A/N: Hello! This is a story I started a while back, but didn't really have the time to devote to it...until now. This is just a quick, flash-forward prologue, so it'll jump back in time before proceeding normally. Hope you enjoy it!

Dragon Aspect

Prologue: Voth Ahkrin

She willed herself to wake, cracking open bleary eyes and fighting to take in her surroundings. Her bones jarred against each other in time with the throbbing in her skull, and as the fog in her head began to lift, she made out the rhythm of hoofbeats. And then the fog burned away in a searing blast of clarity, as every memory from the past several days came rushing back in.

Her heart had somehow become lodged in her throat, displaced by crushing weight now filling her chest. The blond soldier across from her was speaking—to her, she presumed, by the way he had shifted forward, his eyes locking on to hers—but she only saw his mouth moving, his words drowned out by the roaring in her ears. She quickly looked away, forcing her gaze downward into her lap. The sight of her bound hands sent a hand of panic to her throat, so instead she stared intently at her knees, memorizing every dirt stain, every frayed thread.

As her breathing settled into some semblance of a rhythm, she began to slowly take note of the surrounding spectacle. A now-green forest and a downward slope—they were descending the mountain. Legion armor, flashes of Imperial crimson—the Empire had taken charge. More wagons ahead of this one—all filled with patches of familiar blue. A quick glance back to the blond soldier confirmed it—they were all now prisoners. Only she wasn't free.

The irony of the situation wasn't lost on her. Of course, though, she thought bitterly to herself. The Empire was thorough to a fault. They would have snapped up everyone in the camp—stopping to ask questions would have given the enemy the advantage. And any Legionnaire worth their salt would rather die than do so.

In one of her quick glances upward, she noted that another occupant of the wagon lacked the Stormcloak uniform. She lifted her head, thinking she'd found a friendly face—but no. This one was pale-skinned, with short, dark hair. She dropped her head again, but began gradually tuning into the conversation as the civilian stranger argued with the blond soldier. The stranger was mocking some other occupant of their wagon, but the blood froze in her veins at the soldier's reply. "Watch your tongue. You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."

She went still, every muscle freezing in place. Her heart dropped back into place and began thudding out a frantic rhythm that blurred together into one single note of terror. No. Not him. She turned her head very slightly to the right, just a little further…and there. Ulfric Stormcloak sat just two places down from her.

Her head snapped back into place, and she once again forced her stare to her knees. Had he seen her? Oh Divines, don't let him have seen her. She was starting to perspire, and for a moment, she wildly considered the risks of hurling herself over the side of the wagon. But as she surveyed the mountain slope, she caught sight of something else through the trees.

Town walls rose up before them, and as they rounded a bend in the road, she could see the other wagons rolling through the gates. "Ah, Helgen," the soldier remarked as they rolled through. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here." His tone was relaxed—lazy, even. "And look, there's General Tullius, the military governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him." His tone soured. "Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this."

Despite the fact that she was still plastered in the corner in hopes that Ulfric hadn't noticed her, she lifted her head again at the mention of General Tullius. Over the soldier's shoulder, there was an officer that could only be him, flanked by several imposing, golden-skinned figures clothed in black. "The Thalmor?" The alarm in the thief's voice was clear. "Then…"

As if on cue, an Imperial soldier called out as they rolled past. "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting." The general gave a wave of acknowledgment, and the thief truly began to panic.

"Oh gods, no, this can't be happening. This isn't happening." It was happening, though, and the quiet knowledge silently dawned on her. But instead of fear, a shiver of dark mirth ran along her spine. She would die today—but Ulfric would die along with her. And that thought alone was enough to settle her breathing and slow her heart, to square her shoulders as the wagons rolled to a stop.

"Shor. Mara. Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh—Divines, please help me!" the thief cried frantically. "We're not rebels!" As they stiffly lurched to their feet and shuffled off the end of the wagon, the soldier snapped a retort.

"Face your death with some courage, thief!"

How had this happened? How had she ended up here, facing an gruesome death alongside criminals and rebels? But as she slipped from the back of the wagon, wincing at the impact, she knew she had her answer. This was all her fault, she thought dizzily. She'd done this to herself. One small, seemingly-inconsequential choice, and she'd been set on this path.

She stared at the ground, her ears ringing as the guards began to call out the names of the rebels. If only she could go back, she thought, her dying wish echoing off the walls of her skull, unspoken. Back before the moment she'd made her choice. Before she'd left Cyrodiil. Before that day, nearly a month ago; the day the courier had come up the road…