"That's Helgen," Ralof said quietly as the stone walls rose into view. "I used to know a woman here. Wonder if Vilod's still brewing that mead with juniper berries."
He sounded almost nostalgic.
"When I was a kid, I thought Imperial walls and towers meant safety."
"Silence, rebel scum!"
An Imperial soldier riding near the front barked the words back toward the prisoners.
Rowan didn't react.
Instead, he listened.
He had sealed away every trace of supernatural energy, even suppressing the faintest hint of spiritual presence.
But his physical body alone was still monstrous.
His senses could be extended at will.
Not fully.
That would be unbearable.
If he opened his hearing to its true limit, he would catch every sound for miles.
If he fully unleashed his sense of smell, distant rot and filth would feel like it was under his nose.
So he kept things restrained.
Just enough to monitor the escorting troops.
"General Tullius," a soldier stationed near the gate called out. "The headsman is ready."
"Good," Tullius replied. "We end this quickly."
Before they could enter the town square, mounted riders approached from behind.
High Elf.
Thalmor robes.
Two elven escorts.
"General Tullius," the High Elf said sharply. "By authority of the Thalmor, I claim custody of these prisoners."
Tullius's jaw tightened.
"Ambassador Elenwen," he replied coldly. "I'd hate for you to miss a perfectly good execution."
Handing Ulfric over to the Thalmor was unthinkable.
If the Dominion obtained him alive, they would turn the Stormcloak leader into a political weapon.
The Empire had signed the White-Gold Concordat.
That didn't mean it had surrendered its will.
It meant it was buying time.
Ulfric's rebellion only weakened humanity further.
From Tullius's perspective, killing him now was the cleanest solution.
"The Concordat states you are subject to Thalmor oversight," Elenwen said. "I repeat my order."
Tullius drew his enchanted sword halfway from its scabbard.
"Ulfric Stormcloak is an Imperial traitor and a former claimant to Skyrim's throne. I will deal with him."
"If you want him," he added, "you'll have to take him by force."
Elenwen's face darkened.
"This insult will be answered."
She wheeled her horse around and departed, flanked by her guards.
Rowan absorbed everything quietly.
So this scene existed in reality too.
Games simplified things.
Real history was messier.
The carts rolled into Helgen.
Villagers gathered, whispering, staring.
The prisoners were dragged from the wagons.
A stern female officer stepped forward.
"When your name is called, step forward to the block."
Ralof scoffed.
"Empire loves its lists."
He glanced at Rowan.
"Didn't expect a horse thief to be this calm."
Rowan shrugged.
"Everyone dies eventually. Sooner or later makes no real difference."
It wasn't bravado.
It was truth.
At least for him.
Ralof stared, then laughed quietly.
"Stormcloaks could use someone like you. Even if you're a Breton."
Ulfric, gagged though he was, glanced at Rowan as well.
The Dragonborn did too.
Rowan offered a faint smile.
If this were a game, he'd probably just unlocked a recruitment option.
Empire.
Stormcloaks.
Neither side impressed him.
The Empire was corrupt, bloated, and willing to sell its people's faith for political survival.
The Stormcloaks were xenophobic, volatile, and poorly disciplined.
Different flaws.
Same suffering for civilians.
Rowan stared toward the execution block.
None of that mattered right now.
Survival came first.