"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."
The officer beside the list reader called the name aloud.
Ulfric wasn't taken straight to the block.
Instead, Imperial soldiers dragged him toward General Tullius.
Rowan could guess why.
Tullius wanted a few final words.
A few final insults.
One by one, Stormcloak soldiers were called forward and lined up near the execution platform.
Ralof was among them.
Then the list reached him.
"Lokir. Rorikstead."
Rowan stepped forward calmly.
No panicked dash.
No desperate sprint.
Unlike the game's version of events, he didn't try to flee.
He had no intention of getting shot in the back.
The Dragonborn was next.
Even though his name wasn't on the list, the officer waved him over anyway.
Everyone present was going to die.
Rowan deliberately avoided looking at the Dragonborn.
The fewer threads connecting him to Akatosh's chosen, the better.
The Dragon God of Time was not a true creator in the same sense as Ilúvatar.
But Rowan suspected Akatosh was at least an avatar or fragment of something far greater.
Potentially capable of perceiving across entire universes.
Better not to invite curiosity.
This world was crowded with dangerous beings.
Divines.
Daedric Princes.
Ancient monsters.
Mortals were never the only players.
A distant roar rolled across the sky.
Low.
Heavy.
Wrong.
Some people looked up.
General Tullius did not.
"Ignore it," he barked. "Proceed with the execution."
Rowan felt a faint curve form at the corner of his mouth.
Alduin had arrived.
The World-Eater.
First of all dragons.
Akatosh's eldest son.
Long ago, dragons ruled over mortals.
Alduin sat at the pinnacle of that tyranny.
Until rebellion came.
Until a dragon named Paarthurnax defected and taught humans the Voice.
Until Dragonrend was created.
Three ancient heroes had nearly lost everything to weaken Alduin.
And in desperation, they had used an Elder Scroll to cast him forward through time.
Two thousand years.
To now.
From Alduin's perspective, the battle had ended a heartbeat ago.
Then suddenly…
Skyrim.
Smoke.
Stone.
People screaming.
He wasn't here to save anyone.
He wasn't here for the Dragonborn.
He was angry.
Disoriented.
And looking for something to burn.
Stormcloak soldiers were dragged to the block.
An Arkay priestess murmured prayers over them.
Heads fell.
One after another.
Blood darkened the wooden platform.
Rowan watched with detached focus.
Not because he was unmoved.
But because panic solved nothing.
"Still not here?" Rowan thought.
In the game, Alduin interrupted earlier.
Reality was less scripted.
Seven men died.
Then eight.
When two soldiers stepped toward Rowan, hands reaching for his arms, he made a decision.
Subtle.
Invisible.
He lifted his heel slightly.
And stamped.
Not hard.
Not visibly.
But with intent.
The ground shuddered.
A low tremor rippled through the square.
People cried out.
"HOLD THE PRISONERS!" Tullius roared. "FORM UP!"
Chaos bloomed.
Confusion spread.
Seconds passed.
Then Rowan heard it.
The thunder of wings.
He looked up.
A colossal shadow swept over Helgen.
A dragon slammed onto the tower above the square.
Stone exploded.
A roar shook the sky.
Alduin had arrived.