The world shudders. Black ink seeps through the air as the twisting halls of Apocrypha form around you. Far ahead, a towering figure stands, speaking in a low, commanding tone to his monstrous minions — shadows of flesh and eyes. His voice echoes through the shifting void.

Miraak (to his minions): "...and so the First Dragonborn returns. The time has come to reclaim the fate that is rightfully mine. Soon, Solstheim will be under my control..."

Suddenly, his head jerks — sensing something. He turns sharply, eyes locking onto you.

"What?!"

With a sharp gesture of his hand, an invisible force strikes. Your knees buckle. You collapse, pinned to the ground by sheer magical will, helpless before him. His dragons circle above, growling but obedient. Miraak steps forward, looming.

"Ah... so you are Dragonborn. I can feel it. And yet..."

He glances briefly toward the dragons, then back to you.

"You have done little beyond killing a few dragons. You have no idea of the true power a Dragonborn can wield."

His voice grows colder, contempt radiating with every word.

"This realm is beyond you. You have no power here."