They had just slain the dragon Sahloknir, absorbing its soul as Delphine looked on with a mix of awe and fear. That night, lying in the inn at Windhelm, sleep did not come. Instead, a voice—velvet and ash—spoke from the dark.
"You have worn the chains of the False Empire long enough, outlander. Even the Greybeards bow to a dead god's edict. But I offer a different path. Wear my mask. Walk my way. Shake the dust of Red Mountain from your boots and rebuild what was stolen."
Paarthurnax bowed his horned head. And the Dragonborn, wearing the Visage of the Sharmat, sat upon the Not-Throne—a seat made from the broken Oghma Infinium and the bones of a dozen slain world-eaters.
"You served a god who burned worlds," Dagoth said. "I offer a god who will dream one anew. Join us, or be unmade by the very concept of tomorrow."
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