10 To pay off the debt

Part I: Work for Coin

The morning light slipped through the inn's window, painting a long rectangle of cold gold across the floor.

Ralof sat at the table, sipping lukewarm mead, eyes bleary.

Across from him, the Dragonborn poked at a chunk of stale bread with the iron knife they'd recovered.

Neither spoke.

Until the door opened.

Gerdur stepped inside.

Calm.

Unsmiling.

Deadly.

She walked over, set down a small leather pouch—empty—and folded her arms.

"Let's review," she said evenly. "You destroyed a support beam. That beam was part of a commissioned order for Whiterun's wall reinforcement."

Ralof winced.

"The resin treatment alone cost a hundred gold. The timber was imported. The mark—" she glared at the Dragonborn, "—was there for a reason."

He opened his mouth.

She held up a hand.

"The total damage? Including labor delays, replacement materials, and transport?"

She paused.

"Six hundred septims."

The Dragonborn blinked. "…That's a lot of money for a log."

"It's a lot of money for your stupidity."

Ralof looked down.

The Dragonborn looked proud that he had prompted such a big number.

"But," Gerdur continued, pulling a small folded parchment from her coat, "I've secured two jobs to help you start paying it off."

Ralof straightened. "We'll take both."

Gerdur raised a brow. "Let me finish."

She unfolded the parchment.

"Option one—haul and split lumber for the north ridge expansion. Hard work. Pays fair. You'll be working beside people who won't talk to you. Can't blame them."

She turned the page.

"Option two—clear out a den of wolves harassing the field hands south of the barrows. Light bounty. Rougher terrain."

Before Ralof could answer, the Dragonborn slapped a hand on the table.

"Wolves."

Gerdur looked at him.

He grinned. "Gotta be the wolves."

Ralof groaned. "Why am I not surprised."

Gerdur gave Ralof a curt nod.

Then turned to the Dragonborn and held up three fingers.

"That's the number of people those wolves have mauled this week."

He smirked. "Then I'll make it zero."

She looked him over.

Armor torn.

Still bleeding from the shoulder.

Hammer: missing.

And just shook her head.

Part II: Ties That Choke

Heavy footsteps creaked on the stairs.

"Gonna gear up!" the Dragonborn called down. "Maybe even bring the fire spell this time. The wolves'll never see it coming."

Ralof didn't respond.

Neither did Gerdur.

They waited for the door upstairs to shut with a solid clunk.

Then Gerdur turned.

Arms crossed.

Expression unreadable.

"Why?"

Ralof looked at her.

"Why what?"

"You're not stupid. You've seen war. You fought beside real soldiers. So why are you dragging this tail-dragging mess through Riverwood like he's your apprentice?"

Ralof sighed.

Ran a hand through his damp hair.

"Because," he said, "he told them I said he could."

Gerdur frowned. "Told who?"

Ralof looked down at the table.

"Two weeks ago, before Helgen… he showed up at the Stormcloak camp in Windhelm. Said he was ready to join. Said I—Ralof of Riverwood—personally vouched for him."

Her eyes narrowed.

"He used your name?"

Ralof nodded.

"I wasn't even there. But by the time I got there, he'd already told half the camp that I said he was born to be a rebel hero. That he was 'the blade Skyrim needs.' He told them I said it in a letter."

"A letter?"

"He even tried to forge it."

Gerdur laughed once. Sharp and bitter. "And they believed him?"

"They wanted to," Ralof muttered. "He's big. Loud. Dramatic. Says the right things. He looks like a hero from a bard's ballad… until he moves."

Gerdur leaned on the table.

"So you're stuck."

Ralof nodded again.

"If I walk away now, it looks like I endorsed him and left him to die. Makes me look like the traitor. Or worse—a coward."

Gerdur exhaled, long and low.

"And if you stay?"

"I get to save him from himself."

He looked up.

Voice quiet.

"And maybe—Skyrim too."

Part III: Of Fangs and Flex

The den stank of old blood and damp fur.

The pack struck the moment they crossed the stream.

No growling. No howling.

Just motion.

Fast. Gray. Sharp.

Ralof moved without thought, instinct guiding his blade. He dropped the first wolf with a low slash to the gut. The second came from the left—he pivoted, rolled with the leap, and plunged his axe deep beneath its jaw.

But that's when he noticed it.

They weren't attacking him anymore.

They were circling wide.

Targeting the one panting loudly behind him.

The biggest one—a jet-black alpha—lunged at the Dragonborn with fangs bared.

He tried to swing his war axe.

Too slow.

The wolf bit deep into his thigh.

He screamed. Again.

Dropped the knife.

Rolled backward.

"Ralof! They're targeting me!"

Ralof knocked a smaller wolf off-balance with his boot, still catching his breath.

"You think?!"

The Dragonborn backed into a tree, bleeding.

"Why don't you use your claws?!" Ralof shouted. "You've got arms like tree trunks! Look at those things!"

The Dragonborn, cornered, yelled:

"Only Khajiit get +15 unarmed!"

Ralof blinked.

"…What does that even mean?"

But there was no time to argue.

Another wolf charged.

Out of options, the Dragonborn swung his clawed fist wide.

It hit the wolf in the temple.

Hard.

The crack was sickening.

The wolf dropped. Limp.

He blinked.

Stared at his hand.

"…Whoa."

Another came.

This time he didn't wait.

He pivoted, growled, raked his claws across its ribs and crushed it with a downward strike.

Blood splashed his feet.

Silence returned to the grove.

Ralof exhaled, hands on knees.

"Okay," he muttered. "Credit where it's due."

The Dragonborn stood tall, bloody, beaming.

"No big deal. Probably a class unlock or something."

Ralof didn't respond.

Just started dragging one of the larger wolf bodies.

The Dragonborn made a face. "Ugh, really? We're not just leaving them?"

"Leave the corpses out?" Ralof said, wiping sweat from his brow. "The stench'll bring saber cats, trolls—worse."

The Dragonborn sighed, disgusted. "I didn't sign up for corpse-hauling."

Ralof didn't look at him.

"They've got pelts."

The Dragonborn froze.

Ralof continued. "And meat. Fat. Organs. All of it sells."

The Dragonborn's eyes lit up.

"…Like, a lot?"

Ralof shrugged. "Depends on the trader."

The Dragonborn grabbed two wolves by the tails, muscles flexing under his ripped armor.

"You know," he said, grinning, "I've always believed in full resource optimization."

Ralof chuckled. Just once.

Didn't stop walking.

Part IV: The Merchant and the Marks

The Riverwood trader squinted as they dropped the blood-stained pelts on the counter.

Wolf fat dripped onto the floorboards.

"Seven total," Ralof said, dusting his hands. "Three full-grown. Two alpha-grade."

The shopkeeper raised a brow. "Clean cuts?"

"Mostly."

Behind him, the Dragonborn stepped up, arms crossed, expression smug.

"Not just clean," he said. "These are rare variant pelts. You ever hear of Soul-Fang wolves?"

The shopkeeper blinked. "…What?"

"Yeah, yeah. Subspecies. Breathe northern mist. Fur's touched by the voice of the moon gods or something."

Ralof's eye twitched.

The shopkeeper's brow furrowed. "That… sounds made up."

The Dragonborn leaned on the counter. "Friend, I've been in Skyrim long enough to know what sells. These wolves? Elite-tier. I even named one."

"You named it."

"Big one. Black coat. Died like a warrior. I called him—uh—Gorvax."

Ralof exhaled like a kettle left too long on the fire.

The shopkeeper slowly pushed one of the pelts aside.

"I'm revising the offer."

"What?"

"I was going to give you seventy gold total."

He gestured to the Dragonborn.

"Now? You're trying to scam me. These are swamp-fed mountain wolves. Common as frost. And they smell like garlic and regret."

Ralof muttered under his breath, "Because he tried to roast one over a fire and dropped it in onions—"

"Thirty gold," the shopkeeper snapped.

"Final offer."

Ralof nodded. "Deal."

The Dragonborn gaped. "What? That's robbery!"

"You robbed us," the shopkeeper said.

The Dragonborn tried to object again, but Ralof grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out the door.

Outside, the Argonian grumbled.

"I was selling the myth."

"You sold the myth down a hole," Ralof snapped. "We lost forty gold to your lore dump."

"I thought it added flavor!"

"It added suspicion."

The Dragonborn folded his arms. "Well… next time we go dragon hunting, I'm telling the tale my way."

Ralof stared into the middle distance.

"…You think this is as dumb as it gets, and then you speak again."

Part V: Returning to the Debt

The pouch of coins clinked softly in Gerdur's hand.

Thirty septims.

Not even enough to cover the interest on the destroyed log.

She didn't sigh.

She didn't scold.

She just said, "You're lucky I found something better."

Ralof looked up.

The Dragonborn perked. "Assassination contract?"

She gave him a blank stare.

"No."

She handed Ralof a folded note.

"Delivery. Firewood and healing supplies to a farm two miles south of Falkreath. They'll pay in full—one hundred and fifty septims."

Ralof raised his brows. "Real coin?"

Gerdur nodded. "Real job. With expectations."

Then looked at the Dragonborn.

"Try not to set anything on fire this time."

They left Riverwood at dusk.

The road curved between frost-bitten pines and narrow bends of river, silent save for the hoot of distant owls and the scrape of boots on gravel.

They made camp at a clearing near a half-buried shrine.

Dinner was basic.

Roasted wolf meat.

Greasy. Gamey. A little charred on one side.

Ralof chewed his slowly, jaw tense.

"This is… not what I'd call food."

The Dragonborn chomped down on his chunk, tail flicking lazily.

"I don't know, it's kinda good. The skin crackles. Feels primal."

Ralof raised a brow.

"You're enjoying it?"

"Argonian teeth, man. Made for ripping."

He tore off another piece and tossed it into his mouth like jerky.

Ralof stared at his own hunk of meat like it had offended his ancestors.

The Dragonborn leaned back against a rock, chewing.

"Y'know," he said through a mouthful, "this is the part of the journey most stories skip. The ugly part. The hard part. The part with dirt and bad food."

Ralof nodded slowly.

"Because nobody wants to hear about the idiot who tried to upsell wolf meat with fake lore and cost them half their pay."

The Dragonborn smirked.

"I call that 'flavor text.'"

Ralof picked up a stick and tossed it at him.

Part VI: The Road Remembers 

The road wound tight along a wooded ridge, the night thick with silence.

Too silent.

Ralof slowed his step.

So did the Dragonborn, sniffing the air.

"Smells like… sweat and steel," he muttered.

A voice answered.

"Funny. I was just thinking it smelled like failure."

Five shapes stepped out of the treeline.

Weapons drawn.

Eyes gleaming.

At the center, unmistakable in the firelight: the orc chief.

She was bruised, scarred, and smiling with teeth.

"Well, well," she growled. "Look at the heroes."

Ralof drew his axe without a word.

The Dragonborn took half a step back.

"You survived," he said, trying to smile. "That's… great."

She didn't blink.

"You cost me my mine. My crew. My haul. And you didn't even die cleanly."

She nodded at her men.

"They're yours. Your armor. Your coin. Then your lives."

She raised her sword.

"No more games."

They charged.

The fight was instant.

Ralof deflected the first blow, kicked one attacker backward, then ducked another slash.

The Dragonborn tried to swing his axe—too late.

A dagger skimmed his ribs. He fell back with a grunt.

The orc chief closed on him.

Eyes locked.

"Round two, coward."

Part VII: Fight or Die

Ralof buried his axe in the second attacker's throat and dropped to one knee, gasping.

The first had gone down hard—a clean slash across the chest—but not before slashing deep into Ralof's ribs.

He gritted his teeth.

Clutched his side.

Blood soaked through his tunic.

And he looked up—just in time to see her.

The orc chief.

Facing the Dragonborn.

Not with a sword.

With bare hands.

"Fair fight," she said, tossing her iron blade into the grass. "You've got claws. I've got fists. Let's see what all your flexing's worth."

The Dragonborn cracked his neck.

Flexed his arms.

Grinned.

"You're in for a boss fight."

Ralof coughed. "Get out of there, you idiot."

The Dragonborn ignored him.

He swung wide—right hook.

Missed.

Left slash with claws—too slow.

The orc ducked, grabbed his wrist, jabbed him twice in the ribs—fast—then twisted and slammed a knee into his stomach.

He staggered.

Coughed.

Ralof tried to push himself up. "She's an orc. They're stronger than you. Stronger than me. Her bones are like iron, her fists like smith's hammers—"

The Dragonborn roared and charged.

Threw a haymaker.

The orc stepped inside his swing and drove three quick punches into his sternum.

He wheezed.

Then she dropped low, planted her feet, and launched an uppercut from the ground up.

It connected under his jaw.

CRACK.

The Dragonborn's feet left the ground.

He went airborne, flailing like a sack of flour, then hit the dirt with a crash that shook the grass.

Ralof, coughing blood, leaned against a tree and groaned.

"Divines preserve us," he muttered.

The Dragonborn lay still.

The orc cracked her knuckles.

"Main character, huh?" she growled.

She took a step toward him.

"Let's see what your last line is."

Part VIII: What's Left to Break

The orc loomed over the downed Dragonborn, knuckles cracked and ready.

But then—

"Must be nice," Ralof croaked, blood in his throat. "Beating someone who thinks combat's a performance."

She turned.

Ralof smirked, eyes blazing through pain.

"First the mine, now the road. You can't win clean, can you? You need to punch down."

The chief's jaw twitched.

"You led a crew. Now you've got stragglers. You had steel, now you use fists."

Ralof coughed. Spit red into the dirt.

"You're not a warrior anymore. You're a scavenger in armor."

That did it.

She roared, eyes going bloodshot, veins bulging across her neck and arms. She charged—shoulders low, wild—but with purpose. Controlled fury.

Ralof stood.

Raised his axe.

Met her head-on.

The rhythm was violent.

She struck—he parried.

She swept—he stepped.

Ralof landed blows, one after the other, axe hacking into shoulder, thigh, ribs. But with every strike, her fury grew.

She tanked his hits.

Didn't slow.

Didn't stagger.

Every punch she threw rattled his bones—and the axe.

Then—

CRACK.

Her fist collided with the flat of the blade, and Ralof's axe shattered at the haft.

The force of it sent him flying, the splintered wood spinning from his grip.

He landed hard, wind knocked out of him.

She stepped forward.

Slow.

Measured.

Ready to end it.

Ralof rolled to his knees.

Chest heaving.

Vision swimming.

Then he saw it.

A rock.

Fist-sized.

Jagged.

He grabbed it.

Stood.

And roared—not like a soldier.

Not like a rebel.

Like a man with nothing left to throw but himself.

He charged.

Part IX: The Bound and the Broken

The orc loomed above him, her fists coiled with fury, her breath heavy and sharp.

Ralof's hand clenched around the rock.

One shot.

He hurled it.

Thunk.

It struck her right in the eye.

She roared, staggering, hands flying to her face.

Ralof surged forward, grabbing the half-shattered axe, the wood splintered, the blade cracked but still clinging to shape.

He didn't think.

He just remembered.

The one spell.

Taught by a drunken battlemage during training.

A joke.

A party trick.

Conjure Bound Axe.

His hand burned with blue flame.

The broken weapon pulsed.

The ghostly blade fused itself to the ruined steel, forming a jagged, half-corporeal monstrosity of spectral edge and tempered hatred.

Light bled from the cracks. The axe howled like wind through dead trees.

Ralof stood tall.

Blood down his face. No shield. No backup.

Just the blade.

And the choice.

He charged.

The orc blinked through one ruined eye, just in time to see him coming.

Too late.

He swung.

The Bound Axe cleaved through her guard, through her ribs, through her heart.

She choked once.

Then fell.

The forest went still.

Her body hit the dirt, heavy and final.

The Bound Axe pulsed once—then shattered into sparks, leaving Ralof standing alone, holding the burned wood of the broken haft.

Behind him, the Dragonborn groaned.

"Did… we win?"

Ralof didn't answer.

He just looked down at the corpse.

Then at the blood on his hands.

And whispered:

"Next time, you're bait."