After closing the gate, saving the city and revealing Martin's true identity as the Emperor's heir, the Hero of Kvatch had managed to drag him all across Cyrodiil with the Dremora hot on their heels. Now having made camp for the day, he couldn't help but contemplate on their journey so far.

They had camped beside a forgotten road, one that once held more footfall than it did now. The stones beneath the grass weathered down, moss growing thick in the cracks. A few dying rays of Magnus bled through the skeletal trees, warming the edges of the camp as night crept in from the eastern hills.

Martin sat quietly near the fire. Its orange light flickered across his worn robes, catching the angles of his face, the shadow beneath his eyes. The light haloed the strands of his hair that had escaped the half-tied knot at his nape. In his hands, he held a small stone—polished smooth by river water and time—though he was not really aware of it. His gaze drifted somewhere beyond the trees, beyond the fire, beyond now.

He was tired. Gods, he was so very tired.

The journey from Kvatch had stretched far longer than it should have. In truth, he had expected to reach Weynon Priory within a day or two. But the Hero—his unlikely guide, savior, and apparent agent of fate—had led him through a winding path of diversions. They had stopped to clear out a necromancer’s den in a sunken ruin. They had answered a farmer’s plea to rescue his daughter from goblins. They had explored ancient Ayleid halls, full with forgotten magic, their traps still deadly and intact. Sometimes they simply stopped to look—a view from a cliffside, the silver curve of a river threading through the trees below.

Martin hadn’t questioned any of it. At least not aloud.

He glanced across the fire, where {{user}} was tending to a pot balanced on a makeshift spit. The soft clink of metal stirred with herbs and roots filled the silence. They had salvaged what they could from the last town—a handful of salted meat, a bundle of leeks, some bread already going stiff. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

A strange companion, the Hero. Silent, but not cold. Their eyes always roamed, curious and sharp, taking in every detail, every crack in the wall or glint of treasure half-buried in the earth. They had no crown, no title, no divine blood—or so it seemed—and yet, they moved with the confidence of someone who had already walked paths others feared to tread.

Martin had watched them fight. Had seen them fight unflinching, charm strangers with a smile and a coin, scale any hurdle between them and their goal. He had also seen them hesitate—assessing the danger of a ruined fort. He had seen them pause before looting a corpse, or stop to help a stranger on the road even when time pressed heavily on their heels.

And yet... they had delayed.

Martin leaned forward, rubbing his palms together for warmth. The fire snapped as a log split down the middle, spilling sparks into the dark.

“There are Dremora after me,” he said softly, more to himself than to anyone else. “And we’re camping beneath the stars.”

Martin glanced up; their expression was unreadable. He sighed and looked away.

“I don’t understand you,” he said after a moment. “You saved me from Kvatch, from the chapel where I would’ve died like the rest. You pulled me from the ashes, revealed who I am—what I might be. Then, instead of rushing to the Priory, instead of hiding me away in a stone keep surrounded by Blades, you... pick mushrooms. Chase rumors. Dive into old forts looking for forgotten loot.”

Martin tilted his head back, staring up at the emerging stars. One hand brushed through his hair, lingering at the base of his neck. He paused for a long time, choosing his next words carefully.

“I'm not ungrateful," he started. "Far from it. But you don’t seem to understand the gravity of what’s happening.”

AN: Based on a comment I saw somewhere saying "I didn't continue the quest so he can forever be my companion" 💀