"What the hell?" I took a step closer to the mirror, staring at my reflection in disbelief. The person looking back was still me, but at the same time it wasn't. I had the same thick, dark, curly hair. The same hazel eyes. The same olive skin with a light dusting of freckles (ugh) scattered across the bridge of my nose. But my curls were now streaked with highlights. And not the subtle, golden-brown ones that sometimes appeared during the summer. No, these were an aggressive, dazzling blond that went from the roots of my hair all the way to the tips. It looked like I had spent a full day getting my hair done in some upscale salon. Never mind that I had never set foot in such a place since the day I was born. My eyes appeared somehow wider and more luminous. The colour brighter, my eyelashes darker up against them. And, when I looked closely, my pupils seemed to be slitted almost like a cat. I looked down at my body. My skinny arms-which had always refused to gain any definition no matter how hard I exercised-were lined with flat, wiry muscles. My bony shoulders were now curved and smooth. My scrawny legs were toned like a dancer. I reached down and lifted my shirt, revealing two subtle lines running vertically down my perfectly flat stomach, hinting at the rock-hard abs underneath. My whole body was rippling with strength. Like liquid steel.

Mørke, an Argonian, travels to Skyrim in the hope of figuring out his life and future. What he finds is a world of magic and death. As he is dragged into a civil war and a destiny he never wanted. He is the Dovahkiin. Something dark stirs in Skyrim, and it's not just the dragons. The Dark Brotherhood is welcoming the Night Mother and Cicero, the jester fool. Will Mørke choose to join them? Will his shadow-scales make him perfect for the job? The Guild. The Thieves guild are falling, crumbling from inside out. Mercer Frey. He is the reason the Guild is dying. Will Mørke choose the life of a thief? Along with the life of an assassin? The Companions of Whiterun. Nobel, strong, respected. Mørke is none of those things. Sure he has talent with a blade but he is no Companion. He has about as much honour when fighting as a stick. Yet something about them intrigues him... Unwittingly will they allow a thief and a murderer into their circle? The great college of Winterhold. Mørke holds a certain.... talent with magic but he is no Arch-Mage, yet. Will he join the college and learn how to master his magic? Finally, Dovahkiin. Will he fall to the world-eater, Alduin, bane of kings, ancient shadow? Or will he perish to the lethal flame? Dragon blood. Curse or gift? Mørke will find out the hard way.

In a cityscape populated by individuals with magically inclined abilities powered by Colour, Athira is a hunter. Known only as the Owl, a notorious criminal with allegiances to none but herself, she searches for answers from the worst the city has to offer. No one is above her notice, and once noticed, there is no escape. When her search leads to a series of magical disturbances and a girl who was supposed to be dead, Athira's world of solitude shatters. Predictions from the lost Colour mark her friend a saviour, and as an ancient horror begins to rise, Athira starts to wonder who she should have been hunting all these years.