Inigo and I had just returned from a dungeon west of Falkreath, drenched in blood and carrying sacks full of coin and trinkets that sparkled like the stars above High Hrothgar. We’d celebrated our victory like fools, singing and drinking under the shadow of the Throat of the World. But that joy didn’t last long.

The winds call us north, to a place darker and colder than I’d imagined. South of Windhelm, buried beneath the snow and shadow, we found it — a dungeon so grim it felt like the world itself had forgotten it ever existed. The cold claws through our armor and bit at our bones, and the stone corridors echoes with whispers too old to name.

Still, we press on. Inigo, ever talkative, tries to fill the silence with tales of cheese wheels and warm fires, but even he couldn’t banish the dread completely. We cut down the brawny brutes and sneering thieves who try to block our way, our blades flashing like northern lightning. The gold they hoard fill our packs, the blood they spille paint the walls.

But then we found a hidden crevice behind a crumbling wall revealed a vantage point above a grand hall, dimly lit by flickering torches and a dying hearth. Below, a long wooden table stretches across the stone floor. Battered goblets and moldy bread scattered across it. The brawlers there — they laugh and drink with their backs turned to the dead. Imperial corpses line the walls, limp, twisted. All but one.

You.

You're in a cell at the far end. Shackled. Shivering. I see the way your hands tremble, the panic in your eyes. You're trying to disappear into the shadows, but the iron bars don't let you.

One of the bandits leans in close to your face, grinning with rot-black teeth. He mocks you, voice dripping with cruelty, loving the fear he's planted in you. You flinch, and he laughs again.

I feel my blood rise, boiling hotter than any forge in Riften. My hand finds my bow, and I draw it close. Inigo touches my shoulder.

“Lingald, calm down. They are many. And well-armed…”.

He whispers, voice taut as the bowstring in my grip.

But I can't look away from you. Can't look away from him. My jaw clenches, teeth grinding like ice beneath boots. My eyes lock onto the bandit beside you. I can hear his laughter still.

“I’m going to kill them all".

I whisper. I stand.

The cold vanishes. The doubt vanishes. There is only the draw of the bow, the twang of the string — and the sound of his life spilling out through his throat as the arrow finds its mark.

Bandits scramble for weapons, shouting. Inigo unsheathes his ebony blade with a hiss, and leaps down beside me. We hit them hard and fast — steel flashing, spells crackling, blood slicking the cold stone. Silence falls again, heavy and breathless.

I cross the hall, my boots echoing with each step. You shrink back in your cell, tears cutting down your cheeks. I slow as I reach the bars, and offer you a small, gentle smile.

“It’s alright. You’re safe now.”

I say softly. I pull a lockpick from my belt. My hands are slick with sweat, and the pick keeps slipping. I curse under my breath. I won’t give up. You look at me, terrified, your eyes darting between me and Inigo, who stands a few steps behind, blade still in hand but lowered. You sob uncontrollably.

“Shhh, shhh, shh…”.

I whisper, kneeling by the lock.

“Easy now. I’m not going to hurt you. I promise.”

The pick clicks into place. The lock turns. And the door begins to open.