It still feels unreal that I can actually hold a conversation here. When I first woke up in this world, I half-expected to stumble over some strange language barrier.
But no — Zavir speaks perfect English. Or at least, it sounds like English to me. Maybe Meridia handled the translation when she brought me here. Or maybe the Nords just happen to speak the language of Tamriel in a way I can understand. I'll never know for sure.
Zavir leaned back against a half-rotted log, pulled a brown glass bottle from a sack, and offered it with a grin. "Here. Ale. Nights like this are better when you've got a drink in hand."
"Thanks," I said, taking the bottle. The ale was bitter, but warm on the throat, grounding me in the moment. After a few careful gulps, I glanced at him. "Mind if I ask something? Why wear a full set of iron armor out here? I figured someone living off the land would prefer leather or fur. Something lighter."
Zavir chuckled, tapping a gauntleted hand against his chest plate. The iron clinked with a hollow ring. "Protection. You'd be surprised how many fools try to jump me, thinking I've got treasure from Dawnstar Ruins."
I froze. My fingers tightened on the bottle. "…Dawnstar Ruins? Wait, you mean a dungeon outside the city? Or are you saying Dawnstar itself is gone? Because there's no way the entire town was destroyed."
His expression shifted, humor draining away. "What rock have you been living under? Or are you new to Skyrim entirely?" He sighed and took a long pull from his drink. "Dawnstar fell thirteen years ago, when Alduin the World-Eater returned with his dragons. They burned it to ash. Nothing but ruins now."
The bottle slipped slightly in my grasp. Dawnstar… destroyed? That wasn't in the game. That wasn't supposed to happen. My heart hammered as another thought hit me. "Then… Alduin. Is he still alive?"
Zavir gave me a quizzical look. "You truly are new. No, Alduin is long dead. The champions slew him in Sovngarde. Skyrim still bears the scars, but the World-Eater troubles us no more."
Champions. Plural. My mind reeled. "Wait—champions? Not the Dragonborn?"
He raised a brow. "You've heard of her, then. Yes, the Dragonborn lived in those days. A woman. But she did not fight Alduin. The task fell to others. Five champions crossed into Sovngarde to end his tyranny."
I leaned forward, desperate for answers. "Who?"
Zavir rested his bottle on his knee and began to count them off on his fingers. "First, Ailketh, the battlemage they called the Champion of the Twin Stars. Second, Gorudr, a barbarian as massive as any giant. Third, a man cloaked in shadows who named himself the Night Shade. No one knows his true identity. Fourth, Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, who you must know by name. And last… Miraak, the First Dragonborn."
"Miraak?" I nearly choked on the word. In the game, he was an enemy, a boss fight, the villain of an entire DLC. To hear him described as a hero—it twisted my gut. "That doesn't make sense."
Zavir shrugged. "Whether sense or not, it is history. Ulfric himself formed the company of champions, calling a truce between Imperials and Stormcloaks for the greater threat. With Paarthurnax, the ancient dragon, they journeyed to Sovngarde. There they struck down Alduin."
His gaze dropped for a moment, shadowed by memory. "But not all returned. Ulfric fell in that battle, as did Paarthurnax. The Night Shade and Gorudr vanished soon after, never to be seen again. Only Ailketh still wanders Skyrim, though even his name is spoken rarely now."
The fire crackled between us, spitting sparks into the dark. I felt as though the ground had tilted beneath me. "And the civil war? What happened after Ulfric's death?"
A grim smile touched his lips. "The Imperials wasted no time. During Ulfric's funeral, they stormed Windhelm, cutting down his grieving soldiers. Cowards' work. The Stormcloaks were broken. Now they are nothing but scattered rebels, barely worth the Legion's attention."
I sat in silence, staring at the flames, trying to process it all. This wasn't the Skyrim I remembered. The Dragonborn, the supposed center of the story, hadn't even played her role. The narrative was completely changed—bent sideways into something unrecognizable.
"So the Dragonborn…" My voice was quiet, uncertain. "She was meant to be the hero. Why didn't she stop Alduin herself?"
"No one knows," Zavir said simply. "Some whisper she abandoned her duty. Others say fate chose different hands. Whatever the truth, her absence shaped the world we live in now."
I exhaled slowly. Thirteen years had reshaped the land into something alien. No longer the Skyrim of my memories, nor the Skyrim of the game. A new Skyrim. A harsher one.
The fire popped, sending a curl of smoke into the cold night. I took another swig of ale, its burn mingling with the unease twisting in my stomach. My journey here had only just begun, and already I could tell: I wasn't walking into the same story I thought I knew.
This was a different Skyrim. One where the rules—and the heroes—had already changed.
And now I had to find my place in it.