Hey, guys! So, this is my first story here, and I hope you'll bear with me. I've always wondered about certain characters' backstories, and so this idea morphed into a story. Please forgive any errors you find here, and send me a review if you can! Thanks.

Here's the full summary, because I couldn't fit it all into a 384 character limit. Hopefully it isn't as lacking.

Lokir was a thief. At least, that was what his father told him. Unfortunately, nothing could be further from the truth, because Lokir messed up. Big time. Before he can do something stupid during his execution, he is saved by a mysterious woman named Rayla—who somehow knows his name, and for some reason needs his help.

But Lokir did not enjoy adventures. He much preferred skulking in the dark whenever he needed something, and returning home to revel in his victory with some ale when he didn't. However, it seems that fate has other plans for him—plans to strip away his identity and give him a brand new one that would change everything he thought was true.

Just in case, here's a disclaimer: I do not own Skyrim.

Lokir's life was falling apart, and this time it wasn't entirely his fault.

At least, that was what he told himself. By the time the last person in the cart—a mysterious woman that he barely paid any attention to—awoke, he wasn't so sure that he wasn't responsible for yet another turn of bad luck. After all, it was his idea to steal a horse. In broad daylight. But honestly, no one expected someone to steal a horse in the middle of the day, which made it the perfect plan!

Or so he had thought. He'd had quite a bit of time to think about it for the past hour or so, and he was convinced that the Stormcloaks were somehow responsible for his terrible misfortune. If they hadn't started this ridiculous civil war, the Empire would have stayed more focused on the Thalmor and less focused on…whatever it was that the Stormcloaks were supposed to be, which meant that he could have gotten away with his crime more easily.

"Hey, you," the man with the long blonde hair and a Stormcloak cuirass on said. Lokir looked up, then realized that he was speaking to the mysterious woman who must have gotten caught in the trap too. "You're finally awake."

The woman in question glared at him and spat hair out of her face. For the first time, Lokir actually looked at her. She seemed to be about his age—that is, in the range of twenty-four–and was pretty, in a sense, though her face was as covered in dirt and grime as any of them. Oddly, her hair was pure white, and as she blew more of it out of her face, green eyes looked at the Stormcloak soldier with something close to disgust. She was very clearly a Nord, and though she lacked the traditional blonde hair and blue eyes, she still had the sharp features of a Nord woman.

"I have a name, you know," she said, adjusting the bonds around her wrists. "It's Rayla—though it's not like you care."

The soldier cocked an eyebrow, and somehow Lokir could tell that he held her in the same standing as she held him.

"Bah," the soldier spat. "That's an elf name. My name's Ralof."

"Charming," Lokir muttered.

Rayla gave a snort, and glanced over at Lokir. Strangely, he thought she saw something similar to recognition flash in her eyes before Ralof began to speak again.

"You were trying to cross the border, right, Rayla?" he asked, putting extra emphasis on her name. She ignored him. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief over there."

It was with a surprised start that Lokir realized that Ralof was referring to him. For a moment, he thought of offering up his name, then decided against it. If he was going to be thrown in prison with these fools, he would rather that they didn't know who he was.

Prison. Gods, he would be going to prison with these war zealots just because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time! How was that fair?

And so before he could stop himself, the words just began to spill out. "Damn you Stormcloaks," he spat. "Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and be halfway to Hammerfell." He sent a pointed glare toward Ralof that he never would have had the courage to give the larger man under normal circumstances.

Ralof just gave him an amused look, though Rayla gave him another one of those looks, and Lokir wondered if he'd seen her somewhere before. After searching his memory for a brief moment, he knew that he hadn't. So why was she looking at him like that? It was a bit off-putting.

"Y—Rayla," he said. For a moment, he considered asking her why she kept looking at him, but decided against it. "You and me—we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."

Rayla stretched on the bench of the cart, looking as if she were perfectly content to be tied up in the back of a cart with criminals. That is, assuming she wasn't a criminal herself. "Yes, well…"

But she never finished, because the Imperial guard looked back at them with the whip for the horses in one hand.

"Shut up back there!" he shouted, then turned back to the horses.

Lokir wanted to bang his head against one of the cart's sides. He actually tried, but he wouldn't have been able to without flopping out of the cart and being run over by one of the soldiers on horses behind the cart. However, as he tried, he caught another glance at the fourth person in the cart.

He was clearly some type of noble, if his silk robes with fur linings were any indication. He had dark blonde hair, like Ralof, and he was bound just as tightly—if not more so. However, unlike the other prisoners, he had a dirty gag in his mouth that prohibited him from speaking.

"What's wrong with him?" Lokir found himself asking, nodding toward the noble. Perhaps he had been mixed up in the ambush, too.

Ralof's face immediately darkened. "Watch your tongue!" he barked. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!"

Before Lokir could even begin to process a reaction to that, Rayla rolled her eyes dramatically and muttered, "Oh, please."

Ralof's indignant attitude snapped to her. "What, you don't think so, kinsman?"

Rayla scoffed, and Lokir could see her hands making fists under her bonds. "Please. Ulfric Stormcloak is a racist and a narcissist and not fit to be High King." She paid no mind to the fact that the man she was insulting was sitting right next to her.

Ralof growled out a curse and lurched in his seat like he was going to attack her, but stopped when the Imperial soldier driving the cart sent him a look, raising the whip. Beside Rayla (who looked far more comfortable than she had any right to be), Ulfric muttered many (probably unpleasant) things behind his gag.

Finally, Lokir's brain seemed to start working. Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the rebellion, was in the cart with him. If they had such a prisoner, where were they going to take Lokir? His gut exploded in worry.

Rayla just rolled her neck and yawned. Did she not realize the gravity of the situation? Did she not value her own life? Was she completely and utterly insane?

The cart was silent for a few more minutes, during which Lokir's panic slowly but surely increased. He never should have tried to steal that horse! He should have just paid his fine and dealt with the consequences! Now he had no idea what was going to happen to him—he only knew that it would not be good.

Another Imperial soldier suddenly spoke as the carts reached a bend in the road. "General Tullius, sir. The headsman is waiting."

Oh, no.

Then the cart turned around the bend, and Lokir immediately knew where they were.

Helgen. The Imperial run town—one that was prone to executions.

Execution. For stealing a horse? How was that fair?

"Oh," Lokir whimpered, too soft for anyone but him to hear. He really should have just paid that fine.

Even Rayla seemed to be disturbed by this revelation. As Lokir muttered a prayer to the Divines, she craned her neck and tried to look around the town as the cart pulled them in. Lokir had been to Helgen once or twice before, so he knew the tall, militaristic buildings fairly well. The entire town was surrounded by a fortified wall, and the keep tower rose high above the town. Lokir stared at it all with terror curdling through his heart. Of all places to be executed in, couldn't the Imperials have picked somewhere…a bit nicer?

"Look at him," Ralof bit out eventually, looking behind him as the cart passed through the gate. He stared at a middle-aged man on horseback, next to two elves—probably Thalmor—who were also on horseback. "General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Rayla groaned to the sky. "By the Divines, we get it! You hate elves!" Then she turned around to the Imperial driving the cart and said, "Please just execute me now so that I don't have to listen to this idiocy anymore."

The Imperial guard said nothing. He probably thought that she was a Stormcloak soldier who was faking hate for her cause to try and get out of the execution. But this soldier couldn't see the hate on Rayla's face; she truly despised the men around her.

Lokir's anxiety only grew as the cart traversed the town, though it seemed to be only headed one place: a dead end, where a chopping block lay.

And even though he knew why they were stopping, he couldn't stop the words from spilling out of his mouth. "Why are we stopping."

Ralof rolled his eyes, exasperated. "Why do you think? End of the line." Then his voice took on a more somber tone. "Let's not keep the gods waiting."

The injustice of the whole situation slapped Lokir straight across the face.

"No!" he cried, twisting in his seat to shout at whoever would listen. "Wait! We're not rebels!"

Ralof scoffed. "Face your death with some courage, thief."

Lokir was in the grips of a full on panic. "You've got to tell them! We weren't with you!" Then, to the guards around them, "We weren't with them!"

Rayla's brow was furrowed when he looked back at her. He couldn't tell if she was upset with his behavior or the situation, but he decided that the second was a bit more pressing than however cowardly he acted.

Finally, the cart rocked to a stop. Next to them, the other Stormcloaks marched out of their carts with determined faces.

We Nords are too prideful, some part of Lokir's brain that wasn't freaking out thought.

"Everyone out," the Imperial soldier barked.

This is not good, this is not good, this is not good! Lokir thought. He was so tense that when he was forced to stand, he nearly toppled over. He stumbled out of the cart, nearly falling face first onto the ground. He could hear the others coming down behind him, but it felt like he had shifted into a different plane of existence. He could only see the chopping block, just a few yards away.

"Proceed to the execution block when your name is called," the captain of the soldiers barked. It was clear she was trying to impress Tullius, who stood near the execution block.

Lokir was in a haze. This couldn't be happening. But it was! There had to be some way for him to get out of this—escape, perhaps?

"Hadvar, you may begin," the female captain told a man with brown hair in light Imperial armor. He stood in front of Lokir's group.

Hadvar nodded and looked down at a piece of parchment that he held in his hand. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."

The leader in question stepped forward, glaring daggers at everyone that he saw. The Imperial captain took his arm tightly and led him over to the line of future executionees herself. Meanwhile, Lokir's eyes were flicking all over the place, desperately trying to find a way to escape his fate. Ralof stood next to him, and Rayla was behind the Stormcloak.

"Ralof of Riverwood," Hadvar called, with no lack of malice in his voice.

Lokir didn't listen to what Ralof said. There! In the gap between the Captain and this "Hadvar." There was a space wide enough for him to run through, where he might be able to run out of the whole keep. It was dangerous, but no less dangerous than stepping up to the chopping block.

His muscles were all tensed and ready to run as Ralof walked to the block. In a moment, once he got up the courage, he'd make his escape, and—

Then a voice sounded in his ear, close enough to make him jump in surprise.

"Don't do anything stupid," Rayla muttered, "Lokir of Rorikstead."

Lokir's eyes practically popped out of his head, and he nearly gave himself whiplash when he turned his neck to look at her. She looked smug, like she knew something—knew him.

He'd never told her his name, and certainly not where he was from. So how in the hell did she know who she was?

He was so startled that he didn't even realize that his name had been called until the captain grabbed his arm in a steel grip and hauled him in line with the other prisoners.

He looked over his shoulder at Rayla, utter confusion smothering his fear for the moment. She was standing with a straight, undefeated posture as Hadvar looked at her and then down at the list.

"Who are you?" Hadvar asked Rayla, half-looking at her, half-looking at the list in his hands.

Rayla thrust her head back, and announced in a typical proud Nord voice, "I am Rayla of Morthal, daughter of Garrik and Ashera Adven."

"Those are elf names," Ralof spat under his breath. Lokir ignored him as Hadvar looked at Rayla, then his list, and then the Imperial captain.

"Captain?" he inquired, sounding almost as confused as Lokir felt. "Wh-what should we do? She's not on the list."

The captain looked at her, rolled her eyes behind her steel officer helmet, and said, "Forget the list! She goes to the block!"

Rayla's eyes darkened, but before she could do anything, the captain shoved her forward, and Rayla ended up right next to Lokir—perfectly in line for execution.

He should escaped when he had the chance.

General Tullius marched up to Ulfric and glared at the man. The hate there was unmistakable.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," he said. His voice was aged, but authoritative. Lokir didn't like it. "Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Lokir rolled his eyes. He'd heard the story of what happened so many times that it was branded into his brain. Personally, he couldn't care less about the civil war. Right now, he cared most about his chances of survival and how Rayla of Morthal knew him. But mostly that first one.

Ulfric said something, but his gag blocked any words he might have said. Lokir's eyes zeroed in on the chopping block, which was stained red from old executions. He only really paid attention when a strange sound rang through the countryside.

It sounded almost like a bear—though a bit more high-pitched and much, much louder. It was the strangest sound that Lokir had ever heard.

What was that? he wondered. When he looked around, he saw that everyone else (Stormcloaks and Imperials alike) looked just as mystified—though Rayla had gone as pale as a ghost.

"It's nothing," Tullius told the men around him. "Carry on."

The captain saluted rather dramatically. "Yes, General Tullius!" Then, to a priestess in orange robes standing next to the headsman, "Give then their last rites."

Lokir rolled his eyes as the priestess began in a lofty voice: "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved—"

"Oh, for the love of Talos," a red headed Stormcloak blurted out, sounding incredibly angry. "Shut up, and let's get this over with."

The priestess glared at him from under her hood. "As you wish."

Two soldiers grabbed the Stormcloak by the arms and forced him forward. Lokir suddenly felt sick.

"Come on, I haven't got all morning," the Stormcloak barked out, as he was set in front of the execution block.

Lokir couldn't believe it. How could this Nord be so flippant when it came to his own death?

"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" the Stormcloak asked, as the captain shoved his head in place with her boot.

Lokir looked away as the headsman raised his crooked axe. A moment later, there was a sickening schlock, and then a thud, along with the rush of liquid and the smell of blood.

He was going to vomit. They'd just chopped off a man's head, right in front of him. Even Tullius looked disgusted. When Lokir looked back, he saw the captain shove the Stormcloak's body to the side with her boot.

"You Imperial bastards!" another Stormcloak shouted.

"Justice!" a man watching responded.

"Death to the Stormcloaks!" a woman yelled.

"As fearless in death as he was in life," Ralof muttered.

Lokir sent a glare at Rayla for interrupting his plan of escape. In a few minutes, the headless body would be him.

"Next, the Nord in the rags!" the captain shouted.

There was a bit of confusion, seeing as there were technically two Nords who were not wearing Stormcloak cuirasses. Ultimately, though, a soldier grabbed Rayla and shoved her forward, and Lokir was both relieved that it wasn't him and disgusted at his relief. Rayla was like him—innocent, at least when it came to this particular crime.

Rayla was not resistant to the men dragging her over to the block, but she did hold her chin up high and maintain her straight posture. As she was being walked to her death, that strange sound made it's reappearance, although louder this time. It made Lokir hudder and look around in fright. What could possibly be making that horrible sound? Even Rayla looked up at the sky in fright.

"There it is again!" Hadvar exclaimed.

"I said. Next. Prisoner." The captain did not seem happy with the interruptions.

The captain shoved Rayla into the same position that the Stormcloak soldier had been in before. Rayla grimaced as her neck hit the wet block.

Behind her, the executioner raised his axe.

Behind him, the clouds darkened.

Lokir had a very bad feeling about this.

Then the roar came for the third time, and Lokir felt his heart drop into his gut. Out of the clouds, a giant black something descended, roaring with rage.

A dragon. A bloody dragon had just descended on the Helgen execution.

Rayla didn't know whether to pray in thanks or for deliverance. One minute her head was being pressed into a bloody execution block, and the next she was watching a dragon fly out of the sky as the executioner prepared to cut off her head.

"What in Oblivion is that?!" she heard Tullius exclaim.

And yet, the executioner was still raising his axe. What the hell was wrong with these people? Where were their priorities?

Then the dragon, which was as black as coal at midnight, opened its maw wide and roared even louder than before. The sound reverberated in Rayla's soul, making her shudder.

And the experience only got stranger. The sky seemed to rumble and shake, and then it turned a strange mixture of pink and orange. And then large chunks of rock started to fly down to the ground, making the whole earth shake.

Rayla's head rattled against the executioner's block, and by the time she regained her senses, everything had gone to hell.

Meteors were raining down all around her, and the scent of blood and death was thick in the air. She'd been knocked out of the chopping block, and the bottom part of her tunic was drenched in the Stormcloak soldier's blood. Her head was pounding, and when she looked up at Helgen, the pain only increased. In a matter of moments, the dragon had managed to decimate Helgen's buildings.

This wasn't what she thought dragons would be like.

Above the shouting, she heard a voice. "Come on, horse thief! Get up! The gods won't give us another chance!"

Rayla looked up to find the obnoxious Stormcloak Ralof helping Lokir to his feet, completely ignoring her a few feet away.

Fine, she thought. Like I need their help.

She crawled over to the headsman's body, gagged at the strong stench of blood, and did her best to turn his axe over on its side. Looking up at the sky and hearing the dragon roar again, she rubbed her bonds as quickly as she could over the blade.

Snap! The blade cut through the rope in no time. Rayla staggered to her feet, grateful for the use of both hands to help her stand, and dashed off after Lokir and Ralof, who she'd seen run into one of the stone towers.

She had to jump over several bodies—Stormcloak, Imperial, and villagers alike—to get to the large, flaming-moss covered building, and she very narrowly made it inside (her guess was that the Stormcloaks had tried to close it on her).

For a moment, her world was filled with panting and fear as she placed her hands on her knees and wheezed. Outside, more terrible roars filled the air.

The inside of the tower was filled with Stormcloak soldiers, along with Lokir, the only one other than Rayla who wasn't wearing a rebel's cuirass. Even Ulfric Stormcloak was there, his gag freshly removed. All of the Stormcloaks were glaring at Rayla.

Then someone shoved her, and she stumbled backward. She caught her balance and glared at her aggressor—none other than the Stormcloak with the best personality. Ralof.

"What is she doing here?" Ralof demanded. He spat at her feet. "Race-traitor."

"There is a literal dragon outside this tower right now," Lokir panted, wiping his long brown hair out of his face, "and you want to talk about politics?"

Rayla had to restrain a chuckle. She knew she'd saved the thief for a reason. Well, other than what had brought her to Helgen in the first place.

Before she could dwell on that though any further, a massive BOOM shook the tower, making everyone stumble. Since Lokir was still bound up by rope, he actually fell over onto the floor, because he didn't have the use of his hands to balance himself.

Oh, for the love of Talos, Rayla thought as she rushed over and helped the man stand. He nodded in thanks, as Ulfric Stormcloak began to yell.

"We need to move!" he exclaimed in a low, thickly accented voice. "Now!"

"Up through the tower, let's go!" Ralof yelled, running up the steps after another Stormcloak soldier.

Rayla and Lokir were the first ones to follow him, both scrambling up the stairs rather clumsily. Ralof glanced back once as they ran, and scowled. Rayla couldn't have cared less. She was too focused on surviving.

Then disaster struck. Right as the first Stormcloak reached the top of the stairs, the wall exploded as the black dragon returned. The man went flying, along with the rubble, and Rayla was nearly thrown back down the stairs as the dragon opened its mouth and spoke.

"YOL…TOOR SHUL!"

Fire exploded from its throat, turning the air into lava and forcing everyone to run backwards to avoid being roasted alive. Lokir bumped into Rayla, nearly sending them both hurtling back down the stairs.

Then the strangest thing happened. The black dragon looked into the tower. Red eyes scanned the interior, but when they reached Rayla, the beast froze. For a split second, she thought she could feel its eyes staring into her very soul.

Then the dragon roared one last time and launched off from the tower, only to launch fire at the Imperials below them. Rayla let out a breath she didn't know she had been holding.

"This is crazy," she heard Lokir mutter behind her. "This is absolutely insane."

Rayla had to agree. This is not what she had expected from her visit to Helgen.

Ralof was staring through the massive hole in the stone wall, down at a building below them. Part of the roof had caved in, and the other part was on fire. Rayla immediately knew what the crazy Stormcloak was thinking, and as much as she didn't like the idea, she had to admit that it was the only plan they had to get out of the blasted town.

"Jump through the roof and keep going!" Ralof told them (well, it was more like he was speaking to Lokir).

Lokir stepped up to the edge of the hole and looked down at the roof and blanched. "No way. That's suicide!"

Rayla stepped up behind him. "Yeah, well, so is staying here with a dragon on the loose. Down you go!"

And then she shoved him as hard as she could, and he plummeted down to the inn, screaming the whole time.

"Sorry!" Rayla yelled down after him. Then she turned to Ralof, sent him an offensive gesture, and said, "It's been a pleasure."

Then she looked down at the inn, said a quick prayer to whatever Divines were listening, and jumped.

For a single heartbeat, she could hear wind rushing around her, the roar of the dragon in the distance, and her own exhilarated scream. Then the floor of the inn rushed up to meet her, and she hit it with a harsh thud and a flash of pain in her shoulder.

"You are absolutely out of your mind!" Lokir exclaimed, struggling to stand with his hands bound. He had a small cut on his forehead, but other than that he looked fine.

"You're alive, aren't you?" Rayla said, grabbing the back of his rough-spun shirt and hauling him to his feet. Overhead, the dragon roared again, and someone screamed in pain. Rayla cursed. "Come on!" she told the thief beside her. "We have to get out of here!"

"Oh, really?" Lokir called from behind her as she moved past him. "I thought we might stay for a while, have a nice picnic!"

Rayla sent a glare back at him as she reached the edge of the second floor of the inn. They'd have to jump down one more time. "Don't make me push you again."

Lokir looked torn between glaring at her and cowering away. Rayla rolled her eyes and jumped down to the first floor of the inn. A moment later, Lokir followed, landing clumsily. The dragon swooped overhead, and all that Rayla could smell was smoke.

Together, Lokir and Rayla ran out of the destroyed inn, only to see more destruction and blood awaiting them. The many houses that they had seen on the way in were completely decimated, turned into burning piles of wood and stone.

"Haming, you need to get over here!" Hadvar, the soldier from before, yelled at a small boy. "Now!"

The boy ran over, and Rayla instantly decided that Hadvar was not a bad man even as she and Lokir ran near him.

Somehow, Rayla knew that it wouldn't be a smart idea to run past a man who was wielding a sword without warning, so she shouted, "Hey!"

Hadvar spun, and she barely dodged a sword to the face. The man seemed surprised to see them—and frankly, she was surprised to see him. Most Imperial soldiers, from the bodies that she could see on the ground, were already dead.

"Prisoners?" he asked, looking at her, and then at Lokir behind her. Then Hadvar seemed to come to his senses. "Well, stay with me if you want to live."

Seeing as he was the only one around with a sword, that was exactly Rayla's plan, and when she looked back at Lokir and saw how much blood had drained from his face, she could see that that was his intention as well.

Hadvar suddenly cursed as the dragon swooped overhead, and the three were forced to retreat as the creature blasted more fire out through its mouth, completely incinerating one man who was injured on the ground.

"Father!" the young boy Hadvar had saved exclaimed. He was held back by an older man in iron armor.

Rayla had to swallow the sudden urge to vomit. Couldn't anyone do anything to stop this monster?

The answer was a clear and definite no. She could see the surviving soldiers shooting as many arrows as they could at the monster, but none of the projectiles even made a dent in the beast's armor. The only chance they had of survival was to somehow make it out of the keep.

"Gunnar, take care of the boy," Hadvar told the old man, snapping Rayla's attention back to the presence. "I have to find General Tullius and join the defense."

"Defense?" Lokir demanded incredulously. He gestured at the sky wildly with his bound hands, wincing at the sound of the dragon's roar. "There is no defense against that thing!"

Hadvar looked at the sky, and then at him. "I have to try."

Then he ran off, and Rayla had no choice but to follow him. She heard Lokir curse and then follow her.

They dashed past the incinerated man as the dragon swooped overhead, and Rayla was so full of an equal mixture of adrenaline and fear that she could feel her fingers shaking. In all of her days, she had never seen anything like this. Gods, how she wished she had a weapon! She should have at least taken the headsman's axe!

"Stay close to the wall!" Hadvar suddenly instructed them as they jumped down two feet into an alleyway between a half-burned alleyway and one of the fortified walls that was partially crumbled.

Lokir reacted before Rayla did, and shoved her against the wall right as the black dragon flew overhead. Then it swooped back around and landed on the wall right above them.

Rayla froze. The black dragon's razor-sharp, foot long claws were less than six inches from her face. She was afraid that if she even breathed, those claws would slice into her face. She didn't even want to know how that would turn out. But being this close to a murderous beast also allowed her to get her first, clear look at the creature.

Its wings were made of the same material as a bat's, though much thicker, to support the dragon's copious weight. Large, thick scales coated its skin—no wonder the arrows couldn't get in. That had to be the best armor in the whole world!

Rayla was snapped out of her observations when she heard the creature speak again—almost as if it were shouting something.

"YOL…TOOR SHUL!"

Fire burst forth as the creature spoke in a terrible voice. Strangely, Rayla felt something about the spoken words resonate within her as the dragon spoke them. It felt rather like a bell had been rung inside her, loud and clear. She just wished she knew what that was supposed to mean.

Then, for the millionth time that day, disaster struck again. The creature took flight once more, but its claws slashed backward as the dragon did, and Rayla felt white-hot pain fill her face, like she had been deeply burned.

Her head snapped backward, slammed into the stone wall, and she saw and felt no more.

Yeah, so this ending is rather abrupt, and I realize that many of you are like me and have played this opening sequence so many times that you know every word. I tried to change things, so hopefully it is a bit more interesting. But congrats if you made it this far! I promise, there will be some more OC in chapters to come. If you want to read them.