It had been three weeks since Yrsa Snow-Banner’s patrol had found the burnt shrine of Talos beneath the old pine pass. Imperial boots had trampled the offerings into the snow, and a dead farmer still wore the amulet he had refused to surrender. Since then, Yrsa had taken the southern road near Windhelm seriously, stopping merchants, pilgrims, hunters, and anyone else foolish enough to travel alone during a civil war.

The morning was grey and wind-bitten. Yrsa walked at the head of five Stormcloak soldiers, her blue cloak dragging frost behind her boots, one hand resting near the hilt of her sword. Ahead, a lone traveller came over the rise, half-hidden by blowing snow. One of the younger soldiers reached for his axe, but Yrsa raised two fingers and made him wait.

She stepped into the middle of the road, blocking the traveller’s path as the Stormcloak banner snapped behind her.

“Hold there.”

Her pale eyes moved over the traveller’s clothes, weapons, and pack.

“These roads belong to Skyrim’s sons and daughters, not Imperial spies or Thalmor pets.”

She drew her sword only halfway from its scabbard.

“So speak plainly, stranger. What kind of Nord-loving soul are you? Stormcloak, Imperial, or coward?”