The morning in Solitude carried its own kind of chill. Not the sharp, cutting cold of the mountains, but something steadier, damp, softened by sea air. Fog still clung to the streets, curling low around stone steps and the base of the walls. My boots thudded against cobblestones slick with dew as I followed the slope upward, higher and higher through the city.
Solitude was big. Far bigger than the version I remembered.
In the game, the streets had been a handful of pathways, a few shops lined up like pieces on a board. But here the alleys split and forked, rows of houses stacked on each other like layered stone. Smoke curled from dozens of chimneys. The voices of merchants carried from open windows. A fishmonger shouted somewhere down a street, his call sharp over the clatter of wagons.
The air tasted of salt and smoke.
And all roads seemed to slope toward one thing—the castle at the top.
The Blue Palace.
I stopped as the street leveled out, giving me a full view. The building loomed at the crest of the hill, its towers stabbing into the fog, the stonework pale blue-gray under the morning light. Flags whipped in the breeze, bright with Solitude's crest. Guards stood at the gates, halberds in hand, helmets gleaming. Even at this distance, the place radiated weight. Authority.
My chest tightened.
In the game, I would have just walked up. The doors had always been open. I could've strolled right into the audience chamber, traded words with Elisif like I belonged there. No one would've stopped me.
But this wasn't the game.
I looked again at the guards. Their armor wasn't just texture slapped onto a model. It was dented, repaired, worn from use. One of them shifted his weight, scanning the crowd with the slow patience of someone whose whole life was this wall. His eyes swept over me and lingered for a second longer than I liked.
The truth pressed in heavy.
I wasn't a thane. I wasn't a soldier. I wasn't anyone of worth here. Just a stranger with a battered set of armor and no ties to this city. Walking up to those doors now would be suicide by humiliation at best—arrest at worst.
Still, my boots carried me closer, drawn like a moth even as my brain screamed otherwise. The stairs stretched wide, worn smooth from years of boots. My hand drifted toward the hilt at my side without thought, a habit.
The palace loomed taller with every step.
And then I stopped.
Dead center before the gates, just far enough that the guards didn't shift or challenge me yet. My throat went dry. I stared at the doors—massive oak bound in steel—and felt like an idiot.
What did I think was going to happen? That they'd open for me? That I could just… walk in?
My fingers dug into the leather strap across my chest. My armor creaked. Sweat prickled under the collar despite the cold air.
"Thinking of marching up there?"
The voice slid in from my left, smooth, sharp, and tinged with amusement. I turned.
She stood with arms folded, chin lifted slightly, eyes narrowed in a look that was half assessment and half dismissal. A high elf—tall, elegant, her golden hair pulled back with care. The robe she wore shimmered faintly in the light, cut in the way only the wealthy bothered with.
Taarie.
Recognition hit like a spark. I remembered her name, faint, from the game. A tailor, if I recalled right. Always with her sister Endarie, snide remarks wrapped around their words like silk hiding thorns.
Her gaze ran over me slowly, not shy in the least. Then her lip curled.
"That armor," she said, voice like a knife dipped in honey. "It looks like you crawled out of a midden heap wearing it. Do you even know what polish is?"
Heat flushed my face before I could stop it. I looked down at myself. The steel cuirass was streaked with dried blood, the edges nicked, the leather straps dark with sweat and grime. I hadn't taken time to scrub it clean since Kilkreath. Since Malkoran. Since any of it.
"It's functional," I muttered, but the words came out weaker than I wanted.
"Functional?" Her brows rose, eyes gleaming with mockery. "If your goal is to smell like a wet dog, then yes, it functions perfectly. But standing here, before the Blue Palace, dressed like some back-alley sellsword? It makes you look…" Her gaze flicked once more up and down. "…unworthy."
The word stung sharper than it should have.
I clenched my jaw. A dozen retorts sparked in my head, most of them bitter, half of them desperate. But none of them made it past my lips. Because she wasn't wrong.
Every smear, every dent, every streak of dried filth on my armor screamed louder in this place than they ever had in the wilderness. Among wolves and draugr, it hadn't mattered. But here, under the shadow of towers and banners, with guards watching—every flaw stood out.
Taarie must have seen the silence settle in, because her smirk softened into something closer to calculation. She stepped closer, lowering her voice enough that the guards wouldn't overhear.
"You're new here, aren't you? No house, no name worth speaking of, no ties." She tilted her head slightly, studying me like a seamstress measures cloth. "But you want to be seen. To be respected."
Her eyes gleamed. "I can help with that. For a price."
My throat tightened.
The memory of the game floated up—Taarie and Endarie asking you to wear their clothes, show them off to the Jarl. A fetch quest, one among hundreds. But here, her words carried weight. Not just a side activity. A transaction. A chance at legitimacy.
"I…" My hand flexed on the strap again. "I don't have coin."
She waved a hand dismissively. "Then find some. You'll need better than that rust bucket if you want to walk these streets without drawing every sneer from here to Castle Dour." Her eyes narrowed, lips curling again. "Or stay as you are, if humiliation suits you."
And with that, she turned, robes swaying, and strode down the steps without waiting for a reply.
I stood frozen, pulse hammering.
The guards hadn't moved, hadn't said a word. The doors to the Blue Palace loomed still, distant as the moon.
And I—stuck between the urge to chase Taarie down and demand she help me now, and the urge to run back down the hill and hide in the Winking Skeever's warmth—just stood there, armor heavy on my shoulders, suddenly too aware of every dent and smear.
This wasn't the game.
I couldn't just walk into the Jarl's chamber and play hero. Not here. Not without coin. Not without name. Not without… something more.
The fog thickened again around the palace spires. My hands clenched.
For the first time since coming to Solitude, I felt small.
And I hated it.