Preview of Book Two: One of Destiny

The mornings were cold, Aerin realized, and his company with the Skinner didn't really help. He found it odd about the type of welcome he was received by the Silver Hand—he thought that they would try to kill him on the spot. Unfortunately, they enjoyed torturing their victims than giving them the pleasure of a quick death.

"So, boy," the Skinner said as he sat at the table across from him. He didn't even move to glance at the fur-cloaked man. "You gonna tell me why you decided to come here?"

He came here after having a talk with Alodie. He realized that what he was doing—with Mjoll, with Riften—was an excuse to keep his past away from his future. He didn't want to have anything to do with the cult his father had once been the leader of. At all. In fact, he didn't even know what exactly he was supposed to do now that the Silver Hand wasn't trying to kill him. It was definitely confusing him.

He huffed. "I don't want anything from you." He glanced up into the stonework ceiling. The place was cold due to the lack of fire and the stones only seemed to bring the cold in rather than keep it out. He noticed that the Skinner was displeased as the dangerous man edged closer to him.

"You think this is a game, bastard. Eh?" The Skinner spat onto the table before him. "You really don't know what your father did, did you? You were just a child after all, hidden from us because your father couldn't admit to falling for one of them. And, once we found out, it tore our group apart. Spent twenty years before we could even call ourselves the Silver Hand again. And you think this is just a game." He laughed darkly before standing up. Aerin glared at the Nord as he walked away. "I would follow."

Since he had no real choice, he got up ready for anything. A few of the barbarians in silver armor glared at him as he walked the halls—most spitting towards his feet. He was used to the treatment after living here for a week, but he still felt ashamed. And alone.

Maybe this wasn't a good idea, he thought as he climbed the stairs of the tower with the Skinner. After all, he had left on a pure whim anyway. And Mjoll or Alodie hadn't found him yet—most likely due to the fact they didn't know that the Skinner took over one of the Stormcloak's forts after that battle.

The Skinner.

He sighed. That wasn't really his true name—no. Krev the Skinner was a beast now—a betrayer through and through. Once he hunted werewolves and now he became as beastly as them, dressing in their skins and parading around like the head of a pack. And the murderer of his father.

Brave, he thought lowly to himself. I have to be brave.

But, being brave wouldn't be enough.

The Skinner walked into the old dungeons, once they held criminals of Whiterun, now they held wolves. He led him to a prison in the corner—dark blood seeping through the cracks. He heard a low growl coming from the darkness then saw yellow eyes piercing the thick air like the two moons. The Skinner came up to the cell and laughed as if the werewolf was a court jester.

"Don't you see these fiends," he said, unlocking the door. Aerin's eyes widened. "They are little more than mutts. They are trained by instinct yet, in their human forms, try to forget. Forget that they even turned rabid in the first place." The Skinner opened the door fully to revel the werebeast, chained. The thing struggled in its bindings but couldn't bite at the Skinner for a small metal cage fit to trap a skeever held its teeth back.

Aerin noticed the dark blood all over the cell and nearly gagged, holding his mouth. The Skinner held his torch closer to the beast, showing an almost skeletal form of what was once a dangerous predator. He shivered again in fear causing the Skinner to laugh.

"You fear a dog, bastard. A broken down, old, beaten, dog. Do you know the reason why the Silver Hand hunts? Because no one else will. The Companions especially have lost what they once truly stood for. Mercenaries, barbarians, beasts—the lot of them. Hundreds of years ago they fought with us, the Silver Hand. We were a respected family in Whiterun—old, yet small. And we all joined and respected the Companions." His voice grew dark. "Until they made the deal."

He took out a brittle knife, the edges worn yet sharp. At this, Aerin took a step back, however, the knife never shined towards his direction. The Skinner's smile flickered with the torch light as he raised it, the werewolf's eyes reflecting in the metal.

"I know this," Aerin said shakily. "He—my father told me this story."

"He told you the wrong one." Was all the Skinner said to that before continuing. "One by one the Silver Hand fled the Companions that betrayed the five hundreds trust—exchanging Sovengaurd for power and dealing with a Deadric Lord. We left the betrayers with a fire burning in our hearts."

He raised the knife quickly before plunging it into the beast's arm—its roars echoing throughout the tower. Aerin blanched as the Skinner drew the knife down the beast's arm until it stuck in bone, pulling the weapon out of the poor animal. The blood trickled down like a waterfall, the beast squirming like a caught fish. And the Skinner only laughed.

"We left with a fire, and a promise, to kill all of these beasts until no more can the Companions drink the blood of the wolf. And, take back what we—as the true Companions—believe to be ours."

Aerin knew this story to be different, that the Skinner told true. As a small boy, his father had told him that the Silver-Hand family did deny the power given to them, but instead of promising to eradicate the werewolves, they lived a nomadic life as he once did before he came unto his father's fortune. He also never mentioned that the Companions had never wanted this-that it was a curse not a gift from a deadric lord.

The Skinner looked at him with a grin before turning towards the beast. "They are more wolves now. More than there once were." He plunged his knife into the heart of the beast. "And you are going to help us, bastard, or die, wishing for a better chance, in one of my cells. Clinging to the walls before I wear your skin, parading you around—and more regal—then you are now."

The chill went down his spin and suddenly it was as if he had walked into a blizzard. He was afraid of this man, the man who killed his father. And yet, he couldn't tell him no. He had promised himself that he would be brave and yet he still failed at that. He was really worthless after all.

The Skinner took his silence as an answer, leaving him to the dangling corpse of the werewolf—it's yellow eyes still bright enough to scare him into submission.

He wished, again, that Alodie hadn't been right.

I wasn't sure if any of you knew about the next book in the series so here you go! I'm sorry about resurrecting this story...but it's rather quiet in One of Destiny so I was beginning to wonder if I lost some readers...sniff. I already have eight chapters up...so go ahead and read. For those who have stuck with me, sorry for bothering you, you're awesome.