Two Months after the Goodbye with Edla
The first light of morning seeped through the cracks of Breezehome's shuttered windows, painting faint gold stripes across the wooden floor. Gilgamesh—*Gil* to those foolish enough to shorten the name—sat at the rickety table by the hearth, a half-empty bottle of Nord mead dangling from his fingers. His eyes flicked absently over the glowing interface only he could see, the translucent blue screens of his **Gamer System** hovering like spectral advisors.
**STATUS**
**Name**: Gilgamesh
**Level**: 23
**Health**: 320/320
**Magicka**: 410/410
**Stamina**: 280/280
**Shouts Mastered**:
- *Fus (Unrelenting Force)*
- *Yol (Fire Breath)*
**Perks**: *Silver Tongue (Persuasion +25%)*, *Arcane Theorist (Spell Cost -15%)*, *Shadowstep (Sneak Movement Silent)*
**Active Quests**:
- *Hunt the Word Walls (0/5)*
- *Train Lysia to Apprentice-Level Destruction Magic*
- *Contract: Clear Valtheim Towers of Bandits (Reward: 500 Septims)*
He swiped the screens away with a grunt. The numbers never lied, but they also never accounted for the weight of a child's trust. Or the fact that his pockets were lighter than a skeever's conscience.
A muffled thump came from the loft above, followed by the patter of small feet. Lysia, all wild brown curls and scraped knees, vaulted down the ladder with the grace of a baby cliff racer. At eight years old, she'd already adopted Gil's habit of moving like the world might collapse if she paused too long.
"You forgot to stock the honey nut treats again," she announced, planting her fists on her hips in a perfect mimicry of his own stance. Her linen shirt was singed at the sleeves—a remnant of yesterday's firebolt practice.
"And you forgot to *not* set the table on fire," Gil shot back, nodding at the blackened corner of the rug. "We'll call it even."
She stuck out her tongue but faltered when he tossed her an apple from the pantry. The fruit was bruised, but her grin was bright. "Aela's taking me to the plains today. Says I'm ready to track elk."
"Tell her to teach you how to *dodge* elk first. Last time you tried blocking, you got knocked into a mud puddle."
"That was *one time*!"
Gil smirked, but the knot in his chest tightened. *She's growing faster than I can keep up*. When he'd first crossed paths with Edla—the Dragonborn, the walking hurricane—he'd planned to follow her. To chase power, glory, the thrill of the unknown. But then there was Lysia: orphaned during the dragon attack at helgan, her eyes hollow as a beggar's coin purse. Edla had shrugged and moved on, her destiny too grand for strays. Gil had stayed.
*Choices*, he thought bitterly, *are just regrets waiting to happen*.
---
Jorrvaskr's mead hall loomed ahead, its ancient timbers groaning in the wind. Aela the Huntress leaned against the entrance, her wolfish smile sharpening as he approached.
"You look like a man who's been dodging creditors," she said, tossing him a pouch of coin. "Your cut from the last job. That Forsworn camp won't be troubling Markarth again."
Gil weighed the septims in his palm. "Generous. You finally learn how to count?"
"Generosity's your department, *milk-drinker*. The girl's got your tongue, by the way. Nearly cursed out Skjor when he called her 'pup.'"
Pride flickered in his gut, but he buried it. "If you're here to recruit her into your furry little cult, forget it."
Aela's laugh was a low growl. "She's got the fire of a true Companion. But don't worry—we'll leave the brooding and cryptic monologues to you."
---
The job at Valtheim Towers was bloody, brutal, and exactly the distraction Gil needed. Bandits lunged at him with rusted axes, only to stagger back as he roared, ***"YOL!"*** A torrent of flame erupted from his throat, turning their screams to ash. The System chimed in his ear with every kill:
**[Destruction Increased to 65!]**
**[One-Handed Increased to 72!]**
**[Shout Mastery (Yol) Progress: 85%]**
By sundown, the towers were silent. Gil stood ankle-deep in the river, scrubbing blood from his armor, when the quest notification blinked:
**[Word Wall Discovered: *Krosis* (Shout: Throw Voice). Location: Shearpoint]**
He froze. *Word Walls*. The ancient stone monoliths etched with dragon tongue. Edla had never mentioned them—she'd been too busy chasing her own legend—but the System had begun marking them weeks ago. At first, he'd ignored the prompts. But when he'd stumbled upon one near Bleak Falls Barrow, the runes had *burned* into his mind, granting him mastery of ***Fus***.
Now, the screens taunted him. *Power*, they whispered. *Power to protect her*.
A plan crystallized. He'd hunt the Walls, carve their secrets into his bones, and bend their power to his will. But he'd do it *alone*. Lysia would stay in Whiterun, safe behind its stone walls, even if he had to sell his soul to the damn Jarl to afford it.
---
He returned to Breezehome to find Lysia perched on the roof, legs swinging over the edge. The streets below echoed with the clatter of the evening patrol.
"You're late," she said, not turning around.
"You're reckless," he countered, hauling himself up beside her.
She shrugged, producing a slightly-crushed crimson rose from her pocket. "Lars Battle-Born gave me this. Said it's 'cuz I'm the only one who laughs at his jokes."
Gil raised an eyebrow. "The Battle-Born boy? His family's got more gold than sense. What'd you give him?"
"A lock of his sister's hair. He's been wanting to prank her."
He snorted. "Remind me to never play cards with you."
Her smile faded. "Braith tried to take it. Called me a 'stray.' So I kicked her into the market fountain."
Gil's chest clenched. Braith—Amren's daughter, the pint-sized tyrant who'd made Lysia's first weeks in Whiterun hell. "And?"
"She cried. A lot." Lysia's voice wavered, though her chin stayed high. "Am I… bad?"
He studied her—the scuffed boots, the singed sleeves, the rose clutched like a trophy. Saw himself in the defiant tilt of her jaw.
"You're surviving," he said finally. "In this world, that's all that matters."
That night, while Lysia slept, Gil spread a map of Skyrim across the table. Shearpoint was circled in charcoal. The System had marked four other locations—tombs, ruins, mountains—each pulsing with promise.
A small hand tugged his sleeve. Lysia stood beside him, drowsy but determined. "I want to help."
"No."
"I can cast *Fear* now! And Aela says I'm the best marksman under ten—"
"*No*." The word came out harsher than he'd intended. She flinched.
He crouched, gripping her shoulders. "Listen. The world out there—it's full of monsters. Not just dragons or bandits. People who'll see your power and try to break you for it. I need you *strong*, Lysia. Strong enough that when I'm not here, you don't just survive. You *conquer*."
Her eyes glistened, but she nodded.
**[Quest Updated: *Train Lysia to Apprentice-Level Destruction Magic* (Progress: 85%)]**
---
By dawn, Gil was gone. Lysia stood at the city gates, watching his silhouette shrink into the horizon. Her tiny hands sparked with fledgling flames.
In the shadows, Aela crossed her arms. "He'll be back, pup."
"I know," Lysia said. "But I'm gonna be ready when he is."
Somewhere in the tundra, a dragon roared. The game was just beginning.
**[Word Walls Remaining: 0/5]**
**[System Message: Player (Anti-Hero) — Prepare for Glory.]**