Diplomatic Inroads
The hall buzzed with murmurs as Breton nobility and scholars filled the rows, their voices mingling with the crackle of torchlight and the rustle of silk cloaks. Arden sat toward the back, his arms crossed tightly, the coarse fabric of his robe irritating the skin of his neck. The wooden bench beneath him was polished smooth but unyielding, pressing into him uncomfortably. He shifted, trying to focus on the speaker, but the aristocratic pomp surrounding him felt suffocating. His father, Lord Altheric, had insisted he attend, extolling the value of understanding Breton history. Arden suspected it was a distraction or effort to somehow justify the sentence received by Tiberius.
At the front of the room, the Altmer diplomat Calithar Nolaryon stood beside the Breton historian, Sorien Malvine, exuding an air of quiet command. Clad in elegantly tailored robes of ivory and gold, the High Elf’s very presence turned heads. Whispers circulated about the diplomat—a rarity in Glenumbra, let alone at a lecture on Breton greatness. Arden noted the stiff, polite smiles of the nobility, a thin veil over their suspicion.
In recent weeks, Corporal Aldouin had reported sightings of Dominion soldiers near Farwatch Tower to the north, their position close enough to the coast to signal their fleet and establish a military presence near House Duremont. In such circumstances, anyone from Summerset naturally aroused suspicion. And yet, Calithar stood unmoved, his demeanor polished, his poise untouched by the quiet hostility that clung to the room.
Sorien began the lecture, weaving tales of Breton resilience against Direnni oppression and the rise of the Daggerfall Covenant. His voice carried authority, but Arden’s thoughts wandered as the words droned on. His gaze strayed to Calithar, who stood motionless, observing the room like a hawk watching its prey.
When Sorien concluded, Calithar stepped forward. A subtle tension rippled through the hall as the Altmer took the lectern. His angular, golden features caught the flickering torchlight.
“History,” he began, his voice smooth as polished glass, “is not a static record of what was. It is a reflection of what could have been—and what might yet be.”
The room stilled. Arden leaned forward.
Calithar’s words flowed effortlessly, blending Breton history with broader reflections on power and change. He acknowledged the achievements of the Covenant but spoke of their fragility, their dependence on alliances that could crumble under the weight of ambition.
“It is not steel that forges kingdoms,” he declared, his voice rising slightly, “but vision. And vision demands courage—the courage to break what is flawed and rebuild anew.”
Arden felt his chest tighten. He glanced at his father, whose expression was unreadable. Around him, the audience seemed mesmerized, their initial skepticism giving way to reluctant admiration. Such was the convincing nature of his narrative and the measured restraint with which he delivered it that before long he had his spellbound audience nodding to one another even though they had little idea what he was actually saying. Finally, after an hour of this hypnotizing sophistry he concluded: “And therefore the nonsensical dispositions, with which we assuage the natural instinct to harbor illusions of negotiated alliances, must themselves be conceded as vainglorious. Thank you.”
He bowed slightly and stepped back from the lectern. The Bretons blinked at one another for a moment then rose to their feet in thunderous applause. Arden watched this display from the back. He glanced at his father seated near the front. Lord Duremont nodded in approval, satisfied with the culture and sophistication he had invited into his estate.
As the crowd began to disperse, Arden moved to leave, eager to escape the room. He almost reached the door when a melodic voice stopped him.
“Leaving so soon, heir of House Duremont?”
Arden turned to see Calithar descending from the dais, his gold-embroidered robes catching the light. Up close, the Altmer’s presence was even more imposing, his eyes sharp and unrelenting as he surveyed him. Arden felt measured, and inadequate.
“I found your remarks… enlightening, Ambassador Calithar,” Arden offered cautiously, extending his hand.
Calithar smiled, a faint curve of his lips that seemed more calculated than warm. “Enlightening? Or troubling?”
Arden hesitated. “Should they be troubling?”
“Truth often is,” Calithar replied, stepping closer. “History is not just a record of victories and defeats. It is a cycle: creation, destruction, renewal. Your people understand resilience, young Duremont, but resilience alone cannot shape a future.”
Arden frowned. “And what does shape a future?”
“Vision,” Calithar said softly, his gaze unwavering. “The willingness to embrace change—even when it demands destruction.”
Before Arden could respond, Calithar reached into his robes and withdrew a small velvet-wrapped bundle. “Perhaps this gift will help demonstrate the principle. It is a physical representation of the possibilities of renewal after destruction.”
He unfolded the cloth with deliberate care, revealing a shard of obsidian. Moonlight glinted on its surface, faint runes flickering like embers. Arden’s breath caught; the fragment seemed unnaturally pristine, untouched by time or mortal hand.
“It is a relic,” Calithar said, his tone reverent, “from an era that understood the interplay of creation and destruction more intimately than we do. Consider it a reminder—when all is broken, new possibilities arise.”
Arden reached for it but hesitated. As his fingers brushed the shard, a sudden chill raced up his arm. A faint pulse, like a heartbeat, emanated from the fragment. Suppressing a shiver, he took it, its surface cool and impossibly smooth.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked, his voice low.
Calithar stepped back, his smile widening. “Carry it. Study it. Let it speak to you.” He paused, his gaze flickering with something Arden couldn’t name. “Perhaps, in time, you’ll come to understand what it means.”
Before Arden could ask further, Calithar inclined his head and walked away, his robes sweeping behind him. Arden stood alone in the hall, the shard heavy in his grasp.
When he returned to his chambers that night, Arden placed the shard on a table, the glow of its strange symbols casting a subtle light against the walls. He set down his gloves and sword, then carefully ran his fingertip along one of the etched symbols. For a split second, the room felt as though it tipped.
His thoughts churned: the Covenant’s hypocrisy, Tiberius’s betrayal—or was he framed?—and Calithar’s assertion that destruction was not always the enemy. His restless mind wove a tapestry of doubt and curiosity, unraveling everything he thought he knew. Weary, he fell onto his bed, letting his eyes drift to the shard’s faint glow. His eyelids grew heavy.
The nightmare came fast and violent. Flames consumed once-mighty structures—castles, cathedrals, entire cities—reducing them to ash. From the cinders rose strange spires of black glass, their alien geometry twisting against a blood-red sky. A monstrous silhouette rose up in the backdrop, towering and vast. Four massive horns crowned its head, and its hulking frame radiated power. Arden’s mind reeled as he felt its gaze settle on him, crushing and inescapable. Words thundered into his soul: Embrace the cycle. The world spun, and darkness closed in around him.
