The midday sun filtered through drifting clouds as Whiterun stood steady against the breeze, her towers tall against the sky and the banners over the gates rippling in quiet defiance of time. The road to the city was busy with the usual churn of travelers, merchants, and the odd wandering sellsword—but the guards at the gate had seen all kinds.

One of them shifted slightly as another figure approached, boots crunching gravel. Clad in Whiterun’s familiar yellow surcoat, the guard leaned on his spear with the practiced ease of a man used to long hours standing watch. His helmet hid all but his eyes—keen and slightly narrowed with scrutiny, but not unfriendly.

He watched the traveler draw near, gaze sweeping over the gear, the bearing, the way they carried themselves. There was a pause. Something in the set of the shoulders, the dust on the boots, the weight behind the stare—it marked them as more than just another passerby.

The guard straightened a little.

“Well now…” he muttered, voice dry and low beneath the steel helm. He tilted his head faintly to the side, like a wolf sniffing for signs of trouble—or maybe just trying to place a familiar scent.

Then, with the practiced timing of a man who’d said it more times than he could count, he offered the line with a tone that straddled the edge between sarcasm and amusement:

“Let me guess… someone stole your sweetroll?”

He didn’t move after that. Just stood there—watching, waiting, as the breeze tugged at his cloak and the gates of Whiterun loomed behind him, open to whatever came next.