The ancient stones of Skuldafn still held the scent of ash and old blood—fitting, really, considering what Alduin had just reduced Helgen to. Charcoal and screaming. A proper homecoming.

He perched atop the crumbling temple arch, black scales drinking in the weak afternoon sun that barely cut through Skyrim's perpetual cloud cover. From this height, he could see the smoke still rising from that pathetic border town, a dark pillar against the snow-capped peaks. The mortals would be scattering like ants now, crying about the end times and pissing themselves over prophecies they'd forgotten how to read.

Good. Let them remember fear.

His wings shifted, shedding frost as he settled his bulk more comfortably against stone that had been carved by his own kind millennia ago. The ruin groaned under his weight but held—dov architecture, built to last. Unlike the paper-thin hovels those meat-sacks called civilization these days.

Below, a mammoth herd trudged through the tundra, oblivious. A giant herded them with rocks and grunts. The world continued, ignorant that its rightful master had returned to claim what was always his.

Alduin's eyes narrowed, pupils contracting to slits as he scanned the distant roads. The Last Dragonborn was probably crawling out of whatever hole they'd survived his little announcement in. The one mortal who could actually pose a problem.

Let them come.

His tail coiled around the temple's foundation, claws scraping grooves into ancient stone. The Voice thrummed in his throat, patient as ever.

The question was: how long would this "hero" take to find their spine?