Siren stood and watched. In the cold of winter, her face was peaked, with only a thin veil of color splashed across the bone.

The dragon fared no better. It sat perched upon a fang of rock, its battered wings hiding scars centuries old, scars that still chewed at its scales. As the storm raged around them, both stood eerily still, even if time would not.

It is said that both the sons of Atmora and Akatosh fight with unabated breath, their very souls the tongue of an unrelenting voice. Yet while the battle would be fought with words, in the end, it would be won by a much more traditional measure.

It would be won by courage, cunning, and heart. By all the virtues that were left unspoken.

In the years to come, the Nords will sing tales of the Winter Siren. They will tell of how a Dwemer, with no training, mastered the ancient ways. They will remark on her sacrifice, how she slew a dragon at the cost of her own voice.

Strangers will toast in her honor, and children will pray for her health. Together, they will sketch a single portrait, worth more than any words could say.

What they will not say, is the truth.