Michael leaned against his stick, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold air. His ribs throbbed with every breath, his feet burned, and exhaustion weighed down every part of him. But he wasn't alone anymore. That changed everything.
The man he had saved from under the tree sat on a fallen log, massaging his ankle. His face was sharp but tired, with smudges of dirt across his cheek and sweat matting his dark hair. He looked up at Michael, breathing steadily again, and offered a weary smile.
"My name's Lucan," he said, voice thick with relief. "Lucan Valerius. I owe you my life."
Michael straightened slightly, surprised by the name. It pricked something in his mind, like the faint tug of a memory he couldn't quite place. Valerius. That felt… familiar. But he swallowed the thought down.
"I'm Michael," he said simply, shifting the stick in his hands. "Glad I could help."
Lucan nodded firmly, as though solidifying the introduction in his mind. "Michael. Good. Well, you've saved me from becoming wolf food or worse. My shop's not far from here—Riverwood. It's a small village, but you'll be welcome. You look like you need a rest just as much as I do."
Michael's stomach twisted at the word. Riverwood. Again that tug of familiarity, stronger this time. He didn't let it show on his face.
"I'll take the rest," he said cautiously. "Been walking a long time."
Lucan chuckled, trying to get to his feet. He winced as he put weight on his leg and nearly toppled. Michael darted forward instinctively, sliding under his arm.
"Easy," Michael muttered. "You're not broken, but you're not running marathons either."
Lucan grinned crookedly. "Then I'll hobble. But with you at my side, I'll make it. Come, the road to Riverwood isn't far."
Michael helped him steady, and together they set off. Lucan leaned heavily on him, and their pace was slow, but it was forward. For Michael, that was enough.
The forest grew thinner as they followed the dirt road, patches of snow clinging to the roots of the trees. The gray clouds above seemed lighter now, though the sun remained hidden. The air was sharp and biting, but moving helped.
Lucan filled the silence quickly, his voice a steady stream of words that spilled like water from a dam.
"You know," Lucan said, "I wasn't always a shopkeeper. My parents were, yes, but I had bigger ideas. I thought I'd go to Cyrodiil, maybe Bruma or even the Imperial City itself, and set up a stall in the great marketplace. Riches flow through that city like water through a river. Every kind of good you could dream of. But in the end, I stayed. Family ties, you know? My sister Camilla—she'd be lost without me. And Riverwood may be small, but opportunity lives in every coin spent. That's what I tell myself."
Michael listened quietly, nodding when it seemed appropriate. The names Lucan dropped twisted in his gut—Cyrodiil, Imperial City. Impossible words. He kept his face still, his voice measured.
"Sounds… ambitious," Michael said.
Lucan chuckled. "Ambitious, yes! But that's what it takes, isn't it? Ambition. No one ever grew rich by waiting for fate to drop a sack of gold on their doorstep. You've got to work for it, find the angle. I've built my shop from scraps, truly. It's called the Riverwood Trader. Modest, yes, but it's mine. And from there, who knows? Perhaps one day caravans will bring my goods across Skyrim."
Michael adjusted his grip under Lucan's arm as they stepped over a patch of ice. "A shop, huh?"
"Yes!" Lucan's eyes lit up despite his limp. "I deal in the simple things now—pots, tools, bread, the odd trinket from travelers. But one must think bigger. What sells here in Riverwood sells in Whiterun, sells in Solitude, sells even across the border. Timber, for example! Do you know how many merchants need timber? The Nord's love their mead halls, the Imperials their fortresses—everyone wants wood. And who sits on the edge of Skyrim's greatest forests? Riverwood!"
Michael bit back a smile at the man's enthusiasm. "You've thought about this a lot."
Lucan laughed. "Every day. I see the coins trickle in, and I imagine them multiplying. Camilla says I dream too much, but dreams are what forge empires! I've read about the great trading houses of the East Empire Company. They began small, just like me. One shop, one idea, one man willing to chase fortune. Why shouldn't Lucan Valerius be the same?"
Michael let him talk. It was easier this way. Lucan's voice filled the quiet, gave rhythm to their slow hobbling pace. Michael kept his answers vague, careful not to reveal how out of place he truly was.
"And you, Michael," Lucan said suddenly. "Where do you hail from? You don't look like a Nord. Not quite Imperial either. Your clothes are strange."
Michael's chest tightened. He glanced at his hoodie, his jeans, his battered sneakers, all dusted with frost. Strange indeed.
"I…" He searched for words. "I didn't come here by choice. Something happened. I'm lost. Very lost. I've never been here before."
Lucan tilted his head, brow furrowed, but then smiled. "Ah, a traveler blown off course. It happens. Skyrim is vast and wild—she swallows men whole. But you've a good heart, Michael. You saved me, and for that you'll always have a friend in Riverwood."
Michael exhaled slowly. Good. Keep it vague. Don't dig yourself deeper.
As they trudged along, Lucan kept talking, weaving dreams aloud as though speaking them gave them weight.
"I tell Camilla we must stock more exotic goods," he said, gesturing with his free hand as though envisioning it. "Spices from Hammerfell, silks from Elsweyr, gems from Morrowind. Can you imagine the profit? A bottle of real sujamma in Riverwood—adventurers would pay thrice the price just to taste it! Camilla insists we can't afford to stretch so far, but I say fortune favors the bold."
Michael smiled faintly, though his mind reeled at the names. Hammerfell. Elsweyr. Morrowind. He knew them. He knew them all. From books. From games. From fiction.
He forced his face calm. "Sounds profitable."
Lucan beamed. "It will be! One day I'll stand behind my counter and count coins until my hands are black with ink. People will speak of the Valerius name as they do the East Empire Company itself! All it takes is vision. That, and a bit of luck. And perhaps fewer trees falling on my legs, eh?"
Michael chuckled despite himself. "Yeah. That would help."
The hours dragged. Michael's arms ached from supporting Lucan, his ribs stabbed with every jolt, his feet screamed with each step. But Lucan's voice never faltered. He talked of supply chains, of caravans, of the little feuds between Riverwood's mill and neighboring villages. He spoke of Camilla—bright, clever, too cautious for her own good.
Michael gave little in return. Nods. A word here or there. He didn't dare reveal too much, not yet. His story would make no sense. Best to let Lucan talk.
At one point, Michael asked, "How'd you get stuck under that tree, anyway?"
Lucan's face shadowed. "A hunting trip gone awry," he said shortly, then waved the subject away. "Never mind that. Better to speak of the future than dwell on misfortune."
And just like that, he was back to merchants and dreams.
By the time the treeline broke, Michael thought his legs would give out. The road widened, the forest thinned, and then—buildings. Smoke curling from chimneys. The sound of water rushing over stone.
A village nestled along a riverbank, wooden houses perched beneath towering mountains.
Riverwood.
The name slammed into Michael like a hammer. Recognition flooded him. The shape of the mill, the curve of the bridge, the sight of the lumber mill wheel turning in the current. He had seen it before—not in life, but in a game.
Skyrim.
He stopped dead, staring, his breath caught.
This was Skyrim.