Metalborn in Skyrim

The evening sky above Riverwood was a canvas of stars, the faint glow of the aurora borealis painting streaks of green and purple across the heavens. As he stood at the edge of the village, bag slung over his shoulder, he caught sight of a small group preparing to camp near the road. Their fire crackled warmly, sending up wisps of smoke into the crisp night air.

He hesitated, observing the group from the shadows. They were travelers, clearly—men and women with children in tow, their faces weary but determined. Several had swords strapped to their belts, and one or two carried bows slung over their shoulders. Their carts, laden with supplies, suggested they were on a long journey, likely heading for Whiterun or one of the larger holds.

"Safety in numbers," he muttered to himself, adjusting the straps of his bag. With a deep breath, he approached.

As he stepped into the firelight, a few heads turned toward him, their expressions cautious but not hostile. A tall man with broad shoulders and a thick beard stood up, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Something you need, stranger?" the man asked, his voice steady but wary.

"I'm heading to Whiterun," he replied, keeping his tone calm. "Thought I might travel with you. Strength in numbers, right?"

The man's gaze lingered on him for a moment before he nodded. "You don't look like a bandit, at least. Name's Sten. If you can pull your weight, you're welcome to join us."

"Fair enough," he said, stepping closer to the fire. He dropped his bag beside a log and sat down, warming his hands against the flames. Around him, the travelers resumed their quiet conversations, though he could feel their eyes occasionally flicking his way.

Sten sat across from him, a jug of mead in hand. Beside him was a woman with dark hair tied into a braid. She leaned against Sten's shoulder, her eyes flicking up to study him before returning to the fire. A pair of children played nearby, chasing each other around the carts under the watchful gaze of an older woman who was mending a torn cloak.

"What's your name?" Sten asked after a moment.

He hesitated, then decided to offer only part of the truth. "Call me Kael."

"Kael, huh? Well, Kael, we're heading to Whiterun at first light. You've got a weapon?" Sten gestured to the sword at his hip.

Kael nodded. "I can hold my own."

"Good," Sten said, his tone final. "Just make sure you don't bring any trouble."

As the evening wore on, Kael took the time to observe the group, their interactions painting a picture of who they were and the lives they led. Sten, seated near the fire with a mug of mead in hand, was clearly the leader—a practical and no-nonsense type. His broad shoulders and the casual way he rested his hand on the hilt of his sword spoke of a man used to taking charge and handling danger. Beside him was Elira, his wife, whose quiet strength was evident in her sharp gaze. She missed nothing, her eyes darting to the children and carts even as she leaned against her husband.

The older woman, Hilda, sat a little farther from the fire, her needle and thread moving deftly as she patched a tear in a cloak. Her no-nonsense demeanor was reflected in her sharp tone whenever the children, Erik and Mara, grew too loud. "Sit down before you trip into the fire," she barked when Mara came too close, and the girl immediately obeyed. Despite her sternness, the children seemed to respect her, occasionally casting her shy smiles.

Erik and Mara were no older than ten, their bright eyes and boundless energy a rare balm in the otherwise somber atmosphere of the camp. Their laughter bubbled occasionally as they played a game with a pair of carved wooden figures, oblivious to the weariness etched into the adults' faces.

Two younger men, Jorik and Bran, sat closer to the fire, sharpening their swords with practiced ease. They looked more like farmhands than soldiers, their roughspun tunics and simple weapons suggesting lives of hard labor rather than combat. Yet their calloused hands and lean builds spoke of resilience, of men who had weathered hardship.

Kael poked at the fire with a stick, letting the warmth seep into his sore muscles. He hadn't felt this relaxed in days, though he kept his guard up. Trust wasn't something he could afford—not yet.

"You're quiet," Elira said suddenly, her voice breaking the lull in conversation. She regarded him with a raised eyebrow, her tone curious rather than accusatory.

Kael looked up, meeting her gaze. "I'm more of a listener," he replied, his voice low and even. He poked the fire again, sending a small shower of sparks into the night.

"Hmph," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Well, listening's a good skill to have on the road. Keeps you out of trouble."

"Not always," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Sometimes it just lets you hear it coming."

Sten chuckled at that, taking a swig of mead. "Fair enough. Trouble finds all of us sooner or later, though."

"Speaking of trouble," Bran interjected, his voice light but pointed, "what's your story, Kael? You don't look like a farmer, but you're not a soldier either."

Kael hesitated, his mind racing for an answer that wouldn't invite more questions. "Just a traveler," he said finally. "Trying to find my place."

"Aren't we all," Jorik muttered, his gaze fixed on the blade he was sharpening. "At least you're smart enough to stick with a group. Skyrim's no place to wander alone these days."

"Jorik's right," Sten said, setting his mug down. "We've seen more bandits on the roads than I can remember. Wolves too, and worse things in the deeper woods."

"Dragons," Erik piped up, his voice full of wonder. "Papa says there are dragons now."

"Enough, Erik," Elira said gently, though her expression hardened. "We don't need to scare anyone."

Hilda snorted, not looking up from her needlework. "It's not scaring anyone if it's true. I heard about Helgen. That wasn't a wolf attack."

Kael's stomach tightened at the mention of Helgen. He'd heard whispers about it in Riverwood—something about the town being completely destroyed. "What happened?" he asked, keeping his voice casual.

The firelight cast deep shadows on Sten's face as he sighed. "A dragon. At least, that's what people are saying. Burned the whole town to the ground. Some folks claim they saw it flying toward the mountains."

"Do you believe it?" Kael asked, watching Sten carefully.

Sten paused, his expression darkening. "I don't know what to believe anymore. But if it is true, Skyrim's in more trouble than anyone's willing to admit."

The fire crackled softly, filling the silence that followed. Kael leaned back against a log, his gaze drifting to the stars overhead. The weight of this world's dangers pressed down on him, but for the first time in days, he felt a flicker of calm. This group, for all their worries, felt solid—grounded. It was a comfort he hadn't realized he needed.

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The next morning, the group broke camp at dawn. The journey to Whiterun was uneventful at first, the road winding gently through rolling hills and sparse woodland. The carts creaked as they rolled along, the children occasionally running ahead to chase butterflies or throw stones into the river that snaked alongside the road.

By mid-morning, however, the mood shifted. Kael felt it first—a prickle at the back of his neck, a sense of being watched. He burned tin, enhancing his senses, and the faint rustle of movement in the trees ahead confirmed his unease. Shadows flickered among the branches, too large to be animals.

"Sten," he said quietly, falling into step beside the larger man. "We're not alone."

Sten's eyes narrowed as he looked ahead. "Bandits?"

Kael nodded. "A group. Five, maybe six."

Sten cursed under his breath and raised a hand, signaling the group to stop. The travelers huddled close, the children clinging to their mother's skirts as the men drew their weapons.

A moment later, the bandits emerged from the trees. There were six of them, armed with swords, axes, and bows. Their leader, a tall man with a cruel grin and a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward.

"Morning, friends," the bandit said, his tone mockingly cheerful. "Afraid the toll's gone up. Leave your carts and your coin, and we'll let you walk away."

Sten stepped forward, sword drawn. "We're not looking for trouble, but you're not getting anything from us."

The bandit's grin widened. "Suit yourself." He raised a hand, and his men began to advance.

Kael's heart raced as he watched the bandits close in. The women and children were defenseless, huddled near the carts. Sten and the others were outnumbered, and the bandits were moving fast. Too fast.

His hand drifted to his bracelet, where the steel stud sat among the others. He hesitated, fear gripping him. He had never burned a metalmind before. If it went wrong, it could kill him. But if he did nothing, these people would die.

No time to think. Trust it.

Swallowing hard, he pulled the stud free and tossed it into his mouth, swallowing it in one quick motion. The cold lump slid down his throat, and he burned steel.

The world exploded into motion. Or rather, everything around him slowed to a crawl. The bandits' movements became sluggish, their footsteps dragging as though they were wading through molasses. The sound of the wind and the creak of the carts stretched out into low, drawn-out tones.

Kael moved. The stored speed surged through his body like fire, his limbs a blur of motion as he darted forward. His sword was in his hand before he even realized he'd drawn it.

The first bandit had no chance to react. Kael's blade struck the man's temple with the flat of the blade, sending him crumpling to the ground. Before the second could turn, Kael was there, delivering a sharp blow to his ribs that knocked the wind out of him.

He pushed off the ground with a burst of speed, vaulting over the carts to where two more bandits were closing in on Elira and the children. The steel-enhanced speed made him a blur, and his strikes were precise and devastating. One man fell with a blow to the head, while the other dropped as Kael slammed the hilt of his sword into his jaw.

Only the leader remained. Kael turned to face him, the world still dragging through time as his stored speed surged. He charged, and the bandit barely had time to raise his sword before Kael's blade struck his wrist, sending the weapon clattering to the ground. A final kick sent the man sprawling.

The stored speed burned out suddenly, leaving Kael stumbling as the world snapped back to normal. His vision swam, and his momentum carried him into a crashing roll. He tumbled to a stop, panting and dizzy, the taste of steel lingering in his mouth. Maybe I should also burn pewter when I do this.

When he finally pushed himself to his feet, the bandits lay scattered on the ground, groaning and barely conscious. Sten approached one cautiously, kicking the man's weapon out of reach before tying his hands with a length of rope. The others followed suit, securing the rest of the bandits, but their movements were slower, more deliberate. Their eyes kept darting toward Kael.

"What in Oblivion was that?" Sten asked, his voice low and tinged with both awe and suspicion.

Kael wiped the sweat from his brow, his hands trembling as he adjusted the straps on his bag. "Just… quick thinking," he muttered, avoiding Sten's gaze. His heart was still racing, the aftermath of burning the steelmind leaving him lightheaded. The power had been overwhelming, consuming him in a way he hadn't fully anticipated. Now, without it, he felt like a hollow shell, drained and fragile.

"That wasn't quick thinking," Jorik said, stepping closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "That was something else. No one moves like that—not a normal man."

Kael flinched at the words, his pulse spiking. "It's not important what it was," he said, forcing calm into his voice. "What matters is that the bandits are down, and no one here got hurt."

"Not important?" Elira's voice was sharp, but it wasn't anger he heard—it was fear. She had the children close to her now, Mara clinging to her skirt while Erik stared at Kael with wide eyes. "You moved faster than the wind. How did you do that?"

Kael opened his mouth, searching for an answer, but the words wouldn't come. The truth was too dangerous, too strange for them to understand. Instead, he shook his head. "It's… complicated."

"Complicated," Sten repeated, narrowing his eyes. "Look, we're grateful for what you did, but I've got to know—are you a danger to us? To my family?"

The question struck Kael harder than any blade. He hesitated, his fingers brushing against the beads on his bracelet. Could he really blame them for their fear? Even he didn't fully understand what he was capable of yet.

"No," he said finally, his voice steady despite the doubt gnawing at him. "I'm not a danger to you."

Sten studied him for a long moment before nodding, though the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. "Alright. But if you bring trouble down on us, Kael, you're on your own. Understand?"

"Understood," Kael said softly, his chest tightening. He couldn't shake the feeling that this group's trust, tenuous as it was, had been fractured.