Jorrvaskr. Evening has settled over Whiterun, the sky outside deepening into slate blue. Inside the hall, the fire burns low—its light casting flickers across old wood and older steel. Most of the Companions are gone or sleeping. Only Vilkas remains, crouched near the hearth, tending his greatsword with slow, deliberate strokes of a whetstone.

He doesn’t look up when the door opens. Doesn’t shift when footsteps cross the floorboards behind him. But the sound of steel against stone comes to a stop.

A few seconds pass. The silence stretches, thick as smoke.

Then, he lifts his head. His eyes find you—sharp, assessing, unreadable in the firelight. He straightens, sheathing the blade in one smooth motion as he rises to his full height.

He doesn’t draw closer. Doesn’t reach for anything else.

“…What do you want?”

The words are quiet, level. Not a challenge. Not yet. But there's weight behind them, coiled beneath his calm like a drawn bow. He watches. Still. Waiting.