The sword is purest when it strikes for truth, but even a false hand may lift it high.

—Yokudan Proverb

Knots in the Thread

At the southern docks of Daggerfall, Arden boarded a ship bound for the Alik’r Desert, his most trusted officers following in quiet formation. As the vessel slipped into open waters and the Iliac Bay stretched behind them, he stood at the prow, his eyes fixed on the sun-scorched horizon.

Arden’s consolidation of power since his father’s death had been swift and surgical. Old resentments toward the Altmer flared easily. Calithar’s journals—left behind with intention—spoke of High Elf superiority, of Breton “backwardness,” and of how easily such minds could be deceived. It was enough. Passions ignited like dry grass, and many were eager to strike—not for strategy, but out of sheer fury, like slaughterfish driven to bloodlust. Strategic voices warning of a trap were dismissed with scorn.

As the ship neared Sentinel, Arden held his place at the bow, wind tugging at his cloak. The light of the Alik’r sun cut across his face, but he didn’t blink. He looked neither triumphant nor burdened—only focused, as if the weight he carried was fuel, not a hindrance. When the vessel moored and the gangplank dropped, he stepped ashore with the stride of a man whose path was already decided.

A young Royal Messenger spotted him and hurried forward.

“Surely you are a great champion of Sentinel, wayfarer. Your deeds are known to the whole of the court and the spirits beyond the shore,” the messenger said.

“Then go ahead of me and prepare my visit to the King,” Arden replied.

The messenger darted away at once, sandals slapping against the flagstones. Arden’s company continued up the broad steps toward the palace, where sun-bleached sandstone walls rose behind thick wooden doors bound in brass. Wind-driven sand collected in the corners of the steps and hissed along the ground, piling in quiet defiance against carved Yokudan bas-reliefs—warriors, frozen in eternal battle or prayer. Guards stood motionless at the entry, faces veiled against the heat, spears planted in the sand.

The dry scent of myrrh and old stone drifted from the shaded halls beyond.

Arden’s Breton retinue stepped inside, boots striking worn marble veined with ochre. High arched ceilings held back the desert sun, casting the hall in long shadows. Between fluted columns, banners of deep red and gold hung unmoving, stitched with sigils of old Yokuda—sword, sail, and sun. Courtiers stood silently as they passed, their silks and sashes still, eyes curious but restrained. In alcoves along the hall stood brass urns etched with the names of fallen Ansei. The flames within them flickered not with fire, but with desert incense—smoke rising like memory.

At the far end, beneath a tall brass lattice glowing with filtered light, King Fahara'jad descended the dais himself, arms wide.

“The Hero of the Alik’r has returned!” he greeted him warmly, embracing Arden. “My reign would have been buried in the sands had you not intervened, Sir Arden.”

“Lord Arden Duremont,” one of his officers corrected. Arden silenced him with a look. “It is good to see you… again, King Fahara'jad.”

The king stepped back in surprise.

“I had not heard. I am saddened by this news. I knew your father from long ago. We Redguards have a saying: ‘When the scabbard is empty, we remember the blade.’ The dune that bears his name may shift, but it shall not be forgotten, Lord Duremont.”

Arden bowed, awkwardly and without warmth. The King noticed a strange, cold formality in him—a distance that hadn’t been there before and a glimpse of savagery in his eyes. The weight of unknown events, perhaps.

“I remember when Sir Tiberius brought you to us for your martial training,” Fahara'jad said with a nostalgic smile, trying to lighten the mood. “How many weeks did you train with Disciple Tafa at-Makela at Leki’s Blade?”

“I’m here to remind you of the last words you spoke to me before I departed—after I restored the Ansei Wards,” Arden replied.

“I remember my words,” Fahara'jad said, his expression now matching Arden’s gravity.

“‘The spirit of Divad raises his blade in salute. Someday, this hero’s song will be sung in the Chants of Praise.’ But Lord Duremont, that time is not now, for you yet remain among us.” The King paused, puzzled. “But—”

“Not that,” Arden growled. “You spoke of your sacred duty to the Daggerfall Covenant.”

“Duty. Yes… yes, of course I have a duty.” The King’s voice tightened. Then, more quietly: “Though I do not recall saying it was sacred…”

“Never mind that.” Arden stepped closer, voice low and urgent. “Even as we speak, the Dominion is plotting to invade southern Hammerfell. Even as we speak, my Glenumbra delegation secures the support of the Orsimer. The Alliance is gathering to strike at the Aldmeri Dominion in Cyrodiil and finish what we never should have abandoned. Now is the time—before they infiltrate further and kill more of our leaders. Now is the time—while the Ebonheart Pact remains mired in weakness and political discord.”

He produced a set of documents and handed them to the King, who looked on in surprise.

One page bore a seal purporting to belong to a Thalmor intelligence officer—Arden had pressed it into the parchment himself, carving the symbol from memory. Another was a forged communiqué between Dominion agents in Taneth, discussing trade route sabotage and the quiet placement of assassins among the King’s advisors. If others couldn’t see the danger, he’d shape one they couldn’t ignore.

Fahara'jad studied the papers, his brow furrowed. Something about Arden unsettled him—a man once ablaze with righteous zeal, now carrying an inner darkness and fatalism.

“I received no emissary from Emeric about this Covenant gathering,” Fahara'jad said, not looking up from the parchments.

“I was knighted by Emeric himself after the Siege of Wayrest. I carry the seal he gave me. He knows the need for action—I act in his name. He has appointed me to undertake, with full military discretion, the unification of the Covenant’s response to the Dominion threat.” 

As Fahara'jad continued to read, a voice spoke from beside the dais.

“My King, forgive the intrusion,” said Commander Halim. “But may I ask: when last we stood against the Dominion, did we not withdraw in disunity? And is it not disunity we court again, if we rush to war?”

Arden turned slightly, eyes like steel beneath his brow. “It is not disunity I bring,” he said. “It is resolve.”

“Even resolve can be misplaced,” Halim muttered. “Especially when lit by the wrong fire.”

Grandee Husni, the King’s steward, stepped forward, robes trailing gracefully. “King Fahara'jad, may Tava grant him eternal life, has made great contributions to the war effort in the past. We Redguards are unparalleled in swordsmanship and grand strategy. Many of our most talented officers have already taken command of battalions overseas. The Forebears are progressives who firmly support the Covenant, even if the Crowns reject the practices of Tamriel.”

Fahara'jad considered him for a moment and nodded solemnly. “Husni speaks truly. The Redguard will stand beside you Lord Duremont, and fulfill our commitment not just to the Covenant, but to you personally, as Restorer of the Ansei Wards.”

Arden gave a single nod, altering the narrative:

“You have made the right choice—to defend your people. Our forces will gather in Evermore in three weeks. From there we will enter Cyrodiil from the northwest, by way of the mountain pass east of the Old Tower and our final encampment at Belkarth. I will see you soon, King Fahara'jad.”

After Arden’s group departed, the King sat in silence, scrolls still unfurled in his hands. The sound of their boots had faded down the marble corridor, but something of their presence remained—a gravity, as if the room itself had borne witness to a gathering force. They had arrived with discipline and departed with purpose—even the palace guards, trained to remain impassive, had stood a little straighter as they passed.

Fahara’jad exhaled slowly. “He was different,” he said at last. “The Hero of the Alik’r has returned—but something in him has not.”

“Yes,” murmured Ajehani, the court seer, who had been silent throughout the exchange. Her eyes rose to the latticework above, where sunlight spilled in slanted beams. “There are patterns in the dreams of the palace… threads shifting. I do not like how they knot. The blade that returns to us is not always the one that left,” she said softly. “Let us hope it still strikes for truth.”