The wood of the carriage groaned under the weight of its passengers as the driver cracked the reins. The horse snorted, pulling the wagon forward with a steady rhythm of hooves against dirt.
I sat with my back to the side panel, one hand clutching the edge of the bench as the road jolted us every few seconds. It wasn't comfortable—nothing about this kind of travel was—but at least it meant progress. I was finally moving, away from Solitude, away from Radiant Raiment, away from the sisters.
The wind carried the smell of pine and damp soil. A thin mist clung to the edges of the road, curling low across the grass like ghostly fingers.
Skyrim's air always had that bite of cold in it, sharp enough to sting the nose, but the morning sun softened it just enough to be bearable. I tugged my cloak tighter and let my eyes wander over the scenery.
This wasn't a game anymore. Every jolt, every breath of chill air reminded me.
The driver up front—a weathered Nord with a gray beard braided in two strands—hummed to himself as he flicked the reins lazily. The horses knew the route better than he did, probably. Beside me sat three strangers, each one looking as if the road had carved something different into them.
Across from me was a sellsword, broad-shouldered with scarred knuckles and armor that had clearly seen better days. His sword leaned against his knee, the hilt polished from use, but the scabbard frayed at the edges.
Next to him, an old woman bundled in furs clutched a wicker basket in her lap, herbs and cloth peeking out the top. And beside me, pressed against the side rail with his hood drawn low, sat a young Nord man, no older than twenty, silent and brooding.
The carriage rattled along for some time before the sellsword finally broke the silence.
"Traveling light, stranger," he said, eyes flicking toward me. His voice was rough, like stone dragged across stone.
I gave a half-shrug. "Only carrying what I need."
"Good way to be. Less to slow you down if the wolves catch your scent." He chuckled, though it carried no real humor. "Name's Daric. Sword for hire, though the work's been… dry lately."
I nodded politely. "Chad," I answered, keeping it short. No reason to tell them more than they needed.
The old woman leaned forward, her wrinkled hands gripping her basket. "Dry, he says," she muttered. "That's because the war's over. All the fighting's done. The Empire's squeezing every corner of Skyrim for coin now. No room for mercenaries unless you're willing to play errand boy for the Legion."
Daric snorted. "Errand boy. That about sums it up. Escorting wagons, chasing deserters, guarding tax collectors. Not the kind of work that makes a man proud." He spat over the side of the carriage. "At least back during the war, you knew who the enemy was."
I stayed quiet, listening. My chest tightened at their words, because this wasn't how it went in the game. In Skyrim, the war could go either way. You could join Ulfric or the Empire. There was a balance, a choice.
But here? It was already done. Ulfric was dead. The Stormcloaks crushed. No branching questline, no picking a side—just the weight of Imperial victory pressing down on everyone.
The young Nord beside me finally spoke, voice low but sharp. "The enemy's still here. You just don't see them. Every soldier in Solitude, every boot that stomps on our soil. They're the enemy."
His hood shadowed his face, but I caught the bitterness in his eyes.
Daric shifted uncomfortably. "Careful with that tongue, boy. Not everyone here might agree."
The young man scoffed. "Don't need them to agree. I know what I know. My brother fought for Ulfric. Died with him when the Legion took Windhelm. Tell me the war's over. For me, it ain't."
Silence followed his words. Even the old woman lowered her gaze, lips pressed thin.
I swallowed hard. I'd read about Ulfric's death in whispers from others, but hearing it like this—from someone whose own brother had fallen with him—it hit differently. It wasn't just lore, or backstory, or some line of dialogue you could skip through. This was real pain sitting inches away from me, breathing the same air.
I forced myself to speak. "I'm sorry about your brother."
The young man's eyes flicked to me, guarded. "Doesn't change anything."
"No," I admitted, "but it doesn't mean it matters less."
He looked away, pulling his hood tighter. Conversation died again, though the air felt heavier now.
The old woman broke it after a few minutes, her voice softer this time. "All of Skyrim's paying the price. Taxes are higher than ever. Soldiers marching through towns, taking what they please. They say it's peace, but it feels no different than war—just quieter."
Daric grumbled. "Quieter until some fool gets the idea to rise up again. Then it'll be blood all over the roads. I don't mind telling you—I'm too tired for another war."
The carriage jolted as it rolled over a stone, making the horses snort. I adjusted my grip on the bench, my thoughts spinning.
This world wasn't the same as the one I remembered. The game gave you the illusion of choice. You could delay the war forever if you wanted, let Ulfric and Tullius stew in their holds. But here the choice was already made. The Empire had won. Ulfric was gone. And yet nothing was fixed. Skyrim wasn't united. It was fractured, bleeding under the surface.
And I was stuck in the middle of it.
Daric leaned back with a sigh. "So what about you, Chad? Where you headed?"
I hesitated. Couldn't tell them the truth. Couldn't say I was chasing after Black Books, that Miraak might be watching me, that a Daedric Prince had already claimed me for her own twisted reasons. They wouldn't believe me, or worse—they would. And that kind of truth only brought danger.
"East," I said simply. "Got some business to take care of."
Daric smirked. "Business. Always business. Just make sure your business doesn't cross mine."
The old woman chuckled softly. "Men and their secrets."
The young Nord didn't say anything. He just stared at the passing trees, jaw tight, like he was carving every trunk into an enemy's face.
Hours stretched on. The road wound through valleys and across shallow streams, the driver humming the same broken tune. The mist burned away as the sun rose higher, revealing sharp mountain peaks in the distance, their tops capped white with snow. My legs ached from sitting too long, and I shifted, glancing at the others.
Travel wasn't just distance. It was weight. Every word spoken, every silence held, it all pressed against you.
I leaned back, eyes half-closed, trying not to think too much. But my mind wouldn't stop.
Ulfric dead. Empire victorious. Skyrim shackled in quiet resentment. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. But maybe that was the point. Maybe this world didn't care what I remembered. It wasn't built for my choices. It was its own thing now, and I had to play by its rules.
The thought gnawed at me as the carriage rumbled on, carrying me farther from the life I had just barely begun to build—and closer to the path I knew I couldn't turn away from.