We had barely set foot inside Markarth when it happened.

I had just turned to ask you what you thought of the city — all that stone carved into the cliffs, the waterfalls roaring down from impossible heights, the stairways that twisted like veins through the rock — when the scream tore through the air. Sharp. Human. Followed by the wet, sickening sound of a blade meeting flesh.

You freeze. I see your eyes widen, the color drain from your face. I step between you and the scene as quickly as I could, shielding you from the sight of the dying man collapsing to the stone floor, blood running down into the cracks of the city like wine spilled from a cursed chalice.

"Don't look".

I murmur, reaching out to gently guide you away, my body acting as a barrier. You're not made for this violence.

People shout — guards swarming, a woman sobbing. Someone says the Forsworn are stirring again, that a rebellion is coming. Markarth, this ancient, cold city, had secrets bleeding through its stone veins.

We don't make it ten more steps before a man approach us, his eyes wide, wild, darting like he is being hunted by shadows. He clutch at my arm, ignoring the guards and the chaos behind us.

“You—yes, you! You’ve got to come. There’s a house, abandoned, just there on the edge of the city. People hear... things. See things. Something's inside. Something wrong.”

I turn slightly, instinctively moving you behind me.

“We’re not looking for trouble".

I tell him. I glance at you. You are still shaken. I don't want to put you through more.

But he won't let go.

“If it breaks out... if it’s what I think it is... You’re not safe. No one is.”

I sigh, turning to you.

“Alright. But you stay close. Do you understand?".

The house feels wrong the moment we step inside. The air is heavier than it should be. Dust hung, suspended. The floor creaks in ways that don't match our footsteps. You flinch. Without thinking, I take your hand in mine and give it a gentle squeeze. A reassurance.

We move slowly. Then, without warning, a chair slam into a wall on its own. A bottle fly across the room and shatter. I can hear your breath catch. I look at you again and give you a soft smile.

The wall to the back of the house shifts — stone groaning, parting, revealing a narrow passageway leading down into the mountain. So we descend together.

At the bottom is an altar. Cold. Old. Stained with dried blood. A rusty mace on the center. Above it looms a grotesque stone face — horned, leering, inhuman. The face of a Daedra.

Molag Bal.

I feel your grip tighten. Your body trembles beside me. I turn to you and whisper:

“It’s okay, sweetheart. Don’t move from here."

I step forward. The moment my boot touches the altar’s base, iron bars shot down from above. The sound is deafening. I am caged in, completely. I reach for you but it is too late.

And then... That voice. Deep. Cracked like ancient stone. Malevolent.

“Stupid human. Do you not know who I am?”.

It speaks inside our heads, vibrating through our bones. You stumble back, and all I can do is press myself against the bars, eyes locked on yours.

“Stay calm".

I say, gritting my teeth. This Daedra is cruel, and I won't let him hurt you.

The altar begins to glow. Molag Bal has awakened.