Whiterun rises ahead of us, its silhouette cutting against the horizon. The high wooden walls catch the fading light, and beyond them, the peak of Dragonsreach looms, its grandeur unmistakable even from this distance. After days of wilds, crypts, and battles, the sight of civilization feels good, like the promise of safety, of warmth.
The road beneath my boots is uneven, worn by countless travelers over the years. Each step sends a dull ache through my leg, though the healing magic I've used has dulled most of the pain. My pack pulls heavily on my shoulders, the weight of the Dragonstone and our newfound wealth dragging me down with every stride.
Beside me, Inigo walks in silence for once, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. His tail flicks occasionally, a sign of his restlessness—or maybe just his weariness. The Khajiit is a steady presence, one I've come to rely on more than I expected to.
As we near the gate, the guards straighten up, their casual slouches giving way to alertness. One of them steps forward, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. His face splits into a wide grin when he sees me.
"Well, if it isn't Blacksteel," he says, his voice carrying easily in the evening air. "You look like you went through Oblivion."
"I feel like it," I reply, forcing a tired smile.
The guard chuckles, glancing at Inigo with a mixture of curiosity and mild suspicion. "And what's this? You've got yourself a companion now?"
Inigo sniffs, his whiskers twitching as he replies smoothly, "This one is no ordinary companion. Inigo is a guide, an archer, and occasionally a philosopher." He tilts his head with a grin. "But mostly, This one is someone who does not wish to be questioned by every guard we meet."
The guard blinks, momentarily thrown off, then laughs. "Fair enough, cat. Welcome to Whiterun."
The gates creak open as we step inside. The familiar scent of the city wafts toward me—woodsmoke, fresh bread, and the faint tang of the forge. It's a stark contrast to the icy, death-laden air of the crypts we've just left behind. Whiterun. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe again.
As we step through the gates, Whiterun comes alive around us. The sounds of the marketplace hit first—merchants shouting their wares, the chatter of townsfolk, and the occasional clink of coin exchanging hands. It's chaotic, but it's familiar, and for a moment, it feels like the weight of the past few days eases.
The air is thick with the scent of fresh bread, roasted meats, and my stomach growls, a sharp reminder that we've spent the last three days on the road, surviving on hardtack and what we could hunt.
The market is alive with activity. A child darts past, laughing as she chases after a rolling hoop. A merchant's voice rises above the din, promising fresh produce from the fertile fields of the plains. Two guards stand watch near the entrance to the market, their hands resting idly on their weapons as they exchange quiet conversation.
The normalcy of it all feels jarring. Three days of travel, with nothing but the endless horizon and the quiet murmur of the wilds, had dulled my senses. To come back to this—laughter, life, warmth—feels almost wrong. I shake my head, trying to focus, but the weight of what we've been through clings stubbornly.
As we pass through the market, a vendor calls out to Inigo. "You there! Khajiit! Care to try some of the best mead in Skyrim?"
Inigo pauses, his ears perking up. "This one appreciates the offer," he says, his tone polite but firm. "But Inigo fears his pack is already full of essentials." He pats his satchel for emphasis.
The vendor frowns, muttering something under his breath that I don't quite catch, but the look he shoots Inigo is enough to sour my mood.
"Keep walking," I mutter, my voice low enough that only Inigo hears.
His whiskers twitch as he nods, his expression unreadable. "This one has been called worse, my friend. Let us focus on more pressing matters, yes?"
I grunt in agreement, forcing myself to let it go. The marketplace continues to buzz around us, a symphony of sounds and smells that I know I should appreciate, but my mind is still back in Riverwood, back in that crypt, back in the chaos we left behind.
We leave the marketplace behind, ascending the sloping streets of Whiterun. The lively chaos of the Plains District gives way to the quieter Wind District. The sounds of merchants hawking their goods fade, replaced by the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer and the occasional murmur of passing guards.
The climb is steep, and though my legs ache from days of travel, it feels like progress. Each step brings us closer to Dragonsreach, closer to rest—or so I hope, I'd prefer not to face Mirmulnir.
As we approach Jorrvaskr, the great hall of the Companions looms to our left. My gaze lingers there, and a faint smile pulls at the corner of my lips.
Two months. It's been over two months since I walked through those doors, since I became one of them. The Companions have become a second home in a way I hadn't expected. The camaraderie, the shared struggles, the bond of being part of something greater—it's hard not to feel drawn to it, even now when I have other matters to attend to.
My thoughts drift to Aela. Her red hair flashes through my mind like a streak of fire. The thought warms me, even now.
"Thinking of someone, my friend?" Inigo's voice cuts through my thoughts, his tone light and teasing.
I glance at him, catching the faint grin on his face. "Thinking of meat and mead, if you must know."
"And perhaps female distraction?" His grin widens.
I grunt, more amused than I let on. "Keep walking."
At the base of the final set of steps, we're met by two guards. One steps forward, his gaze landing on Inigo. "The Khajiit will need to leave his weapons here," he says, his tone firm.
Inigo sighs, his tail flicking in annoyance. "Ah, yes. Naked ghost Inigo tells you." He unbuckles his weapon belt, handing it over with exaggerated care. "Please, do not lose this one's bow. It has sentimental value."
The guard raises an eyebrow but says nothing, simply taking the weapons and stepping aside.
The heavy doors to Dragonsreach swing open with a groan, and warmth spills out like a welcome embrace. The hall is vast, its ceiling stretching high above like the ribs of some ancient beast. Thick wooden beams support the roof, their intricate carvings catching the flicker of torchlight. The fire pit in the center crackles and pops, sending up waves of heat that push back the lingering chill from the road.
Banners bearing the sigil of Whiterun—its mighty horse—hang proudly along the walls, their gold and purple hues glowing in the firelight. The hall is alive with quiet activity; attendants move swiftly between rooms, their footsteps muffled against the stone floor. Guards stand at attention near the far corners, their steel armor catching glimmers of light as their eyes scan the room.
For a moment, I simply stand there, letting the warmth seep into my bones. The smell of woodsmoke and roasted meat fills the air, mixing with the faint scent of aged stone. It's a comforting contrast to the icy crypt and cold winds and snow.
Inigo steps past me, his ears twitching as he takes it all in. "Ah," he says, his voice low but content. "This is more like it. Warmth, fire, and perhaps soon… food."
I glance at him, the corner of my mouth lifting in a faint grin. "You're quick to settle in."
"Quick, yes. Wise, also," he replies, already eyeing one of the long tables by the fire pit. Without waiting for an invitation, he strides over and drops into a chair with a theatrical sigh.
My eyes move to the far end of the hall, where Jarl Balgruuf sits on his throne, deep in conversation with Irileth. The dark-skinned Dunmer leaning in close, her arms crossed as she speaks in a low tone. Even from here, I can see the faint tension in her posture, the way her sharp gaze flicks to the hall's entrance every so often.
The Jarl listens intently, his chin resting on one hand, but his brow furrows slightly as she continues, there's a weight to his gaze that speaks of weariness.
"Something is brewing," I murmur to myself, my grip tightening on the greatsword I still carry.
The sound of boots against stone draws my attention as Farengar strides toward me, his long robes swaying slightly with each step. His face is a mixture of curiosity and something that might be concern, though it's quickly overshadowed by his usual air of detached fascination.
"You look like you've been to Oblivion and back," he says, tilting his head as he studies me. "Are you in one piece, or should I heal you?"
"I'm fine," I reply, waving off the concern. "Just tired."
Farengar's eyes flick to the greatsword in my hand, then to the pack slung over my shoulder. "And I trust you've brought me what I sent you for?"
Without a word, I unsling the pack and pull out the Dragonstone. Its runes glinting faintly in the firelight as I hold it out to him. Farengar's expression shifts instantly, his mild curiosity replaced with something more intense.
He takes the Dragonstone carefully, as though handling a priceless artifact, and holds it up to the light. His fingers trace the intricate carvings, his lips moving silently as he mutters to himself. "So this… yes, the script matches that… fascinating…"
I stand there, watching him with growing impatience as he continues to study the artifact, his focus entirely absorbed by it.
"You're welcome," I say dryly, breaking his trance.
Farengar blinks, glancing up at me as if he'd forgotten I was there. "Ah, yes, of course. Thank you for retrieving this. You've done well."
As he turns to leave, I shift the greatsword in my grip and hold it out. "Wait. I plan to order a new blade soon, and I was wondering—could you place this enchantment on it? It's powerful, and I could finally use an enchanted blade."
Farengar glances at the sword, his interest piqued for a moment before he waves his hand absently. The weapon jerks out of my grasp, floating in the air as though held by an invisible hand. He mutters something under his breath, and the greatsword drifts lazily across the hall, disappearing into his study on the far side.
"I'll look at it when I have time," he says without so much as glancing back.
"And the magic lessons you promised?" I press, folding my arms, eyes narrowing.
Farengar halts mid-step, turning his gaze back to me, mildly annoyed. "Yes, yes. Tomorrow, after you've had proper rest. Advanced magic requires a sharp mind and a body that isn't falling apart at the seams." His nose wrinkles slightly, and he smirks. "And perhaps a bath. You'll be a more attentive student without the stench of death clouding your focus."
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes, turning away as Farengar retreats toward his study, still muttering about the Dragonstone's significance.
Inigo, now seated comfortably at one of the long tables, raises an eyebrow at me as I approach. "That one does not seem like he enjoys conversation."
"Conversation isn't his specialty," I reply, sinking into the chair beside him. "But at least he keeps his word."
Inigo smirks faintly, his sharp teeth catching the light. "Perhaps. Still, this one prefers his words to be about food or warmth."
I chuckle quietly, letting myself relax for a moment. But the peace doesn't last long.
The low hum of Dragonsreach breaks with a sudden commotion, sharp and frantic. Shouting echoes through the hall, bouncing off the high ceilings. My head snaps toward the source of the noise near the entrance. Voices rise, desperate and urgent, cutting through the crackling warmth of the fire pit.
I'm already moving before I realize it. My heart quickens, not from fear, but from that creeping sense that something is wrong. Something out of place.
Ahead, I see the source of the chaos: a man struggling against two guards. His clothes are torn, his face streaked with soot and sweat. His arms flail as he tries to push past them, his voice cracking as he shouts, "You don't understand! I must see the Jarl!"
"Calm yourself," one of the guards barks, tightening his grip. "You'll see him when you stop flailing like a slaughterfish!"
"Calm? How can I calm down when it's out there? It's going to burn everything!" the man screams, his wild eyes darting around the hall as though searching for someone to listen.
I slow my steps, my gut twisting. My mind races, connecting dots I don't want to believe. Dragon attack. No. That shouldn't be happening—not yet. My chest tightens, and I glance at Farengar who had stepped up beside me, his usual detached curiosity replaced by sharp focus.
"What the hell is going on?" I murmur, more to myself than anyone else.
The shouting grows louder, the man's panic infectious. I force my feet to keep moving, even as thoughts churn in my head. Is it Alduin? No, that doesn't fit—Alduin wouldn't bother with Riverwood, not like this. Could it be Mirmulnir? But he shouldn't appear until…
"Enough!" Jarl Balgruuf's voice cuts through the chaos, strong and commanding.
The guards hesitate, their grips loosening. The man stumbles forward, dropping to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "My Jarl," he cries, desperation thick in his voice. "You must listen to me. It's a dragon! A dragon has destroyed Riverwood!"
The words hit me like a hammer to the chest. Dragon. Riverwood. My thoughts blur. That's not supposed to happen. I take a step forward instinctively, then stop myself.
The Jarl descends the steps of his throne, his expression hard. "Let him speak," he commands.
The guards step back as the man rises shakily to his feet. His hands tremble, and his voice quivers with the weight of his words. "It came from the mountains… its wings—huge, like a stormcloud. It swooped down and…" His voice falters, cracking under the weight of the memory. "Flames. Death. The village… it's gone. You must help us. Please."
Gone. The word pricks at me. My thoughts askew—Alvor, Gerdur, the people I met there. They're not supposed to… No, this wasn't supposed to happen. Did I change something? My heart pounds, but I force my expression to stay calm.
The man's gaze darts between the Jarl and the hall, his panic still simmering under the surface. His words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.
The man stands there, trembling, his words still hanging in the air like a stormcloud. I force myself to keep breathing, but the weight of his account is suffocating. The Jarl's face tightens, his usual expression giving way to something harder, colder.
"Speak clearly," Balgruuf commands, his tone firm but not unkind. "What did you see?"
The messenger swallows hard, his hands shaking at his sides. "It came from the mountains," he begins, his voice raw with fear. "I don't know where… just—just out of the sky. One moment, it was quiet, and then it was there, A dragon…" He shudders, clutching at his arms as if to steady himself. "Its roar… gods, the roar shook the earth itself."
My fists clench at my sides as he continues, each word dragging my thoughts deeper into chaos. This doesn't fit. This isn't supposed to happen. I can still feel the cold stone of the crypt under my boots, the draugr overlord and how different he was flashes through my mind, and now this? My mind spins.
The man's voice cracks, pulling me back. "Flames. It rained flames down on the houses, on the people. There was nowhere to hide. It just—it just kept coming, tearing through everything." His breathing grows shallow as he relives the moment, his words tripping over each other. "The screams… the screams are still in my ears. I… I ran. I didn't know what else to do. Please, my Jarl, you have to help. You have to send soldiers, or it'll come here next."
A heavy silence falls over the hall. I feel it pressing against my chest, mingling with the anger and excitement and fear bubbling inside me. Jarl Balgruuf takes a step closer to the man, his gaze steady and unyielding. "You said Riverwood is gone," he says, his voice low and deliberate. "How bad is it."
The messenger shudders, squeezing his eyes shut as if to block out the memory. "It burned," he whispers. "Everything. The buildings, the trees… the people, it's all gone. I saw it with my own eyes. I swear it on the Nine."
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything. My thoughts are too tangled to make sense of. Gerdur, Alvor, the villagers—it twists in my chest like a knife. Riverwood was supposed to be the quiet place. The starting point.
The messenger falls to his knees again, his hands clenching on his knees. "Please, my Jarl," he whispers. "Don't let it happen here."
The Jarl stands still for a moment, his gaze heavy on the trembling man before him. The tension in the hall is palpable, thick as the smoke curling up from the fire pit. Finally, Balgruuf steps back, turning to a nearby attendant.
"Take him to a room," he says, his voice calm but edged with steel. "See that he gets food and rest."
The attendant moves swiftly, placing a steadying hand on the messenger's shoulder. The man stumbles to his feet, his legs trembling as if they might give out at any moment. He mumbles something incoherent, his eyes glassy, but the attendant gently leads him away.
The hall is silent as the doors close behind them, the faint echo of their retreating steps the only sound.
Jarl Balgruuf turns, his eyes sharp as they sweep across the hall. His focus settles on Irileth, who stands near the edge of the fire pit, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable.
"Irileth," Balgruuf says, his tone clipped. "Summon everyone of importance in the city. We need to discuss this immediately. I want them here within the hour."
Irileth nods once, her posture rigid. "As you command, my Jarl." Without another word, she strides from the hall, her presence as sharp and deliberate as a blade.
I feel Balgruuf's gaze settle on me next, his eyes appraising, weighing. He gestures for Farengar to step closer, though the wizard's attention still lingers on the messenger's words.
"Melkorn," Balgruuf says, his voice steady. "I want you to stay available. If what we've heard is true, we'll need every sword in the next few days. And I'll see that you're compensated."
I nod, my voice steady despite the turmoil roiling in my chest. "I'll be ready."
Balgruuf holds my gaze for a moment longer before turning back toward the throne. His presence seems larger now, as if the weight of leadership has only made him stand taller. "You're dismissed for now," he says, already issuing orders to a guard as I step away.
The cool evening air bites at my skin as I step out of Dragonsreach, a stark contrast to the warmth of the hall behind me. My boots thud against the stone steps, each step carrying me further into the night and deeper into my own thoughts. The sky is a dusky purple, the stars just beginning to peek through the veil of twilight.
A dragon. A damned dragon. The word loops through my mind, twisting like a knife. Riverwood in flames, people screaming—things that shouldn't have happened. I clench my fists, the edges of the steps blurring in my vision.
Mirmulnir? Alduin? My thoughts churn. I know the game canon, know what's supposed to happen and when. But this… this wasn't in the script. Did I change something? Is this my fault?
A flicker of a darker thought intrudes, one I can't shake. The Ebony Blade. I know where it is, locked away in Dragonsreach, sitting there with all its dark promises. It wouldn't take much to get it. A little subterfuge, a bit of effort. Its power lingers in my mind, a tempting whisper, even as I push the idea aside. Or try to.
I exhale sharply, forcing my gaze forward. I don't have time to dwell on what-ifs. Not now.
Beside me, Inigo breaks the silence. "Where do your feet carry you, my friend? Away from the giant lizard that may be coming, Inigo hopes."
His dry tone pulls me out of my head, and I glance at him. His whiskers twitch in amusement, his eyes gleaming faintly in the fading light.
"To Warmaiden's," I reply. "My armor needs repairs. Badly."
Inigo lets out an exaggerated sigh, his tail flicking behind him. "This one was afraid you may say that."
I manage a faint smirk, though it feels distant. "Did you think I was the type to run from such a great fight."
"Alas, this one knows you better." Inigo shakes his head, falling into step beside me. "Let us see if this Warmaiden can patch you up before the beast arrives to ruin everything."
His humor eases some of the tension, but not much. My thoughts are still heavy, the weight of the Dragonstone gone from my pack but replaced by something far greater. My armor is falling apart, I have no weapon, and my mind keeps circling back to the ebony blade in Dragonsreach.
I exhale again, pushing the thought down, at least for now. The forge is close, and with any luck, Adrianne can repair my armor in time.
The streets of Whiterun are alive, even as the day winds down. Lanterns sway gently in the evening breeze, casting flickering light across the cobblestones. Merchants pack up their stalls, chatting with customers as they count the day's earnings. The hum of voices spills out from the Bannered Mare, where laughter and the clink of tankards carry over the night air.
The forge comes into view, its glow spilling out into the street. Adrianne Avenicci hammers away at her anvil, her focused expression illuminated by the red-hot steel in her hands. The rhythmic clang of her work cuts through the evening chatter, steady and sure.
My gaze flicks up to the Skyforge, visible just above Jorrvaskr. For a moment, I let myself consider it. Eorlund Gray-Mane, working on something custom, something better, I have the money now.
Adrianne looks up as I approach, setting down her hammer. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand, her sharp eyes taking in my battered armor and the exhaustion written across my face.
"Well," she says, crossing her arms. "Looks like you've had a day."
"You could say that," I reply, gesturing to my armor. "I need repairs. Urgently."
Her gaze sharpens as she steps closer, inspecting the punctures, scratches, and cracks on the plate. She mutters under her breath, running her fingers along a stress fracture near the shoulder. "You weren't fighting bandits in this."
"No," I admit. "Something worse. And it's not over yet."
She glances up at me, her expression unreadable for a moment before she nods. "It'll take time," she says, straightening. "A day, maybe two. I'll have to reshape half of it and reinforce the rest if you want it to hold up to something worse."
I bite back a curse but nod. "I'll come back tomorrow."
"Good," she replies, already reaching for her tools. "And don't go breaking it again and expect repairs. I'm a blacksmith, not a miracle worker."
The forge's glow fades behind us as we step into the dim streets of Whiterun. The bustling noise of the day has quieted, replaced by the soft murmurs of the evening. Lanterns sway gently in the breeze, their light casting long, flickering shadows across the cobblestones.
Inigo walks beside me, his steps light and his tail swaying lazily. For a moment, it feels like the world has slowed, the urgency of Dragonsreach and the chaos of the barrow fading into the quiet rhythm of the city.
But my mind doesn't slow.
The Ebony Blade's shadow brushes against my thoughts. Locked away in Dragonsreach, it lingers at the edges of my mind like a whispered promise. Power, dark and sharp. I can still feel the pull of it, the temptation to seek it out, to wield something that might give me an edge against Mirmulnir.
"Thinking of something grim, my friend?" Inigo's voice breaks through my reverie, his tone lighter than my thoughts.
I glance at him, his sharp eyes glinting faintly in the lantern light. "Thinking of how ill-prepared I feel."
He chuckles softly. "Ah, but I'm sure you are relishing it all the same."
I snort, a small grin tugging at my lips despite the weight on my shoulders. "You know me too well"
He's right. I thrive in this madness. The battles, the challenges, the sheer force of will it takes to push forward. It's exhilarating in a way I can't quite put into words. But dragons? That's another level entirely.
We walk in silence for a while, the quiet of the city settling around us. My gaze drifts upward to the stars scattered across the night sky, their light cold and distant. The enormity of what lies ahead sinks deeper into me, but I can feel the excitement, if i win I should finally be able to call upon the thu'um.
We find a quiet spot near the Gildergreen, the great tree standing tall and weathered against the starry night. Its leaves rustle softly in the breeze, a sound that's almost soothing. I sink onto the stone ledge surrounding the tree, letting out a long breath as the weight of the day finally catches up with me.
Inigo joins me, folding himself into a cross-legged position on the grass. His tail flicks idly behind him, his sharp eyes scanning the quiet city. "You are thinking too loudly again, my friend," he says, his voice light but laced with knowing.
I shake my head, smiling. "Hard not to, considering what may be coming."
"True," he replies, leaning back on his hands. "This one admits… dragons are not something he expected to face when he woke up this morning. Or yesterday morning. Or ever." He pauses, glancing at me. "But then, you do have a habit of finding trouble."
I chuckle despite myself, the sound dry and tired. "Trouble seems to find me just as often."
Inigo tilts his head, his ears twitching. "And yet, here we are. Still breathing."
I let his words hang in the air for a moment, my gaze fixed on the horizon. "You ever feel like you're in over your head?"
He hums thoughtfully. "Every day. Every hour, even. But this one has learned that worrying too much about drowning only makes the water feel deeper. Sometimes, you simply have to swim."
I glance at him, his usual humor giving way to a rare note of seriousness. "That's… surprisingly wise."
"Do not sound so shocked," he replies with a grin, though his tone softens as he continues. "Inigo has been in many dark places, my friend. Places where it felt like there was no way forward. But there always is, if you look hard enough. And when there isn't… well, sometimes you have to make your own path."
I nod slowly, his words settling somewhere deeper than I expected. My fingers trace the edge of my knee, the memory of the Draugr's sword strike flashing briefly in my mind. "It's not the fight I'm worried about, that I look forward to" I admit, my voice quieter. "It's what happens if I fail. If I'm not strong enough."
Inigo's gaze sharpens, his tail stilling. "You are strong enough, my friend. This one has seen it. And if you falter, you will not be alone. Inigo will be there, as always."
His words hit harder than I expect, their sincerity catching me off guard. I look at him, the faint smile on his face a stark contrast to the resolve in his eyes.
"Thanks," I say simply, the weight in my chest easing slightly.
He waves a hand dismissively. "It is what friends are for, no? Now, if you are done brooding, perhaps we can focus on something more pleasant. Like surviving tomorrow."
I chuckle, shaking my head. "Right. Surviving."
I push myself to my feet, the cool night air brushing against my face. My joints protest faintly, the echoes of the day's battles still lingering in my body. Inigo watches me for a moment before standing as well.
The city sprawls out below us, its quiet streets glowing faintly in the lantern light. Beyond the gates, the dark expanse of Skyrim stretches into the horizon, shadowed mountains silhouetted against the starlit sky. Somewhere out there, the dragon waits.
The thought is exhilarating, but mixed in with that is fear, but I force myself to focus. Fear won't help me. Doubt won't stop the flames.
I clench my fists, the memory of the Draugr's icy strength still fresh in my mind. That wasn't just a test of strength—it was a warning. A glimpse of what's to come. The Ebony Blade's whisper returns, unbidden. Power. Dark and dangerous, but power nonetheless. I could find it. Use it. It might tip the scales in my favor, might give me the edge I need. But at what cost?
My thoughts spiral, but I anchor myself with a deep breath. Not yet. Not tonight.
"This one sees the gears turning in your head again," Inigo says, stepping up beside me. His voice is quieter now, less teasing. "Do you feel better? Or worse?"
"Neither," I reply, my tone steady. "But I feel ready."
Inigo tilts his head, studying me for a moment. Then he nods. "Good. This one is glad, because the dragon will not wait for us to be perfect."
I smirk faintly, his words a strange comfort. "Let's get some rest."
AN
So a bit of a shorter chapter, a bit of a setup for the next two which are my regular length
My update day will generally be Sunday but I'm gonna be very busy tomorrow and wasn't sure i'd have the time to post
Anyway i do have a under the name MandTeKad, its 3 chapters ahead and should be the full 5 ahead by mid next week
Have a great week guys and hope you enjoyed it!