Chapter Text
Jesper hadn’t been sleeping well.
Lately, it felt like his dreams weren’t his own. He would fall asleep and wake hours later with a tight chest, sweat at the nape of his neck, the taste of someone else’s name on his tongue. The dreams themselves weren’t frightening—not in the usual way—but they lingered like smoke after a fire. A pressure he couldn’t explain. A voice half-heard. Someone moving just behind him, familiar in the way a song can be familiar when you’ve only ever heard the first few notes.
He lay there now, staring at the slanted ceiling of the attic above the Bannered Mare, listening to the quiet groan of old wood settling under the wind. His hands rested on his stomach, unmoving, eyes wide open in the dark.
He hadn’t meant to rent this room for more than a few weeks. But months had passed, and he was still here, still working the Whiterun guard rotation like a man waiting for something to shift. The city was quiet these days—no dragons, no bandits at the gate, nothing that demanded more than the usual routine patrols and keeping an eye on the usual suspects.
Jesper sighed and rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye. The dreams had started maybe two weeks ago. At first, he thought it was just fatigue. Guard shifts could be brutal, especially the long hours posted by the gates with nothing but wind and silence for company. But the feeling kept building—like he wasn’t just dreaming, but returning to somewhere. A place that remembered him. A place waiting.
And then there was the stranger.
He’d started appearing three nights in a row now—never clearly, never for long. Just a glimpse in the distance. A silhouette at the edge of a ruined corridor. A flash of movement through ash trees. Last night, they’d spoken. Jesper didn’t remember what had been said—only the shape of the words and the way the stranger’s voice curled under his ribs like warmth.
Jesper didn’t usually believe in signs or magic or any of that old Nord superstition. But this… this felt different.
Below him, the murmur of early voices drifted up through the floorboards—Hulda in the kitchen, someone dragging a chair across stone. Jesper pushed himself upright slowly, joints stiff, and braced his arms on his knees. The attic room was barely large enough to stand in without hitting his head. A narrow bed. A chest. A small shuttered window that looked out over the rooftops of Whiterun. It was modest, but his. Quiet.
Usually.
Lately, Jesper found himself wanting to stay awake longer than he should, drinking more mead than he usually allowed himself, walking the same streets twice on patrol just to delay returning to sleep.
And yet… part of him was always waiting for nightfall.
He didn't know who the man in his dreams was. Only that the shape of his smile felt like a secret Jesper had once known.
Jesper took his time descending the narrow attic stairs, one hand dragging lazily down the banister as he adjusted his belt. He hadn’t bothered with full armor—just the tunic, bracers, boots. Off-duty, technically, but his job never really ended. Especially not in Whiterun, where certain people had a knack for making his mornings harder.
Hulda greeted him with a nod as he entered the tavern’s main floor. The hearth was already stoked, casting a steady warmth through the room. A few regulars nursed breakfast mead and stale bread at scattered tables. Jesper made for the counter, rubbing at the back of his neck.
“Porridge?” Hulda asked without looking up from her ledger.
“If it’s hot.”
She ladled him a bowl without further question and slid it toward him, steam rising off the top. Jesper leaned on the counter with both elbows and ate slowly, still half in the fog of the dream, or whatever it was.
The door opened behind Jesper, letting in a draft of morning air and the faint scent of horse manure from the stables.
Jesper didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
“Keith,” he muttered under his breath, as though it might ward him off.
“Jes-per,” came the sing-song reply, just behind his shoulder.
Jesper turned slightly on his stool, spoon still in hand. The man in the doorway was a familiar silhouette—tall, lean, wrapped in the dark brown leather of a Thieves Guild set most guards in Whiterun pretended not to recognize. The armor was sleek but weathered, cross-laced at the chest and reinforced at the shoulders. The hood covered most of his hair, and a dark cloth mask obscured the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible—narrowed, unreadable, ringed with shadows.
Jesper had seen those eyes plenty of times. Usually right before someone else’s coin purse turned up light.
“You’re up early,” Jesper said, returning to his bowl. “That usually means something’s missing from somewhere it shouldn’t be.”
Keith stepped forward and leaned a hip against the counter, arms crossing loosely. “And here I thought you’d be happy to see me.”
Jesper didn’t answer. He went back to eating.
Keith stayed where he was, shoulders relaxed, but there was something slower about him this morning. His posture wasn’t lazy so much as… loosened. Like he was trying not to lean on the counter, but couldn’t quite help it. His gaze roamed the tavern, not sharply like it usually did—more like it had trouble landing anywhere for too long.
Jesper didn’t notice. Or, at least, didn’t comment.
“What?” he muttered eventually, not bothering to look up.
Keith blinked. “Nothing. Just... amazed you’re allowed to wield a spoon without supervision. Where’s your wooden sword?”
Jesper rolled his eyes and scooped up another bite, ignoring the taunt. “If you’re not here to steal something or confess a crime, then can you leave me alone? I’m already too tired to deal with you.”
“Tempting,” Keith said, but he didn’t move. His arms remained crossed, feet planted, eyes half-lidded beneath the shadow of his hood.
Jesper closed his eyes, ignoring him.
A long breath passed. Then Keith pushed off from the counter and turned for the door, the leather of his armor creaking faintly with the motion.
“Don’t work too hard, hero,” he called without looking back.
Jesper didn’t answer.
But the moment Keith stepped outside and the cold air closed in behind him, Jesper felt something ease—just slightly—in his chest. Not relief, exactly. But something like it. Something like stillness.
He finished his porridge in silence.
***
Keith didn’t belong out this early.
The streets of Whiterun were still dewy and half-drowsy, merchants only beginning to drag carts into place, guards stomping off the cold with stiff joints and slow suspicion. This wasn’t his time—never had been. He preferred the late hours, when the city curled in on itself, soft and dim. When doors loosened their latches and the sky stretched wide and silent above the roofs.
But for the past two weeks, his nights had been strange. Restless. Full of something he couldn’t explain.
He’d started waking earlier, and going to sleep earlier too, like his body was shifting out from under him. No matter how long he laid there, eyes closed, waiting for the haze of real sleep, it came like a wave—fast, deep, and absolute. And when it ended, he jolted up like he’d been holding his breath. Always with the same taste in his mouth: metal and wind. Always with the echo of a name he couldn’t quite catch.
Keith pulled the mask from his face and let the hood fall back, raking a hand through his hair. It was too early to be moving, but standing still felt worse.
The dream had returned again last night.
It always began in the same place—stone ruins, half-swallowed by fog, some kind of tower or hall long ago broken open to the sky. Ash clung to the ground like dust from a dying fire, and the air shimmered with that not-real feeling only dreams carried. He wandered it like he’d been there before, never quite sure if he was looking for something or trying to escape it.
And then he would see him.
The man never came clearly. Sometimes Keith caught only a glimpse of a shoulder disappearing around a corner. Sometimes he was closer—standing across the space, watching with a stillness that cut through the haze. They had spoken once, or twice. Maybe more. He could never remember the words, but he remembered the weight of them. Heavy. Familiar. Like the tone of something important.
Keith didn’t like how the dream made him feel.
It wasn’t a nightmare. If anything, it felt… safe. Which unsettled him more. The danger he understood. This—this quiet pull toward something— someone —he didn’t know? That was harder to explain.
He ducked into the narrow alley beside Belethor’s shop and leaned against the stone wall, exhaling slow. The shadows still clung to the corners of buildings here, the city not quite waking up yet. Good. Maybe he could still salvage the day, maybe do something that felt more like him.
Keith pushed off the wall and moved with practiced ease toward the market square. His step was lighter now, quieter, the kind of motion that didn’t draw eyes. His fingers twitched, ready to work.
There was a traveling merchant stationed just outside Warmaiden’s—young, distracted, trying to rearrange his satchels while keeping one eye on his gear. Rookie mistake. His coin purse was half-visible, slung low against his hip, just begging to be lightened.
Keith circled once, then drifted in with the flow of the slow-moving crowd. His fingers brushed the leather.
And then a voice barked behind him.
“Hey! You there!”
Keith cursed under his breath, spinning off fast to the right, using the bulk of an old Nord to block the merchant’s view. His foot caught awkwardly against a crate, but he didn’t fall—just stumbled enough to lose his window. He ducked between the stalls and vanished into the mouth of another alley, heart kicking hard against his ribs.
He pressed a hand flat against the wall to steady himself.
Sloppy, he thought. Stupid.
His hands were too slow today. His eyes, too unfocused. He hadn’t misjudged a grab like that in years. He was better than this. Cleaner. But fatigue lived under his skin now like a second heartbeat, dull and dragging, and it was making him careless.
He needed to figure out what the hell was happening to him. Because if this kept up—he wouldn’t just get sloppy. He’d get caught.
Keith pulled his hood back up, breath steaming in the cold morning air.
He didn’t want to sleep tonight.
But he knew he would.
***
Wind howled through the broken walls of the ruin.
Jesper turned toward the sound without thinking, sword in hand—though he couldn’t remember drawing it. Ash swirled around his boots in slow, circular eddies, disturbed only by his steps and the low tremor that pulsed beneath the stone.
The sky above was wrong. Not dark, not light—just… endless. A ceiling of gray that swallowed everything beyond the shattered archways. Time didn’t move here. Only breath. Only instinct.
He wasn’t alone.
Across the collapsed courtyard, half-silhouetted against a jagged pillar of stone, another figure moved. Jesper caught the blur of motion, the flash of a blade. The man was tall, lean, hooded. Familiar in a way Jesper didn’t question—just knew. Like a name caught on the edge of his tongue.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
The sound came again—a deep, grinding growl from beneath the earth. Stones cracked along the far wall, and something rose from the rubble. Large. Wrongly shaped. Not quite beast, not quite man. Its skin was like stone, but flexed like muscle. Its eyes burned with something ancient and hungry.
Jesper stepped forward just as the other man did.
They met in the middle—didn’t stop to speak, didn’t coordinate—and moved as though they had trained together for years.
The creature lunged, and Jesper ducked low, blade skimming beneath its arm. The hooded man came from the other side, daggers gleaming in his hands, slipping them into the soft seam at the monster’s flank. It howled, staggered. Jesper moved again, slashing upward, while the other twisted past the creature’s grasp with clean, practiced grace.
They fought like balance. One forward, one behind. One brute force, one agile accuracy. Jesper’s strength met the dream-stranger’s speed with eerie rhythm, neither overstepping, neither falling behind.
The creature collapsed in a shudder of dust and stone. Its body broke apart like crumbling rock, sinking into the ground without leaving a mark.
Silence returned.
Jesper turned, chest heaving, sweat cool on the back of his neck. The other man was already watching him, still hooded, still masked. Only his eyes were visible—dark, unreadable, rimmed with something Jesper didn’t want to call exhaustion. Or recognition.
Jesper opened his mouth. “I—”
But the dream broke.
***
Keith jolted awake in his cot, heart hammering in his throat. His hands were clenched in the blanket, one leg tangled beneath the other, sweat cooling fast against his skin.
The sky outside was still dark.
He swallowed, slow.
That was the longest the dream had lasted.
He’d never seen the man so clearly before. And they’d fought together. Moved together. Like instinct.
Keith exhaled and dropped a hand over his eyes.
This was getting out of hand.
***
Jesper woke to cold stone at his back and the faint stink of horse piss in the air.
He blinked hard, disoriented. The gate loomed above him, iron-bound and unmoving, the wooden slats lined in frost. His helmet had slid half off his head, pressing uncomfortably against one ear, and the straps of his cuirass had dug sharp into his ribs where he’d slumped.
The torch on the left sconce had burned low.
He sat up slowly, groaning as stiffness cracked down his spine. One hand braced against the ground for balance. He looked around.
No one.
The sky was still dark, stars barely visible through a haze of pre-dawn cloud. The guards on the inner wall hadn’t come out yet. The stables were quiet. He could still hear the wind in the trees, the creak of wood and stone, the far-off shuffle of some animal rooting through the trash pile down the hill.
Which meant maybe— maybe —no one had seen him.
Jesper pressed his hand to the side of his head. He didn’t remember sitting down. He never sat during gate watch unless he was on break and someone was covering. But there was no one else. And no memory of closing his eyes. No warning.
Just—
The dream.
He remembered it like a weight on his chest. The fog-covered ruin. The wrong sky. The creature rising like stone come to life. And the man beside him—fast, fluid, wordless. Familiar. Jesper had moved with him like instinct. Trusted him without hesitation.
That trust lingered, even now, in the back of his mind. A strange aftertaste. Not fear. Not even confusion.
Just... connection.
Jesper rubbed his eyes hard and put his helmet back on. His hands were shaking.
This was getting worse. He wasn’t just waking up tired anymore—he was falling asleep in the middle of the godsdamn street.
He stood, slow and steady, and settled back into place beside the gate, posture stiff with forced alertness. A few minutes later, the other guard on the morning rotation came around the corner, yawning, not noticing anything off.
Jesper nodded once, said nothing.
But he didn’t stop thinking about that man in the dream. The way they'd fought. The way it had felt—not like strategy. Not like training.
Like breathing.
By late morning, the sun had barely made it over the rooftops of Whiterun, casting long shadows between the market stalls and warming the frost-bit edges of the cobblestone.
Jesper leaned against the wall near the Gildergreen, arms folded, trying not to look as exhausted as he felt. His shift had ended an hour ago, but the lingering weight behind his eyes hadn't lifted. His body felt like it had dragged itself out of the void. He didn’t remember the last time he’d slept and woken up rested.
“You look like shit, Jesper.”
Kevin's voice was bright as ever, annoyingly chipper for someone whose only job this morning seemed to be chewing on an apple and existing. Dave followed a step behind, hands in his pockets, wearing his usual leather-and-steel mix of patrol gear, squinting up at Jesper with mild concern.
“Really shit,” Dave added helpfully. “Like, haven’t-slept-in-a-week kind of shit.”
Jesper scowled at them both. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” Kevin said, grinning.
Jesper rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shrug off the tension. “I’ve been sleeping. I think. It’s just—”
“—The weird dreams?” Dave asked.
Jesper blinked. “I told you about those?”
“Last week, remember?” Kevin piped up, mouth full. “You were on your third mug at the Mare, looking like you were about to faceplant into the table. Said something about ruins, monsters, and some mysterious stranger you keep fighting alongside. Sounded romantic.”
Jesper gave him a flat look. “It’s not romantic.”
Kevin shrugged, still smiling. “Could be. A stranger in your dreams, saving your life over and over? Sounds like something out of a bard’s tale.”
Jesper didn’t answer right away. He shifted his weight, jaw tight. “It’s just... weird. It keeps happening. Same place. Same feeling. Same... person.”
“Maybe it’s your brain trying to tell you something,” Dave said, leaning on the bench nearby. “You’ve been working too much. Pulling double shifts. Getting stuck with gate duty and patrol.”
Kevin nodded. “Yeah. Might be time to take a day or two, clear your head.”
Jesper let out a dry laugh. “Good luck convincing the captain of that.”
“Want me to fake an injury?” Kevin asked. “Trip over a chicken, scream real loud, blame you for not stopping it in time?”
Jesper cracked a faint smile despite himself. “Tempting.”
Dave’s tone was quieter when he said, “We’re serious, you know. You’ve looked off for weeks. Not just tired— drained. You sure this is just a dream thing?”
Jesper hesitated, fingers curling loosely against his belt.
No. He wasn’t sure at all. But what the hell else could he say?
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Just dreams. Probably nothing.”
Kevin glanced at Dave, then back to Jesper. “Alright. But you start sleepwalking off the battlements or something, we’re dragging your ass to the Temple of Kynareth whether you like it or not.”
Jesper smirked. “I’ll be fine. Sleep is for the weak, anyway.”
The two gave him a look. Jesper rolled his eyes, “Ok fine. Deal.”
They talked a while longer, about nothing in particular—shifts, rumors, who got caught stealing from Carlotta’s stall this time. The familiar rhythm of it helped, a little. But the heaviness behind Jesper’s eyes never quite left.
And when they parted ways, he kept glancing over his shoulder. Like he’d forgotten something behind him. Like something was still following.
***
Keith was losing his edge, and he knew it.
He knew it in the way his fingers fumbled with the clasp of the coin purse outside Belethor’s shop, the way his timing was just a half-step too slow, his breath not quite steady. Knew it in the way the shopkeeper's eyes caught on him just a moment too long—long enough to make Keith murmur a curse and disappear into the crowd before it could turn into something.
Another near-miss. Third in two days.
He ducked into the shadows beneath the stone overhang near the Temple of Kynareth, tugging his hood low and pressing his back to the wall, letting the chill stone bleed some clarity into him. His heart was still pounding. The purse had been right there. Simple mark. Good weight to it, too. He could’ve done it in his sleep.
Which, ironically, might’ve been the problem.
He wasn’t supposed to be awake right now. Not usually. He used to be sharpest after midnight, when the city slowed and the guards grew bored. He’d sleep during the day, slide through shadows by night, lift coin and trinkets with clean precision and leave barely a footprint behind.
But lately... something had changed. These last two weeks, the nights felt heavier. Slower. Like his body was dragging him under before he was ready. And mornings had become unavoidable. He’d wake hours before he meant to, bleary and aching, like he’d run ten miles in his sleep.
He didn’t feel rested. He didn’t feel awake either.
Just frayed.
Keith straightened, shoulders stiff beneath the layers of his brown leather armor. The Thieves Guild set clung to him like a second skin—close-fitting and quiet, built for movement. The worn edges of the cowl brushed his jaw where it framed his face, and the stitched mask hung down like a habit he couldn’t break, covering the lower half of his face even now, though no one was looking.
It wasn’t like Whiterun had gotten harder. The guards were the same. The patrols predictable. Even Jesper—Whiterun’s most dedicated little watchdog—barely batted an eye when they crossed paths this morning. Keith had offered him a wink and a smile, half out of habit, and the guard had barely responded. Which was fine. Good, even.
Better than being caught.
Still. He was off.
Maybe it was time to cut his losses.
Riften wasn’t glamorous, but it worked . He had a bed at the Flagon, Guild contacts, safe houses, fences. And the guards there? Easier to buy off than a loaf of bread. He could lie low, get his head straight, let this... whatever it was... pass.
Yeah. Smart. Logical.
He’d head back soon. Before he slipped up for real.
Keith turned, stepping out from the alcove, feet light as he ghosted down the steps behind the Temple, eyes scanning for movement. The city still buzzed with the late morning market traffic, and if he could just get out clean, he could—
His vision dipped.
A single blink. A single step.
And then the world tilted.
Keith stumbled, one foot dragging. His shoulder slammed into the stone wall, hard. He swore under his breath, tried to right himself—and then it hit like a wave.
Heavy. Cold.
Sleep.
He didn’t choose it.
Didn’t reach for it.
It dragged him.
And the next thing he saw—
***
The sky was a deep slate above him, thick with stormclouds, the horizon lost in mist.
He stood in the same place as before—the ruined temple, crumbling and overgrown, half-eaten by ivy and ash. The doors ahead were ajar, breathing slow and deep like a lung.
And beside him, once again—
That man.
The stranger from every dream. Sword at his side. Armor streaked in soot and light.
Familiar now. Too familiar.
But Keith didn’t move. Not yet. His heart had just begun to steady. He turned his head toward the man, his voice low, dry with disbelief.
“You again.”
Keith’s voice was low, nearly lost beneath the wind that hissed through the broken stone.
The other man turned his head slightly, not startled—like he’d been expecting Keith, like he was the one thing here that wasn’t a mystery. The soft, worn lines of his armor caught the ambient light like silver, but the grime of battle dulled it. His hair was dark, sweat-tangled and clinging to his brow. The expression he wore was unreadable. Watchful.
“You made it,” the man said. He always said that, like it mattered. Like he was relieved.
Keith exhaled, slow. “Of course I did.”
He didn’t ask where here was. He knew better. The dream never gave answers. Just that temple—half standing, half shattered—its wide doors cracked open, breathing heat and shadow like a living thing. Something waited inside. It always did.
He’d stopped trying to wake himself up weeks ago.
The man beside him moved with purpose, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyes on the dark. “We can’t wait too long. It’s worse this time.”
Keith’s lips curled beneath the mask. “It’s always worse.”
The man glanced at him then, fully—searching, like he wasn’t sure how to read Keith either. “You remember it, then. Each time.”
Keith nodded, the gesture tight. “Every damn detail.”
The man’s jaw tensed. “Then that means it’s real.”
Keith snorted. “It’s a dream.”
“Maybe,” the man said. “Maybe not.”
That was new. Keith blinked, his mouth parting slightly behind the cloth. He hadn’t heard him say that before. Usually it was commands, instructions. “This way,” or “Watch the doors,” or “Run.” This was the first time the stranger had hesitated.
Something about that made Keith’s stomach twist.
They stood in silence for a moment, framed by the jagged remnants of marble and vine. The wind gusted again, louder now, almost howling through the crumbled ribs of the temple. The sound made Keith flinch, just slightly.
The man turned toward the entrance. “We go in together.”
Keith’s eyes flicked to the shadowed threshold. Inside, the dark moved like it had teeth.
“I’m starting to think you’re the reason this place keeps showing up,” Keith muttered.
“I could say the same.”
They shared a look. It held too long.
Keith turned away first, stepping up the fractured stairs, boots crunching against gravel and glass. He waited at the top, glancing back once. The man followed silently, sword unsheathed now, the point low at his side.
Inside, the temple’s air was thick and warm, almost too warm—like a forge or a fever.
The torches had long since died. The pillars were cracked. And that noise—the low, steady sound of breathing—echoed between the walls. Not theirs.
Something else.
“Right side,” the man said.
Keith took left without answering. They moved like they’d done this before. Like muscle memory had outpaced fear.
In the center of the room, half-swallowed by shadow, a figure waited. Huge. Hulking. Bent forward like a beast at rest.
“Closer this time,” Keith said, voice quiet.
The man nodded.
The figure stirred.
The dream would break, soon. It always did. Right before they reached it. Right before it revealed its face.
Keith didn’t know what scared him more—that moment finally arriving…
…or the thought that this time, it wouldn’t end.
The figure in the temple rose.
Not slowly. Not like something waking from sleep.
It snapped upright, joints cracking like breaking stone, and it was tall. Taller than any man should be. Armor clung to it in jagged pieces, rusted over with some black corrosion that pulsed faintly in the dark. No face—just a helm split down the center, like something had tried to tear its way out.
Keith’s breath caught in his throat.
The stranger beside him—sword already drawn—stepped forward without hesitation.
“I’ll draw it off,” he said.
Keith grabbed his arm.
“No,” he snapped. “We stay together.”
Something in the man’s eyes changed. A flicker. But he nodded.
The creature let out a guttural rasp, like steel dragged over gravel. Then it moved—far too fast for something so massive, crossing the distance with a single, shuddering leap.
They scattered.
Keith rolled right, tucking behind a shattered altar, heart hammering. The man darted left, his blade carving a streak of light through the shadows as he slashed. Sparks flew. The creature reeled back, but not much.
Not enough.
“Left!” the man shouted.
Keith didn’t hesitate.
He lunged from cover, dagger already in hand—when had he drawn it?—and drove it low into the joint behind the creature’s knee. It roared, jerking violently, and the stranger leapt, slashing again toward its throat.
Their movements were fluid. Too fluid. Like this wasn’t the first time.
Like they’d done this a hundred times before.
Then—
The creature struck the stranger full-force with its fist.
He flew backward, crumpling against the far wall, breath knocked from his lungs in a dull choke.
“Hey!” Keith shouted, running toward him, panic blooming sharp in his chest. “Get up—!”
The creature turned. Its helm cracked open with a low hiss of smoke, and from within, for the first time— Eyes .
Too human. Wrong. Familiar.
Keith froze.
And then—
***
Jesper woke up.
Gasping.
The ceiling above him swam into view—low, wooden beams barely lit by moonlight seeping through the attic window. His lungs heaved like he'd run to Solitude and back, his chest aching with a pressure that wasn’t just from breathlessness.
Sheets tangled at his waist. His shirt was damp. He lay there, unmoving, for a long moment.
What the hell was that ?
He pressed the heel of his palm to his sternum, trying to will the thudding to stop. His sword wasn’t here—of course it wasn’t. No armor, no shield. Just the familiar creak of the wind pushing at the rafters and the faint sounds of Whiterun sleeping below.
It was still dark. Deep night.
Jesper turned his head slightly. The hearth fire was out. Not even embers left.
His mouth was dry. His skin felt too warm, like he’d been there —really there —swinging a blade in that ruined temple, moving in perfect step with someone whose name he didn’t know but whose voice had followed him out of the dream.
"You again."
Jesper exhaled, sharp through his nose.
He didn't know what it meant. Only that it was happening more often now. And every time the dream ended, it left something behind—an echo that didn’t fade like dreams were supposed to.
He rolled onto his side, burying his face in the pillow like it could smother the thought.
The room was too quiet. Too still.
And Jesper? He wasn’t going back to sleep.
Not for a while.
***
Keith woke with a sharp twist of pain in his neck.
He groaned low under his breath, rolling stiffly onto his side, gravel digging into the skin beneath his leathers. The stone steps outside the Temple of Kynareth were cold against his spine. Not exactly a place he would’ve chosen to sleep, but then again… he hadn’t chosen to sleep at all.
His fingers clenched the edge of his hood, dragging it back over his eyes against the pale moonlight above.
Gods, what the fuck was happening to him?
He sat up, slow, careful not to let the stiffness show in his movements—even if no one was watching. The plaza was quiet, almost hollow in its silence. A breeze stirred down from Dragonsreach, tugging at banners and making wooden signs creak against their chains.
Keith pushed to his feet.
Everything ached. His joints, his back, his eyes like he’d been awake for a week and still couldn’t sleep properly. He'd been tired for days, sure, but this? This was something else. He hadn’t even made it out of the Wind District before unconsciousness yanked him under again. Like his body didn’t trust him to keep going.
And the dream…
He shivered once. Not from cold.
He didn’t want to think about the dream. About the creature. Or the man who stood beside him—who always stood beside him. It was getting harder to dismiss it as coincidence.
He shook it off. Adjusted the straps on his armor. Slipped his hands into the pockets of his belt and wandered slowly through the night-slick streets.
Whiterun was never truly empty. A few drunks here and there, or a lone torch-bearing guard making their rounds. But it felt… quieter now. Like the whole city was holding its breath.
He turned a corner near the Gildergreen, intent on doing nothing in particular, when a familiar figure came into view—leaning slightly against a wooden post, arms crossed, one boot braced behind him. Not tense. Not alert. Just… there.
Jesper.
Keith froze for half a heartbeat.
For a second he thought the guard might say something sharp—accuse him of loitering, tailing a mark, breaking some rule about prowling the streets at night.
But Jesper didn’t move like a man on patrol. He wasn’t watching Keith —he was just looking . Somewhere past him. Eyes distant, thoughtful.
No helmet tonight. His hair was a little mussed, wind-swept, and the usual hard set of his mouth had softened in the moonlight. Not enough to make him look kind, but… human . Tired.
Jesper finally glanced his way, but the expression didn’t change much.
“Funny,” Keith said, stepping into the circle of light cast by the brazier near the steps. “It’s the middle of the night. Good guards should be in bed. Why are you up so late?”
Jesper shrugged without uncrossing his arms.
“Can’t sleep.”
Keith quirked a brow beneath his hood.
“Since when do you not sleep like a rock?”
Jesper didn’t answer right away.
Just stared past him again, eyes flicking briefly toward the temple doors where Keith had woken not long ago. Then back to the sky.
“…Since a couple weeks ago.”
His voice was quiet. Not clipped like it usually was. No heat, no suspicion.
Keith waited for the inevitable follow-up: And what about you? What are you doing out here, skulking in the dark?
But it didn’t come. Jesper just let the silence stretch between them, like neither of them had the energy to pretend.
Keith looked down at his hands. They were steady, at least. Not like earlier.
“Well,” he said after a beat, trying to keep his voice light, “if the city’s falling apart, at least we’ll both be too sleep-deprived to stop it.”
Jesper huffed a breath. Not quite a laugh.
But close enough.
Jesper pushed off the post and kept walking, his boots quiet against the stone. The torches lining the walkway hissed softly as he passed, their flickering light throwing long shadows onto the cobblestones.
He didn’t look back. Not at first. But the soft, deliberate footsteps behind him didn’t stop.
Jesper slowed.
“You following me?” he asked without turning.
“Would it kill you to make small talk?” came Keith’s voice, lazy and dry. “I’m bored. Nothing better to do.”
Jesper glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, Keith was there—hands in his belt, hood shadowing his face, moving with that familiar, loose-limbed grace that always looked too casual to be intentional.
The guard raised an eyebrow.
“Right,” Keith added, with the faintest smirk. “Besides, I’m gonna be out of your hair tomorrow anyway.”
Jesper stopped fully this time, turning to face him. The wind caught his tunic, tugging the fabric faintly as he stood beneath the shadow of Jorrvaskr’s towering steps.
“What do you mean?”
Keith shrugged, glancing away like it wasn’t important.
“Thinking of heading back to Riften. For a bit.”
No elaboration. No sly grin, no flippant comment. Just a simple truth, offered without weight.
Jesper nodded slowly, though a faint prickle of something rose in the back of his mind. He wasn’t sure why it caught him off guard. Keith had never been the settling type—never stuck around Whiterun longer than he had to. But something about this felt different.
Final, maybe.
Jesper didn’t ask why. It wasn’t his business.
Still, he turned back around and kept walking—past the mead hall, past the windmill’s slow-turning blades—long strides that didn’t quite shake the strange sensation curling in his gut.
Keith kept pace beside him. Close, but not too close. They didn’t speak again for a while.
The city was silent, but not empty. The wind moved softly through the stone alleys, brushing against signs and rooftops with the hush of distant wings.
Jesper found himself glancing at Keith out of the corner of his eye more than once. Not because he suspected anything—Keith wasn’t acting strange, not in the way that usually set off his instincts. No, it was something else.
Something he couldn’t quite name.
The quiet. The rhythm of their footsteps. The presence at his side. It all felt…
Familiar.
Not in the way someone’s daily habits are familiar. Not in the way Jesper knew how Keith liked to bait him during his patrols, or how he always vanished a second before a crime was discovered.
This was deeper.
A familiarity that didn’t come from memory, but from recognition .
Jesper frowned slightly.
Whatever it was, he couldn’t place it. So he didn’t try. He just kept walking. And Keith didn’t leave.
They walked in silence for a long time, the city wrapped around them like a held breath. Whiterun at night had a different rhythm—slower, quieter. No shouting merchants, no clatter of boots in the market, just the occasional hiss of wind between buildings and the soft creak of timbers settling into the chill.
Jesper didn’t mind the silence. It didn’t feel awkward. It felt… companionable , in a way he hadn’t expected. Like sharing a space without the pressure to fill it.
Keith walked at his side, quiet as ever. Not tense. Not smug. Just there.
Jesper didn’t ask why he hadn’t gone off yet. Didn’t ask why he was still here, walking aimlessly through the city at an hour when even most thieves had called it a night.
And Keith didn’t explain.
They crossed the Gildergreen as its branches swayed faintly in the breeze, passed the sleeping bulk of Jorrvaskr, the Skyforge above glowing like a dying coal under the stars. The world felt like it was holding still.
Then, slowly, the edge of the night began to pale.
A soft blush of light stretched thin across the horizon, turning the inky sky into a wash of deep blue and gray. The stars began to fade.
Jesper exhaled slowly, drawing in the cold air through his nose. “Time to head home,” he said at last, voice low.
Keith only nodded. No quip. No comment.
They came to the fork where the city split—the Bannered Mare down one way, the gates and outer walls up the slope the other.
Jesper hesitated for half a breath, some part of him half-expecting a word, a farewell, anything to give shape to the strange quiet between them. But Keith just turned, boots barely making a sound as he started up toward the gates without a backward glance.
Jesper watched him go until he disappeared from view.
Then he turned down the other path, back toward the Mare.
He pushed open the door with a soft creak and stepped inside. The common room was empty, chairs stacked and hearth cold, and the only light came from the dying embers in the grate. It wasn’t until his boots hit the stairs that it struck him just how heavy his limbs felt.
I’ll take the day off, he thought, dragging himself up each step. Captain can chew me out later. I’ll make up the hours.
He barely made it to the attic.
Jesper closed the door behind him and would have stripped off his gear if not for the incredible exhaustion creeping in. He barely made it to the bed before he was being pulled back under.
He dropped onto the mattress and was asleep before his head even touched the pillow.
***
Up above, past the guard post and winding outer stairs of the wall, Keith had reached the small, tucked-away space he used above the city gates—a hideaway only someone like him would think to claim. It wasn’t much, just a few planks, a narrow cot, and enough shelter to keep the worst of the rain off. But it was quiet, and it was his.
He sat on the edge of the bed for a long while, rubbing the back of his neck where it ached. The stone had been rough against his spine when he’d slumped outside the temple. That was new—he never used to just pass out like that.
Not until recently.
The sky beyond the parapet was already shifting, streaks of dawn trailing soft gold over the land. Keith watched them for a beat.
Then he lay back, arms folded behind his head, and closed his eyes.
Sleep came easy.
And somewhere, just at the edge of consciousness, the dream found them both.
***
The sky bled colors that didn’t belong to any hour.
It was neither sunrise nor sunset—just a suspended twilight, soft and endless, with pale clouds painted in bruised gold and violet drifting overhead. A field stretched beneath it, tall grass rippling in waves as if stirred by an invisible tide. Somewhere distant, a bird called—a long, echoing cry that faded too slowly.
Jesper stood in the middle of it all, boots brushing through the grass. There was no breeze on his skin, but the grass swayed anyway. No sound of his own footsteps, just the steady thrum of silence.
He looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers. He could feel the dirt, the chill in the air. It was a dream, but not like the usual kind. Not the ones full of fire and screams. Not the ones with teeth.
But still, this one had weight.
And like usual, he wasn’t alone.
Across the field, half-shrouded by the haze of distant light, a figure appeared—leaning against a low, crumbled stone wall that hadn’t been there a second ago. Jesper’s breath caught, the air suddenly sharp in his lungs.
Brown leather. Hood drawn low. That familiar slouch like he was always halfway between a joke and a threat.
Jesper stepped forward, grass brushing his calves.
The figure turned at the sound—or maybe the shift in the world—and straightened. The mask was still up, but the hood slipped just slightly, just enough for the lantern-light of the dream to catch the curve of his jaw beneath the mask.
Jesper didn’t say anything. Neither did Keith.
But they knew.
Recognition passed between them in a single, still moment.
Not shock. Not confusion. Just— oh . Like remembering a name you never knew you’d forgotten.
Keith tilted his head slightly, his gaze unreadable beneath the hood’s shadow. “You again,” he said. Voice the same as always, dry and almost bored, but the edge was dulled. “What is this, the third time now?”
Jesper stopped a few paces away. “Fourth maybe,” he said, brow furrowing. “If you count the time in the ruins.”
Keith made a quiet sound that could’ve been a laugh or just breath.
“You always show up in these,” Jesper said after a beat, gaze drifting to the sky again. “It’s weird.”
Keith shrugged, brushing a thumb over the worn leather of his glove. “Could say the same about you.”
Neither of them moved for a while. The dream wasn’t pulling them anywhere this time—not yet. Just letting them sit in this strange, too-soft world where nothing quite fit and everything seemed to hold its breath.
Finally, Keith spoke again. “You ever notice… this place changes every time?”
Jesper glanced around. The stone wall was gone now, vanished between blinks. A lone tree had grown up behind them, white blossoms blooming like frost.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s never the same.”
“Except us,” Keith murmured, almost too quietly.
Jesper looked at him, but Keith wasn’t meeting his eyes.
He didn’t push it.
Instead, he moved to sit beneath the tree, back resting against the trunk. After a moment, Keith followed, boots crunching through the grass.
They sat in silence, side by side beneath the unreal sky. The dream didn’t end. The danger didn’t come—yet.
For now, it just let them be there.
Together.
The silence began to stretch.
At first, it was just stillness—the kind that felt earned, almost welcome, like sitting in the quiet after a long storm. Jesper let his head tip back against the tree, eyes half-closed. Keith sat beside him with his arms resting over his knees, the edge of his hood low over his face. The dream usually didn’t offer them calm.
Then the stillness tilted.
The air grew heavy. Not colder—just dense, as if something unseen had slipped into the space between them and the horizon. The color bled from the sky slowly, like dusk being wrung dry, violet draining to gray.
Jesper sat forward.
“…Do you feel that?” he asked, but even as the words left his mouth, he already knew the answer.
Keith was standing before Jesper could finish the sentence.
The tree behind them let out a low, shuddering groan. Its white blossoms curled in on themselves, shriveling. One by one, the petals began to fall—not gently, not like snow, but fast, too fast, striking the ground and vanishing into ash.
Jesper scrambled up beside Keith, sword drawn from nowhere—because dreams never needed scabbards. Keith’s twin daggers were already in his hands, curved and sharp and flickering at the edges like they weren’t entirely made of metal.
A sound rose in the distance.
It was low at first. A scrape, like something dragging over stone. Then another. And another. Each one closer than the last.
Jesper turned toward the horizon. The tall grass rippled—but not from wind. It parted.
Something was moving.
A figure stepped into view. Tall, thin, and impossibly wrong. It didn’t walk so much as glide, shoulders hunched, arms long enough that its hands trailed through the grass like claws. No face. Just skin stretched tight over a head with no eyes, no mouth—only the suggestion of features, as if someone had started to carve a face and then stopped.
Jesper’s voice dropped low. “That’s the one from the ruins.”
Keith nodded, tense. “It’s faster this time.”
The creature twitched, once, and then snapped forward—impossibly quick. Grass flew in all directions, a gust of black wind surging with it.
Jesper met it with a shout and steel. Their blades clashed in the air, the thing shrieking without sound, a pressure against the skull rather than the ears. Keith lunged from the side, slicing across where a shoulder should’ve been, but the thing didn’t flinch.
It fought like something not used to being touched. Unnatural angles. Sharp movements. No pain.
Jesper’s sword scraped against its limb, and in the dream’s logic, sparks flew—but the creature didn’t slow. It grabbed Jesper by the chest and flung him like he weighed nothing.
He hit the ground hard, sliding through blackened grass, vision flickering.
“Jesper!” Keith’s voice rang sharp.
The creature turned, zeroing in on him now.
Keith stood his ground—but he was breathing hard, slower than usual. A hesitation in his movement. He slashed again, quick and clean, but not as deep. Not as sharp.
The fatigue crept in even here.
Jesper pushed himself up, staggering to his feet just as the creature lunged—
—and then the world cracked.
A soundless shatter. Like glass breaking inside their heads.
Jesper jolted upright in his bed.
Sweat clung to his skin, and his sheets were twisted like he’d been fighting in his sleep. Moonlight spilled in through the window, painting silver lines across the attic ceiling.
His heart thundered in his chest. His hand curled in the sheets, breath catching.
He didn’t know what had woken him.
But the sense of danger hadn’t faded. Not completely.
And somewhere—he could almost still feel the scrape of that thing’s claws, the press of Keith’s shoulder beside his, the rush of fighting side by side.
Even if it was just a dream.
***
Keith woke with a sharp inhale and a dry mouth, like he'd been holding his breath for too long. His fingers curled instinctively into the threadbare blanket beneath him, the stiff fabric scratching against his skin as he blinked into the dark.
The wooden beams of his hideaway above Whiterun’s gates greeted him with familiar angles—silent, unmoving, still as the grave. A lantern flickered low in the corner, long since burned down to embers, casting just enough glow to let the shadows keep their secrets.
His body ached, all through his spine and neck, muscles tight from sleeping at a strange angle. He winced and sat up slowly, pressing the heel of his palm to his temple. The dull pounding behind his eyes wasn’t new—but something about it now felt different.
His chest was still heaving like he’d run miles.
That dream.
Again.
But this time…
His breath caught.
Jesper.
It had been Jesper. Not some figment, not some blurred, handsome silhouette that could’ve been anyone. It was Jesper. Guard armor, that melodic, even voice that sounded like silk and wind chimes. The way he moved—deliberate, solid, just a little hesitant when he thought no one noticed.
It had been him.
Keith sat there a long moment, the realization hanging over him like a cloak he didn’t remember putting on. Slowly, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands gripping the sides of his head like that might steady the swirl of thoughts trying to settle in his chest.
He let out a breath.
Had it always been Jesper?
Had he been too tired to notice? Too stupid?
His mouth quirked, not in amusement exactly—just in disbelief. “Figures,” he muttered to no one.
He ran a hand over his face, tried to sit with the thought. Jesper. The man who barely tolerated him on the best days. The man who followed the rules so tightly it was a wonder his spine didn’t creak with the weight of all that duty. The man who walked with the weight of the city on his shoulders and still made room for quiet kindness when no one was looking.
Keith had dreamed of that man. Again and again. They’d fought together. Bleeding. Breathing. Side by side.
He glanced toward the sky above him, the night air cool and still.
It was dark.
He’d slept the entire day. Hours gone. At least he had been in bed this time. No sense of drifting. Just… the weight of exhaustion folding him in half like paper.
Keith exhaled.
Jesper had been the last person he saw before it happened.
They’d walked the streets together. No accusations, no handcuffs, no sidelong glances. Just the soft hush of footsteps and comfortable silence.
He rubbed the back of his neck and let his eyes close briefly.
Maybe it made sense that the man from his dreams looked like Jesper this time. That his tired, half-broken brain just filled in the last face he’d seen and folded it into the same story it had been telling him every night.
…Or maybe it was always Jesper.
He wasn’t sure which thought unsettled him more. Keith leaned back against the wall, staring up at the twin moons like they might offer some sort of clarity. But all they offered was silence and the steady, thudding echo of a heart that had started beating just a little faster.
***
His room was dark, lit only by a pale wedge of moonlight slanting in through the attic window. A breeze shifted the edge of the curtain, and the world beyond it was quiet. Still. Deceptively peaceful.
Jesper lay still for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the slow drum of his heartbeat in his ears. His sheets were tangled around his legs, the back of his neck damp with sweat.
Another one. Same place. Same… figure.
Jesper rolled onto his side and scrubbed a hand over his face. This was getting out of hand.
It had started small—just a strange dream, recurring now and then. But lately, it was every night. Every time he shut his eyes, he was right back there, that forested dreamspace filled with unease, that looming presence always chasing the edges of his mind. And that same damned man. That same voice.
The same face .
He didn’t know why his brain kept conjuring up Keith of all people. Of all the people in Whiterun to dream about, why him ?
Jesper sat up with a grunt and let his feet hit the floor. His boots were still on. Right. He had barely made it into bed before sleep had dragged him under. Again.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, head hanging.
“Maybe I’m just sick,” he muttered to himself. “Caught something off one of those merchants from out of town or… I don’t know.”
He remembered Kevin and Dave giving him a hard time earlier that morning. Kevin had even half-joked about dragging him to the Temple of Kynareth, and at the time Jesper had laughed it off, mumbled something about sleep being for the weak.
But now?
Now he wasn’t so sure. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just lack of sleep. He was getting sleep. Too much sleep, in fact—he just wasn’t rested. He was exhausted in a way that sleep didn’t fix and the dreams were starting to feel too vivid. Too real . That didn’t sit right with him.
Jesper stood and walked to the small washbasin in the corner, splashing water on his face with shaking fingers. He stared at his reflection in the rippling surface—shadow-eyed and pale, like someone had pulled his soul half out of his body and forgotten to put it back.
He exhaled slowly.
Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he’d stop by the temple. Just to be safe.
He didn’t want to admit it, but the idea of something wrong with him was beginning to take root. Something deeper than bad dreams.
And still…
Even as he dried his face on a scrap of linen and sank down onto the edge of his bed again, he couldn’t shake the memory of those eyes—sharp and amused and too familiar. A voice that had sounded real enough to echo long after waking.
Keith.
He’d always been a pain in Jesper’s side, but…
Jesper shook his head. No. He would go to the temple at first light.
***