The decisions that led Brynhildr to be bound in a cart, stripped of her weapons and armour, swirled in her mind like a storm. She, the daughter of a Nord and an Imperial, had crossed the border into Skyrim—her father's homeland—for the first time, coming from the lands of Cyrodiil. But, her welcome had been anything but warm.
The towering pines, snowy paths, and wild fauna of southern Skyrim had accompanied her weeks of travel; a landscape strange, and yet, faintly familiar from her father's tales. However, all of it was a faded insignificance when she stumbled upon the remnants of a recent battle; scattered corpses, broken shields, and weapons abandoned in red stained snow.
She hadn't even had time to seek shelter or shout a warning before a squad of Imperial soldiers surrounded her. Unsheathed swords, readied shields, and drawn bows pointed directly at her. A blunt strike to her temple took her down, and then there was darkness.
When she awoke, pain was her only companion. Her head throbbed with an unbearable intensity. She tried to open her eyes but could only squint.
The first thing she saw was the wood of the cart of which she was being transported in. Her hands were bound with leather bracers and reinforced with shackles. As she shifted slightly, a crunching noise came from her shoulder, reminding her of how hard she had hit the ground.
She winced in pain as she looked around. The forested landscape of Skyrim slid past her eyes, dotted with snow and shadows stretching under the morning light. Several carts moved ahead and behind hers, flanked by Imperial soldiers on foot and horseback.
"Hey you!" Someone bellowed.
She turned her eyes toward the man speaking to her. At first his figure was blurry, but gradually he came into focus; long blonde hair, blue eyes, and the unmistakable attire of a Stormcloak—cloaks of fur and shades of blue.
"You're finally awake." The man greeted.
"I wish I could say this was still some wretched, dreadful dream." Brynhildr replied, her sharp eyes fixated on him.
"You were trying to cross the border, right?" The man paused, and then continued, his tone a mix of resignation and camaraderie. "Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief here."
"Damn you, Stormcloaks!" The thief, sitting beside the Stormcloak, shouted, his voice trembling. He was a nervous-looking man dressed in tattered robes. "Skyrim was fine until you came along, The Empire was nice and lazy, and if they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell…"
The thief turned his gaze to Brynhildr, his eyes bordering between fear and desperation. "You and me, we shouldn't be here! It's these Stormcloaks the Empire wants."
"Shut your mouth, thief!" Brynhildr snapped, her voice laced with fury. "Don't you dare put me on the same level as you!"
"Shut up back there!" The Imperial soldier barked, his voice cutting like a knife.
Brynhildr gritted her teeth, as she assessed her options; escaping seemed impossible right now, as she knew little of the terrain. And judging by the number of prisoners and soldiers, any attempt would be suicidal. She growled in frustration as her thoughts churned without resolution.
"And what's wrong with him, huh?" the thief asked, nodding toward the man seated next to Brynhildr.
She turned her head and studied him carefully. He was older, nearing the age her parents would have been, and hardened by years of war and battle. His armour spoke of nobility, but what caught her attention the most was the gag that silenced his voice. Something about him felt unsettling, though she couldn't pinpoint why.
"Watch your tongue, thief," the blonde Stormcloak interjected, his tone heavy with reproach. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King."
Brynhildr's eyes widened in astonishment. The man beside her, so stoic and composed, was none other than Ulfric Stormcloak; the leader of the rebellion shaking Skyrim to its core. The man who, according to the tales, had killed High King Torygg and claimed his right to rule. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, a silent exchange that carried more weight than words could.
"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits..." The Stormcloak soldier murmured.
Brynhildr closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the grinding over the frozen road and the whisper of the wind wash over her. And for one fleeting moment, a dry, bitter laugh escaped her lips. The irony of her situation was almost unbearable: after all her effort to reach Skyrim, her journey seemed destined to end before it could even begin.
Hours passed at an oppressive pace; the cart's creaking wheels trudged over the icy cobblestones, as silence hung over the group like a spectre. Even the Imperial soldiers, known for their rigid discipline and boisterous camaraderie, maintained a tense quiet.
Brynhildr watched the riders and foot soldiers surrounding them, noting the nervous exchanges. It wasn't hard to imagine why; they were transporting Ulfric Stormcloak, the man who had ignited the rebellion in Skyrim. Any moment could bring a rescue attempt—or an ambush.
Off in the distance, nestled between mountains and the forest, a settlement began to take shape on the horizon. It was more a fortified village than a city, with tall wooden and stone walls protecting a handful of modest buildings; likely barracks, homes for families, a trading post, and perhaps even a tavern or two.
Watchtowers flanked the main gate, and a small fort, barely more significant than a manor, rose at the centre like the heart of the settlement. Brynhildr narrowed her eyes, immediately recognizing it as their destination.
The cart moved slowly along the path, bringing the settlement closer with each passing moment. A weathered sign along the road bore the name of the place: Helgen.
The tension in the air was palpable, but in an attempt to keep her mind sharp, she shifted her thoughts onto how she might convince them of her innocence. She thought that, with the right words, she could explain the misunderstanding and avoid a premature end to her journey.
"Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?" The blonde Stormcloak asked, breaking the silence.
"Why do you care?" The thief replied, trembling.
"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home." The man said, his tone tinged with melancholy.
Brynhildr silently watched the thief as he murmured the name of his village, a place in the hills of western Skyrim. For a moment, the Stormcloak's words resonated within her. And she, too, began thinking of her own home.
Her mind drifted back to the Colovian Highlands in northern Cyrodiil. Though she was not fully Nord, the snow-capped peaks and the cold air felt familiar, reminding her of her childhood.
She could almost hear the echoes of the miners coming from the veins at dusk, their voices carrying through the narrow stone roads. She closed her eyes, and for a brief moment, she pictured herself walking through the halls of the local Fighters Guild, training with men and women whose sweat spoke of hard work and perseverance.
"And what about you, warrior?" The blonde Stormcloak asked, pulling her from her thoughts.
Brynhildr slowly opened her eyes, her gaze settling on him. "My home is far from here."
Curiosity gleamed in the Stormcloak's eyes, and even Ulfric Stormcloak turned his head slightly, intrigued by her response.
"Far from here," she continued, "Far from Skyrim."
Her tone carried no bitterness, but a weight that only those who have lived in foreign lands could understand.
"Home," she repeated, her gaze lost on the horizon. "A place far away but so similar to this one that sometimes it makes me feel like I never left. Here, I see mountains that remind me of mine; here, I see strong, hard men and women, just like the ones I knew growing up. I see a love for the land as deep as that of my own people. Here, in this frozen corner of Tamriel, I feel something familiar. Something...that makes me long for where I grew up."
Her poetic words lingered in the air, absorbing the silence. The soldiers around the cart said nothing, but Brynhildr could feel their sidelong glances, probably confused by her broken accent and the way she spoke.
"So yes," she concluded, her voice calm but firm. "I can say that at least my last thought would be of home...even if that home lies beyond these mountains."
The blonde Stormcloak nodded, his expression softening briefly before hardening again. Ulfric Stormcloak, although silent, looked at her with a mixture of appraisal and respect. Brynhildr held his gaze for a moment before turning back to the village that loomed ever closer.
As the wheels creaked over the bridge leading into the fortress, Brynhildr allowed herself one last sigh. She didn't know what awaited her, but if these were her final hours, she could at least hold on to the comfort of knowing that the memory of her home still lived within her.
Brynhildr closed her eyes, surrendering to the cart's swaying, jumps and jolts. Time seemed to blur and hasten somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, until the clamour of Helgen's gates opening in the midmorning brought her back to reality.
"Shor, Mara, Dibella, Kynareth, Akatosh. Divines, please help me!"
The horse-thief's desperate words, his prayers, and pleas to the Divines caught Brynhildr's attention. Her blue eyes narrowed, and she observed the bustling activity of horses and soldiers filling the space within the walls.
Inside Helgen, the Imperial troops were stationed everywhere. Their uniforms, the precision of their formations, and the metallic clatter of their armour filled the air with an oppressive solemnity.
Among the soldiers stood out a man with greying hair, whose ornate armour made his rank unmistakable. His breastplate gleamed with the symbol of the Imperial dynasty, and the cape draped over his shoulders emphasised his authority.
"A general?" Brynhildr murmured, more to herself than to anyone else.
"General Tullius, the Military Governor," the blond Stormcloak answered, noticing her gaze. Both he and Ulfric were watching the man closely, but the blond's attention shifted to someone else.
"And it looks like the Thalmor is with him. Damn Elves, I bet they had something to do with this."
Brynhildr focused on the woman accompanying the general; tall, slender Altmer clad in a black robe adorned with golden trim and runic symbols betraying her magical affinity. The bearing of the Thalmor was unmistakable.
To Brynhildr, the sight of the elf was a vivid reminder of the scars left by the Great War. The stories her parents told, the sacrifices so many had made in Cyrodiil, and the devastation she had witnessed as a child in Colovia still lingered in her memory. Every home in her land had an empty chair — the place of someone who had died fighting the Aldmeri Dominion.
Her gaze briefly met General Tullius' as the cart moved forward, but neither he nor the Thalmor showed anything but cold disdain.
"Well, this is Helgen," the blond Stormcloak commented, almost to himself. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here..." A sigh escaped his lips, and his voice took on a nostalgic tone. "Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in."
Brynhildr turned her head toward a small tavern on the side of the road. In front of its wooden steps, a child stood, watching them with wide, curious eyes. A man—presumably his father—placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and urged him inside. Even the most innocent understood that mercy was rarely part of their fate when prisoners were brought in.
"Funny," the blond Stormcloak said, glancing at the towers rising above them. "When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."
"They still do," Brynhildr replied without turning to face him. Her words puzzled the Nord, who glanced at her sideways. "Perhaps not for us, but there are still people who feel safe behind walls like these."
The cart continued its slow journey through Helgen's roads. The Imperial soldiers remained vigilant from the barracks and towers, their bows drawn and ready for anything suspicious. The air was thick with tension, and even the creaking of the cart's wheels felt like an intrusion.
As they wound through the narrow roads, the prisoners finally arrived at an open space in front of the gates to the main keep.
"Why are we stopping?" the horse-thief asked, his voice laced with panic.
Brynhildr shot him a stern look, a flicker of bitterness crossing her expression. "Why do you think, horse-thief?" She mocked, voice like steel. "End of our line."
"Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us," the blond Nord said, standing with stoic resignation.
Brynhildr followed suit in silence, and one by one, the four prisoners climbed down from the cart, their shackles scraping against the wood beneath their feet.
"No, wait! We're not rebels!" the thief pleaded, his voice cracking. His desperate appeal was met with a derisive snort from the Nord. The battle-hardened man had long accepted the fate that awaited him.
A pair of Imperial soldiers stood waiting with rigid discipline ahead of the carts. One of them held a scroll, prepared to call the prisoners by name.
"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time," ordered a stern-faced Imperial woman.
"The Empire and its damn lists…" the blond Nord muttered, his sarcasm loud enough for Brynhildr to hear.
The remark drew an involuntary chuckle from her, which didn't go unnoticed. The Imperial soldier's glare was as sharp as the steel on her hip. The first name broke the silence of the square, announced with a mixture of respect and dread.
"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."
The man who bore the mark of the rebel leader stepped forward with an almost imposing solemnity. The chains on his wrists did nothing to diminish his bearing, and the gag over his mouth couldn't silence the intensity of his gaze. With steady steps, he moved toward the chopping block, his fate waiting ahead.
"It's been an honour, Jarl Ulfric!" The blond Nord shouted, his voice ringing out among the prisoners. Others joined in, cheering for the leader who faced his end with dignity.
The air tensed instantly. The Imperial soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, clearly worried that such fervour might ignite a spark of rebellion.
Brynhildr observed keenly, noting how the men's loyalty to their Jarl was so unshakable that not even death could break it. It was something uniquely Nordic: to live and die with honour for a leader they believed in.
"One wrong move and the archers will fire!" Barked the Imperial soldier.
The next name rang out in the heavy air.
"Ralof of Riverwood."
The blond stepped forward without a word. His eyes locked briefly with the officer holding the list, a silent exchange that felt more like a challenge than a mere formality.
Then, it was the thief's turn.
"Lokir of Rorikstead."
The man began to tremble again, consumed by a fear that gripped him tightly.
"You can't do this!" He stammered, taking a few steps back. "I'm not a rebel!"
Suddenly, Lokir spun on his heels and bolted back down the path the carts had taken. His escape was desperate, almost pathetic – a futile attempt to outrun the inevitable.
Brynhildr watched him with a mixture of pity and disapproval. She knew all too well that fear was the worst enemy; facing it required more courage than any battle.
"Archers!" Barked an Imperial captain. Her gleaming armour reflected the sunlight as her sharp voice cut through the air.
From the towers, arrows flew through the air. The first struck Lokir's leg, bringing him to his knees. The second, more precise than the last, buried itself in his neck, silencing his cries forever. He collapsed to the ground, trembling as blood pooled beneath him, staining the earth. His death was slow and miserable, a grim reminder that fleeing death only hastened its arrival.
Brynhildr kept her gaze fixed on the lifeless body, her expression unflinching. Running had never been her way of facing adversity. Instead, she had always walked into the storm, knowing that only by confronting it could she find her truth.
"Wait, you there!" A soldier shouted, pulling her from her thoughts.
The man holding the list pointed at her. "Step forward."
The woman, half Nord and half Imperial, moved with unshaken composure; the crunch of her boots against the gravel echoed throughout.
She was the last to step down from the cart, her stoic demeanour contrasting with the dirt and exhaustion etched into her face.
"Who are you?" An Imperial soldier asked, his tone laced with curiosity and mistrust.
"My name is Brynhildr, daughter of Skyrim and Cyrodiil alike." She answered proudly.
"What did she say?" A prisoner whispered.
Doubt spread quickly among them.
"Is she a half-breed? What's a half-breed doing here?"
The list-bearer frowned as he heard her name.
"Brynhildr," He murmured, scanning the names on the scroll. "What misfortune to find yourself so far from the Imperial City—your home..."
"The roads are my home, soldier," She replied stoically, her piercing blue eyes meeting his. "That's how I was captured, and that's how I've come to meet my grim fate."
"Captain, what should we do?" The soldier asked, turning to his superior. "She's not on the list. What are we—"
"Forget the list," The Captain snapped, tone cutting through the tension. "She goes to the block, too."
"By your orders, Captain." the soldier replied, his voice tinged with resignation.
Brynhildr recognized the tone immediately—the sound of someone who had silenced their principles too many times under a superior's command.
As she was led toward the chopping block, Brynhildr found herself face-to-face with General Tullius. The man was engrossed in berating Ulfric Stormcloak, the leader of the Stormcloaks, who stood silent, bound and gagged, yet his eyes brimmed with defiance.
"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down and restore the peace!" The General proclaimed, his voice grave and resolute.
Brynhildr watched at the scene with disdain. It was an unworthy spectacle; the Empire boasted about dispensing justice while Skyrim's most feared enemy stood unable to respond. Her own fate seemed as absurd as this theatre of power.
Suddenly, a strange sound pierced the air; an echo resounded across the mountains, from the closest peaks to the farthest summits. Soldiers and prisoners alike looked up, confused.
"What was that?" The Imperial asked, glancing around.
"It's nothing. Carry on." Tulius dismissed with a wave.
Before Brynhildr, a priestess of Arkay began reciting prayers, invoking the god who governed the cycles of life and death. The woman's calm and measured voice failed to soothe Brynhildr's thoughts.
She closed her eyes for a moment, revisiting her life; the roads travelled, the battles fought, the mistakes made. Had it all been worth it? She did not regret death itself but mourned not having the chance to explore more deeply the lands her father had called home.
A sudden movement interrupted her.
"For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with!" Exclaimed a burly red-haired man.
Brynhildr watched him, stunned. Was it recklessness or courage? The warrior faced the executioner with a mocking smile, showing no trace of fear.
"Come on, I haven't got all morning," he declared with an almost carefree laugh. The Imperial Captain, already displaying notable disgust in her gaze, forced the Stormcloak onto the block more brutal than usual due to the audacity of the brave soldier.
"My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"
The axe blade fell with a swift, decisive blow. The man's head rolled to the ground, and his body, still solid and firm, was unceremoniously pushed aside. A deathly silence fell over the square, broken only by a roar.
"You Imperial bastards!" The Stormcloak shouted from the prisoners' ranks.
"Justice!"
Someone in the gathered crowd replied, and soon others joined in, chanting, insulting and demanding for more blood.
The Captain didn't waste any more time. "Next, the half-breed!"
Brynhildr stepped forward, her face calm but filled with determination. If these were the lands of the Nords, the lands that had shaped her father's memory, then she would face them with the same strength and pride.
As she positioned herself before the block, the strange noise echoed again, louder this time - reverberating across the valley.
"There it is again. Did you hear that?" The soldier asked, growing nervous.
"I said, the next prisoner!" The Captain snapped.
Brynhildr took a deep breath, looking up at the sky, as she felt the Captain's boot press against the juncture of her back and neck, forcing her head onto the block. Something was coming—something no one, not even she, could foresee.
The executioner raised his axe, and Brynhildr seemed to watch him with the serenity of someone who accepts the inevitable.
However, the truth was different; her eyes were not fixed on the executioner but on an immense and ominous dark silhouette emerging from the mountains. And she wasn't the only one who had seen it.
"What in Oblivion is that?" Exclaimed General Tullius, his voice a mix of astonishment and alarm.
Uncertainty spread like wildfire among the soldiers while the executioner kept his weapon raised, ready to carry out his grim task.
"It's in the clouds!" Shouted an Imperial soldier, his voice heavy with disbelief.
Then it happened. The dark figure descended with the violence of a storm onto the central tower of Helgen's keep. The ground trembled beneath their feet, and a deafening roar reverberated through the valley.
The executioner let his axe fall to the ground, forgetting his purpose. And like everyone present, Brynhildr looked up at what no mortal expected to see in their lifetime.
Atop the tower stood a creature so colossal it seemed capable of snatching a mammoth in its claws. Its scales, black as obsidian, gleamed with a primordial threat under the light. Folding its wings, its talons sank into the stone, pulverising it as if it were mere dust.
Its titanic and ancient body seemed forged in the darkest days of Nirn, and its fiery red eyes burned with the intensity of the hottest flames of Oblivion.
The silence that covered them was finally broken when a Stormcloak shouted, his voice filled with panic and certainty.
"Dragon!"
The dragon bent its neck and let out a shout that echoed like thunder.
"JIID-SO-DAAN"
The sky grew dark and the clouds began to spiral in an unnatural vortex. The ground took on an eerie crimson glow as fiery stones rained down, crashing into the fortress walls and towers.
Brynhildr watched it all with a mix of awe and terror, unable to tear her eyes away from the beast. Her executioner, paralyzed, shared a mutual disbelief. It was like witnessing a legend come to life—a story from yesteryear that no one expected to see embodied.
Suddenly, the creature turned its gaze to Brynhildr. Its crimson eyes pierced through her as though searching for something deep within her soul. She held its gaze motionless; instinct or fascination, she wasn't sure.
The dragon opened its jaws and, instead of fire, unleashed another shout that resonated in the very soul of everyone present.
"FUS-RO-DAH"
Like the onslaught of an unbridled blizzard, a devastating force struck Brynhildr and the executioner. Both were flung like rag dolls, their bodies carried by the immense power.
Brynhildr tumbled across the ground, colliding with Imperial soldiers and Stormcloaks alike, all fleeing in terror—some still shackled at the wrists.
Her vision and hearing blurred, as though the world had faded into a faint murmur. Pain tore through her body, but perhaps due to her padded armour and natural resilience, she survived the impact; she was slammed into a wall but was still breathing.
An indistinct figure appeared in her field of vision, shaking her.
"Get up! Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!"
The voice jolted her from her trance-like state. And with a combined effort, she staggered to her feet, dazed and confused. Chaos reigned around her; soldiers and civilians desperately running through the keep, as it crumbled under the creature's vicious assault.
The man who helped her pushed her toward a nearby tower. It was Ralof, the Nord with blond hair, who, with an iron-clad determination, guided her to the entrance. Stumbling and struggling to stay upright, Brynhildr crossed the threshold, and the door slammed shut.
Inside the tower, the air was thick with despair. Wounded and terrified, Stormcloaks huddled on the floor. Among them stood an imposing figure; Ulfric Stormcloak, the rebel leader, his gaze fixed on Brynhildr and the chaos outside.
Brynhildr dropped to her knees, panting, and trying to process what she had just witnessed. The dragon's roar still echoed in her ears as though fate itself had chosen to mark her.
Still reeling from the shock and the chains binding her wrists, Brynhildr refused to remain idle. She wasn't one to cower in the dark.
And despite the pain coursing through her body, she rose with difficulty as Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak's words resonated in the cramped space.
"Legends don't burn down villages," He said, his voice as sharp as steel. It was a warning but also a reminder for his men. "We need to move now!"
The Jarl raised his gaze and noticed Brynhildr, his unyielding eyes met those of the half-Nord woman.
"We'll get out of here as sons and daughters of Skyrim." He assured.
Ulfric's words struck a chord within the hearts of his men. Despite the fear on their faces, the promise of unity and hope gave them the strength to continue.
Brynhildr, though distant from the Stormcloaks' fervour, knew at that moment she wasn't ready to die. If she was going to escape, she would fight for every step toward freedom.
Suddenly, the tower shook violently; stones and beams fell from the upper floors as though the enormous beast outside could topple it with a single blow.
A thunderous roar reverberated, causing even the bravest to cower in fear.
"Out, now!" Ulfric barked.
The Stormcloaks, some still bound, and others armed with swords and bows recovered from the fallen Imperials, poured into the streets of Helgen that was now a fiery inferno.
Brynhildr followed, unable to stop herself from looking at the destruction.
Houses burned like torches, and the screams of men, women, and children echoed as a chorus of despair.
A thunderous crash shattered the cacophony. Brynhildr looked up just in time to see the creature descending from the sky, its wings unfurling with a terrifying majesty. Once again, those unintelligible words bellowed, laden with an ancient power:
"YOL-TOOR-SHUL"
Time seemed to stand still, as fire rained down from the skies. Flames swept through the streets like an unstoppable wave, reducing everything in their path to soot and ash. Soldiers unable to escape were engulfed, their screams silenced almost instantly.
Brynhildr could barely process what she saw; families searching for loved ones among the charred remains, and the many faces twisted in horror.
Helgen was a tableau of pure suffering.
The Stormcloaks pressed on, fighting their way toward the wall. Some managed to scale the stairs and take their positions where Imperial archers desperately fired at the dragon. Even Imperial mages, hurling fireballs and lightning bolts, seemed powerless to stop it.
Above them, the large creature blocked the sunlight. And again, it produced a loud, ferocious roar.
"FUS-RO-DAH"
The force of the shout was relentless.
Brynhildr felt like a storm struck her head-on, tearing her from the ground and flinging her through the air like she weighed nothing at all. Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers were blown away, falling from the wall and into the destroyed buildings. The dragon's fury spared no one.
Brynhildr landed amidst the scorched remains of a house, crashing against a few blackened beams and rolling to a halt on the cobblestone street before the main keep; her shackled hands barely managed to break the fall.
Ralof lay on the ground a few feet away, struggling to rise. Driven by adrenaline and fury, Brynhildr forced herself to her feet, staggering, and gripped him by the padded armour.
Ralof, confused but grateful, nodded his appreciation.
"Come on, into the keep!" He shouted, guiding her toward the entrance.
The two of them and a small group of men crossed the massive doors. Those who made it inside barred them with a heavy beam. Outside, the dragon's deafening blows against the stone reminded them that it's fury was far from over.
"By Shor, a dragon! That was a dragon!" The prisoners cried.
Inside the keep, the echoes of the chaos outside sounded faint - almost non-existent. Brynhildr took a deep breath, trying to calm herself as the prisoner's words replayed in her mind.
"Here, kinsman!" Exclaimed Ralof, extending his hand to Brynhildr.
Without hesitation, she accepted the gesture. The warrior's strength lifted her effortlessly, and she thanked him with a pat on his shoulder with her free hand.
It was curious how, in the heat of battle, a stranger could become a brother. Among the Nords, that bond born of adversity was natural, almost sacred, as her father had often told her, and as travelling Nords frequently boasted.
Ralof wasted no time; he picked up a mace stolen from the Imperials and struck Brynhildr's shackles, breaking the chains that bound her wrists. The pieces of iron fell to the ground with a clatter, and the half-Nord woman rubbed her sore wrists as she surveyed her surroundings.
"A dragon…" She murmured, still trying to process what she had witnessed.
"Like in the old tales; the stories we heard as children." Replied Ralof, his tone incredulous yet filled with awe.
Before they could say any more, one of the Stormcloaks stepped forward, his voice quivering with fear.
"Ralof! How are we going to get out of here? Where is our Jarl?"
"He was on the wall with us." She said, picturing Ulfric near the front line just before the dragon's deafening roar struck.
And as she spoke, another tremor shook the fortress. Brynhildr looked up as the stone shed dust and small fragments. The men instinctively ducked to avoid being struck by debris, but she stood firm, watching intently.
"I don't know how long this fortress can withstand that beast's relentless assault." She pointed out.
"I agree." Ralof said, crouching next to an injured Stormcloak.
Some of the men were lucky, suffering only superficial wounds; others were far worse, with broken bones and splinters of wood embedded in their bodies—proof of the violent assault. Brynhildr, hardened by years of fighting, began to feel the weight of her own injuries; the bruises from the fall off the wall, the impact against the tower's side, and the strain of battling something she had never encountered before.
One of the Stormcloaks gestured toward a heavy iron gate. "If we go deeper, we might have a few moments to regroup."
Brynhildr frowned as she inspected the structure. "This place must serve multiple purposes. In a fortress like this, I'd wager they built some kind of escape route."
Ralof snorted, a mix of scepticism and resignation. "I don't know where you're from, kinsman, but no depth in Skyrim is ever truly safe."
"No," Brynhildr admitted, shaking her head. "No depth in Tamriel is completely safe. But nothing we face down there will be worse than that creature. An arrow hurts it no more than a splinter of wood."
Her gaze fell on the corpse of a Stormcloak, whose body had been impaled by debris that flung like projectiles. The evidence was undeniable.
Ralof knelt beside the body, and placed a hand over his chest. "May Sovngarde welcome you, brother."
It was a brief but solemn farewell; the warrior had already played his part and now it was time to go.
Before moving on, Ralof stopped Brynhildr. Among the fallen bodies, he picked up a sword and offered it to her. "We can't afford to have you unarmed."
Brynhildr accepted the weapon, and with a flick of her wrist, she tested the blade's endurance; a couple of fluid movements through the air, until she was comfortable.
"Thank you." She said with a nod.
The group descended into the belly of the fortress, and despite the still and calm of the moment, the dragon's thunderous roars continued, a constant reminder that the danger was far from over.
As they continued down the spiral staircase, Brynhildr's thoughts lingered on the disaster unfolding in Helgen. Images of flames devouring buildings, the screams of civilians, and the charred bodies remained etched in her mind and senses.
The town wasn't just home to Imperial soldiers; it housed guards, merchants, and families seeking safety behind its walls. All of that was now turned to ruins.
The Stormcloaks moved swiftly down the stairs, accompanied by Brynhildr and Ralof. The atmosphere was tense, the air thick with dust and stone, as it fell from the upper levels.
When they finally reached the underground of the fortress, the dim light of the flickering torches barely pierced the darkness. It not only hindered their visibility but heightened the sense of imminent danger.
As they entered a wider corridor, a creaking sound joined the echo of hurried footsteps—the weight of the fortress groaning under strain, even at this depth. Brynhildr sharpened her senses, noticing how the wood and stone seemed to buckle under the pressure. Clearly, this place wasn't as safe as they had hoped for.
"Stormcloaks!" The shout sliced through the air like a knife.
Two Imperial soldiers emerged from the shadows at the end of the corridor, their swords glinting in the dim light of the torches on the walls.
"Get them!" Roared one of Ralof's men.
In an instant, the tension exploded. The Stormcloaks, driven by fear and adrenaline, surged forward with a reckless abandon, ignoring any semblance of strategy.
Brynhildr watched cautiously, recognizing how fear often proved a more dangerous enemy than any blade.
The two Imperials, clearly outnumbered, turned and fled down the dark corridor. The Stormcloaks reacted immediately; at least six men pursued without hesitation, their footsteps echoing down the narrow passage.
"Wait!" Ralof shouted, but his voice was lost to the chaos.
Brynhildr acted quickly, stepping in front of two soldiers who were about to join the chase. She extended her sword arm and shoved them back with her shoulder, forcing them to stop. "Don't be idiots! Hold your ground!" She barked.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment. And a powerful rumble reverberated throughout the tunnels. The ground quaked beneath their feet, and a deafening roar filled the air.
The shouts of the Stormcloaks, who had rushed ahead, were swallowed by the sound of the collapsing wood and stone. In mere seconds, the corridor through which the Imperials had fled and the Stormcloaks had followed was blocked entirely.
A cloud of dust engulfed the area, making it hard to breathe and reducing visibility even further. When the tremors subsided, all that remained was a mound of rubble, sealing off the path entirely.
The collapse was a harsh reminder that survival required clear-headed decisions and calculated actions—something many of these men, blinded by fury and fear, seemed to forget.
Ralof, still covered in dust, approached Brynhildr and nodded, a silent acknowledgement of what just happened.
The nearest door led them into what appeared to be a storeroom. The air was thick with the scent of rotting food and smoke from a fire still smoldering in the corner. The wooden shelves were mostly empty, and it was clear that the Imperials had already been through, taking anything that had value.
That didn't stop a few Stormcloaks, who'd been starving after days of marching and captivity, from pouncing on the scraps that were edible. One of them stirred a pot still bubbling over the fire, ladling out what looked like a watery stew. The scene was pathetic, but Brynhildr knew hunger could strip even the proudest warrior of their dignity.
While some of the men succumbed to their immediate needs, Brynhildr searched the corners of the room. On the far side, she found a door that led deeper into the fortress. And as she approached it, a pang of uneasiness crept through her. With some effort, she pushed the heavy wooden door open, revealing a sight that made her expression harden.
Beyond the door, rubble blocked the passage, a grim reminder of the recklessness she had witnessed only a few moments earlier.
Among the stones and shattered wood, the hands and faces of her fallen comrades protruded; lifeless. Blood seeped in dark rivulets, mingling with the dust and dirt. It was a grotesque scene, and Brynhildr turned away.
Just then, a sound caught her attention. From deeper in the corridor, beyond the spiral staircase, came the unmistakable clash of metal against metal.
"Survivors." She mumbled.
And without another word, she unsheathed her sword and moved toward the noises; her boots echoed softly against the debris on the stone floor.
What awaited her at the lower level chilled her to the bone; a torture chamber.
The room was dim, lit only by flickering torchlight. Chains rattled with each tremor of the fortress, and the air was thick with the coppery tang of blood.
In the center of the room, chaos reigned. A handful of battered Stormcloaks fought desperately against Imperial soldiers, their cries echoing against the stone walls. A bolt of lightning split the air, slamming into the wall behind Brynhildr and showering her with dust. The source—a hooded Imperial mage—stood at the rear, casting spells with deadly precision.
Brynhildr didn't hesitate. She charged, her blade flashing in the dim light. The corridor exploded with the sound of steel clashing. The Imperials moved with sharp precision, their training evident in every calculated strike, while the Stormcloaks fought like cornered animals, wild and panicked.
But Brynhildr was neither desperate nor untrained. Her strikes were deliberate, each one aimed to kill. A soldier lunged at her, his sword arcing toward her side. She twisted, deflecting the blow with a clash of steel, and countered with a thrust that forced him back. A fireball exploded nearby—courtesy of the Imperial mage—the heat scorching her cheek, but she pushed forward, using the debris to disorient her opponents.
Seizing the opening, Brynhildr's blade carved through the neck of one Imperial. Blood sprayed as she kicked his body aside and turned to meet the next. Her sword sang as it tore through another soldier's defenses, and before his weapon hit the ground, she grabbed it, wielding two blades now. With one brutal motion, she drove the stolen sword into the Imperial's gut, the tip emerging on the other side. His scream was short-lived as he crumpled to the floor.
The mage, seeing his soldiers fall, raised his hands to summon another spell. Sparks crackled in his palms, the air charged with energy. Brynhildr's eyes darted to a dagger lying on a nearby table. In one fluid motion, she grabbed it and hurled it across the room. The blade sank into the mage's arm, making him cry out and lose control of the spell.
Brynhildr didn't give him time to recover. She closed the distance in three strides. With a roar, she drove her sword into his chest, pinning him against the wall. The mage's head slumped forward, the glow fading from his hands. Silence followed. Only three Stormcloaks remained standing, their bloodied faces filled with awe as they looked to Brynhildr. For a moment, all she could hear was her own labored breathing and the faint drip of blood from her blade.
Ralof emerged from the stairway with the battered survivors.
"By Talos, thank you!" An exhausted warrior cried.
Brynhildr responded with nothing more than a guttural growl, yanking her sword free from the mage's chest. She wiped the blood from her sword before picking up an Imperial shield, quickly assessing its weight and balance.
Just then, a deafening roar from the dragon shook the ground, extinguishing nearly all the torches and sending a cascade of dust and debris into the room. The beast continued its rampage across Helgen, determined to reduce the city to ashes.
"How many more are down here?" Ralof asked, urgently.
"At least a dozen more," A Stormcloak answered, pointing toward a dark corridor. "They all went that way."
"Then there's an exit," Brynhildr declared. She raised her shield and stepped forward. "Strip any useful weapons."
She led the way into the side passage from the torture chamber. The heavy air reeked of blood and despair. The cells were empty, save for the scattered bones of long-forgotten prisoners. Some cauldrons still simmered with an unknown substance; a grim testament to the atrocities once committed in this place.
The stone walls gave way to a rougher path. Torches and cauldrons cast a faint light on a tunnel that seemed to have been carved millennia ago, and the air grew colder and damper. Up ahead, the tunnel opened to a cavern, but before they could advance any further, a thunderous noise from the surface echoed throughout the depths, followed by the desperate screams coming from deeper within.
"By Oblivion, we're going to die here because of you!" An Imperial shouted.
"Shut up, you idiot!" Another snapped.
Brynhildr carefully examined the scene; the cave opened into a larger chamber where a group of Imperials argued under the dim, natural light filtering through a shaft in the ceiling. They clearly outnumbered the Stormcloaks at least two to one.
"Any ideas?" Ralof asked, eyes fixed on the scene ahead.
The only visible exit that Brynhildr could see, aside from the path they came from, was a retractable wooden bridge on the far side of the chamber; two Imperials stood guard near the lever.
"If we're fast enough," She muttered, turning to the group. "We don't have many options, but they're rattled. Stick together and wait for my signal."
Another tremor shook the ground. And fear quickly turned into infighting among the Imperials. Their shouting and accusations escalated - this was their moment.
"Now!" Brynhildr yelled, charging the bridge like a bolt of lightning.
Chaos erupted.
"Stormcloaks!" an Imperial bellowed, pointing at their charge.
The two Imperials near the bridge reacted a little too late. Brynhildr slammed her shield into one, deflecting his sword and driving her blade into his wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon.
Beside her, Ralof swung his axe, crashing it against the leather helm of the soldier, who crumpled like a sack of grain. Brynhildr delivered a ferocious shove with the shield, knocking the imperial unconscious before yanking the lever.
The bridge fell with a heavy thud, and natural light illuminated the narrow passage while the dragon's roars reverberated from the surface.
"They're coming!" A soldier shouted, pointing towards the stairs.
More than a dozen Imperials were descending rapidly.
"Move!" Brynhildr ordered, crossing the bridge.
"You're coming too!" Ralof shouted, grabbing her arm.
"Someone has to raise the bridge!" She reminded.
"Forget it!" Ralof insisted, pulling her with force.
Another soldier helped, and she barely had time to retrieve her sword before being dragged to the other side.
As Brynhildr stepped onto solid ground, the dragon's roar echoed, and the bridge and the adjacent chamber collapsed. Rocks tumbled in a devastating avalanche, burying the Imperials—and several Stormcloaks who hadn't crossed yet.
Dust filled the air as Brynhildr was pulled further into the safety of the cave by Ralof and a soldier. Her heart thundered in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins. They had survived, but barely.
"For the gods," Brynhildr murmured, staring at the collapse. Her eyes scanned the rocks that blocked the way, with only a stream of light filtering through. "If only I had–"
"Don't torment yourself now, kinsman," Ralof interrupted, placing a hand on her shoulder. "There's no turning back. Not for them, and not for us."
Brynhildr looked away, swallowing her guilt. She could only hope that the warriors left behind found their way to Sovngarde.
"A small stream flows through here." The remaining Stormcloak pointed out.
Following his finger, further up ahead, a dark cave loomed before them.
"Careful, brother." Ralof warned.
The trio ventured into the shadows, the echo of water guiding them over the slippery rocks. The soldier ahead began to outpace them.
"Do you think your lord, Jarl Ulfric, survived?" Brynhildr asked, her eyes fixated on the path ahead.
"I don't know anyone tougher than him." Ralof replied, sticking close as he tried to avoid a misstep.
"It's a rather convenient blessing that the creature appeared right before his execution." Brynhildr mentioned.
"Are you implying my lord had something to do with this?" Ralof gawked, offended.
"Hardly," She rebutted. "I'd sooner believe a Daedra was involved. To be honest, I still can't wrap my head around the fact that the beast is above our heads."
"I can't either, but my eyes don't lie. Its scales are like stone, and its eyes...like burning embers. I've never seen anything so monstrous." Ralof admitted.
Engrossed in their conversation, neither noticed the silence that had fallen in front of them.
"Soldier?" Brynhildr called out.
There was no response.
She and Ralof hurried down the tunnel, following a path where the water no longer flowed. Natural light began to filter through the stone, giving them a false glimmer of hope. But as they descended a small ravine, the illusion shattered.
The next chamber was a nightmare; a Stormcloak lay dead, his body partially cocooned in sticky webs. Over him, two giant spiders were engrossed in their grisly work.
These were no ordinary creatures. Each was the size of a horse, with bodies covered in thick, bristling fur that seemed to writhe as if alive. Their multiple eyes glinted with a cold, malevolent glow, while their dripping fangs oozed venom that sizzled ominously when it hit the ground.
"By the gods-" Brynhildr whispered, struggling to keep her composure.
"He didn't even have time to defend himself." Ralof noted, his gaze falling on the abandoned bow and quiver beside the body.
Brynhildr clenched her teeth. The strain of battle was beginning to take its toll, but she couldn't afford to falter. Gesturing silently, she slid into the shadows of the cave, assessing their options.
"Too many eyes...too many-" Ralof muttered, gripping the bow with trembling fingers.
A gasp escaped Brynhildr as a spider, that was lurking along the wall, pounced on her. The creature, roughly the size of a large dog, struck hard, and Brynhildr barely had time to raise her sword.
When she managed the strength, the blade plunged into its snapping jaws; venom spilling down the sharp steel, as she shoved the spider off her.
"Run!" She roared, hurling the spider's corpse toward its kin.
Ralof didn't hesitate. Chaos erupted in the chamber as the spiders sprang into motion, their long, twisted legs clattering against the stone in a dry, rhythmic cadence.
As they fled through the tunnel, it narrowed, forcing them into a single file. Smaller spiders caught up to them, but Ralof managed to hack through several with his axe.
The tunnel widened again, leading them into a broader chamber. There, Brynhildr and Ralof turned to face the remaining creatures.
The much bigger spiders lagged behind, but a swarm of cat-sized ones surrounded them. And in between stomps and slashes, they cleared a path with brutal efficiency.
"By Ysmir!" Ralof exclaimed, wiping the sweat from his brow.
Brynhildr panted, brushing away the venom that had splattered onto her exposed skin.
"Are you alright?" He asked, concerned.
"As long as it doesn't touch an open wound, I'll manage," She replied with a grimace. "Damn it-"
They turned toward the centre of the cavern. The space was massive, with high ceilings and walls draped in webs that shimmered under the natural light that seeped through the cracks. The rumbling from the surface had ceased, and was replaced with an ominous silence that beared down on their shoulders.
The exit was still far off, and fate refused to grant them even a glimmer of hope.
The cave opened into a vast chamber where natural light filtered through cracks in the ceiling. The air was thick with must and something putrid—like decaying flesh.
In the distance, a deep growl echoed, shattering the stillness, followed by the heavy beat of massive wings just above the surface.
"That creature was brought from Oblivion." Brynhildr mentioned.
"Forget the dragon for a moment," Ralof whispered, narrowing his eyes. "I think we have another threat nearby."
Brynhildr fell silent, straining her ears. The growl came again, quieter this time—like a restrained rumble. Then, the unmistakable sound of claws scraping against rock reached her.
"A bear-" Ralof warned.
They crept cautiously along a narrow path that ran beside a trickling stream. Up ahead, an overturned cart lay abandoned, moss growing over the sides. Scattered belongings littered the ground right next to a trail of blood that led to a pile of shattered bones.
The bear stood, growling ferociously at the exit. Its matted fur glistened in the light, and its rippling muscles betrayed a terrifying strength. It roared at the sky as if it were challenging the dragon circling above.
"We need to avoid it," Brynhildr hissed. "Lead-foot steps, Ralof…"
The promise of freedom seemed to zap what little energy they had left. Their muscles burned, their shallow wounds stung with every movement, and the lingering venom from the spiders made each step heavier and less precise.
As if fate conspired against them, Ralof's foot slipped on a slick moss-covered rock. The sound of his fall, combined with the splash of water, echoed throughout the cavern like a thunderclap.
The bear turned in an instant, its eyes blazing with fury. A deafening roar filled the chamber as the beast charged—a mass of pure muscle and fur.
"Ralof!" Brynhildr shouted, raising her sword.
The Nord rolled aside just in time to avoid the bear, but it didn't stop. One massive paw struck Ralof, sending him into the rocks. And before he could rise, the beast was upon him, its enormous jaws clamping down on his chainmail. The sound of metal yielding and Ralof's cry of pain echoed throughout the chamber.
With a roar of her own, Brynhildr charged, jamming her sword into the bear's side. The blade sliced through thick fur and flesh, but it wasn't enough to stop the beast. The bear whirled around, swiping at her with its paw that nearly knocked her off her feet.
She stumbled backwards, searching for an opening, while Ralof, pinned beneath the creature, struck its snout with the butt of his axe. Brynhildr yelled, slashing at the bear's hind leg.
The beast roared in pain, rearing up on its hind legs like a tower. And then, with brutal force, it crashed onto Ralof, pinning him to the ground with a bone-crushing thud. The Nord gasped, his face twisted in agony.
Brynhildr's eyes darted to the stream, where something caught her attention: Ralof's bow and a pair of arrows he'd salvaged earlier. Without hesitating, she dashed into the water, the icy current splashing against her legs as her heart thundered in her chest. Grabbing the bow and arrows, she quickly nocked one and pulled the string taut.
The first arrow struck the bear's skull just above the right eye. The creature convulsed violently, releasing Ralof and turning toward her. Unphased, Brynhildr fired again. The second arrow buried itself in the bear's left eye, eliciting a roar of pure agony.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Ralof rolled out from underneath the bear, panting heavily. Brynhildr dropped the bow, and gripped her sword with both hands.
With a fierce cry, she charged the creature, her blade finding the wound she'd already inflicted. She plunged the weapon deeper, twisting it with brutal force that tore through flesh and muscle. And with one final heave, she dragged the blade free, spilling the beast's entrails onto the rocky ground.
The bear swayed, letting out one last guttural roar before collapsing on its side with a heavy thud.
Silence returned to the cavern, broken only by the ragged breaths of the two warriors.
Ralof, his armour shredded and his face slick with sweat, slumped against a rock. "Kinsman…I owe you my life."
Brynhildr, equally spent, sank to her knees on the wet stones. Her laughter was hoarse and strained. Ralof joined her in laughter, their shared fatigue resonating in the cavern's echoes as a small, fleeting moment of relief in their harrowing escape.
A thunderous roar shook the cave as if freedom still eluded them, sending dust cascading from the ceiling. Every tremor dislodged small rocks around them, as if the cavern itself conspired to hold them back.
"How in Oblivion are we going to leave that thing behind?" Brynhildr panted, her gaze fixed upon the distant light marking the exit.
"If this cave leads to the forest…there's a chance," Ralof said, his voice taut. "We can lose ourselves in the trees, and hide from it. Maybe we'll get far enough away before it notices."
"Can you still walk?" She asked, casting a sidelong glance at the battered Nord.
"I can," He said, rising with effort. "My armour took the worst of it…though I don't know how much longer I'll last."
Brynhildr nodded. Her body screamed for rest, but her will refused to falter. She stepped toward Ralof, extending her hand. And together, they steadied each other, neither willing to leave the other behind.
The final stretch of the cave loomed before them. Though sunlight filtered through several cracks in the ceiling, the path remained treacherous. The air felt heavier, and the ground was littered with bones and rotting flesh—the remnants of the bear's feast.
The slick rocks beneath their feet turned every step into a gamble. They leaned on each other in silence, exchanging glances that said more than words could ever.
"Kinsman," Ralof finally broke the silence "Your name is Brynhildr, isn't it?"
"It is," She replied, avoiding his gaze. "Why do you ask?"
"Because I want to remember the name of the one who saved my life."
Brynhildr breathed a laugh. "We saved each other, Ralof. Though I wish your companions had made it."
"Our escape will be their victory, too," He said, his voice carrying a mix of grief and determination. "This is for them as well."
Brynhildr nodded, allowing his words to fill the void between them.
"Wise words, Nord." She praised.
"And you, Brynhildr," He added with a smile. "Have shown yourself to be more Nord than the many who live on these lands."
She couldn't help but smile at that, though she said nothing.
The exit—a flickering light in the distance—seemed like a prize they had yet to earn. And with one final push, they climbed over the rocks that marked the end of their ordeal.
Daylight finally struck their faces, blinding them for a brief moment. The fresh air and the distant hum of insects welcomed them back to the world above.
However, despite the relief of finally escaping, uncertainty loomed over their heads. After witnessing a creature that should have been a myth reduce Helgen to ashes, neither could imagine what lay ahead.