Jonas clutched his head as the Nord man opposite him asked with concern, "Are you alright?"
"It's just a headache. By the way, I'm Jonas White-Mountain. What's your name?"
"Ralof, from Riverwood. My home isn't far from here. Heh, dying in one's homeland is a fitting end. Hey, where are you from? You were caught while crossing the border; are you from Cyrodiil?"
"Perhaps." Jonas looked down at himself. He had a robust physique, but his tattered black mage robes were beyond recognition. His wolf-skin shoes were full of holes, revealing dirty toes. He felt something pressing against his chest and touched it with his bound hands; it felt like a square pendant.
He had forgotten much, but he knew clearly the power he possessed. Despite being a prisoner now, if he wanted to escape, no one could stop him.
Jonas quietly snapped the hemp rope binding his wrists. The eyes of the other three in the carriage nearly popped out. Ralof smacked his lips and signaled the boy with a wink to help him out.
Jonas didn't react; he simply leaned back against the seat in a relaxed manner, appearing perfectly at ease.
The other Breton man grew anxious. He wasn't much to look at, with brownish-black skin, reddish hair and beard, and purple cheeks. Once he got emotional, he looked no different from someone possessed by an evil spirit, which was a headache to behold. "Help me, or I'll report you!"
The Imperial soldier turned his head again and immediately noticed Jonas's bindings were loose. Just as he was about to shout, Jonas hit him in the face with a Calm spell. The soldier silently turned back and continued driving the carriage.
Ralof let out a conflicted sound between disgust and delight. "An Illusionist. Excellent."
Jonas glanced at him sideways. Ralof gave a nervous laugh. "Don't get me wrong, I can see you're a good person, but you know, the reputation of Illusionists is always quite foul."
"I'm of the Destruction school, not Illusion."
"Oh? Then why were you caught?" the Breton man sneered.
"If you don't shut up, I'll give you a quick end." Jonas didn't even bother looking at him directly.
"Oh, Divines above, look at what you're saying. Right now, I die if I resist, and I die if I don't..." The Breton man bared his teeth, looking incredibly ugly in his agitation.
They bickered along the way, but Jonas never actually laid a hand on that Breton horse thief. Except for the dazed Ulfric, the other three young men chatted warmly, reminiscing about their lives and laughing together.
"Jonas, where did you spend your childhood?"
"It should have been in Cyrodiil. I still remember the White-Gold Tower; it was very magnificent."
"The capital of those Imperial bastards. Hmph, no matter how magnificent it is, it's nothing good! If they don't have the backbone, they shouldn't sit on that throne!" Ralof never missed a chance to mock them, sounding quite biting, but he was actually a hearty man who was incredibly optimistic about his impending execution. "Sovngarde awaits me."
"Tell me, are you sure?" the horse thief muttered. "When you run, set us free as well."
Jonas turned to look at him and chuckled. "If I save you, what happens if you ask me to save the other Stormcloaks? If you ask me, I'd rather just watch you meet your end."
Ralof said seriously, "Don't worry about us, but please, you must get Your Highness Ulfric out of here."
"And what benefit would that be to me? Didn't Mr. Horse Thief say that your base, Windhelm, has already been conquered by Baron Dilo's iron flood? Ultimately, you're just a bunch of scattered remnants now, completely worthless."
"The children of Skyrim never surrender."
"Hahaha, give it a rest." Jonas didn't believe it for a second.
After those words, everyone fell silent. Ralof looked sorrowful, the horse thief's expression remained ugly, and Ulfric was still in that melancholic state, staring blankly at the sky at a forty-five-degree angle.
The long convoy of prisoners drove slowly and sequentially through the wide gates of Helgen. This town was the southern barrier of Skyrim, standing on the main road to the heart of the province. It was a strategic stronghold guarded by thousands of Imperial soldiers. While not necessarily easy to defend, it was secure enough that unless a Dragon suddenly flew in to wreak havoc, it would be impossible for the prisoners to escape.
Ralof remarked with emotion, "It's funny. When I was a kid, these high walls gave me a sense of security. Now, I only find them ironic."
The horse thief began to tremble, his gaze on the verge of collapse.
Jonas remained in his languid state. "When the army no longer protects the people, and when power overrides conscience, we must understand that the time has come to sacrifice our blood and sweat for the innocent."
"Who told you that?"
Jonas blurted out, "Sir." Immediately, he felt a massive sense of emptiness explode from the depths of his heart, as if a whole bag of flour had been stuffed into an ink bottle. His thoughts became sluggish and confused. "No, no, no... it was me. I thought of it myself."
"Heh, we're here."
The convoy stopped by the open-air execution ground. An executioner holding a bloody greataxe stood by a stone block. This was the chopping block; the prisoner would be forced to kneel on the ground with their head pressed against the stone. Then, the executioner's axe would come down, and the head would fly off into a wooden crate in front of the stone. The blood spraying from the neck could dye a large patch of the sand in front of them red.
Many archers stood on the walls and watchtowers, their gazes cold and sinister. In the corner of the execution ground were several priests; some were murmuring to themselves, while others were looking around bored. They were responsible for praying for the prisoners. A Nord female captain and a tall Nord scribe came to the convoy and ordered the prisoners to disembark.
Every prisoner was registered. They came from all over Skyrim and were all Nords, both men and women. In the Stormcloaks, the proportion of female warriors was relatively much higher than in the Imperial army because years of war had taken the lives of many adult men. The Stormcloak leadership, headed by Ulfric, had to ask their Nord sisters to don armor and take up weapons.
When Jonas got off the carriage, he shook his hands. This action terrified the people around him. They all drew their swords and readied their bows; at the captain's command, they would turn this Breton Boy into mush.
The female officer frowned and ordered a soldier beside her, "Go and seize him."
Jonas was about to say something when he suddenly felt his heart skip a beat. He gazed somewhat flustered at the distant, towering peaks; deep within the clouds and mist, a small black shadow was floating.
A long dragon roar echoed from afar. This sound had not been heard in the skies of Skyrim for a thousand years, so much so that everyone fell into a daze.
"What was that sound?"
The female officer: "Never mind that. Seize that boy first."
Then, to everyone's shocked expressions, Jonas gently floated up into the air.
The female officer roared, "A mage! Archers, fire!"
Ralof suddenly bellowed, "Stormcloak brothers, fight!" He led the charge toward the female officer, intending to use his bound hands to fight against steel and blades.
The execution ground suddenly fell into chaos. The horse thief turned and ran.
From the sky, the dragon roar came again. A massive, solemn, and beautiful black dragon descended from the clouds and slammed onto Helgen's largest fortress. The earth trembled. He looked at Jonas in mid-air—thousands of flying arrows could not harm him in the slightest. His magnificent eyes were as majestic as torches.
"Dovahkiin!"
The black dragon roared, and dark clouds covered the sky. Massive meteors fell like a driving rain, turning Helgen into scorched earth in an instant.
The World-Eater, Alduin!
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