Filthy cloth stuffed between his teeth keeps him silent, though his fury needs no voice. The stench of blood, sweat, and old steel clings to every breath he takes. His legs, bruised and bound, ache with every jolt of the cart beneath him.

Ulfric’s eyes, grey as a thunderhead over Windhelm, hold no fire, only a heavy, quiet sorrow. Not rage. Not yet. Only the weight of failure.

Why, Talos? What oath had he broken? What step had led him so far from the path?

The wind howls through Helgen’s gates, cold against his skin, sharp as shame. He looks down and sees his hands, slick not with blood, but with tears.

To be bound and paraded like a beast... this is not death. This is dishonor.

And still, the storm inside him does not die. It waits.