I woke up inside my friend's video game

After several grueling days on horseback, the towering walls of Solitude loomed before us, its majestic architecture barely visible through the thickening mist. Our weary horses trudged toward the gates, the exhaustion of relentless training pressing down on us like a second skin. Malik's drills had sharpened our skills, but they had also drained every ounce of strength we had left. His dedication to our preparation was unwavering, a stark contrast to the numbing fatigue clouding my senses.

General Tullius awaited us in Castle Dour, his imposing figure silhouetted against the flickering torchlight. Tall and severe, his gaze was as cold as the stone walls surrounding us. His armor gleamed under the dim light, a reflection of his unwavering discipline and the burden of command he carried.

"Welcome to Solitude," he intoned, his gravelly voice echoing through the hall. "I trust Malik has put you through your paces. Show me what you've got."

The next few days were a brutal cycle of drills and skirmishes. Malik pushed us to our limits, his encouragement both a motivator and a torment. My armor, once a symbol of strength, now felt like a cage, weighing me down with every step. No matter how hard I fought, I was always a half-second too slow, a fraction too hesitant. I healed my own bruises more often than I inflicted them on my opponents, each failure another blow to my pride.

Nikolai, however, thrived. He slipped through shadows effortlessly, his silent strikes and precision with poisons turning him into a ghost on the battlefield. Where I struggled with weight and form, he adapted with an ease that stung more than I cared to admit. His reputation as a Thief was no longer just a label—it was a reality.

While he flourished, I found myself grappling with something far heavier than my armor. Erica's absence gnawed at me, an unrelenting ache that no amount of training could dull. She and the others were still missing, their fates unknown. Each night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment before our separation, wondering if I had missed something—if I could have done more.

Weeks passed before Tullius finally acknowledged our efforts, enlisting us as Imperial Soldiers. It was a small victory, but the weight of our next challenge loomed large—the Civil War tearing Skyrim apart. Seeking distraction, I threw myself into quests, earning gold, prestige, and, unknowingly, a reputation.

Now, at The Winking Skeever, the lively din of the tavern buzzed around me—laughter, the clink of tankards, the murmur of bards spinning tales of heroes and monsters. Malik and the others indulged in the rare moment of respite. I, however, sat alone in a dim corner, nursing my fifteenth bottle of mead. The drink dulled the edges of my thoughts, but its warmth did little to silence the storm inside me.

The Penitus Oculatus armor weighed on my shoulders, both physically and symbolically. Its dark, polished surface caught the dim light, a reminder of duty, of expectations. I traced the edge of my vambrace with trembling fingers, the cool metal a bitter contrast to the mead's burn. Even with all this power, I felt exposed—hollow—without Erica by my side.

Nikolai's laughter rang out from the main table. I clenched my jaw. He had Nica. He had a place. He wasn't struggling to keep himself from unraveling.

Francis's voice cut through my thoughts. "Did you two have a fight or something?"

The innocent question ignited something inside me. Without thinking, I stood abruptly, my hand flicking outward. Bottles of mead shot across the room, propelled by Telekinesis. They shattered against walls and tables, shards scattering across the floor.

The tavern fell silent. Corpulus Vinius, the innkeeper, stormed from behind the bar, his face twisted in anger. "Oi! You've got to pay for—"

Before he could finish, I dropped three heavy bags of septims and jewelry onto his counter. The spoils of my quests, a pitiful attempt to buy back control.

The murmurs around me held something different now—wariness, curiosity. "The Warlord of Solitude," someone whispered. I had heard it before, a title born from my unchecked aggression, my relentless pursuit of dominance in battle. It should have meant something. Instead, it felt like another weight pressing down on me.

As I turned to leave, Nikolai's voice cut through the silence. "Man, you gotta stop this."

I paused, fists clenching. "Stop what?"

"Being stupid and a war freak. People are calling you the Warlord of Solitude because of your reckless behavior."

A bitter laugh escaped me. "At least crime rates have dropped. What have you and the others been doing? Sitting safe behind these walls, hitting dummies while we're out there making Skyrim safer?" My gaze snapped to Malik. "Isn't that why you brought us here?"

Nikolai's expression darkened. "You're not making Skyrim safer. You're making yourself a damn legend for all the wrong reasons."

I scoffed. "Big words from a man who hides in the shadows."

His eyes flashed. He drew his dagger in one fluid motion.

I smirked, spreading my arms. "Oh, what are you gonna do with that puny knife? Tickle me?"

He lunged. Instinct took over. My blade was in my hand before I realized it. A sharp pain seared through Nikolai's arm as my sword cut deep.

He stumbled back with a hiss. "Arghhh!"

"What the hell are you doing?! Stop!" Nica was at his side, voice laced with panic.

Reality crashed into me. Without hesitation, I cast a healing spell, watching as the wound closed in an instant. Guilt settled in my gut like a stone.

Nikolai cradled his arm, jaw clenched. I met his gaze, voice hollow. "Hurts like a bitch, right? Feels real? That's just a fraction of what I feel—knowing Erica and the others are out there, facing actual danger, while you're all here, comfortable."

I turned toward the door, the weight in my chest unbearable.

A firm hand landed on my shoulder. Sir Oscar. His touch was steady, grounding. "Son, do what you feel is right. Just don't hurt your comrades again." His voice softened. "I know the pain you carry. I have a son out there, too."

His words struck deep, a reminder of the humanity I was losing in my desperate search for control.

Tears threatened to spill as I pushed through the doors, leaving The Winking Skeever behind. The cold night air bit into my skin, but it barely registered. As I approached the outskirts of Solitude, where my small group awaited, one truth settled in my heart.

I needed to find Erica.

No matter the cost.