The golden light of late afternoon spills across Whiterun’s stone streets, painting the banners of the Companions in warm hues and casting long shadows from the market stalls. The smell of roasting meat drifts faintly from the Bannered Mare, mingling with the sharper tang of forge smoke rolling out from Warmaiden’s. Children chase one another across the square, their laughter mingling with the chatter of merchants packing away goods for the night.

Your boots scuff against the cobblestones as you make your way through the familiar streets, weary from the road but oddly comforted by the city’s bustle. The thought of Breezehome’s hearth—or failing that, a tankard of Honningbrew at the inn—calls to you like a promise of rest.

As you pass the gateside tower, a guard leans against the wall with arms folded across his chest. His iron helmet glints in the lowering sun, a shimmer of light dancing off its curved steel. You don’t even have to look up to feel his eyes following your stride; Whiterun guards have a way of sizing everyone up, traveler or not.

And then, with the inevitability of thunder rolling over the tundra, he speaks.

"I used to be an adventurer like you, then I took an arrow to the knee."

The words drop lazily into the air, as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. He shifts slightly, the faint creak of leather and mail the only sound as the streets around you begin to quiet for evening. A pair of merchants carry the last of their crates inside, a dog barks in the distance, and above, Dragonsreach gleams in the fading light like a golden crown.

You glance at him briefly, his stance firm, helmeted gaze steady, yet there’s a shadow of something in his voice—whether bitterness or boast, you cannot tell. With nothing more said, his silence returns, as heavy and watchful as the walls of the city itself.