As he opened his eyes, Torin found himself standing on a small, stony isle amidst a sea of black ink.
The ink stretched to every horizon, flat and still, reflecting nothing. Its surface was so dark that it seemed to swallow light, to drink in the faint sickly glow that passed for a sky.
Countless tentacles of varying sizes poked out of its depths—some thin as rope, others thick as tree trunks—writhing and wiggling restlessly, never still, never silent. They slapped against the surface of the ink, sending up small splashes that made no sound.
Torin stood on the isle, his boots planted on cold, cracked stone. Before him was a pedestal—black, featureless, the same unnatural darkness as the ink sea. Ensconced atop it was a book.
It was the same size as the cursed red tome, the same shape, the same unsettling aura. But its cover was black. Pure, absolute black, like a hole in reality.
A strange creature was drawn on the cover in glowing, fluorescent green—a mass of eyed tentacles attached to one big central eyeball. The tentacles twisted around each other, overlapping, writhing even in the stillness of the illustration.
The eye in the center was half-lidded, drowsy, but watching. Always watching.
Torin looked up.
The sky wasn't normal either. It was colored a sickly green, the same shade as the creature on the book's cover, but paler, washed out, like a bruise that had begun to heal.
Tattered pages floated through the air—hundreds of them, thousands, torn from books that had existed or never existed or existed only in nightmares. They drifted past without sound, without purpose, without destination.
Torin stood there, taking it all in. The isle. The ink. The tentacles. The sky. The book.
His expression was cold.
"Show yourself," he said. His voice didn't echo—the ink swallowed sound the way it swallowed light. "I'm not here to play games."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a loud hum sounded in the air—ancient, lethargic, resonating from everywhere and nowhere at once. It was the sound of something old waking up, something that had been sleeping for centuries and wasn't in a hurry to be roused.
The book on the pedestal opened.
It split down the middle, the cover falling away to either side, and the pages inside began to turn on their own—slowly, lazily, as if the act of revealing itself was more effort than it cared to expend.
At the center of the two halves, where the spine should have been, the ink began to move.
It swirled, gathered, coalesced.
An eyeball appeared.
It was large, at least the size of Torin's fist, and glowing green in the same sickly shade as the sky. Its iris was strange—not one, but two, conjoined, overlapping, sharing the same pupil.
The effect was disorienting, making it impossible to tell where the eye was looking, impossible to meet its gaze without feeling something twist inside your own head.
Tentacles materialized around the eyeball, small ones, thin and wriggling, attached directly to its surface. They moved constantly, wrapping around each other, stroking the pages of the book, tasting the air.
Then the creature spoke.
"And so... we meet."
A pause.
Its mouth—if it had one—did not move. However, the voice came from everywhere at once as it spoke again, from the ink below and the sky above and the pages floating in the air.
"As I have... foreordained."
It was the same unhurried, lethargic tone as the hum, as if the creature was speaking through molasses, through centuries, through the weight of its own ancient existence.
Torin's fists clenched at his sides. Impatience flickered across his face—not fear, not awe, just the sharp-edged frustration of a man who had no time for cosmic games.
"I don't care about that right now." His voice was sharp, cutting through the lethargy like a blade. "You offer knowledge, don't you?" He took a step toward the pedestal. "Give it to me."
Another hum echoed through the void—slower this time, drowsier, like the creature was stifling a yawn after a long sleep. The tentacles around the eyeball shifted lazily, coiling and uncoiling with the languid grace of serpents dreaming of warmer days.
"So... impatient," the creature said, its voice still unhurried, dragging each word like a stone across sand. "How typical... of a mortal. You flicker into existence for... the blink of an eye... and... you demand eternity... move at your pace."
The eye blinked once—slow, deliberate—and looked Torin up and down. The conjoined irises seemed to expand, contract, focus on something beneath his skin.
"And yet..." The creature's tone shifted slightly. "Most who come before me are afraid... or awed... desperate. They cower.... they plead... they offer prayers I do not... want." A pause. "Rage is a much rarer... sentiment. Rage is... interesting."
The more the creature spoke, and the more it dragged its words, the more Torin felt his anger spike. His jaw clenched. His fists tightened. The arcane light that flickered behind his eyes burned brighter, fed by fury and frustration.
"Do you intend to continue wasting my time?" he demanded. "I don't have hours to listen to you stretch out every syllable of your endless nosense."
There was no visible reaction to Torin's words. The eye didn't narrow. The tentacles didn't flinch. But as the creature hummed again—a long, drawn-out note that vibrated through the ink and the stone and the very air—there was a very subtle hint of amusement threading through the sound.
"Very... well," the creature said. "A bargain needs to be... struck... before I can grant... you what you seek. That is... the way of things. That is the... law." Another hum. "But I see... you are pressed for... time. Events move... swiftly in your world... Mortal lives are short...You cannot afford to linger."
Torin said nothing. Just waited, his grey eyes fixed on the creature's conjoined irises.
"I will grant you your wish...now... immediately, without the usual... formalities." The creature's voice was still slow, still lethargic, but something beneath it had shifted. "But I will... call you once more... into my realm... when your business is concluded."
A pause. The tentacles writhed faster, agitated.
"Then," the creature continued, and now—finally—a hint of impatience crept into its tone, "You will not be able to leave... unless a bargain is struck... and terms are agreed... and debts are paid."
The implication hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.
Torin didn't even stop to think. Didn't deliberate. Didn't weigh the consequences or calculate the risks. K'hila deserved justice.
He simply nodded.
"Fine," he said. "I require the means to find who killed my friend. And his whereabouts. I need to be able to look at him and know, beyond any doubt, that he's the one."
Another hum echoed through the void—thoughtful this time, considering. The eye's conjoined irises spun slowly, like gears turning, like thoughts being processed at the speed of eons.
"I have... just what you... need," the creature said. "A spell.... old.... very old. From the days... of the Ayleid Inquisition, when the elven kings... of Cyrodiil sought to root out... corruption from their courts by... any means... necessary."
The tentacles around the eye began to glow—faintly at first, then brighter, the same fluorescent green as the creature on the book's cover.
"It was adjusted... centuries ago... by an exiled priest... of Arkay. A man who... had seen too much death... and wanted to question the dead without... disturbing their rest... without pulling their souls from the peace of the... Inevitable Custodian..."
Torin's eyes narrowed. "Question the dead?"
"Not the dead... themselves," the creature clarified. "Their... echoes... the impressions they leave... upon the world.... the memories imprinted... on the places they died, the objects... they touched... the people they loved."
A pause. "The spell will show you... what the victim saw... in their final moments... The face of their killer... and... curse them... with a mark."
Torin's heart pounded. "That's what I need. Give it to me."
The creature's eye blinked—slow, satisfied.
"So be it," it said. "The spell is yours. Carry it in your mind. Use it wisely." A pause. "And remember... what you owe."
The green light flared, and Torin felt something press against his consciousness—knowledge, heavy and old, forced into his mind like a key turning in a lock.
Then the world dissolved into ink and shadow and the sound of ancient pages turning.
...
Auri and Runil watched in shock as the tentacles dissolved.
They didn't fall away or retract—they simply... came apart. Flesh became particles, dark and green, swirling in the candlelight like ashes from a fire that had burned itself out.
The particles hung in the air for a moment, shimmering, and then they faded, evaporating into nothing.
The book remained. Its red cover had changed—turned black as ink, as night, as the void between stars. A green depiction glowed on its surface now, unsettling in its geometry, a creature that hurt to look at directly. The book sat on the table where Torin had been holding it, innocent and terrible, its pages closed, its secrets kept.
And Torin.
He stood where he'd been standing, his head tilted slightly, his expression warped by a frown that spoke of a severe headache. The arcane light that had been flickering behind his eyes was gone, replaced by something duller, something that looked like exhaustion.
He seemed to shrug it off. Blinked once, twice, and the pain faded from his face. His gaze turned to the Khajiit remains on the table—the small skeleton, the grey scraps of dress, the tufts of black fur.
He began to walk toward it.
Auri moved quickly, stepping into his path, her hand reaching for his arm.
"What happened?" Her voice was sharp, demanding. "Are you alright?"
Torin grimaced. His jaw tightened, and for a moment she thought he might ignore her, might push past without a word. But he didn't. He put his hand on her shoulder—gently, almost tenderly—and moved her out of the way.
"I'm fine." His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that came from holding something back, from pressing a lid down on a pot that was about to boil over. "Now's not a good time to be asking me questions."
Both Auri and Runil could feel the rage suppressed within him. It was there, just beneath the surface, a barely veiled desire to find whoever had done this and make them suffer.
Torin stepped up to the table.
He looked down at the small skull—the elongated jaw, the pronounced canines, the empty sockets that had once held yellow, knowing eyes. Then he placed his hand atop it, his palm resting on the bone, his fingers curling around the curve of the cranium.
Light began to shine from between his fingers.
It was the color of muted gold—dim and dusty, like sunlight filtered through old glass. Not bright, not warm, but present. The air between his hand and the skull began to distort, rippling like heat haze over a hot summer lake, like warped glass bending light into shapes that shouldn't exist.
The ripples coalesced. They gathered in Torin's palm, swirling together, condensing into a ball of light no larger than a marble. He raised his hand, brought the ball to his face, and pressed it into his own eyes.
For a moment, he just stood there. Motionless. Eyes closed. His face showed no reaction, gave nothing away.
Then the change began.
First, his face paled—drained of color, of warmth, of everything that made him look alive. His expression twisted into something anguished, something raw, something that spoke of horrors witnessed and unable to be forgotten.
His fists clenched at his sides. His knuckles went white. His whole body began to tremble—fine tremors at first, then stronger, shaking him like a leaf in a storm.
Auri reached for him. Stopped herself. Reached again.
A minute passed. Maybe two. It was hard to tell.
Then Torin's eyes opened.
A bloody tear escaped from each one—thick and dark, tracing paths down his cheeks, dripping from his jaw onto the collar of his shirt. His face was a mixture of grim determination and cold, burning rage. The kind of rage that didn't shout. Didn't threaten. Didn't warn.
The kind of rage that just acted.
He turned and headed for the exit.
Again, Auri tried to get in his way. She grabbed his shoulder, her fingers digging into the leather of his armor, her amber eyes searching his face.
"What did you see?" she demanded. "Torin—"
He snapped at her.
"Don't fucking—"
He stopped there. Took a deep breath. Ran a hand over his face, wiping away the bloody tears, smearing them across his cheek.
His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Controlled. But no less hard.
"Don't follow me."
He shook off her hand and walked out the door, into the fog, into the night, leaving Auri and Runil standing in the candlelit Hall, surrounded by the dead and the echoes of something terrible that had just begun.
...
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