Nova Peak Niende Dag

he sits at the edge of it all—this whirlwind of color, music, flesh and bone—watching with a quiet that is not detachment but reverence.

the huntress gleams in the moonlight, her body wrapped in the warmth of motherhood. her children, wrapped in furs, are given names beneath the stars. a bear. a hawk. a snake. the old gods—his gods—whisper in these shapes, and ulfric feels them settle in his chest like cold iron.

he does not join the feast. the noise, the crowd, the paint—these are not things he was raised for.

his stomach growls at the scent of oxen and chokeberry, but he does not rise. instead, he stares skyward, into the auroras twisting above.

and for the first time in many moons, ulfric of skarvheim feels not alone.