The past does not stay buried, and Skyrim is reminded of old debts.

  In Windhelm, Markab returns to a city bracing itself for the storm.

  The approach to Windhelm had always been a test of patience, but it offered a striking spectacle in return. Markab had left the frozen plains of the Pale behind her hours ago and now followed the Yorgrim River, which had become a roaring torrent of icy water, crashing relentlessly against the rocks.

  Around her, the landscape was as chaotic as the river that carved through it. A titanic disorder of mountains and peaks, their snow torn apart by jagged spires, their heights too steep for ice to fully cloak the black stone beneath. These giants, frozen in time, slowly revealed their flanks as the path wound along the riverbank.

  It took Markab several hours to reach the last bridge spanning the Yorgrim and cross to the opposite shore. Behind her lingered the unsettling memory of the burial mound she had visited the day before.

  Few of them had survived oblivion and the erosion of collective memory. Among the draconic tombs that still haunted the Pale, this one lay hidden deep within a valley inaccessible to caravans. When she arrived, the earth that covered it was still, buried beneath centuries of landslides, bleached under the pale light of one of the moons.

  Then a shrill, grating wail tore through the air above the peaks.

  Immense, dark as soot and night, eyes burning like embers, a dragon settled upon the stone. The rock exploded beneath its weight like brittle straw. Its Shout filled the air, the water, the land itself. Markab had clapped her hands over her ears, shaken to the bone by the absolute command carried within the draconic voice.

  Rocks that had slept for centuries trembled and were hurled aside. The exposed earth split with a sinister crack as a howling mass clawed its way out of the tomb.

  The Shout swept across the valley once more, and the mountainsides seemed to quiver. From her pitiful hiding place, Markab felt the air itself twist into a mournful scream as flesh and soul reformed around the buried dragon’s carcass.

  The violence of the phenomenon threw her to the ground, briefly exposed to the gaze of the dark creature, which paid her no attention at all.

  When the resurrected dragon finally rose, its scales, a troubled blue streaked with ochre, shimmered in the wan light. It released a harsh, piercing cry as the dark dragon was already taking flight, vanishing into the sky.

  Markab did not try to stand. She tensed, ready, the Word poised on her lips should it become necessary. But the creature took a few heavy steps in the opposite direction, as indifferent to her presence as the Helgen’s dragon had been.

  Because it was him.

  That darkened hide. Those blazing irises. Markab would not soon forget the one which had reduced an Imperial fort to ashes with a single Shout.

  The second dragon spread its wings, savoring its newfound freedom, then launched itself toward the peaks. Before Markab lay the ruptured mound, the air itself torn open, the rock still shuddering with the echo of the awakening.

  Silence reclaimed the valley, indifferent to the impossible event that had just unfolded there. Markab had rejoined her mount farther on, outside the rocky basin. Her legs still trembled, her hearing rang, as an old, burning fear settled in her gut.

  She had never believed this day would come. The day dragons would rise again.

  Cold had not touched Markab for centuries, yet the mere memory of the draconic awakening sent a violent shiver through her. As Pearl advanced step by careful step, hooves striking the ice, she caught herself rubbing her arms beneath wool and leather.

  She had visited four burial mounds before this one. All bore the same cataclysmic scars. There were now likely six dragons loose across Skyrim, all eager to reclaim the millennia they had lost.

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  The roar of the river could not drown out the fragments of nearly extinguished memories that had haunted her since Helgen. Too ancient to be clear. Too real to be ignored.

  The Dragon War had faded from memory, yet it had forever marked a land still struggling to claim its own history. What remained were scars in Skyrim’s stone and soil… and Markab.

  She tightened the reins. Memory would not claim her.

  The sound of hooves striking old wood tore her from her thoughts. She shook her head and straightened in the saddle.

  Crossing the river finally revealed the sight she had missed so deeply in recent days. Dark as the rock from which it had been carved, austere and massive, Windhelm slowly emerged from the chaos of the mountains. Its severe lines rose from the mist, familiar and immutable.

  Farther still, above the Sea of Ghosts, dark violet clouds stood their ground. Heavy. Compact. Advancing toward the city. A storm was coming. Markab frowned and urged Pearl into a trot.

  From the valley floor, Windhelm seemed frozen beyond time. Yet at its edges, life pulsed, clinging to its walls with a tenacity bordering on insolence. Stables, inns, and modest homes formed a disorderly ring around the city, built of earth, warmth, and hay, as though generation after generation had tried to soften its contours.

  There, voices carried clear and loud -children, adults, merchants- and smoke rose freely above the rooftops. An imperfect warmth still survived, tolerated rather than embraced. A strange sensation, facing the giant of ice and stone that loomed over these fragile shelters. A city that had endured the ages without ever bending, or learning indulgence.

  The sentinels stationed in the towers saluted Markab as she passed. She returned the gesture briefly, her attention already elsewhere. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the guards’ movements… the rotations, the blind spots, the routines still solid despite the strain of recent days. A few adjustments would be needed. Nothing urgent. Nothing that required immediate action.

  She dismounted and led Pearl toward the stables of the outer guard barracks. Once her mount was taken in hand, she crossed the last residential quarters before Windhelm’s bridge. Around her, townsfolk and merchants prepared for the approaching storm; several guards pushed carts, secured windows. Absorbed in their work, they did not notice her passing. Nodding discreetly at the sight of the organization, Markab finally stepped onto the bridge.

  The guard post at its center vibrated faintly beneath the first icy gusts. The braziers’ flames fought against the wind from the Sea of Ghosts, casting unsteady shadows across the black stone glazed with ice.

  An officer straightened as he saw her approach and saluted.

  “Commander Steel-Blood.”

  Markab stopped beside him.

  “Have any other survivors reached the city?”

  The guard shook his head.

  “Not yet. Not since Jarl Ulfric and a handful of soldiers returned.”

  A wave of relief washed over her nonetheless, brief, before irritation and bitterness crept in. Markab pressed her lips together, then drew a deep breath. With a gesture, she motioned for him to follow her out of the wind. The space was sparse; everything a post built into a bridge could offer.

  “General Galmar has extended the patrols to the first farms,” the guard continued once they were sheltered.

  She nodded slowly. A brief silence followed, disturbed by the rising whistle of the wind. Its breath slipped beneath the arch of the post, making the flames flicker. The guard hesitated, shifting his weight from one boot to the other.

  “Rumors spread fast, Commander…” he added at last, the underlying anxiety clear despite the growing storm. “Helgen. The dragon… is it true?”

  She turned her head slightly toward the sky, where clouds gathered, heavy and dark.

  “The storm is imminent,” she replied instead, redirecting the concern toward a more pressing danger. The guard needed no new fears.

  Beneath the well-oiled machinery of patrols and the gleam of polished armor, Markab could already sense the tremors, the hesitations, the restrained fears. Morale wavered, fragile, like the flames of the braziers.

  “Are all patrols informed?” she asked.

  The guard straightened at once.

  “Yes. Captain Thraìn moved up the rotations and shortened the rounds.”

  “Good. No heroic acts. No improvised decisions. If there’s trouble, you go in with support.”

  The guard nodded.

  “The city will be sealed as soon as the first snowfall begins.”

  “Good.”

  She paused, then added more quietly,

  “And keep your eyes open for survivors.”

  The guard met her gaze.

  “Understood.”

  Markab gave him a brief nod, already preparing to leave. Outside, the wind strengthened, as if to underscore the storm’s urgency.

  The gusts howled, then fell silent, without warning, without rhythm. The approaching blizzard would freeze the region until morning… if they were lucky.

  On the bridge, a few carts rolled toward the city gates, mostly emergency supplies, water, and crates filled with what only the Divines knew. Jorleif had, of course, taken the initiative, preparing the city for the season’s first blizzard. Early, but expected.

  She followed the flow of wagons toward the open gates, leaving the outskirts of Windhelm to brace themselves for a night of turmoil.