I woke up inside my friend's video game

Four months had passed since the war between the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood ignited in the underbelly of Skyrim, turning Riften into a battleground of shadows and steel. Blood had painted the canals red, bodies had been dumped into the depths of Lake Honrich, and whispers of betrayal slithered through every back alley.

Yet, in the end, Riften stood victorious—not because the Thieves Guild was strong enough to hold its ground alone, but because we had people willing to fight for their home. Soldiers who refused to let their city be swallowed by the Dark Brotherhood's blade in the night.

I sat atop the ruined battlements of Mistveil Keep, gazing over the city as dawn's golden light bled through the dissipating mist. Smoke still rose from burned-out buildings, the lingering stench of blood and ash clinging to the air like a ghost. My fingers curled around the hilt of my sword, the worn leather grip pressing against my palm as memories of the war flickered through my mind.

The Stormcloaks.

I had despised them for their hypocrisy, their self-righteous claims of freedom while they turned a blind eye to the suffering of anyone who wasn't a Nord. I had seen their cruelty firsthand, watched villages reduced to cinders because the wrong kind of people lived there. I had sworn I would never fight alongside them.

But war has a way of revealing truths you never wanted to see.

They had fought beside us in the end—not because they were ordered to, not because it benefited their cause, but because even they refused to let assassins carve their city into a graveyard. I saw them bleed for Riften. I saw them drag wounded Guild members to safety, shield terrified citizens from the Brotherhood's blades, and stand their ground even when the battle seemed hopeless.

Not all Stormcloaks are racist. Not all of them are corrupt.

I exhaled, watching my breath curl into the cold morning air. The war had changed me in ways I was still trying to understand. And as the sun rose over the battered city, I wondered if I would ever see the world the same way again.

I rose to my feet the moment I spotted Karliah, her lithe figure moving with practiced grace as she carried a bundle of rations toward the Thieves Guild headquarters. Even in the dim morning light, her violet eyes held the sharp, calculating gleam of someone who had spent a lifetime surviving in the shadows. "Let me help you with that," I offered, stepping toward her.

She glanced at me with a small smirk, shifting the weight of the sack over her shoulder. "You think I can't handle a few supplies?"

I huffed a chuckle and grabbed a crate from the pile. "Not at all. But teamwork makes the load lighter, doesn't it?"

Karliah merely shook her head, the faintest ghost of a smile playing at her lips, and together, we made our way back to the Ragged Flagon.

As we weaved through the war-torn streets of Riften, the city bore fresh scars from the conflict. Cracked cobblestones, burned-out homes, wooden beams splintered from fire and steel—reminders of the war that had nearly torn the city apart. But amidst the destruction, there were signs of resilience.

I saw them again—the Stormcloaks. A few of their soldiers were helping non-Nords, handing out food, hammering broken beams back into place, offering quiet reassurances to frightened families. It was an image that conflicted with everything I had come to believe about them.

Karliah must have noticed my lingering gaze. "Not every Stormcloak shares the same twisted beliefs as the bad lot," she murmured, her voice as smooth as silk, yet edged with knowing. "Some of them fight for what they believe in—just like you." She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a whisper, "An Imperial."

I exhaled slowly. "Well, the Imperials clothed me, fed me, and even trained me to survive in this once-unknown land. And now… now it's my home." My fingers unconsciously tightened around the crate in my hands. "So yes, I believe in keeping Skyrim in order. I believe in peace. And I believe in protecting its people."

Karliah tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing with quiet amusement. "And what of the Stormcloaks? Aren't they fighting for the same thing?"

I let out a sharp breath, my jaw clenching. "Look, the recruits might think they're fighting for justice, for their homeland, for freedom. But their leader, Ulfric Stormcloak? He doesn't care about any of that. He just wants the throne for himself." I paused, the weight of my own words sinking in. That was how I always saw Ulfric—how the game had always painted him. But… what did I really know? My perspective had always been that of a player, looking at their world through a monitor.

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. "Argh, sorry, Karliah. I didn't mean to sound so arrogant. That's just… how I see things."

She chuckled, a rare sound from someone as reserved as her. "I know. And that's what makes you an ideal leader. Pyeath have even considered you to take Kylie's place as a scapegoat you know."

Her words lingered in the cold air, settling in my chest like an unspoken burden. I hadn't thought of myself as a leader—I was just trying to survive, to protect the people I had come to care about. But leadership had a way of finding people whether they wanted it or not.

I glanced up at the sky, my heart heavy.

How long had it been since we arrived in this world? Months had blurred together like a waking dream, and still, we had no way home. No answers. No escape.

And yet, a part of me wondered… if I even wanted to leave anymore.

The entrance to the Ragged Flagon loomed ahead, half-hidden in the damp, murky tunnels of Riften's sewers. The faint glow of torchlight flickered against the slick stone walls, casting elongated shadows that danced across the waterlogged ground. A cold draft curled through the tunnel, carrying with it the lingering scent of mildew, steel, and the unmistakable tang of blood—a stark reminder that this was not just a den of thieves, but a battleground.

As Karliah and I stepped inside, the familiar hum of hushed voices, the clinking of mead-filled tankards, and the occasional sharpening of daggers filled the air. This place had endured chaos, had nearly crumbled under the weight of war against the Dark Brotherhood, but somehow, it still stood. The Thieves Guild had survived.

My gaze swept across the room, taking in the battle-hardened figures of Jayson's party scattered throughout. These weren't the same people Jayson had left behind. They had changed. Hardened. Strengthened. And I had played a part in that.

Jordis stood at the far end of the chamber, adjusting the string on a finely crafted ebony bow. Her once overly protective stance had been tempered by experience, her movements now fluid and precise. Niruin had trained her well. Gone was the hesitant housecarl who once only knew how to wield a shield in Jayson's shadow. Now, she could kill a man with a single arrow before he even knew she was there. Her blue eyes flickered toward me, a ghost of a smirk touching her lips before she returned to restringing her bow.

Aldis and Titus were engaged in a slow sparring match in the open training space. Sparks flared as their blades clashed, the weight of steel meeting steel echoing in the chamber. No longer the green Imperial recruits they had once been, they had grown into formidable spell-swords under the brutal discipline of Belrand and Delvin Mallory. Aldis moved like a shadow, his footwork eerily silent, his blade striking with the precision of a trained assassin. Titus, on the other hand, had chosen a different path. His strikes were slower, heavier, deliberate. He had embraced the role of a tank, standing his ground like an immovable wall, his armor reinforced, his shield raised to deflect any incoming attack. He grinned between swings, his sweat-slicked face showing the confidence of a man who knew his own strength.

Belrand leaned against one of the wooden support beams, a bottle of mead hanging lazily from his fingers. His once-carefree demeanor had been honed into something sharper, deadlier. He had never stopped training, even in Jayson's absence. Unlike the man I had first met in Solitude's Winking Skeever, he was now a seasoned veteran, his spellsword techniques polished through countless sparring sessions with the guild's best. He raised his bottle toward me in a wordless greeting, his eyes holding a glint of amusement before he took a swig.

And then there was me.

I tightened my grip on the crate, feeling the rough texture of the wood bite into my fingertips. Four months had passed since Jayson and I went on our quests, entrusting not just the quest of warning Pyeath to me, but also the safety of the people who followed him. Four months of training, of fighting, of ensuring that when he returned, he wouldn't come back to ruins.

Karliah's lessons had shaped me into something else entirely. Her teachings had been ruthless—silent strikes in the dead of night, the whisper of a blade before a target even knew they were dead. She had honed my movements, turned my instincts into a weapon. And then there was Brynjolf. The man who once carried an effortless charm had taught me the art of deception, of reading people like an open book, of using my voice as much as my blade to shape outcomes in my favor. Between the two of them, I had become something more than just another rogue in the shadows.

I set the crate down with a soft thud, exhaling slowly. Jordis, Aldis, Titus, and Belrand; these people, they were my people now.

Jayson had left them to me. And I had not let them fall.

The Ragged Flagon had seen better days. Even with the Brotherhood crushed in Riften, the air was heavy with loss. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows over the worn stone walls, and the faint murmur of survivors filled the cavernous space. Brynjolf stood among them, his usually sharp gaze dulled by exhaustion as he counted the names of those who had fallen. His fingers traced over a bloodstained ledger, lips pressed into a thin line.

Karliah lingered in the shadows, watching me with those piercing violet eyes. She was patient, but expectant—waiting for the decision I had yet to voice.

"We need to talk," I finally told her, my voice quieter than I intended.

She inclined her head slightly. "About Solitude?"

I followed her gaze toward Pyeath, who sat near one of the wooden support beams, his arm wrapped protectively around Kylie. Her fingers clutched at his sleeve as though letting go would make him disappear. She had barely left his side since the fighting ended, and though they were together now, the weight of uncertainty loomed over them.

Pyeath exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening on Kylie's hand. "You're still looking into how you and my wife got here in Skyrim, aren't you?"

I nodded. "I am. And I know you are too." I hesitated, then added, "I get it, Pyeath. You want Kylie to go home, even if it means leaving you behind."

Kylie flinched at my words, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn't argue, but she held onto him tighter, her knuckles white.

"I don't want her trapped in a world she didn't choose," Pyeath said softly, his voice rough with unspoken emotion. "If there's a way back, I have to find it."

Karliah folded her arms, her gaze never leaving me. "You believe Solitude holds the answer?"

"Not Solitude but their people who knows about the Greybeards. I also have to go back. Nica and the others are still there, and I can't just leave them wondering if I'm alive."

Karliah considered my words, then gave a slow nod. "I'll come with you."

I arched an eyebrow. "Really?"

She gave a small shrug, though there was intent behind it. "The guild still has our hideout in Solitude. I need to make sure it's secure. If the guild is going to rebuild after this war, we need safehouses that haven't been compromised."

Pyeath exhaled slowly, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Then I guess this is where we part ways. At least for now." He looked at Kylie.

Kylie hesitated before stepping forward, her voice firm despite the sadness in her eyes. "I'll stay here with Pyeath. But we'll keep in touch through letters."

The finality of the moment hung between us, heavy but resolute. With that decided, the next chapter of our journey was set. Jordis, Aldis, Titus, and Belrand—our small party—would head toward Solitude, where answers awaited us.

Morning broke over Riften in muted shades of gold and gray, the light filtering through the mist that clung stubbornly to the canals. The air smelled of damp stone and freshly charred wood—remnants of the battles that had scarred the city. Even now, Riften was still rebuilding, its people piecing their lives back together one stone at a time.

I adjusted the straps of my pack, feeling the familiar weight of my weapons against my back. Jordis was already waiting by the gate, her armor polished despite the wear of the past months. Aldis and Titus checked their supplies, their movements quick and efficient, while Belrand muttered about the aching in his joints, though the old spellsword was as sharp as ever. Karliah lingered a few steps behind me, silent as a shadow, her violet eyes scanning the streets with practiced wariness.

As we made our way toward the city gates, the rhythmic clang of hammers filled the air—blacksmiths reforging weapons, carpenters repairing shattered homes. Amidst the bustling, a group of Stormcloak soldiers stood near a half-repaired barricade, their blue sashes tattered but still worn with pride.

One of them, a grizzled man with streaks of silver in his beard, turned at the sight of us. His sharp eyes flicked over our group before settling on me. "You're leaving?"

I nodded, adjusting my sword belt. "Riften's safe now. There are capable people here to keep it that way." My voice was steady, but the words felt heavier than I expected. "We have other business to take care of."

The soldier studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to my surprise, he gave a short nod of respect. "You fought for this city, Imperial. Whatever else you are, you're no enemy to Skyrim."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. The war had changed things—changed me. The lines I once thought were so clearly drawn were now blurred beyond recognition. But there was no time to dwell on it.

With one last look at Riften, at the people we had fought to protect, I turned to my companions. "Let's go."

With that, we passed through the gates and into the wilds beyond, the path to Solitude stretching ahead of us like an uncharted fate.

The road stretched ahead, winding through the thinning trees as we crossed into Falkreath's borders. The morning fog clung low to the earth, swirling around our boots like restless spirits. Birds trilled from the branches above, yet the stillness in the air made the journey feel more like a transition between two worlds—one we had left behind, and another waiting just beyond the mist. 

We hadn't been traveling long when two figures emerged in the distance, standing just off the roadside where the trees grew thick. One was a man, broad-shouldered, draped in a heavy traveler's cloak that concealed much of his form. His hood was drawn low, but I caught a glimpse of sharp, watchful eyes beneath it. Beside him, a black-furred Khajiit leaned against a moss-covered boulder, arms crossed over his chest. His tail flicked idly, but his narrowed eyes gave away his wariness. 

They were speaking in hushed tones, serious but not hurried—discussing something of importance. At the sound of our approach, the man's gaze lifted to meet mine. For the briefest moment, something about him struck me. A familiarity I couldn't place. 

"Travelers?" he asked, his tone light, almost casual—but I could hear the careful calculation beneath it.

I studied him, my fingers instinctively resting near the hilt of my dagger. "Depends," I replied evenly. "You from around here?" 

The Khajiit's ears twitched. He straightened, regarding us with quiet scrutiny before finally speaking. "We are wanderers, much like you," he said in a voice as smooth as silk. "My friend here is new to these lands." 

"Huh?" I muttered, my curiosity piqued. "Where are you headed?" 

The man gave a small, almost amused smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "Wherever the road takes me," he said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Friend." 

That word settled strangely in my chest. Friend. The way he said it—too deliberate, too knowing—made something stir in the back of my mind. A memory just out of reach. 

I exhaled slowly, pushing the thought aside. We had too much on our plate to chase ghosts. 

"Fair enough," I said, giving a short nod before stepping past them. Then, almost as an afterthought, I glanced back. "Just a word of caution—you'll want to keep an eye out for vampires. The Imperial Army is moving to deal with them, but it's not safe to travel alone at night." 

The Khajiit's tail flicked again. His expression didn't change, but something passed between the two strangers—an understanding, unspoken but clear. 

"Appreciated," the man said simply. 

As we continued down the road, I couldn't shake the feeling gnawing at my gut. The way he looked at me. The way he spoke. It was subtle, but there was something there—something familiar. 

"What was that about, Nikolai?" Jordis murmured beside me, her hand resting lightly on the pommel of her sword. 

I glanced over my shoulder, but the two figures were already disappearing into the trees, swallowed by the mist. 

"It's just that…" I hesitated, shaking my head. "I feel like I've seen that man somewhere before."