Dawn's light cuts through the frost, illuminating the snow. The cold air bites at my skin, sharp and unyielding, a reminder that Skyrim is merciless, a land where the weak perish.

I stand at the mouth of Cronvangr Cave, the shadows behind me still whispering with echoes of battle. My muscles ache from the fight, but the adrenaline hasn't faded. Not yet. It clings to me, a sharp reminder that death was only a heartbeat away.

A shiver runs down my spine, and not from the cold. It's the memory of hollow eyes, faces twisted into monstrous parodies of humanity. Vampires. Beasts in human form, their souls twisted and hollow and my thoughts about becoming one that I had entertained when first waking in Skyrim. I glance at Lucien, who leans against a large rock, his face pale, eyes distant.

He's quiet. Too quiet.

His hand touches his neck, fingers brushing against the puncture wounds hidden beneath his collar. The bite is shallow, barely more than a scratch. But it's enough.

Enough to turn him.

He catches me watching and drops his hand quickly, his expression twisting into a weak attempt at a smile. "I'm fine," he lies, his voice too casual. "Just… tired."

His eyes are hollow, his skin pale, but there's no fever, no pain. Not yet. It's too soon for that. But the infection is there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to consume him. It always starts this way from what I know. Fatigue. A lingering chill. The sense of something wrong, crawling under the skin.

I grit my teeth, forcing the anger down. It's not his fault. He didn't ask for this. He didn't choose this. But it's happening, whether he wants it or not.

I won't let him turn, he never chose to be a vampire. His soul is not Molag Bal's to claim.

My hand drifts to my chest, fingers brushing against the cold metal of my armor, where underneath the tattoo lies inked into my skin. A reminder of my promise. To lead. To protect. To never take for granted the people who follow me.

I turn sharply, my cloak snapping in the wind. "We ride hard. No stops. No rest. We need to get to Windhelm."

Lydia's eyes flicker with concern, her mouth tightening. "My Thane… Lucien's condition—"

"He'll hold," I snap, my voice sharper than intended. Lydia's eyes widen, her mouth tightening, but she says nothing. She hesitates, her eyes lingering on Lucien, who shivers despite the cold. Her jaw tightens, but she nods, her loyalty outweighing her doubt. "Yes, my Thane."

Kaidan adjusts his saddle, his jaw set, eyes hard. "Windhelm's close enough. We push hard, we'll make it before he turns."

A grunt from Inigo, his tail flicking restlessly. "Good. This place reeks of death. This one would rather leave it behind."

I move to Morrigan, her breath visible in the cold air, ears flicking back as I tighten the saddle. She senses my urgency, muscles shifting beneath her sleek coat, ready to run.

I mount her swiftly, the leather creaking under my weight. I glance back at Lucien. He's pale, but his hands are steady, his eyes hard with determination. He meets my gaze and nods, his jaw clenched.

"Let's move," I command, my voice as cold as the frost beneath us.

The horses break into a gallop, hooves pounding against the snow-covered ground, breath steaming in the bitter air. The wind howls, sharp and biting, but I barely feel it. My focus is on the road ahead, I won't let him turn.

The snow stretches endlessly, a vast, white desert broken only by jagged rocks and skeletal trees. The wind howls, bitter and relentless, tearing at my cloak, freezing the sweat on my skin. Skyrim is cold, cruel, and unyielding. It devours the weak, grinds down the strong, and leaves only bones to bleach in the snow.

We ride hard, the horses' hooves thundering against the frozen ground, kicking up flurries of powdery snow. Windhelm is three days away, and Lucien doesn't have that long. The thought presses heavy against my chest, a cold weight that matches the frozen air. Three days. If we don't get there in time…

I push the thought away, my jaw tightening. I won't let that happen. Lucien will not die, and he will not turn. I won't let Molag Bal have him.

I reach up, touching my chest where the tattoo lies beneath armor and cloth once again, a web of swirling ink over my heart, a promise to protect those who follow me. I feel the faint thrum of power beneath my fingers, a reminder of the choices I've made, the people I've lost.

Morrigan charges onward, powerful and sure-footed, her muscles rippling beneath me. She senses my urgency, my determination, and responds with relentless speed. Her breath steams in the cold air, her hooves striking the frozen earth with rhythmic precision.

Three days. I feel the weight of it, the ticking clock pressing down on me. Three days before the infection sets in, before his body turns against him, before his soul becomes Molag Bal's. The thought makes my chest tighten, a cold knot of fury and fear.

I won't let it happen. Not to him. Not to any of them. They're mine. My responsibility. My people.

The wind howls around me, tearing at my cloak, biting into my skin. It sounds like laughter, cruel and mocking. It sounds like the cave, like hollow voices and hungry whispers. It sounds like the vampires.

I feel the memory clawing at me, sharp and cold, digging into my mind. I remember the creatures' eyes, hollow and empty, staring at us from the shadows. I remember their twisted faces, their mouths curled into grotesque smiles. Not human. Not anymore.

I feel a shiver run through me, cold and biting, more than the wind. I've seen monsters before, fought beasts and men who were less than human. But vampires… they're something else. They felt hollow. Empty.

I remember the way they moved, silent and graceful, inhumanly fast. I remember the way they looked at us, like we were nothing. Like we were prey.

Power. That's what they were. Power made flesh. Immortal. I feel my hands tighten on the reins, the leather creaking under my grip. Power… I've craved it since the moment I could walk, the power to shape the world, to bend it to my whim and never die.

Immortality. Strength. Invincibility. To never fear death, to never feel weakness. I've wanted it since I was a weak human on Earth, I've felt the possibility of having it since Alduin's roar shattered the sky, since I Shouted down Mirmulnir and felt his soul burn in my chest. Since I stood over his corpse and tasted power.

I want that. I want it all. But at what cost?

I glance back at Lucien. He's shivering now, his face pale and drawn, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He looks small, fragile, human. If he were stronger, if he were immortal…

I feel the thought forming, cold and insidious. If he were like them, he wouldn't be dying. He wouldn't be weak. He'd be powerful. Immortal. Untouchable.

The thought makes me sick. I shove it away, disgust curling in my gut. No. Not like that. Not as a hollow shell, a monster wearing his face. Not at the cost of his soul.

Not at the cost of mine.

I turn my gaze back to the horizon, my jaw tight, my eyes sharp. Windhelm is three days away. Three days to save him. Three days to cure him. Three days to stop him from becoming like them.

My fingers dig into Morrigan's reins, leather creaking under my grip. I push her harder, her hooves churning snow as if we could outrun death itself. I won't lose him—not to this curse, not to that monster's will.

The cold wind howls around me, biting and relentless, carrying the whispers of ancient, hollow voices. I hear them laughing, mocking me, daring me to fall.

I grit my teeth, my hands tightening on the reins. Let them mock. Let them whisper. I'm not falling. Not today. Not ever.

I kick my heels into Morrigan's sides, urging her faster. She responds with a burst of speed, her muscles coiling and releasing like springs. The snow flies beneath us, the world blurring into a whirl of white and gray.

The wind claws at my face, freezing sweat against my skin. Morrigan's hooves crunch over snow that stretches like a white desert, unending and merciless, mirroring my desperation.

I lean low over her neck, shielding my face from the wind. The cold bites at my fingers, seeping through the leather gloves, numbing my hands. I grit my teeth, ignoring it. Pain is nothing. Weakness is death.

The others follow close behind, shadows against the snow. I glance back, scanning them quickly. Lydia rides steady, her posture rigid, eyes narrowed against the wind. Kaidan is a dark silhouette, his shoulders hunched, his face grim. Inigo's cloak flaps behind him, a ghostly shape in the swirling snow.

Lucien is at the back, hunched low over his horse, his face pale and drawn. His hands tremble on the reins, his body shivering violently. I feel a cold knot tighten in my chest, a gnawing worry that bites deeper than the wind.

My jaw clenches, frustration curling in my gut. I should have been more prepared. I should have brought a damn potion. A cure disease potion would have solved this. It's such a basic thing, so simple… and I didn't even think of it. Stupid. Careless.

I feel anger bubbling up, hot and bitter. Anger at myself, at my own stupidity. I've been in Skyrim for months. I've fought beasts and bandits, dragons and Draugr. I've killed men and monsters, watched them bleed and die at my feet. I've been through hell, and I survived. But I didn't think to bring a cure disease potion.

Careless. Foolish. Unprepared.

I won't make that mistake again.

The cold wind howls around me, tearing at my cloak, mocking me with its icy laughter. I set my jaw, my eyes narrowing against the snow.

Three days.

Snow whirls around us, a white desert that swallows sound and sense. Morrigan's hooves crunch against ice, echoing off skeletal trees twisted by the wind. Shadows flicker at the edge of my vision—rocky outcroppings or something more sinister. I grip my sword tighter, my senses on edge, every snowflake a whisper of danger. I scan the horizon, searching the shadows. Wolves, maybe. Bandits. Worse things. Skyrim is full of monsters.

I see nothing. Just shadows and snow. But I keep my hand on my sword, my senses alert.

The cold bites deeper, seeping through my armor, sinking into my bones. I feel the ache in my chest, the burning in my lungs. I push it down, force myself to breathe steady, to stay focused. Pain is nothing. Weakness is death.

I glance back at Lucien again. He's still upright, still moving. Not weak. Not yet. But I see the way his shoulders slump, the way his head hangs low. He's fighting. But he's losing.

I turn back to the road, my jaw clenched, my eyes fixed on the horizon. I can't afford to think about it. I can't afford to doubt. I have to be strong. For him. For all of them.

For myself.

My thoughts drift back to the cave again, to the vampires' hollow eyes, their twisted faces. I remember the way they moved, the way they looked at us. Like we were nothing. Like we were food.

I remember their hollow eyes, their twisted faces. Monsters. Hollow shells.

To be like them… to become that…

I feel a shiver run through me, cold and sharp, more than the wind. I want immortality. I want power. But do I want it like that?

I remember the way they moved, the way they looked at us. Empty. Hollow.

No. Not like that.

There must be another way. Another path to immortality. There's always another way.

The thought pulls at me, distracting me for the moment. Magic, maybe. There's power in this world, old and terrible. Power that could grant immortality. Daedric bargains, ancient artifacts, powerful sorcery. Something.

My thoughts drift to the Companions, to the stories of werewolves, of immortality granted by Hircine. Not undead, not hollow. Living immortality.

I see Aela's face in my mind, her fierce eyes, her wild smile. I feel a smile tug at my lips, warmth blooming in my chest.

But then the smile fades, and my jaw tightens. No. Not now. Focus.

I shove the thought away, burying it deep. There are other ways. Better ways. Ways that don't involve hollow eyes and twisted faces.

The wind howls around me, cold and bitter, but I feel a spark of warmth in my chest, a fierce determination that burns against the cold.

I will have that power. I will have that immortality. But I'll decide the price.

I turn my eyes back to the road, my jaw set, my resolve hardening.

Three days.

I kick my heels into Morrigan's sides, urging her faster. She responds with a burst of speed, her hooves striking the frozen ground with rhythmic precision. The world blurs around me, snow and shadows spinning into a whirl of white and gray.

The wind howls through the valley, cutting like a blade of ice. It claws at my face, seeps through my armor, and burrows deep into my bones. Snow falls in swirling flurries, fine and powdery, a never-ending cascade that blankets the world in white. It would be beautiful if it wasn't so damn cold.

We've been riding through the night, pressing forward without rest. There's no time to stop, no time to waste. Not with Lucien's condition worsening by the hour. We're cutting breaks short, pushing the horses hard, giving them stamina potions to keep them going. It's a gamble—one that'll leave them needing a longer rest later—but it's worth it. It has to be.

The sun is little more than a pale smear on the horizon, hidden behind thick clouds. Dawn comes grudgingly, cold and gray, casting long shadows across the snow-swept plains. The air is heavy with frost, the world silent and still, broken only by the crunch of hooves on ice and the howl of the wind.

Lucien's condition is getting worse. I see it in the way he sways in the saddle, his grip on the reins weak and trembling. His skin is pale, his eyes sunken, his lips tinged blue. The black veins are spreading, curling like tendrils up his neck, dark and twisted. He tries to hide it, to put on a brave face, but he's slipping. Fast.

I curse myself again for not bringing a cure disease potion. Stupid. Unprepared. A mistake I won't make again. But right now, there's no time for self-recrimination. Only action. Only survival.

Lydia rides close beside me, her eyes hard, her face grim. She's watching Lucien too, her shoulders tense, her jaw tight. She hasn't said anything, but she doesn't need to. Her worry is written all over her face.

Kaidan stays close to Lucien, his hand never far from his arm, steadying him when he wavers. His eyes are fierce, his mouth a tight line of determination. He's ready to catch him if he falls.

Inigo rides behind, his ears flat, his tail twitching nervously. He hasn't spoken since yesterday, his usual humor replaced by a dark, brooding silence. His eyes are shadowed, his shoulders hunched, his whole body radiating unease. He watches Lucien warily, like he's waiting for something bad to happen. I don't blame him. I'm waiting too.

I keep my eyes forward, my jaw clenched, my mind churning. We're a day away from Windhelm if the weather holds. If Lucien lasts that long.

I urge Morrigan forward, pushing her harder, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her hooves pound against the frozen ground, her muscles straining, her body quivering with exhaustion. But she keeps going, loyal and unyielding, just like her rider.

The others follow, their horses struggling to keep pace, their faces pale and drawn. Lydia's eyes are sharp, her body tense, ready for any threat. Kaidan is focused, his attention fixed on Lucien. Inigo's shoulders are hunched, his tail flicking restlessly, his eyes dark and haunted.

Lucien's head droops, his body swaying, his grip on the reins slipping. His breath is shallow, his skin pale and clammy. The veins on his neck have spread, curling up his jawline, dark and twisted. His eyes are half-closed, unfocused, his gaze distant and glassy.

My chest tightens, my stomach churning. He's running out of time. We're running out of time.

I grit my teeth, my jaw clenched, my hands tight on the reins. We ride on, the wind howling around us, the snow swirling through the air. The cold is biting, the shadows long, echoing the weight of my resolve.

I curse under my breath, the words lost to the wind. We should have been better prepared. Should have brought potions. Should have been ready for this. I won't make that mistake again.

Windhelm is close. I can feel it. Just beyond the ridge, hidden behind the snow and the shadows. We're almost there. Just a little further.

I won't let him die. I won't be too late.

The thought echoes in my mind, a constant refrain. I press my hand to my chest, feeling the tattoo beneath my armor, the ink cold against my skin. A promise. A vow.

I won't lose him. Not today. Not ever.

We push onward, the wind howling, the snow biting, the cold seeping into our bones. I don't look back. I don't dare. I keep my eyes forward, my mind fixed on the road ahead. On Windhelm. On salvation.

One day left. One more day.

We just have to make it through.

The world narrows to the rhythm of hooves pounding against frozen earth, the cold wind slicing through the air, the harsh, biting frost burning my lungs. The snow is relentless, a swirling cascade that blinds and numbs, but we keep moving. We don't have a choice.

Morrigan's breath comes in ragged gasps, her sides heaving, her muscles trembling beneath me. I press a hand to her neck, feeling the rapid thud of her heartbeat, the heat of her sweat turning to ice on her coat. She's exhausted, worn down to the bone, but she doesn't falter. She knows the urgency as well as I do.

We crest the final ridge, the incline steep and slick with ice. Morrigan's hooves skid, her body straining, but she finds her footing, pushing forward with a snort of determination. The others follow, their horses struggling, their faces pale and drawn. I hear Kaidan curse under his breath as his horse slips, nearly going down, but he steadies the beast, keeping them upright.

My breath catches in my throat as we reach the summit, the world opening up before us as we crest the final ridge, snow crunching beneath the hooves of our horses, and there it is—Windhelm.

The ancient city sprawls across the valley, defying the bitter cold and the passage of time. Massive stone walls encircle its expanse, jagged spires rising like frozen talons against the pale winter sky. Banners of blue and silver snap in the wind, the bear sigil of the Stormcloaks stark and unyielding.

From here, Windhelm looks like a fortress from another age—a monument to power, built to withstand not just the cold but the march of centuries. The river Yorgrim snakes along its southern flank, its icy waters winding toward the docks crowded with massive galleys, their masts standing like leafless trees against the snow-swept horizon.

The stone bridge leading to the main gates is lined with ancient statues, faces weathered and worn, their hollow eyes staring blankly over the frozen landscape. Beyond them, the Palace of Kings looms above the city, its jagged silhouette crowned in frost and shadow. The seat of Ulfric Stormcloak, the man who killed High King Torygg with his Voice.

A shiver runs through me, one that has nothing to do with the cold. He mastered the Thu'um… used it as a weapon. He understands its power. If anyone knows how to control this… this force that tears at my soul, it would be him. I certainly wouldnt be going to the fucking hermits in their mountain palace.

My fingers tighten around Morrigan's reins. The black mare paws the snow, sensing my tension. Her breath steams in the frozen air, muscles coiled beneath her sleek coat, ready to charge down the ridge toward the ancient city.

I look back at Lucien.

His face is pale, the dark veins curling up his neck, twisting like shadows beneath his skin. His cloak is wrapped tightly around him, but I can see the way his hands tremble, his breath shallow and ragged. His eyes are dull, unfocused, as if he's staring through the snow and stone walls into another world.

There's still half a day before the curse would take him but I would rather not waste any time.

"Let's keep moving," I growl, my voice low, fierce. "Get him to a priestess before it's too late."

Inigo's tail flicks, his ears flat against his head. "This city… it smells of sorrow. Even from here, it feels… wrong." His eyes are clouded, his fur bristling. "Let's not stay longer than we must."

My gaze shifts back to Windhelm, to the towering walls and ancient spires, to the Palace of Kings that looms above the frozen river. The last day of the year. My first year in Skyrim.

Destiny or coincidence? I don't care. I'll shape my own fate. Bend this world to my will.

-MD-
-MD-
-MD-

The snow crunches beneath Morrigan's hooves as we approach the sprawling stables outside Windhelm. Frost clings to the timber beams, heavy and cold, bending the wood under its weight. The air is thick with the scent of hay and horse sweat, the warmth of the animals a sharp contrast to the biting wind that tears across the frozen plains.

I swing down from Morrigan's saddle, my boots sinking into the snow, and give her a firm pat on the neck. Her breath fogs the air, her muscles quivering beneath her sleek black coat, exhausted from the relentless ride. Her dark eyes flick to me, ears swiveling forward, ever alert. "You did well, girl," I murmur, my voice low and steady. "Almost there."

The others dismount behind me. Lydia, ever vigilant, her eyes sharp as she scans the surrounding area. Kaidan, his movements fluid but weary, snow clinging to his armor. Inigo, tail flicking, fur bristling, his gaze distant and haunted as he watches the ancient walls of Windhelm.

Lucien is the last to dismount, his movements slow and unsteady. He sways as his feet touch the ground, his face pale, lips tinged blue. Kaidan catches him by the arm, steadying him with a grunt. "Easy, scholar. Don't fall on me now."

Lucien tries to smile, but it's a weak, hollow thing. "I'm fine," he lies, his voice a strained whisper. "Just… tired."

His hands tremble as he clutches his cloak tighter, the fabric doing little to hide the dark veins curling up his neck, twisted shadows beneath his skin. I feel the cold knot tighten in my chest, my fingers clenching unconsciously.

A figure emerges from the shadows of the stable, stumbling slightly as he hurries toward us. A young Nord boy, barely more than seventeen, his straw-blond hair tousled and cheeks flushed red from the cold. His blue eyes are wide, flicking nervously between us, lingering on our weapons and armor.

I can see the fear in his eyes, the way his shoulders tense, his posture rigid as he tries to stand taller, to look more confident. It's a poor attempt. He's too young, too inexperienced.

His voice wavers, betraying his nerves. "F-Five fine horses," he stammers, his eyes flicking to Morrigan, lingering on her sleek coat, the fine leather of her saddle. "They'll be well taken care of… for the right coin."

His tone is respectful, but cautious. He knows he's dealing with someone of importance, even if he doesn't understand who or why. I don't bother counting the gold. I reach into my pouch, fingers brushing against the cold metal, and fish out a handful. The coins clink together as I toss them at his feet, the sound sharp and clear in the cold air. "Feed them well. Keep them ready. I don't like waiting."

The boy's eyes widen, his mouth falling open as he stares at the gold scattered in the snow. His fingers tremble as he gathers the coins, his shoulders hunched against the cold. "A-Aye, my lord. They'll be ready when you are."

The 'my lord' slips naturally from his mouth, even though he has no idea who I am. He doesn't need to. Power isn't in words or titles—it's in presence, in how you carry yourself. He senses it, feels it, and instinctively defers. In another circumstance that would have swelled my ego quite a bit but now it washes over me.

Good.

I watch as he leads Morrigan and the others' horses into the stables, his movements quick and careful, his posture tense. A good boy. Diligent. Respectful. One who knows his place.

I turn to the others, my eyes lingering on Lucien. He's leaning heavily on Kaidan, his face pale, his eyes unfocused. His lips move soundlessly, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The dark veins are spreading, curling up his neck, twisting like shadows beneath his skin.

Kaidan's jaw tightens, his grip firm on Lucien's arm. "We need to get him out of this cold," he mutters, his voice low and grim. "He's shaking like a leaf."

I feel the knot tighten in my chest, a cold, heavy weight pressing down on me. We're almost there. Just a little longer. I tear my gaze away from Lucien, my eyes flicking to the ancient walls of Windhelm. They rise high above us, jagged and unyielding, crowned with frost and shadow. The stone bridge leading to the main gates stretches before us, lined with ancient statues, their hollow eyes staring blankly over the snow-swept plains. Beyond them, the Palace of Kings looms above the city, a fortress of stone and ice.

Inigo's tail twitches, his fur bristling as his eyes dart between the ancient walls and the snow-covered bridge. His ears are pinned back, his body tense, his shoulders hunched.

The cold wind howls through the battlements as we leave the stables, biting and relentless, carrying the faint echo of ancient wars. It sweeps across the snow-covered plains, swirling around us, tugging at cloaks and stinging exposed skin. The air is sharp, crisp with the scent of frost and stone, ancient and unyielding.

The massive stone gates of Windhelm loom ahead, towering and formidable, shadows clinging to the archways like phantoms. The walls rise high, jagged and crowned with frost, a fortress of stone and ice, a testament to the Nords' defiance against time and tyranny.

My jaw sets, muscles tightening, eyes fixed on the Palace of Kings in the distance. It looms above the city, dark and imposing, crowned with jagged spires that claw at the sky. The seat of Ulfric Stormcloak. I had no idea how we would be received.

I look back at Lucien. His face is pale, his eyes unfocused, his body swaying as Kaidan steadies him. The dark veins are spreading, curling up his neck, shadows beneath his skin. We're running out of time.

I grit my teeth, the cold knot tightening in my chest. "I'll need to meet Ulfric Stormcloak… but first, let's get Lucien to a temple."

Lydia's eyes flick to me, concern shadowing her gaze, but she nods, her loyalty unwavering. "Yes, my Thane."

Inigo's tail twitches, his ears flat against his head, his shoulders hunched. "This city… it smells of sorrow. Even the wind sounds like it's in pain." His eyes are clouded, his voice a whisper. "Let's not stay longer than we must."

I nod, my gaze fixed on the towering gates. "We won't."

We start toward the gates, boots crunching against the snow, the cold seeping through leather and cloth, biting into skin. The snow is relentless, swirling around us, thick and blinding, but we push forward, heads down, eyes fixed on the ancient walls of Windhelm.

Lucien leans heavily on Kaidan, his legs dragging, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His eyes are half-closed, unfocused, his face pale and drawn. The dark veins are spreading, twisting like shadows beneath his skin.

I quicken my pace, my jaw clenched, my hands curling into fists. We're almost there. Just a little longer.

The cold wind howls as we cross the ancient bridge, snow crunching beneath our boots, echoing against the stone walls. Windhelm looms before us, massive and unyielding, its jagged walls crowned with frost and shadow. Banners of blue and silver snap sharply in the wind, the bear sigil of the Stormcloaks stark against the pale sky.

From this vantage point, the river Yorgrim sprawls below, its icy waters winding toward the sprawling docks. I gaze down, taking in the scene—the harbor is a forest of masts, dark wood creaking under the weight of snow, sails furled tight against the cold wind. The scent of salt and frost drifts up from the water, sharp and bracing, mingling with the faint tang of smoke from the city's chimneys.

Merchant vessels are clustered together, their hulls broad and heavy, built for long hauls across the Sea of Ghosts. Their decks are dusted with snow, ropes stiff with ice, creaking against the docks as the current rocks them gently. Most of them are flying the insignia of the East Empire Company, their sails marked with the familiar symbol of wealth and influence.

I wonder if they're having trouble with pirates yet. The war's been good for them, cutting off land routes and making sea trade more vital than ever. But it's also brought out the scavengers—the raiders, the privateers, the opportunists looking to make their fortune off Imperial gold.

A faint smile tugs at my lips. Pirates could be a problem for the Company… or an opportunity for me. Helping them could open doors, secure connections. Maybe even earn a few favors. And favors are worth more than gold. I tuck that thought away, a seed for another time.

My eyes drift across the harbor, taking in the ships with a calculating gaze. I know enough about ships to recognize quality when I see it—solid hulls, reinforced masts, thick ropes expertly coiled. Each one is built for the brutal northern seas, designed to weather the icy tempests and crashing waves. But then, at the far end of the docks, I see it.

A fortress on the water.

The warship looms over the rest of the harbor, massive and imposing, its hull painted a deep, dark blue that gleams even in the pale light. It's a galleon, broad and powerful, built to dominate the sea through sheer force. No speed or grace—just raw, unyielding power.

The bow is crowned with a dragon figurehead, carved from dark wood and painted with gleaming bronze. Its sapphire eyes are cold and watchful, wings unfurled as if ready to take flight. Golden dragon heads line the sides, mouths agape, revealing cannon ports both above and below deck. The cannons along the upper railing gleam in the cold light, polished to a deadly shine—each one a promise of thunder and death.

Rows of heavy artillery are embedded along the lower deck, their dark mouths waiting behind the dragon heads. Enough firepower to reduce a coastal fortress to rubble. I can almost hear the roar of those cannons, feel the flames licking the air, the sky splitting with the sound of devastation.

The sails are furled tight, a rich navy blue with golden trim, even from here, I can see the faint shimmer of enchantments woven into the fabric, warding against fire and storm. The wood is dark and rich, reinforced with iron bands, etched with golden runes that glimmer faintly even in the dull morning light.

It's not built for speed, not like the sleek longships of the Stormcloaks. It's a war machine, a juggernaut meant to crush anything foolish enough to stand in its way. A fortress on the water, impervious and unyielding.

My fingers itch just looking at it. A ship like that would be unstoppable—raiding coastal fortresses, sinking entire fleets, ruling the Sea of Ghosts. I wonder how much it cost to build. And then, almost unconsciously, I wonder how easy it would be to steal.

"Pathetic," Lydia's voice breaks through my thoughts, cold and disgusted. "To treat people like that… like they don't even belong."

I blink, tearing my eyes from the warship, following her gaze. She's staring at the district huddled against the outer wall, her mouth twisted in disapproval. The Grey Quarter.

It sprawls beneath the shadow of Windhelm's massive ramparts, a tangled maze of crooked alleys and crumbling stone. The buildings are old, walls cracked and weathered, roofs sagging under the weight of snow and neglect. Smoke curls from crooked chimneys, thin and acrid, tainting the cold air with the scent of burnt wood and desperation.

The streets are narrow, winding through the decay like veins through a corpse, shadowed by leaning buildings that cling to each other for support. Figures move through the alleys, hunched against the cold, faces pale and drawn, eyes hollow with resignation. Dunmer, mostly.

"Two centuries, and still they live like this," Lydia murmurs, her voice tight with anger. "Outsiders. Segregated. Like they're less than Nords."

I look back at the Grey Quarter, at the smoke curling from the crooked chimneys, the snow-choked alleys, the shadows that seem to cling to every stone. "They chose this."

Lydia's eyes snap to mine, sharp and accusing. "You really think that?"

I shrug, my gaze drifting back to the docks, to the warship gleaming in the pale light. "They could have left. Or adapted. But they didn't. They chose to keep their own ways. Their own culture. They chose to be outsiders."

She stares at me, her jaw clenched, her hands tight on her sword hilt. "Or maybe they were never given the chance to belong. Maybe the Nords never let them in."

I don't respond. I don't have an answer for that. I would need to talk to other people to truly know.

Lucien leans heavily against the stone railing, his face pale, eyes glazed, his breath coming in shallow gasps. But his gaze is sharp, flicking over the ancient walls, the crooked alleys, the smoke curling from the chimneys.

His voice is a strained whisper. "They've… lived here for two hundred years… and still they're… outsiders."

He coughs, his shoulders shaking, his body hunched against the cold. But his eyes are distant, thoughtful. "Windhelm… it was built on the bones of elves… a monument to victory… Ysgramor drove them out… and now they live in his shadow."

Even facing undeath, he can't help but spew random facts. He really must be autistic. Or just completely insane. I almost laugh. Maybe it's both.

Inigo hugs his cloak tighter, his tail twitching, his ears flat against his head. "This city smells of sorrow. Even from here… it feels wrong."

That was the second or third time he said that. How bad must it be for him to repeat that?

His eyes are wide, shadowed, his body tense. "This one does not like this place. It is heavy with grief. With anger. Let us not linger."

I look back at the warship, the golden dragon heads along its sides, their mouths open in silent roars. A fortress on the water.

How easy would it be to steal?

I set my jaw, my eyes narrowing as I push the thought away. "Let's get Lucien to a healer. Then we'll see what this city can offer us."

The cold wind howls around us, tearing at our cloaks, echoing through the arches. The ancient gates loom ahead, dark and imposing, crowned with frost and shadow. Beyond them, the Palace of Kings rises above the city, a fortress of stone and ice.

We press onward, our footsteps echoing on the ancient stone, the cold wind howling around us. Windhelm watches, silent and unyielding, its ancient eyes following us as we approach the gates.

The stone bridge stretches before us, ancient and imposing, lined with weathered statues that have long since lost their faces to the bite of wind and frost. Each figure stands sentinel, cloaked in snow, their hollow eyes staring blindly over the frozen plains. Nordic runes are etched into the base of each statue, ancient prayers to gods. The cold wind howls through the archways, echoing off the stone like ghostly wails, a mournful dirge that chills the blood more than the frost ever could.

The gates of Windhelm loom ahead, massive and unyielding, carved from stone blackened by centuries of ice and war. Guards stand at attention, faces hidden behind steel helms, their eyes sharp and unyielding. The blue and silver cloaks of the Stormcloaks flap in the wind, the bear sigil a stark reminder of where we are. The heart of Ulfric's rebellion.

Lucien sways where he walks, barely held up by Kaidan, his face pale, his eyes glassy. His lips are moving, breath fogging the air, but his words are barely more than a whisper. I strain to catch them, leaning closer as Morrigan's hooves clop against the stone.

"Ysgramor's tomb… guarded by the Companions… Five Hundred… returned…" His voice is weak, his eyes unfocused, staring at the carvings on the statues as though he can see something no one else can. He shivers, his body swaying, his grip on the reins loosening.

A faint smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, but it's bitter and fleeting. I glance at him again, my jaw tightening. He's getting worse.

As we approach the gates, the guards step forward, blocking our path. Their faces are cold, eyes hard behind the iron helms. One of them sneers, his lip curling as his gaze lands on me, eyes narrowing as he takes in my grey skin and pointed ears.

"Dunmer filth," he mutters, his voice low and dripping with disdain. "You bringing more of your taint to Windhelm's gates?"

I stare at him, my expression cold and impassive. He's nothing. A petty guard with a spear and an inferiority complex. I've seen worse. I've faced worse. I've killed worse.

Lydia's shoulders tense beside me, her jaw tightening. Her hand twitches toward her sword, her eyes flashing with anger, but I place a hand on her arm, a silent command to stand down. Not here. Not now.

The guard's eyes flick to her, then back to me. He's trying to provoke me, to get a reaction, to justify his prejudice. I won't give him the satisfaction.

His companion leans in, his voice low and mocking. "Come to join the rest of your kind in the Grey Quarter, have you? Or maybe you're just looking for a place to steal and beg like the rest of those knife-ears."

His words are weak. Petty. Childish. I feel a flicker of contempt, mingled with amusement. This is racism? This is prejudice? I've seen worse on Earth. I've lived through worse. This is nothing. If this is the worst they've faced, they should count themselves lucky.

I reach into my cloak, my fingers brushing against the cold metal of the Thane symbol, the insignia of Whiterun that I keep tied to my belt. I draw it out slowly, deliberately, holding it up for them to see. The gold catches the pale winter light, gleaming in the snow-drenched air.

The guards' faces pale, their eyes widening as they take in the symbol, their postures stiffening. The sneer vanishes, replaced by shock and fear. Good. They recognize power, even if they don't respect it.

I don't raise my voice. I don't need to. My words are low, cold, and unyielding. "Do your job. Or are you so used to drinking and jeering that you've forgotten your place?"

The one who sneered opens his mouth, his jaw working as he tries to form words, but nothing comes out. He's a coward, I wonder if he would do better posted at Riften. Petty, weak, hiding behind armor and authority. He knows better than to challenge me now.

The other guard swallows hard, his voice trembling as he stammers, "Jarl Ulfric… he'll want to see you. A Thane from Whiterun… it's not every day one crosses our gates."

I tuck the Thane symbol back into my cloak, my eyes never leaving theirs. "Then don't keep him waiting."

They step aside, their shoulders stiff, their eyes lowered. They won't meet my gaze. I stride forward, deliberately letting my boots land heavy in the stone, the others falling into formation behind me.

The gates creak open, ancient wood and iron groaning as they swing inward, revealing the dark streets of Windhelm beyond. Narrow alleys twist between tall stone buildings, smoke curling from chimneys, the air tinged with frost and ash. Shadows cling to every corner, heavy and suffocating, the weight of centuries pressing down on the ancient city.

The jagged walls of Windhelm rise before us, crowned with frost and shadow. Cold winds howl through the archways, carrying whispers of ancient wars. Lucien shivers, his breath a thin fog, his eyes dull and distant. But there is no warmth here, no mercy. It is a city of stone and shadow, and even the snow feels colder within its walls.

We walk in silence, our breath fogging the air. I feel eyes on me, watching from the shadows, lingering in the darkened windows above.

Raised voices echo from a narrow alley, sharp and angry, cutting through the cold air. I glance over just as a Dunmer man shoves his way past two Nords, his shoulders rigid, movements tight and jerky. One of the Nords stumbles back, snow spraying around him, before he lunges forward, fists swinging.

The Dunmer twists, deflecting the first blow, but the second connects, sending him skidding across the icy cobblestones. He catches himself, barely, his body coiled like a spring. The two Nords close in, their voices harsh, words lost beneath the howl of the wind.

A guard sprints toward them, his armor clanking, the blue and silver of Windhelm snapping in the cold breeze. "Break it up!" he shouts, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Enough of this!"

The fighters freeze, tension crackling in the air. The guard steps between them, his posture rigid, one hand on his sword hilt. He says something I can't make out, his head swiveling between the Dunmer and the Nords, his stance ready to spring if they move.

For a moment, no one moves. Then the Dunmer takes a step back, his hands still curled into fists. One of the Nords shouts after him, words too distant to hear, but the tone is clear—angry, mocking. The other Nord laughs, his voice cold and sharp, echoing off the stone.

The Dunmer hesitates, his shoulders stiffening, but the guard barks another order, his hand never leaving his sword. The Nords turn away, their shoulders hunching as they stalk down the street, snow crunching beneath their boots.

The Dunmer stands alone for a heartbeat, head tilted toward the guard. I can't see his expression, but his stance is tense, defensive. Then he turns, slipping into the shadows of the Grey Quarter, his form swallowed by the twisting alleys.

I turn my gaze forward, my eyes fixed on the road ahead. I won't waste my thoughts on them. They're not worth it. Not today. Though I do wonder who started the fight

Windhelm closes around us, dark and ancient, a city of stone and shadow. And somewhere within those walls, Ulfric Stormcloak waits.

We move through the winding streets of Windhelm, the ancient stone walls towering above, crowned with frost and shadow. The cold wind howls through the alleys, biting and sharp, but the tension that had gripped my chest for days is finally easing. We made it. We're here.

Lucien stumbles, his body swaying as Inigo supports him, his arm wrapped around his shoulders. His face is pale, dark veins curling up his neck like twisted shadows beneath his skin. His eyes are glazed, unfocused, but he's still standing. He's still breathing. And that's enough.

We're in Windhelm. He'll be cured. The temples know how to handle this—they've been curing vampirism for centuries. It's not a question of if, but when. I feel the knot in my chest unravel, the weight lifting from my shoulders. Relief, cold and sharp, rushes through me.

I turn to Inigo, my voice firm but lacking the urgency it had before. "Take him to the temple. Make sure he gets cured. Pay whatever they ask."

Inigo's ears flick back, his tail drooping as he nods. "This one will, my friend. The priests here are strong. They will purge this darkness from him."

I glance at Lucien. He's pale, his breath shallow, his lips tinged blue. But he's made it this far. He'll make it through this too. "Good. Once he's cured, get him to an inn and let him rest. He's earned it."

Kaidan steps closer, his jaw set, his eyes still shadowed with worry. "I'll find us an inn. Something close to the Palace."

"Good." I nod, feeling the tension ease further. "We'll regroup once I've spoken to Ulfric. Meet me outside the Palace."

Kaidan grunts in acknowledgment, his gaze lingering on Lucien. "Don't worry. He'll pull through. He's tougher than he looks."

I watch as they move away, Inigo guiding Lucien through the snow-covered streets, Kaidan following close behind, his hand never straying far from his weapon. They'll be fine. Lucien will be fine. We made it in time.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my chest loosening, the cold knot finally unwinding. Relief settles over me, cold and sharp, but welcome. Lydia stands beside me, silent and steady, her eyes on the Palace above. She knows what comes next. She knows what's waiting in that hall. Ulfric Stormcloak. King of Windhelm.

I set my jaw, my gaze hardening as I fix my eyes on the jagged spires above. "Come on," I murmur, my voice cold, steady. "Let's get this over with."

We move forward, the snow crunching beneath our boots, the ancient stone walls rising above us, cold and unyielding. The Palace of Kings looms ahead, shadows clinging to the archways and the wind howling through the battlements, I feel the weight of destiny pressing down, heavy and cold. But my chest is light, my mind clear. I saved Lucien. I kept my promise. Now it's time to face the Jarl of Windhelm.

The snow crunches beneath our boots as Lydia and I ascend the ancient stone steps, the cold wind howling through the narrow streets of Windhelm. The Palace of Kings looms above, a fortress of jagged spires and ancient stone, crowned with frost and shadow. It stands as a monolith of power, defiant and unyielding, carved from the bones of the mountain itself.

The cold air feels heavier here, tinged with tension and the weight of history. The shadows cling to the archways, curling around the weathered carvings of dragons and ancient kings. The walls are dark, worn by centuries of wind and war, their cracks etched with the scars of battle.

I feel the air grow colder, the weight of destiny pressing down, heavy and unrelenting. My jaw tightens, my shoulders squaring as I keep my eyes fixed on the massive doors ahead. Ulfric Stormcloak waits behind those doors—the man who killed a king with his Voice, who mastered the Thu'um and wielded it as a weapon.

I feel the thrum of power beneath my chest. The words echo in my mind, steady and sharp. Power recognizes power. Let's see if he recognizes mine.

Lydia's armor clinks softly damaged plates grinding against each other, as she walks beside me, her eyes sharp, her shoulders squared. She knows better than to speak, but her presence is steady, solid. A Thane doesn't walk alone. I need her here, not for protection, but for authority. Ulfric understands power. He understands loyalty. He'll see it in her eyes, in her stance.

The stone path narrows as we approach the gatehouse, the shadows deepening, the wind howling through the battlements. The ancient statues lining the walkway stare down at us, their hollow eyes cold and empty, faces worn smooth by centuries of wind and frost.

I feel their gaze on me, the weight of their judgment. They watched kings rise and fall, empires burn, the world change and shift like the snowstorms that sweep across Skyrim. And now they watch me, the outsider, the stranger from another world, the Dunmer Thane of Whiterun.

I wonder what they see. A man? A warrior? A Demi-god? Or something more?

A Stormcloak guard steps forward as we approach, his posture rigid, his eyes cold and calculating. His armor gleams faintly in the pale light, the bear sigil of the Stormcloaks stark against the dark steel. His face is hidden behind his helmet, but his voice is sharp, unyielding.

"Halt. State your business."

I meet his gaze, unflinching, my voice cold and steady. "I'm Melkorn, Thane of Whiterun. Here to speak with Jarl Ulfric."

His eyes narrow behind the helmet, his posture stiffening. I see the flicker of suspicion, the tension in his shoulders. A Dunmer Thane… in Windhelm. He hesitates, his eyes flicking to Lydia, who stands tall and unyielding beside me.

His voice is wary, guarded. "Whiterun hasn't declared for the Stormcloaks… or the Empire."

I feel a faint smile tug at my lips, cold and sharp. "Not yet."

He studies me for a moment longer, his eyes calculating, before he steps aside, his posture rigid, his voice strained. "You may enter. But don't cause trouble. Ulfric doesn't take kindly to disrespect."

I don't bother replying. I step past him, my cloak billowing in the cold wind, Lydia following close behind. I feel his eyes on me, the weight of his suspicion, but he doesn't stop me. He doesn't dare.

We ascend the final steps, the massive stone doors towering above us, their surface etched with ancient runes and carvings of dragons and warriors. The air grows colder, the shadows deeper, the wind howling like a ghostly wail through the archways.

I pause for a moment, my eyes tracing the ancient symbols. This place feels old, ancient, drenched in blood and glory, the echoes of ancient battles lingering in the air.

Ulfric… High King and wielder of the Thu'um. Veteran of the Great War. The man who defied an empire.. I wonder what he will think of me?

I feel my resolve harden, my jaw tightening, my hands clenching into fists. Power recognizes power. Let's see if he recognizes mine. The thought repeats in my head.

I push the doors open, the ancient wood creaking beneath my hands, the cold air rushing out to greet me, carrying the scent of smoke and frost. The shadows part as the grand hall of the Palace of Kings stretches out before me, vast and imposing, crowned with jagged spires and ancient banners of blue and silver.

The air is cold and heavy as I step into the hall, my footsteps echoing against the polished stone.

The grand doors of the Palace of Kings swing open, their ancient hinges groaning under the weight of centuries. Cold air rushes out to meet me, sharp and biting, carrying the scent of smoke and frost. Shadows dance along the stone walls, flickering in the light of braziers that burn with steady flames, their glow casting long, twisted shapes across ancient carvings.

I step into the immense hall, my boots echoing against the polished stone floor. The sound reverberates off the towering columns, each one etched with swirling Nordic runes, their lines flowing like rivers of ice, telling stories of ancient heroes and forgotten battles. The ceiling arches high above, lost in shadow, supported by beams as thick as tree trunks, worn smooth by the passage of time.

Blue and silver banners hang from the columns, marked with the bear sigil of the Stormcloaks, their fabric rippling gently in the cold air. They are regal, imposing, symbols of power and rebellion, a stark reminder of the man who rules this hall.

Ulfric Stormcloak.

The air is cold, colder than outside, a chill that seeps into my bones, heavy with the weight of history. Every stone in this hall is drenched in blood and glory, every shadow whispering of ancient battles, of kings who rose and fell, of power seized and lost.

I feel the weight of it pressing down on me, cold and unyielding, yet I too am both. I will not bow. Not to him. Not to anyone.

Lydia walks beside me, her posture rigid, her eyes sharp and watchful. She carries herself with the calm confidence of a warrior, her shoulders squared, her hand never far from her weapon. A Thane doesn't walk alone, and her presence is a silent declaration of power and loyalty.

Guards line the walkway, their eyes sharp, their stances rigid. Their armor gleams faintly in the flickering light, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, ready and waiting. Their expressions are cold, calculating, as they watch me approach, their eyes lingering on my armor, my weapons, my face. A Dunmer in the Palace of Kings. A stranger in the heart of Stormcloak power.

I see the suspicion in their eyes, the tension in their shoulders. They don't trust me. They don't know me. And that's exactly how I want it.

Power isn't just in strength or weapons—it's in knowledge, in control. They can't predict me because they don't understand me. They don't know who I am or why I'm here. They don't know if I'm a threat… or an ally.

Their uncertainty is to my advantage.

My eyes travel the length of the hall, taking in every detail. The ancient stone walls are covered in tapestries depicting great battles, dragons soaring above burning villages, warriors locked in brutal combat. The artistry is exquisite, every thread woven with care, every scene brought to life with stunning realism.

The Palace of Kings isn't just a seat of power—it's a monument to victory, to defiance, to the iron will of its ruler.

Ulfric Stormcloak sits upon the Throne of Kings, a massive chair of stone and iron, flanked by ancient Nordic weapons mounted on the wall behind him. His posture is regal, commanding, his shoulders squared, his head held high. His armor gleams faintly with enchantments under his overcoat, the fur-lined collar draped across his broad shoulders, giving him the appearance of a wolf poised to strike.

At his belt hangs an ebony sword, its hilt wrapped in dark leather, dark pommel drinking in the light of the fire. Beside it rests an axe, its edge gleaming in sharp contrast to the blackness of its body, the handle carved with intricate Nordic runes.

Ebony. Rare and deadly, even unenchanted it cuts through other peoples armor and weapons. Only one other man I've seen with that metal—Balgruuf.

His gaze is piercing, cold and calculating, with eyes the color of glacial ice, sharp and unyielding. He watches me approach, his posture relaxed but alert, his presence filling the hall, commanding attention and respect. This is a man accustomed to power, to authority, to obedience. A man who has never doubted his place in the world.

I meet his gaze without flinching, my steps steady, my shoulders squared. I feel the weight of his scrutiny, the sharpness of his eyes as he studies me, weighing my worth, my strength, my purpose.

His eyes flick to the Thane symbol on my belt, the mark of Whiterun. A neutral city. A Jarl who hasn't declared for the Stormcloaks… or the Empire. I see the flicker of curiosity, the sharpness in his gaze.

His voice breaks the silence, deep and resonant, carrying across the hall with the authority of a king. "A Dunmer Thane of Whiterun. Bold to walk into my hall alone when your Jarl has not yet taken a side."

The emphasis on Dunmer is subtle but deliberate, a reminder of the world we stand in. A world where bloodlines and heritage matter as much as deeds or words. Where a man's worth is measured by the color of his skin, the shape of his eyes, the lineage of his ancestors alongside the strength of one's arm and the power of one's magic.

I feel a cold smile curl at the edge of my lips, sharp and mocking. If he thinks that will unbalance me, he's a fool.

I hold his gaze, my voice cold and steady, laced with just enough defiance to be challenging without being disrespectful. "Do I have something to fear from you, Ulfric?"

The words echo in the hall, sharp and unyielding, a calculated display of confidence, a challenge wrapped in politeness. A question… and a statement.

I see his eyes narrow, his shoulders stiffening just slightly. His posture doesn't change, his expression remains cold, but I see the flicker of recognition, of respect.

Power recognizes power. And he sees it.

His lips curl into a faint smile, his eyes sharp, assessing. "That depends," he replies, his voice low and resonant. "On whether you've come as a friend… or an enemy."

I don't flinch, don't falter. My stance remains firm, my eyes locked on his, my expression unreadable. "That depends," I echo, my voice cold as the frost outside, "on what you consider a friend."

The silence stretches between us, cold and tense, the weight of power and destiny heavy in the air. I see the flicker of intrigue in his eyes, the spark of curiosity. He's measuring me, weighing my words, testing my resolve.

His presence fills this hall. A man of destiny… or arrogance. Perhaps both.

His gaze sharpens, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "And what of enemies?"

I feel the faint thrum of power beneath my chest, my resolve hardening. I step forward, my posture unyielding, my voice steady and cold.

"They die."

The words echo in the hall, sharp and final, a declaration, a promise.

His eyes lock onto mine, cold and calculating, his posture rigid, his presence powerful. He watches me, the silence heavy, the air cold, the shadows twisting around us.

Then, slowly, his lips curl into a faint smile, a predator recognizing its equal.

"Well then… let us see what kind of friend you'll be."

AN

Sorry this ones late, my cat is having health issues and its causing mental fog and a busy schedule

As always i have a dirty p word under MandTeKad that is 3 chapters ahead, has the first 2 chapters of my HP story and an exclusive scene from L that even free members get