Rowan began organizing what he knew about this world.
Not everything was reliable.
Even people who had obsessed over the lore in his previous life disagreed constantly about what was true, metaphorical, symbolic, or outright contradictory.
But imperfect information was better than none.
According to the most common interpretation, reality itself began with a vast, unknowable source.
From that source emerged two primal forces.
Anu, embodying permanence.
Padomay, embodying change.
Their clash gave birth to the cosmic arena known as Oblivion.
From Anu came Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time.
From Padomay came Lorkhan, the Trickster.
Lorkhan convinced Akatosh and other divine spirits to help create a mortal plane.
Thus, Nirn was born.
Many of the spirits soon realized a terrible truth.
The world they had created was not static.
It changed.
It decayed.
And worse, it bound them.
Some fled.
Magnus, the chief architect, tore open reality itself to escape into a higher realm.
The hole he left behind became the sun.
Other fleeing spirits left smaller tears.
Those became the stars.
The spirits who remained were weakened.
Most lost their infinite nature and became finite beings bound to the cycle of birth and death.
Only a handful retained their divinity.
These became the Divines worshiped across Tamriel.
They encircled Nirn, shielding it from Oblivion and the Daedric Princes.
The Daedra, who had refused to take part in creation, lost nothing.
They ruled their own realms in Oblivion, untouched and immensely powerful.
Lorkhan paid the price for deception.
Akatosh tore his heart from his body and cast it into Red Mountain.
The violence of that act created the two moons that orbit Nirn.
A strange, brutal genesis.
Rowan now stood in the Fourth Era.
And Akatosh had chosen a mortal champion.
A Dragonborn.
The young man sitting across from him.
Which meant something else.
That Dragonborn was likely being observed constantly by Akatosh.
Rowan had no intention of becoming collateral damage.
Blend in.
Stay quiet.
Learn.
Knowledge remained his primary objective.
Power could be built later.
"Looks like you tried to cross the border and ran straight into an Imperial ambush," Ralof said casually to the blond man across from Rowan. "Same as us. And that thief over there."
Rowan gave a small nod, playing along.
The Dragonborn still looked utterly confused.
Ralof turned to Rowan.
"Hey, horse thief. What village you from?"
"Rorikstead," Rowan answered evenly. "You're with the Stormcloaks, right?"
He nodded toward the gagged man.
"Why's he muzzled?"
Ralof's expression shifted to reverence.
"That's Ulfric Stormcloak. Our Jarl. The true High King of Skyrim."
Rowan let his eyes widen slightly.
"Ulfric Stormcloak… I've heard the name."
He already knew the broader picture.
The Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion had fought a devastating war.
The Empire lost.
Unable to continue, it signed the White-Gold Concordat.
The treaty outlawed worship of Talos.
Allowed Thalmor agents to operate freely in Imperial territory.
And forced the dissolution of the Blades.
Hammerfell rejected the treaty and fought on alone.
Skyrim did not.
For the Nords, Talos was more than a god.
He was a human who had ascended.
A symbol of their identity.
Banning his worship was an unforgivable insult.
Ulfric Stormcloak challenged the young High King Torygg in Solitude.
He killed him using the Thu'um.
Half of Skyrim declared for Ulfric.
Half remained loyal to the Empire.
Civil war followed.
Now Ulfric sat bound in the same cart as Rowan.
Captured by General Tullius with Thalmor intelligence.
Originally meant to be taken to Solitude.
Instead, he was being rushed to Helgen for immediate execution.
A quieter death.
A faster solution.
Ulfric's mouth was bound for a reason.
If he shouted, the town might not survive it.
Rowan stared at the wooden planks beneath his feet.
Execution.
Dragon.
Gods.
Daedra.
This world did not forgive mistakes.
He would walk carefully.
Very carefully.