The village unfolded before us like a painting come to life, nestled in the valley between towering pines and craggy cliffs. The air here was clean, fresh, and carried the tang of sawdust and the distant scent of baking bread. Riverwood was far larger than I had anticipated, its population bustling with purpose. Lumberjacks hauled logs to the sawmill, their muscles straining as the waterwheel creaked and groaned. Women tended gardens, exchanging idle chatter over rows of vibrant vegetables. Children darted between wooden fences, their laughter adding a vibrant backdrop to the industrious hum of the village.

For a moment, I forgot my exhaustion, taking in the scene. The sights, sounds, and smells of this place were overwhelming in their richness, but it wasn't just the sensory details that hit me. It was the sheer scale. This wasn't the small, quaint hamlet I had expected. Riverwood was a thriving community, and its size hit me all over again—How much larger was Skyrim if this place, so much bigger than its game counterpart, was just a village?

Ralof grunted beside me, his gaze scanning the faces of the villagers as they turned toward us. Many greeted him with warm smiles or calls of recognition, waving their hands or nodding in welcome. Their friendliness toward him was palpable, and he offered weary nods in return. Yet, as their eyes shifted to me, the warmth dimmed. Their smiles tightened, their nods turned hesitant, and the weight of their stares lingered just a moment too long. It wasn't unexpected- I knew the nords didn't take kindly to outsiders.

As we moved through the village, a woman emerged from the direction of the mill, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. Her hair was a golden blonde, tied back in a practical braid, and her face looked weary- if still rather beautiful. When her eyes fell on Ralof, her face lit up as though someone had plugged a lightbulb into the power grid- wiping away any hints of weariness.

"Ralof!" she cried, her voice thick with emotion as she ran toward us.

Before he could respond, she threw her arms around him, clutching him tightly. "By the gods, I thought I may have lost you," she murmured, her voice trembling. It's been so long without word… and I heard the imperials had captured Ulfric."

Ralof wrapped an arm around her, his exhaustion evident but his voice steady. "I'm here, Gerdur. I made it."

Gerdur pulled back, her hands gripping his shoulders as she looked him over, her sharp gaze taking in the weariness etched into his face. "You look like you've been through Oblivion."

Ralof gave her a tired smile. "Feels like it too."

Her eyes shifted then, landing on me. The warmth in her expression dimmed, replaced by a guarded wariness. "And who is this?"

"This is Melkorn," Ralof said, his tone firm. "If not for him, I wouldn't be here."

Gerdur's gaze flicked over me, taking in my gray skin, violet eyes, and the armor that still bore marks of the chaos we had escaped. Her lips pressed into a thin line. "A Dunmer?" she said, her tone cautious. "You travel with him?"

"Aye," Ralof said without hesitation. "And I owe him my life."

Her expression softened slightly, though the tension in her shoulders didn't fully ease. After a moment, she nodded. "Then he is as welcome here as anyone."

I inclined my head, keeping my voice even, doing my best to keep my exhaustion from creeping in. "Thank you."

Gerdur turned back to Ralof, her hands still gripping his shoulders. "Come. You both look exhausted. Let's get you inside, and you can tell me everything."

Ralof shook his head firmly, his face set. "This news can't wait, Gerdur. A dragon burned Helgen to the ground."

Gerdur froze, her eyes wide with disbelief. "A dragon? By the Divines… I saw something flying over the mountains earlier, but I thought—no, I didn't dare think it could be true." Her voice faltered as she glanced toward the horizon, her gaze haunted. "A real dragon…"

"It's real," Ralof said grimly. "Helgen's gone. It killed everyone it could find. Burned the place to ash."

Gerdur's breath hitched, and she closed her eyes for a moment, steadying herself. When she opened them again, her expression had hardened into determination. "A dragon…" She shook her head, her voice firmer now. "Then Whiterun needs to know. Jarl Balgruuf must be told at once."

"We'll handle it," Ralof said. "But first, we need to rest. We've been running since it happened."

Gerdur took a long look at the two of us—Ralof's worn expression, the dirt and exhaustion clinging to every step we took, and my stoic silence. Her gaze lingered on me for a moment, cautious and uncertain, but Ralof's presence seemed to ease her worry.

Her face softened. "Then you're both welcome here. Anyone who stood beside my brother is welcome in my home." She reached out, placing a hand on my arm briefly before gesturing for us to follow. "Come. Food and rest first. Then we'll figure out what to do."

Ralof let out a tired chuckle and threw an arm around my shoulder, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "You hear that, Melkorn? A warm meal and a soft bed. Beats sleeping under the stars, eh?"

I grunted, the corner of my mouth twitching upward despite myself. "It does sound better than dirt and tree roots."

"Damn right it does," Ralof said with a grin, steering me toward the house. "You'll see, Gerdur's cooking is the stuff of legend."

As we walked, the sights and sounds of Riverwood filled the air around us. The rhythmic creak of the mill and the distant clang of the forge provided a steady backdrop to the murmur of villagers going about their lives. Despite the warmth of the village, the anticipation brought about from Helgen lingered in the back of my mind, a weight I couldn't quite shake.

Ralof tightened his arm around my shoulder briefly, as if sensing my thoughts. "For now, let's focus on getting through the night. Tomorrow's problems can wait."

I nodded, letting the tension in my shoulders ease slightly as we followed Gerdur toward the house. For the first time since Helgen, the promise of a roof overhead and a real meal felt like a small victory in itself.

The house came into view as we followed Gerdur through Riverwood. A two-story timber structure stood solidly against the backdrop of towering pines, its walls darkened with age but meticulously maintained. Stacks of neatly arranged firewood sat by the porch, and flower boxes along the windows held hardy blooms that added splashes of color to the otherwise rugged setting. The scent of freshly cut lumber from the mill lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest.

Gerdur led us up the porch steps, pushing open the heavy wooden door. The interior was immediately welcoming—cozy yet practical. A large stone hearth dominated the center of the main room, the fire crackling softly and bathing everything in a warm, golden glow. Shelves lined with jars of preserves and dried herbs gave the kitchen area a homey feel, while a long oak table occupied much of the space, its surface scarred from years of use. Nordic carvings adorned the walls, and pelts of animals hung beside hunting trophies, all speaking to the family's deep roots in this land.

"Sit," Gerdur said firmly, motioning toward the table as she bustled toward the kitchen. "You both look like you haven't stopped running since that dragon."

Ralof and I exchanged a glance before complying. He dropped heavily into a chair, his exhaustion more evident now that we were in relative safety. I sat more cautiously, taking in the room and the two siblings.

As Gerdur set the bowls down, her voice sharpened again. "If the Imperials know you survived Helgen, they'll come here next. Searching for deserters, survivors—anything to keep their grip on Skyrim."

Ralof shook his head, his expression grim. "They've got bigger problems than us right now, sister. Helgen was razed to the ground by a dragon. If they're smart, they'll focus on Ulfric—or figuring out what in Oblivion just tore apart their fort."

I nodded in agreement. "They'll be more concerned with the rebellion and the dragon. And even if they do come, your village is too far removed for them to prioritize immediately."

Gerdur's jaw tightened, her worry not entirely soothed, but she relented with a nod. "Maybe. But I don't trust them not to overreach."

She turned her attention to me then, her eyes scanning my face. "And you? What's your name?"

"Melkorn Do'Urden," I replied simply. Her gaze lingered for a moment, then she nodded and turned back to the hearth, her hands moving briskly as she stirred the stew.

"You were at Helgen too?" she asked, not looking back.

"I was," I said, keeping my tone neutral. "Slated for execution alongside your brother."

Her shoulders stiffened for a moment, but she didn't press further. Instead, her gaze shifted to Ralof, her expression sharpening. "We need to send word to Whiterun," she said firmly. "Jarl Balgruuf has to know about the dragon."

"I know," Ralof said, his voice grim. "But I can't go, sister. I'm a Stormcloak—he'd never trust me. And even if he did, I can't stay here. Ulfric needs every blade he can muster."

I had expected this. Their paths were set, their roles clear, and neither could spare the time to deliver the warning. My own plans had already been forming—I would need to head to Whiterun anyway, and this would ensure I didn't leave empty-handed.

"I'll go," I said, breaking the silence.

Both their heads snapped toward me, Gerdur's brow furrowing. "You? Why would you—"

"I'm heading that way already," I interrupted, keeping my voice calm. "This warning will get there faster if you trust me with it. Though if I'm to deliver this news, I'll need supplies for the journey."

Ralof's eyes narrowed briefly as if assessing me, but then he gave a slow nod. "He's right. You're not with us, not with them, either. Balgruuf might just listen."

Gerdur didn't respond immediately, her lips pressed into a thin line as she studied me. Finally, she nodded, her movements decisive as she ladled stew into bowls. "Fine," she said. "I'll write a letter for the Jarl and see that you have what you need to make it to Whiterun."

I inclined my head, leaning back in my chair "Thank you."

The warm crackle of the hearth filled the room, a steady counterpoint to the weight of the conversation. The aroma of rabbit stew mingled with the scent of fresh bread, comforting in its simplicity, but the heaviness of the day lingered in the air. I felt the warmth begin to seep into my bones, dulling the ache of exhaustion, but my mind remained sharp, restless.

I leaned forward slightly, my creaking chair breaking the quiet. "What's the state of things? The war, I mean," I asked, my voice direct. "I heard rumors in Morrowind, but I've barely been in Skyrim a week—and I ended up on the block with Ralof before I could make sense of it all."

Ralof glanced up from his bowl, the faint flicker of rest in his eyes replaced by a harder edge. Gerdur paused in her movements, her gaze shifting between us before she took her seat. Her lips pressed into a thin line.

Ralof exhaled deeply, setting his spoon down. "The war's not what most people think. We're not charging banners into the field like some great army. It's a rebellion—a damned hard one. We're striking where it hurts, hitting supply lines, Imperial strongholds, places where we can actually do damage. Bringing Jarls to our side. It's not about holding ground. Not yet."

His tone was measured, but I could hear the frustration beneath it. He shook his head slightly, staring down at his hands. "We've had some victories, but it's not enough. The Empire's grip on Skyrim is tight. And the Thalmor…" He spat the word like it left a foul taste in his mouth. "They're watching everything. Waiting to tighten the leash."

Gerdur's knuckles whitened where they rested on the table. "The Thalmor are the real enemy," she said sharply. "The White-Gold Concordat wasn't just a treaty—it was a betrayal. They stripped us of Talos, of everything he stands for. They think they can dictate who we can worship, that they can erase a god."

Her voice rose slightly, anger lacing her words. "Talos united the Empire. He built it, bled for it, became something greater because of it. And now they want to pretend he doesn't exist?"

The aroma of rabbit stew and fresh bread mingled with the soft sound of spoons against bowls, a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the day. Despite the comfort, tension hung heavy, unspoken questions weighing on my mind.

I set my spoon down, leaning forward slightly. "If there haven't been any major battles yet, how did they manage to capture Ulfric? I'd have thought a man like him wouldn't fall so easily."

Ralof's spoon froze mid-air. For a moment, he didn't speak, his jaw tightening as his gaze dropped. Gerdur's hands paused, but she didn't interrupt, her expression quietly urging her brother to continue.

"It was a trap," Ralof said at last, his voice quieter, heavier. "A damned clever one."

His fingers curled around the edge of the table, knuckles whitening as his eyes seemed to glaze over, reliving the memory. "Tullius set it up. He knew we'd be moving through a narrow pass—one we'd scouted and thought was clear. The terrain was perfect. They had archers hidden along the ridges, and when we entered, they rained arrows down on us before we even knew what was happening."

Ralof's voice tightened, his frustration seeping through. "Then the mages struck. Spells hit us like iron chains, locking us in place. We couldn't move, couldn't fight back. Ulfric's Thu'um... it was like nothing I've ever seen. His Shouts tore through their lines, sent men flying like leaves in a storm. For a moment, it felt like we could turn it."

He paused, his gaze distant, haunted. "But they were ready for that too. Tullius forced the fight into close quarters. Ulfric couldn't use his Shouts without cutting down his own men, and they knew it. They pressed in, surrounded us. We fought, gods, we fought. But it wasn't enough."

His voice grew quieter, the last words almost a whisper. "They took him."

Gerdur's grip tightened on the edge of the table, her knuckles pale. "Tullius is no fool," she said, her voice low. "He's a soldier, through and through. He fights to protect the Empire, even if it means bleeding Skyrim to do it."

Her tone sharpened, anger flickering in her eyes. "But it's not just him. The Empire bends to the Thalmor, their hands tied by that wretched Concordat. They're the ones who want to strip us of Talos, to rewrite history and erase him as a god."

Her words struck a nerve, anger flaring hot in my chest. A god like Talos, a man who united an empire and ascended through sheer will, deserved to be revered. To deny his worship wasn't just arrogance—it was an insult to everything he'd accomplished. The thought churned in my mind, not just as an affront to faith but as a calculated move to destabilize Skyrim, to grind its spirit into submission.

"The White-Gold Concordat," I said finally, my voice low and even, "is a leash. And the Empire is too weak to do anything but tighten it around Skyrim's throat."

Ralof glanced at me, his expression unreadable for a moment before he nodded faintly. "That's why we fight," he said quietly. "To break free of it. To make Skyrim our own again."

The room fell into a heavy silence, the fire's crackling the only sound. The weight of the day began to settle into my limbs, exhaustion creeping in like a tide.

Ralof leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. "Gods, I'm tired," he muttered.

I nodded faintly, the fatigue settling deep into my bones. Gerdur's expression softened as she looked between us, the sharpness in her gaze easing. "The guest rooms are open to you both," she said quietly. "Just up the stairs. Get some rest—you've earned it."

Ralof gave her a tired smile. "Thanks, sister."

I inclined my head. "Thank you."

As we rose, the warmth of the fire lingered, but my thoughts remained restless as Ralof and I trudged up the creaking wooden steps, exhaustion clinging to us like a heavy fog. My body ached, my legs felt like lead, and my head pounded faintly with the lingering weight of the day as my thoughts swirled with thoughts of rebellion, magic, war and the future. Gerdur stayed behind in the main room, her sharp voice faintly audible as she tidied and muttered to herself, her work never seeming to end.

Ralof let out a low groan as we reached the top of the stairs, rubbing his neck with a grimace. "I'd forgotten how good it feels to have a roof overhead," he murmured, his voice heavy with fatigue.

I grunted in agreement, glancing toward the doors that lined the short hallway. One stood slightly ajar, revealing a small but welcoming space with a simple bed and a table illuminated by the soft glow of a candle. It would suffice.

"We shall talk in the morning," Ralof said, offering a faint smile as he made his way to another room.

"Good night," I replied, my voice quieter than usual.

The sound of his door shutting behind him left the house eerily silent, save for the faint murmurs of Gerdur below and the steady creak of the building settling. I stepped into the guest room which was sparse but not unwelcoming. A narrow wooden bed stood against the far wall, neatly made with a woolen blanket. A sturdy table sat beneath the window, a single flickering candle perched atop it. The scent of pine and earth lingered faintly in the air, and through the window, I could see the faint silhouettes of trees against the darkening sky. The soft sound of the river outside was a soothing counterpoint to the faint murmurs from downstairs.

I placed my pack on the table and stood there, letting the quiet wash over me. My gaze drifted to the window, sun beginning its descent behind the jagged peaks, it set the snow ablaze with a fiery glow, casting the leaves in hues of burnished gold. In that fleeting moment, I was struck by a profound truth—dusk, in all its quiet splendor, was as breathtaking in this world as it had ever been.

Shaking the thought from my mind, I reached into my pack and pulled out the coin pouch I'd grabbed during the chaos of Helgen. I hadn't had a moment to take stock of it until now. Sitting down at the table, I tipped the pouch over, spilling its contents onto the wooden surface. The soft clink of coins filled the room.

Twenty-three gold septims gleamed faintly in the candlelight, their distinct golden sheen catching my eye. Among them were ten silver coins and fifteen smaller copper ones, each simpler in design but clearly made for practical use. I picked up one of the coppers, rolling it between my fingers. Of course, there'd be more than septims—it made sense for an economy to have smaller denominations for everyday trade. Setting the coin down, I swept them all back into the pouch, making a mental note to learn their exact values when the chance arose.

Sitting down heavily, my legs nearly collapsing from the exertion of the past few days, I reached back into my pack to retrieve the spellbook. Despite the weight of exhaustion, a flicker of focus returned as I opened the worn cover, flipping to the familiar section on channeling magicka.

Settling into the chair, I let out a slow breath, steadying myself. My hand extended, palm up, as I closed my eyes and focused. My breathing slowed, steady and deliberate, as I reached inward, searching for that faint current I had begun to recognize.

At first, there was nothing but stillness. I inhaled deeply, pushing aside the fatigue clawing at the edges of my focus. And then—there it was. Subtle at first, a soft hum beneath my awareness, like the distant whisper of a river over stone. I reached for it, tentatively drawing it closer, shaping my intent into action.

A warmth blossomed in my palm, faint but undeniable. I opened my eyes, and for the first time, the magic was visible—an ephemeral shimmer, barely perceptible in the dim candlelight, but real. It was there, resting in my hand, no longer just an idea or a theory. A grin spread across my face, wide and almost involuntary. This wasn't just progress—it was a victory. Proof that the power was mine to claim.

Setting the book down, I flipped ahead eagerly, skimming the section on Sparks. The diagrams and instructions blurred together, excitement filling my chest as I absorbed the possibilities. The power to project, to command—each step forward felt like unlocking a part of myself I'd never known.

But my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening below. A man's voice, low and calm, drifted faintly through the floorboards, followed by Gerdur's steady reply. I paused, listening intently for a moment, but the words were indistinct, and my curiosity gave way to the weight of exhaustion pressing heavily on me.

I closed the book, extinguished the candle, and stood, stretching briefly before turning toward the bed. The mattress creaked under my weight as I settled beneath the coarse wool blanket. My mind lingered on the shimmer of magic in my palm, on the potential outlined in the spellbook, and on the journey ahead.

The sound of the river outside and the cool air of the room lulled me into a deep, heavy sleep, the memory of that small shimmer still warming my thoughts as darkness took me.

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.

.

The soft murmur of the river filtered into the room as I stirred, the faint smell of fresh bread pulling me fully awake. Morning light slanted through the window, golden and warm, and contrasted with the harsh wilderness of the previous day. The aches of the journey lingered, but the rest had been welcome.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stretched briefly before pulling on my boots. The pack sat where I'd left it, leaning against the table, and next to it was the Legion armor. I frowned at the sight of it, the Imperial insignia catching the morning light. Useful, perhaps, but it wouldn't serve to be mistaken for an imperial. Wearing it would invite all the wrong kinds of attention. Trading it seemed like the best option—if Alvor was willing. For now, though, it would come with me.

I belted the sword at my hip, balanced the armor in my arms, and descended the creaking stairs. Gerdur was already at work, her movements brisk but precise as she laid out supplies on the table—a bundle of bread, salted meat, cheese, and a waterskin. Ralof sat nearby, lacing up his boots with a steady efficiency, his calm demeanor contrasting with the urgency of our situation.

Gerdur glanced up as I entered, her eyes briefly flicking to the armor in my hands before she nodded in acknowledgment. "Morning," she said simply, sliding a small pouch across the table toward me. "Hod thought you might need this. It's not much, but it'll help."

The pouch clinked faintly as I picked it up, its weight reassuring. "Thank you," I said, tucking it into my pack.

She handed me a folded letter next, its wax seal marked with a symbol I didn't recognize but assumed was hers. "Take this to Jarl Balgruuf," she said, her tone sharp and determined. "He needs to hear about Helgen—and this dragon."

I nodded, slipping the letter into the pouch at my belt. "I'll see that he gets it."

Ralof rose then, his boots firmly laced, his gaze falling briefly on the armor I held. His lip curled slightly, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he clapped me on the shoulder with a firm grip. "You'll want to pack that if you're keeping it," he said, his tone neutral but edged with the faintest hint of disdain. "But don't linger too long."

He was right. I glanced at Gerdur. "Do you have a spare pack?"

She paused, considering, before disappearing into the back room. Moments later, she returned with a simple but sturdy pack. "This should do," she said.

I nodded my thanks, carefully packing the armor inside. The sword remained at my hip—plain and unremarkable, but for now, it would suffice.

Stepping outside, the crisp morning air greeted us, the scent of pine mingling with the faint smokiness of the forge nearby. Ralof walked beside me, his presence solid and steady, a quiet camaraderie lingering between us.

As we reached the edge of Gerdur's property, he turned to face me, gripping my forearm firmly. "You fought well for a Dunmer," he said, his tone carrying both respect and gravity. "We could use someone like you."

His grip tightened slightly as he continued. "I can vouch for you—come see us at Windhelm. Ulfric will want to hear about someone with your skill."

The offer was plain and direct, an invitation into the Stormcloak cause. I met his gaze, holding it for a moment before nodding. "I'll think on it," I said evenly, keeping my thoughts to myself.

Ralof released my arm with a small nod of his own, stepping back. "Safe travels, Melkorn. Skyrim's a dangerous place."

With that, he turned and walked away. I watched him for a moment before adjusting the pack on my own shoulder and heading toward Riverwood.

The village bustled as the day began in earnest. Workers moved logs toward the sawmill, the rhythmic creak of the waterwheel providing a steady backdrop to the hum of voices and the clang of a hammer on steel from the forge. My first stop would be Alvor's shop—if I was to make this journey, I needed proper armor and gear.

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.

.

The sound of steel meeting steel reached me long before I saw the forge itself, its sharp rhythm cutting through the calm of the morning. Rounding the corner, the sight came into view: a broad, open structure built of timber and stone, the heart of the village in both purpose and presence. Smoke rose steadily from the chimney, curling into the clear sky, and the unmistakable heat of the forge wafted toward me.

The smell of hot iron mixed with the earthy tang of woodsmoke and coal and the warmth of it hit me like a hot breeze in the summer. A wide overhang sheltered the workspace, shading an anvil, quenching troughs, and racks of tools that spoke to years of labor. Alvor's hammer rang out from the anvil, steady and purposeful, the forge casting flickering light across his broad frame.

My gaze drifted to the weapon racks lining one side of the forge as I sat my pack down quietly, the weight of the Legion armor pulling at my shoulder. I glanced at the metal breastplate, the sigils of the Empire stamped clearly across its surface. It would make me a target out here, and I was done with wearing that mark. I knew the tension in Skyrim well enough. I needed something neutral, something that wouldn't put a target on my back.

Looking back up the weapons caught my eye. Swords hung neatly, their blades glinting faintly in the sunlight. Their designs were practical—straight-edged and solid, with hilts wrapped in dark leather. No gilded embellishments or flourishes, just the basic craftsmanship that would serve a fighter for years. Daggers rested nearby, rondels, seax knives and larger daggers closer to the size of a shortsword.

A rack of axes caught my attention next. Some were built for the woods, with sturdy heads and polished shafts. Others, meant for war, bore thinner heads, light and nimble and made for battle. Nearby stood spears, their iron tips tapered to deadly points, with long wooden shafts reinforced to withstand use in battle or the hunt.

Armor occupied its own section, though the display was modest. A chainmail shirt hung from a wooden frame, its interlocking rings clean and gleaming. Gambesons of quilted fabric sat folded on a nearby table, their stitching sturdy enough to endure the rigors of combat. A steel breastplate rested on a workbench, its surface polished smooth but not overly reflective—purely functional. Helmets of various designs lined the shelves, from simple caps to those with reinforced nasal guards and cheek plates.

Shields leaned against the wall, each one reflecting a different stage of wear. Most were simple round wooden shields, their edges reinforced with iron bands to protect against blows. Some showed signs of long use: dents and scratches marking where they had borne the brunt of battle. The designs that once adorned them—wolves, mountains, storm clouds—had faded with time, but traces of color still clung to the wood.

Beside the shields, a wall was lined with various tools meant for the village's daily needs. Each one showed signs of wear but had been well cared for. There were plows, hoes, and spades, their wooden handles smooth from use, the metal blades still sharp and ready for work. Farming tools hung alongside simple hand tools—axes for chopping wood, saws for cutting timber, and hammers for repairs. Tongs, files, and chisels sat nearby, designed for use in smaller repairs and crafting. Some tools had the dull patina of frequent use, others were freshly polished, ready for whoever needed them next.

Ingots of iron and steel were stacked in the corner, while rolls of leather and rawhide hung from hooks, ready to be turned into straps or padding for armor. It was a simple space, but it was well-equipped—clearly capable of producing everything a village like Riverwood needed to survive.

Alvor glanced up as I moved closer, his sharp eyes studying me briefly. He was a tall man, his face streaked with soot, the muscles of his arms and neck taut from the work he did daily at the anvil. He was no stranger to hard labor. "You're up early," he said, his voice gruff but not unfriendly. His gaze dropped to the Legion armor slung over my shoulder. "Looking to trade, or looking to buy?"

I wasted no time. "Trade," I said simply, not bothering with pleasantries. "I need something more neutral. This"—I motioned to the Legion gear—"is going to make me a target. I'm not looking to be a walking advertisement for the Empire."

Alvor grunted, understanding in his eyes. He'd seen plenty of Legion gear come through his forge, no doubt, but it wasn't the sort of thing most people wanted to wear out here. "Aye, that'll get you noticed, alright. Solid gear, though," he said as he ran a hand over the breastplate, his fingers feeling the smooth surface and the edges of the engravings. "I can take it off your hands, though. Sell it back to the Legion or break it down for the parts. Either way, I'll make use of it."

I nodded, appreciative of his straightforwardness. "I need something that won't mark me as a target," I reiterated, ready to move on to the next step.

Alvor grunted again, already moving across the room. "You'll need something neutral, then. No symbols, no markings. I've got some that should do you right."

He pulled a worn leather pouch from his belt and tossed it on the counter next to a nearby rack. It had seen its share of wear, the leather darkened with age, but it still held its shape well. "Let's see your measurements," he said, his voice a mix of business and familiarity. "You're fairly tall, and I need to make sure this fits well. Stand still for me."

I paused, rolling my shoulders as I stood before him, feet flat on the floor. The air in the forge was hot, thick with the scent of coal and metal, but it felt right—like the world outside could wait while I got prepared.

Alvor moved quickly, grabbing a measuring tape from a hook beside the forge. His eyes flicked over me before he began taking measurements—my chest, waist, and the span of my shoulders. His hands were steady, and I could tell from the way he worked that he'd done this countless times.

"Not as broad as most Nords, but you've got a solid frame for a dumner," he muttered, making a few notes as he circled around me. "You'll need some extra padding under the chainmail, though. Doesn't look like you're carrying as much muscle as the usual folks around here." he prodded.

The words stung more than I expected. I was still adjusting to this body—stronger, fitter than before, but the muscle mass I'd built on Earth was gone, and my new body didn't quite have the same bulk. Still, I didn't want to hear it. I'd spent enough time getting used to this form. I bit my tongue, letting the irritation slide away before it showed.

"Hold on," he said, before disappearing behind the racks of armor. "I'll grab what I think will fit."

He returned with a thick red gambeson in his hands, the padded fabric sturdy but flexible, its layers providing a solid base of protection. He held it up against me, checking for size and comfort. "This'll do," he grunted, tossing it to me. "Won't restrict your movement, and you'll need the extra padding under the chainmail."

I pulled the gambeson on like a coat, the fabric settling around me comfortably. I fastened the front with the leather laces, making sure it was snug but not restrictive. The layers of the padded fabric gave me a solid base of protection without weighing me down. It felt good against my skin, a necessary first step before the heavier armor.
Next, Alvor grabbed a chainmail shirt, the steel rings smooth and sturdy in his hands. He gave it a once-over, checking the fit before pulling it from the rack. As he slipped it over my head, the metal rings tugged uncomfortably at my hair, pulling at the strands as they slid past. I winced slightly, the sensation far from pleasant. It took a bit of effort to wrangle the shirt into place, but after a few moments, it settled against my chest.

Alvor stepped back to examine the fit, nodding in approval. "Solid protection. The rings are tight, but not so much that they'll weigh you down," he said, though his eyes lingered a moment longer on the way the mail settled over my shoulders. I pulled my hair from beneath the chainmail, brushing it aside as best I could, feeling the strands cling to the metal. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.

He turned back toward the racks, reaching for a set of vambraces—bars of steel over sturdy leather. He slid one onto my arm, adjusting it to sit comfortably over the forearm. The steel bars were shaped to cover the vital areas while leaving enough room for movement. He gave it a firm test, sliding the vambrace up and down a few times before pulling it off.

"These should do," Alvor said with a nod.

Alvor paused for a moment before grabbing a steel breastplate off the rack. The front piece was solid, smooth, and well made, while the back plate was of a similar quality. Alvor held the front piece against my chest, adjusting it to ensure a good fit before moving behind me to work on the back. He fastened the two pieces together with side straps, making sure the fit was snug but not restrictive.

"This is good steel," he muttered, tightening the straps at the sides. "It'll stop most of the bandit arrows, but an Orc warhammer? That'll splatter you. Still, it'll hold up well for anything less."

Alvor moved swiftly, grabbing a pair of greaves from the rack. The steel was polished and tough, but not too heavy—exactly what I needed for both protection and mobility. He turned to me, his expression focused as he examined the fit.

"Lift your leg," he said as he bent down to measure the length against my calf. I complied, raising my leg, the chainmail still tugging at my shoulders as I balanced on one foot. Alvor slid the greaves up over my boot, adjusting them to sit comfortably just above my knees.

The fit was snug, the leather straps securing them tight enough that they wouldn't slip, but not so tight that they restricted movement. "Good," he grunted, pulling on the straps to fasten them. "These'll hold up well for traveling. Don't expect them to buckle under a sword strike, but if you end up in a battle with a big bastard swinging a mace, you'll feel it."

I flexed my leg, testing the range of motion. The greaves fit well—firm, but not cumbersome. I gave them a satisfied nod as I lowered my foot back to the ground.

Alvor gave a slight nod. "You're good to go. A solid set of leg protection, won't weigh you down. That's all you'll need for a road trip like yours."

I flexed my legs once more, pleased with the comfort and the fit.

Lastly, Alvor moved to the helm, holding it up for me to inspect. The design was straightforward: a metal band across the nose, curved cheek guards, and a steel crown - much like the gjermundbu. Nothing fancy, just protection. He passed it over and I looked down at my reflection in the darkened metal of the helmet. There was no mark of the Empire, no visible ties to anyone but myself. I was neutral now—just a traveler, ready to move on.

Alvor stood back giving me a final look. "That should work," he said, moving to the side to grab his tools. "This lot will set you back 15 septims. Not bad considering what you're getting, especially with the way things are now."

I raised an eyebrow. "15? That's a bit steep, don't you think? The Legion gear alone will be worth something to you," I said, eyeing the pieces of armor I'd handed him.

Alvor grunted in response, not bothered by the pushback. "I know it's worth something. But with the war, materials are harder to come by. Steel's getting scarce, and leather's inflating in price. It's not like it used to be."

I paused, weighing my options. "How about 11?"

He shook his head. "14. And that's the best I can do."

"12," I pressed. "You're getting quality legion armor in exchange."

There was a long pause as Alvor considered. He eyed me carefully, sizing up the situation before grunting and nodding. "12 septims. Deal."

I handed over the coins, feeling the weight of the trade as I tucked the much lighter pouch in my pack.

"Thanks again, Alvor," I said as I adjusted the straps of my belt and the weight of my sword settled comfortably on my hip.

Alvor waved me off as I turned to leave. "Safe travels. Don't get caught in the crossfire."

I stepped out of the forge, the weight of my new armor settling well on my shoulders. The sun had risen higher, casting long shadows across the village. As I walked through the narrow streets, the cool morning air tugged at my hair.

The people of Riverwood went about their daily routines, but I couldn't help but notice their wary glances as I passed. Some of them gave me cautious looks. A few muttered to themselves, no doubt wondering about the dunmer in armor. The weight of their stares felt tangible, but it wasn't hostility—not yet. It was more the suspicion that followed anyone new and foreign.

I shook off the discomfort and made my way to the Riverwood Trader, hoping the exchange would be quick. I was already a bit light on coins with the armor, and I had a few more purchases to make before I was ready to hit the road.

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The door to the Riverwood Trader creaked as I stepped inside, the familiar scent of wood and leather filling the air. The shop was larger than in game, with more goods now filling the shelves than I remembered. Behind the counter, Lucan Valerius was muttering to himself, his eyes scanning his stock with frustration.

"…damn milk-drinking thief," Lucan grumbled as his hands worked quickly. "First the Golden Claw, now this."

I paused, my gaze flicking to the shopkeeper. The Golden Claw had been stolen. It was nice to get that quest confirmed. Not that I needed any confirmation—I already knew. It had been part of the rumors circulating through the village. Still, it was good to hear it directly from him.

Lucan didn't seem to notice me standing there, so I took a moment to peruse the shop. The shelves were stocked with essentials, each item carefully arranged. Torches, bundled neatly and ready for use. Bedrolls were stacked beside them.

My fingers traced the edges of a few maps as I walked by, some rolled tightly, others slightly unfurled. I ran a finger over one of them, wondering what lay beyond the places I knew from the game.

On another shelf, I spotted waterskins, hanging from hooks. Their leather was rugged, well-oiled, and the simple craftsmanship looked sturdy enough for long journeys. Luckily I had already been given basic supplies.

But what really caught my eye was the small section of alchemical supplies. Health and stamina potions sat in neat rows, the glowing liquids casting a faint, ethereal light. I reached for one of the health potions, small and very obviously a minor one. The glass was cool against my fingers.

A flicker of memory rushed to me—Helgen. The health potion I'd used to heal from the arrow wound, giving me the strength to escape the burning town. The memory was sharp, and I couldn't help but smile. That potion had saved me. I knew its worth now more than ever.

Lucan finally noticed me picking up the potion, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Health potion, eh?" Lucan's voice was gruff but not unfriendly. "That'll be 20 septims. Not much left in stock with all these damn thieves around."

I didn't hesitate. The price was steep, but it could easily save my life. I placed 20 septims on the counter without a second thought. The health potion could make all the difference on the road. I took the wrapped potion from him, slipping it into my pack.

Lucan wrapped the potion in cloth with a sigh, muttering about the state of things in Riverwood. "If I could keep my stock up, I'd charge less, but what can you do?"

While I was at it, I figured a map wouldn't hurt. I walked over to the shelf where they were kept, unfurling one that looked detailed. The markings were dense, showing more than just roads but entire regions, possibly unknown to me. I ran my finger over the inked lines, imagining the places that awaited me. The price was clearly marked—10 septims—and I was willing to pay it. I hadn't had the chance to explore much yet, and it felt prudent to make sure I knew where I was going.

I turned back to Lucan, the thought of the road ahead heavy in my mind. "I'll take one of these maps too. 10 septims."

Lucan's tired eyes flickered with recognition as he added the map to my purchases. "A good choice. Those maps are hard to come by, especially in these times," he said with a quiet grunt. He seemed to momentarily focus on my gear, noting the armor, before continuing his task.

I placed the required 10 septims down with a small sigh. It seemed like everything I needed cost septims, and here I was, running low. That frustration was starting to gnaw at me. I still had a decent amount of silver and copper coins from the chaos at Helgen, but none of that was being accepted. I was forced to deal in septims, which, for reasons I couldn't fully comprehend, was the only currency that seemed to matter here. It didn't help that the shopkeeper had so casually tossed me a price that was already inflated by the war and rising supply costs.

As I turned to leave, my eyes were drawn to a dark sable cloak hanging near the front of the shop. The rich black fabric looked sturdy, but it was the fur lining that caught my attention. It looked thick enough to protect against Skyrim's bitter cold winds. The iron chain clasp at the front gleamed faintly, simple yet effective. Something told me I could use more warmth than I'd anticipated.

I ran my fingers over the fabric, feeling the soft, plush lining against my skin. It wasn't just practical—it looked good too. And that was something I hadn't had much of lately. I could use something that would both keep me warm and add a little comfort to my travels. The last few days of wandering through Skyrim had left me feeling exposed, and something about this cloak just felt right.

"How much for the cloak?" I asked, turning to Lucan with a raised brow. He didn't seem particularly surprised by the question, though there was a moment of appraising hesitation before he gave me the price.

Lucan glanced at the cloak and then back at me, sizing me up. "5 septims. A fair price for something that'll last in this cold."

I raised an eyebrow. That was more reasonable. "I'll take it."

Lucan folded it neatly and handed it to me, his eyes still darting to my gear. "Smart choice. You'll need it out there in the cold. Keeps you warm and keeps you looking sharp, too."

I nodded, grateful for the purchase. The cloak was just what I needed. I could already imagine how it would feel on the road, keeping the harsh Skyrim winds off my back while adding a bit of much-needed protection. I added it to my pack and moved to leave, feeling a little more prepared for what lay ahead.

As I finished up my purchase, I felt a quiet frustration building in my chest. Why was everything I was buying in septims? I had a good amount of silver and copper coins from the pouch from Helgen, but it was all septims that I was handing over here. Wasn't there a use for the smaller coins—the ones I'd gathered from various pockets and purses? Surely the silver and copper were worth something. I couldn't help but wonder why everything had to be priced in septims, and why none of the other currencies had any real worth here.

I pushed the thought away, though. Gerdur had helped me secure the basic supplies I needed, and I was only buying the expensive items now. Still, I'd have to make sure to get more septims if I planned to continue on like this. The difference in value was irritating, but it wasn't anything I could change right now.

"Thanks, Lucan," I said, throwing the cloak over my shoulders and fastening it as I turned to leave. "May the divines watch over you." Now that felt weird to say

Lucan waved me off, his attention already diverted to the shelves. "You stay safe out there."

With my new purchases in tow, I stepped out into the brisk morning air, feeling the weight of the cloak settle around me, and adjusted the pack on my back. The health potion was within easy reach. I was ready to make my way toward Whiterun.

The path stretched before me, the morning light filtering through the trees, casting long shadows across the dirt road. The weight of my armor and my new sable cloak—sat comfortably on me. It was a familiar sensation, one that felt natural from my old life, though now it settled easier, as if this body was built to bear it. Adjusting the pack on my shoulders, I felt the slight shift of the sword at my hip, a reminder of the tools I carried for the dangers ahead.

Behind me, Riverwood receded into the background, its sounds and smells growing faint. The clang of Alvor's hammer at the forge, the murmur of villagers, and the creak of the mill's waterwheel became distant, muted echoes. A few cautious or hostile glances had followed me as I'd left, but I hadn't lingered long enough to dwell on them. I wasn't one of them. I never would be.

The road ahead felt alive, untamed, and unpredictable. Memories of the game whispered warnings in the back of my mind—wolves lurking in the underbrush, bandits hiding just out of sight, waiting for an unwary traveler. Every sound—a snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves—sent a flicker of tension through me. This wasn't a journey to be taken lightly.

I tugged the cloak tighter around my shoulders, its fur lining soft against my neck. The air carried a faint chill, a reminder of how different this land was from the one I'd known on Earth. My fingers brushed against the hilt of my sword, the gesture instinctive. It wasn't just for show—I'd need it soon enough. The thought of the health potion in my pack gave me some small reassurance. My mind flickered back to Helgen, to the potion that had kept me alive after that arrow had found its mark. The memory was sharp and visceral, a reminder that this world was as deadly as it was beautiful.

The road twisted ahead, disappearing into the forest. Each step felt like peeling away another layer of the unknown, and with it came a growing sense of both excitement and unease. This was the beginning of something larger, and the thought stirred something deep within me. It wasn't the safety of Riverwood or the chaos of Helgen—this was the wilds. It was freedom, danger, and opportunity, all rolled into one.

I didn't look back again. The village was gone, replaced by the quiet sounds of nature—birds chirping, the wind stirring the trees, the crunch of dirt beneath my boots. It was just me now, the road, and whatever waited ahead.

The road ahead stretched out like a winding ribbon, weaving through the towering trees and rolling hills that defined this part of Skyrim. Dense forests loomed on either side, their shadows long and deep under the midday sun. Distant mountains pierced the horizon, their snow-capped peaks a stark reminder of how vast and untamed this land truly was. Streams cut through the earth like veins, their trickling water adding to the natural symphony of the wilds. It was beautiful, breathtaking even, but I wasn't foolish enough to let that beauty distract me.

Every rustle in the underbrush made my hand twitch toward the hilt of my sword. A bird taking flight, the faint snapping of a branch—it all set my senses on edge. The dangers of this world weren't abstract; they were real and likely closer than I realized. The game had taught me to expect ambushes—wolves, bandits, or worse—and though this was no longer a game, those instincts lingered. My eyes constantly scanned the treeline, my ears straining for any sound out of place. I couldn't afford to be caught off guard.

This body felt different, leaner and lighter than what I had known on Earth, but I was adjusting. Each step felt more natural than the last. My movements were quicker, more fluid, but the lack of the sheer muscle mass I once had nagged at me. The armor I wore was familiar, its weight grounding me, but this was survival in a way I had never known before. This wasn't just about physical endurance—it was about staying sharp, thinking ahead, and understanding the terrain. And here, the terrain was as much my enemy as any blade.

The map I'd purchased from Lucan offered some reassurance, at least. Unfurling it briefly, I studied the lines and markings, tracing the path toward Whiterun. It was thorough, far more detailed than I'd expected, with more than just roads. There were landmarks, smaller settlements, and even notations that hinted at possible dangers. It was a comfort, but it also reminded me of just how little I truly knew about this world. For all the time I had spent playing Skyrim back on Earth, this was different. The reality of it was exciting.

I tucked the map away and adjusted the pack on my back, feeling the weight of the armor shift slightly as I moved. I thought back to the villagers in Riverwood and the way their gazes had lingered on me as I left. Not one of them, not even close. That much was obvious, but it didn't bother me as much as it should have. I was used to being an outsider—this was just another iteration of the same feeling. Still, the thought of being completely alone in this world, without allies or a place to call home, gnawed at me.

The road wound onward, and I pressed forward, the tension in my shoulders never quite easing. This was just the beginning, I reminded myself. I had a long way to go and a lot to figure out.

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The sun was dipping below the horizon when I decided it was time to stop. The road had wound its way through dense forest, the shadows growing longer with every step. My eyes scanned the trees for a good spot, someplace quiet and defensible. A clearing just off the road caught my attention, its edges bordered by thick undergrowth that would block the wind and hide the firelight. Perfect.

I stepped into the clearing, my boots crunching softly against the dried leaves and dirt beneath me. The air was cooler now, and I could feel it bite at my face and hands despite the warmth of my cloak. This place would have to do. Setting down my pack, I stretched briefly, feeling the day's tension in my shoulders and back. The armor shifted with the motion, its weight comforting- I had always wanted to wear my armor in more than just sparring.

I began with the essentials. I unrolled my bedroll and placed it near the center of the clearing, where the ground was flattest. A small fire pit came next, stones gathered from the edge of the clearing arranged in a rough circle. The process of kindling a fire was methodical, almost comforting. Flint and steel scraped together, and sparks danced briefly before catching on the dried grass and twigs I'd collected. I blew gently, coaxing the flames to life, and soon enough, a warm fire crackled at the center of my camp.

The flickering light illuminated the clearing, casting long shadows against the trees. I adjusted the cloak around my shoulders, the fur lining a welcome barrier against the night's growing chill. The simple act of setting up camp, of creating a small refuge in the wilderness, felt oddly satisfying. It wasn't much, but it was mine—for tonight, at least.

As I sat by the fire, the sounds of the forest crept in. The distant hoot of an owl, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, the occasional snap of a branch somewhere in the distance. It was peaceful in its way, but I couldn't shake the tension in my chest. The wilds were beautiful, yes, but they were also dangerous. I'd seen the game's version of Skyrim's wilderness, and it had been brutal enough. This, though—this was real. And I was alone.

My hand rested on the hilt of my sword almost unconsciously, a habit I'd had even in my old world when I wore a sword. Every sound felt like a warning, every shadow a potential threat. I knew better than to let my guard down, even here. The fire would keep most creatures away, but bandits or worse could still find me if I wasn't careful. For now, though, I had to trust that I'd chosen the right spot.

Satisfied with the setup of my camp, I rose to my feet, my hand instinctively brushing the hilt of my sword. The fire crackled behind me, casting flickering shadows across the clearing as I pulled the blade free. The weight of it felt natural in my grip—familiar, but not entirely. This body, lighter and quicker than the one I'd known on Earth, still felt foreign in subtle ways. If I was going to survive, I needed to bridge that gap.

I stepped into the center of the clearing, letting the firelight illuminate the area around me. The sword's edge caught the light as I tested its weight, balancing it in my hand. The first few movements were slow and deliberate—a basic stance, a practiced advancing step. My muscles responded quickly, but there was a subtle unfamiliarity, a reminder that this wasn't truly my body- yet.

I moved through a series of strikes, blocks, and parries, each one faster and more fluid than the last. The blade sliced through the air with a satisfying whisper, and the sound of my boots shifting across the dirt filled the quiet of the clearing. The sword felt good, but it wasn't perfect—I was more practiced with arming, saber and longswords than gladius. Still, it would do for now.

As I practiced, I could feel the muscles in this new body adjusting to the motions. There was strength here, but it wasn't the same as the bulkier power I'd had on Earth. This was leaner, more precise, built for agility rather than great force. I shifted into a forward lunge, feeling the armor move with me. The breastplate was snug but flexible enough to allow for full motion, and the chainmail shifted against the gambeson with a faint, metallic whisper. It was a good fit, and I couldn't deny that Alvor had done well in outfitting me.

I pushed myself harder, running through advanced techniques and combinations. The firelight glinted off the blade as I worked, the motions becoming smoother with each repetition. The new body moved with a speed that caught me off guard at times, but it lacked the raw power I'd been accustomed to. It was frustrating, but also a challenge. If this was who I was now, then I'd make it work. I'd master it.

As I lowered the sword after a particularly sharp series of strikes, I took a moment to catch my breath. The clearing was quiet save for the crackling of the fire, and the stars above shone brightly against the dark sky. The world felt vast and alive, and for a brief moment, I was struck by the sheer reality of it all. This wasn't Earth. This wasn't a game. This was my life now, and every swing of the blade, every step forward, would carve my place in it I thought with a small smile.

I continued the practice, testing how far I could push myself. The weight of the armor settled more naturally with each movement, and I began to feel the rhythm of the body I inhabited. The gambeson and chainmail absorbed the strain of rapid motions, and the helm, while a bit snug, didn't hinder my vision or balance. Each strike and block felt more deliberate, more in tune.

The sword moved like an extension of my arm, and by the time I finally lowered it again, my breathing was heavier, my muscles pleasantly sore. I looked at the blade, its edge glinting in the firelight, and felt a small sense of accomplishment. This wasn't just practice—it was progress.

The warmth of the fire lingered on my skin as I slid my sword back into its sheath. The exertion of practice had left me pleasantly sore, but my thoughts were elsewhere now—on the spellbook resting in my pack. I knelt beside it, retrieving the worn tome and flipping to the section I'd studied before. Sparks. The first step in mastering lightning.

I settled onto my bedroll, the firelight casting dancing shadows over the page. The words were precise, their tone different from the earlier, almost dismissive primer for simply drawing Magicka. These instructions carried weight, reverence even. Lightning, it seemed, was not merely power—it was alive. The passage described it as chaos incarnate, a force that obeyed only those with discipline and focus.

"To command lightning is to hold chaos in your palm," I murmured, the words resonating as I traced the page with my finger. Lightning was not something to be tamed. It was a partnership, a pact. And that made it even more alluring.

I placed the book aside and adjusted my position, sitting cross-legged with my hands resting on my knees. The instructions were clear: begin with calm. The fire crackled behind me, its light a steady comfort as I closed my eyes and focused inward.

The Magicka within me was no longer foreign, not after the journey here. It was familiar now, like a faint hum at the edges of my awareness. I let my breathing slow, each inhale drawing me deeper into that current. It wasn't easy—lightning wasn't gentle. The energy felt volatile, eager to leap forward, yet just out of reach.

The next step: visualize the chaos. I pictured a storm in my mind, thunder crashing and lightning streaking across a dark sky. The energy was sharp and jagged, untamed. My pulse quickened as I imagined it coalescing in my hand, crackling and alive.

"The storm is mine to command," I whispered, setting my purpose.

I raised my dominant hand, palm forward, and began to draw on the Magicka. The flow wasn't steady; it came in fits and starts, bursts of energy sparking at my fingertips before fizzling out. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to remain calm, even as the volatile current made my arm tingle unpleasantly.

Then it happened. A faint spark—a tiny blue arc of electricity—danced across my palm. It was fleeting, barely there, but it sent a jolt of exhilaration through me. I focused harder, drawing more Magicka and letting it pool in my hand. The spark returned, this time stronger, a small web of lightning crackling in my palm.

The energy was unlike anything I'd felt before. It was alive, eager, and chaotic, just as the book described. I concentrated on shaping it, letting it build into a steady arc. The crackling grew louder, filling the quiet of the night as the lightning leaped and danced between my fingers.

The faint arc of electricity flickered across my palm, illuminating the clearing in a soft, ghostly blue light. It was small, crackling faintly, but it was there—my first successful attempt at summoning lightning. A grin split my face, the thrill of holding such raw, untamed power erasing the exhaustion I'd felt moments before. This was real. It was mine.

The book's warning echoed in my mind: lightning is eager to betray its master. But the warning only stoked the fire of my determination. I wasn't about to stop here—not when I could feel the energy practically begging to leap further, to grow.

I drew on the Magicka again, this time letting the current build more forcefully in my palm. The spark returned, brighter now, its erratic tendrils stretching and snapping in the cool night air. I clenched my teeth, focusing harder as I imagined the storm coalescing, its chaos bending to my will. The crackling grew louder, filling the quiet of the clearing, and the thrill of it surged through me.

But as I tried to push the spell further, to let the arc leap from my palm, I faltered. The energy wavered, unstable, and before I could release it, the lightning lashed out. A sharp jolt shot through my hand, snapping up my arm and leaving my muscles tingling unpleasantly. I hissed, pulling my hand back instinctively as the arc fizzled out, leaving the clearing dark once more.

The zap wasn't severe, but it was enough to snap me back to reality. I flexed my fingers, the tingling sensation lingering like an echo of my mistake. Impatience had cost me—just a small lesson, but one I wouldn't forget.

I sighed, lowering my hand and shaking it out. Pushing too hard too soon wouldn't get me anywhere. Still, the thrill of holding lightning, even briefly, was intoxicating. It wasn't just power—it was potential, but as I let my arm fall to my side, the lingering tingle of lightning slowly fading. The excitement of mastering Sparks, however briefly, began to ebb, replaced by a more pressing excitement. The Thu'um, the voice of the Dragonborn-My power.

I had waited long enough. The words were there, burned into my mind as though they had always been a part of me. Fus. The word of force, the first syllable of a power that had brought me to this moment. It wasn't a mystery to me. I didn't need to learn it. I only needed to call it forth.

I stepped into the center of the clearing, standing tall and steady. My heart pounded, but it wasn't fear—not this time. It was excitement, the kind that hummed in your chest before something extraordinary. This was the moment.

I closed my eyes, my breath steady, and focused. The sensation was unlike drawing Magicka. This wasn't an external force to channel; it was something deeper, something primal. I could feel it there, buried in the marrow of my bones, in the breath that swelled my chest. It was waiting—waiting for me to give it voice.

I opened my mouth, the word forming effortlessly on my tongue, a word I had known since waking in this world.
"Fus!"

...Nothing

The sound of my own voice echoed dully in the clearing, but that was all. No surge of power, no force rippling through the air. Nothing. Just the faint rustle of the forest, as if mocking my failure.

I blinked, the grin on my face faltering. Maybe I hadn't done it right. Maybe I hadn't focused enough. I drew a deep breath, straightened my stance, and tried again.
"Fus!"

Again, nothing. The silence pressed in, heavy and unyielding, as my excitement crumbled into confusion. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

I clenched my fists, the joy of a moment ago replaced by a flicker of frustration. Why wasn't it working? I knew the word. I knew what it was supposed to do. The memory of the Dragonborn in the game flashed through my mind—the effortless shouts, the way the power had been immediate and absolute. Why wasn't it the same for me?

I tried a third time, my voice sharper now, more demanding. "Fus!"

The result didn't change. The clearing remained undisturbed, the trees unimpressed by my efforts. My jaw tightened, and I let out a sharp breath, running a hand through my hair. The excitement had faded entirely now, replaced by a sinking feeling in my chest.

What if it wasn't mine? What if this power—the Thu'um, the very thing that marked me as Dragonborn—was out of my reach? The thought was bitter, a dark whisper at the back of my mind. What if I wasn't really the Dragonborn?

I shook my head, pushing the doubt away. No. That couldn't be it. There had to be something I was missing. This wasn't the kind of power you simply spoke into existence. It had to be deeper than that—something tied to the soul, something I hadn't unlocked yet.

I glanced at the fire, its steady crackling a small comfort in the midst of my frustration. The thought of giving up crossed my mind, but I banished it quickly. This was only the beginning. Power like this wouldn't come easily. If it did, it wouldn't be worth having.

I sat back down on the edge of the bedroll, the frustration still simmering but tempered by determination. The Thu'um would come. It had to. But for now, I had to accept that this wasn't the moment.

The stars above seemed indifferent to my struggle, their light cold and distant. I stared up at them for a long moment, letting the cool night air settle my thoughts. The road to Whiterun awaited, and beyond that, answers—or so I hoped. But tonight, the only thing I could do was prepare for whatever came next.

The fire popped loudly, pulling me from my thoughts. I sighed, leaning back and closing my eyes. Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I'd try again.

AN

wait, what's this - does our MC - is he- is he not the dragonborn? find out next time on drag- oh no this is skyrim

see y'all tomorrow