Author's Note: Alright, so this is a new story I've been working on for a bit and finally got around to publishing it.

This is just the prologue, I hope to update regularly with longer chapters - this is going to be a long series, followed by probably a pretty long sequel, so please be patient. Thanks so much, please enjoy!

Prologue

"So, you're finally awake, eh."

Ralof's voice seemed too loud in the chilled morning air, jarring almost after such a long stretch of absolute silence. Ulfric Stormcloak didn't need to look up to know who he was talking to – the captured Imperial. An unlucky bastard to be sure, but of no consequence.

"You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that ambush with that horse thief." Ralof gestured with his bound hands to the tanned man beside him, who in turn just snorted with disdain.

"Damn you, Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along," railed the horse thief.

The two bantered for a moment before the carriage driver interrupted them – a blessed silence descended once more. Ulfric worked his jaw behind the gag, sore but nothing else, Talos be praised. This situation held little hope, the King was sure at the end of this parade there was a chopping block and an axe engraved with his name – yet Ralof still looked vim and bursting with vigor, as if waiting for the brilliant escape plan his king would surely hatch.

Exhale, slow and measured. Ulfric counted the trees that passed, took in the faint smell of smoke laden barely beneath the heavy pine scent which was purely Skyrim – they were nearing Helgen, he was certain.

Typically, he didn't find himself anywhere south of the Whiterun steppes, which may have explained why he hadn't been anticipating the force of Imperials wandering the roads. A stupid mistake, one that surely Galmar shan't let him forget anytime soon, should he either escape or meet his advisor in the halls of Sovengarde.

"Watch you tongue! You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, true High King of Skyrim."

His attention snapped back to the present, instantly aware all over again of the tight rope binds, musty cloth gag, and incessantly squealing wheel of the carriage. And once more of the many Stormcloak lives depending on him.

"General Tullius sir, the headsman is waiting!"

The wall of Helgen loomed, not as welcoming as Ulfric remembered from his travels. Guards were posted everywhere, all strategic positions covered, not one spot left unwatched, not one exit left unmarked. Tullius was a fool, but a clever fool.

They wheeled the prisoners, wagon after wagon, past houses with families watching with pale faces from porches, Mothers who swept their children inside, Fathers who watched with respect or contempt.

A young Imperial soldier took down each prisoner as they took their place in the procession, the Empire would hate to lose a drop of blood. Ulfric felt the heavy weight of finality settle in his bones as his boots hit the earth, as he took his final steps.

"Archers!" Legate Rikke's command pierced the air. The thief would run, Ulfric was nearly counting down the moments until he made his break. The King didn't even turn to see the body crumple – but he knew it was there, a man gasping on his dying breath, penetrated by a quiver-full of arrows, blood pooling around his chest.

Death was eerily similar.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," General Tullius smirked in thinly veiled arrogance, stepping closer to the Jarl of Windhelm. All mirth drained from his slate eyes, regret instead taking its place. "Some here in Helgen would call you a hero, but a hero wouldn't use the voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."

Torygg's face lit up Ulfric's mind like a torch, burning bright yet wavering. Forest green eyes, dancing with laughter and mead – a flashing smile, faint and forced but still sincere. Hands folded impassively, no Ulfric, I cannot. Scorn twisted lips, you know it is not my place, much less yours.

Agony on a sharp intake of breath. Ulfric flexed against his bindings, filled with a suffocating rage and snarling into his gag words unspoken. It was not my fault! He forced my hand!

Tullius remained unmoved – if he noticed the shift in demeanor, he said nothing. Instead, he leaned forward, biting out each word, "You started this war – you plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace –,"

A distant cry filled the air, breaking Tullius' grand crescendo and grating like the sound of metal on metal. For a beat, all was still but the ground still reverberating, as though it were almost ringing. A murmur rippled through the crowd of Stormcloak and Imperial alike.

Ulfric felt his blood run cold, followed by a tingle dangerously close to excitement building at the base of his spine; something was coming. The priestess started up her little prayer but it fell to deaf ears – Gunjar, Talos bless his acrid soul, burst forth shouting, impatient as he was foul.

It was quick, Ulfric watched with unblinking eyes. If he could not give his men an honorable death, then he would not dishonor them further by turning away, refusing to see what he had brought upon them. Gunjar's head landed cleanly in the troph, cleaved from his shoulders in one fail swing.

"You!"

They called to the captured Imperial next, his wagon-mate.

The bear of a man staggered forward, long ebony locks falling in tangles around a chiseled, unshaven face. This was a man of power, if the bulging muscles barely concealed under the roughspun tunic were any indication. Long scars running clean and crosswise along his biceps and forearms painted a bloody past – this man had been punished before. His eye perhaps were the most stunning, a silvery blue as cold as morning frost and nearly glowing like a nirnroot.

A shame, Ulfric couldn't help but think, this man would have made a dangerous soldier and a priceless ally, if turned against his own people. But now would suffer a humiliating death by the block, slaughtered like a beast of the wild by men who could not understand, by men who could not break him. Truly, a shame.

The Imperial kneeled, pushed to the ground by his ilk, resting his temple on the blood of Gunjar only to await the same fate. The axe gleamed cruelly in the hands of the executioner, not yet having had its fill of sacrifice. It seemed the world took a moment to gather itself.

And then exploded into flames.