The Last Dragonborn: Novella's Legacy *On Hold*

Game of Survival Part 2

We descend further into the keep and arrive at a grim sight. The room is filled with rusted cages, grotesque tools that hint at unspeakable horrors, and a hooded man engaged in a brutal fight with a pair of Stormcloaks.

"Troll's blood! It's a torture room," Ralof exclaims, his face a mask of fury. He springs into action, charging at the torturer with his knife drawn.

The torturer retaliates, unleashing a blast of crackling lightning. Ralof stumbles back, momentarily dazed. Without thinking, I leap forward, my axe raised high, and swing down hard on the torturer's arm. The sickening sound of bone crunching fills the air as the arm falls away, and the torturer's scream rings out like a banshee's wail.

Before I can process what I've done, another Stormcloak soldier steps in, swiftly lopping off the torturer's head. The sight is too much; I feel the bile rising in my throat, and I double over, vomiting onto the floor. The soldiers don't even spare me a second glance as they continue their onslaught through the keep.

"Was Jarl Ulfric with you?" Ralof asks a blonde female soldier who appears from the shadows, her face set in a grim line.

"No, I haven't seen him since the dragon showed up," she replies, her voice tight with worry. Ralof stops in front of one of the cages, his brow furrowing in concentration.

"Wait a minute. There's something in this cage," he says, peering through the bars. "It's locked. See if you can open it with some picks. We might need that gold once we're out." He hands me a handful of lockpicks, their cold metal feeling familiar in my palm.

I nod, taking a deep breath to steady myself. Lucky for Ralof, I'm very familiar with opening locks. All those years stealing from—well, I'd rather not say. I kneel before the cage door, inserting a pick and feeling for the tumblers.

"C'mon, c'mon..." I mutter under my breath, my heart racing. After a few tense moments, I hear a satisfying click. I enter the dimly lit cage. There, sprawled on the cold stone floor, lies a dead mage, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. A pang of guilt tugs at my heart, but necessity trumps morality. "I'm sorry for taking what was once yours," I whisper to the corpse, though I know he cannot hear me. "But you're dead, and I need it more."

I quickly snatch a healing potion and a magicka potion from the mage's tattered robes, slipping four gold coins into my pocket with a practiced hand. "Grab anything useful, and let's go," Ralof urges, glancing back at me and the others waiting impatiently by the door.

I step out of the cage, the cool air of the keep brushing against my skin, and follow Ralof down a narrow hallway lined with iron bars. I glance at the other cells, imagining myself trapped behind one of them, begging for release, promising to pay off every last piece of debt I've incurred. You're safe; they don't know where you are.

As we push deeper into the keep, the air grows colder, and the light from flickering torches casts eerie shadows on the walls. We pass hanging cages, the remains of long-dead prisoners swaying gently in the draft. A chill runs down my spine. I reach out, snagging a few more gold coins from a skeleton's bony fingers. Every septim counts.

We enter a tunnel, it's darkness swallowing us whole, save for the glowing fires that flicker like the dying embers of hope. The sound of voices echoes ahead, growing more evident as we draw closer to a cavern.

"Orders are to wait until General Tullius arrives," one soldier calls out, his tone clipped and authoritative.

"I'm not waiting to be killed by a dragon!" another shouts back, his voice cracking with urgency. "We need to—"

But before he can finish, Ralof bursts forward, his battle cry ringing like thunder. "Imperial dogs!" he bellows, charging into the fray. My heart races; his fervor is contagious, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm just a burden to him.