The wind carries many whispers, but not all are meant to be heard. The wise traveler knows which voices to follow, and which to leave to the dust.

— Urshilaku Proverb

Of Daggers and Dreams

A strong ocean breeze swept in from the waves of southern Vvardenfell, lifting a Cliff Racer high into the air as it rode the thermals, hunting prey below. The midday sun glinted off the water, but Kynec barely noticed. She remained kneeling before the Shrine of Azura, wrestling with the unease in her mind.

She had come seeking guidance. Now that she was here, she hesitated.

The pilgrimage had been her mother’s tradition, an annual journey made with reverence. As a child, Kynec had walked these same shores, following Vasra’s sure steps, listening to quiet prayers to the Mother Soul. But it had been years since she last stood before this shrine. Years since she had given much thought to the gods beyond the occasional muttered curse or begrudging acknowledgment of fate.

And yet, the moment she set eyes upon the statue, something in her chest loosened—palpable relief, a joy she could not explain.

Now, kneeling on the platform, she steadied her breath. The past day’s events pressed against her mind—the amulet, the skeletons, the way they had responded to her presence as though drawn to her. This was no ordinary magic. It was something older, something stirring beneath the surface of things. She needed to understand it.

For a long moment, she knelt in silence. Then, the wind shifted, curling around her cloak, lifting stray strands of her hair. It tugged at her, drawing her gaze toward the urn at the base of the statue. The urn used for ritual offerings.

She rose slowly, her mind fixed on the ebony dagger in her pack. The skeletal warrior had placed it in her hands, and she had carried it ever since, uncertain of its purpose. She had spent enough time among burial sites to recognize sacred relics, and she did not doubt that this blade held meaning beyond its edge.

She walked to the base of the steps, made a final obeisance as custom dictated, then climbed to the urn. 

With a final glance at the towering form of Azura above her, she shoved the heavy lid aside. The dagger gleamed in the sun, and she held it a moment longer, tracing the etched patterns along its surface.

Seems a waste, but here goes.

She let it drop.

The clank of metal against stone echoed in the stillness.

She stepped back, watching. Waiting.

Nothing.

The waves below continued their endless cycle, the wind sighing through the grass along the cliffs. She began pacing with arms folded across her chest. Minutes passed.

Still nothing.

A flicker of irritation passed over her face. She had felt the wind. She had known this was the right path. But if the gods expected endless patience, they would be disappointed.

With a sharp exhale, she turned away.

Well, the thieves can have it for all I care.

And then the air changed.

It was not immediate. It was not something she could describe. The breeze stilled, the world paused, as though holding its breath. Then, layered with echoes and strange reverberations, a voice stirred from somewhere both distant and impossibly near.

"Thank you, mortal."

Kynec froze.

Her pulse quickened as she turned back toward the shrine.

“You’re… welcome?” she said self-consciously, glancing around despite knowing no one else was there. It wasn’t like she conversed with gods every day.

"The dagger known as Sunderbite has been offered to me after an age. You cannot guess at the significance."

Kynec swallowed, her throat dry.

“Okay…” she managed.

"Place your hand upon my shrine, mortal."

Her fingers twitched at her sides, but she obeyed, stepping forward and laying her palm against the shrine’s base. The stone was cool beneath her touch, smooth and ancient.

The moment she made contact, the wind roared past her, as if the very world inhaled. She turned her face toward the sea—

And reality fractured.

She did not know if she was standing, falling, or floating. The vision blurred, spun, then resolved.

A vast battlefield stretched before her, the sky above choked in smoke, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood. Elven swords clashed against Dwemer shields, voices barked commands, the screams of the dying rang through the din. Countless figures warred in an immense cavernous space, their shapes half-lost in the haze.

Then, the scene changed.

Silence.

An endless field of bones stretched to the horizon, bleached white beneath an unseen sky. The air held a weight, a presence, a sense of waiting. Then—movement.

One by one, the bones assembled. Skeletons clattered together, forming where none had stood before, as though time itself had begun to reverse.

At the center stood a figure.

A woman—tall, spectral, and terrible to behold. Her skin was ashen, her features sharp, unreadable. She wore intricately woven black robes and rune-laden armor. In her right hand, she held a staff topped with a burning red heart. Her left hand was raised, eldritch wisps forming an incantation. Around her neck, a crimson amulet smoldered like a dying sun.

The dead were assembled around her in attendance.

Kynec felt her breath catch. She tried to speak—shout—something—but the vision ended, and she was once again at the shrine, the sea stretching before her.

She staggered back, dizziness threatening to drop her. Her pulse hammered in her ears. The wind returned, gusting from the ocean, chilling the sweat on her skin.

She sank to the ground, pressing her fingers to her temples, waiting for the hammering in her head to subside.

The cold stone beneath her was silent.

As though nothing had happened.

Maybe nothing did. Maybe I’m going mad.

She rocked slightly where she sat, staring toward the horizon as the sun descended behind her and slowly painted the ocean in front of her in a deep blood red like a sword drawn from a body.

“Many skeletons who walk Tamriel were reanimated by necromancers who died long ago, yet the necrotic energy remains, binding them here. Your amulet might be passively awakening or even actively calling those who wander the vast caverns under Red Mountain. Some of them may have been among those who fled from the wrath of the Tribunal during the War of the First Council.” 

Drevayn Velothril seemed lost in thought and kept staring into the central gemstone, turning it back and forth to reflect the light.

Kynec had made the journey home, back north to the Urshilaku, after spending the night at the shrine. She had waited days for her father’s return from his latest expedition to Falensarano Ruins, east of Red Mountain. She had no patience for cryptic visions and riddles from gods—she needed answers. Now they were meeting in his yurt, seated around a table with candles and scrolls on it.

“Are you suggesting the skeletons which appeared to me were nearly three thousand years old?” Kynec asked, leaning forward incredulously. Her father stirred from his reverie and felt proud that his daughter knew her history.

“It’s unlikely, but given your description of their armor remnants, as well as where you were, it could fit.” He rarely missed an occasion to talk about the atrocities of the Tribunal.

“By the way, what were you doing there?” he asked.

Kynec deflected. “What happened at the Mountain after the war?”

“What the Urshilaku—what we,” Drevayn quickly corrected, “call the Holy Mountain is surrounded by ruins littered with remains from the First Era and earlier, especially from the Battle of Red Mountain. There are two conflicting narratives which have been passed down in mostly oral histories. The narrative promulgated by the Tribunal is that Dagoth Ur betrayed Nerevar once the Heart of Lorkhan was discovered by attempting to seize the tools of Kagrenac for himself, threatening Vivec and the others. Thus the Sixth House was destroyed and their memory erased once the Tribunal gained power.”

The legend of the Heart of Lorkhan and Kagrenac was well known by the Urshilaku, but these details were unclear to most of them.

“And the other narrative?” Kynec asked. She wasn’t used to him being this loquacious. He smiled and pointed toward her.

“The other narrative is your Ashlander tradition, which says that Lord Dagoth remained faithful to his friend Nerevar to the end. Before Kagrenac could use his tools Dagoth slew him and gave the tools to Nerevar who summoned Azura in consultation. In this account, Azura showed him how to use the tools to remove the Heart’s power from the Dwemer. In so doing, the Dwemer instantly turned to dust once their immortality was taken from them. And then the Tribunal murdered Nerevar.”

“In all cases,” Drevayn sighed deeply, “the Almsivi, that is, Almalexia, wife of Nerevar, along with Sotha Sil and Vivec used the power of the Heart to become gods, causing Azura to curse all the Chimer and leave us with this for an inheritance.” He raised his sleeve and gestured to his ashen skin. “And these,” he continued, pointing to his blood-red eyes.

“Which account do you believe?” Kynec asked.

“What I believe—what I know, is that when men become gods they destroy those who oppose them and that includes removing them from history. They make the truth difficult to learn, and their own story easy to believe.” He paused, appearing suddenly sad. “It is no secret that I am in exile here due to my discoveries that many Tribunal dogmas are fabrications.”

He returned to the amulet, this time studying the ebony metalwork housing the gem, running his fingers over the runes engraved on it.

“Your amulet could be serving as an anchor for the spirits of those skeletons, much like a Ghost Fence…” Drevayn trailed off, scratching his head thoughtfully.

Kynec had heard of these magical barriers used to protect the interment of clan members at family shrines.  It was a great honor for a family member to put in their will that one of their knucklebones was to be preserved from their remains and used in a special ceremony to create the fence, thus protecting the shrine. She had heard that one of her uncles had done so. In rare cases an entire skeleton could be used, though she didn’t know the implications of this for the dead.

“Regardless, something is awakening or activating them, and I suspect your amulet is a kind of conduit, enabling them.” Drevayn saw his daughter’s nervousness and wondered if she was telling him everything.

“What their purpose is, and what you should do with the amulet, I cannot say, but my instinct is that you should stop wearing it and forget about it entirely.”

Kynec frowned, folded her arms and looked away.

“There’s something you’re not telling me daughter,” Drevayn said quietly.

“When I placed the dagger in the urn Azura called it ‘Sunderbite.’” Kynec recalled.

The creases on Drevayn’s forehead deepened as he raised his eyebrows and cupped his chin in his hand in scholarly fashion.

“Fascinating! The name of one of Kagrenac's Tools was Sunder—an obvious reference to it though what it means I don’t yet know.” He stared off into the sky, his mind adrift. “I’m tempted to go retrieve it for study but I have my own superstitions, unfortunately. Anything else?”

“Afterwards I was given something like a vision. Or I hallucinated, I can’t be sure. I was exhausted and it was a hot day.”

Her father’s eyes widened. A vision from a Daedric Prince was not to be taken lightly. He himself had never received one, and he knew of only one other from the scrolls he had studied about that shrine. It hadn’t ended well for the devout soul who received it. His expression darkened as she related what she saw.

“You were likely shown a future—your future, clearly, though only a possible one. How likely it is is difficult to say. Possible future outcomes as shown from deities are not to be trusted Kynec. Don’t be anyone’s pawn; you always have a choice. My advice to you remains—lose the amulet. Let me take it to the Keep.”

The Keep was Heimlyn Keep, a House Telvanni settlement in Stonefalls used as a research center to study ancient relics. As a wizard-lord of the House, Drevayn had spent much time there during his early education, and he knew the caretakers Beron and Merarii Telvanni well. It seemed the logical choice. 

Kynec shook her head and took her amulet back. The skeleton warrior seemed in awe of it, and didn’t resist her taking it from him. It seemed odd that she suddenly felt more kinship with the dead than she did with her own father, who often kept his purposes hidden from her.

As she drifted off to sleep on her mat that night Kynec reflected on the wisdom of her decision to withhold the name of the amulet from him. The Amulet of Velkaryn, the skeleton rasped. Without the aid of gestures from his flesh she could only intuit that he said it with some sort of reverence or wonder. To give away a name is to give away some power over it, and this was one name she intended to keep to herself. It would give her a research project at the very least.

But it wasn’t that which troubled her the most. The contrast since being home was startling. She simply felt greater kinship among those skeletons than she did here. She already felt a growing loyalty toward them. A loyalty that was already beginning to feel like…family.