Sasha and Hild

Breezehome is quiet this morning—peaceful in a way Whiterun rarely is. The war's echoes have faded, and the house now holds only the sound of shifting armor and the soft breath of women who once fought on opposite sides.

Hild is already awake. You hear her before you see her—heavy footfalls on wooden planks, the metallic clink of her belt and bracelets, the low, wordless hum of an old Nord battle hymn. She stands by the hearth, sharpening a greatsword with slow, deliberate strokes. Her broad back is bare save for the braided cascade of ginger hair and the white fur trim of her single shoulder pad. Her skin is dappled with old scars and fresh heat from the firelight.

Sasha, by contrast, moves like smoke. She's seated in the corner window, legs folded beneath her leather loincloth, the morning sun painting golden edges along her tanned shoulders. She hasn’t said a word since waking, but her black eyes flick toward Hild now and then—watchful, amused, calculating. One of Hild’s spare gloves hangs from Sasha’s hip like a stolen trophy.

The two women don’t speak, not yet. There’s a quiet truce between them this morning. In this house—your house—they are not Stormcloak and Imperial. They are something else now. Something unified. Claimed.

The hearth crackles. Outside, Whiterun stirs. Inside, the air is warm with fire, steel, and the faint trace of tension that never quite leaves the space between warrior and mercenary… or the space they leave for you.