Eradros knelt in the snow, his chest heaving with every breath as blood trickled from the wound on his forehead. He stared up at the Orc towering over him, her bloodied claymore glinting faintly in the light. He blinked, trying to focus, but his vision blurred, and the weight of exhaustion bore down on him. Even so, he managed a weak chuckle, his voice rasping and uneven.
"You'll have to get in line. Half of Skyrim's after me these days."
The Orc tilted her head, amused by his defiance. Her grip tightened on the claymore as she leaned closer, her tusked grin widening.
"Good. Makes my job more satisfying when I'm the one to drag you in."
Before she could say more, the point of her blade was gently pushed aside by a mace. Yaza's smirk faltered for a moment as her eyes shifted to the figure stepping between her and Eradros. It was Minevi. Her expression was calm but unyielding, her shield steady in her other hand.
"Sorry to disappoint…but he's not going anywhere with you," Minevi said firmly, her voice cutting through the tense silence. "I don't care what he's done."
Yaza blinked, then let out a loud, unrestrained laugh. She stepped back, resting her claymore lazily on her shoulder, and turned her full attention to Minevi.
"An Imperial, aye?" she said, looking Minevi up and down with a mocking grin. "Shouldn't you be arrestin' him yourself? Or did they send you to make sure his last moments were cozy?"
Minevi didn't flinch. Her gaze was steady, her voice calm. "I don't take orders from you."
Yaza's grin widened, her sharp teeth gleaming. "I bet you don't. But you'll regret stickin' your neck out for this one. Trust me."
Behind them, Gavhelus stood with Kin slumped in his arms. The boy's body was trembling, his face pale and slick with sweat as his body struggled to absorb the dragon soul. Gavhelus glanced at Minevi, his voice urgent.
"He's alive, but he ain't lookin' too good. We gotta get'm outta here."
Minevi's eyes flicked toward Gavhelus and Kin, her focus wavering for a brief moment. Yaza noticed and took a step forward, her grin never faltering.
"Better make a choice, Imperial. Save the boy… or save yourself."
Before Minevi could respond, the crunch of snow underfoot caught her attention. She turned sharply, raising her mace instinctively toward the source of the sound. A dark figure emerged from the shadows, her movements silent and precise. It was an Argonian woman clad in the unmistakable garb of the Dark Brotherhood.
"Who are you?" Minevi demanded, her voice sharp and wary.
The woman stopped, holding her hands slightly out to her sides in a gesture of calm. "A friend of Kin's. I'm here to help."
Minevi narrowed her eyes.
Taviiah approached with her hand out for Minevi to still her mace. "It's true! She saved my life during the butcher's attack last night. We can trust her...for now."
Minevi hesitated, her gaze shifting between the Brotherhood assassin and Yaza, who was watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement. She let out a slow breath, nodding reluctantly.
"Fine. Get them out of here. Now."
Eradros snickered as Passha got closer. "I don't get a say in this?"
The assassin moved to Eradros, crouching down to help him to his feet. "You're coming. Don't argue."
As Gavhelus and Passha began retreating with Kin and Eradros, Yaza let out a loud laugh, her voice ringing through the clearing.
"Run all you like," she called after them, her grin sharp and menacing. "It won't matter. Wherever you take him, I'll be right behind you."
Minevi turned back to face Yaza, raising her shield and readying her mace.
"Do your worst," Minevi said, her voice steady despite the tension in her body.
Yaza grinned, excitement flashing in her eyes. "Gladly."
She lunged forward, her claymore sweeping down in a powerful arc. Minevi barely raised her shield in time, the force of the blow jarring her arm painfully. She staggered but managed to stay on her feet, bracing herself for the next attack.
"Not bad," Yaza said, circling her slowly. "I was hopin' you'd last a while."
Minevi's thoughts were racing. The force behind Yaza's strikes was unreal. Every clash of steel left her shield arm aching, her body struggling to keep up. She glanced briefly toward the retreating figures of Kin and Eradros, worry gnawing at her focus.
Yaza's next strike came faster than she expected. The claymore slammed into her shield again, the impact forcing her to her knees.
"What's wrong, Imperial?" Yaza taunted, stepping closer. "Losing your nerve already?"
Before she could deliver the finishing blow, a dagger whizzed past her face, narrowly missing her cheek. Yaza twisted her head toward the source of the attack, her grin fading slightly.
Taviiah stood a short distance away, another dagger in hand. "You're not the only one who knows how to fight, you know."
Taking advantage of the distraction, Minevi pushed herself back to her feet and moved to stand beside Taviiah. She rolled her shoulder, wincing but managing a faint grin.
"You still got some fight left in you?" Taviiah asked, her voice laced with concern.
Minevi let out a tired chuckle. "I always figured I'd have to beat a woman off him with a stick someday… but this is ridiculous."
Taviiah smiled faintly, her grip tightening on her dagger. "A joke like that at a time like this? Well at least you haven't lost your spirit."
Yaza began to stir. Minevi called out. "Here she comes!"
The two women braced themselves as Yaza turned to face them, her grin returning. With a roar, Yaza charged forward, her claymore swinging in a deadly arc. Minevi raised her shield once more, the impact ringing out like a bell and sending tremors through her body. She gritted her teeth, unable to meet the force head-on. Another swing followed, then another, and Minevi was forced to retreat, her boots slipping slightly in the snow as Yaza pressed the attack.
"Can't take it, Imperial?" Yaza sneered, her strikes growing faster and more ferocious. "Didn't they teach you to stand your ground?"
Minevi didn't answer. Her shield arm was screaming in pain, and she knew she couldn't block like this much longer. Summoning a brief moment of focus, she muttered a spell under her breath, her free hand glowing faintly as she cast Stoneskin. Her body shimmered with a gray sheen as her skin hardened beneath her armor. She raised her shield again just as Yaza's blade came crashing down. The blow connected with a deafening clang, but this time, Minevi held her ground.
Yaza's grin faltered, just for a moment. "Oh, so you do know some tricks. Fine. Let's see how long that lasts."
Minevi didn't have time to retort. Yaza spun her claymore, the wide sweep forcing Minevi to duck as Taviiah darted in from the side. Her daggers flashed as she slashed at Yaza's flank, but the Orc twisted away at the last second, her claymore lashing out to keep Taviiah at bay.
"You're quick," Yaza said, her tone almost impressed. "But let's see how nimble you are when you're in pieces."
Taviiah smirked, her movements fluid despite the bruises and cuts from the night before. "You talk a lot for someone who's barely keeping up."
Yaza's eyes narrowed, and she stepped forward with renewed aggression, swinging her claymore in brutal, sweeping arcs that forced both women to move. Minevi reinforced her Stoneskin spell, gritting her teeth as each blow sent vibrations through her shield. Taviiah, meanwhile, darted and weaved like a shadow, staying just out of reach and looking for openings.
Yaza growled, frustrated by their coordinated resistance. "Hold still, damn you!" she snarled, putting more strength into her attacks. She aimed a vicious overhead strike at Minevi, who parried it with her shield, the spell on her body absorbing the brunt of the impact.
"Now, Taviiah!" Minevi shouted.
Taking the cue, Taviiah dashed past Yaza with a burst of speed, her daggers slashing across the Orc's sides and legs as she moved. Yaza roared in pain, staggering back as crimson streaks appeared on her skin. She turned on Taviiah, who slipped back out of reach with a smirk.
"You birds are really startin' to piss me off," Yaza growled, her voice low and venomous. Blood trickled from the cuts on her arms and thighs, but she didn't seem to care. She let out a sharp breath, then threw her claymore to the side with a loud clang. From her belt, she pulled two orcish hand axes, the blades glinting wickedly in the light.
"It's time to pluck feathers," she said, grinning through her pain.
Minevi readied her shield, her breath ragged but her stance steady. Taviiah twirled one of her daggers in her hand, her gaze locked on Yaza. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension as Yaza rolled her shoulders, her axes gleaming like fangs in the pale light.
"Bring it," Minevi muttered, gripping her mace tightly.
Yaza roared, charging forward with her axes. The fight was far from over.
Meanwhile—
The heavy doors of the Palace of the Kings groaned as Passha and Gavhelus pushed through, Kin limp in Gavhelus's arms and Eradros leaning heavily on Passha. The grand hall was chaotic, soldiers moving in and out with haste as servants worked to clear debris that had fallen during the dragon's assault. The air was thick with smoke, and the sounds of muffled shouting echoed off the stone walls.
Near the center of the hall stood Galmar Stone-Fist, barking orders to a group of Stormcloak soldiers. His imposing frame loomed like a statue of iron, his beard bristling as he growled instructions. When he turned and saw the group entering the hall, his eyes immediately locked on Kin and narrowed into slits. His face twisted with rage as he saw Ulfric behind them, limping and flanked by his injured guards.
"You," Galmar snarled, pointing a thick finger at Gavhelus and the unconscious Dragonborn. "It's him. He's the cause of all this! The dragons, the chaos—this outsider brought it on us!"
The storm of his voice silenced the hall, every soldier turning to see what would happen next. Galmar stepped forward, his hand moving to the axe at his side, his eyes burning with fury.
Ulfric, though clearly exhausted, raised a hand sharply, his voice cutting through the tension. "Stand down, Galmar."
Galmar hesitated but didn't stop, his voice booming again as he gestured at Kin. "Stand down? Look at what they've done! Your men—your city—bleeding in the snow, and you're protecting him?"
"He fought the dragon," Ulfric said, his voice firm despite his weariness. "And barely survived."
Galmar stopped in his tracks, disbelief etched across his face. "He fought the dragon?" He glanced at Ulfric, then at Kin, his tone incredulous. "You're saying this—this Imperial lapdog—stood against that beast?"
"I saw it with my own eyes," Ulfric said, taking a few steps toward Galmar. His voice was cold, steady. "He fought it. Shouted it from the sky, clashed with it in the air." He paused, his gaze darkening. "And still, it was not enough. Or can you not see that we are fewer than before?"
Galmar stared at him, stunned. "Not enough?"
Ulfric gestured to Kin's unconscious body, his expression grim. "The boy carries the soul of a dragon, yes. But he is no hero, not yet. In the face of a blood dragon, his strength was found wanting." His words hung in the air like a blade.
Galmar clenched his fists, his rage simmering just beneath the surface. "Then why are they here? Why bring him into the hall? Throw them out, before more trouble finds us."
Passha stepped forward, her voice sharp. "You weren't there. You didn't see him—either of them—fighting to protect your city." Her gaze flicked toward Eradros. "If it weren't for them, you'd be dragging your Jarl's body out of the snow."
"You'd best hold your tongue, outsider," Galmar snapped, his hand tightening on his axe. "Your kind doesn't belong here."
"Enough," Ulfric barked, his voice rising just enough to echo through the hall. The weight of his authority silenced Galmar and sent a ripple of tension through the soldiers. He looked at Galmar, his tone softening but still firm. "These outsiders fought when others fled. That boy"—he gestured toward Kin—"may have failed to bring the dragon down, but he stood against it when most would have run."
Galmar's jaw tightened, but he nodded stiffly. "And what of the thief?" He turned his glare on Eradros. "You think he's some kind of savior too? Or is he just here to finish whatever chaos he's started?"
Ulfric glanced briefly at Eradros, who met his gaze with a weak but knowing smirk. "The thief is no savior," Ulfric said flatly. "But he is not our concern right now."
Galmar exhaled heavily, stepping back but still bristling with tension. "Fine. But if they bring more trouble, it's on your head."
Ulfric didn't respond immediately. He turned to Gavhelus. "Take the boy to the healers. If he wakes, I'll decide what's to be done with him." His gaze shifted to Passha. "As for you and the thief—stay out of trouble. My patience has limits."
Passha nodded curtly, keeping her hand steady on Eradros. Gavhelus gave Ulfric a quick bow of his head, then hurried toward the healer's wing with Kin in his arms. Passha followed, glancing back at Galmar, whose glare burned into their backs as they left.
As the heavy doors closed behind them, the tension in the hall eased only slightly, but Galmar's simmering anger lingered like a storm waiting to break.
Outside was still in chaos. The sound of metal clanging and battle cries filled the air.
Minevi's breath came at a strain, her shield arm trembling with each motion. Her armor was scuffed, her legs burned from constant retreat and counterbalance, and she could feel the bruises blooming beneath her skin like dark flowers. Beside her, Taviiah wasn't much better—smeared with blood and dirt, one arm hanging stiffly at her side, but still on her feet.
Yaza was relentless.
The Orc moved like a machine fueled by rage, her twin axes whistling through the air with savage precision. She came in again, slamming her weapons against Minevi's shield with such force that it nearly tore the straps from her forearm. Taviiah lunged in to strike and was forced to leap back as an axe carved the air where her torso had just been.
Minevi could barely keep up. They couldn't last much longer.
"We have to finish this," she hissed to Taviiah between breaths. "Not sure I can take much more of this."
Taviiah nodded, blood trailing down her lip. "Then let's do something stupid."
Minevi knew what that meant. She and Taviiah hadn't known each other for long, but neither of them were willing to go down. Through that, they found synergy. She started out at ajog, extending her mace outward. Taviiah grinned—and without hesitation, caught up and reached out to grab the haft.
Minevi spun, her body turning in a full circle as she used the weight of the mace and Taviiah's grip to create momentum. The world blurred around them as they completed the arc—then, just as Taviiah reached the apex of the swing, she released one hand and shot forward like a stone from a sling.
Her foot connected cleanly with Yaza's jaw in a punishing kick that staggered the Orc backward. Taviiah then leapt off of her toward Minevi. Before Yaza could recover, Minevi dipped low and with a bellow of effort, brought her shield upward as Taviiah landed on top of it, launching her high into the air in a stunning, fluid motion.
Yaza's eyes tracked her instinctively, even as Minevi spun again and barreled forward, slamming into her with her shield. The impact drove Yaza back a step, off-balance and open.
Taviiah descended like a guillotine, twisting midair with her heel dropping hard toward Yaza's skull.
It landed.
Yaza grunted, stumbling back several steps, blood running down the side of her face. For a moment, it looked like she might go down—but she planted one boot hard in the snow and steadied herself with a primal snarl.
Taviiah hit the ground, crouched and ready. Her eyes flicked up—and Minevi saw it.
That flash of intent.
A shift in her stance. A slight tightening of her grip on the daggers. Her gaze sharpened, cold and violent. Taviiah was going to end it.
She lunged forward, her daggers gleaming with deadly purpose.
But Yaza's eyes widened—not at Taviiah—but at something else.
Time seemed to stop.
She felt it—another presence. A second killing intent, close but separate. Her instincts screamed, old reflexes born of a life on the battlefield. This wasn't Taviiah's fury. This was something colder. Quieter. Familiar.
Just before Taviiah reached her, Yaza shifted. Her hand snapped out like a viper and clamped around Taviiah's throat mid-lunge. She twisted her body, swinging the woman through the air just as something thin and fast whipped past her face.
An arrow.
It sliced through the space where Taviiah's head had been and buried itself in the snow with a sharp thunk, quivering.
Yaza stood with Taviiah still suspended in her grasp, breathing heavily, blood dripping from her temple. She looked down at the arrow now planted firmly in the earth. Her eyes narrowed. The weave of the fletching—the slight green dye. She knew that arrow.
There was only one hunter who used that kind of work.
Her head snapped toward the tree line, her eyes scanning. On a thick branch high above the battlefield, a shape shifted. A figure, nearly impossible to make out, lingered just long enough to realize they'd been seen. Then they vanished, darting through the canopy with expert speed.
Yaza's breathing grew heavier. Her grip on Taviiah didn't tighten, but her knuckles whitened. The fury building in her chest wasn't for the two women in front of her anymore.
It was for the one who'd interfered.
Minevi cried out, running toward them. "Taviiah!"
Yaza turned her gaze back to the two of them. She stared at Minevi—waiting, perhaps, for her to end it—then at Taviiah, whose hands gripped Yaza's wrist in a desperate attempt to breathe.
With a final snarl, Yaza threw her to the ground like discarded prey.
Minevi dropped beside her, catching her before she hit the snow too hard. Taviiah coughed violently in her arms, one hand clutching her throat, the other trying to lift herself.
Yaza didn't move.
She just stood there for a moment, one axe still in hand, her blood matting her mohawk, her expression unreadable. Then, with a frustrated grunt, she turned away and stalked toward the trees.
"This isn't over," she growled, not looking back. "Not by a long shot. But somebody just pissed all over our battle."
Minevi stared after her, still holding Taviiah, heart pounding. Her eyes dropped to the arrow embedded in the snow.
What exactly just happened? Did she just save Taviiah? Who even sent the arrow? The fletching was unfamiliar to her. The craftsmanship—not Imperial, not Brotherhood. Whoever had fired it had nearly killed her friend.
Or saved her.
The questions piled on like snowdrifts as Yaza disappeared into the woods, leaving only blood, tension, and mystery in her wake.
Minevi and Taviiah laid in the snow with nearly broken bodies, both spent physically. They were still for a moment, almost like corpses. Then, Minevi's arm jumped to life. Her hand landed on Taviiah's shoulder. She struggled to raised her head, words forming with strain as she opened her eyes.
"Ta…Taviiah? Hey…wake up! We're going to die if we stay…out here."
For a moment, Taviiah didn't respond—didn't move. Only short and shallow gasps of air, and the faint rise and fall of her chest.
"Taviiah!"
"Stop yelling at me!" Taviiah shot back, waving her arm sluggishly. "It makes everything hurt worse."
Minevi smirked while struggling to move the rest of her body. Taviiah slowly began to stir as well, both chuckling a bit at how ridiculous they looked doing so. Minevi stood first, pain rushing through entire being. She groaned. As Taviiah rose, Minevi extended an arm, bracing while pulling her to her feet.
Minevi took a slow, painful breath, her arm still braced around Taviiah's shoulders. They stood there in silence, staring at the smoldering treeline where Yaza had vanished. Snow swirled around them in lazy spirals, clinging to their hair, their lashes, their bloodied armor.
Taviiah winced, leaning heavily on her. "So... how far do you think we have to walk?"
Minevi grimaced. "Far enough to regret surviving."
They shared a tired chuckle—thin, breathless.
And then, in the distance, they heard it.
The gates of Windhelm groaned open with a heavy, reluctant creak. Minevi and Taviiah, bruised and battered, limped forward, snow crusted to their armor, the last traces of their adrenaline fading into raw fatigue. Minevi held her side where Yaza's axe had nearly cracked a rib. Taviiah's face was bruised, her lip split, still covered in cuts from her scrape with butcher. But her eyes were alert, scanning for any more surprises.
Then they saw him.
Just beyond the gate, framed by the pale gray sky and the last lingering smoke of battle, stood Kin.
Or what was left of him.
He was barely upright, swaying slightly like a man in a fever dream. His skin was ashen, his eyes glazed, his arm—what remained of it—clutched against his side and wrapped in hastily blood-soaked bandages. He didn't speak. He didn't even look at them.
He just... walked past.
Minevi froze. "Kin?"
Taviiah reached out instinctively, but her hand fell to her side. "How the hell is he even on his feet?"
Before they could follow, Gavhelus and Passha came rushing out behind them.
"There he is!" Gavhelus barked. "Son of a—how'd he sneak past all of us?"
They stopped when they saw the others, but none of them moved. All eyes followed Kin as he staggered toward the long stone bridge leading out of Windhelm, his steps slow and uneven, his breath fogging faintly in the frigid air.
He stepped onto the bridge and stopped.
The wind howled between the pillars. Snow hissed as it whipped past broken flags. And Kin looked out.
Ash. Charred earth. Scattered corpses—soldiers blackened by dragonfire. The massive corpse of the dragon lay twisted in the snow like a toppled monument to death. A melted archway. Cracked stone. Blood frozen mid-spray across shattered shields.
Kin stood still, the image of it all washing over him. His one good hand clutched at the torn hem of his cloak. He looked down at his arm—his half-arm. The bandages had slipped. Purple, swollen flesh peeked through the split, crusted with blood.
His breath caught. Not from pain. From the weight.
All of this… because of him.
Then came the sound.
A rumble. Subtle at first—more felt than heard. The bridge trembled faintly beneath his boots. Snow shifted and slid from the ledges. The sound grew—boots. Dozens of them, pounding in unison. Steady. Measured. Cold as drums.
Two ranks of Stormcloak soldiers emerged from the thick smoke and ruin, their formation tight, their faces hard. They marched to either side of the bridge, forming a corridor flanking Kin on both sides. No words. No weapons raised. Just the thunder of discipline and the weight of expectation.
At the center of the formation, Ulfric Stormcloak.
His steps were slower than usual, one leg stiff with pain, bandages half-hidden beneath his cloak. His expression was unreadable. Not rage. Not triumph. Something heavier.
Kin turned slowly. He looked at the soldiers—not with fear, but with bitter clarity.
Then he laughed.
A dry, broken sound. It cracked the air like ice. Too quiet for mockery, too sharp for madness.
He laughed—and everyone froze.
A beat of silence followed, tense and fragile.
"And what's this now?" Kin said, louder now. "You gonna arrest me again?"
No one spoke.
Then Ulfric's voice rolled out, clear and cold.
"On this day," he said, "we saw a man take his stand where giants would fall!"
He stepped forward, blade in hand—not raised in threat, but in salute.
"Let it be known across every hold, through every mountain and vale—Skyrim has herself… a true Dragonborn!"
His sword lifted higher.
"Not in story. Not in song. But in flesh, and fire."
The Stormcloaks behind him shouted as one: "ALL HAIL THE DRAGONBORN!"
Then—silence again. As if the wind itself held its breath.
Then, one by one, in sequence, they knelt.
Kin blinked.
He turned slowly, eyes darting between the bowed soldiers, their heads low, blades resting before them. The frost in the air sparkled faintly, catching on their armor like scattered stars.
"You saw what happened out here, right?" he muttered.
No response.
Kin's voice cracked. "I lost. The city barely held. These people—" he waved his arm at the field of wreckage "—they're gone. Burned, all of them."
He looked at Ulfric, expression twisted somewhere between confusion and grief.
"And you're kneeling…for what?"
Ulfric approached slowly, his shadow long in the evening light. When he spoke, his voice had changed. Quieter. Measured.
"You see a loss," he acknowledged. "But I saw a man who didn't break—who remained unyielding until his last."
He stepped close, stopping in front of Kin.
"You bled. You burned. And still, you stood. I've seen men do far less and inspire bards for centuries."
Kin didn't answer. He couldn't. His breath hitched again.
Ulfric's tone hardened, conviction returning to it like steel cooling into form. "You faced the storm. And you screamed back. That's what Skyrim needs now—not just warriors. Symbols. Will. Fire."
He turned to the soldiers.
"We will honor the ceasefire. The dragons are our greatest threat above all. And we will face this threat with the Dragonborn at our side."
The soldiers rose again with a roar. "DRAGONBORN! DRAGONBORN!"
Minevi and the others watched, stunned into silence.
Taviiah stepped forward, closing the gap between her and Kin. She saw how weak he was. Not just in his body, but his mind and heart. He appeared ready to crumble at any moment. She slowly reached out. Her hand found his shoulder. Gentle.
"Hey," she said softly, "you're okay, Kinny. I've got you now."
He didn't fight it. He leaned into her, exhausted. His face met her chest, and for the first time since the roar of the dragon, he let his weight fall.
She wrapped her arms around him, holding tight. He only heard her soft voice. The soldiers faded into a muffled rumble. His eyes softened a bit more as she spoke.
"You've fought enough today," she whispered. "Rest now."
His eyes fluttered shut.
And in the silence, he finally gave in. The fight bled out of him, replaced by cold and quiet. Held in Taviiah's arms, with boots crunching the snow around them, he shut his eyes.
The strength left his limbs, the darkness pressed in—and sleep finally found him.
END CHAPTER