Three days later, in the late morning.
With the help of Imperial soldier Hadvar, the man now known as the Dragonborn finally escaped the ruins of Helgen and arrived in Riverwood.
Hadvar entered through the southern gate and immediately frowned.
"Something's off. Where is everyone?"
Aside from a few elderly villagers and some children, the streets were nearly empty.
Hadvar had enlisted in Solitude, but he still returned home almost every year to visit his uncle Alvor's family. Riverwood's usual rhythm was familiar to him.
"This doesn't feel right… Could a dragon have attacked here too?" the Dragonborn asked.
They had seen the massive creature fly north while escaping through Helgen's underground passages. Riverwood lay directly along that route.
Hadvar shook his head, already moving toward the forge.
"Let's check on my uncle first."
From the outside, the smithy showed no signs of damage. Even so, Hadvar pushed the door open quickly.
Inside, his aunt Sigrid sat calmly by the hearth, knitting.
Hadvar exhaled in relief.
"Aunt Sigrid. Where's Uncle Alvor?"
She looked up, surprise flashing across her face.
"Hadvar! You're back already? Your uncle took Dorthe up to Bleak Falls Barrow."
Hadvar's expression changed instantly.
"Bleak Falls Barrow? That place is dangerous. Why would he take her there?"
Growing up in Riverwood, Hadvar had heard countless terrifying stories about the ruin. Later, after joining the Legion, he learned most of the rumors were exaggerated.
But he also learned something worse.
Large Nordic tombs were genuinely lethal.
General Tullius had once ordered searches across Haafingar for the Jagged Crown. Hadvar had led teams into smaller burial sites. Even those expeditions had suffered heavy losses, despite elite soldiers, enchanted gear, and mage support.
Bleak Falls Barrow was far larger.
Sigrid waved a hand reassuringly.
"Don't worry. A powerful adventurer came through Riverwood a few days ago. While clearing the bandit lookout, he also swept through Bleak Falls Barrow."
She went on to explain how Lucan's Golden Dragon Claw had been stolen, how an adventurer named Rowan Mercer accepted the job, and how he returned carrying an entire sack of ancient treasures.
"People came down this morning with cartloads of items from the ruin," Sigrid continued. "It's safe now. Your uncle is hoping to find old Nordic forging techniques. Dorthe wanted to see the place for herself, so she went along with the others."
Hadvar let out a slow breath.
"One person cleared Bleak Falls Barrow alone…"
He shook his head in disbelief.
"That's the kind of warrior the Empire could really use."
Two days later, Alvor returned with Dorthe and the rest of Riverwood's salvage party, hauling wagon after wagon of ancient weapons, armor, and assorted relics.
Among the finds was a strange carved stone tablet Rowan Mercer had left behind.
Dorthe claimed it as her personal treasure.
After learning Helgen had been destroyed by a dragon, Alvor asked the Dragonborn to carry word to Whiterun's jarl and request military support for Riverwood.
The Dragonborn agreed.
With two hundred septims provided by Alvor, he hired a carriage and began his journey to Whiterun.
At the same time, Rowan Mercer and Avier were already nearing their destination.
Rowan pulled aside the carriage curtain.
Golden wheat fields stretched across the landscape, rolling like waves under the sun. A broad stone road ran through the plains, wide enough for several wagons to travel side by side. Merchant caravans moved constantly in both directions.
In the distance, Whiterun rose atop a great hill.
White walls.
Towering battlements.
A city that looked more like a fortress than a town.
Rowan closed the book in his hands, a dense volume on the fundamentals of magical theory.
"Give me an overview of the city," he said to Avier.
Avier straightened immediately.
"Whiterun is the capital of Whiterun Hold," he began. "It's built around the White River and sits at the heart of Skyrim's trade routes. More caravans pass through here than anywhere else in the province."
He continued, recounting history, legends, and rumors alike.
Whiterun's origins stretched back to the First Era, when the warrior-king Olaf One-Eye fought a dragon using the Voice and defeated it near what was then a small settlement. The captured dragon's skull still hung in Dragonsreach as a symbol of victory.
Politically, Whiterun maintained a careful neutrality in the civil war between the Empire and the Stormcloaks.
Within the city, two great clans held influence.
The Gray-Manes, who leaned toward the Stormcloaks.
And the Battle-Borns, who supported the Empire.
Rowan listened, nodding occasionally.
None of that truly mattered to him.
Whiterun was a crossroads.
A place to resupply.
A place to hunt for rare spell tomes.
And, eventually, a stepping stone toward the College of Winterhold.
From the books he had already purchased, Rowan understood the basic principles of magic in this world.
Useful, but insufficient.
Riverwood had only carried one true spell tome.
Flames.
A simple spell that produced a steady stream of fire from the caster's hand. Its strength depended on knowledge, control, and raw magical output.
Rowan could already push it far beyond normal limits.
But raw power alone would not satisfy the College's entry standards.
He needed more spells.
Better spells.
The carriage rolled onward, carrying him toward the heart of Skyrim's most prosperous city.