12. We were too late

Part I: The Tower and the Torn

The snow came down like knives.

Not soft.

Not gentle.

Each gust hit like a shove.

They walked bent into the wind, cloaks snapped around their legs, boots crunching frost-layered stone. The trees thinned as they climbed. The mountain road twisted, the path narrowing beneath their feet. Their breath fogged the air like steam from cracked furnaces.

Ralof's coat was slick with frost.

The Dragonborn, oddly, looked energized.

"Almost there," he called over the wind. "This is where the real run starts."

Ralof grunted. "This isn't a training mission."

"No," the Dragonborn said with a grin. "It's a dungeon entrance."

The tower rose from the cliffside like a broken tooth—old stone, half-collapsed roof, patches of moss and snow clinging to its sides.

The Dragonborn picked up his pace.

"Loot stop!" he called back, already running.

Ralof swore under his breath and followed, axe drawn.

He reached the tower just as the Dragonborn burst through the door.

And stopped.

Not from resistance.

But from the scene.

Three bodies lay across the floor.

A Redguard man, twisted and torn open at the chest. A Nord woman, face frozen mid-scream, back flayed down the spine.

And the third?

Headless.

Blood soaked the stone. Ice had crusted around it like glass veins.

Ralof froze in the doorway.

His grip tightened around the axe handle.

"This wasn't bandits," he whispered.

"Hmm," the Dragonborn muttered, already stepping over one of the corpses.

He rifled through a satchel.

"Few lockpicks. Bit of coin. Leather bracers. Nice."

Ralof turned to him sharply. "Are you not seeing this?"

The Dragonborn looked up, confused. "Yeah, yeah—NPC corpses. Set dressing."

Ralof's mouth opened. Closed.

He watched as the Dragonborn stepped over the headless corpse like it was firewood, casually rummaging through a barrel.

"I think someone's been here before us," he muttered, holding up a cracked iron helmet.

Ralof's heart pounded.

The wind hissed through a shattered arrow slit.

"…You're not fazed at all."

The Dragonborn shrugged. "Seen worse."

Ralof's eyes flicked to the woman's twisted spine. "Have you?"

The Dragonborn didn't answer.

He just whistled low, like he was shopping at a market.

Ralof backed away from the bodies.

And for the first time—not as a soldier, not as a rebel—

He felt deeply uneasy.

Not about what had killed the guards.

But about the man standing among them.

Part II: The Dead Path

The wind lessened near the mountain's mouth.

It whistled quietly now—low and mournful—like it, too, feared to speak too loudly here.

Before them, Bleak Falls Barrow loomed in full: jagged stone arches, frost-kissed walls, and wide stone steps cut into the mountain. The sky above was slate gray, and the air held a faint metallic smell.

Then Ralof saw the bodies.

They were everywhere.

Six, maybe seven.

Some still clutching weapons. Others slumped over broken bows or fallen shields. Arrows stuck from shoulders, backs, even faces. One man's throat had been slit so precisely his blood still steamed in the cold.

Ralof's jaw tightened.

He raised his axe slowly.

Whispered, "Eyes up. Something did this just now."

The snow around one corpse was still pink.

Fresh.

Too fresh.

But behind him, the Dragonborn whistled.

"Oooh. Loot event."

He walked casually between the corpses, crouched beside a fallen Dunmer with a sword still in hand, and pried a ring from his blue-gray finger.

Ralof turned, disbelieving.

"You—what are you—"

"Look at this!" the Dragonborn said, holding up a golden necklace crusted with a diamond the size of a beetle. "Amulet of Wealth, probably. Or Ice Resistance. Gotta be enchanted."

He held up a hand: four silver rings stacked between clawed fingers.

Then the bag: coins clinking inside.

"Two hundred, maybe more. These guys were stacked."

Ralof just stared.

The wind moaned again.

And the silence between them grew.

Finally, Ralof said, voice low:

"You're looting corpses that were breathing minutes ago."

The Dragonborn didn't even blink.

"They're not using it."

Ralof took a step back.

Not from fear.

But from realization.

This man wasn't brave.

He wasn't callous.

He was detached—like the rules of the world simply didn't apply to him.

And Ralof, for the first time, wondered:

Was it madness?

Or something worse?

Part III: The Claw and the Cut

Ralof hadn't said anything for nearly ten minutes.

Not since the frost spider.

Its carcass lay half-curled in the stone cavern, thick legs shattered like glass, body torn open in wet chunks. Whole bites had been taken out of its abdomen—huge ones. Not claw marks. Not sword cuts.

Just missing flesh.

Gnawed.

Ralof had stared at it.

Breath held.

And whispered, "What the hell did that?"

The Dragonborn had squatted beside the mangled corpse and said, "Cool! Wonder if this is from a DLC I skipped."

Then stood and kept walking.

The catacombs were worse.

Winding corridors. Dripping ceilings. Walls carved in dead tongues.

Ralof hated it.

He hated how long it was.

He hated how much it felt like something was watching.

Then—

Crash.

Ralof turned a corner—and a figure barreled straight into him.

They both hit the stone floor in a heap.

Ralof's axe clattered. The other man—a Dunmer, cloaked, breathless—scrambled up and reached to help him.

"Sorry—gods, sorry, I didn't see—"

Ralof stood, wary. "Who are you?"

"Arvel," the Dunmer panted. "Arvel the Swift. I was with the others, we came looking for—look, none of that matters now."

"What happened?"

Arvel shook. "There's something back there. In the walls. It doesn't walk. It moves. Took the others—ripped them apart—"

Ralof leaned in.

"What did it look like?"

Arvel opened his mouth.

SHNK.

Blood sprayed across Ralof's cheek.

Arvel made a wet gurgle, eyes wide.

Then dropped to his knees.

Behind him, the Dragonborn lowered his clawed hand, blood dripping from his fingers.

"Too much dialogue," he muttered.

Ralof stepped back, staring.

"What. Did you just do?"

The Dragonborn crouched over Arvel's dying body and rifled through his robes.

"Found it."

He stood, holding up a golden item shaped like a bear's claw—etched with symbols.

"The key. This opens the puzzle door. Leads to the treasure room."

Ralof's mouth worked soundlessly.

"That was a man."

The Dragonborn looked over his shoulder. "That was an exposition dump with feet."

He turned, walking toward the next corridor like nothing happened.

Ralof stood still.

Arvel's body twitched once.

Then went still.

Ralof stared at the spreading blood.

Then up at the flickering torchlight.

And finally—after a long, quiet breath—

He picked up his axe.

And followed.

Part IV: The One Who Waited

The ancient stone that once sealed the burial chamber was gone—not opened, not turned.

Shattered.

Cracks spiderwebbed through what remained of the carved door fragments. The walls around it bore deep gouges, like something had crawled through stone to enter.

The Dragonborn, for once, stopped talking.

He stared at the ruin, muttered, "No loot?"—then ran inside anyway.

"Ralof! Hurry up!"

By the time Ralof caught up, he found the Dragonborn frozen mid-step, halfway down the chamber slope.

He didn't move.

He didn't speak.

He just stared.

Ralof tightened his grip on the axe.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

The Dragonborn lifted one trembling hand.

And pointed.

Ralof turned.

And saw him.

He was massive.

Nine feet tall if not bigger

Broad—but not grotesque. Every scale, every muscle, purpose-built. His claws looked like carved obsidian, and his fangs gleamed even in the low light, long and naturally honed. His hide shimmered like black iron wrapped in layered bark.

He wasn't armored.

He was the armor.

A tail as thick as a tree limb coiled and twitched lazily—dragging something behind it.

Ralof's eyes followed the tail—

—and stopped on the corpse of a Draugr Deathlord, mouth twisted in a silent scream, neck snapped sideways, its ancient weapon crushed in two.

Ralof didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

The air had gone heavy.

Not like fear.

Like reverence.

The Argonian hadn't seen them yet.

He stood before the far wall, seemingly focused on something none of them could see. The tail flicked again, slapping the Deathlord's limp leg.

The Dragonborn finally whispered, "Is that a new enemy type?"

Ralof couldn't speak.

His hand trembled on the haft of his axe.

Because whoever—or whatever—this was…

He wasn't just alive.

He was born to be here.

Part V: The Monster and the Fool

Ralof edged back a step, breath tight in his throat.

We leave quietly, he thought. We back out. Let him be. But before he could say a word—

"I've got this," the Dragonborn whispered.

Ralof turned. "What?"

The Dragonborn had pulled a long, chipped Nord warhammer from his back—iron head worn from years of disuse, shaft partially wrapped in torn cloth.

He pointed it forward.

At Croc.

The towering Argonian's back was still turned.

"Hey!" the Dragonborn barked.

His voice echoed in the tomb.

Croc didn't move.

The Dragonborn took a bold step forward. "This is a boss room. You're the mini-boss. I'm the Dragonborn. You have five seconds to de-spawn or I'm coming for the loot."

Ralof's stomach dropped.

"You—what are you doing?"

"He's a worldspawn. I've dealt with worse."

Croc turned.

Slowly.

The massive Argonian faced them fully now—eyes low, deep gold, cold and ancient. He didn't blink. He didn't tense.

He just watched.

The Dragonborn roared and charged.

Two-handed grip.

Hammer raised.

War cry loud.

THWACK.

Croc didn't move from the spot.

He just pivoted his hips slightly and brought his tail around in a wide, brutal arc.

The tail hit the Dragonborn like a siege ram.

There was no block.

No dodge.

Just airborne failure.

The Dragonborn flew backward, struck the far cavern wall with a hollow crack, and collapsed in a limp heap.

Unmoving.

Unconscious.

Ralof swallowed.

Hard.

His fingers clenched around the haft of his axe.

The towering Argonian still didn't advance.

Didn't roar.

Didn't threaten.

He just stood there.

Waiting.

Ralof took one step forward.

Then whispered the incantation under his breath.

The axe shimmered in his hand.

The spectral energy of the bound weapon wove itself into the woodcutter's haft, binding the head with runic light, strengthening the edge.

The glow pulsed once.

Then settled.

Ralof lowered into a stance.

And said, more to himself than anyone else:

"I don't want this fight."

Then he leapt.

Part VI: What Was Left Behind

The world came back in pulses.

Cold.

Distant dripping.

The ache behind his skull like someone had parked a horse on his spine.

The Dragonborn opened his eyes.

And immediately looked around.

"Where's the loot—?"

His voice cracked halfway through.

The stone walls were still there.

The silence was loud.

The shattered remnants of the old door and broken urns surrounded him.

No enemies.

No music.

Just quiet.

And then he saw Ralof.

The Nord was kneeling.

His head down.

His body still.

The shattered remnants of his axe lay beside him, barely more than a handle and glinting fragments.

The Dragonborn stood slowly, one hand clutching his ribs.

He stepped forward.

"Hey… you alive?"

No answer.

He circled around the still figure.

And then stopped.

Ralof's face was a red ruin.

Blood caked across his cheeks and beard, dried and flaking. A massive, ragged gash ran from his forehead—diagonally—across his right eye, down his cheek, and into his jawline.

The eye was gone.

An empty, crusted hole remained.

The Dragonborn's mouth went dry.

"Oh gods."

Ralof's good eye opened slowly.

Blinking.

Dry.

He rasped, "Took you long enough."

The Dragonborn dropped to his knees.

"Wh-What happened?"

Ralof exhaled like he'd just put his soul back in his chest.

He didn't look at him.

Just pointed.

To the far side of the room.

There, lying in a slush of old blood, were two massive severed body parts:

A thick Argonian tail, torn at the root.

And a hand.

Big enough to crush a man's skull.

Both unmoving.

Ralof's voice came slow.

Slurred.

"I hit him hard. Harder than I thought I could. Fought like a demon. He still won."

He turned his head slightly.

"But I got a tail. And a hand."

The Dragonborn whispered, "He's dead?"

Ralof coughed.

Laughed.

Then winced.

"No. He spared me. Called it a good fight."

He closed his eye again.

"And walked away."

The Dragonborn scrambled through his bag.

One potion. Two. Four.

All healing.

He popped each cork and poured them over Ralof's wounds, coating the gash, the cracked ribs, the torn skin.

Ralof hissed. Twitched.

But color returned to his face.

His breathing steadied.

The blood began to flake off, slowly replaced by rough scarring tissue.

His eye didn't return.

Nothing ever would.

The Dragonborn sat beside him.

Still.

Silent.

Loot forgotten.

For once.