[so if you all are looking for another great fanfiction to read I recommend Skyrim: The Snow Prince (an Elder Scrolls Fanfic) its really good and Im giving credit to them for this chapter. i kinda copied them a tiny little bit] [ also discord code to join if anyone is interested, https://discord.gg/Cgxm3b8FyU]
My blade found his chest as we both careened through the collapsing portal. One moment, I had him pinned in the Ayleid chamber, my ice atronach roaring at my side as it impaled Arindor from behind, then the ground lurched, and sickly green light swallowed my vision.
The scholar's final scream rattled through my ears as the daedric magic yanked us both out of Nirn. Darkness swallowed me in an instant, a crushing, suffocating weight that made my stomach lurch.
A lurch in my gut told me I'd been yanked into a new realm. My boots hit solid ground, solid, in a vague sense—black and slick with what appeared to be books everywhere, with a gleam like oil on water. I staggered forward, trying to keep from pitching face-first into the gloom. Around me, the air was cold and wet, so thick it felt like I was breathing in pages of a moldy tome.
Slowly, I raised my head. A tall spire of twisting books jutted upward from the dark waters, stained greenish in the pale glow of ghostly lanterns. All across the horizon, more spines and towers of books. Countless shelves stretched out in the distance, stacked with enormous, rotting books. Some floated in midair, their covers flapping like wings. In the far reaches, I glimpsed swirling black pools. I recognized it from old stories. Apocrypha. Hermaeus Mora's plane.
I ground my teeth, cursing under my breath. So the scholar's dying act had dragged me here. Either some half-formed script in his final spell, or maybe the Daedric Prince himself, yanked me across the veil. I tried to just leave, but I felt something clamp down on the attempt, like invisible chains anchoring me to this realm. No matter how I pushed, I couldn't tear open a path back to Tamriel.
Nearby, the scholar's corpse lay face down in a shallow pool of black fluid, limbs contorted. His back had already bulged with slithering shapes. His expression was frozen in a final grimace, as though even in death he was consumed by terror. Blood (or maybe ink) spiraled in lazy eddies around his body.
I took a moment to catch my breath, forcing my mind to focus. If I hadn't killed him when I did, he'd have become something far worse. But that was cold comfort now. I was stuck in Apocrypha, with no immediate way out.
Still, I wasn't about to leave empty-handed. Kneeling, I rifled through the scholar's robes, ignoring the creeping stain that clung to the fabric. I pried free three scrolls, each sealed with wax of a different color—one crimson, one green, one a dull black. The scripts were covered in cryptic runes, the wax pressed with a symbol I didn't recognize. It could be the knowledge the guild leader wanted. Or the Dominion.
"Great," I muttered, stuffing them into my storage. "Better be worth nearly dying for."
A hollow gurgle echoed through the air, making me whirl around, sword raised. Several yards away, in the swirling ink of a deeper pool, a twisted shape was emerging. Seekers. Their robed bodies dripped with glistening slime, eyes blinking at irregular intervals. They scanned the environment with that unnatural stillness that always made my skin crawl.
Keeping my breathing steady, I retreated behind a leaning statue—some nightmarish depiction of an eye wreathed in tentacles. A Seeker glided closer, drifting in the air without any apparent effort. Its silhouette blurred with each movement, as though it was half dissolving into shadow. My heart thudded.
"Mortals do not tread here by chance," a voice whispered—everywhere and nowhere, layered with dissonant tones. "You amuse me, little Snow princess."
Mora's presence thrummed in the dark corners of my mind, slithering against my thoughts. That strange sense of him rifling through my memories made my stomach turn. He was searching for something interesting. I could practically feel his curiosity coil around my marks—the rose of Sanguine, the lily of Dibella, the green brand.
"Such conflicting influences… What secrets do you hold?"
A wet, slapping sound drew my attention—another Seeker drifting up from behind a battered desk stacked high with parchment. I needed to move before they converged on me. I wasn't certain how many summons I could maintain in Apocrypha, and if Mora himself decided to intervene, it wouldn't matter how strong I was.
Easing away from where I was hiding, I straightened my shoulders and started forward. The landscape in Apocrypha was never consistent, if old tales were to be believed—every corridor might shift, every door might lead somewhere new or back upon itself. But aimless wandering was better than standing still, waiting to be cornered.
The Seeker I'd seen earlier glided off the main path, apparently lost in its own silent patrol. Good. I rushed up the first flight, careful not to slip on the slick surface.
Squish, squish—my boots pressed into puddles, and the sound made me wince. I edged past the towering shelves, scanning for any sign of a gateway or portal. Usually, Daedric realms had some anchor point, an exit, right?
A flicker of movement caught my eye. Something slithered behind a row of dusty tomes. Instantly, I ducked, cursing softly. Another Seeker? Or something else entirely? A droplet of inky liquid splashed at my feet, and I crouched lower, heart hammering. If I ended up battling wave after wave, I'd be pinned down for good.
My boots slapped wet pages with every step as I pushed deeper into Apocrypha's labyrinth. Inky droplets trickled from high shelves and splashed on my shoulders, rolling down my cloak like cold sweat.
Seekers drifted through the aisles two at a time, their robes whisper‑hissing like dry reeds. Whenever their pale eyes blinked in my direction I pressed into the crook of a shelf and waited, breath shallow, until they slid past. Twice, I had to freeze mid‑stride while oily tentacles scraped the floor only a sword‑length away. The second time, one tendril brushed the hem of my cloak; my heart climbed into my throat, yet the creature glided on, trailing filaments that smoked where they touched the stone.
Mora's presence pulsed at the back of my skull. He was trying to read me. I could feel it. And then came the roar. It rolled through the stacks, echoing off pillars of tomes until the whole realm seemed to vibrate. Dragons shouldn't be here. But Apocrypha housed every forbidden secret ever penned, of course, it might prowl these skies. The thought turned my stomach. No thanks. I lengthened my stride and angled away from the booming cry, boots squelching faster.
A narrow bridge of slick black stone arched across a churning sea of ink ahead. I hurried onto it, skirts snapping around my knees. Halfway across, a geyser of green vapor burst from the liquid below, showering the bridge with stinging droplets. I hissed at the burn on my skin, but pressed on, refusing to look back.
At the far side, shelves parted around a low rotunda. On a pedestal in the center sat a single book, its cover bound in pallid leather that looked too much like skin. Gold letters spelled out a title in Falmeric runes.
The Doom of the Snow Prince — By the Hand of Shor's Luck
I swallowed hard. Every instinct screamed to grab it, to know. But I'd heard the cautionary tales: read the wrong volume here and you might never close its covers again. Shor—"the god of luck" to men—had orchestrated my people's downfall? If the book was true, it would carve that knowledge into my mind whether I wished it or not. With a shiver, I stepped back, forcing my gaze away.
"Curious, are you not?" Mora's voice spilled across the chamber like oil. "Answers to your blood's extinction lie open and waiting."
I bared my teeth. "Not at the price you're asking." A wet chuckle rippled through the air, then faded. I slipped past the rotunda, leaving the book untouched.
Corridors twisted again, rearranging in impossible geometry. I skirted a gang of Seekers tearing pages from a floating tome, each scrap dissolved into tendrils that curled into their bodies like smoke. Beyond them, an archway yawned, carved with dragon glyphs that pulsed faint amber. Cold wind howled through the opening; somewhere out there the roar sounded again, closer this time. I ducked into a side passage instead, narrow and cluttered with toppled scroll racks.
Ink pooled ankle‑deep at the far end. An iron ladder rose into shadow. I waded through, grimacing as chilled fluid seeped into my boots, and climbed. Rungs groaned but held. At the top, I emerged onto a balcony high over the ink sea. The vista stretched for what felt like miles, towers of books, islands of tattered parchment, and above them all a swirling aurora of green and gold.
I froze against the balustrade, clutching the cold iron rail so tightly the joints in my fingers burned. Far below, the black sea of ink writhed and spat columns of green vapor, each hiss echoing between the towers like a dying breath. Above that churning surface swooped the serpentine dragon, emerald‑scaled, its wings thinner than parchment yet strong enough to stir force winds with every downward beat.
And on its back sat a rider—tall, swathed in lacquered chitin armor, masked helm gleaming gold in Apocrypha's sickly light. One hand buried in the ridge of spines at the dragon's neck, the other raised in a commanding gesture. When he spoke, his voice came as a Thu'um: a single Shout that shattered silence like a crystal goblet hurled to stone.
"VEN‑GAAR‑NOS!"
The three syllables rolled through the realm in a shockwave strong enough to rattle entire book‑spires. Pages tore free in swirling cyclones and toppled from shelves in fluttering avalanches. The balcony beneath my boots quivered. I ducked, though the Shout hadn't been aimed at me. Below, a pair of Seekers that had drifted too close were torn apart mid‑air, their robes unraveling into black threads that dissolved before they hit the ink sea.
I didn't know the rider's name. Didn't need to. Anyone riding a dragon and hurling the Voice around Apocrypha like a toy had power so far above mine it might as well be a god. I had no illusions about winning that fight. I had to move now.
I backed away from the railing, then turned and sprinted along the length of the balcony. The floor shook again; dust cascaded from overhead beams. Somewhere behind me the dragon shrieked, that metallic‑edged cry reverberating through the shelves. Was the rider hunting something specific?
The balcony terminated at a spiral stair. I bounded down the first flight, boots slapping slick stone. Halfway, the whole tower lurched sideways under another shout. My foot slipped; I pin‑wheeled my arms and barely caught the rail before I tumbled into the abyss. A sharp pain lanced through my shoulder, but adrenaline drowned it out. I righted myself and kept going.
At the bottom, the stairs disgorged me onto a wide bridge suspended over the ink sea, no walls, just a modest rail on either side. Wind from the dragon's wings buffeted the span, making it sway. I lowered my stance, knees bent, and dashed.
Halfway across, a cyclone of torn parchment swept over the rail and battered me in a papery storm. I threw up an arm to shield my face. A massive flap of wingbeat followed—a pressure wave that nearly toppled me over the side. Through the maelstrom, I caught a glimpse—green scales flashing, eyes like molten brass. The dragon passed not twenty strides overhead, rider hunched low. I saw his masked helm swivel. Did he see me? There was no time to find out. I sprinted the last twenty steps, vaulted the end rail, and barreled through an arched doorway.
The corridor beyond was cramped, lined floor‑to‑ceiling with scroll tubes rammed in at odd angles. Some glowed faintly. Others oozed black ichor where cap and tube fused. The space bowed and bucked as another resonant Shout tore through the realm outside. Scrolls rattled like bones in a jar.
I burst into a narrow reading chamber, a single long table, piles of books, and ink wells still brimming with tar‑black fluid. Two Seekers were already here, hunched over open tomes. They rose as one when I stumbled in, their many eyes pulsing. I skidded to a stop, raised my hand, and snapped out a frost spell. Both hissed in anger, but slowed as ice climbed their tendrils.
I flung myself past, out through the opposite archway. A tight stairwell spiraled upward into gloom. Up or down? The dragon was outside. Down, then. I spun, leapt the first three steps, and plunged into the tightening spiral. Walls pressed close; the clamor behind me faded, replaced by my ragged breath echoing off damp stone.
Mid‑descent, a thought struck: Mora's chains kept me from planes‑walking out, what about short‑range? At the next landing, I risked it. I pictured a balcony I'd glimpsed earlier, lower, shielded by overhanging shelves. A half‑conscious tug, red‑smoke teleport—my body dissolved in a swirl of crimson vapor—
—and re‑formed a good fifty yards lower, knees buckling on cracked tiles. The world spun. Teleporting inside Apocrypha felt like diving through ice. Needles pricked under my skin; a voice—not Mora's, whispered in my ear.
Little snow‑blood, run and flee, but the pages keep turning. A hunter knows the snare before the prey does. Will you trade one cage for another? I offer a trail out of Mora's ink… for the promise of a Hunt.
My lungs labored; the stairwell behind me boomed as the dragon's firestorm raked stone. Sooty heat licked the doorway, driving me farther along the shelf. I clutched the railing, half‑bent, eyes darting for anywhere to run.
"What price?" The words rasped out of me before I could stop them.
One fair night beneath my moons, the voice answered—almost amused. Run with me when the Horns sound. Naught else. Earn your freedom on the chase, and I loose the fetters that bind you. Refuse, and stay Mora's morsel while the first Dragonborn burns every corner of this library to cinders.
Another gout of flame roared through the breach, molten paper raining in sizzling ribbons. Somewhere below, the rider shouted again—FAAS…—and the floor lurched.
I sucked a shaky breath. A night in some unknown Prince's realm? Probably a bed of teeth and snares. But Miraak's shadow swept the shelves in widening circles; his dragon's wings scoured whole galleries with fire. Staying here meant death.
"Fine," I hissed, fist tightening on my spear. "Show me the path."
Leap.
The voice yanked my gaze to the end of the overhang—nothing there except swirling void and a thin ribbon of green light far below. My stomach knotted. A trick? Probably. But the dragon's next pass blew a furnace blast through the gap, singeing my cloak.
I sprinted. At the ledge, I shoved power into my legs as I hurled myself into the emptiness. Wind tore a scream from my throat. The library blurred past; then the green ribbon widened into a ring, a circle of living vines floating in mid‑air. The instant I plunged through, invisible jaws snapped around me—
—night sky, twin moons, cold evergreen air. I slammed onto frosted grass, rolled twice, and choked on the shock of clean scents after Apocrypha's rot. When I staggered up, I was standing in a vast pine clearing under stars so clear they hurt my eyes. Wolves howled in the distance—dozens, answering one another in rising, fevered cadence.
Across the glade stood a figure in silvered antlered mail. Tall, broad‑shouldered, eyes lambent gold beneath a great elk‑skull helm. In one hand he carried a long black spear tipped with crescent fangs; in the other, a rawhide leash that ended in empty air. but worst was that he was naked, and holy fuck was he hung.
"Welcome, fleet‑foot," the Hunter said—his real voice this time, rolling across the frost like drumbeats. "Your scent has teased me for two winters and a day. Tonight you drink, eat, rest."
Frosty grass prickled beneath my bare soles when I finally caught my balance. A quick glance down. My armor was gone. Pale white flesh and the spiral brands of Dibella and Sanguine stood out starkly under Secunda's silver glow, along with my bush.
Across the glade, the antler‑helmed figure shifted his gargantuan spear to rest casually against one shoulder. The rawhide leash in his other fist hung slack, its free loop brushing the tops of frost‑rimmed ferns. Moonlight poured over him—and over every inch of him; there was nothing of modesty in the Hunt‑Lord. Powerful, built like one of the old marble heroes I'd seen in Cyrodiilic villas… except the sculptors had never dared that particular level of detail.
My gaze snapped up to the elk skull helm, its tines clawing at the sky. Golden eyes burned inside the sockets, appraising, hungry, but amused.
"I see the Frost‑Born does not shiver," he rumbled. Even soft, his words shook dew from the needled branches above. "Good."
I straightened, folding my arms in what shred of dignity remained. "You could've left me the cloak, at least."
"Could have," he allowed, voice threaded with a laugh. "But the reek of Mora's ink clung to every stitch. And—" he raised the leash, giving it a lazy twirl—"your guildmaster's scrying tether was woven into the seams. A most unsporting advantage for any who would stalk my quarry."
My jaw clenched. Of course. "Fine. But you could warn a girl."
A tilt of the skull. "Consider it lesson one: a hunter must adapt to the stripping of comforts."
"Noted." Reflexively, I brushed dirt from my thigh, then realized the absurdity of trying to stay tidy while naked in pine needles. Instead, I met his gaze, those molten pupils behind bone. "You said food, drink, and rest before the horns. Is that offer still standing?"
The Hunt‑Prince nodded once. "My lodge prepares the feast. Come." He turned, bare feet silent on frost, and started toward the great timber hall that hadn't been there a moment ago. It materialized with each stride, massive, rough‑hewn logs, antler sconces blazing with green witch‑fire, smoke curling from a vented roof.
The air was crisp, laced with pine and distant wood‑smoke; to me it felt like late spring despite the rime on the ground.
As we walked, distant howls wove through the forest—a rolling chorus of wolves, dire‑wolves, and much worse. My marks tingled: Sanguine's rose warmed, Dibella's lily fluttered, the vine marking seeming to pulse in this place, and, near ass, the fresh wolf‑print brand seemed to drum in time with the howls. Hircine's doing.
At the lodge threshold, he paused. "No mortal steel beyond this point." His gaze flicked to the spear in my grip that I had pulled out without thinking.
I spun it once, considering. I'd bargained for safe harbor. With a sigh I drove the spearhead into the earth, embedding it upright beside the doorway. Witch‑fire light glinted along its edge, then dimmed, as though the hall itself swallowed any thought of violence.
Inside, heat washed over me: a wide hearth crackled, logs big as I was tall spitting sparks up a stone chimney. Long tables bore roasted venison, honey‑glazed pheasant, wheels of white goat cheese, trenchers stacked with dark bread, and flagons of mead so fragrant my mouth watered immediately. A few fur‑draped benches circled the main firepit; racks of cured pelts hung along the walls, alongside primitive masks and trophies, massive curved fangs, a spriggan's petrified heartroot, and the skull of something draconic yet oddly lupine.
Hircine gestured to a bench. "Eat, drink." He strode toward a side alcove where a rack of horn mugs hung, reached for two, and filled them from a keg emblazoned with a howling‑wolf sigil. When he returned, he offered one to me.
Up close, the scent rising from the mug was pine‑resin and dark berries, a mead unlike any Breton brew. I took a careful sip. It was rich, smoky‑sweet, with a bite that traced fire down my spine. Warmth bloomed in my belly.