So here I was—walking in a borrowed face, answering to a name that wasn't mine. The disguise still sat wrong on me, like armor that didn't quite fit the body wearing it. The leather pulled tight across my shoulders, the stitching unfamiliar against my skin. Every step felt like I was pretending to be someone else… and hoping the world wouldn't look too closely.
The road to Riften narrowed as the fog thickened, rolling in low and heavy until it swallowed the path ahead. Trees loomed on either side, their trunks dark and silent, their branches stretching overhead like fingers trying to close in. Even the wind seemed reluctant to move through this place, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Stormcloak territory.
I had avoided these roads before—back when my name still meant something, when people would have recognized me without needing a second look. Back when "Jayson" carried weight. Now, that same name was nailed to boards and carried in the hands of soldiers, reduced to ink and accusation.
Olly walked beside me, light on his feet despite the damp ground, humming softly under his breath. The tune was uneven, half-remembered, like something pulled from a memory that refused to fully return. It didn't belong in this place, but somehow it made the silence easier to bear.
I kept my hood low, letting the shadow cover most of my face. Not for the cold—but for the eyes. You start to notice them, after a while. The way people look without meaning to. The slight pause when they pass you. The feeling that something isn't right, even if they can't explain why. Suspicion doesn't need certainty. It just needs time.
We had been walking like that for a while when the road opened slightly, revealing a stretch of worn stone and a crooked signpost leaning off to one side. The fog thinned just enough to show movement ahead—and then a voice cut through it.
"Halt!"
Three figures stepped out onto the road, their armor catching what little light broke through the mist. Imperial. Real this time. Not patched together like the bandits we'd dealt with before, but properly fitted, properly worn. One of them held a parchment in his hand.
I didn't need to see it.
But I did anyway.
He raised it just enough for us to catch a glimpse, and there I was—rendered in rough lines and dark ink. The sketch wasn't perfect. The eyes were wrong. The expression too rigid. But it didn't matter. It was close enough.
Close enough to get someone killed.
"Have you seen this man?" the soldier asked, his tone steady, practiced.
Olly leaned forward before I could stop him, his reaction immediate and unfiltered. "A wanted man?!" The words came out louder than they should have, echoing faintly through the fog as if the forest itself was listening.
Too loud. Too fast.
The other soldiers shifted slightly—not aggressive, but alert. Hands closer to their weapons. Eyes sharper.
That was enough.
I moved before Olly could say anything else. A subtle flick of my fingers, a controlled pulse of magicka—small enough to go unnoticed, precise enough to do what I needed. Olly's body stiffened mid-motion, locking in place as if time had forgotten to let him move. He didn't fall. He just… stopped.
"I apologize," I said, stepping forward just enough to draw their attention away from him. My tone stayed even, controlled, as if nothing unusual had happened. "My friend tends to react before thinking."
The soldier glanced at Olly, then back at me, his expression unreadable. "Your friend seems… enthusiastic."
I let out a quiet breath, almost a chuckle, shaking my head slightly. "He's a fan, I think. You know how stories spread. The Warlord of Solitude… people like to believe they're closer to something important than they really are."
The parchment shifted in the soldier's grip as the wind stirred faintly between us. His gaze lingered, measuring, weighing.
"Have you seen him?" he repeated.
This time, I met his eyes—but only for a moment. Just long enough to answer. Not long enough to invite suspicion.
"No," I said.
The silence that followed stretched thin, like something waiting to snap. Then, slowly, the soldier lowered the parchment.
"If you do," he said, "report it. Ten thousand septims isn't something you ignore."
"I wouldn't dream of it," I replied.
They moved past us soon after, their footsteps fading back into the fog until they were nothing more than shadows swallowed by the trees. I waited, listening until even the sound of their armor disappeared.
Then I released the spell.
Olly staggered slightly as his body unlocked, catching himself with a sharp inhale. His hands flexed instinctively, as if making sure they still belonged to him. "What the hell was that for?" he snapped, turning to me with a mix of confusion and irritation.
"You were about to get us both questioned," I said, already turning and continuing down the path.
"I was just asking—"
"You were about to argue."
He followed after me, his steps heavier now, frustration bleeding into his movements. "Because it didn't make sense! A warlord suddenly a criminal? That's—"
"Skyrim doesn't care about what makes sense," I cut in, my voice quieter than his—but sharper.
That stopped him.
For a moment, the only sound between us was the damp crunch of gravel beneath our boots. Then his tone shifted, softer this time, more uncertain.
"…Still," he said, "something about that didn't feel right."
No.
It didn't.
But I didn't answer.
The fog thickened again as we walked, closing in around us until the world felt smaller, quieter. The road stretched ahead, but it didn't feel like it was leading anywhere—just forward, endlessly.
And then, without thinking, I reached out.
My hand brushed against his head, fingers moving through his hair in a familiar, absent gesture. It was instinct. Memory. Something I hadn't meant to do.
Something I shouldn't have done.
Olly froze mid-step.
Slowly, he turned toward me—not confused, not startled, but certain in a way that made my chest tighten.
"…Jayson?"
The name settled between us, heavier than it should have been. Dangerous.
I didn't answer right away.
Didn't deny it either.
His eyes searched my face, not for the shape or the features, but for something underneath. Something only he would recognize. Something I wasn't sure I could still hide.
"Jayson," he said again, quieter now, like saying it too loudly might make it disappear. "Why the hell… how did you—"
He stopped himself, the questions tangling together before they could fully form. Then he settled on the one that mattered most.
"…why are you a wanted man?"
The fog shifted around us, curling low across the ground, wrapping around our feet like it was listening.
I exhaled slowly, my gaze drifting past him, into the trees, into the space where answers should have been simple.
They weren't.
There were too many reasons. None of them clean. None of them easy to explain without breaking something else.
"Because," I said finally, my voice low and steady, "someone needed to be."
Olly didn't respond.
He just stood there, looking at me like he was trying to decide whether the person in front of him was still the same one he had been walking beside.
And for the first time since I took this name—
this face—
I wasn't sure what the answer was anymore.