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Chapter Text

The fire in the great hearth of the Palace of Kings had burned low, but its coals still pulsed a soft orange, casting dancing shadows against the ancient stone walls. Wind howled beyond the thick windows, rattling the shutters like an impatient spirit begging entry. It was late. Too late for council. Too late for war.

And yet Ulfric was still awake.

"We should move on Whiterun now," Galmar growled, his voice echoing off the pillars as he strode across the hall, frustration barely restrained. "Balgruuf'll never side with us. He's soft. Sits on his throne pretending neutrality, but you know where his loyalties lie."

Ulfric stood at the edge of the hearth, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched. "And if we force his hand too early, he'll fall into the Empire's lap just to spite us."

Galmar grunted. "We wait too long and it'll be a moot point."

The air grew colder.

Not the creeping chill of Skyrim's nights, but a sharper breath—a sudden shift. The flames in the hearth flickered, bowing eastward as if acknowledging a presence.

One of the great doors creaked open.

The guards turned, hands brushing the hilts of their weapons, but Ulfric only lifted his head.

She stepped through slowly. Her boots were silent against the stone floor, but her presence was anything but. She wasn't armored like a warrior nor dressed like a noble. Her hair fell like black silk around her shoulders, framing a face that seemed carved of midnight and moonlight. Her eyes—gods, her eyes—were a violet not found in nature. Not in this world, anyway.

But none of that struck Ulfric first.

No, what struck him was the stillness that fell. The fire. The wind. Even Galmar stopped mid-grumble. It was as if the palace itself recognized her.

She blinked, wary but calm, and walked forward with the confidence of someone who knew her path and yet had no desire to trample others to reach it.

"My name is Sáraeth," she said, voice quiet but unwavering. "I've come to join the Stormcloaks."

Galmar scoffed behind his beard. "You're a bit late, lass. We don't usually hold recruitment at three bells past midnight."

Ulfric didn't move. He was watching her too closely. The way she stood. The way her breath misted like smoke from a mountain forge. Something in his chest stirred, slow and strange. Not recognition exactly, but remembrance. Like a scent from a dream.

"Is this a joke to you?" Galmar went on, stepping forward. "We don't take just anyone into our ranks."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not just anyone," Sáraeth said simply, her gaze flicking to him, then back to Ulfric.

Ulfric finally stepped closer. Not far. Just enough.

"Why do you want to fight for Skyrim?" he asked.

"Because it's my home," she said. "And I don't want to see it sold to those who have no right to it."

Simple words. But they rang like steel on stone. The truth behind them—not bluster, not fire, not the fury of a zealot, but something deeper. Something older.

Ulfric's jaw tightened, though he didn’t understand why. The hall suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Or perhaps that was her.

Galmar grunted again, stepping back, appeased enough for now.

"We'll see what you're made of soon enough," he muttered.

But Ulfric hadn’t looked away. Not once.

As she turned to follow Galmar to the barracks for initial orders, her eyes lingered on the Jarl. Just for a second.

And in that second, something ancient stirred.

Something that hadn’t spoken his name in lifetimes whispered it again.

He didn’t know her.

But part of him had always known she would come.

Chapter Text

Galmar stood at the hearth again, his arms folded, eyes hard as the embers.

"You didn't stop me," he said at length, glancing sideways at Ulfric.

Ulfric remained silent.

"You always stop me when I send them to Serpentstone. Tell me to ease up, tell me not to waste potential. But not this time."

Ulfric finally turned. His eyes were distant, not unfocused but looking beyond.

"Because she’ll come back."

Galmar grunted. "That’s not confidence. That’s prophecy."

Ulfric said nothing.

"You just met her, Ulfric. A slip of a girl in silk sleeves and boots unscuffed by real travel. You didn’t even see her lift a blade."

"I saw enough."

Galmar studied him for a moment longer, and something in his weathered face softened into reluctant wonder.

"I don’t know what passed between you two in those few minutes, but I’ll tell you this—if she does come back, I’ll owe you a drink."

Ulfric’s lips quirked slightly, the closest thing to a smile he'd shown in days.

"Make it Firebrand."

"Expensive taste, my Jarl."

"For what she’s about to survive, she’ll have earned it."

Galmar nodded, then paused at the edge of the hearth. "You know she won't be the same when she returns."

Ulfric turned back to the fire. "Neither will we."

The doors opened before the guards could even announce her. She walked through with the last of twilight curling behind her like a second cloak.

Her hair was wind-tossed and tangled, snow melting in glistening rivulets down her shoulders. Her cloak was torn at one edge, and her right gauntlet bore a long rent across the leather—but her spine was straight, her gaze steady, and she carried the severed ice wraith's head in one hand, wrapped in coarse wool.

Galmar stood there, halfway into a mug of mead, and stopped mid-sip. His eyes widened. "Well I'll be damned."

She didn’t say a word. Just walked forward and dropped the bundle at his feet with a quiet, frozen thud.

Ulfric had stepped down from the dais. He was closer than she remembered. Or maybe the world had simply shifted while she’d been away.

Galmar let out a low whistle. "You actually made it back. Gods, woman. I didn’t think you would."

She finally spoke, voice a little hoarse from the cold. "Then it's a good thing Ulfric did."

Galmar shot a look at Ulfric. "Yeah, well... I owe him a drink."

"Make it two," Ulfric murmured. His eyes hadn't left her.

Galmar cleared his throat and motioned toward the war table. "We’re marching on Korvanjund. We leave within the hour. Think you're up for another fight, lass?"

Ulfric opened his mouth to speak—perhaps to protest, to grant her rest—but she beat him to it.

"Yes."

The word was crisp, immediate, not forced.

Galmar raised a brow. "Stubborn like a proper Nord. Good. Get yourself something hot to eat and gear up. You ride with us."

He stomped off toward the map, muttering to himself about Imperial spies.

Ulfric remained.

She turned to him, brow lifting faintly. "Something wrong, my Jarl?"

He shook his head, a breath leaving him in something dangerously close to amusement. "Only that I was right."

She tilted her head. "That’s not so rare, is it?"

His gaze flicked over her—tired, snow-dusted, slightly bloodied—and yet standing taller than anyone else in the hall.

"No," he said. "Not lately."

She held his gaze a moment longer, then inclined her head. And walked away to ready for battle. He watched her go.

The wind shifted again.

The moon hung heavy and low when Sáraeth returned to Windhelm.

Her armor was dusted with blood and soot, a shallow slash across her bicep seeping blood slowly through the torn leather. Snow clung to her lashes. The Jagged Crown—ancient and regal in its strange, uncomfortable glory—was strapped to her belt like the head of a beast.

She walked alone through the Palace of Kings. For once, there were no guards announcing her. No Galmar growling instructions. No shield-brothers nearby.

Only Ulfric.

In the war room he stood by the hearth, still in partial armor, the light of the fire limning the edge of his jaw and catching in the pale fur at his collar.

He turned as she entered, gaze tracking every step she made. Her limp was slight, but there. Her shoulders heavy, though she did not bow. Her presence filled the room like thunder that hadn't yet cracked.

She stopped before him and dropped to one knee, unfastening the Jagged Crown from her belt and offering it up with both hands.

"Korvanjund is ours. We lost one shield sister. Ralof fought like Ysgramor reborn. Galmar says you owe him a drink."

Ulfric didn't take the crown.

Not immediately.

His eyes—piercing, searching—rested on her longer than they should have. There was something different. A faint humming in the air, like the echo of a drum only he could hear. His throat tightened.

"You found something there," he said.

Her hands twitched slightly on the crown. She looked up.

"A wall," she murmured. "Old. Covered in strange glyphs. The others had remained in the main chamber... but I... it spoke to me. It sang to me, my lord."

Ulfric inhaled slowly, his face unreadable. "A Word Wall."

Sáraeth frowned. "You know of it?"

"Only from the monks. The Greybeards. But I've never seen one in the wilds. Never felt one."

He stepped closer. The flicker of the hearthlight caught a glint of something beneath his surface. Not fear. Not awe.

Recognition.

"You carry more now than you did before," he said softly.

She blinked. Her voice was hoarse. "I don't know what it means."

Ulfric reached out and took the crown, but not before his fingers brushed hers—and something passed between them, sharp and silent as lightning in winter.

"It means the wind knows your name," he said. "And Skyrim listens."

She swallowed.

He turned, placing the Jagged Crown carefully on the stone table near the map.

Then, to her surprise, he poured two drinks from the bottle Galmar had stashed behind his chair.

He handed one to her.

"To fallen shield-sisters," he said.

"And debt paid in mead," she replied.

They drank in silence. And the wind outside howled not in warning, but in welcome.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely risen over Windhelm, its pale light struggling through the frost-smeared windows of the Palace of Kings. Sáraeth stepped quietly down from the guest quarters, her feet bare against the chilled stone floor, dressed not in her armor—for it was no longer where she'd left it—but in a simple woolen tunic and trousers. The soft grey fabric clung comfortably to her frame, smelling faintly of cedar and soap.

She reached the war room and approached Ysrald Thrice-Pierced, who stood beside the great map reviewing reports. "My armor," she said softly, brow furrowed. "Do you know where it is?"

Ysrald looked up, then gave her a brief smile. "By the Jarl's order, you're being fitted for Stormcloak armor today. Your old kit’s already been repurposed."

Before she could ask another question, a young page appeared and motioned for her to follow. Down in the armory that sat to the side of the guard barracks under the palace throne room, the smithy was waiting. He took quick and professional measurements, humming as he worked, adjusting pieces here and there.

"You fought well at Korvanjund," he said in his gravelly voice. "Galmar told me."

"I just did what needed doing," she replied.

He chuckled. "Aye. That’s what all the best ones say."

When the final adjustments had been made, he presented the armor to her—Stormcloak leathers trimmed in midnight blue, light but strong. Then, reverently, he unfolded something wrapped in oilcloth.

A cloak.

Heavy and warm, deep blue and black tartan threaded with silver-gray, lined in fur. The hood hung low, shadowing the face when drawn. Its weight felt ceremonial as he settled it across her shoulders.

She touched it carefully. "This isn’t standard issue."

The smithy gave a proud nod. "It isn't. That cloak belonged to the Jarl’s mother. Handwoven by her kin, passed through generations of her line—descendants of King Borgas himself. The same blood that last wore the Jagged Crown. Seems only right the one who returned it be cloaked in the legacy it came from."

Sáraeth’s breath caught. Her fingers curled in the wool.

"She died when Ulfric was just a lad. Fever, they say. He’s kept it preserved all this time. Said it was meant for someone who would understand what it cost him to let it go."

Before she could respond, the smith handed her a newly forged war axe, etched with runes that shimmered faintly. She took it in her right hand, its weight fitting her grip as if made for her. It was.

Footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Ulfric entered the hall, already speaking to someone behind him, but the moment his eyes fell upon her—cloaked in the shroud of his mother’s legacy—his voice faltered. He stopped short.

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other.

"I didn’t know," she began, voice low. "I didn’t realize what this meant."

He stepped forward, gaze heavy with things unsaid. "Neither did I. Until I saw you in it."

She lowered her eyes, touched.

Ulfric cleared his throat. "There’s a message that must be delivered to Whiterun. An axe."

Her head lifted slowly.

"You needn't speak a word to Balgruuf. He’ll know what it means. But be warned—he's proud, and his temper is... unpredictable."

He stepped closer, handing her the axe. His axe. "There's a carriage waiting at the stables. It'll take you to Whiterun."

She accepted it silently.

"Will you wear the cloak?"

She nodded. "If you’ll permit it."

Ulfric’s expression softened, just a touch. "It was never mine to keep."

She bowed her head, then turned, cloak trailing like twilight behind her.

And Ulfric stood there a moment longer, feeling as though the past had finally exhaled—and the future had just taken its first breath.

Chapter Text

The carriage ride was long and quiet. Sáraeth barely stirred, her thoughts turned inward, the weight of the meaning behind the Jagged Crown, the new armor, and Ulfric’s axe heavy with more than steel. As Whiterun's gates loomed into view, she adjusted the cloak around her shoulders. It smelled faintly of cold woodsmoke and something else... like the memory of loss.

She was ushered into Dragonsreach without delay, the guards stepping aside with wary glances. Jarl Balgruuf sat upon his throne, his children bickering softly in the background, but his gaze snapped toward her the moment she stepped into the hall.

His eyes locked on the cloak.

The silence thickened.

"That cloak..." he said slowly, rising to his feet. "I haven’t seen it since..."

She stepped forward, stopping a respectful distance from the dais. "It was given to me to wear, Jarl."

"Not by Ulfric," he said, not accusingly, but as though confirming something he’d already suspected. "That was his mother’s. Gods. He’s never let anyone touch it since she died."

She unslung the axe from her back and stepped closer, presenting it with both hands.

"He asked me to deliver this. He said you’d know what it meant."

Balgruuf didn’t take it. He stared at her instead, then at the cloak again.

"You’re not Stormcloak-born," he said at last. "But you walk like one who bleeds for Skyrim."

"I was not sent to speak," she said quietly. "But if I may..."

Balgruuf gave a curt nod.

She continued, voice calm, steady. "You say you fight for the people of Whiterun, for peace. But peace has been purchased with silence. With Thalmor bootprints on your sovereignty. Ulfric may shout like a storm, but at least his voice is his own."

Balgruuf frowned, shifting. "You think I don’t know what they’ve done? I’ve seen their emissaries watching my court. I know what it cost us to sign the White-Gold Concordat."

"Then you know the Empire will never stand for us. They bend, and bleed, and call it duty. But Skyrim breaks, and from the pieces, we build anew."

There was a pause. Then a breath.

"That cloak," he said, quieter now, "was once offered to my mother. Ulfric’s father hoped to marry our houses. My mother refused, but it was gifted in friendship regardless. She gave it back the night she chose a different path and married my father."

Sáraeth's eyes widened faintly. "And now it returns to your hall, not as a bribe, but as a reminder."

He nodded slowly.

"Ulfric knew," she murmured. "That you’d remember. That it might sway you."

Balgruuf finally stepped down and took the axe from her hands.

"It did."

Then, as she turned to go, he called after her.

"Stormcloak."

She paused.

"You tell Ulfric this—he may yet make a king worthy of that crown. But it’s not him I’m betting on. It’s the one who wears his mother’s cloak."

When she stepped back into the Palace of Kings, cloak slightly travel-worn and brow creased with fatigue, Ulfric stood by the hearth again, hands behind his back.

She bowed her head, voice low. "Whiterun stands with us."

His eyes met hers, holding her gaze.

"I know."

She removed the cloak from her shoulders, folded it reverently, and approached him. "It served its purpose. I return it to its rightful place."

He did not take it.

"Most people don't return a Jarl’s gift so readily," he said.

"I’m not most people."

He stepped forward and gently draped the cloak back across her shoulders.

"No," he said softly. "You’re not. And it was never meant for anyone else."

She said nothing. Could say nothing.

He nodded toward the war table, adorned with a map covered in miniature blue and red flags as though it were a child’s game. "Come. We’ve a battle to plan. Skyrim has chosen her voice."

And she followed, the weight of destiny warm on her shoulders.

Chapter Text

Two days passed before she was summoned again to the throne room. This time, Sáraeth was rested, cleaned, and more composed—but no less uncertain. Her new armor creaked softly as she moved, the cloak a silent weight across her shoulders. When she stepped through the doors, Ulfric was already there, seated this time, eyes focused on something only he could see.

"Sáraeth," he said without preamble, rising as she approached.

She bowed her head. "Jarl."

He motioned her forward and studied her a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Galmar has remained in Whiterun to root out sympathizers and secure the city. But you..."

He paused, and there was something almost hesitant in the way his gaze drifted briefly to the cloak.

"I suspect you’ll serve the cause best with freedom. The Legion won’t know where you’ll appear next, and Galmar will meet you in Falkreath in a fortnight."

She blinked. "You’re not assigning me?"

"No." He stepped down from the dais. "I trust your instincts more than I trust any orders I could give."

There it was again—the quiet pull between them, invisible but inescapable. She felt it in her marrow. The longer she stood in his presence, the harder it became to breathe evenly. She wanted to ask why, why her, but her throat refused.

Ulfric stepped closer, lowering his voice. "That cloak... it stirred more than memory. You wear it like it belongs to you."

She swallowed. "Perhaps it chose me."

He almost smiled. Almost.

"We call you Ice-Veins now," he said. "You’ve shown what you’re made of. What your blood holds."

The name hit her like a blade, sharp and reverent all at once.

She nodded slowly. "Then I will make sure it is a name the Empire learns to fear."

He held her gaze. "Go. For now. But remember... if ever your path grows too heavy, Windhelm is not just your duty. It is your home."

And for a moment, she believed him.

She turned to leave, every footstep echoing with purpose—and questions she dared not yet ask.

And behind her, Ulfric watched until the doors closed, his hand brushing once more across the back of his neck—where the ghost of his mother’s voice still whispered, She is the wind, my son. The storm will follow.

The road to Falkreath was long, winding through forests choked with mist and the scent of pine and old ghosts. But it was the scorched sky over Helgen that drew her like a magnet to iron.

The town still burned.

The great wooden gates lay broken, the towers collapsed like snapped bones. Charred corpses and blackened ruins littered the path, and the once-great keep stood gutted and open to the stars. No guards. No soldiers. No voices. Only the crackle of dying embers, weeks cold, and the whisper of ash dancing on the wind.

Sáraeth stood motionless, her boots rooted in the ash.

She remembered...

The cart jostled roughly beneath her, wheels crunching over gravel and bone. Her wrists were bound. Her vision blurred with sweat and panic. Ralof sat opposite her, blue eyes fierce with defiance. Ulfric Stormcloak sat to her right, bound and gagged, his presence undeniable. Even voiceless, he radiated fury like a forge just before the fire.

"You're finally awake," Ralof had said, voice etched with calm resolve.

And then the gates of Helgen rose before them like a maw waiting to consume.

The executioner.

The block.

The priestess’s chant.

Her knees in the dirt. Her eyes to the sky.

And then—fire.

A scream that shattered stone.

The black dragon.

She staggered forward now in the present, crossing the ruined threshold of the keep. Her breath trembled. The walls wept smoke. The memories roared too loud to silence. This was where she'd been reborn. Not in Windhelm. Not even at Korvanjund. Here.

She touched the shattered archway where the dragon had breached the stone, the very breach she and Ralof had used to escape.

Ulfric had been there.

She had sat next to him.

That was the beginning. Not the battle at Whiterun. Not the Jagged Crown. This was where the seed had been planted. The Empire had tried to end her life for nothing. For merely being there. And he—Ulfric—he had burned with unspoken power even while bound. Ralof’s voice had carried reverence every time he spoke of the man.

It wasn’t fate that brought her to Windhelm. It was the fire that had sparked in that cart, that day. Rage. Purpose. And something else.

She dropped to one knee inside the blackened hall. Her body trembled. The fear. The confusion. The terror.

And then—

A whisper, cool and delicate, slid across the back of her neck. You are the wind. The storm will follow.

She gasped. Arms enfolded her from behind. But there was no one there. Only the cloak.

The sacred weight of it pressed against her shoulders, soft and warm, like the embrace of a mother she'd never known. A love she had never received. It wasn’t Ulfric’s voice, nor Ralof’s. It was a woman’s voice. Ageless. Familiar as it was unknown.

Her limbs relaxed. Her breath slowed.

There in the ruins of death and memory, Sáraeth curled beneath the remnants of stone and history, and the warmth of something older than pain, and older than war.

And she slept, for the first time in her life, without fear.

Chapter Text

The sky was just beginning to stretch pink over the pines when Sáraeth arrived at the edge of the ridge overlooking the encampment. Smoke drifted from a small fire and she could see the shimmer of steel in the clearing below. A familiar voice carried upward on the wind.

"Sáraeth!"

Ralof grinned like a boy who'd won a bet. He strode toward her with the easy confidence of someone unshaken by war. His armor gleamed despite the dirt, and a short sword hung at his hip, clearly new.

"Stormcloaks are getting bolder, huh? Look at you. Practically glowing."

She managed a tired smile. "You’ve had command for five minutes and already you’re handing out compliments?"

He laughed, but then his eyes fell on the cloak. His steps slowed. His brows knit. "That’s... that’s not regulation, is it?"

Sáraeth looked down, suddenly self-conscious. The deep blue and black tartan caught the sunrise like a ripple of riverlight. She opened her mouth to deflect, to brush it off with some half-truth—

"Looks like something out of the Palace of Kings," Ralof muttered, then stopped himself. "Wait... That is something out of the Palace, isn’t it?"

Her silence was all the confirmation he needed.

"You mean to tell me... he gave you that?" He whistled low. "Damn. That cloak used to belong to..." He trailed off, eyes wide. Then, as expected, subtlety fled him entirely. "You sleeping with the Jarl or something?"

"Ralof!" she hissed, scandalized.

He raised his hands. "Hey, no judgment! I just don’t know what kind of favors get paid in Windhelm these days. But you gotta admit, that’s some fine stitching. Royal, even. Never seen him give anything like that away."

She exhaled slowly. "It was... a gesture of trust. That’s all."

"Sure," he said, clearly unconvinced. Then, with an exaggerated glance up and down, added, "Still, if you want to, uh... bestow some trust on an old friend, I’ve got some free space in my tent."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the small smirk that curled her mouth. "Focus, Commander."

Ralof chuckled, but then his tone shifted.

"Right. Fort Neugrad. We've got brothers and sisters in there being held by the damned Legion. My scouts found a cave that leads inside. Quiet way to get in undetected. That's where you come in."

She nodded. "Free the prisoners, open the courtyard."

"Exactly. Once we hear the fight start outside, we’ll hit them from the front. But you’re the key to this, Sáraeth. I knew you’d come through."

She glanced down at the cloak again.

The wind shifted.

"I intend to."

The water was bone-deep cold. Sáraeth gritted her teeth as she slipped beneath the surface, her limbs moving with grim determination as the darkness swallowed her whole. Each stroke burned, the chill gnawing at her joints, biting into the marrow of her bones. She clutched her sealed horker-skin satchel above the waterline until she passed through the narrow channel and finally found the jagged ledge that marked the interior cave entrance.

She hauled herself out, breath ragged, skin puckered and bluish from the frigid plunge. There in the darkness, she stripped off the remnants of her soaked undergarments and rubbed herself down briskly with a coarse cloth from her pack. She pulled on her armor piece by piece, fingers stiff with cold but refusing to falter. Her Stormcloak cloak—Ulfric’s mother’s cloak—was still dry, nestled at the bottom of the horker-skin bag, and she wrapped it around her shoulders with an almost reverent touch.

It was then that she spotted the lone guard, slouched at his post, unaware. Moments later, he was dead. The prison key hung at his belt. She took it, steeling herself as she entered the cells.

Eight beds. But only four men. Gods-damned Imperials.

She freed them in silence. Grim eyes met hers, and none asked for a name. She retrieved their confiscated gear. They dressed, armed, and fell into step behind her like lost wolves returned to the pack.

The march through the keep was swift, brutal. Steel clanged and cries echoed as they took the fight all the way out to the courtyard. The timing was perfect: just as the gates groaned open, Ralof and his squad surged through with a rallying cry.

Victory came not gently, but it came. More than an hour later, bloodied but alive, Sáraeth wiped her blade clean and found Ralof.

"You should head back to Windhelm," he told her, clapping a hand on her shoulder. "Ulfric will want to hear of this."

She nodded but said nothing.

The journey back blurred. The cold was constant. Her joints ached. Her vision swam. Wolves had ambushed her outside Falkreath—one had sunk its teeth into her calf. She’d won the fight but the damage was done. Rockjoint had taken root. The water from the cave, the fevered battle, the infection... it was too much.

She made it as far as Windhelm's stables. Then the world tilted.

She fell.

Chapter Text

The room was warm, firelight playing across stone and banners. Ulfric stood by the window of his chambers, the long stretch of Eastmarch Valley bathed in frost beyond the glass. His eyes, however, were not on the horizon.

Behind him, footsteps. Urgent. The door opened. "They've brought her in," Brunwulf Free-Winter murmured. "She collapsed outside the gates."

"Bring her here," Ulfric said immediately.

Moments later, she was carried in by two guards, her body limp, skin flushed with fever. Her armor had been hastily removed, bundled in the arms of one of the men. Her cloak—his mother’s cloak—still clung to her like it had refused to let go.

"Wuunferth!" Ulfric barked.

The court wizard emerged from the shadows, his face etched with concern. He glanced at the young apprentice from the White Phial who trailed behind him.

"We'll need fire salts, snowberries, and tundra cotton," the old mage said. "This is rockjoint, but it’s deep. The cold has worsened it."

Ulfric crossed the room, knelt beside her. She murmured something in her fever dream, her hand twitching, fingers curling as if gripping a blade.

He reached out, brushed damp strands of hair from her brow.

"You stubborn woman," he whispered. "Always bleeding for this land. A true daughter indeed." He swallowed and almost unintelligibly added, “A true queen.”

She looked so small now. And still she wore that gods-damned cloak.

He stood and turned to the others. "Do whatever it takes. Save her."

And then he stayed. Through the hours. Through the burning fevers and the quiet weeping of alchemical steam, he stayed.

Days passed before she woke. Her fever broke slowly, like a storm receding, leaving only the quiet aftermath. Wuunferth declared her clear of the worst, though the fatigue lingered. She was moved to a guest chamber, though her cloak was never far.

When she could finally rise, she asked to see Ulfric.

He met her in the war room, where he stood over the map of Skyrim, one hand resting on the table’s edge. He turned as she entered.

"You look less like death," he said with the barest flicker of a smile.

"And you look more like a man who's aged a dozen winters in a week," she replied, stepping forward.

He studied her. "I heard what happened. You freed those men. Turned the tide. Even in illness, you rode back alone. You’re not just brave, Sáraeth. You’re something else entirely."

She dipped her head. "I was only doing what was needed."

He moved to the side table, opened a long oak case, and retrieved something wrapped in deep blue velvet. He handed it to her.

She opened it.

A glass sword. Its greenish shimmer glinted like frost in sunlight, its edge sharp and cold. But more than its craftsmanship, it felt… heavy. Weighted with memory.

"It’s Thalmor-made," he said. "Elven glass. I took it from the first of their guards I killed the night I escaped their dungeon. For years, I kept it as a reminder of what I endured—and what I overcame. But now, it feels like it belongs to someone who has earned it anew."

She looked up, stunned.

"Are you sure?"

"I’ve never been more sure. The men have taken to calling you Bone-Breaker. A name earned, not given. Evidence of your ferocity and determination. A fitting name."

Her hand tightened around the hilt. She couldn’t find the words.

"And…" he added, more quietly, almost shyly, "I need capable and loyal warriors close at hand. So I'd like to offer you a home here in Windhelm. Speak to my steward. He'll make the arrangements."

Her gaze darted up. "A home?"

He shrugged one shoulder, trying to appear casual. "It’s not... well, it’s not nothing. But it’s not everything either. Just something for you to consider."

She nodded, still unsure what to say. "Thank you."

Later that day, Galmar cornered Ulfric in the corridor.

"A home? Really? And the glass sword? Gods' breath, Ulfric, just bed her and get it over with."

Ulfric gave him a long, unreadable look. "It’s not like that."

Galmar snorted. "Aye. And the sky's not blue."

Ulfric said nothing, only walked away, cloak trailing behind him like storm clouds gathering on the wind.

Chapter Text

Windhelm was colder than she remembered—though perhaps it was just the fatigue that lingered in her bones. Sáraeth had chosen to delay her next orders, opting instead to assist with a matter that plagued her would-be home: the serial murders that cast a long, dark shadow across the entirety of the city she was growing to love.

Her intuition guided her. Clues unearthed, trails followed, whispers in the night that finally led to a moonlit chase through the market and into the depths of the Stone Quarter. There, cloaked in shadow and moonlight, she caught the killer with his blade raised over a would-be victim. She struck fast and true, and his head rolled across the cobblestones, his dark purpose forever ended.

The steward, Jorleif, was stunned by her report but wasted no time in making good on the Jarl’s offer. Hjerim, the large estate nestled in the city’s noble quarter, would be cleaned and prepared for her.

With time before the home would be ready, she wandered through the city’s streets until she found herself beneath the looming spires of the Temple of Talos. The heavy doors creaked open, and she stepped into the stillness of incense and candlelight.

She dropped to her knees before the shrine.

"Talos… if you truly walk among us, then hear me. I am lost in this wind you’ve thrown me into. What is it I’m meant to become? What is this path? What am I to him?"

Silence answered her. But it wasn’t empty. The temple doors opened behind her. Soft footsteps echoed across the stone floor. She didn't need to look.

"You found your way here," she murmured.

Ulfric’s voice was quiet, reverent. "As did you."

She rose slowly, turning to face him. "I didn’t know what else to do."

"I didn’t either," he confessed, eyes lingering on her with the weight of unspoken truth. "But I couldn’t stay away. Not tonight." He stepped closer, gaze searching hers. "The cloak... the sword... the house... I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. It’s just—"

"You keep giving me pieces of yourself, Ulfric."

He paused, pain and wonder mingling behind his eyes. "And you keep carrying them with honor."

The silence that fell between them was not uncomfortable. It was filled with shared weight, unspoken promises, and something older than either of them. She finally looked back to the shrine.

"I asked him to show me my Destiny."

Ulfric stepped beside her, his voice low. "Perhaps he just did."

The road west to retrieve the Shatter-Shield heirloom was long and bitter with frost, the wind howling through the trees like a lament. Sáraeth traveled in solitude, her thoughts heavy with all that had transpired—the cloak, the sword, the unspoken truth shared within Talos’s temple. She told herself she was doing this for Windhelm. For Skyrim. But deep down, she knew she also did it for him.

The trail led into the high mountain passes, a treacherous stretch of land infested with beasts and worse. And it was there, at the foot of a crumbling cliffside path, that fate reared its head.

The dragon came like thunder, a blood dragon—its scales glistening like crimson steel, its roar shaking loose boulders from above. She barely had time to react when the wolves came, too—four of them, then two more, ice-coated fangs bared and eyes wild with hunger.

The world became chaos.

Steel clashed against fang and talon. Blood—hers and theirs—splattered across the snow. The dragon swooped low, knocking her from her feet. Pain roared through her body. She rose anyway.

And when the dragon’s body finally crumpled to the earth, its soul did not die—it entered her. Fire and power surged through every inch of her being. Her breath caught and then erupted from her throat in a great shout the likes of which she had never before uttered or heard.

Time slowed.

No, she had slowed it. The wolves moved like shadows in molasses, their snarls drawn out, their claws barely raised.

She moved like lightning. Her axe sang with fury and purpose. One. Two. Three—until the last wolf fell twitching at her feet.

She stood still, shaking, breath fogging in the air. And then the earth itself seemed to call her name.

DOVAHKIIN.

It boomed from the heavens, echoed off mountaintops and froze her blood. The voice of the Greybeards—keepers of the Voice. Calling for her.

She fell to her knees.

Was it possible? Could she truly be…?

She closed her eyes, one hand clutching her side where blood still seeped. She took a potion, swallowed hard against the ache.

And then she stood again.

"Later," she whispered to the wind. "I’ll face it later. Right now... I have a promise to keep."

She pressed onward.

Chapter Text

Windhelm’s courtyard bustled with the rhythmic clang of armor and the bark of orders. Ulfric Stormcloak stood at the head of a troop inspection, eyes narrowed, posture taut. Galmar stood beside him, silent as ever—until the world shook.

The sky trembled.

DOVAHKIIN.

Every soldier froze.

The call rolled through the stone and into their bones.

Galmar turned sharply. "What in Shor’s name was that? Who could they be summoning?"

Ulfric said nothing for a moment. His breath fogged in the air. His eyes closed. He knew. He felt it in the marrow of his bones, in the quiet hum of his blood. He opened his eyes slowly and answered, voice steady as stone.

"Her."

Galmar’s head turned, surprise etched in every line of his face. But he did not speak. Not yet.

Something greater than them, than General Tullius, than the Empire, than Skyrim itself, had just awakened. And both men knew—Skyrim’s storm was only just beginning.

Raldbthar loomed like a slumbering god carved in brass and steam, half-buried in snow and silence. The wind howled at Sáraeth’s back as she climbed, cutting through her cloak, but she pushed ever forward, her blood alight with purpose.

The two bandits posted outside never saw her coming. Her axe blade whispered through the first throat before the cry could leave it, and the second crumpled without ever drawing steel.

Inside, warmth swallowed her whole, the scent of oil and stone thick in the air. It was massive—towering structures, humming conduits, a forgotten world of lost mastery. Her breath caught in awe. It was the first dwarven ruin she had ever seen, and it shook her to her bones.

She moved through it like judgment given form, swift and silent, steel flashing in the flickering light of ancient lamps. Bandits fell like wheat before the scythe. She did not revel in the bloodshed—she mourned it. Every kill was a prayer. Every death a redemption not for the wicked, but for the innocent who’d suffered beneath them.

Alain Dufont fell alone. His guards dropped from dwarven ballistae mounted above, and by the time he realized what had happened, her blade was already at his throat.

"You stole from a grieving father," she said, voice like winter. "This is Skyrim’s answer."

Aegisbane pulsed with ancestral weight as she lifted it from Dufont’s cooling hands. She could feel the memory in it—the honor, the blood, the sorrow. She strapped it to her back and pushed deeper into the ruin, clearing it of every last stain of corruption.

By the time she stepped back into Windhelm, she was stained with soot and blood, a newly-minted expert on how to defeat dwarven mechanisms, and limping slightly but unbowed. She entered the Palace of Kings just as dusk colored the great windows.

Torbjorn Shatter-Shield sat at the feast table, hunched and hollow-eyed. She walked to him in silence and unslung the warhammer.

"Torbjorn," she said quietly.

He looked up. She knelt, laying the weapon across her palms, and offered it up.

"May Talos light your path, shield brother."

He took the hammer with shaking hands, and tears carved down his cheeks. The hall was still. Even Galmar and Jorleif said nothing.

She turned to go.

And found Ulfric blocking her path. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes burned with storm. He gestured for her to follow him, and she did, heart hammering. They stepped into the war room, now empty, quiet save for the crackle of flame.

"Was it you?" he asked, low and rough. "Atop some mountain pass, were you the one who brought down the dragon?"

She blinked, caught between instinct and truth.

He stepped closer. "Did you feel its soul enter yours? Did you shout, Sáraeth? Did the world slow around you, as if Time itself bent to your voice?"

Her breath caught. "Yes."

He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes, as though he had known but needed the words.

"Then it is you," he murmured. "I felt it. The first time I laid eyes on you—in that wagon. I thought it was madness, a half-broken dream... but I felt your blood sing to mine. Now I know why."

She took a shaky step back. "I don’t know what I’m meant to be. I just... I do what must be done."

He opened his eyes. "That is the very nature of a Dragonborn. Not prophecy. Choice."

She stared at him, the moment crackling with a tension neither of them could name. Then he nodded once, almost reverently.

"You brought back more than a warhammer today. You brought back hope. And a storm far greater than even I imagined."

They stood in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, as the fire whispered and the snow howled beyond the walls. And somewhere above them, on the throat of the world, destiny stirred.

Chapter Text

The snow was thick enough to muffle a scream and the wind bitter enough to bite bone, but Sáraeth stood tall as Ulfric explained the task at hand: a bounty on a giant at Steamcrag Camp. Not unusual in Skyrim, but this one had slaughtered an entire Khajiit caravan—traders, guards, even children. Four adventurers had already tried to fulfill the bounty. None returned. One had taken four others with him. Still—none.

Ulfric hadn’t cared overmuch at first. But then Ri’saad came to him in person, eyes shadowed, his voice heavy with both dignity and sorrow. Something shifted within him at the depth of distress within the cat’s strange speech patterns.

“It ends now,” Ulfric said grimly as Ri’saad left the Palace of Kings. “No more Nords die on my watch.” He watched the cat’s tail disappear through the great doors. “No more of any lives.”

Now, Sáraeth rode beside him, the royal tartan billowing around her like a banner. Her beloved steel runed axe strapped to her belt. A small contingent of Ulfric’s personal guard followed behind—among them, Ralof, with his usual lopsided grin and snow-streaked shoulders.

As the storm pressed in and the hooves of their horses trudged through the deepening frost, Ulfric broke the silence.

“Have you heard of High Hrothgar?”

“In stories,” she said softly. “Where the Greybeards live.”

“They’re real. And they’ve summoned you.”

Her throat tightened.

He glanced sidelong at her. “Do you know what that means?”

“No.” Then, after a beat: “Yes. Maybe.”

He exhaled. “They don’t Speak lightly. They don’t summon anyone lightly.”

Another beat of silence.

“I trained there,” he said. “When I was a boy.”

She turned to look at him.

“They chose me. Said I was to walk the Way of the Voice.” He smirked faintly. “I didn’t stay. Couldn’t. Not when the world bled and men sat in silence.”

“You left?” she asked.

“I had to. My thu’um was forged for war, not for worshipping the sky. And Skyrim... Skryim was dying.”

They fell quiet again, save for the crunch of snow beneath their horses’ hooves.

Then Ulfric added, low and deliberate, “You’re stronger than I was. They’ll need you.”

When they reached Steamcrag, two giants rose to meet them. The battle was brutal. Roars shook the earth. Sáraeth’s shout slowed time just long enough to dodge a bone-crushing swing. Ulfric’s voice cracked the sky like thunder, throwing the smaller of the two giants to the ground so hard that it shook, nearly toppling them all. Steel clanged, snow churned red, and at last, the giants fell for good.

Ulfric strode over their broken corpses, breaths coming in great heaves, blood steaming on his sword.

“We press to the camp now?” she asked, breath equally heavy.

“No,” he said. “We go to Ivarstead. You climb. You’ll not go alone.”

She blinked at him. “Ulfric, you don’t need to—”

“I will,” he said, steel in his tone. “Not just because you’re Dragonborn. But because you are a Stormcloak, and mine to protect, whether you accept it or not.”

From behind them, Ralof coughed.

“I hope we’re talkin’ about protection in the military sense, brother.”

“Ralof,” Ulfric growled.

Sáraeth smothered her laughter behind a hand.

The snow continued to fall—but now it tasted sweeter, like fate just waiting to unfold.

The road curled like a serpent through the white-powdered pines, and though their breaths fogged in the cold, the party rode with warmth in their chests. The kind that only comes after shared bloodshed, after victory.

Ulfric had watched her fight a giant, now buried in the snow behind them. He had seen her shout time itself into stillness. And now, riding beside her with the wind at their backs, he felt a deep, terrible gravity pulling them toward something greater. Toward truth.

“Keep your eyes sharp,” he muttered to Ralof, riding just behind them.

But it was Ulfric who saw it first. A shadow against the sun. The scream that split the sky.

“Dragon!” Ralof barked, already drawing steel.

“No,” Ulfric said, eyes narrowing. “This one’s ours.”

The dragon dove like a god fallen from the heavens, jaws spread, fire licking across the tree line. The world erupted in chaos. Snow exploded into steam as it met dragonflame. One of the Stormcloaks was thrown from his horse with a cry.

But Sáraeth had already dismounted, eyes gleaming with the light of a thousand battles yet to come.

“Together,” Ulfric said, drawing close to her. “We end it.”

She nodded once. And they shouted as one.

FUS RO DAH!

The Thu’um cracked the air like a hammer to glass. The dragon reeled, wings faltering, crashing into the snow-packed ground with a thunderous boom. Before it could rise again, both warriors charged.

Ulfric launched himself onto its side, his war axe biting into scaled flesh. Sáraeth darted up its back like a shadow on fire, her runed axe in one hand, a biting, instantaneous freeze spell gathering in the other.

It roared, thrashed, tail slamming the ground. But they moved as if choreographed by gods. She drove her axe into the base of its skull. He plunged his blade through its heart. The dragon let out one last agonized scream—and then everything stopped.

Its body convulsed, burning from within. The fire turned golden, then ethereal, peeling away its skin in streaming ribbons of light. Sáraeth stumbled back, barely able to brace herself as the energy gathered—swirled—and rushed into her like a river of stars.

The others watched in stunned silence. Ralof’s mouth hung open. Ulfric… fell to one knee. Because he saw it. He saw the soul enter her. He felt the wind shift. He felt Time bow to her.

When the light finally faded, the dragon’s skeleton lay curled at her feet like a throne of bone. The air pulsed with power. Sáraeth stood at the center, breathing hard, skin dusted in ash and glory. A glow lit her eyes from within and he had never in his life witnessed anything more glorious, more…beautiful.

Ulfric rose, stepping forward slowly. “By the gods…”

Ralof dropped to one knee. “She’s the one.”

The future High King of Skyrim didn’t speak. He just looked at her—truly looked. Like a man glimpsing the storm he’d been born to chase. She met his eyes, and in that moment, nothing else existed. Not the war. Not the gods. Only them, and the fire that had not consumed—but crowned her.

Chapter Text

The mouth of the cave beyond deceptively civilized iron doors yawned like a wound torn into the mountainside. Dusk was bleeding into night, and the cold bit at their cloaks as Ulfric, Sáraeth, and two Stormcloak guards stepped inside, the damp stone swallowing them in silence. Ralof had pitched their camp nearby, his face pale as he described the failed attempt to rescue a captive within.

“Falmer,” he’d muttered. “Too many, too fast. I barely got my men out alive.”

Ulfric had nodded, stone-faced, and turned to her. “Let’s see what frightened my second into retreat.”

Sáraeth had said nothing, though she’d bristled at the challenge buried in his tone.

The passage was narrow, slick with moss, glowing mushrooms, strange blueish light emanating from stone and steeped in a cold deeper than the icebergs that dotted the Sea of Ghosts. The stink of rot and long-dead water clung to every surface, and in the shadows, movement slithered.

They fought.

The Falmer descended like insects—skittering, shrieking, blades of chitin and jagged steel flashing in the gloom. Sáraeth was a storm in motion, her war axe singing through bone, her spells dancing like ice-bound death. Ulfric’s own war axe moved with brutal elegance, his thu’um shaking the stones when a cluster of the blinded former elves and their vermin dared to box them in.

Eventually, they broke through to a strange, dome-like chamber carved with ancient Dwemer architecture and half-flooded with icy water. In its center, locked behind rusted metal bars, was an Argonian—lean, scaled, with bright, sharp eyes full of weary calculation.

Ulfric approached, frowning. “That’s who Ralof risked lives for?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. “An Argonian.”

Sáraeth didn’t hesitate. She moved toward the barred gate, scanning the surroundings for a release switch.

“We don’t have time for this,” Ulfric said sharply. “You’ve a greater destiny. Let some scavenger rot. We need to move—”

She turned to him, eyes flashing. “Is that what you think he is? A scavenger unworthy of the mud on your boots?”

He blinked. “He’s not our concern. Not a Nord. Not one of ours.”

“He’s a person.”

Ulfric’s mouth tightened. “He wouldn’t lift a blade for Skyrim.”

“You don’t know that,” she shot back. “But even if he wouldn’t—do you truly believe your sword arm is reserved only for Nords? That a ruler chooses who deserves mercy by bloodline? How is that any better than the Aldmeri Dominion’s view of man, my jarl?”

He stepped toward her, anger beginning to cloud his features. “Sáraeth, your task—”

“No,” she interrupted. “This is my choice. You’re not the only one allowed to shape this land.”

She found the lever tucked behind a crumbling pillar and pulled it. The gate groaned and shuddered open. The Argonian stumbled out, his tail dragging, eyes wide with disbelief.

“You’re Stormcloak,” he rasped. “Why would you help me?”

“Because you're bleeding,” she said simply, offering her hand. “Because you're someone’s kin. Because you matter.”

The Argonian’s gaze lingered on her, full of a fragile hope as he took the offered gesture. “My name is Derkeethus. I worked Windhelm’s docks once. Was never treated as anything more than an ambulatory cargo carrier.”

Ulfric and the guards stood above, having dispatched a lurking Falmer Nightprowler while she was going after Derkeethus. They’d heard every word.

Sáraeth led the injured Argonian toward the exit, helping him over a fallen beam. He whispered, “You’re different. You shine.” He reached into a pouch and pressed a carved talisman into her palm—ivory and bone, etched with the alien, swirling script of Saxhleel. “From my homeland. May it guard your path.”

They parted outside. Derkeethus vanished into the shadows of the forest, the glint of his scales catching moonlight once before he disappeared.

Sáraeth donned the amulet for safekeeping then knelt beside the river, rinsing her axe and her hands of Falmer blood and entrails, staring into water that did not reflect the woman she’d once been.

Ulfric emerged behind her, the other guards having returned to help Ralof finish making camp and hunt for their evening meal. The wind hissed between them.

“You’re angry with me,” he said softly.

She didn’t turn. “Yes.”

He stepped closer. “I won’t apologize for protecting my people.”

“You should apologize,” she said coldly. “Not for protecting us—but for believing that protection should end at our borders. At our skin. At our blood.”

He exhaled slowly, the sound more tired than defensive. “I was raised in a world that taught me who mattered and who didn’t.”

“And now?”

He was silent for a time. The river spoke in trickles beside them as she used her trusty piece of wool scrap to dry her hands and blade.

Then: “Now, I see you. What you did. What it meant. And I... I want to be the man you think I am.”

She rose to full height and turned, finally meeting his gaze.

And for once, he didn’t look like a warrior. Not a king. Just a man, trying to be more. She nodded once, tightly, and without another word, walked back toward the firelight up the path beyond the rise.

Ulfric stood alone a moment longer, the constantly changing tenor of the river echoing his own uncertainty. Then he turned and followed.

Chapter Text

Ivarstead lay nestled quietly beneath the shadow of the Throat of the World, so peaceful that the arrival of Ulfric Stormcloak, Sáraeth, and their contingent of Stormcloak soldiers seemed to shatter its calm just by breathing its air. Villagers stopped and stared; a few waved nervously, clearly unsure what such an imposing force could mean for their simple lives.

Klimmek stood anxiously by the old stone bridge, gripping tightly at a satchel in his hands, visibly unsettled by so many armed warriors in his peaceful little town.

“Are you going up to High Hrothgar?” he asked Sáraeth, glancing nervously at Ulfric. “Mind taking these supplies? The monks rely on me, and—”

His words were swallowed by a furious roar that split the afternoon air, causing the townsfolk to scatter and Klimmek to dive for cover beneath the bridge itself. A massive bear, her fur rippling with muscle and fury, charged from the nearby den, claws tearing chunks from the ground.

Ulfric bellowed orders, and the soldiers rallied, but the beast was swift and enraged. Sáraeth launched herself forward, her axe gleaming with cold fire, its blade sinking into the bear's thick hide, slowing it enough for the Stormcloaks to bring it down. Panting, she looked around at her comrades, relief short-lived as her eyes found the dark mouth of the cave where the beast had emerged.

“There could be more,” she breathed, gripping her axe.

Ulfric nodded sharply, already moving toward the cave mouth. “We cannot leave these villagers to such danger.”

Inside, shadows swallowed them whole, lit only by torchlight that flickered eerily against jagged stone walls. They had scarcely moved deeper into the cave when two massive shapes stirred: a young male, already huge and powerful, and an older beast, scarred and battle-worn, rising up to a formidable height.

Chaos erupted. Soldiers scattered, drawing the younger bear away while Ulfric faced the older, its fur silvery and mottled with age. With a mighty roar, the bear lunged, and Ulfric’s axe met claw in a fierce, thunderous clash. The bear snarled, swiping so violently that his weapon was torn from his grasp, skittering across the stone floor into darkness.

Sáraeth’s heart stopped. "Ulfric!"

The bear lunged again, massive paw swiping down toward the High King-to-be. Ulfric’s shout formed too late on his lips, misaligned and weak, as the beast’s claws raked down his arm, tearing armor and flesh alike.

But Ulfric Stormcloak was made of sterner stuff, and in that moment, his Nord blood screamed the ancient songs of Sovngarde itself. Bare-handed and bleeding, he snarled with feral fury and threw himself bodily at the beast. Arms corded with muscle wrapped around the bear’s mighty neck, and Ulfric’s voice rang out, primal and raw.

“IN TALOS’ MIGHTY NAME!”

The beast roared, twisting, but Ulfric’s grip tightened relentlessly, muscles bulging as he wrestled the enormous creature into submission. The air thrummed with power, the walls reverberating with the sounds of man and beast locked in combat older than time itself.

Sáraeth stood frozen, breath held, awe and desire coursing through her veins like molten flame. She had seen Ulfric commanding from a throne, and shouting dragons down from the sky, yet never had she witnessed him like this—wild, primal, utterly unchained. Her dragon blood surged, crying out to meet this fierce, indomitable spirit that mirrored her own.

With a final, desperate twist, Ulfric roared his victory, muscles trembling, eyes blazing with triumph as the beast’s neck snapped beneath the sheer force of his arms. Silence followed, punctuated only by the rough, labored breathing of the victorious Jarl of Windhelm.

He rose, shaking, bloodied and bruised yet radiating an unmatched pride, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Sáraeth stepped forward involuntarily, drawn as if by fate, their eyes meeting and locking like two storms merging. Her blood surged, the dragon within her roaring to life, responding to this Nordic embodiment of strength and honor.

Suddenly, spontaneously, the air around them crackled, their voices joining in unison as they both shouted—pure, raw, and unfiltered:

“FUS RO DAH!”

The mountain itself seemed to quake beneath their joined Thu’um. Soldiers stumbled back, staring wide-eyed in wonder and fear, but Ralof’s expression shifted slowly from astonishment to a quiet, humbled resignation.

He had no illusions left; no foolish hopes remained. For he saw what every soul present saw clearly written in blood, sweat, and power: Ulfric Stormcloak and Sáraeth were bound together by a force greater than any mortal could hope to deny.

Outside, a being who long had slumbered at the top of the Throat of the World, stirred as the wind shifted yet again, whispering approval from ages past.

Chapter Text

They’d reached the seventh emblem when they saw her.

A woman of indeterminate age sat beside the stone, hooded and wrapped in a fur-lined cloak the color of storm clouds. Her hands rested neatly in her lap, eyes half-closed as if listening to a voice that none of them could hear. Her presence, though quiet, filled the mountain path in a way that made the wind pause to listen.

Sáraeth slowed her steps first.

Ulfric, ever attuned to shifts in the air, narrowed his eyes.

The woman opened hers.

“Another pilgrim?” Sáraeth asked, gently, though her instincts already told her this was no ordinary traveler.

The woman smiled faintly. “A fellow soul who walks the same road again and again. Each time the world forgets me, I climb. But you, child of storm and breath, will not forget.”

Sáraeth blinked. “You’ve made this pilgrimage before?”

“Many times,” she said softly. “But not in this skin. Not always as flesh. And not always alone.”

Ulfric stepped forward. “Who are you?”

The woman looked up at him. Her gaze was endless sky and moonlit ice. “The voice of the wind. The breath of the sky. The mother of the mountain’s cry.”

Ulfric flinched.

Sáraeth felt her blood chill and yet thrum with an undercurrent of familiarity. “Kyne?” she breathed, barely audible.

But the woman simply looked to her and said: “You awoke because they did. You are not the end. You are the re-balancing. The answer to imbalance long endured.”

Then she turned her eyes back to Ulfric. “And you. Son of Skyrim, son of silence. You believe yourself the ruin of the world you love.”

His jaw clenched. “I told them things… things I thought meaningless, under duress. They told me the Empire fell because of me.”

She rose to standing and reached out, her hand brushing the side of his face with the weightlessness of snow.

“You were broken, not by pain, but by lies. Their whispers wrapped around your truth and turned it into a weapon they could use against you. You were never the one who shattered the Empire. That rot began long before your name was ever spoken by kings.”

Ulfric staggered back a step as if struck. His eyes filled—not with tears, but with a storm held at bay for too long.

“I…” he rasped. “I didn’t know. I thought—”

“I know what you thought. I know what they wanted you to believe.” Her smile was not cruel. It was sorrowful, maternal. “You have punished yourself long enough.”

The wind kicked up around them, and when Sáraeth blinked again, the woman was gone. Not vanished in steps, but in presence, like the wind had inhaled her back into itself.

Ralof exhaled. “By Shor… that was…” He looked to Sáraeth, then to Ulfric, who had turned and begun walking away from the group toward the edge of the ridge. “Go to him,” Ralof said quietly. “I think no one else can soothe his soul.”

Sáraeth didn’t hesitate.

She found him kneeling near the edge of a rocky outcrop, hands clenched against his thighs, eyes locked on the vast sky beyond.

“She spoke truth,” he murmured without looking at her. “I could feel it. As surely as I feel the breath in my chest. Gods, Sáraeth. When the Thalmor captured me. Tortured me.” His mighty voice broke to a whisper. “I’ve carried that burden for so long, let it shape me into… into a man who forgot what it meant to be whole.”

He bowed his head.

“She took it away. With a few words, she took it away.”

Sáraeth knelt behind him, silent, and unfastened the cloak from her shoulders. Slowly, she draped it over his, letting it settle like snowfall.

His breath caught. The scent of old lavender clung faintly to the fabric—his mother’s scent. His memory. His lost warmth.

He reached up, grasping the edge of the cloak as though afraid it might vanish if he didn’t hold fast.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice thick and full of reverence.

Then, slowly, he rose.

He turned to face her. The storm in his eyes had stilled. The weight was not gone, but it was different now. Balanced. Braced.

He reached up and settled the cloak around her shoulders once more, fingers lingering.

“Come,” he said softly. “You have a Destiny to meet.”

And they walked, side by side, toward the peak that awaited them.

Chapter Text

The storm hit with a fury that felt too timely to be mere weather. Wind howled through the mountain pass, dragging snow in biting, sideways swaths. Ralof shouted orders through the gale, reaching out just in time to catch a young soldier as he slipped too close to the edge.

“Inside!” Ulfric bellowed. “Now!”

They didn’t so much enter High Hrothgar as tumble into it, the great wooden doors slamming shut behind them with a groan of ancient hinges and finality. Snow swirled around them like ghosts reluctant to let go.

Silence followed. Not the awkward kind—no, this was the kind that could freeze a man in his tracks. The kind that held centuries in its stillness.

Arngeir appeared from one of the side chambers, eyes narrowed, expression carved from mountain stone. “You,” he said, voice flat, sharp. “We told you when you left—you would not return.”

Ulfric stood tall, wet cloak dripping onto the ancient floor, his men uneasy behind him. “I did not come for myself,” he said evenly. “I came to ensure she reached you.”

Arngeir's gaze flicked to Sáraeth. He saw the cloak—the very one spoken of in whispered prayer among the monks. He saw the frost-dried blood still caked at her wrists from the last beast who dared face her. He saw the truth in her eyes: the storm of a destiny in motion.

“You bring her,” Arngeir said slowly, “but you do not follow the Way.”

Ulfric inclined his head. “No. I never did. I was not born to this—only shaped by it. You made that clear when I was a boy.”

Something shifted in Arngeir’s face. Sáraeth moved forward before he could respond.

“So you’ll teach me, even though I’ve shouted dragons from the sky and spilled blood by the gallons—but you won’t allow him to stand at the edge and witness what he once lived through?” Her tone was calm, but carried the weight of a brewing storm. “Tell me, Master. Is that wisdom, or pride?”

A rumble of something—not quite thunder, not quite Voice—rolled across the floorboards.

The Greybeards emerged slowly from the mists of the hall. Old men wrapped in older purpose, their presence bending the air like heatwaves.

Borri was the first to speak, so quietly it was barely heard. “She is as we hoped.”

Wulfgar added, “And he... is not as we remembered.”

Arngeir frowned. “He abandoned the Way. He—”

“He fulfilled it,” Einarth interrupted, his voice no louder than a whisper, yet it stilled all sound.

Sáraeth and Ulfric both turned toward him.

“He was never meant to be a monk,” the old man said. “He was a harbinger. A storm sent ahead of the true gale. He shook the world so that the Voice might awaken in her.”

Ulfric’s brow furrowed, shaken. “You speak as though—”

“The Voice remembers,” Borri murmured. “Even when the tongue does not. You were not a failure, Ulfric. You were a sign.”

Arngeir exhaled slowly. It wasn’t easy, letting go of a grudge held for decades. But even he could not deny the deeper currents. Not when they stood before him, forged of blood, fire, and breath.

“You may stay,” he said at last, glancing toward Sáraeth. “But do not interfere.”

“I never intended to,” Ulfric replied quietly, eyes still distant with the weight of everything he’d just heard.

Sáraeth stepped to his side, her presence grounding him in ways words never could. He gave her the barest of nods.

Her training began.

They watched her master the first exercises in minutes—what took Ulfric months, even years. She took to the Word like it had been waiting for her, clawing at the walls of the world to be freed.

Ulfric stood at the edge of the training chamber, arms crossed, a strange ache blooming in his chest. Not envy. Not pride, either. Something older. Reverence.

When the time came for the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller to be sought, Arngeir walked quietly to where Ulfric stood.

“I was wrong,” he said. “We all were. You chose a path that our teachings could not allow, but that does not mean the Voice did not guide you.”

Ulfric said nothing, but the tension in his shoulders eased.

“I have seen this only once before,” Arngeir continued, eyes now on Sáraeth. “When Jurgen himself cast down his shout and chose silence. But this... this is a new path. She is the Way now.”

He turned to go, then paused. “And you, Ulfric Stormcloak... are the wind that brought her.” Then the Greybeard's voice dropped to a whisper. “In the days to come, there will be need of you both. Together, or all shall fall apart.”

Ulfric didn’t reply. He only looked toward her—his Dragonborn—who turned slightly, as if sensing him, her eyes meeting his across the great hall.

He had once believed destiny to be a solitary road. But now, he knew better.

The Voice had never left him. It had simply waited for him to return.

Chapter Text

The last flicker of flame from Klimmek’s riverside bonfire was dying when the assassins struck. Two Dunmer in robes as dark as midnight strode into Ivarstead like silent storm clouds, voices low and cold as they declared their intent: to kill the false Dragonborn.

The villagers shrieked and ran. Sáraeth, already half-risen from her seat, didn’t even reach for her blade before Ulfric's war axe cleaved the first assassin through the collarbone. The second barely had time to hiss a syllable of warning before her shout—unbidden, primal—sent him flying into a cart of salted fish, snapping bone on impact. She strode forward and plucked a missive from the ash-streaked robes.

She read it aloud, voice calm despite the tension in her limbs.

"Board the vessel Northern Maiden docked at Raven Rock. Take it to Windhelm, then begin your search. Kill the False Dragonborn known as Sáraeth before she reaches Solstheim. Return with word of your success, and Miraak shall be most pleased."

Silence followed the name.

Ulfric stepped closer, his expression darkening. “Miraak…”

“You know him?” she asked, brow furrowed.

He nodded once. “A name older than the Emblems carved into the mountain. He was the first. The very first. Dragonborn before the word had shape. I studied his story in the old Greybeard texts. He vanished into legend before Ysgramor ever sailed from Atmora. If this is real…”

His voice trailed off, but his eyes told her everything. This was no simple matter. This was not just prophecy unfolding—it was a collision of gods and mortals, of destinies both written and unraveling.

“We need to return to Windhelm,” he said, teeth clenched. “Gjalund must be questioned. And I won’t risk your life in that city without protection.”

But Sáraeth laid a hand to his forearm. “You said the Reach needed you. That Galmar was waiting.”

Ulfric didn’t flinch. “Galmar can wait a day or two longer. This can’t.”

But it was Ralof who spoke next, stepping forward from where he’d been listening by the stables. “Let me do it. I’ll get your answers. We’ll search the docks, question the guards, turn out the taverns. If someone smuggled assassins into Windhelm, I’ll find them. I swear it.”

Ulfric met his friend’s eyes. “You’re sure?”

Ralof gave a firm nod. “I’m not the one Miraak’s after. She’s better away from Windhelm, with you.”

There was no arguing the truth in that.

With a grunt of agreement, Ulfric turned to Fastred’s father, who’d been watching from the edge of the crowd. Coins exchanged hands, but more than that, four of Windhelm’s prized steeds—injured and weary from the journey—were left behind for breeding and labor. In return, two fresh, powerful horses stood ready to carry legends westward.

“You’re traveling with only her?” Ralof said, brows high. “You…don’t want one or two of our men?”

Ulfric turned his storm-colored eyes toward him, voice deadpan. “With the Dragonborn.”

“…Right. Yeah. Okay,” Ralof muttered. “Fair point.”

As dawn rose pale and cold, the villagers lined the path to the road. They stood in quiet reverence as Sáraeth and Ulfric mounted their steeds, cloaks fluttering in the wind, the note from Miraak tucked into Ulfric’s armor.

No ceremony. No fanfare. Just two riders and the thrum of hooves beating a rhythm against the stone. Toward the Reach. Toward war. Toward truth.

And behind them, as Klimmek and Wilhelm waved farewell, the wind whispered… “So it begins.”

The ride from Ivarstead was long but uneventful in the way only seasoned warriors could appreciate. They kept to the roads, catching up to a modest merchant’s carriage somewhere near the crossroads outside Whiterun Hold. The driver gave them no trouble, too grateful for their presence as a deterrent against the bandits that plagued the area.

By midnight, the merchant having stopped to camp with some fellows along the road some hours earlier, snow gave way to mist as fatigue crept into their bones. The stars above were sharp and clear, the moons silvering the worn path ahead as the outline of a lonely inn emerged—Old Hroldan. A stone sentinel from a bygone age, its windows glowed with warm light, beckoning the weary home.

Inside, Eydis, the innkeeper, barely blinked when she recognized who stood in her doorway. She gave a polite nod and offered the only room she had: the one known for having once sheltered Tiber Septim himself. It had a large bed and a smaller one meant for a child. Sáraeth said nothing of it, simply removed her cloak and began undoing her armor, her fingers moving with the practiced grace of exhaustion. Ulfric followed suit, his movements slower, his eyes distant.

But then came the voice of a child from the back.

“Mama, where did papa go?”

A pause, then Eydis’ voice, light and strained. “He’s off fighting the war, dear. For the Stormcloaks.”

“Last time you said he was fighting for the Empire.”

“Yep. I’m sure he’s doing well there.”

Sáraeth’s hands stilled mid-buckle. She looked toward the source of the voices, her brows drawing tight. When Eydis came back into view with two tankards of mead, Sáraeth approached her gently.

“Your husband... What was his name?”

Eydis’s eyes darted to Ulfric, then down to the floor. She hesitated, then quietly said, “There was never a husband.”

The silence between the three adults was weighted and still.

“He’s not of either side,” she added. “Skuli. He was... the result of a passing Imperial captain’s cruelty. Two of his men held me down. He... he got what he wanted.” Her voice cracked. “I wasn’t strong enough to stop them.”

Sáraeth’s heart twisted. “Eydis, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want Skuli to grow up hating. That’s not what Skyrim needs. Please… don’t tell him.”

Ulfric had been silent throughout, seated at the long table, his hand clenched into a fist around his tankard. But his eyes—the storm in them had calmed into something deeper. Not pity. Not even sorrow.

Purpose.

That night, he and Sáraeth shared the larger bed, fully clothed and back to back, but sleep did not come quickly. She heard him rise before the sun, the soft sounds of parchment and ink, the clink of metal. She said nothing.

By the time Eydis rose, the room was empty. Only a small box remained atop the table, sealed with the sigil of Windhelm.

Inside was a letter, and nestled beneath it, a helmet forged of dark steel, adorned with the sigil of the bear—Ulfric’s personal crest.

The letter read:

To Skuli, Son of Skyrim,

Your father was a brave man.

He gave his life in defense of this land and of those he held dear. He was strong, proud, and unyielding in the face of darkness. He stood against tyranny and shielded the innocent. Though he is no longer with you, his legacy lives on in you.

As Jarl of Windhelm, I commend his service. And as a man of Skyrim, I pass to you the helm of the Bear of Markarth. Wear it proudly when you are grown, and remember that true strength lies not in battle alone—but in protecting what matters most.

—Ulfric Stormcloak

Eydis wept, the tears silent as she clutched the helm to her chest.

Skuli, wide-eyed, ran his small fingers across the metal and whispered, “I’ll be like him someday.”

And he would be.

High King Ulfric never spoke of that night again. But long after the war was won and the snows settled, when visitors asked why the King wore a new helm into battle instead of the legendary Bear of Markarth sigil, he would only smile faintly and say, “It belongs to someone braver than I.”

Chapter Text

The horses hadn’t even cooled when Sáraeth swung down and caught sight of the man pacing near a mine entrance, worry etched deep in the painted, weathered lines of his face. Ulfric had barely dismounted when she was already stepping forward.

“You the mine overseer?” she asked, voice carrying through the chill air.

Perth blinked at her, then past her—to the towering, unmistakable figure now behind her.

“Y-you’re… y-you’re him. Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Ulfric lifted a brow. “And according to the guard some distance back, you’ve got a draugr problem.”

The guard, huffing as he ran up to them, nearly choked on his own breath. “Jarl Stormcloak… you can’t mean to—”

“Can and will,” Ulfric said, already tugging the axe from his back. “We don’t leave our own to rot while paperwork makes the rounds.”

Sáraeth gave the guard a wink and drew her trusty steel axe from its waist holster, the silver glint of it catching the light just so. “Besides… we haven’t had a good crypt-crawl in a few days. Thought we were about overdue.”

And then they vanished into the mine.

The sounds that came out of Soljund’s Sinkhole were the kind that would haunt lesser men.

The distant echo of shouts, thunderous and sharp—Ulfric’s FUS colliding with the cavern walls. The deep, grating howl of draugr rising from their cursed slumber. Steel on bone. Fire on rot. Ice freezing and then shattering. The distinct, rhythmic thud of something large falling—again and again and again.

And beneath it all… laughter.

By the time they emerged, their armor was blackened, their cloaks tattered, their bodies splattered with ichor and ancient filth—and both of them were grinning like wild things.

“That one with the double axes,” Sáraeth said, dragging the back of her arm across her brow, leaving a smear of soot in its place, “he nearly took my head off.”

“He screamed like a goat,” Ulfric rumbled, chuckling. “Not even a proud goat. A panicked goat.”

She snorted, stumbling a little as she laughed too hard. “Gods, we stink.”

“You smell like victory.”

“I smell like a troll’s armpit.”

“I am uncertain whether I wish to gain an understanding of how you know that or not, Dragonborn.”

Perth stood frozen, mouth opening and closing uselessly as the two war-drenched legends strolled toward him like they’d just come from the market, not cleared out a draugr-infested death-pit.

“I—I… the reward, I—”

Sáraeth waved it off. “Use it to seal the tomb off properly. Maybe post another guard or two. And maybe… clean up the goat bones. There were so many goat bones.”

Perth still looked like he might faint. Ulfric clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “You’ve got iron in your spine. Keep it.”

Then they mounted up again, armor creaking with every movement, cloaks fluttering behind them like war banners.

About half a mile down the road, Sáraeth let out a slow breath and said, “If there’s a shout for getting entrails out of your boot seams, I haven’t learned it yet.”

Ulfric laughed, full-throated and true. “Then may the gods preserve us until you do, Dragonborn.”

They rode on, filthy and free, like two spirits carved from the stone of Skyrim itself.

Chapter Text

It was the screams that drew them off the road.

Sáraeth’s steed reared at the scent of blood and bear-musk, but she held firm, already charging toward a makeshift camp cradled by stone and ivy. Ulfric was beside her, not even bothering to slow. He leapt from his saddle mid-gallop, landing in a roll that brought his axe up in the same motion—a blur of brutal grace forged by decades of war.

The cave bear turned its head too late.

Her thu’um shattered the air, forcing the beast to stagger. Ulfric’s axe severed its lower jaw cleanly, a snarl twisting his lips as he bore down. Sáraeth followed, steel flashing. Her blade found ribs and gut and heart in one relentless sweep. The great beast collapsed with a bone-jarring thud, twitching, steaming blood soaking into the muddy earth.

All was still.

Except for the dying woman.

Sáraeth dropped to her knees, blood coating her hands as she tried to staunch the unstaunchable. The woman's insides lay half-spilled, her skin already graying.

"Talvur," she whispered, voice so faint it rode the wind like a dying leaf. "Tell him… tell him I waited…"

Then she was gone.

Ulfric stood near the fallen bear, his axe dripping, his face grim. Sáraeth brushed damp hair from the woman’s blood-slick brow, her expression hollow as she gently closed the woman’s eyes.

They found the journal beside a sleeping roll—pages inked with love and hope and foolish, precious dreams. A Breton woman and a Dunmer miner. Escaping Markarth. Planning to elope in Riften, where the Temple of Mara would marry any who asked, regardless of name, station… or race.

The money saved for their journey was tucked away in a hollowed stump nearby. Sáraeth closed the journal with reverent hands and tucked it beside the body.

“She loved him,” she murmured. “Enough to die here beside him. Enough to try to run from a world that wouldn’t accept them.”

Ulfric said nothing. He gazed at the blood-soaked grass, then at the ruined bodies. Then at the small shrine to Mara, rain-slick and glowing faintly in the mist.

Sáraeth approached the shrine slowly, one palm outstretched. The storm cracked above them, lightning threading the sky. The moment her fingers touched the stone, light burst from it like breath—soft and golden, wrapping her in warmth. She gasped. The fury of the battle melted from her shoulders, and something else filled her—tranquility, yes, but also knowing. As if Mara herself had placed a hand upon her soul and said, You are enough.

Behind her, Ulfric took a step closer. Then another. And for a heartbeat, he could see. Not the blood and rain. Not the woman before him in armor, bearing his mother’s cloak and her beloved axe. But the soul beneath.

She stood as if wrapped in starlight. As if the golden glow of Mara's blessing had peeled back the veil of time, and for just a moment, she was not Sáraeth of Windhelm. She was Alessia. He saw the ghost of the Amulet of Kings around her neck.

And Ulfric Stormcloak—Jarl of Windhelm, Bear of Markarth, voice of rebellion and fire—fell to one knee. It wasn’t ceremony. It was reverence. It was truth. He bowed his head, breath shallow. The rain struck his back like penance, but he did not rise.

"You are the one," he whispered. “The return. The rightful fire. The blood… and the balance.”

Sáraeth turned, confusion in her eyes. "Ulfric…?"

He rose slowly, water running down his face, uncertain if it was rain or tears. “A thousand kings have sat on false thrones. Men who bore no Voice, no dragon blood, no vision. You… you are what was always meant to come back. A queen of the line. The blood of gods in your veins. A creation of Akatosh himself.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he reached up and rested one gloved hand at her cheek.

“And I would serve you,” he said softly. “Not because you are Dragonborn. But because… you are her. The soul reborn. The life that calls to the Voice in me. You humble me, Sáraeth. In every way that matters.”

She caught his wrist gently. “I don’t want you to kneel for me, Ulfric.”

“No,” he said, a small smile breaking through the reverence. “But I may do so a time or two anyway, because it’s where the gods placed me in your presence.”

He looked once more to the shrine of Mara, then to the lovers whose bodies they had covered beneath the woman’s threadbare traveling cloak and a bed of soft stone. He reached into his pack and pulled out a strip of blue ribbon, tying it to the shrine’s base.

“For the ones who loved despite the world,” he said, voice low.

Sáraeth added the journal to the shrine’s base, her hand brushing his, warm even through the rain.

And the shrine glowed again, brighter this time. From the sky above, the clouds parted briefly—just long enough for a single shaft of sunlight to fall over them. And in the silence, a faint whisper, carried on the breath of gods.

"She is the bridge. You, the sword. Walk together… and the world shall not fall."

Ulfric closed his eyes and let the warmth of Mara hold them both. For the first time in decades, he felt clean.

Chapter Text

The wind shifted again.

It whispered through the stalks of wild lavender that bent and swayed around them like sea grasses beneath a phantom tide. The mountains loomed in the distance, their white-veiled peaks slicing the clouds, and the air was still heavy with the scent of rain.

Sáraeth stood still, her helm tucked beneath her arm, the breeze catching at the loose strands of her hair, blue-black waves tumbling like stormwater around her face. Her eyes were closed, and for a long moment, she just breathed. The field they had come upon after attending the Shrine of Mara had stilled her—the color, the scent, the serenity… as though the very land had parted just for her, revealing this place of memory and mourning and meaning.

Ulfric dismounted behind her, but she didn’t turn. And then… the scent hit him. Lavender. He blinked, chest tightening. Not just any lavender. Her lavender. His mother’s.

He knew that scent—Kynareth help him, he knew it like the inside of a prayer whispered in a fever dream. It wasn’t the flowers themselves, not just them—it was how they smelled. The slight note of juniper and warmth, of northern frost and hearthstone. The way her cloak had smelled when she hugged him goodnight. The way her chambers used to feel in the deep of winter, safe and still and filled with a love he barely remembered except in dreams.

He took a slow step forward. Sáraeth turned, sensing something. Her eyes met his. And in that moment, he saw her not as the warrior… not as the Dragonborn or his equal in war or honor… but as something eternal. Something remembered.

“Ulfric?” she asked softly.

He shook his head, eyes wide as if seeing her for the first time.

“I once asked my mother,” he murmured, “where our line came from. I was just a boy. I’d heard her speak of kings before Ysgramor… of forgotten names. She told me a story, one she claimed came from her mother, and her mother before her. She said we were descended from Borgas himself… the last king to wear the Jagged Crown. The last king before the gods turned silent and the Empire stole Skyrim’s soul.”

Sáraeth listened, unmoving.

“I thought it a tale to comfort a child,” he went on, stepping closer, voice thick with something he rarely let show. “Stories for little boys who ask too many questions. But now I’m not so sure.”

He looked around them, at the wild flowers, the hush, the sacred peace of the place.

“I’ve never told anyone that,” he said. “Not Galmar. Not even my father.”

“Why tell me?” she whispered.

He reached for the edge of her cloak—the one he had given her, the last remnant of his mother—and smoothed the fabric where it lay across her shoulder.

“Because I think you’re the reason I remember it now,” he said. “I think this… you… this moment—was meant to awaken it.”

She stepped back slightly, stunned by the intensity in his voice. “Ulfric…”

He didn’t let her finish.

“I saw it,” he said, voice deep and reverent. “When you stood at Mara’s shrine… I saw the Amulet of Kings on you. For but a second. A flicker in the air. I thought I imagined it, but now…”

He took her hand.

“It wasn’t just a sign of who you are, Sáraeth. It was a sign of who we are. What we’re meant to restore. You… with your blood of dragons. Me… with my blood of kings.”

A breath passed between them. The clouds parted slightly above, and the sun bled golden light across the field, catching in her hair like flame.

“You think… this is fate?” she asked, barely able to find her voice.

“No,” he said, eyes fierce and soft all at once. “I think it’s legacy. And I think we are the last of it.”

The wind rushed again. This time, it didn’t howl. It sang. And from far above, the mountain answered.

The Reach was raw-edged and cold, its stones jagged like old wounds that refused to heal. The Stormcloak camp stood perched between those rocks and the wind, manned by blue-clad warriors who bore the land’s pain in the tight set of their jaws.

Sáraeth stood at the edge of the firelight, her armor freshly oiled and her pack ready. The sun had barely risen, and most of the camp still stirred in half-sleep. She fed her horse a few apples, brushing the soot from its mane in practiced silence. Her mind was restless.

Ulfric hadn’t come out of his command tent yet.

Galmar did, striding across camp with a black scowl and two mugs of something steaming. He handed her one. “It’s bitter. Like everything in this gods-forsaken stretch of rock.”

She took a sip. It was bitter. But warm.

“You know,” he said, sipping his own, “if you weren’t so blasted noble, you’d have already had that man on his back and claimed him for your own. You both need it. Like a storm needing to break.”

Sáraeth raised an eyebrow. “Galmar, if I didn’t like you so much, I might knock your teeth down your throat.”

He chuckled. “You’d probably succeed.”

Ulfric emerged then, his cloak loose over his shoulders, and his expression unreadable. His eyes found hers across the camp as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. He walked toward her slowly.

“Galmar,” he said. “Give us a moment.”

The older man gave them both a long, meaningful look before muttering, “Try not to act like milk-drinking teenagers,” and heading back to the fire.

They stood alone in the half-light of dawn.

“I thought you might be gone already,” he said.

“I don’t run from goodbyes,” she replied softly.

His gaze lingered on her face, drinking her in like it might have to sustain him for weeks. “You don’t need to do this alone.”

“I do,” she said, and her voice held the same strength that had pulled him through death and war. “It’s what you trained me for. What you entrusted me with.”

He looked down, fingers flexing at his side like he wanted to touch her but didn’t know how. “If anything happens to you—”

“I’ll survive.” She stepped forward. “So will you.”

“I’m not worried about me,” he said, eyes sharp.

She gave him a crooked smile. “I’m not just a soldier anymore.”

“No,” he agreed, voice low. “You never were.”

Their breath mingled in the morning air. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just them—just wind and fire and something unspoken curling between their ribs.

Then she turned and swung effortlessly up into her saddle.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” he said, suddenly gruff.

She looked down at him, eyes glittering. “Reckless is your job, High King.”

And with a sharp heel, she was off.

Ulfric stood in the rising dust long after she disappeared from view.

Galmar came up beside him, chewing on something. “You going to keep mooning like a smitten bard, or do I have to pour a bucket of cold water over your head?”

Ulfric didn’t answer.

Galmar sighed and clapped him on the back. “You’re fucked.”

Chapter Text

Markarth was a city built into the bones of the earth, all jagged spires and Dwemer metal, like a fortress carved by ancient hands that still whispered through its stones. Sáraeth rode beneath its towering gates with a Stormcloak satchel of forged orders and Ulfric’s blessings hidden beneath her cloak—and a weight between her shoulders that had nothing to do with steel or mission.

No sooner had her horse’s hooves echoed on the stone than she heard the scream. She dismounted in a blur, feet already moving, racing up the long stone steps and pushing the massive metal door open with all her strength.

In the center of the market, chaos unfurled like a flag of war. A Breton woman screamed and tried to run, but a man in rough red robes grabbed her by the hair and drove a blade into her side.

"FOR THE REACH!" he cried, blood splattering his face.

Sáraeth’s shout was instinct—raw, unfinished, but focused. Fus! The force of it hurled the attacker backward into a stone pillar. He crumpled.

Guards swarmed. Shouts echoed. But it was too late. The woman was dead.

The attacker, still alive, wheezed on the ground, laughing. “The Forsworn live. And we are coming.”

Sáraeth knelt beside him, eyes flaring.

“Coming for what?” she asked.

But he only choked on his own blood, and with a grin that reeked of madness, died.

The square fell into a strange hush. Then a voice—a man, lean and sharp—spoke at her shoulder.

“Here. Take this.”

She turned to find a dark-haired Breton in a hood handing her a note.

“I think you dropped something,” he said, too casually, then melted into the crowd like a wisp of smoke.

She unfolded the parchment. Simple. Elegant. Ominous.

Meet me at the Shrine of Talos. Midnight. Come alone.
— E

Her eyes narrowed. “Of course,” she muttered. “Never just a normal day.”

She tucked the note into her belt and turned on her heel. There were things to do before any secret meeting in a city soaked with lies.

The steward of Markarth was exactly what she expected: sleek, balding, Imperial-bent, and just smug enough to make her want to rearrange his jaw with the pommel of her axe.

But Sáraeth didn’t waste time with finesse. She watched. Listened. Noticed the hidden altar in the back of his chambers—Talos, gleaming in secret reverence. In the desk drawer, an amulet. And she used it.

The blackmail was precise and cold.

“Your jarl may be blind, Raerek, but you are not. I see your fear. And I know the Empire doesn’t forgive quietly. You serve them, but you still kneel to the Ninth. That makes you useful.”

His voice shook when he spoke. “What do you want?”

“Information,” she said. “Caravan routes. Imperial supply lines. Something Ulfric Stormcloak can use.”

He swallowed hard. “Check the ledgers from Cidhna Mine. There’s a shipment moving soon, a Silver-Blood trade. Gold. Arms. I’ll mark its route for you.”

She nodded once, gave over her map, waiting the few moments it took his shaking hand to draw a line, refolded the map and turned to leave.

“You won’t tell the guards?”

“I’m not here to ruin your life,” she said. “I’m here to save our sovereignty.”

Night fell over Markarth like a blade across the throat. Sáraeth made her way to the Temple of Talos, hood pulled low, senses sharp. The city was too quiet. The shrine was tucked deep in stone, its pillars weathered, its walls filled with the whisper of old prayers. Eltrys, as she learned he was called, waited.

“I saw what you did,” he said. “Back in the market. You’re not like the others.”

“I’m not here to impress you.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’re here to change everything.”

He handed her another note. “I’ve been following them for months. The Forsworn. Their agents. Their puppets in the city guard. I need your help.”

Sáraeth read quickly. Names. Times. Places.

This wasn’t just a conspiracy. It was a rot at the heart of Markarth, and it ran deeper than she'd thought. She wondered if Ulfric or Galmar suspected.

“You’ll be watched from now on,” Eltrys said. “The moment you leave this temple, they’ll know you’re sniffing.”

“I don’t sniff,” she countered. “I bite.”

She stepped out into the night, note hidden, hands twitching near her weapons. She could feel the eyes already on her. Let them watch. Because Sáraeth the Last Dragonborn had entered Markarth. And by the time she was done, no one would forget it.

Chapter Text

The Reach Stormcloak Camp sat beneath a gray, grumbling sky, the peaks surrounding it like the ribs of a slumbering god. Tents flapped in a biting wind. Soldiers murmured about strange happenings in Markarth.

Inside the command tent, Galmar Stone-Fist stood hunched over the war table, squinting at a hastily inked note. It had been delivered not by rider, but by a cloaked man who'd slipped into camp and vanished just as quickly—one of Ulfric’s watchers in the city, planted quietly after Sáraeth’s departure.

The first letter was written in her hand. Clean. Precise. Confident.

Shipment confirmed. Gold and weapons, bound for Solitude under light guard. Marked in ledger, courtesy of your friend Raerek. Should be easy pickings if you act fast. — S

Galmar’s thick fingers closed around it, lips twitching in appreciation. “That’s my girl,” he muttered.

He passed the message to Ulfric, who read it in silence, then looked up sharply as Galmar produced a second missive.

This one was different. The parchment was stained at the corner, as if pressed too long into a warm palm. The ink bled slightly. The words were short. Cryptic.

There is more. Deep rot beneath marble. Forsworn are pawns, not kings. I will go deeper. Don’t come for me. Not yet.
— S

Ulfric’s jaw clenched. He read the letter again. And again. And then he threw it, hard, across the tent, it fluttered to the canvas wall and fell like wounded wings.

“She’s in danger,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse.

“She’s always in danger,” Galmar replied calmly. “That’s part of the job.”

“This is Markarth.”

Galmar said nothing.

“She’s in that cesspit full of guards in the Empire’s pocket, Forsworn in the shadows, Thalmor hiding in plain sight—"

“I know where she is, Ulfric.” Galmar’s voice cut through the tent like a battle horn. “But if you go tearing into Markarth like a dragon in a brewery, they’ll cut you down and parade your head through the streets before sunset. That help her? That help anyone?”

Ulfric’s fists were trembling. “She doesn’t understand what that place is. What they are. What the Thalmor do when they—”

“I was there,” Galmar said sharply. “I was the one who pulled your half-dead body out of that chamber after Elenwen finished with you. I remember your eyes when they didn’t even recognize me.”

Ulfric flinched like he’d been struck.

Galmar stepped forward, voice softer now, but only barely.

“You were a ghost, Ulfric. And it took months to bring you back. But you came back. Because your people needed you. Because Skyrim needed you.”

A long silence. Only the wind outside.

Ulfric sat down heavily on the edge of the table, his palms pressed flat, breathing slow and hard. “I still don’t remember all of it.”

Galmar nodded. “That’s probably a gift.”

Ulfric swallowed. “What if she finds something bigger than even the Forsworn? What if—”

“Then she’ll send word. And we’ll act. That’s what she does, Ulfric. She acts.”

“She told me not to come for her.”

“Smart woman.”

Ulfric looked up, the storm behind his eyes churning still. “I can’t lose her.”

Galmar gave him a look that was equal parts rough affection and aggravation. “You haven’t had her yet, you daft oaf.”

Ulfric managed a breath that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob.

“Then by Talos,” Galmar said, picking up Sáraeth’s letters again and folding them gently, “maybe stay alive long enough to tell her that.”

Chapter Text

The Reach Camp was quieter than usual, the distant hiss of wind through the mountain trees the only companion to the crackle of the central fire. Galmar Stone-Fist stood over a makeshift table, frowning deeply as he unfurled the newest message from Sáraeth. His breath came out in a slow grunt.

“She’s been busy,” he muttered, eyes flicking down the carefully inked parchment. "Got Raerek to talk. Found an Imperial shipment we can intercept. Ralof’s already on it. That’ll make the bastards bleed a bit.”

He moved to the newest note—thinner, more hastily written. His eyes darkened as he read it out loud and hit the name Ondolemar.

“Shor’s bones…” Galmar whispered.

Ulfric, seated in the shadows just beyond the tent flap, didn’t look up. But the name—that name—landed like a warhammer to the chest. A slow silence spiraled outward.

“She says he’s stationed in Understone Keep,” Galmar said, voice low, cautious now. “Walking about like some preening rooster. In charge of the Thalmor presence in Markarth.”

The parchment trembled slightly in his hands.

Ulfric’s knuckles whitened where they gripped the armrest of the rough-hewn wooden chair. “He’s still alive?”

Galmar didn’t answer. The question wasn’t really for him.

Ulfric stood slowly, like stone breaking loose from a mountain. “I’ll kill him.”

Galmar’s jaw tightened. “Ulfric—”

“No.” The word cracked through the tent like a whip. “He was there, Galmar. The knives were his. The...the laughing was his. Elenwen asked the questions, but he made sure I remembered them.” He turned to face his old friend, his brother-in-arms, his shield in the dark. “He cut me apart with a smile.”

For the first time in many years, Galmar felt something rise in him that was almost fear—not of Ulfric’s wrath, but of what would happen if that wrath consumed him. Again.

He crossed the tent swiftly, catching Ulfric by the shoulders. “Then make it mean something, damn you.”

Ulfric’s eyes were wild, unfocused, seeing things only he could see.

“You think I don’t want him dead?” Galmar growled. “You think I don’t wake up sometimes still hearing you scream in your sleep after I pulled you out of that Thalmor hellhole? I remember, Ulfric. I was there. I watched you break. I buried who you were back then, and waited for you to come back.”

Ulfric flinched, just like before. Just like every time Galmor hit him with unvarnished truths. He closed his eyes, breath shuddering out of him. His body swayed, and Galmar’s grip held steady.

“Don’t you throw it all away now,” Galmar said, softer. “Not for some ghost with a golden blade. You want vengeance? Fine. But not now. Not while she’s in there. Not while we still have a war to win.”

Ulfric sank down onto a bench, elbows on his knees, fingers pressed to his eyes.

“She’s in Markarth,” he said hollowly. “Markarth. Where I lost everything. Where I killed...I don’t even remember who. That book… they say I murdered innocents, Galmar. Women. Children. That I laughed while doing it.”

“You didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.” Galmar’s voice was iron. “You were half-dead and covered in your own blood and snot when we took that city. You were fighting ghosts in your mind. And we both know whose leash was around your neck.”

He paused.

“We were played. You most of all.”

Ulfric looked up at him slowly. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“Because you weren’t ready. And because part of me thought you didn’t want to know.”

Silence again.

Then, quietly, Ulfric said, “She’s in that city. Alone.”

“No,” Galmar said. “She’s never alone. That woman’s got more fire in her than half our army combined. She walks with the gods, Ulfric. And she trusts you to let her do what she must.”

Ulfric didn’t respond for a long moment. Then he exhaled like a man wrung dry. “What do we do?”

Galmar nodded toward the fire. “We wait. We hold the line. Ralof’s boys are watching that shipment route—Sáraeth’s plan will bleed the Imperials good. And when she gets back, when this is done…”

He leaned closer.

“Then we take Markarth. Properly. And this time, no Thalmor snakes slither out alive.”

Ulfric’s mouth twitched at the edge. “Damn right,” he said, voice hoarse.

Galmar handed him a flask, the good mead, the one they only shared when it mattered. “To the Dragonborn,” he said.

Ulfric looked into the flames, and for the first time in hours, his face cleared. “To Sáraeth,” he said. “The only light I’ve ever followed into the dark.”

Chapter Text

The streets of Markarth had long been stained by secrets and soaked in blood—but today, the stones would remember her.

Sáraeth had been arrested under false charges, dragged into the black belly of Cidhna Mine, where truth went to die. They thought they could contain her. That the walls of Markarth, or the stench of corruption, or even the infamous Madanach—so-called King in Rags—could break her will.

They were wrong.

She entered the mine unarmed. She left it with Madanach’s blood on her hands, a shiv in her grip, and eyes that burned with fire older than the Reach itself. And then… she kept going.

Through the winding, hidden tunnel through forgotten dwarven ruins, she emerged like a wraith. Barefoot, tattered prison clothes hanging from her like smoke, she prowled the city’s underbelly—stealing back her gear, retrieving what was hers, and gathering intelligence with the cold precision of a woman on a holy mission.

Nepos the Nose was next. His household—corrupted down to the bone—fell in silence. She showed them no mercy. There was no righteousness left to spare. Only judgment.

The guards tried again, just outside Nepos’ home. Six of them. Blades drawn.

They died in a circle around her, crimson painting the golden stones of this one-time Dwemer stronghold.

Eltrys was already gone—executed by the very hands meant to serve justice. She found his body at the foot of the shrine of Talos. And when they dared speak again of imprisonment?

She gave them death.

The Talos shrine became a mausoleum of steel and blood. Her conjured wolves devoured the silence, padding among corpses. And when the dust settled, when her pulse slowed, and only the divine hush of Talos remained… she turned her eyes toward the Keep.

There was one more ghost to put to rest.

Ulfric never told her the worst of it. He never had to.

She knew.

She knew what Ondolemar had done to him—what his knives whispered while Elenwen watched. What broken men tried to bury. What no fire could ever burn away. Only because in hushed whispers had Galmar confided in her one night early on in the outer reaches of their Whiterun camp, when she had asked why Ulfric had flinched so hard when he’d heard mention of Elenwen.

So she didn't bother trying to give the Thalmor bastard any kind of chance at explaining. Instead, she walked into Understone Keep like retribution incarnate. Ondolemar was holding court near the jarl’s dais, posturing as always, flanked by his black-clad Thalmor sentries. His sneer began to curl when he spotted her.

It never finished.

The wolves moved first—silent, deadly, trained to kill at a whisper. She struck like a storm.

One by one, the Thalmor soldiers fell. A blur of steel, teeth, fury. And then there was only him. He reached for magic. She reached for his throat. His final breath was a wet rasp against her cheek. “This,” she whispered into his ear as his breath gurgled its last in his throat, “is for him.”

She left no witnesses. And before the guards could rally, she was gone—vanishing into Markarth’s stone veins like smoke on a mountain wind.

The courier rode hard, frost on his lashes, breath like fog. He arrived at the Reach Stormcloak camp mud-caked and wide-eyed, bearing a small letter.

Galmar cracked the wax seal with a grunt. Ulfric watched from the map table, silent, until the old warrior read it aloud:

Madanach is dead. His lies ended beneath the stone where they were born.
Forgive my delay. I took care of one more piece of unfinished business.
Ondolemar is no more.

Ulfric didn’t speak. His hand gripped the edge of the table hard enough to splinter it. Then… he simply turned and walked out into the wind. Galmar followed, slowly, his voice low and reverent.

“She did it,” he said. “For you.”

The only answer was the soft growl of wind across the Reach—and the thunder of something ancient, something sacred, echoing in the High King's bones.

Chapter Text

The Reach Stormcloak camp sat cloaked in twilight mist, torches flickering low against the bite of wind curling down from the cliffs. A few soldiers moved through their routines, but most lingered around the cookfires, nerves taut. Rumors had begun to swirl—Sáraeth had gone silent, the courier’s note too brief, too vague, too final.

Galmar sat sharpening his axe. Ulfric had not spoken since reading, re-reading and re-reading again her final words—“Ondolemar is no more.”

He hadn’t needed to. The way his jaw clenched, the haunted stillness in his gaze—it was enough. Whatever had happened in Markarth had torn open something buried deep.

The snap of reins cut through the hush. Two horses emerged from the mist, one riderless, the other bearing a cloaked figure slumped low in the saddle. Heads turned. Weapons half-drawn. Then—

“Gods,” one of the scouts whispered. “It’s her.”

The wolf cloak she’d stolen from a dead guard fluttered as she dismounted—blood-specked, her armor grimy, her face pale but resolute. Her expression was unreadable. But the steel in her eyes left no doubt.

She was whole. And she was changed.

Ulfric strode out of his tent just as she stepped into camp’s heart. The way they looked at each other then—by the gods, even Galmar held his breath.

He spoke first, voice low. “You’re late.”

Her mouth curved—just a little. “Had some Thalmor to deal with.”

He was on her in three strides, pulling her into him with a force that startled them both. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. But his forehead dropped to hers, and for a long moment, they simply breathed—together.

Galmar snorted, but his eyes gleamed. “Damn fools, the both of you. I should’ve locked you two in a tent and let nature sort this mess out.”

Sáraeth gave a hoarse laugh, still pressed against Ulfric’s chest. “That’s practically what Cidhna Mine was.”

“You took out Madanach and Ondolemar in the same godsdamn day,” Galmar muttered, clearly both impressed and alarmed. “You know what this means?”

Ulfric pulled back enough to look into her face. “It means she walks where fate would shatter lesser men.”

Sáraeth glanced between them, voice soft. “It means I’m back. And if that shipment Raerek mentioned is still moving… I believe Ralof is waiting.”

Galmar gave her a look that was half respect, half exasperation. “He is. And he’s going to shit an entire sabre cat when he sees you walk in alive.”

She smirked. “Then I should go make sure he doesn’t die of shock.”

Ulfric caught her hand before she could leave, his grip firm, almost reverent. “You did what no one else could. You did it for Skyrim. And…”

He hesitated.

She tilted her head, waiting.

“…And you did it for me.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Instead, she turned to go as he let loose her hand—and behind her, Ulfric watched, silent, as the mist parted before her like a curtain.

Galmar stepped up beside him. “You sure she’s not Ysgramor reborn?”

Ulfric’s voice was raw. “She’s something older. Something greater.”

And in the wake of her footsteps, the fire blazed higher—as if the wind itself had bent in worship.

Less than an hour later...

Ralof was already poised and waiting when Sáraeth approached the designated spot east of the Reach camp, her armor freshly cleaned but still bearing the scent of ancient stone and battle. The early sun filtered through the dense fog that blanketed the lowland path, gilding the frost-covered grass with gold.

He turned as he heard her horse approach. “There you are. I was starting to think you took the long way through High Rock.”

She smirked. “Had to look good for the ambush.”

Ralof snorted, but there was affection in it. “Shipment's on the move. Imperial scum are too confident, thinking we won't know their route. We hit them at the ridge pass. Narrow choke point. No room to run.”

She nodded, rechecking her weaponry. “Let’s do this together, shield brother.”

He blinked in mild surprise but gave her a rare, earnest smile. “Aye.”

They moved like wolves, slipping into position above the narrow pass. Ralof's men, posted at intervals, crouched low, eyes gleaming. The cart approached, flanked by six Imperials and a battlemage perched on the back, scanning the tree line.

“I’ll take the mage,” Sáraeth whispered.

“I figured you would,” Ralof replied, sliding his greatsword free.

With a synchronized cry, the Stormcloaks fell upon the caravan. Steel clashed with steel. Arrows flew. Sáraeth launched herself from a ledge, shouting Fus just before she hit the battlemage, sending him sprawling into the forest below. Her axe danced through the chaos, frost trailing its edge as it struck. Ralof held the line with feral precision, back to hers as they circled in tandem.

It was over in minutes. The cart was theirs. The Imperials, not so fortunate.

Breathing heavily, Sáraeth cleaned the blood from her axe on one of the fallen soldier's cloaks. Ralof clapped her shoulder.

“You didn’t have to let me lead,” he said quietly.

“You led me out of Helgen. I owe you my life. I'm just repaying the debt.”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, then gave a single nod. “Then go. Galmar and Ulfric will want to hear.”

Chapter Text

By the time she arrived back at the Reach camp, the sun had already begun its descent. The guards at the perimeter stood taller when they saw her. Word had clearly reached them already.

Galmar was leaning over the war table with Ulfric at his side. They looked up when she entered the command tent, her cloak stirring the dusty air.

“We got the shipment,” she said, tossing the Imperial manifest onto the table. “Ralof fought like Ysgramor himself. The Imperials won’t be delivering anything else to Markarth for a while.”

Ulfric met her gaze, and something behind his eyes softened. “You’re relentless,” he said, low.

“I'm yours to wield, my Jarl,” she replied without hesitation.

Galmar let out a grunt that might’ve been a chuckle. “That deserves a drink, it does.”

Ulfric didn’t look away from her. “That deserves the world.”

The next afternoon...

Another day, another victory.

The snow had stopped falling by the time Sáraeth returned to the Reach camp. The sky overhead was the color of a forge gone cold, flat and iron-toned, but the air still reeked of blood and smoke from Fort Sungard thanks to the handful of soldiers that had returned to camp with her. She slid off her horse without ceremony, her cloak blackened and sword-torn in places where Imperials had managed to land blows before dying. Her armor bore new scratches, and her right pauldron was dented from a hammer strike she'd absorbed head-on.

She didn’t pause to rest. Her eyes scanned the camp, quick and hard. She saw foot soldiers laughing around a fire. Two Stormcloak medics tending to the wounded. A pack of lean horses, stamping and breathing hard. Galmar's war tent, its flaps drawn open.

Ulfric's horse was gone.

Her stride toward the tent was as silent and swift as an arrow loosed from a bow. Galmar, standing inside at his war table and mid-sentence to one of the captains, turned at the sound of her approach.

"Ah, my lady Dragonborn," he began, pride lacing his voice. "Your taking of Sungard was nothing short of--"

"Where is he?"

The question cut through his words like a sword through fog. The captain beside him had the good sense to excuse himself. Galmar, for all his battle-hardened girth and gravel-thick voice, faltered beneath the weight of Sáraeth's gaze.

She was not tall. Not broad-shouldered like most of his warriors. But she carried power like others carried weapons. Wrapped in silence. Borne in storms.

"The Jarl returned to Windhelm," Galmar said carefully. "On business most urgent. He did not say more."

She stared him down, waiting. He held the line for all of three seconds.

"I do not know more," he said, bristling. "But I do know he’d want you there. Go to Windhelm. Inform the jarl of our success here today. That’s an order."

But she was already gone.

The Reach disappeared behind her in a rush of snow and sound. She changed horses once at a waystation, and again at the base of the Velothi mountains. Both beasts were left well-fed and winded, and both looked after her as she departed with the same bewildered awe: something half-starstruck, half-wary, as though they’d just been ridden by a storm given form.

When she reached Windhelm, dusk had swallowed the mountains. The wind tore through the valley like it wanted to warn her away.

The drawbridge was up.

The stables were deserted. No smoke from chimneys. No guards at the gates. The docks were abandoned, boats unmanned, even Gjalund's vessel strangely still. No Argonians, no dockhands, no distant clang of forge or hammer.

He had shut the city tight.

Sáraeth didn’t even hesitate.

She turned her mount toward the narrow pass to the north, slipping between slabs of ice-streaked stone. A goat bleated and fled at her approach. She found the crevasse halfway up the ravine wall, barely wide enough for a Bosmer. She dismounted and smacked her horse's flank, sending it back down the trail. Then she slid inside the crevasse like water through a crack in the stone.

It was dark. Ancient. She lit no torch. The tunnel beyond smelled of mildew and dust older than most holds. Webs snagged at her fingers. A skeever hissed from a shadow. She moved like she belonged there.

After three-quarters of an hour with torchlight as her only companion, Sáraeth found the pull chain by instinct, half-buried beneath lichen and time. When she pulled it, a stone door groaned open with the weight of a forgotten age. She slipped inside, vanishing into Windhelm’s bones.

The tunnels wound through the rock in a path only the eldest of those born to Windhelm might have known; a secret she had learned from Wuunferth. Past the vermin she moved. Past the bones. Past the sleeping things. Until the stone gave way to a space she knew: the undercroft beneath the palace. The jail.

She emerged through a broken lattice behind a stack of hay and barrels. Her footfalls were near-silent, but the guard on duty still spun, one hand to his sword--and froze. His eyes widened.

"My Lady," he breathed. Then, with more composure: "The Jarl said to expect you. He awaits in his private quarters."

She said nothing. She was already moving. Toward the only man in all of Skyrim who could ever make her feel like the world had stopped spinning when he left it. And gods help him if he thought she would wait quietly outside his storm.

The firelight in his quarters danced against stone and tapestry. Furs lay scattered over the bed, thick and heavy, and they rose and fell with the weight of the man curled beneath them.

He was asleep. For once, utterly so.

His hair was mussed, golden strands fallen across his face. One hand curled into a loose fist, resting near the edge of the furs. His brow furrowed even in slumber, as if war did not release him even here.

She crossed to him before she could stop herself. No thought, just the pull of something deeper. She reached out, hand hovering over his face—then brushed the hair gently back.

His hand snapped forward and seized her wrist.

She froze.

"That is a very good way to get yourself killed," he growled, voice low with sleep and steel.

She didn’t flinch. Only arched a brow. "So is that."

He opened his eyes then. Smirked. "You remembered the tales of Ysgramor’s Escape from our Unliving friend." He sat up slowly, releasing her wrist.

She knelt before him. "Fort Sungard is ours."

He nodded once. "I know. The city trembled with the news."

Her gaze hardened. "Why did you leave the Reach? Why is the city sealed, its fires dark and its windows shuttered?"

He sighed, the weight settling back across his shoulders like armor.

"A dragon. It awoke while I was by Galmar’s side in the Reach camp and began circling my hold. A courier arrived with the news and I left immediately. The dragon attacked not long after I returned. The scouts believe it roosts now on Mount Anthor. My people are afraid to light fires, fearing it will see and descend again."

She said nothing for a long beat. Then, "So you drew me back here to kill it. That it will no longer terrorize our city."

He looked at her. "Our city, is it, then, Dragonborn?"

A flicker of embarrassment crossed her face. It made her look younger. A flash of the maiden before the war. "I will return with that dragon's soul in my blood."

She turned to leave. His hand caught hers. Turned her back. And then he kissed her. Fierce. Commanding. Like a storm breaking against stone. And she answered it like fire answers wind.

When they parted, he cupped her cheek. "You will save us all," he whispered. "Now begone, lest the dragon be left to its devices merely because I cannot let you go."

Chapter Text

1. The Aetherial Crown

It was just past dawn when the courier arrived, cloaked in mist and urgency. The guards at the Palace of the Kings exchanged wary glances as he pressed a sealed letter into their hands, a red silk bundle clasped protectively to his chest. Within the war room, Ulfric stood over a map of Skyrim, Galmar beside him, when the courier entered.

Ulfric turned as the bundle was placed upon the stone table. The letter bore her seal.

Forged in the molten breath of the Dwemer, gifted with the memory of the ages, the Aetherial Crown. It is yours.

Unwrapping the silk revealed a golden Crown, glinting with otherworldly light, pulsing with standing stone power. Galmar inhaled sharply. But Ulfric simply reached out and cradled it, awe in his eyes.

"She went into the deep places of the world for this," he murmured. "For me."

In his private chambers later that evening, Ulfric placed the Aetherial Crown beside his bed. He touched it before sleep, as if seeking a memory of her fingers. That she forged such an artifact from ancient times was not entirely surprising given her trail of deeds. That she did it all in his name, reached deep into the marrow of his bones and made his blood sing.

He vowed to keep every note. Every token. And as the nights progressed, whenever night fell over Windhelm, he would sometimes read her words aloud, quietly, to no one but the fire.

"She’s still with me. Even when she's gone."

Sometimes, he even fancied he could hear her voice.

2. The Meridia Letter

The courier bowed low before the jarl seated upon the throne of his father. In his hands he held what appeared to be the shape of a sword wrapped in the finest, softest cloth of richest red, brighter than a ripe snowberry in Winter's deepest frost. Ulfric rose to full height, scooping up the offering and noting the sealed letter atop it.

He strode into the war room where he laid the object down upon the table, broke the letter's seal and unfolded it. He read it aloud as Galmar entered from the upstairs armory. "You have won the support of a prince. I give you, Dawnbreaker."

A gasp from his second-in-command as Ulfric dropped the letter to the table and carefully unwrapped his prize. There it lay, gleaming, lit from within, and though he could feel the daedric influence of the exquisite weapon as his fingers closed around its grip, he could sense even more clearly the fact that she had wielded it. Tested it. Doused it in fire of necromantic blood.

The artifact of a daedric prince. And she had won it, for him. Ulfric turned Dawnbreaker in his hand, the weight of Meridia’s will heavy in the hilt. “Let this symbol show those who worship the daedra that even Oblivion’s princes know who it is Skyrim belongs to.”

3. The Whiteout

A scout from Haafingar returned with frostbitten cheeks and an awed look in his eye.

"My Jarl... she came through the blizzard like a ghost. An entire Imperial camp—gone. Just their banners fluttering in the wind when we arrived. We saw no one, only blood and ash. She left a note, my Jarl: 'Windhelm will be safe when the Dragonborn returns.'"

Ulfric contemplated the man’s words, then ordered, "Start preparing the hall."

Galmar raised a brow. "For what?"

"For the return of a queen."

4. The Thalmor Strike

A trio of bodies was delivered by wagon to Windhelm’s gates. Three Thalmor Justiciars, a mark seared into their skin: the Stormcloak bear. With them came a satchel of black elven armor and a note:

They set a trap for me using Meridia’s beacon. They underestimated the depth of my hatred.

Galmar’s brow darkened. "They ambushed her while she served a Daedric Prince?"

Ulfric's fist tightened as he took in the graying Altmer skin and the twisted looks of fear and pain each carcass bore. "And did not live to tell the tale."

He laid the armor before the court and ordered the corpses hung in the palace courtyard.

"Tell the people what she did. Let them know the Thalmor bleed."

5. The Forsworn Cleansing

Another courier. Another battlefield relayed in scribbled scrawl:

I found their camp. The same blades that struck at you in Markarth now rest in the dirt.

Ulfric leaned back, arms folded. "She fights the battles I buried years ago."

Galmar grunted. "She’s your vengeance, then."

Ulfric shook his head slowly. "No. She’s my mercy."

6. The Gold

One morning, a merchant caravan arrived bearing crates of gold. A folded parchment atop the tallest stack read:

This is the 'Rebuild Skyrim and Kill All the Thalmor' fund.

The guards blinked. Galmar whistled low.

Ulfric smirked and said, "Call the treasurer. And the smiths. And the builders."

When a scout joked that it seemed she was sending back a dowry, Ulfric did not correct him. He simply smiled, quietly.

8. The Desecrated Tomb

A note came with an ancient enchanted Nordic blade taken from a forgotten ruin. It read:

The dead had been stolen from their rest. I returned them to it.

Ulfric traced the old Nedic engravings etched into the blade. "She guards the living. And our venerated dead."

   9. The Scout’s Report

"My lord," Thrice-Pierced said, removing his helm as he bent his knee to the man he already called King, "I followed her trail for three days. We lost her near the cliffs. She climbed them. Left no rope. Just handprints in stone."

Galmar chuckled. "What’d I tell you? Mountain goat."

Ulfric only smiled. "Let her climb. I’ll be here, waiting on the summit when her hands, raw and bloody from delivering justice to our enemies, seek rest."

10. The Horn of Jurgen Windcaller

A note arrived via courier, carrying something on the wind that at first, Ulfric could not identify. But when he opened the missive and read her words, he understood immediately and stood in reverence for what she had accomplished.

Sent by the Greybeards to retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller. As draugr fell to my blade and I battled deeper within this sacred place, I sensed your footsteps which had preceded mine. I knew in my bones that you had been the last to walk the hallowed halls. That your blade had been the one to slay the corpses left for me to find.

I reached his final resting place and there, held in an outstretched hand as though a gift meant only for me, the warhorn of a legend. When I lifted it into my hands, I felt your energy. You passed your test. You shouted your victory at the Throat of the World. And now I follow in your footsteps: the Voice. The War. The cleansing of the land. There with the monks I will be. There I will train. And then, the dragon atop Mount Anthor will be vanquished.

Ulfric read the letter twice before speaking. He placed the note on his table and rested his hand upon it, then looked toward the east, where the mountain waited.

"She walks the path of the Voice," he said, quietly. "And still she thinks of me."

Chapter Text

It was dusk when the covered wagon arrived. Its wheels groaned beneath the weight of gold, jewels, weapons, and salvaged goods—all of it ill-gotten, now reclaimed. The guards of Windhelm stared in stunned silence as the driver handed them a sealed letter and gestured toward the tarp covering the wagon’s load.

Inside the Palace of the Kings, Ulfric broke the seal. He read the note aloud, his voice steady but low:

Movarth believed he had the right to enthrall and murder your people. By my hand he has been disavowed of that notion. And of his undeath. His wealth now belongs to the true sons and daughters of Skyrim.

Galmar approached the window, peering down into the courtyard where the loot was being tallied. “Spiders, vampires, corpses... and she walks away with a wagon of treasure like she just took a stroll through the market.”

Ulfric said nothing at first. He set the letter beside the rest of her missives and walked slowly toward the war table, laying his hand on the crown she had forged, which was never far from his sight. Then he turned to Galmar, eyes lit with a strange reverence.

“She doesn’t do it for gold. She does it for justice.”

Galmar grunted. “Aye. But the gold’s nice.”

Ulfric smiled faintly. “Distribute it. Every coin. Let it build homes and fill bellies. Let it remind them who truly watches over Skyrim.” He took a few slow breaths and then added, “Ensure the Gray Quarter is included in your distribution.”

The look of shock on Galmar’s face did not go unnoticed.

And in the deepest hours of that night, when the couriers had departed and the fires burned low, Ulfric re-read her words by candlelight—memorizing not just the victories she claimed, but the fierce, uncompromising love of country behind every one.

Snow blew in lazy spirals atop High Hrothgar, the world hushed beneath the weight of sacred breath. Within the great fortress, Sáraeth stood before Arngeir and the Greybeards, the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller now resting reverently in their possession.

Arngeir’s gaze was steady, filled with a quiet awe. "You have completed all trials," he said. "It is time."

The monks gathered in a circle around her, their breath forming mist in the cold air. Their voices rose as one—not loud, but ancient and vast. The Word they spoke seemed to come from the mountain itself, carved into stone and snow and sky.

"DOV… AH… KIIN."

The word struck her like a tidal wave. Her cloak snapped back from the force, her body rooted against the surge of power. Light shimmered across her skin, as though the air itself recognized her.

And then, from all of them, came the true declaration of her identity in the dragon tongue:

"YSMIR, DRAGON OF THE NORTH."

The sound echoed through the mountains, rippling over peaks and valleys, an invisible thunder carried by the Voice. Far to the northeast, beyond snowfields and pine, on the mountain behind the Palace of the Kings, Ulfric stood alone. He faced southwest, toward the Throat of the World, as the echo reached him—not in words, but in vibration, memory, knowing.

His eyes closed slowly. A single tear traced a line down his face. She had done it. She had walked the path he once walked. And surpassed it. Not a whisper passed his lips, yet the wind itself seemed to carry his thoughts down the mountainside. He did not speak as a king then. Nor as a general. But simply as a man, in love.

"She is Ysmir," he stated without hesitation. "And she is mine."

Which put them all one step closer to the prophecy being realized.

Oh, how he ached.

Chapter Text

The gates of Windhelm stood open.

From the outer stables to the Palace of Kings, a hush had fallen like snow upon the city. But it was not silence—no, it was awe. The kind of reverent stillness that overtakes a people when history walks among them.

They lined the cobbled road, Stormcloak soldiers in formal ranks, guards in polished helms, townsfolk in humble furs. Even the Dunmer had gathered at the mouth of the Gray Quarter, eyes wide and uncertain. Children sat on shoulders. Elders leaned on canes to see better. From the city gates, past Candlehearth Hall, beyond the Temple of Talos and up the sacred steps of the palace, they watched her ascend.

Sáraeth.

Not just the Dragonborn. Not just the General’s fury made flesh.

But something more.

She walked alone, hood lowered, the wind tugging gently at her cloak, raven tresses floating about her head in the wind as though the fingers of the gods themselves brushed through them. On her hip, a dragonbone axe—its edge still stained with the black blood of the beast from Mount Anthor. Her boots made no sound as she passed. She needed none. The people made way for her not out of command, but respect.

Near the Talos temple steps, a Dunmer man stepped forward, trembling. “Was it true?” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Did you slay it?”

Sáraeth paused, her eyes softening as she turned to him. “Windhelm is safe.”

He lowered his gaze. “Then...thank you.” And with a slow, shaking motion, he bowed. She noted that he wore newly-made clothing. That the dagger at his belt gleamed fresh from the smithy’s forge. Her coin; all the treasure she has returned to Windhelm. Had Ulfric seen fit to gift it also to the…elves..?

By the time she passed the final guards at the Palace of Kings, the scent of resin and burning braziers filled her lungs. The heavy doors opened before her, and within, servants and soldiers stood at full attention, lining the marble path like the pillars of a temple.

At the far end, high upon the dais before his throne, stood Ulfric Stormcloak. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest to see his form at last, stepping right out of her dreams to stand before her like a god.

He was not armored for battle. Nor did he wear the raiment of a king. Instead, his presence alone wore the crown—and in his hands, he held the one she had forged in silence and flame: the Aetherial Crown, glowing faintly, its Dwemer runes humming with power and legacy.

She walked to him, every step echoing like drumbeats through the silent hall. And when she reached the base of the dais, she fell to one knee.

“Windhelm is safe, my lord,” she reported, her voice carrying with quiet power.

Ulfric looked at her, and the court watched his face—every line carved deep with feeling. He took a breath. Then another. And when he descended the steps to stand before her, the ancient crown still in hand, no one dared to move.

He reached out.

And placed it gently upon her brow.

A sudden wind whispered through the hall. Candles flickered. The great braziers swayed. Somewhere deep in the stone of the palace, it sounded as though the earth itself exhaled.

Sáraeth’s breath caught. “My lord?” she whispered, eyes lifting to meet his.

Ulfric’s voice, when it came, was something more than speech. It was Word.

“Huzrah, dii Kaal vahdin, Ysmir, Dovahsebrom. Dii du’ul, ziil.”

Hearken, my Champion Maiden, Ysmir, Dragon of the North. My crown, your soul.

And with hands that had led armies and broken chains, he extended them to her. “Rise,” he said softly, “and greet our people.”

And she did. Crowned in myth and met with awe, Sáraeth, Dragon of the North, rose to stand beside the man whose voice once sundered walls—but whose heart now bent in wonder only for her.

The bells tolled once as the great doors of the Palace of Kings swung open. Windhelm stood still.

Candlelight lined the courtyard steps. Guard and servant, steward and thane—they parted in silence as she passed through them like the promise of dawn. The Aetherial Crown, glowing faintly with celestial blue, rested upon her brow, forged in the lost halls of Dwemer ruin and crowned by the hand of a king who did not follow her into the street.

Because this moment belonged to her.

She descended alone. The snow had stopped falling.

From the palace gates to the Temple of Talos, the crowd had gathered—not in riotous celebration, but in a hush of awe. Children peeked around cloaks, elders pressed hands to their hearts. They watched as she walked—armor gilded with dust and blood, eyes lifted not in pride, but in unshakable purpose. Windhelm’s people, her people, did not cheer. They did not sing. They watched—as though to look away might dishonor what had arrived among them.

A Nord woman near the steps fell to one knee. A Dunmer boy followed. And then others, a ripple of silence and fealty, heads bowed in a tide of wordless devotion. She passed them not as a queen, nor even as a warrior, but as something more ancient. More necessary.

When she reached the Gray Quarter, no guards stopped her. None dared. A Dunmer man, older than most, stepped out from a doorway. His robes were patchwork, but clean. His hands trembled slightly as he spoke.

"We received it. The gold. The food. And the order—from the Jarl himself. You carry a king’s love with you… and we carry its weight now, too." His voice caught, but he pressed on, gazing at the crown upon her head. "Azura bless you, sera. Mephala shield your steps."

Whispers spread like incense: “Daedra-touched.” “Prince-favored.” “Shield of Skyrim.”

She nodded once, not stopping, but turning her gaze on each speaker. She gave them what they gave her—recognition.

When she rounded the curve toward Candlehearth Hall, the bells tolled again. From the upper windows, a bard stopped playing. No one raised a cup. Even the mead in the flagons seemed to wait.

Up the steps of the main gate she climbed, alone but watched, flanked by no guard, armored by no shield but the will of the gods and the whispers of her name. Ysmir, some mouthed as she passed. Others only touched the frost-stung stones where her boots had fallen, as though consecrating the path she carved.

And from the high window in his tower, Ulfric watched. The flame in a nearby brazier flickered not from draft, but from something older, something holy.

"My queen," he whispered.

But even he knew now—she belonged to all of them. And the people of Windhelm understood, with the clarity of firelight: The Dragon of the North had come home.

Chapter Text

Much later, when the citizens had returned to home and hearth and fires crackled low...as the winds howled at the stone of Windhelm, inside the war room all was still. Ulfric stood at the map, hands clenched behind his back, brow furrowed as if war alone weighed on him.

She stepped forward, silent in her approach, voice like the hush between heartbeats.

“You are bound in chains, my King.”

His breath caught. Not at her words—but at how gently she’d said them.

He turned. Met her eyes. And for once, he did not wear the crown of command or the armor of deflection. He was just Ulfric. A man cracked open by the weight of history and the unbearable truth of being loved anyway.

His voice was quiet. Almost reverent. “If I wear chains… they were forged by your hand.”

She moved to him then, not as warrior to warlord, but as the only soul alive who saw through the myth. Her fingers brushed the edge of his cloak.

“Then let them bind you to me. Not to your past.”

And for the first time in years, the chains didn’t feel like a prison. They felt like home.

When the stars hung high in the sky and door closed upon the jarl’s chamber, the palace guards knew to leave the halls and rooms of his wing.

There would be no danger for their king tonight.

The embers in the hearth had long since cooled to a dull orange glow, and the revels of Windhelm had dwindled to the silence of sleep. But in the Jarl's chambers, another fire stirred.

Sáraeth stood at the window, the first light of morning kissing the edge of her shoulder. She was quiet, methodical, lacing her armor with practiced fingers, though every motion was softened by the remnants of last night—by touch and closeness, by the echo of his voice against her skin.

Behind her, the furs shifted.

Ulfric stirred, blinking into the dim light, the sheets tangled at his waist. For a moment, he simply watched her. Watched the curve of her back, the braid falling down her spine, the dragonbone buckles cinching around her arms like they belonged there. And gods help him, they did.

He knew what she was. What she was becoming. And he knew what awaited her beyond the gates of Windhelm.

She heard the rustle of fabric, the sound of his bare feet on stone, and then felt the heat of him behind her, wrapping around her like a second skin. His arms slipped around her waist, his forehead resting against the crown she wore like it was a part of her.

"You would leave me so soon?" he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something far older.

She leaned into him for a breath, a heartbeat, but didn’t turn. “There is no rest for the Dragonborn.”

His hands tightened, just slightly. Not possessive—just trying to remember the shape of her. “Stay. Just a moment more.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Not if I’m to keep you safe.”

He closed his eyes. He knew. Of course he knew. But knowing didn’t make it easier. He turned her to face him, eyes searching hers like they might hold back time. His fingers brushed her cheek, then cupped the back of her neck, holding her like she might vanish into mist.

“Come back to me.”

She swallowed. “As you command, my King.”

He shook his head slowly, resting his brow against hers, the crown between them glowing faintly in the morning light.

“That is not the command of a king,” he said, voice just above a breath. “That is the request of the man who lives and dies by your every breath.”

A soft gasp escaped her lips, and her eyes shimmered. She kissed him, slow and deep, like a vow etched in starlight. Then, with infinite care, she stepped back. Her footsteps were nearly silent as she crossed the room. The door opened, spilling golden morning across the stone.

And then she was gone.

Ulfric stood there, night-gown askew, hair tousled, hands empty. The storm inside him was quiet. But oh, how it raged all the same. The ache. The longing. The need of her. A love so pure it staggered him as no man's blade ever could.

He was both full and empty, both sated and ravenous. There was no peace for ones such as they—who bore the weight of the world... of time... of a nation—on their shoulders. They held the fates of millions in their every deed. The future of a country. Of cities and holds. Of people for whom the arc of destiny was unreachable.

She held the entire world in her small hands. But more importantly, that was where she held his heart. And every moment of every day, it felt to him as though it stood on the verge of shattering. As though it was but one missive away from exploding and sending him to Sovngarde.

At least, he thought, in the breath he finally released as Jorleif stepped into the room to ask what the day would bring, I know I will see her there... should the worst happen to us both. But not yet.

Please, in Talos’ name… not yet.

Chapter Text

1. The Second Mask

The courier arrived before dawn, breathless from the long ride, his gloves wrapped tightly around a heavy black satchel. At Ulfric’s nod, he stepped forward and handed it over without a word. Inside, nestled in folds of crimson cloth, was a Dragon Priest mask—Volsung, ancient and cold, its bronze visage still reeking faintly of draugr dust and frost.

Alongside it, a note.

That makes two.

Volsung fell beneath my axe in the crypts of Volskygge. Let none say the Dragon Priests shall rise again—not while I draw breath. If they seek to rekindle the dragon cult, they will find themselves hunted. One by one, I will see them all returned to the dust.

Ulfric held the mask in silence for a long time. The dragon-forged shape of it. The age etched into its seams. And in it, he saw her fire. Her will. Her promise.

He set the note down beside her others. Turned to Galmar, who had been watching from a respectful distance.

“Another one?” Galmar asked, voice gruff but tinged with awe.

Ulfric nodded slowly. “She’s not just chasing legends. She’s ending them.” He touched the mask once more, then handed it to Jorleif. “Mount it. Let the court see. Let them remember what walks among them now.”

2. The Forsworn

A single feather.

That was all the courier had. No treasure-laden cart. No war-torn trophy. Just a wax-sealed letter wrapped around a single hagraven feather, its wiry shaft blackened at the base with soot. The smell of frost clung to it.

Ulfric Stormcloak broke the seal without a word. Galmar stood at his right, eyeing the courier as if the man might sprout wings and flee. But the Jarl was still. Quiet. Until the parchment unfurled.

The script was unmistakable—fierce strokes, clean and certain.

Deepwood Redoubt has been cleansed of its unholy rot. The Forsworn are beginning to learn the true meaning of that word.

The Reach will not rise again on broken promises and ancient curses. Not while I yet draw breath.

I leave you this feather, plucked from the spine of their foul matron at Hag’s End. Perhaps the gods will forgive my cruelty, but she will not rise again.

—S.

Ulfric turned the feather between his fingers, running his thumb along the jagged edge.

“She went into Hag’s End alone?” Galmar asked, his voice low.

“She didn’t say that,” Ulfric murmured.

“No, but she didn’t say she didn’t.”

Ulfric gave no answer. His gaze lingered on the blackened tip of the feather as if it might still twitch with life. For a moment, the throne room was filled with silence—but not the kind bred of peace. This was the silence of reckoning.

“She’s a storm,” he said at last. “But she moves with purpose.”

“And leaves bones in her wake.”

Ulfric almost smiled. “She leaves messages.”

He folded the letter slowly, carefully, like it was a fragile thing. And when he tucked the feather away with it, he did so as if he were placing it among holy relics.

“She is the wrath of the North,” he said. “And I will see that all of Skyrim knows it.”

Galmar gave a sharp nod. “The Reach won’t forget this.”

“No,” Ulfric agreed, a deep thunder in his voice. “Nor will I.”

3. The Horn

A missive arrived wrapped in deep blue cloth, its thread woven with silver, like starlight caught in linen. Within, no coin. No artifact. Only a note, penned in Sáraeth’s elegant, firm hand.

The horn has returned home.
Jurgen’s tomb is sealed once more, and the wind no longer mourns.
I wonder… will another ever walk in our steps?
For now, the soul of a fallen dragon kindles my fire anew.
I go forward. Always forward.
—S

Ulfric sat with the note for a long time. Longer than any before it. He did not move, save to trace the shape of her words with a callused finger, as if through their ink he could find her pulse.

Another would come, perhaps. The wheel of time turned ceaselessly. But another like her?

Never.

"Let them try," he muttered to himself, voice like thunder in the stillness. "But she is Ysmir."

And as he looked out across the white-touched city, Windhelm’s banners snapping in the late summer wind, he felt it again—that same whispering certainty that clung to her presence like a second skin.

She would be remembered long after the stones of his palace crumbled. But he would remember her… now. While she still lived. While she still burned.

And while he burned for her.

Chapter Text

The wind in Hjaalmarch was bitter, but the camp was alive with purpose. Galmar Stone-Fist stood hunched over the war table, candlelight dancing in his eyes as he studied the markers with a hunter’s stillness.

The flap of the tent rustled. He looked up.

Sáraeth stood just beyond the threshold, cloaked in plain scout leathers now—armor light enough to ride fast, unremarkable enough to pass as any courier on the road. She buckled the last of her hide bracers with practiced ease, her eyes already distant, already thinking ahead to the Imperial runner she was meant to intercept.

But it wasn’t the armor that struck Galmar.

It was the cloak.

Still clasped around her shoulders was the one she always wore now—rich midnight blue and black tartan, lined in velvet, inlaid with silver-gray: the cloak of Ulfric’s mother. It fluttered behind her like memory. Like birthright. Like him.

Galmar’s eyes widened. “Wait!”

The entire camp turned at the shout. Sáraeth paused mid-step, blinking at him. He strode toward her without explanation, the urgency in his step silencing even the guards.

“Back in the tent,” he growled. “Now.”

She obeyed, puzzled.

Inside, Galmar stepped close. His hands were gentle as they found the clasp at her collarbone, the intricate knotwork of the Stormcloak pin. He didn’t ask permission. He simply knew. The cloak slipped free like a shadow from her shoulders.

“You’d be known in an instant,” he murmured. “This marks you more clearly than your blade.”

She didn’t argue. But her arms came around herself almost unconsciously, and her lips trembled—not from cold, but from the sudden ache of absence. Without the cloak, it felt as though Ulfric had been stripped from her.

Galmar noticed. He noticed everything, though most mistook his gruffness for blindness.

He turned to his chair and reverently draped the beloved garment over it then, in one smooth move, unslung his own cloak from his back. This one was thick and white as the frost-slick hills outside, stitched from the pelts of two great ice wolves. Wolves he’d brought down himself years ago, before Korvanjund. Before the world began to burn with dragonfire.

He stepped behind her and draped it across her shoulders. The weight was immediate. Warm. Steady. He moved round to her front and fastened the clasp at her throat with a care that surprised them both.

“It should keep you warm,” he said simply.

But what she heard was: You’re not alone.

She looked up at him, eyes softer now, shining with gratitude unspoken. Then she rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I’ll return it soon.”

Galmar gave a rough snort, but it was all affection. “Aye. I’ll hold you to that, Snow-Hammer.”

She nodded once. And then, without further word, she turned and left the tent.

Outside, the camp watched her mount up. The ice wolf cloak billowed behind her, thick and pale against the saddle, trailing down over the horse’s rich brown rump like a banner.

And as she disappeared into the snow, Galmar stood at the mouth of the tent, arms folded. For the first time in a long while, he smiled. Because this time, he went with her.

Missive: Zombies

A short letter arrived by scout, sealed in wax but plainly wrapped. It bore no crest, no embellishment. Just a folded note and a Stormcloak-blue ribbon keeping it closed. Galmar broke the seal, noting the parchment was marked in Sáraeth’s quick, clean hand.

General,
The dead no longer walk near Neugrad. Your garrison is safe. The rot has been burned out.
Should it return, I will do the same.

—S.

That was all.

Galmar grunted softly, folding the parchment with care and tucking it into the leather satchel at his hip. “Damn right she will,” he muttered.

He didn’t report it to Ulfric. Didn’t see the need. Some things weren’t for kings. Some things were between wolves. He simply turned back to the map and moved the Neugrad marker half a pace to the right—cleared.

Then he whispered under his breath, low and proud, “Atta girl.”

Missive: Bloodchill

The gem arrived first.

The courier was speechless, cradling the thing like it might blink. Roughly the size of a Nord’s clenched fist, it was the deepest blue Ulfric had ever seen—like the sky before a storm, like glacier-light caught in fire. It gleamed even in shadow, as though it remembered being stolen from something ancient and angry.

Wrapped carefully in cloth, it was accompanied by a single note, sealed in Sáraeth’s mark.

I was invited to dinner near Dawnstar. A manor carved into the mountain. Guests of every race. A generous host. A fine table. It was, of course, a vampire’s trap.

They rose to feed. I rose faster.

When one of their gargoyle beasts shattered under my blade, this gem was buried in its chest. It bled through the black ichor as though it had a soul of its own—and it chose me.

The manor is quiet now. Its cellars, cold. Its secrets, burned. All that remains belongs to the High King of Skyrim.

But the sapphire? That is for the man called Ulfric.

—S.

The jarl turned the gem in his palm. Even Jorleif was silent, watching it catch the light like the surface of a frozen sea. But Ulfric saw something more.

He saw her. And the blood on her hands. And the warmth in the gift. He didn’t put it in the treasury. He didn’t send it to the court jewelers. He kept it. Tucked away. Where no one but he could see it. Where it would remind him of the woman who slayed shadows and gave him pieces of her heart when he needed them most.

Two days later...

Sealed missive delivered to the Palace of Kings, Windhelm — addressed only to Ulfric Stormcloak, in Sáraeth’s hand

To the High King of Skyrim,
my heart’s greatest claim—

Tonight I stood beneath the open sky in the Reach and watched the auroras swirl in blue and silver above me, crowned by stars like the breath of Sovngarde itself. The sky wore your colors, Ulfric. Your mother’s cloak still rests across my shoulders as I write this, and I’d swear she saw them too.

I came here by way of a challenge—a duel at dusk, a warrior’s rite to win the hall called Hendraheim. Old bones and older oaths live in its stone. I won the duel. The hall is mine now.

But everything in me tells me it was never meant to be mine alone.

It stands just across the road from Sungard, our garrison strong and sure beneath it. The hall is perfectly placed to supply them—ample stores, sturdy walls, weapons enough to reforge a legion. I will return here in a fortnight to bring my own stores, my armors and blades, the trappings of this war that weigh heavy when not wielded.

But what I truly hope to find, when I cross that threshold again…

…is you.

No guards. No court. No duty but your presence.
I offer you a hearth, Ulfric—not as your soldier. Not even as your Dragon.
But as the woman who loves you.

Come.
Be only Ulfric, if just for a night.

— S.

Chapter Text

A Fortnight Later

The wheels of her cart groaned as it came to a halt outside the entrance of Hendraheim. Snow kissed the thatched rooftop in a soft glittering dust, and the sky above spun again with that impossible aurora—blue and green and gold now, like the breath of divinity.

Sáraeth dismounted slowly. Her arms ached, her cloak heavy with travel and frost, but her heart… her heart thundered with a question it didn’t dare speak aloud.

Would he be there?

Would he?

She stepped up the path, her boots crunching softly through the snow. The door loomed before her, solid and waiting. She reached for the handle—

And found it already warm. Her breath caught. She stepped inside.

The scent hit her first—cedar, firewood, and something subtle beneath: the rich depth of snow-wet wool. Her eyes swept the room—and there, near the hearth of the massive central fire pit, a chair half-turned, shadows long across the floor…

Ulfric. Cloak shed, armor gone. Just a thick tunic, loose at the throat. Hair still damp, as though he’d bathed to greet her. But it wasn’t his appearance that struck her dumb.

It was his stillness. The way he looked at her like a man who had crossed the length of Sovngarde only to find paradise at his doorstep.

“You came,” she whispered.

His voice was low. Rough. Tender. “I never left.”

She dropped her pack. Crossed the room in three steps.

And this time, when she touched him, there were no titles, no masks, no need to ask permission. Only hands finding each other like old prayers. Only mouths meeting like memory. Only breath shared in reverence.

They did not speak again that night.

Because words would have been too small.

Some time later...

The fire had long since died to embers, casting a soft amber glow across the stone walls of Hendraheim. Outside, the wind whispered through the evergreens, brushing against the walls like a lullaby, but within… there was only stillness.

They lay together beneath the furs, limbs tangled, skin warm, the scent of pine and firewood clinging to the bedding. Ulfric lay on his back, one hand resting against her spine, the other stroking slow, reverent circles through her hair.

Sáraeth breathed softly, head tucked against his chest, already half asleep—content, safe, his.

He traced a lock of her hair down her shoulder, let it coil around his finger. “There are children’s beds here,” he murmured into the hush.

“Mmhm,” she replied, barely a breath, nestling closer to him.

He paused, fingers still. “I wonder if they’ll ever be used.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, still without opening her eyes, she replied dryly, “I’m given to understand a king’s children are raised in his palace, my lord.”

A beat. Then a soft chuckle rumbled through his chest. He drew her tighter against him, kissed the crown of her head. “Then I’d better build one worthy of them.”

She smiled against his skin but said nothing more, already drifting. He stayed awake a little longer, holding her, staring into the firelight’s last glow as the shadows lengthened around them. In this moment, there was no war. No prophecy. No fear.

Just them.

And the beds.

And the dream.

The morning sun cast golden light through the pine boughs, gilding the flowers that blanketed the hills around Hendraheim. Birds sang in the trees. Somewhere off in the woods, a fox barked once and vanished like a ghost. Sáraeth stood still as stone at the edge of the forge, axe in hand, drinking in the beauty before her—the deep glow of a peaceful sky, the scent of dew-warmed grass, the promise of another day.

She felt it in her bones. Peace. Love. And a tremor of knowing that this… this perfection was borrowed time. A breath held between battles. One wrong step, one arrow she didn’t see—Alduin would rise, and Skyrim would fall.

She lowered herself onto the bench behind the whetstone, fitting Ulfric’s axe into the groove with practiced ease. Metal sang against stone. She thought of him—bare-chested, grinning, sorting through crates of weapons and armor like a boy with new toys. She’d laughed when he tried on a pair of gloves two sizes too small. He'd kissed her then, too many times to count.

When his axe was sharp enough to split a dragon’s scale, she set it aside and took up her own. The sound of his boots reached her first, then his voice.

“Do you ever stop amassing enough gear to outfit a rebellion twice over?”

She glanced back over her shoulder to see him—suited in full Stormcloak armor now, still adjusting a pauldron as he approached. He looked younger in the light, sharper. More alive. Gods, she loved him.

She blushed. “I didn’t ask for that much loot.”

“You didn’t have to. The Nine clearly expect us to retake the Empire with just you and your wagon.”

He stopped beside her, and instead of sitting on the nearby bench, he sat behind her—arms wrapping around her waist, hands sliding down to cover hers where they gripped the axe handle. He guided her through the motion of honing the blade, breath warm against her neck.

“This edge should be yours alone,” he murmured, lips brushing skin. “You wield it like a god.”

Her eyes closed for a moment. This was peace. Not a castle. Not a throne. Just him. Just now. And then—

“My Lord!”

They jolted apart, Sáraeth dropping the axe entirely as Ulfric surged to his feet, reaching for his arming sword on instinct. Ralof stood ten paces away, wide-eyed, mouth half-open as if he’d just walked in on a bard’s bawdy tale come to life.

Ulfric’s voice turned sharp. “Report.”

Ralof snapped to. “My lord—I—I apologize. I didn’t know—”

“Ralof,” Sáraeth said gently, composing herself as she picked up her axe and stood. “What’s happened?”

Still red in the face, the soldier fell into step. “Scouting from Sungard, as planned. I came to check on the delivery and ensure your path was clear. I… overheard two orc bandits posted outside Bilegulch Mine.”

Ulfric frowned. “That pit over the ridge?”

“Aye. They’re watching this place. They saw your wagon roll in last night, saw the goods. They’re planning to strike—take Hendraheim, kill whoever’s in their way. Their leader intends to turn it into a fortress. Spoke of wives. Of conquering.”

Sáraeth’s smile was not kind. “Then we’ll stop them first.”

Ralof blinked. “You… you want three of us to storm a mine full of orcs?”

Ulfric’s eyes met hers. There was no fear. Only fire. “Yes,” he said.

“They won’t know what hit them,” Sáraeth added.

Ralof stared. His shield sister and his Jarl. The Dragonborn and the Storm. Two legends in love, standing side by side with bloodlust in their eyes and glory in their hearts. And somehow, they were looking at him like he belonged at their side.

For the first time in his life, Ralof felt it: worthy. He straightened. “Then I lead. For Skyrim.”

Sáraeth stepped forward, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Come, shield brother. Let us disavow these orcs of the notion that Stormcloaks show their bellies to anyone.”

The three of them turned, and the wind shifted.

Chapter Text

They stood at the ridge, overlooking the broken-toothed sprawl of Bilegulch Mine. Sáraeth closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered: “Laas… Yah Nir.” The world changed.

All around them, life flickered into light—six sentinels pulsing with breath and blood. Three orcs by the mine’s entrance. Three more on elevated watchposts, outlined in amber glow. One slept near the base of a platform, and two others stood as sentries at the mouth of the camp’s only true ingress.

Ulfric’s eyes gleamed. He’d seen the world this way before—years ago, under the tutelage of the Greybeards—but it still made his breath hitch. “By Talos,” he murmured, reverent.

“Eight targets outside,” she said, voice cool and low. “We take them. Fast.”

She took less than a minute to explain where everyone was. Ralof nodded and slipped into the underbrush, bow already in hand. A whisper of movement, and he vanished like a true son of Skyrim.

Ulfric leaned close. “Your axe or mine?”

Sáraeth smirked. “Yours is already bloodthirsty.”

Together, they crept to the front line. As Ralof drew back his bowstring, they timed their strike with precision: Ralof’s arrow found the throat of the nearest lookout—his body crumpled, unnoticed. In the same breath, Ulfric and Sáraeth descended on the two gate guards. Her axe bit deep into the first’s clavicle. Ulfric drove his into the chest of the second, shouting “YOL!” just for the thrill of it. Fire erupted from his lungs and seared the ground around them.

The path was open.

Ralof’s second shot brought down another scout, but this one screamed—a gurgling, strangled cry that shattered the quiet as fast and hard as Ulfric’s fire had done.

The camp erupted.

Two orcs charged toward Ralof from the side, blades raised. Before they reached him, Ulfric let loose a roar that shook the earth:

“FUS RO DAH!”

They were hurled backwards, crashing into rocks with bone-snapping finality. Ralof rose to meet the next two guards with steel, and Sáraeth joined him, twin axes spinning in a deadly rhythm. The bodies fell.

Only one remained outside—a hulking brute standing sentinel at the mine’s mouth, clutching a jagged warhammer in meaty fists.

He bellowed and charged.

Ulfric answered with a snarl: “ZUN HAAL VIIK!”

The orc’s weapon flew from his hands, clattering across the dirt. Before he could reach for another, Sáraeth stepped forward, eyes blazing.

“FUS RO DAH!”

The world bent.

The orc flew off the cliffside like a leaf in the wind, his scream cut short by a sickening crunch somewhere below. Silence returned.

Ulfric stood still, chest heaving, eyes shining like stormclouds lit by fire. He looked alive—a warrior reborn, king and killer and god.

Sáraeth stared at him, stunned by his beauty, his power. Even Ralof had to steady himself.

And then, without a word, the three turned toward the mine.

Inside, it was dark, damp, and nearly empty. Sáraeth whispered the words again, “Laas… Yah Nir,” and only one light flared.

The chief.

He was pacing at the back of the tunnel, muttering, “Need more wives after losing those two… can’t raid Narzulbur again, they’re getting wise…”

Ralof leaned close. “Let’s make certain he no longer has to worry about that, eh?”

Sáraeth snorted softly.

Ulfric rose to full height and stepped forward with deadly calm. This was not just any orc. This was the one who had dared lay claim to what belonged to him.

To her.

The orc turned—too late.

Ulfric met him eye to eye.

“Skyrim,” he said, almost kindly, “is for the Nords.”

The axe came down.

The head rolled, bouncing twice before coming to rest at the foot of a treasure chest. The orc’s body collapsed in a heavy thud.

Ralof stepped forward and grimaced. “He was wearing carved Nord armor.”

Ulfric’s voice went low. “Remove it. Throw it in the forge’s fire. His orc filth has made it unwearable by a true brother of Skyrim.”

Ralof obeyed without hesitation.

Ulfric turned to the chest, then to Sáraeth. “I’ll garrison men here,” he said. “We’ve miners in Darkwater Crossing who’d work these orichalcum veins gladly.”

Sáraeth blinked. “Derkeethus,” she said softly.

“The very same.”

And in that moment, something passed between them—quiet, electric, unspoken. He remembered. He had listened. She had changed him, and he knew it.

He was becoming the man he once feared he could never be.

And it was all because of her.

Chapter Text

The rain fell like punishment. Cold. Relentless. Deafening.

Sáraeth pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, but it was no use—she was soaked through, hair plastered to her cheeks, armor dripping, boots squelching through the mud. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the craggy path ahead just long enough for her to realize where she was.

The Moldering Ruins.

She didn’t remember turning toward them. Had she gotten that turned around on her way to Rorikstead? Her thoughts were cut short by a growl. Then another. Two wolves lunged from the trees. She cut one down, then the other, breathing hard.

That’s when she saw the undead hounds. Eyes glowing red with hunger, fangs bared, charging with the uncanny speed of their kind. She shouted them back with a fire breath, staggered when a vampire thrall appeared out of the storm, sword drawn.

She killed him, but not fast enough to stop the second thrall from slashing into her side.

And then, silence.

Except for the trapdoor. A strange sound filtered up through it. It took a moment in the deluge, but she found it half-hidden beside a crate; a wooden hatch that seemed to be purposely laying in waiting for her. She opened it.

Down she went. Inside, it was dry. Almost warm. She stepped into a Nord tomb—familiar stonework, familiar scent of dust and decay. She relaxed too soon.

The thrall came at her first. Then the lesser vampire. She dispatched them both, but not without bruises, blood loss, rage.

And then… him. An Altmer. Fangs white as ivory. Yellow skin so pale it was nearly white. Eyes like the very blood in his veins was bleeding into them. A master vampire. He moved faster than thought. Sank his teeth into her neck.

She gasped—frozen. Not in fear. Paralyzed. Her limbs refused to move. But her Voice...

“YOL TOOR SHUL!”

Fire erupted from her mouth. He screamed. Skin sloughing, burning, blackening. He crumpled into ash. She turned. Her vision blurred. And then the pain began. Her knees buckled. The room tilted. Her belly spasmed in white-hot agony. She fell, and the stone rose to meet her.

Laughter echoed through the hall. Ralof slapped one of the men on the back, grinning. Ulfric was leaning against the long table, arms folded, discussing garrison rotation between Sungard and Bilegulch.

It was a good day.

Sáraeth had left earlier to run a simple mission. Intercept an Imperial courier. Get the documents to Galmar. Play dress-up for Morthal.

Child’s play.

Ulfric stepped toward the door, one hand already reaching for his cloak. And then—it hit. Like a blade through the ribs. He gasped, hand clutching at his chest. Stumbled. Fell against the doorframe.

“My lord?!” Ralof cried, rushing forward.

Ulfric dropped to one knee, face pale, breathing shallow. “Sáraeth,” he rasped.

Ralof froze. “What—what about her?”

Ulfric looked up—and for the first time in Ralof’s life, he saw fear on the face of the man he worshiped. No other words. Just that name, again.

“Sáraeth.”

He staggered upright as if pulled by divine thread. Stumbled down Hendraheim’s front steps. Mounted his horse in one bound and tore into the rain-slick dark like a man possessed. Ralof gawked for a breath, then roared at the men to carry out the plan, leapt to his own horse, and gave chase.

Lightning cracked.

Somewhere, deep underground, a young Dragonborn lay dying. And the High King rode to her.

Ulfric dismounted like he’d leapt from Sovngarde itself, storm-wrath in his bones. The stench of blood and ash was thick in the rain-slick air. Wolf corpses. Undead hounds. Vampiric remains. It painted a picture no man wanted to read.

His hand touched the trapdoor before he even knew he meant to move. He opened it. The scent hit him like a blade: burnt flesh. Blood. Cold stone. Her. He dropped into the ruin, booted feet echoing in a world suddenly too silent. He turned a corner.

And time stopped.

She was lying on the stone floor like a discarded prayer. Pale. Still. Eyes closed. Lips parted slightly as if she’d been trying to speak a name. His name. He crashed to his knees, gauntlets scraping stone, ripped his glove off and one bare hand—trembling—reached out to her cheek.

Cold.

Too cold.

But—breath. A whisper of life.

“Gods…” he choked, voice breaking. “No. No.”

Behind him, the ladder clattered. Ralof dropped to the floor and rushed to her other side. When he saw her, his jaw clenched, and grief shattered behind his ribs. Ulfric cradled her gently—like glass. Like relic. Like beloved. His hand inadvertently brushed the hair away from her neck.

And there, between collarbone and jaw—two tiny punctures.

Ralof gasped. “She’s been bitten.”

Ulfric looked up, stricken. “She’s… she’s turning?”

Ralof nodded, his voice raw. “Unless we cure her now. Unless…”

Ulfric didn’t wait for more. “Come,” he commanded, his voice a whip crack of desperation.

He gathered her against him and carried her up the ladder. Ralof scrambled ahead, reaching to pull her upward when Ulfric lifted her from below. She passed between their hands like something holy.

Outside, Ralof still held her, cradling her protectively. He looked up with red-rimmed eyes.

“You’re not the only one who loves her,” he said, voice cracking. “We all do.”

Ulfric laid a hand on his shoulder. “We must move. Quickly.”

He mounted. Ralof handed her up. She sagged into Ulfric’s arms like sleep, like death.

And then they rode. Through wind and wet. Through pulse and panic. Ulfric’s mind was a prayer made of fire and fear.

Don’t take her from me. Akatosh… she is yours, but she is also mine.

Chapter Text

They crested the hill above Rorikstead. A nearly forgotten Shrine of Akatosh stood in the rain, silent sentinel of stone and time. Ulfric dismounted and sank to his knees. He laid her at the foot of the shrine like an offering. And then he prayed. Not as a Jarl. Not as a warrior. But as a man on the edge of loss.

“Please,” he whispered. “She is your daughter. She is Skyrim. She is my heart. Please.”

Ralof stepped forward, his own voice quiet thunder. “This is the woman who saved us both. Who led us. Who changed everything.” He knelt. Pressed a hand to her brow. “Take me,” he said softly. “A life for a life. Talos guide me. Akatosh save her.”

Ulfric bowed his head. The shrine glowed. The air shifted. A mighty presence filled the space, and from it emerged a dragon—translucent, enormous, divine. Time itself seemed to ripple around him.

Ulfric rose to his feet, drawing Sáraeth against him. “You cannot have her,” he growled.

The dragon did not strike. It spoke. “It is Molag Bal who wishes to claim the Dragonborn. Not I, Mighty King.” Then to Ralof: “And you would offer your life for hers.”

“Aye,” Ralof said without hesitation.

Ulfric, chest heaving: “As would I. She is everything. To Skyrim. To the Stormcloaks.”

“To you,” the dragon rumbled.

“…Yes,” Ulfric whispered.

A beat.

Then—

“Fear not, mighty warriors. For the Dragonborn shall receive the blessing of Akatosh. Blood born anew. Tainted filth of the daedra removed.”

Relief stole the breath from both men.

“Release her,” the dragon commanded.

Ulfric laid her down. He and Ralof stepped back. The shrine exploded with light. The men cried out, shielding their faces, blinded by divinity. When the brilliance faded and the rain ceased… she was standing.

Alive.

Whole.

Clad in armor fashioned of dragon bone, radiant as dawn.

She smiled. “You saved me,” she said, looking to Ulfric. Then to Ralof. “You both saved me.”

“No,” Ulfric said softly. “Akatosh saved you.”

She stepped forward and touched Ralof’s cheek. “You would have given your life.”

He nodded, overcome.

“And you,” she said to Ulfric.

“Always,” he murmured.

She turned to the shrine, and her armor dissolved in a shimmer of magic, returning her to the plain leather of her disguise. She straightened. “You must return to Windhelm, my lord.”

Ulfric looked ready to protest.

“My father protects me now,” she said. “As Ralof protects you.”

The words rang divine.

And in that moment, they understood. Ralof had been chosen. He was more than her shield brother now. He was Ulfric’s. Guardian of the High King. Defender of the Dragonborn.

A blessing not just on her—but on all they were building. A sign from Akatosh himself that the gods were not just watching…

They were with them.

Several days later...

The seal was already broken when Ulfric picked up the parchment. Ralof handed it to him with a grunt, already knowing the habit: the Jarl read aloud when it pleased him—or grumbled loud enough to count.

Ulfric unfolded the letter and scanned the top, brow raising. “It’s from Galmar.”

Ralof looked up from his corner seat, arms crossed. “He’s early. We weren’t expecting news for another day.”

Ulfric cleared his throat and began to read aloud:

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak,
My brother,

I heard what Ralof uncovered. Damn fine work. Three of our own, two palace guards, and Free-Winter himself? I knew that milksop was soft, but betrayal? That one stings. I don’t envy you the political fallout. But I’d like to buy that Dunmer Sadri a mead. Never thought I’d say that about a shopkeeper in the Gray Quarter. Ralof’s been spending time down there? That explains it. The dark elves gossip worse than Windhelm fishwives, and I mean that with all due respect to old Herkja at the docks.

But I know you care little for my rambling, so—on to news of Snow-Hammer.

Ulfric paused, lips twitching faintly at the nickname.

She found us an Imperial courier. In his bed. Sleeping soundly. And now, sleeping permanently. Smart move—quiet. Efficient. She slipped the orders off him and was gone before the innkeeper knew she had a corpse in her rafters. That's your girl, alright.

Ralof let out a low whistle.

On the way back to my camp, she stumbled into Robber’s Gorge. I say “stumbled” like she didn’t wade in swinging. Left no one alive. Carried off a Daedric axe and a suit of enchanted armor that makes even my teeth itch. We’ve sent them to Windhelm for Wuunferth to fondle. I hear he’s grinning like a damn spider already. Try not to let him lose a hand to it, eh?

She’s continuing the mission. I hope you’re ready. Things are about to heat up faster than a forge on saturation day.

Strength to you, brother. And to her.

—Galmar

Ulfric let the parchment fall into his lap. His expression was unreadable.

After a beat, Ralof said quietly, “You’re worried.”

“She’s out there,” Ulfric said, low and heavy. “Still moving. Still risking. And I’m sitting here reading about it after the fact.”

“She’s still your sword,” Ralof said gently. “But she’s also your storm. You don’t command a storm. You just hope you’re on the right side of it.”

Ulfric didn’t answer. He turned the parchment over, as if it might say more. As if somewhere in the folds of ink and hand-scrawl he might find the warmth of her hand again. The scent of her hair.

After a while, he murmured, “Send word to Wuunferth. I want to know what he finds in that armor.”

Ralof stood. “You think it’s a message?”

Ulfric looked toward the fire.

“I think everything she touches becomes one.”

Chapter Text

The great doors of the Palace of Kings opened with a hollow groan, and the hush that followed was a strange sort of reverence. The long hall lay quiet save for the boots of two guards at their posts, another by the rear entrance, and a fourth near the war room. At the table, Ralof sat amidst a scatter of scrolls and parchments, the firelight casting hollows beneath his eyes. He looked up when she entered, and cleared his throat once.

That soft sound was enough.

Ulfric lifted his gaze from where he sat upon the throne. His bearing was regal, yes—but it sagged under the burden of a kingdom bleeding from within. Wordlessly, he rose and turned away, disappearing behind the war table and ascending the steps to the private chambers above.

As Sáraeth passed him, Ralof made to speak—then froze at the sight of her. A new scar sliced like fire across the bridge of her nose, vivid even in its healing. “Are you—?”

She touched his shoulder gently, stopping the words before they formed. “He’s worried,” she murmured.

“Aye,” Ralof whispered. “Free-Winter… the conspiracy burrows deeper than we knew. All others are barred from the palace now—only those whose loyalty is proven remain.” His voice dropped even lower. “Our prison holds those still under questioning. But the executioner’s blade has fallen eighteen times. At dusk, it shall fall thrice more.”

She met his eyes, gave a nod heavy with sorrow and steel, then turned and climbed the steps in silence.

In the dim firelit chamber above, she found Ulfric standing before a narrow window, arms folded, gaze cast out over his snow-covered city. His shoulders, broad and burdened, didn’t move when she entered—but she knew he had heard her. Without a word, she stepped behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek to his back.

For a long while he didn’t speak. She felt the tightness in him ease with every breath. At last he turned. The first thing he saw was her face.

The scar.

His jaw clenched, and he reached out with a trembling hand, tracing the line beneath her eyes with his thumb. “Snowhawk?” he rasped.

“Not exactly,” she said softly. “Thalmor ambush. Just outside the rendezvous point.”

His hand fell away, curling into a fist. His whole body went rigid, vibrating with fury. The Thalmor—again. Always them. Hurting her, marking her, trying to take from him what they never had any right to touch. The woman he loved, the woman who bled for him, who came back from the dead as a living breath of Akatosh—wounded by cowards.

“Be at peace, my love,” she whispered, and the words stopped his breath in his chest.

“How can I be at peace,” he said hoarsely, “when everything in Skyrim seeks to kill us both?”

She lifted her hand, brushed her fingers across his brow. “The war will end soon. You will triumph. You will reign. And then we will face Alduin. Together.”

His voice broke. “When you speak such things… I believe them. It’s as though prophecy clings to every word from your lips.”

“It does,” she said, her smile as radiant as the dawn. “Because Akatosh’s hand rests on your shoulder, even now. Through me.”

Ulfric pulled her into his arms then—tightly, almost desperately, as though trying to meld their bones together. He held her like a man starved of the one thing that made him whole.

“I wish I didn’t have to send you out again,” he murmured into her hair.

“Then don’t.”

He smiled into the curve of her neck. “Too late. But this time…” He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “This time, I will ride beside you.”

Her breath caught.

“It is time,” he said, solemn and proud, “to take Solitude.”

Later, in the throne room—once a few loyal witnesses were summoned—Ulfric stood before her with a new gift.

Stormcloak Officer armor, commissioned just for her. Lined with rich wolf-pelt, reinforced with the steel of Windhelm’s finest blacksmiths, it bore the mark of the bear and the dragon. He took her hand in his and declared before them all:

“You’ve become a true hero of Skyrim. I number you among my kin. You shall now be known as Stormblade.”

And then, softer, with the weight of awe in his voice:

“The love of the land and her people flows from your heart, even as death to her enemies flows from your hands.” He rose to his feet and addressed them all. “It is time. Fight, Stormcloaks. Fight or die well.”

Chapter Text

Ralof found her as she passed through the stone halls, still glowing from Ulfric's words to the men. Still half-burning with all she hadn’t said aloud.

He didn’t speak, just touched her arm gently and gestured for her to follow. She obeyed without question, her boots silent on the flagstones as they climbed the stairs to the upper armory.

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering light of a few lanterns and the spill of cold blue from the high windows. He moved to the far end, where a thick, fur-lined curtain hung across a recessed alcove. For a moment, he just stood there, back to her, as if unsure whether to unveil what waited.

Then, in one smooth motion, he drew the curtain back.

She inhaled sharply.

On the armor stand stood an exact replica of Ulfric Stormcloak's regalia, but made for a woman. The same studded leather, the same wolf-marked pauldron. The fur-lined cloak—a newer version, but unmistakably the same weave as the one his mother had sewn with her own hands.

Ralof cleared his throat, eyes already glistening. "He had the officer's armor made for you. The official piece, the one you'll wear in every tale the bards sing." He paused. "But this... this was made in secret. Quiet-like. This is what he hopes you'll wear. Not just for the battle. For what comes after."

Sáraeth stepped forward on unsteady legs. Her hand reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the cloak where it lay draped over the shoulder of the armor. She could feel him in it. His scent. His weight. His presence.

She thought she had nothing left in her to give.

And then she wept.

Tears fell silent and unrelenting, tracking lines down her cheeks as she bowed her head, hands clenched over her heart. Ralof did not move, did not speak. He merely bore witness.

The Dragonborn cried. And the wind outside the Palace of Kings stilled.

When she appeared the next morning near the gates of Solitude, the camp fell into hushed awe.

Galmar Stone-Fist, mid-rant at a trembling courier, turned so fast his jaw nearly unhinged. "Talos' beard..." he muttered. "She's wearin' his bloody armor."

Stormcloaks whispered. Some gasped. Others simply stared, wide-eyed.

But Ulfric...

Ulfric did not speak.

He only looked. And when his eyes found hers, time broke around them.

She stood in the replica of his own battlewear, the Aetherial Crown glinting faintly against her braid, her cloak sweeping the snow-dusted ground behind her like a banner of old.

That was his proposal.

And her wearing it?

That was her yes.

He raised his sword. "It is time. Today, we march west. There we will at last fight, Stormcloaks. In the name of Talos, we will fight, or we will die well."

And in her eyes, love and fire. A vow.

They both believed. They would win. They would rebuild. And when next they walked the walked the halls of the Palace of Kings, she would be his wife.

The mists curled like breath on a battle drum as the Stormcloaks crested the ridge before Fort Hraggstad. The smell of frost, pine, and oil-choked iron filled the air. It had rained just hours earlier—enough to darken the earth and set the grass glistening, but not enough to dampen the fire in their blood.

Galmar was already shouting before they reached the slope.

“FOR TALOS AND SKYRIM, YOU CURS!” he bellowed, axe raised high, beard bristling like a wild bear awakened from slumber. “CHARGE!”

Steel screamed. Arrows darkened the sky. And Sáraeth Stormblade—clad in Ulfric’s armor, cloaked in his mother’s tartan, and crowned with Aetherium—was the first to meet the enemy.

She struck like a living shout.

With every swing of her axe, another body fell. With every block of her shield, another brother behind her was spared. She was death and deliverance, fire and frost, prophecy and promise made manifest.

Galmar fought beside her, shoulder to shoulder, barking orders and insults in equal measure. “Come on, then! You milk-drinking sods want Skyrim? You’ll have to go through my damned ribcage first!”

The man was a wall of fury, spinning his battleaxe through shield and bone like he was still twenty and just back from his first campaign. “That’s the way of it, lass!” he roared to Sáraeth as they cleared a path up the stone steps. “You’ve got more fire than Ysgramor himself!”

But then—then—it happened.

A moment of stillness. Of clarity.

Sáraeth stood atop the battlement, blood-soaked and radiant in the rising light. Her breath misted before her lips as she looked down at the chaos below.

Her eyes narrowed. And she Shouted.

TIID… KLO… UL.

Time broke.

Galmar felt it before he understood it—a silence, then a hollowed-out stillness that stretched and warped the world. Everything slowed. The arrows hung in the air like frozen silver fish suspended in glass. The blades swung through syrup. The cries of war turned to deep, echoing pulses.

But she moved.

Gods, she moved like a divine storm unbound. She tore through the Imperial ranks with impossible grace—like a wraith crowned in light. One soldier turned to strike her, and before his sword could even lift from its scabbard, she was behind him, blade through his ribs. Another raised a bow—her axe took his arm before the string could be drawn. Ten men. Fifteen. Twenty. Down before the world remembered it was supposed to spin.

Galmar stared, lips parted, forgetting even to swing his weapon for one long moment.

And in that moment, he understood.

He saw her not just as the Dragonborn. Not just as Ulfric’s chosen. But as the living wrath of the gods. The embodiment of the land’s vengeance. The storm that followed centuries of silence and compromise. The hand of Talos himself. And Ulfric...oh, Ulfric had not claimed her.

He had answered her call.

Galmar let out a growl that turned into a full-throated war cry. His blood surged like he was young again. He charged the fray with a fervor he hadn’t felt since the first time he took a city gate.

Together, they finished it.

By the time the last Imperial surrendered, Hraggstad was a ruin of ash, bodies, and shattered resolve. The garrison raised the bear banner without needing to be told. The fort was theirs.

Galmar turned to her, panting, brow bleeding, and smiled with the kind of feral pride only a true Nord could muster.

“You’re not just the Dragonborn,” he said, voice thick with awe and unspoken things. “You’re...Skyrim’s vengeance. I see it now.”

Sáraeth nodded once. No gloating. No swagger. Just the quiet steel of destiny. Then Galmar clapped her shoulder—hard—and grinned through the blood on his teeth.

“Let’s go get your man, girl.”

And side by side, without a single word of farewell, they left a garrison to hold the fort and rode toward Solitude. Toward history. Toward the end of an empire and the beginning of something eternal.

Chapter Text

Location: Solitude

The banners of the Empire fluttered red and ragged on the high stone walls, torn by smoke and firelight. The sky above Solitude was the color of old iron, and the air hung heavy with the scent of burning pitch and war-forged resolve.

Ulfric Stormcloak stood before the gathered ranks, a black tower crowned in wolf-pelt and fury, his voice low and solemn as he began to speak.

“We come to this moment carried by the sacrifices and courage of our fellows. Those who have fallen. Those still bearing the shields to our right.”

Sáraeth stood just in front and to the side of him, her cloak of blue and black shifting gently in the breeze. His mother’s cloak. His armor on her body. The weight of what they were doing—what they were about to become—tugged tight in her chest. His eyes flicked to her once. Just once. But it was enough.

“On this day, our enemy will know the fullness of our determination,” he continued. “The true depth of our anger, and the exalted righteousness of our cause.”

She felt the shift in the air. The way his voice filled the marrow of every soul present, Stormcloak and otherwise. The way the men and women leaned toward him as if their hearts answered him before their minds did. She was bearing witness to the becoming of a true king.

“The gods are watching. The spirits of our ancestors are stirring. And men under suns yet to dawn will be transformed by what we do here today.”

Several soldiers cried out battle roars that wanted to shake the heavens.

“Fear neither pain, nor darkness. For Sovngarde awaits those who die with weapons in their hands and courage in their hearts.”

A woman, a soldier she knew as Freya, bellowed like a barmaid trying to shut down a rabblerousing crowd.

“We now fight our way to Castle Dour, to cut the head off the Legion itself! And in that moment, the gods will look down and see Skyrim as she was meant to be. Full of Nords who are mighty, powerful, and free!”

This time, the Dragonborn’s voice – her natural, human voice – cried out in unison with her brothers and sisters, axe raised high. “HUZZZAAAAAAHHHHHH!”

“Ready now! Everyone, with me! For the sons and daughters of Skyrim!”

A thunderous cry rose around him, blades slamming against shields. And then the gates were falling, and they were in.

It was chaos and fire.

Steel on steel, blood on cobblestone. Arrows flew overhead, bolts of frost and fire from desperate Imperial mages. But it was the Stormcloaks who surged, led by Ralof and Galmar, the latter roaring like a bear reborn, his axe cleaving through a line of soldiers as if they were mere children.

Sáraeth fought not as a woman but as legend incarnate—her twin blades spinning with brutal grace, Ulfric’s armor catching the firelight with every killing blow. She fought for her love. For her people. For Skyrim. Her blood sang.

And then she heard it.

A cry—his cry.

Ulfric.

Her heart dropped like a stone. She turned, eyes slicing through the chaos—and there he was, on his knees, blood soaking into the furs around his waist, a blade still stuck deep in his side. An Imperial officer stood above him, sword raised for the final stroke.

“Fus—RO DAH!”

The Shout cracked the air like the wrath of heaven. The officer was blasted back into a stone pillar and did not rise again.

Sáraeth dropped to her knees at Ulfric’s side, her hands already on the Aetherial Crown. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes locked on hers.

“Sáraeth—”

“Don’t speak,” she whispered, fierce and urgent. “Just trust me.”

She took the crown from her head and placed it upon his brow.

A pulse.

A hum.

The crown glowed with an eerie blue-white light, threads of energy weaving like spider silk from the metal into his skin. And then—

A blinding flash.

The wound closed before her eyes, the blade popping out of his gut like a sliver from a finger. His skin knit itself whole, the blood drying in an instant. His lungs filled. His back straightened.

And the crown—

It shattered.

Like crystal meeting divine will, it split in a soundless burst of light, leaving only a few glowing shards on the stones.

Silence fell. Not just around her—but across the battlefield.

Stormcloaks and Imperials alike had seen. This was a woman touched by gods. A weapon and a blessing all in one. A Dragonborn who heals with the touch of her hand and the gift of the old magics.

A ripple of fear ran through the Imperials. And they broke. They ran—toward Castle Dour, toward the final fallback, panic scattering their ranks like ash in a gale. And she? She turned to Ulfric, hand extended.

He looked up at her, the weight of what had just happened dawning behind his eyes—blue and stunned and full of something he had never dared hope for. She smiled. And spoke with quiet, radiant power.

“Come. Let us make you a king at last.”

His hand took hers. Together, they rose. And behind them, the Stormcloaks roared—and followed.

Chapter Text

The doors to Castle Dour groaned open beneath her hand, the blood of the courtyard still hot on her armor. Winded, wounded, the three of them entered as one—Dragonborn, Jarl, and General. Behind them, the fires of Solitude crackled against twilight skies, and ahead... silence.

Until a voice broke it.

“So the Dragonborn comes and the Empire crumbles. Figures the only thing to tame this great beast would be a dragon.”

The tone was bitter, hollow with exhaustion. Rikke stood to the side of the Imperial war table guarding a seated Tullius. Her face was smeared with ash and blood, but her eyes were sharp with defiance. She was a shield raised on reflex—unyielding, out of loyalty, or stubbornness, or grief.

Ulfric’s voice was quieter than she remembered hearing it—too quiet for the man the Empire had branded a warmonger. “You don't have to die here, Rikke.” His gaze was soft. Weary. “Let us pass. This doesn’t need to end with more blood.”

Rikke scoffed. “You think I’ll step aside while you butcher what’s left of this Empire? While you crown yourself on the ashes of every oath we ever swore?”

Galmar stepped forward, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “You were the best of us once. Don’t make me put you down like a mad dog.”

Her glare faltered for the briefest heartbeat. “You broke faith first.” And then to Ulfric, “You broke Skyrim.”

“Please,” Ulfric said again, more to the moment than the woman. “Walk away.”

Rikke’s shoulders trembled, the weight of too many years pressing into her bones. And still, she shook her head. “No.” One word. But it cracked through the room like thunder.

Galmar exhaled slowly, his voice more like gravel now than iron. “I remember the snow outside Windhelm. We buried a boy there. You stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder, and you said to me, ‘We’re all that’s left, Galmar. Let’s make it count.’”

A tremor moved through her blade arm.

He stepped one foot closer, unarmed. “It counted, Rikke. It counted more than you know. Let it end.”

Her scream was not rage. It was grief. And she ran at him. Sáraeth moved without thought. Her blade was in her hand, the Dragon's breath behind it. Steel met bone. A sound like silk tearing filled the room—and Rikke's charge collapsed into nothing. Her head struck the stone with a hollow thud. Her sword clattered just inches from Galmar’s chest.

There was silence. Smoke. Ash. Stillness. Sáraeth didn’t look at the body. She stared at Galmar, her breathing unsteady. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Galmar blinked, one hand pressed to the breastplate she’d just saved. “For saving my life?” His voice was cracked but steady.

Her eyes dropped to the floor. “No. For ending hers.”

Galmar looked down at the fallen woman—the shield sister who once bled beside him in battles long forgotten—and for a moment, said nothing. Then he nodded once. “She died a True Nord. That’s more than most will get.”

Then—

Tullius rose. Slowly. Deliberately. “I suppose that’s that, then,” he said. “The Empire’s final blade, dulled and broken at your feet. You’ve won.”

But Ulfric didn’t answer. Not at first.

“You know this is what the Thalmor wanted,” Tullius said, voice curling like smoke with that strange Cyrodiilian accent of his. “You think you’ve won something today, but all you’ve done is play your part.” He looked at Galmar, then at Sáraeth, and finally, his gaze landed on Ulfric. “Ask him. He knows.”

Galmar tensed. “Knows what?”

Tullius smiled, but there was no joy in it. Only exhaustion. And contempt.

“The Thalmor let him escape. After Markarth. They wanted this rebellion. Nurtured it. Watered it like a damned tree. Ulfric Stormcloak, the loyal prisoner turned symbol of Nord pride. It was all scripted. And he played his part perfectly.”

Sáraeth’s eyes flew to Ulfric.

But Ulfric didn’t flinch. He met Tullius’ gaze with something close to pity. “Well,” he said softly, “it didn’t work, did it, General?”

Tullius blinked, stunned by the calm. Galmar looked between them, breathing hard. Ulfric stepped forward, slow and certain, the weight of his voice rising with each word.

“You bent your knee to the elves who burned your cities and spat on your gods. You outlawed Talos—our god, our father, our shield—because they told you to. You turned on Ysgramor’s sons and daughters, offered us as tribute to a Dominion that would see us erased.”

He drew his runed axe from his back. Its edge glimmered with ancient power.

“The Empire you serve,” he continued, “was forged by Tiber Septim to unite Tamriel under honor, under purpose. You dishonored him. You sold his legacy. You allowed the Pact of Alessia to be broken and said nothing. You gave the throne of man to puppets and promises of gold.”

He turned slightly—to her. Just for a heartbeat. His voice was softer now. Not for Tullius. For her. “But the true gods fought with us today.”

He raised the axe.

“They have found you wanting.”

And then his voice became thunder.

“They have found the Empire wanting.”

A breath. A swing. And with a single, clean stroke, the axe fell. Tullius’ head struck the stone. Stillness. Ulfric stood for a long moment, then turned, not to the throne, but to Sáraeth. His voice was low, but certain.

“The wheel has turned, Dragon of the North. The Empire is no more.”

Galmar sheathed his sword. “What now?”

Ulfric didn’t look away from her.

“Now,” he said, “we begin again.”

The sky over Solitude was no longer red with fire. It was pale now, streaked with the ash of what had come before, and in the courtyard before Castle Dour, the Stormcloaks and those of the city who supported them gathered in rows beneath the tattered banners of a fallen Empire.

The gates had been opened. The war was over.

Ulfric Stormcloak stood at the steps, sword sheathed, blood dried on his armor, his presence no longer just that of a Jarl—but a man anointed by trial, by gods, by the people who had bled beside him.

Galmar stood to his right. Ralof to his left. And just behind him, still cloaked in the garb of legend, stood the Dragonborn—his Dragonborn.

Ulfric's voice, when it came, was low. Steady. Not a shout. Not a roar. "Today, Skyrim is free."

A murmur swept through the gathered warriors, the shopkeepers, the children, the elderly. He stepped forward, eyes scanning the faces of those who had fought, wept, and died for this moment. Those who had prayed for an end to their pain.

"Free from the shackles of a broken Empire. Free from the yoke of those who would silence our gods and sell our sons and daughters to the highest bidder."

He paused, his gaze shifting upward—not to the sky, but to the woman at his back.

"They told us we were rebels. That we were traitors. That we were the storm threatening the order of things."

His eyes dropped again, sweeping over the crowd.

"They were right. We are the storm. And storms do not ask permission to change the sky."

A breath. A hush.

"The Empire has been excised. Its poison bled from our veins. Not by one man. Not by sword alone. But by all of you. By every brother and sister who fell. By every voice that cried out when Talos' name was outlawed. By every hand that lifted a blade for freedom."

He turned to Sáraeth.

"And by her."

He stepped aside, just one pace, so the gathered could see her clearly.

"The gods sent us a dragon to break the chains of men. She bore the weight of prophecy and chose us anyway. She is not just our blade. Not just our Ysmir. She is our hope."

Sáraeth did not speak. She did not need to. Ulfric’s voice carried over the walls that once kept him out.

"I was called a king by prophecy. But I would be no king at all without her beside me. Without all of you. Without this land, and the blood that birthed us into it."

He unsheathed his sword and raised it.

"So let them hear it—from Windhelm to Whiterun, from the Rift to the Reach. Skyrim is free. Skyrim is sovereign. Skyrim is ours."

The cheer rose like thunder.

And the gods watched in silence, as history was carved in ash and oath and the love of a people for their land, and for the ones who bled to see it rise again.