Of Lightning and Blood (Skyrim SI/Slight AU)

[MandTeKad]

I was warm when I fell asleep. My bed was familiar, the soft weight of the blankets pressing down on me. Paradise after a long night of talking to friends. The faint hum of the world outside my window had been a comfort as I drifted off. But now… now I was cold.

The air stung my face, carrying the crisp bite of snow and pine. I shivered, my body jostling with every turn of rough wooden wheels beneath me. My wrists ached, the coarse fibers of rope digging into my skin.

I opened my eyes.

Mountains loomed high above me, their peaks cutting into a brilliant blue sky. Snow blanketed the slopes, glittering in the sunlight. My breath misted in the frigid air, each puff a small, fleeting cloud. Around me, the world seemed impossibly vast, the forests stretching endlessly toward the horizon. I had rarely ever seen a place so beautiful.

This wasn't my home.

I shifted in my seat, the rough wood of the cart creaking beneath me. Across from me sat a man clad in furs and mail, his blond hair tied back into a simple knot. His face was hard and weathered, his pale blue eyes fixed ahead. Beside him, another man, his hands bound and his mouth gagged, sat with a calm that unsettled me.

My voice cracked as I spoke. "What… where am I?"

The blond turned his head toward me. "You're finally awake."

I froze at his words, my pulse quickening. There was something about his tone—resigned, I had only heard it from people nearing the end of their life.

"You were caught trying to cross the border, same as us," he continued. "You walked straight into that Imperial ambush. Damn unlucky, too. I don't suppose you remember that?"

I stared at him, my mind scrambling to make sense of what he was saying. Cross the border? An ambush? No… no, that didn't make sense. I had fallen asleep. I was at home, in my bed, Diana and Hades curled up next to me. I was…

My hands.

They weren't my hands.

Pale ashen gray, the fingers long and sharp, the nails darker than they should have been. I clenched them into fists, the ropes around my wrists tightening with the motion. My heart thudded in my chest.

This wasn't my body.

"I'm dreaming," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. "This is… this has to be a dream."

The cart jostled violently, throwing me against the side. The pain in my shoulder was sharp, familiar, real. Too real.

The blond man glanced at me again, his expression unreadable. "You don't look like you're from around here, Dunmer. What were you doing this far north?"

Dunmer. That word sent a thrill through me, the pieces in my mind clicking together with sudden clarity. My gaze darted to the gagged man, then to the mountains, the forest, the snow. It was impossible, ridiculous even, but it was there, all around me.

Skyrim.

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. I had played this game countless times. I knew this place—the mountains, the trees, the cart. But now it wasn't pixels on a screen or lines of code. It was real. Tangible.

The thief sitting further down the cart scowled, breaking into my thoughts. "Damn you Stormcloaks. If it weren't for you, I'd be halfway to Hammerfell by now."

"Shut up, thief," the blond barked. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know we're all going to die," the thief snapped. "What's the difference? You lot started this war. Now the Empire's going to finish it."

The gagged man—Ulfric Stormcloak, my mind supplied—turned slightly, his piercing eyes boring into the thief. The air around him felt heavy, electric, as though it was holding its breath, I had never felt such a presence, even my old martial arts instructor had never radiated such intensity.

The cart crested a hill, and the forest gave way to a sprawling view of the valley below. There, nestled against the mountains, lay Helgen. It was larger than I remembered from the game. Stone walls stretched wide, encompassing a village of modest wooden homes, stables, and bustling streets. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, the faint sound of life drifting up to meet us.

It was breathtaking.

And yet…

I felt a pang of sadness beneath the excitement, deep and hollow in my chest. If this was real, if I truly was here… then what had happened to my old life? My family? My friends? My pets? I clenched my fists tighter, the rope biting into my skin.

The cart slowed as we entered the village of Helgen, the crisp morning air alive with the sounds of clanking armor and barking orders. Soldiers moved with purpose, their faces grim as they prepared for the day's grisly work.

I craned my neck, taking in the towering stone walls and the modest wooden houses nestled against the base of the mountains. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, the faint clanging of a blacksmith's hammer echoing over the square. It was far larger, more real than I'd ever imagined.

The cart creaked to a halt, the sudden jolt pulling me from the tangled mess of thoughts swirling in my mind. Helgen stood before us, its cold stone walls rising like a fortress against the bright morning sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of pine, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of impending violence.

Ralof, the blond Nord beside me, turned his head just enough to meet my gaze, his voice calm but heavy with finality. "End of the line."

The words settled in my chest like lead, heavy with the grim inevitability of what was about to happen.

"Why are they stopping?" Lokir, the wiry thief beside me, hissed, his voice sharp with panic.

"Why do you think?" Ralof replied, his tone curt and laced with disdain. "End of the line."

I clenched my fists, the ropes biting into my wrists as the weight of his words pressed down on me. We were being led to our deaths.

"Let's go," Ralof continued, his voice steady and resigned. "Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us."

"No! Wait!" Lokir's voice cracked, and he shook his head violently. "We're not rebels!"

"Face your death with some courage, thief," Ralof snapped, his disdain sharp enough to draw blood.

The cart emptied one by one, the prisoners stepping down onto the packed dirt. When my turn came, I stumbled slightly as my boots met the ground, the cold earth biting through their thin soles. The air felt alive, sharp and almost biting, heightening every sensation.

But Lokir's panic wasn't done spilling over.

"You've got to tell them!" he shouted, his eyes darting wildly. "We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"

The Imperial captain strode forward, her armor gleaming in the pale light. Her expression was hard as iron, her voice cold as she barked, "Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time!"

"Empire loves their damn lists," Ralof muttered, his words cutting through the thief's frantic protests.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," the soldier read aloud, his tone steady but dripping with contempt.

"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric," Ralof said, his voice low and reverent as he glanced toward the gagged man.

The soldier continued without pause. "Ralof of Riverwood."

Ralof nodded and stepped forward with deliberate calm, as though the chains binding his wrists were no more than ceremonial decoration.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

"No," Lokir spat, his desperation boiling over. "I'm not a rebel! You can't do this!"

And then, with no warning, he bolted toward the gates, his chains clinking as he ran.

"Halt!" the captain barked, her voice cracking like a whip.

"You're not going to kill me!" Lokir shrieked, his voice frantic and wild.

"Archers!" the captain snapped.

One arrow. That's all it took. The sharp thunk of a bowstring echoed through the courtyard, and Lokir crumpled to the ground, his lifeless body sprawling in the dirt.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the captain asked, her voice icy and unrelenting.

I blinked, the chaos in my mind broken for a moment by the sheer absurdity of it all. Did he really think he could outrun death? The sheer stupidity of his actions left amusement in its wake, a fleeting smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

I hesitated for a heartbeat before moving, my legs feeling heavier with each step as I approached.

---

The line moved closer to the center of the courtyard, and the murmurs of the gathered villagers faded into the background. My thoughts swirled, caught between disbelief and grim acceptance. My fists clenched against the ropes, the coarse fibers digging into my skin, grounding me in the harsh reality unfolding around me.

The officer's gaze bore into me, his tone curt and direct. "Who are you?"

The question cut through me like ice.

Who am I?

The question burned, deeper and sharper than it had any right to. Once, the answer had been simple: Dylan, the name my family and friends knew me by. Online, I had worn the name Mand'alor, a moniker I'd used to bring the mando'ade together, to guide and help create stories.

But here, neither of those names mattered. Dylan didn't belong to this ash-gray skin, these unfamiliar hands. Mand'alor was a title from a world that no longer existed. Here, in Skyrim, I was unmoored from everything I had ever been.

And for the first time, I was free.

My fists tightened against the ropes that bound them. This was my moment, a chance to forge something entirely new. A name not as a memory of who I was but as a declaration of who I would become. A name to shake the heavens, to bring Alduin crashing into the earth, to forge an empire in the blood of my foes.

I raised my chin, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside. "Melkorn."

The pride in my voice came unbidden, an emotion I hadn't expected over something so simple.

The Imperial soldier tilted his head, the name clearly unfamiliar to him, but he jotted it down. "Fucking Dunmer," he muttered under his breath - the dick - waving me forward.

---

The courtyard was alive with grim purpose. Soldiers stood in a loose formation, their armor gleaming in the pale morning light - I idly noticed it was much better designed in real life. Civilians clustered at a safe distance, murmuring anxiously, their eyes darting between the prisoners and the chopping block at the center.

The priestess of Arkay stepped forward, her expression serene but her voice trembling as she began her prayer.

"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you—"

The first prisoner—a proud Nord with a defiant air—cut her off with a sharp bark of laughter. "Enough of your gods and their empty words! I haven't got all day. Get on with it!" As he strutted towards the headsman and kneeled before the bloodstained stone - brave man that.

The executioner hesitated for only a moment before raising his axe. The blade gleamed in the light as it fell with brutal finality, the thud echoing across the courtyard.

The Nord's head tumbled to the ground, his lifeless body slumping forward as gleaming blood pooled beneath him.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof murmured, his voice filled with grim admiration.

My stomach clenched.

"Next, the dark elf!" the captain barked, her voice cold and unyielding.

My breath caught. The words hit harder than they should have, driving the reality of the situation deeper into my chest. My legs felt heavy, unwilling to obey, but the soldiers shoved me forward, and I stumbled toward the block.

The dirt beneath my feet felt colder now, the weight of each step pulling me down as though the earth itself sought to swallow me. The heat of the fires burning in the distance only made the chill worse, clashing with the frost in the air and the icy knot tightening in my gut.

I should be relieved. This is the moment, isn't it? Alduin should have been here by now. The storm, the roar, the chaos—it should have already begun.

But the sky was calm. The storm that should have blackened the heavens was nowhere to be seen.

And as I walked closer to the block, dread crept up my spine.

What if he doesn't come?

The thought rooted itself deep, gnawing at my mind. Alduin, the harbinger of destruction, the one thing I had counted on to turn this moment into a chance at survival, was absent.

If he doesn't come, what do I do?

The thought spiraled, growing darker with each step. My hands were bound, and my boots slid on the blood-soaked dirt as I approached the executioner. I would have to fight. I glanced at the soldiers standing around the courtyard, their hands resting easily on the hilts of their swords.

It would be suicide. I was unarmed, outnumbered, and unarmored. Yet the idea burned in my chest, fierce and stupid and stubborn.

What choice would I have?

I gritted my teeth, a flash of anger sparking beneath the growing fear. If this was it, if Alduin wasn't coming, then I wouldn't kneel quietly and let them take my head. If I was going to die, I'd die with their blood on my hands.

I reached the block, the executioner standing over it like a grim statue, his axe gleaming in the firelight.

"Nice and easy," a soldier muttered, his tone more indifferent than cruel.

I lowered myself to my knees, the wood rough against my skin, my heart pounding so hard it drowned out everything else.

A roar tore through the silence, low and distant, reverberating across the mountains like the growl of an awakening beast.

My head snapped up, hope clashing violently with disbelief.

"That's it," I whispered, the words barely audible, my breath catching in my throat.

"That again?" Hadvar muttered, glancing toward the southern peaks, his brow furrowed. "Did you hear that?"

The captain shot him a sharp look. "I said, next prisoner!"

The executioner adjusted his stance, raising the axe high as he prepared to bring it down.

And then the sky shattered.

---

The wind came first, fierce and unrelenting, tearing through the courtyard and scattering straw and dust in swirling chaos. It carried with it an unnatural weight, an electric charge that made the hairs on my arms rise. The air itself felt alive, as if the world had drawn a deep breath and was holding it, waiting.

The sky shifted. Where moments ago it had been clear and bright, it now churned into a swirling mass of darkness. Clouds boiled, black and angry, their edges lit by flickering crimson streaks of light. Thunder rumbled low and deep, resonating in my chest like the growl of some immense, unseen beast.

A shadow passed overhead, vast and unnatural, blotting out what little light remained. My heart hammered in my chest as my eyes darted skyward, searching, knowing, dreading.

And there he was.

Alduin.

He tore through the sky with impossible grace, his massive wings slicing through the storm with the precision of a blade. Each beat of his wings stirred the tempest into a frenzied howl, the very air bending to his will. His black scales shimmered like obsidian in the angry red glow of the storm, their edges sharp and unforgiving. His eyes—twin orbs of burning crimson—radiated malice, power, and something even more oppressive: inevitability.

The air trembled as he roared, a sound so powerful it seemed to shake the bones of the mountains themselves. It wasn't merely a roar. It was a command, a proclamation of absolute dominion over all that dared to exist beneath his shadow.

The heavens responded. Lightning streaked down, not in jagged lines but in great, searing bolts that struck the stone walls of Helgen. Debris exploded outward, scattering chunks of rock and mortar into the chaos. Fires erupted where the bolts struck, their hungry flames licking upward as if eager to consume everything in their path.

"Dragon!" someone screamed, their voice shrill and breaking with terror.

Alduin descended from the storm landing with a thunderous crash atop the tower. The structure groaned under his weight, cracks spidering through its stone as his claws tore into its foundation. The ground beneath me quaked with the force of his landing, each tremor threatening to send me sprawling.

He roared again, but this time it wasn't just sound. It was a Thu'um, a word of power that tore through the air, reverberating through my chest, my bones, my very soul.

"Strun Bah Gol!"

The words carried with them the weight of the world, a command spoken in the tongue of gods. The storm above twisted violently, the dark clouds bleeding into a deep crimson that painted the world in a hellish glow. The sun vanished behind the roiling mass, leaving the courtyard bathed in an unholy red light.

And then the meteors came.

The first streaked down like a fiery spear, slamming into the tower. The structure crumbled under Alduin's weight, the stone exploding outward in a shower of rubble and fire. I barely kept my footing as the ground heaved, cracks spidering through the courtyard with each impact.

Another meteor struck a building near me, the blast obliterating the building in an instant. Flames erupted from the wreckage, the heat searing against my skin even from a distance and shrapnel opening small stinging cuts as it flew past. The air itself seemed to burn, thick with smoke and the acrid tang of molten stone.

They kept coming. A relentless swarm of fiery death, crashing down from the heavens with unyielding fury. Each impact sent shockwaves through the ground, shattering walls, leveling buildings, and sending soldiers and villagers alike fleeing in all directions.

I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. Alduin wasn't just a dragon—he was a god of destruction, ancient and unstoppable, a force of nature incarnate.

The executioner, who had moments ago stood poised to bring down his axe, dropped it with a dull clunk and fled without a backward glance. His courage, like that of so many others, had been obliterated under the sheer weight of Alduin's presence. Soldiers scrambled for cover, their shouts lost in the deafening roar of the storm and the unrelenting crash of meteors.

Somehow, my legs obeyed. The crushing weight of Alduin's gaze lifted for a fleeting moment, and I turned, stumbling toward the open doors of the keep.

The heat of the storm chased me, roaring and consuming as I ducked through the threshold. Fire licked at the walls behind me, the flames a living, hungry thing that devoured everything in its path.

I gasped for breath, my chest heaving as I turned back for a single fleeting moment.

And there he was.

Alduin stood atop the ruins of the tower, his wings spread wide against the crimson storm. Meteors continued to rain down around him, their fiery trails casting shifting shadows across his black scales. His eyes burned with an unholy light as they locked onto mine, twin orbs of malice and inevitability.

In that instant, I felt small, insignificant—a speck of ash caught in the storm he commanded.

And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the weight of his godlike presence, something else stirred deep within me.

Anger.

How dare he loom over me, stripping me of everything, reducing me to nothing? The fury boiled in my chest, a visceral rage at my own helplessness.

And excitement.

This was no ordinary dragon. No weak creature to be brought down by mortal hands. This was power incarnate, raw and unrelenting, the very embodiment of destruction.

And for a fleeting moment, as I stood amidst the ruins of his wrath, I glimpsed something else—a vision of the power I could one day wield.

Alduin's might was overwhelming, but it wasn't insurmountable. He was not untouchable, not invincible. He was a god of this realm, yes, but gods could fall. I would see him beneath my boot, his strength broken, his soul mine to claim.

This wasn't the end. This was the beginning.

One day, his power would be my own, and I would rise to the very height of this realm. Nothing would stand above me—not Alduin, not the Divines, not Harkon or Miraak, no one.


Authors Note

Fuck it, I'm finally writing my own fic after helping authors like Alpha, USS, Zod, Smurf, Zero, and Myth. This is a true self-insert—me waking up in Skyrim, with all the baggage, struggles, and awesomeness that comes with it. No shortcuts, no idealized version, just me, and the points of view you see are mine until the life I now lead in the story changes them. This is my fight to survive and thrive in a brutal world of dragons, war, and magic.

Vampires will be terrifyingly powerful, werewolves feral monsters of raw strength, and dragons true gods of destruction. Magic will be overwhelming and earned through hard-fought growth. The civil war will be a real war, with massive sieges, devastating battles, and land-shaping consequences.

Companions from mods like Inigo, Lucien, and others will make this world feel alive, each adding depth to the world. Relationships will grow naturally, shaped by time and trials. With mods like Falskaar, Path to Elsweyr, and Legacy of the Dragonborn, this story will span years and expand far beyond Skyrim.

It's going to be raw, messy, and hopefully legendary. Let's do this.

 

[MandTeKad]

The world was fire and fury.

Flames engulfed Helgen as Alduin screamed his fury into the air, his massive form tearing through the village as if it were made of kindling. The ground beneath me shuddered with every roar, every sweep of its titanic wings. My wrists ached as the ropes binding them bit into my skin, the rough fibers chafing with every desperate stumble.

"This way, friend!" Ralof's voice cut through the cacophony, sharp and insistent. He grabbed my arm and pulled, dragging me toward the keep. The heat from a nearby explosion sent a wave of blistering air over us, but I barely registered it. All I could do was run, my thoughts caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.

We crashed through the keep's doors, the cool stone interior a stark contrast to the inferno outside. The thick walls muffled the destruction, but the tension in the air was palpable. Stormcloak soldiers milled about, their weapons drawn and faces grim. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and blood, and my heartbeat thundered in my ears as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

And then I saw him.

Ulfric Stormcloak stood in the center of the room, his presence like a thundercloud ready to break. His armor, gleaming steel adorned with intricate engravings, was dirtied with soot and blood, but it only made him look more imposing. The wolf motif on his pauldrons seemed to snarl as he moved, his frayed blue cloak trailing behind him. His hair was a golden mane that fell to his shoulders, framing a face that was all sharp lines and rugged edges. Piercing eyes, pale as a winter sky, scanned the room with unflinching intensity. Even here, in the middle of a burning village, with the harbinger of the End Times circling above, he radiated an unshakable calm.

"What is that thing?" Ralof asked, his voice tinged with disbelief cracked. "Could the legends be true?"

Ulfric didn't hesitate, his voice deep and steady. "Legends don't burn down villages." His eyes never left the soldiers around him as he continued, sharp and commanding: "We need to move. Now."

Ralof grabbed my arm again, pulling me forward. "We can't go far with you tied like that," he muttered, scanning the room before grabbing a discarded Imperial dagger from a nearby corpse. He handed it to me, the blade's weight heavy and unfamiliar in my bound hands.

"Cut yourself free," he urged, his voice low but urgent as he turned away to arm himself.

The dagger's edge bit into the ropes as I worked quickly, adrenaline making my movements clumsy. The fibers gave way with a snap, and I flexed my aching wrists, relieved, with my hands free I could at least defend myself..

Rulof turned to glance at me as he grabbed an axe off the wall "Take anything else you can find," he added, gesturing to the scattered weapons and armor left behind by fallen soldiers.

I barely had time to take a breath before another roar shook the keep, the stones beneath my feet trembling as dust fell from the ceiling. Ulfric was already issuing orders, his calm cutting through the panic like a blade. "Up through the tower!" he barked. "Move!"

The soldiers sprang into action, scrambling to clear debris from the stairway. I grabbed a sword from the floor and followed Ralof, the weapon's weight both comfortingly familiar and alien in my grip. My muscles remembered the movements, the drills and sparring sessions from my last life, but this… this was no training exercise.

Another roar. The air grew hotter as we climbed the stairs, the smell of burning wood and flesh thick and choking. Ahead, a Stormcloak soldier grunted as he struggled to clear a path. "We just need to move these rocks—"

He never finished.

The wall didn't so much explode as disintegrate, pulverized into a storm of stone and dust as Alduin's massive head tore through the keep. His black scales shimmered like molten obsidian, reflecting the fire that danced in his maw. The heat hit me like a hammer even from where I stood, searing the air and leaving my lungs burning with every breath.

The soldier nearest the breach didn't even have time to react. Fire poured forth from Alduin's jaws in a torrent, consuming him in an instant. His scream was brief, terrible—and then nothing. Where he had stood, only ash and warped armor remained, glowing faintly orange in the dragon's wake.

Ralof grabbed me, dragging me back before the heat could reach us. His voice was a frantic bark in my ear. "Get back!"

I stumbled, my body instinctively trying to retreat, but my eyes remained fixed on Alduin. His head withdrew through the breach, the low rumble of his growl shaking the stones beneath my feet. The world seemed to hold its breath in the wake of his fury, the silence broken only by the faint crackle of fire consuming what was left of the wall.

Ralof's voice snapped me out of it. "See the inn on the other side?" He pointed through the gaping hole Alduin had left, his voice tight with urgency. "Jump through the roof and keep going! Go! We'll follow when we can!"

For a moment, my legs refused to move. The raw power I had just witnessed—the sheer destruction Alduin had unleashed without even using a shout—left me frozen. But the distant sound of another roar spurred me to action.

I nodded, my grip tightening on the sword as I sprinted forward. The gap between the tower and the inn yawned wide, but there was no time to second-guess. The sound of my boots hitting the stone was drowned out by another roar, and I leapt. Then gravity took hold.

The roof didn't give way so much as collapse under me, the rotten wood crumbling like paper as I crashed through. The impact sent shockwaves through my body, a sharp pain radiating from my shoulder where I hit the ground. Splinters dug into my hands and arms as I scrambled to my feet, coughing violently. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid stench of burning wood, and every breath felt like dragging sandpaper down my throat.

The room around me was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of flames licking at the walls and the gaps in the broken roof. Debris was everywhere—toppled furniture, shattered beams, and fragments of the roof I'd just fallen through. For a moment, I simply stood there, sword in hand. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out the distant roars and screams that filtered in from outside.

Then Alduin's shadow passed overhead.

The entire room seemed to darken, the weight of its presence pressing down like a physical force. Alduin was close, and the building groaned under the force of the destruction outside. The very air vibrated with the power of his roars, each one sending fresh waves of dust and debris cascading from the ceiling.

A flaming beam crashed down just a few feet away, scattering embers and forcing me to move. The heat was suffocating, the flames licking at my path as I made my way through the wreckage. My sword was clutched tightly in my hand, its weight grounding me even as I stumbled over broken wood and smoldering debris.

I made for the far side of the room, where a doorway hung crooked on its hinges, half-blocked by rubble. The exit. But just as I neared it, another roar shook the inn. A section of the ceiling caved in behind me, the floor beneath it collapsing into a fiery pit. I dove forward, rolling as another beam came crashing down where I'd been standing moments before.

The room was a deathtrap, and I had no intention of dying here.

The doorway loomed ahead, the edges of the frame glowing red from the encroaching flames. I forced my legs to move, sprinting the last few steps as the heat of the fire licked at my back. The floor creaked ominously beneath my weight, but I didn't stop. With a final burst of effort, I threw myself through the doorway and into the open air.

Behind me, the inn collapsed in on itself with a deafening crash. The force of the collapse sent a wave of heat and dust washing over me, and I stumbled, nearly falling to my knees. But I didn't falter. My breath came in ragged gasps, my muscles burning, but there was something else coursing through me now. Something that cut through the exhaustion and pain.

Adrenaline.

A faint grin tugged at the corners of my mouth. The sheer insanity of it all—the dragon, the flames, the destruction—filled me with a raw, almost exhilarating energy. My heart thundered in my chest, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I felt truly alive again.

The chaos of Helgen was all around me. The streets were littered with flaming wreckage, soldiers clashed futilely with the dragon, and survivors scrambled for cover amidst the destruction. Alduin's massive form soared overhead, his roar drowning out the shouts and screams below.

"Over here!" Ralof's voice cut through the cacophony, and I spotted him ahead, waving for me to follow. He and a small group of Stormcloaks were moving toward the next tower, their faces grim but determined. I gripped my sword tighter and broke into a run, the grin still lingering faintly as adrenaline carried me forward.

I wasn't out of danger yet, but for now, I had survived. And that was enough.

The grin faded as quickly as it had come when a fresh roar tore through the air. Alduin's shadow passed overhead, his titanic wings churning the smoke-filled sky into a whirlwind. The ground trembled beneath me, the very stones of Helgen shaking under the weight of his fury. Up ahead, the Stormcloaks sprinted toward the keep, their faces pale and drawn, weapons clenched tightly. I cursed under my breath, forcing my legs to move faster, the burn in my muscles nothing compared to the all-encompassing urgency to survive. Each step felt heavier, the ground uneven beneath me, but I pushed on, closing the gap with Ralof and the others as chaos erupted around us.

We darted between flaming wreckage and shattered buildings. The air was thick with ash and the acrid stench of burning wood. A massive tail whipped across the ground ahead of us, smashing through a stone wall with a thunderous crack. A Stormcloak to my left hesitated for just a moment too long, and rubble rained down, burying him beneath a cascade of stone. His scream cut off abruptly, and the sound of his death sent a cold jolt through my chest.

"Keep moving!" Ralof shouted, his voice rough and desperate. Another Stormcloak sprinted ahead, only to be engulfed in a torrent of flame as Alduin banked sharply, unleashing a stream of fire that turned the cobblestones into molten slag. The man didn't even have time to scream.

I pushed forward, my legs burning, lungs heaving for air. My grip tightened on the sword I'd taken earlier for assurance. Every step felt heavier, every breath harder - I had never exerted myself so hard, even the hours of sparring in my other world paled to this - but I couldn't stop. Not now. Not when the keep was so close.

Ralof turned to look back at me, his face set in a grim mask. "Almost there!" he yelled, motioning toward the looming stone structure ahead. "Don't stop!"

A massive wing swept low, kicking up a gust of wind that nearly knocked me off my feet. The dragon's roar followed, shaking the very air around me. The last remaining Stormcloak was running just a few paces ahead, but as I stumbled over the uneven ground, I saw him falter. A clawed foot crashed down, crushing him like an insect, and blood sprayed across the ground.

There was no time to stop. No time to think. My mind screamed at me to run, and I obeyed, my body moving on instinct. With a final, desperate lunge, I reached the keep's door, Ralof just ahead of me. He shoved it open, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges as we barreled inside. The door slammed shut behind us with a resounding thud, cutting off the roaring inferno outside.

The sudden stillness inside the keep was deafening. The thick stone walls muffled the chaos outside, and the air felt strangely cold compared to the blazing inferno I had just escaped. My chest heaved as I leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. Ralof was bent over, hands on his knees, his axe still gripped tightly.

"By Talos…" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. He straightened, his eyes scanning the room, and then he closed them briefly, murmuring a prayer. "We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brothers. May your souls find glory."

The words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of how close we had come to joining those we'd left behind. I felt no personal connection to the fallen Stormcloaks—they were strangers to me—but their loss gnawed at me nonetheless. Not because of grief, but because of frustration. "No convenient dead fucker with armor lying around huh." I muttered under my breath, eyeing the empty room with a scowl. We were under-equipped, outnumbered, and still vulnerable.

Ralof glanced at me, his expression unreadable. "We're not out of this yet. Let's move." He gestured for me to follow, his tone brusque, but there was a flicker of weariness in his voice.

I nodded, gripping my sword tighter. The Imperial blade was solid and well-crafted, its weight familiar and comforting in my hands. The comforting familiarity of steel in my grip steadied my breathing. This wasn't just a tool—it was survival incarnate. I knew how to use it, and I'd have to. My determination tightened like a coil ready to spring.

We hadn't even moved from the first room when we heard it: the steady clamor of armored boots on stone. The sound was unmistakable—Imperials, moving fast, their voices barking orders. My stomach clenched, the rush of adrenaline surging back, sharpening every nerve.

Ralof's jaw set grimly, his knuckles whitening around his axe. "They're coming," he muttered, his voice low but tense. "Get ready."

There was no time for drawn-out plans. The room wasn't much, just a wide entry chamber with debris littering the floor, but it gave us enough space to prepare. Ralof moved to the far side of the room, standing near a stack of fallen crates where he could make himself a visible target. I stayed beside the door, pressing myself into the shadowed corner, sword raised. My pulse thundered in my ears as I forced myself to steady my breathing.

This wasn't a controlled sparring match. There was no referee, no padding, no hesitation. This was real, and the stakes were as high as they got.

The footsteps grew louder, the clang of metal echoing off the stone walls. The Imperials were close—too close. Then, with a crash, the door slammed open, and they burst into the room.

The first soldier charged in with his sword raised, his focus immediately locking onto Ralof, who stood ready to meet him. The second Imperial was right behind, his eyes scanning the room as he rushed forward—and that was when I struck.

I moved forward blade flashing in the dim light. He saw me at the last second, just enough time to turn and swing. His blade came down fast, but I caught it in a parry, the clash of steel reverberating in my bones. Stepping in hard, I shoved his sword off-line, using his momentum against him to close the gap.

I half-sworded gripping the blade of my weapon to shorten my reach. With a brief twist of my body, I whipped the tip of my sword across his exposed throat. Blood sprayed hot and crimson, spattering the stone and my armor as he staggered, gurgling, before collapsing to the ground.

I didn't stop moving. With a smooth circle step, I flowed past his falling body, keeping out of range of any potential retaliation. My heart pounded, my breath came in short gasps, but I was alive—and he wasn't - a small grin marked my face.

Ralof, meanwhile, had intercepted the first soldier. The Imperial swung down in a barely controlled arc, but Ralof sidestepped with practiced ease, his axe flashing upward in a brutal counterstrike. The blade caught the soldier in the throat, tearing through flesh and cartilage with a sickening crunch. With a sharp tug, Ralof ripped the axe free, the force pulling the Imperial forward. The soldier staggered a step before crumpling to the ground in a lifeless heap, blood pooling beneath him.

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the room, broken only by our labored breathing. The coppery tang of blood mingled with the stale air, the heat of the fight still buzzing in my limbs.

Ralof glanced at me, his face set but approving. "Good strike, Dunmer," he muttered, his voice rough, though there was a faint flicker of respect in his eyes.

I grinned, nodding back at him. "As was yours," I replied, my grip tightening on the hilt of my sword as the adrenaline began to fade.

Ralof wiped his axe on the fallen Imperial's tunic, muttering a quiet, "Leave it. I'll not wear their colors."

I paused mid-kneel, glancing up at him. "That's easy for you to say." I said, gesturing at his padded gambeson and chainmail. "You're already armored. Some of us don't have the luxury of pride right now."

Ralof huffed, his gaze flickering to the doorway, his grip on his axe tightening. "Suit yourself. Just don't expect me to mistake you for anything but an Imperial in the middle of a fight."

"Noted," I muttered, turning my focus back to the body. The Imperial's segmented steel armor was solid and practical—not exactly elegant, but leagues better than the bare clothes on my back. The gambeson came first, the padded fabric still warm from the soldier's last moments. I strapped it on quickly, the familiarity of the motions comforting me.

The chest piece followed, a steel cuirass with leather straps that proved annoyingly tricky without help. My hands fumbled with the buckles as I muttered curses under my breath, but determination kept me focused. Piece by piece, the greaves and vambraces slid into place, their weight reassuring in a way I hadn't expected.

Ralof stood silently, watching me, his expression unreadable until I grabbed the Imperial helm and tucked it under my arm. "That'll do," I said, flexing my fingers as I tested the range of motion in the armor. "Not perfect, but it's a damn sight better than nothing."

He gave me a flat look, his lips twitching faintly with what might have been a suppressed smirk. "Don't expect any sympathy when that armor gets you mistaken for one of them."

I adjusted the sword at my hip, the weight now familiar. "Better to risk that than get skewered because I was too stubborn to suit up."

Ralof shook his head but didn't argue further. "Fine," he muttered, turning toward the corridor. "Just stay close. Let's get moving before that dragon decides to bring the rest of this place down."

As he stepped forward, I took a last glance around the room. The still bodies, the blood pooling on the stone floor, the faint scent of smoke still in the air—it was a nice reminder of what lay ahead. Adjusting the helm under my arm, I fell in step behind him as we moved through the door into the hall.


The hallway stretched out before us, dimly lit by flickering torches that sputtered in the shifting air. The low, ominous rumble of Alduin's roars still echoed through the stone corridors, punctuated by the occasional tremor that shook dust and debris loose from the ceiling above. Every step felt like venturing deeper into a grave, but there was no other choice.

Ralof moved ahead of me, his axe resting across his shoulder, his posture tense but controlled. I trailed just behind, my sword gripped tightly in both hands. The weight of the Imperial steel felt good—steady and dependable—but the tension coiling in my gut wouldn't let me relax.

"Stay sharp," Ralof muttered over his shoulder, his voice barely above a growl. "Imperials probably won't let us leave even with a damn dragon attacking."

The faint sounds of voices filtered down the hallway—Imperials barking orders, their words bouncing off the walls. We slowed, pressing ourselves against the damp, cold stone, straining to catch what they were saying.

"Grab everything important and move!" one shouted, urgency lacing his tone.
"The dragon's burning everything we need to leave!" another snapped back.

Ralof paused. "They're close," he whispered. "Ready yourself."

I nodded, adjusting my grip. My pulse quickened as we advanced toward the voices. The sound of their armor clinking and boots scuffing against the stone grew louder, closer. My heart pounded in anticipation of the fight ahead as I tried to suppress the grin on my face.

We rounded a bend in the corridor, and there they were—a group of Imperials standing amidst a scattering of bodies, both their own and Stormcloaks. The light of a nearby torch glinted off their bloodied armor as they finished searching their fallen comrades. One soldier straightened, his hand going to his sword as he saw us.

Before anyone could move though, the ground beneath our feet shuddered violently. The distant roar of Alduin rolled through the keep like thunder, and a sharp cracking sound tore through the air. The walls trembled, and the ceiling above the Imperials gave way in a deafening crash.

Rocks and debris rained down, burying the Imperials beneath tons of stone and dust. The sound was deafening, the air filling with a choking haze as the corridor disappeared under a mountain of rubble.

Ralof and I staggered back, coughing and shielding ourselves from the choking cloud of dust and dirt. For a moment, silence settled over the chaos, broken only by the faint clinking of settling stones. I turned to Ralof, our eyes meeting, and for a beat, we simply stared at each other, wide-eyed and breathless.

Ralof broke the silence first, letting out a huff of relief as he shook his head. "Talos favors us," he muttered, his voice rough but steady.

I coughed again, trying to clear the grit from my throat, and despite myself, a faint chuckle escaped my lips. The sheer absurdity of it—the timing, the luck—was almost laughable.

We didn't linger. With the hallway ahead blocked, Ralof gestured to a heavy wooden door just to our left. "Through there," he said, his voice firm. I nodded, falling into step as he pushed the door open, the heavy creak of its hinges revealing what lay beyond.

We didn't linger long. The collapsed corridor was impassable, forcing us to turn toward a heavy wooden door nearby. Ralof moved to open it, glancing back at me with a nod before pushing it open.

The stench hit me first—a combination of blood, sweat, and burnt flesh that caused my nose to wrinkle. The room was dimly lit by sputtering torches, their flames casting shifting shadows over the grim scene before us. Iron cages lined the walls, their bars rusted and streaked with dark stains. In the center stood a bloodied rack, its leather straps hanging limp, a monument of the torture that had taken place here.

Standing near the rack was an old man, his frame gaunt and hunched. The torturer. His skin was pale and leathery, clinging tightly to sharp cheekbones and a thin, hooked nose. A hood shaded his sunken eyes, but the faint gleam within them was unmistakable—a twisted mix of cruelty and amusement. His robes, threadbare and patched with strips of leather for reinforcement, looked as though they'd seen decades of blood and suffering. His bony fingers twitched, and faint arcs of lightning danced between them, casting eerie shadows across his face.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice raspy and laced with malice. "More rats scurrying through my halls. And here I thought I'd already entertained all the Stormcloak filth Helgen had to offer."

Ralof stiffened beside me, his gaze darting between the torturer and the soldiers. His hand tightened around the haft of his axe as his lips curled into a snarl. "Troll's blood," he growled. "Imperial bastards."

The torturer raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "Well, well," he drawled, his voice low and mocking. "More lambs to the slaughter. You Stormcloaks never learn, do you? Always running to your deaths."

Ralof took a step forward, his shoulders set. "We'll see who's running," he said, his voice low and cold.

The torturer's expression didn't falter. If anything, his smirk deepened. "Careful, Nord. You might just end up on my rack." He gestured with a spark-lit hand toward the lifeless bodies on the ground.

I gritted my teeth, adjusting my grip on my sword as I prepared, he was clearly buying time for the soldiers to recover more. Ralof let out a battle cry and charged forward, his axe gleaming in the torchlight. Two soldiers surged to meet him, their swords flashing as they engaged. The torturer raised his hands, and a bolt of lightning arced toward me, the crackling energy lighting up the grim chamber.



Pain erupted in my chest as the crackling bolt of lightning struck me. It was sharp, biting, and all-consuming. My muscles spasmed uncontrollably and my vision flickered as if the world itself had short-circuited. The sensation was nauseatingly familiar, like being tased—a shock that rattled every nerve and left my body locked in rebellion against itself. My grip on my sword spasmed, nearly relieving me of the weapon as my knees buckled.


The torturer sneered, his hands already crackling with the energy of another spell. "You'll look good on my rack," he hissed, his voice dripping with disdain.


Through the haze of pain, I forced my trembling hands to tighten around the hilt of my sword, dragging it back into position. My breathing was ragged, and I stumbled back just in time to avoid the downward cut of a sword aimed at my neck. The blade glanced off the steel of my shoulder plate, sending a shock through my arm but leaving me alive. The impact threw me further off balance, and I staggered to the side, my footing unsteady.


The Imperial pressed his advantage, stepping forward with another swing. He thought he had me.


I adjusted my stance, forcing myself to move and parry. As the blade slid past, I stepped in close, grabbing his wrist with my other hand and pulling him off balance. With his sword out of line, I snapped my blade up in a tight arc, catching him under the arm where his armor had an open gap. The edge didn't penetrate far as my alignment had been off and the armor around the gap still negated such a wide slash. He cursed, jerking back and I let go as he did, letting him stumble off balance at the lack of resistance.


My sword was already moving, the tip aimed for his throat. He tried to parry, but his movements were sloppy from the pain, weak from lack of balance, and my strike drove deep into his neck, the point bursting out the back in a spray of blood. His eyes widened in shock as his knees buckled, and I ducked down lunging forward shoulder first. My shoulder collided into his stomach as I pushed harder, using him as a makeshift shield. Just as we lurched forward, another bolt of lightning tore through the air, crackling with raw energy. It hit the soldier square in the back, the force of it jolting his already-limp body. Sparks danced across his armor, the smell of burning fabric and flesh filling my nose.

The impact slowed me for a heartbeat, the heat and static making my teeth clench, but I kept moving. The torturer's bony face twisted in frustration, his hands glowing as he prepared another spell. He backpedaled, but not fast enough.

I slammed the soldier's body into him, the force driving them both into the wall. The torturer let out a sharp wheeze as the air was knocked from his lungs, his wiry frame crumpling under the impact. Sparks fizzled uselessly from his hands as he struggled, gasping and clawing to get away.

I didn't hesitate. My boots scraped against the blood-slicked stone as I backstepped, yanking my sword free with a sharp jerk that sent more crimson spraying across the floor. The torturer's wheezing breaths filled the room as I pivoted on my heel, bringing the sword around in a smooth, vicious arc.

The blade found its mark. The torturer's throat split open with a wet, gurgling sound, his hands flying to the wound in a futile attempt to stem the flow of blood. His wide, bloodshot eyes met mine for a brief moment, filled with panic and disbelief, before his body slumped back against the wall.

I stood there for a second, chest heaving, my sword dripping red. My muscles screamed in protest, the lingering effects of the lightning spell making my hands tremble and my legs feel like jelly. But I felt more alive than I could remember having ever felt.

Behind me, the sound of metal meeting flesh echoed as Ralof dispatched the last of the soldiers. He turned to me, his axe glinting in the torchlight, and let out a huff of breath. "You alright, Dunmer?"

I nodded, though my limbs felt like they'd betray me at any moment. "I'll live," I muttered.

Ralof chuckled, shaking his head. "Let's not make a habit of getting struck by magic, eh? Come on, let's grab what we can and move before more of them show up."

I nodded, stepping past the bodies toward the torturer's table. Among the scattered papers and grim tools of his trade sat a small, battered book. The title, "Sparks: A Beginner's Guide," was etched faintly into the leather cover. My breath hitched with excitement as I picked it up, flipping through the pages.

The first section introduced a basic primer on magic—how to channel magicka, proper focusing techniques, and an explanation of the physical toll of spellcasting. Diagrams illustrated hand positions, while notes in the margins warned of overexertion or losing control. It was clear, practical, and for a moment, thrilling.

Then reality hit. The spell's actual instructions were dense with technical terminology and precise movements. Concepts like "magicka threshold" and "arcane conductivity" filled the pages. It was obvious that this wasn't something I could just skim and instantly master. Learning magic wasn't going to be as simple as reading a book like in the game. It would take study, effort, and time—none of which I had right now.

I exhaled sharply, frustration tugging at my nerves. "Figures," I muttered, snapping the book shut. "Of course, it's not that easy."

Glancing at the table, I spotted a simple leather pack, scuffed and worn but serviceable. Grateful for the find, I grabbed it and slipped the book inside. Nearby, a red-tinged vial caught my eye—a health potion? Without hesitation, I added it to the pack, along with a small sack of coins lying haphazardly among the mess. The jingle of the gold was a small comfort, even in this bleak place.

With the pack slung over my shoulder, I turned back to Ralof. The faint disappointment of not being able to wield magic immediately lingered though. But in the back of my mind I knew one day I'd command powers able to rend islands apart.

Ralof was securing a quiver to his side with a practiced motion, his axe still in his hand. As I turned away from the torturer's table, he grabbed another quiver and tossed it toward me.

"Figured a ranged option might come in handy," he said, nodding toward a few battered bows scattered among the bodies.

I caught the quiver instinctively, the worn leather familiar yet foreign in my hands. A flicker of nostalgia surfaced, unbidden—memories of archery practice in another life. The feeling was sharp and fleeting, gone almost as quickly as it came.

"A new world to conquer, huh, Zero?" I muttered under my breath, the words meant more for me than anyone else.

I slung the quiver over my shoulder and picked up a bow. Testing the string's tension, I frowned. It wasn't the best, but it would do.

Not the best shot but it'll do until I can fling lightning and breathe fire, I thought as I flung the bow over my shoulder.

With our gear settled, we moved forward. The stone corridors sloped downward, the air growing colder and heavier with every step. The occasional rumble overhead sent loose dust drifting down around us, a grim reminder of the chaos we were leaving behind.

Every corner felt like it could hide another enemy. My grip on the my sword tightened as the tension in my shoulders coiled tighter. Ralof moved ahead, his axe resting on his shoulder, his steps steady but cautious.

"You hear that?" Ralof murmured, his voice barely audible over the faint echo of our footsteps on the stone floor.

I froze, tilting my head to listen. The sound of clashing steel, sharp and chaotic, carried faintly down the corridor. But it wasn't continuous—each clash grew weaker, more spaced out. The occasional bark of orders cut through the still air, followed by the faint clink of armor shifting. The sounds of battle were dying.

Ralof's expression hardened, his grip tightening on the haft of his axe. He gestured for me to follow, his movements slow and deliberate. The adrenaline from earlier crept back into my veins, sharpening my senses as we crept closer, keeping to the edges of the hallway.

The voices grew louder, clearer. They weren't yelling anymore. Their tones were clipped and low.

We reached the edge of a wide doorway and stopped, peering into the room beyond. A group of Imperials stood amidst a scattering of bodies—both Stormcloaks and their own. Blood smeared the stone floor, and the red light of nearby torches cast eerie shadows across the scene.

One of the soldiers straightened, his helmet tilting slightly as his gaze flicked toward us.

"There's more of them!" he shouted, drawing his sword. Another Imperial turned, already reaching for his bow.

The first arrow hissed through the air, slamming into the stone wall beside me with a sharp thwack as I ducked back into the doorway

"Ranged option was a good idea," I muttered, unslinging my bow as my heart began to beat faster.

Ralof and I pressed ourselves against the wall just inside the doorway, the torchlight from the open bridge ahead casting long, shifting shadows. The Imperials were still shouting, their voices growing louder and more distinct as they realized we were there. Arrows began to rain toward the doorway, the clatter of shafts against stone and the hiss of air past the entrance forcing us to stay in place.

I glanced at Ralof, who was already notching an arrow to his bowstring. "No time for waiting," I muttered, adrenaline flooding my veins. I adjusted my grip on my own bow and turned to face the opening.

Before I could second-guess myself, I darted out into the open, hands raised to shield my face and throat as I sprinted for better cover. Arrows zipped past me, one pinging off my shoulder, the sting barely registering over the pounding in my ears. I dove behind a pile of broken stone, my breath ragged as I heard Ralof curse behind me.

I leaned out just enough to loose an arrow at one of the archers, my shot sailing wide and clattering against the wall. I cursed under my breath, adjusting my grip on the bow. Ranged combat had never been my strength, but there was no way to close the gap without at least thinning their numbers.

Ralof's bow sang, and an Imperial archer grunted, clutching his shoulder as he staggered back. A return volley forced Ralof to duck back into cover. He swore again, snapping his bowstring taut with another arrow.

Ralof fired in rhythm, his arrows finding their marks more often than mine, but the Imperials kept pressing. I rose again, drawing back my bowstring, when a sharp, blinding pain lanced through my left arm. The impact spun me half around, the bow clattering from my hand as I fell behind cover. I gasped, clutching my arm, the arrow embedded just below my shoulder. Blood seeped through the armor's padding as my fingers trembled around the shaft.

A flicker of amusement crossed my mind even through the pain. This reminds me of that time I got stabbed. A bitter smile tugged at my lips before I pushed the thought aside. My arm was useless now. I couldn't draw a bowstring with one arm, let alone aim it.

"Ralof!" I shouted, cradling my injured arm against my chest as I drew my sword with my good arm. "Cover me—I'm going in!"

I didn't wait for his response. Darting out from behind the rubble, I zigzagged across the open bridge, arrows whistling past me. I kept my head low, my legs burning as I dashed forward. "Stupid fucking ash-skin!" Ralof's exasperated shout echoed behind me, but I caught the faint sound of his bowstring twanging as he kept the Imperials' focus split.

The second I reached the far side,"You're mad!" he yelled, loosing another arrow. "Stupid, ash-skinned bastard!"

Ignoring him, I bolted from cover, zig-zagging to avoid incoming arrows. My boots struck the stone floor in erratic patterns, and I hugged close to debris and shadows where I could. Arrows flew past me, one grazing my thigh, but the momentum of my run carried me forward. My breath thundered in my ears as I reached the bridge.

One of the soldiers moved to intercept, his sword gleaming in the torchlight as he lunged toward me. I shifted my weight, twisting to the side just in time to avoid the point, but the movement sent a jolt of pain through my injured arm. My left arm hugged uselessly to my chest, the wound making it impossible to counterbalance or parry effectively. I gritted my teeth, gripping my sword tighter with my good hand.

His next swing came fast and low, aiming to sweep my legs. I stepped back, my boots scraping against the stone floor, and brought my sword down in a block. The impact jarred my shoulder, but I didn't have time to recover as he pressed the attack, his blade a flurry of strikes. I couldn't afford to meet every blow head-on; instead, I focused on deflecting, redirecting the strikes just enough to keep his blade off target.

A particularly dedicated swing forced me to lean back nearly to the point of being off balance, the edge of his sword passing inches from my head. My breath came in ragged gasps as I darted to the side, using my momentum to pivot and lash out with a desperate counter. He sidestepped, his blade coming around in an arc that I barely managed to deflect. Sparks flew as steel met steel, and I staggered back, nearly losing my footing.

My arm burned, the strain of fighting finally taking its toll. He saw my struggle and pressed harder, a confident sneer twisting his features as he swung for my exposed neck. I twisted at the last moment, catching his blade on my crossguard. This time, I stepped in, using the deflection to force his sword out wide. He tried to recover, but I drove my shoulder into him, throwing him off balance.

With a grunt, he swung wildly, the blade glancing off my cuirass. The impact was sharp, but the steel held, leaving me unharmed. I seized the opportunity, bringing my sword around in a one-handed thrust. My blade found the gap between his helmet and cuirass, driving deep into his throat.

His eyes widened in shock, a wet gurgle escaping his lips as blood sprayed from the wound. I planted my boot against his chest and kicked, pulling my blade free as his body crumpled to the floor.. His arrows found their marks, felling one and wounding the other.

The surviving Imperial turned to flee, but I wasn't about to let him go. With a growl, I rushed forward, crossing the bridge in a few strides. He barely had time to raise his bow before I knocked it aside and drove my sword through his eye.

Breathing heavily, I wiped my sword against the fallen Imperial's tunic before glancing back at Ralof. He approached, shaking his head with a mix of disbelief and irritation. "You're going to get yourself killed, you know that?"

leaned heavily against the cold stone wall, my breath ragged as the adrenaline drained from my body. My arm throbbed with a dull ache where the arrow had struck earlier, and the faint metallic tang of blood lingered in the air. Then it hit me—the health potion.

My hand shot to the pack slung across my back, rummaging through its contents until I felt the cool glass against my fingers. I yanked the cork free with my teeth and downed the potion in one gulp.

The warmth spread through me instantly, a comforting rush like drinking hot cocoa on a freezing day. For a moment, it soothed the pain and tension, but then the sensation shifted—unnatural and unsettling.

I watched in morbid fascination as the flesh of my arm rippled and knit itself back together, muscle and skin twisting and reshaping as though alive. The tingling spread deep, a faint but disconcerting pins-and-needles sensation that made my stomach churn. The injury sealed itself in seconds, leaving nothing but a faint ache where the wound had been.

I flexed my fingers, testing the arm—it was as if I'd never been hurt, the pain subsiding into a faint, distant memory.

Ralof gave a low grunt. "Should have used that earlier, Dunmer," he muttered, his tone carrying the faintest hint of exasperation.

I flexed my fingers, rolling my shoulder experimentally. The pain was gone, replaced by a welcome strength. I glanced at Ralof, the unease of what I'd just experienced still lingering in my expression.

"Didn't think about it," I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended. "Guess I'll be remembering next time."

—-----------------

Ralof moved ahead of me, his axe gripped tightly, his eyes scanning the corridor as we descended deeper. The faint rumble of Alduin's roars still echoed above, but it was distant now, muted by layers of stone and earth. The air felt cooler here, damp and heavy, a stark contrast to the searing heat of the surface. My arm, once a screaming mass of pain, now felt whole and strong. The potion's effects lingered like a warmth in my chest, blending with the residual adrenaline coursing through my veins.

For the first time since waking up on that cart, the raw panic that had driven me was beginning to settle into something sharper, more focused. I wasn't just running anymore—I was surviving. My grip on the Imperial sword felt sure, reminding me that this was real. Every step we took was deeper into Skyrim, into a world I knew from games and stories but that now surrounded me in vivid, brutal detail.

We came upon a narrow stone bridge that stretched over a yawning chasm. The faint trickle of water echoed far below, lost in the shadows that seemed to stretch endlessly into the dark. Ralof stopped at the edge, turning to glance back at me. "Let's see if this path holds," he muttered, stepping onto the bridge with cautious, deliberate steps.

I followed close behind, my boots scraping against the weathered stone. The sheer drop on either side sent a chill down my spine. This wasn't some video game where a misstep meant a quick reload—this was real, and the thought of tumbling into that abyss was enough to tighten my throat. I focused on Ralof's back, following his movements as the bridge creaked beneath us.

Halfway across, the ceiling above groaned ominously. A sharp crack echoed through the chamber, and a chunk of rock plummeted from above, smashing against the stone just inches from Ralof's feet.

"Watch it!" I barked, instinctively ducking as smaller pieces of debris rained down around us. Dust filled the air, making it harder to see.

Ralof cursed under his breath, darting forward to the other side, and I wasted no time following him. My steps quickened, the bridge shuddering beneath the shifting weight of the rocks above. As we cleared the span, the far end collapsed behind us in a deafening crash, the stones falling away into the chasm below.

Ralof turned, his face grim as he surveyed the destruction. "No going back that way now," he said, shaking his head.

I exhaled a shaky breath, trying to calm my pounding heart. "Not like there's much left to go back to," I muttered, gripping my sword tighter as I glanced around the dimly lit cavern. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint sound of running water in the distance. It was oddly peaceful, almost serene, but the tension in my chest wouldn't let me relax.

Ralof gave me a sidelong glance, his features softening just slightly. "Come on. The only way now is forward."

I nodded silently and fell into step behind him. The corridor ahead opened into a cavern, where a shallow stream trickled through the center of the floor. The water's soft burble echoed off the stone walls, its faint glimmer catching the flickering light of our torches. The sound was calming in a way, a strange contrast to the chaos we had escaped above.

Ralof knelt by the stream, splashing water onto his face. "We're lucky," he said quietly, his voice thoughtful. "Could've ended a lot worse back there."

I stood nearby, my eyes tracing the jagged walls of the cavern. It was beautiful in its own way, raw and untouched. This wasn't the Skyrim I'd known on a screen—this was a world that pulsed with life, dangerous and breathtaking. The weight of my situation hit me again, but this time, it was accompanied by a strange exhilaration. I was here, in a land of dragons and legends, and I was alive. Against all odds, I was alive.

Ralof straightened, water dripping from his beard as he glanced at me. "Come on. We can't linger."

The stream led us deeper, the path sloping downward into a darker passage. The air grew damper, the faint drip of water echoing from somewhere unseen. The shadows seemed thicker here, and the walls closed in, narrowing as the slope steepened.

I glanced at Ralof as we reached the edge of the new passage and shrugged, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. "Further into the deep?"

He gave a low chuckle, the sound almost out of place in the oppressive quiet. "Let's see where this takes us."

Without another word, we pressed on, the flicker of our torchlight casting long, shifting shadows ahead.

The tunnel eventually widened into a cavern, the torchlight flickering and casting jagged shadows on the walls. A strange, almost wet clicking sound echoed faintly ahead, accompanied by an occasional skittering. The air felt heavier here, tinged with a faint, acrid smell that stung my nose.

Ralof slowed, raising his hand to signal caution. His grip on his axe was tight, his knuckles pale in the dim light. "Something's not right," he muttered, his voice low and tense.

I opened my mouth to reply when a noise like nails scraping stone filled the cavern. My heart leapt into my throat as the shadows shifted and something massive emerged from the darkness. Eight legs, grotesquely long and jointed, carried a bloated, hairy body forward. The faint glint of torchlight reflected off too many glassy black eyes. A frostbite spider, larger than a man, its fangs dripping with a greenish liquid that hissed as it hit the stone floor.

"Gods!" Ralof swore, raising his axe as the beast let out a chittering screech. It wasn't alone. From the dark recesses of the cavern, more spiders emerged, their legs tapping against the stone like the sound of rain on a roof. There were four of them in total, their movements jerky and alien as they closed in on us.

My grip tightened on my sword, my pulse thundering in my ears, The first spider lunged, its front legs raised like spears. I ducked to the side, barely avoiding the swipe, and lashed out with my blade. The steel bit deep into the creature's leg, severing it with a spray of viscous, dark ichor. The spider recoiled, screeching in pain, but another was already upon me.

Its fangs darted forward, aiming for my throat, and I raised my sword just in time to catch it under its mandibles. The force of the impact sent a shudder through my arms as the creature reared back, its legs scrambling for purchase. I shoved forward, driving the blade into the soft underside of its head. It screeched again, its body convulsing before collapsing to the ground.

Ralof was fighting two at once, his axe rising and falling in brutal arcs. One spider leapt at him, its legs spread wide, and he sidestepped, swinging his axe in a deadly counterstrike that cleaved into its abdomen. Ichor splattered across his armor, but the spider didn't go down immediately, its legs flailing wildly as it tried to retreat.

A sharp hiss drew my attention, and I turned just in time to see one of the spiders rear back and spit. A glob of green acid hurtled toward me, and I raised my arm just in time to block it. The acid splattered across the steel, hissing and bubbling, some of it splashing across my face. I hissed as the heat bit into my skin, but the armor held, protecting me from the worst of it.

"Damn it!" I snarled, stepping back to avoid another lunge. The spider's legs lashed out, one catching me in the side. The impact wasn't strong enough to knock me down, but it staggered me a bit.

Ralof let out a battle cry, his axe carving through the second spider's head in a brutal downward strike. He turned, panting, his face streaked with ichor. "Keep moving! Don't let them surround us!"

One of the remaining spiders scuttled to the ceiling, its movements unnervingly fast. It hung there for a moment, its body twitching, before it dropped down directly in front of me. I stepped back, raising my sword in a defensive guard - fuck I had never been trained to fight animals! The creature lunged, and I sidestepped, slashing at one of its legs. The blade cut deep, but the spider retaliated immediately, one of its legs catching me across the thigh. The blow glanced off my armor, but the sheer force left a deep, throbbing ache.

Ralof came to my side, his axe cleaving into the creature's thorax. The spider screeched, its legs twitching violently as it collapsed. That left one.

The last spider hesitated, its many eyes glinting in the torchlight as it assessed us. It let out a series of high-pitched clicks, its legs tapping against the stone as it circled. Ralof and I moved in unison, flanking the creature to cut off its escape.

I struck first, my sword slashing downward. The spider recoiled, its front legs raised to block the attack. Ralof followed up immediately, his axe cutting through one of its legs. The creature screeched, ichor spraying as it staggered, unbalanced. I seized the opening, thrusting my sword into its body. The blade sank deep, and the spider let out a final, ear-piercing screech before collapsing.

The cavern fell silent, save for the sound of our labored breathing. The ichor from the spiders coated the floor, its acrid stench mixing with the lingering smell of acid. My chest heaved as I wiped the back of my gauntlet across my face, smearing dirt and sweat.

Ralof leaned on his axe, shaking his head. "Troll's blood," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "I hate those things."

I nodded, unable to muster a reply. My arms ached, my armor was streaked with ichor, and the burns from the acid still stung. But we were alive. And that alone was exhilarating.

"Let's keep moving," Ralof said after a moment, his voice more composed. "The way out has to be close."

Glancing around the cavern one last time before following him I felt a small smile slide across my face. Skyrim was proving itself to be every bit as dangerous as I'd imagined—and then some.

The air grew cooler as we pressed on, the faint burble of a stream echoed through the space, the sound oddly soothing after the chaos of the spider fight. I adjusted the grip on my sword, the ichor-drenched blade glinting faintly in the dim light cast by the torches lining the walls. My muscles ached, but the exhaustion was dulled by the adrenaline still coursing through my veins.

Ralof walked slightly ahead, his axe resting on his shoulder as he scanned the corridor with sharp, practiced eyes. The faint scent of moss and damp stone hung in the air, replacing the acrid stench of burned spider webs and blood. The only sound was the gentle trickle of water and the occasional scuff of our boots on the stone.

"Not far now, I hope" Ralof muttered, though his tone betrayed a hint of weariness. His steps slowed as the tunnel began to widen, the air feeling less confined as the ceiling rose higher above us.

The stream led us into a larger chamber, its floor uneven and scattered with rocks and debris. Faint beams of light filtered through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the room in a soft, eerie glow. Claw marks gouged deep into the stone walls hinted at what might have once called this place home. Bones—some old, some disturbingly fresh—littered the ground, a grim reminder that we weren't alone down here.

I stopped, my grip on my sword tightening instinctively. My eyes darted to every shadow, every corner of the chamber, searching for movement. My heart thudded in my chest as I scanned the space, anticipation coiling in my gut like a spring ready to snap.

I had forgotten about the fucking bear! A fight with a bear, even with two of us armed, wouldn't be easy, especially after the day we had been through!

Ralof paused beside me, his posture shifting slightly, his axe at the ready. He didn't say anything, but I caught the way his eyes flicked toward the claw marks, the faint crease in his brow betraying his unease.

I tightened my grip on my sword, my knuckles whitening as I prepared for the inevitable. My breaths came shallow and measured, my body tensing for a charge that never came.

Nothing.

The chamber was silent save for the quiet drip of water and the soft rustle of distant wind through unseen cracks.

I exhaled slowly, my shoulders dropping as the tension began to bleed away. My grip on the sword loosened slightly, though I didn't lower it entirely.

Ralof glanced at me, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the room one last time. "If there was a bear here, it's gone now," he said finally, his voice low and steady.

I nodded, my jaw tightening. "Of course it is," I muttered, half to myself. "Alduin's been tearing through this place for over an hour. No way a bear would stick around through all of that."

Ralof huffed a quiet breath, stepping further into the room with cautious confidence. "Be glad it's gone. We've had enough for one day."

I followed, my steps lighter now as the weight of anticipation lifted. We crossed the room, stepping over scattered bones and debris, the stream guiding us toward another tunnel sloping upward. The faintest hint of fresh air brushed against my face, a small but welcome reprieve from the stale, damp air of the tunnels.

The chamber narrowed slightly, forcing us to walk closer together as the path began to slope upward. The sound of the stream faded, replaced by the faint rustle of wind slipping through unseen cracks in the stone. Each step forward felt like shedding a layer of the oppressive darkness that had clung to us since Helgen.

"We're almost out," Ralof muttered, his voice low but steady. His hand gripped the haft of his axe tighter, as though willing the promise of open air to be true.

The faint breeze carried with it the unmistakable scent of pine and soil, a reminder of the world that waited just beyond these walls. My chest tightened—not with fear, but with an anticipation that bordered on desperation. After everything we'd fought through, the idea of stepping into sunlight again felt almost unreal.

The sunlight ahead grew brighter with every step, filtering through the cracks in the stone like a golden beacon. It wasn't just light—it was life, pulling us forward, urging us to keep going despite the exhaustion that threatened to drag us down.

The tunnel opened into a larger chamber, and with it came the full force of the breeze. I paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the opening ahead. Shafts of golden light poured through the gap, illuminating the rough stone walls and casting long shadows that danced with the movement of the trees beyond.

Ralof stepped ahead, his pace quickening as we approached the exit. The anticipation was palpable, the promise of escape so close I could almost taste it. My grip on my sword tightened as I braced myself, half-expecting something—anything—to leap out and block our path.

But nothing did. Instead, the tunnel opened into the forest, and the world beyond greeted us with a rush of cool, clean air.


The moment we stepped outside, the relief was almost overwhelming. The suffocating weight of the tunnels lifted, replaced by the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint chirping of birds. The sunlight, warm and golden, bathed the forest floor in dappled patterns that shifted with the breeze.

I stopped in my tracks, letting the moment wash over me. The fresh air filled my lungs, erasing the stale, damp taste that had lingered since the tunnels. For the first time in what felt like hours, I could breathe.

Ralof paused beside me, his expression unreadable as he gazed up at the sky. His grip on his axe loosened slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing—but only for a moment.

A shadow passed overhead, blotting out the sunlight for the briefest of seconds. My heart clenched as I followed his gaze, my eyes locking onto the massive, black shape that soared through the distant mountains. Alduin's roar echoed, low and rumbling, a stark reminder that the danger was far from over.

Ralof's jaw tightened, his gaze hardening as he stared after the dragon. "We've got to move," he said, his voice steady but heavy with unspoken urgency.

I didn't respond immediately, my eyes lingering on Alduin's retreating form. The enormity of what had just happened—the destruction, the chaos, the sheer power of that creature—was a stark reminder. Everything we had just endured—the battles, the injuries, the desperation—was rookie shit. A footnote compared to what lay ahead.

But as I tightened my grip on the sword at my side, a flicker of something sharper than fear coursed through me. Excitement. The road ahead was uncertain, full of challenges that would push me far beyond anything I had ever faced. I found myself looking forward to it.

Ralof's voice cut through my thoughts, pulling me back to the present. "My sister's place," he said, his tone steadier now, almost warm. "It's just a few days from here in Riverwood. You'll be welcome there. A chance to rest up after... all this."

I blinked, glancing at him as the weight of his words sank in. A few days of peace sounded almost surreal after the chaos we'd just left behind. The flicker of excitement dulled slightly, tempered by the exhaustion clawing at the edges of my adrenaline high.

"Thanks," I muttered, forcing a small smile. "I could use that."

Ralof gave a short nod, his expression softening for the briefest moment before his gaze returned to the path ahead. "Let's keep moving. The sooner we're out of these woods, the better."

I nodded, adjusting my grip on my sword and stepping into the forest beside him. The suffocating tunnels were behind us now, replaced by the fresh air of the woods and the unknown of whatever came next. For now, the road ahead could wait. It was enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Godlike power would come later.

 

[MandTeKad]

The forest swallowed us whole, its canopy closing overhead in a tangle of black branches and faintly glowing starlight. Every step I took felt heavier, the adrenaline that had carried me from Helgen now fading, replaced by the burn of exertion in my legs and the raw ache in my lungs. The crisp night air was a sharp contrast to the suffocating smoke and ash of the keep, soothing even as it bit at my throat with every labored breath.

Ralof moved a few paces ahead, his shoulders set and his axe strapped across his back. Neither of us spoke. Words felt too heavy right now, and the forest around us seemed too eager to devour sound. The faint rustle of leaves, the snap of twigs underfoot, and the distant rush of water were all that accompanied our hurried pace. My hand hovered near the hilt of my sword, sheathed for now but ready if anything—or anyone—came through the underbrush. Running through the dark with a naked blade was asking for an accident, but I still didn't let it stray far from my thoughts.

We pressed on, weaving through the trees in silence until the faint glow of Helgen's fires was just a memory. My legs ached, each step sending jolts of discomfort through my thighs, but I pushed through it, my mind locked on the singular goal of getting away. The Imperial soldiers might already be rallying. If they sent out patrols to hunt survivors, we'd be prime targets, and I didn't intend to end my first day in Skyrim back in shackles—or dead.

Ralof slowed as we reached a narrow game trail, his hand raising to signal a halt. He turned to me, his face grim but composed. "The Legion won't leave this alone," he said quietly. "They'll want to clean up any loose ends."

I nodded, wiping sweat from my brow. "Makes sense. We put enough distance between us and the keep, though, and they won't bother tracking us through the whole forest."

Ralof studied me for a moment, his blue eyes catching the faint moonlight. Then he nodded, his tone thoughtful but firm. "We follow the stream. They'll be looking for obvious trails, not where the water washes away tracks."

"Agreed." My throat was dry, my voice rough, but I forced myself to stand a little straighter. I didn't want to look weak, even in this state. "The sooner we're clear of Helgen, the better."

We moved toward the sound of running water, the cool stream ahead glinting faintly in the shadows. The water burbled softly as we stepped into it, the icy chill biting through my boots. It was shocking, a sudden jolt that sent a shiver up my spine, but it also brought clarity. The forest felt more alive here, the sharp scent of pine and wet earth washing away the last vestiges of smoke from my senses.

Ralof splashed a few steps ahead, scanning the trees as he led us downstream. He didn't speak, and I was glad for the silence. My mind was still spinning, replaying the chaos of Helgen—the dragon, the screams, the heat of fire against stone. I'd fought for my life back there, killed for it.

The stream carried us deeper into the forest, its cold touch a small mercy as it masked our trail. My legs burned with every step, the exhaustion creeping into my muscles more insistent now. We didn't stop until the trees began to thin slightly, revealing a small clearing by the stream's edge. The ground was soft with moss and leaves, the air still and heavy with the faint smell of damp wood.

The clearing wasn't much, just a patch of mossy ground beside the stream, but it was enough. Ralof and I staggered into it, the exertion of the night catching up with us all at once. My knees buckled as I collapsed against a tree, the rough bark digging into my back. Ralof sank down beside a boulder, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. For a moment, neither of us spoke, the only sounds the rush of the stream and our labored breathing.

The cool night air pressed against my overheated skin, and I leaned my head back, sucking in deep, ragged breaths. My legs burned from the run, my muscles trembling as the adrenaline finally began to fade. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional crack of a distant branch or the low rustle of leaves in the breeze. The forest, alive and vast, swallowed us whole.

Ralof groaned, shifting slightly as he rested his axe across his lap. "I never...did get your name, Dunmer," he said, his words coming between gulps of air.

"Melkorn," I replied, my voice steady despite my exhaustion.

Ralof raised an eyebrow, glancing at me through half-lidded eyes. "Melkorn," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "And your family name?"

I froze for a moment, my mind spinning. My real last name didn't belong here—it was a relic of a world I'd left behind. But what could I say? A few tense seconds passed, and finally, I blurted, "Do'Urden."

Ralof stared at me, his expression unreadable. Internally, I cringed. For fuck's sake, was that the first thing I could think of? But before I could say anything else, he let out a faint snort.

"Melkorn Do'Urden," he said, shaking his head. "You Dunmer have strange names."

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Normal to me."

Ralof didn't press further, instead leaning back against the rock and letting his gaze drift upward toward the dark canopy. For a few moments, we just sat there, letting the weight of the night settle over us. The tension in my chest began to ease, the cool air and the distant burble of the stream a small comfort after the chaos of Helgen.

"We'll need to keep watch," Ralof said eventually, his voice quieter now, more measured. "Too many dangers out here, and the Legion's bound to send out patrols."

I nodded, straightening against the tree. "I'll take first watch," I offered, my voice firm despite the exhaustion tugging at my limbs.

Ralof shot me a glance, his brows knitting together. "You sure? You've had a long night too."

"I'm sure," I said quickly. The truth was, I doubted I'd be able to sleep anyway. My mind was too restless, too caught up in the events of the day. Besides, the weight of the spellbook tucked into my pack was a constant pull. I needed to keep moving forward, needed something to focus on. "You rest. I'll wake you when it's your turn."

Ralof hesitated, then nodded. "All right. But don't push yourself too hard. We'll need to move at first light."

I gave a faint nod, watching as he leaned back against the boulder, his axe close at hand. Within moments, his breathing steadied, the tension in his frame easing as sleep claimed him. I envied how easily he could slip into rest, but I pushed the thought aside as I rose to my feet.

The forest loomed around us, vast and unknowable. I moved toward the edge of the clearing, my sword at my side as I scanned the shadows. The weight of the spellbook was a constant reminder of the power it might hold, and my thoughts drifted to it as I settled into my vigil. This world was new, dangerous, and full of possibilities—and I wasn't about to let exhaustion hold me back.

The forest had fallen quiet, save for the occasional rustle of leaves stirred by a faint breeze. The two moons—and wasn't that a trip—cast their pale glow through the canopy above, their light filtering down in soft, broken patches. It was enough to see by, enough to make out the outlines of trees and the uneven ground that stretched around me.

I sat down heavily against the base of a sturdy tree, my armor clanking softly against it as I shifted to find a comfortable position. Exhaustion weighed heavily on my limbs, but my mind refused to settle. Too much had happened, and there was too much to process - plus I had offered to keep the first watch. Instead of trying to sleep, I reached into my pack and pulled out the spellbook. Its worn leather cover was cool beneath my fingers, the edges scuffed from years of handling. The title wasn't emblazoned across the front which was instead covered in strange softly glowing glyphs—just a small, unassuming marking along the spine that read: "A Novice's Guide to Sparks."

I ran my fingers across the cover, tracing its surface as I let my thoughts wander. The faint light from the moons glinted off the pages as I cracked it open, the spine creaking softly in protest. The book smelled of old parchment, a grounding reminder that this was real—that I was here. The page welcomed me with the kind of tone I'd expect from a patient, if slightly condescending, teacher.

"Welcome, novice. Within these pages, you will find the foundations of Destruction magic, starting with the Sparks spell. Before casting, you must first learn to draw upon your magicka. Mastery begins with understanding the flow of energy within you."

I paused, letting the words sink in before flipping to the next page. The primer was short—almost insultingly so—and tucked at the start of the book, as though whoever wrote it didn't expect many readers to need it. Its brevity only added to my suspicion that magic was about to be a hell of a lot harder than this book was making it sound.

Still, I read on, my eyes tracing the simple instructions.

---

Awakening Your Magicka

To begin casting, you must first attune yourself to the flow of magicka within. For most, this requires calm and focus. While advanced practitioners can summon their magicka in times of chaos or combat, beginners must first learn to do so in stillness.

1. Find Your Focus
   Sit or stand in a comfortable, grounded position. Clear your mind of distractions. Allow your breathing to steady—let the rhythm of your breath guide your thoughts until only calm remains.
2. Feel the Flow
   Close your eyes and picture a warmth growing deep within your chest. This is your magicka—your inner reservoir of energy. Let it spread outward like ripples in a pool, flowing through your veins to the tips of your fingers.
3. Draw It Forth
   Extend your hand, palm upward, and guide the warmth there. Imagine it pooling just beneath your skin, a spark waiting to ignite. You may feel heat, tingling, or pressure. Do not force it; let it come naturally.

---

I leaned back against the tree, the cool bark pressing into my spine as I reread the passage. Three steps? That's it? Just close your eyes, breathe deeply, and… magic happens?

I rubbed a hand over my face, the leather of my gloves creaking faintly. This has to be a joke, I thought. It can't be that simple. My fingers hesitated at the edge of the page, the temptation to flip forward and skip to the actual spell gnawing at me. Sparks—that's what I wanted. I didn't need all this vague meditation nonsense; I wanted to see lightning dance in my hands.

But no. The words on the page were clear: without mastering the flow of magicka, casting even the simplest spell was impossible. I clenched my jaw and resisted the urge to skim ahead. Rushing wasn't going to do me any good.

I glanced at the soft glow of the moons through the canopy above, their light spilling across the forest floor. With a sigh, I placed the book beside me on the ground and stared at the faint outlines of my fingers, as if willing them to ignite. This was magic—the real deal. Not tricks, not stage illusions, but the kind of power I'd dreamed of having.

A faint smile tugged at my lips. Fuck, Alex would have loved this, I thought. That autistic asshole would probably get killed by a wolf from getting absorbed in it. And Jacky would have given his other shoulder to learn this.

The warmth in my chest was brief, fleeting, before it twisted into something heavier. They weren't here. None of them were here. And there was no point in lingering on what wasn't. With a sharp exhale. My gaze dropped to the ground, and I let out a quiet sigh. "Keep moving forward," I whispered to myself. "Focus." One step at a time. I pulled the book back into my lap, steadying my breath as I prepared to try.

"Okay," I muttered to myself. "Find your focus."

Following the book's instructions, I took slow, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. My mind was far from calm, but I forced myself to push aside the tension and frustration building in my chest. It was easier said than done; my thoughts kept drifting to the chaos of the day, the Imperials, the dragon, and now this strange, daunting task of summoning power from within.

I imagined the warmth, picturing it pooling in my chest like the book had described. At first, there was nothing. Just the rise and fall of my breaths, the ache of my muscles, and the subtle pressure of the armor against my body. But as I focused deeper, something began to shift—a faint stirring, like the flicker of a candle flame.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. A tingling warmth, deep and elusive, just on the edge of my awareness. I latched onto the sensation, my heart quickening. This is it, I thought. I can feel it. It's there.

The book's words echoed in my mind. Let it spread outward… through your veins… to your fingertips.

I stretched out my hand, palm upward, focusing on guiding the warmth. The sensation grew stronger for a moment, almost like a spark building beneath my skin. But the moment I tried to coax it forward, to push it into my hand, the warmth slipped away, fizzling like water poured over embers.

My fingers twitched. Frustration clawed at the edges of my focus, but I pushed it down. I tried again, closing my eyes tighter and steadying my breathing. The warmth returned, faint and fleeting, and again I reached for it. And again, it slipped through my grasp.

"Damn it," I hissed under my breath, my voice harsh in the still night. My hand curled into a fist, trembling slightly from the effort. I wanted to slam it against the ground, to shake off the stubborn elusiveness of it all. It was right there, so close I could feel it, and yet I couldn't bring it to the surface.

I glanced at the book lying open on my lap, as if it might offer some hidden wisdom I'd missed. But the instructions were maddeningly simple. Nothing more than focus, feel, and guide. No tips for what to do if the warmth refused to obey. No solutions for this gnawing sense of failure building in my gut.

I tried a third time, this time gritting my teeth as I forced my breathing to slow. The warmth flickered back, teasing and faint, but drawing it forth felt like trying to grab smoke with my bare hands. I could feel it just beneath my skin, but the more I reached for it, the more it seemed to slip away.

My arm fell to my side, limp and useless. I exhaled sharply, leaning my head back against the tree as I stared up at the faint glimmer of the stars through the canopy. The adrenaline of the day was wearing off, leaving behind exhaustion and a faint, bitter sense of defeat.

The night stretched on, quiet and still, but my mind refused to rest. The thought of the power, of feeling it just out of reach, gnawed at me. This was my first real attempt at magic, and already it felt like I was failing. Calm, I reminded myself. This is your first try. You've fought all day and barely had a moment to breathe.

Hours slipped by as I sat there, my hand resting on my lap, palm open, as if the gesture alone could will the magic forth. My breathing remained steady, the rise and fall of my chest a rhythmic attempt to calm my fraying patience. The faint warmth I had felt earlier was still teasing at the edges of my awareness, but every time I tried to pull it forward, it slipped away like grains of sand through my fingers.

For the hundredth—or maybe the thousandth—time, I stretched my hand out again, the soft light of the stars and moons casting faint shadows across the ground. My teeth clenched as I focused, harder this time, trying to grab onto that elusive warmth. But the harder I pushed, the more it seemed to retreat, mocking my efforts.

"Damn it," I muttered under my breath, my voice hoarse and raw from hours of cursing the stubborn magic. My arm fell limply to my side, fingers twitching in frustration. The faint chill of the night air brushed against my face, contrasting with the boiling anger simmering inside me. I stared down at the open spellbook on my lap, the primer's simple instructions almost taunting me now.

I'd read the same page over and over, memorized every word, and yet I was no closer to success than when I'd started. My gaze flicked to my outstretched palm, my thoughts a swirling mess of disbelief and irritation. This is supposed to be natural? Simple? Who wrote this garbage?

The night stretched on, my repeated failures piling up like stones on my chest. Every attempt left me more drained, more bitter, until even the act of closing my eyes to focus felt like a burden. I hadn't even noticed the weariness creeping into my limbs, the dull ache in my muscles from sitting so rigidly for so long.

I was about to try again—one more time, I told myself—when I heard a faint rustle behind me. My head snapped up, my shoulders tense, only to see Ralof stirring from his place by the fireless camp. He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes and muttering something under his breath about the cold. His movements were groggy, half-conscious, but they broke the silence I had wrapped myself in for hours.

I let out a slow breath, forcing myself to relax as I closed the book and set it aside. My frustration still simmered just beneath the surface, but I buried it, willing my expression to remain calm as I turned to face him.

Ralof blinked awake with a sharp inhale, his eyes darting to me as he rubbed the sleep from them. His voice was groggy but carried an edge of urgency. "Fuck… how long was I asleep? You should've woken me sooner so you could find some rest."

I glanced at him, the faintest smile tugging at my lips despite my frustration. "I suppose I lost track of time," I admitted, my voice quieter now, tinged with weariness. The hours I'd spent wrestling with the spellbook felt like an eternity, but it wasn't worth explaining. "But I'll take you up on that offer now."

Ralof shook his head, muttering something under his breath about stubborn Dunmer as he shifted to sit upright, his axe within arm's reach. I clutched the spellbook for a moment longer, my fingers brushing over its worn cover before tucking it back into my pack. No way was I letting it—or the coin in it—anywhere away from me. This pack held everything I had in this new world, and I wasn't about to let it out of my sight.

Using the pack as an uncomfortable excuse for a pillow, I shifted until the rough bark of the tree dug into my back. My muscles screamed in protest, exhaustion finally weighing them down after hours of futile attempts at magic. My thoughts drifted, flitting between the failure of the spell and something more distant, something harder to ignore.

The quiet of the forest wrapped around me like a blanket, the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze almost soothing. Before sleep could fully take hold, a whisper escaped my lips, so soft it barely stirred the night air. "Thor, Odin, Zeus, Shiva, Yahweh… any god listening," I murmured, my voice raw with fatigue and something deeper. "If you can peer from my world to this one, watch over my loved ones."

The faint glow of the stars above blurred as my eyes closed, the whispered prayer hanging in the stillness. Sleep took me like a wave, washing away the tension as the weight of the day faded into darkness.

.

.

.

The faint glow of dawn pierced through the canopy, the light soft and golden as it painted streaks across the forest floor. I stirred, my muscles protesting as I shifted against the rough bark of the tree. The air was cool, carrying the earthy scent of dew-drenched leaves and soil.

Ralof's voice pulled me fully from sleep. "Finally awake, then," he said, his tone edged with quiet relief.

I grunted in acknowledgment, pushing myself upright. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, the stiffness from the previous day's exertion settling into my bones. I rolled my shoulders and began a light stretch, feeling the tension slowly ease with each deliberate movement.

Ralof, already up and moving, brushing away any sign of our presence. He glanced up briefly, his face shadowed but intent. "I'll cover the tracks," he said, his voice low but steady.

I nodded, watching as he moved with efficiency, his boots scuffing out any trace of our footsteps. He'd clearly done this before—every action was deliberate, every move designed to make it harder for anyone to follow us.

My gaze drifted to the faint trickle of the stream just beyond the trees, its surface glinting in the soft light of the rising sun. The sound of running water was soothing, a stark contrast to the chaos we'd left behind. I straightened, feeling a dull ache radiate through my shoulders as I spoke. "I think we should take the opportunity to wash in the stream before we continue."

Ralof paused, glancing back at me with a faint grunt. "Not a bad idea," he muttered. "Wouldn't mind getting the blood and dirt off."

I gestured toward the stream, my voice light but pointed. "One of us keeps watch while the other goes in."

He nodded again, standing and dusting his hands on his gambeson. "Agreed. Let's get it done quickly."

I waved Ralof toward the stream. "Go ahead, you first. I'll keep watch."

He gave me a quick glance, hesitated, then shrugged. "Don't wander off." His voice carried a faint tension, though he didn't wait for my reply. He stepped toward the stream, unbuckling his axe and stripping off his gambeson. The faint rustle of cloth and the clink of metal faded into the soft splashing of water as he waded in. A muttered curse about the cold drifted back toward me.

I leaned back against the tree, settling into a comfortable stance, my hand resting on the hilt of my sword. My eyes scanned the tree line, catching the subtle movements of the forest. A bird darting between branches. The leaves shifting in the soft breeze. The light sound of the stream winding its way through the woods.

The tranquility was almost enough to make me forget the chaos of the day before. Almost. My mind wouldn't let go so easily, fragments of battle flashing behind my eyes. The clash of steel, the shouts, the heat of fire licking at my back. The deaths.

I'd killed people. More than one. The thought flickered briefly, and I let it sit there, waiting for the weight of guilt or sorrow to follow. It didn't. There was nothing. No pangs of regret, no lingering shadows. Just... nothing.

It wasn't that I felt numb. Far from it. The exhilaration of the fight was still fresh in my veins, a pulse of energy that burned brighter than the deaths themselves. The clash of weapons, the sheer clarity of those moments—it had been intoxicating. A sharp edge of chaos and survival that made everything else fall away.

But the killing itself? It had been... unremarkable. Necessary. A means to an end. Their deaths were no different than cutting through a barrier in my way. I didn't know them, didn't care to. Their lives meant nothing to me, and their deaths carried no weight. It was strange, even unsettling, but it was the truth.

I tightened my grip on the hilt of my sword, a faint snort of amusement escaping me. The deaths hadn't lingered in my mind, not the way some might expect. The fight, the clarity of those moments—that had stayed with me, but the killing itself? Nothing.

It was almost absurd. I'd felt more when Sissy, my old dog, passed away after a long, full life. That loss had cut deep, a quiet kind of ache that lingered for weeks. But this? These people? They hadn't been more than obstacles, faceless in the chaos, their deaths just a minor thing. I shook the thought away, my focus snapping back to the treeline.

Ralof's voice cut through the silence, bringing me back. "You're quiet, Dunmer. Everything clear?"

I glanced at him, standing waist-deep in the stream, droplets of water glinting in the morning light as he ran a hand over his face. I nodded, keeping my voice even. "All clear."

Ralof was stepping out of the stream when his voice cut through the stillness, sharp with curiosity. "You named him, the dragon. Alduin." He paused, reaching for his clothes and wringing water from his hair. His tone was edged with tension as he continued, "Why would you call him that?"

I stiffened, realizing my slip. "Shit," I muttered under my breath before forcing a neutral expression. My fingers brushed the hilt of my sword as if bracgrounding myself. "Isn't that what you Nords believe?" I said with a shrug. "The end of days, the World-Eater? Alduin. It seemed fitting."

Ralof froze, his brow furrowing deeply as he processed my words. Droplets of water glistened on his arms, catching the morning light. He glanced at me sharply, his eyes narrowing. "Troll's asshole," he muttered, more to himself than me. "You think that beast was Alduin? The bringer of the End Times?"

I shrugged again, keeping my voice even. "It's just a name from your stories, isn't it? Might as well call him that until someone proves otherwise."

Ralof let out a sharp breath, running his hands over his face before grabbing his clothes. "If that truly was Alduin," he said grimly, shaking his head, "then the gods help us all."

I let his words hang in the air as I stepped forward, my boots crunching against the soft soil by the stream. "Well," I said quietly, "he's gone for now. Let's focus on what's in front of us." I began removing my armor, piece by piece, laying it carefully by the water's edge as Ralof sat nearby, his expression still stormy.

Turning my back to him, I stepped into the stream, the cold water shocking against my skin. A sharp breath escaped me, but I pushed forward, sinking down until the chill numbed the soreness in my muscles.

The stream's icy embrace sent a sharp shiver through me as I knelt, letting the water swirl around my legs. I cupped my hands and splashed my face, the cold biting against my skin. As the ripples began to settle, I caught sight of my reflection in the water. I froze.

It wasn't my face. Not the one I'd known for years.

Angular cheekbones, sharper than I remembered, framed a narrow jawline. Violet eyes, slanted and intense, stared back at me. My skin—light gray and smooth but marked with scars—was foreign. These scars weren't the ones I carried in my old life, the faint reminders of fights I'd won and a few clumsy mistakes made while cooking or working. No, these were something else entirely. They spoke of a life of constant battle, a soldier or mercenary who had seen far more war than I ever had.

And yet, they were mine now.

I shifted slightly, watching how the body responded. Every motion carried a strange familiarity—fluid, efficient, almost instinctive. During the fights at Helgen, this body had moved with a precision that surprised even me. It wasn't just my own skill from sparring and training in my old life; this body had muscle memory, forged through experience that hadn't been mine. Whoever this body had belonged to before, they'd survived on the edge of danger. They'd been forged in fire.

The thought unsettled me. I had scars in my old life, sure, but they'd been earned through fights I'd won, a life I'd chosen to live with determination. This was different—these scars belonged to a past I didn't know, a stranger's history that had now become part of me. This wasn't the body I'd fought to build, but it was the one I had now.

I leaned back slightly, running a hand through my long, dark hair. At least that felt like mine, a familiar weight and texture that brought a faint smile to my lips. I cracked a wry grin as I studied my reflection again. At least I'm not ugly. And my hair's still long.

The faint ripples distorted my face in the water, breaking it apart and reforming it with every slight shift. I straightened and let the cold water drip down my body, the sunlight catching on the scars that lined my skin. This body was strange, alien even, but it was stronger, faster, and more capable than my own had been. It carried scars of survival, of a life lived in battle. Maybe they weren't mine, but they were now.

With a steadying breath, I turned back toward Ralof. This body may not have been mine, but I'll make it my own. And I'll carve my own legacy into it, battle by battle.

.

.

.

The forest enveloped us in a sprawling green cathedral, the canopy above swaying gently in the breeze. The clean, crisp air filled my lungs, untouched by the pollution I had grown so accustomed to in my old life. Every breath felt purer, lighter, almost intoxicating. The chirping of unseen birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind were the only sounds breaking the stillness, a stark contrast to the chaos we had escaped.

Ralof walked ahead, his axe resting across his shoulder, his posture steady and deliberate. I followed a few paces behind, my sword sheathed at my side, my fingers brushing the hilt out of habit. The tension from Helgen still lingered, and my ears remained alert for any sound that didn't belong.

My eyes drifted upward as we moved, catching glimpses of the sky through breaks in the canopy. Pale blue at first, it slowly deepened to a warm amber as the sun began its descent. The light played tricks on the forest floor, casting shifting patterns of gold and shadow. I couldn't help but marvel at the unspoiled beauty around me. It was alien, untouched by the heavy hand of industry. The air, the light, the land—it all felt like a piece of something lost to time.

Ahead, Ralof glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sharp and watchful. He spoke sparingly, his focus clearly on the path and the dangers that might lie ahead. "The air's too quiet," he muttered after a while, his voice low. "Imperials might be out already, patrolling for survivors."

I nodded silently, gripping my sword hilt a little tighter. The thought of patrols sent a fresh wave of adrenaline through me, but I forced it down. My focus turned outward, scanning the dense underbrush for movement. The faint call of wolves echoed in the distance, sending a chill down my spine despite the warmth of the setting sun.

Time passed in a blur of footsteps and quiet tension. The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange that bled through the treetops. My legs ached from the constant movement, and my lungs burned from the exertion. I welcomed the pain—it kept me grounded, kept my thoughts from straying too far into memories of another life.

As the light faded, Ralof came to a halt near a small clearing, his head swiveling to take in our surroundings. "We'll camp here," he said simply, gesturing to the spot. A stream gurgled faintly nearby, its sound a soothing counterpoint to the quiet rustle of the wind. The clearing was ringed by thick trees, offering some cover, and the ground was soft and free of debris.

I nodded, too tired to argue. My knees almost buckled as I sank onto a fallen log, leaning my sword against it for easy reach. My eyes turned to the darkening sky, now painted in rich indigos and purples, dotted with the faint shimmer of stars. Above it all, the moons began their ascent, bathing the forest in pale silver light.

Ralof moved with practiced efficiency, gathering branches for a fire. He grunted as he worked, clearly as exhausted as I was, but there was a determination in his movements that mirrored my own.

As I watched him, my mind wandered again. The pristine air, the untouched wilderness, the vastness of this place—it was overwhelming in its beauty. A part of me marveled at the rawness of it all, the simplicity. This world didn't feel like a place for endless factories, endless noise. It was a place to test yourself against the wild, to fight and to grow.

Ralof finally set a small fire blazing, its warmth a welcome relief against the encroaching chill of night. He dropped onto a rock near the flames, his axe within easy reach. "I'll take the first watch," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Get some rest."

I considered protesting, I wanted to continue practicing magic, but the exhaustion in my legs and the dull ache in my shoulders won out. My body was screaming for relief, and the faint warmth of the fire was already beginning to lull me. I gave a small nod, murmuring a quiet "Thanks" as I turned toward the softest patch of ground I could find.

Leaning back against a tree, I adjusted my pack beneath my head, an uncomfortable makeshift pillow that was better than nothing. The flickering firelight cast shadows across the canopy above, and the faint murmur of the nearby stream provided a soothing backdrop. My eyes grew heavier with each passing second and then blackness took me.

.

.

.

The faint nudge of a boot against my leg pulled me from the fog of sleep. I blinked up into the pale light of dawn, my eyes adjusting to the sight of Ralof standing over me, his expression grim and tired. "Your turn, Dunmer," he said simply, his voice low but steady. "Get up."

I pushed myself upright, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The soreness in my muscles had dulled overnight, but it was still there, a reminder of the battles and running that had brought us here. Ralof stretched briefly before settling down near the fire, pulling his cloak tighter against the early morning chill. His breathing slowed as he shifted into a light sleep.

The faint pinks and oranges of dawn were creeping into the sky, the forest still cloaked in shadow. I stood, adjusting my sword belt and moving closer to the fire, letting the embers' warmth seep into my fingers. The quiet of the woods surrounded me, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of leaves or distant call of an animal.

The fire crackled softly, the dim light casting shifting shadows against the trees. I leaned back, my sword resting against my knee, and let my thoughts wander. The future stretched before me, vast and dangerous, but not unwelcome. No, the challenges ahead weren't just obstacles—they were invitations. Invitations to seize, to conquer, to leave my mark on this world.

Power. That was the first thing I would claim. Not just to survive, though survival was a worthy enough goal on its own. No, I would take power to ensure that nothing and no one could ever rip from me what I chose to hold. I would carve out my place in this world, through blood and fire. Power wasn't just a necessity—it was a promise. A promise that I could fight greater foes, taste greater excitement, and wield this world as I pleased.

Harkon. The name was like poison in my thoughts. The mere idea of a man who would give his wife and daughter to Molag Bal for power sent a growl rumbling through my clenched teeth. He sat smugly on his throne, festering like a boil in the heart of his keep. I would rip him from it, grind him into dust, and seat myself in his place. A vampire king for a vampire lord. I could almost see it now—his twisted castle repurposed for my own ambitions, Serana free and by my side, his legacy nothing but ash.

And Alduin… the so-called World-Eater. A dragon that thought itself untouchable, that thought it could devour the world. I would show him otherwise. I would rip him from his lofty perch and use his death to write my name into the annals of history. His teeth would forge my blade, his scales would armor my flesh, and his wings would adorn me as a cloak. The world would see me and know what I had done. A god made into tools for my legend.

The Empire… they, too, would fall. Who were they to dictate who could be worshiped? To ban the name of Talos, the only man to ascend to godhood, just to keep themselves under the Aldmeri Dominion's leash? Their time in Skyrim was over. I would see this land free of their rule, its people bowing only to strength, not decrees from cowards in Cyrodiil.

And the Dominion. A sneer curled my lips as I thought of them, cowards clinging to their thrones by destabilizing others. They had grown fat and complacent behind their politics and schemes, but I would rip them asunder. Their golden towers would crumble, their arrogance shattered beneath my heel. Let them learn what true power looks like.

Immortality. That, too, would be mine. I would not fade, would not let time erode what I claimed. I would grasp it with both hands, bending the rules of this world to my will. It wasn't just a desire—it was inevitable. Whatever it took, I would endure, long after others had been reduced to dust.

Even Miraak. A smile tugged at the corner of my lips at the thought of him—the self-proclaimed First Dragonborn. If he thought he could stand in my way, he was mistaken. Miraak would kneel, or he would die. Either way, his time was over.

I rolled my shoulders, my eyes narrowing as the firelight danced in my reflection on the blade at my side. This world had no idea what had stumbled into it. I wasn't here to simply exist or survive. I was here to conquer, to claim, to make this land and all its dangers bend to my will.

I exhaled, leaning back and letting the thoughts settle in my mind. The wolves howled faintly in the distance, the world around me alive with subtle threats, but none of it mattered. The path ahead was clear, and I had no intention of walking it meekly. I would take what I wanted, and I would rip asunder anyone who tried to stop me.

Ralof stirred in his sleep behind me, but I didn't look back. My thoughts weren't for him. They were mine alone, a vow whispered in the darkness: This world is mine for the taking.

.

.

.

The morning light filtered through the dense canopy above, casting soft, golden patches on the forest floor. The crisp air was invigorating, carrying with it the faint, earthy scent of moss and pine. I took a deep breath, the tension of the previous evening slowly ebbing away with each step forward. The forest, though still wild and untamed, felt less menacing in the light of day.

Ralof led the way, his axe resting across his shoulder, his posture more relaxed than I had seen it since Helgen. The man seemed almost… content, his steps light and sure as he navigated the uneven terrain. In contrast, my own body still ached from the previous battles and sleepless night, a sharp reminder of how far I had to go.

The quiet between us was companionable, punctuated only by the soft crunch of leaves underfoot and the occasional distant call of birds. It was a sharp contrast to the relentless urgency of our flight from Helgen. Now, with the Imperials likely far behind us, we could afford a steady pace, though neither of us let our guard down entirely.

I glanced at Ralof, noting the faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes scanned the trees with a sense of familiarity, as though every crack in the bark and every stone in our path was part of an old, cherished memory.

"Something on your mind?" I asked after a while, my voice breaking the tranquil silence.

Ralof glanced back at me, his smile broadening. "You'll see soon enough, Dunmer," he replied cryptically, his tone carrying an edge of excitement. "We're not far now."

I raised an eyebrow but said nothing, letting his words hang in the air. His growing enthusiasm was almost contagious, though I didn't press him for details. For all his bluster, Ralof wasn't the type to keep a surprise bottled up for long.

As we walked, the forest seemed to shift around us. The canopy above grew denser, the shafts of sunlight narrower, casting the path in cool shadows. The distant howl of wolves echoed through the trees, a reminder that while the forest seemed serene, it was anything but safe. My hand drifted to the hilt of my sword instinctively, the gesture almost subconscious.

Ralof noticed and gave a soft chuckle. "Relax, we're not the prey they're looking for," he said, though his grip on his axe tightened slightly.

The hours passed in relative quiet, the sun climbing higher in the sky. The play of light and shadow marked the passage of time, and I found myself marveling again at the sheer beauty of Skyrim. It was pristine in a way I hadn't seen before, untouched by the trappings of a more modern world. The air was cleaner, the sounds purer, the colors more vibrant. Even the ache in my muscles and the weight of my gear couldn't fully dampen the sense of awe.

Ralof's pace quickened as we pushed forward, his excitement now impossible to ignore. He began to hum under his breath, the tune unfamiliar but distinctly Nordic. Whatever lay ahead, it was clear he was looking forward to it.

"You seem awfully chipper," I remarked, the corners of my mouth twitching upward in a faint smile.

Ralof shot me a grin over his shoulder. "Trust me, Melkorn. You're going to want to see this."





As we continued through the forest, the sound of rushing water began to rise, faint at first, then steadily growing louder. It wasn't the quiet murmur of a stream—it was something far greater. The scent of fresh water mingled with pine as the path ahead brightened, the dense trees giving way to an open clearing.

We emerged onto a rocky outcropping overlooking a wide, glistening river. The sun caught the water's surface, making it shimmer like liquid silver, and the sheer expanse of the landscape spread out before us—a breathtaking display of Skyrim's untouched beauty. Pines framed the scene, their needles whispering in the breeze, and the air felt lighter, cleaner. For a moment, I simply stood there, taking it all in, my breath caught in my chest.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Ralof said, his voice carrying a note of pride as he stepped ahead. "But that's not what I wanted to show you."

I glanced at him, curious, and followed his gaze. Just ahead, three towering stone monuments stood in a triangular formation, their ancient carvings glowing faintly in the sunlight. They rose from a flat stone platform, roots and vines weaving through their bases as if the earth itself sought to claim them. The hum of the river in the background only seemed to add to their quiet majesty.

Ralof gestured toward them with a broad grin, his voice brimming with excitement. "Ah, here we are, my friend. One of the wonders of Skyrim—the Guardian Stones. Bet your people have nothing like this."

I tilted my head, I knew what the were but the corner of my mouth lifted in a faint smirk. "Glowing rocks? Truly, I am in awe."

Ralof shot me a look that was equal parts mock indignation and genuine annoyance. "Not just rocks, you ash-skinned fool. These are the Guardian Stones! Ancient Nord magic, left by the Divines themselves to guide us. They grant blessings to those who seek them, mark you for strength, cunning, or wisdom. Their blessing will allow you to learn things faster than without it." He stepped closer, his expression softening into something almost reverent. "The gods' favor, right here for the taking."

I crossed my arms, glancing between the stones with an air of skepticism I didn't quite feel. Truthfully, I was impressed. The Warrior Stone glowed with a fiery orange light, steady and bold. The Mage Stone shimmered in cool, shifting blues, like the night sky reflected on a still lake. The Thief Stone pulsed with an almost mischievous green, its runes seeming to twist and ripple as I looked at them. Seeing them here, glowing and eternal, was far different than anything the game had shown me.

But teasing Ralof was far too tempting. "And what do they do? Make you invincible? Teach you how to swing an axe better?"

Ralof muttered something in Nordic that I was fairly certain wasn't flattering but ignored me, then stepped toward the Warrior Stone. "This one's mine," he said firmly, placing his hand on its surface. A burst of orange light surrounded him, briefly illuminating his features before fading into the stone. He exhaled deeply, as though the act had grounded him somehow, and turned back to me with a faint grin. "Go on. Choose. Unless you're afraid."

I looked back at the stones, the decision far weightier than it had been in the game. The choice wasn't just about powers or buffs—it felt significant, like it would mark the first true step on the path I was carving for myself in this world

I stepped toward the stones, my gaze moving across each one. The Mage Stone shimmered with an inviting blue glow, its light holding the promise of the power I had tried so desperately to grasp the night before. I lingered on it for a moment, tempted by the thought of mastering magic, but something inside me resisted.

The Thief Stone twinkled faintly in its green light, and I felt nothing for it. Its sly glow seemed to mock me, its promise of subtlety and cunning a poor match for someone who preferred the honesty of a fight. I turned away from it without hesitation.

The Warrior Stone, though—that one called to me. Its steady, fiery orange glow was unyielding, bold, and unwavering. It spoke to something deep within me, a truth I couldn't deny. I was a fighter at heart. Even with the allure of magic, even with my curiosity for the arcane, the sound of steel meeting steel, the rush of battle—that was where I felt most alive.

I reached out and placed my hand on the stone's surface. It was cool under my palm, the ancient carvings rough but humming with a faint energy. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the power surged.

It wasn't gradual. The glow of the stone flared, surrounding me in a fiery light that pulsed through my body like a second heartbeat. My veins buzzed with energy, not burning, but exhilarating. My chest tightened as the force of it washed over me. It was strength, raw and unrelenting, flowing into every fiber of my being. My breath caught, my body tingling with the sensation of pure power unlike anything I had ever felt.

When the light finally faded, I pulled my hand back slowly, breathless and alive. The air felt sharper, my limbs lighter. I flexed my fingers, testing the strength that still thrummed through me.

Ralof's voice broke the silence, pulling me back. "A fine choice" he said, his tone tinged with approval. "With that, even a dunmer might match a Nord." He chuckled, the rough sound echoing across the clearing.

I glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. "Might?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Give me some time, and no one will be able to match me."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "We'll see about that. Come on, we've still got a ways to go."

I took one last look at the stones—their silent, glowing forms standing against the rushing river and the towering trees. The Warrior Stone still burned faintly, as if it knew the road ahead.

The energy stayed with me as we walked away, buzzing just under the surface. It wasn't just power—it was potential. And with every step, I felt the fire inside me growing stronger.

.

.

.


The fire crackled and popped, casting warm light across the small clearing we'd chosen for the night. Two rabbits skewered on sticks hung over the flames, their fat sizzling and dripping into the embers below, sending up tantalizing wisps of smoke. The smell was rich and mouthwatering—roasted meat with just a hint of char, a feast after a long, grueling day of marching. My stomach growled audibly.

I leaned back on my pack, letting the warmth of the fire seep into my aching limbs. "So," I said, grinning faintly. "I went to swipe his leg and—well, let's just say i hooked a bit of a more sensitive bit. Bad aim on my part, but I've never seen the man collapse like that before or since. The sound he made—" I couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "It was somewhere between a dying elk and... I don't know, a door hinge squealing for oiling."

Ralof snorted, shaking his head as he leaned forward to turn the rabbits on their spit. "Sounds like you're lucky he didn't throttle you after," he said, his voice laced with amusement.

"Oh, he tried," I said, chuckling. "But you'd be amazed how much time you have to run when someone's busy rolling on the ground, clutching themselves."

That earned a full laugh from Ralof, a hearty sound that echoed in the stillness of the woods. "Remind me to keep my distance if you ever feel like sparring," he said, still grinning.

I waved a hand dismissively. "I promise, my aim's improved since then. Well, mostly."

Ralof shook his head again, the smile lingering on his face. The firelight played across his features, softening the sharp lines of exhaustion that had set in during the day. For a moment, there was only the sound of the crackling fire and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

"So, what about you?" I asked, leaning forward and propping my elbows on my knees. "Got any stories that don't end with you yelling 'Talos guide me' and swinging an axe at someone's head?"

Ralof gave a mock-offended look before grinning. "Plenty," he said, his tone light. "Let's see... ah, there was this one time when my brother and I were supposed to be guarding our father's mill. Boring work, right? Except a bear decided it wanted to take a nap in the storage shed."

I raised an eyebrow, motioning for him to continue.

"Well," he said, chuckling, "we didn't want to bother our father—he's not exactly patient. So, we decided we'd handle it ourselves. Got our bows, snuck up real quiet-like... and my idiot brother trips over a stack of firewood, crashes into the door, and scares the damned thing so bad it bolts straight through the wall."

I blinked- if even a bear could do that, then burst out laughing. "Through the wall?"

"Through the wall," Ralof confirmed, grinning. "Took out half the shed with it. My father wasn't exactly thrilled when he came back to find us sitting in the ruins with the bear halfway to the next hold."

"Let me guess," I said, still laughing. "He gave you both a clubbing."

"And then some," Ralof said, shaking his head. "We were rebuilding that shed for weeks. He made sure of it."

The smell of the roasting rabbits grew stronger, the rich aroma filling the clearing. My stomach growled again, and I glanced at the fire. The meat was golden-brown now, the skin crisped perfectly.

Ralof noticed and gave me a nod. "Looks like they're ready."

He pulled the skewers from the fire, handing me one before settling back with the other. The first bite was pure heaven—tender, juicy meat with just the right amount of charred crispness. It was simple, but after a so long a trek, it might as well have been a royal feast.

For a while, we ate in companionable silence, the fire crackling between us and the stars twinkling above. The night felt... peaceful, almost normal, and I let myself relax, the weight of the day lifting slightly with each bite of the meal.

.The forest thinned, the towering pines giving way to sparse clusters of trees and rocky outcroppings. The incline grew steeper with every step, and the sound of rushing water began to dominate the air, a constant roar that mingled with the rustle of leaves and the faint whisper of wind through the branches. The crisp air carried a bite of coolness, the kind that prickled at the skin and felt fresher than anything I'd ever breathed. Every breath was like a reminder of how untouched this place was—pristine and raw.

Ralof moved ahead of me, his steps quickening as if some unseen force pulled him forward. His usual reserved demeanor was replaced by a faint eagerness, a glimmer of excitement in his otherwise gruff expression. "We're close," he said over his shoulder, his voice carrying a note of anticipation.

I followed, my legs burning from the climb but my curiosity outweighing the exhaustion. The trees parted suddenly, the path cresting a small ridge, and my steps faltered as the world opened up before me.

In the distance, a mountain dominated the horizon—taller and more massive than anything I'd ever seen. Its peaks clawed at the sky, their jagged edges wreathed in clouds that clung to the stone like ghostly veils. Snow blanketed the summit, a radiant white that caught the sunlight and glowed with an almost ethereal brilliance. It was a giant among giants, dwarfing anything I could have imagined.

But it wasn't the mountain that caught my breath. It was the sprawling town nestled in the valley below, following the curve of a glittering river. The sight of Riverwood hit me like a blow, its sheer scale taking a moment to register. It was no quaint hamlet of a dozen buildings like I'd expected. This was a bustling settlement, a village that rivaled small towns I'd seen back home.

The rooftops stretched out across the riverbank in neat rows, their steep angles catching the light. Timber and stone homes dotted the landscape, their chimneys puffing trails of smoke into the air. A massive waterwheel turned steadily on the river, its rhythmic creak audible even from here, and the fields surrounding the village were green and vibrant, well-tended and brimming with life. Boats bobbed gently on the river's edge, and even from this distance, I could hear the faint hum of activity—voices calling, the clink of tools, the occasional bark of a dog.

Ralof stopped beside me, a broad grin spreading across his face. "There she is," he said proudly, his voice tinged with something warmer than his usual stoicism. "Riverwood. Simple, strong, and full of good folk."

I stared at the scene, my mind grappling with the sheer size of it all. My thoughts darted to the past four days—the exhausting trek, the cautious pace, the endless stretches of forest. It had taken us four days to get here. Granted, we had been tired and careful, but still. Four days? The sheer realization hit me like a fist: How big was Skyrim?

Ralof's hand came down on my shoulder, knocking me from my thoughts. His voice carried a rare warmth. "It's good to see, isn't it? A place to rest." He said as he continued past me.

I nodded mutely, my eyes still fixed on the sight below. The size of the village, the life bustling within, and the vastness of the mountain looming above—it was exhilarating and humbling all at once.

Something surged in me then, an unexpected burst of energy that burned away the exhaustion from the day's march. My legs moved without thought, carrying me down the path, the forest giving way to clearer trails. The air seemed fresher, the breeze carrying the promise of warmth and rest.

The thought echoed in my mind as we descended: The size of this world. The adventures it held. The challenges it promised. Every breath felt alive with anticipation, every step a reminder that my journey had only just begun.


.

 

[MandTeKad]

The village unfolded before us like a painting come to life, nestled in the valley between towering pines and craggy cliffs. The air here was clean, fresh, and carried the tang of sawdust and the distant scent of baking bread. Riverwood was far larger than I had anticipated, its population bustling with purpose. Lumberjacks hauled logs to the sawmill, their muscles straining as the waterwheel creaked and groaned. Women tended gardens, exchanging idle chatter over rows of vibrant vegetables. Children darted between wooden fences, their laughter adding a vibrant backdrop to the industrious hum of the village.

For a moment, I forgot my exhaustion, taking in the scene. The sights, sounds, and smells of this place were overwhelming in their richness, but it wasn't just the sensory details that hit me. It was the sheer scale. This wasn't the small, quaint hamlet I had expected. Riverwood was a thriving community, and its size hit me all over again—How much larger was Skyrim if this place, so much bigger than its game counterpart, was just a village?

Ralof grunted beside me, his gaze scanning the faces of the villagers as they turned toward us. Many greeted him with warm smiles or calls of recognition, waving their hands or nodding in welcome. Their friendliness toward him was palpable, and he offered weary nods in return. Yet, as their eyes shifted to me, the warmth dimmed. Their smiles tightened, their nods turned hesitant, and the weight of their stares lingered just a moment too long. It wasn't unexpected- I knew the nords didn't take kindly to outsiders.

As we moved through the village, a woman emerged from the direction of the mill, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. Her hair was a golden blonde, tied back in a practical braid, and her face looked weary- if still rather beautiful. When her eyes fell on Ralof, her face lit up as though someone had plugged a lightbulb into the power grid- wiping away any hints of weariness.

"Ralof!" she cried, her voice thick with emotion as she ran toward us.

Before he could respond, she threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly. "By the gods, I thought I may have lost you," she murmured, her voice trembling. It's been so long without word… and I heard the imperials had captured Ulfric."

Ralof wrapped an arm around her, his exhaustion evident but his voice steady. "I'm here, Gerdur. I made it."

Gerdur pulled back, her hands gripping his shoulders as she looked him over, her sharp gaze taking in the weariness etched into his face. "You look like you've been through Oblivion."

Ralof gave her a tired smile. "Feels like it too."

Her eyes shifted then, landing on me. The warmth in her expression dimmed, replaced by a guarded wariness. "And who is this?"

"This is Melkorn," Ralof said, his tone firm. "If not for him, I wouldn't be here."

Gerdur's gaze flicked over me, taking in my gray skin, violet eyes, and the armor that still bore marks of the chaos we had escaped. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "A Dunmer?" she said, her tone cautious. "You travel with him?"

"Aye," Ralof said without hesitation. "And I owe him my life."

Her expression softened slightly, though the tension in her shoulders didn't fully ease. After a moment, she nodded. "Then he is as welcome here as anyone."

I inclined my head, keeping my voice even, doing my best to keep my exhaustion from creeping in. "Thank you."

Gerdur turned back to Ralof, her hands still gripping his shoulders. "Come. You both look exhausted. Let's get you inside, and you can tell me everything."

Ralof shook his head firmly, his face set. "This news can't wait, Gerdur. A dragon burned Helgen to the ground."

Gerdur froze, her eyes wide with disbelief. "A dragon? By the Divines… I saw something flying over the mountains earlier, but I thought—no, I didn't dare think it could be true." Her voice faltered as she glanced toward the horizon, her gaze haunted. "A real dragon…"

"It's real," Ralof said grimly. "Helgen's gone. It killed everyone it could find. Burned the place to ash."

Gerdur's breath hitched, and she closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. When she opened them again, her expression had hardened into determination. "A dragon…" She shook her head, her voice firmer now. "Then Whiterun needs to know. Jarl Balgruuf must be told at once."

"We'll handle it," Ralof said. "But first, we need to rest. We've been running since it happened."

Gerdur took a long look at the two of us—Ralof's worn expression, the dirt and exhaustion clinging to every step we took, and my stoic silence. Her gaze lingered on me for a moment, cautious and uncertain, but Ralof's presence seemed to ease her worry.

Her face softened. "Then you're both welcome here. Anyone who stood beside my brother is welcome in my home." She reached out, placing a hand on my arm briefly before gesturing for us to follow. "Come. Food and rest first. Then we'll figure out what to do."

Ralof let out a tired chuckle and threw an arm around my shoulder, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "You hear that, Melkorn? A warm meal and a soft bed. Beats sleeping under the stars, eh?"

I grunted, the corner of my mouth twitching upward despite myself. "It does sound better than dirt and tree roots."

"Damn right it does," Ralof said with a grin, steering me toward the house. "You'll see, Gerdur's cooking is the stuff of legend."

As we walked, the sights and sounds of Riverwood filled the air around us. The rhythmic creak of the mill and the distant clang of the forge provided a steady backdrop to the murmur of villagers going about their lives. Despite the warmth of the village, the anticipation brought about from Helgen lingered in the back of my mind, a weight I couldn't quite shake.

Ralof tightened his arm around my shoulder briefly, as if sensing my thoughts. "For now, let's focus on getting through the night. Tomorrow's problems can wait."

I nodded, letting the tension in my shoulders ease slightly as we followed Gerdur toward the house. For the first time since Helgen, the promise of a roof overhead and a real meal felt like a small victory in itself.

The house came into view as we followed Gerdur through Riverwood. A two-story timber structure stood solidly against the backdrop of towering pines, its walls darkened with age but meticulously maintained. Stacks of neatly arranged firewood sat by the porch, and flower boxes along the windows held hardy blooms that added splashes of color to the otherwise rugged setting. The scent of freshly cut lumber from the mill lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest.

Gerdur led us up the porch steps, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The interior was immediately welcoming—cozy yet practical. A large stone hearth dominated the center of the main room, the fire crackling softly and bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. Shelves lined with jars of preserves and dried herbs gave the kitchen area a homey feel, while a long oak table occupied much of the space, its surface scarred from years of use. Nordic carvings adorned the walls, and pelts of animals hung beside hunting trophies, all speaking to the family's deep roots in this land.

"Sit," Gerdur said firmly, motioning toward the table as she bustled toward the kitchen. "You both look like you haven't stopped running since that dragon."

Ralof and I exchanged a glance before complying. He dropped heavily into a chair, his exhaustion more evident now that we were in relative safety. I sat more cautiously, taking in the room and the two siblings.

As Gerdur set the bowls down, her voice sharpened again. "If the Imperials know you survived Helgen, they'll come here next. Searching for deserters, survivors—anything to keep their grip on Skyrim."

Ralof shook his head, his expression grim. "They've got bigger problems than us right now, sister. Helgen was razed to the ground by a dragon. If they're smart, they'll focus on Ulfric—or figuring out what in Oblivion just tore apart their fort."

I nodded in agreement. "They'll be more concerned with the rebellion and the dragon. And even if they do come, your village is too far removed for them to prioritize immediately."

Gerdur's jaw tightened, her worry not entirely soothed, but she relented with a nod. "Maybe. But I don't trust them not to overreach."

She turned her attention to me then, her eyes scanning my face. "And you? What's your name?"

"Melkorn Do'Urden," I replied simply. Her gaze lingered for a moment, then she nodded and turned back to the hearth, her hands moving briskly as she stirred the stew.

"You were at Helgen too?" she asked, not looking back.

"I was," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "Slated for execution alongside your brother."

Her shoulders stiffened for a moment, but she didn't press further. Instead, her gaze shifted to Ralof, her expression sharpening. "We need to send word to Whiterun," she said firmly. "Jarl Balgruuf has to know about the dragon."

"I know," Ralof said, his voice grim. "But I can't go, sister. I'm a Stormcloak—he'd never trust me. And even if he did, I can't stay here. Ulfric needs every blade he can muster."

I had expected this. Their paths were set, their roles clear, and neither could spare the time to deliver the warning. My own plans had already been forming—I would need to head to Whiterun anyway, and this would ensure I didn't leave empty-handed.

"I'll go," I said, breaking the silence.

Both their heads snapped toward me, Gerdur's brow furrowing. "You? Why would you—"

"I'm heading that way already," I interrupted, keeping my voice calm. "This warning will get there faster if you trust me with it. Though if I'm to deliver this news, I'll need supplies for the journey."

Ralof's eyes narrowed briefly as if assessing me, but then he gave a slow nod. "He's right. You're not with us, not with them, either. Balgruuf might just listen."

Gerdur didn't respond immediately, her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied me. Finally, she nodded, her movements decisive as she ladled stew into bowls. "Fine," she said. "I'll write a letter for the Jarl and see that you have what you need to make it to Whiterun."

I inclined my head, leaning back in my chair "Thank you."

The warm crackle of the hearth filled the room, a steady counterpoint to the weight of the conversation. The aroma of rabbit stew mingled with the scent of fresh bread, comforting in its simplicity, but the heaviness of the day lingered in the air. I felt the warmth begin to seep into my bones, dulling the ache of exhaustion, but my mind remained sharp, restless.

I leaned forward slightly, my creaking chair breaking the quiet. "What's the state of things? The war, I mean," I asked, my voice direct. "I heard rumors in Morrowind, but I've barely been in Skyrim a week—and I ended up on the block with Ralof before I could make sense of it all."

Ralof glanced up from his bowl, the faint flicker of rest in his eyes replaced by a harder edge. Gerdur paused in her movements, her gaze shifting between us before she took her seat. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Ralof exhaled deeply, setting his spoon down. "The war's not what most people think. We're not charging banners into the field like some great army. It's a rebellion—a damned hard one. We're striking where it hurts, hitting supply lines, Imperial strongholds, places where we can actually do damage. Bringing Jarls to our side. It's not about holding ground. Not yet."

His tone was measured, but I could hear the frustration beneath it. He shook his head slightly, staring down at his hands. "We've had some victories, but it's not enough. The Empire's grip on Skyrim is tight. And the Thalmor…" He spat the word like it left a foul taste in his mouth. "They're watching everything. Waiting to tighten the leash."

Gerdur's knuckles whitened where they rested on the table. "The Thalmor are the real enemy," she said sharply. "The White-Gold Concordat wasn't just a treaty—it was a betrayal. They stripped us of Talos, of everything he stands for. They think they can dictate who we can worship, that they can erase a god."

Her voice rose slightly, anger lacing her words. "Talos united the Empire. He built it, bled for it, became something greater because of it. And now they want to pretend he doesn't exist?"

The aroma of rabbit stew and fresh bread mingled with the soft sound of spoons against bowls, a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the day. Despite the comfort, tension hung heavy, unspoken questions weighing on my mind.

I set my spoon down, leaning forward slightly. "If there haven't been any major battles yet, how did they manage to capture Ulfric? I'd have thought a man like him wouldn't fall so easily."

Ralof's spoon froze mid-air. For a moment, he didn't speak, his jaw tightening as his gaze dropped. Gerdur's hands paused, but she didn't interrupt, her expression quietly urging her brother to continue.

"It was a trap," Ralof said at last, his voice quieter, heavier. "A damned clever one."

His fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as his eyes seemed to glaze over, reliving the memory. "Tullius set it up. He knew we'd be moving through a narrow pass—one we'd scouted and thought was clear. The terrain was perfect. They had archers hidden along the ridges, and when we entered, they rained arrows down on us before we even knew what was happening."

Ralof's voice tightened, his frustration seeping through. "Then the mages struck. Spells hit us like iron chains, locking us in place. We couldn't move, couldn't fight back. Ulfric's Thu'um... it was like nothing I've ever seen. His Shouts tore through their lines, sent men flying like leaves in a storm. For a moment, it felt like we could turn it."

He paused, his gaze distant, haunted. "But they were ready for that too. Tullius forced the fight into close quarters. Ulfric couldn't use his Shouts without cutting down his own men, and they knew it. They pressed in, surrounded us. We fought, gods, we fought. But it wasn't enough."

His voice grew quieter, the last words almost a whisper. "They took him."

Gerdur's grip tightened on the edge of the table, her knuckles pale. "Tullius is no fool," she said, her voice low. "He's a soldier, through and through. He fights to protect the Empire, even if it means bleeding Skyrim to do it."

Her tone sharpened, anger flickering in her eyes. "But it's not just him. The Empire bends to the Thalmor, their hands tied by that wretched Concordat. They're the ones who want to strip us of Talos, to rewrite history and erase him as a god."

Her words struck a nerve, anger flaring hot in my chest. A god like Talos, a man who united an empire and ascended through sheer will, deserved to be revered. To deny his worship wasn't just arrogance—it was an insult to everything he'd accomplished. The thought churned in my mind, not just as an affront to faith but as a calculated move to destabilize Skyrim, to grind its spirit into submission.

"The White-Gold Concordat," I said finally, my voice low and even, "is a leash. And the Empire is too weak to do anything but tighten it around Skyrim's throat."

Ralof glanced at me, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nodded faintly. "That's why we fight," he said quietly. "To break free of it. To make Skyrim our own again."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the fire's crackling the only sound. The weight of the day began to settle into my limbs, exhaustion creeping in like a tide.

Ralof leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. "Gods, I'm tired," he muttered.

I nodded faintly, the fatigue settling deep into my bones. Gerdur's expression softened as she looked between us, the sharpness in her gaze easing. "The guest rooms are open to you both," she said quietly. "Just up the stairs. Get some rest—you've earned it."

Ralof gave her a tired smile. "Thanks, sister."

I inclined my head. "Thank you."

As we rose, the warmth of the fire lingered, but my thoughts remained restless as Ralof and I trudged up the creaking wooden steps, exhaustion clinging to us like a heavy fog. My body ached, my legs felt like lead, and my head pounded faintly with the lingering weight of the day as my thoughts swirled with thoughts of rebellion, magic, war and the future. Gerdur stayed behind in the main room, her sharp voice faintly audible as she tidied and muttered to herself, her work never seeming to end.


Ralof let out a low groan as we reached the top of the stairs, rubbing his neck with a grimace. "I'd forgotten how good it feels to have a roof overhead," he murmured, his voice heavy with fatigue.


I grunted in agreement, glancing toward the doors that lined the short hallway. One stood slightly ajar, revealing a small but welcoming space with a simple bed and a table illuminated by the soft glow of a candle. It would suffice.


"We shall talk in the morning," Ralof said, offering a faint smile as he made his way to another room.


"Good night," I replied, my voice quieter than usual.


The sound of his door shutting behind him left the house eerily silent, save for the faint murmurs of Gerdur below and the steady creak of the building settling. I stepped into the guest room which was sparse but not unwelcoming. A narrow wooden bed stood against the far wall, neatly made with a woolen blanket. A sturdy table sat beneath the window, a single flickering candle perched atop it. The scent of pine and earth lingered faintly in the air, and through the window, I could see the faint silhouettes of trees against the darkening sky. The soft sound of the river outside was a soothing counterpoint to the faint murmurs from downstairs.

I placed my pack on the table and stood there, letting the quiet wash over me. My gaze drifted to the window, sun beginning its descent behind the jagged peaks, it set the snow ablaze with a fiery glow, casting the leaves in hues of burnished gold. In that fleeting moment, I was struck by a profound truth—dusk, in all its quiet splendor, was as breathtaking in this world as it had ever been.

Shaking the thought from my mind, I reached into my pack and pulled out the coin pouch I'd grabbed during the chaos of Helgen. I hadn't had a moment to take stock of it until now. Sitting down at the table, I tipped the pouch over, spilling its contents onto the wooden surface. The soft clink of coins filled the room.

Twenty-three gold septims gleamed faintly in the candlelight, their distinct golden sheen catching my eye. Among them were ten silver coins and fifteen smaller copper ones, each simpler in design but clearly made for practical use. I picked up one of the coppers, rolling it between my fingers. Of course, there'd be more than septims—it made sense for an economy to have smaller denominations for everyday trade. Setting the coin down, I swept them all back into the pouch, making a mental note to learn their exact values when the chance arose.

Sitting down heavily, my legs nearly collapsing from the exertion of the past few days, I reached back into my pack to retrieve the spellbook. Despite the weight of exhaustion, a flicker of focus returned as I opened the worn cover, flipping to the familiar section on channeling magicka.

Settling into the chair, I let out a slow breath, steadying myself. My hand extended, palm up, as I closed my eyes and focused. My breathing slowed, steady and deliberate, as I reached inward, searching for that faint current I had begun to recognize.

At first, there was nothing but stillness. I inhaled deeply, pushing aside the fatigue clawing at the edges of my focus. And then—there it was. Subtle at first, a soft hum beneath my awareness, like the distant whisper of a river over stone. I reached for it, tentatively drawing it closer, shaping my intent into action.

A warmth blossomed in my palm, faint but undeniable. I opened my eyes, and for the first time, the magic was visible—an ephemeral shimmer, barely perceptible in the dim candlelight, but real. It was there, resting in my hand, no longer just an idea or a theory. A grin spread across my face, wide and almost involuntary. This wasn't just progress—it was a victory. Proof that the power was mine to claim.

Setting the book down, I flipped ahead eagerly, skimming the section on Sparks. The diagrams and instructions blurred together, excitement filling my chest as I absorbed the possibilities. The power to project, to command—each step forward felt like unlocking a part of myself I'd never known.

But my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening below. A man's voice, low and calm, drifted faintly through the floorboards, followed by Gerdur's steady reply. I paused, listening intently for a moment, but the words were indistinct, and my curiosity gave way to the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily on me.

I closed the book, extinguished the candle, and stood, stretching briefly before turning toward the bed. The mattress creaked under my weight as I settled beneath the coarse wool blanket. My mind lingered on the shimmer of magic in my palm, on the potential outlined in the spellbook, and on the journey ahead.

The sound of the river outside and the cool air of the room lulled me into a deep, heavy sleep, the memory of that small shimmer still warming my thoughts as darkness took me.

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The soft murmur of the river filtered into the room as I stirred, the faint smell of fresh bread pulling me fully awake. Morning light slanted through the window, golden and warm, and contrasted with the harsh wilderness of the previous day. The aches of the journey lingered, but the rest had been welcome.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stretched briefly before pulling on my boots. The pack sat where I'd left it, leaning against the table, and next to it was the Legion armor. I frowned at the sight of it, the Imperial insignia catching the morning light. Useful, perhaps, but it wouldn't serve to be mistaken for an imperial. Wearing it would invite all the wrong kinds of attention. Trading it seemed like the best option—if Alvor was willing. For now, though, it would come with me.

I belted the sword at my hip, balanced the armor in my arms, and descended the creaking stairs. Gerdur was already at work, her movements brisk but precise as she laid out supplies on the table—a bundle of bread, salted meat, cheese, and a waterskin. Ralof sat nearby, lacing up his boots with a steady efficiency, his calm demeanor contrasting with the urgency of our situation.

Gerdur glanced up as I entered, her eyes briefly flicking to the armor in my hands before she nodded in acknowledgment. "Morning," she said simply, sliding a small pouch across the table toward me. "Hod thought you might need this. It's not much, but it'll help."

The pouch clinked faintly as I picked it up, its weight reassuring. "Thank you," I said, tucking it into my pack.

She handed me a folded letter next, its wax seal marked with a symbol I didn't recognize but assumed was hers. "Take this to Jarl Balgruuf," she said, her tone sharp and determined. "He needs to hear about Helgen—and this dragon."

I nodded, slipping the letter into the pouch at my belt. "I'll see that he gets it."

Ralof rose then, his boots firmly laced, his gaze falling briefly on the armor I held. His lip curled slightly, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he clapped me on the shoulder with a firm grip. "You'll want to pack that if you're keeping it," he said, his tone neutral but edged with the faintest hint of disdain. "But don't linger too long."

He was right. I glanced at Gerdur. "Do you have a spare pack?"

She paused, considering, before disappearing into the back room. Moments later, she returned with a simple but sturdy pack. "This should do," she said.

I nodded my thanks, carefully packing the armor inside. The sword remained at my hip—plain and unremarkable, but for now, it would suffice.

Stepping outside, the crisp morning air greeted us, the scent of pine mingling with the faint smokiness of the forge nearby. Ralof walked beside me, his presence solid and steady, a quiet camaraderie lingering between us.

As we reached the edge of Gerdur's property, he turned to face me, gripping my forearm firmly. "You fought well for a Dunmer," he said, his tone carrying both respect and gravity. "We could use someone like you."

His grip tightened slightly as he continued. "I can vouch for you—come see us at Windhelm. Ulfric will want to hear about someone with your skill."

The offer was plain and direct, an invitation into the Stormcloak cause. I met his gaze, holding it for a moment before nodding. "I'll think on it," I said evenly, keeping my thoughts to myself.

Ralof released my arm with a small nod of his own, stepping back. "Safe travels, Melkorn. Skyrim's a dangerous place."

With that, he turned and walked away. I watched him for a moment before adjusting the pack on my own shoulder and heading toward Riverwood.

The village bustled as the day began in earnest. Workers moved logs toward the sawmill, the rhythmic creak of the waterwheel providing a steady backdrop to the hum of voices and the clang of a hammer on steel from the forge. My first stop would be Alvor's shop—if I was to make this journey, I needed proper armor and gear.

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.

The sound of steel meeting steel reached me long before I saw the forge itself, its sharp rhythm cutting through the calm of the morning. Rounding the corner, the sight came into view: a broad, open structure built of timber and stone, the heart of the village in both purpose and presence. Smoke rose steadily from the chimney, curling into the clear sky, and the unmistakable heat of the forge wafted toward me.

The smell of hot iron mixed with the earthy tang of woodsmoke and coal and the warmth of it hit me like a hot breeze in the summer. A wide overhang sheltered the workspace, shading an anvil, quenching troughs, and racks of tools that spoke to years of labor. Alvor's hammer rang out from the anvil, steady and purposeful, the forge casting flickering light across his broad frame.

My gaze drifted to the weapon racks lining one side of the forge as I sat my pack down quietly, the weight of the Legion armor pulling at my shoulder. I glanced at the metal breastplate, the sigils of the Empire stamped clearly across its surface. It would make me a target out here, and I was done with wearing that mark. I knew the tension in Skyrim well enough. I needed something neutral, something that wouldn't put a target on my back.

Looking back up the weapons caught my eye. Swords hung neatly, their blades glinting faintly in the sunlight. Their designs were practical—straight-edged and solid, with hilts wrapped in dark leather. No gilded embellishments or flourishes, just the basic craftsmanship that would serve a fighter for years. Daggers rested nearby, rondels, seax knives and larger daggers closer to the size of a shortsword.

A rack of axes caught my attention next. Some were built for the woods, with sturdy heads and polished shafts. Others, meant for war, bore thinner heads, light and nimble and made for battle. Nearby stood spears, their iron tips tapered to deadly points, with long wooden shafts reinforced to withstand use in battle or the hunt.

Armor occupied its own section, though the display was modest. A chainmail shirt hung from a wooden frame, its interlocking rings clean and gleaming. Gambesons of quilted fabric sat folded on a nearby table, their stitching sturdy enough to endure the rigors of combat. A steel breastplate rested on a workbench, its surface polished smooth but not overly reflective—purely functional. Helmets of various designs lined the shelves, from simple caps to those with reinforced nasal guards and cheek plates.

Shields leaned against the wall, each one reflecting a different stage of wear. Most were simple round wooden shields, their edges reinforced with iron bands to protect against blows. Some showed signs of long use: dents and scratches marking where they had borne the brunt of battle. The designs that once adorned them—wolves, mountains, storm clouds—had faded with time, but traces of color still clung to the wood.

Beside the shields, a wall was lined with various tools meant for the village's daily needs. Each one showed signs of wear but had been well cared for. There were plows, hoes, and spades, their wooden handles smooth from use, the metal blades still sharp and ready for work. Farming tools hung alongside simple hand tools—axes for chopping wood, saws for cutting timber, and hammers for repairs. Tongs, files, and chisels sat nearby, designed for use in smaller repairs and crafting. Some tools had the dull patina of frequent use, others were freshly polished, ready for whoever needed them next.

Ingots of iron and steel were stacked in the corner, while rolls of leather and rawhide hung from hooks, ready to be turned into straps or padding for armor. It was a simple space, but it was well-equipped—clearly capable of producing everything a village like Riverwood needed to survive.




Alvor glanced up as I moved closer, his sharp eyes studying me briefly. He was a tall man, his face streaked with soot, the muscles of his arms and neck taut from the work he did daily at the anvil. He was no stranger to hard labor. "You're up early," he said, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. His gaze dropped to the Legion armor slung over my shoulder. "Looking to trade, or looking to buy?"

I wasted no time. "Trade," I said simply, not bothering with pleasantries. "I need something more neutral. This"—I motioned to the Legion gear—"is going to make me a target. I'm not looking to be a walking advertisement for the Empire."

Alvor grunted, understanding in his eyes. He'd seen plenty of Legion gear come through his forge, no doubt, but it wasn't the sort of thing most people wanted to wear out here. "Aye, that'll get you noticed, alright. Solid gear, though," he said as he ran a hand over the breastplate, his fingers feeling the smooth surface and the edges of the engravings. "I can take it off your hands, though. Sell it back to the Legion or break it down for the parts. Either way, I'll make use of it."

I nodded, appreciative of his straightforwardness. "I need something that won't mark me as a target," I reiterated, ready to move on to the next step.

Alvor grunted again, already moving across the room. "You'll need something neutral, then. No symbols, no markings. I've got some that should do you right."

He pulled a worn leather pouch from his belt and tossed it on the counter next to a nearby rack. It had seen its share of wear, the leather darkened with age, but it still held its shape well. "Let's see your measurements," he said, his voice a mix of business and familiarity. "You're fairly tall, and I need to make sure this fits well. Stand still for me."

I paused, rolling my shoulders as I stood before him, feet flat on the floor. The air in the forge was hot, thick with the scent of coal and metal, but it felt right—like the world outside could wait while I got prepared.

Alvor moved quickly, grabbing a measuring tape from a hook beside the forge. His eyes flicked over me before he began taking measurements—my chest, waist, and the span of my shoulders. His hands were steady, and I could tell from the way he worked that he'd done this countless times.

"Not as broad as most Nords, but you've got a solid frame for a dumner," he muttered, making a few notes as he circled around me. "You'll need some extra padding under the chainmail, though. Doesn't look like you're carrying as much muscle as the usual folks around here." he prodded.

The words stung more than I expected. I was still adjusting to this body—stronger, fitter than before, but the muscle mass I'd built on Earth was gone, and my new body didn't quite have the same bulk. Still, I didn't want to hear it. I'd spent enough time getting used to this form. I bit my tongue, letting the irritation slide away before it showed.

"Hold on," he said, before disappearing behind the racks of armor. "I'll grab what I think will fit."

He returned with a thick red gambeson in his hands, the padded fabric sturdy but flexible, its layers providing a solid base of protection. He held it up against me, checking for size and comfort. "This'll do," he grunted, tossing it to me. "Won't restrict your movement, and you'll need the extra padding under the chainmail."

I pulled the gambeson on like a coat, the fabric settling around me comfortably. I fastened the front with the leather laces, making sure it was snug but not restrictive. The layers of the padded fabric gave me a solid base of protection without weighing me down. It felt good against my skin, a necessary first step before the heavier armor.

Next, Alvor grabbed a chainmail shirt, the steel rings smooth and sturdy in his hands. He gave it a once-over, checking the fit before pulling it from the rack. As he slipped it over my head, the metal rings tugged uncomfortably at my hair, pulling at the strands as they slid past. I winced slightly, the sensation far from pleasant. It took a bit of effort to wrangle the shirt into place, but after a few moments, it settled against my chest.

Alvor stepped back to examine the fit, nodding in approval. "Solid protection. The rings are tight, but not so much that they'll weigh you down," he said, though his eyes lingered a moment longer on the way the mail settled over my shoulders. I pulled my hair from beneath the chainmail, brushing it aside as best I could, feeling the strands cling to the metal. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.

He turned back toward the racks, reaching for a set of vambraces—bars of steel over sturdy leather. He slid one onto my arm, adjusting it to sit comfortably over the forearm. The steel bars were shaped to cover the vital areas while leaving enough room for movement. He gave it a firm test, sliding the vambrace up and down a few times before pulling it off.

"These should do," Alvor said with a nod.

Alvor paused for a moment before grabbing a steel breastplate off the rack. The front piece was solid, smooth, and well made, while the back plate was of a similar quality. Alvor held the front piece against my chest, adjusting it to ensure a good fit before moving behind me to work on the back. He fastened the two pieces together with side straps, making sure the fit was snug but not restrictive.

"This is good steel," he muttered, tightening the straps at the sides. "It'll stop most of the bandit arrows, but an Orc warhammer? That'll splatter you. Still, it'll hold up well for anything less."

Alvor moved swiftly, grabbing a pair of greaves from the rack. The steel was polished and tough, but not too heavy—exactly what I needed for both protection and mobility. He turned to me, his expression focused as he examined the fit.

"Lift your leg," he said as he bent down to measure the length against my calf. I complied, raising my leg, the chainmail still tugging at my shoulders as I balanced on one foot. Alvor slid the greaves up over my boot, adjusting them to sit comfortably just above my knees.

The fit was snug, the leather straps securing them tight enough that they wouldn't slip, but not so tight that they restricted movement. "Good," he grunted, pulling on the straps to fasten them. "These'll hold up well for traveling. Don't expect them to buckle under a sword strike, but if you end up in a battle with a big bastard swinging a mace, you'll feel it."

I flexed my leg, testing the range of motion. The greaves fit well—firm, but not cumbersome. I gave them a satisfied nod as I lowered my foot back to the ground.

Alvor gave a slight nod. "You're good to go. A solid set of leg protection, won't weigh you down. That's all you'll need for a road trip like yours."

I flexed my legs once more, pleased with the comfort and the fit.

Lastly, Alvor moved to the helm, holding it up for me to inspect. The design was straightforward: a metal band across the nose, curved cheek guards, and a steel crown - much like the gjermundbu. Nothing fancy, just protection. He passed it over and I looked down at my reflection in the darkened metal of the helmet. There was no mark of the Empire, no visible ties to anyone but myself. I was neutral now—just a traveler, ready to move on.

Alvor stood back giving me a final look. "That should work," he said, moving to the side to grab his tools. "This lot will set you back 15 septims. Not bad considering what you're getting, especially with the way things are now."

I raised an eyebrow. "15? That's a bit steep, don't you think? The Legion gear alone will be worth something to you," I said, eyeing the pieces of armor I'd handed him.

Alvor grunted in response, not bothered by the pushback. "I know it's worth something. But with the war, materials are harder to come by. Steel's getting scarce, and leather's inflating in price. It's not like it used to be."

I paused, weighing my options. "How about 11?"

He shook his head. "14. And that's the best I can do."

"12," I pressed. "You're getting quality legion armor in exchange."

There was a long pause as Alvor considered. He eyed me carefully, sizing up the situation before grunting and nodding. "12 septims. Deal."

I handed over the coins, feeling the weight of the trade as I tucked the much lighter pouch in my pack.

"Thanks again, Alvor," I said as I adjusted the straps of my belt and the weight of my sword settled comfortably on my hip.

Alvor waved me off as I turned to leave. "Safe travels. Don't get caught in the crossfire."




I stepped out of the forge, the weight of my new armor settling well on my shoulders. The sun had risen higher, casting long shadows across the village. As I walked through the narrow streets, the cool morning air tugged at my hair.

The people of Riverwood went about their daily routines, but I couldn't help but notice their wary glances as I passed. Some of them gave me cautious looks. A few muttered to themselves, no doubt wondering about the dunmer in armor. The weight of their stares felt tangible, but it wasn't hostility—not yet. It was more the suspicion that followed anyone new and foreign.

I shook off the discomfort and made my way to the Riverwood Trader, hoping the exchange would be quick. I was already a bit light on coins with the armor, and I had a few more purchases to make before I was ready to hit the road.

.

.

.

The door to the Riverwood Trader creaked as I stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood and leather filling the air. The shop was larger than in game, with more goods now filling the shelves than I remembered. Behind the counter, Lucan Valerius was muttering to himself, his eyes scanning his stock with frustration.

"…damn milk-drinking thief," Lucan grumbled as his hands worked quickly. "First the Golden Claw, now this."

I paused, my gaze flicking to the shopkeeper. The Golden Claw had been stolen. It was nice to get that quest confirmed. Not that I needed any confirmation—I already knew. It had been part of the rumors circulating through the village. Still, it was good to hear it directly from him.

Lucan didn't seem to notice me standing there, so I took a moment to peruse the shop. The shelves were stocked with essentials, each item carefully arranged. Torches, bundled neatly and ready for use. Bedrolls were stacked beside them.

My fingers traced the edges of a few maps as I walked by, some rolled tightly, others slightly unfurled. I ran a finger over one of them, wondering what lay beyond the places I knew from the game.

On another shelf, I spotted waterskins, hanging from hooks. Their leather was rugged, well-oiled, and the simple craftsmanship looked sturdy enough for long journeys. Luckily I had already been given basic supplies.

But what really caught my eye was the small section of alchemical supplies. Health and stamina potions sat in neat rows, the glowing liquids casting a faint, ethereal light. I reached for one of the health potions, small and very obviously a minor one. The glass was cool against my fingers.

A flicker of memory rushed to me—Helgen. The health potion I'd used to heal from the arrow wound, giving me the strength to escape the burning town. The memory was sharp, and I couldn't help but smile. That potion had saved me. I knew its worth now more than ever.

Lucan finally noticed me picking up the potion, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Health potion, eh?" Lucan's voice was gruff but not unfriendly. "That'll be 20 septims. Not much left in stock with all these damn thieves around."

I didn't hesitate. The price was steep, but it could easily save my life. I placed 20 septims on the counter without a second thought. The health potion could make all the difference on the road. I took the wrapped potion from him, slipping it into my pack.

Lucan wrapped the potion in cloth with a sigh, muttering about the state of things in Riverwood. "If I could keep my stock up, I'd charge less, but what can you do?"

While I was at it, I figured a map wouldn't hurt. I walked over to the shelf where they were kept, unfurling one that looked detailed. The markings were dense, showing more than just roads but entire regions, possibly unknown to me. I ran my finger over the inked lines, imagining the places that awaited me. The price was clearly marked—10 septims—and I was willing to pay it. I hadn't had the chance to explore much yet, and it felt prudent to make sure I knew where I was going.

I turned back to Lucan, the thought of the road ahead heavy in my mind. "I'll take one of these maps too. 10 septims."

Lucan's tired eyes flickered with recognition as he added the map to my purchases. "A good choice. Those maps are hard to come by, especially in these times," he said with a quiet grunt. He seemed to momentarily focus on my gear, noting the armor, before continuing his task.

I placed the required 10 septims down with a small sigh. It seemed like everything I needed cost septims, and here I was, running low. That frustration was starting to gnaw at me. I still had a decent amount of silver and copper coins from the chaos at Helgen, but none of that was being accepted. I was forced to deal in septims, which, for reasons I couldn't fully comprehend, was the only currency that seemed to matter here. It didn't help that the shopkeeper had so casually tossed me a price that was already inflated by the war and rising supply costs.

As I turned to leave, my eyes were drawn to a dark sable cloak hanging near the front of the shop. The rich black fabric looked sturdy, but it was the fur lining that caught my attention. It looked thick enough to protect against Skyrim's bitter cold winds. The iron chain clasp at the front gleamed faintly, simple yet effective. Something told me I could use more warmth than I'd anticipated.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, feeling the soft, plush lining against my skin. It wasn't just practical—it looked good too. And that was something I hadn't had much of lately. I could use something that would both keep me warm and add a little comfort to my travels. The last few days of wandering through Skyrim had left me feeling exposed, and something about this cloak just felt right.

"How much for the cloak?" I asked, turning to Lucan with a raised brow. He didn't seem particularly surprised by the question, though there was a moment of appraising hesitation before he gave me the price.

Lucan glanced at the cloak and then back at me, sizing me up. "5 septims. A fair price for something that'll last in this cold."

I raised an eyebrow. That was more reasonable. "I'll take it."

Lucan folded it neatly and handed it to me, his eyes still darting to my gear. "Smart choice. You'll need it out there in the cold. Keeps you warm and keeps you looking sharp, too."

I nodded, grateful for the purchase. The cloak was just what I needed. I could already imagine how it would feel on the road, keeping the harsh Skyrim winds off my back while adding a bit of much-needed protection. I added it to my pack and moved to leave, feeling a little more prepared for what lay ahead.

As I finished up my purchase, I felt a quiet frustration building in my chest. Why was everything I was buying in septims? I had a good amount of silver and copper coins from the pouch from Helgen, but it was all septims that I was handing over here. Wasn't there a use for the smaller coins—the ones I'd gathered from various pockets and purses? Surely the silver and copper were worth something. I couldn't help but wonder why everything had to be priced in septims, and why none of the other currencies had any real worth here.

I pushed the thought away, though. Gerdur had helped me secure the basic supplies I needed, and I was only buying the expensive items now. Still, I'd have to make sure to get more septims if I planned to continue on like this. The difference in value was irritating, but it wasn't anything I could change right now.

"Thanks, Lucan," I said, throwing the cloak over my shoulders and fastening it as I turned to leave. "May the divines watch over you." Now that felt weird to say

Lucan waved me off, his attention already diverted to the shelves. "You stay safe out there."

With my new purchases in tow, I stepped out into the brisk morning air, feeling the weight of the cloak settle around me, and adjusted the pack on my back. The health potion was within easy reach. I was ready to make my way toward Whiterun.








The path stretched before me, the morning light filtering through the trees, casting long shadows across the dirt road. The weight of my armor and my new sable cloak—sat comfortably on me. It was a familiar sensation, one that felt natural from my old life, though now it settled easier, as if this body was built to bear it. Adjusting the pack on my shoulders, I felt the slight shift of the sword at my hip, a reminder of the tools I carried for the dangers ahead.

Behind me, Riverwood receded into the background, its sounds and smells growing faint. The clang of Alvor's hammer at the forge, the murmur of villagers, and the creak of the mill's waterwheel became distant, muted echoes. A few cautious or hostile glances had followed me as I'd left, but I hadn't lingered long enough to dwell on them. I wasn't one of them. I never would be.

The road ahead felt alive, untamed, and unpredictable. Memories of the game whispered warnings in the back of my mind—wolves lurking in the underbrush, bandits hiding just out of sight, waiting for an unwary traveler. Every sound—a snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves—sent a flicker of tension through me. This wasn't a journey to be taken lightly.

I tugged the cloak tighter around my shoulders, its fur lining soft against my neck. The air carried a faint chill, a reminder of how different this land was from the one I'd known on Earth. My fingers brushed against the hilt of my sword, the gesture instinctive. It wasn't just for show—I'd need it soon enough. The thought of the health potion in my pack gave me some small reassurance. My mind flickered back to Helgen, to the potion that had kept me alive after that arrow had found its mark. The memory was sharp and visceral, a reminder that this world was as deadly as it was beautiful.

The road twisted ahead, disappearing into the forest. Each step felt like peeling away another layer of the unknown, and with it came a growing sense of both excitement and unease. This was the beginning of something larger, and the thought stirred something deep within me. It wasn't the safety of Riverwood or the chaos of Helgen—this was the wilds. It was freedom, danger, and opportunity, all rolled into one.

I didn't look back again. The village was gone, replaced by the quiet sounds of nature—birds chirping, the wind stirring the trees, the crunch of dirt beneath my boots. It was just me now, the road, and whatever waited ahead.



The road ahead stretched out like a winding ribbon, weaving through the towering trees and rolling hills that defined this part of Skyrim. Dense forests loomed on either side, their shadows long and deep under the midday sun. Distant mountains pierced the horizon, their snow-capped peaks a stark reminder of how vast and untamed this land truly was. Streams cut through the earth like veins, their trickling water adding to the natural symphony of the wilds. It was beautiful, breathtaking even, but I wasn't foolish enough to let that beauty distract me.

Every rustle in the underbrush made my hand twitch toward the hilt of my sword. A bird taking flight, the faint snapping of a branch—it all set my senses on edge. The dangers of this world weren't abstract; they were real and likely closer than I realized. The game had taught me to expect ambushes—wolves, bandits, or worse—and though this was no longer a game, those instincts lingered. My eyes constantly scanned the treeline, my ears straining for any sound out of place. I couldn't afford to be caught off guard.

This body felt different, leaner and lighter than what I had known on Earth, but I was adjusting. Each step felt more natural than the last. My movements were quicker, more fluid, but the lack of the sheer muscle mass I once had nagged at me. The armor I wore was familiar, its weight grounding me, but this was survival in a way I had never known before. This wasn't just about physical endurance—it was about staying sharp, thinking ahead, and understanding the terrain. And here, the terrain was as much my enemy as any blade.

The map I'd purchased from Lucan offered some reassurance, at least. Unfurling it briefly, I studied the lines and markings, tracing the path toward Whiterun. It was thorough, far more detailed than I'd expected, with more than just roads. There were landmarks, smaller settlements, and even notations that hinted at possible dangers. It was a comfort, but it also reminded me of just how little I truly knew about this world. For all the time I had spent playing Skyrim back on Earth, this was different. The reality of it was exciting.

I tucked the map away and adjusted the pack on my back, feeling the weight of the armor shift slightly as I moved. I thought back to the villagers in Riverwood and the way their gazes had lingered on me as I left. Not one of them, not even close. That much was obvious, but it didn't bother me as much as it should have. I was used to being an outsider—this was just another iteration of the same feeling. Still, the thought of being completely alone in this world, without allies or a place to call home, gnawed at me.

The road wound onward, and I pressed forward, the tension in my shoulders never quite easing. This was just the beginning, I reminded myself. I had a long way to go and a lot to figure out.

.

.

.

The sun was dipping below the horizon when I decided it was time to stop. The road had wound its way through dense forest, the shadows growing longer with every step. My eyes scanned the trees for a good spot, someplace quiet and defensible. A clearing just off the road caught my attention, its edges bordered by thick undergrowth that would block the wind and hide the firelight. Perfect.

I stepped into the clearing, my boots crunching softly against the dried leaves and dirt beneath me. The air was cooler now, and I could feel it bite at my face and hands despite the warmth of my cloak. This place would have to do. Setting down my pack, I stretched briefly, feeling the day's tension in my shoulders and back. The armor shifted with the motion, its weight comforting- I had always wanted to wear my armor in more than just sparring.

I began with the essentials. I unrolled my bedroll and placed it near the center of the clearing, where the ground was flattest. A small fire pit came next, stones gathered from the edge of the clearing arranged in a rough circle. The process of kindling a fire was methodical, almost comforting. Flint and steel scraped together, and sparks danced briefly before catching on the dried grass and twigs I'd collected. I blew gently, coaxing the flames to life, and soon enough, a warm fire crackled at the center of my camp.

The flickering light illuminated the clearing, casting long shadows against the trees. I adjusted the cloak around my shoulders, the fur lining a welcome barrier against the night's growing chill. The simple act of setting up camp, of creating a small refuge in the wilderness, felt oddly satisfying. It wasn't much, but it was mine—for tonight, at least.

As I sat by the fire, the sounds of the forest crept in. The distant hoot of an owl, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the occasional snap of a branch somewhere in the distance. It was peaceful in its way, but I couldn't shake the tension in my chest. The wilds were beautiful, yes, but they were also dangerous. I'd seen the game's version of Skyrim's wilderness, and it had been brutal enough. This, though—this was real. And I was alone.

My hand rested on the hilt of my sword almost unconsciously, a habit I'd had even in my old world when I wore a sword. Every sound felt like a warning, every shadow a potential threat. I knew better than to let my guard down, even here. The fire would keep most creatures away, but bandits or worse could still find me if I wasn't careful. For now, though, I had to trust that I'd chosen the right spot.

Satisfied with the setup of my camp, I rose to my feet, my hand instinctively brushing the hilt of my sword. The fire crackled behind me, casting flickering shadows across the clearing as I pulled the blade free. The weight of it felt natural in my grip—familiar, but not entirely. This body, lighter and quicker than the one I'd known on Earth, still felt foreign in subtle ways. If I was going to survive, I needed to bridge that gap.

I stepped into the center of the clearing, letting the firelight illuminate the area around me. The sword's edge caught the light as I tested its weight, balancing it in my hand. The first few movements were slow and deliberate—a basic stance, a practiced advancing step. My muscles responded quickly, but there was a subtle unfamiliarity, a reminder that this wasn't truly my body- yet.


I moved through a series of strikes, blocks, and parries, each one faster and more fluid than the last. The blade sliced through the air with a satisfying whisper, and the sound of my boots shifting across the dirt filled the quiet of the clearing. The sword felt good, but it wasn't perfect—I was more practiced with arming, saber and longswords than gladius. Still, it would do for now.

As I practiced, I could feel the muscles in this new body adjusting to the motions. There was strength here, but it wasn't the same as the bulkier power I'd had on Earth. This was leaner, more precise, built for agility rather than great force. I shifted into a forward lunge, feeling the armor move with me. The breastplate was snug but flexible enough to allow for full motion, and the chainmail shifted against the gambeson with a faint, metallic whisper. It was a good fit, and I couldn't deny that Alvor had done well in outfitting me.

I pushed myself harder, running through advanced techniques and combinations. The firelight glinted off the blade as I worked, the motions becoming smoother with each repetition. The new body moved with a speed that caught me off guard at times, but it lacked the raw power I'd been accustomed to. It was frustrating, but also a challenge. If this was who I was now, then I'd make it work. I'd master it.

As I lowered the sword after a particularly sharp series of strikes, I took a moment to catch my breath. The clearing was quiet save for the crackling of the fire, and the stars above shone brightly against the dark sky. The world felt vast and alive, and for a brief moment, I was struck by the sheer reality of it all. This wasn't Earth. This wasn't a game. This was my life now, and every swing of the blade, every step forward, would carve my place in it I thought with a small smile.

I continued the practice, testing how far I could push myself. The weight of the armor settled more naturally with each movement, and I began to feel the rhythm of the body I inhabited. The gambeson and chainmail absorbed the strain of rapid motions, and the helm, while a bit snug, didn't hinder my vision or balance. Each strike and block felt more deliberate, more in tune.

The sword moved like an extension of my arm, and by the time I finally lowered it again, my breathing was heavier, my muscles pleasantly sore. I looked at the blade, its edge glinting in the firelight, and felt a small sense of accomplishment. This wasn't just practice—it was progress.

The warmth of the fire lingered on my skin as I slid my sword back into its sheath. The exertion of practice had left me pleasantly sore, but my thoughts were elsewhere now—on the spellbook resting in my pack. I knelt beside it, retrieving the worn tome and flipping to the section I'd studied before. Sparks. The first step in mastering lightning.

I settled onto my bedroll, the firelight casting dancing shadows over the page. The words were precise, their tone different from the earlier, almost dismissive primer for simply drawing Magicka. These instructions carried weight, reverence even. Lightning, it seemed, was not merely power—it was alive. The passage described it as chaos incarnate, a force that obeyed only those with discipline and focus.

"To command lightning is to hold chaos in your palm," I murmured, the words resonating as I traced the page with my finger. Lightning was not something to be tamed. It was a partnership, a pact. And that made it even more alluring.

I placed the book aside and adjusted my position, sitting cross-legged with my hands resting on my knees. The instructions were clear: begin with calm. The fire crackled behind me, its light a steady comfort as I closed my eyes and focused inward.

The Magicka within me was no longer foreign, not after the journey here. It was familiar now, like a faint hum at the edges of my awareness. I let my breathing slow, each inhale drawing me deeper into that current. It wasn't easy—lightning wasn't gentle. The energy felt volatile, eager to leap forward, yet just out of reach.

The next step: visualize the chaos. I pictured a storm in my mind, thunder crashing and lightning streaking across a dark sky. The energy was sharp and jagged, untamed. My pulse quickened as I imagined it coalescing in my hand, crackling and alive.

"The storm is mine to command," I whispered, setting my purpose.

I raised my dominant hand, palm forward, and began to draw on the Magicka. The flow wasn't steady; it came in fits and starts, bursts of energy sparking at my fingertips before fizzling out. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to remain calm, even as the volatile current made my arm tingle unpleasantly.

Then it happened. A faint spark—a tiny blue arc of electricity—danced across my palm. It was fleeting, barely there, but it sent a jolt of exhilaration through me. I focused harder, drawing more Magicka and letting it pool in my hand. The spark returned, this time stronger, a small web of lightning crackling in my palm.

The energy was unlike anything I'd felt before. It was alive, eager, and chaotic, just as the book described. I concentrated on shaping it, letting it build into a steady arc. The crackling grew louder, filling the quiet of the night as the lightning leaped and danced between my fingers.

The faint arc of electricity flickered across my palm, illuminating the clearing in a soft, ghostly blue light. It was small, crackling faintly, but it was there—my first successful attempt at summoning lightning. A grin split my face, the thrill of holding such raw, untamed power erasing the exhaustion I'd felt moments before. This was real. It was mine.

The book's warning echoed in my mind: lightning is eager to betray its master. But the warning only stoked the fire of my determination. I wasn't about to stop here—not when I could feel the energy practically begging to leap further, to grow.

I drew on the Magicka again, this time letting the current build more forcefully in my palm. The spark returned, brighter now, its erratic tendrils stretching and snapping in the cool night air. I clenched my teeth, focusing harder as I imagined the storm coalescing, its chaos bending to my will. The crackling grew louder, filling the quiet of the clearing, and the thrill of it surged through me.

But as I tried to push the spell further, to let the arc leap from my palm, I faltered. The energy wavered, unstable, and before I could release it, the lightning lashed out. A sharp jolt shot through my hand, snapping up my arm and leaving my muscles tingling unpleasantly. I hissed, pulling my hand back instinctively as the arc fizzled out, leaving the clearing dark once more.

The zap wasn't severe, but it was enough to snap me back to reality. I flexed my fingers, the tingling sensation lingering like an echo of my mistake. Impatience had cost me—just a small lesson, but one I wouldn't forget.

I sighed, lowering my hand and shaking it out. Pushing too hard too soon wouldn't get me anywhere. Still, the thrill of holding lightning, even briefly, was intoxicating. It wasn't just power—it was potential, but as I let my arm fall to my side, the lingering tingle of lightning slowly fading. The excitement of mastering Sparks, however briefly, began to ebb, replaced by a more pressing excitement. The Thu'um, the voice of the Dragonborn-My power.

I had waited long enough. The words were there, burned into my mind as though they had always been a part of me. Fus. The word of force, the first syllable of a power that had brought me to this moment. It wasn't a mystery to me. I didn't need to learn it. I only needed to call it forth.

I stepped into the center of the clearing, standing tall and steady. My heart pounded, but it wasn't fear—not this time. It was excitement, the kind that hummed in your chest before something extraordinary. This was the moment.

I closed my eyes, my breath steady, and focused. The sensation was unlike drawing Magicka. This wasn't an external force to channel; it was something deeper, something primal. I could feel it there, buried in the marrow of my bones, in the breath that swelled my chest. It was waiting—waiting for me to give it voice.

I opened my mouth, the word forming effortlessly on my tongue, a word I had known since waking in this world.
"Fus!"

...Nothing

The sound of my own voice echoed dully in the clearing, but that was all. No surge of power, no force rippling through the air. Nothing. Just the faint rustle of the forest, as if mocking my failure.

I blinked, the grin on my face faltering. Maybe I hadn't done it right. Maybe I hadn't focused enough. I drew a deep breath, straightened my stance, and tried again.
"Fus!"

Again, nothing. The silence pressed in, heavy and unyielding, as my excitement crumbled into confusion. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

I clenched my fists, the joy of a moment ago replaced by a flicker of frustration. Why wasn't it working? I knew the word. I knew what it was supposed to do. The memory of the Dragonborn in the game flashed through my mind—the effortless shouts, the way the power had been immediate and absolute. Why wasn't it the same for me?

I tried a third time, my voice sharper now, more demanding. "Fus!"

The result didn't change. The clearing remained undisturbed, the trees unimpressed by my efforts. My jaw tightened, and I let out a sharp breath, running a hand through my hair. The excitement had faded entirely now, replaced by a sinking feeling in my chest.

What if it wasn't mine? What if this power—the Thu'um, the very thing that marked me as Dragonborn—was out of my reach? The thought was bitter, a dark whisper at the back of my mind. What if I wasn't really the Dragonborn?

I shook my head, pushing the doubt away. No. That couldn't be it. There had to be something I was missing. This wasn't the kind of power you simply spoke into existence. It had to be deeper than that—something tied to the soul, something I hadn't unlocked yet.

I glanced at the fire, its steady crackling a small comfort in the midst of my frustration. The thought of giving up crossed my mind, but I banished it quickly. This was only the beginning. Power like this wouldn't come easily. If it did, it wouldn't be worth having.

I sat back down on the edge of the bedroll, the frustration still simmering but tempered by determination. The Thu'um would come. It had to. But for now, I had to accept that this wasn't the moment.

The stars above seemed indifferent to my struggle, their light cold and distant. I stared up at them for a long moment, letting the cool night air settle my thoughts. The road to Whiterun awaited, and beyond that, answers—or so I hoped. But tonight, the only thing I could do was prepare for whatever came next.

The fire popped loudly, pulling me from my thoughts. I sighed, leaning back and closing my eyes. Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I'd try again.

 

[MandTeKad]

Golden light filtered through the canopy above, warming my face as I woke. The air is cool, crisp, carrying the rich scents of pine and damp earth, mingled with the faint babble of a brook somewhere nearby. My eyes open slowly, taking in the dappled sunlight that streaks the forest floor.

For a moment, I let myself enjoy it. The trees stretch high above, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. Birds flit between the shadows, their songs weaving a melody that carries me far from thoughts of blood and fire. It's beautiful in a way that feels unreal, like I've stepped into a painting.

Then I hear it—a low, mournful howl in the distance.

My hand snaps to the hilt of my sword, fingers gripping tightly as I sit up. The ache in my muscles and feet, dulled by sleep, rushes back with a vengeance, but I don't care. My eyes scan the forest, searching the undergrowth and shadows for movement.

The sound fades, but the tension remains. I exhale slowly, willing my heartbeat to steady. It's a stark reminder of where I am—of what Skyrim is. This isn't a tranquil haven; it's a wilderness teeming with danger. Wolves, bears, bandits… the list goes on.

I run a thumb along the hilt of my sword, its familiar weight settling me. This isn't Helgen or a dwemer ruin, but it's no less deadly if I let my guard down. The forest may be beautiful, but it's no place for daydreaming.

Sliding my legs out from under the blanket, I stretch, the stiffness in my back and legs a reminder of how far I've come since… well, since everything. A week's worth of travel has done little to dull the sharp clarity of waking up here.

Skyrim.

I glance up at the canopy again, at the golden light filtering through the leaves, and allow myself one last breath of stillness. It may have been chaos, but this world has been exhilarating in a way I hadn't felt in years. The rush of combat, the raw thrill of survival… this place is a challenge, one i'm relishing

The serenity of the morning, with the sun casting its golden glow over the forest, is intoxicating. But I know better than to let it lull me into complacency. I can't afford to lose myself in its beauty. Danger could be lurking just beyond the trees, waiting for the moment I let my guard down.

Standing, I take a moment to look around, ensuring I'm alone. The last thing I need is for someone to see me shouting into the void like a madman.

Planting my feet firmly in the soft earth, I close my eyes, letting the memory of the word rise to the forefront of my mind. Fus. Power, force—pushing aside anything in its path. I picture the air splitting before me, the raw energy surging forward with unrelenting strength.

The word rolls off my tongue: "Fus!"

Nothing.

The sound echoes faintly through the forest, no more than my voice carried by the breeze. No power. No resonance. Not even the barest hint of something stirring within me.

My jaw tightens, anger bubbling to the surface. I can feel it, somewhere deep inside—a power that should be mine. Yet it refuses to answer my call. The Dragonborn… hah. Maybe the legends were wrong. Maybe I'm no more Dragonborn than the wolves howling in the distance.

I clench my fists, the sword shaking slightly in my hand as I glare at the empty air before me. My breath comes faster, my frustration building until I can't hold it back.

"Fus!" I shout again, louder this time, the word ripping from my throat with everything I can muster.

Still nothing.

I let out a sharp breath, my voice dropping to a muttered growl. "Damn it."

The shout doesn't feel wrong—just hollow. Like trying to start a fire with damp wood. I rack my mind for scraps of the lore I can remember, piecing together fragments of old memories. Shouts… the Thu'um… the power of dragons. Talos had to train for years to master it, as did Ulfric. But the Dragonborn—those gifted with the souls of dragons—were supposed to wield it instinctively, weren't they?

My hand tightens around the hilt of my sword. If I'm Dragonborn, where is my instinct? Why is it silent? The questions gnaw at me, each one a needle pricking my pride.

I breathe out slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax. The air is cool against my skin, sharp and grounding. Anger won't solve this. I need focus, clarity. If the Thu'um won't come to me now, I'll master what I can. There are other paths to strength, and I'll walk them all to accomplish my goals.

The blade gleams faintly in the morning light as I draw it and hold it up, the familiar weight steadying me. "If the Thu'um is silent, then so be it," I mutter to myself. "I'll sharpen what isn't."

I turn, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface, and glance toward the path winding ahead. My grip on the sword steadies as I roll my shoulders and stretch my legs, loosening the stiffness of sleep. If the Thu'um won't answer me, at least the blade in my hand is dependable. I shift my stance, preparing for the familiar rhythm of practice. There's no sense in wasting the morning.

The aches from Helgen still linger, stubborn reminders of the past, but they're dull now—more a distant memory than a hindrance. I take a slow breath, testing the weight of my body.

The lean muscles in my arms, the tautness in my legs— the thought of them holding less strength than my previous body has been proven wrong. They are also more responsive, more efficient. I stretch again, rolling my neck and letting the movement sink in.

For days, I'd cursed this leanness, frustrated at the strength I thought I'd lost. But now, it feels different—more agile, more capable. Every stretch, every move, flows naturally. I shift my weight slightly, testing the balance of this frame, and a small grin spreads across my face.

My strength—it's been here all along. I just couldn't see it because I was too focused on what I thought I'd lost.

I exhale sharply and bounce on my feet before sinking into my stance. The sword hums softly as I draw it, its tip slicing through the morning air with the ease of a whisper.

The first movement is slow, deliberate. My gloved hand adjusts the grip, letting me feel every inch of its weight. Each motion is measured as I flow into the familiar sequence—parries, cuts, thrusts, block- making sure to keep every movement perfect.

With every pass, I move a little faster, a little sharper. The weight of the sword feels good, the balance just right. My feet dig into the soft earth, pivoting, pushing myself deeper into the rhythm.

A sharp thrust sends the tip of the blade toward an imaginary opponent's throat. The movement feels stronger than it should be. I pause, catching my breath, and glance down at my arm, the muscles flexed with the effort.

Stronger.

I move again, faster now, my feet shifting instinctively as I swing the blade upward, then twist into a downward strike. The arc is fluid, clean, and powerful. Every strike is building momentum, one feeding into the next, pushing me forward.

I swing again, the blade carving through the air in a wide slash before snapping back into a guard. Sweat beads on my forehead, but it's not exhaustion. It's exhilaration. My body moves with precision, like a finely tuned machine. Each movement is sharper, faster, and more capable.

I laugh—low and breathless—spinning into another combination of strikes. The world around me blurs as I push myself harder, the trees a swirl of green and gold. Every movement feeds into the next, like a storm gathering force, the momentum never breaking.

When I finally stop, my chest heaves, and I rest the sword against my shoulder. My muscles tremble slightly, in this body, I'm not just stronger. I'm faster, sharper, more capable than I ever was before. And gods, it feels good.

I raise the sword again, tracing its arc through the air as I move into a defensive guard. The sun glints off the steel, and I take a steadying breath. The forest around me is quiet now, save for the faint rustle of the leaves.

I shift my grip and move into another drill. Strike. Parry. Riposte. The sounds of combat echo in my mind as my body falls into rhythm, pushing aside all the doubt and frustration from before.

Each movement sharpens me. Each strike strengthens me. The movements being etched deeper into the body with each repetition

Eventually, my arms begin to tremble—not from excitement but from true fatigue. I lower the blade, my breaths coming heavier, and sheath it at my side.

The forest is still alive with birdsong, but I don't hear it as clearly. My focus remains on my body, on my breath, on the quiet strength that's always been there.

The soft crackle of the campfire draws my attention, its dwindling flames licking at the last of the kindling. I kneel beside it, brushing away the embers with a gloved hand, smothering the fire until only thin wisps of smoke remain. The faint smell of charred wood lingers, a grounding reminder of the morning's work.

Straightening, I turn to the scattered remnants of my camp—a blanket rolled tightly into a bedroll, a simple pack containing what little I've gathered on this journey. One by one, I tuck everything away, my movements steady and precise. The world around me is alive with birdsong and the faint rustle of the forest, but I focus on the task.

The bedroll is strapped to the pack, the weight of it familiar against my shoulders as I shrug it into place. My sword returns to my hip, its presence a comforting weight. I adjust the straps, ensuring everything is secure before stepping toward the trail.

But just as I'm about to move on, I stop.

Turning my palm upward, I raise my hand, and with a focused breath, I let the spark of power I've been nurturing flicker to life. Small arcs of lightning crackle softly across my fingertips, jumping from one finger to the next in delicate patterns. They dance, faint but real, illuminating my hand in brief flashes.

A grim smile tugs at my lips as I watch the energy coil and dissipate. It's no Thu'um, no roar of power to split the sky, but it's mine. Magic and steel—if the shouts won't come, these will carry me forward. They'll forge my path, or they'll see me fall trying.

I lower my hand, the sparks fading into nothing as the morning light filters through the canopy above. The air is cool against my skin as I take the first step down the trail. The forest stretches out ahead, vast and teeming with possibility.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The sun crests higher into the sky as I walk, the shadows of the trees stretching thin along the winding dirt road. The cool morning air is giving way to the warmth of day, but the forest remains alive with the sound of rustling leaves and distant birdsong. Each step crunches softly beneath my boots, the rhythm of my journey steady, almost meditative.

It's easy to forget the danger here, surrounded by such beauty. Skyrim's wilderness feels wild, untamed, and so very alive. But the tension never leaves my shoulders, not for long. I keep one hand near the hilt of my sword, my eyes flicking to the shadows in the undergrowth.

A sound pulls me from my thoughts—a low, distant roar. Not wolves this time. Something heavier. A bear, perhaps. The idea makes me tighten my grip on my sword. I've seen what a bear can do to a man, and I'd rather not test this body's strength against one quite yet.

The forest grows quieter as I put distance between myself and the sound, though the unease lingers. Skyrim is beautiful, yes, but it's a beauty edged with teeth.

The road winds ahead, sunlight streaming through the trees in golden beams. My mind drifts, turning over what little I know about this world, comparing it to the game I once played. So far, much of it feels the same—the wilds, the ruins, the danger lurking at every turn. But there's a depth here, a weight to the air that makes it all feel more real.

I push the thought aside, focusing instead on the rhythm of my steps and the feel of the blade at my hip. The journey isn't just about survival—it's about learning. About adapting. Every moment on this road teaches me something new, whether I realize it or not.

And then I hear it.

A faint noise on the wind, barely more than a whisper. A melody, carried by the breeze, rising and falling like the breath of the forest itself. I stop, tilting my head to listen. The sound is soft but unmistakable—a voice, singing.

Curiosity tugs at me, and I adjust the pack on my shoulders, stepping off the path to follow the sound.

The melody grows clearer as I move, weaving through the trees like a thread leading me forward. My steps quicken, the voice drawing me in, its words becoming distinct: "We drink to our youth, to days come and gone…"

The melody grows louder as I push through the undergrowth, each step crunching softly on the forest floor. The voice is clearer now—a smooth, mournful tenor carrying words I recognize:

"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone, for the age of oppression is now nearly done."

The song wraps around me, a reminder of nights spent playing Skyrim in my old world. My steps slow as I approach, my eyes scanning the road ahead. A lone figure comes into view, seated on a moss-covered boulder by the roadside.

The bard is young, perhaps in his early twenties, with hair the color of wheat tied back in a loose knot. A lute rests across his lap, his fingers plucking the strings with an easy grace. He wears a simple traveling cloak, worn boots, and a faintl smile as he sings. The sunlight filters through the trees above, casting golden highlights on his face and the wood of his instrument.

I take in the scene, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders as he plays. For a moment, I hesitate. He doesn't look dangerous—just a man traveling alone, his music his only weapon. But this is Skyrim, and he could easily be deadly beyond what his looks suggest. My hand brushes the hilt of my sword as I step closer.

His song falters slightly when he spots me, but his fingers don't stop. His sharp, sky-blue eyes meet mine, studying me with the careful attention of someone who knows the road can bring friend or foe. I keep my movements slow, nonthreatening, but I make no effort to hide the sword at my side.

As his song fades, I nod toward him. "Well played."

He grins, his fingers still plucking softly at the lute. "Thank you, friend. A bit of music makes the road shorter, don't you think?"

I step closer, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. "Sometimes. Depends on the song."

His grin widens, and he sets the lute down gently, the strings quieting. "Then I hope mine was worth the steps it brought you."

I glance down at the boulder he's perched on, my fingers still brushing the hilt of my sword. "Mind if I sit? The roads are long and a friendly ear would be welcome?"

He gestures to the open space beside him with an easy smile, his hand briefly brushing the lute. "Be my guest. The road is long, but shortened when shared, eh?"

I ease myself down onto the boulder, careful to keep my sword within reach. Up close, the bard looks younger than I'd expected—his face fresh and free of scars, though his sharp eyes suggest he isn't naive at least. The lute rests against his knee, its polished wood catching the sunlight as he strums a soft, absent tune.

"Olfrid," he says, offering a hand. "Traveling bard, heading south to Falkreath. Plenty of heavy hearts there in need of a good song."

I take his hand briefly, noting the calluses along his fingertips from years of practice. "Melkorn," I reply. "Just another traveler."

"Well, Melkorn," he says, leaning back with a grin, "you've got the look of someone with an ear for music—or, at least, a bit of curiosity. Let me guess, you heard the song and couldn't resist?"

"You could say that," I admit, resting my hands loosely on my knees. "Though I don't think 'curiosity' is much of a survival trait on these roads."

He laughs at that, the sound warm and easy. "True enough. But sometimes a good song is worth the risk, don't you think?"

"Depends on the song." My tone is wry, but his grin doesn't falter.

"You wound me, friend." He plucks a playful chord on the lute, shaking his head dramatically. "But I suppose it's fair. I've heard a lot worse songs than mine on the road."

His fingers slow, and his voice softens. "Truth be told, I'm heading to Falkreath for more than just singing. Lot of sorrow down there. Loss. And sorrow is fertile ground for stories."

I nod, the name Falkreath tugging at my memory. A hold known for its massive graveyard, the town steeped in shadows. For a moment, my thoughts flicker elsewhere, unbidden—a stone chamber buried beneath Dimhollow, cold and dark. Serana's frozen form flashes in my mind, her prison sealed with magic and time.

I shove the thought aside before it takes hold, focusing on Olfrid's words instead.

"Falkreath has its share of loss, I'm sure," I say, keeping my voice steady. "But what's drawing you south instead of north to the bigger cities?"

"Whiterun?" He shrugs, strumming softly. "I've spent enough time there. Jarl Balgruuf's court is lively, and the merchants are generous, but Falkreath… well, it has a quiet sort of beauty. And the people there, they feel more… real. They don't put on airs, you know?"

I nod slowly, taking that in. The Falkreath I remember from the game had always been somber but grounded, its people shaped by the shadow of death that loomed over the town.

"And the roads?" I ask, feigning casual interest. "Anything I should keep an eye out for?"

Olfrid's fingers still on the lute, his expression tightening for a brief moment before he sighs. "Bandits, mostly. I've seen their camps popping up closer to the main roads lately—desperate types, barely organized but dangerous enough if you're caught off guard."

He pauses, his gaze flicking to the trees. "And animals, of course, but that's nothing new. Just the usual perils of Skyrim, I suppose."

"And the unusual?" The question slips out before I can stop it, though I keep my tone light.

His smile returns, though it's tinged with skepticism. "What are you hoping for, Melkorn? Witches in the woods? Daedra wandering the roads?"

I shrug, leaning back. "A man can hope."

"Well, you're braver than I am," he says, chuckling. "I'll stick to the kind of stories that stay in books, thanks."

Olfrid leans back slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as he plucks a few tentative notes on his lute. "A song for the road, then," he says, his voice steady but with a flicker of anticipation. "One of my favorites. It's about Sovngarde—the hall of heroes. A place where Nord warriors feast and fight forever."

I nod, my interest piqued. Sovngarde. It reminds me of Valhalla—the eternal hall of Odin's chosen warriors. The connection sends a ripple through me, a familiar, almost nostalgic sensation. I don't interrupt him, though. I want to hear this.

The bard's fingers dance across the strings, and the melody begins to build. His voice rises, strong and clear, carrying the weight of the song as it fills the air:

"When the mead halls ring with songs of the brave,
When the shield-wall holds at the coldest grave,
Sovngarde calls, the feast fires burn,
For the honored dead, who shall not return."

The words strike a chord deep inside me, and for a moment, the forest seems to fade. I see a great hall lit by roaring flames, its walls lined with shields and banners. Warriors feast and laugh, their weapons at their sides, ready for the next battle. The imagery feels so vivid, it is so familiar, that it captures me fully.

Olfrid continues, his voice steady and unwavering:

"Through storm and frost, through axe and blade,
The path to Sovngarde is forged and laid.
No fear of death, no sorrow's cry,
For in Sovngarde, the bold never die."

The song crescendos, the rhythm picking up as his fingers move faster over the strings. The lute hums with energy, and his voice carries the kind of reverence that only a believer could summon for their afterlife.

As he reaches the final verse, he leans forward slightly, the melody dipping into a softer, almost somber tone:

"So raise your horn, to the blood-stained past,
To the tales of old, and the shadows cast.
Sovngarde calls, the fires ignite,
For the honored dead, in endless night."

The last note lingers in the air, the echo of his voice carried away by the breeze. I sit silently for a moment, letting the weight of the song settle over me.

"Good song," I say finally, pulling a septim from the pouch on my belt and tossing it to him.

Olfrid catches the coin with a practiced hand, his smile genuine. "Thank you, friend. Always good to know my music's appreciated." He tucks the septim into his pouch, his fingers idly brushing the strings of the lute.

I glance at him, my thoughts still lingering on the imagery of Vallhalla that song had wrestled forth. "A hall of heroes," I murmur longingly. "Fighting, feasting… eternal glory. I can see why the Nords revere it."

He chuckles lightly. "Not just Nords, friend. Sovngarde calls to all who earn their place. Nord or not, a brave soul is always welcome there."

The bard strums a few more chords, a lighter melody this time, as I rise from the boulder, adjusting the straps of my pack as Olfrid leans back, letting his lute rest gently against his knee. The song still echoes faintly in my mind, a reminder of Sovngarde's call, but the road ahead waits for no one.
"Safe travels, friend," Olfrid says, his voice light but with a note of sincerity. "Keep your blade ready. The Shadow Hounds have been stirred up recently."

I pause mid-step, glancing back at him. "Shadow Hounds?"

Olfrid chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Ah, of course. I forget when the form yet sits before me. Dunmer, you likely don't know the clans of Skyrim's bandits, do you?"

I narrow my eyes slightly, tilting my head. "I know of bandits, but clans?"

"Aye, clans," he replies, tapping a finger on the neck of his lute. "The Shadow Hounds are one of the more… disorganized groups, but they're thick as skeevers near places like Halted Stream Camp or Valtheim Towers. Scrappy, desperate, but dangerous in numbers."

"Led by someone?" I ask

"Aye, Darrek Stoneblade," he says with a wry smile. "An ex-mercenary who's turned to less honorable work. They've been bolder lately—too many travelers talking of ambushes near Whiterun's roads."

I nod slowly, filing the information away. "Good to know. Thanks for the warning."

He waves a hand dismissively, strumming a light chord. "Just keep your eyes sharp, and you'll do fine. On to Falkreath for me though"

"Good luck with that," I say, stepping onto the road again. "And thanks for the song."

Olfrid grins, his tone lightening again. "And thank you for the septim. May your road be less troublesome than mine."

I nod once and turn, his voice following me one last time. "And watch out for the wolves! They're less welcoming than I am!"

The lute's fading melody drifts into the forest behind me, but my thoughts linger on his words. Bandits weren't organized in the game—not like this. Clans with leaders, strategies, and territory… it makes them deadlier. More troublesome than the ragtag forts I remember.

A slow smile spreads across my face as my hand brushes the hilt of my sword as I press onward.


-MK-
-MK-
-MK-

The sun crests over the forest, the golden light of morning slowly giving way to the harsher glare of midday. The road stretches ahead in winding curves, flanked by dense trees that sway lazily in the light breeze. I keep walking, each step measured, my boots crunching against dirt and scattered leaves.

It should be beautiful, this wilderness—alive with birdsong, the scent of pine, and the soft rustle of branches. But today, it feels muted, dulled by the storm brewing in my chest.

The Thu'um. Damn it.

The word echoes in my mind, carrying the sting of failure. I've spent every hours upon hours trying to call it forth, trying to force it to answer me. But no matter how I focus, no matter how loudly or softly I speak, the air remains still.

It doesn't make sense. The Dragonborn is supposed to wield the Thu'um instinctively, aren't they? So why is it silent for me?

The frustration simmers beneath my skin, tightening my jaw and knotting my shoulders. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm not the Dragonborn at all. The thought claws at me again, sharp and unwelcome.

I shove it aside, but my mood doesn't improve. Each step feels heavier, my breath shorter, my hand twitching toward the hilt of my sword out of habit. The forest's beauty, its life—it all feels like a taunt. As if the world itself is mocking my inability to grasp the power I'm meant to wield.

The road ahead bends sharply to the left, and I sigh, adjusting the weight of my pack. Another long day of walking, another night of frustration to come.

Then I hear it.

Voices. Light and lilting, carried by the breeze. The rhythmic creak of wheels accompanies them, along with the faint clinking of metal.

I stop, my hand instinctively brushing the hilt of my sword as I peer ahead. Around the bend, the source of the sound comes into view: a line of wagons, their canvas covers stretched tight over heavy loads. Khajiit merchants.

The lead figure—a tall ginger Khajiit in a flowing red-and-gold coat—raises a hand in greeting, his voice warm and inviting even from a distance. "Ah, traveler! J'zahari has wares if you have coin!"

For a moment, I just stare, my foul mood cracking like thin ice. The sight is almost surreal: a lively caravan in the middle of Skyrim's untamed wilderness. The merchants move with practiced ease, their pack animals plodding along obediently, their guards scanning the treeline with sharp, calculating eyes.

A soft huff escapes me—almost a laugh. I hadn't realized how badly I needed a distraction.

My steps quicken, and I let the faint trace of a smile tug at my lips as I approach the caravan.

The Khajiit leader, J'zahari, steps forward with an elegant bow, his red-and-gold coat catching the sunlight. His golden eyes meet mine, sharp and calculating almost predatory. The way he moves—it's smooth, like quicksilver, dangerous—reminds me of panthers I'd seen in the zoo back in my old life.

It takes everything I have not to stare. They're walking, talking cats. Real, actual cats that stand on two legs and speak in fluid, rolling tones. The absurdity of it hits me harder than I expected. For the briefest moment, I imagine pulling out a laser pointer to see if his eyes would track it. The thought is so ridiculous I almost snort, but I shove it down.

J'zahari spreads his arms, his grin revealing sharp, white teeth. "Come closer, friend," he says smoothly, his voice warm and inviting. "J'zahari promises you will find no finer wares in all of Skyrim. Surely there is something here to lift your spirit?"

I keep my face neutral, letting none of my unease show as I approach. Up close, the caravan is an explosion of color and texture. The wagons are piled high with bundles of goods—spices tied in neat bundles, shimmering fabrics, gleaming glass bottles filled with potions, and weapons wrapped in oiled leather.

"Quite the collection," I say evenly, masking my surprise.

J'zahari's grin widens, his whiskers twitching in delight. "Ah, you have an eye for quality! Good, good. J'zahari and his kin travel far to gather treasures—some practical, some beautiful, but all worthy of a discerning buyer like yourself."

His smooth tone is disarming, and I find myself relaxing slightly, though I can't shake the awareness of how alien this all feels. My gaze flickers to one of the Khajiit guards—a lithe figure leaning casually against a spear, their tail swaying lazily behind them. Their movements are impossibly graceful, deliberate in a way that keeps my hand near the hilt of my sword out of habit.

"You don't trust the roads much, do you?" I ask, gesturing toward the guard.

J'zahari chuckles, a low, velvety sound that matches his movements. "Trust the roads? No, no. Skyrim's wilderness is as unpredictable as the sands of Elsweyr. Bandits, wolves, even worse things—they all hunger for the unwary. But J'zahari is clever, and cleverness travels with friends."

He steps closer to the wagon, gesturing at the wares with a flourish. "But enough of such grim talk! Surely you have come to browse, yes? Tell me, friend, what is it you seek? Food? Weapons? Perhaps something… special?"

I hesitate briefly before speaking. "Books," I say. "Do you have any? On magic, maybe?"

J'zahari's ears flick slightly, his expression brightening. But there's a flicker of regret as he raises a finger. "Ah, J'zahari did carry such a tome, yes. A fine collection of novice spells. But, alas, it was sold less than two days ago."

"Of course," I mutter ruefully, shaking my head slightly. But J'zahari doesn't let the mood linger. He waves a paw dismissively, his grin widening as he steps back, his voice smooth and inviting once again.

"Ah, but don't look so glum, my friend," he says. "Allow J'zahari to show you the wares, so you may see if anything catches the eye. There is much to see."

He gestures at the nearby wagons with a flourish, and I follow him, curious despite myself.

J'zahari steps to the nearest wagon, pulling back the canvas cover with a practiced flourish. "Come, friend," he says, his voice smooth and inviting. "Here, you will find treasures both practical and rare. J'zahari promises there is something for every taste."

The wagon is packed with an eclectic assortment of goods, neatly arranged in compartments. My eyes scan over bundles of dried meat, coils of rope, jars of spices, bolts of cloth, and gleaming bottles filled with unknown liquids. Everything has its place, the organization meticulous.

"What catches your eye, friend?" J'zahari asks, his golden gaze flicking to me. His tail flicks lazily behind him, his movements impossibly smooth.

"Let's start small," I say, gesturing to the jars. "What are those?"

"Ah, spices!" he exclaims, lifting one of the containers. "A taste of Elsweyr, yes? Cinnamon, cardamom, saffron… rare treasures in Skyrim's cold lands. This one, a pouch of cinnamon, for only five silver coins."

I nod, filing the price away in my mind. Five silver for something such as spice- rare in skyrim I assume but cheap compared to weapons and armor. My gaze shifts to a bundle of dried meat. "And this?"

"Salted venison," J'zahari replies, holding up a strip. "Perfect for long journeys, yes? Two copper coins per strip. J'zahari will give you four for seven coppers. A fair deal, no?"

"Fair enough," I murmur, though I don't commit yet. My eyes wander further, catching on a small wrapped package nestled among the supplies. "And that?"

"A delight from Elsweyr," he says with a grin, plucking the package from the wagon. He unwraps it carefully, revealing a small, amber-colored candy. "Moon honey, spun and hardened. Sweet, with just a hint of spice. For you, friend, three copper coins for one piece—or ten for nine coppers."

The candy glints in the sunlight, and I feel a faint tug of interest. "Practical and enjoyable," I mutter, smirking slightly. "You've got a good spread here."

J'zahari bows slightly, his grin widening. "J'zahari thanks you. But wait—there is more to see! Weapons, tools, perhaps a potion to keep you breathing when the wolves grow too bold?"

J'zahari places the small candy back in its spot, his sharp golden eyes flicking to my face, lingering just a moment longer. His grin curves slightly, as if some thought has amused him.

"You wear armor and carry a blade," he says, gesturing lightly toward my gear, "yet you ask about books and magic. Perhaps this one misjudged you, yes? There is more scholar in you than warrior, it seems."

I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. "It pays to know as much as possible."

"Wise words," J'zahari replies with an approving nod. His tail flicks behind him as he gestures toward a smaller section of the wagon. "Come, then. J'zahari thinks you may enjoy this. Stories, knowledge… even power, if you know where to look."

My gaze briefly flicks to the weapons displayed further down the wagon—a finely crafted dagger gleaming in the sunlight, an axe with intricate carvings along its head. My hand itches at the sight, the longing tugging at me like an old habit. But I know better. I don't have the coin for weapons.

I step toward the books instead, forcing my focus to shift. Stacked neatly in the corner, their leather spines worn but sturdy, they call to me in a different way. For knowledge is power.

J'zahari steps aside with a graceful sweep of his arm, his golden eyes glinting with pride. "Here, my friend," he says, gesturing toward the stack of leather-bound tomes. "The treasures of Tamriel, written by quills both wise and bold. Stories of heroes, histories of empires, and secrets waiting to be uncovered."

I step closer, my gaze falling on the neat stack of books nestled in the corner of the wagon. Their bindings, worn but sturdy, carry the marks of travel—scratches, faint stains, the unmistakable smell of parchment and leather. The sight is both comforting and compelling, drawing me in with promise of knowledge.

J'zahari kneels and pulls out the first book with a delicate touch, handling it like a priceless artifact. "This," he begins, holding it up, "is The Exodus. A tale of perseverance, pain, and pride. It chronicles the journey of your people, the Dunmer, as they fled Morrowind after the fall of the Tribunal. A heavy burden to bear, yes? Not that you need J'zahari to tell you."

He places it aside and reaches for another, his tail flicking behind him in smooth rhythm. "And this one—The True Noble's Code. A guide to the traditions and values of your peoples nobility. Honor, duty, and cunning, all written in sharp words for sharp minds."

The next book he picks up is smaller, its cover faded but intact. "For those who wish to understand the past," he says, "there is A Brief History of the Empire, Volume One. A wise traveler knows the power of the empire, yes? It's tales are worth knowing."

My hand brushes the edge of one book as he continues, and I feel the weight of the collection growing, each title tempting me. J'zahari lifts another tome, this one wrapped with a worn ribbon. "Ah, Nerevar at Red Mountain. A tale of myth and history intertwined. The story of your hero, Lord Nerevar, and his deeds at Red Mountain."

He grins as he gently lays it back among the stack. "And for the pious, there is The Anticipations. A book of faith. Azura, Mephala, Boethiah—the Good Daedra who guide your people."

Each title feels like a key to deeper understanding- and survival. The Khajiit's voice lowers, as if sharing a secret. "If spirits are more to your liking, there is Ancestors and the Beyond. A reverent text on the bond between the living and the dead. A guide to the soul of all people."

The weight of it all settles in my chest as I look over the array. These aren't just stories—they're pieces of history, tools to understand the world I now find myself in.

J'zahari's tail swishes once more, a small smile playing on his lips as he looks at me. "J'zahari sees you are a seeker of knowledge, yes? Tell me, my friend. What speaks to you most?"


I take a deep breath, my hand hovering over the spines. I want all of them if I am to be honest with myself.

My hand hovers over the stack of books, each title a silent promise. I let my fingers rest on the first that catches my eye: The Exodus. The weight of the title alone stirs something deep inside me. If I'm to navigate this world as a Dunmer, I need to know the stories that shaped them -us- our pain, our pride, our strength.

I lift it carefully, turning it over in my hands. The cover is plain but sturdy, its corners slightly frayed from age. My grip tightens briefly as I picture the lives etched within its pages, the echoes of ancestors whose blood now courses through me.

J'zahari watches me with a flick of his tail. "A fine choice, my friend," he says, his voice even. "One of perseverance and fire."

I give him a brief nod, not letting his words linger, and set the book back onto the stack for now. My gaze shifts to the next title, one that gleams faintly in the sunlight: The True Noble's Code. My lips press into a thin line as I reach for it. If I'm to survive and thrive, I need to understand the values and traditions that shape my supposed people. What does it mean to walk as one of them? On what do they place value? What do they see as honor?

"This one," I murmur, brushing a thumb over the worn gold lettering.

J'zahari tilts his head slightly, his sharp eyes catching mine for a moment, but he says nothing.

I place it back beside The Exodus and move on, scanning the stack until my eyes settle on A Brief History of the Empire, Volume One. My reasoning here is different. It isn't about my new identity; it's about power. You must understand an enemy if you are to defeat it.

I pick it up, its spine sturdy and well-used, the scent of old parchment drifting up. "Knowledge of the empire," I think, setting it alongside the others. "And the history it carries."

The rest of the books tempt me—The Anticipations, Ancestors and the Beyond, Nerevar at Red Mountain—but my coin and pack can only carry so much. I force myself to look away, committing their titles to memory for another time.

J'zahari's golden eyes gleam as he watches my choices, his tail curling slightly behind him. "You have a keen eye, friend," he says with a subtle grin. "These books carry wisdom worth every coin. Shall we discuss their price?"

I straighten, meeting his gaze. "Let's."

The books remain on the stack as J'zahari gestures me toward the front of the wagon. His grin sharpens slightly, a merchant's grin. "J'zahari is a fair trader," he says smoothly. "But even fairness has its costs. Let us see if your purse is as wise as your choices."
J'zahari folds his arms over his chest, his tail flicking lazily as he surveys the stack of books I've chosen. His grin widens, sharp and knowing. "Three fine tomes, my friend. Knowledge is a rare treasure, and rare treasures have a price, yes?"

He gestures to the books with an exaggerated flourish, his golden eyes gleaming. "For these: The Exodus, The True Noble's Code, and A Brief History of the Empire, Volume One—J'zahari asks a modest nine septims."

I barely manage to keep my face neutral, but inside, I feel a familiar twinge of frustration. Nine septims. Enough to nearly empty the pouch Gerdur gave me and leave me scraping by with what's left from Helgen. But the books aren't optional; they're essential.

J'zahari watches me closely, his grin unwavering. "A fair price, yes?"

I let my gaze drift for a moment, feigning nonchalance, but my thoughts are already calculating. Nine septims for the books.my eyes land on a whetstone—something I bitterly realize I should've bought back in Riverwood— near the edge of the wagon. "How much for that?" I ask, my tone even.

J'zahari follows my gaze and nods knowingly. "Ah, an excellent choice. A dull blade is a dangerous blade. The whetstone is yours for three silver coins."

"And the candy?" I ask, gesturing to the small cloth bag. The golden-hued sweets glint in the sunlight, a tempting indulgence.

J'zahari chuckles, a low, velvety sound. "A taste of Elsweyr, yes? Sweetness to brighten your journey. Five copper coins."

I take a deep breath, doing the math in my head. The books, the whetstone, the candy—every coin spent now leaves me less prepared for the next stretch of road. But the thought of going without even one of these things-even the candy-grates against me.

J'zahari's tail flicks again as he waits, his sharp grin fixed. "Well, friend? Shall we settle this trade?"

I glance down at the books, the whetstone, and the candy, my mind already weighing the cost against what's left in my pouch. "Not for nine,that's steep for a traveler with little coin to spare." I say finally, meeting his gaze. "Let's talk."
His grin widens, his tail swishing lazily. "Steep? No, no. J'zahari is fair. Knowledge is priceless, yes? But for you, it is only nine septims. A bargain."

I gesture to the books stacked neatly beside him. "Seven," I counter, keeping my tone measured. "They're worth it, but they'll leave me with next to nothing."

J'zahari strokes his chin, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing my words. His tail flicks sharply once before he speaks again. "Seven, you say? Hmm. J'zahari is tempted, yes, but generosity must be tempered with wisdom."

He glances toward the whetstone and the candy. "Perhaps there is a better trade. Eight septims for the books, and I will include the whetstone to keep your blade true, yes? And a small taste of Elsweyr to sweeten the road. Surely, this is fair?"

I hesitate, my hand brushing against the pouch at my side. The thought of spending so much grates against me, but the whetstone—an essential I'd overlooked—and the candy make the offer harder to refuse.

"Eight septims," I say finally, my voice firm. "And we have a deal."

I pull open the pouch at my side, the coins inside clinking softly. I can feel J'zahari's golden eyes fixed on my movements, his grin never wavering. Carefully, I count out eight septims into my palm, their worn edges cool against my skin.

I hold them out to him, his grin grows wider, showing his sharp teeth and he accepts them with an elegant sweep of his hand, the coins vanishing into the folds of his coat. "Ah, a fair trade," he purrs, his tone smooth and satisfied. "Wisdom, steel, and sweetness—all tools for a clever traveler."

He turns to the wagon and begins wrapping the books. With practiced hands, he folds them in a piece of sturdy cloth, securing the bundle with twine. The whetstone follows, slipped carefully into its own small pouch, and finally, the bag of candy—its faint golden hue catching the sunlight—rests on top of the stack.

J'zahari steps forward and places the items gently into my pack, his movements deliberate and precise. As he straightens, he tilts his head slightly, his grin still sharp. "There," he says, brushing his hands together. "The road is harsh, my friend, but you are now better equipped to walk it."

I sling the pack over my shoulder, its weight heavier now but reassuring. Knowledge, tools, and a little indulgence, I think. A fair price to pay.

J'zahari steps back, his gaze lingering for a moment before he bows slightly. "May the sands guide your steps, my friend," he says warmly. "And should you find yourself near again, J'zahari will always have wares to tempt you."

I nod, adjusting the strap of my pack. "I'll keep that in mind."

As I turn away, the faint scent of spices and parchment drifts from my pack. The weight of my remaining coins presses against my side—only three septims left now. The thought sends a flicker of bitterness through me, but I let it pass.

"The road won't forgive mistakes," I remind myself, thinking of the whetstone. "I can't afford to overlook essentials again."

The caravan fades into the distance as I continue onward, the books and supplies settling into their place on my back. With each step, the road stretches ahead, harsh and unyielding. But for the first time in a while, I feel prepared to meet it.

The road stretches on as the afternoon wanes, the shadows of the trees growing longer with each passing hour. The distant murmur of the Khajiit caravan fades behind me, replaced by the rhythmic crunch of my boots on the dirt and the occasional rustle of the wind.

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-


The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the uneven terrain. I adjusted my pack and scanned the area ahead. The road had been quiet for hours, but the thought of continuing through the night didn't sit well. Exhaustion can kill just as easily as a blade.

Ahead, a small grove of trees clustered near a rocky outcrop caught my eye. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. I made my way over, my boots crunching softly against the dirt as I inspected the space. No tracks, no signs of recent use—just the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant chirp of crickets.

Setting my pack down with a grunt, I began gathering dry branches and twigs for the fire. It wasn't long before I had a modest flame crackling in the growing darkness. The warmth seeped into my skin, chasing away the cool bite of the evening air.

From my pack, I pulled out a strip of salted meat and some hardtack, chewing thoughtfully as the firelight danced around me. The meal was bland, but it served its purpose, filling the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.

The night deepened, stars beginning to emerge in the vast Skyrim sky. I leaned back against one of the larger rocks, letting the firelight flicker across my face as my thoughts drifted. The books in my pack called to me, but they would wait a while longer.

The fire crackled softly, its rhythm steady, almost calming. But I couldn't fully relax. The road was a dangerous place, and though the grove felt secure enough, my hand lingered near the hilt of my sword as I watched the shadows dance.

The gladius hummed faintly as I drew it from its scabbard, the firelight catching on its edge. The weight felt familiar now—a natural extension of my arm. Practice wasn't just routine anymore; it was ritual. The road demanded readiness, and readiness demanded discipline.

I took a measured breath and began. My movements were slow at first, deliberate. The blade carved through the cool night air as I moved through the forms: high guard to low, diagonal slash to thrust. Each step was precise, each swing controlled. The grove around me seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to the flicker of the fire and the rhythm of my movements.

A low, fluid arc brought the blade down, and I pivoted into a defensive stance. The gladius was shorter than I'd like. An arming sword would suit me better, I thought bitterly, my eyes narrowing as I adjusted my grip. I should've bartered with J'zahari or Alvor. Still, it's good steel, and it will serve until I can have something forged to my needs. Enchanted, if I can afford it.

The blade came up again, catching the firelight as I moved into a series of different thrusts. Sweat prickled at my brow despite the cool evening air, my muscles warming as the routine began to flow.

I stepped back, lowering the blade. My breathing steadied quickly, the ache in my arms fading almost as soon as it began. I'd grown stronger—more attuned to this body's lithe power. Even so, the gladius felt… temporary. It was not a weapon to get attached to.

Sliding the blade back into its sheath, I glanced at the fire, its light steady and warm against the encroaching darkness. My hand lingered on the hilt for a moment longer before letting go. The night wasn't over, and the world didn't forgive complacency.

I stepped closer to the fire, holding out my hand. Sparks flickered faintly at my fingertips, their crackle a whisper of potential. Magic was a different kind of blade—one I hadn't yet mastered, but one I was determined to wield.

The fire burned steadily as I sat down cross-legged beside it, my hand extended toward the flickering flames. Sparks flickered at my fingertips, faint and erratic at first, like fireflies caught in the dark. Magic wasn't something I could wield as naturally as my sword—not yet. It required patience and focus, forces that didn't come as easily when the body ached and exhaustion tugged at the edges of my mind.

I took a steadying breath and tried again. Slowly, the sparks returned, crackling softly as they danced between my fingers. They held longer this time, the energy brighter and more vibrant. A faint grin tugged at my lips—progress, however small, was still progress.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as I worked, pulling the energy forward, holding it steady, and letting it dissipate before starting again. The strain was there, but manageable—a dull, persistent ache somewhere deep inside me. It wasn't just my body that tired; I could feel the well of magicka within me growing shallow, like a candle burning low.

Still, I pressed on.

Finally, after what felt like the hundredth attempt, the sparks didn't fade. They grew instead, arcing steadily in my palm like a coiled snake of light. The hum of energy filled the quiet night, its crackle competing with the soft murmurs of the fire. My hand tingled from the effort, but I held it, staring at the glow with something between awe and satisfaction.

But satisfaction was fleeting. My grip on the energy felt tenuous, like holding water in cupped hands. I needed more than control; I needed command.

I gritted my teeth and pushed, willing the lightning to leap from my hand. For a brief moment, it obeyed—a thin arc shooting forward before snapping back like a whip and the magic surges, violent and raw, through my hand, crackling with unbearable heat. The backlash is immediate—like a thousand needles embedding themselves in my arm, searing through muscle and bone.

I slumped back against the rock behind me, cradling my hand as the tingling subsided. The firelight danced in the edges of my vision, warm and steady in contrast to the volatile energy I struggled to master. Magic was getting easier—at least at this level—but it was still draining. I could feel my magicka deepening, growing more resilient with each practice, but I wasn't there yet.

After a long moment, I reached for my pack and pulled it toward me. The weight of the books inside felt heavier than before, though it was likely just my exhaustion. My hand brushed over the wrapped tomes before I pulled out The True Noble's Code.

I stared at the worn cover, letting my fingers trail over its gold-embossed lettering. If I was going to survive here, I needed more than magic and steel. I needed to blend in, to pass as someone who belonged. For all the power I sought, none of it would matter if I couldn't move through this world unnoticed until I was ready to rise.

The crackle of the fire softened as I opened the book, its pages smelling faintly of old parchment. The words stared back at me like a challenge, one I couldn't afford to ignore.


As I turned the pages, the fire burned low, its warmth steady as the night deepened. Tomorrow would bring more trials, but for now, the quiet scratch of parchment and the steady light of the fire were enough.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The morning broke softly, the sunlight filtering through the treetops in gentle, golden streams. The fire from the night before was nothing but a faint wisp of smoke curling into the crisp air. My pack rested firmly on my shoulders, its weight a constant reminder of what I carried—both physically and otherwise.

The road stretched ahead, winding gently through the vast, untamed beauty of Skyrim. My boots crunched against the dirt as I walked, the rhythmic sound grounding me in the moment. The chill of the air bit at my skin, but it was refreshing, a reminder of how alive this land felt.

Skyrim's wilderness unfolded around me, vibrant and vast. The towering pines swayed softly in the breeze, their needles catching the sunlight like shards of green glass. A stream babbled in the distance, its sound weaving into the gentle rustle of leaves. Overhead, birds sang their lilting songs, a melody that felt impossibly serene for a land as harsh as this.

I let my gaze wander, taking it all in—the way the sky stretched endlessly above, the mountains in the distance rising like silent, immovable sentinels. It was the kind of beauty that made you pause, the kind that left a mark.

For a moment, I allowed myself to marvel at it all. The wild, rugged majesty of Skyrim felt almost otherworldly in its splendor. It's not just a game anymore, I thought, a faint smile tugging at my lips. This is real. All of it.

But beneath that beauty, the dangers of the road still lingered, a quiet hum at the edges of my awareness. My hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of my sword as I pressed on, the weight of the blade a steady comfort.

The world around me was beautiful, yes—but it was also unforgiving.


-MD-
-MD-
-MD-


The arrow struck my breastplate with a sharp clang, sending a jarring vibration through my chest. My thoughts of Skyrim's beauty shattered in an instant as my instincts took over. I dropped low, my gladius flashing into my hand as my eyes darted to the treeline.

Where? The thought was immediate, adrenaline surging and sharpening every sense.

Ahead, three figures emerged from their hiding places, their movements deliberate and predatory. The first—a burly Nord in a gambeson—charged straight at me, a mace raised high, his expression twisted with aggression. Behind him, another man armed with a spear and clad in chainmail advanced more cautiously, his weapon held steady as he angled to flank me. On a ridge above, a third figure loomed, nocking another arrow.

The archer.

I moved instinctively, shifting to keep the mace-wielder between me and the other two. My grip tightened on the gladius as the gap between us closed. The world seemed to narrow, every sound—the crunch of boots on dirt, the distant creak of a bowstring—sinking into the rhythm of my breathing.

The mace-wielder's wild eyes locked onto me, and for a split second, I thought, Fuck, I wish I had a shield.

There was no time to dwell on the thought. The mace came down in a brutal arc, and I sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the impact. The spearman circled to my left, and I adjusted, stepping back and angling the mace-wielder between us again. The archer's arrow hissed through the air, a near miss that struck the dirt just feet away.

These weren't the disorganized bandits I remembered from the game. Their movements were coordinated, their intent clear: surround and kill. A smile I didn't even realize I had stretched across my face.

Let them try.

The mace-wielder roared, charging again. I shifted my stance, adrenaline surging as I braced for the impact, my mind already calculating my next move.

The mace-wielder closed the gap with a furious roar, his weapon swinging in a heavy, deliberate arc toward my side. I backstepped just out of range, the rush of air from the swing brushing past me. He stumbled slightly, the force of his missed attack throwing him off balance. Amatuer

I darted in, slashing low, aiming for his leg. The blade bit into the thick fabric of his gambeson, but it wasn't deep enough to cripple him. He roared in frustration, recovering quickly, the mace coming around again in a horizontal sweep.

I dropped low letting it pass over my helm. Before i could capitalize and thrust forward the spear snaked around forcing me to dart out and away

An arrow from the ridge whistled past, striking the ground near my feet. I shifted again, angling the mace-wielder's bulk between myself and the other two.

He swung again, an overhead strike this time, his face twisted with rage. The sheer force behind the swing made the move predictable. I stepped to the side, avoiding the blow with practiced ease.

Time to end this.

As the mace wielder stumbled, I surged forward. The opening was perfect—too perfect to waste. My gladius drove upward, piercing through the layers of gambeson and into the soft flesh beneath.

The mace-wielder let out a guttural gasp, his body going rigid as he dropped the weapon. His knees buckled, and I seized the moment. Grabbing his falling body, I turned it toward the ridge, using him as a makeshift shield.

An arrow thudded into his back, the impact jarring me slightly but doing no harm. I adjusted my grip, dragging his body with me as I repositioned to face the spearman.

The chainmail-clad bandit hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he assessed me from behind his fallen comrade. I tossed the body aside, my bloodied gladius gleaming in the sunlight.

The spearman took a cautious step forward, his chainmail catching the light as he kept his weapon leveled at me. He wasn't charging recklessly like the mace-wielder had; he was measuring me, trying to keep the advantage of reach.

Smart. But not smart enough.

I moved to my left, circling slowly to keep the fallen mace-wielder between me and the archer. An arrow hissed past, striking the dirt just a few feet away. The spearman adjusted his stance, pivoting to keep the spear's tip trained on me.

My focus narrowed, the adrenaline sharpening every detail: the chainmail clinking softly as he shifted his weight, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the subtle tremor in his grip.

He's not as confident as he wants me to think.

I feinted to the right, watching as the spear's tip tracked my movement. When I darted left instead, the hesitation in his reaction was clear. He was too focused on the weapon, not the fighter. A novice, good.

An arrow thudded into the ground behind me, too close for comfort. I adjusted again, keeping the spearman between me and the ridge as I edged closer. My gladius felt steady in my hand, the familiar weight a comfort against the chaos around me.

I let him jab once, stepping back just enough to let the spear's point fall short. He overextended slightly, recovering quickly but leaving himself exposed for a heartbeat. That was all I needed.

I surged forward, slipping past the spear's tip in one fluid motion. The world seemed to slow as I stepped inside his guard, my free hand grabbing the shaft of the spear to control it. His eyes widened in panic as my gladius came up in a sharp arc.

The blade found its mark, slipping beneath his helm and into the soft flesh of his throat. Blood spurted as his body jerked violently, the spear clattering to the ground as he crumpled.

I stepped back, panting, the rush of the fight still coursing through me. My pulse thundered in my ears, the heat of the moment making everything else fade away.

Another arrow whistled past, and I turned my gaze to the ridge.

The archer nocked another arrow, movements precise and practiced. My grip on the gladius tightened as I prepared to charge. But then, as I looked closer, I hesitated.

A woman.

The thought caught me off guard, throwing me off balance for the first time in the fight.

Why did it matter? It shouldn't.

But it did. The realization flashed through me, uninvited and unwanted. She was a woman, and for just a heartbeat, the violence of it all felt wrong. There was no reason to hesitate—not in this world, not in this fight. But I did.

And then the arrow snapped free of the bow, and the world went back to its brutal, indifferent rhythm.

The pain came before the thought.

The shaft buried itself deep into my knee, the cold steel slicing through flesh and sinew, and the agony bloomed immediately, an overwhelming, searing fire that jolted through my leg. I couldn't keep my footing. My vision blurred as I collapsed to the ground, the sharp impact of my body hitting the dirt only slightly easing the pain. Blood pooled around me as the shock of the wound coursed through my body, my breath ragged.

No... no, this is not how it ends.

I gritted my teeth, struggling to keep my focus. I couldn't let this be it. My knee burned, but I refused to let that stop me.

I'm not fucking dying here.

I dragged myself to my hands, my left leg useless beneath me, the pain a fire in my chest and my knee. The magic surged inside me—raw, untapped power, a force I had only begun to understand—and I willed it into my palm. Sparks of lightning flared to life between my fingers, violent and hungry.

With a desperate roar, I hurled the energy forward, unwilling to let anything stand in my way.

The bolt shot toward the archer, her body locking up as the lightning struck her with brutal force. She didn't scream, her body rigid, frozen in place by the energy surging through her. The power slammed her back, and with one final twitch, she tumbled off the ridge, out of sight.

But the magic came at a price. My arm was seared with pain, my body recoiling from the backlash of the raw energy. The burning sensation spread like wildfire, as if my muscles were being torn apart from the inside.

I collapsed onto my back, gasping for air, my vision spinning. My knee burned with the deep, relentless ache of the wound. I tried to push myself up, but everything was fading—my strength, my sight, my control.

I had survived. Barely. But at what cost?

The world around me blurred into the dark edges of unconsciousness. The adrenaline that had carried me through the fight now faded, leaving me broken and exhausted as the blackness moved closer.

 

[MandTeKad]

The blackness claws at the edges of my vision, an inky tide threatening to swallow me whole. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts, pain radiates from my knee, sharp and insistent, demanding my attention. For a moment, I teeter on the brink, but then I grit my teeth and force the haze away.

No.

My trembling hands reach down, finding the arrow embedded in my leg. The shaft wobbles slightly under my grip, sending a fresh jolt of agony through my body. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood, as I brace myself. The world narrows to this moment—this task. With a sharp tug, I rip the arrow free. Pain flares, blinding and immediate, and for a heartbeat, my vision blurs again.

But I'm still standing. Still alive. The pain ground me back to reality. The arrow dangles loosely in my grip, its bodkin point slick with blood. My lips twitch into a faint smirk despite myself. "Took an arrow to the knee," I mutter under my breath, a weak snort of amusement escaping. "Guess I'm really living the cliché now."

The potion comes next. My hands fumble through my pack, movements clumsy with fatigue, until my fingers close around the familiar glass vial. Uncorking it with my teeth, I toss the crimson liquid back. The warmth spreads through me immediately, a soothing balm that dulls the sharp edges of pain and steadies my breathing. For a few glorious seconds, it feels as though the worst of the day is behind me.

Then the potion's magic fades, leaving behind a dull ache in my knee and the lingering fatigue gnawing at my limbs. I glance down at the wound—now a jagged scar—and test my leg with a cautious step. It holds, barely, but the twinge is enough to remind me I'm not out of this yet. I'll be limping the rest of the way to Whiterun.

The arrow in my hand draws my attention again. The slim, deadly bodkin tip glints faintly in the fading light. "At least it wasn't barbed," I mutter before tossing it aside. Small victories.

I need support if I'm going to make it. My hand finds the hatchet tucked into my pack, the rough leather grip familiar beneath my fingers. The rhythmic thunk of steel biting into wood is grounding, each stroke sending vibrations up my arm as I work on a nearby branch. Sweat beads on my brow, but I keep at it, carving the branch into a crude walking stick.

When I finally test the stick with my weight, it creaks but holds firm. Not perfect, but it'll do. I straighten slowly, my body protesting the movement, and cast a long look toward the horizon. A sigh escapes me as I adjust my pack and grip the walking stick tighter. The thought of limping all the way there gnaws at my resolve, but I force my feet to move.

The pain in my knee is a constant companion, but I focus on the memory of earlier—the crackling energy coursing through my arm, the raw power of lightning bursting forth at my command. A grin spreads across my face, despite everything. I threw lightning. The thought alone is enough to spur me forward, the triumph warming me from the inside.

Humming softly, I let the melody of The Dragonborn Comes spill from my lips, the rhythm helping to steady my uneven strides. Each note seems to echo across the open plains, a declaration of my coming.

The sun dips lower, painting the horizon in hues of gold and crimson. The cool evening air brushes against my face, a welcome contrast to the warmth of exertion.

I spot a small grove of trees ahead, their shadows stretching long across the plains. My stomach grumbles, a sharp reminder that the last proper meal I had was in Riverwood. The thought of food and rest pulls me forward, each step a small victory as I limp on.

By the time I reach the grove,The stars pierce the deepening twilight as I limp toward the small grove of trees ahead. Each step drags at me, the ache in my knee a relentless reminder of the battle I barely survived. The makeshift walking stick creaks faintly with my weight, but it holds steady. Around me, the open plains whisper with the faint rustle of grass, the cool breeze brushing against my face like a balm after the day's heat.

The grove rises like a dark silhouette against the horizon, its branches swaying gently. The faint scent of pine and damp earth grows stronger as I approach, mingling with the crisp night air. A perfect spot to rest—quiet, hidden, and just far enough from the road to avoid unwanted company.

Dropping my pack with a soft thud, I lean the walking stick against a tree and stretch, wincing as my joints protest. My muscles are tight, each movement sending a dull throb through my body. Still, I force myself to gather a few fallen branches and kindling, my hands clumsy with exhaustion.

The fire catches after a few tries, the sparks from my flint flickering weakly before the flame finally grows. The warm glow spreads, illuminating the clearing in soft, flickering light. The shadows of the trees stretch long around me, enclosing me in a cocoon of quiet safety.

I sink to the ground beside the fire, letting out a long, slow breath. For the first time in hours, the tension in my shoulders eases.

The fire crackles softly, its warm light dancing across the grove. I pull my pack closer, digging through its contents with tired hands. My fingers close around a small bundle wrapped in cloth, and I pull it free— bread, cheese, and dried meat. Not much, but enough to keep me going.

Unwrapping the cheese first, I pause for a moment, letting the aroma wash over me. It's sharp, a bit earthy, and honestly, better than I expected. A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth as I cut off a small piece with the dagger at my side.

"If only the power of the cheese wheel could heal me," I mutter under my breath, popping the piece into my mouth. The sharp tang floods my taste buds, and I can't help but chuckle softly at the absurdity of the thought. The laugh stirs the stillness of the grove, a small crack in the solemn silence that has blanketed me since the fight.

I make quick work of the bread and dried meat, the tough texture a stark reminder of how far I am from the comforts of home. Each bite feels like a small victory, a quiet defiance against the day's trials. I savor it all—mundane as it is—letting the warmth of the fire and the simplicity of the meal settle me.

The night presses in around me, quiet and still. For a brief moment, I allow myself to forget the pain in my knee, the raw burns beneath my armor, and the uncertainty of the road ahead. Right now, it's just me, the fire, and the food. That's enough.

As the meal settles in my stomach and the fire's warmth soothes my weary limbs, my thoughts drift to the memory of lightning crackling from my fingertips. I can almost feel it again—the raw energy surging through me, powerful and unrelenting. The thrill of it lingers, tugging at me. Exhaustion tugs harder, but I push it aside. No. I need to try again.

Reaching into my pack, I pull out the spellbook. The flickering firelight casts shadows on its worn cover, the faintly shimmering embossed runes catching the light. I flip to the section on Sparks, the familiar incantation staring back at me from the pages. I skim the steps, my eyes tracing over the words, my mind already running through the motions.

Sitting cross-legged by the fire, I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension that's built up from the day. The fire crackles beside me, the sound steady and soothing. I take a deep breath, pushing aside any lingering frustration.

My hand stretches out, palm upward, fingers relaxed but poised. The air around me seems to hold its breath. I close my eyes and try to recapture that sensation, that subtle pull of power I felt the first time.

For a moment, there's nothing. No warmth in my chest, no familiar hum of energy. Just the ache in my muscles from days of travel, the crackle of the fire. I breathe in again, willing the magic to respond. Focus, I remind myself.

I picture the warmth, that spark of power lying just below the surface, waiting for me to draw it out. Slowly, carefully, I push the energy down my arm, reaching for it. The tingling comes, faint and delicate, like the first brush of a summer breeze against skin. It's there. It's real.

Then, without thinking, I thrust my hand forward. The magic surges, faster this time, and a crackling flash of blue light bursts from my fingertips. The spark jumps into the air, flaring brightly before it fizzles out into the night.

I blink, my heart racing as I stare at the spot where it disappeared. My pulse quickens. I did it.

A grin spreads across my face. That's progress. A small success, but a success nonetheless.

I focus again, steadying my breathing. This time, I extend my fingers and push the energy forward with more intent, willing it to leap from my hand like before. The spark bursts from my fingertips again, this time with more strength, more control. The blue light crackles and arcs out in front of me, a bolt that travels a few feet before fading out.

It's not as spectacular as against the bandit, but it's enough—it's controlled. The feeling of power, the control over it, is undeniable.

"I've got you now," I murmur under my breath, the excitement thrumming through my veins. The possibilities flood my mind—what else I could do, what more would I learn. The idea makes me feel alive, fills me with anticipation for the next step.

I lean back against the tree, the tension in my shoulders melting away. The firelight dances against the shadows of the grove as I settle back, the walking stick resting within arm's reach. My body aches, and the raw chafing of my scars beneath the armor serves as a constant reminder of how close I came to falling. Yet, despite the pain, a small smile tugs at my lips, for tonight, this small victory is enough.

The fight plays through my mind as I smile at the vivid memory. But then the memory shifts, and the smile fades. The bandit woman. I can still see her as the lightning strikes her, the sheer force of it throwing her lifeless body to the ground. My chest tightens, unease spreading through me like the aftershock of a spell.

I killed a woman.

The thought gnaws at me, cutting through the lingering thrill of victory. I've always thought of myself as someone who protects women, someone who would never harm them. But this world isn't my own. Here, women can kill me as easily as any man. Hesitation could've killed me. It won't happen again. I can't afford to let it.

I stare into the fire, my jaw tightening as resolve steels within me. The quiet crackle of the flames feels distant now, a mere backdrop to the storm of thoughts in my mind.

With a sigh, I lie back, using my pack as a makeshift pillow. Tomorrow, Whiterun. But tonight, I'll rest. The warmth of the fire and the cool night air wrap around me as I close my eyes. I won't forget today—or the lessons it taught me.

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-


The road rises steadily, each step pulling me higher above the wooded trail I've been following for hours. My knee protests every motion, but the walking stick holds firm, steadying my uneven gait. The incline crests ahead, the forest thinning to reveal an open sky. The late afternoon sun casts the landscape in shades of gold and copper, the air lighter and fresher than before.

Then I reach the ridge, and my breath catches.

Whiterun.

It sprawls across the plains below, a city far larger than anything I've seen in this world so far. The outer walls are tall and imposing, built of stone reinforced with wooden palisades, stretching wide to encompass not just the central city but entire clusters of buildings surrounding it. This is no modest town or small fort. It's a city of tens of thousands.

Dragonsreach crowns the city atop its hill, a golden jewel of architecture that commands the skyline. Its massive hall stands above everything, its roof shining in the sun like burnished gold. Even from this distance, I can see its towering pillars.

The city beneath it is a labyrinth of bustling streets and tightly packed buildings. Stone and timber houses dominate, their rooftops forming an undulating sea that stretches outward. The central district rises higher, closer to Dragonsreach and a huge hall dots the hill to its side- Jorrvaskr , while the outer edges spill into the plains, where rows of farmsteads and smaller homes cluster near the main road. Smoke curls lazily from countless chimneys.

The plains surrounding the city are vast, rolling fields of gold and green that stretch as far as the eye can see. Scattered throughout are clusters of farmhouses, their thatched roofs and barns dotting the landscape like islands in a sea of grass. Wooden fences crisscross the terrain, enclosing crops, grazing animals, and the occasional lone figure working the fields.

Farther out, a solitary watchtower rises in the distance, its silhouette stark against the horizon. To the south, I can make out the faint glimmer of a river winding its way toward the city, its waters catching the sunlight like liquid silver.

I stand there for a long moment, letting the sight sink in. Relief mingles with anticipation, the weight of my journey pressing heavier now that I can see my destination. The sight of Whiterun lingers in my mind as I begin my descent, the golden light of Dragonsreach still shining like a promise on the horizon. My steps are uneven, my knee protesting with every jolt of the walking stick against the dirt. The path curves downward, lined by tufts of wild grass swaying in the breeze.

The plains stretch wide before me, a patchwork of fields and dirt roads crisscrossing the landscape. I can make out the distant forms of farmhouses, tiny dots against the vast expanse, with smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. The fields roll gently toward the city walls, but the distance is deceiving; even with the city in sight, it will be hours before I reach it.

The thought draws a tired sigh from me. I adjust the walking stick and take another step onto my aching knee, forcing myself onward. The city is close, but not close enough to ease the weight of the road. I'll pass farms, perhaps the Honningbrew Meadery if I'm lucky, but stopping feels unthinkable. The dirt road crunches softly beneath my boots, the sound of each step blending with the faint whisper of the wind. The walking stick taps a steady rhythm against the ground, a counterpoint to the ache pulsing in my knee. Whiterun looms in the distance, its golden roof still visible, but my thoughts drift elsewhere as I limp along.

I think of everything I've seen so far—Helgen's fiery chaos, Riverwood's quiet simplicity, the wild forests that seemed to stretch endlessly. And now this. A sprawling city on the horizon, bustling with life, ready to swallow me whole. I wonder briefly how I'll be received, a lone Dunmer wandering into its walls, battered and scarred. Outsider, foreigner, stranger. The words circle in my mind, but I push them aside. There's no point worrying about it now.

Then it happens.

A sound like thunder rolls across the plains, low and guttural, shaking the air. I stop dead in my tracks, the walking stick hovering mid-step as I scan the horizon. My heart jumps, the ache in my knee momentarily forgotten. It's a roar—deep, primal, unmistakable.

Surely not.

"This is an actual world," I mutter aloud, the sound of my voice strange in the open air. "There's no way the timing of my arrival lines up with the Companions fighting the damn giant."

But the thought gnaws at me, refusing to let go. I grip the walking stick tighter and turn toward the direction of the sound. The plains stretch wide and open, the golden grass rippling in the breeze like a restless sea. My eyes search for any sign of movement, any clue of what lies ahead.

Another roar echoes, fainter this time, but enough to set my pulse racing. I let out a frustrated sigh, adjusting my pack as I change course. Limping forward, each step sends a sharp twinge through my leg, but I push through it. Curiosity outweighs the pain.

"Of course," I mutter to no one. "I have to check."

Not suicidal, huh? The words flash through my mind. "Shut up Zero," I mutter.

The roar echoes again, deeper this time, vibrating through the air and settling in my chest like distant thunder. I grit my teeth, forcing my leg to cooperate as I limp forward, the walking stick digging into the dirt with every step. The sounds of battle grow louder—crashes of something massive hitting the ground, sharp shouts of effort, and the occasional whistle of something slicing through the air.

The terrain ahead flattens as I crest another small rise, my heart pounding as the noise intensifies. Then I see it.

The giant is enormous, a wall of muscle and fury that towers over the battlefield. Its swings are devastating, the massive club in its hands carving through the air with audible force. When it misses, the ground quakes and breaks beneath the impact. It roars again, a guttural sound that reverberates across the plains.

Opposing it are two figures moving like greased lightning.

Aela stands at a distance, bow raised and steady. Her red hair catches the sunlight like fire as she draws and releases in one fluid motion. Each arrow she looses splits the air with a sharp crack, burying itself deep into the giant's flesh. The force is terrifying; it's as if she's firing ballista bolts, not arrows.

Vilkas is a blur of motion, meeting the giant head-on with a greatsword. His parries defy belief. Each time the giant's club comes crashing down, Vilkas' sword meets it, deflecting the blow with a shockwave that ripples through the air. His movements are a blur I can barely perceive.

I stop, breath caught in my chest. They move on a level I can barely comprehend. Each action is faster, stronger, more lethal than anything I've seen before. The ground shakes beneath them, the air filled with the crack of impacts and the giant's bellows.

But I can't just stand here.

"No way I'm sitting this one out," I mutter, forcing my legs to move again. The memory of my Sparks earlier flickers in my mind, and I feel the faint tingle of magic as I prepare myself. Limping forward, I adjust my grip on the walking stick. I may be weak, but no way could I stand by when I could fight a giant.

As the roar tears through the air again, the giant swings its massive club in a wide arc. The sound of the wood cutting through the air is deafening, it reminds me of when they brought down the old water silo. When it connects with the ground, the impact sends a shudder through the earth, rippling outward and nearly forcing me off my feet.

I press forward, though my steps falter as I take in the full chaos of the fight.

Aela is a study in precision. She doesn't move unless she has to, standing firm as her bow sings with each release. Her arrows whistle through the air like they're alive, striking the giant with terrifying force. One slams into its shoulder with such power that it stumbles briefly, its roar cutting off into a sharp grunt.

The giant roars in frustration and turns its attention toward Vilkas. He meets its fury head-on, sword flashing in the light. His strikes deflect or redirect the giant's attacks. The sheer weight behind its swings would crush anyone else, but Vilkas doesn't yield an inch. Every clash sends shockwaves rippling through the air, the force palpable even from where I stand.

I watch as the giant raises its club for a devastating overhead strike. Vilkas side steps at the last moment, bringing his blade around in a sweeping arc that glances off the giant's thigh. Blood splatters across the ground, dark and thick. The giant roars in rage, swinging wildly, but Vilkas is already repositioning, his movements almost too fast to follow.

My heart pounds as I watch them. The sheer speed, strength, and precision of their movements are beyond anything I've seen before. It's not just skill—it's superhuman. The Companions are leagues above me, their power making my earlier fight with bandits seem laughable in comparison.

The giant stomps forward, its footfall shaking the ground, and uproots a chunk of earth with its free hand. For a moment, I think it's going to throw it at Vilkas, but instead, its eyes lock onto Aela.

Aela sidesteps the projectile with the grace of a dancer, her bow already drawn as she lets another arrow fly. It slams into the giant's chest, forcing it to stagger back. The way she moves, the intensity in her eyes—it's mesmerizing.

I can feel the Sparks building in my hand, the faint tingle of magic growing stronger. My mouth goes dry, but I force my legs to move, the walking stick digging into the ground with each step. My heart pounds in my chest, the sheer scale of the fight unfolding before me exhilarating and terrifying. Sparks dance faintly at my fingertips, the tingle of magic growing sharper as I push closer. My knee screams in protest, but I shove the pain aside. If I can distract the giant, even for a moment, maybe they can bring it down.

The giant rears back, its roar splitting the air as it swings its club in another wide arc. Vilkas ducks low and circles, the massive weapon passing over him in a blur. He counters with a brutal slash across the giant's calf, blood splattering across the ground. The creature stumbles, its massive hand clutching at its wounded leg.

Now's my chance.

I extend my hand, focusing on the growing energy in my palm. The Sparks surge outward, crackling through the air and striking the giant's exposed side. The electricity dances across its skin, harmless compared to the arrows and blade already tearing into it, but the effect is enough. The giant lets out a guttural growl, its head snapping toward me.

For a brief, exhilarating moment, its gaze locks onto mine. My breath catches in my throat, the weight of its attention like a physical force. The creature starts to shift toward me, its massive frame looming larger with every step. My pulse races, panic creeping into my chest, but before it can close the distance, another arrow from Aela slams into it, forcing it to falter.

Her eyes find mine across the battlefield, sharp and intense. It's only a moment—a flicker of acknowledgment—but it feels like she sees right through me. A chill races down my spine, not from fear, but from the primal presence that brushes against me calculating and assessing.

I shake off the sensation, throwing another burst of Sparks toward the giant. It roars again, swiping at Vilkas in frustration, but the Companion sidesteps effortlessly, his sword ready for another strike. My magic is weak, my body screaming with every movement, but I refuse to stop.

"No way I'm retreating now," I mutter, steadying myself for another burst.

The giant lets out a guttural roar, its massive frame swaying as blood pours from its wounds. Its movements are slower now, the once-devastating swings of its club reduced to sluggish arcs that Vilkas dodges with ease. Sparks still crackle faintly at my fingertips, but my strength is fading fast. Each burst of magic I send feels weaker, more fleeting, like trying to hold water in my hands.

Vilkas presses his advantage, his sword a blur as he sidesteps another swing. The giant's club crashes into the ground, shaking the earth and sending dust flying into the air. Using the opening, Vilkas lunges forward, his blade striking true. The sword carves through the giant's knee with a crunch, blood spraying across the ground in a wide arc. The creature roars in agony, the sound ripping through the air like thunder.

The giant collapses onto one knee, its enormous weight driving it into the dirt with a resounding crash. The ground shakes beneath the impact, nearly throwing me off balance. Its head dips low, its massive hand clutching at its wounded leg as it lets out a final, ragged bellow.

Then Aela strikes.

Her bowstring sings one last time, the arrow slicing through the air like a bolt of silver lightning. It pierces the giant's eye with a sharp crack, the force of the impact snapping its head back. For a moment, the massive creature seems to hang in the air, caught between life and death.

And then it falls.

The giant's body crashes to the ground with an earth-shaking thud, the sound rolling across the plains like distant thunder. Dust and debris billow outward, and the battlefield falls silent save for the faint whistle of the wind.

I stand frozen, my chest heaving, my fingers are numb, the Sparks that once danced across them now completely gone. My gaze shifts to Vilkas, who pauses only to wipe the blood off his sword with the air of someone who's done this a thousand times before. And then to Aela, who stands as still as a statue, her bow lowered but her sharp eyes scanning the battlefield to make sure no more threats appear. Her hair catches the sunlight, glowing like fire..

I force myself to take a shaky breath. It's over. But I can feel the weight of this moment pressing down on me, a stark reminder of how far I still have to go.

The dust settles, the echoes of the battle fading into the stillness of the plains. My chest heaves, every muscle in my body screaming with the strain of the fight. The walking stick bears most of my weight now, digging into the dirt as I lean on it heavily. My knee throbs, and the faint aftershock of magic use leaves my fingers tingling and weak.

The Companions turn toward me, their casual demeanor a stark contrast to the chaos moments ago. Vilkas approaches first, his sword resting lazily on his shoulder, his sharp eyes fixed on me. His expression is calm, but there's a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He's appraising me—measuring me.

"Ho there," he says, his voice rough but not unfriendly. "Why'd you jump in? Injured as you are?" His gaze flicks to the walking stick and back, the faint smirk widening. "Can't use that sword, so relying on magic, ash-skin?"

I shift slightly, the effort sending another sharp twinge through my knee. "I'm injured, you ass," I shoot back. Vilkas chuckles, his smirk growing into something closer to an approving grin.

Before I can say more, Aela joins us. She moves with the fluid grace of a predator, her piercing eyes locking onto mine. For a moment, I feel pinned under her gaze, the intensity of it sending a shiver down my spine. Without a word, she tosses me a small vial, the glass catching the sunlight as it arcs toward me. I catch it clumsily, nearly dropping it in my exhaustion.

A health potion.

Uncorking it quickly, I down the liquid in one go. The warmth spreads through me instantly, soothing the aches and mending the sharp pain in my knee. Strength floods back into my limbs, and for the first time since the bandits, I feel whole again. I straighten slowly, letting the walking stick fall to the dirt. I flex my leg experimentally, a small grin creeping onto my face.

"Why'd you join in if you're injured?" Aela asks, her tone even but laced with curiosity. Her gaze doesn't waver, and the weight of her attention feels heavier than any blow I've taken today.

I grin wider, meeting her eyes. "It just looked too fun not to." My words hang in the air, and to my surprise, her lips twitch into the faintest smile. It's brief, but it's there.

Vilkas breaks the moment with a hearty laugh, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me stagger. The force reverberates through my armor, but I manage to keep my feet. "You've got spirit," he says, the approval in his tone unmistakable.

Aela steps closer, her voice carrying a warmth that surprises me. "Come back to Jorrvaskr. Have a drink with us."

The offer lingers, tempting, but I shake my head reluctantly. "I need to see the Jarl first. Maybe next time?"

She nods, the faint smile returning. "The offer stands."

Vilkas glances toward the fallen giant, then back to me. "We'll walk you to the gates—just give us a moment to grab an ear as proof of the kill. Not like the guards are going to welcome a strange, armed Dunmer into the city without someone to vouch for you."

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-

The road stretches ahead, winding gently through the plains. The walls of Whiterun loom larger with every step, towering above the scattered fields and farmhouses. Around us, life is in motion—farmers tilling the earth, traders hauling goods in creaking wagons, and herders shouting at wayward livestock.

I walk steadily now, the earlier pain in my leg gone, though the aftereffects of my Sparks linger faintly in my fingers. My eyes drift to Vilkas' cloak, and that's when I see it—the sigil unmistakable. Wuuthrad. The mark of the Companions. A small smile tugs at my lips. Good. I have an excuse to start a conversation and learn more about them—about how they work in this world, beyond the game's shallow surface.

I let the silence stretch for a moment longer before I speak. "That symbol on your cloak—Wuuthrad, isn't it? The weapon of Ysgramor. So you're Companions."

Vilkas glances back at me, a brow raised, and his lips curl into a smirk. "Sharp eye. Not many outside Skyrim know that name."

"I'm well-read," I reply lightly, letting a hint of curiosity slip into my tone. "The legends of Ysgramor reach far. Even Dunmer children hear of his axe and the Five Hundred."

Aela glances at me, her gaze sharp but unreadable. "Stories rarely capture the truth," she says, her voice steady and calm. "We fight for honor, not the bards."

"And fighting a giant," I probe, "that's honor?"

Vilkas chuckles, the sound rough but not unkind. "Aye. A worthy opponent makes a worthy warrior. That's what it's about—not just the kill, but how you earn it."

His words settle in my mind as we walk. They're different from the game, I think. Just like with Ralof; the game simplified things, but here, they feel alive.

I glance between the two of them, a flicker of curiosity passing through my mind. Wasn't there supposed to be three of you? I think. I suppose three for the one giant would have been overkill.

Whiterun's walls grow ever larger as we approach, their height and scale more imposing than I had imagined. The outer stones are weathered, streaked with the marks of wind and rain. Archers patrol the towers above, their silhouettes cutting sharp lines against the clear sky. Their bows are ready, their sharp eyes scanning the plains, though they spare only passing glances at us.

The road itself is no less impressive. It winds strategically, narrowing into choke points and flanked by bulwarks—low stone walls reinforced with timber. Defensive measures, designed to funnel attackers into tight spaces and leave them exposed to arrow fire.

Well designed and deadly, I think, my gaze tracing the layers of protection. The towers above are evenly spaced, providing overlapping fields of fire. Archers here would rain death on anyone foolish enough to try breaching the gates.

I catch a glimpse of additional guards stationed near the outer bulwarks. Their scale mail is reinforced with steel plates along the arms and legs, the open-faced helmets they wear are adorned with intricate dragon etchings along the sides, their polished steel gleaming in the light. Cloaks flutter behind them as they stand at attention. Halberds rest easily in their hands, their shields lean casually against the stone walls beside them—always within easy reach but not yet needed. The way they stand, poised yet relaxed, shows that these guards are used to their duties, with a discipline that's clearly more than that of a town patrol, these are soldiers. Though for one moment it almost looks like one of their swords is a wooden toy before I shake my head—surely I was imagining that.

The gate itself soon comes into view—a massive structure of steel-reinforced wood, its surface etched with carvings of Nordic design. It's wide open and traffic flows freely through the gate. Traders guide their carts past the guards, farmers herd livestock across the uneven stone, and travelers clutch their cloaks tightly against the breeze. The hum of the crowd grows louder as we approach, blending with the faint clang of a distant forge and the chatter of townsfolk going about their day.

I glance at Vilkas and Aela as we near the gate. They walk with the ease of those who belong, their presence unchallenged by the guards above or below. For a moment, I wonder how long it would take for me to be so respected in this world.

The closer we get, the more details I notice. The wooden supports near the gate's base show wear from decades of traffic, but they're solid, reinforced with iron brackets that gleam as if freshly maintained. The archers on the walls above shift slightly, their attention flicking to us and then away. They see the Companions, and that alone is enough for them to relax.

Two guards flank the entrance, their presence commanding despite their stillness. Each holds a halberd—tall, elegant, and wickedly sharp. At their hips hang arming swords in finely tooled scabbards, the crossguard simple - decent steel arming sword.

Their eyes narrow slightly as they notice me—an armed Dunmer in battered armor trailing behind two Nords. Their suspicion is palpable, their gazes cold, but it's Vilkas who breaks the silence.

"Ho there," he calls to them, his voice steady and confident. "Another day of honest work keeping the riff-raff out?" He smiles as he gestures toward me. "He's with us. Not trouble—unless you're looking for some."

One of the guards—the taller of the two—shifts his stance, his halberd moving slightly. His voice is deep and measured. "We'll hold you to that, Companion. The Jarl's orders are clear. No trouble inside the walls."

Vilkas nods, his smile never faltering. "I'd expect nothing less."

The other guard glances at me again, his gaze sharp but not overtly hostile. "Dunmer aren't common here. Keep your business clean." His words are short, clipped, and carry the weight of warning.

Aela steps forward slightly, her calm presence enough to shift the guard's attention back to her. "We vouch for him," she says simply, her tone leaving no room for argument. "That should be enough."

The guards exchange a brief glance, and then, with a short nod, they step aside. "Go on, then. Don't make us regret it."

As we pass through, the traffic grows louder—farmers arguing over livestock, traders haggling over prices, and the creak of overloaded carts. The guards' words stick with me, though. Suspicion isn't new to me now, but here it feels different- this isn't some small town like Riverwood.

The moment we step through the gates, Whiterun greets us with a rush of noise and life. The city unfolds along a wide, sloping street, stretching toward the massive silhouette of Dragonsreach far above. Even from here, the golden roof of the Jarl's hall gleams, a beacon of authority perched at the city's peak.

But it's not the hall that draws my attention first. Off to the right, not far from the gate, the forge of Warmaiden's burns bright. Its stone base is built sturdy and wide, supporting a timber-framed shop that radiates heat. The air around it shimmers as sparks fly from the anvil where a tall woman—Adrianne, no doubt—hammers steel into shape. Rows of weapons and armor line the racks outside, each piece gleaming as if fresh from the forge. A younger man moves between the grindstone and the forge with practiced efficiency, his hands steady as he sharpens a broad blade.

As we continue walking, the street climbs gently, curving past the first line of buildings. The Bannered Mare is the next landmark to catch my eye. The inn is enormous, sprawling across two stories with carved beams and a stone foundation. Laughter and music spill from its open doors, mingling with the warm scent of roasting meat and spiced mead. A bard's melody drifts faintly through the air, a soothing backdrop to the chaos of the street. I feel the warmth calling me but force my gaze away- I have things to do.

On the opposite side of the road, The Drunken Huntsman stands out, its exterior adorned with trophies from hunts—gleaming antlers, polished pelts, and even the skull of some large beast. The building is smaller than the inn but still commands attention, drawing a steady stream of patrons.

The market square opens ahead of us, and the sheer scale of it is almost overwhelming after the peace of the wilderness. Stalls are arranged in neat rows, overflowing with goods—fruits and vegetables, textiles, and finely carved trinkets. Traders shout over the din, their voices rising above the clamor of haggling buyers and the creak of carts. To the side, the statue of Kynareth stands tall, her serene expression a contrast to the chaos below.

Above the square, on a slope to the left, Jorrvaskr dominates the skyline of this side of Whiterun. The Companions' hall is far larger than I expected—a massive structure built like a ship turned upside-down, its timbered beams arching skyward like ribs. It looms over the market, a reminder that Whiterun isn't just ruled by its Jarl.

Aela stops at the edge of the square, her gaze turning toward Dragonsreach. "There's your next stop. The Jarl's hall," she says.

Vilkas grins as he gestures toward Jorrvaskr. "And if you're looking for us later, we'll be there. Don't get lost."

I nod, meeting Aela's gaze briefly. "Thanks for the escort. I'll find my way."

She smiles faintly, her expression softening. "The offer for a drink still stands. Come by when you're settled."

They turn and head toward Jorrvaskr, their strides purposeful and confident. My eyes linger on Aela's form as she walks away before I turn towards Dragonsreach.

The stairs seem endless, a steady climb that twists and rises toward the hall dominating the skyline. Each step pulls me closer, and despite the ache in my legs and the weight of exhaustion pressing on my shoulders, I have to fight the urge to sprint. Just a few more minutes, and this letter will finally be delivered. The thought of sinking into a proper bed—one that doesn't involve dirt or rocks—drives me forward.

The golden roof of Dragonsreach glints in the sunlight, its brilliance undimmed even as the day wanes. The intricate carvings of dragons etched into the beams catch my eye, the way their forms seem to twist and ripple in the light giving them an almost lifelike quality. It's a fortress, but more than that—it's a statement. Power radiates from it, not just in its size but in its presence, its defiance of the wilderness sprawling below.

As I ascend the final set of steps, I catch my breath and pause for a moment to take it in. The carved archway that frames the entrance is massive, pressing down on anyone that walks through.

The doors are reinforced wood, thick and iron-bound, their edges worn smooth from years of use. Almost there, I think, forcing my legs to move again.

A pair of guards stand on either side of the entrance, their polished helms gleaming faintly in the sun. They watch me as I approach, their faces unreadable beneath their visors. I offer a small nod, more habit than courtesy, and step past them toward the doors. One of the guards shifts slightly, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, but he doesn't stop me.

My hand presses against the cool surface of the door, and for a moment, I hesitate. This is it. The threshold. Beyond here, that is where things will truly begin.

The doors groan softly as they swing open, and the warmth hits me like a wall. I pause for a moment to take in the grand hall, my senses overwhelmed by the sight, sound, and heat. The massive hearth at the center of the room crackles with a fire so large it almost feels like a beast of its own. The heat radiates across the room, pushing the chill of the outside air from my bones as my cloak shifts with the warm draft.

The hall itself is a cathedral of wood and stone, every inch of it designed to project power. The beams rise high above, intricate carvings of dragons and warriors twisting along the walls, their figures almost alive in the flickering firelight. I look around at the banners that hang from the rafters, rippling softly in the currents of air..

Servants bustle back and forth, their feet moving swiftly across the stone floor as they carry trays of food and pitchers of drink. Guards stand at attention in the corners, their armor gleaming faintly in the dimming light. The clink of metal on metal and the murmur of low voices fills the air, but it all fades into the background as my gaze is drawn to the raised platform at the far end of the room.

There, on a throne adorned with dragon heads, sits the Jarl of Whiterun. Balgruuf. His furs are thick, draped over his broad shoulders, and the way he sits—commanding, regal—gives him an air of authority that was heavily missing in the game. At his side, standing stiff and watchful, is his housecarl, Irileth. I can feel her crimson eyes on me, measuring, weighing. I take another step forward, feeling the weight of the room settle around me. This is no mere meeting. I'm standing before a figure who commands far more power than I do- for now.

For now, I'm a messenger. A simple delivery of news. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, and walk toward the platform.

As I make my way toward the Jarl, the guards shift, moving in front of me as I near the platform."Halt, stranger," one of them commands, his voice low but it carries. The movement is swift, precise—well-practiced. The halberd in his hands shifts slightly toward me. "We cannot allow you to enter the Jarl's presence so heavily armed."

I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes flickering between the two guards as they take a step closer, their bodies blocking the path. So much for a grand entrance, I think, a wry thought crossing my mind. But I don't challenge them. Not here. Not now. Not yet.

I glance down at the weapons strapped to me—the sword at my side, the dagger at my belt. They feel like second skin, something I've grown accustomed to. But here, in this hall, it's clear that not just anyone can walk in armed. Reluctantly, I begin to unbuckle my sword and slowly pull the dagger from its sheath, handing them over one by one. The weight of the steel leaving my hands feels wrong as I pass them over, but it's the way of things here.

"Everything you've got," one of the guards says, his voice stern, but not unkind. I nod and step back, watching as they handle the weapons with the care of people who understand the weight of what they hold.

"Satisfied?" I ask, my voice a bit sharper than I intend. But I'm not going to fight it. I just want to get this over with.

The guard holds up his hand as if to signal for the rest to stop their scrutiny. "You'll get them back when you leave, stranger. The Jarl will see you now."

A part of me bristles at the way they refer to me, but I keep my mouth shut. Stranger... right. I'm nothing more than a messenger to them. Still, the discomfort of standing unarmed in the presence of these guards gnaws at me.

I offer a slight nod, stepping past them. They step aside, allowing me to approach the throne, but I can feel their eyes on my back as I walk. The walk to the throne feels like an eternity. Each step toward Balgruuf feels like it carries the weight of the world with it. The hall is large, imposing, and the echoes of my footsteps bounce off the high ceilings. I skirt the firepit, the warmth briefly soothing my travel-worn skin before it's swallowed by the cold air creeping in from the outside. My cloak shifts slightly with the movement, and I feel the weariness in my bones.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I stop, my eyes meeting the Jarl's gaze. Balgruuf sits on his throne with the quiet authority of someone who's used to being in charge. Irileth stands beside him, ever watchful. Her eyes narrow as she studies me, but she stays silent, allowing her Jarl to handle the situation.

I step forward, bowing my head slightly before I speak. "I bring a message from Gerdur of Riverwood. She asked that it be delivered directly to you."

Balgruuf takes the letter, breaking the seal. His eyes quickly scan the paper, and the room falls into a tense silence. When he finishes reading, his eyes lock onto mine, sharper now.

"A dragon at Helgen?" he says, his voice steady but laced with skepticism. "You say you were there?"

I nod, trying to keep my voice steady despite the weight of his gaze. "I was. I barely escaped with my life."

Irileth steps forward slightly, her fingers grazing the hilt of her sword, her stance challenging. "A dragon? At Helgen? You expect us to believe this?"

Balgruuf raises his hand, silencing Irileth with a glance. His eyes flicker back to me. "Gerdur is a pillar of her community, if she vouches for him I shall believe it and if this is true... Whiterun has far more to worry about than the Shadow Hounds."

He glances to the side, addressing his steward. "Proventus," he commands, "summon Cassius. We need his counsel immediately. And Farengar—bring him here as well. A dragon returning is not something we can ignore."

The steward hurries off, and the Jarl turns his attention back to me. His eyes soften slightly as they scan my road-worn appearance. "You've done well to bring this news," he says, his tone carrying a hint of gratitude. "Few could have survived the chaos of Helgen, and even fewer would have come here to deliver this warning."

He looks at me a moment longer, as though weighing something, before he steps down from the throne, the heavy fur cloak shifting around his broad shoulders. He motions for his attendants, who are already anticipating his orders.

"First," Balgruuf continues, "I think you'll want to rest. You've earned it. Speak to Hulda at The Bannered Mare—tell her I sent you, and she'll see to your comfort."

The mention of rest is like a balm to my tired body, but I'm not done here. Balgruuf pauses, his eyes narrowing slightly before he speaks again, his voice taking on a softer tone. "You've earned more than just a roof over your head for the night, though. For bringing this message, and surviving the horrors of Helgen, I can offer you a boon. Should you need anything in the future, anything at all, come to me, and I will see to it."

The offer hangs in the air between us, and I feel the weight of it—a promise from the Jarl himself. A boon from someone with this much power means more than just coin. It's an opening to something greater.

Then, he motions again to his attendants. "Bring him a pouch of gold."

They turn to rummage through a chest before handing me a small but heavy pouch. I take the pouch, its weight substantial in my hand. The coins inside clink with a comforting sound, but it's the Jarl's boon that I know will be the true value of this exchange.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
I step into The Bannered Mare and immediately feel the warmth of the hearth wash over me. The heat from the fire is a welcome relief after the chill of the night air, and the low hum of conversation fills the space. The tavern is lively, bustling with activity, but not in a way that's overwhelming. The atmosphere is cozy, inviting—exactly what I need after the long, exhausting trek to Whiterun.

I scan the room briefly, noting the familiar faces—traders, a few adventurers, a couple of locals chatting by the bar. The scent of roasting meat and freshly baked bread hangs in the air, and I can already feel my stomach grumbling in anticipation. I don't go to the bar just yet.

Instead, I make my way through the crowd, finding a quiet corner at the far side of the room. It's a perfect spot: tucked away from the noise but still close enough to enjoy the warmth and the energy of the tavern.

Once I sit, I let out a long sigh of relief. The weight of my armor is a constant reminder of the journey, but it feels like I've claimed a small victory at least. I place my hand on my sword—it's comforting, more than I expected, to have it close again. The familiar weight of it offers some measure of security, unneeded as it may be at the moment.

I pull my cloak tighter around me, trying to settle into the chair and shake off the fatigue from the road. The heat of the room is like a balm to my sore muscles, and I start to feel the tension slowly leaving my body.

Maybe it's time to rest, I think to myself. The bed promised sounds like a paradise right now.

But as I close my eyes for a moment, taking in the sounds of the tavern, I feel the pull of curiosity. My gaze shifts, drifting across the room to take in the rest of the scene. The conversation fades a little as I let my eyes wander—then, my attention catches. A woman, sitting by herself across the room. She's sipping from a tankard, looking around lazily, her posture relaxed but somehow poised. She's nothing remarkable—just a pretty face in a crowd—but something about her catches my eye, makes me pause longer than I should.

Maybe... I think with a slight grin. Maybe it's time to test my luck there.

Her eyes sweep across the room, and for a moment, they meet mine. I'm still a little far off, but her gaze locks onto me for just a brief second. There's nothing overt, no obvious sign of recognition, but she doesn't immediately look away either. There's a small, knowing glimmer in her expression—like she's aware I'm looking.

I've been on the road for far too long, I think, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips. I've barely had time to rest, let alone enjoy the simple pleasures. The thought of sitting here and spending a bit of time with her doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

I can feel the pull now—the temptation to get up, walk over, and see where the night takes me. No expectations, no pressure. Just a drink, some conversation, and maybe a distraction before I finally crash into bed.

Why not? I think with a shrug. What's the worst that could happen?

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

I wake slowly, the warmth on my chest drawing me back to the present. At first, I just lie there, enjoying the softness of the bed beneath me, the familiar weight of her body still curled beside me. Her hair is splayed across my chest, soft against my skin. I smile briefly at the sight, a flicker of peace before the events of the night come back into focus.

She sleeps soundly, her breath slow and steady, and for a moment, I think I could just stay here. The warmth of the bed, the comfort of being free from my armor, makes me want to close my eyes again. But it's fleeting. I can't stay here forever, not when there's so much left to do.

Carefully, I slip out of bed, making sure not to disturb her. The cool air of the room hits me as I stand and stretch, my legs aching from the journey, but it's nothing compared to the weight of the night before.

I glance toward the corner where my armor is piled in haphazard fashion—thrown aside without a second thought. It's an ungainly heap of metal and leather, and for a moment, I appreciate the relief of not being strapped into it.

But that moment passes quickly. I need to get back to business, and I can't waste any more time here.

My gaze drifts toward the mirror on the far wall—the one I had intentionally ignored last night. I knew I didn't want to see myself then, I didn't want to face the truth of what this new body looks like. But now, curiosity draws me toward it.

I stand in front of it, and the man who stares back at me is a stranger.

My skin is ash grey—darker than it used to be, but still lighter than I had expected. My face is angular, sharp in the way it's shaped. The scar on my eyebrow stands out, a clean slash through it. The lichtenberg scar trails up my left arm, dark and jagged.

My eyes glow faintly violet in the dim morning light, their color striking against the grey of my skin. I reach up, running my fingers across my face, feeling the sharpness of my jawline, the curve of my brow, the jagged edge of the scar. It all feels so... alien.

I stand there for a moment, feeling weightless. Detached, almost like I'm observing this new body from a distance, unsure of how to place myself in it. For a brief moment, I feel as though I've lost something—like a piece of who I used to be has faded, replaced by something I can't fully grasp.

But then the feeling washes over me, a rush of overwhelming sensation that threatens to knock me off balance. This isn't my body. This isn't who I am. This isn't my life.

I shake it off immediately, pushing the thoughts down deep. There's no time to reflect on this. Push it down. Move forward, I remind myself. Make it your body.

I turn away from the mirror, and my gaze shifts back to the bed. She's still sleeping soundly, unaware of the whirlwind of thoughts running through me.

With a quiet sigh, I walk over to her side, already thinking about what comes next. I still need to get properly outfitted. I've wasted enough time with this gear. It's time to see the blacksmith.

What was her name again? Doesn't matter. I'll remember once I'm there.

 

[MandTeKad]

The heat of the forge clings to my skin as I step into the cool air of Whiterun, the breeze instantly sweeping away the warmth. My cloak flutters lightly in the wind as I instinctively rest my hand on the hilt of my gladius. The sword is familiar, but it's not quite right anymore. It's a relic, something that has served its purpose, now it's only a reminder of what's to come. I've ordered a new sword, a proper weapon that will match the armor the blacksmith is working on. She said it would take a week to finish, but I can't shake the feeling that a week is far too long. The road ahead is already clear in my mind, and the anticipation makes the wait seem unbearable.

I take a slow breath, letting the cold air settle in my lungs as I tighten my grip on the gladius. It's a solid sword, but it's not mine—not in the way the new one will be. I'm ready for it, ready to move forward, but I have no choice but to wait. The blacksmith's words echo in my mind: a week. It's a week I'll have to fill with something else.

The forge fades behind me as I begin walking, my pace steady. My thoughts wander for a moment, back to the promise of the new gear. The armor will be custom, the sword an extension of my own hand, and both will offer the protection I need for what's coming. But for now, the gladius and hastily matched armor are my only equipment, and I can only wait. The thought of Dragonsreach brings me back to the present. There's no time to waste. I have a purpose today, and it leads me toward the Jarl.

I pull my cloak tighter around me as the cold Whiterun air nips at my skin. The sound of the forge fades behind me, replaced by the busy hum of the market. My hand still rests on the gladius at my side, the familiar weight grounding me as I make my way through the bustling streets. The blacksmith's words echo in my mind: a week. Just a week until the armor and sword will be ready. It's almost within reach, but not quite. Patience is something I'm not good at, especially with the road ahead already so clear.

As I walk, the sound of laughter and clinking mugs reaches my ears, cutting through the noise of the market. I glance up, following the sound, and spot the Companions Hall high on the hill, overlooking the marketplace. Aela's face flashes in my mind. I wonder, just for a moment, what would it take to court her? The thought lingers longer than I'd like before I shake it off.

This isn't the time for distractions. The Companions will still be here when my work is done.

With a firm step, I refocus on the path ahead. Dragonsreach awaits, and I've come here for something else. Magic. The chance to learn, to grow stronger.

I glance up at Dragonsreach looming ahead, its towering walls cutting into the sky. This is where the future starts to unfold—where I can push beyond mortal limits. The Jarl's court waits, and with it, the chance to learn what I need to survive in this world. Magic, not just swords or steel, will be one of the keys to my future.

I run a hand over the gladius, feeling its worn grip again, and I can almost imagine the new sword, the new armor, how they'll feel once they're ready. I can wait. But right now, it's magic that calls. Farengar's tutelage is the next step.

Each step I take brings me closer, and with it, the weight of what I'm about to do. It's not just a simple request—I'm asking for power. To study under Farengar, to learn magic, is to take a step into a world that could elevate me beyond what I can accomplish with a sword alone.

I adjust the gladius at my side, but I know it's only a small part of the path I need to walk. The promise of the new armor, the new sword—those are waiting, but this is about something bigger. I step into the great hall of Dragonsreach, the familiar weight of its stone walls pressing down on me. The court is lively as usual, with nobles and advisors murmuring amongst themselves. At the far end of the room, I see the Jarl speaking with someone—though I don't pay them much mind. My eyes are on the Jarl as I hand my weapons over to the guard.

As I make my way toward him, he glances up, his gaze narrowing slightly. With a casual wave of his hand, he dismisses whoever he was talking to, the conversation dropping away in an instant.

"Ah, I see you are back," he says, his eyes quickly scanning me as I approach. He studies me for a moment before speaking again, more to himself than to me. "The rest seems to have done you good."

I give a slight nod, waiting for him to continue. His tone shifts, a hint of impatience creeping in. "I assume you're here to discuss that small boon?"

He waves a hand in the air, signaling me to get on with it. "Let's be quick about it. I have quite a bit to do."

"I've come to request to study under Farengar," I say, my tone calm but resolute. The words are measured—neither pleading nor boastful. I don't explain myself further; I won't waste my breath on justifications.

The Jarl raises an eyebrow, his scrutiny sharp, though his expression remains neutral. His gaze flickers over me once more, sizing me up before he speaks, his voice measured.

"I do not control who Farengar teaches," he replies, a hint of weariness in his voice.

His eyes flicker over me again, assessing. "I will broach matters with him but I would not guarantee that he would be willing to teach you." The Jarl shifts slightly, clearly ready to be done with the conversation.

He gives me a brief, almost dismissive glance. "I may call on your services if your blade is for hire. Otherwise, I'll send word when there's word to be sent. If Farengar rejects your proposal, you may ask for something else."

There's nothing else to say. The Jarl has made his decision, and now it's in Farengar's hands. I nod in acknowledgment, my face carefully composed despite my frustration.

The Jarl waves his hand in a motion that suggests he's already moving on. "Now, be gone. I've many pressing matters to attend to."

I bow my head slightly, keeping my irritation at the curt dismissal in check, and make my way out.

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-

I stand at the edge of the market, my fingers running over the pommel of my sword as I glance down at my coin pouch. The weight is lighter than I'd like to admit. The commissions for my new armor and sword drained a fair portion of my reward. While it's enough to get by for now, I know it won't be long before I need more. For travel, for training, for anything else I might need along the way.

I've been focused on the promise of magic, on Farengar's teachings, but I can't ignore the reality of my situation. The coin I have now won't last forever, and I need to earn more.

As I walk past a few stalls, a snippet of conversation from a nearby merchant catches my attention. Apparently, there's a bounty posted for a criminal causing trouble on the outskirts of Whiterun—a slippery sort who's been evading capture for weeks now. The word "bounty" sticks in my mind like a blade lodged in a wound. The chance to earn gold, to fight again—that was perfect.

I glance over at the notice board near the guardhouse. It's covered with papers and postings, but I can spot the bounties amidst the clutter. My fingers itch to see the details, to know more. The promise of gold is tempting, yes, but it's the thrill of a fight, the chance to test my skills again, that calls to me most.

I stop for a moment, considering. I could wait for Farengar's decision on my magic training, but that could take time. This bounty, though—it offers the rush of a fight. That sharp, quick clarity that comes only in the heat of battle, the kind I felt just yesterday when the giant's roar rattled the earth beneath me, what I felt at Helgen and against the bandits. The memory of the fights still stirs something in me, a mix of exhilaration and satisfaction.

The way I had to think fast, the weight of each strike, the coordination of each blow—it had been pure, unfiltered survival. That's what I crave—the adrenaline, the clarity that only comes when you're locked in combat, when the world narrows down to the opponent and the next move.

I make up my mind—this is exactly what I want: action, adrenaline, and excitement.

I make my way toward the board, the streets bustling around me as the decision settles into place. I'm already thinking about what comes next—the criminal, the hunt, the fight. There's no hesitation now. This is exactly what I need and sure enough, there it is: a fresh bounty for a criminal causing trouble near the outskirts of Whiterun. The criminal's description is brief but enough to go off of. The reward is generous, enough to replenish what I've lost on my commissions and then some.

I step closer and read the full details. The target's been seen around a small village to the north, but they've been able to evade capture so far. The bounty has been hanging for a while, no doubt, and now it's my turn to take it.

The tension in my chest builds as I scan the notice again. This is the chance I've been waiting for. The thrill of the fight, the challenge of tracking down someone who's proven hard to catch.

I fold the paper and tuck it into my belt. There's no time to waste. I won't sit here twiddling my thumbs, waiting for word from the Jarl. I'm going to take this bounty. I'm going to earn my coin and keep building up power and influence.

Turning on my heel, I start for the exit, already planning my next steps. The world outside of Whiterun calls to me. It's time to get moving.

-MD-
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-MD-
I step into the forge, the heat of the fire washing over me immediately. The rhythmic clang of hammer striking steel fills the air, as it always does in here. This forge is large—more like a cavernous hall of metal and fire than Alvor's modest smithy, with tools and weapons scattered about in an almost comfortable chaos.

Adrianne stands at her workbench, hammering away at a blade, her focus absolute. She's a woman of muscle and precision, her skin hardened from years of fire and steel, her dark hair pulled back into a no-nonsense braid. When she finally notices me, she sets the hammer down, her hand wiping a smear of sweat from her forehead. A quick smile flickers across her face. "Ah, been waiting for ya," she says, her voice a bit rough, but friendly. "I've got your commission ready. Follow me."

She leads me over to a wide table set against the wall. There, laid out with care, are the pieces of my new armor—blackened steel breastplate, vambraces, greaves, pauldrons, and my helm, each piece carefully arranged. My heart catches for a moment; the sight of it all together is more satisfying than I expected.

Adrianne looks at me with a grin that's a mix of pride and amusement. "All done, just as you asked. For regular steel it's some of my finest work."

I approach the table, my boots heavy on the floor, as I let my eyes roam over the pieces laid out before me. The blackened steel breastplate is the first thing I take in. It gleams darkly, its smooth surface interrupted only by the delicate etching of a dragon roaring in silver across the chest. I can't help but smile to myself. I know full well I let vanity raise the price a bit, but looking at it now, I don't care. I run my fingers over the cool steel, appreciating the craftsmanship. This isn't like the hastily slapped together armor set I wore from Riverwood. That armor had served its purpose, but this is different. This is custom made to my exact specifications.

The chainmail is folded neatly beside the breastplate, each ring of steel linked meticulously to the next, strong yet light enough to provide flexibility. I I know it will sit comfortably underneath the plate, giving me an extra layer of defense.

Next, my eyes fall on the purple gambeson resting beside the chainmail. The color is rich, the fabric thick. I linger a moment before moving to the helmet—a gjermundbu-style helm. The blackened steel shines under the forge's light, with dragons etched into the sides, their faces almost alive. The chainmail veil beneath it will be a welcome addition, something to protect my neck and face when I need it.

"Quite a piece of work, isn't it?" Adrianne says, leaning against the table, watching me with a grin. "A bit fancy, but I can see why you'd want something like this. It'll serve you well." She steps closer, one hand reaching down to tap the breastplate lightly.

I nod slowly, my fingers brushing the dragon etched into the chestplate again. "It's perfect," I say, almost absently. The weight of the armor, the thought of wearing it into battle—it feels like I'm stepping into something much bigger than I was. "You're right; this will serve me well."

Adrianne watches me for a moment, then chuckles, shaking her head. "I'm glad you agree. It's not the kind of stock gear you get every day."

Adrianne steps back for a moment, letting me take in the armor, her gaze tracking mine as it lingers on each piece. Her hands move to the side, where she pulls out the arming sword I had commissioned. She holds it out, letting the light from the forge flicker off the polished steel.

The blade is two and a half feet long. The pommel is shaped like a snarling dragon's head, its teeth sharp and finely etched. The crossguard ends are designed to resemble claws, sharp and angular—perfect for a murder stroke or a punch when in the grapple. As my fingers trace the hilt, I smile. It's just the way I wanted it to be.

I take the sword in my hands, feeling its weight. It's well balanced. I test a few cuts through the air, feeling the motion, the way it fits into my hand. Still, I can't help but feel the weight of regret. I wish I could afford enchantments or a better metal. But this will do. It's a solid, dependable sword. I'll make it work.

I lower the blade, nodding in approval, though a small voice nags at the back of my mind, the longing for something even better. "It'll do," I murmur, shifting it in my grip. "It's a fine piece."

Adrianne watches me closely, her eyes sharpening as she observes my reaction. "I ain't much for fancy magic," she says with a knowing smile, "A good blade's better and that one's most certainly one of my better pieces."

Just as I'm about to set the sword back down, she reaches for something else—a small, wrapped package sitting beside the workbench. She hands it to me with a look of mild curiosity. "This one was a strange request, but who am I to judge?"

I blink, the memory of the request—something I'd asked her to include when I first made the order—flickers back into my mind. My chest tightens involuntarily as I take the package from her hands, feeling the weight of it shift in my palm.

It's lighter than I'd imagined, but the familiar feeling of unease begins to settle deep in my gut. What I had asked for—and the reason behind it—suddenly feels... real. My thoughts turn heavy as I glance at Adrianne, who's now watching me with a slightly bemused expression, unaware of the tension building inside me.

She tilts her head, her tone casual. "Kept it wrapped up like you said."

I force a tight smile, tucking the package into my pack. "Thanks," I say, though my voice is a little tighter than I intended. The weight of the package feels heavier than it should. I try to shake off the feeling, but I can't deny that it lingers.

With the sword set aside and the package tucked away, I unfasten the sable cloak, folding it neatly beside me, the black fur at the collar brushing against my fingers, the anticipation of finally putting on my new armor making my pulse quicken..I slip on the purple gambeson first, the snug fabric settling comfortably against my skin. The warmth of the padding gives me a sense of security, the soft weight of it already comforting. Next, the chainmail. The feel of the steel rings against my skin is cold, but solid. Each ring fits well, the armor sitting well-fitted, offering that familiar weight of armor. It feels like a second skin as I pull it over my shoulders, its rings working together to create a protective layer.

When it comes to the breastplate, Adrianne lifts it carefully and positions it over my chest, securing the straps. The dragon etched into the chestplate gleams softly in the forge's light. It's a perfect fit. The weight of it is there, but it's well-balanced.

The arms follow, and the cuisse and greaves are just as easy to strap on, next. They fit with the same seamless precision, the weight steady and evenly distributed.

Adrianne lifts the pauldrons, setting them on my shoulders, securing them with a practiced hand. I flex my arms experimentally—everything is in place, and it feels solid. I can move freely, easily.

Finally, I slide the helmet onto my head. The fit is perfect, settling comfortably over my brow. I adjust it briefly, testing the weight as I turn my head from side to side.

I pause, then slowly lift the helmet off. I take a breath, feeling the warm air of the forge against my face. I look at Adrianne, giving her a nod of appreciation. "Thank you. It's perfect," I say quietly.

After a brief pause, I throw the cloak back over my shoulders, letting it fall into place over the full plate. The cloak settles against the armor, the fur at the collar brushing against the weight of the steel. For a moment, I stand there, basking in the feel of being properly outfitted.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The wind cuts through the mountain pass, sharp and biting, carrying with it the chill of Skyrim. I stand on the rocky outcrop, looking down at Whiterun, its sprawling streets alive with people, but all of it feels so distant now. The warmth of the city below, the hum of life—I no longer belong there. Not right now.

The mountain seems to echo my isolation, silent save for the wind, the occasional whistle of birds, and the soft sound of my boots scraping against the stone. The land stretches before me in quiet, breathtaking beauty. But there is no peace here—not for me, not today. Not when the weight of everything I'm leaving behind presses against my chest like a stone.

I pull the package from my pack, the cloth tight in my hands. I sit on a flat stone, the wind biting at the back of my neck as I begin unwrapping it slowly. The cloth falls away, and there it is. A steel cross. At its center, Mjolnir, the hammer that once represented my gods, the power I thought would always guide me. Now it feels like a relic—something from a time I can't return to.

On either side of the cross, I see Hades and Diana, the symbols of my cats. They, too, are part of the life I'm leaving behind. At the bottom of the cross, a sword dangles—my old life in the Empire of Chivalry and Steel. Adam, my teacher, the man who taught me how to fight, how to survive. Scotty, Robert, Aunnie—they, too, are part of this farewell.

I stare at the cross for a long time, my hands trembling slightly as the memories begin to flood back. I'll never be part of that world again.

The thought hits me like a physical blow. The road trip with Alex, Jackie, Samir—all of them, gone. I'll never laugh with them again. Never share in those moments of freedom. And the family... my parents, my grandmothers, my siblings... I won't be there for them anymore.

A tightening in my chest. I can't go back. My past, my friends, my old life... there's nothing I can do to hold on to it.

I stare at the cross in my hands, the steel gleaming softly in the dying light of the afternoon sun. It's weighty—not just in metal but in meaning. Each symbol is a reminder of something, someone, I've left behind. Mjolnir at the center—a mark of strength and defiance, of a time when I thought I knew who I was. It feels cold in my hand now, as though it's become a memory itself, something that doesn't belong in the life I'm carving for myself.

The symbols of Hades and Diana dangle from either side. I trace them with my finger. Hades, I had picked him up at petco when he was only 2 months old. He's gone now, his presence reduced to nothing more than a distant echo in my mind. Diana, who I had taken in off the street.

I swallow the lump in my throat as the weight of it all presses down on me. I can't bring them with me. I can't carry their memory and my new life side by side. It's impossible.

Then my eyes fall on the sword hanging from the cross, and the knot swells in my chest. The sword. It represents so much more than just a weapon—it's a symbol of Adam's teachings, the lessons that kept me alive, the blade that's seen me through battle after battle. Aunnie, Scotty, Adam—they were all there, part of that chapter. The ECS—my family, my teacher, the ones who helped truly shape me. I feel a sudden pang of guilt, sharp and raw, as if I've betrayed them all by not being there— no matter that I had no choice.

I can see their faces in my mind—Adam's ridiculous humor, Scotty's constant pushing, Aunnie's fierceness—they're still with me in some way. But I know, deep down, that they will remain in the past. The road forward is one I have to walk alone.

The cross trembles in my hand. It's too much, too heavy. A life too full of people I love, people who mean the world to me, now held in a steel cross that I can't carry into the future. I hold it out in front of me, studying it one last time. There's so much of my old self in this monument—the person I was, the things I believed in. The life I lived.

But that life is over now. This cross is a monument to all of it—everything I can't keep. Everything I can't carry into the new world I'm forging.

My hand begins to shake, and I feel the sting of tears. It's time to say goodbye.

The cold steel of the cross feels heavier now, each symbol pressing into my palms like the weight of the world. My breath catches in my throat, the tears threatening to spill again. This wasn't supposed to be how it ended.

Alex, Jackie, Samir—the road trip we planned. The one I was never going to make. The stories we had planned and goals we still had to achieve.

But I can't go back.

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the familiar sting of guilt claw at my chest. I can't even share these moments with them. There are things left unsaid, pieces of me that won't make it to the new life I'm creating. They'll never see this world I'm stepping into, this path I'm choosing. It's all slipping away, like sand through my fingers.

I had always believed there would be time to do more. Time to create new memories, time to reconcile the differences between the life I was leaving and the one I was creating. But now, as I stand here, the realization hits me like a slap in the face—that time is gone.

The sword dangles from the cross—The ECS had been a part of my life for so long. And now, I'm leaving it all behind. I can't carry these people with me—not like I want to. The wind bites at my skin as the weight of it all presses down, the memories rising to choke me. My chest tightens, the air in my lungs growing thin as I fight to hold it together.

I can't do this.

A sob escapes me before I can stop it, a strangled, painful sound that seems to echo off the mountain and get lost in the wind. I drop to my knees, the cross still in my hands. I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want to walk away from all of them—from my friends, my teacher, my family.

But I know, deep down, I have to. I can't be that person anymore. That person doesn't fit with who I am becoming.

Tears fall freely now, wetting my cheeks and dripping onto the ground beneath me. I feel the tears before I even recognize them, surprised that I'm letting go so much. But there's no other way.

I let out a shaky breath, taking the cross into both hands again, clutching it tightly to my chest. My head hangs low, the weight of everything I'm leaving behind suffocating me.

The weight of the cross in my hands is unbearable, but I force myself to stand. I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve, feeling the wetness of the tears I hadn't known I was shedding. I can't stay here, lost in this moment. I can't let myself be consumed by grief—I have to move forward, even though it feels like every step I take is dragging me away from everything I've ever known.

I take a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs, grounding myself. The wind is still biting, but it's different now. It's not as harsh, not as unforgiving. It feels like the world is giving me a moment of reprieve, allowing me to pull myself together.

I glance down at the cross. Mjolnir, Hades, and Diana—frozen reminders of everything I've left behind—stare back.. My friends, my family—my thoughts are filled with them, but I know now that they will never walk this path with me. They are in the past, and it's time to move on. Time to honor them by carrying forward the strength they gave me.

This monument represents a piece of me that I must leave behind—but it will never fade. Their teachings, their memories—they'll stay with me, engraved on my heart, no matter how far I go.

I close my eyes for a moment, steadying my breath. It's not about forgetting them—it's about carrying them with me in a new way, a way that makes room for the future.

Finally, I place the cross on the ground gently, my fingers lingering on the cold steel for just a moment longer. It's my goodbye, my final offering. I stand tall, my back straight, the weight of the armor now feeling like a part of me. I am ready to let go.

"Goodbye," I whisper softly, not just to the cross, but to everything I've left behind. "I always dreamed of ending up in another world… and I'm going to be great here."

With one last look at the cross, I turn away.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The door swings open with a heavy creak, and the moment I step inside, the warmth hits me like a wave. It's a welcome relief after the cold wind that's been biting at my skin for what feels like an eternity. The fire in the center of the room roars, sending orange light flickering across the hall, illuminating the hundreds of people gathered within. The heat of the flames is so intense that I feel the sweat start to bead on the back of my neck, a stark contrast to the chill I just left behind on the mountain.

The smells hit me next. Roasting meat—whole cows turning on spits—fill the air, rich and intoxicating. My stomach growls in response, and I feel a gnawing hunger. It reminds me of old days, of shared meals with people I can no longer reach. A slight sense of melancholy creeps into my chest, but I shake it off. That life is behind me now.

I take in the scene before me—this hall is so much bigger than I remember from the game. It's not just a gathering space; it's a living organism. There are easily over a hundred people here, spread out in different corners of the room, but the atmosphere is the same: energy, laughter, and a sense of belonging. The noise is overwhelming at first—boisterous conversations and laughter mix with the clink of mugs and the occasional shout of victory from a brawl in one of the back corners. The fighters circle each other, moving with quick, brutal grace, their laughter and shouts punctuating the room.

It's alive here. The energy is contagious, and I can feel a stirring in my chest. Maybe this is what I've been looking for—this sense of belonging that's been missing since I left my old life behind. As I stand there, the warmth from the fire in the center of the hall feels like it's seeping into my bones, chasing away the chill of the mountain air still clinging to my skin. My eyes move across the room, taking in the sheer size and energy of the hall. The laughter, the clink of mugs, and the noise of sparring create a vibrant, chaotic symphony. It's not overwhelming, though—it's alive in a way that makes me feel like I've walked into something bigger than myself.

The sounds of sparring and conversation blend together seamlessly, but there's a common thread that runs through everything here: camaraderie. It's the same energy I used to feel in my old life, before it all slipped away: the unity of shared purpose, of people full of zeal.

I find myself smiling, albeit faintly, as the smell of roasted meat fills the air once again. It reminds me of long evenings back in my old life—the ECS, shared laughter around the fire, and the familiarity of those who had my back no matter what. The feeling was real then, even if it's gone now. The hall isn't just filled with warriors—it's filled with people who've found a way to live fully in the moment. As my eyes sweep across the room, a voice cuts through the noise. "Hey, you finally showed up!"

I turn instinctively toward the sound, and there she is—Aela. She sits a few paces away, a group of Companions gathered around her, but her gaze is locked on me. Her grin is wide, and the firelight dancing in her hair makes it look like she's glowing, her fiery locks illuminated with an almost ethereal light. The warmth from the fire highlights the energy in her presence—there's something raw about her, like she carries life in every movement.

For a moment, the melancholy I'd been carrying with me since the mountain starts to slip away, replaced by something lighter. It's hard to explain. "Yeah, took me a while," I reply, my voice still rough from the days I've spent carrying the weight of my old life. "Had to settle in, but I think I could do with that drink now."

She gives me a wide smile, and for a brief moment, I wonder if she sees through the layers of grief I've been carrying. As I step further into the hall, I feel lighter.

The ale flows freely, and the stories grow wilder as the night stretches on. I find myself surrounded by Companions, each one more than willing to share their latest escapades. The fire crackles at the center of the hall, casting flickering light on their faces as they swap tales of battles, beasts, and brawls. It's like I've stepped into a world where every moment is exaggerated, every triumph is grander than the last.

Vilkas leans forward, eyes gleaming as he nudges me with his elbow. "Ha! This guy right here," he chuckles, pointing at me. "He heard us fighting that giant and, with a bum leg, decided he had to jump in. Used magic, sure, but still..." He shakes his head in disbelief, his grin widening. "The courage of this one!"

"Or is it foolishness?" Skjor asked, though I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"Both," I say with a wide grin to resounding laughter.

Aela, who had been sitting nearby, looks over at me, and a playful glint flashes in her eyes. "Now that you're healed, we'll have to hunt together. I want to see how you do with steel in hand." Her voice is full of challenge, her grin just as wide as Vilkas'. She seems eager to see just how capable I am in a real fight, and for a brief moment, I can't help but feel that rush of excitement.

The laughter in the hall surges, and I find myself grinning despite myself. It feels good to be among like minded people, to have a place in their hall. My actions may have been impulsive, but it's clear I'm not the only one here with a reckless streak. The Companions wear their wildness as a badge of honor.

The fire's warmth, the smell of roasted meat, and their camaraderie loosen something in me. The alcohol helps, too. There's a pleasant tingling warmth in my chest as I sip my drink, and the conversation turns to less serious matters. Tales of hunts gone wrong, strange creatures spotted on the outskirts of Skyrim, and the endless rivalries that fuel their lives.

I listen more than I speak, but that's okay. I don't need to lead the stories; I still need to make mine after all...

.

.

.

I wake up with a dull throb at the back of my skull, a headache that feels like it's been carved into my brain with a dull axe. My body aches all over, stiff and sore from a combination of the night's drinking and brawling. I groan as I sit up, my legs nearly giving out beneath me. The world tilts slightly, and I rub my eyes, trying to remember the events of last night.

A heavy silence hangs over the room, and for a moment, I forget where I am. It's not until I smell the familiar scent of roasted meat in the distance, the soft crackle of the fire still echoing in my ears, that I realize where I am. Still in Jorrvaskr.

Memories of the previous night flood back—laughter, camaraderie, and my act of foolish bravery. I remember the challenge I'd drunkenly thrown out to Vilkas. The fight itself wasn't much—Vilkas easily outclassed me, barely even breaking a sweat—but the laughter, the teasing, the sense of belonging, made it worth it. For once, I felt like I wasn't just a stranger trying to force his way into a world that didn't need him. I felt like I was part of something.

I lie back on the bench, a smile tugging at my lips despite the pounding in my head. The night had been exactly what I needed. It wasn't just the drink, or the jokes, or the stories. It was the company. For the first time since I arrived, I wasn't carrying the weight of my past. I could just be… Melkorn, and that was enough.

The warmth in my chest slowly fades as my thoughts drift back to my departure from my old life. That goodbye still lingers, but it's not as sharp as it was yesterday. I take a deep breath, pushing the lingering sadness to the back of my mind.

A knock on the door breaks my moment of reflection. I groan, my head aching with even the softest sounds. The door creaks open, and I hear a voice call out. "Got a letter here for Melkorn! It's from the Jarl!"

My heart skips a beat. The Jarl's response.

I shove the covers off, ignoring the aches in my body. Magic training, real magic training, could be just around the corner. I can barely contain my excitement as I rush to the door, every step faster than the last.

I rush to the door, barely noticing the ache in my limbs as I nearly shove the person standing there out of the way. I take the letter from his hands, my fingers slightly trembling as I break the wax seal. My heart races in my chest, beating louder than it should, almost drowning out the noise in the hall around me. The seal comes apart easily, the smooth wax breaking under my touch.

I pull the parchment from the envelope and unfurl it, reading quickly, almost greedily, as if the words themselves will evaporate if I don't absorb them fast enough.

The letter is simple, direct, and to the point:

"Melkorn,
I have spoken with Farengar, and he is willing to take you on for magical instruction. Meet him at Dragonsreach as soon as possible to begin your tutelage.
Jarl Balgruuf the Greater."

A cold shiver runs through me as the words settle. This is it. My chance to learn magic properly. My breath catches, and for a moment, I can barely believe it. After everything—the grief, the loss, the uncertainty—it feels like a door opening, a way forward.

I stand there, the letter in my hands, a smile starting to creep up my face. Magic, real training. Farengar. This is what I've been waiting for. I fold the letter, feeling the weight of it in my hands. It's a simple thing, but it feels like the most important document in the world right now. Without a second thought, I tuck it into my belt and move quickly toward the door. There's no time to waste. Dragonsreach.

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-

The great hall of Dragonsreach felt just as impressive and stifling as it did the first time around. I stepped through the grand doors but my mind was on the task at hand: meeting Farengar, the court wizard.

I'd expected something grander, perhaps more ornate than in the game, but the study that awaited me was more functional than impressive. Bookshelves lined the walls, the air alive with a faint hum from the magical artifacts scattered around. Soul gems, tomes, and an enchanting table were all present.

Farengar stood by the table, his back straight and tense, but there was a reluctance to his demeanor that made it clear he wasn't thrilled about this meeting. Training me was clearly not something he relishes.

"Wasting my time, are we?" His voice was sharp, a bit dismissive as his eyes skimmed over me. "The Jarl convinced me to train you, but don't mistake that for interest. Let's see what you're made of."

His cold tone hit me immediately, but I kept my composure, stepping closer. I nodded silently, understanding that this was going to be a challenge. Farengar didn't waste time on pleasantries.

"Follow me. Let's get this over with." He gestured toward the adjacent room, and I complied, my boots echoing softly against the stone floors as we passed through an archway into a larger chamber. The room was arranged with more bookshelves, potion racks, and magical artifacts. Farengar took a seat at a wooden desk, brushing aside some papers, and motioned for me to stand at the far side. He didn't look at me directly for a moment, instead inspecting a soul gem on the table, clearly lost in thought, before turning his gaze back to me.

"Magic," Farengar began, his voice measured, "is not a toy for the bored or a weapon for the reckless. It is the breath of Nirn itself, the heartbeat of the heavens, and the whisper of Oblivion. To wield it is to grasp creation by the throat, to shape existence with your will. But do not mistake it for something that will bend easily. Control is what separates a mage from a fool who burns himself alive."

He stood, walked toward a nearby small table piled with books, and lifted a dusty tome. He waved it in the air for emphasis as he continued, "Magicka is the latent energy that flows through all living things, from Aetherius. It is connected to the Sun, the stars—the very fabric of the cosmos. Magicka is not inherently destructive," Farengar said, his voice deepening. "It is neutral, shaped by your intent." He raised his hand, and a spark of light danced in his palm—small and controlled, like a flame from a match.

"It's not enough to cast magic—" he said, his tone more pointed now, "you must first understand its flow. Magic is everywhere, in everything. But it is your will that gives it direction."

He closed the tome and dropped it back onto the table with a soft thud, then stared directly at me. "Are you prepared to understand it? Or will you fall like all the others who thought magic was just a force to be thrown about?"

The weight of his words settled heavily in the room. There was no room for error here—no space for weakness. This would be a serious undertaking.

Farengar leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as if searching for the right words. "If you're going to be anything more than a novice, you need to understand the Triad of Casting. This is the foundation of every spell you will ever cast, from the simplest Candlelight to the most devastating Firestorm."

"Intent," Farengar said, the word hanging in the air, "is the first pillar of any magic. If you don't have a clear vision of what you want to achieve, your magic will go astray. You must focus your thoughts, your desires, on what you want to create."

Farengar continued, his voice steady but with an intensity that made it clear he meant every word. "Next, we have Focus. Magic is not some mindless force that can be cast without discipline. If intent is the vision, then focus is the mental effort to make that vision manifest."

He stood tall, a commanding presence that seemed to fill the room. "Without focus, you will lose your connection to the Magicka you seek to manipulate. The energy will scatter, and you'll find yourself exhausted and without results."

Farengar flicked his wrist, and the spark of magic from before expanded, swirling around his hand in a controlled spiral. The light was steady, precise, and the focus he exuded was palpable. "A focused mind channels the flow of energy. The Magicka will bend to your will, but only if you focus completely on it. Any hesitation or doubt can cause your magic to falter."

He gave me a pointed look, as if gauging my reaction. "Control over the flow of Magicka is the key to efficiency. Too much energy used poorly, and you exhaust yourself before you achieve the desired result."

Then, with a small flick of his wrist, he let the spark fade out, the light dimming as it collapsed back into nothing. The air felt a little heavier in its absence.

"Execution," Farengar continued, his tone shifting slightly, "is the final pillar. Execution is how you channel intent and focus into something tangible. The movement of your hand, the words you speak, the gestures you make—all these help to direct the flow of energy. They must be precise and deliberate."

He gestured and the air shimmered and twisted, transforming into the unmistakable glow of a spectral weapon—an ethereal blade, bound by magic, hovering in the air just above his hand.

"This," Farengar said, his voice taking on an almost reverent tone, "is Conjuration. A simple dagger for now, but you will learn to summon weapons of far greater strength, even allies from beyond this plane. A sword of pure energy, a warrior from Oblivion. The art of Conjuration is the ability to create something from nothing, to forge a bond between your will and raw existence itself."

Farengar swung the spectral dagger through the air, its edge cutting through the space around him with eerie silence. Then, without a second thought, he dragged the blade across the back of his hand, leaving a red line that began to bloom with blood, staining his pale skin.

He held his arm out, the dagger now dissolving into nothingness, the wound left in its wake. "And this," he said, his voice low, "is Restoration." A soft, golden glow appeared around his hand as he hovered it over the cut. I watched in silence as the wound healed before my eyes, the skin knitting itself back together until there was no trace of the injury. The blood was the only memory of what happened, and the arm was whole once more.

"Restoration," Farengar continued, "is more than mere healing. It is the art of balance, of preservation. To heal, you must understand what is broken. To banish the undead, you must grasp the corruption that binds them. Restoration requires patience, knowledge, and respect for the forces you wield. It is not a school for the impatient or arrogant."

He turned away, wiping his hand on his robe before speaking again. "There are other schools, of course. Illusion, for instance—magic that does not harm the body but bends the mind. With it, you can turn foes against one another, become invisible, or protect your thoughts from prying eyes. Subtle, yes, but no less dangerous. The most deadly traps are often those you cannot see." He gave me a pointed look, as if challenging me to take the words to heart.

Then, with a shift in his stance, Farengar stepped back toward the hearth, extending his hand toward the flames. "Fire is Destruction magic—raw, untamed power. Watch closely." Suddenly, a jet of fire erupted from his palm, roaring to life like a dragon's breath. The heat blasted toward me, searing the air and pressing against my face.

"Destruction," he said, his voice now tinged with reverence, "can burn armies, can shatter stone, can freeze the very marrow of your enemies' bones. You must master it, or it will consume you, as it consumes all."

The fire swirled around his hand, dancing in mesmerizing patterns before it coiled into a sphere of blazing light. It hovered in the air for a moment before he snapped his fingers, causing the fire to wink out of existence, leaving the scent of smoke in the air.

"But fire alone," Farengar continued, "is often a blunt instrument. For more precise control, you will need the school of Alteration." He gestured toward a small wooden table in the corner of the room, and as he spoke, a faint, shimmering shield appeared before him—a translucent, shimmering barrier that hovered in front of his outstretched hand.

"This," he said, the word almost reverent, "is Lesser Ward. A basic form of defensive magic, but one that is critical for your survival." "Lesser Ward," he continued, "blocks incoming magic and it shields you from harm. But remember, it will only hold if you focus on it. A distracted mind will cause the ward to fail. You must hold your attention steady, for if the ward falters, so too will you."

Farengar lowered his hand and let the ward fade from existence. Then, with a slight flick of his wrist, he conjured a small light—faint, but steady—that hung suspended in the air before him. It floated just above his hand, casting a soft, ethereal glow in the room.

"This," he said with a faint smile, "is Candlelight. A utility spell, not flashy or powerful, but invaluable nonetheless. It illuminates your path without consuming resources like firewood or torches and even the weakest mage regenerates more than it takes to sustain. It provides light in the dark places, those places where even the bravest adventurers might fear to tread. It is simple, and yet, in its simplicity, it is vital. You will learn the value of such spells—the small ones that make your life easier."

He held the light steady in the air for a few moments, and I could feel the room brighten just a little under its soft glow. "With magic, it is not always the grand, destructive spells that matter the most. Sometimes, it is the subtle magic, the simple magic, that saves your life."

The light in his palm flickered slightly before it slowly faded, leaving the room dim once more.

"Finally," Farengar said, his tone growing a little more serious, "there is Clairvoyance. A spell that will guide you, when you have lost your way. It is a spell of direction, of purpose." He gestured toward the far side of the room and focused his attention. A glowing, ethereal path began to form, stretching out before him as though the air itself had become a road, leading toward a distant point.

"This spell creates a visual guide that will lead you to your goal. Whether it's a person, a place, or an object, this spell will point the way, even when your eyes cannot see the path. But it requires clarity. You must know exactly what you wish to find, or the spell will falter. Magic cannot guide a lost mind."

The glowing path drifted in the air for a moment before it faded, vanishing into the ether. Farengar turned back to me, his gaze sharp.

"These are the magics you will learn, Melkorn. Bound Dagger, Flames, Wards, Candlelight, and Clairvoyance. Each spell has its place. Each spell has its purpose. But none of them can be used without mastery over yourself. Control, focus, and intent. They are the three pillars of magic. If you cannot understand them, you will never truly command the power that lies before you."

Farengar's expression grew cold, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something darker in his eyes. "There are forbidden schools of magic that you must never touch. They are dangerous—both to the caster and the world around them."

He took a deep breath, his gaze hardening as he spoke, voice lowering. "Necromancy is one of these—raising the dead, twisting their souls to your will. It is unnatural and corrupts the very fabric of life and death. You may gain power, but you will lose everything that makes you human. Do not even consider it."

Farengar stepped closer, his tone becoming more intense. "Blood magic is another. Using life force to fuel your spells—whether your own or someone else's—is a dark road. It costs more than you think, and the price is often too high. One slip, and you'll find yourself enslaved to the magic itself. Understand this: if you attempt either of these, I will kill you myself."

He paused, letting his words sink in. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible smile, the tension in the room shifted. "But for now, let's focus on the basics." Farengar's expression lightened slightly. "Come, let us begin your training."

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
-MD
The sun had long since dipped behind the mountains, but the sky was still painted in shades of red and gold as I rode toward the gates of Whiterun. Morrigan, my newly purchased horse, trotted steadily beneath me, her dark coat a stark contrast to the fading light. The head of the bounty—the criminal I'd tracked and taken down over the last few days—hung loosely from my saddle. It was a small victory, but one that felt sweet nonetheless.

As I neared the gates, the familiar voices of the guards greeted me. Their eyes, already used to seeing me, followed the head as I passed.

"Back already, Melkorn?" one of them called out, his tone light but respectful.

I didn't respond immediately, enjoying the way their recognition made me feel. As I rode closer, I heard the second guard speak up, his voice teasing. "That one looks like he had a rough end."

I grinned, feeling the thrill of the chase still coursing through me. "Tried to bring this one in alive, but he was too stupid to live," I said, my voice tinged with satisfaction.

The guards chuckled at my words, exchanging silent glances as I passed through the gates. There was no longer any doubt in their eyes. I had earned my place here.

As the gates closed behind me, I couldn't help but let a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth as I thought about the past two months. .

.

.

The first time I sparred with Vilkas, it was a humbling experience. His greatsword felt like a force of nature—every swing was a wave crashing over me, knocking me off balance, pushing me back, making me feel small. Each time I tried to block his strikes, my sword would barely meet his before he blew through, forcing me to step back. I wasn't even given the chance to react before his blade was already on me, leaving me scrambling to get my feet back under me. It wasn't a lack of skill or effort—it was simply that Vilkas was faster, stronger, and more experienced. His movements were fluid, controlled, purposeful, while mine felt stiff and reactive in comparison. I wasn't new to the sword, but against him, I felt like a novice, struggling to keep up as he effortlessly knocked around.

Aela, on the other hand, was a hurricane. Fast didn't even do her justice—she was a blur of motion, always a step ahead, always anticipating my moves before I could even think of them. She rarely spoke, only grinning as I fumbled to make sense of her relentless assault. Her strikes were like lightning—quick, precise, and impossible to predict. The first time I sparred with her, I couldn't even block. Her blade would be around my defenses before I could react.

Over the next several weeks, I began to notice small improvements, though they came slowly. My parries were a little less delayed, my blocks a little more solid. My sword felt lighter than ever. I couldn't match Aela's speed, but I could keep up with her for a little longer, respond to her attacks without getting completely overwhelmed. Vilkas' swings, while still powerful, didn't blow through my guard quite so easily. I wasn't quite able to counter him, but I was starting to anticipate him. The first time I actually blocked one of his strikes without my arms shaking afterward was a moment of quiet pride. It wasn't much, but it felt like a huge leap. Every sparring session, I felt myself getting a little quicker, my movements better.

It wasn't until a few weeks later, during a particularly gruelling sparring session with Vilkas, that I finally got my first clean hit in. He swung, I backstepped, and for a split second, the opening I'd been waiting for appeared—his sword shifted just enough, and my blade found its mark. It wasn't a powerful blow, but it would have crippled his hand. The moment was so quick, so fleeting, that I almost thought I was mistaken. But when I saw the surprised look in Vilkas' eyes, I realized it wasn't. I had actually done it. I had landed a blow. Not just any blow, but one that got past his guard, one that made him step back.

I was learning, improving with every match. Vilkas was still the superior fighter, but now, I knew I could push him, at least keep up for a while before he inevitably got the better of me. And that was enough for now.

With Aela, each sparring session was a little different. I could block a few more of her blows, anticipate her movements a little better, and for a few precious moments, I could keep pace. She still had the edge, but now, when I saw her grin at me I saw the anticipation of a future challenge in her eyes.

Of course if either of them shifted they'd likely rip me to shreds for now, I thought bitterly.

.

.

.



The first time I cast a Lesser Ward successfully without thinking came during a bounty. I was facing off against a small group of bandits in the mountains, and one of them had turned out to be a mage that caught me off guard. I had instinctively raised my hand, summoning the shield. It held long enough to take the brunt of the flames, but just barely. I had only the faintest sense of the power flowing through me, struggling to hold it steady, but it worked—I was able to close the distance.

The real breakthrough came when I started using magic alongside my swordplay. Farengar had told me it would take time to combine the two into something useful. At first, it felt like I was splitting my focus—fighting with the sword while trying to control the magic at the same time. I practiced this combination on my bounties: striking with my sword first, then backing it up with a quick burst of Flames or a Bound Dagger in my other hand. It wasn't flashy—but it felt like I was getting closer to making the magic an instinct. Farengar's lessons were still valuable, but now they focused more on fine-tuning my skills. "The basics are solid," he'd say, "but to really master this, you need control, Melkorn." We worked on smaller utility spells like Candlelight and Healing, which Farengar always emphasized as essential for any mage. Magic wasn't just about blasting everything in sight—it was about precision, efficiency, and balance.

"Remember," he told me one day after a tough lesson, "casting too much magic at once will drain you. You need to pace yourself. Your body and mind can only handle so much."

Looking back, I couldn't believe how far I'd come since my first clumsy attempts with Lesser Ward and Flames. These spells weren't just party tricks anymore—they were reliable tools I could use in a fight. The Bound Dagger had become almost second nature to me, and I was beginning to feel confident that, with enough practice, I could make magic part of every move I made in battle.

Farengar's teaching was important, but the real growth came when I was out in the field—on bounties, in fights, putting my abilities to the test. That's where I really felt myself improve, where I could see the difference in my ability to fight and survive.

.

.

.

I dismounted Morrigan, the soft thud of my boots hitting the ground breaking me from my thoughts as I landed. The head of the bounty swung gently against the side of my horse, and I reached out to untie it, my fingers a little quicker now, more used to the task than when I first started out. I grabbed the grim trophy and set it down onto the stone steps, the weight of it not unpleasant, but a reminder of what I'd just accomplished.

For a moment, I stood there, looking down at the head. Those first few days—weeks—had been uncertain, filled with frustration, confusion— why was Mirmulnir taking so long, and why had I not been sent to Bleak Falls Barrow?

Taking a deep breath, I shook off the thoughts of the past and turned to head inside. I could hear the familiar voices ahead. It was a busy day as usual. Bounty hunters, guards, and various other figures were gathered in the common room, talking about the usual assortment of jobs, threats, and rumors. Whiterun's guardhouse was a place that hummed with activity, and I'd become accustomed to its noise.

I entered through the door, the wood creaking as it swung open. A few heads turned to see who had walked in, and I felt their gazes as they looked over at me and the trophy I carried. The officer behind the counter looked up, nodding at the sight of me.

"Melkorn, back already?" The officer grinned. He recognized me by now, as did most of the guards. I nodded, walking up to the counter where the officer was standing, and dropped the head onto the table with a dull thud.

I looked up at the officer who stood behind the desk. He glanced at the bounty, then back at me, his expression familiar.

"Another one dead?" he asked with a small smile, already reaching for his ledger. His tone was casual, though there was an underlying exasperation in his voice.

I nodded, a half-smile pulling at my lips. "Tried to bring him in alive, but he was too stupid to live," I repeated, the satisfaction of the fight still buzzing in my chest.

The officer gave a short chuckle and jotted something down, then pulled a pouch of coins from the drawer beneath the counter. He slid it toward me. "Nice work. Got another job for you if you want it; Proventus wanted to give you first right—said he owed you for delivering the sword. Some bandits took over old fort Greymoor."

I accepted the pouch, feeling the familiar weight of the gold inside. A nice 60 septims.

Before I could respond, I overheard something that made me turn. Two guards were talking across the room, their voices low, but I could catch bits of their conversation.

"I've been hearing a lot more about dragon sightings lately," one of them said, the tension in his voice noticeable. "It's got people nervous…?"

The second guard, a bit younger, scoffed. "Could be nothing. But with the way people are acting, something's coming. You can feel it, right?"

The mention of dragons sent my heart racing— I hadn't faced any yet, this isn't a game where quests happened back to back with no time in between. Hearing them spoken about like this though— i had heard the rumors picking up already, showed me the time was likely nearing.

I forced the thoughts to the back of my mind. Not now. Not yet. But still, the anticipation was there, gnawing at the edge of my focus. The way the guards spoke, the way the rumors were spreading—it reminded me of what was to come.

I turned away from the guards' conversation, pushing the thoughts aside. I had work to do. Fort Greymoor awaited, and I would need every ounce of my focus for that job. The bandits had taken over, and I well remembered what the fort had been like in game—I anticipated it being much more difficult here.

"I'll take the job," I said, my voice steady. "Fort Greymoor, you said?"

 

[MandTeKad]

The ridge stretches wide before me, a jagged outcrop of stone overlooking the ruined fort. I crouch low behind a slab of rock, the cold seeping through my armor as I settle into place. The wind is faint, carrying with it the distant sounds of laughter, clanging metal, and the occasional bark of orders. The bandits are noisy, careless—good. That works in my favor.

I pull the small telescope from my pouch, a recent purchase but already worth its weight in gold. Adjusting the focus, I bring the fort into view. It's larger than I expected. The crumbling stone walls sag in places, patched up with uneven log palisades. Torches flicker along the ramparts, and shadows dance across the courtyard.

I shift the telescope slightly, scanning for details. The gate stands tall and heavy—iron bars set deep into the stone archway. Crude barricades are piled haphazardly outside, forming a makeshift defense. Two guards man the walls near the entrance, one leaning lazily on a spear, the other pacing back and forth with a torch in hand. Neither looks particularly alert.

The cold night air bites at my face as I adjust my position, careful to stay hidden behind the rock. The fort's broken corner catches my eye—a tower partially collapsed, the rubble sloping up against the wall. It's steep, dangerous, but… climbable. My lips curl into a faint smile. That'll do.

I take a moment to lower the telescope and scan the area with my eyes alone. At this distance, I'm well out of sight, but can never be too careful. I stay crouched, moving only enough to ease the growing ache in my legs. The Moon hangs high overhead, its pale light casting long shadows across the landscape.

I raise the telescope again, focusing on the fort's outer defenses. The walls are in worse shape than I expected. Stones sag in uneven lines, some sections so worn they've crumbled entirely. Where the stone fails, the bandits have propped up palisades—rough logs lashed together with rope and braced with wooden beams. It's crude but functional enough to deter a casual assault by the city's guard.

The towers are another story. Two of them stand mostly intact, their tops lit by flickering torches. I catch movement—a shadow pacing in one of them. A guard, likely bored, judging by how slowly they move. The other tower is still, its fire casting light on a scattering of discarded barrels and crates. They've turned this into more of a lookout post than a defensive position. Good.

I shift the lens, tracing the wall as it curves toward the broken corner. That tower, or what's left of it, leans awkwardly against a pile of rubble. The gate draws my attention next. It's iron, heavy, and probably reinforced on the inside. Two guards stand nearby, their post illuminated by a pair of mounted torches. One leans against the gate itself, yawning so wide I can see it even from here. The other fiddles with a dagger, flipping it in their hand and catching it lazily. They're not expecting trouble. Perfect.

Near the gate, I spot a pile of weapons—axes, spears, even a rusty greatsword lying against the stone wall. It's more than they'd need for basic guard duty, which means reinforcements are somewhere close. I'll need to factor that in.

I pull back from the telescope and let out a slow breath. Every detail matters. Every mistake could mean my head on a pike. But the broken tower, the lazy guards, the ramshackle walls—it's all starting to fall into place.

The courtyard comes into focus as I adjust the telescope again. Bandits are scattered across it, moving with the sluggish ease of people who think they're safe. A central fire burns low, its flickering light revealing a cluster of figures huddled around it. Some drink, others roll dice on a crate. Their laughter carries faintly on the wind, loud enough to reach even this far.

I shift my focus again, following a second group near the forge. They're better armed—bows slung over their shoulders, daggers at their hips—but they're no more disciplined. One of them leans against the forge, a bottle of mead dangling loosely from his hand. Another tosses a piece of bread to a mangy dog circling their feet. It snaps at the air, catching the bread before slinking away toward the stables.

I take note of the stables themselves. Two of them, barely standing, their roofs sagging under the weight of time. A broken wagon sits nearby, its wheel half-buried in the dirt. Blood stains the ground here, dark and sticky even in the dim light. A recent kill, or maybe a warning to anyone foolish enough to get too close.

The cage catches my eye next. It swings gently in the wind, hanging from a wooden beam near the gate. Inside is the corpse of a bandit, his body twisted awkwardly in death. I can't see his face, but the sight is enough to tell me he didn't go easily. His own people left him there, a warning to their own for something he did.

I lower the telescope, my mind racing. Fifty, maybe sixty of them, spread between the walls and the courtyard. More likely inside the keep. I'll have to strike fast and hard, give them no time to organize. Still, the numbers alone are daunting.

Then the leader steps out into the courtyard, and my hand tightens around the telescope. Even from this distance, he's unmistakable—an orc, and a massive one at that. He towers over the other bandits, standing easily six and a half feet tall. His armor gleams faintly under the torchlight, a mix of heavy plate and mail. The left pauldron catches my attention immediately—a jagged piece of metal shaped into a snarling beast's skull.

He carries a large halberd, the blade wide and viciously curved, the kind meant to cleave through bone and steel alike. The shaft is long, reinforced with iron bands, and he holds it over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. His other hand rests on the hilt of a secondary weapon, a large dagger strapped to his hip. More short-sword than dagger if I'm to be honest.

I adjust the telescope slightly, focusing on his face. His tusks curve upward, gleaming faintly in the firelight, and his expression is set in a permanent grimace. Whether it's from old pain or simple contempt, I can't tell, but the effect is unsettling. His eyes scan the courtyard, sharp and calculating, and the bandits around him straighten as he approaches. They know exactly who's in charge.

The orc speaks briefly to one of his men, gesturing toward the stables with his axe. The words are too faint to catch, but his tone is rough and authoritative. The bandit nods quickly and rushes off, leaving the leader standing in the firelight. I study him carefully, noting the way he moves—deliberate, controlled. He's much better trained than the ragtag forces he commands. I smile. I think I'll call him Lurtz.

I lower the telescope, exhaling slowly the faint humor leaving me. This one will be difficult, more than difficult. I glance back at the broken tower, my planned entry point, then at the gleaming axe still resting on the orc's shoulder.

"No way in hell I'm doing this alone," I mutter to myself. The plan shifts in my mind. I'll need help for this one—and I know exactly where to find it.

The ridge falls away behind me as I descend, my boots crunching softly on the loose gravel of the hillside. The night air is cold and crisp, biting at the edges of my armor, but I barely notice. My mind is already racing, piecing together the fragments of a plan.

The fort is a challenge, no doubt about it. Fifty, maybe sixty bandits, with an orc leader who looks like he could tear someone in half with one hand. I feel the anticipation stirring in my breast. The fight will be hard, but hard fights are the ones worth remembering. Still, I'm not an idiot. Going in alone would likely spell my death.

The road to Whiterun stretches ahead, faintly illuminated by the moonlight. The gentle curve of the horizon is broken only by the silhouettes of trees and distant farmhouses. I glance back once, toward the shadow of the fort behind me. It's quiet now, the sounds of bandit laughter and clanging metal too far to carry. I tighten my grip on the straps of my pack and press forward.

The plan begins to take shape in my head. I'll need overwatch; someone to cover me while I deal with the chaos on the ground. A sniper, or an archer—someone who can take advantage of that ridge. Aela comes to mind first. If anyone would take this on for the thrill of it, it's her. A small grin tugs at the corner of my mouth as I think about asking her. She did say she wanted to see me with steel in hand.

The faint lights of Whiterun appear in the distance, growing brighter as I draw closer. The massive wooden gates come into view, flanked by torchlight. The guards pay me little attention as I pass. I am a familiar figure at this point.

The familiar sounds of Jorrvaskr greet me as I push open the heavy wooden doors. Voices echo from the main hall—deep laughter, the scrape of metal on whetstones, the clink of tankards. The Companions' hall always feels alive, a constant hum of energy that never seems to fade, no matter the hour. Tonight is no different.

I spot Aela near the central fire, her hands busy tying the straps of a leather bracer. She looks up briefly, her sharp eyes locking onto mine before flicking back to her work. She's preparing for something—another hunt, perhaps. I step closer, stopping just shy of the fire's warmth.

"Aela," I say, inclining my head slightly.

She doesn't stop adjusting the bracer but spares me a glance. "Melkorn. You're back late, preparing for something?"

"Fort Greymoor," I say simply. "I plan to retake it."

That gets her attention. She straightens, her gaze sharpening. "The bandits?"

I nod. "Fifty or sixty of them, by my count. Their leader's an orc—big one, full plate, carries an axe that could cleave a horse in half. I can't take it alone. I was hoping you might join me."

Aela's expression hardens, though there's no lack of understanding in her eyes. She shakes her head once, a regretful but firm motion. "I've already promised my bow to another task. Kodlak's asked me to do something for him."

I can't help the flicker of disappointment, but I shrug it off quickly. "Fair enough. The old man always keeps the circle busy."

Her lips curve into a faint smile. "You'll have to manage this hunt alone. But I'll want to hear the tale when you return."

I meet her gaze, and the tension between us lingers—unspoken. I let the grin come naturally. "We've yet to hunt together, Aela. We'll have to change that soon."

Her smile deepens, but it's brief. Her voice softens just enough to betray a flicker of amusement. "We shall. But for now, you've a fort to take and I have a mission to prepare for."

I nod once, stepping back. "Then I'll see you when I return."

As I leave Jorrvaskr, the air feels heavier. I wanted someone I knew and trusted for backup on this. But she'll hear the tale, and it'll be one worth telling.

The Drunken Huntsman is quieter than Jorrvaskr, its atmosphere more subdued, but no less sharp. The smell of firewood and mead fills the air, mingling with faint traces of oil and leather. It's late, and most of the regulars have retired, leaving a few scattered patrons nursing their drinks.

I spot Jenassa immediately. She's in her usual corner, a shadow amidst the firelight, her movements deliberate as she sharpens her blade. Her black armor gleams faintly, polished and well-maintained. Her red eyes glance up as I approach the fire causing her yellow tattoos to cast her face into a harsh but beautiful image, the faintest flicker of recognition crossing her face before she returns to her work.

"Jenassa," I say, stepping into the edge of her shadow.

She sets the blade down, resting her hands lightly on the table. "Melkorn, isn't it? What brings a fellow Dunmer to my table at this hour?"

"Work," I reply, pulling up a chair without waiting for an invitation. "Fort Greymoor."

Her brow arches slightly, but her expression remains calm. "A bandit stronghold. You're either ambitious or desperate."

"Ambitious," I admit, leaning forward. "But I've scouted it. About sixty bandits, maybe more. I've got a plan to take it, but I need an archer—someone good, who can stay out of the chaos and pick them off from a distance."

Jenassa tilts her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. "You want me to stand safely out of reach and shoot bandits? Sounds like easy gold."

I hesitate, old instincts and biases tugging at the edges of my mind. Should women be in battle? With Aela I knew I didn't need to worry but Janessa I knew only from the game. But I shrug it off, she's not in the thick of it. She's on the ridge—out of melee, out of danger.

"Exactly," I say, my voice firm. "You'll be on the ridge west of the fort. I'll signal when the attack starts. Your job is to thin their numbers and cover me when things get messy."

She studies me for a moment, her crimson eyes sharp, weighing my words. Finally, she nods. "Easy gold indeed. I'm in."

We spend the next few minutes finalizing the plan—timing, signals, fallback points. Jenassa is quick, efficient, and her no-nonsense attitude reminds me why I sought her out. By the time we finish, I'm confident I made the right choice.

As I stand to leave, she picks up her blade again, her smirk returning. "Try not to die in the fort, Melkorn. I'd hate to waste my time."

I grin, tipping my head slightly. "I'll do my best."

Stepping out into the cold night air, the plan feels solid. The pieces are falling into place. Tomorrow, Fort Greymoor will be mine.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The air feels heavier as I crouch low, the broken tower looming ahead like a shadow against the night sky. Each step forward is deliberate, my boots brushing quietly against the dry grass and the faint rustle of the wind carries enough noise to mask my presence.

I glance toward the ridge to the west, where Jenassa is stationed. I can't see her, but I know she's there, bow at the ready. The thought steadies me. For a moment, my hand brushes the scroll at my belt. It cost a pretty penny but this spell was beyond me for now.

The broken tower rises closer, its jagged outline framed by faint torchlight spilling from the fort. The rubble slope is steep, scattered with loose stones and cracked masonry. Climbing it won't be easy, not with the weight of my armor, but it's the only way. The gates are too heavily fortified, and I've no patience for their crude barricades. This path is dangerous, yes, but it's the best option.

I strap the chainmail veil over my face, the links rattling faintly as I secure it. Rising from my crouch, I sprint forward, closing the distance in a few long strides. The tower looms above me as I reach the slope. I plant a hand on the first large stone, testing its weight before pulling myself up.

The climb is fast, I want to be up there before they can react. The rubble shifts under my boots, sending small rocks tumbling down, but the noise is swallowed by the night. My gauntleted fingers grip tightly to jagged edges, and I feel the strain in my shoulders as I haul myself higher. My breath comes steady, measured. No room for mistakes here.

Halfway up, a stone shifts dangerously beneath my foot, and I speed up. The sound echoes faintly, a single clatter breaking the stillness. I press forward, the top of the wall drawing closer with each pull.

Finally, I reach the top, swinging myself over the edge with a grunt. The wall beneath me is narrow, barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast. I crouch low, scanning the area. A bandit stands a few paces away, leaning lazily on their spear. He haven't seen me yet.

I draw my sword in a single, smooth motion, the sound of steel whispering through the night. The bandit turns, his eyes widening as they open their mouth to shout, but he's too slow. I lunge forward, my blade cutting cleanly across their throat. Blood spills over the stone, and they collapse gurgling faintly.

I exhale slowly, wiping the blade against their tunic before rising.

The silence of the fort is broken by a whistle of wind. I glance down at the scroll hanging from my belt, its edge frayed from wear, and pull it from my belt.

The dead bandit at my feet still bleeds, the pool dark against the torchlight flickering far below in the courtyard. I kneel briefly, the scroll's material smooth under my gauntlets. Rising, I glance once toward the ridge. I still can't see Jenassa, but I don't need to. She'll see me soon enough.

Unrolling the scroll, I let out a slow, steadying breath. My fingers hover above the runes etched into its surface, each line radiating faint power. "Time to wake the fuckers," I mutter under my breath.

The moment I channel Magicka into the scroll, it reacts violently. Light flares from the parchment, almost blinding in its intensity. The air hums with energy, a deep, resonant sound that seems to vibrate through my bones. I close my eyes, focusing on the spell's flow, and when I open them again, it's as if dawn has broken.

A massive orb of light bursts into existence high above the fort, suspended like a second sun. Shadows vanish in an instant, replaced by harsh, unyielding illumination. The walls, the courtyard, even the furthest edges of the broken gate—all of it is laid bare. The startled shouts begin almost immediately.

"What the—?"

"Light! Where's that light coming from?"

The bandits scramble, shields raised against the brilliance as if it'll burn through their defenses. A whistle splits the air, sharp and sudden, followed by a wet gurgle. A bandit near the forge crumples, an arrow buried deep in his chest. Another collapses moments later, clutching at his throat as Jenassa begins her work. I can't help but grin.

I grip my sword tighter, the familiar weight of the blade grounding me as I move. The bandits are scrambling now, but their disarray won't last. Some are already shouting orders, their voices rough and panicked.

"To the walls! Get to the walls!"

Another arrow whistles past, embedding itself in the shoulder of a bandit trying to climb a ladder. He falls with a scream, tumbling into a pile of crates below with a crash of broken wood. More bandits are rushing toward me now, but I stay calm. Their chaos is to my advantage.

I take a step forward, more than ready to spill blood. The first bandit to reach me swings wildly, their axe aimed at my head. I sidestep easily, my blade cutting through the air and into their side. The force of the strike sends them sprawling, blood spraying across the wall.

Another whistle, another body. Jenassa's arrows are relentless, each one finding its mark with precision. I glance briefly toward the ridge again, a silent acknowledgment of her skill, before turning my focus back to the fight. The fort is awake now, the orb of light hovers high above, its harsh glow painting the entire fort monochrome. Shouts echo from below, frantic and confused, but the fight is already coming to me. Bandits on the wall move toward my position, their shields raised against the arrows they know are coming. Jenassa's whistle-sharp shots are already in the air, and the first bandit to ascend the ladder crumples, her arrow buried deep in his shoulder. The others keep coming.

Good. Let them.

The next bandit rounds the corner of the wall, a spear leveled at me. He charges, the tip aimed straight for my chest. The mistake is obvious, almost laughable. He's slow. The way he moves telegraphs every intention. As he thrusts, I step in explosively, my boots scraping stone as I move past the spear's reach before he can adjust. My dagger materializes in a shimmer of energy, the Bound Dagger flashing upward as I twist past him. It finds his throat before he has time to register what's happened. His weapon clatters to the stone, and he collapses, gurgling.

I don't stop. A mace whistles through the air, aimed for my shoulder. I twist my body, letting the heavy weapon glance off the curved plate of my pauldron. The impact jars my shoulder, but it's not enough to slow me. The bandit grunts, trying to pull back for another swing, but he's already too late. My sword arcs through the air with a vicious, brutal momentum, catching him across the head. The blow splits his skull, blood spraying as his body crumples like wet cloth.

Another whistle from the ridge. A bandit farther down the wall, trying to nock an arrow, collapses with a shaft buried in his neck. Jenassa is relentless, every shot perfectly placed. I don't need to see her to know she's smiling up there.

The remaining bandits hesitate, their advance faltering. I can see it in their faces—the brief moment where instinct screams at them to flee. I press forward, not giving them time to think. The narrow wall works to my advantage, forcing them to come at me one at a time. I sidestep a sword swing, the iron weapon smashing into the stone wall. My blade finds the attacker's ribs, driving deep before I rip it free.

An arrow glances off my breastplate, the impact barely noticeable. I look toward the archer at the far end of the wall. They're already drawing another arrow, but Jenassa's shot finds them first. He crumples without a sound, their bow clattering to the ground.

The fight moves quickly, the remaining bandits along the wall falling in a flurry of steel and blood. My movements feel almost automatic now, and I can't stop the smile spreading across my face. When the last bandit falls, I take a moment to breathe, glancing over the edge of the wall. The courtyard below is alive with activity—more bandits shouting and regrouping, their leaders barking orders.

And then, in the shadows near the base of the keep, I see it. A faint glow, fire building between a pair of hands. Shit. A mage.

My fingers tighten on the hilt of my sword as I step onto the edge of the wall. The ground is far below, uneven, littered with crates and rubble, but there's no time to reconsider.

The mage raises his hands.

I leap.

The rush of air tears at me, the ground rushing up as the mage's spell ignites. A roaring column of fire surges upward to meet me, orange and white against the stark glow of the light radiating above us. My off-hand snaps up instinctively, Magicka surging as I summon a Lesser Ward. The translucent shield flares into existence just as the flames strike.

The impact is blinding. Heat washes over me, almost unbearable even through the ward. My vision blurs, and for a moment, all I can see is fire. The force of the spell throws me off balance, but I grit my teeth and ride it out. The ground comes faster than I expect. I tuck into a roll as I land, absorbing the impact before rising to my feet.

The mage doesn't stop. The flames keep coming, roaring against my ward as I advance. Each step is a fight—my Magicka drains rapidly, the ward weakening with every second. By the time I'm within striking distance, it's flickering, cracks of raw heat seeping through.

"Enough," I growl through clenched teeth. My sword flashes as I surge forward, the last of the ward collapsing around me. The fire sears my armor, pain lancing across my skin, but it's too late for him. My blade bites deep into his neck, severing flesh and bone. The fire dies with him, his body crumpling to the dirt as blood sprays from his neck.

I pause, breathing hard, the heat still clinging to me. My armor is scorched, smoke rising faintly from the edges, but I'm alive. I glance around the courtyard. The bandits are stunned, one of their leaders struck down in an instant. The hesitation is all the opening I need.

Lightning arcs from my hand, crackling across the nearest group of bandits. They scream, their bodies jerking as the electricity courses through them. I don't wait for them to recover. My sword moves in a glimmering arc as I close the distance, cutting down the nearest man before he can raise his shield.

Jenassa's arrows rain down from above, striking bandits trying to regroup. One clutches his leg, an arrowhead buried deep in his thigh, while another collapses entirely, the shaft piercing his back. She's as relentless as I am, her arrows keeping the fight manageable.

Another bandit charges, a sword raised high. I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him past me, and turn driving my blade into his back. He stumbles, falling heavily, and I turn to the next. The fight is a blur of motion now—flashes of steel, blood, and firelight as the bandits fall one by one.

By the time the courtyard falls silent, I'm coated in blood—some of it mine, most of it not. My breaths come heavy, each one burning in my lungs. I lean my sword on my shoulder taking a moment to breathe as I survey the aftermath. Bodies litter the ground, blood staining the walls and spreading into the stone—black beneath the searing light the spell casts. The keep looms ahead, its doors still sealed.

But there's no time to rest. Not yet.

The keep doors crash open, and the courtyard reverberates with the sound. He steps out, and even after everything I've fought through in the past two months, the sight of him is… impressive. The orc is massive, easily towering over even my six foot frame, his full plate catching the light from my spell above. His axe gleams wickedly, its blade wide and vicious, clearly designed to cleave through armor and bone alike. He hefts it with ease, resting the shaft over one shoulder as if it weighs nothing.

His eyes lock onto me, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of us. He doesn't speak—doesn't need to. The challenge is written in the way he moves, each step deliberate, the axe coming down to grip in both hands as he closes the distance.

I grin, the thrill of it surging through me like fire in my veins. My grip tightens on my sword, and I raise my dagger hand, summoning the Bound Dagger with a shimmer of energy. "Let's see what you've got, Lurtz," I mutter under my breath.

The orc doesn't wait. He swings first, a powerful diagonal arc that cuts through the air. I sidestep, the blade whistling past, close enough that I feel the wind of its passage. He's strong, but not as strong as Vilkas.

I dart in, dodging the swing of his haft as he attempts to keep me back, my sword flashing out toward his side, but the strike glances off his plate with a screech of metal. He twists, his axe coming around again in a horizontal sweep. There's no room to dodge this one. I raise my sword and catch the blow, angling the blade to deflect it over me. The impact reverberates through my arm, nearly wrenches it from my grip, but I hold firm.

The orc presses his advantage, his strikes relentless. I backpedal, angling my armor to let his axe glance off when I can't avoid the blows. Each swing is well placed, fast, strong, he was obviously trained well. I circle him, keeping my movements quick and probing, searching for an opening.

He swings again, the axe coming down in an overhead chop. I sidestep and dart forward, my dagger rising to meet the shaft. The enchanted blade bites into the wood, redirecting the strike just enough to send the axe wide. My sword follows, aiming for the gap at his shoulder, but the plate turns it aside once more. His armor is well made enough that I doubt my sword will get through the gaps unless we get into a grapple—where I would be at a huge disadvantage.

The orc snarls, his teeth bared as he adjusts his grip, choking up on the axe to bring the haft into play.

Fast.

It slams into my upraised forearm with brutal force, and pain explodes like lightning up my arm. My sword almost falls from my hand, the grip suddenly weak, but I grit my teeth and use the moment to step further in.

He tries to make some distance so that he'd have enough space for another swing, but I'm already moving. My Bound Dagger rises, the point angled toward his chest, and I drive it forward with everything I have. The blade punches through his plate with a deafening screech of metal, spectral energy sharp enough to punch through, sinking deep into his chest.

He freezes, his eyes wide as they meet mine. Blood wells at the corners of his mouth, and for a moment, we're locked there. My breathing is ragged, the pain in my arm burning madly, but I manage a grin.

"Good fight," I say, my voice low but steady.

I twist the dagger slightly as I step back, letting it fade into nothing as his body collapses. The axe falls from his hands, hitting the dirt with a thud. The orc follows, his massive frame crumpling as life leaves him.

I stand there for a moment, catching my breath, the exhilaration still coursing through me. My arm aches, my chest rises and falls in sharp bursts, but I'm alive. And he's not.

The courtyard is silent now, save for the distant crackle of flames from an overturned brazier. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my chest heaving as I lower my sword. The blade is slick with blood, it's beautiful in a morbid sort of way. Slowly, I reach up and undo the chainmail veil over my lower face, letting it fall loose.

Cool air washes over my face, and I close my eyes for a brief moment, savoring the relief. The night is still, the once-overwhelming noise of the battle reduced to nothing more than echoes in the back of my mind.

I find a piece of fallen wall, sturdy enough to hold my weight, and lower myself onto it with a sigh. My left arm throbs from the orc's pommel strike, and my skin still burns faintly where his mage had sent fire my way. The burns are minor, but pain is pain.

Digging into my pack, I pull out a health potion, the vial faintly glowing in the dim light. I uncork it with my teeth, the motion automatic after the past two months, and down the liquid in one gulp. Its effects are immediate. The burns cool, the aching fire in my arm dulls as the sharp pang of what I'm sure was a fractured bone eases.

I exhale slowly, a low sound of relief escaping my lips. For a moment, I simply sit there, letting the potion do its work. The orb of light still hovers above the fort but its brilliance has begun to fade, its job nearly done.

Reaching for a bandit's cloak, I begin cleaning my sword. Blood and grime streak away, revealing the steel beneath. By the time I'm finished, the blade gleams brightly again.

I stand, rolling my shoulders and testing the motion in my arm. It's stiff, but it'll hold. Turning toward the keep, I let a grin tug at the corners of my mouth. "Let's see what's inside."

My boots crunch against the blood-soaked dirt as I stride toward the doors, pushing them open with a firm shove.

The air inside the keep is damp and stale, the faint smell of mildew mingling with the metallic tang of blood that clings to my armor. The corridor ahead is dimly lit, only the occasional torch mounted to the walls providing any light. My hand tightens on my sword as I move forward, the sound of my boots muted on the worn stone floor.

Faint movement catches my eye ahead, and I pause, raising my blade slightly. A figure steps out of the shadows, and for a moment, my body tenses, ready for another fight. But the figure isn't a bandit.

It's an old woman. Agnis. My mind supplies.

She squints at me, her thin, hunched frame barely filling the doorway she's stepped through. Her hair is white and frizzy, pulled back into a loose bun, and she wears simple clothes—nothing that screams "enemy" or "ally." She holds no weapon, just a steel dagger tucked into her belt. Her expression is one of mild annoyance, as if I've interrupted her during chores.

"You kill 'em all?" she asks, her tone casual, almost bored.

For a moment, I don't know how to respond. After everything tonight, this… this is what waits for me in the keep? I lower my blade slightly, blinking at her. "Yes," I reply, my voice as straight as I can manage.

"Good," she says with a curt nod. "I can get back to cleaning this filthy place." Without another word, she turns and shuffles off, disappearing into one of the side rooms.

I stand there for a moment, staring after her. The surreal nature of it all leaves me momentarily frozen. Shaking my head, I mutter, "Insane old woman." My sword lowers completely now, and I continue forward, deeper into the keep, shaking my head at the old woman's casual dismissal of the bloodbath outside. She's surreal, I had honestly forgotten she was here, but I can't dwell on it now. The air grows heavier as I pass through the dim corridors, the faint flicker of torchlight casting jagged shadows along the walls.

The silence is unnerving, broken only by the soft scrape of my boots and the occasional drip of water from somewhere unseen. Every step takes me closer to the heart of the keep, and I tighten my grip on my sword, ready for anything—surely there were some bandits left.

The smell hits me before I reach the room. Rot and blood, thick and cloying, an acrid stench that clings to the back of my throat. I round the corner, stepping into a side chamber, and my eyes narrow at the sight before me.

The creature sprawled across the table is massive, its bulk dwarfing the crude wooden structure beneath it. A troll—easily dwarfing the silverback I taunted on that field trip, though its proportions are grotesque. Muscles ripple beneath its matted fur, coiled like the roots of a tree. Its claws are jagged and cruel, each one as long as a dagger, and its face… its face is a nightmare of twisted features. A wide, gaping mouth filled with sharp teeth, a broad, flattened nose, and small, malicious eyes that stare blankly at the ceiling.

I step closer, my sword still raised, though the thing is clearly dead. Wounds crisscross its chest. The fur around the wounds clotted with dried blood, and the smell of decay is nearly overwhelming.

I tilt my head, studying it. "No idea how it died," I mutter, "maybe Lurtz out there."

The troll's hands are clenched into tight fists, its claws dug into the table as if it had fought to the bitter end. I let my eyes wander across the rest of the room, looking for any sign of what killed it. There's nothing—no weapons, no bodies, not even a trail of blood leading out. Whatever happened here, it wasn't recent, and it wasn't clean.

My gaze returns to the troll, and for a moment, a flicker of excitement sparks in my chest. The thought of facing something like this—alive, snarling, fighting—is exhilarating and terrifying. My grip tightens on my sword, and I can't help the grin that spreads across my face.

"One day," I mutter, turning away from the table.

Sheathing my sword, I turn toward the doorway. The keep still holds treasure. My boots echo softly on the stone as I step out into the corridor.

The moment I exit the troll's chamber, movement catches my eye. Two figures burst from a side room down the hall, their weapons drawn, eyes wild with desperation. Cowards. They've been hiding here while their comrades bled and died outside.

I sigh, almost disappointed. "You should've fought with the rest," I say, my tone calm, conversational even. "You would've had cleaner deaths."

I don't bother reaching for my sword. Instead, I raise my hand, Magicka surging as Flames roars to life in my palm. The fire leaps forward, engulfing them in a torrent of heat and light. Their screams fill the corridor, raw and broken, as the smell of roasting flesh mingles with the stench of the troll room. And I feel a tightness in my chest that stems from drawing on a bit too much Magicka today– I would be unable to use spells for a while without risking damage to myself.

It is a weak spell though, not enough for a quick death. They stagger, clawing at their burning clothes, their weapons falling uselessly to the ground. One collapses first, his body crumpling into a charred heap. The other stumbles, gurgling weakly.

I step past the cowards without a second glance, the heat from their bodies still radiating in the confined space. "Should've fought," I mutter, the words lost in the quiet crackle of dying flames.

The thick wooden door to the leader's quarters groans under my weight as I push it open, the hinges protesting with a shrill creak. Inside, the room is a stark contrast to the rest of the keep. Where the halls are barren and crumbling, this space is richly adorned with the spoils gained from a life of banditry. It's clear this is where Lurtz the second intended to be his final base.

The first thing that catches my eye is the massive chest at the far end of the room, its iron bands gleaming faintly in the soft torchlight. A quick glance around reveals a chaotic assortment of valuables scattered across the chamber: gold coins spilled across a table, goblets and trinkets made of silver and jade, and shelves stacked with books and potions.

I step inside, my boots scuffing against the stone floor, and let out a low whistle. "Quite the collection," I mutter, my eyes already assessing what's worth taking.

The chest is my first target. I kneel beside it, running my hand along the iron bands before gripping the heavy lid. It creaks open, revealing a glittering cache inside. Gold coins, more than I can count at a glance. Gems sparkle among the hoard—sapphires, rubies, and emeralds, each one polished and perfectly cut. A small bag sits atop the pile, its drawstring loose. I untie it, tipping the contents into my palm. The glitter of more coins greets me, along with the satisfying weight of them.

Beside the chest, a bookshelf catches my attention. I stand, my fingers brushing over the worn spines of the books it holds. Many of the titles are familiar, though a few are new to me. The Song of Pelinal, and Darkest Darkness stand out. I pull a few from the shelf, tucking them into my pack for later reading. Knowledge is as valuable as gold, after all.

A smaller chest sits on a nearby table, its lid slightly ajar. I push it open, revealing several potions nestled inside. I take them all, securing them in the padded pockets of my bag. You never know when a potion might save your life.

As I scan the room, my gaze falls on the leader's bed—a massive thing draped in furs and silks stolen from who knows where. At its foot rests a war chest, its lid reinforced with iron and locked tightly. A quick glance at the lock makes me remember all the times of frustration trying to pick locks in the game as I reach for a steel dagger from my belt and jam it into the latch. A few sharp strikes, and the lock breaks with a satisfying snap. Inside are more coins, a few rare-looking scrolls, and a finely wrought amulet. The craftsmanship is exquisite, and I can feel a faint hum of magic as I pick it up.

By the time I finish, the room is stripped of anything worth taking. My pack is heavy with gold, gems, books, and potions, the weight a satisfying reminder of the night's work. The loot alone is more valuable than the bounty I'll collect, but I won't complain about extra coins.

"Not a bad haul," I say, slinging the pack over my shoulder. The weight pulls at me, but I welcome it.

With one last glance around, I stride toward the door. The fort is mine now, its treasures taken, its defenders slain. Outside, the night waits, cool and quiet after the storm. All that's left is to signal Jenassa and head back to Whiterun.

The sound of hooves on dirt is the only noise for miles. The cool night air bites at my face, a stark contrast to the heat of the battle just hours ago. My arm aches where the orc's pommel strike hit home, but the pain is dulled now, distant. A reminder of the fight only, and the exhilaration that came with it.

Ahead, a figure steps out from the shadows of the trees lining the road. Jenassa. Her bow is slung over her shoulder, and her dark eyes glint as she approaches. She moves with the quiet grace of a hunter.

"Easy gold," she says, her smirk faint but unmistakable.

I dismount, brushing a hand over the horse's neck to calm it before stepping closer. "You earned it," I reply. "Your arrows saved me more than once tonight."

Jenassa chuckles, pulling her hood back. "And here I thought you didn't need anyone's help. I've never heard of you working with a team."

"I don't," I shoot back with a grin, "but it's nice to have it anyway."

Her smirk widens as she adjusts her quiver. "Let me know when you've got another fort to take. I wouldn't mind another easy job like this."

"You'll be the first to know," I say, meaning it. She proved her worth tonight, and more. Aela would have been more welcome but an archer this skilled is difficult to come by all the same.

With a nod, she turns, disappearing back into the shadows as quickly as she appeared. I watch her go for a moment before remounting my horse. The road ahead is quiet so I fill it with my off key voice– even this new body hasn't changed my singing ability.

"The Nord's fair wife was as bright as the dawn,
and her warmth was as fierce as the flame.
But the Nord's great axe was carved from hard steel,
and its bite bore a blood-curdling name.

The Nord's fair wife would sing by the fire,
with a voice soft as snow on the breeze.
But the Nord's great axe had a song of its own–

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-

Dragonsreach looms above me as I climb the stone steps, the orc leader's axe slung across my shoulder and his severed head wrapped in cloth, tied securely to its haft. The guards at the door glance at me as I pass but say nothing, their gazes lingering on the grisly proof of my conquest.

The warmth of the hall greets me as I step inside, the faint crackling of the central hearth breaking the quiet. Dragonsreach feels almost serene at this hour, a stark contrast to the chaos I've left behind at Fort Greymoor. My boots echo on the stone as I approach Proventus Avenicci, the steward, who is hunched over some papers at one of the tables near the throne. He doesn't look up immediately, his quill scratching softly against the parchment.

When I reach his table, I set the axe down with a heavy thud. The sound startles him, his head snapping up. His eyes widen as I unhook the cloth-wrapped bundle and place it beside the weapon. The stench of blood and iron fills the air as I untie the knot and let the cloth fall away, revealing the orc's severed head.

Proventus recoils slightly, his face twisting in a mix of disgust and begrudging respect. "The bandit leader, I presume," he says, his voice clipped.

I nod, crossing my arms over my chest. "Fort Greymoor is cleared. No one will be bothering the roads from there for a while."

He rises from his seat, his eyes darting between the head and the axe. After a moment, he exhales sharply and gestures to one of the guards nearby. "Fetch the bounty ledger." The guard nods and disappears into the adjoining room.

As we wait, Proventus fixes me with a look. "You're building quite the reputation for yourself, Melkorn. Word spreads quickly—and you seem to be reaching quite far with great speed."

I shrug, a faint smile tugging at my lips. "Reputation is something that allows you to move where you wish in the world."

"Perhaps," he replies, his tone wary. The guard returns, handing him a pouch of gold, which Proventus places on the table between us. "Here's the agreed-upon bounty. Whiterun thanks you for your service."

I take the pouch without hesitation, its weight a satisfying addition to the spoils already earned tonight. "Pleasure doing business," I say, stepping back and slinging the axe over my shoulder once more.

Proventus nods, his expression softening. "Let's hope we won't need your services again too soon."

I don't bother responding. With the gold secured and the task complete, I turn and head for the door. The cool night air greets me as I step out of Dragonsreach, crisp and biting after the warmth of the hall. I take a deep breath, letting it cool the tension still clinging to my body. The city is quiet, the faint glow of torchlight illuminating the streets below. Whiterun always feels different at night—calm, subdued. It's a stark contrast to the chaos of the day, and tonight, it feels earned.

The weight of the axe on my shoulder is satisfying, a new trophy. The pouch of gold at my belt adds to that satisfaction. The bounty wasn't the most lucrative part of this venture, but it's a nice bonus. As I walk, my thoughts drift to Jorrvaskr. It's been two months since I first set foot in the Companions' hall, and though I didn't expect it at first, it's started to feel like home–though I still had no intention of becoming a werewolf. There's a bed waiting for me there—mine. A hot meal, maybe a drink, and then there's Aela. I wonder if she's back from whatever task she was sent out on.

 

[MandTeKad]

The rain is relentless, cold droplets slicing through the air as if the gods themselves want me miserable. My cloak clings to my back, soaked through and heavy, each step of my horse squelching in the mud beneath us. Water drips down my neck, pooling at the edge of my armor, and I swear under my breath for the hundredth time today.

"Halfway across Skyrim for a bounty," I mutter, my voice drowned out by the storm, "and the bastard's not even worth much. Perfect."

The road ahead is barely visible, a muddy trail lined by skeletal trees that creak and groan in the wind. The distant rumble of thunder rolls across the mountains, echoing like a taunt. Lightning flashes, illuminating the outline of Riften in the distance. Even through the rain and gloom, I can make out the jagged silhouette of the city walls, their weathered stone a dark smudge against the stormy sky.

I pull my hood tighter, not that it helps. My boots squelch as I dismount, the mud grabbing at my heels like it wants to swallow me whole. Every part of me aches from the endless chase, my muscles stiff from the cold and the weight of my armor. I tug my horse forward, the reins slick in my grip, and set my jaw as I approach the gates.

Riften looms ahead, a grim, hulking shadow. A pair of guards are stationed by the entrance, their cloaks whipping in the wind. Even from here, I can see their smirks, the way they stand just a little too casually, like they own the place.

I clench my fists, the leather of my gloves creaking, and take a long breath. The rain isn't letting up, and neither, it seems, is my luck.

The guards step forward as I approach, their boots splashing in shallow puddles. The taller of the two adjusts his helmet—a barbute, rain streaking down it, but it doesn't wash away the smirk that spreads as he eyes me. His partner leans casually against his halberd, like this is just another boring shift on the job.

"Hold it right there," the taller one says, raising a gloved hand. "Riften's closed to visitors unless you've got business inside."

I stop, pulling the reins to settle my horse. "I'm here for a bounty," I reply, my voice curt. "Tracking someone who thought they could hide here."

The second guard snickers, his hand resting lazily on the pommel of his sword. "Bounty, huh? Well, that's business, all right. But business doesn't come cheap."

I narrow my eyes, so Riften is just as bad as in the game. "What's the fee?"

The first guard exchanges a glance with his partner, who shrugs as if it's all a joke. "Seventy-five septims," he says, the smirk widening. "City maintenance isn't cheap, you know. Can't have just anyone wandering in."

I feel my jaw tighten. Maintenance? This place is a mud pit on a good day, and the only thing the gold will maintain is their drinking habits. My fingers twitch toward the hilt of my sword, the weight of it tempting. A quick cut, and I could wipe those smirks off their faces in an instant.

But I stop myself. Not here. Not now. Starting a fight at the gates would be trouble I don't need. I glance up at the rain pouring down, the water dripping from my hood into my eyes, and let out a slow breath.

"Fine." I pull out my coin pouch, the jingle of gold making my teeth grind. I count out seventy-five septims, slapping them into the taller guard's outstretched hand. "Hope you choke on it."

"Pleasure doing business," he says, tucking the coins into a pouch on his belt. His partner laughs as they step aside, waving me through. "Welcome to Riften."

I guide my horse past them, every muscle in my body coiled with restraint. Their laughter follows me through the gate, cutting through the sound of the rain.

One of these days, I think, as I make my way into the city, I'll remember those faces. And when I do, they'll wish they hadn't done that.

As I lead my horse through the gate, the full reality of Riften hits me like a damp, moldy blanket. The streets are a maze of slick cobblestones, each one reflecting the dull glow of lanterns struggling against the gloom. Rainwater streams into the gutters, carrying with it the grime and filth of the city.

Beggars huddle under sagging awnings, their hollow eyes following me as I pass. One reaches out a trembling hand, fingers skeletal and blue from the cold. I offer a curt shake of my head, and his gaze drops back to the puddle at his feet. The stench of wet decay hangs heavy in the air—a mix of rotting wood, stale ale, and the sour odor of unwashed bodies.

Shops line the streets, their signs creaking in the wind. Vendors shout half-heartedly from beneath dripping canopies, trying to hawk wares that look as worn and tired as they do. A woman holds up a threadbare cloak, the fabric so thin I can see the outline of her hand through it. I keep walking.

Black-Briar Meadery banners flutter from several buildings, the sigil of a black briar branch stark against the faded fabric. It's a not-so-subtle reminder of who pulls the strings around here. Maven Black-Briar's influence seeps into every corner, much like the rain that's currently soaking into my boots.

I pass by an alleyway and catch a glimpse of shadowy figures exchanging coin. One of them looks up, his face obscured by a hood, but I can feel his eyes on me. A silent understanding passes between us: mind your own business.

I move on.

The Thieves Guild's presence is almost palpable. Even without seeing them, I can sense the undercurrent of illicit activity. It's in the way people avoid eye contact, the way hands linger a little too close to purses, the way whispers die when I get too close.

Compared to Whiterun, with its open skies and clean streets, Riften feels like a beaten down husk—a place stripped of all good The buildings lean over the streets as if conspiring against the sky, their eaves nearly touching in some places. It's oppressive, claustrophobic.

My mood sours with each step. The rain isn't letting up, and the chill is seeping into my bones. I glance around, searching for a place to get out of this downpour. That's when I spot the sign for the Bee and Barb, its faded lettering barely legible in the dim light.

A tavern might be just what I need to shake off this gloom. At the very least, it'll be dry inside. I give my horse a pat and lead her toward the stable nearby, handing a few copper coins to the stable hand who barely looks up from under his hood.

"Take good care of her," I say, more as a warning than a request.

The boy nods mutely, and I turn toward the tavern, pulling my cloak tighter around me. As I make my way across the muddy street, a figure bumps into me—hard.

"Watch it," I snap, grabbing hold of my coin pouch instinctively. It's still there.

The man mumbles an apology without meeting my eyes and slips away into the crowd. I check the rest of my belongings. Nothing missing. Not today, friend.

The Bee and Barb is alive with noise and warmth, a stark contrast to the freezing rain outside. The air reeks of stale ale, wet wood, and too many bodies crammed together. It's the kind of place where coin changes hands faster than mugs are refilled, and secrets are whispered just loud enough to start fights. I shove through the crowd, dripping wet and filled with irritation.

I spot a seat near the hearth, partially obscured by shadows, and make a beeline for it. A man leans too close as I pass, his breath heavy with mead. I elbow him aside without a word, the sharp glance I throw over my shoulder enough to keep him quiet. When I reach the chair, I drop into it with a grunt, the heat from the fire beginning to thaw the chill that's seeped into my bones.

I raise a hand to the barkeep and toss a few silver pieces onto the table. "Ale. And keep it coming."

The first mug arrives quickly. The liquid is lukewarm, the foam already gone, but I down it in a few gulps anyway. The alcohol burns just enough to dull the edges of my anger, but not enough to take the night's bitterness with it. I've spent two weeks chasing a bounty into this pit of a city. The guards at the gate had been the final insult, their smugness still gnawing at me.

The second mug goes down slower. I sip this one, letting the alcohol settle into my system as I pull out the pipe Aela gave me. The carved wolf snarls back at me, its teeth bared, the intricate details catching the flicker of firelight. I remember her handing it to me just before I left Whiterun.

"Something to keep you company," she'd said.

I pack the bowl with tobacco, light it, and take a slow drag, the smoke curling around me like a shroud. My fingers drum on the table as I sit back, letting the fire warm my damp clothes. For a moment, I feel almost content. Almost.

It doesn't last. By the time I've drained a third mug and started on a fourth, the warmth in my chest has turned to a simmering heat of frustration. And then I see him.

The guard from the gate. He's sitting at a table across the room, his companions laughing at some crude joke. His mug slams onto the table as he throws his head back in a bark of laughter, the same smug grin plastered across his face.

My hand tightens around the pipe as I watch him, my mind flashing back to the way his hand had hovered just a little too close to his sword when I'd hesitated at the gate. The way his voice had dripped with mockery as he demanded gold.

I puff on the pipe, exhaling smoke through my nose as I weigh my options. The alcohol dulls the voice of reason in my head, the one that might have convinced me to let it go. Instead, all I hear is my own voice, muttering under my breath.

"Bastard's face would look better bloody."

I stub out the pipe, the embers smoldering into silence as I tuck it back into my satchel. My movements are deliberate, slow. When I stand, the room feels smaller, the edges of the crowd fading as I lock onto my target.

Crossing the tavern, I can hear the guard's voice above the din. "...and then the fool actually paid! Can you believe it?" Another round of laughter erupts around him.

I stop at his table, my shadow falling across his companions. The guard looks up, still grinning, but his expression falters when he sees me.

"You've got some nerve—" he starts, but he doesn't get to finish.

My fist collides with his nose, the satisfying crunch of bone accompanied by a spray of blood. The mug in his hand crashes to the floor as he reels back, clutching his face. For a split second, the room goes silent, everyone too stunned to react.

Then, chaos erupts. Chairs scrape back, shouts ring out, and the tavern explodes into motion. My hands are already up, fists clenched, as I brace for the inevitable retaliation. The guard's friends rush at me, and I welcome the fight with a smile.

This is exactly the kind of night I need.

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-

The cold is the first thing I notice. It seeps through the stone floor and into my bones, relentless and unyielding. My head throbs like a drum, every beat a sharp reminder of the ale, the fists, and the chaos that landed me here. I crack my eyes open, the dim light filtering through the narrow slit of a barred window doing little to soften the headache.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound of water leaking somewhere above echoes through the cell, rhythmic and maddening. I push myself up slowly, wincing as my ribs protest. The bruises are fresh—souvenirs from last night's brawl. I run a hand through my damp hair and let out a low groan.

The cell is a box of damp stone and rusted iron. A wooden bed with a thin, hay-stuffed mattress leans against one wall, its frame splintered and sagging. A battered table sits in the corner, holding a dented tin cup and a plate so rusted it looks like it's been there since the Oblivion Crisis.

My hands instinctively move to my belt, searching for the comforting weight of my belongings. Nothing. Of course. No pipe. No coin pouch. No sword. No armor. They've stripped me of everything. A scowl creeps across my face, but I push it down. Getting angry won't get me out of here.

The faint murmur of voices echoes down the corridor, mingling with the occasional clang of metal. Footsteps—heavy and deliberate—draw closer. I close my eyes, letting my head fall back against the cold wall behind me.

"Broken noses, tavern chaos, and now this," I mutter to myself. "Great start to the day."

I push myself to my feet as the footsteps stop outside my cell, the keys jingling in time with the guards' low voices. The heavy iron door creaks open, and I take a slow, steady breath.

The cell door groans as it swings open, the sound scraping against the dull thrum of water dripping somewhere overhead. Two guards step inside, their boots scuffing the damp stone floor. The taller one, built like an ox and wearing an expression to match, glances me over with a mixture of irritation and boredom. His partner is younger, thinner, and looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Time to move," the older one says, tossing a pair of leather cuffs at me. "On your feet."

I stand slowly, my bruised ribs protesting the motion. The cuffs land at my feet, and I stare at them for a moment before picking them up and drape them over my wrists, making sure it looks like I lock them. "Nice hospitality you've got here," I mutter, my tone dry. "You always treat your guests this well?"

The younger guard smiles but quickly wipes it away when his partner shoots him a glare. "You're lucky Maven wants these cells free," the older one growls. "Otherwise, you'd still be on that floor, ash-skin."

I roll my shoulders, letting the insult bounce off. "Lucky. That's one word for it."

They step aside, gesturing for me to move. The corridor beyond is dimly lit by flickering torches, their light barely enough to chase away the shadows clinging to the damp stone walls. The air is heavy with the stench of mildew, rust, and too many bodies packed into too little space.

"Where's my gear?" I ask as I walk, the cuffs biting into my wrists with every step.

"Safe," the younger guard says, a little too quickly. "You'll get it back when we let you out."

I let out a low chuckle, more to myself than to them. "I better."

The older guard grunts, clearly uninterested in my commentary. "Keep walking."

I oblige, my boots scuffing against the stone floor as the corridor twists ahead. That's when I catch it—a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. Blue. Faint but unmistakable against the dull gray of the stone. I stop mid-step, craning my neck to look into the adjacent cell.

"What the…" My voice trails off as my gaze lands on the source. Sitting cross-legged in the dim light is a Khajiit with fur the color of deep sapphires and three scars across his snout, his golden eyes glowing faintly in the shadows.

My stomach tightens. That fur, that face, those scars—I'd recognize it anywhere.

No. It can't be.

"Inigo?" The name leaves my lips unbidden, barely more than a whisper.

The Khajiit tilts his head slightly, golden eyes meeting mine with a calm intensity. His expression is unreadable, his voice soft but steady as it cuts through the dim corridor. "Come to kill this one at last, have you? Thank the gods—Inigo can bear the guilt no longer."

I blink, his words hanging in the air like a blow I wasn't ready for. The guards exchange glances, their confusion mirroring my own. One of them tugs at my arm again.

"Keep moving," the older one barks. "We don't have all day."

But I dig my heels in, refusing to budge. My mind races, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Inigo. The mod character. A damn mod character, does this mean other mods may be in this world, The Scarlett, Lucien, Hoth, Auri, fuck there was a mod that put Sauron in the world– what all was different.

"This isn't real," I mutter under my breath, more to myself than anyone else. "I have to be dreaming."

The younger guard frowns. "What are you talking about? You know this guy?"

I don't answer. My focus is still on the Khajiit, whose calm demeanor is both disarming and unsettling. He continues, his tone laced with regret: "Inigo is in no mood for jokes. Strike this one down. Take your revenge."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I snap, my voice sharper than I intend as I decide to play out this encounter. "I don't even know you."

Inigo's ears twitch at that, his posture shifting slightly as he studies me. "You… don't remember? This one suppose it Inigo's fault"

This makes no sense, I thought beyond the timeline and this world being more real I was just in the elder scrolls. My hands clench at my sides, the leather cuffs biting into my wrists. I open my mouth to respond, but the older guard cuts me off.

"Enough of this," he growls. "You can have your reunion on your own time. Move."

I glance back at the guards, then at Inigo. I remembered this mod, it had been one of my favorites, and I knew the guilt Inigo felt. The guards can wait.

"Open his cell," I say, my voice low but firm.

Both guards turn to me, the older one crossing his arms. "Not happening. This one's here by choice. He stays put."

I straighten, narrowing my eyes as I step closer to the bars of Inigo's cell. My tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. "I said, open his cell. Now."

The guards exchange uneasy looks, but they don't move. Not yet. And I'm not about to let them stop me.

The tension in the air thickens as the guards glare at me, their unease growing with every second of my silence. The older one shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest like a stubborn mule. "You don't give the orders here, Dunmer. This one's locked up by his own damn choice, and he's staying locked up."

I step closer, letting my voice drop into something colder. "I wasn't asking."

The younger guard shifts nervously, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. His eyes dart to the older man, searching for reassurance he's not finding. "Look," he starts, voice faltering, "just move along. The Khajiit's not going anywhere."

I flex my fingers, and sparks dance across my hands, faint but deliberate. The dim corridor flickers with a soft blue glow, the light catching on the walls and in the wide eyes of the younger guard. I let the moment hang there, watching as realization dawns– I was a mage, an arch-mage for all they knew.

"You really want to test me?" I ask, my voice calm but razor-edged. "Because I'd be happy to show you exactly what I'm capable of. Or…" I let the sparks fizzle out, brushing my hands together as if nothing had happened. "You could just open the cell, and we can all move on with our lives."

The older guard's confidence wavers, his eyes narrowing as he weighs his options. He's not sure if I'm bluffing, but he's not eager to find out.

The younger one clears his throat. "It's just a talk, right? No harm in letting him… talk."

The older guard mutters a curse under his breath, pulling the keys from his belt with a sharp clink. He steps forward, unlocking the cell with deliberate slowness, the metal gate creaking open just enough for me to slip inside.

"Make it quick," he growls. "And if you try anything, you're both staying here."

I ignore him, stepping into the cell. The dim light from the corridor barely illuminates the Khajiit sitting cross-legged on the stone floor. He looks up at me, calm and unflinching, as if none of this surprises him.

"Thank you," Inigo says softly, his golden eyes catching the faint glow of the torchlight. "Inigo feared this one would rot here in Inigo's guilt, now strike this one down, but be warned this ones new honor demands Inigo defends himself."

I crouch down to his level, my eyes narrowing as I take in the sight of him. The surreal nature of this moment settles heavily in my chest. "Start talking," I say, my tone cutting through the silence. "And make it make sense."

Inigo nods, his ears twitching slightly. "You do not remember? That is my fault also. I am your so-called friend, Inigo. But this one was the one who killed you. Inigo tried, anyway. Inigo is guilty. Kill Inigo."

Inigo takes a deep breath, his golden eyes locking onto mine. His voice is calm, steady, but there's a weight to it—a sadness that clings to every word.

I blink, his words sinking in, This is surreal. "I don't even know you," I say, my voice low but firm. "And you've definitely never killed me."

He tilts his head slightly, his furred ears twitching as if in thought. "Your memory... is not what it was. Allow me to explain."

I cross my arms, leaning against the cold stone wall as he begins to recount his story. He speaks of betrayal, guilt, and desperation. A mission gone wrong. A deal struck with a noble named Dupin. A time when he was hooked on skooma and drowning in debt.

"Inigo was not thinking clearly," he says, his voice trembling just enough to show the depth of his regret. "The promise of gold... it clouded this one's judgment. Inigo tried to kill you, thinking it would solve everything. But after this one shot you, Inigo saw the truth. This one tried to turn himself in, but the guards laughed. They thought Inigo was mad."

His hands tremble slightly as he speaks, but his tone grows stronger. "Your body was gone. Inigo thought this one had taken your life, but Inigo could not even face the consequences. So, this one paid the guards to throw him in here. To let Inigo rot."

I'm quiet for a moment, letting his words settle. The weight of his guilt is palpable, filling the cell like a heavy fog.

"You're wrong about one thing," I say finally, my tone soft, I would take Inigo with me, I decided. "You didn't kill me. You never even came close."

Inigo's ears twitch again, and he tilts his head. "Then... perhaps the gods are kind. Or cruel. Either way, Inigo is here, and this one owes you his life."

I push off the wall, glancing back at the guards lingering near the cell door. Their expressions are a mix of confusion and impatience. "You said you're guilty. That you need to repay a debt. Then repay it, come with me, swear your sword to me, to fight by my side always and without hesitation."

He nods, his golden eyes gleaming with a newfound fire. "Inigo fights with you or dies defending you."

I glance back at the guards, my decision already made. "You're coming with me."

The older guard steps forward, shaking his head. "No way. He stays. That was the deal."

I step closer to the cell door, my voice dropping into something colder. "He's leaving. And you're not stopping us."

The guard opens his mouth to argue, but the faint flicker of sparks dancing across my fingers silences him. He glances at his partner, who shrugs helplessly, then back at me. "Fine," he mutters. "Take him. Not worth the coin he pays."

Inigo rises smoothly, bowing his head slightly as he steps out of the cell. "Thank you, my friend. I will not fail you again."

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-

The iron gate groans behind us, sealing off the damp chill of the prison as we step into the wet streets of Riften. The rain has eased into a drizzle, but the air is still thick with the smell of rain-soaked wood, wet stone, and faint traces of smoke from nearby hearths. My boots strike the cobblestones with a solid weight, and for the first time in hours, I feel like myself again.

My armor is back where it belongs, the weight of the steel reassuring against my body. The familiar grip of my sword rests at my hip, and I roll my shoulders, letting the tension of the past few hours bleed away. I didn't realize how much I'd missed the feel of a weapon at my side until now. Being unarmed—even for a short time—was like walking without skin.

Beside me, Inigo strides in silence, his eyes sweeping the streets with the measured calm of someone who's always assessing, always ready. I glance at him briefly, his quiet presence both a curiosity and a comfort. For now, I say nothing, content to savor the small relief of being back in my gear and out of that gods-forsaken cell.

The drizzle patters softly against my armor, the faint sound melding with the distant clamor of Riften's marketplace. I breathe in deeply, the cold, wet air biting at my lungs but clearing my head. It's far from perfect, but it's better than that dank cell, and for now, that's enough.

As we make our way through the slick streets of Riften, I let my eyes drift to Inigo, sizing him up properly for the first time. His stride is steady, purposeful, there's a tiger like grace to his movements. He wears a set of light armor—simple cloth reinforced with steel plates stitched over his vital areas. Practical, but hardly impressive.

A steel sword hangs from his hip, the scabbard plain and unadorned. Slung across his back is a longbow made of polished wood, with a quiver of equally unremarkable arrows strapped to the small of his back. The setup is functional but far from extravagant, a sharp contrast to the gear he had in game.

I can't help the faint smirk that tugs at the corner of my lips as a thought slips unbidden into my mind.

Of course, the skooma addict doesn't have ebony equipment. Why would he?

The thought is uncharitable, but it lingers. Still, despite the simplicity of his equipment, there's an ease in the way he carries himself. An ease and air that sets him apart. He's obviously dangerous still.

We pass through the muddy streets, the rain falling around us. The drizzle's rhythm is steady, almost soothing, but my thoughts are restless, already racing ahead to the hunt. Beside me, Inigo remains quiet, his eyes scanning the alleys and corners as though expecting trouble.

Then, without a word, he slows his stride and reaches into his satchel. I pause, watching curiously as he pulls out a small glass jar. Inside, a dragonfly flits about lazily, its delicate wings catching the muted light. Inigo holds it up with both hands, cradling it as if it's something precious.

"This," he says with a grin, "is Mr. Dragonfly. He is shy but very wise."

For a moment, I just stare, unsure how to respond. The absurdity of the scene—the rain-soaked streets, a Khajiit in patchwork armor, and a jarred dragonfly—pulls a surprised laugh from my chest. Shaking my head, I gesture to the jar.

"Of course he is. Are not all dragons wise?"

Inigo seems pleased by my reaction. He tucks the jar carefully back into his satchel, his expression one of quiet satisfaction. I don't press further. I stop in the middle of the street, closing my eyes as the sounds of Riften fade into the background. The image of the bounty flashes in my mind—his face, his sneer, the way he slipped through my fingers two weeks ago. My hand tightens around the hilt of my sword, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

With a quick pull at my Magicka, the glow of Clairvoyance blooms in my vision. A faint, shimmering blue trail appears, winding its way through the city. It stretches, twisting like smoke against the damp cobblestones.

I open my eyes and glance at Inigo. He stands a few paces away, his expression curious and his ears flicking, causing his earrings to bounce. I nod toward the glowing trail. "That's our path."

He steps up beside me, his tail flicking lazily. "A hunt, my friend," he says, his tone thoughtful. "Yes, a hunt is the perfect way to begin again."

I smirk, adjusting the straps of my armor. "Good. Then let's not waste any more time."

We follow the glowing trail through the winding streets of Riften. The drizzle mutes the usual noise of the city, leaving only the distant clamor of the market and the occasional bark of a guard's orders. People glance at us as we pass—a Dunmer in full plate and a blue-furred Khajiit make for an unusual pair—but no one lingers too long. This is Riften, after all. Everyone has their own problems to worry about.

As we near the city gates, I glance at Inigo. "You good to go?"

He grins, his golden eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "Always, my friend."

The gates creak open with a groan, and the guards barely glance in our direction as we pass. One of them eyes Inigo for a moment, his hand resting idly on the pommel of his sword, but he doesn't say a word. Good. I'm not in the mood for more delays.

Outside, the drizzle has faded into a light mist that clings to the trees and shrouds the path ahead. The cobblestones give way to muddy trails, the faint smell of wet earth mingling with the crisp bite of pine on the breeze. The air feels fresher out here, cleaner. It sharpens my focus, setting my mind on the task ahead.

Morrigan waits near the stables, pawing at the wet ground as we approach. She tosses her head when she sees me, her black coat gleaming faintly in the dull light. I pat her neck as I mount, the weight of my armor settling into the saddle like an old habit. Inigo follows suit, climbing onto his own horse—a sturdy bay mare with a simple bridle and saddle, though it's a miracle it wasn't sold off.

The blue misty trail of Clairvoyance stretches ahead, weaving through the mist and disappearing into the dense forest. I tighten my grip on the reins, my eyes narrowing as I fix my focus.

"If this bastard has half a brain," I mutter, "he'll keep running."

Inigo chuckles softly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Then let us hope his legs are faster than his mind, my friend."

I spur Morrigan forward, the sound of hooves striking wet ground breaking the silence. Inigo follows close behind, his bow strapped across his back and his posture as relaxed as if this were a leisurely ride.

The mist swallows us as we ride into the wilderness, the glowing trail our only guide. Two weeks of chasing this bounty have led us here. This ends today.

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-

The world around us blurs into streaks of green and brown as Morrigan's hooves pound against the damp earth. The trees of the Rift rise like silent sentinels on either side, their thick trunks and twisting branches barely visible through the morning mist. The sharp, cool air bites at my face, but I barely notice. My focus is fixed on the faint, glowing blue trail of Clairvoyance winding ahead, cutting through the forest.

Morrigan snorts, her breath steaming in the chill, as she pushes harder over the uneven terrain. The ground is soft and wet, threatening to suck at her hooves, but she powers through without hesitation. Beside me, Inigo rides his mare with an easy grace, his bow strapped securely to the side of the saddle. The rhythmic clatter of hooves is the only sound between us, broken occasionally by the distant rustle of the forest.

The Rift is beautiful in its wildness, the kind of untamed land that would normally draw my eye, but today it's little more than a backdrop. Two weeks of tracking this bastard have left me too irritated to appreciate the scenery. Every step of this chase has been one frustration after another, and now, so close to the end, I feel the simmering anger threatening to boil over.

Morrigan veers slightly as the trail twists, and I pull her back on course, leaning forward in the saddle to drive her faster. The bounty is near. I can feel it.

The chase isn't over, but the end is finally in sight. Even then, it's like pulling teeth.

"Of course, he didn't stay in Riften like a good lad," I mutter, my voice dripping with sarcasm. The words spill out without thought, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "No, that would've been too damn convenient. Had to make me chase him some more."

Morrigan's ears twitch as if she shares my irritation, her snort punctuating my thoughts. Behind me, Inigo rides with that same infuriating calm he's carried since we started this hunt. He seems at ease, his posture steady in the saddle, even as the forest blurs past us.

I glance back, raising my voice to carry over the pounding of hooves. "Remember, we take him alive! I'll be damned if I let this one off with an easy death. I'm dragging him back to Whiterun behind Morrigan!"

Inigo tilts his head, his golden eyes catching mine for a brief moment before he nods. "Alive, my friend. This one promises. But not unharmed, yes?"

I let out a sharp huff, fully in agreement. "Fair. But don't go overboard."

His voice carries, to me, a hint of offense in it. "Inigo would never."

The banter settles me—just a bit. But the heat in my chest doesn't cool entirely. The glowing trail ahead sharpens, signaling the end is near, and I lean forward in the saddle, pushing Morrigan harder. If this bastard thinks he can outrun me, he's dead wrong. Not literally, of course. Not yet.

The glow of Clairvoyance intensifies, the line narrowing and pulsing with urgency. My pulse quickens to match, and I lean forward in the saddle, urging Morrigan to go faster. The trail ahead straightens, no longer winding through the forest's chaos. We're close—close enough that I can almost hear the beat of my bounty's panicked heart.

The trees begin to thin, the dense canopy breaking apart to reveal a dirt path cutting through the wilderness. The sharp clatter of hooves against hard-packed earth reaches my ears, and then I see him.

A figure leans low over his horse's neck, driving the animal forward in a desperate bid for escape. His ragged cloak flaps in the wind, and even at this distance, I can feel the raw panic radiating off him. He knows we're coming.

"Finally," I whisper, the word slipping past my lips like a prayer. My hands tighten on the reins, and Morrigan surges forward, her powerful legs eating up the distance between us and our quarry.

Behind me, Inigo matches my pace, his blue fur a flash of color against the muted greens and browns of the forest. His bow is already in his hands, an arrow notched and ready. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his sharp grin, his golden eyes narrowing with focus.

The trail straightens further, the bounty now fully in sight. His horse stumbles slightly, its gait faltering as exhaustion creeps in. He throws a glance over his shoulder, and I see the fear etched into his face. I grin. He should be afraid

"Let's finish this," I growl, leaning lower over Morrigan's neck.

The dirt path twists and narrows ahead, the forest closing in around us like a trap. The bounty is just within reach, his horse pushing hard but faltering under the strain. His cloak flaps wildly as he leans forward, desperate to escape.

Inigo rises in his stirrups beside me, his movements fluid and precise. The longbow in his hands creaks faintly as he draws the string, the polished wood bending effortlessly to his command. His golden eyes narrow, tracking the bounty predatory.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. "Don't miss."

Inigo smirks, his voice calm even over the thundering of hooves. "Inigo never misses, my friend."

He looses the arrow, and it slices through the misty air with a sharp whistle. The impact is immediate—the arrow strikes the saddle straps, slicing them cleanly. The saddle shifts violently, and the bounty cries out as it slides to one side, taking him with it.

The man hits the ground hard, rolling through the mud before coming to a groaning stop. His horse keeps running, oblivious to its rider's fate. Inigo lowers his bow with a satisfied nod, his grin faint but unmistakable.

"See?" he says, his tone light. "This one told you."

I shake my head, suppressing a grin as I lean forward in the saddle, spurring Morrigan onward as I draw my sword. "Show-off."

The bounty's on the ground now, vulnerable and out of options. The hunt is over, and it's time to move in for the capture.

The bounty scrambles to his feet, caked in mud and breathing hard, his eyes darting frantically for an escape route. He stumbles as he rises, one hand gripping his side where he likely hit the ground too hard. His panic is palpable, rolling off him in waves, but there's nowhere left to run.

Morrigan charges forward, her hooves churning the muddy trail as I angle my sword. The bounty's head snaps toward me, his expression a mix of terror and defiance.

"Stay down!" I shout, but he doesn't listen. Good.

He moves to bolt, his boots slipping on the wet ground, but he's too slow. I pass him in a blur of steel and motion, the flat of my sword cracking against the side of his head with a satisfying crack. The force of the blow sends him sprawling into the dirt, his body limp and unmoving save for a faint groan.

I wheel Morrigan around, pulling her up short as she stamps and snorts, her breath steaming in the cool air. The bounty lies face down in the mud, his hands twitching weakly as he tries—and fails—to push himself up.

Sliding my sword back into its scabbard, I glance over my shoulder to see Inigo pulling up beside me, his bow now slung across his back. He watches the fallen man with a calm, measured expression, his ears twitching slightly.

"Nice hit," Inigo says, his voice carrying a faint edge of approval.

I smirk, swinging down from the saddle with a practiced ease. "Thanks. He didn't make it hard."

The bounty groans again, half-conscious but very much alive. Good. He's not getting out of this so easily.

The bounty groans weakly as I step closer, his face half-buried in the mud. His hands twitch, trying to push himself up, but I kick him in the back sending his face back into the mud as my grin widens.

I pull a length of thick rope from Morrigan's saddlebag before kneeling beside him. His eyes flutter open, bloodshot and unfocused, as I grab his wrists and bind them tightly together.

"Stay still," I growl, yanking the knots taut. "Or I'll make this even less pleasant."

He doesn't respond beyond a weak groan, his head lolling forward as I haul him to his feet. Mud and blood streak his face, but I'm not in the mood to care. Dragging him toward Morrigan, I loop the rope through the back of my saddle, tying it off. His hands are tethered now, his body slumping forward as he struggles to stay upright.

Behind me, Inigo watches the scene unfold with an amused glint in his golden eyes. He steps closer, sheathing his steel sword with a flourish before folding his arms.

"Ah, you are very cruel, my friend," he says, his tone light but laced with approval. "Dragging him behind your horse? Will he not die."

I glance back at him, my grin tugging at the corner of my lips. "Not if he walks fast enough."

Inigo chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Remind Inigo never to make you angry."

With the bounty secured, I swing back into Morrigan's saddle, gripping the reins tightly. The bastard stumbles as the rope pulls taut, his feet dragging through the muck. He's not getting out of this, not after two weeks of running me ragged.

"Let's move," I say, nudging Morrigan forward. Inigo mounts his horse with a smooth grace, his usual calm demeanor intact as he falls in beside me.

-MD-

-MD-

-MD-

"…and then this one jumps from the mast and lands on the captain's head—ugly bastard he was," Inigo says, his voice rising with theatrical flair. His arms gesture wildly as if reliving the moment, his horse matching Morrigan's steady pace as we ride toward Whiterun's gates. "The pirates immediately broke and ran from Inigo!"

I chuckle, shaking my head as Morrigan snorts beneath me, almost as if she's amused too. "What did you do next? Claim the ship for yourself?"

Inigo grins, the faint glint of mischief in his golden eyes. "Alas, my friend, they took the ship. This one took the glory. And the rum, sadly, was left behind."

I roll my eyes, suppressing a grin. "Tragic. Truly. But I'm starting to think you've got more stories than the bards."

"Bards exaggerate," Inigo says with a shrug. "Inigo merely tells the truth. It is not this one's fault Inigo's truth is larger than life."

I laugh at that, shaking my head. The banter feels easy, natural, a welcome relief after the two grueling weeks of chasing the bounty; I had forgotten how good it was to have company on the road. The road ahead winds gently through the rolling plains outside Whiterun, the city's familiar walls growing closer with each step. The golden fields of tundra grass sway in the breeze, the sound of distant wildlife breaking the quiet.

Ahead, the city gates come into view, flanked by two guards in Whiterun's distinctive yellow and gray livery. They're watching us approach, their postures straightening as they recognize me.

Their eyes sweep over the scene: me on Morrigan, the groaning bounty dragging behind, and Inigo riding beside me. The older guard, a grizzled man with a weathered face and a hand resting on his spear, narrows his eyes slightly as they land on Inigo.

"Well, well, Blacksteel," he says, his voice carrying a note of dry amusement. "You finally brought one in alive. I was starting to think you didn't know how."

His younger companion, a fresh-faced recruit by the look of him, doesn't laugh. His gaze lingers on Inigo, suspicion etched across his features. "And who's your... friend?" The word is loaded, his tone cautious. "We don't usually see Khajiit riding through these gates."

I dismount, my boots hitting the ground with a solid thud. Patting Morrigan's neck, I turn to face them, letting a hint of irritation creep into my tone. "This is Inigo," I say firmly. "I vouch for him," I say, my voice low and steady. "He's good company, and he doesn't cause trouble unless it's warranted."

The older guard arches a brow, his gaze flicking between us. "With you, huh? That's new. I thought Jenassa was the only one crazy enough to work with you."

Inigo, to his credit, remains calm. He inclines his head slightly, his golden eyes meeting the older guard's gaze. "This one assures you, Inigo means no harm. My friend speaks true."

The younger guard still looks skeptical, but the older one shrugs, stepping aside with a faint smirk. "If Blacksteel's willing to put his name on the block for you, I suppose that'll do—for now. Just don't cause a scene."

"I'll make sure he doesn't," I reply dryly, taking Morrigan's reins and leading her forward. As we pass through the gates, I hear the younger guard mutter something under his breath, but I ignore it. Inigo rides close behind, quiet but alert.

"Charming fellows," Inigo says softly, his tone laced with amusement.

The streets of Whiterun are alive with their usual bustle—merchants hawking wares, children darting between carts, and the constant murmur of voices. The groaning bounty dragging behind Morrigan draws more than a few curious glances, and the sound of his boots scraping against the cobblestones is loud enough to turn heads.

We don't make it far before a sharp voice cuts through the crowd.

"Finally back, I see. Took you long enough."

I glance toward the voice and spot the merchant—a well-dressed man with sharp features and a long braided beard. He steps out from behind his stall, his grey eyes narrowing as they fall on the bounty slumped behind my horse. His lips curl into a mix of disdain and satisfaction.

"And you caught him," the merchant continues, approaching with brisk, purposeful strides. "Did he fight, or was he the coward I always suspected?"

I dismount slowly, tightening Morrigan's reins as I let the moment hang in the air. "Oh, he fought," I reply, my tone dry. "just not well; and then he ran. After that, he mostly bled and complained."

The merchant snorts, crossing his arms as he looks over the bounty with a critical eye. "Typical. Worthless piece of trash. Still, alive is better than nothing. I suppose you've earned your coin."

He tosses a pouch toward me with practiced nonchalance. I catch it easily, the weight of the gold good in my hand. "You suppose?" I mutter, tucking the pouch into my belt. "Two weeks of chasing this bastard, and you suppose I've earned it?"

The merchant's lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. "Consider it a bonus that I didn't dock you for taking so long."

Behind me, Inigo chuckles softly, his golden eyes glinting with amusement. "Ah, you see, my friend," he murmurs, "not all treasure is worth the hunt."

I shoot him a sidelong glance but can't help the faint smirk tugging at my lips. Turning back to the arrogant merchant, I nod toward the bounty. "You want him here, or should I deliver him somewhere more official?"

"Leave him here," the merchant says with a dismissive wave. "I'll see to it that he gets what's coming to him."

I shrug, untying the rope and pushing the bounty forward to collapse into a heap on the ground. He groans weakly, too dazed to resist, and the merchant doesn't spare him a second glance.

"Pleasure doing business," I say, my voice flat as I turn back to Morrigan. Time to get moving again.

The merchant steps back toward his stall, already losing interest in the groaning heap on the ground as he motions one of his men to grab him. The faint buzz of the marketplace fills the air again, the attention of Whiterun's residents shifting to more mundane matters now that the excitement has passed.

I glance at Inigo, who's still mounted, his golden eyes flicking around the bustling streets with quiet curiosity. He looks at ease, like he's already fitting into this strange rhythm. For a moment, I consider heading straight to Dragonsreach, but the thought of leaving Morrigan unsheltered nags at me.

I pat Morrigan's neck, muttering under my breath, "Let's get the horses stabled."

Inigo tilts his head, his ears flicking forward. "And after? Another bounty, perhaps? Or maybe a drink?"

I shake my head, the weight of the next step settling in my chest. "No. After this, I need to go to Dragonsreach. There's someone there I need to speak with. My teacher, Farengar"

Inigo raises an eyebrow but doesn't press for more. "Very well, my friend. The stables first, then the great hall of Whiterun. Lead on."

AN

Everyone lets welcome the firs follower; Inigooooooooo

 

[MandTeKad]

 

[MandTeKad]

 

[MandTeKad]

he doesnt have horns

 

[shakeval]

Awesome, looks like he's sure got himself a solid foundation, never used Inigo as a companion, was always more partial to recorder, so unfortunately I don't really know the whole backstory with him.
This sure was a large dump of chapters, but sure was a fantastic read, was good to see a great deal of realism to how someone would think, feel and act when dumped into skyrim.

Is there any chance of some snippets regarding how others view the MC, especially farengar and some of the companions or Janessa, basic observations or thoughts regarding possible peculiarities that are present?

Additionally I wonder about the speed he is learning to use the various spells taught to him, is it slower than normal, sort of middle of the road average or some level of talented?
For a medieval society he is certainly educated above the average in at least some areas, granted a lot isn't applicable to a non modern society, but he's certainly having to fill in various holes in his education, im sure at least some would think he has a background at least slightly elevated above the average peasant in his homeland.

As he starts accumulating wealth will he start putting it to use investing in a home or local businesses, is he setting himself up for a longer term settlement in the area as he seems to believe he might not be the dragonborn?

With the trouble Melkor has had bringing in living bounties I'd wonder if he was looking around for spells to deal with that, the limited number of game spells are unlikely to be more than a basic span of those abailable, if he could find something to bind targets, silence them and render them unconscious from a distance it would certainly make sneaking into large forts and camps full of bandits easier, something like a spider climb spell or enchanted item would be really good too, especially going to places ahead of time or generally circumventing various traps or blockages in ruins and dungeons etc.

 

[MandTeKad]

Awesome, looks like he's sure got himself a solid foundation, never used Inigo as a companion, was always more partial to recorder, so unfortunately I don't really know the whole backstory with him.
This sure was a large dump of chapters, but sure was a fantastic read, was good to see a great deal of realism to how someone would think, feel and act when dumped into skyrim.

Is there any chance of some snippets regarding how others view the MC, especially farengar and some of the companions or Janessa, basic observations or thoughts regarding possible peculiarities that are present?

Additionally I wonder about the speed he is learning to use the various spells taught to him, is it slower than normal, sort of middle of the road average or some level of talented?
For a medieval society he is certainly educated above the average in at least some areas, granted a lot isn't applicable to a non modern society, but he's certainly having to fill in various holes in his education, im sure at least some would think he has a background at least slightly elevated above the average peasant in his homeland.

As he starts accumulating wealth will he start putting it to use investing in a home or local businesses, is he setting himself up for a longer term settlement in the area as he seems to believe he might not be the dragonborn?

With the trouble Melkor has had bringing in living bounties I'd wonder if he was looking around for spells to deal with that, the limited number of game spells are unlikely to be more than a basic span of those abailable, if he could find something to bind targets, silence them and render them unconscious from a distance it would certainly make sneaking into large forts and camps full of bandits easier, something like a spider climb spell or enchanted item would be really good too, especially going to places ahead of time or generally circumventing various traps or blockages in ruins and dungeons etc.

Click to shrink...

Appreciate the reply xD and ya I posted on fanfiction first; only started planning and writing the story 9 days ago; writing a chapter a day until I hit 100k cause of a challenge a friend made


Ya Inigo is one of my faves; I highly recommend him

His speed is pretty talented; not prodigy of everything magical but he is dragonborn and I'm a pretty dedicated student when I put my mind to learning something; if we rated talent on a level of 1 to 10 then in destruction he's an 8(minus frost which he struggles with); in restoration a 6; conjuration a 7; and illusion is like a 4
Tamriel has a bit different education standards especially amongst the Mer races but he definitely comes across as well educated


I will eventually do some other POVs; not sure when


He still believes he is the dragonborn; just a bit of doubt even though he knows in game you have to kill a dragon first; he does have a plan for his power base but it's a bit off

He has trouble bringing in living bounties because he doesn't want to bother; a head is easier to transport than a struggling target xD

 

[shakeval]

Holy shit dude, that is some serious pace, please don't burn yourself out.

Well, when the dragon fight finally comes around hopefully he's got a few more destructive spells under his belt and a lot more magicka to burn through, especially if he can find some really good stuff hidden away in ancient ruins.

Do you have any plans to merge in other stuff from oblivion or even old elder scrolls games that were left out of skyrim for one reason or another, I know you already had some bandits with spears so I could see enchanted staffs making a big come back. . . .maybe

 

[MandTeKad]

Holy shit dude, that is some serious pace, please don't burn yourself out.

Well, when the dragon fight finally comes around hopefully he's got a few more destructive spells under his belt and a lot more magicka to burn through, especially if he can find some really good stuff hidden away in ancient ruins.

Do you have any plans to merge in other stuff from oblivion or even old elder scrolls games that were left out of skyrim for one reason or another, I know you already had some bandits with spears so I could see enchanted staffs making a big come back. . . .maybe

Click to shrink...

I'm not; honestly I have enough energy at the moment for the story I could continue this pace(working on the next chapter ATM); but well..... I plan the story to be millions of words and have ideas for a sequel so will slow down to once a week after getting to the point I want; then Patreons once I open one will get access to the backlog

The dragon fight will be..... Different; Mirmulnir was a lieutenant of Alduin and survived the fall of thier rule; I'm doing him justice

As for the rest of the lore; oh ya; I don't plan to just use Skyrim; not location wise or lore wise

 

[Merlin]

When you have a backlog of chapters, it is best to publish them at different times of the day, this way you will gain more visibility.

 

[MandTeKad]

The steps leading to Dragonsreach stretch long and steep before me, each one a reminder of the distance between Whiterun's bustling streets and the power housed within the palace above. The air grows colder the higher we climb, the sharp bite of wind tugging at the edges of my cloak. Around me, the city seems to hold its breath, the noise of merchants and smiths fading into a muted backdrop as the great hall comes into view.

Inigo walks beside me, silent, but I can feel his presence in every deliberate step, every faint swish of his tail against the stone. His ears twitch, scanning the area for sounds only he can hear. As we near the doors, he stops suddenly, his head tilting upward to take in the towering structure.

"This one does not like it here," he says, his voice low and thoughtful. His tail flicks once, sharp and irritated. "Too many eyes. Too many whispers."

I glance at him, studying the way his ears flatten slightly against his head. "Paranoia, or instinct?" I ask, keeping my tone neutral.

He doesn't look at me, his eyes fixed on the massive wooden doors ahead. "Instinct, my friend. These walls… they see more than they say."

I chuckle softly, shaking my head. "It's just a hall, Inigo."

Two guards stand flanking the entrance, their eyes sharp and their postures rigid. As soon as they spot us, their gazes lock onto Inigo, lingering a moment too long. One steps forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"We'll need to take his weapons," the guard says, his tone firm but lacking malice.

I step in before Inigo can respond, holding up a hand. "He's with me. I'll take responsibility for him."

The guard hesitates, his eyes narrowing as he glances between us. The second guard, older and broader, steps in, his voice apologetic but unyielding. "You're known around here, Melkorn. But rules are rules. We can't take chances. You understand."

Beside me, Inigo lets out a low, growling hiss. His tail lashes behind him, and his ears flatten fully against his head. Slowly, deliberately, he unbuckles his weapons, his claws flexing as he hands them over.

"This one feels naked now," he mutters, his voice sharp with annoyance. He leans slightly toward the younger guard, his eyes narrowing. "If Inigo is killed, my friend, you will have to answer to his naked ghost."

The younger guard takes an uneasy step back, but the older one chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. "Go on in."

The warmth hits me first, the crackling hearth at the center of the hall banishing the chill from the outside air. The scent of woodsmoke and something faintly floral lingers in the air, mingling with the muted murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of metal.

Inigo pads silently toward a table near the fire, his movements fluid and predatory. He sinks into a chair, resting his chin on one hand as his tail coils loosely around the chair leg. His ears droop slightly, a sign of his mood.

"This one will wait here," he says, his voice quieter now, almost distracted. "Farengar and Inigo… we are not friends, yes?" His eyes flicker toward me, the faintest glimmer of humor breaking through. "Go. Learn your magic. This one will guard the table."

I nod, letting him be, and make my way toward the far end of the hall where Farengar's study lies. Behind me, I hear the faint, rhythmic tap of Inigo's claws drumming against the wood.

The door to Farengar's study swings open with a familiar creak. The scent of old parchment and the sharp tang of alchemical reagents are as strong as ever, clinging to the air like an unseen shroud. The cluttered workspace looks exactly as I left it last—books and scrolls piled precariously high, their contents likely cataloged only in Farengar's mind.

He doesn't look up as I step inside, his quill scratching furiously across a sheet of parchment. A faint hum of magical energy lingers in the air, the enchanting table in the corner glowing faintly with residual power.

"Ah, Melkorn," he says without missing a stroke, his tone light. "Here to interrupt my work again, are you? I suppose you've come to tell me you've mastered every spell I've ever taught you and are now ready to ascend to Archmage?"

I chuckle softly, closing the door behind me. "Not quite. But I've made progress. Enough that I think it's time to push further. I want to advance beyond the basics, Farengar."

At that, he finally sets the quill down, leaning back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh. His piercing eyes meet mine, glinting under his ever present hood. "You've certainly progressed quickly—quicker than most, in fact. Your skill with Destruction and Conjuration is impressive for someone who hadn't cast a spell three months ago. Except… for Frost."

He smirks, rising from his chair and gesturing vaguely toward the far corner of the room where frost-covered bottles sit in varying states of shattered disarray. "You just can't seem to fully grasp it, can you? No matter how many times I explain it."

I shrug, resisting the urge to defend myself. "It's not for lack of trying."

"Clearly," he replies dryly, crossing the room to a shelf lined with tomes and vials. "Still, your growth has been remarkable. Frankly, you'd benefit from going to the College of Winterhold. They'd straighten out that frost magic of yours in no time."

I snort, shaking my head. "I'm not traveling halfway across Skyrim to join some pompous academics."

"No, of course not," Farengar says with a wave of his hand, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "You're far too pragmatic for that. Too busy slaying bandits and rescuing damsels, I imagine."

I grin, folding my arms. "If I wanted sarcasm, I'd go back to Jorrvaskr."

He chuckles, turning back toward me with a faint grin. "Fair enough. Fortunately for you, I'm feeling generous. I'll teach you. But… there is something I need in return."

Farengar moves to his desk, pulling a large, ancient map from beneath the pile of scrolls. He unrolls it carefully, the parchment crackling under his touch. His fingers trace the outline of a mountain range, stopping on a jagged marking labeled Bleak Falls Barrow. Finally.

"There's an artifact I need," he begins, his tone shifting to the sharp focus he reserves for serious topics. "A tablet called the Dragonstone. It's located here my source tells me, in Bleak Falls Barrow—an ancient Nordic ruin. It's said to contain vital information about dragon burial sites, and it's crucial to my research."

I step closer, my eyes narrowing as I take in the map. The name sends a jolt of excitement through me, though I keep my face neutral. "Bleak Falls Barrow," I say slowly.

"Yes," Farengar says, glancing at me with a knowing look. "A place crawling with draugr and other nasties, I'm sure. But you're no stranger to danger, and you're certainly not bogged down by Nord superstitions about disturbing the honored dead."

"Of course not," I reply, my excitement building. "I'll do it."

Farengar nods, satisfied. "Take whatever supplies you need, and do try not to die in the process. You're far too useful for that."

As I step back into the main hall, the warmth and bustle of Dragonsreach feel distant, my thoughts already turning to the task ahead. Inigo is exactly where I left him, slouched in a chair by the hearth. He glances up as I approach, one ear twitching.

"Finished already, my friend?" he asks, his voice tinged with mock disbelief.

"For now," I reply, motioning for him to follow. "Come on. We've got a job, and it's going to take some planning."

His grin spreads wide, his tail curling lazily around the chair leg as he stands. "Ah, another hunt."

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The room is warm, almost stifling, the fire in the hearth crackling softly as its glow paints the walls in shifting orange hues. It's small—cramped, really—but it serves its purpose well enough. The battered table in the center is just wide enough for the map I'm unfolding, its edges curling and yellowed with age. The ink is faded, the markings worn from centuries of neglect, but it's still legible, still useful.

I smooth the parchment carefully, running a hand over the creases. It smells of old vellum and dust, the kind of thing you'd expect to find buried in a forgotten corner of Farengar's study.

Inigo is pacing, his boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. His tail sways lazily, curling and uncurling in rhythm with his steps. He circles the table once, twice, before finally leaning in, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he studies the map. One ear flicks, catching a distant sound from the tavern below, but he doesn't comment on it.

"This one wonders—how old is this?" he asks, his voice low and smooth, his hand gesturing vaguely toward the parchment. "The ink is faded, and the corners are nearly dust. Do you think the draugr care about maps, my friend?"

I snort softly, not looking up. "Old or not, it gives us an idea of what we're walking into. That's more than most would have."

He chuckles, the sound almost a purr. "Yes, an idea. But maps don't show fangs, claws, or ancient blades."

I glance up from the map to see Inigo leaning closer, his tail flicking in slow, deliberate arcs. His eyes dart across the faded markings, lingering on the crude lines that sketch out the inner chambers of the barrow.

"There will be surprises," he says, his voice calm but with a faint edge of caution. "This one knows it as surely as he knows the taste of skooma."

I arch a brow, leaning back slightly. "You don't think I know that already? This place… it's different. I'm not walking into some half-collapsed fort run by drunken bandits."

He nods slowly, his fingers tracing the line of what must be a passageway leading deeper into the crypt. "Cold, dark, full of traps and horrors. Draugr do not feel pain and care little for our sharp sticks or fancy magic."

His tone is almost playful, but his ears are pinned back slightly, betraying his unease. I don't bother reassuring him. He already knows what I'm thinking. I study the map again, this time with a little more care. Inigo's right about one thing—this is no simple raid. Even with the two of us, this could get messy.

I tap a finger on the map, at the large chamber near the center. "This looks like the main burial hall. It'll be the worst of it, if Farengar's right."

"And if he is wrong?" Inigo's ears twitch, his sharp grin returning. "This one hopes you have a backup plan, my friend."

"Of course I do." I smirk faintly, even though I don't, yet. "That's why you're here."

He huffs, crossing his arms and leaning against the table. "Ah, yes. This one is your backup plan. Should Inigo prepare to carry you when the draugr kill you, or are you planning to throw this one at them first?"

As Inigo leans back, his ears twitching faintly in the firelight, my thoughts wander. I trace the faint lines of the map with my finger, the brittle parchment crackling softly under the pressure. This job is dangerous, more dangerous than anything we've taken on so far. The map doesn't tell the whole story, but it tells enough. This place is ancient, full of traps and creatures that won't stop until we're dead.

My mind flickers to Jenassa, her calm efficiency and deadly accuracy. She'd be invaluable in a place like this. But the idea of bringing a woman into the crypts makes my chest tighten with discomfort. I shake my head, pushing the thought aside.

Then there are the Companions. Farkas or Vilkas would come if I asked. They'd be reliable. But relying on them again feels like leaning too heavily on a crutch. I'm a Companion, yes, but I have no intention of joining the Circle or entangling myself further in their world. This mission is mine, and it'll stay that way.

"We'll need more bodies for this one," I say finally, breaking the silence.

Inigo raises a brow, his tail curling lazily behind him. "Ah, so you have decided to recruit some souls willing to risk life and limb for coin?"

I nod, though my gaze stays on the map. "We'll hire a few swords—men who can follow orders. Nothing fancy. Just bodies with weapons."

He chuckles softly, the sound rich with amusement. "Hmm. Bodies, yes. But if they're too fragile, this one hopes you won't expect him to carry them home."

The corner of my mouth twitches in a faint smirk. "If they're fragile, they won't be worth carrying back."

I roll up the map with deliberate care, tucking it into my satchel. The firelight catches the edge of the table, casting long shadows that flicker across the walls. Inigo watches me with his arms crossed, his eyes half-lidded but sharp as ever.

"This one wonders," he says, his tone almost casual, "where you will find such brave fools. Whiterun is full of eager swords, yes, but not all are eager to delve into the crypts."

I sling the satchel over my shoulder and adjust the straps of my sword belt. "We're not looking for brave, Inigo. Just men willing enough to swing steel for coin."

He huffs a laugh, his tail swishing once. "Such men can be unpredictable. This one will keep a close eye on them—for both of our sakes."

"Good." I gesture toward the door with a nod. "Let's find what we need. This job isn't getting any easier."

Inigo straightens, his ears twitching as he falls in beside me. "Lead on, my friend. But if one of them screams at the sight of a draugr, this one will not hesitate to laugh."

I glance at him, grinning faintly. "Just try not to scare them off before we even get there."

We step into the corridor, the muffled sounds of the tavern drifting through the floorboards. The weight of the coming mission settles in my chest, what happens after Bleak Falls is….Mirmulnir. As we exit the room the main hall sprawls wide, its wooden beams stretching high overhead, darkened with age but polished to a faint sheen. A massive pit commands the center of the room, its roaring fire casting warm light that mingles with the golden glow of swaying lanterns.

Tables are scattered across the hall, some small and intimate, others large enough to seat ten men shoulder to shoulder. Most are occupied tonight—mercenaries nursing their mead, travelers sharing hushed tales, and merchants unwinding after a long day at the market. Mounted trophies loom over the patrons: a sabre cat's snarling visage, a frost troll's gnarled claws, and a sep adder skull that looks almost too large for the space it occupies above the bar.

The air smells of roasted meat, spilled ale, and smoke. It's loud, too—tankards clinking, chairs scraping, the low hum of conversation occasionally interrupted by bursts of laughter or the bark of a drunken argument. A bard plucks at a lute near the hearth, their voice lost beneath the din, but the faint rhythm threads through the chaos.

I stand near the entrance, taking it all in again with a smile. This isn't just a tavern; it's a gathering place, a crossroads for the dangerous and hireable. Perfect.

Inigo steps in beside me, his ears twitching as his sharp eyes dart around the room. His tail flicks once, lazily. "This one smells desperation, my friend," he says, his voice low but tinged with amusement. "Or perhaps that is just the mercenaries?"

I snort softly, my eyes scanning the crowd. "Both, probably."

Elrindir, the owner, mans the long bar off to one side, pouring drinks with practiced ease while his eyes dart toward every new patron. He gives mea faint nod of recognition but doesn't call out—he knows me by now, I use this place as a meeting place often enough.

"Come on," I mutter, gesturing toward the far end of the room where the crowd is a little thinner. "Let's see what we're dealing with."

We weave our way through the bustling tavern, the noise swelling as we move deeper into the hall. The warmth of the central hearth pushes back the lingering chill from outside, but it does little to ease the tension thrumming in my chest.

Inigo pads along beside me, his eyes constantly moving. He studies the faces of the patrons, his ears twitching at every burst of laughter or raised voice. His tail lashing behind him, the motion at odds with the sharpness in his gaze.

"This one wonders," he murmurs, his voice almost lost beneath the din, "how many of these souls are desperate enough to follow you into a crypt filled with draugr. Or how many would survive even if they did."

I grunt, my eyes settling on a table near the back of the room. A small group of men sits there, their weapons propped within arm's reach and their armor showing the wear of countless battles. "We're not looking for heroes," I mutter. "Just men with steel in their hands and enough sense to follow orders."

Inigo hums thoughtfully, his ears flicking toward the group I've chosen. "Hmm. Bravery and steel are easy to find in a place like this, my friend. But sense? That is another matter."

I ignore him, my focus narrowing as we approach the table. The men glance up, their conversation faltering as they take in the sight of me and Inigo. I don't miss the subtle shifts in their posture—the tightening grips on tankards, the slight straightening of backs. They're wary, but not hostile. Yet.

One of them, a burly Nord with a beard like Hagrid's, leans back in his chair. His scarred hand resting on the hilt of an iron sword lying across his lap. "Well," he rumbles, his voice gravelly and deep, "you don't look like city guards. What do you want?"

Inigo tilts his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies the man. "This one hopes you are better at swinging that blade than at guessing professions."

The Nord's brow furrows, but I step in before the conversation can take a sharp turn. "I'm looking for swords," I say simply, my tone even. "I've got coin, and I've got a job."

The Nord exchanges a glance with the others at the table—a wiry Imperial sharpening a dagger, his eyes flicking between us, and an Orc sitting back in the shadows, his expression unreadable. Finally, the Nord grunts, leaning forward. "Coin, huh? What kind of job?"

I fold my arms, letting my gaze sweep over the group. "The kind that pays well but that might get you killed."

The tension at the table thickens. The Imperial stops sharpening his blade, his fingers hovering over the edge of the dagger. The Orc shifts slightly, his axe catching the light as he adjusts his grip on the haft. None of them speak immediately, but their eyes stay locked on me.

"Draugr," I add, letting the word hang in the air like a blade waiting to fall. "Bleak Falls Barrow."

The moment the word "draugr" leaves my mouth, the group stiffens. The Imperial narrows his eyes, his dagger resting flat on the table as he leans in slightly. "Draugr? You're serious?"

The Nord snorts, his scarred face twisting into a faint grimace. "You've got to be joking. Those things don't die easy, and they hit like a mammoth. Why would anyone walk into their lair willingly?"

The Orc, silent until now, finally speaks, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate the air itself. "Coin," he says simply, his yellow eyes meeting mine without flinching. "He's paying for the risk. Question is—how much?"

I place a hand on the back of the chair across from them, leaning forward just enough to bring my face into the firelight. "Enough to make it worth your while, assuming you've got the guts and the skill to survive. Bleak Falls Barrow isn't a stroll through the tundra. If you come with me, you fight, you follow orders, and you take the pay. Simple."

The Nord rubs his beard, considering. His other hand remains on the hilt of his sword, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the worn leather. "Bandits, I've fought. Draugr, though…" He shakes his head, muttering something under his breath before looking back up. "You paying enough for that?"

I smirk faintly and reach into my satchel, pulling out a large pouch. The clink of coin as I set it on the table cuts through the noise of the tavern like a blade. The Nord's eyes flicker toward it, his posture straightening slightly.

Inigo, standing just behind me, chuckles softly. "This one wonders if your bravery grows with the sound of gold, or if it is merely a coincidence."

The Imperial is the first to break the tension. He grins, his dagger spinning idly between his fingers as he glances at Inigo. "Coin helps. A lot."

I lean back slightly, my arms crossing as I scan their faces. "You've heard the job. You know the risks. If you're not interested, say so now, and I'll find someone else."

The Nord grunts, his hand finally leaving the sword hilt to reach for his tankard. He takes a long drink before slamming it back down on the table. "Fine. I'm in. But if those draugr rip my arm off, I expect a bonus."

The Imperial shrugs, slipping his dagger back into its sheath. "I'm rather looking forward to this. Better this than chasing bandits through the woods."

The Orc doesn't move immediately, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer. Then, with a slow nod, he rumbles, "I'll come. But if this is a fool's errand, I'll take your coin and leave your corpse for the draugr."

Inigo hisses softly, his ears flattening against his head. "This one hopes your humor is better than your threats, green one."

I cut in before the tension can boil over. "Enough. We leave at dawn. Bring your gear and be ready. If you're late, you're out. I don't care how good you think you are."

As we leave, Inigo turns to me, his voice low. "These ones will do, my friend. But they fight for coin, not for loyalty."

"I know," I murmur, adjusting the strap of my satchel as we head for the door. "But we're not asking for loyalty. Just competence."

Outside, the night air bites against my skin, the city quiet save for the faint hum of torches along the walls. Inigo walks beside me, his tail brushing my leg as we descend the steps of the Drunken Huntsman.

"This one hopes your confidence is not misplaced," he says softly. "But if it is, you will not face the draugr alone."

I glance at him, a small smile tugging at my lips. "I know, Inigo. Let's just hope it doesn't come to that."

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The city gates stand tall and shadowed in the predawn chill, their edges rimed with frost. The air is cold enough to bite at my face, and the faint sound of the wind brushing through the quiet streets carries a hollow, expectant note. Inigo stands beside me, his tail swishing in rhythm with his breathing, and his eyes are sharp and watchful.

The mercenaries arrive early, before the sun truly crests the horizon. They move with the ease of familiarity, their steps synchronized, their silence carrying the weight of experience. The Nord leads, his broad frame bundled in a heavy bear pelt. The Imperial follows just a step behind, his hands stuffed into his cloak, a dagger at his belt and a shortbow slung over his shoulder. The Orc brings up the rear, his great axe slung over his shoulder.

"You're early," I note as they stop a few paces away.

"Figured it was expected," the Nord says, his voice low and gravelly. "Besides, we're not the kind to waste time."

The Imperial grins faintly, pulling his hands free to adjust the quiver buckled on his side. "Early birds and all that. Not much else to do at this hour."

The Orc says nothing, his gaze scanning the gates and the empty streets beyond. His presence is a wall of quiet intensity, but I can tell he's sizing me up again, testing my worth with every glance.

Inigo steps forward slightly, his tail flicking once as he addresses the group. "Punctuality is good. This one appreciates not having to wait."

The Nord grins, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "And here I thought you were just the sidekick."

"This one is much more than that," Inigo replies, his tone light but carrying an edge. His whiskers twitch as his gaze meets the Nord's. "But you will learn in time."

"Enough," I cut in, letting my voice settle the moment. "You're here, and that's what matters. From this point on, you take orders from me. Inigo speaks for me if I'm occupied."

The Nord nods, the grin fading from his face. The Imperial glances at the Orc, who offers a single, slow nod in response. They understand the chain of command. Good.

I adjust the strap on my satchel, glancing at the towering gates behind them. "The climb to Bleak Falls Barrow is rough, and the weather won't make it easier. Keep moving, keep sharp, and don't wander off. We camp once—maybe twice, depending on how things go. Stick together, and we might all come back in one piece. Any complaints?"

The Imperial chuckles, rubbing his hands together. "Complaints? Nah. Just wondering how long it'll take to freeze my balls off."

The Nord grins faintly, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "If you're that worried, stay close to the cat. Bet he's warm."

Inigo hisses softly, his ears flattening for a moment before flicking back up. "This one is not a blanket, nor a fire. But if you fall behind, the draugr will ensure you no longer feel the cold."

The Orc rumbles low in his throat, the faintest flicker of amusement breaking through his stoic demeanor. "We'll keep up. Let's get on with it."

I nod, gesturing toward the gates. "Good. Let's move."

The creak of the gates opening fills the air as we step into the frozen predawn. The road ahead stretches into darkness, the mountains looming in the distance like silent sentinels. My breath fogs in the cold as I adjust the map in my satchel and step forward, Inigo falling into step beside me.

"This one will watch them, my friend," Inigo says softly, his tail brushing lightly against my leg as we walk. "They are only mercenaries. Trust them only as far as their coin carries them."

"I know," I murmur, my gaze fixed on the shadowed path ahead. "Let's hope the coin carries them far enough."

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The fire crackles softly in the still mountain air, its warmth barely holding back the creeping chill of the night. The mercenaries sleep in uneven heaps around the flames, their breaths misting faintly in the cold. Shadows flicker across their weathered faces, and the occasional twitch of a hand or murmured word hints at uneasy dreams.

I sit apart from them, the whetstone rasping softly against my blade. The rhythmic sound is soothing, almost meditative, as I guide the edge of the steel under the pale firelight. The sword's surface gleams faintly, the flickering light catching on the snarling dragon that makes the pommel. For a moment, the fire's reflection dances in its eyes, turning the beast alive.

I pause, my hand stilling as my gaze lingers on the pommel. A dragon. A creature of nightmare and legend, the ultimate predator brought to life. And soon, if my knowledge proves correct, I'll face one. Mirmulnir—a lieutenant of Alduin himself. The thought twists in my chest like a blade, equal parts dread and exhilaration.

I'm not ready. That much is obvious. How could anyone be ready to fight a dragon? Yet here I am, sharpening steel as if it will make a difference against teeth like sabers and fire hot enough to melt stone—against something that wields the Thu'um. It feels almost laughable. Almost.

But it's more than just fear. Beneath the cold weight in my gut, there's something else—a flicker of purpose, of inevitability. For months, I've waited for this world to acknowledge me, to offer something more than petty fights and bounties, I had fallen into a comfortable routine. And now, the pieces are moving. My path, twisted and perilous as it may be, is finally unfolding.

The rasp of the stone fades into silence as I lower the stone, holding the blade up to inspect the edge. It's sharp enough to split a hair, though I wonder if it will feel as sharp when it meets dragonhide. My reflection stares back at me from the polished steel, distorted and shadowed by the flickering firelight.

Behind me, the camp is quiet save for the low hum of breathing and the occasional shuffle of a restless sleeper. The mercenaries are tough—survivors, each of them—but they have no idea what they've signed up for. Draugr, traps, bandits… those they might handle. But the overlord waiting in the inner sanctum? If they knew, would they still be here? Would they stand and fight, or would they scatter like leaves before the unrelenting storm?

The pommel gleams again in the firelight, the snarling dragon seeming to mock me. My grip tightens on the hilt, and I exhale slowly, forcing the tension from my body. Whatever lies ahead, there's no turning back. This is the path I've chosen, the one I will walk. Whether it leads to triumph or destruction… that is up to me.

The soft crunch of snow reaches my ears, pulling me from my thoughts. I don't turn immediately, already knowing who it is. Inigo's footsteps are light, almost soundless, but distinct enough to recognize. I wait for him to break the silence.

The crunch of snow grows louder as Inigo steps into the edge of the firelight. His silhouette flickers against the dancing flames, his ears twitching slightly as he surveys the sleeping mercenaries. For a moment, he says nothing, his sharp eyes scanning the camp before settling on me.

"This one hopes you are not trying to cut your worries away, my friend," he says, his voice soft but carrying that familiar playful lilt. "It does not work, you know."

I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I pick up the sharpening stone again. "Not worried, just thinking."

Inigo tilts his head, his whiskers catching the light of the fire. "Thinking can be as dangerous as a sharp blade if you are not careful. What weighs on you tonight?"

I hesitate, my gaze dropping back to the blade in my hands. The snarling dragon on the pommel stares back at me, but I push the thought of Mirmulnir aside. It's not something I'm going to share. "Just the task ahead," I say finally, keeping my tone even. "Bleak Falls Barrow is not like the bandit forts I have grown accustomed to."

Inigo hums thoughtfully, lowering himself to sit cross-legged beside me. The firelight dances in his wide, feline eyes, making them gleam like polished gold. "True, but you are not one to back down from unfriendly places."

"I've not yet faced anything quite like this," I murmur, running the stone along the blade's edge again. "The dead don't stay dead in places like Bleak Falls."

Inigo chuckles softly, his tail curling around his feet. "No, they do not. And this one prefers his enemies with beating hearts. But we will manage, my friend."

I glance at him, catching the faintest glimmer of amusement in his expression. He's trying to lighten the mood, to ground me in the here and now. And, in his own way, it's working. I set the blade aside, resting my elbows on my knees as I watch the fire flicker and dance.

"You sound confident," I say, my tone half-teasing.

Inigo grins, his sharp teeth flashing briefly in the firelight. "Confidence is important, my friend. Especially when the odds are against us."

I shake my head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "You're impossible."

"And yet, you keep me around," he replies smoothly, his voice warm with humor. He stretches, his movements fluid and catlike, before settling back into a comfortable position. "Because you know this one will watch your back, no matter what."

The sincerity in his tone catches me off guard for a moment, and I grin. "Just try not to put an arrow in it this time."

Inigo flinches slightly. "Ah, do not joke about that, my friend," he says, his ears flicking back, his usual confidence wavering for a moment.

I let the grin linger for a second before softening my tone. "You've proven yourself since then, Inigo. I wouldn't have you here if I didn't trust you."

His ears perk slightly, and his tail gives a small flick as he meets my eyes again. "Thank you, my friend. That means… more than this one can say."

For a moment, we sit in silence, the fire crackling softly between us. Then Inigo rises, stretching with the fluid grace of a cat, his silhouette outlined in the flickering light. He glances over his shoulder at me, his golden eyes catching the fire's glow. "Rest well, Melkorn. Tomorrow will be… interesting."

I watch him retreat into the shadows, his movements quiet but deliberate, as I turn my gaze back to the blade resting across my lap. I let out a slow breath, settling back into my thoughts.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The cold wind howls through the narrow pass, carrying with it the crunch of boots on frozen snow. The Orc—Rugak by name—trudges ahead, his great axe resting casually over one shoulder, while the Nord—Bjorn—lingers near the rear, shield slung on his arm and sword in hand. The mercenaries are unusually quiet, their usual banter replaced by tense glances toward the rocky cliffs looming above.

Inigo walks beside me, his keen eyes darting from shadow to shadow. His tail flicks sharply, betraying his unease. "This one does not trust the quiet, my friend," he murmurs under his breath, his voice barely audible above the wind.

I nod, my own gaze scanning the jagged rocks. The cliffs are steep and treacherous, a perfect place for an ambush—and I know there were bandits at Bleak Falls in the game. My hand tightens around the hilt of my sword, the hilt reassuring under my grip. "Stay sharp," I say quietly, more to myself than anyone else.

The silence shatters with a guttural roar that seems to come from everywhere at once. A massive form crashes down from a ledge above, landing amidst us in an explosion of snow and ice. The frost troll towers over us, its shaggy white fur bristling as it bares jagged teeth. Its black eyes lock onto us, filled with rage.

Its massive form barrels forward, claws outstretched. Before anyone can react, it's already upon us. A swipe of its arm catches Haldir mid-motion, ripping through his stomach with a wet, sickening sound. The Imperial collapses to the ground, his blood and guts steaming as it hits the snow. He clutches at his torn midsection, gurgling and writhing, but the damage is fatal.

I dart forward, drawing my sword and unleashing Sparks from my left hand. Jagged arcs of lightning rip through the air, slamming into the troll's chest. Its guttural snarl turns into a roar of anger as its eyes snap toward me, drawn by the sting of the attack.

"Over here, you bastard!" I shout, sword raised in mid guard. My heartbeat hammers in my chest as the troll fixes its attention on me, snow crunching loudly under its massive feet as it charges.

Behind me, Rugak and Bjorn freeze, their weapons half-raised as the reality of the fight sinks in. Blood pools rapidly beneath Haldir, his gurgling breaths growing faint. Their hesitation lingers for a heartbeat too long.

"Fight, or die!" Inigo's sharp command slices through the chaos. His voice carries the weight of steel, snapping the mercenaries out of their stupor.

Even as he barks orders, Inigo draws his bow taut and looses. The arrow whistles through the air, slamming into the troll's shoulder. It barely flinches, but the shot buys us precious seconds.

Rugak charges, his roar almost as loud as the troll's. His great axe swings in a wide, powerful arc, carving deep into the troll's thigh. The beast stumbles for a moment, its massive leg jerking back as black blood sprays across the snow. Rugak grins, already looping his axe into another strike.

The troll doesn't give him the chance.

Its massive arm swings out in retaliation, catching Rugak's axe mid-motion. The orc is thrown backward with bone-crushing force, his boots skidding across the frozen ground as he hits the ground hard. He groans, dazed, his axe still clutched in hand.

I don't hesitate. The thrill of the fight surges through me as I dart in, Sparks crackling in my left hand while my blade comes up. The troll's head snaps toward me, its glowing eyes narrowing as the electricity sears its chest. I step in close, slashing at its side, the blade biting into the dense muscle. The wound isn't deep, but it gets its attention.

Sparks leaping from my fingertips in another burst. The troll roars, its massive claws lashing out. I twist to the side, the strike grazing my armored pauldron but missing its mark.

The troll lunges, but I step back, flames already sparking in my hand as I prepare to shift spells. Its focus is on me now, and that's exactly where I want it.

The troll lunges at me, its claws flashing in the dim light. I sidestep, the movement instinctive, and counter with a slash across its side. Flames leap from my left hand as I pour them into the beast, the fire searing its fur. It roars, staggering for a moment, but its massive arm sweeps out in retaliation. I throw myself backward, the claws narrowly missing my chest, the force of the swipe sending air and a light flurry of snow streaming across my face.

The troll's black eyes catch movement to its side—Bjorn rushing in, shield raised. The Nord slams into the beast with everything he has, driving it back a step. The troll snarls, rearing up and bringing both arms down like hammers. Bjorn raises his shield to block, but the impact is too much. The wood shatters with a deafening crack, and Bjorn is hurled down, hitting the ground hard. He doesn't rise, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggles to recover.

Before the troll can finish him, I charge, sword flashing in an arc that bites deep into its arm. Flames ignite in my left hand, and I send them into the wound, the smell of burning fur and flesh filling the air. The troll roars in pain, spinning toward me with savage fury.

Rugak seizes the moment, his great axe crashing into the troll's side with a sickening thud. The beast reels, black blood spilling onto the snow, but it lashes out blindly, catching Rugak square in the chest and sending him flying into the snow, his axe tumbling from his grip.

The troll's attention snaps back to me, and it howls with rage. My sword comes up again, my grin spreading across my face even through the blood and death.

The troll's beady eyes lock on me as I dart in again, blade raised, flames coiling around my left hand. It snarls and surges forward. Its claws swing in a wide arc, faster than something so massive has any right to move.

Pain explodes in my chest. The impact feels like a battering ram, claws ripping through my plate and carving into flesh. I'm hurled backward, the world spinning violently before I hit the ground hard. My sword clatters from my grip, landing in the snow.

My breath catches, and I struggle to draw air past the searing agony in my chest. My hands scrabble weakly at the snow, blood soaking into the cold, white blanket beneath me. The edges of my vision blur, shadows creeping in as the troll's roar echoes in my ears. Somewhere in the haze, I hear Inigo shouting.

"Hold the line! Keep the ugly beast pinned!" His voice is sharp, commanding, cutting through the chaos like a whipcrack.

I grit my teeth, forcing my trembling hands to my belt. The glass vial of the greater healing potion feels slick with my blood as I fumble it free. My vision darkens further as I force the potion to my lips, the taste of blood bitter and metallic. The warmth spreads through me almost instantly, a flicker of strength returning to my limbs. My breaths come quicker, deeper, though the pain still lingers, a fiery brand across my chest.

The world begins to come into focus again, but everything feels… sharper. My heart pounds too loudly, like a drumbeat in my ears, and every pulse fans the embers of something buried deep within me. I feel heat coursing through my veins, not the comforting warmth of the potion but something hotter, more feral. My fingers curl into fists as I push myself upright, gasping through the lingering haze of pain.

Ahead, the troll is a blur of motion, its massive arms sweeping through the air like scythes. Inigo's arrows fall in a relentless rhythm, peppering its shoulders and legs, but the beast barely slows. Rugak fights like a man possessed, his great axe rising and falling with desperate fury. Bjorn tries to flank the creature, his shield gone, his sword shaky in his grip.

The fire inside me burns hotter, spreading to every corner of my body. My vision tinges red as I push myself to my feet, the snow beneath me steaming. My sword lies a few paces away, half-buried in the snow. I stumble toward it, each step sending fresh pain lancing through my chest. My fingers curl around the hilt, and as I rise, flames begin to lick at the blade.

The rage swells, undeniable and primal, and I growl. The troll turns, its eyes locking onto me once more. It snarls, rising to its full height as I step forward, the fire inside me roaring to life.

The fire ignites. Not just on my sword—inside me. It consumes me. My veins feel like molten steel. My flesh burns, but I'm alive. More alive than ever.

The troll roars. I roar louder.

I'm moving before it can strike. Faster. Stronger. The snow crunches beneath me as I close the gap. My sword and arm, wreathed in flames, slashes upward, biting deep into its chest. Fire surges from the blade into its flesh. It howls, clawing blindly at me. I dart low, the fire pouring off my body turning the snow around me into steam.

Its claws swipe again. I twist. Backstep. Sword coming down. The stench of burning fur and flesh floods the air. It reels, staggered but not stopping. It never stops.

Another slash, deeper this time. Black blood is on my lips. The beast roars, its rage matching my own. But I don't care. I can't care. There's nothing but this fight. Nothing but fire and death.

Arrows streak down, one embedding in its shoulder, another in its chest. Inigo's voice shouts something, but it's drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears. Rugak barrels into the troll's side, his axe splitting its leg with a wet crunch. The beast falters, falling to one knee, but it swipes wildly, catching Rugak's shoulder and hurling him back.

I don't hesitate. I lunge, sword leading. My blade drives into its back, flames crawling over it from the wound. The troll bucks, trying to throw me off. I hold on. My hand, engulfed in fire, slams against its neck. Heat scorches my skin, but I press harder. It shrieks, its massive body thrashing, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

Its claw catch my side. Pain lances through me, sharp and blinding. I falter, stumbling back, sword slipping from the troll. My grip tightens on the sword. My feet dig into the snow.

The troll lunges. I meet it head-on.

My sword plunges into its throat. Flames erupt, engulfing its head in a fiery inferno. The troll collapses, its body convulsing as the fire consumes it from within. Its final growl fades into a gurgling wheeze before it slumps forward, motionless.

It's over.

The flames around me flicker. The fire inside me dims, leaving my body trembling, raw, spent. My breaths come in ragged gasps. I stagger, my knees threatening to give way.

Inigo is at my side, his hand gripping my arm. "Melkorn, my friend," he says, voice low, steady. "You're alive. Stay standing."

I nod, the world still spinning, my gaze falling to the blood-stained snow. It's not over. Not yet. Haldir lies sprawled in the snow, his breath coming in short, gurgling gasps. Blood pools beneath him, dark and steaming against the frost. His eyes flicker open, glassy, unfocused, but they find mine. They plead.

I take a step closer, my chest heaving, legs trembling from the fire still coursing through me. My hand brushes the leather of my pack, where I know it rests—one more greater health potion. One drink could save him. I know this. He is under my command. My responsibility.

The thought twists like a knife in my gut. I want to save him. Every instinct screams at me to act, to fix this. But then cold reality sets in. That potion could save Inigo. It could save me. It could turn the tide of something greater yet to come.

The fire within me dims, replaced by a leaden weight in my chest. Haldir's shallow breaths grow fainter, each one rattling, struggling against the inevitable. My hand falls away from my pack, knuckles whitening around the hilt of my blade.

I kneel beside him, my voice a rough whisper barely carried by the cold air. "May Talos receive your soul."

His gaze wavers, the faintest flicker of understanding passing through his eyes as the blade moves in a single, smooth stroke. His body slackens, and the snow beneath him grows still.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this—the weight of my blade, the blood-stained snow, the heavy silence. Then I stand, my body moving on instinct, the fire still simmering faintly within.

Inigo's voice reaches me, soft and steady. "You did what had to be done, my friend."

I meet his eyes, sharp and knowing, but he doesn't know. Not truly. I force a breath, heavy and ragged, and turn back to the trail ahead. There's no time for weakness. Not here. Not now.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The fire crackles softly, casting flickering shadows across the camp. The mercenaries are quiet now, either tending to their gear or resting after the brutal fight. I sit a little apart from them, the weight of my armor heavier than usual—not on my shoulders, but in my mind.

I unbuckle the breastplate, setting it down with a muted clang. My eyes linger on the jagged puncture in the center. The troll's middle claw had punched through it like parchment, tearing through the plate, the chain beneath, and finally the padded gambeson that had been my last defense. I trace the twisted edges of the hole with my fingers, feeling the chill of the metal against my skin.

That beast—by the gods, it nearly killed me.

My thoughts drift back to the snowbank, where we'd stashed its massive corpse alongside Haldir. The troll's sheer size and weight had been a nightmare to deal with, even in death. Haldir's broken body rests with it, preserved by the snow for at least a few days. I tell myself it was the most practical solution, but the guilt gnaws at me all the same. I should have saved him. I could have.

I shake my head, trying to push those thoughts aside. My hand drifts to my stomach, where the flesh still feels tender and raw, though the potion had sealed the wound. The pain wasn't the only thing that came with the fight. There was something else. Something I never thought I'd feel.

The fire that had consumed me during the battle, searing and unrelenting, wasn't from the Flames spell I'd cast. No, this was something deeper, primal. The fire had felt alive, as though it were a living thing coursing through my veins, lending me strength beyond what I should possess. Ancestor's Wrath, the ability unique to the Dunmer.

But it shouldn't have been mine.

I'm not truly a Dunmer. I woke up in this world, in this body. The ancestors of this form have no reason to heed me, to lend me their strength. And yet, in that moment of rage, desperation, and pain, they had.

I glance back at the mangled armor, its torn edges reflecting the firelight. The spirits that lent me their fire had demanded a price. My muscles ache like they've been stretched and torn from within. My vision had darkened, the fire feeding off me like a parasite. I can't shake the unease—the sense that this power isn't a gift but a curse.

And yet, a part of me hungers for it. For the strength. For the fire.

I close my eyes and exhale, letting the cold night air cool my skin. The fire crackles, steady and unyielding, as though mocking my doubt. Whatever this power is, I'll need it again. Bleak Falls Barrow is ahead, and the overlord in the inner sanctum was likely the equal or better of that troll.

My gaze lifts to the firelight. The mercenaries are asleep, their faces pale and drawn even in rest. Bjorn's shield arm twitches as he dreams—probably reliving the shattering blow that took him down. Rugak snores softly, his axe propped beside him, gleaming in the moonlight, cleaned of black blood. I can't sleep. Not yet.

The firelight dances across my blade where it lies beside me, the dragon-shaped pommel gleaming faintly. My reflection stares back at me in the steel, but it doesn't feel like mine. I think of the fire, of the rage that consumed me. Ancestor's Wrath. I never thought I'd be able to call on it. I shouldn't be able to. I'm not Dunmer. I just… took one's body when I woke up in Skyrim. Yet, in that moment, it was mine.

"Why so grim, my friend?" Inigo's voice pulls me back, his steps light as he approaches. He settles across from me, his sharp eyes catching the firelight as he watches me intently. His tail flicks once, then curls beside him as he leans forward.

"Bleak Falls Barrow," I say simply, setting the armor piece aside. "What did you see?"

Inigo tilts his head, his ears twitching slightly. "Bandits. Many of them. This one counted at least fifteen, but there may be more inside. They are well-fortified, with barricades and sentries. They have made the ruin their own."

"How long have they been there, do you think?" I ask, my fingers tightening unconsciously on my sword.

Inigo considers for a moment. "Weeks, perhaps months. They are well settled."

I exhale slowly, my mind racing. Weeks. Months. It doesn't make sense. The timing is too convenient. My arrival in Skyrim, the giant, the troll—and now this. The claw flashes briefly in my thoughts, the faint memory of its shape carved into my mind. My fist clenches. And I don't respond. He slips back into the shadows as silently as he came, leaving me alone with the fire. My hand trails over the dented plate again, my reflection in the black steel barely visible. Dawn will come soon enough, and with it, blood.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The dawn spills its first pale light across the jagged remains of Bleak Falls Barrow. Frost clings to the skeletal ruins, painting them silver against the crisp blue of the morning sky. Snow crunches beneath my boots as I crouch low behind a cluster of frost-covered boulders, motioning for the others to hold their position. My breath fogs the air, steady despite the cold, as I survey the scene ahead.

The bandits have made the place their own—or so they believe. Two archers patrol the broken walls, their movements lazy but purposeful, while the rest huddle near the fires or loiter on the stone stairs leading into the crypt. Their defenses are better than I'd expected—makeshift barricades of piled rocks and timber funnel any attacker into a kill zone—but they're far from insurmountable.

Inigo settles beside me, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he comes back from his scouting. His tail twitches, the faint swish of it stirring the snow at his feet. "Thirteen," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "Two above, ten clustered near the entrance, and one just beyond the fires—likely a lookout."

I nod, my gaze lingering on the archers. They're comfortable, confident, but that confidence will be their undoing. My fingers curl around the hilt of my sword, the metal cool to the touch. "They're spread out, but they're watching the obvious routes. We'll draw their attention before we hit them."

Rugak shifts behind me, his great axe resting heavily across his shoulders. "A frontal charge would break them," the Orc rumbles, his voice a low growl. "They'd never see it coming."

Bjorn kneels nearby, his hands gripping his sword's hilt. The Nord's silence speaks volumes—he's ready, waiting for the command. His focus is unwavering, even without a shield after the troll's attack. I glance at him, then at Inigo, whose grin spreads as he catches my gaze.

The plan takes shape in my mind, the pieces falling into place. "Inigo, you take the left ridge and keep their archers busy. Rugak and Bjorn, you're with me. We'll use the rocks to cover our advance and hit them hard before they can regroup."

Inigo's grin widens. "Ah, this one does enjoy being the center of attention."

The mercenaries exchange nods, their silence an agreement. They know their roles, their purpose. This isn't their first fight, and it won't be their last—if they survive.

I rise, drawing my sword in a smooth motion. The steel catches the morning light. "Move fast. Move together. No hesitation."

Inigo vanishes into the shadows to the left, his bow already in hand. Bjorn and Rugak keep close behind me, their breath visible in the cold morning air.

A low whistle pierces the stillness—a signal from Inigo. I glance up to the ridge and catch the faintest glimpse of him, perched like a predator. The next moment, the twang of his bowstring echoes across the ruins, and one of the bandit archers on the walls crumples, an arrow buried deep in their throat.

Shouts erupt from the camp, panic spreading through the ranks as the bandits scramble for their weapons. The second archer spins toward the source of the attack, only for Inigo's next arrow to pierce her shoulder, sending them tumbling from the wall. The bandits near the fire rise to their feet, weapons drawn, but their movements are frantic, uncoordinated.

"Go!" I hiss, breaking into a sprint. Bjorn and Rugak follow, their weapons gleaming as we close the distance.

The bandits spot us just as we reach the base of the stairs. One of them, a wiry man with two daggers, charges forward, his blades flashing in the early light. I sidestep his wild swing and drive my sword into his chest, the steel punching through cloth and flesh. He gasps, blood spilling from his lips as I wrench my blade free and let him fall.

Beside me, Rugak lets out a guttural roar, his great axe sweeping through the air. It cleaves into the nearest bandit, splitting them from shoulder to hip. Blood sprays across the snow as Rugak pulls his weapon free, his crimson eyes blazing with battle lust.

Bjorn moves, his sword flashing as he parries a clumsy strike from a bandit wielding a rapier. With a swift cut, he drives his blade into the man's chest, the impact sending the bandit staggering backward before collapsing.

The camp is chaos now, the remaining bandits scrambling to organize. Two of them break off to climb the stairs toward the door, likely to retreat into the barrow, but a well-placed arrow from the ridge sends one tumbling back. Inigo's voice carries faintly over the fray. "Ah, your friends are quite clumsy today!"

Another bandit rushes me, an axe raised high. I step into the swing, my crossguard catching the haft and pushing it wide. My left hand ignites with lightning, and I thrust it into his chest, the sparks roaring to life as they engulf him. His body crumples in a twitching heap.

Rugak barrels into a pair of bandits, his axe swinging in wide arcs that force them back. One stumbles, and Bjorn finishes them with a clean stroke to the neck, his sword glinting as it arcs through the air. The last bandit near the fire turns to flee, but Rugak is faster. His axe slams into the man's back, and the bandit collapses with a strangled cry.

The skirmish ends as quickly as it began, the snow now stained red with blood. I lower my sword, my breaths coming heavy but controlled as I scan the camp. The last of the bandits lie still, their weapons scattered across the ground. Inigo emerges from the shadows, his bow in hand and a satisfied grin on his face.

"Ah, a fine performance," he says, his tail flicking behind him. "Though this one does wonder—are they always so easy to dispatch?"

"Usually," I reply. "They are only bandits after all."

Bjorn wipes his blade clean on the cloak of a fallen bandit, his face grim. Rugak lets out a low chuckle, his axe resting on his shoulder. "If they want to die easily, let them. Makes our job faster."

I nod, but my focus shifts to the entrance of the barrow ahead. The air grows colder, heavier, as the weight of the task ahead settles on my shoulders. This was only the beginning.

The snow crunches underfoot as we regroup at the center of the camp. Bjorn is already rifling through the scattered belongings of the bandits, his expression stoic as he checks for anything of value. Rugak stands over one of the bodies, his blood-slicked axe still in hand, while Inigo perches on a rock near the fire, casually inspecting his retrieved arrows.

I crouch near the edge of the camp, wiping my blade clean on the fur cloak of one of the fallen. The weight of the fight lingers in the air, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the crisp morning cold. My eyes drift to the barrow's imposing structure ahead, its jagged arches casting long shadows over the snow. The entrance looms dark and silent, like a maw waiting to swallow us whole.

"Check their supplies," I say, my voice sharp as I rise to my feet. "Anything useful—food, potions, gear—take it. We might need it."

Bjorn nods silently, pulling a small bundle of dried meat from a pack. Rugak tosses a rusted helmet to the side, muttering something under his breath about the lack of decent spoils. Inigo glances at me, his keen eyes narrowing slightly.

"This one hopes you are not thinking too deeply, my friend," he says lightly, though his tone carries a faint edge of concern. "You have that look again."

I huff a quiet laugh, sliding my sword back into its scabbard. "Just considering what's ahead."

Inigo tilts his head, his tail flicking behind him as he stands. "The dead are ahead. They will be restless, but we will be ready."

Rugak snorts, hefting his axe onto his shoulder. "Let them come. Draugr or not, I'll split them like the rest."

Bjorn's voice is quieter as he approaches, a small pouch of septims clinking in his hand. "This place feels wrong. Even before the fight, the air here... it's heavy."

I glance at him, then at the looming barrow. He's right. There's a weight to the place, an ancient malice woven into the stone. It presses against my senses.

"Then we don't linger," I say firmly. "We move in, we get what I came for, and we leave."

Rugak lets out a low growl of approval, while Bjorn simply nods. Inigo's gaze lingers on me a moment longer before he turns toward the barrow, his bow already in hand.

The ascent to the entrance is steep, the stone steps worn smooth by time and weather. The cold bites deeper as we climb, the wind howling faintly through the jagged arches. The camp below fades into the distance, swallowed by the landscape as we approach the barrow's dark threshold.

I place a hand against the ancient stone doors, their surface smooth and cold beneath my fingers.

"Ready?" I glance back at the others. Rugak tightens his grip on his axe. Bjorn sets his jaw, his hand steady on his sword. Inigo meets my gaze, his expression unreadable but his posture steady.

"As ready as we'll ever be," Inigo says quietly.

With a deep breath, I push against the doors. They groan in protest, the sound echoing into the dark as they slowly creak open. The air that greets us is stale and cold, heavy with the scent of decay and damp stone.

The faint light of dawn disappears behind us as we step inside, the shadows swallowing us whole. The barrow waits, its silence broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere deep within. I grip my sword tightly, the candlelight of my spell flickering to life in my other hand.

The doors creak shut behind us, sealing us within the ancient tomb.

 

[MandTeKad]

When you have a backlog of chapters, it is best to publish them at different times of the day, this way you will gain more visibility.

Click to shrink...

fair, if i ever write a different story and have a backlog ill remember that

 

[MandTeKad]

The hallway spits us out into a wide, open chamber. Torchlight flickers off the rough stone walls, throwing jagged shadows over the bandits scrambling to react. There are at least fifteen of them, maybe twenty—it's hard to count when they're shouting and fumbling for their weapons. My grin stretches wide. I've barely stepped into the room, but the thrill is already thrumming through my veins.

"Move!" I bark, my voice sharp and eager, and then I'm charging.

The first bandit barely has time to raise his sword before my steel cuts clean through his throat. He's dead before he even knows he's in a fight. The next one is smarter, coming at me with an axe in a wide, sweeping arc. I sidestep easily, summoning my bound dagger in a flash of violet light. The ethereal blade hums in my hand as I catch his follow-up strike and twist, opening his chest with my sword.

The heat of the fight burns through me, my heart pounding in time with the rhythm of blades and screams. Another bandit rushes in, spear aimed for my gut. I step into the thrust, my dagger sliding against the shaft to deflect it while my sword drives up through his ribs into his heart. He chokes and drops, and I'm already looking for the next target.

Behind me, I hear the clash of steel and Rugak roar. Bjorn's shield rings out as it slams into someone, and Inigo's bow thrums methodically through the chaos. I don't need to look to know they're holding their own. My focus is on the bandits in front of me—the weak, desperate fools. They're scattering now, fear carving through their shouts as they realize we aren't their average prey.

A woman with twin daggers lunges at me, quick but sloppy. I cut her down with a quick stroke down the center-line. She gasps, blood bubbling from her lips as she crumples. The joy thrums brighter, hotter, as I pivot to meet the next attacker.

I don't count how many I've killed. I don't need to. The rush of exertion, the burn in my muscles, the chaos of the fight—it's enough.

The chamber is a blur of movement and sound. The bandits try to rally, shouting orders that drown in the clang of steel and the roar of combat. It's pointless—none of them are good enough to rally the others.

Another bandit charges, swinging a mace. I meet him head-on, my bound dagger flashing to deflect the blow as I twist around him. My sword carves through his back, and he crumples to the ground without a sound. I keep moving, my body alive with the rhythm of the fight. Each step, each strike, feels perfect, like everything else fades except for this moment.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Inigo moving. His blade is a blur, slicing through bandits with surgical precision. One gets too close, and Inigo side-steps, his sword arcing upward in a single clean motion that drops the man where he stands. He doesn't even glance at the body before he's onto the next.

Bjorn isn't far off, his newly scavenged shield slamming into a bandit with enough force to send them sprawling. He follows up with a fast strike, and the bandit doesn't rise again. Another comes at him, and Bjorn blocks their swing before cutting them down. A blade scrapes across his arm, leaving a shallow cut, but he barely flinches. Rugak roars nearby, his strikes cleaving through bandits like they're nothing more than wheat at harvest. Blood sprays as his axe crashes down on another, sending them sprawling in two pieces.

I don't have time to think about them for long—a bandit with a spear is coming at me. His strike is slow as molasses and I'm stepping inside his reach, ramming my sword into his throat. He gurgles and falls, and I'm already moving. Another tries to flank me, but I catch their blade with my dagger and twist, disarming them. My sword carves through their ribs before they can recover.

The bandits are faltering now, their earlier bravery crumbling into fear. They start to break, some of them shouting for retreat. I feel a grin stretch across my face as I step toward them, my sword dripping crimson.

"Running won't help you," I mutter under my breath, charging into the next group.

They're scattered, disorganized, desperate now. It makes them slower, easier to pick off. My sword catches one in the chest, another in the head, dropping them one after another as I press forward.

I'm dimly aware of Bjorn taking another hit, this one on his shoulder, but he's still standing—his armor stopping the blow. Rugak takes a glancing blow to the side, but the blade doesn't even leave a scratch in his plate. Inigo is untouched, his movements a blur as he cuts down another two.

The last bandit crumples to the floor, gurgling as the light leaves his eyes. Blood pools around my boots, and the coppery stench fills the air. My breathing steadies, the adrenaline still thrumming in my veins, but the fire of the fight begins to dim. I flick the blood from my sword and glance around. They're all down. Weak. Predictable. Not even enough to break a sweat.

I know exactly what's waiting deeper in this crypt, but it doesn't make the frustration sting less. The bandits took everything from this chamber, just like I knew they would. No treasure, no potions—just blood and bodies now. Still, a part of me was hoping for something. Anything. Knowing doesn't make seeing it any better.

Bjorn is wrapping a strip of cloth around his arm where a blade clipped him. "Still standing," he says, his voice a rumble of satisfaction. "Hardly worth the trouble, though."

"They weren't supposed to be," I snap, sharper than I mean to. My grip tightens on my sword before I force myself to relax. I take a breath. "They're not what we're here for."

I glance at the others. Bjorn's arm is fine for now, and Rugak's grin tells me he's good to keep moving. Inigo is a shadow, unbothered by anything he just saw. They're ready.

"We move," I say, stepping toward the darkened corridor ahead. The others fall in behind me without question, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stone.

As the light fades and the air grows heavier, I can't help the flicker of irritation curling in my chest. I know this crypt. I know where the treasure is supposed to be, I'm aware in this world it likely won't be the same but still I wish there was something. A surprise. A challenge.

But there won't be. Not yet.

"Keep up," I growl, stepping deeper into the dark.

The next corridor stretches ahead, the faint flicker of torchlight from the chamber behind us fading into the gloom. My boots scrape against the stone floor, the sound echoing in the oppressive silence. I press forward, the weight of the crypt settling heavier with every step.

The others follow, their footsteps a dull rhythm behind me. Rugak grumbles something about the smell, and I catch Bjorn muttering under his breath about his shoulder, but I don't stop. The air grows colder, damper, wrapping around us like a heavy cloak. It smells of death and mold, and something else—something older.

We turn a corner. The sound of our approach stirs something in the stillness, a faint whisper of movement. I step into the chamber, sword in hand, and my eyes narrow as I take in the scene. There's a body slumped against the far wall, arrows protruding from its rotting frame. I kneel briefly to inspect him, catching a glimpse of what remains of his face. His jaw is slack, his skin sunken, and the faint stink of his death wafts up in the stale air. Arrows are sprouted from his chest, neck, and arm in a pattern that tells me all I need to know. He triggered the trap. Idiot. The pillar trap. I glance up where the answer should be– nothing, just crumpled stone.

The corners of my mouth tug into a grim smile. Simple enough. stepping toward the puzzle.

My gaze shifts to the pillars, their carved symbols worn smooth by time. Snake. Snake. Whale. The sequence is etched into my mind, but the mechanism is ancient, and even my memory doesn't make it less of a pain.

"This is the trap," I mutter, loud enough for the others to hear. "Stay back. Let's not end up like him."

I point to Rugak, jerking my head toward the nearest pillar. "Help me turn these."

The first pillar groans as we push it, the grinding sound cutting through the silence like a scream. It resists, every inch a battle between us and the rusted mechanism beneath. Rugak's muscles bulge as he heaves, and even I'm putting more strength into it than I expected.

"Damn thing's stuck," Rugak growls, giving it another shove.

"It'll turn," I snap, my voice tight with effort. "Just push."

Finally, it moves, locking into place with a dull clunk. I step back, my arm burning but my focus already on the next. We repeat the process, sweat prickling at my brow by the time the last pillar clicks into position.

I glance at the gate, my hand hovering near the lever. "This should do it," I say, casting a glance at Inigo. Rugak shifts his grip on his axe, clearly hoping something jumps out.

The lever creaks as I pull it, and I tense, waiting for the telltale sound of arrows slicing through the air to tell me my knowledge was wrong. The gate creaks open though, revealing a staircase that winds down into the dark. I step through, the faint echo of my boots on stone the only sound. The air here is growing heavier, colder, wrapping around us like a wet cloak. The light fades quickly behind us, the corridor lit only by my candlelight and the fires in the room behind us.

This should be where the first scraps of treasure show up, I think, my gaze scanning the walls as we descend. In the game, there'd be a chest here, maybe some potions—minor rewards for pushing forward. But now? Nothing. No chest. No alcove. Not even a hint that something might have been here once. Just bare stone and that ever-present stink of death. My irritation flares, but I grit my teeth and keep moving.

The stairs curve sharply, revealing the crumpled forms of three skeevers near the base. They're bloated and rotting, their fur patchy and slick with decay. One is sprawled on its side, the other two piled awkwardly in the corner like they crawled there to die. The faint reek of their rot hits me, sharp and sour.

"Wonder what killed these," Rugak says, his voice breaking the silence. He prods one of the corpses with his boot, wrinkling his nose.

"They're dead. That's what matters," I mutter, brushing past him. The creatures are barely worth a glance. In life, they were nuisances—annoying but weak. In death, they're just one more thing this crypt offers instead of something useful.

Candlelight floats just above my shoulder, casting shadows that dance and stretch along the curved walls. It's enough to light the way but not enough to chase away the oppressive weight of the dark.

Inigo's voice cuts through the quiet. "This one wonders too what killed the skeevers."

"Maybe they smelled Rugak," Bjorn quips, his tone dry. I catch his smirk out of the corner of my eye.

Rugak snorts, baring his teeth in a grin. "Keep it up, Bjorn. See what happens."

The banter helps ease the tension, if only a little, but my focus is already ahead. My mind keeps circling back to the missing chest, the lack of anything. The stairs finally end, spitting us out into another corridor. The faint glisten of webbing catches my eye, and I let out a breath. Next is the spider. At least I know what's coming.

The acrid smell of burning silk fills the air as the webbing covering the door curls and blackens under my flames. The edges glow faintly before crumbling into ash, leaving the path ahead clear. I step forward, the others following close behind. The weight of the place grows heavier, and the air reeks of rot and damp stone. My Candlelight spell flickers above me.

The first thing I notice is the webbing. It clings to every surface—thick, pale strands stretching like veins through the chamber. Shadows twist across the walls, barely revealing shapes wrapped in layers of silk. Bodies. Some big, some small, but all of them strung up and lifeless. Their features are completely obscured, hidden beneath the webbing. I keep walking, the soft crunch of debris under my boots echoing faintly.

"Is… someone there?"

The voice is faint and hoarse, cutting through the oppressive silence like a whisper in a tomb. I stop, my eyes narrowing as I scan the chamber. Another sound follows—something between a groan and a plea. "Help… please…"

The others freeze behind me. Rugak tilts his head, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. "Sounds like one's still kicking," he mutters, his voice low but tense.

"Quiet," I snap, my own voice hushed but sharp. The sound came from deeper in, beyond the web-draped bodies. I step closer, the light from my spell revealing more of the chamber.

The smell gets worse—sour and old, mixed with the unmistakable stench of death. Strung-up corpses line the walls like forgotten offerings, but now I understand. The spider's been keeping them here, saving them. That's why the voice is still there. That's why he's still alive.

The groan comes again, barely audible now. "Help… me…"

"Arvel," I mutter, the name slipping from my lips unbidden. I don't need to see him yet to know it's him.

The light shifts as I move forward, and the chamber opens wider. The tension in the air sharpens, pulling at the edges of my awareness. My hand tightens on my sword, my free hand ready to summon lightning at the slightest hint of movement. "Stay sharp," I growl, my voice barely louder than a whisper. The others nod behind me, their weapons drawn and ready.

The sound of something shifting reaches my ears—soft, deliberate, and coming from above. I don't need to look to know what it is. My grip tightens, the fire in my chest stoking hotter. It's here. My eyes flick upward as the dim light from Candlelight catches the faintest movement in the webbing above. It's there, waiting. Watching.

And then it drops.

The frostbite spider slams into the floor with a deafening screech, its massive bulk shaking the chamber. Its legs splay out, grotesque and glistening, each one as long as a man. I don't flinch. My sword is already in my hand, my body moving before my thoughts can catch up.

"Move!" I shout, but the spider is faster than I expected. It sprays a thick, sticky web that catches Rugak mid-step, pinning him to the wall with a wet thwack. He snarls, his voice a guttural roar as he struggles against the webbing, but it's too strong.

The creature lunges at me, its pincers clicking as it closes the distance. I sidestep, summoning Sparks into my free hand. The lightning roars to life as I hurl it at the spider's face. A few of its eyes burst to leak milky fluid, leaving the creature reeling with a high-pitched hiss.

It recovers fast, too fast, lunging again with terrifying speed. My sword flashes upward, intercepting its movement with a deep, slicing arc across its mandibles. Black ichor sprays from the wound, but the spider is relentless, bearing down on me with the weight of its massive body.

I plant my feet and step in, driving my blade upward into the soft underbelly of the beast. The impact jolts my arm, but I hold steady, twisting the sword as I push deeper. The spider screeches, a deafening, high-pitched sound that echoes off the stone walls.

It rears back, its legs flailing wildly. I rip my sword free, ichor splattering across the floor as I step out of its reach. The spider collapses to the ground, its movements jerky and erratic.

An arrow whistles past me, striking the spider cleanly between its many eyes. The impact sends its head snapping back, and it collapses with a sickening crunch. Its legs curl inward, twitching weakly before finally falling still. Silence returns to the chamber, broken only by the faint sound of Rugak grumbling as he tears himself free from the webbing.

"Damn thing got me good," Rugak mutters, brushing sticky strands off his armor. "Giant spiders. Always giant spiders."

I don't answer, my focus already shifting. The faint groan I heard earlier still lingers in the back of my mind. My eyes land on the cocooned figure at the far end of the chamber. It's smaller than the other bodies, more tightly wrapped. And alive.

"Focus," I growl at Rugak, stepping forward. My gaze never leaves the cocoon as I close the distance. "We're not done yet."

The faint groaning echoes through the chamber, weak and raspy. I step closer, there, strung up in the doorway is the source of the sound. His cocooned body twitches weakly, the faint rise and fall of his chest barely visible beneath the layers of silk.

"Please… someone… help," the figure croaks, his voice hoarse and desperate.

I stop just short of him, my sword hanging loosely at my side. His head turns toward the light, bloodshot eyes barely peeking through the gaps in the webbing. Gaunt cheeks, cracked lips, and trembling limbs—he's been here a while. Long enough to know he's running out of time.

"Whoever you are… get me out," he pleads, his voice cracking. "I can help you. I have… the claw."

The mention of the claw pulls my attention. My eyes narrow as I take in the faint glint of gold at his waist, just visible through the webbing. Arvel. Weak. Pathetic. A bandit like the rest of them.

"I know the way," he babbles, the words tumbling over each other in his desperation. "I'll share it with you! You'll need me to—"

I step forward, cutting him off mid-sentence. My sword thrusts cleanly through his throat, silencing him with a wet gurgle. His eyes go wide in shock, his mouth working soundlessly as blood bubbles up from the wound. The groans and pleas die with him, leaving only the soft, muffled sounds of his dying breaths.

For a moment, the chamber is silent again, save for the faint drip of moisture from the webs above. I pull my sword free, the motion smooth and deliberate, and step back. Blood seeps from the wound, staining the webbing around him. I summon Flames into my free hand, the fire crackling softly in the still air.

The webbing ignites with a dull whoosh, curling and burning away as the fire spreads. Arvel's body drops heavily to the floor, limp and lifeless, with a thud.

I glance at the others, who've been watching in silence. Rugak's expression is unreadable, but he lets out a low grunt, breaking the stillness. "Could've used him as bait," he says, shaking his head.

Inigo, as always, smirks, his voice tinged with dry humor. "Your mercy, my friend. Truly inspiring."

I spit to the side, wiping my blade clean on the tattered remnants of Arvel's shirt. "Bandits," I mutter, my tone flat. Would have betrayed me.

Arvel's body lies crumpled at my feet, blood pooling around his shattered remains. I crouch beside him, my hand reaching for the glint of gold at his waist. The Golden Claw comes free easily, its smooth surface cool to the touch. It's heavier than I expected, the metal catching the dim glow of my Candlelight spell.

But something is off. The claw is polished and gleaming, but… there are no symbols. No bear, no moth, no owl etched into the surface. Just clean, unmarked gold. I turn it over in my hands, my brows knitting together.

"What the hell?" I mutter, running my fingers along the smooth surface. The claw in the game was supposed to have the symbols carved into it—clear as day. This? This is just a gilded key, stripped of its secrets.

"You seem surprised," Inigo says, his voice low and amused. He watches me from the shadows, his bow still loosely in hand. "Did you expect something more?"

I don't answer, not immediately. My grip tightens on the claw as I turn it over again, searching for anything I might have missed. But there's nothing—no markings, no hidden mechanism. It's just a key now, stripped of the game's convenient simplicity.

I stuff the claw into my pack, my irritation simmering. This changes things, I think, though I don't know how yet. My gaze shifts back to Arvel's body, my attention caught by a bulge near his chest. Reaching down, I tug at the folds of his tattered webbing, pulling free a small, battered journal.

The leather is cracked, the pages warped and stained with damp. I flip through it, skimming over his scribbled ramblings about the claw, his supposed genius, and his plan to escape. Then I see it—a rough drawing of a door, its surface carved with symbols: a bear, a moth, and an owl. Beneath it, in jagged, barely legible writing, are the words: "The claw is the key."

I close the journal slowly. Useless, guess I'm reliant on my game knowledge.

"Anything useful?" Rugak grunts, brushing off the last sticky strands of webbing from his armor.

"Just enough," I say, rising to my feet. My gaze lingers on Arvel's lifeless face for a moment before turning away. "Let's move."

The air grows colder with every step, each breath turning sharp and visible in the dim glow of Candlelight. The crypt seems to close in around us, the oppressive weight of ancient stone and death pressing down harder than ever. My sword hangs ready in my hand, the faint scrape of my boots against the floor the only sound. Behind me, Rugak and Inigo follow in silence.

The faint glow of my light only illuminates a few feet ahead, leaving the rest of the corridor swallowed in shadow. I can feel it—a shift in the air, sharp and unnatural. My grip tightens on my sword, my muscles coiled as we press forward.

Then, it comes. A sound like stone grinding against stone, faint at first but growing louder, echoing through the crypt. My steps falter, my gaze snapping toward the darkness ahead. The sound repeats, closer now, the unmistakable scrape of something heavy being dragged open.

"Stay sharp," I growl, my voice low but firm. Rugak grunts in response, his axe already in his hands. Inigo's bow creaks softly as he knocks an arrow, his sharp eyes scanning the shadows.

The grinding stops, and for a moment, there's only silence. Then, from the darkness, they appear.

Glowing blue eyes pierce the gloom, burning with a malevolent light. The first Draugr steps forward, its movements unnervingly swift for something dead. Behind it, more Draugr emerge, their eyes lighting up the dark like embers scattered in the void.

"Here they come," Inigo mutters, his voice calm but laced with tension.

I don't waste time. I move first, closing the distance to the nearest Draugr. My sword flashes as it arcs through the air, meeting the creature's axe in a clash of steel. The impact jars my arm, the Draugr's strength catching me off guard. It's stronger than it has any right to be, and it presses forward, its glowing eyes locked onto mine.

I twist my blade, breaking the lock, and step into its guard. My crossguard punches through its temple in a crunch of bone. I don't stop to watch it fall—there are more coming.

"Keep moving!" I shout, my voice echoing through the chamber. Behind me, I hear Rugak let out a roar as he charges into the fray, his axe meeting the next Draugr with a bone-shattering blow.

The grinding sound comes again, louder this time, the faint twang of a bowstring cuts through the chaos, and I barely have time to react before an arrow whistles past me, catching Bjorn in the throat. His eyes widen in shock as his sword and shield slips from his grip, clattering to the ground. He stumbles, his hands clawing at the shaft, but the damage is done. Blood pours from the wound, spilling down his chest in a torrent. He drops to his knees, his mouth working soundlessly before he collapses forward, lifeless.

"Bjorn!" Rugak's roar reverberates through the crypt, a sound of rage and grief. He charges past me toward the advancing Draugr. His fury is a force of nature, each swing of his weapon driven by raw emotion. The Draugr don't falter, meeting him head-on with their weapons and glowing eyes.

"Stay focused!" I bark, my own voice sharp and cold. My anger simmers beneath the surface, controlled and deadly. "Mourn him later. Push forward!"

Another arrow flies out of the darkness, bouncing off Rugaks breastplate. He doesn't slow, stepping into the reach of a halberd-wielding Draugr. The undead warrior swings, its weapon slicing through the air, but Rugak deflects it with the haft of his axe. With a thunderous roar, he counters, bringing his blade down in a brutal arc. The Draugr's head explodes into shards of bone and ash, its body crumpling to the floor.

The archer fires again, its arrows slicing through the gloom with unnerving accuracy. Inigo moves to counter, his bowstring taut as he takes aim. His sharp eyes catch the faint gleam of the Draugr archer's glowing eyes beyond the reach of my light. He looses, his arrow flying true, and the Draugr archer lets out a guttural groan as it collapses into the shadows.

"One less," Inigo mutters, already nocking another arrow. His voice is calm, but there's a hard edge to it.

I cut down another Draugr, its sword clashing against mine before I drive my blade through its chest. Its glowing eyes flicker and fade as it crumples to the ground. The grinding sound of sarcophagus lids continues in the background, more Draugr emerging from the shadows. The crypt feels alive, its oppressive magic driving the undead to attack with relentless ferocity.

"Keep moving!" I shout again, glancing at Bjorn's still form as we press forward. There's no time to stop.

The Draugr press closer, their glowing eyes burning with malice. My grip tightens on my sword as I push forward, the weight of the crypt bearing down on us with every step.

Rugak barrels into the Draugr like a storm, clearly taken by his peoples battle rage, his roars echoing through the crypt. A spear-wielding Draugr moves to meet him. Rugak deflects the blow with the haft of his axe, the clash of steel ringing out as he steps into the creature's guard. With a savage swing, his axe crashes down, obliterating the Draugr's head in a spray of bone shards and ichor.

"Come on!" Rugak bellows, his fury unrelenting as he moves toward the next. A second Draugr rushes him, this one wielding a rusted sword. Rugak sidesteps the attack, his axe swinging in a wide arc that splits the Draugr clean in half.

The crypt feels alive, the grinding of sarcophagus lids and the scrape of Draugr weapons filling the air. Another arrow flies out of the dark, skittering off my helm.

"Inigo!" I call, nodding toward the archer. He doesn't need further instruction.

"I see it," Inigo replies, his voice steady despite the chaos. His bowstring snaps, the arrow flying into the gloom. The faint gleam of blue eyes flickers and vanishes, followed by the sound of a Draugr collapsing.

Another Draugr lunges at me, its glowing eyes locked onto mine. It moves with unsettling speed, its sword coming down in a vicious arc. I parry the strike, the clash reverberating through my arm, and step in driving my Bound Dagger through its eye, the glowing eyes dimming as the Draugr crumples to the ground.

Before I can catch my breath, another emerges from the shadows, its axe raised high. I summon fire to my free hand, Flames roaring to life as I hurl them forward. The fire strikes the Draugr square in the chest, engulfing it in flames. It lets out a guttural groan before collapsing into a pile of ash.

"Push forward!" I shout, my voice cutting through the chaos. "Don't let them corner us!"

Rugak answers with another roar and I hear Inigo hiss.

The Draugr fight with the training of ancient warriors, their strikes well placed. Their strength is startling—matching mine in every blow—but they lack my speed. I use it to my advantage, darting between them with sharp, decisive strikes.

The grinding of another sarcophagus draws my attention, a new wave of glowing blue eyes emerging from the dark. My jaw tightens.

The Draugr press closer, as we press forward. Ahead, the rhythmic whomp of swinging blades fills the air, their edges glinting faintly in the glow of my Candlelight. The mechanical hum of their motion reverberates through the stone, a stark warning of the next obstacle.

"Blades," Inigo mutters, his sharp eyes scanning the deadly trap ahead. "And Draugr behind us. Wonderful."

I glance over my shoulder. The Draugr are still coming, their glowing blue eyes a constant reminder of the threat we're leaving in our wake. There's no time to think—only to act.

"Rugak!" I bark. "Hold them here for a moment. Inigo, cover him."

Rugak lets out a guttural snarl, his axe slamming into another Draugr that had closed the distance. Bone splinters and ichor scatter as he roars, "Just don't take all day!"

I step forward, my gaze locked on the swinging blades. Their motion is steady, predictable—but the corridor is narrow, and one misstep could mean death. I take a breath, timing their rhythm, and dart through. The blade whistles past my shoulder as I slip through, my boots skidding slightly on the slick stone.

"Inigo, now!" I call.

Inigo moves with feline grace, weaving through the swinging blades with practiced ease. His footsteps are near silent as he emerges on my side.

Rugak doesn't wait for an invitation. His roar echoes off the walls as he barrels forward, charging through the trap without thought. A blade grazes his armor, leaving a shallow dent, but he doesn't falter. He bursts through the final blade, his breathing heavy.

Behind us, the Draugr follow. Their glowing eyes gleam in the dim light as they step into the corridor, weapons drawn. The first one moves too quickly, the blade catching it mid-stride. The sickening crunch of bone and metal fills the air as the Draugr is cleaved in two, its lifeless body crumpling to the floor.

The others hesitate for a moment, then, one by one, they press forward. The blades make short work of them, their bodies falling into pieces with each failed attempt. The corridor becomes a graveyard of shattered bones and rusted weapons, the rhythmic whomp of the blades the only sound.

"Good riddance," Rugak grunts, wiping the ichor from his axe. His gaze shifts toward me, his expression hard. "Now what?"

I take a moment to steady my breathing, my hand gripping the hilt of my sword tightly. "We keep going. There's no turning back now."

The crypt grows quieter as we regroup, but the oppressive weight of its darkness lingers. Beyond the blades lies another path, the air colder and heavier than before. The faint sound of rushing water echoes ahead, drawing us deeper into the labyrinth.

"Stay sharp," I mutter, leading the way. "This isn't over."

The oppressive weight of the crypt fades slightly as we step into the cavern. The air shifts—still cold, but fresher, touched by the faint breeze rushing down from the hole far above. Sunlight streams through the opening, casting pale beams across the glistening stones. The roar of the waterfall drowns out the distant echoes of the Draugr behind us, masking our labored breathing. For the first time since we entered this place, the sound of life returns.

The waterfall cascades into a shallow pool below, feeding a narrow, sloping path that spirals deeper into the shadows. Bones and broken weapons litter the ground near the water's edge, reminders of those who tried to make it through before us. It's a beautiful place, in its own grim way, but there's no time to appreciate it.

I take a few steps forward, letting the light wash over me as I scan the area. The slope downward disappears into the dark, promising only more dangers. My hand tightens on the hilt of my sword.

Things are different. The swinging blades, for one, had appeared far too early.

Behind me, Rugak exhales sharply. The clang of his axe hitting the stone draws my attention. He doesn't sit, but his broad shoulders slump as he stares at the rushing water. His face is set, hard as iron, but there's something in his eyes—something that wasn't there before.

"This isn't worth it," Rugak says, his voice flat but carrying over the waterfall's roar. "Two men down, and we're no closer to the prize. We turn back now, we live. Keep going, we're walking straight into the grave."

I glance at him, weighing his words. Rugak isn't breaking—he's too experienced for that—but the frustration and doubt in his tone are clear. I don't respond immediately, letting the sound of the water fill the space between us.

"You knew what you signed up for," I say finally, my voice even. "You got your coin."

Rugak's eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think he's going to say something else. But instead, he grinds his teeth, looking back at the sloped path leading further into the dark. He huffs, then growls under his breath, muttering to himself.

There's something in his eyes—a flicker of doubt, of frustration, and something else. He picks up his axe with a grunt, his fingers curling around the haft like he's trying to crush the damn thing.

I step forward, meeting his gaze with a cold, steady stare. "If you turn back now, you'll die alone. You'll die a coward." I glance back at the path leading deeper, my voice low but resolute. "Your choice."

He pauses, his expression unreadable, but after a long moment, Rugak nods, though it's begrudging. "Fine. Let's finish it, then."

Rugak doesn't say anything more, but his body language shifts. The anger is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but his resolve has been steeled again. He grips his axe tighter and starts walking, not looking back.

Inigo falls in behind him with a sigh, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. "Good. Inigo likes you better when you're not sulking," he mutters under his breath.

I nod to myself, then turn and head down the sloped path, my steps purposeful and steady. The light from above fades with every step we take, the shadows thickening as we move further into the belly of the crypt. The damp, cold air presses against us, and the sound of water rushing down below starts to recede. Ahead, the path spirals downward, and the oppressive silence of the crypt surrounds us once more.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

We step into the next chamber, and the air shifts—colder, heavier. The faint light from the waterfall fades behind us, swallowed by the oppressive stone walls of the crypt. The first thing I hear is the sound of water, now distant, swallowed by the deep echoes of the cavernous chamber ahead.

Lanterns swing from the ceiling, casting sickly yellow light that barely touches the farthest reaches of the room. The shadows stretch long and cold, dancing across the stone floor. It's quiet for a moment, too quiet, before I hear it—movement in the dark.

My grip tightens on my sword, every sense alert. The floor here is uneven, covered in the remnants of ancient battles. Bones, cracked armor, and discarded weapons litter the stone, remnants of those who thought they could conquer this crypt.

The far end of the chamber is cloaked in shadow. Up above, I catch glimpses of movement—figures shifting behind wooden barricades, their eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Draugr. Archers.

"Inigo," I say quietly, nodding toward the ledges. His sharp eyes flick to the movement above.

"Got it," Inigo murmurs, already nocking an arrow. His form shifts as he takes a position behind the nearest pillar.

I scan the ledges, calculating the distance to the platforms where the Draugr archers are likely hiding. The wooden walls give them perfect cover, and we have no way of knowing how many are up there.

"We'll have to press forward. The archers won't let us take our time." My voice is low, steady, focused. "We need to get them down before they take us apart."

Rugak gives a grunt, but he doesn't argue. His heavy footsteps are the first to echo in the chamber as he moves toward the middle of the room, axe raised high, ready to charge.

Inigo, as usual, stays back. His eyes flicker to the ledges and then to me.

"Cover me."

"Always, my friend."

Without waiting for more, I step forward, my sword raised. The tension in the room is palpable, like the crypt itself is holding its breath. Then, as I near the center of the chamber, the first Draugr moves.

The Draugr's movement is swift, and its glowing eyes fix on me with a malicious hunger. It leaps from the ledge, its sword raised high. I don't waste time. I move to meet it head-on, Its eyes burn with fury, but its sluggish movements can't match my speed. I slice through its neck in one fluid motion, the creature crumpling into a heap at my feet.

"One down," I mutter under my breath, my grip tightening on the hilt of my sword. But I know better than to think this will be easy.

From above, the Draugr archers make their move. Arrows whiz through the air, narrowly missing me. The first one strikes the stone behind me with a thunk.

I'm already moving toward the cover of a nearby pillar.

Rugak's axe swings in a wide arc, sending one of the Draugr rushing toward him flying back. He snarls, pushing forward into the fray, his massive frame an unstoppable force. I can see the fury in his eyes—he's fully in an Orc bloodrage.

I glance up, catching a fleeting glimpse of the Draugr archer crouched behind a barricade, its arrow already nocked and ready to loose. Before I can react, Inigo lets an arrow fly, hitting the Draugr square in the chest. The undead creature lets out a harsh, gurgling sound, its body collapsing over the ledge, disappearing into the darkness below.

"One less problem," Inigo comments, moving into position for another shot.

But more Draugr continue to emerge. One by one, they rush in with swords and axes, others still hanging back, arrows filling the air.

"Keep moving, don't let them group up!" I bark, my voice loud enough to be heard over the growing cacophony. I raise my sword, stepping into the next Draugr that approaches, my blade flashing as it cleaves through its midsection.

Inigo moves with a purpose, his arrows finding their marks with ease, each shot taking down another threat from above. But there's no time to catch a breath. The Draugr come at us like a tidal wave, their eyes burning with ancient malice. The sound of their feet scraping across stone mixes with the crack of arrows hitting stone and the clang of metal on metal. I don't have time to think—only to act.

A Draugr wielding a battleaxe lunges at me, its glowing eyes locked onto mine as it brings the weapon down in a savage arc. I sidestep, the blade missing by inches, and thrust my sword forward. It connects with the Draugr's side, cutting through rotting flesh with ease. The undead warrior doesn't even falter. Only damage to its structure or brain will stop it.

The creature swings again, but I'm already on the move. I use my momentum to pivot, bringing my blade up to parry its next strike. I force the Draugr back, stepping into its guard to drive my Bound Dagger through its ribs and into its heart.

My focus shifts to the next Draugr charging toward me. It's another swordsman. I move to the side just as it swings its blade, and I thrust mine through its chest. The Draugr lets out a hollow groan, its sword falling to the ground as it crumples to the stone.

Just as I think we're making progress, I hear the unmistakable sound of more Draugr emerging from the shadows. The first one steps forward, its armor rattling, its sword raised high. And then more follow, all from different directions. The horde is growing.

My voice cuts through the chaos again, "They're not stopping. Keep moving!"

I step back, scanning the battlefield. We're surrounded now, with Draugr pressing in from all sides. My mind races. We can't let them pin us down.

"Rugak, Inigo! Stay tight!" I yell, trying to maintain some semblance of order in the chaos. The fight is rapidly turning into a mess of steel, rotting flesh, and flashing eyes.

The Draugr seem endless. Their glowing eyes gleam in the darkness as they press in from all sides. It's hard to keep track of who's fighting where. The air smells of blood, sweat, and the faint, musty stench of decay. But there's no time to focus on anything but the fight. My sword cuts through the air again, the edge biting into another Draugr's rotting flesh. It falls with a thud, but as soon as it hits the ground, another steps in to take its place.

Inigo's voice comes from behind me, a sharp command. "Move left! There's an opening!"

I don't need to be told twice. I pivot on my heel, my sword cleaving through another Draugr that steps in front of me. Rugak is right behind me, cutting down a Draugr with one brutal swipe of his axe. His heavy steps echo through the chamber as he roars in fury, clearing the path.

"Push through!" I bark, moving towards the stone pillars at the edge of the chamber. We need to get through, get a handle on the situation. We can't keep up this pace forever. We don't even have time to use any potions to keep us in the fight.

I turn and press forward. We charge at the closest cluster of Draugr, slashing and cutting, driving them back with all the strength we can muster. Inigo is a hailstorm of arrows, each shot finding its mark and clearing a path ahead. The archers up on the ledge are becoming fewer, but there are still enough to be a threat.

A Draugr warrior with a warhammer steps forward, swinging its weapon with a decent speed. I barely avoid the first strike, ducking just in time as the hammer tears through the air above me. I retaliate, driving my sword into its side, but it keeps coming. Another strike. I twist, and then I'm on the move again, my bound dagger driving deep into the Draugr's eye as I press in. It crumples in a heap, but I don't have time to catch my breath before the next one comes.

Inigo calls out from behind me, his voice calm even as the battle rages around him. "We're almost through. Keep pushing!"

The tide is turning. The Draugr are falling faster now, their numbers thinning.

The last Draugr crumples to the floor, its body a twisted heap of rotting flesh and broken bone. I don't wait to watch it fall. My sword drips with dark ichor as I turn, scanning the chamber. The sounds of battle fade, the roar of the waterfall once again the loudest noise in the room. My heart is still racing, but my mind is sharp. There's no room for complacency.

Rugak, breathing heavily, wipes his brow with the back of his hand, blood splattered across his face. His axe is coated in the same foul ichor that's stained my blade. He pulls a stamina potion from his pack, downing it. I follow suit, feeling the energy surge through me, soothing tired muscles and rejuvenating overworked nerves.

Inigo, always composed, adjusts his quiver, his eyes scanning the shadows above. He keeps his voice low, a wry note in his tone. "Well, it seems we've cleared this lot. But I wouldn't be too eager for a victory feast just yet."

I nod, my hand still gripping the hilt of my sword. "We're not done yet. I can feel it."

The shadows around us seem to grow deeper as we catch our breath. The air is cold, but there's a warmth in the steady pulse of our hearts. We've survived this part, but the crypt still looms ahead, darker and more sinister. And something tells me that the worst is still to come.

"Let's move," I say, my voice low but firm. "We can't linger. There's something else in here, and it's waiting."

We move cautiously, our steps now deliberate, our senses heightened. The cavernous chamber feels different now, the silence pressing in, as if the very walls are watching us. The lanterns above flicker in the stale air, casting eerie shadows across the stone. The ground is littered with the bodies of the fallen Draugr, but the overwhelming feeling of death isn't yet gone.

I take the lead, moving toward the far side of the room where the stone doors loom ahead.

Rugak falls in beside me, his heavy steps muffled by the stone. "You think this is it? The end?"

I don't answer immediately. Instead, I glance over my shoulder at Inigo, who's still scanning the area, his eyes sharp. "No," I say, voice curt.

We approach the doors, the ancient stone seemingly untouched by time. There's no sign of a trap, no hidden mechanism that I can see—but that only makes me more cautious. The last thing we need is to walk right into another ambush.

With a deep breath, I push the door open.

The hallway grows tighter as we move down the narrow stone path. My Candlelight spell flickers against the surrounding darkness, barely enough to reveal the shape of the walls. The air gets colder with every step, a biting chill seeping through my clothing and into my bones.

As we reach the end of the hallway, the stone opens into a larger space. I glance ahead, noting the two pillars rising like silent sentinels in the gloom. The sense of foreboding that's been building finally snaps into place as a shape stirs in the shadows between the pillars. It's a Draugr, but this one feels different. It stands taller, its movements unnervingly fluid for something so old and dead.

The Draugr's glowing blue eyes lock onto me, and the coldness in the air thickens, pulling the temperature down sharply. I can feel the magic pulsing from it. The Draugr raises its hand and the temperature plunges further. I feel the weight of the frost creeping into my joints.

It releases a blast of ice toward us—a sharp, violent wave of freezing magic. The air crackles with the force of it, and I don't wait to be caught in the blast.

I raise my hand. Flames burst forth to meet the Frost in an eruption of steam, swirling around us in a momentary burst of light and cold as I push forward, keeping the frost contained with Flames as my sword arcs down. The Draugr stumbles back with a cut on its chest, leaking black sludge. Its wave of Frost cuts off, but the Draugr doesn't retreat. Instead, it raises its sword, preparing for the next strike.

The Draugr's sword swings down at me, fast, and I meet it with my own blade, the impact sending a jolt through my arms. I step to the side to absorb the force and keep my footing, then press forward with a quick strike. But the Draugr isn't as slow as I'd expected. Its sword snaps up to parry, and I barely manage to shift my swing just in time, the edge of my blade grazing its armor but not cutting deep.

The Draugr grins—or what remains of its face twists into something like a grin—as it presses its attack. I dodge another swing, the blade missing me by inches, but the cold bite of its weapon still lingers in my bones. I can feel the frost seeping into my skin with every near-miss.

I need to finish this quickly.

With a flick of my wrist, I conjure my Bound Dagger into my left hand. It materializes as I raise it, ready to parry. The Draugr swings again, its sword aimed straight for my head. I meet the strike with the dagger, blocking it with precision. The impact is sharp, sending a shiver down my arm, but the dagger deflects the blow just enough to open up a window.

While the Draugr's blade is off balance, I drive my sword forward, the point sinking deep into its side. The Draugr lets out a low, rattling hiss, black sludge leaking from the wound.

It raises its sword again, and this time, it's faster. I parry with the dagger once more, the smaller blade sliding under the Draugr's weapon to redirect its blow, and then I strike with my sword, this time aiming for the exposed joint in its elbow armor. The Draugr stumbles back, ichor dripping from its wound, but it doesn't give up.

The Draugr steps back, its chest heaving, but its eyes burn with relentless malice. It raises its sword again, though it's clearly wounded. It takes a step forward, its movements slower now, but still deliberate, ready for another strike. The frozen air around us crackles as it resets its blade.

I step forward to meet it, bringing my sword into a high guard. The Draugr swings down, its sword coming down in a brutal arc. I parry with my dagger, deflecting its strike just enough to create an opening. Without hesitation, I drive my sword down, its arm flying away into the darkness.

An arrow streaks over my shoulder, the flight of it near-silent, and in a split second, I feel the sharp thud of it landing. The arrow buries itself deep in the Draugr's eye, the force of the shot knocking its head back. The Draugr stumbles, its sword dropping from its hand as it crumples, its glowing eyes dimming. It crashes to the ground, lifeless.

I take a slow, deep breath, my chest rising and falling with the rush of adrenaline still flooding my veins. My sword is covered in blackened blood, and the bound dagger fades from my hand as I cut off the flow of magic, feeling a pang in my chest.

Nearly out. I pop a minor Magicka potion; the glass is cool against my lips, and as I down it, a slight tingle courses through me. It spreads outward like a ripple on a still pond, power filling my body again. The weariness in my mind ebbs, replaced by a steady, growing clarity. My reserves aren't fully restored, but I can feel the faint hum of magic stirring within, ready to answer my call once again. Inigo steps up beside me, his expression cool as ever, though a small grin tugs at the corners of his lips.

The hallway opens up, and ahead of us, the ornate stone door looms like a barrier between the unknown and what we've come for. Its surface is covered in intricate carvings—ancient symbols that seem to pulse with a faint, otherworldly energy. The flickering torchlight from behind barely touches the surface, but I can still make out the details: animal motifs, twisting runes.

We've reached the door, and the air feels heavier, thicker, like the very weight of the stone is pressing down on us. The sound of the waterfall behind us fades away, swallowed by the eerie silence that fills this chamber. This is no ordinary crypt. This place, this sanctum, is something else entirely. There's power here—ancient power.

I step forward, reaching for the Golden Claw that has been tucked safely in my pack. The weight of it in my hand feels familiar now. I examine the door, my eyes scanning the runes etched into the stone. I know the sequence of symbols—the bear, the moth, and the owl.

"It's the same," I mutter under my breath, my fingers already moving to rotate the rings on the door to what I remembered from the game. The rings are ancient, heavy, the stone rough beneath my fingertips as I twist them into place. First, the bear. Then the moth. Finally, the owl. The mechanism clicks into place with a low groan, and the massive door starts to move.

The stone grinds against the floor as the door shifts, its weight making the entire room shudder. The grinding sound is deafening, echoing through the chamber like the growl of some ancient beast awakening from a long slumber. Slowly, the door opens, revealing the sanctum beyond.

I step forward and the heavy door slams shut behind us with a resounding crash, sealing us inside. For a moment, everything is still—just the hum of energy, the weight of something ancient pressing down on us.

"Inigo has a bad feeling about this," Inigo said, whiskers twitching

As if in direct response, the torches mounted on the walls flicker to life with an eerie, unnatural blue flame. The cold, pale fire casts twisting shadows across the room, bathing the stone in an otherworldly glow. The flames seem to burn with a life of their own, flickering and dancing without any source of heat. They bathe the chamber in an ethereal light, casting the immense room into sharp relief.

And what I see before me is nothing like the game.

The sanctum is vast—the walls stretch up higher than I can see, lined with statues of ancient warriors—stone figures frozen in time, their faces cold and emotionless. These warriors stand guard, their weapons raised high, as if ready to strike at any moment. There are dozens of them, each one carved with painstaking detail, their armor designed for battles long past.

The room feels like it could swallow us whole—it is at least the size of the football field at Lucas Oil Stadium.

But my eyes are drawn to the far end of the room, where the wall stretches out in a wide arc. It's covered in sprawling runes, one glowing faintly with that same eerie blue light that now fills the chamber. The symbols twist and shift in a way that's hard to follow, and something in me pulls toward them—a compulsion, a tug at my very soul, like the wall is calling to me.

Without thinking, I let my Candlelight flicker out. The room is bathed in blue fire now, and the air seems charged.

And then, just as I begin to focus on the runes at the back, I hear it. A sound, like stone scraping against stone, echoed through the room. The rasp is slow but deliberate, coming from somewhere deep within the center of the room, from the ornate sarcophagus in the center of the chamber.

Shit.









AN

So, on this chapter that sends me past 100k i'm going to respond to a few reviews

These first 2 sorta add together

Damien NightFall
I'm rather confused why he assumes he should be able to already wield Fus? In the game the meaning of the word is learned from the Wall and then filled in by the dragonsoul
And
Ace gaming
Waiting for the metaknowledge abuse. Hope you don't just stick to the game plotline.

This is a true self-insert story, and the character's knowledge reflects my own. As of about a week before I started writing this (literally the day I posted the first chapter), I hadn't played Skyrim in years. His knowledge is genuinely fuzzy
The world is an alternate universe. It's truly different from the game. If it were identical, he'd be able to acquire power far too quickly, which wouldn't serve the story I want to tell.
Some aspects of this world, like the Daedric Princes, are things he wants to avoid for as long as possible. This isn't a game where interactions are scripted; in this world, these beings have true agency, which makes them far more unpredictable and dangerous.

IRTendor
After all those playthroughs, it feels quite weird to see Inigo talk in third-person... In the game , he even tells the reason why he doesn't speak like other Khajiits


I genuinely didn't realize he had a reason. I thought the mod creator forgot the lore—I'm still playing through with him as a modded companion for the first time—so this is 100% my bad. That's also one of the reasons I made this AU—so little lore slip ups can instead be part of the world and not just a mistake.
And I am slowing down now that I've beat the challenge Smurf gave me to reach 100k in 10 days

Oh, I also opened up a patreon, https://www.patreon.com/c/MandTeKad
If you want to support me you can join, I will likely use the funds for helping pay for things like fanart.

 

[Tili]

Interesting.

You've listed the Stormcloaks in the tags, but not the Imperials. Does this mean the MC will be siding with Ulfric?

That would certainly be different from most Skyrim fics.

 

[MandTeKad]

Does this mean the MC will be siding with Ulfric?

Click to shrink...

Yup

 

[MandTeKad]

Accidently posted this in SFW, reposting in NSFW

 

[Revanandfriends]

Oof siding with Ulfric, the real way to side with the Thalmore. Always feels weird to me to join the stormcloaks when not a Nord.