I Woke Up Inside My Friend's Video Game

[Arc 2] Chapter 34. Familiar Shade and the Stray

Arc 2. Face Your Death with Courage

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."