#movarth

And neither knew what the other was walking into.

The path to Sky Haven Temple wound high along the jagged cliffs of the Reach, where wind scraped across the red stone like a blade dragged slowly over bone. The mountains rose steeply around them, their peaks cutting dark shapes against the late afternoon sky. Far below, the Karth River wound through the valley like a thin ribbon of silver.

And carved directly into the cliffside before them was a face.

Massive. Ancient. Unmoving.

The stone visage stared outward across the canyon with stern, weathered features that had endured centuries of wind and storm. Moss crept through the cracks of its brow and nose, and time had dulled the sharp edges of the carving, but the expression remained unmistakable—watchful. Judgmental.

Eradros stood with his arms folded, studying it carefully.

Beside him, Gavhelus leaned his head back and squinted up at the towering sculpture.

“…You sure this is the place?” the Dunmer asked.

Eradros reached into his coat and unfolded a piece of parchment that looked like it had been folded and unfolded far too many times. The crude map drawn across it was unmistakably Bhishiir’s work—sharp angles, unnecessary arrows, and several annotations scribbled in cramped handwriting.

He glanced from the map… back to the stone face.

“This is where the letter said to come,” Eradros said. “Bhishiir even drew us a map.”

Taviiah crossed her arms and shifted her weight onto one leg, eyeing the enormous carving.

“How many places do you know with a giant stone face staring at you?” she said dryly.

Gavhelus scratched at the back of his neck.

“…Fair enough.”

He stepped closer to the cliff wall, examining the stone surface for any sign of a seam or hidden mechanism.

After a moment he frowned.

“So where’s the doorknob?”

“I doubt ancient Akaviri architects relied on doorknobs,” Eradros replied.

Taviiah smirked faintly.

“Well unless it opens with polite knocking, we may be out of luck.”

A voice spoke behind them.

“It doesn’t.”

All three turned at once.

Two figures stood further up the path behind them.

Eradros recognized the woman immediately.

Delphine stepped forward, her sharp eyes moving over the group one by one. They paused briefly on Gavhelus.

“I remember you,” she said.

Then her gaze shifted between Eradros and Taviiah.

“But I’ll admit… we were expecting someone else.”

Beside her stood an elderly man with a wild grey beard and scholar’s robes worn thin from travel. Though hunched with age, his eyes were bright with restless curiosity.

His gaze darted between them anxiously.

“Where is he?” the old man asked.

Eradros tilted his head slightly.

“Who?”

“The Dragonborn!” the man blurted. “And the Khajiit! Bhishiir said they would be coming!”

Delphine’s brow furrowed.

“You know we’re going to need to open this,” she said. “Don’t you?”

Eradros reached into his coat and pulled out a small glass vial.

Inside it, thick crimson liquid clung to the glass.

“That’s what this is for, I imagine,” he said.

Delphine’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“…Blood?”

“Dragonborn blood,” Eradros confirmed.

Esbern stepped closer, peering at the vial with sudden intensity.

“Yes… yes, that would make sense,” he muttered.

Then he hesitated.

His eyes lifted again.

“…Bhishiir didn’t harm him to get it, did he?”

Taviiah smirked faintly.

Eradros corked the vial again and slipped it between his fingers thoughtfully.

“Let’s just say,” he said evenly, “the Dragonborn recently came out of a rather… complicated operation.”

Delphine frowned.

“Operation?”

“He’s alive,” Eradros said simply. “And walking. That’s the important part.”

Esbern studied him for a moment longer, then suddenly chuckled under his breath.

“Yes,” he said, nodding to himself. “That sounds exactly like Bhishiir.”

Delphine glanced at him.

“You sound unsurprised.”

Esbern chuckled softly.

“That Khajiit has always had a talent for… bypassing unnecessary explanations.”

Eradros stepped toward the base of the stone face. At its feet rested a small circular basin carved directly into the rock—so subtle it was easy to overlook.

“Instructions said to pour it here,” he said.

Delphine nodded once.

“Do it.”

Eradros uncorked the vial and tipped it forward.

The blood slid into the stone basin with a soft, dark ripple.

For a moment… nothing happened.

Then the mountain groaned.

A deep grinding sound echoed through the canyon as ancient mechanisms hidden within the cliff awakened after centuries of silence. Dust drifted down from the stone face as the massive carving began to move.

Slowly, the enormous slab slid backward into the mountain.

The face disappeared into the rock, revealing a hidden passage beyond it. Torchlight flickered inside the corridor, casting long shadows across stone walls lined with ancient Akaviri carvings.

Gavhelus let out a low whistle.

“Well,” he said. “That’s one way to open a door.”

Esbern stared at the revealed passage like a child seeing a long-lost treasure.

“Sky Haven Temple,” he whispered.

Delphine turned back to the group.

“You’d better come inside,” she said.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

[Meanwhile- Northeast of the city of Morthal]

The tunnels beneath the ruin smelled of damp stone and old blood, a stale iron scent that clung stubbornly to the air the deeper they traveled. The lair had once been a forgotten Nordic barrow buried in the marshlands east of Morthal, its entrance half swallowed by the fog and black water of Hjaalmarch. Time and rot had eaten away at the outer chambers, but deeper within the old crypt had been hollowed out and repurposed—no longer a resting place for the dead, but a laboratory for something far worse. Water dripped from the jagged ceiling in slow, patient intervals, each drop echoing softly through the cavern like the steady ticking of a clock counting down to something unpleasant. The passage narrowed as it descended, forcing the group into a tighter formation, their torchlight casting crooked shadows that danced along the uneven stone walls.

Minevi walked at the front beside Kin, her shield resting loosely at her side, mace held low but ready. Though her posture remained steady, the tension in her shoulders did not escape notice.

Bhishiir, walking just behind them, tilted his head slightly.

"Minevi," he said at last, his tone calm but observant.

She glanced back. "Yes?"

"You are uneasy."

Minevi hesitated for a moment before answering. "I'm used to having Eradros ahead of us," she admitted. "Scouting."

Kin exhaled quietly at that, the sound almost a huff of agreement. "Yeah," he muttered. "Me too."

Bhishiir stopped walking.

The others halted a moment later when they realized he had paused. Slowly, he turned toward them, studying their faces with an expression that suggested mild personal offense.

"Bhishiir is offended," he declared.

Kin raised one eyebrow slightly.

"Do you all only feel safe if the elf is around?"

He waited as though genuinely expecting an answer.

Kin shrugged.

Minevi said nothing.

Passha stood several steps back in the dim light, her expression unreadable.

Bhishiir sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Remarkable," he murmured.

With a flick of his wrist he gave a small signal.

"Spindle."

A moment later the small brass automaton scurried from beneath the folds of his coat and dropped lightly to the stone floor. Its delicate mechanical legs clicked softly as they adjusted to the terrain before the spider began skittering across the rock with eerie precision.

Bhishiir pointed down the darkened corridor ahead.

"Go. Give this one a lay of the land."

Spindle immediately obeyed, climbing the cavern wall and vanishing into the darkness beyond the torchlight with unsettling speed.

Passha tilted her head slightly as she watched it disappear.

"You know... I could scout ahead with no—," she offered quietly, but was cut off.

"No," Bhishiir replied at once.

He adjusted one of the small mechanisms built into his sleeve as he spoke.

"Vampires are predators—the undead kind."

His gaze flicked briefly toward her.

"They would smell the death on you in a heartbeat...which they don't even have."

Passha rolled her eyes, but did not argue.

The group waited in silence.

Water continued to drip somewhere in the dark. The air felt heavier the longer they stood there, the faint metallic smell of blood growing stronger the deeper the tunnels carried it.

Then a familiar sound broke the stillness.

Click.

Click click click.

Spindle returned from the shadows and climbed swiftly up Bhishiir's boot before settling onto his shoulder. The tiny automaton began waving its legs rapidly in a series of precise mechanical gestures.

Bhishiir watched with quiet attention, nodding occasionally as if receiving a detailed report.

"Mm," he murmured thoughtfully.

Another nod followed.

"I see."

The spider finally went still.

Bhishiir turned his attention back to the others.

"Did you all get that?"

Minevi stared at him flatly.

"You're the only one who understands him."

"Oh." Bhishiir waved dismissively. "Apologies."

He gestured down the corridor ahead.

"Five vampires in the chamber beyond this passage," he explained matter‑of‑factly. "Two positioned above the entrance on stone shelves. One behind the central pillar."

He pointed deeper into the darkness.

"Movarth himself is further down—at the bottom of the atrium."

Minevi shifted her shield into a more comfortable position on her arm, her stance subtly tightening.

Kin rolled his shoulders once.

The metal plates of his Dwemer arm shifted faintly as he flexed his fingers, a soft mechanical hum passing through the joints as the limb responded.

Bhishiir noticed and allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.

"Good," he said. "Get to know it well."

Kin glanced away from the arm and back at Bhishiir without responding. He could tell the old cat was feeling confident in his work. He wished he felt the same, but it was still slightly foreign despite his recent but short training with it.

Then Bhishiir turned abruptly to the door ahead, stepping forward, just in front of everyone else.

"Now that the variables are accounted for...listen up."

He casually raised an arm and began fidgeting with the mechanisms on his sleeve.

"Kin."

Kin looked up.

"You will charge directly toward Movarth."

Minevi frowned. "Blindly?"

"Of course," Bhishiir replied, grinning calmly.

The mechanisms built into his sleeves clicked softly as he primed the small crossbows hidden within them.

"The first vampire who attempts to intercept you will be mine."

He then turned his attention to Minevi.

"You will draw the attention of the thralls and keep them occupied. Prevent them from interfering with Kin."

Minevi lifted her shield slightly, testing the weight.

"That I can do," she said.

Passha's quiet voice came from behind them.

"And me?"

Bhishiir did not even look back.

"Disappear."

Minevi turned instinctively to glance at Passha.

She was already gone.

There had been no sound of footsteps. No shifting of stone. No warning at all.

Only absence.

Minevi blinked.

"Impressive," she admitted.

She looked back toward Bhishiir.

"You devised that plan awfully fast."

Bhishiir finished adjusting the crossbow mechanisms on his forearms with practiced ease.

"You see," he said thoughtfully, "Eradros is a decent leader, yes."

He pulled back the crossbow slides with one last sharp metallic click.

"But he gambles entirely too much."

He turned and began walking toward the chamber entrance ahead.

A memory flashed through Kin’s mind—Eradros wagering the strength of an ice arrow against the full fury of a dragon’s fire breath. Bhishiir’s assessment, it seemed, was not entirely unfair. Kin gave a quiet shrug of agreement and fell in behind him.

The others followed without hesitation.

"What we are about to do," Bhishiir continued calmly as they approached the opening, "is entirely calculated."

Far below, at the center of the sunken atrium, Movarth sat at a wide stone table cluttered with scrolls and blackened alchemical instruments. The vampire lord leaned lazily over the parchment, one pale hand turning a page while the other idly traced runes written in dried blood along the margin. The chamber around him was vast—ancient Nordic architecture carved into tiers of stone walkways that circled the open chamber like a gallery.

Thin channels of dark liquid crept through grooves in the floor beneath a grated platform, feeding the ritual circle that surrounded his workspace. Movarth barely glanced up as distant echoes stirred through the tunnels above. Heroes again, no doubt. He sighed faintly and continued reading.

Then the door at the top of the atrium exploded inward.

Stone cracked against the wall as it slammed open with a thunderous crash, the sound echoing violently through the chamber. Heavy footsteps followed immediately after.

Kin burst into the atrium like a launched arrow, boots striking the grated platform with a metallic clang as he surged forward without hesitation. The Dwemer arm at his side glowed faintly in the dim chamber light, gears shifting as he drove straight toward the center of the room.

Before he could even rise from the table, one of the vampires perched along the upper ledges lunged downward, dropping toward Kin like a falling blade. The thrall barely made it halfway before a sharp metallic twang cracked through the chamber. A bolt tore through the air and struck the creature square in the chest, hurling it sideways into the stone wall where it collapsed in a twitching heap. Far above the entrance, Bhishiir calmly lowered the small crossbow built into his sleeve.

Only then did Movarth finally lift his head.

The vampire lord regarded the fallen thrall for only a moment before his eyes drifted lazily back to Kin. His expression held no alarm—only a faint irritation, as though someone had interrupted a lecture halfway through a sentence.

"Ah," Movarth sighed, leaning back slightly in his chair. "Another hero."

His gaze slid briefly to the corpse cooling against the wall.

"You mortals have become terribly predictable."

Kin slowed only slightly as he approached the center of the chamber, boots ringing against the iron grate beneath him. His eyes locked onto the vampire.

"Movarth," Kin said, voice steady. "The disappearances in Morthal. The farmers. The travelers on the road." His jaw tightened. "That's all stopping today."

Movarth gave a small, tired wave of his hand as if brushing dust from the air.

"Taking?" he echoed with mild amusement. "No, no. That makes it sound so crude."

He tapped one long finger against the scroll before him.

"Recruiting," he corrected. "A far more productive word."

Kin's pace slowed to a deliberate walk now as he drew closer, his grip tightening.

"The word you use doesn't change anything," Kin replied. "You're a murderer."

"Sometimes," Movarth conceded with a shrug. "But only the first batch." His eyes glimmered faintly with curiosity now. "You would be surprised how many brave little adventurers come running when one villager goes missing."

He gestured vaguely toward the surrounding ledges where the remaining vampires lurked in the shadows.

"One disappearance becomes two. Then four. Then a small procession of sword-waving heroes eager to investigate." A faint smile curled across his lips. "And suddenly I have an entire laboratory of willing subjects."

Kin stopped several strides away from the table.

"How many," he asked.

Movarth studied him more carefully now, eyes narrowing slightly as his gaze drifted over Kin's stance.

"Hmm," the vampire murmured, then with a casual look in his eyes, he answered. "Thirty four. Thirty five once I add you to the collection."

Kin did not answer. He moved.

The shout cracked through the chamber like thunder trapped beneath stone, and in the same breath he vanished—reappearing at Movarth’s flank with his bound blade already cutting. The blood beneath the grate answered before the attack could land, surging upward through the seams in a violent bloom that hardened mid-air into a jagged barrier. His strike shattered it, spraying crimson shards across the chamber. In that moment, Kin’s eyes met Movarth’s, glinting from the shimmering blood shards.

This man—this scientist—this vampire…is a real monster.

The thralls in the chamber all hissed, then moved. 

At the same moment, Minevi surged into motion. With a sharp cry she drove forward into the outer ring of the chamber, shield slamming into the first thrall that leapt down to intercept Kin. The impact sent it sprawling, and she followed with a brutal swing of her mace that crushed its jaw and hurled it back across the stone. "Over here!" she shouted, drawing their attention deliberately as more of them dropped from the ledges above.

They came for her at once.

Steel rang against claw and fang as she planted herself between them and Kin, her shield catching a lunging strike while her mace answered with crushing force. She moved with controlled aggression, forcing them outward, away from the center—away from Kin’s path.

In the shadows beyond the torchlight, something moved that the thralls never saw.

Passha.

She slipped between them like a whisper, unseen and unheard. One vampire rushing past Minevi toward the atrium suddenly faltered as Passha’s bladed fingertips slipped into its throat from behind, cutting clean and silent. Another staggered as something unseen severed tendons at the knee, dropping it before it could even understand what had happened. Each time a thrall broke from Minevi’s engagement and tried to reach the center, it vanished from the fight before it could get there.

In the center of it all, Kin struck from behind, but the blood snapped up and hardened before the blade could land. He vanished with a shout and came again from above. The blood rose again. Then from the side. Then low. Then behind. Each assault came from a different angle, each one faster than the last, while Movarth stood unmoving at the center, raising only a hand as the blood surged up around him and crystallized into shields just before every strike.

Kin slid back across the grate, boots ringing against iron as he caught himself. His breathing remained steady, his eyes fixed on his opponent.

Only then did Movarth rise.

Curiosity displaced the last of his boredom. “Mastery of the Thu’um… impressive,” he murmured, almost to himself.

He touched his chin, studying Kin as one might a specimen rather than an opponent, utterly unbothered by the assault.

“Dragonborn, then—most likely,” he added, the words calm and clinical as his gaze settled on Kin. 

He grinned. "Well now. This changes things quite a bit, doesn't it?"

"Don't really give a damn," Kin said, settling into a fluid guard. "This is ending the same way."

That earned Movarth’s full attention. His posture shifted—subtle, but unmistakable—as his gaze sharpened into something colder, more deliberate. He inclined his head slightly, then extended one arm toward Kin in a slow, almost courteous gesture.

“By all means,” he said softly. “Do demonstrate.” 

Kin surged forward again, faster now, pushing harder as the Thu’um built in his chest. He vanished and reappeared point-blank.

This time, Movarth moved.

A pale hand shot out and caught Kin’s arm mid-swing. Metal rang against bone, the impact echoing through the chamber. Movarth’s gaze dropped at once to the limb he held.

The Dwemer plating gleamed in the torchlight, gems pulsing, mechanisms under strain.

"Curious..."

For a fraction of a second, Kin hesitated. The arm still did not fully feel like his. Not yet. Movarth sensed it if only for a moment, but Kin was never relying on the arm.

Suddenly instinct took over. 

Kin drew a slow breath instead.

For the briefest instant, he stilled in Movarth’s grasp—and the vampire felt it, that flicker of hesitation, that fraction of doubt in the limb he held. Movarth’s smile sharpened.

Then Kin inhaled deeper.

The sound of it cut through the chamber—deliberate, centered.

Movarth’s eyes widened.

Realization came a heartbeat too late.

Kin loosed the shout at point-blank range.

The Thu’um erupted between them like a detonation. Movarth released him instantly, blood surging up in a reflexive shield—but the barrier formed a breath too slow. The blast struck it head-on, shattering the crimson wall into splinters and driving the vampire backward across the grate, his heels scraping iron as the force carried him several strides from where he had stood.

The chamber rang with the impact. The force of the blast ripped through the atrium, a violent gale that howled across the stone and sent dust, blood, and shattered fragments scattering in its wake.

Kin stepped through the fading shockwave, the arm humming as it settled—not forced, not foreign, but answering him as he moved.

Across the chamber, Bhishiir leaned slightly, his eyes alight—mirroring the same rising interest now visible on Movarth’s face. Two minds watched the same moment unfold, drawn by the same curiosity, though for entirely different reasons.

Movarth smiled as he watched Kin back away.

"I see…"

He did not strike.

Instead, the chamber fell into a sudden, unnatural quiet.

Movarth let out a low, breathless laugh—quiet at first, then growing, as if something inside him had finally found confirmation. The sound drew every eye in the chamber.

Slowly, almost reverently, he reached into his tunic and withdrew a dark amulet on a thin chain. It pulsed with a sickly blend of red and violet light, like a heart beating out of time.

He stared at it, not like a tool—but like a culmination.

“A rare gift has been given to us in this moment,” he said softly. “And for that… I am grateful.”

His gaze lifted to Kin, sharpened now by something feverish.

“You and I stand at the precipice of transcendence.”

He raised the amulet high.

“And I certainly won't shy from its call.”

His hand clenched.

The amulet shattered with a wet, splintering crack.

What poured out was not blood as it should be—but something denser, darker, wrong. It spilled over his hand in thick strands that pulsed with their own inner light, crawling over his skin as if alive. He dragged it to his mouth and drank—not in desperation, but in acceptance.

The chamber seemed to dim around him.

Light from above caught the spreading crimson across arms and face, turning him into something almost sacred and grotesque at once—pale skin streaked with living blood that moved with intent rather than gravity.

For a moment—he held it.

Then it began to take him.

His body lurched violently, spine arching as something surged beneath his flesh. Muscles swelled in jagged, unnatural growth, stretching skin to its limit before tearing through cloth. His jaw shifted, teeth forcing their way outward into long, needle-like spines. His ears sharpened. His eyes burned deeper—no longer curious, but consuming.

Beneath the grate, the blood answered him.

It rose slowly at first, slithering toward his feet like something drawn to a master’s call.

Around the chamber, the thralls reacted.

Passha felt it before she saw it—the sudden, unnatural stillness of hearts that were about to stop. One of the thralls near her stiffened mid-motion, its eyes widening as the force took hold.

The same happened to the rest. 

Then they began to wither.

The blood inside them pulled free in invisible currents, draining them from within. Their bodies collapsed where they stood—hollowed, emptied, discarded.

Minevi barely had time to register it. One moment she was bracing against a strike—the next, her opponent sagged lifelessly against her shield.

All of it slithered back to him.

Movarth stood at the center of it, drinking in the return of what he had made.

When it was done, he straightened.

The man that had been there no longer existed.

What stood in his place was something larger—broader, wrong in proportion, muscle layered over muscle in a way that suggested strength without restraint. His skin was deathly pale beneath the streaks of blood still crawling across it, and his grin revealed rows of jagged, predatory teeth.

When he spoke, his voice carried something deeper beneath it—something akin to deadric.

“Come, Dragonborn…”

He took a step forward. The grate bending under his weight.

“Let us see who has truly evolved.”

His eyes locked onto Kin—burning, expectant.

Minevi stepped back from the bodies, breath steady but eyes narrowed as she watched Movarth change, her grip tightening on her shield.

Kin held his ground. 

The grate chimed beneath his boots as he set himself, the arm fully synced with his body—alive, responsive, ready.

Movarth leaned forward, massive now, grinning with anticipation.

Kin felt it before the next movement came—a pressure in the air, a presence that pressed against his senses like a weight settling over the chamber. It was not simply strength. It was intent, sharpened and focused, bearing down on him from every direction at once.

For a heartbeat, it threatened to root him in place.

Kin exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders, letting it pass through him instead of against him. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“All that just to get uglier,” he said. “Nice one.”

Movarth’s grin widened. He lowered his stance, the massive frame coiling with unnatural readiness.

“We’re only getting started,” he said, voice low and eager. “Do try to keep up.”

The air collapsed behind him.

Then he was gone.

A distortion rippled across the atrium—space snapping tight where he had stood—and in the next instant he was already behind Kin, one massive arm drawn back.

“Or you might miss it.”

Kin barely had time to react. The Dwemer arm came up on instinct, metal meeting flesh an instant before impact.

The strike landed like a falling boulder.

The sound cracked through the chamber as Kin was hurled across the atrium, his body slamming into the far wall with enough force to fracture stone. Dust and debris erupted outward in a violent plume, swallowing him from view.

“Kin!” Minevi’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp with alarm.

Bhishiir did not move.

His eyes remained fixed on the cloud of dust, unblinking—watching, waiting.

The chamber fell still.

A single breath passed.

Then another.

From within the dust—

a voice.

The Thu’um answered.

The air itself folded inward, compressing around Kin in a tight, translucent shell. The dust shuddered—then burst outward in a violent surge as he released it, a shockwave rolling across the atrium and clearing the air in an instant.

Kin stood where he had struck, cloak rising with the rushing gusts, his arm lowering slowly from a guarded position. The Dwemer arm pulsed low, its mechanisms settling into a quiet rhythm.

He glanced at it, then back at Movarth. 

His posture said it all. There was no more hesitation.

Across the chamber, Bhishiir’s eyes gleamed.

“Ah,” he murmured softly.

“Now we begin.”

“Alright,” Kin said, voice calm but firm, staring daggers at the hulking vampire.

He stepped forward from the broken wall, holding his metal hand out in front of him. He squeezed his fingers into a fist. The arm was working still despite the blow. He then opened his hand, and summoned a bound blade to it—then another into his off hand. 

“My turn.”