The sky was pale, draped in a low, bluish haze. Bruma seemed suspended between a day fading out and a snowstorm threatening to break. A freezing late afternoon, like so many others. After months spent in Skyrim, Nordic austerity had begun to grate on Tullius’s nerves. Yet he had to admit Bruma was a raw jewel: harsh, wedged into the Jerall Mountains like an indifferent sentinel. A sentinel poorly supplied, isolated, vulnerable to the ambitions of an overzealous governor or a too-curious Justiciar. Bruma was not just a city; it was a lock. And a lock far too often neglected.

  The wind bit, snapping the tattered banners along the ramparts. The castle, perched at the city’s highest point, loomed with unyielding severity, defying the gusts as much as everything else. Below, the furious braziers of the town barely pierced the mist, like smothered distress signals.

  When Tullius passed under the fort’s great arch, hood drawn low beneath his traveling cloak, fatigue marked every crease of his face. Days on horseback, little rest, and a simmering, restrained anger.

  Captain Lucan was waiting. No fanfare. No guard of honor. Just him, standing in the wind-swept courtyard, helmet in hand.

  “General,” he said simply.

  “Captain,” Tullius replied with a curt nod.

  He dismounted without ceremony and handed the reins to the first soldier to appear. He expected either military rigidity or the pompous welcome of a vain Count. What he found instead was a silence. Too heavy. Too well-kept.

  Tullius remembered a Bruma that was rough, but alive. Back then, its stone streets buzzed with voices, gestures, bundles of wool and spiced wine. Today, they lay deserted, save for a few hurried silhouettes slipping from shop to shop, heads low, cloaks tight.

  He also recalled the spontaneous gatherings at the foot of the great Chapel of Talos. Now it stood alone, frozen in rime, like a relic no one dared to name. Its gates stood wide, yet no litany drifted out. Not even an echo. The absence of prayer was perhaps the only silence tolerated by the Thalmor. But for a general, it was a powder keg. Nothing was more dangerous than a people with nothing left to lose; no faith, no words, no voice.

  They walked without speaking until they reached the fort’s interior. The Legion’s stronghold was as gray and cold as the city it overlooked, except for the warm-colored Imperial draperies, the last attempt to lay claim over these wild lands. Lucan led him without a word to the command chamber.

  Tullius flung his cloak onto a chair, stepped to the basin, and plunged his hands in, washing away the dust of the road. The central brazier filled the room with its glow, casting trembling light across the walls. The sun had already vanished behind the peaks.

  Lucan pointed to a chair. Tullius dropped into it stiffly. His gaze slid toward the wall-sized map of Cyrodiil, riddled with annotations.

  “Report,” he said, without lifting his eyes.

  Lucan obeyed, sober and direct.

  “Situation is stable. The Nord civilians are wary, but discipline holds. Rumors about Helgen were enough to keep the boldest ones at home.”

  Tullius laced his fingers together. Lucan was one of the rare officers who never sugar-coated facts.

  “A few disturbances in the countryside: burned farms, two caravans gone missing. Villagers speak of screams in caves, silhouettes in the snow. Nothing confirmed.”

  Tullius grimaced.

  “More ghost stories? Or smugglers trying to sound menacing?”

  “Could be both,” Lucan admitted. “But it keeps fear alive.”

  Superstitions infuriated Tullius. Too many conflicting tales, nothing solid, little to use. And yet… beneath fables often stirred the first tremors of chaos. A cry in a cavern, a lone beast… then a village in flames. If the legend was fiction, the riots were real.

  The door swung open. A servant entered with bread and a carafe of wine. Tullius accepted the cup Lucan poured.

  “The Chapel is still open,” the general remarked, feigning distraction.

  Lucan hesitated. That silence, rare for him, was an answer enough.

  “It’s a bargain. The Chapel stays open. But no one enters. No one officiates.”

  “And the Thalmor emissary?”

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  Lucan allowed himself a shrug.

  “He has nothing to say. Justiciars punish illegal worship. No rites, no sanctions.”

  Tullius studied him for a long moment. Lucan held his gaze.

  “It was the only way to keep the city contained. To avoid riots.”

  The warm, spiced wine awakened his senses for the first time in days. He inhaled slowly, savoring the pause.

  “And the Count?”

  “For now, he’s content. He makes his speeches, signs his decrees. That’s enough for him.”

  But one day, Tullius thought, it would no longer be enough.

  He knew Lucan, his reasoning. He had trained him, shaped him. He knew Lucan always went beyond his mandate: discreet yet unyielding, preferring to contain rather than wait for the explosion.

  Now it was Tullius being weighed, scrutinized, through the sharp, dark gaze of his former protégé. A question unsaid. A silent warning.

  Lucan rose and locked the chamber door. Outside, snow was finally falling.

  “What do you know of Helgen?” Tullius asked, tension rising at the memory of the flames.

  “Better than the official reports,” Lucan answered cautiously. “A public execution turned into a blaze. An efficient strategy… but one that didn’t account for a dragon.”

  Tullius clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the cup.

  “We kept our informants under close watch. Not a message got through, not even around the Jarl. Yet a detachment from Windhelm appeared right in the chaos. Organized. Disciplined. In uniform. Just after the dragon. They extracted Ulfric. And only him.”

  He paused.

  “Not his men. Not ours. Not the civilians. Just him. As if they knew exactly where to strike.”

  Lucan stayed silent for a moment, his gaze studying the general’s worn features.

  “You’re sure they weren’t your informants?”

  “Certain. I had every link cut. Even the silent ones. Rikke will see to it herself if she must.”

  Lucan leaned back, swirling his wine.

  “Then they have an informant where you don’t.”

  Tullius narrowed his eyes.

  “The Thalmor?” he spat, incredulous, mocking.

  Lucan said nothing. His silence meant yes. Tullius barked a laugh. Hollow, tired.

  “Ulfric with a spy in the Thalmor?”

  That damned Jarl of Windhelm was many things -perhaps cunning enough to think one battle ahead- but certainly not enough to plant a mole in the Thalmor.

  “You’ve seen him act. He’s impulsive. Brutal. Predictable. A war axe, not a dagger.”

  “The Thalmor aren’t known for subtlety either. Not in Skyrim,” Lucan countered.

  The general sighed, shaking his head, but the suggestion fits. Ulfric might be better surrounded than he thought. Someone in Windhelm was playing a deeper game.

  “And yet, they were at Helgen too,” Tullius muttered, convincing himself. “Just hours before the detachment. Too well informed for coincidence.”

  Lucan didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. The timeline spoke for itself.

  Tullius rose, pacing. His steps were heavy but contained. He had come seeking answers from one of the few men he still trusted. He found only unpleasant truths. Lucan, as always, saw far… too far. And his conclusions disturbed.

  Later, the parchment Lucan handed him confirmed his fears, dragging the air down heavier still. Tullius read, jaw tight.

  “This is a joke?”

  “No. Temporary reassignment, effective in two days. I am to escort an Arcane University expedition to an old Akaviri site. Classified priority.”

  Wine and fatigue burned away. Tullius saw red. Pieces were being scattered, as if the Empire was playing against itself. No longer blindness. Sabotage. Or worse… maneuvering.

  “They’re sending you to guard scholars while Bruma holds by a miracle?! You’re the last reliable officer in this forsaken region, and they want you babysitting ruins?!”

  “I know,” Lucan said simply.

  Tullius scrutinized him. As always, Lucan wore the mask of neutrality he envied. No resignation. No exasperation. No frustration. Just composed calm. Tullius shook his head faintly at the realization. Of course, he had expected it.

  “You think the Count is moving you aside?”

  Lucan retrieved the order and set it back on the desk.

  “He knows my presence here keeps the balance. He likes his hidden advice and his status quo… but soon he’ll want more. A seat just opened in the Elder Council. Up for the highest bidder. And what better proof of merit than a stable county at the edge of a province in flames?”

  Tullius dragged a weary hand across his face.

  “I can’t do anything for you, Lucan. Not without proof. Not now.”

  Lucan picked up the abandoned cup from the desk.

  “You couldn’t before either,” he said without reproach. “The fact you came this far already means a lot.”

  A hint of gratitude colored his words.

  Tullius turned his gaze to the brazier. Flames crackled softly, indifferent to betrayals, to warnings.

  “Then be careful.”

  “I’ll know what to do,” the captain replied, refilling his cup, then offering the carafe toward his elder, who declined. “The hardest task will be keeping them from harming themselves.”

  A faint smile tugged at his thin lips, almost reassuring, betraying the first signs of age and fatigue. Tullius froze a moment, wordless. Lucan returned to his seat, inviting him to follow.

  “What are your plans now, between the dragon and the rebellion?” Lucan asked, steering his thoughts away.

  By morning, the snowfall had ceased. The road, buried under a fresh red-tinged layer in the sun, pulled him south toward the Imperial City. Leaving Bruma behind, Tullius felt a grim certainty: he would never see Lucan again. And one day, the city would fall… far from the Empire’s gaze.