She woke, again, with a face-full of snow.

“Wake up,” someone said, and she did. Coughing, and blinking through the cold, she saw that cloud blue again.

Not dead, then.

Ralof’s concerned face stared down at her. He waved a hand across her vision, and she pushed him away with a weak arm.

“Stop. Stop, I’m awake.”

“Thank Talos, girl. You gave me quite a- wait.” His head shot up, his finger on his lips. She heard nothing above the ringing in her ears. Her head felt as though it had picked a fight with a hammer. She lay on the ground and moaned. Everything ached.

But her thoughts were quiet. Too quiet. Suspiciously quiet. This was not normal.

And when that black shadow fell over them once more, she wanted to curl into a ball and await screaming death like a mouse before an eagle. She closed her eyes and saw those laser-red eyes. That consciousness that transcended animal and leapt claw-first into evil.

But the flames never came.

As the dragon roared, it echoed from the landscape beyond, growing quieter. She opened a single eye and saw it. Scaled wings like knives, cutting through the sky. It should have been an impossible feat, for something so massive to move so gracefully, and yet it did.

The pair watched, Ralof hunched behind a rock and her from her prone position in the dirt and snow. As the dragon flew away and disappeared into the mist over a distant mountain peak, quiet fell upon them. Seconds passed and a bird called out. Another responded, and she realised there was a breeze. She could hear her own breathing. The ringing in her ears subsided.

Safe, for now, whatever that meant.

“Looks like he’s gone for good, this time.” Ralof said.

“Ralof,” she said, and he scuffled over to her.

“How do you know my name?”

“I’m not sure I can stand up, can you help?” She raised an arm, and the confused looking hulk of fabric and chainmail blinked twice before lifting her to her feet.

And then she looked around, and almost fell over again.

The cave had spat them out on the side of a hill. A trail ran away from the opening, lightly trodden by people or bears, or both. It ran away and disappeared into a copse of evergreens, flanked either side by boulders and jutting rock formations, berry bushes and other lush flora. Beyond the trees immediately ahead of them, rows of snowy mountain peaks like teeth ringed and writhed across the landscape. The gentle blue shimmering of a lake peeked out from between the treetops.

“Wow…” she said. It was beautiful.

She’d expected to emerge into a frozen hellscape, scattered with hungry animals and murderous soldiers. And dragons. But this – this was like a fantasy. A Nordic heaven. A tundra paradise.

Ralof had already started down the trail, trotting and trailing a tiny landslide of pebbles as he went. He was saying something about Imperials and a sister.

Looking down, she realised she was clutching a small bottle in one hand. It glinted a vibrant red in the cold sunlight, which revealed a gentle bubbling, watery liquid within. “Weird.”

She took a single step, and something clanked at her hip. She looked down again to see an axe, looped through a rope belt that tied her rough canvas tunic round her slight hips. The thing was heavy, its leather handle wrap rough against her tracing fingers. A disjointed memory flashed across her unconscious - yanking it from the loop on the dead rebel’s belt. She looked over the blade. It was a simple thing, as far as she could tell. She could see the many dents that a hammer had made during its creation, and it looked sharp enough to cut … well, whatever she needed it to. With a tentative finger, she prodded the blade’s edge.

As they descended the trail, the trees grew thicker and more vibrant, and the small copse turned into a forest. Frosty dew clung to deep green ferns. A butterfly fluttered and floated among a bush of small, reclusive flowers. Hard ground crunched between her bare toes and caught in the impractical footwraps that barely protected her soles from the sharp stones underfoot.

A prisoners garb. More memories flooded in: a prison cart, a headsman’s axe, the confused face of a child. Dragonfire. Red eyes.

She jumped and then laughed, and then clamped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment, as a rabbit revealed itself, rustling through bushes to her left and darting back into the cover of the undergrowth.

It was almost enough to make her forget about the cold. Though, as they jogged deeper into the trees, the sharp wind was netted and subdued by pine needles and foliage, replaced instead with a light breeze.

“You know,” Ralof spoke, his words carrying in the wind. “You should come to Windhelm with me, and join the fight to free Skyrim.”

She frowned. “Me?”

“Yes.” He said, mulling over his words as he spoke. “We can always use more hands, and you’ve seen the true face of the Empire, here, today. If anyone will know what the coming of the dragon means, it’s Ulfric.”

She let the words linger in the air, unsure whether he was going to explain more.

Ulfric – the huge rebel she’d been sat next to in the cart, a rag pulled over his mouth. “The leader of the rebellion,” someone had called him. Something had smouldered in those eyes of his. Hatred enough to motivate a rebellion, she supposed. Shared by Ralof? By his relaxed, matter-of-fact demeanour, it was difficult to picture Ralof as a killer. He jogged ahead of her, watching another butterfly moping between flower patches. One could have forgotten the violence he’d exhibited minutes earlier.

A clash of blades; the dull thuds of skulls.

Gore stained the blade of his axe.

Maybe this Ulfric would have explanations. Maybe she’d learn more about that void. Who she was. Who had been stolen from her.

Was she about to join a rebellion? Probably not.

--

They hit a cobbled road that curled further down, and she realised they were descending into a valley. Flowers and rocks and ferns and pine trees tumbled down the slope in a geological slow-motion lasting centuries.

As they turned a corner, Ralof slowed to a stop and pointed out across the valley. “See that ruin over there?” She followed his gaze to one of the mountain peaks that stood across from them. Carved pillars and archways stood out from the rock. What looked like eagle heads adorned the highest points in strange, Nordic, ritualistic architecture. “That’s Bleak Falls Barrow. I never understood how my sister could stand living in the shadow of that place.” He shook his head and turned to her. “I guess you get used to it.”

“What is it? Bleak Falls Barrow?”

“I can tell you’re not from here,” he said, in polite jest. “It’s an old burial mound, for the Nords of old. They’re long dead, but …” and Ralof visibly hesitated. “I still feel the gaze of the place.”

The path continued to snake around rocks and trees, and soon, the sounds of running water met her ears. Quiet at first, it became increasingly louder, hinting at river rapids or a waterfall just out of sight.

The final bend in the road opened out onto the lake they’d seen before. Trees populated small islands in the centre, and the setting sun reflected off wet rocks at its shore. It was a gorgeous view.

Ralof wandered to the edge of the path where a plateau of ancient looking paved stone held three carvings. Between them grew moss and tree roots, and she could tell nature had tried to reclaim the site countless times.

“These,” Ralof said, “Are the Guardian Stones – three of thirteen ancient standing stones that dot Skyrim’s landscape.”

Each was taller and wider than a man, bordered by battered looking metal binders. In their centres, each had a single porthole that looked out onto the lake. Peering at them, she saw carvings made into the rock and metal – ornate Nordic runes and glyphs depicting strange animals.

“Go ahead, see for yourself.”

She glanced back at Ralof. A calm pride had settled over his features, like he’d done this before. She stepped forwards onto the plateau and looked across each stone. The craftsmanship was primitive, as far as she could tell, but almost perfectly maintained. The carvings depicted what looked like constellations.

And as she neared the centre stone, it began to resonate. She gasped and stepped back as a soft, blue glow appeared in the hole, like an eye. As it crisped and twinkled, a thin beam of light shot from the top of the stone, directly up into the air.

Magic – that feeling of unnature. Though this time, it lacked malice; it simply was.

“Mage, eh?”

“What does that mean?”

But he simply laughed. “Each to his own. It’s not for me to judge, but I would have been surprised if you’d gotten the Warrior.”

She blinked at him, but he’d already started turning back to the road.

--

As they continued, the road levelled out, trailing a river that led down the valley from the lake. The sound of rushing water grew even louder as they approached a rocky outcrop. On the other side of the river, jagged cliff walls rose up and jutted out, over a small waterfall.

“Oh, wow.” As she watched, she saw one, then another, then another and another fish leap from the steaming, pounding water up the waterfall. “They must be salmon. Wild salmon.”

“Yes, it’s that time of year. They swim and jump all the way up the White River to the lake to lay their eggs. And then, they do the opposite in the colder seasons, down to the sea.”

“The sea?”

“Right past Windhelm,” he continued. “When I was a boy, we’d try to catch them as they went, but they were always too fast. There are some fishers in Riverwood. I can taste the fire-roasted salmon from here.”

Food. Oh, God, food. She didn’t know what awaited them, but she hoped it would involve a long sit down and, by way of Ralof’s words, some fire-roasted salmon.

“I’m glad you decided to come with me,” he said. “We’re almost to Riverwood.”

--

Riverwood lazily nestled in the widest part of the valley. Even the river slowed to an amble as they approached.

Collapsing drystone walls covered in ivy and moss guided them towards a similarly decrepit gate, more likely for keeping out wild animals, rather than any invaders.

As they entered, minimal bustle reached her ears. The smoke and clanging of a blacksmith; an old woman sat in a chair, bickering at a younger man; a waterwheel turning in the soft pull of the river. With its thatched rooves and wooden supports – she couldn’t help but remember how that dragon fire had annihilated even the stone structures of Helgen.

It would reduce this cosy village to embers.

“Looks like nobody here knows what happened yet.” Ralof’s tone was easy, but back to business. “Come on. Gerdur’s probably working in her lumber mill.”

They crossed a small footbridge and rounded the building with the waterwheel, which turned out to be the mill. The sweet scent of fresh pine and sap reached her as they passed a pile of logs, sawn in two.

Around the back, looking across the river, a great conifer stood, and leaning against a wicker fence, Gerdur. She was a tall woman with that same dirty blond hair as Ralof. Even wearing a floor-length dress, it was clear she was strong – used to the outdoors, and confident.

“Gerdur!” Ralof rushed towards her.

She turned in surprise. “Brother!” At the sight of him, a mix of concern and relief spread across her face. “Mara’s mercy, it’s good to see you! But is it safe for you to be here?” They hugged, and then Gerdur locked eyes with her.

“Gerdur …”

“We heard that Ulfric had been captured.”

“Gerdur, I’m fine.” He patted her on the shoulder, and she seemed to calm a little. “At least, now I am.”

“Are you hurt?” Gerdur looked between the pair, and she became suddenly conscious that she was wearing stained prisoner clothes. “What’s happened? And who’s this? One of your comrades?”

“Not a comrade yet,” Ralof laughed and turned to her. “But a friend. Is there somewhere we can talk? There’s no telling when the news from Helgen will reach the Imperials…”

“Helgen? Has something happened?”

Behind them, someone coughed. One of the mill workers had appeared, but was now turning to leave, a look of suspicion or caution on his face – she couldn’t tell.

“You’re right,” Gerdur gently grabbed Ralof’s arm. “Follow me.”

She led the two down to the great conifer, closer to the water’s edge. “Hod!” She called back to the mill, and the weathered face of another man appeared. “Come here a minute. I need your help with something.”

Hod stepped up to the edge of the mill’s platform. “What is it, woman? Sven drunk on the job again?”

“Hod, just come here.”

“Ralof!” Hod shouted, and Gerdur winced. “What are you doing here?”

“Hod!” Gerdur said, again.

“Hah … I’ll be right down!”

The clearing under the conifer gave way to thistles and brambles, daisies and buttercups. An enormous tree stump, even larger than the great conifer, sat to one side, a growth of mushrooms rimming one edge. Ralof sat heavily on the stump and sighed.

A dog barked and she heard running footsteps, and a child rounded the mill, too, joined by a big, shaggy mongrel. It tailed him happily, excited at the sudden rush of movement.

“Uncle Ralof! Uncle Ralof!” The child yelled, happily, and exploded into questions. “Can I see your axe? How many Imperials have you killed? Do you really know Ulfric Stormcloak?”

“Hush, Frodnar,” Gerdur interjected before Frodnar could run out of breath. “This is no time for your games.” She pointed back the way they had come. “Go and watch the south road. Come find us if you see any Imperial soldiers coming.”

Frodnar looked at his mother and his face dropped into a sulk. “Aww, Mama. I want to stay and talk with Uncle Ralof!” He kicked a stone and the dog leapt after it, barking.

“Look at you, almost a grown man!” Ralof stepped towards his nephew’s thunderous scowl. “Won’t be long before you’ll be joining the fight yourself!” He patted the child on the head with a massive hand.

“That’s right!” Frodnar’s tone changed almost immediately. “Don’t worry, Uncle Ralof. I won’t let those soldiers sneak up on you!” And he bolted off again, the dog barking at his heels.

She glanced at the still wet gore on Ralof’s axe. The implications of the conversation were not lost on her.

The figure of Hod emerged, then; another huge man, build for lifting and sawing tree trunks all day. “Now, Ralof,” his joviality gone, replaced with the same look of concern as Gerdur. “What’s going on? You two look pretty well done in.” He nodded to her as he approached.

Ralof sighed and looked skyward. “I can’t remember when I last slept…” Orange-gold sunlight painted the mountain walls in amber as the sun began to dip behind one of the peaks. Behind Bleak Falls Barrow. “Where to start?”

Ralof took a moment, breathing in the cool evening air, and the scents of flowers and tree sap and campfire smoke. It was a far cry from the prison of Helgen.

“Well,” he said. “The news you heard about Ulfric was true.” He stamped a heavy fist on his thigh. “The Imperials ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing, like they knew exactly where we would be.” He shook his head. “That was … uh, two days ago, now. We stopped in Helgen this morning, and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up to the headsman’s block and ready to start chopping.”

She blinked away dusty memories of that axe blade, the biting cold, the rattle of the prison cart.

“The cowards!” Gerdur said.

“They wouldn’t dare give Ulfric a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people!”

So Ulfric had killed a king?

“All of Skyrim would have seen the truth, then.” Ralof continued. “But then,” and his voice grew darker. “Out of nowhere … a dragon attacked …”

The words hung in the air for longer than a minute. Gerdur and Hod looked to each other, then her, then back to Ralof.

“You don’t mean, a real, live …?” Gerdur said.

“I can hardly believe it myself,” Ralof said. “And I was there!”

Instinctually, she looked up at the sky, half expecting those red eyes to come streaming out of the mist. But the sky was clear – lit up in that beautiful orange. Not like the burning, seething orange of dragonfire, but of the comforting crackle of a fireplace.

“As strange as it sounds,” said Ralof. “We’d be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away. Are we really the first to make it to Riverwood?”

Gerdur and Hod exchanged worried glances again, speaking in silent words. “Nobody else has come up the south road today,” Gerdur said, and then added: “As far as I know.”

“Good.” Ralof finally looked to her. “Maybe we can lay up for a while.” Then back to Gerdur: “I hate to put your family in danger, Gerdur, but…”

“Nonsense,” Gerdur said. “You and your friend are welcome to stay here as long as you need to. Let me worry about the Imperials.” And Gerdur smiled to her. “Any friend of Ralof’s is a friend of mine.” She rustled a gloved hand into a pouch at her side, producing a small key. She threw it to Ralof, but spoke to her. “Here’s the key to the house. Stay as long as you like. If there’s anything else you need, just let me know.”

She blinked, and nodded. “Th- Thank you, er, Gerdur. That’s very kind.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Gerdur dipped her head in response. “There is something you could do for me. For all of us here.” She gestured to the village around her. “The Jarl needs to know if there’s a dragon on the loose. Riverwood is defenceless. We need to get word to Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun to send whatever troops he can.”

She made a mental note of the names, nodding.

“If you’ll do that for me, I’ll be in your debt.”

“I will.” She said, and then added: “Tomorrow, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, it is. You both look like you need to lie down for a long time.” And then Gerdur looked her up and down. “And maybe some new clothes.”

“Thanks, Sister. I knew we could count on you.” Ralof stood up from the tree trunk with a groan.

I ought to get back to work before I’m missed, but …” She rubbed her face and took a deep breath, as if knowing the answer to her next question. “Did anyone else escape? Did Ulfric …?”

“Don’t worry.” Ralof patted her on the shoulder, again, that fight returned to his voice. “I’m sure he made it out. It’ll take more than a dragon to stop Ulfric Stormcloak.”

“I’ll let them into the house and, you know, show them where everything is …” Hod said.

“Hmm.” Gerdur folded her arms. “Help them drink up our mead, you mean.”

--

Gerdur and Hod’s house was a single-room cottage, thatched roof and stone walls like the rest. Opposite the doorway, a fire blazed, inviting them in, and she had to stop herself from audibly moaning as she stepped into its embrace.

A stew pot bubbled on an iron rack above it. Bread and seared salmon were laid out on plates, and three brown bottles of alcohol – mead – were un-stoppered.

They ate, and after they ate, they fell asleep.

Gerdur offered up her bed as she had decided to work late – perhaps to keep an eye on the village.

She collapsed into Gerdur’s bed – a simple wooden board stuffed with hay and animal skins, but she was too tired to complain.

Sleep hit her immediately.

--

The events of the previous day did not come to her kindly.

She crept through pitch black rubble in a vain attempt to avoid the huge red spotlights of malice. A dragon to consume the world. And she would have to slay it.

She felt, rather than saw, its soul - oily black death, barbed with a hatred for anything other than dragon.

And underneath it all, something else called out to her.

Something writhing and horrible. Something abominable and disgusting. It was all-knowing, but it didn’t know her, and it wanted to. It yearned to.

Those red eyes merged and became one, sickly green goliath.

--

She awoke silently from the nightmare.

The room was dark – the embers of the fire still crackled and popped gently, but it was much lower. Ralof had taken a smaller bed – she assumed it belonged to Frodnar. Hod had fallen asleep in his chair, surrounded by a crown of empty mead bottles.

She slipped her feet from under the heap of animal skins and tentatively placed them on the cold, stone floor. Her legs were stiff, probably from the previous day’s events. She wrung a crease out of her neck and wiggled some feeling back into her numb toes, quickly regretting it as soreness moved in to fill the space instead.

She stood slowly, clicking her jaw and shivering.

She’d kept the trousers on but changed out of the horrible tunic. Someone had draped it over a chair for her after she must have wrestled it off herself in her sleep and kicked it out of the bed.

On a barrel next to it, a package had been neatly folded, and a simple note left on top. In a messy scrawl, it read: “One of my old dresses / might be a bit big / I’ve left some gold so you can get something better.”

Gerdur was too kind for this world.

After pulling on the dress and doing her best to tighten it in the right places, she looked about her. She had no idea what time it was. It must have been early.

The front door was unlocked, and she opened it as quietly as she could, stepping out.

The cold night air was still. In the near distance, she could hear the trickling of the river and the creak of the waterwheel.

She froze as something moved in the darkness just ahead of her, then relaxed as she realised it was the dog from earlier. The big thing lumbered up to her, sniffing at her dress. A wet nose prodded her bare foot and she jumped, then laughed at herself, running a hand through the dog’s shaggy fur.

“What’s your name then?” She said, quietly. “I don’t even know my own name.” She spoke to the dog as it let her scratch its back. “I hope it isn’t something boring.” She patted the dog one last time and looked up at the night sky. It must have been cloudy. She couldn’t see a moon, but the occasional star twinkled. “It’s beautiful here,” she said to the dog. “Terrifying, and beautiful.”

Reaching the conclusion that she was wide awake, and that no one would be up yet, she decided to go for a walk. “Just a short one,” she told the dog.

She’d taken those horrible wraps off her feet and hadn’t wanted to wake the others by looking for a replacement set of footwear. She’d have to take it slow to avoid standing on any sharp tones or debris. She’d only be gone for a few minutes anyway. She wanted to see the water.

She gradually made her way down past a couple of the buildings and across one of the wooden footbridges. The dog trailed behind her, seemingly interested in this strange midnight excursion. As she went, she eased out the muscle pain from her legs and rolled her shoulders. She was supposed to be travelling soon – she’d need to feel better than this to do so, or it’d be a miserable day.

The silhouette of the great conifer stood watch over her as she sat down on one of the banks. She closed her eyes and breathed deep, listening to the swishing of the river and the branches creaking above her. That sweet sap reached her here, too. Had the circumstances been different, this could have been a dream.

But they weren’t different. Come sunrise, or whenever Ralof woke, she’d be travelling into the unknown, watching out for dragons, bears, soldiers, and who knew what else.

She was going to speak to a Jarl. Ralof had referred to Ulfric as the “Jarl of Windhelm.” That’s where he’d be heading. And she was to go to Whiterun to see Jarl Balgruuf. He sounded important, so she supposed she’d better try and look nice for it, at least.

She dipped a toe into the water, and it was cold. Her whole body tensed up as she did it, and she clenched her jaw. But after a few seconds, it became easer, and she swished her foot around in the river.

With a sniff, the dog pushed a wet nose in her face and she jerked away, laughing again, trying her best to stay quiet.

--

When she returned to the house, Hod and Ralof had woken up.

“Just went for a walk,” she said.

“No problem. Is the sky beautiful, tonight?” It was Hod who spoke.

“No, it was kind of cloudy … I mean - there were some stars! I’m not saying it wasn’t nice, it just …”

Ralof placed a wooden tray at an empty place on the table. “Sit,” he said. “Eat. You’ll need your energy for the day ahead.”

She sat and he served another chunk of salmon meat. He then put food out for Hod and himself, and grabbed another bottle of mead.

“So, Whiterun. How do I get there?” She asked as they dug into the food.

“Just head north – you can’t miss it. It’s the capital of Whiterun Hold.” Ralof said.

“Beautiful big city.” Hod said. “A bit busy for my liking, but it’s ancient.”

“Jarl Balgruuf still hasn’t declared for one side or the other, so at least you won’t run into any Imperials on the way.”

The salmon was fresh. Ralof had smeared a lump of butter on it, and she wolfed it down. When she finished, he picked up a load of bread, tore it in two, and handed her a piece. She ate it too. It wasn’t stale like the bite she’d had in Helgen, but soft and crusty in the right places.

“So, why were you captured? Being executed.”

Ralof stopped mid bite and exchanged a glance with Hod. “Seriously? You don’t know?”

She took another bite of bread and shook her head.

“That was Ulfric Stormcloak himself.”

“Right. Ulfric Stormcloak …”

“Right.” Ralof said, with an edge of disbelief. “The leader of our fight against the Empire. I forget that most people don’t know what he looks like, except for those Imperial wanted posters.” He continued eating.

“So how did you end up as prisoners?”

Ralof sat back in his chair as he considered her. “I was assigned to Ulfric’s guard.” He puffed his chest out, perhaps subconsciously, as he said it. “We were on our way to Darkwater Crossing, in the south of Eastmarch.” He spelled out their names as he spoke, almost condescendingly, but she doubted he had the tact for that. “The Imperials,” he spat, “were waiting for us.”

There was a moment before he continued. She finished her food, and Hod offered her a bottle of mead, but she declined.

"As pretty an ambush as I ever saw. We were outnumbered five to one, at least. Ulfric ordered us to stop fighting. Didn’t want us all to die for nothing, I guess.” Ralof drained his bottle of mead and clunked it back down onto the table. “I thought they were taking us south to Cyrodiil – parade us in front of the emperor. But then we stopped in Helgen, and you know the rest.”

She nodded, wanting him to know she was considering his words.

“How did you end up as a prisoner?” He asked.

She knew the question was coming. They’d not had chance to properly talk since the entire thing began. A strange girl with seemingly no knowledge of any current events? It was suspicious.

She blinked and realised she’d been starting blankly at the table for longer than a few seconds.

Hod cleared his throat. “Where are you from, girl?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, but she felt the caution in it, nonetheless.

“I- I’m not sure,” she said. “I’ve got amnesia.”

Hod sat back in his chair, and Ralof nodded. “Amnesia? It must be pretty bad. What’s your name?”

There was the question she really dreaded. She simply shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know.”

--

Ralof stirred the ashes and threw a couple more logs on the fire. Gerdur came back in, not long after. She’d stayed over at the inn, a few doors down, and refused to accept any kind of apology. Instead, she pushed a drawstring leather sack containing some gold pieces and an ornate jewelled ring into her hands.

“Take these,” Gerdur said. “You’ll need them to get some new shoes. You can sell the ring to Belethor – his store is in the market at Whiterun. It should fetch you a bit more money.”

As they were leaving, Hod handed her something heavy and wrapped in leather. “You might find this a bit more wieldy than that axe.”

Within, a dagger. It was decently long and surprisingly heavy, but definitely less clumsy than the axe. It looked as though it had been crafted more finely than the one Ralof had cut her bindings with.

At dawn, they walked through the village. The streets were still empty, but the dog accompanied them to the other side – north, as Ralof had said.

When they reached the south road’s gatehouse, Ralof patted the dog. “Good dog, Stump.”

“He’s called Stump?”

“Aye, that he is. And he’s a good dog.”

The road forward led across the river. Ahead of them stood a low, stone bridge.

“Okay, when we reach the fork in the road, we’ll split up.” Ralof said as they walked. “You won’t get lost, you can see Whiterun for miles around.”

--

The journey to the crossroads took the best part of the morning. They walked at a slow pace, and she soon found her stiff limbs easing. As the sun woke up, it revealed flowers and insects, moss and ivy, mushrooms colonising fallen tree trunks, and the stoic walls of the mountains above. A flock of birds flew from a tree as they passed. At one point, she thought she spotted the lean, athletic figure of a spry deer, but it might have just been a trick of the dawn.

Nature was in full flow.

The end of the valley opened up onto a vast plain of oranges and reds, flanked by more snow-capped mountains. A few buildings were dotted about – cottages, barns, even a couple of windmills. At the centre of it all, rising out of the rocks atop a hill – Whiterun. The others had been right, it was unmistakeable. Gray walls topped with spiked stakes ran around the front of the city, punctuated by small watchtowers. Within the walls, smoke rose from houses and fires. But the centre piece was the Jarl’s palace, which Ralof referred to as “Dragonsreach.”

The enormous building was a piece of Nordic art. Standing at the peak of the hill on which the city was built, it overlooked the city and the plains beyond. That was where she was headed.

From where she was stood, she could easily see that all the roofs were made of wood or thatch, and her stomach sank.

A tributary ran from grates in the city’s walls, connecting to the White River at the crossroads for which they were aiming. By the time they reached it, day had fully broken, and she was beginning to feel hungry.

In the far distance, past the city and much, much further north, she saw a horizon where grey blue met grey blue – the ocean.

“This is where we part ways,” said Ralof. “I’m going to head to Windhelm. Hopefully, I’ll find Ulfric there, along with some answers.”

She didn’t want to split up. She had Hod’s dagger, but she was no fighter. Not like Ralof.

As if sensing her thoughts, he said: “It’ll be okay. All you need to do is follow this road west until you see the city gates. Head for the palace and speak to the Jarl.”

“Okay. Got it.” She nodded, and tried to muster as much confidence as possible. “But what then?”

“Well,” Ralof looked about him. “You could come meet us, in Windhelm. The rebellion can always use more voices.”

“I’m not a fighter, Ralof.”

“Not yet.” He patted her shoulder. “I need to go. Hopefully I’ll see you again, one day.” He smiled, and walked northwards. She watched him as he crossed the bridge over the tributary, and walked on, into the plains.

And then she was alone.

She looked about her, took a deep breath, and repeated his words: “Follow the road west. Go through the gates. Go to the palace. Simple.”

The road west took her opposite the city’s walls. They loomed above her, to her right.

She passed more buildings, and a farm. A man wearing a helmet and a heavy looking yellow canvas and chainmail garb strode towards her, paying her little attention. He held a large, wooden shield in one hand, on which was painted a yellow horse. At his hip - an ornate scabbard – a sword hilt poking out from within.

When the road turned, she followed it. A horse and carriage stood to one side, and she saw stables just past it. She didn’t linger too long.

The entrance to the city was a series of gates and a twisting, narrow path, flanked by more defensive walls, stakes, and ramparts. Had she been an invading Imperial – or rebel – she would have felt very exposed.

The main gate itself was closed, and she had to do a double take to spot one of the guards approaching her. He stopped a few metres away, and so did she, out of respect more than anything. She knew what she was here for.

“Halt.” He said, in a thick accent she couldn’t place. “City’s closed with the dragons about. State your business or leave.”

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat, dry from the morning on the road. “I- I have news. I mean, Gerdur sent me. Riverwood needs protection.”

The guard wore the same heavy mail garb and helmet as the one she had seen on the road below. She couldn’t make out anything about him through the helmet’s visor.

“Riverwood is in danger, too? You’d better go on in. You’ll find the Jarl in Dragonsreach, at the top of the hill.”

--

Whiterun was much larger than Riverwood and Helgen. A proper cobbled road led through the city, running from the gate, through the market, up to the temples and culminating at the palace. Streams weaved through buildings and gutters and even running next to the paths, which must have made up the tributary to the White River that she’d seen outside the city.

A blacksmiths forge – larger and louder than the one in Riverwood – clanked and steamed and sizzled away to one side of the gate. Outside, a woman in a dirty black apron argued with a man dressed in that brown Imperial armour. For a moment, she worried that the man might recognise her, but Ralof had said Whiterun was yet to declare sides.

They didn’t turn to acknowledge her as she walked past.

The street was busy, compared to the quiet roads beyond. A few children ran back and forth, ducking between nolls and bushes and adults, who occupied the market or chopped firewood.

Three market stalls ringed a well, opposed by three larger buildings. Each had a battered wooden sign out front. She deduced that one must sell potions. Another seemed to show a set of weighing scales.

“Well met, traveller.”

The man who spoke leaned against a post. As she’d been looking at the signs, she hadn’t noticed him. His brown and beige furs and canvas blended in well with the greying afternoon and brown plains grass around them. Simple armour plates were strapped to his chest and legs, and his arms were bare against the breeze. A loop at his side that could have held a weapon was empty. As he spoke, he smiled placidly. “What brings you to Whiterun?”

“Oh, I- I’m just passing through.” She said, and smiled back.

“A pity. And words I hear too often,” he said, and she immediately wondered whether she’d said he wrong thing. “But there’s no shame in it. One of them dragons comes calling in Whiterun, the place will go up like tinder.”

She asked him the directions to Belethor, and he pointed her to the building behind him.

She pushed her way through the heavy wooden double doors and found herself in what appeared to be a house, converted into a shop. Shelves and cabinets contained an odd mix of food, tableware, jewellery and even weapons. A firepit crackled to one side, and suspended above it, a taxidermized deer head, a pair of glorious antlers extending off to each side, casting strange, spikey shadows across the wall and ceiling. Looking up, she saw a second floor, much of it open to the ground, and a roof sloping up. Where it ended, a large rectangular hole had been built, allowing daylight in and the fumes from the fire out.

A shopkeeper stood on the other side of a bar, watching her every movement with a face-splitting grin. He called out. “Everything’s for sale, my friend! Everything! If I had a sister, I’d sell her in a second.” His voice was loud and brash in the otherwise quiet space, and despite his joke, there was a tinge of desperation to it.

“You shouldn’t sell your sister,” she said as she approached.

“Hahaha! That’s a little joke. I’d even buy one of your relatives, if you’re looking to sell.”

“Egh, no, erm, what about a ring, though? Gerdur said you could give me some money for this.” She pulled the ornate ring from her pouch and showed it to the man.

He reached across the bar with a gloved hand and held it, between them. He turned it slowly in the firelight, and the single gemstone glinted red and orange.

“Hmm, yeah. This is not a bad find. I’ll give you,” he reached a hand down under the bar and rustled around, “forty-three gold for it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Not gonna barter with me?”

“Erm, no. I guess not.”

“Okay. Here’s your gold.” He clunked a sack down on the table and she gave him the ring. She slid the pouch towards her. It was heavy, in her hand.

“So, what can I get with this?”

“That depends! What do you want?”

“Well, I need some new shoes. Or boots.”

“I have a few old pairs. Smaller, if I’m guessing right. You’re a Breton, like me.”

She blinked at him. “I’m a what?”

He blinked back. “A Breton.”

“Okay, sure. I’m a Breton.” She wasn’t about to start this conversation with another stranger.

The man, who she assumed was Belethor, disappeared into a door behind the counter, returning moments later with a few different pairs of boots, all relatively similar in design, with leather wraps and animal fur.

She laid each pair against her foot, testing the size. “Can I…?”

“Try them on! Yes!” He all but shouted.

She tried on each pair. Pulling the leather straps tight, she round one that fit her decently well, and her soles thanked her as they swapped cold stone and gravel for soft animal fur. The boots were warm, and even in her oversized dress, she began to feel more comfortable.

She paid for the boots and left with what she felt was still a decent amount of coins jangling in her pouch. “Do come back.” He called after her.

When she left, the other man – the armoured one – had gone. The market was still busy, but a large space had been made off to one side. Three people stood, arguing. One of them, an older man wearing a hideous green tunic, spoke: “Foolish old woman. You know nothing!” The woman in question stood to the side of a market stand, glaring back at the man. At his side, the Imperial who had been at the blacksmith’s. “You know nothing of our struggles! Our suffering!” The old man shouted.

“Nothing?” The woman shouted back, her frail voice wrought with emotion. “And what of my son? What of Thorald? Is he nothing? Don’t talk to me about suffering!”

She rounded the well and passed a vegetable stall. Stairs led up and out of the market, flanked by gutters of running water. The stairs took her through an archway in a central city wall, and she emerged onto another circular square. A ring of gutters ran water around a huge, dead tree at its centre. Benches lined the inner section, leaning against the tree’s thick trunk, and a woman in a hooded yellow robe stood beneath it, looking up at the bare, withered branches.

Around the edges of the circle, more houses and buildings stood. A cow grazed in a pen at the front of one. Another was built with tiered rooves like a Nordic pagoda. Up another set of stairs was what could only be described as a longhouse – its roof looked as though the hull of a ship have been overturned, and a building had been constructed below it.

She walked through the circle, crossing the gutters using small wooden bridges. The way ahead was clear – Dragonsreach stood much closer, now, at the top of the hill. A winding stone staircase led up. At its foot, a statue of a man with a sword. Another cloaked figure knelt before it, shouting something inaudible. Was he preaching?

She took the stairs, and a guard passed her on the way down. When she reached the top, she turned and looked back. She could see the whole city from where she was stood, and all the way back to the river and valley from where she’d come. On the other side of a snowy mountain, she knew Gerdur and Hod were working away at their mill. And between two peaks, she could just make out that strange, ancient stone of Bleak Falls Barrow, like the ribcage of an impossibly huge monster.

The palace itself was shielded by a small stone wall. The front doors – two huge carved slabs of wood – lay across a footbridge which crossed the city’s water spring.

She pushed one of the doors inwards and entered the palace.

--

Dragonsreach was blanketed in a somber quiet. The main hall rose into rafters several floors above, where smoke from a huge firepit swirled and circulated before floating out between the wooden slats. Massive carved pillars that may well have been tree trunks held the arching spine of the building up. Carpeted wooden floors dampened the sounds around them, and a few servants swept the floors and polished benches that lay off to the side.

A wide, shallow wooden staircase led up to the firepit, lined by burning braziers at each tier.

As she rose, she saw the firepit, long and heaped with wood, healthily burning away. At its sides, long dining tables with set places lay empty. The rooms three inhabitants stood on a raised platform, before yellow banners depicting horses, and a wooden throne. They were arguing.

As she reached the top of the stairs, one of them noticed her, and split from the conversation, striding towards her, her hand on her sword’s hilt.

Even despite her amnesia, she knew this was one of the strangest-looking people she’d ever seen.

Under a fitted set of fur and leather armour, the woman’s skin was a deep, purply grey. From dimly glowing, iris-and-pupilless red eyes, black swirling paint framed her temples. Her hair was a vibrant ginger-red, pulled back from her face. Though not much taller than herself, she was imposing. She tried to quell her flight instincts.

“What’s the meaning of this interruption?” When she spoke, it was with a deep, well-spoken voice. “Jarl Balgruuf is not receiving visitors.”

Those eyes were not the same burning red as the dragons, but subtle, brooding orbs. Calculating and dark.

“Gerdur sent me. Riverwood is in danger.” She tried to keep her voice level, but a nervous shake ran through it.

“As Housecarl, my job is to deal with all dangers that threaten the Jarl or his people, so you have my attention. Now, explain yourself.”

“Please. Gerdur asked me to come. The dragon destroyed Helgen and Riverwood might be next.”

“You know about Helgen?” She returned her sword arm to her side. “The Jarl will want to speak to you personally. Approach.” The woman turned and strode back down the length of the firepit, and she followed. The other two men watched as they did.

The Jarl slouched in his throne, and hand scratching a thick blonde bear. He wore decorated robes, shouldered with furs and gold jewellery. She felt as though she was meeting a king. Maybe she was.

“So,” said the Jarl. “You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?” Whether he was suspicious or intrigued, she couldn’t tell. His voice was low, and he studied her through middle-aged, narrowed eyes.

He had a kind face.

Her eyes flicked to the other man. He stood straight backed and looked at her down his nose. A balding head, a mousey face, clean, quilted robes – he looked delicate compared to the brutal and simplistic Nordic culture she’d seen so far.

“The dragon destroyed Helgen.” Was there some kind of custom for speaking to Jarls? Was she supposed to bow? Neither of the Jarl’s assistants commented or moved to scold her. “And it looked like it weas heading this way.”

At her words, the two assistants exchanged glances and looked to their Jarl. But he didn’t turn his gaze from her.

“Irileth was right. What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?”

Impossibly, the mousey man seemed to straighten up even further. But the woman, Irileth, got there first.

“My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood, at once.” Irileth strode before the throne and bowed her head, before shooting a challenging glance at Proventus. “It’s in the most immediate danger. If that dragon is lurking in the mountains …”

Proventus folded his arms and unfolded them again. “The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!” He was also well-spoken, with a whiny voice the opposite of Irileth’s. “He’ll assumed we’re preparing to join Ulfric’s side and attack him. We should not-”

“Enough!” The Jarl snapped, and both of his assistants looked back to him. “I’ll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people!” He turned his head to Proventus. “Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once.”

“Yes, my Jarl.” Irileth bowed her head again, and walked past her.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Proventus said, bowing his head, too. “I’ll return to my duties.”

“That would be best,” said the Jarl, and Proventus stepped off the raised platform, walking towards a doorway on one side of the hall.

And then the Jarl turned to her. “Well done,” he said. “You sought me out on your own initiative. You’ve done Whiterun a service, and I won’t forget it.” It was the Jarl’s turn to bow his head. “Proventius!” He called to the assistant, who stopped and turned around.

“Yes? My lord?”

“This woman deserves a reward.”

“Yes, my lord.” And he continued walking.

“There is another thing you could do for me, perhaps.” The Jarl lifted himself to his feet as he spoke, gold necklaces and buckles jingling and clinking. She noticed he also had a sword, sheathed at his side. “Come, let’s go find Farengar, my court wizard. He’s been looking into a matter related to these dragons and … rumours of dragons.”

The Jarl led her away from the warmth of the firepit and out of the main hall, into one of its side rooms. Desks and cabinets and boards made up a workstation that took up most of the room. Crystals and potion bottles and scrolls of paper stood in holders. A wood and leather façade stood to one side, a large map pinned to its front. Against the back wall, strange equipment glows and fizzled quietly. One desk was a much darker wood than the rest, on its flat surface, strange symbols and runes glowed, looked over by a large skull with three eyes and proportions way too wide to have been human. The other workbench held a scaffold of glass bottles and orbs that looked like chemistry equipment. A little furnace lay dormant.

Hunched over one of the desks was a man wrapped head to toe in blue robes. As they entered, he turned to them, revealing a mess of scraggly facial hair over a pale face.

This man was a wizard? A real wizard? Maybe he’d have some answers for her.

“Farengar,” the Jarl said. “I think I’ve found someone who can help you with your dragon project.”

The wizard looked at her, frowned, looked back to the Jarl, and looked back to her again. “Ah, yes, you must be referring to my research into the dragons.” He looked her up and down. “So, the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?”

She couldn’t tell whether or not it was an insult.

“Yes, I could use someone to fetch something to me.” Farengar said, and cocked his head. “Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there.”

He paused, and she realised he was waiting for her response. She blinked. “Okay. What does this have to do with dragons?”

“Ah, no mere mercenary but a thinker?”

“Sure.”

“You see, when the stories of dragons began to circulate, many dismissed them as mere fantasies, rumours …” He crossed his arms and levelled a gaze at the Jarl. “Impossibilities.” He bowed his head. “One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything that falls outside his experience as being impossible.”

She looked to the Jarl, but his face was unreadable.

“But I began to search for information about dragons – where had they gone all those years ago? And where were they coming from?”

“So, what do you need me to do?”

“I, uh, learned of a certain stone tablet said to be housed in a tomb nearby. A ‘Dragonstone,’ said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Are you familiar with Bleak Falls Barrow?”

“I am.” She felt a twitch of nerves in her stomach. The Bleak Falls Barrow, that had looked over her journey so far. The same one Ralof had been so scared of.

“Go to Bleak Falls Barrow, find this tablet – no doubt interred in the main chamber – and bring it to me.” He gestured to her. “Simplicity itself.”

“You said the barrow is dangerous, is there anything you can tell me about it?”

“It’s an old tomb, built by the Ancient Nords, perhaps dating back to the Dragon War itself, if this information about the Dragonstone is correct. Shouldn’t be anything to worry about. If you need directions, go to Riverwood – a miserable little village a few miles south of here. Maybe some of the locals can point you in the right way.”

“Right. Thanks. And are you sure the tablet is going to be there? How do you know, if it’s buried in a tomb?”

“Ah, well,” he shifted and looked to the Jarl. Out the corner of her eye, she saw the Jarl nod to him. “Must preserve some professional secrets, mustn’t we? I have my sources.”

“So, you want me to explore this ruin, not knowing whether it’s going to be dangerous, for a lump of rock that might not even be there?”

“That is what I said, isn’t it? If you’re not up to it, I can always find someone else. Skyrim isn’t exactly short of thugs and- “

“Farengar.” The Jarl spoke.

“Right, of course. Your help will be appreciated.”

“This is a priority, now,” the Jarl said. “Anything we can use to fight this dragon, or dragons, we need it quickly. Before it’s too late.”

“Of course.” Farengar said. “You seem to have found me an able assistant. I’m sure she will prove most useful.”

“Succeed at this,” the Jarl turned to her. “And you’ll be rewarded. Whiterun will be in your debt.”

“To Bleak Falls Barrow, then,” she said.

As they left, Proventus appeared again, holding a large coin purse. “As instructed by the Jarl,” he said, and bowed his head.

She left the welcoming heat of the palace behind for the darkening skies and buffeting wind of the plains. At the gate, she found Irileth and a group of guards ready to depart the city for Riverwood. She joined them on the road, walking at a brisk pace. It took them much less time to hike back up to the valley and down the river, and they arrived at Riverwood as night began to fall.

All the while, those ruins lurked above her.