A mound of books littered the hallway, each written in languages Onmund had never seen before. From beneath it, a thin girl pushed her way out, her two hair buns fell out of their pins, and she let out a small curse of, "By Azura, this always happens to me."

The ashen skin, the pointed ears, the ruby red eyes. She was a Dunmer. Onmund had never spoken to one before, let alone got close enough to see just how red those eyes were. The stories were true: they were like bloody rubies.

"Are you alright?" he knelt beside the girl, who pushed the heavy tomes off herself, "Are you hurt?" He was impressed she even attempted such a feat with such small, skinny arms.

"Oh… no, I'm fine-"

"Let me help you up!" Onmund didn't wait for her to offer her hand before he easily, almost too easily, lifted her back onto her feet by her wrists.

She blinked, surprised, "I- thank you?" She studied his form incredulously, not quite believing the too wide smile he had on his face, "Uh, pardon me for asking, I hope it's not too forward," the Dunmer began, her voice polite and gentle, but her diction was clear and educated, "Are you a Nord?"

"I am!" Onmund beamed, "I just got here!"

"I thought they stopped taking students a week ago?"

"I… managed to convince them," he flashed a shy smile.

The Dunmer girl returned it with a small one of her own, "Well, always good to have new students, you must have impressed the teachers here for them to make an exception," she extended a hand out, "I'm Brelyna. Brelyna Maryon."

He took it enthusiastically, shaking her whole arm in the motion. "I'm Onmund!"

"No family name?"

"Too poor to have one, I think," he joked, "We Nords don't do family names, not unless we're royalty, anyway."

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Onmund- say I… I don't suppose you won't mind helping me with the books?"

"Not at all!" Almost too happily he bent down and began collecting the heavy tomes, easily scooping them up in his arms, "Are these all yours?"

Brelyna couldn't help the impressed look on her face, "Well, yes? I mean, some are from my family, I brought them here when I came from Solstheim."

Onmund had only heard of Solstheim, and even then in quiet, rumored whispers from the other men in his father's fishing company- of how only the best gold went to those brave enough to journey to the border between Morrowind and Skyrim.

"Wow, you must have come a long way!"

"Most of us did," Brelyna motioned for him to follow her, "For some of us, this is our first time seeing Skyrim."

Onmund's curiosity got the better of him, so he had to ask, "Do you like it so far?"

Brelyna didn't answer, not immediately, "It's cold," she laughed under her breath. "I'm sorry, that sounds like a terrible impression."

Onmund let her continue, allowing the conversation to flow as she led him down the hall to her own room.

"This is the first time I've seen snow. Much less deal with the cold weather. I've had to trade silks for fur."

Silks? Fur? "Those sound expensive."

Her room had been on the opposite side of his, and when he stepped into it, Onmund felt as though he had travelled to a whole new world entirely. With the amount of magic flowing through the college, that may as well have been true.

Dunmeri ornaments decorated her room, glinting ominously in the dark light. The Nords, his people, so often spoke of how cursed the Dunmer were. Hard not to see why they would think so: Skeletons cradled infants on one motif, the moons and stars encircled by sentences written in Daedric letters in another. Heavy woven fabrics were dyed in colors so deep and so rich, they could have only come from a place as mysterious and misunderstood as Morrowind.

Brelyna patted a trunk, adorned with more of the Daedric script, "You can put them here."

Onmund did as he was told, arranging the tomes neatly. Though he had to admit, he had been nervous touching them. He didn't want to be rude, 'Keep an open mind,' he told himself.

"And to answer your question, yes. They were expensive, my family's… well, it's hard to explain."

"Well, I am here to learn!"

Brelyna smiled at that, "That's a fair point!" She tapped her chin, thinking of a suitable and understandable explanation, "You know how nobles or royals have big, impressive family names?"

"Yeah?" Onmund looked at the different objects in her room, the initial shock having worn off. He stood with his arms neatly folded behind his back as he admired the artistry.

"My family's nobility, we're from House Telvanni."

"I thought you said your name was Maryon?"

"It's not a family-family. More like… a loose association of second cousins and distant relatives all working under one banner."

"Is your uh, family-" Onmund struggled to find the words, suddenly so much more complex now that he was speaking in the common tongue, "Are they very important?"

Brelyna merely shrugged, "It doesn't matter now that I'm all the way here, in fact, the less they know about what I do here, the better."

Onmund stopped, and faced her, his blue eyes bursting with curiosity, "Why's that?"

She smiled, though it was a sad, bitter one, "I'm something of the family disappointment." Not ashamed to admit such a thing, or too self-aware of her position within her family's eyes?

No matter the case, it was by that admission alone that Onmund knew he had well and truly found his family in Winterhold.

The horses marched like war drums.

The grays of the eastern Skyrim skies made way for the gentle, deeper blues of those further to the west. Trees and flowers bloomed in full spring colors, while birds sang lazily from their branches.

Then, pain. Aches. And the distinct non-feeling of bound wrists. Svana blinked once, twice, and then again before she groaned to life.

"Looks like you're finally awake."

She recognized that voice. The soldier from the tavern. Dragging her head upright, she looked around her. A cart, they were in a cart. An Imperial soldier drove the horses down poorly cobbled roads, while the reds of their banners fluttered lazily in the breeze.

To her right was none other than Ulfric Stormcloak, bound and gagged with only a simple cloth bind. And yet even so, he held his head up high. Svana wasn't sure if it was arrogance or self-respect that made him hold himself the way he did, but either way, she could only huff dismissively at the display.

"Come now," the soldier drawled, "Don't like the company?"

She rolled her eyes. All looks and no brains, this was a man her father would say possessed a head that was only good for growing hair.

"You should've moved on when you could," despite the ache in her head and her back, she never cowed to the men before her.

"You wanted a ride to Windhelm."

"I was looking for my brother," she sighed. Great. Now she was miles from where she needed to be, and there was no telling where Onmund had gone, or what he planned on doing.

Or worse. She swallowed a difficult lump in her throat. What if Pa found him first?

"Well," the soldier tried, "I'm sorry." He sounded sincere.

Svana shook her head. "Don't be."

"I'm Ralof," the soldier introduced, leaning forward on his knees, "What about you?"

"You care that much?"

Ralof shrugged, "If we're going to where I think they're taking us, could do with making some friendly conversation," he flashed a wicked grin, "Would be more polite to know your name than go with the one I have of you."

His response struck her as odd, but she was quick to brush it off. "Oh?"

"You look like a Hildegarde."

She choked back her laughter, "Blessed be the Divines, truly, if you do not bear children." Alright, she could manage him. "I'm Svana."

"Where are you from?"

'Did it matter?' she wanted to ask. But with all that had happened, she was too tired to fight. So she simply answered, "Kynesgrove. I was the blacksmith's apprentice."

Ralof nodded. "Was?"

"I'm not apprenticing or blacksmithing right now, am I?" she lifted her hands to demonstrate her point, "Think they'll give us a fair trial?"

Clamping down on his tongue, Ralof looked away. Even Ulfric Stormcloak looked away.

"What? Did I say something?" Svana asked.

"Imperials don't do trials."

The color drained from Svana's face at once. "What?" She began to ramble, blubber, at that point saying anything was worth more than saying nothing.

Saying nothing meant she had to hear the truth.

Ralof sighed, "They love a good trial, but not with us," he gestured with his chin to the Jarl seated beside her, "Not when they've got us like fish in a barrel."

Svana never made it a habit to cry or show weakness. But in that moment, she understood perfectly where they were being taken, what the Imperials had intended for them, dragged along in carts like animals lined up for the slaughter. Tears rolled down her face, pouring through her eyes in a steady stream.

"That's… no, they can't be! I'm innoc-"

"Shut up!" The driver scolded, "Before I turn around and gag you both."

Ralof offered only a sympathetic look, "I'm so sorry, Svana." He reached out as best he could with the bindings on his hands, and patted her on her knee, "Truly."

But those words fell on ears that would not listen. She stared ahead at the trees that passed them by, watched as the sunlight sparkled and danced through the leaves and branches, dancing like wisps. She noticed the red and blue mountain flowers along the road, like the flowers her mother painted on their clothes and homeware.

"My family doesn't know…" Svana began to sob then, quiet at first, but then loud and wailing, "By the Nine, my family…" She began to curl into herself, her entire body shaking with an impossible grief. Would the Imperials inform her family? Would they let her write something, in her words, about how sorry she had been? That she didn't come home, that she drove Onmund away, that she couldn't do nearly as much as she wanted?

Onmund, gods damn it, she blamed over and over in her mind, why did he run? Why couldn't he have just stayed home and helped Ma at the market? Why… why did he have to run? Gods would he have even run if she didn't punch him?

She didn't dare look up at her surroundings, too afraid to see what awaited her. Would they take her to Solitude and kill her to a crowd of Imperial bootlickers? Taken to some important military camp where the Thalmor would maim and torture them for nothing more than the sheer pleasure of doing so? Every awful thought about her fate racked up in her mind, each new scenario more horrifying than the last.

Gods, no, what was she thinking? She had to get out here. She wouldn't just sit here and wait for her death. No, an escape. Her mind raced to find an exit. The wagons were going slow enough. She could just hop off and run into the forest. The wagons weren't going to stop for a single prisoner, right? Not when they had Ulfric. She was a nobody. She could survive in the forest. Not the first time she did.

She just had to make an escape.

Then Ralof spoke.

"Hey," he began, gentle as ever, "Looks like we're going to Helgen. I remember this place, I used to be sweet on a girl from here."

She let him ramble on, never looking up at him, or anywhere else. In that moment, the warm breeze along her skin and then gentle rustling of leaves could only conjure up the memories of her mother painting in the corner of their basement, singing old folk songs.

Gods, where even was Helgen? She was so far away from home. Would she even know where to go had she escaped? Could she even call herself a Nord for fighting against fate? The stories said Sovngarde sometimes chose its people. Maybe this was her time. It wasn't like she was going to live forever, anyway, nobody did.

Before her were soldiers. A Jarl. Men and women of honor. Sovngarde cared little for petty human politics and the Nords would ignore it just as well. She was in good company. Honorable company.

Helgen. She would die at Helgen. If that was to be her fate, she could meet it gladly.

Everyone gossiped in Kynesgrove. But whatever stirred up excitement in the village, Elsie paid no mind.

She had gone out that evening to feed the animals as her father tried one last time to look for her siblings. She wondered then, if her father had been less afraid and more honest with his feelings, would any of this happened?

Frigga, her beloved hen, pecked playfully at her boots. She smiled at the sight, despite the sadness weighing her down. It never was fair, she thought bitterly, that she had been burdened with playing the mediator to all these fights at only fifteen years old. All the fights between Onmund and Svana, she had to come in between and tell them to stop. Always remembering to stop their bickering before their father came home. The worst was when Svana had to take Onmund for errands, and they'd come home in explosive anger towards each other, with Svana yelling and Onmund crying.

And yet, the one time she wasn't there to stop it, the one time she could have spoken some sense into her brother, he left. For good.

She wondered if he was happy. She wondered if Svana had just stayed with Oma. Word on the roads was that there was trouble lately- soldiers about looking for a fight with anyone, maybe Oma convinced her to stay. And why wouldn't she? Oma was a smart woman, and Svana had the sense to stay put and wait danger out.

Then, the jangle of the coins in her purse reminded her, "Bread! Oh!" Careful feeding would take too much time, so Elsie dumped the bag of feed in a heap in the middle. The birds and animals helped themselves gleefully and she dashed out past their gate, almost tripping over the newly planted potatoes.

She ran down the dirt path leading from her home and into the village proper, barely missing the baker closing up shop. Purse in hand, she huffed as she pulled herself up to the counter, waiting for him to finish his conversation with the woman who was ahead of her.

"Did you hear? Stormcloak scouts say the Thalmor had hit Darkwater Crossing," the woman spoke in hushed whispers, as if she feared to be heard.

"Darkwater Crossing?" The baker gasped, "That's so close… what happened?"

"I don't know, all I heard was that they rounded up some of the Stormcloak soldiers and made a mess of the place."

Elsie didn't wait to hear what else had happened. Svana had gone there. Oma was there. Thalmor in Darkwater Crossing? Dropping her purse on the counter, she ran back home, heart pounding in her chest as she desperately conjured up ways to tell her parents the news.

Mara's tears… why did this have to happen?

"-And here's where most of the mages spend their free time!"

Brelyna had been a delight. While Onmund had been distracted during Mirabelle's rushed tour of the College, his new Dunmer friend was eager to show him around. From the towering shelves of books at the library, to the strange objects on display at the stockroom. But as they returned to the Hall of Attainment- the living quarters for the students, it still remained the most impressive of all.

He had seen the halls of bedrooms and common areas, mages lounging about lost in a book or penning their studies down into journals. Up on the topmost floor had been a dining hall. Wonders upon wonders, as flagons of water and mead filled themselves up with only the lazy flick of a clever mage's wrist. Tea and exotic coffees brewed by way of arcane blue flames, filling the hall with smells and spices he had never experienced before.

And that's when his stomach rolled again. Onmund quickly reached his hands around himself, as though to quell the noise, "S-Sorry… I… I haven't had much to eat on my trip here."

Brelyna's bright red eyes shot wide open, and her small, thin hands tugged at Onmund's sleeve, "Well come on then, let's see if we can't get you something to eat before we go to the Hall of the Elements later."

The table hadn't been quite set yet- there were stacks of plates and bowls and forks arranging themselves neatly on the long tables. Serving plates slid themselves into place magically. Yet a fresh, steaming basket of bread was present, making Onmund salivate from hunger. He hadn't eaten since his departure, and now that he was safe in the college, his body was starting to catch up with its neglected needs.

"I see the Telvanni girl also likes Senchal potato bread," a voice came from the shadows, purring and strange.

Brelyna seemed to recognize the voice, judging by the way she folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot against the stone floor, "We've talked about you hiding in the shadows, J'zargo."

"Eh, true enough," came the reply. Onmund had not seen a Khajiit before, not up close anyway, but from where he was standing, the fellow that stepped out of the shadow was a remarkably handsome sort, "Who's your new friend?" Came the toothy grin, framed by a dazzling moustache and a pair of glimmering blue eyes.

"This is Onmund," Brelyna introduced, "He's from Skyrim!"

"Ah, a local Nord… surprised to find one of you lot here," the Khajiit, J'zargo, reached over to the bread basket and offered one to Onmund, "Pleasure to meet you."

"I've… never seen a Khajiit before," He couldn't help the smile on his face as he took the offered food.

"Oh ho! What a treat it is that you meet the most handsome of all from Senchal!"

Brelyna sighed, casting an exasperated glance in Onmund's direction, "Please don't encourage him."

"That sounds so far away," Onmund took the offered bread, picking at it as politely as he could despite the hunger roiling in his gut, "Did you walk all the way here?"

"W-walk?" J'zargo blanched, "Surely this one is capable of many a great feat, but walking to Skyrim? No, I travelled by boat- I had been given special permission to come here to study."

A beat passed, then two before Onmund began nervously picking at more pieces of bread.

"You… did not walk all the way here, did you?" J'zargo pressed.

"I… did."

J'zargo stood a little straighter at that. "Well, consider this one impressed. Such dedication you show to honing your craft, certainly your clan must be very proud!" His beaming smile was infectious and charismatic, but not bright enough to pull the frown from Onmund's lips into anything but a half-hearted laugh.

"Well, I… well, that's why I'm here. To get away from family," he rubbed the back of his neck, now nervous and unsure, and his eyes darted down at the admission, "Magic is shunned by most Nords. If it can't be swung over your head and used to crack skulls, they want nothing to do with it. Magic is seen as something for elves, and weaker races."

J'zargo looked to Brelyna, who returned the look.

"No offense, of course…" Onmund quickly added, realizing his mistake, "It's just… growing up where I did, I never got to see mages, or learn about magic, all I had were books to learn from."

"That is tragic," Brelyna offered, "I couldn't imagine a world without magic. Back home, everything was magic- even the doors to your home were unlocked with spells, if you couldn't manage it well…hope you like sleeping outside."

"Yes, yes," J'zargo jumped in, all too eager to talk about himself, "I was clearly destined to become a great mage, my parents could see it and encouraged me to seek out the College."

"Aren't there any places where you're from that teach magic?" Onmund asked, already looking over the Khajiit to help himself to more bread.

"Not anymore, no. The College of Winterhold here is one of the last free schools that's yet standing," a shrug, "Winterhold is unique- it is not so dependent on exams and cruel governesses."

"And your parents…just let you go?" Onmund blinked, incredulous.

J'zargo nodded, "It was that, or take over their trading emporium. Either lifestyle would suit me fine, but magic is more interesting, less... mundane, shall we say?"

"I couldn't imagine what it'd be like," came Onmund's quiet confession, "My parents wanted me to be," he struggled with the words here. Nordic? Manly? He settled for, "Something practical."

J'zargo nodded, understanding, "It is good still that you decided to come, despite the perils. A life worth living is a life that has taken risks."

Onmund smiled at that, muttering a gentle 'thank you' before the ringing of a large bell sounded through the entire college.

One ring, then another and then another. By the fifth bell, glowing blue balls of light emerged from in between the stones of the walls, gently pushing apprentices by their shoulders or tugging at their hoods. One even pulled at Brelyna's hair buns.

"What- what are these?" Onmund laughed, delighted, "Wisps?"

J'zargo began flapping his hands around him, as though shooing away very determined flies, "Yes, charming, aren't they?" Despite his words, there was no hiding the annoyance in his voice.

Brelyna urged her friends on, putting herself in between them and linking their arms in hers, "Come on, I think it's time to see what this college can really offer us."

Helgen felt like home. Not that it had the stink of the sulphur pools as one pulled into the borders of Eastmarch, nor the drab, depressing grays of the mountainside. But it was a small village, not unlike Kynesgrove.

Ralof talked at length about the mead made with juniper berries, or how if one listened hard enough, one could hear the spirits of ancient Nords sing from the top of the Throat of the World.

All rubbish… but those were exactly the kinds of stories she heard growing up in Eastmarch. How the Sea of Ghosts housed a lost princess from eras ago, singing for her love that she dearly misses. How the great mountains that formed their hold were built upon the bones of the dragons of old.

As Svana looked around, she saw the curious eyes of children peeking out from behind doors and windows, come to gawk at the soldiers riding into their quiet village. She heard the distinct sound of a blacksmith's hammer slowly stopping to a halt. A dreadful silence began to creep into that sleepy hamlet, and all Svana could think was how sorry of a death she'd face. In her youth, she would've joked about a death by moonlight, strangled by her small clothes and the glory of Talos.

But Sovngarde only cared for how one died, not where one died. So she sat up with her shoulders straight and her head held high, determined to meet her end with dignity.

The carts began to slow down, stopping eventually at the end of a large square. The general from earlier prattled on and on with his condemnation of Ulfric and his Stormcloaks, and beside him were two very smug Thalmor emissaries. Svana could see that clever, feline grin one of them wore- a tall thin Altmer with hair so blonde it looked like spun gold. The way her uniform gleamed with medals and baubles said to Svana: 'This is the bitch in charge.'

It wasn't long before they were called down from their seats. Imperial soldiers read from a logbook of their taken names, each one stepping forward without hesitation or fear. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm," the Nord soldier, Hadvar, read. And as though he had played this part before, the Jarl stepped forward among his men, defiant to the end.

"Ralof, of Riverwood," Svana watched as he rolled his eyes, mumbling something about Imperials and their damnable lists, before he joined the others, lined up for the killing.

Name after name, they read. For many Nords, a name was what made a person. Svana wondered if they knew they were killing someone's son or daughter. They didn't care, not when they played the game of war. When one of the captured prisoners tried to run, he died like a dog- an arrow through the knee, the back and the head. And then it was back to reading names off lists.

"And what about you?" Hadvar and the captain stared down at Svana, but she wouldn't cower. Not here, not while she still had a chance of dying a good death.

"Svana, of Kynesgrove," she said, glancing around to meet the gaze of the curious onlookers.

"Kynesgrove?"

"You heard me the first time," Svana challenged, much to the approval of the other Stormcloak soldiers.

"Get to the block," the captain barked. Even Svana had to admit, for a woman her size, she had stones to snap at soldiers the way she did.

But whatever bravado Svana possessed vanished as soon as she heard the dying gurgle of a soldier being beheaded.

One head rolled, then another, and another. It didn't take long for the smell of blood to completely overtake her senses. Svana didn't look the first time the axe came down on that soldier's neck. But when she braved a look, her stomach rolled uncomfortably, and she heaved terribly.

It was Ralof who patted her on the back, getting her to stand upright, "Hey now," he said, charming as ever, "Don't ruin your shoes, lass, won't do to dirty the place when we go to Sovngarde."

Perhaps it was instinct, or perhaps this was the very definition of gallow's humor, but Svana let out a huff of a laugh, "I'm not even dressed for it."

"Ah well, I think they're a laid back sort up there."

The skies had darkened then, rolling thunder clouds gathering ominously over the village. Lighting clapped gently behind the heavy skies, Svana could almost smell the rain on the ground. Static prickled at the back of her neck, making the hairs there rise.

But what followed next hadn't been the tell-tale boom of thunder. Instead, a terrifying roar echoed through the skies, leaving everyone's ears ringing and the ground shaking. From where she could see, sentries and archers aimed their arrows every which way at the sky.

"Should we investigate?" She heard Hadvar ask, but before he could get his answer, Svana was pulled to the front of the block.

"Me?" She yelped, incredulous, "Me?"

No one paid her any mind, all save for the Stormcloaks who gave her encouraging looks, as if to say, "Do not be afraid."

How could she not be? They bent her down to the block, nothing more than some makeshift thing that was pulled from behind the carpenter's workshop. Blood had stained the wood a grisly red, and the smell that came off of it almost made Svana faint from sickness.

She cringed as she felt the squish of blood on her knees, seeping through the fabric of her dress. She felt hands push her down, heard the blade sing as it was readied, the murmurs of the soldiers. Everything in her body screamed at her to fight back, but she complied, docile as a doe.

The executioner was not a man of mercy, and his boot came down on her head to hold her in place. Tears began to shed, and all Svana could see through the blur of them were flashes of her family. She regretted it then, punching Onmund square in his face, all because he wouldn't stop talking about magic. She'd never forget, even in death, the way Elsie looked at her while she held their crying mother, soothing her. She'd never forget the horror of seeing her mother weep in anguish, the way she did when Onmund disappeared, and the way she would when Svana's death reached her home.

She looked up to the sky and-

Wait.

Was that a dragon?