The road bent along the cliffs until I finally saw it.
Solitude.
I stopped dead in the snow, my chest tightening like something had clamped around my ribs.
The city rose above the sea on an arch of stone, the kind of sight that stole the breath from you whether you wanted it to or not. The Blue Palace towered high at the end, its walls gleaming even under the gray sky, like it had been carved from ice and polished until it dared the world to tarnish it. But the game hadn't done this justice—couldn't have. Solitude wasn't just big. It was overwhelming.
Walls stretched higher than I expected, their sheer bulk blotting out the horizon. Towers bristled like spears angled at the sky. Even from here I could see the banners snapping in the wind, their blue cloth stark against the stone. The city wasn't just a settlement tucked into the world; it commanded the world around it.
My boots crunched forward without thinking. Step after step, the city grew until it swallowed everything else. The path was wide here, carved for trade wagons and soldiers, lined with watch posts. Guards stood at intervals, their armor heavier than anything I'd seen in the holds I'd passed before. They didn't lounge, didn't joke. They watched.
And as I walked closer, the memories came crawling back.
The game. Skyrim. The first time you came here, you arrived to find a crowd gathered at the gate. Solitude made its impression not with grandeur, but with blood. An execution. Roggvir, the traitor who let Ulfric escape. Headsman's block.
I stopped, breath stuttering, eyes scanning the gate as if it might already be there waiting. A crowd pressed tight. A block slick with red.
But there was nothing.
No crowd. No block. Just the wind and the guards at their posts.
My throat went dry.
The timeline was wrong.
I forced myself forward, each step heavier than the last. My knowledge—the one thing I thought I had to lean on in this twisted version of Skyrim—wasn't a map anymore. Maybe it never had been. Maybe Miraak, maybe Mora, maybe Meridia herself had twisted it. Or maybe this was a different world altogether.
The thought sickened me worse than the exhaustion.
The closer I came, the more the weight of Solitude pressed down. The gate loomed tall, carved with the wolf sigil of Haafingar, guarded by steel-plated soldiers with pikes that gleamed in the weak light. Their eyes tracked me as I approached, narrowing at the sight of my travel-worn cloak, my battered blade strapped to my back.
I adjusted the pack on my shoulder, made myself stand straighter, though every muscle ached from the days on the road. The last thing I wanted was to look weak in front of them. Not here. Not at the gates of a city that looked like it could crush me under its heel without noticing.
One of the guards stepped forward, his voice flat and practiced. "State your business in Solitude."
I hesitated. The truth—that I was a pawn in some twisted game between Daedra, that I'd nearly died in Kilkreath fighting a shade made of hate, that Miraak's shadow was breathing down my neck—wasn't the kind of answer that bought you entry to a city.
"I'm here to rest," I said instead. My voice came out rough, sandpaper from the road. "Supplies. A place to stay."
The guard's eyes lingered on me, searching for cracks, weighing if I was trouble. I kept my expression even. Tired, but not desperate. Armed, but not hostile.
Finally, he gave a short nod and stepped aside. "Don't cause trouble, and you'll find what you need inside."
The gates groaned as they opened, stone and iron parting to reveal the city beyond.
My heart pounded in my chest.
This was it. Solitude. Not the map on a screen, not the familiar script of a questline I could follow step by step. This was something else. Bigger. Heavier. And every bit of me felt the weight of walking into it.
I adjusted my grip on the pack and stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the city.
And for the first time since leaving Kilkreath, I let myself believe I wasn't walking into emptiness.