It was another week before the reason for General Tullius' visit became apparent. The garrison had been summoned to the parade grounds shortly after sunrise. General Tullius stood on the ramparts of the wall, gazing down on them. To his right was Legate Rikke, her ever stony expression firmly in place. To his left, a hollow-faced and sunken-cheeked Captain Autrilchiotus. The Captain, it appeared, did not particularly appreciate having his command superseded so thoroughly. Either that, or the man was being forced to work for once.

When the men had finished filing into their columns, Tullius addressed them.

"There have been many rumors circulating as to my surprise visit of this outpost." He began, his harsh voice carrying easily over the wind. "I am here to put those rumors to rest." He began to pace slowly back and forth along the parapets.

"Approximately three weeks ago, a detachment of Legionnaires ambushed a Stormcloak caravan returning to Windhelm. They quickly and capably dispatched the guards and secured the caravan. Inside…was Ulfric Stormcloak."

A wave of excited mutterings erupted amongst the assembled men.

"Quiet!" Roared Tullius, and muttering stopped immediately. He resumed his pacing. "An armed carriage carrying Stormcloak is due to arrive in the next several hours. He will be executed and the last vestiges of rebellion in the region will be quashed in a single stroke." He stopped his pacing and approached the rampart, placing his hands on the cool stone.

"As of now, we are unsure if the enemy is aware his capture. Our intelligence suggests that they don't, but we have been wrong before. We will be conducting roaming patrols. Two-mile perimeter. Anyone not wearing Imperial colors is to be stopped, detained, and questioned. We are taking no chances. Your superiors will dispatch your orders. Dismissed." He turned on his heel and disappeared back into the barracks, Rikke hot on his heels.

The Lieutenants began distributing their marching orders. Percy only half paid attention. All of this excitement was a little more than he was happy with dealing with. The sooner this was over with the better. This entire civil war was really none of his business after all. He'd only joined the Empire because of the stability their offered.

It wasn't that Percy didn't necessarily sympathize with the Stormcloak resistance. He more than most could sympathize with wishing for personal autonomy. But Percy had heard enough rumors about the manner in which the Sotrmcloaks conducted their rebellion that soured his opinion of them. Imperial loyalist or not, there was no excuse for targeting civilian settlements, burning down homesteads, and ruining lives all in the name of your own agenda. Besides, the townsfolk in Helgen and those in Falkreath seemed relatively happy under the rule of the Empire. They were, for the most part, left alone and as far as Percy's understanding went the local Jarls were left to rule as they saw fit.

Life under the Empire was civil and peaceful, and they had yet to give Percy any indication not to trust them. Besides, they had welcomed him with open arms when he'd had nothing. That alone granted them Percy's loyalty and support.

"Jackson!" Jaraso's harsh voice drew Percy out of his thoughts, and he turned to address the man. "Legate Rikke has personally requested your presence inside the gate for the execution." He eyed Percy conspiratorially.

"Getting a little cozy with our Legate, Jackson?" He smirked and Percy rolled his eyes.

"We sparred the other day. Probably just wants the best sword in camp just in case Stormcloak tries to pull some shit." He grinned at Jaraso, "Maybe if you spent a little more time in the training yard and not the pub, you'd be there too."

Jaraso's cheeks reddened and he glowered at Percy. "Fuck off Jackson. Just don't do anything to embarrass us."

"Aye, sir." With one last withering look at Percy, Jaraso turned and began addressing the men to Percy's right and left. From the corner of his eye, he watched as Rikke emerged from a nearby doorway. She looked amongst the crowd for a few seconds before her eyes met his. She motioned for him to come to her, and Percy broke formation and approached.

"Legate," he greeted.

"Sergeant," she said, "Hope you don't mind my requisitioning you for internal security."

"Far from it," said Percy, "I'd much rather be here than wandering around the wilderness. Was the General being honest earlier, are we not expecting any trouble?"

"As far as we know," said Rikke, "If the Stormcloaks were going to try anything, they would have done it while the caravan was on the road. But if something were to go wrong, then I would feel more comfortable having a blade I can trust at my side."

"Didn't know you trusted me, I feel honored," chuckled Percy.

Rikke rolled her eyes, "I trust your sword. Now come on, help me oversee the preparations for the arrival."

For the rest of the morning, Percy assisted with Rikke as they began organizing the defenses and making the necessary preparations. An entire battalion of archers would be lining the walls, arrows knocked and ready to fire should they so much as sniff any trouble. A contingent of heavily armed foot soldiers patrolled the streets, ensuring that none were leaving their homes and maintaining a heavy semblance of order.

As the noon sun began to shine high overhead, Percy's attention was pulled away from where he was orchestrating a movement of containers. Turning to the noise, Percy watched as two horse-drawn carriages descended from the mountain pass above the town. Percy could make out a contingent of Legionnaires on horseback as they quickly descended the trail. It was a rather light guard for such a high value prisoner, though Percy supposed that a heavier guard might have alerted any potential spies that something important was afoot.

As the doors to the town were opened and the carriages allowed to pass through, Percy took a spot near the chopping block beside Rikke and a Legion scribe. A tall, well-built Nord with long brown hair that fell to his shoulders. As the carriages drew nearer, Percy counted at least eight seven prisoners in the cart. Most were wearing the same sky-blue armor of the Stormcloak rebels. Their eyes tired and haunted. They must have known what fate awaited them here.

Percy's eyes were drawn to the second carriage. Specifically, they were drawn to the one man dressed significantly better than the others. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with straw blond hair. Like most Nord men, it fell in thick curtains around shoulders. He was dressed in what was once an elegant overcoat, though it had since collected dust and grime from the travels. Most curious however, was the cloth gag tied securely around his mouth.

The carriages stopped and the men were roughly thrown from the back. One man, dressed only in the tattered rags of a beggar, was rambling about how this was all a misunderstanding, that he was no Stormcloak sympathizer. However, a blow to the stomach from a nearby Legionnaire quickly dissuaded him of further talk. Percy's gaze passed over the cowering man and to the quiet Nord behind him. Like the beggar, he looked out of place amongst the rest of the blue soldiers.

"Quiet!" Barked Rikke harshly, stepping forward and beside the Scribe. "Now step towards the block as we call your name, one at a time! Any one gets caught trying to run, will bleed out in the damned street!"

"The Empire does love its damned lists," Percy heard a man mutter, which earned him a pommel to the spine in response.

"Ulfric Stormcloak," said the scribe, looking down at his sheet, "Jarl of Windhelm. Guilty of murder and high treason. Sentence…death."

A pair of burly Legionnaires lunged forward, and grabbed the Jarl around the arms and began dragging him in the direction of the chopping block.

"Next," intoned the Scribe, sounding more bored than anything. A blonde, wiry man about a head shorter than Percy approached.

"Name?"

"Ralof, proud son of Skyrim."

Percy had to hand it to the man, he was managing to hold his head high and proud. Not many could face their death with such conviction, and he could admire that.

"Stormcloak," muttered the Scribe, glancing at the sheet, "Sentence…death," he jerked his head off in the direction of the block, and Ralf march onwards proudly.

"Next,"

Nobody offered to step forward, so a nearby guard interceded and roughly shoved the beggar forward.

"Name?"

"L-Lokir!" Spluttered the man, his eyes wide, "A-and this is a mistake, I-I-I I'm not with them, I'm not a Stormcloak,"

"Maybe so," said the Scribe, inspecting his list, "But you are a thief. Get him to the block,"

"No!" Cried Lokir, as two men reached forward to grab him. But Lokir was far nimbler than he appeared. He ducked under their reach and darted forward. He was quick, but Percy was quicker. He caught the man under the elbow as he tried to barrel past. He jerked to stop, and only had the time to glance up in abject terror, before the blade of Rick's dagger embedded itself in the back of his neck. Percy winced as arterial blood shot forward, dousing the front of his leather armor in crimson. He let go of the man, and he crumpled to the ground, his hands pitifully reaching up to his neck. Grasping painfully at it as though trying to catch the blood and stop it from escaping. Percy watched as the wretched soul writhed for a moment on the ground, before finally going still. His face forever etched in that last moment of panic, and horror.

It was a horrible death. A punishment that lost certainly didn't fit the crime of theft. It made Percy's stomach curdle slightly. He'd seen his fair share of death since dropping into this gods-forsaken country, but it was never outright murder like that. Though, he supposed the poor man had only reached his end a few minutes sooner. Percy glanced up at Rikke, who was casually wiping the blood off her dagger on the hem of her combat skirt. She didn't so much as bat an eyelash at the cold-blooded murder she'd just committed.

He kept his gaze on her, and as she sheathed her weapon, she met it.

"Good work Sergeant," she said, "Those reflexes of yours are exactly why I wanted you here."

Percy didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say. He stared back down at the body. Disgust wrenching at his stomach. Maybe there was more truth to the Stormcloaks pleas for independence than he'd given consideration.

"Anyone else feel like running?" Rikke roared, glaring at the remaining prisoners. None of them spoke.

"Next," said the Scribe, hardly so much as batting an eye at the wonton violence. The Nord stepped forward. Like the beggar, he was dressed in rags. But he stepped forward with purpose.

"Name?"

"Akar Argahrsson"

"All right…" muttered the Scribe, as he consulted his list. But, after a moment, he frowned. "Legate…his name isn't on the list." He offered the list to Rikke, who took it and examined it herself. Her frown deepened, and she turned and marched over to where General Tullius was standing, glaring at Ulfric. They had a short exchange, during which he took the list and examined it. He thrust it back into her hands and with a dismissive wave of the hand, sent her back.

"To the block prisoner," she said, handing the list back to the Scribe.

"What?" Said Percy, unable to believe what he was hearing. He rounded on the woman, who to her credit looked conflicted. "What the hell are you saying?" He demanded, and Rikke rounded on him.

"Orders from the General, Sergeant." She stressed Percy's rank, and leaned in close so only he could hear. "I like it no more than you do, but this is out of our hands."

"This is wrong, Rikke!" Percy hissed. He was willing to more or less excuse Loki's death. The man had committed a crime, and whether or not Percy felt the punishment of death was excessive, didn't change the fact that at least the man had done something. But sending a completely innocent civilian to their death? Percy was only willing to stomach so much.

"Look, Jackson," snapped Rikke, "Like it or not, Tullius' word is law! He says the man has to die, then the man has to die!"

"And we're just supposed to accept that? There's following orders and then there is murder!"

"And if we disobey then we join them!" She spat, and deflated somewhat, "There's nothing to be done Jackson…one or another, he's going to the block. The only difference would be whether or not we joined him and I'm sorry…but I have my own people to look out for." Percy's stomach clenched painfully, as conflict raged within him.

On the one hand…this was wrong. Unequivocally wrong. If Percy did nothing, then it was no different than if Percy was swinging the axe himself. But if he did intervene, and assuming he did manage to fend off an entire cohort of Legionnaires, then what? Live the rest of his life on the run? Sacrifice everything he'd built for himself? Was that a sacrifice he was willing to make? Was he not owed some peace and happiness after everything he'd endured? He swallowed thickly, and averted his gaze. He'd sacrificed so much already…and he just couldn't bring himself to sacrifice any more. But he would get an explanation from Tullius. He swore it on the Styx.

The Scribe had been watching the exchange with interest, but when Percy stepped away, he turned his attention back to Akar, the first semblances of emotion spreading across his face.

"You picked the wrong time to try and come back to Skyrim, Kinsman," he said gently. Akar didn't respond, and instead made his way to where the rest of the prisoners had arrayed themselves. Percy watched as the other prisoners were quickly sorted without incident. He was beginning to feel more and more disgusted with himself with every passing second. When had he become this selfish? A little voice that sounded obnoxiously like Annabeth's spoke in his ear - when you were dragged into a different dimension you big Seaweed Brain.

Percy ignored the voice.

For such a significant moment, Percy felt that the atmosphere was a little…lacking. The chopping block was little more than a wood cutout. Little more than a bowl with a cut large enough to prop up a human head. Beside the block was a simple basket. Nothing more. Beside the basket, was a large man dressed in black. His features covered by a deep black hood. Beside him, was a woman. Percy didn't recognize her, but assumed that she must have been a priest of some sort. He knew that the Imperials were rather devout, and their religious dogma was an everyday part of their life.

But that was it. There was no fanfare. No exuberance. Just a group of dour-faced men and women prepared to do the dirty work of war. It seemed…anticlimactic. But at the same time, it was very Imperial. Everything about the Empire was like the Legion from his home. No nonsense. No fluff. There was a job to do, and it must be done. Whether that was in the dusty, shit-covered parade grounds in front of the Helgen barracks as they were now, or in the middle of some godsforsaken tundra.

That strict sense of procedure had been precisely what had kept Percy in the Legion for so long. Though now…could he really in good conscience continue to work for a power that treated the innocent with such callous disregard?

The first man was dragged forward. He'd been one of the men from the other cart, and Percy didn't know his name. An Imperial Captain whose name Percy didn't know, kicked the man in the back of the knee and forced him to the ground. She then placed her foot on his back and roughly shoved him into position. Not once did the man scream, or beg for mercy. He simply accepted his fate with bravery of a man whose faith in the next-life was absolute.

Percy felt oddly jealous of such peace.

But the peace of the moment was shattered. A roar, a high-pitched, distant, roar rang across the open field. It was so reminiscent of a crack of thunder, that Percy nearly mistook it for such. But that had been no act of nature. Percy was certain. His hand dipped down to his hilt of his sword and he began to search the skyline and the mountains as did the rest of the assembled men and women.

Legionnaire and Stormcloak alike were staring up into the distant mountains, as though expecting the very stone to come alive and begin attacking. The black-clad executioner, who had been in the process of hefting his executioner's axe, stopped halfway through his stroke.

"What the hell was that?" Demanded Rikke, she too had her hand on her sword and had taken a half-step in the direction of Tullius, putting herself between the still bound Stormcloaks and the General.

"…Nothing Legate," said Tullius after a moment. His eyes leaving the sky and turning to his second-in-command. "Just a storm up in the mountains." He turned his attention back to the executioner. "Get on with it."

Percy's hand didn't leave his hilt, and his gaze didn't leave the sky. "That was not a storm," he said softly to Rikke. "I have no idea what that was…but it sure as hell wasn't natural."

Rikke nodded, "Stay alert."

Once more, the Executioner hefted his mighty axe. In one clean stroke, he lowered the weapon in a mighty blow. The first stroke hadn't been enough. The blade had stopped halfway through the neck of man on the block, getting caught on the vertebrae. The Executioner place his foot on the dying man's shoulder and had to leverage himself in order to dislodge the weapon. It took another three attempts before the Executioner was able to cleanly cut through the poor man's head. By the point, even Percy was beginning to feel green around the gills. More than one of the prisoners had vacated themselves where they stood.

"Next prisoner!" Shouted the Captain, seemingly not phased in the least by the grotesque violence. "Sergeant, bring Argahrsson over!" It took Percy a moment to realize that the Captain was speaking to him. For a moment, he pondered asking her who the hell she was talking about, until the Nord, Akar, took a step forward and beside Percy.

Percy glanced at the man. They were roughly the same height, Percy had the strong and powerful build of a man used to hard labor, Akar was damn near emaciated. As though it had been some time since his last meal. Given the state of his rags, and the stench about him, that was likely some ago indeed. Percy sighed, gripping his gently around the elbow.

"I'm sorry about this…" said Percy in an undertone as he began dragging the man towards the block. "I tried-"

"If you truly sympathized…you would be kneeling with me. Not behind me."

What was Percy supposed to say to that? He decided that there wasn't much for him to say, so he stayed quiet. He handed the man off to the Captain, who repeated the process of forcing Akar to his knees. Percy was about to step away, when it happened again. Like a crash of thunder, a high-pitched roar shook the silence of the town. But this time, the roar came much closer, and it was far easier to distinguish from a simple crack of thunder in the mountains. Percy drew his blade. There was a flash of something out of the corner of his vision. Large and black. It darted down out of the clouds, but had disappeared before Percy could get a glimpse at it.

A third roar came from so close, and was so powerful, it threatened to throw Percy off his feet. It felt as if the very earth beneath his feet was shifting to the sound of the screech. Windows shattered, and someone screamed. A terrible gale cascaded down from the clouds. The wind whipped and cut at his eyes, and he could barely see. The roughly thatched roofs of the civilian homes and businesses were quite literally ripped up at the roots. Loose straw and were whipped into the air, swirling and dancing in the gale like a tornado of forage.

Then from the clouds, it descended. It was large. The size of a tower at least. Its sleek black scales shone in the pale light of the afternoon, glimmering like dark, black plate armor covering layers upon layers of powerful, unnatural muscle. Large, black, leathery wings extended out at its side. Percy could see the powerful muscle hidden underneath the seemingly fragile membrane. But it was the creature's face, that was the most terrifying. An almost beard-like ring of sharp horns adorned its angular jaw, and it was difficult to tell where the horns stopped, and its teeth began. Two black horns, like small spires, adorned the top of its head, protruding high into the sky.

And then there were its eyes. Red. The color of blood, yet oddly human. There was an intelligence to them. The eyes of a being far smarter than one would imagine.

Percy pulled his sword free. His heart hammering against chest.

The dragon's head swiveled, its enormous jaw opening wide. Percy only had half a second to react, and then the world was engulfed in flame.

AN: Thanks again to my boy IDK for being a walking goddamn encyclopedia of knowledge and helping me with his brilliant idea. He's the man and you should check out his stuff 'cause they're all bangers. As always, thanks to my boy Double for being the best Beta of all time. Hit up the link in my bio to join the Emerald Library where I hang out with some of the best authors out there. Thanks again for all the love and support, and I'll see you next week.

Love,

LilDB