At the very top of Shriekwind Bastion, where the mountain's ancient bones pressed closest to the sky, lay the tomb of the lord who had once ruled these ruins. A famous warlord in life, his great name was lost to history—eroded by time, forgotten by the living, and only whispered by the dead.
But his resting place remained, carved from the same black stone as the mountain itself, enduring long after the man had turned to dust.
The chamber was long and narrow, more hallway than room, flanked by stone totems carved in the shapes of carrion birds. Hawks and owls stood in alternating pairs, their wings spread wide, their beaks opened in silent screams.
Candles burned within their stone throats, casting flickering light across the ancient floor, illuminating the path between them.
The path led to a coffin.
It was massive—easily large enough to hold two men side by side—carved from the same black stone as the totems. Its lid lay on the floor nearby, pushed aside long ago by hands that were not mortal. The lord of the bastion was supposed to rest within.
He did not.
Instead, the coffin held a different lord. An ancient vampire, one who had taken over these ruins and claimed this resting place as his own. His face was pale—paler than any living man's, pale as the moon on a winter night.
His hair was long and jet black, spread across the stone pillow beneath his head like a shadow made solid. He wore ancient armor, rusted in places but still recognizable, still bearing the sigils of a bloodline that had been dust for centuries.
He did not move. Did not breathe. His chest was still, his heart silent in his chest.
But the vampire was not dead. Not truly. He was merely in a state of deep slumber—the kind of rest that could last decades, centuries, millennia. Waiting. Dreaming. Remembering.
Krovos stood over the coffin, staring down at the sleeping vampire with an expression of calm satisfaction. His grey eyes, flat and cold, traced the lines of the ancient's face, the curve of his jaw.
He was not here kill the campire or claim whatever power lay buried in his dead heart.
He was here to use him.
Krovos hovered his hand over the ancient's face. Spectral blue light began to shine from his palm—cold and soft, like moonlight through ice. The light sank into the vampire's closed eyes, into his temples, into the dark spaces where his dreams lurked.
False images. False truths. Implanted carefully, lovingly, like seeds in fertile soil.
Krovos leaned closer. His voice, when he spoke, was sweeter than honey—warm, gentle, the kind of voice that made you want to trust, to believe, to open yourself and let it pour in.
"You can hear it, can you not?" He whispered the words, soft as a lover's breath. "The screams of your matron in the wind. The shrieking that echoes through these stones, through these halls, through the very air you breathe. It carries her agony to you, even in your sleep. Even in your dreams."
The vampire's fingers twitched. His eyelids fluttered, but did not open.
"That is why you chose to rest here," Krovos continued. "So that you would remember. So that you would never forget Lamae Bal's suffering. Her torment. Her endless, eternal pain."
He chuckled—low, warm, the sound of someone sharing a secret with an old friend.
"And yet... you are not the only one who basks in the screams. Those mortals below—the ones who settled in the shadow of this mountain, who built their homes and raised their families within earshot of her agony—they also bask. They came to this place. They found your shrine, your altar, your sacred space."
His voice hardened, just slightly. "But they did not come to honor the Blood Matron. No. They came to mock her. To defile her. To take pleasure in her screams, to use her suffering for their own amusement."
He shook his head slowly, sadly. "They are unworthy. Unworthy of her. Unworthy of the shadows she casts."
Krovos looked down at the sleeping vampire, his grey eyes almost gentle. The harsh planes of his face softened, just slightly, taking on an expression that might have been mistaken for compassion by someone who didn't know better.
"You will awaken soon," he murmured, his voice still sweet as honey, still warm as a hearth fire. "And when you do, you will punish those mortals who trespass against your matron's shadow. Those who hear her screams and feel nothing. Those who mock her anguish, who use her suffering for their own petty ends."
His expression twisted—just for a moment, just enough for someone watching closely to see the malicious glee beneath the mask. But his voice didn't change. It remained gentle, soothing, the voice of a friend offering comfort in a time of grief.
"Those wicked, heartless worshippers of Molag Bal," he continued, the words dripping from his tongue like poisoned honey. "You will descend upon them like a blood eagle. You will tear them from their homes and drain their blood into the earth. You will burn their houses and salt their fields and leave nothing behind but ash and memory."
The vampire's expression had twisted hideously at this point. His smooth, pale face was wrinkled in a beastly scowl, his brow furrowed, his lips pulled back from his fangs.
His fangs had extended—long and sharp, gleaming in the candlelight—and his mouth was open in a voiceless snarl. Even in sleep, even in the depths of whatever dream Krovos had woven for him, the vampire was responding. Hungering. Preparing.
But Krovos wasn't finished.
"But for now..." He raised a hand, palm down, and made a gentle pressing motion. "For now, you will continue to sleep."
The vampire's snarl faded. His brow smoothed. His fangs retracted, sliding back into his gums until they were barely visible. His expression became peaceful—serene, even, like a child dreaming of summer days and warm sun.
Krovos smiled.
"Sleep well, brother," he murmured. "Dream of pain. Dream of revenge. Dream of the screams that will rise in honor of your matron..."
He stepped back, his boots silent on the stone. He bent, took hold of the coffin's lid—heavy, ancient, carved with runes that had been old when the first Nords crossed the sea—and lowered it into place.
The stone settled with a soft thud, sealing the vampire within.
Krovos stood there for a moment, his hand resting on the lid, his grey eyes fixed on nothing.
Soon, he thought. Soon enough. No longer than a month, maybe less. This ancient vampire will awaken, and he will descend upon Falkreath with his host of blood fiends. They will raze the town. Burn it to ash. Kill everyone within its walls.
He didn't want to go that far to cover his tracks. He'd been cautious enough, careful enough, certain that he hadn't left any real evidence behind to convict him. Hrogar would hang for his daughter's murder, and everyone would be satisfied.
Krovos could simply wait a few weeks, then walk away from Falkreath and Skyrim entirely. Find a new hunting ground. New victims. New opportunities... or that's how it was supposed to be.
But there was something about that big Nord. The one they called Storm-Caller. The one who'd made him feel like he was the one being hunted.
Krovos's expression darkened. His hand, still resting on the coffin lid, curled into a fist.
He could already see it. That bastard would keep an eye on him. He certainly seemed to suspect already, with those cold grey eyes that missed nothing, with those questions that cut too close to the bone. And once Krovos left Falkreath, that wouldn't be the end of it.
The Nord would hound him for years. Track him across Skyrim, across Tamriel, across whatever borders he tried to hide behind. He'd never stop. Never give up. Never let go.
As ridiculous as it sounded, Krovos was almost certain of it.
But with this—with the vampire, with the destruction it would bring—he wouldn't have to worry. The blood fiends would burn Falkreath to ashes. Kill everyone who might remember him. Every guard who'd seen his face. Every merchant he'd traded with. Every farmer he'd helped.
And if he was lucky—if that damned Companion was stubborn enough to linger until then—they'd kill him too. Formidable though he may be, the Storm-Caller wouldn't stand a chance against an ancient vampire and its host of blood fiends. No mortal would.
If not... well, that wasn't a problem either.
The destruction of Falkreath would cover his tracks regardless. Krovos would just be one of the countless charred, drained corpses the vampires left in their wake. Warped beyond recognition. Burned beyond identification. Just another victim of the massacre, buried in a mass grave or left to rot in the ruins. Or that's what it would seem to anyone who might care enough to look.
In truth, he'd have taken to the wind long before the vampires awoke. Moved on to a different place entirely—different hold, different province, different country. New name, new face, new prey.
No one would connect the hunter from Falkreath to whatever came next, and even that persistent bastard would have to relent.
It wasn't the most efficient plan. It wasn't the most subtle, or the most elegant. Plans that required entire towns to burn were, by definition, messy. Unpredictable. Dangerous.
But it would have to do.
Just as Krovos turned from the coffin, satisfied with his work, satisfied that he'd covered every angle—
The booming crackle of lightning echoed across the ancient hall.
It was loud—too loud, too close. The sound of air superheating, of stone shattering, of power being unleashed with savage, reckless abandon. The ground shook beneath Krovos's feet, a tremor that rattled the totems and stirred dust from the ceiling.
Candles flickered. Shadows danced.
The sound had come from outside.
With a frown, Krovos turned toward the outlook balcony just outside the hall. The entrance was a wide archway, carved with runes that had been old when the first Nords crossed the Sea of Ghosts.
Beyond it, the mountain fell away into mist and shadow, and the southern approach to Shriekwind Bastion wound its way up the rocky face like a serpent seeking its nest.
He started walking. His boots were silent on the ancient stone, but his heart—what was left of it—beat faster than it should have.
Soon enough, he was standing on the balcony, staring down at the mountain.
At the southern entrance of Shriekwind Bastion, to be more precise.
And there, making his way up the winding steps, was Torin.
The young Nord moved like a force of nature—relentless, unstoppable, savage. Lightning arced from his axe, crackling across the ancient stone, illuminating the fog with bursts of blinding white light.
The roaming skeletons moved to block his path, their bones clattering, their jaws working soundlessly. He smashed through them without slowing, without flinching, without any emotion other than cold, focused fury.
Draugr emerged from their tombs, ancient warriors with rotting flesh and glowing eyes. He cut them down like wheat before a scythe.
He was climbing. Higher and higher, step by step, closer and closer to the summit. To the tomb. To Krovos.
The young Nord seemed to sense the hunter's stare. He raised his head—through the fog, through the darkness, through the chaos of battle—and his grey eyes met Krovos's.
Krovos felt a chill run down his spine.
Even from here, even in the dim light, even with the distance between them, he could feel it. Pure hatred burning in the young Nord's gaze.
He knew. Somehow—impossibly, unthinkably—Torin knew. With certainty.
Krovos's expression darkened. He stepped back from the balcony, turned, and walked quickly back into the hall. His eyes were fixed on the coffin now—on the stone lid, on the vampire sleeping within, on the weapon he'd hoped to save for later.
Perhaps this ancient brother would have to awaken early.
Krovos placed his hand on the coffin lid and began to whisper again.
...
I'm motivated by praise and interaction, so be sure to leave a like, power stone, or whatever kind of shendig this site uses, and more importantly do share you thoughts on the chapter in the comment section!
Want more chapters? Then consider subscribing to my pat rēon. You can read ahead for as little as $1 and it helps me a lot! -> (pat rēon..com / wicked132)
You can also always come and say hi on my discord server -> (disc ord..gg / sEtqmRs5y7)- or hit me up at - Wicked132#5511 - and I'll add you myself)