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The gates of Whiterun swung open with a heavy groan as Thalia strode through, the Dragonstone slung securely at her hip. Dust clung to her boots from the long road, but her blue eyes gleamed with restless energy.
The city buzzed with life: merchants hawking wares in the market, townsfolk hurrying about their day, and the clang of hammers ringing through the air.
Thalia took it in with a small, pleased smirk.
It was rough, a little grimy, but full of heart. Her kind of place.
As she walked, she passed by a sturdy stone building just inside the gates — the familiar sign of a hammer and anvil swinging above the door: Warmaiden's. Through the open workshop, she could see a woman hammering at a blade, sweat on her brow, her husband working the counter inside.
She barely spared it a glance.
Thalia wasn't looking for another battered sword or a clunky shield.
Her feet carried her uphill, past the bustling marketplace, toward the massive longhouse she'd glimpsed from the road — Jorrvaskr, seated beneath the great Skyforge.
The forge itself was alive, its fires burning hotter and whiter than any she'd seen before. The heat was palpable even from a distance, a shimmering wave in the cool air.
Standing before it was a man built like a mountain, his gray hair and weathered skin a testament to years at the hammer. Sparks flew as he worked a glowing blade, moving with a grace that belied his age.
Eorlund Gray-Mane.
Even a newcomer could tell: this wasn't some city smith. This was a craftsman born of a different era.
Thalia slowed, watching silently.
After a few strikes, Eorlund looked up, his sharp blue eyes appraising her in a glance. His gaze lingered on the battered sword slung across her back — then drifted down to her stance, how lightly she stood, how her fingers fidgeted as if itching for a different weapon.
He snorted and set the hammer down with a decisive thunk.
"That sword you carry," he said, voice rough as gravel, "it's wrong for you."
Thalia arched an eyebrow. "You can tell that just by looking?"
Eorlund gave a grunt, almost a laugh.
"Steel knows its master. That blade's dead in your hands. No song. No spirit."
She chuckled under her breath, half-impressed.
"Yeah, well," she said, swinging the old sword off her back, "normally I fight with a spear. Haven't found a decent one yet. Skyrim's all axes and swords."
Eorlund studied her more carefully now, tapping a calloused finger against his chin.
"A spear," he mused. "Good weapon. Better reach. Quick strikes. Makes sense for someone who moves like a storm about to break."
Thalia blinked. Twice in one day someone compared her to a storm.
He stepped away from the anvil, pride in every line of his frame as he gestured to the forge behind him.
"This fire's older than the stones of Whiterun. Hotter than a dragon's breath. If you're serious — if you want a spear that matches the way you fight — I can forge you one. Skyforge Steel. Best there is."
Her breath hitched slightly.
A real weapon. One worthy of the blood in her veins.
"How much?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
Eorlund grunted.
"Two hundred septims. Covers the ore and the time it'll take. The craftsmanship?" He shrugged, as if it meant nothing. "Consider that a gift. Haven't seen someone with the heart for a spear in too long."
Thalia's face split into a grin.
"I'll get the coin. Fast."
He gave a short nod, satisfied.
"Good. Bring it to me, and give me a day. You'll have a weapon that sings when you call the storm."
As Thalia turned to leave, her battered sword slung one last time over her back, Eorlund called after her.
"And girl—"
She paused.
"Remember: a weapon's just steel. It's the hand that wields it — and the heart behind it — that makes it mighty."
Thalia laughed under her breath, the sound light and dangerous.
Whiterun had just become a lot more interesting.
And soon… she'd fight like herself again.