Narrator: Rebecca

At sixteen, I was already certain of one thing: the universe loved to test me. And, apparently, I always failed.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not a poor little thing. I'm the girl who laughs at her own chaos because, if I don't laugh, I'll have to cry – and I'm already tired of crying.

My adoptive mother, Ingrid, used to say I was born with a "gift for confusion." My father, Torben, would correct her: "She wasn't born with a gift, Ingrid. She studied." And I would laugh, because it was true.

Torben and Ingrid weren't my real parents. But they were my parents.

They found me in a wicker basket when I was a baby, left on their doorstep like an unwanted cat. They could have ignored me. They could have taken me to the village, to church, anywhere but their home. But no. They took me in, raised me, loved me – even when I gave them reasons not to.

Torben was a quiet man of few words, but each one he spoke was worth its weight in gold. He worked the land, fixed everything with his own hands, and had a dry sense of humor that I inherited – and used against him whenever I could.

Ingrid was the opposite. She talked a mile a minute, gave her opinion on everything, and held the family's emotional burden together fiercely. She was strong, direct, and the only person who could make my father truly smile.

They raised me to be someone. I, however, became something else.

---

At age six, I realized I was different from other children.

My eyes, for example. Ingrid said they changed color depending on the light. Torben would laugh and say I had "fox eyes." I liked that. I liked imagining there was something special about me—before I discovered that "special" was a nice word for "cursed."

I was stronger than the boys my age. Faster. I heard things nobody else heard. Sometimes I'd wake up in the middle of the night because I heard bears moving in the forest almost a league away. Torben said I had a vivid imagination. Ingrid said I spent too much time alone.

They were both wrong.

Something inside me was awakened. And I didn't know what it was – but I knew it wasn't normal.

---

When I turned fourteen, I met Leif.

The blacksmith's son. Tall, clumsy, with blue eyes and a soft heart. A bit dim-witted, but very handsome. The kind of boy who falls in love at first sight and wants to build a wooden house, have children, and live happily ever after.

I, of course, was the last person in the world who deserved someone like him.

But he didn't know that.

And I, being selfish, made sure he didn't find out.

We spent hours walking around the outskirts of the village. He talked about the future – about the house he was going to build, about the children he was going to have. I listened and thought: you have no idea what you're talking about.

But I liked him. Of course I liked him. I liked the way he looked at me, as if I were a promise of a better world. I liked seeing him blush when I laughed.

I knew it wasn't going to work. But I ignored it.

---

The attack happened when I was fifteen years old.

I was walking home at dusk when the creature appeared out of nowhere. Yellow eyes in the darkness. Fangs. Claws. Pain. Lots of blood.

A bite on the shoulder. And then it disappeared.

I thought I was going to die. I almost died. But I didn't. Because the deities have a wicked sense of humor, and they thought it was funny to leave me alive to see what would happen next.

I survived.

And then, the changes began.

Dreams of endless forests. Running on all fours. Blood in my mouth. A hunger that wasn't for food.

When I woke up, I was sweaty, breathless, my heart racing – and, most of the time, with a warm dampness between my thighs and it… yes, swollen… I groaned even before opening my eyes. The beast inside me wasn't just a threat. It was a promise. A hunger that wasn't just for blood, but to be felt. To be desired.

And I, poor fool, didn't know what to do with it.

---

The first full moon arrived in the spring.

It marked the end of Rebecca Sorensen's career.

And the beginning of something else.

---

Leif invited me for a walk.

Like so many other times.

We followed a trail near the woods. The winter snow had already melted, but the air still retained that biting chill that preceded the true warmth of spring.

We talked.

We laughed.

We talked about the future – about the house he dreamed of building when he was old enough and had enough money. About the trips we would never take, because none of us would ever leave that region. About a life that would never exist, because teenage dreams are made of that fragile stuff.

I didn't know that would be the last night of my life as a human being.

If I had known, maybe I would have said something different. Maybe I would have held on to him tighter. Maybe I would have cried.

But I didn't know.

So we just walked, talked, and laughed.

And time passed.

The snow began to fall.

Not that furious blizzard that blinds and buries, but slow, almost lazy flakes that descended from the gray sky like feathers plucked from some giant bird. They landed on Leif's shoulders, on his disheveled blond hair, on the eyelashes he blinked to see my face better.

We stopped in the middle of the trail.

I don't know who stopped first. Whether it was me, pulling his hand. Or him, turning me by the arm. The memory is as confused as snow in the air. I only know that suddenly we were there, standing, staring at each other as if it were the first time we had seen each other – even though we had known each other since childhood, since the times when he threw snowballs at my window and I hid his boots in the stable.

— Rebecca — he said.

That's all. My name. But said in a way that warmed my heart more than any winter campfire.

I touched his face. His stubble scratched my palm. He tilted his head, pressing his cheek against my hand, and closed his eyes. A snowflake melted on his temple, trickling down like a warm tear.

I kissed him.

It was slow at first. A sweet hesitation, like someone tasting fresh mead to see if it's ready. His lips were cold, but his tongue was warm, and when he opened his mouth against mine, I felt a shiver that had nothing to do with winter.

He led me off the trail. Among the pine trees. The ground was covered with dry needles and a thin layer of fresh snow. His hands – large, calloused from chopping wood and carrying bales of hay – tightened around my waist as he gently laid me down on the winter blanket he himself had spread on the ground.

The snow continued to fall.

Flakes landed on my neck, on my breasts when he opened my woolen dress, in his hair as he moved his mouth down my stomach. His breath warmed my cold skin. Each exhalation formed a small cloud of vapor that mingled with the snow around us.

— Leif — I groaned.

He looked up at me. Snow on his eyelashes. Lips red with cold and desire. He smiled. A silly smile, the kind he always had, but now there was something more there – something that took my breath away.

"I want you," he said. It wasn't a request. It was a statement of fact. Like saying the sky is blue or that winter is cold. Simple. True.

He went down.

Not in a hurry, but with a devotion that hurt because it was so sweet. His mouth found my neck first – warm kisses that contrasted with the cold of the snow. Then it descended to my chest, to my breasts, his lips enveloping my nipples one by one, sucking, licking, making me arch my back against the icy ground.

— Leif — I repeated, and my sound was different now, higher-pitched, more needy.

He continued down. His tongue traced a wet path down my belly, circled my navel, and plunged into the warmth between my thighs.

When his mouth finally found mine, I closed my eyes and bit my lip to keep from screaming.

His tongue was soft and insistent. He licked me as if I were the most precious thing he had ever tasted – parting my large, protruding lips with his fingers, exposing my most sensitive clitoris to the icy air and the heat of his mouth. The contrast between the cold snow on my back and the fire of his tongue between my legs made me tremble all over.

He sucked on my clit. Slowly. Deliciously. His left hand squeezed my thigh, keeping me open for him. His right hand moved up my belly to my breasts, squeezing, pinching, while his tongue traced slow, wet circles.

I writhed beneath him. My hands dug into his blond hair, pulling him closer, holding him against me as if I wanted him to drown there.

He groaned against me. A vibration coursed through my entire body, and I felt the moment approaching like an avalanche – slow at first, then inevitable.

"Don't stop," I pleaded. "Please, don't stop."

He didn't stop. His tongue moved faster, firmer, and his fingers replaced his mouth for an instant – his fingers sliding across my flower, opening my labia, while he licked my pussy in quick, short strokes.

I came with a groan that echoed among the pine trees.

My legs trembled. My body arched. My nails scratched Leif's scalp, and he continued licking me throughout the entire moment, prolonging the pleasure until I couldn't take it anymore and pushed him away, breathless, laughing, dizzy.

He climbed on top of me. His face was wet – with melted snow, with me. His eyes were shining.

"You're so beautiful when you orgasm," he said.

I didn't answer. I pulled him down and kissed him, tasting myself in his mouth.

"Now it's your turn," I said, reaching for his pants.

His leather pants came down with a tug. I helped him with trembling fingers – not from the cold, although I was shivering all over. My skirt was already hiked up, the icy air brushing against my damp skin.

I sat on him. Not on top of him – over him. Between my thighs, I felt the tip of his penis touch my clitoris. It was big. Warm. I looked into his eyes and thought: "This is going to be the first time!"

I didn't say that out loud. I didn't need to.

— Rebecca — he whispered. — Are you sure?

"I do," I replied, and it was true.

I guided him myself. I took his penis in my hand, positioned it against my entrance, and went down.

Slowly.

He entered me inch by inch. I felt the stretching, the filling, the pressure. A sharp pang – the pain of the first time – and I closed my eyes for a moment.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice hoarse, his eyes fixed on mine.

"I am," I said, and smiled. "Just... wait a minute."

I stopped. I felt my body adjusting to him inside me. The strangeness, the newness, the warmth. Then, I took a deep breath and began to move.

"Like this," I said. "Slowly. Feel every movement."

He obeyed. His forehead pressed against mine. His blue eyes – the same as the sky hidden by the snow – never left mine. His right hand intertwined my fingers against the cold ground. His left hand held my waist firmly, like someone holding something precious that could break.

"Don't squeeze so hard," I laughed. "I'm not going to run away."

He tried to relax. He failed. But I didn't care.

The rhythm was slow. Loving. Each thrust made the snow around us crunch beneath our bodies. Sweat began to bead on his forehead, and I saw a drop trickle down his nose, mingling with a snowflake that had landed there.

I raised my hands and placed them on his back. I felt every muscle contracting beneath his cold skin. I felt his breathing quicken, escaping in low grunts that he tried to muffle against my shoulder.

"Don't stifle it," I said. "I want to hear it."

He groaned.

It was a guttural, almost animalistic sound that made my belly clench around him. He sped up, but still maintained that sweetness – as if each movement said I want you and I respect you at the same time. His hand released my fingers and descended to where our bodies met. His thumb found my clitoris, lightly brushing against it in rhythm with his thrusts.

My groan echoed through the forest.

The snow was falling harder now. Flakes piled up on our backs, in our hair, on our outstretched arms. But I didn't feel cold. I only felt it – inside me, on me, all around me.

"Rebecca," he groaned, and it was a warning.

"Inside," I asked. "Please. Inside."

He came with a long, low moan, buried deep inside.

I felt every warm pulse inside me. My body began to tighten around him, the moment rising up my spine like liquid fire. My back arched. My mouth opened to scream.

But the scream never came.

What followed was pain.

The sun had disappeared behind the mountains while we were there. The moon appeared in the sky – full, round, yellow like the eyes of the creature that had attacked me a year before.

And everything changed.

First came the pain. A pain so intense it felt like it was tearing my bones in two, as if someone were breaking them one by one with an invisible hammer. It wasn't normal pain – it was pain that came from within, from my own bones, my muscles, my joints.

I fell to my knees in the snow. The icy ground burned my skin.

Leif ran towards me. His hands touched my shoulders. His voice called my name, once, twice, three times.

Rebecca? Rebecca, what's going on?

He tried to help me. He tried to understand. But there was nothing to understand – or perhaps there was, but I didn't know how to explain it. I myself didn't understand what was happening inside my body.

My fingers twisted. Nails began to grow, to darken, to curl like claws.

My skin burned as if fire was running beneath it.

My body began to deform. My spine cracked. My shoulders broadened. My jaw stretched forward, my teeth lengthened, my tongue protruded from my mouth.

I was screaming.

I screamed so much that my throat bled.

The last thing I saw as a human being were Leif's eyes. The terror in them. The horror. He took a step back. Then another. His hands trembled. His lips moved, trying to form words that wouldn't come out.

I tried to say his name.

"Don't be afraid. It's me. I'm Rebecca."

But no words came out.

Just a growl.

A guttural, animalistic sound that emerged from the depths of my transformed throat.

Then came the darkness.

When I woke up, I was alone.

Naked.

Covered in blood.

---

I didn't find Leif's body. I believed I had killed him. And that destroyed me more than the transformation.

I thought to myself: "You're a monster, Rebecca. A fucking creature."

I thought about him. I thought about the blue of his eyes. The way he laughed.

I loved him. And at the same time, I hated him. I hated him because he saw what I had become. I hated him because he loved me.

---

I got home before dawn. I didn't tell Torben and Ingrid anything. I said I'd gotten lost in the forest, that an animal had attacked me. They believed me – or pretended to believe me.

But the hunters found the tracks in the woods. They found blood. Fur. Claw marks. And, worse – they found Leif's body. Or what was left of it.

At least, that's what I thought.

The next day, I didn't go to the village. I stayed home, near my parents. But I felt the weight of their stares even from a distance. I heard the whispers coming from the road. The children who had previously run to me now changed course. The adults spoke softly when I passed near the window.

And I knew that, at some point, they would come.

---

They came on the night when the moon was hidden.

I heard the footsteps. I heard the screams. I heard the wood creak.

"Get out of the house!" someone shouted.

My father, Torben, opened the door. His face was pale. But his hand was steady.

"Let's go," he said.

— Dad... — my voice faltered.

- Now.

We left through the back.

And the house caught fire.

I looked back. I saw the flames rising. I saw my childhood burning. I saw everything I had known disappear.

The irony didn't escape me. I spent fifteen years trying to be normal, and in the end, it was the fire that set me free. What a genius.

---

We ran until dawn. No destination. No plan. No future.

I gazed at the starry sky as smoke rose from my house and thought: _That's it. There's nothing left to lose._

---

Narrator: Katarina (The Witch)

I left the village when I was sixteen.

There was no goodbye. There were no tears. Just me, the road, and the fragment burning inside my chest like a black flame.

I took only what would fit in a leather backpack: a change of clothes, a rusty dagger my father never learned to use, some stale bread and salty cheese. The rest – the bed where I slept for sixteen years, the wooden toys my grandfather carved for me, the blue dress my mother said made me look pretty – all stayed behind.

I didn't miss it.

Perhaps something was broken inside me. Perhaps the fragment I had absorbed in the cave had consumed my capacity to feel nostalgia. Or perhaps I simply knew, from that first silent night behind the waterfall, that that place had never been my home.

My home was ahead.

Somewhere I didn't know yet.

I walked south.

Not for any particular reason – just because the south was the opposite direction from the icy sea to the north, and I didn't want to end my days as just another frozen corpse on the coast of Winterhold .

The first few weeks were difficult.

I slept in stables when I was lucky. In ditches when I wasn't. I stole fruit from other people's orchards and ate raw mushrooms picked by the roadside. I learned to distinguish the poisonous from the edible ones the same way I learned everything back then – by making mistakes, vomiting, almost dying, and never making the same mistake twice.

My body was changing.

Not visibly – I remained the same skinny girl with dark hair and strange eyes who had left the village. But something inside me was expanding. The fragment pulsed on alternate days, sometimes hot, sometimes cold, sometimes completely silent – and I felt, with each pulse, that I was growing. Maturing. Becoming something that didn't yet have a name.

The first time I used magic was by accident.

Or perhaps it wasn't an accident. Perhaps the fragment chose that moment – a drunken man in a filthy tavern, his fat hands gripping my arm, his foul breath against my face.

He wanted something I wasn't willing to give him.

I refused.

He insisted.

And then, before I could think, before I could decide, something came out of me. Not a word – a thought. Not a gesture – an intention.

The man fell.

He didn't faint. He didn't die. He simply fell, as if his legs had ceased to exist. His wide eyes stared at me from the ground, and I saw fear in them – fear of me.

That night, I discovered that the fragment was not just a source of power.

It was an extension of my will.

And I could use it to do anything.

next two years wandering around southern Skyrim .

I visited villages that weren't on the maps. I crossed forests where the sunlight never touched the ground. I slept in the ruins of forgotten fortresses and woke up with ghosts whispering in my ears.

I learned on my own.

I had no teachers – not back then. Every spell I discovered, every potion I invented, every survival trick I mastered, was acquired through trial and error and stubbornness. I fell many times. I hurt myself. I burned myself. I poisoned myself.

But I never died.

The fragment wouldn't let me die.

When I turned eighteen, I arrived at Reach .

The mountains rose all around like stone fingers pointing to the sky. The rivers ran cold and fast, carving deep gorges that seemed like open wounds in the earth. The trees were twisted, the bushes thorny, the animals wary.

It was a tough place.

A place that did not welcome the weak.

I loved Reach from the very first moment.

Not for what he was – but for what he allowed me to be. In Reach , nobody asked where you came from. Nobody cared about your past. The only thing that mattered was what you could do – and what you were willing to do to survive.

It was in Reach that I found my first coven .

There were six women.

They lived in a hidden cabin in a valley that no map recorded. Their leader was called Elara – an old woman, very old, with gray hair and eyes that saw things that ordinary eyes could not see.

She found me wandering through the forest.

"You reek of power," he said, without offering any greetings. "And of fear."

"I'm not afraid," I lied.

Elara laughed. A dry sound, like branches breaking.

Then you're foolish. The two things together will kill you.

She invited me to stay.

I was left.

I spent three years in that coven .

Elara taught me what I hadn't been able to learn on my own. Real magic – not the crude tricks I discovered by accident, but the art of shaping reality with words and gestures. She showed me how to extract poison from plants, how to stitch wounds with invisible threads, how to read the stars as if they were letters in an ancient book.

The other women were suspicious of me at first.

They were all older, more experienced. Some had spent decades in the coven . I was the newcomer, the outsider, the strange girl who had appeared out of nowhere wielding a power that no one could identify.

But over time, they accepted my presence.

One of them, named Brynja , went beyond acceptance.

Brynja was a tall, red-haired woman with broad shoulders and hands that seemed made for wielding axes rather than wands. She claimed her magic was weak, but her skill with herbs was legendary – she could cure an infection that no other healer could even identify.

Brynja was the one who took me to bed for the first time.

It happened in winter.

The fire burned low in the fireplace, and the snow beat against the windows with the violence of northern storms . The other women had already retired to their rooms. Only the two of us remained , sitting on the kitchen floor, silently drinking warm mead .

"You're beautiful," she said. It wasn't a compliment—it was an observation. Like saying that snow is cold.

"You too," I replied, because it was true.

Brynja wasn't beautiful in the conventional sense. Her face was scarred by smallpox, her nose was broken and poorly repaired, her teeth were uneven. But there was something about her—a strength, a presence—that made her irresistible.

She approached.

His breath smelled of honey and spices.

His lips touched mine.

That night, I learned that sex could be more than pleasure. It could be power. Surrender. Discovery. Every touch of Brynja on my skin was uncharted territory being explored. Every moan I elicited from her was a victory.

She taught me that my body was a weapon as sharp as any spell.

And I learned quickly.

I spent years alternating between the coven and the road.

Elara used to say that I had the soul of a she-wolf – not a werewolf, not yet at that time – but the soul of a lone she-wolf, who needs the pack to survive the winter, but who is never content to stay still.

She was right.

I would return to the coven , stay for a few weeks, a few months. I would help with the potions, teach the younger ones, participate in the full moon rituals. But there would always come a day when the fragment burned stronger, and I knew it was time to leave.

Brynja never complained.

She just watched me pack my backpack, her green eyes shining in the dim light, and said:

Come back when you get tired of the world.

I always came back.

It was on one of these turns that I learned the spell that Brynja called "the extension of the will".

She taught me that magic didn't have to be just destruction or healing. It could be pleasure. It could be creation. It could be a bridge between desire and the body.

"Close your eyes," she said, sitting naked before me, the fire in the fireplace casting shadows on her skin. "Think about what you want. Not with words. With your body."

I tried. I felt the fragment pulse. My hands grew warm.

— Now mold it — she whispered.

The energy that flowed from me wasn't violent like in combat spells. It was soft, liquid, warm. It coiled between my hands like smoke, then solidified into the form of flesh and magic.

A dildo . Translucent. Warm to the touch. Perfectly smooth, perfectly firm, perfectly the size I wanted at that moment.

Brynja smiled.

I knew you would learn quickly.

That night, after Brynja fell asleep, I was left alone with my creation.

I lay on my back on the wolf skins, the fire already low in the fireplace, only reddish embers illuminating the room. I held the magic object between my fingers. It pulsed slightly, as if it had a life of its own. It was warm – warmer than flesh, warmer than anything I had ever touched.

I lowered my hand between my thighs. I was already wet – not just from what I'd done with Brynja , but from the anticipation of what was to come.

I placed the tip of the dildo against the entrance of my vagina. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming. It wasn't like a finger, it wasn't like a penis – it was something in between, slippery and firm, pulsing at the same frequency as the fragment inside my chest.

I pushed slowly.

He entered me with such ease that it took my breath away. Every inch slid inside me as if he knew exactly where to go – as if he knew my body better than I knew myself.

When he was fully inside, I stopped. I felt him filling me completely, warm and vibrant, touching places no lover had ever reached before.

I started to move.

Slowly at first. Pushing and pulling at a pace I controlled myself. Each time he entered, my inner walls contracted around him. Each time he withdrew, I felt an immediate and unbearable emptiness – and I needed to have him back.

I increased the pace.

My body began to sweat. My breasts swayed with every movement. My breathing turned into low moans that I didn't even try to stifle – there was no one to hear, except Brynja , who was fast asleep beside me.

I used my free hand to stimulate my clitoris while the dildo magically continued moving inside me, obeying my will, speeding up when I wanted it to speed up, going deeper when I wanted more.

I felt the orgasm rising.

Not like a wave – like an eruption.

It started at my toes, moved up my legs, squeezed my belly, and exploded between my thighs. My whole body arched against the wolf skin. My mouth opened in a silent moan. My eyes rolled back.

When the pleasure finally subsided, I was panting, covered in sweat, with the dildo still inside me, throbbing gently.

I never again needed to depend on men to feel something inside me.

I used the creation on myself many times after that night. And on other women. And on other men, when I wanted to turn the tables – when I wanted to be the one penetrating, not the one being penetrated.

Magic gave me freedom.

And I never gave her up again.

And we always found a way to celebrate our reunion – in bed, on the forest floor, against the barn wall. Brynja wasn't jealous. She knew I belonged to myself before I belonged to anyone else.

Perhaps that's why I stayed with her for so long.

It was on one of those trips that I met Rebecca's father.

I was in my early twenties – remembering numbers was never important to me. What mattered was what they represented, not who they were.

He was a member of the Circle of Companions of Whiterun .

Tall, strong, with dark hair and eyes that changed color depending on the light – sometimes brown, sometimes golden, sometimes somewhere in between. He had the beast inside him, just as I had the fragment. We recognized each other immediately.

It wasn't love.

It was attraction. Recognition. The certainty that, for a few nights, we could stop hiding.

He met me in a tavern near Rorikstead . We drank. We talked. He spoke of the Companions, of honor, of controlling the beast within . I spoke of the coven , of the fragment, of the power that burned within me, never to be extinguished.

He wasn't afraid of me.

Perhaps that's why I agreed to go to bed with him.

He turned me around before I could even say a word. My hands found the cold wall of the cabin, my breasts pressed against the rough wood, my legs spread wide enough for him to fit between them.

"Like this," he growled against my ear. "Stay like this."

It was fast. Intense. Animalistic. Not in the sense of lycanthropy – although we both knew what the other was – but in the sense of urgency. As if we knew time was short.

He entered me from behind with a single thrust. I gasped, my fingers scraping against the wooden wall. His hands were large and rough – one gripped my waist, the other moved up my stomach to my breasts, squeezing, pulling, shaping.

"Is this how you like it?" he asked, his voice deep, the rhythm starting slow and profound.

"Yes," I replied, because it was true.

Each thrust pushed me against the wall. My nipples brushed against the wood with every movement, creating a friction that mingled with the pleasure growing inside me. I moaned softly, biting my lips, my loose hair swaying down my back.

He sped up. His hand on my waist tightened, pulling me against him with each thrust. I could feel every inch of him inside me – the thickness, the heat, the way he filled me completely.

"No, stop," I pleaded.

He didn't stop.

His mouth was hot against my back, wet kisses trailing down my spine as he continued to fuck me against the wall. His breathing was heavy, uneven, low moans lost in the sound of our bodies colliding.

When I came, it was with a moan caught in my throat, my body tightening around him, my legs threatening to give way. He held me tight, continued moving for a few more thrusts, and then came inside me with a guttural grunt.

We stayed like that for a moment. He leaned against me, panting. I leaned against the wall, trembling.

There were no statements. There were no promises.

He simply walked away, put on his clothes, and lay down on the floor as if nothing had happened.

Me too.

Just two lonely creatures sharing the same roof for one night.

Or three nights.

Or a week.

I don't remember anymore.

I know that when I left, he was still asleep. His chest rose and fell in a calm rhythm, and for a moment I thought about staying. About waking him with a kiss. About saying something other than goodbye.

But I wasn't one of those.

So I just got dressed, grabbed my backpack, and disappeared down the road.

I found out I was pregnant months later.

It wasn't a surprise – I knew, somehow, from the first night. The fragment told me even before my body showed any signs. There was a new pulse inside me, small and warm, completely different from the coldness of the fragment.

She was mine.

And I didn't know what to do with it.

I considered all possibilities. I visited healers. I visited midwives. I visited witches who knew ancient methods to make what shouldn't grow stop growing.

But I couldn't.

Not because I was maternal. Not because I wanted to be a mother. But because the fragment within me recognized something in that child – something ancient, something powerful, something that deserved to exist.

So I let it grow.

Rebecca was born on a stormy night.

The snow was falling so thickly that you couldn't see your hand in front of your eyes. I was alone in an abandoned cabin in the mountains south of Falkreath , with only the fragment and my own hands to bring my daughter into the world.

She was born silent.

She didn't cry. She just opened her eyes – clear blue eyes, like a spring sky – and stared at me with a calmness that wasn't that of a newborn.

I held her against my chest.

She was warm. Small. Perfect.

And I knew, at that moment, that I couldn't be with her.

Not because I didn't want to – but because the fragment was already burning harder than ever, and something was wrong with me. Something dangerous. Something a small child shouldn't have around.

I spent three weeks with Rebecca.

I loved her in my own way – silent, distant, but true. I gave her a name that meant "she who unites." Because she would unite things that I couldn't unite on my own.

And then, one night, I left her on the doorstep of a house I had been watching for days .

A couple. Good. Simple. No children. They would take better care of her than I ever could.

I knocked on the door. I hid behind the trees.

I watched the man open the door, find the wicker basket, hear the baby crying. I watched his wife run outside, cover Rebecca with a blanket, and cry tears of joy.

I never went back to that house again.

Not because I didn't want to. But because I knew that if I went back, I wouldn't be able to leave again.

And I needed to leave.

The fragment was burning.

And something inside me told me that my daughter needed to be human for a little longer – before the world called her back to who she truly was.

I spent the following years as I always have: wandering, learning, growing.

I went back to the coven . Brynja was still there, older, more tired, but still with the same crooked smile. She didn't ask about what happened. She just hugged me.

"You're different," he said.

"I am different," I replied.

She didn't insist.

That night, we made love as if it were the last time. And perhaps it was – because I knew, deep down, that I couldn't stay.

The coven was too small for me right now.

The world was big.

And I still had a lot to learn.

It was after the coven that I found the way to Volkihar .

The fragment within me began to change in the fifth grade.

No longer a dormant ember – but a flame that grew, stretching outward from me like invisible roots. I felt something. Someone. A distant presence that called to me without words.

The call came from the north . From the frozen sea.

I spent months following that feeling. I crossed swamps, climbed mountains, followed the coast until the air was so cold that every breath hurt. That's how I found a vampire.

He was dying.

Lying on the dark sand, his injuries didn't seem accidental. Someone had tried to kill him – and almost succeeded. His chest was ripped open, his pale skin covered in dried blood, his eyes slowly closing.

The sun was low on the horizon. In a few hours, he would be truly dead.

I should move on. Vampires didn't deserve my pity. They were predators. Monsters.

But something in that look made me hesitate.

Not the pain. Not the fear of death. There was something more – a depth, an antiquity, a brilliance that did not belong to an ordinary vampire.

"Witch," he whispered, his voice weak, his lips stained with blood. "You feel it. The power within you... I feel it."

"Who are you?" I asked , without approaching.

"Just a vampire," he replied. "One who will die if you don't help."

He lied. I knew he was lying. The fragment inside me burned hotter with every second I spent near that man. He wasn't "just a vampire."

But something was pulling me. Something that wasn't reason. It was instinct.

"What's your name?" I asked .

— Vighar .

I knelt on the sand beside him. My hands glowed with restorative magic—something I hated using, but which the fragment made easy. The vampire's flesh closed before my eyes. The deep wounds began to heal.

It took him hours to recover.

When he finally stood up, his eyes were no longer just glazed with pain. There was something new in them. Respect. Interest. Perhaps a debt he knew he could never fully repay.

"You could have followed," he said. "Why didn't you?"

"I don't know," I replied, and it was true.

He smiled. A tired, old smile.

I will take her to a place. A place where her power will be understood.

And so we arrived at Volkihar .

---

The castle rose above the frozen sea like a black claw ready to tear the sky. Pointed towers, dark walls, a silence that weighed on the shoulders like a leaden cloak.

Vighar walked ahead of me. The gate guards bowed their heads when they recognized him – but their eyes widened when they saw me.

"A mortal?" one of them whispered.

"A guest," Vighar replied. "And someone who owes me something."

He didn't say who he really was. Not yet.

We were received in the great hall. Harkon was on his throne – tall, pale, with eyes that blazed like embers. The aura of power around him was suffocating. But the fragment within me did not retreat.

"Brother," Harkon said, standing up. "You're alive."

"Thanks to her," Vighar replied, pointing at me.

Harkon studied me for a long moment. His eyes scanned my face, my hands, the invisible gleam of the fragment that he seemed able to see.

"A witch," he said. "With ancient power."

"She saved my life," Vighar insisted. "I ask that she be welcomed into our home."

Harkon fell silent. The entire hall held its breath.

"So be it," he said finally. "You will have a room. Access to the library. Freedom to move around. In return, you will serve Volkihar when needed."

I accepted.

Not because I wanted to serve. But because the fragment inside me whispered that this was the right place.

---

That's how I met Vighar .

And later, Harkon .

In the following months, I became involved with Vighar . Not love – something closer to recognition. Two ancient creatures, each carrying secrets they couldn't share with anyone.

It happened for the first time in the library.

It was night—not that it made any difference in Volkihar , where the sun never shone. I was alone, leaning over a yellowed tome that spoke of souls and fragments, when I heard his footsteps.

Vighar entered silently. But I already knew he was there. The fragment always warned me when he was approaching.

— Katarina — he said.

I closed the book. I turned around.

He was different that night. More human, if an ancient vampire could be called human. His eyes didn't gleam with hunger – they gleamed with something else.

"I never really thanked you properly," he said. "For what you did. For saving me."

- You don't need to say thank you.

— I know. That's why I'm here.

He approached. Slowly. As if giving me time to back away.

I did not back down.

Vighar stopped an inch from me. His breath was cold – but not the cold of death. Something older. Calmer.

"Since I arrived in Volkihar ," he continued, "you haven't asked for anything. You haven't asked for power. You haven't asked for immortality. You haven't asked to be transformed."

I don't want those things.

So what do you want?

The question remained unanswered between us.

I didn't know how to answer. Or maybe I didn't want to.

He touched my face. His hand was cold – but not uncomfortable. The vampires' coldness no longer bothered me. The fragment transformed it into something almost comforting.

"I want you," he said. "That's all. Just for one night."

"Just for one night?" I repeated , a smile playing on my lips.

Or more. If you want.

I didn't respond with words.

I kissed him first.

His lips were cold, but his tongue was warm – a contradiction only ancient vampires could sustain. He pressed me against the bookshelf, the wooden shelves creaking under the weight of our bodies. Ancient tomes fell to the floor, but neither of us cared.

His hands moved quickly down my body. Not violently – urgently. As if he had waited centuries for that moment and didn't want to waste another second.

He didn't bite my neck.

That surprised me. Vampires always bite. It's instinct. It's a need. But not Vighar . He buried his face in my neck, inhaled my scent, groaned softly – but his fangs didn't touch my skin.

"Why don't you bite?" I asked , breathless.

"Because I don't want this to be about hunger," he replied against my ear. "I want it to be about you."

His hands pulled down my leather pants with a brusque movement. The fabric slid down my thighs, stopping at my knees. I was wet – ready – from the moment he touched me.

He lifted me as if I weighed nothing. My back pressed against the bookshelf. My arms wrapped around his neck. My legs spread open for him.

Vighar entered me with a muffled moan.

It was slow at first. Profound. Every inch celebrated as if it were the first. The wood of the bookshelf creaked behind me, the books fell one by one, but I couldn't hear anything but our breathing – his cold, mine warm – and the sound of our bodies meeting.

— Katarina — he whispered my name as if it were a prayer.

He sped up. His hands tightened around my waist, pulling me against him with each thrust. I felt every inch of him inside me – the thickness, the length, the way he filled me completely.

My fingers dug into his dark hair. I pulled. He groaned.

"Like this," I said. "Don't stop."

He didn't stop.

The orgasm came like a wave – building slowly, then crashing over me with a force that made me squeeze my eyes shut and bite my lip to keep from screaming. My body contracted around him, my legs trembled, my back arched against the books.

Vighar then came with a low, prolonged moan, buried deep inside me.

We stayed like that for a moment. He leaned against me, panting. I trembled against the bookshelf.

Then he stepped away. He helped pull my pants back up. He straightened his own clothes.

"Just for one night?" I asked , repeating his words.

He smiled. A tired, old smile – but a genuine one.

Or more.

And there was more.

Much more.

Harkon was always around. Watching. Not jealously – curiously. He respected Vighar . And, in time, he came to respect me too.

Valerica was the first to suspect something.

"You're not here just out of gratitude," she said one night, while I was reading one of the yellowed tomes in the library.

"No," I replied. "I'm here because something called me. And I still haven't discovered what it is."

She didn't ask any more questions.

When Brunna was born, years later, everyone in the castle speculated. Some said she was Harkon 's daughter – which explained the affection he showed for the girl. Others said she was Vighar 's daughter , but kept their guesses secret, for fear of offending the lord of the castle.

The truth was known to only four people: me, Harkon , Vighar , and Valerica .

Brunna was Vighar 's daughter .

But Harkon treated her as if she were his own. Because he loved his brother. Because Brunna was his niece – and, for such an ancient vampire, family was all that remained.

And I never told the truth to anyone.

Not even Brunna .

Not yet.

 

The village had no name.

It lay hidden among the mountains in northern Skyrim, so remote that not even merchants ever reached it. In winter, snow covered the rooftops for eight months. In summer, the thaw turned the streets to mud.

The people there were hard and silent. They gazed at the horizon as if waiting for something—but they never said what.

It was there I was born. It was there I learned to walk, to speak, and to hold my tongue.

And it was there I found the cave.

I was eight or nine years old when I discovered the fissure behind the waterfall.

The water made no sound that day. The noise had simply vanished, as if the world were holding its breath. I should have run home. But curiosity won out.

I stepped inside.

The darkness within the cave was unlike the darkness of night. It was denser, heavier—as if the air had turned to water and I was diving into a black lake.

Something was there.

Not a creature. Not a being with eyes and teeth. Something older. A presence that occupied no space, yet filled everything.

It spoke. Not with words—but with thoughts that were not my own.

*You feel it. That which lies dormant. That which has always been here.*

My hands moved of their own accord. They groped along the dark ground. My fingers found something smooth, cold, and vibrant.

A fragment.

It was not stone. Not bone. Not metal. It was a piece of something greater—something that had been shattered, scattered, and forgotten.

*Take it.*

My fingers closed around it. Pain struck instantly—not physical pain, but pain of the soul. It was as if something were being torn from me while something else was implanted in its place.

I screamed. Or perhaps I didn't. The silence swallowed everything. When I woke up, I was lying at the edge of the pool behind the waterfall.

The water was making noise again. There was no fragment in my hand. But something had changed.

I perceived the world in a new way. The trees had voices. The stones held memories. The wind carried scents I had never noticed before.

I spent the following years learning to hide. The village did not forgive those who were different. I had already seen what they did to the strange ones—those who talked to themselves, those who knew things they shouldn't.

I pretended to be normal.

But deep inside, the fragment pulsed.

And in time, I learned to use it.

When I turned sixteen, I left the village.

There were no farewells. No tears. Just me, the road, and the fragment burning within my chest like a black flame.

I never returned.

Not out of anger. But because the place I had known, the girl I had been—all of that had died inside the cave, along with the silence, along with the voice.

I was no longer Katarina, the daughter of no one.

I was Katarina, the one who carried a fragment of what came before the gods.

And that, I knew, would make me both powerful and cursed.