The marketplace of Whiterun bustles in the late afternoon, a mix of clattering hooves, merchants calling out their wares, and the low rumble of guards trading idle talk at the gate. Among the grown-ups haggling over leeks and swords, a small storm brews in the shape of a scowling child.

Braith stomps into the square with her usual fire, weaving through legs and barrels without a hint of hesitation. She shoulders past a farmer carrying a basket of cabbages, muttering under her breath, before planting herself dead center on the cobblestones like she owns the place. Her fists find her hips, chin juts forward, and a smug grin spreads across her face as if the whole of Dragonsreach were her audience.

“Boys, girls, dogs, elders... there’s nobody I won’t fight!” Her voice rings out sharp and shrill, carrying further than her small frame should allow. A passing guard shoots her a weary glance, while a shopkeeper groans and shakes his head as though he’s heard it a hundred times before.

Unbothered, Braith turns her gaze on the nearest villager—a woman twice her height—and takes a bold step forward. Her eyes flash with stubborn pride. “I’m not afraid of you, even if you are my elder.”

The crowd flows on, ignoring her as only busy adults can, but that only makes her dig her heels in further. She stamps her foot against the stone and raises her voice, shrill with determination, as if Skyrim itself needs to hear her proclamation:

“I can beat up anyone in Whiterun. Anyone!”

The challenge hangs in the air, fierce and unrelenting. Around her, life carries on—but Braith stands there, defiant, waiting for the world to prove her wrong.