Finally Awake

Five Years Later…

The town of Helgen stirred early on Sundas morning, but not in the way it normally would.

Most mornings, the only sounds drifting through the small mountain town were the chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, and the occasional bark of a dog. But today, Helgen was alive with the chattering of people, the thud of boots on cobblestone, and—most prominently—the heavy creak of wooden wheels grinding against the road.

Horse-drawn carriages rumbled toward the Imperial stronghold at the center of town.

Prisoner wagons.

Helgen’s citizens had learned to recognize these moments. They had watched it happen many times before, and though the war between the Empire and the Stormcloaks had only begun earlier that year, the execution block had already seen plenty of use.

But today, something felt different.

The townspeople could sense it in the air—a tension thicker than the morning mist.

Today’s prisoners were special.

Kinetrius woke to the rocking of the carriage beneath him.

His back ached from the rough wooden planks, his arms and legs stiff from years of captivity. His wrists were bound, the iron shackles digging into his skin, but the discomfort hardly registered.

It was the voices that stirred him fully.

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.”

Kinetrius opened his eyes.

A man sat across from him, watching him with a mixture of recognition and curiosity.

For a moment, Kinetrius only stared back, disoriented, his mind struggling to catch up.

Then, he took in his surroundings.

There were three other men in the carriage with him.

One was a Stormcloak soldier, his armor marked with the blue bear sigil of the rebellion. Another was a nervous-looking man—his tattered clothes and shifty gaze marking him as a thief.

The third was… different.

He was broad-shouldered, wrapped in a thick bearskin cloak, and entirely silent. His piercing eyes held an eerie calmness, as if he had already made peace with his fate.

Kinetrius didn’t respond to the man who had spoken to him. He had no words to offer. In truth, he had barely spoken to anyone in years. Not out of choice, but out of necessity.

Words were dangerous now. They could lead to questions. Questions could lead to answers. Or worse—flames. His silence had kept him alive this long. He wasn’t about to break it now.

The Stormcloak soldier across from him scoffed, his steely gaze narrowing.

“You’re the one who set fire to the Riften stables,” he said, his voice thick with disgust. “Burned all those people to death.”

Kinetrius’s jaw tightened.

“I have to know,” the soldier continued, “did you really murder your own father?”

Kinetrius felt his heart slam against his ribs.

His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to. His expression alone spoke volumes.

But before the Stormcloak could press further, the man in the bearskin cloak finally spoke. His voice was low, booming, and unshaken by fear.

“It matters not what the boy has done.”

The carriage lurched over a bump in the road, but the man did not move.

“Today,” he continued, his gaze steady, “we are all sinners who will suffer the same fate.”

Kinetrius stole a glance at him, curiosity creeping into his thoughts.

The man turned his gaze toward him, his eyes unreadable.

“Besides…” he added, “you should not believe everything you hear rattling through prison bars.”

Kinetrius studied him carefully.

There was something in his tone, something knowing, as if he understood far more than he was letting on.

“It is to my knowledge,” the man went on, “that the guards still cannot make heads or tails of what actually happened five years ago.”

His gaze locked onto Kinetrius’s.

“The only thing they know for certain… is that it could not have been the work of a mere fire spell. And thus… they deemed it necessary to have you executed along with the rest of us. The empire's morality has withered much in these trying times.”

Kinetrius felt a chill creep up his spine.

The thief beside him shifted uncomfortably, his face pale.

“Executed?!” he blurted. “And what makes him so damned sure, huh?”

The Stormcloak soldier shot him a glare.

“Watch your tongue, horse thief. You’re speaking to the true High King of Skyrim—Ulfric Stormcloak himself.”

The thief froze, his expression shifting from panic to horror.

“U-Ulfric Stormcloak…?” he stammered. “But… if you’re here, then that means… by the gods, they really are going to kill us!”

One of the Imperial soldiers driving the carriage turned and barked:

“Quiet back there!”

But Ulfric paid no mind to the thief’s panic or the soldier’s command.

His piercing blue eyes remained locked onto Kinetrius.

Then, he leaned forward, lowering his voice.

“The guards may not have figured it out,” he murmured, “but I know exactly what happened that day.”

Kinetrius felt his breath hitch.

“I also know,” Ulfric continued, “that it was not you who killed your father.”

Kinetrius’s entire body stiffened.

For the first time in five years, someone had said it aloud.

Someone believed him.

But… how?

He barely breathed as Ulfric continued speaking.

“They don’t know what you are,” Ulfric said, his tone measured. “They don’t know how to control you. That terrifies them.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“So they would have you die as a monster… a freak. A cowardly stone to cast at the things they don’t understand, is it not?”

Kinetrius felt his hands trembling in his lap. Ulfric studied him intently, his voice quiet but firm.

“They do not know the power you carry. But I do.”

Kinetrius shifted uncomfortably in the wagon, eyes flicking toward Ulfric. Even chained and bound, the man exuded something... dangerous. His gaze was sharp as blades, now locked onto Kinetrius with unsettling intensity.

Curiosity began to take hold. He had no idea why this man was staring at him like that—like he knew something. Truth be told, Kinetrius was as confused as anyone about what had really happened that day. Maybe even more confused than the guards. He certainly had no answers—only questions that seemed to multiply the longer he thought about it. And as for the war that had torn Skyrim apart over the last four years? He understood even less.

Could this man—the so-called High King of the Stormcloaks—know the truth? It seemed unlikely. And yet… Ulfric didn’t need a speech to be convincing. One look from him carried the weight of certainty. Kinetrius glanced at the chains looped around the man’s shoulders and chest, bolted to the floor of the wagon. There was power in that restraint.

Ulfric broke the silence, his voice calm and resolute.

“This?” he said, nodding to the shackles that bound him, “is the fate of people like you and I. The fate of those who can seize power with their own hands. Not like these trembling wretches, so easily corrupted by it. No… I too am called a monster. But my only crime was doing what I must—for my people.”

Beside them, the horse thief muttered anxiously under his breath, something about being in the wrong place, not belonging here. Kinetrius tuned him out. He couldn’t tear his attention from Ulfric. Every word sank in deep.

“These chains,” Ulfric continued, voice hardening, “these guards with their sharpened steel—they are nothing more than a temporary fix. They cannot extinguish what we are. Not truly. The power within us… it lingers. And no gag or iron clasp will smother it forever.”

His lips curled slightly, as if the irony amused him.

“We face our deaths today, you and I. And yet…” he paused, letting the silence hang. “I do not believe we will see Sovngarde—not by the hands of Imperial dogs like these.”

One of the nearby soldiers turned, scowling. “You want to say that again, murderer?”

Another guard held out a hand. “Calm down. We’re here. He’ll be dead by sundown—and with him, this blasted rebellion. Don’t waste your breath.”

The wagons slowed to a stop. Two in total, both heavy with prisoners. The guards dismounted with practiced efficiency and moved toward the back to begin unloading. One of them approached Ulfric, reaching to undo his restraints—but another stopped him with a sharp gesture.

“Hold it!” barked the older soldier. “You have to cover his mouth before you free him. Those chains keep his diaphragm compressed. Without that restriction, he can shout.”

The younger guard paled slightly. “My apologies… I didn’t realize.”

“That would be wise to remember,” the older one snapped. “You’re not just dealing with a prisoner. You’re dealing with Ulfric the King Butcher. Now gag him, and let’s get this over with.”

They moved quickly, wrapping a tight leather gag around Ulfric’s mouth, ensuring it was fastened securely. Only then did they begin unlocking the heavy shackles, carefully transitioning him to standard restraints. His silence didn’t make him any less imposing.

The prisoners were ushered from the wagons, blinking against the harsh sunlight. Before them loomed a tall, imposing stone building. At its base stood a large wooden block darkened by age—and use. Next to it waited a heavyset man in executioner’s leathers, his axe gleaming in the light.

The captain strode forward and barked for the soldier to begin roll call, her tone brisk and cold. The Imperial soldier read the paper briefly, then began. The list was nearly complete now—just a few more names before the executions would begin.

From the keep’s entrance, a man emerged wearing the polished red and gold of the Imperial Legion. His armor was immaculate, but his expression was hard, weary from years of war. Lines carved deep into his face spoke of long campaigns and harder decisions.

It was General Tullius.

He strode out into the yard with slow, deliberate steps, his gaze sweeping across the prisoners until it settled on the bound form of Ulfric Stormcloak. There was no recognition of kinship in that look—only contempt, and a grim determination to see an end to this rebellion.

Kinetrius had heard of him before. Whispers in the jail often carried that name—a man as feared as he was respected.

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” General Tullius spoke, his voice laced with contempt as he stepped toward the bound High King. “Some here in Helgen might call you a hero.”

The townspeople stiffened, murmurs running through them.

“But a hero,” Tullius continued, “would not use the power of the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.”

At this, a nearby Stormcloak soldier clenched his fists, his face dark with anger.

“You started this war,” Tullius pressed on, “plunged Skyrim into chaos… and now, the Empire is going to put you down.”

His eyes flicked to the gathered soldiers.

“And restore the peace.”

The Imperials nodded in agreement, but among the civilians, some voices rose in protest.

A Nord woman spat at the ground, her face twisted in a scowl. “Peace? You call this peace?”

An older man shook his head, but said nothing.

Tullius ignored them, turning away as the Imperial Captain stepped forward. She signaled to one of the guards.

“Get the rest of them off the wagons.”

The prisoners were pulled from their seats and forced onto the ground.

The Stormcloaks stepped down with stoic expressions, their gazes hardened by years of war.

The horse thief, however, was another story.

“No, no, no!” he muttered frantically, shaking his head. His hands trembled as he struggled against his bindings. “I shouldn’t be here—I’m not one of you! This is a mistake!”

One of the Imperial soldiers sneered. “Keep moving, thief.”

The prisoners were lined up as a soldier with a ledger stepped forward, calling names from the list.

He glanced up at Ulfric, his face pale despite himself.

“Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm.”

Ulfric said nothing, his blue eyes burning with quiet fury.

The soldier gulped and moved down the list.

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

The Stormcloak who had accused Kinetrius earlier stepped forward proudly, his gaze defiant.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

The horse thief’s face twisted in terror.

“No, I’m not a rebel! You can’t do this!”

Suddenly, without warning, he bolted.

“I’M NOT A STORMCLOAK!”

He ran for the gates, his arms still bound behind him, his breath ragged with fear.

The Imperial Captain scowled. “Archers!”

A squad of Imperial archers wasted no time. With a flurry of twangs, arrows shot through the air, and the thief’s body jerked violently as they found their mark.

He collapsed in the dirt, unmoving. The soldier with the list barely flinched. He simply cleared his throat and turned the page.

“Anyone else feel like running?”

No one moved.

“Good,” the Captain said coldly.

The soldier looked down at the list again, then up at Kinetrius. He hesitated.

Kinetrius could see it—the way his hand trembled slightly as he looked at the name. He seemed not be too thrilled about this given Kinetrius's age. The boy was too young to be considered a man, yet too old to be handled like a child. Even still, The soldier reluctantly called out to him.

The hesitation made sense. Kinetrius wasn’t a Nord rebel. He wasn’t even from Skyrim. Yet his name was on the list. The soldier shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the Captain, but she offered no help. Finally, the soldier sighed.

“Kinetrius of Hammerfell.”

A few townspeople murmured at the name, clearly recognizing it.

Kinetrius had spent five years in Imperial custody, but even before then, word of what happened in Riften had spread.

He knew what they thought of him. Monster. Abomination. Murderer. Kinetrius stepped forward. The soldier gave him a long look before turning to the Captain.

“Captain… he’s just a boy.”

The Captain barely blinked. “He’s on the list. He goes to the block.”

The soldier hesitated again but nodded reluctantly.

“By your orders, Captain.” He answered. He glanced back to Kinetrius briefly with mild dread on his face. One by one, the prisoners were led to the chopping block. The first to go was a Stormcloak warrior, his face filled with stoic pride as he knelt before the executioner. A Nord priestess began reciting a final prayer, but the Captain cut her off.

“We dont have time for this. On with it now,” she barked.

The soldier turned his gaze to the Imperials.

“My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?”

The executioner didn’t answer.

He simply raised his axe—

—and brought it down in one clean stroke.

The Stormcloak’s head hit the ground, rolling into a nearby basket.

A murmur swept through the crowd, some calling it justice, others calling it murder. Kinetrius barely heard them. His mind was elsewhere. Ulfric’s words still echoed in his head. Power like ours. Shackles are temporary. We will not die today. The executioner wiped the blood from his axe and turned to the Captain.

She nodded. “Next prisoner.”

A soldier grabbed Kinetrius’s arm.

“Come on, lad. Nice and easy.”

Kinetrius walked forward, feeling oddly… numb.

As he approached the bloodstained chopping block, he barely felt the soldiers forcing him down.

His mind was still tangled with questions.

What did Ulfric mean? How could he be so sure I wouldn’t die today? What does he know that I don’t? He laid his head on the block, staring up at the imperial tower above him. The executioner raised his axe. And then— A sound shattered the sky.

A deep, monstrous roar unlike anything Kinetrius had ever heard before.

Gasps and cries filled the square as people turned toward the mountains beyond Helgen’s walls. The sound came again—closer this time.

Then, with a deafening crash, something massive landed on the Imperial tower above them. The ground trembled. The crowd screamed. Kinetrius’s eyes widened in shock.

Perched on the tower’s roof, its black scales gleaming in the firelight, was a massive, winged beast.

A dragon.

The world held its breath. For a brief moment, no one moved. Not the soldiers, not the townspeople, not even the prisoners.

Everyone stared up at the massive thing, perched atop the Imperial tower, its black scales glistening in the morning sun. Its clawed feet dug into the stone, crushing parts of the structure beneath its weight.

Its red eyes burned like embers, scanning the chaos below.

Then—it roared.

The sound split the air like a thunderclap, shaking the very ground beneath their feet. Several soldiers staggered back, some dropping their weapons in sheer terror.

Even the executioner, whose axe had been raised just moments ago, froze in place, his knuckles white around the hilt.

Kinetrius’s heart slammed against his ribs. This… this couldn’t be real.

Dragons were supposed to be extinct. Nothing but piles of bones according to his father. But there it was. Real. Terrifying. The dragon’s eyes locked onto Kinetrius, and suddenly…It felt like the world had just stopped turning.

There was something in that gaze.

Recognition.

The dragon’s head tilted slightly, as if… studying him.

Why did it feel like it was looking for him?

Then, without warning—It opened its maw and unleashed hell. A torrent of fire exploded from the dragon’s mouth. The force of it rippled through the town, a wave of searing heat and destruction. The executioner was incinerated instantly, his body reduced to a smoldering husk before he could even scream.

Kinetrius threw himself to the ground, rolling away just in time as the flames consumed the execution block behind him.

All around him, Helgen erupted into chaos. The wooden houses lining the streets burst into flames, sending embers spiraling into the sky. People screamed as they ran for their lives, some trampling over each other in their desperation to escape.

Imperial soldiers shouted orders, trying to rally their forces—but it was useless. The beast above them was beyond anything they had ever faced.

Kinetrius stumbled to his feet, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His mind screamed at him to run.

But he couldn’t move. His legs refused to listen. The scene before him was too familiar.

Flames. Death. Screams.

It was Riften all over again.

His body remembered the fire before his mind did—the heat, the suffocating pressure in his chest, the weight of it all crushing down on him like a nightmare come to life. He stood frozen, watching the flames devour everything in sight.

A woman tried to flee with her child in her arms—only for the dragon to swoop down and blast them into ash. The child’s screams ripped through Kinetrius like a dagger.

His breathing became shallow.

No…Not again.

He managed to snap out of it after being startled by a near-by collapsing building. He had to shake this off. He ducked behind a house that was right up against the wall; with just enough room for a person to fit between. He heard a loud crash as he moved through the space. He paused wondering if it meant the dragon has landed somewhere nearby. Then he heard a voice come from the distance.

“Against the wall!”

Kinetrius heeded the warning without thinking, and pressed himself against wall to his right. The very moment after a serrated wing came swiping violently into the crevice just missing him.

He took a moment to look for the origin of the voice. Out of the dust and flame came a dark cloaked figure of a man. The figure ran right up to Kinetrius and tackled him to the ground. They fell backwards into the dirt as the entire midsection of the house was swiped away by the dragon's tail. A large piece of the house that had broken off from the rest was falling in their direction. The man kicked Kinetrius out of the way, using the momentum to push himself in the opposite direction.

The rubble quickly came crashing down between them, kicking up dust and rocks all around.

Kinetrius was coughing from the overwhelming debris when he felt a hand grab him by the back of his shirt, tugging him upward off of the ground.

“On your feet lad,” the man commanded. “Try and keep up—would you?”

The two of them darted between burning buildings, dodging falling debris as the dragon continued its rampage above them.

Every few seconds, it let out another thunderous roar, sending waves of panic rippling through the town.

An Imperial tower collapsed behind them, the stone crushing fleeing soldiers beneath its weight. The air was filled with the stench of burning wood, flesh, and death.

As they neared the outer wall of Helgen, the stranger stopped as if realizing something.

“We’re not going to make it like this…” he muttered.

Then, without another word, he broke away from Kinetrius and turned toward the dragon. Kinetrius skidded to a stop, his breath catching in his throat.

What the hell was this man doing? Surely, he wasn’t going to fight it—

And yet, Kinetrius watched as the man sprinted toward the beast, pulling a bow from his back in one fluid motion. The hood fell away as he drew an arrow—revealing sharp elven features beneath it. Kinetrius’s blood ran cold. He knew that face. Even after five years, he could never forget it.

Eradros. The man his father told him to find.

Kinetrius stood frozen, shock locking his limbs in place.

Why was he here? Why now?

As he reached for an arrow, he paused, noticing Kinetrius was stopped in his tracks. He yelled out.

“Keep moving…you can’t die here!”

The dragon began to charge up another fiery attack from its mouth. Eradros trained his eyes back on the creature. He quickly dropped to one knee and closed an eye, knocking a strange looking arrow that shimmered with ice magick. Suddenly, small ice shards began swirling around the arrow. The dragon raised its head high nearing the end of its charge.

“Just you try it,” He mumbled, waiting for his moment.

The dragon roared, unleashing a massive ball of fire. At the same time, Eradros released his arrow in an explosive burst of blue mist. The two forces collided midair. At first it was silent, then it warped into monstrous explosion. A burst of ice and fire exploded in the sky, heat and cold coiling violently before bursting outward.

The impact sent a shockwave tearing through the town, pushing Kinetrius forward. As he flew through the hole in the wall, a jutting piece of it caught him in the face on the way by. This knocked him unconscious as he then went tumbling down the hill just outside the gates.

He was out cold and bleeding from his face at the base of a tree that broke his fall, but he still yet lived.

Chapter 2 end-