The golden badge of Whiterun's Thane still felt foreign pinned to her armor as Thalia walked down the steps of Dragonsreach. Lydia followed silently, every inch the dutiful housecarl, though her eyes occasionally flicked toward Thalia with curiosity and respect.
Thalia's mind, however, wasn't on her new title or her housecarl. It was on the familiar weight on her back — her sword — and how it never truly felt right. Her strikes always felt a second too slow, a swing too wide, and in the fight against the dragon, she had to rely more on instinct and her lightning than the blade in her hand.
A spear. That's what she needed. That's what felt like her.
She knew exactly who to see.
---
The clang of metal striking metal rang out before she even reached Jorrvaskr. The air around the ancient Skyforge was hotter, the smoke from the forge swirling against the pale sky. And standing before the glowing anvil was Yorland Greymane, sleeves rolled, muscles corded with effort as he hammered a glowing bar of metal into shape.
He didn't look up when she approached.
"Back so soon, girl?" he grunted, shaping the metal like it was clay. "That sword still holding up?"
"Barely," Thalia replied honestly. "But I didn't come here for repairs. I came for something else."
Yorland finally looked up, his weathered face squinting against the smoke. "Oh?"
"I want a spear," Thalia said. "Something fast, precise — something that fits me."
Yorland eyed her for a long moment, then grunted thoughtfully. "Can't say I forge spears often. Skyrim favors blades and axes. But…"
He turned, stepping toward a rack of raw ingots — Skyforge steel. "There's something in your stance. The way you carry that sword like it's waiting to betray you. Yeah. A spear suits you."
He paused, then chuckled. "You've got the coin?"
Thalia nodded, pulling a pouch from her belt — the Jarl's reward for the dragon, plus what she'd saved from Riverwood and a few lucky finds.
Yorland took it, tested the weight, then grinned.
"Then you'll have your spear."
---
The process took hours. Yorland didn't rush. Each ingot was heated until it glowed white-hot, hammered with rhythmic precision. Thalia watched in fascination as the weapon took shape — not a simple hunting spear, but a true warrior's weapon. A Skyforge-forged spearhead, leaf-bladed with a narrowed point for piercing through armor. A shaft reinforced with a dragonbone core she hadn't even seen him pull out.
"Figured a dragon slayer deserves dragonbone," Yorland said casually, as if it was nothing.
He bound the grip in storm-grey leather, wrapping it tight around a weighted haft. "Perfect balance. Strong enough to parry a warhammer, fast enough to outpace a saber cat."
Finally, he held it out to her.
Thalia took the spear reverently. The moment her fingers closed around it, she knew. This was right. The weight, the feel, the shape — it was as if a part of her had been missing until now.
Electricity flickered along her fingertips as if the weapon itself responded to her storm-born blood.
"You've got the look of a warrior now," Yorland said with a nod. "One who knows her weapon. Use it well."
She gave him a rare, small smile. "I will."
---
The Wind is Calling
That night, Thalia stood on the edge of Whiterun, spear strapped to her back, the stars gleaming high above. The dragon soul still pulsed faintly inside her, and the single word — Fus — still echoed in the back of her mind.
But now, something else called to her — from the mountains to the northeast. The Greybeards had summoned her.
The path ahead was unknown. Dangerous. But she was no longer wandering blindly.
She was Dragonborn.
And she was ready.