History becomes a battlefield, and the Dominion seeks to dictate the tale.

  The main hall still smelled of damp plaster and freshly polished wood. Scaffolding surrounded the alcoves, cluttered with ropes, crates, and tools. Workers bustled in every direction, hauling wrapped busts or lifting carved stone slabs into place. The noise was constant, but not chaotic. Every piece found its place.

  At the center of the hall, beneath the newly restored dome, a sharp cone of light fell upon a pedestal still awaiting its statue. Auryen Morellus stood with arms crossed, his gaze both proud and critical.

  Draped in a practical traveling robe with sleeves rolled up, he supervised the work with a sharp tone, often peppered with remarks about "archaeological integrity" or the "blasphemous placement of a Dwemer pedestal." Nothing escaped his judgment unless it was precisely where it belonged.

  Two workers -massive Orsimer- passed in front of him, bent under the weight of a carved column still streaked with dust from the quarry. Auryen frowned and followed briskly.

  “Gentlemen, that column goes in the reception hall. Not Natural Sciences.”

  The two porters grunted in what might have been agreement. Without pausing, they turned as one, beginning a careful pivot with the column still balanced on their shoulders. Auryen ducked just in time to avoid the base brushing dangerously close to his temple.

  He sighed, ready to resume his rounds, when a ripple of tension passed through the air. A wave of silence spread across the nave, subtle, but unmistakable. The workers slowly stepped aside, their movements stilled.

  A figure had entered unannounced, clad in black robes embroidered with silver.

  Auryen dusted off his robe, masking the sudden stiffness in his posture. He grimaced slightly at the white smudges now staining the fabric.

  “Master Orondil,” he said with measured neutrality. “What a charming surprise.”

  The Thalmor stopped at a deliberate distance, hands clasped behind his back, expression composed. A flicker of disdain twitched at the corners of his mouth as he scanned the hall. His aquiline nose wrinkled, offended by the scent of damp plaster.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “My visit is not an inspection, Professor Morellus. Merely… a diplomatic reminder. A friendly clarification between enlightened Altmer.”

  Auryen raised an eyebrow, wiped his fingers on a cloth tucked into his belt, and descended a few steps toward him.

  “I’m listening.”

  “The Aldmeri Dominion wishes to remind you that any relics of Aldmeri, Altmeri, or related origin remain the rightful property of our people. Their transfer or display outside the authority of the Council may be interpreted as… smuggling.”

  Auryen offered a faint smile. Around them, the workers slowly resumed their tasks.

  “Fascinating. And yet, last I checked my credentials, they still read ‘Curator of the Solitude Historical Museum’, not ‘highway smuggler.’”

  Orondil reluctantly stepped aside as a cart full of debris rumbled past, though his hands never left their formal grip behind his back.

  “The Dominion doesn’t question your loyalty, of course. But the items you’ve begun to gather here... touch sensitive domains. Ancient magic. Forgotten texts. Artifacts tied to bloodlines the Empire might have preferred erased. You see the concern?”

  “I see that history doesn’t belong to those who try to censor it, Master Orondil. And erasing a name from a scroll doesn’t erase its consequences.”

  The Justiciar’s smile tightened. His eyes narrowed.

  “Such bitter words for a man of science. I suppose, after so many years in the Empire, you’ve picked up some of their habits.”

  Auryen held his gaze for a moment. Then, without a word, he turned away and gestured broadly to the hall alive with movement.

  “This museum will be a place of memory, not propaganda. The Nords deserve to know what their ancestors left behind... and what was taken from them. If that troubles your administration, I invite you to file a formal complaint. In writing. Ten copies.”

  “I’m sure you will. And I’m equally sure the Archmage will support your… historical ambitions. If consulted.”

  Auryen stiffened, just for an instant.

  Orondil offered a shallow nod -cold and precise- then turned to leave.

  “Best of luck, Professor. And do be careful. Museums are delicate places. Coveted places. Accidents tend to happen.”

  Without another word, he vanished beyond the doors, leaving behind a chill sharper than the one waiting in the snow outside.

  Auryen stood still for a long moment. The noise around him hadn’t changed, but the morning’s sense of purpose suddenly felt distant, hollow.

  He drew a slow breath, descended the last of the stairs, and slipped into his study. The only room somewhat in order, still filled with the scent of leather, wax, and ink.

  He closed the door gently behind him.

  At his desk, he unrolled a blank parchment. Paused.

  The visit hadn’t surprised him. And yet… he hadn’t expected the noose to tighten so soon. No one had cared when he purchased the Hall. But the arrival of those first crates -relics gathered across years of quiet expeditions- must have drawn the attention of the wrong kind of eye.

  The parchment crinkled under his clenched fingers. Jaw tight, quill in hand, he began to write, firm and deliberate:

  “Seeking adventurous associate(s), willing to explore Skyrim’s forgotten corners to preserve and document the remnants of the past.”

  He stopped. Crossed out “document.”

  Replaced it with:

  “…protect.”