But the floor was moving. Here, there, over there; in six or seven places; eight, nine-- huge shaggy bodies sat and lumbered and licked their thick fingers.

Trolls. Lydia's fear became hopelessness. Talos, and all the gods, had abandoned her.

But that was not the worst. Across the room, beyond the trolls, was a stone ramp, leading into another tunnel.

The only way out.

She had no sword, and her arm was broken. She dared not sink to her knees and cry - tears of anger, not fear, at how unfair it was. She could have taken a troll with her sword, but nine of them against her, unarmed and wounded, was a joke at her expense.

It took her a moment to stop despairing and ask herself a question: what would the Dragonborn do?

The Dragonborn had magic in his hands, muscles that never seemed to tire, a quick mind and a fearless heart, a voice that could fell trees. He would swing his greatsword in gleaming arcs, drop the blade to call fire to his fingertips, cut and burn his way to the surface.

Lydia could do neither, but she would not shame her Thane, her Jarl, or her ancestors by waiting for death.

She took up the heaviest bone with her good hand, her heart hammering, and walked into the light.