In the shadowed lands of the Daggerfall Covenant, Kritias Granlock walks a cursed path—a High Elf necromancer exiled from Summerset, haunted by a conscience that defies his dark art. Sworn to protect rather than destroy, he wields death’s power with honor, seeking redemption amidst a rising tide of evil. When a cult of Molag Bal threatens Tamriel with the Planemeld, Kritias and his roguish companion Varyn face betrayal, sacrifice, and a destiny forged in blood. From the crypts of Bangkorai to the chains of Coldharbour, this is the tale of a hero’s fall—and his rise as the Vestige. A gripping prelude to ESO, where even the damned can shine.
Chapter 1: The Weight of the Raised
The wind tore across Rivenspire’s cliffs, a mournful howl that rattled the bones of the dead beneath Kritias Granlock’s boots. He stood at the edge of a jagged outcrop, his tall, lean frame draped in a blue cloak stitched with the Daggerfall Covenant’s lion sigil. His golden hair lashed against his sharp High Elf features, and his violet eyes—keen and restless—scanned the graveyard sprawled below. Crooked headstones jutted from the earth like broken teeth, half-sunken in the mist that clung to this forsaken corner of Tamriel. The air thrummed with a faint, unnatural pulse, a shimmer of necromantic energy threading through the soil. Someone had been here. Someone reckless.
Beside him, Varyn crouched low, his Dunmer skin dark as the twilight creeping over the horizon. He twirled a dagger between gloved fingers, its steel glinting with the last gasps of sunlight. “You’re brooding again,” he said, his voice dry and edged with a smirk. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re jealous someone else got to dance with the dead before you.”
Kritias didn’t turn, his gaze fixed on the graves. “This isn’t a jest, Varyn. The weave’s sloppy—souls bound without consent, left to fester. It’s an abomination.”
“Spoken like a true Covenant saint.” Varyn rose, sheathing his blade with a flourish. His red eyes glinted with amusement, though a flicker of respect softened them. “You’re the only necromancer I’ve met who’d rather scold a corpse than raise it.”
Kritias adjusted his cloak’s clasp, the lion’s head cold against his fingers, and knelt beside a cracked tombstone. Its surface was weathered, the name long faded, but a faint pulse hummed beneath his touch—an echo of torment. He closed his eyes, drawing a slow breath as Eldrin’s teachings surfaced in his mind: Feel, don’t take. Guide, don’t command. His magicka unfurled like a tendril, coaxing the trapped soul to rise—not as a slave, but as a witness.
The air shivered, and a spectral figure flickered into being—a Breton woman, her translucent form clad in a tattered dress, her hair a wispy halo of gray. Her hollow eyes met Kritias’s, and her voice rasped like wind through brittle leaves. “They came… cloaked in shadow… took my rest… my peace…”
Kritias leaned closer, his tone steady but gentle. “Who? Tell me, and I’ll free you.”
“Servants… of the Cold One…” Her form wavered, fraying at the edges, her last words a fading plea. “Stop them… please…” She dissolved into mist, leaving only silence and the weight of her anguish.
Kritias stood, jaw tight. “Molag Bal,” he muttered, the name bitter on his tongue. “His cultists are at it again.”
Varyn kicked a pebble into the mist, his smirk gone. “And here I thought we’d get a quiet night. Suppose we track them down and ruin their little party?”
“No choice,” Kritias said, already striding toward the cliff’s edge. His staff tapped the ground, its crystal tip glowing faintly blue. “If they’re harvesting souls here, it’s bigger than a few graves. The Covenant’s people deserve better than this.”
They descended the rocky path, Varyn’s lithe steps silent beside Kritias’s measured tread. The Dunmer had been his shadow for months, ever since a Wayrest alley left them both bloodied—Kritias from a bounty hunter’s spell, Varyn from a mark he’d refused to kill. Their scars had bound them, a quiet pact of redemption neither named but both lived. Varyn’s humor was a blade against Kritias’s solemnity, and together they’d carved a path through Tamriel’s shadows.
The trail led to a crumbling manor nestled in a hollow, its stone walls sagging under ivy and time. Its windows were dark save for a flicker of torchlight dancing within, a beacon in the gloom. Kritias paused, senses prickling. The air thrummed with power—necromantic, yes, but twisted, ravenous. He gestured to Varyn, who nodded and melted into the shadows, scouting ahead with the grace of a predator.
Kritias approached the entrance, staff in hand. He murmured a warding spell—a holdover from his restoration days—and pushed the warped door open. The stench hit him first: rot and damp earth, thick enough to choke. Inside, bodies lay strewn across the floor, their flesh carved with jagged runes that glowed faintly purple. At the room’s center stood a figure cloaked in black, hunched over a pulsing altar of obsidian. Around him, shades writhed, bound by chains of violet light that pulsed like veins. The figure’s chants were low, guttural, a language Kritias knew too well—Daedric.
The necromancer turned, and Kritias’s breath caught. Beneath the hood gleamed golden skin and eyes like his own—Altmer, sharp and cruel. “Malethis,” he growled, the name a curse from his past.
Malethis’s lips curled into a sneer, his voice silk over steel. “Kritias Granlock. Still playing the saint, I see. Did you come to lecture me, or have you finally come to join me?”
“You’re desecrating the dead,” Kritias said, stepping forward, staff flaring with restrained light. “Release them. Now.”
Malethis laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed off the walls. “Release them? They serve a purpose—Molag Bal’s purpose. Power you’re too weak to claim, too shackled by that precious conscience of yours.”
Before Kritias could answer, Varyn sprang from the shadows, daggers flashing toward Malethis’s back. But the necromancer twisted, a wave of dark energy erupting from his hand. It slammed Varyn against the wall with a sickening crack, his body crumpling to the floor. Kritias lunged, staff blazing as he summoned skeletal hands from the earth—not to bind, but to shield his friend. The bones clawed upward, forming a fragile barrier between Varyn and the chaos.
Malethis’s eyes glinted with malice. “Pathetic. You’ll die for that conscience, Granlock.”
The altar pulsed, a heartbeat of power, and the room erupted. Shades broke free, their wails filling the air as shadows coiled like serpents. Kritias fought, his necromancy a dance of precision—spectral hands parrying blows, a summoned wraith deflecting Malethis’s curses. But the Altmer’s power was raw, unrestrained, a tide of darkness that dwarfed Kritias’s careful craft. A bolt of energy grazed his shoulder, searing through his cloak, and he stumbled, staff slipping in his grip.
Through the haze, he saw Varyn stir, then slump again, blood pooling beneath him. Failure clawed at Kritias’s chest, cold and sharp. This was no random raid—this was a trap, and he’d walked them both into it. Malethis advanced, a dagger of black crystal in hand, its edge gleaming with intent.
“You should’ve stayed in Summerset,” Malethis hissed, raising the blade. “Exile suits you better dead.”
Kritias braced himself, magicka flaring one last time, but the shadows closed in, and the world went dark.
Chapter 2: Echoes of Exile
Kritias stumbled through the manor’s splintered doorway, Varyn’s limp form slung over his shoulder. The Dunmer’s weight dragged at him, a dull ache spreading through his own wounded arm where Malethis’s spell had grazed him. The night outside was thick with mist, Rivenspire’s cliffs looming like silent sentinels as he staggered into the cold. Behind him, the manor shuddered—shades shrieking, stone cracking—as Malethis’s dark ritual churned on. Kritias didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Not with Varyn’s shallow breaths rasping against his ear, a fragile thread he refused to let snap.
The ground sloped beneath his boots, slick with dew, and he nearly fell. His staff sank into the earth, its crystal tip flaring blue as he steadied himself. Malethis’s taunts echoed in his mind—“You’ll die for that conscience”—but Kritias shoved them aside. Focus. He had to get Varyn clear, had to find help. The Covenant outpost in Shornhelm wasn’t far, a half-hour’s trek if he pushed through the pain. But the manor wasn’t done with them yet.
A guttural snarl cut through the fog, and shapes emerged—three skeletal thralls, their bones rattling with Malethis’s sloppy enchantments. Their empty sockets glowed violet, and they shambled forward, claws outstretched. Kritias cursed under his breath, easing Varyn to the ground behind a jagged boulder. The Dunmer groaned, eyes fluttering, blood trickling from a gash on his temple.
“Stay with me,” Kritias muttered, then turned to face the thralls. His staff hummed as he raised a hand, magicka coiling in his palm. Eldrin’s voice surfaced from memory, stern and clear: Feel, don’t take. Guide, don’t command. He wouldn’t stoop to Malethis’s level, binding souls like chattel. Instead, he reached into the earth, seeking the restless dead who’d answer willingly.
The ground trembled, and two spectral figures rose—Breton soldiers, their armor faded but their swords sharp. Their translucent eyes met his, a silent pact forged in death. “Hold them,” Kritias said, voice low. The spirits surged forward, blades clashing against bone as the thralls screeched. It wasn’t domination; it was partnership, a line Malethis would never understand.
Kritias knelt beside Varyn, pressing a hand to his friend’s chest. A faint pulse flickered beneath his fingers—weak, but there. He murmured a restoration spell, its golden light feeble from exhaustion, and Varyn’s breathing steadied slightly. Enough to move. He hauled the Dunmer up again, staff braced for support, and pushed onward, the clash of his summoned allies fading behind him.
As he trudged through the mist, his mind slipped back—years ago, to High Rock, when exile had first carved him into this man.
The sun had hung low over High Rock’s emerald hills, casting long shadows across the stone cottage where Eldrin lived. Kritias, barely twenty, had stood at the threshold, his fine Summerset robes tattered from weeks of wandering. His expulsion still burned—his family’s cold dismissal, the academy’s scorn after that fateful experiment. He’d meant to heal, not raise, but the creature’s lifeless eyes had sealed his fate. Now, he was nothing—an Altmer with no home, no purpose.
Eldrin had emerged, an ancient High Elf with silver hair and a face etched by regret. His violet eyes, so like Kritias’s, had studied him without judgment. “You’ve the look of a man running from himself,” he’d said, voice gravelly but kind. “What chased you here?”
Kritias had hesitated, then spilled it all—the experiment, the exile, the power he couldn’t unfeel. Eldrin listened, nodding as if he’d heard it before. “Necromancy,” he’d said at last. “A tool, not a curse. The question is what you’ll make of it.”
That night, by the flicker of a hearth, Eldrin had shared his own tale—a daughter lost to his reckless pursuit of power, a life spent atoning. “I raised her once,” he’d whispered, “thinking I could cheat death. She begged me to let her go. I’ve carried that shame ever since.” He’d fixed Kritias with a hard stare. “You’ve a choice, boy. Use it to destroy, or use it to mend.”
Days turned to months, and Eldrin taught him—how to call the dead with respect, how to wield death’s power without losing himself. One afternoon, they’d walked to a nearby village, a Covenant stronghold bustling with Breton merchants and Redguard smiths. Kritias had watched a knight in blue armor settle a dispute with calm authority, an Orc warrior share bread with a child. It was messy, imperfect, but honest—a unity forged not by blood or pride, but by purpose.
“This is why I stay,” Eldrin had said, gesturing to the scene. “The Covenant’s not flawless, but it’s got a heart. Something worth fighting for.”
Kritias had felt it then—a pull, a place where his tarnished gifts might shine. He’d knelt that night, swearing loyalty to the Covenant under Eldrin’s approving gaze. Necromancy could serve, not just destroy. He’d prove it.
A branch snapped, jerking Kritias back to Rivenspire. The mist had thickened, and his spectral allies were gone, their task done. The thralls lay in pieces behind him, but more would come—Malethis wouldn’t let him slip away so easily. Varyn’s weight pressed heavier now, his muttered curses a faint reassurance. “Bloody Altmer… dragging me… through this muck…”
“Save your breath,” Kritias said, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “You’ll need it to complain later.”
He pushed on, the outpost’s torchlights glimmering faintly ahead. But his thoughts snagged on another memory—Aeloria’s last letter, slipped to him via a Covenant courier months ago. Her elegant script had been sharp: “You shame us, Kritias. This path will ruin you. Come home.” Yet beneath the words, hidden in the wax seal, had been a rune of protection—a silent gift from his sister, despite her public scorn. She still cared, even if she wouldn’t admit it.
The ground leveled, and Shornhelm’s walls rose from the fog—stone ramparts crowned with the Covenant’s banners. Kritias pounded on the gate, voice hoarse. “Open! We need aid!”
A guard peered down, lantern swinging. “Who’s there?”
“Kritias Granlock, sworn to the Covenant,” he called. “My companion’s wounded. Cultists are loose—Molag Bal’s work.”
The gate creaked open, and hands pulled them inside. Kritias sank to his knees as healers swarmed Varyn, their spells weaving golden threads over his injuries. A Breton captain approached, her armor gleaming with the lion sigil. “Cultists, you say?” she asked, eyes narrowing at Kritias’s staff. “And you—a necromancer?”
He met her gaze, unflinching. “Aye. But I serve the Covenant, not the dark. Those graves in Rivenspire—they’re just the start. Something’s coming.”
She frowned, then nodded. “Rest. We’ll hear you out come dawn.”
Kritias watched them carry Varyn away, exhaustion crashing over him. Malethis was out there, plotting, and the Covenant’s trust hung by a thread. He clutched Aeloria’s rune in his pocket, its faint warmth a tether to who he’d been. Exile had shaped him, but this fight would define him. He wouldn’t fail again—not Varyn, not the Covenant, not himself.
Chapter 3: The Cult’s Design
The dawn broke over Stormhaven in muted grays, the outpost’s wooden palisades slick with morning dew. Kritias sat on a crate outside the healer’s tent, his staff propped beside him, its crystal dim from overuse. His cloak hung heavy with dried blood—Varyn’s, mostly—and his shoulder throbbed where Malethis’s spell had struck. Exhaustion gnawed at him, but he kept his violet eyes fixed on the tent flap, waiting for word. The Covenant captain’s promise—“We’ll hear you out come dawn”—echoed in his mind, a fragile lifeline in this mess.
Inside, healers murmured over Varyn, their golden spells weaving faint light through the canvas. Kritias clenched his fists, guilt coiling in his gut. He’d dragged the Dunmer into that manor, underestimated Malethis’s trap. If Varyn didn’t pull through… He shook his head, banishing the thought. Failure wasn’t an option—not after Rivenspire, not with Molag Bal’s shadow creeping closer.
Footsteps crunched behind him, and the Breton captain approached—Lirienne, she’d called herself, her armor gleaming with the Covenant’s lion sigil. Her brown hair was tied back, her face stern but not unkind. “Your friend’s stable,” she said, arms crossed. “Tough bastard, that one. Healers say he’ll wake soon.”
Kritias exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. “Thank you. I owe them—and you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Lirienne’s gaze flicked to his staff, then back to his face. “You’re a necromancer. Sworn to the Covenant or not, that raises questions. Tell me about these cultists. Make it quick.”
He stood, meeting her scrutiny. “Molag Bal’s followers. They’re harvesting souls—desecrating graves, binding the dead against their will. I tracked them to a manor in Rivenspire. Another necromancer, Malethis, leads them there. He’s Altmer, like me, but he serves power, not principle.”
Lirienne’s brow furrowed. “Molag Bal? That’s a bold claim. You’re sure?”
“I’ve seen their runes, heard the shades’ pleas. It’s no coincidence—graves disturbed across Covenant lands, all pointing to something bigger.” He paused, voice hardening. “Malethis let slip they’re building toward a purpose. If we don’t stop them, the Covenant pays the price.”
She studied him, weighing his words. “You’re asking us to trust a necromancer’s hunch. Most here’d sooner lock you up than listen.”
“Then lock me up after,” Kritias said. “But send scouts to Rivenspire. You’ll find the bodies, the altar. I don’t wield death for sport—I wield it to protect.”
A beat passed, then Lirienne nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll send a patrol. But you’re staying put till they report back. If you’re right, we’ll talk strategy. If not…” She let the threat hang, turning to bark orders at a passing guard.
Kritias sank back onto the crate, relief tempered by impatience. He pulled Aeloria’s letter from his pocket—crumpled now, its wax seal cracked around the hidden rune. Her words stung anew: “You shame us, Kritias. This path will ruin you.” Yet that rune—protection, subtly etched—told a different story. His sister’s heart warred with her duty, and he clung to that flicker of hope. She’d sent it via Covenant channels, risking their family’s wrath. Maybe she believed in him still.
The tent flap rustled, and Varyn staggered out, one arm braced by a healer, the other clutching a bandage across his chest. His red eyes glinted with irritation. “Next time you drag me into a necromancer’s spat, I’m charging you,” he rasped, voice weak but sharp.
Kritias rose, a faint smile breaking through. “You’d bankrupt me in a week. How do you feel?”
“Like I got tossed by a troll. You?”
“Alive. That’s enough.” He clasped Varyn’s shoulder, careful of the wounds. “Malethis got away. The cult’s still out there.”
“Then we’re not done,” Varyn said, shrugging off the healer with a grimace. “Give me a blade and point me at him.”
“Not yet. Covenant’s checking Rivenspire. We wait.”
Varyn snorted. “Waiting’s for poets. You’ve got a lead, don’t you?”
Kritias hesitated, then nodded. “The shade in the graveyard—she said ‘servants of the Cold One.’ Malethis’s altar had runes I’ve seen before, in Bangkorai. A crypt near the border. If they’re staging something bigger, that’s where they’d go.”
“Then let’s move,” Varyn said, already testing his balance. “Covenant’s too slow.”
“Captain’s orders,” Kritias countered. “We need their trust.”
Varyn smirked. “You need it. I’m just along for the ride.”
Before Kritias could argue, a scout burst through the outpost gate, breathless. “Captain! Rivenspire’s a slaughterhouse—bodies, runes, just like he said. Tracks lead south.”
Lirienne strode over, her expression grim. “Bangkorai?”
“Aye,” the scout panted. “Near the old crypts.”
She turned to Kritias. “You’re with me. We ride now. Your friend stays—he’s in no shape.”
Varyn bristled, but Kritias cut in. “He’s tougher than he looks. We’ll both go. You’ll need us.”
Lirienne glared, then relented. “Fine. Mount up. If this is a trap, it’s on your head.”
The ride to Bangkorai was a blur of dust and heat, the Covenant troop thundering across Stormhaven’s fields into the desert’s edge. Kritias rode beside Varyn, the Dunmer pale but stubborn, gripping his reins with one hand, dagger close with the other. Lirienne led, her dozen soldiers fanning out as the crypt loomed—a squat, stone ruin half-buried in sand, its entrance yawning like a wound.
Kritias dismounted, staff in hand, and approached the crypt’s threshold. The air pulsed with necromantic energy, darker than Rivenspire’s, a hunger that set his teeth on edge. “They’re here,” he whispered, glancing at Lirienne. “Be ready.”
She nodded, signaling her troops to spread out. Varyn slipped to Kritias’s side, voice low. “Plan?”
“Infiltrate. Disrupt whatever they’re doing. You watch my back.”
“Always do,” Varyn quipped, vanishing into the shadows.
Kritias stepped inside, the crypt’s chill swallowing him. Torches flickered along the walls, casting jagged light over altars slick with blood. Runes pulsed in the stone—Molag Bal’s sigils, woven into a ritual lattice. At the chamber’s heart stood Malethis, his black robes stark against a towering obelisk that thrummed with power. Cultists flanked him, their chants rising like a tide.
Kritias crouched behind a pillar, heart pounding. This was no mere harvest—it was a summoning, a tear in Nirn’s veil. He needed a distraction, something to break their focus. His fingers brushed Aeloria’s rune, its warmth sparking an idea. She’d woven a protection spell into it—small, but potent. If he could amplify it…
He channeled magicka into the rune, its light flaring gold, and hurled it toward the obelisk. The spell erupted, a shield of radiance that shattered the nearest altar and sent cultists reeling. Malethis whirled, eyes blazing. “You,” he snarled, raising a hand as shadows coiled around him.
Kritias stood, staff glowing. “Your design ends here.”
Malethis laughed, cold and sharp. “You’re too late, Granlock. The souls are gathered. The Cold One comes.”
The obelisk pulsed, a rift splitting the air—violet and endless, a glimpse of Coldharbour beyond. Kritias lunged, summoning spectral hands to tear at the cultists, but Malethis’s power surged, pinning him in place. Varyn darted from the shadows, daggers flashing, only to be swatted aside by a wave of darkness.
Lirienne’s troops stormed in, swords clashing with cultists, but the rift widened, its pull dragging at Kritias’s soul. He fought to stand, to reach the obelisk, but Malethis’s voice cut through the chaos. “You’ll see it finished—at his altar.”
The last thing Kritias saw was Varyn’s limp form and Lirienne’s desperate charge before the rift swallowed him whole.
Chapter 4: Shadows of Betrayal
The air in the Bangkorai crypt thrummed with a sickening pulse, the rift to Coldharbour gaping like a wound in reality. Kritias clawed his way to his feet, the violet light searing his vision as he shook off the dizziness of its pull. Sand gritted beneath his boots, and his staff—knocked from his grip when the rift yanked him forward—lay just out of reach. Around him, the chamber roared with chaos: Lirienne’s Covenant soldiers clashed with cultists, steel ringing against bone, while Varyn’s crumpled form lay near a shattered altar, blood staining the stone beneath him.
Malethis stood at the rift’s edge, his golden Altmer features twisted with triumph. The obelisk behind him pulsed faster now, its runes flaring as tendrils of shadow snaked into the air. “You’re too late, Granlock,” he called, voice cutting through the din. “The souls are bound. The Planemeld begins.”
Kritias lunged for his staff, fingers closing around its familiar weight. “Not while I breathe,” he growled, channeling magicka into its crystal. The tip flared blue, and he summoned a trio of skeletal warriors—Breton shades from Bangkorai’s fallen, their armor spectral but their resolve firm. They moved at his will, not his command, rushing the cultists with swords raised. Eldrin’s code held him steady: Guide, don’t enslave.
Malethis laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Still clinging to your morals? Watch them crumble.” He swept a hand, and a wave of dark energy erupted, shattering two of Kritias’s summons into dust. The third held, parrying a cultist’s dagger, but Malethis advanced, a dagger of black crystal glinting in his grip—the same blade he’d brandished in Rivenspire.
Kritias sidestepped a shadowy tendril, slamming his staff into the ground. A spectral wraith rose, its wail disrupting the cultists’ chants, buying Lirienne’s troops a moment to regroup. The captain fought near the entrance, her blade wet with blood, shouting orders over the chaos. “Hold the line! Protect the necromancer!”
He didn’t have time to marvel at her trust. Varyn stirred, dragging himself upright with a groan, daggers trembling in his hands. “You… owe me… a drink,” he rasped, lunging at a cultist who’d strayed too close. His strike was sloppy, weakened, but it bought Kritias space.
“Stay down!” Kritias shouted, but Varyn flashed a crooked grin, defiance in his red eyes.
“Not… a chance.”
Kritias turned back to Malethis, who now stood atop the obelisk’s dais, the rift widening behind him. Souls streamed from the altars—faint, anguished wisps—feeding the tear. Kritias’s stomach churned. This was beyond desecration; it was annihilation. He had to stop it, even if it cost him everything.
He sprinted forward, weaving through the melee. A cultist swung at him, but Varyn’s dagger found the man’s throat first, a gurgling cry marking his fall. Kritias reached the dais, staff blazing as he unleashed a burst of necromantic energy—not to raise, but to sever. The tendrils binding the souls shuddered, some snapping free, their wails fading into silence. Relief flickered in him—until Malethis struck.
The black dagger slashed down, grazing Kritias’s arm. Pain flared, hot and sharp, and a numbing cold followed, seeping into his bones. “You think you can undo this?” Malethis hissed, pressing forward. “You’re a child playing with forces you’ll never master.”
Kritias parried with his staff, the crystal cracking under the blow. “I don’t need to master them—just stop you.” He thrust his free hand out, summoning a spectral hand to claw at Malethis’s robes. It bought him a heartbeat, enough to stumble back and regain his footing.
The rift pulsed again, a low growl rumbling from its depths. Lirienne’s voice cut through: “Granlock! The obelisk—it’s the anchor!” She hacked at a cultist, her soldiers faltering as shadows thickened around them.
Kritias nodded, eyes locking on the obelisk. If he could shatter it, disrupt the ritual… He darted toward it, dodging Malethis’s next strike. His magicka was fraying, exhaustion dragging at him, but he poured what remained into a single spell. Spectral hands erupted from the floor, clawing at the obelisk’s base. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface, and the rift flickered, unstable.
Malethis roared, lunging at him. “No!” The dagger plunged toward Kritias’s chest, but Varyn—bleeding, staggering—threw himself between them. The blade sank into the Dunmer’s shoulder, and he crumpled with a choked cry.
“Varyn!” Kritias caught him, easing him down. Blood soaked his hands, warm and slick. “Hold on—”
“Finish it,” Varyn gasped, eyes fierce despite the pain. “For the Covenant… for me.”
Kritias’s throat tightened, but he nodded. He rose, staff trembling as he faced Malethis. The Altmer smirked, wiping the dagger clean. “Touching. But useless. You’re mine now.”
The words twisted in Kritias’s gut, not as a taunt, but a promise. Malethis gestured, and cultists swarmed, dragging Kritias toward the obelisk. He fought, summoning wraiths to tear at them, but his strength faltered. Lirienne charged to his aid, only to be overwhelmed, her shout cut short by a cultist’s axe.
Malethis seized Kritias’s arm, wrenching him to the dais’s edge. “You’ll serve the Cold One,” he said, voice dripping with malice. “A sacrifice to seal the rift. Poetic, isn’t it—your conscience paving his way?”
Kritias struggled, but the cultists pinned him, their chants rising to a fevered pitch. He glimpsed Varyn crawling toward a fallen dagger, Lirienne’s troops scattering, and the obelisk’s cracks halting as the ritual surged. Betrayal burned in him—not just Malethis’s, but his own failure. He’d sworn to protect, to prove necromancy’s worth, and now…
The dagger rose, its edge gleaming. Kritias met Malethis’s gaze, defiance flaring one last time. “You’ll fall too,” he spat. “The Covenant endures.”
Malethis sneered. “We’ll see.” The blade plunged into Kritias’s chest, a cold fire erupting through him. Blood welled, hot and coppery, as the rift flared blindingly bright. The cultists’ chants peaked, and the obelisk hummed, drawing his life into its depths.
His vision blurred—Varyn’s desperate lunge, Lirienne’s fading cry—but his thoughts turned inward. Eldrin’s lessons, Aeloria’s rune, the Covenant’s lion sigil… they anchored him as darkness swallowed him whole. He’d failed them, but maybe this—his death—could stall the Planemeld, give them a chance.
The last sound he heard was Malethis’s triumphant laugh, echoing into oblivion.
Chapter 5: Dust to Dust
The pain was a distant echo now, a fading ember in Kritias Granlock’s chest where Malethis’s dagger had struck. He felt weightless, suspended in a void of shadow and silence, the Bangkorai crypt a memory slipping through his fingers. Blood no longer pulsed; breath no longer burned. The rift’s violet light had consumed him, his life drained into the obelisk to fuel Molag Bal’s ritual. Yet something lingered—his will, his conscience, a stubborn spark that refused to gutter out.
He saw it in fragments: Varyn’s bloodied form lunging with that last dagger, Lirienne’s soldiers falling to the cultists’ blades, Malethis’s sneer as the rift swallowed him whole. Had it been enough? Had his death slowed the Planemeld, given the Covenant a chance? The questions gnawed at him, unanswered, as the darkness pressed closer.
Then, a voice—cold, vast, and cruel—rumbled through the void. “Your soul is mine, mortal. A fitting prize.” Molag Bal. Kritias’s essence recoiled, but he couldn’t fight, couldn’t summon the magicka that had once answered him. He was nothing now, a wisp caught in the Daedric Prince’s grasp.
But even as the voice faded, a flicker of warmth brushed his mind—Aeloria’s rune, its protective glow a faint tether to who he’d been. Eldrin’s words followed, steady as stone: “Use it to mend.” The Covenant’s lion sigil flashed in his thoughts, a symbol of the unity he’d sworn to protect. He clung to them, a lifeline against oblivion.
Back in the crypt, the air shuddered as the rift stabilized, its edges hardening into a jagged portal. Malethis stood triumphant, hands raised, the obelisk glowing with Kritias’s stolen life. The cultists knelt, their chants a low drone of victory. “The Vestige is forged,” Malethis intoned, voice thick with pride. “The Cold One’s will unfolds.”
Varyn lay crumpled near the dais, his chest heaving, the dagger still clutched in his trembling hand. Blood soaked his armor, pooling beneath him, but his red eyes burned with defiance. He’d seen Kritias fall, seen the blade pierce his heart, and rage kept him conscious where strength failed. He dragged himself forward, inch by agonizing inch, toward a fallen cultist’s blade.
Lirienne fought on at the chamber’s edge, her troops reduced to a handful. Her armor was dented, her sword notched, but she rallied them with a hoarse cry. “For the Covenant! Hold them!” A cultist charged, and she parried, driving her blade through his chest. But the portal loomed, its pull growing, and she knew they were losing.
Varyn reached the blade, fingers closing around its hilt. He staggered to his feet, pain screaming through him, and locked eyes with Malethis. The Altmer turned, smirking. “Still alive, Dunmer? You’re as stubborn as he was.”
“More,” Varyn rasped, and hurled himself forward. The blade sank into Malethis’s thigh, a shallow cut, but enough to stagger him. The necromancer snarled, dark energy flaring from his hand, and Varyn crumpled again, the spell hurling him against the obelisk.
The impact cracked the stone further, the fissures Kritias had started widening. Malethis cursed, clutching his leg, and the cultists faltered, their chants breaking. Lirienne seized the moment, leading her soldiers in a desperate charge. “Now! Break it!”
Steel met flesh, and the chamber erupted anew. Varyn, barely conscious, dragged himself clear as Lirienne’s blade struck the obelisk. The cracks deepened, a high-pitched whine rising from its core. Malethis screamed, “No!”—but too late. The stone shattered, a burst of violet light flooding the crypt. The rift pulsed wildly, then collapsed, its edges snapping shut with a thunderous crack.
Malethis fell to his knees, blood seeping from his wound, his triumph undone. Lirienne loomed over him, sword raised. “For Granlock,” she said, and drove it through his chest. The necromancer’s eyes widened, then dulled, his body slumping to the sand.
Varyn coughed, a weak laugh escaping him. “Bastard… got what he deserved.” He glanced at the spot where Kritias had fallen, now empty save for a smear of blood. “You better… not be gone, you damn Altmer.”
Lirienne knelt beside him, her face grim. “He’s gone. Gave us this chance.” She looked at her surviving troops—five, battered but alive—and the sealed rift. “We’ll warn the Covenant. This isn’t over.”
Varyn nodded, pain etching his features. “He’d say… it’s worth it. Idiot.”
The crypt fell silent, dust settling over the ruin of their victory. Kritias’s sacrifice had bought them time, but the cost weighed heavy.
Coldharbour stretched before Kritias, a bleak expanse of ash and jagged spires under a sky of endless twilight. He awoke on his knees, the ground freezing beneath him, his chest hollow where his heart should’ve beat. No blood, no breath—just a void where his soul had been. He flexed his hands, calloused from staff and spell, and found them solid, real. Yet he felt… incomplete.
A figure approached—a woman, her form shimmering, her voice soft but urgent. “You’re awake. Good. I am Lyris Titanborn. We’ve little time.”
Kritias rose, disoriented, his violet eyes scanning the desolate plane. “Where… am I?”
“Coldharbour,” Lyris said. “Molag Bal’s realm. He took your soul—made you the Vestige. But you’re not his yet.”
The Vestige. Malethis’s words clicked into place, a bitter truth. His sacrifice had sealed the rift, but at a price. “My friend—Varyn. The Covenant. Did they—?”
“I don’t know,” Lyris cut in. “But if you want to stop this, to save them, you fight with us. The Prophet’s waiting. He’ll explain.”
Kritias nodded, a spark of purpose reigniting. His staff was gone, his cloak torn, but his will remained—forged in exile, tempered by the Covenant, unyielding even in death. He’d failed once, but not again. Varyn, Lirienne, Aeloria—they’d live, if he had any say in it.
He followed Lyris through the ash, her stride brisk, her words a lifeline. Coldharbour’s chains clanked around them, souls moaning in the distance, but Kritias’s thoughts turned inward. Eldrin’s lessons, Aeloria’s rune, Varyn’s loyalty—they’d carried him here. Necromancy had been his burden, his redemption, and now it would be his weapon.
The Prophet’s voice echoed ahead, faint but resolute: “Come, Vestige. Your journey begins anew.”
Kritias stepped forward, dust trailing in his wake. He was no longer just Kritias Granlock, High Elf necromancer. He was the Vestige, a soul torn and remade, a conscience unbroken. Molag Bal had taken his life, but not his fight. For the Covenant, for Tamriel, he’d rise again.