Golden light filtered through the canopy above, warming my face as I woke. The air is cool, crisp, carrying the rich scents of pine and damp earth, mingled with the faint babble of a brook somewhere nearby. My eyes open slowly, taking in the dappled sunlight that streaks the forest floor.
For a moment, I let myself enjoy it. The trees stretch high above, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. Birds flit between the shadows, their songs weaving a melody that carries me far from thoughts of blood and fire. It's beautiful in a way that feels unreal, like I've stepped into a painting.
Then I hear it—a low, mournful howl in the distance.
My hand snaps to the hilt of my sword, fingers gripping tightly as I sit up. The ache in my muscles and feet, dulled by sleep, rushes back with a vengeance, but I don't care. My eyes scan the forest, searching the undergrowth and shadows for movement.
The sound fades, but the tension remains. I exhale slowly, willing my heartbeat to steady. It's a stark reminder of where I am—of what Skyrim is. This isn't a tranquil haven; it's a wilderness teeming with danger. Wolves, bears, bandits… the list goes on.
I run a thumb along the hilt of my sword, its familiar weight settling me. This isn't Helgen or a dwemer ruin, but it's no less deadly if I let my guard down. The forest may be beautiful, but it's no place for daydreaming.
Sliding my legs out from under the blanket, I stretch, the stiffness in my back and legs a reminder of how far I've come since… well, since everything. A week's worth of travel has done little to dull the sharp clarity of waking up here.
Skyrim.
I glance up at the canopy again, at the golden light filtering through the leaves, and allow myself one last breath of stillness. It may have been chaos, but this world has been exhilarating in a way I hadn't felt in years. The rush of combat, the raw thrill of survival… this place is a challenge, one i'm relishing
The serenity of the morning, with the sun casting its golden glow over the forest, is intoxicating. But I know better than to let it lull me into complacency. I can't afford to lose myself in its beauty. Danger could be lurking just beyond the trees, waiting for the moment I let my guard down.
Standing, I take a moment to look around, ensuring I'm alone. The last thing I need is for someone to see me shouting into the void like a madman.
Planting my feet firmly in the soft earth, I close my eyes, letting the memory of the word rise to the forefront of my mind. Fus. Power, force—pushing aside anything in its path. I picture the air splitting before me, the raw energy surging forward with unrelenting strength.
The word rolls off my tongue: "Fus!"
Nothing.
The sound echoes faintly through the forest, no more than my voice carried by the breeze. No power. No resonance. Not even the barest hint of something stirring within me.
My jaw tightens, anger bubbling to the surface. I can feel it, somewhere deep inside—a power that should be mine. Yet it refuses to answer my call. The Dragonborn… hah. Maybe the legends were wrong. Maybe I'm no more Dragonborn than the wolves howling in the distance.
I clench my fists, the sword shaking slightly in my hand as I glare at the empty air before me. My breath comes faster, my frustration building until I can't hold it back.
"Fus!" I shout again, louder this time, the word ripping from my throat with everything I can muster.
Still nothing.
I let out a sharp breath, my voice dropping to a muttered growl. "Damn it."
The shout doesn't feel wrong—just hollow. Like trying to start a fire with damp wood. I rack my mind for scraps of the lore I can remember, piecing together fragments of old memories. Shouts… the Thu'um… the power of dragons. Talos had to train for years to master it, as did Ulfric. But the Dragonborn—those gifted with the souls of dragons—were supposed to wield it instinctively, weren't they?
My hand tightens around the hilt of my sword. If I'm Dragonborn, where is my instinct? Why is it silent? The questions gnaw at me, each one a needle pricking my pride.
I breathe out slowly, forcing my shoulders to relax. The air is cool against my skin, sharp and grounding. Anger won't solve this. I need focus, clarity. If the Thu'um won't come to me now, I'll master what I can. There are other paths to strength, and I'll walk them all to accomplish my goals.
The blade gleams faintly in the morning light as I draw it and hold it up, the familiar weight steadying me. "If the Thu'um is silent, then so be it," I mutter to myself. "I'll sharpen what isn't."
I turn, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface, and glance toward the path winding ahead. My grip on the sword steadies as I roll my shoulders and stretch my legs, loosening the stiffness of sleep. If the Thu'um won't answer me, at least the blade in my hand is dependable. I shift my stance, preparing for the familiar rhythm of practice. There's no sense in wasting the morning.
The aches from Helgen still linger, stubborn reminders of the past, but they're dull now—more a distant memory than a hindrance. I take a slow breath, testing the weight of my body.
The lean muscles in my arms, the tautness in my legs— the thought of them holding less strength than my previous body has been proven wrong. They are also more responsive, more efficient. I stretch again, rolling my neck and letting the movement sink in.
For days, I'd cursed this leanness, frustrated at the strength I thought I'd lost. But now, it feels different—more agile, more capable. Every stretch, every move, flows naturally. I shift my weight slightly, testing the balance of this frame, and a small grin spreads across my face.
My strength—it's been here all along. I just couldn't see it because I was too focused on what I thought I'd lost.
I exhale sharply and bounce on my feet before sinking into my stance. The sword hums softly as I draw it, its tip slicing through the morning air with the ease of a whisper.
The first movement is slow, deliberate. My gloved hand adjusts the grip, letting me feel every inch of its weight. Each motion is measured as I flow into the familiar sequence—parries, cuts, thrusts, block- making sure to keep every movement perfect.
With every pass, I move a little faster, a little sharper. The weight of the sword feels good, the balance just right. My feet dig into the soft earth, pivoting, pushing myself deeper into the rhythm.
A sharp thrust sends the tip of the blade toward an imaginary opponent's throat. The movement feels stronger than it should be. I pause, catching my breath, and glance down at my arm, the muscles flexed with the effort.
Stronger.
I move again, faster now, my feet shifting instinctively as I swing the blade upward, then twist into a downward strike. The arc is fluid, clean, and powerful. Every strike is building momentum, one feeding into the next, pushing me forward.
I swing again, the blade carving through the air in a wide slash before snapping back into a guard. Sweat beads on my forehead, but it's not exhaustion. It's exhilaration. My body moves with precision, like a finely tuned machine. Each movement is sharper, faster, and more capable.
I laugh—low and breathless—spinning into another combination of strikes. The world around me blurs as I push myself harder, the trees a swirl of green and gold. Every movement feeds into the next, like a storm gathering force, the momentum never breaking.
When I finally stop, my chest heaves, and I rest the sword against my shoulder. My muscles tremble slightly, in this body, I'm not just stronger. I'm faster, sharper, more capable than I ever was before. And gods, it feels good.
I raise the sword again, tracing its arc through the air as I move into a defensive guard. The sun glints off the steel, and I take a steadying breath. The forest around me is quiet now, save for the faint rustle of the leaves.
I shift my grip and move into another drill. Strike. Parry. Riposte. The sounds of combat echo in my mind as my body falls into rhythm, pushing aside all the doubt and frustration from before.
Each movement sharpens me. Each strike strengthens me. The movements being etched deeper into the body with each repetition
Eventually, my arms begin to tremble—not from excitement but from true fatigue. I lower the blade, my breaths coming heavier, and sheath it at my side.
The forest is still alive with birdsong, but I don't hear it as clearly. My focus remains on my body, on my breath, on the quiet strength that's always been there.
The soft crackle of the campfire draws my attention, its dwindling flames licking at the last of the kindling. I kneel beside it, brushing away the embers with a gloved hand, smothering the fire until only thin wisps of smoke remain. The faint smell of charred wood lingers, a grounding reminder of the morning's work.
Straightening, I turn to the scattered remnants of my camp—a blanket rolled tightly into a bedroll, a simple pack containing what little I've gathered on this journey. One by one, I tuck everything away, my movements steady and precise. The world around me is alive with birdsong and the faint rustle of the forest, but I focus on the task.
The bedroll is strapped to the pack, the weight of it familiar against my shoulders as I shrug it into place. My sword returns to my hip, its presence a comforting weight. I adjust the straps, ensuring everything is secure before stepping toward the trail.
But just as I'm about to move on, I stop.
Turning my palm upward, I raise my hand, and with a focused breath, I let the spark of power I've been nurturing flicker to life. Small arcs of lightning crackle softly across my fingertips, jumping from one finger to the next in delicate patterns. They dance, faint but real, illuminating my hand in brief flashes.
A grim smile tugs at my lips as I watch the energy coil and dissipate. It's no Thu'um, no roar of power to split the sky, but it's mine. Magic and steel—if the shouts won't come, these will carry me forward. They'll forge my path, or they'll see me fall trying.
I lower my hand, the sparks fading into nothing as the morning light filters through the canopy above. The air is cool against my skin as I take the first step down the trail. The forest stretches out ahead, vast and teeming with possibility.
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The sun crests higher into the sky as I walk, the shadows of the trees stretching thin along the winding dirt road. The cool morning air is giving way to the warmth of day, but the forest remains alive with the sound of rustling leaves and distant birdsong. Each step crunches softly beneath my boots, the rhythm of my journey steady, almost meditative.
It's easy to forget the danger here, surrounded by such beauty. Skyrim's wilderness feels wild, untamed, and so very alive. But the tension never leaves my shoulders, not for long. I keep one hand near the hilt of my sword, my eyes flicking to the shadows in the undergrowth.
A sound pulls me from my thoughts—a low, distant roar. Not wolves this time. Something heavier. A bear, perhaps. The idea makes me tighten my grip on my sword. I've seen what a bear can do to a man, and I'd rather not test this body's strength against one quite yet.
The forest grows quieter as I put distance between myself and the sound, though the unease lingers. Skyrim is beautiful, yes, but it's a beauty edged with teeth.
The road winds ahead, sunlight streaming through the trees in golden beams. My mind drifts, turning over what little I know about this world, comparing it to the game I once played. So far, much of it feels the same—the wilds, the ruins, the danger lurking at every turn. But there's a depth here, a weight to the air that makes it all feel more real.
I push the thought aside, focusing instead on the rhythm of my steps and the feel of the blade at my hip. The journey isn't just about survival—it's about learning. About adapting. Every moment on this road teaches me something new, whether I realize it or not.
And then I hear it.
A faint noise on the wind, barely more than a whisper. A melody, carried by the breeze, rising and falling like the breath of the forest itself. I stop, tilting my head to listen. The sound is soft but unmistakable—a voice, singing.
Curiosity tugs at me, and I adjust the pack on my shoulders, stepping off the path to follow the sound.
The melody grows clearer as I move, weaving through the trees like a thread leading me forward. My steps quicken, the voice drawing me in, its words becoming distinct: "We drink to our youth, to days come and gone…"
The melody grows louder as I push through the undergrowth, each step crunching softly on the forest floor. The voice is clearer now—a smooth, mournful tenor carrying words I recognize:
"We drink to our youth, to days come and gone, for the age of oppression is now nearly done."
The song wraps around me, a reminder of nights spent playing Skyrim in my old world. My steps slow as I approach, my eyes scanning the road ahead. A lone figure comes into view, seated on a moss-covered boulder by the roadside.
The bard is young, perhaps in his early twenties, with hair the color of wheat tied back in a loose knot. A lute rests across his lap, his fingers plucking the strings with an easy grace. He wears a simple traveling cloak, worn boots, and a faintl smile as he sings. The sunlight filters through the trees above, casting golden highlights on his face and the wood of his instrument.
I take in the scene, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders as he plays. For a moment, I hesitate. He doesn't look dangerous—just a man traveling alone, his music his only weapon. But this is Skyrim, and he could easily be deadly beyond what his looks suggest. My hand brushes the hilt of my sword as I step closer.
His song falters slightly when he spots me, but his fingers don't stop. His sharp, sky-blue eyes meet mine, studying me with the careful attention of someone who knows the road can bring friend or foe. I keep my movements slow, nonthreatening, but I make no effort to hide the sword at my side.
As his song fades, I nod toward him. "Well played."
He grins, his fingers still plucking softly at the lute. "Thank you, friend. A bit of music makes the road shorter, don't you think?"
I step closer, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly. "Sometimes. Depends on the song."
His grin widens, and he sets the lute down gently, the strings quieting. "Then I hope mine was worth the steps it brought you."
I glance down at the boulder he's perched on, my fingers still brushing the hilt of my sword. "Mind if I sit? The roads are long and a friendly ear would be welcome?"
He gestures to the open space beside him with an easy smile, his hand briefly brushing the lute. "Be my guest. The road is long, but shortened when shared, eh?"
I ease myself down onto the boulder, careful to keep my sword within reach. Up close, the bard looks younger than I'd expected—his face fresh and free of scars, though his sharp eyes suggest he isn't naive at least. The lute rests against his knee, its polished wood catching the sunlight as he strums a soft, absent tune.
"Olfrid," he says, offering a hand. "Traveling bard, heading south to Falkreath. Plenty of heavy hearts there in need of a good song."
I take his hand briefly, noting the calluses along his fingertips from years of practice. "Melkorn," I reply. "Just another traveler."
"Well, Melkorn," he says, leaning back with a grin, "you've got the look of someone with an ear for music—or, at least, a bit of curiosity. Let me guess, you heard the song and couldn't resist?"
"You could say that," I admit, resting my hands loosely on my knees. "Though I don't think 'curiosity' is much of a survival trait on these roads."
He laughs at that, the sound warm and easy. "True enough. But sometimes a good song is worth the risk, don't you think?"
"Depends on the song." My tone is wry, but his grin doesn't falter.
"You wound me, friend." He plucks a playful chord on the lute, shaking his head dramatically. "But I suppose it's fair. I've heard a lot worse songs than mine on the road."
His fingers slow, and his voice softens. "Truth be told, I'm heading to Falkreath for more than just singing. Lot of sorrow down there. Loss. And sorrow is fertile ground for stories."
I nod, the name Falkreath tugging at my memory. A hold known for its massive graveyard, the town steeped in shadows. For a moment, my thoughts flicker elsewhere, unbidden—a stone chamber buried beneath Dimhollow, cold and dark. Serana's frozen form flashes in my mind, her prison sealed with magic and time.
I shove the thought aside before it takes hold, focusing on Olfrid's words instead.
"Falkreath has its share of loss, I'm sure," I say, keeping my voice steady. "But what's drawing you south instead of north to the bigger cities?"
"Whiterun?" He shrugs, strumming softly. "I've spent enough time there. Jarl Balgruuf's court is lively, and the merchants are generous, but Falkreath… well, it has a quiet sort of beauty. And the people there, they feel more… real. They don't put on airs, you know?"
I nod slowly, taking that in. The Falkreath I remember from the game had always been somber but grounded, its people shaped by the shadow of death that loomed over the town.
"And the roads?" I ask, feigning casual interest. "Anything I should keep an eye out for?"
Olfrid's fingers still on the lute, his expression tightening for a brief moment before he sighs. "Bandits, mostly. I've seen their camps popping up closer to the main roads lately—desperate types, barely organized but dangerous enough if you're caught off guard."
He pauses, his gaze flicking to the trees. "And animals, of course, but that's nothing new. Just the usual perils of Skyrim, I suppose."
"And the unusual?" The question slips out before I can stop it, though I keep my tone light.
His smile returns, though it's tinged with skepticism. "What are you hoping for, Melkorn? Witches in the woods? Daedra wandering the roads?"
I shrug, leaning back. "A man can hope."
"Well, you're braver than I am," he says, chuckling. "I'll stick to the kind of stories that stay in books, thanks."
Olfrid leans back slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward as he plucks a few tentative notes on his lute. "A song for the road, then," he says, his voice steady but with a flicker of anticipation. "One of my favorites. It's about Sovngarde—the hall of heroes. A place where Nord warriors feast and fight forever."
I nod, my interest piqued. Sovngarde. It reminds me of Valhalla—the eternal hall of Odin's chosen warriors. The connection sends a ripple through me, a familiar, almost nostalgic sensation. I don't interrupt him, though. I want to hear this.
The bard's fingers dance across the strings, and the melody begins to build. His voice rises, strong and clear, carrying the weight of the song as it fills the air:
"When the mead halls ring with songs of the brave,
When the shield-wall holds at the coldest grave,
Sovngarde calls, the feast fires burn,
For the honored dead, who shall not return."
The words strike a chord deep inside me, and for a moment, the forest seems to fade. I see a great hall lit by roaring flames, its walls lined with shields and banners. Warriors feast and laugh, their weapons at their sides, ready for the next battle. The imagery feels so vivid, it is so familiar, that it captures me fully.
Olfrid continues, his voice steady and unwavering:
"Through storm and frost, through axe and blade,
The path to Sovngarde is forged and laid.
No fear of death, no sorrow's cry,
For in Sovngarde, the bold never die."
The song crescendos, the rhythm picking up as his fingers move faster over the strings. The lute hums with energy, and his voice carries the kind of reverence that only a believer could summon for their afterlife.
As he reaches the final verse, he leans forward slightly, the melody dipping into a softer, almost somber tone:
"So raise your horn, to the blood-stained past,
To the tales of old, and the shadows cast.
Sovngarde calls, the fires ignite,
For the honored dead, in endless night."
The last note lingers in the air, the echo of his voice carried away by the breeze. I sit silently for a moment, letting the weight of the song settle over me.
"Good song," I say finally, pulling a septim from the pouch on my belt and tossing it to him.
Olfrid catches the coin with a practiced hand, his smile genuine. "Thank you, friend. Always good to know my music's appreciated." He tucks the septim into his pouch, his fingers idly brushing the strings of the lute.
I glance at him, my thoughts still lingering on the imagery of Vallhalla that song had wrestled forth. "A hall of heroes," I murmur longingly. "Fighting, feasting… eternal glory. I can see why the Nords revere it."
He chuckles lightly. "Not just Nords, friend. Sovngarde calls to all who earn their place. Nord or not, a brave soul is always welcome there."
The bard strums a few more chords, a lighter melody this time, as I rise from the boulder, adjusting the straps of my pack as Olfrid leans back, letting his lute rest gently against his knee. The song still echoes faintly in my mind, a reminder of Sovngarde's call, but the road ahead waits for no one.
"Safe travels, friend," Olfrid says, his voice light but with a note of sincerity. "Keep your blade ready. The Shadow Hounds have been stirred up recently."
I pause mid-step, glancing back at him. "Shadow Hounds?"
Olfrid chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Ah, of course. I forget when the form yet sits before me. Dunmer, you likely don't know the clans of Skyrim's bandits, do you?"
I narrow my eyes slightly, tilting my head. "I know of bandits, but clans?"
"Aye, clans," he replies, tapping a finger on the neck of his lute. "The Shadow Hounds are one of the more… disorganized groups, but they're thick as skeevers near places like Halted Stream Camp or Valtheim Towers. Scrappy, desperate, but dangerous in numbers."
"Led by someone?" I ask
"Aye, Darrek Stoneblade," he says with a wry smile. "An ex-mercenary who's turned to less honorable work. They've been bolder lately—too many travelers talking of ambushes near Whiterun's roads."
I nod slowly, filing the information away. "Good to know. Thanks for the warning."
He waves a hand dismissively, strumming a light chord. "Just keep your eyes sharp, and you'll do fine. On to Falkreath for me though"
"Good luck with that," I say, stepping onto the road again. "And thanks for the song."
Olfrid grins, his tone lightening again. "And thank you for the septim. May your road be less troublesome than mine."
I nod once and turn, his voice following me one last time. "And watch out for the wolves! They're less welcoming than I am!"
The lute's fading melody drifts into the forest behind me, but my thoughts linger on his words. Bandits weren't organized in the game—not like this. Clans with leaders, strategies, and territory… it makes them deadlier. More troublesome than the ragtag forts I remember.
A slow smile spreads across my face as my hand brushes the hilt of my sword as I press onward.
-MK-
-MK-
-MK-
The sun crests over the forest, the golden light of morning slowly giving way to the harsher glare of midday. The road stretches ahead in winding curves, flanked by dense trees that sway lazily in the light breeze. I keep walking, each step measured, my boots crunching against dirt and scattered leaves.
It should be beautiful, this wilderness—alive with birdsong, the scent of pine, and the soft rustle of branches. But today, it feels muted, dulled by the storm brewing in my chest.
The Thu'um. Damn it.
The word echoes in my mind, carrying the sting of failure. I've spent hours upon hours trying to call it forth, trying to force it to answer me. But no matter how I focus, no matter how loudly or softly I speak, the air remains still.
It doesn't make sense. The Dragonborn is supposed to wield the Thu'um instinctively, aren't they? So why is it silent for me?
The frustration simmers beneath my skin, tightening my jaw and knotting my shoulders. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm not the Dragonborn at all. The thought claws at me again, sharp and unwelcome.
I shove it aside, but my mood doesn't improve. Each step feels heavier, my breath shorter, my hand twitching toward the hilt of my sword out of habit. The forest's beauty, its life—it all feels like a taunt. As if the world itself is mocking my inability to grasp the power I'm meant to wield.
The road ahead bends sharply to the left, and I sigh, adjusting the weight of my pack. Another long day of walking, another night of frustration to come.
Then I hear it.
Voices. Light and lilting, carried by the breeze. The rhythmic creak of wheels accompanies them, along with the faint clinking of metal.
I stop, my hand instinctively brushing the hilt of my sword as I peer ahead. Around the bend, the source of the sound comes into view: a line of wagons, their canvas covers stretched tight over heavy loads. Khajiit merchants.
The lead figure—a tall ginger Khajiit in a flowing red-and-gold coat—raises a hand in greeting, his voice warm and inviting even from a distance. "Ah, traveler! J'zahari has wares if you have coin!"
For a moment, I just stare, my foul mood cracking like thin ice. The sight is almost surreal: a lively caravan in the middle of Skyrim's untamed wilderness. The merchants move with practiced ease, their pack animals plodding along obediently, their guards scanning the treeline with sharp, calculating eyes.
A soft huff escapes me—almost a laugh. I hadn't realized how badly I needed a distraction.
My steps quicken, and I let the faint trace of a smile tug at my lips as I approach the caravan.
The Khajiit leader, J'zahari, steps forward with an elegant bow, his red-and-gold coat catching the sunlight. His golden eyes meet mine, sharp and calculating almost predatory. The way he moves—it's smooth, like quicksilver, dangerous—reminds me of panthers I'd seen in the zoo back in my old life.
It takes everything I have not to stare. They're walking, talking cats. Real, actual cats that stand on two legs and speak in fluid, rolling tones. The absurdity of it hits me harder than I expected. For the briefest moment, I imagine pulling out a laser pointer to see if his eyes would track it. The thought is so ridiculous I almost snort, but I shove it down.
J'zahari spreads his arms, his grin revealing sharp, white teeth. "Come closer, friend," he says smoothly, his voice warm and inviting. "J'zahari promises you will find no finer wares in all of Skyrim. Surely there is something here to lift your spirit?"
I keep my face neutral, letting none of my unease show as I approach. Up close, the caravan is an explosion of color and texture. The wagons are piled high with bundles of goods—spices tied in neat bundles, shimmering fabrics, gleaming glass bottles filled with potions, and weapons wrapped in oiled leather.
"Quite the collection," I say evenly, masking my surprise.
J'zahari's grin widens, his whiskers twitching in delight. "Ah, you have an eye for quality! Good, good. J'zahari and his kin travel far to gather treasures—some practical, some beautiful, but all worthy of a discerning buyer like yourself."
His smooth tone is disarming, and I find myself relaxing slightly, though I can't shake the awareness of how alien this all feels. My gaze flickers to one of the Khajiit guards—a lithe figure leaning casually against a spear, their tail swaying lazily behind them. Their movements are impossibly graceful, deliberate in a way that keeps my hand near the hilt of my sword out of habit.
"You don't trust the roads much, do you?" I ask, gesturing toward the guard.
J'zahari chuckles, a low, velvety sound that matches his movements. "Trust the roads? No, no. Skyrim's wilderness is as unpredictable as the sands of Elsweyr. Bandits, wolves, even worse things—they all hunger for the unwary. But J'zahari is clever, and cleverness travels with friends."
He steps closer to the wagon, gesturing at the wares with a flourish. "But enough of such grim talk! Surely you have come to browse, yes? Tell me, friend, what is it you seek? Food? Weapons? Perhaps something… special?"
I hesitate briefly before speaking. "Books," I say. "Do you have any? On magic, maybe?"
J'zahari's ears flick slightly, his expression brightening. But there's a flicker of regret as he raises a finger. "Ah, J'zahari did carry such a tome, yes. A fine collection of novice spells. But, alas, it was sold less than two days ago."
"Of course," I mutter ruefully, shaking my head slightly. But J'zahari doesn't let the mood linger. He waves a paw dismissively, his grin widening as he steps back, his voice smooth and inviting once again.
"Ah, but don't look so glum, my friend," he says. "Allow J'zahari to show you the wares, so you may see if anything catches the eye. There is much to see."
He gestures at the nearby wagons with a flourish, and I follow him, curious despite myself.
J'zahari steps to the nearest wagon, pulling back the canvas cover with a practiced flourish. "Come, friend," he says, his voice smooth and inviting. "Here, you will find treasures both practical and rare. J'zahari promises there is something for every taste."
The wagon is packed with an eclectic assortment of goods, neatly arranged in compartments. My eyes scan over bundles of dried meat, coils of rope, jars of spices, bolts of cloth, and gleaming bottles filled with unknown liquids. Everything has its place, the organization meticulous.
"What catches your eye, friend?" J'zahari asks, his golden gaze flicking to me. His tail flicks lazily behind him, his movements impossibly smooth.
"Let's start small," I say, gesturing to the jars. "What are those?"
"Ah, spices!" he exclaims, lifting one of the containers. "A taste of Elsweyr, yes? Cinnamon, cardamom, saffron… rare treasures in Skyrim's cold lands. This one, a pouch of cinnamon, for only five silver coins."
I nod, filing the price away in my mind. Five silver for something such as spice- rare in skyrim I assume but cheap compared to weapons and armor. My gaze shifts to a bundle of dried meat. "And this?"
"Salted venison," J'zahari replies, holding up a strip. "Perfect for long journeys, yes? Two copper coins per strip. J'zahari will give you four for seven coppers. A fair deal, no?"
"Fair enough," I murmur, though I don't commit yet. My eyes wander further, catching on a small wrapped package nestled among the supplies. "And that?"
"A delight from Elsweyr," he says with a grin, plucking the package from the wagon. He unwraps it carefully, revealing a small, amber-colored candy. "Moon honey, spun and hardened. Sweet, with just a hint of spice. For you, friend, three copper coins for one piece—or ten for nine coppers."
The candy glints in the sunlight, and I feel a faint tug of interest. "Practical and enjoyable," I mutter, smirking slightly. "You've got a good spread here."
J'zahari bows slightly, his grin widening. "J'zahari thanks you. But wait—there is more to see! Weapons, tools, perhaps a potion to keep you breathing when the wolves grow too bold?"
J'zahari places the small candy back in its spot, his sharp golden eyes flicking to my face, lingering just a moment longer. His grin curves slightly, as if some thought has amused him.
"You wear armor and carry a blade," he says, gesturing lightly toward my gear, "yet you ask about books and magic. Perhaps this one misjudged you, yes? There is more scholar in you than warrior, it seems."
I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. "It pays to know as much as possible."
"Wise words," J'zahari replies with an approving nod. His tail flicks behind him as he gestures toward a smaller section of the wagon. "Come, then. J'zahari thinks you may enjoy this. Stories, knowledge… even power, if you know where to look."
My gaze briefly flicks to the weapons displayed further down the wagon—a finely crafted dagger gleaming in the sunlight, an axe with intricate carvings along its head. My hand itches at the sight, the longing tugging at me like an old habit. But I know better. I don't have the coin for weapons.
I step toward the books instead, forcing my focus to shift. Stacked neatly in the corner, their leather spines worn but sturdy, they call to me in a different way. For knowledge is power.
J'zahari steps aside with a graceful sweep of his arm, his golden eyes glinting with pride. "Here, my friend," he says, gesturing toward the stack of leather-bound tomes. "The treasures of Tamriel, written by quills both wise and bold. Stories of heroes, histories of empires, and secrets waiting to be uncovered."
I step closer, my gaze falling on the neat stack of books nestled in the corner of the wagon. Their bindings, worn but sturdy, carry the marks of travel—scratches, faint stains, the unmistakable smell of parchment and leather. The sight is both comforting and compelling, drawing me in with promise of knowledge.
J'zahari kneels and pulls out the first book with a delicate touch, handling it like a priceless artifact. "This," he begins, holding it up, "is The Exodus. A tale of perseverance, pain, and pride. It chronicles the journey of your people, the Dunmer, as they fled Morrowind after the fall of the Tribunal. A heavy burden to bear, yes? Not that you need J'zahari to tell you."
He places it aside and reaches for another, his tail flicking behind him in smooth rhythm. "And this one—The True Noble's Code. A guide to the traditions and values of your peoples nobility. Honor, duty, and cunning, all written in sharp words for sharp minds."
The next book he picks up is smaller, its cover faded but intact. "For those who wish to understand the past," he says, "there is A Brief History of the Empire, Volume One. A wise traveler knows the power of the empire, yes? It's tales are worth knowing."
My hand brushes the edge of one book as he continues, and I feel the weight of the collection growing, each title tempting me. J'zahari lifts another tome, this one wrapped with a worn ribbon. "Ah, Nerevar at Red Mountain. A tale of myth and history intertwined. The story of your hero, Lord Nerevar, and his deeds at Red Mountain."
He grins as he gently lays it back among the stack. "And for the pious, there is The Anticipations. A book of faith. Azura, Mephala, Boethiah—the Good Daedra who guide your people."
Each title feels like a key to deeper understanding- and survival. The Khajiit's voice lowers, as if sharing a secret. "If spirits are more to your liking, there is Ancestors and the Beyond. A reverent text on the bond between the living and the dead. A guide to the soul of all people."
The weight of it all settles in my chest as I look over the array. These aren't just stories—they're pieces of history, tools to understand the world I now find myself in.
J'zahari's tail swishes once more, a small smile playing on his lips as he looks at me. "J'zahari sees you are a seeker of knowledge, yes? Tell me, my friend. What speaks to you most?"
I take a deep breath, my hand hovering over the spines. I want all of them if I am to be honest with myself.
My hand hovers over the stack of books, each title a silent promise. I let my fingers rest on the first that catches my eye: The Exodus. The weight of the title alone stirs something deep inside me. If I'm to navigate this world as a Dunmer, I need to know the stories that shaped them -us- our pain, our pride, our strength.
I lift it carefully, turning it over in my hands. The cover is plain but sturdy, its corners slightly frayed from age. My grip tightens briefly as I picture the lives etched within its pages, the echoes of ancestors whose blood now courses through me.
J'zahari watches me with a flick of his tail. "A fine choice, my friend," he says, his voice even. "One of perseverance and fire."
I give him a brief nod, not letting his words linger, and set the book back onto the stack for now. My gaze shifts to the next title, one that gleams faintly in the sunlight: The True Noble's Code. My lips press into a thin line as I reach for it. If I'm to survive and thrive, I need to understand the values and traditions that shape my supposed people. What does it mean to walk as one of them? On what do they place value? What do they see as honor?
"This one," I murmur, brushing a thumb over the worn gold lettering.
J'zahari tilts his head slightly, his sharp eyes catching mine for a moment, but he says nothing.
I place it back beside The Exodus and move on, scanning the stack until my eyes settle on A Brief History of the Empire, Volume One. My reasoning here is different. It isn't about my new identity; it's about power. You must understand an enemy if you are to defeat it.
I pick it up, its spine sturdy and well-used, the scent of old parchment drifting up. "Knowledge of the empire," I think, setting it alongside the others. "And the history it carries."
The rest of the books tempt me—The Anticipations, Ancestors and the Beyond, Nerevar at Red Mountain—but my coin and pack can only carry so much. I force myself to look away, committing their titles to memory for another time.
J'zahari's golden eyes gleam as he watches my choices, his tail curling slightly behind him. "You have a keen eye, friend," he says with a subtle grin. "These books carry wisdom worth every coin. Shall we discuss their price?"
I straighten, meeting his gaze. "Let's."
The books remain on the stack as J'zahari gestures me toward the front of the wagon. His grin sharpens slightly, a merchant's grin. "J'zahari is a fair trader," he says smoothly. "But even fairness has its costs. Let us see if your purse is as wise as your choices."
J'zahari folds his arms over his chest, his tail flicking lazily as he surveys the stack of books I've chosen. His grin widens, sharp and knowing. "Three fine tomes, my friend. Knowledge is a rare treasure, and rare treasures have a price, yes?"
He gestures to the books with an exaggerated flourish, his golden eyes gleaming. "For these: The Exodus, The True Noble's Code, and A Brief History of the Empire, Volume One—J'zahari asks a modest nine septims."
I barely manage to keep my face neutral, but inside, I feel a familiar twinge of frustration. Nine septims. Enough to nearly empty the pouch Gerdur gave me and leave me scraping by with what's left from Helgen. But the books aren't optional; they're essential.
J'zahari watches me closely, his grin unwavering. "A fair price, yes?"
I let my gaze drift for a moment, feigning nonchalance, but my thoughts are already calculating. Nine septims for- my eyes land on a whetstone—something I bitterly realize I should've bought back in Riverwood— near the edge of the wagon. "How much for that?" I ask, my tone even.
J'zahari follows my gaze and nods knowingly. "Ah, an excellent choice. A dull blade is a dangerous blade. The whetstone is yours for three silver coins."
"And the candy?" I ask, gesturing to the small cloth bag. The golden-hued sweets glint in the sunlight, a tempting indulgence.
J'zahari chuckles, a low, velvety sound. "A taste of Elsweyr, yes? Sweetness to brighten your journey. Five copper coins."
I take a deep breath, doing the math in my head. The books, the whetstone, the candy—every coin spent now leaves me less prepared for the next stretch of road. But the thought of going without even one of these things-even the candy-grates against me.
His tail flicks again as he waits, his sharp grin fixed. "Well, friend? Shall we settle this trade?"
I glance down at the books, the whetstone, and the candy, my mind already weighing the cost against what's left in my pouch. "Not for nine,that's steep for a traveler with little coin to spare." I say finally, meeting his gaze. "Let's talk."
His grin widens, his tail swishing lazily. "Steep? No, no. J'zahari is fair. Knowledge is priceless, yes? But for you, it is only nine septims. A bargain."
I gesture to the books stacked neatly beside him. "Seven," I counter, keeping my tone measured. "They're worth it, but they'll leave me with next to nothing."
J'zahari strokes his chin, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing my words. His tail flicks sharply once before he speaks again. "Seven, you say? Hmm. J'zahari is tempted, yes, but generosity must be tempered with wisdom."
He glances toward the whetstone and the candy. "Perhaps there is a better trade. Eight septims for the books, and I will include the whetstone to keep your blade true, yes? And a small taste of Elsweyr to sweeten the road. Surely, this is fair?"
I hesitate, my hand brushing against the pouch at my side. The thought of spending so much grates against me, but the whetstone—an essential I'd overlooked—and the candy make the offer harder to refuse.
"Eight septims," I say finally, my voice firm. "And we have a deal."
I pull open the pouch at my side, the coins inside clinking softly. I can feel J'zahari's golden eyes fixed on my movements, his grin never wavering. Carefully, I count out eight septims into my palm, their worn edges cool against my skin.
I hold them out to him, his grin grows wider, showing his sharp teeth and he accepts them with an elegant sweep of his hand, the coins vanishing into the folds of his coat. "Ah, a fair trade," he purrs, his tone smooth and satisfied. "Wisdom, steel, and sweetness—all tools for a clever traveler."
He turns to the wagon and begins wrapping the books. With practiced hands, he folds them in a piece of sturdy cloth, securing the bundle with twine. The whetstone follows, slipped carefully into its own small pouch, and finally, the bag of candy—its faint golden hue catching the sunlight—rests on top of the stack.
He steps forward and places the items gently into my pack, his movements deliberate and precise. As he straightens, he tilts his head slightly, his grin still sharp. "There," he says, brushing his hands together. "The road is harsh, my friend, but you are now better equipped to walk it."
I sling the pack over my shoulder, its weight heavier now but reassuring. Knowledge, tools, and a little indulgence, I think. A fair price to pay.
J'zahari steps back, his gaze lingering for a moment before he bows slightly. "May the sands guide your steps, my friend," he says warmly. "And should you find yourself near again, J'zahari will always have wares to tempt you."
I nod, adjusting the strap of my pack. "I'll keep that in mind."
As I turn away, the faint scent of spices and parchment drifts from my pack. The weight of my remaining coins presses against my side—only three septims left now. The thought sends a flicker of bitterness through me, but I let it pass.
"The road won't forgive mistakes," I remind myself, thinking of the whetstone. "I can't afford to overlook essentials again."
The caravan fades into the distance as I continue onward, the books and supplies settling into their place on my back. With each step, the road stretches ahead, harsh and unyielding. But for the first time in a while, I feel prepared to meet it.
The road stretches on as the afternoon wanes, the shadows of the trees growing longer with each passing hour. The distant murmur of the Khajiit caravan fades behind me, replaced by the rhythmic crunch of my boots on the dirt and the occasional rustle of the wind.
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the uneven terrain. I adjusted my pack and scanned the area ahead. The road had been quiet for hours, but the thought of continuing through the night didn't sit well. Exhaustion can kill just as easily as a blade.
Ahead, a small grove of trees clustered near a rocky outcrop caught my eye. It wasn't perfect, but it would do. I made my way over, my boots crunching softly against the dirt as I inspected the space. No tracks, no signs of recent use—just the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze and the distant chirp of crickets.
Setting my pack down with a grunt, I began gathering dry branches and twigs for the fire. It wasn't long before I had a modest flame crackling in the growing darkness. The warmth seeped into my skin, chasing away the cool bite of the evening air.
From my pack, I pulled out a strip of salted meat and some hardtack, chewing thoughtfully as the firelight danced around me. The meal was bland, but it served its purpose, filling the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.
The night deepened, stars beginning to emerge in the vast Skyrim sky. I leaned back against one of the larger rocks, letting the firelight flicker across my face as my thoughts drifted. The books in my pack called to me, but they would wait a while longer.
The fire crackled softly, its rhythm steady, almost calming. But I couldn't fully relax. The road was a dangerous place, and though the grove felt secure enough, my hand lingered near the hilt of my sword as I watched the shadows dance.
The gladius hummed faintly as I drew it from its scabbard, the firelight catching on its edge. The weight felt familiar now—a natural extension of my arm. Practice wasn't just routine anymore; it was ritual. The road demanded readiness, and readiness demanded discipline.
I took a measured breath and began. My movements were slow at first, deliberate. The blade carved through the cool night air as I moved through the forms: high guard to low, diagonal slash to thrust. Each step was precise, each swing controlled. The grove around me seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to the flicker of the fire and the rhythm of my movements.
A low, fluid arc brought the blade down, and I pivoted into a defensive stance. The gladius was shorter than I'd like. An arming sword would suit me better, I thought bitterly, my eyes narrowing as I adjusted my grip. I should've bartered with J'zahari or Alvor. Still, it's good steel, and it will serve until I can have something forged to my needs. Enchanted, if I can afford it.
The blade came up again, catching the firelight as I moved into a series of different thrusts. Sweat prickled at my brow despite the cool evening air, my muscles warming as the routine began to flow.
I stepped back, lowering the blade. My breathing steadied quickly, the ache in my arms fading almost as soon as it began. I'd grown stronger—more attuned to this body's lithe power. Even so, the gladius felt… temporary. It was not a weapon to get attached to.
Sliding the blade back into its sheath, I glanced at the fire, its light steady and warm against the encroaching darkness. My hand lingered on the hilt for a moment longer before letting go. The night wasn't over, and the world didn't forgive complacency.
I stepped closer to the fire, holding out my hand. Sparks flickered faintly at my fingertips, their crackle a whisper of potential. Magic was a different kind of blade—one I hadn't yet mastered, but one I was determined to wield.
The fire burned steadily as I sat down cross-legged beside it, my hand extended toward the flickering flames. Sparks flickered at my fingertips, faint and erratic at first, like fireflies caught in the dark. Magic wasn't something I could wield as naturally as my sword—not yet. It required patience and focus, forces that didn't come as easily when the body ached and exhaustion tugged at the edges of my mind.
I took a steadying breath and tried again. Slowly, the sparks returned, crackling softly as they danced between my fingers. They held longer this time, the energy brighter and more vibrant. A faint grin tugged at my lips—progress, however small, was still progress.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as I worked, pulling the energy forward, holding it steady, and letting it dissipate before starting again. The strain was there, but manageable—a dull, persistent ache somewhere deep inside me. It wasn't just my body that tired; I could feel the well of magicka within me growing shallow, like a candle burning low.
Still, I pressed on.
Finally, after what felt like the hundredth attempt, the sparks didn't fade. They grew instead, arcing steadily in my palm like a coiled snake of light. The hum of energy filled the quiet night, its crackle competing with the soft murmurs of the fire. My hand tingled from the effort, but I held it, staring at the glow with something between awe and satisfaction.
But satisfaction was fleeting. My grip on the energy felt tenuous, like holding water in cupped hands. I needed more than control; I needed command.
I gritted my teeth and pushed, willing the lightning to leap from my hand. For a brief moment, it obeyed—a thin arc shooting forward before snapping back like a whip and the magic surges, violent and raw, through my hand, crackling with unbearable heat. The backlash is immediate—like a thousand needles embedding themselves in my arm, searing through muscle and bone.
I slumped back against the rock behind me, cradling my hand as the tingling subsided. The firelight danced in the edges of my vision, warm and steady in contrast to the volatile energy I struggled to master. Magic was getting easier—at least at this level—but it was still draining. I could feel my magicka deepening, growing more resilient with each practice, but I wasn't there yet.
After a long moment, I reached for my pack and pulled it toward me. The weight of the books inside felt heavier than before, though it was likely just my exhaustion. My hand brushed over the wrapped tomes before I pulled out The True Noble's Code.
I stared at the worn cover, letting my fingers trail over its gold-embossed lettering. If I was going to survive here, I needed more than magic and steel. I needed to blend in, to pass as someone who belonged. For all the power I sought, none of it would matter if I couldn't move through this world unnoticed until I was ready to rise.
The crackle of the fire softened as I opened the book, its pages smelling faintly of old parchment. The words stared back at me like a challenge, one I couldn't afford to ignore.
As I turned the pages, the fire burned low, its warmth steady as the night deepened. Tomorrow would bring more trials, but for now, the quiet scratch of parchment and the steady light of the fire were enough.
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The morning broke softly, the sunlight filtering through the treetops in gentle, golden streams. The fire from the night before was nothing but a faint wisp of smoke curling into the crisp air. My pack rested firmly on my shoulders, its weight a constant reminder of what I carried—both physically and otherwise.
The road stretched ahead, winding gently through the vast, untamed beauty of Skyrim. My boots crunched against the dirt as I walked, the rhythmic sound grounding me in the moment. The chill of the air bit at my skin, but it was refreshing, a reminder of how alive this land felt.
Skyrim's wilderness unfolded around me, vibrant and vast. The towering pines swayed softly in the breeze, their needles catching the sunlight like shards of green glass. A stream babbled in the distance, its sound weaving into the gentle rustle of leaves. Overhead, birds sang their lilting songs, a melody that felt impossibly serene for a land as harsh as this.
I let my gaze wander, taking it all in—the way the sky stretched endlessly above, the mountains in the distance rising like silent, immovable sentinels. It was the kind of beauty that made you pause, the kind that left a mark.
For a moment, I allowed myself to marvel at it all. The wild, rugged majesty of Skyrim felt almost otherworldly in its splendor. It's not just a game anymore, I thought, a faint smile tugging at my lips. This is real. All of it.
But beneath that beauty, the dangers of the road still lingered, a quiet hum at the edges of my awareness. My hand drifted instinctively to the hilt of my sword as I pressed on, the weight of the blade a steady comfort.
The world around me was beautiful, yes—but it was also unforgiving.
-MD-
-MD-
-MD-
The arrow struck my breastplate with a sharp clang, sending a jarring vibration through my chest. My thoughts of Skyrim's beauty shattered in an instant as my instincts took over. I dropped low, my gladius flashing into my hand as my eyes darted to the treeline.
Where? The thought was immediate, adrenaline surging and sharpening every sense.
Ahead, three figures emerged from their hiding places, their movements deliberate and predatory. The first—a burly Nord in a gambeson—charged straight at me, a mace raised high, his expression twisted with aggression. Behind him, another man armed with a spear and clad in chainmail advanced more cautiously, his weapon held steady as he angled to flank me. On a ridge above, a third figure loomed, nocking another arrow.
The archer.
I moved instinctively, shifting to keep the mace-wielder between me and the other two. My grip tightened on the gladius as the gap between us closed. The world seemed to narrow, every sound—the crunch of boots on dirt, the distant creak of a bowstring—sinking into the rhythm of my breathing.
The mace-wielder's wild eyes locked onto me, and for a split second, I thought, Fuck, I wish I had a shield.
There was no time to dwell on the thought. The mace came down in a brutal arc, and I sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the impact. The spearman circled to my left, and I adjusted, stepping back and angling the mace-wielder between us again. The archer's arrow hissed through the air, a near miss that struck the dirt just feet away.
These weren't the disorganized bandits I remembered from the game. Their movements were coordinated, their intent clear: surround and kill. A smile I didn't even realize I had stretched across my face.
Let them try.
The mace-wielder roared, charging again. I shifted my stance, adrenaline surging as I braced for the impact, my mind already calculating my next move.
The mace-wielder closed the gap with a furious roar, his weapon swinging in a heavy, deliberate arc toward my side. I backstepped just out of range, the rush of air from the swing brushing past me. He stumbled slightly, the force of his missed attack throwing him off balance. Amatuer
I darted in, slashing low, aiming for his leg. The blade bit into the thick fabric of his gambeson, but it wasn't deep enough to cripple him. He roared in frustration, recovering quickly, the mace coming around again in a horizontal sweep.
I dropped low letting it pass over my helm. Before i could capitalize and thrust forward the spear snaked around forcing me to dart out and away
An arrow from the ridge whistled past, striking the ground near my feet. I shifted again, angling the mace-wielder's bulk between myself and the other two.
He swung again, an overhead strike this time, his face twisted with rage. The sheer force behind the swing made the move predictable. I stepped to the side, avoiding the blow with practiced ease.
Time to end this.
As the mace wielder stumbled, I surged forward. The opening was perfect—too perfect to waste. My gladius drove upward, piercing through the layers of gambeson and into the soft flesh beneath.
The mace-wielder let out a guttural gasp, his body going rigid as he dropped the weapon. His knees buckled, and I seized the moment. Grabbing his falling body, I turned it toward the ridge, using him as a makeshift shield.
An arrow thudded into his back, the impact jarring me slightly but doing no harm. I adjusted my grip, dragging his body with me as I repositioned to face the spearman.
The chainmail-clad bandit hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he assessed me from behind his fallen comrade. I tossed the body aside, my bloodied gladius gleaming in the sunlight.
The spearman took a cautious step forward, his chainmail catching the light as he kept his weapon leveled at me. He wasn't charging recklessly like the mace-wielder had; he was measuring me, trying to keep the advantage of reach.
Smart. But not smart enough.
I moved to my left, circling slowly to keep the fallen mace-wielder between me and the archer. An arrow hissed past, striking the dirt just a few feet away. The spearman adjusted his stance, pivoting to keep the spear's tip trained on me.
My focus narrowed, the adrenaline sharpening every detail: the chainmail clinking softly as he shifted his weight, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the subtle tremor in his grip.
He's not as confident as he wants me to think.
I feinted to the right, watching as the spear's tip tracked my movement. When I darted left instead, the hesitation in his reaction was clear. He was too focused on the weapon, not the fighter. A novice, good.
An arrow thudded into the ground behind me, too close for comfort. I adjusted again, keeping the spearman between me and the ridge as I edged closer. My gladius felt steady in my hand, the familiar weight a comfort against the chaos around me.
I let him jab once, stepping back just enough to let the spear's point fall short. He overextended slightly, recovering quickly but leaving himself exposed for a heartbeat. That was all I needed.
I surged forward, slipping past the spear's tip in one fluid motion. The world seemed to slow as I stepped inside his guard, my free hand grabbing the shaft of the spear to control it. His eyes widened in panic as my gladius came up in a sharp arc.
The blade found its mark, slipping beneath his helm and into the soft flesh of his throat. Blood spurted as his body jerked violently, the spear clattering to the ground as he crumpled.
I stepped back, panting, the rush of the fight still coursing through me. My pulse thundered in my ears, the heat of the moment making everything else fade away.
Another arrow whistled past, and I turned my gaze to the ridge.
The archer nocked another arrow, movements precise and practiced. My grip on the gladius tightened as I prepared to charge. But then, as I looked closer, I hesitated.
A woman.
The thought caught me off guard, throwing me off balance for the first time in the fight.
Why did it matter? It shouldn't.
But it did. The realization flashed through me, uninvited and unwanted. She was a woman, and for just a heartbeat, the violence of it all felt wrong. There was no reason to hesitate—not in this world, not in this fight. But I did.
And then the arrow snapped free of the bow, and the world went back to its brutal, indifferent rhythm.
The pain came before the thought.
The shaft buried itself deep into my knee, the cold steel slicing through flesh and sinew, and the agony bloomed immediately, an overwhelming, searing fire that jolted through my leg. I couldn't keep my footing. My vision blurred as I collapsed to the ground, the sharp impact of my body hitting the dirt only slightly easing the pain. Blood pooled around me as the shock of the wound coursed through my body, my breath ragged.
No... no, this is not how it ends.
I gritted my teeth, struggling to keep my focus. I couldn't let this be it. My knee burned, but I refused to let that stop me.
I'm not fucking dying here.
I dragged myself to my hands, my left leg useless beneath me, the pain a fire in my chest and my knee. The magic surged inside me—raw, untapped power, a force I had only begun to understand—and I willed it into my palm. Sparks of lightning flared to life between my fingers, violent and hungry.
With a desperate roar, I hurled the energy forward, unwilling to let anything stand in my way.
The bolt shot toward the archer, her body locking up as the lightning struck her with brutal force. She didn't scream, her body rigid, frozen in place by the energy surging through her. The power slammed her back, and with one final twitch, she tumbled off the ridge, out of sight.
But the magic came at a price. My arm was seared with pain, my body recoiling from the backlash of the raw energy. The burning sensation spread like wildfire, as if my muscles were being torn apart from the inside.
I collapsed onto my back, gasping for air, my vision spinning. My knee burned with the deep, relentless ache of the wound. I tried to push myself up, but everything was fading—my strength, my sight, my control.
I had survived. Barely. But at what cost?
The world around me blurred into the dark edges of unconsciousness. The adrenaline that had carried me through the fight now faded, leaving me broken and exhausted as the blackness moved closer.
AN
See yaaaaaa