Nothing and no one lurk nearby.

Cautiously, you step out onto the bridge. Still, there is no wind. The air is still. With silent steps, you creep to the next platform. When you crest the small curve in the bridge just before the landing, you come to a stop and immediately drop to your stomach.

A strange creature hovers just inside the archway. It has four arms, two of which hold books while the others rest against its sides. Its head is squid-like with two thin eyes and no eyelids. Hanging from its shoulders are rags of some kind, but at this distance, it might also be fur.

It has not noticed you, and you use this to your advantage. Silently, you set your sword next to you, and remove your ebony bow from your back along with an arrow. Easing up to a low crouch, you pull back on the bowstring, aiming the pointed tip of the arrow at the head of the bizarre creature.

With a book in hand, it seems such a gentle creature. It’s head tentacles flare as it reads as if the words on the page are amusing. A brief moment of hesitation stays your hand. Then you remember the voices and mist, of how blood dripped from your nose from the brawling nature of it all.

Your finger slips from the bowstring.

The arrow whistles.

It lifts its head in curiosity.

Making contact, the arrow slides between the creature’s eyes.

There is no noise or cry of pain. It vanishes in a brief vibration of mist. The rags it wore and the books it held hang suspended in the air before falling to the ground. The books hit hard. The rags drift slowly.

Before the rags touch the ground, you’re up and moving, returning your blade to its scabbard. You remove another arrow from the quiver. In this moment, you are a stealthy killer, a being of darkness in a place made for it.

Your humanity will not pause your hand. The answers you seek go beyond that. You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. Teldryn is not here to help you. Everything going forward must be done with only yourself in mind.

As you step off the bridge, the dragonfly-like structures break apart. You glance back and meet open air.

A howl reaches your ears. It bites and claws, sounding of blood-filled lungs. All the hair on your arms stand on end, and your skin prickles with awareness. The awful sound comes again. It’s closer. Moving in. Trapping you against a threat of falling.

There is a ripple. A change that you sense. Of a predator seeking its prey.

You drop to your knees as a ball of vibrating air launches over your head. Spinning toward your assailant, you release the notched arrow. It strikes true, hitting another one of those creatures.

This one shrieks. Then doubles. A replicate appearing beside it.

With quick fingers, you release two more, sending the tentacle twins vanishing into puffs of mist.

It is clear that your presence has been detected. Stealth will be of little use if the beings of this realm are actively seeking you out.

Charging down the hall only proves what you expect. More of these creatures lurk nearby, actively waiting for you to make an appearance. These are not visible. They are beings of mist, and they solidify with a blink, popping up from nowhere before your very eyes.

The first surprises, nearly knocking you down.

The second almost grabs you. It’s clawed hand just grazing your leather armor.

The third hurtles into you, but you manage to roll into the fall, getting back on your feet with ease.

The bow is useless. They are too close, disappearing then reappearing in rapid succession. Your blade is sharp, and you are eager for a bit of blood.

The steel blade rings loudly and the first swing strikes true.

“Fus!” The power of your Voice slams into one of the tentacled creatures. It flinches back. Recoils from your blow. It is enough for you to drive forward.

You duck and weave, slicing through the air and dispatching your assailants with the skill that has made hundreds tremble.

But there is no blood. These creatures do not bleed. They simply vanish into mist.

Chest heaving, you finally have a moment to gauge your new surroundings. It’s a massive circular room. There are several large, metal double doors scattered throughout the room but the doors are shut, barring entry.

All expect one.

With resolve in every step, you march forward toward the open gate, passing rotting stacks of books and floating eyes with tiny tentacles. They look like horrific stars. They even blink, following you for a few strides before drifting off to move about the room.

You ascend the raised dais, pass through the doors, and up another flight of stairs before you’re spit out onto another platform.

Unlike the previous platforms, this one is already attached to a bridge. It spans a great expanse of black water, connecting to another tower. But there is too much open space between the towers, and there is zero cover. You would need to sprint, or use a Shout to speedily propel yourself across.

A roar from behind you stirs your feet.

“Wuld Nah!” In seconds, you’re halfway across the bridge, already sprinting to the other side, your arms and legs pumping with every step.

“Dovahkiin!”

The primordial voice is an anchor tied to your feet and you are in deep water. Sinking. You are sinking. The bridge beneath you is melting, sucking and solidifying around your boots.

With a cry, you reach down and try to lift your leg. Nothing. You are rooted to the spot.

A shadow falls across the bridge. A deep, unsettling, slimy sensation slithers up your spine and wraps around your throat. Your eyes are fixed to your submerged boots.

“Fate has led you here, to my realm, as I knew it would.” Your fingers tremble and you refuse to look up. “All seekers of knowledge come to my realm, sooner or later. That is what you are after, isn’t it? Knowledge. That is why you answered my call so willingly.”

No forms on your tongue. You did not come willingly. Or did you? Yes, the pull was there but you intended to open up the Black Book. Didn’t you?

You’re…certain?

A lone black tentacles drifts in front of your face. It wiggles slightly, moving toward your nose. It retreats slightly, and then with an odd gentleness, curls under your chin, lifting your face to the Daedric Prince floating in the sky.

Hermaeus Mora is a grotesque abomination. He is a green and black mass, a void of tentacles and eyes. His entire being pulsates, expanding and retracting as he…breathes? Do Daedric Lords need to breath? Or is this just a formality to make you more comfortable?

If it’s intentional on Mora’s part, it’s creepy, only adding to his aura. Hermaeus Mora is large, taking up so much space he’s all you can see. While he hovers in the air, Mora is not far from you. In fact, if you lift your hand and extend your arm, you’d easily touch him.

The large eye in the center of it all blinks slowly in observation. “Is the Last Dragonborn a fool? Speak, mortal. Why did you come to me?”

Deep in the recesses of your soul, a stubbornness blooms. Your mouth does not form the answer he’s seeking. Instead, your lips pull back, and you bare your teeth like a feral animal.

“If you are the Prince of Fate, surely you can answer such a simple question. All this knowledge around you, and yet you cannot form your own answer. I expected more.”

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his form expanding in size as his tentacles vibrate with irritation. “Be warned. Many have sought my halls. I have broken them all. You cannot evade me. You cannot resist.”

The bridge rumbles. Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slides up to watch a point over your shoulder. Slowly, you turn, finding yet another abomination. This one is incredibly tall, almost amphibious and slightly humanoid. Each of its footsteps shake the bridge.

Mora is calm. Serene. The creature moves closer, each shattering step a threat.

“You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.”

From the monster’s open mouth emerge a wave of tentacles. They wrap around your body. They cover your face and slide into your mouth, reaching toward your lungs.

What are the options before you? What cards do you have to play?

The answer is few. There are not many things you can do when you’re at someone else’s mercy. Having to submit is insulting, but your pride is of little importance when there are greater perils showing their faces.

You escaped Hermaeus Mora only to land in Miraak’s lap. One hell for another. One terror traded for an arrogant, power-hungry bastard who believes you’ll join him, that there is no question about your compliance, and fighting against him is imaginable.

Miraak is wrong to think you won’t push back about his quest for power. Teldryn was right when he said that all of Tamriel’s ills are not your responsibility. They aren’t, even though sometimes it feels that way, and that every error or catastrophe can somehow be rectified if you take up the mantel yourself.

After the bath, you emerge to food. It isn’t exactly warm, but it is filling, and you notice that Miraak does not eat. But he does watch you from behind the mask, as if you consuming the meal is somehow hypnotic to him.

It’s unnerving, and every bite becomes staler in the mouth the longer he watches.

As the First Dragonborn, he must be incredibly old, but how is it that he has lived for so long? Is it because he has dwelled in Hermaeus Mora’s realm for all these years? Is Miraak alive simply because Mora has made it so, or is there something else going on? What magical secrets does Miraak keep locked away in his head?

“Afraid I’ll choke?” you ask dryly, not particularly liking his undivided attention.

The old rags you wore before are gone. They were whisked away by a Seeker, likely destroyed or maybe used for some nefarious purpose. In their place, you were offered simple, plain black robes. They’re similar to the robes the Ciphers of the Eye wear except yours ties off at the waist.

You’re thankful for the coverage of the material but nothing about this outfit will protect you in a fight. It seems inevitable that blood will be spilled. Whether that is yours or Miraak’s—or someone else’s—is yet to be determined.

Miraak is not your friend. He is not an ally. Nor is Hermaeus Mora. You distrust the both of them, but the Daedric Prince of Knowledge is the one you fear more. Gods are eternal. They can be pushed back, kept down, even restrained. But killed? No. Not Mora.

The easier target is Miraak, but right now he is all you have. He is just a man. He is arrogant, and clearly needful in his quest for power. Stringing him along might be enough for now until you can find a way out of this awful place.

“Mora’s scent is gone,” states Miraak, completely ignoring your question.

“Thanks for the reminder,” you mutter, consuming another bite of food. The bath Miraak provided was lovely, even if the conversation the two of you had struck a nerve, and made you question everything. Those followers of his tried you kill you, and yet Miraak didn’t want that. He’s made that perfectly clear several times over.

But there is still a part of you that doesn’t trust his offer. Even if you join with him, help him break out of Apocrypha and back into the lands of Tamriel, why would he have any reason to keep you around afterward? With his quest for domination, you would eventually become an obstacle, a barrier he’ll need to break through.

Miraak circles around the side of the table, coming to a stop next to you. You pause, utensil halfway to your mouth. His golden mask tilts slightly to the left, his broad shoulders taking up too much space.

It’s like you’re in a cage again. Trapped. Boxed in. But this time, there is a sensual sway to the way Miraak inserts himself into your space. It’s not exactly a threat, but there is certainly an underlying hunger radiating off of him.

With deliberate slowness, Miraak lifts his hand, and gently runs the back of his gloved knuckles down the length of your upper arm. There is an immediate spark, a quick burst of power that appears when he makes contact and then blinks out the moment he retreats.

You’re so focused on that sudden wave, that Miraak’s voice is a distant, gnarled thing that sound like you’re submerged in water.

“What?” you ask, blinking, your mind refocusing on the present moment.

“Mora’s scent is gone,” he repeats. “I shall replace it with my own.”

I shall replace it with my own.

No. You are not Miraak’s to toy with. You are not his wife, or even his partner. You owe him nothing, and you are not his property.

The utensil drops from your hand, clattering against the vessel your food is served in. Power ripples up from your toes, sending the edges of your fingers tingling with need to lash out. A deep, primal part of you tells you to do just that, to rip off that mask, and go for his eyes. But you are also incredibly exhausted, and the rising power fades as quickly as it appears.

“I am not an object,” you growl, pushing off from the table.

You need some distance even though there is little space for you to escape to. Whatever you decide, Miraak will simply run after you. It’s clear that he’s not going down without a fight, especially on keep you to himself and not leaving you to Mora’s whims.

“No,” croons Miraak. “You are more than that. You are Dovahkiin.”

When Miraak speaks the word, the ground and earth shakes. It startles you so severely that you reach out for the table, eyes widening in fear. Won’t Hermaeus Mora hear that? Won’t he know that you’re here?

“What are you doing?” you snap. “Hermaeus Mora will hear you.”

“Will he?” Miraak replies, the delivery so casual that you nearly choke in disbelief.

“This is Apocrypha. This is his home. He knows all here.”

Miraak taps his knuckles on the table. “You should finish eating.”

Now you’ve truly had enough. Pushing off from the table, your cross your arms over your chest. “If you want my cooperation, you need to be nicer to me.”

Miraak’s hand flattens against the top of the table. “I have bathed you. Provided you food. Showered you with compliments.”

You snort. This man is arrogance personified. “You told me I smell and then proceed to order me around.”

“Hermaeus Mora is laughing at us. He knows you’re here with me. Likely amused with our…disagreement.”

“You’re delusional.”

Miraak slams his hand against the tabletop. Everything atop it rattles. “And you are trying my patience.”

“My apologies,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

Men are always complaining. They always whine when they don’t have their way, especially if a woman will not bend to them. You’re not going to bend, but you might twist a bit as a way to ensure your survival.

Miraak’s hand forms into a fist, and yet you know he does not intend to strike you. There is something defeatist about the way he does it, like he’s losing hope. But about what? While you are aware that Miraak desires freedom, that he longs to return to Tamriel once again, you also know that Hermaeus Mora is in the way. As are you to a certain extent.

It is entirely likely that Miraak can return to Tamriel with or without your assistance. Why all this effort to keep you around if you’re entirely capable of putting a stop to all of his plans? Is it only to keep you out of Hermaeus Mora’s grasp? Or does Miraak seek something else?

Whatever Miraak’s internal conflicts, they aren’t yours to figure out.

“Hermaeus Mora probably thinks you’ll kill me or I’ll kill you. Which is why he hasn’t intervened yet,” says Miraak flatly. “That is unfortunate…for him.”

“How so?” you ask, entertaining him for the hell of it.

“Because you will join me. That is inevitable.”

You sigh heavily. “I’m not interested.”

Miraak shrugs. “It does not matter that you’re uninterested. You have no choice in this.”

“I have no choice?” you scoff. “Are you listening to yourself?”

This man is truly delusional. Miraak is almost or perhaps even more arrogant than Hermaeus Mora. You’re in hell. This is torture, having to listen to and be pushed around in this forsaken place with no will of your own.

Returning his hand to the top of the table, Miraak starts to walk toward you. His stride is languid, and you’re sure he’s smirking behind that golden mask.

“The Last Dragonborn will join me. Or die. Those are the only options.” With the agility of a serpent, Miraak grabs the back of your neck, and draws you closer. On instinct, your hands go up to rest against his chest. You try to push back, but your muscles are tired, and there is true power behind Miraak’s grip.

“Do you wish to die, Dovahkiin? Or will you waste such beauty?”

Snarling, your rip yourself out of his grasp, almost tumbling to the floor in your haste to find space.

“Don’t touch me,” you snap.

“My scent belongs on you,” replies Miraak, his voice soothing even though you feel anything but. “And you on me.”

Grabbing the nearest object—an empty bowl—you hurl it at Miraak. He bats it aside. The bowl strikes the ground, shattering.

“You’re mistaken if you believe I’ll ever lay with you.” You back up, not watching where it is you’re going.

“Oh, but you will. Don’t you feel that attraction? That power between us? Because I do. And I know it is not something easily denied.”

This time you grab a book. It’s rotten, and your fingers sink into it, but you hardly care. “You’ll only find pleasure with your own hand, Miraak.” You hurl the book at him and he catches it out of the air, lightly tossing it to the side.

“Then you will watch. And want to join.”

You can hear the amusement in his tone, the teasing underneath his words. It’s irritating, and yet your body warms with the idea, betraying your growing anger. This isn’t right, and it’s not fair. You don’t want any part of this.

Turning on your heel, you run for the platform, intending to throw yourself over the ledge and into the maze below. Miraak does not stop you. He only follows, moving slowly, as if his pace will catch up to you.

When you make it onto the platform, you jump, preparing to use your Thu’um to catch your fall. Hovering in the air, you are weightless, holding in suspension. Now, you feel true freedom.

Your body starts to sag, and then descent kicks in.

But it is short-lived. Fleeting.

One moment you are falling and the next everything blinks out and returns, your feet on familiar ground. You’re back in Miraak’s tower. You’re back in the room and Miraak is only a few feet away.

“You can’t run from me,” he says.

You don’t stop to question what just happened. Instead, you take off again, priming your legs to lift you off the ground.

Your feet leave stone, and then it happens all over again. This time, you’re even closer to Miraak. Again, you run, and again you are pulled back to him, teleported over and over until you’re nearly within his grasp.

Trying once more only lands you directly in front of him. This time you cannot run. This time you cannot bolt.

“I can call you back to my tower as often as I like. There is no fleeing from me.” Miraak takes hold of your upper arm. Your strike out at him, but Miraak is quicker, twisting your arms against your back and bending you over the nearest table.

“So you’re going to take what you want?” you snarl, bucking against his hold which only presses you into his groin. You feel the hard outline of him through his robes.

“That is where you’re wrong, Dragonborn. I am not going to take from you. You are going to give in. You will surrender to me. You will join with me of your own desire.”

“I doubt that,” you growl.

Miraak does not respond. Instead, he drags you off the table, spins you around, and effortlessly lifts you by the waist and situates you on the edge. Miraak stands between your legs as your hands grip the front of his robes. One hand stays on your waist while the other rests against the top of your thigh.

“Shall we test it out?” Miraak’s gloved fingers squeeze your flesh through the robes you wear. “Spread your legs, Dragonborn. Let me have a taste.”

His touch is fire, rippling through your body like an inferno. Miraak is right. The teether is strong. Its tug is even more apparent now that you’re nearly under him.

“You wish you could feast between my thighs. It is an honor you’ll never have.” Your words are hollow. Deep within yourself, a primal part of you understands that it will happen, that the two of you will join bodies even if it is momentary.

Miraak leans closer, the golden mask nearly brushing against your cheek.

“Grant me this one request, Dragonborn. And then you can decide.” His voice drips like honey. It is sweet and deadly. Poisonous comfort. His hands are under your robes, massaging bare thigh. “Remove my mask.”

You shake your head. “No,” you whisper, even as your fingers loosen around the front of his robes.

“Don’t deny yourself.” Miraak’s voice is a caress, one that moves you to action.

Slowly, you release his robes, hands falling upon the sides of his golden mask. Miraak does not draw out of your touch, nor does he cower or hide. He stands perfectly still, waiting for you to remove it.

There is a slight tremor in your fingers before your resolve shifts into place, becoming steel. Perhaps under the mask, Miraak is a monster. Or he is simply a man. Nothing more. The only way to find out is to get this over with, to remove the mask, and face him directly.

Your fingers grip the sides, and then the mask gives, surrendering as you start to remove it. Miraak’s features come in a slow reveal. First, there is pale skin and scars. Next comes piercing dark eyes followed by a strong chin and jawline. The last feature is Miraak’s hair. Silky, shoulder-length, and blond. It falls into place once the mask is gone and resting in your hands.

Miraak is handsome, and for some reason you did not expect that, which is downright irritating. He is your enemy. You need to escape from here, to get away from him, and yet his knowing smile is all sultry prowess, like you removing the mask is the first step to victory.

His hands are what bring you back to reality. They are at the tops of your thighs where your legs meet your body. He is dangerously close to your core. Just a small movement and he’d be brushing his thumb over your clit.

“This is your monster,” murmurs Miraak, his mouth dangerously close to yours.

His fingers dig in deeper, and then tug you to very edge, your legs forcing further apart around his hips. “Am I so terrible?” he asks.

No. He’s not. In the mortal world, if a man like this propositioned you, you’d likely take him up on the offer. But this is Miraak. The First Dragonborn.

“Not physically,” you reply, immediately hating yourself for admitting so.

Miraak’s smile is nearly playful, and perhaps it’s really not so bad. He is just a man. Not a god. Give him some slack, let him believe he is winning, and then tug it all out from under him.

Leave him hanging. Leaving him swinging.

Those hands of his ease upward, his forearms pushing your robes open further, revealing more leg and thigh. Miraak starts to sink to the floor, and you’re utterly hypnotized by the way his gaze slowly drops to the place between your legs.

You’re not sure what you see upon his face. An emotion passes over it, one that appears and disappears quickly, slipping through your fingers, escaping your ability to comprehend it before its gone.

Miraak’s breath against your thighs is warm. It tingles, nearly tickles your skin. You’re not ashamed of your body, but you are nervous. You’re vulnerable like this, and this man is supposed to be your enemy.

But an enemy does not place their mouth upon you like he does. When Miraak’s lips and tongue touches your flesh, there is an immediate connection, a string pulled taut, your back arching, hips nearly coming off the table as he caresses your clit with the tip of his tongue.

“There she is,” murmurs Miraak. His tongue darts out against, circling your clit with several soft strokes that has your thighs quivering, squeezing around his head like you’re trying to crush him.

“This changes nothing,” you groan as Miraak’s hands drag along your thighs and he sucks your clit into his mouth.

Your hands go out, grab at his shoulders and his hair. Your fingers tangle in his blond locks, mouth hanging open as you try and fail to slow your breathing. The power is drowning and ice cold. It is a slap against the heat burning under your flesh.

Miraak releases your clit, only to lazily flick over and around it. It’s almost lazy in the way he does it, and you’re so sensitive, that the pleasure building in your spine rockets upward, rippling out into your limbs, seizing your muscles.

Your back bends, curls forward, fingers digging into his scalp as your end appears with a choked moan. Miraak grins against your sex as your body responds in little tremors. He is victorious, and while you’re buzzing, this is not enough to make you join him.

As the peak of your orgasm begins to fade, your lips part, words forming on your tongue. It’s to tell him he’d failed. That, while his tongue knows what it’s doing, it isn’t enough to make you join him.

Seeming to sense your rebuttal, Miraak’s mouth returns to your cunt, his tongue sliding over you yet again.

“Oh, gods,” your groan, completely falling back against the table, your grip on him slipping.

One of Miraak’s hands fall away from your thigh, only for a finger to press at your entrance. Your legs obediently fall wider, opening like a flower. Miraak’s own groan on pleasure drifts up from between your legs, and the sound is enough to make the power under your skin vibrate in response.

The connection is growing, becoming stronger, deeper. Perhaps inseparable. And yet you’re hardly thinking of that. You’re concentrated on the slow thrusts of his finger in and out of your body, and how his tongue moves in perfect rhythm with it.

Another wave slams into you, and Miraak does not cease. He devours and tastes, giving and giving until tears form in your eyes. The pleasure is unending, bordering on painful. Only then does Miraak give you relief. Only then does he pull away from your body.

Miraak’s lips and chin drip with you. He grins, proud of his accomplishment. “What do you think now, Dragonborn?”

Your chest heaves, and your mind is gone, drifting off into Apocrypha’s atmosphere. “Can’t speak?” he chuckles. “Perhaps you need something else to find your voice.”

With a quickness that surprises, Miraak lifts you off the table and into his arms. You are soft and pliant, more like melting snow than the strong warrior that you are. It is but seconds before Miraak brings you down on the bed, slipping your robes off in the process, leaving you bare and open for his gaze.

He sighs with contentment, hands roaming up and down your body. “By the end you will want only me. I promise.”

The orgasms Miraak just gave you make it hard to think, to even process his words. The euphoria of pleasure is still beating beneath your skin, burning bright and hot. Miraak is removing his own clothes, tossing them aside as if they’re nothing at all.

You reach for him, and his response is a low growl of need, his hands slipping between your legs to guide your thighs open and up. Where has all your resistance gone? It is washed away. Missing.

Miraak’s cock slides over your cunt, coating himself in your slickness. The head bumps against your clit with each pass, and it only drives your sensitivity higher, the muscles in your thighs quivering with anticipation.

Slowly, Miraak starts to drape himself over your body, trapping your legs in this position as the head of his cock begins to slide in. There is brief resistance before it glides in, and then your body welcomes him entirely.

You both groan when he bottoms out.

Miraak rolls his hips backward, and then thrusts forward, his head falling to burrow against the side of your throat. His hands reach for your arms, bring them over your head, crossing your wrists. Then, with one hand, he presses down on those wrists, pinning you to the bed with more than just his hips.

Using your locked wrists as leverage, Miraak begins to pound into his, each thrust powerful and steady. He hits deep, and each meeting pushes the air from your lungs. You can hardly hold on. You can only desperately reach for reality. It is slipping. Falling away.

Like this, you are at his mercy. You are at Miraak’s pleasure. And he takes full advantage, claiming you in a way that no other man ever has. There is no reason for sex with him to be this good. It’s simply impossible.

It has to be the connection, the buzzing battering of power that seems to exchange hands every time his hips smack into yours. His nose nuzzles against your neck, and Miraak inhales deeply, sighing as he exhales. His lips, which are surprisingly soft, brush against your skin in tender caress.

This isn’t fair. It makes no sense.

Miraak shifts position, forcing your legs open wider, his pelvis rubbing against your clit with each renewed thrust. You sink into the bed, surrendering to the pleasure, basking in how perfectly the two of you fit together.

Those powerful, steady thrusts of his become erratic and needy. He is heading toward his own end, seeking it out in desperation. You can tell by the way his soft grunts become breathy groans against your throat.

Miraak’s hand encases your throat, squeezing slightly as he arrives at his end. He grinds forward, groaning loudly as your cunt squeezes around him, his releasing emptying inside you.

“How does it feel, Dragonborn? To truly be mine?”

Using his hand around your throat, Miraak guides you to face him, his lips hovering against yours but not fully closing the distance.

You don’t answer him. Don’t dare speak. There is no agreeing to that, regardless of how wonderful you feel.

And Miraak does not kiss you. He only nuzzles your cheek before he releases your throat and then your wrists. With a carefulness that surprises, Miraak slides out of your body, leaving a hollowness you don’t particularly like.

He lifts himself up enough to help your legs fall to bed. Kept in that position, the backs of your thighs burn, and seeming to know this, Miraak starts to caress and massage these muscles even as he shifts to lay at your side. He is incredibly tender, but you’re unsure if it is performance or genuine concern.

One of Miraak’s hands slides between your breasts and pauses on your belly, pressing lightly. This one touch pulls at a thought, draws forth a doubtful tug that sits heavy in your chest.

“Miraak!”

Hermaeus Mora’s voice rings loud around the tower. It’s piercing like an arrow and you slap your hands over your ears in an attempt to cut off the bloody sound.

Miraak’s arms immediately wrap around you, tightening. He pushes you onto your back, his body draped over yours protectively. The middle of his brow wrinkles with anger, and his mouth is formed into an animalistic snarl. Miraak’s gaze darts everywhere, searching for the Daedric Lord.

He lowers his body, head dipping toward your face. Miraak to press his lips to your ear. “He will not take you from me.”

The possessiveness of his words twists your stomach.

“Show yourself, Miraak. Release the Last Dragonborn to me.”

Miraak chest expands as he inhales. His anger is palpable, nearly vibrating against your skin like a Seeker’s rattling cry.

“There is a Black Book at the top of this tower,” he continues to whisper against your ear. “Open it. And you will return to Solstheim.”

He draws back enough for you to turn to him.

“I will distract him,” mouths Miraak, carefully moving to the edge of the bed. Once there, he leisurely stands, completely naked. Only then does he begin to dress, taking his time in doing so. He’s drawing this out. Giving you a chance.

Knowing this is all the time you have, you snag your discarded robes and secure them quickly, not caring if they don’t look perfect or even practical. You just need to get to that Black Book and you’ll be free.

“You are trying my patience,” comes Mora’s voice. It is a rolling rumble, one that shakes your skeleton.

It is closer now, and you hurriedly slip out of the bed, keeping low as you move toward the spiral stairs at the far side of the room. Miraak is still taking his time, but his gaze is intense, watching you while also keeping any eye on the open platform.

Hermaeus Mora might appear right there in all his horrid splendor, and you don’t want to be anywhere near that space when he does.

As you slink by the alchemy shelves and place your foot on the bottom step of the stairs, you hear the slimy squelch of tentacles. Glancing over your shoulder, you watch with horror as at least a dozen black tentacles appear on the platform and archway. They curl around the stone or slide over it, seeking something—or someone.

But Miraak is not watching it. He is watching you. The golden mask is in his hands and his eyes are pleading, telling you to go. Swallowing down the memory of what Mora’s tentacles felt like, you ascend, stopping just as you step out of sight and hear Hermaeus Mora speak in a voice that is so near it sounds like he’s speaking just over your shoulder.

“Where is she, Miraak? I know she dwells within your tower. I sense her.”

Keeping low, you peer around the small structural wall that supports the ceiling and the level above. Mora’s form takes up the entire platform. He is so large, even larger than the dragon that brought you here. Miraak seems like nothing more than discarded parchment in comparison to the Daedric Lord of Knowledge, and yet Miraak appears unafraid of his master.

“I do not command the Last Dragonborn,” replies Miraak, voice calm.

Hermaeus Mora bristles, his tentacles vibrating as if he’s shaking off a shiver. “But you want to. I sense your desire to control her. You believe she’ll bring you great power.”

Miraak says nothing, and Mora’s massive form deflates slightly as if releasing a great exhale. “She hides from me. Tell me, champion, where is she?”

Still, Miraak says nothing.

“What do you think you will gain?” asks Hermaeus Mora. More tentacles appear, sliding into the interior of the tower from the platform. “Is it power over me?” The massive singular eye in the middle of Mora’s horrid form blinks slowly. “That would be foolish.”

“I do not seek to usurp you.”

“But you are restless,” replies Mora, one of the larger tentacles snapping in the air like a whip.

Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye swivels in the socket, seeking you out. You sense Mora’s magic creeping up from nowhere, sinking in to everything around you. It is an anchor, and you realize that he is physically trying to draw you out into the open.

You will not go back to him. You will not return to the prison he put you in.

That anchor, those invisible teethers, are tentacles in their own right as they attempt to snatch you from your dark shroud and drag you into his horrific presence. Resisting their pull, your foot slips, slamming hard into the rock, the sound echoing around the tower.

Hermaeus Mora large eye snaps in your direction. Miraak turns too, his shoulders stiff. It is quiet before chaos.

“Dragonborn!” roars Hermaeus Mora, the tower rattling from the sheer strength of his voice.

Twisting, you start up the remaining stairs, nearly slipping on every damn step as you ascend.

Turning, you start up the remaining stairs, nearly slipping on every damn step as you ascend. The tower shakes, and Mora roars, his anger palpable. You throw yourself up the last bit of stairs, only to be spit out into a small room with a singular window. In the middle of the room is a black stone pedestal. Resting on top of it is a Black Book.

Like the one you opened, this too oozes black mist and hums in its own voice. This time, there is no nefarious pull. There is only desperation on your end as you the tower rumbles, tossing you to the side like a discarded doll.

Crawling on your hands and knees toward the pedestal, your reach of the rock, helping yourself up to standing, staring down at the large tome before you. This is your out. This is your chance. It is done.

Grabbing the edge of the cover, you force it open, the pages moving with you, following the cover.

Just as before, there is nothing. The pages you stare at are blank. In the next second, all sound disappears as if the room is frozen in time, and Hermaeus Mora’s roar is a distant thing. Even the shaking of the tower is far away. You don’t even feel it.

The sudden silence is followed by a soft pop, and the world comes hurtling forward. The blank pages begin to fill in archaic, living writing. The unknown words and symbols move across the page in systematic lines and circles. Some are large and easy to see while others are so tiny they float around in the background in faint swirls.

Between the pages is a void. It emerges from the binding, moving outward over the pages. It is an abyss, and its emptiness drags you forward, your feet lifting off the floor until you’re on your toes.

Tentacles burst forth from the darkness, sliding over and around you, wrapping around your arms and shoulders. They suction to your face and neck. They probe and push as this time you do not resist them. While you know what’s coming, you also know that this is your only way out. Escape is possible as long as the tentacles pull you through before Hermaeus Mora finds you.

You’re hauled forward, tipping down into the abyss, delving into the darkness. There is a loud roaring and then your feet land on…wood.

The odd, almost stagnant temperature of Apocrypha is gone. Instead, there is warmth. Physical heat with the slightest bite of cold air. Your nostrils flare, inhaling the scent of burning firewood, and roasting meat.

Glancing up, you find yourself in a vaguely familiar structure. It’s a shaman’s shack. You’ve been here before. You’ve stayed in this home, eaten shared food, and listening to stories.

It’s a Skaal home. This is Storn’s home.

A familiar voice calls your name. It’s a bit slurry as if you’re listening on the other side of a door. Slowly, you shift to the right, glancing in that direction, only to see Teldryn. The edges of him are blurry but become clearer by the second.

“Teldryn,” you breathe, arms going out to him.

He sighs with relief and wraps his arms around you. “Azura be praised,” he murmurs against the top of your head.

“You’re squeezing me too hard, Teldryn,” you mutter against his chest, voice muffled.

“Shut up. I’m sad I’m not getting the house.”

You laugh, tears forming in the corner of your eyes. When he pulls back to glance down at your face, all that relief washes away, replaced by worry.

“What is it?” you ask just before the world starts tipping.

You blink. Shake your head. Attempt to throw off whatever this odd feeling is. There is a slithery sensation over your skin. A creeping that drags, pulling you into a soft weightlessness.

Teldryn calls your name but you are falling to your knees even with his arms around you.

Reality is fading.

Fading fast.

Dovahkiin.

“No.”

Dovahkiin.

Is this what falling feels like?

You thought you knew.

How many times have you slid down the side of a mountain or purposefully launched yourself over a wall you believed was much shorter than what it turned out to be?

Too many times to count, and every time it happened you believed you were falling. But those instances are nothing compared to this.

This is just air. A hover before the descent. Endless amounts of space with nothing to grab on to. You are falling. Fast—so fast it seems impossible—toward the inky water below.

What were you expecting when you tore at the fleshy wall of your cage? What did you think would happen when you dug your nails in, scratch scratch scratching until the gelatinous hole grew wide enough to fit through?

Before you, beyond your endless air, are towering spires and connecting bridges. There are arches made of books and so many eyes embedded into the wall of the tower you hurtle past. Are they Hermaeus Mora’s eyes? Is he watching you fall? Does he care or is this all amusing to him? A game?

Perhaps the eyes are not his. Perhaps they belong to no one in particular. Just empty pupils and empty irises that are simple decoration. Hermaeus Mora appears to create with purpose, but you don’t truly know him. How can a mortal, even one like you, hope to understand a Daedric Prince?

You’re a complete fool. An idiot.

Those were not bars made of black metal. They shifted under your weight. Wiggled. Bent outwards. Unfurled. There is no victory of escape. No reward for tearing your nails into the wall or using your Thu’um to weaken it.

The Seekers knew, didn’t they? They knew that you were clawing toward your death. That is what this fall is. A precursor. A bridge. The height of the song that swells with the music before the Bard plays the final cord.

Your hands extend outward. Seeking. You put all your efforts into reaching for the monolith beside you. Distantly, you hear those Seekers shrieking. They’re likely signaling others, or maybe announcing your imminent death.

All this falling, that feels so incredibly fast, is also so terrifyingly dull. You’ve already accepted the outcome. You already know what awaits you in the dark water. There is no surprise. Your future—your fate—reaches toward you in eagerness.

Black tentacles burst from the water, completely extended in your direction, vibrating with the anticipation of your falling body. You should have listened to Teldryn. You should have never opened the book. You should have taken it to Master Neloth as you originally intended.

What a mess you’ve made.

The largest and longest of the tentacles greet you with a brush of their slimy appendages. You start to curl into a ball, turning your face away from them and upward toward the sickly green sky. Apocrypha’s illness of an atmosphere roils. Ripples.

But as you curl into yourself in an attempt to protect your head, a winged shadow passes above you.

There is a roar, and it is so loud it shakes your bones and teeth.

The shadow returns and with it comes a dragon’s claw.

The tentacles that pull at you, that tug on your limbs and hair fall away, surrendering to the massive silvery blue beast that catches you before you strike the water. Your waist is completely enclosed in its great fist, as are your arms which are crossed over your chest.

The dragon soars upward, turns sharply, trumpets one more time before threading through the massive towering spires that dot the landscape.

It is a beautiful creature. Unique. Its head is more like that of a snake’s than of the dragons you’re used to. There is also a clear underbite as if the dragon’s jaw is too large for its head. The dragon’s scales are smoother and finer. Its hide shimmers, nearly iridescent.

You twist a bit in the dragon’s grasp. There isn’t much room, but there is enough for you to look out upon the lands of Hermaeus Mora.

The realm of a Daedric Lord is vast, and truly you understand just how large Apocrypha is as the dragon carries you above the landscape. Heights have never bothered you, but your head is spinning, swirling with dizziness. How long has it been since you’ve last eaten? Since you’ve rested properly?

Everything is starting to catch up. Everything is rushing forward, ready to slam into you like a giant’s club. You want to resist the tug of exhaustion. The dragon’s claw is a cocoon of safety, and it lulls you into sleepiness. You desperately fight it, but there is no denying what your body craves. It needs the nothingness of sleep absent of dreaming.

When you awaken, it is because the dragon shifts in the sky. It descends toward a towering structure amongst a maze of many. The largest of the bunch has a platform. It isn’t large enough to hold the dragon but it is big enough for the beast to gently lay your body down on its slightly rocky surface.

It takes flight yet again, circling overhead before retreating into the distance. You watch it go, not knowing if this place will be a refuge or a new hell.

Slowly, you push up from the platform, observing your surroundings. The tower is like that of any other across Apocrypha, and beyond it, the labyrinth is a swirling mass of buildings and stairways. It’s clearly a warning to keep away, but to keep away what? People don’t casually find themselves in Apocrypha. What’s the point of the maze?

Standing on shaky legs, you slowly stride from the platform to the interior space, passing under a low archway that leads into the tower.

It’s…a laboratory? No—not quite. A study? That doesn’t seem correct either. It is a home, but more like someone’s attempt at making something strange into something familiar. On the surface, it is a human space made within the horror of Hermaeus Mora’s realm.

Everything around you appears to have been touched by Hermaeus Mora’s influence. To your right is a massive cutout in the black stone of the tower. Within the cutout is a large bed covered in dark sheets that look exactly like the dark waters of Apocrypha. There are furs as well, and you’re not sure if they’re from creatures of the mortal realm, or from this one. The rest of the space consists of stacks and stacks of books, some of which appear beyond saving.

To the left is a stone desk covered in scrolls and loose pieces of parchment as well as quills and ink vials. There is an alchemist workbench as well as an enchantment area. All the soul gems are black, and all the vials on the shelves are full. There are many ingredients on the shelves that you recognize, and a good many you don’t.

Parts of the space remind you of your own home, but something about it feels…off, as if Mora’s influence is wrapped around every item. In your mind, you envision the large Daedric Lord hovering in the air, his mass of tentacles sliding over and around everything yet invisible to the human eye. You sense someone watching you, but as you observe the large space, you notice no one inspecting you from the shadows.

You touch nothing. You know better than to poke around with things you’re not familiar with. There could be any number of unwanted surprises hiding here, and the last thing you want to do is trigger something on accident. Instead, you peer at everything, keeping a safe distant between whoever this stuff belongs to and you.

Apocrypha wants to consume you. It wants to suck the flesh from your bones and then break them open to slurp up the marrow. This realm desires to keep you in its clutches, to possess you and your knowledge, to chew on your brain until you become one with the Daedric Lord. Even here, in this new environment, the tacky pull of Mora’s influence gnaws at the back of your mind. You shiver, wiggling your shoulders in response as if Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles lay against you like a cloak.

So far, Hermaeus Mora has been unsuccessful in drawing you in. And you plan on keeping it that way.

Glancing around the large interior space, there is no sign of the owner. It is entirely quiet. You observe the space uninterrupted. What you really need is a change of clothes. This…sack you were put in does nothing to protect you. It’s also entirely too revealing. You want it gone and to replace it with your armor.

But that might be impossible. Wherever you are, you’re likely far away from your gear. The next step is figuring out what is available to you in this moment. There has to be something useful in this place for you to take, especially a change of clothes. You’ll even take a blanket off the bed. It’s certainly better than what you’re wearing now.

A movement in one of the many vials catches your eye. You pause, and then turn toward the flickering movement. Something is wiggling around in the glass. Something dark and slimy and wet. Something with tentacles. Something with cloudy eyes.

“Does my collection interest you?”

You drop into a crouch, snagging a knife off the nearby table. You flip the handle around and brandish the knife like any blade. It’s dull, which is disappointing, but it’s better than having nothing. Anything can be a weapon in the right hands.

From the dark recesses of the room comes a specter. At first, it is just spots of color. Then those spots elongate, extending outward into points, glowing brightly and revealing a humanoid figure.

Whoever this is, they wear a mask. It’s golden. Shiny. The eyeholes are thin slits and the top of the mask curves upward at four separate points. The bottom half of the mask look like tentacles. It reminds you of the Seekers and their faces. Their robes are a deep greenish brown accented in gold embellishments around and down the arms, at the waist, and shoulders. The colorful glow comes from an aura around the upper half of the body. It’s dragon-like in appearance.

They take one powerful step forward and you sink closer to the floor. With the distance, there is still a thickness in the air, as if their mere presence is enough to change it. It sits heavy on your chest, pushing you down toward the floor.

The stranger takes another step toward you. Instinct ignites, tells you to strike first.

You throw the knife.

You’re good with blades, especially after spending time with some members of the Thieves Guild. But you’re tired. Exhausted. Bone-weary. Your aim is shit, and this intruder easily bats the knife to the side.

“In my own home.” The stranger is a man, and you are in his home. “How rude,” he croons. He doesn’t even sound upset, just slightly irritated as if the thrown knife is an inconvenience.

He takes another step in your direction. More and more of his form comes into clearer focus as he nears. He is bright and bold, and the power that radiates off him is like an unrelenting hand around the throat. It’s so concentrated in the air you could choke on it.

But you don’t plan on staying. You’ll make for the maze. That has to be better than being stuck in here with him.

You throw yourself out from behind the table and sprint for the platform. Your legs burn and your chest heaves, but you’re determined, eager to break free and go about this on your own terms.

As you approach the archway, the dragon from before lands on the platform. It starts to slide a bit, but it’s smart, using its massive claws to hook itself onto the wall of the tower. It’s serpentine head swivels toward you, and then it roars.

It is earth-shattering and you fall to your knees in pain. The world vibrates around you and everything spins. The floor is cold beneath your hands and is hard against your knees.

You are so tired, and you hate it. It makes you weak. It keeps you at the mercy of others.

The serpentine dragon shakes as if it were a dog removing water from its fur. Its giant head turns in the direction of the glowing man. “Miraak. Zu’u drun ek.”

Miraak.

Hermaeus Mora’s servant.

The man whose influence corrupted many minds on the island of Solstheim. The man whose power corrupted the stones, the same stones you purged upon request of Storn Crag-Strider. His followers attacked you in Riverwood, tried to slit your throat and claim your death in his name.

Mora called Miraak “Dragonborn”, and spoke of his desire to return to the mortal realm to conquer it, and in turn, Hermaeus Mora’s influence would spread. But the Daedric Prince also mentioned Miraak’s desire to break away from Mora’s control. That he was “restless” here.

This is the reason you are here in the first place. You and Teldryn didn’t venture into Miraak’s temple because it was too heavily guarded. The Black Book was the option you went with, and instead of finding direct answers, it has handed you over to the person you’re seeking information about.

How…convenient.

You want to laugh but you might sound mad.

“You serve me well, Sahrotaar.” Miraak’s glowing brilliance begins to fade, and then it slowly melts away from his body, disappearing into the air. “Go. When you hear your voice on the wind, know that it is me.”

Sahrotaar shifts, his massive head turning toward you one more time before he pushes off and disappears into the sky. Miraak watches him go, and then slowly twists in your direction. Now that the glowing aura around him is gone, you can see Miraak more clearly than before.

While his robes appear a bit aged, they’re in good repair. Miraak looks regal, almost kingly, which is so odd in a place like Apocrypha. Everything drips with Mora’s influence, and while you see that influence in Miraak’s mask, everything else about him seems detached from Hermaeus Mora’s touch.

Miraak fits right in, and yet is very much out of place.

“You are Dragonborn.” Miraak’s voice almost echoes as if there are two of him speaking. “I can feel it.”

Exhaustion might be setting in, but you’re feeling sharp. Your tongue is a blade and your words are the sting of steel. “How perceptive,” you bite, trying your best to slowly put some greater distance between you and Miraak.

“And yet,” he pauses, masked head tilting slightly to the side, “you do not understand just how much power a Dragonborn can wield.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “And you do?”

“I know things that the Greybeards will never teach you.” Miraak starts to walk toward you again. It’s leisurely, as if he’s not scared of you at all.

And why would he be? You are disheveled. A mess.

“I’m not looking for a teacher,” you snap, slipping as you try to stand.

Miraak is so close, and you’re desperate to escape him. That is what your survival hinges on. Escape. You have no chance if you try to take him on like this. It will not be a fair fight. And you will lose.

Throwing yourself to the right, you reach for another knife. It’s just as dull as the other one, but you don’t care. You’ll use your nails and teeth if you must in your attempt to flee him.

Miraak dives toward you, and you swing at him. He leans back, the edge of the knife scraping against his mask as he moves out of the way. You try again, and this time, you know your exhaustion is truly sneaking up on you. Your reaction time is poor and Miraak grabs your wrist out of the air.

He twists and pain shoots up your arm. You release the blade with a strangled cry. Pinning your arm behind you, Miraak thrusts you toward the floor, your cheek smashing into the cold rock as he pushes you against it. When you kick out at him, Miraak sits on your legs, his weight concentrated on your upper thighs.

You try to buck him off, but only end up rubbing up against him. The sack you’re wearing rides up, dangerously close to exposing yourself to him.

Miraak laughs softly and bends forward, the mask incredibly close to your face. “An enticing offer. But you are…filthy.”

“I hope Mora chokes you with a tentacle,” you growl, wiggling some more.

“I suspect you’ve already choked on one.”

You throw your elbow back but Miraak pushes you right back down against the floor.

“Behave,” he purrs. “I don’t intent to harm you.”

“Liar,” you growl, the air from your lungs pushing some of the hair off your face as you speak.

Miraak shifts his weight on your legs. “What have I done to illicit such anger from you?”

Is he serious? Has he completely forgotten that he sent his worshipers after you?

“Your cultists attacked me,” you say through clenched teeth.

“They were simply trying to subdue you.”

“They tried to kill me. One of them even had a note. It said that whoever struck the killing blow would earn your favor.”

Miraak stiffens. “That is most unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate?” you laugh, bitterness in your tone.

“That was not my instruction.”

Hermaeus Mora’s words come creeping back to you.

I see why Miraak’s devotees were after you. They sought to kill you, which is such a shame since Miraak only wants you brought to him.

“What do you want from me?” you murmur.

Miraak is silent for a moment before he speaks. “If I release you, will you try to stab me?”

You pause, considering it until Miraak begins to fidget in irritation. “No promises,” you finally answer.

His chuckle is low and soft. “I value your honesty.” Miraak removes his weight from your legs and releases your wrists.

You push up onto your knees and glance up at him from your position on the floor. Miraak towers over you, the two of you observing each other in silence. His chest rises and then falls with each breath, but he makes no other move. It’s a bit unnerving, and you question what it is he’s thinking about behind that golden mask.

There is a break in the silence. A flash of movement. It is Miraak’s gloved hand. He offers it to you, palm upward.

You glance it. Then back at his mask. Then back to the hand.

What options do you have? Where will you be if you refuse him? It is unlikely that Miraak will so easily let you go. You don’t trust him, but you trust Hermaeus Mora even less.

With a deep frown, you slide your hand into his. Through the glove, you feel his warmth. That heat is human, and it is an oddly comforting thing after so much strangeness.

Miraak helps you to your feet. Your legs wobble, exhausting swinging its angry head again. Everything aches. It sits down in your bones, the weight of it like boulders. Your stomach growls loudly and you want to cringe from the volume.

Miraak still clutches your hand. You don’t hate it, but it does make you uncomfortable. Yanking your hand away, you drop your arm to the side, hiding the fingers as they curl to form a fist.

“You can bathe through there.” Miraak indicates the direction with a light tilt of his mask. “You need it.”

You snort. “Now you’re the one being rude.”

Miraak crosses his arms but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge you’ve said anything at all. Giving him your best scowl, you turn on your heel in the direction he indicated. There is a deep cut in the wall, one that cannot be seen straight on. You pause right at the opening, and turn back toward Miraak.

He’s walking away in the opposite direction. Your gaze darts to the arch and platform, to the maze beyond the tower. If you time it right, you might be able to slip away from him, to enter the maze and lose him.

As you take a single step toward freedom, and Miraak’s voice rings out around the room. “Don’t even consider it.” You freeze, one hand firmly planted on the wall, every muscle tense. “You cannot flee from me, Dragonborn. I would find you.”

“Bastard,” you whisper, and Miraak turns in your direction as if he heard you.

Slipping inside the opening in the wall, you enter a small, private washroom. In the middle is a tub made from the same black stone as the rest of the tower. There is a drain in the bottom but no indication of how to fill it.

More importantly, is there water on Apocrypha? There is the dark water you plummeted toward, but is there actual water? The kind you drink or bathe with? It seems impossible, and yet there are hundreds if not thousands of Hermaeus Mora’s most devoted followers who haunt his halls, preparing his Black Books.

Do they eat? Do they hydrate? Or are they sustained on Mora’s influence alone? The very idea makes your skin crawl.

You’re about to back out of the room when a Seeker floats in. Its mandibles flare in agitation, and you gasp, stumbling into the wall as you move out of the way. The Seeker doesn’t even give you a second glance. In its four hands the Seeker clutches four buckets of water. Slowly, it empties each one into the tub before disappearing out the way it came.

Seekers are servants of Mora…aren’t they?

You follow it out and watch as it floats to a well-like structure. It’s not exactly a kitchen but there is a small fire pit near it. The Seeker begins filling the buckets and you take this time to glance at the rest of the room. Next to Miraak is another Seeker. A third floats near the bookshelves. A fourth slowly ascends the stairs that leads to another space out of sight.

“What is this?” You gesture at the Seeker fetching your water.

Miraak quickly turns in your direction, his back straightening. “Why are you still wearing those rags?”

You blink, stunned that he completely stepped around your question to ask one of his own. The Seekers floats toward you and you step to the side.

You wave your arm in the creature’s direction, and repeat your question. “What is this?”

“That is a Seeker,” replies Miraak flatly.

“I know what it is,” you retort. “But what is it doing here?”

“It serves me.” Miraak’s arm extends to the rest of the room. “They all serve me.”

You shake your head. “They serve Hermaeus Mora.”

Miraak rolls up the scroll before him and tosses it onto a nearby pile. “They did serve him. And now they attend to my every command.”

The Seeker that floats next to Miraak trills. Miraak glances at it before returning his attention back to you. Even though his features are hidden behind the mask, you feel his gaze roaming up and down your body. You immediately cross your arms over your breasts.

Miraak’s answer gives you no comfort.

“Is that all?” he asks, almost bored.

You glance away from him and back at the opening in the wall. The Seeker emerges, carrying empty buckets. You’re too tired for this. Not liking his answer but accepting it nonetheless, you head back into the small washroom.

You stare into the water in the tub, and keep staring until the Seeker returns, emptying the buckets. The tub is full, and the Seeker gives a little nod of the head before it dismisses itself. Stepping up to the tub, you hesitantly dip your hand into the clear water.

It is cool, and the temperature sends a little shiver up your arm. While you’d prefer it warm, you’ll take anything at this point. You’re coated in grime and even a bit of slime. There are still some crusty bits on your face from when the Cipher removed the paste they slathered over your eyes.

Glancing over your shoulder, you check to make sure no one has entered uninvited. There is no one there. You are alone.

Slowly, you slide one arm and then the other out of the worn rags. It falls to the floor, pools at your feet. You take one step toward the tub. The moment you begin to lift your leg, an arm slides along your back and around your waist.

The touch is so surprising that you shriek and then lash out. The side of your fist hits Miraak in the middle of his mask. He makes a humph sound and draws backward from the blow.

With your hand still raised in alarm, you stare at him in disbelief. Then you realize how intimate the placement of his hand is. That disbelief quickly turns to anger.

“What the hell are you—”

Miraak lifts his hand and flames erupt above his palm. The sudden fire snaps your mouth shut. He hasn’t released your waist, and with the mask, you’re not sure if he’s staring at your face or the rest of you.

His attention shifts to the tub and you take this opportunity to hook your toes under the sack and bring it up enough to snag it. You immediately hold it against your body, clutching it like a shield as the flames in Miraak’s hand vibrate and shift, swirling and then extending as he begins to heat the water in the tub.

You watch in fasciation as the water ripples and then starts to steam. Before it comes to a simmer, Miraak abruptly cuts the flame. He reaches into his robes with his free hand, and from it he retrieves several bundles of lavender.

Miraak tosses them into the tub, and only then does he step away from you.

The gesture of heating the water and throwing in the lavender is…odd. You hate that you like it. But it’s too human. Too kind. Too intimate. Isn’t this man supposed to be your enemy? Isn’t he trying to take over Solstheim and the rest of Tamriel? Does he not see you as a threat to all his carefully laid plans?

“Are you going to join me, too?” you ask, irritating slipping in your tone.

Miraak pauses at the opening in the wall. “Your stink is nauseating.” He disappears, leaving you open-mouthed. Shocked. Fuming.

Growling, you throw your poor excuse for clothes on the ground and step into the tub. The water is perfectly warm and you instantly melt into it, sinking down down down until your head is under the water. When you come up for air, your eyes are closed and you’re smiling. You push your hair back out of your face and breathe deep, reveling in the comforting warmth of the water.

As you open your eyes, a shadow takes form in front of you. At first, you’re confused, and then you quickly realize that it’s Miraak. The entire upper half of your body is on full display, laid bare before his gaze.

You cover your chest and sink into the water until only your head bobs on the surface. Frowning, you stare him down as a he places a chair in front of the tub. He sinks into it, reclining casually, and then tosses a bar of soap at you from one of his pockets.

Snatching it out of the air, you bring it to eye-level. You sniff it, and smell nothing.

“I didn’t poison the soap,” Miraak deadpans. “If I wanted you dead—”

“If you want on my good side, I prefer compliments. Not an insult to my intelligence,” you interrupt, wetting the bar of soap and lathering it between your hands.

Miraak doesn’t finish his sentence. He leans back in his chair, watching as you start to move the suds over your arms.

“Please leave. You’re making me uncomfortable,” you say. Miraak doesn’t move. He just sits there. You drop your arm into the water to rinse it off. “Think I’ll run? Is that why you’re sitting there watching a naked woman bathe herself?”

“Yes,” he replies, almost instantly.

“You are unbelievable,” you mutter, starting to work on your other arm.

“You’ve consumed dragon souls,” states Miraak, completely changing the subject.

You pause in your lathering and glance at him. “You’re just like Hermaeus Mora. All this knowledge and yet everything that comes out of your mouth is incredibly dull.”

Miraak moves as if in a silent laugh. You roll your eyes and return to scrubbing your arms.

“Do I amuse you?” you ask, inspecting the undersides of your nails.

“You bite,” replies Miraak. “And teeth are useful.”

You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or a threat.

He takes a deep, audible breath and shifts in the chair, lifting his hips as he adjusts. You keep your gaze firmly on your nails as if that one subtle movement didn’t stir something in your belly.

“Do you ever wonder if it hurts?” he asks, almost absently, like he’s not really expecting you to answer the question.

“Do I ever wonder if what hurts?” you hesitantly reply.

“To have one’s soul ripped out. Do you think the dragon’s feel it? Do you think they understand what’s happening to them?”

The soap almost slips from your hand. Miraak sounds pensive, almost sad. “We are not dragons,” you answer softly.

Miraak nods. “You’re right. We’re not. Because we’re better than them.”

There it is. Arrogance. Now you feel it. Now you understand a bit of what Hermaeus Mora hinted at. That overwhelming heaviness is back. Miraak’s power is potent. It crackles in the air. Sizzles on your tongue.

His gloved hand taps against the arm of the chair. “When the dragons ruled over mortals, I served as a dragon priest on Solstheim. That was my purpose for many years.” Miraak’s golden mask is turned away from you as if he’s recalling an old memory. “During that time, I came to possess one of Hermaeus Mora’s Black Books.”

Miraak stops tapping the arm of the chair. His hand forms a fist. “He taught me many things. A great many powerful things. One of these things was a dragon shout capable of bending dragons to my will.”

The pause afterward stretches, and you decide to fill the gap, to play along. He is revealing information. Pieces of his history. Why he’s doing so is a bit of a mystery, but you also know that if you play this right, you might gain something that will give you an upper hand on him.

“And what did you do with that knowledge?”

Miraak’s mask swivels in your direction. “Knowledge like that was forbidden. I was a dragon priest serving my dragon masters. To use power like that against them was unthinkable.”

You know where this is heading. “Yet you did it anyway?”

“I betrayed them,” states Miraak. “I used that shout and my power as Dragonborn to devour their souls. With each soul I consumed, I became more powerful. I terrified our dragon overlords. I threatened the power the dragon priests possessed.”

You move to the edge of the tub. Placing the soap on the ledge, you cross your arms over the lip of the tub, you give Miraak your full attention. Men are all the same in the end, and it is clear that Miraak is just that. A man.

His chest rises and falls rapidly. “During the Dragon War, I was…propositioned. Hakon One-Eye, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, and Felldir the Old all pleaded with me to use my power as Dragonborn to assist them in defeating Aludin. But I refused them. I attempted my own rebellion against the dragons instead.”

“I suspect that did not go well for you?”

“No,” he admits. “I was unsuccessful. And because of my betrayal, the dragons razed my temple on Solstheim.”

“I’ve seen your temple,” you say. “It’s something to behold.” That much is true. Those words are not lies. You and Teldryn were both impressed with how large the structure was on the outside, and the two of you discussed at length just how massive the temple must be on the inside.

“You also interrupted my progress on Solstheim.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, sinking into the tub a bit. “I did.” He stares at you a long moment before you decide to bridge the gap. “You didn’t tell me what happened. After your temple was razed.”

Miraak glances away again. “There are two stories that are told. The first is that a fellow dragon priest named Vahlok became my jailor. Restraining me to Solstheim. The other story is that when Vahlok was about to kill me, Hermaeus Mora stepped in and saved me, transporting me here, to the realm of Apocrypha.”

You laugh and Miraak’s head snaps in your direction. “What?” he asks, clearly flustered.

“It’s obvious that the correct story is the second one.”

“Is it?” replies Miraak, a bit of amusement leaking into his tone.

“Is it not?”

He shrugs and you only shake your head, returning to your soap, this time lathering it into your hair.

“So if Hermaeus Mora stepped in to save you, what have you done all this time?”

Miraak shrugs. “I’ve not been idle.”

“Clearly,” you snort.

Miraak sighs. “I’ve devoured many dragons. Far more than you have I suspect.”

“And that makes you better than me?”

“It makes me more powerful. But you are Dragonborn. You are the only one who I can consider my equal.”

The pieces are falling into place. What was it that the Greybeards told you all that time ago when you first ventured up the mountain? They told you that there is only ever one Dragonborn at a time.

But here you are. And here is Miraak.

The two of you. Together.

You swallow, and your salvia sticks in your throat. “You crave power. Why would you ever see me as an equal?”

“It is foretold that the Last Dragonborn will be my freedom. For so many years I believed it involved your death. But I was wrong.” He leans forward in the chair. “Hermaeus Mora does not lie, but he does twist the truth until you believe that up is down and down is up. He likes control, and I am a thing to collect. It’s what he wants from you, too.”

You shake your head. “You don’t know what Hermaeus Mora wants from me.”

“Beware, Dragonborn. Hermaeus Mora will betray you as he has me.”

“I am not Mora’s puppet. Nor will I be yours.”

“We are the First and the Last. We are the beginning and the end. I am the first blood drawn and you are the killing blow. We are bound by fate. We are inevitable.”

You don’t like where this is going. All this talk of fate is pulling at your nerves. Hermaeus Mora said fate you brought you to him, and now Miraak says the same. But Teldryn told you different before you opened the Black Book. He insisted that the woes of Tamriel are not yours to fix. That your life is your own.

You grip the bar of soap hard enough that your nails begin to sink in. “And yet, you did not slay Alduin.”

“And you have?” counters Miraak.

“Not yet,” you mutter.

“Alduin would not face me because he knew I would defeat him. But the two of us? Together? We could do it. Easily.”

You’re beyond clean now, but Miraak goes too far. He wanted you brought to him so that he can manipulate you into serving with me? To help him…what? Conquer Solstheim? Skyrim? All of Tamriel? Would that even be enough for him, or will Miraak demand more, dragging you along with him in his lust for power?

“You presume much, Miraak. What makes you think I’ll join you?”

Miraak stands from the chair and walks to the edge of the tub. He grabs the back of your neck, and lifts you slightly out of the water. Leaning in, the golden mask is all you can see.

“Do you not feel this? We are tethered. Either we fight it and end up fighting each other. Or you join me.”

As quickly as he grabs you, Miraak releases you, and you fall back into the water, your arms wrapping around your torso protectively. He stares at you behind the mask, and then turns, disappearing from view.

The water has grown cold.

The bundles of lavender have unraveled. Wilted.

You sink further into the water, watching as a lavender stem floats by. The purple petals are dark. Almost black.

You’re not in a physical cage. There are no bars. No restraints. But you are not free with Miraak. He demands an answer, and there is only one he is expecting.

If there is anything in all of Tamriel that you can rely on, it is the continuance of pain. Of terror. Of all the horror you’ve lived and now must live again.

Endless. Always.

And why you? Why? Are the gods having a laugh? Do they find this amusing? Or is this some sick test between them and Hermaeus Mora? Are their hands pressed into the gore or do they simply watch on as Mora has his fun?

“What is it?” you ask Teldryn just before the world starts tipping. It is always tipping it seems. Slipping. Falling away from under your feet.

You blink. Shake your head. Attempt to throw off whatever this odd feeling is. There is a slithery sensation over your skin. A creeping that drags, pulling you into a soft weightlessness. You know it. It is an understanding. Taking shape around you is a familiar dread that simply exists. It festers. Desires to consume you whole.

Like before, in that creeping dungeon with the whispering Black Book, you lift your hand to your face, and brush your knuckles under your nose. Pulling your hand back, you see bright red.

Teldryn calls your name but you are falling to your knees even with his arms around you.

Reality is fading.

Fading fast.

Dovahkiin.

“No.”

Dovahkiin.

“No. No. No.”

Within your chest and head, Mora’s voice blooms and grows, shoving you down into an abyss. The dark is endless and it is everywhere. A darkness that has no up, that has no down, that has no side to side.

Rage. You must rage against this, return to the light and the hearth and the warmth of the familiar.

“Be gone, demon. I am not your servant.”

Hermaeus Mora chuckles in the darkness. “Your fiery spirit is such a bright thing. What potential there is inside of you, Dragonborn.”

From the endless darkness comes a soft green glow. It expands enough that you see inside Apocrypha. It isn’t like the places you’ve been before. There is actual land here, and a massive structure that looks more like a horrific cathedral than the towers you dwelled in.

And Hermaeus Mora is not here. At least, not physically. But you sense his presence, and that is enough to swirl your stomach into knots until you’re close to puking all over your feet in this odd dark.

“Well done, my champion,” croons Mora in a surprisingly soft timbre. “Your journey towards enlightenment has finally led you here. To this moment. With me.”

Games. Conquest. That is all this is to Hermaeus Mora. A Daedric Lord only wants to be obeyed and worshipped. Something you will not bend to.

“What do you want from me this time?” The exhaustion in your voice is evident, like you’re too tired to hide it from him. Maybe Hermaeus Mora is blocking your ability to keep things secret. Is his influence here, too? Has a bit of him broken off and festered in your body, waiting for the moment when the two of you would reunite?

“You entered my realm. Sought out the forbidden knowledge,” replies Hermaeus Mora calmly. “Only one other has obtained it. But you already know of whom I speak.”

Miraak.

The man who ushered you from his tower, sent you back to the realm of the living to prevent you from falling into Hermaeus Mora’s grasp. It worked, for a moment, but you’re not sure if this is Apocrypha or you are simply dreaming.

Awake. And dreaming. Or elsewhere. In the creeping dark.

“What is it you want from me, Mora? Speak plainly.” You’re tired of being dragged about. This needs to end quickly.

“You came to Apocrypha to learn Miraak’s secrets,” he says, slowly.

“You already know this. I know this. That isn’t new information,” you snap, growing impatient.

Hermaeus Mora still has not appeared before you. It is just a portal, perhaps a window, a glimpse into his realm.

“Miraak knows what he does because of me. If you wish to defeat him, or even prevent his return to Tamriel, all you need to do is serve me.”

Hermaeus Mora makes it sound so easy. That simple worship will give you all the answers. That basking in his presence and reveling in his praise will end all your ills and suffering.

That is a lie.

“After the way you treated me, I’m not eager for your help. I can learn Miraak’s secrets as well as yours on my own. I do not need you.”

“No!” Hermaeus Mora’s voice is fierce, a sharp slap of sludge against the face. “Look around. You have done nothing here on your own. You could spend a hundred lifetimes searching my realm and wandering the stacks of my library. And still, you will never find what you seek. All you have done, all that you are, and all that you have learned happened because I allowed it to.”

Everything you’ve done, everything you are, and everything you know happened because you made it happen. Not he. Never him. He is not the master of Fate but simply the keeper. Hubris and arrogance are his errors. Just like Miraak. The champion has learned it from his teacher.

“Spit it out, Mora,” you growl. “I’m tired of this.”

Hermaeus Mora hums softly. “You need the final Word of Power. Miraak knows all three but you only know two. One of which I gave you for that delicious bit of knowledge about the secret the Greybeards have dwelling atop their mountain.”

You sigh heavily, staring at that odd building through the circular portal. The sky above it is still greenish, and the land is almost blackened as if it has been dead for centuries.

“What is your price for the final Word of Power?” you ask, keeping your tone flat.

“The Skaal have withheld their secrets from me for many long years. The time has come for this knowledge to be added to my library.”

The Skaal? He seeks knowledge from them?

“And why do you think I need this Word of Power to defeat Miraak? You think I cannot do so without it?”

“Even dragons submit to Miraak's Voice. Without that power, you cannot face him. You’ve seen this power used before. One of his dragons saved you from an imminent death, only to bring you to Miraak upon his command.”

This is true. A great, serpentine dragon snatched you up right before you plunged into the water. It brought you to Miraak without question, almost seeming prideful when it presented you. But Miraak is Hermaeus Mora’s champion. They have dwelled together for years.

“So, you reward loyalty this way? This is how you treat an ally? I thought you were above that. Your words make it difficult for me to want to join your side.” You shake your head. “I am disappointed.”

Through the opening, you notice one lone tentacle drop into frame, swinging slowly as if caught in a breeze. But there is no breeze in Apocrypha. There is only dead air. Silence.

“Miraak no longer serves me in the way that I should be. I need a champion who will flourish and thrive beneath my careful mind.”

With Hermaeus Mora’s words come influence. It slithers in again like it did before when you stood in front of the Black Book and opened it. Voices appear, whispering, distant, but you ignore them. You know what it is you need to look out for. You understand how Mora operates. Falling to him, bending the knee, is not an option.

“And you want Skall knowledge for this? Why?” you ask. Another tentacle drops into frame, this one much smaller than the first.

“Indeed. If you bring me their secrets, you will be richly rewarded.”

Hermaeus Mora is stepping around the specifics, purposefully avoiding exactly what it is he wishes you to fetch. You’re not all that interested in turning over Skaal knowledge just to defeat Miraak. You’ve been successful in others ways without any help from Hermaeus Mora. Why seek his help now? Why give him anything?

“I will speak with the Skaal. Maybe bring you their secrets. But I will not force them.” The words leaving your mouth are false. You will talk with them, but not to help Mora. Merely to warn them of his intentions.

“Of course,” purrs Mora. “I know that you will do all that you can to provide me what I ask for. Then Miraak’s power will also be yours. And I will have a new champion.”

You straighten your shoulders, deciding to push a bit. “And what if the Skaal refuse? What if they do not wish to give up their secrets?”

You hear the displeasure in Hermaeus Mora’s voice. “My servant Miraak would have found a way to bring me what I want. So will you if you wish to surpass him.”

You wish for no such thing. While you and Miraak ended up in bed together, you did so out of survival. Men are weak, even ones like him when it comes to something they want. And he wanted you, and you gave it to him. Doing so provided you a chance to escape.

“After everything you’ve done, you still believe I trust you? That is bold to assume.”

“My word is as true as fate. As inevitable as destiny. Bring me what I want, and I will give you what you seek. Send the Skaal shaman to me. He holds the secrets that will be mine.”

Several more tentacles fall into the frame, as does a few small eyes that watch you greedily, blinking slowly.

“Prince of Fate,” you call out, gaze still locked on the building before you. “What is this place?”

Hermaeus Mora sighs with pleasure. “That is my most treasured place in all of Apocrypha. The Endless Library. All knowledge is hoarded there. It is my purpose. It is my work.”

A weakness is what that is, Hermaeus Mora.

“And if I help you, will you show me its halls?”

“Yes,” he croons. “It will be your home as much as it is mine.”

The next words are easy to stay, even though their meaning is sticky. “Then I will help you.”

“Good,” murmurs Hermaeus Mora. “Good.”

The portal begins to close. The darkness and sickly green of the sky recedes until the only thing you see is the ceiling of Storn Crag-Strider’s home.

At first, there is no breath in your lungs. And then you inhale, sharp and loud and so gasping big that it startles Teldryn who peers down at you.

“Hells. You need to stop doing this to me,” he mutters, grabbing your upper arms.

“Sorry,” you wince, his voice seemingly too boisterous for such a small space.

“What happened?” he asks, and you wince slightly in pain. “What did you see?”

You blink slowly, and then inhale again, this time with more calmness. “I talked with Hermaeus Mora.” Teldryn frowns and proceeds to grabs the sides of your face with both hands. “What are you doing?” you ask, voice slightly muffled by his warm hands against your cheeks.

Teldryn squints and turns your face back and forth, his gaze darting everywhere.

“Teldryn—”

“Hush. I’m checking for insanity.”

“Right,” you mutter, allowing Teldryn this one thing.

“You’re normal,” he says after a few moments.

“I don’t feel normal,” you murmur, staring up at the ceiling.

Teldryn shifts, adjusting his position on the floor next to the bed you rest in. “What did Hermaeus Mora have to say? He must have wanted something.”

You shake your head, avoiding the question. “How did I end up here and not back in that dungeon?”

Teldryn sighs. “Because I carried you and the Black Book here.”

You sit up abruptly and nearly faint. Teldryn reaches out and catches you. “What?”

“I didn’t take it to Master Neloth. Instead, I brought it here, to the Skaal. They’re not happy with me, but when I told them why, Storn calmed the villagers’ fears.”

“I was in the book, and not…here.”

Teldryn shakes his head. “No. You were here. At least in body. The rest of you was gone. A limp dish rag.”

You briefly close your eyes. When they open again, the middle of Teldryn’s brow is creased. “Hermaeus Mora wants ‘the secrets of the Skaal’ in exchange for teaching me a final word that will help me defeat Miraak.”

Teldryn rolls his eyes. “What will he learn from them? How to skin a horker? No. You’re not doing it.”

You arch a single eyebrow. “Are you bossing me around?”

“You might pay me to be loyal but I’m going to tell you when I think something is a bad idea. I haven’t lived this long by making stupid decisions.”

“You should listen to your friend.” You and Teldryn turn at the sound of Storn Crag-Strider’s voice. “You spoke to Hermaeus Mora?”

You nod and Storn frowns slightly.

“Hermaeus Mora. It seems he is the source of Miraak's power. Of course. I should have foreseen that. We have many tales of Herma-Mora trying to trick us into giving up our secrets to him. And now he comes again for what we have long kept from him.”

“I told him I’d help him but I lied. You do not need to help him gain anything for a simple advantage,” you say quickly, not wishing for Storn to try and wiggle his way into helping you.

Storn looks at you with pity, as if he knows something you don’t.

“So, it falls to me to be the one to give up the secrets to our ancient enemy. I do not know if I have the strength to face him.” Storn’s gaze grows sad. “The Tree Stone is still corrupted and the land is still out of balance. But with the other five restored it may be enough. It will have to be.”

“Storn,” you say, trying to push up from the small bed you’re in.

Teldryn tuts and attempts to push you to your back. “You need rest,” he says.

“Get off me,” you growl, surprising Teldryn with a quick pull on his pointy ear.

“Damn the gods! That hurt,” he snaps as you swing your legs over the side of the bed and successfully stand.

Storn is already turning his back on you, walking toward the Black Book.

“I don’t need Hermaeus Mora’s help,” you say to Storn’s back, trying to get the man to turn around and face you.

Teldryn rubs at his ear as he follows you and Storn out into the small communal area of his home. He is completely bundled up for the weather, and you’re in nothing but thin robes. Teldryn begrudgingly holds out a worn blanket to you.

You murmur a ‘thanks’ and take it from him, draping it over your shoulders.

“Don’t give Mora what he wants, Storn,” you murmur, stepping into his line of sight.

“The Skaal tell of the day when we must finally give up our secrets. When Herma-Mora finally wins.” Storn glances down at his feet. “As shaman, it is my duty to guard these secrets, but also to decide when it is necessary to give them up.” He glances up, features grim yet determined. “I believe that time is now. If I am wrong, may my ancestors forgive me. I will take the book. I will read it and speak to old Herma-Mora himself. I will make sure he lives up to his part of the bargain.”

Storn should not do this. He should not give Hermaeus Mora what he wants. Not for you. There is always another way. There is always a different path that can be taken. You just need to find it. You need to figure it out and then Storn can keep his secrets. Mora does not need them.

As you step forward, it is clear that there is little energy within you. You almost topple forward, your left leg giving out. Teldryn is right there, wrapping his arms around your waist, hoisting you back to your feet.

“Let the old man do what he feels is best,” murmurs Teldryn.

You shake your head. “He should not do this for me. It’s not worth it.”

“People are allowed to make their own decisions. I keep telling you that about yourself and you always fail to listen.”

“Teldryn—”

“Put on some boots and let the old man sacrifice himself. You can’t save everyone.”

You and Teldryn stare each other down while Storn lingers near the ominously smoking Black Book. Your hand curls into a fist, ready to fight if necessary.

“All choices have consequences. Even yours, Dragonborn. I will do this, and you will have to accept it.”

You glance away from Teldryn and find Storn holding the Black Book with both hands. Seeing him with it is an ominous sight. A warning. An ending. A new beginning. All of it wrapped up into one.

Frea stands nearby, her face stained with tears. The Skaal are not your people, but it doesn’t mean Storn should have to sacrifice all he cares about in order to help you. He may see it as a way to stop Miraak, and while that is important, you’re not sure what to do about the First Dragonborn.

Frea and Storn’s voices are distant. You only hear pieces. Fragments. The door to the small home is opening, cold air rushing in to lick at your bare legs. You tighten the blanket around your shoulders, following them out, Teldryn right next to you.

It is a horror. As all things that involve Hermaeus Mora are.

With you, Mora was almost tender in the way his tentacles roamed and explored your body. When he dived inside your mind, he took care to make it pleasurable enough that any pain was forgotten or absent. The shuffling within your head was uncomfortable, but it is not this.

Hermaeus Mora is cruel just because he can be.

Blood sprays. Tentacles pierce. Frea screams, sharp and loud and gore-drenched. Curses fall from Storn’s lips. There is outrage. Terror. And sweet, sweet triumphant victory dripping from the Daedric Prince of Fate to pool beneath the floating Black Book.

“At last,” breathes Hermaeus Mora as if he’s awoken from a long sleep. “The Skaal yield up their secrets to me.”

Storn coughs and up comes bright red. “Liar—you—not for you.”

Frea shrieks, her mouth moving, but you’re unable to hear her. You’re focused on the growing puddle underneath Storn’s hovering body. Hermaeus Mora becomes larger, his form expanding as if he is feeding off of Storn’s soul.

“You please me, Dragonborn. You have delivered me the gift I requested. In return, I keep my promise to you.” Hermaeus Mora’s massive eye slowly shifts in your direction even as Storn clings to the last vestiges of life. “I give you the Word of Power that you need to challenge Miraak. You will be either a worthy opponent or his successor, as the tides of fate decree.”

As the tides of fate decree.

You are not a pawn. Not a chess piece. Even if Hermaeus Mora thinks so.

The Word of Power flares to life in your head. It pounds like a drum, beating over and over again until your brain is close to bursting. The Thu’um thrums and vibrates, connecting with your blood and bone to find its own familiar place to dwell within you.

It is bright and bold and unrelenting.

Until it isn’t.

Until all is peace inside your head.

The Black Book belches more dark mist before Mora’s massive tentacles retreat, slipping from Storn’s body, returning to their horrid home. The Black Book shuts abruptly and promptly drops into the snow.

Storn’s body hovers in the air a second longer before he descends with a horrible crunch.

“Father!” Frea bolts, dropping to her knees.

Teldryn stands beside you in the cold, his head swiveled in your direction. You do not look at him as you speak. “I saw something while I was away.”

“What did you see?”

“The Endless Library. Hermaeus Mora’s most precious pride and joy.” You glance at Teldryn. “Do you trust me?”

Teldryn’s lips form a thin line. “What do you have in mind?”

“Gol Hah Dov!”

Your voice rings out and the great dragon above you trumpets, circling back to land upon the platform.

“Hail,” rumbles Sahrotaar. The great beast shakes like a dog. “Your Thu’um is stronger than Miraak’s. And you wish to seek an audience with him.”

“Will you take me to your master?”

Sahrotaar makes a series of rumbles and rolling clicks. “Climb aboard my back. I will carry you to him.”

You take a deep breath, forcing your nerves to steel. There is no turning back. There is no retreating to the moment before Teldryn agreed to this. If everything falls into place as it should, two will lose, and everything will be set to right.

With slow steps, you stride toward Sahrotaar. You place your hand against the dragon’s smooth scales as it dips its massive head for you to slide onto its massive back. Your original gear you entered into Apocrypha with is gone, but Teldryn brought you a few items from the horde you keep in Raven Rock.

It will do even if it’s not your preferred attire.

Finding a small dip in Sahrotaar’s scales, you hoist yourself onto the dragon’s massive back. Once seated, the giant beast pushes off from the platform, soaring high above Apocrypha. You know Hermaeus Mora watches. You know he waits in secret for the moment that he deems it appropriate to make an appearance.

That is something you can rely on. For Hermaeus Mora to flaunt his knowledge and attunement to time and the threads of fate. Perhaps he won’t see what you and Teldryn have planned. Maybe he will. Maybe he is taking care of it right now.

Stay strong, Teldryn. Please, don’t fail me.

Sahrotaar soars, trumpets, flying toward a massive tower. It’s the same one in which you dwelled. The same tower that Miraak and you came together. But that meant nothing, even if the tethered power pulsing between you is too great a thing to completely ignore.

Even as you get closer, you sense that pull. That connection that cannot seem to quiet when the First and Last Dragonborn are within distance of the other.

Sahrotaar circles above the top of the tower before landing with a massive thud. As you slide off the dragon’s back, a familiar figure strolls forward. You don’t have to see who it is to know. The tether pulls taut, close to snapping.

“You return to me.” Miraak sounds pleased if a bit hesitant. “The Last Dragonborn returns to the First Dragonborn at the summit of Apocrypha. No doubt just as Hermaeus Mora intended. His tentacles are always wiggling around where they are unwanted.” Miraak’s voice is as much a comfort as it is a curse.

You still stand close to Sahrotaar, unsure if you should step away from the great beast or use it as a shield.

“I’ve returned,” you reply cooly.

“But not to join me,” says Miraak, already knowing your mind.

That is the truth of it. You are not going to join him. Miraak manipulates. Hermaeus Mora manipulates. As Teldryn has said countless times, you are not beholden to anyone but yourself. When it comes to your life, and your choices, only you can make them.

Miraak sighs heavily. “Hermaeus Mora is a fickle master. But I shall be free of him. My time here in Apocrypha will soon be over.” Miraak removes a gnarled weapon from beneath his robes. It looks more like a sickly, broken off tree branch than a weapon.

“I will return to Solstheim and be master of my own fate.”

You stand tall and take a step forward. Sahrotaar shifts and takes flight. Miraak does not watch the dragon go.

“You said we would fight,” you say, lifting your arms slightly from your sides.

“Indeed,” replies Miraak. “But there is still hope that you will see the error of your ways. And you will join me.” He glances up into the sky. “Kruziikrel! Relonikiv! To me!”

What did you expect in coming here? A battle of wits? A bit of blood?

No. Not that.

You expect Miraak to want to kill you, to annihilate you. And yet that is far from the truth.

While Miraak fights with a ferocity that is unmatched, not a single stroke of his blade is meant to kill. His strikes are only to disable or disarm, to incapacitate. Miraak is not trying to kill you, which means he believes he can make you see reason. That he can convince you to come back to him and join his cause.

It is too late for that. With every second that continues, for every dragon felled and soul consumed, Miraak becomes weary and uncertain. You cannot see his eyes, but each time he retreats from his position you notice the way his shoulders sag. You are not making this easy.

But that is the point.

Miraak is a distraction. You are a distraction. This is not for either of you, but for something much greater.

Please, don’t fail me, Teldryn.

Miraak’s blade comes crashing down, and you step to the side, narrowly missing it. That swing held anger. It whistled with it.

“Cease this,” growls Miraak. “You are acting foolish.”

“Foolish? You hurt me,” you chide, poking at his anger.

You swing with your own and Miraak lurches backward, the edge of the blade ringing loudly against his mask. It leaves no mark, just a faint ringing.

Men are all the same, even ones as old as Miraak. He is a manipulator. Hermaeus Mora is a manipulator. They will break your arms and legs only to carry you to safety to tend to your wounds after. They will say sweet things and expect you to be grateful for showing you mercy.

That is who they are. That is their spirit.

That is a cycle you need to break. A Daedric Price cannot be felled, but he can be weakened. Miraak is simply a man, and death will one day claim him.

Another swing and you strike true, slicing Miraak across the chest in a wide arc. He howls, rears back, teleports to the other side of the tower. The moment he reappears, a mass of tentacles pops into existence above the platform.

The Daedric Prince of Fate is here. He has finally made an appearance. You knew he would. You knew it, anticipated it. Mora loves a good show. He loves the drama of it all, and this fight is exactly that. You are playing into his entertainment, and Hermaeus Mora is eating it up.

With ethereal speed, Hermaeus Mora’s tentacles shoot out and wrap around Miraak, lifting him into the air. Miraak growls like a caged wolf, swinging his weight around to try and free himself.

“Did you think to escape me, Miraak? You can hide nothing from me here.” Mora’s voice is a low hiss. “You are my champion. You are my servant. I do not take kindly to those that seek to usurp me.”

“You have found a new Dragonborn to serve you.” Miraak’s golden mask shifts, facing you as he says the next words. “May she be rewarded for her service.”

Miraak’s back bends sharply as three of Mora’s tentacles pierce his chest. It’s just like Storn all over again, but so much worse. The power within you, the tether, flares white hot. A blinding pain that nearly rips your soul from your body to ship off to Sovngarde before extinguishing entirely.

Slowly, Hermaeus Mora sets Miraak’s body on the platform. There is something tender in the way he does it, like a father putting their child to sleep. His tentacles retreat, and he shifts closer to Miraak’s body, inspecting it. The large eye in the center of his massive form squints, almost confused.

Is Teldryn where he is supposed to be? Hopefully he is done, and far form Apocrypha.

You smell it before you see it. And Hermaeus Mora senses it just as you do.

Smoke. Acrid. Dark. Drifting into the air far in the distance. You notice it just above a line of mismatched spiraling towers.

Hermaeus Mora makes a piercing shriek. It is an eldritch pitch of noise that pushes you onto your knees and forces you to slap your hands over your ears. Your brain and tongue and teeth and muscles and eyes and ears are melting. Bleeding. Morphing.

The pain within Mora is a pain you experience just as profoundly.

Hermaeus Mora’s shriek turns into groans, his tentacles coiling back in on himself as if cradling his sorrow. His form heaves like he cannot catch his breath. The Daedric Prince of Fate is in pain, and his pain is sweet. It is good.

His large eye pivots in your direction, grows wide with accusation. He says nothing, only simmers for seconds before growling low and receding into a small black dot until that too is gone.

Teldryn did it. The Endless Library, Hermaeus Mora’s beloved treasure, is on fire.

Miraak’s body is quickly fading. You rush to him, remove the mask, and cradle it to your chest. You glimpse him briefly as you knew him before he melts away, only leaving his clothes and skeleton behind.

The mask you will keep. You will hold it close.

Rushing toward the stairs at the far side of the platform, you descend into the room where the Black Book is held. It is still there, a living horror for anyone unlucky enough to come across it. Keeping the mask tucked close to your chest, you open it up, seeking and eventually receiving that familiar descent.

When you return, Teldryn is right there, smelling of smoke.

“You did it,” you breathe, throwing yourself into his arms.

He laughs, holding you tight. “You owe me a drink. And that house in Falkreath.”

“You can have the damn house,” you smile. “I have two others.”

Teldryn draws back slightly, his hand resting on your forearms. “Do you think Mora will seek vengeance?”

“We will likely be long dead before he manages it.”

“Maybe for you,” chuckles Teldryn. “Not me.”

“You’re already very old, Teldryn. Or have you forgotten in your old age?”

“Very funny, Dragonborn.” He releases your arms and then crosses his over his chest. “We should make ourselves scarce.”

“Back to Skyrim then?”

Sticky. Stringy.

When you blink—or try to—it’s thick, as if someone smeared honey over your eyelids while you slept. You try again, but whatever covers your eyes resists the pull. Shaking your head, you attempt to throw off this shade. Perhaps it is something tangible that simply needs to be dislodged.

No luck. It stays.

Slowly, you reach out, lightly pressing around your eyes. Immediately, just along your cheekbone, you discover a gluey substance. You recoil, but your fingers stay, stuck in the muck. A distressed whimper leaves your lips as reality starts to set in.

You are in Hermaeus Mora’s realm. You are alone. You are captured. A fox in a cage. And you are unable to see.

Panic sets in and then you start clawing at the sticky substance, nearly growling like a feral animal in an attempt to remove the gunk from around your eyes.

“Stop,” comes a masculine voice. It isn’t deep, but on the higher side, and the tone indicates concern. You immediately pause, chest heaving, waiting for this person to speak again.

They do not.

Licking your lips, you tilt your head in the direction in which you think the voice came from.

“Who are you?” you ask hesitantly.

A long moment of silence follows. It stretches, and the uninterrupted quiet chills you to the bone. Sorrow and despair threads through your nerves, but then the voice comes again, this time much closer.

“Don’t rub it off. It’ll help.”

You clench your fist, the muscles in your arm tighten with the anticipation of throwing a punch. Even though you’re blinded, you want answers. “Who are you?” you ask again.

“I am but a servant.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” you growl.

Of all the strangeness you’ve experienced while in Hermaeus Mora’s realm, the silence is the oddest. Even though you cannot see where you are, there is no sound other than what you and this man make. There is no dripping water, no chirping of bugs, or the squeak of rats. Nothing. Just absolute silence that fills the space between breaths.

“My name is irrelevant,” comes his reply. “And it has been lost to time. I could not tell you.”

He is close, but you’re not sure how close. This man—this servant—is near enough that he doesn’t need to go above soft speaking. Which means, he might be in range of your hand. You’ll have to play this right. Keep him talking. Rely on other senses.

“All this knowledge around you and you don’t know your own name?” you mock, voice dripping with cruelty. The idea is absurd. How could you dwell in a realm like this with no knowledge of who you are?

“In order to do my work for my master, I had to relinquish the ties I had to the mortal realm,” he answers, as if it’s so simple.

Slowly, you draw your hand away from your face and to the floor. Rock. You shift a bit and then frown. Your feet are bare. You didn’t notice before. Reaching out, you grab your foot, and then your naked ankle. Horror seizes you as you quickly take note of your body.

You make it to mid-thigh before you find clothing. From there, you realize that what you have on is just a sack. Your armor and weapons are gone. The fact that you’re in different clothes means someone stripped you. Someone’s gaze was on your naked body.

Before you even have the chance to demand where your stuff is, the man answers as if already knowing your question. “It’s all somewhere safe. I saw to it myself.”

Fury burns in your veins. It doesn’t matter that you might be in an actual cage. You’re ready to rage.

“You put your hands on me,” you growl, venom seeping into every word. This man will die for touching you.

“Earthly needs are unimportant to me. They have been since I entered my master’s realm.” He says it blandly, like he cannot believe you’d even imagine such a thing. “You are His guest here, and will remain unspoiled unless he wills it.”

Unspoiled. As if you’re a piece of ripe fruit ready for the knife.

“What a benevolent master,” you mutter, seeking out with your fingers, your hands slowly sliding across the floor.

The man hums softly in agreement. “The paste on your eyes needs a bit more time.”

So far, you’ve only found more stone beneath your palms. “What is it for?” You check both ankles, wrists, and neck. There are no chains or restraints.

“To curb the madness.”

You freeze. “The what?”

“Hermaeus Mora’s influence starts to take effect the moment you enter his realm. For those of us who serve him, the influence is desired, but Lord Mora suspected this is something you did not wish for.”

Slowly, you drop your hands into your lap. Master Neloth mentioned black spots in the eyes as a sign of Hermaeus Mora’s influence in the body. Perhaps this is what the paste prevents.

Even though you wish to slit this man’s throat, you restrain some of the rising violence, opting for a more civil tone. “That is generous. Thoughtful.” The words taste foul on your tongue.

“Lord Mora understands many things.”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you sit in the silence, awaiting your opportunity.

Time passes, and you have no idea for how long. But the stranger eventually speaks again. “I do believe it is time to remove the paste.” There is soft jingling, and then the creak of hinges.

So, you are in a cage.

This stranger claims you are a guest of Hermaeus Mora, but guests are not kept in cages or stripped of their clothes. The weapons are understandable. You can forgive that but not the sack that drapes your body.

What was it that Hermaeus Mora said on the bridge just before you slipped into unconsciousness?

You are in my realm now, Dragonborn. Apocrypha will be your home. You will converse with me and I cannot wait to know your secrets.

What does the Prince of Fate mean by that? Will the two of you actually talk? Or will he pull your memories from your mind, turning you into one of his followers? The very idea makes your skin crawl. Autonomy is important, and though you’ve completed many quests and tasks for some of Mora’s siblings, none of them will truly be able to claim you in the afterlife.

You are Dovahkiin. After you are gone, your soul will dwell within the Hall of Valor in Sovngarde. But if you are trapped here, in Hermaeus Mora’s realm, will your death not ascend your soul to Shor’s mead hall?

You’ll need to play along for the time being. An opportunity will present itself, and you will escape this wretched place with its sickly green sky and tentacle-infested inky waters.

“Crawl forward,” instructs the stranger. “The door is a bit low.”

The act of moving toward this man on your hands and knees is degrading, but you do it anyway, reaching out to get a sense of the cage that you’re in. This servant of Mora is right. The door is low, and you nearly knock your head on it but prevent yourself from doing so when your raised hand clips the top of it.

“Very good. You’re out now. I’ll start cleaning around your eyes.” His voice is calm, almost fatherly, and it only makes you want to claw his eyes out. Why is he trying to comfort you? Did Hermaeus Mora tell him to? Does the Prince of Fate want you soft and compliant?

The moment the stranger’s cold hands touch your face, you lunge. It’s more of a reaction than anything, the instinctual need to protect yourself burning like a hot iron. Your hands wrap around his throat and squeeze.

The two of you fall together, and then you’re bashing his head against the floor in sharp blows that bring the scent of blood to your nostrils.

It’s over quickly. Not because you kill him, but because you’re prevented from doing so.

Long, thin fingers with sharp nails grab at your arms and effortlessly toss you aside. You roll into it, landing on your knees. You pivot, bare your teeth, ready to lunge again.

It doesn’t matter that you cannot see. You’ve fought in true dark before and yet came out alive. This is no different.

A rippling burst of air slams into you. It’s not enough to send you to the ground but you do recoil from the sudden blow. Another crashes into you, and then another. This time, you do start to bend.

Throwing your arms over your head, you tuck in and take it. Perhaps it’s only seconds of time, but they eventually recede, and then you’re shaking. You feel drained, as if your very soul has slowly been extracted from you through a small hole. The energy within you is limited, but you still have something none of them can take away.

Your Thu’um.

Rising to one knee, you inhale sharply, ready to unleash an unrelenting force of power. The moment you exhale—the moment your lips shape the words—you choke. All breath is snatched from you. Lungs shriveled. Unable to take in oxygen.

Panic spikes, and you try again, only for you to choke harder.

“I advise against it. You’ll only hurt yourself.” It’s the man, but his voice is distant and shaky, an almost moan of pain when he speaks.

You don’t care if this act won’t allow you to speak again. Your Thu’um is your lifeblood. It is the thing that beats underneath your skin alongside your heart.

This next attempt chokes you to the point that your hands come up and claw at your throat. It is agonizing, a squeeze so tight that even with the paste over your eyes, you still feel the formation of tears.

You do not try again, and the invisible grip on your throat eases.

You collapse to the floor, chest heaving. Those thin, long fingers with sharp nails curl around your forearms. There is no strength left in you to resist this time. You’re lifted off the floor, guided to your knees, and then human hands are on your face, a damp cloth moving slowly over your eyelids.

“Stay still,” comes the voice, and it is not the same man who you’ve been talking to. It’s a different one.

Slowly, the stickiness fades, replaced with a cool dampness from the cloth.

“It is done.”

You blink, and this time you see the black stone beneath your knees. Your eyelids flutter, and your gaze shifts from the floor to the person standing before you. They’re bent at the waist, a damp cloth balled up in one hand.

The man before you, who is old enough to be your father, peers into your face. He is completely bald and wears simple black robes that stop at his feet. The signs of madness that Master Neloth spoke of is evident. There are dark spots in the whites of his eyes, but that isn’t the only unsettling aspect.

The dark spots aren’t perfect circles, more blob-like in appearance, just like Hermaeus Mora. The dots that linger near the edges of his eyes seep outward onto his skin. From there, they form black lines, like dead veins under his skin. They stretch away to create little webs across his flesh.

He smiles, showing his teeth. They are stained with ink.

You immediately recoil but the man doesn’t seem to care that you’ve drawn back from him. The sudden movement startles whomever is holding you. The sound they make is not human. You twist enough to glance over your shoulder and find one of those creatures you’ve slain.

Its face tentacles flare slightly in agitation.

“You killed several Seekers before you were subdued. They’re not particularly happy to see that you’re alive. Or that their master spared you.”

The corner of your lip curls as you turn back to the man.

Now that the paste is gone from your eyes, the room you’re being held in becomes clearer. Just behind you is the cage. It’s all gnarled black metal. Embedded into the metal are jagged spikes that jut outward. It’s clear that they are meant to keep things out rather than the captive individual inside.

The room itself is relatively small. The walls are books including the support pillar in the center of the room. Within the ceiling are holes, and through it, you distantly see Apocrypha’s green sky. There is no door but an open archway.

At the stranger’s feet, but off to the right, is the man you choked. His eyes are vacant, staring up at the ceiling, a halo of blood crowns his head. The new stranger’s gaze follows yours and then he sighs when he lands on the dead man.

A Seeker floats in through the open archway and heads for the dead man. Using its four hands, it grabs hold of the man, dragging him out, the blood smearing across the stone.

You swallow, and your saliva sticks in your throat. “What happened to my Voice?”

The bald man in black robes bows slightly, and then straightens. “Welcome to Apocrypha, Dragonborn. I am one of the endless Ciphers of the Eye. Lord Mora asked that we look after you until we bring you at his summons.” He steps around your question.

“Why can’t I use my Thu’um,” you prompt, wanting an answer. You’re far more willing to cooperate if he’d just be reasonable. “Have you taken it?”

“Taken it?” he asks with a hint of surprise. “No. The Prince of Fate cannot steal your Thu’um. That is a gift bestowed upon you by another, and is not in his realm of control.”

“And yet, you silence me.”

The man inclines his head. “He did. But it is temporary. I assure you.” That does not bring you any comfort. “I am to escort you to him.”

You don’t need to ask to know who him is. “Now?”

“Indeed.”

You lick your lips and find only dryness. “Where are we going?”

“One of the many scriptoriums of Apocrypha. It is where we prepare the Black Books for our master. It is rewarding work. Few ever witness it from an…outside perspective.”

From the open archway, two more Seekers appear, mandibles flaring.

The Cipher bows slightly to the Seekers and takes a step back. “You will not be chained if you behave on our journey. It is not far. This I promise.”

He could promise you your release and you still wouldn’t believe him. Without your Thu’um, you’re almost powerless. While there are magic basics you understand and can control with ease, you are no mage. This man, this Cipher, may wield magic, and you have nothing to defend yourself with other than your fists.

You are vulnerable, and the bareness of this reality is tar that sticks to the skin.

Instead of pushing the issue, you comply reluctantly, following the Cipher through the archway as three Seekers drift behind you.

The walk to the scriptorium is short. The Cipher was honest about that, and you appreciate it even if you’re hesitant to do so. You also remain unrestrained, and no chains are brought.

The entrance to the scriptorium is a wide yet short bridge with two archways. One is rather simple, while the other is more intricate, narrower, and the black rock has a green glow deep within in. When you pass under it, you enter one of the many massive towers you noticed when you first entered Apocrypha.

This entryway is large, the ceiling of which juts upward sharply. From the ceiling, black tentacles hang, swaying softly, their suckers pulsing with a faint green glow. There is a simple stone pathway and it’s covered in worn, rotting paper. On either side of this stone path is that inky black water.

It’s completely still. Silent. And that is somehow even more ominous than the water that roils outside this hall.

At the end of this small path is a massive double door, the symbol of Hermaeus Mora carved into the center. The tower itself is built from stone and an endless number of books. You’re not sure if the books are the wall or the stone is. It’s all fused together.

Your small herd moves toward the doors, and as you approach, they start to open. The sound the doors makes as they open is awful. There is no creaking of metal hinges or wood, but a wet, slippery sound, like you’re trying to hold onto a wiggling eel.

As you, your guide, and your guards pass through, you’re spit out into an open atrium. You’re outside again, but it’s clear that won’t be for long. From the atrium are multiple bridges and pathways, all of which connect to various towers.

In the center of the atrium is a stone statue of a person seated on a throne. Their hands rest on the arms of the throne, but their head is covered by an open Black Book as if the tome has suctioned itself to their face.

This image calls back those brief moments before the Black Book sucked you into Apocrypha. Darkness bled from the binding only for tentacles to follow, wrapping around you tightly to drag you into Hermaeus Mora’s realm.

All around the statue are more books. Some are neatly stacked while others appear tossed. But there is little time to linger. You’re only in this atrium for a minute.

The Cipher leads you on, taking a bridge to the left. When you enter this tower, you arrive in what has to be a workshop. Your guide mentioned that the scriptoriums are places where Black Books are made, and that few outsiders ever see the process.

You are an outsider, witnessing the creation happen in real time.

Seekers and Ciphers work together. There is a mechanical-like efficiency to the whole process. The two groups work in almost near silence, as if their communications are all done internally, almost like a hive of worker bees.

There are vats of bubbling ink and some that might contain a clear glue. All the mortal helpers are bald and it is a varied mix of men and women across multiple races.

“This way,” murmurs your guide, and the two of you branch off into a much smaller room.

This one is still littered with books, all stacked high and part of the architecture. But here, it’s warmer, with actual lanterns hanging from various points around the room. The ceiling is fairly low, and there are several stone tables, all of which have stacks of books on them.

“Leave us,” comes a deep, primordial voice.

Hermaeus Mora swells into existence before you. He is not nearly as large or imposing as on the bridge, but he isn’t any less creepy.

The Cipher bows deeply, his bald head nearly touching the stone floor. He keeps his eyes turned downward as if looking on Hermaeus Mora is a privilege. He backs out of the room slowly, never turning his back from his master. The Seekers follow suit.

Hermaeus Mora floats nearer, and his form shrinks a bit more. The large eye in the center blinks slowly.

“Are you rested?”

“One cannot rest in a cage,” you snap.

The eye blinks again, followed by an amused chuckle. “A necessary precaution.”

You run your tongue over your teeth and frown. “Are you afraid of me, Prince of Fate?”

The low rumble from Hermaeus Mora is surprisingly human-like. “I’ve watched you for some time, Dovahkiin. The lure of Apocrypha is too great to ignore. Not when it is tied to your fate.”

“Then why do you wish to talk? It sounds like you have all the answers.”

“You are Dragonborn, like my servant Miraak. You are following in his footsteps, seeking power that is your birthright.”

Miraak. So, he is a servant of Hermaeus Mora. Does he walk these halls? Would you find him if you looked? Would you find him if you asked Hermaeus Mora?

Evading his questions or even outright lying won’t do you any good. He will know, maybe not completely, but he will see through a deception.

“You called to me through your book.”

“Did I?” he replies, almost breathy with surprise. That large, center eye blinks slowly again.

“Is that not what happened?” You take a step back and reach out to place your hand on a nearby stone table.

“All who seek after the secrets of my world are my servants. Willing or not. By opening that book, you served me. You…worshipped me.” That word—worshipped—rolls out in a purr. It slides over your skin as if invisible tentacles roam over your limbs.

“How do I worship you?” you counter. “I enter your realm without permission. I slay your servants. That does not sound like a loyal devotee.”

Hermaeus Mora’s form ripples like he’s shaking off a shiver. “You’ve come for secrets. You’ve come for knowledge. You’ve come for answers. All of which can be provided.”

You take another step and position yourself on the other side of the stone table, creating some sort of distance between yourself and the Daedric Prince.

Within Hermaeus Mora’s mass are smaller eyes. They blink at random, some of them disappearing entirely before returning. “Your journey towards enlightenment has finally led you here. To my realm. To me. As I knew it would.”

Storn Crag-Strider talked about how Hermaeus Mora likes to possess things just for the sake of possessing them. If Miraak is like you, if he is Dragonborn, then you are one more object for the Daedric Prince to hoard.

He called Apocrypha your new home, but you’re not interested in staying here, falling to the same madness the Ciphers have.

As if sensing your unease, Hermaeus Mora retreats a bit more, his form receding in shape. Like this, he isn’t nearly as frightening, but you still know who he is, and that is enough to ward off any attempt to bolt.

“What can you tell me about Miraak?” You want to divert this line of conversation to something else. Hermaeus Mora is too focused on you, and you do not care for his wandering eye. It moves in the socket, assessing, and it gives you a sense of objectification, like he’s trying to decide how valuable you are to his goals.

“Does my form disturb you?” he asks gently, not answering your question. “Would you prefer something more familiar to your mortality?”

Before you have the chance to object, Mora turns inward, his tentacles folding in as if he’s being pushed through a keyhole in a door. It all melds together and then drips to the floor. Those tentacles unfurl slowly in an upward arch, binding with each other to present a humanoid perversion of Hermaeus Mora.

He has two hands. Two feet. Two arms. Two legs. The Daedric Lord stands tall in this form, easily closing in on seven feet tall. These features are the only normal parts about him. His entire body is shiny, reflective like the inky water of his realm. Briefly, you consider whether or not it would part like water, or if it’s solid like skin. There are no anatomical features like nipples. It’s all smooth, including the space between his legs.

In the center of Mora’s face is a large, singular eye. There is no mouth, but that isn’t a surprise. Even in his true form, Hermaeus Mora has no physical mouth from which to speak. He simply does.

“Is this more pleasing to you, Dovahkiin?” Hermaeus Mora extends his hands outward, flexing each finger. A lone tentacle appears from behind his back to slide over and around his right leg. It stays put.

“Not particularly,” you answer, knowing that the truth is best.

“You offend me,” he laughs softly. Mora isn’t insulted at all. It’s clear that your discomfort amuses him. He strides forward, and there is a purposeful swagger. It’s very… human.

His hand reaches out toward the stone table, the tips of his fingers brushing along the curved edge as he circles the rocky slab. Instinct has you walking backward, but this version of Mora is tall, and his stride covers twice the distance yours does.

“You didn’t answer my question about Miraak,” you state, the fine hairs on your neck standing on end as Mora’s humanoid form advances into your personal space.

“All that he knows, he learned from me.” Hermaeus Mora’s hand reaches up, the tip of one finger running along the curve of your jaw. He is not cold or hot. In fact, there is no temperature, but his touch is tangible like flesh.

“That is not an answer and you know it,” you retort.

That large eye softens, the eyelids closing slighting as if your stubbornness is something to be enjoyed. “Miraak has been my loyal servant for many years. He has served me well, but he…grows restless under my guidance.”

Another tentacle appears from behind Mora’s back. This one wiggles upward before sliding over his shoulder and around his neck like a collar. It stays in place, shifting only when he does.

“Miraak desires to return to your world. It would spread my influence more widely across Tamriel, but it will also release him from my direct control.” Mora demonstrates his meaning by lifting a clenched fist and releasing the tension in the muscles, exposing his open palm. Within the palm, the blackness parts, and an eye appears. It briefly glances in your direction before retreating.

The finger tracing your jaw shifts into his hand. Mora steps closer and you have to crane your neck upward to see him properly. “It may be time to replace him with a more loyal servant. One who still appreciates the gifts I have to offer,” he purrs, the touch becoming a caress against your cheek.

For a moment, you lean into the touch, your body surrendering to his power. It lasts for only a handful of seconds. You’re quickly thrown out of the pull to submit, reality and awareness slamming into you like a battering ram. You stumble backward, nearly fall, and only steady yourself by reaching out to grab the stone table.

“Your words are poison,” you hiss.

“No,” replies Mora. “I am your freedom.”

He is still so close, and you need to find some distance. If that means you need to stay on the other side of the room, then that’s what you’re going to do.

The second the muscles in your legs tighten with tension, Hermaeus Mora’s gaze narrows. You begin to walk backward, moving away from the Daedric Prince, but he is having none of that.

Four large tentacles shoot out from his body, each one grabbing hold of your arms and legs. He draws you back to him, your body floating above the floor. The Prince of Fate is dangerously close. If he were truly human, the two of you would likely be touching noses.

“I know what you want,” he says softly even as the tentacles tighten around your limbs. “You want to learn a Word of Power. You want to use you power as Dragonborn to bend the world to your will. You. Crave. Power.”

You have always served others. You have always done everything for everyone else. When have you stopped to do something just for you?

Hermaeus Mora’s words are tempting, a sweet song of promise that lulls you slowly into compliance. What were those symptoms Master Neloth spoke of? Signs of corruption? Signs of madness?

Loss of will.

Have you lost it? Are you being influenced by Mora or is this your own desire finally floating to the surface?

“An exchange, Dovahkiin. What say you?”

It’s not like you have anywhere to go, and you’re not sure if your Thu’um has returned. Even if it has, would it truly do anything against the Daedric Prince of Knowledge and Fate? Doubtful. In his realm, he suppressed your Thu’um for a time, which means he could do it again. Why tempt fate when the odds are not on your side.

“I’m listening,” you whisper, hating that you’re giving in to him.

His shoulders soften with pleasure when you acquiesce. “Knowledge for knowledge. I bestow upon you a missing piece, and in return, you give me one of your secrets.” Hermaeus Mora clarifies his meaning by running the back of his hand down your throat.

There are worse things. There are worse deals. And this will be temporary. You will make it so.

You swallow, and deal the killing blow. “I will serve you in this way in exchange for your knowledge.”

Hermaeus Mora’s humanoid forms swells with pride. “Here then is the knowledge you need. Although,” he laughs. “You did not know you needed it. Not until you came to me.”

That massive singular eye of his closes. The tentacles around your limbs draw you closer until the two of you are almost touching. Then, the Daedric Prince clears the distance, resting his forehead against your own, joining your flesh with his.

“The second Word of Power. Use it to bend the wills of mortals to your purpose.”

The connection is immediate. It’s a blow to the face. A sharp tug on your hair. The strike of a sword against a shield.

The language of the dragons’ batters against your skull. The Word of Power appears before you, and your body immediately responds, absorbing all its knowledge and memory into yourself. It tastes like fire, and everything vibrates with a thudding thrum like the beat of dragon wings.

Your body takes it in, melts the Word of Power down into blood, and injects into your marrow, fusing yourself with the innate ability to wield it. It is your history. It is your truth. A piece that has always been with you.

Your eyes snap open and there is Mora’s singular eye.