Arthevan stepped through the stone doorway of Bleak Falls Barrow, greeted by the biting cold of the evening air. The sky had dimmed into hues of deep orange and purple, the last remnants of daylight clinging to the horizon. It had taken her the better part of the day to retrieve the Dragonstone, and with nightfall approaching, she knew traveling to Whiterun in the dark would be unwise. Riverwood was closer, safer. She would rest there for the night and set out for Whiterun at first light.
By the time she reached Riverwood, the bustling energy of the day had given way to quiet streets and dimly lit windows. As she passed the Riverwood Trader, she noticed light flickering through the cracks of the wooden shutters. They were still open—or at least still cleaning up after the ordeal with the bandits.
She knocked on the door.
"Come in!"
Lucan Valerius called from inside.
"We're just about to close, but we're still open for business!"
Arthevan pushed the door open and stepped inside. Lucan looked up from the counter—and his eyes immediately locked onto the golden claw secured to her belt.
"The claw!"
He let out a breath of relief.
"You actually got it! To be honest, I wasn't sure you'd make it back."
Arthevan pulled the claw from her belt and placed it on the counter.
"As promised."
She hesitated for a moment, then added, "Did you know this claw was actually the key to deeper chambers in the barrow? If it hadn't been stolen, I wouldn't have been able to retrieve what I went there for."
Lucan raised an eyebrow.
"That so? Well, that's a surprise. But what matters is that it's back where it belongs. You've done a great thing for me and my sister."
Turning to the shelves behind him, he scanned through the stacked books before selecting one and handing it to her.
"And I got you that book you wanted."
Arthevan glanced at the cover and the book's summary: The Wilds of Skyrim: A Scholar's Guide to the Flora and Fauna of the North by Hraldir the Lorekeeper - A scholar from the College of Winterhold, Hraldir was known for his extensive field research into Skyrim's plant and animal life—his writings considered essential for alchemists, hunters, and travelers alike.
She smiled in gratitude.
"Thank you. This is exactly what I was looking for."
Lucan waved off her thanks.
"No need for that. You've done me a service, and this is payment."
Then, as if remembering something, he ducked behind the counter and pulled out a sturdy leather backpack.
"And take this as well. Seems wrong for you to just leave with a book. Since you didn't want gold, I figured this might be useful."
Arthevan tilted her head before realizing what he meant. She had been carrying the Dragonstone on her back the entire way down the mountain, shifting uncomfortably under its weight.
"This will help me carry more than just a satchel." She accepted the backpack with a nod. "I appreciate it."
Lucan gave a satisfied smile, and they exchanged farewells.
Arthevan made her way to the Sleeping Giant Inn, pushing the door open to the warm glow of the hearth. The scent of roasting venison filled the air, and the low hum of quiet conversation made the place feel welcoming after her long journey.
She approached the counter, where Orgnar, the inn's surly barkeep, was cleaning a tankard.
"I need a room for the night,"
She said, placing a few septims on the counter.
Orgnar nodded, scooping up the coins.
"You got it. Need food or drink?"
"Yes, please. What's on the menu?"
"Venison stew with potatoes. It's what we're serving tonight."
"Sounds perfect. And a mead as well. I've heard much about Nord mead—I want to see if it lives up to its reputation."
That finally got his attention. He smirked as he reached beneath the counter and produced a bottle.
"Now you're speaking my language, friend. Here—Honningbrew's finest. Enjoy it while I get your food ready."
Arthevan took the bottle and made her way to a table by the fire, unfastening her new book from her belt. As she flipped through the first pages, she took a sip of mead, savoring the rich, honeyed taste. It was a welcome contrast to the cold and danger she had endured.
The book was engaging—detailing Skyrim's landscapes, its flora and fauna, and the people who called the land home. She had just begun reading about the hardy snowberry plants of The Pale when a shadow loomed over her table, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of stale mead.
"You're new here, elf."
She looked up to see Embry, Riverwood's resident drunkard, swaying slightly as he peered at her.
"I see you got yourself a drink there."
He gave her a lopsided grin.
"But can you really handle it, or are you just sippin' like a milk-drinker?"
Arthevan raised an eyebrow and set her book down.
"Drinking challenge?"
She guessed.
Embry's grin widened. He slammed a tankard onto the table.
"Aye! Unless you're scared you'll pass out after a few swigs!"
A few of the inn's patrons turned their heads. Sven, the bard, smirked from across the room.
"A drinking contest? This should be good!"
Arthevan chuckled, rolling her shoulders.
"Fine. Your rules?"
"Simple—first one to back out loses. And no cheatin' by tossin' the mead under the table!"
Orgnar, sighing but clearly entertained, began pouring rounds. The contest began.
At first, Embry was full of bravado, downing his drink with confidence. But as the rounds stacked up, his words became more slurred, his movements sluggish. Meanwhile, Arthevan remained steady, her face betraying no sign of the mead's effects. By the fourth round, Embry was swaying. By the fifth, he was barely holding his tankard. Then, with a heavy groan, his head hit the table. Snores followed seconds later. The room erupted into laughter.
Sven chuckled, shaking his head.
"Never thought I'd see Embry lose to an elf. Maybe you do belong in Skyrim after all."
Arthevan smirked, picking up her book again. She took another sip and nodded approvingly.
"This mead is really good,"
She mused, turning the page.
Before long, her food arrived, and she enjoyed the warm meal by the fire. The night had turned out to be more eventful than expected, but in a way, it was a welcome change from the dangers of the day.
When she finally retired to her rented room, she felt a rare sense of peace. Tomorrow, she would leave for Whiterun. But for now, she allowed herself to rest.
20th of Last Seed, 4E 201
The next morning, before leaving Riverwood, Arthevan made her way to Alvor's forge. The blacksmith was busy hammering out a fresh horseshoe, but he glanced up as she approached.
"Back again? Need something else?"
He asked, setting the horseshoe aside to cool.
"I do,"
She said.
"A woodcutter's axe. I noticed there isn't one lying around the inn, and I'll need firewood if I'm camping on the road."
Alvor nodded approvingly.
"Smart thinking. I've got a few spare axes. Nothing fancy, but they'll do the job."
He turned and picked up a sturdy, well-worn axe from a rack of tools. The wooden handle was smooth from use, the iron head solid and sharp.
"This one should serve you well. Five septims."
She handed him the coins and tested the weight of the axe in her hands. It had a comfortable heft—not too heavy, not too light. Perfect for splitting logs when needed.
"Good choice,"
Alvor said.
"Keep it dry, sharpen it when you can, and it'll last you a long time."
Arthevan nodded in thanks, securing the axe to the side of her new backpack. With this last purchase, she was finally ready to leave.
The fields outside Whiterun stretched wide under the golden light of the afternoon sun. The wind carried the scent of tilled earth and distant woodsmoke, and Arthevan was enjoying the peacefulness of the walk. Then, she heard it. A deep, guttural bellow. Arthevan stopped, her pointed ears twitching. She turned her head toward the sound, eyes narrowing. Across the field, near a burning crop of wheat, a massive Giant was rampaging through a farm, its club crashing into the ground, sending dirt and debris flying. But it wasn't alone. A small group of warriors fought against it, their weapons flashing in the afternoon sun. Even from a distance, Arthevan could tell they weren't ordinary fighters. They moved with precision, working as a unit, their strikes measured and brutal.
She gritted her teeth. The warriors seemed capable, but the farm was suffering. If the Giant kept at it, there wouldn't be much left standing. Arthevan pulled the bow from her back, nocking an arrow in one fluid motion. She exhaled slowly, adjusting her aim. The Giant was fast for its size, its movements unpredictable. She had to time it right. She loosed. The arrow whistled through the air, striking deep into the Giant's shoulder. It let out a furious roar, staggering slightly from the impact. One of the warriors—a woman clad in war paint and traditional Nordic armor—glanced in Arthevan's direction, eyes flashing with approval before turning back to the fight.
The Giant, now injured and outnumbered, went down swiftly after. As it collapsed, the dust settled. Arthevan slung her bow over her shoulder, stepping forward. The woman she had noticed earlier turned toward her, standing tall, her fierce gaze locking onto Arthevan like a wolf sizing up another predator. And then — A grin.
"Not bad. You have a steady arm."
"Didn't do much."
"More than most. Plenty of people would rather stand and watch."
Another warrior grunted, shaking his head.
"Or just run the other way."
The woman ignored him, still watching Arthevan closely. Then, her grin widened.
"You're a huntress, aren't you? "
Arthevan raised an eyebrow.
"What gave it away? "
"The way you move. The bow. The look in your eyes. You're good... but you could be better."
Arthevan frowned.
"Oh?"
The Nord woman crossed her arms.
"You've got instincts, but instincts alone won't always save you. Out here, it's not just about skill. It's about strength. Speed. Honor. You could learn a lot from us."
Arthevan ears twitched.
"Us?"
She gestured toward the others, then thumped a fist over her chest.
"I am Aela of the Companions. Warriors of honor. Fighters of legend. And, in my unbiased opinion, the finest hunters in all of Skyrim."
Arthevan huffed a quiet laugh, shifting on her feet. Aela saw the hesitation in her stance and pressed on.
"You don't have to decide now. Just think about it. Come to Jorrvaskr if you want to prove yourself."
With that, she walked off, the others following her lead. Arthevan remained where she was, watching them go. The Companions. She had heard of them before—mercenaries, warriors, legends. But Aela's words stuck with her.
You could learn a lot from us.
She tightened her grip on her bow. As she continued toward Whiterun, her thoughts lingered. She wasn't sure if she wanted to join them.
But… She was curious.
Arthevan strode through the stone corridors of Dragonsreach, her soft footfalls barely making a sound as she approached Farengar's study. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and alchemical ingredients, the crackling of the hearth casting long shadows over the cluttered table where the court wizard was speaking animatedly to a hooded figure. The woman stood stiffly, arms folded beneath her cloak, a deep brown hood concealing most of her face. Even from a distance, Arthevan could see the faint gleam of piercing eyes beneath the fabric, cold and calculating. Farengar, on the other hand, was practically glowing with excitement, gesturing wildly as he spoke.
"I'm telling you, Del—"
Farengar caught himself, glancing over his shoulder before lowering his voice.
"Ahem, as I was saying, the patterns are all there! The return of the dragons is not mere rumor—it is a certainty! With the Dragonstone, I may finally be able to pinpoint their burial sites!"
The woman, Arthevan noted—remained unreadable.
"And what do you intend to do if you find them? Wake them up yourself?"
Farengar scoffed.
"Of course not! But knowledge is power, and if we are to understand the threat, we must study it! Besides—""
The hooded woman tensed, subtly shifting her posture. Arthevan had taken another step forward, her curiosity getting the better of her. The mysterious woman turned her head slightly, sharp eyes catching the Wood Elf's approach.
"You have a visitor."
Farengar straightened, pushing aside a half-finished scroll.
"Ah! You've returned! Excellent! You have the Dragonstone, yes?"
Arthevan stepped forward and placed the stone tablet on the table. It was heavier than it looked, rough with ancient carvings, glowing faintly with forgotten power.
"As promised."
Farengar examined the stone with reverence, running his fingers over the inscriptions.
"Marvelous! You have no idea what this means for my research—"
A loud boom echoed through the hall as the great doors of Dragonsreach swung open violently. Heavy boots pounded against the floor as a squad of guards rushed inside, panting, and wild-eyed. The lead guardsman sprinted toward Irileth, who stood near the great hearth.
"A dragon! A dragon is attacking the Western Watchtower!"
The tension in the room shifted instantly.
Irileth's crimson Dunmer eyes flashed as she snapped into action.
"Where?"
The guard, still breathless, pointed toward the door.
"It came from the south! It breathed fire! We barely escaped!"
Irileth turned on her heel.
"Sound the alarm! I want every available guardsman at the main gate immediately! Summon the Companions—we'll need their axes!"
The guard saluted and ran off, the others following close behind. Chaos rippled through Dragonsreach as courtiers gasped and whispered, the news spreading like wildfire. Arthevan had instinctively taken a step back, gripping the strap of her bow. Another dragon? Already?
Irileth's sharp gaze landed on her.
"You. Come with me."
Arthevan blinked.
"What?"
"You survived Helgen. Right now, you're the only person in Whiterun who has seen one of these beasts up close and lived to tell about it. That makes you valuable."
Before Arthevan could argue, Farengar was already hurrying toward Jarl Balgruuf's throne room. Irileth gave her one last expectant look before following. With a quiet sigh, Arthevan adjusted her quiver and went after them. Jarl Balgruuf stood at the foot of his throne, speaking in low, measured tones to a weary-looking guard. The man was slumped forward, his armor scorched, his face pale from exhaustion.
Balgruuf placed a firm hand on the man's shoulder.
"Go. Eat, drink, and rest. You did your duty."
The guard nodded weakly before shuffling off, his steps heavy. Balgruuf exhaled, eyes dark with thought, before turning his gaze to Irileth and Arthevan as they approached. He studied them both for a moment before speaking.
"Farengar has informed me of your success in retrieving the Dragonstone."
His gaze settled on Arthevan.
"As promised, you are now granted hunting rights within my Hold."
Arthevan gave a small nod, relieved that she would be able to freely traverse the forests and hills around the city. But something in Balgruuf's eyes told her that wasn't the end of the conversation. The Jarl stepped forward.
"But before you go, we need your help."
His voice was calm, but there was an unmistakable weight to it.
"I need your help."
Arthevan frowned.
"My help?"
Balgruuf's piercing gaze met hers.
"You survived Helgen. That means, like it or not, you are the most experienced person in Whiterun when it comes to dealing with dragons. Limited as that experience may be, it's more than any of my men can claim."
He turned to Irileth.
"We need every able-bodied warrior for this fight, but more than that, we need archers. Many archers."
He then looked back at Arthevan, eyes narrowing slightly.
"I fought in the Great War, alongside Bosmer loyal to the Empire. Their arrows never missed their mark."
Arthevan stiffened slightly, surprised by the sudden shift in tone. Balgruuf stepped closer.
"Prove that the Bosmer people are the greatest archers in all Tamriel. Help us fight a beast that hasn't been hunted in thousands of years."
The words struck something deep inside her. The challenge, the acknowledgment of her people's skill was exactly the kind of thing that stirred her blood. Arthevan let out a slow breath, glancing at Irileth, then at the guards who were already preparing to depart.
A dragon was coming.
She turned back to Balgruuf, tightening her grip on her bow.
"Alright,"
She said.
"Let's bring the beast down."
Balgruuf nodded approvingly.
"Good. Then get moving. Irileth will lead the charge."
With that, the Jarl turned away, already issuing more orders to his men. Arthevan exchanged a glance with Irileth. The Dunmer smirked slightly, then motioned for her to follow.
"Let's see if you can back up that Wood Elf reputation, huntress."
Arthevan gave a small smirk of her own as they strode toward the main gate, the air buzzing with the tension of the coming battle.
The gates of Whiterun stood open, the cool evening air mixing with the heat of torches carried by dozens of warriors preparing for battle. Arthevan arrived just as Irileth and Kodlak Whitemane were addressing the gathered forces. The tension in the air was thick, every soldier gripping their weapon a little tighter, every breath filled with anticipation.
Irileth's voice rang out over the assembled Whiterun guards.
"Noble guardsmen of Whiterun! Our Hold is under attack! A beast not seen since the First Era has returned, seeking to burn our homes, our fields, our families! Stand together! Stand strong! For Whiterun!"
A thunderous cry rose from the soldiers, shields clashing, swords raised. Their voices carried across the plains, a defiant roar against the coming storm.
Kodlak Whitemane, the Harbinger of the Companions, stood beside her, his voice steady and commanding.
"On this day, I call upon the strength of Ysgramor! May his vigor fuel the hearts and souls of his Companions! Fight with honor! Fight with courage! Let the bards sing praise for those who triumph today and let the mead halls of Sovngarde welcome those who fall in glory! For Whiterun! For Sovngarde!"
The Companions raised their weapons, howling in unison. Their battle cries echoed through the city.
With the warriors rallied, the march began. The march to the Western Watchtower was long, the orange light of the evening sun stretching their shadows over the tundra. As they neared the charred ruins, the scent of smoke and death thickened in the air. Arthevan's sharp eyes took in the state of the tower—its stone walls blackened, wooden beams collapsed, the remnants of a desperate struggle. Scorched bodies of the watchmen lay scattered across the field, their armor twisted and melted. She swallowed hard, gripping her bow. The dragon was not far.
The wind shifted. A shadow slithered over the land, and then— A roar. A sound so primal, so immense, that the very air seemed to tremble with it.
Aela's voice rang out.
"It's coming!"
The sky darkened as a massive shape descended from the peaks, wings outstretched, blotting out the sun. The warriors braced themselves, shields raised, weapons drawn. As the dragon came into view, Arthevan saw the way the sunlight gleamed off its blackened scales, its piercing yellow eyes scanning the battlefield with terrifying intelligence.
The battle erupted in chaos.
The dragon dove, unleashing a torrent of fire. Arthevan barely leapt aside in time, rolling behind a fallen tree as searing heat singed her skin. Screams filled the air as warriors were caught in the inferno, their bodies reduced to burning husks. The stench of scorched flesh and molten steel was suffocating.
She moved fast, dashing between rocks and fallen shields, drawing her bowstring back. The beast's wings sent gusts of wind that kicked up dust and debris, making her shots difficult. She needed a clean hit.
Then she saw it—an opening.
The dragon swooped low; mouth open to release another inferno. Arthevan aimed, heart pounding, and let loose. The arrow flew true, striking the dragon's eye, blinding it. The impact was instant. The beast recoiled, roaring in pain, its massive head snapping back.
"Dii Miin! Hi Fen Aus Fah Daar!" [My eye! You will die for this!]
It snarled, thrashing. Then, its other eye focused on her, and in a guttural growl, it spoke to her in words no one understood.
"Fin Fus Do Dii Thu'um Fen Krii Hi!" [The force of my Thu'um will kill you!]
The word struck her like a hammer to the chest.
Fus
She had heard it before, seen it etched into stone at Bleak Falls Barrow, felt its weight on her tongue. Why?
There was no time to question. The dragon, half-blinded and enraged, circled back for another attack. Whiterun's warriors unleashed a barrage of arrows, forcing it lower. Mages hurled spells of ice and lightning, crackling against its scales. The beast faltered, landing hard, its talons tearing into the earth. It lifted its head, inhaling deeply. Arthevan knew what was coming.
"YOL TOOR SHUL!"
Fire, hotter than anything she had ever felt, exploded from the dragon's maw. The front line of fighters was instantly consumed, their screams cut short. Shields melted; armor fused to flesh. The battlefield became an inferno of death.
She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to move. The dragon's neck arched back as it prepared another breath. That's when she saw it—
A wound. A deep, ragged tear at the base of its skull, likely from an earlier blow.
Arthevan made a choice.
She sprinted up the ruined steps of the watchtower. The wind howled around her as she reached the top. Her heart pounded, every instinct screaming at her to turn back. Instead, she took a deep breath and leapt.
The world seemed to slow.
She landed lightly on the dragon's back. It hardly noticed her at first, distracted by the warriors swarming around it. She moved fast, climbing toward the wound. Her hands grasped onto the rough ridges of its spine as it thrashed, trying to shake her off.
One strike. One precise strike.
Her dagger, coated in the deadliest poison she had, gleamed in the firelight. She plunged it deep into the wound.
The dragon shrieked, a sound that shook the heavens. It thrashed violently, but Arthevan held on, twisting the blade deeper. The poison seeped into its bloodstream, its body seizing, wings flaring wildly. It lurched forward, crashing onto its side. She raised the dagger again. One final blow. She drove the blade into the base of its skull with all her strength. The dragon let out a final, mournful cry.
"Dovahkiin?! Niid!" [Dragonborn?! No!]
And then, silence. The mighty beast lay still. The battlefield was eerily quiet, save for the crackling embers of the fires still burning. The warriors, battered and bloodied, looked around in shock. They had won.
Arthevan rolled off the dragon's back, breathing heavily. The exhaustion hit her like a wave, her limbs trembling from the adrenaline wearing off. Aela was the first to step forward, clapping her on the back.
"You did it!"
She barely had time to process it before something strange happened.
The dragon's body began to glow. The scales blackened, then cracked, and from within, light poured out like molten gold. The warriors stepped back in fear, their voices filled with panic.
"What's happening?!"
One cried.
"The dragon's spirit—it's attacking!"
Another shouted. But the energy wasn't lashing out at anyone. It was coming for her. Arthevan tried to step back, but the glowing tendrils latched onto her. The warmth spread through her skin, filling her, consuming her. Her vision blurred. Her ears rang. Her body froze, yet inside her mind, something awakened. Whispers. Chanting. Ancient voices spoke in a language she didn't know but somehow understood. The knowledge came flooding in.
Fus
The meaning became clear.
Force
A whisper that could shatter bone. A mere breath that could send men flying.
Her vision snapped back into focus. The glow faded.
Everyone was staring at her. Some warriors stepped back, murmuring among themselves. Others looked upon her with awe. A single word passed through the crowd, spoken in hushed reverence.
"Dragonborn"
Someone whispered.
Then another.
Then another.
The whispers grew, spreading like wildfire.
They were not whispers of fear.
They were whispers of reverence.
They were whispers of prophecy.
And Arthevan — still reeling from what had just happened — knew in her heart that her life had just changed forever.
The air was thick with tension as Arthevan stood amidst the quieting crowd, the final wisps of ethereal energy dissipating into the wind. She felt... different. Something had changed deep within her, a new awareness settling in her bones. The townsfolk, warriors, and guards who had stood witness to the battle murmured in hushed awe. Then, breaking the silence, a young Nord man stepped forward.
"By the gods! It's true! You are Dragonborn!"
He exclaimed, his voice carrying the enthusiasm of a bard recounting a tale of old.
"I'm Jon Battle-Born. I've studied many bardic traditions, including the Song of the Dragonborn. You're the hero of legend!"
The crowd murmured in agreement, pressing in closer. Arthevan's heart pounded as she took an uneasy step back. She had never enjoyed the spotlight; the weight of so many eyes upon her was suffocating. The voices rose, overlapping in excitement and curiosity, the sheer volume overwhelming her senses. Panic clawed at her chest, and before she could think, the word burst from her lips.
"FUS!"
A forceful wave of blue energy erupted from her, staggering those nearest to her, knocking some off their feet. A stunned silence fell over the gathering before a voice broke through.
"She summons the Thu'um! She truly is Dragonborn!"
The crowd erupted again, louder this time, their excitement reaching a fever pitch. Arthevan felt herself backing away further, fists clenched at her sides. Just as she feared she might drown in the noise, Irileth strode forward, her dark gaze sweeping over the crowd.
"Enough!"
She barked, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
"There are injured who need tending, and we must see to our dead. Stop gawking at this young woman like a pack of starving wolves and do your duty!"
The fervor in the crowd died down, and Arthevan shot Irileth a grateful glance. The Dunmer nodded in acknowledgment before turning back to her.
"Rest for the night. We ride back to Whiterun at dawn. The Jarl must be informed of what has transpired."
Morning came swiftly. The return to Whiterun was marked by a somber yet triumphant atmosphere. The city's gates opened to a welcome of cheers and reverence. Jarl Balgruuf stood at the steps of Dragonsreach, flanked by his advisors and guards, waiting for their arrival.
"You have all done Whiterun proud!"
Balgruuf declared.
"You have defended our home and vanquished a great threat. This is a day of both mourning and celebration! Let us honor the fallen and toast to the living! Tonight, we feast!"
Before the cheers could settle, a deep, resonating voice shook the very heavens.
"DOVAHKIIN!"
A tremor ran through the gathered people as all eyes turned towards the towering peak of Monahven—The Throat of the World. Recognition dawned on the faces of the more learned among them. A whisper, then a murmur, then a collective realization spread like wildfire.
"The Greybeards... they summon the Dragonborn!"
Silence followed as heads turned toward Arthevan. She stiffened. Once again, the eyes of the masses fell upon her, and the weight of expectation pressed against her chest. Balgruuf, now informed of the battle's details, stepped forward.
"Come with me, Huntress. We have much to discuss."
Within the grand hall of Dragonsreach, Artemis stood before the Jarl, who studied her with a measured expression.
"You have done my people a great service,"
Balgruuf began, his voice laced with gratitude.
"They can rest easier knowing that no more dragons will threaten their lives."
Artemis hesitated before speaking.
"The dragon we killed was not the same as the one that burned Helgen."
Balgruuf's brow furrowed.
"Explain."
"The dragon at Helgen was much larger, black as the void. The one at the Western Watchtower had dark green scales. Their presence felt... different. This one was terrifying, but the black dragon? It was something else entirely."
Balgruuf's expression darkened.
"Irileth! Reinforce our borders immediately. Proventus, send word to the College of Winterhold—we need battlemages."
As his orders were carried out, he turned back to Artemis.
"The men say you are Dragonborn. Is this true?"
Arthevan shifted uncomfortably.
"I don't even know what that means."
Balgruuf studied her carefully before explaining.
"The Dragonborn is said to be gifted in the Voice—the ability to harness your very essence into a Thu'um, or Shout. The men say you Shouted after the dragon's death."
She nodded hesitantly.
"When the dragon died, I absorbed something from it. It felt... right. As if a missing part of me had awakened. My instincts sharpened; my mind cleared."
Balgruuf exhaled deeply.
"So, it is true, then. And the Greybeards have called for you."
Arthevan tilted her head.
"The Greybeards? Who are they?"
Hrongar, the Jarl's brother, stepped forward, his voice incredulous.
"The Greybeards are the masters of the Way of the Voice! They live in seclusion atop the Throat of the World. They have not summoned anyone since Tiber Septim himself!"
Arthevan frowned.
"I've heard little of Tiber Septim. I know even less of the Greybeards."
Hrongar bristled.
"A Dragonborn who knows nothing of Talos? This is an outrage!"
"That's enough, Hrongar!"
Balgruuf snapped. He turned back to Arthevan, his expression gentler.
"The Greybeards are the authority on the Voice. If they believe you are Dragonborn, who are we to argue? You must go to High Hrothgar."
Arthevan let out a breath, shaking her head.
"I don't want this. I never asked for it. I'm just a hunter, not some hero out of a bard's song."
Balgruuf nodded, leaning closer.
"I understand your hesitation. But think of it not as a burden, but as a hunt. You have the instincts of a predator—you sense the change within you, the power. Would you ignore a wounded beast, knowing it might strike from the shadows? Ignorance of your nature will not protect you. Knowledge, however, might."
She was silent for a long moment, weighing his words. Finally, she sighed.
"Fine. I'll go."
Jarl Balgruuf's tense shoulders loosened, and his expression softened.
"Good. You should head there when you can. But for now, enjoy the festivities. It's not every day my men can boast of slaying a dragon—and you shall be the guest of honor at tonight's banquet."
Arthevan stiffened.
"Guest of honor?"
She repeated, an edge of panic creeping into her voice.
"Banquet? No, no, I can't—I don't know how to act at a banquet, much less a Nord one! I'd rather face another dragon than make a fool of myself before your court. Please, don't make me do this."
Balgruuf regarded her for a long moment, his sharp eyes studying her—not just the warrior who had slain a dragon but the weary wanderer who had never belonged among nobility. His voice softened.
"Tell me, girl, what is your name?"
She took a deep breath and made great effort to relax.
"Arthevan. Arthevan of Northern Woods."
"Well met, Arthevan of Northern Woods."
Balgruuf said, standing from his throne. He extended his hand in greeting, and after a moment of hesitation, she grasped it. His grip was firm, steady, carrying the weight of a ruler who understood duty more than anything else.
"I understand your reluctance. You never asked for this. If fate had not intervened, I imagine you'd be out on the plains right now, tracking a stag rather than standing before a Jarl."
She gave a small nod, her posture still tense.
"But sometimes,"
Balgruuf continued.
"The path we take is not the path we choose—it is the path we are given."
His words struck something deep within her. It was a sentiment she had known all too well, long before Helgen, long before Skyrim. Arthevan swallowed hard.
"I wish I could let you leave for High Hrothgar immediately,"
Balgruuf admitted.
"But I cannot simply dismiss the hero of the hour. The people of Whiterun would riot if I let their Dragonborn disappear into the mountains before they could raise a mug in your honor."
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"That said, I'll ensure the feast is kept simple. You won't be forced to endure endless flattery from the more… persistent members of my court."
Arthevan huffed, a reluctant amusement slipping through her unease.
"So, I'm to be a trophy for all to see?"
She quipped, though the tension in her shoulders eased.
Balgruuf chuckled.
"If you wish to see it that way. But I prefer to think of it as Whiterun giving thanks where thanks are due."
She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck before nodding.
"Fine. I'll be there."
Balgruuf's smile was warm.
"Then I am honored by your presence."
He gestured toward the entrance of Dragonsreach, beckoning forward a woman clad in well-crafted steel armor. As she approached, Balgruuf's tone shifted, growing formal as he addressed the gathered court.
"There is one more matter before you go to prepare for the feast,"
He announced, his voice carrying through the great hall. The hushed murmurs of the court faded into silence.
"Arthevan of Northern Woods, you have done a great thing for me and for this city. By my right as Jarl, I name you Thane of Whiterun."
The hall erupted into applause, but Arthevan barely heard it. A knot formed in her chest as Balgruuf continued.
"It is the greatest honor I have to offer, and with it comes responsibility. As Thane, you will be recognized as a protector of Whiterun, one who stands for its people."
The armored woman stopped before Arthevan, lowering herself to one knee.
"I also assign you Lydia of Whiterun as your Housecarl,"
Balgruuf declared.
"She will serve as your sworn shield, should you have need of her."
Lydia placed a fist over her chest.
"I am your sword and your shield."
Arthevan opened her mouth, then shut it again. Housecarl? Thane? She barely knew how to process the weight suddenly placed upon her. She felt a sharp pang in her chest—not of excitement, but of burden.
Balgruuf then turned, gesturing to a steward who approached with something wrapped in fine cloth.
"As a symbol of your station, I present you with this—a master crafted Skyforge Steel dagger from my armory."
As she took the blade in her hands, she felt the craftsmanship immediately. It was a beautiful weapon, balanced and honed to perfection. But all she could think about was the weight of responsibility pressing down on her shoulders.
The court cheered, but Arthevan barely registered it. She had only wanted to survive, to move forward, to carve out a place for herself in the wilds. Now, she had a title. A duty. A Housecarl sworn to her.
She clutched the dagger tightly and closed her eyes.
Hircine, give me strength.