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Chapter Text

The lights above us stutter, and for a moment, everything feels stretched thin, then a bolt of lightning claws the sky, the air outside splitting open with a teeth-rattling crack. The room jolts as if we're all puppets on invisible strings. My heart hammers against my ribs, and the hairs on my arms prickle at the charged silence that follows. Through the window, the world is overexposed to a silver flash, then the darkness swallows it whole, leaving behind only the metallic tang of ozone and damp earth.

"Perfect. Bloody perfect," I mutter. My bike waits somewhere out in that storm, but the thought of braving it makes my stomach clench. I should've left ages ago, before the evening turned, before Josh decided to play Gandalf with his weed stash, offering it around like he was distributing pipeweed to the Fellowship.

My gaze drifts toward Bailey, Lauren’s stepsister, curled up in one of the armchairs. The blue streaks in her black hair shimmer against the lamplight, lightning making them glow like the edge of a storm cloud. She is not usually one to join the crowd, and I wonder what brought her down from her room upstairs. She’s got her legs tucked beneath her and her nose buried in a book, completely unfazed by the chaos of the stoned, the drunk, and the rhythmically challenged currently occupying the living room.

A few shrieks pierce the air as another lightning bolt hits even closer. I’m pretty sure a couple of those screams belong to the guys. Outside, the storm goes full ‘Apocalypse Now’, rain turning the world into a smudged grey void. I catch a fleeting glimpse of my reflection in the window, oddly distorted, as if I’m someone else for a heartbeat. Bailey glances up, her eyes flickering toward the warped glass, unimpressed, then back to her book.

“What are you reading?” I sink into the armchair beside her, and she frowns at me before raising the book slightly so I can see the title.

“Fear Nothing. Dean Koontz. And here I thought you were reading something nerdy.”

The frown between her indigo eyebrows deepens. “What exactly makes a book nerdy?” she retorts.

I shrug. “I don’t know… maybe an autobiography of Einstein? Or something by George Orwell?”

She gives me that almost-smile that threatens to turn into a real one. “And how exactly is George Orwell nerdy?”

“I’ve read a few of his books,” I reply.

Her mock-shock is theatrical, but beneath it, I sense the genuine surprise. “The great Garrett Osmond, Olympic bronze medalist, national hero, destroyer of targets, is secretly a book nerd? I bet your adoring fans have no idea.” She gestures vaguely toward the dancing crowd, where someone is attempting a move that looks like a cross between twerking and a seizure.

I glance over.  They are Josh and Lauren’s friends. I was only invited because Josh is my best friend for as long as I can remember.

When I turn back, her expression has softened. “They’re not your friends, are they?”

We lose track of time when our conversation turns to books, films, and other topics. Bailey laughs when I feign offence at being called a slacker. “Relax, I’m joking,” she says, grinning. “You get paid to shoot arrows at bullseyes, and I get paid to shoot digital zombies. Same vibe, different range. At least we both get to do what we love, not everyone gets that.”

Outside, the storm rages harder, thunder booming so close it rattles the windowpanes. The room empties, leaving only Lauren and Josh, swaying in each other’s arms to music only they can hear.

Bailey looks out at the rain curtain. “No way you’re driving home in that. There’s a couch in my study, it’s comfy, I swear.”

I follow her down the corridor. The lights flicker again, and for a heartbeat, Bailey’s silhouette seems to double, shifting in the half-light. She pauses, turning just long enough to press her lips against my cheek before leaving me in the middle of the room, arms full of blankets and thoughts I’ll definitely overanalyse later.

The crack of thunder jolts me awake so violently that I almost headbutt the small table next to the sofa. Lightning flashes, turning the room into a whitewashed blur. I stumble to the window and stare out at the downpour. I’ve never seen weather like this before. It’s like Thor and Zeus are having a battle in the heavens above.

The window acts as a warped mirror, and for a second, I think my half-asleep brain is pranking me. The reflection staring back is me… but not me. My hair’s longer, brushing my shoulders, and a dark tattoo snakes down my left cheek, disappearing under what looks suspiciously like leather armor.

My hand reaches up to my face, half-expecting to feel a beard. "I must be dreaming," I murmur, turning just as the door behind me creaks open.

“Garrett, you have to see this,” Josh says. His voice wobbles, and that alone tells me something’s seriously wrong. Josh doesn’t wobble.

“At first, I thought I was just really stoned,” he adds as we hurry down the hall.

He pushes open Lauren’s bedroom door, and the scene inside is straight out of Stranger Things. Lauren and Bailey are perched on the bed, wide-eyed, looking like they’ve just seen Vecna crawl out of the closet.

Bailey nods toward the tall mirror on the wall. I step closer and freeze.

Four figures stare back. Us, and yet, definitely not us. I see my reflection again, the same long hair, the tattoo, the leather gear. Josh, Lauren, and Bailey stand beside me, dressed in attire out of a medieval movie.

“What the fuck?”

“You can say that again. What is happening? You look like you just respawned in Assassin’s Creed.”

He reaches toward the mirror, and his fingers slide through it.

“Josh, don’t…!” Lauren shouts, but it’s too late. The reflection starts to ripple, the four of us blurring together in a swirl of light and colour.

Lightning strikes the roof, and Bailey screams.

The world explodes in sound and motion. The floor drops out. My stomach lurches, my insides twisting like yogurt through a straw that’s way too narrow.

Everything goes black.

My last clear thought before the void swallows me whole. This is the weirdest dream of my life…

Chapter Text

Why is Rick Allen playing the drums in my brain?

I groan, roll over, and instantly regret it. My skull feels like it’s hosting a Metallica concert, and my tongue tastes like regret and beer. Three beers. That’s it. Three. No weed, nothing adventurous, unless you count mixing cider and lager. The universe never did appreciate moderation.

A bird chirps nearby, loud, chipper, and disrespectful of my hangover. I squint at the triangular wooden structure enclosing me, animal skin and fur draped over the frame.

A tent.

What the…?

I sit up too fast, and my brain immediately files a complaint. Voices murmur outside, and I crawl toward the tent flap like a man approaching his own execution. The moment I open it, blinding sunlight smacks me in the face.

Three pairs of eyes turn my way.

Bailey rushes over, looping an arm around my waist. “Easy, big guy. You hit your head when we landed.”

“Landed?” I repeat dumbly. “Landed where? The Twilight Zone?”

She helps me slump against a fallen log. The scenery hits me all at once. Snow-capped mountains in the distance, tall pines swaying in the breeze, air so clean it almost hurts to breathe.

Lauren brushes an ant off her leg with surgical disgust. She’s in her pink satin nightdress and fuzzy slippers that look like cotton candy had a shoe deal. If my skull weren’t vibrating, I’d laugh.

We’re all still wearing what we had on last night. Josh in boxers and a vest, Bailey in shorts and a T-shirt, and me, shirtless in jeans, which is not an outfit built for arctic vibes.

Bailey notices me looking down at our bare feet and wiggles her toes, nails painted electric blue.

“Where… are we?” I manage, rubbing my temples.

Josh grins like a man who’s waited his whole life for this moment. “According to Lauren, we’re in her nightmare. According to Bailey, we’re in Skyrim. And according to me…” He spreads his arms grandly. “She might be right. This campsite is one of the alternative start options for the game.”

Lauren groans. “You and Bailey and that lame-arse game. I told you this would happen. Video games rot your brain, and now look, we’re living in one!”

As if on cue, a francolin explodes from a nearby bush, making her scream.

“Can we not panic?” Josh says, trying to sound calm and failing. “Lauren, pinch yourself. If it’s a dream, you’ll wake up.”

Lauren pinches her arm. Hard. “You all do it!” she insists. “Bailey, you know I hate camping!”

Bailey crosses her arms. “This isn’t my dream. In my dream, I have better shoes and Garrett’s not rocking a man bun.”

Josh laughs. “Oh, come on. Admit it, if it were your dream, Garrett would totally look like that.”

“First of all,” Bailey shoots back, “no. Second, I don’t date guys with longer hair than me. Or facial tattoos. Or whatever’s happening there.”

All eyes turn to me.

Josh smirks. “You might want to check, Garrett.”

I lift a hand to my face and freeze. Beard. Definitely beard. My fingers drift up to my head, and sure enough… a man bun. My life just became an indie fantasy trailer.

“Bailey,” I say slowly, “are you saying we got sucked into Skyrim? Like, actually in the game?”

She nods grimly. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Lauren rounds on Josh. “This is all your fault! You and your dumb mirror stunt!”

“Hey,” Josh snaps, “don’t blame me, Sweetheart. It was your freaky-ass mirror that decided to eat us!”

He looks around, scanning the wilderness. “If we’re really in Skyrim, we need to stick together. This isn’t like the game. No pause button, no respawn. We die, we die.”

That thought kills the laughter fast.

We all glance around. We are almost surrounded by snow-peaked mountains, with pine trees towering overhead. The grass under our feet is soft and green, and clusters of purple and pink flowers grow beneath the trees. Camping, we can handle. However, surviving unknown territory with unknown threats won't be as easy, especially dressed like this.

“Okay,” I say finally. “You two are the experts. What’s the first step? Because unless that tent comes with central heating and a chest filled with clothes, we’re not surviving the night.”

Josh straightens. “Right. Priority one. Find a town. Closest one should be Helgen.”

“Helgen?” Lauren repeats. “Is that the one with the dragon?”

Josh hesitates. “Used to be. Dragon… kind of burned it down.”

Lauren’s eyes widen. “What?”

Bailey sighs. “Relax. If the dragon destroyed the town, it’s long gone. We’ll just… scavenge. Food, clothes, weapons.”

Josh nods. “And if we see wagons with soldiers wearing blue sashes…. we should run,” Josh warns.

“Run where, Josh?”

“As far as possible,” he replies solemnly.

The trek through nature and then a narrow cobblestone road was its own special kind of nightmare. By the time we reached the town, our feet looked like props from a zombie movie, and Lauren was crying, partly from pain, partly because her cotton-candy slippers now resembled two drowned, diseased chickens.

Helgen, if that’s really where we are, was very on fire. Smoke billowed from the ruins, the smell of scorched flesh thick enough to taste.

“Is it wrong that I’m kind of excited?” Josh asks, picking up a soot-blackened glass bottle like a kid who’s just found buried treasure. He squints at the label. “Vilod’s Mead with juniper berries. Limited edition!”

He holds it up like Mufasa presenting Simba.

Lauren eyes him. “Josh, there are corpses everywhere.”

“Yeah,” he says, turning the bottle in his hand. “But also, mead.”

“Do you think one of us is the Dragonborn?” Bailey asks, chewing a piece of bread she found on a charred table.

“It’s possible,” Josh says, giving me a once-over. “But my money is on Garrett. He’s the only one who woke up looking like a Viking thirst trap.”

“Excuse me?” I shoot him a look. “What’s a Dragonborn?”

“You know,” he waves vaguely, “chosen one, born with dragon powers, shouts things to death. Skyrim’s big deal. You probably absorbed a soul or two while we were passed out.”

I glance down at the burned remains around us. “Great. Sounds wholesome.”

Lauren and I stop scavenging when the two self-proclaimed adventurers start running around like caffeinated ferrets, stuffing armor and swords into a pile. I hand Lauren a piece of bread and a bottle labeled Black-Briar Mead.

“The bread tastes fresh,” I say, even though I’m doing my best not to think about who baked it.

I collapse onto one of the cots, hoping for sleep, but Josh and Bailey’s excited voices echo through the barracks like over-enthusiastic streamers. “Ooh, iron gauntlets!” “No, that’s a Nordic greatsword, don’t just chuck it!”

Bailey eventually drops down next to me, leaning against the cot frame. “I know this isn’t a game,” she says quietly. “Those people out there were real. They… burned alive.”

Her voice cracks. I slide down beside her, pull her close, and let her cry. “You and Josh have seen this before, even if it was a game,” I murmur. “You know what’s coming. Lauren and I don’t.”

Earlier, Josh pulled a bow from beneath a half-burned corpse. “Elven craftsmanship,” he’d said, grinning like he’d just looted Legolas. The string, however, was toast….literally.

While I search for a replacement, we stumble across what used to be a training area, now more horror film than gym. Bodies are stacked in the corner under a tarp.

Josh notices me staring. “Bailey insisted. Said we shouldn’t leave them out.”

I nod, string the bow, and draw it back. The weapon hums faintly. Not as good as my bow at home, but in this world, it’ll have to do.

We decide to stay the night in the barracks, sorting through the ever-growing loot pile. “Thank the Divines for beds,” Lauren sighs, collapsing onto one like it’s a five-star mattress.

I sling the backpack over my shoulders and pick up the tied bundle of swords from the table. We’ll carry as much as possible to a town called Riverwood, where, according to Josh and Bailey, we can sell most of the gear to buy “proper” armour. I found a leather jacket and pants that fit like a glove, but Josh and Bailey refuse to wear Imperial armor for even one day.

“We’ll be walking targets for the Stormcloaks,” they argue.

Lauren, on the other hand, is dressed in a robe and boots looted from a dead man in a cage. “What Lauren doesn’t know can’t hurt her,” Josh mutters. I give him a look that says it absolutely will if she finds out. Knowing Lauren, Josh will end up the next corpse in a cage.

Bailey opens the door a crack, then immediately slides the bolt shut. “Bandits. In the courtyard.”

Lauren’s eyes widen. “How are we supposed to get out?”

Josh squeezes her hand. “There’s another way, but there’ll be spiders. Huge ones, bigger than that ugly mutt of your neighbour.”

Lauren blanches. “No. Nope. Absolutely not.”

He shrugs. “Then we can stay here with the bandits. Maybe we’ll start a band.”

Luckily, someone had already gone full Arachnid Slayer through the tunnel. When we reach the cave, there are only carcasses left. Massive, fanged, and covered in enough webbing to qualify as a Halloween warehouse. Josh wasn’t kidding about the size.

“Hadvar,” Josh whispers suddenly, spotting two figures sitting near a fire. One is a broad-shouldered man with reddish hair. The other, a wiry guy with the general vibe of someone who’d rather be home reading. “Please tell me that’s not the Dragonborn sitting there. He’s so... small. Or maybe he is a she just having a bad hair day?”

The men leap to their feet when they see us. “Who are you?” the smaller one demands.

The red-haired man spits on the ground and grabs for his sword. “Scavengers,” he growls.

I raise my bow and shake my head. “Don’t. An arrow flies faster than you can move, friend.”

Bailey pushes my arm down before this escalates into a medieval John Wick situation. “We’re not scavengers. The dragon destroyed our carriage and killed our horses. We lost everything.”

The lie rolls off her tongue like she’s done this before.

Hadvar’s hand relaxes. “Where did you come from? Your accent is strange.”

“We’re merchants from Anvil,” Josh says smoothly. “Here to trade. If we’d known there were dragons, we’d have stayed home watching Netflix.”

“There’s also a war,” Hadvar says grimly. “People have no money for fancy wares from Cyrodiil.”

I drop the pile of swords and armour with a thud. “We’ll leave the weapons. But we’re taking the food.”

Hadvar gestures toward the pile. “Take it. If not you, someone else will. The war’s made scavengers of all of us. Where are you heading?”

“Riverwood,” Josh replies. “After that, we’ll see. Maybe home, if that’s still possible.”

Hadvar sighs, rubbing his face. “The General ordered the borders closed after the dragon attack. You’ll need his permission to leave Skyrim, and he’s gone to Solitude.” His voice wavers. “He left while the rest of us died like rats. Brucos and I will follow soon. We waited to give Ulfric, Ralof, and the rest a chance to escape. I sometimes wonder if I did not make a mistake joining the Legion."

“Was there an unnamed prisoner with the Stormcloaks?” Bailey asks.

Hadvar frowns. “Yes, a Dunmer. One of your friends?”

Bailey just nods.

“He went with Ralof. Don’t know why the captain thought a dark elf was one of them.”

When we finally step outside, the air is crisp and bright, the sky unnervingly blue. Josh and Bailey talk quietly about the Dragonborn being a Dunmer.

Lauren and I exchange a look. Neither of us has a clue what a “Dunmer” is. Could be a bird, could be a lizard, could be a dude with a really bad sunburn. For now, all we know is that we’re stuck in a medieval world with bandits, dragons, and apparently giant spiders.

And there’s no Wi-Fi.

Chapter Text

Alvor’s eyes widen when we dump the pile of weapons and armour onto his table. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it? I don’t buy stolen goods.”

“We didn’t steal it,” Josh says quickly, handing him the letter from Hadvar like it’s a hall pass. “Your nephew sends his regards.”

“You know Hadvar?” Alvor snorts. “Has he come to his senses yet?”

When he sees the Imperial armour and weapons, Alvor practically hisses. “Bury the lot. Far away from Riverwood. If the Legion catches you with it, your heads will decorate their spikes.”

Lauren crosses her arms when he lays out a set of leather armor. “I have you three for the fighting. I am not wearing those ugly things.”

I can shoot a bow, but I’m no fighter. Neither are Josh and Bailey. We’ll need something stronger than T-shirts and wishful thinking. I open my mouth to argue, but Josh gives me a small shake of the head. Not worth it.

He grins, weighing the bag of coins Alvor handed him before tossing it my way. “Your turn to barter, Robin Hood.”

I hesitate. Haggling in a place where I don’t even know the currency ratio feels like volunteering for a math exam. Instead, I grab Bailey’s hand and drag her away from the mutt she’s busy cooing over.

“Don’t be rude, Garrett,” she scolds. “This handsome boy’s name is Stump. And this is his friend, Frodnar.”

Frodnar tilts his head. “Wow, you’re taller than Uncle Ralof. Are you a Stormcloak?”

I shake my head. “No, kid. I’m not a Stormcloak or an…” Bailey mouths the word Imperial behind his back. “…Imperial. I’m just borrowing your dog lover for a bit.”

We’re several steps away when the boy shouts after me, “You should go to Windhelm and join the Stormcloaks, warrior!”

“Sure thing, kid,” I mutter. “Right after I figure out where the hell Windhelm is.”

The sound of an argument greets us before we reach the Riverwood Trader.

"Well, one of us has to do something!"

"I said no! No adventures, no theatrics, no thief-chasing!"

"Well, what are you going to do then, huh? Let's hear it! Are you going to do nothing while the thief gets away with your precious claw?" The woman's frustration is palpable.

I push the door open and stand aside for Bailey to pass.

"We are done talking about this!" The man behind the counter clears his throat mid-argument. "Sorry, you had to hear that. We were robbed last night, and my dear sister wants to chase the thief."

Bailey is already browsing the racks. “What was stolen?” she asks, stacking clothes for us and Lauren. “We can’t wear armor twenty-four-seven, right?”

Lucan sighs. “The Golden Claw. A priceless ornament.”

Camilla rolls her eyes. “More like his overpriced paperweight.”

Bailey gestures at some small bottles in the case. “We’ll take a few of those too.”

As she pays, Bailey adds casually, “Did a Dunmer come through here? Traveled with Ralof?”

Camilla nods. “He’s at the Sleeping Giant Inn. Ralof asked him to warn Jarl Balgruuf about Helgen, but he hasn’t left yet.”

Bailey’s face darkens. She grabs the bag of supplies and storms off. I trail after her, my arms full of clothes and bread.

Inside the inn, chaos. Bailey is shouting in a language that sounds like a cross between Klingon and someone gargling rocks.

“Velsua iru, s'wit.  Ohuhl -adur as Dragonborn, ohuhl hari de hava de Whiterun. (1)”

Bailey’s face is red in anger, and we can only stare at her, shouting at the grey-blue-skinned Elf.  

The Dunmer she is yelling at is slumped over a tankard, looking equal parts drunk and unimpressed. “B’vek! Ohuhl -adur dishmak. Os -e bahr hava de Whiterun de venshik as khan.  Asuhn tried erufid lo.  As Aka -nich mola Skyrim sut hadik os ihasmir.  Os -e hava bivi de Morrowind. (2)”

Josh whistles between his teeth. “She can speak Dunmeri? Bailey, can you speak Aldmeri and Bosmeri as well?”

Bailey glares at Josh with eyes that spit indigo fire. I put my hand on her shoulder, trying to calm her down. “We can go to Whiterun and warn this Jarl Balgruuf.”

“You don’t understand, Garrett,” she says through gritted teeth. “It has to be the Dragonborn who does it. The Dragonborn retrieves the Dragonstone. The Dragonborn kills the dragon outside Whiterun. Everything revolves around the Dragonborn.”

A woman, who has clearly been eavesdropping the entire time, pushes herself off the wall she has been leaning against. Bailey notices first, and her eyes go wide. “Delphine,” she breathes.

The woman, in her fifties, blonde hair pulled tight and a scar running down one cheek, strides toward us with all the authority of someone who’s absolutely done with everyone else’s nonsense. Her blue eyes lock on Bailey like she’s about to interrogate her for national secrets.

“How do you know all these things about the Dragonborn, young lady?” she demands.

Josh steps between Bailey and Skyrim’s resident angry mom. “Our friend is a seer,” he says smoothly. “She, uh… dreamt of the one she calls Dragonborn.”

Delphine gives him the same look teachers give when you claim your dog ate your homework. Then she physically moves him aside like he’s an inconvenient piece of furniture. “And you think this Dark Elf is the Dragonborn? Why?”

“The Dragonborn survived the dragon attack in Helgen, and he…” Bailey gestures to the Dunmer slumped over his ale, “…survived the attack.”

"More than one person survived the attack. As I heard the tale, two people from this town, Ralof and Hadvar, survived. Jarl Ulfric survived, as did Tullius and the Altmer Emesary, Elenwen. Does that make them all Dragonborn?" Delphine challenges.

Josh mutters, “Please not Elenwen. That’d be like if Voldemort got chosen by the Sorting Hat.”

Bailey folds her arms. “No, of course not. There can only be one Dragonborn. And this drunk Dunmer is the one.”

Delphine exhales through her nose."I am not arguing with a seer, but you have some facts wrong. Wait here," Delphine responds before disappearing into a room.

When Delphine returns, she’s holding an old book so fragile it looks like it might disintegrate if anyone breathes wrong. She places it on the table with reverence.

“If you are truly a seer, you would know who and what I am,” she challenges.

Bailey doesn’t even blink. “You’re Delphine, one of the last Blades in Skyrim.”

Delphine corrects her automatically. “The last Blade.”

Bailey smirks. “Not quite. Esbern is hiding in Riften. He’s been studying the return of the dragons for years.”

Delphine’s icy demeanor cracks for a moment. “Esbern? Alive?” Her tone and face soften. “I thought the Thalmor must have got to him years ago. That crazy old man…” She shakes her head. “Figures the Thalmor would be on his trail.”

“She’s got that look, like someone who’s been disappointed by the world one too many times,” I whisper close to Josh’s ear.

Josh elbows me. “Dude. Focus. She’s like… Skyrim’s version of Sarah Connor.”

Delphine opens the book and taps an illustration. “Whether there can be more than one Dragonborn at a time is something the Blades have researched thoroughly. We believe there can be when they are needed. Do you think Akatosh would entrust his blood to only one person? What if that person dies, or turns away from their destiny… like this Dark Elf seems determined to do?”

Bailey leans closer, squinting at the page. “That’s the Dragonstone.”

“Correct. Even though it dates back to the Merethic Era, it can still reveal who has been blessed with dragon blood. Farengar, the court wizard in Whiterun, knows its location. Find the stone, and you’ll find your Dragonborn.”

She snaps the book shut, gives us one last look, and vanishes back into her room.

We wait. And wait. The awkward silence stretches on until the man behind the counter clears his throat.

“You do realise she’s not coming back,” he says.

Josh exhales, rubbing his temples. “Great. First dragon attacks, now we’ve been ghosted by Skyrim’s secret service.”

Bailey groans. “Welcome to the main questline, everyone.”

“I need a bath, a toothbrush, and my make-up. “My skin feels like sandpaper. I can feel pores I didn’t know existed.” Lauren touches her cheek and shivers. It's our second day without the luxury of a bath, and we resorted to chewing on lavender and the blue flowers Bailey picked to keep our mouths fresh. I grin at the memory of Lauren's face when she needed to use the outhouse at the keep for the first time.

Orgnar arrives with food and mugs of mead. “There’s a bathing area in the cellar. Pump for clean water, fire’s still warm, towels in the cupboard. Since you rented two rooms, I’ll only charge you ten Septims for four baths.”

Josh follows Lauren down the steps to the bathing area, and I order another round of mead. It is too sweet, but I haven't tried anything else.

I swirl the mug. "Tell me more about Skyrim and the people living here. I've seen the Dunmer, but Delphine called him a Dark Elf. I take it there are other races of Elves as well," I inquire.

Bailey leans in, eyes bright. “Oh, there are plenty. High Elves, Wood Elves, and Snow Elves turned into Falmer by the Dwemer. She continues to explain the lore behind the game, and I'm surprised to hear that it's part of a series called Elder Scrolls. The developers put serious work into it, crafting intricate backstories. It's like a whole universe with its own history.

Orgnar sets down a small goblet filled with amber liquid. “Brandy. On the house. I’m going to bed. Your friends left the bath hours ago, so if you want hot water, best hurry. I’m not stoking that fire again until tomorrow.”

He disappears down the stairs.

I take a cautious sip of the brandy. It tastes like liquid campfire

Bailey catches my expression and laughs, dimples flashing. For some reason, I want to touch that dimple. Maybe it’s the brandy, or maybe it’s the fact that we’re apparently stuck in a medieval death-simulator. I have known Bailey since her father married Lauren’s mother, and to be honest, I had a crush on the girl with indigo eyes for a year or more, but it is the first time we spent so much time together as adults, and I must admit I find her fascinating.

We decide to split up, Josh and I will go after the Dragonstone before speaking with the Farengar guy. Bailey and Lauren will head to Whiterun to warn the Jarl.

We have enough money left to hire someone to accompany the two women. After asking around, we end up with a Bosmer named Faendal, pointy ears, and a sharp jawline. He looks like he could handle himself against a wolf or two, maybe even a bear if he’s having a good day.

Lauren doesn’t seem convinced. “He looks like Legolas’s wet-behind-the-ears cousin,” she mutters.

Bailey grins. “He is a Bosmer and can shoot a running rabbit through the eye.”

Lauren only shrugs, still not convinced.

After we say our farewells, with Lauren hugging Josh like we’re going off to Mordor, we start the climb toward Bleak Falls Barrow.

I stare at the huge structure looming before us. “Bleak Falls Barrow. Who came up with these names?”

Josh laughs, shifting his pack higher on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s Skyrim. Everything’s either Bleak or Forsaken. It’s part of the charm.”

I’ve never killed a person in my life. Not even in a game. I never saw the appeal of sitting in front of a screen, pretending to murder people while eating snacks. Now here I am, holding a real bow, aiming at a real bandit sprinting at me with a real axe, and I miss completely.

“Focus, Garrett. No warning shots. Shoot to kill,” Josh barks, his voice weirdly calm. “Remember, no respawning if we die.”

The next few seconds are chaos and adrenaline. I manage to take down the three bandits patrolling outside the Barrow. The last one drops, and suddenly I’m not a hero. I’m just a guy about to vomit up the cheese and two apples I ate on the way.

Josh looks at me with sympathy in his eyes. "In the game, there are another two inside, arguing, and later there are two more. One will die when hit by poisoned darts, and the other will spring a trap, and Draugr will finish him off."

“Draugr? As in… mummified zombies?”

“Pretty much.”

Okay, zombies. I can handle zombies. Movies prepared me for this. I sling my quiver forward and count the arrows.

“You remember how many there are?” I ask.

Josh blinks. "You must be joking. You think I counted them? I kill them and move on.”

“I’m just saying, if there are more than thirteen, we’ve got a problem. I’ve got fifteen arrows.”

“I can subtract, Garrett. Most of the Draugr have bows and arrows. We can pick up more as we go," Josh reassures me.

Draugr wielding swords sounded not so bad, but them using bows is going to complicate things. I inhale and exhale slowly before pushing the huge doors of the Barrow open.

Killing the two unarmed bandits, one of them a woman, made me feel like crying. I am going to have nightmares, I know it. Then there are the rats from a horror movie, a spider, and a troll Josh forgot to mention.

By the time we reach the last chamber, I almost believe we’ve made it. Sunlight filters through a hole in the ceiling, and a flowing river, surrounded by plants.

Peaceful, until the huge Draugr steps from his stone resting place.

Big. Ancient. Growls like he’s gargling rocks. And he shouts.

I turn to Josh. “You forgot about the zombie with shout powers?” How do you forget this? He’s literally trying to kill us with his voice!”

“Garrett, can you hear me?”

Josh is kneeling in front of me, holding the sword and axe he looted from the Draugr earlier. Both weapons shimmer faintly, green and purple, like an oil slick under torchlight.

“Enchanted,” he’d said when I asked. Because of course they are.

My skull feels like it’s hosting a live concert. Rick Allen is pounding away on one side, Travis Barker trying to outdo him on the other, pounding my brain to liquid.

I groan, the echo vibrating somewhere deep inside my teeth. The last image before everything went black flashes back in painful clarity. The Draugr’s voice exploded against the cavern walls, my body flying like a ragdoll, the world going white.

I scramble upright, heart hammering. “Where is the fucking Draugr? And how could you forget to mention it?”

“Calm down,” Josh says, way too casually for someone who just fought an undead Viking. He leads me to the river that winds through the cavern like a silver snake, then points.

The Draugr is there, or what’s left of it, half-submerged, its ancient armor glinting under the weak light. One arm flails uselessly, scraping at the stone as it tries to drag itself from the water.

“I cut his legs out while he was busy shouting you into a wall,” Josh explains casually. “Then his arm holding you in the air, followed. After that, I rolled his big undead ass into the pool.”

The Draugr gurgles, mouth opening in what might be another attempt at a shout, but instead of that deathly roar, it just swallows water. Bubbles rise. The silence that follows feels like victory, absurdly small and fragile.

"Suck my…” He pauses mid-sentence, grinning. “On second thought, don’t," Josh laughs and holds one of the small bottles Bailey bought in Riverwood to me. “Here. Health potion. You can thank me later for saving your sorry ass.”

“Right,” I mutter, pulling the cork and swallowing. The taste is metallic and sweet, like cherry syrup poured over iron. “Next time, maybe a little heads-up about a shouting corpse would be nice.”

Josh chuckles, wiping his sword clean on the Draugr’s tattered cloak. “Where’s the fun in that?”

The echo of his laugh bounces through the cavern. Hollow, nervous, and just a little too human.

(1)Listen here, moron.  You are the Dragonborn, you have to go to Whiterun

(2)B’vek! You are loud. I am not going to Whiterun to warn the Jarl(leader). They tried to kill me. The dragon can burn Skyrim for all I care. I am going back to Morrowind

Chapter Text

Alvor folds his arms. “You will have to take your loot to Whiterun,” he says, nodding toward the road out of town. “We don’t get many visitors in Riverwood, and as you can see, I haven’t sold even one of the weapons I bought from you yesterday.”

His gaze lingers on the bow slung over my shoulder, the fancy Elven, and the other, more gruesome Draugr relic hanging beside it. “Tell you what,” he adds, scratching his beard, “I’ll trade you the Elven bow for a good leather quiver and belt.”

I look at Josh, who nods while browsing through a crate of leather belts and sheaths.

Josh places the golden dragon claw on the counter with a dramatic flair that would make Indiana Jones proud.

Lucan’s face lights up. “My claw! Oh, thank the Divines….”

Josh cuts him off, waving away the offered coins. “Keep the gold, my man. We’ll take health potions instead.”

I blink and whisper. “You don’t want gold?”

“Nope,” Josh replies. “In the game, potions are everywhere, ruins, tombs, caves, but in this version of reality? Not so much. And honestly, even if we did find any, I’m not about to drink something that’s been sitting in a crypt for hundreds of years."

Lucan rummages through his storeroom, muttering about “strange travelers with no sense of economy.”

"Can't you mix potions for us, Josh? You're in your third year of chemistry and already know which ingredients to use."

“That… is actually a brilliant idea,” he says, eyes lighting up with mad-scientist glee. “I didn’t think of that! I’ll need someone to show me how these alchemy tables work, though.”

Josh places the Dragonstone on the counter before Orgnar. "We need to speak to Delphine.”

Orgnar glances at the stone, then back at us. "She left right after your two women and Faendal left this morning. And don't ask me where she went or for how long. She never says."

Upon learning that Whiterun is a day's travel from Riverwood, not two hours as in the game, Josh curses under his breath. "It seems Skyrim is far larger than in the game. There are other differences as well. We can no longer rely on my and Bailey's knowledge of the game."

We decide to stay overnight in Riverwood.  I wake, drenched in sweat from the nightmare where five dead bandits dance on my grave. If we are going to survive this, I will have to man up. Three people are depending on me to shoot my arrows straight.

Josh leaves the road as soon as we top the hill and Whiterun comes into view. We walk through farmland that stretches from the foot of the mountain to the road leading to the city. Josh murmurs something about too many farms, but the giant trampling a cornfield deserves more attention. Giants, dragons, bandits, and Draugr. How many enemies are there in this game? I have seen Josh play games about war, past and future, and there was always only one type of enemy, the opposition.

Josh wants to rush forward and help the three people battling with the giant, but I hold him back. My eyes stay on the redhead firing arrows. She is good. Really good.

The giant collapses after a brutal display of teamwork. Slashed hamstring, then a headshot, and down he goes like a felled tree. I whistle. “Impressive.”

The redhead eyes me, unimpressed. “Can you use that bow on your back, or is it just an accessory?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You handled it. I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

The big dark-haired guy next to her chuckles. She promptly smacks him in the back of the head. “Ice brain,” she says, striding toward Whiterun.

“Friendly bunch,” I murmur.

Josh grins. “That was Aela, Ria, and Farkas. Companions. Think ‘Nordic Avengers’ with a side of fur problem.”

“Fur problem?”

“Werewolves,” he says casually.

I stare at him. “Of course they are. Because apparently, Skyrim has a ‘collect one of every monster’ policy.”

“Welcome to the extended universe,” Josh says, smirking as he hefts the Dragonstone again. “Now let’s deliver this thing to the wizard before I pull a muscle.”

The mage turns the stone from side to side, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I haven't come across any literature detailing how the stone is supposed to reveal those with dragon blood. This side appears to be a map, with an inscription in dragon script on the other," he explains, holding the stone out for us to see. To me, the script resembles nothing more than chicken scratchings.

"Here lie our fallen lords until the power of Alduin revives," Josh recites, voice all solemn and dramatic. He shrugs when I stare at him. "Fandom site, folks. Bailey happens to be fluent in the dragon tongue as well."

Farengar wears a puzzled expression. "Could you please explain what a fandom sight is? And are both of you seers?"

"On cue," Bailey remarks as a commotion erupts outside the mage's office.

A Dunmer woman comes rushing toward us. "Farengar! Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon has been sighted nearby. You four, follow me."

Farengar lights up like it’s Christmas. "A dragon! How thrilling! Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

The Dunmer shoots him a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "I would take this a bit more seriously if I were you. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I do not know if we can stop it. Let us go."

She leads us to a flight of stairs, and we trail behind her to the second floor. It appears to be a war room, evident from the map adorning the wall and the table decorated with coloured flags.

The conversation behind me fades into murmurs while I study the map before me. How will we find the Dragonborn? What if we never find them? What if we never get home?

Lauren looks like a lost child when we leave her on the steps leading to the inn. I suggest Bailey stay as well, but she refuses, "You go and meet Irileth at the gate. I'm going to rouse the Companions from their mead hall to help."

We join Irileth and the soldiers just in time to catch the tail end of her speech. "Could you call yourselves Nords if you run from this monster? Are you going to let me face this thing alone?"

A few guards remain silent, but others answer resolutely, "No!"

She turns her head toward Josh and me before finishing her speech. "But it is more than our honour at stake here. Think of it, the first dragon seen in Skyrim since the last age. The glory of killing it is ours if you're with me! Now, what do you say? Shall we go kill us a dragon?"

Josh and I receive strange looks from the soldiers when our “Booyah!” mixes with their cry of war.

Smoke curls over the ruined watchtower as we arrive. A guard, face streaked with soot, waves us back. The dragon has slain two guards and taken flight to the south.

Josh points in the direction of the mountain, and a dark shape can be seen soaring over the arches of Bleak Fall Barrow. "There it is. Get ready," he advises.

I glance down as Bailey touches my arm, her voice steady. "Aim for the eyes, big guy," she instructs. The trio of Companions who vanquished the giant stands behind her.

"I hope you can dispatch a dragon as easily as you did a giant," Josh remarks, his gaze fixed on the approaching shape.

Then hell opens when the dragon roars. A sound that feels like it’s vibrating the marrow out of my bones. The agonizing screams of the archers, consumed by dragon fire, reverberate in my mind long after their charred bodies fall silent. I close my eyes briefly, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly, trying to steady my trembling hands.

As the dragon turns and circles back, flying low, lightning flashing from the Dunmer’s hands, slowing it just enough for me to draw my bow and release two arrows aimed directly at its eyes. The dragon bellows in agony, confirming that at least one arrow has found its mark. Despite its immense power, the dragon is gradually succumbing to our relentless assault.

The beast crashes down hard, dust and heat rolling off it in waves. The dragon starts speaking, guttural and ancient words that sound like they’re aimed straight at my soul.

“Bailey, watch out!” I shout as it rears its head. Fire blossoms in its throat. I shove her down, covering her as the world turns white-hot.

The pain is instant, absolute. The smell of burning leather, the scream of my own lungs fighting fire. My skin feels like it’s being peeled away by the sun itself.

Bailey’s scream pierces through it all. Then, nothing. Just black.

Someone nearby is crying, and an instinct to comfort them tugs at me, but I can’t move. Memories of the dragon’s onslaught, the searing heat, the blinding fire, trickle back into my mind. Strangely, I feel no pain. Am I dead?

“Nahlaas, hi los nahlaas. (1)”

I struggle to open my eyes, searching for the source of the words, and find Bailey weeping by my bedside. Josh sits slumped in a chair, asleep, with Lauren curled in his lap.

“Bailey?” My voice sounds like the rasping of something ancient and half-dead.

“Garrett! Josh, Lauren! Garrett’s awake!”

Lauren almost tumbles from Josh’s lap when he jolts upright. He kneels beside the bed, eyes shining with tears he’s too proud to shed. I want to tease him, but I know if our positions were reversed, I’d be just as close to breaking.

“We almost lost you,” Josh says, running a hand through his hair. “If it weren’t for your quick thinking, Bailey might not be here. I’ve never seen you move that fast in my life.”

“The dragon?” My voice remains rough, and Lauren gently lifts my head to offer a glass of water.

“The last arrow you fired pierced its brain,” she explains softly. “Its eyes were like pincushions. I counted eleven of your arrows before it burned.”

Bailey’s indigo eyes are red from crying, yet she manages a trembling smile. I can’t help imagining the feel of my lips on her dimpled cheek. What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly feeling this way about someone I’ve known since childhood?

“I want to kiss you for saving my life,” she says, her voice thick with emotion, “and I want to kick your arse for risking yours for mine.”

“I’ll gladly take the kiss. I don’t think my body can handle a kick right now,” I manage with a grin.

Bailey blushes, and warmth floods through me, but I push the thought aside. No. Don’t go there.

A woman steps forward, gently nudging Josh aside. “I am Danica, priestess of Kynareth. Young man, it is an honour to have you in the temple, though I wish it were under better circumstances.” Her hand brushes over my hair. “The burn on your face is healing remarkably fast, and you’ll have minimal scarring on your back, but….. She sounds as if she is close to tears.

Before I can respond, she kisses my cheek. I feel the heat rise in my face. What is wrong with this woman?

“Who’s going to tell him?” Josh asks, glancing at Lauren.

“You or Bailey,” she replies. “I still don’t understand what’s happening.”

My gaze shifts between them. “Tell me what?”

“You may do the honours, Josh,” Bailey says quietly. “You knew it first.”

Josh takes a deep breath, eyes filled with something between awe and disbelief.

“Garrett,” he says slowly, “the reason you didn’t die is because, when the dragon fell, you absorbed its soul, its strength.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “Garrett, my man, my buddy, my friend... You are Dragonborn.”

• Alive, you are alive.

Chapter Text

The next few hours drift by in a haze of potions Danica keeps forcing down my throat. Time loses all meaning, just fragments of voices, the cool touch of water, the faint scent of herbs.

When my mind finally clears, I find myself alone, staring at a statue that must be the goddess Kynareth Danica kept mentioning. The soft light from the temple windows paints her face in shades of gold and green, serene and impossibly distant.

How can I be Dragonborn? I’m not from Skyrim. I’m not even from this world. I don’t have dragon blood, and I don’t believe in Akatosh or any of the gods they worship here. None of this makes sense.

I must have slipped into a dreamless sleep, because when I woke, my bed was surrounded by a sea of faces. Josh, Lauren, Bailey, and the Companions who helped us slay the dragon.

Bailey’s smile is wide when I look at her. “Finally, you’re awake. How do you feel?”

“Can someone please explain why you think I’m the Dragonborn?”

Josh drags a chair over. “Man, I’ve never seen anyone move so fast. You shoved Bailey to the ground just as the dragon breathed fire. Then your scream….” He rubs his eyes, grimacing. “I’ve had nightmares about that sound for three days.”

“Three days? How long have I been lying here?”

“Today’s the fourth,” says the redhead Companion. I remember Bailey calling her Aela. Her tone makes it sound like I overslept through an apocalypse.

“Farkas pulled Bailey out from under you,” Josh continues. “She tried to run back, but then… well, it happened. The sound was like a million people clapping at once, and the dragon just lit up. Blue and yellow light, swirling like a storm. Then it shot straight into you. You floated, shouted something in dragon, and passed out cold.”

I blink at him. “So… I basically inhaled a dragon’s soul and yelled in its native language before taking a nap, and now everyone is calling me Dragonborn?”

They all nod at once as if they practiced it for a week.

“All of you out!” Danica snaps, herding them toward the door like misbehaving goats. “Dragonborn needs his potion, and I need to redress the wound on his arm.”

She presses a potion to my lips, her tone softening. “Josh left out one small detail, the call of the Greybeards. All of Whiterun Hold and beyond heard it. You were summoned to High Hrothgar, young man. What an honour.”

I stare at her, potion still on my tongue. Who or what are Greybeards?

“Honouree, my arse,” Josh mutters, squinting at the parchment the steward handed me. “To be honoured as Thane, one must purchase property within the Hold and pay taxes on said property. A Housecarl will be assigned with the understanding that a wage of two hundred Septim per week is payable by the appointed Thane.”

I blink at him. “So basically, it’s a timeshare with a bodyguard.”

The realisation sinks in. How are we supposed to buy property when we can barely afford another week at the inn? Jarl Balgruuf’s face sours like he’s just bitten into a lemon soaked in vinegar when I decline his so-called honour. Guess I’m not joining the Skyrim aristocracy anytime soon.

A week has passed, and I will never pull the strings of a bow again. There is minimal scarring on the right side of my back, running from my shoulder down to below my waist. But who the fuck cares about that if my arm looks like I stole Freddy Krueger’s arm? My fingers look like a wax imprint of a hand, four fingers fused, and I cannot bend them, not even for the simple act of scratching my arse.

Lauren kneels beside me, massaging some potent oil Josh brewed up. It smells like a forest floor mated with a chemical spill. I tease her about being an airhead, but she’s a professional physiotherapist back home. “So,” she says, turning my hand over in hers, “how exactly do these healing potions work?”

Josh glances up from the map he’s marking with dramatic intensity. “You drink it. You heal. That’s the whole concept. Why?”

“Is the healing instantaneous, or does it take a few minutes?”

“Honestly? No idea,” he admits. “Maybe we can ask Danica or Farengar. Assuming the Jarl hasn’t banned us from the castle after Garrett’s little Thane-decline stunt.”

Lauren’s eyes light up with dangerous curiosity. “If we can get hold of a scalpel, or a very thin blade, I think I can repair some of the damage to Garrett’s hand.”

“No!” Bailey interjects, snatching my hand away like Lauren’s about to perform surgery with a butter knife. “You’re not cutting into him. You’re not a surgeon!”

“I’m not planning to cut into him,” Lauren replies, glaring. “I just want to separate the fused skin, maybe loosen the tendons that shrank from the burn.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Bailey presses, her voice trembling just a little.

Lauren sighs. “I don’t know.”

I gently pull my hand from Bailey’s grip and cup her cheek with my good one. “I want to try. My hand is useless as it is, and that makes us vulnerable. Even if Lauren can save two fingers…” My voice falters. I don’t finish the sentence. Losing archery feels like losing a part of myself, sponsors, tournaments, all of it gone. I could still finish my architecture degree, sure. I don’t need two hands to design a building. But it still hurts to think I’d lose something I love because some cosmic glitch decided to drop us into a modded nightmare.

“Before we start slicing and dicing,” I say, straightening up, “we need a cheaper place to stay and a way to make coin.”

I drop our remaining coins on the table. The pile looks pathetically small. “Enough for another week at the Bannered Mare, maybe two if we share a room and eat like monks. After that, it’s either find work or start looting like professional adventurers.”

Josh leans back, grinning faintly. “So… what you’re saying is we need jobs. In Skyrim. Great. I call dibs on not being the town’s designated rat hunter.”

Lauren groans. “We’re literally in a world full of dragons, magic, and ancient curses, and you’re worried about rats.”

“If all of us were capable fighters, I’d suggest we join the Companions,” Josh says, rubbing his chin like he’s weighing the pros and cons. “We’d have food, shelter, mead, and a steady paycheck from odd jobs.”

“And become werewolves,” Bailey replies flatly, arching a brow.

Josh waves a dismissive hand. “Come on, you know that’s optional. Besides, Vilkas would never let us join after he’s done using that massive sword of his to demonstrate why we suck at combat.”

Lauren, who’s been fussing with her coat, straightens. “I’m going to the temple. I want to talk to Danica about the potion and maybe see if she needs help. With payment, of course.” She tightens the coat around her shoulders. “Honestly, only we would get isekai’d into Skyrim when winter is coming.”

“Wrong franchise,” Josh points out without missing a beat.

“Same trauma,” Lauren fires back, heading for the door.

The moment it closes, Bailey sighs and smirks. “If we ever get back home, I’m scripting a Skyrim mod,  ‘Physiotherapist of Skyrim – Healers of Aching Bones and Sore Backs.’”

Josh tries to keep a straight face but fails spectacularly. “You know she’ll have your head if she hears you say that.”

Bailey’s laugh fills the room, light and infectious.

I can’t help smiling. For a moment, despite the cold wind outside and the fact that we’re broke, scarred, and stuck in a world where dragons are real, it feels like we’re us again.

Josh gestures for Bailey and me to join him at the small desk in the room. "Our primary focus is on Garrett's recovery, and we all need to hone our skills with weapons, including you, Garrett. You can train your left hand to wield a sword. People adapt all the time. Luke lost a hand, and he still managed.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, “but he got a robot hand. I got a puddle of wax… And this is not a movie.”

Josh ignores me and points to the map spread out on the table, now covered in angry X’s and scribbles like a conspiracy board. “We can skip all the guild nonsense. We don’t need to join the Thieves Guild, Dark Brotherhood, or get Daedric weapons. We just need to beat Alduin, not 100% the game. No word walls, no side quests, no collecting twenty Nirnroots for some guy with trust issues.”

"You'll need to journey to High Hrothgar to speak with the Greybeards," Bailey points to a mark on the map. "Ugh! No fast travel, which means we'll have to climb the mountain multiple times." She glances down at the soft leather boots adorning her feet. "It's high time we acquire proper boots and armour, not these flimsy things we're currently wearing."

Josh shrugs. “We know Delphine took the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, so we can head straight to Riverwood after meeting with the Greybeards. We know where Esbern is hiding," Josh states, drawing a line through the Thalmor Embassy on the map.

Josh folds the map. “We can discuss our next move once we've entered Sky Haven Temple. I want the sword, Dragonbane, and perhaps recruit Blades to assist us, ideally without having to pay them. Or feeding them." He tucks the map away with a flourish. “Now, someone’s gotta tell Lauren that we’re camping for the foreseeable future.”

“Don’t look at me,” I say immediately. “She’s your girlfriend, not mine.”

Bailey snorts. “Hard pass. I’d rather fight a frost troll with a spoon. Just tell her and run. She’ll calm down eventually. She always does. She hates camping but has tagged along on every trip, even when she could've stayed home or with friends.”

Lauren comes back clutching a small handful of coins, not much, but enough to buy one pair of proper hard leather boots. One pair down, three to go. Perhaps we should have kept the Imperial armour we buried next to the river outside Riverwood. The comical image of me clad in armour resembling a mini dress springs to mind. We'll manage to scrape together the money somehow, even if it means I wind up sweeping someone’s floors for coin.

"I have more good news," Lauren announces. "I've found us a place to stay. A kind old lady has offered us food and board in exchange for help around the house. That includes collecting and chopping wood, cleaning, and running errands."

Bailey's eyes dart from Lauren to Josh and back. "Lauren, please tell me this kind old lady isn't named Olava."

"Yes, it is. How did you know?" Lauren responds, puzzled.

Josh wraps his arm around Lauren's shoulders and plants a kiss on her head. "Lauren, if there were a mafia in Skyrim, she'd be the Godfather… or should I say, Godmother. She's connected to the assassins, the Dark Brotherhood, and she deals drugs, skooma, for the Khajiit. We can't stay there. We could get dragged into her operations, and before we know it, we'd be fugitives of the law."

Lauren absorbs the news of our upcoming camping during our journey through Skyrim with a vacant stare and clenched fists. There's no shouting, crying, or any of the other reactions we predicted. “If Garrett could get burned alive for Bailey, I can sleep under a tree for a few nights.” She squeezes my hand once, hard enough to mean it.

“Also,” she adds, practical as ever, “where can we buy a scalpel? I need proper tools if I’m going to try anything with Garrett’s hand.”

Josh gives a long-suffering sigh. “Apothecary, blacksmith, or a ruin where they performed who knows what.”

Bailey smirks. “I vote Eorlund Grey-Mane and a Skyforge blade.”

Aela stands beside the old man named Kodlak, who insists he’s not the leader of the Companions but their Harbinger.

What’s the difference? He speaks, they listen, and right now, that’s exactly what’s happening.

Farkas’s brother, Vilkas, the one who looks like he sleeps with his sword out of sheer distrust, tries to argue, but Kodlak silences him with a single look. The kind of look that could probably make dragons apologise for existing. His grey eyes command obedience, and everyone in the hall falls quiet.

“I have decided, Vilkas,” Kodlak says, voice like gravel and wisdom rolled into one. “There are too many empty beds in Jorrvaskr. The Dragonborn and his friends need our help and are welcome to stay with us. We will assist them with training, and they will accompany our shield-brothers and sisters on missions when they are prepared.”

Vilkas’s black eyes flick to me, assessing, calculating, unimpressed. The smirk that follows says he’s already decided I’m not worth the steel it’d take to gut me. I hold his gaze anyway, refusing to blink. Burned hand, useless fingers, and all. I’ve faced worse than his ego.

We all know we weren’t invited out of pity. Nothing in Skyrim comes free, not even hospitality. Sooner or later, payment will be due in coin, blood, or labour.

“Are you ready, Garrett?”

I glance between the two women in front of me. Lauren stands steady, holding the thin Skyforge steel blade Eorlund Gray-Mane forged himself. Danica, priestess of Kynareth, grips a bottle of healing potion in one hand and the faint shimmer of a calming spell in the other.

No anaesthetic. No sterile lights. Just me, a piece of wood between my teeth, a table scrubbed down with brandy, a knife sterilized by fire and said brandy, and a prayer that I don’t wake up missing more than I started with.

Things can only improve from here, right?

The room is packed with Companions. Do they not have bandits to decapitate or sabre cats to punch to death? Something to tear apart with their wolf claws. Apparently, watching me get my hand sliced open counts as premium entertainment.

"The Dragonborn is a milk-drinker, afraid of some bactri or whatever you call it. I could have enjoyed the brandy the lady used," Torvar slurs, swinging his mug of mead around. How can one person consume so much alcohol? His liver must be as big as a bus.

Bailey gently removes the stick from my mouth and presses a soft kiss to my lips. “For saving my life,” she murmurs.

I can’t help myself. “Is your life worth only one soft kiss?”

She blushes, rolls her eyes, and shoves the stick back between my teeth. Fair enough. Grinning around it, I probably look like a dog that’s just discovered fetch.

I meet Lauren’s steady gaze, calm and professional, then close my eyes and nod.

The first cut burns white-hot, a sound like tearing parchment mixed with my own muffled scream. The world fractures.

The five decaying bandits from Bleak Falls dance on my grave. Their flesh, shedding like wet parchment. Their eyes are hollow, their smiles too wide. I reach out, desperate for forgiveness, but they sway just out of reach, moving to some macabre rhythm only they can hear.

Then, a hand on my shoulder. I turn, and standing behind me is a figure with two faces, one human, one dragon. His voice is the crack of thunder over a dying world.

“Dreh ni faas. Hi kos fin hun do Keizaal. Hi kos Dovahkiin.” (1)

• Do not fear. You are the hero of Skyrim. You are Dragonborn

Chapter Text

"

"Akatosh spoke to you!" The delight on Danica’s face is almost painful to witness.

I pull Bailey closer and whisper, "Who’s Akatosh?"

Apparently, I didn’t whisper soft enough, or Danica has ears like a bat.

"You don’t know who Akatosh is?" she exclaims. "He is your father, the one who blessed you with the blood of a dragon."

"My father’s name is Joren, and he’s a partner at an accounting firm, not some two-headed cosmic being," I shoot back.

Bailey squeezes my hand before Danica can scold me. "Garrett, I know you’re cranky from the pain, but don’t take it out on her. You know she doesn’t mean it literally. Now, think about what he said in your dream."

I close my eyes, trying to recall the vision, carefully skipping over the part where corpses danced on my grave.

“Dreh ni faas. Hi kos fin hun do Keizaal. Hi kos Dovahkiin.”

I shake my head. “It sounds like gibberish.”

“It’s the dragon tongue,” Bailey explains softly. “He told you not to fear. That you are Dragonborn.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Why are you afraid, Garrett?”

Her gaze pins me in place. I can’t lie, not to her. If I did, something fragile between us would shatter for good.

“The night of the lightning,” I begin slowly, “I saw myself in the window, like I look now. I was afraid to touch it. Then Josh touched the mirror, and we were pulled through. If I’d touched first, it would’ve been just me. You, Lauren, and Josh would be safe back home. Away from dragons, bandits, and werewolves.”

Bailey leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You forgot the vampires.”

Her attempt at humour does little to hide the fear flickering in her eyes.

She leans closer, her breath brushing my cheek. “What if all four of us were meant to be here? If not, the mirror wouldn’t have opened when Josh touched it. I’m not sorry I got pulled into this world with you, Garrett. I’m only sorry I almost got you killed.”

Before I can respond, her lips find mine again. When she pulls away, her dimple flashes. “I’ll pay my life debt in instalments.”

“Instalments come with interest, you know,” I manage, still reeling a little.

“Why do you think I pay in instalments?” she fires back, grinning.

Her laughter trails down the corridor as she leaves to find Lauren, and for a moment, the room feels warmer than the fire crackling in the hearth.

Danica chooses that exact moment to reappear, pressing a small bottle of healing potion to my lips. “You two should’ve been married years ago, with a few children running around to fill the house. What’s wrong with you?”

I choke mid-swallow, sputtering like I’ve just inhaled a mudcrab. She pats, no, whacks me between the shoulders hard enough to jolt my spine.

“Careful, Priestess,” I rasp. “You’ll undo all your healing.”

“Fuck!”

My little finger gets caught against the riser again when I pull the string, throwing my aim off by at least a Jarl’s ego. Lauren couldn’t separate my middle and ring fingers because of the risk of nerve damage. My little finger seems to have a mind of its own, and its sole purpose is to resemble Death's sickle. Honestly, if it keeps this up, I might just cut the damn thing off. Who needs a little finger anyway?

I’ve been training for a week. Mostly alone, sometimes with Aela, always under the disapproving glare of Lauren. She watches me like I’m a toddler with a greatsword.

“Getting us out of this place will be thanks enough,” she told me when I tried to thank her.

My hand still resembles little Freddy's, but now I can use it to scratch my ass. Ha-ha.

Njada waits for me as I leave the training area, linking her arm through mine. "Are you joining me at the Bannered Mare this evening? Mikael promised to sing the Song of the Dragonborn if you come with me."

I've run out of excuses to decline her invitation, and I rack my brain for another. Njada’s a great warrior, but she’s also... touchy. First, she tried her luck with Josh, and Lauren shut that down faster than a fireball to the face.

"I..."

“There you are, Garrett. I’ve been waiting for you,” Aela cuts in, seizing my arm and practically dragging me away. She doesn’t even glance at Njada, who’s now glaring daggers at her.

People in the street stop to stare as we pass, whispering behind their hands. A lot of whispering.

“Just ignore them,” Aela advises, looping her arm through mine. “They’ve all heard about the Dragonborn in Whiterun, but few have actually seen you. You’re the talk of the town.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Exactly what I wanted, local celebrity status and no royalties.”

We weave through the crowded streets until we reach the smithy near the gate. I’ve heard rumors about the couple running the Warmaiden’s, but I never met them. It turns out Adrianne, not her husband, is the blacksmith, and Ulfberth handles sales.

“I heard the Jarl’s not happy you turned down being Thane,” Ulfberth says with a grin that’s a little too knowing. “If you weren’t Dragonborn, he might’ve had the guards toss you out.”

“Good thing my winning personality saved me,” I reply dryly.

After a few minutes of polite small talk, mostly about Whiterun’s gossip mill and my mysterious origins, we finally get to why Aela dragged me here.

“I hope it fits,” Adrianne says, handing me a sleek leather archery glove. “Aela’s usually right with measurements.”

The glove has an opening for my thumb and index finger, and a wider one for the two fused fingers.

Aela helps me slide it on, tugging until the tight leather hugs my hand. My little finger curls inward against my palm.

“I noticed it bends a bit when Lauren massages it,” Aela explains. “This should keep it out of the way and improve your aim.”

It’s tight enough to sting, and the leather feels like it might peel my skin, but I’ll adapt. A thicker patch covers where the string will catch, protecting the new scar tissue. I’m ridiculously grateful, enough that I might even consider drinking her blood if she asked. Probably not the best thought to have around Bailey.

Speak of the devil, and she appears.

Bailey folds her arms, watching us like she just caught me cheating on my taxes. “Aela’s not doing this out of the goodness of her heart. She’s softening you up to join their little club of werewolves.”

“Bailey, come on,” Josh says before I can answer. “If it weren’t for her talking to Kodlak, we’d be out on the streets selling skooma for Olava the Feeble.”

Bailey glares at him, then points straight at me. “If she, Skjor, or anyone asks you to meet them in the Underforge, you say no. We pack up and leave Whiterun. Got it?”

“Underforge?” I ask. “That sounds less like a secret meeting place and more like a high-end strip club.”

Her glare could melt steel.

Josh snorts. “If she had any magic in her, you’d be on fire. Again.”

Another two weeks slip by. Lauren earns a modest but steady income helping at the temple, while Bailey and Josh surprise both Vilkas and themselves with how far they’ve come in training.

Bailey’s joined Athis and Ria on a few contracts but refuses to work with Farkas. “I’m not putting myself through the trauma of watching him turn into a monster,” she insists.

Josh, on the other hand, takes every chance to team up with Farkas, only to come back disappointed each time. Apparently, Farkas hasn’t transformed once.

As for me, I’ve gone hunting twice with Aela and once with Skjor. Neither has brought up the Underforge. Maybe they’ve decided a werewolf with a Freddy paw isn’t Circle material.

Josh’s eyes widen as he stares at a scaly-looking Argonian, no pun intended, and an even more scaly man whispering in the corner of the Bannered Mare.

“Bailey, is that who I think it is?” he mutters.

Bailey glances over her shoulder, then hisses between her teeth. “Mallus.”

She leans closer. “You think he’s recruiting help for Honningbrew Meadery? Are we gonna stop him or just… watch the side quest unfold?”

Lauren and I exchange looks and wait it out. We've learned to stay quiet when the two of them start dissecting “game logic.” The last time Lauren asked a question, it turned into a ninety-minute lecture about game dynamics.

"Garrett, do you remember our grade eight English teacher, Miss Lexington?" Josh asks suddenly.

Oh, I remember her. Cold as Skyrim snow and twice as bitter. My mother called her a cold-hearted witch, to her face. Josh called her the Head Witch of Salem High. Most of us barely survived English class.

"In the game, there's this woman in Riften, Maven Black-Briar. The owner of Black-Briar Mead. Well, she's worse than Salem's head witch. She gets the Dragonborn to ruin the owner of the meadery," Josh explains, a thoughtful expression on his face. But am I going to like where this is going?

"If we help him with his little skeever problem and get his assistant fired, we might save the meadery and earn a point for the good guys," he concludes.

I do not understand the game’s dynamics. “I thought the Dragonborn is supposed to be the good guy.”

He grimaces. “Yeah… Skyrim’s morality system is kinda... flexible. Like, stab-a-thief-one-minute, adopt-an-orphan-the-next flexible.”

“As long as we don’t have to kill anyone,” I say carefully.

The look on Josh's face is a giveaway, and I shake my head. "Wait, Garrett," he interjects urgently. "A mad mage is hiding down in the tunnels after escaping from Whiterun prison. He's experimenting on skeevers, turning them into venomous creatures. If he's not stopped and those things escape, they could overrun Whiterun."

Sabjorn, the meadery’s owner, greets us like someone just stole his last septim. “What are you gawking at? Can’t you see I’ve got problems?”

Two dead skeevers lie in the corner. A third darts through a door like it’s late for dinner. My smile dies, but Josh’s stays plastered on like it’s painted there.

“We might be able to help,” he says brightly.

"Oh, really? And I don't suppose you'd just do it out of the kindness of your heart, would you? I hope you're not expecting to get paid until the job's done."

I turn to leave, but Josh grabs my arm. “You can pay us when the job’s done,” he insists, “and then we’ll have a little chat about your assistant before he gets back.”

Before I can object, Josh hangs a Closed for Business sign on the door and locks it. “And whatever you do, don’t open for a yellow Argonian,” he adds.

Sabjorn hands Josh two small bottles of poison without saying a word. His eyes narrow only slightly when I pull the bow from my back.

It takes an hour to clear the tunnels, poisoning the bait, skewering skeevers, and finally taking down the mage who thought lightning spells were a great conversation starter. Two arrows and he’s done.

If he hadn’t unleashed his rat army on us, I might’ve felt bad.

Josh stuffs our payment into his backpack, then uses what he knows about Mallus’s Black-Briar ties to get him fired. Sabjorn almost smiles. Almost.

“You know Torvar’s not going to stop at one mug when he checks in on Sabjorn,” I say.

Josh shrugs. “That’s fine. As long as he knows his favorite mead almost got turned into Black-Briar’s next business venture, he’ll be here a lot. Free security with a drinking problem.”

Josh leaves me at the steps of Jorrvaskr to fetch Lauren from the temple for their evening stroll through Whiterun before sunset.

From where I stand, I can see the steady plume of smoke rising from the Skyforge above the roofline, and I decide to check on Eorlund’s progress with my new bow.

Farkas and Josh returned to the dragon’s skeleton a few days after we killed it and came back hauling a cart full of bones and scales. Eorlund agreed to store it all for us.

“For weapons and armour,” Josh had said when I asked what he planned to do with them. Then he pressed a rib bone and a handful of coins into my hand. “Eorlund is waiting for your instructions. Get him to forge you a dragonbone bow.”

“Ah, young master Garrett.” Eorlund is one of the few who never calls me Dragonborn, and I’m grateful for that small mercy. “I was just about to see if you were at Jorrvaskr. The string is over there on the table, and Elrindir delivered your arrows about an hour ago.”

The bow he places in my hands is a thing of beauty. Elegant, powerful, and alive with craftsmanship. I can’t help but run my fingers along the polished curve, tracing the etched bone that mimics the scales of a dragon. The riser and limb tips gleam with Skyforge steel, catching the dying light of the forge.

Eorlund beams at my quiet admiration. If I could take one thing back to reality, it would be this.

By the time I stop shooting, the world has gone dark enough that I can barely see the target. I pull my practice arrows free and tilt my head toward the sky. The twin moons hang round and silver, so close it feels as though I could touch them if I reached far enough.

If there’s one thing I know I’ll miss when we finally go home, it’s this. The night air is so sharp it feels like it could cut, the whisper of the wind through the trees, and those impossible moons watching over it all.

The porch is empty now, the laughter and clatter from Jorrvaskr fading into the distance. I sit down just beyond the torchlight, letting the shadows fold around me. Eyes closed, I listen to Skyrim breathe.

I was never one for crowded rooms or loud celebrations, and Jorrvaskr always has both. Out here, in the dark, with the night pressing against my skin, it almost feels like peace.

The door to the porch opens, spilling light that stretches and distorts Skjor’s shadow across the floorboards. He hesitates for a moment, then walks off into the night without noticing me.

A few minutes later, the door opens again, and this time it’s Bailey. She slips out quietly and heads the same way Skjor did.

Where is she going at this hour? Meeting Skjor? Meeting Skjor at night…. The fucking Underforge!

The chair slams into the wall as I jump to my feet and follow her.

By the time I reach the entrance, the huge slab of stone has already slid into place, sealing the way. I hit the smooth surface in frustration.

“Bailey!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Garrett?” Vilkas almost shouts when I yank him out of his chair like a rag doll.

“I need you to open the Underforge. Now.”

His brow furrows, the frown deepening between his grey eyes. “What do you know about the Underforge?”

It might have sounded menacing if I weren’t already scared out of my mind.

“Do you want me to shout your secret to everyone present,” I snap, “or are you going to help me? And you better pray to whatever gods you worship that we’re not too late.”

The scene that greets us moves in slow motion. My body feels just as sluggish.

Bailey is leaning over a stone basin, cupping something from its dark surface toward her mouth. Blood, thick and nearly black in the flickering torchlight, drips down her wrist and splashes against her dress. The whole thing looks like a scene out of a Quentin Tarantino movie.

“No!”

The shout rips from my throat as I slap her hand away. The blood sprays across Skjor’s face. Bailey’s eyes go wide in shock, and behind me, the room erupts with growls and curses.

By the time we make it back through Whiterun, people are staring. Whispers follow us, Dragonborn, Companion, and even a few nervous giggles. I ignore them.

Bailey stopped trying to pull her wrist from my hand when I threatened to throw her over my shoulder, and now she’s half-jogging to keep up with my pace.

We find Lauren and Josh at a corner table in the Bannered Mare. I shove Bailey down into the seat beside Lauren, but keep a tight grip on her wrist.

“Tell them, Bailey. Tell our friends what you did.”

She stares at the table, silent.

“We’re waiting,” I hiss.

“Garrett almost died because of me,” she whispers at last. Her shoulders tremble as she wipes at her face. “If I’d stayed behind like he asked, then… it wouldn’t have happened. I thought… it’s the only way…”

Lauren’s face drains of color. “What did you do, Bailey?”

“Please, Garrett,” Bailey pleads, voice cracking. “I thought if I took the blood, I could help keep us safe. You’re injured because of me and….”

Josh shoots to his feet, fury snapping in his eyes. “You fucking idiot! You keep preaching to us, and meanwhile….”

I push him back down. “She didn’t take the blood. I stopped her.”

The words come out hoarse. I drop into the chair, my whole body shaking. The thought of what could’ve happened if I’d been too late makes my stomach turn.

“I know we don’t have all the armor we wanted,” I say finally, “but we’ve got enough to get us through. We’re leaving tomorrow at daybreak.”

Later, I sit beside Bailey on the bed. We don’t speak for a long time. The silence between us is heavy, raw.

Maybe I overreacted. But the image of my Bailey turning into one of them, not the movie kind, but a seven-foot monster with claws and dripping jaws, won’t leave my head.

What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t think of her as my Bailey.

I stand and pull her gently to her feet. “Maybe I would’ve done the same,” I admit. “I’m sorry for overreacting. But promise me you won’t ever do something that stupid again.”

Chapter Text

It seems Jarl Balgruuf can hold a grudge longer than most people can hold their breath. Two months later, the guard at Dragonsreach plants himself in front of the door like a wall in armor.

“No entry,” he says flatly. “If you want an audience with Jarl Balgruuf the Greater, Steward Avenicci, or Farengar Secret-Fire, you’ll have to make an appointment.” He pauses, like he actually feels bad about it. “Honestly, neither you nor your companions are likely to be granted an audience. Not before you apologize and accept the Jarl’s honorary title.”

Bailey crosses her arms, unimpressed. “We’ll find another mage who can enchant our armor,” she says, already walking away. “Preferably one who doesn’t need his ego stroked first.”

That evening, we made the rounds at Jorrvaskr to say our goodbyes. Josh does the talking, he’s better at diplomacy than I am, and Kodlak listens with that calm, unreadable look of his. When Josh finishes, the old man sighs, clearly disappointed… but not in us.

“Aela. Skjor,” he says, his voice sharp enough to cut steel. “You should know better than to take advantage of those who come to you for help.”

You could’ve heard a coin drop. Aela’s jaw tightens, Skjor looks ready to bite through his own tongue, and I can practically feel the tension buzzing off them.

Kodlak turns back to us. “You’re welcome to stay, if you wish.”

“We appreciate it,” I say, “but we’ve got our own road to walk.” Translation: thanks, but no more secret blood-drinking clubs, please.

As we step outside, I can feel Aela’s eyes burning a hole straight through Bailey’s back. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. But the message is clear. Next time we cross paths, it won’t be friendly.

So yeah. We’re leaving Whiterun with one less ally… and maybe one pissed-off werewolf keeping score. I’ll be keeping a close watch for any sign of a hunting werewolf.

I strap the last of our gear to the mule’s back. Not exactly majestic, but it’s the only animal we could afford after spending most of our savings on armor, weapons, camping gear, and enough food to keep us from starving on the road.

Josh somehow convinced Arcadia to sell him a mortar and pestle along with a bunch of empty potion bottles. “For alchemy,” he said. Between that and the mule, we’re a covered wagon away from passing as travelling healers from the Wild West.

When I spot the pouch of Septims hanging off Josh’s belt, reality hits like a punch to the gut. Twenty coins left. That’s it. If we want to reach Ivarstead and avoid starving to death along the way, we’ll need a plan. Bandit camps, ancient ruins… all dangerous, all stupid ideas. But desperate times, right?

My stomach twists at the memory of the last “desperate time.” Five dead bandits. I still see them sometimes when I close my eyes. I whisper the words Bailey taught me under my breath. Zu’u fen succean. I will succeed. It’s become my mantra ever since the mess with my hand. It’s not what it used to be, but it’s getting there. One string pull at a time.

Lauren slips her hand into Josh’s, smiling up at him. They have this quiet understanding that makes the world seem a little less hostile. Then Bailey tiptoes up and kisses my cheek.

I grin and hook an arm around her waist. “If you keep paying your debts in small change, you’ll be paying me until you’re old and grey.”

Her lips curve into a smirk, right before I kiss her properly. Hard enough that Josh clears his throat pointedly behind us.

“Do you two need some privacy, or can we please start moving before the sun sets?”

I look over my shoulder, still grinning. “Privacy’s overrated. Let’s hit the road.”

Bailey squeezes my hand one last time before we join Josh and Lauren on the path out of Whiterun. Four outlanders, one mule, and a long road ahead.

Passing the Meadery, Sabjorn gives us a friendly wave, the kind that says, “Thanks for not letting my business burn down or turn into a skeever nest.” It’s a small win, but I’ll take it. Nice to know not everyone in Skyrim thinks we’re lunatics or Daedric cultists in disguise.

Lauren stands in front of us at the crossroads east of Whiterun, arms crossed, foot tapping like a mom waiting for her kids to admit who broke the expensive vase. “You should have settled on a route before we departed,” she says in that tone that suggests we’re the reason she needs therapy.

Josh spreads a crumpled map over his knee like he’s Captain Damn America plotting a war campaign. “South road to Riverwood, one night there, then Embershard Mine for the bounty. We camp by the Falkreath Stormcloak Camp, safer, though not ideal.”

Bailey squints at the map. “So, then we freeze our asses off crossing that icy pass between Falkreath Hold and the Rift before we even reach Ivarstead? Sounds cozy.”

Josh glares. “It’s still the fastest way. If we take the road past Darkwater Crossing will add two, maybe three days to our journey." His frustration shifts into a grin that spells trouble. "Wait a second… I knew you were fibbing when you claimed you don't fancy men with long hair and tattoos. You're just itching to explore that abandoned prison."

A blush tinges Bailey’s cheeks as she swiftly denies his accusation. "I haven't spotted any mods indicating his presence, have you? And no, I have no desire to explore the prison. But yes, there are indeed two shorter routes, and yes, I do have a fondness for men with long hair and tattoos, particularly if they sport crimson eyes and possess a seductive accent."

I have no clue what half of that means, but jealousy still punches me in the gut when Bailey laughs. There’s only so much flirting with fictional characters a man can take.

We finally pick a direction, east along the river, and not long after, two wolves decide to test our teamwork. Bad decision. Twenty Septims per pelt means they’re now financial assets. Josh and I spend an hour skinning them like we’re contestants on some medieval episode of Survivor: Skyrim Edition.

By the time we’re back on the road, Josh’s mood has sunk lower than a mudcrab in winter. Bailey, ever the agent of chaos, stops suddenly and points up at a hill. “What do you say, Josh? Want to touch the Ritual Stone?”

“No! You both are fucking mad. Not that I think it will work, but I am not going to animate dead people to fight alongside me, and neither are you!” My voice carries across the river, scaring off a flock of birds when they explain the stone's abilities. I already dream about corpses dancing on my grave. I’m not adding necromancy to the list of my personal horrors.

Bailey smirks. “Relax, we were just kidding.”

“Good. Because the day you start animating skeletons, I’m building a separate campfire. And sleeping with a crossbow.”

Josh grins. “Noted. Though… imagine how useful zombie bandits would be in a fight.”

“Josh.”

“Right, right. No zombies. Got it.”

Bailey crouches near the Ritual Stone, tracing a straight line from it across the mountainside. “If we set out early tomorrow, we can cross the ridge before nightfall,” she says, finger skimming the invisible route. “Steep climb for maybe two hours, tops. Then it’s snow, snow, and more snow until we hit the other side. We’ll camp by the river and reach Ivarstead the next day.”

“Perfect,” Josh grumbles. “What’s a little frostbite between friends?”

We set up camp about fifty meters from a Stormcloak encampment, close enough for safety, far enough to avoid recruitment speeches. Two soldiers wander over and offer firewood, their generosity clearly fueled by their curiosity. Josh, ever the extrovert, invites them to sit by our fire, eager to engage in conversation about the ongoing war.

"We've lost too many good men to this war," one soldier says, staring into the flames. "The Legion grows bolder by the day. Rumour has it they're planning to march on Dragons Bridge next."

Josh frowns. "But Dragon Bridge is an Imperial town, isn't it?"

"No, it's not," the soldier replies firmly. "And we'll fight tooth and nail to ensure it remains under Stormcloak control."

The soldiers eventually drift back to their camp. Josh waits until they’re out of earshot before leaning in. “We need to figure out where this war’s actually at,” he says quietly. “The game made it look simple. Imperials bad, Stormcloaks misunderstood, but this?” He gestures toward the distant blue banners flapping in the night breeze. “This feels like a coin toss with both sides rigged.”

Bailey nods, her dark hair catching the firelight. She doesn’t say it, but I know what she’s thinking. Her olive skin and Italian features already have her halfway mistaken for an Imperial spy. Josh doesn’t help matters. Dark hair and leaner build, he could pass for one too if someone squinted.

Later, I drift away from the firelight, settling on a rock at the edge of camp. The darkness feels thicker out here, the kind that presses in close and whispers. A prickle crawls up my neck, the unmistakable sense of being watched.

I force myself to stay still, staring down at the road below. No movement. No sound. Just the distant murmur of the river and the soft chew of the mule, content in its patch of grass.

If someone is watching us, they’re smart enough not to spook the animal. Or patient enough to wait until we sleep.

Bailey takes the lead, guiding us along a narrow footpath marked with the prints of deer and wolves. The climb turns out to be less brutal than I feared, though the thin air still bites at my lungs. When we finally crest the summit, the whole group exhales in unison.

The pass stretches ahead, wedged between two towering cliffs, draped in patches of knee-deep snow. Wind whips through the gorge, sending flurries swirling like ghosts. It’s breathtaking. Also freezing.

“Oof!”

A snowball explodes against the back of Josh’s head. He stumbles forward, sputtering in disbelief while laughter breaks the stillness behind us. Bailey and Lauren are doubled over, giggling so hard they can barely stand.

Before I can react, another snowball sails straight for me. I duck just in time, but Josh isn’t as lucky, the next one splats right across his face.

“That’s it!” he growls, wiping snow from his eyes. “You’ve officially declared war!”

Lauren shrieks and bolts, but Josh tackles her like he’s auditioning for the Skyrim Rugby League. They tumble into the snow, both laughing so loud it echoes off the cliffs.

Then, cutting through the laughter, a lone howl rolls across the mountain. Distant. Close enough to remind us where we are. The sound hangs in the air until it fades into silence. We all pause, catching our breath, the playfulness bleeding into alertness.

We move on quickly after that. The moment we step out of the pass, the world changes. The icy wind gives way to warmer air and the scent of flowers and damp earth. Below us lies a valley straight out of a painting. A winding river, rolling green hills, cattle grazing lazily in the sun. After the cold desolation of the mountain, it feels like stepping into another world.

By the time the sun dips low, streaking the sky in orange and pink, we’re too tired to appreciate it properly. We make camp beside the river, throw together a fire, and share a meal of bread, fruit, and cheese. No one complains, even exhaustion can’t dull the quiet satisfaction of surviving another day.

By the time we reach Ivarstead the next day, the sun hangs high and golden over the tiny settlement. Calling it a town feels generous. It’s more of a scenic pit stop with a sawmill, a few homes, an inn, and a trader’s stall.

“Welcome to the Vilemyr Inn,” says Wilhelm, the innkeeper, his voice warm enough to thaw the chill clinging to our clothes. “Fresh bread, hot meals, and clean beds. Can’t ask for better than that, eh?”

He chuckles and waves us along. “Rooms are upstairs. Bath’ll be ready in about an hour,” he adds, handing Lauren a key. “Narfi will come by to stoke the fires. His sister, Reyda, keeps the stables across the river, you can leave your mule there. Just follow the narrow path between the mill and the inn.”

Outside, the air smells like pine and smoke as we guide the mule over a narrow bridge toward a small farmhouse with a tidy garden and two stables.

Josh walks beside me, eyes scanning everything like he’s cataloguing the differences between memory and reality. “It’s uncanny,” he murmurs. “It looks like the game, right down to the chipped shutters, but it’s… off. Different in the details like Reyda being alive and Narfi not being as mad.”

Bailey's smile is tinged with mischief as she responds, "We've already altered the course of the game to some extent. I believe I'll take the opportunity to offer Reyda a warning. 'Bailey the Seer' shall have a word with her."

We decided to clear the Shroud Hearth Barrow of the spirits roaming the place, partly to help the locals sleep more easily, but mostly because we need coin. Bailey explained that it is a Dunmer wizard who is in pursuit of the hidden treasure within the ancient tomb.

“There’s a Word Wall in there, too. Maybe you’ll get another chance to soak up ancient dragon knowledge, and thankfully, no massive Draugr to toss you against it this time," Josh remarks, his tone tinged with a hint of amusement. "I'm quite curious to see how you'll absorb the knowledge from the wall."

“Ha-ha,” I mutter, but his grin tells me he’s enjoying himself.

Bailey’s been sulking since I suggested she sit this one out, so I try a softer approach. “Look, we know you can handle your daggers. Just humor me, okay? One last time. I promise I won’t ask you to stay behind again.”

Her glare could strip paint, but when Josh adds, “We’ll do a quick tour after the cleanup, free ruin crawl included,” the tension breaks. Bailey exhales, somewhere between annoyed and amused.

Lauren folds her arms. “Perfect. Can’t wait to cross ‘Tour a creepy crypt in a medieval hellscape’ off my bucket list,” she deadpans.

Josh takes point, methodically disarming every tripwire and pressure plate like he’s been doing this his whole life.

The only real threat turns out to be the wizard, and I take him down without hesitation. His body crumples before I even process the kill. For a moment, I just stand there, chest heaving, staring at the corpse.

Am I getting used to this? Or is it just the primal rush that hits when someone’s trying to fry you alive with lightning?

When we return to the inn to exchange a journal for a dragon claw, Bailey waves from the doorway. “Be careful!”

Josh mutters, “Yeah, thanks, Mom,” as we head back in.

The deeper we go and the more Draugr try to make us one of them, the more I realise leaving Bailey behind wasn’t an insult, but to keep her safe.

Josh breaks into a locked chest with a dull iron dagger, jamming it between the hinges until the lock snaps with a satisfying crack.

“I wish I could do that in the game,” he grins. “Would’ve saved me a thousand lockpicks and several mental breakdowns.”

The further we go, the quieter it gets, until we reach the final chamber. The word wall looms ahead, etched with ancient script. The last time I saw one of these, it threw me across a courtyard.

Josh hangs back. “You hear any chanting?”

I shake my head. “No chanting.”

“Any blinding lights?”

“No.” I step closer, hand brushing the surface. “Just… weirdly calm.”

The wall hums under my palm, the carvings glowing faintly. For a heartbeat, I swear I can feel it breathing.

“Kaan,” I whisper. The sound reverberates through the air, through me. A single word, simple and pure, radiating peace.

Chapter Text

A sudden hand on my shoulder jerks me awake. I stagger upright, only to trip over the chair leg and half-collapse back down.

“Garrett, you’re drunk!” Bailey’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp with shock and concern. She catches my arm, steadying me as I slump back into the seat.

I reach for the goblet, but she snatches it first, lifting it to her nose. “Where did you even get the brandy?”

I point vaguely toward the kitchen, trying to shake off the lingering nightmare that’s still clawing at my skull. This one was bad. Five bandit zombies were dancing on my grave before being torn apart by a dragon, then it turned on me. I tried to fight, but my hand was fused again, useless. I swear I can still feel its breath on my face.

“I left enough coins to cover the bottle,” I mumble, reaching again for the drink.

“You’ve had more than enough,” Bailey says firmly, her worry deepening. “What is wrong with you?”

“Dancing zombies and dragons, my sweet Bailey.” My voice comes out rough, bitter. “Dancing zombies and dragons.”

She sighs and helps me to my bed. I grab her hand before she can step away. “Don’t leave. Please.”

She gestures toward the other bed across the room. “My bed is right there, Garrett.”

I must look worse than I think, because after a moment’s hesitation, she sighs again and climbs onto the bed beside me. “As long as you keep your hands to yourself, I’ll stay.”

A hoarse chuckle escapes me despite the fog in my head. “I haven’t even gotten my down payment for saving your life today.”

“I’m not kissing your brandy-soaked mouth,” she mutters, rolling onto her side. “And you wouldn’t remember it anyway. Now close your eyes before you puke.”

I grin weakly. “Bossy.”

“Go to sleep, Garrett.”

Her voice fades as the darkness takes me, her presence the last thing anchoring me before I finally drift under.

Everything’s packed and ready when I step out of the inn into the blinding sunlight. The world hits me like a sledgehammer, too bright, too loud, too smelly. The forest reeks of pine and wet moss and… my stomach immediately starts drafting its resignation letter.

“Bailey said you didn’t sleep well,” Josh observes, frowning. “To me, it looks like you have a hangover.”

I turn without saying a word and keep myself busy checking the ropes on the mule. I've never been one to indulge in excessive drinking. I was never drunk in my life, and the way I feel now, I never will be again.

The climb is pure hell. Every step up feels like trudging through time itself. Days, weeks, possibly centuries pass between breaths. The mule’s hooves hit the stone steps with the precision of a ticking bomb.

Bailey’s patience finally cracks after Josh’s third “You good, bro?”

“No, Josh, he’s not good,” she snaps. “He’s haunted by nightmares of killing people. None of us has ever had to resort to violence, not here, not back home."

Josh's concern doesn't wane, despite Bailey's intervention. He refrains from asking further questions, but the furrow between his brows betrays his continued worry as he casts occasional glances in my direction.

The snow thickens, turning the world into a grey blur. I should’ve seen the troll. We should’ve seen the troll. Instead, it drops from the cliff like some yeti-shaped meteor and lands squarely on Josh.

Everything happens at once. Claws, blood, and screaming. I fumble for my bow, stomach churning, head spinning. My first shot misses completely. The second hits meat. The third hits deep. The troll roars, yanks the arrow out, and now it’s pissed. Great.

I reach for another arrow, and my fingers fumble like they belong to Freddy Krueger after a bad manicure.

“Keep away, Bailey!” I shout as she charges forward with her daggers.

I don’t think, I just shout.

“FUS!”.

The word hits like a thunderclap, blasting the troll back just far enough to give me one more chance. I pull, aim, and fire. The arrow flies true, soaring through the air before hitting the troll squarely between its eyes. The shot would have landed me full marks at a championship. The troll collapses to the ground, the arrow’s yellow flight like a victory flag on a pole from its third eye.

Lauren’s already on her knees beside Josh, and  I do not understand how Lauren can stay calm while tending to Josh's wounds. The bile that threatened to leave my stomach the whole morning rises, and before I can stop myself, I feel the bile churning in my stomach, threatening to erupt. With a desperate urgency, I turn and flee to the nearest tree.

Despite the pain etched across his features, a small smile dances on Josh's lips as he watches my hasty retreat to the trees. His voice, barely more than a whisper, carries a hint of amusement as he speaks. “Hey,” he croaks. “Told you it was a hangover.”

Lauren's skilled hands work with precision and care, guiding the torn flesh to knit together seamlessly. Within minutes, the wounds close up, leaving just a thin pink scar running from the corner of his mouth to his chin.

“Great,” Josh says, touching it gingerly. “Now I look like a budget Geralt.”

Lauren rolls her eyes. “You wish.”

The sun begins its descent, drenching the mountains in molten gold. The monastery looms ahead, massive and solemn. I can't help but feel a sense of awe and admiration for the individuals who labored tirelessly to build such a monument.

Four grey-clad men are waiting on the steps, watching our every move.

“I’ve never encountered this in the game before,” Josh mutters, squinting suspiciously.

“Me neither,” Bailey replies. “And look…. they’re actually talking to each other.”

One of the monks steps down to meet us. “I am Master Arngeir. I speak for the Greybeards. We are honoured to welcome you to High Hrothgar, Dragonborn and companions.”

The entrance hall is vast and echoing, filled with open flame pits that make the shadows dance like they’re in a slow-motion heavy metal video. The heat hits hard, a slap of warmth after the freezing climb, and our boots clack loudly on the stone.

We follow Arngeir down a corridor, the Greybeards drifting silently behind us like Skyrim’s creepiest fan club.

Master Arngeir presses against a candle holder, and the wall before us shifts and reveals a hidden room. Bailey and Josh both gasp. “This wasn’t in the game,” Josh blurts.

Master Arngeir chuckles softly. "Oh, it is always there, young man. We call it the Secret Room.”

The hidden chamber glows faintly, lined with mirrors swirling with fog. But one mirror, front and center, stands clear and still, reflecting only us.

We stare at ourselves staring at ourselves. Confusing? Absolutely. Existentially horrifying? Also yes.

Bailey tugs Josh’s sleeve and points to a small metal plate by the door.

It reads: “Bethesda Game Studios.” Complete with the logo.

Josh’s jaw drops. “You have to be fucking kidding me.” He turns to Arngeir. “What is this? Why are we in the game? Who pulled us in?”

Arngeir doesn’t flinch. Neither do the other monks. They just watch him melt down like they’ve seen this before. Probably have.

Josh throws up his hands. “Sorry. I’m just….This is… a lot. Like, fourth-wall-breaking, reality-glitching a lot.”

A second Greybeard steps forward, placing a calming hand on Josh’s arm. “We understand your shock,” he says, voice calm, eyes full of cryptic wisdom. “To us, it is a shock to have you here.”

“I am Master Einarth,” the man continues. “And I will do my best to explain.”

"To us, the people of Tamriel and beyond, this, what you see here and experience, is real," Master Einarth begins, his voice steady and unwavering. "We live our lives, eat, drink, laugh, cry. Sometimes we die, but do not stay dead. We reset for each new player."

His words send a chill down my spine as I grapple with the implications of what he's saying.

"To you out there, it is a game," Master Einarth continues, his tone sombre. "We have seen many Dragonborn, every race, every gender. Only we, the Greybeards, are aware of this truth. Until two months ago.”

Master Einarth's gesture towards the mirrors, showing the swirling mist. "We had a thunderstorm like none we had seen before," he begins, his voice grave. "Lightning struck the mountain’s peak, and Dragonborns phased in and out of the mirrors. When it passed, all mirrors turned to mist… except one.” His eyes land on the clear glass before us. “Through it, we saw you. Phasing in, wearing outlandish clothing, and we have watched your journey.”

A chill ripples through me. Not because of the cold, but because this is the first time I’ve realised just how messed up our situation really is.

Arngeir steps forward again, his tone heavy. “We sense the world has changed. Some things only slightly, others… profoundly.”

I swallow hard. “Then how do we get back? Is it even possible?”

Arngeir’s eyes flicker for a moment with doubt. “I do not know, Dragonborn. We seek the same answers.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than the mountain itself.

Finally, they excuse themselves, leaving us in the flickering candlelight with more questions than sanity.

Bailey runs her fingers over the “Bethesda” plate again, her face pale. “What the hell are we going to do?” she whispers. “I was really hoping this was just a dream.”

She glances at my burned hand. “Maybe it is a nightmare.”

Josh pulls both her and Lauren into a half-embrace.”

“This is real,” he says quietly. “And we’re going to figure it out. But something tells me killing Alduin isn’t the win condition we think it is.”

His words hang there, grim and uncertain.

And all I can think, as the mist swirls in the mirror, is the question none of us wants to ask out loud.

What if we never see home again?

The scent of roast goat, corn, and garlic carrots fills the hall, rich and mouthwatering, proof that even monks at the top of the world eat better than most taverns down below. We take our seats at the long stone table, and I reach for the nearest mug. Water, blessedly. Josh, meanwhile, dives straight for the mead, his lips smacking with satisfaction.

"Master Arngeir, when you tell the Dragonborn, 'You are not the first, there have been many,' you are revealing what is happening here," Josh begins, his tone earnest.

"It has been our inside joke, as you call it, for many years," Master Arngeir responds with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Bailey leans forward, curiosity sparkling. “And what about Paarthurnax? Does he know this whole world is basically a game to us?”

Master Borri lets out a chuckle, the sound warm and gravelly. “What do you think, Bailey? He is our Grand Master, after all."

His eyes glint with a familiar kindness that reminds me of my own grandfather, with laughter always hiding behind his eyes.

For a while, the weight of everything lifts. It’s easy to forget that we’re stuck between code and consciousness, sharing dinner with men who technically shouldn’t exist. The food is good, the fire is warm, and for a fleeting moment, it almost feels normal.

But it doesn’t last. Beneath the humor, the same gnawing uncertainty lingers over the question of how we get back, and if we even can.

After the plates are cleared, Master Wulfgar shows us to our rooms, two modest stone chambers that feel oddly cozy for a mountaintop monastery. Josh drops his pack on the second bed and hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. “Just… doesn’t feel right sharing a bed with Lauren in a monastery. Feels like the kind of thing that gets you smote by lightning.”

Lauren raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you mean smited.”

Josh grins faintly. “Nah. Smote sounds way more biblical. I’m sticking with that.”

Bailey rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips as she ducks into her and Lauren’s room. For the first time since we reached the mountain, the silence doesn’t feel so heavy, just quiet. Peaceful, even.

At least until the nightmares start again.

This is getting ridiculous. I never thought of myself as a warrior, but I’m sure as hell not a scared little boy either. So why does the nightmare keep coming? Why does it still terrify me?

My fingers find the bottle of brandy buried in my pack. The cork gives a soft pop, an ugly sound in the stillness of the monastery. I tip it back, swallowing deeply until the fiery burn sears down my throat. The warmth spreads, heavy and slow, dulling the edge of my thoughts. For a moment, the fear loosens its grip, replaced by a fragile calm. I close my eyes, waiting for that familiar numbness to take hold, the kind that turns the noise inside my head into something I can almost live with.

When morning comes, the hangover hits, but not half as hard as the looks I get.

The air in the great hall feels charged, thick enough to choke on. The Greybeards stand like carved stone, their expressions unreadable but clearly impatient. My friends, on the other hand, wear faces full of quiet worry. Bailey gives me a look that says we’ll talk about this later. Josh just shakes his head.

“We have been waiting for you, Dragonborn,” Master Arngeir says, his tone clipped. “We have a full day ahead.”

The heavy doors shut behind us with a low thud that echoes through my skull.

As we move down the corridor, Bailey leans close, her voice barely above a whisper. “They’re taking us to see Paarthurnax,” she murmurs. “Maybe he has answers.”

Arngeir stops before a tall iron gate half-consumed by ice. “The path to Paarthurnax lies beyond this point,” he says solemnly. “I will show you how to open the way, Dragonborn.”

His next words roll through the chamber like thunder. I don’t understand them, but something deep inside me does. They don’t sound like language, they feel like breath and light and motion. Like the world itself leaning in to listen.

“Clear Skies will blow away the mist,” Arngeir explains. “But only for a time. Go on, use the shout, and we will follow.”

The words pulse in my chest, powerful and alive. I draw in a breath that feels too big for my lungs and let the sound tear out of me. “LOK, VAH, KOOR!”

The world responds. The fog parts in a rush, the air sharp and clean, and for one dizzying instant, I almost believe I can breathe again.

We finally reach the summit. The wind bites hard, and the world feels thin, like even the air is afraid to breathe here.

And then I see him. Paarthurnax.

The sheer size of him steals the breath right out of my lungs. His wings stretch wider than a house, his scales the color of storm clouds, his eyes burning with a kind of patient fire that makes me feel about two inches tall. Fear grips me tight, cold, sharp, and merciless.

I glance at my friends, expecting to see the same terror on their faces. Instead, they’re smiling. Wait. They knew Paarthurnax was a dragon. They knew this was coming. Of course they did. And they told Lauren, but not me.

“Drem Yol Lok. Greetings,” the dragon’s voice is deep enough to shake the stones beneath our feet. The words seem to carry the weight of entire centuries.

Arngeir bows low. “We thought you could help us, old one. If not with clear answers, perhaps with guidance.”

Paarthurnax studies him, then us, those ancient eyes flicking from face to face. When he speaks again, it’s like the wind itself obeys him.

“I have been meditating on the problem,” he says. “Though the game’s… dynamics have changed, the Dragonborn and his companions must follow the original script as closely as possible. We will assist you, but only within the bounds that preserve the outcome.”

The words hang in the air like smoke. I don’t fully understand them, but the meaning feels heavy, like destiny in a language my bones half remember.

“Step closer to the Word Wall, Dragonborn,” Paarthurnax commands. “I will teach you all three words of Fire Breath and grant you my understanding of the Thu’um.”

My stomach knots. Excited? Sure. Terrified? Also yes. I approach the massive stone wall, the carved runes glowing faintly. Every part of me wants to reach out, to touch the dragon’s broken horn, but I force myself to focus.

Deep breath. One shot. “Yol… Toor… Shul!”

The shout tears through me, raw and alive. Heat floods my chest, searing down my arms, burning through every nerve like liquid fire. It’s the same feeling I had when the dragon’s flames hit me that first time, only now, the fire’s mine.

Over the next few days, I throw myself into the training. Two more words of Unrelenting Force from Wulfgar. Whirlwind Sprint from old Borri, who somehow laughs harder than anyone I’ve ever met.

When Josh asks if they can teach me a few more words, Master Einarth just smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“We can teach you much more,” he says. “But it may result in… total collapse of the game dynamics.”

Josh mutters, “So… hard no, then.”

I don’t think Einarth gets the joke, but Borri definitely does when he chuckles until he coughs.

The sun rises on a new day as the four Greybeards greet us in unison. “Sky above, Voice within.”

It’s oddly comforting, like a ritual we all secretly need.

By late afternoon, we cross the bridge into Ivarstead, exhausted but relieved. Wilhelm greets us like old friends and insists on giving us two rooms for the night. The smell of stew, firewood, and home hits me harder than it should.

Bailey spots Reyda sitting at a corner table, laughing with the man who delivers supplies to the Greybeards. They look happy, really happy.

I want to smile for them, but a cold thought creeps in. In the game, Reyda dies. She’s supposed to die. And Bailey just changed that. A part of me hopes she saved a life. Another part of me wonders what price we’ll pay for it.

Chapter Text

I shove the brandy bottle deep into my pack and drop the empty bottle and a few coins on Wilhelm’s counter. “Stay safe, Wilhelm. We’ll see each other again,” I say, though it sounds more like a promise to myself than to him.

Back outside, Josh and I lash down our gear on the mule. We’re retracing the road from Whiterun, only in reverse. Paarthurnax insisted we keep to the original path, so Morthal and Ustengrav it is.

“I can’t believe we have to wade through the marsh just to battle through a ruin and possibly come up empty,” Josh grumbled last night.

“I would gladly skip Ustengrav, but Paarthurnax told us to stick to the questline,” Bailey added, glancing at me with a sombre expression. I knew there were going to be people whom we, or rather I, would have to kill. How many lives will I have to take before whatever force yanked us here says, ‘Okay, you can go home now’?

We leave Ivarstead before noon. The old fire circle at our last camp is the only sign anyone was here, a lonely ring of blackened stones. I skip tent duty and go hunting instead, the one that keeps my mind from circling like an ugly thought.

 I follow the intertwining tracks of deer and wolves. After a few minutes, I can hear the howling of wolves and the bleating of deer.

Tracks wind through the grass. Deer and wolves. The sounds of the forest, bleating and distant howls, pull me deeper. I find them where the trees thin. A pack of five wolves circling a herd of elk.

A carcass lies nearby, evidence of the wolves' earlier success. One stag stands like a small god in the middle of the chaos, antlers broad enough to break a man’s jaw.  

In all my years of hunting with my father and grandfather, I've seen formidable game, but this stag surpasses them all. Its sheer size and commanding presence would undoubtedly leave any seasoned hunter salivating at the opportunity to claim such a trophy.

He’s been hit, blood on his flank and throat, but he’s still standing.

The pack moves in. A wolf lunges for the stag’s throat. It’s ugly and quick. The world narrows to the scent of fur and blood and the feel of the bow in my hand. I draw, aim, and the arrow cuts through everything. The wolf falls. The stag shudders, shakes free the dead weight, and looks at me. No fear, only an old, tired recognition.

The other wolves glance my way, then melt back into the trees. The stag snorts, steps past me, and disappears like a myth reclaiming its right to live. Watching the majestic creature disappear into the wilderness, I couldn't help but feel a profound sense of awe and respect for the resilience of nature's creations.

I wish Bailey were here, then I could explain that I feel like the stag. Memories flood back to me. When I was just ten years old, I tried to save my twin brother, Daven, from the ocean after waves knocked us from the rocks.  I nearly drowned, saved only by the timely intervention of a passing fisherman. Despite our best efforts, Daven slipped away, his lifeless body claimed by the unforgiving sea. We found his body a day later, washed out by the same waves that took him.

I couldn’t save him. I swore then I’d protect anyone who mattered to me, even if it cost me everything.

Watching that stag walk away, I feel less like the man who failed his brother and more like someone who can still try, even if trying now means staining my hands with blood.

This time, there are no friendly Stormcloaks to lend a hand pitching tents. The once-bustling camp lies silent, abandoned as if its soldiers vanished into thin air, leaving everything behind in a hurry.

“Why would they just leave?” Bailey murmurs, her voice edged with unease. She peeks into one of the larger tents, a makeshift mess hall where crates of provisions and stacks of cookware sit untouched.

“There’s no blood, and nothing’s torn apart,” I say, crouching beside the faint footprints pressed into the dirt. “Looks like they marched off in formation, some heading west toward Whiterun, others east. No one disappeared. They left on purpose.”

Later that night, Bailey shakes me awake for my watch. “The mule was a bit jumpy earlier, but it settled down. Try not to get eaten.”

“Comforting, thanks,” I say as she disappears into the tent.

The aurora drifts lazily across the sky like a cosmic screensaver. For a while, the world feels still and peaceful, for once. But I know it won’t last. Bailey’s earlier words echo in my mind. Necromancers and bandits outside the ruin, more Draugr within. Her hand had found mine when she told me. “You don’t have to face it alone, Garrett. It’s up to all of us to keep each other safe.”

The animal lifts its head, ears twitching toward the dark ridge behind me. Its nostrils flare, and I swear I feel my own heartbeat sync with its. I slowly turn, half-expecting Draugr. I scan the slopes, waiting for the shape of a predator, or something worse, but the landscape remains still.

After a long moment, the mule relaxes. Probably wolves. Or ghosts. Or ghost wolves. That’s fine. Totally fine.

The next morning, the road bends, and we catch sight of a carriage crossing the bridge ahead, our ride, gone before we can wave it down. Josh curses under his breath, the frustration rolling off him in waves. “Great. Guess it’s the long walk to Morthal unless we want to backtrack to Whiterun and wait for another.”

Then Lauren lets out a shrill whistle that could wake Alduin himself. I nearly shout FUS on instinct.

“What…how….why are you like this?” I sputter.

She smirks. “Relax, Dragonborn. Just hailing a taxi.”

Josh pinches the bridge of his nose. “In a world with no cars.”

“Well, clearly it worked,” she says, nodding as the driver reins in his horses.

“Hail, travelers! Need a ride?”

Josh sighs in relief. “To Morthal, please. And thank you, whoever you are.”

The driver grins. “Bjorlam. Deliveries to Fort Dunstad and Snowhawk. One of you can ride up front. Tie your mule on, and we’re off.”

I secure the mule while Josh helps Lauren and Bailey onto the rear platform, before climbing up beside the driver.

“Ever been to Morthal, traveler?” the man asks as the wheels start turning. “Don’t know how anyone can stand that place. Cold, damp, crawling with things better left unnamed. And now the Legion’s tightening their grip on Solitude, makes me grateful to call Whiterun home.”

Bailey leans forward between the seats. “What do you mean by the Legion taking control of Solitude? Isn’t Haafingar an Imperial hold?”

Bjorlam snorts. “You’re not from Skyrim, are you? The Imperials never truly ruled here. Skyrim’s a Nord province, governed by its High King and the Jarls. But since the Legion seized Solitude, the High King, Queen, and everyone inside are practically prisoners.”

Bailey blinks, confusion darkening her face. “High King Torygg and Queen Elisif?”

The driver gives her a wary look. “Miss, where in Oblivion have you been? King Torygg’s crowning was the talk of all Tamriel.”

Josh cuts in. “Who exactly is the Legion? We always thought it was just another name for the Imperials.”

Bjorlam exhales. “Nobody really knows. Not even Ulfric Stormcloak, if you ask me. They came by sea before that freak thunderstorm, two months ago now. Some say they’ve got mages who can summon storms themselves.”

He lowers his voice, the rhythm of the horses filling the pause. “Others whisper that the Thalmor and Imperial emissaries, General Tullius among them, are working with the Legion now.”

Josh rides shotgun, scribbling furiously in the journal he started after “the glitches stopped being cute.” He mutters to himself, oblivious to the rest of us bumping along behind him.

Lauren sits with her back against our backpacks, sleeping peacefully. Of all of us, she’s been the biggest surprise. Not a single complaint from Ivarstead to here, not about the walking, the cold, or the camping. She even seemed to enjoy our tour through the barrow, like it was some twisted theme park attraction.

She’s started a bucket list.  While most of her desired experiences sounded like typical tourist attractions, such as majestic landscapes and historic landmarks, except the last two could get us killed. ‘Meet a vampire. Watch a Companion turn into a wolf.’

Bailey’s head nods gently with the motion of the carriage, and I pull her closer so she can rest against my shoulder. Her hair smells faintly of lavender. I shift to the corner, settling her against me, and let the rhythm of the road pull me under.

Sleep takes me fast.

Five bandit zombies dance on my grave. It’s weirdly synchronized, until the shadow of a dragon passes overhead, blotting out the moon. The ground shakes as it lands a few meters away, wings folding with terrifying grace.

“Krasaar,” it growls, voice rumbling through my bones.

“I do not speak dragon tongue,” I shoot back.

“Krasaar.”.

“You can krasaar all you want, buddy. I still don’t understand you!”

The dragon’s maw glows orange, a flicker of fire building deep inside.

“Oh, no. Not again. You’re not burning me again, you big fuck. FUS RO DAH”

All hell breaks loose.

Someone is shouting, Lauren, I think. My head spins, and the nightmare bleeds into reality. I hear Josh somewhere nearby, yelling something about “brace for impact.”.

“The snow broke our fall,” Josh says, his voice sounding way too calm for someone who just got launched off a moving carriage.

I blink up at the night sky. Cold air bites my lungs. Then I feel a gentle touch. Lauren, kneeling beside me, grey eyes filled with concern.“Nightmare again?” she asks softly.

“Something like that,” I mumble, pushing myself upright. My gaze snaps to the wreckage, splintered crates, and scattered supplies.

“Did I… cause this? Is everyone okay? Where’s Bailey?”

“Relax,” Lauren says. “Bailey’s fine. She went to find Josh and Bjorlam. She actually tried to wake you before we bailed. But then you went full shout mode.”

“What?”

“You sent them flying,” she says, deadpan. “Like, Team Rocket blasting off again, levels of flying. It was honestly majestic.”

Bjorlam limps back into view, grinning like a man who’s just discovered skydiving and can’t stop talking about how it felt to fly.

I rub a hand over my face. “Do you hear yourself? You could’ve hit a tree!”

“Eh,” he shrugs. “Worth it for the story. I can already hear the bards.”

He squints at me. “I’ve heard about you in Whiterun. The Dragonborn who told the Jarl to shove his Thaneship. Some folks didn’t like that. The Battle-Borns, mostly. Pompous, bootlickers, the lot of them.”

“Where are you four young ones off to this time?”

Bulf’s gruff voice cuts through the morning chill as we share breakfast with the soldiers. He’s a familiar face, one of the Stormcloaks we met back in Whiterun Hold.

Josh greets him the Nord way by clasping his forearm. “Morthal,” he says. “We noticed your camp was empty when we got back. What happened?”

Bulf exhales, shaking his head. “Some young idiot claimed he saw ships flying the Legion’s banner near Winterhold. Most of the men were called to Windhelm to defend the city, just in case. Three others and I got stuck guarding Fort Snowhawk and Dragon Bridge.”

Josh frowns. “Why are the Legion even in Skyrim?”

Bulf’s shoulders slump, like the weight of the question itself is too much. “No one knows,” he admits. “Not even General Ulfric. He tried talking to their leader, wanting answers about the occupation of Solitude. Why were they imprisoning the King and his citizens? Next thing we hear, Ulfric’s in Helgen, about to lose his head.”

He shakes his head, his tone grim. “If not for that dragon showing up, the Stormcloaks would’ve lost their general right then and there.”

“General Ulfric?” Josh scribbles in his journal. “Isn’t he the Jarl of Windhelm?”

Bulf nods. “He is. But he’s also the army’s general.”

Josh looks up. “Okay, but then why call yourselves Stormcloaks? Wouldn’t the Skyrim Army make more sense?”

Bulf chuckles, giving Josh a friendly slap on the back. “Because we follow Ulfric Stormcloak. You call your army after your general, that’s just how it works.”

Josh glances down at his notes. “Right… I’ll just add that to my growing list of things that make no sense here.”

Hours later, as we follow the winding road toward Stonehills, Josh reads aloud from his journal.

“No one here finds it weird that the army is literally named after its general. When I asked why the Imperial army isn’t called the Tullius Troop, everyone looked at me like I’d sprouted a second head.”

He turns a few pages and continues, “So, some of the game dynamics stuck like glue. Bailey and I have been comparing notes, and there are definitely modded elements in this version of Skyrim. The bathing areas at the inns and the forts are manned by soldiers and not overrun by bandits. Towns have more buildings, more farms, more life in general.” He smirks. “And thank the Divines for armor with pants. I don’t think my legs would look good in a medieval mini-skirt.”

Lauren leans over and presses her hand on the journal. “You two have theories, but any idea how we actually get home?”

Josh’s hand rests over hers, a rare quiet moment. “I wish we did,” he says softly. “The more I learn, the less I understand. But for now… we keep following Paarthurnax’s guidance. Maybe the answers will find us before the next dragon does.”

• Sickness

Chapter Text

“If you need a ride back to Whiterun, I’ll be here late afternoon, two days from now.”

Bjorlam hands us our backpacks before clicking his tongue and steering the horses onward.

We watch his carriage vanish around the bend before turning toward Morthal’s gates. The town sits shrouded in mist, silent and brooding.

“A horse walks into a bar,” Lauren says suddenly, already grinning at her own joke. “The barkeep asks, ‘Why the long face?’”

Josh doesn’t even look up. “What are you on about?”

“You, Josh. Why the long face?”

Bailey groans. “Oh, here we go.”

But Josh sighs. “Because I know exactly what’s waiting for us. I hate this part of the game. The marsh, the ruin… everything.”

He rubs his temples like he’s already exhausted. “When I do this quest, I leave my follower at the inn, activate god mode, and sprint through the whole mess. No fighting, no treasure hunting. Just twenty minutes of cardio and regret.”

Bailey smirks. “You miss out on a lot of treasure that way.”

“Yeah,” he deadpans, "There's plenty more to discover in far more interesting places."

The gates creak open under Josh’s hand, revealing streets drowned in fog and silence. No guards. No chatter. Just that heavy stillness that makes your skin itch.

Our plan had been simple. March straight through Morthal, cut across the marsh, and hit Ustengrav before nightfall. That plan dies the moment Josh pushes open the inn’s door.

“Finally, someone comes in. Kick off your boots, stay awhile…”

The innkeeper’s voice drones out, soft but mechanical.

“Finally, someone comes in. Kick off…” she starts again, the exact same inflection, the exact same tone.

Bailey’s eyebrows shoot up. “Okay, that’s... not creepy at all.”

The woman stands behind the counter, her eyes vacant, wiping the same mug over and over with a filthy cloth. Around her, a few patrons sit frozen mid-motion. Hands clasped around tankards or spoons, eyes unfocused.

“It looks like a glitch in the game,” Bailey says, waving a hand in front of an Orc standing near the fireplace. He holds a flute to his lips, lowers it, then raises it again, stuck in an endless loop.

“How can this happen, and no one knows about it?” Lauren nudges a woman holding a knife a little too close to her own face. The woman’s arm falls limply, and the knife clatters to the floor.

“Morthal is not a city with many visitors or travellers,” Josh murmurs, scanning the room. "These three are not from Morthal, as far as I remember."

“We should check the rest of the city,” Lauren says, already heading for the door. “Someone out there might still be normal.”

Outside, the fog feels thicker. Unreal.

A man leans against the wall beneath a weather-worn sign reading Thaumaturgist’s Hut. His hand twitches toward his sword, then back again. Over and over.

“Benor?” Bailey calls, stepping closer.

His eyes snap open, sharp and focused for the first time. “I’m the best warrior in Morthal,” he declares proudly. “And that’s no boast.”

The words hang awkwardly before his gaze slides past us, and he resumes the same motion. Hand to hilt, hand away, hand to hilt again.

Bailey jumps back with a startled yelp. “Okay! That’s enough Skyrim NPC energy for me, thanks.”

“Let’s move,” I say quietly, the unease settling into my bones. “Something’s seriously wrong here.”

Josh pulls out his journal. “Understatement of the year,” he mutters, already scribbling notes.

In the dimly lit Longhouse, Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone sits back in her highchair, a solemn expression etched deep into her face. Behind her stands a man, posture tense but protective. Near the cold firepit, a young woman sits with a boy, a book open on her lap as if she’d been reading to him when this happened. Whatever this is.

“Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone and her family,” Josh says, bowing before the Jarl. His question cuts through the silence like a knife. “Why didn’t you see this coming, old crow?”

“The Divines reveal things to me at times, yes.”

Josh jerks back, eyes wide. “Fuck!”

Despite the tension, a laugh slips out of me, sharp, startled, uncontrollable. Bailey and Lauren follow, their laughter echoing off the hall’s stone walls.

“Not funny,” Josh mutters darkly. “She reminds me of my grandmother on my dad’s side. Always predicting death or disaster. Scared us shitless when we were kids.”

The rest of Morthal is the same. Frozen faces. Empty eyes. Movements on repeat, like some bugged-out NPC script. Some acknowledge us for a second, then drift right back into their trance.

Bailey breathes a sigh of relief when we find the family next to the inn alive, at least physically. The wife kneads dough that’s gone green with mould while the husband sits nearby, puffing absently on a dead pipe. In the corner. A little girl hugs a doll, her stare hollow and heavy.

"In the game, the girl and mother died in a house fire," Bailey remarks, her voice tinged with sadness as she recalls the tragic backstory. "And the ghost of the girl haunts the rubble."

Lauren closes the door behind her and looks at Benor. “We should move the people inside. It feels wrong leaving them like this.”

“I think Lauren’s right,” I agree. “We can’t just leave them out here, not with gods know what wandering around. Indoors is safer.”

Bailey nods. “Let’s start with the ones closest to us.”

Josh and I begin guiding the glitching townsfolk indoors while Bailey and Lauren count heads. To our relief, everyone’s accounted for, Thonnir, Laelette, Virkmund… whoever they are. Only one name is missing.

“Alva,” Bailey says grimly. “The vampire bitch.”

Josh shuts Alva’s door with a quiet click. “Movarth’s Lair,” he mutters, voice tightening. “Not keen to find out if she and her fanged friends are glitched or not.”

Bailey crosses her arms. “If they weren’t, Morthal would’ve been drained dry by now.”

I grab her hand before she can finish that thought. “We’re not checking. Our priority is Ustengrav, before dark.”

Bailey veers off the path, eyes fixed on a dark cave half-hidden by fog.

“No! Bailey!” Josh’s voice cracks somewhere between alarm and exasperation.

“Don’t be such a wet sock, Josh,” she shoots back without slowing down. “If we see any sign that Movarth and his fang club aren’t part of the glitch, we leave. Preferably before anyone starts hissing.”

The cave breathes damp air at us as we enter. Torches flicker along the walls, casting jagged shadows that stretch like claws across the stone. It’s not as bad as I’d imagined, which is concerning in itself.

Lauren’s hiss makes me freeze. “Down there,” she whispers.

Two spiders crouch at the bottom of the wooden ramp. One is twitching, its glassy eyes lock with mine, and I feel a cold shiver trace my spine. The other spider's palps twitch every now and again as if feeling the air for prey.

Josh gestures for silence. We crouch in the shadows, watching a lone figure at a nearby table. Whether vampire or thrall, it sits motionless, head bowed. The silence stretches until Josh finally nods.

An arrow flies, and the figure slumps forward, collapsing face-first into the dust. For a long second, we wait, hearts pounding, but no one stirs deeper inside.

Josh exhales and takes Lauren’s hand, pulling her gently toward the next passage. “So far so good,” he mutters.

We press deeper. Glitched vampires and thralls fall before our blades. No screams. No blood spray.

Then we reach the main cavern.

“What the…?” I whisper, words dying in my throat.

At a stone table in the center of the cavern sit the vampires, frozen mid-feast.

A barmaid stands frozen next to a guard clad in the colours of Morthal. Fear etches his features as he stares wide-eyed at the figures seated at a stone table in the centre of the cavern. The heads of the vampires at the table are turned to the guard, some of them with blood covering their mouths. The woman’s body on the table tells the rest of the story.

“Guess we missed dinner,” Bailey mutters grimly.

Heads roll one by one, starting with the barmaid Alva. I almost wet myself when the head vampire’s eyes turn toward me when I move to his side. “Fuck you,” I hiss through my teeth, and in one clean motion, his head hits the floor, bouncing once before rolling to a stop at Josh’s feet.

He stares down at it. “Yeah. Definitely not sleeping tonight.”

We’ve saved Morthal, at least until the game resets. Josh and I haul the guard back to the Longhouse while Bailey and Lauren guard the way.

When we finally step outside, Josh wipes vampire blood off his cheek and sighs. “Next time someone says, ‘Let’s just peek inside the creepy cave,’ I’m voting no.”

Bailey smirks. “You say that every time.”

“And one day,” he says, dead serious, “I’ll mean it.”

Smoke still billows from the vampire cave when we pass it the next morning. The air smells of burnt stone and bad memories.

Bailey leads the mule up ahead, jaw set, shoulders stiff, stubborn as the mule itself.

“I’m not leaving it behind, tied to a fence,” she says when I raise an eyebrow. “I heard wolves howling last night. He’s safer with us.”

The necromancer and two bandits outside the ruin don’t even notice me before it’s too late. It’s not exactly Olympic material. Shooting someone through the head isn’t that hard when they’re arguing about who gets the loot.

“Come on, you fucking mule,” Josh mutters, tugging at the reins.

“Stop cursing, Josh,” Bailey chides, patting the animal’s neck. “You’re just scaring him.”

“The mule or me?” he shoots back, rolling his eyes.

With a dramatic sigh, Josh throws his hands in the air and backs off, leaving Bailey and Lauren to handle it.

They coax the mule down the steep stone steps inch by inch, whispering like horse therapists. When they finally reach the bottom, Bailey ties him to a barrel and promises to come back once the “nasties” are cleared. The mule snorts, and I swear it sounds like a sarcastic “yeah, right.”

We wait while the bandits and necromancers inside tear each other apart, then clean up what’s left. My arrow finds the last necromancer’s skull just as he’s about to turn. He drops like a sack of ruined potatoes.

Bailey raises a hand before I take the stairs deeper in. “Wait. Let the Draugr finish off whoever’s left.”

Sure enough, when the screams fade, we move in and dispatch the three Draugr left standing.

Josh glances over at Lauren, who’s crouched beside a fallen necromancer. “Uh, what exactly are you doing?”

She doesn’t look up. “Not standing around asking dumb questions. Come help me.”

Josh sighs but kneels beside her, and together they start undressing the corpse.

“I’m assuming there’s a reason we’re playing necro-dress-up?” he asks.

Lauren frowns at him. “Bailey said enchanted armour glows when activated. This necromancer didn’t use her hands when she cast that ice spike that nearly skewered Garrett….”

“Hey, ‘nearly’ being the keyword,” I interject.

Lauren holds up a staff. “She used this. When she did, her robe glowed. So maybe the robe’s the key.”

Josh looks skeptical. “Pretty sure you still need magicka to use a staff, robe or not. And last I checked, none of us are born-again wizards.”

Bailey perks up. “What if she drinks a magicka potion and wears the robe?”

Josh blinks. “What if pigs learn to fly when they drink stamina potions?”

Ignoring him, Bailey rummages through a pack near a chest, muttering to herself. A moment later, she triumphantly dumps out a pile of gems, gold, and bottles filled with blue liquid.

“Magicka potions!” Lauren exclaims, grabbing one like a kid spotting candy.

She pauses, staring at the corpse, and grimaces. “If this works, I’m going to need help changing her out of those robes. "You've seen the cost of robes without enchantment. I'll try to forget that I'll be wearing a dead woman's clothing."

Josh grins at her remark, a knowing glint in his eye as he recalls the robe we took from the dead mage in Helgen.

A soft blue glow flares to life around the staff, humming with raw magicka. For a heartbeat, none of us breathe, then Lauren’s grin spreads like wildfire.

“It worked,” she whispers, awestruck.

Josh lets out a low whistle, eyeing the glowing staff. “Great. First, she learns magic, next thing she’s shouting ‘Unlimited power!’ and throwing me across a room.”

Lauren brandishes the staff with a smug tilt of her chin. “Don’t tempt me.”

The air crackles faintly as she tests the charge, and for the first time since entering Ustengrav, I feel a flicker of real hope.

Lauren now wields a weapon she's not afraid to use. With Josh by her side, providing a steady supply of restore magicka potions, there's no doubt that she'll be a formidable force to be reckoned with on our journey ahead.

The mule clearly hates this place. Snorting, stamping, and glaring at us like it’s ready to file a complaint.

“Bailey, tell that donkey to quit it, or I swear I’ll feed it to the next spider we see,” Josh warns. “And we both know there’s at least one waiting down there.”

Bailey rolls her eyes. “Oh, sure. I'd like to see you leading the mule down into the bowels of the ruin. Put socks in your ears and close your eyes, Josh."

Lauren groans from her bedroll, voice muffled and sleepy. "If you two keep shouting at each other, you'll wake the dead.”

I lean my head against the cold stone wall, letting the brandy burn its way down. The warmth doesn’t chase the nightmares, but it makes them… softer. I tug the strip of leather over my Bell & Ross watch, hiding it from a world that thinks sundials are cutting-edge. In a few minutes, I’ll have to wake Josh for his watch shift.

A few more swallows, just enough to blur the edges, and sleep comes quietly.

Down and down we go, killing. Do you call it killing when something is already dead? Draugr after Draugr falls before us. Lauren’s aim is getting terrifyingly good with each ice spike she unleashes upon the dead. Josh and Bailey clean up what’s left, blades flashing in eerie torchlight.

The word that attaches itself to my soul is “GRON”. I feel almost untouchable for a moment. Josh smiles knowingly as I attempt to unleash the power of the word. "You have to kill a dragon before you can use it, Garrett.”

I wonder if it would count if I were to slay the black dragon that haunts my dreams. “Does it count if it’s in my nightmares?”

He smirks. “Pretty sure dream kills don’t drop souls.”

With a burst of energy, my voice booms through the hall. A rush of wind propels me forward, Whirlwind Sprint kicking in hard. I shoot through the gate like a human arrow and land in every arachnophobe’s worst nightmare.

Lauren freezes. “Oh, come on,” she breathes. “Spiders. Why spiders?”

Bailey rolls her shoulders. “Less talk, more squash.”

We make quick work of the oversized pests, but the relief doesn’t last. Josh picks up the horn, frowning like someone just spoiled his favorite movie.

“No. No, no, no. This isn’t right.”

“Define right,” I say, still catching my breath.

“Delphine didn’t take the horn. She always takes the horn.”

I stare at him. “Why is that bad? We just saved ourselves a trip.”

Josh sighs. “Because it’s not following the script, Garrett. You know … main quest, dialogue triggers, all that?”

I stare back blankly. “Josh, not all of us downloaded the game manual before getting sucked into it.”

He scoffs. “Try to keep up, you’re not that dumb…”

My fist connects with his jaw before my brain catches up.

“Fuck you, Josh.”

He stumbles back, rubbing his chin, eyes wide.

I turn to Bailey. "Do we go all the way back, or is there a shortcut from here?"

Bailey opens the door at the back wall of the room and begins to empty a nearby chest of its coins and gems. I gently guide her towards the passage leading away from the room when the chest is empty. "Josh knows the way."

The mule is overjoyed to be outside again, snorting happily and nuzzling against Bailey’s neck. Her laughter ripples across the marshland, bright and unexpected in the gray stillness of Morthal’s outskirts.

Unable to resist, I pull her close, feeling her laughter against my chest. “You know,” I murmur, “I haven’t saved your life lately, but there are still some outstanding payments for that time outside Whiterun.”

Bailey tilts her head, a sly grin curving her lips. “I did make a deposit in Ivarstead. Maybe you were too drunk to remember.”

“Nice try,” I say, chuckling. “I remember plenty. You refused to kiss my brandy-infused lips, remember?”

She rises on tiptoes, eyes glinting mischievously. “Guess I’ll have to make up for lost interest.”

Her lips meet mine, soft, deliberate, and far too brief. When she pulls back, a groan escapes me before I can stop it. Does she even realise the effect she has on me?

No one speaks on the way back to Morthal. Josh’s chin is turning a shade somewhere between “fresh bruise” and “eggplant surprise.” He could’ve healed it hours ago, but no, he’s clearly milking it for guilt points.

Bad news for him. It still felt great to punch him.

The carriage waits where we left it, and Bjorlam waves as we approach. “You’re lucky I saw you coming when I topped the hill,” he calls out. “Where to, friends?”

I glance at Josh. Despite his world-class talent for being an arse, he and Bailey are the only two people I trust to help us escape this fever dream.

Josh meets my look, sighs, and turns to Bjorlam. “Whiterun.”

Chapter Text

The shadow glides overhead again, but this time, there are no dancing bandit zombies or black dragons speaking gibberish.

“Frost dragon!” Bailey’s voice cuts through the air as the massive shape circles above us.

Josh immediately yells to Bjorlam, “Get the carriage to the trees and keep it moving until Stonehills! If we die, don’t come back for loot!”

He grabs the glass shield we found in Ustengrav and leaps into the snow beside me. Bailey and Lauren exchange identical are-we-really-doing-this looks as we motion for them to stay with the carriage.

“Bailey, you can’t dagger a dragon to death,” I say, drawing my bow. “You’ll have to get close enough to shave it.”

“And Josh with his sword is suddenly fine?” she shoots back, her indigo eyes narrowing.

Before I can respond, the dragon spots us and drops fast, roaring loud enough to rattle bones.

“Fuck, Bailey, why won’t you ever listen?” I shout as the wind from its wings nearly knocks me over.

“Stay by the trees!” Josh orders. “Branches and leaves will break up the frost! Lauren, Bailey, think cover, not courage!”

Josh plants himself in front of me, shield raised. I kneel beside him, sighting through the gaps in the branches. The air turns sharp with cold as frost blasts over, the shield glows faintly, enchantment holding.

“Remind me to thank the dead guy we stole this from,” Josh mutters, his teeth chattering.

“With a thank-you note or a séance?” I reply through gritted teeth.

We move in rhythm, shoot, duck, and advance. My muscles burn as I aim for the eyes, the throat, the soft spots under the chin. The beast crashes down, half fury, half exhaustion, its breath rattling the snow.

Josh and I edge closer, frost swirling around us. The dragon’s white, hate-filled eyes lock on me, its voice deep and ancient.

"Keizaal hdro aan krasaar. Nii los ni ol us. Fin ro hdro shiftaan. Alduin fen Naak hin sil, Dovahkiin."

“I don’t understand you,” I snap. “You and your black-scaled friend can both go to hell.”

“Oblivion,” Josh corrects quietly.

“Fine. Oblivion. Whatever. Yol Toor Shul!” I shout, unleashing a torrent of fire. The dragon screams in pain, fury, or both, and then collapses.

A wave of power slams through me. The world tilts. My skin hums. The dragon’s soul tears free and pours into mine like liquid sunlight.

Bailey’s voice trembles as she translates the dying words. “Skyrim has a sickness. It is not as before. The balance has shifted. Alduin will eat your soul, Dragonborn.”

“Krasaar,” I murmur. “That’s the word the black dragon keeps whispering in my dreams. Sometimes followed by ‘Hin sil los dii’.”

“Your soul is mine,” Bailey finishes softly. Then her eyes harden. “You need to teach me to use a bow, Garrett. All of us. No more just watching you save our asses.”

I meet her gaze, seeing the mix of fear and resolve there. She steps forward and hugs me tightly. Over her shoulder, Josh and Lauren nod. For once, no one jokes.

An hour later, we reach the mountain peak. The word wall looms, ancient and alive with power.

“ZUN,” I breathe, as the dragon soul fuses with the word. Strength floods through me, sharp and dangerous. I can’t help but wonder why it didn’t bind with GRON back in Ustengrav.

As we round a bend, Bjorlam and the Stonehills miners rush toward us.

“We heard the battle cries and the death roar!” Pactur shouts. “We were coming to look for you!”

“Appreciate the rescue party,” Josh says, brushing frost from his hair. “Next time, though, maybe bring hot soup and a backup healer.”

We take their invitation to join the bonfire without hesitation. The miners’ laughter feels almost surreal after the cold chaos. A Dunmer passes me a bottle of sujamma, warm, strong, and mercifully quieting the noise in my head.

Josh fishes for updates about the Legion at Fort Dunstad, but there is nothing new. The Legion hadn’t moved toward Dragon Bridge yet, and the Stormcloaks were still patrolling the Sea of Ghosts, chasing rumors of the ship the young guard claimed to have seen.

Keeping Morthal’s little incident to ourselves seemed like the smart play.

“What if they go to investigate and get caught in the same glitch?” Josh asks. “The people of Morthal are safe for now.”

We all agree that it's better to let the sleeping code stay bugged.

Bjorlam refuses to take payment for the trip. “If I’d been traveling that road alone, I’d be dragon food by now. The Divines must’ve blessed me with the company of the Dragonborn and his companions.”

“Yeah,” Josh mutters under his breath. “The Divines sure have a twisted sense of humor.”

The bandit guard outside Embershard Mine drops before he even knew he was dead, my arrow hitting dead center. Another life ended. No remorse. Just necessity.

Josh nudges the door open carefully, and two voices drift out from inside.

“Are you not concerned someone might stumble on us here?”

“This again? We’ve got a lookout, and the rock trap’s set. Quit fretting and get some rest. I don’t want another nap-on-duty incident.”

“Well,” I whisper, “bad news for both of you.”

Lauren gives me a nod and zaps the nearest bandit with the lightning staff she exchanged for the ice staff. The bandit convulses and hits the floor. Bailey darts forward, binding the survivor’s hands before Josh and I could even react.

“The bridge went down!”

“I think I heard something!”

“Where’s the guard outside?”

“We did have one!”

Two more fall into the ravine before they can blink. Dead and more dead. Am I becoming a serial killer, dispatching my victims without a shred of remorse?

A town guard hurries toward us as we exit the mine, relief flashing across his face when he sees the tied-up bandits.

Josh sighs, shifting his heavy pack. “Can we please find Alvor now? This thing weighs as much as a mammoth.”

“No offense, Garrett,” Alvor says, eyeing my burned hand when we drop ore and weapons onto his counter, “but you look like you went a few rounds with a flame atronach, and the rest of you almost as bad.”

“We spent two days mining after killing the bandits,” Josh explains, holding up blistered hands. “Turns out, swinging a pickaxe for hours makes health potions a food group.”

I glance at my Freddy hand and arm, now even worse for wear with blood and soot coating the waxy skin, Freddy Krueger would’ve nodded in approval.  I may not know exactly what a flame atronach is, but it doesn't sound nearly as dangerous as a dragon.

Orgnar’s frown deepens when we ask about Delphine. “No, she hasn’t returned in the two days you’ve been... doing whatever it is you do.” His nose wrinkles. “And for the love of the Divines, go bathe. You smell like someone bottled despair and spilled it on you.”

"Are you telling me that Delphine left the inn the same day Lauren and I departed for Whiterun, and she hasn't returned without anyone worrying about her?"

"What am I supposed to do? I can't abandon the inn to search for her. I've sought assistance from the Jarl and the Companions to help locate her."

An hour later, lavender-scented steam still clinging to our hair, we slump around a table, bowls of stew steaming between us.

“What if Delphine is trapped in the marsh glitch?” Bailey says, pushing her bowl toward Lauren. “She could’ve gone after the horn.”

Josh shakes his head between bites of bread. “We know Ustengrav wasn’t affected, but that marsh goes on forever. How the hell would we even find her?”

Lauren leans forward, lowering her voice. “We could ask the Companions. Maybe one of the werewolves.”

Josh grins, grabs her by the waist, and kisses her cheek, smearing stew in the process. “I love you. Great idea. They can look for her, and Orgnar can pay the bill.”

Lauren wipes her cheek. “You could also use a shave and a haircut. Your whiskers are starting to eat your face.”

“Adds character,” Josh replies, flashing her a lopsided grin.

Vilkas’ expression is like a brewing storm ready to level a village. “Why in Shor’s name would I need to put Delphine’s clothes to my nose to smell them? I can smell her clothing from here.”

Josh freezes mid-step, Delphine’s garments dangling from his hands like some peace offering. He shoots me a glare when I start laughing.

“He’s a werewolf, Josh,” I say between chuckles. “Not a bloodhound.”

Vilkas growls low in his throat, and Josh mutters, “Yeah, well, for a second there, it wasn’t a bad guess.”

“By the Nine,” Vilkas mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You four are the oddest bunch I’ve ever encountered. Stay put while we find Delphine. Farkas and I don’t have the patience to babysit you.”

I couldn’t care less if Jarl Balgruuf wants to teach me patience by making me wait in the foyer. After two days of nonstop training, sitting down feels like a divine blessing. Bailey, however, doesn’t share my zen. She is pacing the floor like a caged sabre cat, scowling at anyone who looks in her direction.

Then the door opens, and in come three children mid-argument.

“I’m so angry, I can hardly stand it! Father promised me a new dress days ago!” the girl wails.

“All you ever do is complain. You’re a spoiled baby,” snaps one of the boys.

The youngest one bumps straight into Bailey. “Another wanderer, here to lick my father’s boots. Good job.”

I’ve met vampires, necromancers, and talking dragons… but this kid? He might be the most terrifying creature I’ve seen. I feel a surge of irritation bubble up, but Bailey raises a hand before I can say something very un-Thanely.

She kneels in front of him, her voice calm but firm. “Nelkir, don’t listen to the voice behind the door, do you hear me?”

His bravado cracks instantly. “You… you know about the whispering lady?”

“Yeah, and she’s lying to you,” Bailey says softly. “She’s trying to turn you against your family.”

Nelkir’s voice trembles. “She wants me to find the key and kill… kill…” His eyes glaze over. Bailey touches his hand, grounding him again.

“Garrett will talk to her,” she assures him. “He’ll tell her to leave you alone.”

The kid looks at me like I just promised him the moon. “Really? You’d help me?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “After I speak to your father.”

Once the children leave, I lean closer to Bailey. “So… any chance you can clarify how I’m supposed to handle a demonic door whispering murder advice to children?”

She smirks. “I have faith you’ll wing it. You’re good at winging it.”

When my audience with the Jarl finally comes, I deliver my rehearsed apology word for word. “I apologize if my actions seemed disrespectful, my Jarl. The truth is, I declined your offer because I lack the funds to purchase property or pay taxes. I’m a warrior, not a nobleman with a chest full of Septims.”

Balgruuf studies me in silence, his gaze sharp but not unkind. “I cannot say I entirely believe you, but you sound sincere enough.” His tone softens slightly. “News of another dragon’s defeat by your hand has reached me. Therefore, I am pleased to name you Thane of Whiterun. Proventus, remove the clauses requiring property and taxes from the Thane’s contract.”

The steward scribbles notes furiously, probably rethinking his life choices.

Bailey nods toward Nelkir at the table. The kid’s eyes never leave me. “Jarl Balgruuf, about your son… Nelkir…” I begin.

“Yes, my youngest,” Balgruuf says, rubbing his temples. “He's a dark child. I don't know what to do with him. He was always a quiet lad, but lately... something has changed. He's become brooding. Violent. He won't say a word to me, but I don't know how I upset him. If you could speak to him. Draw out the truth. I would be immensely grateful." He looks at me with the tired, hopeful gaze of someone who needs help he can’t buy.

“He says he hears voices from the basement,” I tell him. “Do you have the key? I want to investigate.”

Farengar and the Jarl exchange a glance. “We locked away a dangerous object in the basement,” the Jarl says, sliding a ring of keys off his neck and into my palm. “Retrieve it. Take it away. Keep the boy safe.”

“Why lock something dangerous down there?” I ask as Bailey leads me toward the stairs.

She snorts. “Because, Garrett,  the script told them to.”

Ah yes. The bloody script. It’s getting harder with each day to pretend this is just a game.

Bailey's warning of "do not touch it" comes too late. My fingers brush the hilt, and a voice crawls up from the stone like a spider across skin.

“At last. I have been waiting for one fit to carry my will. The child is spirited but lacks... agency.”

“Get out of my head,” I snap, shaking my head as if I can dislodge the whisper. "I am not carrying out your will.”

"You may think so. But in the end, you mortals will always flit like fire with the winds of your desires and conveniences. And those winds issue from my whispers." The voice persists.

"I do not know who you are, but I hope you listen. I am not carrying out your will," I assert firmly.

“I forgive you for not knowing who I am. Few hear my whispers anymore. I am Mephala, the Lady of Whispers. I tug at the web of connections between mortals. Love, hatred, loyalty, betrayal. The boy was good at sussing out secrets. You, I expect to take a more active role."

Bailey tugs on my sleeve. “Put the sword down, Garrett. Please.” Her voice is pleading.

But the whisper keeps singing. “Return my blade to its past glory, let it drink the blood of deceit. My blade is a darling leech that feeds on deceptions and nourishes its master. Seek out those closest to you. The final pluck of their misguided heartstrings will accompany my blade in the song of your grandeur. The blade will feed on the ire of Tamriel. Bathe in your infamy. Feel the weight of their loathing, and my power will course through it once more. The blood of deceit is a nourishing flow. She is standing right there next to you. Let my blade drink," the whisper persists, growing increasingly difficult to ignore.

Power, power, power. The word thrums like a fever in my temples.

The sword in my hand shimmers with a dark promise. The math is simple and monstrous. A cut, a life, a flush of power. I can feel the fantasy unspooling. The black dragon, the nightmares, the vengeance on faces that haunt me in sleep. To kill those who trust me... it would be so easy. The thought of slipping the blade between Bailey’s ribs flashes up like a horrible, impossible shortcut to everything I crave.

I look at Bailey. Her indigo eyes are calm, but a strange light hunts behind them, like a dare. A test.

“Why aren’t you scared?” I whisper. “Why don’t you run?”

She reaches forward and rests the piece of leather in both palms, palms open. “I trust you, Garrett,” she says simply.

That sentence lands harder than a shout. All the temptations, the thirst for power, the slick promise of an easy end rattle against Bailey’s faith and come up empty.

My hands tremble. The blade glows, then grows ordinary again as I lay it across the leather. The hum in my head fades, slowly, like a storm losing wind.

“We’ll get rid of it,” Bailey tells me, voice flat with the iron of certainty. She wraps the blade with practiced, gentle movements and ties it tight with leather strips. Her fingers are steady. Her eyes search mine.

I take the wrapped sword back. The weight is the same, but the dark pull has dulled, smashed by a human heartbeat.

“You did the right thing,” she says, and there’s no sermon in it. Just truth.

I nod, and for once I don’t feel like I’m winging anything. I feel like I chose.

Chapter Text

“Jarl, I saw something near Shimmermist Cave, to the northeast. Some kind of creature, small and wicked. Never seen anything like it before.”

Jarl Balgruuf’s decision to send us on this mission brings a welcome change from our usual routine of training while we wait for the wolf brothers to return.

Bailey and Lauren leave us outside in Jorrvaskr’s training yard after Tilma shrieks that we’re “stinking up the place.”

“I’m just glad the Jorrvaskr mod with baths and privies found its way into this game…” Bailey’s words are cut short when the door to the baths closes behind her and Lauren.

Honestly, Tilma is not wrong. Shimmermist Cave’s stench clings to us like a bad decision. The air inside had reeked of death, rot, and whatever the Falmer equivalent of a public restroom is. It took half an hour just to scrape the muck off our boots. Hard to believe those small, half-blind cave-goblins were once a proud race called the Snow Elves.

Josh spreads our spoils across the table, sorting ingredients into neat piles like a kid reorganizing Pokémon cards. Three bows, an axe, and a sword made from Chaurus parts, a handful of Dwemer scraps from the centurion, and a small fortune in coins and gems. Finally, he lifts a staff, its carvings glinting in the light.

“Lauren will have to see what kind of staff this is,” Josh says.

None of us can use a staff, no matter how many robes we wear or Restore Magicka potions we chug and none of us know why.

At Bailey’s joke about Lauren being an undercover witch, Lauren wiggles her fingers like a Disney Channel sorceress, earning a round of laughter.

One of the bows is in excellent condition. After testing it with a few arrows, I set it aside. Josh and Bailey have been training with wooden ones, but this bow feels supple and strong.

We decide to sell the rest of the loot to pad our Breezehome fund, a decision born from a “spirited discussion” that nearly ended with Lauren throwing a ladle at me.

“It sounds like you think we’re never going to get back home,” she’d said, eyes shining with tears that cut through the tension like a dagger.

The truth stung more than her words. The idea of settling down in Skyrim feels wrong, like admitting this might be our life now.

At first, I thought Bailey’s plan to buy a house was ridiculous, and Josh wasn’t far behind me. However, thinking of how easily Aela and Skjor swayed Bailey into drinking werewolf blood changed our perspectives.

I would’ve preferred Ivarstead or Riverwood, but of course, the Skyrim housing market is as dry as a Draugr’s sense of humour. So we settled on Whiterun.

Josh ties the coin purse shut with a satisfied smirk. “With Alvor’s payment for the weapons and ore, plus the two bounties, we’re sitting at two thousand three hundred and twenty septims. You and Bailey should’ve waited to deal with Nelkir’s problem, but… I get why you didn’t take the Jarl’s money right after apologising.”

From the training yard, loud cheers erupt, enough to draw a crowd from the street. Lauren and Bailey are sparring with broomsticks, and Bailey is taking a beating. To be fair, Lauren’s years in the drum majorettes made her lethal with anything remotely stick-shaped. Somewhere out there, her high school coach is shedding a proud tear.

Meanwhile, Eorlund is finishing Lauren’s new staff, reinforcing it with Skyforge steel. The weapon now boasts a steel fist at the base and balance rings near the top. Watching her twirl it, I can’t help but pity the next idiot bandit who underestimates her.

Vilkas watches Bailey lose a few perfect arrows from her Falmer bow, nodding with approval before motioning for Josh and me to follow. Farkas stands nearby, arms crossed, eyes on the Skyforge. Eorlund is conspicuously absent.

Josh and I exchange glances and follow, curiosity gnawing at us.

“Did you….” I start, but Vilkas whirls around, fury etched across his face.

“What the fuck happened in Morthal? What did you do to those people?” he snaps.

“Why would you think we had anything to do with it?” I shoot back, hands instinctively going up.

“Your scent is all over that city,” he growls, stepping close until his face is inches from mine, eyes burning like coals. “None other.”

I grimace as wolf spit dots my cheek. “Listen here, dog breath,” I say, wiping it off. “We didn’t hurt anyone. We were helping, carrying those affected inside. The vampires, though? A different ballgame. We iced those mother… those bastards.”

Vilkas tilts his head. “Ballgame? Iced?” His tone drips with confusion. “We saw what’s left of the nightwalkers. No ice. Just fire.”

Josh steps in before things escalate. “We really don’t know what happened, Vilkas. I should’ve warned you, but I didn’t think you’d head into the city.”

“And why wouldn’t we?” Farkas asks, calmer but just as intense. “We were hungry, tired, and thirsty after searching for Delphine. Speaking of which… she’s not in the marsh. Probably never was.”

Vilkas frowns. “Wait. You thought she was under the same paralysis as the others, didn’t you?”

“Ysmir’s beard!” he curses when we nod. “Why didn’t you tell us? We could’ve had Farengar look into it.”

I shake my head. “Even if we had, I doubt Farengar or the Archmage could help.”

It takes Josh’s best sales pitch to convince the brothers to keep Morthal’s situation quiet. Luckily, selling impossible ideas is his superpower. Back home, he had been a sales rep saving for college.

When his dad ran off with someone barely older than Josh, he’d told him, “Keep your money. Your new wife could use an education … though I doubt she’s got the brains for it.”

Josh had left his father's new home with a black eye and a split lip, vowing never to return or speak to his father again. It was a painful chapter in his past, but it had shaped him into the determined and resilient person he is today.

“Delphine never set foot in Ustengrav and definitely not in the marsh,” Bailey says, tracing her finger across the map spread out before us. “Maybe she went looking for Esbern in Riften?”

I tilt my head. “Don’t call me stupid again, Josh, but… do we actually need the woman?”

Josh exhales through his nose, already bracing himself. “Yes, Garrett. Up until the peace treaty, she’s essential to the script. She helps the Dragonborn get into the Thalmor Embassy, proves their identity, and guards Esbern to Sky Haven Temple. She’s basically Skyrim’s overcaffeinated mission control.”

“So, we find her,” I say. “Riften. Someone there must’ve seen her.”

Josh rakes a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands that fall into his eyes. “Riften,” he mutters. “City of thieves, lies, and overpriced mead. Great. It’s gonna be a long trip, no fast travel, no shortcuts. And it’s gonna eat into our savings.”

Skulvar looked like he’d rather swallow a horseshoe than buy back the mule, affectionately named Donkey by Lauren and Bailey.

“It seems to like you four young’uns, but not so much me,” he says, lifting his shirt to reveal a set of faded bite marks. So, the bastard sold us a temperamental animal and forgot to mention it had a taste for human flesh.

Bailey strokes the mule’s soft muzzle. “It’s because Skulvar’s a meanie,” she says sweetly.

The stablemaster glares at her like she just insulted his ancestors.

After a beat, his shoulders drop. “I’ll stable it for free until you find a buyer,” he mutters, surprising us all with what might actually qualify as kindness.

Of course, that moment of goodwill evaporates the second we start talking horses. His eyes light up with the kind of greed that could outshine a dragon's hoard.

“Jervar caught this wild mare out on the Tundra,” Skulvar says, puffing out his chest. “She’s broken in but still got spirit. A man like you needs a warhorse, I reckon.”

Bailey crosses her arms. “We’ll take the wild mare and the black one in the last stable. Two thousand Septim. Not a coin more.”

The stablemaster’s mouth opens for protest, but snaps shut when he notices me standing behind her, all scowl and folded arms. He groans, throwing his hands up. “You two leave me broke, I tell you.”

Apparently, my resting murder face still has its uses.

Kodlak’s pale grey eyes widen when Bailey throws her arms around him in farewell.

“You’re hugging me like you’ll never see me again, Pup,” he says gently. “You’re warriors,  you’ll prevail and return to our honoured hall.”

If only he knew her fear isn’t about dying, it’s about coming back and finding him gone. Bailey’s told me enough about the Companions’ future that I almost feel the weight of it myself.

Josh, on the other hand, was not thrilled when she suggested warning Kodlak.

“Stop meddling, Bailey,” he snapped. “Do you want to get home, or rewrite the whole damn game?”

She didn’t answer, just looked away. I’ve seen her and Kodlak sitting together by the fire. She listened and he talked about Harbingers and the Great War like they were bedtime stories. Maybe she sees in him the grandfather figure she doesn’t have back home.

“I don’t have time to come looking for you four pups. Come back before this old man has to send me to find you. If you need help from the Companions, send word with a courier,” Farkas urges.

“How do we send a courier?” I ask, genuinely curious.

Ria blinks. “Where did you say you’re from again?”

Josh rubs the bridge of his nose. “Don’t answer that, Garrett.”

Ria sighs but explains anyway. “Couriers are summoned with magic from the Arcane University in Cyrodiil. You write your message on enchanted parchment, and the courier appears to take it. A few minutes later, he finds you saying, ‘I’ve been looking for you. Got something I’m supposed to deliver… your hands only.’ Doesn’t matter where that person is. Wait here, I’ll get you some parchment. You can buy more from any trader.”

Vilkas greets Josh and me with a hearty Nord handshake, while Lauren and Bailey both get bear hugs. “May Talos be with you,” he says solemnly.

“Thanks,” Bailey says, smiling. “We’ll try not to die before lunch.”

“I appreciate your help in finding Delphine,” Orgnar says warmly. “Dinner and a few bottles of mead are on the house.”

“Now you’re speaking my language,” Josh grins.

Orgnar leads us to our rooms and hands Lauren the bath key. “Fire’s stoked, Miss. Water should be hot.”

The evening winds down when the wives of Hod and Alvor storm in to drag their drunk husbands home by the ear, with Frodnar’s ugly grey mutt biting at their ankles for moral support.

Josh's "Honey, I'm home" is met with a sleepy “Die quietly,” from Lauren.

Bailey is already asleep under the furs, looking more peaceful than I’ve seen her in days.

As for me, I’m halfway through a bottle of brandy, hoping it’s enough to keep the dreams of the black dragon away for one night.

The charred, decaying remains of the dragon attack in Helgen hang grotesquely from pikes outside the city walls. I know Jarl Balgruuf has sent a message to the Jarl of Falkreath, summoning a priest to tend to the bodies. A seething rage bubbles within me, demanding release.

I hand Bailey the reins of my horse. “Stay here.”

“There are too many bandits inside, Garrett. Take Josh with you,” she insists.

I shake my head, forcing down the storm clawing its way up my chest. “No. I have to do this alone.” I glance over my shoulder as I move toward the gates. “You might want to cover your ears.”

A voice calls from the shadows. “You picked a bad time to get lost, friend.”

I meet his gaze, my voice flat. “And you picked a worse time to disrespect the dead. FUS RO DAH!”

The shout cracks through the air. The bandit flies backward, smashes into the wall, and hits the ground like a sack of spoiled meat. Another comes charging from behind a burned-out house, yelling something about gutting me.

“Buddy, you wish. FUS RO DAH!”

This time, the bandit, heavier built than his friend, is launched into the air, though his flight lacks the grace of the first. As he struggles to regain his footing, I raise an eyebrow in amusement before delivering the final blow, "YOL TOOR SUL!" Fire engulfs him, and the smell hits before the silence.

When it’s over, I start pulling the spikes from the cold earth, dragging down the decomposed remains. My friends try to help, but I wave them off. This is mine to carry. Perhaps, in this solemn act, I may find some semblance of redemption for the lives taken, even if those lives belonged to scumbags.

One by one, I lay the bodies down inside a burned-out house. Bandits, townsfolk …. all the same now. I wonder if anyone waits for them, still hoping they’ll come home. If I ever meet the Jarl of Falkreath, I will give him a piece of my mind.

I stack wood over them, pour lamp oil, and whisper. “I’m sorry it took this long, for the indifference of your Jarl. May the gods grant you peace.YOL!”

Flames roar to life, licking the sky, purging, consuming, cleansing. I stand there until I can’t anymore, until the smell of ash and grief drives me to my knees.

I retch beside a broken pillar, wiping the burn of bile and smoke from my mouth.

A hand settles on my shoulder. Josh. His expression softens as he helps me up and hands me a bottle of mead. “Garrett,” he says quietly, “come on. We’ve got a long road before dark.”

We pitch our tents where Josh and Bailey swore the Falkreath Hold Stormcloak camp used to be. If there ever was one, it’s long gone. Just trampled grass and a few broken arrows left behind to prove it.

Night settles fast. The forest breathes heavy around us. Damp earth, pine, and that whispering kind of quiet that makes you feel like the trees are eavesdropping.

During my watch, the feeling creeps in again, that prickling sense of eyes on me. The kind that makes your hand twitch toward your weapon before your brain catches up.

I don’t even bother looking this time. Whatever’s out there can keep staring. Out here, far from any city walls, the wild belongs to the wolves. And frankly, if one of them wants to try their luck, I could use the exercise.

Bailey’s arm is snug around my waist, her other hand pointing toward a cave tucked between jagged rocks. “That’s where it happened,” she says, voice full of mock drama. “A talking dog and a dark prince. The Dragonborn gets asked to kill the dog for a battle axe.”

She smirks. “I sometimes wonder how many players actually do it. Just, ‘sorry, buddy’. Whack! All for a glorified axe.”

As the sun casts its golden rays across the landscape, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange, we finally cross the bridge into Ivarstead on the fourth day of our journey. The village wakes with the dawn, smoke curling from chimneys, and chickens arguing with their reflections in puddles.

Narfi sweeps the inn porch, beaming when he spots us. Reyda, who has not met her watery death in the time since we last saw her, offers to accommodate our two weary horses with a smile.

Spring has softened the mountain. Fresh grass and wildflowers blanket the lower slopes, making the climb almost inviting, if not for the bears. The first two go down with arrows before they can so much as grunt. Bailey’s victorious shout rings through the valley, loud enough to make any nearby bear reconsider its life choices.

The third bear manages to rake its claws across Lauren’s arm before Josh intervenes. His sword flashes, the bear drops, and the resulting stream of curses rolls down the mountain like thunder. Somewhere in Ivarstead, someone’s probably staring up at the sky, wondering which Daedric Prince just stubbed their toe.

"Do you see the mods the players use during their gameplay? I've noticed some mods during our travels. The towns and cities are bigger, and the people don't look or sound the same as in the vanilla game," Josh inquires.

"We've seen it all, Josh," Arngeir trades a look with the other elders, and for the first time, I swear I see them blush behind those beards.

Lauren chuckles, "So you've seen the female avatar Josh played with for a while, the one that defies gravity and nature."

Wulfgar turns crimson. “We don’t know who plays the game,” he mutters, “but we’ve seen... things. Things that question the sanity of some players.”

The four old men fall into an awkward silence. Josh and I exchange a glance that says exactly what we’re both thinking. These poor monks have seen every immersive adult mod Skyrim had to offer. Somewhere, the Divines are facepalming.

Master Einarth clears his throat and leads us to the secret room. The air hums with power. Mist swirls within a line of tall mirrors, except for two. One shows our reflection. The other isn’t black exactly, more like... shadow in motion."

Josh squints. “Something is moving in there. You got sound on this thing?”

Einarth chuckles softly. “No sound, Josh. Subtitles only. We disabled them.” He slides a hand across a rune beneath the dark mirror, revealing a few letters separated by a series of dots.

Someone is moving and talking in the mirror. Is the game undergoing a reset??

One can only hope.

Chapter Text

Our planned one- or two-night stay at High Hrothgar turned into days that bled together as if the Greybeards had Fus Ro Dah’d the calendar right off the mountain.

Lauren woke the first morning with a sore throat and aching joints.

“It’s just a cold,” she said, waving off our concern. “Tomorrow I’ll feel better.”

She didn’t.

By the next night, her fever was blazing, and Josh was trying to cool her with damp cloths and desperation. The claw marks on her arm had gone from angry red to oozing blood and pus, and the healing potions seemed ineffective.

Lauren weakly pushes away Josh’s hand as he tries to get her to drink.

“Please, Lauren,” he pleads. “It’s a cure disease potion. It might work.”

Bailey turns pale as Lauren forces down a few sips, gagging on the sludge.

I don’t blame her. The smell alone, a mix of vampire dust, crab chitin, and something that died twice, could probably clear a room faster than a dragon shout.

I step outside, chasing fresh air and a little peace from the sound of Lauren murmuring fevered calls to her mother and dead father. Overhead, the sky shimmers green and blue, the aurora stretching like the gods’ own watercolor across the night.

I close my eyes, and the memories flood back. Lauren’s dad, Sebastien, is singing off-key in the car on the way to school, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. His laugh echoes across family gatherings, barbecue smoke, cricket balls, and the smell of summer.

Then the memory darkens. My mom showed up at school, eyes red, clutching ten-year-old Lauren so tightly she could barely breathe. Sebastien had died in a crash on his way to the airport. A good man, gone far too soon.

“That is not how you work through your problems, son.”

The voice cuts through the fog in my mind. Master Borri sits down beside me on the steps, eyeing the bottle dangling from my fingers.

“I’ve watched you drink your way through half of Skyrim,” he says gently. “If you need someone to listen, my ears are open.”

I stare at the bottle, the moonlight glinting off the green glass. “Have you ever killed someone, Master Borri? Looked into the eyes of a woman as your arrow hit her chest? Watched her life slip away and knew it was your fault?”

He’s quiet for a moment before replying, “No, Garrett. I’ve never killed a man nor a woman.”

He places a steady hand on my arm. “I can’t claim to understand your pain. But I’ve seen the look on your friends’ faces after killing Falmer, elves twisted into monsters. They were disgusted with themselves. Survival changes us, son. But drinking to forget doesn’t help. The next morning, you always remember.”

I exhale, staring out at the endless white peaks. “I don’t know how to face what I’ve done.”

“By acknowledging it,” Borri says softly. “By letting yourself feel it. Talk to your friends. They may not understand completely, but they care for you more than you realize.”

I nod slowly, something inside me loosening for the first time in a while. “Thank you, Master Borri. I’ll try.”

He stands, brushing the snow from his robe. “Remember, Garrett, even on the highest mountain, no one climbs alone.”

Josh looks like death warmed over as he sits next to the bed. Lauren’s body has wasted away, all sharp bones and shallow breaths. A walking reminder of those old black-and-white photos from World War II’s concentration camps.

“I’ve tried every combination of ingredients for health potions, but nothing works,” Josh says hoarsely. “She’s dying, Garrett. We don’t have immunity against Skyrim’s bacteria or whatever the hell passes for germs here.”

An illness from a game is killing my friend. A fucking game. How is that even possible?

I stare at my hand, then at the thin white scar running from Josh’s lip to his chin. You idiot. It’s not just possible. It’s happening. We could all die here.

Game over. No respawn.

“We can’t just stand by and watch her slip away,” I murmur, the words tasting like ash.

Bailey’s eyes shine with unshed tears as she grips Lauren’s frail hand. “We have to do something. We can’t lose her.”

“There has to be a way to save her,” I say, the words coming out harder than I expect. “We’ll find a cure, whatever it takes.”

Josh looks up, exhaustion carved into every line of his face, but there’s gratitude in his eyes. “I’ll keep looking,” he vows. “I don’t care if I have to mix a thousand potions.”

Bailey stands and puts a hand on his shoulder. “You, however, need a bath, a shave, and something that doesn’t come in potion form. Go. I’ll sit with her.”

When Josh finally shuffles off, Bailey lowers her voice. “Master Wulfgar wants to see you. Something about hawk feathers and… Daedric hearts.”

Because of course he does. Nothing says “ancient healing wisdom” like ingredients straight out of a demonic cookbook.

Leaving Bailey by Lauren’s side, I make my way through the monastery’s echoing halls. Wulfgar’s been buried in scrolls and dust for days now, his gnarled fingers tracing faded lines of text. When he finally looks up, there’s something like hope in his eyes.

“The main ingredient,” he says softly, “is a Daedra heart.”

The words hit like a gut punch. Daedra. As in actual evil from another dimension.

Perfect. Just what we needed, demonic organ harvesting to save a friend. Skyrim really is trying to kill us.

By dawn, a courier from Whiterun arrives just as I’m preparing to leave for Ivarstead. Bailey scribbled a note on courier parchment, asking Kodlak for the Daedra heart from his room and to buy more from Arcadia if she has them. Efficient, if slightly horrifying.

I cross out the second-to-last ingredient on Wulfgar’s list, a scaly pholiota. Most of the ingredients, I’ve gathered from the little alchemist’s shack between the Rift and Falkreath Hold. The Blue Mountain Flowers are in full bloom, brushing my fingertips as I pluck them gently. For a brief moment, it almost feels peaceful.

The hawk swoops down with a piercing screech, loud enough to wake the Divines themselves.

“Easy there, Feathers,” I mutter, ducking as it swoops. I raise my bow to deflect the attack. If the fucking bird is going to keep up with its incessant noise, it will wake the sleeping dragon on the tower. “Seriously? You could’ve picked literally anywhere else!”

For hours, I track the damn thing’s flight across the cliffs. My arms ache. My patience evaporates. Where’s Spider-Man when you need him?

The hawk dives again. This time I’m too slow. Its talons hook into my scalp, claws tangling painfully in my hair. Warm blood trickles into my eye as I grab at the flailing mass of feathers.

“You fucking featherball! I only need some of your feathers, not your… Ah, never mind!”

I tear away a fistful of feathers as the hawk screeches in outrage and escapes my grip. “Brilliant move. You are an idiot, Garrett," I mutter to myself as yellow eyes lock onto mine within seconds.

The dragon inhales deeply, and I  swear the beast is grinning. "Dovahkiin, hi kos med aan tafiir ko fin vulon, nuz zu'u koraav hi. Zu'u fen lost hin laas ahrk sil(1)."

Despite my racing heart and the very real urge to wet myself, I summon every ounce of courage I’ve got left. My voice rings out, steadier than it has any right to be.. "Hi ahrk wen lahvu(2)?" I reply, the words of the dragon tongue flowing from my lips. Yeah, forgot to mention, while Josh and Bailey were busy keeping Lauren alive, I was casually studying Dovahzul. You know, just in case I ever needed to talk smack to a fire-breathing lizard the size of a house.

Clearly displeased with my insolence, the dragon draws in a breath that could melt glaciers and begins to utter a Thu’um. Before it can finish the incantation, an arrow whistles through the air and lodges right in its maw, cutting off the spell.

Unfortunately, even the first word, “KRII…”, hits like a hangover after drinking skeever-tail moonshine. My strength drains instantly. My limbs turn to lead, and the world starts spinning in slow motion. I stumble backward just in time to realise I’m about to meet the ground, hard.

A spike of agony shoots through my ankle, sharp enough to make me yelp like a kicked horker. Then the dragon flicks its massive head, and suddenly I’m airborne, tumbling through the sky.

Arrows scatter around me, spinning like confetti at a funeral. Somewhere in the chaos, Vilkas’ voice echoes in my head. “Think. Act.”

“Yeah, easy for you to say, you’re not currently being yeeted by a lizard the size of a barn!” I mutter to myself, twisting midair on instinct.

The dragon waits below, jaws open wide like it’s expecting seconds. I crash downward, feet first, daggers at my sides. The impact lands before its teeth can close, and the resulting roar could probably wake Sovngarde.

Then everything goes dark, wet, and horrifically warm.

“Disgusting,” I groan, fighting my way through saliva and bile, shoving slimy strands of what I hope is not muscle tissue out of my face. I glance down, realize I’m holding half-digested mystery meat, and immediately flick it away before my stomach decides to stage a protest.

A wave of power floods through me as the dragon’s soul merges with mine. For a fleeting second, I understand what real power feels like… and I hate that I like it.

During the fall, I spotted a word wall tucked behind the tower. Limping toward it, I run my fingers over the carved symbols, their glow pulsing like a heartbeat.

“KRII,” I whisper with a grin. Kill. Yeah, I got that part loud and clear.

Star, my mare, clearly didn’t miss me. Her ears flatten the moment I approach. Can’t blame her. After swimming in dragon guts, I smell like death warmed over.

By the time I lead her into Reyda’s stable, the night guard eyes me like I crawled out of a crypt. “Only burglars and vampires creep around after dark. So, which are you?”

“Neither,” I mutter, too tired for theatrics. “Just a guy who picked a fight with a flying lizard and lost the hygiene battle.”

He wrinkles his nose. “You don’t look well, Dragonborn.”

“Yeah, and I smell worse,” I reply with a weary grin, saluting half-heartedly before dragging myself up the steps.

By dawn, I’m running on fumes. My ankle throbs, my legs are on fire, and every breath feels heavier than the last.

“Please let Lauren be alive,” I whisper between steps, a desperate mantra to keep moving. “Please let Lauren be alive…”

Josh’s eyes are red and swollen, tears still glistening as I hand him my backpack full of ingredients. His hands tremble when he takes it.

“There’s, uh… bits of glass and potion in there,” I explain, scratching the back of my neck. “I had a disagreement with a hawk and a dragon. The hawk started it.”

Despite everything, a faint smile tugs at his lips, the kind that looks painful but hopeful.

“I should have gone with you,” Bailey says softly, regret threading through her voice as she listens to my tale of aerial chaos.

“You did what I asked,” I reply. “You kept Josh from falling down the rabbit hole of despair. I am grateful for that, Bailey."

Her answering smile is faint but real. It’s enough.

Two hours after Josh administers the potion, Lauren’s fever finally breaks. Watching him coax her to drink, carefully rubbing her throat so she can swallow, hits me harder than any dragon shout ever could.

Two days later, Lauren stirs. Her eyes flutter open. For a moment, the entire world exhales with her. Josh just stands there, frozen, before I silently hand him a rag to wipe his eyes. He takes it wordlessly.

I pull Bailey from the room, hugging her tight against my chest. She trembles, and I realise I’m not doing much better. It’s easier to let her think I’m comforting her while I quietly fall apart behind her shoulder.

Another week melts into the next, and Lauren’s ghost-like frame slowly fills out again. Color returns to her cheeks. Laughter starts echoing in the halls of High Hrothgar again.

While she recovers, Bailey and I take shifts with the Greybeards, monitoring the black mirror like it’s Skyrim’s worst reality TV show. We scribble down every flicker of light and line of text, trying to make sense of it.

“If only we had a video camera for slow playback,” Bailey mutters after another flash.

Lauren’s recovery doesn’t stop Josh from fussing. “You’re not at a hundred percent,” he warns, his brow furrowed in that heroic-doctor way of his. “Give it another week before we move on to Riften.”

Lauren groans. “I need air, Josh. If I smell one more combination of cold stone, mountain snow, and old monk, I’m throwing myself off the steps.” She glances apologetically at the Greybeards, who pretend not to hear, though I’m pretty sure Arngeir’s lips twitch.

It’s been almost two months since Lauren fell ill, and the tension between us is tangible. We fill the long, dull hours by staring at the black mirror, debating the meaning of life with Paarthurnax, and reading. Lots and lots of reading. If I never see another musty scroll about Dragonborn destiny again, it’ll be too soon.

By the time we finally leave, it takes the better half of the day to reach Ivarstead. Lauren’s pale and trembling with exhaustion, but too stubborn to let me carry her. Typical.

We pause on the bridge outside town, the morning sun spilling gold over the rooftops. Bailey exhales, shoulders sagging.

“I think I’ve had enough of this little hamlet and the monks for a while,” she says.

• Dragonborn, you are like a thief in the night, but I see you. I will have your life and your soul.
• You and whose army?

Chapter Text

“Stop wasting arrows by shooting them at trees, Bailey,” I scold, frustration edging my voice. “I’ve lost all of mine, and the ones from that Ivarstead trader bend faster than Lauren’s self-control at a sweetroll stand.”

Bailey sits in front of me in the saddle, loosing another arrow at a particularly innocent pine tree. It bounces off with a sad plink. “That one was giving me attitude,” she says.

“It’s a tree, not a troll,” I mutter. “Save the aggression for something that bleeds.”

Josh whistles from up ahead and points toward a cluster of rocks shaded by birch trees. Lauren looks exhausted, her posture slumped like she’s carrying the weight of all of Tamriel’s side quests. The slow pace has us crawling through the Rift like a pack of overfed skeevers. We’d passed a ruin earlier, Angarvunde, and it was killing me not to explore it. But with Lauren still recovering, ruin delving was off the table.

I lift Lauren from the saddle and carry her toward the bedroll Bailey’s spread out beneath the trees.

“You know I can walk, Garrett,” Lauren says with a weak chuckle.

“Yeah, I know,” I reply, grunting dramatically as I lower her down. “But how else am I supposed to check if you’re gaining weight? Tomorrow I might need a stamina potion just to lift you.”

Her laughter rings through the clearing, light and infectious, the kind that makes even Josh crack a rare smile. It’s a sound I didn’t realise I’d missed. Lauren used to laugh like that all the time, before her father died. For years afterward, she carried herself like someone twice her age. Then Ava Martin married Bailey’s dad, the man my mother lovingly, and not quietly, calls ‘the Italian stud.’

When Etorre Moretti and his daughter joined the family, something changed. The old Lauren started to peek through again, the one who could find joy in burnt toast and bad jokes.

"Hold there. Before I let you into Riften, you need to pay the visitor’s tax," the guard declares, blocking our path with a stern expression.

“Tax? For entering the city? You must be joking,” I scoff, glancing over my shoulder. Bailey and Josh are still haggling with the stablemaster over our hoses, and Lauren’s limp in my arms, pale and sweating. My patience for nonsense is hanging by a thread.

“If you don’t open the gate,” I growl, my voice low and dangerous, “I’ll burn it down, you corrupt bastard.”

The guard blinks, takes three careful steps back, and raises his hands in surrender. “No need to get violent!” he stammers, shooting a nervous look at his companion. “Open the gates!”

A man leans casually against a wooden pillar, his outline melting into the evening shadows. “Hey, you. Get over here. I wanna talk to you,” he calls, all smug and swagger.

“Yeah, no thanks,” I mutter under my breath. “I’ve already reached my quota of idiots for the day.”

He steps into my path, smirking. “Walk away, little doggie. Stay out of the Black-Briars’ business, and maybe we’ll throw you a bone.”

Great, I think. First extortion, now mob threats. The unease settles deep in my gut. The city feels wrong. The kind of wrong that smells like money, blood, and too many whispered deals in dark corners. It's a good thing we intervened to save Honningbrew Meadery from the Black-Briar clutches.

Josh and Bailey leave me at the Ratway entrance while they go searching for Delphine and Esbern. My head’s still pounding from too many of the green Argonian’s “Cliff Racers” last night. The first hit like a warhammer to the gut. The second wasn’t much better. The third… well, I may have lost count after the green lizard’s girlfriend started singing The Dragonborn Comes off-key. I promised Bailey I’d stop at three, which, in hindsight, was an optimistic lie.

Now I’m regretting every single sip.

“How does anyone live in this city?” I grumble aloud, squinting against the dim light. “It smells like dead fish, moldy wood, and despair sprinkled with mead.”

“You look like you could use a drink,” a smooth Dunmer voice cuts in, “something better than Cliff Racer.”

I glance over. It’s the same Dunmer from the inn last night, sitting there like a dealer in an alleyway. He opens his hand to reveal a small purple bottle, shimmering faintly.

Part of me wants to ask why every Dunmer I meet has a different shade of grey. Green-grey, blue-grey, purple-grey. But I figure that’s probably not the kind of cultural curiosity you express to a man offering mystery potions.

“No thanks,” I say, shaking my head. “I may drink like an idiot, but I don’t do drugs.”

“Take it,” he insists, pressing the vial toward me. “You look like a man who has bad dreams.”

Before I can answer, the door behind me swings open and Bailey steps out, looking like she’s ready to stab the next person who breathes wrong.

“They’re not here,” she says grimly, an Elven dagger glinting in her hand. “There are signs of a struggle. A busted door, bloody handprint on the wall, books everywhere. The Thalmor have them.”

“The Thalmor?” I echo, blinking. “Is this part of the game?”

Josh sighs so hard it sounds like his soul just gave up. “You explain it to him,” he mutters to Bailey. “I’m checking on Lauren.”

He walks off, leaving me staring between Bailey, the purple bottle clutched in my hand, and the filthy streets of Riften.

We spend the rest of the day stocking up on food and potions, making sure we’re ready for whatever insanity comes next. Josh, ever the mad scientist, haggles for an alchemy retort and proudly tucks it into a small chest. The way he eyes it, you’d think he just bought a baby dragon egg.

“Now,” he says with suspicious enthusiasm, “I can brew something that’ll actually work instead of tasting like swamp water.”

“Yeah, because that’s what we need,” I mutter, “Josh, armed with chemistry and questionable morals.”

Meanwhile, Bailey handles the logistics, her tone brisk and commanding as she returns to the table. “Sigaar will take us to Windhelm, but no further,” she announces. “From there, we can book another carriage to Dragon Bridge. None of the drivers will go near Solitude, too afraid of the Legion.”

Talen-Jei slides up beside the table with a hopeful smile and a glass that glows faintly purple. “Perhaps one of my special drinks to lift your spirits?”

I shake my head like a man who’s learned his lesson the hard way. “No thanks.”

“He’ll have Juniper tea like the rest of us,” Bailey cuts in firmly, shooing the Argonian away with a wave that could command armies.

Talen-Jei looks mildly offended, but wisely retreats.

I sip the tea, grimace, and whisper, “Tastes like boiled tree bark.”

Bailey doesn’t even glance up from her map. “Good. Builds character.”

“Hi kos aan scaraan mal kiir.  Zu'u fen take hin laas ahrk sil.  Ofan hin fahdon wah dii fron.(1)” I feel the heat of the dragon's breath against my face, its menacing presence looming over me.

“Zu'u am Ni scaraan do hi.  Hi can go wah Oblivion. (2) Go fuck yourself and your kin.” I retort defiantly, my heart racing as the black dragon exhales smoke in my face, its grin sending shivers down my spine.

A cool hand suddenly touches my forehead, jolting me awake.

“It’s only a dream, Garrett,” Bailey’s voice murmurs, soft but steady.

“Bailey?” I blink in confusion, trying to orient myself. She’s sitting on the edge of my bed, moonlight cutting through the shutters and tracing silver lines across her face.

“You were shouting in Dragon tongue and swearing,” she explains, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You woke the whole inn. Pretty sure the barkeep thinks you’re summoning Daedra.”

I groan and rub a hand over my face. “Great. Guess I’ll add ‘accidental exorcist’ to my list of life accomplishments.”

Bailey shifts closer and lies down beside me, her head propped on her arm. “This is becoming a habit,” she teases. “Maybe we should start sharing a room again.” She pauses, then smirks. “A room with two beds.”

"Yeah, that might be a good idea," I reply, feeling a sense of comfort in her presence.

The blacksmith at Shor’s Stone counts the ebony arrows I’m buying, his thick fingers surprisingly nimble as he tallies the total. With my hangover and the absence of the two Blades, I'd forgotten to replenish my stock of arrows in Riften.

“No one’s been hurt yet,” the blacksmith says grimly, “but the spiders have taken over the mine. If we can’t clear it, our town’s done for.”

“What about the guards? Or the soldiers at the fort not half a day from here?”

He snorts. “They’re about as useful as a fork in a soup fight. Said something about ‘keeping an eye out for enemy soldiers.’”

“Fine,” I sigh. “I’ll handle it.”

His expression softens into cautious hope. “Tell you what, clear the mine, and I’ll line your pockets with every Septim I can scrape together. Just… be careful. I don’t want to be the one who sent the Dragonborn to his death.”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” I reply dryly, pocketing the arrows.

Josh nearly chokes on his stew when I drop a pouch of coins in front of him. “Six-hundred Septim, minus the cost of arrows,” I say proudly.

He stares at me like I just killed a dragon bare-handed.

The innkeeper brings us plates of sliced goat leg, potatoes, and carrots. My stomach growls, but nostalgia kicks in first. “I’d trade all of this for a decent steak or lamb chop,” I mutter, longing for a taste of home.

“Don’t start,” Bailey warns, pointing her fork at me with mock authority. “I want ice cream. With caramel. And chocolate.”

The next evening, the driver, Sigaar, stops near a Dwarven Ruin for the night.

“Do not go into the ruin, you two,” Josh warns sternly.

“Yes, father,” Bailey responds, her laughter bubbling forth at Josh's serious expression before she follows me.

It is the first time I lay my eyes on one of the gold-copper-roofed buildings. The architecture of it is truly fascinating.

Bailey leads me to a building that resembles a small tower. “It's a storeroom, and in the game, there's nothing in here that wants to kill you. Do you want to go in?” she asks, a hint of excitement in her voice.

Josh is waiting for us with his arms crossed when we return a few hours later. “You went in.”

“Yes, we did, and look at what we found,” Bailey announces triumphantly, sliding her heavy backpack from her shoulders. She carefully lifts out one of the ingots we discovered inside. “If we can sell it for the same amount as in the game, and we sell the battle-axe, we'll have a thousand Septim more than a few hours ago.”

Josh's expression softens, impressed by our resourcefulness. "Well done, you two," he acknowledges, a hint of pride evident in his voice.

During the night, I wake with the taunting of the black dragon in my dreams and the distant call of a dragon to the west. Bailey senses my unease and moves her bedroll closer to mine, taking my hand in hers. “You have been dreaming again, Garrett,” she murmurs.

I listen intently to the dragon's call in the distance, feeling its power resonate within me. “That is not a dream flying out there calling to its kin, Bailey,” I reply, my voice tinged with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

“In the game, it never leaves the hot springs. It never comes near the roads. Why, I do not know,” Bailey explains, her tone thoughtful. “Sigaar says he only saw it once, attacking a mammoth that came too close to its perch in the centre of the springs.”

Black smoke stains the sky to the north like a scowl.

“Kynesgrove is burning,” Sigaar says, voice low and urgent, hauling the carriage reins tight. The horses strain and the wheels creak like a chorus of tiny deaths. Josh tells me to stop. Something in me answers a different call.

 Ignoring Josh's protests, I push Star to her limits, urging her to gallop faster, praying she doesn't step into a hole or stumble over a rock in our haste to reach Kynesgrove.

The town is a nightmare in motion. Flames climb like they have appointments to keep. Buildings explode into ash and heat. The road shimmers with a heat that writes fear into everything it touches. A burned body lies next to the road, expression frozen in an unfinished scream.

A cluster of townsfolk huddles at the mine entrance, faces streaked with soot and terror. I shove through, following pained cries until a man lifts his head and reaches for me with a hand that trembles as if it knows it’s already empty. “Please, mister,” he rasps, “kill me. Please.”

A woman rushes forward, her face etched with grief. “It's Bjald, the town's guard. If not for him, the dragon… more people would be dead.”

“Please, Iddra, you have to end the pain,” Bjald begs her for release, and it’s a plea that’s quieter and louder than anything I’ve ever heard.

“I cannot, Bjald. Please, do not ask that of me,” Iddra responds tearfully, her gaze pleading with me for assistance. “Please, mister, he does not deserve this suffering.”

I close my eyes for a moment, steeling myself for what needs to be done. The burned husk at my feet, once a man named Bjald, now clings to my hand in gratitude. “Thank you, mister,” he whispers when he sees the dagger in my hand.

With a heavy heart, I raise the dagger in my hand. “May your soul find its way home,” I murmur softly before driving the blade into his heart. I wait patiently until his hand relaxes in mine, signaling his release from suffering.

“May you find Sovngarde, Bjald,” a voice speaks from behind me. I turn to see Sigaar and my friends have arrived.

“The black dragon came early this morning, flying over the town in circles,” Iddra explains in fits between sobs. “It circled, then left. The next thing I know is Bjald shouting at the top of his voice that a dragon is coming and that we need to get to the mine. He stayed outside, shooting arrows at the beast, giving us time to get inside. It was not the black dragon, this one was grey.”

Her husband pulls her close, offering comfort as she struggles to compose herself. “It was over in a few minutes. It burned our town, and then it set fire to Bjald. I do not think I will ever sleep again without hearing his screams,” he admits, wiping the tears from his face with a shaky hand. “What are we supposed to do now? There is nothing left.”

“We are alive, Kjeld, thanks to Bjald. We will honor him by rebuilding the town where he started his life as a wee baby,” Roggi says with that stubborn, practical fury of survivors.

“Aye, Roggi. That we will do. We have the mine, and we have Anga’s Mill not far from here if the lumber runs out on Ganna’s farm,” Kjeld agrees.

“Where did it go?” I ask with a steady voice. I am prepared to hunt that fucking lizard to the ends of Skyrim if need be.

“East, into the mountains,” Roggi responds, pointing towards the towering peaks about half a day's journey away.

Bailey and I decide to hunt for food while Josh and Lauren help with salvage. Around the fire later, talk turns to the grey dragon and the messy catalogue of the game’s glitches.

“In the game, the Dragonborn kills Sahloknir right after Alduin shouts it to life,” Josh says.

I taste iron in my mouth and think about Bjald, how a glitch cost a life. “Another damned glitch,” I say. “Two people gone, a guard and a merchant.” Anger tastes worse than smoke.

I wake with Dovahzul echoing in my mind from my dream. “Zu’u los saran fah hi, Dovahkinn.”(3)”

Roggi startles as I settle down next to him by the fire. The survivors of Kynesgrove and my friends are all sound asleep on makeshift bedding. Bedrolls and hay covered with animal skins and the tarp from the carriage.

“To the east. Is there a building built in the shape of a horse’s hoof?” I inquire, my mind racing with the image of the grey dragon from my dreams. It had looked down upon a building nestled within a semi-circle enclosed by wooden poles.

“Narzulbur. An Orc stronghold, built against the cliffs of Velothi Mountains,” Roggi confirms, his voice tinged with recognition.

“What should I say to your friends?” Roggi asks, concern etched in his voice.

“Tell them I went to look for the dragon,” I reply, my determination unwavering.

“And what should I tell your woman if you do not come back?” he asks bluntly.

“She is not my woman,” I start, which is the truth and the untruth. “But if I do not return, tell her... I… never mind.”

“You are fooling yourself, warrior,” Roggi says softly. “Please come back. I do not want to tell the Imperial that her Nord is not coming back.”

I nod. I have no illusions about heroics. I have only the need to do what has to be done.

Sahloknir’s name slips into my mouth like a curse: “Sahloknir. Phantom Sky Hunt. Well, you have hunted for the last time.”

Turning to glance back in the direction I came, I can't help but feel a pang of uncertainty. Back there, three people may never speak to me again if I get out of this alive. But I push aside my doubts and fears, focusing instead on the task at hand.

The mountains rise like teeth, and I climb onto the first boulder, my eyes scanning the horizon in the direction the Orcs of the stronghold showed me. With each step forward, I steel myself for the confrontation that awaits. “Zu’u fen siiv hi, Sahloknir. (4)

• You are a scared little child. I will take your life and soul. Give your friends to my kin.
• I am not scared of you. You can go to Oblivion
• I am wait(ing) for you, Dragonborn
• I will find you, Sahloknir.

Chapter Text

Two days after Garrett went after the dragon, an Orc arrived in Kynesgrove, leading Star by the reins. The Orc’s heavy boots crunched through the ash as he stopped before us. He looked like he’d walked through Oblivion and back, dust clinging to his armour in layers. “The Nord is a brave warrior,” he rumbled, his deep voice echoing in the ruined street. “Going after the dragons.”

Bailey’s face drained of colour. “Dragons? As in… plural?”

The Orc nodded grimly. “Two, maybe more. They circled the stronghold, black, grey, and brown. The black one flew south after a while. The others turned east.” He paused, his tusks catching the light like dull metal. “That is where your friend went.”

The words hit harder than a warhammer. Bailey took the letter he offered, her fingers trembling, and slipped away into the shadows near the mine entrance.

She sat there for a long time, the glow of the fire catching the tears that slid silently down her cheeks. No one dared to interrupt. Whatever Garrett had written was between them and Skyrim’s frozen gods.

And for once, none of us made a joke.

Garrett had left us sleeping in the mine. No note, no goodbye, just vanished into the mountains

We helped the townsfolk rebuild, waiting for a sign, any sign, that he was still alive. Bailey promised us she wouldn't go searching for Garrett, but we worry every time she saddles up Star for a ride. We're all grappling with the uncertainty of Garrett's fate, hoping against hope that he'll come back to us safe and sound.

“It’s been more than three weeks, Bailey. I don’t think Garrett’s coming back.” Josh’s voice carries the kind of sorrow that only comes from saying what everyone else is too afraid to admit.

Bailey finally meets Josh’s gaze, then turns toward the distant, jagged outline of the eastern mountain. “He’s not dead, Josh. We can’t leave.”

Josh exhales heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “I…” His voice cracks. “We need to find Delphine and Esbern. We need to find a way home, Bailey.”

Her reply comes soft but steady. “Do you think he’ll go home too, if we find a way back?”

Josh hesitates. “Yes. I think he will.”

Bailey stares at him for a long moment, long enough to sense the lie behind his words, but she clings to her belief anyway, as if sheer hope could rewrite fate. “I’ll pack,” she says quietly. “We can buy another horse in Windhelm if Alfarinn won’t take us to Dragon Bridge.”

When the door closes behind her, silence settles over the room like ash.

“You shouldn’t have lied to her, Josh,” I say softly. “She’s going to hate you even more knowing you were lying for what you thought was her own good.”

Josh’s shoulders slump. “I know, Lauren,” he admits. “But we can’t stay here forever, waiting for a ghost. We can’t keep pretending this world has a respawn button.”

I nod slowly, but the bitterness in my chest won’t fade. “Maybe not,” I say quietly. “But I can’t shake the feeling that we just left part of our story unfinished.”

Without Garrett and his watch, we’ve completely lost track of time. Iddra said it’s the nineteenth of Mid-Year, June, in our world. Which means we’ve been stuck inside this game for more than six months.

Six months. Half a year of dragons, draugr, and mead that could strip paint.

Josh’s birthday slipped by somewhere between Ivarstead and Riften, but with everything that's happened, we all forgot to celebrate. Bailey’s birthday is coming up in less than a month, and for the life of me, I can’t remember when Garrett’s is.

Josh studies the map spread out across the table, his brow furrowed as he traces the route with his finger. He circles Windhelm with a bit too much pressure, like he’s trying to stab the parchment into submission.

“I want to speak with Jarl Ulfric,” he says. “About what happened in Solitude and Helgen before we go looking for Delphine and Esbern.”

I nod, trying to ignore the creeping dread curling in my stomach. I hope Ulfric has answers, real ones, not just cryptic Nordic nonsense. I want to go home before we lose anyone else.

Before I lose Josh. Or Bailey.

Bailey barely waits for us to settle in before she leaves the inn to explore.

She returns with a slight frown an hour later. “I want you to come with me, you have to see this.”

Josh looks up from his journal, pen frozen mid-sentence, his brow furrowing. “I’ve got an appointment with Ulfric in the morning. Can it not wait?”

“No,” Bailey replies flatly. “You’ll just have more questions after you see it.”

That tone, part command, part challenge, leaves no room for argument. We trail her through the streets of Windhelm, boots echoing on cobblestones.

Bailey stops outside a modest building and pushes the door open. Warmth, laughter, and the smell of mead and strong alcohol hit us like a wall. The inn is alive with sound, people drinking, laughing, trading stories. It’s normal.

“I’m not seeing the problem,” I murmur. “Looks like your average Skyrim tavern. Alcohol, noise, and a strong chance someone will start singing badly in about five minutes.”

Josh’s gaze sharpens as he scans the room. “It looks like the New Gnisis Cornerclub,” he says slowly. “And Ambarys is definitely the owner. But in the game…” His eyes narrow. “You never see humans, Argonians, or Khajiit in here. Ever.”

I blink. “So the problem is… racial integration?”

He shoots me a look. “The problem is that Argonians aren’t even allowed in the city in the game. This shouldn’t exist.”

Bailey pulls a book from her satchel and slides it across the table. It’s a lore book from the Fourth Era from High Hrothgar’s library. Then another. Josh flips through the pages, his eyes widening with each turn until he blurts, “What the actual fuck?”

He looks up, half in disbelief, half in panic. “Someone is messing with the lore of the game. But how, and why?”

He pushes the books back toward Bailey, who calmly stows them away in her bag, not even flinching at stealing the book.

It is early when the innkeeper wakes us with a message that Jarl Ulfric will see Josh in an hour at the palace. I watch as he dresses in his new set of clothing. His beard, neatly trimmed, frames his face, while his hair curls around his ears. I reach out to tuck a loose strand behind his ear, our lips meeting for a moment.

I had a crush on Josh from the age of fourteen, which left me feeling awkward and tongue-tied around the boy I've known since birth. I found myself blushing whenever he looked my way, my heart racing at the slightest accidental touch. I got it so bad that I began to stammer whenever I spoke to him. Garrett, two years younger than us, started to tease me about it until Josh, despite his smaller stature, put an end to it by giving Garrett a bloody nose.

Josh glances over his shoulder, “Wish me luck.” With a nod, he closes the door behind him.

Bailey jumps to her feet, "Come on, we're not going to sit around waiting for Josh to return. I want to explore the city, and you're coming with me."

Bailey excitedly points out various buildings, and she chats about the people in the game as if she knows them intimately. "This is not vanilla Windhelm, it is from the mod 'Capital Windhelm Expansion’. I use it in every playthrough."

We lose all track of time as I follow Bailey through the streets. She is talking with almost every person in the city. I want to check if Josh is back, but I continue to follow Bailey, knowing that she needs the distraction. I couldn't ignore the sound of her crying into her pillow last night, and if I ever see Garrett again, I swear I'll kick his arse for doing this to Bailey.

“Thank goodness you’re back. Lauren was about to kick down the palace doors to find you,” Bailey says, her relief written all over her face.

Josh leans over me and kisses my cheek. “I sent a guard to let you know it would take a while, but he couldn’t find you. Let me guess, Bailey took you on a grand tour?”

“Yep. We managed to scratch a few items off her bucket list,” I reply. “Also, we had lunch with a woman named Viola. Bailey convinced her to adopt the flower girl, Sofie.”

Josh sighs, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course you did. I should’ve known you’d meddle again, Bailey.”

Bailey crosses her arms. “Oh, please. You act like I broke the universe. Have you seen Lucia in Whiterun lately?”

Josh narrows his eyes. “Who adopted her?”

“Jevner and Ulren Mueller, the owners of Whiterun Mill, the mill that came with one of the mods that found their way into the glitched game.

Josh groans. “Let’s hope your side quests don’t crash the game. Now, are we talking about Skyrim’s orphans or do you want to hear what Ulfric said before my brain melts from the lore inconsistencies?”

That gets Bailey’s attention. She flops down on the bed. “Fine. Hit us with your conspiracy theory.”

Josh opens his journal like a man about to deliver bad news with PowerPoint. “Okay. First off, Ulfric Stormcloak was never imprisoned by the Thalmor. The Great War? Totally different. Apparently, the old Daggerfall Covenant and the Ebonheart Pact teamed up and won. They kicked the Aldmeri Dominion’s shiny golden arses right off the continent.”

Bailey blinks. “Wait, so no White-Gold Concordat? No banned Talos worship?”

“Nope. And no Markarth Incident either. Skyrim’s history got a full rewrite. Honestly, the only positive change? Ulfric Stormcloak isn’t a racist prick anymore.” He thought me mad for asking him all these questions about the history of Skyrim and Tamriel that do not exist.”

Josh places his journal on the small table and opens it.  "A year or so ago, fishermen spotted strange lights on the sea far to the north. They described it as a single beam brighter than Masser, dancing on the water. Some of the fishermen began to spread rumours, suggesting that the lights were the ghosts of their Atmoran ancestors searching for their kin. At the same time, the Hagravens of The Rift started behaving strangely. King Madanach, who now reigns as the King of the Reach following the absence of the Markarth incident, sent a message indicating that his Hagravens had observed an illness descending upon Skyrim.”

“And Torygg just… ignored that?” Bailey asks.

“Pretty much. Classic monarch move.” Josh flips a page. “Then things got wild. A group calling themselves the Legion showed up, no one knows from where. They docked their ships in Solitude, and about ten individuals in strange armour went straight to the Blue Palace, and took the king and queen hostage without breaking a sweat. Ulfric and his men rushed to Solitude upon hearing news of the Legion's takeover and the capture of the High King and his queen. They were greeted in the city by General Tullius, the Imperial Emissary of the Empire. According to Galmar Stone-Fist, the general's behaviour was odd. ‘It was as if he was walking in his sleep.’ Tullius remained unresponsive to their inquiries, merely instructing them to follow him.”

Bailey raises a brow. “Creepy cult vibes.”

“Right? Anyway, Ulfric said the townsfolk appeared similarly entranced, going about their daily routines as if under a spell, but Torygg and Elisif weren’t, though. Now, here's where it gets interesting,” Josh continued.

“Ulfric recounted that when he bowed in front of King Torygg, for a moment, he felt the urge to challenge the King. Surprisingly, Torygg asked him if he was there to kill him. Ulfric swore he was there to save them, not kill them. King Torygg instructed Ulfric not to interfere in the Legion's affairs, reassuring him that he and the queen were not in danger. However, both Ulfric and Galmar noticed the fear in their eyes. Queen Elisif kissed Ulfric on the cheek and whispered, 'Talk to the Hagravens,' as she bid her farewells. At the gates of the city, they get arrested for treason, thrown in Castle Dour, and sent to Helgen to die.”

Bailey whistles. “So… that whole execution scene we remember? Still happened, but with a whole new plot.”

“Pretty much.” Josh paces the room, hands flying as he talks. "During the execution, a huge lightning storm struck Skyrim. Galmar said it felt like Nirn itself was splitting apart. Then a black shape appeared, breathing fire, destroying everything. And Tullius and Elenwen just… watched. Calm as you please. Then they mounted their horses and rode straight into the storm. Leaving their soldiers, both Men and Mer, to perish."

Bailey frowns. “So, no Thalmor Embassy?”

Josh shakes his head. “There is no Thalmor Embassy or Thalmor Headquarters. Instead, it’s just housing for visiting diplomats. Nothing sinister. Which somehow feels more sinister.”

The weight of it settles in. My stomach drops. “Josh… what are you saying? That we won’t find Delphine or Esbern? And that we are stuck in this game?” My hands tremble uncontrollably as I struggle not to panic.

He hesitates, and that’s all the confirmation I need. The panic hits like an avalanche. “So we’re stuck here? Garrett’s dead, the world’s broken, and we’re going to die in this stupid lame arse of a game!”

Bailey’s palm cracks across my cheek before I even see it coming. The sting pulls me out of the spiral. Her voice shakes. “Don’t you dare say that. Garrett is not dead.”

Josh pulls us both into his arms, steady but quiet. “We’ll find a way home,” he says, voice low but certain. “It might take time, but we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Bailey sniffles into his shoulder. “No promises. Just… hope. That’s enough.”

She pulls back, eyes glassy but fierce. “And we will find Garrett.”

We’re roused by heavy footsteps thudding across the wooden floor of the inn, followed by an impatient knock on our door.

“Open in the name of General Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm,” a stern voice commands from the other side.

Josh gestures for us to stay calm before opening the door. Two Palace Guards stride in without invitation, eyes sweeping our small room like they’re expecting us to hide an army under the bed.

“Are there more of you?” one demands.

Josh scoffs. “Yeah, mate. They’re hiding in the closet. Want me to go get them?”

Bailey stifles a giggle as the younger guard actually takes a cautious step toward the wardrobe. I bite back a laugh behind my hand. It’s not the time for jokes, though apparently Josh disagrees.

The older guard narrows his gaze at him. “Are you the man named Josh?”

Josh’s grin fades. “That depends on who’s asking.”

The guard doesn’t blink. “I arrest you in the name of General Ulfric, Jarl of Windhelm, on the charge of conspiracy to overthrow the High King of Skyrim and misleading the leaders of our province.”

The words hit like a mace to the gut.

Bailey steps forward, ready to protest, but Josh lifts a hand to stop her. “You can’t help me if you get arrested too,” he says quietly.

I fumble with my boots, dropping them more than once due to shaking hands. Bailey kneels in front of me, steadying my hands with hers.

“I need you to breathe,” she says softly. “Josh will be fine.”

I shoot to my feet, knocking her backward. “How can you say that? They arrested him! What if….” My voice cracks. I can still see the bloodstains on the Helgen chopping block.

Bailey pulls me into a rough hug. “Ulfric might be a prick in the game, but he’s not the ‘head-first-ask-questions-later’ type in person. He’ll want a trial.”

“I want to believe you,” I whisper, “but this isn’t the same Skyrim.”

She doesn’t argue. She just squeezes my shoulder and straightens her cloak.

The guard at the dungeon door refuses to let us through. Bailey leaves me there, squaring her shoulders before marching toward the Palace.

“Do not provoke him, Bailey,” I warn in a hushed voice. “Please.”

She flashes a tight smile. “Me? Provoke Ulfric Stormcloak? Never.”

The sarcasm doesn’t reassure me.

Time drags like cold molasses before she returns, her expression grim. “Ulfric won’t let us see him,” she says, voice low.

Before I can respond, an elderly man in heavy mage robes appears in a shadowed doorway, watching us like a hawk, deciding which one of us to eat first. His pale eyes glint beneath the hood’s edge.

Bailey grips my hand. “Not here,” she whispers. “Outside.”

Bailey pours two goblets of spiced wine, the kind that burns going down. She hands me one, then exhales sharply.

“Josh’s imprisonment stems from accusations made by Wuunferth,” she says, anger threading through every word. “The mage convinced Ulfric that the Arch-Mage in Winterhold found no evidence of tampering with Nirn’s history. So, naturally, they assume Josh is a spy for the Legion. Because logic.”

I stare at her. “So they think he’s rewriting history and working for the Legion?”

I snort despite myself. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m taking Galmar to seek counsel with the Greybeards,” she says, straightening her posture like a woman gearing up for diplomacy and battle in equal measure. “If anyone can vouch for Josh, it’s them.”

She digs into her pack and pulls out a worn leather journal. The corners are bent, the cover smeared with ink-stained fingerprints, Josh’s fingerprints.

“While we’re away,” Bailey says, locking eyes with me, “you need to take action. We have to win over the court mage, and here’s how you’re going to do it…”

My hands tremble visibly as I knock on the door. Viola Giordano swings it open, her face lighting up with a warm smile.

“Lauren, welcome! It’s been days since we’ve seen you and Bailey.”

Sensing that she was about to call for Sofie, I jumped in quickly. “Actually, Viola… could we talk privately?”

Her smile falters, just for a heartbeat, before she nods and gestures toward the spacious living room.

Viola’s sigh fills the quiet after I finish explaining. “Are you certain about investigating the murders?” she asks, worry knitting her brow. “No offense, Lauren, but you don’t strike me as… well, cut out for this sort of thing. Maybe Bailey, but not you.”

A flicker of doubt twists in my chest, but I force it down. “I have to,” I say, voice trembling but firm. “If I don’t, Josh might…” My throat tightens. “They might send him to the block.”

Viola rises, smoothing her dress with deliberate calm. “Then I’ll assist you,” she declares. “Tova is a friend. I’ll ask her for Hjerim’s key.

When I return later, Viola spots me waiting on her porch and waves the key triumphantly in the air.

“Ready to check out the house?” she asks.

Ready? Not even close. But I nod anyway. “Let’s go.”

We step inside, and the silence swallows us whole. Every creak of the old floorboards sounds like a threat. If this were a movie, I’d be yelling at myself to get out of the house.

Viola, on the other hand, is rummaging through drawers like she’s house hunting. Bailey said she’d find the secret wardrobe quickly, but apparently “nosy Imperial” is a personality trait, not an insult.

Impatience gnaws at me. I just want this nightmare over with.

When Viola finally finds me frozen before the wardrobe, she frowns. “Something wrong, Lauren?”

I stare at the door, heart hammering. “I’m not sure, but there’s… something about this wardrobe.”

She reaches for the handle, and I flinch so hard I nearly slap her hand away. “Sorry!” I squeak, trying to breathe again. “Nerves. Totally fine. I love wardrobes. Big fan.”

Yeah. Nailed it.

Viola gives me a look that says she’s reconsidering this partnership, then opens the wardrobe herself.

The secret room is worse than anything Bailey described. Blood. Bones. The smell… like a slaughterhouse owned by someone with serious hygiene issues.

Viola’s pale face mirrors mine as we both reach out for support. My stomach twists when I see the stone altar, the scattered limbs, the skulls, and the journal lying open among them.

“This is it,” I whisper. My voice sounds far away.

I steel myself and pick up the bloodstained book. Viola peers over my shoulder, her breath trembling. “What does it say?”

Together, we read. Each page is worse than the last. A step-by-step guide to resurrecting the dead, written in the tone of someone enjoying it.

Viola snaps the book shut, her hands shaking. “This… this looks like the work of a necromancer. And there’s only one in Windhelm with the guts to pull this off. Wuunferth.”

“The court mage?” I ask, though the name already sends a chill down my spine.

She nods grimly. “Rumours about him have been swirling for years. It’s why they call him the Unliving. I wouldn’t approach him directly. Take this straight to the steward, he’ll listen to you.”

I thank her and leave her at the doorstep, clutching the key and the journal like they might bite.

Every scrape of a boot on the cobblestone makes me jump on the walk to the Palace. By the time I reach the doors, I’m one jump-scare away from cardiac arrest.

The guard greets me with a smile, and I almost kiss him out of sheer relief. “You have no idea how glad I am to see a friendly face,” I mutter, brushing past.

Jorleif leads me into a small room where Ulfric and the court mage are already waiting. My stomach twists into knots as both men turn to look at me.

Ulfric’s expression is anything but welcoming. He gestures toward a chair with a smile that never makes it to his eyes. The mage, meanwhile, steps closer with all the warmth of a snake about to strike. For a split second, I imagine him turning me into a frog, and Josh having to kiss me back to human form.

"Is this another one of your fanciful tales about changing Skyrim’s history?" Wuunferth asks, his voice sharp enough to cut glass.

I swallow hard, forcing my trembling hands to stay steady. Okay, Lauren, remember what Bailey told you. Deep breath. No panicking. And definitely no frog jokes out loud.

While Viola had been busy snooping through every drawer in Hjerim, I found the journal, the one mentioning Susanna. I figured it might stop The Butcher from doing something stupid, like killing her… or us.

I can feel both men’s eyes boring into me as I pull the items from my backpack. The mage’s gaze narrows the moment he spots the amulet resting on top of the blood-stained journals.

“These belong to The Butcher,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Viola and I found them in Hjerim, where he murdered those women.”

Ulfric takes the first journal, scanning the pages. His frown deepens as he lifts his gaze to Wuunferth.

“Wuunferth? Are these your journals?”

The mage’s expression shifts from irritation to insult. “I’ve never kept a journal in my life, I can assure you,” he replies, tone dripping with disdain. “And that”, he gestures toward the amulet, “is the Necromancer’s Amulet. I’m not a necromancer.”

“The journals aren’t his,” I interject quickly. “Someone’s framing him.”

Wuunferth gives me a sideways glance, clearly surprised to have backup from the anxious stranger in travel-worn boots. “Indeed,” he says tightly, lifting the amulet by its chain. “There’s only one man in Windhelm who collects such grotesque artifacts, Calixto.”

Ulfric’s voice booms across the chamber. “Guards! Search Calixto’s House of Curiosities. Bring back proof of his involvement in the murders.”

Waiting feels endless. I’ve counted every stone in the wall twice and named three of them. Steve, Rocky, and Pebbles, if anyone asks.

Finally, the mage returns, guards in tow. I release a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“We found another journal in the Imperial’s home,” Wuunferth reports. “Unfortunately, he tried to flee and was killed by one of the guards.” His eyes narrow on me. “But I suspect you already knew of this journal’s existence. Tell me…was Calixto meant to die? And what other future events do you know of?”

I meet his gaze squarely. “I don’t know the future,” I say firmly.

Ulfric’s stare could melt steel. For a tense moment, I think he’s about to order my arrest, too. But then he exhales and nods slowly. Whatever he sees in my face must convince him I’m telling the truth.

He gestures toward the door, and there, walking in, is Josh. I slap a hand over my mouth to stop the shout that threatens to escape.

“Though your friend and Galmar did not return from High Hrothgar,” Ulfric says gravely, “the soldiers and priest I sent to Morthal did. They found the city as you described it. Something strange is happening in Skyrim… perhaps across all of Nirn.”

Bailey and Galmar returned from the Greybeards a few days after Josh’s release. In the days that followed, Josh spent hours with Ulfric and Galmar, discussing everything from altered timelines to missing wars. Ulfric was visibly shaken to learn that the nightmares haunting him, visions of endless war and death, were real events chronicled in the Greybeards’ records.

Galmar, ever the soldier, pressed Josh for details about the future. Ulfric shut him down immediately.

“No,” he said with conviction. “The future is not set in stone. Every choice we make shapes what comes next.”

Yesterday afternoon, Josh came into our room and pulled his backpack from the wardrobe.

“I think we’ve had our fill of Windhelm,” he announced. “Jarl Ulfric is arranging a way for us to gain entry to Solitude. But before we head back to Whiterun, we must make a stop at High Hrothgar."

And so, here we are again… boots laced, packs heavy, and hearts stubbornly hopeful, ready to climb the seven thousand steps.

Chapter Text

“We watched as he climbed the cliffs, discarding the heavier items from his backpack the higher he climbed. Then the mirror turned white, and it hasn’t changed back in five weeks.” We found Master Einarth in front of the mirrors in the secret room. Maybe we should call it the mirror room, as it is not a secret room anymore. Not quite as dramatic, but accuracy matters.

“Is he still alive?”

The old man regards her with sympathy. "I cannot say, Bailey. We witnessed nothing that would suggest his demise. There was no fall, no sign of a dragon. At times, he spoke to himself, and just before the mirror turned white, he looked at something unseen and muttered, “What the fuck is that?”

Einarth hesitates, then adds apologetically, “Forgive the crude language, but you people seem to use that word a lot… often out of context, I might add.”

For the first time in weeks, hope flickers back to life. Maybe, somewhere on the eastern slopes of Skyrim’s mountains, Garrett is still alive.

Today marks my fourth day of climbing. Four days of bad decisions and worse weather. Each step takes me higher into Skyrim’s unforgiving peaks, and I’ve long lost count of how many times I’ve had to backtrack when the cliffs ahead decided to impersonate vertical walls. The biting cold gnaws at me like it has a personal grudge, and I’ve layered so many clothes I’m basically a walking laundry pile. Shelter is rare, and timber is even rarer. The wind doesn’t whisper up here. It howls, like it’s laughing at me.

My armour is blackened with soot. Every night, I heat a patch of rock with my Thu’um before curling into the crevice like a lizard sunbathing in misery. A few hours later, I wake up half-frozen and repeat the process. As long as I don’t slip into a full-on coma, I’ll live. Probably.

The two dragons are still taunting me, perching just close enough for me to think I’ve got a shot, then flying higher. Smug, scaly bastard! The thin air makes every breath a battle, and the voice in my head that keeps saying “You’re going to die on this mountain, Garrett” is really starting to get on my nerves.

I scoop up a handful of snow and slap it on a rock, scowling. “YOL.” The fire breath melts it into water. I fill my waterskin and tuck it under my shirt to keep it from freezing solid. The irony isn’t lost on me. The dragon souls I hate are the only reason I’m still breathing.

Somewhere up ahead, a guttural roar echoes off the cliffs. Great. A troll. Because obviously, this mountain needed more ways to kill me. Still, food’s food. I take it down, skin it, and wrap strips of meat in its hide before strapping the bundle to my pack. I’ll deal with the smell later. Or never.

The next morning, the dragons circle lazily overhead before drifting south. I keep climbing, lungs burning, muscles screaming, and the summit finally feels within reach.

Then I freeze. “What the fuck is that?”

The world around me explodes into blinding white. My knees hit the ground, and I clap my hands over my ears as a deafening roar fills my skull. It’s not sound, it’s pressure, tearing at the air, shaking my bones. Time stretches, bends, snaps.

And then… silence.

The light vanishes, the mountain returns, and I’m left kneeling in the snow, heart hammering in my chest. I blink against the afterimage, gasping, half-expecting the universe itself to start clapping sarcastically.

To the west, Skyrim lies beneath a hazy veil of mist, just as before. The mountain range stretches northward, its jagged contours slicing cleanly against the horizon. But when I look east and south, my stomach twists. The landscape… glitches. It’s as if someone zoomed too far into a digital photo. The world is breaking apart into blocks of colour, fragmenting into tiny, shifting squares. The effect is nauseating, wrong.

I shake my head and keep moving. I came here to slay a dragon, not debug the mountain.

Time has become meaningless. I’ve been trudging through pixelated snow, past pixelated rocks beneath a pixelated sky for… I don’t even know how long. Skyrim disappeared behind the distorted cliffs days ago. According to my watch, I’ve been tracking the dragons from Kynesgrove for two weeks, but that can’t be right. It feels like months. Maybe years. Time itself seems corrupted here.

Yesterday, I found them perched atop the gleaming gold-copper roof of a Dwarven ruin, one of the few things in this cursed landscape that isn’t pixelated. I couldn’t reach them. A wall of jagged, pixelated rock separated us. Yeah, I know. I keep saying “pixelated.” Walk a mile in my boots and see if you can come up with a better word for reality falling apart.

The cold bites deeper every hour. Fatigue claws at me, and the loneliness presses in like a physical weight. Somewhere between exhaustion and madness, I start seeing my brother. Not as the ten-year-old boy who drowned that day, but as a man grown, whole and clear amid this broken world.

“I don’t know if I can keep going, Daven,” I whisper, voice cracking. “I’m so damn cold and tired.”

“You have to keep going, Garrett,” he answers, calm and certain, the way he used to sound before everything went wrong. “You’re the only one who can. You never give up.”

“But you drowned because I gave up,” I choke out, guilt cutting deeper than the cold. “I couldn’t swim anymore. My arms… they just stopped.”

“No,” his voice insists. “Never say that. You didn’t give up, I did. If my will had been as strong as yours, I could’ve kept swimming until the fishermen arrived. But I chose the dark. It was easier to let go.”

His voice fades with the wind, leaving me alone again. The silence afterward feels heavier than the mountain itself.

The two dragons hover above, their shadows rippling over the fractured snow. They look down at me and at my maybe-here-or-maybe-not-here brother.

“Hi kos golah Dovahkiin, nuz  hi kos ni aan dovah.  Hi dreh ni lost fin mulaag.  Gahvon wah mu, ofan hin sil wah mu.(1)”

My voice cuts through the wind. “Wo kos hi? (2)”

“Hi nir mu, nuz dreh ni mindok mu.  Mu kos Sahloknir ahrk Viinturuth, naak do hin sil.(3)”

I sigh, the sound sharp in the thin air. “I hope you understand whatever language I’m speaking, because fuck you. I’ll see you in hell.”

Their laughter is thunder. Mocking. Echoing across the jagged, pixelated peaks until even the air trembles with it. Then, they rise higher into the glitching sky and vanish beyond the cliffs.

A sheer wall blocks my path forward. No way around, only up, or back.

My brother appears beside me, as solid and unreal as the rest of this cursed world. He rests an arm over my shoulders. “Up is the only way, Garrett. If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

I glance at him. “You’re not coming with me, are you?”

He shakes his head, a faint smile ghosting his lips. “You have to do this alone, brother. Go. Before it’s too dark to climb.”

With a heavy heart, I nod. “Guess this is where we say goodbye again.”

Then I climb.

Each pull sends fire through my arms. My palms are raw, fingers cracked and bleeding. The last of my healing potions is gone. Their empty bottles glitter somewhere far below, except for two. I keep those. I’ll need them when the dragons come for me.

When I finally drag myself over the last ledge, the sight steals my breath.

Below lies an ancient Nord city, carved straight from the mountain’s bones, vast, silent, and real. No pixelated edges. No flickering ground. Just cold grey stone bathed in silver moonlight.

I collapse to my knees, laughter and tears tangling in my throat. Who knew ruins could look so beautiful? After days trapped in that broken, digital nightmare, this place feels… alive. I don’t even care where I am anymore. I’m just free. And I swear, I’ll never zoom into a photo again.

Twin moons hang overhead, their pale faces lighting the ruins below. The wind is gentler here, almost kind. But movement stirs in the shadows. Draugr, their armor catching the moonlight like shards of ice.

And beyond them, on a distant roof of stone, perch not two but four dragons. Their massive silhouettes shift in the darkness, wings unfurling like a promise of death.

The realisation hits me like a hammer to the chest. There’s no way I can fight four of them. Not alone.

I lift my gaze toward the sky and whisper, “Guess I’ll be seeing you soon, brother.”

The only route down to the ruins lies in scaling the cliff, a daunting prospect, yet the alternative is certain freezing death amidst the unforgiving cold.

A Draugr in a horned helmet waits on the flat rock like it booked front-row seating to my funeral. Before it can mouth a shout, I force the word that nearly killed me: “KRII.” The Thu’um tears the air, and the battle-axe slips from the thing’s fingers. I drive my dagger toward its ribs. Stupid. Dead things don’t have hearts. The ribs crumble. The dagger wedges between vertebrae and refuses to budge. I yank. It’s stuck like a bad metaphor.

The Draugr shudders, then flares back to life. My only hope is to leave the dagger lodged in its spine and shove it very far away with a “FUS RO DAH,” but that will be like knocking on a door with a really big hammer.

My eyes lock on a tower ten metres away. If I can make it there, I might find shelter from dragon-sized problems.

I take a breath and hurl the ancient shout at the undead. “FUS RO DAH.”

The Thu’um detonates. The Draugr becomes a flying, howling lawn ornament and slams into the nearest wall with enough bone-cracking sound to set off echoes in the next province. The ten metres to the tower now look like an ultramarathon.

I slam the door just as a wall of ice smashes into the wood. The timbers rattle like an old cart in a storm. Inside, silence swallows everything. I slump against the door and count arrows as if they’re a bank account. One, two, … twenty-nine. Barebones ammo, but it’s what I’ve got. My other toys are a blunt lock-pry knife and a longsword still wrapped in leather like a guilty secret.

My hands glide over the package. In this forsaken place, there is no one I love, no soul to entice me into committing atrocities for the sake of power. Josh mentioned that even if you do not slay your nearest and dearest, the blade is still pretty powerful, absorbing health from the victim. I do not know if I can convince a Daedra following a script, but I must try. Glitches, glitches everywhere, right? I unwrap the sword like a kid at a cursed birthday party. It’s a thing of beauty. An ebony katana that smells faintly of doom and excellent craftsmanship.

The whispers start as soon as the sword lies bare on my crossed legs.

I sit up straight. “Listen, spider-Daedra, I refuse to sacrifice my friends to empower the blade. I am not from this world, and you cannot lay claim to my soul, but they call me Dragonborn, a man with the blood and soul of a dragon. What say you, you power the blade when I bathe it in the blood of my dragon brethren.”

The voice chuckles, dark and pleased. “Blood of deceit is a nourishing flow,” it croons. “Slay your kin, and I shall infuse this blade with power tenfold."

"Deal," I respond without hesitation. "And one more thing, shut the hell up in my head.”

The response is a sinister chuckle before the presence retreats. I feel more unsettled than relieved, but at least it’s quiet.

I pull my cloak from my backpack and wrap it around my shoulders. My bedroll, unfortunately, lies somewhere atop the mountain, lost to the jagged edge of a rock that snagged its ties. I delve into the crazy, magical backpack and find two apples that look elderly but taste like tiny miracles.

The first time Josh used the backpack he bought from Alvor in Riverwood, we all looked at it in surprise. He effortlessly stowed away our new clothes and boots, one after another, without the bag showing any signs of being filled. "Just like in the game," he remarked with a grin. Then he attempted to lift it. "Heavy, too heavy," he groaned, struggling under its weight. It dawned on us that while the backpack could accommodate a multitude of items, they retained their physical weight. Ten books might slide in with ease, but the burden on your shoulders remains as real as ever.

I pop the small purple bottle into my palm and consider the options. The black dragon stopped visiting my nightmares once I started shadowing the grey and bronze ones. Coincidence? Maybe. Motivation to keep it that way? Absolutely.

I push myself up against the door and use a shirt as a pillow, because if I’m fighting four dragons, I should at least look rested while I die.

A thin sliver of light filters under the door, drawing my attention. I cautiously crack the door open just wide enough to peek outside. There it is, the dragon that unleashed a torrent of ice last night, perched upon the ruins of a small tower roughly a hundred meters distant from my current position. It's time to devise a plan to dispatch these dragons, one by one, before my dwindling food supply becomes a concern.

• You are stubborn, Dragonborn, but you are not a Dragon.  You do not have the strength.  Surrender to us, give your soul to us. 
• Who are you?
• You hunt us, but you do not know us. We are Sahloknir and Viinturuth, eat(ers) of your soul.

Chapter Text

The first dragon I killed was sheer luck. Pure, dumb, terrifying luck.

I need light. Slowly, I ease the tower doors open, eyes scanning the area for movement. The dragons perch on the roof of a larger building nearby.

Torches line the walls, still flickering faintly with lamp oil, preserved for millennia, somehow. How that is possible, I cannot begin to fathom.

The tower itself seems insignificant, a lookout, perhaps?  Climbing to the upper level, I find two chests. One contains coins and a handful of arrows, pristine despite the years. I hesitate to touch them, wary of breaking whatever strange preservation magic keeps them intact.

The chest on the ground level is more promising. Arrows, an ebony dagger, one hundred Septims, a ruby, and a diamond that gleams enticingly in the dim torchlight. I lift the diamond toward the flickering flames, savoring the sparkle, when a sudden chill brushes the back of my neck.

The bastard snuck up on me.

I whirl around, facing it eye to eye. Yellow, slitted eyes glint with malice. My pulse jumps. How the fuck did it move so silently?

Instinct takes over. The sword slides from my back. “FUS ROH DAH!”

The shout hits the dragon like a battering ram. It stumbles backward, horns wedged against the low ceiling, the entire tower quaking under its thrashing. I don’t wait. Feet pounding the spiral staircase, I take the steps two at a time, racing to the upper floor.

From the balcony, I fling myself at the dragon’s neck, praying I don’t impale myself on its scales or the sword clutched in my hands. The katana bites deep, slicing through skin, muscle, and cartilage as I slide down its thick neck.

Minutes later, it bleeds out. I feel the surge of power in my veins as I absorb its soul. My chest heaves. Sweat chills against my skin in the cold morning air.

I turn to face the three dragons still perched on the nearby roof. Hatred radiates from their gaze, but not a single one moves to aid their fallen comrade. They watch. Calculating. Waiting.

I tighten my grip on the sword. Game on.

Day two of living in the tower. I ration the scant pieces of troll meat, stretching them across three days. The promise of fish from the nearby lake taunts me, but every attempt fails, draining what little energy I have and nearly freezing me to death. Ferns and pine trees line the water’s edge, their greenery a cruel reminder of life thriving while I starve. No animals rustle through the underbrush, no birds fill the air with song. If only I could slay a dragon and harvest its flesh before it erupts in flames like a festive Christmas tree.

Day three. The dragons’ eyes follow my every movement, yet they maintain a deliberate distance. The bastards are starving me. Do they not feel the gnawing ache of an empty stomach? My only path to confront them runs through an imposing structure, guarded by a legion of shouting Draugr patrolling the entrance. My meager supply of arrows won’t clear the way. I need another plan.

Day four. The sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows over the ruined city. Viinturuth takes to the sky, soaring westward. My chance has come. Two dragons remain. I’ve studied the cliffs encircling the city and found a promising ledge skirting behind the grey building where they perch. It won’t take me directly to the top, but it offers a vantage point close enough to strike the smaller dragon nearest the cliff.

The climb is treacherous. The ledge fractures beneath my feet in several places, forcing me to leap from one jagged rock to another. Any misstep, any loose stone, and I’ll be nothing more than a splattered smear below.

Just as I round the cliff, a dragon’s head suddenly appears mere meters away. Its yellow eyes gleam in the dark. “Nii los faaz wah koraav hi ko un horvut, Dovahkiin. (1)”

I size the distance, calculating my jump. If it snaps its jaws while I’m mid-air, I'll be nothing but a mid-flight snack.

“Yeh… not as painful as hope this is going to be. WULD NAH KEST,” I mutter under my breath.

The leap executes perfectly. The dragon’s eyes widen in shock as it recoils too late. I strike with the katana, slicing through its massive nose and gaping maw, crimson blood splattering across my armor. The beast staggers backward, losing its footing, and tumbles down the side of the building, crashing onto a set of stairs leading toward the lake.

I can hear Sahloknir roaring behind me as I scramble down the side of the ruined building, leaving skin and leather along the jagged stone.

“Aak zu’u, zeymah! (2)” The smaller dragon unleashes a roar from its ruined maw.

Without glancing back to see if the bronze dragon will intervene, I plunge the ebony katana into the dragon’s carotid artery. Hot, coppery blood gushes over my hands, and instinctively, I press my lips to the wound, drinking deeply. The taste is thick with brimstone and iron. Delicious? No. Necessary? Absolutely. I gag anyway. Hey, someone has to taste-test the apocalypse.

The surge of stamina and raw power coursing through me is intoxicating. I feel unstoppable, like Thor on a caffeine binge. The fear of absorbing something dark and hateful is drowned out by the rush of strength and the dragon’s soul merging with mine.

“Your voice is strong for a mortal, but it is no match for mine. My voice has been silent for too long. Hear it and despair!” Sahloknir’s roar shakes the ruins as he circles above before swooping toward me.

I barely have time to release an arrow before ducking behind a crumbling arch.

“Hiding will not save you, Dragonborn. Face me!” he bellows.

I step out, bow drawn taut. “You wish to dance? Fine, but I charge for choreography lessons,” I mutter under my breath. The blood in my veins fuels courage, arrogance, and a healthy dash of insanity. Tonight, this dragon dies. I’m done with this lonely, freezing, dragon-infested city.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!” I roar, flames engulfing him. He thrashes, and I follow with a “KRII,” stunning him just long enough to unleash a barrage of arrows. Each arrow hits, and I can’t help but think, Man, if I had a critter cam right now, this would get a million views.

But my quiver is empty. Figures.

“YOL TOOR SHUL!” Sahloknir retaliates, flames scorching the arch I had just used for cover.

“KRII. WULD NAH KEST!” I bellow, propelling myself beneath his throat with the Thu’um. With a swift, precise motion, I drive the ebony katana upward, slicing through flesh and sinew. The dragon convulses, its final roar echoing across the ruins.

I awaken shivering uncontrollably from the cold. Memories of drinking Sahloknir’s blood flood back, the intoxicating mixture of power and bloodlust leaving me dizzy. Swirling lights lift me briefly into the air, and my head meets stone. Hard. And darkness finally says hello.

The sky above me is a deep shade of purple, tinged with a faint hint of yellow. Dawn teeters on the horizon, threatening to break, and I know I have to move. It’s time to retrieve my backpack and get the hell out of this cold and grey nightmare. Viinturuth can wait. I have places to be, preferably anywhere but here.

A steep incline, slick with snow, stretches before me. Using a walking stick as both support and very temporary moral support, I climb to the summit. There stands Daven, like some heroic figure straight out of an overly dramatic video game cutscene.

“You made it, Garrett,” he exclaims, relief radiating off him like a Nord-sized heatwave. “I thought the bronze dragon might….” He stops, realizing words can’t capture the existential terror I’ve just survived.

I cast one last glance at the ancient city below. For a fleeting second, Bailey’s face flashes before my eyes. I raise a hand instinctively, almost feeling her warmth. “I’ll see you soon in Whiterun,” I whisper.

The descent is knee-deep snow and misery in equal parts. I reminisce aloud. “Remember the time Dad took us to the mountains? We snowboarded until we couldn’t feel our legs.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Daven replies quietly, the echo of the past heavy in the frozen air. The blue and red snowboards still hang in the garage at home. A bitter, unused reminder of joy.

By the time we reach the vast expanse of water, lake, or ocean, who cares? The sun is almost at its zenith. The shoreline stretches endlessly, a tower silhouette far in the distance. We have a choice. Swim or hope the shoreline holds something safer.

I test the water. It feels peculiar, almost oily between my fingers, and carries a strange scent. With the backpack, bow, and katana secure, I wade in.

“You don’t mind me joining you, brother?” Daven’s voice slices through my thoughts. “I promise not to drown this time.”

I dive in beside him, surprised at how real this feels. “I’m glad you’re here, Daven. Even if I fear I’m losing my mind.”

Together, our strokes are synchronized, careful not to overexert before reaching the towering structure ahead.

I glance up at the strange tower. Somewhere along the way, Skyrim has ended, and the Matrix has begun. Green zeros and ones cascade from the sky, forming a tower that seems… self-aware.

“This is where we part ways, Garrett,” Daven’s voice cuts through the surreal atmosphere. “You climb to the top to find your way back. Tell Josh and Lauren I miss them. And Ma, Da, Eulalie… I love them. Oh, and Bailey… don’t forget to tell her how you feel. Life’s too short.”

He embraces me tightly in the water, and I feel a weight lift. Then he’s gone, leaving me with nothing but cold, digital rain and a rope of ones and zeros stretching infinitely.

Time passes, or doesn’t. My arms cramp, my hands blister, and my brain starts filing formal complaints about unfair labour practices. At the summit, I peer through a dirty window or a digital simulation of one, and I see Lauren, Bailey, and me standing next to Josh.

“Josh, no! Don’t touch the mirror!” I scream, but the echo of ones and zeros swallows my words. Too late. Josh reaches out, breaches the surface, and the swirling binary engulfs me. Yogurt in a straw has nothing on this sensation.

Five days ago, Master Einarth woke us. Garrett is visible in the mirror. Bailey wept at the sight of him, sprawled on a ledge, gazing up at the sky. Since then, we’ve scarcely left the Room of Mirrors, save for the bare necessities.

“Please, Garrett… do not open the sword,” Bailey pleads, voice trembling. I watch him carefully undo the leather bindings of the katana, dark energy humming around it. My stomach churns as I read the unholy bargain of dragon blood.

We cheered as Garrett vanquished the first dragon, and our applause grew louder when he slayed the second. However, our joy turned to unease as he began to drink the blood of the fallen beast. The sight turned my stomach, and I had to flee to the bathroom.

"He needs something to sustain himself, Lauren. He's got no food left," Josh rationalised, attempting to quell our concerns. But when Garrett drank the blood of Sahloknir, both Josh and Bailey voiced their doubts about Garrett's sanity.

We watch anxiously as Garrett loses consciousness after absorbing the bronze dragon's soul, hoping fervently that he doesn't succumb to the freezing temperatures.

Bailey stands before the mirror, her eyes fixed on Garrett's every move upon his awakening. "Why are there two Garretts?" she questions, her finger pointing towards a figure standing alongside Garrett on the summit. Josh and I both gasp in astonishment. The man standing beside Garrett bears a striking resemblance, with blonde hair braided and a shaven undercut, adorned with a tattoo on the right side of his scalp. "It's not two Garretts, Bailey," I explain gently. "It's Daven, his brother. Look, he has two blue eyes. Not one brown and one blue like Garrett."

Bailey smiles, almost touching the mirror, and Garrett mirrors her movement.

Lips moving in unison, we read aloud: “I will see you soon in Whiterun.”

The two men turn, the mirror floods white. I guess we will be going to Whiterun.

• It is painful to see you in our trap, Dragonborn
• Help me, brother.

I wanted Garrett to take another pixelated route back to Skyrim, but then I saw this clip on YouTube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wKXSXBiN7Eo. Needless to say, it changed the storyline somewhat. I did not write the three dragons into the story, as it would be difficult to kill dragons while swimming through an ocean. I hope you like it.

Chapter Text

I wake with a splitting headache and the vague suspicion that I’ve died and respawned in IKEA. The ceiling above me is white, sterile. Too clean. Turning my head, I spot the white and teal bedding of Lauren’s bed.

I bolt upright. The room tilts. Bile burns my throat. “Bailey! Josh! Lauren!” I shout. Silence.

Panic takes hold. I tear through the house like a lunatic on caffeine.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I yell, probably loud enough for the neighbours to start composing complaint emails. I’d sworn to protect them, and now they’re gone. Left behind in Skyrim. My brilliant plan, everyone. Applause, please.

I glance at my watch. Eight months since Lauren’s birthday party. My phone disagrees. Saturday, December twenty-seventh. Eight a.m. Only six hours since Josh fetched me to check out “something weird.”

I pace Bailey’s study, brain working overtime. How do you tell three sets of parents that their children got trapped inside a video game and you left them there? Bethesda definitely doesn’t have a hotline for that.

In Bailey’s bathroom mirror, a stranger stares back. My shoulder-length hair now brushes my shoulder blades. My neatly trimmed beard has grown unruly in the days I struggled through the pixelated mountain and the ancient city, and resembles a small woodland creature. The tattoo still marks my face, and Freddy’s burned hand, still mine. The Matrix didn’t delete that file.

I pull my soot-stained leather pants over my hips with the shirt from Lauren’s party. Add my biker jacket on top, and I almost look normal. If “post-apocalyptic biker wizard” counts as normal. I wrap the ebony blade and dragonbone bow in a tablecloth and strap them to the Skyrim backpack. The last thing I need is the cops thinking I’ve gone full medieval.

Time to go home. Time to face the music…

The smell of bacon hits me as I slip through the back door. My family is mid-breakfast. Ma freezes like she’s seen a ghost. Da’s brow folds into that deep furrow that says “parental disappointment loading.” Eulalie, my eighteen-year-old sister, chokes on her food.

“Fuck, Garrett, what did you do to yourself? I didn’t know Lauren’s party was a dress-up!”

“Language,” Da says automatically. Then to me. “For your sake, that tattoo better be fake. And why are you wearing a wig?”

“It’s not a wig, Da. The tattoo’s real. And so is this.”

I lift my burned hand. The collective family gasp could power a small village.

“Can I have breakfast? I haven’t eaten in three days. Unless dragon blood counts.”

No one moves to stop me, so I commandeer the plate of toast and load it with bacon, eggs, and fried tomatoes. My family just stares as I demolish the meal like a man possessed.

Eulalie nudges her plate toward me. “You had breakfast yesterday, Garrett. And did you just say dragon blood? Are you stoned?”

Ma’s voice trembles. “What happened to your hand?”

“Tonya, is that all that matters to you?” Da snaps. “Our son looks like a Viking escaped from the History Channel, and you’re worried about his hand?”

I take a breath, trying to sound sane, which is difficult when the words “dragon” and “Matrix” are part of your story. “It’s a long story. You’re not going to believe a word of it, but I’ll tell you anyway.”

I place my burned hand in Ma’s. I tell them everything. Skyrim, dragons, the blood, the cold, Daven. I even admit to drinking, which earns me the “we’ll talk about that later” look from Da. Ma is crying halfway through. Eulalie tugs on my hair to check if it’s real.

When I mention Daven, Ma sobs harder. Da wraps his arm around her. “I know I was hallucinating,” I say softly. “But talking to him kept me alive.”

“What did he look like?” Ma asks.

Eulalie bolts from the room when I describe him, and returns clutching her laptop. “Like this?” she asks, flipping the screen toward me.

It’s Daven’s Skyrim avatar, same face, same hair, same tattoo.

I blink. “How…?”

“When I started playing Skyrim,” she says quickly, “I made you as my marksman avatar. Then last year, I made Daven for my tank build.”

She frowns at the screen and starts typing furiously. “What the f….hell… I think the storm fried my PC I only get a black screen. I’ve tried everything.”

Da looks unimpressed. “Eulalie.”

“Da, can you please phone the Morettis and the Gellers? They need to know what happened, and I need to phone Bethesda Games. They’ll know what’s going on and hopefully how to fix it.”

It takes me more than twenty minutes to reach the right department, and I can practically hear the guy on the other end deciding whether to call the cops or a team of psychiatrists to come collect me.

“I can try using the Thu’um over the phone,” I tell him, “but I’m afraid that might burn down my parents’ house. However, here’s something to chew on. Why do the Greybeards have a secret room in High Hrothgar?”

Silence that follows stretches out, and finally, I say, “Hello? You still there?”

A cautious voice replies, “Someone will contact you in a few minutes... And, Mr. Osmond, on behalf of Bethesda, I strongly urge you not to speak about this to anyone.”

I snort. “Right. Because that worked out so well for Area 51.”

While we wait for Bethesda’s “few minutes,” which apparently means a few hours, the parents start arriving. Josh’s mother and sister are first, since they live just down the block.

“You sounded stressed, Joren. What’s wrong?” Josh’s mother asks.

“Sit down, Leila. We’re waiting for Ettore and Ava. I’ve phoned Asher, he said he’ll be here shortly.”

I can hear Shani, Josh’s sister, fishing for answers from Eulalie, but Da made her promise not to spill a word until everyone’s here.

Asher Geller is the last to arrive without his young wife, which is probably for the best given what’s coming.

Da has to raise his voice several times to keep everyone calm while I explain what happened.

“How could you leave them behind, Garrett?” Leila’s face goes pale when I finish the story.

“Did you listen to what he said, Leila?” Bailey’s father cuts in, standing up so fast his chair squeals. “He didn’t have a choice. How could he have known he’d get sucked back out?” He looks at me, eyes hard. “It sounds insane, but I believe you, Garrett. Now tell me, how do we get my daughters and Josh back?”

More than two hours later, my phone finally lit up with a video call from an unknown number. The man who appears on the screen starts maybe-friendly, but the second he sees the crowd behind me, his expression morphs into corporate panic.

“Mr. Osmond, you were advised not to speak to anyone. I…”

He’s cut off by three men standing at once. Even without turning around, I can feel the testosterone level spike.

Da looks like a Viking who trades axes for power tools. Ettore Moretti’s shorter but his stare could melt iron. And Asher Geller? Small guy. Huge attitude, with a capital A.

“Did you seriously expect my son to stay quiet about his missing friends?” Da demands. “Their parents deserve answers. So tell us, are you actually going to fix this, or bury it somewhere dark and damp in your gaming tower?”

The nameless man glances over his shoulder, and a moment later, a new face fills the screen.

“Mr. Osmond… or may I call you Joren? I’m Ted Willcocks, head of cybersecurity. My colleague here’s job is to keep our company name squeaky clean, and this situation is about to throw more than one… let’s call it a mudpie his way.”

Ted asks a flood of questions about that night, and finally promises to do everything possible to get my friends back. “We’ll need to investigate the site where it happened. We’ll be there as soon as I can arrange everything.”

During the first hour of waiting for Ted to call back, the room fills with more questions, then silence. Everyone just stares. At me, at the walls, at their phones, as if one of them might produce an answer.

Relief floods the room when the phone rings again.

“We’ll be arriving in three days,” Ted says, pausing before his tone shifts to something sharp and professional. “And Garrett, get a lawyer. All of you.”

I open my mouth to ask why, but the screen flashes call disconnected.

I stare at the phone. “Lawyers? Why? We didn’t do anything wrong.”

The waiting... the insufferable waiting. Time seems to have hit pause while we wait for Ted and his assistant to arrive. I can’t leave my parents’ house or go back to my apartment, too risky. Someone might recognise me, start asking questions about the hand… the tattoo… the hand.

Da went back to work the day after I got home. Ma stayed with me for a while, but by the second day, I told her to go. We’d been sitting around, staring at each other in silence, like a really boring staring contest no one wanted to win.

Grandad mostly kept out of my way until he found me with a half-empty bottle of vodka in my childhood room, riding the cloud of forgetfulness. He didn’t say a word. Just poured the bottle out in the toilet, then marched me to the kitchen and slammed a plate of food in front of me.

“You think drinking will make you forget?” he said. “Trust me, it doesn’t. It fogs your memories for a while, but when the ghosts come back, they bring reinforcements.”

Hard to argue with a man who once stared down the barrel of a rifle at the enemies of our country.

“The men in black have arrived.” Mattia, Lauren, and Bailey’s nine-year-old brother, posted as a lookout, shouts.

Sure enough, a massive black bus rolls to a stop in the street. I grin. Subtlety clearly wasn’t part of Bethesda’s budget. The monstrosity is bound to attract attention in a suburb with only five thousand souls.  

Eulalie practically swoons when Ted and Sarah start setting up in Grandpa’s cottage, drooling over their laptops like they’re running diagnostics on Tony Stark’s armour.

I retell everything that happened, minus the drinking of alcohol and blood from my narration. No need for them to think it's the ramblings of a demonic alcoholic. They're particularly interested in the Legion and what I know about them.

“Except for what we have learned from the locals, nothing,” I explain. “We never made it to Solitude like we planned.”

Ted points to a logo on his laptop screen, black Gothic letters, gold background, “LG.”

“Have you seen this in the game?”

I study it and shake my head.

“Legion Games,” he says grimly. “Our biggest competitors. We suspected them when we found the virus on our servers. We tried tracing it, but it’s buried deep. If they’re in the game, the source must be somewhere in Skyrim.”

“Can you explain why my friends and I were sucked into the game?” I ask.

Ted leans back, rubbing his temple. “I don’t know. Your sister said she was playing with you as her Avatar when lightning hit the house, but that doesn’t explain everything. The fact that you saw your brother only in unplayable zones suggests that her computer, or her save file, is the key. Now we just need to find a way to get you back in.”

Da looks ready to launch Ted through the nearest wall. “Why does he have to go back? You’re supposed to bring the others out, not send my son in!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Osmond,” the woman, Sarah, says gently. “But Garrett is still linked to the game. He’s the only one who can trace the source.” Her eyes flick briefly to my scarred hand. “We’ll monitor everything from our side. Once he’s inside, we’ll return to our main lab and deploy a recovery team.”

Two and a half days. Sixty hours, twenty-two minutes, fourteen seconds. That’s how long it takes for the experts to find a way back in.

Ted looks up from his screen with dark circles under his eyes. “We still don't know how it happened, but it does have something to do with your sister’s and Miss Moretti’s computers being linked when the lightning storm struck,” He looks down at Bailey’s laptop. “and the fact that she was testing an LG game at the time.”

Is he accusing Bailey? Is that why he advised us to get a lawyer?

He turns back to his computer.  “We have found a way in, Garrett. We don’t want to use the mirrors in High Hrothgar. If the Legion finds out about the Greybeards, we risk losing everything. But we can access a mod near Whiterun, one that alters Silent Moons Camp. From there, it’s only a few hours’ journey to the city.”

Sarah hands me a folded piece of paper with a quest line written in bold. She looks like she wants to say Don’t die, but goes with, “Try to follow the main questline, it’s the most important. In the game, the Dragonborn kills Sahloknir. That’s likely why you felt the pull to follow the glitched dragon. If you did not kill it when you did, you would have starved to death.”

Her tone softens. “Find the two Blades. Without Esbern, you won’t gain access to Sky Haven Temple.”

I nod, clutching the paper. No pressure. Just need to jump back into a cursed game, find my missing friends, outsmart a rival company’s rogue AI, and not get eaten by dragons.

You know. Everyday stuff.

Ted folds the map of Skyrim and hands it to me. “You have five minutes to dress and say your goodbyes.”

Ma is crying. Leila and Ava are crying. Even Grandad's eyes are glossy in that embarrassing way men get when they think they can hide it with a cough. Eulalie and Shani glance at me with something dangerously close to envy. Did they listen to me? Did they see my burns? If you get hurt or die, you stay hurt and dead.

“Just come back, son.” Da hugs me so tight I smell last week’s cologne on him. Ma buries her face in my shoulder. Grandad presses the Skyrim backpack into my hands.

The ebony blade and dragonbone bow will stay in this reality. “If the game resets, another ebony blade will spawn in Dragonsreach,” Sarah answers when I can ask. I’m not taking that sword back. Not today. Not ever. Some temptations deserve to be quarantined.

“You have our letters?” Ava asks. Everyone wrote a letter to the three left behind, even Mattia.

I pat against my new leather armour, compliments of Josh’s father, designer of the most expensive leather clothing, shoes, and bags.

“Good. Please hug the girls for us and tell them we love them.”

“Time to go, Garrett.” Ted hands me my sponsored recurve bow. I do not care about words such as immersion, lore, or any of the crap Eulalie and Sarah threw at me. I am going back to get my friends and stop the Legion. It means killing something or someone. And by the beard of Ysgramor, Shor’s bones and Nine Divines, I am taking the best weapon I have. If Da and Granddad had their way, I would have my rifle slung over my shoulder as well.

I swing the backpack over my shoulders and hold the duffel bag stuffed with the arrows and four down-filled sleeping bags, and wish I could take two lightweight tents as well.

A sea of faces is staring at me, each with its own emotions showing. “Do not wait up.”

Our parents laugh nervously as I step into the mirror, waiting to be sucked through the swirling mass into Skyrim.

Chapter Text

The two men turn, and the mirror turns white. We wait four days, four painfully long, sleepless days, staring at that blank surface until the Greybeards finally lose patience with our vigil.

“We will send a courier when Garrett shows. You are getting lazy, sitting all day, and eating all our food. Poor Klimmek has to climb the mountain twice a week to feed the lot of you,” Master Borri chides, though the faint smile softens the jab.

Three days later, we trudge through Whiterun’s gate, tired, half-frozen, and miserable. Every passing courier makes our heads snap up in hope, only for disappointment to hit harder each time. No letters. No word from High Hrothgar. Garrett’s mirror remains stubbornly white.

The Companions are stunned when they hear Garrett is missing, and trying to explain it to Vilkas and Farkas is... an experience.

“It has something to do with magic,” Josh says, rubbing his temple. “And before you ask… no, not that kind of magic.”

“Can the Archmage of the College not help?” Farkas presses.

Josh sighs, exasperated. “If by ‘help’ you mean ‘give us a lecture about aetheric anomalies while the world burns,’ then sure.”

Weeks blur together. Josh and Bailey take on small contracts with the Companions while I work with Danica at the temple. Apparently, as The Physiotherapist of Skyrim - Healer of Aches and Pains.  Josh says it was Bailey’s idea. If she’s serious about making it a mod, I’ll take it as a compliment.

Tensions flare between Aela and Bailey when Kodlak presents Bailey with a smaller version of Garrett’s dragonbone bow.

“Why do you favour this stranger so much, old man?” Aela demands, eyes blazing. “You speak of her as if she were a true Companion, but she has no honour in her blood.”

Kodlak’s calm voice cuts through the tension. “Bailey has a certain strength of spirit. She will make a great Companion.”

Skjor frowns. “I think we’re not seeing the same strength here.”

“Skjor, if you want to lead this pack when I'm gone, you have to see farther. Look closer,” Kodlak replies.

Skjor scowls. “Well, which is it, Harbinger? Look farther or closer?”

“Come now, boy,” Kodlak chuckles. “You know what I meant.”

Skjor storms off, muttering about old men and riddles, with Aela stalking behind him, probably planning to shoot her frustration into the nearest elk.

Later, we meet with Jarl Balgruuf’s steward to buy the house near the city gate. Josh sets the heavy purse on the desk, but Proventus Avenicci pushes it back with a smirk.

“I do not care that you are his steward,” the man says primly. “The Thane must sign the contract himself, and we have not seen our Thane for many months. Is he even alive, or shall I remove his name from the records?”

Josh’s jaw tightens, and for a terrifying second, I think he might turn the Imperial into a decorative wall smear. I grab his arm before things escalate.

“You pompous ass,” He snaps. “Garrett’s out there fighting dragons in the snow and rain while you sit in this warm, cosy keep, twiddling your thumbs and ogling the servant girls.”

The steward goes crimson, and the two guards by the throne try and fail not to laugh. I have heard rumours about Avenicci’s “extra-curricular” activities. Let’s just say, the title Flower Girl apparently doesn’t mean florist.

Six months ago, we watched Garrett and Daven disappear over the summit at Skuldafn. Since then, we’ve sent letters to High Hrothgar, always getting the same response.

“The mirror is white. We will send word of any changes.”

Messages from Jarl Ulfric weren’t much better.

“Send soldiers to infiltrate Solitude. Soldiers did not return, presumed dead.”

And finally, the last one.

“I am not going to send more men to their death.”

After that, I think we quietly made peace with the idea that we might never get home. Maybe the game would reset one day, and we would wake up in our world again. Until then, this was it.

Bailey held on to hope longer than Josh or me. She’d get angry when we spoke of Garrett in the past tense, as if saying was instead of is could erase him completely.

A year to the day since we saw Garrett vanish into the storm over Skuldafn, Bailey asked us to meet her at the Skyforge. All the Companions were gathered around the fire. On the pyre lay Garrett’s ancient Nord bow and the jeans he refused to give up, no matter how many armoured options we found for him.

Bailey hands the letter the Orc courier had brought to Josh.

“I want you to read it out loud.”

Josh stares down at the parchment, his throat working. “I... can’t, Bailey.”

“You must,” she insists, voice trembling but steady. “They need to know who Garrett was. That he risked his life for people who aren’t even his own.”

Josh nods and begins to read. His voice cracked, low and raw.

“Bailey, I wanted to write my dearest, but maybe it’s too soon even if it feels like I’ve known you a lifetime.

I don’t know why, but I have this pull to kill the dragon Sahloknir. I’m following it, even if it leads me to the ends of Skyrim.

I can’t promise I’ll come back. This dragon might be the end of me. But I promise I’ll never give up. I’ll fight my way back to you, Josh, and Lauren, but especially to you.

If we ever get back to our world, I want to know you better, if you’ll let me. I want to read Dean Koontz with you, take you hiking and camping, and you can teach me how to make one of those avatars so I can shoot at something on a computer screen.

Please be safe.

Garrett.”

Bailey lays the letter on the pile and takes the torch from Eorlund. Her voice is small but sure. “I would’ve loved to do all those things with you, Garrett.”

She lowers the torch to the pyre, and flames lick up around the bow and jeans.

For a long time, no one said a word. Even the wind seems to hush in respect. And when people finally moved, it was mostly to wipe their eyes, not just the women.

Aela breaks the silence first. “Back to your world?” she asks, eyes narrowing slightly. “Can you explain what world that is, and what in Oblivion is an avatar or a computer screen?”

It took us more than an hour to explain everything. A world without magic, dragons, or Daedric princes. A place where the only monsters are the ones you see on the news, and healing potions come in bottles labelled Ibuprofen.

Josh left out one important detail, that Skyrim is a game back in our world. That everyone here, from the Companions to the gods, was once just pixels and programmed lines of dialogue. No one needs that existential crisis on top of everything else.

Aela listens quietly, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. Finally, she says, “That’s why you refused the blood. You were afraid to take it back to your world.”

Bailey nods softly.

And just like that, see my fingers snap, Aela stopped being a bitch to Bailey. Miracles really do happen in Skyrim.

Bailey went with Farkas to Dustman’s Cairn for her Companion initiation. They returned the next day with Farkas carrying Bailey in his arms, blood seeping through half-healed cuts on her shoulder and leg.

“I couldn’t do it,” Bailey sobs. “Even when the Silver Hand stood over me, axe raised... I froze. I almost got Farkas killed because I couldn’t kill them. I’m useless as a Companion.”

Farkas’s voice is gentle but firm. “No, you’re not, Pup. You killed the spiders when I froze. You killed as many draugr as I did.”

Josh’s hand tightens around mine as the Circle says the words to finalise Bailey’s initiation. His voice drops low. “I wish Garrett were here. Is it wrong to keep going when your best friend’s dead? I want to go home, but... a part of me’s happy here, even with all the danger.”

The first snow flurries started a few days ago. In two weeks, we’ll hit the two-year mark of being stuck in this lame-arse game. Funny how “lame” now feels like home. We have adapted. Josh takes odd jobs with the Companions but mostly works with Arcadia at her alchemy shop. Bailey stays at Jorrvaskr. And me? Josh and I rent a room from none other than Whiterun’s greediest shopkeeper, Belethor.

It started, like all questionable decisions, with one of Belethor’s sales pitches.

“Everything’s for sale, my friend. Everything. If I had a sister, I’d sell her in a second.”

Josh, exhausted from sharing a room with Torvar’s nightly symphony of snores and farts, deadpanned, “How about you sell us a room, Belethor?”

Belethor’s eyes gleamed like Septims. “I have one room upstairs. I’ll move to the landing, and you can rent mine for... two hundred Septims a month.”

Josh crossed his arms. “Make it one fifty and we’ve got a deal.”

And just like that, we became Belethor’s first-ever long-term tenants. Skyrim’s weirdest Airbnb.

We plan to celebrate our two-year “Skyrim-versary” with the Greybeards. We just hope the weather holds. Kodlak, of course, was pessimistic. “We’re in for a stretch of nasty weather. I can feel it in my knee. Bailey, did I ever tell you about the time I took an arrow to the knee?”

Bailey shakes her head with a smile. Kodlak launches into the entire saga, and off they go, arm in arm.

“Kodlak and his big mouth,” Josh mutters as he jumps down from his horse, tugging at the reins to keep the line moving. We’re on the last stretch to Ivarstead, snow falling thick and fast. We’ve tied the horses together so we don’t lose each other in the storm. At this pace, we won’t reach the town before nightfall.

When we finally stumble into the inn, Wilhelm greets us with his usual small-town charm.

“Welcome, ladies! Where are your menfolk?”

“Josh took the horses to Reyda. Is she still alive?” Bailey asks through chattering teeth.

Wilhelm laughs. “Alive? Our Reyda will outlive the Greybeards themselves! Speaking of them, any news of the Dragonborn? Haven’t heard about him slaying any dragons lately. Word is, a beast’s been spotted east of Riften. Jarl’s got a bounty out.”

Bailey stares down at her folded hands. I hesitate, unsure what to say. Should I tell him Garrett’s dead, or might be?

“He’s... hunting dragons,” I manage. “Hopefully, he’ll join us next time.”

High Hrothgar is warm and bright, the fires roaring, laughter echoing through the halls. We brought baked goods, food, and wine to celebrate my birthday and two years of being stuck in this world.

Josh stands and tugs me to my feet. “This isn’t exactly how I pictured it, but... here goes.” He hands me a small wrapped package. Inside, an amulet slides into my palm.

“It’s beautiful, Josh. Thank you.”

Bailey promptly chokes on her wine. The Greybeards look way too pleased, like they’ve just watched a live romance subplot unlock.

“I think these two need some privacy,” Bailey says, smirking. “Josh, I don’t think Lauren knows what you’ve just given her.” She disappears down the corridor with the monks, who follow like schoolboys eager for gossip.

I look down at the amulet, confused. “What’s the big deal?”

Josh folds my hand around it, smiling nervously, that same nervous smile he had when he asked me to the school dance. “It’s not from the Temple of Mara in Riften. I asked Eorlund to forge a replica from silver, ebony, and gold from a cave I cleared, and the diamond from a bandit Athis killed.” He exhales shakily. “It’s an Amulet of Mara, Goddess of Love. In Skyrim... It’s how you tell someone you want to marry them.”

He swallows hard. “Lauren... will you marry me?”

Chapter Text

“Lauren, will you marry me?”

My brain goes into overdrive. One part of me wants to scream yes, to throw myself into his arms and say it like a lunatic. The other part wants to ask him if he’s completely lost his mind. Marriage? Now? We’re trapped inside a game, living off sweet rolls and fear.

“Josh, I….”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Bailey blurts, “but you need to see this.”

Josh and I rush over to where she’s standing in front of the mirror. “Where is this?” he asks. “Do any of you know where this is?”

Bailey shakes her head, eyes flicking to the four old men hovering behind her. “I’ve never seen this in any of my playthroughs. It must be a mod I didn’t review.”

Master Arngeir frowns. “There are many such modifications that appear similar. From this angle... we cannot tell.”

Bailey wipes at her cheeks, trembling. “We were just... having fun. Eating, drinking, forgetting Garrett. We didn’t even notice when the mirror came back online.” She swallows hard, tears spilling freely now. “We don’t even know if he’s alive. Can anyone see if he’s breathing?”

We all lean closer to the mirror. The image is faint, flickering. Garrett lies motionless inside a cage. A woman lies beside him, her eyes milky and still. Dead.

The splitting headache again. Jumping between Skyrim and reality feels like having my soul run through a blender.

“Where did he come from?” A man’s voice, Dunmer, by the accent.

“I don’t know,” replies a woman. “I was preparing to reanimate the corpse when he appeared out of thin air. Look… strange bow, odd fabric. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I crack my eyes open to narrow slits and immediately regret it. There’s a dead woman practically nose-to-nose with me, her eyes wide and fixed right on my face.

“Oh, great,” I whisper. “Roommates.”

I’m in a cage. Indoors. Not outside, like Ted said I’d be. A few inches to the left and I’d have a new nickname: Iron Spine Garrett.

Two figures in black robes prowl through my duffel bag. Green skulls on their robes…necromancers. Because of course it’s necromancers.

“Would you two mind not rifling through my stuff and just unlock the cage?” I ask sweetly.

The Dunmer spins, his hands already crackling with spells.

“Nah, didn’t think so,” I mutter. “FUS RO DAH!”

His skull hits the wall with a wet crunch. Lovely sound. Very therapeutic.

An ice spike slams into the bars inches from my face.

“Really?” I say. “You people need a new hobby. All you ever do is kill someone, reanimate them for like two minutes, then stand around watching them moan before they turn into dust. Not only are they terrible conversationalists, they make you sneeze.”

Another ice spike zips past my head. I duck. “I asked nicely to unlock the cage. But nooo, you just had to pick violence. Either you walk away, or I turn you into a barbecue.”

A door bursts open, and three more mages rush in.

“What was that noise, Berna?” one of them shouts.

“Fantastic,” I mutter. “A family reunion.”

The mages all turn to me, their hands conjuring whatever spell they want to unleash on me. I inhale deeply. Verbal sparring isn’t going to save me.

“YOL TOOR SHUL,” hoping I do not light my backpack and duffel bag on fire.

“Garrett, you fucking moron.” How am I going to get out of the cage? “Think, man, think.”

My eyes dart to the dead woman. “I’m so sorry about this, but desperate times.”

Her dress, wrapped around the lock, burns brightly. Metal groans, then cracks. Not enough to melt, but enough to snap when I kick it.

The next room looks like a kitchen. I grab apples, bread, and a few bottles of mead, breakfast of champions, and shove them into the backpack. Who knows how long it’ll take to reach Whiterun? If Ted’s coordinates are off, I might not even be near Silent Moons Camp.

The bodies of bandits and mages litter the hall. So much death for... what? I find a chest and take the Septims and a few gems. I leave the rest.

When I open the nearest door, I hear the unmistakable rattle of Draugr below and close it softly. Nope. Hard pass.

Two bandits guard the next room. My bow sings, and both drop before they know I’m there. The arrows taste their first blood.

This time, I chose the right door. Cold air slaps me in the face as I step outside.

Snow swirls around my boots. Winter. Definitely winter. How long was I gone? I left Skyrim in late August, this must be December. Maybe January. Four, maybe five months gone.

If Josh, Lauren, and Bailey stuck to our plan, to meet in Whiterun if we ever got separated, they’ll be there. They have to be.

A pair of bandits sits by the fire outside the ruins. I slip past, keeping to the shadows. No need for more blood.

Above me, the aurora dances green and blue across the night sky. I turn my back on it, fixing my gaze southwest. Somewhere beyond the dark horizon lies Whiterun, and, hopefully, my friends.

The clouds part and Masser peeks out, huge and white, flooding the open fields of the Hold with silver light. For a second, everything looks ordinary and ridiculous, like a postcard for “calm before the apocalypse.”

My hand goes to my bow when two black shapes close in a few hours later. They stop ten metres out, with yellow eyes, monstrous teeth. Werewolves. Of course.

“I could have killed you both,” I tell them when they shift. “And if I had, I’d be on the hit list of every single woman in the Hold.”

“Nice to see you, Garrett. Thought you were dead,” Vilkas says, stepping forward with that bear-hug grin. “Imagine my surprise when a courier handed me a letter from Josh after midnight, asking me and Farkas to help you at the Silver Moons Camp. I see you did not need any help.”

Vilkas hugs me in his bear arms, and Farkas squeezes the life from me. “Glad you are back, Bailey, and the rest are at High Hrothgar. They will start their journey back at first light.”

Farkas takes the duffel from my shoulder, and we spend the rest of the walk swapping stories of the months, no years, I’ve been gone.

We arrive at Jorrvaskr before dawn. Kodlak’s face splits into a grin that makes his old scars wrinkle. “Welcome back, young man. We missed you.” I’m oddly sentimental about the place, about missing a gang of videogame NPCs I’ve lived with like a dysfunctional second family. Welcome home, apparently.

I feel uncomfortable at the way Aela caresses my bow and locks it away in my chest, only to have her walk around pouting.

Eorlund gives the combat knife one look and asks if he can make replicas of it. I can not think that forging a new type of dagger would crash the game and hand it to the blacksmith.  If we are successful and the game resets, the dagger would disappear. The lack of questions about my strange armour and weapons made me think that they know my friends and me are not from Nirn.

“Go somewhere else, Garrett. If you keep pacing, I’ll need to buy new carpets,” Tilma admonishes with exhausted fondness. Everyone left for jobs right after they welcomed me back, except Kodlak, Vignar, and his shadow, Brill, and I am not in the mood to hear repeats of the Great War and other stories that might not be the truth, thanks to the Legion messing with the lore and the heads of Skyrim’s people.

Kodlak presses a pouch of Septims into my hand. “Josh gave this to me for safekeeping. They saved every coin to buy Breezehome, but Proventus refused to sell it to them.”

I let out a short laugh that sounds more like disbelief. “Then let’s see what that pompous Imperial bureaucrat has to say when I ask him myself.”

Balgruuf fixes his steward with I-am-too-old-for-your-nonsense stare.

“I think… no, I insist you apologise to our Thane, Proventus,” he says. “His companions had to live in Jorrvaskr, and, by the Nine, at Belethor’s of all places because you refused to hand over the bill of sale.” He turns to me. “Josh should have come to me the moment Proventus refused.”

I cross my arms and frown, waiting for the apology that does not come.

Balgruuf sighs the way only a Nord king dealing with idiots and dragons can. “Just… try not to start a civil war in my court, all right?”

Cleaning and moving the furniture around to accommodate four adults kept me busy the rest of the day. The house is small but cosy, there is a main bedroom for Josh and Lauren, and two smaller bedrooms for me and Bailey. Tilma brings me dinner when day turns to night, and I promise to come for breakfast the next morning.

I pawn the gems from Silver Moon’s Camp at Belethor’s for bedding and curtains.

Belethor opens the door to the room Josh and Lauren rented from him. “Your friends didn’t leave much before they went to High Hrothgar.”

Yeah, maybe they are afraid you will sell their stuff, but I do not put my thoughts into words.

Ria and Aela fuss over the finishing touches. Dinner is Ria’s thin stew and Aela’s disapproving tut. The Companions can thank their lucky stars that Tilma is their cook at Jorrvaskr and not Ria.

I wouldn’t trade the madness for anything, though I could do without the dreams.

Speaking of which. “Hi killaan Sahloknir.  Mu, fin namaan fen nir hi ahrk naak hin sil. (1)” I do not have time to answer the black bastard before it bites down on me.

I wake, feeling phantom pains of the teeth puncturing my body. I haven’t dreamt about that bastard in months. Now he’s back, gnawing the edges of my sleep like a ghostly terrier.

If Josh, Lauren, and Bailey left at dawn from the camp east of Whiterun, they’ll hit the city early afternoon. I stroll the streets, smiling hello to everyone who smiles at me. Pretend-life gestures count for more than you’d think when the world is strange.

A small girl has been trailing me for half an hour. Twelve, eager, the kind of trouble with freckles that should be declared a public hazard. “What do you want, Mila?” I ask.

“My mother needs your help,” she says, cheeks pink.

I look towards the market where her mother, Carlotta, has a fruit and vegetable stand. Mila touches my arm, “She does not know I am asking you for help.” She blushes when I look at her, “It is Mikael, he… He does not want to leave my mother alone. He comes to our house in the evenings, watching our windows. My mother is afraid of him but is too stubborn to ask for help.”

I have heard the bard boasting, "I will conquer her as a true Nord conquers any harsh beast."

“How will I be able to help your mother?” The girl’s face is as red as a tomato, and she cast her eyes down, “You can tell him that she is your lady friend. He will be too scared to mess with the Dragonborn.” “Absolutely not! You know that gossip runs through this city faster than fire. I will speak with the bard, but if he does not listen, she will have to go ask for help at the keep or the Companions.”

I look at the bard lingering by the well. Mikael, who thinks romance is a challenge and consent is optional.

I march over.“Mikael, Carlotta does not want your attention or your unwanted advances. She is not yours. Stop this nonsense.”

"Carlotta put you up to this. I'm sorry, but that fiery widow is mine. She just does not know it yet." The bard’s face looks smug.

“I am telling you to leave her alone. If you do not…”

Mikael does not wait for me to finish my sentence. “I will show you to keep your nose out of my business.” The stupid bard challenges me to a brawl. “Calm down, Mikael, you really do not want to do this.”

He folds his soft hands into fists, with thumbs sticking out, and swings his arm from his shoulder, and smirks when his fist connects with my chest. “I am not afraid of you, mighty Dragonborn. I will show Carlotta that I am the man for her.”

His fists connected twice more, doing nothing but annoy the crap out of me. Did his father not teach him how to fight? “Mikael, you are making a fool of yourself. Put your fists down, and we will forget that you challenged me.”

He swings a wide one. I step under it and tap him in the jaw, and he drops like a tree. “Timber,” I want to shout, but the crowd’s laughter is more satisfying. Hulda hands me a free bottle of mead for the entertainment while we wait for the bard to wake up. She has excellent taste in rewards.

I help the man to his feet when he opens his eyes. “You leave Carlotta alone, or this gets worse.”

"You win. On my honour, Carlotta would not have to worry about me ever again."

“Good, if you need some lessons in boxing, ah… fist fighting, you can come to see me at Jorrvaskr.”

He flees, and the market resumes its usual hum.

I look up from the book on my lap when the door to our new home creaks open, and there they are. For a moment, it’s like time hits pause. We just stand there, frozen in one of those dramatic freeze frames that last way too long.

“What, am I a stranger now?”

The silence snaps. Lauren moves first, throwing herself into my arms, and Bailey isn’t far behind. If they were any heavier, I’d be eating the floorboards right now.

Josh lingers in the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Welcome back from the dead, Garrett.”

“Glad to be back. Though, for the record, not technically from the dead.”

“Wait, you were home?” Lauren’s voice catches. “And you came back? How? Can we take the same route?”

I shake my head. “No, Lauren. We can’t. We have to shut down Legion Games to reset the system. It’s the only way out.”

Bailey’s eyes widen. “Legion Games, as in The Legion? How…”

“Bethesda doesn’t know how. But Ted says it has something to do with your computer linked with Eulalie’s and…” I stare at her for a moment. “They say you were locked into an LG game, Bailey.”

“What? Are they… are you accusing me of this? Testing games is what I do.”

I shake my head. “I’m not accusing you, and I don’t think they are. They are puzzled about how it happened.”

Bailey brushes the hair from her face. “I tested an LG game and told them that it would never be as popular as Skyrim. Let’s just say they were not impressed with my review. Then they gave me another to test, saying this game would make the players feel as if they were living the game. It was downloading while I joined Lauren’s birthday party.”

“Don’t worry. If they want to accuse you, our dads will take care of them.”

I pull the letters from my jacket. “Who wants letters from back home?" 

It’s past midnight by the time the last letter’s been read and every crazy tale told. Between the dragons, bandits, necromancers, and emotional damage, I think we’ve covered all the highlights.

Josh is not as impressed as Bailey and Lauren with the armour his father sent. “Still mad at my old man.”

“Why did you buy the house? Seems like a waste of money.”

“Tell me, Josh, what do you plan to do with your Septims? Take them back to Earth? Maybe tip the pizza guy with ancient dragon currency?”

That earns a laugh from Bailey. I smile faintly. “When the game resets, the money disappears. Might as well live in comfort while we still can.”

No need for them to know the truth.

• You killed Sahloknir. We, the named, will hunt you and eat your soul.

Chapter Text

My friends are not happy to learn that we have to climb the seven thousand steps again.

“You ordered me to stay in Whiterun until you got back from the Greybeards,” I grumble. “What if you took one of your ‘let’s see what’s over that cliff’ detours and we missed each other?”

Lauren crosses her arms. “Can we at least rest a few days, enjoy the privacy of our new home, and maybe wait until the weather isn’t trying to murder us?”

I sigh. “We can take a few days if you want, or I can go alone.”

Josh’s glare could melt steel. “No. You are never going anywhere alone again. If I could follow you to the bathroom without looking like a creep, I would.”

“Thank the Divines you’re not a creep,” I mutter, smirking. “Here I was, worried I’d have to bare myself to my best friend.”

Lauren and Bailey started abusing the courier system the very next day after they got back to Whiterun. Sending messages to Riverwood and Riften about bedding, curtains, and every fancy décor item they spotted on their travels.

Helsmar, the courier, appears on the door with his arms full of parcels and a grin that could split stone. “Got a delivery here for the two ladies.”

Lauren and Bailey practically fly down the steps from the top floor. Bailey’s already halfway through unpacking the goods before Helsmar can set them down.

“I thought they only deliver letters.”

“Not anymore, Garrett, not anymore.” Josh sighs.

“Don’t frown like that, Garrett,” Bailey says, handing Helsmar a coin pouch. “I know you did your best, but let’s be honest, what do a man and two Companions know about décor?”

Josh groans, eyeing the growing pile of boxes. “And thus, Skyrim was changed forever. These two just invented online shopping. The poor couriers won’t even know what hit them.”

“No, Garrett. My orders are very clear. I may teach you the second word for Mark for Death because you do not have time to join the Dark Brotherhood. The third word you must learn the conventional way by visiting the Forsaken Cave in The Pale.”

Master Borri scowls at me when I try begging for the third word anyway.

I have delivered the sealed letters from Bethesda Games to the Greybeards as ordered and had hoped to learn all three words of the Thu’um.

Josh points at the small black cave drawn on the map. “It’ll add a few days to the trip to Solitude, but you need the last word. Inside the cave’s an old Nord ruin full of Draugr, great place to practice your marksmanship.”

I glare at him.

He lifts his hands. “Joking! Just joking.

I wake with a jolt as the black dragon rips Josh’s head from his body.

Fuck! I don’t need these dreams. I don’t want these dreams.

I find Master Arngeir in front of the black mirror, writing down every symbol and dot.

“Learn anything from staring at that screen, Master?”

“Honestly, Garrett, we stopped watching it as closely after you disappeared. It was… difficult, staring at the black mirror when yours was white and lifeless.”

“I’ll take watch for a while.”

Arngeir gestures to the chair beside him. “You’re having nightmares again.”

I glance at the mirror, the Greybeards call Garrett’s. Even after all these months, it’s still strange to look at myself looking back.

“The black dragon’s back in my dreams. He talks about the Named that will eat my soul. Every night, one of us dies. When it’s me, I can feel it, the pain lingers when I wake.”

“There are sixteen named dragons in the game of Skyrim,” Arngeir says calmly. “Eight dwell in this province. Paarthurnax, our Grand Master, is one. Mirmulnir and Sahloknir you’ve already slain. Odahviing will take you to Skuldafn….hopefully. That leaves five you must kill because Alduin is warning you that he is sending them after you. Then there is Vulthuryol in Blackreach and lastly Alduin, the world-eater.”

I have a feeling I’ll be hunting those named dragons soon. But first, we reach Solitude.

“What happens if we can’t go back to reality when the game resets?” I ask.“I do not know,” he admits. “Perhaps you become part of the game… or disappear, like any deleted mod. Why ask?”

“Don’t play dumb, old man. You know why.”

His grey eyes narrow. “Do your friends know what you’re planning?”

“No, and it stays that way if you want this reset to work.”

“They won’t hear it from us,” Arngeir says softly. “But they’ll figure it out. And they will hate you for it.”

It takes us a day and a half to reach Darkwater Crossing. Relief washes over us when Annekke invites us to stay with her and her husband.

“It’s the least I can do after Bailey and Farkas saved Derkeethus from the Falmer,” she says warmly.

I stare at the dragon circling north of the settlement.

“Don’t worry about Frosty,” Verner, Annekke’s husband, says. “He mostly flies in circles, spewing frost at mammoths that get too close. Never seen him hunt anything.”

“Great,” I mutter. “An ice-spewing sociopath with commitment issues.”

The sun’s still up, and Lauren proposes we enjoy the hot springs while the weather holds. After the cold of High Hrothgar, the idea’s tempting, even if the sulphur smell could raise the dead faster than my Thu’um.

I stifle a gasp when I see the scars on Bailey’s shoulder and thigh. I’d heard about her run-in with the Silver Hands, but she clearly downplayed it. I touch the one on her shoulder carefully. The axe had to cleave through muscle and bone to leave a mark like that.

“This must’ve hurt like hell.”

“I was too scared to feel the axe,” she says quietly. “But it hurt like Oblivion after I drank the potion and the wound started to close.”

I can’t stop my eyes from tracing her body as she and Lauren lie back in the steaming water. Toned, strong, and perfect in all the ways I shouldn’t be noticing right now.

Josh kneels next to me, lowering his voice. “You more than like her, Garrett. I can see it.”

I only nod. Yeah. I do. And if everything goes as planned, I’ll lose her.

“I asked Lauren to marry me,” Josh says suddenly.

“What?” My voice shoots up so fast it scares something out of the bushes. “And?”

“And nothing. You popped back into Skyrim before she could answer. Honestly? I’m too afraid to ask again. She looked like she was about to say no.”

“She loves you, Josh. Even back when we were teenagers, she did. Ask her again, somewhere more romantic this time. And when she says yes, you'd better get down on your knees and thank her for taking pity on an idiot like you.”

My laughter rolls across the strange, steaming landscape of Eastmarch, and for a moment, it almost feels like the world isn’t ending.

The newly built Braidwood Inn in Kynesgrove is alive with laughter and song.

“Our hero, our hero…” The bard’s voice carries over the din, and the crowd cheers like I just walked in wearing a cape and holding Alduin’s severed head.

I slip through the door before anyone spots me. The people here call me a hero, but the real heroes are Josh, Lauren, and Bailey. They stayed behind, helped rebuild, and convinced Ulfric to send aid.

I sit on the steps outside and take a long pull from my bottle of mead. I crave something stronger, something that’ll drown out the nightmares clawing at the edges of my mind. But I promised Grandpa I wouldn’t.

“Drinking never keeps the nightmares away, Garrett. It just makes them wait behind the fog till you’re too tired to fight them off.”

He would know. After the horrors of war, the bottle became his closest friend.

The door creaks open, closes softly, and Bailey sits beside me. “Why are you out here in the cold, Garrett?”

I glance toward the warm light spilling from the doorway. “Because I’m not a hero, Bailey. I’m just a coward hiding from my nightmares. You three stayed here and helped these people rebuild while I went off chasing a dragon.”

“You killed the dragon that burned their town,” she says gently. “That’s not nothing. And you didn’t leave us helpless, you trained us. I’ll never shoot like you, but I can hit the target’s centre most of the time now.”

I think about the scars on her shoulder and thigh and shudder. She could have died while I was sleeping soundly in my old bed back home. Some hero.

Bailey’s hand is cold when she takes my burned one and presses it to her lips. “You saved me, Garrett. That makes you a hero in my book. Now stop freezing and come inside before I start losing toes.”

Windhelm rises from the snow like a fortress of ice and iron. The Palace of the Kings looms ahead, imposing enough to make even a dragon rethink its life choices. But we don’t have time to sightsee, we need to reach Solitude as fast as possible.

The man waiting at the top of the hall is unmistakable. Broad shoulders, fur cloak, and the kind of presence that says I shout entire cities into submission, Ulfric Stormcloak himself.

We wait while he finishes talking to another man whose armour is practically screaming rich Nord energy.

“I’m still not sure I understand what you’re asking, Torsten.”

“A navy, my lord. Imagine it… Fleets of Stormcloak ships sailing from Windhelm! It would be glorious!”

Ulfric arches an eyebrow. “And I suppose the Cruel-Seas just happen to be the clan to provide these ships?”

“You need but ask, General.”

“I’ll think on it, but I make no promises.”

“That’s all I can ask. Thank you, General.”

When Torsten leaves, Ulfric turns his piercing gaze on me. “Ah, the Dragonborn. Welcome to Windhelm.”

He clasps my burned hand and eyes the bow slung over my back. “I’ve heard about your marksmanship, not just from your friends, but from Jarl Balgruuf himself.”

I nod, resisting the urge to say something stupid like I aim to please.

An hour later, after more pleasantries and fewer actual answers about Solitude, Ulfric dismisses us with an invitation to dine with him that evening.

“Another day wasted,” I grumble when we reach the inn.

Josh shrugs. “Nightgate Inn’s too far for one day’s travel. Besides, it’s winter in this part of Skyrim, camping out means dying in style.”

“Tomorrow we’ll find your word,” Bailey says, yawning, “then sleep at Nightgate before heading to Fort Dunstad.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Maybe the word will be patience. Because clearly, I’m going to need it.”

“Hi bovul med aan scaraan kiir nol Skuldafn.  Zu'u saraan fah hi Dovahkiin, bo ahrk luft zu'u (1)”

It’s not just the grey-dragon dream that drags me awake. A real dragon roars over Windhelm, louder than the city’s usual arguing and far nastier than the gossip in the market.

“Viinturuth, I am coming for you, you grey bastard,” I shout into the night.

“No! You are not coming. If I have to shoot all of you in the leg to keep you from following me, I will.”

Josh wants to argue, but pulls the two women to him when my hand flies to my bow.

“This is between me and that fucking dragon, Josh. It’ll use you lot as distractions and get us all killed.”

I hug Bailey and press a kiss to her head. “I won’t promise to come back, but I’ll do my darndest.” I fold a letter into her hands. “Open it if I don’t.”

We file out of the city gates. The dragon is a silhouette against the star-splashed sky. Soldiers from Windhelm bunch behind me like reluctant backup dancers. Their nervous whispers fray the edges of my patience. I swing up on Helios, my new horse, and force myself not to sprint off like a man with a death wish and poor planning.

It feels like déjà vu when the dragon perches on a rock, then takes off just as we draw near

“Careful,” Ralof warns when the soldiers catch up near a mill. “It’s leading you into a trap.”

Sun peeks over the mountains when we find Viinturuth on a low outcrop. I dismount and hide Helios behind a boulder. “Another mod in the game,” Bailey said when she showed me the new horse command, like it’s the latest phone update.

“Hi drun aan lahvu wah krif zu'u, Dovahkiin. (2)”

“Hi kos folaas Viinturuth.  Zu'u drun aan lahvu wah gahrot hin slen before zu'u gahrot hin sil.  Mu kos bo wah lost aan kipraan wah honour zu'u, fin Dovahkiin ahrk hin slen fen nahkip mu” (3)

The dragon speaks. I answer in Dovahzul, because apparently my life now includes fluent screaming at giant reptiles.

“Hi drun aan lahvu wah krif zu’u, Dovahkiin.”

“Hi kos folaas Viinturuth. Zu’u drun aan lahvu wah gahrot hin slen before zu’u gahrot hin sil. Mu kos bo wah lost aan kipraan wah zin zu’u, fin Dovahkiin ahrk hin slen fen nahkip mu.”

I have just enough time to shout “cover” and dive behind Ralof’s enchanted shield. He glances over. “You like to play with fire, friend. What did you say to the beast?”

“We’re going to feast on its flesh.”

Ralof turns an interesting shade of green. “It’ll be like eating an overgrown Argonian, don’t you think?”

My arrow goes first, then a hailstorm of soldier arrows. Some clang off like bad jokes, others find purchase. I hit it with the Thu’um, “KRII LUN”. If only I knew the third word already, but the two words leech enough energy to send Viinturuth sliding down into an open dragon mound.

Viinturuth tries to stand and gathers a ball of fire in its throat. Ralof shouts, and the swordsmen charge. The dragon bellows. “You kill me, where the traitors buried me ages ago, Dragonborn. I am one of many, and they will come for your soul, and your companions will make a tasty meal.”

“Oh, die already.” My arrow lodges in the eye and buries itself in the brain like a bureaucrat’s final stamp. If I’d been alone, I would have feasted on the dragon’s blood flowing from the deep cut from Ralof’s sword. Instead, the familiar rush of dragon power floods me, and something cold and hungry tugs at my soul.

I’ll never be the same man I was before the mirror swallowed us. That fact lands on me with the weight of a glacial boulder.

• You fled like a scared child from Skuldafn. I wait for you, Dragonborn, come and face me.
• You bring an army to fight me, Dragonborn.
• You are mistaken, Viinturuth.  I bring an army to take(steal) your flesh before I take your soul.  We are going to have a feast to honour me, the Dragonborn, and your flesh will feed us.

Chapter Text

There isn’t much to say about the Forsaken Cave. Just endless walking, the occasional shout, and Draugr who refuse to stay dead until they meet us. My backpack’s now groaning with Septims and gemstones, a good problem, considering I’ll need every coin after Solitude.

I learned the third word of Marked for Death inside and tested it on two spiders on the road to Morthal. They didn’t like it. I did.

Morthal’s still in its glitched state, the kind where everyone stands around like badly coded mannequins,  but now there are guards stationed throughout the town, watching people for “strange behaviour” to report to Ulfric and Josh.

I can’t help but frown. “They’re NPCs, sure, but shouldn’t they have died of hunger or thirst by now? All the others eat, drink, and gossip like normal people.”

Josh shrugs. “Maybe it’s like cryonics, only, you know, warm and breathing.”

“Comforting,” I mutter. “Nothing says ‘you’re still human’ like being compared to a thawed popsicle.”

It takes us seven days to travel from High Hrothgar to Dragon Bridge. By the time we stumble into the Four Shields Tavern, we look like we lost a fight with the mountain.

“One double room and one with two single beds,” Josh tells the innkeeper, “and make it open-ended. We might stay a while.”

She smiles like someone who’s just spotted free labour. “You can stay forever if you like. We don’t get many travellers since the Legion took Solitude.”

Her tone makes forever sound less like an invitation and more like a prophecy. She shows us to our rooms with a promise of a hot bath and a freshly prepared meal in an hour.

We follow a town guard to the guard quarters to meet their captain.

“Bulf!” Josh grins. “Good to see you, man.”

Bulf looks equally surprised and grim. “What in Oblivion are you four doing here?”

His face darkens when we explain. “Come with me.”

He leads us to what should be the Penitus Oculatus outpost, at least according to Bailey’s game knowledge. Instead, it looks like a makeshift infirmary filled with people of all races. Some wander aimlessly, others sit motionless, eyes empty. The same glassy stare we saw in Morthal.

Bailey kneels beside a red-haired man feeding one of the dazed. “Hadvar?” she breathes.

The man looks up, recognition flickering. “I know you… You were at Helgen. After the dragon.”

Josh drags over a chair and drops into it like an interrogator with no coffee. “Why are you here, Hadvar? Why not back in Solitude?”

Hadvar sighs. “Brucos and I were heading back when a Sabre Cat blindsided us. I know, I know… we’re soldiers, supposed to stay alert. But after the dragon attack, everything felt off… like being awake and dreaming at the same time. The beast bit my neck and shoulder, and there was this…” He pulls something small from his pocket. “…Dwemer-looking device in the wound. Brucos pulled it out, and suddenly, it’s like I snap back. Clear-headed. And then I remember everything, the Legion, the ships, Solitude…”

Josh leans forward. “Ships?”

“Two of them. Strange flags. The people wore black armour. When they reached the docks, they cast some kind of spell, and everyone collapsed. I thought they were dead, but another group followed and pressed strange devices to everyone’s necks.”

He rubs the spot on his shoulder. “I tried to sneak into Castle Dour to warn the others. One of them saw me, cast a spell, felt like a bee sting, and everything went dark. When I came to, Ulfric himself was there, shouting for someone to fetch a potion before I bled out.”

Bailey exchanges a look with me. She’s already in full conspiracy theory mode.

Hadvar continues, voice cracking. “I don’t know how I got to Helgen, or why Ulfric and his men were about to be executed, or why everyone thought I was the enemy. Ralof told me to give them time, that they had to rescue the High King from the Legion. That’s when I remembered the ships again. The flags. Like a dream trying to wake me.”

He looks away. “I tried to stop Brucos from going back to Solitude, but he said he must go back to report my betrayal to the Legion. Maybe I should have killed him, but I could not. He is…was my friend. I stayed with a hunter living near Half-Moon Mill for a while before finding my way here. Some of the soldiers and I are patrolling the area, rescuing the poor sods who wander Haafingar, looking like this.”

Silence hangs for a moment. Then Bailey clears her throat and opens her hand, revealing the tiny metal chip.“They darted them… and implanted these.”

Lauren finds another chip in a Khajiit’s neck. Ma'dran wakes from his catatonic state, screaming of devils stealing his soul.

“Not sure if that’s metaphorical or literal in this world,” Josh says.

Lauren ignores him, speaking to a nearby mage.

“I showed him how to remove them safely. He’s heading to Morthal next to help the others once he’s done here.”

Bailey murmurs, “They chipped them, like lab rats. If the implants are all linked, that means someone’s running a network. NPCs acting independently but connected, like a hive. If we can reach the computer, we could shut it all down. Free everyone.”

“And the virus?” I ask.

She hesitates. “Garrett, the virus is in Bethesda’s servers. It’s rewriting the lore, bit by bit. I don’t know if the source is in this Skyrim or back in reality.”

I rub my temples. “Bailey, Josh, how do we get into Solitude without being seen?” The gates are crawling with Legion, and if anyone can find their way in, it’s these two.

Josh thinks for a second. “We could climb down or up the cliffs… or check if that sewers mod made it into the game.”

We go with the cliffs.

“It’s the Enhanced Solitude mod,” Josh says as we move. “A compilation that makes the city bigger.”

“Fantastic,” I mutter. “Bigger means more guards to kill us.”

But my attention isn’t on the guards, it’s on the strange building crowned with a green column of light piercing the sky.

“That building. We need to get there.”

Bailey frowns. “That’s the College of Whispers. The light is usually blue, not green. How do you know we need to go there, Garrett?”

I shrug. “It’s literally the only thing glowing like a divine beacon in the middle of the city. And we’ll need the light to climb in the dark.”

She keeps staring at me, the kind of stare that makes you feel like she’s reading your code instead of your soul. Please believe me, I think.

We move slowly along the cliff until we reach the rock face behind the building. From here, it’s a short rope slide and a swing to the wall. Easy enough if you ignore the several-hundred-foot drop.

“How do we get down from the roof without being seen?” Josh whispers.

Below, people move in the courtyard of what looks like an old fortress. “We don’t have to get down,” I say. “We just need to reach that light.”

“And then what?”

“We improvise.”

When our boots hit the roof, we can see it. A shimmering column of green code streaming from the sky, numbers cascading like rain. Ted was right. Another break in the code.

“It’s a way out,” I tell them quietly. “Josh, you climb first. Lauren, then Bailey.  I’ll take the rear.”

Bailey’s voice shakes. “What about the game, the people?”

“You said the virus is in Bethesda’s servers, not here. Once they find it, they can reset the game.”

How am I going to say goodbye without them knowing what I plan to do?

Josh grabs the rope and starts climbing. That’s when a voice cuts through the night.

“What are you doing, Garrett? That’s not the plan.”

Josh nearly slips. “What the….?!”

A figure steps out of the shadows, familiar yet wrong. My heart skips.“Daven?”

Josh slides down and lands beside me.

The man, or rather, the avatar, shakes his head. “No… yes… It’s me. Us. Eulalie, Ted, and Sarah. We’re using Daven’s avatar with Ted’s voice.”

Bailey blinks. “How is that even possible?”

“The break in the code,” Daven says. “It can pull you out of the game and, with enough processing power, push us in. But that’s not the point. Why are you trying to leave?”

Daven turns to me, “You were going to send your friends home, Garrett. Did you tell them the game can’t reset if even one of you stays behind? Or that your injuries are worse back in reality?”

Silence. Everyone’s eyes turn to me.

“They didn’t know,” I admit. “I didn’t tell them.”

Lauren’s fury hits like a storm. “Tell us what, Garrett?”

Bailey’s voice cracks. “You were planning to stay behind? You would never be able to come back, ever. Why? Why would you do something that stupid?”

I swallow hard. “I don’t care about the damned game. Bethesda can sort out its own mess. I just care about keeping you safe. Alduin showed me what he plans to do to you, Bailey, to all of you. I can’t let that happen. If it means I’m stuck here forever, so be it.”

Tears blur my vision. “Please… you have to go back. I don’t want you to die.”

Josh’s voice is full of hurt. “You’re a damned idiot, you know that? I should deck you right now. But I won’t. Not yet.”

Lauren folds her arms. “When you disappeared last time, we all felt it. But Bailey? She broke. For a year, she wasn’t herself, reckless, empty. We thought we’d lost her for good. You almost did that to her again.”

Bailey moves to the edge of the roof, staring down at the courtyard below.

“Bailey…” I start.

She whirls on me, furious. “No! You don’t get to talk! The last time you left, you sent a letter with an Orc, Garrett! The things you wrote made me believe you cared for me. I waited… a year. Even when I burned the letter, I still hoped. And then you came back. Different, yes, but still you. And I waited for you to say something, anything, about that letter. But you never did.”

Tears glint in her eyes as she wipes them away. “Before you went after the dragon, you used to touch my hand, my hair, something small. Now you can’t even look at me.”

I grab her arm gently. “I had to let you go. After my first nightmare back here, I knew I’d get you killed if I didn’t. If I let myself love you, I’d never stop protecting you, and that would get you all killed. I couldn’t risk it.”

Bailey lays her hand on my cheek. Her voice is softer now. “Garrett… the nightmares aren’t prophecy. Alduin’s playing with your mind because he’s afraid of you. We’re not leaving you here. We finish this together. We defeat the Legion. We reset the game.”

I pull her close. “You want closer? How’s this?” And before I can overthink it, I kiss her.

She lets out a surprised laugh, then melts into it, arms sliding around my neck.

Josh clears his throat loudly. “Okay, not how I expected that to go. I was betting on blood, not tongue. Can we please get off the roof before someone notices?”

Bailey pulls back, smiling through tears, and quickly briefs Daven on everything. The chip, Hadvar, the mage in Morthal.

“I wish I could go with you,” Daven says. “But I’m flying to the States with Ted and Sarah. They need me. You vanished only a few hours ago from our side. Can you believe that?”

I pull him into a hug. “Then this is for all of you. Tell Ma, Da, and Grandpa I love them. And you too, little sister.”

I tighten the braided leather rope and signal Josh to start the climb.

As the first light of dawn breaks over Solitude, the city sprawls below us, tainted but beautiful.

“We’ll be back,” I say quietly. “We’ll finish this. End the Legion. Reset the world.”

Josh glances at me. “Yeah, but first….”

I grin. “Any idea where we can find Delphine and Esbern?”

Josh sighs. “Oh, great. The fetch quest to end all fetch quests.”

Chapter Text

“No, Delphine and Esbern are not at Northwatch Keep. We visited the keep a week ago,” Bulf says as we go over every possible location of the two missing Blades. “The few Elven soldiers housed there are all in this dream state, and there are no prisoners. Why do you think the Altmer would even bother keeping prisoners?”

“Esbern was taken from his hideaway in Riften, and the only clue we have is an Elven dagger.”

Bulf frowns. “I know about the Aldmeri Dominion hunting the Blades, but I thought it stopped after they lost the Great War. General Ulfric should know about the Thalmor’s involvement in the disappearance of two of our citizens.” He pulls a stack of courier parchment closer.

“Until we know more, don’t send anyone to Northwatch to help the Altmer,” Josh says, grinning when Bulf nods in agreement. “Yeah, let’s not ruin their nap time.”

There is no Embassy, they are not at Northwatch Keep, and Orgnar swears Delphine hasn’t returned. Which leaves one possible location, the Abandoned Prison. The same one the Thalmor use in another mod, the one that had Bailey blushing when Josh mentioned it.

We’ll accompany the mage to Morthal first, help the people there, then head for the prison. Bailey wished for fast travel at least five times since breakfast, and right now, I can’t blame her. It feels like we are going back and forth, back and forth, with no end to this madness.

“Dark times, indeed. I fear the worst for Morthal and my people,” Jarl Ravencrone says as Lauren pulls the chip from the small cut. The old woman turns toward her, eyes sharp despite her frail frame. “Tamriel is full of wisdom and magic if one is willing to look for it. Few have their eyes open like you, Lauren Martin.”

Lauren nearly drops the Skyforge steel scalpel. “You… wait..how do you know my name?”

The Jarl smiles, though nothing is comforting in it. “They know who you are. The Legion knows who all of you are. Take care because they will hunt you if you stand in their way. All is not as it seems.”

Lauren frowns. “What do you mean, ‘all is not as it seems’?”

“It is for you to figure out, child,” the Jarl says, already turning away. “I can’t give you a riddle and answer it too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must check on my people.”

Lauren exhales. “That’s… ominous.”

Every citizen of Morthal turns out to be in good health, though none remember anything beyond the day two strangers in black armour arrived the day after the lightning storm.

“They’ll be safe from vampires until the game resets,” Josh says, staring toward the vampire lair. Luckily, no one can take chips from a pile of ass, not that we have seen any chips before we burned everything in the cave.

Bailey’s outside, laughing as she plays hide and seek with Helgi, the little girl who, according to the game, should’ve been a ghost. Josh and I carry the unconscious bard to a smaller room. Lauren will remove the chip from his neck in the morning before we leave.

“If you hear the Orc’s singing,” Josh says, glancing at me, “you’ll understand why Bailey and I begged you not to let him perform tonight.”

“The Dragon Cult first constructed the ancient Nordic ruin of Labyrinthian as a temple to the dragons,” I read aloud. “The temple then grew to become the city of Bromjunaar, theorised to have been the capital of Skyrim during the height of the Dragon Cult’s power and influence, though few historical records exist to verify this. There are, however, accounts proving that Bromjunaar was a centre for the Dragon Priests. Many of the highest-ranking priests met here to discuss important matters. During the Dragon War, the city changed drastically as the dragons’ forces mobilized to fight against the people of Tamriel. After the war ended, Bromjunaar was abandoned and fell into ruin.”

I close the book and let the silence settle over the ruins. The only sound is the wind whispering through the broken arches. My fingers itch to sketch the skeletal remains of what was once a city worthy of gods.

“Where’d you get that?” Josh asks, taking the book and flipping it open. “Lore of Skyrim.” He whistles.

“Sarah gave it to me,” I say, taking it back and tucking it into my pack. “It’s got the history of every hold, ruin, town, and city in Skyrim. She figured I’d need it in case I couldn’t find you.”

I swing my pack over my shoulder and mount Helios. “If we want to sleep at Silent Moons Camp tonight, we need to move before more of them respawn.”

The warmth of Jorrvaskr hits us the moment we step inside, firelight spilling over the long tables.

“Two Redguards were looking for you, Lauren,” Vilkas says before we can even shrug off the cold. “Something about you selling their city out to the enemy. Don’t worry, no one believed them. The city guard threatened to throw them in jail if they didn’t leave Whiterun.”

Lauren drops into the nearest chair, her face pale. Josh’s expression hardens.

“It’s the Legion,” he growls. “They’re using Skyrim’s side quests to get to us. First Morthal’s cryptic old crow, now this.”

Four days wasted. Two days to reach the Abandoned Prison, only to find it crawling with ghosts and nothing else. No Thalmor. No Blades. No NPC named Kaidan.

Bailey explained the mod after we cleared the place. Apparently, you rescue the man from the Thalmor, and he becomes your follower with an optional romance path.

“How many times did you save Kaidan from his cell?” I ask. “And how many of those ended in romance and marriage?”

Her cheeks flush crimson. I can’t help but laugh.

Now we’re back in Whiterun, still no closer to finding Delphine and Esbern.

“No! No! Please don’t kill her!”

The dragon’s laughter rumbles, too human, too cruel. Its claw pins Bailey to the ground. Bones crack.

“Wo kos hi? (1)” I shout

“Vuljotnaak. Hi killaan dii fron.  Nu zu'u fen krii him. (2)”

“No, you’re not,” I snarl, opening my mouth to shout the bastard into oblivion…

“Garrett! Wake up! You’re going to burn our house down!”

Cold water crashes over me. Bailey’s voice snaps me fully awake. I blink at the scorched ceiling and curling smoke. I have to get these dreams under control before I kill us all.

Vuljotnaak.

I thumb through the book, scanning for the dragon’s burial site. It needs to die before it finds us.

“What are you looking for?” Bailey asks, perched on the armrest beside me. Her hair smells like green apples, one of the soaps she stashes in the basement bathroom.

“Just looking for something to read,” I lie, tugging her into my lap. I nibble at her neck. “You smell like something I could eat.”

“There’s breakfast in the kitchen if you’re hungry.” She kisses me quickly. “I’ve got sword training with Athis.”

When Josh and Lauren leave, I suit up. Alduin must have resurrected Vuljotnaak if it’s haunting my dreams. My finger traces the map from Whiterun’s border to Falkreath, two dragon mounds near the crossroads. One of them has to be the lair.

I leave a red mountain flower on Bailey’s bed. “I can’t promise to come back,” I whisper, “but I’ll damn well try.”

Vilkas and the Dunmer mercenary, Jenassa, wait for me at the stables.

“Why does she get paid to help you kill a dragon and not me?” Vilkas grumbles.

“Because you are bitching and moaning about not having the opportunity to kill a dragon. You should pay me for taking you.”

“What does bitching and moaning mean?” Jenassa asks with a frown between her red eyes.

“It means Vilkas is crying like an old hag about his desire to kill a dragon.”

They look at each other, and Vilkas shrugs, “Well, maybe not like an old hag, but I would love to kill a dragon.”

We camp beneath an outcrop to shelter from the wind.

“Why’d you become a mercenary, Jenassa?”

“I considered being a bandit,” she says with a grin. “Then I decided I prefer clean clothes and fresh mead.”

Vilkas chuckles. “Fair.”

The brandy Vilkas brought keeps the nightmares away. Yes, I promised my parents I wouldn’t drink, but tonight, I’ll make an exception.

We hear the dragon before we lay eyes on it. The roar echoes from the mountain range to the south, and a shadow passes overhead. The dragon has the same colour as the one in my dreams, but I am not sure if it is Vuljotnaak.

“Ready?” I ask.

Jenassa nods, eyes glinting. “I can see the battle-lust in your eyes. Doom will surely come to any who crosses your path.”

“Let’s hope it is the dragon’s doom, not ours.”

The dragon lands hard enough to shake the ground.

“Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin. Dinok ofan do dii fron.” (3)

“Vuljotnaak, hi krii dii fron ko dii hahnu. Hi fen dir thdro sul!” (4)

My Shout tears through the air. Mark for Death followed by Fire Breath. Arrows strike its eyes, wings, and chest. The dark souls within me stir, screaming for more.

Then the dragon collapses, light searing through me as its soul rips free and floods into mine.

“I’ll be damned,” says a familiar voice. “You actually did it. So, you’re the Dragonborn.”

I turn to find Delphine and an old man watching me.

“Delphine! Where the hell have you been? We’ve been searching all over Skyrim. We thought the Thalmor took you in Riften.”

“They tried,” she says. “But they underestimated our will to live.”

The old man grips my forearm in greeting. “I’m Esbern. Come, we have a safe place nearby.”

The cavern they lead us to is massive, open to the sky, with a statue of Talos standing sentinel over running water. We wait for Bailey, Josh, and Lauren. Vilkas and Jenassa rode back to fetch them.

The two Blades wanted to pull me into a conversation, but I told them to wait with their tale of escape and questions until my friends arrived.

When they arrive, Josh leans close.. “Oh, man, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Lauren gives me a half-smile. Bailey… doesn’t. Her glare could melt ice, and then the mother of all storms landed on my head.

I let her rant, then catch her by the arm mid-sentence, pulling her in. “I’m sorry, Bailey. I’m not risking your lives against a named dragon. They taunt me before every fight, and if you’re there, I won’t focus. One mistake, and we all die. Next time, I’ll leave a note with the flower. Deal?”

She stares at me, torn between anger and understanding, then sighs. “Fine. But if you vanish again, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

Josh smirks. “She’s not joking, man.”

“Did you know this was where Acilius Bolar hid from the Thalmor and died?” Josh asks, running his hand along an old blade.

“No,” Delphine says. “I had heard rumours he escaped Cloud Ruler Temple, but I never knew he made it to Skyrim. If only I knew he was only two days' ride from Riverwood.”

Delphine’s eyes soften as she touches the sword. “Maybe there are others out there, still alive, still wondering if they’re the last.”

The story of the two blades is not a long and difficult one. Delphine went to fetch Esbern after she heard he was still alive. Two Thalmor and a few Elven soldiers tried to arrest them, but the two Blades got away through the tunnels after killing a Thalmor and two soldiers.

“There were no bodies. We only found an Elven dagger and a bloody handprint in the room.”

Delphine frowns at Bailey’s statement. “Then they removed their dead to cover their involvement. The people of Tamriel don’t look kindly on the Thalmor playing their old evil tricks.”

Lauren hands her horse’s reins to Delphine after I helped her and Esbern into the saddle.

“I can not remember when last I was on a horse’s back.” Delphine looks unsure of the horse.

“Molly’s gentle,” Lauren says. “She won’t let you fall.”

Esbern accepts a small food bag from Josh. “We’ll meet you back here in a week.”

“Safe travels,” I tell them.

As they ride off, Josh throws an arm around Lauren. “Well, that’s Esbern found and checked off the list. From here, it’s smooth sailing, right?”

I glance at the sky, where smoke from the dragon’s body still curls upward. One can hope, but I have a feeling the sailing will be done in rough waters.

• Who are you?
• You killed my kin. Now I will kill yours.
• Greetings, Dragonborn, death give(r) of my kin.
• DarkMawEat, you kill my kin in my dream(s). You will die this day.

Chapter Text

It’s a week later when we find Delphine and Esbern camped around a fire at Bloated Man’s Grotto.

“I know the area Esbern’s talking about,” Delphine says, tapping the map with her finger. “Near what is now called Karthspire, in the Karth River canyon.”

She frowns at the firelight. “Something strange happened when I went down to pack my things. I can’t describe it properly. Like… dreaming while awake. I saw a figure asking why I took the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Before I could answer, everything shifted, and I told them to go to the Thalmor Embassy. There is no Embassy. Why did I say that?”

Do we tell her that’s how it’s supposed to happen before the virus scrambled the game code? Yeah… that would open a can of very ugly worms. And explaining it would take a week and a PowerPoint presentation.

“Maybe it’s stress and fatigue, Delphine,” Lauren says gently, handing her a mug of tea. “Lavender, lemon, and blue mountain flower. Drink this.” She passes me one too, then leans closer to whisper, “You’re not going back to drinking. Try this first. If it doesn’t help, we’ll find something stronger.”

The first sign of trouble comes from a merchant screaming that a dragon stole his mule. Not exactly the sort of thing you hear every day. It can’t be a named dragon, though. I’ve only had nightmares about dragons since killing Vuljotnaak.

We leave the horses with Delphine after Esbern shows off his Destruction Magic by setting a nearby juniper bush on fire. Great. Fireballs and kindling. What could go wrong?

We are coming for you, dragon, and I hope you are ready for two mages, two archers, and one eager swordsman. We can not count Lauren as a Mage, but she is handy with her lightning staff.

By the end, I’m soaked, frozen, and my armour’s pinching in all the wrong places. The dragon dared to die on top of me, sliding down the hill and pinning me under its oversized corpse until the soul transfer lifted it away.

“I wish I had a camera,” Bailey laughs. “Your face is priceless.”

Esbern blinks. “What’s a camera?”

“It’s, uh… a really fast sketch.” Lauren shrugs. “Just… go with it.”

A man wearing animal skins and an elk skull mask waits for us on a wooden platform over the river. His skin is the colour of old ash, and there’s a hole in his chest where his heart should be.

“Forsworn Briarheart,” Josh whispers, hand going to his sword.

“No need for violence, strangers,” says a woman, laying a hand on the Briarheart’s arm. “I am Diga, shaman of this tribe. Our Hagraven wishes to speak with the Breton. You are all welcome to join.”

Lauren’s eyes go wide. “What does she want with me?”

“Please. Follow me. We mean no harm.”

Delphine and Esbern stay behind. The rest of us follow Diga across the bridge. Forsworn stare for a moment, then go back to their chores as if murderous bird-witches summoning outsiders were just another Tuesday.

Then we see her. The Hagraven. Even uglier than the sketches in the lore book. Her claws twitch as she studies us. I edge sideways, keeping both her and the crowd in my sights. One wrong move and arrows will fly.

Diga smiles faintly. “Urslde is right. You are the protector of your group, Dragonborn. We will not harm you. We need your help as much as you need ours.”

The Hagraven croaks, “Yes… This is the one.” Her claws grip Lauren’s hands while Diga restrains Josh.

“I’m the one what?” Lauren squeaks.

“Keep still, child.” Urslde dips her claws into a bowl of what looks suspiciously like blood and sketches a symbol on Lauren’s hands and face.

Josh bristles. “What the hell is she doing?”

“She opens the Breton’s eyes, to see what must be seen,” Diga murmurs.

Urslde’s voice is colder than the grave. “The Dragonborn saw, but did not know that he had seen.“

I swallow hard. “See what?”

“The Dark. The sickness that spreads across Nirn. The truth that will stop it.”

Lauren’s voice shakes. “How will I know when I see it?”

Urslde smiles, a slow, horrible thing. “You will know when the time is right.” Then her gaze falls on Bailey. “Be careful whom you trust.”

When her claw touches my burned hand, it feels both scalding hot and icy cold. “Ask the old man about his dream.”

“Which old man?”

“The one who lived like a rat.”

Josh folds his arms. “What, no cryptic death prophecy for me?”

The Hagraven retreats into her tent. The only answer is laughter that sounds like it was scraped off the bottom of Oblivion.

We enter Sky Haven Temple after a few puzzles, a couple of lowered bridges, and, for dramatic effect, my blood. The place smells like dust, cold stone, and the echo of a lost civilization.

Josh leads me to a small side room after we read Alduin’s Wall and argue the thinly veiled prophecy into submission with Esbern. He holds a katana out like it’s an overdue birthday present. “This is Dragonbane. Extra damage to dragons.”

“No, Josh. You keep it,” I say. “You wanted it since day one when you first romanticised the questline and shinier swords. I’ve got my bow and Kodlak’s Skyforge blade. Practical, heavy, and not trying to seduce me.”

“This place is fantastic,” I murmur, letting my fingers trace the carved patterns in the stone.

Bailey hooks her arm through mine and grins. “This is the upgraded version of the temple. Vanilla Skyrim? Pfft. This one’s on deluxe mod settings.”

After dinner, we all make ourselves comfortable in front of the hearth. “Esbern, the Hagraven told me to ask you about your dream.”

He stares into the fire, “I knew it was not a random dream, that it had meaning.  In the dream, I was standing… someplace high up… a tower, or a mountain. It was always just before dawn. The whole world was in darkness. Then came the flash of light, just on the horizon, within the clouds that mark the border between worlds. It could have been lightning, but there was no thunder. In the dream, the sense of foreboding grew, but I could never wake up. Then it came again, this time more distinct. Closer. Definitely lightning now. It was white, brilliant white. And a sound, too. Distinct and indistinct. Not thunder… something else. Something I should recognize, but in the dream, I cannot place it. I want to leave my high place to seek shelter. From what, I do not yet know. In the manner of dreams, I cannot escape. I am forced to wait and watch as the lightning draws near. And behind the lightning is something dark, something changing our world as it rolls ever closer. Then I would wake up hoping that it was just a dream… but know that it was not."

His dream leaves us with more questions and no answers.

Once the Blades excuse themselves for the night, Josh spreads the map of Skyrim like someone plotting the perfect heist. “We tell people we’re going to the Greybeards, but Arngeir and Paarthurnax know that we already have the answer to the shout needed. We will skip the College of Winterhold because none of us will get past Faralda, except maybe Garrett, when he says he is the Dragonborn.”

“The College is a waste of time,” Bailey says, tapping a spot on the map. “We go to Septimus’ cave, get the sphere, unlock Blackreach. Also, we need to shop for snowbear coats. I have not seen any in Belethor’s shop.

I wake with the smell of breakfast hanging in the air. Sleep did not come for me before the first light of a new day. I could not sleep, thinking about the Hagraven’s warning to Bailey that she must be careful of the one she trusts. Am I the one? Will I betray Bailey by doing something stupid and dramatic? Get her killed? If my dreams come true, I will see her die, I will see Alduin devour her piece by piece.

Delphine waits until we have eaten before asking if we have any idea where to learn about a shout to kill Alduin.

“The Greybeards might know.”

Delphine stares at Josh for a second before answering, "You are probably right. I was hoping to avoid having to involve them in this, but it seems we have no choice."

“I will ask Arngeir if he knows what Shout they used.”

“Good thing they have already let you into their little cult, Garrett. Not likely they would help Esbern or me if we came calling. We will look around Sky Haven Temple and see what else the old Blades might have left for us. It is a better hideout than I could have hoped for. Talos guides you."

Changed Esbern’s dream to fit into the fiction - https://elderscrolls.fandom.com/wiki/Esbern_(Skyrim)

Chapter Text

Our trip to Windhelm didn’t go as smoothly as we’d hoped.

In Whiterun, Bailey has a panic attack when Kodlak asks her to help him find the Glenmoril witches.

“Bailey, I need your help, welp. I’ve found the answer to cure myself of the beast’s blood. The Glenmoril witches’ magic ensnared us, and only their magic can release us. They won’t give it willingly, but we can extract their foul powers by force. I want you to seek them out. Find their coven in the wilderness of Falkreath Hold. Strike them down as a true warrior of the wild, and bring me their heads, the seat of their power. From there, we may begin to undo centuries of impurity.”

Bailey starts to hyperventilate as soon as we leave Jorrvaskr.

“Breathe slowly, Bailey,” I say, rubbing her back. “In through the nose, out through the….yeah, that’s it.

“I hoped this quest wouldn’t find its way into the game,” she whispers. “But now Kodlak’s going to die. When I bring the heads back to Jorrvaskr, he’ll already be dead, Garrett.”

“Do you have to do it right away, or can we wait?”

“In the game, there’s no time limit on quests. You can take on several at once, at your own pace. Maybe we can ignore this one until we find a way to reset the game?”

“I don’t know if we can ignore it. You’re a Companion, and he gave you the quest. I have a feeling it will pull us in no matter what. First, we find this Septimus guy and the Elder Scroll, then return to Whiterun before we go after the witches. You know where to find them?”

Bailey nods miserably. “I don’t want Kodlak to die, Garrett. I know he’s supposed to, but… he feels real. We’ve talked about things that don’t even exist in the game’s dialogue. He’s alive to me. Like a grandfather.”

I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep, but Kodlak’s death isn’t part of the main quest. Bailey saved Reyda from drowning without breaking the world. Maybe we can cheat fate again.

“We’ll think of something, Bailey. Come on, Josh and Lauren are waiting.”

The voice belongs to a tiny man in a jester’s outfit, dramatically gesturing beside a busted carriage at the entrance to Loreius Farm.

Bailey throws out an arm to stop me. “Let Josh and me handle this one. You and Lauren can set up camp by the mill.”

“Gladly,” I mutter. “Creepy clown men are not on my quest list.”

Lauren and I lead the horses to set up camp beside the mill while Bailey and Josh talk to the jester. I watch them knock on the farmer’s door, and after a moment, Vantus appears with a toolbox in hand.

When they return, Bailey’s expression says everything. “The jester’s name is Cicero. He’s from the Dark Brotherhood. In the game, you can either help him or tell the guard he’s hauling weapons. If you rat him out, both Vantus and Curwe end up dead later.”

A dragon circles over the mountains, just above what Josh calls Shearpoint. I saw Alduin resurrecting it earlier this morning while on watch.

“Ziil gro dovah ulse! Slen Tiid Vo!” (1) he roared.

I couldn’t hear the words, but somehow, they still echoed in my soul.

In Whiterun Hold, the signs of spring turning to summer could be seen in the number of flowers blooming in the Tundra. The Pale is a different story. Although the cold is less than the last time we travelled on the road, there are not many flowers to be seen. Some blue mountain flowers and snowberries are the only colour in a white landscape.

The courier is waiting for us when we enter Nightgate Inn two days later. "I have been looking for you. Got something I am supposed to deliver, your hands only."

Lauren takes the package and finds our new snowbear coats inside.

The innkeeper, Hadring, gapes. “Didn’t know they delivered anything except letters.”

“They only do it for the Dragonborn,” Lauren replies.

“Yeah, makes sense. The Dragonborn doesn’t have time to shop around. Who will kill the dragons while he tries to find the right coat? But maybe I should try it myself.”

“And that’s how Amazon was born,” Josh whispers when the innkeeper walks away to get our order of food and drink.

The few soldiers at Fort Kastav look like they’ve seen Sovngarde itself when they taste Lauren and Bailey’s cooking.

“The cook went to Fort Snowhawk months ago,” one of them says between mouthfuls, “and none of us knows how to cook a tasty meal.”

We didn’t sleep much that night. I have no idea how Nords survive this cold, or why no one has thought to put shutters on those gaping window holes. After a few hours of pretending we are not freezing to death, we ended up curled on the floor next to the kitchen fire like a pack of hibernating skeevers.

Another sleepless, frostbitten night at Whistling Mine. The miners there seem to consider “roof overhead” a luxury, and by the time we push through the snow to the inn at Winterhold, I’m convinced Josh is right. This has to be the coldest Hold in Skyrim.

“What did you expect from a place that is covered in deep snow and the only colour is the dark grey rocks and stubborn snowberries growing along the road?” He says, stamping snow from his boots. “

“Just once,” Lauren sighs, “I’d like to see a palm tree.”

“Are you sure we don’t need to talk to the Orc Librarian first, Josh?” Lauren asks.

“No, Lauren,” Josh replies, all confidence. “We know where Septimus’ cave is. Why waste time running the script?”

We should have listened to Lauren. The cave is emptier than a beggar’s pocket. Not even a skeever footprint.

Josh looks around the frozen stone. “Well, this is cozy. Anyone bring marshmallows?”

There’s no wood for a fire, so we huddle together, our breath fogging in the dark, waiting for dawn to drag some light back into the world.

At the top of the icy stairs, an Altmer is waiting. Tall, elegant, the kind of face you could use to measure a ruler. Pretty, if you like your women long, sharp, and mildly condescending.  I’ll stick to curves, muscle, and indigo eyes that make you forget your name, thanks.

“Welcome to the College of Winterhold,” she says smoothly. “I am Faralda, one of the senior Wizards here. I trust your journey was not entirely unpleasant?”

“If I ignore the frozen death march across the ice,” I reply, “it was about what I expected.”

Her brow tightens, and her toe starts tapping. Definitely not a fan of sarcasm.

“No complaints,” I add quickly. “I’m here to speak with the Librarian about an Elder Scroll.”

Faralda folds her arms. “It is true some here have spent years studying the scrolls. But what you seek is dangerous. It can destroy those without a strong will.”

“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really need that Scroll. There’s a world-eating dragon on the clock.”

Her eyes widen. “Dragonborn? It’s been so long since we’ve had contact with the Greybeards. Do you truly have the Voice? I would be most impressed to see it.”

I sigh. “You’re really going to make me shout, aren’t you?”

“FUS!”

Faralda goes flying backward into the low wall.

“Sorry!” I help her up as she heals the bump on her head. “Maybe I should’ve gone with Whirlwind Sprint.”

Faralda shakes her head, still dazed. “So the stories are true… You are Dragonborn. Follow me. You’ll find Urag gro-Shub in the Arcanaeum.”

"You are now in the Arcanaeum, of which I am in charge. You might as well call it my own little plane of Oblivion. Disrupt my Arcanaeum, and I will have you torn apart by angry Atronachs. Now, is there anything I can help you with?"

The Orc may be old, but he looks as if he is capable of ripping someone who disrupts his precious library apart himself.

“We’re looking for Septimus Signus,” Josh says.

The Orc narrows his eyes at Josh. “We? Who’s we, boy?”

Josh stiffens, ready to snap back, but I rest a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m Garrett,” I say evenly. “Dragonborn, apparently. These are my friends. Josh, Lauren, and Bailey. We’re looking for an Elder Scroll, and we were told Septimus is the one to ask.”

Urag studies us for a long moment, like he’s deciding whether we’re worth the effort of annihilation. Then he nods. “Follow me.”

We follow Urag through a maze of passages and down a spiral staircase that definitely shouldn’t exist.

Bailey glances around, eyes narrowed. “These weren’t in any mod I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe it’s a mod for people who hate themselves,” Josh mutters.

The voice that answers Urag’s knock isn’t loud, but it fills the room. “Enter.”

The man waiting inside could pass for a university professor. Tall, tidy, and glasses that catch the lamplight just enough to make him look like he’s about to announce your exam results.

Josh leans close. “That’s not the Septimus from the game.”

“Maybe Bethesda patched him,” Bailey whispers back. “With better hair.”

Septimus smiles and steps toward Lauren. “I have been waiting for you, young lady.”

Lauren freezes mid-breath. “Me? Why me?”

“Yes, you…” His gaze shifts to me. “And the Dragonborn, of course. But especially you.”

He turns back to a cluttered table where glassware bubbles and steams like an alchemist’s fever dream.

Josh edges forward, eyes gleaming. “This setup, this is Earth tech. Lab-grade. Where did you even get this?”

We all stare at him, way to blow our cover, but Septimus doesn’t even blink.

“I had a dream,” he says softly, “of a young woman who looks much like the Dragonborn. She told me to create a potion for a Breton who travels with your company.”

He lifts a small chest and hands it to Lauren. “Ten drops into every magicka potion you drink. It will ward you from the potions’ hidden effects.”

Lauren blinks, colour rising in her cheeks, and looks toward Josh. Josh, who looks ready to start dismantling the entire table. I can almost see the gears turning in scientific curiosity.

And me? I’m just wondering why Eulalie would send lab equipment from Earth to Skyrim. And why would Lauren need something to be put into the potions she has been using for more than two years? Is the potion negatively affecting Lauren?

Septimus turns to me next, handing over a small bag. “The sphere to enter Blackreach, young man.” Then, with reverence, he draws out a polished metal cube. “The lexicon, a Dwemer device to transcribe an Elder Scroll safely. Handle it with care.”

Before I can thank him, he flaps his hands in a clear “you may leave now” motion. “I have an Elder Scroll to read. No distractions, please.”

We’re barely halfway down the corridor when Bailey freezes. “He’s going to go insane if he reads that Scroll.”

We all stop and turn towards the door. The door ripples, actually ripples, and vanishes like mist.

And suddenly, Urag’s voice booms behind us. "You are now in the Arcanaeum, of which I am in charge. You might as well call it my own little plane of Oblivion. Disrupt my Arcanaeum, and I will have you torn apart by angry Atronachs. Now, is there anything I can help you with?"

Josh stares around the familiar room. “What the fuck?” His voice echoes through the stacks, earning several librarian-level death glares.

Bailey spins in a full circle, eyes wide. “Okay, we’ve had weird before, but this? This is full-on Twilight Zone.”

I just shrug and sling my pack over my shoulder. “We’ve got the sphere, we’ve got the lexicon, and no one’s dead. That’s a win in my book.”

I secure the lexicon and sphere in my backpack, then pull out the lore book. “According to this, there are three ways into Blackreach: Alftand, Mzinchaleft, and Raldbthar. Can we use any of them, or is Alftand mandatory?”

Bailey takes the book from me, scanning the pages. “I’ve used Alftand and Mzinchaleft to get there. Never tried Raldbthar.” She looks up at Josh.

He nods. “Only Alftand for me. That place is massive. Marcurio and I had already cleared Mzinchaleft of bandits and most of the automatons when we helped Mjoll find her sword.  It’s an extra day’s hike, but I’d rather take Mzinchaleft over Alftand. Fewer ways to die horribly.”

Mzinchaleft it is, then.

Bandits, deleted by Dragonborn.

Falmer, deleted by four people from another world.

Automatons and a big arsed Centurion, dismantled, courtesy of one petite woman with a staff and one man running on dragon souls and bad decisions.

When the last echo fades, I glance at the others. “Arngeir said there’s a named dragon here in Blackreach. Any idea where to find it?”

Bailey points upward. “See that light hanging from the cave roof? The one that looks like a fake sun? That’s your target.”

I tilt my head back to look at the massive glowing orb far above us. “Right. Because clearly, what I needed today was a rifle. Perfect.”

“You have to use Unrelenting Force, Garrett,” Bailey reminds me.

I exhale. “So… after sneaking through the mashroom-infested cavern, avoiding giants, and tiptoeing past Falmer, my next move is to scream loud enough to wake the entire underworld.”

Josh grins. “Hey, if you’re gonna knock, knock like a Dragonborn.”

“Fine,” I mutter. “Knock, knock. Who’s there? The fucking Dragonborn and friends. FUS RO DAH!”

The shout explodes from my chest, the sound rolling through the cavern like thunder.

Behind me, Josh, Lauren, and Bailey scatter to their positions, covering the paths that lead back toward me. If the locals come to investigate the noise, they’ll walk straight into my team.

And when Vulthuryol, the Dark Overlord of Fire himself, comes down from that glowing sun, he will be greeted properly.

“Dovahkiin, hi alok zu'u Nol dii praan.  Do hi yah dii dinok? (2)”

“Hi kos aan kendov do Alduin ahrk fen dir. (3)”

“Zu'u do ni laan wah krif hi.  Zu'u haalvut fin krasaar in Keizaal, nuz ni het in fin vul do Blackreach. (4)”

“Hi want Zu'u wah spaan hin laas? (5)”

“Geh. (6)”

I haven’t dreamed of Vulthuryol, not yet. According to the bronze dragon, it survived the Dragon War by hiding here, deep beneath the earth. While its kin burned and died, it slept, cocooned in shadow and stone. Until I rang the bell.

I turn my back on the massive shape coiled among the glowing crystals. The souls within me claw at my chest, whispering, howling, kill it. They crave the rush, the power that only comes from consuming another dragon’s soul.

Josh’s voice breaks through the storm in my head. “I still can’t wrap my head around why you left it alive. You, of all people. What happens when you do start dreaming of it?”

“It can’t get out, Josh,” I say quietly. “At least… I don’t think it can.” I glance at him over my shoulder. “I don’t want to kill just because I can. If it starts to haunt my dreams, if it starts to kill you there, then I’ll come back and finish it. Until then, it stays.”

Bailey’s hands slide over a cluster of glowing Dwemer buttons. “Got it.” She presses a few in rapid succession, the ancient machine groaning to life. “Honestly, how many times do you people need to ask before believing I remember this stuff? I’ve played this quest more times than I’ve done laundry.”

Josh grins, pulling the wrapped scroll from his pack and sliding it into mine. “Only a few minutes more and we’ll be breathing fresh Nirn air again.”

• I bind your dragon spirit for eternity! Flesh Time Undo!"
• Dragonborn, you wake me from my rest.  Do you seek my death?
• You are a warrior of Alduin and will die
• I do not want to fight you.  I feel the sickness in Skyrim, but not here in the darkness of Blackreach. 
• You want me to spare your life?”
•  

Chapter Text

I watch Bailey sleeping next to the fire, her hair faintly glowing in the dying light. The bag of witches’ heads from the Glenmoril Coven lies a few meters away, reeking of death. She carried those foul-smelling things on her back for two days straight. Tomorrow, we’ll reach Whiterun, and I can already see the tension building in her shoulders whenever Kodlak’s name comes up.

We reach Bloated Man’s Grotto late afternoon and decide to stay here for the night. The wind bites hard, even in summer. Skyrim doesn’t believe in warmth. After we ate, I pull Bailey close beside the fire, her head against my chest.

“Everything’s going to be all right,” I murmur. “We’ve got Kodlak covered.”

It starts as a simple gesture. My hand running through her hair, tracing the line of her cheek, the curve of her neck. Then comes the kissing. A lot of kissing. The kind that makes you forget you’re half-frozen in a monster-infested wilderness.

I force myself to pull back, buttoning the shirt I’d unbuttoned just seconds earlier. “We’re not doing this here, Bailey. Not in the wilds of Skyrim.”

She blushes and withdraws her hands from under my shirt. “Got carried away for a second,” she mutters, trying to sound casual. “Almost paid off my debt to you in one final payment.”

“Bailey,” I say softly, “your life is worth more than just… that. And I’d never take it as payment.”

She jumps to her feet before I can say more, disappearing into the dark. I sigh, dragging a hand over my face. “Great job, Garrett. Smooth as a skeever in a tavern.”

“Bailey! Come back!”

I find her at the foot of the statue of Talos, sitting with her back against the snake head at his feet.

“Bailey, I…”

“No, Garrett.” Her voice is steady, but her hands are clenched in her lap. “The best thing we can do is forget what almost happened. We still have a long way to go. To get home. To get back to you being an Olympic star, and me… locked in my study, playing games for YouTube and writing software reviews.”

I sit beside her, the silence heavy between us. “I don’t think things will ever go back to how they were,” I finally say. “The souls inside me…. they’ve changed me. And… I meant every word in the letter I wrote before following Sahloknir.”

I stand, pulling her gently to her feet, and hug her close. Her heartbeat thudded against mine, steady and real in the cold night air.

I press a kiss to the top of her head.

I love you, Bailey.

The words echoed loudly in my mind, but my lips kept them caged.

The scene in Jorrvaskr is chaos. Pure, screaming chaos.

The Companions are locked in battle with the Silver Hand, steel ringing against steel, shouts echoing off the ancient hall’s stone.

“How did this many people walk through the gate without the guards noticing?” I mutter, ducking a flying axe. “Do they even look up from their mead mugs?”

Bailey and I push through overturned tables and bodies until we find Kodlak. The old man sits slumped in his chair, blood seeping from deep wounds on his arm and head. Lauren stands in front of him, lightning flickering between her hands, keeping Farkas at bay.

He swings his axe, snarling, but Lauren zaps his feet with a bolt of lightning that makes him yelp like a singed horker.

“Why would Farkas try to kill Lauren and Kodlak?” I demand.

“Be careful who you trust,” Bailey whispers beside me, voice trembling. “Kill him, Garrett! Before he kills them!”

I draw my bow, the arrow pulled tight, ready to fly, when Lauren’s voice rings out, cutting through the noise.

“Don’t kill him! It’s not Farkas! We need to find the real Farkas!”

The man turns, grinning, and I swear it’s like looking at Farkas’ evil twin.

“Well, that’s… deeply unsettling,” I mutter.

He charges. I let the arrow fly…straight into his knee. He stumbles, roars, and I give him another one for symmetry.

The battle dies down. The hall is littered with bodies and broken chairs. Josh stumbles over, pale as a ghost, and promptly empties his stomach into the nearest potted plant.

I glance down at the body bleeding at his feet and meet his eyes. He nods weakly.

Now he knows how I felt the first time I had to kill someone.

Vilkas storms in, axe still dripping, his face tight with confusion. “Lauren, explain yourself! If this isn’t my brother, where is he?”

“At first, I thought it was Farkas,” Lauren says, still panting. “Until he lifted Brill into the air by his neck.”

Our gazes shift to the covered body. Brill had defended Vignar to his last breath.

“Farkas couldn’t lift a tankard lately, not after that shoulder wound,” she continues. “But this guy, he lifted Brill with one hand and squeezed the life out of him.”

Vilkas turns on the imposter, grabs him by the tunic, and growls, “Who are you? And where’s my brother?”

The man grins, blood on his teeth. “Why would you think he’s still alive?”

Vilkas’s fist slams into his mouth, shattering teeth.

“Because if you were my brother, you’d know we’re connected. Now, where is he?”

The man just smiles through the blood.

“Give him to me,” Athis says, stepping forward, twirling his dagger like he’s auditioning for a particularly violent stage play. “I’ll make him talk.”

If I were the fake Farkas, I’d start singing before the Dunmer laid a finger on me. Dunmer always look like they’ve been waiting all day for someone to give them a reason

Vilkas opens the Underforge, and we drag the imposter inside. “What is this place?” Athis asks, curiosity and menace blending in his voice.

“I’ll explain later,” Vilkas replies. “If you’re patient.”

“The place isn’t going anywhere, but your friend here….” The grinning face of Athis looks like pure madness descended on Nirn.

A half hour later, Athis steps out, wiping blood from his hands and face. “That man’s definitely not Farkas,” he says. “Not a single scar on him. And trust me, I’ve seen Farkas in the showers. Let’s just say the real one would never walk around naked if he had such a small woman pleaser.”

“Did you find a device in his neck?” I ask.

“No,” Athis says, grabbing a mug of mead. “But he said they took Farkas to an old fort, a day’s ride north of Karthwasten.”

Josh frowns. “Could he be one of the Legion?”

We should have thought of that sooner. Unfortunately, corpses don’t answer questions about military affiliations.

Bailey studies the map, her face pale. “Harmugstahl. It’s crawling with spiders. And Farkas is terrified of spiders.”

“Poor guy’s living in his personal nightmare,” Josh mutters.

Vilkas looks lost. “Why take Farkas and replace him with someone who looks like him? How is that even possible? Witchcraft?”

“I think we can explain what is happening, but for the ears of you and Athis alone. But first, we have to make sure there are not more of them hiding as someone we know.”

“How are we going to do that, Garrett?”

We all stand there in our underwear, staring at each other like the world’s most awkward recruitment poster. Kodlak, Vignar, and Tilma were spared the indignity when Lauren volunteered to check them herself. Tilma’s got a childhood scar on her back, Kodlak and Vignar carry their usual collection of battle souvenirs, and the rest of us look like we’ve all had a bad week in a blender. The Companions wear their scars with pride, while ours came with slightly more screaming. I glance at my Freddy Krueger hand, the nicks and burns across my arms. Lauren’s got her bear scars. Bailey’s shoulder bears the mark of a Silver Hand. Josh, well, the troll didn’t like his face, and it made sure everyone would know it.

“In our world,” I explain, “You know we’re not from Nirn, but… we didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

I explain how we came here and how we are searching for a way out, and all the strange things happening started when the Legion arrived in Skyrim. Again, I leave the part out that this is a game in our world, need to break their sanity.

Vilkas listens, jaw tight. “Some of this, Bailey and Josh explained before, but it makes no sense to us. But we trust you. Whatever’s happening, make it stop.”

Josh traces the map. “There’s a dragon lair southwest of the fort.”

Vilkas nods. “I need to find my brother. But if there’s a dragon nearby, I can’t take it alone.”

“I will go with you, but my friends will stay.” I can hear their disapproval and look at them. “Lauren is needed here to mend the wounds. Bailey, you stay with Kodlak as his guard, and Josh, you guard these women with your life.” I do not give them time to argue. “Vilkas, this time you pay our friend Jenassa’s fees.”

I pull Bailey aside. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try my damndest.”

She meets my eyes, half a smile ghosting her lips. “Just don’t stay away sixteen months this time, Garrett.”

“If I see pixels or matrix rope,” I grin, “I’m turning around and run. You have my word.”

The dragon mound on the hill overlooking Rorikstead is still sealed tight. I rest my hand against the cold earth. “I’ll see you soon, Nahagliiv.” It’s the last named dragon on my list before Alduin, assuming Odahviing doesn’t suddenly decide he wants to kill me as well.

“Who are you taking to, Garrett?” Jenassa frowns down at me, kneeling on the mound.

“To the dragon buried here.”

She kneels beside me, eyebrow arched. “Well, if it knows what I know, it’ll dig itself another six feet down.”

Vilkas glances over, amusement flickering in his voice. “And what exactly do you know, Jenassa?”

She smirks. “That there’s a man out here eating dragon souls like sweetrolls and waiting for this one to show its ugly face.”

Sky Haven Temple is out of our way, but who knows when I’ll get another chance to talk to the Blades about the Elder Scroll. The place looks different this time, less “ancient ruin of doom,” more “someone finally lit a candle.” The smell of dust is gone, replaced by something closer to… home.

“Nice to see you again, Esbern. Delphine mentioned you’re studying dragon lairs.”

“Ah, Garrett!” Esbern beams, as if I’ve just made his week. “Yes, indeed! The Blades of the Second Era documented many dragon dwellings. Their records suggest where the remaining beasts may rest. Only you can truly end them, Dragonborn, but as Delphine says, you do not have to do it alone. We must rebuild the Blades, recruit new warriors to stand beside you.”

I nod. “I’ll see what I can do, Esbern. No promises, but I’ll keep an eye out for anyone who can handle overgrown lizzards, breathing fire and ice.”

Chapter Text

Karthwasten is a small settlement with two silver mines. Back home, this would have been one of the biggest cities. Rich, loud, and crawling with corporate lawyers instead of silver dust.

Vilkas frowns at the sight of four men built like oxen squaring off with a single miner.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Robbery, that’s what,” the miner snaps. “The Silver-Bloods are trying to muscle in on my land. They won’t let anyone work until I sell it.”

Vilkas folds his arms. “Why are you threatening this town? Thonar Silver-Blood already has enough mines to buy the Reach twice over. I wonder what King Madanach would say if he knew his favorite citizen was sending thugs to do his bidding.”

The biggest and ugliest of the four steps forward. “And what’s it to you, friend?”

Vilkas’s tone drops to steel. “I’m not your friend. I suggest you leave before I forget I’m feeling charitable.”

The man sneers. “You think we fear you? A Companion, a man with a burned hand, and a Dunmer with a bad attitude?”

Jenassa quirks a brow. “At least he notices my attitude. Most men just notice the dagger.”

The four laugh and draw steel.

Vilkas pulls the miner back when I tap him on the shoulder.

“Do I scare them or kill them?”

“Nah,” Vilkas says, “just scare them. Fewer bodies to bury that way.”

Big and Ugly hesitates, but his friends push him forward.

“FUS!” I stop at one word. Vilkas said no killing, and three would have turned them into jam.

The men go flying, landing in a tangled heap at the foot of the hill.

“I suggest you leave before we change our minds,” I say, stepping closer.

They scramble up and run for the road without a word.

The miner exhales. “That won’t be the last we hear from the Silver-Bloods. But for now, we can get back to work. Thank you. You’ve done a good thing for me and my people.”

Vilkas nods. “I’ll send a letter to Markarth explaining what happened and requesting guards.”

The miner turns to me. “Are you… the Dragonborn?”

“That’s the rumour, sir.”

“Then we’re truly fortunate. A dragon is flying over the town every few days. It hasn’t attacked yet, but if it gets hungry…”

A few hours later, there’s one less dragon in Skyrim.

The dark souls inside me welcome the new arrival like a pack of starving wolves. The craving takes over, and before I know it, I’m drinking from the wound on its neck. The world spins, a rush of heat, power, and too much everything, and then the stars swallow me.

When I wake, the sky is full of them. Vilkas sits by the fire, watching over me and a sleeping Jenassa.

“You’re heavy for someone without Nord blood,” he says. He tosses me a damp cloth. “I was prepared to carry you, but washing your face? That’s where I draw the line.”

I wipe the dried blood from my skin, flakes falling like crimson dust. Maybe guilt shows on my face, because Vilkas adds quietly, “I know the call of blood, the urge to hunt and feed.” He nods toward Jenassa. “She doesn’t care what you do, as long as you pay her. But you? You’re not built for this kind of hunger.”

He looks at me, not judging, just tired. “I’m no priest, Garrett, but taking all those souls and drinking their blood? That’s not the kind of power you come back from.”

Two Imperial soldiers stand watch at the entrance to Harmugstahl.

“Are the Imperials supporting the Legion now?” Vilkas asks.

I squint. “If they are Imperial soldiers from Solitude, they’re not exactly acting of their own free will. Everyone in Solitude’s a puppet now, Tullius, his soldiers, the whole damn city.”

“Leave them to me,” Jenassa says, already dipping a few arrows into a vial. “Paralyzing poison. Nothing fatal, unless you count the hangover.”

A few heartbeats later, the soldiers are tied to the nearest tree, drooling peacefully.

“We’ll check them for chips after we rescue Farkas,” I say.

Vilkas lets out a low growl as we step inside the old fort. The stench of death hits hard. Old blood, rot, and fear.

“I can smell him,” Vilkas mutters. “And I can smell his fear.”

I glance around. “You can smell Farkas? Because all I’m getting is rotting flesh.”

Vilkas shoots a look over his shoulder. “I trust you’ll keep this to yourself, Jenassa. I’m a werewolf. So is Farkas, and a few others in the Companions.”

Jenassa freezes. “Are you serious? B’vek! You are serious. Just remember, people, do not kill and eat their friends.”

Vilkas grins. “Are we friends now? People don’t usually charge their friends to rescue their brothers.”

Jenassa rolls her eyes. “Har Mephala malyisk ohuhl (1), Vilkas. I’ll give your money back.”

Room after room, spiders in cages. In other rooms, spiders nest in bones. Two bloated bodies in Stormcloak armor hang from the webs.

“Ulfric’s infiltrators?” I whisper. “Or ambushed soldiers?”

Vilkas signals us to keep quiet. From deeper inside, a man’s voice echoes. “Farkas is close.”

The mage bending over a table, dissecting a spider, doesn’t stand a chance against Vilkas’s rage. He decapitates the man with one swing of his battle-axe.

We find Farkas locked in a cage surrounded by three spiders the size of carriages. He’s huddled in the far corner, out of reach of their venom.

Vilkas tears the cage open and hauls his brother to his feet. His voice cracks, and I pull Jenassa back. There’s nothing wrong with a man crying, I have done it myself, but the brothers need some privacy to get their emotions under control.

Jenassa keeps the man from moving while I make the small cut where I feel the chip under the skin. In films, the chip is always implanted into the brainstem to take control of a body, but these are implanted under the skin.

The two soldiers look at us with confused faces. The last thing they remember was people shouting in the streets of Solitude and General Tullius’s order to go and see if the citizens of Solitude need help.

Farkas’s voice trembles. “They overpowered me, four mages. A man in black armor said the Silver Hand killed all the Companions.”

Vilkas’s jaw tightens.

“I wasn’t scared of the spiders,” Farkas says, rubbing his arms. “Sjor’s bones, they were huge, but what terrified me was thinking I was alone. I could still feel Vilkas, thought it was just wishful thinking.”

“You’re safe now,” I tell him. “Let’s go home.”

The twins wait until the first stars appear before shifting. “We’ll take the short road back,” Vilkas says. “Maybe hunt along the way.”

Jenassa surprises us all by handing Vilkas a pouch of coins. “I said I’d give your money back,” she says, smiling faintly. “I haven’t had many friends in seventy-four winters. You two… You qualify.” She hugged the twins, “I am not going back to Whiterun. If Garrett will put in a good word with Delphine, I would like to join the Blades.”

By dawn, Jenassa and I leave Karthwasten, taking the road to Sky Haven Temple, while the soldiers take the road north towards Dragon Bridge.

It’s late afternoon when Delphine hands Jenassa a fresh set of Blades armor, sword, and shield.

“Are you willing to trade away all claims and titles of your former life? To live here, and devote yourself to protecting Tamriel from danger?”

Jenassa nods. “I do.”

“Then by my right as acting Grandmaster,” Delphine says, “I name you a Blade with all the rights, privileges, and burdens that brings. Godspeed.”

Jenassa salutes, a proud glint in her eyes.

I look at the empty road stretching back toward Whiterun and sigh.

Guess I’m walking home alone again.

• May Mephala curse you

Chapter Text

I look at my three friends huddled together next to Paarthurnax, trying to shield themselves from the cold wind. It’s mid-summer, but here on the Throat of the World, the temperature is colder than… well, I’ll let your imagination fill in that blank.

I open the Scroll. For a second or two, my vision blurs before an old movie starts playing, right in front of my eyes. Or maybe in my brain. Three heroes fight dragons until Alduin appears. They bring him down with a Thu’um, and I can hear the weapons of the two warriors striking the beast without killing it.

Alduin shakes off the Thu’um and kills Gormlaith Golden-Hilt just like in my dreams, where he kills my friends instead.

Hakon One-Eye turns to the mage holding the Elder Scroll. “No, damn you! It’s no use! Use the Scroll, Felldir! Now!”

Felldir retreats to a safe distance, opening the Elder Scroll as Hakon keeps Alduin busy. His voice carries on the wind. "Hold, Alduin on the Wing! Sister Hawk, grant us your sacred breath to make this contract heard! Begone, World-Eater! By words with older bones than your own, we break your perch on this age and send you out! You are banished! Alduin, we shout you out from all our endings unto the last!"

“Stop! You’re going to kill it!” Lauren shouts behind us. “Josh, if you lift that arm one more time, I swear I’ll zap you.”

To prove she’s not bluffing, she lets loose a stream of lightning around our feet.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, woman? We need to kill Alduin!” Josh glares at her.

“Are you sure you’re supposed to kill it here, on this mountain?” she fires back. “Look, it’s not even trying to fight back.”

I turn back to the black dragon. It doesn’t look like something you’d call the World-Eater. “Who are you? You’re not Alduin.”

Why didn’t I see it sooner? In my nightmares, Alduin is monstrous, huge, black, and dripping with menace. This dragon might be big and black, but it’s not him.

The dragon sneers. “Alduin is trapped in Sovngarde, Dragonborn. Eating souls, erasing history. He cannot get out, and the only way for you to get in is to die. Oh, wait… you’re not even a Nord. Not even of this world. Tough luck. You and your friends are stuck in this game.”

Lauren’s lightning hits the dragon square in the jaw. “Just kill the fucking thing!”

I glance back at her, and she shrugs. “Crude words are sometimes necessary.”

When it’s over, there’s no soul to absorb. Just a dead, black dragon lying on the snow.

“Anyone got ideas for what we do now?”

We sit around the table in High Hrothgar. The smell of defeat hangs heavier than the mountain air.

“I thought Alduin went to Sovngarde after the Dragonborn wounded him here,” Josh says, looking at the Greybeards.

“We do not know,” Master Arngeir admits. “We keep track of the Dragonborns, not Alduin or any other… NPC.”

We all just stare. Did he really say NPC?

I flip through the Book of Lore. “Even the lore’s no help. Listen to this. ‘The resulting escape of Ulfric Stormcloak prolonged the civil war in Skyrim and secured for Alduin a steady flow of souls to consume in Sovngarde.’” I close the book. “Sounds like Alduin’s hiding in Sovngarde, coming back only to resurrect his buddies.”

I shove the book away. “Lauren, it’s not your tea keeping the nightmares away. Alduin’s locked in…” I snap my fingers. “Aetherius. That’s it. No power here. That’s why Nahagliiv’s still sleeping in his mound.”

“There’s no civil war, no peace treaty, no playing politics between two stubborn idiots,” I say. “So… what now?”

“We go to Skuldafn,” Josh says. “Find out how Alduin got stuck in Sovngarde. Then rescue the big bastard, before we kill him.”

I grin. “Then let’s hope Odahviing answers when I call.”

Jarl Balgruuf looks at me like I just proposed building a Daedric amusement park in his palace.

“I must’ve misheard you,” he says slowly. “You want to trap a dragon? In Dragonsreach?”

“I need to res… kill Alduin,” I say quickly. “And this is the only way.”

“What if I promise to bring you the World-Eater’s head to hang next to Numinex?”

I can see the gears turning in his head. The prestige, the glory…. Whiterun, the city that caged two dragons.

“I’ll hold you to your promise, Dragonborn,” he says at last. “What do you need?”

“Two days,” I reply. “And nerves of steel.”

“Alduin’s head?” Josh asks. “Are you mad? Even if you do kill him, the body disintegrates. No skull. No ash. Nothing.”

I stare at him, letting the silence do the talking. Then the lightbulb goes off.

“Oh. The dragon on the mountain!” he says.

“Exactly.” I wink. “We’ll need a taxidermist.” I have seen mounted heads in houses and inns, but not a taxidermist anywhere. But first things first, two days rest and planning before calling a dragon that might not pitch up for the party.

“What if Odahviing doesn’t come?” I ask quietly, twirling a lock of Bailey’s hair. I’d loosened her braid a few minutes ago when she sat down beside me on the bearskin.

She leans back against my chest. “Then we go the pixelated route, Garrett.”

I groan. “Odahviing, you’d better show. I really don’t want to walk that cold, miserable, pixelated road again.”

Josh and Lauren shove the massive doors of Dragonsreach’s balcony shut, right in the faces of Balgruuf, his children, the steward, and a few brave, or stupid, soldiers. Honestly, why would anyone want to be on a balcony with a dragon? Dragons burn, freeze, and occasionally snack on people. Not exactly family entertainment.

I tilt my head toward Bailey and Lauren at the gear and pulley system, ready to spring the trap if things go sideways. “You ready?”

Bailey gives a thumbs-up. Lauren tightens her grip on the rope like she’s preparing for an arm-wrestling match with destiny.

I glance over my shoulder at Josh. “You? Ready to face a dragon?”

He nods once, hand resting on the pommel of Dragonbane. His face says “heroic resolve,” but his eyes scream “deep, deep regret.”

“Alright then,” I mutter. “Let’s invite our guest.”

Below us, Whiterun sprawls like a golden mosaic, the tundra stretching for miles beyond. If this weren’t a game, this would be the city I’d choose to stay in. Maybe open a tavern. Maybe not call dragons for fun.

I give one last look toward the Throat of the World. “Hope you’re watching, Greybeards.”

I take a deep breath and shout, “ODAHVIING!”

The name echoes across the plains.

And then… nothing.

I wait. I shout again. And again. My throat’s dry, my patience thinner than Skyrim’s air up here. Still no dragon.

Finally, I sigh and turn around, feeling that all-too-familiar sting of defeat. “Well,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, “looks like we’re taking the pixelated route.”

Eorlund looks up from the sketch on his workbench, brows furrowed. “What are you planning to do with it, Garrett? It’s not going to shoot straight, too heavy.”

“I’m not planning to win a marksman contest with it,” I say, leaning on the table. “It’s just meant to carry a rope wherever I aim.”

“Hmm. Like a grappling hook, but smaller?” He smudges the charcoal over the drawing, adjusting a few lines.

“Exactly.” I grin. “Much better. Thank you, Eorlund.”

The arrow on the page looks meaner now. Shorter shaft, thicker body, and a tip with four hooked blades. Between the nock and fletching, a small ring glints where the rope will tie.

We’ve decided to find our way into the pixelated zone by descending the cliffs behind Kagrenzel. If it works, it’ll cut more than a week off our journey. If it doesn’t… well, let’s not think about that part yet.

I drop a pouch of septims on the bench, double what Eorlund asked. “It’s an honour watching you work, old man. Where I’m from, blacksmithing is a dying art.”

He squints at me. “You’re not coming back, Garrett?”

“Only if things go sideways. If you ever see me walking up those steps again, you’ll know we failed, and we’ll be stuck here in Skyrim for good.”

Eorlund studies me for a moment, then shrugs. “Would it be such a bad thing? Being stuck here?”

“Nah,” I admit. “Maybe not. But we’ve got family back home that miss us… and we miss them.”

Breezehome is locked up tight, everything packed away. Kodlak knows what to do if we don’t return within a year.

“I’ll give you two,” he says, clapping my shoulder. “After that, I sell the lot. Good luck, Dragonborn.”

We’ve said our goodbyes to everyone in Whiterun. Harder than I expected. They’ve become family, not just to me, but to all four of us.

I hug Bailey close, brushing a tear from her cheek. “I’ll miss them too.”

“It feels like leaving part of me behind,” she whispers.

“Life won’t be the same for any of us,” Lauren says softly, turning to look at Whiterun one last time before we round the bend toward our campsite.

One more stop to greet the Greybeards. Then the road to Kagrenzel.

We’re bent over a table scattered with sketches, flashes of white still flickering on the black mirror. Every few seconds, Master Borri draws another strange image.

“It started after you killed the imposter Alduin,” he says, handing me a sketch. “This one looks like… a windmill?”

Josh squints. “That’s a wind turbine for generating electricity. Lightning. You’re telling me they’re making power on Nirn now? Or is this Earth we’re seeing?”

“Why would they need turbines on Earth?” I counter. “This must be somewhere here, but where?”

“It’s near the ocean,” says Master Wulfgar. “I saw water… waves… and a green light stretching in a straight line. Snow, too. Maybe the northern coast, near Solitude.”

“Look!” Bailey gasps.

On the mirror’s surface, a man stands on the deck of a ship sailing across glowing green water. The surface beneath him shimmers, binary code, zeros and ones.

“Are they sailing to something, or from it?” Josh mutters, already pulling a courier parchment closer. “I’m warning Ulfric, just in case they’re heading toward one of the coastal cities.”

We cover the severed head in snow and mark the place.

“We might reset the game before Balgruuf gets a chance to hang that head in his keep,” Josh says.

“A promise is a promise, Josh,” I reply, wiping blood off my hands with snow.

I can’t breathe. Something... someone is calling my name, dragging me from sleep. The weight of the earth presses down on me, crushing, suffocating. I can’t move. Can’t answer.

I woke drenched in sweat. The dream fades, but the feeling lingers. We’re going the wrong way. We need to turn south.

“I know how it sounds,” I tell them the next morning. “But something’s calling me. I don’t know who or how far, but we have to go south.”

Josh hands me a mug of tea and a sandwich. “Garrett, we’ve lived inside a video game for over two years. If you tell me someone is whispering directions into your skull, I’m not even blinking. Eat. We’ll pack.”

We were one day’s ride from Kagrenzel. Now, we’ve got no idea where we’re headed.

By the time we reach Shor’s Stone, night has swallowed the mountains. We’re tired, hungry, and the innkeeper’s stew smells like heaven.

“No bread left,” he warns, serving us steaming bowls.

“No problem,” Lauren mutters. “At this point, I would eat the bowl too.”

We leave before dawn, the road winding through trees painted in autumn gold, or maybe they’re just always autumn here. The pull grows stronger through the day until I finally stop.

A dragon mound rises before us.

“What the fuck,” Josh says, sliding off his horse. “Why would you feel a dragon calling?”

I kneel and press my hand to the mound.

“Dovahkiin, hi kos het.  Zu'u lost hos hin rein, nuz zu'u nis motaad fin vul. (1)”

“Odhaviing?”

“Geh, nii los zu'u, Odahviing.  Aak zu'u kun fin jun ahrk zu'u fen vokrii hin rein” (2)

Will I even be able to resurrect a dragon? What if it tries to kill us as soon as it steps from the mound?

I look at my friends. “Do I… resurrect him?”

Bailey’s expression says yes before I even ask.

I take a breath. “Alright then.”The words I heard months ago on the plains of Whiterun come to me. “Odahviing, ziil gro dovah ulse! Slen Tiid Vo! (3)"

The ground cracks. Earth splits open, dust and stone flying in every direction as a massive skeleton claws its way free. My blood hums, some of the dark souls’ power bleeding out of me, reshaping bone into muscle, scale, life.

When the dragon lifts its head, red eyes gleaming, its voice rolls over us like thunder.

“Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin. Zu’u kogaan. (4)

• Dragonborn, you are here. I have heard your call, but I could not (can not) answer.
• Yes, it is I, Odahviing. Guide me into the light, and I will return your call.
• Spirit bound dragon eternity. Flesh against time!
• Greetings, Dragonborn. I thank you.

Chapter Text

The soldiers and the courier watch the dragon circling Fort Greenwall with obvious suspicion. “No need to be afraid. I know it’s hard to believe, but Odahviing’s friendly,” I tell them and hand the courier a parchment addressed to Kodlak. It explains that we left the horses at the fort and the black dragon’s head beside High Hrothgar’s steps for the Companions to collect.

We look like kids riding a mechanical dragon at an amusement park, only the cheering children are missing. The Rift’s reds and golds have gone monochrome. white snow and black cliffs stretch as far as the eye can see, not a pixel in sight. Odahviing glides into the ancient city more than a year after I left this cursed place. The three dragon skeletons lie where I left them, but everything else is wrong.

No walking Draugr, only dead ones. A few decomposing bodies in black armour litter the ruins.

“Looks like the Legion came to town,” Josh says, kneeling to pull an axe from a skull.

The buildings I did not dare to enter the last time look like any other ruin after we have cleared them. Dead Draugr lying where they fell at the hands of the Legion.

Lauren and I follow close behind Bailey and Josh. There are no traps to set off, no puzzles to solve before opening doors. The Legion left the ruins unlocked in their wake.

Bailey kneels next to what looks like a heap of rags lying at the foot of a small flight of stairs. “It is Nahkriin.” She holds an ebony-coloured mask in her hands. “Josh, find his staff. It is not here.”

It has been hours. We have searched everywhere for the staff to open the gate to Sovngarde. I even dived down into the cold water at the entrance to the Skuldafn.

“The only explanation is that the Legion took it after they locked Alduin in the afterlife. How are we going to get inside, Garrett?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, “but we can’t give up. We didn’t come this far to quit.”

Odahviing lifts his head when I touch his front paw. “I left a letter for Bailey. If I am not back in two days, you take them back to Whiterun, even if you have to carry them in your claws or teeth.”

The dragon’s eyes hold me as I climb the steep snow route. The two moons hang in the sky, washing the city with silver. “Forgive me, Bailey, for not waking you,” I whisper.

I turn toward the body of water that feels and smells like oil. “Eulalie, please be there.”

An avatar of Eulalie waits at the Matrix tower, hanging in the dark like a pixel-perfect sister. “You could’ve swum faster, Garrett. I have been waiting for more than an hour, game time,” she teases.

“And hello to you, too, little sis.” I hug the figure hanging in the water to my chest. It feels as if I am hugging my sister, but I miss the smell of roses that always surrounds her.

“How long since I came back to Skyrim?”

“It has been four days. Sarah found the virus and contained it. It will not spread further, altering more lore. They’ve tried everything to reset the game without leaving you inside, but every scenario fails.”

“There’s another snag,” I say. “The Legion locked Alduin in Sovngarde and took the priest’s staff. How do we open the gate?”

The Eulalie avatar stares at the horizon without replying for a few seconds, “Sorry about that. I asked Ted. I can help you, but it may sting.”

I twist the matrix rope around my left hand and feel the code flow. “I’m going to type a cheat. You need to voice each character as I type. Spell the word when you feel the sting: playerdotadditemspace29887space1.”

The little pricks are worse than promised. Every letter and number sends an electric shock through me that jerks every muscle. “E…1,” I manage; the last shocks make me wet myself. Grateful for the surrounding water, I grit my teeth.

A wooden staff with a dragon’s head floats up and settles in my fingers as if it had been waiting for the right idiot to call it.

“You must go into Sovngarde alone, Garrett,” Eulalie says. “Josh and the others can wait at High Hrothgar. Bailey and Josh already know that. I don’t see why they came along anyway.”

I think of Josh threatening to follow me even into the bathroom and of Bailey refusing to be left. “Bailey thought it was the best way to make sure I don’t vanish again,” I say. “I’ll go alone, and I’ll try not to be gone as long as before.”

They meet me on the summit with their best pissed-off faces. “What the fuck, Garrett? You promised no more stunts. Do we have to tie you up to sleep?” Josh snaps.

“Oh, come on. I’ve been gone barely a day. I have the key,” I say, lifting the staff. I hand Josh the thing, literally the key to the gate, and pull Bailey close.

“You’re going to be furious,” I warn, voice low. “Odahviing is taking you back to the Greybeards. I’m going to Sovngarde alone.”

“This time I know where you are,” Josh says, narrowing his eyes. “If you aren’t back in a week, I’m coming after you.”

“Josh told me what to expect in the Nord afterlife,” I tell Bailey. “I’m not chatting with dead heroes or sightseeing. I’m going in to kill a dragon and, by killing Alduin, free him from his prison. I hope it won’t take a week.”

Bailey throws her arms around my neck, and I pull her close, kissing her.

“Are you two taking a room, or is Garrett going down the rabbit hole?” Lauren asks.

Lauren decks Josh with an elbow. “Leave them be, Josh.”

The sensation is like being pulled through a mirror, only this time I don’t black out or wake with a headache. I stand and blink. This is not the Sovngarde Josh described. No thick fog, no bone-deep silence. Pink- and yellow-tinged clouds drift across a blue sky. Birds sing, and people shout and laugh. Am I in Sovngarde, or did the Legion twist the gate into something else? There’s only one way to find out, follow the narrow road down toward the voices.

A clearing opens beside the path. Two warriors spar in the center of a cheering ring. When one of them turns, he squints at me. “You don’t belong here, friend. You’re not dead, nor a Nord.” He eyes my burned hand and the bow slung on my back. “Find Tsun if you want to enter the Hall of Valor. Follow the road to the whalebone bridge.”

The man on the bridge is a mountain of a Nord, three metres of meat and bone. “What brings you, wayfarer grim, to wander here in Sovngarde, Shor’s gift to the honoured dead?” His voice rolls like distant thunder.

“I’m Garrett. Some call me Dragonborn. I came to kill Alduin.”

He studies me, not unkindly. “You are not Dragonborn by right of birth. I sense a strangeness in you, as I do in Nirn. You’ll find Alduin on that hill over yonder, but mark me…. if you kill it, you will not be a warrior of valour.”

“Not a warrior of valour?” I blink. “I’ve killed dragons that hunted Skyrim after Alduin rose them.”

Tsun shrugs the size of an oak. “It’s hard to explain. Go see.”

I follow the path to the hill. Footsteps fall behind me, Felldir and the other heroes from the scroll, then more souls, keeping a respectful distance. Nobody talks. The only sounds are our boots on the road, birdsong, and water over rock.

The dragon on the hill is not the beast from my nightmares. It sits with its head tucked under a wing, defeated, like a bird pretending it isn’t broken. My throat goes dry. “What have they done to you?” I say before I can stop myself.

“Daar lein los kras. Nii los ni dii lein, nii los ni fin lein do fin kendov.”

Even though Alduin did not sound angry or menacing, I feel cold fingers down my spine, hearing the voice of my nightmares.

“Hi kriaan dii kiirre ol nust wahlaan, nahkip nau nust sil.”

I can hear the heroes who speak dragon tongue translating Alduin’s words.

“Krii zu’u, nahkip nau zu’u sos, nahkip nau zu’u sil. Krii fin krasaar nau Vus, Dovahkinn.” (3)

Alduin lifts his head and stares at the crowd. The eyes are the orange from my nightmares, but the menace is gone.

Gormlaith steps to my side. “We sensed wrongness in Nirn when the dragon appeared,” she says softly. “Hakon thought it was Alduin, but Alduin is the World-Eater, fierce and terrible.”

“It is Alduin,” I say. “But you’re right. Something else is at work. A new enemy warps history. They try to rewrite Nirn and, in doing so, erase it.”

I study the black dragon for a long time, then turn to the veterans behind me. Tsun watches like a judge waiting for an argument.

“Tsun says killing Alduin will make me a warrior without valour,” I say, voice steady. “But if ending the Legion and stopping their plans means killing this dragon, I will do it. If that makes me less noble in your eyes, so be it.”

Around me, the heroes shift. Some wear the weight of old memory, others the calm of warriors who’ve seen too many endings. The dragon-souls inside me stir, hungry, and I force the hunger down like a bad idea I refuse to finish.

A hand the size of a dinner plate lands on my shoulder. I tilt my head and look up, way up, at Tsun.

“I was wrong, Garrett of Not Blood,” he says, voice like gravel rolled in thunder. “You must kill Alduin to cleanse Nirn of its ailment. Shor has spoken.”

I don’t know whether to feel honored or mildly terrified that the god of the afterlife just name-dropped me. “Well,” I murmur, “when Shor speaks, I guess we listen.”

Alduin stirs, his scales dimmed to the dull shimmer of dying embers. “It is not wrong to drink my blood, Dragonborn,” he says, voice rumbling through the earth. “You are not born of dragon blood, yet you bear the souls of my kin. Drink deep before you strike. My blood will give you the strength to keep them from devouring your soul and to finish this war.”

The weight of it all presses down, but I nod once before drawing my Skyforge steel sword. I press the blade against Alduin’s neck. “I feel like a coward killing you like this. I dreamed of facing you in battle, not... this. Not a mercy killing.”

“Maybe we will meet again in battle, Dragonborn,” Alduin says, his great head lowering with the gravity of a god. “Beware the men in black armour. They came by ship from Roscrea.”

I hesitate for one heartbeat, then drive the blade home.

When I open my eyes again, I’m lying on the cold stone floor of the Hall of Valor. My mouth tastes like ash and iron. I glance at my watch. Two days gone.

I groan and rub my face. “Bailey’s going to kill me… again.”

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.”

I blink against the dim light and turn my head toward the voice. A familiar face is sitting beside the bed. “Ralof?”

“Yeah, it’s me, Garrett.” He gives a faint smile, the kind that’s more tired than glad. “General Ulfric sent us to infiltrate Solitude, but we were captured. I saw what they did to my friends, turned them into something like the living dead. They killed me when I tried to escape.”

Before I can answer, the air hums with power.

"Return now to Nirn, with this rich boon from Shor, my lord. A Shout to bring a hero from Sovngarde in your hour of need. Nahl... Daal... Vus!"

The words roll through me like thunder in reverse. The world tilts, light fractures, and then the heat of Sovngarde gives way to the knife-edge cold of the Throat of the World.

Josh’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears. “How the hell is it possible to absorb Alduin’s soul? That’s not even in the game!”

“Yeah, well,” I say, shaking frost from my sleeves, “nothing has been like the game for a while now.”

I unfold the map of Skyrim, the parchment snapping in the wind. “Alduin said the Legion came from Roscrea. Where is that? I can’t find it on the map.”

Bailey leans over, drawing a small circle high above Skyrim’s coast. “It’s not on the map because it’s not in Skyrim. Roscrea’s an island in the Sea of Ghosts, about halfway to Atmora, where the first Nords came from.”

I nod, marking a sharp X over Solitude. “Then that’s where we start. If the Legion’s pulling strings, we’ll cut them off at the source.”

Josh smirks, hand tightening on his sword hilt. “So… final level?”

“Yeah,” I say, folding the map. “Time to finish this game.”

• This world is sick. It is not my world, it is not the world of the warrior.
• You kill my children as they awake, feeding on their souls.
• Kill me, feed on my blood, feed on my soul. Kill the sickness on Nirn, Dovahkiin.

Chapter Text

Odahviing circles over Dragon Bridge while the Stormcloaks below do what Stormcloaks do best, panic and shoot at things they don’t understand.

“Dovahkiin, kod hin Thu'um. Zu'u fen ag fin mal lahvu kotin vokiin.” (1)

Bailey points to the cliff behind the small town. “Their arrows won’t find you there, big guy.”

Our landing is as smooth as a plane touchdown piloted by someone who actually read the manual.

Bailey slides down into my waiting arms, scratching the dragon under his chin. “You told me that once I’d flown the skies of Skyrim, I’d envy the dragons. Well… I don’t envy the part where every Dragonborn wants to kill you, but yeah, I get it now. Flying? Incredible.”

She kisses Odahviing’s snout before joining Josh and Lauren at the cliff’s edge, looking down at the crowd of soldiers and townsfolk gawking up at us.

Odahviing rumbles, puzzled. “I do not understand, Kendov. (2) I did not speak those words to her.”

“Trust me, Odahviing, you did. Maybe not in this life, but in another. Wait here. If I need you, I’ll call. And I’ll make sure the captain knows not to bother you unless they enjoy being roasted.”

Solitude, Capital City of Skyrim.

The sun has been down for an hour. We stand on the same cliff as months ago, staring at the city below. Is this our last time seeing it, or just another checkpoint in an endless questline?

Eulalie waits for us in the green shimmer of the Matrix light. “Do you see me as a game avatar or a real person?” she asks.

“A real person,” I say. “Same as everyone else. No pixels, no polygons. Just... real.”

She frowns slightly. “Strange. I see you as real, but everything else, the city, the cliffs, it’s graphics. Beautiful graphics, 8K ENB-level, but still... graphics.”

“In the mirror at High Hrothgar,” I say, “we saw a wind turbine, on a hill buried in snow. No trees. No life. Odahviing flew over all of northern Skyrim and saw nothing like it. Alduin said the Legion came from Roscrea. We saw ships. So… maybe the turbine’s there. I want this over, Eulalie. If we can’t find the server, promise me… convince Bailey, Josh, and Lauren to go home. Let Bethesda fix its own mess.”

Eulalie steps closer, slipping an arm around my waist, and I pull her close.

“When we were kids,” she says softly, “you were always doing your own thing. Daven taught me to ride a bike, to fish, and to play PlayStation. Even though you were twins, he and I were closer. When he died… for a while, I blamed you, the way you blamed yourself.”

Her eyes glisten. “Da told me I was wrong. He said you care, even if you act like you don’t. That you’d trade places with Daven in a heartbeat. And I think he was right. You saved Bailey from being burned alive and got almost swallowed by a dragon while trying to save Lauren’s life. You corrupted your innocence, your soul, by killing people to keep your friend safe, never thinking about yourself.”

I stare at the city lights below. Solitude is unnervingly quiet. The streets are empty, lanterns burning like eyes that never blink. Not even eight o’clock, and every citizen’s tucked away. Obedient NPCs waiting for their next script to trigger.“I did my own thing because Daven thought he was weak. He wasn’t. He was smarter, better. At the top of our class, and even jumped a grade. If he hadn’t been born with that leg, he would’ve outshone all of us.”

Brother and sister stand together in silence for a while. Two ghosts remembering a third.

Finally, Eulalie exhales. “To answer your question… I think the turbine is on Roscrea. We’ve seen no sign of electricity or servers here. If you can overpower General Tullius and some of his men, remove their chips. They might help you take the Blue Palace, free the High King and Queen. That’s not my idea. It’s Ted’s.”

I snort. “And how’s that supposed to reset the game? Another side quest in an endless update loop?”

“Roscrea isn’t small,” she says. “We need a location. Unless you plan to wander the island for months again?”

Eulalie, being the hug-and-kiss type, gives each of us a goodbye squeeze before vanishing like mist at sunrise.

Bailey climbs onto the rampart, motioning for us to follow. “Let’s hope this place is as empty as in the game.” She eases the tower door open, peering inside.

“Welcome,” she whispers, “to the Tower of the Wolf.”

After a sweep to make sure it’s empty, we slip in. Four players, one final mission, and no idea what’s waiting on the next load screen.

“No! You stay here! Four guards walking around together will attract attention.” I look down at the ridiculous Imperial armour. Shiny breastplate, short skirt, and my bare legs catching the draft. “Seriously, how do men fight like this? The breeze alone is an act of war.”

“The two women can stay, but I’m coming with you,” Josh says. “You don’t need to be the hero all the time.”

“Fuck you, Josh. It’s not about playing hero. It’s about keeping you safe.”

“Newsflash, we’ve all got swords. We can look after ourselves.”

Lauren crosses her arms, that ‘try me’ glare locked on. “And besides, you’ll need someone who actually knows Solitude and can tell left from not-left.”

I sigh. “Fine. Josh can come. You two stay.”

Josh walks in dressed in his own Imperial uniform and strikes a pose when Bailey and Lauren laugh.

“Hey, these legs are glorious. Plenty of women would kill for my calves.”

“Only after you shaved them,” Lauren says, kisses his cheek, and gives his arse a cheeky pinch before yanking his helmet on. “You two take care. Bailey and I do not want to rescue you from the Legion.”

Two guards stand at Castle Dour’s door. We walk past like we own the place. They don’t even blink.

“Even in the game, the guards do not stop you from entering. I would think during a Civil War, the guards would be on high alert to a stranger walking into the heart of their army.” Josh shrugs at his own words. “The writers can not think of everything, can they?”

Inside, General Tullius snores like a dying mammoth. It takes seconds to tie him to a chair. Josh presses a blade to his neck just long enough to slice out the chip and grind it under his boot.

“Hope the Legion doesn’t get push notifications when that happens,” Josh mutters.

“‘Warning! Your general is offline,” I whisper back. “Yeah, that won’t raise suspicion.”

Tullius wakes up pissed, then confused, then, surprisingly, cooperative. Within an hour, every soldier in Castle Dour is chip-free and asking for a fight.

Josh flexes his hands. “That went easier than expected.”

“Don’t jinx it,” I warn. “Every time someone says that, something explodes.”

The streets are empty, and there are no unwanted witnesses to the two soldiers and a mage who enter the first house to free the people from the Legion. Tullius waits until the three Imperials exit the first house to enter the next before turning to me and Josh. “If we storm the palace, the enemy might kill our king and queen. You have proven yourself to be friends of Skyrim. Will you be able to defend our king and queen when we enter?”

An arrow pierces the throat of the man guarding the bedroom door of the king and his queen. I think I am going to be sick. This is not an NPC but a Legion employer from reality, like Josh and me. I am officially a murderer of men now.

“You good?”

“No.”

“Cool. Neither am I. Let’s keep moving.”

“What is the meaning of this?” King Torygg jumps from his bed, pulling his queen behind him when Josh closes the door behind us. The King may have seen thirty birthdays, but I doubt it, and the redhead woman peeking around his shoulder is not a day older than Bailey.

“We are here to rescue you from the Legion and free your people from their spell, King Torygg. I am called Josh, and this here is Garrett.”

The queen steps around her husband, and I inhale sharply. The woman is beautiful even with her sleep-tousled hair. Her green eyes stare at our faces and down at my hand. “It is the Dragonborn, Torygg. The one the leader spoke about. These are the people they were looking for but could not find.”

The sound of battle comes from outside the bedroom, and I move to the window, looking down at the courtyard where Imperial soldiers are joined by the Stormcloak soldiers held prisoner in the dungeon. “I suggest you get dressed, ready to move from the palace if General Tullius and his men can not overpower the Legion.”

Tullius returns to the room, bowing like a man who just learned the rules of an entirely new court. “We’ve taken the palace,” he reports.

“Good,” Torygg says, fastening his cloak. “If not for fear of losing my queen, I’d have cleared the palace myself.”

Josh leans toward me. “Translation: he was totally hiding under the blankets.”

“Shut up,” I whisper.

The king holds up a chip between his fingers. “I suspected that they were not from Nirn when they spoke of things we had never heard of. The leader, her soldiers called her “Mam”, threatened to kill Elisif and my people if we tried to escape. I felt hopeless and thought help would never come. Some of General Ulfric’s men came close to infiltrating the palace, but were caught, and one of them was killed when he tried to escape. I hope the man found Sovngarde.”

“His name was Ralof, and he found Sovngarde, king.”

“And I would like to know how you know that Garrett, but first, you must stop the Legion from taking Windhelm.”

The queen places her hand on my arm. “Their leader and some of her soldiers went to Potema’s catacombs. Stage two, they called it. No idea what that means.”

I watch Josh, followed by a few soldiers, running to The Tower of the Wolf before signalling to the soldiers to follow me. Josh, Bailey, and Lauren will find the ships that are sailing for Windhelm to sink them with the help of the soldiers and civilians who are waiting at the city’s gate to help. The rest of the soldiers will follow me down to the catacombs to find the “Mam” and her soldiers.

We move like a unit now. Somewhere beneath our feet, the Legion is moving to stage two. Tonight, they will find their plans interrupted.

• Dragonborn, wield your Thu’um. I will burn the little army into nonexistence.”
• Warrior

Chapter Text

I feel like tying Bailey to a chair.

“Bailey, stop pacing! You’re wearing a hole through the floor and my patience.”

“What’s taking them so long? Maybe we should go look for them.” She’s already halfway to the door.

“No! We promised we’d stay put. If they’re not back by daybreak, then we go.”

She returns to pacing anyway. I grind my teeth hard enough to start a fire.

It feels like years before the signal knock finally comes. Bailey yanks the door open, and there’s Josh, dressed head-to-toe in sleek, black Legion armour.

“Oh, sweet Mara…” I mutter. “The man looks like every villain’s fashion dream.”

He’s not built like Garrett, less “barbarian hero,” more “charming rogue”, but he’s mine, and I’m not complaining.

Behind him stand two more in black, the rest in Imperial and Stormcloak armour.

“Garrett and a few soldiers went into Potema’s catacombs,” Josh says before Bailey can even ask. “Trying to find the Legion’s leader.”

He runs us through everything that happened, while we get dressed in Imperial gear. The cold wind hits my bare legs, and I scowl. “Seriously, do these uniforms come with a hypothermia warning label? Where are the damn stockings?”

At the city gate, the Stormcloak captain from Dragon Bridge, Bulf, waits with his men. His grin is wide and slightly terrifying. “Finally! Some action. I was this close to going back to farming. At least the cabbages don’t talk back.”

He elbows Hadvar. “Unlike you, lover boy. Still warming Julienne’s bed?”

Hadvar shakes his head, “Faida, the innkeeper, showed interest in you.”

“Yeah, but she is not my type, too old. I prefer my woman young and sweet.”

“Not creepy at all,” I mutter. “Truly the pride of Skyrim, folks.”

The banter dies as we approach the docks. Three Legion ships sit in the harbour, civilians loading crates under guard.

Josh scans the scene. “Those ships are bound for Windhelm. No time to warn Ulfric, guess that’s us saving the world again.”

He hands two of the black-armoured men short, potion-tipped arrows. “Just nick them. Don’t stab, don’t kill. And try not to scratch yourselves, because I’m not explaining that to the general.”

Josh greets the nearest guard with a wave. “Mam’s getting impatient. Brought backup.”

The man squints. “Haven’t seen you before. You one of the new guys?”

Josh nods, easy. The man relaxes. “Man, I miss Earth. I thought this job’d be cushy. Nobody said anything about no entertainment and frostbite.”

Josh claps him on the shoulder and nicks the skin under his chin in one smooth motion. The guy slumps. Josh lets him fall with a grimace.

I wince as the man’s head hits the dock. “Still think I’m gonna need therapy for this.”

“They signed up for it,” Josh mutters. “We’re just uninstalling malware.”

Within minutes, the black-clad figures are tied up in a small office.

Bailey stares toward Solitude every few minutes, looking for Garrett while we remove the chips from the people’s necks. “Do not worry, Bailey, he has soldiers with him.”

The man, called Sorex, I’m cutting flinches. “Hold still,” I snap. “You wiggle, you bleed.”

By the time Josh and the others finish dousing the ships in lamp oil, the air smells like a refinery. He raises the torch.

“Josh, wait!” I grab his arm. “There’s another ship.”

We all turn. A massive vessel sits near the eastern gate, metal sails gleaming, water below glowing a sick green.

Bailey inhales sharply. “That’s the ship from the Greybeards’ mirror.”

Josh curses softly, hands the torch to Captain Aldis. “Don’t light anything till we signal.”

“Bulf, take Hadvar and two men,” the captain orders. “Go with Josh and the ladies.”

The ship isn’t guarded well. Three men who surrender before Josh even blinks.

He sneers. “Guess the ‘unstoppable Legion’ forgot to update their courage patch.” He shoves one toward the stairs. “Let’s get this tin can moving.”

“We should wait for Garrett,” Bailey says.

Josh shakes his head. “He told us to meet at the Brinewater Bay. He’ll find the exit.”

The ship hums to life, its “sails” glittering metal lattices, the stern glowing with a giant solar panel. The water below shimmers with streams of zeroes and ones, flowing north like data veins.

Bailey’s eyes widen. “The transmission… It’s the server. It has to be.”

The ship surges forward, slicing the glowing sea. Josh signals to the beach, and I squint against the sun. Garrett stands there, a limp black-armoured figure slung over his shoulder. He waves weakly, then collapses. Blood everywhere.

Hadvar points to the mountain behind him. “Uh… is it supposed to do that?”

The mountain is dissolving, turning into pixels. Skyrim’s reality is unraveling piece by piece.

Josh grabs the wheel. “The ship is locked on course! It won’t turn!”

“Then steer harder!”

“I’m steering as hard as physically possible! The ship doesn’t care!”

I look toward Garrett, still motionless on the shore, as the world starts breaking apart. “We have to get him!”

Bailey’s face sets like stone. “I’m not leaving him.” She hugs me tight, whispering against my hair. “Tell Mom and Dad I love them.” Then to Josh. “I love you like a brother, even if you drive me insane. Take care of Lauren and…”

She smiles…damn it, she smiles, and dives over the railing.

“Bailey, NO!” Josh lunges after her, but she’s already gone, slicing through the digital water toward Garrett.

Garrett is shouting something, words we can’t hear, but we can read his face. He’s begging her to turn back.

“We can’t leave them!” I cry, heart splitting as the world unravels.

Josh’s hands come down over mine, where they grip the railing. His voice is low, breaking. “Lauren… we can’t. Not now. You’re not just fighting for you anymore.”

I freeze. “You… you know?”

He nods, eyes flicking to my stomach. “Yeah. I know. Since Winterhold and the not-so-cryzy Septimus with his potion brewing.”

I should have known he would figure it out. He is a chemistry major after all.

Tears blur everything. The ship, the beach, the breaking sky. I bury my face in his cloak. “I’m losing my sister and my best friend to a lame-arsed video game.”

Chapter Text

“The queen and Falk Firebeard can’t remember if Potema was vanquished, but if the Legion is down in the catacombs, the Wolf Queen may not be there anymore.”

Josh hands me my bow, then hugs me close. “Be careful, Garrett. I wish I could go with you.”

“You take care of the ships and our women, Josh.”

He raises a brow, and I grin. “Yeah, Josh. Bailey is my woman…. if she’ll have me.”

General Tullius clears his throat impatiently, and I swear, if the man had a watch, he’d be tapping it.

Josh gives me one last pat on the back before leaving, and I turn to follow the general and his men down the stairs toward the catacombs.

I unlock the heavy gate with the key Josh got from some priest, and the hinges groan like a dragon with arthritis.

Tullius touches my shoulder, the old soldier’s voice all command and formality. “You might be Dragonborn, but I’m these men’s general, and I will lead them.”

Then, after a pause, “If you don’t mind.”

I don’t mind, and watching him puff his chest out like a rooster in full parade mode was too entertaining to ruin.

His stride falters the moment we turn the corner and see electrical lights hanging from the ceiling. LEDs, bright and humming. His jaw tightens, but to his credit, the man doesn’t freak out.

He reaches up and touches one. “What magic is this? It shines brighter than a mage light, but it’s barely warm to the touch.”

How do you explain electricity to a bunch of people who still think leeches are medicine? I shrug. “No time for a science lesson, General.”

The tunnels are lined with stacked Draugr corpses, the air thick with the stench of dust and rot. Urns smashed and gold looted.

The dragon souls stir when I feel the air vibrate. The faint hum of machinery builds as we move deeper, a low mechanical growl that doesn’t belong in this world. The men start glancing back like they expect the darkness to bite. Even Tullius looks uneasy.

Tullius gathers the men, his voice firm but his eyes… yeah, not so much. “This is Magicka we do not know. It cannot kill us, but those who brought it here might. Look to the man beside you. You are Nords, fearless! Are you ready to face the enemy?”

A few look ready to sprint for Sovngarde early, but the rest nod solemnly.

I raise my hand in a salute. “Booyah.”

A few of them mimic me awkwardly, and I clap the nearest on the shoulder. Good men. Brave men. Suicidally brave, maybe, but brave.

The low hum of machinery becomes louder, intermingled with voices. At General Tullius’s command, two scouts slip ahead, returning moments later to signal the all-clear.

We enter a room where three Legion techs are slumped over their computers, and I stare at the scouts with a frown.

“They’re not dead, Dragonborn,” one of the scouts says. “Although they will wake with a headache as if a herd of mammoths stepped on them.”

I scan the screens, lines of code flickering like alien glyphs. “Yeah, I’ll just pretend that makes sense.” I nod to Tullius to move on.

“Mam” sits on a stone throne in the next chamber, her smile smug, her eyes cold.

Josh’s voice echoes in my head. How did the ancient Nords not get haemorrhoids from sitting on those cold, hard thrones all day? He answered his own question. They probably did, and that’s why they were always in such a hurry to go to war.

Behind me, I hear the soldiers shifting nervously. The two men flanking her raise semi-automatic rifles. Great. Arrows versus bullets. This will go well.

The two scouts aim their bows, and General Tullius steps forward, spine straight as his sword. “In the name of the Empire, I command you to surrender or face the consequences.”

“Mam” giggles like a girl and signals to her guards to train their weapons on us, and then all hell breaks loose.

Everything around me is in slow motion and fast forward simultaneously. One of the scouts let an arrow fly, hitting the woman in the chest. General Tullius’s head becomes modern art on my chest, and I gag, wiping gore off my face. So much for discipline under fire.

I shout, “FUS RO DAH!” and the two Legion gunners smash against the stone wall, their rifles clattering to the ground.

When the noise fades, I’m moving before I think, charging toward the throne, shielding the woman everyone wants dead.

Captain Aldus raises his sword. “Step aside, Dragonborn.”

“You can’t kill her, Captain. We need her to stop whatever she and her men started.”

His eyes narrow, the edge of his sword gleaming dangerously close to my chest. For a second, I think he’ll test how sharp it is.

Finally, he lowers it. “We’re taking her soldiers and the ones in the other room to Solitude. They’ll stand trial for their crimes against Skyrim.”

I bite back the argument forming in my throat. One look at the men’s faces tells me I’d lose that fight fast. I step aside, watching them drag the others away.

“Mam” is slumped against the throne, clutching her chest. Blood pools fast beneath her. “Please,” she gasps, “help me. I don’t want to die here.”

I look down at her and the man with the deformed hand, tipping on the abyss of alcoholism, wants to leave her here, but the man who was raised by loving, caring parents won. I kneel beside her and hold a phial of healing potion against her lips after pulling the arrow from her chest. She swallows the bitter liquid, but the wound keeps bleeding.

“Why isn’t it working?” I demand.

Her breath rattles. “The game… resetting.”

“What do you mean, resetting? How?”

Her gaze drifts past me to the computers. Smoke rises from one. One of the bullets must’ve hit it. Perfect. We just blew up the universe’s power cord.

I tear her jacket open, no time for modesty, and press against the wound. What have I done? If I had left the arrow inside, she might not have bled this much. I look around for something to wrap around her chest and almost laugh when my eyes fall on a folded coat on the stone chair, thinking of Josh’s words.

The bleeding won’t stop, so I rip the coat into strips and bind her chest as tight as I can. Then I hoist her over my shoulder. She is lighter than she looks, but somehow, every step feels heavier.

“Don’t die on me, lady,” I mutter. “I already have enough ghosts in my head.”

The tunnels blur together, a nightmare of stone and shadow. My arms burn. My back aches. And somewhere behind me, I swear I can hear the faint whisper of Draugr, or maybe it’s the code unraveling.

I shove the final door open and collapse to my knees on the rocky ledge. The beach lies below, the sea catching the light like molten glass. I glance down, dizzy from exhaustion.  Her pulse is weak but steady. Maybe she’ll make it, maybe I will too.

When my boots finally hit sand, I lay her down gently. The sails of the ship appear around the bend. Bailey’s on deck, sunlight catching her hair, and relief floods me, right before the pain hits.

Agony explodes through me, fire tearing me apart from the inside. Oblivion’s claws raking through my soul. I fall to my knees, choking on my own breath.

Something splashes in the ocean. I lift my head just long enough to see a figure swimming toward me.

No. No, no, no.

“Turn back, Bailey!” I try to shout, but the words barely make it past my lips. “The game is resetting!”

She doesn’t stop. Of course, she doesn’t. She’s too stubborn.

Darkness claws at my vision. I try to stand, to reach her,  the world pixelates, and then there’s nothing at all.

Chapter Text

My eyes catch two shadows moving through the trees ahead. The beasts make low, eager sounds as they stalk a herd of deer.

“Vilkas! Farkas!” I call, hands on my hips. “What do you think you’re doing? Bailey is going to have your hides if you scare the deer away. Come on, time to go home.”

Bailey is sitting on the porch of our new home, sunlight catching in her hair. She smiles when she sees me, that quiet smile that still knocks the air out of my lungs. Her indigo eyes meet mine, and there’s love there. Real, steady love.

She stands and holds out her hand. I take it, and the world just… settles.

I sling my pack over my shoulder, grab my brand-new bow from the table, and draw the string back with a grin. “Impressive.”

Bailey’s grin mirrors mine. “Latest mod for the warriors of Skyrim.” She leans in and kisses my cheek. “You ready to climb the Seven Thousand Steps, Garrett?”

I nod, opening the door. “Only if there’s a fast-travel option down.”

The ancient steps are covered by snow. Once there were seven thousand to reach the top, now….. I shrug….. who in his right mind is going to count them while battling wolves, bears, and a fucking face-eating troll?

I climb without haste, taking in every piece of the scenery. Snow, driven by the wind. Snowberries, covered in a thin layer of snow.

No wolves patrolled the mountainside, but the troll did not get the “no mountain climbing today” note.  It only registers my presence when the arrow finds its mark between his eyes and its death cry echoes toward the valley.

“Nice shot, if I do say so myself.”

Bailey scoffs. “You do know that your marksmanship is at its max.”

“What do you expect from a man that can kill a dragon with an arrow through its brain?”

“Maybe I should have given you a wooden bow just to see you squirm when the troll charged you.”

I only shake my head before stepping over the troll.

The setting sun is turning the snow a light shade of pink when I see the four monks waiting in the same spot where we saw them the first time, but they are not alone this time. Paarthurnax is perched on the tower, his mouth pulled in what looks like a smile. “Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin”

“Greetings, Paarthurnax.” I bow to each Greybeard, “Greetings, Master Arngeir. Greetings, Master Borri. Greetings, Master Einarth. Greetings, Master Wulfgar.” 

“We were expecting you sooner, Garrett.”

I scoff, shaking snow from my hood. “Healing takes time, Master Arngeir. And, well… other things needed my attention.”

Master Borri chuckles, his eyes twinkling like he’s been waiting for this. “Ah, yes. Like proposing to Bailey and building a new home.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah, that too. Turns out house-building and wedding planning take a bit more time than slaying dragons.”

Master Borri snorts. “And fewer fatalities, one hopes.”

“Depends who you ask,” I mutter, earning a rare grin from Arngeir.

They lead me into the chamber of mirrors. My reflection stares back from one, the rest dark and lifeless. 

“We turned them off,” Arngeir says, noticing my look. “So as not to be a distraction while we speak.” He gestures toward a chair in the corner, and the four monks don’t move until I sit. Always so polite, these guys. It’s like having a council of very wise, very patient grandfathers.

Arngeir’s tone softens. “We saw you on the shore that day. Carrying a body and the world collapsing around you. When the game reset, we feared you’d perished. The loss we felt was… profound. Like losing our own kin.”

He glances at Borri. “Then the news came that you were alive and well. Master Borri celebrated with two bottles of wine.”

Borri grins sheepishly. “Sang like a bard, danced like a fool, woke up under the offering table.”

I blink. “Glad to a near-death experience was such an inspiring occasion.”

The laughter fades gently, replaced by the hum of the mountain wind against the monastery's walls. Arngeir folds his hands. “Tell us, Garrett. What happened after you lost consciousness?”

I snort. “Unconscious, remember? Kind of hard to narrate what you don’t remember. By the time I woke up, I was in so much pain I couldn’t even remember my own name. Pretty sure I introduced myself to a tree stump at one point.”

Bailey touches my arm. “Give them the journal, Garrett.”

“Journal?”

“The journal in your backpack.” She says with a smile.

“Backpack, how?”

I look down at my backpack leaning against the chair. Maybe I should stop asking stupid questions before the universe starts answering them out loud.

With a sigh, I reach down and pull out a journal. The monks collectively inhale as if I’d just conjured a Daedric artifact instead of some leather-bound stationery.

I flip it open, squinting at the first page. Bailey’s handwriting stares back at me, perfectly round and maddeningly neat, like she’s auditioning to be Tamriel’s next scribe.

“I guess Bailey wrote what happened down,” I mutter, handing the journal to Master Arngeir.

He accepts it reverently, as though it might burst into flames or start singing. I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes as his voice begins to echo softly through the stone hall.

The ship surges forward, slicing through the glowing sea like it has somewhere urgent to be, which, for the record, it absolutely does. Josh signals toward the beach, and I lift a hand to block the sun from my eyes.

Garrett. He’s standing there. Alive and carrying someone slung over his shoulder like he’s cosplaying a budget action hero who forgot his stunt double.

The breath leaves my lungs in a shaky rush. Until this moment, a tiny voice inside me kept whispering that I’d never see him again. But then the next thought hits me like a frost troll to the face.

Why is he covered in blood? Is it his blood? The person he’s carrying? Both? Neither? Did he fall into a slaughterhouse? Did he become a slaughterhouse?

Hadvar’s voice cracks strangely beside me as he points past my shoulder. “Uh… is it supposed to do that?”

I follow his gaze.

The mountain is glitching. Not metaphorically, literally dissolving into low-res textures like Skyrim forgot to finish loading. Pixels creep down the slopes like hungry, silent frost.

The game is resetting, and Garrett, kneeling in the sand, has no idea death is creeping up on him in the form of bad graphics.

Josh and Lauren are arguing behind me about the steering being locked, but their voices blur into background static. My world narrows to one point on the beach.

I’m not leaving him to dissolve into nothing, respawn as a random NPC, or to become one of those background merchants who only say three lines.

“I’m not leaving him.” My voice is calm in the way that means I’ve made a decision I won’t walk back from. I turn to Lauren, my sister, my best friend, the other half of the chaos I call family. Losing her would be losing a part of my soul… But losing Garrett?

Worse.

I hug Lauren tightly. “Tell Mom and Dad I love them.”

Then I grab Josh’s sleeve. “And you… I love you like a brother, even if you drive me insane. Take care of Lauren and…”

I stop myself. Not my secret to tell. But Josh knows anyway. Of course he does.

He figured it out the moment he poked around Septimus’s lab equipment in Winterhold. Chemistry majors: ruining surprises since forever.

I force a smile at them, not because I’m brave, but because I want them to believe I am.

And then I climb the rail and dive.

Cold water swallows me, Josh’s frantic yelling echoing faintly above. But none of it matters. Because all I can see, all that exists, is Garrett on the beach.

And I will reach him before the world resets, or I drown trying.

I’m not the world’s best swimmer, but this is ridiculous. I dog-paddle through green liquid that feels like overused cooking oil and smells like something a necromancer would marinade a corpse in. For a moment, I tread water and swipe a hand over my face.

Garrett’s eyes lock on mine through the shimmer of the waves. His lips move… and suddenly I can hear him.

“Go back, Bailey! The game is resetting. Please, I beg you, go back!”

Yeah, no. Absolutely not. The only way I’m leaving him is if this water mutates me on the spot and I grow gills.

I try to shout something heroic like “Over my dead body!” but a wave slaps me across the mouth. And there is no universe, none, where I’m tasting this foul, swamp-witch soup.

I hit the shore at the exact moment the pixelation reaches the beach. Garrett collapses into my arms, heavy and limp. I push the wet hair from his face and kiss his forehead, my hands shaking.

Over the Sea of Ghosts, the ship looks tiny now, tiny ship, tiny people. Lauren waves, Josh is jumping around like a caffeinated chicken, and I…

I keep staring, because if this is my last look at Skyrim, I’m damn well taking it in.

The beach and rocks turn pixelated, and I lift my hand, expecting to see my body fractured into tiny cubes of blurred colour, but it still looks the same. Then I hear it. Pixelating has a sound. It’s like… wings.

I glance up. Perfect, a zombie dragon.

Because this day wasn’t weird enough already.

For two seconds, my brain short-circuits. We died, this is the afterlife, and I am being collected by an undead pest control unit. Then it clicks.

“Durnehviir?”

The undead dragon’s maw pulls into something that is probably a smile but reads more like “I eat souls recreationally.”

Someone jumps from his back, a man who looks… a lot like Garrett.

“Daven?” I croak.

The man shakes his head. “No, little lady. Name’s Vidar. Folks around here call me Dragonborn.” He gestures to the two women sliding down behind him. “And this is my lovely wife, Lydia, and our friend Serana.”

Vidar kneels beside Garrett. “I thought Odahviing was lying when he said someone who looks like me pulled him from his grave.”

Right on cue, Odahviing lands in the shallows, wings kicking up a spray of cursed soup-water.

“The sickness is spreading,” he rumbles. “We must take to the air and fly north.”

Vidar nods once, scoops Garrett up like he weighs absolutely nothing, and slings him onto Odahviing’s back. He helps me up after him.

I stare at the woman Garrett dragged all this way.

“We need to take her too,” I insist, pointing. “If Garrett risked his life to carry her out, then she’s important.”

Vidar shrugs like he’s been doing this rescuer-of-mysterious-strangers thing for centuries. He swings the woman over his shoulder and deposits her onto Durnehviir’s back.

With one last look at the pixel tide racing toward the beach, our dragons launch into the sky. Air rushes around us, sharp and cold.

Vidar calls over the wind, “Where to, little lady?”

I grin, dramatic as a B-movie detective stepping out of the fog.

“Follow that ship.”

The look on Hadvar and Balf’s faces when the two dragons circle the ship is comical. And Lauren’s and Josh’s faces when I wave at them… priceless.

If I had a camera, this would be the moment I’d screenshot for blackmail purposes later.

Lauren cuts through the chaos before it even has the chance to become chaos.

She claps her hands sharply. “Okay! Enough gawking. Dragons are friends, not foes. Mostly. Beds…Now! And someone get bandages, potions, towels, whatever.”

The way everyone jumps to obey her? Honestly, terrifying. Even the Dragonborn.

Yes, the new Dragonborn. Or… possibly an older model. Who knows?

Garrett would have a field day with this paradox if he were conscious.

Beds are found, and both Garrett and the woman we assume must be “Mam” are laid out. When we discover that all the blood on Garrett isn’t his, relief sweeps the room like a warm breeze.

Josh, unfortunately, is tasked with the washing.

“What the…” he whispers. Leaning back, he holds up something pale between two fingers.“I think this is… brain matter.”

Lauren freezes mid-order. Hadvar takes an involuntary step back. Balf mutters a prayer.

Josh keeps scrubbing, gagging like a cat coughing up a hairball.

“You'd better appreciate this when you wake up, Garrett,” he mutters. “Because I’m adding this to my emotional-damage invoice.”

The wound on Mam’s chest does not look good, but she’s alive, barely, and only because someone wrapped her with enough fabric to qualify as a makeshift mummy.

Lauren crouches beside her and slowly dribbles health potion between Mam’s lips. Nothing happens. No glow. No sparkles. No miraculous “ding” of recovery.

Lauren huffs. “Of course it doesn’t work. Why would anything be easy today?”

Fortunately, the ship has an honest-to-Kyne medical kit, and Lauren flips it open with the confidence of someone who’s watched way too many medical dramas and absolutely believes that qualifies as training.

She sets to work, cleaning, stitching, stabilizing.

We eventually leave the two unconscious patients in the care of Hadvar and Balf. Both look relieved.

“I think this is too much for them,” I whisper to Josh as we walk away.

He nods solemnly. “Yeah. Medieval upbringing. No training for dragons, time glitches, and… uh, brain confetti.”

Vidar frowns at the two objects in his hands, a pair of drinking glasses and a bottle of vodka.

“I have not seen goblets made of glass,” he says slowly, “nor alcohol called… Vod-ka. But then, everything is strange in Skyrim when we return this morning.”

Josh plucks the bottle from his hand, takes a sip, and immediately shivers like he’s been hit with a low-level frost spell.

“Return from where?” he manages.

Vidar sets the glasses down and looks around the table, sizing us up one by one. “We were not introduced,” he says, voice steady, “but during all this craziness, I caught your names. And I heard the little lady, Bailey, told you who we are.”

Vidar nods toward Josh. “To answer your question, Josh. We were in the Soul Cairn to find Serana’s mother and an Elder Scroll.”

Josh and I both suck in a breath. Hard.

Vidar’s frown deepens when Josh mutters, “ Dawnguard questline.”

Vidar stiffens. “Care to explain your words, friend?”

We stare at each other. Lauren’s eyes flick between us, and she gives the smallest nod.

Josh takes another heroic sip straight from the vodka bottle, liquid courage, and launches into the same story we told the Companions. Only now he tacks on the last few days as a casual afterthought.

To their credit, the three people across from us don’t start screaming about Daedra crawling into our skulls. Or theirs. They don’t shout, don’t panic, don’t even reach for weapons.

When Josh finishes, the room goes very still.

Vidar stares at him for several long seconds, unreadable as stone, before pushing back from the table with a sigh.

“So,” he begins, voice slow, “what you are saying… is that you are all from another world and  the woman used a spell to change the history of Skyrim and to pull you into this one.”

He lifts a hand, ticking off another impossibility. “And in the process, there were suddenly two Dragonborns.”

He wipes his face with both hands. “Strange things have happened in the history of Skyrim, and many more will happen until Sithis finally gets his way and ends it all.”

His gaze drifts toward the passage leading to the tiny sleeping quarters. “What I do not understand,” Vidar says at last, “is why your Dragonborn… Garrett… looks like me?”

We all shrug at the same time. A perfect synchronized gesture of no clue, friend.

We are not going to explain that he is essentially a highly customised avatar from a laptop back on Earth, and a backstory written by someone named Eulalie.

I sit beside Garrett’s bed, watching his chest rise and fall, feeling the tightness in mine slowly ease.

Dragons above. Friends around. And a ship on its way to maybe nowhere.

I wake to the sound of movement from the Garretts’ bed.

Hope lights inside me, only to change into fear and rage when I recognise the silhouette bending over Garrett’s body. The chair I’d been sleeping on slams into the wall as I leap to my feet.

“Serana! What are you doing?”

Her eyes glow red when she glances back at me.

She scoffs. “What, you thought I was taking a midnight snack?”

No use lying. I swallow hard and nod.

She laughs, amused and way too casual for someone hovering over Garrett’s unconscious body.

“Josh told me you knew I was a vampire. I find it strange people know what I am and yet aren’t afraid of me.”

Serana nods toward the bed. “I was checking for the corruption of illness. The woman smells close to death.”

My stomach twists. “And… Garrett?”

Serana frowns, eyes narrowing in that way that usually means a very bad diagnosis is coming. “I can sense life inside him. I can hear his heartbeat clearly, but…”

“But what?” My voice cracks.

“He smells like nothing. No scent.”

My breath freezes. “Nothing? Like… a machine? A Dwemer automaton?”

She shakes her head, dismissive. “No. Automatons smell of oil and burned metal. Garrett smells like he’s… in a void.”

Void. Perfect. Fear grips my heart. What if he never wakes up? What if I have to watch him slowly dwindle from hunger if we don’t find a way home?

Serana shakes her head, as if she can hear the rapid downward spiral of my thoughts.

“His heartbeat is strong, Bailey. The life inside him is strong. Give him time to heal.”

Heal from what? Being on the wrong end of a cosmic rewrite?

Before I can ask, Lydia clears her throat gently from the doorway.

“Odahviing says we are nearing the island. Lauren and Vidar made breakfast, and Josh brewed something he calls… coffee.”

We’re still elbow-deep in dishwater when Hadvar barrels down the stairs like Alduin himself is trying to eat his soul.

“Legion soldiers on the dock!”

At once, every one of us is armed to the teeth.

I grab my bow, and Josh grabs one of the assault rifles we found in a safe last night.

Vidar slams his axe against his shield in typical Dragonborn bravado. The clang makes Josh jump so hard he nearly pulls the trigger.

“Easy with the taunting, Dragonborn,” he hisses. “You haven’t seen how fast these things can make a man not exist.”

Lauren presses my bow arm down before I can notch an arrow and lays her hand on Josh’s shoulder.

“I don’t think the Legion’s army,” she says dryly, “will have a Bethesda logo on their jackets.”

Josh’s “Eulalie?” made me scan the group of people a second time. And there she is.. how could I have missed her? Tall, blond, and dressed in a pair of jeans and a Wolverine t-shirt like she just stepped out of a comic-con. I grin, wearing an iron-clawed werewolf-like figure on your t-shirt is not the dress code to invade Skyrim.

The two men armed with assault rifles train their weapons on the man walking toward them. Vidar does not even give them or their rifles a second glance, as if confronted by strange men and even stranger weapons is an everyday occurrence in Skyrim.

He takes Eulalie’s chin gently between two fingers and tilts her face toward the light. “You look like Garrett,” he murmurs, “and also like me. How?”

Eulalie shakes her head, tears bright in her eyes. “I….”

Vidar wipes a tear from her cheek with surprising tenderness, sighs, and shrugs like the universe just dropped another weird problem on his doorstep.

“This day grows stranger and stranger.”

Then he hugs her, kisses the top of her head as if it is something he does regularly, and adds, “It is time we return to Skyrim. We will take Hadvar and Bulf with us.”

Hadvar accepts this destiny with soldierly dignity.

Bulf, however, looks like he’s one heartbeat away from vomiting or throwing himself overboard to escape dragon transport.

Ted signals toward the dock, and several men board with stretchers and medical kits. They follow Lauren and Ted below deck to retrieve Garrett and Mam.

They return minutes later with their precious cargo, and Josh looks sick with worry.

“I don’t understand why Garrett hasn’t regained consciousness. There’s no visible injury.”

“He will wake once we leave Nirn, Josh.” Eulalie folds her arms. “Our theory is that when Vidar returned to Skyrim, the world corrected itself. Two Dragonborns cannot coexist on Nirn.”

With a “May the Divines light your way, friends,” Vidar, Lydia, and Serana take to the air on the back of Durnehviir. Hadvar gives us a fist to the chest salute, but Bulf, on the other hand, clings to Odahviing and screams, “Fuck! This is not how I imagined my death!”

And then they're gone.

I feel like Dorothy when we follow the men from Bethesda, but instead of a yellow brick road, I’m trudging down a matrix-like green road toward a large wooden structure. Ted opens the door, and I practically salivate at the computers lining one of the walls.

“I wish I could have one of these,” Eulalie whispers close to my ear, and I nod. “Won’t mind one myself.”

Ted slides into a chair, fingers dancing across the keyboard like he’s casting keyboard-based destruction spells.

“When we found the virus, we tracked it to the main server, the same one powering the island. The portal will open in minutes. You’ll return to your world one week after Garrett vanished.”

The moment I step through the portal, nausea punches me in the gut. I double over, gagging.

Josh and Eulalie aren’t much better, and somewhere nearby, a grown man is making sounds that should never come out of a grown man.

Lauren’s voice cuts through the cotton-stuffed ringing in my ears.

“Something’s wrong.”

Josh stares at her. “What do you mean by ‘something’s wrong’? We’re back on Earth. We’re breathing. Nothing is on fire. This is a win.”

Lauren pulls back her sleeve. The claw marks, once faded white, are now angry, raised, and fresh-looking.

Josh’s troll bite scar looks only days old, and mine feels like it’s burning under my shirt.

Lauren pulls my shirt away to reveal the scar on my shoulder, and Eulalie hisses at the sight of a wound that looks like it's only starting to heal.

Without a word, Lauren pulls the blanket from Garreet, and we all stare in horror at his burned, malformed hand.

One of the medics unwraps Mam’s wound and whistles. What had been fatal is now only a star-shaped puncture, almost healed.

Josh wipes his face with both hands. “I thought coming home would make everything vanish. Instead, it all got worse.”

“We weren’t supposed to return through that door,” Lauren whispers.

Josh stares as though she’s speaking Greek. “What does that mean?!”

Lauren inhales slowly and starts in her I’m about to explain science to idiots voice.

“When the pixels took over Skyrim, they should’ve consumed us too. But they didn’t. Garrett and Bailey didn’t pixelate. Even Vidar and his dragon were pixelated until they landed.”

Josh’s eyes widen. “Odahviing came through the pixels… not pixelated.”

Lauren nods. “If the reset was active, we should be gone by now.”

Ted flips open his laptop, examines something, and slams the lid shut.

“The game didn’t reset. Something interrupted it. Likely when Garrett boarded the ship… or when the second Dragonborn reappeared.”

My stomach drops. “So… we have to go back? To find another portal? Skuldafn?”

Eulalie shakes her head sharply.“No. When Garrett used that portal, his hand looked like it does now.”

She turns to Ted with eyes brimming with tears. “We have to find another portal. I’m not bringing my brother through a portal that will leave him cripled or worse.”

We stand in stunned silence, all eyes on Garrett. Still, silent and suspended between worlds.

Josh takes Lauren’s hands gently.

“Your scars will heal. Go with Eulalie and Ted. Bailey and I will take Garrett and find a new portal.”

Lauren shakes her head, and Josh pulls her close. “We need to think about the baby, Lauren.”

Lauren shoves lightly at his chest. “I don’t think there will be a baby if I stay here, Josh.”

Both of them look terrified of losing what they have.

Finally, Josh nods, takes Lauren’s hand in one of his, and mine in the other. “Then we go back,” he says softly. “All of us. And we find another way home.”

Chapter Text

Arngeir closes the journal and stares at me as if I’m about to pull another one from my backpack like some Discount Court Wizard of Illusion. I glance at Bailey.

“Is that all you wrote?” I ask.

She smiles and leans closer, whispering in my ear, “This is your story to tell, Garrett.”

I take a long breath and let the memories bleed in.

“I stood on the beach with Mam over my shoulder, the smell of her and Tullius’s blood mixing with sweat and probably tears. Then the pain hit me. Not a normal pain, a giant hit me with a mountain kind of pain. I saw Bailey swimming toward me, and I remember telling her to go back to the ship even though I knew she’d be too stubborn to listen. The crushing pain turned into tearing pain. I felt the dragonsouls ripping out of me, one by one, until only Alduin’s stayed behind. The last thing I remember before the darkness took me was the world turning into pixels.”

Is this what being dead feels like? No angels singing, no demons snarling… just darkness. Quiet. Almost peaceful. The pain is gone, but so are my senses. I can’t feel, hear, or smell anything…

Wait. I can feel movement. It feels like I’m a leaf falling in slow spirals, drifting on some wind I can’t feel but somehow still follow.

“Garrett. Can you hear me?”

I really hope that’s an angel and not some horned entity ready to read me my eternal crimes.

A cool hand touches my brow. “Finally awake, Garrett?”

Tear-filled indigo eyes fill my world, and everything tilts sideways on its axis.

“Bailey?” I croak in a voice that belongs to a frog who died three winters ago.

I try to sit up, but she gently pushes me back down.

“Lie still while I wake Lauren and Josh.”

I grab her hand before she can move. “Don’t leave… please.”

She hesitates, then sits beside me.

“What happened?” I look around the cramped little room. “Are we on a ship?”

She nods. “We’re on our way back to Skyrim.”

“Back to Skyrim? From where?”

Then her words finally click, and I try to sit up again—but the bed tilts under me, or maybe I’m the one tilting.

“Why are we going back to Skyrim?”

“If you promise to lie still, I’ll tell you.”

Her story sounds like something out of a… well, to borrow Lauren’s words, one truly lame-arsed game.

“Does Lauren know how to find the right portal to get us home?” I ask.

Bailey shakes her head. “We’ll find a way, Garrett.”

I shift a little and pat the bed beside me. “You look tired.”

Without a word, she lies down, and I pull her gently until her head rests against my chest. My fingers drift through her hair, and as her breathing deepens, I slowly slip into a quiet, dreamless sleep.

I wake with the uncomfortable, prickly feeling of being watched, and sure enough, Josh is leaning against the door, arms crossed, looking like he’s been rehearsing a speech.

“Thank goodness you’re awake,” he says. “I had nightmares about carrying you through Skyrim until we found the portal.”

“Yeah… good to see you too, Josh.”

We step outside, and all three of us stop dead.

It looks as if someone took a ruler, drew a perfectly straight north-to-south line across Skyrim… and then hit “corrupt file” on the western half. Pixel mountains. Pixel trees. A pixel elk mid-run like it rage-quit mid-frame.

Bailey points toward the harbour. “Uh… is that Vidar and Durnehviir?”

I follow her finger. A full pixel-dragon, suspended mid-flight in the glitchy half of the world like a doomed Minecraft mod.

Lauren squints. “It looks like Durnehviir. Why would he fly into the pixels?”

Josh slings his backpack on more dramatically than necessary. “Okay, team. Are we gonna stand here and wonder why that Dragonborn is an idiot, or are we gonna find a way home?”

We swim through the green matrix water. Thick as soup and shimmering like someone spilled code into the ocean. It clings to my skin in a way that feels wrong, like being brushed by wet spiderwebs.

Bailey spits out a mouthful and grimaces. “If we swallow this, we’re growing gills. Or fins. Or something that requires a medical intervention Skyrim definitely doesn’t have.”

Josh snorts. “Yeah, well, I’ve got a feeling the slaughterfish in here have mutated into great white sharks. With lasers. And they’re probably pissed.”

I kick harder, trying not to imagine pixelated murder-fish homing in on us from the murky green below. “Just keep swimming,” I mutter. “Preferably without drinking the apocalypse.”

Bailey bumps my shoulder but grins. “Look on the bright side. If we do mutate, at least we’ll match the scenery.”

Yeah. Great. Team Aquatic Abomination. Can’t wait for the t-shirts.

Two figures are waving at us when we drag ourselves out of the soup-thick matrix water and onto the marshy shore.

Hadvar reaches us first, helping Lauren with her backpack. “What are you doing back here? We thought you returned to your world.”

Josh flashes him a grin. “We missed you. Decided to come back.”

Hadvar gives him a flat stare.

Josh sighs, face slipping into seriousness. “We need to find another way home. That path is corrupted.”

Bulf leads us toward a fire, rubbing his hands together. “Meat is almost done. Odahviing brought the elk and then took off.”

Hadvar scoffs and signals with his head toward the pixelated area. “Maybe the dragon is scared of the sickness.”

Bulf shoots a nervous look at the pixelated horizon, and the colour drains from his face. “What if the corruption starts moving again?”

Josh tosses his wet bag onto the ground. “If it does, you run. Or scream. Or both.”

Bailey elbows him. “Inspiring as always.”

Odahviing returns late in the afternoon, wings cutting through the mist as he descends. He lands with a soft thud in the shallow marsh, water rippling out in perfect circles.

“Drem yol lok, dovahkin.  Hi los het.” (1)

“Drem yol lok, Odahviing.  Faal miiraad mu siiv lost folaas.  Mu lassdilok wa siiv faal next gein.”  (2)

 The dragon scoffs. A deep, resonant sound like boulders arguing. “Faal miiraad hi yah dreh ni nok wer.  Mu lassdilok wa tinvaak do faal krasaar”(3)

I carve off a chunk of meat from the carcass roasting near the fire and gesture toward a cluster of boulders. “Let’s tinvak and eat Odahviing.”

He approves with a low rumble that vibrates in my ribs.

It takes almost an hour before he finishes, describing not only what he’s seen but how he feels about the spreading sickness. Dragons, apparently, are natural-born philosophers. If he ever writes a book, I’m calling dibs on editing rights… assuming books still exist by the time this is over.

When I return to the fire, Bailey and Josh scoot aside so I can lay out the map close to the light.

“The corruption stretches deep into the Sea of Ghosts,” I say, tracing the jagged green-tearing line. “And it cuts straight down into Cyrodiil. As we suspected, perfectly straight. It stops short of Morthal and Falkreath for now, but the Jarls have already ordered evacuations. Everyone is moving east.”

Bulf stares at the map, eyes wide. “Going east… and if the corruption follows? What if it reaches Morrowind?”

Hadvar wipes a hand down his face. “Then there are the islands… and Akavir, if the Divines favour us with a miracle. We can keep running until we come full circle back to Skyrim, where the corruption will finally catch us.”

I tap the map again. Harder this time. “Or you can go south.”

Hadvar shakes his head immediately. “No, Dragonborn. If Falkreath stands, then so does Riverwood. I’m going home to my family. And Ralof’s kin need to know he reached Sovngarde.” His jaw sets stubbornly. “If the people of Riverwood choose to flee, I’ll guide them.”

Bulf straightens beside him. “My only family is an uncle in Markarth… and Markarth is gone.” His voice cracks, but he pushes through. “If you will have me, Hadvar, I’ll go with you.”

I look to Odahviing, who has been listening quietly. “Odahviing will go with you,” I say.

The dragon inclines his head, a gesture that somehow manages to be both regal and slightly offended that I’m sending him with the two soldiers.

We watch Odahviing shrink into a tiny speck against the early morning sky, Bulf and Hadvar clinging to his back like two very nervous, very breakable barnacles. When the speck finally disappears, Bailey drops onto a rock with a sigh heavy enough to impress a Greybeard.

“Where are we going to find another portal?”

I shake my head. “We will find it, Bailey. But first, we need food, and I need a bow and arrows. If everyone is traveling east, you know the riffraff will soon follow.”

Josh snorts before breaking into a laugh. “Look at Garrett, going all Skyrimmy with his ‘riffraff.’ Next thing you know, you will be telling us that you used to be an adventurer until you got an arrow to the knee.”

I cross my arms, trying for offended dignity. It lasts about three seconds before I start laughing too. And then the four of us are laughing like absolute idiots in the middle of a dying world.

Honestly? It’s weirdly comforting. If the universe is going to glitch apart, at least I’m surrounded by people who laugh like hyenas when stressed.

Morthal is just as eerie as the first time we set foot in it, maybe even more so without the comforting presence of glitched-out NPCs. Now there are only tracks. Carriages, feet, carts… all headed out of the city in a hurry.

The longhouse’s armory coughs up a sturdy Nordic bow and a bundle of steel arrows. Not my old bow, may it rest wherever in Solitude, but good enough. At this point, if it fires in the correct direction, I’m grateful.

Josh appears holding a canvas bag that sags like it’s been emotionally damaged. “Only found a few apples and a piece of old cheese. Bailey and Lauren are still looking, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

I sling the bow over my shoulder. “No use wasting time, Josh. We can hunt. And I found a flint at the smithy.”

He perks up. “Oh, good, fire. Because nothing says ‘we’ve got this under control’ like four people from Earth trying to rub rocks together in a haunted swamp.”

I grin. “Relax. Worst-case scenario, we starve.”

“Garrett, you’re supposed to get less dramatic after almost dying, not more.”

With no horses or a carriage, the road to Stonehills eats up the rest of the day and a few extra hours under a moon so big and round it looks like it’s trying to photobomb us. If I stretched far enough, I swear I could give it a high-five.

Lights glow warmly through the inn’s windows, and someone inside is singing loudly enough to scare off the local predators. Nords really are something else, danger creeping across the land, reality glitching like a corrupted save file, and they still make time for mead and bellowing off-key ballads.

Honestly? I respect it. If the world’s ending, might as well go out tipsy and enthusiastic.

A man steps forward and holds the door open. Bailey’s face lights up. “Benor? What are you doing here?”

He bows with a grin. “Waiting for you. Or I should say, Jarl Ravencrone is waiting for Lady Lauren.”

Josh scoffs. “Great. Lauren gets a title and gets to be Dragonborn, and  Bailey and I … We get to be Robin to your Batman.”

Inside, sure enough, the Jarl and her family sit at a long table lined with food and drink like they’re preparing to host a royal feast or a very fancy intervention.

I murmur to Josh, “Are we being welcomed, interrogated, or ceremonially fed?”

Josh smirks. “Honestly? With Nords? Could be all three.”

Bailey looks at the spread of sweet rolls. “I’ll take the latter, please.”

Joric, the Jarl’s husband, practically launches himself out of his chair the moment we approach. He pulls out a seat with a flourish fit for a royal banquet and waves Lauren toward it.

“Lady Lauren,” he says, with the kind of reverence usually reserved for queens, saints, or people who just saved your entire livelihood.

The rest of us? Completely ignored. Might as well be the traveling kitchen staff.

Jarl Idgrod gestures at the empty chairs. “Don’t stand around as if you’re waiting for a handout. I almost thought my dream had misled me, but here you are, just as I saw.”

“Fantastic. We’ve reached the ‘prophetic visions’ stage of the evening. Always comforting.” Josh’s words are soft enough for only my ears, or so I hope.

The innkeeper sweeps in like he’s been hiding behind the door all day, just waiting for this moment, dropping mugs and plates in front of us with a speed that suggests he might actually be afraid to disappoint the Jarl. Can’t blame him, Idgrod has Big “I Talk to Spirits, Don’t Test Me” energy.

She nods at the feast. “Eat. We will talk after.”

Then she immediately starts tearing into a plate piled high with roasted potatoes, boar, and carrots.

Bailey and Josh are already stacking food on their plates, but Lauren sits stiffly, trying not to look overwhelmed by the royal treatment.

Me? I poke the roasted boar, then take a bite.

If this is the last real meal before we go sprinting across a half-deleted world in search of a portal that may or may not un-cripple me, I’m not dying hungry.

Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone dabs her mouth with a napkin and turns to Lauren. “You should eat more. The boy needs it.”

Lauren’s hands fly to her belly, and she turns a shade of pink I’ve only ever seen on sweet rolls.

The jarl’s eyes slide to Josh. She studies him, then she shakes her head like she can’t believe Lauren picked that one for a mate.

Idgrod leans back. “You must go back to where it started.”

We wait for more, but she rises from the table with a grace that contradicts her age and disappears into one of the bedrooms without another word. The door closes with the softest click imaginable, but somehow it feels like judgment.

Silence drops on our table like a mammoth carcass.

Josh is the first to crack. He lets out a long string of curses creative enough to make a pirate blush.

Lauren gives him a sharp look, the kind that could peel bark off a tree, and he shuts up mid-syllable.

Across the table, Bailey grabs the last sweet roll like she’s stealing treasure and bites it cleanly in half. Cream smears her cheek.

“Well,” she says through a mouthful, “I guess we’re going back to the camp in the Falkreath forest.”

Lauren exhales shakily, one hand still resting protectively on her stomach, and I feel the familiar twist of dread in mine.

We wake to a silent inn. A very silent one. No voices. No clatter of plates. No bard torturing a lute. Honestly, that last one should be a blessing, but right now it just feels wrong. Like the world is holding its breath.

The innkeeper stands behind the counter, shifting from foot to foot, hands twitching at his sides. If we’d come out a minute later, I’m pretty sure we would’ve found the place completely abandoned. Maybe even with chairs still rocking.

He jerks his chin toward four canvas bags. “Jarl Ravencrone said to leave you some cheese, fruit, and vegetables. Meat you can hunt yourselves. And there’s some leftover bread from last night.”

He swings a heavy backpack over his shoulder. “May the Divines go with you.”

I take his hand. “Where are you going?”

He shrugs, the grim kind. “The jarl and most of the town are heading to Windhelm. Me… I don’t think General Ulfric can stop what’s coming. Some of the Dunmer miners invited me to join them on the road to Morrowind.”

He tries to smile. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Never saw the land of giant mushrooms before. Think I should see it once before the void takes us.”

Lauren swallows hard and grips one of the canvas bags. She looks like she’s trying not to show how scared she is.

The innkeeper glances toward the door as if expecting something to slither under it. “You best be on your way, too.”

Yeah. No arguments here.

At Labyrinthian, a lone troll is enjoying a dinner of deer, and we take a very wide berth around him before he decides to invite us to join him as the main course.

Silent Moons Camp, in contrast to its name, sounds like a farmers’ market on a Saturday morning, minus the cheerful vendors, and plus several dozen nervous soldiers.

Months ago, after we cleared the ruin, Whiterun troops moved in. Now the area around it is a sea of tents, wagons, and people trying very hard not to panic. To the south, a makeshift pen holds cattle, goats, and sheep. They look just as confused as the humans.

An Argonian soldier notices me staring at the animals.

“Food for the masses,” he says, flicking his tail. “But let me tell you, if the Void comes closer, we leave them here for Sithis to take.”

I look him up and down. “You think Sithis is doing this?”

He hisses softly and taps his snout. “Who else would bring the Void over Nirn, dry-scale?”

We set up camp behind the animal pen, choosing the smell of dung over the smell of paranoia drifting from the campfires. Honestly, the goats are better company.

Lauren and Josh vanish into the tent, which leaves Bailey and me staring into the fire. Sparks jump into the dark like tiny, panicked stars.

Bailey pokes the embers with a stick. “I’m afraid, Garrett. Afraid we’ll never find the portal… but also afraid we will. What if we’re still scared and the baby…”

I pull her gently onto my lap before her spiralling thoughts can run any further. Tilting her chin up, I look into her indigo eyes. “Listen… I might be a little crazy, but I think we should trust Jarl Idgrod’s dream.”

She lets out a shaky breath and nestles against my chest, fitting like she’s meant to be there, even in a world falling apart one pixel at a time.

A goat bleats mournfully, and it sounds exactly how I feel.

I stare past the firelight toward the dark ridge rising between us and our destination.

Who would’ve thought that Garrett Osborn, who’s never played a video game in his life, would be saying we should trust the dream of an NPC?

I wake feeling like a rookie who nodded off during his watch, which I absolutely did. Not that anyone needs to stand guard against bandits or Draugr when half the warriors of Whiterun are snoring in tents around us. After yesterday’s fistfight between two burly Nords because one “looked at the other’s cart funny,” the soldiers started doing laps through the camp just to keep people from murdering each other out of boredom.

I blink into the grey pre-dawn light, trying to figure out what woke me. Nothing seems out of place. No screams. No stampede. No “help, a troll stole my wife” level emergencies. Just the usual chorus of snores and someone mumbling in their sleep.

Lightning flickers over the mountain to the south, dancing across the peaks like some Daedric god is fiddling with a light switch. Great. One tiny tent that barely fits three people crammed in like salted fish… and I’m the one stuck outside.

I turn back toward the fire. and something huge and dark sweeps through the storm clouds above the ridge, its silhouette carved out for a split second by lightning.

I freeze and stare until my eyes water. Nothing moves. No wingbeats. No roar. Just clouds and the distant rumble of thunder. The shape doesn’t return, and I hope it was only a trick of the light.

The next morning, we cut through the tall grass of the Tundra north of Whiterun toward Whitewatch Tower. The detour adds more than two hours to our journey, but none of us wants to walk the road leading into Whiterun. Maybe we’re afraid that if we see the gates, our feet will mutiny and march us straight inside, where it is safe and familiar, like homesick toddlers.

The road north is busy enough to look like regular weekday traffic, if weekday traffic involved fewer cars and more oxen. Josh steps directly into a steaming heap of dung and freezes in horror.

“Nasty,” he groans.

Bailey laughs… right until her boot sinks into a matching pile. She stops dead, face blank. “Not funny.”

At Battle-Born Farm, Gwendolyn lounges beneath a tree reading, while half of Skyrim helps themselves to vegetables like it’s an open-market buffet.

Josh snorts when Bailey calls the woman. “Someone’s pilfering the crops, Gwendolyn!”

Gwendolyn looks up from her book and smiles. “Olfrid and the rest left yesterday with only their valuables. The people need food. And I finally have peace and quiet. A miracle greater than Talos.”

At Chillfurrow Farm, Nazeem is wielding a pitchfork like a desperate, very sweaty paladin, trying to keep people from storming his gate.

He spots us and brightens. “Please! Dragonborn! Help me!”

I barely take one step before Josh clamps onto my arm. “Garrett, no. Let him get some help from the Cloud District.”

Nazeem’s mouth flaps open and shut as a fish flung onto a hot cooking stone. Then he throws the pitchfork to the ground. “I hope you all choke on the crops!”

At the crossroads, chaos rules. A cart lies on its side, belongings strewn everywhere. Another wagon leans, crippled by a broken wheel. A man stands protectively in front of his wife and children as scavengers try to paw through his things. Tempers flare. People shout. Fists swing. Someone throws a carrot.

Lauren touches my arm. “Do something, Garrett.”

I meet her eyes, confused, until she nods toward the chaos. “Use your Thu’um.”

My stomach drops. The day on the beach… all the dragon souls ripped out of me except Alduin’s. Since returning from Roscrea, I haven’t dared try shouting. For all I know, I’ll open my mouth and cough violently enough to embarrass myself.

But Lauren’s watching. Bailey and Josh, too. And the crossroads is one sneeze away from becoming a riot.

I shrug. Only one way to know. I tilt my head back, draw a breath, and shout. “FUS!”

The sound detonates off the mountains like a divine hammer. Conversations die mid-yell. The entire crossroads freezes. Even the carrot-thrower. Silence drops like a blanket.

When everyone stares at me, Lauren doesn’t hesitate. She steps straight into the middle of the stunned crowd and starts slinging orders around with the precision of a battlefield commander and the gentleness of someone who once apologized to a mudcrab for stepping on its claw.

“You lot, lift the wagon, and someone get the spare wheel. And you three, stop arguing and help pick up the man’s things. Now.”

And somehow, everyone obeys. Within minutes, the same people who were ready to claw each other’s faces off are fixing the wagon together like a wholesome community event.

Josh lounges on a low stone wall, arms crossed, wearing the smug grin of a man who definitely thinks he helped. “She’s going to be a great mom,” he says proudly.

Lauren shoots him a look sharp enough to trim his beard. “If everyone helps, we can all be on our way, Josh.”

He snorts and hops off the wall like a scolded teenager. “Yes, mother.”

Lauren gives him a look that clearly says, if he keeps calling her that, he is not surviving to see the baby born.

Only a few people take the road south, most choosing to flee east, and by the time we push open the door of the Sleeping Giant, the sun is a smear of gold behind the treetops.

Inside, the inn is wall-to-wall bodies, chatter, and the smell of fresh bread and stew.

Orgnar holds up both hands before Josh even finishes asking.

“None left, Josh. If I knew you were coming, I’d have saved my room for you… But even that I rented out.”

Lauren gives him a tired smile, and Orgnar practically transforms into a bashful teenager.

“I stocked the fires in the bathing room,” he says, puffing up. “Water should be steaming hot.”

Lauren blows him a playful kiss and plucks the key from his huge palm.

“You know exactly how to make a woman happy, Orgnar.”

The Innkeeper blushes, an actual pink-cheeked blush. Then he puffs his chest out like a rooster drunk on mead.

“Maybe you should ditch Josh and make me the happiest man in Skyrim.”

Lauren’s cheeks match Orgnar’s instantly. Josh’s, however, turns a delightful shade of don’t threaten my territory. And mutters, “Great. One of the biggest Nords is trying to steal my woman.”

We slip out of Riverwood, avoiding the crowd at the gate, and start looking for a quiet spot to camp. We don’t get far. A lone fire flickers near the western wall, and a familiar bulk rises from behind it.

“Bulf?” Josh calls.

The Nordl-turned-reluctant-dragon-rider waves us over and nudges a spot beside his tent. “Pitch yours here. Plenty of room.”

We drop our packs, grateful for the company, and I ask the question sitting on all our tongues. “Any word from Odahviing or Hadvar?”

Bulf sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, a man who looks like he could lift a mammoth but currently resembles a worried uncle.

“Odahviing flew south the moment he dropped us off. Hadvar helped a few groups heading for Pale Pass. He should’ve been back by now.”

The fire pops, and we all glance toward the mountains as if expecting to see Hadvar trudging through the dark, muttering about Nords and their poor sense of timing.

Bailey kneels beside Bulf and touches his elbow. “Maybe he took them all the way to a city. You know, Hadvar, he’ll rescue the entire population of Skyrim if they stand still long enough.”

Bulf huffs a laugh, but it’s thin. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe.” His shoulders slump again. “But if he’s not back by tomorrow, sunrise… I’m going to look for him.”

I swallow hard. If we weren’t racing a world-eating pixel plague and hunting a portal that might not exist, we would’ve gone with him without hesitation.

Everyone is asleep by the time I settle near the fire. To the south, lightning flickers across the mountaintops, casting jagged flashes of blue-white light over the peaks. A dark form glides through the clouds, its silhouette briefly revealed when the lightning strikes the mountain.

“No! No! No! Where is it?” Josh lifts a rock as if the entire campsite has somehow shrunk and crawled beneath it.

Bailey turns in a slow circle, tears catching the morning light in her eyes. Lauren doesn’t even try to hide her fear or frustration when the clearing remains stubbornly empty. She wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Maybe we’re in the wrong place, Josh.”

Josh swings a dirty pink scrap of fabric between his fingers. “It’s a piece of your slipper, Lauren.”

She sinks down onto a rock, the same one she sat on the day we first stepped into Skyrim through the mirror. Her shoulders shake, and Josh kneels in front of her.

“We’ll look around, Lauren. Maybe we are in the wrong place.”

She meets his eyes, tears clinging to her lashes. “We all know this is the place, Josh. But I love you for trying to make me feel better.”

We pitch our tent in the same spot and spend two days searching in widening circles. Two nights of pretending to stay positive.

On the third morning, still dark, the air cold on my skin, I again see lightning crawling across the southern mountains and that dark form gliding through the clouds. A sharp intake of breath behind me makes me turn.

“Alduin.”

I stare at Lauren, a cold finger running down my spine. “It’s not Alduin, Lauren. I killed him in Sovngarde, remember? Maybe it’s Odahviing.”

She shakes her head hard. “I’m telling you, it’s Alduin.”

Josh and Bailey stumble out of the tent and stare at the silhouette circling above the mountain.

“It’s flying over Helgen, isn’t it?” Lauren asks softly, squeezing Josh’s hand.

He nods slowly. “I think so. Bailey?”

Bailey wraps her arms around herself and gives a small, trembling nod. I pull her against me, feeling the tremor run through her.

“Helgen,” Lauren murmurs, eyes flicking to our campsite. “Where the game starts. We’re in the wrong place.”

Helgen… looks different. The ruins and burned buildings are gone. In their place stand wooden houses and stone towers. People walk the streets laughing, talking, living.

Josh sweeps his gaze across the town. “Maybe it’s one of those mods that rebuild the place?”

Bailey shakes her head. “I don’t think so, Josh.” She nods toward a man carrying a barrel of mead on his shoulder, clearly marked Vilod’s Mead.

Lauren turns at the sound of rolling wheels. “Carriages filled with men wearing armor with blue sashes, Josh.”

We all go still, staring at the bound soldiers in the wagons.

Josh whistles low. “What the fuck is happening?”

The carriages grind to a stop. An Imperial soldier steps forward.

Bailey squeezes my hand. “Hadvar.”

Josh grabs Lauren’s. “If I say run, we run to the keep.”

A man bolts, screaming he won’t die today, only to be shot down moments later. One by one, the names are read, even Ulfric Stormcloak, who looks at us not as friends but strangers.

These are not the people we know.

Are we trapped in the game, forced to relive everything again?

A Bosmer jumps from the wagon, scanning the buildings and faces.

Hadvar looks down at the list in his hands and frowns. “Wait. You, there. Step forward. Who are you?”

Bailey’s grip nearly crushes my fingers. She whispers, “He is the Dragonborn.”

It’s like watching a movie. The headsman, the block, the thud of a rolling head. The Bosmer shoved forward. Josh’s shout to run is muffled by the sudden frenzy boiling inside me. Something ancient and furious erupts, driving me to my knees.

Bailey tries to haul me up when all eyes swing toward us.

A black shape streaks overhead, and a dragon lands on the tower with a thunderous crack, ignoring arrows and spells flying at its scales.

“Zu'u lassdilok dii sil, Dovahkiin. Stin dii sil ahrk hi fen kos stin.”

I scream as the dragon’s soul is torn from mine. Bailey is in my arms, Josh throws his around all of us, and the world twists into a blinding whirl.

My last coherent thought is that I don’t think this is going to end well.

• Greetings, Dovahkin. You are here.
• Greetings, Odahviing. The path we found was wrong. We must find the next one.
• The path you seek does not lie west. We need to talk about the sickness.
• I need my soul, dragonborn. Free my soul, and you will be free.