"Lady Moonshadow, how are we supposed to cross this sea?" Brelyna frowned, worried—after all, not everyone had learned a flight spell.
"We'll sail across," Moonshadow said, standing at the edge of the pitch-black water.
She lifted her voice in a clear, soaring chant, bright as a skylark cutting through the clouds.
The drawn-out, lilting syllables were spoken in an ancient tongue no one present could recognize.
Everyone felt the tremor of magical aura.
Magicka was everywhere—even in the abyssal realm of Oblivion.
It answered Moonshadow's call, gathering over the sea. A massive Oblivion Gate opened, and amid everyone's cries of surprise, the beautiful North Sea Ghost glided out slowly—like a warp-jumping starship—teleported from the harbor of Raven Rock on Solstheim to this desolate shoreline.
The crew poured onto the deck, gripping the rail and staring out. They'd been eating lunch down in the cabin, and then—without warning—they'd dropped straight into an Oblivion realm. The shock nearly made half of them faint.
"Hey!" the Dragonborn shouted. "Over here!"
Lydia spotted them and immediately went to prepare the rope ladder.
One by one, everyone climbed aboard.
Neloth was fascinated by the ship's structure and power system, but now wasn't the time for sightseeing. There was still fighting ahead.
"We set sail."
"Where to, my lady?" The sailors stood ramrod straight.
"Twilight will show the way." Moonshadow cupped her hands before her lips and breathed gently. A tiny cluster of silver fireflies drifted out, as if a pinch of powdered moon-snow had been hidden in her palms.
The fireflies flew toward the black sea, releasing a dim, phosphorescent glow that stretched into a faint ribbon of light. Many elderly navigators swore there was a special phenomenon on the ocean—something that appeared in desperate moments of being lost at sea, guiding ships toward the right direction: the spirit-light of the deep.
Across the bleak, lightless sea, the iron-plated steamship sounded its whistle.
The sky trembled.
Tides of frost, flame, lightning, and shadow rose from the horizon like storm clouds, converging toward a single point high above. There, surging elemental bombardment bloomed like billions of fireworks—every brilliant trail that fell into the sea kicked up waves dozens of feet tall. Countless islands, floating islets, and the ancient temples upon them shattered under the aftershocks. A wind screaming at over a thousand miles per hour howled with a suffocating pressure that felt like it could burst a chest apart. The world seemed to be dying, holding its funeral in the most dazzling and terrifying way imaginable.
The North Sea Ghost drove into the deep.
Hermaeus Mora's vast, distant, cold command echoed over the water.
"My servants—destroy these outsiders. Bury them forever beneath the deep sea!"
From the lookout, a sailor shouted, "Something's under the water!"
The deep sea's kin rose in swarms—shapes that looked as if they'd crawled out of a fisherman's nightmare. Their torsos bore the structure of ancient aquatic creatures; their bodies were pale and long, their skin wrinkled and pleated like waterlogged hands. Their faces still faintly carried traces of once-humanoid races, while their eyes were as cloudy as rotting clam flesh. Evil magical aura rolled off them, and they reeked of a salty stench that wouldn't go away.
Daedra of Mora's realm marched on the North Sea Ghost. Their chitin-hulled warships rose from the sea, barnacles and twisted seaweed clinging all along the rails. On their decks stood countless fallen spellcasters—faces like octopi—waving thin, elongated arms as they gathered destructive elements and unleashed a relentless barrage at the North Sea Ghost.
At the bow, the Dragonborn threw back his head and laughed. "Now this is war!" This Nord seemed incapable of fear; the moment he planted himself at the front line, everyone else felt courage surge up from somewhere deep inside.
Professor Dumbledore drew the Elder Wand and flicked it with effortless grace. A blinding light shot from the tip and expanded into a luminous dome that wrapped the ship.
[Shield Charm]
Under ceaseless impacts—howling, draining wind-clusters and the slap of enormous waves—the shield created by the Shield Charm flashed again and again, yet still held with an unshakable, mountainlike poise.
Brelyna ran to the gun deck and directed the sailors to load the enchanted fireball cannons.
"Don't think the North Sea Ghost is just a cargo ship, Mora's lapdogs. Taste what Winterhold's cannons can do!"
Moonshadow served as acting captain. She put Aranea at the helm and stood beside her, calling commands to the helmsman and engine crew. "Hard to port. Ahead three."
The North Sea Ghost climbed the oncoming swell, then slid sideways down its face. Before reaching the trough, the hull yawed—one broadside turning toward the approaching Daedric warship, open gunports lining up with the enemy.
"Fire!"
Ten fireball cannons answered with a strangely quiet bark. Compared to gunpowder weapons, the muzzles were unnaturally wide, spitting basin-sized crimson fireballs that left ten glowing tails across the sea-swell. They slammed into the enemy ship at speed, then detonated violently.
Boom boom boom boom boom!
Neloth watched a chitin warship burn on the water—and watched even more enemy vessels rise like a locust swarm. He let out a cool, mocking chuckle. "War… heh. It's always like this."
He pulled on his brass helmet. Red light flared in the severe eye-slits of the faceplate, and the exhaust pipes on his back released a shriek like a steam whistle. The suit—despite looking heavy—lifted into the air. Then it accelerated in a sudden burst, crashing down on an enemy ship like a meteor to begin a frenzied boarding assault.
Endless deep sea creatures crawled over the Shield Charm's barrier like cockroaches clinging to a gauze curtain—like a spreading tide of rats—staring hungrily at the North Sea Ghost sealed within.
The Dragonborn saw the ironlike shield beginning to wobble under the nonstop onslaught, and even Dumbledore beside him was starting to strain.
He shot Dumbledore a look, then took a deep breath.
Dumbledore lowered his wand. The shield vanished, and the Daedra above immediately dropped toward the deck.
Facing the enemies falling from the sky, the Dragonborn opened his mouth and spoke with a dragon's command!
"Fus Ro Dah! (Fus, Ro, Dah!)"
[Dragon Shout: Unrelenting Force]
Thunder burst from a Nord man's lips!
A surging, pure force exploded outward—an irresistible gale. The Daedra that fell like raindrops were blown away like raindrops.
The North Sea Ghost pressed forward through towering waves and an encircling host.
Guided by the silver fireflies, the distant island was now clearly visible.
Mora's servant Miraak enslaved dragons with his Shout. They circled above the island, clustering around the First Dragonborn.
"Miraak—defeat these outsiders. Capture them."
"Hermaeus, I won't obey your commands for nothing."
"Disloyal servant! I permit your defiance—so long as you accomplish this, I will grant you freedom!"
"Deal." Wearing a dark-gold deep sea priest mask, Miraak laughed in satisfaction.
He looked up at the burning, shattered sky. The battle raging there far surpassed the clash he once fought with the Dragon Cult's high priest Vahlok—a duel that had torn the land itself.
Who was Hermaeus Mora fighting?
It didn't matter. Whether the Prince won or lost, Miraak's return to Tamriel—and the destiny of unifying the world—was inevitable.
The North Sea Ghost sounded its whistle again. This iron-plated steamship had become a warship, surging forward with a resolve that could not be stopped, charging straight toward Miraak's position.
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