Amid a joyous Christmas celebration, friends Jayson and Nikolai along with their workmates, find themselves in the middle of a storm. Jayson woke up inside his friend's video game, which he soon found out was with him in a cell next to his. They wer...
So here I was—walking in a borrowed face, answering to a name that wasn't mine. The disguise still sat wrong on me, like armor that didn't quite fit the body wearing it. The leather pulled tight across my shoulders, the stitching unfamiliar against my skin. Every step felt like I was pretending to be someone else... and hoping the world wouldn't look too closely.
The road to Riften narrowed as the fog thickened, rolling in low and heavy until it swallowed the path ahead. Trees loomed on either side, their trunks dark and silent, their branches stretching overhead like fingers trying to close in. Even the wind seemed reluctant to move through this place, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Stormcloak territory.
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I had avoided these roads before—back when my name still meant something, when people would have recognized me without needing a second look. Back when "Jayson" carried weight. Now, that same name was nailed to boards and carried in the hands of soldiers, reduced to ink and accusation.
Olly walked beside me, light on his feet despite the damp ground, humming softly under his breath. The tune was uneven, half-remembered, like something pulled from a memory that refused to fully return. It didn't belong in this place, but somehow it made the silence easier to bear.
I kept my hood low, letting the shadow cover most of my face. Not for the cold—but for the eyes. You start to notice them, after a while. The way people look without meaning to. The slight pause when they pass you. The feeling that something isn't right, even if they can't explain why. Suspicion doesn't need certainty. It just needs time.
We had been walking like that for a while when the road opened slightly, revealing a stretch of worn stone and a crooked signpost leaning off to one side. The fog thinned just enough to show movement ahead—and then a voice cut through it.
"Halt!"
Three figures stepped out onto the road, their armor catching what little light broke through the mist. Imperial. Real this time. Not patched together like the bandits we'd dealt with before, but properly fitted, properly worn. One of them held a parchment in his hand.
I didn't need to see it.
But I did anyway.
He raised it just enough for us to catch a glimpse, and there I was—rendered in rough lines and dark ink. The sketch wasn't perfect. The eyes were wrong. The expression too rigid. But it didn't matter. It was close enough.
Close enough to get someone killed.
"Have you seen this man?" the soldier asked, his tone steady, practiced.
Olly leaned forward before I could stop him, his reaction immediate and unfiltered. "A wanted man?!" The words came out louder than they should have, echoing faintly through the fog as if the forest itself was listening.
