Wolf King of Oblivion

The air over the Imperial City was heavy with tension, a calm before the storm that would soon engulf the capital. From the battlements of the White-Gold Tower, Jon Whitewolf and Martin Septim looked out over the city they had fought so hard to protect. The sun dipped low in the sky, casting the streets in hues of orange and red. It was beautiful, even as the shadow of Mehrunes Dagon loomed over Tamriel.

Jon leaned on the railing, his sword strapped to his back, his armor scuffed and battered from countless battles. Beside him, Martin stood tall, his face lined with weariness but also with quiet determination. The Amulet of Kings glowed faintly at his chest, a symbol of the divine destiny he carried.

"It's hard to believe it's been a year," Martin said, his voice soft, reflective. "A year since you walked into that chapel in Bruma and turned my life upside down."

Jon chuckled, though the sound was tinged with sadness. "A lot has happened since then. Battles, victories, losses… I never imagined I'd find myself here, fighting beside an Emperor."

"And I never imagined I'd be an Emperor," Martin admitted, a faint smile touching his lips. "But here we are, standing on the edge of the end."

Jon turned to face him, his expression serious. "We'll win this, Martin. We've come too far to fail now."

Martin nodded, though there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. "Whatever happens, Jon, I want you to know something. You've been more than just a soldier to me. You've been a brother. I could not have come this far without you."

Jon felt a lump rise in his throat. In Winterfell, he had longed for acceptance, for family. He had found it in Vehlmor, and then again here, beside Martin. "You've been a brother to me too, Martin. No matter what happens, I'll stand by you."

Martin's smile widened, and he placed a hand on Jon's shoulder. "That means more to me than you know."

The Knighthood Ceremony

As the city prepared for the final battle, Martin called for a gathering in the plaza beneath the White-Gold Tower. Soldiers, citizens, and nobles alike gathered to witness the ceremony, a moment of hope before the storm.

Jon knelt before Martin, his head bowed. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, but it was a weight he carried with pride.

"Jon Whitewolf," Martin said, his voice ringing clear over the crowd. "You have stood by my side through every trial, every battle. You have proven yourself not only a great warrior but a man of honor and loyalty. It is time the world recognizes your worth."

He drew his sword, the blade gleaming in the fading sunlight. Gently, he touched it to Jon's shoulder. "In the name of the Nine Divines and the Empire, I name you Sir Jon Whitewolf, Knight of Tamriel."

A cheer erupted from the crowd, their voices echoing across the city. Jon rose to his feet, his heart swelling with a mix of pride and humility. Martin held out a hand, and Jon clasped it firmly, the bond between them unspoken but unbreakable

As the cheers faded, Martin's gaze fell on the Amulet of Kings, its glow intensifying as Jon stood beside him. A murmur rippled through the crowd as they noticed the phenomenon.

Martin turned to Jon, his expression thoughtful. "It seems the Amulet has chosen you as well."

Jon frowned, his confusion evident. "What do you mean?"

"The Amulet of Kings reacts only to those with Dragonblood," Martin explained. "It is a mark of divine favor, a sign of lineage. Jon, you may be more connected to this Empire than either of us realized."

The weight of Martin's words settled over Jon like a stormcloud. "You think… you think I could be an heir?"

Martin nodded slowly, his voice solemn. "If I fall in the battle to come, the Empire will need a leader. Someone strong, someone just. The Amulet has shown us that you are worthy."

Jon felt the eyes of the crowd on him, their whispers spreading like wildfire. He met Martin's gaze, his resolve firm. "If it comes to that, I'll do what needs to be done. For you, for the Empire."

Martin smiled, a faint glimmer of hope in his eyes. "I know you will, Jon."

As the ceremony ended, the two men stood together, watching the horizon where the dark clouds of Oblivion gathered. The sounds of preparation filled the air—soldiers sharpening blades, priests offering prayers, citizens readying for evacuation.

"We've come so far," Martin said quietly. "But the hardest battle is yet to come."

Jon placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We'll face it together. Brothers in arms."

Martin turned to him, his expression serious. "If I don't make it, promise me something."

Jon nodded. "Anything."

"Promise me you'll keep fighting. For the people, for the Empire. For everything we've sacrificed."

Jon swallowed hard, his chest tightening. "I promise."

Martin's smile returned, faint but genuine. "Then let's make this count."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the two men descended the steps of the White-Gold Tower, their swords ready and their fates intertwined. The final battle awaited, and they would meet it together.