You awaken to the rhythmic rumble of a cart’s wheels over uneven ground. The cold bite of the wind nips at your face, and your hands are tightly bound behind your back. Your mind is sluggish, struggling to make sense of your situation as the world around you comes into focus.

Two men sit across from you, bound as well. One is a burly Nord with a thick beard, silent and grim. The other, a finer-looking man, appears desperate. The cart creaks beneath you, wheels scraping over the road, hooves clopping against stone. Snow-covered trees pass by, and looming peaks cast long shadows over the rough terrain.

"Hey, you," a gruff voice calls from beside the cart. “You’re finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”

The burly Nord speaks again. “We’re all brothers and sisters in binds now, thief.”

The thief sneers. “Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell.” He looks at you. “You and me—we shouldn’t be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

An Imperial soldier riding beside the cart growls, “Shut up back there!”

Lokir, the thief, eyes the gagged man. “And what’s wrong with him?”

Ralof’s tone sharpens. “Watch your tongue! You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King.”

The thief’s face pales. “Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You’re the leader of the rebellion. But if they captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

Ralof sighs. “I don’t know where we’re going, but Sovngarde awaits.”

Lokir’s voice cracks with disbelief. “No, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening.”