I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

The midday sun cast long shadows across Helgen's newly rebuilt marketplace. Inside his office, Ibnor hunched over a stack of parchments, the quill scratching across the rough surface a counterpoint to the distant clang of a smith's hammer. A knock echoed through the room, startling him.

"Come in," he called, straightening in his chair.

The door creaked open, revealing a young guard, his face creased with an apologetic frown. "My Lord," he stammered, "forgive the interruption, but you have visitors. Two women."

Ibnor raised an eyebrow. "Visitors? Do they have names?"

The guard shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "No, my Lord. But… one has red hair and green eyes. Looks like she's seen her share of battles. The other has black hair, and… well, she looks like she knows her way around a sword too."

A jolt of recognition shot through Ibnor. Red hair, green eyes… Harin. The image of her striking face, framed by those fiery locks, flashed through his mind. A smile tugged at his lips. 

"Let them in," he instructed, his voice warmer than he intended.

As the guard retreated, the memory of their brief, stolen kiss in the dimly lit Ragged Flagon surfaced, a pleasant warmth spreading through him. He leaned back in his chair, a genuine smile now playing on his lips.

The door opened again, and Harin stepped into the room. She was even more striking than he remembered. Her red hair, touched by the sunlight streaming in from the doorway, seemed to glow with an inner fire. Her green eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept across the room, finally settling on him. The worn leather of her armor spoke of countless journeys and battles, but it couldn't conceal the strength and grace of her form. Beside her, Lydia followed, a stark contrast with her dark hair pulled back in a severe style. Her dark eyes were equally alert, and the way her hand rested near the hilt of her sword suggested a readiness that spoke volumes. She was a warrior in every sense of the word, her beauty a hard, practical kind, forged in the fires of experience.

Ibnor rose to his feet, his smile widening. "Harin," he said, his voice laced with genuine pleasure. "I was wondering when you'd arrive."

Ibnor opened his arms, and Harin stepped into his embrace. There was a moment of genuine warmth, a brief connection that spoke of shared experiences and a spark of something more. But before the moment could linger, they drew apart. As Ibnor pulled back, his gaze fell upon Illia, who stood near the hearth, her eyes fixed intently on Harin. There was something unreadable in her expression, a flicker of… what? Curiosity? Apprehension? Something else entirely.

Harin, sensing the shift in atmosphere, followed Ibnor's gaze. She met Illia's eyes, a silent assessment passing between them. Harin then glanced at Ibnor, then back at Illia, as if trying to decipher the unspoken exchange. Illia mirrored her actions, her eyes seeming to ask a silent question. Harin's gaze then dropped to Ibnor's left wrist, where a simple leather bracelet held a distinctive, teardrop-shaped gem, its facets catching the light. A smile touched her lips, but it wasn't a warm, welcoming smile. It was a smile that held a hint of knowing, perhaps even a touch of challenge.

Ibnor suppressed a sigh. This was more complicated than he had anticipated. "Harin," he said, gesturing towards the other two women, "allow me to introduce you. This is Illia, my steward, and Rayya, my housecarl." He then turned to Illia and Rayya. "And these are Harin, and her… companion, Lydia." He paused, searching for the right word. "Lydia is also… a skilled warrior."

Ibnor decided a change of subject was desperately needed. He clapped his hands together. "Come," he said, turning towards a side door. "Let's eat. You've both had a long journey."

The dining hall was warm and inviting, the air thick with the aroma of roasted meat and spiced wine. As they settled around the table, the atmosphere began to relax slightly. Ibnor gestured to the food, encouraging them to eat.

As they ate, Harin recounted her journey. She spoke of the biting wind that whipped across the slopes of High Hrothgar, the thin air that burned her lungs with every breath, the echoing silence broken only by the crunch of her boots on the crisp snow. She described the treacherous climb, the dizzying heights, and the breathtaking panorama from the summit. Then, her voice softening, she spoke of Paarthurnax.

"He told me the Throat of the World… it was a battleground," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, her eyes distant and focused on some unseen point. "Where the ancient Nords fought Alduin. Dragonrend… it wasn't enough. They used an Elder Scroll. Created a Time-Wound… to cast him forward." A shiver ran through her, a visible reminder of the weight of the dragon's history. 

"Paarthurnax believes I need to find that same scroll. Open the wound again. Learn the full power of Dragonrend from the Nords who first used it."

She paused, taking a sip of wine. The ruby liquid caught the candlelight, momentarily illuminating her face. 

"To find the scroll," she continued, her voice regaining some of its former strength, "I need to speak with Esbern… at Sky Haven Temple."

The name hung in the air, heavy with shared history. Esbern. Their shared quest in Riften. The desperate flight through the Ratway. And then… their kiss. The memory of that brief, intense moment, a spark ignited in the midst of chaos, now lingered between them, adding another layer of complexity to the already tense atmosphere.

"Sky Haven Temple…" Ibnor repeated, the memory of the Ragged Flagon, the press of Harin's lips against his, returning with a bittersweet mix of longing and apprehension. The image was vivid: the dimly lit tavern, the urgency of their situation, the unexpected intimacy of that moment.

"Yes," Harin confirmed, her green eyes meeting his, holding a question and a plea. "I was hoping… would you come with me?"

Ibnor's pulse quickened at the directness of her request. He imagined traveling alongside her once more, facing dangers shoulder to shoulder, the potential for their connection to deepen. But the image of Helgen, its still-rising walls, the faces of the townsfolk who depended on him, flashed before his eyes, a stark reminder of his responsibilities. He hesitated, his gaze drifting towards the window, where the last rays of the setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple.

A hand, surprisingly firm, settled on his arm. It was Illia. 

"You should go, my Lord," she said, her voice soft yet resolute, cutting through his internal debate. "Rayya and I can manage. The town is secure. This… this is important."

Ibnor turned to her, surprised by the intensity in her usually calm eyes. It wasn't just the dutiful pronouncements of a steward; he saw genuine concern there, a flicker of something deeper that he couldn't quite decipher. He turned back to Harin. She had watched the exchange between him and Illia with an unreadable expression, a flicker of that knowing smile playing on her lips, as if she understood the unspoken dynamics at play.

He took a deep breath, the decision solidifying in his mind. 

"Alright," he said, meeting Harin's gaze with newfound resolve. "I'll go with you." 

A wave of relief washed over him, the anticipation of adventure and reconnection momentarily eclipsing the weight of his responsibilities. But beneath the surface, a subtle sense of foreboding lingered, a premonition that this journey would be far more complex than he could possibly imagine.

"Good. We'll make preparations," Ibnor said, his mind already turning to the logistics of their upcoming journey: supplies, provisions, the necessary arrangements for Helgen in his absence. He looked at Harin. "You should rest. A few days should do it."

Harin nodded, a hint of weariness lingering in her eyes, a shadow that belied the fire that usually burned so brightly within them. But beneath the fatigue, her gaze held a spark, a restless energy that suggested she wouldn't be content to remain idle for long. 

"That sounds wise," she agreed, though the words lacked conviction, as if her mind was already elsewhere. 

She watched as Ibnor turned back to the maps spread across his table, his brow furrowed in concentration, already absorbed in the details of their route. A small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips, a whisper of impatience or perhaps a deeper, unspoken concern.

Later that evening, after the meal had been cleared, the servants had retired, and the hall was cloaked in a quiet stillness, Ibnor found himself restless. He'd tried to focus on the maps spread across his table, tracing potential routes with his finger, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Harin, to the shared history that bound them, and to the uncertain journey that lay ahead. He couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to speak with her, to ensure she truly was alright, to understand the weight of what she carried. As if summoned by his thoughts, a soft knock echoed on his door, breaking the silence of the night.

He turned from the maps, his heart giving a small, anticipatory thump. 

"Yes?"

Harin stood in the doorway, the dim light of the hallway behind her outlining her silhouette, casting her in a soft, ethereal glow. The weariness from earlier had vanished, replaced by a familiar, playful glint in her eyes, a mischievous spark that Ibnor knew well. 

"Interested in some after-meal exercise?" she asked, a subtle challenge woven into her tone, a silent invitation to escape the confines of the keep and the weight of their responsibilities, if only for a short while.

A smile touched Ibnor's lips. It was a welcome distraction, a chance to clear his head and connect with Harin on a more personal level. 

"Sure," he replied, a sense of anticipation rising within him.

Under the silvery light of the moon, on the training grounds just outside Helgen's newly erected walls, the only sounds were the soft whisper of the wind as it rustled through the tall grass and the distant hoot of an owl echoing across the valley. Harin began to stretch, her movements fluid and graceful, a testament to years of training and countless battles. Ibnor mirrored her movements, the familiar stretches easing the tension in his muscles. A heavy silence hung between them, a silence that was not uncomfortable, but rather a quiet space where unspoken thoughts and feelings could reside.

"I hope you've improved," she said, a challenging edge sharpening her voice.

"I aim to," Ibnor replied, sensing this was more than just a friendly spar, a way to release pent-up energy. This was a conversation conducted through movement, a dance of unspoken words and simmering emotions.

"So," Harin began, throwing a quick jab towards Ibnor's face, a feint designed to test his reflexes. "Illia, huh?"

Ibnor deflected the punch with a practiced downward parry, his movements precise and economical. 

"Yes, Illia."

"Another one of your… aims?" Harin's voice was light, almost teasing, but a definite undercurrent of something else – jealousy? Curiosity? – ran beneath it. She used the momentum of the deflected punch to spin into a swift back kick, her heel aimed at Ibnor's ribs.

"She needed guidance," Ibnor corrected, blocking the kick with his forearm, the impact jarring his bones slightly. "I helped her… aim for a different future. After her mother…" He trailed off, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the cool night air, a shared understanding of loss and the weight of responsibility.

"Now she has no one but me," he continued, pivoting into a sharp elbow strike aimed at Harin's shoulder, his movements becoming more forceful, mirroring the rising intensity of their exchange.

"And you aim to be everything she needs?" Harin parried the elbow with a sharp block and immediately followed with a quick, snapping punch aimed at Ibnor's jaw.

"I aim to support her," Ibnor said, ducking under the punch and sweeping his leg out in a low kick, attempting to unbalance her.

"A rather… direct aim," Harin retorted, leaping gracefully over his leg, her movements demonstrating both power and agility.

"Sometimes, a direct aim is necessary," Ibnor finished, spinning into a follow-up low kick, forcing her to retreat.

"You have a tendency to get…" Harin said, jumping back, landing lightly and using the momentum to spring back to her feet, a sharp punch grazing Ibnor's temple as she rose, a reminder of her speed and precision. She then immediately launched a powerful front kick towards Ibnor's chest, a move designed to knock him off balance.

"Aimed at certain individuals," she finished as Ibnor caught her extended leg, the force of the kick still sending a jolt through his arms.

"That's not my aim," Ibnor countered, holding her leg firmly but not roughly.

With her right leg trapped, Harin, displaying incredible agility, jumped on her left foot, twisting in mid-air and unleashing a spinning heel kick aimed at Ibnor's head, a move that spoke of desperation and a refusal to be restrained.

The kick connected with a solid thud, sending Ibnor stumbling back, his head snapping to the side. He landed heavily on the soft earth, the air whooshing from his lungs, momentarily winded. Harin immediately checked her momentum, her warrior's instincts giving way to concern, a flicker of worry crossing her face.

"The aim's a bit off," Ibnor said, grinning up at her, though his ribs throbbed and his head spun slightly.

Harin's lips curved into a genuine smile, the tension of their spar dissipating. "As if I'd believe that," she said, her voice laced with amusement. She extended a hand towards him.

Ibnor met her gaze, a slow smile spreading across his face as the adrenaline faded. He grasped her hand, her grip firm and strong, and she effortlessly pulled him to his feet. "You're a whirlwind, Harin," he said, still slightly breathless, admiration evident in his voice.

"Whirlwinds are born from storms," Harin replied, her smile fading slightly, the playful glint in her eyes dimming. A shadow crossed her features—a fleeting glimpse of a harsh past, a demanding instructor, a life lived on the edge. The shadow vanished as quickly as it came, her smile returning, but now tinged with a touch of melancholy, a hint of the burdens she carried beneath her fierce exterior.

The next few days were a whirlwind of activity. Ibnor, ever the pragmatist, delegated tasks to Rayya and Illia, meticulously ensuring Helgen's continued stability in his absence. He spent hours poring over maps with Harin, charting their course to Sky Haven Temple, discussing potential dangers and alternate routes. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of preparation, they were ready. They bid farewell to Helgen's inhabitants, leaving Lydia behind as a further assurance of the town's safety, a reassuring presence in their absence.

The climb to Sky Haven Temple was a brutal test of endurance. The air thinned with every upward step, making each breath a painful struggle. Jagged rocks and loose scree threatened to send them tumbling down the steep mountainside, each step a precarious dance between balance and gravity. By the time they reached the summit, their lungs burned with the effort, and their legs trembled with exhaustion. But the sight that greeted them was breathtaking, a reward for their arduous climb. Sky Haven Temple stood proudly against the vast expanse of the sky, a weathered monument of gray stone, a silent testament to a forgotten age of dragon slayers.

Inside, the main chamber was vast and echoing, a cavernous space that amplified every sound. The flickering light from the braziers, strategically placed along the walls, danced across the intricate carvings of Alduin's Wall, revealing vivid scenes of epic battles and mythical dragons, but also casting deep, ominous shadows in the corners, adding to the temple's imposing atmosphere. Worn but still vibrant rugs, remnants of a richer past, softened the cold stone floor, providing a small measure of comfort. An iron greatsword, its blade dulled by time but still radiating a sense of power, lay on the long table before the wall, a silent sentinel guarding the secrets etched in stone.

Esbern wasn't in the main chamber. They found him and Delphine on a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley below, a vantage point that offered a panoramic view of the surrounding landscape. They stood perfectly still, their gazes fixed on the distant horizon, as if entranced by some unseen spectacle. Approaching quietly, Ibnor overheard Esbern's strained, almost whispered voice, his words laced with a deep sense of dread.

"I used to dream of it," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "In the dream, I was standing… someplace high up… a tower, or a mountain. It was always just before dawn. The whole world was in darkness. Then came the flash of light – just on the horizon, within the clouds that mark the border between worlds. It could have been lightning, but there was no thunder. In the dream, the sense of foreboding grew, an oppressive weight pressing down on me, but I could never wake up. Then it came again, this time more distinct. Closer. Definitely not lightning now. It was orange – brilliant orange, the color of hearth and dawn, but twisted, corrupted. And a sound, too. Distinct and indistinct. Not thunder… something else. Something I should recognize, but in the dream I cannot place it. I want to leave my high place, to seek shelter, to flee. From what, I don't yet know. In the manner of dreams, I cannot escape. I'm forced to wait and watch, paralyzed by fear. Then, finally, realization and horror arrive together, a crushing wave of understanding. The orange is flame, searing heat. The sound a roar, a challenge in their ancient tongue, a sound that shakes the very foundations of the world. But now it's too late for escape. The dragon is upon me – fire and darkness descending like a thunderbolt, consuming everything in its path. And not just any dragon, but the Dragon – Alduin, the World-Eater, the dragon who devours both the living and the dead, the end of all things." Esbern trailed off, his shoulders slumping slightly, the weight of his vision pressing down on him.

Only then, after a long, drawn-out moment of silence, did he seem to register their presence. He blinked, his eyes refocusing as if he were emerging from a deep trance, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to him.

"Ah, you're back," he said, his voice regaining its usual sharp edge, a thin veneer of normalcy masking the fear that still lingered in his eyes. "I hope you've made some progress on tracking down this Shout we need to defeat Alduin?"

"We need an Elder Scroll to learn Dragonrend," Harin explained, the weight of the revelation settling over the room.

Esbern's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise and understanding crossing his aged features. 

"Ah, indeed? That's a… a significant undertaking. Not the kind of thing you'll find tucked away in your local bookshop," he said, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. "Let me think… Perhaps the College of Winterhold. What learning there is in Skyrim, is gathered there, within its ancient halls. One of the mages there, with their extensive knowledge of arcane lore, may be able to put you on the trail of this elusive Elder Scroll."

"The College of Winterhold. It's our best lead," Harin affirmed, turning to Ibnor, her green eyes meeting his with a look that spoke of shared purpose and unwavering determination. "Are you ready for another journey?"

Ibnor nodded, his jaw set with grim determination. This quest, this desperate fight against the World-Eater, had taken them from the shadowed depths of Riften to the windswept heights of Sky Haven Temple, and now it would lead them to the heart of Skyrim's magical community, a place of arcane secrets and powerful mages. He glanced back at Alduin's Wall, the flickering light from the braziers making the carved figures seem to writhe and shift, as if the ancient stories etched in stone were about to come to life. The prophecy no longer felt like a distant legend, but a tangible path unfolding before them, each step leading them closer to a confrontation with destiny.

"You should leave at once," Esbern urged, his voice regaining its urgency, the weight of the world pressing down on him. "Every moment we delay gives Alduin more time to regain his strength, to solidify his grip on this world."

As they prepared to depart, Harin paused before a weapon rack, her attention drawn to a particular ancient blade. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the blade, tracing the intricate runes etched along its length. Her breath hitched slightly, as if she recognized something familiar, something deeply resonant within the weapon. 

"This…" she whispered, her voice barely audible, filled with a sense of awe and wonder. "This feels… important."

Ibnor joined her, studying the sword with a keen eye. It was unadorned, purely functional in its design, but a palpable energy radiated from it, a sense of history and purpose thrumming beneath the cold steel. A small inscription near the hilt caught his eye. The characters were unfamiliar, angular and sharp, unlike any script he had seen before. Then, a memory surfaced from the depths of his mind—a whispered legend, a tale of a legendary blade: The Dragonbane Blade.

"Do you know what it is?" he asked Esbern, pointing to the strange inscription, hoping the old scholar could shed some light on the mystery.

Esbern peered at the inscription, his brow furrowed in deep concentration, his eyes scanning the ancient symbols.

"It's… an ancient Nord script," he murmured, his voice hushed with awe, as if he were deciphering a sacred text. "I haven't seen this particular dialect in centuries. It speaks of… 'the blood of the dragon, the bane of the world-eater.'" He looked up at Harin, a flicker of understanding dawning in his eyes, a realization that this was no mere weapon.

"It seems this temple has more to offer than just Alduin's Wall," he said, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice.

Harin nodded slowly, her fingers tightening around the sword's grip, as if testing its balance, feeling its weight in her hand. It felt as though it was made for her, perfectly balanced and responsive.

"Perhaps it's meant for you," Ibnor suggested, a sense of destiny hanging in the air.

Harin met his gaze, a spark of resolve igniting in her green eyes, a fire that mirrored the dragon's flames they were destined to face. A slow, confident smile touched her lips. 

"Perhaps it is," she affirmed, her voice filled with newfound certainty. With a practiced movement, she secured the blade to her back, the scabbard thudding softly against her armor, a silent promise of the battles to come.

With the Dragonbane Blade secured, they left Sky Haven Temple behind, descending the treacherous mountain paths and setting their sights on Winterhold. The journey, while long and physically demanding, was uneventful. The shared purpose that bound them, coupled with a comfortable, quiet companionship, eased the miles. They found a natural rhythm in their travels, sharing stories of past adventures and comfortable silences as the diverse landscape of Skyrim unfolded before them.

Finally, the crumbling remnants of Winterhold came into view. They followed the main road west through the town, passing the few remaining inhabitants who cast wary, suspicious glances their way. The atmosphere was heavy with resentment and a lingering sense of loss, a palpable reminder of the Great Collapse that had ravaged the city. Before them stretched the narrow, precarious stone bridge, the only remaining link connecting the ravaged town to the seemingly untouched College, perched precariously on the cliff edge. Standing at the bridge's entrance was a tall, elegant figure. Her posture was regal, her features sharp and refined, betraying her High Elf heritage. She wore the distinctive blue robes of the College, the intricate embroidery shimmering subtly in the harsh light, a stark contrast to the roughspun fabrics of the townsfolk. An air of ancient wisdom and potent magic radiated from her, a subtle aura of power that set her apart.

As they approached, she greeted them with a formal nod, her pale, almost luminous eyes assessing them with an unnervingly sharp gaze, as if she could see into their very souls.

"Welcome to the College of Winterhold," she said, her voice clear and resonant, carrying a subtle melodic lilt characteristic of her race. "I am Faralda, one of the senior Wizards here. I trust you found your journey to Winterhold not entirely unpleasant. Now, I must advise you that if your only purpose in being here is to complain about the College, as many are wont to do, you would be far better off speaking with the Jarl of Winterhold. If, however, you seek something more substantial, if you are truly seeking knowledge or guidance, I will be happy to assist you."

Ibnor exchanged a brief glance with Harin before addressing Faralda. 

"We seek knowledge," he said, his voice steady and respectful.

"Is there some specific way I can assist you?" Faralda inquired, her gaze sweeping over them, lingering for a moment on the greatsword strapped to Harin's back, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

"Why would I want to complain about the College?" Ibnor asked, recalling her earlier remark and genuinely curious about the apparent tension between the College and the town.

A subtle tightening of Faralda's lips was the only outward indication of her reaction to his question. "It is no great secret that we have been unjustly blamed for a great many things over the years," she explained, her tone laced with a hint of weariness, as if she had repeated this explanation countless times. 

"The good people of Skyrim, on occasion, would rather pass judgment based on fear and misunderstanding than attempt to understand what we do here, the pursuit of knowledge and the mastery of magic. Thus, we must take certain precautions in order to ensure our own safety and the continuation of our studies."

"Are there many problems with the locals?" Ibnor pressed, wanting to understand the nature of the strained relationship.

Faralda's expression remained composed, but a hint of steel entered her voice, a subtle warning. "No, not recently, at least," she said, her gaze unwavering. "We don't mistake that for acceptance, though. Odds are they're simply too afraid to confront us directly. And frankly, most of us are quite satisfied with that arrangement."

"Why are you out here?" Harin asked, her own gaze steady and direct, cutting to the heart of the matter.

"I am here to assist those who are genuinely seeking the wisdom and knowledge that the College offers," Faralda replied, her tone regaining its formal politeness. "And if, in the process, my presence helps to deter those who might seek to do harm to the College or its inhabitants, then so be it. But the more pertinent question, the one I am most interested in, is: why are you here?"

"May we enter the College?" Ibnor asked directly, cutting through the formalities.

"Perhaps," Faralda said, her eyes narrowing slightly, her gaze assessing them with renewed scrutiny. "But what is it you expect to find within these walls? What is the purpose of your visit?"

"We seek the knowledge of the Elder Scrolls," Harin stated, her voice firm and unwavering, the words hanging in the air with a weight that belied their simple meaning.

Faralda's expression became serious, the playful edge vanishing, replaced by a flicker of something akin to curiosity, perhaps even a hint of respect. 

"Do you?" she asked, her voice low and measured. "It is true that there are some here who have dedicated their lives to studying the accumulated knowledge contained within those ancient texts. But what you seek does not come easily. The power of the Elder Scrolls is immense, and it can destroy those without a strong will, those who are not prepared for the truths they reveal." She paused, her gaze sweeping over them once more, lingering for a moment on Harin. "It would seem that the College possesses what you seek. The question now is what you can offer the College in return. Not just anyone is granted entry within these hallowed halls. Those wishing to enter must demonstrate some degree of skill with magic, a small test, if you will, to prove their worth."

Harin stepped forward, her posture radiating confidence. "Would you grant entry to the Dragonborn?" she asked, meeting Faralda's gaze directly, the question a subtle challenge.

Faralda's eyes widened slightly, a hint of genuine surprise momentarily replacing her usual composed demeanor. "It's been so long since we've had any direct contact with the Greybeards," she murmured, more to herself than to them, as if recalling a distant memory. 

"Do you truly possess the Voice? The Thu'um? I would be… most intrigued to witness such a display." She looked at Harin expectantly, a spark of scholarly fascination lighting her eyes. "If it's true, and you do indeed possess the power of the Voice, would you mind demonstrating it for me? I've never had the opportunity to witness it first-hand."

Harin took a deep breath, focusing her will, drawing upon the power that resided within her very being. A low growl rumbled in her throat, building in intensity, vibrating the air around them. Then, with a sudden release of energy, she unleashed the Shout.

"FUS!!"

The force of the Shout sent a powerful gust of wind whipping across the bridge, stirring Faralda's robes and causing her long, silver hair to billow around her face like a swirling cloud. The sound echoed across the desolate landscape, reverberating off the distant mountains, a testament to the raw power of the Thu'um.

"That proves I have the Voice," Harin stated simply once the echoes had died down, her expression calm and composed.

Faralda's eyes were wide with a mixture of awe and scholarly fascination, her initial skepticism completely dispelled. 

"So the stories are true…" she exclaimed, a hint of wonder in her voice. "You are truly Dragonborn! This is… remarkable. I believe there is much that we can learn from each other." A subtle smile touched her lips, a genuine expression of welcome.

"Well done indeed. I believe you will be a valuable addition to the College," she continued, her tone now warm and inviting. "Welcome, Apprentice. I'll lead you across the bridge. Once you're inside, you'll want to speak with Urag gro-Shub regarding your inquiries. He is our resident expert on ancient texts and lore. Please, follow me."

As they began to cross the narrow stone bridge, with the chasm yawning below, Ibnor asked, "Who is Urag gro-Shub?"

"He's the Master-Wizard here," Faralda explained, her gaze fixed ahead as she led them across the precarious pathway. "He's also the Master Librarian of the Arcanaeum, our vast library. He's… a bit peculiar regarding the books and tomes under his care. You'd do well to remember that. Treat the books with respect, and you'll find him a valuable ally. Disrespect them, and… well, let's just say you wouldn't want to be on his bad side."