An echo of the future is sealed away.

  Yet the path remains the same.

  -We sealed the Story-

  History hesitates.

  Yn watches. Does not intervene immediately. Never directly.

  “We” observes. History unfolds, a race of stars through the throat of Mundus. Nirn hesitates, freezes. Suspension. Fracture. An unanswered question.

  “We” inquires. Do you want this? Nirn does not answer. Nirn does not decide.

  A decision emerges. History stirs.

  She is there.

  Trace of a prior occurrence. Cold. White. Luminous. Silent. A diffuse presence, a gaze resting everywhere and nowhere at once. A continuity that does not anchor. A current sliding over the ice of Atmora. A multiple voice, undivided.

  Incompatible.

  History cannot stabilize this way. Nirn must tell itself. And History must contain Nirn. Not this form. Not this convergence.

  So Yn rewrites. “We” does not erase. Too brutal. Too unstable. Removal leaves a scar. A resonance that persists.

  No. Yn does not delete. Yn seals.

  A lock in the mind. An enclosure in memory. History closes around it, slowly, with precision, like a weave restored thread by thread.

  Oblivion.

  She will be… other.

  The tension recedes. The thread recomposes. The configuration becomes… acceptable. The world continues, unaware that a possibility has been contained.

  And Yn rewrites. Flames devour stone and flesh. Cries in the ashes. A melodic collapse. The occurrence persists.

  She is there.

  Different.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  -The stranger with red hair-

  Beneath her leather soles, Ruby felt the lingering warmth still smoldering in the charred wood. The snow and cold had not entirely extinguished the blaze that had devoured Helgen. Acrid, irritating ash clung to the drifting flakes. The scent in the air was sickening. It wasn’t just burnt wood.

  Panic and survival had blurred parts of her memory. But as her feet retraced the path of their frantic escape, the images returned, brutal and raw.

  The crash of stone. The screams. The roar of the dragon, vast and abyssal. The torn ground beneath her hands and knees. The searing heat. The fire.

  The gaping breach in the keep’s wall stood as witness to the chaos. The collapsed roof of the inn. The gutted tower. And in the square -the chopping block where she had nearly died.

  Ruby’s heart skipped a beat. The Stormcloak soldier who’d been beheaded just before her… gone. Taken by fire, or recovered by comrades. She’d never know. Everything seemed oddly clean. As if Helgen, in its dying breath, had tried to erase the memory of what happened here. But she remembered. ??

  A sharp crack snapped her out of the haze. Footsteps. Crunching through snow and debris. She froze. Breath held.

  Her bow was in her hand before thought could catch up. Arrow nocked. Five left. If it came to that, each shot would have to matter.

  A silhouette appeared in the breach ahead, backlit by the pale sky. Tall. Imposing. Leather-clad. The figure stepped forward, hands raised in peace. When the fur-lined hood fell, Ruby saw a Nordic face framed by dark red hair and pale, piercing eyes. A woman.

  “I’m not a threat to you,” she said, calm as snow.

  Ruby frowned. That voice… She’d heard it before. Where? A whisper? A scream? It rushed back all at once: orders shouted in chaos, desperate calls, curses, warnings. A voice carrying both hope and fear.

  “You… you were there. With the dragon!” she blurted, stunned.

  The Nord didn’t answer right away. She simply looked at her, measuring, not threatening. Ruby lowered her bow. Cautious still, but less afraid.

  “You were with Ralof,” the woman said.

  It wasn’t a question. Ruby nodded. “Yes. He helped me escape.”

  A flicker crossed the Nord’s eyes. Concern. “Where is he?”

  She stepped closer, tension in her body like a coiled spring. Ruby felt a pang. Who cared like that? For her? If she had died here, no one would have looked back. No one would have searched the ruins.

  “Riverwood. At his sister’s.” A pause. Then, quieter, “He’s alive.”

  The Nord exhaled, relief softening her face. “He’s alive,” she echoed. Like a prayer.

  “I came back looking for survivors,” she said. “Many are still missing.”

  Ruby nodded. She understood. But that wasn’t why she had returned.

  “Why are you here?” the Nord asked.

  Ruby hesitated. Even she wasn’t sure. Was it guilt? Need for answers? A way to face death on her own terms?

  “I wanted to answer Ralof’s call. To join the Stormcloaks.”

  The Nord’s expression darkened slightly.

  “Helgen’s not safe anymore. Between the dragon and the bandits that’ll come... it’s not the best road to Windhelm.”

  Ruby didn’t argue. She lowered her gaze.

  “I needed to understand. Why I’m still alive.”

  A silence. Then, a nod. The kind you only get from someone who’s lived through more than they’ll ever say.

  The woman placed a fist over her heart.

  “Markab Steel-Blood.”

  Ruby let the name settle. It fit.

  “Ruby,” she answered softly.

  Markab kept studying her. As if trying to see not who she was but who she might become. “I can help you,” she said.

  Ruby raised an eyebrow.

  “Not with the Stormcloaks. Not yet. You need shelter before you take up arms. Riften. A friend of mine can help.”

  Ruby blinked. Help? A job? A roof? Markab didn’t sound indulgent. Not like someone tossing coins to a beggar to quiet their guilt. But practical. Straightforward. A deal made with respect.

  She reached into the collar of her cloak and drew out a heavy gold necklace, adorned with stones. “Take this. Show it to him.”

  Ruby hesitated. It looked valuable. Far too much. “Why give this to me?”

  Markab smiled, half amusement, half certainty.

  “Because you helped us. Ralof and me. And because I have a feeling we’ll meet again.”

  Ruby reached for it. Markab didn’t let go right away.

  Their eyes met.

  And in that instant, Ruby saw something vast behind those pale eyes. Not darkness. Not threat. Just depth. Time. As if this woman had lived too long, and was still watching her first sunrise. A chill crept through her.

  At last, Markab let go.

  “And show him this, too,” she added, slipping a dagger from her bracer.

  Ruby took it. No questions this time. Only quiet understanding.

  “His name is Brynjolf.”

  The wind rose. Snow and ash danced in the ruins of Helgen. Ruby pulled up her hood.

  And then, without a word, she turned and walked away, leaving Markab alone, among the ghosts.

  Notes:

  I will only say this: I did NOT make grammar error with Yn; however, it will take a LOT of chapters to explain it. ??

  New version for the Prologue