As expected of a temple dedicated to Kynareth, its garden was filled with greenery. The space was sprawling, dotted with ancient trees whose branches stretched toward the sky, their leaves still green despite the approach of winter.
Flowers of every color bloomed in carefully tended beds, their petals dusted with the first light snow of the season.
Perched upon the branches of the trees and flying between them was a large number of birds—both small and big, from tiny sparrows to sleek doves—all carelessly chirping and cooing as if this was their personal heaven, utterly indifferent to the gathering of nobles below.
Torin could see the other guests scattered across the lawn, all within their own little groups. Clusters of nobles in fine silks, merchants in expensive velvets, knights in polished armor—they stood in tight circles, their voices low, their eyes darting from group to group as they assessed and calculated and schemed.
The appearance of two Nords was enough to attract the attention of these Breton highborns and affluent figures. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Some stole intrigued glances and muttered in hushed tones, their eyes lingering on the newcomers with barely concealed curiosity.
Others offered simple nods—acknowledgments, nothing more.
And then there were those who pointed and chuckled, their expressions mocking, their hands raised to hide their smiles. One cold glance from Torin was enough to turn their amusement into nervousness. Their laughter died in their throats, their hands dropped, and they quickly looked away, suddenly very interested in the birds or the flowers or anything that wasn't Torin's flat, unblinking stare.
Ultimately, Torin clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"I can almost see it now." His voice was low, bitter. "We were destined to fail before we even left Skyrim." He grimaced. "Those damned, slimy Bretons. I'm not even sure they know what they want from us at this point. One faction wants us here, another wants us gone, and the rest are just waiting to see which way the wind blows."
Bragi let out a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"Aye. I'm inclined to agree." He scanned the crowd, his expression sour. "Let's just find our excuse and return to Skyrim. The longer we stay, the harder it is for me to refrain from punching someone."
Torin just smiled bitterly. He had hoped Bragi would be the voice of reason in this delegation. The skald was supposed to be the diplomat, the one with the silver tongue and the patience for politics. But it seemed even his patience had worn thin.
And so, as ludicrous as it sounded, that role would have to fall to him.
Torin Kodlaksson—the muscle-bound mountain with anger issues and a near-antisocial disorder—would have to be the one to keep his head, to hold his tongue, to navigate the treacherous currents of Breton politics with something resembling grace.
What a fucking joke, he thought.
With nothing to add to the conversation, Torin began to look around, scanning the various groups huddled together and chatting across the lawn.
His gaze drifted from cluster to cluster, observing the intricate dance of Breton politics playing out in real time—the subtle shifts in posture, the meaningful glances, the whispered words that were clearly not meant to be overheard.
He quickly found one group that snatched his attention.
There were about nine people there, most of them unfamiliar to Torin except for Count Gautier, who stood near the center with his characteristic calm smile and his hands clasped behind his back.
Beside him, two other figures were worthy of note.
The first was a young boy, perhaps ten years of age or younger, silently standing in the middle of the group as the grown-ups seemed deep in discussion. He wore a small but finely tailored doublet in deep blue, and his dark hair was neatly combed.
His silence didn't take away from his presence. His flawless posture—back straight, chin lifted—made him seem older than his years, and the bright glint in his eyes as he observed the adults around him suggested a keen intelligence, a mind that was absorbing everything even if his mouth remained still.
The only person who had a bigger presence than the silent boy was the woman standing beside him. She wore a purple gown with silver embroidery that caught the fading light, and a high neck collar framed her elegant face.
Her hands rested atop one another, composed and still, and she exuded an aura of majesty that was palpable even from across the garden. When she spoke, her words captivated not only the people around her but even those in the groups surrounding her.
All people within a certain radius of her would instantly go silent and listen, their conversations dying in their throats as if her voice commanded their attention by sheer force of will.
Torin let out a low hum, his eyes fixed on the woman.
"That's...?"
Bragi beside him nodded, his expression unreadable.
"Aye, that's Queen Melisande." He paused, his gaze shifting to the boy. "And that youngster beside her is Prince Lucien." He humphed, shaking his head. "If nothing else, the Bretons certainly know how to distinguish themselves. Those who are important are easy to point out, I'll give them that."
Torin was just about to reply, but he had to swallow his words as Queen Melisande suddenly turned to look at him, as if sensing his gaze. Her eyes found him across the garden with unsettling precision, calm and unreadable, her expression giving nothing away. She didn't speak or gesture—simply observed him for a long, measured moment, like a hawk sizing up an unfamiliar creature.
Torin sighed internally, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. His left hand rose to his heart, and he offered a bow that was only a little deeper than a nod—respectful enough to not give offense, casual enough to maintain his dignity.
The queen offered an even smaller nod in return, a gesture so slight it could have been mistaken for a twitch. Then she shifted her attention away, saying something to the people around her, and turned to walk away, followed by her son and her entourage.
As she walked away, Torin could see another woman who had been partially hidden by the queen's presence. It was a familiar face—the wizened features of Madam Aveline, the elderly druidess he had met in the forest before coming into the city.
Instead of the practical green robes she had worn then, she was now dressed in a formal gown of deep emerald, her black and white hair tied in elegant braids that framed her weathered face.
She looked regal, a far cry from a hermit of the wilds.
She caught Torin's gaze and smiled—a knowing, amused expression that suggested she had been expecting this moment. Torin offered her another bow, slightly deeper than the one he had given the queen.
As if noticing this exchange, Queen Melisande turned her head slightly. She said something to Madam Aveline, her voice too low to carry across the garden, but her expression was sharp, questioning.
Torin could only guess that she was asking how the court wizard knew a foreign envoy.
Torin's hand rose to his temple, and he began to rub it wearily.
"Who is that lady?" he asked, his voice low. "The one who left with the queen and the prince?"
Bragi followed his gaze, his brow furrowing.
"That's the court wizard of Daggerfall." He paused. "Madam Aveline." He turned to give Torin a strange look. "Are you acquainted with her?"
Torin opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. After a moment, he let out a long, tired sigh.
"You remember the interesting person I told you about?" He paused. "The one I met in the forest?"
Bragi looked positively shocked, his eyes widening.
"Surely you jest."
Torin shook his head.
"No. Apparently Daggerfall's court wizard moonlights as a guardian of the forest." He shrugged. "Not that it's any of our business."
He beckoned for Bragi to hurry, gesturing toward the temple's entrance.
"Come now. Let's find our seats in the chapel. The coronation will begin soon."
...
The chapel of the Temple of Kynareth was grand—far grander than any place of worship Torin had ever seen in Skyrim.
Its walls were lined with stained glass windows, each one an intricate illustration of the goddess of the winds in various forms: standing atop a mountain peak, her arms spread wide as gales swirled around her; descending from the heavens on a shaft of golden light; cradling a bird in her palms as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
The light streaming through the colored glass painted the interior in shifting hues of blue, green, and gold, casting an almost ethereal glow over the assembled guests.
The roof was made of regular glass—clear and seamless, held aloft by slender iron ribs that arched gracefully overhead. Through it, Torin could see the grey winter sky, the clouds drifting lazily, and the occasional snowflake that melted before it could touch the glass.
Rows and rows of wooden seats faced the altar, their surfaces polished smooth by centuries of use.
Behind the altar stood the statue of Kynareth—an intricate carving made of marble with a shocking level of detail.
It held the likeness of a woman in a simple gown, her feet surrounded by swirling wind that seemed to ripple and flow despite being carved from solid stone. On the back of her raised hand, a bird was perched, its wings spread wide as if to take flight at any moment.
The craftsmanship was breathtaking, the kind of artistry that could only come from a master who had spent a lifetime perfecting their craft.
The head priestess of Kynareth was already going through the ceremony of crowning Prince Lucien before the guests, who were watching intently. Her voice echoed through the chapel, melodic and measured, as she recited the ancient words of blessing.
The young prince stood before the altar, his small frame straight, his expression solemn. The crown—a simple circlet of silver and sapphires—rested on a velvet cushion held by a kneeling attendant.
Amongst the gathered nobles and dignitaries, Torin showed zero interest in the proceedings at the altar. Instead, he observed the heavily armed and armored knights standing at the end of each row of seats and every corner of the chapel.
They were draped in steel plate from head to toe, their visors down, their gauntlets resting on the pommels of greatswords that they held with both hands, the tips pointing downward. They were so utterly still, one might mistake them for statues or simple mannequins wearing armor.
Torin was most interested in the faint magicka he sensed from their armor pieces, and the slight suppression he could feel from the enchantments.
They were likely enchanted to resist magicka—and if whoever had done the enchantments was skilled enough, then perhaps certain elements as well. Fire, frost, lightning—the works.
Interesting, Torin mused, they're prepared for mages. I wonder if they expect trouble from someone who uses magic—or if this is standard protocol for such ceremonies.
He filed the observation away for later and shifted his attention to the ceremony, his expression carefully neutral. The priestess's voice rose and fell with practiced cadence, her words echoing off the stained glass and polished stone.
At this point, the priestess was already placing the crown atop Prince Lucien's head as she declared, her voice swelling with solemnity, "And so, before the eyes of our lady goddess, Kynareth, the Mistress of Heaven, and the patron of our city, and the nobles of these lands..."
She retracted her hand once the crown was secure on the prince's head, taking a step back. "I crown you, Lucien Lysandus, king of Daggerfall. Our guide and protector."
She bowed deeply and exclaimed, "Long live the king!"
The guests all stood and bowed, exclaiming repeatedly with varying degrees of enthusiasm, "Long live the king!" Some voices were loud and fervent, others barely a whisper, and a few seemed to carry a hint of reluctance.
Torin and Bragi followed suit, rising to their feet, but neither of them bothered to bow. They stood straight and still, their hands at their sides.
Soon enough, everyone sat down, and silence reigned in the chapel.
The young prince—now king—scanned those present and then spoke, his voice surprisingly steady for one so young.
"From this day and henceforth, you, one and all, are my subjects." He put his hands behind his back, his small frame somehow commanding attention. "I could stand here and waste everyone's time with promises, but I know they would make little difference."
His eyes darted to his uncle, Duke Armand, and then to his mother, Queen Melisande, each of them standing at their side of the altar. The tension between them was palpable, a silent war being waged in the space of a single glance.
"Until I mend the divide in my court," the young king continued, "my promises will ring empty."
The queen's expression was complicated at those words—a mixture of pride, worry, and something that might have been hurt. The duke, on the other hand, merely grinned, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
The guests either clapped or offered words of encouragement that didn't have much weight behind them. The applause was polite, obligatory, the kind that came from people who were waiting to see which way the wind would blow.
Then the queen stepped forward, her voice smooth and commanding.
"Come now, Your Majesty. Your people await you."
The prince—now king—looked at her for a moment, his young eyes unreadable. Then he nodded.
"Very well. Knight Captain Rodric, escort me to the royal palace."
At those words, one of the knights standing guard suddenly twirled his sword and rested it on his shoulder, almost like a statue coming to life.
Two other knights followed suit, their movements fluid and synchronized, and the three of them moved to stand behind Lucien.
The young king took one last glance at his mother and uncle, his expression inscrutable.
"For now, I leave you to your squabbles."
He turned and walked away, the knights falling into step behind him.
...
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