A Change of Pace

The battlefield still smoldered, the acrid scent of burning flesh and charred stone thick in the air. The fires had died down, but the scars of war remained. Bodies littered the ground—Forsworn warriors, fallen soldiers, civilians caught in the crossfire. The walls of Markarth bore deep gouges and scorch marks where the Avatar's flames had lashed against the ancient stone, entire sections having crumbled from the sheer force of the battle.

Kael moved through the wreckage, his boots crunching over shattered weapons and debris. The weight of the battle sat heavy on his shoulders. Victory had been won, but at what cost? He passed soldiers working in grim silence, dragging corpses away from the main streets and stacking them in solemn rows. Blood pooled in the crevices of the stone walkways, staining the once-pristine Dwarven city.

A wail split through the night as a woman collapsed over a fallen soldier, clutching at his lifeless form. Healers moved frantically, tending to the wounded, but supplies were already running low. Markarth had always been a city of stone and stubborn endurance, but even the toughest had their breaking point. The battle had pushed them all to the edge.

Kael's eyes landed on the city walls—once an impenetrable fortress, now riddled with breaches. He traced the destruction with his gaze, noting collapsed sections where the Avatar's strikes had shattered Dwarven architecture that had stood for centuries. Repairs would take months, if not years.

At the heart of the chaos, Jarl Igmund stood surrounded by his council, their voices tense as they deliberated in the open-air courtyard of Understone Keep. The grand chamber inside had suffered severe structural damage, forcing them to conduct their emergency meeting under the moonlight, with torches flickering around them.

The air was thick with smoke and the scent of blood, lingering from the battle that had nearly brought Markarth to ruin. The towering stone walls of the city were cracked and scorched, bearing the scars of the Forsworn's desperate assault. Soldiers, civilians, and weary commanders gathered in the courtyard, all bearing the same haunted expressions. They had won, but at what cost?

"We barely held them off," Steward Raerek said, rubbing a bloodied cloth over his temple. "Had the reinforcements not arrived when they did, Markarth would have fallen."

Jarl Igmund's face was drawn, his hands gripping the arms of his chair with a knuckle-whitening grip. He had seen the aftermath of war before, but never this close to home. "And the cost?"

A silence fell over the council. One of the captains finally stepped forward, his expression grim. "We lost nearly a third of our garrison. Another quarter is wounded. Civilians were taken or slaughtered before the battle even began. And the damage to the walls…" he hesitated, shaking his head. "The city is vulnerable, my Jarl."

"And the Forsworn?" Igmund's voice was quiet, but the weight behind it was undeniable.

Kael stepped forward before anyone else could answer. "Scattered," he said. "Their leader is dead. Their avatar destroyed. It seems like they lost their god's favor, and their power is waning. But desperate people do desperate things. They won't be gone for good."

The council exchanged uneasy glances. They knew Kael was right. The Forsworn had survived centuries of oppression and slaughter. Even without their monstrous champion, they would not simply fade away.

Another voice spoke up, sharp and accusing. "And where was the Empire?" The question came from a battered soldier leaning on his spear, his face half-bandaged. "Solitude sent men, but they arrived at the last moment. We fought, we bled, we died, and only then did the Empire care enough to send aid."

Murmurs of agreement spread through the gathered citizens. Anger simmered beneath their exhaustion. The Forsworn had been a threat for years, and yet Markarth had stood alone for most of the fight.

"The Legion is spread thin," came a reply from an Imperial officer, his jaw clenched tight. "This rebellion is pulling our forces in too many directions. General Tullius sent aid as soon as he could."

"Too little, too late," another soldier muttered.

Igmund lifted a hand, silencing the rising tension. "Enough," he said firmly. "Blame will not mend our walls or bury our dead. We must look forward. The question is not where the Empire was—the question is how we will rebuild."

A silence followed as the weight of his words settled over them. The Empire could not undo the devastation. Neither could the Nords fighting among themselves. They had only themselves to rely on.

"The Reach is still dangerous," Kael spoke again, his voice steady but laced with exhaustion. "We don't know how many Forsworn are left, and there could be remnants of Dagon's influence lurking beyond the city. We need to scout the surrounding regions, eliminate any remaining warbands before they can regroup."

One of the city's surviving generals, a grizzled Nord named Haldric, nodded. "Agreed. We will send out patrols immediately. Any Forsworn still hiding in the hills must be dealt with swiftly."

"And what of the city itself?" Raerek pressed. "The people are terrified. They need assurance that this will not happen again."

Jarl Igmund exhaled slowly. "We begin fortifications at first light. We will rebuild the walls, double the city guard, and enforce stricter patrols along the roads. No more underestimating our enemies."

Kael watched as the council exchanged uncertain glances. The people of Markarth had endured much, and asking them to prepare for yet another battle, even a potential one, was no easy request.

A woman's voice rose from the crowd—one of the healers tending to the wounded. "And what of our dead?" she asked, eyes red-rimmed with grief. "Do we even have time to bury them?"

A heavy silence fell over the gathering. The dead numbered too many. Digging graves for all of them would take weeks, perhaps longer. The Reach's cold, unyielding earth was not kind to such efforts.

Igmund's face was heavy with sorrow. "We honor them. We will build a monument so that their sacrifice is never forgotten. And we will burn the bodies, as tradition demands, so their spirits may find their way to Sovngarde."

A murmur of agreement passed through the crowd, though it did little to lighten the somber mood.

Dain, standing beside Kael, finally spoke. "It's not just the Forsworn we need to worry about," he said, arms crossed. "Word will spread of what happened here. Scavengers, mercenaries, and worse will come sniffing around. If we don't secure our food stores, reinforce our armories, we're inviting another disaster."

The Jarl nodded. "You're right. We must also send word to Whiterun, Solitude, and Morthal. If there are still Forsworn hiding in the mountains, we cannot handle them alone."

Kael remained quiet, his mind elsewhere. He had done what he could, but he knew this was just another chapter in an endless struggle. The Reach would never truly be at peace—not while the blood of the Forsworn still ran through its valleys.

Jarl Igmund turned to the assembled warriors, his voice carrying over the broken city. "We have survived, but we must be stronger. We will rebuild, we will fortify, and we will not fall again."

A rousing cheer followed, though it was not filled with the fervor of victory—only the determination of those who had seen too much death to celebrate.

Kael glanced at Dain, who sighed. "I suppose this means more work."

The council continued their deliberations, discussing supply routes, fortifications, and the ongoing threat of straggling Forsworn warbands. Kael listened, but his mind was already moving ahead. The Forsworn weren't the only problem. Dagon's influence had been severed, but Daedric power didn't simply vanish. Someone, somewhere, would try to claim what remained.

The fires had burned out, but the scars remained. The walls of Markarth bore deep, blackened wounds, crumbled stone littering the streets, reminders of the brutal battle that had nearly broken the city. The bodies had mostly been cleared away, but the stench of blood and ash still clung to the air. The city was alive, but it wasn't the same. It never would be.

Kael left everyone and walked the ruined streets, his body aching from wounds barely healed. His metal reserves were dangerously low, his mind still clouded with exhaustion from the battle. Every step reminded him of the cost of their victory. Families digging through rubble, hoping to find their loved ones. Children crying for fathers and mothers who would never come home. Soldiers, both Reachmen and Legionnaires, helping clear debris, their eyes hollow from what they had endured.

A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"You look like you got run over by a mammoth."

Kael turned to see Dain standing beside him, arms crossed, his face lined with exhaustion but still wearing that cocky grin. His armor was dented, his sword chipped, but he was alive.

"Felt like it, too," Kael admitted, wincing as he shifted his weight.

Dain let out a low whistle as he took in the city's state. "We won, but it doesn't feel like it."

Kael exhaled. "It never does."

Dain was silent for a long moment before he nodded toward the council hall, where the Jarl and his advisors were still arguing over the city's recovery. "So, what's next?"

"Rebuilding. Fortifying. Hunting down any Forsworn still lurking in the Reach." Kael shook his head. "And figuring out whether this was truly the end of it."

Dain studied him. "You think there's more?"

Kael thought about the dark power he had felt, the moment he had phased through the Avatar's core, the lingering weight of something unfinished. He didn't have proof—just a gnawing certainty that this war wasn't over.

"Dagon doesn't like to let his toys break," Kael said finally. "I'm sure it isn't over but for now it is."

They walked in silence for a time, stepping over broken cobblestones and remnants of shattered weapons. The weight of everything they had fought for pressed heavily on Kael's shoulders. He had never intended to get this involved. Skyrim had been a place to start over, to find something different. Yet he had been pulled into another war, another struggle, just like before.

As they reached the city gates, Kael stopped, staring out toward the horizon. The Reach was vast, but beyond it, Skyrim stretched wide. Snow-covered peaks, vast tundras, endless forests.

"There's more out there," Kael muttered.

Dain frowned. "What?"

Kael turned to him. "I think I'm done here."

Dain raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Kael looked back at the city. "I don't want to fight another war. I've done my part. Markarth will stand. The Forsworn are crippled. But there's more I need to see."

Dain studied him for a long moment before chuckling. "You're serious."

Kael nodded. "I've been thinking… the College of Winterhold. I've seen what magic can do. The Forsworn, the Hagravens, even the Avatar. If I want to stand against something like that again, I need to be prepared. Steel and pewter won't always be enough."

Dain scratched his chin. "I figured you'd just keep hunting down the Forsworn."

"I would if I thought it was still my fight," Kael admitted. "But the people of Markarth have to rebuild, too. They'll decide their future from here."

Dain crossed his arms. "And what about me?"

Kael smirked. "Didn't take you for the sentimental type."

Dain rolled his eyes. "You're the closest thing I've had to a reliable partner. Watching your back isn't just habit; it's survival."

Kael let out a breath, considering. "Come with me."

Dain snorted. "To Winterhold? Have you seen the snow up there?"

Kael chuckled. "Figured you'd say that."

Dain sighed, glancing back at Markarth. "I was getting used to this place."

"Me too," Kael admitted. "But I'm not staying."

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Dain clapped Kael on the shoulder. "Guess I better find a new drinking buddy."

Kael smirked. "You'll manage."

Dain shook his head. "You really think there's something for you up there? At the College?"

"I don't know," Kael said honestly. "But I won't find out standing here."

Dain let out a long sigh, then grinned. "Fine. Go freeze your ass off in Winterhold. Just don't come running back here when you realize how miserable it is."

Kael chuckled. "No promises."

With that, they clasped forearms one last time before Kael turned away from the city, from the war, from the Reach.

The road stretched before him, filled with uncertainty and promise alike. And for the first time in a long while, he welcomed it.