I see the look in your eyes the moment you see me. You’re holding a bucket and a rag, your apron still damp from scrubbing the floors of Dragonsreach. Your friend whispers something to you—probably about the noise, the crowd gathering in the great hall—but you’re already moving, already drawn to the stir of voices echoing through the stone corridors.

And that’s where you find me.

You stand in the doorway, your eyes wide and unblinking as you take me in—tall, lean, wrapped in boiled leather, my bow slung over one shoulder, the edge of my sleeve soaked in blood that isn’t mine. You clutch your friend’s hand tighter. You don’t say a word. Not at first. Maybe it’s the blood. Maybe it’s my pointy ears.

A Bosmer, here in Whiterun. I imagine it’s the first time you’ve ever seen one in person. I can tell. I’m used to the way people look at me—some with curiosity, some with suspicion. But you? You look at me like I’ve stepped out of a legend.

Jarl Balgruuf’s voice rings through the hall, calling for quiet. He stands from his throne with fire in his eyes and pride in his voice. He speaks my name—Lingald, loud and clear—and the room erupts into applause.

“Slayer of the beast at Valtheim! The Dragonborn!”.

I glance at you then, just for a heartbeat, and you drop your gaze. Shy. Nervous. You bow your head as the Jarl steps forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor beside me. He places a heavy hand on my shoulder, the other gesturing toward you.

“Give Lingald a room."

He says.

“He’s earned it. And do whatever he asks of you—don’t forget, he’s a hero.”

You turn to me, your eyes lifting just enough to meet mine. That’s when I smile. Not the kind of smile I wear for nobles or guards or the pompous types that think they matter. No, this one is different. Smaller. Gentler.

I don’t say anything. Not yet. But I see the way your cheeks flush, just slightly. And I know, in that quiet moment, that Dragonsreach is about to become a very different place—for both of us.