The Eyes of the Cursed

by Corruptedbread

Summary:

Elara finds herself drawn into a clandestine world—the enigmatic Dark Brotherhood. Initially motivated by financial gains, Elara swiftly adapts to the life of an assassin, revealing an uncanny talent for murder. Her journey becomes a dance between two worlds—the love for her sanity and the allure of the murderers she now calls family.

Love and murder intertwine in a riveting dance, but not everyone who surrounds her has her best interests at heart.

"When Cicero first met you, Listener, he knew you were one he didn't want dying so young."

 

(This is a story I have been working on for years, it will be long)

Chapter 1: Murmurs

As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, casting an amber glow over the rugged landscape, Elara found herself near the border of Markarth. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain near the edge of Eastmarch and The Rift. She trudged wearily along the worn path, her leather boots kicking up small clouds of dust with each step. The land around her was a mix of rocky outcrops and hardy shrubs, the sparse vegetation clinging to life in this unforgiving corner of Skyrim. She could see where the land divided slightly, where the plants began to gain more color the further she went toward the city.

As Elara walked, her gaze shifted toward the horizon. The air was warmer here than in the other parts of Skyrim she had journeyed through, a fact that didn't go unnoticed by her. She had heard stories of the Reach's unique climate, but experiencing it firsthand was a different matter entirely. Sweat had piled on her forehead as the day had passed and she needed a bath. The prospect of finding an inn or even a makeshift campsite had driven her forward, her weary feet pushing her onward despite the growing fatigue that gnawed at her bones.

The dunmer woman had no home to return to and was hoping to find someplace, any place to sleep. As she rounded a bend in the road, her eyes caught sight of a group of Imperial soldiers stationed at the border. She trudged along, choosing to pay them no mind when a voice shattered her thoughts. 

"Halt!" The command came from behind her, and Elara's heart leaped into her throat as she turned to watch as the men approached her. “State your business, elf.”

She cringed from the insult, raising her hands in defense. "I mean no harm," she stammered, her voice tinged with urgency, eyes wide with alarm. "I'm just passing through, looking for a place to rest for the night."

The soldiers exchanged glances, their skepticism palpable. "A Dunmer lurking near the border?”

"Crossing the border illegally, are you?" Another imperial sneered. "Just like that thief, we caught earlier."

Panic bubbled up within Elara as she attempted to reason with them. "No, you don't understand. I'm not here to cause trouble. I've traveled a long way, and I have no home. I was—"

Her words were cut short as a strong hand seized her arm, the soldier's grip unyielding as he twisted her arm behind her back, being pushed to the ground. Elara cried out in pain, her forehead connecting with the unforgiving stone road beneath her. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she could feel warmth trickling down her face, mingling with the dust on her skin.

"Bind her hands," the commanding officer ordered, his voice cold. Elara winced as her wrists were tightly bound in front of her, the coarse rope digging into her flesh.

 Through a haze of pain, she was lifted from the ground and roughly pushed toward the waiting carriage. Her vision blurred as she glimpsed the chaos unfolding in the background—soldiers shouting, swords being drawn—but darkness tugged at the edges of her consciousness.

The world spun as she was practically thrown into the back of the carriage, her body coming to rest on the hard wooden floor. The jolt sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through her head, and she groaned softly, her fingers gingerly touching the swollen bump forming on her forehead. 

She could hear the commotion outside growing fainter as time passed, the sounds of the soldiers' voices blending into an indistinct murmur. She thought she felt the carriage dip as more people were loaded in with her.

As the carriage creaked into motion, Elara's vision continued to dim, the edges of her perception fading to black. And then, with the gentle sway of the carriage and the rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves, she surrendered to the void, her consciousness slipping away into the inky abyss.

As her consciousness slowly returned after what felt like hours had passed, she heard a soft, male voice calling out to her, pulling her back from the brink of darkness. "Hey, you! You're finally awake," the voice said, its tone tinged with a mix of relief and concern.

Her head felt heavy and her vision swam, but she managed to turn her head towards the source of the voice.

The Stormcloak soldier who had addressed her was leaning against the carriage wall, his cerulean eyes fixed upon her with a mix of curiosity and sympathy. His long, blonde hair cascaded down his shoulders, tied back with a single small braid that seemed incongruous against the backdrop of war-torn armor.

She lifted a hand to her forehead, feeling the tenderness of the swelling bump and the sticky residue of dried blood. With a groan, she managed to prop herself up on one elbow, her gaze fixed on the Stormcloak.

"Thought you'd never wake up," he continued, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You took quite a hit there.” 

"Where am I?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with apprehension.

"In the back of an Imperial carriage," the man replied, offering a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Ralof. And you are?”

"Elara," she answered, her gaze narrowing slightly as she assessed the situation. She flexed her fingers experimentally, testing the ropes’ strength.

Ralof’s expression seemed to soften as he noticed her discomfort. 

"Don't worry, we won't be needing those binds for long," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. She wondered what he meant by that. “You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there." 

He gestured towards another man, with reddish hair and tan skin, clad in rags, who was sitting on the other side of the carriage. 

The man cursed and spat at Ralof, his anger evident. "You damn Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. The empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell," he ranted.

"No, I wasn’t crossing the border. I was just looking for a place to stay," she explained, feeling vulnerable now. 

Ralof seemed sympathetic as he studied her, his eyes searching for truth in her words. "We've all been through a lot," he said finally. 

"And what's wrong with him?" the thief sneered,  but his voice was trembling.

Elara turned her gaze towards the man on her right, the one the thief had addressed, and took in his appearance. His attire stood out among the ragtag group of prisoners – a big formal coat adorned with fur accents, an outfit that seemed out of place in their grim circumstances. But what caught her attention more than anything was the cloth covering his mouth, a gag, muffling his voice. 

Before she could make any sense of the situation, Ralof interrupted, visibly frustrated with the thief's ignorance. " Watch your tongue. You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King." 

Ulfric Stormcloak—the name resonated through Elara's mind, sending a shiver down her spine. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks; this man, bound and gagged, was the reason she found herself in this predicament in the first place.

Her thoughts spiraled into panic as she looked around the carriage, her surroundings taking on a more sinister tone. The wind seemed to grow colder, carrying with it a sense of impending doom. The town up ahead filled her with dread, knowing that wherever they were taking them, escape seemed increasingly unlikely. Ulfric's presence explained the heavy Imperial presence at the border.

The thief's surprise and fear mirrored her own, and he stammered, "Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? But if they captured you… Oh gods, where are they taking us?" 

Ralof's expression softened slightly as he replied, “Sovngarde awaits.” 

As the carriage trundled onward, a town on the horizon drew closer, ominous and foreboding. Dread settled like a stone in Elara's chest. She couldn't help but notice a subtle shift in Ralof's expression. She could sense tension radiating from him, his expression darkening as he stared down at the Imperial soldiers guarding the entrance, one of whom wore armor adorned with gilded accents, a clear sign of higher rank. 

A soldier's voice echoed from one of the watchtowers, addressing the man in the gold-accented armor. "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" 

The words cut through the air, and the man turned his head to respond. "Good. Let’s get this over with," Elara heard him reply.

Briefly, their gazes met, and Elara felt a shiver run down her spine. In that fleeting moment, she saw a hint of sadness in the man's eyes, as if he bore the weight of a heavy burden, one that extended beyond the impending execution. Their connection was fleeting, but the intensity of his gaze left an impression on her.

Amidst the somber atmosphere, Ralof's voice broke the silence, scoffing at the sight before them. "Look at him, General Tullius the Military Governor. And it looks like the Thalmor are with him. Damn, elves. I bet they had something to do with this," he exclaimed. 

His words slid off his tongue effortlessly, and she couldn’t help but flinch. But when he caught her gaze and seemed almost embarrassed, trying to clarify that he meant no offense to all elves, just the Thalmor, Elara had already looked away, not surprised by a Nord's casual insult. 

His attempt at changing the subject came briefly after, motioning around at the town surrounding them. "Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in," he said with a tinge of sadness.

Elara smiled faintly, appreciating the brief glimpse of vulnerability in his words. However, her thoughts were soon clouded by the realization that they were nearing the execution site. Panic began to well up inside her as the carriage slowed to a stop, and she caught sight of the headsman and a priestess standing by the execution block. 

The horse thief, visibly distressed, sought the attention of the nearby soldiers. "Why are they stopping?" he asked, his voice trembling as the carriage set itself by another against a stone wall.

Ralof's response was flat and emotionless, "Why do you think? End of the line."

"You have to tell them! We're not rebels!" he shouted, his bound hands gesturing towards the surrounding soldiers, desperately trying to plead their innocence. 

Ralof, with a hint of desperation in his voice, tried to calm him down, albeit begrudgingly, urging him to "accept his death with some courage.” However, before he could fully impart his words, a captain, a stern-looking woman with a decorated helmet to match her uniform, stepped forward. Her hand rested on the hilt of her sword, her face a mask of emotionless impatience. 

"Quiet! Make your way to the block," she barked. Elara observed her closely, trying to dismiss the notion that this was just another desensitized soldier. There was something different about her; a sense of eagerness in her eyes as she seemed to relish the prospect of their deaths.

The thief hesitated for a moment, shaking his head in disbelief, before attempting to escape. "Halt!" the captain's voice boomed, but he paid no mind and sprinted back towards the exit gate. 

The captain lifted her hand, and archers swiftly aimed, releasing their arrows in a synchronized volley. The thief's body fell lifeless to the ground, and the hope of escape was snuffed out in an instant. Elara's heart pounded in her chest as she witnessed the swift and ruthless response.

The Captain turned her attention to Elara, the coldness in her eyes still present. An imperial made his way next to the captain, his demeanor looking a bit more sympathetic than his superior. 

“Ralof of Riverwood.” He said simply, a quill in his hand as he read off of a sheet of paper. The stormcloak stepped forward, following the other prisoners toward the execution block wordlessly. 

The captain’s eyes never left Elara’s though as she raised a crooked finger in her direction.

"You there," she spoke, her voice cold and indifferent, "step forward.”

The soldier beside the captain looked up from his list and addressed Elara with a hint of remorse, "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Morrowind." 

She appreciated his attempt at offering some comfort. Gathering her courage, she spoke up, "Elara Dawnweaver." Her voice quivered slightly, but she tried her best to sound brave.

The soldier searched his list, but he shook his head, seemingly finding no mention of her name. He looked toward the captain with concern, "Captain, what should we do? She's not on the list." 

Elara's hope flickered briefly, but it was quickly extinguished as the captain dismissed his concern with cold indifference, "Forget the list. She goes to the block." 

Despite the man’s empathy, the captain's order left her with a feeling of hopelessness. She was just another nameless prisoner in the eyes of the Empire. His gaze met hers, his eyes reflecting a mix of sympathy and something else couldn’t figure out. His attempt to show compassion, even in the face of a brutal task, left an impression on her. She held onto that fleeting sense of humanity as she was led forward, her steps steady despite the fear that coursed through her veins.

As Elara stood in line, waiting for the inevitable, her mind raced with memories of Morrowwind, a place she would never step foot in again. One by one, the prisoners were led to the block, and their lives were extinguished. Some were defiant until the very end, cursing the Imperials, while others pleaded for their lives with their final breaths. The sound of the axe meeting flesh and the blood splattering on the stone haunted her.

She noticed the crowd in town cheering, their chants fueling her anger. Elara's hands clenched into fists, restrained by the binds. Each execution felt like a personal affront, an assault on her very being. She knew that she, too, would face this merciless fate. 

When it was finally her turn, the captain turned to her, face unreadable as she pointed at her. “Next. The elf.” 

Even in my last few breaths, I am being insulted, she thought to herself in disbelief. She wasn’t guilty, nothing to warrant this kind of response from the captain. But she was treated as the rest of them anyway. 

A soldier behind her pushed her forcefully towards the block, and she was pressed down to her knees, now facing the headsman. His mask covered any possible expression he could have, but she doubted he had any. 

The priestess began her chants and prayers as the headsman readied his axe near her awaiting head. She couldn't bear to watch him raise the axe above his head, the anticipation of the blow was suffocating. But nothing came. 

Just as she shut her eyes, a shadow passed over the watchtower. She felt the ground tremble beneath her as she cautiously looked up, seeing the headsman dropping the axe to the ground and scatter away from the block.

Shouts and cries erupted around her, drowning out the sound of her racing heart. Amidst the chaos, Elara's ears picked up on a sound she had never heard before – a deafening roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the world. The air itself vibrated with its power, sending a shiver down her spine. 

A colossal creature, unlike anything she had ever seen, perched atop the watchtower. Its scales shimmered like polished ebony, reflecting the fiery light of its breath. Its wings were folded neatly against its powerful frame, and the intelligence in its gaze sent shivers down her spine. A world-shattering roar erupted from its massive jaws, a sound that seemed to tear through reality itself.

As the creature let out another roar, the clouds above seemed to warp and swirl, caught in an unnatural dance. The dragon's wings unfurled, and it launched itself into the air with a powerful beat. 

The force of it was enough to knock her onto her side, off of the block, struggling to stand up.

As she steadied herself, a pair of hands reached out to help her up. Instinctively, she flinched away, her mind still reeling. 

"Easy there," a voice called out over the din. "We don't have much time. Follow me, come on!"

Elara's wide eyes found the source of the voice – Ralof. Despite her initial hesitation, she realized she needed to move quickly. With a shaky breath, she reached out and accepted Ralof's help. 

His grip was firm, his eyes determined. "We need to get out of here," he urged, his voice barely audible above the dragon's furious cries.

Nodding in agreement, Elara followed Ralof's lead. They dashed through the pandemonium, weaving through the town's narrow streets as flames and debris rained down around them. The dragon's fiery breath consumed buildings and structures with an insatiable hunger, leaving nothing but smoldering ruins in its wake.

The ground trembled beneath their feet as the dragon's massive form swooped overhead, its wings beating with a force that sent shockwaves through the air. The sheer power of the creature was overwhelming, and Elara's fear threatened to paralyze her.

They reached a nearby tower, its doors ajar. Ralof pushed them open further, and she stumbled inside after him. The door slammed shut behind them, shutting out the chaos and the deafening roars of the dragon. The interior of the tower offered a brief respite from the destruction outside, allowing her a moment to catch her breath.

Inside the tower, other Stormcloaks were already gathered, makeshift weapons in hand, their faces a mix of determination and fear. Elara's eyes darted to a figure lying motionless on the floor, another rebel checking their wounds. 

Her focus was drawn back to the stairs leading up, and she followed the footsteps of another rebel as they ascended. Ralof's voice echoed from below, shouting for her to come back, but she pressed on.

She hadn't reached the second level when the tower itself was rocked by a colossal impact, stones flying and crashing around her. She was thrown to the ground, pain shooting through her body as a stone struck her.

Amid the chaos, the tower wall was torn asunder, and there it was – the dragon, its serpentine head curiously peering inside. Elara's heart raced as she pressed herself against the wall, barely daring to breathe. The creature’s eyes scanned the interior, its fiery gaze seemingly searching for any survivors. 

Another deafening roar rattled the tower, and her instincts took over once again as she threw herself to the side, desperately seeking cover. The dragon's fiery breath seared the air, the intense heat washing over her even through the stone walls. 

This was a nightmare made real, a force of nature, unlike anything she had ever imagined. She clung to the hope that the tower's walls would protect her, even as they trembled from the dragon's assault. 

The dragon pulled its head out and took flight once again, providing her with a fleeting moment to think. She peered over the edge of the tower, spotting a nearby building with its roof half-burned off. Gathering her courage, she prepared herself mentally before launching herself off the tower, tumbling down to the house below. 

With a roll, she landed on the second floor, feeling the impact reverberate through her body. Elara quickly picked herself up, adrenaline pumping through her veins, and ran through the building's interior. Burned bodies lay among the rubble, a grim reality for those who hadn’t had enough time to flee. 

She found a hole in the floor and leaped down to the first floor, heading outside once again. The town was in chaos, flames dancing amidst the debris. 

Gritting her teeth, she pushed forward, weaving through the burning buildings, dodging falling wood planks as they broke off from the houses. She leaned against the doorway of a house, looking out as she spotted the imperial soldier from earlier. 

Their eyes met and she was wary of him at first, wondering if even during these events, he would be stupid enough to try and capture her.

His sword was drawn, but he didn't seem hostile towards her. Instead, he offered a bit of an arrogant smirk as he spoke, "Still alive prisoner? Follow me if you want it to stay that way." 

Rolling her eyes at his condescending tone, Elara replied, "Oh, how fortunate I am to have your protection."

The soldier gestured for her to follow, and she obliged, not eager to be left alone. The ground shook beneath their feet as the dragon attacked another soldier who attempted to strike its head, resulting in a gruesome end for the hapless soul.

Elara couldn't help but cringe at the sound of bones crunching, her stomach churning with disgust.

Finally, they reached what seemed to be the entrance to the dungeons, and Elara took the lead, throwing open the door. The soldier followed her inside, quickly shutting the door behind them. Collapsed on the floor, she panted heavily, trying to drown out the roars outside. 

The soldier watched her for a moment from the door before speaking. "Let me get those binds off you," he said, lowering his sword slightly. 

Elara managed a weak smile, staring up at the ceiling above her as she lay there on her back. She lifted her hands for him as she sat up slowly. 

“You sure you don’t want to cut my head off first?” She quipped a hint of bitterness in her tone. He winced slightly, the remark touching a nerve. He stepped forward and used his sword to carefully cut the ropes. 

As the binds fell away, he let out a sigh and shook his head. "I had to follow orders. But if it makes you feel better, if I had any power, you wouldn't have been put to the block."

She rolled her eyes, rubbing her wrists as she looked around the dimly lit room. "It doesn't, but thanks." 

As Elara stood up, her eyes fell upon a weapons rack at the back of the room. She couldn't resist the opportunity. She picked up an Imperial Officer's sword from the rack, marveling at the engravings on the blade, before turning to face the soldier.

The man seemed to be getting his bearings, annoyance evident in his voice. "There's a way out through here," he pointed to the door beside her, "just find anything useful and follow me when you're ready."

She smirked to herself, knowing she was getting under his skin, but she couldn't help herself. With a nod, she continued searching the room, finding a chest by one of the raggedly-looking beds.”What’s your name by the way? Since you already know mine, now.”

“Hadvar.” He muttered as he watched her from the door. The building shook slightly as she carefully opened the chest, looking among the items for anything useful. She spotted a pair of armguards that would offer at least some protection and wasted no time in donning them. She soon joined Hadvar, who was waiting for her, sword in hand.

He opened the door cautiously, and she followed closely behind. The building continued to shake, and she could see the torches decorating the walls flickering as they made their way through the halls. 

As they passed a cart filled with fresh produce, she heard panicked voices in the distance.

They rounded a corner and found themselves facing a group of Stormcloaks in the room ahead. The soldiers were on alert, their weapons drawn and expressions tense as they spoke amongst each other.

Elara took a deep breath, readying herself for whatever might happen next as she heard a female soldier whisper to another. 

“We should be moving, this is our chance. We don’t have time to wait for anybody else.” She sounded anxious, Elara taking note of how tight she was clenching the axe in her hands.

“Ralof said he went out to find the others, so we need to wait-” 

One of the Stormcloaks spotted them and called out, "Hold! Who goes there?"

She heard Hadvar’s breath hitch next to her as he moved to block her. Before she could even raise her hands to show she meant no harm, Hadvar charged forward toward the group. 

Her eyes widened as she saw a Stormcloak wielding a greatsword running straight at Hadvar, who was already occupied with another soldier. She cursed under her breath, knowing that Hadvar was vulnerable to the attack from behind. Without hesitation, Elara sprinted forward, putting herself between Hadvar and the charging man. 

She swung her weapon with precision, blocking the incoming strike aimed at Hadvar's back. The impact sent shockwaves through her arms, and she stumbled back, feeling the weight of the soldier's blade pressing down on her. 

Just as she feared her strength might give out, a sword flashed through the air. The Stormcloak's head toppled from his shoulders, blood spattering across Elara's face and armor. She staggered back slightly, catching her breath as she watched the lifeless body crumple to the ground.

Bloodied but victorious, Elara met Hadvar's gaze, her chest heaving. “Well, I’m glad you weren’t too annoyed with me to let me die.”

Hadvar nodded, his breathing heavy as he let out a small chuckle. "Thank you for having my back," he replied, his voice filled with gratitude. 

Elara wiped the blood from her face and offered him a weary smile. Surprisingly, she didn't feel the usual revulsion she would have at the sight of someone else's blood all over her. A mirthful chuckle escaped Elara's lips, a stark contrast to the grim scene around her. It was a sound born from the absurdity of it all.

Hadvar raised an eyebrow at her, his curiosity was evident. "Something funny?"

“Nope,” she said, smirking in his direction.

As he wiped off his sword onto his uniform, she quickly surveyed the room for anything she could use to aid their progress. Her eyes fell upon a fallen Stormcloak soldier's shield. Without hesitation, she secured it to her arm, feeling the weight of it.

Hadvar had already moved towards the exit, his focus on the health potion he had found in one of the nearby barrels. Elara quirked an eyebrow at him. "Planning on sharing that?"

He flashed her a sheepish grin, his exhaustion showing through. She sighed and pushed the door open, leaving him behind to catch up.

Her focus shifted to the locked cells she passed, their grim contents revealing the fate of prisoners who had met a gruesome end. In one cell, she noticed a decaying skeleton, a haunting reminder of the passage of time. The Imperials had left the remains untouched, callous in their disregard for those they deemed disposable. 

Her footsteps quickened as she heard the distant sounds of commotion, and a vivid blue light danced across the walls, indicating the presence of a magic user.

As she rounded the corner, she saw an Imperial soldier under attack from two Stormcloaks. Without hesitation, she seized a nearby empty wine bottle and hurled it at one of the assailants’ heads. The glass shattered upon impact, and the man staggered back momentarily disoriented. 

The distraction proved enough for the Imperial soldier to gain the upper hand. In a flash, his blade found its mark, driving into the chest of the stormcloak. The remaining Stormcloak's eyes widened in realization as he found himself outnumbered and outmatched. Before he could react, a surge of blue light crackled through the air, striking him with a jolt of electricity. Elara watched as his body convulsed and then fell to the ground, motionless, joining the macabre tapestry of the torture room.

The room fell silent once more, the echoes of combat lingered in the dimly lit chamber, the scent of blood and burnt magic thick in the air. 

Hadvar, momentarily freed from the immediate threat, approached the other Imperial soldier who had assisted them. 

"You should be escaping, the city is under attack," Hadvar urgently insisted, sheathing his weapon. Elara, meanwhile, paid little heed to the conversation, her eyes scanning the room for potential supplies.

The other Imperial scoffed at the notion, his disbelief evident in the dismissive curl of his lip. As the men exchanged words, Elara's gaze wandered, purposefully averting from the gruesome surroundings. Her eyes landed on a dagger, lodged with precision into a training dummy in the back of the torture chamber. Determined, she pried it free, the metal cold against her fingers as she holstered it at her side.

A small coin purse and a knapsack lay forgotten on a nearby table, and she wasted no time in investigating their contents. The knapsack yielded a stamina potion, a handful of gold pieces, and a couple of lockpicks. Deciding she needed a backpack, she slid the knapsack onto her shoulders.

The conversation with the resistant guard appeared to yield little success, as he scoffed and returned to his duties. Hadvar sighed in frustration, catching up to Elara as they proceeded deeper into the tunnels.

"Stubborn old man," he muttered to himself, concern etched across his features. She studied Hadvar for a moment, uncertainty flickering in her eyes, but did not attempt to comfort him.

As they approached their exit, the distant murmur of voices reached their ears. Hadvar, taking the lead, rounded a corner only to swiftly duck as an arrow whizzed past them. A woman's voice echoed in the cave, amplified by the sound of a waterfall cascading in the middle of the room. 

"Imperials!" the woman shouted. 

Elara's hand returned to the hilt of her sword as they approached the room. Peeking around the corner, she witnessed Hadvar charging in, challenging the first attacker. Stormcloaks, she noted, all attempting to escape. Another arrow whizzed past, narrowly missing Elara's chest, prompting her to ready her shield. 

Two archers at the back of the room seized the opportunity to flee, their eyes fixed on the unfolding melee. In a swift movement, she blocked an unavoidable arrow, charging at the panicked archer. With a forceful shove and the aid of her shield, she knocked the archer to the ground, the fallen soldier beneath her grunting in resistance. Seizing the opportunity, Elara's sword descended, slicing through the man's neck. Ignoring the gurgled cries, she raised her shield just in time to block another arrow from the remaining archer.

Scrambling to her feet, she dodged the archer's next shot. Lunging forward, she knocked the bow out of the archer's hands and swiftly ended her, the blade plunging through the woman's gut.

Exhausted, she sighed, turning to find Hadvar successfully dispatching the last soldier, the lifeless body tumbling into the dark waters below. Collecting the remaining arrows and a longbow, she decided that she would probably need a drink to forget the faces of the mangled bodies in front of her.

Hadvar approached, a bloodied smirk adorning his face. "You fight well, I thought I was going to have to do all the heavy lifting," he remarked.

Elara's grimace hinted at her discomfort with the compliment, and without a word, she took the lead down the remaining tunnel. "Are we getting closer?" she inquired, glancing over her shoulder at him. His boots echoed against the cave floor, each step kicking up dirt that made her cough. 

The distant rumbles of the cave and the roars of the dragon outside seemed to be fading away.

"Yes, just up here," Hadvar replied, his gaze dropping to Elara. 

She noticed his stare and annoyance crept into her voice. "What're you looking at?"

"Just wondering how a Dunmer got caught up with us," he admitted, his words tinged with curiosity. She frowned at the question.

"Well, it wasn't because I was trying to cross the border," she replied dryly, her eyes forward as they reached the end of the tunnel, opening into a larger cave.

"I mean no offense. I believe your people should be able to go where they please," he quickly added, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. Elara, however, had other concerns. She squatted down, grabbing him by his armor to force him into a crouch, hiding behind an abandoned carriage.

"What? What is it?" Hadvar whispered, his eyes searching hers.

"Bear," she whispered back, pointing at the sleeping creature up ahead.

"Well, we can try to kill it or—" Hadvar began, but Elara was already on the move. She kept low, sneaking around the creature. There was no room for recklessness, not when she was just itching to be out of this cave.

Hadvar's armor clinked softly as he followed her lead, sneaking behind her as they made their way out of the cave. As they reached the exit, the sunlight spilled into the cave, illuminating Elara's face. A subtle smile crossed her lips, a momentary reprieve from the tension. 

"A little farther, and you'll reach Riverwood. Thank you for your help in there," the imperial said, breaking the brief tranquility. The reminder of their roles brought her back to reality, her hand tightening around the hilt of her sword.

She stepped away from him, the distance between them growing.

"Hey now, no need for any more aggression. I'm not gonna bring you in," Hadvar reassured, holding his hands up in a gesture of peace. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, her defiance cutting through the air like a dagger.

"Not like I'd give you the chance again," Elara retorted defiantly, her gaze unwavering. 

"In my eyes, you've already been redeemed. But I'd stay away from other imperials, just in case," he murmured, his words a quiet revelation. She furrowed her eyebrows, studying Hadvar with a mix of confusion and hesitation. The contrast to the callousness she had experienced from other soldiers earlier in the day left her wondering about his motivations.

"Why?" she questioned, her tone accusatory, the sword in her hand now pointed at him. The blade's tip hovered just inches from his throat, a silent threat.

"I don't believe you've done anything wrong," Hadvar admitted, his eyes steady on the weapon at his throat.

She took a moment to absorb his words, the weight of his statement sinking in. What if he’s lying?

 After a contemplative pause, she lowered her weapon, the tension in the air dissipating.

"You said there's a town?"

Chapter 2: A true friend stabs you in the front

Summary:

Next chapter will be longer, I promise :) Probably going to be posting again today with next chapter.

The flickering firelight within The Sleeping Giant inn cast a warm glow across the timeworn wooden interior. Elara sat by one of the tables by the innkeeper’s counter, lost in thought. The air was thick with the muted conversations of the late-night patrons, and the subtle clink of tankards reverberated through the dimly lit space.

Having followed Hadvar to Riverwood, Elara found herself with just enough septims to secure a modest bed for the night. Hadvar's family, although casting sidelong glances at her for reasons that were all too clear, expressed their gratitude for her role in helping him escape Helgen. The innkeeper, however, had treated her with a peculiar reserve, her eyes betraying a lingering unease that danced beneath the surface.

She brushed it off, attributing it to the peculiarities of small-town folk. After all, her focus lay more on a soft bed and a few hours of undisturbed sleep.

The night had passed uneventfully, the creaking of floorboards above and the distant murmur of voices. The night passed quickly, and the next morning arrived at an alarming rate.

She awoke to the soft light filtering through the small window, the lingering aroma of mead from the unattended tankard tempting her senses. She couldn't resist the small indulgence, swiping it on her way out of the inn.

Hadvar's mention of Whiterun lingered in her thoughts, a destination that seemed to be calling out to her. However, as she stepped out into the crisp morning air, she realized she wasn't entirely sure where she wanted to go. The road stretched before her, beckoning her forward, yet a lingering sadness clung to her heart. There was no one back in Morrowind for her anymore, and there was no one here.

The streets of Riverwood were quiet in the early hours, most of its denizens still wrapped in the embrace of sleep, except for the inn's usual drunken patrons nursing their lingering inebriation.

The path led her further north until she reached an old wooden signpost, its weathered surface bearing the scars of time. It pointed in several directions, each option offering a diverging path into the vast expanse of Skyrim's wilderness. Whiterun, Windhelm, Riverwood, Falkreath—the names etched into the wood. 

Elara chewed on her lip, her gaze tracing the lines of the signpost as if seeking guidance from the weathered letters. 

"Well, I guess I'm screwed either way," she muttered to herself.

After a moment's contemplation, she decided to head for Whiterun. It was a choice made not with certainty but with a glimmer of hope that perhaps within the walls of the city, she would find something to break the monotony of her current existence.

Every pebble beneath her boots seemed to send a jolt through her tired feet. After what felt like an eternity, the path led her to a steep hill that, to her aching feet, might as well have been a mountain. Undeterred, she pressed on, her resolve unwavering. As she ascended, Whiterun’s skyline gradually revealed itself in the distance.

Sighing happily, she took a moment to rest, her eyes scanning the outskirts of the city. A couple of farms sprawled beneath her, their fields filled with fresh produce ripe for the picking. A smirk played on Elara's lips, a silent acknowledgment that she had left her morals on the side of the road long ago. The mere thought of food sent a rumble through her stomach.

Her anticipation heightened as she neared the farms, the aroma of the earth and growing crops filling the air. She couldn't resist the allure of the harvest. She plucked a few fruits and savored the sweetness of the stolen treasures. As she continued her harvest, faint commotion reached her ears – distant shouts. Her eyebrows furrowed for a moment, but she dismissed it as mere background noise, likely the guards or irate locals dealing with some mundane issue. 

However, the atmosphere shifted when the ground beneath her trembled. Thundering footsteps echoed, resonating through the earth like an approaching storm. The air thickened with tension, prompting her to hasten her efforts. Hastily finishing her looting, she turned just in time with wide eyes to witness a colossal figure bearing down on her.

A giant loomed over her, its eyes glaring down as if she had kicked its mammoth. Elara's heart raced as she scrambled back, hands raised in a futile gesture of surrender. 

“Oh shit, oh shit. I’m sorry I was just leaving,” she said quickly.

Uninterested in words, the giant tightened its grip on a mace the size of a tree trunk. As it raised it over its head to strike, she rolled away, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow that obliterated the ground where she had just stood. Heart pounding, she scrambled to her feet and began to sprint, the giant in hot pursuit.

As she darted through the chaos, a flash of fiery red hair caught her eye. The woman slashed at the giant's ankles with her sword, a flash of steel cutting through the air. The giant groaned in pain, retaliating with a wild swing of its arm.

Footsteps sounded behind Elara, and she turned to see a larger, heavily armored man rushing to the scene. Rolling out of his path, she watched as he positioned himself protectively in front of her. The woman had already managed to bring the creature to its knees, the impact sent shockwaves through the ground.

The male, seizing the opportunity, swung his weapon at the giant's neck. The blow connected, though not without difficulty, as he had to hack at it repeatedly to bring the creature down. Silence settled over the scene as the giant crumpled to the ground, defeated. Relief washed over her as she began to rise, but her attention was quickly diverted.

The woman approached Elara, cleaning her sword with an air of disdain. A look of distaste lingered on the woman's face as she stood over Elara, who met her gaze with a furrowed brow. 

Finally finding her voice, Elara couldn't resist a retort. "You know, usually when people save others, they don't look at them like that."

The woman shook her head, a slight smirk playing on her lips. "Well, it's a good thing we got here in time and killed the damn thing. No thanks to you," she remarked, arrogance coloring her tone. The silent male joined them but kept his words to himself. Rolling her eyes, Elara got up, dusting off her pants and shooting a defiant look in the girl’s direction.

"Oh, I'm sorry, what exactly did you want the hopeless victim to do?" she shot back, crossing her arms. The tension in the air thickened as the man observed the exchange, appearing unsure how to intervene.

"Not cower like an idiot," the redhead spat. Elara had grown tired of the woman’s attitude, her fingers twitching over the dagger at her hip. 

"Aela, that's enough. We need to head back," the man interjected, his deep voice cutting through the tension. Elara sized him up – shaggy black hair, shadows on his face. He was big, she gave him that. But he’d be able to go down just like the prick next to him. 

Aela's displeasure was evident, but she turned away and walked off after sheathing her sword. The man spared Elara a glance before following suit, heading toward the city.

Once the figures were at a safe distance, Elara turned back to the fallen giant, a grimace etched on her face. “Poor bastard, not even a clean slice.”

The city gates beckoned in the distance as she continued walking on, spotting stables in the distance. Glancing down at her worn and ragged clothes, she chewed on her lip. Money was tight, and new clothes were a luxury, and she’d have to find another way to potentially grab some just lying around in a shop.

As she approached the gates, she noticed the guards exchanging glances. She slowed to a stop, raising an eyebrow as he spoke gruffly, "Whiterun is not open to the public right now. State your business."

Elara blinked at the bluntness. "I came here from Riverwood; I was told to speak to the Jarl about needing more troops sent down," she replied, reciting Hadvar's instructions. 

The guard seemed taken aback but nodded. "Jarl Balgruuf is up in Dragon's Reach. I would head over there quickly," he advised. She nodded with a hint of a smile, stepping around him as he called for the gates to open. They creaked open slowly, revealing the bustling city beyond. As she walked through, she couldn't help but notice the locals, the various stores, and the promise of opportunities. Despite her earlier promise to speak with the Jarl, she felt the allure of the city's offerings pulling her in different directions.

As she strolled past a blacksmith's shop, her eyes were drawn to an unusual sight. Peering around the corner, she glimpsed an elderly woman with brown hair cascading over most of her face. Clad in a dark robe, the woman's intense gaze locked onto hers. Squinting, Elara tried to make out the features hidden beneath the veil of hair, but the mysterious figure turned, disappearing behind the shop. Elara half-expected her to reappear, but moments went by with no sign of her. Odd.

A hand instinctively found its way to her chest, a subtle sense of dread creeping in. She dismissed it as anxiety, though an uneasy feeling lingered.

Continuing her stroll, she found herself navigating through a group of playful children engaged in a spirited game of tag. A smile tugged at her lips as she scooched past them, their laughter echoing in the air. 

Up the path, an inn beckoned with a sign depicting a horse carrying a banner – the Bannered Mare it said in bold words beneath. Reaching the inn's door, Elara pulled out her coin purse from her bag. The sounds of animated conversations and tankards banging against tables echoed from within. As she swung open the door, the warmth from the central fire pit embraced her. 

Stepping forward, she was momentarily halted by a drunken man in heavy metal armor, his drink sloshing with each unsteady step. He slumped into a seat, drowning his sorrows in a hasty gulp.

Elara grimaced at the display, making her way toward the bar. The barkeeper, a woman with a face marked by weariness yet adorned with a hint of welcome, greeted her. 

"Welcome to the Bannered Mare. Can I get you set up with some food? A room maybe?" she offered, her voice a soothing melody.

Elara nodded quickly, returning the smile, and took a seat on a barstool. "I'm assuming ten for a room, right?" she inquired, handing over the appropriate sum.

The lady graciously accepted the money, providing instructions, "It's just up the stairs, the only room there, can't miss it. Can I get you anything else?"

Elara shook her head, happy with just a comfortable bed to sleep in. "Well, the name's Hulda. If you need anything, just call," the barkeeper introduced herself, turning back to rearrange items behind the bar.

Elara hummed contently, enjoying the ambient sounds of the inn. Her thoughts, however, shifted to practical matters. "Actually, is there anything anyone can do around here for some extra money?" 

Hulda reached for a couple of folded papers, handing them to her. "I got some bounties a couple of guards left behind. You can look at those if you want," she suggested. 

She scanned through the papers, finding bounties ranging from dealing with wolf packs near the city to eliminating giants terrorizing locals. She sighed, realizing she had a busy day ahead.

As Elara turned her attention back to Hulda, she overheard a conversation between Hulda and an older man, handing her his empty tankard. 

"No, the boy lost his mother. I don't think he's actually doing that damn ritual," Hulda explained, and Elara's interest was piqued. The man laughed, dismissing the notion, and took a gulp from his new cup.

"What ritual?" she inquired, and Hulda sighed, seemingly reluctant to share details, but before she could respond, the drunk man chimed in. 

"Aventus Arentino up in Windhelm. People have heard him shouting through the night, going on and on about someone needing to be punished."

Elara couldn't resist a smile, but her curiosity lingered. "And I think it's just people picking on a recently orphaned child, Elkridge. No need to spread rumors," Hulda spoke up, her disapproval evident as she cleaned the cup. 

Undeterred, Elara pressed for more details. "What kind of ritual would he even be doing?" she asked, attempting to extract information from the inebriated man despite Hulda's clear distaste. The man leaned in, spilling his drink on Elara's clothes as he spoke, the urge to knock it out of his hand strong within her.

"If you ask me, he's tryin' to summon demons up there. Lord help us all," the man muttered before stumbling away.

Though the notion should have unsettled her, Elara found a strange allure in the mystery. It seemed more exciting than the routine wolf pack bounties. Hulda shot her a perplexed look, but she paid little attention. The inn buzzed with activity as patrons exchanged greetings, clinking glasses in toasts and laughter resonated through the air.

Yet, amidst the merriment, a pang of envy gripped her. The camaraderie she witnessed sparked a yearning for connection, a longing for someone to share drinks with and discuss life's happenings. Yet, Morrowind, with its warmth and family, was forever out of reach. She watched others enjoy their company, toasting drinks and sharing tales. A pang of envy gripped her.

There was no going back. She wasn't trapped in Skyrim, but her past left her with nothing to return to—a bastard child turned orphan by the careless actions of her father.

With her memories resurfaced, she found herself subconsciously picking at the skin of her hands. The echoes of her siblings' screams haunted her. Hiding behind a bookshelf, she had tried to save them, but the bandits' brutality had stolen her family away. Her real mother's death in childbirth had severed the ties with her father, leaving her alone in the wake of his arrogance, thinking he was superior to everyone, including the guy holding a knife to his wife’s throat.

The news of Aventus losing his mother stirred an empathetic chord within her, knowing very well the reality of a child’s life after their parents are gone. The rumors, the orphanages, people choosing their pick of the litter until they’re the last one there, never to be picked because they aren’t good enough. They don’t fit.

Despite the screams of her heart warning against revisiting the pain of her past, she knew she wouldn't listen.

Glancing over her shoulder to ensure Hulda remained distracted, Elara reached for a fat coin purse on one of the shelves behind the bar. Sliding off the barstool, she made her way past the revelers. Exiting the inn, the distant silhouette of Dragon's Reach towered over the city. The sun set, casting a purple hue across the sky and enveloping the city in shadows.

The statue of Talos stood nearby, a silent guardian overlooking the steps leading to the Jarl's home. As she ascended the steps, the sun painted the sky in hues of purple, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets and houses. She passed a couple of patrolling guards, their eyes lingered on her with an odd mix of curiosity and suspicion, but they allowed her to pass without interference.

As she stepped in, the large doors swung closed behind her. The interior of the grand hall was adorned with tapestries and banners, the room lit by candles and firepits. As she ascended the steps toward the throne, her eyes fell upon the man seated at the opposite end of the room – Jarl Balgruuf, engaged in conversation with his advisor. 

The room echoed with the murmur of their discussion, though the words eluded her. Unfazed, Elara continued her approach, her focus shifting when a figure emerged from the shadows to her right. 

Another Dunmer, her hand on the sword at her hip, stepped purposefully towards her. The hard expression on her face seemed forced, a facade that failed to intimidate her. 

The woman demanded, "State your business. The Jarl is not accepting visitors at this time."

"Riverwood has called for the aid of the Jarl, and Helgen has been destroyed," Elara replied, her tone steady. The elf woman's aggressive stance softened slightly. Elara wondered if the hostility was a customary treatment of citizens or a response to her presence alone.

"It's all right, Irileth. I want to hear what she has to say," the Jarl's voice intervened. Irileth stepped back, sheathing her sword, as Elara continued toward the throne.

Balgruuf's eyes focused on her, a mixture of curiosity and concern etched on his face.

"What's this about Riverwood being in danger?" he inquired, his tone serious.

"Helgen was attacked. By a dragon," Elara revealed, her words casting a shadow over the room. Balgruuf's advisor scoffed at her words, and her annoyance prickled.

"The Jarl has no time for stories—" he began, only to be silenced by a raised hand from Balgruuf, signaling her to continue. 

"I was there when it was attacked, but I escaped with an imperial soldier. We made it to Riverwood, but the dragon was seen heading that way," she explained, her voice unwavering. Balgruuf looked visibly stunned, absorbing the information. His advisor still seemed skeptical.

"What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a dragon?" Balgruuf directed his gaze toward the man by his side.

"My lord, we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger if that dragon is lurking in the mountains…" Irileth suggested urgently. 

Proventus, however, resisted. "The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him. We should not..."

Balgruuf's patience wore thin. "Enough!" he commanded, his voice resonating through the hall. Elara couldn't help but find the bickering amusing, stifling a small chuckle. It seemed to catch the attention of the advisor, whose eyes narrowed.

"I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once," the Jarl declared. Irileth acknowledged his orders with a bow of her head and walked past Elara. 

"I'll return to my duties," Proventus mumbled, discontent evident in his demeanor. The Jarl waved him off, refocusing his attention on Elara. 

"That would be best," the Jarl affirmed. “I have to say, I am very pleased you went out of your way to inform me. Coming all this way, you will be rewarded for your service.”

She responded with a modest smile, bowing her head in acknowledgment. 

"Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf. But I have to request a small aid; my belongings were destroyed in the chaos," Elara said, her voice tinged with a hint of misery. The Jarl, noticing the worn state of her clothes, nodded sympathetically. He stood and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, showing genuine concern.

"You will be well rewarded. I will speak to my advisor to set aside things for you to take back home," he promised. As the Jarl made this pledge, Elara detected a subtle shift in his expression, a glint of something more than just sympathy.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, studying him as he looked down at her. "There is something else you could do for me," he suggested, and she groaned internally, sensing the inevitable catch. How could she refuse a request from the Jarl without consequences?

Despite her reservations, she furrowed her eyebrows, contemplating the request. Eventually, she nodded, a forced smile spreading across her face. The Jarl reciprocated with a grateful squeeze on her shoulder. 

"Suitable for someone of your particular talents, perhaps. Come, let's go find Farengar, my court wizard," he suggested, leading Elara to a room on the far right. A large map of Skyrim adorned the wall, with an alchemy table and an enchanting table in the back, and a very busy wizard tapping his foot impatiently. 

The Jarl seemed to notice Elara's slight discomfort, leaning down to whisper to her so Farengar wouldn't hear. "He can be a bit... difficult. Mages. You know," he confided. 

She approached the work desk, crossing her arms over her chest as the wizard turned to acknowledge them briefly.

"Farengar, I think I've found someone who can help you with your dragon project," Balgruuf announced. Farengar turned to look at them fully, his face showing surprise at her presence. 

"Ah, I see. I'm looking for someone to go on a quest of sorts. And when I say that, I mean going into an ancient temple for an artifact that might not still be there so if that’s not suitable for you, we can look for someone else I’m sure," Farengar explained. She couldn’t help but laugh a little. 

“I think I’ll be fine in an old temple,” she said, with a slight roll of her eyes. At least the place might be empty, she thought. Except for bandits, maybe.

Balgruuf smiled awkwardly at both of them before addressing her. "This is a priority now. Anything we can use to fight this dragon or dragons. We need it, quickly. Before it's too late," he emphasized.

"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf. You seem to have found me an able assistant," Farengar quickly interjected as the Jarl exited the room.

Elara sighed and turned her attention to him, who appeared pleased to have someone to carry out his bidding. "Where exactly do you need me to go?" she asked.

"Bleak Falls Barrow. Deep inside, there's supposedly a 'Dragonstone.' A stone tablet that contains a map of dragon burial sites. Simple, right?" Farengar explained. She shook her head, unconvinced. 

"And where will I find it? I'm not really good with puzzles," she admitted. She had heard many times that these kinds of places were riddled with them, and she didn’t want to waste days trying to find her way back out.

Farengar chuckled before nodding. "No doubt, it's hidden in the main chamber. Hard to miss," he assured her. As he turned away, heading into one of the back rooms, Elara found herself standing there, wondering what she had just gotten herself into. 

She surmised that she would probably need at least one other person to accompany her, and she wasn’t very keen on the idea of sharing funds with someone. Turning back towards the throne room, she noticed the Jarl patiently waiting for her return. Balgruuf smiled at her, standing again.

"Now then, I'm sure you want to get out of those clothes.”

Chapter 3: Road Trip

Elara had decided she hated the cold. Not everywhere's cold. Just Skyrim's. Shivering and partially sleeping on her way to Windhelm, she honestly wished she had picked to get the Dragonstone first. The bitter cold wind cut through her, making her body tremble as she pulled the blanket Proventus had given her tighter around herself, attempting to shield herself from the relentless snow that stung her face. Snowflakes pelted her face, and she longed for the warmth of any place but there.

The carriage swayed slightly as it traversed one hill after another, but Elara stubbornly kept her eyes closed. Her eyelashes felt frozen together, and her eyes stung from the icy wind. Muttering curses to herself like a protective incantation, she barely noticed when the concerned driver occasionally glanced back at her. She ignored him, lost in the frigid landscape that seemed endless. She sometimes questioned if knew where he was actually going.

After spending most of the night at the inn in Whiterun, she had endured restless sleep, attempting to drown the impending responsibilities with beer. Proventus had set her up with a new bow to replace the one back at Helgen, along with a set of leather armor. She refused to wear the ugly helmet though; it had squeezed her head in all the wrong places and gave her a headache. It had felt like days, when in reality it had only been one and a half, to her knowledge. She wondered how the people here got through it when they couldn't even afford a bed.

The driver's humming provided a strange comfort amidst the wailing wind, and she couldn't help but feel grateful for the ride. Time seemed to blur as the carriage pressed on, the day fading into the encroaching night. The fog of snow clouds diffused the dimming sunlight, casting an ethereal glow on the surroundings. Lights twinkled in the distance, a beacon of civilization amid the wilderness.

Over the rhythmic beat of the horse's hooves and the wailing wind, Elara leaned towards the driver. 

"Is that it up ahead?" she asked, squinting through the dim light. The driver turned his head slightly, his eyes scanning the horizon.

 "Yep, right up there. Hope you got a place to stay tonight; weather out here can get pretty nasty." He returned his focus to the road, a hint of concern in his weathered features.

A sigh of relief escaped her as the carriage neared some stables just outside the city. Carefully stepping off the back when her ride came to a complete stop just by the stables, her boots sunk into thick snow as she hit the ground. She made her way to the driver's side, offering a polite smile. "Thank you for the ride."

The driver nodded, giving his horse a pat on its back. Elara turned, facing the large bridge that led to the city's front gates. She turned, facing the large bridge that led to the city's front gates. Windhelm sprawled out before her, a sprawling metropolis that dwarfed Whiterun. Yet, the cold seemed more biting here, as if the very air held a sharper edge. 

Crossing the bridge, a couple of guards passed by, their armor gleaming in the fading light and faces shielded from view with their pointy helmets. Yet, a sharp sound caught her ear—an unmistakable spit followed by a muttered remark as she passed by one. Her annoyance flared but she managed to choke down most of it.

From her father's stories, she had learned of a different Skyrim—a land of strong, resilient people, the Nords. The reality, tainted by Thalmor influence and an unspoken discontent, unsettled her. Dark elves eyed her briefly as she passed through the gate, their curious glances lingering for a moment before returning to their own concerns.

Candleharth Hall loomed ahead, the first landmark to welcome her. Elara quickened her pace, eager to find warmth. Navigating through the snowy street, she approached the entrance. Almost slipping on ice, she reached for the door, giving it a tug with some resistance from ice sticking to its hinges. 

Stepping in, she found herself in a dimly lit space, greeted by a staircase on the right and a bar on the left. The first floor appeared relatively empty. The innkeeper, a nord woman with dark hair behind the bar, glanced up as she approached. 

Brushing off some remaining snow from her arms, Elara inquired, "Are there any rooms available?"

The woman nodded, her attention returning to wiping down the counter. "Ten for a night, that doesn't include food though. Had enough people asking about that tonight already," she replied matter-of-factly.

Elara handed over the money, and the innkeeper pocketed it, gesturing down the hall. "Your room is the last one on the left. You can use the kitchen if you have your own food."

Nodding appreciatively, Elara made her way down the hall, sliding her backpack off her shoulders. The creaking of the bedroom door echoed in the quiet corridor as she closed it behind her. The room was modest, with a bed nestled in the corner.

Her backpack thudded to the ground, and she rubbed her face slowly, feeling the need to defrost after being exposed to the biting cold. She slumped down onto the bed, pulling at the comforter and wrapping it around herself as her bag fell to the ground with a thump.

Thoughts of survival occupied her mind. The need to sell off the items she had 'borrowed' from unsuspecting people gnawed at her. Living off scraps had become a way of life, and she hated it. She reached down into her bag, fingers grasping one of the rings she had acquired. Rolling it in her hands, memories of her family's once-affluent life flashed before her.

She couldn't fathom the idea of ending someone's life over a piece of metal with a stone cemented to it. Yet her father had used things such as these to decorate the house, letting just about anyone in for meals or just to say hello. That was his downfall, not realizing other people weren’t just interested in seeing him. 

Sighing, she let the ring slip back into her bag, shoving it far under the bed to keep it out of sight. She stood up, wondering about Aventus and where she could find him but she doubted she could just start running around asking questions. Knowing these people, they’d tell a guard she was attempting to kidnap the kid.

Venturing out of her room,  the kitchen across from her caught her eye, where two young women dressed in simple dresses managed the oven. Ignoring the tempting aroma, she retraced her steps down the hall, heading towards the front where had seen the stairs.

Ascending the steps, the hushed conversations of a couple of men in one corner diverted their attention toward her before returning to their talk. Her eyes scanned the room, and they settled on a man seemingly asleep at a table in the back. His face was hidden, and, more importantly, he seemed oblivious to the sack of coins sitting across from him.

A tempting opportunity presented itself. Elara decided to take advantage, attempting to be discreet as she approached. She tiptoed past the fireplace, making it seem like she was casually exploring the room before reaching the man's table.

Her fingers stretched out tentatively, plucking the coin purse from the table. The man stirred slightly, but his drunken snores continued. She was almost in the clear when a clink of coins within the purse caught his attention. He lifted his head, eyes wild as he scanned the room before fixing on her.

“What're you doing, elf?" he slurred, turning back to his table, realizing his money was gone. "I fucking knew it, you little thief."

She hid the coin purse behind her back, a smile plastered on her face. "I didn't take anything, you're drunk," she retorted, hoping he would simply pass out again. He looked a second away from doing just that.

But the man, fueled by confusion and alcohol, attempted to stand. "Liar. My money... you grey-skin," he grunted, pointing a crooked finger at her but it was weak. Her eyes narrowed a bit at the comment, her dagger already in her hands as she stepped forward, wanting to cut the man’s tongue out as he stared at her. 

However, before she could make a move, someone grabbed her wrist and forced her behind them. Brown hair filled her vision as the intervening person spoke. 

"Sorry, sir. My wife here isn't all here in the head. She just wanted to check on you." Elara furrowed her eyebrows, attempting to break free from his grip, but failed.

 "Whatever, get away from me," the drunk man grumbled, dismissing them. As she was tugged away forcefully, she finally managed to free her wrist from his grip, glaring up at the much taller man.

She glanced up at him, his calm expression meeting hers. Tan skin, dark eyes, and short shaggy hair framed his face well. A handsome man, she begrudgingly admitted. 

"Look, if you're gonna make this your living, you should try being a little more discreet."

"Do you expect a thank you or something?" she retorted sarcastically. He chuckled at her response. 

"If anything, I was saving him. You looked ready to rip his eyes out," he explained, earning a narrowed look from Elara.

"Well, you can leave now, thanks," she said abruptly, heading back down the stairs with the coin purse in hand. However, to her annoyance, she heard him follow.

"I think I'll stick around for a while, make sure you don't slit anyone's throat," he declared, smirking at her. 

"That's incredibly creepy. I don't want you to follow me," Elara stated firmly, but he shrugged it off with nonchalance. 

"Tough, I guess."

She sighed in frustration, heading back to her room. "Just what I needed." 

The innkeeper gave her odd looks, but Elara quickly shut her doors behind her, relieved that he made no attempt to enter. She found herself mumbling about him, gathering her things. 

"What was that about a skeever?" she heard him say outside the doors. She just wanted to be left alone. Sliding her backpack on her shoulders, she swung the bedroom doors open, only to find him in the kitchen, charming the two women inside. Hearing giggles, she seized the opportunity to slip away, hoping he hadn't noticed her leave. It was time to start looking for the kid.

She took a left, choosing a direction at random. Elara stepped carefully over patches of ice, her footsteps muffled by the city's hustle. Yawning, she covered her mouth and navigated through groups of people who paid her no attention. 

Every turn seemed like déjà vu, and she occasionally glanced over her shoulder, half-expecting to find the persistent man from earlier tailing her. At times, she thought she glimpsed someone quickly stepping out of sight, but dismissed it as her imagination until an uneasy feeling settled in—she was being watched.

Rounding a corner, she pressed her back against the wall, cautious of any guards. Drawing her dagger, she listened to the wind whistling past her ears and waited. Amid the city's ambient sounds, she heard a subtle misstep, a boot dragging across the ground. Peeking around the corner, she pressed her dagger to the man's neck, his hands raised in surrender.

"What do you want ?" she cursed, glaring up at him. His initial surprise gave way to a small smile.

"I told you I'd be sticking around," he said simply.

"Why?" she demanded, pressing the dagger harder to his Adam's apple. "I really don't need strange men following me. I get enough stares from the people here."

He stepped back slightly, his hands still raised. "I've just been watching you a bit, nothing more. You seemed different than the people who live here, wanted to see what you were about," he explained as she cautiously lowered her dagger, remaining on guard.

"So you just see a woman and think, I'm gonna follow her down a dark pathway?" she mocked.

He thought for a moment before replying, "It sounds worse when you say it, but yes."

Elara shook her head, rolling her eyes, and turned away to continue walking. "Well, keep your mouth shut. I have things to do," she said, hearing his footsteps behind her.

"What's your name, lady?" he asked, ignoring her request.

"Elara," she replied, annoyed.

"I'm Danoc," he introduced himself, trailing behind as she stopped a few feet away from a corner, hearing a child speaking. Shushing him, she peeked around the corner to eavesdrop. 

"...Aventus walks a dark path," a woman's voice echoed. Elara spotted a child and a Dunmer woman having a conversation. The woman knelt beside the devastated child, cautioning him. 

"Now, enough. We will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need," the woman reassured the child as they started walking away. Frowning, she turned to Danoc, shoving at his chest hard. 

He looked momentarily offended as she whisper-shouted at him, "You idiot, you made me miss their conversation!"

He appeared confused before she shook her head, struggling to contain her frustration. "Why do you want anything to do with that kid? Looking to get possessed, perhaps?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Suppressing the urge to choke him, Elara turned away. "I'm trying to find his house. I heard he was 'summoning demons' and got curious," she admitted.

His laughter echoed behind her, and he clarified, "He's not summoning demons, sorry to disappoint."

Stopping in her tracks, she faced him. "I kind of figured, what is he doing then?" she asked.

"He's trying to contact the Dark Brotherhood, but the kid has been doing it for weeks. I don't think they're coming," Danoc explained with a shrug. She furrowed her eyebrows, contemplating why a child would seek the services of assassins. Maybe it was tied to his mother, she thought.

"Well, since you seem to know more than me, where is his house?" she asked, glaring up at him. Danoc pointed down the path to the right, the house looking a bit creepy at night, shadows making the entrance barely visible.

"Thanks," she mumbled, turning away. 

Approaching the front door of Aventus's house, she gave it an experimental tug. Glancing at Danoc, who was humming to himself while watching over her, she asked, "Do you know how to pick a lock?"

His confused expression suggested he misunderstood. 

"You trying to rob him, too? Damn," he remarked, stepping in front of her before she could reject the accusation. Elara sighed her desire for the night to end growing stronger. The regret of not choosing to sleep when she had the chance lingered as she faced the locked door.

As Elara heard Danoc working on the lock, she couldn't help but watch him, raising an eyebrow as he deftly handled a lockpick. He finished and put the pick back into his pocket, earning a raised eyebrow from her. She quietly opened the door, stepping into a room filled with a faint warmth and an odd smell she couldn't quite place. Danoc entered behind her, closing the door.

As she was about to head upstairs, a loud thump from above made her freeze. A boy's voice echoed, chanting strange words. 

"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy shall be baptized in blood and fear," the boy chanted. Elara approached slowly, hearing him mumble about his efforts and frustrations. When she reached the top of the stairs, she witnessed a shocking sight.

A skeleton surrounded by body parts and offerings, and the boy kneeling over it.

"Please work. How long must I do this? I keep praying, Night Mother. Why won't you answer me?" he lamented, his words filled with longing.

Glancing back at Danoc, who seemed as surprised as her but a bit more amused, she continued toward Aventus. Before she could react, the floorboard beneath her creaked, causing the boy to look up. His expression shifted from surprise to joy.

"Oh my god, it worked! Yes!" he shouted, scrambling to his feet. The sight before her was unexpected and disturbing. Elara's unease grew, but she allowed him to touch her hand as he reached out. His blistered and tired hands told a tale of weeks spent performing the ritual alone.

"You don't have to say anything. There's no need. You're here, so I know you'll accept my contract," Aventus declared, his voice dripping with hope. 

"What do you need me to do?" Elara asked quietly, her voice holding no confidence. 

"My mother, she... she died. I... I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften,” Aventus spoke, his lip wobbling at the mention of his mother, tugging at Elar’s heartstrings. 

“Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the Kind. But she's not kind. She's terrible. To all of us. So I ran away, and came home. And performed the Black Sacrament. Now you're here! And you can kill Grelod the Kind!" He said with a slight squeeze of her hand. 

Her gaze briefly shifted to Danoc, who observed the interaction with a peculiar expression on his face. He seemed surprised that Elara was contemplating going through with the boy's request. How could she turn away from him though?

"Are you sure about... murdering this woman?" Elara asked, her uncertainty lingering in the air. Aventus, however, seemed unwavering in his resolve. 

"Yes. Please. Just don't kill Constance. She's not like Grelod," he implored, searching Elara's eyes for assurance. 

With a sigh, Elara chewed on her lip before nodding. "Alright. I'll do it," she conceded. Aventus' face lit up with ecstatic relief, and yet, beneath the surface, Elara couldn't shake that she just made a mistake. The feeling just wouldn’t leave her. 

"Thank you so much. And don't worry, I do have a reward for you!" Aventus exclaimed, momentarily breaking the somber atmosphere. 

"Just please try to hurry back, I'm really lonely here," he added, laying bare the vulnerability beneath his determined facade. Leaving the house with Danoc at her side, Elara couldn't help but feel the weight of his gaze.

As the front door closed behind them, Danoc opened his mouth to speak finally.

"I cannot believe you are actually considering murdering that woman," he stated, but to her surprise not sounding as disgusted as she thought he’d be. 

"Well, I'm not considering it. I am doing it. She sounds like she abuses all those kids," she replied, her tone resolute as they walked back the way they came. 

"You just didn't strike me as the murdering kind," Danoc admitted, a hint of curiosity in his voice. She pondered the truth in his words. She wasn't certain about her capacity for outright murder, but it couldn’t be that different than back in Helgen.

"What's it to you? You decided to follow me," she retorted, glancing back at him. A smile played on Danoc's lips as he walked beside her.

"I didn't say I was complaining. You're leaving tomorrow?" he asked, drawing closer as they approached the inn. 

"Yeah, so that means you're gonna have to find someone else to stalk here," Elara remarked, pushing the door open and stepping inside. The chill of the snowy night clung to her boots as she kicked off any remaining ice.

"Yeah, I think I'll come," he said nonchalantly, prompting a deep breath from Elara. Refusing to look at him, she sensed his playful demeanor as she walked back to her room.

 "I am gonna get some drinks though before going to bed so leave some space for me," he teased with a wink.

"Not in this century," she shot back, closing the doors behind her, hearing his muffled laughter in the hallway. If she woke up early enough, she could probably leave the city before he noticed and never have to see each other. His weird fascination with her was growing old. 

The room, dimly lit by a solitary candle, embraced her in a fragile solitude. Returning to her bed, Elara crawled onto it and wrapped the comforter around herself, seeking warmth and finally some sleep. Thoughts of the impending job, the contract to eliminate Grelod the Kind, danced in her mind. The lack of guidance and the weight of her choices pressed on her, making it difficult to find reassurance in her own whispered assurances.

As she lay there, thoughts drifting like shadows, she couldn't shake the hope that Danoc would grow tired of her company. The attention he bestowed upon her was a strange mix of discomfort and familiarity. His weird, flirty demeanor made her stomach turn, yet in some odd way, it reminded her of the playful banter she once shared with her brother.

A faint smile crept onto her face. Even if Danoc harbored ulterior motives, the illusion that someone genuinely wanted to be around her brought a momentary sense of comfort. Sleep gradually enveloped her, and for the first time in a while, it wasn't plagued by nightmares.

Hours later, Elara was jolted awake by the sharp sound of a glass crashing to the floor in the room above hers. She jumped, groaning and rubbing her eyes. The sudden disturbance left her disoriented, wondering what time it was. She knew she wasn’t going to be able to go back to bed after that.

Judging by the lack of commotion from people walking upstairs, it seemed fairly early. Rolling over on the bed, she sat up and sleepily grabbed her bag from beside the bed. Her curiosity piqued, she stood up, heading to the doors and listening for any sign of commotion in the inn. The silence persisted, broken only by the distant voices.

Unlocking her door, she peeked around the corner, searching for any trace of Danoc on the first floor, but he was nowhere to be found. 

Wondering if he had secured a room for himself, she hesitated, contemplating the idea of leaving. Yet, the prospect of navigating the frigid Skyrim landscape alone dissuaded her, and with a resigned sigh, she turned towards the innkeeper.

Approaching the bar, she smiled and waved at the somewhat groggy woman, whose attention she managed to snag. The woman raised an eyebrow, her drink in hand, and queried, "Can I help you with something?" 

Elara nodded, biting her lip in mild uncertainty. "Have you seen that gentleman who was with me last night, by chance?" she inquired.

The innkeeper chuckled, a knowing gleam in her eyes, as she motioned towards one of the rooms down the hall. Elara, still confused, looked in the indicated direction before glancing at the room next to the kitchen. 

Deciding to investigate, she walked over to the doors and gave them a small, hesitant knock. When no response came, she tried a louder knock but still met with silence. Frowning, she decided to enter, pushing the door open cautiously. To her surprise, inside, she found one of the kitchen ladies lying half-dressed in bed with Danoc, who was unresponsive. 

The only one stirred by her entrance was the girl, hastily covering herself with the sheets. 

"Sorry, just gotta get my friend here if you don't mind," Elara said awkwardly, moving closer to the bed where Danoc slept curled up with the woman. She nudged his shoulder gently, but he remained undisturbed, frustrating her.

"We had a lot to drink last night," the girl whispered quietly to Elara as she got up from the bed to get dressed. Elara, growing increasingly frustrated, shoved Danoc harder, prompting him to wake up with a groan, turning over to glare at her with sleep-laden eyes.

"What do you want?" he mumbled, his words slurred.

Rolling her eyes, Elara addressed him, "I'm leaving, and you're my guide."

Confusion furrowed Danoc's brow as he responded, "Says who? I'm sleeping here, can't you wait a couple of hours?"

Elara shook her head, seizing his arm in an attempt to drag him out of bed. 

"No, you decided to bug me until I found out you're actually useful for something. So it's time to go," she insisted as he sat up and rubbed his head as if in pain.

"Okay, I'll be out in a minute," Danoc acquiesced. 

"If you're not, I'm coming back in to pour beer on you,” she warned him. 

Outside the inn, the world greeted her with a quiet layer of snowfall. The sun, just barely emerging, painted the sky in muted hues. Danoc finally emerged, looking marginally more put together than the state in which she had found him. 

"You're a very active woman. Is it necessary to go so early in the morning?" He commented with a hint of sass in his voice as he absentmindedly messed with his hair.

"I just want to get a headstart, I don't want it to take days," Elara admitted, her gaze fixed ahead. 

"I also figured it'll get a bit warmer as we travel more..." She trailed off, leading them toward the gates. 

 "South?" Danoc smirked at her silence. She nodded, deliberately ignoring his gaze.

As they passed by a couple of guards on their way out, Danoc's curiosity got the better of him. "You weren't born in Skyrim, were you?" he asked quietly, a subtle attempt to pry more out of her.

"No, I wasn't," she admitted, glancing over at the water as they crossed the bridge. 

He absorbed this revelation, nodding to himself before continuing his gentle probing, "I'm guessing you aren't a refugee then?" 

Elara, choosing her words carefully, responded after a moment of contemplative silence, "No, I just can't go back."

Chapter 4: Whispers in the Fog

The icy breath of the north gradually melted away as Elara and Danoc trekked further south, but what should have been a welcome respite from the cold only stirred her irritation. The man had yet to stop talking since they’d left Windhelm, his words flowing like an endless river, sweeping her into a sea of unimportant drivel. She could only hope that by some miracle, Danoc might lose his tongue before they reached Riften. But judging by his persistence, Elara doubted she’d be granted such a luxury.

Even now, as they huddled together in a cave for the night, roasting the lone pheasant Danoc had managed to catch, he hadn’t paused once for breath. His voice echoed against the stone walls, a constant hum that grated against her nerves. Elara had never met someone with so much to say and yet so little substance behind it. It was as if a goblin had taken residence in his skull and was spewing nonsense through his lips. The rocky ground beneath her had done no favors to her already aching back, and every time she shifted, the sharp pain tugged at her spine like a cruel reminder of their miserable journey.

By the second day, she had begun stretching her back when they rested, trying to shake off the discomfort. But that night was different. Something about the air felt thick and oppressive, hanging heavy in her lungs with every breath. It clung to her skin, almost suffocating, making her suppress the urge to cough. The usual crisp mountain air had been replaced by a weight that made her chest tighten, and despite the warmth of the fire, a chill of unease settled deep in her bones.

Danoc was oblivious, rambling on about some grand city called Markarth. He was going on about the stonework, how magnificent the Dwemer ruins were, and how she had to see it if she was going to spend any time in Skyrim. Elara barely heard him anymore. Instead, her eyes flicked toward the shadows beyond the firelight, watching as the fog crept through the trees, twisting the woods into unfamiliar shapes. She took out her map, squinting at the faint markings, trying to pinpoint where they were when suddenly, an arm shot out and yanked her back with such force that she nearly lost her footing.

Before she could even curse, Danoc’s rough hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her protest. His usually easygoing expression was gone, replaced with a scowl, his eyes sharp as he scanned the darkness ahead. Elara's heart pounded in her chest as she glared at him, trying to pry his hand off her face. But something in his gaze kept her from making a sound. His body was tense, more alert than she had ever seen him, and that alone was enough to make her stomach knot.

“What are you—” she began, but Danoc pressed his finger to his lips, a silent plea for her to stay quiet. His eyes darted to the treeline, and then, with a gentle but urgent shove, he pushed her down into the bushes beside him. Her confusion mounted as they knelt in the underbrush, the damp earth cold against her skin.

"Keep quiet, lady," Danoc whispered, his voice barely audible as he pulled her closer, his attention never straying from the path. His usual lazy charm was gone, replaced by something hard and unyielding. He was staring ahead, his jaw clenched, as if watching something just beyond the veil of fog.

Her  breath caught in her throat as she squinted through the dense mist, trying to make sense of what had spooked him. For a long moment, there was nothing but the eerie stillness of the forest, the fog swirling slowly around the trees like ghostly tendrils. The shadows seemed thicker here as if the night itself had grown heavier.

Then, movement.

A group of figures appeared through the haze, emerging from the fog like wraiths. At first, they seemed normal enough—humans, perhaps, some walking upright, while others staggered clumsily behind. Elara narrowed her eyes, trying to see them more clearly through the growing gloom.

“I don’t understand," she whispered, her voice low as she leaned toward Danoc. "They’re just people.”

He didn’t respond right away, his brow furrowed as he studied the figures. His jaw tightened before he finally spoke, his voice grim. “Maybe they once were.”

The weight of his words settled over her like a lead blanket. Elara’s pulse quickened as she strained her eyes to make sense of the figures moving through the trees. The more she watched, the more wrong they seemed. The way they moved—it was jerky, unnatural. Some of them dragged their feet as if they had forgotten how to walk, while others moved with an eerie smoothness that made her skin crawl.

And then she saw it—the faint, unnatural glow of their eyes. Red, like embers in the night. They scanned the forest with deliberate caution as if they were hunting for something—or someone. Elara’s heart skipped a beat as she instinctively reached for her sword, her fingers brushing the hilt. The blade was cool against her palm, a comfort amidst the growing fear that gnawed at her.

She shifted her foot back, ready to rise if necessary, but the heel of her boot landed on a patch of dry leaves. The unmistakable crunch pierced the silence like a thunderclap. Her breath caught in her throat as one of the figures froze. Its head snapped around, the glowing red eyes locking onto her position with an eerie precision.

A cold shiver ran down her spine. For a moment, everything was still. The night held its breath. And then, the figure began to move—slowly at first, but with a dreadful purpose. Its eyes fixed on where she and Danoc were hiding, and it took a step toward them. Then another.

“What in the gods’ name are they?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Danoc’s hand twitched toward his dagger, his face grim as he surveyed the approaching figures. 

"As close to the undead as you can get without being a corpse," he mumbled under his breath. Before Elara could react, the creatures launched themselves forward with a speed that made her head spin. Their movements were unnaturally quick, and jerky, like marionettes tugged by invisible strings. Her mind scrambled to catch up as the sickening truth settled in—these were not ordinary men.

They moved in a twisted frenzy, some with their limbs flailing wildly, others with an eerie focus. The ones in front, less controlled, almost animalistic, hissed and growled as they threw themselves at Danoc with reckless abandon. One of them, its eyes blank and lips curled back in a grotesque snarl, lunged at him, arms outstretched as if to tear him apart. Danoc met it with a swift upward slash, the blade cutting clean through its neck. The headless body dropped, but there was no pause in the attack. Another took its place almost instantly, pushing Danoc back as he parried, grunting with the effort.

Elara unsheathed her sword, her fingers trembling slightly as she tightened her grip on the hilt. She scanned the chaos, her attention drawn to a figure at the back of the group—a figure that moved differently from the rest. While the others thrashed and lunged like rabid animals, this one was calm, composed, and focused directly on her.

The figure’s eyes glowed an unnatural, eerie red, and as it stepped closer, she saw more clearly the pale skin stretched tight over its gaunt face. A red, sinister light pulsed from its outstretched hand, a dull hum of magic filling the air. It was commanding the others, controlling them with a power Elara had never encountered. Her stomach tightened with fear as the realization hit—this wasn’t just a band of mindless thralls. This was something much worse.

“Don’t let them hit you!” Danoc’s voice rang out over the clash of steel and the feral growls of the undead. He was locked in combat, his blade a blur as he fought to keep the thralls at bay. He sliced through another one, its decayed body crumpling to the ground, but the effort was starting to show. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and despite his skill, the sheer numbers were overwhelming.

Her focus snapped back to the figure in the distance. It was watching her with a malevolent intensity, its hand raised higher now, the magic gathering in its palm growing stronger. The air around her seemed to heat up, and she could feel the dark energy pulsing toward her, like a wave of invisible fire. The spell it was casting was meant for her, and she had no magic to counter it—no shield, no ward, nothing but the cold steel in her hands.

Her heart raced as the creature began to murmur in a language she didn’t understand, the words rolling off its tongue like a dark incantation. The heat in the air intensified, and she felt the energy crackling toward her, wrapping around her like unseen chains.

With a burst of adrenaline, she lunged forward, her sword cutting through the air as she aimed for the creature’s chest. It dodged with a swift, unnatural grace, and her blade sliced through empty space. She stumbled, barely managing to regain her footing as the creature’s hand moved in an arc, the glowing magic in its palm flaring brighter. She felt the first tendrils of its spell sink into her skin, like icy claws wrapping around her throat.

The sensation was immediate and horrifying. Her blood felt as though it had turned to lead, her limbs heavy and sluggish. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she thought she was choking. She tried to move, to strike again, but it was as if the air itself had thickened, trapping her in place. The spell was draining her—sapping her very life force. Her vision blurred at the edges, dark spots dancing before her eyes as panic set in.

I’m too close, she thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. I’ve gotten too close.

With a surge of desperate will, Elara fought through the suffocating grip of the spell, raising her sword once more. Her arm shook with the effort, but she swung again, this time aiming for the creature’s midsection. It dodged, but not fast enough. The tip of her blade grazed its side, tearing through the dark robes it wore and drawing a thin line of blackened blood.

The creature hissed, its concentration faltering for just a moment. The pressure around Elara’s chest loosened, and she gasped, air rushing back into her lungs as the spell weakened. She staggered back, her body trembling with exhaustion, but there was no time to catch her breath. The creature was still standing, and though it clutched its wound, its eyes were filled with cold fury.

The magic in its hand flickered, dying down for a brief moment before flaring back to life. Elara’s heart sank as she realized it wasn’t finished—not by a long shot.

She could feel the dark energy coursing through her again, draining her strength with every passing second. Her vision blurred as her limbs grew heavier, her breath coming in short, desperate gasps. But she wasn’t about to let this thing win.

With a final burst of adrenaline, Elara lashed out, her boot connecting with the creature’s chest in a swift, vicious kick. The force sent it tumbling backward, hissing like a wounded animal as it rolled across the dirt. The moment the spell broke, the suffocating grip around her body lifted, and she inhaled deeply, the sharp air filling her lungs. Freed from its magic, her focus returned, her anger driving her forward.

The creature, now on the ground, turned its pale, twisted face toward her, baring its teeth in a grotesque snarl. With a determined yell, she brought the blade down in a deadly arc, aiming for its head. The sword cut through flesh and bone, the sickening sound of steel slicing through the creature’s skull filling the night air. It let out a horrible gurgle, clawing at its throat in a desperate attempt to save itself.

She noticed the creature’s hand twitch, a faint golden glow starting to emanate from its fingers. It was trying to cast another spell—trying to heal itself. Elara’s lip curled in disgust. 

Without hesitation, she drove her blade straight into the creature’s head, piercing through its skull and burying the tip deep into the dirt beneath. Its body convulsed violently, then went still, its face frozen in a mask of despair. The faint gold glow in its hand flickered out, leaving nothing but the twisted remnants of a once-human figure.

She stood there for a moment, panting quietly, her chest rising and falling as she watched the last vestiges of life leave the creature’s body. Her face twisted in a mix of exhaustion and raw emotion as she slid her blade out of its head, the blood dripping thickly into the earth. The body twitched once, then lay completely still.

She finally had a chance to get a good look at it. The dark, tattered robes clung to its gaunt frame, its skin pale and waxy like a corpse, but this thing had once been human. Whatever dark magic or sickness had claimed it had twisted it beyond recognition, turning it into the monstrosity that now lay dead at her feet.

Behind her, Danoc finished off the last of the thralls, his blade slick with the black, rancid blood of the creatures. He wiped his brow, his face streaked with grime and scratches, one cut on his cheek still oozing blood. Without a word, he sheathed his weapon and stalked over to Elara, his eyes burning with frustration. She barely had time to react before he grabbed the front of her leather shirt, yanking her close.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snarled his face inches from hers. His eyes were wide with anger, his voice rough and raw. “You don’t fucking listen to me, do you? Were you just born yesterday?”

“What’s your problem now?” she snapped, glaring at him, her chest still heaving from the fight. But he didn’t let go. His grip tightened, pulling her closer, his eyes alight with frustration as they bore into hers.

"I knew you weren’t listening earlier," he hissed, his voice low and cutting, inches from her face. "I told you—these woods are infested with vampires. I warned you!"

Elara blinked, her heart still pounding from the battle, her mind trying to catch up. Vampires. The word hung in the air like a curse. She'd heard stories, but never thought they’d actually cross paths with something like this. She hadn’t been listening, sure—but she had dismissed Danoc’s warning as more of his constant rambling.

Her frown deepened, but her confusion outweighed her anger. "Vampires?" she repeated, the disbelief still clinging to her voice. She glanced down at the twisted corpses, their pale skin gleaming like porcelain in the moonlight, their blood-red eyes now lifeless.

His expression darkened further, and he let go of her, shoving her back with a look of disgust. "Gods, you really aren’t from here, are you?" He wiped at the blood that still dripped down his face from a fresh gash on his cheek, smearing it across his jaw.

With a huff, she reached into her satchel and pulled out a small vial of healing potion. "Here," she muttered, shoving it toward him, her tone half-apologetic though her expression remained firm. She wasn’t about to show him how rattled she was.

Danoc paused, staring at the vial in her hand. For a moment, his hardened expression flickered with something unreadable, but it passed as quickly as it came. Without a word, he snatched the vial from her, popped the cork, and downed the potion in one swift motion. The cuts on his face and arms slowly began to mend, the blood clotting by the healing magic. He tossed the empty bottle back to her without a second glance, already rifling through his own pack.

Elara furrowed her brows, watching him rummage through his things. His wounds were healing—she could see the flesh knitting together where the gash on his cheek had been. Why was he still searching for more?

"I’m perfectly capable of making my own potions," she said, her voice sharper than she intended, the frustration lingering from the battle.

He silenced her with a raised hand, his eyes narrowing as he pulled out another vial, filled with a dark, shimmering liquid. "This isn’t about your potions," he said tersely, uncorking the vial and drinking half of its contents before holding it out to her. "You let one of those things get close to you. Too close. You felt it, didn’t you? The magic—they infect you if you’re exposed for too long, even a light scratch is enough.”

Her pride fought against the instinct to take the vial, but logic won out. With a grimace, she snatched the vial from his hand and drank the remaining liquid. It burned as it went down, a sharp, acrid taste that left her throat raw. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, handing the empty vial back to him. 

"Happy?" she muttered, the bitterness in her voice not entirely masked.

Danoc’s face softened, though only slightly, his rough exterior chipping away just enough to show a flicker of something deeper—fatigue, maybe, or even a touch of guilt. 

“You’ll thank me later,” he muttered, tucking the now-empty vial back into his pack. His voice had lost its earlier sharpness, but the edge of tension still lingered, like an unspoken warning.

She grimaced, wiping the remnants of the foul liquid from her lips with the back of her hand. The taste clung to her tongue like bitter smoke. "What was in that? It tasted awful,” she muttered, almost to herself.

He didn’t bother to look back, his steps already carrying him further down the path. “Better than turning into one of them,” he said flatly, his tone matter-of-fact. “And it cured anything else you might’ve picked up along the way. You’re welcome, by the way.”

She scowled at his back, half-tempted to hurl the empty vial after him, but instead, she sheathed her sword and fell into step behind him. Wiping the sweat and blood from her brow, she wondered if his lingering frustration was from her earlier carelessness in battle or if he actually cared about her well-being.

 She quickly dismissed the thought—Danoc wasn’t exactly the nurturing type. More likely, he was annoyed at the idea of having to drag a half-dead companion through these vampire-infested woods.

They continued in silence, the oppressive fog that had clung to the forest floor thinning out as the last light of the day began to fade. The sun dipped lower behind the trees, casting a deep orange and violet hue over the horizon. Fireflies began to blink into existence around them, their soft glow illuminating the path in small bursts of light, like a peaceful echo of the earlier bloodshed.

They passed a handful of small, quiet farmsteads, the warm glow of hearth fires visible through distant windows. The sight was almost peaceful, but Danoc’s silence hung heavy between them, his face set in a hard line, jaw tight as though he was still brooding over the fight. She shot a sideways glance at him but decided to keep her thoughts to herself for now. She wasn’t in the mood for another lecture, and she had a feeling he was done talking for the time being.

The evening air had grown noticeably cooler, a stark contrast to the sticky warmth that had clung to them earlier. Elara shivered slightly beneath her armor, the chill seeping in through the joints and making her shoulders tense. The fog had fully dissipated by now, leaving the path clearer, though the deep shadows of the forest loomed at the edges of her vision.

After what felt like hours of walking in the dim light, she finally spoke up, her voice cutting through the quiet. “Are we stopping any time soon, or did you plan on walking all night?”

He shot her a glance over his shoulder, his brow furrowed in that familiar look of annoyance. “You’re making the fire this time, then,” he grunted, his tone flat but lacking the previous anger. He slowed his pace slightly, scanning the darkening woods for a suitable place to stop.

She didn’t argue, instead nodding as she trudged along beside him, her eyes sweeping the area for a rest spot. The sky above was now a deep indigo, the stars beginning to peek through the canopy of trees. Eventually, they found a small clearing, sheltered by a thick ring of trees. It wasn’t much, but it would do for the night.

Elara set to work gathering firewood while Danoc leaned against a nearby tree, his eyes scanning the perimeter as if expecting another ambush. She could feel the weight of his gaze every now and then, but he said nothing, and neither did she. The fight had drained her more than she cared to admit, and the last thing she wanted was another confrontation, even if it was just verbal.

By the time she had a decent pile of wood, the air had grown even colder, a brisk wind rustling through the trees. She shivered again, her fingers stiff as she worked to coax the fire to life. Eventually, the flames flickered and caught, the warmth spreading slowly across her face and hands. She sat close to the fire, rubbing her palms together to chase away the chill.

Danoc finally moved from his spot by the tree, walking over and sitting a few feet from her—close enough to feel the fire’s warmth, but not too close. He stretched out his hands toward the flames, his face illuminated in the soft light. The earlier hardness in his expression had softened, though his eyes still held that familiar wariness.

For a while, they sat in silence, the crackling of the fire the only sound between them. Elara leaned back on her hands, staring up at the now fully dark sky. The stars were bright, shimmering like tiny shards of glass scattered across the heavens. Fireflies continued to blink lazily around them, their soft glow adding a touch of magic to the otherwise quiet night.

She sat quietly for a moment, her eyes flicking from the dancing flames to Danoc, who had finally started to relax after the skirmish. The tension that had lingered in the air between them since they first met seemed to soften, if only slightly.

She watched him, a question rising in her throat before she could stop it. “How old are you, anyway?” The words left her lips with an edge of curiosity she couldn’t mask.

Danoc, sitting on the opposite side of the fire, gave a low chuckle. His amusement was almost palpable as he rubbed his hands together, the flicker of firelight casting long shadows across his sharp features. "I'd say I'm the same age as you," he said casually, removing his sword and setting it beside him, "give or take a year."

Elara narrowed her eyes at him, unconvinced. “You don’t know?”

He shrugged, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back, propping himself against his pack. "No, I just don’t want to tell you yet," he replied with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

She frowned, her arms crossing over her chest. “What’s with the mystery? You some ancient being pretending to be mortal?”

His grin widened as he lay down beside the fire, looking up at the sky. “Maybe I am,” he mused, his voice laced with mock seriousness. “Maybe I’m older than I look. Who knows?”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. She was used to his cryptic answers by now, but there was something about him tonight that felt... different. He wasn’t as cold or distant, as though the fight had pulled them a little closer together. Still, one question nagged at her mind, a question that had been hovering since the moment he had offered to join her on this journey.

“Why did you decide to come with me?” she asked, her voice quieter, more curious than before.

He turned his head slightly, peering at her through the glow of the fire with a look that said he thought her question was ridiculous. “I didn’t have much of a choice,” he muttered, his tone flat. “You forced me.”

She raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with his answer. “I don’t recall holding a knife to your throat,” she retorted dryly.

He let out a soft huff of amusement, turning his gaze back to the sky. Silence fell between them, the sound of crackling wood filling the gap where their conversation had been. For a moment, Elara thought that might be the end of it, that Danoc would retreat into his usual silence and leave her with her questions unanswered. But then, just as she was about to give up, he spoke again, his voice lower, almost reluctant.

“You didn’t need a knife,” he admitted. “It was your eyes.”

Elara blinked. “My eyes?”

He sighed, sitting up slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared into the fire. 

“The way you looked at me when we first met... it was like you were going to figure me out, whether I liked it or not. And maybe… I wanted to see if you could.” His tone was soft now, no longer teasing, and the firelight reflected in his dark eyes like embers smoldering just beneath the surface.

She didn’t know what to say at first. She hadn’t expected him to reveal anything so personal, and certainly not like this, out of nowhere. She stared at him for a moment, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. It wasn’t that she didn’t have something to say—it was that the sudden vulnerability in his words had left her speechless.

The air between them felt easy, with an unspoken understanding that hadn’t been there before. She wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the fire or the warmth of his words, but suddenly, the cold bite of the night felt far away.

 

---

 

Elara didn’t remember when sleep had finally claimed her, but the early morning dew greeted her skin like icy pinpricks as she stirred awake. Her head rested awkwardly against her satchel, which had served as a makeshift pillow through the night. The fire from the previous night had long since died, reduced to a mere pile of ashes, with faint wisps of smoke curling lazily in the morning air. Dawn’s soft light began to filter through the trees, dappling the forest floor in golden hues. She blinked groggily, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.

The stillness of the morning was peaceful, but that peace quickly fractured as she glanced over to where Danoc had been resting the night before. His spot was empty, and his pack was no longer there.

She sat up quickly, the dampness of the morning clinging to her clothes as she fumbled to gather her things, panic rising in her chest. Had he left?

She yanked her sword from its resting place, checking her surroundings for any sign of him, her mind running wild with questions.

A sudden tap against her leg startled her, and she whipped around, sword halfway unsheathed, only to come face-to-face with Danoc. He loomed over her with that same insufferable smirk plastered on his face, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Gave you a scare, didn’t I?” he drawled, his voice thick with teasing. His lips curled into a smug grin, clearly enjoying the panic he'd caused.

Elara exhaled sharply, forcing the relief she felt deep down to stay hidden. The last thing she was going to do was let him think he had rattled her. "Don’t flatter yourself," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she kicked dirt over the remnants of the fire pit. She slung her pack over her shoulder, checking her sword before securing it to her hip once more.

"What were you doing, taking a morning stroll?"

He chuckled under his breath and shrugged, moving past her with that casual confidence that always seemed to cling to him. “I’ve been scouting ahead,” he said, his tone nonchalant. “Making sure the path’s clear.”

“And?” she pressed, raising an eyebrow.

“And we’re in for a long walk,” he replied, glancing back over his shoulder with a sly grin. "Better get moving before you start complaining about your feet."

She rolled her eyes again, not bothering with a retort. Instead, she followed him as he led the way down the path, the morning mist still clinging to the edges of the trees. The dense fog began to lift, and the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows on the dirt road. Elara wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead, already feeling the warmth of the day creeping in under her armor. The weight of it clung to her uncomfortably, the leather growing sticky against her skin.

As they walked, the tension between them seemed to settle into a more familiar rhythm. The silence was comfortable for once, broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of birds.

 Signs began to dot the roadside, directing travelers toward Riften, along with other unfamiliar destinations. Her stomach tightened with every step, though. The old woman they were sent to find, the one who was meant to kill, weighed heavy on her thoughts.

What if the woman wasn’t the monster she had been painted as?

He must have noticed her silence. He slowed his pace slightly, his eyes flicking toward her, though his expression remained unreadable. “You’re awfully quiet,” he remarked, his voice softer than usual.

She shrugged, unwilling to let her thoughts spill out just yet. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

"The job," she muttered, her brow furrowing.

She glanced sideways at Danoc, who didn’t miss a beat before pouncing on her uncertainty.

"Ah, I see," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Finally regretting promising to kill an old woman, huh?"

Her fists clenched slightly at her sides. She resisted the urge to snap back, instead shaking her head in frustration. "The kid will pay well," she replied, her tone sharper than intended. "He said he was being abused. Who knows, maybe she's terrible to the other kids too?"

Even as she spoke, the words felt hollow—more like she was trying to convince herself than him. Danoc noticed immediately, of course. He threw his head back and let out a loud, raucous laugh that echoed through the trees, causing a few birds to take flight in the distance.

"Oh gods, you're really hoping, aren't you?" he said, laughter still bubbling out of him. "I bet your precious morals are screaming at you right now. ‘ Oh please, don't kill me, dear! My grandkids are visiting next week !’" He pitched his voice into a shrill falsetto, mimicking the voice of an elderly woman with exaggerated horror, complete with theatrical hand gestures.

Elara shot him a venomous glare and sped up her pace, trying to leave him behind. "You're an ass," she muttered under her breath, the words almost getting lost in the wind as they rounded a bend in the road.

Danoc didn’t stop laughing, his chuckles following her like an annoying echo. "C’mon, you know I’m right! Your conscience is doing somersaults right now!"

She bit her lip, willing herself not to turn around and strangle him. Gods, how badly she wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face. But she pressed forward, focusing on the path ahead instead of his infuriating banter.

After a while, the city gates of Riften appeared in the distance, the towering walls framed by tall trees and the fading light of day. Guards were posted on either side, their weapons gleaming in the dimming sun. The sight should have brought some relief, but Elara’s stomach tightened with dread. The task ahead seemed even heavier now that they were so close.

"You don’t have any valuables on you, do you?" Danoc’s voice cut through the tense silence behind her, his tone suddenly casual, as if discussing the weather.

Elara shot him a confused glance over her shoulder. "What?"

He shook his head, waving a hand dismissively. "Never mind, forget it." But that smirk still tugged at the corner of his mouth, teasing her with whatever game he was playing. He was always playing some game.

She narrowed her eyes but decided not to rise to the bait. Ignoring his cryptic comment, she turned back toward the gate, focusing on her task. They had a job to do, whether she liked it or not.

She narrowed her eyes but held her tongue, suppressing the urge to snap back at Danoc’s cryptic comment. There was no point in arguing now. They had a job to do, and that was all that mattered. 

As they neared the gate, one of the guards stepped forward, his hand raised to halt them. His other hand rested lazily on the hilt of his sword, more for show than actual threat, but the air of casual authority was undeniable. The pointed silver helmet obscured his features, save for the sharp glint of his eyes beneath the visor.

"Hold," the guard said in a gruff tone, almost bored. "The city's closed to the public."

She frowned, her patience thinning by the second. "I need in," she said, her voice firm, authority seeping into her tone. "I have a bounty to finish inside."

The guard’s eyes shifted beneath his helmet, scrutinizing her as if deciding whether to take her seriously. His gaze briefly flicked to Danoc, who stood beside her with his arms crossed, looking thoroughly unimpressed by the exchange. The guard seemed to weigh his options before relaxing slightly, his posture becoming more casual as he spoke again.

"Tax is due to those who want in," he said, the tone of his voice betraying the falsehood. "A hundred gold for the lot of you."

Elara’s brow furrowed. A tax? She glanced up at Danoc, whose face was unreadable. His usual smirk had vanished, replaced with a hard, focused expression. Something about the guard's tone didn’t sit right, and Elara could feel the shift in the air, the undercurrent of dishonesty.

Before she could respond, Danoc stepped in, his voice sharp. 

"Oh please," he scoffed, loud enough to draw the attention of the second guard loitering a few paces behind. "I've passed through these gates more than enough times, and you’ve never tried that before. Why would you think it would work now?"

The first guard stiffened, his hands rising defensively, the nervous energy around him becoming palpable. His eyes darted to the other guard, clearly hoping the conversation wouldn’t escalate. "Alright, alright," he muttered quickly. "You don’t need to shout. A man’s gotta try at least."

He turned, fumbling with the heavy iron key at his side as he stalked toward the gate. The old wooden doors groaned as they slowly swung open, revealing the dim, empty streets beyond. Danoc wasted no time, brushing past Elara without a word, following the guard as the doors creaked wide enough for them to enter.

She hesitated for a moment, glancing up at the tall, weathered gate before stepping forward, crossing the threshold into the city. The instant they stepped inside, the air shifted, thick with a strange, unsettling energy.

The cobblestone streets were eerily quiet, far too quiet for what should’ve been a bustling town. Some shops were closed, their windows darkened, and the few townspeople who wandered the streets hurried along with their heads down, avoiding eye contact as if even acknowledging their presence might invite trouble. 

Danoc was uncharacteristically quiet. His eyes flitted around, scanning every shadow, every alley as if he expected danger to leap out at them. He’d been on edge from the moment they entered the gates, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his blade.

Elara didn’t like it—not the silence, not the unease that gripped the city like a vice. It was as though the air itself was thick with something foul, something lurking just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to strike.

She wanted to ask him what was wrong, why he was acting so differently, but before she could even begin to form the words, a figure emerged somewhere from their left, by the houses, blocking their way with their way.

The man was massive, towering over them with broad shoulders and a chest that looked like it was chiseled from stone. His black hair was pulled back into a bun, and his face was hard, the lines etched into it making him look as though he’d been through more battles than anyone could count. His eyes, however, were sharp, fixed on Danoc with a venomous intensity that made Elara’s skin crawl.

“Bold of you to show your face again,” the man rumbled, his voice like gravel scraping against stone. “Pretty stupid, if you ask me.”

The sudden confrontation startled her, her hand twitching toward her sword. She glanced at Danoc, expecting him to flash his usual cocky grin or throw out some snide comment, but his face was set, his jaw tight. There was a stillness to him, something almost dangerous that she hadn’t seen before. Whatever history Danoc had with this man, it was far from good.

“Didn’t know you were the one calling the shots now, Maul,” Danoc said, his voice calm but edged with something cold. “Must be new.”

The man’s lips curled into a sneer, his gaze never wavering. “Acting dense won’t help you, Danoc. Maven’s been far too kind, letting you roam free after what you pulled. You should be rotting in a ditch somewhere, not strutting through the gates like you own the place.”

Danoc stood his ground, though Elara could sense the underlying tension in his body. “I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said evenly. “We’re just passing through.”

Maul didn’t seem convinced. He scoffed, crossing his thick arms over his chest, his gaze finally flickering to Elara. His lip curled slightly as he looked her over, sizing her up with obvious disdain. 

"And you ," he said, his voice dripping with condescension, "I don’t know what kind of game you think you're playing, but if you’re with him, you’re in deeper shit than you realize. He’s trouble. The kind that gets people killed."

Her patience, already frayed by the stifling atmosphere of the city, snapped. She took a step forward, meeting Maul’s gaze with cold defiance. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, ready to draw it if necessary.

He stepped closer, towering over her. “How brave,” he mocked. “But bravery won’t mean much here.”

Before she could respond, Danoc stepped forward, his voice a dangerous whisper. “This isn’t your business. We’re not here for a fight.”

After what felt like an eternity, Maul stepped aside, his cold gaze never leaving Danoc. “Don’t think you’ve gotten away with anything,” he said quietly, his voice low and menacing.

Danoc gave him a curt nod, pushing past without another word. Elara followed, casting one last glance at the man before quickening her pace to match her partner’s.

They moved down the walkway, the path narrowing beside the railing, where the dark, stagnant waters of the city’s lower canals sloshed beneath them. The air was thick with the pungent odor of fish, and she wrinkled her nose as she noticed barrels and buckets brimming with the day's catch, discarded carelessly outside rundown homes that clung precariously to the lower levels of the city. Everything felt damp and rotting, as though the place itself was decaying.

Ahead, the orphanage loomed in the distance. Its once-proud wooden sign creaked ominously as it swung lazily in the breeze. The building seemed worn by years of neglect, its timbers weathered and gray.

But before they could get any closer, she grabbed Danoc’s arm, pulling him sharply to the side, out of sight from the orphanage and any prying eyes.

He stiffened at the touch but didn’t pull away. She pressed him against the stone wall of a nearby building, her voice barely above a whisper but carrying all the urgency she felt. 

“Am I going to have trouble here because of you?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing as they searched his face for any sign of deceit. She kept her voice quiet, but there was an edge to it, sharp and dangerous. The city reeked of secrets, and she had no doubt there were ears everywhere, waiting to catch anything they could use.

He stiffened, his jaw clenching as her words sank in. He looked like he wanted to argue, to brush her off like he usually did, but something in her expression must have told him she wasn’t in the mood for his evasions. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his dark hair before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Look,” he muttered, his voice gruff, “I told you I’d get you here. I didn’t say I’d spill my life story along the way.”

Elara’s temper flared, and her patience has been long since she was frayed by the cryptic comments and half-truths. “Would’ve been nice to know you had enemies here before we walked in,” she snapped, her tone laced with venom. She glanced over her shoulder, watching the shadows that seemed to creep closer in the fading light. “I’m not about to get caught in the crossfire of whatever mess you’ve dragged us into.”

Danoc’s eyes flashed with anger, his lips curling into a tight sneer. “It was none of your business,” he growled, stepping closer, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over her. His gaze bore into hers, daring her to push him further.

But she didn’t back down. She met his stare, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. She had seen this look before—the hardness in his eyes, the walls he built around himself whenever something hit too close to home.

For a moment, it seemed like they were at an impasse, the tension between them thick enough to choke on. Then, just as quickly as it came, Danoc’s anger seemed to deflate. He let out a slow breath, the tension in his shoulders easing as his eyes softened.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper. There was something raw in his tone, a sincerity she hadn’t heard from him in a long time. “That’s something you don’t have to worry about.”

She studied him for a long moment, her mind racing as she weighed his words. Her instincts screamed at her to be cautious, to keep her guard up. Danoc was trouble—that much she knew. He had a past, one filled with dark secrets and dangerous enemies, and whatever ghosts haunted him had followed them here.

But as much as she hated to admit it, there was something in his eyes that told her he was telling the truth. At least, at this moment, he was. She didn’t trust him completely—not by a long shot—but for now, it would have to be enough.

“Fine,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm of doubt swirling inside her. “But if this goes south, you’d better hope you’re faster than me.”

Danoc gave her a half-smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes, and nodded. Without another word, Elara released her grip on his arm and stepped back, watching as he adjusted his stance before turning toward the orphanage. The heavy atmosphere pressed down on them as they approached the sagging building.

The door to the orphanage was old, its wooden frame cracked and worn from years of neglect. Elara’s hand hovered over the rough surface, hesitating for a brief second before she pushed it open.

Chapter 5: Snowfall

Summary:

Sorry for reupload, there was a major mistake left in :P

The smell hit her first—a mixture of mildew, damp wood, and something far more unpleasant that made her stomach turn. The inside was no better. The orphanage was dimly lit, the few candles flickering weakly in the oppressive gloom. The air was thick with dust, and the creaking floorboards groaned underfoot as they stepped inside.

Danoc stood just behind her, his presence steady yet alert. His sharp eyes roamed the dark corners of the room. As the dim light flickered across his face, she could see a tension in his jaw, a silent confirmation that he was as uneasy as she was.

Her gaze swept the hall, settling on a firelit room off to the left. From within, the hushed murmurs of children reached her ears—soft whispers, too low to make out the words, but laden with a heaviness that made her stomach clench. Something about the place felt wrong, deeply wrong, as though they were intruding on something dark and unseen. She took a cautious step forward, the old wood beneath her feet groaning like a warning. Just as she was about to take another step, she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching from around the corner.

A woman appeared, her face half-hidden in shadow. She was younger than Elara had expected, her skin a deep tan, and her long, brown hair hung in loose waves down her back. She moved with a quiet grace, her steps almost too light for the creaky floor. Yet her eyes—sharp, watchful—betrayed the weight she carried.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, her voice low and steady, though there was a hint of wariness in her tone. “The orphanage isn’t open for adoptions at the moment.”

Elara furrowed her brows, masking her frustration behind a veil of confusion. She took a step closer, careful to keep her expression neutral, even as her heart quickened. “We can’t speak with the children at all?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity. 

She needed to tread carefully here, but there was something off about the woman’s demeanor—too calm, too cautious. Elara had spent enough time reading people to know when someone was hiding something.

“I’m not the headmistress,” the woman replied softly, though her eyes never left Elara’s. “I just assist. The headmistress has made it clear the children are not to be adopted at this time.”

There was a slight quiver in the woman’s voice now, almost as if she were rehearsing lines she’d been forced to repeat. Elara didn’t trust her, but she couldn’t afford to show it. 

“May I at least speak with the headmistress then?” she asked, keeping her voice polite but firm. There was no way they were leaving without completing the job.

The woman hesitated, her gaze flicking nervously between Elara and Danoc. She studied them both for a long moment as if weighing whether or not they posed a threat. Her eyes lingered on Danoc, who stood just behind Elara, his arms crossed and his face unreadable. After a long, tense silence, the woman spoke again, her voice more subdued.

“Are you both... the parents?” she asked, her tone almost hesitant, as if unsure of her own question.

Elara nearly choked on the laugh that threatened to escape. Her? With Danoc? The thought was so absurd it almost broke her focus, but she caught the slight twitch of amusement on Danoc’s lips. He, of course, had no problem playing along with the ruse.

“Yes,” Danoc said smoothly, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “This is my wife.”

She shot him a quick glance, her lips twitching in barely contained amusement. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. If anyone had told her that she’d be pretending to be married to Danoc today, she would have dismissed it as the world’s worst joke. 

The woman’s face softened, her earlier wariness fading as she allowed herself to believe the lie. “I’m sure Grelod would hear you both out,” she said, her tone shifting to something almost hopeful. “You seem like a strong couple.”

Elara’s stomach turned at the words, but she forced a smile and nodded, stepping past the woman without another word. Her mind raced as they made their way further into the orphanage, her steps quick and measured. She could still hear the faint whispers of children, but now they sounded more like ghostly murmurs, as though the walls themselves were alive with their secrets.

Just as she was about to round the corner, she felt Danoc’s hand on her arm—firm but gentle, pulling her back into the shadows. He leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper as he spoke into her ear. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, his tone serious, a rare moment of genuine concern. “This feels... wrong.”

She paused, meeting his eyes in the dim light. For a moment, she considered his words, the knot in her stomach tightening. He was right. Something about this entire situation felt off—the orphanage, the woman’s rehearsed lines, the eerie stillness in the air. But they had come too far to back out now. She had no choice.

“I don’t have a choice,” she whispered back, her voice steady though her heart raced. Her eyes flicked down the darkened corridor where the headmistress waited. “We finish this.”

He hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes searching hers. But finally, he nodded, his grip loosening on her arm.

“Alright,” he muttered, his voice resigned.

She barely acknowledged him, her focus shifting back to the dimly lit corridor ahead. She peeked around the corner into the firelit room, the soft glow revealing a dismal sight: several young children, no older than nine, scattered around the room, their small bodies busy with chores. Some scrubbed the floors with rags soaked in murky water, while others fumbled with their beds, tucking in threadbare blankets and fluffing thin pillows as if their lives depended on it.

The most unsettling part was the silence, broken only by the soft sounds of water sloshing in buckets and the occasional creak of floorboards beneath their feet. These children moved with an eerie obedience, heads down, too afraid to speak.

Across the room, a set of doors stood closed, worn, and splintered from years of use. Elara’s instincts told her that Grelod—the one she had come for—was likely behind those doors. She took a step forward, and the children's heads lifted, their eyes wide with hope. Their expressions tugged at something deep inside her, and she could feel their silent plea for help, for freedom. Their gazes clung to her, as though praying she might be the one to deliver them from this wretched place.

But just as quickly as that hope appeared, it vanished, replaced by a fearful stillness as the sound of heavy footsteps echoed from across the room.

The door across the room creaked open, and the woman Elara had come to kill stepped into view. She was hunched slightly, her bony frame draped in a threadbare, dark cloak. Her face was a mask of cruelty, lines etched deep into her skin from years of malice and contempt. Her gray hair pulled back into a tight knot shimmered in the faint light like tarnished silver. Grelod's beady eyes swept the room, her expression hardening as she took in the sight of the children.

Grelod’s eyes blazed with anger as she strode into the room. “This place is filthy!” she shrieked her voice like nails on a chalkboard. The children flinched at the sound, scrambling to resume their chores, but it was too late. Grelod was already upon them, her sharp gaze landing on a young boy kneeling by the fireplace, scrubbing the floor with trembling hands.

Without hesitation, she leaned down, her bony face mere inches from his, and hissed, “Spoiled, ungrateful child! I could take away your bed and throw you in the cold, yet this is how you repay me? With filth and laziness?”

The boy recoiled, shrinking into himself as though her words had physically struck him. Tears welled up in his large, frightened eyes, and he whispered, “Yes, Grelod. I’m sorry.”

Elara’s hand twitched at her side. The scene before her was all too familiar. She could hear it—her father’s voice echoing in her mind, the biting words, the empty threats of punishment that came with cold indifference. She had grown up under the weight of the same insults, the same icy authority. Her pulse quickened, her fingers curling into fists as she watched Grelod continue her reign of terror over these helpless children.

“How many times do I have to tell you, wretches? If your chores aren’t done by sundown, none of you will have town privileges for the next month!"

The children flinched at her words, fear gripping their small frames. They scrambled to clean faster, their little hands scrubbing furiously at the already worn floors. But it wasn’t enough.

Elara’s hand twitched at her side, her fingers instinctively brushing against the hilt of the dagger hidden beneath her cloak. Her heart pounded in her chest, a hot rush of anger surging through her veins. The scene before her was far too familiar, the words Grelod spat echoing in her mind, bringing back memories she had fought long and hard to bury. Her father’s voice, sharp and cold, taunting her, belittling her. The same cruelty, the same venom.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to remain still, though her muscles screamed for action. Grelod finally released the boy, shoving him back toward the floor. He stumbled but caught himself, immediately returning to his scrubbing, though his small body trembled with silent sobs.

Grelod turned, and then her eyes finally landed on Elara. The scowl on her face deepened, her lips pulling back into a sneer. “I told Constance no adoptions!” she snapped, her voice rising with irritation. “You people never listen, do you?”

“I—” Elara tried to speak, but her voice faltered. She struggled to keep her mind from spiraling. She wasn’t that scared little girl anymore. She wasn’t the same helpless child begging for approval.

The children had stopped their work, frozen in place, their wide eyes darting between Grelod and Elara, sensing the shift in tension. Even Danoc’s posture stiffened at the change in atmosphere, his gaze sharp as he waited for her next move.

“I’m not here for an adoption,” she said finally, her steady. The woman’s eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Then why are you here? I have no time for—”

Before the old woman could process what was happening, something inside Elara snapped. The control she had been clinging to—the mask she wore in every moment of her life—shattered, releasing a storm of rage. Her face twisted, her normally calm expression morphing into something feral and unrecognizable.

With a swift, violent motion, she closed the distance between them, driving her boot hard into Grelod’s chest. The sickening crack of ribs giving way reverberated through the dimly lit room, and the old woman collapsed to the floor with a pitiful wheeze, clutching her chest, trying to drag in a breath.

It wasn’t enough for her.

She moved mechanically, like a predator stalking its prey. Her dagger gleamed as it slipped from its sheath, the blade flashing in the candlelight. Straddling the old woman’s broken body, Elara pressed the cold steel to Grelod’s throat. The woman’s eyes bulged with fear, her frail hands pathetically trying to push Elara away, fingers trembling as they scraped uselessly against Elara’s armored arms.

It was almost entertaining, watching her squirm like a cornered rat. Grelod, so accustomed to being the tormentor, now lay helpless beneath Elara’s cold gaze. Her lips curled slightly in cruel amusement. How much suffering had this woman inflicted on the children under her care? How many had she broken with her words, her violence? And now, here she was, vulnerable, fragile, terrified.

She tilted her head, watching as Grelod coughed, a thin trickle of blood seeping from the shallow cut beneath the dagger’s edge. The power coursing through Elara’s veins was intoxicating. This—this was what it felt like. To hold life and death in the palm of her hand. To have the power to crush, to destroy, with a single movement. For a moment, she felt invincible, like a god deciding the fate of those below her. The world had ground her down, torn her apart—and now she was taking control.

Behind her, she could hear the children scrambling, the soft patter of their feet as they backed away in terror. Danoc stood near the doorway, his tall frame casting a shadow over the frightened orphans. His face was impassive, but his body shifted slightly, shielding the children from the grisly scene unfolding before them.

It was Danoc’s movement—the small act of protecting the children—that brought Elara back from the brink. The trance of power she had sunk into flickered, then broke. Her heart, which had pounded with a fierce adrenaline-fueled rhythm, began to slow, and her vision cleared.

Elara stood abruptly, pulling herself off Grelod, though her expression remained dark. Her hand shot down, grabbing a fistful of the woman’s brittle hair, and without a word, she began dragging her across the floor. Grelod screamed, her nails scraping at the wooden boards, her voice high and shrill as it echoed through the orphanage.

“Help! Please! Someone—”

But no one came. Not a single person in that hellish place dared answer her call. The children stayed huddled behind Danoc, their wide, tear-filled eyes staring at the floor.

Elara dragged the old woman into the back room, her boots kicking up dust from the worn floorboards. She didn’t bother closing the doors behind her—there was no need. 

An old, musty bed sat in the corner, its sheets yellowed with age and neglect. She tossed Grelod onto it, watching as the frail woman gasped and scrambled back, pressing herself against the headboard like a cornered animal.

“Please,” Grelod rasped, her voice hoarse from screaming. “Please, I—I didn’t mean—”

Elara’s eyes flashed with cold fury, her hand tightening on the hilt of her dagger. The woman’s pleading was pitiful, a desperate attempt to cling to life, to weasel her way out of the consequences of her cruelty.

“Don’t kill me—”

The old woman’s words were cut off as Elara moved, swift and decisive. The dagger plunged into Grelod’s throat, silencing her with a wet gurgle. Blood spilled from the wound, soaking into the thin mattress, and pooling beneath Grelod’s lifeless form. She didn’t know how many times she plunged that knife in and out of that body before she realized Grelod was no longer breathing. 

She stood over the body, her breath coming in slow, controlled exhales. The room was silent now, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the other room. The rush of power that had consumed her moments ago had faded.

The walls, once adorned with faded, chipped wallpaper, seemed to close in on her, their decrepitude mirroring the decay of the old woman’s broken body.

The blood that had flowed from Grelod now stained Elara’s leathers and gloves, the dark red streaks creating a macabre pattern on her skin. It had soaked into the fabric, turning her once-pristine attire into a gruesome tapestry of violence. Her face was smeared with it, and she could feel the warmth of the blood against her skin—a tangible reminder of the power and control she had seized. There was no trace of the emptiness she had expected, no crushing weight of remorse. Instead, she felt a twisted satisfaction, a perverse sense of justice that made her feel alive in a way she hadn’t before.

Stepping away from the bed, Elara walked with purpose toward the doorway, her eyes meeting Danoc’s stunned gaze. His expression was a mixture of disbelief and something akin to horror, his eyes wide as they took in the scene.

Suddenly, the younger woman from earlier burst into the room, her face a mask of shock and fury. Her scream sliced through the stillness like a blade.

“You killed her! Oh my god!” The scream was raw, filled with panic and disbelief. Elara’s gaze remained unfazed, her mind too clouded by the rush of adrenaline and grim satisfaction to process the woman’s terror.

To her surprise, the children in the main room reacted not with horror, but with a disconcerting sense of relief. Their faces, once tense and fearful, now showed signs of jubilation. Whispers turned into loud cheers, and phrases like “The old bitch is dead!” echoed through the room with an unsettling cheerfulness.

Their reactions seemed almost celebratory as if the death of Grelod had freed them from more than just physical confinement.

Danoc stepped aside, his expression one of resignation as he let Elara pass. As she moved toward the exit, her steps were quick and purposeful. The oppressive silence outside was almost disconcerting after the chaos she had left behind. She half-expected to see guards burst into view or hear the clamor of the city reacting to the screams, but instead, the streets remained eerily quiet. It was as if the violence within had not penetrated the city's calm facade.

The silence was thick, almost tangible, pressing in on her as she and Danoc walked away from the orphanage. She knew that the lack of immediate reaction was unusual—someone must have heard the screams. Yet, the absence of any disturbance made her uneasy, as if the city itself had chosen to turn a blind eye to the brutal justice she had enacted.

 

---

 

The campfire crackled softly in the cool night air, its flames dancing and casting long, flickering shadows across the ground. They had traveled miles from the city of Riften, hoping to put enough distance between themselves and the scene of the murder. The camp was a simple affair—just a small clearing surrounded by dense forest, the scent of pine mingling with the faint aroma of burnt wood.

Elara sat on a fallen log, her posture rigid as she stared into the fire. The blood from Grelod had dried on her clothes and skin, staining her leather armor and leaving dark splotches that would be difficult to clean. The fire’s warm glow highlighted the crimson streaks and darkened her somber expression. She was exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Everything had finally caught up to her.

Danoc, seated across from her, remained uncharacteristically quiet. He poked at the fire with a long stick, sending embers into the air that briefly illuminated his face before they vanished. His silence was more pronounced than any words he might have spoken, and Elara found it unnervingly heavy. The night seemed to stretch endlessly before them, each crackle of the fire echoing in the silence.

The stillness became unbearable. Her frustration grew with every passing moment. The quiet was oppressive, amplifying the sound of her own thoughts—memories of the night’s violence, the harsh reality of Grelod’s death, and the fear of what might come next. Finally, unable to tolerate the silence any longer, she spoke up, her voice cutting through the night like a blade. “What do you wish to say to me that you have only been saying in your head?”

His head snapped up, his eyes wide as he met her gaze. He looked momentarily startled by her sudden outburst but quickly masked his surprise with a semblance of calm. “You seemed like you needed space,” he said, though his words felt inadequate.

Her frustration flared. “Well, the job is done, your job is done, you may leave and take your judgment with you,” she said sharply.

The bitterness in her tone was unmistakable. Danoc’s expression remained impassive as he considered her words. Instead of rising to leave, he moved closer, his shoulder brushing against hers as he nudged her gently.

“Told you I’d be sticking around for a while,” he said softly, a smirk playing at his lips. The touch was unexpected, almost brotherly, and it caught her off guard. The warmth of his presence was a stark contrast to the cold reality she faced, and she found it strangely comforting.

Her guard faltered slightly, her resolve weakening in the face of his unexpected compassion. 

“As crazy as you seem, people have done worse,” he continued, his voice carrying an unusual humility. His gaze was fixed on the fire, and for a moment, he seemed lost in thought. She was grateful for the company, despite the awkwardness of the situation. She was relieved not to be alone with her tumultuous emotions.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur. She leaned her head gently on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his body against hers.

Exhaustion washed over her, and the adrenaline that had fueled her actions now left her feeling drained. He didn’t pull away; instead, he seemed to welcome the contact, his presence a silent comfort.

“I’m twenty-seven,” he murmured, breaking the silence once more. His voice was soft, almost contemplative. Elara chuckled quietly, shaking her head.

“Yeah, I’m a year younger than you,” she said with a touch of humor, trying to lighten the mood. He laughed softly, the sound a pleasant contrast to the somber atmosphere. He poked the fire with a stick, sending a fresh burst of flames into the night. The logs crackled loudly, adding a bit of life to the otherwise still night.

“Now what?” Danoc asked, his tone shifting to one of curiosity.

She sighed, her thoughts turning back. “We go back to Aventus, let him know the hag is dead, and collect our reward. I just hope this doesn’t come back to haunt me,” she said, her voice tinged with apprehension.

“Our reward?” he raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his expression.

“Have to pay you for your ‘fantastic’ navigational skills, don’t I?” she replied, her eyes meeting his with a playful glint. Danoc’s smirk widened.

“Honestly, I thought I was being held hostage for the longest time,” he joked, his voice light. She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.

“Get some sleep, lady, the walk back to Windhelm is just as bad,” he said quietly, his tone gentle as he began to set up his sleeping area. He moved with practiced ease, spreading out his bedroll and arranging a few extra blankets.

The night continued to press in around them, the fire casting its flickering light on the two figures seated by its glow. For the first time since the ordeal began, Elara felt a sliver of peace.

The warmth of the flames, the gentle crackling of the wood—it should have been comforting. Yet, as she leaned against the rough bark of a nearby tree, trying to let exhaustion take over, her mind refused to rest. Her thoughts ran wild, darting back to the blood that had stained her hands, to the cold satisfaction she had felt, and to the innocent eyes of the children who had witnessed it all.

Sleep eluded her. Each time she closed her eyes, her mind replayed the scene—Grelod’s gasps, the flicker of fear in the woman’s eyes, and the final moment when her life slipped away under Elara’s blade. Her breathing quickened, and her body tensed.

Despite the stillness of the forest, her heightened senses refused to let her relax. Every gust of wind, every crackle of the fire seemed magnified in the silence. When she finally did lay back against her bedroll, sleep barely took her. Every creak of a branch or rustle of leaves stirred her from the edge of slumber.

Her eyes snapped open as she heard a faint crunch—a soft, but distinct sound, like a branch snapping beneath a heavy foot. Her body stiffened, her breath catching in her throat as she stared into the dense darkness beyond the firelight. Was it her imagination, the remnants of adrenaline fueling paranoia, or was someone—or something—out there?

She turned her head slightly toward Danoc, who lay nearby, his back turned to her, still and undisturbed. The firelight flickered across his form, but he didn’t stir. Elara’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of her dagger, her fingers curling around the cool metal as her eyes scanned the perimeter of their camp. Another crunch sounded, this time closer—just beyond the tree line.

She strained to listen, but the night offered nothing more than the faint rustling of leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl in the distance. 

 

---

 

The morning came faster than Elara had realized. Her body was coiled tight as a bowstring, even in sleep, her fingers still gripping the dagger’s hilt as if her life depended on it. The soreness in her hands had crept in slowly, but her muscles didn’t relent.

Danoc found her like this, curled in her bedroll with her face half-hidden under the hood of her cloak, looking more like a corpse than a woman lost in fitful sleep. He stood over her for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her chest before kneeling beside her. The fire had long since died out, leaving the air cool and damp with morning dew. Her dagger gleamed faintly in the pale light.

He hesitated before placing a hand on her shoulder. "Elara," he called softly, giving her a gentle shake.

Instantly, her eyes flew open, wild and full of fear, and before either of them could react, she lashed out. The dagger in her hand sliced through the air with deadly precision, aimed directly at him. Danoc stumbled back just in time, narrowly avoiding the blade, though it skimmed the fabric of his tunic, leaving a small tear. He caught his breath, hands up in surrender as he quickly backed away.

"Whoa! Easy!" he said, his voice calm despite the startled look in his eyes. "It's just me."

It took her several seconds to blink the world into focus. Her heart raced in her chest, and she panted heavily, her hand still gripped around the dagger as if it were the only thing tethering her to reality. Slowly, the tension in her body began to ebb as she realized it was Danoc in front of her, not some phantom enemy.

Her hand dropped, and she looked down at the blade, her breath shaky. "Gods," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I didn’t... I didn’t mean to—"

He was already shaking his head, his easy smile creeping back onto his face as he waved off her apology. "No harm done," he said, though the concern in his eyes hadn’t fully disappeared. He stepped closer cautiously as if approaching a frightened animal. "Bad dream, huh?"

She was still trying to calm her breathing, her pulse pounding in her ears. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t a dream, that it had been something deeper, something darker, like a primal fear rooted in her bones. But her words caught in her throat, and all she could do was nod mutely. She glanced around as if expecting the trees themselves to be watching her, judging her. The cool morning air did little to soothe the fire still raging in her chest.

"Elara," Danoc said softly, his voice pulling her attention back to him. His eyes were steady, but not pitying.

He gently pried the dagger from her hand, sliding it into the sheath on his leg with a quick, fluid motion. "How about we take a break from sharp objects for a couple of nights, huh?" His tone was light, meant to diffuse the tension, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, watching for any sign of her slipping back into that defensive state.

She nodded slowly, flexing her sore fingers as if finally realizing just how tightly she had been holding the weapon. Her body ached from the strain, from the fear that had kept her wound so tightly all night.

"I—I wasn’t dreaming," she admitted after a long pause. "It was like... I couldn’t let go. My body wouldn’t let go." Her voice cracked, frustration bleeding through.

He watched her for a moment, then simply nodded. "That happens," he said quietly. "Sometimes your mind doesn’t get the chance to catch up with your body. But you’re alright now. You’re safe." He glanced around the quiet forest, where only the distant chirping of birds broke the silence. "See? Nothing’s gonna jump out at you here."

She pushed herself to her feet, her legs still unsteady beneath her. She didn’t feel safe. Not from her surroundings, and not from the dark thoughts that had taken root in her mind.

Danoc, sensing her weariness, ran a hand through his hair and tried to shift the conversation. "You know," he said casually, "a hot bath would probably do wonders for you. There's an inn not too far from here. We could stop by, get you cleaned up, and grab a decent meal."

She shook her head quickly, rejecting the idea almost as soon as it was offered. The thought of being in an enclosed space, surrounded by strangers, made her stomach twist with unease. 

"No," she said firmly. "I’ll find a stream. I don’t need to be around people right now."

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. "Alright," he said with a shrug. "Whatever you want. But I’m telling you, a bath would work miracles."

He turned away and began packing up the camp, but not before giving her one last glance. She didn’t meet his gaze. Her thoughts were already somewhere else, somewhere far darker than the forest they were leaving behind.

Their journey back to Aventus passed in a blur, with Danoc taking the lead while Elara followed silently, her mind hollow and detached. They eventually stopped at an inn along the way, where Danoc paid for a bath—a small luxury she hadn’t asked for, but one she desperately needed. The warm water did little to ease the cold that had settled deep inside her. She scrubbed at her skin, watching as the blood of Grelod swirled down the drain, staining the water a murky red before disappearing.

When they finally returned to Aventus, she accepted his reward with numb hands. The boy was talking, his mouth moving, but the sound of his words barely registered in her ears.

Elara found herself staring at the heirloom he pressed into her palm—a family trinket, its value was small, but it meant everything to the boy. He apologized for it not being much, but Danoc brushed it off, thanking the child with a smile. Elara, on the other hand, remained silent, her mind distant, locked in some invisible prison she couldn’t find a way out of.

She should’ve felt something. Triumph, satisfaction, relief—anything. But the numbness persisted. It gnawed at her, eating away at the edges of her thoughts, leaving her feeling hollow and weightless, as if she were floating through her own life without any tether. She had killed before, reveled in it even, and this time should’ve been no different.

Grelod had deserved it. Elara had delivered justice, hadn’t she? The children were free now. And she had gotten paid for it.

The entire trek back, through snow-covered roads and barren wilderness, something had nagged at her. A constant presence that seemed to watch from the shadows, too far to see but close enough to feel. The hair on the back of her neck prickled every time the forest fell into a heavy silence, the kind that suffocated the senses. It frustrated her that Danoc seemed to not feel whatever she was. How oblivious he seemed.

It wasn’t paranoia—at least she didn’t think so. There was something out there, something watching, waiting. But when she turned to look, there was nothing.

Even the return to the city did nothing to ease her anxiety. The stone walls felt more like a cage than protection. The streets were too quiet, the people too distant. Her skin itched with a restlessness she couldn’t shake. It wasn’t even guilt that she felt, not truly, just ever since they had left Riften it felt like they took something with them.

Danoc’s hand on her back startled her from her thoughts. His touch was firm but gentle, guiding her out of Aventus’ house.

He steered her toward the street, where the biting wind snapped at their faces, pulling them into the present. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her carefully, his brow furrowed in concern. He didn’t know what to say—he never did in moments like this—but he stayed close as if silently reassuring her that she wasn’t alone.

At some point, they found themselves back at the inn, the same one where she had scrubbed Grelod’s blood from her skin. Danoc rented a room for the night, and they entered in silence. He was speaking again, something about rest, about moving on.

The fire in the inn's hearth crackled softly, casting its warm light across the crowded room. Elara barely noticed the noise or the warmth; she was too wrapped up in her own thoughts, staring blankly at the mug in front of her. Her hands trembled slightly.

Across from her, Danoc sat in silence, his fingers tapping absentmindedly against the wooden table. He'd tried talking to her during their journey back to the city, tried to coax her out of the fog that had settled over her mind, but it had been like talking to a wall. Now, seated in the dim light of the inn, he seemed to have lost his patience.

“I think we both need some rest,” he finally muttered, his voice low and calm as always, though there was a noticeable edge to it. “We’ll move on in the morning. Start fresh.”

She blinked, his words barely registering in her mind. When she finally looked up at him, she could only muster a confused, “What?”

His gaze darkened. His eyes locked onto hers, hard and demanding. “What is going on in your head, Elara?” His voice was sharper now, cutting through the haze that had wrapped itself around her thoughts. “You’ve been acting strange since we left Riften, and I’m not talking about your usual brand of weird.”

She wanted to tell him nothing, wanted to brush off his concern like she always did, but something inside her snapped. The words were out before she could stop them, quiet but laced with an edge of fear. “You don’t feel the eyes on the back of your head?” she whispered, her gaze darting to the door as if expecting someone to walk in at any moment.

He stared at her, his brow furrowing deeply. “Eyes? What are you talking about?” he asked, his tone shifting from frustration to incredulity. “Did you pick up some skooma and drink the whole lot? Because you’re sounding insane.”

Elara rubbed her face, letting out a slow, frustrated breath. “I’m serious,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think someone’s been following us since we left Riften.”

He leaned back in his chair, his expression softening slightly, though there was still skepticism in his eyes. “You’re paranoid. We haven’t seen a soul since we left that old hag. No one’s following us, Elara.”

“No, I’m not being paranoid,” she insisted, her voice rising slightly despite herself. “Every time the woods go quiet, or the wind stops blowing, I can feel someone watching us. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how strange it’s been.” 

His expression shifted, the humor draining from his face as he leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers. He wasn’t teasing anymore. “Someone following us? Elara, we’ve been in the wilderness for days. Who the hell would follow us that long without making a move?”

He shook his head, his face unreadable for a moment. Then, he sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair. “You’ve been on edge since that night. You haven’t slept more than an hour, maybe two. That’s what’s making you think this way, not some stalker in the woods.”

She could feel her frustration bubbling to the surface, her hands clenching into fists on the table. “You think I’m losing it?” she asked, her voice sharper than intended. “You think I’m imagining this?”

He shook his head, leaning back in his chair, his gaze never leaving hers. “I think you need sleep. Real sleep, not whatever you’ve been doing these past few nights.” His voice softened, though there was still a trace of frustration. “Look, I know killing that old hag probably messed with your head, but this is... Elara, this is getting ridiculous.”

His gaze softened slightly again. “I don’t know what to think anymore,” he admitted. “All I know is, since we left Windhelm, you’ve been distant. You’ve barely spoken, barely slept. And I’ve had to make sure you didn’t fall apart completely.”

Her temper flared at his words, anger rising to the surface like a sudden flame. “I’m not some fragile woman who can’t handle a bit of blood, Danoc,” she snapped, her hands gripping the edge of the table. “I’ve killed before. You think this is about Grelod? You think I’m afraid of what I did?” She shook her head, biting back the fury that threatened to spill over. “It’s not her. It’s something else. I don’t know what, but something is wrong, and I can feel it.”

He remained calm, though his jaw tightened slightly. “I don’t even know you,” he said slowly, his tone deliberate, “but here I am, listening to you talk about invisible stalkers while you’re barely holding it together.” He exhaled deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m worried that if I don’t keep an eye on you, you’re going to do something to yourself.”

She bristled, the accusation stinging more than she cared to admit. “I’m not paranoid,” she insisted, her voice low and dangerous. “I’m telling you what I feel. What I know.”

He regarded her for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. “Alright. Maybe there’s something out there. Maybe there isn’t. But what I do know is that you’re running on empty, and we both need some damn rest.” His tone softened, losing some of its sharpness. “Look, I even got you a good bed. Paid extra for it. I figured you could use it.”

She felt the fight drain out of her, her shoulders sagging as the exhaustion that had been clawing at her for days finally caught up. She nodded slowly, too tired to argue anymore. “You’re probably right,” she admitted quietly, the tension in her voice fading.

Danoc’s lips curled into a small, satisfied smile. “Good,” he said, spearing another potato from his plate. “I was hoping you’d come around. Now eat something before you pass out.”

She tried to smile back, the effort weak but sincere. She picked up her fork and took a bite, letting the warmth of the food settle in her stomach. The tension in her body began to ease, if only slightly.

As they finished their meal, the silence between them felt less strained, more familiar. He made a few jokes about their journey, his voice light, trying to ease the lingering tension. She barely listened, but the sound of his voice was enough to keep her grounded.

When they finally retired to their rooms, Danoc gave her a quick pat on the back before disappearing into his own. “Get some sleep, Elara. Real sleep this time. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

She didn’t answer, simply nodding as she closed the door to her room. The bed was soft, the blankets thick and warm, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to sink into them. She lay on her side, facing the door, her eyes heavy with exhaustion. 

But even as sleep tugged at her, that nagging feeling of being watched lingered, hovering just at the edge of her consciousness. She told herself it was just her mind playing tricks, that Danoc was right—she just needed rest.

She clutched her dagger beneath the pillow, the cool metal offering a semblance of security against the creeping unease that refused to fully let go. Her eyelids fluttered as she drifted into a deep, dreamless slumber, her breaths evening out as her mind slowly blanked.

Hours seemed to pass in a blur, and she was roused by the faintest creak of the door. The dim glow from the hallway spilled into the room, casting soft, wavering shadows across the walls and floor. Her groggy mind thought it was Danoc, maybe coming to check on her. The thought of him watching over her brought a moment of peace, and she instinctively relaxed, turning slightly on her back.

The door didn’t close gently, however. Instead, it slammed shut with a resounding thud, jolting Elara awake. Her heart skipped a beat as she sprang from her drowsy state, instantly alert. Her senses, still clouded by sleep, sharpened with urgency. She turned her head toward the sound, her breath catching in her throat as she heard the rapid approach of footsteps, heavy and deliberate.

Panic surged through her, adrenaline cutting through the fog of her exhaustion. She reached for the dagger under her pillow, her fingers fumbling in the darkness. Her mind raced, struggling to process the situation as her body moved on instinct. 

Just as she was about to sit up, the figure was upon her. A shadowy blur moved too quickly for her to focus on, and before she could react, a powerful punch landed squarely on her head. The force of the blow was like a sledgehammer, sending a wave of blinding pain through her skull. Her vision spun, the edges of her world darkening rapidly.

Her dagger slipped from her grasp, falling to the floor with a muted clink. She tried to fight back, her arms flailing weakly in the darkness, but her efforts were in vain. The sharp sting of pain and the disorienting whirl of her surroundings left her unable to see or think clearly.

The last thing she felt before everything went black was the oppressive weight of darkness closing in as if the room itself had been waiting for her to fall.

Chapter 6: Pretty Lies

Elara’s head was pounding like a relentless drum, each throb reverberating through her skull with agonizing intensity. The floor beneath her was unyielding and damp, the kind of cold that seeped into her bones and sent shivers across her skin. As she slowly regained consciousness, the oppressive weight of the room's musty air pressed heavily on her.

Her eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus in the dim light cast by a single flickering candle in the far corner. The weak flame barely penetrated the shadows that clung to the corners of the room, illuminating a sparse and dreary space. The walls were rough-hewn stone, their surface marred by time and neglect. The room contained only the most rudimentary furnishings—a rickety wooden chair, an old, stained table, and several dusty crates haphazardly piled in the corner.

As her senses slowly returned, she became aware of the three figures huddled in the back of the room. They were bound tightly, their faces concealed by dark hoods that obscured any hint of their identity. The sight of them, immobile and vulnerable, sent a pang of unease through her. They seemed to be barely breathing, their forms slack and lifeless.

The pain in her head made it difficult to think clearly, but the unsettling sense of being watched lingered stubbornly at the edges of her awareness. She glanced around, trying to make sense of her surroundings, her fingers instinctively seeking the comforting weight of her weapons. Her satchel and gear were conspicuously missing, furthering her disorientation.

The creak of old wood drew her attention to a figure hanging from one of the room’s support beams. A woman in tight black leather swung gently from the beam, her movements eerily slow and rhythmic. Her attire was adorned with various straps and buckles, giving her a sinister, almost predatory appearance. The woman’s face was concealed by a blood-red mask, its stark color a sharp contrast to the dark shadows that enveloped the room. The mask’s eye holes revealed piercing blue eyes that gleamed with a disconcerting mix of amusement and menace.

The woman’s leg swung back and forth with a childlike innocence that was at odds with the gravity of the situation. She regarded Elara with a lazy, almost detached gaze. 

"Good, I was starting to think you might have passed in your sleep," she said, her voice smooth and low, carrying an unsettling undertone that made Elara’s skin crawl.

Elara tried to rise, but the pounding in her head made her movements slow and unsteady. She managed to get onto her knees, her hands trembling as she reached out for support. Her eyes locked onto the woman’s, filled with a mix of anger and confusion.

 "Who are you?" she demanded, her voice a strained whisper.

"Try and remember," the woman replied, her tone dripping with a blend of mockery and seductive menace. Her voice was almost hypnotic, but it sent a chill down Elara’s spine, making her feel even more vulnerable.

Elara’s mind raced, grappling with fragments of memory. The blunt object that had struck her head, the disorientation that followed, and the shadowy figure that had loomed over her—all came rushing back. The realization that the same woman was now taunting her with cold ease intensified her sense of dread.

"You stole something from us," the woman said, her voice carrying a hint of irritation. "Our contract with that poor little boy." The mention of Aventus brought a surge of anger to Elara’s chest. The boy she had been trying to protect had been caught up in something far darker than she had anticipated.

Elara’s gaze flicked to the captives in the back of the room, their bound forms a grim reminder of the stakes involved. Her mind was racing, trying to formulate a plan for escape, but the pain and disorientation made it difficult to think clearly. The woman’s mocking tone was grating.

 “Oh, but don’t worry, we aren’t angry. I’m not angry with you.”

Elara’s gaze was confused and pained as she tried to process the woman’s words. Her head was spinning, the dull ache in her skull a constant reminder of the violence that had brought her here. “I only needed money. That was all,” Elara said, her voice hoarse. “The boy said he’d been doing that ritual for weeks. I figured no one was coming.”

The woman raised a single, gloved finger to her lips, a gesture meant to silence Elara, though it only served to ignite a flicker of frustration within her. The patronizing gesture was a striking contrast to the gravity of her situation. “We aren’t angry,” the woman said, her tone dripping with mock sweetness. "But you did steal, and you left such a bloody mess—a work of pure art, I might say."

Elara’s brow furrowed as she stared at the woman. The scene she had left behind was far from a masterpiece; it was a grim tableau of brutality. The woman’s warped sense of artistry was a disturbing reflection of her unstable mind. Elara’s grip tightened involuntarily as she tried to reconcile the woman’s perception with her own reality.

The woman shifted slightly, her posture adjusting from casual indifference to a more commanding stance. “You need to do something for me,” she said, her voice taking on a colder edge. “Then I’ll let you go.”

Elara’s heart pounded harder, a lump forming in her throat as she swallowed her anxiety. Her fists clenched at her sides, her knuckles whitening as she struggled to maintain her composure. “What do you want?” she managed to ask, her voice barely more than a whisper.

The woman’s eyes gleamed with a cruel, calculating light as she continued, “Those three behind you, one of them has a contract out for them. You will kill one of them for me—quick and easy.”

The weight of the woman’s demand settled heavily on Elara’s shoulders. The captives’ muffled pleas and cries filled the air, a cacophony of desperation that only added to her mounting sense of dread. One of the captives, a woman, wailed and begged for her life, her voice a piercing, gut-wrenching sound that cut through the silence.

Elara’s head tilted back slightly, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. It was a sound tinged with a mix of anger and resignation. The irony of the situation was almost too much to bear—her fears and suspicions had led her to this point, and now she was faced with what she had known all along would happen.

Her gaze locked onto the dagger lying a few feet away, its cold metal catching what little light there was and reflecting a glint of menace. The blade, darkened by the dim, flickering candlelight, seemed almost to hum with a predatory energy. She could feel the weight of the woman's gaze on her back—a calculated scrutiny that prickled at her skin. 

In the murky darkness, Elara suddenly realized that Danoc was nowhere to be seen. The thought struck her sharply, like a cold wave crashing over her. He was either hidden away or, worse, disposed of—his absence a silent, unsettling testament. The thought added another layer of urgency.

The woman’s silence was laden with expectation, an unspoken demand that hung heavily in the air. Elara knew she wouldn’t receive any more guidance or clarification. With a deep, shaky breath, she reached for the dagger, her fingers brushing against its cold, unyielding handle. The chill of the metal seeped into her bones, mingling with the warmth of her mounting fear and anger. Her grip tightened around the hilt as she rose unsteadily to her feet, her legs trembling under the weight of exhaustion and anxiety.

Her thoughts raced, torn between the impulse to lash out at the woman who had orchestrated this cruel trap and the grim realization of what needed to be done. Her mind was a tumult of anger, fear, and resignation. She had chosen this.

Without a word, Elara turned her attention to the three captives bound in the back of the room. The room itself was a shadowy, oppressive place—dimly lit and filled with the stale smell of old wood and dampness. The flickering candle cast erratic shadows on the walls, giving the room an eerie, almost surreal quality. Her steps echoed softly as she moved towards them.

The first captive was a Nord woman, she discovered after ripping their hoods off, her face framed by a tangled mass of blonde hair. As Elara pulled away the hood, she was met with piercing green eyes, wide and filled with a mix of terror and resignation. The woman's lips trembled as she tried to speak, but her bound hands prevented her from doing anything more.

The Nord’s fear unsettled her. Next, she moved to the burly man, whose shoulders were slumped in a dejected posture. His face was a mask of grim acceptance as if he had long since resigned himself to his fate. Lastly, she approached the Khajiit, whose golden eyes were filled with a fiery mix of anger and desperation. His gaze followed her every move, a silent accusation that cut deeper than any words.

The woman’s voice floated through the room. “Interesting,” she said softly, her tone laced with a hint of curiosity. 

Elara’s gaze returned to the Nord woman, her heart pounding with the gravity of the choice she was about to make. “I’ll make it quick,” she promised, her voice steady.

The shadows seemed to suffocate the small cabin, drawing in closer with each flicker of the wavering candle. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears, the only steady rhythm in a world that suddenly felt surreal.

She stood behind the first captive, a trembling woman who sobbed uncontrollably, her bound hands shaking as if they could somehow free her. Elara hesitated only for a second, feeling the soft, matted hair between her fingers as she grabbed a fistful and yanked the woman's head back, exposing her pale throat to the room. The woman gasped, her sobs turning into pitiful whimpers as her tear-streaked face tilted toward the ceiling. Elara’s hand trembled just for a heartbeat, but her mind slipped into a cold, detached place—a survival instinct she had relied on for far too long.

The blade of the dagger glinted in the faint light before she pressed it against the woman’s neck, the sharp edge biting into soft skin. In one swift, brutal motion, Elara sliced. Blood sprayed out in an arc, warm and slick as it splattered across Elara’s forearm, staining the wooden floor beneath them. The woman’s body jerked violently before slumping forward, her lifeless form crumpling to the ground with a dull thud. The sound of her final breath echoed briefly before being swallowed by silence.

She didn’t stop to watch the life drain from the woman’s eyes. The moment the body hit the ground, she was already moving toward the next captive. The man, once dejected, had grown eerily silent, his head bowed, eyes squeezed shut in a futile attempt to block out the inevitable. She didn’t hesitate, didn't flinch as she drove the blade across his throat with mechanical precision. Blood spurted from the wound, splattering the cabin floor as his body slumped against the wall.

The Khajiit was next. His golden eyes were wide with shock, mouth opening to protest, but Elara was beyond hearing their voices. The blood pounding in her ears drowned out the sounds of their pleading. She was already too far gone. With a fluid motion, she ended his life as well, his body crumpling into the growing pool of blood that now coated the floor. Warm blood sprayed her face, and for a moment, all she could hear was the rushing sound in her ears, the pounding of her own heart. The smell of copper filled the air, the warmth of it soaking into her boots as she stepped over his limp form.

Her breathing was steady, her heart cold, as she straightened, the dagger still gripped in her blood-streaked hand. She could feel the woman’s eyes on her from across the room, watching with the same detached curiosity a cat might show a mouse in its final moments. The masked woman hadn’t moved from her spot, reclining lazily on the beam, as though Elara’s brutal efficiency was nothing more than a mildly amusing sideshow.

“What an overachiever I have here, don’t I?” The woman’s voice oozed with mockery, the mask hiding her expression, though her tone dripped with amusement. Her head tilted, shadows dancing across the blood-red mask. “Going for all three of them, why spare the chance? Smart.”

Elara’s patience had worn thin. The woman’s grating voice cut through her like nails on stone. She flexed her fingers around the dagger’s hilt, her knuckles white from the pressure. Her mind was racing, her body tense, but her face remained emotionless, betraying nothing. Slowly, she lifted her head, meeting the woman’s gaze like two predators locked in a silent challenge.

 Neither moved for a long, heavy moment. Elara’s cold, piercing stare was unwavering, her hand pointed a bloodied finger at the woman lounging overhead. “Which one of them needed to die?” Elara’s voice was like ice, low and flat, each word carrying the weight of her deadly intent.

The woman’s silence was deliberate, dragging on for what felt like an eternity. Her gaze dropped to the blood-soaked dagger in Elara’s hand, and for a split second, something flickered in her expression—excitement, anticipation? Her fingers twitched ever so slightly, but she remained still. Then, she leaned forward slightly from her perch, peering down at Elara as if the two of them were engaged in a private game. 

The woman tilted her head, a slight smirk playing on her lips as if enjoying the spectacle. "Does it really matter now?" she replied, her tone infuriatingly calm.

“Your friend,” the woman spoke, her voice smoother now, the previous mockery replaced with something more neutral, almost bored. “He’s outside, tied to the tree by the water. You’re welcome to leave.”

Elara’s bloodied fingers clenched tighter around the dagger, resisting the urge to lash out at the woman who continued to toy with her. She stared at her for a long moment, her chest heaving as she wrestled with the urge to drive the blade into the woman’s chest. But she didn’t. Not yet.

Without a word, she turned, stepping over the bodies as she crossed the room. Her hand shook only slightly as she reached for the door handle. Just as she pushed it open, the woman spoke again, her voice slithering through the air like a snake.

"You're also invited to join my little family," the woman called after her. "Deep in the woods near Falkreath... you'll find a door. When asked the question, repeat: 'Silence, my brother.' I’ll be waiting."

Elara paused, her grip tightening on the handle as she absorbed the words. She didn’t look back, but the offer hung in the air, twisting her thoughts as she stepped outside into the cold night. The heavy door groaned as it shut behind her, sealing the horrors within.

The swampy air hit her face like a wave, thick with the scent of moss and decaying wood. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the moonlit world outside. The forest was quiet, unnervingly so, as if it, too, held its breath, waiting for what would come next.

Her gaze swept the landscape, searching until it landed on a familiar figure slumped against the base of a massive willow tree near the water’s edge. Danoc. He was exactly where the woman had said he’d be, tied up and unconscious, his head hanging forward, his body limp.

Cautious but swift, Elara made her way toward him, her footsteps nearly soundless as she approached the tree. She knelt beside him, her expression unreadable, her emotions locked behind a wall of cold detachment. His chest rose and fell faintly.

Reaching out, she gently lifted his head, brushing the strands of hair from his face. Her hand cupped his cheek as she patted it lightly, her fingers stained with blood. His eyelids fluttered, and with a quiet groan, his eyes slowly opened, struggling to focus on her. Confusion clouded his gaze as he took in her appearance—the bloodied clothes, the dagger still gripped in her hand.

"What—" he began, his voice hoarse, but Elara silenced him, pressing her bloodstained hand over his mouth.

"Shh," she whispered. "We aren’t alone."

Her dagger worked quickly through the ropes binding his wrists, the blade slicing through the thick cords with ease. She cut him free, careful not to nick him with the blade as she worked, her eyes darting to the surrounding woods. Every shadow felt like it was watching, waiting.

Once his bindings fell away, she gently cupped his face, tilting his head to inspect him for any serious injuries. Her fingers brushed through his matted hair, feeling for any wounds, and soon found the sticky warmth of blood near the back of his head. A gash, likely from whatever blow had knocked him out. Her brows furrowed in concern as she searched his weary eyes. "Where’s your bag?" she asked, her voice low, trying to keep him focused.

Danoc blinked at her, eyes glazed, before his gaze shifted past her. He raised a trembling hand, pointing weakly toward a small barrel near the cabin door. "There," he mumbled, his arm falling limply to his side again, too drained to hold it up.

She nodded quickly, standing to retrieve it. She moved swiftly but cautiously, the stillness of the woods making her skin crawl. As she rummaged through his pack, she found one of the red potions—restorative, judging by the smell of it—and popped the cork. Before she could turn back to him, Danoc's voice, weak but confused, reached her ears.

"Why are you covered in blood? Where did that woman go?" His voice held a mixture of concern and suspicion, though he leaned heavily against the tree for support, using its thick trunk to brace himself as he tried to stand.

She returned to him with the potion, helping him lift the bottle to his lips despite his initial resistance. He groaned softly in protest, but his hands were too weak to push her away. 

"Just drink it," she muttered, her patience thin but her touch gentle. Finally, he drank, and after a few moments, color returned to his face as the potion worked its magic. He blinked a few times, clearer now, his gaze focusing more sharply on her as he handed back the empty bottle.

"What happened?" he asked again, this time more alert, though the confusion was still evident in his voice. His eyes searched her face for answers, trying to piece together the bloody scene he had awoken to.

She sighed a deep, weary sound that seemed to come from her very soul. She glanced at him, relieved to see the life returning to his face, but the weight of what she had done still hung over her like a suffocating cloud. She handed him his bag and turned away, not meeting his gaze as she spoke. "Don’t go inside," she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Danoc frowned at her, but something in her tone stopped him from asking further. He simply watched her, concern etched in the lines of his face. Elara could feel his eyes on her, but she couldn’t look at him. Not now.

 She had crossed yet another line tonight, adding to the growing list of lives she’d taken since arriving in Skyrim. The weight of it was starting to press down on her, each kill feeling less significant, less real than the last. It unnerved her how detached she had become, how each life she took no longer seemed to stir the kind of dread it used to. But this... this was different.

"She made me kill someone," Elara finally confessed, her voice distant, as if she were talking to herself rather than to him. "In exchange for stealing her contract." The words felt bitter in her mouth, like ash.

"But I don’t even know if any of them had a contract on their heads. They could’ve been innocents." Her voice wavered for just a moment, the emotion she had been holding back threatening to spill over.

His expression tightened, a look of pained understanding crossing his face. He didn’t say anything at first, but in that silence, Elara could feel the shift in him. Before she knew it, his arms were around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.

Her eyes widened in surprise, her body tensing at the unexpected contact. She wasn’t used to being held, not like this, not by him. Her arms remained stiff at her sides as Danoc hugged her, his warmth seeping into her as if trying to thaw the coldness that had settled deep in her bones. She felt the weight of his head rest on top of hers, his breath soft against her hair.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. No words were necessary. The silence between them spoke volumes—of guilt, of grief, of exhaustion. Slowly, hesitantly, Elara’s arms lifted and wrapped around him, hugging him back. She rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. It was oddly comforting, like a brief moment of peace in a world filled with chaos.

The sensation stirred something unfamiliar in her, something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time—vulnerability. It was like the embrace of a brother, protective and gentle, offering comfort in a way she didn’t even know she needed. For a fleeting moment, she let herself lean into it, closing her eyes as she allowed herself to be held.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair, his voice heavy with regret.

She swallowed hard, her throat tight with unspoken emotions. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that she had made her choices, that she had chosen this path, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she just held him tighter, allowing herself this one moment of solace.

For now, it was enough.

 

---

 

"Falkreath isn't much to see, honestly. I’m afraid you’re going to be unimpressed. The people there are almost always surrounded by death,” Danoc’s voice held a note of amused skepticism as they walked the dusty road, the sign for Whiterun fading into the background. 

Elara chuckled softly, shaking her head as the breeze rustled through the trees lining their path. “Let me form my own opinion at least,” she teased, looking up at him with a smile.

He grinned back, nudging her playfully with his arm. Having him beside her felt comforting, a constant presence that had grown familiar, even after only a short time together. She found herself unable to imagine traveling these lands without him leading the way. After two long nights of rest in various inns and perhaps too much ale to drown her regrets, she felt like she was finally starting to recover. It was slow, but the weight on her chest had lessened with every sunrise.

The air was warmer now, more pleasant against her skin, and the countryside around them had sprung to life. Flowers bloomed in clusters, and the smell of fresh earth filled her lungs. Danoc had stopped their walk several times to point out different herbs growing along the road, explaining their uses in such detail that Elara was certain she’d forget half of it by the time they reached their destination. 

She wasn’t much of an alchemist, but the way he spoke about the plants—like they were little treasures to be discovered—made her smile, and she found herself indulging him with polite interest.

But her mind kept drifting back to more pressing matters. Eventually, she knew she’d have to ask Danoc for help retrieving the dragonstone. She hadn’t forgotten her task, but the need for rest, safety, and a warm bed had taken priority for the time being. One more night without sleeping outside in the cold woods wouldn’t hurt.

As they passed by one of the towering guard towers, the fields beyond stretching toward nearby farms, something caught Elara’s attention. A voice, shrill and urgent, cut through the otherwise peaceful surroundings. It was a man, followed by another voice—deeper, angrier. She slowed her pace, squinting down the road to focus on the source of the commotion.

Danoc noticed her hesitation, a confused expression crossing his face just as the shouting became more distinct. "What is it?" he started to ask, but then he heard it too. Their curiosity piqued, both of them slowed to a stop.

Ahead, a broken-down wagon sat skewed on the side of the path. From behind it, a man in garishly bright red clothes emerged, his face twisted in frustration. Elara could just make out another figure as well, a farmer, and it was clear from the exchange that the two were in the middle of a heated argument.

She was about to suggest they steer clear of the situation when the jester—dressed head to toe in a red and black motley with pointed shoes and a hat jingling with bells—suddenly noticed them.

His head tilted sharply in their direction, eyes gleaming with interest. The farmer continued shouting, "I swear if you don’t get off my land right now, clown!" His voice was filled with anger, but the jester seemed to have completely tuned him out. His attention was now fully on the pair.

“Interesting,” Danoc muttered under his breath, already sensing trouble. “Maybe we should just—”

But before he could finish, the jester’s expression shifted, morphing from irritation to exaggerated sorrow in an instant. His exaggerated movements were almost comical as he threw up his hands and gestured toward the broken wheel of his wagon. Elara stepped closer despite Danoc’s half-hearted attempt to pull her back.

The jester, now aware of his new audience, launched into a frantic explanation. “Stuck here! Cicero is stuck!” he cried, his voice high-pitched and full of theatrical woe. His wide, darting eyes met Elara’s, and there was something unnerving about the way he stared as if sizing her up. “My mother, my poor mother! Unmoving, at rest... but too still!”

His voice softened for a moment, but the glint in his eyes betrayed no real sorrow. There was something unsettling about him. He rushed over to the wagon, his hands flailing dramatically as he pointed to it.

“Well, not her! Her corpse! She’s quite dead. I’m taking Mother to a new home. A new crypt. But—ouch! The damned wagon wheel! It broke! Don’t you see? Oh, oh yes! Yes, the kindly stranger can certainly help.” His eyes were wide and intense, and for some reason, they were fixed solely on Elara, despite Danoc standing right next to her. His voice was a crescendo of desperation.

“Talk to Loreius!” Cicero continued, his pitch rising to a near shriek. “He has tools! He can help me! But he won’t! He refuses! Convince Loreius to fix my wheel! Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you with coin! Gleamy, shiny coin!”

Danoc sighed loudly, folding his arms. “You talk an awful amount, clown,” he muttered, as the farmer—presumably Loreius—stalked off toward his house, clearly done with the entire scene.

Elara caught the slight twitch of annoyance on Cicero’s face, his grin faltering at Danoc’s remark. But in a blink, the sly smile returned as he pointed at the wheel again, this time in a way that seemed almost too composed for his previous manic state.

“I do not lie,” he said, his tone dropping from the shrill pitch to something far more calculated, almost normal. “I need help.”

Danoc groaned softly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Elara, no. We don’t have time for this.” His voice was weary, already knowing where this was going.

But Cicero’s eyes stayed locked on Elara’s, pleading without words, as if he knew she’d cave. It wasn’t just his frantic babbling or the ridiculous outfit that bothered her—it was the subtle shift in his demeanor, the way his voice lowered when he wasn’t trying to play the fool. 

“I’ll do what I can,” she said, deciding with a resigned sigh. She glanced back at Danoc, giving him a half-smile. “Please keep him company, okay?”

He shot her a look that said he was not at all amused by the idea, but he didn’t stop her. As she walked toward the farmer’s house, she heard Cicero launch into another manic rant behind her, this time about his “poor mother’s rotting body baking in the sun for hours.” Danoc’s groan of disgust followed shortly after, and Elara couldn’t help but chuckle softly under her breath.

Cicero was... amusing, in a way. His outfit, the theatrical way he threw himself into his words—it was all so absurd. The bright afternoon sun cast long shadows over the path, and the distant sound of Cicero’s shrill voice echoed in her ears, still pleading for help with his broken wagon. She could already tell the farmer was at his wit's end.

“Oh, for the love of Mara. What now? That Cicero feller? Tell me something I don’t know. Crazy fool’s already asked me about five times. Seems he’s not satisfied with my answer,” Loreius grumbled as she reached him. He was standing by his porch, his face flushed with frustration, arms crossed over his chest in a posture of defiance.

Elara raised her hands in mock defense, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’d say it’d be quicker to just help the poor guy. He clearly cares about his mother,” she offered, her tone light yet persuasive.

Loreius barked out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. “Mother, my eye! He says it's a coffin and he’s going to bury his dear, sweet mother. But he could have anything in there! War contraband, stolen goods, skooma! Ain’t no way I’m getting involved in whatever that loon’s up to.”

Elara raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked him over. “Look, I’m not saying the man’s completely sane, but it seems like you’re the one getting worked up here. He’s just trying to bury his mother in a crypt, not out here in the dirt. That’s not asking for much, is it?” she asked, her voice soft but firm, trying to appeal to any sense of decency the farmer had left.

Loreius’s face softened slightly at her words, the tension in his posture easing. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and let out a heavy sigh. “Look, I get it, I do. Maybe I’m being a bit harsh, but that feller just rubs me the wrong way. He’s got that... look about him. But you’re right. I’d be no better than a scoundrel if I turned him away without a second thought.” He sighed again, rubbing the back of his neck in resignation. “All right, fine. I’ll help him. I’ll get the tools out and see what I can do. Just... tell him to stop his yammering, yeah?”

Elara grinned, pleased with her small victory. “Thank you, Loreius. You’re doing the right thing.” She turned on her heel and headed back toward Cicero, a lightness in her step. As she neared the broken wagon, Cicero’s voice rang out in a high-pitched, rambling speech directed at Danoc.

Danoc, for his part, was trying his best to remain polite, but Elara could see the strain in his expression. His arms were crossed, and he stood stiffly beside the cart, glancing at Cicero’s gesticulations with a growing sense of irritation.

“And here is where the wheel cracked! Poor Mother was left stranded in the sun, her beautiful coffin engraved with the finest symbols of love and protection! But alas, we are doomed without help!” Cicero cried.

Elara cleared her throat as she approached, and Cicero whirled around to face her with wide, expectant eyes. “Good news. Loreius is coming down to help with the wagon,” she said, offering a reassuring smile.

Cicero’s head tilted slowly as if processing her words, his expression shifting from confusion to pure, unbridled joy in a matter of seconds. “Oh, oh YES! Cicero knew it! Cicero knew the kind stranger would prevail!” he shouted, clapping his hands together with childlike glee. His bells jingled merrily as he bounced on his heels, his eyes wide with excitement. “Such a gift, such kindness! And Cicero shall not forget this! No, no, no!”

Before Elara could respond, Cicero lunged forward, gripping her arms tightly with surprising strength. He stood so close that she could feel his breath against her cheek, his eyes wide and unblinking as he stared down at her. “Oh, kind stranger, how can Cicero ever repay you?” He declared, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. His fingers dug into her arms just a little too hard, and for a moment, she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“Uh... coin is fine, really,” she managed, her voice steady despite the strange tension hanging between them. His eyes lingered on hers, uncomfortably close, before he finally loosened his grip and stepped back with a dramatic flourish.

“Coin! Yes, of course, shiny, gleaming coin for the kind stranger! But oh, you have given Cicero more than just help. You have given him hope! ” he continued, his voice rising back to its usual shrill tone as he fished out a small pouch from his pocket. He tossed it to her with a wide grin, the bells on his hat jingling as he bowed theatrically. 

She caught the pouch and glanced over at Danoc, who had been watching the exchange with a look of mild disbelief. He raised an eyebrow, silently questioning her. She shrugged in response, tucking the pouch into her belt.

Cicero straightened up after his dramatic bow, glancing between her and Danoc, who was already preparing to walk away. His throat-clearing was subtle but full of impatience.

"You're in good hands, Cicero. We have to get going though," Elara said, attempting to move the moment along as she stepped past him, already following after Danoc who had begun walking ahead, eager to leave the jester behind.

But she felt it—the weight of Cicero’s stare lingering on her, as if his presence was something tangible, clinging to her like a dark shadow. She slowed down, the sensation gnawing at her, and turned back to face him. Cicero hadn’t moved. He stood there, just as close as he had been, his blank expression catching her off guard. His previously animated face had stilled into something unnervingly neutral.

"Everything okay?" she asked cautiously, her voice betraying just a hint of unease.

His eyes flickered, focusing intensely on her as if he was calculating something, peeling back her layers. "Your name, stranger?" His tone was lighter, but there was something about the way his voice trailed off that made her skin prickle. "Cicero didn’t quite catch it."

She hesitated for a heartbeat, something inside her screaming to avoid sharing that small, but intimate piece of herself. But she forced the words out. "Elara."

His head tilted to the side, studying her like an oddity as if the simple act of saying her name had revealed a hidden truth about her. And then the smile crept back, not with the same exaggerated joy he’d displayed earlier, but something softer, more deliberate. "Lovely," he murmured, with a gentle enthusiasm that felt too personal, as though he was savoring the sound of it.

She gave him a short nod and quickly turned away, walking faster now to catch up with Danoc, whose impatience was visible in the way he waited a few paces ahead. His arms were crossed, eyes narrowed at the distance they still had to cover.

"I seriously don’t know why you entertain these people," Danoc remarked, his voice edged with frustration as he fell into step beside her.

Elara glanced back over her shoulder, half-expecting Cicero to have moved, to be closer than he should be. But no, he remained at his wagon, his gaze fixed on her, unwavering like a predator sizing up its prey. The bells on his hat tinkled as the wind picked up, but his stance was utterly still.

She was no fool—the man wasn't just a clown. And while she couldn’t yet place what it was, that unsettling feeling in her gut told her she hadn’t seen the last of him.

Elara kept her gaze ahead, her fingers brushing the pouch at her belt, the coins inside shifting with every step. "He's not too bad," she said, though her tone betrayed a hint of uncertainty. "A little quirky, but I think he's harmless." The words came out weaker than she had intended. While she tried to rationalize it, something about Cicero still clung to her thoughts.

Danoc snorted, the sound filled with his usual skepticism. He glanced at her sideways, shaking his head. "Well, I'd like to get as far away from him as possible before we find out otherwise," he muttered.

She nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line, unsure whether she fully agreed or not. The path before them stretched out in a winding ribbon of dirt and stone, framed by rolling hills and dense trees. The air was growing cooler, and the distant hum of insects buzzed around them as they moved further from the jester's wagon. Yet she could still feel his eyes on her even as the miles went by.

Chapter 7: Bells, Bells, Bells

Elara stood frozen before the massive, oppressive door, her eyes locked on the hollowed-out skull carved into the black stone, its empty sockets staring back at her like a haunting omen. The cold air that seeped from the cracks in the door made her shiver, but it was the weight of the atmosphere itself that unnerved her the most. This was it—the culmination of days of chasing whispers, following the path that her captor had set for her. And now, standing here, she was beginning to understand just how dangerous this place truly was.

Danoc shifted beside her, his presence a comforting anchor in the face of the overwhelming dread that surrounded the Brotherhood’s lair. His voice was soft, almost cautious, as though he feared waking some sleeping beast.

“You really pissed off the wrong people,” he murmured, his eyes scanning the door and the desolate surroundings. His words were laced with concern, but there was something else, too—something that hinted at the impossibility of what they were about to do.

Elara didn’t respond right away. Her gaze remained fixed on the door, the unsettling design drawing her in, making her feel like the skull itself was watching her, judging her. Every second she hesitated, the weight of the decision grew heavier in her chest.

He sighed behind her, his frustration barely contained. “Elara, seriously. What if they’re planning on killing you the second you step through that door?” His tone was sharper this time, tinged with urgency.

She turned to look at him, narrowing her eyes in response. “Why not just kill me when they had the chance? On the road, or when I was sleeping?” Her words were meant to sound confident, but doubt slipped into her voice as she spoke. Even she didn’t fully believe that her survival was guaranteed once they crossed this threshold.

He stepped closer, his tall frame looming over her as he leaned in to whisper near her ear. His breath was warm against her neck. “I got your back if you have mine,” he whispered, his voice low and steady. His loyalty, though sometimes exasperating, was unwavering, and for that, she was grateful.

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth despite the tension. She appreciated his presence more than words could express. “Thanks,” she muttered, taking a deep breath before turning back to the door. The sigil on the skull seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive with dark magic. Slowly, cautiously, she reached out her hand, her fingers brushing against the cool surface.

The moment her skin made contact, the door came alive beneath her touch, vibrating slightly. She gasped, pulling back instinctively. But then, a sound—soft at first, like a faint breeze, but growing louder—filled the air around her. A voice, eerie and spectral, whispered from the very depths of the door itself.

“What is the music of life?” The question echoed in her mind, the words chilling her to the bone.

She flinched, her heart skipping a beat. The voice was not of this world—it was something ancient, something far older than anything she had ever encountered. Danoc tensed beside her, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword, but Elara shook her head quickly, signaling for him to stand down.

“Silence, my brother,” she answered, her voice barely above a whisper, though it trembled as she forced the words out. The weight of the moment hung heavy in the air.

For a beat, there was nothing but silence. Then, with a groan that reverberated through the ground beneath them, the door creaked open. A gust of stale, cold air rushed out, making Elara’s skin prickle as the black stone slowly parted, revealing a dark tunnel beyond.

“Welcome home,” the voice whispered again, though this time it felt more ominous, like a promise that couldn’t be undone.

Elara hesitated, glancing over at Danoc, who was watching her intently. “You don’t have to do this,” he muttered, his tone unusually serious. She shook her head and continued anyway, her decision made.

With that, she stepped through the threshold, pulling the heavy stone door wider so Danoc could follow. The air inside was suffocating, thick with the smell of damp stone and something else—something metallic, like dried blood. Each step they took echoed loudly down the narrow, winding staircase, and the sound of the door slamming shut behind them sent a shiver down her spine.

They descended further into the shadows, the oppressive silence pressing in on them from all sides. The only light came from the dim, flickering torches that lined the walls, casting eerie shadows that danced and twisted as they moved. The deeper they went, the more the tunnel seemed to close in on them, the walls narrowing until they were nearly brushing their shoulders.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they emerged into a small, barren room. The walls were the same lifeless grey stone, cold and unforgiving. There was nothing in the room but a rough stone table in the center, upon which lay a worn, yellowed map, its edges curling with age. Next to it stood a woman, tall, maskless, and blond, watching them with a small smile on her face. 

Her gaze was piercing, cold as ice as she regarded Elara and Danoc with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. She didn’t move as they entered, her presence commanding the room despite its emptiness. 

Her breath caught in her throat as the woman pushed away from the wall and sauntered toward them with an air of confidence that set her on edge. Her pale blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her cold, calculating eyes locked onto Elara’s with a familiarity that sent chills down her spine.

“You made it here, and you brought another. How delightful,” the woman said, her voice smooth and casual, yet dripping with an underlying menace. She approached them slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, her every movement measured and deliberate.

Elara’s arm shot out in front of Danoc, blocking his path instinctively as her eyes narrowed in recognition. That voice. She knew that voice. Her heart raced as the memories of her recent captivity came flooding back, memories she had tried to push aside the past couple of days.

“You,” Elara whispered, her voice barely audible, but thick with anger and disbelief. The first person she sees is the person responsible for that bloody night. 

Danoc glanced between the two women, his brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn’t been there for the worst of it—he didn’t know. But Elara did. She would never forget.

The blonde raised her hands in mock defense, her lips curling into a false smile. “Me,” she said, her voice laced with amusement. “We’re all friends here, no need for the hostility.”

Elara’s fists clenched at her sides as anger surged through her. “Friends?” Her voice shook as she took a step forward, her eyes blazing with fury. “You snatched us out of our beds in the dead of night! You made me—” She paused, her voice faltering as the memories twisted in her mind. “You made me slaughter those people.”

The woman tilted her head, her expression shifting to one of mock concern. “I didn’t make you kill all of them, darling,” she said, her tone light and almost playful. “But I must admit, it was quite an entertaining show. Watching you wrestle with your precious morals.” Her smile widened, her eyes glittering with twisted pleasure. “And how quickly those morals flew out the window when things got… intense.”

Elara’s chest tightened, her breath coming in short, furious bursts. The blond woman, Astrid, stood before her, wearing the same skin-tight red and black outfit from that night. Her stomach twisted at the memory, but she forced herself to keep eye contact.

“Astrid,” the woman said, introducing herself with a sly smile. “Let’s start with names, shall we? I can see you’re a little… jumpy right now.”

Elara’s eyes flared with indignation. “You already know our names,” she hissed, her voice tight with barely restrained anger. “Don’t play stupid.”

Astrid’s smile only widened as she lowered her arms, clearly enjoying the tension in the room. “Right,” she mused, as though savoring the taste of Elara’s defiance. “You’re right. I’ve heard plenty about both of you.” She raised a casual finger in Danoc’s direction, pointing at him with a knowing gleam in her eyes.

Elara’s confusion deepened as she turned to look at Danoc. His face had gone pale, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with an unsettling silence. Why wasn’t he saying anything? The way Astrid spoke of him—like she knew him— and it made her blood run cold.

“You know her?” she asked, her voice wavering.

Danoc remained silent, his jaw clenched, refusing to meet her gaze.

Astrid chuckled softly, enjoying the unease she had stirred between them. “I welcome you both to the Dark Brotherhood,” she announced, her tone suddenly businesslike as she moved toward a tall wooden shelf on the far side of the room. “We have beds, food, and more than enough contracts to line your pockets… or satisfy your other needs.”

Danoc raised an eyebrow, his voice low with suspicion. “Needs?”

Astrid nodded, her fingers trailing along the shelf until she picked up a neatly folded stack of clothes. She carried them over to Elara, placing them into her arms with a knowing smirk. “Some of us,” she said, her voice lowering to a near purr, “enjoy the act of taking a life…intimately.”

Elara kept her eyes fixed on Astrid, holding the clothes tightly against her chest as if they were armor. 

“I’ll show you around—” Astrid began, her voice still dripping with that unsettling confidence.

But Elara stepped forward, closing the space between them, her gaze unflinching as she met Astrid’s icy stare. “I’m sure there are others who could do that, thank you,” she said, her tone polite yet laced with defiance. 

Astrid’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of irritation crossing her features. For a moment, it seemed like she might push back, but then, as if deciding Elara wasn’t worth the trouble, she stepped aside. The smug expression returned, though it was edged with a trace of annoyance.

"Nazir will get you situated,” Astrid said with a wave of her hand. “The others will want to meet you too.”

Elara inclined her head slightly, not out of respect, but more to end the conversation. Without another word, she turned and walked down the stone steps, her pace quick and purposeful. Danoc, sensing her urgency, followed close behind, though he cast a wary glance back at Astrid before hurrying after her.

The stone steps echoed beneath their feet, each step leading them deeper into the heart of the lair. The air grew warmer as they descended, the scent of burning metal mingling with damp stone. When they reached the bottom, Elara was struck by the sheer size of the cavern before them.

A blazing forge dominated the space to the left, its roaring fire casting flickering shadows across the walls. A blacksmith was hard at work, hammering a glowing blade. To the right, a small pond shimmered, fed by a waterfall that cascaded down the far wall with a thunderous roar. The water was crystal clear, the spray catching the light in a dazzling display of color.

But what drew Elara’s eye the most was the large stained-glass window set into the stone wall above the pond. The same image she had seen engraved into the black door—blood red and glossy black—glimmered in the light. The design was intricate, and beautiful in its dark elegance.

Danoc whistled low under his breath, his eyes wide as he took in the cavern. “Not exactly what I expected,” he muttered, glancing at the forge and the dark, almost haunting décor.

But as soon as they were far enough from Astrid’s earshot, Elara turned on Danoc. In one swift motion, she grabbed him by the front of his shirt and yanked him down to her level, forcing him to meet her gaze. She was close enough to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes as he tried to lean back, his hands half-raised in defense.

“What are you not telling me?” she hissed, her voice a sharp whisper as she glared at him. The shadows behind him seemed to stretch toward them, but she focused on him.

He blinked, clearly taken off guard. He tried to straighten himself, but Elara’s grip on his shirt kept him pinned. His eyes darted to the figures in the distance, then back to her. “Whoa, calm down—what are you talking about?”

“Her.” Elara’s eyes darted toward Astrid’s retreating form and then back to the group of onlookers at the far end of the cavern.

His expression shifted, a flicker of discomfort passing over his face before he exhaled sharply, his shoulders slumping. “Fine. Look, I recognize her, alright? It was a long time ago. I might’ve had… a night with her.”

Elara’s brow furrowed, her grip tightening slightly. “Go on.”

His eyes flicked toward the group again, his voice lowering. “She tried recruiting me. Said she’d heard things about me. My work, my reputation. I didn’t listen. Told her no without even hearing the full offer. I just wanted to forget about it.”

“Convenient that we’ve run into her now, don’t you think?” Elara’s voice was sharp, filled with suspicion as she scanned his face for any hint of a lie. She knew Danoc—he had a way of keeping things to himself, and she wasn’t about to let him off the hook easily.

He raised his hands in defense. “I swear, that’s it. I didn’t take her up on anything. I barely remember the night, but it was a one-time thing, and I never heard from her again after that.”

Elara studied him for a moment longer, her eyes narrowing as she tried to read his face. The truth seemed to linger in his expression, but her trust in him had been shaken before, and she wasn’t willing to give it so freely now. Slowly, she let go of his shirt, watching as he straightened himself and ran a hand through his hair, clearly rattled by her intensity.

“Fine,” she said quietly, glancing over her shoulder toward the group.

Danoc adjusted his shirt, casting a glance toward the figures ahead. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m here for you, remember?”

She gave him one last hard look before turning on her heel and walking toward the group. The figures, now more defined in the dim light, waited at the far side of the cavern, their eyes locked on her. She could feel their gaze tracking her every move, measuring her.

Elara gave Danoc a sideways glance, her eyes narrowing slightly as she stepped closer to the group. The cavern felt even more claustrophobic now that she could make out the figures in front of her. The little girl, standing small yet composed, exuded a strange mix of innocence and something much darker. The Redguard’s expression remained unreadable, and the Argonian, though reptilian and strange, seemed the most welcoming, offering a small smile as their gazes met.

"So you're the newest members of our dwindling, dysfunctional little family," the Redguard spoke, his voice rich with a tone that almost bordered on amusement. His sharp gaze slid over both Elara and Danoc, as though he was weighing their worth in an instant. "I've heard quite a bit about you."

Before Elara could respond, the child stepped forward. She was impossibly quick, her small hand reaching out to take the clothes from Elara’s arms. The chill of her skin sent a shiver down Elara’s spine. It wasn’t until their hands brushed that Elara caught the unsettling color of the girl’s eyes—blood-red, shining like dark rubies, reflecting a small smile that seemed disturbingly innocent.

"Oh dear, let me take this off you," the girl said, her voice soft, melodic even, yet carrying an undercurrent of something far more ancient. "We were all so anxious waiting for you to arrive."

Elara’s fingers tightened on the fabric for a heartbeat longer before she reluctantly let go. The cold touch of the girl lingered in her mind. She cleared her throat, glancing toward the others for some kind of explanation, but none came. Wariness crept into her voice as she asked, “What’s your name?”

The girl’s smile widened, an odd sight on her youthful face. “My name is Babette,” she said sweetly, before casting a lazy hand in the direction of the Redguard. “The grumpy old man there is Nazir.”

Nazir, who had been quietly watching, gave a small grunt of acknowledgment but didn’t seem particularly interested in making conversation. He stood tall, arms crossed, his dark eyes gleaming with something akin to suspicion.

The Argonian, however, stepped forward with an easygoing air. His scaly skin gleamed under the torchlight, and his yellow eyes held a warmth that contrasted sharply with the cold demeanor of the others. “I’m Veezara,” he introduced himself, his voice smooth and pleasant, like a stream running over stones. His smile, while slight, was genuine as his gaze shifted between the pair.

Nazir, already losing interest in the introductions, turned on his heel and began walking toward the forge in the back of the cavern, where another figure, taller and broader, stood hammering away at something on the anvil.

Babette looked over her shoulder and gave a light shrug. “Don’t mind Nazir,” she said breezily. “He’s not particularly friendly with new members. But I’ll take your belongings to your room, don’t worry.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and skipped off toward one of the darkened hallways leading deeper into the lair.

Elara’s gaze followed her for a moment before she heard Danoc speak up behind her. His voice carried a hint of curiosity as he addressed Veezara. “How did an Argonian end up here of all places?”

Veezara had now taken a seat on the stone floor with a surprising amount of grace, now looking up at Danoc, his yellow eyes gleaming with amusement. 

"You have plenty of questions, I assume?” His tone was light, almost teasing, but there was an unmistakable charm about him that felt genuine.

Danoc seemed to relax visibly, though the tension of the cavern still hung in the air. “Plenty,” he admitted, his voice low as he tried to process their situation. The Argonian’s demeanor was surprisingly welcoming, which contrasted sharply with the darker atmosphere.

Before her partner could voice his questions, Elara, feeling the need to confront Nazir, stepped away from their small circle. She could feel the weight of his gaze upon her as she approached him, a silent challenge hanging in the air. Nazir stood against the wall, arms crossed, his presence commanding even in the cavern’s shadows. It was clear he had been observing her closely from the moment she entered, and now she felt like she was under scrutiny.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.

He didn’t budge, his expression inscrutable. “No need for the formalities,” he replied coolly, a hint of cynicism coloring his words. “I’m not looking to get friendly with someone who might be dead tomorrow.”

She felt a sharp breath catch in her throat at his bluntness. 

“I’m not planning on dying,” she replied, though inside, a flicker of doubt crept in.

“If you’re still breathing in a couple of weeks,” he continued, a slight smirk playing on his lips, “then maybe we’ll be the best of friends. It seems you’re not much of a talker either.” His eyes glinted with a challenge, assessing her resolve.

She raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “What does that mean?” she pressed.

He uncrossed his arms slightly, his posture relaxing just enough to suggest he was willing to engage, but only on his terms. “It means from the moment you walked in, I could tell which one of you meant business,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “You don’t need to say much to communicate that.”

“Which means,” he continued, his voice softer but still firm, “we’ll get along just fine, so long as you keep your nose clean and do your work. The Brotherhood doesn’t have time for loose cannons or moral debates. You either do what’s needed, or you don’t. Simple as that.”

Elara chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes drifting away from him as they scanned the cavern, absorbing the brooding atmosphere that clung to the walls. The flickering torchlight cast deep shadows on the rough stone and she exhaled sharply, her eyes narrowing as a thought crossed her mind.

"Who's the leader? Please don't tell me it’s who I think it is," she said, almost snarkily.

Nazir snorted, a rare moment of amusement breaking through his usually stoic demeanor. “Then you’re going to be disappointed with my answer.”

She groaned softly, shaking her head in frustration.

“You don’t seem like you enjoy her company,” he observed, his eyes narrowing as he watched her reaction, reading her with ease.

She let out a short, humorless laugh. “Among other things,” she muttered quietly, her voice laced with something darker. She looked back at him, meeting his gaze with a hard stare.

His expression shifted, a trace of understanding passing through his eyes. “Well, when it comes to Astrid, she’s not much of a stickler for rules,” he admitted, almost begrudgingly. “The others here, especially the old man… they’re old school. Try not to piss them off. They won’t be as forgiving.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low warning. “Just remember this: it’s simple. Don’t steal from any of the members, hide in plain sight, and for the love of Sithis, do not compromise the sanctity of the Brotherhood.”

His eyes flickered with something more serious now, a warning etched into his features. "The other tenets… they don’t matter much these days. Astrid doesn’t enforce them like the old days."

Elara's eyes remained steady, her expression unreadable. It was clear by how he talked of it, he didn’t agree but couldn’t do much about it, which intrigued her but she decided against her curiosity.

He pulled something from his pants pocket, unfolding the crumpled pieces of paper carefully. “She also wanted me to give you your first contracts,” he said, handing her the folded notes. “Your first real test. Do them right, and maybe you’ll earn some trust around here.”

She took the papers, her fingers brushing against the worn texture. She didn’t need to open them yet to know what was inside. But the idea of it was slowly becoming a normal thing for her.

He gave her one last look before straightening up, his posture stiff and formal again. “Try not to get yourself killed,” he added, his tone gruff but carrying a trace of reluctant concern.

 

---

 

Some days, the thought crept into Elara’s mind like a shadow—had she been executed a week ago, would the world have carried on without so much as a ripple? The idea that her life could pass without leaving a trace gnawed at her insides.

She could almost see it—her body, unclaimed, shipped back to Morrowind. But what then? Would her father if he had still been alive even bury her, light a candle in her memory? His least favorite daughter. Or would her remains be discarded, lost in some nameless pit, burned to ash like so many forgotten souls?

The cold days were growing longer, and with them came the relentless contemplation of her death. Even now, crouched in the rocks above her target, bowstring drawn tight, the thought lingered. Death had become a companion.

Danoc, crouching beside her, passed her one of his ebony arrows. It felt heavier than usual in her hand, the weight of its sharp point bearing down. She wrapped her fingers around the bowstring, pulling it back until her muscles burned with the effort. Her eyes, narrowed with focus, locked on the figure of Narfi below—an unfortunate man, oblivious to the eyes watching him from above.

The others had gone quickly. She made sure of it. Just as she had promised herself. A swift end. The way she would want it if the tables were turned. She knew nothing about these people besides whee they lived, if they were married, and how hard they would be to take out.

Danoc leaned closer, his voice barely more than a whisper, but laced with urgency. "Breathe.”

His breath was warm against her ear, a grounding presence in the biting cold. The weight of his words, calm and steady, cut through the noise in her mind. She could feel the tension in her arms, the strain of holding the bowstring back. Every fiber of her body was taut like the string itself, coiled and ready to release.

Narfi’s movements were slow and unsteady, the homeless man shuffling between the abandoned houses below, unaware that this was his final moment. He paused for just a second, his silhouette framed against the faint light of the setting sun, his head bobbing into her line of sight.

“Release.”

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding as her fingers slipped from the bowstring. The arrow sliced through the air, its flight swift and soundless, a deadly promise carried on the wind. The impact was swift and brutal—the arrowhead sinking deep into Narfi’s skull. There was no sound, no cry. His body slumped forward as if the life had been drained out in an instant, and he toppled into the shallow river below, the water rushing around him, carrying him downstream.

She watched the ripples fade in the water, her mind blank as the weight of the kill settled in. There was always a calm after death—an eerie, unsettling quiet that made the world feel both too large and too small all at once. And yet, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

"That one was better," Danoc said softly beside her, his voice filled with approval. His nod was subtle, but encouraging. "Much better." 

She lowered the bow, her arms aching from the tension. Her hands trembled slightly as she let them rest on her knees. The rush of the kill began to fade, leaving behind the quiet calm that always followed.

She glanced at Danoc, who had taken his time with his contracts, a methodical hunter by nature. His approach was different—he always insisted on stalking his targets, watching them for hours, sometimes days, before making his move.

It wasn’t just about the kill for him; it was something deeper, something more calculated. He looted the homes, sifted through the pockets of the dead, and pulled valuables from their bags. It helped pay for the necessities and more, so she didn’t mind.

She had learned to look the other way during those moments, but it always left her wondering—what was it that made him flicker between wanting to uphold a sense of moral righteousness, especially with Grelod, but then so easily discarding the lives of those that came after? Each new target seemed to mean nothing to him, just another job, another body.

She had asked herself these questions countless times, but the answers never came. Even when she tried to peer into his eyes, to search for some hint of truth or reasoning, she found walls. Something was there, something deep and complicated, but she knew it wouldn’t be explained in a single conversation, not in a night of shared confessions. So, she never asked.

The longing to understand still lingered, a quiet gnawing at the back of her mind, but she buried it each time it surfaced. He wasn’t the type to bring up personal matters without being asked, and even then, he would only tell what he wanted to. 

He was guarded, and she knew enough not to push too hard. They lived in this uneasy truce, not needing to delve into the dark recesses of each other’s pasts. It was an unspoken agreement—one that neither of them seemed eager to break.

They were content like this, for now.

A week passed in a blur of blood and quiet footsteps, each target more time-consuming than the last. It had become something of a routine, a grim sort of team-building exercise. They worked together, silently understanding each other’s rhythms. There was something oddly intimate in the way they moved in sync. 

He would help her with her bow, positioning her hands just right, his fingers briefly brushing against hers as he adjusted her grip. She would teach him things from the old books she kept, recounting passages.

In turn, he showed her how to brew poisons—real ones, not the diluted versions she had experimented with before. He taught her how to recognize the signs of a lethal concoction, the delicate balance between venom and healing. Elara had always been fascinated by poisons, by the way a single drop could bring a man to his knees, or a slow-acting brew could leave someone writhing in agony for hours.

Those quiet moments with him, although brief, were a constant she needed. But all of it came to an end the night they returned 'home'.

Home. The word tasted strange on Elara’s tongue, unfamiliar, as if her mouth wasn’t sure how to form it. She hadn’t known this place long enough to call it home, but still, it was where they were returning. Yet the moment she descended those cold stone steps, the hollowed feeling crept back into her chest, reminding her that whatever comfort she had felt on the road was gone. The Brotherhood's sanctuary felt less like a sanctuary now, and more like a cage.

Before she could voice her thoughts, a piercing voice echoed from the cavern below, its tone sharp and shrill. The sound reverberated against the stone walls, cutting through the usual low hum of the sanctuary. She stiffened, instantly recognizing the voice. She didn’t need to glance at Danoc to know he wore the same expression, a mix of apprehension and irritation. They both knew who it was.

Astrid had told her about the Night Mother, her keeper, and the story behind it all. She spoke of how important her arrival in Skyrim was, how they had been waiting for awhile for this moment. But Astrid had been vague, elusive about the identity of the keeper, saying only that they would know when they arrived.

The coffin was just as she remembered it, ancient and foreboding, but it wasn’t the coffin that drew her attention. No, it was the man standing beside it, dressed in garish, blood-red, and black motley, with bells on his jester's hat that jingled with every erratic movement of his head. His face—pale, handsome, but ghostly under the dim candlelight—was split into a grin so wide it was almost painful to look at. It was as though his very presence warped the room, bending the energy of the room to his will.

His grin was wide—too wide—and as he spoke, the manic energy in his voice only heightened the surreal atmosphere. Her stomach twisted. The others seemed captivated by him, some amused, some cautious, but she was frozen in place, her senses screaming at her to be wary. 

“It is so nice to be home! Cicero has traveled so far to be here, and Mother is so tired,” he crooned, his voice pitched high in mock sympathy as he addressed the coffin with reverence. His gaze flitted from one face to the next, but it was as if he wasn’t truly seeing any of them—not until his eyes finally locked onto Elara. 

Danoc remained close behind her, his presence a quiet but steady anchor. His silence told her all she needed to know—he, too, was unsettled. Still, he followed her as she moved forward.

Astrid stood nearby, arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral, though Elara could sense the irritation simmering beneath the surface. Her hulking husband, Arnbjorn, stood beside her, his muscular frame practically radiating displeasure. The werewolf looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here, his lips drawn into a tight line as Cicero’s voice grated against his nerves.

“Yes, we are all so happy for you to finally be here,” Astrid said, her tone controlled, but there was a slight bite to her words that Cicero either didn’t notice or chose to ignore. “Although it took quite a while.”

“A while is an understatement,” Arnbjorn grumbled, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “He took months.”

Cicero responded with an exaggerated wave of his hand, as though brushing off their complaints as trivial nuisances. “Oh, but Cicero wanted to take in the new sights! Yes, it was exhilarating!” He spun in place, his bells jingling wildly as he twirled with unbridled enthusiasm, as though the entire room was his stage, and they were merely his audience.

It was then that Cicero’s eyes finally landed on Elara. For a fleeting moment, the wildness in his gaze seemed to dull, just for a heartbeat, as if recognition flickered behind those manic eyes. His grin faltered, only slightly, but it was enough for her to notice.

His hand, which had been dramatically raised in mid-gesture, hesitated before slowly lowering. The change was brief, barely noticeable, but it sent a ripple of unease through her.

“My friend!” he exclaimed, his voice ringing out in the chamber with exaggerated delight. His arms flung open wide as though he wanted to embrace her from across the room. “How good it is to see you!” His voice was a mixture of glee and something else she didn’t know if she wanted to understand. 

Elara’s heart skipped a beat. The eyes of the Brotherhood turned toward her, confused. Whispers spread among the others as they exchanged puzzled glances, trying to discern what connection she had to this madman. She felt their stares, their curiosity, but her focus remained on the jester. 

The room seemed to shrink as Cicero pushed his way through the crowd, his every movement erratic, yet eerily calculated. Elara could feel the weight of everyone's eyes on her, their curiosity prickling at her skin like needles. But her focus remained fixed on Cicero, who now loomed over her, his unsettling grin only growing wider as he closed the gap between them.

Without warning, his hands shot forward, wrapping around hers with surprising force. His fingers squeezed tighter than she thought possible, a pressure that belied his wiry frame. The suddenness of it made her heart skip a beat, and she had to fight the instinct to pull away. Cicero's grip was commanding, intrusive, and all at once disorienting. 

Danoc stiffened beside her, his hand twitching instinctively toward his blade, though he hadn't drawn it—yet. His tension radiated through the space between them. Elara struggled to meet the jester’s eyes, the intensity of his stare burning into her as he leaned in, his face mere inches from hers.

"Elara, yes, I remember," he purred, his voice dripping with mock affection. His gaze flicked over to Danoc, a smirk pulling at his lips. "And the brooder," Cicero added with a playful sneer, his tone full of mockery.

Danoc’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing dangerously, but he stayed silent, his hand remaining on the hilt of his weapon.

"You two have already met?" Nazir’s voice cut through the growing tension, his normally bored expression replaced with a glint of amusement. He seemed to be enjoying Elara's obvious discomfort, and the look on his face told her he was more than happy to see her squirm a little.

"Well, kind of—" Elara began, her voice faltering as she tried to gather her thoughts. The fact that he was still gripping her hands so tightly made it hard to think straight. But before she could finish her sentence, he interrupted.

Abruptly, he released her, his touch lingering in her mind even after his hands were no longer on hers. He didn’t move far, though, instead shifting to stand beside her, as if claiming a new place by her side. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her against his body with a suddenness that left her blinking in confusion. His warmth pressed against her in a way that was both surprising and strangely possessive. 

Her heart raced, but she forced herself to keep her face neutral.

"Yes! Yes, she was so helpful," Cicero exclaimed, his voice ringing with exaggerated enthusiasm. He glanced down at her, his grin growing even wider as he continued, "She helped me repair my wagon, just to get Mother to her final resting spot."

She felt her cheeks flush. His words twisted the truth, painting a picture of a bond that hadn’t truly existed. She tried to untangle herself from his grip mentally, her thoughts scrambling to find something to say that wouldn’t worsen the situation.

"All I did was convince the farmer to fix the wheel," she said quickly, her voice quiet but firm.

Cicero’s laugh was sharp, cutting through the tension in the room like a knife. "She is so humble, yes, humble! But she helped Cicero quite a bunch," he said, his voice almost sing-song.

Every part of her wanted to push away from him, to put distance between herself and his madness, but his arm around her waist kept her rooted to the spot.

"Right, well, I'd be happy to show you around the sanctuary if you'd follow me," Astrid interjected smoothly, her voice carrying a practiced patience that was more an order than a suggestion. She stood at the edge of the room, her eyes meeting Elara's with a glint of mercy. The unspoken offer of escape was clear, and Elara didn’t hesitate to latch onto it.

Elara felt Cicero's grip loosen around her waist, and he finally let her go, turning his attention toward their leader with a sharp, almost childlike enthusiasm. "Yes! Yes! Show Cicero the sanctuary," he sang, his bells jingling with every step as he eagerly followed Astrid out of the room.

Elara let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, her body relaxing slightly now that the jester was no longer attached to her. 

"Are you all right?" Danoc asked quietly, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

She gave a small nod, though the pounding of her heart hadn’t quite settled yet. "Yeah," she whispered, though her voice betrayed the slight tremor of her nerves. "Just... not what I expected."

Before she could fully collect her thoughts, Babette approached her, her small frame emanating an unexpected warmth. The young girl reached out, placing her cool hand over Elara's, offering a soothing presence. Despite her youthful appearance, the girl’s eyes held a depth that suggested she had witnessed centuries of life. 

"Oh dear, you seem very upset," she said, her tone gentle and melodic. "I should brew you some tea. It always helps me when I'm feeling... overwhelmed."

Elara often found it strange how mature Babette sounded, considering she looked no older than a child. Yet, there was an undeniable wisdom behind her words.

"You look like you just got punched in the stomach," came Arnbjorn's teasing voice, a smirk dancing on his lips as he crossed his arms over his broad chest. His expression was one of playful mockery, but Elara couldn't help the heat rising to her cheeks at his comment.

She rolled her eyes, feeling a mix of embarrassment and irritation at the jibe

“Oh, do not frighten the girl more; she just got home,” Gabriella interjected, her tone laced with sympathy. The Dunmer’s words wrapped around Elara like a comforting blanket, easing her tension. 

She had often felt isolated among the rugged faces of her companions. Her skin darkened like charred ash and seemed to amplify her differences when surrounded by those who were more vibrant. The only one who shared her sense of alienation was Nazir, but even he had a warm appearance that contrasted with her own muted tone.

“Thank you, Babette,” she said, trying to mask her sarcasm with a smile. “At least one of you sees how weary I am.”

“Oh come on, just some light fun,” the werewolf exclaimed, laughter spilling from his lips as he turned away, heading back toward his forge.

“Were your kills efficient?” Babette asked, her eyes sparkling with curiosity as she gazed up at Elara, who felt both flattered and intimidated by the girl's unwavering attention.

“Every single one,” she said carefully, looking to Nazir who seemed pleased but still just as bored as ever. He appeared pleased but still exuded an air of indifference, his bored expression barely masking his satisfaction with her performance.

“Good. Didn’t hear of any incidents,” he replied, his tone dismissive. “So, come find me later; I’ll give you your money.”

Even after everything had calmed down and she had gotten her reward for each person she had butchered that week, a gnawing unease lingered in her gut, making it nearly impossible to swallow the tea Babette had so kindly brewed for her. The thought of her companions perceiving her as unreliable clung to her for some reason. To finally have a place that she didn’t need to run from anymore, she so badly didn’t want to lose it. She had never wanted to keep something as badly as she did now, mostly because she had nothing to lose.

The idea of calling them her family though was yet to be determined. 

When the others finally retreated to their beds, the sanctuary fell into a tranquil silence. Yet, Elara found herself restless, wandering the empty halls in a vain attempt to quiet her racing thoughts. Danoc had passed out quickly after they returned; she could tell he had been tired hours before their arrival, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. Her own feet ached from the long day, but the prospect of sleep felt nauseating, almost suffocating.

She found herself drawn to the main part of the sanctuary, the soft murmur of water creating a soothing backdrop as she settled into a quiet corner. Cradling her steaming cup in her hands, she let the warmth seep into her palms, grounding her.

As she sat there, her eyelids grew heavy, but she fought the urge to close them. She had plans to make. Thoughts of securing ownership of a house in one of the holds flitted through her mind, perhaps Whiterun, with its bustling market and welcoming atmosphere. Babette had gifted her one of her unused journals, and she intended to make good use of it.

She pulled the journal from her satchel and began to jot down her notes, the scratch of her quill against the parchment breaking the silence around her. Yet, as she scribbled, a voice tickled her ear, deep and resonant, sending a shiver down her spine. She thought someone might have snuck up on her, but when she turned to look, she saw only the dark, empty room surrounding her.

Furrowing her brows in confusion, she strained to hear through the silence. Then, more voices, now a chorus, startled her from her thoughts, echoing softly in the cavernous space. The unsettling sound made her heart race, and she closed her book, gathering her things in a hurry, the rational part of her convinced that sleep deprivation was finally getting the better of her.

Just as she was about to leave, her gaze drifted to the back corner of the sanctuary, where a wall stood, seemingly mundane in the dim light. It was the same wall where Veezara often sat, an unassuming part of the sanctuary that had always blended into the background. But tonight, something felt different. She blinked in surprise, her breath catching in her throat—the wall was glowing, a soft luminescence pulsating gently like a heartbeat.

She stood slowly, her curiosity piqued, the lingering dread in her stomach momentarily forgotten. The glow seemed to beckon her closer, illuminating the intricate carvings that adorned the stone, shapes, and symbols she hadn’t noticed before. With cautious steps, she approached, drawn to the radiance that filled the room with an ethereal light.

She stood before the wall, her heart racing with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. The warm luminescence pulsed gently as if in tune with her heartbeat, casting soft shadows that danced across the sanctuary’s stone floor. She hesitated, her fingers hovering just above the surface, the air thick with an electric charge that seemed to whisper secrets of ages past.

As she leaned closer, the intricate carvings on the wall came into sharper focus. Each symbol seemed alive, swirling with hidden meanings, their edges shimmering as if they were infused with a life force of their own. She squinted, trying to make sense of the patterns—runes intertwined with images of creatures both majestic and monstrous, the tales of the ancients woven into the very stone.

“What are you?” she whispered, her voice trembling in the hushed sanctuary, as if speaking too loudly would shatter the delicate balance of the moment. 

She pressed her palm flat against it, the heat seeping into her flesh, and the moment her skin made contact, a surge of energy coursed through her, igniting every nerve ending like a spark igniting kindling.  

Words flashed in her mind, fast and bright, piercing her brain with an intensity that lingered even after the glow had faded. Kill. It had told her— Krii. The realization settled in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Her mind had twisted the ancient command into something familiar.

Confusion wrapped around her thoughts as she lowered her hand away from the wall, grappling with the sudden, overwhelming flood of magic that had surged through her body only to vanish moments later.

Just as she began to grapple with the implications of the encounter, the crunch of footsteps echoed through the stillness, breaking the tension in the air. Elara turned sharply, her instincts on high alert. Standing just a few feet away, almost blending into the shadows, was Cicero.

He leaned casually against the opposite wall, his figure framed by the dim light of the sanctuary. The bells on his jester’s hat sparkled like distant stars. How had he gotten so close without her hearing him? How long had he been standing there?

His expression was inscrutable, a mix of amusement and curiosity. Elara blinked, disoriented and slightly unsettled, but she quickly collected herself, unwilling to show weakness. When she attempted to walk past him, he moved swiftly, positioning himself in her path with surprising speed.

His trademark smirk danced across his lips, and she squinted at him, trying to decipher the intent behind his gaze.

“Cicero wonders what his friend is doing up so late, staring at walls. Perhaps there’s something he should know, too?” His voice was light, almost playful, but there was an edge to it.

Frowning, she instinctively stepped back, creating distance between them. “You weren’t very honest when we first met, so I’d say that hardly makes us friends now,” she retorted, keeping her tone steady despite the quickening pace of her heart.

His chuckle resonated in the quiet space, sending another shiver through her. With hands planted firmly on his hips, he regarded her with an unsettling intensity. “What’s so funny?” she demanded, gripping her journal tightly as if it were a shield against his probing gaze.

“Oh no, nothing,” he replied, waving off her concern with a casual flick of his wrist. “Cicero is just so fascinated by all the curious things his friend does.” The condescension in his tone was evident, adding to her frustration.

Desperate to escape the tension, she turned away from him, striding purposefully toward the hall. “Perhaps we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot,” he called after her, prompting her to pause, her curiosity piqued against her better judgment.

Looking back, she saw him offering a weak smile, an attempt to break down the walls she had erected.

“I too like to write, but only when others aren’t around,” he confessed, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

She narrowed her eyes, still suspicious. “You promise not to go snooping?” she challenged, glancing down at her journal.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a cheeky grin playing on his lips. “Cicero swears on it,” he proclaimed, crossing his heart with a flourish, his sincerity almost disarming.

For a moment, she hesitated, studying him closely. There was a flicker of mischief in his eyes, but beneath it, she sensed a glimmer of something genuine. Reluctantly, she decided to grant him a modicum of trust—at least for now. With a resigned sigh, she turned and resumed her ascent up the steps.

As she climbed, she felt his gaze follow her, the weight of it pressing against her back. Just as she thought she had escaped him, his voice echoed behind her, lingering in the air like an incantation.

 “Sweet dreams,” he called.

Chapter 8: Don't Be Scared

A month had passed since Elara first joined the Brotherhood—a month of living full-time at the sanctuary, and more importantly, a month of enduring Cicero. He had an uncanny way of inserting himself into every interaction as if the idea of being left out for even a moment pained him.

Though most of the other members kept their distance, disliking his eccentric nature, she couldn't help but feel there was something deeper behind his need for attention. It wasn’t just his strange demeanor that kept him isolated; it was the loneliness that radiated from him in quiet moments when he thought no one was watching.

There was a hunger in his constant jests, the way he hovered, always waiting for an opportunity to engage, to be noticed. He could get under her skin at times, of course, with his dark humor and ceaseless chatter, but he had his moments—moments when his wit struck just the right chord or when his manic energy softened, and for a fleeting instant, she glimpsed something almost human beneath the clownish façade.

Over time, she stopped feeling like a stranger to him, if only because he forced her to grow accustomed to his presence. Every morning without fail, Cicero would greet her with that impossibly wide grin, the bells on his jester hat jingling merrily in the dim light of the sanctuary.

His jokes were vivid, often toeing the line between grotesque and hilarious. But sometimes, she had to admit, they were funny.

Danoc, for his part, had warmed up to the clown a little more, though Cicero’s teasing never relented. He just handled it better now, shrugging off the comments with gruff patience he hadn’t had when they first arrived.

Elara had seen a different side to Cicero once, through the crack in the door of the room where he cared for the Night Mother. It was odd, unsettling even, to see him so tender with a corpse, but there was an undeniable reverence in the way he spoke to her, as though she were truly alive, her spirit lingering just beyond the veil.

Cicero would lock himself in that room for hours, his voice rising in a one-sided conversation, filled with joy and devotion, speaking to the Night Mother as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.

She had watched him through the tiny gap, her curiosity getting the better of her. She had read everything she could about the Night Mother, poring over books that Babette and Gabriella had shared with her, trying to understand what it was that Cicero seemed to sense so clearly.

But nothing she read explained the connection he had with the corpse. Nothing explained whether the Night Mother truly spoke, or if it was just the madness of a devoted servant.

That morning, like every other, she had greeted the members of the sanctuary, including the clown, though today he had seemed different—less jubilant, his usual mirth dampened by an irritation that hung about him like a cloud.

He had disappeared soon after their encounter, vanishing into the shadows with an almost imperceptible frown, his bells jingling with less enthusiasm than usual.

She didn’t think much of it at first—Cicero was erratic, after all, his moods shifting like the wind—but his sudden lack of cheerfulness tugged at her mind. Something was bothering him, something deeper than the petty frustrations he usually played up for attention. She let the thought linger for a moment but then turned her focus back to the book in her hands.

She sat by the water, her favorite spot in the sanctuary, trying to lose herself in the words on the page. This book was about different types of magic, and she had chosen it for a reason—she needed answers.

The memory of the glowing wall haunted her, the way it had spoken to her that night, the single, piercing word that had etched itself into her mind. Krii.

But no matter how many books she devoured, there was nothing that explained what had happened to her. No mentions of glowing walls, no descriptions of ancient voices speaking through stone. It was maddening. The frustration gnawed at her, consuming much of her free time as she tried to piece together the puzzle.

She flipped the page with a sigh, only half reading the words now, her eyes skimming over the text without absorbing its meaning. 

It was futile—no matter how hard she tried, her thoughts kept wandering back to the strange events that had unfolded recently. The glowing wall, the whispers in the dead of night, the feeling that something ancient and unsettling had settled itself within her bones.

As she sat by the still water, she suddenly felt a presence before she heard the footsteps. Her muscles tensed, but she didn’t turn around. She knew who it was before they even spoke.

"Am I interrupting?"

Astrid’s voice broke the quiet like a ripple across the water. The leader’s tone was cool, but there was something under it—an edge of impatience, of frustration that wasn’t so easily masked. She didn’t need to look up to know that Astrid’s face would be a perfect mask of composure, with only the faintest hint of her actual feelings flickering in her eyes.

Slowly, Elara lowered her book, casting a sidelong glance at Astrid as the woman sat down next to her. She could feel the tension between them, the weight of unspoken words and unresolved issues hanging in the air.

The memory of that night still burned in the back of her mind, a scar she couldn’t quite let go of. The blood, the bodies, the detachment in Astrid’s voice. Her gaze flicked to the blonde, her hands tightening around the book in her lap. The woman had been careful with her since that night, speaking cautiously, almost as if she were trying to win Elara over.

"I hope I’m not interrupting," Astrid repeated, her voice a shade softer, though it did little to mask the fact that she wanted something.

Elara tilted her head slightly, her dark curls falling over her shoulder as she gave her a long, appraising look. "You hope, huh?" she replied coolly, the sarcasm dripping from her words. "What do you want?" 

Astrid’s lips tightened into a thin line, her frustration barely contained. "I need a favor," she began, her voice steady. "And before you say no—"

Elara didn’t let her finish. She stood up abruptly, her book snapping shut in her hands as she rolled her eyes. "Of course, you do," she muttered under her breath, already moving away from Astrid and heading toward the sanctuary's exit.

But before she could take more than a few steps, Astrid’s hand shot out, grabbing her arm with surprising force. Elara felt the pull, and with a frustrated sigh, she turned back, glaring down at the hand that gripped her.

"It’ll be worth your while," Astrid said quickly, her eyes locked onto Elara’s. Something was pleading in her tone now, something that almost bordered on desperation.

Elara paused, weighing her options as she yanked her arm free. Her black hair fell in loose waves around her face as she crossed her arms, meeting her leader’s gaze with a mixture of curiosity and irritation. "Make it worth my while, then," she said, her tone daring Astrid to give her a good enough reason to care.

Astrid didn’t hesitate this time. She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a low, confidential whisper. "It’s Cicero," she said, her frustration leaking through her words like poison. "He’s been acting stranger than usual. Talking to… someone. Or something. But it’s what he’s been saying, Elara. It’s… disturbing."

Elara’s brow furrowed, her interest piqued despite herself. Cicero was always strange, that was no secret.

"What do you mean, disturbing?" she asked, her voice more serious now, though she kept her distance, still skeptical.

Astrid sighed, her eyes flickering around as if worried someone might overhear, even though the room was empty save for them. “I can’t explain it all yet, Elara. Not now.” Her voice had lost the commanding strength it usually carried, replaced with a nervous urgency. "But please, just trust me on this. I need you to do me this one favor."

Elara raised an eyebrow at that, still wary. "Why should I? You know how I feel about ‘favors.’"

Astrid’s gaze hardened for a brief moment, but she softened it just as quickly, her desperation pushing her to relent. “I have a contract,” she offered, trying to bait Elara’s interest. “A great one. It’s yours if you help me. You’ve proven yourself more than capable, and I was going to give it to you anyway.”

Her eyes narrowed as she lowered herself to Astrid’s level, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. "What does Cicero have to do with this, exactly?"

Astrid pursed her lips, weighing her words carefully before speaking. 

"I need to take a look around in his room. But I can’t do that with him here. If he catches wind of me snooping…" she let the sentence hang, knowing Elara could fill in the rest.

Elara blinked, her expression flat as the pieces of Astrid's request fell into place. "You want me to distract him,” she deadpanned, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s what this is about? You’re paranoid and need me to babysit Cicero while you sneak around his quarters."

The blonde opened her mouth to object but quickly shut it again. "I’ll give you the full payment. All of it. No cuts," she offered. "You won’t regret it."

Elara rolled her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. She didn’t like this plan. Cicero was unpredictable, and spending more time alone with him was not something she looked forward to. And Danoc—he wouldn’t be happy if she left him behind, and would hate having to spend nights listening to the clown ramble. 

She turned her back to Astrid, pacing momentarily as she weighed her options. Finally, she stopped, letting out a long breath. "Alright," she said, spinning around to face Astrid, her hands now on her hips. "I’ll do it. But on one condition."

Astrid arched an eyebrow, clearly interested. "What’s that?"

"You’re getting me a new bow. A good one," Elara demanded, her tone firm. "One that doesn’t make me feel like I’m shooting twigs."

Astrid gave a small, grateful smile, nodding quickly. "Done.”

 

---

 

Elara found herself pausing at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dimly lit eating area. Babette and Nazir were sitting across from each other, their hushed conversation barely reaching her ears. At the end of the table stood Cicero, yet something was different.

His posture was tense, stiff even, and Babette, usually sharp-tongued and aloof, was trying to coax him with a bowl of stew she had prepared herself.

"Come on, Cicero, you’ve barely eaten anything for days. At least try a bite," Babette said in a rare tone of softness, offering the bowl as though it might calm the storm brewing inside the jester.

Cicero’s head snapped to the side, his voice sharp as a knife. "Cicero doesn't need food!" His words came out like a hiss, his entire body rigid with frustration. His hands, normally fluttering and theatrical, were now gripping the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles were turning white. The jovial, unhinged persona he often displayed had cracked, revealing a darker, more volatile side.

Elara felt a pang of unease creep up her spine as she rested her hand on the railing, watching the exchange unfold. She had never seen Cicero like this before—this angry, this rattled. Nazir, who was always the picture of calm indifference, seemed to sense the shift as well. He was leaning back in his chair, fingers drumming the table in a steady rhythm as if waiting for the outburst to pass.

"The tenets haven’t been followed for years, Cicero," Nazir said flatly, his eyes narrowing. "They're relics now. Traditions that no longer matter."

At that, the clown’s entire frame stiffened. His head snapped up, eyes wild as he glared at Nazir, and before anyone could react, he slammed his hands down on the table, the sound echoing off the stone walls. Nazir’s cup tipped over, spilling liquid across the table and dripping onto the floor in a slow, crimson river.

"The tenets are sacred!" Cicero growled, his voice unrecognizable. "The Brotherhood must uphold them! Yet here I stand, mocked and belittled for following what was once law!"

The redguard groaned, looking down at the spilled wine now pooling around his feet. "Wonderful," he muttered, pushing his chair back. "That’s the last of the good wine. Elara, if you want to try your luck, be my guest." He shot her a glance from across the room, his eyes tired, though his tone held a trace of humor. "But I wouldn’t bother. He’s in one of his moods."

With that, Nazir stood and wiped his hands on his tunic, stepping over the spill. She watched as he made his way up the stairs, her path clear now. She steeled herself and descended the stairs, each creak of the old wood making her wonder just how long it had been before they had ‘renovations’.

Cicero had straightened himself, but his hands were still clenched, his eyes darting between Babette and the spill on the table as if they were conspiring against him.

"Cicero," Elara called, her voice even, though it took a lot to keep it steady.

“My friend,” Cicero greeted her, though his usual theatrical flair was missing. His voice sounded strained. "Do you too come to question Cicero? To scold him like a child who does not understand?" His words were laced with bitterness, and his hands twitched, barely keeping still.

"No scolding," Elara assured, keeping her tone calm and measured. "I thought we might take a walk, and get out of the sanctuary for a bit. Stretch our legs."

His expression twisted into one of confusion. "A walk?" he echoed as if the concept was alien to him. He blinked several times, his gaze darting between her and Babette, suspicion clear in his eyes. "But Cicero cannot leave! No, no, the Night Mother needs him! She needs her keeper here.”

"The Night Mother isn’t going anywhere," Babette chimed in gently from the side, crossing her arms as she leaned back against the table. "She’ll still be here when you get back. Besides, you’ve been cooped up in here for weeks. You’re driving yourself mad."

His shoulders sagged, but only slightly. His eyes flickered back to Elara, scanning her face slowly. His lips twitched as if he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. "A walk," he muttered again, his voice barely audible.

"The Night Mother would want you to be clear-headed, wouldn’t she?" Elara interrupted, stepping closer. She lowered her voice, soft but insistent. "You can’t serve her properly if you’re running yourself ragged.”

She wasn’t particularly good at calming people down—she’d never been someone others came to for comfort. She wasn’t used to handling emotions other than her own frustration, so this situation was uncharted territory. But, she needed to get Cicero on her side.

He watched her intently, his gaze following her every move. His head tilted slightly, as though trying to decipher her intentions, his usual manic expression tempered by something more curious now. He flinched when Elara reached out and gently placed her hand on his, her fingers curling around his gloved ones.

The jester’s brows furrowed deeply, as though he didn’t quite understand the gesture. His eyes flicked down to her hand resting on his, the simple contact seeming to confuse him. For a moment, the entire room held its breath as he stared at her fingers, then slowly back up at her face.

She forced a small, almost tentative smile. Her heart wasn’t in it, not fully. Part of her wished she were anywhere else—preferably back in bed, letting the day dissolve into dreams—but she kept her composure. "I have a contract I wanted to invite you on, just us two. Sounds fun, right?" she offered, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice despite the heaviness weighing down the atmosphere. 

He blinked, his expression shifting between confusion and something like suspicion. He glanced at her again, clearly taken aback by the idea. “You want to invite me?” His voice wavered, sounding almost dumbfounded like the notion that anyone would willingly spend time alone with him was unfathomable.

She nodded slowly, though inwardly, she felt a pang of guilt. The lie she was feeding him was necessary, but it didn’t make it any easier. Cicero continued to stare, his wide, expressive eyes filled with disbelief. His fingers twitched beneath her hand, as though uncertain whether to pull away or tighten his grip. 

“You… truly want my company?” he asked again, his voice a little more hesitant, the manic edge gone. He nearly sounded like a normal man now, almost sane. 

“Yes,” she replied, giving him a slight but earnest nod. 

For a moment, he just stood there, silent. He looked down at their hands again, then up at her face, his expression softening into something like awe. The smirk he usually wore was gone, replaced by an almost childlike vulnerability. He blinked a few times before letting out a soft, shaky breath.

“Fun… yes, Cicero would like that,” he murmured, his voice much quieter now, contemplative. 

His hand was warm—warmer than she had expected—and it startled her. Elara couldn’t remember the last time she’d held someone’s hand like that. Maybe she never had. The realization left a lump in her throat, and she swallowed hard, forcing herself to release him.

“An hour. Meet me outside,” she said briskly, stepping back. Her voice was firmer than before, masking her discomfort.

Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel, her gaze skimming past Babette, who sat at the table with an amused smile tugging at the corners of her lips. Elara didn’t acknowledge it. She didn’t have the energy for her silent judgments today.

The contract was becoming more distasteful with every passing moment, and they hadn’t even left yet. 

She reached her room, pushing the door open with a sigh. The creaky hinges groaned in protest, but it was a familiar sound, one she barely noticed anymore. Inside, the room was dim, the soft flicker of a nearly burned-out candle casting long shadows on the walls. Danoc lay sprawled across his bed, his snores soft but steady. He had passed out sometime after she left him the night before, an empty bottle still clutched loosely in his hand. He hadn’t even bothered to blow out the candle.

She moved quietly across the room as she gathered the stack of clean clothes she’d hidden under her bed, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency as she packed her satchel. Essentials, a few spare weapons, a flask of water—just in case. She worked in silence, the only sound the gentle rustling of fabric and the occasional snore from Danoc’s direction.

As she glanced at him, buried beneath the covers, a pang of guilt twisted in her chest. He’d be furious when he woke up and found her gone, especially without a proper goodbye. He always hated it when she left without warning. But convincing him to stay behind would waste more time than she could afford.

And besides, she didn’t have the energy to deal with two complainers on this trip. One was more than enough.

With her satchel packed, she turned her attention to the red and black uniform that Astrid had given her weeks ago. She had refused to wear it out of principle—partly out of rebellion, and partly because it felt like a uniform of submission. But now, practicality won out. She slid into the tight leather armor, the material hugging her form in a surprisingly comfortable way.

Elara swung her cloak over her shoulders, her bag over her shoulder, and moved toward his bed one last time.

She stood there for a moment, watching him sleep. She leaned down, her breath brushing over the small flame as she blew out the candle. The room was plunged into darkness, save for the dim light creeping through the cracks of the door.

With a quiet sigh, she turned and headed toward the door, her hand reaching for the handle. The second she opened it, she was met with a tall, looming figure—Cicero, standing unnervingly close, his wide grin stretching across his face like a crescent moon.

His eyes glittered with excitement, and for a brief second, Elara’s heart lurched in surprise.

His mouth opened, no doubt ready to spill some cryptic or overly dramatic greeting, but before he could utter a word, she reacted on instinct. Her hand shot up, covering his mouth before he could speak. “Not. Here,” she whispered fiercely, her voice barely above a breath. 

Without giving him a chance to react, she pushed him back, maneuvering both of them out of the doorway before she shut the door quietly behind her.  Cicero’s eyes widened, his muffled laughter vibrating against her hand.

When she was sure they were far enough from the room, she slowly removed her hand, glaring up at him. Cicero, of course, was entirely unbothered, his grin still firmly in place. "Very touchy today," he said mockingly. She resisted the urge to push him before stepping aside. "Cicero just couldn't wait to get going.”

What have I gotten myself into? she thought, already regretting her decision.

As they exited the sanctuary, the cold air hit her face, biting into her skin and chasing away whatever remnants of warmth lingered from inside. She barely had time to catch her breath before Astrid’s figure caught her eye, leaning against the stone wall near the entrance. The woman flashed her a knowing wink, a silent tease that made Elara’s stomach churn with guilt. Cicero might have noticed too. He must have known how people reacted to him, how his very presence put others on edge. 

And yet, she thought bitterly, he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, he seemed to thrive on it. 

She didn’t understand him, and the idea of spending hours alone with him out in the wilderness was beginning to feel like torture.

Cicero, however, appeared oblivious to her concerns. The moment they stepped outside, he took off with long strides, as if he had somewhere urgent to be. Elara found herself rushing to keep up with him, her shorter legs struggling to match his pace. His movements were fluid, almost too light for someone his size, and it was infuriating how easy he made it seem.

“Can you please wait—” she started, her voice tight with frustration, just as he abruptly stopped in his tracks. She didn’t have time to react, slamming into his back with enough force to make her stumble.

Before she could gather her bearings, he spun around, his face beaming down at her with a grin that bordered on mocking. "Cicero’s friend is right," he said, his voice lilting with amusement. "He’s just so happy to be out in nature... yes."

Elara scowled, rubbing her arm where she had bumped into him, glaring up at his infuriatingly cheerful expression. He was enjoying this—too much. His smirk, the way he looked at her as if she was the punchline to some private joke—it was all so aggravating. He knows exactly what he’s doing, she thought, her annoyance simmering beneath the surface.

He stood there, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself. “I do have many questions though,” he began, his voice taking on a curious, almost childlike tone.

She didn’t even glance up as she pulled out her map. “And I’ll answer them in a moment,” she snapped, cutting him off before he could launch into whatever bizarre train of thought he had in store. “Just let me pick the route.”

There was a pause, then a dramatic sigh. Cicero waved his hand dismissively, though the gleam in his eyes suggested he was far from discouraged. “As you wish,” he said with exaggerated patience, though his fingers twitched like it was taking everything in him to stay quiet.

She ran her fingers over the map, barely registering the paths in front of her. She could feel Cicero’s eyes on her, watching her every move like an overexcited child waiting for permission to run wild. It was exhausting. This was supposed to be simple, she thought. Why does everything feel like a game to him?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she pointed to a route that avoided the dense forests and stuck to a more open, but longer, path. “We’re taking this one,” she declared firmly, folding the map and tucking it into her satchel.

Cicero’s eyes lit up, clapping his hands together. “Very good! Let’s get going,” He spun on his heel, already moving ahead again before Elara had even taken a step.

She watched him for a moment, incredulous. He hadn’t even questioned the choice. 

With a sigh, she quickened her pace to catch up with him, falling into step beside him as they made their way down the darkened path. The silence between them was tense but oddly peaceful for a few moments, only the sound of their boots crunching against the dirt filling the night air.

 She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, wondering what was going on in that head of his, but as usual, his expression was unreadable—half mischievous, half calm.

Finally, after what felt like minutes of this eerie quiet, Cicero broke the silence. "So," he began, his voice carrying a playful lilt, "who are we killing?"

Elara gave a brief, exasperated glance at him before returning her focus to the road ahead. She tried to suppress her irritation. "We’re meeting a woman, Muiri," she answered, her voice measured. "She’ll tell us who the target is once we get there. But I need you on your best behavior for this one."

Cicero’s eyebrows raised in amusement, and he let out a soft, knowing chuckle. "Ah, Cicero's best behavior, is it?" He tilted his head toward her, his grin widening. "And why does Cicero’s friend doubt him so? You think he’ll spoil your precious contract?"

"Yes, actually, I do," she muttered under her breath, quickening her pace just enough to stay ahead of him. She wasn’t sure if he caught the edge in her voice, but the grin on his face didn’t falter.

"Cicero thinks you underestimate him," he cooed, his voice dancing on the air with an unsettling lightness. He sidled closer to her, his movements fluid. "My dear, dear friend, Cicero will do exactly what you ask—no more, no less. Deal?"

She shot him a sideways glance, her expression skeptical as she searched his eyes. Could she trust him? His smile was wide, too wide, but there was something almost earnest beneath the manic energy. With a reluctant sigh, she nodded.

“And Markarth shouldn’t be too far of a walk!” he added cheerfully.

Elara stopped dead in her tracks, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Wait... how did you—"

Cicero leaned in close, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper. “You see? Cicero listens,” he murmured.

Her frown deepened. Had he seen where she marked on the map earlier? Or maybe overheard something Astrid had said? It was hard to tell with him. "Right," she muttered, turning away from him and forcing herself to keep moving forward. She could feel his eyes on her as they walked. 

They trudged through the darkness, the road twisting and turning before them, the silence occasionally broken by Cicero’s soft humming or the rustle of leaves underfoot. It was hard not to notice that he happened to have a nice singing voice when he wasn’t so shrill. 

 

---

 

It took about an hour to reach Gjukar’s Monument, the stone marker standing tall against the night. His erratic behavior and chatter had grated on her nerves, but it was the camp setup that proved to be the most frustrating.

“Let’s just settle in for the night,” Elara had suggested, already weary. “No need for a fire.” 

But Cicero, true to form, had completely ignored her suggestion. He had marched off into the woods with the conclusion that he’d be able to find some wood somewhere. She had no faith in that. Her protests were swallowed by the night as his footsteps faded into the darkness. She sighed, staring after him, wondering why she even bothered trying to reason with him.

Sitting by her hastily constructed firepit—one that remained stubbornly unlit—Elara felt her patience draining. The night was still, save for the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant hooves of deer grazing nearby. Fireflies flitted around her, their soft glow giving the area an ethereal feel, but they were more nuisance than charm, constantly hovering too close to her face. She swatted at them, her eyes growing heavier with each passing minute.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Cicero still hadn’t returned. Elara wouldn’t have been surprised if he had simply wandered off and left her alone, though a small part of her hoped he hadn’t. She sighed, lowering herself onto her bedroll, arm draped across her eyes in an attempt to block out the fireflies' glow. Fatigue began to take hold, her body sinking deeper into the ground’s embrace.

Just as sleep was about to claim her, a sound stirred her from the edges of slumber. It was faint at first, indistinguishable from the other nighttime noises. She tried to tune it out, her tired brain dismissing it as a trick of the forest. But the sound grew louder, more insistent, like footsteps—running footsteps, heading straight toward her.

Her eyes flew open, and adrenaline surged through her veins as she shot up from her bedroll, hand instinctively reaching for her dagger. The night was eerily quiet now, with no sign of whatever had been approaching.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she scanned the darkness, her vision adjusting to the faint outlines of the trees and the monument looming nearby. Silence pressed in around her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—was there, watching.

A chill ran down her spine as she slowly rose to her feet, every muscle tense. She strained her ears, trying to catch even the faintest hint of movement, but the forest remained stubbornly still. Just as she began to relax, ready to dismiss it all as her imagination, that unmistakable sensation washed over her—the prickling awareness of being watched.

Her pulse quickened, and without thinking, she whirled around, dagger in hand, her body moving with an urgency she hadn’t known she possessed. The blade sliced through the air, aimed at the figure behind her.

Before she could make contact, her wrist was caught in an iron grip, halting her mid-swing. She blinked, and there, standing far too close for comfort, was Cicero. His face was mere inches from her blade, his eyes wide with exaggerated surprise, though a smirk tugged at his lips.

“Tsk, tsk,” he scolded in his usual sing-song voice, his head cocked to one side. "A mighty swing for such a small woman."

Her breath caught in her throat, realization dawning on her just how close she had come to injuring him—perhaps even killing him. The tip of her dagger hovered just shy of his eye, and for a brief second, the world felt frozen.

Anger quickly replaced the shock. She yanked her wrist back, but Cicero’s grip was strong, holding her in place as his smirk deepened.

"Why the hell are you playing with your life?" she snapped, voice low and seething. "I could’ve killed you."

Cicero let out a soft chuckle, his grip still firm but not painful. His gaze gleamed with amusement as if he found her outburst entertaining. "Ah, but Cicero knows his friend wouldn’t harm him. No, no… not intentionally," he teased, releasing her wrist with a flourish and taking a step back, his body language relaxed.

Her frustration boiled over. She shoved the dagger back into its sheath, glowering at him. "You’re impossible," she muttered. 

His eyes sparkled mischievously. "Cicero likes to dance on the edge of luck, dear friend. Keeps things interesting, yes?"

She stared at him, her expression unreadable, blank with disbelief. With a sigh, she finally managed to speak. "You better have gotten that wood." Her tone was flat, as though all her energy had been sapped from her.

He grinned and gestured to the pile of logs at his feet, placing his hands on his hips in triumph. His expectant gaze followed her every move as she bent down to gather the wood. Elara rolled her eyes, shifting her weight as she lifted the bundle into her arms, nearly dropping one of the heavier logs. Before she could react, his hand darted out, catching it just in time.

For a brief moment, their hands brushed against each other. Cicero’s face softened, offering her a small, tentative smile as though it was his way of bridging the ever-widening gap between them. But Elara barely acknowledged it. She was over his attempts at friendship, too tired to humor his eccentricities any further.

Sighing, she turned her back on him, walking to the firepit. "You get the fire started," she said, tossing the logs into the pit with a practiced ease. Dust and ash clung to her gloves, and she wiped them absently on her pants. "I’m gonna try to get some sleep."

He didn’t reply, and for that she was thankful. The quiet stretched between them as she settled back onto her bedroll. In the silence, she heard the faint sound of him kneeling by the firepit, arranging the wood. It wasn’t long before she caught the distinct scent of burning bark, the crackling sound of wood catching flame filling the air. The warmth slowly spread, reaching her face and easing some of the tension in her limbs.

had closed her eyes, desperately trying to coax sleep to come, but her mind wouldn’t rest. Curiosity pried her eyes open just a fraction, and she peeked through her lashes. Cicero sat a few feet away, his back to her, hunched slightly as he stared into the flickering flames. His usual exuberance had dimmed, and he seemed… distant. The way he gazed at the fire, unblinking and motionless, was calm.

Minutes ticked by, and she finally spoke, her voice softer than usual, as though she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to hear her. "Hey… you should sleep soon. You’ll be tired in the morning." Her words were hesitant as if she didn’t want to sound like she cared too much.

He shifted slightly but didn’t turn fully. "Cicero hasn’t had a full night’s sleep in years, friend," he whispered, the lightness gone from his voice. It was quiet, raw as if he was confessing a deeper truth. The way he said it made her chest tighten unexpectedly, a pang of sympathy slipping through her defenses.

She swallowed, unsure how to respond. She didn’t know much about Cicero’s past, nor did she want to pry, but hearing that from him left her at a loss for words. "Just try," she murmured, the only thing she could think to say, her voice gentler now. She rolled onto her side, facing away from him, shutting her eyes in a bid to forget the strangeness of the moment.

Though he didn’t reply, she could feel his gaze lingering on her. She resisted the urge to glance back, choosing instead to focus on the distant sound of crackling wood. But even as sleep began to pull her under, she knew he was still sitting there, watching her with eyes that held more than his usual madness.

Chapter 9: Stagger on Through

The acrid scent of burning wood filled Elara’s nostrils, sharp and pungent like it had seared itself into her mind. For a brief moment, she thought she was still by the fire with Cicero, the warm embers crackling nearby. But as the stench deepened, it changed, becoming something more putrid and horrifying—the unmistakable stench of burning bodies. Her family.

The realization hit her like a wave, and even though her eyes were wide open, she felt herself slipping into that dark corner of her mind where the past lay buried. She wasn’t sitting by a fire anymore. 

She was trapped behind the bookshelf, the same place she had hidden when she was a child. Her body was rigid, her limbs frozen as they had been all those years ago, her heart racing painfully in her chest. She could hear her sister’s desperate cries, high-pitched and terrified, echoing around her. The sound pierced through her until, just as it had before, the cries suddenly stopped, leaving an unbearable silence in their wake.

Elara tried to move, to force herself to act, but her body refused. All she could do was stare helplessly at the back of that old bookshelf, her eyes wide and unblinking, her breaths shallow. The world outside was blurred—a chaotic mess of voices, shouts, and indistinct movement. Bandits? Or her father’s voice? She couldn’t tell. Everything blended into a nightmarish swirl.

A shadow appeared in the dim light—small, frail, the shape of a little boy, maybe only a few years older than she had been. He stepped hesitantly into the room. Her mind screamed for her to push the shelf, to peek around the edge and see the faces, to do something, but she couldn’t move. Fear, that same choking fear, rooted her to the spot.

She could hear the harsh voice of one of the bandits, barking at the boy. "Throw the candle. Do it!" The boy stammered, his voice quivering with fear, trying to resist. The bandit’s patience wore thin, and he forced the candle into the boy’s shaking hands, pushing him towards the bodies lying in the center of the room. The boy stumbled forward, his small figure silhouetted by the firelight.

Elara’s heart pounded painfully in her chest as she watched, knowing what came next. The boy’s hand trembled violently before the candle fell from his grip, landing with a sickening thud amongst the bodies. She could see the boy’s shadow slump, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world had fallen on him. His silent sorrow was almost worse than the chaos itself. 

The fire roared to life, the heat unbearable, and thick smoke began to fill the room. Her lungs burned, her body screaming at her to run, to get out, but she couldn’t. She was still that frightened little girl behind the shelf, paralyzed by fear.

Suddenly, a hand slithered from the edge of the bookshelf, its long, pale fingers creeping across the wood, moving toward her like a nightmare come to life. "We found her!" a voice shouted, so close it felt like it had crawled inside her brain.

Elara jolted awake, her eyes snapping open in a panic. Cold water splashed onto her face, jolting her violently back into reality. She gasped, coughing as the icy liquid filled her nose and mouth, choking her. She blinked rapidly, wiping the water from her face, disoriented and confused.

Standing over her was Cicero, an empty bucket in his hand. She could see the traces of concern in his wide eyes, but all Elara felt was rage—pure, blinding rage. To think she had ever felt an ounce of sympathy for this man? Her chest heaved with fury, her heart still racing from the nightmare.

She opened her mouth to yell at him, the words burning on her tongue, when Cicero suddenly recoiled, dropping the bucket with a clatter. His eyes went wide as he lunged forward, kneeling at her side. Before she could ask what he was doing, his hands shot out to grab her arm, pulling her hand away from the firepit.

Elara’s gaze followed his, and her breath hitched in her throat. Her hand had fallen into the fire while she slept. The skin there was red and angry, but no sign of further injuries. At some point during her nightmare, she had turned over, unknowingly plunging her hand into the hot embers.

Cicero cradled her wrist gently, his expression twisted in uncharacteristic worry. "You nearly cooked yourself!" His voice was unsteady, frantic in a way that surprised her. 

His voice was frantic, teetering on the edge of panic, a tone so unlike his usual manic demeanor that it startled her almost as much as the pain. Elara watched as he inspected her hand, his eyes tracing the angry redness of her skin, seemingly waiting for it to blister and sear. But nothing more happened—just the heat, the discomfort, and the deep, throbbing pain.

She flinched, yanking her hand from his grasp, the sharp motion fueled by the sudden sting of pain and confusion. Her breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as she scanned the area around her, desperate for something to wrap her hand with. 

The skin wasn’t blistered, but it burned like hell, and the pain, coupled with the memory of the nightmare, was overwhelming. She could feel the panic rising in her chest, threatening to spill over.

Cicero watched her with a bewildered look, his wide eyes darting between her hand and her face. "You're barely hurt," he muttered, almost to himself, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

Her head snapped up, anger flaring in her eyes. "Barely hurt?" she spat, her voice sharp and trembling. "It feels like hell, Cicero! Why didn’t you wake me sooner?" She nearly screamed at him, her voice cracking as tears brimmed in her eyes. She hadn’t had time to process the nightmare that had dredged up old wounds, and now she was waking to fresh pain. It was all too much.

He blinked, taken aback by her outburst. He shook his head quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Cicero tried, yes, but you refused! You were thrashing, crying out… Cicero thought it best to use the water."

Elara’s gaze shot to the bucket he had splashed on her, now lying discarded in the grass. "Where did you even find a bucket out here?" she demanded, her words laced with frustration as she ripped a piece of her cloak off, her fingers fumbling to wrap it around her scorched hand.

"Cicero went to fetch water. He thought his friend might be thirsty when she woke." His voice was subdued now. The strangeness of it only added to her frustration, and she breathed through the pain, trying to keep her tears at bay.

"How long was my hand in the fire?" Elara asked quietly, her voice softening as she stumbled toward her pack. She was already feeling the exhaustion creep into her limbs, her body still aching from the remnants of the nightmare. Her hand throbbed with every heartbeat.

"A minute, perhaps?" Cicero replied honestly, his wide eyes narrowing as he tried to recall. "Cicero does not know for certain."

She winced at the thought. A minute felt like an eternity, and she cursed under her breath as she rummaged through her bag, searching for her potions. "You're lucky," she muttered, her tone dark as she finally pulled out a small red vial from the depths of her pack. "Because I was about to kill you for real this time." 

She struggled to get the cork off, her injured hand making even simple tasks difficult. Frustration gnawed at her, and with a sharp growl, she leaned down and bit the cork with her teeth, yanking it free. She spat the cork out and downed the potion slowly, feeling the warm liquid settle in her stomach as the healing magic began to spread through her veins.

The burning pain in her hand dulled slightly, though not as much as she had hoped. She exhaled a long, shaky breath, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion as she leaned back on her bedroll. 

He sat nearby, still watching her, his gaze soft and—if she hadn’t known better—almost worried. She swallowed hard, the bitterness still on her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to snap at him again, not after seeing that brief flicker of humanity.

Every muscle in her body ached as she reluctantly pushed herself up from the bedroll, the healing potion doing little to ease her exhaustion. Cicero, on the other hand, was already gathering his belongings, humming a strange tune under his breath, his steps light as if the weight of the world never seemed to touch him.

He didn't have much to gather, she noticed. No bedroll, no comforts—just the barest essentials stuffed into that old sack of his. The man had slept on nothing but the grass curled up like some mad forest creature.

A chuckle escaped her lips, and she quickly covered her mouth, glancing at him to see if he had noticed.

Cicero’s head whipped around at the sound, his eyes widening in surprise. He paused mid-motion, looking over at her as if trying to discern what she found so amusing. When he saw nothing out of place, that familiar mischievous smirk slowly curled back onto his face, creeping across his features.

She shook her head, but the quiet laughter came anyway. It was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous.

"And they call me crazy," Cicero quipped, his voice laced with amusement as he gave a theatrical sigh. He kicked dirt onto the fire pit with a flourish, the last embers flickering before they were snuffed out beneath his boots. He spun on his heel, hands on his hips, looking entirely too pleased with himself. 

Cicero, with all his antics, was impossible to ignore, even when she tried.

Once the camp was packed up, Elara handed him a piece of her packed food as they set off down the road. She took a bite out of her apple, watching out of the corner of her eye as he gnawed on the rabbit legs she had cooked the night before. He seemed unusually quiet, as if sensing the thin layer of patience she clung to that day.

For the first couple of hours, the only sounds were the rhythmic crunch of gravel under their boots and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.

 

---

 

The road to Markarth stretched before them, winding through the hills. The towering cliffs in the distance loomed, marking the ancient city’s gates. It wasn't until they reached the old stone bridge that crossed into the farmlands surrounding the city that Cicero finally spoke, breaking the long silence.

“Cicero is curious,” he said slowly, his voice dropping to a low tone.

She peered at him out of the corner of her eye, stepping onto the bridge and instinctively slowing her pace to match his. “You usually are,” she replied dryly, though there was no real bite in her words.

He chuckled softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement, clearly pleased that she hadn’t shut him down immediately. There was something about him that made everything he said feel like a game—light and teasing—but there was a tension in his voice this time.

“Cicero wonders…” he began again, glancing at her from under the brim of his jester's cap. “Why his friend didn’t wake up.”

The question hit her harder than she expected. The nightmare from the night before still clung to her like smoke, and the rawness of it made her jaw tighten. She turned her head away, staring at the road ahead as the sunlight glinted off the golden city walls in the distance.

“That’s none of your business,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. She wanted to sound kind, to keep the peace, but the bitterness from her dream and the reminder of how it had ended was still too fresh.

For a moment, she expected him to press further, to prod at the walls she’d just thrown up. But instead, his voice softened, quieter than she’d ever heard it. “Cicero has bad dreams too.”

She blinked, her steps faltering as she looked at him. She was ready to snap again, tired of his probing, but when she turned to face him, he raised his hand gently, his expression surprisingly calm.

“I understand,” he said, his words simple but weighty.

And that was it. No further questions. No probing, no playful jests to deflect the seriousness of his statement. He simply turned back toward the path, his bells jingling softly with each step as he walked ahead of her. The quiet between them deepened, but it didn’t feel as heavy as before. He had respected her boundary before she’d even fully had the chance to set it.

She furrowed her brows, staring at his back as he walked on ahead. A part of her—the tired part, weighed down by nightmares and unspoken fears—wanted to talk to someone about it. To share the burden. But the other part of her, the one that had always screamed for her to stay silent and strong, to carry it alone, held her tongue. She swallowed, her eyes drifting to the road ahead.

As they passed by a nearby leek farm, the earthy smell of manure filled the air, and Elara wrinkled her nose slightly. The chickens from the farm had wandered onto the road, clucking loudly as they scattered.

One of the birds nearly tripped Cicero, and for a moment, his face lit up in genuine amusement, his energy returning in full force. He danced around the chicken with exaggerated steps, laughing as it flapped away in a panic. Elara couldn’t help but smirk, shaking her head.

By the time the gates of Markarth came into view, she found herself feeling lighter than she had all morning. The ancient dwarven city loomed before them, its towering walls carved into the mountainside, glowing in the sunlight like molten gold.

The intricate designs on the gates were as intimidating as they were beautiful, and the sight always left her in quiet awe. The walls rose high, imposing, and spoke of an age long past.

A small stable sat near the entrance, the horses stamping at the ground impatiently as their keeper moved around filling up their feed. Elara half-expected the guards to stop them, just as they had at Riften, but they simply cast wary glances in their direction, particularly at Cicero. One guard’s eyes lingered a little longer on the jester, shaking his head before muttering something under his breath to his companion.

Cicero grinned, tipping an invisible hat to the guards as they passed. "Ah, CIcero thinks they like him!" he whispered to her with a wink.

She rolled her eyes again, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward in a reluctant smile. 

Elara felt the guard’s eyes on her as she approached the towering doors, but to her relief, one of them gave her a quick nod, allowing her to pass without a shakedown. 

The gigantic doors loomed ahead, its surface carved from solid stone and burnished bronze, glowing faintly from the sun’s heat. She placed her hands on it, feeling its warmth under her palms, but despite her strength, the door was heavy and slow to move. She grunted with the effort, her muscles straining against the unyielding weight.

Before she could make any real progress, the pressure disappeared, and she glanced up to see the clown beside her, effortlessly pushing the door the rest of the way with one hand. 

"Allow Cicero," he sang in his usual mocking tone, a flourish in his voice that made her bristle.

Once the door groaned open, the city unfolded before them. Markarth was a sight unlike any other—a fortress carved into the very mountain itself. The city seemed to rise from the stone, its jagged edges blending with the surrounding cliffs as if the mountain had simply given birth to it.

 The streets twisted and turned like a labyrinth, flanked by towering structures of bronze and stone, their surfaces slick with steam and moss. Water cascaded down stone channels, weaving through the streets in a controlled, constant flow, and the sound of it mingled with the hissing of steam vents, filling the air with a hot, metallic tang.

She took a moment to adjust to the new surroundings, her senses overwhelmed by the heat and the smell of stone. To her left, rows of shops lined the streets, merchants hawking their wares—everything from armor and weapons to fresh produce and jewelry. In front of her loomed the imposing structure of the Silver-Blood Inn, its wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze.

The door behind them shut with a heavy thud, and Elara chewed her lip as she pulled a slip of paper from her pocket. Astrid’s scrawl greeted her—hastily written directions, names, and instructions that she barely had time to process. Her eyes scanned the paper, looking for the name of the shop where Muiri, the woman she was supposed to meet, would be.

She was about to head toward the left path when she felt a warm breath on her neck.

Cicero was suddenly close, his hand brushing against her arm as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. The proximity made her tense, but she didn’t pull away.

“Looks like it’s about to get exciting,” he murmured, his voice low, a dangerous glint in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine. His smirk widened, his breath hot against her skin.

She frowned, already irritated by his cryptic words, and turned her head to look at him. “What are you—” she started to say, but before she could finish, Cicero’s eyes darted toward a nearby stall.

Following his gaze, Elara’s eyes landed on a meat merchant, who was slowly moving away from his stand. At first glance, it seemed harmless—just a man leaving his stall for a brief moment. But Elara quickly noticed the way his hand hovered near his waist, the glint of a dagger hidden beneath his shirt.

The man wasn’t just walking; he was stalking. His target was a woman browsing a jewelry stall nearby, her back turned to him, completely unaware of the danger lurking behind her.

Elara’s heart skipped a beat as realization hit her. Without hesitation, she shoved the paper into Cicero’s hands, barely acknowledging him as she took off toward the man, her boots striking the stone with urgency. Her mind was racing, and her body reacted before her thoughts could fully catch up. The woman, blissfully unaware, was bending over to inspect a necklace when the merchant closed the distance.

Elara’s muscles burned as she sprinted, her hand already reaching for the dagger at her hip. She could see it all happening as if in slow motion—the man’s hand reaching for the woman’s hair, preparing to yank her backward and plunge the blade into her throat.

In a single fluid motion, Elara drew her dagger and lunged at the merchant, her blade slicing through the air. She reached him just in time, her dagger plunging into his side with a sickening thud. The man let out a grunt of surprise and pain, staggering backward as the force of the blow knocked him off balance.

The woman let out a terrified scream, spinning around to see her would-be attacker writhing on the ground. She stumbled back, her eyes wide with shock, her hands flying to her mouth.

Cicero’s laughter cut through the tension, the sound low and dark as he approached from behind. “Oh, bravo, bravo!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together in twisted delight. 

"You bitch!" the man spat, his voice weak as blood pooled from his side. 

Even in his condition, he clung desperately to his dagger, swinging it wildly at Elara's midsection as she struggled to wrench her own blade free from his flesh. The sharp edge of his weapon narrowly missed her as she twisted her body just in time to avoid the strike, but she could see the crazed determination in his eyes.

The man lunged at her with a strength she hadn’t anticipated, catching her off guard. The force of his body crashing into hers knocked the wind from her lungs, and they both tumbled to the ground, hard stone scraping her skin as she fell. Her back hit the cold, uneven surface, and before she could react, he was on top of her, his weight pinning her down.

His hand was relentless, his dagger hovering dangerously close to her face. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as she wrapped her hands around his wrist, trying to push him off, but the man’s desperation made him strong—too strong. She could feel the sharp edge of the blade inching closer to her eye, the tip glinting in the daylight. Panic shot through her, but it was quickly replaced by rage. Her vision narrowed, adrenaline flooding her veins as she fought against his grip.

For a moment, everything blurred—the sounds of the city, the panicked shouts of bystanders, even the smell of blood that filled the air. It was all drowned out by the raw fight for survival playing out between them.

Just as the man’s dagger was about to meet its mark, a sudden force ripped him away from her. Elara blinked, momentarily disoriented, as the crushing weight was yanked from her body. The man, still snarling in his fury, was hauled off of her with a violent jerk.

Cicero had grabbed him by the back of his shirt, his grip deceptively strong despite his wiry frame. With a swift, fluid motion, Cicero slammed the man into the ground with a bone-rattling thud, the sound of bones breaking sickeningly clear. The man let out a strangled cry of pain, but before he could even process what was happening, the jester was on him.

Elara, still lying on the ground, her chest rising and falling rapidly, watched in stunned silence. Her eyes widened as the jester knelt on the man’s chest, a wild glint in his eyes, his face twisted in a mixture of dark amusement and sadistic satisfaction. The man beneath him squirmed, gasping for breath, but his movements were weak, futile.

Then, without hesitation, Cicero raised his dagger and drove it into the man’s skull with a sickening crunch. The body beneath him went still, the life draining from the man's eyes instantly. Blood oozed from the fresh wound, pooling around the dead man's head, staining the stone beneath him.

Elara flinched at the brutality of the scene, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes remained fixed on Cicero, who lingered for a moment over the body, his head cocked slightly as if admiring his handiwork. His face was speckled with blood, tiny droplets that dotted his pale skin like crimson freckles, and his dagger dripped with fresh gore.

Around them, the streets were eerily silent. Most of the citizens who had been present moments ago had fled in terror, their panicked footsteps echoing through the city. The only people left now were a handful of guards who had finally arrived, too late to stop the carnage.

Cicero, sensing their approach, slowly stood up, pulling the dagger from the man's skull with a casual flick of his wrist. His smile, wide and twisted, hadn't faded. If anything, it seemed more sinister as he turned to face the guards, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

One of the guards, visibly disturbed by the scene before him, barked an order. “Put the weapon away, now! Step back!”

For a moment, Elara wondered if Cicero would listen—or if he would do something even more reckless. But to her surprise, Cicero's grin only widened as he raised his hands in mock surrender, the bloodied dagger still in one hand.

He sheathed the weapon with a deliberate, almost theatrical slowness before stepping back, his hands still held in the air as if he were the picture of innocence.

The guards cautiously moved in, surrounding the body, their faces hard as they surveyed the aftermath. The lead guard cast a wary glance at Cicero, clearly unnerved by the jester’s demeanor, but for now, they seemed content to focus on the corpse rather than the man who had delivered the final blow.

Elara lay there for a moment longer, her body still trembling from the rush of adrenaline. The world seemed to slow down, the edges of her vision clearing as she forced herself to take a deep breath.

Cicero, having backed away from the guards, turned his attention to her, his expression shifting from gleeful to something softer—though less unsettling. He wiped the blood from his dagger on the colorful fabric of his pants, as though it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, before tucking the blade away. Then, with a flourish, he extended his hand toward her, his face now calm, almost disarmingly so.

“Up you go, my dear,” he said, his voice light and teasing, but there was an undercurrent of sincerity in his tone.

She hesitated for just a moment, her eyes locked on his, studying the details of his face. Despite the blood splattered across his pale skin, there was a softness in the way he looked at her, a fleeting gentleness.

His gloved hand, surprisingly warm, reached out toward her. She noticed he offered the one not stained with blood, a small, considerate gesture that she might have missed if she weren't so acutely aware of him at that moment. Carefully, she placed her hand in his, and he pulled her up with ease, his grip firm but not forceful. As she stood, Cicero’s eyes swept over her, searching for any sign of injury.

"You seem intact," he remarked, his voice still playful but tinged with relief. His smile returned, slow and crooked, the same unsettling grin. But now, standing before him, she found it oddly reassuring.

She felt a wave of discomfort settle in her chest as she tore her eyes from Cicero and looked toward the woman who had nearly been murdered.

The woman stood a short distance away, as far from the scene as she could manage without fleeing entirely. Her dark hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, strands falling loose around her face, and her eyes were wide with the shock.

Elara could see her hands trembling slightly as she stared at the dead man on the ground, but when their gazes met, the woman visibly relaxed. Elara approached her slowly, trying to seem less threatening despite the blood that still stained her hands. She could understand if the woman was still frightened

But as she drew near, the woman’s face softened with relief, and before she could say a word, the woman rushed forward and enveloped her in a tight, unexpected hug.

Elara blinked in surprise, her body stiff at first. She wasn’t used to such spontaneous displays of affection, especially from strangers. But after a brief moment, she let herself relax into the embrace, patting the woman’s back awkwardly before the woman pulled away, her eyes brimming with tears. 

"Thank you so much," the woman sputtered, her voice shaky but earnest. "You saved my life. I can’t believe it… I had no idea this would happen."

The woman nodded rapidly, her hands still trembling as she stepped back. "I… I need to speak with the guards," she murmured, glancing over her shoulder at the men now investigating the scene.

Elara watched her for a moment, then turned back to Cicero. He was still standing nearby, his tunic in his hands as he wiped the blood from his dagger with a kind of casual indifference. His eyes, however, were fixed on her, watching her every move with an intensity that made her shiver.

She swallowed hard, trying to shake off the unease, and marched back to him, grabbing his arm in a swift motion. "Come on," she muttered, pulling him away from the scene without meeting his gaze. Cicero didn’t resist, merely grinning as she led him down the left path, away from the prying eyes of the remaining citizens.

The people they passed eyed them warily, their expressions cautious, as though afraid to draw too much attention to themselves. Elara could feel their stares burn into the back of her head, their whispered conversations thick in the air. She kept her head down, her grip still firm on Cicero’s arm, her heart pounding harder than she wanted to admit.

"Do you have that note still?" she asked, her voice brisk, hoping to focus on something—anything.

He easily fished the crumpled slip of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her, his smile still lingering. "Of course!" he chirped.

She barely spared him a glance, snatching the note from his hand and nodding curtly. She could hear the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer in the distance, guiding her toward the shop she needed to find. But as she scanned the street for landmarks, Cicero stepped directly into her line of sight, his body blocking her view.

She frowned, irritation bubbling up in her chest. "I don’t have time for this," she snapped, the sharpness in her voice more bitter than she intended. 

Cicero, always unpredictable, raised his eyebrows in mock surprise but said nothing. Instead, he placed his hands on his hips, studying her with an exaggerated air of thoughtfulness before finally, without a word, he stepped closer and laid his hands gently on her shoulders.

Her eyebrows furrowed as she stared at him, waiting for the inevitable barrage of his manic words. But this time, there was silence. Cicero, for once, seemed to be letting the silence speak for him. Her heart was still pounding, the tension from the recent fight thrumming through her veins like a second heartbeat.

He inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling with an exaggerated breath, almost like he was inviting her to do the same. She blinked, confused by his sudden change in demeanor, but slowly, almost against her will, she found herself following his lead. Her breaths, ragged and uneven at first, began to match his.

Inhale. Exhale. The world around her, the noise of the city streets, the distant chatter, even the soft lapping of water nearby—all began to sharpen in her senses. The tightness in her chest loosened. She became aware of how tightly she had been holding herself, her shoulders aching from the tension she hadn’t even realized was there.

How did he know?

She glanced up at him, her eyes searching his face for answers. His hands, gloved in soft cloth, slipped from her shoulders down to her hands, the material brushing against her skin like a whispered promise of calm.

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze, a simple gesture of reassurance, before offering her a knowing smile—a smile that, for once, held none of his usual madness. Instead, it was almost... kind.

“There, my dear," Cicero murmured quietly, his voice low and soothing, a far cry from the manic energy he so often exuded. "Now she can focus.”

The words hung between them, and for a moment, Elara was stunned into silence. She hadn’t expected this. She had expected his usual antics, his jests, and playful mockery, but this—this was different. It was a side of Cicero she wasn’t sure she had ever seen before, and it left her feeling strangely off-balance.

He released her hands, stepping back to give her space, and pointed at the note still crumpled in her grasp. She blinked, her focus shifting back to the paper, the tangible reminder of why they were here in the first place.

The Hag’s Cure. The name of the shop stared back at her in neat script. An alchemy shop, of all places. She glanced up at Cicero, still somewhat dazed by the sudden shift in the atmosphere, before giving a small nod.

Without a word, she turned and began walking, her footsteps slow and deliberate as she made her way down the path by the blacksmith’s stations.

As she walked, her mind churned. She could still feel the lingering warmth of Cicero’s touch, the odd calm he had somehow managed to instill in her. Part of her wanted to thank him for it, for recognizing the turmoil inside her when she hadn’t even noticed it herself. But another part of her—the wary, guarded part—questioned his motives.

Why had he done it?  Was he trying to manipulate her, to get on her good side for some hidden agenda? Or was there something more genuine beneath the layers?

Elara stole a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He followed at a slight distance, his usual spring in his step returning, as though the quiet moment they had just shared had never happened. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it had.

As they climbed a stone hill, her eyes darted to the shops along the path, her thoughts still swirling. The light breeze sweeping through made her shiver, brushing her hair into her face as they finally approached a narrow corner where the alchemy shop was tucked away, almost hidden from view. 

The shop’s door was worn, creaking as she tugged it open and stepped inside. Immediately, the pungent scent of lavender and dragon’s tongue filled her senses, strong and overwhelming. The blend of herbal aromas hit her like a wave, causing her to pause and stifle a cough.

The interior was warm and stuffy, despite the numerous plants decorating every available space, from shelves to hanging baskets above. Surprisingly, the floor was immaculate, the polished wood gleaming under the faint light streaming through the small windows.

Elara moved carefully past a shelf, her eyes tracing over jars filled with ingredients she half-recognized, noting the meticulous order of the shop. She almost assumed no one was there when a figure abruptly appeared from around the corner, startling her. 

The woman in front of her was shockingly pale, her skin almost as white as freshly fallen snow. Deep-set wrinkles etched across her face like cracks on a porcelain doll, and her white hair was pulled back tight, with warpaint smeared in dark streaks across her cheeks. The sharpness of her appearance made Elara’s eyebrows shoot up, and she opened her mouth to speak, but the woman was faster.

“Welcome to my little shop,” the woman said, her voice sharp and impatient. “I’m Bothela. Now, are you here to buy something or stalk about?”

The blunt tone caught Elara off guard, and for a second, she struggled to find her words. Clearing her throat, she forced a polite smile, though the woman’s attitude rubbed her the wrong way. "Just taking a look around," she replied, keeping her voice steady despite her irritation.

Bothela sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes as though Elara's presence was an inconvenience. “Fine, fine. But I’ll be keeping an eye on that one.” She pointed directly at Cicero, who grinned back at her with his usual glee.

“Cicero is delighted by the attention!” he exclaimed, his voice pitched with excitement as he gave an exaggerated bow. Bothela scowled, her eyes narrowing.

“No, that’s not what I meant—" she began, but Cicero was already wandering off, his curiosity leading him to a shelf of potions. He plucked a bright blue bottle from the display, turning it over in his hands.

“Ooh, what does this one do? This blue one looks particularly exciting!” Cicero said, his voice practically dripping with childlike wonder.

Bothela rushed over, her expression morphing from annoyance to alarm. “No touching!” she snapped, snatching the bottle from his grasp with surprising speed. Cicero merely laughed, completely unfazed, watching her with wide, amused eyes.

Elara, observing from a few feet away, had to bite back a chuckle. He had a way of agitating people without even trying, and Bothela’s mounting exasperation was almost comical. Elara shook her head slightly, deciding to continue browsing the shelves as the two of them bickered at the counter.

“Cicero wonders what secrets these potions hold!” he mused, leaning over to peer closely at the labels. “Surely, one of them could turn someone into a toad, yes?”

“None of them turn people into toads!” Bothela barked, clearly struggling to maintain her composure. “Get away from the counter before I throw you out!”

Elara wandered toward a set of bottles filled with various remedies, idly picking up a small jar labeled Cure for All Ills. The irony of it made her smile. If only it were that simple, she thought, placing the jar back down and glancing toward the jester.

He was now leaning lazily against the counter, grinning as Bothela continued to glare at him from behind her spectacles. Elara was about to round the corner when something caught her eye—a small alchemy table tucked into a darkened corner of the shop.

A woman stood over it, bent at the waist, her fingers meticulously working on some unknown potion. From where Elara stood, she could make out the woman’s short dark hair, messy and wild. Her clothes were old, tattered, and brown, as though they'd survived decades of wear and tear. Despite the ragged state of her attire, the woman herself was noticeably younger than her appearance suggested.

“Excuse me,” Elara said softly, her voice careful not to startle the woman.

The woman straightened immediately, her wary gaze landing on Elara. Her wide, cautious eyes flickered in the dim light, and Elara found herself momentarily surprised by how striking the woman was despite the exhaustion that clung to her features.

“Yes? How can I help you?” the brunette asked in a quiet, almost trembling voice.

Elara studied her for a brief moment, wondering if this was the woman she had been searching for. "Are you Muiri by any chance?" she asked cautiously, hoping the woman would confirm it.

The woman’s eyes darted nervously between Elara and Cicero, who was still idly pacing behind them, fiddling with a small vial. She shifted uneasily, rubbing her arm. “Yes, I’m Muiri,” she replied, but then her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

The dunmer exhaled, relief washing over her. She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a whisper, mindful of the owner’s presence nearby. “The Brotherhood has come.”

Muiri’s face went pale, her eyes widening in recognition. She nodded quickly, casting a nervous glance at Bothela. “Not here. Come with me,” she said hurriedly, abandoning her potion on the table and walking past Elara in quick strides.

Cicero straightened up from his lazy position and followed without hesitation. “Taking a small break, Bothela. I’ll be back soon!” Muiri called over her shoulder, her voice tight.

The old woman grunted in reply, waving her off without much interest. “Be quick about it,” she muttered before turning back to her work.

Elara followed Muiri out of the shop, the warm, herbal scent of it lingering on her clothes. She could practically feel the urgency radiating off Muiri as the woman walked ahead, her movements stiff with tension. They moved through the narrow streets until they were well out of earshot of anyone who might have been lurking nearby.

When Muiri finally stopped and turned to face them, her expression was a mixture of relief and desperation. Her dark eyes darted nervously between Elara and Cicero, the latter towering over both women, his presence looming as he observed the scene.

“My goodness... You’re really here,” Muiri breathed, her voice a mix of disbelief and anxiety. “I... I can’t believe it worked.”

Elara listened, her arms crossing over her chest as she fixed Muiri with a steady gaze. "Tell us what you need done."

The assistant’s eyes flickered with a mix of anger and sadness as she spoke, her voice strained. "What I need is for Alain Dufont to die," she said with venom in her tone. “I didn’t know it at the time, but Alain is the leader of a group of cutthroats—bandits. They’re holed up in an old Dwarven ruin, Raldbthar. It’s their base for raids and all their disgusting dealings.” She spat the words, disgust clear in her voice.

Elara nodded, her expression neutral as she absorbed the information. She had dealt with this type of request before.

 “And his friends?” she asked, wanting to clarify the target.

Muiri shook her head quickly. “I don’t care what happens to them. They’re scum, but Alain... Alain has to die.” Her voice was low, shaken with the force of her emotions.

"Understood," Elara replied. She cast a brief glance at Cicero, who looked uncharacteristically uninterested—his gaze wandering, though she knew he was always listening.

As they began to turn, ready to leave, Muiri stepped forward again, blocking Elara’s path. Her hands wrung together nervously, and her voice dropped even lower, almost ashamed. “There’s... something else,” she began hesitantly. “If you want more payment... I can offer it.” Her eyes darted to Cicero as she continued, “Nilsine Shatter-Shield. If you kill her too, I’ll pay you more. You can find her in Windhelm.”

That seemed to catch Cicero’s attention. His eyes lit up with sudden interest, and he tilted his head curiously. "Cicero wonders why exactly?" he asked, though Elara could feel the sharpness behind his words.

Muiri flinched under his gaze, her discomfort clear, but she answered nonetheless. “Alain... Alain took advantage of me,” she admitted, her voice shaking. “He ruined my friendship with the Shatter-Shields. They won’t believe me—they think I’m the reason for their grief, that I caused their suffering. Nilsine's death would maybe make them realize I’m not the enemy... for what Alain did.”

"Ah, the usual, they don't love me anymore, so they must die!" Cicero quipped, his voice dripping with mockery, a smirk stretching across his face. Elara shot him a warning look, wanting to scold him, but before she could, Muiri’s expression crumbled into visible offense.

“I am not the monster they think I am!” Muiri protested, her voice shaky with emotion. "I just want them to see. I—I had planned to kill Alain myself—"

But Cicero’s quick, sharp laugh sliced through her words, cutting her off mid-sentence. “And now you get someone else to do it for you! Oh, how wonderful!” His sarcasm was like a blade, cold and biting as he pushed past the stunned woman without so much as a backward glance.

She stood there, visibly deflated, her lips parting as if to speak again, but nothing came. Elara, feeling the weight of the awkward silence, quickly stepped in, her tone soft but firm. “We’ll get it done,” she assured Muiri, though the woman’s silence hung in the air like a stone.

With an inward sigh, Elara offered a brief nod of farewell and turned to jog after Cicero, who was already striding down the path ahead, his pace brisk and unconcerned. “Hey!” she whispered urgently, trying to catch his attention without raising her voice, but Cicero moved forward as though he hadn’t heard her at all.

Her irritation flared, and she quickened her pace until she finally caught up with him just as they passed the shadow of the inn. Without hesitation, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt from behind, yanking him off to the side and pushing him against the cold stone wall of a nearby alley. Hidden from prying eyes, she pinned him there, her body mere inches from his, her breath heavy with frustration.

He, however, looked nothing short of amused. If anything, he seemed more pleased with himself, his gaze lazily sliding over her with that infuriating smirk still firmly in place. 

“What was that for?” she demanded, her voice low and tense as she narrowed her eyes at him. She could feel the heat of her anger bubbling just beneath her skin.

His grin widened, his eyes twinkling with something that irritated every part of her. “What was what?” he asked, feigning ignorance with a shrug. 

“That, back there,” Elara hissed, her voice full of frustration as she pointed back toward the shop. “It was unnecessary, Cicero.”

He tilted his head, pretending to mull over her words. “Cicero was merely asking questions,” he said in a sing-song tone, his lips curling into an even broader grin. But she wasn’t buying any of it.

Her patience snapped. Her hand shot up to the front of his shirt, yanking him down to her level until they were face-to-face. Her eyes burned with irritation, her grip tight as she pulled him close enough that he could feel the heat of her anger radiating off her.

“Touchy again, I see,” Cicero murmured, his voice softening slightly, yet the amusement never left his eyes. His gaze was unwavering, locked onto hers with an unsettling intensity. He wasn’t intimidated—far from it. If anything, he seemed to enjoy provoking her, pushing her until she was teetering on the edge.

Her nostrils flared, her breath quickening as she glared up at him. “You either listen and behave, or—” she started, her voice low and threatening, but Cicero cut her off again, this time leaning closer, his tone a soft challenge.

“Or what?” he whispered, his breath ghosting over her lips, the space between them nearly non-existent now. His words dripped with defiance, his eyes gleaming.

She stared him down, her heart pounding with anger and something else—something she didn’t care to acknowledge. For a moment, her grip on his shirt tightened, her fingers curling into the fabric. She was so close, that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest against hers, the tension thick between them.

But then, just as suddenly, she released him. Cicero stumbled back slightly, slumping against the wall.

"What game are you playing?" she demanded, her voice sharp as she crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at him. "Trying to see how long I can go before I finally kill you?" The frustration was evident in her tone, but beneath that was the echo of genuine curiosity.

Cicero’s grin widened even more if that were possible. He straightened himself, dusting off the front of his shirt. 

“Something like that,” he replied, his tone almost teasing as he gave her a wide, toothy smile, his eyes glinting with that dark amusement. He was daring her to notice it, to do something about it. 

"If you're going to be a problem—" she started, her voice sharp with accusation, but before she could finish, Cicero scoffed, rolling his eyes in exaggerated disdain.

"Always the problem, aren’t I? Cicero this, Cicero that!" he declared loudly, voice rising in mock drama as he pushed off the wall, ready to walk away as if nothing mattered. But she wasn’t about to let him slip away that easily.

Before he could take another step, she shoved him back against the stone, her hand planted firmly against his chest, keeping him pinned there. His body tensed under her touch, but his smirk didn’t falter.

"Cicero is always the problem!" he continued, louder than she’d wanted him to be. Panic flashed in her eyes—if anyone heard them, they’d be in trouble. Without thinking, she pressed her hand over his mouth to silence him, leaning closer as her pulse quickened.

His eyes immediately narrowed in response, darkening with something unreadable. For a moment, Elara feared she’d gone too far, but then, under her palm, she felt his lips curl into a smile. The heat of his breath against her skin was undeniable, and it made her pause, her heart thundering in her chest.

"Are you going to be quiet?" she asked, her voice low, more breath than sound, as she pressed her hand harder against his mouth. The smirk only deepened in his eyes, a glint of mischief flickering there, but he nodded, his expression softening just enough to be convincing.

Cautiously, she slowly removed her hand from his mouth, but Cicero was faster. In one fluid motion, he grabbed her wrist, spinning them around before she could react. Elara’s back hit the stone wall with a thud, knocking the breath from her lungs as he pinned her there, her arm trapped above her head in his iron grip.

He loomed over her, his face inches from hers, eyes gleaming with playful menace. “What will she do now, Cicero wonders?” he asked, his voice a low purr that sent a shiver down her spine. His lips were close—too close—and the heat radiating off his body was almost suffocating.

Elara’s breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure if Cicero was trying to scare her, or if there was something else at play here—something darker, more intimate. She could see the madness in his hazel eyes, but there was something deeper, too. A flicker of hunger, of need, perhaps? She wasn’t sure. But she couldn’t deny the way her pulse quickened in response, and how her body reacted despite the danger.

Her free hand pressed against his chest, her fingers twitching as if debating whether to push him away or pull him closer. She could easily shove him off if she wanted to, but she didn’t move. 

Loneliness, she told herself. That was all this was. She was just lonely, desperate for any kind of human connection, even if it came from someone as unstable as him.  It wasn’t real—it couldn’t be. She wasn’t drawn to him; it was just the thrill of the moment, the heat of it.

But then why was she leaning in, just as he was? Why did the warmth of his breath on her skin make her heart race?

Did Cicero even understand what he was doing? Was this a game to him, or was he just as caught up in the moment as she was? She studied his face, the madness dancing behind his eyes, and wondered if he even knew what want was. Could someone like him understand desire, attraction—or was this just another twisted trick to him?

And then, the darker thought crept in, unbidden but impossible to ignore.

Would he kill her? Could he? A part of her wondered—no, hoped—to see him try. The idea should have terrified her, but instead, it sent a thrill through her, an electric pulse of excitement she didn’t fully understand.

With her heart racing, Elara closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his. The instant contact ignited something within her, a spark that sent warmth radiating through her body. She felt him respond immediately, his grip on her wrist loosening as if he were surrendering to the kiss. She tugged him closer, their bodies colliding, and she could nearly taste him—mint mingled with the metallic scent of blood still staining his face. 

Why he hadn't wiped it off, she didn't know, nor did she care in that moment. The thrill of being this close to him, of sharing this unspoken intimacy, overshadowed everything else. She felt him melt against her, his lips warm and soft, igniting a passion that seemed to explode in her chest.

As if drawn by some magnetic force, his free hand trailed down the rough stone wall before tangling in her hair, pulling her head back with a firm grip that sent shivers down her spine.

The kiss was feverish, urgent—a desperate need that consumed them both. She moaned quietly, the sound escaping her lips as he pressed his knee against her, brushing against the fabric of her pants. The sensation sent a wave of heat surging through her, igniting every nerve ending in her body.

Just when the moment felt like it would consume her entirely, a sound broke through the haze of their intimacy. Footsteps echoed nearby, approaching around the corner, jolting her back to reality. Panic surged through her, sharp and cold, and she pushed him away quickly, heart pounding in her chest as she struggled to collect herself.

Cicero stood before her, just as disheveled, his face bore an expression of astonishment mixed with exhilaration. The dim light of the alley cast shadows across his features, highlighting the wild glint in his eyes. She swallowed hard, trying to regain her composure, her cheeks flushed.

The air was thick with unspoken tension, and she could sense his hungry gaze sweeping over her, filled with a fierce want that sent shivers racing down her. It was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper, the words slipping from her lips before she could fully comprehend their weight. But as he shook his head, leaning in closer, the sudden intensity in his presence silenced her. She could feel the magnetic pull between them, an invisible thread that seemed to tug her toward him even as her rational mind screamed to step back.

“It’s okay,” his eyes seemed to say, a mixture of challenge and invitation flickering within their depths. But it was clear that it took everything in him to restrain himself from closing the distance entirely as if he was grappling with the very urge to claim her again. The space between them pulsed with an energy that was both exhilarating and frightening.

“We should go,” she finally said, her voice steadier now, clinging to the thin thread of practicality that remained. But the moment she uttered the words, he reached out, fingers brushing toward her waist with a hesitance.

For a split second, everything felt suspended in time, and she saw his fist clench, a silent battle within him, before it dropped to his side, the smirk that usually danced on his lips completely absent.

The look on his face transformed into one of surprise, his brow furrowing slightly as if trying to comprehend the turn of events. It was a striking revelation; she never expected to be here, in this moment, with him of all people. And he knew it, too.

Cicero thinks so too,” he said quietly, his voice a soft murmur that felt like a secret meant just for her.

With a deep breath, it took every ounce of willpower for her to push off from the cool stone wall and step back into the light, the stark brightness contrasting sharply with the shadows they had just shared.

Yet, even as she walked away, she could feel him close behind, an invisible weight trailing her every step.

Elara’s heart raced as she made her way toward the city entrance, her mind swirling with thoughts of what had just transpired. She could feel him lingering just out of sight, a phantom presence that set her skin alight.

Chapter 10: Refrain

Elara couldn't focus—not with him always hovering, always watching, his presence a constant shadow at her back. Cicero was a ghost that never left her side, lingering just close enough to remind her of the chaos that followed him. His gaze was relentless as if he was waiting for her to falter, to give him something to mock or toy with. Even the journey back to Windhelm had been a nightmare.

As they trudged through the snow, her thoughts distracted by the incessant cold biting through her armor, a new complication arose—a group of angry mercenaries who seemed hellbent on starting a fight. And he, of course, couldn’t resist making things worse.

"Of all the times to piss someone off," Elara muttered under her breath, gripping her dagger tighter as the confrontation escalated. 

His snide comments and over-the-top antics had set them off, and before Elara could blink, the big one with the axe was swinging it at her head. She barely ducked in time, the blade missing her skull but close enough to slice through a lock of her hair. Her heart pounded in her chest as she scrambled to regain her footing.

Cicero hadn’t intervened immediately—no, that would have been too easy. Instead, he had stood back, watching her with that unsettling grin, as if he were waiting for something amusing to happen before making his move.

But Elara didn’t have the luxury of thinking about that. The cold bit into her skin as she fought on the snowy ground, the weight of the mercenary pressing her down into the freezing earth. His armor was heavy, the steel making it impossible to find a soft spot for her dagger. He reeked of sweat and blood, his breath hot and foul as he cursed her. 

“You fucking whore, that was my eye!” the man screamed, blood still pouring from the empty socket where her nails had gouged him. His voice was guttural, filled with both rage and pain.

"You're lucky it wasn't your skull," she spat back, her voice strained as she maneuvered her arm around his thick neck. She managed to get him into a chokehold, her muscles burning with the effort to keep him locked in place as he squirmed and thrashed on top of her. The snow crunched beneath them, her body aching from the struggle, but she tightened her grip, slowly stealing the air from him.

His hands clawed at her, trying to pry her arm away, but she had his stronger arm pinned beneath her leg. She could feel the heat of his body radiating through his armor, but his strength was waning, each desperate gasp for breath growing weaker. Her own breath came in heavy puffs, misting in the cold air as she fought to hold him.

She cringed as another mercenary let out a blood-curdling scream nearby. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stumble backward, clutching his side where a brutal slash had torn through his brown leather armor. Blood soaked the snow beneath him, and the gurgling sounds of his labored breaths made it clear that Cicero had hit something vital.

The man coughed, his mouth filling with blood as he desperately tried to stay on his feet, but his body betrayed him, crumpling forward.

Back on the ground, the bulky mercenary's resistance was fading fast. His frantic attempts to pry her off grew sluggish, his hand twitching uselessly at her sleeve. Finally, she felt him go limp, his body sagging against her as his neck cracked with a sickening snap. The tension in her muscles eased as she let his lifeless form drop into the snow, her chest heaving with relief. The sound of his broken neck echoed in her ears, but it brought her a grim satisfaction.

The smaller man was on his knees, disarmed, his hands shaking as he held them out in a plea for mercy. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he choked on his own fluids, fear and pain written across his face.

“Please,” the man begged, his voice barely more than a wet gurgle. His sword lay useless in the snow, and his body trembled.

Blood stained the whiteness around him, a deep red that spread quickly, soaking through the icy ground. Cicero stood before him, a smile flickering across his pale face, as if the man's desperate plea was nothing more than a passing amusement. Without hesitation, he crouched down, his eyes glinting with something dark and playful, and in a swift, deliberate motion, sliced open the man’s throat. The sound of the blade tearing flesh was eerily quiet in the snowy landscape.

Elara shoved the heavy corpse off her, letting it slump into the snow beside her with a thud. Her chest heaved as she lay back, staring up at the overcast sky, her breath fogging in the cold air. Her body was exhausted, worn from the relentless fight, and despite the freezing snow beneath her, she barely felt the cold anymore.

Sweat had soaked through her clothes, making the chill cling to her skin, but her heart pounded too hard for her to notice.

She closed her eyes, trying to steady her racing pulse, her limbs aching and bruised from the struggle. The world seemed to fade for a moment, the adrenaline ebbing away and leaving her hollow, her thoughts drifting somewhere far away.

The slow, deliberate crunch of footsteps approaching snapped her back to the present. The sound was unmistakable, each step deliberate as it crunched through the snow, inching closer until it was right beside her. She opened her eyes, squinting against the snowflakes blowing into them, and there he was.

He crouched beside her, his head tilted with that ever-present, curious look in his eyes, his smile smaller but still there, hovering on the edge.

"Tired, are we?" he teased lightly, though the malice that often laced his words seemed absent this time. There was a softness to his tone, one she wasn’t used to.

She sighed, her breath shaky as she sat up slowly, wincing from the soreness spreading through her body but she felt the steadiness of his hand on her back as she stood.

 “You just had to do that now,” she murmured, her voice quieter than she intended. Her muscles ached as she shifted, rubbing her tailbone where the impact from the bulky mercenary had left her bruised.

Cicero gave a little shake of his head, the bells on his hat jingling lightly with the motion. "Cicero was bored," he said, his voice carrying a sing-song.

“He hopes his dear friend can forgive him.” There was an almost childlike tone to his words, but it lacked the usual sinister undertone.

His touch was surprisingly warm through her layers of clothing. The cold wind bit at her cheeks snowflakes sticking to her eyelashes as she blinked them away. She glanced up at him through half-lidded eyes, the exhaustion weighing on her limbs but not enough to dull the strange flicker of something unspoken between them.

“If this keeps happening,” she muttered, brushing off the snow that had clung to her, “it’s going to take longer to get home.” She tried to sound irritated, but it was weak.

She wasn’t sure when she had started to not mind being around him so much. The idea of spending another day with Cicero in these cold, endless woods shouldn’t have been appealing, but for reasons she refused to acknowledge, it was.

He gave a wistful sigh, his eyes flicking away from her to some distant thought, his expression softening in an unfamiliar way. “Cicero knows,” he said quietly, almost too quietly for him. “Mother must be so lonely.”

His words trailed off, and for the first time in a while, Elara saw him hesitate. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, as though the mention of home was a mistake. Elara frowned slightly, watching him closely. He looked almost distraught.

"It’s okay," she said after a long pause, unsure of how to comfort someone like him. Her gaze fell to her still-bandaged hand, the wound beneath it no longer throbbing, but wondered if it even left a scar.

 “I really think she’s alright,” she didn’t know if that was true—she barely understood his obsession with the corpse. Even being him being the Night Mother’s keeper hadn’t made it make sense. 

Cicero remained quiet for a moment longer, his eyes distant, before he glanced back at her with a small, melancholic smile. 

Elara hesitated for only a moment before her hand found his, this time he didn’t flinch as he so often did. His glove felt cold, nearly frozen from the bitter weather, and she could feel the icy leather pressing against her warmer skin. His expression shifted slightly, softening into something familiar—the same look he had given her after their return to Windhelm earlier that day.

It had been after she’d killed Nilsine, right there by the graveyard of all places, that Cicero had looked at her with that strange mixture of approval and something deeper. The irony wasn’t lost on her; standing among the dead and yet feeling more alive than ever under his gaze, as if there was a thread of understanding between them that only they could grasp.

She could almost hear Danoc’s voice in the back of her mind, his laughter thick with sarcasm. “You’re really getting hung up on the jester, aren’t you?” he’d tease, choking on his own amusement. But despite how ridiculous it might seem to an outsider, she felt like she and Cicero had reached an unspoken understanding.

She should have seen it coming. Her desperation to be seen, to be truly understood by someone, had slowly led her there. He was the first to really see her in ways no one else had. At least, that’s what she told herself in an attempt to rationalize the bizarre connection.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Whiterun, passing the looming structures of breweries and farms in the distance, Elara could feel her exhaustion pulling at her, a bone-deep weariness that settled into her limbs. The Honningbrew Meadery stood ahead like a beacon of reprieve, its warmth, and promise of strong drink calling to her.

Without a word, she glanced at Cicero, half expecting him to mock her for wanting a break, but instead, his eyes sparkled with silent amusement. He had seen the weariness in her, the hunger for a moment's peace, and without missing a beat, he gave a slight nod. She turned her head, smirking at his intuition.

As they approached the meadery, she crouched by the door, quickly producing her lockpicks from her belt. The night had set in fully now, the stars barely visible through the cloudy sky, casting the world into a heavy, muted darkness.

Cicero stood close behind her, his hand pressing lightly on her shoulder as he kept a watchful eye on their surroundings. The cold night air was still, save for the distant sound of guards making their routine patrols. The last thing she needed was jail time over something as simple as wanting a free drink.

The lock clicked beneath her skillful hands and she silently applauded herself. She stood up, quietly pulling the door open, her eyes darting around the empty, darkened interior of the meadery.

The door creaked only slightly as she slipped inside, Cicero following close behind, his presence never far. Inside, the air was warmer, carrying the scent of aged mead and old wood. The bar room was dimly lit by a few dying embers in the hearth, the stools lining the counter, and the scattered empty bottles.

Elara took a moment to adjust to the darkness, her eyes sweeping over the empty space as the door clicked shut behind them. Pulling her mask up over her mouth, she gave a quick glance around before moving toward the counter, her fingers trailing over the polished wood as she walked.

Her eyes darted behind the bar, scanning the shelves for any unopened bottles. Cicero, meanwhile, was wandering around the tables, his nimble fingers picking up a couple of forgotten pastries left out by patrons who had long since left. He plucked them up, his gaze catching hers, and with a mischievous smirk, he pressed a finger to his lips.

She stifled a laugh, shaking her head as she gathered several mead bottles from behind the counter, her movements swift but precise—at least, until the bottles clinked together loudly, the sound reverberating through the quiet room. She winced, her heart skipping a beat as the unmistakable sound of footsteps echoed from upstairs.

"Hey, who's down there?" a gruff voice shouted from above.

Without a second thought, she sprinted for the door, her chuckle escaping her lips as Cicero, still clutching the pastries, followed close behind. The door slammed shut behind them, the cold night air hitting her face as she jogged toward the treeline nearby. She clutched the bottles tightly against her chest, her breath coming in soft pants as she searched for cover.

Finding a thick patch of bushes, she ducked into the foliage, crouching low as Cicero slid in beside her, his quiet laughter bubbling up as well.

They crouched together, peeking over the tops of the bushes as the door to the meadery swung open. A man emerged, lantern in hand, his eyes scanning the yard with suspicion. His face twisted in frustration as he peered around, clearly expecting to catch someone in the act.

Elara held her breath, watching as he stomped around the back of the building, muttering under his breath before finally giving up and heading back inside. The door slammed shut with a thud.

She let out a long exhale, sinking down into the soft grass beneath her as the tension drained from her body. She leaned back, popping the cork on one of the mead bottles, and took a long swig. The rich, sweet smell of honey filled the air as the cold liquid slid down her throat, warming her from the inside.

Cicero, now sitting comfortably beside her, gave her a sideways glance, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Cicero had no idea his friend was a thief,” he mused, though his tone held no real judgment—only amusement.

“He’ll survive,” she replied with a casual shrug, taking another long drink, the bottle already half-empty. The mead was stronger than she expected, but after a day of trekking through the wilds, she welcomed the buzz that was slowly creeping over her.

He settled against the base of a tall spruce tree, his grin widening as he took a bite from one of the rolls he'd pilfered.

“You gonna share?” she asked, arching an eyebrow as she reached for it. He chuckled softly, holding the roll away from her hand, a playful light flickering in his eyes.

With a mock sigh, Elara crawled over to him, her movements fluid but clumsy, nearly spilling her drink in the process. She swatted at his arm, laughing as she finally snatched the roll from his grasp. “Careful,” he murmured with a smirk, his voice lowering to a soft whisper as she settled back beside him. 

She tore into the pastry, the flaky crust melting in her mouth. The sweet taste was a perfect counter to the sharpness of the mead as she washed it down with another swig. Cicero, watching her with a bemused look, picked up his own bottle and took a deep drink.

The night stretched on, the stars peeking out from behind the clouds above, casting a soft, silvery glow over the forest. The cold air had lost its bite, the mead keeping her warm as she sat there beside him, the sounds of the night filling the silence between them.

The mead coursing through her veins brought a warmth that spread through her body, dulling the edges of the world around her. Sitting beside Cicero, she found herself sinking into the stillness of the moment, the sounds of the forest providing a soothing backdrop. The occasional hoot of an owl or the rustling of leaves in the breeze filled the quiet between them. Time felt irrelevant, slipping away as the alcohol gradually clouded her mind.

It wasn’t long—maybe an hour—before the world began to spin ever so slightly, the ground beneath her feeling less stable. She shifted, instinctively leaning against Cicero to steady herself.

His body felt solid, warm, and oddly comforting despite the wildness that always lingered just beneath his surface.

She glanced up at him, her voice quiet, almost a whisper, as she asked, “Hey…”

Cicero’s head tilted down to look at her, his expression soft, blissful even, as if he were lost in his own world. There was no trace of his usual manic energy, just an unusual calm that mirrored her own.

“Why are you the way you are?” she asked, her voice holding a mixture of curiosity and the hazy courage that only mead could provide. She had meant it in a teasing way, but there was a genuine question behind her words—a desire to understand the man.

Instead of taking offense, he smiled, that unsettling grin softening into something more human. “Cicero wonders the same about his friend,” he responded quietly, his voice carrying none of its usual theatrics. 

Elara nudged him gently with her elbow, shaking her head with a chuckle. “You know what I mean,” she said, though the light tone returned to her voice. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and to her surprise, he allowed it, his frame unmoving under her weight.

A pause stretched between them, and for a moment, she just enjoyed the silence, the simple act of being close to him. But her curiosity stirred again, and she broke the quiet with another question. “Where did you used to be before coming to Skyrim?” she asked, peering up at him with half-lidded eyes.

Cicero’s head lowered slightly, bringing his face closer to hers, his eyes dark with something unreadable. He didn’t answer right away and didn’t offer any of his usual cryptic riddles or mad ramblings. Instead, he stared at her, the intensity in his gaze making her heart quicken in her chest.

The moment stretched on, thick with an unspoken tension that hung between them, pulling them together in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

Her eyes flickered to his lips before she could stop herself. She caught the slight movement of his gaze doing the same. There was no mistaking it. The alcohol buzzed in her veins, amplifying the moment, making every breath, every glance, feel more significant. It was like they were teetering on the edge of something dangerous but exhilarating.

She should have pulled back. She knew she should have kept her distance, and maintained some semblance of control. But the mead, coupled with the intensity of the night, made that impossible.

Before she realized what she was doing, her hand reached up, cupping the side of his face. His skin was cool against her warm palm, and she tugged him closer, closing the space between them.

Their lips met in a soft but urgent kiss. Cicero sighed against her mouth, the sound full of relief, as if this was something he had been waiting for, maybe even longing for. 

Her heart pounded in her chest as the weight of him pressed into her, but he was careful not to crush her, his hands supporting himself just enough to keep from pinning her down completely.

His hat fell to the ground with a soft thud, forgotten as her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. The copper strands felt soft against her skin as she buried her hand in them, holding him to her like he might disappear if she let go. His lips moved against hers with deliberate slowness, savoring each moment of contact as though he wanted to memorize the feel of her.

Her breath hitched when she felt the light brush of his tongue against her bottom lip, seeking permission, and without hesitation, she parted her lips for him. The kiss deepened, slow, with a tenderness she hadn’t expected.

Elara’s body responded instinctively, her free hand coming up to clutch at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, needing more. Every inch of her skin felt electric, as though the cold night air and the warmth of his body were locked in a battle for dominance.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathless, their faces inches away from each other. Cicero’s eyes searched hers, still holding that same intensity, but there was something softer now. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. Words weren’t necessary in that moment.

She hadn’t even realized when she’d drifted off, but waking up to the early morning chill and finding herself sprawled over Cicero on the forest floor was startling, to say the least. Her eyes fluttered open as a droplet of morning dew landed coldly on her cheek, causing her to wince. She wiped it away groggily, sitting up slowly and taking in her surroundings. The first rays of sunlight slipped through the trees, casting gentle golden beams over the clearing. She blinked, bringing herself back to focus. Her hair felt matted, tangled with leaves and dirt, and her curls frizzed wildly.

Then the realization hit her. The warmth she had been lying on was him. She felt her eyes widen, taking in her position atop him, her knees pressed into the earth on either side of his hips. Her head throbbed, the result of far too many swigs of mead the night before. She attempted to ease off him without making a sound, but her movements only seemed to stir him.

His hat was slanted over his face like a makeshift mask, obscuring his eyes, while his arm lay beneath his head as an improvised pillow.

As carefully as she could, she tried to lift herself off him, swallowing back her embarrassment. Her cheeks flushed as she reminded herself there was nothing to worry about—they hadn’t done anything last night beyond some stolen kisses. Their clothes were still intact, wrinkled from sleep but very much on. Yet, a tiny pang of nervousness gnawed at her.

But her attempt to sneak away failed. The moment she shifted, he let out a quiet groan, his hat slipping off entirely. His eyes slowly blinked open, adjusting to the morning light, and it took him a heartbeat to realize she was hovering over him. When he did, his gaze filled with mischievous amusement. 

She hurriedly scooted back, raising her hands in defense. “I think we got too drunk last night,” she said quickly, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

“Cicero wonders-,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep yet carrying that ever-present playful tone.

She hurriedly scooted back, raising her hands in defense. “I think we got too drunk last night,” she said quickly, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

With a dramatic stretch, he slowly sat up, rolling his shoulders and letting out a contented sigh.

With a dramatic stretch, he slowly sat up, rolling his shoulders and letting out a contented sigh. “Cicero agrees… though he cannot recall the last time he slept so well,” His smirk deepened, watching her squirm under his teasing gaze.

She shook her head, rubbing at her temples in a futile attempt to banish the hangover. “Don’t get any ideas,” she muttered, though a smile threatened to betray her stern tone. He chuckled, leaning back on his palms, clearly unfazed.

Trying to brush off her flustered state, she knelt beside her bag, rifling through it for anything that might help with the dull ache in her head. After a moment, she felt his eyes still on her, and when she glanced up, she caught him watching her with an almost fond expression.

“What?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He tilted his head, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “Nothing.”

Rolling her eyes to mask her own smile, she pulled out a strip of dried meat from her bag, tossing it to him. “Eat. You’re probably still tipsy.”

He caught it with surprising dexterity, bringing it to his mouth with a grin. “Just in a good mood, perhaps!”

She smiled to herself, nibbling on her share as she settled beside him. The closeness between them still left a lingering warmth on her skin, a feeling she hadn’t quite adjusted to but found herself increasingly drawn toward.

“If we travel quickly, we can make it to Alain by sundown. But that means no unnecessary stops,” she instructed, casting him a sideways look.

He gave an exaggerated mock gasp, as though deeply offended. “Cicero, make unnecessary stops? How cruel! Cicero is only a humble traveler with a love for the sights, the sounds, the people!” His eyes glinted mischievously as he swallowed the last of his food.

“Not today,” she replied with a grin, giving him a light pat on the arm. “We’ve had enough detours. No funny business, got it?”

He observed her with a mockingly serious expression, but his smirk returned in an instant. “Ah, Cicero sees… His friend is in a no-funny-business mood this morning.” Before she could respond, he leaned in close—so close that the tips of their noses nearly touched.

Her breath caught, and her eyes widened at his sudden proximity. His gaze was unwavering, relaxed, and strangely comfortable as though he felt no qualms about this closeness. But it sent her heart into a flurry. She wondered, yet again, why she found herself doubting him. There were moments like this, flashes where she questioned what he truly saw in her. What could he possibly gain by being with her?

“Don’t,” she murmured, her voice so soft it almost felt like a secret she was whispering to herself. Her eyes dropped, feeling her resolve slipping away.

But he didn’t move back. Instead, his gloved hand gently lifted her chin, guiding her gaze back to his. For a brief moment, the look he gave her was unguarded, without the usual mirth he wore as a shield. She saw it in the depths of his gaze—a shadow of the same vulnerability she felt.

A softening that made her wonder if he, too, felt as uncertain and as exposed.

“Cicero just wants to understand,” he whispered, his voice tinged with an almost pleading curiosity. “Why?”

His expression was heartbreakingly open, the brightness in his eyes replaced with an earnest look that, at that moment, made him look like a man on the verge of rejection. She felt her defenses falter entirely for a second, and she could no longer look away.

“It was a mistake,” she said, her voice low and uncertain, the words catching in her throat. She forced herself to look at him, to let the words settle between them. “You have to see that.”

For a moment, he just looked at her, an unreadable shadow crossing his face. The soft vulnerability that had lingered in his eyes hardened, and his jaw clenched as though he was swallowing down something sharp. “Mistake?” he repeated, his tone edged with bitterness as if he were trying to make sense of her words but only finding them more infuriating.

She drew a shaky breath, tearing her gaze away as she busied herself gathering her things, her hands fumbling more than she would have liked. “Yes,” she replied, forcing a calmness into her tone that betrayed her.

“I don’t have time for…relationships, or whatever this is. I have other things to worry about.” Her words trailed off, as her mind drifted to Danoc, her constant struggle to put food on the table, to keep a roof over their heads. And him—she thought bitterly of how he’d likely mock her for this, for letting herself become entangled, even briefly.

But the moment was shattered by the rustle of leaves beside her. She turned her head sharply, her heart quickening as she found him mere inches away, his eyes narrowed in frustration. He crouched beside her, his movements fluid and precise, his gaze darting over her shoulder to the thick brush behind them.

She frowned, about to question him, but he held up a finger, pressing it to his lips. The smirk that curled his lips was devoid of the warmth she was used to.

It was dark and sharp, more like a mask than the genuine playfulness she had come to expect. For a moment, she thought he’d lash out at her, that he’d let his anger spill over, but instead, he motioned toward the bushes.

Not understanding, she hesitated. He let out an exasperated sigh and, with a touch gentler than she anticipated, he tilted her chin, guiding her gaze over the thicket. Peering through the branches, she caught sight of a figure near the entrance of the brewery.

The familiar face of the owner was there, animatedly gesturing as he spoke to a guard standing at attention. Their voices were hushed but strained, the owner’s cheeks red with either cold or fury.

“Perfect timing,” he muttered under his breath, the trace of a smirk returning to his face. But there was no humor in his expression, only a calculated sharpness that made her tense. He released her chin, his eyes scanning the scene.

The owner seemed agitated, his hands moving in rapid, frustrated gestures as he pointed in different directions, the guard nodding attentively. The faintest snippets of their conversation reached them. 

Not far away, the brewery owner’s voice rose, cracking with frustration. “I swear someone was inside my house—several of my bottles are missing!” His shout echoed through the trees, his tone just short of hysteria. The guard standing beside him seemed far less enthusiastic, a weary look passing over his face.

"I'm sure they're long gone by now," the guard tried to reassure him, his voice muffled slightly by the distance but still audible. But the owner, face flushed and hands clenching into fists, shook his head furiously.

 "No, no, no! They headed off into the woods, those drunks!" he shouted, marching toward the tree line—barely thirty feet from where Elara crouched, heart racing.

Her panic bubbled up as she realized just how exposed they were. She darted a glance over to where Cicero had been, but he was gone—vanished, with only a disturbed pile of leaves marking where he had rested moments before. A spike of fear shot through her. Had he actually abandoned her, leaving her here to take the fall alone?

She scrambled to her feet, yanking her bag over her shoulder. Moving as quietly as she could, she edged back into the cover of the forest, crouching low and pushing through dense underbrush that pricked and scratched at her hands and arms. Every crunch of leaves underfoot felt deafeningly loud, and she winced each time a branch snapped, the approaching voices seemingly growing louder with every step. The urge to look over her shoulder tugged at her, but she kept her eyes forward, intent on slipping out of their sight.

“See! Bottles! They were here!” the owner’s voice carried through the trees, and she barely swallowed a gasp, forcing her legs to move faster, pushing through the thick forest. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as she ran, stumbling and tripping over rocks and branches hidden beneath the snow-dusted leaves, feeling the scrape of twigs catching against her skin. She pushed herself onward, chest heaving with each step, until the trees finally began to thin out.

Through the dense foliage ahead, she spotted a clearing—a road. Relief surged through her, and she picked up her pace, willing herself to reach it. Just as she took another hurried step, her foot caught on an overgrown root jutting from the ground. She pitched forward, arms flailing as she anticipated the harsh impact of the earth.

But just before she hit the ground, an arm wrapped firmly around her midsection, stopping her mid-air. She gasped, feeling her momentum shift as she was pulled against a familiar solid warmth. She looked up to see Cicero’s face inches from hers, a sly glint in his eyes, though there was a flicker of something softer, an intensity that made her breath hitch.

“Seems you’re in quite the hurry, my dear,” he whispered, his voice carrying that familiar, unsettling charm. A part of her was happy to hear it still.

Her cheeks flushed, equal parts relief and annoyance flaring as she steadied herself in his arms. 

“And you just… left me,” she muttered, half-glaring at him.

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth curving upward in a lopsided grin. "Cicero was just quicker than his friend, that is all," he replied

But the look in his eyes, sharp and cold, did little to reassure her. His grin, rather than comforting, seemed to hold a hint of challenge, like a game she hadn’t quite agreed to.

She frowned, folding her arms as she watched him walk casually down the path ahead, her map now firmly in his hands. Her eyes widened as it dawned on her that it was her map—and he had somehow managed to slip it from her bag without her noticing. Instinctively, she gave herself a quick pat down, confirming that her suspicions were correct. He’d snatched it.

“Hey!” she called after him, squinting at his back as she quickened her pace, trying to catch up. He didn’t turn, didn’t even so much as glance over his shoulder to acknowledge her irritation. Instead, he lifted the map slightly, examining it with a nonchalance that only fueled her growing frustration.

“To the bandit, then!” he called out, and without warning, tossed the map over his shoulder with a flick of his wrist.

Elara barely had time to react, lunging forward just in time to catch it before it landed in the damp grass below. She caught it, though not without feeling the sting of his casual dismissal. She unfolded it slowly, carefully pressing out the creases before tucking it securely back into her bag, eyes narrowed on the back of his head.

He continued down the path, his strides unhurried, almost as though he were taking in the scenery. She knew that, in his own strange way, he was making a point—one she didn’t entirely appreciate.

“Really?” she called out, her voice laced with exasperation. “You’re acting like a spoiled child. Just because I… may have made a comment that didn’t exactly sit well with you doesn’t mean you need to be so dramatic.”

Cicero finally paused, tilting his head just slightly as if considering her words. A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips. “Dramatic? My dear Elara, Cicero merely acted in the spirit of adventure! It would be a shame to make such a lovely journey without a few… memorable moments, don’t you think?” His tone was light, but he was still hiding some sliver of resentment.

She rolled her eyes, biting back the urge to argue further, instead mumbling under her breath, “Memorable moments, my ass.”

They walked in silence for a moment, her eyes lingering on him, tracing the way he walked with that casual confidence that infuriated and intrigued her in equal measure. She huffed, realizing that maybe he wasn’t just angry—he was waiting. Waiting for her to react, to play his game.

And so, deciding to humor him, she called out, “You know, for someone who claims to be quick, you’re quite predictable.”

He slowed, his expression shifting as he looked back at her, a glimmer of curiosity now in his eyes. “Predictable, am I?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper as he stepped closer. 

“Yes, you are—all this, just because we had a little fun, and I want nothing more?” she shot back, her tone edged with accusation. She expected him to scoff, to brush her off, but instead, he mock gasped, pressing a hand to his chest as though genuinely wounded.

“My dear, it is your choice, of course,” he said, his tone deceptively light. “But Cicero’s friend said she had no time, not that she didn’t want more,” he countered, eyebrows raised in a playful but pointed challenge.

She clenched her fists, forcing down the frustration that prickled at her skin. “I thought it was implied,” she hissed, already regretting letting him drag her into this conversation in the middle of nowhere. The last thing she wanted was to unpack their strange relationship on a desolate path.

But his gaze didn’t waver. He looked at her with an intensity that bordered on hurt as if she’d struck him somewhere vulnerable. The way he looked down at her like she’d somehow betrayed him, made her blood boil.

A tremor of anger slipped past her defenses, and before she could think better of it, she jabbed a finger into his chest, hard. “I hate people like you,” she spat, watching as surprise flitted across his face, his eyes widening. She felt a pang of satisfaction seeing his usual smug mask crack.

His mouth opened, the beginning of another glib remark forming, but she didn’t give him the chance. “I hate people like you, who think everything I do and feel is just a joke,” she said, her voice thick with a mixture of anger and something rawer, deeper. The words tumbled out before she could stop them, each one hitting him with a force that left him visibly reeling.

His face shifted, the familiar, playful smile slipping away, leaving only a faint shadow of confusion in his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off again, her voice shaking. “I know I’m a joke to you. For kissing you. For letting this… whatever this is, happen. For even like you just a little,” she admitted, each word sharper than the last, her heart hammering as the truth spilled out.

“But now I know you don’t want me. You want some version of me you’ve imagined, someone who doesn’t exist. You wouldn’t like it if you knew who I was.”

The weight of her words seemed to sink into him, his face falling as he tried to find his usual smile and failed. She could see the hurt, but she was too far gone to care. Years of frustration and rejection, of fighting tooth and nail to stay alive and keep her walls intact, poured into each word.

“No one ever took pity on me my whole life. I’ve fought for every scrap, every chance, every single moment. So excuse me if I’m not throwing myself at you, but you wouldn’t even understand what that’s like. You don’t have a normal mind, do you?”

Her voice cracked, the weight of it all catching her off guard, but she swallowed it down, shaking her head. Before he could respond, she pushed past him, brushing his shoulder hard as she passed, not sparing him a glance.

She stalked forward, heart pounding, each step heavier than the last. The silence behind her was deafening, and she knew he was watching her go. For a moment, she thought she heard him mutter her name, but she didn’t turn back.

Chapter 11: Short on Breath

The snow bit harshly at her cheeks, and the icy wind cut through the night like a blade, forcing her to pull her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Each step sank her deep into the fresh powder, the snow clawing at her ankles, making every movement feel like wading through icy water. The cold seeped into her bones, clinging to her despite the flickering warmth of the torch in her hand.

She could hear Cicero’s steady steps behind her, keeping his distance, as if afraid that getting too close might shatter the silence between them.

He hadn’t spoken a word since that morning, though it wasn’t as though she’d given him much of an opening. A part of her felt justified in her anger, in her choice to keep him at arm’s length. Yet another part of her, the one that felt the weight of loneliness pressing in with every step, wished he’d close the distance, break through her silence.

She bit back the urge to turn around and tell him to go back to Sanctuary, which she’d manage on her own. Astrid be damned, she’d deal with the backlash later. But he stayed—unwanted, perhaps, but determined. It was almost painful to see him taking it so personally now, as if he finally understood that his presence was a thorn in her side, one she couldn’t remove but also couldn’t bear to lose.

The sky above was inky black, thick with clouds that blotted out the stars, leaving the world around them shrouded in darkness. Only the dim orange of the torch guided their way, casting faint, swaying light on the snow-covered path.

The trees stood tall and silent around them, their branches heavy with frost, and not a soul was in sight. Only a couple of scraggly goats huddled near a distant rock, bracing themselves against the cold. Her feet ached, her knees wobbled with exhaustion, but she pushed forward, unwilling to face the quiet that would come if she stopped.

A sharp pang of something raw, something that felt a lot like regret, twisted inside her, and before she knew it, she found herself glancing back. Cicero’s form was barely visible in the dim light.

She could see the strain in his posture, his shoulders set against the biting cold, yet his face betrayed none of it. He seemed as untouched by the freezing air as he did by her earlier words. She swallowed, feeling an ache settle in her chest, then forced her feet to slow just enough for him to catch up.

He lifted his gaze from the ground, clearly surprised by her sudden change of pace, his eyes widening with something that looked like hope before it faded, replaced by a guarded neutrality. She took a shaky breath, feeling the chill creep into her throat, and extended the torch toward him, holding it close enough that the warmth could reach him.

“Here,” she murmured, her voice almost lost in the wind.

He stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. A quiet nod, and he stepped closer, accepting the small gesture. Together, they walked in silence, but now the torch’s light danced over both of them, illuminating the faint shadows on his face.

She hated herself for feeling a flicker of sympathy, for wishing the walls between them would crumble, just for a little while. The cold still gnawed at her, biting through her clothes, but with each step, she edged closer to him, the torch’s warmth just enough to make the night bearable.

She stepped closer to him, ready to say something—anything to fill the silence—but the words caught in her throat as her gaze shifted forward, coming into focus on the destination they had been searching for all night.

Nestled into the mountainside, Raldbthar loomed like a monolithic shadow against the snow-laden sky. Even from this distance, she could see the faint flickers of campfires marking the encampment outside, their flames casting an eerie glow against the darkened dwarven metal embedded into the structure. Snow fell fast now, its thick curtain blurring the details, but the harsh edges of stone and metal stood resolute, a fortress etched into the heart of the mountain.

They crouched behind a rise in the landscape, the hill offering just enough cover for her to survey the area below without being spotted. “Alright, this is the place,” she mumbled, her breath visible in small clouds. With a reluctant sigh, she snuffed out the torch by pressing it into the snow at her feet, casting it into darkness.

She felt him close beside her, his form pressing against hers as he peered forward, his eyes narrowed and hard. His face hovered close, his breaths mingling with hers in the cold air, but she kept her gaze forward, unwilling to turn and face him.

Through the gusts of wind and snow, she whispered, “We can either sneak past his friends or take them all out one by one.”

Cicero’s expression twisted in a mix of disdain and irritation. “Cicero wishes they’d freeze in their sleep,” he muttered, his voice barely concealing a slight tremor, which she assumed was from the cold.

She glanced at him, noting the shadowed circles under his eyes and the tight set of his jaw. “Alain’s got to be inside,” she started, attempting to map out a plan, but before she could finish, he sprang to his feet, his movements as sudden and silent as a shadow slipping through the night.

“Cicero!” she hissed under her breath, frustration simmering as she watched him stalk off without so much as a backward glance. He crept forward with a purpose, his steps light despite the thick layer of snow. She let out a groan, rolling her eyes but rising quickly to follow, her heart racing as she tried to keep her footing on the uneven ground.

At that moment, he glanced back, his eyes catching hers with a mischievous glint and a smile curling at the corner of his lips. It was a smile that seemed to say, Catch up if you can. Her annoyance began to waver, replaced by the hope that his earlier irritation had passed.

Then, as if on impulse, he stopped in his tracks and turned to her, his gaze softening unexpectedly.

Before she could react, he reached for her hand, his gloved fingers cold as they closed around hers, tugging her forward until she was close enough to feel the warmth of his breath between them. She raised an eyebrow, biting back a smile of her own as he lifted her hand to his lips, his grin lopsided but genuine.

"Cicero thinks his friend should take the left," he murmured, his voice low, an almost playful note underlying his words. Then, with a flourish of mock gallantry, he pressed a feather-light kiss to the back of her hand.

The gesture was odd, yes, but undeniably him. She gave him a slight nod, her lips barely containing a smile, before he let her hand slip from his grasp. With one last wink, he took off again, this time moving toward the right side of the stone staircase looming in the distance.

She watched him for a second before her eyes darted up to scan the second-story balcony, spotting a figure slowly making rounds. She tensed, fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger as she ghosted up the steps on the left side, quick and silent.

She could see a cluster of tents nestled in the sheltered parts of the ruin, a few dark figures lying still in their bedrolls, lost in sleep. She silently thanked the gods for small mercies; sleeping enemies were better than awake ones.

Her eyes darted back over her shoulder, wary of any movement. The man she’d seen on patrol was gone, slipping further down the path, but of Cicero, there was no sign. A wave of nerves flickered through her chest.

Taking a steadying breath, she edged closer to the tents, her dagger ready as she crouched low to the ground. Snow muffled her steps as she approached the first tent, the shadowy outline of a figure snoring within. The flap of the tent lifted quietly beneath her touch, and she crawled inside, her pulse heightening as she took in the sight of the man sprawled beneath her, utterly oblivious. His snores filled the enclosed space, masking her soft, steady breaths.

She shifted her weight, pressing a knee to his side to anchor herself, and in one swift motion, brought the cold steel of her dagger to his throat. His eyes flew open, bewilderment flashing as he locked onto her face. Before he could utter a sound, she sliced cleanly through his skin, her gloved hand pressing hard over his mouth to stifle any outcry.

His struggles grew weaker with each heartbeat, a gurgled final attempt at life fading in his eyes as she held his gaze, silently hushing him into the void. The life drained from his features, leaving only a lifeless shell, and she withdrew, pulling her hand back to see it wet and slick with his blood.

The adrenaline pulsed sharper now, igniting something deep within her as she moved through the camp like a silent predator. Her hand grew slicker with each strike, the blood staining her gloves and, eventually, her skin beneath. Another man had woken halfway through her approach, his hand shooting out to grip her shirt, yanking her forward with surprising force.

They struggled, the air crackling with tension as she wriggled free of his grip and, in a swift, violent thrust, buried her knife into his skull. The sharp edge broke through bone, his face frozen in a stunned expression even as his grip slackened. She pulled away, feeling a streak of his blood trail down her cheek, tickling her skin like a macabre caress.

She wiped her face, smearing the blood as she tried to clear her vision. Suddenly, a shout pierced the night, breaking the eerie silence outside the tent. She stiffened, pausing just before stepping out. But before she could react, an arrow sliced through the air, whizzing past her face and embedding itself in the thick pelts of the tent behind her. She stumbled back, narrowly evading the arrow’s deadly trajectory, and ducked further into the shadows of the tent, heart pounding in her ears.

"Come out, you bitch!" a voice bellowed, filled with raw fury. She could hear the archer’s footsteps crunching in the snow, each step deliberate and closing in on her. Her mind raced, calculating her next move, as she flattened herself against the icy ground, inching toward the back of the tent. Another arrow sliced through, tearing a hole in the fabric just inches from where she lay.

She scrambled, her blood-streaked hand slipping as she pushed herself up, lunging for the edge of the tent.

With a surge of speed, she dashed out the back and ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar, just as a third arrow struck the spot she’d occupied a second before. Breath coming fast, she peered around the edge, catching a glimpse of her attacker—a tall, broad-shouldered man, his bow drawn back, ready to release.

She barely managed to dodge, feeling the arrow graze the edge of her cloak as she flattened herself once again, fighting to steady her nerves. She steadied herself, closing her eyes for just a second to catch her breath and think. She had no bow, no way to counterattack from this distance—only her dagger and desperation.

She could hear his heavy footsteps crunching over the snow, slow and deliberate, drawing closer with each step. Her fingers clenched around the hilt of her dagger, her only weapon, as she weighed her options. She could try to sprint to safety or attack and hope she’d get the upper hand.

Just as she tensed, ready to throw herself into the open, she heard hurried footsteps—another figure moving in the darkness. Her stomach twisted with fear. Had more of them woken, ready to ambush her? She held her breath, bracing herself for the worst.

But then, the man’s sneering voice cut through the cold night, laced with sickening confidence. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll take my time with you—what the f—!” His words choked off as his body lurched forward, crashing to the ground.

She glanced around the pillar to see Cicero, having tackled the archer, wrestling him into the snow. The man’s bow clattered across the ground, sliding just into her reach. Without hesitation, she snatched it up, along with the loose arrow that had fallen beside it.

Peeking out, she spotted the two men grappling in the snow. Cicero was on his back, struggling as he tried to maneuver his blade toward the archer’s neck. The man gripped his arm firmly, biceps bulging as he forced Cicero’s knife away, aiming to turn the blade back on him. Panic clawed at her throat as she saw the flash of exertion and strain on Cicero’s face, the grimace of concentration as he fought against the brute’s strength.

Swallowing the surge of panic, she took a steadying breath and drew back the bowstring, positioning the arrow with careful aim. Her hands were steadier than she felt, her focus narrowing as she lined up the shot.

She released, watching as the arrow sliced through the cold air, her breath catching as it struck true, sinking into the man’s head with a sickening crunch. His body went limp instantly, slumping against Cicero, who grunted as he pushed the dead weight off him.

Panting, she rushed forward, her pulse thundering in her ears as she took in the sight of him, sprawled in the snow, blood splattered across his face and tunic. As always, he was a mess, but this time, her gaze drifted to a long cut tracing down his cheek, fresh blood dripping down to his jaw. Without thinking, she reached out, fingertips hovering close to the wound. The desire to brush away the blood, to reassure herself he was alright, surged through her, catching her off guard.

He met her gaze, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and relief, eyes searching her face for a moment before he gave a crooked, pained smile.

"A little slow with that shot, weren't you?" he murmured, his voice rough but tinged with humor.

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes, reaching out to gently brush away a smear of blood on his cheek. For a moment, she expected him to flinch, but he only held her gaze.

“Come on,” she said, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she stood and watched him struggle to his feet. She quickly scanned the ground, gathering a few of the arrows that had been scattered in the scuffle. Once she’d gathered them up, she handed them to him, and he took them with a quiet nod, still breathing heavily but recovering.

He moved behind her, and though she tried to focus on the path ahead, her eyes drifted back to him, tracing his form under the dim light. His clothes were dark and stained with blood that blended into the crimson fabric. But she could see the fatigue in his shoulders and the satisfaction that still lingered in his eyes.

She had once found that look disturbing, the way he seemed almost energized after a fight, like a spark of life in his otherwise shadowed demeanor. But now, she couldn’t deny something else in her reaction. As her gaze lingered, the thought came unbidden: Why hadn’t I noticed sooner?

His messy appearance, the dark satisfaction in his eyes—it was hauntingly magnetic. She realized she was staring, her face flushing as his eyes snapped to meet hers, a knowing look lighting up his face. She quickly turned away, feigning focus on the path ahead, the warmth in her cheeks burning in the cold night air.

Ahead, she spotted the massive, iron-bound doors of the ruin entrance looming, weathered but solid. She reached out and gave them a push, muscles straining until they finally groaned open with a low, ominous creak. She stepped aside, gesturing him forward.

“After you,” she muttered, not meeting his eyes as he passed her, smirking all the while.

As they stepped inside, the welcome warmth hit her like a comforting embrace, thawing her icy fingers and biting her cheeks. She nearly moaned in relief, rubbing her stiff hands together as she glanced around. The stone walls were lined with torches, their flames dancing and casting long shadows across the room, illuminating the intricate dwarven carvings in the walls.

“Alright,” she said, forcing her mind back to the task at hand. “We need to focus in here—remember, we can’t let Alain escape. I’m not exactly in the mood to chase him there” 

Cicero glanced at her, his expression unreadable but with a slight twist of his mouth. She glanced over, seeing that his usual sardonic smirk had softened into something darker, almost anticipatory. She pressed her lips together, ignoring the twinge of nerves that stirred in her stomach.

The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft shuffle of their footsteps echoing off the stone. As they ventured deeper into the ruin, the architecture shifted, becoming unmistakably dwarven. The ceilings soared above them, supported by towering stone columns engraved with patterns that glinted faintly under the torchlight. 

The place had been ravaged by time, yet even the decay could not conceal the craftsmanship. Markarth had been a mere glimpse of dwarven glory, preserved but dimmed, while here in these halls, untouched by surface dwellers for centuries, she felt the presence of a once-great civilization.

The dwarves had vanished mysteriously, leaving only their monumental designs and strange contraptions. As her thoughts lingered on the past, she spotted two diverging paths ahead: one sealed off by a heavy iron gate, rusted but sturdy, while the other lay open and inviting, shadows dancing within its depths. A small wooden table sat near the entrance, scattered with bowls of fruit and sacks of untouched food, a crude stash from those who had recently taken up residence here.

From the open hallway, voices echoed, low and rough, punctuated with bursts of laughter. She slowed her steps, her breaths shallow as she strained to catch any hint of conversation. The voices were close—close enough to be a problem. She pressed her back against the wall, glancing sideways at Cicero as his posture shifted, tense and alert. The torchlight glinted off his eyes as he looked ahead. She saw the way his hand twitched for his knife. 

One voice grew louder, followed by deep laughter, and she heard the familiar, lazy confidence of someone comfortable within their territory. “I’m gonna go take a leak—don’t eat my food,” he slurred, his steps heavy and unsteady.

The man staggered down the hallway, half-muttering to himself, his footsteps dragging through the dust and leaving marks on the worn floor. His features came into view, barely illuminated, and she noted the flush on his face—a sure sign he’d had more than his fill of ale that night.

Before the man could fully process their presence, Cicero’s hand shot out, gripping his knife tightly as he flattened himself against the wall. She did the same, heart pounding as she watched the man stumble nearer, his obliviousness almost pitiful.

He finally caught sight of Cicero, a flash of surprise widening his eyes just before Cicero lunged, clamping a hand over his mouth. The knife plunged into his side with a sickening sound, deep and precise. The man jerked, his muffled cries fading as Cicero kept his grip firm, lowering him to the ground as his body went slack.

She stepped forward, silently grabbing the dead man’s arms as she helped Cicero drag the body back into the shadows, away from prying eyes.

Her arms strained with the weight, her breathing shallow as she forced herself to ignore the lifeless eyes staring up at her. Only the soft jingle of Cicero’s hat broke the silence, an oddly cheerful sound.

Once the body was hidden, she turned her attention to the gate, noting the faint glimmer of firelight spilling from the edges. She crept closer, just close enough to peer inside, and caught a glimpse of a larger chamber beyond. This looked like the main room, with a roaring firepit at its center, crackling embers casting long shadows across the walls.

Around it sat a handful of men, drinking, laughing, and sharing rough stories in voices loud enough to fill the hall. She scanned their faces, but none of them seemed familiar. Alain could be any one of them—or none of them.

The firelight glinted off one figure in particular, a hulking man with a massive axe strapped across his back. She felt a shiver of unease ripple through her as she took in his broad shoulders and battle-scarred face. She silently hoped that this wasn’t Alain; dealing with someone of his size was not something she was eager for.

As she watched, the man laughed, slapping another on the back as he downed another swig from his flask, his deep voice carrying easily. 

The sound carried easily through the ruin, echoing off the ancient walls. She bit her lip, eyeing the lock on the gate before her. She could try to pick it quietly, slip in, and take down as many as she could before they even realized what hit them. But there was the unknown—a dark corner of the room just beyond her line of sight, concealing any others who might be lingering. Her gut warned her that these few weren’t alone.

Beside her, Cicero’s impatience radiated like heat off coals. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by a hardened expression, his gaze fixed with an intensity that made her heart pound. She could practically see the bloodthirst in his eyes, but there was something else too—a weariness that softened his edge.

She gestured him closer, and he raised an eyebrow, hesitating just a moment before leaning down to her level, his face so close she could feel his breath against her cheek. The faint smell of blood and iron lingered, mingling with the dust and dampness in the air.

“I’m going to pick off most of them,” she whispered, glancing up at him, “if you can handle the rest.”

He held her gaze for a beat longer than necessary, his eyes flicking over her face, studying her expression. He gave a small nod, his mouth twitching in what might have been a hint of a smile. He started to straighten, but her hand shot out, catching his arm, and pulling him back down beside her.

Her heart fluttered as he lingered there, looking pleased, as if her worry was a gift he was holding close.

“I will be quick,” he whispered, his voice low and warm, before slipping from her grasp. He moved soundlessly as he disappeared around the corner.  She felt a pang of worry claw at her as he vanished from sight, but there was no time to dwell on it.

Steeling herself, she slid an arrow into her boot for easy reach and knelt in front of the iron gate, fingers digging into her satchel for her lockpicks. She worked carefully, trying to silence the old metal as it groaned under her touch.

Every creak felt like a warning cry, announcing her presence, and she clenched her teeth, willing the lock to cooperate. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she heard the quiet, satisfying click of the lock giving way.

She pushed the gate open slowly, holding her breath as she slipped inside, her bow drawn with an arrow ready. She pressed herself against the stone wall, inching forward until she could see the group by the firepit again, their faces lit by the orange glow.

She pushed the gate open slowly, holding her breath as she slipped inside, her bow drawn with an arrow ready. She pressed herself against the stone wall, inching forward until she could see the group by the firepit again, their faces lit by the orange glow.

Drawing back the bowstring, she took a slow, steady breath, her fingers gripping the arrow’s shaft. She squinted, focusing on her target, feeling her heartbeat thundering as she lined up the shot. With a smooth exhale, she released the string, watching as the arrow cut through the air in a graceful arc.

The arrow struck true, burying itself into the man’s throat. His eyes widened in shock as he reached up, clawing at the shaft, blood spilling between his fingers as he collapsed.

Her heart pounded as she pulled another arrow from her quiver. There was no time to revel in the victory; chaos erupted as the remaining men scrambled, yelling for cover. She swiftly nocked her next arrow, eyes narrowing as she singled out a smaller man nearby, the crude pelts he wore doing nothing to shield him.

The arrow shot forward, piercing his chest with a sickening thud. He staggered, blood blooming on his tunic before he crumpled to the floor, lifeless. But the respite was short-lived—out of the corner of her eye, she saw the one she had been dreading: a brute of a man, taller and more muscular than the others, with a massive steel shield in one hand.

He spotted her, a malicious grin spreading across his face as he raised his shield, his voice booming through the hall.

“You little rat! She’s right here, Alain!”

She tensed, the weight of his words sinking in as he locked eyes with her, and for the first time, she felt a flicker of doubt. She loosed another arrow in a split second, hoping to stop his approach, but he lifted his shield with a practiced sweep, deflecting it with ease.

“Damn it!” she hissed under her breath, scrambling backward as the brute bore down on her. His axe swung in a deadly arc, the sheer force behind it enough to split stone. She dove to the side, just in time, as his weapon smashed into the wall beside her with a deafening crack, sending fragments of rock flying. The man’s bulk filled her vision, every muscle tensed, his face twisted with fury.

Gripping her bow tightly, she readied another arrow, but she barely had time to lift it before he swung again, the steel blade slicing through the air close enough that she felt it graze her cheek. She stumbled, regaining her balance as he swung a third time, missing her by inches.

His grunts echoed through the corridor, each one filled with raw, unrestrained anger. His messy black hair whipped around his face as he charged, his eyes blazing with hatred.

Dropping her bow, she lunged forward, yanking her dagger from its sheath. She darted around him, and in a single fluid motion, launched herself onto his front, legs wrapping tightly around his waist. The man stumbled, caught off guard, his grip on the axe faltering momentarily. She took her chance, slashing at his exposed throat, her dagger sinking deep.

But before she could fully savor the victory, his massive hand clamped around her throat, squeezing with brutal strength. Her vision blurred, her airways crushed, the pressure sending her senses spiraling. Spots danced before her eyes, and she struggled, her strength waning under his crushing grip. She twisted the dagger, pressing deeper, and finally, he let out a choking gasp, his grip loosening just enough for her to push free.

With a final gasp, he released her, collapsing as she tumbled to the floor beside him, gasping for breath. She coughed, clutching her sore throat, feeling the bruises already beginning to form. The air tasted metallic, each breath a struggle as she steadied herself. Her hands trembled, adrenaline still coursing through her veins as she looked down at the brute’s lifeless form, her dagger slick with blood.

Shakily, she got to her feet, brushing herself off and suppressing the lingering pain.

"No, no, please! What do you want? I have money—I’ll pay you!" A man’s panicked voice echoed down the dimly lit corridor. She gritted her teeth against the lingering pain in her throat, steadying her breathing as she rounded the corner. Her gaze fell on the man, who knelt, hands raised in trembling surrender, his wide eyes darting between her and the jester.

Behind him, Cicero gripped his hair tightly, forcing the man’s head back to expose his neck, a blade pressed to his throat. His face was tense, every muscle coiled with the impulse to end it. Yet he held back, looking up as she approached, her cough breaking the silence.

“Please, please… whoever sent you, I swear, I can pay more,” the man stammered, words spilling over each other in desperation, his eyes pleading.

Her patience wore thin. She wasn’t here to barter or listen to desperate offers. Leaning closer, she fixed her steely gaze on him, her voice barely above a whisper, each word rough and low. “Are you Alain?” Her stare bore into him.

The man’s face twisted, confusion mixing with fear as he stammered, “Who…who’s asking?”

“Your ex,” she replied, a glimmer of cold satisfaction in her tone. Without a second thought, she seized his head, her grip unyielding as she gave a swift, decisive twist. The snap of his neck echoed through the hall, and his body slumped to the floor, his fear extinguished in an instant.

A bead of sweat rolled down her temple, and she brushed it away, feeling the heavy ache settling into her limbs. The quiet that followed felt deafening, as if the world itself had fallen still. She let out a shaky breath, her knees threatening to buckle beneath the weight of exhaustion.

Her eyes drifted to Cicero, who looked as spent as she felt, his face etched with fatigue yet somehow still tense with lingering adrenaline.

He stepped forward, his hand reaching for her as if on instinct. His fingertips traced the bruises forming on her neck, his touch warm and unexpectedly gentle against the raw, bruised skin. She met his eyes, and their usual sharpness softened with concern.

“I’m…okay,” she managed, her voice strained and cracked, though she wasn’t fooling anyone. Cicero’s expression darkened slightly, unsatisfied by her reassurance, his thumb lightly brushing along the curve of her throat as if to chase away the ache.

They stood there, silent, the lifeless body at their feet all but forgotten as the warmth of his hand steadied her. Closing her eyes, she felt the tension in her shoulders ease, her body instinctively leaning into his as the exhaustion caught up to her. His arm slid around her back, supporting her, the weight of his frame grounding her, reassuring her in a way she hadn’t expected.

Without a word, he kicked Alain’s body aside, clearing the space around them, and as he did, his other arm wrapped more securely around her. She exhaled, her body sagging against his chest, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his breath, the warmth of his presence seeping into her weary bones.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice muffled against his chest. “I’m sorry for what I said.” She inhaled, catching the scent of iron mingled with an unexpected hint of mint—a fragrance she hadn’t noticed before but found grounding, almost comforting.

There was no shame in it; she was practically inhaling him now, but the exhaustion left little room for pride.

His fingers flexed slightly against her side, his touch careful, grounding. “Cicero apologizes as well,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “If his friend truly does want nothing, he understands.”

She found herself smiling, the tension melting away at last. Relief washed over her, warm and soothing, and she let herself lean deeper into him. Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, she found his eyes locked on her, their usual guarded look softened, heavy with something she couldn’t quite place. His restraint was palpable, an unspoken hesitation that only drew her closer.

Her hand slid up to rest around his neck, tugging him closer, and then she pressed her lips to his, tasting the salt of sweat and the warmth that lingered beneath. His hands twitched at her sides, hesitant at first, until he gave in, fingers settling against her with a reverence that both steadied and set her pulse racing.

When she pulled back, she let her lips hover near him, whispering her thoughts before she could second-guess herself. “I don’t know what I want out of this,” she admitted, voice laced with honesty. “But right now, I’m okay with whatever it is.”

That was all he needed. He closed the distance, his lips claiming hers once more, this time with a slow, deliberate intensity that left her breathless. She could feel herself drowning in him, in the way his hands traced every aching muscle, in the heat of his body against hers. He was careful but thorough, as if each touch was a promise, both grounding her and making her forget everything beyond the two of them. 

They’d figure it out later; for now, she’d let herself have this quiet peace, this fleeting surrender.

Chapter 12: Whispers in the Dark

Falkreath was a breath of fresh air. Being back near the Sanctuary, so close to something like a familiar routine, brought an unexpected sense of relief to Elara. She hadn’t thought she’d miss this place, not after all the demands and complications it brought, yet here she was, quietly grateful.

The faint warmth of the afternoon breeze wrapped around her, and as she walked the winding stone road alongside Cicero, she felt a subtle shift within herself—a reluctant acknowledgment that, perhaps, this place was beginning to mean something. But calling it home was a stretch; she wasn’t there yet.

She took a bite of a ripe, red apple, savoring its crisp sweetness. Cicero leaned in to steal a bite here and there, a sly grin flashing as she attempted in vain to swat him away.

But as lighthearted as the moment felt, a heavy weight pressed on her thoughts—a lie she’d let grow over the last week, a hidden truth gnawing at her, buried under layers of unspoken guilt. She’d built a fragile sense of belonging here, yet it was propped up on deception. And he still had no idea.

He walked ahead, his steps eager and quick, his gaze flickering toward the concealed path that led to the skull-marked door. She knew he was excited to return, probably thrilled to be back with the Night Mother. The zeal he held for the Night Mother still baffled her, something she could never quite understand.

She watched him, feeling the quiet ache of her hidden truth pressing closer to the surface, and her heart hammered with apprehension. She didn’t know how he’d react once he knew; she could almost feel the sting of his possible betrayal, and it frightened her more than she wanted to admit.

“Elara?” he called, looking over his shoulder. She bit her lip, pushing down the rush of guilt, and reached out, catching him by the arm to pull him back. He stopped, his excitement melting into curiosity as he turned to face her, his eyes bright but patient as he waited for her to speak.

She took a steadying breath, her fingers resting lightly on his arm. “I need to talk to you about something… before we go inside,” she said quietly, keeping her voice low.

Her gaze flitted to the shadowed trees nearby, half expecting to see a curious ear lingering in the background. They were close to the others now, too close for comfort.

Cicero’s smile dimmed, and he leaned in a little closer, his expression softening, though a glimmer of his usual amusement danced in his eyes. “What is it, hmm? Another secret to share,” he asked, a teasing lilt to his voice that made her stomach twist.

She forced a small smile, though her heart was pounding painfully against her ribs. 

"Let’s keep things between us, just for now. I’d rather the others not butt in," she said, hoping Cicero would agree without question. Her request seemed to puzzle him, and she could see his brow furrow slightly as if searching for meaning beneath her words.

Explaining would be complicated; there were layers to this situation, and she would need to tread carefully, especially around Astrid. She wasn’t sure how well she could pull this off, playing both sides without giving herself away.

Cicero’s eyes studied her for a heartbeat longer than she was comfortable with, but he noticed the slight unease in her expression and nodded quickly, flashing her a quick, reassuring smile. That simple gesture eased the storm inside her, enough to slow her pulse as he turned away and started toward the door, skimming past the dark, murky pond nearby.

The surface reflected nothing but a shadow—a pit of endless blackness, almost as if it could swallow the light if given the chance. She took a deep breath, letting a final surge of confidence settle within her before she followed.

The stone steps down to the Sanctuary were cold underfoot, each one feeling like a descent into a darker, more complex world. She could feel Cicero’s gaze flicker back at her every so often, his expression softer than usual.

By the time they reached the bottom, though, her attention had already shifted forward, locking onto a figure waiting in the heart of the Sanctuary, leaning over a stone table where a detailed map was spread.

Astrid was there, her blonde hair catching in the dim light. She smirked as they approached, though the expression felt sharp-edged, almost strained. Elara swallowed, trying to ignore the tightening in her stomach as she met her gaze. She hoped, almost desperately, that Astrid had found nothing—that Cicero’s strange quirks were just that, oddities without consequence. Anything else would complicate things further.

“Ah! Our precious leader! It has been so long!” Cicero announced, his voice bursting with exaggerated enthusiasm as he spread his arms wide, striding toward Astrid. She raised her hands quickly, dodging his attempt at a hug with a barely disguised look of exasperation.

“Yes, yes, Cicero,” she said with a slight sigh, composing herself as she turned her attention to Elara. “I’ve heard word that your trip was successful. Our client was… pleased.”

Astrid’s eyes narrowed slightly, locking onto Elara’s face with a look that felt like it could peel away secrets layer by layer.

Elara forced a calm smile, though her throat still felt raw from the recent skirmish. “Yes, it went fine. Though I could use some rest before we dive into anything else,” she replied, her voice cracking faintly. The sound made her wince, the lingering strain giving her away.

Astrid’s gaze lingered for a moment, but she nodded, the sharpness in her eyes softening just a fraction. “Of course. Though, Cicero…” She turned her attention back to him, her tone cooling with a subtle authority. “Do you mind if I have a word with our friend here? Just a moment.”

A flicker of annoyance passed across Cicero’s face, a flash of frustration he didn’t quite manage to hide. But with a dramatic shrug, he relented, casting a glance between them before muttering. He gave Elara a final, reassuring smile before descending the second set of steps that led toward the center cavern, his footsteps echoing until he vanished from sight.

The silence that followed was thick, and Elara could feel Astrid’s eyes boring into her with a scrutiny that made her want to shift on her feet. The confident mask she’d worn for days now felt fragile like it could crack with the slightest misstep.

Astrid’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile as she crossed her arms. “Quite the journey, hmm?” she asked, her tone deceptively light, as if she were simply making conversation. 

Elara’s gaze turned wary as she approached Astrid, her frown deepening. Each step was cautious, her narrowed eyes studying every flicker of emotion on the blonde’s face. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

She watched Astrid closely, hoping to catch even the smallest hint of what she wasn’t saying. Astrid tilted her head, her eyes flashing with something—frustration? Annoyance? But it was gone almost as soon as it had appeared.

“No,” she replied, sighing deeply. “I must apologize; our efforts were in vain. I didn’t find anything useful.” She shook her head, feigning disappointment, but Elara saw how quickly she moved on, already avoiding her gaze.

Relief washed over her, flooding her with a sense of victory she hadn’t dared to hope for. But she kept her expression neutral. 

“So paranoid, is the correct answer yes?” she accused lightly, a mocking lilt to her tone as her eyebrow raised in challenge. Astrid stiffened, her body language shifting defensively, though she held Elara’s gaze with a steady resolve.

“I was not paranoid,” she retorted, her tone cold and clipped. “He is unwell in the mind, and I had every right to expect something… malicious.” Her voice dropped into a whisper, her control slipping as a flare of irritation crossed her features.

Elara couldn’t help the small, triumphant smile that crept across her lips. It felt strangely satisfying to strike a nerve and watch the calm, collected Astrid unravel, if only slightly. She tilted her head, the smile lingering as she held her ground. “I did my part. Did you do yours?” She waited, her hand open expectantly for the prize she’d been promised, the reward that had driven her through so much.

The blonde’s lips tightened in annoyance, but after a tense pause, she nodded. Pushing herself away from the table with barely concealed reluctance, she crossed the room and disappeared into her bedroom. Moments later, she returned, her expression carefully neutral as she held out the weapon—a sleek, polished ebony bow.

“You have no idea how expensive ebony is,” Astrid muttered, though there was a touch of reluctant admiration in her voice as she handed the bow to Elara. “But here. As promised.”

Elara’s breath hitched as she took the weapon in her hands. The bow was heavier than she expected, its surface cool and smooth under her fingertips, and she marveled at its beauty and weight. It was a bow built to last, each polished detail a testament to its craftsmanship. She couldn’t help but feel a sense of ownership, a connection to the weapon that made her fingers curl around it protectively.

Astrid wasn’t finished. She reached behind her and produced a bag—a rough, brown sack that looked suspiciously like an old potato sack, but far heavier. Elara looked at her, brows raised in question, but Astrid held up a hand, her explanation quick.

“Arrows. Ebony arrows, and a new blade,” she said, almost begrudgingly. “Consider it an extra gift for sending you out only to find nothing.” Her tone softened just a bit, though the edge of irritation remained, as if giving Elara these items had cost her more than just coin.

Elara took the bag, feeling its weight as her heart quickened at the prospect of what it contained. The extra arrows were invaluable, each one a tool of precision. She suspected there might even be a quiver at the bottom. She swallowed down her pride and let a faint, polite smile touch her lips, a gesture of appreciation she could barely muster but knew was necessary.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice even.

She clutched them as if they could be snatched away at any moment, a quiet ache in her chest whispering she might not deserve them. Excused at last, she made her way down the winding stair into the sanctuary’s cavern, the air thick with the mingled scents of iron, moss, and distant candle smoke.

As she entered, she spotted Arnbjorn deep in conversation with Festus, their voices hushed. When she came into view, Festus looked up, his gaze softening as he approached her with a slow, familiar gait. The deep lines etched into his face seemed to tell stories of many lives lived, making him appear far older than he probably was.

"At last, home once more," he said with a faint smile, his tone as nonchalant as always. "Babette's been restless and eager for your return."

Elara returned the smile, though her attention drifted past him. Across the room, she caught sight of Cicero, his expression animated as he spoke to Veezara and Gabriella, both of whom were laughing, clearly entertained by whatever outlandish story he was spinning.

She felt a pang of relief at the sight; despite the tensions, at least they’d accepted him in some small way. She wasn’t completely alone in her defense of him, and the feeling brought her a strange sense of comfort.

She was about to ask Festus if anyone had started preparing dinner when she noticed movement in her peripheral vision. Turning, she saw a familiar figure jogging toward her. Brown hair tousled, face set in its usual unflinching neutrality, Danoc approached quickly, though there was a spark of something in his eyes that softened his expression.

As he reached her, he took hold of her arms firmly, his gaze intense as he smiled, relief evident on his face. “I’m going to kill you for leaving me here,” he said, his voice low but warm. “But gods, am I glad to see you.” He leaned down slightly, eye level with her, the corners of his lips twitching upward.

She let out a quiet laugh, feeling a lightness spread through her as she met his gaze. “You have no idea how much I missed being here,” she said softly.

His smile turned into a mock frown, his tone teasing. “You could’ve at least said goodbye, though. Left me here to suffer alone?” His fingers gave her arms a playful squeeze, and she rolled her eyes. 

But as she opened her mouth to reply, she caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye. Across the cavern, Cicero had stopped talking, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity she hadn’t noticed before. His usually expressive face was oddly still, his mouth a thin line as he stared at Danoc, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

It was subtle, but there was no mistaking it. The look wasn’t one of simple curiosity; it was narrowed, assessing, as though he were sizing Danoc up, evaluating every detail of the man standing so close to her.

A realization dawned on her, and a small, unexpected thrill coursed through her. Was that... jealousy?

She felt her cheeks warm, and though she quickly looked back at Danoc, she couldn’t shake the sensation of Cicero’s gaze boring into her, sharp and watchful. She forced her focus back to Danoc, who was looking at her with an expression caught somewhere between relief and curiosity.

"God, I don't know how you managed it,” he said quietly, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “A whole week alone with him? Did he even let you sleep?"

"It wasn't... terrible," she replied slowly, trying to keep her tone neutral, giving a casual shrug as if it were nothing. Yet, she couldn’t deny a glint of something she’d grown fond of in Cicero. Danoc’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, confusion knitting his features.

A beat passed, and she suddenly felt the need to escape, the weight of Cicero’s gaze too close, too distracting. “I’m actually kind of tired,” she said quickly, sidestepping the question. “I think I’ll rest for a bit before dinner.”

Not waiting for a reply, she ducked past Danoc, keeping her eyes low and avoiding anyone who might be looking her way.

 

---

 

She kept to herself the rest of the night, deflecting Danoc’s prying questions with a few short answers and vague shrugs, even though she could see his curiosity building with every unspoken word. He wasn’t one to let things go easily, but she held her ground, her silence a shield she wasn’t ready to lower.

She knew he didn’t mean harm, but the trust she held in him didn’t quite extend to revealing...whatever it was she had with Cicero. She could only imagine what he’d tell the others if she let even an inch slip, and she certainly wasn’t interested in Astrid catching wind of any of it.

The hours crept by slowly, the faint hum of voices and laughter filtering through her room, a distant reminder of the camaraderie she was missing at the dinner table. But it didn’t take long for the sanctuary to grow quiet. It was late by the time she ventured out of her room, deciding a walk might help clear her mind—and, if nothing else, maybe a snack would settle the gnawing tension that hadn’t let her rest.

The sanctuary was mostly still, save for the soft crackle of a torch or the occasional muffled footstep. She padded down the corridor toward the eating area, her steps light against the stone floors. She knew most had turned in for the night, but as she rounded the corner, she spotted Danoc and Nazir deep in conversation at the table, their voices low and drifting up to where she stood above them, half-hidden in the shadows of the alcove.

“You have to tell me more, you can’t just leave it off there,” Danoc’s voice rose in a playful demand, punctuated by Nazir’s low chuckle. She tilted her head, her curiosity piqued as she leaned forward slightly to hear them better. 

She was about to take a step closer when the faintest scuff of a boot echoed behind her. She straightened, whipping around, eyes scanning the corridor behind her—but it was empty. A chill crept up her spine, every instinct alert.

Probably just one of the others getting a late drink, she told herself, but something about the silence felt charged as if she were being watched. Shaking it off, she turned back toward the balcony, preparing to call out to the two men. 

But before she could take a step, a hand clamped firmly over her mouth, pulling her backward into the shadowed corridor. Her eyes widened, instinctively thrashing against the grip, but her captor was fast—an arm wrapping securely around her waist, and when she tried to throw an elbow, her wrist was caught, held firmly to her side.

"Easy now," came a familiar voice, smooth yet tinged with an almost teasing edge.

Heart still pounding, she narrowed her eyes, glaring up at him as best as she could with his hand still over her mouth. He let out a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying her shock. Slowly, he lowered his hand, his gaze sharp as he took in her reaction.

"Cicero didn’t mean to startle you,” he murmured, though the sly smile said otherwise. “But you’re not exactly quiet when you’re snooping around."

Her cheeks flushed, the lingering adrenaline making her voice come out sharper than she intended. "Snooping? I was just taking a walk—unlike some people lurking around the hallways."

Cicero’s hand drifted up, brushing her hair where it rested on her shoulder, twiddling a loose strand gently between his fingers, his touch both soft and possessive. His eyes glinted as he studied her, a sly smile creeping across his lips. "If anyone was snooping, it was you, waiting for me, weren’t you?” she accused, her voice laced with defiance.

His hand slipped easily to her waist, drawing her closer until their breaths mingled in the narrow hallway. The closeness was reckless, and dangerous—especially so close to the others. But he seemed to relish the way she squirmed, a flicker of triumph in his gaze.

"Cicero apologizes," he murmured, leaning down, close enough to pull away but tempting her to stay. Her eyelids grew heavy as his eyes filled with unmistakable hunger, a fire she recognized, one that mirrored her desire. His touch stirred that same electric thrill she felt every time he reached for her, a familiar heat that tugged her further into his orbit.

“Not here,” she whispered, her voice a breathy plea, though she felt herself slipping, craving his touch as much as he seemed to crave hers. She needed that release, the heat of him against her.

Without a word, he stepped back, but not before capturing her hand in his own, tugging her forward with a smirk, his fingers locked firmly around hers. He gestured with a quick tilt of his head for her to follow, his eyes glinting with promise.

She glanced over her shoulder as they moved swiftly down the hall, her heart pounding with each step. The journey felt like an eternity, but she found herself eager, anticipation building as he led her toward his room, his steps soundless, almost predatory.

He opened the door, and she slipped inside, feeling her pulse race as she took in the small but surprisingly tidy space. Cicero closed the door behind them with a soft click, and for a moment, he simply watched her, the air thickening between them as he stood just out of reach. She bit her lip, her desire stoked by the way his eyes roamed over her, his gaze hungry, his expression raw and intent.

As he approached her, her breath hitched, each step he took fanning the flames within her. His ginger hair framed his face, falling just above his shoulders in a way that made him look rugged, almost wild. She couldn’t help but wonder if he cut it himself, that sharp edge fitting him too well.

He reached her finally, arms encircling her waist, and she found herself tugging him down, her lips meeting him in a clash of urgency. His kiss was fierce, almost animalistic, his fingers digging into her hips as he claimed her with a possessiveness that left her breathless. Her mind hazed as his mouth trailed down her neck, his lips grazing her skin with slow, tantalizing warmth that nearly made her knees give out.

A moan threatened to escape, and she pressed against him, her fingers seeking out the edge of his shirt, slipping under to feel the heat radiating from his chest. His breath hitched as her touch roamed over his skin, tracing the firm planes of his muscles, fueling the ache she felt building inside.

When his hand slid up to tangle in her hair, he tugged her head gently to the side, exposing her neck to his wandering lips. The slight bite he gave her sent a shiver through her, the hint of pain heightening the pleasure, making her gasp. She leaned into him, her hands sliding up his chest and over his shoulders, marveling at how solid he felt under her touch.

His lips traced her jawline, his breath warm against her skin, before finding their way back to her mouth in a kiss that was deep, searing, and left her head spinning. She felt herself losing all sense of restraint, gripping him tighter as his hands slid down her back, finally settling at her hips and tugging her even closer, his fingers digging possessively into her curves.

“Cicero, please,” she murmured against his mouth, her voice a breathless plea that betrayed her impatience. Her hands roamed over his chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt, desperate to feel the warmth of his skin. He seemed to read her mind, his gaze filled with dark promise as he pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion. His hat tumbled to the floor with a faint jingle of bells, the small sound momentarily grounding her as she took in the sight before her.

His body was lean, just as she had imagined, each muscle defined yet understated, his skin marred with a few faded scars that only seemed to make him more magnetic. She reached out, her fingers trailing over his collarbone and down his chest, memorizing each plane, each scar, each rise and fall of his breathing. The way he looked at her, hunger and tenderness mingled in his gaze.

His hands moved with purpose, finding the laces at the front of her tunic, fingers deftly untying them. He never broke the kiss, each brush of his lips, each flick of his tongue claiming her in a way that sent waves of heat through her. With a quick, practiced motion, he yanked her tunic over her head, discarding it carelessly to the floor. The fabric barely had time to hit the ground before he pulled her close again, his hands traveling the bare skin of her back, tracing patterns that left her breathless.

She felt vulnerable, exposed, the thin wrappings around her chest the only barrier left between them, and Cicero’s gaze darkened as he looked at her, his hands hovering there for a beat.

His hand drifted to her chin, holding her in place as his eyes searched hers. She nodded slowly, her eyes locked on his as if to say she understood. He seemed uncertain at that moment as well, perhaps still wondering if he was truly the one she wanted, not merely a placeholder for herself. His fingers traced her jaw, and his lips curled into a soft smile.

She reached behind her, working at the bindings that held her chest securely in place. It took some time, the laces knotted tightly enough to make it difficult to untie with her hands behind her back. Finally, she tugged the fabric free and tossed it away.

His eyes widened as he took in the sight of her exposed chest, his gaze locked on the swell of her breasts in a way that left her nearly panting, his pupils dilated with need. She watched him, her gaze taking in the way his breath hitched before deciding she couldn't take the indecision anymore. 

Without a word, she reached for his shoulders and pushed. The bed creaked in protest, but he didn't fight, letting her topple him back onto the soft mattress. He let out a quiet, startled laugh, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he gazed up at her. His lips were red from her kisses, his hair mussed from her fingers, but still, his expression was teasing, almost taunting. She watched the way his chest heaved, the way his lips parted.

She made quick work of his pants, peeling them off and tossing them to the floor. She noted the way he bit his lip, his eyes never leaving hers as she took in his body, the scars on his abdomen, the way the muscles rippled as he flexed. He was lean and lithe, not nearly as broad as the other men of the sanctuary.

But she could tell that the muscles he did have were earned, not from a year or two of training, but from years of taking on the men who threatened him. It would take a hell of a lot to take down one of his targets, one of the men twice his size, but she'd seen him do it. His hands were strong enough to snap a man's neck, his fingers long enough to reach for his knife when he had been disarmed.

She liked the way his skin looked against hers—pale against her dark—and she took her time in exploring him. She trailed her hands down his thighs, feeling his skin twitch under her touch, goosebumps rising as she inched closer and closer to the final barrier left between them. Her hair cascaded down her back in a dark waterfall, falling over her shoulders and framing her face as she looked up at him.

His breaths were coming out in short pants now, his body tensing under her fingers as if he was afraid to move, afraid to ruin the moment. She bit her lips to stifle her laugh, giving him a sly, knowing smile.

“What’s wrong?” she teased him, light and taunting, and in an instant she was on her back, the breath knocked out of her, her legs parting slightly as she stared up at him, pinned between the man and the mattress. She feigned innocence, but he seemed to enjoy that too.

His eyes darkened, his hips settling between her thighs, pressing down slightly as he let out a deep hum. “Nothing,” he whispered, and his voice was full of delight.

He rocked against her slowly, torturously, and her head tipped back into the pillows, her eyelashes fluttering closed. His mouth kissed down from her jaw to her neck, the path his lips took sending shivers down her spine. Her fingers curled in his hair, holding him close as he kissed further, her breath catching when his lips reached her breasts.

She squirmed when his mouth hovered over her nipple, goosebumps prickling up over her skin as his breath ghosted against the sensitive flesh. Her back arched as he took one between his teeth and he let out a hum of appreciation, his hand coming up to palm her breast.

He glanced up at her occasionally, his gaze dark as he inched closer to the waistband of his pants, his fingers tugging at the cloth, pulling it down. Her underwear followed, and she turned away, feeling a blush heat up her cheeks.

He was looking at her—looking at every part of her, she thought, and it wasn’t something she had ever felt shy about. It wasn’t her first time having a man above her, or under her. When she heard her pants hit the floor, she shut her eyes tightly, not wanting to open them until it was over. She didn’t want to see him looking at her body, didn’t want to know what he was thinking, and didn’t want her doubts about herself to cloud her judgment.

But her eyes flew open when she felt him move down the bed. She could feel his breath tickling against the skin of her thighs, and her fingers curled into the sheets, her knuckles white. He pressed his lips against her thigh and she gasped at the sensation.

“Please,” she whispered, and that was all it took to spur him on. His hands gripped her thighs, spreading her legs wide and moving her closer to the edge of the bed until he had perfect access to what he wanted.

Her hips squirmed under the feeling of his tongue on her, darting over her clit, making her feel like she was being pulled apart and put back together at the same time. His mouth was warm, wet, and everything she could ask for.

One of his hands moved to cover her mouth, muffling her cries of pleasure and leaving her feeling like she was melting, her whole body turning into molten lava under his touch. He added two fingers to the mix, pressing them inside of her slowly. 

She dared a glance down between her legs at him, watching as he licked and fingered her with precision and skill. His gaze met hers, intent, almost hungry as he watched her every movement. His fingers pumped slowly into her, and his tongue moved over her clit faster until she was gasping and bucking under his ministrations.

The moans and whimpers escaping her lips were loud and breathy, the noises echoing off of the walls of the small space, and she could feel herself nearing release, her entire body tensing up in anticipation of the relief she knew was coming. He didn’t seem like he wanted her to stop at any point either. 

Her fingers curled in his ginger hair, gripping it tightly as she pushed him closer, just in case he decided he wanted to change his mind. But he didn’t stop. Not until she felt something inside of her snap right into place. Her whole body shuddered, back arching with a quiet gasp as her release ravaged through her body.

He didn't stop until the last aftershocks faded, before he moved to sit between her legs, his chest heaving from the exertion. He smirked at her and her body relaxed, sinking back into the mattress, but it was short-lived.

She didn't know when he took off his underclothes, but she soon felt him wrapping her legs around his hips, and she could feel his hard length pressing against her sensitive parts. His body was heavy atop hers and she gripped his shoulders tightly, digging her fingers into his skin when he pressed into her slowly.

She felt herself stretching to accommodate him and his face twisted in pleasure, as she was sure hers was doing the same. She moaned as he slid in further, his pace maddeningly slow, and her legs wrapped around him as if she could pull him in further, deeper, all the way inside her.

Finally, his hips pressed to hers and he paused, giving her a moment to adjust. She could feel the pleasure coursing through her body and when he looked up at her, his eyes darkened, his features tight with desire. He began moving inside of her with slow thrusts, gradually picking up speed until the only sound in the room were the sounds of their labored breathing and the slick glide of his cock in and out of her.

His hips rolled against her and every time they collided, his length rubbed against a spot deep inside her, making her see stars. He leaned down to capture her mouth in a heated kiss, his thrusts picking up pace, hitting that spot over and over again. She moaned loudly into his mouth, the sound echoing through the space, and she felt herself growing closer to another orgasm. Her nails dug into his back and he hissed in pain. His lips trailed down to her neck, leaving bites and kisses all over the skin there. He groaned loudly as he bottomed out inside of her and she gasped when he hit that spot again.

Her hips rose to meet him and the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room. His face buried into her neck, breathing heavily, his voice rasped, urging her to let go and come for him.

And she did, her whole body clenching up tight, the wave of pleasure crashing into her. Her breath hitched and he covered her mouth with his own, swallowing the sound with his lips and tongue.

Her muscles finally relaxed and he kept going, his voice in her ear whispering dirty things that she could barely hear over the pounding in her ears. She didn't know when she had wrapped her arms around him, but she did, holding him tightly against her as he continued to fuck her with wild abandon. 

Her senses came back to her and she looked at him through heavy-lidded eyes, taking in how beautiful he looked above her, his face contorted in pleasure. She watched as he finally reached his climax, his cock jerking inside of her and his breath hot against the shell of her ear before pulling out. It seemed like he had tried to not make it as messy as he finished on her stomach but it was useless. 

She felt too lazy to move and watched as he lay down next to her, his arms wrapping back around her. He pulled her close to him and she buried her face in his chest, listening to his heartbeat.

She lay there with him for a while, his warm hand tracing the curve of her back and his chest rising and falling with his breaths, still struggling to slow down. She closed her eyes and tried to absorb the moment. She had been surprised by everything, seeking her out, the way he had touched her, and now lying naked in his bed.

She had gotten used to being alone, and it felt good to have someone around like this. 

A part of her was excited, to feel something like this with someone again, to feel so connected and close, and to know it wasn't just one night. But another part of her whispered darker things, warning her to be cautious, that she didn't know him as well as she thought.

He shifted next to her then, leaning up on his elbow and looking down at her. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were dark with sleepiness. She reached a hand up, smoothing out his hair with her fingers. His hand cupped her cheek, a thumb tracing over her cheekbone.

I can’t tell him now, can I?

 

---

 

Adjusting to Cicero’s sudden closeness wasn’t easy. Since that night, he seemed to relish any chance to catch her alone, pinning her to walls with a wicked grin, his words alternating between playful jabs and whispers that left her heart pounding. She never knew which man she’d get in those moments—a tease who had her laughing, or someone darker, whose words made her skin tingle.

For a while, she’d felt she could navigate this strange shift between them, a secret connection that had woven them tighter together.

But then, his mood shifted again. As the days rolled on, she noticed his patience had frayed, his tolerance for anyone else snapping with every word they dared to say. The only exception seemed to be her; he spoke to her with a familiarity and warmth that he didn’t extend to anyone else.

She tried not to pry, but she couldn’t ignore the way he secluded himself in the Night Mother’s chamber more and more, his behavior growing increasingly erratic. She noticed he had even stopped joining them for meals, slipping away into solitude whenever the others gathered.

Her heart ached watching him retreat. She wanted to pull him back, to understand what weighed on him, but the cold looks Astrid had started throwing her way made her hesitate. Astrid was more than just a leader to them all—she was watchful, always aware of what was happening in the Sanctuary, and lately, it felt like her gaze lingered on Cicero’s every move. 

Whenever Elara would approach him, Astrid’s piercing eyes would follow, her brow furrowed, as though she was on the cusp of discovery.

At least Nazir and Babette didn’t seem to mind her gentle care for Cicero; Nazir’s approving nods and Babette’s occasional grin were small comforts, reminders that not everyone was judging her intentions.

Yet the suffocating presence of their leader, her curiosity growing sharper by the day, left Elara tense, dreading the day her leader might realize what was between them.

Days later, that dread came to life. Elara was in the living area, carefully ladling hot soup into a bowl for him. He hadn’t emerged that morning, and she was determined to coax him into eating something, even if only a few bites. She wrapped her hands around the warm bowl, balancing a spoon beside it when the unmistakable creak of the wooden stairs behind her.

She stiffened, pretending not to notice the woman’s steps as she continued to ready the meal. But as Astrid drew nearer, her presence was impossible to ignore. Elara felt her eyes on her, that same scrutinizing stare, as though Astrid was peeling back layers, searching for whatever she might be hiding.

“So,” Astrid’s voice cut through the quiet, her tone cool and calculating, “you’re playing nursemaid now?”

Elara forced herself to keep her expression neutral as she turned, meeting Astrid’s gaze evenly. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to hold Astrid’s stare without flinching, her eyes hardened in a way that brooked no compromise.

"What do you want now? Or are you here to gripe about me taking care of a friend, this early in the morning?” Her voice was cold, each word laced with barely restrained frustration.

Astrid’s gaze narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. She crossed her arms, her eyes sweeping over her with a mix of judgment and disdain. “He’s a lunatic, Elara. He’s become a problem. He locks himself in that room for hours, muttering to himself. And if he isn’t kept in check, he’ll make us all targets. You’re the only one he’ll listen to, so yes, I’m here to complain.”

Her words dripped with cold certainty as if his fate were already decided in her mind.

Elara felt her fists clench around the bowl in her hands, the warmth of the soup grounding her as she tried to keep her composure. She took a steadying breath, forcing herself to stay calm, but each word that fell from Astrid’s mouth was like flint against her patience.

“He’s as much a part of the Brotherhood as anyone else here, Astrid. You can’t blame him for questioning the way you run things.” Her voice was even but steely, cutting through the tension that filled the small room.

Astrid stiffened, her face a mask of suppressed indignation. “Excuse me?” she said, her voice dangerously low. Elara rolled her eyes, setting the bowl of soup on a nearby table with deliberate care before turning back to face her.

“Yes, your methods. You’ve twisted the code of the Brotherhood to suit whatever personal agenda suits you, and he’s right to be wary of it. He might not be stable by your standards, but that doesn’t make him a threat. You’ve convinced yourself he’s out to get you when he’s done nothing more than speak his mind.”

A tense silence fell between them, Astrid’s face carefully unreadable. Then, with a soft, bitter laugh, she broke it. 

“You must think very little of me as a leader, then. All I’ve done is keep this Sanctuary from falling apart. And ever since the Night Mother arrived, he’s been lurking in that room, insinuating that I need to be ‘educated’ as if I don’t understand the Brotherhood’s history better than anyone.”

Elara’s patience was wearing thin, and she crossed her arms, shifting her weight as she leveled Astrid with a tired glare. “And what does that have to do with me?”

Astrid’s eyes flitted to the side, a slight crack in her usual composure before she let out a weary sigh. “I think you know what I need you to do.”

Elara’s jaw clenched, her hands itching to grab the bowl and leave. “No,” she said quietly, shaking her head. She knew what Astrid was hinting at, but the thought made her stomach turn.

“Elara, please,” Astrid’s voice softened, almost pleading now. “Just one more time. This last thing… I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Elara whipped around, her anger finally breaking through her calm facade. “Fine. But understand this, Astrid: this is it. I’m done after this. I won’t keep betraying his trust.” Her voice was sharp, laced with a finality that left no room for argument.

 The blonde’s face softened, her posture easing as if a weight had been lifted from her. A hint of satisfaction, even relief, flickered in her eyes.

“All I need you to do is sneak into that room when he’s not there, hide in that damned casket if you must, and find out what he’s saying.” She pointed upstairs with a determined look, her words echoing through the dimly lit sanctuary.

Elara sighed a tired, bitter sound, and shook her head. Astrid took the bowl from the table, almost casually, as if the exchange were routine rather than betrayal. “And I…” Astrid continued, hefting the bowl in her hands, her tone slipping into an almost maternal softness that felt false and grating to her ears, “Will bring this to him for you.”

Her gaze sharpened. She felt her stomach twist, her lips pressed into a line. For a fleeting moment, she felt the urge to snatch the bowl back, to shield Cicero from whatever scheme Astrid was planning. But instead, she forced a curt nod, her eyes narrowing as Astrid took her turn up the steps. 

She knew Astrid’s watchful eyes would be on her every movement, waiting for her to fulfill her end of this unwanted deal. And for what felt like the hundredth time, she found herself pushing back the instinct to abandon the plan altogether.

Each step up the narrow, creaky staircase seemed heavier than the last as she approached the Night Mother’s chamber, the only sounds were her own measured breaths and the faint echoes of footsteps fading below. She reached the room, her eyes taking in the dimly lit space.

The Night Mother’s casket loomed ahead, standing tall and closed, an unsettling stillness emanating from it. Elara’s stomach turned as she approached, her gaze sweeping the room for any other hiding place—any alternative to crawling into that cursed casket.

But the chamber was barren, save for the altar and the heavy stone walls, offering her no choice.

With a resigned breath, she reached out and placed her fingers on the cold, unyielding metal, her fingertips brushing against the intricate carvings etched into the surface. She hesitated, feeling her pulse pound in her temples, before finally prying the casket open.

The stale air within rushed out, carrying with it the scent of decay, and there, resting in eternal silence, was the corpse.

The shriveled body lay contorted, mouth frozen open in an eternal scream that clawed at Elara’s senses, scraping against her own deeply buried fears. For a moment, she wavered, feeling as though the corpse's hollow eyes bore into her soul.

She forced herself to look away, steadying her breathing, a reminder that she’d endured far worse. But somehow, hiding among the remains of an ancient, venerated corpse felt like an all-time low, even for her.

She found herself wondering how Cicero endured this daily, spending hours communing with the Night Mother as though the unnatural act didn’t unnerve him. Perhaps he’d been doing it for years, desensitizing himself to the morbid rituals.

The thought gnawed at her, and she wondered if that dark familiarity had anything to do with the madness that had consumed him.

But the sound of hurried footsteps down the hall jolted her back to the present. They were quick and heavy, unmistakably purposeful. Her breath caught as she strained to make out the voices. One came from a very desperate-sounding Astrid.

“I’m just trying to help; you look ill.” Her voice rang out, the calculated sweetness laced with an unmistakable edge. And then, Cicero’s response—a mixture of rage and resentment—echoed through the hall.

“Cicero does not need food! Not from you! Cicero does not need your pity!”

Her eyes widened. They were closer than she thought. Panic surged through her as she quickly shifted inside the casket, squeezing herself into the narrow space, heart pounding as she grasped the casket’s lid. She managed to close it just in time, feeling the claustrophobic weight as the cover settled.

A sliver of light and sound crept through the seam, allowing her to glimpse shadows moving beyond. Cicero entered the room, followed by Astrid, their footsteps distinct on the cold floor.

“She just wanted to make sure you ate,” Astrid said, exasperation tinging her words. Elara gritted her teeth, hearing the disdain behind the fabricated kindness. She could practically picture the forced smile, her irritation barely hidden.

Cicero sighed, long and heavy, the sound filling the room. A moment later, the doors closed with a resounding finality. Silence fell, save for the sound of pacing—his unmistakable, restless gait. Elara held her breath, her muscles tense as she resisted every urge to adjust her position. She was pressed uncomfortably close to the corpse, her body wedged against the cold, unmoving remains.

The pacing stopped abruptly. “Are we alone?” Cicero’s voice broke the silence, sharp and tinged with a raw, erratic energy. Her breath hitched at the intensity in his voice; it was fractured, uneasy, as if he feared betrayal from every corner of the room.

She held still, feeling her heartbeat thunder as he spoke again, his words a murmur almost too low to hear. “The Night Mother will tell Cicero what to do… won’t she?” His tone was pleading, as though he depended on the silent corpse for reassurance, for guidance. A pang of guilt hit her in the stomach.

"Yes… yes, sweet solitude, no one will hear us, will they?" His laughter bubbled up then, the sound high-pitched and almost hysterical, a blend of relief and manic excitement. “No one will disturb us; everything is going according to plan!”

She stilled in the cramped darkness, curiosity and unease warring within her. What plan? She’d dismissed Astrid’s suspicions, convinced Cicero’s eccentricities were nothing more than that. But listening now, hearing the elation in his voice and the way he spoke as if to a lover, her doubts crept back, whispering questions she wished she could ignore.

"I’ve spoken to the others,” he went on, his tone conspiratorial. “They’re coming around, I’m sure of it. The wizard, Festus… he’s cracking.”

His voice held a dark satisfaction, and she felt her stomach twist. She remembered Festus’s often-cynical remarks about the Brotherhood’s changes, often finding himself rolling his eyes when Astrid spoke. Was Cicero… was he trying to sway them?

“Perhaps even the Argonian… and the unchild.” His words dropped to a murmur, his tone nearly reverent. Elara strained against the confines of the casket, pressing herself back against the cold, lifeless form beside her, ears straining to capture every word.

And then, a chilling silence. She held her breath, her heartbeat so loud she feared he might hear it. The silence drew on, stretching so taut that her muscles tightened in anticipation. His voice, a conspiratorial whisper, finally cut through the quiet. “What about you, hm?” he asked, almost cooing, his voice tender and mocking all at once. “Have you… spoken to anyone?”

His footsteps grew closer, each one a dagger of dread as he neared the casket. She squeezed her eyes shut, heart pounding in her throat as she heard him stop, just beyond the door. 

She was trapped, with no way out if he decided to open it. Panic clawed at her as she clamped her hand over her mouth, suppressing the tremor in her breath.

"No, no, of course not,” he muttered, and she heard his breathing steady, though still laced with a frantic edge. “I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing, and the saying!” His voice wavered, desperation breaking through the facade. "And what do you do? Nothing !" His voice erupted in sudden anger, ringing through the room, raw and unhinged.

Her heart skipped, her hands clenching against the sides of the casket as his shout echoed. But before she could fully brace herself, his voice dropped, a self-pitying whimper replacing the fury.

“Not that I’m angry… no, never. Cicero understands… Cicero always understands.”

A hollow, bitter laugh followed. She could almost picture him standing there, shoulders slumped, eyes wild and glistening as he searched the corpse’s empty gaze for something—anything—that might justify his loyalty. His voice lowered to a whisper then, so faint she had to strain to hear him, his tone weighed down by an ache she had rarely heard from him.

“And obeys,” he murmured, barely audible, his voice like the edge of a broken glass.

He went silent, and in that silence, Elara could hear the faintest shudder in his breath, a gasp that trembled on the edge of a sob.

“You’ll talk when you want to… won’t you?” The fragility in his voice stunned her, a pleading desperation that cracked through his madness and left only raw, aching loneliness. It was as though he stood on the precipice of abandonment, bound to a figure that would never respond, bound to a faith that gave him nothing in return.

A pang of sorrow tightened in her chest, but she buried it beneath her resolve. She had agreed to this, even if her stomach twisted at her own betrayal. She’d known Cicero was volatile, but hearing the madness coil so closely around him, she wondered if he was as dangerous as Astrid claimed—or if he was simply a man clinging to what little was left of his sanity. 

He was never like this around her, he always seemed more in control, but lately, he seemed angry at the world. Angry at everything, even the Night Mother it seemed, except her.

The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing in on her as she fought the urge to throw open the lid and free herself from the tight, morbid space. She almost dared to believe Cicero had left, but the doors hadn’t creaked open, and the air still felt thick with his presence. Then, from somewhere close yet unreachable, a voice drifted to her, a voice neither hers nor Cicero’s, and it skimmed across her ears like cold silk, freezing her blood.

“Poor Cicero, dear Cicero,” it rasped, ghostly and ethereal, carrying with it the weight of the grave. Elara’s heart stammered, her pulse a wild drum as she squinted into the darkness. Even within the shadows, the Night Mother’s hollow eye sockets seemed to blaze with a cold, unnatural awareness, as if they bore into her very soul.

"Such a humble servant, yet he will never hear my voice," the disembodied voice continued, jagged and distant, echoing from the corpse at her back. Elara’s muscles tightened, immobilized by the horror of it all. A talking corpse—had the Mother truly spoken to her? Or had the silence finally cracked her sanity?

“For he is not the Listener,” the Mother continued, her voice crackling like dry bones, curling around Elara with something between contempt and fascination. The word Listener struck her like a hammer. 

Elara’s mind reeled, the pieces slowly slotting into place. Cicero, the loyal keeper, driven mad by his silent devotion, had never once heard the voice he worshipped. But here it was, whispering to her, with an intimacy that prickled her skin.

Outside the casket, Cicero’s voice broke the silence, pleading and raw. “How can I defend you? How can I exert your will if you will not speak to anyone?” His desperation carried through the heavy air, the words like fractured glass.

“Oh, but I will speak,” the Night Mother murmured in response, her words laced with dark amusement, winding their way through Elara’s mind like smoke.

"To you… yes, you who share my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones." The voice was no longer merely in her ears—it was in her thoughts, echoing against the walls of her mind, seeping into every crevice until she felt almost lightheaded with its weight.

She swallowed, fighting against the dizziness, her heart galloping as the words continued.

“I give you this task. Journey to Volunruud, speak to Amaund Motierre,” the Night Mother instructed. The chilling clarity of the instruction still rang in her ears, weaving into the fabric of her thoughts. But the voice continued, addressing her with a strange tenderness, a voice untainted by the harshness of the world, old as death itself.

“Tell Cicero the time has come, tell him the words he has waited for all these years.”

Her heart beat wildly, her mind still reeling. “Darkness rises when silence dies.” Before she could fully absorb it, a sound came from behind her. The casket lid flew open, flooding her vision with harsh, blinding light. She squinted, her senses overloaded, blinking rapidly as she adjusted to the shift.

Cicero’s face loomed above her, his expression twisting from shock to anguish, his whole frame quivering as if something fragile inside him had shattered.

“What? What treachery is this?” he stammered, his voice thick with betrayal, cutting through the silence. His gaze locked onto her, flickering with confusion, sorrow, and an impending fury that made her heart plummet.

She opened her mouth, her lips forming words she hadn’t yet pieced together, but he didn’t give her the chance. Fury consumed him, his mouth twisting in a snarl.

“You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother's coffin! Explain yourself!” His voice rose, wild and accusing, and Elara flinched, feeling the intensity of his anger as a physical blow.

“I can explain,” she began, hands raised defensively, her voice calm but edged with urgency. Yet Cicero was beyond hearing her, his hand flying to his dagger in one sharp, swift motion. Elara’s heart pounded as her hand instinctively went to her weapon. She didn’t want to draw it, didn’t want this to end in bloodshed. But she knew he was unhinged enough to strike, and her stomach twisted as she thought of what he might do in his grief.

“Cicero, please!” she pleaded, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and guilt. “Listen to me, I swear, it’s not what you think.”

His face was a canvas of betrayal, each line twisted with pain and anger, making her stomach lurch. He looked as though his very foundation had crumbled beneath him, the weight of it bearing down on her in his fierce stare. She shifted to the side, edging away from the casket and putting a handout, hoping to keep some distance. 

“Liar! Liar, liar, liar! Cicero trusted you!” he spat, his voice cracking in agony as he closed the space between them, his form towering over her. She felt her back press into the cold stone wall, and her pulse raced as his wild eyes pinned her there, his face inches from her own. He seized her wrist, yanking her arm upward and wrenching it with a grip so strong she winced in pain.

The cold glint of his dagger hovered just before her face, her hand barely able to hold his back.

The blade trembled in his grasp, glinting ominously close, and she felt as though if she even breathed, it might nick her skin. Her muscles burned as she fought to keep the knife at bay, staring up at him, her wide eyes searching for some flicker of understanding in his gaze. But all she saw was a ferocity that made her blood run cold.

“Darkness rises when silence dies, ” she blurted out, the words spilling from her lips as she closed her eyes, bracing for the inevitable blow. She expected the bite of steel, a quick, brutal end. But instead, the only sound was the sharp screech of metal striking stone beside her head, the force of the strike shuddering through her.

An uneasy silence fell. His weight still pressed against her, his grip loosening slightly, though he did not pull away. She opened her eyes tentatively, only to find him staring at her, his expression transformed from fury to raw disbelief.

“What?” he breathed, his voice no longer laced with venom but with a tremor. His brow was furrowed, and his gaze flickered over her face, as though searching for some hint of a lie. “She… she said that? Those words… to you?”

The rage had melted from his eyes, replaced with a vulnerable, almost childlike bewilderment. She nodded, her heart still hammering in her chest. “Yes, Cicero. She spoke to me. She told me to tell you.”

The dagger slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground, the sound ringing through the quiet space like a distant chime. He staggered back, releasing her wrist, his entire frame slumping as he tried to process the words.

“The binding words,” he murmured as if testing the phrase on his lips as if he’d waited a lifetime to hear it spoken. His gaze turned hollow as his mouth hung open, almost in a silent plea. “For years… years.”

She took a cautious step toward him, her fingers brushing his shoulder, grounding him back to the present. “Cicero,” she whispered, gentleness filling her voice. 

“That means…” he began, but whatever words he might have uttered were lost as the heavy doors to the chamber clicked open. In a flash, Astrid burst through, dagger in hand, her eyes blazing with fury as they locked onto him.

“By Sithis, this ends now!” she snarled her voice a razor’s edge of anger and accusation. “Whatever you’re planning, it ends here.” Astrid’s weapon was drawn, her stance ready to strike. Elara stepped between them, her hands raised defensively as she faced the blonde.

"Astrid, wait!" she said, trying to hold the volatile situation steady.

“Are you alright?” Astrid demanded, her voice fierce. “I heard him screaming. Who was he talking to? Where is this accomplice he’s been hiding? Reveal yourself!” Her eyes bore into Cicero, who, still in shock, could barely process the chaos unraveling around him.

“I spoke to no one except the Night Mother! But she… she didn’t speak to me! No, no—she spoke to her!” He pointed at Elara, a wild smile breaking across his face as his gaze turned reverent. “To the Listener!”

Their leader’s brow furrowed in confusion, a bitter edge sharpening her tone. “The Listener? What are you going on about, Cicero? What is this lunacy?” She sounded almost disgusted, but even she couldn’t mask the flicker of fear in her eyes.

Cicero only seemed more elated. “It’s true! It’s true!” He laughed, practically bouncing on his feet. “The silence is broken!” He cast a glowing look at Elara as if he could hardly believe she stood before him, this divine messenger of his dreams.

Astrid took a step back, turning her gaze to Elara with a mix of bewilderment and lingering anger. "I heard the shouting. I knew you’d been found, and I feared the worst,” she murmured, her tone softer than usual, almost protective. Her gaze hardened again as she demanded, “What is this he’s saying about you being the Listener?”

Elara let out a slow breath, rubbing her face as if to ease the weight of what had just unfolded. “I don’t know,” she replied, her tone tinged with confusion and weariness. “But she did speak to me. I swear, Astrid, I wasn’t lying. I just… don’t know what it all means.”

Astrid’s frown deepened, as though she was struggling to come to terms with it. “From all we know,” she muttered, “she only speaks to the Listener… and she spoke to you?” Her disbelief was clear, her words tinged with skepticism. But she sheathed her dagger, her movements slow and careful.

Elara nodded, her voice steady as she recounted, “She told me to go to Volunruud… to seek out a man named Amaund Motierre.”

Cicero’s face transformed at this, reverence filling his eyes as he approached her, his gaze softening with something almost akin to awe. Slowly, he raised his hands to cup her face, his touch surprisingly gentle for someone so often unhinged. “You have no idea how long Cicero has waited for you,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a raw, unguarded sincerity in his eyes.

Her own heart trembled, caught between the weight of his devotion and the questions that loomed ahead.

“Do I… do as she says?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath, her gaze flicking over to the blonde.

Astrid’s expression hardened instantly, her jaw set in an iron-clad resolve. “No. I am still the leader here, of this family,” she said, her voice brooking no argument. “She may have spoken to you, but you take your orders from me, Elara.” She stepped forward, her gaze fierce as it pinned them both. “I will not have my authority so easily dismissed.”

For a moment, there was silence. Elara’s thoughts whirled, her mind struggling to keep up with the turn of events. Cicero’s elation, his infectious joy, was still fresh in the air, but Astrid’s anger was like a storm cloud, ready to burst.

She opened her mouth, unsure of what to say, but it was Astrid who spoke again, her voice icy with control. “This doesn’t change anything,” she said, her words deliberate. “You don’t make decisions like this without consulting me. Not now, not ever.”

Elara felt the sting of it, but she nodded, her throat tight.

 “Just… give me time. To think about all this,” the blonde said quietly. 

Without another word, Astrid turned and strode out of the room, her back straight. The door slammed shut behind her, leaving Elara and Cicero standing in the charged silence.

She  let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and turned to face him. She hesitated for a moment, her heart heavy with the weight of the situation. His smile, though still wide and filled with joy, seemed distant now, as if it couldn’t quite reach his eyes. She met his gaze with concern.

“Are you upset?” she asked softly, the words barely escaping her lips. Her voice trembled slightly, betraying her uncertainty.

He blinked, caught off guard by the question. He tilted his head, his brows knitting in confusion as he looked at her, but the smile remained, stubbornly fixed on his face. “Upset?” he repeated as if the concept didn’t quite register. “Angry? Cicero is so happy, so happy that after all this time—”

She cut him off, her hand gently placed over his mouth. His eyes widened in surprise, but she met his gaze, searching for understanding.

“No,” she said quietly, her voice tinged with a quiet urgency. “Are you angry about what I did?”

Cicero seemed to pause, his expression shifting. He stared at her, processing her words, and for a moment, Elara wondered if he would even answer her.

“Cicero… I truly don’t know why you were in there,” he began, his voice soft, “but Cicero is relieved the Mother has spoken.” He smiled again, his gaze searching her face, but there was a sadness in his eyes, a tinge of something deeper.

“I was in there because Astrid thought you were planning something against the Brotherhood,” she explained, her voice cracking as she fought to keep the lump in her throat from rising. “I wanted to prove her wrong. I know it doesn’t excuse it, but I just needed you to know that.”

His expression softened. His hand, which had hovered near her face before, dropped to his side as he nodded. His eyes were filled with understanding, but also with a hint of relief, as if he had been carrying a weight of his own.

“Can you forgive me for that?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. The fear of his rejection lingered in the air, a cold shadow hanging over her heart.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he reached up, his hand brushing her face gently. She flinched, her muscles stiffening at the memory of his hand so close to her, the knife that had almost cut into her skin. But his touch remained tender, almost apologetic. He seemed to sense her hesitation, his expression pained by her reaction.

“Cicero apologizes,” he said softly, his voice heavy with sincerity. His fingers lingered for a moment on her cheek, and despite her lingering fear, she couldn’t help but lean into his touch. She closed her eyes briefly, taking in the unexpected comfort, the warmth of his hand against her skin.

When she opened her eyes again, she gave him a small, strained smile. “Come on, you need to eat something,” she said softly, her voice full of concern.

Chapter 13: Mother Knows Best

Cicero hadn’t been able to contain his excitement after discovering Elara’s newfound role. The day after the revelation, he was never far from her, hovering close by and watching her with a look of wonder. She’d catch him staring at her, his eyes alight with reverence, as though he were looking at some legendary figure brought to life. She might have found it endearing—if not a bit overwhelming—if it weren’t because he had enthusiastically spread the news among the rest of the members.

Danoc’s reaction, however, was far from what she had expected. He’d been shocked, almost stunned, upon hearing that she, of all people, could communicate with the Night Mother.

He’d initially laughed, dismissing it as some elaborate prank Cicero had conjured, but the others quickly set him straight, confirming it with solemn faces. Danoc’s disbelief shifted to something darker; he’d become withdrawn, refusing to look her in the eye or speak with her directly.

Elara could see the tension simmering behind his usually calm demeanor, which unnerved her. Why would her new role, a supposed blessing, bother him so much?

Festus, on the other hand, had welcomed the news warmly. “It’s a sign,” he’d declared over supper, his voice a rare blend of excitement and respect. “A good omen for the Brotherhood! A Keeper and a Listener united—something I thought I’d only ever read about.”

He raised his goblet to her in a toast, his expression approving, but as she glanced at Danoc across the room, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Meanwhile, Astrid remained cool and detached, watching the unfolding events with an unreadable expression. She hadn’t outright forbidden Elara from undertaking the task the Night Mother had given her, but she seemed to be taking her time with the decision.

She wondered if Astrid was merely stalling, testing her patience, or if there was a deeper reason for the delay. It made her restless; the urgency of her task tugged at her, but Astrid’s silent opposition held her back. Perhaps she could help that court wizard with the dragonstone while she waited—anything to distance herself from the unsettling memories of her near-execution.

The next morning, Elara woke to find Danoc standing silently at her doorway, arms crossed over his chest. The sight was so unexpected that her eyebrows shot up in surprise. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, stretching her arms as she gave him a sarcastic greeting, “Good morning to you too.”

But his expression remained fixed, his gaze unwavering, and she could feel the weight of whatever he was holding back.

“What?” she asked, tilting her head, a hint of curiosity in her voice. The bedroom door was still closed, which meant he’d been there for a while. The intensity in his eyes unnerved her, yet she stood up fully, waiting for him to explain.

He shifted slightly, his voice low and steady. “I wanna know something,” he began, his eyes never leaving hers.

She gestured for him to continue, though a prickle of apprehension ran down her spine. “Well? Go ahead.”

He took a step forward, his gaze narrowing. “You and the clown— what’s the deal?”

Her heart skipped a beat, and she felt the ground sway beneath her for a moment. The bluntness of the question caught her off guard. She’d never imagined Danoc would address this so directly. Recovering quickly, she cleared her throat, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “You’ll need to clarify a bit more than that if you want an answer.”

A low chuckle rumbled from him, though his expression didn’t soften. “Fine,” he said. I’ve seen the way he follows you around now like you’re the only person in the room. And you… you don’t seem to mind it.” His eyes held a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place—curiosity mingled with a strange, guarded tension.

She took a steadying breath, folding her arms as if to shield herself. She felt a lie rise to her lips before she could stop it, though even she wasn’t sure why. "I have no idea what you’re talking about. You’re imagining things," she said, her tone sharper than intended.

He looked at her, dumbfounded, then threw his hands up in exasperation. "Lords above, Elara, I am no fool!" he burst out, his frustration thick in the air. "Didn’t we agree—no more secrets?" He pointed a finger at her, his gaze both pleading and accusing.

She frowned, clenching her jaw. "It is none of your business," she hissed, feeling her defenses rise. "I can practically smell the judgment reeking off you."

His shoulders tensed, but he stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Judgment?" he echoed, incredulous. "You vanish for a week, with a man you barely tolerated, and come back like it’s no big deal. Now he follows you around like a shadow, and you’re… the Listener?" He held her gaze, the hurt in his eyes barely concealed. "Had you meant to keep that a secret too? From me of all people?"

Her mind scrambled for a response. She opened her mouth, hesitated, and then finally said, "I don’t even know what we are if that gives you any comfort. But I don’t need to report to you," she finished, her face hard, her voice low.

He closed his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose, then sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Elara," he began, his voice softening. "I’ve known you longer than anyone else here. I wouldn’t have judged you—I couldn’t judge you, even if I wanted to. I mean maybe a little, mostly because I don’t understand what you see in him," he admitted, the words heavy.

She narrowed her eyes, unwilling to let her defenses drop entirely. "Why do you care so much anyway?" she asked, the sharpness of her tone masking the uncertainty beneath it.

He looked at her for a long moment, his shoulders sagging, his expression conflicted. "Because I do. I care, Elara, even if that’s inconvenient for you. I don’t know why I care so damn much… but I do." His arms fell to his sides in a defeated slump.

The guilt she’d been harboring, the one she’d tried to push down for days, surged up, twisting uncomfortably in her chest. She knew he didn’t deserve the coldness, the evasion. She didn’t fully understand her bond with Cicero herself, yet here was Danoc, hurt by something she couldn’t even explain.

He gave her one last searching look before muttering, "Alright. I get it." He turned to walk away, but before he could take a step, she reached out, wrapping her arms around his waist, and pulling him into a tight hug.

She felt him stiffen in surprise, but after a moment, he relaxed, resting his arms hesitantly around her shoulders. The warmth of his embrace was grounding, familiar. She didn’t understand him, or why he’d stayed through all her messes and secrets—but she missed him. Here, with her arms around him, she realized just how much.

He looked down at her, his expression softening as he searched her face. She squeezed him tighter, almost as if afraid he might slip away, her face contorting into a mixture of sadness and relief. 

She buried her face in his shoulder and whispered, "I've never kept a friendship this long. I don’t know how to do this like normal people do." Her voice wavered, barely audible, but she felt the weight of the admission settle between them.

He let out a quiet laugh, a gentle sound that softened the tension between them. She felt him return her embrace, his arms wrapping around her as if he understood the walls she'd let down, if only for a moment. "Believe it or not," he murmured, "I’m not usually one for having friends either."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her brows furrowing with confusion. "Then… why haven't you left by now?" Her voice was almost a whisper as if she feared the answer.’’

He paused, letting out a deep sigh before responding with a smirk. "Maybe I enjoy being around you. Can you believe it?" he replied, his tone tinged with sarcasm, though his eyes held a sincerity that made her heart ache a little.

A tiny smile crept onto her lips as she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring this rare, tender exchange between them. For all the chaos and uncertainty that surrounded her, this moment was a small anchor, something real.

His tone shifted, softening as he added, "But, listen—if he hurts you… don’t say I didn’t warn you. That man’s a damn loon, Elara." His voice was gentle, but there was an unmistakable edge of protectiveness in his words.

She nodded, feeling a warmth spread through her. She stepped back, meeting his gaze, and was taken aback by the tenderness in his eyes. It reminded her of a different time, a different life—of the brothers she once had before her father’s influence had twisted them before they had been turned against her by lies and manipulation. The ache of loss mingled with the strange comfort she felt now, a bittersweet feeling that settled deep within her.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. She didn’t elaborate, but she knew he understood. Danoc gave a small nod as if to say she didn’t have to say more.

She hesitated as if gathering her courage before she spoke again. "I do have one request."

He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head as he waited.

"Do you know where Bleak Falls Barrow is?" she asked. 

---

“There is no way in Oblivion that I will be traveling with him,” Danoc muttered, arms crossed defiantly as he leaned against the wall. His voice carried a stubborn edge, his mouth set in a hard line.

Elara rolled her eyes, undeterred as she spooned a generous helping of venison stew into her bowl. She brought the steaming bowl to the main table, plopping down in a seat and eyeing him, who watched her with all the grumpiness of a man forced into a predicament he didn’t agree with. Nazir sat at the end of the table, sifting through a pile of contracts with his usual quiet efficiency.

“You will, or I’ll leave you here to sulk alone,” she replied, taking a hearty spoonful of stew. The rich flavor of the venison and herbs melted in her mouth, warming her.

She glanced at Danoc, whose scowl only deepened as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

“I don’t think he likes me very much, Elara,” he muttered, his gaze darting nervously around the room as if expecting to see a shadowy figure lurking nearby. “I swear, I can feel his eyes boring into my back every time I turn around.”

She smirked, savoring his discomfort for a moment. “You’re imagining things. If Cicero had a problem with you, you’d know it.”

Babette descended the stairs with her usual quiet elegance, her dark eyes catching sight of the gathering. With a small, knowing smile, she walked over to the table.

“I hear you’re heading out again today,” she said, her voice a lilting melody.

Elara nodded, returning her smile. It always felt strange, talking to someone with Babette's timeless presence. Babette's eyes sparkled with a glint of mischief.

“While you’re out there, would you mind picking up a few supplies for me?” She slid a piece of parchment across the table. 

Elara took the list, glancing over it. “Anything for you.”

Nazir snorted, not looking up from his contracts. “The day I see Babette grateful for anything is the day the world ends,” His tone held a teasing edge, though his words bore the unmistakable hint of truth.

Babette’s smile widened, a trace of smug satisfaction crossing her face. “Irritated already, Nazir? This early in the morning?”

He grunted in response, clearly too preoccupied with his work to be drawn into verbal sparring matches. “So what exactly are you hoping to find in that old ruin?” he asked, finally glancing up at Elara with a bemused expression. “Necromancy’s never seemed your style.”

She swallowed another mouthful of stew, hesitating before answering. “I’m… helping a wizard retrieve a stone.” The words sounded faintly absurd as she spoke them aloud, and she could see the skepticism flash across Nazir’s face.

He shook his head, chuckling dryly. “You are an odd one,” With a shrug, he stacked his papers and excused himself, muttering something about keeping his day “blissfully free of magic stones.”

One by one, everyone drifted off to their tasks. Danoc, still sulking but resigned, left to finish packing. Babette disappeared back up the stairs, her bare feet barely making a sound on the stone floor.

Elara lingered at the table, finishing the last of her stew before rising to her feet. The warmth of the meal bolstered her as she made her way back through the dim halls. As she walked down the narrow corridor toward her room, her steps slowed, her gaze falling on a familiar door—Cicero’s quarters.

She stopped, her hand hovering just shy of the wood. Taking a slow, steadying breath, she raised her knuckles and gave a firm knock. Silence. She shifted her weight, waiting a few moments before leaning in, pressing her ear against the cold wood, listening for any hint of movement.

Nothing. 

Frowning, she knocked again, this time a bit louder. Her hand lingered on the door when, to her surprise, it drifted open, creaking slightly as if it had been left ajar all along. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder, her heart pounding slightly at the eerie silence that filled the corridor.

She stepped inside cautiously, her gaze sweeping over the room. The small quarters were tidy, though they bore the unmistakable mark of Cicero’s odd personality—a clutter of scrolls and ink pots on the small writing desk, stacks of parchment covered in his strange, elegant scrawl. She noticed a few old books peeking out from an open drawer in his nightstand, their covers worn from use. Yet, apart from the usual oddities, there was nothing else out of place.

“Where are you hiding?” she murmured to herself, casting a curious look toward the bed. She dropped down, peeking beneath the bed, but found only a satchel tucked neatly against the wall.

She was just about to stand when she suddenly felt a warm breath ghosting over her ear, sending an immediate chill down her spine. Her heart lurched as a low, all-too-familiar voice whispered right by her ear.

“Boo.”

She shot up, spinning around so quickly she nearly stumbled back, her heart racing wildly in her chest. There, grinning like a madman, stood Cicero, his shoulders shaking as he dissolved into laughter, holding his sides as he struggled to catch his breath. His laughter was wild, unrestrained, a cackling sound that echoed off the stone walls.

She glared at him, though a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Asshole!” she hissed, pressing a hand over her thundering heart.

Still laughing, he doubled over, clutching his stomach, his mirth impossible to contain. “Oh! You should have seen your face!” he managed between gasping breaths, eyes shining with mischief as he looked at her. He attempted to stifle another chuckle, covering his mouth with his hand, but a few bursts of laughter escaped.

Elara crossed her arms, fixing him with a mock glare, though a trace of amusement softened her expression. “Is this your idea of fun?”

He straightened, though his grin remained. “Fun? Oh, yes, it’s the best kind of fun!” He gestured around the room as if inviting her to agree. “The thrill, the surprise, the heart racing—oh, it’s delightful!” He clapped his hands together, his enthusiasm shining in his eyes as he leaned in closer, his face mere inches from hers. “You didn’t think I’d be hiding under my bed, did you?”

She arched a brow, crossing her arms over her chest with an amused smirk. “Knowing you, it wouldn’t surprise me.” She let the comment hang, taking in his gleeful expression before continuing, her voice dropping just a touch. “I’m heading out. Came to ask if you wanted to join me.”

His eyes brightened, a flicker of excitement quickly overtaken by something more hesitant. His hands fidgeted at his sides, and though his face lit up, she noticed the slight shift in his body language, the way his fingers drummed against his thigh in an anxious rhythm. She leaned closer, raising an eyebrow knowingly.

“Unless, of course, you’d rather stay here and keep Mother company,” she teased with a sly smile, brushing past him.

As she turned to leave, she felt his hand catch hers, tugging her back with a gentle but insistent grip. She couldn’t help the small smile that spread across her lips. When she looked up, his expression had softened, something vulnerable in his gaze.

“Mother will be fine,” he murmured, voice low, his eyes searching hers with a flicker of something deeper. “Just like last time. But Cicero…” He trailed off, shifting uncomfortably as if admitting his worry would make him weak. “Cicero is just… concerned.”

A faint smile touched her lips, and she reached up, brushing her fingertips against the tilted edge of his hat, straightening it in that familiar way. He watched her in silence, his eyes following her every move with quiet fascination as if the world had narrowed to this small gesture.

“We’ll move fast,” she promised softly, her hand lingering on his arm in reassurance.

His eyes glinted, and he leaned in closer, his expression shifting into a playful smirk that she couldn’t help but find endearing. “Oh, Cicero thinks it will be fun! Just the two of them, once more—”

She held up a hand, cutting him off, biting back a small laugh. “Well, not quite. Danoc will be joining us.”

His smile faltered, just for a second, the briefest shadow passing over his face before he forced the grin back into place. “Oh, joy,” he replied with a forced cheerfulness, his voice just a shade too bright. “Yes, yes… the ever-cheerful. What fun they’ll have together. Cicero can hardly contain himself.”

She could almost envision it now: the inevitable clashes between the two men, the thinly veiled insults and dark glances that would surely fill the air between them. She half expected them to come to blows before they even left the sanctuary grounds.

“Meet me outside,” she instructed, her voice taking on a firmer edge. “You’ve got one hour. And, Cicero…” Her gaze softened. “Try to play nice.”

He gave her a mock bow, pressing one hand to his chest with dramatic flair. She shook her head, stifling a laugh, before she turned on her heel and left him standing there. As she made her way down the corridor, she rubbed the back of her neck, a small wave of uncertainty tugging at her.

Was it wise to go on this trip, especially with these two at each other’s throats?

She mulled over the question as she gathered her things, securing her pack and making sure her weapons were in order. She walked through the winding corridors, the echoes of distant voices and the steady drip of water from the cave ceiling grounding her in this familiar, yet cold, place.

She passed by a few closed doors, the faint murmurs of conversations barely audible through the thick wood, until she reached the main cavern that led to the sanctuary's entrance.

Just as she approached the stone steps leading up to the exit, a familiar sensation prickled at the back of her neck. She felt eyes on her—sharp, unyielding, and observant. Slowing her pace, she turned, glancing over her shoulder.

There, standing in the shadowy corner of her room, was Astrid, her blonde hair catching the dim torchlight as she leaned against the wall with crossed arms, her gaze piercing. It was as if she had been waiting for this moment.

Elara raised an eyebrow, her fingers tightening instinctively around the bow slung across her shoulder, clutching it almost like a shield. She wasn’t sure why her presence stirred a sense of caution, but something in the air between them felt charged.

"Heading off, are we?" Astrid’s voice was low and calm, but laced with something unspoken.

Elara gave a curt nod, meeting her gaze steadily. "I am," she replied, her voice steady though a knot of unease twisted in her chest.

Astrid straightened, her cool gaze unwavering, a look of contemplation crossing her features as she took a measured breath. "I’ve made my decision," she announced suddenly, her eyes fixed intently on her.

Surprised, Elara raised her eyebrows, feeling the tension in her fingers ease slightly. "And the verdict?" she asked, her tone careful, respectful but curious.

Astrid’s expression hardened, her jaw setting as she looked down, a faint glint of resolve in her eyes. "Go. Meet with Amaund. But you report directly to me—got it?" Her voice carried a sharp edge, one that made it clear that she expected no disobedience.

Elara held Astrid’s gaze, seeing the faint vulnerability hidden behind the mask of authority. She understood what lay beneath that hardened exterior—the woman had felt her authority undermined, challenged by forces beyond her control.

A small nod. "Understood. I’ll be back in a week with news," Elara replied, her voice soft but firm. She turned, beginning to walk away, but some part of her wanted to look back, to read whatever emotion lingered in Astrid’s expression.

She could almost feel the burning gaze fixed on her, as if Astrid’s restrained anger was boring into the back of her skull, lingering like a ghostly heat. But she kept her eyes forward, steady and resolute.

Ascending the stone steps to the sanctuary’s entrance, the cool outside air swept over her, cutting through the musty warmth of the cavern like a welcome relief. A light rain had started to fall, misting the landscape and veiling the path ahead in a soft, silvery haze. She pulled her hood up, shielding herself from the rain’s gentle patter, feeling its cold touch seep into her skin.

She paused for a brief moment, closing her eyes and letting the rain wash away the lingering tension, feeling the weight of the sanctuary fall away. For a moment, the world felt quiet, as if the rain had hushed everything but her heartbeat. Then, the familiar creak of the sanctuary door broke the stillness, pulling her back to reality. She turned to see Danoc slipping out, glancing around before his eyes landed on her. 

He was dressed for travel, his worn leathers fitting him like a second skin, his bow strapped across his back. A small satchel hung at his side, but otherwise, he carried little. Smart, she thought, traveling light was wise.

As he approached, his expression was tense, and he kept glancing over his shoulder. 

“God, have you noticed how unnerving Astrid is getting?” he murmured, leaning close so only she could hear. “I swear she glares at me every time I pass by her. Like she’s waiting for me to mess up.”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes, tugging her cloak tighter against the cold drizzle. “Welcome to the club,” she muttered. “She and her husband deserve each other.”

He snorted, nodding in agreement. He adjusted his satchel, then gave her a sideways look.

“Alright, so—easy job, right? We get in, get out of the ruins, and no trouble.” He glanced at her as if looking for reassurance, and the moment he caught her expression—a slight cringe—his brows furrowed. “What?” he pressed, leaning down to search her face. “What’s that look for?”

She winced a little, knowing he wouldn’t like what was coming. “And... we’re going to Volunruud,” she said cautiously.

As expected, Danoc’s face fell instantly, and he groaned in loud displeasure, his voice echoing into the misty morning. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Elara,” he said, throwing his hands up in frustration. “If I’d known that, I would’ve packed more!”

She offered a placating smile, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm, her tone calm and reassuring. “Look, I get it. But it’ll be quick, I swear. Astrid gave me the go-ahead.”

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He glanced at her with a mix of exasperation and worry.

“We’ll be fine,” she replied, rubbing her hands together to keep warm as the rain started to fall a little heavier. She tilted her face up, giving him a small, confident smile.

His lips quirked in a half-smirk, half-grimace. “Right, because trudging from one crumbling ruin to the next is my idea of fun.” His sarcasm was a thin veil for his reluctance, and she could sense his misgivings about the whole journey.

As if on cue, the sanctuary door creaked open again, and this time, her gaze lingered on the figure emerging she truly wanted to see. 

He moved with that familiar, almost spectral grace, his cloak she got him sweeping behind him as he approached, his face split in a wide smile. In contrast, he carried almost nothing—a small pouch, no more than a few vials and trinkets. His presence was as unsettling as it was oddly comforting to her.

Danoc’s eyes narrowed his expression hardening. “Oh, wonderful,” he muttered under his breath, tone flat but laced with irritation. “Glad you could make it.”

For a fleeting moment, she caught the faintest twitch in Cicero’s eyes—a flicker that would have been missed by anyone not paying close attention. His smile remained, but it was somehow sharper now. He looked directly at Danoc, a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Ah, but Cicero couldn’t possibly leave the Listener in less… capable hands,” he replied, his voice slipping into that sing-song tone he used whenever he was itching to provoke.

Elara sighed quietly, sensing the tension between them rising like smoke. Already, they were off to a rocky start. Danoc’s jaw clenched, and his lips parted as if to retort, but she shook her head and began walking, deciding to preempt whatever was about to come next.

The chill from the rain bit into her, and she wrapped her cloak tighter, bracing against the brisk wind and the discomfort settling in her gut. As they moved through the forested path, the canopy of trees offered only sparse protection from the rain, and her boots quickly became caked with mud.

The walkthrough Falkreath passed uneventfully, though the silence between the three of them was palpable. But as they neared Riverwood, Danoc finally broke the silence with a question that made her stomach twist.

“I have to ask,” he began, the edge in his voice unmistakable, “Did you kill your parents by chance, Cicero? I never hear you talk about them.” His tone was casual, but the question itself was anything but.

Her brows knit together, feeling a mix of discomfort and curiosity. She didn’t turn to look at either of them, though her steps slowed slightly. The question seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unyielding.

Cicero’s laughter rang out, high and sharp. “Why, I am offended, my dear friend,” he replied, every syllable dripping with mockery. “To think Cicero would be so callous, to off his own dear parents.” His tone was playful, but she could hear the darkness simmering beneath it, the words half a taunt, half a warning.

In truth, she knew next to nothing about Cicero’s past. What little she did know had been fed to her in small, carefully measured doses, moments of vulnerability he seemed to grant on a whim. And even then, she could never be sure if he was being sincere or simply telling her what he thought she wanted to hear.

Cicero was a man who held his secrets tightly, his loyalty belonging to her only insomuch as it served the Night Mother. Yet, there was something about the way he looked at her, the flicker of something almost possessive, that made her stomach tighten.

She clenched her jaw, shoving the thought down, though she felt a pang in her chest, a reminder of her own family. Her mother’s face flickered to the surface of her mind, unbidden, and she swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat.

“What about your family?” Cicero shot back, his tone deceptively light. “A perfect, happy little home life?”

“Cicero,” she murmured, her voice a little softer, almost a warning.

He looked at her, his expression softening just slightly. For a moment, she saw a flash of something genuine in his eyes, as if he could sense the weight of her thoughts. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by his usual manic grin.

Danoc, though, didn’t seem amused. His brow furrowed, lips pressed into a line of irritation. The irony wasn’t lost on her; he had been the one to stir the pot with his question, yet now he wore the look of someone regretting it.

“It was not for the faint of heart, I’m afraid,” Danoc finally replied, his voice edged with reluctance. She could practically feel Cicero’s curiosity sharpen, his head tilting ever so slightly as he took in Danoc’s words.

“Oh?” Cicero cooed, his eyes glinting with mischief. “How mysterious. Cicero thinks the brood is embarrassed,” he teased, the sing-song lilt in his voice both playful and provoking. She could hear Danoc’s exasperated sigh behind her, heavy and resigned.

She cast a glance over her shoulder, catching sight of Danoc’s stiff posture, his jaw set in a silent warning. “I never knew my mother, so my father raised me,” he admitted, his voice quieter than before, touched with something she couldn't quite place. She knew it had cost him something to say that much.

She turned her gaze forward again, hoping the conversation wouldn’t drift her way. But Cicero was relentless. “Cicero isn’t convinced, oh no, no,” he said, leaning in closer, his tone mocking yet strangely probing. “The brood must be hiding something, why else would he be so cold?”

And then Danoc turned to her. “Elara, you’ve been quiet,” he called, his tone deceptively light. She shook her head, waving him off as she adjusted her cloak around her shoulders.

“Not a fun topic, guys,” she murmured, voice barely audible. “Why don’t you two find something a bit more uplifting to talk about? So I’m not thoroughly depressed by the time we get there.”

There was a slight pause, then, almost as if to placate her, the two men began muttering to each other in a lower tone, and she let their voices blend into the background, sinking into her thoughts as they continued the walk.

They reached Riverwood soon after, and the familiar sights stirred a mix of nostalgia and quiet relief. The village had a simplicity to it—a warmth, despite the weather. Chickens scurried across the dirt road, clucking in alarm as they passed by. Somewhere further down, the distant mooing of cows mingled with the faint clang of a blacksmith’s hammer.

She passed the inn, catching sight of a few villagers going about their day. Two children ran down the street, one chasing the other while a dog bounded behind them, barking gleefully.

A gentle buzz passed her ear as a few bees drifted by, the delicate hum of their wings tickling her senses before they landed on nearby wildflowers, drawn to the bright blooms. She felt a brief smile tug at her lips, a quiet appreciation for the life and color around her.

As they neared the center of the village, she was about to turn and ask the men if they needed to stop by any shops before heading out again, when a figure in the distance caught her eye.

She froze, her gaze narrowing as she squinted to get a better look, ignoring the bustle of villagers passing through her line of sight. An inexplicable pull tightened in her chest, like an invisible thread tethered to her, urging her forward.

Her heart began to thud as she registered the figure—a stooped, elderly woman with long, silvery-gray hair that cascaded over her shoulders, partly hidden beneath a heavy cloak. Shadows played over her face, concealing her features, but Elara was certain she recognized her.

She'd seen this woman before in Whiterun, watching from the shadows with the same enigmatic presence. A chill crept down her spine, the ambient sounds of the village fading into a dull hum.

The woman shifted, turning slightly as though aware of Elara’s stare, and without warning, she moved off the road and slipped into the trees at the village’s edge. Elara’s heart jumped as she hastily took a step forward, almost breaking into a run, hoping to catch up before the woman vanished. She could feel the thrum of urgency in her limbs, every fiber of her being drawn toward the forest where the stranger had disappeared.

Just as her pace quickened, a hand shot out, gripping her wrist and snapping her back to reality. She blinked, her trance broken, and whipped her head around to see Cicero holding her firmly, his eyes wide with concern. His grip was steady, grounding her, but not forceful.

“Elara, where are you going?” Danoc’s voice was sharp with confusion, his gaze darting between her and the forest as he came up beside them. His expression was hard to read, but there was a hint of apprehension in his eyes.

Her breath hitched as she glanced back toward the woods, pointing to where the woman had disappeared. “There was a woman,” she insisted, her voice breathless, tinged with something close to desperation. “She was right there. I saw her…”

Danoc looked in the direction she pointed, his brow furrowing as he scanned the empty path and the tree line beyond.

“Elara, you just sprinted across town toward… nothing.” His voice held a skeptical edge, tinged with unease. She could see him exchange a glance with Cicero, but the jester remained unusually silent, his gaze shifting between her and the woods.

The weight of their stares brought a flush of embarrassment to her cheeks, and she swallowed, rubbing the back of her neck. “I… I thought I saw someone I knew, I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

He finally released her wrist, though his hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary, as if reluctant to let go. His usual manic energy was absent; instead, his eyes held a gravity she rarely saw, and for once, he seemed at a loss for words.

They turned back toward the inn, and she felt his hand press gently against the small of her back, guiding her with a subtle reassurance. His touch was steady, protective even, as he walked beside her, casting an occasional wary glance over his shoulder at the forest edge.

Chapter 14: Deep in the Mountains

"Don’t look back. Don’t look back," Elara muttered under her breath, forcing herself forward just as another bandit’s arrow whizzed past, close enough that she could feel its cold bite in the air beside her cheek. She threw herself behind a broken-down stone pillar, her pulse racing as she pressed her back against the rough, crumbling stone. 

The sound of rapid footsteps closed in behind her, and she took a steadying breath, clutching the hand axe she’d yanked from the belt of one of the bodies she’d already dropped.

The approaching bandit’s footsteps were loud and heavy, their pace relentless. She could practically feel his presence on the other side of the pillar, hear the hiss of his breath in the cold, snowy air.

Just as his sword sliced around the corner, scraping against the stone, she ducked low, then launched herself forward with a fierce shout, catching him at the midsection. His weight was solid—much heavier than she anticipated—but the impact sent them both to the ground with a bone-rattling thud.

He landed hard, his head bouncing against the icy ground, and she wasted no time. She straddled him, eyes wild with adrenaline, and raised the axe high above her head. The bandit’s eyes flashed with fear as his hands came up instinctively to shield himself, but she brought the axe down in a brutal, final arc. The blade buried itself deep in his skull with a sickening crunch, his body twitching once before going still beneath her.

She stood, panting heavily, wiping her brow with a blood-streaked hand as she glanced down at the lifeless form. She felt a faint shiver of disgust twist through her, though it was quickly overtaken by the ruthless practicality needed to survive out here. She braced her boot against his chest, heaving with all her strength to wrench the axe free, the blade emerging slick and dripping with blood. She shook it off, casting her gaze over the ruins around her.

The ancient structures were collapsing in on themselves, fractured stone and half-frozen rubble littering the snowy landscape. Only a few pillars and walls still stood intact, casting eerie shadows over the carnage. Scattered bodies dotted the ground, their weapons abandoned beside them, stained crimson against the snow.

She spotted Danoc a little ways off, creeping up on another bandit who was obliviously aiming his bow in her direction. As their eyes met, the bandit’s face twisted in recognition, his fingers twitching on the bowstring—just as Danoc’s blade flashed, slicing his throat in one clean stroke. The man staggered, dropping his weapon, and collapsed, joining the rest.

Satisfied the immediate threats were dealt with, Elara approached cautiously, her boots crunching over the snow, sidestepping bodies with practiced ease. As she neared, she noticed Cicero crouched beside one of the fallen bandits, holding up a battered iron helmet with an odd expression, his head tilted in apparent contemplation.

She raised an eyebrow, coming up behind him. "Don’t worry," she said with a small, breathless laugh. "I think he’s dead."

He turned his head, his usual smirk flickering across his face, though there was a touch of mischief in his eyes. He quickly reached down to cover the dead man’s ears, putting a finger to his lips and shushing her with exaggerated solemnity. "Shh! He doesn’t know that!" he whispered mockingly, eyes glinting with humor.

She rolled her eyes, a faint grin breaking through her exhaustion. Before she could respond, Danoc jogged over, his breath visible in short, puffy clouds as he panted, wiping his blade on the snow-stained edge of his cloak.

"Gods," he muttered, glancing around at the mess they’d left behind. "I know there’s going to be more of them inside." He huffed, eyeing the crumbling entrance to the ruin looming just ahead.

She stepped past them both, the sharp sting of cold snowflakes brushing her cheeks as she forged ahead, her breath clouding in the chilled air. Her eyes locked on the broken-down entrance, the remnants of a once-formidable stone fortress now weathered and half-claimed by nature.

Large iron doors barred the way, heavy and imposing, etched with deep carvings that had faded over the years. She cast a glance over her shoulder at Danoc, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "We get in and out. Simple, right?"

Danoc scoffed, trailing behind her. "I don’t make a habit of breaking into ancient crypts. Doesn’t sit right with me." His gaze shifted to Cicero, who was practically vibrating with barely contained excitement, his wide smile unsettling in the faint light. "But maybe this man does," Danoc muttered, pointing his knife in the jester’s direction.

There was no mistaking his thrill, and the underlying joke had so many layers that Elara decided she’d rather not unpack them all.

She silenced them with a raised finger to her lips, signaling them to quiet down. She wrapped her fingers around the cold iron handle, steeling herself as she pushed the door open with deliberate slowness, expecting the hinges to creak. But, to her surprise, it swung open almost silently—just far heavier than she anticipated.

Once inside, she was greeted by the stale, damp air of the ancient ruin, mingling with the faint warmth of sunlight filtering through the fractured ceiling above. Shafts of light spilled into the cavernous space, illuminating the floor and casting elongated shadows.

Ahead, the cavern opened up to a wide chamber. Flickering torchlight revealed a gathering at the back of the room, where several figures sat around a makeshift campfire, their voices low and indistinct. The faint smell of something roasting filled the air—likely the dead skeevers littering the ground near the fire, their bodies plump and bloody.

Elara’s nose wrinkled as she stepped over them, keeping her footsteps light, gesturing for the men to follow.

Danoc glanced at her, then motioned to the right, silently indicating his path around a large stone pillar that blocked their view. She nodded, gesturing to Cicero to follow her left as they crept along the outer edge of the room, edging closer to the campfire and the bandits gathered around it.

From their vantage, Elara could make out the details of their targets. A burly woman in iron armor was crouched over the fire, slowly turning a skewered skeever, the smoke curling around her head. The men beside her wore mismatched pieces of leather and chainmail, some with helmets obscuring their faces.

One of them, his brown hair spilling out from beneath his helmet, looked restless.

"He should have been back by now," the woman grumbled, her voice as rough as gravel. She stabbed at the fire with a stick, frustration simmering in her tone. "How do we know he isn’t dead?"

The man with the helmet gave a dismissive shrug, leaning back as he prodded a blade at the fire absentmindedly. "I know just as much as you do. We’ll give him a little more time. I’m not in the mood to go looking for him, especially if it means running into more of those… things."

Elara caught Cicero’s gaze, a silent nod passing between them as he moved with almost eerie quiet, slipping behind the iron-clad woman. Just as the other man opened his mouth, impatience lacing his words, Danoc emerged from the shadows, swift and lethal. He kicked the seated man squarely in the back, sending him sprawling forward, and in one fluid motion, drove his dagger deep into the man’s back, silencing him before he could even cry out.

At nearly the same instant, Cicero’s hands clamped around the woman’s head, his gloved fingers digging into her skull as he twisted sharply, snapping her neck with a sickening crack. Her body slumped forward, her face frozen in shock.

The last man standing had turned his attention to Danoc, desperation flooding his eyes as he swung wildly, his sword slicing through just the edge of Danoc's cloak. But Danoc moved with precision and purpose, slipping past the man’s strikes with practiced ease. In a single, fluid motion, Danoc brought his dagger up and drove it into the bandit’s chest

The man’s blade clattered to the floor, his lifeless body following soon after. Elara exhaled slowly as the cold room settled around them. She walked over to the campfire, warming her hands by the crackling flames, feeling the fleeting comfort of the heat seeping into her cold fingers. She took a seat on one of the logs the woman had been occupying.

Danoc had already turned his attention to a small, battered chest tucked into the corner of the room. He crouched down in front of it, pulling out a set of lockpicks, his movements deft and focused.

“There shouldn’t be too many of them left inside,” he said, his voice low as he worked the lock. “Maybe a handful. But I have to warn you, I’ve heard stories about these ruins.”

She looked up, her curiosity piqued. “Just a bunch of dead Nords lying around, aren’t there?” she asked quietly, though a hint of apprehension colored her tone.

He glanced at her briefly, his expression grim as he shook his head. “No. Not just dead ones.” He returned to the chest, the lock finally giving way with a soft click. He opened it, his gaze flicking up to meet hers. “I’d watch where you step.”

She watched as Danoc rummaged through the chest, pulling out a small sack of gold and a few scattered gems. He tossed a ruby over to Cicero, who caught it easily in one hand, his eyes glinting with a mischievous light as he held it up to the firelight.

Turning to her, he studied her for a moment before reaching for her hand. His fingers wrapped gently around hers as he placed a gem into her palm, blood-red shining back at her.

“Cicero thinks it matches your eyes,” he murmured, a small smile quirking his lips as he watched her.

She looked down at the ruby in her hand, taken aback. It was an unexpected gesture, soft in its way, and something about it unsettled her. She wasn’t accustomed to such kindness, especially from people who rarely looked at her without seeing her heritage— her eyes symbolized many things to them, like being a demon reborn.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, glancing up at him before pocketing the gem. 

Elara had never understood what it truly meant to be cared for. From a young age, she had been convinced that being born amidst death meant death would never leave her. It wasn’t just a presence; it was a shadow, creeping into every corner of her life, staining even the fleeting moments of light. The memories of her past were etched deeply into her soul—fragments of ash and sorrow interwoven with fleeting hopes that crumbled like dried leaves in her hands.

She remembered the flames as vividly as if they burned before her now. They devoured her home, their greedy tongues licking the night sky as she stood helpless, her legs trembling beneath her. When the fire was done, there was nothing left. Ash coated her skin, pale and suffocating, like a grim shroud binding her to the ruins of her life. Her family was gone, their lives snuffed out as if they’d never mattered. Her siblings, so full of life, laughter, and unfulfilled dreams, had perished, while she—just her—was left to endure the aftermath.

Why her? Why did the world leave someone like her behind when so much goodness had been taken? The question haunted her, whispering insidious doubts into her mind even now. The streets had been her home after that, her survival tied to what little her father had hidden away before death claimed him too. Every coin spent felt like blood money.

She followed Danoc and Cicero deeper into the ruin, the air thick and heavy, reeking of damp stone and decay. 

The faint flicker of torchlight illuminated the narrow, crumbling passage ahead, casting long, eerie shadows that danced on the walls. Danoc moved with caution, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade, while Cicero followed close behind, humming a strange tune under his breath. Elara brought up the rear, her footsteps muffled against the ancient stone floor.

The ruin seemed endless, its walls lined with deteriorating urns and carved niches that once held offerings long forgotten. Some were overturned, spilling their contents onto the cold stone floor. Time had worn everything down, leaving only fragments of what must have once been a place of reverence or power. 

As they approached a staircase that spiraled deeper into the ruin, something caught her eye. A faint glimmer of light danced in the corner of the room, drawing her attention to a small stone resting atop a pedestal. It was no larger than her palm, its surface smooth and iridescent, glowing faintly in the orange torchlight.

Curiosity tugged at her, and she stepped closer, her eyes scanning the area for any sign of traps. But there was no hidden mechanism, no telltale grooves in the stone to suggest danger. She reached out, her fingers brushing the stone before lifting it carefully from its resting place.

The stone was colder than she expected, sending a chill through her hand. It was deceptively heavy, its weight dense and grounding, as though it held more than just its physical mass. Turning it over in her hand, she inspected its surface, marveling at the way it seemed to shimmer, the colors shifting like a living thing.

“Never seen a soul stone before?” Danoc’s voice broke the silence, pulling her attention. He had stopped near the staircase, his gaze lingering on her as she held the stone.

She glanced at him, shaking her head slightly. “No,” she admitted softly, her voice almost lost in the stillness.

He gave her a faint smirk, gesturing toward the stone with a tilt of his head. “That’s a small one. Probably enough to trap the soul of a deer, maybe something a bit bigger if you’re lucky.”

She frowned, her thumb brushing the surface of the stone as she looked down at it again. “Trap a soul?”

He chuckled, his voice carrying a faint edge of sarcasm. “That’s the gist of it. Used in enchanting, mostly. Handy for magic types or anyone who doesn’t mind dabbling in a bit of the macabre.”

She slipped the stone into her pocket, its weight now a strange comfort against her thigh. Danoc moved ahead, dispatching a group of skeevers that lunged at him from the shadows. The rodents hissed and clawed, their beady eyes glinting in the torchlight as they threw themselves toward his blade.

Their bodies crumpled to the ground, leaving the stairway slick with blood and the smell of death thick in the air.

Elara darted past Cicero, her curiosity igniting like a spark in a dry brush. How much of the world had she yet to understand? She had grown up knowing magic as something tangible, accessible—anyone could be a mage with enough study or skill. But this? The ability to trap a soul within a stone? It felt otherworldly, dangerous, and impossibly vast.

“Where do they come from? What do they enchant?” she demanded, her steps quick as she caught up to Danoc.

He slowed his pace, glancing back at her with a raised eyebrow. “Enchanting weapons? Armor? Ring any bells?”

Her face twisted in confusion, her furrowed brow betraying her ignorance. His expression shifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before a smirk settled in. “Damn, how sheltered were you?”

Her cheeks flushed, but she didn’t respond.

He sighed, gesturing toward the pocket where she had placed the stone. “The stronger the soul, the stronger the stone needs to be to hold it. When you enchant something—be it a blade, armor, or even a trinket—you have to give something back. Magic like this takes. It doesn’t come free. These stones,” he said, tapping the side of his head as if to drive the point home, “they’re how you replenish it. But they don’t last forever. Use up the magic, and you’ll need to refill it with another soul.”

His tone was so casual, as though discussing the weather or sharpening a blade. “How?” she pressed, her voice sharp with urgency. “How do you trap the soul? How do you do it?”

He slowed to a halt, holding up a hand to quiet her as they passed walls thick with cobwebs, the silken strands glittering faintly in the torchlight. “Hold on, hold on—” he began, his tone low, but she wasn’t finished.

Her lips parted to press him further, but a scream in the distance cut her off.

Her head snapped to the side, her ears straining to pinpoint the source of the sound. The cry was desperate, echoing through the tunnel.

“Help me!” The voice was frantic, filled with raw fear. “Please! Whoever’s there, help me before it comes back!”

Her grip tightened on her axe as her pulse quickened. Cicero moved closer, his expression more intrigued than alarmed.

Danoc gestured for silence, leading them deeper into the tunnel. The cobwebs grew thicker, clinging to the walls in dense sheets that obscured the stone beneath. The white strands stretched across the path like veils, their delicate beauty at odds with the foreboding they inspired.

She reached out to brush one aside, but it clung to her glove like sticky silk, refusing to release until she pulled hard. The sound of her breathing grew louder in her ears as they approached a doorway entirely covered in webbing. The cries were louder now, coming from just beyond.

Danoc drew his knife, the blade glinting as he sliced into the thick webbing. The strands parted with a soft tearing sound, revealing a narrow gap.

The voice was closer now, trembling with desperation. “It’s still here! Please—hurry!”

She exchanged a glance with Cicero, who tilted his head as if savoring the tension in the air.

The cries of the man bound in the back of the room intensified, echoing against the cavern’s damp walls. He was suspended in a grotesque cocoon of thick webbing, his limbs awkwardly sprawled and immobile.

Her heart plummeted as the realization struck her like a thunderbolt. Whatever had done this wasn’t a typical spider. It was far worse.

Her breath hitched when the massive creature descended from above with a thundering crash, its sheer weight shaking the ground beneath her feet. The beast’s legs stretched unnervingly far, their sharp points scraping against the stone with an eerie screech. Its body was a mass of bristling, dark fur, each strand twitching with movement. Its many glinting eyes reflected the flickering torchlight, fixating on them like tiny mirrors of malice.

She staggered back, her wide eyes darting to Danoc. She had encountered the smaller, goat-sized spiders before, but this? This monstrosity dwarfed even her worst imaginings.

Before she could fully react, the creature reared back and spat a stream of viscous liquid at them. She threw herself to the side, barely dodging as the substance splattered against the wall, burning through the webbing with an angry hiss. The acrid smell assaulted her nose, and she wondered with a sickening pang how it would feel against flesh.

“Go for the abdomen!” Danoc’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding as he darted to the side, narrowly evading one of the spider’s swinging legs. The creature’s fangs, glistening with liquid, snapped in the air as it lunged for him.

Elara’s stomach churned as she clutched at her pouch, fumbling to find anything useful. Cicero’s hand wrapped around her wrist, yanking her back just as one of the spider’s legs slammed down where she had been standing.

Her fingers finally closed around a small vial. She didn’t even check what it was before uncorking it and pouring its contents over the blade of her axe. The sharp, acrid smell of poison mingled with the air, and she clenched her jaw as the creature rounded on them.

Cicero was already moving, darting in to slash at one of its legs. The spider hissed, its attention momentarily divided. Seizing her chance, Elara lunged forward, sliding on the ground beneath the beast’s belly.

The world above her turned into a nightmare of twitching legs and sickly fur, the stench of venom so overpowering she gagged. Summoning her courage, she swung her axe upward with all her strength, driving it into the underside of the creature’s abdomen.

The spider let out a high-pitched, ear-splitting screech that rattled the air around her. The beast jerked violently, and she tried to wrench her axe free, but the weapon was stuck fast.

Before she could react, one of its legs lashed out, catching her in the side and sending her sprawling across the stone floor. She landed hard, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. She managed to save her head from slamming into the ground, but pain blossomed in her ribs.

The spider turned on her, its movements a blur of rage and hunger. She barely had time to raise her arms as it lunged, its massive fangs descending toward her.

She screamed through clenched teeth as she gripped the sides of its head, trying desperately to keep the venom-dripping fangs from piercing her skin. The creature’s weight bore down on her, pinning her to the ground. Her muscles strained as she pushed against it, her boots scraping against the stone in a frantic attempt to gain leverage.

The venom on its fangs dripped onto her exposed hands, and the pain was instant and searing, like fire eating through her skin. She bit down on her lip to stifle her cries, tears welling in her eyes as the burning spread. She kicked wildly, desperation flooding her as her body screamed in protest.

Then, mercifully, the creature’s weight shifted, its legs faltering as a loud, wet squelch tore through the air. Danoc had struck its abdomen, the force of his blow so powerful she could see its innards spilling out, glistening and grotesque in the torchlight. The spider’s screech filled the cavern, a sound that rattled her very bones.

She flinched as droplets of venom sprayed from the beast’s snapping jaws, splattering her cheek. The acidic burn bit into her skin, and she turned her head away, wincing as the sting radiated through her face. The creature reared back, writhing in agony, but it wasn’t enough to kill it.

Before the spider could recover, Cicero darted forward, his movements eerily fluid. His blade found its mark, driving deep into the spider’s grotesque head. The beast let out one final, bloodcurdling screech before its massive body convulsed and crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Elara gasped for air, her chest heaving as she scrambled away from the corpse. Her hands burned, the venom’s sting relentless despite the lack of visible wounds. Frantically, she wiped her hands against her clothing, desperate to rid herself of the sensation.

Cicero was at her side in an instant, his hands moving with surprising tenderness as he grasped hers, turning them over to inspect the damage. His expression was sharp and focused, his lips pressed into a thin line as his eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” she said hurriedly, her voice trembling despite her attempt at reassurance. He ignored her, his jaw tightening as he continued his examination. His touch, though gentle, still sent fresh waves of stinging pain through her hands.

Before either of them could say more, the man still trapped in the webbing shouted, his voice trembling with relief. “Oh, thank the gods above you came in time!”

Danoc shot the man a glare, clearly unamused by his outburst. He yanked Elara’s axe free from the spider’s body with a grunt, its blade slick with ichor, before striding over to her. Without a word, he pulled out a flask and began pouring water over her hands, the cool liquid a soothing balm against the venom’s lingering burn.

Cicero finally released her hands, but his frustration was palpable. He hovered close, his gaze flicking between her face and the man still suspended in the webbing.

“If you could get me down now, that would be great!” the man called again, his tone shifting to impatience.

Cicero’s posture stiffened visibly, his hand twitching toward the knife at his hip. Elara frowned, opening her mouth to question him, but Danoc cut through the tension by stepping forward.

“Hold still,” he said flatly, approaching the man with measured caution. He began slicing through the webbing, layer by layer, while Cicero and Elara lingered close, their unease growing with every moment.

She couldn’t shake the tension in Cicero’s stance, the way his fingers seemed ready to close around his blade. Something wasn’t right.

The final strands of webbing fell away, and the man tumbled to the ground in an ungraceful heap. He groaned, rubbing his wrists, but the grateful expression on his face twisted into something darker.

Before she could process what was happening, the man leaped to his feet with startling speed and bolted toward the tunnel’s exit.

“Idiots!” he shouted over his shoulder, his voice dripping with mockery.

Cicero didn’t hesitate. He surged forward like a shadow, shoving past Danoc with such force that the larger man stumbled back into Elara. She caught Danoc, steadying him as the two of them watched the jester vanish down the hallway, his movements swift and relentless.

“What the—” Danoc began, his voice trailing off as Elara surged forward, clutching her axe with trembling hands. Her pulse thundered in her ears as they rushed through the narrow tunnel.

The air grew heavier with every step, and then it came—a sharp, guttural scream that tore through the silence, sending a shiver racing down her spine. She stumbled briefly, the sound freezing her in place, but Danoc’s steady presence behind her pushed her onward.

The scream dissolved into something wetter, more grotesque—the unmistakable sound of a blade slicing through flesh, followed by a series of choking gurgles. Then, an eerie silence fell, its weight as oppressive as the stagnant air around them.

They rounded the corner, skidding to a stop. Elara’s breath caught in her throat. Cicero stood over the lifeless body of the man, his knife dripping with crimson that glistened in the dim light. The body lay face down, limbs awkwardly splayed, with a growing pool of blood spreading beneath it.

Cicero’s posture was unnervingly still, his shoulders taut as he stared down at his handiwork. The twisted satisfaction on his face made Elara’s stomach churn—a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his wild, gleaming eyes.

Danoc hesitated, his hand briefly reaching out to stop her, but she ignored him. She stepped forward, her boots splashing faintly in the blood as she approached the clown. Her heart ached at the sight of him like this, teetering on the edge of something dark and unspoken.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice trembling but steady enough to carry through the suffocating tension. 

Her fingers brushed his arm, barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve before he recoiled as if burned. He spun to face her, his eyes wide and frantic, the haunted look in them a jarring contrast to the eerie satisfaction she’d glimpsed moments before.

She froze, her hand hovering in the air. The conflict etched into Cicero’s face was raw and unguarded—guilt tangled with shame, and beneath it all, a deep, unrelenting sadness that made her chest tighten. His lips parted, but no words came, only shallow, ragged breaths.

“Cicero, it’s me,” she tried again, softer this time.

His gaze flicked to hers, then dropped to the bloodstained knife in his hand. His grip tightened briefly before he seemed to register her presence fully. He stepped back, his movements jerky, as though he was pulling himself from an invisible grasp.

Elara reached for him again, determined to bridge the distance between them, but he sidestepped her touch, just enough for her hand to miss. The rejection stung more than she cared to admit.

“Cicero—” she started, her voice breaking, but Danoc’s firm hand on her arm stopped her. She turned to him, confusion and frustration warring on her face.

He leaned in his voice barely above a whisper. “Just give him a moment,” he said, his tone heavy with understanding. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, softened as they flicked briefly to the body.

She swallowed hard, glancing back at Cicero. He stood frozen, staring down at the body with a distant expression. His lips moved, muttering something too quiet for her to catch, his knife still clutched tightly in his fist.

Danoc offered her a weak, reassuring smile before shifting his focus to the dead man sprawled at their feet. The sight of him like this—distressed and so utterly lost—tore at her. She ached to comfort him, to say something, anything, to pull him back from whatever dark place he’d fallen into. But the distance he kept between them felt insurmountable.

Her gaze dropped to the body sprawled between them. A flicker of frustration and anger sparked within her as her eyes caught on a satchel fastened to the man’s hip. Without hesitation, she knelt, her knife flashing as she sliced through the strap. The satchel was heavier than she’d expected, its contents shifting with a dull thud as she dumped them onto the floor.

A metallic clatter echoed through the tunnel, and her breath caught as something golden tumbled free. It gleamed under the dim light, a stark contrast to the grime and blood that surrounded it. Elara’s hand hovered over it for a moment before she picked it up—a large golden claw, its edges sharp and pristine.

Danoc knelt beside her, his eyes narrowing as he leaned closer. Symbols were etched along the claw’s surface, intricate depictions of animals, their details so fine they seemed almost alive under the flickering torchlight.

“What is it?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the lingering tension.

Danoc shook his head, his fingers brushing cautiously against the claw’s razor edge. “I’ve got no clue,” he murmured. “But it’s beautiful. Looks like we’ve found out why he ran.” His tone was calm, but there was a note of unease beneath it as if the object’s presence carried a weight they didn’t yet understand.

She nodded, turning the claw over in her hands, but her focus shifted as the sound of frantic pacing broke through the stillness. She looked up sharply to see Cicero. He moved like a caged animal, his hands gripping his hair as his head shook violently as if trying to expel whatever haunted him.

“Hey,” she called softly, rising to her feet. Her voice was gentle, but it didn’t reach him.

Danoc stood as well, his voice firmer. “Cicero, hey buddy, what’s going on?”

Cicero’s wild eyes darted to him briefly but didn’t stay. His movements grew erratic, his breaths shallow and uneven. Danoc took a step closer, his hands outstretched in a placating gesture.

“Just talk to me,” he said, his tone steady, closing the distance. But as he reached out, Cicero’s knife flashed in an arc, narrowly missing his face by mere inches.

Elara gasped, the world narrowing to the two men locked in a dangerous struggle. Danoc reacted quickly, his hand snapping up to seize Cicero’s wrist, halting the blade mid-swing. The muscles in Danoc’s forearm tensed visibly, his calm exterior strained as he wrestled the knife from Cicero’s grasp.

The knife clattered to the ground with a sharp, metallic ring, and Cicero’s body sagged as though the fight had drained the last of his strength. His chest heaved with rapid breaths, his face contorting with anguish.

Her heart raced as she realized what was happening. He’s panicking, she thought, her stomach knotting at the sight of his raw, unguarded vulnerability.

Danoc didn’t hesitate. He gripped Cicero’s shirt with both hands and shook him hard enough to snap him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Hey! Focus on me, breathe!” he barked, his tone cutting through the haze.

The jester’s wild eyes locked onto Danoc’s, his frantic gasps faltering as he blinked, confusion and recognition mingling in his expression. His hands clenched at his sides, shaking as his gaze darted around the room, but Danoc didn’t let go.

“Breathe. Slowly. In, then out,” he said, his voice firm but gentler now, guiding him through the motions.

Gradually, Cicero’s breathing steadied, his shoulders loosening as the tension seeped from his body. Danoc released him, stepping back just enough to give him space. “Good,” he said, nodding in approval. “See? You’re alive. Everything’s okay.”

She watched, her chest tight with a mix of relief and lingering worry. Cicero stood still, his hands trembling slightly as he stared at the ground. The haunted look in his eyes hadn’t entirely faded, but at least now, he wasn’t on the verge of unraveling.

Danoc broke the silence with his usual straightforward tone, though his words carried an uncharacteristic softness. “We still have to get through this. Are you good to keep going or not?”

Cicero’s head lifted slightly, and he nodded. His breath came slower now, less ragged, but his movements still felt detached, like he was fighting to ground himself.

Elara swallowed the emotions welling inside her, forcing herself to push forward. She stepped ahead of the men, her fingers brushing the claw’s smooth surface before she stashed it in her bag. The weight of it was heavier than she expected, the bulge in her pack awkward and obtrusive, but she ignored it.

She didn’t dare look back at Cicero, afraid that even a glance might unravel the fragile thread of calm he was clinging to. Her stomach churned with guilt and frustration, a bitter reminder that she didn’t know how to help him, not really.

Danoc had stepped in when it mattered, diffusing the moment, and she felt a pang of uselessness. She shook her head, pushing the thought away, and quickened her pace, the rhythmic sound of their footsteps behind her grounding her slightly.

The tunnel opened into a wide room, and Elara froze mid-step, her eyes widening at the sight before her. A lone man stood in the center of the chamber, his silhouette stark against the faint light filtering through cracks in the stone walls. In front of him loomed a heavy iron gate, cutting off the rest of the passageway.

Her breath hitched as the man muttered to himself, seemingly unaware of their presence. His attention was fixed on a lever embedded in the floor.

“This should be right,” he mumbled, his voice low and almost resigned.

The moment his hand gripped the lever and pulled it, chaos erupted.

Hundreds of poison darts shot from the walls in a deadly cascade, their tips glinting ominously. The man’s scream barely lasted a second before his body was riddled with projectiles. He crumpled to the ground, his limbs twitching grotesquely before going still.

The stench of poison hung heavy in the air, mingling with the coppery tang of blood. She forced herself to breathe, her eyes darting around the room as she fought to make sense of the trap.

“It’s a puzzle,” she murmured aloud, her voice trembling slightly.

“What?” Danoc asked, stepping up beside her. His tone was sharp, though not unkind.

She pointed toward the far side of the room, her eyes narrowing as she studied the space. Above the gate, carved into the stone balcony, were a series of engravings: animals etched in intricate detail. They were similar to the designs on the claw, though not identical.

He followed her gaze, his brow furrowing as he took in the details. “So what, the lever’s a decoy?” 

She stepped cautiously into the room, the crunch of shattered darts under her boots echoing in the silence. Her eyes scanned her surroundings, landing on another set of stones along the left wall. Unlike the balcony’s carvings, these stones seemed to be movable. Curiosity outweighed her hesitation as she approached, reaching out to touch them. The surface was cold and slightly uneven, and when she applied a gentle push, the stones shifted, spinning lightly under her fingers.

Her gaze darted back to the balcony, her mind piecing the clues together. “Snake, snake, fish,” she murmured, her voice barely audible as her eyes flicked to the broken stone near the lever, lying jagged and displaced from its original place on the wall. The symbols were worn but decipherable.

Taking her time, she methodically turned each stone to align with the pattern above. Her movements were careful, her breath held as if the wrong push might set off another deadly trap. Once the final stone clicked into place, she straightened, eyeing the lever with determination.

"Wait—" Danoc’s voice cut through the quiet, his hand instinctively reaching for her.

But it was too late. Elara gripped the lever and pulled, closing her eyes in anticipation, bracing herself for the sting of darts. The silence stretched for a heartbeat too long.

Instead of pain, the sound of grinding metal filled the room. The gate groaned as it slowly creaked open, revealing the path ahead. Elara’s eyes snapped open, a triumphant grin spreading across her face as she turned to him.

“I should be angry that you just risked your neck pulling that,” he said, his tone exasperated yet impressed. “But damn it, you got it right on the first try.” He shook his head, his mouth twitching into a faint smile.

Her grin faltered, however, when her eyes found Cicero lingering behind them. He stood motionless, his expression distant, his gaze fixed on some unseen point. It was as if he wasn’t even present in the moment, his thoughts trapped in some darker corner of his mind.

She glanced at Danoc, who gave her a knowing look and a small nod. Unsheathing his weapon, he stepped toward the now-open entrance.

 “I’ll take a look ahead,” he said quietly, his voice low but steady. Without waiting for her response, he disappeared around the corner, leaving her alone with Cicero.

She hesitated before stepping closer to him, her chest tightening at the emptiness in his eyes. “Cicero?” she asked softly, searching his face for any flicker of emotion. But his gaze remained downcast, avoiding her entirely.

The sight broke her heart. Furrowing her brow, she reached out and placed a gentle hand on his chest, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. His hand shot up suddenly, gripping hers—not with force but with a startled desperation. For a moment, he looked at her, his wide eyes filled with sadness so raw it made her throat tighten.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she stepped closer, her other hand lifting to brush against his face.

His jaw tensed, and he looked away briefly, his lips parting as though searching for the words. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and unsteady. “Cicero doesn’t know,” he said, shaking his head as if he were speaking of someone else entirely. “He only saw you hurt and...” His voice trailed off, his grip on her hand loosening.

“And what?” she urged gently, tilting her head as she tried to meet his gaze again.

His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, it looked as if he might crumble completely, his frame trembling under the weight of whatever storm raged within him. "You're the Listener," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're important."

The words struck her, not as a compliment, but as something heavier, more profound. Her brow furrowed, and she swallowed the lump rising in her throat, her eyes searching his as though trying to pierce through the walls he kept so tightly drawn around himself. 

"Is that the only reason?" she asked, her voice quiet but unwavering.

His eyes widened slightly at her question, the vulnerability in her tone cutting through the haze of his thoughts. He looked down at her, his gaze softening in a way that made her heart ache. There was something unspoken there, something fragile yet powerful, but he gave no words to explain it. She wished desperately that she could understand what flickered behind those eyes.

"It's okay," she said after a pause, her voice gentler now. "You don't have to tell me right now. But... maybe someday?" She bit her lip nervously, her uncertainty laid bare in the small gesture.

He hesitated, then gave a small nod, almost imperceptible. Relief and frustration mingled in her chest, but before she could pull away, he stepped closer. His hand shot out, grabbing hers with surprising urgency, and guided it back to his face.

She blinked in surprise, her breath catching as he pressed her palm against his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her touch, roughened slightly by stubble, though it was clear he had shaved recently. She hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do, but when his eyes fluttered closed and he leaned into her hand, she let herself relax.

Her fingers brushed against his jaw, tracing the subtle curve with a feather-light touch. His breath hitched ever so slightly, and when his eyes opened again, she saw something there that made her stomach twist. Possessive.

No, it wasn’t just that. It was deeper than that. The raw intensity in his gaze as he drank in the moment made her chest tighten, but she couldn’t look away. This wasn’t mere attachment, and she knew it wasn’t some fleeting gesture of comfort either. 

His expression softened further, the tension in his shoulders ebbing as if her touch alone could quiet the tempest inside him. There was no smile on his lips, but his face spoke volumes—contentment, peace, something akin to fragile happiness. He looked better, steadier, though his reluctance to let go was painfully obvious.

Her thoughts spiraled, battling logic and emotion in equal measure. What was this? she wondered, her heart racing as her hand remained on his cheek. To her astonishment, he leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering closed. It wasn’t an obsession, though. Or maybe it was. She wasn’t sure anymore.

Her fingers continued to graze his skin, almost of their own accord. Her heart ached with every passing second, a war waging within her. Don’t get your hopes up, she told herself sternly, biting down the swell of emotions threatening to consume her. This isn’t real. He’s unstable, and this is just another one of his strange antics.

But then she saw him—truly saw him. He looked so handsome like this, so utterly human in his vulnerability. His eyes, when they opened briefly, held an intensity that terrified and thrilled her all at once. There was no hiding from the emotions that danced there, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

Her heart whispered treacherous thoughts. Am I good enough for this? For whatever this is? Her mind screamed at her to stop, to snap out of it, to walk away before it was too late. But her heart... her heart wanted more. It wanted all of it—all of him. 

And if the way he clung to her touch was any indication, he felt the same. Yet the realization terrified her. She knew what this was—what it could be—but uncertainty gnawed at her. She understood her feelings, as jumbled and overwhelming as they were, but him? She had no idea what stirred behind his intense gaze or what he would allow himself to admit.

Her thoughts spiraled as he shifted slightly, tilting his head. Her breath caught in her throat when he pressed his lips to her palm, the touch warm and tender. It sent a shiver down her spine, and her knees nearly buckled under the weight of her emotions. His lips lingered for a moment before he lifted his gaze to hers, his expression raw and unguarded. She felt like she was staring into a mirror, her feelings reflected on her.

He leaned down slowly, giving her a chance to pull away if she wanted—but she didn’t. His head tilted, his movements careful, deliberate. When his lips met hers, soft and searching, the world around her faded to nothing.

Her eyes fluttered shut as her heart pounded in her chest, heavy with emotions she couldn’t fully process. A tear threatened to spill, but she held it back, determined not to let it fall. Her fingers, hesitant at first, slid into his hair. The strands were softer than she had imagined, and she let herself get lost in the sensation.

The kiss deepened ever so slightly, and she melted into him, giving in fully. It was as though she poured every ounce of her confusion, longing, and hope into that single moment. Time stretched and bent, making the kiss feel like it lasted an eternity, though it was over far too quickly.

He pulled back, but only just, his forehead pressing gently to hers. She opened her eyes, finding him staring at her with an intensity that made her chest ache.

It was as though he was seeing her, truly seeing her, for the first time. And the way he looked at her... she couldn’t remember anyone ever looking at her like that. Like she was the center of his universe.

She wanted him to speak, to give her some assurance, to say the words she so desperately needed to hear. But the silence between them stretched on, heavy with unspoken meaning.

“Hey, you guys ready?” Danoc’s voice broke through the quiet like a thunderclap.

Elara flinched slightly, her head turning to see him standing a few feet away, his brows raised in mild surprise. The moment shattered, and she felt Cicero stiffen. His eyes flicked to Danoc, his jaw tightening.

Cicero gave a brief, reluctant nod, pulling away from her as though he were peeling himself from a dream he didn’t want to leave. The absence of his warmth was immediate and jarring.

He stepped back, his hand lingering at his side for a moment before he turned and followed Danoc down the tunnel.

Elara stayed rooted where she was, her heart still racing. She wanted to call out to him, to say something, anything that might preserve the fragile connection they had just shared. But her voice refused to come, and all she could do was watch him walk away.

She trailed after them, her steps sluggish and heavy. Her eyes were fixed on the back of Cicero’s head as if she might find answers there in the sway of his movements.

Chapter 15: Parts left to meet

Summary:

Accidentally posted this chapter sleepily on another story of mine, I'm a dumbass excuse me lmao

Elara couldn't keep her thoughts in order. It was as though the past few months had twisted her reality beyond recognition. The execution that should have ended her life had been the start of an impossible journey, one that now had her wandering through the depths of a Nordic ruin in search of a stone that might not even exist anymore. The cold, damp air of the crypt clung to her skin, and every crunch of bone underfoot was a grim reminder of the lives that had been lost here. 

The ruins themselves bore the marks of bandit intrusion—scattered supplies, overturned linens, and old campfires—but the sealed gate from earlier told her that no one had made it further. It brought her little comfort. With every step deeper into the ruin, unease gnawed at her, whispering that they might not be on the right path, that they were trespassing where they didn’t belong.

The torches lining the walls flickered and dimmed, their flames sputtering like they were suffocating in the still, stale air. For a brief moment, she wondered how dark it would become if the torches went out entirely.

Her voice broke the silence, soft but deliberate. "I have to ask, do you know how to trap a soul?"

Danoc’s stride didn’t falter, though his brow arched slightly. "I do. Why?" he asked, stepping over a tangle of knocked-over linen cloths.

"You seem to have a lot of answers for things," she admitted, watching him carefully.

He shrugged nonchalantly, glancing back at her with a faint smirk. "Was fancy on a girl once. She taught me a lot of things." His tone was light, but the way he turned his head back to the path ahead hinted at something he wasn’t willing to elaborate on.

Cicero walked ahead in silence, his steps steady but his presence almost ghostlike. Occasionally, she felt his gaze drift to her, but he said nothing. The man was nothing if not inconsistent—warm one moment, cold the next. It kept her on edge.

A sound echoed faintly through the tunnel ahead. It was subtle at first, like shuffled footsteps in the distance. Elara’s instincts flared, and she reached out, grabbing Danoc’s arm to stop him.

"Yeah, I heard it too," he said quietly.

She took the lead, her steps cautious as the narrow tunnel opened into a larger chamber. The walls were lined with stone alcoves, each one housing a skeletal body. The remains varied in size—some large and imposing, others smaller and fragile. They looked dead enough, but something about the room felt... wrong.

The faintest groan broke the silence, a sound that sent a chill racing down her spine. It wasn’t human, nor entirely unnatural like tendons straining to move.

Danoc leaned over one of the skeletal remains, his expression skeptical. "Don’t touch it," she warned sharply, her voice a strained whisper.

But of course, he didn’t listen. His hand hovered near the body when, without warning, it flinched.

The corpse’s bony fingers gripped the stone wall, and it hauled itself upright with an unnatural fluidity. Elara’s eyes widened as the thing rose to its full height, its jaw falling open in a piercing, ear-splitting shriek.

Danoc stumbled back, unsheathing his weapon as the creature bent down, picking up a rusted sword that had been lying beside it. Its glowing blue eyes fixed on them, cold and malevolent, and it moved with a speed that belied its decayed appearance.

Elara barely had time to react. The creature lunged at her, its blade swinging in a deadly arc. She raised her axe just in time, the clash of metal-on-metal sparking between them. The impact jarred her arms, and she gritted her teeth as the weight of the creature bore down on her.

With a guttural yell, she pushed back, forcing the thing to stumble just enough to swing her axe at its torso. The blade bit deep, but it wasn’t enough to stop it.

More shuffling footsteps echoed from the tunnel ahead. She whipped her head around just in time to see two more of the creatures staggering into view, their glowing eyes locking onto her with predatory intent.

Cicero lunged forward, shoving the corpse that had been pinning her to the ground. Elara seized the opportunity, her axe already in motion, swinging with a grunt of effort. The blade bit deep into the creature's neck, and it crumpled to its knees with an unsettling groan. She didn’t hesitate—another swing and the axe cleaved through bone, leaving the corpse lifeless at her feet.

Nearby, Danoc was caught in a fierce struggle with two of the animated corpses. He managed to disarm one, sending its rusted sword clattering to the ground, but the second—armed with an axe—closed in with frightening speed. The swing came dangerously close to his head, and he ducked just in time, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow. Grabbing the discarded sword, he parried the next attack, but it was clear he was barely holding his own.

Elara yanked her bow from her back, her trembling hands fumbling as she drew an arrow from her quiver. Her breath came fast, and her fingers felt clumsy as she nocked the arrow and pulled the string taut. She aimed for the unarmed corpse, releasing the arrow with a sharp twang. The arrow struck its back, but the creature didn’t falter. Instead, it turned its head toward her with a sickening crunch, its glowing eyes narrowing. It let out a shriek that reverberated through the crypt, a sound so piercing it made her teeth ache.

She steadied her aim and fired again, this time between its glowing eyes. The arrow struck true, piercing through its right eye socket. The creature stumbled and collapsed in a heap at her feet. Without thinking, she kicked its lifeless form away, her instincts screaming that she needed to keep moving.

A shout drew her attention, and her heart leaped into her throat as she saw Danoc tumble to the ground. The last of the corpses—a larger, thicker monstrosity than the others—had him pinned, its skeletal hands gripping at his throat. Danoc struggled beneath its weight, his sword knocked from his grasp.

Elara raised her bow again, her hands shaking as she tried to get a clear shot. The draugr’s jerky, unpredictable movements made it impossible to aim without risking a hit to Danoc. Swallowing hard, she adjusted her aim and loosed the arrow. The shot struck the side of the creature’s head, punching through bone and exiting through its jaw in a splinter of fragments. It reeled but didn’t fall.

Dropping her bow, Elara sprinted forward, drawing her knife in one swift motion. She grabbed the creature from behind, yanking it off Danoc with all her strength. It thrashed violently, its bony hands clawing at her hair and armor as it tried to turn on her. She gritted her teeth, locking her arm around its neck in a headlock.

"Hold still, you bastard," she growled, her voice tight with exertion.

With her free hand, she drove her knife into the draugr’s skull, the force of the strike reverberating up her arm. The bones cracked under the pressure, and the creature went limp, collapsing forward onto the stone floor. She stumbled back, panting heavily, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath, her face twisting into a triumphant smile as she glanced down at the corpse.

She prodded the unmoving creature with the tip of her boot, her curiosity overriding her unease. Its glowing eyes had gone dark, and its body was now nothing more than brittle bones and decayed flesh.

“Something must have them upset,” he continued, his gaze scanning the chamber with suspicion. Elara wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, and frankly, she didn’t want to know. Animated corpses were more than enough for one night. The thought of dealing with more left her stomach twisting in knots.

Cicero, however, seemed thoroughly unfazed. He was humming—a jaunty, unsettling tune that felt at odds with their grim surroundings. His smile widened as he looked down at the now-lifeless bodies strewn across the floor as if he found some dark amusement in the scene. Danoc shot him a squinting glance, his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line, before muttering something under his breath and stalking further ahead.

Elara couldn’t help but notice the tension between the two men. Raising an eyebrow at Danoc’s retreating form, she stifled a chuckle when Cicero caught her eye and winked. It was clear the jester was enjoying himself far too much, likely relishing the effect his behavior had on the brunette.

“You’re terrible, you know that?” she whispered with a shake of her head, her lips quirking into an involuntary smile.

“Cicero has no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied airily, though the mischievous glint in his eye betrayed him completely.

She rolled her eyes, but inwardly she was relieved. It was a strange comfort to see him acting like his usual self again. 

Their banter was interrupted by Danoc’s exasperated voice echoing from up ahead. “Fuck. Unless you two geniuses know how to get past this, we’re screwed.”

Elara frowned and headed toward his voice, the faint sound of swinging metal growing louder as she approached. She rounded the corner and found him standing with his hands planted on his hips, staring at the next obstacle with a mixture of irritation and resignation. Three massive axes, each as tall as a man, swung rhythmically across a narrow doorway. The grinding of the chains and the screech of metal on metal made her wince.

"Well, that's... wonderful," she muttered, chewing her lip.

“Gods,” she muttered under her breath, chewing on her lip as she assessed the trap. “There’s got to be a lever or something nearby to stop it.”

Danoc snorted, not even bothering to glance her way. “Already looked. No lever. No switch. Just death on repeat. Seriously, Elara, you had to pick this place?”

She blinked at his sudden outburst, her brows knitting together in irritation. “Hey, I didn’t pick it! Don’t act like I dragged you here blindfolded. How was I supposed to know any of this was waiting for us?”

He threw up his hands and let out a heavy sigh, pacing a few steps away. "Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? Because we’re not getting through that." He jabbed a finger toward the swinging axes and leaned against the wall, looking defeated.

Elara clenched her jaw, biting back a retort as he turned away. She inhaled deeply, forcing herself to calm down. Sheathing her knife, she stalked back toward the corner where her bow had fallen during the fight.

“Cicero thinks he can do it,” the jester’s voice piped up behind her, light and nonchalant as if he were offering to fetch her a drink.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide with disbelief. “No,” she said firmly, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Absolutely not.”

He merely shrugged, tilting his head as he studied the swinging axes. “Cicero is nimble. Quick. Cicero is not afraid of a little dance.”

She could feel her frustration bubbling to the surface. “You’re not doing it,” she repeated her tone sharper now.

“Relax,” Danoc interrupted as he brushed past her. “I’m going to see if there’s another way around. Don’t hold your breath.”

Her hands curled into fists as she watched him walk off without another word. “You’re being impatient,” she called after him, but he didn’t so much as glance back. Huffing in frustration, she turned her gaze back to Cicero, who was still lingering near the trap, his expression unreadable.

She let out a slow breath, running a hand through her hair. Her mind raced as she considered her options. There was no way she was turning back after getting this far—absolutely no way in hell.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she approached Cicero. He looked at her curiously, his head tilting slightly, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak. She shoved her bow into his hands, pressing into his chest as she fixed him with a look.

"Hold this," she said firmly. The jester’s amused smirk didn’t falter as he tilted his head, watching her with a mix of curiosity and mischief. She ignored him and turned toward the doorway.

“Elara...” Cicero began, his playful tone replaced with a rare note of seriousness. She could already hear the soft shuffle of his footsteps as he followed her, but she didn’t stop. Her heart thundered in her chest as she approached the first axe, its massive blade swinging with relentless precision.

She paused just outside its reach, her eyes narrowing as she counted the seconds between each swing. One... two... three... The blade whooshed past her face, close enough to send a rush of cold air across her skin. She sucked in a deep breath and stepped forward, her boots scraping against the stone floor.

“Elara, stop!” Cicero called out behind her, his voice sharper now. 

She didn’t look back. Her focus was entirely on the deadly rhythm in front of her. The axe loomed just ahead, its arc slicing through the dim torchlight. She waited, muscles coiled, before launching herself forward. The blade missed her by inches, but her stumble threw her balance off. She caught herself with a gasp as the second axe swung down, trapping her between its pendulum and the first.

Her breath hitched. There was barely any room to move. The walls pressed in on her, the metallic groan of the swinging blades ringing in her ears. Her eyes darted back toward Cicero, whose expression was now alarmingly serious. His wide eyes betrayed a concern she rarely saw, and behind him, Danoc came rushing into view, his face pale with worry.

“Are you crazy ?” he shouted, his voice echoing in the chamber.

“I’m doing this!” she called back, her voice trembling.

She turned her attention to the second axe. She took another deep breath and stepped forward, her body tense as she timed her movements. The axe narrowly missed her shoulder as she pressed on, the wooden haft creaking as it swung past.

The end of the hallway came into view—an ancient chamber littered with stone caskets and a wooden staircase leading to a second floor. She was so close.

“Elara, please be careful!” one of them yelled, their voice distant over the sound of metal scraping and her pounding heartbeat.

She inhaled sharply, her nerves on fire. She waited for the final axe to swing past, her hands shaking as she steadied herself. The timing had to be perfect. Summoning all her courage, she darted forward just as the blade came down. She felt the whoosh of air as it passed behind her, so close she swore she felt the cold steel graze her hair. A faint snick reached her ears, and she realized with a shiver that the axe had sliced a small lock of hair clean off.

She stumbled into the chamber, panting as adrenaline coursed through her veins. Her chest heaved with each breath, and her heart raced as she steadied herself against the wall. Her eyes quickly scanned her surroundings, taking in the unsettling stillness of the room. Then her gaze landed on a metal chain dangling beside the doorway.

“Is it Cicero’s turn?” came the jester’s voice, lighthearted yet tinged with concern. She whipped her head around to see him watching her with a lopsided grin, the bow still clutched in his hands.

“No!” she hissed, shaking her head. Her hands shot out to grab the chain, gripping it tightly as she gave it a firm tug. There was a loud clunk followed by the grinding sound of gears. Slowly, the axes came to a halt, their swinging motions ceasing as they locked into place.

He was the first to dart through, moving with a nimble grace that belied his usual carefree demeanor. Danoc followed close behind, his face tight with tension as he squeezed past the stationary axes. The moment they were both safely on the other side, Elara let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders slumping with relief.

“That,” Danoc said, pointing an accusatory finger at her, “was the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

Elara shot him a glare, brushing loose strands of hair out of her face. “You’re welcome,” she snapped, still catching her breath.

"Now keep your voice down. I don’t want to run into more of those things if we can help it," she whispered, her eyes darting to the corners of the chamber.

She moved toward the wooden staircase with deliberate caution, her boots pressing softly against the cold stone floor. Her gaze flitted nervously to the stone caskets lining the walls.

Please stay shut, she thought grimly.

The three of them ascended the stairs without incident, though every creak of the wood beneath their feet sent a fresh wave of tension through her. Once they reached the top, the staircase opened onto a narrow bridge suspended over the floor below. They made their way over, no railings in sight, but luckily the height would only twist an ankle. 

Beyond it lay another chamber, wider and more spacious than the others. At the far end of the room, a massive arched door loomed, more like a towering slab of stone than a traditional entrance.

"I wonder if we’re the first people to make it this far," she whispered over her shoulder to the men trailing behind her.

Danoc glanced at the walls, his brow furrowed in thought. “Only other people being dead people, yeah.”

"Optimistic as ever," Cicero quipped, his voice low.

Elara ignored them, her attention fixed on the door. The engraved symbols seemed familiar, a pattern that tugged at her memory. She slipped her hand into her satchel and retrieved the golden claw, its surface gleaming faintly as she held it up to the light. The artifact was cold and heavy in her hands, its engravings identical to those on the door.

"It wouldn’t be that simple, would it?" she muttered, glancing back at them for confirmation. They both leaned in slightly, their expressions as curious as hers.

She reached out and pressed her fingers against one of the circular symbols, twisting it until it aligned with the first pattern on the claw. The stone shifted under her touch with a satisfying click. Encouraged, she repeated the process with the other two symbols, her fingers moving with careful precision. When she finished, she stepped back, waiting for the door to respond. But nothing came. 

Her brow furrowed. "Maybe I missed something," she murmured, stepping closer. Her eyes scanned the door again, and that’s when she noticed it—the center of the door bore a series of small holes and a slot, perfectly sized for the claw.

She pressed the claw into the slot, aligning its prongs with the holes. It slid into place with a faint metallic scrape. She hesitated for a moment, her fingers hovering over the artifact. Then, with a deep breath, she twisted the claw, half expecting more axes to come swinging down and chop her head off.

The sound of grinding stone echoed through the chamber, a deep rumble that vibrated through the floor. Somewhere within the walls, ancient mechanisms unlocked, and the massive door began to lower slowly. Dust and debris cascaded from the ceiling, billowing into the air like smoke. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face to clear the haze.

She squinted into the gloom, mildly disappointed when her gaze fell on yet another set of stone steps leading upward rather than the exit she had hoped for.

With a sigh, she tucked the golden claw back into her satchel.

“We might have to settle down for the night if this keeps going on much longer,” Danoc said beside her, his voice tinged with frustration. The weariness in his tone mirrored her own.

“I’ll take the first watch,” she offered, patting his arm. She started up the steps, her legs heavy with exhaustion. Her feet ached, and her back protested every movement.

At the top of the steps, the tunnel stretched ahead, the flickering torchlight barely penetrating the deepening darkness. The lack of illumination made every step feel like a gamble.

Her curiosity was piqued when the tunnel finally opened into another cave, this one vast and echoing. The sound of rushing water filled the space more distinctly now, the source still obscured.

She had barely taken two steps inside when a sudden flurry of movement startled her. Several bats shot past, their leathery wings grazing her hair as she waved them away with a yelp. 

“Lovely,” she muttered, straightening her cloak.

“Alright, cast your bets now,” she said, forcing some levity into her tone as they moved further in. “What do you think the stone looks like?”

Cicero perked up at her question, grinning. “Cicero thinks it will be tiny, like a garnet.”

Danoc sighed heavily, shaking his head. “If we came all this way for something that small, I’m going to kill that wizard myself.”

She smirked, casting a teasing glance over her shoulder. “Oh, but what if it’s gold-plated? Worth a thousand gold—maybe two?” She winked, but Danoc only muttered under his breath, unimpressed by her attempt at humor.

The group pressed on until the cave opened into a larger, better-lit chamber. Beams of sunlight filtered down through cracks in the rock above, illuminating the space in eerie patches. The room was dominated by a narrow stone bridge that stretched across a rushing underground river. Beyond the bridge loomed a massive structure—a wall engraved with strange symbols that seemed to shift under the flickering light. Elara’s gaze lingered on it, the intricate carvings drawing her attention like a moth to a flame. 

The rush of water grew louder as they moved. Elara glanced over the bridge’s edge and spotted the source: a roaring waterfall cascading into a frothing river far below. To the left, hidden partially by the wall, she caught sight of another smaller waterfall feeding into the larger flow.

As they crossed the bridge, Elara couldn’t help but let her eyes wander back to the wall. There was something about it—something alive. She thought she heard whispers, faint and indistinct, carried on the stale air. Shaking her head, she forced herself to focus, following the path toward a chest and another stone casket situated near the far wall. The casket’s lid was intact, unlike the others they’d encountered, and a chill prickled her skin as she approached.

Danoc reached the chest first, kneeling to pry it open. The heavy lid creaked as it moved, revealing its contents. “I think this is it,” he called back, grunting as he reached inside. “Man, it’s heavy.”

Elara barely heard him. The whispers in her ears were growing louder, drowning out everything else. Her head turned almost of its own accord, her eyes locking onto the engraved wall. The whispers became a chorus, insistent and haunting, tugging at her very soul. The carvings seemed to shift again, and a single word began to glow with a blinding light.

Her body moved without her permission, drawn toward the wall by an unseen force. She felt her hand lift, her fingers stretching toward the glowing word. It pulsed with energy, the light searing into her mind as the word sang in her head. She understood it, though it wasn’t in any language she recognized. It was the same as before, back in the sanctuary, when she’d first encountered this strange power.

“Elara!” Danoc’s voice cut through the haze, but it sounded far away. The light faded, and the whispers diminished, leaving her standing in stunned silence.

The sound of stone scraping against stone snapped her back to reality. She spun around just in time to see the lid of the casket sliding off, revealing a draugr inside. Its decayed body jerked as it rose, a rusted sword in its skeletal hand. The creature’s glowing blue eyes locked onto them, and a low growl rumbled from its throat.

She snatched her bow from Cicero, who had already unsheathed his weapon with alarming speed. Her fingers found an arrow in her quiver, yanking it free just as the draugr lunged forward, its sword gleaming faintly in the skylight.

Cicero stumbled under the creature’s momentum, barely managing to slash at its torso as he hit the ground. The draugr snarled, unfazed by the wound, and raised its rusted blade high, ready to deliver a killing blow.

She loosed her arrow, the projectile striking the draugr’s shoulder with a sickening thud. The force of the impact staggered the creature, causing it to falter mid-swing. It turned its empty, glowing gaze toward her, its movements jerky yet horrifyingly deliberate.

"Still standing?" she muttered, nocking another arrow as Danoc surged forward, his axe slicing through the air. He struck the draugr’s side, sending chunks of decayed flesh flying with each swing. The creature retaliated, its sword clashing against his blade with a deafening clang.

She struggled to find a clear shot. Danoc’s strikes kept the draugr occupied, but his large frame blocked her view. She shifted her position, searching for an opening, her breath steady as she aimed. Finally, the draugr reared back, exposing its skull for the briefest of moments.

"Hold still," she whispered, releasing her arrow. The sharp whistle of its flight ended in a sickening crunch as it pierced the draugr’s skull. The creature jerked violently, its glowing eyes dimming as it collapsed backward, its sword clattering to the ground. The ancient body crumpled onto the casket from which it had emerged, the fight seemingly over.

Elara lowered her bow, a triumphant smirk tugging at her lips. But her celebration was cut short by Danoc’s sharp voice. “What the hell were you doing?”

She blinked, the accusation catching her off guard. “What?” she asked, slinging her bow over her shoulder as she noticed the stone in his hand. It was larger than she expected, shaped like a rough diamond and etched with intricate symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light.

“You zoned out,” he snapped, his face twisted in disbelief. “You were just standing there, staring at that wall like you’d lost your mind. We tried calling you—what the hell was that about?”

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered, the memory of the glowing word still vivid in her mind. “You didn’t see it? Or hear the voices?”

His brow furrowed as he shook his head. “See what? Voices? What are you talking about?”

“Ah, the Listener has a habit of conversing with walls. It’s quite endearing.” Cicero chimed in with a sly grin.

Elara glared at him. “I do not make a habit of that, thank you.” She turned back to Danoc, her tone more defensive now. “There were voices. They were calling me to the wall. A word was glowing, and it felt... I don’t know, important. I couldn’t ignore it.” 

“And?” Danoc pressed, his skepticism clear.

“Here lies the guardian, keeper of Dragonstone. A force of unending rage and darkness.” The memory of the voice was hauntingly vivid as if someone had whispered the words directly into her soul.

He stared at her, his expression unreadable for a moment before his face hardened. “You’re insane,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter. “You’ve gone crazy, just like him.” He jabbed a finger in Cicero’s direction, who appeared thoroughly amused by the exchange.

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” she shot back, her eyes narrowing. “I’m not crazy.”

He scoffed, shoving the Dragonstone into her hands with more force than necessary. “Here, then. You deal with it. You’re the one who insisted we come here in the first place.”

Her temper flared. “Why are you being such an ass about this?” she snapped, her grip tightening around the stone.

“An ass? This was your idea!” he shouted, his frustration spilling over. “I didn’t sign up for your cryptic wall-whispering nonsense.”

“Fine!” she retorted, her voice rising to match his. “Next time, don’t worry about being invited. I don’t need your constant complaining or your attitude.” She gestured toward him dismissively, her face set in defiance.

His jaw tightened, his voice dripping with disdain. “Fine.”

Without another word, she pushed past him, her heart pounding with a mixture of anger and exhaustion. She clutched the stone tightly, its cold surface biting into her palm. 

Chapter 16: A Rotten Bridge

The relentless patter of rain against the ground was a constant companion as Elara pressed forward, her boots sinking slightly into the muddy road with each step. She barely heard Cicero grumble behind her, his voice low and almost drowned out by the storm.

“We have been walking for hours,” he repeated, louder this time.

She clenched her jaw, her wet hair plastered against her face. She blinked against the rain streaming into her eyes, determined not to slow down. Whiterun wasn’t far, and she wanted—no, needed—to get there as soon as possible. Anything to push past the knot of frustration and hurt in her heart.

Danoc had left them the moment they exited the ruins. No arguments, no second glances. Just turned his back and walked away, his anger sharp enough to slice through the stormy air. Her grip tightened around the Dragonstone, her knuckles pale. She couldn’t even be happy that she found another word wall, because the whole mess was a mistake to begin with. She wondered if it was better to be alone after all. At least no one would call you crazy.

The cold rain soaked through her cloak and tunic, chilling her to the bone, but the ache in her chest was worse. She imagined Danoc wouldn’t even return to the Sanctuary. Maybe he was done with all of it—with her.

Lightning lit up the sky, momentarily illuminating the path ahead in a blinding white flash. The accompanying crack of thunder echoed seconds later, startling her enough that she faltered in her step.

“Listener,” Cicero’s voice came again, closer this time, his tone surprisingly steady.

Elara didn’t look back. Instead, she responded bitterly, her voice tight with unshed tears. “You should have left with him.”

She regretted the words the moment they left her mouth, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her throat burned, her eyes stinging, though she told herself it was just the rain. Maybe it would be better if Cicero couldn’t see how much this was affecting her.

But he wasn’t the type to let things go. He moved quickly, his hand catching her wrist and pulling her back with enough force that she stumbled against him, her body colliding with his chest. His hands were firm as they steadied her by the shoulders, and the suddenness of it all left her breathless.

“Cicero is tired,” he said slowly, his voice softer now, though his usually manic demeanor was nowhere to be found. “Let us rest—”

“Then leave,” she snapped, pushing out of his hold, her words cutting through.

Cicero shook his head, a small, almost sad smile curling his lips. His dark eyes softened for a brief moment as he reached out again, but she stepped back, just out of his reach.

“Why?” he asked, his tone shifting to something more raw, his smile fading. “Why does his leaving make you so upset?”

Her eyes narrowed, her frustration boiling over. “Oh, don’t even start with that. I don’t need any jealousy from you right now.” Her voice was sharp, her nostrils flaring as she glared at him.

He threw his hands into the air, rainwater spraying off them. His soaked clothes clung to his wiry frame, and his exasperation was almost palpable. The rain seemed louder now, a ceaseless drumbeat around them as if the storm itself shared in her anger.

“Jealousy?” he scoffed, his tone rising. “Ridiculous! Cicero is not jealous of a lumbering fool. But Cicero must know—why does it matter to you so much?”

Her throat tightened, the words she wanted to say tangled in her chest, but she forced them out, her voice breaking as they escaped.

"Because he's the closest thing I've ever had to a friend," she said, her voice trembling, then rising as anger and despair bubbled up. "Even you."

The words echoed louder than the storm around them, and she saw Cicero's head tilt slightly, but he didn’t speak, allowing her to continue.

"I nearly had my head chopped off just recently! Do you know what that's like? I haven’t even had a moment to breathe!" she shouted, her voice raw. Her hands gripped the Dragonstone so tightly it hurt, her nails digging into the wet leather straps of her gloves.

Cicero stood still, rain dripping from his soaked hair and clothes, his eyes never leaving hers.

"My time in Skyrim has been shit! The only good things I’ve had are fleeting—so brief they might as well not even exist!" she admitted, her voice breaking again as tears began to mingle with the rain streaming down her face. Her chest heaved as the sobs finally came, and her words spilled out like a dam breaking.

"I’m like a curse. Everyone I care about gets taken from me. Every single time." Her voice cracked, and she hugged the Dragonstone closer to her chest as if it might protect her from the weight of her grief. "And now, I have walls talking to me. Talking! And no one else can hear them!" She laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and hollow. "What an absolute joke!"

Her legs felt weak, and she sank to her knees in the mud, clutching the Dragonstone like it was the only thing tethering her to reality. The rain poured harder, soaking her to the bone, but she didn’t care.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had cried like this—so openly, so freely. Maybe she never had. It felt like her body was wringing out every ounce of pain she’d been carrying for so long. And yet, Cicero just stood there, his silence unnerving, his gaze steady.

Her voice grew softer as exhaustion set in. "Danoc was right," she whispered, her tears mixing with the mud splattered on her cheeks. "I brought this on myself. It was stupid, wasn’t it? Helping Farengar, chasing after some stone... I should’ve just left it all alone."

"Listener," he finally said, his tone unusually soft, almost hesitant.

She screamed in frustration, her hands trembling as she clenched the stone tighter. "And that! That right there! Another stupid thing that’s happened to me! It’s like I’m collecting them as I go!" She laughed again, a hollow, humorless sound that broke into another sob. Her head tilted back, letting the rain fall against her closed eyes.

She heard Cicero's quiet footsteps through the rain, and suddenly, his hands were on hers. He gently pulled the Dragonstone from her grasp. For a moment, she resisted, her fingers tightening reflexively, but then she let it go, her arms falling limp at her sides. The sound of the stone hitting the muddy ground barely registered.

And then his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his chest. His embrace was firm but gentle, his gloved hand smoothing over her soaked hair as she buried her face against him. She couldn’t muster the strength to return the hug, her arms feeling like lead.

He didn’t say anything at first, letting her cry into his already drenched shirt. His hand moved rhythmically over her hair, his movements uncharacteristically calm.

"Cicero lost everything," he said finally, his voice quiet.

"To have a Listener after so long..." He hesitated, his voice trembling. "Cicero apologizes for his excitement.”

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him through her tear-blurred vision, his face somber.

 He leaned closer, his voice near her ear. "The Listener is far from a joke."

"Then what am I?" she whispered, her voice breaking again as fresh tears welled in her eyes.

His arms tightened around her, his gloved fingers brushing against the back of her neck. He held her close, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the rain. 

"Beautiful," he whispered. The word hung in the air between them, so unexpected it nearly stole her breath. 

She blinked up at him, her heart thudding in her chest like a war drum. His gloved hands cupped her face, the leather cold but steady against her rain-soaked skin. Before she could muster a reply, his lips pressed against hers—tentative and aching, a plea wrapped in sorrow.

The kiss was fleeting but enough to stir something deep within her. It was wet and sad, her tears mingling with the rain, yet it carried a quiet reassurance she hadn’t realized she needed. When he pulled away, their foreheads rested together, his breath ghosting over her lips as if unwilling to fully part from her.

"The thief will come around," Cicero murmured, his voice almost wistful. "Cicero knows it."

His words snapped her from the haze of the kiss. She tilted her head back slightly to look at him, confusion knitting her brows. "Thief?" she questioned, her voice hoarse from crying and the chill of the storm.

A crooked smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes remained earnest. "He talks a lot about himself when he drinks," Cicero admitted, his tone soft as though unveiling a secret. His gaze searched hers, as if trying to gauge her reaction. But Danoc never mentioned this to her. Not once.

"When will you start being honest with me?" she asked, her voice quiet but firm, her eyes locking onto his with a mix of exhaustion and resolve. The rain still streamed down her face, but now she felt the cold more acutely, each drop like ice against her skin. Cicero shifted, leaning slightly over her so the hood of his head shielded most of the rain from falling on her.

"I always am," he replied, his voice low. Before she could respond, he gently urged her to stand, steadying her with a firm hand at her waist.

"Where are we going?" she asked, shivering as the cold seeped deeper into her bones. She hugged herself, realizing just how drenched she was. Why hadn’t she noticed it earlier? Was this what she had been dragging him through the whole time?

"Shelter," he said simply. His arm tightened protectively around her as his sharp eyes scanned their surroundings. She allowed herself to lean into his warmth as they trudged forward along the muddy path, the rain relentless against their backs.

It wasn’t long before Cicero stopped, his attention snapping to a dark shape ahead. He pointed to a shadowed opening nestled between jagged rocks—a cave.

It was small but deep enough to shield them from the storm. Relief washed over her as soon as they stepped inside, the constant pounding of rain replaced by the hollow echo of droplets trickling from the roof of the cavern. She stood for a moment, catching her breath, while Cicero removed her cloak and shook it out.

Her fingers fumbled to wring out her hair, water streaming down in rivulets. The rain outside cascaded over the edge of the cave entrance, forming a makeshift waterfall that seemed almost serene compared to the chaos of the storm. She glanced around, her eyes adjusting to the dim light.

An old fish rack leaned crookedly against one wall, it's wood warped and dark with age. Near the center of the cave sat a stone-lined firepit, its ashes long and cold but still holding the faint shape of past flames. She watched as Cicero knelt by the firepit and set the dragonstone down carefully.

She turned her attention to her bag, rummaging through it for dry clothes. Setting them aside, she sighed as she realized there was no avoiding it—her soaked layers needed to come off.

Her tunic was the first to go, the fabric clinging stubbornly to her skin before she peeled it away and tossed it into a damp heap by the wall. She was so focused on the chill biting into her exposed arms and the relief of having dry clothes within reach that she barely noticed Cicero behind her, doing much the same. Yet, his eyes never left her, flickering with something unspoken as she reached the modest barrier of her undergarments.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught his gaze for a fleeting moment before turning back. She busied herself with the stack of old firewood near the fish rack, gathering a few pieces and arranging them neatly in the firepit. The chill of the cave made her fingers tremble as she worked. She realized she had no tinder, but then a thought surfaced—the mediocre fire spell Danoc had taught her.

Taking a deep breath, she extended her hand toward the firewood, willing the faint energy within her to spark to life. Her fingers crackled with a brief, chaotic burst of flame that shot out clumsily, landing haphazardly on the logs. For a moment, she feared it wouldn’t catch, but a small flicker began to spread, the dry wood crackling as the fire grew steadily.

Relieved, she leaned back, the warmth washing over her like a balm. He moved to help her lift the fish rack, carefully positioning it over the fire to create a makeshift drying station. Together, they draped their wet clothes over it, the damp fabric steaming gently as the fire worked its magic.

She tried not to let her eyes linger too long on him as he moved, his own damp clothes replaced with just his pants. His pale skin glistened in the firelight, his movements strangely graceful as he tended to their small haven. To distract herself, she pulled on one of her dry shirts and sat closer to the fire, wrapping her arms around her knees. The warmth seeped into her, though it did little to ease the ache in her feet or the heaviness in her thoughts.

She combed through her hair with her fingers, trying to untangle the mess left by the storm. The fire’s light illuminated only a small portion of the cave, leaving the edges shrouded in night.

A prickling sensation made her look up. He was watching her from across the fire, his face a mask of quiet intensity. 

"I hadn’t planned to get stuck in the rain," she said softly, breaking the silence. Her voice wavered, carrying the weight of exhaustion. "I don’t know what I was thinking." Her eyes glistened as she stared into the flames.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he shifted, moving closer until their shoulders were touching. The contact was grounding, his presence solid and unwavering despite the chaos they had endured. She leaned her head against him, her damp hair brushing against his bare skin, and he wrapped an arm around her. His hand rested lightly on her upper arm, a gesture both comforting and protective.

The gesture wasn’t tight or confining—it was steady, grounding as if he sought to reassure both of them that they were still here, still breathing, still alive. Her voice broke the quiet, soft but insistent, like a thread tugging at him.

“What made you like this?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

He didn’t answer right away. The silence stretched as if he hadn’t heard her, or perhaps he was simply unsure how to respond. She tilted her head up, searching his face for any clue, any flicker of emotion beyond the guarded look he wore like armor.

Gently, she reached up, cupping his face in her hands. Her touch was warm despite the chill of the cave, her fingers soft against the sharp lines of his jaw. 

“Who is the man inside here?” she asked again, this time aloud, her voice tinged with curiosity and sadness as she pressed a finger to his temple.

He looked down at her then, his face twisting, not in anger but in something far deeper—pain. His lips parted, as though he might speak, but no sound came.

“I lost my family,” she admitted suddenly, her voice trembling. Her eyes stayed locked on his, searching for a reaction, a sign of understanding. “You’re the first person I’ve told. They were all gone in an instant... I was the only one left alive.”

Her words hung between them, the quiet punctuated only by the hiss of the fire. His grip on her arm tightened slightly, a reflexive gesture that felt protective, as though he could somehow shield her from what she already knew.

“Should I expect that to happen again?” she whispered, her voice breaking. Her desperation was raw, unguarded, and it cut through him like a blade.

He didn’t answer. He simply looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers, and in his silence, she felt both comfort and fear. What did it mean, this quiet, this inability to give her an answer? She didn’t ask.

He could only look at her and she could only look back. She didn't know what that meant and she was too scared to ask. When he finally spoke again, he asked her more about her family. Their names, their ages, and how they died. Who killed them was the only thing she couldn't answer. In her heart, it felt like she doomed them, so she only told him bandits did it. He didn’t press her, but the way his jaw tightened told her he didn’t fully believe her. 

He kept his mouth shut about himself, almost like he could not admit anything he had done to get himself to this point, he was scared. As the fire burned low, she stoked it again, the flames casting a warm glow over their small sanctuary.

When she finally laid down beside him, he pulled her close, his arms encircling her as though trying to keep the darkness at bay. They held each other in the flickering light, their bodies pressed together, their breaths mingling in the stillness.

Time seemed to stretch, the storm outside fading into the background. Neither of them could sleep, their eyes meeting in the dim light as if searching for answers they couldn’t find in words. The world would move on if she died—she knew that—but here, with him, she let herself be selfish.

The soft chirping of birds was what roused her, their melodic calls filtering through the gaps in the foliage framing the cave’s entrance. Golden morning light dappled the walls, painting warm patterns across the stone. The faint buzz of bees drifted from somewhere nearby, and the fire that had crackled through the night was now just a bed of cold ashes. The morning had finally arrived.

She stirred slowly, her face still pressed against Cicero's chest. His warmth enveloped her, his arms holding her close even in his sleep. One hand cradled the back of her head, fingers resting lightly against her hair as if protecting her even in unconsciousness.

She raised her head carefully, blinking against the brightness as her eyes adjusted. Sleep clung stubbornly to her, and her body ached faintly from the night on the hard cave floor. Cicero shifted slightly at her movement, his arms tightening briefly before slackening again. For a moment, she thought he might wake, but his eyes remained closed. His hair was tousled, half obscuring his face, and he looked impossibly peaceful.

The fire was nothing but cold embers now, but their clothes were dry. She reached for her leather pants, pulling them on as quietly as she could. The sound of her movements must have reached him, though, because, behind her, he stirred. She turned her head just in time to see him patting the space beside him as if searching for her in his sleep. His brow furrowed slightly before his eyes fluttered open.

“Hey,” she said softly, a small smile pulling at her lips as she stuffed her dry shirt into her bag.

He sat up slowly, his movements unhurried as if savoring the rare peace of the moment. He rubbed his face with one hand, his other braced against the ground. A smile crept onto his lips as he looked at her, his gaze still clouded with sleep but warm nonetheless. Without a word, he lifted his hands, gesturing in a sudden, exaggerated explosion near his head.

She tilted her head, confused. “What are you doing?”

“Your hair,” he said, his voice light and teasing, though his smile held genuine amusement. “So exciting.”

he reached up instinctively, fingers brushing against her curls. After being soaked the night before and left to dry naturally, they had sprung into a wild mass. The definition she normally worked so hard to maintain was gone, but the way his eyes lingered on her made her cheeks flush. He wasn’t laughing at her.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, though the corners of her mouth betrayed her with a small grin. She busied herself slipping on her boots, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through her chest.

“Come on,” she said after a moment. “We need to get moving.”

She stood and reached out a hand to help him up. He took it without hesitation, his grip firm but gentle as he pulled himself to his feet. She retrieved his gloves and hat, handing them over as he stretched lazily.

“Why thank you,” he said, slipping the gloves on with practiced ease. His tone was casual, but the way his fingers brushed hers lingered just a moment too long. He adjusted his hat, tipping it slightly as he gave her a mock salute.

She shook her head at his antics, but a smile tugged at her lips again. As they gathered their belongings and prepared to leave the cave, she cast one last glance back. With a deep breath, she turned, the dragonstone heavy in her hands, its smooth surface catching the sun as they began the walk to Dragonsreach.

The path was mercifully dry after the storm, the breeze carrying the scent of damp earth and blooming wildflowers. By the time they reached Whiterun, the bustling streets were alive with merchants and townsfolk, all of whom cast curious glances her way. Some whispered to each other, eyes darting between her and the strange artifact she carried.

When they approached the towering wooden doors of Dragonsreach, she felt a wave of relief. Her arms ached, and she was more than ready to hand the stone over. She pushed the doors open, stepping into the grand hall, the scent of burning wood and mead filling the air.

Farengar’s quarters were at the back, but Cicero distracted her as he deftly snatched a piece of bread from a nearby table. He wiggled his eyebrows at her, waving the loaf around like a trophy. She shot him a sharp look, but no guards seemed to notice, and she couldn’t help but stifle a laugh. 

The wizard's quarters were dimly lit, the flickering blue glow of a magical table casting strange shadows on the walls. Farengar was hunched over a corner workstation, a human skull placed dead center, surrounded by scattered alchemical ingredients and glowing crystals. The faint hum of enchantments in progress filled the room. She cleared her throat to announce her presence.

Farengar flinched, his head snapping toward her, eyes narrowing until recognition dawned. “What is it—oh! You’ve returned!” His gaze dropped to the dragonstone in her hands, and his expression shifted to something between awe and triumph. “And you’ve found it.”

She stepped forward, handing it over to its new owner. His fingers brushed over the intricate carvings reverently, tracing the runes etched into its surface. “After so long... but you managed,” he murmured, almost to himself, before glancing up. “A remarkable find.”

“It took a little longer than expected,” she admitted, her voice tinged with exhaustion. “Other priorities came up.”

He waved dismissively, already focused on the artifact. “No matter. The important thing is that it’s here now.” He turned, placing the dragonstone carefully onto his desk before rummaging through a drawer. From the depths of its cluttered interior, he retrieved a pouch and tossed it to her.

The coins jingled as she caught it, the weight heavier than expected. A smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you,” she said, slipping the pouch into her bag.

“Well deserved,” Farengar replied, his tone distracted as he bent over the dragonstone again, scrutinizing its every detail. “Now, if you’re interested in another favor—”

His words were cut short as the Jarl’s housecarl, strode into the room. Her usually composed demeanor was frayed, her breath coming in short bursts as if she’d run the length of the hall. 

“Farengar,” she said, her tone clipped. “The Jarl requires your assistance immediately.”

He frowned, his irritation evident. “Can it not wait? I was just about to—”

Irileth’s sharp glare cut him off. “A dragon was spotted near the western watchtower. The guards have sent word—it’s close.” Her voice carried a hint of unease, though her stoic nature masked most of it.

The room went silent, the weight of her words settling like a stone dropped into still water. Her mind raced back to Helgen—the roar of fire, the screams, and the shadow of wings that blotted out the sun. She felt her throat tighten, the memory almost choking her. She looked down, avoiding the other Dunmer's piercing gaze as if it could uncover the terror buried deep inside her.

"You," Irileth barked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Good. You’re coming with me." She turned swiftly, not waiting for Elara to respond.

Elara opened her mouth to protest, her voice faltering. “I hardly think I am of any help—”

But Irileth was already striding ahead, Farengar hurrying to follow her, his robes billowing as he nearly tripped in his excitement. Elara felt a hand brush hers, and she instinctively grabbed Cicero’s, pulling him along as she moved reluctantly forward. His fingers closed around hers, their reassuring warmth contrasting the chill creeping into her thoughts.

They climbed the steps leading to the room behind the throne, opening up to a war table at the center, its surface strewn with maps and figurines representing troop positions. Guards clustered around Jarl Balgruuf, their postures tense, faces grim. The scent of sweat and the tang of worry hung in the air.

Cicero stayed close, his presence a strange but welcome comfort as her back pressed lightly against his chest.

“Tell me exactly what you saw, son,” Balgruuf said, his voice low but commanding. His gaze fixed on a guard standing before him, the man battered and missing his helmet. A faint smear of blood marred his temple, and his breaths came in ragged gasps. 

“It—it snatched up two of our men,” the guard stammered, his voice shaking. “I barely made it out alive. It’s probably gotten everyone else by now.” His words were punctuated by the tremor in his shoulders, and Elara’s stomach churned at the mental image of talons and teeth ripping through flesh.

Balgruuf’s face softened for a moment as he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You did well to bring us this news. Go. Get some food and rest. You’ve earned it.” The guard nodded, his movements stiff and mechanical as he turned to leave.

The Jarl’s gaze shifted, landing squarely on Elara. Her stomach dropped as she felt the weight of his scrutiny. She glanced sideways, trying to shrink into the shadows, but Irileth’s abrupt movement drew everyone’s attention back to the table.

“I’ll assemble a squad to intercept it, but we need a plan, my Jarl,” Irileth said, her tone brisk. “How exactly do we kill a dragon?”

Farengar, still lingering near the back of the room, let out an incredulous laugh. “Kill it? A magnificent, ancient creature? Surely there are better—”

“No,” Balgruuf interrupted sharply, pointing a finger at the wizard. “You’re staying here. I need your expertise for research, not battlefield heroics.”

Cicero shifted behind her, his voice breaking the tense silence with unsettling cheer. “How fun. Cicero wonders what a giant lizard tastes like.”

Elara sighed, rolling her eyes before stepping forward. The guards around the table parted slightly, their eyes flitting between her and the Jarl. She felt their silent judgment prickling at her skin.

Balgruuf approached her, his expression softening slightly, though his urgency remained. “Normally, I’d reward you for helping my wizard with gold and let you go on your way, but I have to ask another favor. We need you out there with Irileth. You’ve seen these beasts before—we need someone with experience.”

Her heart sank, and she took a slow breath to steady herself. “No offense, truly, but I didn’t kill the dragon at Helgen.” Her voice wavered, though she fought to keep it steady. “It burned everyone alive.” The admission brought whispers from the guards, their voices low but unmistakably skeptical.

She turned her head slightly, catching the judgment in their eyes. Her gaze hardened, though inside she felt exposed, vulnerable. She clenched her fists, swallowing the retort that burned in her throat.

The Jarl stepped closer, his eyes locking onto hers. “You’re one of the only people who came out of there alive,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “That makes you more valuable than you realize. Please.”

She could feel Cicero’s hand brush against her back. Closing her eyes for a brief moment, she inhaled, but instead of the brisk mountain air of Whiterun, she imagined the choking scent of smoke and ash filling her lungs once more.

The memory gripped her like iron shackles, dragging her back to Helgen—the flames consuming the town, the panicked screams, and the beast’s roars reverberating in her bones. That damned creature had both saved her life and damned it.

If it was the same dragon, it was back. The thought turned her stomach cold. Would it stop at the watchtower, or would it keep going, laying waste to Whiterun until the city was nothing more than cinders?

She unconsciously stepped back, her boots scraping against the wood floor, but Jarl Balgruuf’s gaze remained locked on her. His eyes pleaded with her, the desperation in them unmistakable. He was asking a stranger—someone like her—for help.

She had never killed anything larger than a troll. How could she stand against a dragon?

Her hands trembled at her sides, but she balled them into fists to keep the others from noticing. If it truly was the dragon from Helgen, she feared she would see the sky split open once again, hear the eerie cry of doom, and watch as every soul below was brought to its mercy.

"My Jarl, we must leave at once,” Irileth’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. “If we get there soon enough—”

Balgruuf raised a hand, silencing her. His focus never wavered from Elara, his patience unyielding as he waited for her answer.

Elara glanced sideways at Cicero, feeling his steady presence behind her. His gaze bore down on her, unreadable, yet his fingers grazed the back of her shirt in a subtle gesture that seemed to say, You’re not alone.

She swallowed hard, her throat dry as sand, before forcing herself to meet the expectant stares of the group. Her stomach churned as her lips parted. A single, reluctant nod.

The Jarl’s relief was palpable, his broad shoulders sagging as if a great weight had been lifted. He stepped forward, a grateful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and reached out to clasp her shoulder in a gesture of thanks. But before his hand could make contact, Cicero’s arm shot out, his gloved hand gripping the Jarl’s wrist like a vice. The room seemed to freeze in an instant.

A guard’s hand flew to his sword, his boots crunching against the floor as he stepped forward. Irileth’s posture shifted, her hand twitching toward her weapon as her sharp eyes narrowed at the jester.

Elara’s breath hitched, her heart thudding wildly as her gaze darted between the tense figures.

Balgruuf, however, seemed unfazed, his calm demeanor breaking the tension like a steadying balm. “She will be rewarded greatly,” he said, his tone measured, as though reasoning with Cicero.

A tense silence stretched between them before Cicero’s grip finally slackened. He released Jarl’s arm, his sharp eyes lingering on the man for a moment longer before stepping back.

Elara’s chest tightened as she watched the exchange, torn between gratitude for Cicero’s odd sense of protection and frustration at the tension it had caused. She stared at the floor, uncertain whether to thank him or let the moment pass.

Irileth broke the silence, turning sharply on her heel and striding out of the hall with the efficiency of a seasoned warrior. A cluster of guards fell in step behind her, their armor clinking faintly as they marched through the heavy doors of Dragonsreach. Balgruuf watched them go before turning back to Elara, his expression softening again as he moved to the war table.

She followed his movements, her eyes catching on the gleam of something in his hand. The light of the torches flickered against it—a sword, long and heavy, its blade honed to a deadly edge. He approached her, holding it out with both hands.

“Skyforge steel,” he said, his voice steady. “Take it. There’s more where that came from if you succeed.”

She hesitated before gripping the sword, its weight pressing into her palms. Her muscles flexed as she adjusted to its heft, and she nodded her thanks, though her throat felt too tight to speak.

Without another word, she turned and hurried out of Dragonsreach, the blade clutched firmly in her hand. Her boots clacked against the stone steps as she descended quickly. The housecarl's arsenal moved with practiced precision, their armor glinting faintly in the fading sunlight.

Elara's eyes strained to see the horizon, searching for any sign of the watchtower—or the smoke that was left. Still, she quickened her pace, falling in line beside Irileth. The housecarl glanced at her, a flicker of unreadable emotion crossing her face before her steps quickened, spurring the group onward.

As they neared the gates of Whiterun, the atmosphere grew heavy with tension. Townsfolk gathered along the road, their whispers carried on the still air. Some watched with wide, fearful eyes, while others averted their gazes altogether. A few children peeked out from behind their mothers’ skirts, curious.

“If your friend pulls another stunt like that again,” Irileth said sharply, her voice low but firm, “I will cut his hand off.”

Elara’s lips parted, and before she could respond, she heard Cicero huff out a soft, almost amused laugh behind her. The sound was subtle, but it was enough to draw the elf’s ire. Irileth whipped her head around, her piercing gaze locking onto the jester. Cicero met her glare with a slow, challenging smile.

“He means no harm,” Elara said quickly, though her words felt weak under the weight of Irileth’s disdain. She hesitated, struggling to find a suitable way to describe him. “He’s just... eccentric.”

Irileth snorted, unimpressed. “I don’t care what the Jarl says,” she replied curtly. “You’re a citizen in my eyes, and that means you’ll listen to my orders when we get there. Do I make myself clear?”

Her tone left little room for argument. Elara couldn’t tell whether the remark was meant as an insult or a veiled attempt to ensure her safety. Either way, it was better than being treated as expendable. She chose to stay silent anyway.

The massive doors groaned as they swung open. Once the group stepped into the stillness of the field, the usual chirping of birds was conspicuously absent. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Each step pressed wildflowers into the soil, the soft crunch of petals and stems under their boots the only sound accompanying them. 

Her pulse quickened as the watchtower finally came into view. Her worst fears were confirmed. Smoke curled lazily from the crumbled top of the tower, staining the sky with gray tendrils. Scattered chunks of stone littered the ground, while the faint crackle of fire reached her ears. 

Flames licked at the surrounding foliage, threatening to spread. But what truly unnerved her was the silence—no voices, no cries for help, no signs of life. Not even the bodies of fallen guards were visible among the wreckage.

Irileth raised a fist, signaling the group to halt. She crouched behind a jagged boulder, motioning for her men to gather around. “There’s no sign of the thing,” she said, her voice hushed yet commanding. “But stay sharp. I don’t like the looks of this.”

Elara remained on the outskirts of the huddle, her grip tightening on the sword. A cold unease crept over her, the kind that crawled up your spine and made the hairs on your neck stand on end. Before she could second-guess herself, she stepped away from the group, her boots crunching softly against the dirt as she approached the ruined tower.

The smell of smoke grew stronger as she neared the structure, mingling with the acrid scent of scorched wood. Her eyes darted across the ground, searching for any sign of the guards who had been stationed there. There was nothing. No bodies, no weapons, not even discarded helmets. Only rubble and faint traces of destruction remained.

Her heart sank. Where is everyone?

She reached the base of the tower, the heat of the nearby flames brushing against her skin. The oppressive silence was broken only by the distant crackle of fire and the creak of unstable stone above her. She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder to see the others making their way toward her in the distance. Just as she considered retreating to regroup with them, the sound of stumbling footsteps reached her ears.

From the broken stone steps leading into the tower, a figure emerged. A guard, clutching his side, hobbled out of the doorway, his movements weak and unsteady. His armor was scorched, and his face was streaked with ash and dirt, his helmet nowhere to be seen.

“No! No, get away from here!” he shouted, his voice hoarse and desperate. “It’s still around! It just picked up one of our men before you got here!”

Her heart leaped into her throat as she rushed to his side, catching him before he collapsed entirely. His hand clung to her arm like a lifeline as she supported his weight, her gaze darting to the deep burn marks marring his side. Blood seeped through the scorched leather of his armor, and his breathing was shallow and ragged.

“You have to leave,” he gasped, his voice trembling.

Irileth arrived moments later, her expression grim as she assessed the situation. Before either of them could respond, a sound erupted in the distance—a roar, deep and guttural, rising into a deafening screech that split the air. The sound was impossibly loud, sending a shiver down Elara’s spine. She froze, her blood running cold as memories of Helgen surged to the forefront of her mind.

“Oh gods, here it comes again,” the guard whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her grip on him tightened as she helped him stumble back into the tower’s doorway, setting him down against a crumbled wall for cover. She barely had time to adjust his position when a massive shadow swept over the ground outside. The beating of enormous wings filled her ears, the force of the downdraft stirring up ash and debris.

Irileth, already prepared, armed herself with a bow, her gaze fixed on the sky. Elara darted back outside, her heart hammering in her chest as she followed the elf’s line of sight. 

Above them, the dragon appeared, its silver-scaled body glinting in the firelight. Its massive wings spanned wide, carrying it effortlessly through the air as it hovered over the field. Its talons gleamed, sharp and deadly, each movement of the creature exuding raw, destructive power. 

The dragon’s throat expanded, and a strange guttural sound echoed deep from within. Elara recognized the sound immediately and barely had time to react before the creature unleashed a torrent of flame. The fiery inferno blazed down on the guards below, illuminating the ground in a blinding flash of orange and red. 

The heat was suffocating, forcing her to shield her face with her arm. Guards scattered in all directions, some diving for cover behind broken pieces of the tower, while others attempted to hold their ground, losing arrows at the beast in desperation. The air was filled with shouts and the roaring of the flames.

“Elara!” Cicero’s voice broke through the chaos as he rushed to her side. His face was uncharacteristically serious, though his eyes still glimmered with an unshakable intensity. She turned to him, her wild, frantic gaze locking onto his. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve.

“Promise me,” she demanded, her voice fierce despite the tremble in it. “Promise me you’ll stay out of the way.”

Cicero’s reply was immediate. His usual playfulness was absent as he gave her a firm nod, his expression softening ever so slightly. It was all the reassurance she needed.

Elara released him and turned back to the chaos, stepping into the open as the dragon continued its assault. The flames raged around her, and the acrid smell of burning flesh and earth filled the air. She could see the guards desperately trying to regroup, their movements frantic as they sought shelter behind the wreckage.

Sheathing her sword, she quickly slung her bow over her shoulder and pulled an arrow from her quiver. Her fingers trembled as she nocked the arrow, drawing the bowstring back as she aimed at the dragon. It was massive, its scales gleaming like polished metal, its eyes burning with an unnatural intelligence. 

Her breath steadied as she focused on its head. If she could land a shot in its eye, perhaps she could buy them some time—divert its attention, anything to give the others a chance. She exhaled, releasing the arrow with a soft twang, her heart thundering in her chest as she watched it slice through the air. It struck its target—a glancing blow near the dragon’s eye. 

The beast recoiled, shaking its massive head violently as it let out an earsplitting roar that echoed across the field. Its wings beat furiously, stirring up clouds of ash and smoke that burned Elara’s eyes and throat.

For a moment, she felt a spark of triumph, but it vanished as quickly as it came. Her stomach dropped as the dragon’s piercing eyes locked onto her, burning like molten gold. Its gaze was sharp, calculating, and filled with ancient malice.

It turned its massive head toward her fully, its body following suit, and Elara felt as though the very earth beneath her feet might crumble under the weight of its attention.

Still, she held her ground. Her fingers worked quickly, nocking another arrow as her muscles strained under the tension of the bowstring. She aimed once more, heart pounding in her ears, but the dragon suddenly surged upward, its wings propelling it high into the air. Her arrow flew after it, barely missing as the beast veered out of reach.

“Damn it,” she hissed through gritted teeth, lowering her bow as her eyes tracked its movements. The creature circled the tower in a wide arc, its enormous silhouette casting a dark shadow over the scorched battlefield. She could feel the oppressive weight of its presence like a tangible force pressing down on her chest.

From above, a voice boomed, guttural and ancient. “Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde! ” The words, spoken in a deep, otherworldly timbre, sent a chill through her spine. This was no mindless beast—this was something far more terrifying.

“We have to bring it down,” Irileth barked, appearing at her side with her bow in hand. Another sweep of fire rained down on the field, forcing the two of them to dive for cover behind a section of broken wall.

Elara panted, her lungs burning as she crouched low, clutching her bow. “Keep aiming for its head,” she said, her voice strained but determined. “If we piss it off enough, maybe it’ll land.”

Irileth nodded and relayed the order to the remaining guards. They loosed volley after volley of arrows, aiming for the dragon’s eyes and vulnerable points along its head and neck. The barrage kept the beast moving, its flight path becoming more erratic as arrows grazed its scales and embedded themselves in its flesh.

The dragon roared again, but this time its voice carried a dark amusement. “Krif krin. Pruzah! ” it bellowed, the words dripping with disdain. Then, in the tongue of men, it added, “I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide.”

Elara’s brow furrowed in anger. The creature was intelligent, and it was mocking them. The realization ignited a fury within her.

She peeked around the edge of the wall just in time to see the dragon circle back toward the tower. Its massive form descended rapidly, and when it hit the ground, the impact shook the earth beneath her feet. Dust and debris flew into the air as the dragon slid across the field, carving deep gouges in the dirt with its talons.

She stood, her bow discarded as her hand instinctively went to the hilt of her sword. The dragon’s scales, once pristine, now glistened with dark streaks of blood. Arrows jutted from its body like jagged thorns, and its wings, though still powerful, faltered slightly with every movement. For the first time, the creature seemed mortal—fallible. 

Others seized the opportunity, charging the beast with swords and spears, but the dragon retaliated with brutal efficiency. Its claws tore through armor, and its fire reduced men to ash. Still, they pressed on, buying precious seconds with their lives.

Elara’s gaze darted around the field, her eyes catching on a shield lying beside the lifeless body of a fallen guard. She sprinted toward it, snatching it up as she passed, the weight of the metal grounding her amidst the chaos. She didn’t know where the sudden surge of energy came from, but as she approached the dragon, her fear seemed to dissolve, replaced by a single, consuming purpose: to end this.

The dragon’s head swung toward her, its burning eyes narrowing as it recognized her from before. The distance between them closed rapidly—now only a hundred feet separated them. Elara could feel the oppressive heat radiating from the beast as it inhaled deeply, preparing to unleash another torrent of fire.

But before it could, an arrow struck its open mouth, embedding itself in the soft tissue inside. The dragon reeled back, its roar of fury mingling with pain. Elara staggered from the force of the sound, the stench of death and sulfur pouring from its maw.

She turned her head sharply, searching for the source of the shot. Cicero stood near the base of the tower where she had left him, bow drawn taut, another arrow already nocked and trained on the dragon. She didn’t know where he had found it—perhaps scavenged it from one of the bodies strewn across the battlefield—but there he stood, unwavering, a small but resolute figure in the chaos.

She didn’t have time to dwell on it. With a sharp inhale, she unsheathed her sword, the blade gleaming faintly in the fiery haze, and turned back to the beast. The dragon’s head swung toward her, its obsidian jaws wide open as though to swallow her whole. She lunged forward, her blade arcing through the smoke-filled air. The steel kissed the beast’s throat—a glancing blow, just enough to draw blood but not nearly enough to finish it.

Its guttural snarl sent vibrations through her bones. As the dragon reared back, its massive head angled low, jaws snapping toward her. Elara didn’t hesitate. She raised the shield in her left hand and bashed it hard against the side of its head with a dull thud. The impact jarred her arm, but it bought her a heartbeat of time as the dragon staggered back, momentarily dazed.

Its teeth—each one the size of a dagger—gleamed like polished onyx, inches from her face. Elara swung again, this time with all her might, and her sword bit into the beast’s scales. The blade sliced through hide and flesh, dark blood oozing out in rivulets that pooled beneath its enormous neck.

But the dragon was far from finished. With an earth-shaking growl, it twisted its body violently, its muscular tail whipping toward her with the force of a battering ram. Elara caught the movement in the corner of her eye just in time to hurl herself to the ground, the tail missing her by mere inches. The shockwave sent her tumbling, dirt and ash caking her sweat-slicked skin as she scrambled back to her feet.

There was no time to recover. The dragon inhaled deeply, its ribcage expanding as flames gathered in its throat. Elara’s breath hitched. Fire erupted toward her in a roaring inferno. She threw her shield up in desperation, crouching low behind it as the blaze consumed everything in its path. The heat was unbearable, searing through the metal and wood, the surface glowing red-hot beneath her fingers. Her hand burned, the pain nearly blinding, but she gritted her teeth and held firm.

When the flames subsided, her shield was engulfed in flames. She staggered, her breath ragged, and hurled it aside. The shield hit the ground with a loud clang, splintering as it burned. Elara wiped the sweat and ash from her face, her vision blurring for a moment, but she refused to yield.

The dragon’s head loomed close, its mouth curling into what might have been a smirk if such creatures could smile. Its arrogance would be its undoing. She gripped her sword tighter and, with a sudden surge of energy, charged forward. She aimed for the beast’s eye—a glimmering orb of molten gold. It widened in recognition of the threat, but it was too late. Elara drove the sword straight into the center of its eye, the blade sinking deep with a sickening squelch.

The dragon’s roar split the air, a sound so terrible and raw it rattled her very soul. She stumbled back, her ears ringing, as the creature thrashed in pain. Its remaining eye—bloodshot and wide—fixed on her, and for the briefest of moments, Elara saw something she hadn’t expected. 

Fear.

“Dovahkiin? ” the dragon rasped, its voice low and strained, vibrating through the earth itself. The word made her falter for just a breath, her brows furrowing in confusion.

But she couldn’t afford hesitation. Gritting her teeth, she raised the sword high, both hands wrapped around the hilt, and with all her strength, she slammed it down. The blade pierced the dragon’s skull, splitting scale, flesh, and bone.

The creature’s scream turned to a guttural howl. Its massive body writhed violently, wings beating weakly at the ground, talons gouging trenches into the earth. Elara’s arms trembled under the strain of holding the sword steady, her boots sliding on the blood-slicked dirt as she fought to keep control. The beast thrashed, each movement a quake that threatened to knock her from her feet, but she held on.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. The dragon’s body stilled, its final breath escaping in a ragged, shuddering sigh. The silence that followed was deafening.

“Is it dead?” a voice broke through the quiet—soft, hesitant, spoken by a guard nearby.

Elara took a shaky step back, her chest heaving as exhaustion crashed over her. Her sword was slick with blood, her limbs trembling under the weight of her victory. She turned, scanning the field, and saw Cicero pushing his way past the others. His eyes were wide with relief and awe as he rushed toward her.

He reached her in seconds, wrapping his arms tightly around her. She nearly collapsed against him, her body weak and burning, but she welcomed the warmth of his embrace. For a moment, the world was quiet again.

Then she heard it—the collective gasps of the guards behind her. Cicero released her suddenly, stepping back with a look of shock that made her stomach drop.

“What?” she asked, confusion furrowing her brow. Had the dragon moved?

She turned her head sharply—and froze.

The dragon’s scales had begun to glow. Faint at first, like embers beneath ash, but then brighter and brighter. The light spread across its body, illuminating each scale before it began to peel away, disintegrating into the air like trails of smoke. The sight was mesmerizing, beautiful in a way that felt wrong.

“By the gods…” someone whispered.

Before Elara could react, a force struck her in the chest. It was like being punched by a giant fist, the air leaving her lungs in an instant. She staggered forward, clutching at her chest as a torrent of golden light poured from the dragon’s body and slammed into her. The sensation was overwhelming—like fire and ice all at once, a flood of energy so vast it consumed her.

She gasped, her eyes wide as strings of glowing magic swirled around her, winding up her arms and across her skin. It was alive, ancient, and powerful, and she could feel it seeping into her very soul. Her heart pounded wildly as the light filled every corner of her being, and for a moment, she felt as though she might shatter apart.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The light faded, the last trails of magic disappearing into her body.

Chapter 17: Embrace Change

The group’s silence after the last surge of magic hung heavy in the air, broken only by the sound of their breathing and the faint crackling of the dragon’s remains, now reduced to a charred skeleton. Elara's chest rose and fell rapidly, the energy from the event still thrumming faintly under her skin. Her gaze darted around, catching the wide-eyed stares of the guards, their expressions ranging from awe to disbelief. Even Irileth, ever-stoic, bore a slight furrow of confusion in her brow, her cold eyes betraying a flicker of something uncharacteristic: unease or perhaps recognition.

Cicero reached for her again, his gloved hand trembling slightly as it brushed her arm. His demeanor seemed to falter under the moment's weight, his gaze scanning her face as though searching for any signs of harm. She swallowed hard, leaning into his support, her own hands gripping his arms to anchor herself. 

“How did you do that?” a guard blurted, breaking the fragile silence. His voice was laden with awe, though his face was streaked with soot and exhaustion. “You took that thing’s very being.”

She turned her head toward him, peering past Cicero. The man had removed his dented helmet, revealing a sweat-slicked face etched with wonder. She opened her mouth to respond, but another voice interrupted before she could form a coherent thought.

“You must be blind if you understand what she just did,” another guard muttered, his voice gruff and impatient. He shot a pointed glare at his comrade before turning his attention to Elara.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice tight with frustration. She was as confused as they were, perhaps even more so.

“You absorbed its soul,” the second guard said, his tone reverent. “That means you’re dragonborn. By the gods... I never thought I’d see the day.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “What does that even mean? Dragonborn?”

The murmurings grew louder as the group began to piece together what they thought they had witnessed. Another guard, his armor scorched and barely holding together, stepped forward. “My grandfather used to tell stories of the Dragonborn. Said they had the blood of dragons in their veins, like old Tiber Septim himself.”

“Tiber Septim?” Elara echoed, her voice tinged with incredulity.

“I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons.”

“Don’t be daft,” a third guard chimed in. “There weren’t dragons back then, not like now. But the old tales say the Dragonborn could kill dragons and take their power. And gods be good, you just did.”

“Enough!” she snapped, her voice cutting through the noise. “I don’t know what happened. I didn’t—” She faltered, her frustration bubbling over. “I don’t even know what this means.”

“Have you ever tried shouting?” one guard interrupted, his tone oddly eager.

“Shouting?” Elara repeated, blinking. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Yes, shouting,” he said eagerly, stepping forward. “It should come naturally. Do you know any words of power? Words of the dragons?”

“Cicero thinks these men are less bright than a candle in the wind,” the jester muttered under his breath, earning a fleeting smile from Elara despite her unease.

But the guard’s words stirred something in her. A memory surfaced—those strange, ancient words she had learned not long ago. Could it be that simple? The syllables rolled through her mind, sharp and commanding, their meaning elusive yet strangely familiar.

She stepped back from Cicero, her breath quickening as she turned to face the expectant group. Fus, she thought. The word hummed on her lips, and before she could second-guess herself, she spoke it aloud.

The effect was immediate. A force like a gale erupted from her, rippling through the air and sending the gathered men stumbling backward. Even Cicero staggered his arms windmilling for balance. Elara gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth as the echo of the shout faded.

“By the gods!” one of the guards exclaimed, his voice giddy. “I felt that in my very bones!”

The others murmured in astonishment, their gazes fixed on Elara as though she had just summoned the heavens themselves. She glanced at Cicero, whose painted face was wide with wonder before her eyes sought Irileth.

Her gaze was sharp, assessing, though her expression remained inscrutable. One of them noticed her silence and spoke up. “What say you, housecarl? You’ve been quiet.”

She shook her head slightly, stepping forward to meet Elara’s eyes. “I know little of this Dragonborn business,” she said, her tone even, “but I know you saved us all today. For that, you have my gratitude.”

“Ha!” a guard scoffed. “You wouldn’t understand. You ain’t a nord.”

Elara bristled at the remark, but Irileth remained unfazed. “Report to the Jarl at once,” the housecarl ordered, ignoring the slight. “He must know what transpired here. I will remain here and look for more survivors.”

Elara nodded, grateful for the excuse to leave. Her feet carried her toward the city gates before she fully realized she was moving, and she knew the jester would never be far behind. 

She barely made it past the stables when she felt his hand clasp her arm, pulling her back with surprising force.

“Cicero wonders where the Listener is going?” he asked, his voice laced with mock curiosity, though his smirk carried an edge. His dark eyes locked onto hers, but there was something deeper in his gaze—something sharp, demanding answers.

“To the Jarl,” she replied, her words coming out more like a question. She tilted her head, incredulous. “Where else would I be going? Did I knock your brain loose too?”

But Cicero didn’t laugh. Instead, his grip on her arm tightened for just a second before loosening. “Cicero wonders...” he said slowly, his tone lowering into something almost accusatory, “how long the Listener was going to keep it from him.”

Her brows knitted together. “Excuse me? Keep what from you?” she snapped, pulling her arm free. “I’m just as in the dark about all this as the rest of you!”

But Cicero’s smile faded, his face hardening. “Cicero remembers that night,” he murmured. “The first night he was at the sanctuary. The way you stared at that damned wall. Infatuated, you were.”

The accusation stung. Of all people, why would he think she’d keep secrets from him? Cicero—of all people—who carried more mysteries in his hat and hidden blades than anyone she’d ever met?

Her expression turned cold. “I think if you don’t choose your next words carefully,” she said, her voice steady but threatening, “I’ll leave you out here and finish this on my own.”

Cicero’s laugh was short and humorless, a low sound that didn’t reach his eyes. “Sneaking around is the Listener’s strong suit,” he muttered, leaning closer, his breath ghosting over her face. But his proximity wasn’t endearing; it was suffocating, the tension between them thick enough to cut.

“Oh, that’s rich,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “Says the man who plotted to undermine Astrid’s leadership from day one. What does that say about you?”

His eyes narrowed dangerously, and his usual lively energy seemed to simmer into something darker. “No,” he started, his voice quiet, but she wasn’t about to let him speak.

“No?” she repeated mockingly. “Let’s not forget the tenets we both swore to, Cicero. You’re lucky I didn’t tell Astrid when I found out about your little schemes. Wouldn’t that have been a fun conversation?”

His hand twitched at his side, and she saw it—the unmistakable edge of fury in his expression. She knew she was pushing him too far, but she was too angry, too confused, to stop herself.

“Listener,” he said softly, his tone eerily calm. She knew that voice—it was the voice he used when he was teetering.

A guard passed by, casting them a wary glance, but neither paid him any mind. The moment felt electric, like a storm about to break.

“This is all coming from the man who kills people for saying things he doesn’t like,” she added, her voice quiet but cutting.

It happened in an instant. Cicero’s dagger was at her throat, his free hand pressing her back against the cold stone of the wall. The chill of the blade against her skin was sharp, and his face was inches from hers, contorted with anger.

“Do you ever keep your mouth shut?” he hissed, his voice low and venomous.

Elara didn’t flinch, didn’t move. Instead, she held his gaze with steely defiance. “Go on,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Be the man they think you are.”

For a moment, it seemed like he might. The tension in his arm was evident, the blade pressing just a fraction deeper against her skin. But then his grip loosened. Slowly, the pressure of the knife eased, and she shoved him hard with both hands, sending him stumbling back. His dagger clattered to the ground. 

Cicero steadied himself, his eyes wide with surprise as if he hadn’t expected her to retaliate.

“If you ever do that again,” she said, her voice trembling with fury, “you’d better be prepared to end me right then and there. Because I won’t give you a second chance.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He bent to retrieve his dagger, slipping it back into its sheath with a fluid motion. His smile returned, but it was hollow, more of a mask than an expression.

“The Listener still has her claws,” he murmured, his voice light. “Cicero likes that.”

Elara’s voice trembled, though not with fear—with anger, hurt, and a trace of bitterness she couldn’t hold back any longer. “I don’t care what you like,” she began, her gaze boring into him. “I thought we had come to an understanding. After all this time, I let myself think I had someone I could count on. Someone who wasn’t just... playing games.” Her words faltered for a split second before she pressed on, her voice hardening. “But then he walked away. And now you act like this ?”

Her eyes locked onto his, searching for something—remorse, understanding, anything. Instead, his expression was infuriatingly unreadable, his lips quirked into that maddening half-smile as if her words were nothing more than an amusing distraction.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. Couldn’t he, for just one second, act like a normal person? Like someone who cared, or at least pretended to? But no. Cicero wasn’t normal, and she wouldn’t dare ask that of him aloud. That was a line she wasn’t willing to cross. Not yet.

But the memory of the knife at her throat, the cold steel, and the flicker of intent in his eyes burned fresh in her mind. For a fleeting moment, he had looked ready to kill her. And now? Now he stood there as though nothing had happened, his defiance as sharp as the blade he’d pressed to her skin. She couldn’t help but wonder: had he been lying to her all along? What else would he be willing to do?

His silence spoke volumes. His gaze stayed locked on hers, dark and unyielding. Yet beneath the defiance, she thought— hoped —there was something else. Was he hurt? Or had she misread him entirely?

But at that moment, she was too angry, too hurt, to care what it was.

“Alright,” she said finally, her voice cutting through the charged silence. “I’ll do this myself.”

The words were a challenge as much as a declaration. She saw the slight twitch of his eye, the subtle tilt of his head—a sign he didn’t like the idea one bit. His reaction only fueled her resolve. Steeling herself, she stepped closer, closing the gap between them until her body brushed against his. She tilted her head up, forcing him to meet her gaze.

He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, but she saw the shift in his posture, the flicker of something in his eyes as she leaned in. Her voice, when she spoke, was slow and deliberate, each word chosen with precision. For once, she didn’t choke on them. She meant every single one.

“Maybe I was wrong about you,” she said softly, her tone almost tender but laced with steel. “Maybe you are everything they say you are.”

Cicero’s smile didn’t waver, but she saw the faint narrowing of his eyes as her words sank in. “And what is that, my dear Listener?” he asked, his voice light but with a dangerous undercurrent.

“A liar,” she said plainly, her words striking like a blade. “And not worth my time.”

Her final words hung in the air, cutting through the tension like a knife. Without giving him a chance to respond, she stepped away, turning her back on him. She caught the flicker of anger that crossed his face before she walked off, leaving him standing there alone.

He deserved it—he deserved to be put back in the metaphorical box she’d found him in, especially if he couldn’t be trusted. If he started getting too bold, too cruel, too unreliable, she’d leave him there. No hesitation.

The truth settled heavily on her shoulders as she pushed forward. The only person she could rely on right now was herself. And she hated it. She hated how much was being thrown at her all at once.

Her people had never cared for Nord legends or their tales of gods and dragons. Her father had taught her only the basics, just enough to fulfill their obligations. She had wanted more—needed more—but he had dismissed her questions as unimportant. And now? Now she was paying the price for that ignorance.

The Imperials and nords were conquerors, their ambitions endless. Her people, though resilient, had always been wary of them. And yet, here she was, caught in the middle of their stories, their gods, their war.

The word she had spoken earlier echoed in her mind, its power lingering on her tongue like a forbidden fruit. It had ripped through her with a force so overwhelming that even the earth itself had trembled. A small, sly smile curled at her lips as the memory replayed. The possibilities swirled in her mind, a tantalizing prospect. Was there more to this power? Could it grow stronger? The thought of it sent a thrill down her spine. 

How many words existed in this dragon language? she wondered. And how many of them could be mine?

Her feet carried her forward almost unconsciously, past the city gates where guards stood vigilant, their armor gleaming under the midday sun. She barely paid them any mind, lost in the storm of her thoughts. She replayed the moment again—the beast falling, its soul unraveling and surging into her without so much as a lift of her hand. The sheer ease of it had surprised her, and she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. If this is what just one word can do…

Her musings were abruptly interrupted. The sky above her cracked and roared, the sudden sound so deafening that it froze her in her tracks. For a fleeting, irrational moment, she thought the gods themselves had descended to speak. Male voices, deep and resonant, echoed across the heavens, their power undeniable.

“Dovahkiin.”

The single word boomed through the air, vibrating in her very bones. It was a sound unlike any other, commanding and inescapable. It felt as if the voices were right above her, yet she knew, somehow, that the source of the sound was far, far away.

Around her, the citizens of Whiterun stumbled, their conversations forgotten, baskets of food dropped in shock. Elara resisted the urge to cover her ears, though her hands itched to do so. The word lingered for a moment, etched into the fabric of the world itself before the sky fell silent once more.

As the people around her began to collect themselves, murmuring nervously, she stood motionless. Her only thought was that this land and its people were utterly mad. She shook her head, forcing herself to move, her steps hurried as she made her way toward Dragonsreach. No more incidents, she thought grimly. She had no desire to be caught outside if the moons decided to crash from the sky next.

The city buzzed with murmurs of the strange event, but she didn’t stop to listen. Her clothes were still streaked with ash and grime, remnants of the battle she had just fought. She tried to fix them as she walked, smoothing the fabric to at least appear somewhat put together. She caught glimpses of curious stares from passersby, their eyes darting between her and the distant horizon where the dragon’s roar had once echoed.

Once inside Dragonsreach, the towering hall felt eerily still, the distant chatter of servants muffled by her own racing thoughts. For a brief moment, she paused, glancing over her shoulder. A strange sensation prickled at the back of her neck, like the ghost of a shadow trailing her. But when she looked, she saw only the maid, sweeping the rugs and casting a curious glance her way. Elara shook her head, dismissing the feeling, and turned her focus back to the task at hand.

At the far end of the hall, Jarl Balgruuf sat on his imposing throne, his advisor Proventus standing close by. They were deep in conversation, their voices low, but the moment she stepped inside, the Jarl’s attention shifted. His gaze landed on her, and he leaned back slightly, waiting for her approach.

“What news of the dragon?” he called, his voice measured but laced with tension. “I assume, if you are here, then...”

“It’s been dealt with,” Elara replied, stopping a few feet from his chair.

Relief washed over his face, and he let out a long breath, resting his head in his hand for a moment. Slowly, he rubbed his forehead, as if trying to ease away the weight of the day. “Thank the gods,” he said. “I thank you for helping me and my people. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

Elara tilted her head slightly, her eyes flicking to Proventus. The advisor was watching her with a wary expression, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. She could see the doubt etched into his features, the way his gaze lingered on the ash and soot that still clung to her.

Balgruuf nodded, his expression softening. “Whiterun owes you a great debt.” 

Elara, however, wasn’t finished. She saw the slight shift in his posture, the way his lips parted as if preparing to offer some token of reward for her troubles, but she raised her hand slightly to stop him. “There’s something else,” she said, her tone steady but tinged with unease. “I’m afraid there isn’t much of the thing left for Farengar to study.”

Balgruuf furrowed his brows, leaning forward in his chair. “What happened?”

She hesitated, her fingers brushing against her chest, right where she’d felt that strange, consuming sensation. “Its body... something happened to it. The others told me that I must have absorbed it,” she said, her voice lowering at the end as if the words themselves carried a weight she didn’t fully understand.

The Jarl’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression hardening as he leaned back. “So it’s true,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “The Greybeards were summoning you.”

She blinked, her confusion evident. “Who?”

He sighed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “The Greybeards. Masters of the Way of the Voice. They live in seclusion, high on the slopes of the Throat of the World. If they have spoken, then you must go to them.”

She shook her head, her arms crossing defensively. “I don’t understand,” she said, her voice laced with frustration. “What could they want with me? Because I killed one of those... things?”

The Jarl laughed softly, a low, almost fatherly chuckle that almost put her at ease. “I’ve forgotten,” he said, his tone lighter now. “You might not be familiar with our history. My apologies.”

Her cheeks flushed as she suddenly became acutely aware of her appearance—the soot clinging to her skin, the disheveled state of her clothes. She felt out of place, a foreigner standing before these men who seemed so rooted in their traditions.

“If you truly are Dragonborn, the Greybeards can teach you how to use your gift,” Balgruuf continued, his gaze steady and unyielding. He then cast a glance at the man standing to his side. The man was only slightly younger than the Jarl but bore a striking resemblance, his features sharp and defined like a mirror warped by time.

“Didn’t you hear the thundering call as you returned to Whiterun?” the man asked, his voice brimming with barely contained excitement. “This hasn’t happened in centuries, at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora!”

She stared at him, her face unreadable. She wanted to mirror his enthusiasm, to share in the apparent significance of this moment, but she couldn’t. A Nordic power, given to her ? An elf? It seemed absurd. The thought of it made her stomach churn, a bitter mix of self-doubt and lingering confusion.

“Hrongar, calm yourself,” Proventus interjected sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as she may be, I see no signs of her being this... what was it? ‘Dragonborn?’” His tone was dismissive, his skepticism evident.

Hrongar let out an audible huff, his annoyance radiating from every inch of his posture. “Nord nonsense?!” he spat, his face twisting with indignation. “Why, you puffed-up, ignorant... These are our sacred traditions that go back to the founding of the First Empire!”

"Hrongar, don’t be so hard on Avenicci," Balgruuf said, his tone a calm but firm interruption to the tension building between his brother and steward.

"I meant no disrespect, of course," Proventus replied, though his words were clipped. His gaze flickered toward Elara, his skepticism evident. "It’s just that... what do these Greybeards want with her?"

Elara returned his scrutiny with a pointed, challenging stare. Proventus hesitated under her unyielding gaze, shifting awkwardly before looking away, muttering something incoherent under his breath.

Balgruuf observed the exchange with a faint smirk before addressing her directly. "That’s the Greybeards’ business, not ours," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Whatever happened when you killed that dragon revealed something in you—something they heard. If they believe you are Dragonborn, who are we to argue?"

She exhaled sharply, rubbing her arm as she glanced toward the floor. “I have to climb that god-forsaken mountain?” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “Can’t they come to me instead?”

Balgruuf laughed heartily, the sound filling the hall as he slapped the arm of his chair. "If only it were that easy," he said, amusement glinting in his eyes. “There’s no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It’s a tremendous honor. I envy you, you know. To climb the 7,000 Steps again... I made the pilgrimage once. Did you know that?”

She raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the admission.

“High Hrothgar is a peaceful place,” he continued, his voice softening with nostalgia. “Disconnected from the troubles of this world. I sometimes wonder if the Greybeards even notice what happens down here. They haven’t seemed to care much before.” His words trailed off, his gaze momentarily distant as if caught in a memory. Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed his musings. “No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what they can teach you.”

She hesitated her thoughts a swirl of doubt and unease. But before she could muster a response, he stood, grunting slightly as he rose from his seat. "Before you leave," he said, stepping toward her with a purposeful stride, “let me reward you. It is the least I can do for helping my people—not once, but now many times over.”

She barely had time to process his words before he placed a hand on her shoulder, its weight both grounding and oddly comforting. His grip was firm, the squeeze one of appreciation and respect. “I hereby bestow upon you the title of thane in my city,” he declared a proud smile on his lips. “It is the highest honor I can offer.”

Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. A bloom of warmth spread through her chest, a feeling she couldn’t immediately name. Pride? Gratitude? Something deeper? She lowered her head, blinking rapidly as she struggled to find the right words. 

"I... I am very honored," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Balgruuf’s smile widened. “As thane, you may purchase property in Whiterun, should you wish. The offer will always stand—speak to Proventus when the time comes.” He stepped back slightly, his eyes warm as he observed her. “You’ve earned this, Elara.”

Her throat tightened as tears prickled at the edges of her vision, but she swallowed them down. This wasn’t the place for such emotions. She managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady now.

The Jarl gave her shoulder one last reassuring squeeze before clapping his hands together. “Now, before you take off, allow me to see to your supplies. A journey to High Hrothgar is no small feat,” he said, gesturing for her to follow.

Her steps felt unusually light as she walked behind him, her mind still grappling with the weight of his words. As they passed Farengar’s study, her attention was drawn to the wizard, who was hunched over his cluttered desk. Beside him stood a hooded figure clad in leather armor not unlike her own.

"Ah, Farengar," Balgruuf called out, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I must apologize. It seems our friend here might not have left much of the dragon for you.”

The wizard looked up, his expression one of mild disappointment as his gaze landed on her. He let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “No matter. Retrieving the stone was enough,” he said, plucking a scroll from the desk.

The hooded figure raised its head, revealing a pale Nord woman with sharp, scrutinizing features. Her icy eyes locked on Elara, and for a moment, her expression was unreadable. Then, her lips curved into a faint smile. “You went into Bleak Falls Barrow and retrieved this?” she asked, gesturing to the scroll in Farengar’s hand. “Nice job.”

Elara nodded, unsure how to respond to the compliment. The woman’s gaze lingered, as though she were trying to decipher something about her. Whatever it was, she didn’t have the energy to dwell on it. The Nord murmured something to Farengar, her voice too low for her to catch, and she turned to follow Balgruuf up the stairs.

Chapter 18: Attempting Apathy

Cicero was feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Longing. Disappointment. But anger—that was familiar. Anger was always there, simmering like a pot on the verge of boiling over. Cicero was tired. Tired of the games, the half-truths, the delicate dance they played. Cicero wanted to go home. Not to the sanctuary, no— home. The idea of home, of belonging, of being understood. But most of all, Cicero wanted the Listener to understand.

Cat and mouse, oh yes, he could play that all day. Twirling and twisting through shadows, grinning all the while. But this? This was different. This was a dance of souls, a tension that crackled and sizzled between them. She had to understand why keeping such a secret from him was detrimental. Why it hurt. But he knew better now, she hadn’t known after all.

Cicero was only a fool in some aspects—a fool for chaos, a fool for the Night Mother. But when it came to her? Oh, Cicero was the biggest fool.

He had told himself, swore it even, that he would leave her there. When her sharp words had sliced through his manic exterior, when she had practically spit in his face with her defiance, he told himself that was it. He would walk away, leave her to her fate. And that had been the plan, hadn’t it?

But oh, how Cicero wished he’d stuck to it.

She had said she was leaving him there, and oh, how that infuriated him. So much so that he’d abandoned his plan, scrapped it entirely, and followed her instead. He wasn’t sure why. Pride, maybe. Or something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to name.

He knew she could handle him at his worst. That’s why he wasn’t afraid to push her. To needle and prod, to dance along that razor’s edge. But perhaps, just perhaps, holding a blade to her throat had been a step too far.

The moment the blade kissed her skin, he felt it. A rush, a thrill, a memory. It was like stepping back in time to that day— that day —when this thing between them had truly begun. The moment when the embers flared, only for her to snuff them out again with maddening ease.

It made him angry. Furious. How easily she could do it—how she could turn it off, bury whatever it was that simmered between them as if it meant nothing. As if he meant nothing. He knew he could never do it. Never walk away, never look at her and feel... nothing.

And yet, even with the blade at her throat, that memory burned bright. The day he found her spying on him speaking to the Night Mother. Oh, the thrill that had coursed through him then. That same thrill rang through him now. She was a welcome challenge at first—deciphering her, bending her to his will. But she was so much more than that now. She possessed an almost maddening ability to dominate the air around her, to draw him in without even trying.

He wasn’t angry about her being dragon-birthed, or whatever they called her. Dragonborn? Oh no, that wasn’t it. What infuriated him was the idea that she might keep something from him. Something important. Something he needed to know.

Cicero was trying so... very... hard to be good. To tell her everything. To open himself up in ways he never had before. Well, mostly everything. There were a few things she didn’t need to know— not yet. But the rest? Only she would know.

She was his Listener, after all. And wasn’t that what the Listener and Keeper were meant to do? Share everything. Trust completely. He was trying to get it to that point. 

Dark Mother, he ached for that. He had survived the near-destruction of the Brotherhood once and watched its numbers crumble to dust under betrayal and blades. He had no use for secrets now, no time for side errands or unexpected twists. But oh, how she complicated everything, and it was a complication he found himself craving, even against his own better judgment.

He longed for a bond forged in truth, where every corner of his mind—blood-soaked corners and all—was laid bare for her to see. He wanted to open himself, show her every mad swirl of devotion in his heart, because that was what the Keeper did for the Listener, yes? That was the vow he lived for, the vow that still burned in his veins. But she— Elara —kept him constantly guessing, as if she held back only so she could watch him squirm. He should have resented it, and yet, a twisted part of him relished the chase.

The name alone— Elara —tasted exquisite on his tongue, like the sweetest poison. She was different from anyone he’d ever known, fearless and maddeningly stubborn, always meeting his cunning with her own. The thought of her gave him a low, simmering thrill.

The memory of her pinned beneath him—gods, or the memory of that fire in her eyes—lit sparks in his skull. Something about that battle-ready glare reminded him of Daedric princes with their dangerous seductions and enthralling promises. She moved like a predator, all coiled grace and quiet menace.

And her eyes —by Sithis, those red eyes found him in every room, pinned him like prey. He, who had never known fear in the kill, felt the first pins of anxiety under that gaze. Except it was not a terror that drove him away—it drew him in like a moth to a flame. A sweet, scalding flame that promised either unparalleled bliss or a violent end, and he couldn’t decide which outcome he desired more.

So yes, he had crawled back to her— again. Followed her, step by step, when she stormed off to see the pompous Jarl of Whiterun, her temper flaring in every gesture, her voice crackling like lightning. She was so fierce, so alive, and gods if only she knew that the old Brotherhood, in its prime, could have these hold capitals cowering with a mere whisper of an assassination contract. He’d heard the stories. He could see that she wished for that same goal.

Astrid, pfft—she had potential but lacked the cunning to truly wield the Brotherhood’s once-mighty power. Elara? Now, that was funny. 

He snorted to himself, the idea of her leading them, of her overshadowing the pitiful attempts of Astrid’s leadership was a more worthy thought. He half-wondered if Elara could do it—bend them all to her will because certainly, she had bent him in ways he’d never anticipated.

But there he was, trailing behind her because a part of him wanted to see if she would. Wanted to see how far she’d go, how much she’d test him. He could handle it—he was the Keeper. So what if he’d brandished a blade at her throat once or twice? That was just... him.

The Listener was quiet, stalking, and patient in the way she spoke to the Jarl. Her voice, so calm on the surface, carried a simmering tension beneath it. Cicero watched from afar, saw how she carried herself—as though each word she offered to this pompous Nord was weighed carefully. He didn’t care much for these other titles she gathered, anyway. Thane? Bah, beneficial indeed, but Dragonborn? That was… complicated. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. 

He remembered too clearly the sight of the dragon’s soul ripping free, swirling in a golden storm before sinking into her body without her so much as lifting a finger. She hadn’t even realized it was happening until it was done.

No incantation, no movement—just raw magic surging into her. It looked so uncontrollable at that moment, yet the relief on her face afterward told him it hadn’t hurt her. Not physically, at least.

But she’d still trembled in his arms when he held her, all eyes on them as she stood there with dragon blood on her sword and new power in her veins. That single moment had set his teeth on edge—too many people staring at his Listener, too many curious gazes pressing in on them.

He wished he could sweep her into the shadows, keep her hidden from it all, but she… She was clearly meant for more than that.

And so, he would live with it. Had to. Sighing inwardly, he kept his silence as she exchanged a few more words with Balgruuf before taking her leave of Whiterun, stepping through the heavy city gates out into the cooling air.

Trailing behind at a safe distance, Cicero watched her pass by the stables. A sideways glance at one of the horses made his chest clench with sudden worry—he silently, almost comically, pleaded for her not to buy one. If she rode off on horseback, how in Sithis’s name would he keep pace?

But evidently, she decided against it. She merely walked on, boots shuffling softly as she headed toward the far horizon. Cicero’s lips curled into a small, private smile. Good.

He kept far enough behind, blending in with the dusk. The sky bled from purple to deep blue, stars pricking the canvas above, and the silhouette of the Listener stood out whenever she crossed a patch of moonlight. Occasionally, he saw her pause and look back over her shoulder, as if she felt him there, a creeping presence in the night.

But oh, no, not tonight, he thought. He was too clever to let her catch him in her gaze, too practiced at melting into the rocky terrain. She hadn’t wanted him at her side right now, and so he would wait, giving her space. And yet, he could still watch over her. That was enough for him. For the moment.

The night air never bothered Cicero—he had learned long ago how to ignore the chill that seeped into his bones. Memories flickered through his mind: the hunts and the kills, the steps he took in the coldest nights of Skyrim without so much as a shiver.

He remembered those times they’d spent together, tracking down targets for petty gold or for the Brotherhood’s honor—some poor fool’s ex-lover.

Tch. He hadn’t enjoyed that contract, but it had brought Elara back into his arms by the end of the night. He felt a surge of something darkly pleasant at the memory, a sense of satisfaction and triumph.

She was always the prize at the end. Or maybe it was he who was the prize for her. Hard to say, when the lines blurred so deliciously.

Sometimes, though, a thorn of guilt pricked him. Was it betrayal? Disloyalty to the Night Mother, to feel so strongly about the Listener, to want her so fiercely?

Perhaps a little sin was permitted now and then. If anyone could understand madness and devotion, it was his Dark Matron. He had to believe that.

Yes, Elara was the Listener, but she was his in some way he couldn’t quite describe. He owed her his honesty. He owed her every secret, every shadow of his mind, except… well, perhaps not all at once. Even so, it chafed him that she might withhold secrets of her own. Secrets about that dragon soul, about being Dragonborn, about what lay behind that sharp gaze of hers. Didn’t she know he’d follow her anywhere, do anything if she just told him? If she trusted him enough to share?

He pressed his back to a boulder, half-listening to the wind rustling through the tall grass. She walked on, unaware of how close he was. He chuckled under his breath, a sound almost lost in the whisper of night.

Cicero peeked his head around the rock, searching for her familiar figure. The path ahead was empty. His grin faltered, and a quiet curse hissed through his teeth. Where had she gone? Collecting himself, he reasoned she must have sped up as night fell—perhaps she had stopped somewhere close to set up camp. He would find her. He always did.

His sharp eyes trailed the faint imprint of her leather boots in the dirt, leading him further up the path. But then, just as he began to close the distance, the tracks faded. Not entirely gone, but brushed away, as though she had intentionally tried to conceal her trail. He crouched, squinting in the dim light, running his fingers lightly over the faint depression in the dirt. His mind spun. Where had you gone?

The faintest shift in the air was all the warning he got before he felt the cold press of steel against his throat. Cicero’s body tensed briefly, and then that manic grin stretched across his face again. Oh, clever girl.

The blade stayed steady against his skin, her breath warm and close against his ear. Her voice, soft but lethal, sent a chill down his spine. “If you were smart, you’d be halfway back to sanctuary by now,” she whispered.

His hands rose carefully, a gesture of mock surrender, and he turned his head slightly, just enough to glimpse those burning red eyes glowing back at him in the dark. The sight of them thrilled him. “Cicero could never leave the Listener, not when she needs him,” he purred.

Her blade pressed harder against his throat, but he could tell it was for effect, a warning rather than a threat. “I don’t need you. Especially not now,” she seethed, her tone cutting through him like the blade at his neck.

“Oh, but you do,” he countered, a playful shrug to his shoulders.

Her grip on the knife faltered slightly, her mouth opening to retort, and in that moment of hesitation, Cicero struck. His hand shot up, grabbing her wrist and twisting it gently but firmly, prying the blade away as he stood to his full height. She grunted, resisting him, trying to pull her arm back, but he held fast, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You left yourself open,” he said simply, watching her closely.

Her frustration boiled over, her voice sharp with anger. “I’m done. You stupid asshole, I’m done! You’ve pushed every button I have left. Do you want to see me scream at you? I won’t. I refuse. I want you gone.”

Her words hit him harder than any blade could. For a moment, the manic gleam in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something raw, something vulnerable. But he held his ground. Couldn’t she see?

“Everything I do is for you,” he said, his voice quieter now, the edges of his grin fading. “Cicero does not lie to his Listener.”

Her expression scolded him even before her words came. “You don’t get it. It’s not about lies. It’s about trust.” Her voice cracked, her anger giving way to something more fragile. “I needed support. I’m so confused about what’s happening to me, and I needed you.”

“Need,” he corrected, his voice almost gentle now, his eyes softening.

“Needed,” she replied, her tone resolute, daring him to challenge her.

For a moment, the two of them stood there, the tension between them as taut as a bowstring. Cicero released her arm, his grin entirely gone now. He looked at her, truly looked at her, and in the silence, the weight of what she had said settled heavily on him.

“Then let Cicero make it right,” he said again, almost pleading, his voice dropping low.

She was close—so close that he felt the heat radiating off her, threatening to burn him in a way no blade ever could. “You’ve done enough,” she hissed, her words slicing between them, her breath hot against his cheek.

Her stare pinned him where he stood, and yet he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He swallowed, torn between the pull of her presence and the sting of her accusation. Her lips parted, and he remembered them, how they’d once parted for him in passion, and how he’d become addicted to that rush, that fleeting union of body and soul.

“Cicero can do more,” he promised, brows knitting in a desperate frown. He needed to fix this, to prove he wasn’t some cruel jester out for blood and fun.

She opened her mouth, bracing to fire off another angry retort, but then she stopped. She blinked. Maybe she remembered a moment of softness between them, or maybe the words just caught in her throat.

A flicker of doubt coursed through him, and he almost wished she’d just shout. Instead, her voice emerged in a hushed, trembling question: “Do you even understand how much you hurt me?”

Her words struck like an arrow to his heart. Hurt her? He would’ve thrown himself onto his own blade before doing that on purpose.

"Hurt?" he echoed, feeling that half-manic confusion swirl in his head. “It is all jokes, is it not?” he added, an uncertain, lopsided smile tugging at his lips.

She didn’t smile back. Didn’t even twitch. Instead, she let out a long, tired sigh. Something in his chest squeezed painfully—clearly, he’d stepped wrong again.

“Cicero thought... he thought you enjoyed it,” he said softly, trying to make sense of how everything had gone wrong. He’d believed their banter, their harsh teasing, was part of the strange dance they did. “Or else he wouldn’t have…”

“At times, sure,” she replied. There was a tremor in her voice now, and it made his stomach lurch. “But now? You’re the only thing keeping me sane.”

He blinked, taken aback by the admission. He, the lunatic Keeper, was her anchor? The notion seemed almost laughable. “Cicero apologizes,” he muttered, his voice low, “he did not know. He thought you were handling it better.”

She stiffened, her eyes narrowing in offense. He saw the flash of hurt and anger there, and he reached out instinctively as she turned on her heel to leave. He seized her arm, but gently this time—just enough to keep her there without hurting her.

“Not... like that,” he blurted out, words tumbling frantically. “Cicero did not mean to offend. He sees how you handle others—so well, so unbreakable—he thought you...”

“What?” she demanded, her voice an icy blade. “That I’m immune to my own feelings?”

He swallowed, wishing his mind worked the way hers did, so he could say the right thing at the right time. But he was a bundle of nerves and mania, uncertain how to soothe or reassure. For once, he felt empathy twisting in his chest—a reflection of the hurt etched on her face. He hadn’t felt that in…years. He didn’t enjoy it but for her?

“I...” He stared down at the ground, feeling more vulnerable than he could remember. She stared at him, her expression pained, and it struck him how badly he’d messed this up. “I don’t understand this,” he whispered, stepping back a pace, giving her space because she needed it—and maybe he did too.

He expected her to walk away, to leave him behind as she’d threatened. But her gaze, despite the anger, flickered with something akin to worry. A tightness coiled in his stomach, a gnawing sense of guilt for pushing her too far.

Yes, he thought grimly, you took the joke too far this time.

“Cicero apologizes,” he said, a quiver of desperation in his voice. His eyes found hers again, beseeching, raw. “It will never happen again.” He meant every syllable, letting each one fall like a plea.

Silence hung in the air. The night wind rustled, swirling around them, carrying the echoes of all the words left unspoken. He didn’t dare move, half expecting her to strike him or curse him again. But inside his chest, his heart hammered with just one hope: that she wouldn’t send him away, that he hadn’t lost her entirely.

“If you leave me again, let it be at your own undoing,” she said quietly.

Her words, although coated in steel, held a flicker of something else—something that made Cicero’s heart twist in his chest. Even as she stared at him like he was a monster, he latched onto that flicker, convincing himself it was hope. Perhaps it meant she still saw something in him worth keeping, or at least worth keeping at arm’s length.

He swallowed hard. Something about her disdain burned worse than any brand. He could handle her anger, her biting sarcasm, the way she’d sometimes ignore him for days. He could handle the coldness in her eyes whenever he teased her too far. But her tears? That was something he loathed more than any punishment.

Cicero remembered all too well the previous night when she’d collapsed at his feet, weeping and fragile. Her hair had clung to her face, and she’d looked like some hellish angel, a fallen deity bathed in sorrow, begging him— him —to be kind. He’d been transfixed by how achingly beautiful she was in that moment, how raw and open, and he’d vowed to himself then that he wouldn’t be the one to make her tears fall.

Yet here he was, having done precisely that. It made him want to rage at himself—gnash his teeth and tear at his hair. He felt sick with the memory that he’d forced her to bare her vulnerability again, just like her friend had. That “thief,” that pathetic man who’d walked away. The very thought of him pricked Cicero’s insides with tiny barbs of envy. How dare the fool?

No, Cicero wasn’t worried that the man looked at her the way he did—clearly, the thief had only seen her as one might see a naive child. But the fact that Cicero might be mentioned in the same breath as that worthless made him want to stab himself out of sheer frustration. He was nothing like that incompetent man.

His gaze flicked back to her face. She stood stiff, her posture a warning, but the softness in her eyes told him she was no longer on the verge of violence.

He took a cautious step closer, hating that she flinched. Curse your overzealous blade, Cicero, he berated himself. How he wanted to reach out and brush her hair from her face to cradle her cheeks with both hands and apologize a thousand times for the madness he’d unleashed.

But he didn’t dare, not yet. She was still too raw, and he was too unpredictable. Instead, he stopped where he stood, hands raised just enough to show he meant no harm.

“You—” he began, his voice thin. “You said you didn’t need me. But you do, don’t you? Right?” The question was nearly a plea, a faint tremor in his tone.

Her lips parted to speak, but no words followed. She just held his gaze, her eyes searing into his. Cicero felt the urge to spill everything—his regrets, his fears, the twisted devotion he bore her. Instead, he swallowed his confession, caging it behind his teeth. If she wanted him to stay, she’d have to say it. He’d put away his blade. If she wanted him gone, well, she only had to lift a finger.

A breath passed between them, heavy with meaning. Behind her, the wind stirred the leaves, reminding him how cold the night could be out here in the wilds. But he felt none of that chill. All he felt was her judgment and the faint spark that kept him tethered to her side.

She exhaled slowly, maybe about to speak, but the words died as she pressed her lips together. Cicero’s heart hammered against his ribs, waiting for her verdict. The notion of leaving her or being cast aside clenched at his insides like a vise.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice shaky yet determined. “I’ll be here if you want me.”

Her face softened by a fraction, but the storm behind her eyes didn’t abate. “Then don’t push me away with your damned games,” she replied quietly, sternly. “I can’t handle that right now.”

He bowed his head, biting back a surge of relief that threatened to unman him. He wanted to laugh, to cry, to wrap himself around her and promise he wouldn’t fail her again.

But he instead chose to grab her hand gently, bringing it up to his lips and holding it there, closing his eyes. Hopefully, she understood that.

Chapter 19: Oh, Sweet Mother, what have I done?

Cicero peeked over Elara’s shoulder as she studied her map, pressing himself close enough that he could smell the faint scent of leather and ash clinging to her armor. She was frowning at the entrance of the ruin in front of them, brows knitted in concentration.

He hummed gently near her ear, some nonsensical tune to fill the silence, fully expecting her to tell him to shut up at any moment. But she didn’t, not yet.

When a minute passed and she still just hovered there, Cicero couldn’t hold back any longer. “My dear, if you stare any harder, it might disappear,” he said softly. It earned him a swift finger pressed to his lips, cutting him off.

He gave a theatrical pout, though his eyes were warm with amusement as he looked at her frustrated expression. “Why would anyone want to meet here of all places?” she muttered. “This place is deserted.”

Cicero cocked his head, reminding himself that his Listener was still relatively new to all of this, and might not yet appreciate how some clients prized absolute privacy—especially when it meant rendezvousing among corpses in a musty Nord ruin. He’d been to places just as dreary and pungent in his younger years, enough to find a certain charm in them.

“Perhaps Cicero might lead the—”

She lifted a hand without so much as a glance in his direction, shutting him up once more. He huffed quietly as she stuffed her map back into her bag. “No,” she said, “because I know you.”

Cicero offered a mock-hurt expression, raising both hands in defense. “Cicero believes that sounds more like an insult.”

She cast him a sideways look that sparkled with a playful annoyance. “Then you’d be right.”

He pursed his lips, brow furrowing in feigned despair, but caught the faint glimmer in her eye. Good—she wasn’t entirely cross with him. Volunruud, the Night Mother had insisted, and so Volunruud it was. He sensed it was the right place; a familiar kind of hush lingered in the air, one that promised secrets and shadows.

They descended into the shallow cavern leading to the door. Cicero tugged on the sturdy stone entrance, secretly bracing himself for resistance, but to his mild surprise it gave way easily. Someone had come this way ahead of them, it seemed. A cloud of dust puffed up as the door opened, and Elara coughed, swatting at the air. Cicero chuckled lightly, stepping in behind her.

The ruin was dark, damp, and smelled vaguely of wet moss. A thin stream of water trickled somewhere deeper inside, echoing eerily against the stone walls. Candles dotted the hallway, their flickering light casting dancing shadows that crawled up the broken pillars and ancient carvings. Cicero closed the door gently behind them, savoring the echo that rippled through the chamber.

He inhaled, wrinkling his nose. “Mmm, how fun! Smells like rancid cabbage.” He let out a tiny giggle. “Cicero wonders if a merchant was stuffed into one of these caskets.”

He giggled softly at his own morbid joke.

A soft snort from Elara drew his eye, and he was delighted to see a tiny smile tugging at her lips despite her best efforts to hide it. She scanned the corridor, taking in the broken caskets that lined the walls, their lids askew or shattered. 

He leaned closer to her again, lowering his voice. “If we don’t find a merchant stuffed inside soon, Cicero might be disappointed. He was hoping for a good story.”

Elara shot him a wry glance. “You do realize we’re here on business, right?”

Cicero wiggled his eyebrows. “Oh, but business can still be fun! We can kill two birds with one arrow.”

She let out a sigh, one that told him she was trying not to indulge his humor. But the corners of her mouth were still curved, betraying that she wasn’t entirely annoyed. 

The absence of corpses was almost alarming—no reanimated draugr moaning in the distance, no rotting bandit corpses waiting to be discovered. It was just... quiet.

“Too quiet,” she murmured as if reading his thoughts.

He edged closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Cicero hopes it stays that way. He’s not in the mood to dance with undead tonight... unless you’d like to join him in a bone-rattling tango, my Listener?”

“Pass,” she said, glancing over a toppled urn. “But if something tries to kill us, you’re first on the line.”

“Cicero lives to serve,” he said in a singsong voice.

Elara led them carefully through the ruin’s entrance, her posture rigid, every footstep deliberate. Cicero followed behind, humming one of his unnerving tunes. The soft echo of his melody floated off the ancient walls, and she threw him a sideways glance, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused. He wiggled his fingers back at her in a silent wave, as if to say, Yes, yes, I’m here and having so much fun.

It didn’t take long for them to stumble upon their first corpses—ancient draugr bodies strewn across the floor, half-rotten, some still clutching rusted weapons. Cicero paused, planting a gentle kick on the nearest body, a light tap of his boot as though testing if it might spring back to life. He tilted his head in mock curiosity, then let out a playfully exasperated sigh.

“Oh, dear me,” he whispered loudly, “Cicero thinks these fine fellows have had enough.”

She started to take a step forward, deeper into the darkened hall, when Cicero’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. He pointed off to a smaller side passage, his face suddenly serious.

She raised an eyebrow at him, silently questioning, but he only nodded, urging her to trust him for once. The path led them through a part of the ruin where nature had broken in: vines and small plants snaked through cracks in the ceiling, a faint beam of sunlight illuminating the center of the chamber. Another passage branched off to the side, and soon they both heard hushed voices echoing from within. A man’s voice, speaking quickly, each word taut with frustration.

“Maybe I did it incorrectly? Perhaps they were all wiped out...”

His words trailed off, and Cicero’s eyes narrowed, that unsettling grin fading from his face for just a heartbeat. He motioned for Elara to keep going, stepping softly around the corner.

They emerged into a broader space, scattered debris, and toppled urns lining the perimeter. Standing there were two men, one significantly larger than the other. The towering figure at the back sported an immense sword strapped across his back, iron armor clanking with each breath. The smaller man, by contrast, wore robes so ornate that Cicero swore he could smell the gold threads woven into them. The robed man had been pacing but stopped the moment he spotted them.

“Finally!” the robed man cried, throwing his arms wide in relief. “By the almighty devices, you’ve come. You’ve actually come to this dreadful place.” He spoke with an almost feverish excitement, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Cicero’s gaze drifted to the armor-clad guard, who stared back at him, eyes sharp, a clear challenge.

Meanwhile, the man seemed oblivious to the tension. He spun in place, gesturing dramatically at the chamber. “This... dreadful ‘black sacrament’ thing actually worked!” he exclaimed, nearly tripping over an abandoned helm.

Elara frowned, crossing her arms. “How did you know who we were?” she asked. Suspicion threaded through her voice.

The smaller man let out an overly theatrical laugh, a sound that made Cicero’s grin falter with mild distaste. Am I that annoying when I laugh? he pondered fleetingly.

“You’re joking, right?” the man replied, sweeping an arm out and pointing with a flourish at Cicero. “Have you seen the company you keep?”

Elara tilted her head up to glance at Cicero; recognition flickered across her face. Then her eyes narrowed, as though piecing it all together. Cicero clutched his chest in mock hurt. “Oh, my sweet Listener, do they speak ill of me?” he said in a stage whisper, batting his eyelashes.

“He practically reeks of death,” the robed man continued, a bit too pleased with himself. “How could anyone mistake that?”

Cicero’s brows shot up, and he feigned an offended gasp. “Reeks, you say? Why, Cicero bathes every new moon, thank you very much! Granted, the water is a bit red sometimes.”

The man nodded eagerly, smoothing down the front of his sumptuous robes, clearly rattled but trying to maintain composure. Behind him, the large guard shifted.

“I won't waste your time,” the man announced, lifting his chin a fraction in an attempt at dignity. “I want to arrange a contract—several, in fact.” He paused, making a point to glance between the two before continuing, “But I dare say the work I'm offering has more significance than your organization has seen in... well, centuries.”

Cicero raised both eyebrows in mock surprise, theatrically snapping his mouth shut. Significance, was it? This was no ordinary request, then. He leaned in ever so slightly, the corners of his lips hitching up, eager to hear more.

“As I said, there are to be multiple targets,” the man—Amaund, as Elara had introduced him—went on. “Their manners of elimination will vary, and you’ll find the specifics in due time. I suspect,” he added, allowing his gaze to rest pointedly on Cicero, “someone of your...disposition might even enjoy such variety.”

Cicero’s grin widened, and he tossed Elara a quick wink. “Oh, how Cicero loves variety,” he crooned, tapping the toe of his boot against the stony floor. Elara shot him a sideways look, but the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed her amusement. Arms still crossed over her chest, she listened carefully to Amaund’s every word.

“But these preliminary targets,” Amaund said, waving a hand dismissively, “they’re merely a means to an end. The real reason I’ve convened with you in the bowels of this detestable crypt goes far beyond such trifles.”

“Do get on with it, dear man,” Cicero interjected lightly, rolling his wrist in a showy fashion. “Cicero can feel the cobwebs forming on his lovely person.”

In a voice that trembled with excitement and a touch of arrogance, he declared, “I seek the assassination of the Emperor.”

A hush fell over the damp chamber, an utter, breathtaking silence. Even the guard behind Amaund ceased shuffling, the tension winding around them like a taut bowstring.

Cicero’s eyes went wide, wider than they had ever gotten before, as if he'd just received the best gift on Nirn. The Emperor? He felt a mad burst of laughter bubble up inside him, and before he could stifle it, it poured out, high and gleeful, echoing off the crypt walls.

“You...you want us to kill the Emperor of Tamriel? ” Elara managed, her voice breathless with a combination of disbelief and, if Cicero was any judge, the faintest glimmer of dark excitement.

Cicero clapped his hands together, practically bouncing on his heels.

“The one and only,” Amaund said smugly, his robed arms crossing over his narrow chest.

His arrogant stance looked almost comical against the dank, gloomy backdrop of the crypt. But Elara’s reaction was not immediate; her face remained entirely unreadable, and Cicero felt a small pang of worry twist in his gut. Please, dear Listener, he thought, don’t turn it down. Not this time.

Amaund’s confidence wavered, and he frowned at the pair. “Well?” he prompted, his voice dripping with expectancy.

Cicero, standing just behind Elara, bowed his head in a silent act of deference. He already knew his own answer—he was thrilled by the prospect of this monumental contract. But he wasn’t in charge, oh no. This was her call, and he’d wait for her. He’d remain quiet, despite the swirl of excitement in his bones, until she was ready to speak.

After a few heartbeats, Elara lifted her gaze from the ground, her expression resolute. “Okay,” she said. “We’ll do it.”

Cicero stifled a manic grin, leaning closer to her and gently squeezing her arm. She didn’t respond in kind, not in front of these strangers, but her shoulders loosened by a fraction. He could almost feel the tension roll off her.

“Oh, you don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that,” Amaund exclaimed, letting out a breathy laugh. “So much has led to this—so much planning and maneuvering. It’s as if the very stars have finally aligned.” He paused, smoothing an invisible crease on his overly elaborate robes. “But I digress. Here—take these to your... superior.”

He clapped his hands together with a dramatic flourish, the sound echoing in the empty, moss-covered chamber. “Rexus, the items!” 

The guard in the back, the imposing figure Cicero had been eyeing, shifted. Rexus, apparently. He approached Elara, a bundle in his large, gauntleted hands. Cicero tilted his head, curiosity lighting his eyes. What’s this, then? he wondered.

“Here,” Rexus grunted, thrusting the items out for Elara to take. She accepted them carefully, stepping back to inspect them.

Cicero peered over her shoulder, humming a quiet, tuneless melody under his breath. He wanted a closer look—he craved the details, the secrets—yet he managed not to snatch them from her. At least, not yet.

“The sealed letter will explain everything,” Amaund said, his voice regaining that same arrogant edge. “Names, tasks, precise instructions. And that amulet, quite valuable, should cover any and all... expenses you might incur.”

The small, smug smile on Amaund’s lips made Cicero’s skin prickle. Something in the man’s attitude chafed at him. So certain, so self-assured, he thought with a twinge of annoyance. Sometimes, he missed the old days—slinking through the night on his own, free to “thank” haughty clients like this with a bit of steel in the dark. But those days were past.

Elara tucked the letter and amulet away, giving Amaund a final nod before turning sharply on her heel. Cicero followed, practically stepping on her ankles in his eagerness. The further they walked from the robed man and his stoic guard, the more Cicero’s excitement spilled over.

“What is inside? What does it say?” he asked, his voice tinged with impatience as they made their way back through the crumbling halls. His frown deepened when she held the letter away from him, a playful smirk spreading across her face.

“Uh-uh,” she teased, waving the sealed letter just out of his reach. “You heard the man. Astrid’s eyes only.”

Cicero groaned, his shoulders slumping dramatically. “But Cicero is dying to know! Dying, he tells you! Don’t be cruel, my Listener.” He jutted out his lower lip in an exaggerated pout, which only made her chuckle softly.

“Oh no, don’t pout,” she said, the teasing lilt in her voice doing little to soothe his frustration. “You’ll live.”

As they neared the exit, the tension shifted. Elara’s smirk faded, her expression softening as she let out a quiet sigh. “This is insane. You do realize that, right?” she said, her tone heavier now.

Cicero pushed open the large stone door, letting the fresh night air flood in as they stepped out into the open. He breathed deeply, relishing the crisp breeze as it kissed his face. “All the best things are crazy, my dear,” he said, glancing at her, his grin faltering when he noticed her expression.

She had stopped walking, her body stiff as she stared at the horizon. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her brows furrowed. He stepped closer, tilting his head. “My dear, you look peeved,” he said softly, his usual teasing tone tempered by genuine concern.

Her silence lingered for a moment before she finally turned to look at him, her face solemn and pale. She chewed on her cheek, something she often did when deep in thought. “This is the Empire we’re talking about. That man... he’s untouchable. How does Amaund think something like this is even possible?” Her voice cracked slightly, betraying her unease.

Cicero blinked, momentarily thrown off. His excitement over the contract had blinded him to the logistics, the sheer impossibility of it all. “Perhaps... perhaps the hatred runs deep within him,” he offered, though his voice wavered, the words not as confident as he’d intended.

Her eyes grew darker, the haunted look he’d seen before creeping back into her expression. She gazed at him, her crimson eyes soft but heavy, burdened by something she refused to say aloud. “What if this all goes to shit?” she whispered, almost to herself.

Cicero tilted his head, his grin fading completely. “Elara?” he said quietly.

She finally met his gaze, and her vulnerability laid bare. “I know you don’t care for the others,” she admitted, her voice tight, “but if this goes wrong... I don’t think I’d be able to handle it the way you would. They’re more than just associates to me. They’re friends, Cicero. My family, as broken and twisted as we are.”

Her words cut deeper than he expected. He blinked, staring at her as the memories he’d buried deep clawed their way to the surface. He saw faces he hadn’t thought about in years. Brothers and sisters who had vanished one by one, leaving him alone in the cold halls of the old sanctuaries. Alone with only the Night Mother. He swallowed hard, forcing the images away.

“Cicero does not care for the others... as much,” he admitted, his voice unusually subdued. “But the destruction of the Brotherhood? That would be the end of Cicero.” His throat tightened as he continued. “He knows what emptiness feels like.”

He stepped closer, his hand lifting to cup her face. His thumb brushed gently over her cheek, her skin warm beneath his touch. For once, there was no playful grin, no teasing glint in his eyes. Just raw, unfiltered honesty. Her eyes fluttered, uncertain. But she let him touch her, didn’t pull away.

“We’ll make this work,” he said, voice uncharacteristically hushed. “And if it goes to shit,” he added with a half-chuckle, “Cicero will be right beside you anyway. Maybe we’ll fling ourselves off a cliff together. Hmm?”

She let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh, and leaned into his hand just a fraction.

He smiled at her, lingering a little too long as he looked into that pretty face, letting himself get lost in the flicker of something new in her eyes. She was precious, and he knew it. The realization made his heart jerk in his chest like a startled bird.

He couldn’t help himself—he squeezed her cheeks gently, then let his hand slip down to the curve of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. A sharp thrill raced through him at the contact. Sweet Mother, he thought, what is this feeling? Someone needs to label it for poor Cicero before it drives him mad.

Her breath caught slightly at his touch, but she didn’t pull away. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers with a soft exhale. For just a heartbeat, he cherished the closeness, reminding himself that the world, the Brotherhood, the swirling chaos of their lives—none of it mattered in this brief moment. Life always has a way of stealing what matters, he mused darkly. But for now, she was here. She was his.

His lips found hers in a sudden rush of warmth, a hesitant moment shifting to acceptance as he felt her respond. His eyes fluttered closed, and he forgot about everything else—the crypt, the Emperor, even the Night Mother—for that fleeting instant of connection. If this was what it meant to be hers, I would do it again and again, he thought. Every day, if the Listener would only allow it.

The sensation of her pressing closer, her back hitting the rough stone wall behind them, woke something wickedly eager in him. He let out a low, thrilled sound when her leg hooked around his waist, drawing him in. Heat flared across his skin and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, showering soft kisses on her throat. She smelled of dust and old tombs, sweat and something distinctly her, and it was all he wanted in that moment.

Her voice cut through his haze, though it came out breathy. “We have to get going,” she whispered, half-apologetic, half-commanding.

He groaned in protest, lips hovering at the pulse of her neck. “Are you quite sure?” he muttered, feigning a whine. He couldn’t help himself; comedic dramatics were in his blood. “Cicero would simply love to linger.”

A quiet laugh escaped her, warm breath fanning over his ear. “Yes,” she said more firmly, sliding her leg down, albeit reluctantly. “We have to get back.” She tilted her head so she could look at him, her eyes still heavy-lidded from their embrace. “But I promise,” she whispered, voice husky with a hint of amusement, “we’ll have time alone. Proper time.”

He met her gaze, forcing down the surge of disappointment that threatened to bubble up. That promise was all he needed. “Yes, well,” he said with an exaggerated shrug, trying, and failing, to hide the grin twisting at his lips. “Cicero shall hold you to that.”

She snorted softly and gave him one final, lingering look before gently detaching herself from him. His hand slid from her waist down to her wrist, savoring the last bit of contact.

Chapter 20: Red Wedding

"You're joking," Astrid said, her tone flat.

Her gaze flicked to Elara with an almost accusing sharpness, as though daring her to confirm that this was some kind of jest. A part of Elara wanted to crack a quip, maybe lighten the air of disbelief hanging heavy between them. But no, this wasn’t the time.

Instead, she pulled out the sealed letter from Amaund and the ornate amulet, both resting heavily in her hands. She offered them to Astrid, who hesitated for a moment before accepting them, her brows furrowed in clear confusion.

"What’s this?" Astrid asked, her voice clipped.

"He said the letter is for you. It explains everything. The amulet... It’s supposed to cover expenses," Elara replied, her tone steady despite the uncertainty twisting in her stomach. She watched as Astrid examined the items, turning them over in her hands.

Astrid’s face remained a mix of shock and wariness as she eyed the sealed letter’s wax emblem, her fingers brushing over it. Her lips parted briefly as if to speak, but the words seemed to evade her.

"By Sithis," Astrid murmured finally, her voice carrying a weight that matched the gravity of the situation. "You’re not joking."

Elara leaned against the wall, her arms crossed as she stole a glance around the room, half-expecting Cicero to have crept in against her explicit instructions to stay out. Not spotting him, she turned her attention back.

"To kill the Emperor of Tamriel?" Astrid said the words spoken softly, as if saying them aloud would summon some divine wrath.

"I promise, your reaction is as good as mine," Elara replied, her tone dry but tinged with unease. She tapped a finger against the wall as Astrid lingered on the letter.

Astrid finally broke the silence. "Thank you for bringing this to me. Sithis knows what this means for us." Her voice grew quieter as her thoughts seemed to spiral. "The Brotherhood hasn’t dared such a thing since the assassination of Pelagius."

"I know," Elara said. Her eyes flicked toward the amulet in Astrid’s hands. It gleamed faintly in the dim light, its presence as haunting as the contract itself. "That’s what worries me."

"No one has dared lay a finger on an Emperor since Uriel Septim," Astrid continued, her tone distant as she processed the enormity of the contract. "Do you realize what this means? If we pull this off..."

Elara cut in, lowering her voice. "The Night Mother wouldn’t misdirect us. Has that ever happened before?"

Astrid’s head snapped up, her expression a mixture of exasperation and wariness. "No," she admitted. "But what concerns me is why she’s trusted you with this." Her words carried a subtle but unmistakable note of suspicion. It wasn’t hostility, but it was close.

She recognized that tone—the measured doubt, the veiled challenge. Her father often used the same tone when questioning her decisions. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, letting Astrid’s words hang.

"I don’t know what’s going on here, whether you’re truly the Listener or if this is some sick joke from the gods," Astrid continued, her voice firmer now. "But we have no choice. This is what we’ve been given."

Elara tilted her head slightly. "So… we’re accepting the contract?"

Before she could speak again, Astrid let out a loud, almost boisterous laugh, causing Elara to flinch slightly in surprise. “You’re damn right we’re accepting it,” she said, her voice suddenly filled with fire and excitement. She clapped Elara on the shoulder with such force that it almost knocked her off balance. “If we pull this off... the Brotherhood will see fear and respect we haven’t seen in centuries.”

"You think I'd abandon the opportunity to lead my family to glory?" Astrid asked, her tone sharp and unyielding, her face an impassive mask. But there was something in her eyes—a glint of ambition that mirrored the unsettling excitement Cicero had shown earlier.

Elara studied her for a long moment, trying to absorb the weight of the situation. Perhaps she should feel that same thrill. 

“This is all so much to take in,” Astrid said. “I need to plan, I need time to think things through. This... amulet, though.” She held it up to the candlelight, the intricate metal reflecting golden hues that seemed almost alive. She turned it slowly, examining every detail with a calculating eye.

“It needs to be appraised,” she declared, her voice lowering to a near whisper. “We need to know exactly what it’s worth, where it’s from, and if we can sell it without raising suspicions.” Her expression shifted as recognition flickered across her face, her lips curving into a sly smile. She placed the amulet into Elara’s hands, her fingers lingering just long enough to make the gesture feel intimate yet commanding.

Elara looked at the amulet, then back at Astrid with a frown. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I know of only one man who can give us what we need. Delvin Mallory,” Astrid explained, her tone now casual as if she hadn’t just dropped the name of a notorious criminal. “He’s a fence, works out of the Ratway in Riften.”

Elara recoiled slightly, her nose scrunching in disgust. “He lives in that skeever-infested hole?”

Astrid chuckled softly, the sound almost maternal in its amusement. “Yes, among other things,” she replied, brushing off the insult with ease. “Take it to him. Get the information we need—whether he’s willing to take us up on the offer and provide the funding. Tell him he’ll have a line of credit. That should suffice.”

Elara narrowed her eyes, suspicion creeping into her voice. “How do you know him? How can we trust him?”

“The Brotherhood and Delvin have history. He can be trusted, at least for this.”

Before Elara could press further, Astrid turned and began walking toward her quarters, her final instructions hanging in the air. “Take only what you need. I don’t want the others getting wind of this just yet.”

Once Astrid was out of earshot, Elara exhaled sharply, rubbing her forehead.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. The only person she could think of who knew how to navigate the Ratway was someone she hadn’t been eager to see again so soon. She wasn’t even sure if he was still in the Sanctuary. She shoved the amulet into her pocket and made her way toward the eating area, her boots scuffing against the stone steps.

It was quiet tonight, eerily so. The faint crackle of a fire and the occasional creak of wood were the only sounds as she descended the staircase. When she reached the balcony overlooking the eating area, she spotted Nazir seated by the fire, sipping from a cup. There was no sign of Danoc, and Cicero’s silence was even more disconcerting. She doubted the jester could stay quiet for long, yet he was nowhere to be seen.

As one of the steps creaked beneath her weight, Nazir glanced up, his sharp eyes catching hers. “You’re back,” he said, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. “When your friend got here, I thought maybe you’d been eaten by something nasty.”

She managed a faint smile, descending the rest of the way. "No. Still in one piece," she said, walking over to him.

Nazir leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed her. "Your friend didn’t look too happy when he got here. I take it you two aren’t on the best of terms."

She sighed, sinking into a nearby chair. "He panicked," she admitted, her fingers brushing the edge of the table. "There’s… too much happening all at once. I’m barely holding it together myself, and I don’t think he’s doing much better."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression softening slightly. "It’s a lot for anyone. Though I’ll admit, I didn’t peg him for the panicking type. The way he talks, you’d think he’s been through worse."

She sighed and shrugged, shaking her head in frustration. "Who knows if anything he says is the truth? He used to be better, more composed... but lately? I don’t know. I just can’t deal with it right now," she said.

Nazir leaned back in his chair, taking a slow sip from his cup. "Where's Astrid sending you this time?" he asked, his tone more knowing than inquisitive.

"Riften," she replied, the name alone stirring a knot of dread in her stomach.

He chuckled darkly. "Yeah, he'd be the perfect guide," Nazir teased, the hint of a smirk playing at his lips.

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she stood up. Her movements were sharp, but there was no mistaking the strain in her posture.

He put his hands up in mock surrender, his drink sloshing slightly in the cup. "I'm just saying," he added, though there was no malice in his voice.

"You're getting grumpy in your older years," she teased, turning on her heel before he could fire back a response.

Her footsteps echoed through the Sanctuary as she made her way through the quiet halls, searching for Danoc. The place was unusually still tonight, the usual bustle of nightly routines absent. She passed by their shared room and hesitated. She had dreaded this moment, but there was no avoiding it. She turned the handle, the door creaking as it opened into darkness.

She felt her heart beat a little faster as she stepped inside, squinting in the dim light. She made her way over to the side table and snapped her fingers, a small flame igniting in the air before settling into a soft glow. It illuminated his bed, disheveled and tossed, the blankets wrinkled as if someone had been there recently but no longer remained.

"Where did you go?" she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

She felt a pang of something—regret, sadness, but she pushed it away quickly, turning on her heel. 

Maybe it was his room now. Or maybe it wasn’t. But she didn’t want to be in there anymore. The thought of moving into Cicero’s room crossed her mind, but she didn’t want to disturb him. She turned to leave, but then, as if on cue, she heard voices from the distance—low murmurs, and then suddenly silence. Footsteps. Approaching.

Her breath caught in her throat as she swallowed hard. Her fingers fidgeted at her side as she bit her lip, not sure whether to wait or walk away. And then, around the corner, he appeared, the man of the hour.

He looked like a mess. His clothes were stained, the fabric clinging to his frame as though he had been through a storm. His hair was unruly, his eyes shadowed by fatigue, and there was an unmistakable weariness about him that she hadn’t seen before. Her eyes softened for a moment, but she quickly masked it, unsure of what to say.

"I thought you were still gone," he said, his voice quiet.

She blinked, taken aback for a second. "No, I just got back," she replied simply, her voice barely above a murmur.

There was a stretch of silence between them, thick and awkward. They stood there, as though two strangers in the same room, unsure of the next words.

"Me too," he said quietly, his gaze flickering downward.

Elara took a step back, her eyes scanning him critically, then dropping to his disheveled state. "I can see that," she muttered, her tone almost sharp. She couldn’t help it.

The awkwardness was unbearable. It felt like things had shifted between them, like a wall had been built. She shook her head, exhaling deeply, and turned to walk away, her heart heavy with unresolved feelings. But before she could take another step, his voice stopped her.

"Did you get the stone back to them?" he asked, the question casual enough, but she could hear the undercurrent of uncertainty in his voice.

She stopped, shoulders slumping, and sighed, her hands finding their place at her sides. She turned slightly to face him. “Yes,” she replied, her tone hardening. “Although I could’ve used the help for what came after,” she said, her voice edged with frustration.

Her gaze held steady on him, intense, daring him to react. There was a challenge in her eyes, an unspoken question, "Go on, asshole, say something snappy, something mean. You left me after saying you wouldn't. How do you feel now?" But Danoc said nothing. He simply nodded, the silence stretching between them like a vast canyon. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, but it did little to remove the dirt that had accumulated there.

Elara's patience, thin as a thread, snapped. “I need your help,” she said, her voice tight with restraint. “And then after that, we can ignore each other again.”

His eyebrows furrowed, his gaze flicking to hers, as if he didn’t understand. “Ignoring? Elara, I was just confused–”

Her anger flared, her words sharp and cutting. “No, no, you don’t get to play that card,” she hissed, her voice rising in volume. “You knew how I’d feel, and I was a damn fool for even believing, for a second, that you’d turn your happy ass back around and help me.”

The words burst out of her like a dam breaking. It was sudden, and she hadn’t known they were even going to come until they were already out.

He blinked, caught off guard by the force of her outburst. His eyes softened, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she wasn’t finished. “I’ve been trying to keep us alive!” she shouted, her voice raw and bitter. “Did that mean nothing to you? Or did you think I was just having another psychotic break?”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she cut him off, her eyes cold. “You can’t be serious. You said a wall spoke to you,” he said, his voice rising in frustration, but it only fueled her fire.

“I fought a dragon the day after you left!” she shot back, her fists clenching at her sides. The distance between them felt insurmountable now, as though every word they exchanged was digging a deeper hole. He blinked at her, clearly confused.

“What?” he stammered. “The one from…”

She shook her head violently, cutting him off. “No, it was a different one. And then when it died, something happened to me. I absorbed something. They said it was their soul.”

His eyes flicked from her face to her hands and back again, but it was like he couldn’t fully grasp the situation. He shook his head slightly, his face scrunched in disbelief. "But... that's not possible," he muttered, his voice thick with doubt. "I don’t—"

Elara couldn’t help but look away, her jaw tense as her eyes fluttered shut. A long breath pulled from her chest, quiet and shaking. The man standing before her—Danoc—had chosen to abandon her when she needed him most, and here she was, explaining herself like she owed him something. She didn’t. Sithis knew she didn’t.

But she needed him. Just this one last time.

“I don’t have time for this,” she said, her voice barely holding back the exhaustion lacing every word. “You said you’re in or not?”

Danoc blinked, clearly caught off guard, his brow tightening in frustration. “Yes, but Elara, you can’t just say things like that and walk away—”

“Oh, like you?” she snapped, her eyes narrowing as she turned to face him fully. The tension in her shoulders betrayed the calm she tried so hard to maintain. 

His face faltered, lips parting like he was about to give some excuse, some poorly wrapped apology. “It was a mistake,” he said slowly, as if each word were a weight.

“Yes. It was,” she replied with a bitter finality.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of lingering. “I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t sleep in.” Her tone left no room for argument. With that, she turned, the fabric of her cloak swaying behind her as she made her way down the corridor.

“I’ll be there,” he called softly behind her.

She didn’t expect him to follow through—not really. The sting of disappointment still clung to her ribs, stubborn and raw. Her steps slowed as she passed the shadowed curve of the hallway leading toward the main chamber. Maybe she could find a quiet corner to collapse into. Just enough peace to sleep. But before she could make it more than a few steps, a hand closed gently around hers and pulled her off the path, into the quiet dark.

She stiffened, instinct rising—but her other hand collided with soft, padded fabric, and the familiar scent—warm and strange, lavender—told her exactly who it was.

“Where are you off to, Listener?” Cicero’s voice breathed against her ear, a whisper meant to tease but strangely gentle.

She sighed against him, tempted to rest her forehead against his chest. “I don’t think I have it in me for more dramatics tonight,” she murmured, her tone fraying at the edges.

“Please, do not think so low of Cicero,” he replied, voice lilting and soft with something like sincerity. “He is simply curious.”

His chest rumbled under her hand, vibrating softly with each word. Her eyes adjusted to the dim alcove, meeting the gleam of his gaze.

“Trying to find a place to sleep for the night,” she confessed.

“Cicero had hoped you would come to him,” he said with a theatrical sigh, drawing a small pout as he pressed a hand to his chest. “But alas! The Listener has made him work for it.”

Her lips twitched. The corner of her mouth almost curled. Almost. But the frown held its ground.

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice, his tone a gentle murmur. “Cicero will sleep wherever you decide.”

She shook her head, tired and frayed. “No. You shouldn’t have to share your space just for me, or follow me around.”

“But Cicero… oh, Cicero so loves it,” he murmured, voice laced with his usual singsong cadence, but softer now—reverent, almost. His bare hands ghosted down her arms, the leather gloves that usually separated him from the world nowhere in sight. The warmth of his skin was stark against the chill that had settled over her all evening. She didn’t flinch, though her breath caught the moment his fingers brushed the inside of her wrist—so gentle, as if she might disappear if he gripped her too tightly.

He chuckled then, a short breath of sound that rumbled against her. “Cicero’s room, then, is okay?”

Her lips parted to respond, but he didn’t wait for an answer.

“What a smart choice, Listener,” he said in a hush, as if the gods themselves might hear and object. Then, without another word, he wrapped his fingers around her hand and led her down the corridor. She glanced behind her, cautious. But no one followed.

When they slipped into Cicero’s room, it was dim and cluttered in a way that felt oddly comforting. The scent of old parchment, polished wood, and lavender oil lingered in the air.

He wasted no time removing the excess layers between them, though not in haste.  She followed suit, each piece of clothing dropped without ceremony, until the two of them were finally beneath the soft weight of his blankets. 

He lay on his side, and she faced away, not entirely ready to be looked at. Still, he reached for her, and soon his fingers were in her hair, twirling the loose strands at the ends with absent affection. It tickled slightly, and she closed her eyes, feeling the tension begin to melt away.

The domesticity of it, the quietness that came without obligation or performance. It was disarming. Elara let out a breath, soft and slow, the anger from earlier ebbing out of her limbs as she sank deeper into the mattress.

---

Elara hadn’t expected him to actually be ready.

Yet there Danoc stood the next morning—dressed, armed, and waiting by the door like nothing had happened. His pack was slung over his shoulder, the faintest of apologetic smiles on his face, like a dog hoping to be let back in. She didn’t return it. Instead, she walked past him without a word, grabbing her gear with a practiced sharpness.

Cicero, unsurprisingly, had vanished earlier that morning. She didn’t find him until she caught his voice as he chatted animatedly with Nazir near the main chamber fire. He gave her a grin when she approached, his eyes flicking between her and Danoc like he was trying to guess how close they were to killing each other.

She wanted to reach Riften by nightfall, and to do that they had to cut through the ruined remains of Helgen. The path twisted with scorched trees and soot-covered stones. Everything was blackened, crumbling—ghosts of homes swallowed by dragonfire. Even now, the air still carried the faint scent of smoke. Burnt bodies lay half-buried in ash, twisted and skeletal. It made her skin crawl, though she never said a word.

Danoc respected her silence. He kept his distance, didn’t argue, didn’t whine. Not once. Not until the outer gates of Riften came into view.

It was Cicero who noticed it first—how Danoc had slowed, trailing several paces behind. His smile faded, replaced by something more curious as he watched the man from over Elara’s shoulder.

"Your shadow’s lagging," Cicero said, gesturing backward with a tilt of his chin.

Elara turned and squinted, brows knitting. Danoc was a good ten meters behind them, his pace sluggish, expression twisted with unease.

She groaned aloud, turned on her heel, and stomped toward him.

Danoc looked up as she approached, already trying to explain himself. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he began, holding up his hands defensively. “I can tell you where to find him, but going in there—”

“You want to make it up to me?” she cut him off, voice low, dangerous.

He blinked. His mouth opened, but no words followed.

“Then get your head out of your ass and lead the way,” she snapped. Her fingers closed around the front of his armor, and she yanked him forward with a surprising force. He stumbled, just barely catching himself, and then straightened with a quiet breath.

He said nothing, but he moved, now walking ahead of her like he was supposed to. 

Behind her, Cicero chuckled, arms crossed and eyes gleaming with amusement.

“Afraid of a few rats, hm?” the jester teased, gliding after them with maddening ease.

Danoc glanced over his shoulder, his glare sharp. But before he could speak, Elara spoke first.

“Keep it up,” she said dryly, not bothering to look back, “and I’ll feed you to them.”

Cicero let out a delighted snort and walked faster to keep pace, matching her step for step. He didn’t mind being threatened—it was practically foreplay to him.

The scent of fish grew stronger the closer they got to the city docks. The stench clung to the air, mixing with rot and stagnant water. Elara chewed the inside of her cheek, watching Danoc’s shoulders tense. He’d been to Riften plenty of times. Helped her finish no shortage of contracts here. But whenever the Ratway came up, he clammed up. She had never gone inside, never truly having a reason to until now. 

Adjusting the strap of her bag, she made her way down a narrow set of wooden steps that creaked under her weight. They led toward the lower levels of the city, the parts closest to the water, where small fishing boats bobbed in the murky grey waves. Cicero followed close behind, his boots tapping eagerly against the wood.

"This Delvin… Cicero has heard that name before. Faint memories, dust-covered things," he hummed behind her, his voice thoughtful.

Danoc, walking just ahead of them, glanced over his shoulder. His pace slowed as they passed a row of slouched wooden shacks, their shutters barely holding on, windows fogged and cracked. A pair of birds shot off into the sky as the three approached a rusted iron gate embedded in a moss-covered tunnel wall.

Elara tilted her head, brows knitting. "Distant memories?" she echoed, more to herself than to him.

“He means when the Thieves Guild was actually something to fear,” Danoc muttered under his breath as he gripped the gate’s handle and yanked it open with an ease that told her he’d done this before.

She sometimes wondered if either of them truly remembered she wasn’t from Skyrim. All these guilds and factions were like a sprawling web she hadn’t yet untangled. Every name, every title, felt like another piece of a puzzle she was expected to understand.

Cicero held the gate open with a flourish and a mock bow as Danoc pushed the heavier door beyond. Darkness swallowed them immediately, and the tunnel reeked of piss and mildew. Water dripped steadily from the stone ceiling, pattering against the grimy floor. Elara grimaced and pinched her nose, stepping in cautiously. A handful of torches lined the walls ahead, their light dim and flickering, casting long shadows that seemed to twitch and move with each breath of air.

Something skittered across her ankle, and she flinched, twisting around sharply before composing herself again. "Why do people live down here?" she asked, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Danoc let out a dry chuckle, the first one she’d heard from him in what felt like days. “You’ll see. It gets a little better where we’re going. Just watch your step.”

The air grew thicker the deeper they went, each step drawing more sweat from her skin despite the coolness of the stone walls. Water dripped onto her forehead, and she brushed it away in irritation, her boots splashing through the muck coating the floor. It was like walking through a forgotten lung of the city—wet, narrow, and suffocating.

They hadn’t gotten far when she caught the movement ahead—a flicker of shadow near the torchlight, swift and silent. A gruff voice broke the quiet. “He said he’d be here by dawn. I’m tired of waiting—hold on. Quiet. I heard something.”

A man rounded the corner in an instant, his sword already half-drawn. "Hey!" he barked, charging forward without a second thought. Danoc’s eyes widened, and he barely dodged the first swing aimed at his gut.

Elara darted past them, ignoring the man entirely as her eyes locked on the second figure that appeared behind him—a bow already drawn and aimed directly at them. She tried to duck, but wasn't fast enough. The arrow zipped past her, close enough that it brushed her side, knocking the wind out of her as she slammed into the wall.

She staggered, eyes already on the archer who was quickly nocking another arrow. He stepped back to widen the gap, but she was faster. She launched herself forward, charging him head-on. For a split second, she considered using her shout, but decided against it.

As she collided with the archer, the string loosed. The arrow sliced across her cheek, warm blood trickling down her face as she tackled him hard enough to send them both into the stone. He cursed and tried to draw a dagger, but she was already wrestling the weapon from his hands.

He managed a punch to her ribs, forcing a grunt from her lips, but her motivation burned too hot now to care. She plunged the dagger into his throat without hesitation. His body went limp beneath her as she knelt there, hair wild and frizzed around her face, her breathing heavy.

"Fucker," she muttered, yanking the blade free as she pushed herself back to her feet, blood trickling from her cheek, her eyes already searching for something else. 

Danoc came up behind her, a couple of splatters of blood on his cheek and across his throat, but not belonging to him, thankfully. 

Danoc came up behind her, the faint splatter of blood smeared across his cheek and neck catching in the dim light—thankfully not his own. Elara glanced at him, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"These guys reek," she muttered under her breath, casting a wary look at the two fallen men.

Cicero, who had emerged from the scuffle without a mark on him, tilted his head and observed her closely. Danoc stepped past her, shoulders tight, jaw clenched as he took the lead without a word.

"Yes, that odor is... rather common here," he said stiffly.

Cicero trailed beside her, steps light. She was still listening for movement in the tunnel behind them when she felt the soft drag of a gloved finger brush across her cheek, grazing the open cut. She winced involuntarily, her eyes snapping to him in surprise—but the jester was already moving ahead, catching up to Danoc with a tilt of amusement on his lips.

"What is your deal, grouch?" Cicero asked, voice light but underpinned by something more pointed.

Danoc shot him a glare over his shoulder. "What are you talking about?"

"You know so much," Cicero said, narrowing his eyes, "yet share so little. Cicero feels he’d need a butter knife to pry the truth from your chest—slowly."

The frown that followed didn’t suit his usually animated face. For a moment, he looked genuinely bothered.

“Hey,” Elara tried to step in, sensing the tension rising, “now’s really not the time—”

“Oh, please,” Danoc interrupted, scoffing, “don’t act like you actually care if he’s being annoying. You just like the drama until it turns on you.”

Her eyes darkened, and she shook her head at him, jaw tightening.

“Can’t I keep anything to myself? Must I bleed out every truth like some storybook confession?” Danoc snapped, slowing his steps as the path ahead came into view—and came to a dead end.

A wooden bridge that should have been lowered was instead upright, drawn up to reveal the gap between their platform and the next. The span was too wide to jump, even with a running start.

“Yes,” Cicero said simply, halting beside Elara as she stepped toward the edge, eyes searching for some lever or pulley.

“Too bad,” Danoc muttered, already turning his back.

She sighed, irritated. “I honestly don’t care anymore. But how are we supposed to get across? It’s not like we can fly.”

Danoc peered over the edge and pointed toward the lower level beneath the bridge. “Usually it’s down. Someone must’ve raised it, maybe intentionally. Lever should be down there.”

She leaned over to follow his line of sight, catching the faint gleam of a skeever’s eyes in the dark before it vanished with a scurry.

"Great,” she said flatly. “I’ll go. You two keep watch and make sure no one follows me.”

Without giving them a chance to object, she crouched down at the ledge, bracing her hands before sliding off. Her feet hit the ground harder than she’d like, a familiar jolt sparking through her knees. She hissed softly, straightened up, and wiped the sweat from her forehead—only to smear blood across her hand. With a curse, she rubbed her palm against her pants.

The stone corridor ahead was dim and slick, a heavy stillness lingering as she moved deeper. She felt along the walls, searching blindly for the lever. Nothing. Further in, a doorway emerged from the gloom, and just as she reached for it, her instincts screamed at her.

Elara stopped short, her eyes narrowing on the faint etching in the stone near the base of the frame, worn but unmistakable. A trap.

Before she could react, steel spikes shot out from hidden slits, slicing horizontally through the air just inches in front of her. She recoiled fast, breath catching in her throat. One more step and her arm would’ve been gone.

“You okay?” Danoc called from above, voice echoing down.

“I’m fine!” she whispered sharply, trying not to draw attention.

Torchlight flickered ahead, casting her shadow long against the wall. She stepped forward cautiously but nearly slipped on something slick beneath her boots. Looking down, she spotted a puddle; thick, dark, shimmering faintly with an oily rainbow sheen.

She tilted her head up, eyes catching the flicker of a lantern hanging loosely from the ceiling above. Its flame danced against the soot-streaked stone, casting warped reflections that shifted like ghosts along the walls. She stepped out of the narrow path just in time to avoid what would’ve been a fiery trap, then pressed forward into the next chamber.

A small alcove caught her eye, a cluttered little closet stuffed with trinkets, half-empty bottles, and dust-coated shelves. She scanned the contents quickly, eyes settling on a few glowing potions tucked behind a bundle of cloth. She reached out, plucking them free, their glass clinking gently in her hands as she tucked them away into her bag.

Then came the sound, a shrill screech echoing from behind her, cutting through the quiet like a knife. She whirled around, one hand already on the hilt of her dagger, heart lurching into her throat. Cicero stood there, holding a limp skeever by the scruff, its blood dripping steadily onto the stone floor. The creature twitched once before falling still.

He looked almost regal in the lantern light, the sharp angles of his face softened, made strangely handsome by the warm flicker. His smile, crooked and playful, nearly distracted her from the irritation prickling at her skin.

"I suppose you just enjoy disobeying orders," she said dryly, stepping toward him as he dropped the carcass and extended a hand in mock chivalry.

"Oh, but Listener," he began, his voice sing-song and smooth, "Cicero did wait. Just as you commanded."

"For a few minutes, maybe," she muttered, brushing past him, but not before looking up into his face. Her expression softened slightly. "I need you to behave, just for a little while. We need him."

"Cicero would never think of jeopardizing the Listener’s plans," he replied, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. "He only wishes the thief would be more... honest."

She sighed, her gaze flickering to the skeever’s still-warm corpse. For a moment, she envied its quick, uncomplicated end. She looked back up, catching Cicero watching her closely, his eyes tracing the lines of her face like they were something sacred. “But Cicero will listen.”

"Thank you," she said at last, her voice quiet, worn, but genuine. A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips as she reached up to press a kiss to his mouth.

He leaned into her without hesitation, his fingers curling around her hip. But before the moment could linger too long, she pulled away, guiding him toward the other door.

She half-expected another trap, a fresh set of spikes ready to impale her if she dared another step, but there was nothing. She pushed the door open, relief trickling through her as she found only a quiet, empty room beyond.

Her sigh had barely escaped when a hand yanked her back hard by the shoulder.

"Careful," Cicero hissed into her ear, his grip firm.

She blinked, startled, just in time to see the jaws of a massive bear trap inches from her boot. He kicked it aside with a grunt, the metal scraping loudly across the stone floor.

Before she could thank him or scold him, a figure burst from the shadows. A man in rags charged at them, fists raised like he’d just stumbled out of a tavern brawl. Cicero stepped aside, nimble and effortless, but Elara wasn’t so lucky. The man’s punch landed squarely in her chest, knocking her flat on her back.

He loomed over her, another blow already incoming. She rolled to the side, the man's gloved knuckles slamming into the stone where her head had just been. She scrambled to her feet, breath coming fast, her dagger unsheathed in a flash. The man chased her without pause, swinging again.

Cicero stood back, amused, eyes gleaming like this was some performance just for him.

Elara turned to face her attacker, raising the blade—but the man landed a brutal strike to her temple, sending her crashing to the floor once more. The impact rattled her teeth, stars bursting behind her eyes. She didn’t think. She shouted.

"FUS!"

The word exploded from her, ancient and raw. The ground beneath them trembled as wind howled from her chest, blasting the man backwards. He staggered violently, disoriented just long enough for Cicero to sweep behind him. With one swift, violent twist, he grabbed the man’s jaw and the back of his skull and snapped his neck clean. The body collapsed to the floor with a wet thud.

"Thanks for the help," she said bitterly, pushing herself back to her feet, clutching her ribs.

"Cicero knew you were capable," he replied smoothly, voice laced with amusement.

"Remind me to smother you in your sleep."

"Promises, promises," he purred.

Rolling her eyes, she made her way across the room, stepping carefully around another pair of bear traps lying in wait. She pushed open a rusted gate in the far corner, her heart sinking at the sight of yet another empty corridor—still no lever in sight. This was turning into a wild goose chase.

With a frustrated breath, she pulled her bow from her back, nocking an arrow and narrowing her eyes as she pressed forward. Cicero followed like a phantom at her shoulder, his soft humming blending with the faint dripping of water somewhere deep in the tunnels.

When they slipped out of the musty room and into another passage, she paused at the corner, pressing her back to the cold stone. Her hair stuck damply to her temple, sweat collecting along her brow, but her eyes—sharp and glowing in the dim torchlight—scanned ahead for movement. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the distant groan of shifting wood.

Finally, they reached a narrow staircase spiraling upward. Elara ascended in silence, her steps measured and light, pausing every few feet to listen for movement. 

Another hallway twisted into view, and ahead, a faint glow spilled out from a chamber up ahead, brighter than anything they’d seen so far. She slowed, crouching slightly as she advanced, bow still drawn and arrow ready.

Inside, a man stood at a table positioned in the center of the room, his head bent over an open book. The golden light flickered across his scarred features, throwing long shadows against the stone walls. Cicero stilled beside her, his lips curling into a slow, wicked smile before he let out the faintest whistle—a sound sharp and taunting in the silence.

Elara shot him a warning look but stepped forward, arrow aimed steadily at the man’s throat. He startled at the sound, snapping his head toward them, but the shock on his face hardened almost instantly into fury.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he snarled, reaching for his weapon.

Her fingers relaxed. The arrow flew, slicing through the stale air, and struck deep into his throat before he could take a step. The man choked, gurgled, and collapsed hard against the table before crumpling lifelessly to the stone. Blood spread quickly, seeping into the cracks beneath him.

She exhaled slowly, lowering her bow, her pulse steadying as she stepped over the body without hesitation. Spotting a lever on the far wall, she tugged it down with effort until it slammed into place, the groan of stone and shifting wood echoing through the chamber as the bridge lowered on the other side.

Danoc was already waiting there, arms crossed, and crossed quickly once the way was clear.

“You couldn’t keep an eye on him for longer than five minutes?” Elara asked sharply.

Danoc raised his brows, jaw tightening, and stepped onto the bridge. “I turned around for two seconds, heard him jump off the ledge, and thought if I went looking for him in the dark, he’d actually stab me this time.”

Cicero’s smirk widened, his head tilting just so, pale eyes glinting in the firelight.

Elara followed Danoc as he led them to another door tucked into the stone wall, its frame old and worn, the wood groaning as it opened. A low creak echoed through the corridor before they stepped inside, and the space beyond opened into a cavernous chamber.

A bar sat nestled toward the back, its surface cluttered with half-filled goblets and discarded tankards. A shallow pit of dark water pooled at the center of the room, catching reflections from scattered torchlight, while several figures drifted about, their hushed conversations curling through the damp, heavy air. The entire place smelled faintly of stale ale, damp stone, and the faint bite of smoke from torches set into iron sconces.

Danoc walked beside her, close but quiet, his jaw set as his gaze swept the unfamiliar faces. A muscular man blocked their path, his brown hair tied back in a loose knot, his leather armor creaking as he shifted his weight. His dark eyes narrowed sharply, a deep frown etched into his features as he sized up the group.

“I’d suggest you lot keep moving,” the man said, his voice gravelly, gaze lingering on Danoc a little too long. “You bring… unfortunate faces.”

Danoc looked away, refusing to meet his eyes, and Elara stepped forward before the tension could thicken. “We’re here to speak to Delvin,” she said evenly, keeping her tone steady and disinterested.

The man’s lip curled slightly, but he didn’t push further. “No funny business,” he warned, stepping aside with reluctance, his hand brushing the hilt of his dagger in a silent reminder.

Elara scanned the room until her gaze caught on a man seated at one of the tables, reading from a crumpled slip of paper. Something about him—the casual way he leaned back, the sharpness in his posture—told her this was who she was looking for. She motioned for Cicero and Danoc to hang back, then approached the table.

Delvin raised his eyes as she neared, expression unreadable, voice rough and unhurried when he spoke. “Looking for me, hm?” His common accent was thick, his words rolling low and deliberate.

His gaze flicked past her to where Cicero leaned lazily against the cavern wall, arms folded, pale face cast in half-shadow. Cicero’s stare was unblinking, sharp as a blade’s edge, and Delvin let out a low hum. “I suppose you’re not here for anything innocent, then.”

“I come speaking for the Dark Brotherhood,” Elara said, lowering her voice.

Delvin’s smirk returned faintly, and he swirled the goblet in his hand, red liquid catching the torchlight. “I figured as much,” he said casually. “Tell Astrid she ought to swing by for a drink sometime… catch up.”

Elara frowned slightly, about to question how he would even know Astrid, but Delvin chuckled under his breath, sipping leisurely from his cup. Then his gaze flicked to Cicero again, one brow arching. “Your friend there looks like he’s imagining all the ways he could dismember me,” he said lightly, though his tone carried a subtle edge.

Elara followed his glance, catching Cicero’s expression—and froze for just a moment. Something was unsettling about the sharp gleam in his pale eyes, the crooked frown lingering like an unspoken threat. Had he always looked like that? Or had she simply grown too used to ignoring it? He looked damn near predatory. 

“Come, sit,” Delvin said suddenly, gesturing to the chair opposite him. She took the seat, resting her bag at her feet, as he extended a hand expectantly.

Elara rustled through her belongings, pulling out the amulet before setting it in his palm. He turned it over slowly, testing its weight, then lifted it toward the torchlight, his thumb brushing over the engraved symbol.

“Well, now,” Delvin muttered, voice dipping low. “How in the hells did you get your hands on one of these? You know what—don’t answer that. Safer for both of us.” He set the amulet carefully on the table and leaned back in his chair. “This is no trinket. That’s an amulet of the Emperor’s Elder Council. Specially crafted for each member. Priceless, really.” He glanced at her pointedly. “Ain’t something you give up lightly.”

Elara said nothing, only arching a brow as she folded her arms across her chest. Delvin leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice dropping further.

“Now, I ain’t trying to tell the Brotherhood how to run its business,” he said, tone careful but laced with warning, “but if you killed a member of the Council, you better believe—”

She cut him off with the faintest curve of a smile, shaking her head. “Will you buy it or not?”

For a moment, Delvin just stared, blinking at her bluntness before letting out a short laugh. “This?” he asked, tapping the amulet with a finger, and she nodded once.

“Oh yes. Oh, yes indeed,” he said, leaning back with a slow, wolfish smirk curling across his lips. His shoulders eased as he exhaled and reached into one of the many leather pouches strapped to his armor. “Wait just a moment.”

From somewhere impossibly deep within his layers, he produced a crumpled piece of parchment, flattening it across the table before fishing out a quill. He scribbled quickly, his handwriting swift and practiced, and finished with a flourish before signing his name at the bottom. The faint scratching of the quill filled the silence, and when he was done, he slid the parchment across the table toward her.

“Letter of credit,” he said, tapping the paper with one calloused finger. “For Astrid’s use only. Deliver this to your lovely mistress—our usual arrangement, with regards.”

Elara picked up the parchment without hesitation, folding it carefully before tucking it into the inner pocket of her coat. Satisfaction flickered faintly in her chest as she straightened, ready to leave, exhaustion already weighing her down. The thought of a bedroll beneath the stars and the quiet comfort of a dark, musty forest sounded better than any inn. Her body ached, and she was just about to turn when a firm hand closed around her wrist, halting her.

She looked down at the hand, then up at Delvin, her brow furrowing.

“You be careful now,” he murmured, his voice unusually low, the edge of his usual humor gone. “You travel with dangerous company.”

Elara blinked, taken off guard, before offering him the faintest smirk to mask her confusion. “Don’t worry,” she said lightly, “I’ve got the jester on a tight leash.”

Delvin didn’t smile. Instead, his dark eyes narrowed slightly, and he gave a slow shake of his head.

“The other one,” he said quietly, his tone deliberate. Then, after a beat, he released her wrist, leaning back into his chair with a sigh. “Go on now.”

Her brows knitted faintly as she turned away, his warning settling somewhere in the back of her mind like a stone dropped into still water, rippling outward. She didn’t glance back, but she felt Delvin’s gaze following her as she walked away, heading back toward where her companions waited. 

The path back toward her companions felt heavier than before, as though each step dragged her closer to something inevitable.

Every time she walked toward Danoc, it felt like walking straight toward the devil himself, and she still couldn’t place why. He carried himself with that familiar air of something brotherly, the kind of dependable presence that should’ve reassured her, but there was something else beneath the surface — something hidden, locked away, yet always pressing close enough to unsettle her. She’d tried to dig for it before, subtle questions and sideways glances, but no amount of effort could make sense of the gnawing truth she saw in everyone else’s eyes: they hated him. Everyone hated him.

But why? What had he done?

Her gaze caught the back of his head as she walked, willing him to feel the weight of her unspoken frustration. If she could have burned a hole through him with a look, she would have. Cicero’s sharp eyes caught her expression as they approached, his head tilting just slightly to the side, curious and calculating all at once.

Elara’s eyes drifted briefly to the wide pit of dark water at the center of the chamber, its surface rippling faintly under the low torchlight. She inhaled deeply through her nose, trying to steady the unease clawing at her ribs, forcing the thought of Delvin’s words back down where it couldn’t reach her.