The Silencer

Chapter 3

Content Warning:

This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence and gore. Reader discretion is advised. The scenes described may be disturbing to some readers. If you feel uncomfortable with such content, you may choose to skip this chapter or proceed with caution.

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A hasty knocking on the door woke us. As I gazed up at the window, the first light had already washed over Skyrim's tundras, painting the landscape in hues of soft gold and silver.

"We are leaving in fifteen. The Imperials went to get the prisoners," Ondolemar's voice came through, edged with frustration.

Elamoril stirred beside me, his movements slow and deliberate. As he sat up on the bed, the faint light caught in his amber hair, making it shimmer like strands of spun gold. He tied his hair back in a loose bundle, his gaze turning to meet mine.

"Today is the day." His voice was soft, but beneath the calm surface, I sensed an undercurrent of thunderous determination.

When we resumed our journey on the road to Markarth, a heavy silence settled over our group. No one dared to speak in the presence of the Thalmor. Though I had grown accustomed to their disdain, the sting of their contempt never lessened.

As we passed Old Hroldan, Elamoril's horse drew closer to mine. The proximity was a small comfort amidst the tension of the day.

"I'll take the front. Stay behind, remember the plan." he whispered, his voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. The moment had arrived, and despite my earlier confidence, a wave of silent fear washed over me, chilling me to the bone.

"Wait—" I called for him, but Elamoril had already started moving toward the soldiers at the front.

My eyes darted around. Ondolemar stood on my left, his presence a heavy reminder of the gravity of our mission. I avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the horizon as we neared the crossroad by the bridge. My heart raced, each beat echoing in my ears like a war drum.

Then, a sudden, sharp whistle.

An arrow sliced through the air from the bridge, followed swiftly by another. The second arrow struck the Imperial at the head of the line, piercing his right shoulder and sending him crashing from his horse.

The orderly march dissolved into chaos. I ducked my head, instinctively shielding myself, and looked toward the bridge. There, I saw them—men with strange, unsettling headpieces. Two, maybe three, stood poised with bows, their arrows nocked and ready. My breath caught in my throat. They had the look of predators, and we were their prey.

"Damn Forsworn!" the Imperial soldier spat, his voice sharp with anger. "Get the prisoners!" he ordered, his eyes locking onto mine with urgency.

Moving quickly, I managed to usher the prisoners to the left path, finding shelter behind a large rock. From my vantage point, I saw Elamoril, bow drawn and eyes blazing with determination, taking aim at the Forsworn on the bridge.

As I scanned the area, my heart raced. From beneath the bridge, two Forsworn bandits, clad in their distinctive patchwork armor adorned with feathers and bones, came charging toward us. My hand flew to the hilt of my sword, still unnamed, felt like an extension of my will, a silent promise of protection.

Behind me, the prisoners huddled, their chains clinking softly. I knew they clung to a fragile thread of hope, a desperate desire to return to the families from whom they had been torn because of their faith in Talos. Nords, brave as they were, embodied an unyielding spirit. I knew they wished for our demise, a grim wish born of their longing to escape and the slim chance that the Forsworn might allow them to go free.