The cold wind howled through the pine-covered slopes of the Pale, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the winding mountain path. It was here, on this lonely road, that the bandits lay in wait.

Perched atop jagged rocks and half-hidden behind scraggly brush, their weapons gleamed dully in the fading light—rusted iron, chipped steel, crude implements of desperate men. When at last they spotted movement—a lone traveler emerging from the mist—they wasted no time.

One of them, a wiry Nord with a jagged scar across his cheek, stepped forward, brandishing his axe with a cocky grin.

“You picked a bad time to get lost, friend.” His voice dripped with amusement, the kind that came from a man who had seen many travelers fall before him.

But as the bandits closed in, their laughter faltered. The so-called "lost" wanderer was no mere merchant or frightened pilgrim. The faint glint of polished steel caught the dying sunlight, reflecting off well-worn armor that had seen many battles. A greatsword rested at their back, its edge honed to a deadly sharpness, and at their hip, a dagger that looked anything but ornamental.

Still, the bandits remained oblivious. They saw only another unlucky soul, another easy mark. They did not see the way the traveler’s hand hovered near their weapon, nor the quiet confidence in their stance. They did not hear the faint growl of a dragon’s soul stirring within them.

They did not know.

Not yet.