(First-Person Narration — Saviik Storm-Thane)
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The first thing I remember is the sound of wheels biting ice.
A rhythm—slow, uneven, hollow, like the pulse of something dying but not yet allowed to stop.
The second thing was the cold. Not the polite chill of Cyrodiil mornings, but Skyrim's own kind of cold, the kind that crawls into the bones and begins rearranging the truth of you.
When I opened my eyes, the world was pale and moving. Frost-rimed pine trunks passed in steady procession; the breath of horses steamed forward and vanished like ghosts. Rope bit into my wrists. Someone had tied it too neatly for accident.
Across from me sat a broad man with hair the color of dry wheat. His beard was thick with snowmelt, and his eyes carried the calm of someone long resigned. He looked up as I stirred.
"Awake, then," he said. His voice was rough but not unkind. "Didn't think you'd come around. You were out cold when they threw you in."
I didn't answer. My tongue felt heavy; my throat, dry as parchment. He watched me a moment longer, then nodded toward the man beside him—a thinner one, wiry, nervous, clothes fit for a thief.
"Not one of ours," the thief muttered, eyeing me. "Looks Imperial-bred. What'd they catch you for?"
"I don't know," I managed. The air burned my lungs.
The thief laughed without humor. "That makes two of us."
The man with the blond hair shifted, his bindings creaking. "You're lucky, stranger," he said. "You were in the wrong place when the Legion came down on us. They'll think you one of us. Easier that way."
I looked at him fully then, and the name surfaced from memory like a word half-forgotten from a prayer.
Ralof.
Stormcloak soldier, veteran of Windhelm's wars.
And beside him—silent, arms bound, face half-covered in the wolf-fur mantle of a Jarl—sat the man the songs had turned into a myth even before I left Skyrim. His head was bowed, eyes closed, but I would have known him anywhere.
Ulfric Stormcloak.
For a heartbeat, the cart's rattling became a heartbeat in my own chest.
He hadn't looked at me yet. I wondered if he would know me—if there was still room in that iron mind of his for faces other than enemies.
The thief began to curse, kicking at his bonds. "This is a mistake! They weren't after me! I'm not one of you!"
Ralof gave him a look that was half pity, half weariness. "No mistake, lad. The Empire doesn't bother with names once the headsman's block is set."
I said nothing. I listened—to the creak of the wagon, to the mutter of soldiers riding beside us, to the slow hiss of wind slipping between pine needles. Each sound built the shape of memory.
For the first time in years, I could smell home: wet bark, frozen moss, the iron tang of mountain air.
---
We came down the pass near noon.
The clouds broke just long enough to show a strip of blue, so sharp it hurt to look at. Beyond the ridge, the valley widened into the small fort town of Helgen—timber palisades, watchtowers, smoke rising from the smithy. Nothing remarkable, except that every road led inward and none led back out.
Ralof leaned closer, nodding toward the banners. "See the red dragon? Legion colors. They'll make a show of it—justice, they'll call it. They like their theater."
The thief kept muttering prayers to every god that would listen. The soldiers ignored him.
We passed through the gates.
The sound changed—wood instead of earth beneath the wheels, a faint echo from the stockade walls.
Villagers had gathered. Faces I didn't know, eyes full of hunger for anything that might break the monotony of winter. I felt their stares settle on us one by one: rebels, criminal, foreigner.
Then a child's voice: "Mama, who are they?"
The mother's answer was soft, almost gentle. "Just keep walking, sweetling."
The cart jolted to a stop.
An officer with a scroll stepped forward, reading names into the cold.
Each name was a small death, spoken clearly so the gods could hear.
When he reached me, he hesitated. "You there. I don't have your name on the list."
Ralof spoke before I could. "He came through with us. A friend of the rebellion."
The officer's eyes narrowed. "Is that so?"
I met his gaze. "Does it matter?"
For a moment, it seemed he might argue. Then he shook his head. "Fine. Your death will be quick, stranger. To the block."
They led us out one by one. The air smelled of pine pitch and old blood. The headsman stood by a stump darkened with years of work, his axe head polished to mirror.
The thief bolted first—he didn't make it to the gate.
The arrows found him in mid-stride.
His body hit the ground with a sound I'll never forget: not impact, but surrender.
I looked up at the sky then. Clouds were gathering, black on black, swirling in a way that had nothing to do with wind. A low hum trembled in the distance, deep enough to be felt more than heard.
Someone said, "Next, the Nord in the blue."
They meant me.
I stepped forward. The world felt smaller with every pace.
When they pushed me to my knees, the grain of the wood pressed a pattern into my palms—like the runes of some ancient lesson. I thought of the lake at Rumare, of Xala's voice whispering three harvests. I smiled, barely.
The executioner raised the axe.
And then the sky tore open.
---
The sound was not thunder. It was language before words. The mountains answered it. The air turned to fire. Somewhere behind me, someone shouted "Dragon!" and the world forgot order.
Flame and shadow rolled over the walls of Helgen. The tower cracked like a struck bell. I didn't think—I moved. The bindings on my wrists snapped, whether by luck or by something older I couldn't say.
Ralof's hand found my shoulder in the chaos. "This way!"
I followed.