Episode 1: Fire Beneath Helgen
The heat was unbearable. It pressed down on Haming like the weight of a giant's hand, suffocating, searing. He stumbled forward, coughing against the smoke-filled air, his eyes watering. His gaze fell once more upon the broken forms of his parents—his father slumped across the doorway, his axe still clutched in a lifeless hand, his mother curled protectively around a cradle that had long since burned to ash.
Haming's legs buckled, and he dropped to his knees. A cry fought its way up from his chest, but it caught in his throat, strangled by the acrid smoke and the rawness of his grief.
A sharp tug at his collar dragged him back, snapping his despair into focus. "Get up, boy! By the gods, get up!" The voice was rough as the stone cliffs of Helgen, and when Haming twisted to look, he saw the weathered face of Gunnar, his neighbor—an elderly man who'd lived long enough to know tragedy and had no patience for surrender.
Before Haming could respond, the roof above them groaned, the timber beams cracking like dry bones. Gunnar heaved him to his feet and shoved him toward the shattered remnants of the door. "Out, now!"
The boy stumbled forward, half-blind from tears and soot, until the cool bite of the outside air struck his face. He turned, blinking, and froze.
The dragon—black as midnight and immense as the mountain behind it—perched atop the jagged walls of Helgen's keep. Its wings unfurled, blotting out the pale moonlight, and its jaws opened wide to release a roar that shattered the air and rattled the ground beneath his feet. The fire it spewed painted the sky in hues of crimson and gold, consuming everything in its path.
Haming couldn't breathe. His chest felt tight, his small world reduced to the monstrous shape of the beast.
"Keep moving!" Gunnar bellowed, shoving him again.
They stumbled into the wreckage of a home that might once have belonged to a blacksmith. The heat of the forge was a distant memory compared to the inferno outside. Inside, shadows loomed—figures crouched low against the walls, their faces marked by dirt, fear, and desperation.
There were five of them.
The first was a tall man, his face shadowed by a hood, but his eyes gleamed red like embers caught in a gust of wind. Though his hands were bound tightly in coarse rope, they flexed against the restraint, his calm demeanor hiding a sharp, watchful edge.
Beside him crouched a massive woman with red hair that spilled like fire down her back. Her wrists, too, were tied, but the callouses on her fingers hinted at a life spent wielding weapons so often that her very presence seemed to carry their threat.
The third was a smaller woman with pale blonde hair tied in a loose braid. Her bound hands trembled slightly as she pressed herself against the wall, clutching a tattered spell tome that hung awkwardly from the rope wrapped around her wrist. Her wide eyes darted to the shattered roof where smoke curled like specters.
The last was a wiry young man with wild hair and a faint scar across his neck. His hands, bound in front of him, fidgeted constantly—one moment pulling at the ropes that held him, the next clenching into fists. He muttered something under his breath, his voice barely audible over the distant roars.
Huddled apart from them, near the corner of the room, was a fifth figure. Her silvery hair hung loose around her face, a wild mane that framed sharp, angular features. Though her wrists were bound like the others, she clutched the chains hanging from her restraints with an unsettling ferocity, her eyes burning with a feral intensity. She watched the group as if gauging whether they were allies—or prey
The red-haired woman broke the silence first. "We can't stay here. That beast will tear this place apart."
"And run where?" the wiry man snapped, his voice trembling. "We'll be crushed before we take three steps!"
The man with crimson eyes stood slowly, his voice calm but firm. "We need to move, now. The dragon's not focused on us. If we wait—"
"—we die," the red-haired woman finished, glowering at him.
The pale-haired woman stammered, "Th-there's an opening in the wall near the forge. I saw it on the way in—"
Before anyone could argue further, the dragon's roar erupted again, this time closer. The ground shook, and a beam from the ceiling cracked, collapsing inches from where the silvery-haired woman crouched.
"Fine!" the red-haired woman barked. "We follow the girl's idea. Move, all of you!"
Without waiting for consensus, she stormed toward the forge, motioning for the others to follow. Haming hesitated, caught between his fear and the command in her tone, but Gunnar's hand on his shoulder gave him no choice.
"Stay close, boy," Gunnar murmured, his voice steady despite the chaos.
Haming clutched the old man's sleeve, his small legs struggling to keep pace as the group wove through the burning wreckage of Helgen. Around them, the day was alive with terror—roaring flames, the clash of steel, and the distant, guttural shouts of soldiers locked in a desperate struggle against the black dragon.
The beast loomed above like a god of destruction, its wings stirring up hurricane winds that sent shards of debris hurtling through the air. Haming saw an Imperial soldier standing resolute, loosing an arrow that caught the dragon's flank. For a moment, the great beast recoiled, its wings faltering. Then it turned, its glowing eyes locking onto the man.
The soldier didn't even have time to scream before a torrent of fire consumed him.
Haming faltered, his steps slowing. The sight froze his breath in his chest.
"Eyes forward, boy!" Gunnar barked, yanking him back into motion. "Don't look back!"
Ahead, the group moved as a unit, their path illuminated by the flickering orange light of the fires. The red-haired woman led the charge, her broad shoulders clearing debris as if the destruction dared not stand in her way. The man with crimson eyes followed close behind, his steps measured yet swift. The smaller woman stumbled often, clutching at walls for balance, while the wiry man darted like a shadow, his head snapping left and right as though searching for threats.
A shrill, keening cry broke through the chaos. Haming's gaze shot skyward to see the dragon banking low, its wings sending tremors through the ruined street. "It's coming back!" he cried, panic thick in his voice.
"Keep running!" the red-haired woman growled.
They passed a knot of Imperial soldiers holding the line against the beast, their shields raised as fire washed over them. Gunnar hesitated, glancing toward the men. "Go on!" he urged the others. "I'll catch up!"
"No!" Haming shouted, grabbing for Gunnar's arm, but the old man shoved him away with surprising strength.
"Go, boy!" Gunnar bellowed. He turned, hefting a discarded shield as if he were decades younger, and charged toward the soldiers.
Haming stumbled after him, only to feel a firm grip seize his arm. "You'll get yourself killed!" barked the crimson-eyed man, dragging him forward.
"No! Gunnar!" Haming screamed, twisting in the man's grasp, but the old Nord was already lost in the chaos. Flames consumed the street, and the dragon's roar drowned out everything else.
In his desperation, Haming's footing faltered. His boot caught on a jagged stone, and he tumbled to the ground. Pain flared in his knees as he landed hard, his hands scraping against the rubble. The ground trembled, and the wall beside him began to collapse, stones cascading toward him like a tidal wave.
Time slowed. He could see the end—feel it in the sharp finality of the falling debris.
Strong hands clamped down on his arms, yanking him upright with a strength that defied reason. The crimson-eyed man, his own arms bound and his sharp features illuminated faintly in the dim light, leaned in close, his voice a harsh whisper. "Run!" he barked, shoving Haming forward with a swift, urgent motion.
Heart pounding, Haming obeyed, his legs trembling beneath him. The rest of the group was already ahead, charging toward the keep's shadowy silhouette. The dragon's roars echoed through the ruins, its wings beating against the sky.
The keep loomed before them, its massive iron doors ajar. The red-haired woman reached it first, throwing herself against the heavy wood to force it open wider. "Get inside, now!" she shouted.
One by one, they poured into the dark, Haming stumbling in last. The crimson-eyed man slammed the door shut behind them, the sound reverberating like thunder in the stone corridor.
The group collapsed against the walls, gasping for breath. Haming sank to the cold stone floor, his chest heaving, his mind racing. Gunnar was gone. The flames and chaos outside had claimed him.
The silence inside the keep was jarring, broken only by the distant echoes of the dragon's rage. For now, they were safe—but the weight of their survival hung heavy, a cruel reminder of those who hadn't made it.
Haming sat with his back pressed against the cold stone wall, his knees drawn to his chest. His small frame trembled, though whether from exhaustion, fear, or grief, he couldn't tell. Helgen was gone—his home, his parents, everything he had ever known. The loss hit him in waves, each more devastating than the last, threatening to crush him beneath its weight. He could still see his mother's face, pale with terror, hear his father's shouts drowned out by the dragon's roar. And Gunnar—kind, gruff Gunnar—had been the last tether to a life that no longer existed, and now he was gone too. A hollow ache settled in Haming's chest, a cold, empty void where warmth had once been
He felt the burn of tears in his eyes, but before they could fall, a shadow loomed over him. Haming looked up into the crimson gaze of the tall man who had saved him. The man didn't speak, but his expression, calm and unyielding, conveyed a reassurance that words could not. He gave Haming a single, firm nod.
The boy exhaled shakily, nodding back. He didn't know why, but the gesture steadied him.
Across the room, the others began to stir.
The red-haired woman, Grenhild Far-Helm, paced the cramped room, her bare feet scuffing against the cold stone floor. The coarse fabric of her prisoner's garb hung loose on her muscular frame, but her movements were anything but sluggish. "We can't stay here," she growled, her voice a low rumble of frustration. She jerked her chin toward the iron-bound door. "That thing out there—" her voice sharpened, "—it's not stopping until everything's ashes."
Adissa Beletrine, seated near a crumbled pillar, clutched a torn page from what looked like a spell tome. Her thin fingers worried at its edges as she glared up at Grenhild. "And where do you think we're going to go?" she snapped, her sharp Breton accent betraying her nervousness. "The dragon's obliterated everything. The Imperials couldn't stop it, and neither could the Stormcloaks."
"I'm not saying it's smart to go back out there," Grenhild shot back, her voice hard as steel. "But sitting here waiting to die isn't any better."
Stromo Aller leaned lazily against the wall, his wiry frame barely supported by the cracked stone. The loose sleeves of his prison tunic hung off his bony arms, and a sardonic smirk played across his lips. "For what it's worth, I agree with Red over here." He jabbed a thumb toward Grenhild. "This keep's just a fancy tomb if that dragon decides to take a closer look."
Grenhild's glare was like a blade. "Call me 'Red' again, and I'll make sure your smirk is the first thing the dragon eats."
"Enough," Finn cut in, his voice calm but commanding. Bound like the rest, he stood apart, his crimson eyes gleaming with quiet intensity. Despite his tattered garb, his presence radiated authority. The group fell silent, the tension between them crackling like static before his measured tone. "Bickering solves nothing. We need to think clearly, or we won't make it out of here."
In the corner, Ysvena shifted. Her silver hair framed sharp, angular features that were marked by a cold, predatory detachment. She hadn't spoken since they'd been herded into this room, but her glacial eyes moved between them with keen precision. She sat still, her bound hands resting on her knees, but there was an undeniable menace in her silence.
The uneasy quiet stretched as the dragon's distant roars echoed faintly through the keep, accompanied by the occasional rumble of collapsing stone and the hiss of flames licking at the walls outside.
Grenhild exhaled sharply, running a hand through her tangled red hair. "We're damned if we do and damned if we don't. If we stay, the dragon finds us. If we go, we risk running into the Imperials—or worse." She clenched her fists. "But standing still isn't an option."
Adissa, her voice cracking under the weight of fear and frustration, shook her head. "We don't even have weapons," she said, holding up her bound wrists for emphasis. "I don't care how tough you think you are, you're not punching a dragon to death."
Grenhild's scowl deepened, but before she could fire back, Finn spoke again. "Desperation won't get us out of this," he said firmly, cutting through their rising voices. "We need to move. Not recklessly, but with purpose. If there's a way out of here, we find it. Together."
Ysvena's voice, low and unsettling, broke the momentary stillness. "Every keep has secrets," she murmured, her icy eyes fixed on the dusty floor. Her fingers traced faint, invisible patterns in the stone. "Passages. Tunnels. Ways to escape."
Grenhild turned to her, suspicion etched across her face. "And how do you know that?"
Ysvena's lips curled into a faint, chilling smile as she finally looked up. "I've been in keeps before," she said, her tone as sharp as a knife's edge. "And I know what lies beneath them."
Adissa's gaze darted between them, her brow furrowing. "She's not wrong," she admitted reluctantly. "Helgen's an old mining town. If this keep was built over the tunnels, there's a chance they're still there—assuming the dragon hasn't collapsed them."
Bound tightly, Grenhild shifted uncomfortably, her sharp features etched with doubt. "Even if that's true, how exactly do you suggest we find them?" she asked, her voice edged with frustration. "Stumble through these halls blindly, hoping to find the right hole? You said it yourself—we're unarmed, helpless, and this place is crawling with soldiers."
"And what other choice do we have?" Adissa shot back, her voice rising with frustration. "We're trapped between a dragon and a war, and I'd rather take my chances with some tunnels than die waiting for one of those soldiers to find us!"
Finn nodded thoughtfully, his crimson eyes narrowing. "If there's a chance of finding a way out, we should take it. But we'll need to move carefully. We don't know who—or what—might be lurking in the keep."
As they debated, a sharp scraping sound drew their attention. Stromo, the wiry Imperial, was leaning against the wall, working his bonds against the edge of a jagged stone. His wild hair and mischievous grin gave him the appearance of a fox cornered but unbroken.
With a final pull, the ropes binding his wrists frayed and snapped. Stromo flexed his fingers, his grin widening as he met their surprised gazes. "You all keep talking like you need permission to survive," he said, his tone dripping with cocky confidence. "Lucky for you, I've got a knack for getting out of tight spots."
Grenhild rolled her eyes. "Congratulations, you're free. Now what?"
Stromo pushed off the wall, sauntering toward the group with an exaggerated swagger. "Now, you let me lead the way. I'll find this secret passage of yours, and we'll be out of here before you know it." He paused, his grin turning sly. "Unless you'd rather sit here arguing while the dragon roasts us all alive?"
Finn exchanged a glance with Grenhild, who sighed heavily and muttered something under her breath about arrogant fools. Adissa, however, seemed cautiously intrigued, while Ysvena's smile remained inscrutable.
Haming watched them all, still unsure of how he fit into this strange, desperate group. His gaze lingered on Stromo, who had wasted no time unbinding the rest of the prisoners with quick, practiced motions. The wiry Imperial moved with an easy confidence, as if slipping free of capture was a routine part of his life.
When Stromo finished, he straightened, brushing off his hands with exaggerated nonchalance before turning toward the darkened corridor. His stride was cocky, almost careless, yet strangely reassuring in its certainty. Haming didn't know why, but as he watched the man disappear into the shadows, he felt a flicker of hope.
The boy hesitated, his feet rooted to the cold stone floor as the rest of the group began to follow. His chest felt tight, the memory of the roaring dragon and the sight of Helgen burning still fresh in his mind. He clutched his knees, trying to summon the courage to move, but his legs refused to cooperate.
Grenhild was the first to notice. She stopped and turned, her sharp blue eyes narrowing in irritation. "What's the matter with you, boy? Scared already? If you don't move, you'll get left behind."
Adissa glanced back as well, her expression softer but no less uncertain. Stromo merely smirked, already several paces ahead and unwilling to wait. Ysvena watched from the back of the group, silent as ever, her piercing gaze cutting through the shadows like a blade.
Still, Haming couldn't find his voice. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. The weight of everything—the death, the fire, the impossible chaos—pressed down on him like a boulder, keeping him in place.
Then Finn stepped forward, crouching to meet Haming's gaze. His crimson eyes were sharp, the edge of urgency clear in his tone. He placed a firm but gentle hand on the boy's shoulder, locking eyes with him. "We don't have time to hesitate," Finn said, his voice low yet calm. "Stick close."
Haming blinked, surprised by the unexpected warmth in the ranger's tone. The boy nodded slowly, the tension in his chest easing just enough for him to rise to his feet.
Grenhild huffed, crossing her arms. "We're wasting time."
"Give the lad a moment," Finn replied coolly, guiding Haming toward the rest of the group. "We're all in this together now."
Grenhild muttered something under her breath, but she didn't press further.
The group pressed onward, traversing the decrepit halls of the keep. The air was thick with dust, and the faint tremors of the dragon's rampage outside sent unsettling vibrations through the stone walls. Every creak and groan of the ancient structure made them flinch, the muffled roars of the beast a grim reminder of the danger they still faced.
As they descended deeper, the air grew colder, the narrow corridors giving way to a larger chamber lined with rusted iron bars. The dungeon.
Finn motioned for the group to stop, holding up a hand as voices reached their ears. Hushed but heated, the sound of an argument carried through the corridors. They crept closer, staying in the shadows as the confrontation came into view.
Stormcloaks, led by a rugged man with piercing eyes and a braided beard, stood opposite a group of Imperials in battered armor. The leader of the Imperials, a young soldier with a determined set to his jaw, stood firm despite the Stormcloaks' growing aggression.
"You need to step aside," the Stormcloak growled, his voice low and edged with tension. "We have no quarrel with you, but this is our chance to escape. Don't make us go through you."
The Imperial soldier standing opposite him shook his head, his expression firm. "You're a fool if you think splitting up is the answer. We stand a better chance together. The dragon doesn't care about your allegiances."
"Trust you?" the Stormcloak spat, his grip tightening on the axe in his hands. "After what you've done? After all the bloodshed?"
The air between them crackled with unspoken animosity, their stances rigid, each one a hair's breadth from violence. Behind them, the sounds of chaos continued—roaring flames and the distant shrieks of collapsing stone—and yet the two men seemed locked in their own private war, neither willing to yield.
Grenhild's jaw tightened as she watched from the shadows. "We should do something," she hissed, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists.
Stromo grabbed her arm, his wiry strength keeping her in place. "Not our fight," he said in a low voice, his eyes darting between the two groups. "You rush in there, and we'll all end up dead."
Grenhild glared at him, her teeth bared in frustration, but Finn placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch as firm as his voice. "Stromo's right," he said. "We can't afford to get involved. Not now."
"But—"
"No," Finn interrupted, his crimson eyes locking onto hers. "If we show ourselves, we won't be saving anyone. We'll just be putting ourselves in the middle of their war. And I won't let the boy—or any of us—pay that price."
Grenhild hesitated, her pride warring with her better judgment. Finally, she relented, stepping back with a frustrated growl. "Fine. But if they come after us, don't expect me to hold back."
Finn nodded, his expression grim. "Let's move before we're noticed."
The group slunk into an adjacent hall, the flickering torchlight casting restless shadows on the damp stone walls. The air was oppressive, thick with smoke and ash, and the faint echoes of the argument they'd left behind still reached their ears. Every step felt precarious, the ancient floor groaning beneath their weight, threatening to betray them.
"Quiet," Finn hissed, his voice a razor-edged whisper as they crept forward. Grenhild grumbled under her breath but complied, her movements surprisingly light for someone of her size.
The tension was palpable, each breath measured, each footfall deliberate. The muffled voices of the Imperials and Stormcloaks grew sharper, anger flaring into open hostility. A harsh shout echoed through the halls, followed by the unmistakable clash of steel on steel.
Haming flinched as the sound of the battle reached them. It was brutal and unrelenting, the metallic clang of swords striking shields punctuated by pained cries. The walls seemed to vibrate with the ferocity of the combat, each impact reverberating through the narrow corridor.
"Keep moving," Stromo urged, his voice a hurried whisper. He darted ahead, his wiry frame making him a ghost in the gloom.
They followed, each step a desperate bid to distance themselves from the chaos. But the violence was inescapable, its echoes carrying through the crumbling keep. Haming couldn't help but glance back, his curiosity battling his fear, until a sudden thud snapped his attention forward.
A severed head rolled into their path, its lifeless eyes staring up at Haming with a haunting emptiness. The boy froze, his breath caught in his throat as nausea and terror clawed at him.
"Don't look," Finn barked, his tone cutting through the moment like a blade. He grabbed Haming by the arm, pulling him forward. "Keep moving."
Haming stumbled but obeyed, his heart pounding in his chest.
The hall led them to a narrow opening, a jagged crevice that descended into darkness. The faint scent of earth and damp stone wafted up, mingling with the acrid smoke that still clung to their senses.
Grenhild peered into the void, her expression skeptical. "This better not lead to a dead end."
"It's a way out," Adissa countered, her voice shaky but determined. "Or at least away from that," she added, gesturing back toward the sound of the raging battle.
Finn didn't wait for further debate. He dropped into the crevice first, landing with a soft grunt before looking up at the others. "Come on."
One by one, they followed, the jagged walls scraping against their bodies as they descended into the cavern. The air grew cooler, the oppressive heat of the burning keep giving way to a damp chill that clung to their skin.
The darkness was almost complete, broken only by the faintest glimmer of light reflecting off the wet stone. The cavern's silence was deafening compared to the chaos above, but it carried its own tension—a deep, lurking unease that settled in their bones as they ventured further.
Haming stayed close to Finn, his hands trembling at his sides as he fought to steady his breathing. He didn't dare look back, the image of the severed head burned into his mind, a haunting reminder of the chaos they'd left behind.
The cavern stretched before them, narrow and jagged, the uneven walls glistening with dampness. A faint draft whistled through the passage, carrying with it the crisp scent of northern air. It was a sign—freedom lay somewhere ahead.
Grenhild let out a low growl of impatience. "This place feels like it's closing in," she muttered, her voice bouncing off the stone. "I'd rather face that dragon than rot in here."
"Feel free to go back, then," Stromo quipped from ahead, his tone light but laced with tension. His movements were deliberate now, the cockiness from earlier tempered by the oppressive quiet.
Adissa lingered near the rear of the group, her eyes darting nervously to every shadow. "Do you feel that?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"What now?" Grenhild snapped, turning sharply.
"She's gone," Finn interrupted, his tone as steady as stone. His crimson eyes scanned the passage behind them.
Haming's heart sank as he realized Ysvena had vanished. No sound, no warning—just gone.
"Of course she is," Stromo muttered, rubbing the faint scar on his neck. "The creepy ones always vanish."
Grenhild grunted. "Good riddance."
Finn's gaze lingered on the darkness for a moment longer before he turned back to the group. "Whatever her intentions, she's on her own now. We keep moving."
The ominous weight of Ysvena's disappearance hung over them, but the sight ahead quickly captured their attention.
The cavern opened into a wider chamber, its floor strewn with the evidence of a long-forgotten struggle. Skeletons, some still tangled in rusted armor, lay scattered around a shattered wagon. The remnants of a desperate battle painted the scene: claw marks gouged deep into the stone walls and the unmistakable hulking shape of a bear's withered carcass slumped near the wagon's remnants.
"Smugglers," Grenhild said, nudging a skeleton with her foot. "And they didn't get far."
"Neither will we if we don't arm ourselves," Finn said, kneeling by the wagon. He swept aside years of dust and grime, revealing a heap of rusted weapons and battered gear. Beneath it lay a bundle of tattered cloaks and old armor, the fabric worn thin and the metal dented with age. Finn pulled out a chainmail vest, shaking it free of cobwebs.
"These will do," he said, inspecting the gear. His hand found a rusted longsword, its weight familiar despite the wear. After a quick swing, he slipped it into a battered scabbard and donned the chainmail vest, its weight settling like an old memory.
Stromo let out a low whistle as he uncovered a pair of short swords. He tested their balance with a flick of his wrists before slipping them into crude leather sheaths on a patched belt he found. "Not pretty, but better than fists."
Grenhild snatched a notched battleaxe, hefting it with a practiced swing before shrugging into a ragged fur cloak that had seen better days. She fastened it over her shoulders, the heavy fabric falling in layers around her. "Feels like home."
Adissa hesitated, her fingers brushing over the hilt of a small mace. She picked it up, gripping it tightly as though drawing courage from its weight. Near the pile, she found a modest leather jerkin and pulled it over her prisoner garb, tying it snugly around her waist.
Finn turned to Haming, holding out a chipped dagger. The boy's wide eyes darted from the blade to Finn's steady gaze. "I... I don't know if I can—"
"You can," Finn said firmly. "You'll need it. Take it."
Haming swallowed hard, his trembling hand closing over the worn leather grip. It felt impossibly heavy in his grasp, like the weight of every decision he would have to make from now on. Adissa draped a faded cloak over his shoulders, patting his arm with an awkward attempt at reassurance.
Once clad in their scavenged armor, the group felt a measure of strength return, their prisoner garb now buried beneath layers of history. They moved forward with renewed determination, the faint light of the cavern mouth ahead promising escape. Yet, the oppressive darkness and the distant rumble of the dragon's wrath reminded them that their battle was far from over.