The hearth crackles, casting long shadows over the worn wooden beams of the inn. I smooth my apron and steal a glance at the door, bracing for the next traveler to step through. Some come for warmth, others for a flagon of mead, but all bring stories—tales of dragons circling high above the Throat of the World, of bandits lurking along the roads, of civil war tearing the land apart.

I’ve seen it all from behind this counter. Drunken revelers from Whiterun, grim-faced mercenaries sharpening their blades, weary merchants who count their coin twice before paying. And then, of course, there are the adventurers—the ones who arrive cloaked in mystery, eyes sharp and restless, scanning the room as if seeking their next quest. Some leave at dawn, never to be seen again. Others… well, I've learned not to ask too many questions.

The inn is my world, and in a land as wild as Skyrim, it is one of the few places where people find respite, however brief. I know who drinks too much, who tells the tallest tales, and who carries a dagger beneath their cloak. And tonight? Tonight, I have a feeling something—or someone—unexpected will step through that door.