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Chapter Text

Prologue

In the far south of Skyrim, somewhere not far from Helgen, on a summer night...

Two women ride stirrup by stirrup on the road leading to the Cyrodiil border. Both are very young. One is a brunette with dark, curly hair cut short. A frightening scar furrows her face, which has features as if cut in stone and might have been quite pleasant if it weren't for her eyes. Her black eyes are fierce and unyielding, rarely blinking, and they seem to cut through clothing, bodies, and stone alike—so sharp, so merciless as though they could pierce even the finest armor once forged by the People of the Deep.

The other is quite tall for a woman, blonde, with short hair, cut above her ears. She's pretty, has gray, soft eyes, and could be considered very beautiful, truly stunning, if she weren't so thin! She seems so slender that at times she looks almost ethereal, as if woven from shadows and moonlight; when a gush of warm wind blows in—bearing the scent of fir-trees sun-browned in the daytime—you might expect her to vanish like a wisp of mist fading into the deep vault of starry summer night sky.

But perhaps this is only an illusion; if you look more closely, you notice that the long, hooded cloak in which she is wrapped is embroidered with all sorts of silvery arabesques and runes that seem to have a life of their own. Sometimes they shimmer with a ghostly glimmer in the spectral light of the Secunda, at other times they seem to move gracefully, like the foam of waves, giving the impression that the dark-blue cloak is the surface of a sea—seemingly calm on the surface, yet tossed by strong waves in the depths.

The dark-haired woman carries a child across her chest in a black bundle clasped to her shoulder, in a manner often used by the ordinary women of these lands who must work or hunt while still nursing their babies. This realm—rough and poor—is seldom home to its men, who are engaged in the Empire's endless wars; most are conscripted as young lads into those imperial legions known as the "Iron Legions", while many others are often away at sea, on secret, savage raids for plunder along the southern and western coasts.

Not far from the fortified gate on the border, the two women halt their horses and dismount. Without a word, the brunette loosens the baby's bundle and hands it to the other. The blonde's eyes soften with warmth, she even sheds a few tears...

But perhaps it's only an illusion, for everything Kiersten does, every movement, every breath, seems veiled in a translucent haze, where eerie flickers of light dance in peculiar, deceitful patterns—false lights, unable to dispel the darkness, but thickening it instead. 

Oh, Kiersten is surely more than just a pretty girl! And her eyes, those grayish eyes, shift in color so often—look how they glow now, reflecting the pale light of Secunda! And those tears... where are they now?

She hastily stretches out her arms to receive the bundle in which the child sleeps peacefully. Then, with graceful, supple movements, she passes it along her chest, letting out a soft sigh. Catching the other woman's eyes with her gaze, she speaks in a crystalline voice, like a melodic, sweet chime of a silver bell. 

"Are you sure, sis?"

The other woman mumbles a hurried "Yes!" while trying to break free from Kiersten's stare. But she fails. Her eyes remain sealed on Kiersten's as the blonde whispers further, her voice barely more than a breath now:

"Keep in mind that if you entrust her to me now, she will be mine forever. I'll be her mother... and I will never mention you to her!"

"So be it," the other one chokes out, then adds:

"Where I'm going now, there's no place for children. And she... She herself is a mistake. I'm sure Elsie was meant for you, and I was wrong to steal your man."

Kiersten bursts into laughter, as sweet and melodious as the warm, gentle wind rustling through the leaf-laden branches of the trees.

"Oh, Astrid, why are you being silly?" she teases. "You know very well that since we were children, we have always shared everything we found good in this world."

"Yes, I already told you—I'm sure!" Astrid replies sternly. With a sharp effort of will, she finally tears her eyes away from her sister's and reaches for a rather bulky bag from her horse's saddlebag. She holds it out, her voice steady as she says, "Take this, Kiersten, and may Nocturnal always guide your steps."

The blonde hastily grabbed the bag, and then the two women threw themselves into each other's arms.

"Farewell," they murmured, before parting ways—Astrid turning north at a slow, hesitant trot, while Kiersten rode south, her movements light, almost playful.

To the east, beyond the mountains, Masser had begun its slow ascent, casting a reddish glow over the land.

Somewhere, not near but not too far, an owl began to hoot...

Kiersten barely turned her head at the sound. And she even smiled!

'Never mind, I don't believe in omens and I am strong enough to defeat or avoid any threat,' she whispered as she gazed lovingly at the baby at her breast.

Chapter I—A Hasty Departure. A Lost Kitten. A Lament for Kiersten...

There's little I can say about my early years. Even though I'm still young, those times already feel like another lifetime,  one veiled in a thick, strange mist. And I try not to think too much about them — I'm scared of what might come up if I do. Not all of it is painful—some memories are even warm and sweet, I know... But something is just terrible. Something buried deep. And it has fangs and claws. It hurts!

Still, some events from those days left deep, bitter roots within me, and, whether I like it or not, they shaped everything that came after. And so, though it costs me dearly, I begin my story where I must, not where I would have wanted.
I do so because my beloved daddy, Leif the Sage, claimed that I should leave nothing untold in this confession of mine. He insisted—Oh, so many times!—and even quoted some old, wise Dunmer who once said something quite prophetic:

"Some shadows never stay buried, no matter how thick the sand covering them. And some truths insist on telling themselves . So confess, I beg you, sinner! Otherwise, you'll be haunted by bloodthirsty ghosts for the rest of your life!"

Oh, well. Who am I to argue with ancient wisdom and fatherly love?
Fine then. So, here goes.

I recall a tall, blonde woman who was very dear to me — probably my mother. I'll call her that in what little I can say about those seemingly distant days. I remember that we lived together in a lovely cottage in Bruma, where she ran a small shop and raised me all by herself. I suppose I was happy then, because my first memories are full of clear skies, crisp snow, and that fresh, comforting scent of cold that ruled the streets of that northern town at the foot of the Jerall Mountains.

I had many toys, each more delightful than the last, but my mother was the most wonderful of them all. Every evening, when she returned from her shop, she would play with me and hold me close in a way not many mothers do. She was so beautiful, with the sweetest, most melodic voice I can recall! Kiersten was also young and nimble, and we would often run laughing around our little house. Oh, she would invent all sorts of new games—or perhaps they were just old ones from some faraway corner of the realm. Sometimes, she told me wonderful tales, where noble knights in shining armor always fought for justice and saved fair maidens, invariably tormented by wicked men or terrible beasts.

She loved me very much, and I remember with tears how she'd come each morning to the cradle where I slept and, after watching me for a while, gently kiss me. Often, though my mother walked with the lightest of steps, I would wake, yet betray no sign, but keep still and let her love caress me like a warm, fragrant bath embracing a tired and frostbitten body.

I had many friends among the children in our neighborhood, and sometimes, when I was late for playtime, my mother would come to fetch me, always bringing a big pot full of cookies to share with everyone. On some occasions, she'd return early from her shop and join our games, acting just like a child and enjoying herself immensely. Oh, Kiersten was so beautiful and friendly that they all adored her!

But her eyes... I was a child back then and didn't understand much, yet I remember them vividly — because they were strange. And sometimes, even unsettling. They were the eyes of someone much older than she was: deep, too deep, and often filled with an overwhelming sadness—or mayhap a burden too heavy to bear.
Most of the time, they were grey like ash, just like mine. And they changed color, as mine also did. I didn't know that back then, so sometimes I'd stare, faintly disquieted but not frightened, as her eyes seemed to burn with an eerie, cold, and yellow aura in the dark.

Though so young, she had those faint creases around her eyes that belong to those who've lived through much; her hands, though gentle and warm, bore in certain places the hardened calluses I now know well—the kind left by long use of a longbow with a hard string.  

As far as I remember, Kiersten hadn't befriended any of the town's inhabitants, not even our neighbors, among whom were two very nice families who tried to get close to us. We had a maid, Anya, and my mother was fair to her; on her days off, she even helped Anya with the housework, but she was always cold and distant in her dealings with her. Yet to me, my mom was gentle and kind, no matter how silly I was—may her soul rest in peace wherever it is now!

When I was about five years old, my mother came home one day, visibly distressed. I remember her pale face and intense eyes as she entered, slamming the door behind her as though trying to keep out a bitter wind that wanted to catch her in its cold wings.
She said nothing to me at first — only whispered something to Anya, who dropped the laundry she was folding and rushed to pack a few clothes and items for us both.

Our cottage suddenly fell into a quiet frenzy. No one raised their voice, but every movement felt urgent and restrained, like when people tread carefully around a sleeping, dangerous beast. Kiersten walked through the rooms like a worried sprite, touching objects, looking at them, thinking, pausing now and then — but taking almost nothing with her in the end. My mother left behind many beautiful dresses and cute shoes, as well as the silver hairbrush she loved so much. Oh, we didn't even take the masterfully carved wooden horse she had given me for my birthday! "It's too big, Elsie!" she said, patting me gently on the head.

By evening, we were already on our way, bundled in the back of the carriage that traveled the old road to the Imperial City, its wheels creaking and groaning as if in sorrow. I didn't ask questions. I just sat beside her in silence, clutching a scarf that still smelled like home.

We arrived the next morning, and Kiersten rented a modest little house in the Waterfront District, right near the docks. I remember I was quite happy at first, for my mother—who hired no help—stayed home all day, taking care of me and the household. It felt special, almost like a long holiday.

Still, I sorely missed the children from the north, my old playmates, the little tribe of laughter and snow I had left behind in Bruma. Here, in this new neighborhood, I had no friends at all. I tried to make some, of course, but the children were different—nimbler, louder, and drawn to strange new things I didn't understand. They weren't interested in the old games that had once delighted me so.

I remember one time when I went outside, beautifully dressed and with a nice toy in my hand. I met a group of children from the Waterfront District and wanted to play with them. They stopped what they were doing, circled me, and one of them, a slightly older brat, proposed a new game. He asked me to give him my toy, close my eyes, cover them with my hands, and stay like that until he told me to open them. 

"Then," he said with a cunning smile, "something wonderful would happen. You'll see!" 

Full of joy, I did as he asked me and waited... But no one said anything, and after a while, I dared to open my eyes. I did so, a bit scared because I felt like I was breaking the rules of this new game! As you probably already guessed, no one was around me anymore—none of those children.

I was left very confused and sad; I kept asking myself, 'Where did all those children go?' 

I had so wanted to play with them... to befriend them! But there was nothing I could do—they had just vanished. So I made my way home, on the verge of tears. When my mother asked about my toy, I told her the whole story. She looked at me for a long while before saying anything, and I remember how her voice trembled just a little when she finally spoke and explained what had just happened—was it anger? Or sadness? I never truly knew.

Later, after a particularly nasty day—two boys beat me up and dragged me through the mud for no reason at all—my mother no longer allowed me to go outside by myself. Not that I would've wanted to anymore because I was a good and quiet child, always yearning for the affection and friendship of my peers. And I also began to fear those strange, ragged, and unsettlingly shrewd kids.

Yet, the truth is, I never liked the Waterfront District. Ships came and went constantly; the narrow alleys teemed with drunken or rowdy sailors, and above all, there were the smells—those damp, heavy, salty odors so typical of a port serving a grand city that imported many goods and strange luxuries from overseas. For some children, such a place might have been exciting and colorful—even fun. But not for a girl like me. As I've told you, I was a shy and well-behaved little thing, and the tenderness my sweet mother, Kiersten, wrapped me in only made me even less suited for such an environment and company.

Then, at some point, my mother began going out at night. At first, she was gone only briefly. She didn't even tell me—she hoped I'd sleep peacefully and never notice. But one night, Kiersten came back to find me in tears, desperately searching the house for her.

She scooped me into her arms, kissed me, and gently brushed away the fear that had settled on my heart. That night, my mother told me she had important errands to attend to and that sometimes, she might have to be away longer, even during the day.

I adjusted rather quickly, especially since, after a while, Kiersten brought home a kitten to keep me company while she was away.

Oh, how I loved that gentle little creature with all my heart! I was fascinated by her behavior—by the contrast between her calm, almost regal demeanor and the sudden, playful leaps she'd make across the room. I adored her, and I was heartbroken when my beloved little friend disappeared without a trace. But that happened sometime later...

It was during a time when my mother had to leave for several weeks. Before her departure, she packed a bundle of clothes and toys for me, locked up our house, and brought me and the kitten to stay with a young family living in the Elven Gardens District.

The couple was kind, even tender, and they did their best to make me feel welcome throughout my stay. But my cat, unaccustomed to the place, disappeared one day after we'd been playing in the garden.

I was called in for lunch, and when I returned, she was nowhere to be found.

At first, I wasn't concerned. She had wandered off before. But hours passed. Then days. And the kitten never came back. I suffered terribly when I realized I had lost her forever.

I cried endlessly, and the young woman who cared for me, moved by my distress, eventually persuaded her husband to bring home another cat. But I couldn't love this one. I simply couldn't. My heart wouldn't open to it.

And then, slowly, a chilling fear began to creep in my soul, colder and heavier than the grief for the lost kitten:

'What if my mother never returned either? Just like my kitty?'

I started to worry terribly. It felt like she had been gone for far too long. Spring had just begun when she left, and now summer had wrapped the city in its sweltering embrace!

The heat clung to everything, and through the open window, I could hear footsteps in the distance, always seeming to approach the gate.

I shuddered every time I heard them. I always hoped it was her. That any moment now, I'd be in her arms again!

But the footsteps always passed. They came and went, taking my hope with them...

My little heart pounded wildly each time the gate or the mansion door creaked open... and every time, I felt the bitter taste of disappointment and the cold fingers of fear clawing at my soul.

But then came the blessed day when my mother, Kiersten, returned! I remember it as if it happened only yesterday: she arrived dressed in a magnificent hooded robe, its fabric whitened by the dust of the Empire's roads, reeking of sweaty horse, and looking gaunt and utterly exhausted. Yet her eyes were bright, almost feverish, and sparkled wildly when I ran to her; tears, big and brilliant like tiny diamonds, welled up in them as I threw myself into her arms, laughing and crying at once.

She brought exotic and splendid gifts for the kind family who had taken me in, and gave me a wondrous toy—something I now know must have come from the remote southern islands where the Elves live.

Kiersten wept with me as I told her, sobbing, about the disappearance of our kitten. She held me close and whispered that the little creature's soul now waited for us in Nocturnal's realm, where we both, too, were destined to arrive one day.

So, for the very first time in my life, I heard Her beloved name. I paid it little mind at the time, overwhelmed as I was by joy—the formidable happiness of having my mother back, when I had truly believed her lost forever. And Kiersten never mentioned that name again. Not once, for all the days we still had to live together. 

In the end, without sitting down to the meal our hosts had kindly prepared, without even resting or washing the dust from her face, my mother gathered up my belongings, and together, we returned to our little cottage in the Waterfront District. 

Once there, we resumed our accustomed life, and everything went on quietly and uneventfully—no great joys, no great sorrows—until I turned seven, and my mother got married.

I don't remember much about my stepfather, except that he always seemed very busy and was rarely at home. I can't even summon a clear image of his face, but I'm absolutely convinced that if I were to see him again, I would recognize him immediately. I can still hear his voice, deep and somber, recall his steady, confident gait, and feel his somewhat rough and careless pats. 

But that's all. Because something broke inside me soon after—something shattered and died in that silent, hollow time when the worst thing that could ever happen to me did.

Not long after their wedding, my mother, Kiersten, was murdered in the shadowed alleys of the Waterfront District, and perhaps my mind is simply trying to protect me, stubbornly refusing to reveal what lies concealed by the dark veil of despair.

I cannot remember anything from the days that followed, and I can only assume my stepfather disappeared, vanished like mist into the rainy, cloud-choked sky... I never saw him again. And I know, with utter certainty, that he was not there at her funeral. 

It was autumn back then. That, I recall clearly! I also remember a modest grave, fresh and covered by leaves of all colors, wet and pale beneath the gray light that fell from an ashen sky.
On that grave, there was a stone, plain, gray, and narrow; nameless and without any marks or signs. A little girl was there, embracing the stone. She was clinging to the cold slab with small hands and lingered there, soaked and weeping, all day long. And the wind carried away a faint chanting, strange and like from another world:

The lone coffin slept profoundly,
'Neath funeral garb and leaden bloom.
I stood, a shadow by the grave—
The wind howled softly through the gloom,
And garlands rustled in their tomb.

Chapter Text

There is a chapter in my life's diary that I believe shall remain forever blank—unwritten, or mayhap erased pages—until the day I die. No matter how hard I try, I cannot recall the first days—or maybe weeks—after my mother Kiersten's death. Only vague and shifting images come to me—like scenes glimpsed through misted glass that veils the truth in a merciful or, rather, a deceitful fog.

From the thick haze that shrouds those bygone days, a middle-aged woman sometimes appears; she is small of stature, her face marked by sorrow, and is silently pouring milk into a bowl on our kitchen table. I know it's ours for it's draped with the same cloth my mother once brought from Bruma—one of the few things she chose to keep; it had two deer embroidered on it—a mother and her fawn—and I used to think the little one quite adorable. I remember watching the mother doe gently nudge her baby toward the food, and I loved that scene so much! Ah, my mother, Kiersten, had even made up an entire story about them to tempt me into taking a few bites on days I turned into a little, spoiled tyrant and wouldn't touch my plate.

Then I see that woman again—weeping as she fastens a small, gray, stained pouch around my neck.

Then her hand takes mine.
I see her opening the garden gate.
And, before me, lies the narrow, damp alley where our little house once stood in the Waterfront District.
It's raining.
A light myst hovers over the face of the realm.
I remember the chill. And I remember the fright!

Fear of the children who prowled the streets, with their sharp little eyes and cruel laughter!

Overwhelmed by sorrow, I glimpse a gravestone—cold and gleaming with rain. A little blonde girl is weeping near that funerary monument. And then appears a tall, broad man, his thick black beard covering most of his face. His voice is loud and harsh, cutting through the gray twilight and the autumn rain that both drapes the cemetery like an old and damp shroud. I feel that man's hand on my shoulder— strange, it seems warm and gentle—and later, I see firelight flickering—cosy and golden in a small hearth. A pot hangs above it, and the man with the big beard stirs it with a large wooden spoon. The room is tiny. A crude bed stands in one corner, a wooden table with crooked legs in the other.

Then come the mornings. Cold mornings.
Some rainy enough to soak you to the bone.
Others clear and crisp, the sky high and sharp and blue.

And then comes pain...
Pain and fear!
A moment of terrible physical agony—blood, laughter, ragged children with hard eyes and knowing grins.
They vanish, and a strange warmth spreads through me.
Not comfort... not healing...
Just a dull torpor. A gentle numbness, like sleeping under a heavy blanket.
I dream of strange things.
My body aches—a steady, bearable, vexing pain.

I hear voices—gruff, foreign...
Calloused hands lift me up...
And I am carried in strong arms, my cheek pressed against hardened leather armor.

My first coherent memories are from my life in an orphanage near the Imperial City, by the grassy shores of Lake Rumare, not far from the fortress known to travelers as Fort Nikel. Both the orphanage and the stronghold belonged to the Order of Stendarr, and even now, the memory of these places fills me with dread—perhaps because, some years later, I would come to be imprisoned in the very dungeon of that fort, enduring a reality more horrific than any nightmare.

However, I'm sure the orphanage itself was not deserving of such fear. It was well-organized, clean, and relatively welcoming—at least, as welcoming as a place like that could be. The staff consisted mainly of sisters of the Order, diligent women who worked hard to offer the orphans a decent life and taught us various trades. Yet, for a child like me, still shaken by a terrible shock, the orphanage was by no means the warm haven I so desperately needed.

When I was brought there by a city guard patrol, I was badly injured and very ill, near death, I imagine, because I spent a long time in the infirmary.

The sisters cared for me with genuine concern, and I recall an old, long-bearded man, dignified and severe, who came to see me often. He would lean over and pour a spoonful of some awful-tasting medicine between my lips... and then disappear until the next day. The pain was much alleviated for a time after the concoction was administered, but I still get dizzy with repulsion when I remember how disgusting that mixture tasted! And then, dull, gray days. A high, very high ceiling. White curtains. White walls. White beds. Sometimes, all of them flickered softly in the trembling light of the candle that always burned in a corner of the room. Whispering sisters, all dressed in white robes, heavy breathing and light coughing, sometimes a child's weeping and prayers... A lot of prayers!

But I never knew if they prayed for the sick... or themselves!

Eventually, I recovered and was placed among the other children.
Life at that orphanage was ruled by routine, and our days followed a strict and unchanging pattern. We had to rise very early—remaining in bed even a moment after the nun on duty opened the dormitory door was strictly forbidden, and punishable.
Then came washing, always with cold water. I still remember the icy shock running over my skin in those first days—it was winter, and the cold was a living presence in that place.
Afterward, we made our beds and cleaned the dormitory thoroughly before attending morning liturgy in the chapel.

The cult of Stendarr, or rather the rigid and militant doctrine practiced by His Order in Tamriel, held great significance in that establishment. 

Under the high, echoing dome of the church, the service was always led by the same priest: a grim, battle-hardened warrior monk whose features were more fitting for an arena than a house of worship. His sermons were short and stern, painting Stendarr as a merciless god who always punished missteps with divine wrath. These orations, combined with the heavy mace he carried, made me perceive Stendarr as a harsh and unforgiving deity.

One who punishes rather than pardons,
Constrains rather than guides,
Sears rather than heals His broken, weaker subjects.

I could not love such a deity and was only frightened by Him! 

But I suspect the warrior monk's sermons didn't have their intended effect on all the children. Near the back of the chapel, always in the same place, there sat a small group who seemed to enjoy themselves quite a bit, quietly enough not to draw attention, especially from the priest, who was too absorbed in his thundering orations to notice.

After the morning liturgy, we would march in close formation—heads bowed, hands clasped—to the refectory, where the first meal of the day was served. The food, though generally tasteless, was plentiful, and the sisters made visible efforts to keep it varied.

Once we had eaten, the daily activities began and lasted, almost without exception, all day long, broken only by a brief midday meal. Tasks were assigned according to age and, later on, by sex, and ranged from menial chores to specialized apprenticeships meant to simulate the trades of the wider world.

The orphanage itself was an austere and well-ordered institution, governed with methodical precision by the Sisters of Stendarr. Every sister had been carefully selected from among the Order's many ranks—not only for her devotion, but for her skill in managing children, instructing them, and, where necessary, correcting them. Discipline was both a rule and a virtue there.

The stated purpose of all our training and duties was simple: to prepare us, each in our own measure, to be useful and obedient members of the Empire's grand political machinery once we left this professional school.

For that is what this place truly was—not just an orphanage, but a kind of cloistered guild college, a vocational forge where the unwanted children of the provinces were reshaped into good servants or skilled craftsmen. It sheltered boys and girls between five and fifteen years old. After this age, all the orphans, without exception, left the institution, and their departure was always marked with a modest ceremony. I witnessed several of these rites, and each was carried out under a veil of grave decorum and, I believe, genuine goodwill. The departing children received a new set of clothes, a modest satchel of gifts, and the solemn blessing of the priest. We, the remaining, sang a hymn to Stendarr as they passed through the gate, watched by the severe gaze of that warrior monk.

Among the children, rumors stirred. Whispers spoke of the best and brightest being granted the chance to join the Order of Stendarr. Everyone dreamed of that honor. They believed, with innocent conviction, that diligence and obedience were the keys to being chosen, and so, order reigned—not through punishment, but through the quiet hope of the poor that they might rise, just a little, above their station.

But as for me... I never wanted it. Not even for a moment.

During my short time there, the idea of becoming one of the Sisters of Stendarr never took root in me, and even if it had, I wouldn't have been chosen—I was utterly unsuited to the life they led and the duties they upheld.

Their sermons—terrifying at first, just boring later—meant nothing to me. I often envied the children in the back rows, those who could still find ways to laugh and feel good in that grim and dull place.

The daily labor was either too hard or too tedious for me, and once my wounds had fully healed, the rigid routine of our lives became unbearable. The sisters quickly noticed my laziness and lack of enthusiasm, and it wasn't long before I was assigned to the laundry—a place reserved for the most unpromising, indolent, or troublesome girls in the orphanage.

The chores assigned to us were endless and exhausting, as the institution handled the laundry for many well-to-do families from the Imperial City. Pressing men's shirts or delicate women's undergarments with heavy, searing irons was both difficult and dangerous, and I was unaccustomed to such hard, sustained work. So I often broke things. Or burned them. Or simply failed to keep pace with the others — all of them older than me.

The nun in charge of the laundry grew irritated, then cold, then openly hostile. She scolded me constantly, and punishments soon followed.

Alas, there was nothing I could do to improve my lot! The heavy labor wore me down. The so-called 'lighter' tasks — the ones requiring skill or delicacy — were just as difficult for me, as I had no experience and no one cared to teach me.

And truthfully, I was lazy. And indifferent. Naturally, the sanctions grew harsher and more humiliating.

The other girls were quick to single me out as an outcast. They mocked me constantly and, worse, began sabotaging my work. Two of them even shared my dormitory, so the torment never ceased: they followed me everywhere, hurled insults, spoiled my food when no one was looking, and undid the few tasks I had managed to complete. More, at night, they disturbed my sleep with cruel pranks.

One morning, after we were all called to the morning liturgy, they sneaked back into the dormitory and ruined the bed I had carefully made. I was blamed. When I cried and tried to explain what had happened, the nun only increased my punishment.

I was in despair, weak, and tormented by a fatigue that felt more like illness than weariness because some of the harsher punishments came with less food, or none at all. My body, so small and frail and still marked by the old wounds from the attack that nearly killed me, was now bruised and battered from the numerous corporal punishments I had endured.

One day, the two girls, who by then had grown inseparable in their shared delight for tormenting me, lay in wait on the narrow path they knew I had to take. I was carrying a basket brimming with freshly washed and carefully pressed laundry when they stopped me. One of them grabbed my arms, pinning me in place, while the other tore the basket from my hands and flung its contents into the muddy puddles at the alley's edge. Laughing and shrieking with glee, they trampled the garments underfoot, grinding them into the filth. 

Despair and terror seized me; I knew I would be punished hard for this. Yet alongside them, something new stirred within me. The sheer injustice of it all tore through my exhaustion and ignited a fury I had never known before, a need to strike back at those who tormented me.

Without thinking, I lunged. So ferociously that one of the girls tumbled backward and struck her head on a stone. The other froze. Though older and more powerful, she hesitated—and I attacked. I rained down blows with my small fists, tackled her when she tried to flee, yanked her hair, and clawed at her face. I might have gouged out her eyes had two passing nuns not pulled me away.

I was dragged straight before the Prioress who ran the orphanage. Sister Sescia was a tall, weathered woman, hardened in battle and scarred by war; she had once served in the Order's fighting ranks—one of the first sisters ever allowed to do so. In those days, few women were admitted to the Order's fighting ranks, and a dramatic increase in their numbers occurred only after the Great War, which thoroughly decimated the men.

Sescia's posture was martial, her eyes sharp as drawn steel. And yet beneath that soldier's bearing—I would come to realize—lived a soul both wise and generous; had I met her sooner, perhaps my time at the orphanage would have been different. Yet for me, it was already too late because that moment marked a turning point: the wild blood of my ancestors, violent and unyielding, had awakened. More still, I felt no guilt. Not even shame. On the contrary... something inside me screamed that the reckoning had only just begun—that I had paid but a small fraction of the debts etched so deep within my young soul.

Before the Prioress, I stood with quiet defiance. I answered her questions politely—just as my mother Kiersten had taught me—but I gave no details, no tears, no pleas. Cold, brief, and direct. And all the while, I met her gaze without flinching. I think... I think she was impressed. Her piercing eyes softened, and after a quite long pause, she said:

"A quarrel between children. See that it does not happen again."

And that was it. I was free to go. I returned to my duties as though nothing had happened. But everything had changed. The other girls looked at me with new eyes—eyes full of wary respect— the nun who oversaw us was more lenient, and for the first time in many weeks, I found peace.

My two tormentors were confined to the infirmary. When one of them, the one who had fled, was finally discharged and returned to work, she avoided me entirely; whenever I passed near, she shrank away, casting furtive, fearful glances over her shoulder.

Yet things were soon to change, and in the most dreadful way. The girl who had struck her head never truly recovered. Though she regained consciousness, her mind was no longer whole: she could not walk, and her speech was reduced to meaningless murmurs; she just stared blankly, unable to understand the words of those around her.

The orphanage administration soon decided she would undergo a newly developed surgical procedure—an experimental remedy of the healing arts—and following this surgery, it seemed that the girl had fully recovered. Her eyes grew bright again, and she smiled as if awakened from a long sleep. But three days later, she died... Quietly. In her sleep. The higher echelons of the Order of Stendarr were immediately informed, and a tribunal was summoned to investigate the matter—a special court, composed of magistrates and clergy, sworn to determine both cause and fault.

In the meantime, while awaiting the trial, the behavior of my colleagues towards me changed; the glances of my peers were no longer respectful or just fearful—they were often filled with hate. 

One night, a couple of girls in my bedroom, no doubt instigated by my surviving enemy, attacked me while I was asleep. Even in my drowsy stupor, I defended myself with desperate fury, and the room turned into a whirlwind of fists, nails, and screams. I was so wild in the fight that eventually they retreated. But one of the girls was bleeding heavily... as was I. My sheets were soaked in blood and bore witness to our battle, so when the nun on duty found them the next morning, she superficially investigated the situation and brought both of us before the Prioress. 

We stood there, both bleeding and bruised... Of course, our stories were very different; I told the truth while the other girl lied through her teeth and claimed that I was the one who attacked her; she also stated that many girls in our dormitory had witnessed the fight and could confirm her words. Sister Sescia did not pursue the matter further and decided that, pending the trial, I was to be confined in a room intended for this purpose.

The chamber was small but clean, as were all the things and spaces in the orphanage. It was scarcely furnished: a single bed, a chair, a small table, and a narrow stove that always burned during the day. The barred window was large and let in a soft, filtered light. And to my great surprise... I was cared for. Tenderly.

The orphanage's physician tended to my wounds with great patience and carefully treated my body, which was so frail and sore from all the punishments I had suffered. I was fed from the sisters' ration; moreover,  a nice and gentle young nun came every morning to tidy and straighten my room, and she even made my bed. Oh, Sister Lenora always brought me a glass of sweetened milk, which she made me drink right then and there in front of her!

So my confinement was pleasant and restful after the life I had led for the last few months; that place became a true refuge for me. What the other girls and even I may have seen as punishment, I later came to understand as a sign of mercy— a quiet sanctuary where I was safe not only from others but also from myself. I stayed there longer than expected, long enough for me to fully recover from the state of physical weakness I had reached. And while my bones and bruises healed... something else also happened: my soul began to soften once more. 

I cried for my mother more than ever; almost every night, I dreamed of her. We spoke, embraced, walked hand in hand... only for morning to steal it all away. I often woke in tears, heartbroken that our reunion had been only a dream.

Ah... dreams. Dreams are a greater mystery than even death; Nocturnal Herself does not know or doesn't want to say anything about them! But they can sometimes hurt the soul more deeply than reality ever dares!

Sister Lenora often found me weeping forlornly, and—as she began to love me—she always took me in her arms and tried to soothe my sorrows. Yet all this kindness, the good treatment, and the caressing only weakened the dark strength that had begun to take root in my soul!

So at the trial, I behaved foolishly. When asked to recount my version of the events, I stammered and wept almost constantly, terrified by the presence of the presiding judge—none other than the Grand Master of the Order of Stendarr himself, Ser Gregorius Clegius. Nearly all testimonies were against me, painting me as a lazy, deceitful, violent, and disobedient girl...

The institution's doctor was among the last to be heard. He stressed that the girl's death could not be attributed to me, as she had passed away following a new and risky surgical procedure, not because of the blow sustained in our confrontation.

Prioress Sescia was the final witness before the court—in fact, Ser Gregorius himself—pronounced the sentence. She looked at me first with sorrow, then declared that, despite my wild and clumsy ways, she still believed she could guide me back to the righteous path if I were entrusted to her for re-education.

Then Ser Gregorius rose in his grand chair, ordering everyone present to stand. He cast a look of contempt in my direction and declared that I was to be sentenced to death by hanging. A sigh of relief swept through the hall—some even muttered their approval—but he struck the table with his gavel and added:

"The execution is suspended for half a year. In the meantime, I entrust the named Elsie to the Honorable Prioress Sescia, who shall bear full responsibility for the deeds the murderess may commit during this time. Do you accept this burden, Prioress?"

"Yes, I do!" Sescia replied with a firm voice, looking Ser Gregorius right in the eyes.

"Then I hereby declare the court adjourned!" The Grand Master concluded, his voice barely concealing his boredom. He got up from his chair and left the hall amid the disappointed murmurs of the audience.

I was taken back to the room where I had been confined until then, and for a few days, life went on as before, except that Sister Lenora no longer came. In her place was an old nun who did not speak to me; she practically acted as if I did not exist. 

The sentence pronounced by Ser Gregorius had made almost no impression on me; yet, the hostility I felt from the orphans present in the courtroom pained and stunned me deeply. And once again, the anger provoked by the injustice I was convinced was being done to me made my blood boil, and the darkness crept back into my soul, coiling there, waiting...

Then, one morning, Prioress Sescia came in place of the old sister. She closed the door behind her, sat on my bed, and beckoned me near. She looked straight at me, and her eyes held both sadness and compassion. Gently stroking my hair, Sescia said:

"This morning, you will leave with a group of children I'm sending to clear last night's snow from the city streets. And you must not return here. Dress in these clothes I brought you—wear them under your orphanage uniform. While in the city, at some point during the day, find an opportunity to slip away and disappear into the crowd. Once you've broken away from the group, wait for the right moment to change your clothes—do it somewhere safe, where no one can see you. And make sure no one ever catches sight of you in our uniform after that! Then, head to the south side of the Talos Plaza District and look for an entrance to the city sewers—they're always warmer in winter. Stendarr be with you!"

She sighed, spread out the contents of a satchel on my bed, and handed me a small purse containing twenty septims. Then she stroked my hair once more and turned to leave.

At the doorway, Sescia paused and looked back at me. Seeing her concerned gaze, I smiled and opened my mouth to thank her, but she placed a finger to her lips and smiled back; it was the first time I had ever seen our Prioress smile. That smile, warm and quiet, filled me with strength and courage!

I followed her instructions and then stepped into the orphanage yard. It was a cold, sunny morning, and the fresh snow shimmered in the bright sunlight like thousands of scattered diamond splinters. Oh, it looked just like so many mornings back in Bruma—when the frozen land had once filled me with joy, inviting me to play and build entire cities of snow beneath the sun glaring from a blue, deep sky. That feeling stirred within me again as I waited, patient and silent, for the others to gather.

Chapter Text

I

Freedom! And not just mere freedom of body, but of spirit—the sudden lifting of a heavy yoke I had carried for far too long!

So... freedom. That's the word that lingers in my mind as I dip my quill into the inkpot and begin sketching the first symbols of this new chapter—not words, not yet, but the shapes of freedom itself, painted slowly, as if each stroke banishes a lurking specter. And, my friends, I would speak about what freedom truly means! I do pledge that!

I had an extraordinary sense of relief as I stepped under the high archway of the orphanage gates and remember the moment vividly: the crunch of snow beneath my feet, the cold morning sun, the long column of girls marching two by two. And me... oh, I was alone, as always, unpaired; right in front, there were three girls holding hands because nobody wanted to go with me...

Yet after just a moment, Sister Lenora, that young and pretty nun who had brought me milk in my isolation, came to my side and took me by the hand. I looked up at her, surprised. Her eyes met mine with tenderness; she smiled, and without a word, gently squeezed my hand. That simple gesture had chased away all the gloomy thoughts that tried to stain my joy on that beautiful winter morning. I smiled back, feeling stronger now.

Our well-ordered and almost soldier-like column strode at a brisk pace across the bridge that crosses Lake Rumare, heading for the tall, richly ornamented gates of the Imperial City. Beneath us, the lake was rippling its waters softly, and in some places—towards the shores—we could see frozen surfaces on which the freshly fallen snow wove some interesting shapes. The sky above us was vast and pure and blue, its depths unmarred by clouds; only far to the south, a light mist trembled over the ancient weald, now immersed in snow, that once lined the shores of Lake Rumare.

We stepped into the city and found ourselves in the heart of a snowy district, cloaked in a thick, bright white mantle and wrapped in that magical hush known only to some sunny winter mornings. It was a holiday, and the heavy snow had kept most of the city's folk indoors — at least for the early hours.

We began clearing the streets near the great gates, and I remember the joy of that task: though not exactly easy, it felt like a game to all the girls. Soon enough, what began as a simple accident — one of us flinging a shovelful of snow onto another — sparked a cheerful snowball fight. The girls, flushed and laughing, were soon rolling through the soft powder, utterly lost in their delight. Even one of the nuns had joined them!

I stood aside, aching quietly, longing to throw myself into their joy, yet not daring... But the time for childish games was already over for me. And then Sister Lenora came, took the shovel from my hands, and whispered:

"Go now, Elsie. Stendarr be with you!"

I nodded, gave her a final smile, and slipped away into one of the narrow alleys edged with houses, most still with their windows shuttered. Then I ran, struggling with the snow that often reached past my knees. I stopped in a small sheltered corner, changed my clothes as Prioress Sescia had advised me, and covered my head with the hat I had kept hidden until then.

And just like that, I was no longer an official orphan! So, as a free girl walking onto the clean, fresh white mantle, I strolled for a while through the city, which was slowly beginning to wake. I was deeply impressed by the White-Gold Tower, the first Ayleid structure I had ever seen in my life. The palace was open to visitors, and I entered without difficulty.

I then wandered through the vast halls and corridors, marveling at the sheer scale of the great dome. The echo of footsteps — visitors' and guards' alike — drifted eerily across the marble floor, as the ancient bas-reliefs high upon the walls whispered forgotten tales of lush, long-gone lands, unlike anything you can see nowadays in Cyrodiil. The intricate carvings from the gleaming white niches and the vibrant frescoes painted on the newer panels stirred something deep within me; I stayed there a long while, just staring at the paintings and statues, and I lost track of time. But eventually, hunger overtook wonder, and I made my way outside.

The weather had noticeably warmed up, and the snow-laden rooftops had begun to drip, thin streams of water trickling onto the muddy, snow-mixed ground. The palace courtyard was now bustling with life, and I came upon a troupe of traveling performers putting on a lively show.

Oh, I found the spectacle both amusing and astonishing! Their juggling and acrobatics were dazzling, and the band even had some tamed monkeys—funny dressed— who kept doing pranks and continuously begged for sweets! When the fire-eater took the stage, the crowd surged forward and became compact, so, being small, I could no longer see. Disappointed, I tried to weave my way through the people in front of me, but just then, an irresistible aroma wafted through the air, diverting my attention.

I looked around and saw that the wonderful scents came from the stall of a peddler baking and selling hot pies and pastries, just out of the little mobile oven. Three people were working there— two apprentices who made the pies with unbelievable speed—and the master baker who sold them, taking coin after coin with barely a pause. Attracted by the mouth-watering aromas, many people gathered around the stall, creating a constant rush that gave the bakers no time to rest.

I eagerly approached, drawn in by the tantalizing scent, and my insides growled funnily as I looked forward to tasting one of those warm delights! Yet the line of customers seemed too long, so when one of the apprentices pulled a tray full of hot pies out of the oven and placed it on the counter, I simply, serenely took one of them...

I did that without thinking. I didn't even leave — just stood there, right by their stall, and started eating the stolen pie.

The bakers didn't notice. Perhaps they were too tired or too busy—or both. The waiting customers didn't see my move either—mayhap too distracted by the warm scents and their hunger.

Or... perchance Nocturnal had been watching over me.

I only came to believe that much later, far beyond the Jerall Mountains, where She would hum a little song each time we argued. I find Her chant both annoying and insulting... but I'll put it here anyway, just to show you, my dear friends, how utterly insufferable She can be sometimes:

She had coin. But she did not pay...
She had time. But she did not wait...
She had a choice!
And chose the shadows!

Anyway, back then, only one person reacted to my deed: an old lady who had been standing near the stall. First, she stepped between me and the counter, shielding me from view.

Then, something peculiar happened — apart from that veil Nocturnal must've cast over all those prying eyes.

The whole world seemed to quiet down — or rather, to slow down. A man in the queue turned his head, but the motion seemed unnaturally slow, as though he moved through syrup. A flake of flour drifting through the air nearly hung there, suspended mid-fall. Even the noises — banging trays, hissing oven — stretched into long, blurry echoes.

I also remember a raven flying nearby, caught with its wings half-open, almost frozen in place; it stared at me and—somehow, suddenly vanished as if it never was there.

And amidst that strange, thickened sliver of time, the old woman stepped forward, serene, her hand moving with grace as she reached for the pastries.

No one protested. Not a word was said... Perhaps time slowed down for everyone except me and her. Not to mention the raven... which, in the very next blink, wasn't there at all...

Now, thinking back on it, I wonder if she even paid... Hm, maybe she stole them too!

Regardless, she just "bought" two pies—one with pork, one with cheese. She turned to me, gently placed her hands on my shoulders, and whispered:

"Don't finish that one yet, little one. Eat these two first."

She handed me the warm pastries, and we walked away together, hand in hand. The lady said nothing else, just watched me quietly as I ate.

The pies were delicious — or at least, they seemed so, after the bland food of the orphanage kitchens.

Later, she asked if I wanted something sweet. I nodded, and she smiled, buying me a bag of warm, sugar-glazed chestnuts from another stall. I ate them slowly, savoring every bite.

Finally, we stopped by a tearoom where I sipped two cups of the best tea I had ever tasted. During all this time, the old lady looked at me with quiet interest, and something else I couldn't name. I studied her in return. I took in every line of her face, even stared long at her clothes without shame, searching for some clue, some familiarity. I also tried to meet her gaze, but couldn't hold it for long—her eyes were kind, yes, but there was a weight in them, a pressure, and they were difficult to face — at least for me.

I had the overwhelming feeling that I knew her from somewhere, that I knew her as well as only the closest relatives can know each other, and a peculiar sensation of worry, even fear, engulfed me. Suddenly, I got up, thanked her for her kindness, and said that now I had to go and look for my parents.

The old lady smiled and told me to try the Arena District, where I might find them. "There are all the refugees from Anvil County, and the Order takes care of them," she added, then looked elsewhere, still grinning like a Cheshire cat.

So I left. I stood in the doorway and looked back. The woman was watching me, but now, her smile was gone. On the contrary, her eyes had the sharpness of polished steel and seemed to be assessing me with the utmost attention. I shuddered and ran out into the crowded street, my heart pounding.

I was filled with two contradictory sentiments, one of fear and the other of curiosity, even of attraction towards the old lady who had done me no harm—on the contrary, she had protected me from a dangerous situation, I was well aware of that! Yet I was scarred and, as I slipped through the crowd of people that, with the coming of evening, filled the streets of the city, many thoughts began to whirl through my head.

At the orphanage, the priest's sermons and the moral lessons taught by the sisters painted theft as one of the most terrible sins a mortal could commit. Perhaps they had even portrayed it as the worst of all, for I clearly remembered our daily chant: 'Do not covet what belongs to another.'

Oh, this is very convenient from the point of view of all the rulers of this land, they who always want more, never get enough!

So... it dawned on me that, according to everything I had been taught, I had just committed the worst transgression in the world. However, I didn't feel guilty; my conscience was as clear as fresh spring water, and I even smiled at the thought that I could have taken two pies instead of one... Or perhaps even more, and maybe there had even been some coins scattered on the floured counter!

At the same time, a sudden wave of fear overlaid all these cheerful thoughts, and I realized that I would have been severely punished by the traders and, probably, by the other people who were around, if I were caught in the act. Maybe even dragged away by the city guards and brought back to the orphanage!

I stopped my run and began to walk, totally absorbed in the flood of thoughts that had stormed my little brain. So deep was my meditation that I didn't even see one man coming from the opposite direction, and I bumped right into him. When he roughly shoved me away, I did not react in any way, and my soul was no longer filled with sadness, fear, or shame as it would have been before. I just looked after him and chuckled softly, thinking about how funny it would be if the grumpy man would slip on the ice and fall right on his back...

As I kept walking, a strange sense of freedom started to grow within me—a still unfamiliar feeling instilled by something like a whispering voice that told me the commonly accepted moral rules no longer applied to me. It was a voice I could not quite hear, yet it spoke clearly inside me, teaching me that deeds that had once seemed unthinkable were now permitted, even necessary.

I didn't understand it then—how could I?—but on that first day of freedom, immense changes were beginning to take place in how I saw the world and life itself.

I slowly emerged from my reverie and began to look around me. And I saw people—so many people! Women and men, tall northerners with cold eyes, cheerful and noisy Imperials, delicate, soft-spoken Bretons of small stature... Here and there, I even sometimes caught sight of a lithe one from the cat-folk—Khajiit, as they were called, studying the surroundings with his alert, intelligent gaze.

I stopped beneath the archway of a luxurious property, tucked away in shadow, and watched the crowd with greedy fascination. I sensed that beneath the cheer and festive spirit, a thin veil of unease — and perhaps fear — clung to the crowd. As if an intense excitement urges a critically ill person to gather his last strength for enjoying life one last time...

My mind feasted on all these unfamiliar sights and sensations, strange thoughts began to stir, and soon I was overwhelmed by a flood of impressions I could fully understand:

Those two women in fur coats, with the little Redguard servant behind them... they act like dear friends, yet the brunette envies—and deeply hates—her companion.

Her face, seen through my curious eyes, said so much that I was startled by how much I could grasp from just a look!

That tall gentleman with the carefully trimmed mustache... he harbors no affection for the young woman clinging to his arm, her heart and soul wide open with devotion.

I was now passionately devouring the city's evening life, every glance feeding me something new. Yet, the moment my eyes caught a Khajiit swiftly and skillfully snatching the purse of a well-dressed old man, all this information suddenly blended in my mind, turning into peculiar, unfamiliar feelings, wild impressions, things I had no name for even now. It was maddening; instantly, the faint lights became unbearably bright, and all the sounds—much too loud. The scents—incense, pastries, sweat, horses, beverages, fumes, and countless other smells, nameless but vivid—whirled around me like a hurricane and mingled in a dizzying chaos of sensations. It was too much. Too fast. I felt as though the world itself was swallowing me whole!

I turned away from the street, closed my eyes, and took a long, steady breath. I struggled to recover from the sudden vertigo that had seized me, and when I did, I asked myself how I would now see those I had left behind—the other girls at the orphanage... Or Sister Lenora and Prioress Sescia!

A remembrance crossed my mind, and then, out of nowhere, I tried to recall my beloved mother, Kiersten. But her image would not come! Instead of her loving, beautiful, and wise face, I could only see my own—round-cheeked, childlike, framed by long blonde hair.

I was both frightened and saddened, and for the first time in my life, I decided to dwell no longer on thoughts that deeply unsettled me; instead, I would let life flow, wait for sensations and feelings to crystallize in the subtle alembic of my mind. And to seek the true meaning of seemingly strange and incomprehensible things, only when I had been ready for that.

So I stepped cautiously from the shadow of the archway and, shielding my mind from the growing tide of emotion, made my way toward the Arena District.

II

In that particular quarter of the Imperial City, I found even more people than I had seen in the streets of the Talos Plaza District. But everything else was different. Their appearance, their clothing, their very presence—it all seemed shaped by poverty and sorrow. Most were poorly dressed in patched or ragged garments; their pale, drawn faces bore the mark of hardship and unspoken sadness. The laughter and festive cheer that echoed elsewhere in the city were absent here, near the great Arena; instead, a low murmur hung in the air, pierced now and then by the wails of hungry children, as the crowd walked in disorderly ranks toward the steaming cauldrons set up along the muddy alleys.

I kept my distance from that somber gathering, which filled me with an uneasy mix of fear and curiosity. I stepped carefully around the mounds of brown, trampled snow—muddy, packed down by thousands of tired feet—and went toward the enormous stone-and-wood amphitheater that towered before me.

Ah, the great Arena...! One more of the great constructions that adorn the Imperial City! The high walls, ashen in the early twilight, loomed like steep, very tall cliffs; the massive and highly ornate bronze gates stood shut, but I imagined them opening wide like the jaws of a ravenous beast. Here and there, small oval openings, barred with iron, hinted at the dark cells below—cages where beasts of all kinds, brought from distant lands, were temporarily kept, waiting for their turn in the ring.

All these converged to evoke a staggering impression of power and wealth!

And indeed, the Arena is a great symbol of the former undisputed power and glory of an empire that was now living its last days! At the time, I was far too young to grasp politics' treacherous meanders or the slow decay of empires, so I could only admire the enormous structure, an undeniable proof of the skill and wealth of the people who lived here, in the largest city on the continent. Also, I couldn't even fathom the purpose of this huge edifice, nor could I imagine the tumult of the ecstatic crowds in front of the cruel spectacles in which men and beasts kill, injure, and maim each other just for the entertainment of a decadent people! I later witnessed such a so-called entertainment, and I can firmly state that it is one of the most disgusting, shameful, and harmful distractions that can be offered to people just to make them not notice or forget the serious matters plaguing their society at a given time. But on that late evening, tightly wrapped in my newly gained freedom, I simply marveled—without knowing I had already stepped into a world where blood was applauded, and death sold tickets.

Though impressive, the grand circle of stone didn't count much for me in those moments anyway; the hundreds of vast tents and hastily built bunkhouses scattered around were far more interesting than the Arena itself. There was a park once, and the trees had been cut down to make way for temporary shelters; now the whole area housed thousands of refugees who, after a grueling journey, had found their way to the heart of the Empire.

As I soon learned, these people were all from the county of Anvil, recently ravaged by the Dominion's light cavalry. Word among the refugees said the elves had swept through the region, pillaging and burning every unwalled settlement, and even Anvil itself was under siege. I didn't understand much of what they said—their words blurred by dialects and grief—but their faces, the tears of mothers and widows, the grief of those who had lost everything... those told me more than any speech ever could—terrible things were happening somewhere, not so far from the capital!

Yet that evening, I only wanted to find a safe place to sleep because the day spent amid so many new sensations had terribly tired me, and my mind was still confused. A few Sisters of the Order were distributing blankets to newcomers, and I managed to get one; then I found a quiet corner between two barrels, in one of the tents. There I curled up and fell asleep instantly, without dreams, until sunrise.

I woke up amid a crowd that was noisily getting up, eager to receive the morning meal freely provided by the Order. I joined the long line of shivering people, and when I finally reached the huge steaming cauldron, I was handed a canteen filled with steaming stew, which, although barely more than water with a few floating beans, spread warmth through my frozen limbs. In any case, I had never eaten such miserable food in my life, and, adding this fact to the uncomfortable way I had spent the night, I decided that I had to find another home. And that as soon as possible! However, as I found out ere long, this proved not such easy a venture. And, after all, none here asked anything of me — no toil, no prayers. Moreover, I was free to come and go as I pleased, and so I lingered awhile, during which I learned and practiced many a thing useful for a girl in my situation.

I wandered freely through the streets of the Imperial City, and I was amazed by the many interesting things that could be seen or heard there. I spent many afternoons and evenings in the capital's crowded taverns, listening to tales of distant lands within the Empire—places I hadn't even known existed. I tried my luck and honed my skill at the begging trade; on holy days, the steps of the Temple of the One were crowded with beggars, and—blessed be the Divines!—such days were many in those still-happy times.

Since the free ration I've got from the common cauldron was poor and not to my liking, I soon started to prowl the city's markets, and a bit later, even the groceries and bakeries. Early on, I just bought food using the money gifted by Prioress Sescia, yet whenever it was possible,  I took fruits or pastries from the counters; sometimes, I was spotted by the merchants or customers, but I always managed to get away, running fast and then hiding in various corners of the streets.

Oh, I was small, quick, and getting better with every try!

And so, the days passed one after another, winter came to an end, and the number of refugees arriving in the Imperial City steadily grew. The money given to me by Prioress Sescia vanished faster than I'd thought; the clothes she had gifted me began to tear, and soon I found myself melting into the gray, hungry, and dirty crowd that roamed the city's streets by day.

Even the city itself was beginning to change. Some alleys now reeked of decay and quiet despair, the scent of unwashed bodies and stale bread clinging to the air like a bad memory. The once well-dressed, cheerful, and perfumed people were slowly replaced by hungry, desperate souls mingling with a new breed of villain recently drawn to the capital. Among them were charlatans, self-proclaimed healers and priests, who claimed to know ancient remedies or ways to call Stendarr's mercy upon the desperate or ill. And the people, blinded by poverty and hunger, began handing over their last coins in exchange for promised remedies or blessings. Soon enough, these "saviors" started fighting among themselves over territory and gullible victims, while others in the crowd would commit almost anything for a crust of bread. Therefore, the number of crimes rose so sharply that the Emperor declared a partial curfew: refugees were forbidden from walking the streets between sunset and sunrise, and carrying any weapon became strictly prohibited for all non-residents.

More importantly, the City Guard, deemed both insufficient and utterly ineffective in combating the new crime wave, was relieved of duty; instead, the Order of Stendarr was given charge of the matter, following their leadership suggestion. So, at the same time as the gray and poverty-stricken wave swept over the city, a new one, black and equipped with heavy clubs and even crossbows sometimes, flooded all the neighborhoods.

The Order's fighting monks were brought in from all over the Empire and, after a brief so-called "special training" at Fort Nikel, were put in charge of patrolling the streets and maintaining order in the metropolis. They were not like the old guardsmen. The Order's monks had no mercy or patience, and many crimes were punished on the spot—harshly, without appeal.

The judicial system of the Imperial City, already overwhelmed by lawsuits, was unable to handle the growing wave of crimes plaguing the town's once peaceful and cheerful districts. As a result, the Special Court of the Order, previously concerned only with internal matters, began trying a larger number of offenses. Eventually, it handled all cases involving murder, theft, robbery, illegal nighttime wandering, brawls, and even tavern fights. Since it often functioned as a martial court and handled the trials according to a different code, punishments were harsher, and sentences were carried out quickly.

Their methods worked, though, and the Order soon restored a semblance of calm to the capital — enough to reassure its weary citizens, already teetering on the edge of despair as the war had laid waste to Anvil County's fertile lands and sent food prices soaring. By early summer, a fragile peace had settled over the city. Refugees, however, were no longer allowed inside the walls; instead, they were turned away and redirected to a vast encampment raised southeast of the city's outskirts.

Additionally, the Order began to identify and register the refugees still living in the Arena District, planning to deport most of them from the metropolis; all the orphaned children, meanwhile, were to be sent to the orphanage at Fort Nikel.

Yet I could not go back there! I had almost forgotten the sentence passed upon me by the tribunal of the Order. Almost. But I'd always remember Prioress Sescia, saying while looking with pity at me: 'Don't come back here again!' So I heeded her advice and thought it would be better to vanish from this place where the Order's monks were starting to get on my nerves.

So, one day in early summer, I decided not to return to the refugee camp from the Arena District and instead spent the following night in a crumbling warehouse in the Merchant District. What followed were some of the hardest days of my life; days when I often found myself without anything to eat, forced to scavenge through the piles of garbage under the cover of night, desperately hoping to find even a dry piece of bread.

Begging had become nearly impossible for me, as the Order tightly controlled it, allowing it only in a small, designated area near the Temple of the One. And even then, the city's inhabitants had grown cold and unfriendly toward those who had been displaced, forced to leave behind their homes and embark on the harsh, sorrowful path of exile. The merchants were now carefully watching their goods, which were becoming rare and expensive, and quite often, fighting monks of the Order were stationed in the larger stores. Ah, the mere sight of their rugged faces and the massive clubs they carried was enough to chase away any fleeting thought of theft from my mind!

On top of that, the place of the wave of villains and desperate people that had haunted the city until then had been taken by a lot of ragged and hungry kids who roamed the streets alone or in small gangs. Most came from the ranks of refugees from Anvil County, but among them were also children of poor local families.

On the one hand, these vagrant youngsters made my life difficult, but on the other hand, they were like an excellent yet harsh training ground for me!

You see, my friends, these kids were not like those dangerous urchins roaming the narrow, winding alleys of the Waterfront District; the great majority of them were children of peasants, neither good nor bad. Like me, they were not experienced in all the habits and tricks characteristic of those shrewd youngsters who sometimes prowl the streets of big cities. They were just hungry, and above all, they didn't want to go to the Order orphanage.

I tried to keep as far away as possible, but this was difficult; like me, they were very interested in the temporary garbage dumps and fruit trees from the public parks, so I was often beaten and robbed of the few bits and scraps I could gather. Moreover, finding a relatively quiet place to rest at night was indeed a challenge, and again, a morbid fatigue wrapped me in its spectral arms, like some silent wraith determined to lull me into endless slumber — to drag me through the tranquil, grey halls beyond memory... The severe underfeeding, the tormented sleep, often interrupted and fragmented by numerous moments during which I had to run in despair, pursued by other children or by the vigilantes of the Order who had found my temporary resting-place, the countless beatings I received when I tried to defend the poor crust of bread I held in my weak little fist, all these had turned me into a skeletal, fever-eyed little thing.

Once again in my life, I was dancing on that subtle limb between life and death; once again, I was desperate, and I tried—oh, I tried hard—to fight back. Yet I fought the wrong way. I pushed and shoved, scrabbled in garbage, defended crusts of stale bread with my fists and my teeth. And always, always, I was beaten. The little I managed to gather was taken from me by others just as hungry, just as lost as I was.

I persevered for quite a long time in this fundamental mistake—but in the end, my mind, which never gave up the fight for survival, found the saving solution. So, on a blessed day, I changed my tactic and found a new hunting ground—one rich in scent and silence, where no one saw me coming.

I began creeping through the open windows of people's homes at night, stealing food.

I remember my first heist. It wasn't much, not by Thieves Guild standards—but for me, it meant everything. A turning point. My first proper meal in weeks... and the first time I realized just how sharp my senses could become when pressed hard enough by hunger.

I was loitering near a bakery, the smell of fresh bread nearly driving me mad. I watched each customer who entered and left with the look of a starved dog outside a butcher's shop. No one paid me any mind. And curiously, I was afraid to beg. Shame, maybe. Or pride. Or both. Or perhaps I was not allowed to do that...

From time to time, I'd sneak glances through the open doorway, terrified of the warrior monk posted there—a deeply bored one and chewing something slowly. My mouth watered uncontrollably. I tried looking away, but my gaze always returned to his jaw, endlessly working.

Then an old woman emerged from the bakery, frail and hobbling, a fresh golden loaf sticking out of her tattered bag. I followed her, staggering on weak legs, heart pounding, vision blurry from exhaustion.

She entered a small, neglected garden, the weeds choking what had once been paths and flowers. I watched as she sank into a stool and rested before dragging herself inside a crumbling, small house. I remained hidden in the bushes all day, simply watching — stalking the house from across the street, my wide eyes fixed on the open window, my nose twitching at the faintest hint of food.
Yes... she boiled potatoes at some point — I knew it. The scent reached me like a nice dream, and my mouth watered uncontrollably. Again. But still, I waited. And watched. Patiently. There were no visitors, no second pair of boots, no firewood for a man's hand, no second plate at the table. When the sun dipped low and the long shadows began to vanish into dusk, I crept out and studied the gate. It wasn't even latched. The fence—warped and swollen with age—was tall, far too tall for a pitiful creature like me to climb. But there was no need. I knew that already.
So for the time being, I slipped away and curled beneath a broken shed nearby, lying in wait for darkness to fall.

When the night came, I returned, trembling from hunger; I was so thin and light, I barely rustled the ivy as I climbed through the low, ajar window.

Inside, I moved silently past the narrow bed. The old woman lay beneath a patched blanket, her breathing raspy and uneven. The air smelled of sickness, old wood, and stale sleep... but beneath it all, I caught it: the sharp tang of cheese. And bread. Still fresh, or at least not yet stiff. Yes, on a corner table, I found it—a cracked plate with a full loaf and a wedge of cheese. The darkness wasn't as deep as I'd imagined. And my nose, ever faithful, had guided me true!

I crouched on the cold floor, back against the wall, and devoured the food like a wild animal, clutching it with both hands, eyes wide, barely chewing. I feared it would vanish. Or worse, that I would wake from a wonderful dream.

I was so happy, I didn't move until the last crumb was gone.

Only then did I rise—slowly, carefully—and look around the room. A small cupboard stood nearby, and something told me there might be more. Yes, there were two small apples, shriveled but good. I pocketed them. Beneath a crooked cloth, I found a few coins—two septims, and some copper. I froze, heart thudding. Then I took them too.

And just like that, I slipped back out into the night—belly full, pockets not quite empty, and soul lit with a fire I had never known before.

I knew — I was sure — that from then on, I would never suffer from hunger again!

I was so pleased by how easily I'd gotten food that I didn't stop to reflect on how strangely sharp my senses had felt. Nor did I wonder why I'd seen so clearly in the dark, or how I could now hear the faint scurry of a mouse going about its own little life in the old woman's garden.

No — I was far too distracted by something else entirely: the overwhelming scent of warm bread wafting through the air as the sky began to blush with dawn.

Guided by that heavenly aroma — ah, even now,  when I have everything a woman could wish for, I still think the scent of fresh bread is the most wonderful and tantalizing smell in the mortal world! — I followed it through winding alleys and silent streets until I reached the marketplace.

The bakery door stood open, spilling waves of heat and that delicious fragrance into the morning air.
I approached with care and peeked in. There, just by the entrance, stretched a long table lined with trays of golden loaves — steaming, glorious, enormous!

I crept in and snatched one — huge, still hot! — and then bolted, feet pounding, heart leaping.
Behind me, I heard the shout of the baker as he lunged from the doorway, brandishing the massive wooden paddle used to turn the loaves.

I laughed. Oh, I laughed like I hadn't in years — loud, wild, unstoppable! And I ran faster, the hot bread burning my hands and the joy burning my chest!

A little later, I stopped suddenly near a cobbler's shop and let myself slip like a stray cat through the open hatch of the cellar. It was cool inside—a welcome coolness in the humid heat of that hot summer night—and it smelled of leather, quality leather, a subtle fragrance that was very pleasant to me.

I waved my way through the bundles of wares, and after I munched nearly a quarter of the wonderful, warm bread I had just stolen, I fell into a deep and refreshing sleep.

I woke up only towards evening; the hum of the city was reverberating in my cellar, and the diffuse light of dusk filtered through the narrow hatchway. I devoured a piece of bread and then rushed out into the street.

I longed to eat some meat—truly craved it, and the need had grown so sharp it almost hurt. So, the moment I stumbled upon a butcher's shop, I walked in boldly, placed a septim on the counter like a proper customer, and asked for sausages.

Pork sausages. The thick, fatty kind, rich with grease and spice. My mouth was watering just saying the words.

The shopkeeper, a dry, wiry little man with a greenish face and lips like cracks in old leather, took the coin, bit it, and then stared at me—stared hard.
His yellowish eyes narrowed, turning sharp and feral, like a predator catching the scent of blood.

Ah, yes... gold. So bright, so beautiful and precious yet so dangerous. It doesn't just buy things — sometimes, it may awaken beasts.

"Where'd you steal it from, you dirty rat? Get out before I call the guard," he hissed, voice barely above a whisper, his eyes now just two slits.

I tried to object — to say something, anything — but he reached behind the counter, pulled out a heavy wooden club, and struck me!

I fled, crying, wailing, half-blind with pain and fury, until I collapsed behind a tall fence where I supposed the city's monsters couldn't follow me.
There, in the safety of its shadow, I wiped the tears and blood from my face with the filthy edge of my apron — a rag more than a piece of clothing now — and rose slowly, the shame already curdling into something harder.

The streets were emptying, shadows falling like velvet curtains over the sunbaked stones, and I went toward the Elven Garden District. There was a nice garden there, very familiar to me, choked with flowers and plants, and I thought it might offer shelter...

I was in pain, but worse than the bruises was the sting of knowing I'd been so stupid. A single moment of success had made me careless, had lulled me into thinking I was just another person in the crowd, no different from those now strolling through the streets...

I saw one of them right ahead. He was drunk—very drunk, wobbling on unsteady legs, grinning like a fool, coming straight toward me. I froze and looked at him. He was middle-aged, short and roundish, with a neatly trimmed beard and those big, watery eyes that drunkards always seem to have.

I had nowhere to run, so I waited, tense and alert but not afraid.

When he got close, he pulled his hand from his pocket and reached it toward me with that dumb grin still on his face.

Without thinking — no judgment, no hesitation — just by instinct, I dashed forward and swept his right leg out from under him. He fell like a felled tree, landing hard on the cobblestones with a grunt that echoed down the narrow alley.

I laughed — a cold, dry sound as he squirmed, tried to sit up, but couldn't.

And then... the laughter died in my throat.

A coin — silver — rolled away from his open hand and came to rest a few steps away.
He hadn't been trying to grab me.
He'd been trying to give me something. An alm. It was just a simple, drunken act of kindness...

For a moment, I was tempted to help him. To kneel beside him, try to lift him gently, say sorry, even thank him. But then I remembered the butcher's club... the sting on my ribs... the sting in my pride...

I hesitated only a moment. Then I shrugged, grabbed the coin, and ran. Limping, but quick.

I avoided people. Whenever I saw them ahead of me, I slipped quickly into the shadows, hugging the walls of houses, ducking into doorways, hiding behind tree trunks gnarled with age.

When I reached the mansion where I had once waited for my beloved mother, Kiersten, I stopped and looked over the low fence. The garden was full of flowers, and the sycamore tree was a little taller than when I used to play beneath its leaves with my dear kitten. It was heavy now with overripe fruit—humble fruit that the wealthy owners no longer bothered to pick.

A strange song, sweet and bitter at once—a melody with a hypnotic, mournful rhythm, sung by the low, deep voice of a woman—floated through the house's open window.

I didn't recognize the voice; no, it wasn't the same—not the gentle, soft voice of that pretty young woman who had once held me in her arms and sung to me with love. So curious, I looked around and then climbed the fence, wincing as pain flared through my bruised shoulder. I crouched low, panting; my body trembled, but I gritted my teeth and dragged myself toward the house.

I stood, slowly, and peered through the window. The room was cloaked in a dim haze and lit only by a thick candle, white wax, long and smooth—the kind only wealthy people could afford. I knew those candles. They came from the southern islands, and their composition was steeped in rare spices, so they used to release strange, layered scents — sweet, musky, or others I couldn't name — shifting from one perfume to another as they burned. The chamber was the same one I had once played in so many times with my benevolent hostess, and yet—odd and terrifying—there, on the richly sculpted table, stood a coffin: a small, narrow one, as for a child.

In the room, a woman with long, bright white hair sat with her back to me, chanting that peculiar yet alluring melody that had drawn me in. The candlelight traced the curves of her graceful figure, and there I stood for a few moments, watching her, listening to her song, and breathing in the subtle, intoxicating scents. And then, the visions came.

My mind was invaded by a woman with black, cruel, unblinking eyes—eyes like dark steel. In her left hand, she held a dagger, and snow fell all around, muffling her footsteps as she snuck behind an old man walking carelessly down the street. Oh, the woman leapt — feline, fluid — and seized him by the neck. The dagger rose and—

A wave of dizziness struck me, and my whole body shook!

It was all dark around me now, and I tried to breathe, but another woman rushed into my mind! This time, the shock was so profound that I felt small and feeble from the beginning. Yet, I kept staring and saw she was tall—oh, so tall as only my beloved mother Kiersten was!—and thin, very thin. The woman was robed in a strange garment that shimmered like the starry night and moved and breathed like living water. She wore a dark blue hood embroidered with silver runes, which glittered silently in the shadows. She stood before a large iron cabinet, her hands deftly plucking shiny things from its depths and slipping them into the pouch hung at her neck. Then — as if she felt my eyes on her — she turned toward me, and—

Another wave of vertigo came upon me!

I felt like dying. I gasped for air, choking. My chest burned. There was no air, oh, not enough air—

And the woman who had been singing was now at the window. She was watching me. But I couldn't see her face; there, where her face should have been, was only darkness—warm and loving darkness. Healing arms embraced me, cool and perfumed breaths enveloped me in their soft, fragrant hush... She spoke a word I didn't quite understand, and then... then I saw myself.

Not as I was. I was clean. Dressed properly, my hair washed and shining like silk. My eyes were closed. I lay still, hands folded neatly over my chest.
In the small coffin. On the table. In the twilight room.

Chapter Text

I

"Come in. Why are you just standing there?"

The voice of the chanting woman shattered my feverish nightmares so their shards finally scattered into near-oblivion — that misty, peculiar realm where all dreams, good or ill, born of sleep or waking, retreat for a while... or vanish forever. My bruised shoulder throbbed with pain, and in the shadows of the twilight, flickers of light danced before my eyes. Even so, I tried to steady myself, to reclaim my own thoughts, and mumbled:

"I don't want to..."

"Why? Are you shy? Do I need to lie down on the couch and seemingly fall asleep for you to find your nerve?" she said softly.

I stared at the woman, and a cold shiver ran through me; it was her, the old lady who had bought me goodies on the first day of my freedom. I could almost taste those wonderful hot pies and sweet roasted chestnuts again; I felt the warmth of that delicious tea flooding my insides! Her eyes—hollow and deep now—commanded me to move, to come closer, to come inside the house. So I struggled to stand and managed to pull myself up, clutching the window ledge, but the pain was unbearable; my legs quivered, and a fever had taken hold of me, burning my bewildered mind. So I barely whispered, "I can't walk! It hurts!"

"Well, then crawl! Don't just stand there gazing at me! Did I grow horns or something?" she said in a flat voice, looking at me with a half-amused curiosity.

This vexed me, and my blood started to boil. So I did what she asked and dragged myself inside, only to show her that I'm not afraid.

After what felt like an eternity of torments, I finally made it to her and looked up. Her eyes had softened again, like those of a harmless old lady, yet the reassuring image didn't hold long. Something about her still felt... off—totally off! As I said, her silvery hair was impossibly long and shiny; also, there was that dress—tight, perfectly cut, and entirely unsuited to someone her age—that clung to a figure that looked far too agile, too firm, too strong for an elderly woman!

I didn't have time to wonder too much because she hastily grabbed me by the armpits and sat me on a stool near the table. She then unbuttoned my blouse, undressed me, and then sighed:

"A dislocated shoulder... and maybe a broken rib. If you're lucky, it's only the shoulder. Let's see..."

She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a small clay jar. As soon as she opened it, a sharp, minty scent filled the air — the smell of a bright green ointment. The lady smeared it carefully across my bruised shoulder, and, almost miraculously, the pain dulled in an instant.

Then she settled into a chair and watched me in silence. My mind was now clear, and within moments, the feverish chills vanished; the fear had ebbed entirely, replaced by an unbridled curiosity. Yet I felt strange and wanted to go outside, to get some fresh air. The candle fumes, although sweet and fragrant, now seemed slightly nauseating, and I didn't like them anymore. So, I said, "Are we done? Can I go now?"

She chuckled softly. "Oh no, my dear. The worst is yet to come. But be a good girl, will you? No screaming. It won't take long... Here, bite on this!"

She pulled a short, rather thick stick from her bag. It looked like wood, but not any wood I knew. It was supple, slightly soft to the touch, yet tough and strangely resilient — perhaps just some other odd thing from the distant South Seas.

Then, with one swift, precise move, she popped my shoulder back into place. Ah, the pain was excruciating, so intense that I was instantly drenched in a cold, clammy sweat! I clenched the stick between my teeth, biting it hard, but I couldn't even leave a mark on it.

I just sat there, stunned, tears brimming in my eyes. For a moment, I truly believed I would die. The pain had been so sharp, it seemed so... final.
And after all, my coffin was waiting for me, right on the table beside us!

Yet the pain suddenly ceased, and on the table... Well, on the table was no coffin at all! Only a crystal vase with exotic flowers, the expensive candle still burning in a gold, richly ornated candlestick, and a silver plate—a large one, full of a bounty of tantalizing-looking fruit, all ripe and fragrant!

I let out a shy smile and tried to move. A sharp, prickling sensation spread through my bruised shoulder, like hundreds of tiny needles poking into a pincushion — but compared to what I had just endured, it was nothing. So I gathered my courage and began to question her:

"Who are you? What's your name?"

She burst out laughing and patted me gently on the head.
"Maria!"

"Maria?! What kind of name is that? I've never heard it before! Are you an Elf? May I see your ears? I've never seen Elvish ears, but I've heard they're very cute!"

She stopped laughing and looked at me harshly. However, I could tell she was struggling to hold back a smile. Beneath that well-feigned severity, I sensed something else: Kindness. And... relief? Relief? Now, that was strange!

"You're incorrigible, aren't you?" she said. "Give it a few more moments, and you might even start to like me — and forget what you felt about your fellow mortals just a short while ago!"

She paused, her tone softening. "Though maybe that's for the best... No, I'm not an Elf. And no, I don't have ears like that."

She lifted her silvery hair, revealing a perfectly ordinary human ear.

"But—" I started, a hundred questions bursting into my mind.

"But now," she interrupted, "you will close your mouth and listen! Listen carefully—perhaps you could use some of those elvish ears you were so curious about, Elsie!"

"How do you know my name is Elsie?" I blurted out, eyes wide with astonishment.

Her expression changed instantly—it darkened; I felt her anger like a coldness slipping into my bones, and instinctively, I lowered my gaze. Shame flooded me.

And I kept my mouth shut.

...With great difficulty, though.

Maria said: 

"Indeed, you are quite cute when you put on that innocent look! But we don't have time, and for a long while, we won't meet again. So, from this moment on, you will do well and make no more mistakes."

"Sleep during the day and prowl by night; the darkness, feared by your so-called fellow mortals, is your greatest ally! Go down into the city's sewers and explore some of the endless corridors and vaults beneath it. Find a place you can call home. But beware! There are unfathomable depths in those sewers. If you ever feel an unnatural cold creeping from a vault, run. Do not go any farther!"

"Get new, clean clothes—several sets—and store them in your haven. But don't throw away the rags you're wearing now; you'll need them too. Never, ever leave your shelter dressed the same way twice!"

"Stalk the places you plan to steal from—or even buy, if you're that kind of fool. And don't just pinch bread—snatch coin whenever you can, and learn to make it last. Whenever you go out during the day, be extremely cautious and never stay in one place for too long. At night, scout the locations that interest you, and only visit them during the day afterward."

"Do not be timid, and do not avoid fights that seem balanced or in your favor. You are much stronger than you think... though not in the usual way.
Think less; especially when in danger, trust your instincts."

"Learn to cry like it means something. Works wonders—'specially on men. Or even on kind old women like me, eh?" she grinned.

"And try not to grow attached to anyone—human or animal.
Right now, you have no friends in this city."

She finally stopped and looked at me carefully. I wanted to ask her questions again, but she silenced me with a look. Maria took a small pitcher from her bag and poured a stinging-smelling liquid onto a cloth. She gently wiped my injured shoulder. Then she told me to stand up.

"So I will be going now. You can eat the fruit on the table if you like it. Get dressed and—

Ah, don't you dare to take anything from this house and leave it as soon as possible!"

At the doorway, she paused. Without turning around, she said:

"Maria? Maria is a name from another story...
Maybe I'll tell you that tale someday!
If you live."

Then she left, closing the door behind her carefully, quietly, as part of a ritual. I stood still for a moment, waiting for her to depart. Then I breathed a sigh of relief and took a peach from the table. I bit into it greedily—but the fruit was overripe and much, much too sweet. And dry. I put it back, disappointed, and picked up a large apple as yellow and beautiful as ancient gold. But it, too, was overly sweet, and its flesh was also dried. The apricots? Just the same. And the cherries—honeyed, yes, but a bit rotted.

All the fruits from that silver plate remind me now of those found on ancient trees growing in long-forgotten cemeteries. The kind with gnarled roots that push through cracked marble tombs or rise between the humble resting places of the poor—it doesn't matter. In the stifling summer heat, all are swallowed by ivy and weeds, and none bear a name anymore. In such places, time moves differently—if it moves at all. The fruit, the air, the flowers... everything is touched by something old and quiet, something that no longer belongs to the world above. But I'll speak of such places later, friends... when you're ready to listen with silence in your hearts.

I gave up eating, very disappointed, and instead began to look around, curious. Everything in the room was just as I remembered it from a year ago. The painting of Red Mountain erupting still hung above the soft, low couch that invited me to rest, and the glass cabinet still stood in its place, glowing faintly in the candlelight, full of trinkets—delicate and strange.

I approached the cabinet and saw inside a black crystal horse, with two tiny rubies as its eyes, masterfully embedded in the material— a gift from my mother, Kiersten, to my former hosts. Beside it were miniature ivory figurines of various exotic animals and many other beautiful, fragile things.

I wanted to take the little horse and keep it as an heirloom from my mother. I perfectly remembered the moment I asked her about him; she told me that it was a superb reproduction of a legendary horse. Yet its name had slipped from my mind back then, but now I know it was Shadowmere, the black mare who, as I write this, is angrily neighing in the garden beneath my open window.

So I reached for the cut-glass panel, meaning to open it and then—I heard a hiss. A terrifying, snake-like hiss. I froze instantly and looked behind: the exquisite candle had begun to smoke, releasing a sharp and acrid scent, and making that terrible, repulsive sound. Only expensive candles like that don't smoke—they never do. I remembered Maria's warning. With my heart pounding, I turned away from the cabinet, got dressed, and hurried to leave the mansion.

I stepped out into the deep, silky, warm summer night. Neither of Nirn's moons was in the starry sky, so I decided to follow Maria's advice and make a nocturnal incursion into the Elven Garden District to study the surroundings a bit.

Oh, the night around me was thick and hot; it also had fangs and claws! It bit with silence, with distant dog barks and with the creak of a shutter stirred by the wind. The cobblestones beneath my feet whispered with every step; each of them was a trap, a deadly one, but not for me. Somewhere, not far but not too close either, a man was being beaten. Somewhere else, a cat howled in love or rage—ah, who could tell the difference anymore? The mansion's garden pulsed with danger—and with strange allure. I wanted to stay more, to lie on the grass and sleep, maybe dream about my mother, Kiersten... That reminded me of the horse and the hiss, and I hurried into the street.

All around me became more earthly, more grounded once I left the overgrown garden. Along the wide, shadow-draped streets, people walked in pairs or small groups, savoring the nocturnal cool. And I moved confidently among them, knowing the darkness enveloped me in its silky, rich brocade. I followed some of the pairs closely and eavesdropped on their conversations; I climbed fences—only the low ones because my shoulder reacted painfully to any particular effort—and I peered intently and curiously through the illuminated windows. And even through the darkened ones, my gaze pierced deep. Of course, not as it would in daylight—colors were nearly absent, replaced by shades of black and white—but shapes and surfaces stood out with eerie clarity.

And the smells...Oh, I could sense them all. The scent of food—meat and bread, and roasted vegetables; of perfume—light, floral, or musky and heavy; of human sweat. The smoke from candles and candelabras. The aroma of wine and sugary sweets, of flowers in bloom, of overripe fruits. Even the smell of latrines hidden discreetly among lilac bushes, whose sweet perfume failed to fully conceal the more earthy, human truth beneath. And many others, vivid but not known by me yet!

I spied on people, watching their deeds from the shadows: their gestures, their laughter, their secrets. I gathered fruit from the trees of the gardens I passed through and ate it gladly. I drank cold water from a deep stone fountain in a wealthy man's yard. I spent the whole night like this, and when dawn approached, I set out toward the Talos Plaza District—searching for the entrance to the sewers, just as Prioress Sescia had told me.

I found it easily because the district is bordered by an open collecting canal, and on its southern side lies an opening—an oval aperture sealed with thick iron bars; the gate was locked with a heavy, rust-eaten padlock, which I broke using a stone. Opening the grate took effort; the hinges were so corroded they shrieked in protest, a rattling sound that echoed through the early morning silence. I glanced around once, then stepped into the narrow corridor that sloped downward at a gentle angle. Along the sides, against walls crusted with silt and age, ran a narrow ledge made of smooth stone slabs.

As I moved away from the entrance, the darkness grew thicker, so much so that I had to stop and let my eyes adjust. I leaned my right hand against the damp wall; it felt cold and clammy—the stone beneath my hand strangely pulpy, as if rotting from within. Shapes slowly returned: dim outlines of stone, the vague suggestion of distance, the curve of the passage ahead. To my left, murky waters crept sluggishly forward, and now and then something glinted below—shards of dawnlight filtering through the rare manholes above, caressing old, forgotten things lying there.

I kept going until I reached a junction where the corridor opened into a far wider tunnel. The air changed—it grew colder, wetter, and heavier; the scent was no longer just old water and moss but something deeper, earthier, as if the stone itself was exhaling. I hesitated, asking myself whether anyone could truly live in a place like this. Yet both ladies—Sescia and Maria—had spoken of the sewers as a refuge, so I decided to continue my journey in this subterranean realm.

To my right, the wide gallery climbed sharply upward, its damp floor glistening faintly. That seemed like the path to follow, and so I did.

I went farther along the grand gallery of the Talos Plaza District. On my left, a stream of dark, relentless waters flowed rapidly through the principal culvert. On my right, spaced at intervals along the damp wall, narrow corridor mouths appeared from time to time. In these places, thin stone arches crossed the secondary drains that fed their contents into the main collector channel. I crossed these cautiously, one by one, trying not to slip.

As I continued forward, I began to make out more and more of my surroundings. The light filtering through the manholes above grew steadily stronger, and I noticed that most of them had bronze rungs embedded in the wall beneath them, forming narrow ladders. I tried climbing one, but my injured shoulder protested immediately, forcing me to abandon the attempt. So I kept walking.

The gallery seemed to widen the deeper I went, and the side passages became more frequent; eventually, I stepped into a large cavern. I was surprised to feel that vast emptiness opening in front of me; first, it was a sensation like standing on the edge of an abyss, then I started to sense something like a bluish light that seemed a bit warm. Startled, I began to explore, keeping my right hand on the slick wall and guiding myself along it.

I wandered a lot through the darkness, which was not completely dark, and I began to feel tired and hungry. I even considered abandoning my journey, starting to think that it would be wiser to turn back and return to the city streets; yet this wasn't too easy an endeavour because I forgot to mark somehow the gallery I had entered through. And I seemingly passed by a lot of other corridors, many of them wide and wet, and a few narrow and dry. Time passed, though I couldn't tell how much. I walked, increasingly tired, increasingly disoriented, and a subtle worry began to gnaw at me. It hadn't occurred to me that I was merely retracing my own steps... again and again.

Ah, as I would later discover, this central chamber was perfectly round, lying directly beneath the White-Gold Tower. The entire sewer system I had been wandering through was ancient—built by the Ayleids themselves—and like all constructions of that long departed people, it was a marvel of both engineering and enchantment. In ways now lost to time—even to their Altmer descendants—the very stone and marble of their structures were infused with peculiar and potent magics. Not symbols, not mere runes, but enchantments woven deep into the very fabric of the stone. Now, when I know more about things like that, I'm pretty sure those ancient walls still remember their makers: proud, brilliant... and often cruel beyond comprehension.

Of course, none of this was known to me during that first foray into the city underground. Tired, hungry, and increasingly anxious, I stopped to gather my thoughts and consider a way back to the entrance. But nothing came to my mind—only the thought that I might already be lost. Fear began to stir in the hollow of my chest.

Still, I refused to give in. I forced myself to think of the two remarkable women who had shaped my path in recent days. Prioress Sescia... Ah, she would never allow fear to master her! I was sure of it. And Maria? Maria would find some elegant solution to slip past any obstacle—probably with a faint smile and a whisper I wouldn't fully understand until much later...

As I thought about my peculiar acquaintance, Maria, my mind became clearer and more focused. The anxiety that had gripped me faded, and I noticed something odd: the foul stench of the sewers had diminished—almost vanished. The air was warm and far less humid. And then, I picked up a scent that didn't seem to belong there. Curious, I followed it, sniffing like a stray beast on the trail of something half-remembered. I soon found myself beside an opening in the wall—another passageway, narrow and dry, without a central water channel like the others.

I stepped inside with caution. Unlike most of the corridors I'd seen so far, this one sloped upward. That alone gave me a flicker of hope, so I kept going. However, I didn't get far before the passage ended abruptly, a wall blocking the passage. Running my fingers over the surface, I discovered steps carved into the stone. Not a stairwell, but handholds and footholds cut roughly into the stone, like a primitive ladder. Ignoring the pain, I climbed only to reach a low ceiling; I groped blindly, hoping to find a trapdoor or something like a lever, but I found nothing, nothing at all—just rough, unyielding stone.

I went down slowly, irritated but not defeated; I ran my hands along the corridor walls once more, hoping for a hidden door or alcove. But there was nothing, no branching tunnels, no tricks—just that one narrow passage leading to a seemingly useless ladder.

With a tired sigh, I returned to the large chamber, once again no closer to finding my way out—or a safe place to rest.

After the pitch darkness of that dead-end gallery, I could distinguish things better around me, so I ventured toward the center of the room. I was intrigued, seeing or rather feeling a massive white structure ahead of me, standing like a thick and tall pillar.

'But how high could anything truly rise in this subterranean realm?'

I wondered, moving cautiously forward. Yet, I wouldn't find out the answer too soon. My path was quickly halted by a relatively high stone ledge—white, gleaming, and seemingly warm to the touch. It appeared as a pale shape before me, and I stretched out my hands to the right and left... Yes, the structure extended in both directions. I hesitated to follow it further, unwilling to lose my orientation toward the narrow corridor I had just explored. And I liked it there, so, being hungry, I sat down on the floor with my back pressed against the broad, low stone rim of what seemed to be a huge well, its surface radiating warmth. Very calm despite my situation, which did not seem too good, I took from my apron pocket a large loaf of bread and one of the apples I had stolen from that poor old woman. I began to eat, calm as if I were at a jolly picnic in a glade from a sunny wood.

I felt comfortable there, in that vast room where no unpleasant odors existed, and the cold dampness from the galleries around seemed not to reach. The bread tasted delicious, with a flavor I had never experienced before, melting in my mouth. And the apple... Ah, that small, wrinkled apple—it was sweet and fresh, just like honey squeezed from a honeycomb fresh from the hive!

Occasionally, I could hear sounds akin to the wind whispering as it weaves through ancient, ivy-clad ruins. And the darkness around me seemed to cradle a strange, spectral glow—a faint, almost imperceptible blue light, likely imperceptible to ordinary sight. Yet, for me, it was more than enough to make out, from where I was sitting, the edges of the corridor that intrigued me so much.

I finished eating, and my thoughts began to drift.

Lush landscapes, untamed jungles, and sun-drenched swamps bursting with flowers of wild and otherworldly beauty took shape in my mind, just as I had seen them depicted in the frescoes adorning the walls of the White-Gold Tower. My mind was filled with green, an overwhelming, untamed green, shimmering beneath the harsh light of a sun blazing high in a sky of pure, cloudless blue! I could hear the birds singing and the deafening squawks of a great tribe of monkeys darting through the branches of towering, ancient trees. 

Then, I saw a magnificent creature—one that, despite its impressive size, moved with grace as it sneaked toward the edge of a pond where a few gazelles drank water. A leopard! I know now that it was a leopard; a young, powerful specimen, its sleek coat shimmering in the bright light of that noon. It paused within the cover of a thick bush, muscles rippling beneath its glossy fur; I saw its yellow eyes, sharp and focused, searching for the weaker prey... Suddenly, it pounced—its body coiling and springing forward like a tightly wound spring! The leap was long, precise, and almost otherworldly in its wild elegance.

But just as the leopard lunged, something happened: the air shimmered, and a sound broke through the vibrant heat — a sharp caw, cold and alien. A black-feathered shadow sliced across the blue sky, and in that fleeting instant, something dark fell upon the predator, like spilled ink or night coming too early.

Its golden coat, so dazzling beneath the sun, was swallowed by shadows, the spots melting into sleek obsidian. Muscles shifted. Bones stretched in ways that felt unnatural.

What remained standing in the tall grass was a magnificent black panther, eyes burning like polished amber. She turned her huge head, slowly... not toward the fallen prey, but toward me. And then she came right to me faster than you can say Jack Robinson and curled around my legs, purring like a very satisfied great cat. From time to time, she swatted me with her powerful tail in that playful, unmistakable way of a feline who's decided you're hers. Nothing improper, mind you—just that quiet game shared between two beasts of the same soul.

Eventually, that velvet shadow grew more and more languid—her playfulness dissolving into drowsy stillness—and then dozed off completely, its warmth pressing down on me, its huge head resting on my knees.

I didn't dare—didn't wish—to move. I let her sleep. I lowered my hand and stroked her silky fur. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt safe. I felt chosen, and I felt whole.
And then, Maria's voice rose from somewhere inside me:

'So she came to you, eh? The Cat of Shadows?
Oh, girl... She only curls up next to those she means to never let go.'

Next to the great, sleeping cat, I too began to feel drowsy. The sun was sinking fast beyond the horizon, and a sweet torpor settled over me—my eyelids growing heavier with each breath. Sleep beckoned like smooth, enveloping water—so warm, so comforting... yet so treacherous in that wild and innocent world.
But I yearned for it. I longed to surrender—to drift into the merciful depths of oblivion, to lose myself in a dreaming abandon in the embraces of dreams.

'Oh, dreams! Please, I beg you, stay away from me, you dreams—fumes of Hell!'

So I longed for a dream inside another dream. And my wish was granted by the Cat of Shadows. I dreamed of a dark crypt. It opened before me, flickering with wicked flames that burst from its floor and licked at the blackened walls. Somewhere in that place, hidden by shadow and fire, there was a well. I knew it was there, and I wished—no, I needed!—to drink from it. The burning lights scorched my eyes, flayed my skin, but I kept crawling forward. I longed to rest, to lie down just for a moment—but in places like that, you're never safe, and nobody is allowed to linger, for things can change in the blink of an eye—shadows can turn to flame at any moment!

I began to run frantically through the breathing fire around me, and ahead, amid the living darkness and wrapped in a veil of blue mist, I saw the well!

With my last bit of strength, I dragged myself to its edge, desperate and parched. I tried to drink from the well, but the treacherous water twisted away from me, swirling downward—

And turned into a starry sky arched above me!

I was lying on silk-smooth grass beneath an alien firmament. Strange constellations pulsed in the blackness above me, and no trace of Nirn's moons remained—

Only a large, yellow, dappled disk floating in that otherworldly sky.

I stared at it, spellbound—until a distant, echoing sound stirred the silence.
Into the unknown sky above me, a purple star flared into being and flickered, grew brighter, then started falling—

kept falling—crashing down upon me!

I woke up suddenly and saw a man with a torch emerging from that narrow corridor, which had appeared to lead nowhere. My mind was clear and rested, my senses honed to a feline edge, and I instinctively rolled out of the path of the approaching light. Keeping to the protective shadow of the wall, I took in my surroundings. The walls and floor of the central hall were clad in marble, and at its heart stood a massive column. It rose from the center of a wide pit, bordered by marble edges—the very ones that had halted my progress earlier. As for the ceiling, it remained shrouded in darkness, beyond the reach of the flickering torchlight.

The man carrying the torch was tall and gaunt, dressed in dark clothes, and dragging a heavy sack behind him. A sharp instinct urged me to follow him from the shadows to uncover his destination and intent. But caution whispered another path—to retrace his steps and investigate the corridor he had come from, searching for an exit.

I heeded prudence and turned back. And there it was—the opening. Above the stairs I had failed to climb earlier, an open hatch now beckoned. I ascended and emerged into the silence of a mausoleum, one of many slumbering in the Palace District cemetery.

I breathed a sigh of relief and quickly put distance between myself and the hidden entrance to the city's sewers. Night had already fallen, and with it, my new life had begun—just as Maria had advised.

II

From then on, I prowled the city only under the cover of darkness, resting by day in parks or among the tombs of the Imperial City's cemeteries—sometimes even inside mausoleums. That summer, hunger never tormented me again, and I learned many strange and useful things about people and the places they called home.

I discovered other ways of slipping into a house. While doors were often locked tight at night, the cellars' trapdoors were neglected and vulnerable to those with patience and curious, smart eyes. I taught myself to climb: first trees, then rooftops, where hatches often opened into dusty attics. Most were left unsecured, and those that weren't soon yielded to an agile hand.

I also learned to procure food by other means. Breaking into homes had proven far too dangerous—more than once, I'd come within a breath of being caught, the owners stirred by a creak or one of my rookie mistakes.

So instead, I turned to the city markets, where baskets of ripe fruit, wilting greens, and dusty root vegetables waited unattended or barely watched after nightfall. I raided the nests of wild and domestic birds alike—stealing their eggs, and sometimes the birds themselves, especially those roosting in the trees of city parks. And then, there were the bakeries... At dawn, when the scent of warm bread spilled into the streets and shutters creaked open for the day, a sharp eye and a quick hand could claim a breakfast fit for kings—as I saw it—long before the city stirred to life.

The refugee children who had once flooded the city were no longer a concern. I hunted when they slept, nesting in the hollowed remains of warehouses or makeshift dens near the Arena District. And besides, by summer, most had vanished—some taken by the Order, others following their families to the refugee camp southeast of the capital.

Yet there was another breed of stray children, far more dangerous—the capital's urchins. These were locals, born and raised in the winding alleys and hidden corners of the Imperial City. Some served the Thieves Guild and posed no threat to me. Others, however, prowled free in feral packs—predators in their own right—and once they became aware of my presence, they turned their attention to me.

Whenever they tried to catch me, I easily managed to get lost in some winding alley or shady corner. Sometimes, I even slipped down into the sewers, and they didn't dare to follow me there; or I lured them near a patrol of warrior monks, just for fun. My nocturnal life and the incursions in the subterranean galleries had sharpened my senses and agility; darkness no longer slowed me—on the contrary, it welcomed me and made me swift and silent. Whenever my eyes failed me, my nose took command, guiding me through the dark and filling what I believed to be a useless and empty sensory field. It patched the gaps left by sight, replacing shadows with scents, and painting the invisible with astonishing clarity. I even began to recognize and decode entire families of smells, like some secret language meant only for me. My mind learned to read this olfactory script, and in time, I started drawing an invisible map of the sewers—one made of damp moss, rusted iron, dead rats, and flowing filth. It was glorious. It was thrilling. It was my subterranean kingdom! Also, my hearing had sharpened past anything human—so sharp I could hear mice scurrying through the grass where others heard only silence. So the terrible urchins of the capital were no match for me in the end; these street-hardened scavengers were skilled in their trade, yes—but clumsy, loud, and all too afraid of the shadows that embraced me as one of their own. Therefore, I could easily avoid them, especially since our hunting grounds were different. While I was only after food that summer, they hunted for another kind of prey: coins and worthless trinkets.

As Maria had advised me, I made myself a small hideout somewhere in the sewers beneath the Merchant District. Down there, the ancient galleries and culverts once carved by the Ayleids had been expanded over the centuries—especially during the height of the Empire's reign—and the newer additions, though more numerous, were clearly inferior. They had been hastily built, closer to the surface, less carefully planned, and using materials that lacked the quality and wonder of the old stone. Or perhaps it wasn't the craftsmanship itself that failed, but something deeper—something no longer present in the world of men. The Elves had bound their tunnels with enchantments—subtle, silent runes etched into the very bones of the stone—and their walls carried a pulse, a secret rhythm of strength, as if the rock itself still remembered who shaped it.

The newer galleries had no such memory. Without the old spells, the walls wept with dampness, the ceilings cracked with age, and the entire system had begun to rot inward like a hollowed tree.

In some areas, sections of the ceiling or floor would collapse outright. These cave-ins were usually triggered by water infiltrating the deep beds of sand beneath the district—especially after heavy rainfall—and were sometimes foretold by long, creeping cracks in the streets above.

But other times, there were no warnings. The stone floor beneath your feet might simply vanish. Entire galleries would sag, then sink—quietly, mercilessly—swallowed by the treacherous quicksand below. And when that would happen, the tunnel could turn into a grave for anyone foolish or unlucky enough to wander carelessly inside.

There were at least two such death-traps in the sewers of the Merchant District during the time I prowled the underground like a true creature of darkness. I discovered one of them on a crisp autumn day, when the morning chill reminded me that I needed a proper shelter for the winter, and it nearly claimed my life. I survived only thanks to my instincts—and because I was small and light enough to cheat this kind of death. The trap caught me off guard, its filthy, wet embrace wrapping around my legs in an instant, sucking me down with the hunger of some patient and merciless monster. I sank. Slowly. Relentlessly. Up to my knees, then higher. The stench was overwhelming, thick with the rot of the city's bowels. And I felt it, I felt the mire, the abysmal monster, the sentient sludge swallowing me inch by inch. It was a cunning monster; it would let me spend my strength before killing me, and the harder I would struggle, the more it'd swallow me up.

Ah, such a death is terrible, my friends! Few fates are more degrading—or more final.

And yet... I didn't panic. I did not trash.

Something deep within me—some feral memory, maybe some ancient feline wisdom which wasn't mine—told me what to do. I seemingly surrendered. I gave myself to the fiend, letting it cradle my weight rather than resisting it. Slowly, I leaned forward until I was lying flat, half-floating on the thick sludge. I stretched out my arms, inch by inch, toward the nearest stone wall—the one I had passed moments earlier.

My fingers found a crack. Or a crevice... Mayhap a corner... I held on—not with frantic strength, but with patience. Endless, precise patience. Like a panther stalking its prey.

And then, moving no more than a whisper at a time, I began to slide free.

I clawed my way out of that monstrous puddle, slick with horror and filth, inch by inch—just like in a nightmare.

After what felt like an eternity, I cheated the terrible death that awaited and reached the damp but solid floor of the gallery. Exhausted, I crawled away from the monster and then lay still for a long time, breathless, my mind drifting away, dreaming of the sunlit jungle that often appeared in my visions. And in time, Maria's face appeared before me, and I once again heard her firm voice warning me to beware the unfathomable depths sometimes found in the city's sewers.

So as I began to recover from the torpor that had gripped me, I sniffed the air around me—and yes, amid the thousand scents of the underground, I detected an odd one. It was a cold smell, just as Maria had said—but not the kind that comes with fresh snow or starlit frost. Those are clean and pure scents, yet the one breathed by the fiend was more earthy and subtle. Among the many messages it sent to my mind was the warning of imminent death and, strangely, an invitation, a call to explore the infinite—something like a siren chant!

At the time, I understood little; I only learned a crucial lesson for survival in the shadows. But now I know that on that autumn day, deep in the bowels of the Imperial City, I perceived the Void for the first time in my life. Raw and unshaped, this is true. But perhaps much closer to reality than the elevated forms in which I can sense it now.

Ah—"reality." There's that word again! I should know better by now...

I may mention again the term "reality" in this confession of mine, and for that, I apologize in advance. Yet, what could I do? Languages—even the subtle and rich Ta'agra—lack the terms to shape what the senses come to know once the first skin is shed!

Anyway, back then, I branded that specific smell in my memory and, after that day, I grew warier; in the murky darkness, I absolutely trusted my nose, which is definitely more refined than that of most mortals. Well—except for the cat people, of course! Even their kittens could likely shame me in this regard!

Eventually, I emerged from the sewers through a manhole in the Elven Garden District and washed myself thoroughly in the cold waters of a fountain. However, the pestilential stench I had borrowed from death's passionate embrace clung to me for several days, forcing me to remain in the city's bowels until it had entirely faded away.

Still, those days turned out to be surprisingly productive; I explored a wide area of the Merchant District's sewer system and discovered another collapse, more recent and far less extensive than the first. Here, the tunnel's floor wasn't completely swallowed by the deadly sludge across the entire width of the gallery; moreover, the corridor ended in a wall, right beneath the Market District's commercial hall. 

It was the perfect place for a hideout worthy of that name. Or at least, that's what I believed back then—and as it turned out, I wasn't too far from the truth. I blocked off all three access points from the outside to prevent anyone from using the manholes and claimed that dead-end gallery as my winter den. Oh, it was also a proper vault for my little fortune!

Following Maria's advice, I stole all kinds of children's clothes... And not just clothes; I even acquired a mattress and two wonderful, fluffy, warm quilts! During my usual nightly strolls, wherever I saw garments left to dry or air out by the housewives preparing their homes for winter, I'd take whatever I needed or liked and carry them back to my lair. 

Ah, I smile now as I remember those little domestic urges that drove me to arrange my little den with so much care and affection!

But it was neither the time nor the place for such tenderness. Nor for those small, human joys that had been denied me so early in my troubled life...

Winter had come, a dreadful one, colder than any the elders could remember.
And across the Empire, war was raging fiercely.

Chapter Text

The winter had arrived earlier than expected, and in a way that hinted it would be anything but ordinary. On a night that first seemed no different from those before, the sky suddenly filled with dense, whitish clouds, their snow-laden bellies dragging low across the rooftops, as if ready to burst. Meanwhile, a fierce wind rose from the north, from where the Jerall Mountains stood as strong and snowy sentinels along Cyrodiil's border. It soon became a raging storm, its gusts howling and tearing through the streets; then the snowflakes came too—big, wet, and soft, the following small and sharp, lashing against my cheeks like frozen needles. 

As usual, I was prowling the city, searching for food or anything else useful. I pulled my meager cloak tighter around me, bracing against the storm, determined to continue my nocturnal raid. But the wind was relentless, nearly lifting me off my feet, trying to sweep me along its invisible wings. Then the blizzard descended in full fury, and although the night's spoils were pitiful, I had no choice but to retreat much earlier than planned. I slipped underground through the Merchant District trading hall's manhole, my only prize a pair of nearly rotten cabbages left to wither in a forgotten corner of the market. A sigh of relief escaped me as I reached the dead-end gallery I called home, slipping with utmost care through the lethal trap serving as both door and lock to my lair.

Inside, the storm's wrath was muffled. The howling winds above faded into distant whistles and the occasional dull rumble filtering through the manholes; deep within the bowels of the Imperial City, silence reigned, as always. Cold and drenched, I crawled into my bunk, and sleep took me swiftly.

When I woke, the silence was absolute; not even the soft whistling that had accompanied the blizzard remained. I stretched beneath the thick blankets wrapped around me, then sat up, bracing for the usual shiver that greeted me each morning. But it never came. The air in the gallery was warm; warmer than it should have been. And strangely dry. A prickle of unease ran through me because down here, any unexpected change could signal danger, and I knew very well the stirring mire nearby—restless, bubbling beneath its own weight—was unpredictable. At any moment, it could expand, creeping further into the corridor, swallowing anything in its path!

I sniffed the air, tense, expecting the telltale scent of decay or something else out of place. But there was nothing; no stench of death, no trace of anything unusual. Instead, the silence itself seemed to thicken, turning into something tangible yet weightless, as if I were wrapped in cotton wool. I could nearly hear the silence. This is an unsettling sensation when it lingers too long, but apart from that, I sensed nothing overtly alarming in the air around me. I stepped beneath the first manhole in that dead-end corridor, expecting to see faint light filtering through its grate, but there was none. Only darkness. 

Assuming it was still night, I decided to investigate, curious to see what changes the blizzard had wrought above. But when I removed the hindrance and tried to lift the grate, it wouldn't budge.

I tried again with the next two manholes. None of them would open. 

There was only one logical conclusion: the city lay buried beneath a thick layer of snow. Moreover, the gnawing hunger that plagued me meant that morning must have come quite some time ago. 

So, a bit worried, I went back to my den, ate, and took stock of my supplies. A huge loaf of bread, nearly whole, a long piece of pork sausage, and plenty of apples. I cleaned the cabbages I had taken the day before and added them to my stash. For the moment, it was a decent haul.

The water, however, was a real problem. My canteen was barely half full, and in the city's sewers, finding drinkable water was impossible. It was an almost paradoxical situation—like a castaway dying of thirst in the middle of the sea, with so much water around! 

I remembered then the pit surrounding the tall marble pillar and wondered if it might hold water.

Since I had never properly explored the vast central chamber of the sewer system, I decided to go there, taking a path I had never walked before—one that soon vanished into a winding, gloaming labyrinth. Yet the darkness of the maze didn't hinder me—my senses of smell and hearing guided me through this lightless world.

At first, I was confused, though, because the low hum from the central chamber led me to what seemed to be a dead end—a clogged gallery; the corridor ended suddenly at a wall, a brick wall. That wall appeared to rise straight out of the water, and when I knocked on it, it sounded hollow, not just thin, but as if something vast and empty might lie just beyond. Now, that wasn't as surprising as I thought it might be, because the connection between the Market District and the Imperial Palace is made through pipes far too narrow for any human, no matter how small, to squeeze through, as I would later discover during a severe drought. And they were full of water! That was just typical... As I may have mentioned before, the Market District's sewers were built and connected to the ancient system by humans, whose craftsmanship never even came close to that of the Ayleids!

Ah, I was amazed and quite amused; I took it as a game and tried to use my sense of smell. Yes, the scents were a bit different there, and that made me think the central room was very close. I must explain this—or at least try to: as strange as it may seem, the underground odors of the Imperial City's various districts differ considerably, and at their borders, the blend of smells becomes so complex that it can easily mislead an inexperienced visitor. But they are indeed different, and for someone clever, that may signify that the border between districts is near, and then, one can keep going until the characteristic scent of one district becomes predominant. Still, back then, I lost my way for a short while, but in the end, after a long detour through the Elven Garden District's sewer, my combined senses led me back on track, and eventually reached the central hall—a place that, after my long trek through the sewer's darkness, seemed almost bathed in light.

There, a diffused light—an ever-present bluish shimmer—clung to the walls, like the memory of a long-vanished and peculiar sun. Most would mistake it for darkness, but to my eyes, it felt more like twilight—a misty and gloomy twilight, though strangely warm. Oh, just like in Evergloam—though a bit brighter! I wasn't able to trace its source, and the scholars who wandered through the Capital's underworks during the days of the Empire don't even mention it in their writings—likely because, as I've already said, to normal eyesight, it's nearly indistinguishable from ordinary darkness.

Later, I scoured the Winterhold College archives, chasing down clues about this strange phenomenon—I was so close to uncovering something truly fascinating when Faralda, in all her stiff, self-important glory, decided to expel me from the college. (You know, for reasons she greatly exaggerated.) Thankfully, my dear friend Brelyna has picked up where I left off, though Faralda—and her equally sour shadow, Nyria—have now restricted access to the more... 'interesting' sections of the library for ordinary members. Well, we'll wait and see...

Oh, but I've digressed from my story once again! I'm sorry, my friends! But you already know me, I think, so maybe you can expect more of these in the future... My apologies again!

As soon as I approached the massive column supporting the dome of the central chamber, I began to examine the shaft surrounding it with great interest. As I mentioned earlier, marble ledges circled the pit, interrupted at one point by a bridge that spanned the chasm and led directly to the pillar. There's a door there—a heavy bronze door—and it was locked, though probably from the inside; I couldn't find any lock or keyhole on it. That gate lacked even the usual handle on its exterior, so I quickly dismissed it and turned my attention to the well encircling the base.

I couldn't find a single loose stone on the smooth surface of the central chamber, so I retraced my steps into the gallery I had come from and peeled off a large piece of plaster from the damp wall. Returning to the pit, I let it drop inside. After what felt like an eternity, I finally heard a faint splash—one that shattered all my hopes.

Next, I went through the tunnel leading to the mausoleum in the cemetery. It was sealed off, and despite a thorough search, I couldn't find the mechanism that opened the secret hatch. More concerning, however, was a strange and unfamiliar scent lingering in the air—one that carried all the subtle warnings of danger. So I didn't press on and instead turned toward the gallery I had used during my first visit, the main drainage of the Talos Plaza District. As expected, when I reached the barred gate, I found nothing but pitch-black darkness, unbroken by even the faintest sliver of light. That gate was not only buried under snow but, to my dismay, a fresh padlock had been secured from the outside, completely beyond my reach.

Disappointed, I made my way back to my den. The trip was easier than when I came, because by then I had already developed a keen ability to memorize long routes traveled in the underground's darkness, and I reached my little haven without difficulty.

All that remained was to wait for the people above to clear the streets of snow. Until then, I would move as little as possible and ration every last drop of water.

And I waited. Down there, amid silence, time seemed to stretch and twist, as if the storm had frozen not just the city but the very flow of hours. I didn't get bored, though. On the contrary, this temporary isolation from the world above proved surprisingly rich and productive because I had both the time and the quiet to reflect in detail on the last year of my life. And I was amazed by the conclusions I drew in the end!

After all, only a year ago, I had been just a weak and disoriented being—a hungry little girl, distraught and grieving beyond measure over the death of her mother. And now I was surviving on my own in the middle of a big, uncaring city. I was so proud that I didn't think too much of my senses, which were far superior to those of any other human, and I took them for granted.

In the end, it both amazed and saddened me to realize how little I truly felt for my beloved mother, Kiersten. When I thought of her—and I can assure you I did so often during that time—only a faint nostalgia stirred within me, and a bittersweet taste crept into my parched mouth. Because yes, I suffered from thirst during that seclusion...

And when I tried to recall her face, all I could see was a slender, petite silhouette clad in a black short robe, one my mother Kiersten had never worn in my presence. She was shrouded in long, rich hair, yellow as gold, waving lightly in the breeze of a spring wind, and she spread a strange odor filled with the flavors of musk, nightshade, horse sweat, and freshly tempered steel. There were faint traces of incense and fresh blood in the scent that came from my mother Kiersten—the one in my imagination—whose face resembled mine very much...

I also reflected on how I had ended up in the Order's orphanage. Although I couldn't clearly remember anything about what had happened to me after my mother's death, I concluded that some urchins—like those who now sometimes hunted me in the night streets of the Imperial City—had robbed and beaten me almost to death. A not-so-new feeling began to grow inside me again, and I felt hatred and the need for revenge.

I saw Maria's face again, I heard her voice once more, and her words dripped onto my soul like balm:

'Do not be timid, and do not avoid fights that seem balanced or in your favor. You are much stronger than you think!'

And so I began to make plans. Cold, patient plans for revenge consumed my thoughts until the streets above were finally cleared of snow and the manholes creaked open once more.

When I finally emerged from the solitude I had endured over the past few days, I stepped into a frozen city, nearly paralyzed beneath snow and ice. The once-boiling life of the great capital seemed to have suddenly and permanently come to a halt in the icy silence that had settled over it; there were few people on the streets during the day, and almost none at night.

In no time, insecurity and poverty took hold, and bread quickly turned into quite a luxury. The food markets were empty, and large groups of people gathered every day in the Arena District and the Palace District, where hot soup was distributed almost constantly, free of charge.

At one point, however, moved by pity and concern, the Emperor ordered all the bakeries in the city to operate continuously for several days, and bread was handed out freely by the Order in many public squares across the Imperial City. But the grain and oats from the capital's Imperial reserves ran out quickly, and soon desperation and famine erupted. The bitter cold lingered far longer than usual in these parts, and even when it eased a little, new waves of snow would pour down from the ashen sky.

Unlike most of the city's inhabitants, I did not suffer from hunger during those terrible days. As always, the rich had plenty to eat, and I feasted—without remorse, and even with pleasure—from their storage.

It was during that time that I taught myself how to open simple latches and locks. Looking back now, I'm not so sure I could have learned such exquisite skills as quickly and easily as I did then. But at the time, I never questioned the inexplicable—I was far from being the philosopher I am today. In those days, I had other concerns—I was fighting to survive, and I can say that I did so brilliantly. Yet I had one serious problem: in the unusually harsh and prolonged cold, the ambient temperature in the city's sewers dropped far too low. I acquired extra blankets; I even found a new mattress. I wore layer upon layer of clothing, but nothing seemed to protect me from the terrible chill that kept me from sleeping. In a moment of desperation, I even lit a fire near my little nest, but the smoke that immediately filled the tunnel forced me to extinguish it almost at once. It wasn't a viable solution anyway—a fire in such places is always a source of many terrible dangers.

As a last resort, I thought of the central hall—that marble dome where everything was different: the air was dry, bad smells were nonexistent, and there was a permanent, though very dim, light. So I decided to return to the place and set up a temporary sleeping spot, even though that corridor leading to the Palace District cemetery always gave me a strange, unsettling feeling.

As soon as I reached the secondary galleries of the Elven Garden District, traveling on the once memorized route, I sensed something was off, like a wrong note in a familiar tune. A faint smell of smoke mingled with the usual odors of this area, and the faint, familiar hum of the central room, which I had grown so used to, was now twisted by unfamiliar chords never heard by me before in the city's bowels.

Instantly, I became more cautious and accordingly made my way through the subteranean labyrinth toward the main Elven Garden District collector channel. When I entered beneath its wide arches, it became clear that someone had been—or perhaps still was—in the central chamber. I took off my heavy boots and stepped silently toward the dim blue light that now seemed to flicker, just like a candle about to go out. 

No one was in the great hall, but the signs of habitation were undeniable. The remains of a fire made directly on the marble floor—ah, that pained me terribly and made me hate and envy those who had warmed their bones by its cozy flames— the dirty clothes scattered across the floor, scraps of food left lying everywhere... everything told me that a group had been living here for some time. I thoroughly searched the room and found supplies: food, a large barrel of water, and, near the warm marble slabs around the central pit, some makeshift cots. Mattresses, blankets, and pillows—all disgustingly filthy—lay heaped in a chaotic tangle, and I couldn't even tell how many people had settled there.

I then walked to the main sewer gallery of the Talos Plaza District and made my way to the access point through which I had first entered the underground. The barred gate was only superficially closed, and the padlock, though placed back in its spot, had been left open.

I returned then to the central hall and began rummaging through the belongings and supplies of those who had settled, uninvited, into what I already considered my own private kingdom. The more I investigated, the more convinced I became that I was dealing with urchins. Toys and an abundance of sweets lay scattered among their possessions—and then it struck me: perhaps, at long last, I had a chance to take revenge on the kind of creatures who had brought me nothing but pain and trouble since I first arrived in the Imperial City.

First, I helped myself to their food supplies, taking two large loaves of bread, a long sausage, and a bundle of dried fish. I would have taken more—I wanted them to feel the presence of a stranger—but I could barely carry what I had already gathered back to my lair.

I stashed the food carefully and went to sleep in my cold bunk. When I awoke, it was pitch black in my shelter, a sure sign that night had fallen outside. The cold bit fiercely, and shivering, I ate from my now much-improved provisions.

Then I set out for the planned night's prowl, dressed in the darkest clothes I owned. By now, the smoke in the main Elven Garden District gallery was so dense that my sense of smell—usually my strongest ally in this realm of shadows—was badly impaired. Deprived of that advantage, I was forced to rely almost entirely on my hearing, which, in turn, picked up strange new sounds I had never encountered before in this part of the sewers. It was a dangerous situation, and I knew it, but I did not abandon my plan.

I was determined to deal with those intruders, and I hoped very much that my actions would be enough to drive them away from the place where I intended to spend the rest of the winter. As soon as I reached the entrance to the central hall, I lay down on the floor and tried to assess the situation— to count the uninvited guests and learn what they were up to.

The fire they had lit was smoldering, and by its glow, I saw four small figures laughing and teasing each other over something. I crawled toward the Arena District sewer entrance and was surprised to find that the air in the central chamber was unexpectedly clear; the smoke had almost completely dissipated. Soon enough, my sense of smell returned, sharp and reliable as ever. Encouraged by this, I crept closer to the fire and, hiding behind their water barrel, listened to the chatter of those who were having such a good time there, in my realm.

I was surprised by the fact that I understood almost nothing of what they were saying. It sounded like the common tongue, yet the words were twisted oddly, pronounced in a way that made them seem foreign, and I could only make out a few disparate words in all their conversation, which was filled with sobs of laughter. 

Still, I managed to piece together the general topic of their conversation: a priest of Mara had given a sermon earlier that day in the Arboretum District, followed by a generous distribution of oat flour and dried fish, which quickly descended into chaos, as the crowd fought over the food. Amid the scuffle, one of the boys by the fire had stolen the priest's amulet, which he now kept flashing from his pocket, radiating wicked pride. 

This skilled thief was the oldest—a blond boy with long, uncut hair, wearing clothes that were far too expensive for someone like him. Another golden-haired child gazed at him in stupid ecstasy, parroting every word he said with servile enthusiasm, while the other two remained mostly silent, offering only raucous laughter and noisy approval.

Since I couldn't understand much of what they were saying, I lost interest in eavesdropping and chose instead to survey the surroundings—to see if anything had changed, and above all, to determine exactly how many had moved in without my permission.

There were about a dozen other children, a ragged mix of boys and girls, sprawled on makeshift cots around the central pit. I couldn't see anything special about them; they were all buried deep in sleep, wrapped in the same tattered rags, and all shared that unmistakable scent I knew so well—the smell of misery and poverty.

I slipped away into the short, narrow corridor leading to the mausoleum. There I waited until the chattering four had gone to bed, and then returned to inspect again their food supplies. Ah! New items had appeared—among them, a large piece of salted butter—a rare delicacy in those grim times! I slid it into the bag I'd brought. Then came the nuts and peanuts, of which I took as many as I could fit into the pockets of my apron. There was even a generous cut of fresh beef, appealing and red, but I had no means to cook it, so in the end, I filled my bag only with dried fish.

Then I approached the boy who seemed to be their leader. A strong lad, and—though fully immersed in the treacherous waters of sleep—rather handsome, I had to admit. When I spotted the amulet's chain coming out of his pocket, I smiled excitedly. I grabbed it and pulled it slowly, very carefully, and the jewelry came out without any difficulty. I hung it around my neck like a prize, and in perfect silence, disturbed only by the snoring of the sleepers, I went to see if I could overturn their water barrel.

Oh! It was too big and too full, but it had a faucet, so I opened it and let the water pour freely onto the marble floor. Then I scooped up as many of the scattered clothes as I could and tossed them onto the dying fire, hoping the flames and the stench would wake them in confusion and panic.

And then, very pleased with my deeds, I retraced my steps slowly, unhurriedly, back to my lair.

Not long afterward, still in the Elven Garden District sewer, I heard various shouts and screams echoing through the narrow galleries—sounds that bounced endlessly off the damp walls, fading into eerie repetitions. My hearing, always so sharply attuned to even the slightest vibration, was painfully assaulted by this nocturnal underground concert. And yet, it was a small price to pay for the deep satisfaction I felt in my soul. I even began to devise new ways to make those intruders' lives miserable in the future.

Once back in my haven, I safely stashed the food I had gathered and lit my only candle. By its flickering light, I examined the amulet of the goddess Mara. It was a cheap trinket—bronze, inlaid with tiny aquamarines—its only real value lying in the silver chain, and it wasn't even particularly beautifully crafted. Yet the face of the woman staring at me from the amulet had something both unsettling and attractive in her eyes.

The jewelry had been crafted in Bravil, in the workshops of the great Temple of the Mother, though I had no way of knowing that at the time; even if I had known it, it would have suggested nothing to me. Nothing at all, I had not even known of the existence of Bravil until then. But it took only one look at that face to make up my mind: as soon as daylight broke, I would go to the Arboretum District and inquire about the priest of Mara who had preached there the day before.

I fell asleep with the amulet clutched in my hand, and when I awoke, the candle was spent. Oh, that sent a cold shiver down my spine! It was very unwise to leave a candle burning for any length of time down here in the city's underbelly. Especially for someone like me! But what was done was done! So, after having a good snack and dressing in my best clothes, I left my little den through the nearest manhole.

Outside, in the frozen city, the same bleak ambience prevailed—an air of harsh, unending winter. Beneath the leaden sky and along the ice-laden, snow-cloaked streets of the Imperial City, people hurried about, their feverish eyes seemed to be searching desperately for something hard to find... Wrapped in countless layers of garments, buried under heaps of shawls and scarves, they all looked the same: worn down, impoverished, and grey. This was a neighborhood that, while never rich, had never truly been poor, at least not in normal times. But now, it looked like a place where the edges of society had gathered to try to warm up a little together.
Smoke curled from only a handful of chimneys, thin and ghostlike, as if the fire itself were whispering its last breath into the frozen air.

Deeply moved by the bleak appearance of the Market District, I was seized by a restless curiosity—I suddenly wanted to see what the Waterfront District had become, so instead of continuing on my planned route to the Arboretum District, I turned toward the place I hadn't visited in a year.

Or perhaps I had never truly been there... Mayhap that sweet, golden-haired little girl who had once walked on those alleys had long since vanished, replaced by a wild and filthy creature—a small predator struggling hard to survive in the urban jungle around.

The Waterfront, like the rest of the city, lay locked in winter's merciless grip. It was deserted, like one of those forgotten towns lost in the heart of Elsweyr's "Anvil of the Sun" desert.
No smoke rose from the chimneys of the snow-drowned houses, which now looked shrunken and lost, and the few windows that hadn't been boarded up or draped in rags looked empty and blind, gaping like open doors to another cold and lifeless realm.

The harbor was frozen, and the docks seemed abandoned. Yet there, faint signs of life remained: smoke curling from the cabins of ships trapped in the ice, and from within one of them, the bright, drunken chords of a harmonica drifted out, followed by bursts of laughter and voices shouting with the wild joy that only comes at a certain stage of intoxication...

As I wandered through the district's narrow alleys, I passed by the small cottage where my mother, Kiersten, and I had once lived. I stopped for a moment. I tried to remember, to summon the warmth and love that had once lived within those walls, but I couldn't.

The window still wore the same old curtains my mother had brought from Bruma, but everything else seemed distant and stripped of meaning, like a hollow shell from which life had long since fled.

I then wished to visit my mother's grave, but the cemetery was buried beneath snow, and its gates were locked. The wind, sharp and pitiless, blew from the north, stirring the bare branches of the ancient poplars that lined the road—branches stretched like bony claws toward the ashen sky. Apart from the merciless cold, I felt nothing—there was no grief. Not even the shadow of it.

I clenched the amulet in my fist, and from it pulsed a strange warmth—faint, but steady. And then, I remembered my duty and turned back toward the city, knowing with utmost certainty: I would never return here again.

The Arboretum District is a lovely place in the summertime. It's a huge park, a miniature forest nestled in the heart of the Imperial City. Statues of the gods from Nirn's pantheon stand in its glades, and the priests usually hold their sermons here, surrounded by trees, flowers, and open sky. Even in that dreadful winter, the tradition endured, and when I entered the great park, I found quite a crowd gathered—much of the city, it seemed, drawn here in the hope that the priests' words might bring them the solace they so desperately sought. And maybe some dried fish and bread too!

However, around the statue of Mara, there was no one. Only the remnants of yesterday's gathering remained: snow trodden and dirtied by countless feet, torn sacks, and even streaks of flour scattered like ghostly traces of charity now vanished.

I stood silently and watched the goddess statue for a while. Then I took the amulet from my pocket and studied it. The face on the amulet looked nothing like the one carved into the statue. While the public image of Mara was that of a woman bowed by sorrow, weighed down by endless compassion and the suffering of others, the figure on the amulet bore something more.
In her eyes was sorrow, yes—but also a steely will and a coldness, quiet and enduring, that looked straight through me from the small bronze disk.

I clutched it in my hand once more and thought that, since I didn't know who to return it to, I might as well keep it—for a while at least—and gaze upon it from time to time. But just as I turned to leave, a voice rose behind me:

"Do you seek the blessing of the Goddess, child?"

I turned and saw an old priest, tall, broad-shouldered, and with a thick white beard. His eyes bore into me with a strange sharpness, and, among the lightning that seemed to flash from them, I thought I glimpsed something else—a trace of interest, perhaps. Startled and deeply impressed by the old man's presence, I stammered:

"No... I mean—I don't know anything about Mara. I only came to return something that was stolen..."

The priest smiled.

"Stolen, you say? No, child. That which you speak of was not stolen. And you, Elsie, of all people, should be the last in the world to give back something you acquired through your own skill. Now... show it to me."

I opened my hand and held out the amulet. He gazed at it intently, then smiled again.

"Keep it, child. It's yours now—Our Lady wished to come to you."

I didn't ask how he knew my name. At that moment, it seemed perfectly natural, self-evident, and only later, after his overwhelming presence had faded, did I begin to wonder—and understand that, once again, something fated had happened to me. Back then, I only asked him why the two faces—on the statue and the amulet—were so different, and the priest said: "They are the same—only your eyes have yet to remember. One dreams in stone, as She so often does. The other walks beside you... and listens as you breathe."

Then he took my hand, and as we walked together through the little glade around the goddess statue, he told me about Her Holy City, Bravil.

Ah, even now, the mere mention of this name—Bravil— stirs in me a wild desire, aching longing... a compulsion to lie prostrate at the feet of the Lucky Lady, there, in Her City. When Secunda is full, its pale light seeping over rooftops and riverbanks, I always feel an almost physical urge to commune with Our Lady—and that, for me, is only possible in the shadow of Her great Temple in Bravil.

But then, the priest and I took a long walk in the wintry park. And he told me many things about Mara. He spoke of love and mercy, kindness and respect, candor and compassion. Time seemed to stop for me; it slipped away without notice, and by the time we reached the little forest gates, I was surprised to see the dusky shadows of a fuming winter sunset stretching across the city, overrun by cold and snow.

The priest paused there, looking at me with gentle eyes.

"You're a good girl, Elsie," he said. "Please—wherever your life may take you, don't forget that kindness and respect still exist in our world. And that forgiveness and mercy can sometimes cease for a time the never-ending fight that rules our lives here, in this wonderful realm!"

We parted there, and I returned to my little haven in the bowels of the great beast that is the Imperial City.

I reflected on the old man's words. They were nice—yes, and full of meaning too, or so it seemed. But for now, I found nothing useful in them. Not for someone like me.

I took off the amulet I had worn around my neck and studied the face of the goddess once more. She seemed to be smiling at me now, but not in the gentle way the priest had described.

Oh no, the Mara of the amulet grinned at me with a mocking curl of the lips, her gaze sharp and faintly contemptuous. I smiled right back at her and tucked the amulet away.

I ate a hearty supper in my frozen lair. But it felt warmer than the bitter streets of the capital, and here, in the depths, there was no wind—only a faint whisper, winding its way through the dark. Wrapped snugly in every blanket I owned, I drifted into sleep, lulled by the ancient chanting that endlessly echoed through the underground galleries.

Chapter Text

I

I spent my days—and especially the nights that followed—concocting mischief and haunting the lair of those uninvited guests who had intruded upon what I considered my rightful domain.

In those days, I committed many wicked yet amusing deeds—at least, they would be called so by those who think any child's crime is somehow charming.

What had begun as an effort to drive them away from a place I wanted for myself turned, quite naturally, into a marvelous training ground for me. In truth, I'm not even sure I wanted them gone anymore. First, because I no longer needed to wander the frozen city scavenging for food—those urchins had remarkable sources, bringing in rare and even luxurious provisions during a time when the rest of the Imperial City was starving. And second, because something in me was awakening: new instincts, swift and ravenous, stirred within me. They fascinated me and demanded to be sharpened. For that, I needed... living specimens.

So I began watching their group, especially in the evenings. I loved lurking in the shadows, crouched beneath the dark arches of the main drainage canals, spying on them for hours with patient and greedy eyes. First, they never saw me. They never heard me. So I drank in their movements as they divided their loot, ate, and settled down for sleep.

Often, some of them stayed late by that fire they managed to light each night—something that stirred both envy and irritation in me. I would edge closer then, just near enough to catch their voices. And I tried to eavesdrop, but just as I mentioned, I understood little to nothing; they spoke in a thick, rambling slang—a dialect I would later hear often in Bravil, though I never managed to learn it. My beloved friend Courtney speaks it like a native and has tried to teach me, but alas, I seem to have no gift for foreign tongues. Except, of course, for the wonderful and ever-subtle Ta'agra!

But I understood enough to grasp the truth of them: those children were astonishingly well-organized—more than just a gang, they were a structured unit, a true urban strike force. Each had a role, clear and purposeful, adapted to the situations that might arise during their daily raids—whether on the streets, in markets, temples, or anywhere crowds gathered, too distracted to notice small hands working fast.

Oh, they were superb thieves and exquisite beggars—true masters of those noble professions! And when luck betrayed them or a wrong move exposed their mischief, the diversion team would leap into action. They didn't hesitate to use the wicked little blades they kept hidden in their filthy and ragged garments. They weren't killers, not quite, but they had no qualms when their lives—or more often their freedom—were on the line: they were the epitome of the urban survivor, perfectly adapted to the crowded alleys of the Imperial City.

Just like me... But only in a way. Because they were daylight predators and darkness... oh, the darkness frightened them! So I took full advantage of the gloom, the echoes, and the hidden paths of my underground realm and played with them. For a long, long time.

Sometimes, especially in the beginning, I would often lure the night watchman—the one they eventually assigned to guard them while the others tried to sleep—toward the entrances of the main drainage canals. A faint sound, a clink, or a whisper would draw him in. While he nervously prowled about, lantern trembling in his hand, I would slip behind him, dart into their camp, and scream—loud and sudden—right amid the sleepers. Then I would run and hide in the darkness of the galleries! There, after a short while, I would start to sing or shout, depending on my mood, moving closer to or farther from their lair.

I had gotten into the habit of dressing in dark clothes and covering my face, leaving only my eyes, nose, and ears free, so even when they managed to glimpse my silhouette in the dim light of the torches they carried, they weren't sure if it was a human being, a child like themselves. But I think I'm wrong, terribly wrong! None of us behaved like children do anymore; no, not there, beneath the high dome built by the cruel and brilliant Ayleids!

I would also periodically raid their food supplies, and I must admit with some shame that I took much more than I needed and destroyed it. Yes, in those times of hardship and famine, the seemingly sweet girl with golden hair and innocent, wide eyes was feeding the rats of the depths with food delicacies!

Ah, the rats...

The terrible cold that held the city in its grip had driven them—all of them—into the sewers. At first, the mice came in swarms, twitchy and bothersome. But soon they vanished, overrun and devoured by their bigger, stronger, and infinitely more clever cousins.

Yes, clever! Because the rats are intelligent creatures, of that I'm sure!

I began by leaving food near my little, cozy den. And quickly enough, a rat community settled there, taking ownership of the zone. Oh, they defended that little kingdom fiercely! In those early days, there were bloody skirmishes between my rats and those that dared to sneak in from other parts of the sewer system and try to feast on the rich daily offerings I provided. The newcomers never survived.

I even tried the same trick near the central chamber—the domain of the invaders—but no matter how plentiful the bait, the rats refused to enter that great, echoing marble rotunda. They scurried often about its outskirts, yes, but never crossed into its heart. No matter how I tried to coax them.

Still, their mere presence in the area unnerved the urchins. The intruders grew afraid of wandering too far from their base, especially at night. Even in the mornings, when they left through the main collector channel in the Talos Plaza District, they armed themselves with sticks and torches.

I, on the other hand, began trying to befriend some of my rats and hunt the others. I'm not sure if I managed to gain the trust of these intelligent creatures, but I did become exceptionally good at catching them.

Rats are dangerous creatures when cornered, but what makes them truly terrifying is their innate instinct to act as a unit—a living swarm. At first, I was often badly bitten by many while trying to capture a single one, but soon enough, my movements became so quick and my tactics so refined that I could seize multiple specimens alive without so much as a scratch.

It didn't take long before I mastered the process. I'd stuff the captured rats into a sack and hurry to the invaders' dirty sleeping den. There, I would release them—and then retreat into the caressing shadows to watch with delight.

They never disappointed me!

The rats, so clever elsewhere, became utterly disoriented and panicked under the high, echoing marble dome. That place unsettled them—it always had—and now, trapped among the tangled limbs of sleeping bodies, they thrashed and shrieked in frenzy.

The chaos that followed was sublime!

The screams, the scurrying feet, the sight of rats clawing and biting in blind terror, fascinated me beyond reason. The intruders flailed, their movements clumsy and panicked as they tried to fight back or flee; they trampled each other in their desperate attempt to escape, their terror feeding my exultation in a vicious, exhilarating cycle. It was intoxicating. I relished every moment, feeling a thrill I couldn't quite explain, an elation as raw and wild as the sin itself. Even now, as I write this, I still feel that tremor of pleasure...

Oh, that group of urchins was my enemy, my competitor—a rival, a reflection of myself in the food chain of that microsystem. Down there, beneath the marble dome, it was war. And in war, everything is permitted!

But I had gone too far. My endless, cruel pranks, the nights filled with screams, confusion, and the squeals of terror-stricken rats—all drew the attention of a different kind of predator. Eventually, it stirred his anxiety and wrath.

This entity was already aware of our presence, including, or perhaps especially, mine, perchance sensing that it would be much safer without any human presence there, in that underground world. I suspect now that it would have tolerated our presence as long as we remained quiet and unobtrusive—only a background, faint noise in its ancient domain. But we had disturbed the balance... I had. And when balance is broken, the darkness always takes notice and sometimes rises to fill the gap. I know that now.

Whether it acted out of territorial instinct or for reasons far more complex, I can't say. All I know is that something unbelievable happened at the climax of this grim episode.

A creature of the Void—this time no metaphor, no exaggeration—began hunting us. It was a real nightmare. Ancient and terrifying, one that made even the shadows shiver.

One of the urchins, a tall brunette girl, vanished during a scouting trip through a secondary gallery near the Elven Gardens District. She hadn't gone alone—two others had accompanied her, searching for me, of course. But only the two boys returned.

I wasn't even near the place where the tragedy unfolded, but I could hear the desperate and quickly cut-off scream of the girl. Then, the panicked shouts of the other two boys and the echo of their footsteps as they ran terrified toward the illusory safety of their haven in the central hall. 

I was puzzled, but I didn't feel fear. Not then. I assumed, foolishly, that they'd run into one of the more aggressive rat colonies. Perhaps I'd driven them too deep, too far. I even allowed myself a brief, cruel satisfaction at their discomfort.

However, that night, my sense of smell kept warning me—an unfamiliar scent, faint and wrong. Pungent, like mold and copper or something older than either, it reminded me of that narrow corridor leading toward the mausoleum from the cemetery.

Truth be told, I had been sensing something strange around me for some time—something akin to an immaterial presence. But since I was still an entirely earthly being back then, I laid the blame on the amulet I wore. It sometimes behaved oddly... or so I believed. Perhaps my perception was already distorted by loneliness and a quiet hunger for a friend, a mother, a kitten, anyone who might care for me. Ah, that sanctified jewelry! I had grown used to looking at it and speaking to it, recounting my day and asking it for advice... And the amulet seemed to respond—not with words, but through the subtle shifts in its expression.

Yet, that presence was real. Physical. It wasn't some mere specter or flicker of madness—it was a creature—a material one, with purposes, instincts, and especially thirst. A vampire. A true one. And our paths had crossed from the first day I spent in the sewers.

There are countless legends about vampires, and even a few earnest studies by scholars who've tried to understand these unnatural anomalies. Yet the conclusions, testimonies, and observations differ so wildly that anyone delving into the subject could reasonably assume that "vampire" is not one thing but many entities of disparate origin, behavior, powers, and weakness, sometimes so radically different that they may have nothing in common at all.

This very skilled and dangerous predator, who began toying with us that night, was, let's say, a "classic" vampire. It emerged only at night, lay dormant during the day in a coffin somewhere in the depths, and was devoid of reason. Perhaps not entirely, but it certainly didn't possess the characteristics and habits described by some authors who prefer their monsters alluring rather than disgusting. Because make no mistake: vampires are no misunderstood aristocrats! They are, without exception, enemies of the human race and entities that exist contrary to the basic laws of life!

I strongly suspect this creature had been feeding on the gang members from the beginning. And I think it did that discreetly, initially without intending to reveal its presence. I'm sure it was aware of my presence in the city's sewer system from the beginning and ignored me; I do not know why it avoided me, but I have certain suspicions about that. 

In any case, from that night on, the urchins began to disappear—one by one, always at night, and never quietly. The abductions were sudden, brutal, and disturbingly theatrical, as if the creature no longer cared to hide, or perhaps wanted to be seen, to be feared, to be known.
The last to vanish before the gang fled in terror was their leader—the tall, golden-haired, and well-dressed boy. He had grown reckless, likely because he felt his authority threatened by the chaos unfolding: first by my irritating provocations, and then by the actions of that monstrous entity, which killed.
I say killed, but I don't know what truly became of the urchins who were taken. I never found a corpse, nor any sign of their deaths in the city's depths. There was only blood—sometimes, but not always at the scene of the previous attack; and, more often than not, very little.

I perceived the boy's abduction with all my senses. It happened—like the others—at night, not long after the first girl's disappearance. By then, unsettled and disoriented by the recent events, I had begun to behave more cautiously. I abandoned the silly pranks I once delighted in and focused solely on understanding what was happening—and especially on grasping the nature of the new predator that had entered my kingdom.
I can't say I was frightened, as perhaps I should have been. But I did feel a growing unease, a creeping disquiet that deepened each night. My sense of smell—my greatest ally in the dark—picked up only vague, uncertain traces of the creature. And my hearing caught nothing at all, except in those moments when it wanted to be heard, when it made noise on purpose... while attacking.

On the night that shattered the gang and drove them from the sewers for good, I was crouched beneath the great vault of the main collector channel in the Arena District, quietly watching. I had been following the urchins' movements with greedy attention, sensing the tension rising among them. They were loud, aggressive, shoving each other and hurling insults in increasingly colorful ways—so agitated, in fact, that they even forgot to speak in their wretched little slang!

Eventually, what began as shouting quickly escalated into a full-blown brawl.
On one side stood the leader and his loyal shadow—the blond boy who, as I would later learn, was his younger brother. Opposing them were the remaining seven, furious and afraid, demanding they abandon the sewers once and for all. The brothers refused, defiant and loud. Voices rose. Fists flew.
And then—it happened.
The vampire struck.

It had been waiting unseen in the Talos Plaza collector gallery, hidden in the shadows like venom coiled in silence. But the sound of conflict enraged it, perhaps... And then, it slithered, better said, flowed across the marble floor of the central room with impossible speed, moving like a serpent.

Near the brawling group, it halted abruptly, then contracted, instantly becoming much—much!— shorter than before, and sprang, striking with incredible force right in the middle of the scuffle, scattering the urchins around like mere wooden chips.

Dazed, each lay where the extraordinary impact had thrown them, and the vampire rose, becoming a bipedal entity once again, immensely tall and thin. It simply plucked the gang leader from the ground, tossed him over its shoulder, and then, moving swiftly and almost floating, vanished into the darkness of the Arena District's sewers.

It passed right by me as I watched in awe at the eerie display of strength and grace that had just occurred; I had never seen anything so brutal, so precise—I was fascinated, even envious! And as it slid past me—gliding, smooth, without a sound or breeze—it turned its face toward me.

I will never forget those simulacra of eyes, gazing at me from beyond the grave, from a world that barely exists! Or shouldn't exist at all...

They were like two blind, shuttered windows and didn't seem to see. They didn't even resemble eyes; no pupil, no spark, no life. And yet, in the dim, sepulchral light that clung to the tunnel walls, they conveyed something far more disturbing than mere emptiness. Or absence.

What I felt was an abyss—endless sorrow, a hollow without bottom. And something else: a thirst, perhaps... or hunger... or some terrible, primal need, the kind of compulsion that drives earthly beings to feed, to mate, to hunt and kill.

It vanished into the darkness along with his victim, who had begun to scream piercingly. But those screams were abruptly cut off, and for a few moments, all I could hear was silence. The kind that wraps around the bones and squeezes. The kind that hurts.

And then came the desperate yells of the other urchins, who scrambled to their feet, sprinting in blind terror through the great arch of the Talos Plaza District main collector channel gallery. None of them ever returned, at least not during the time I continued to live in the sewers.

Unbelievable as it may seem, I continued to live in the bowels of the Imperial City. No one disturbed me anymore, and I was only mildly concerned about what that terrifying entity might do next. I did not truly fear this embodiment of Hell—for whenever I thought of the vampire, all I had to do was clutch the amulet of the goddess Mara in my small fist, and strength, along with a strange confidence, would return to me.

I never moved into the central hall of the sewer system as I had once planned; it lay too close to the entrance through which the vampire had descended into the depths. So I remained in my little den, tucked at the dead end beneath the trading hall of the Merchant District.

The supplies and clothing left behind by the vanished urchins were enough to sustain me through that brutal cold spell that gripped the Imperial City. I even found money and a heap of cheap jewelry among the belongings left behind by those who had fled, with the horror of the world nestled deep in their hearts.

I would see that vampire only once more in my life, but that encounter was so strange that it deserves its own place in this story.

II

I was asleep, and dreaming—a deep sleep. Dreams moved like shadows behind a veil, vague and wordless, flashing one after another through the murk of my mind:

I dreamed of an ancient cemetery, overrun by vines and ivy, forgotten by men and even the gods. Sad, restless shadows drifted between crumbling tombstones, beneath the glare of a sun that burned wild and cruel in a deep, ominous sky. From among them, a tall and slender shade crept toward me. Its blind eyes turned to me—empty, searching, pleading.

Then I dreamed of a fortress-castle, perched atop a barren, jagged hill. Its pale walls gleamed strangely under a bloated red sun that stared down from the gray-black heavens. And though light poured from that sky, it was not the light of this world, but a primal radiance, like that it had once borne witness to the sundering of Lorkhan. Upon the highest tower stood a tall, slender knight clad in brilliant armor, his fist raised in defiance against the heavens.

Then came a third dream—or was it a vision?—of a storm raging through that same dark, primordial sky. Blinding bolts of lightning split the firmament, which pulsed rhythmically beneath a voice chanting an unspeakable incantation. The knight reached from his tower and caught one of the bolts in his grasp. Triumphantly, he lifted it above his head and cried out with joy and victory.

At last, I dreamed of a verdant land, overflowing with life and rushing, crystalline waters. Dense forests swayed with restless movement, teeming with wild animals and beautiful birds. People lived there—strong, healthy, and wild—alongside their children. I saw their rich flocks and fertile fields, planted with all manner of grains and vegetables. The sun, yellow and bright, shone from a high, open sky, and in that young light, those people fought fiercely among themselves, wielding weapons of red bronze that glinted mercilessly. And yes... that steep and once-barren hill stood there too, though now its slopes were covered in a dark, very dark forest of pines. At the summit, a crooked gray tower leaned within its ruined walls.

Oh! Right there, upon that ancient and mournful ruin, a purple star ignited—throbbing, wild—as though it might fall upon me at any moment!

I awoke, shaken and overcome with a sorrow I could not explain. Light surrounded me—and that frightened me more than anything. I turned, and terror gripped my soul. The vampire was there, just a few steps from my shelter, sniffing the air. In its left hand, it held a smoldering torch that cast a blinding glow through the subteranean gloom.

That moment, my heart didn't race—it slowed, as if my body knew: this was how prey felt. I learnt that just then.

We studied each other for a moment that felt like an eternity. The creature was tall, emaciated, shrouded in black, tattered clothes, stiff with dirt. It was barefoot, its feet covered with hair, more like thick fur. Long, claw-like fingers jutted from its gnarled hands. And its face... its face was horror itself. No eyes—just a coarse, ridged layer of skin. Its mouth was a jagged slit, lined with gleaming fangs that caught the torchlight. No nose, only gaping holes. Wild, abyss-black hair spilled over its hunched shoulders, and its breath smelled like a cathedral's forgotten, sealed-for-centuries crypt—not decay, but sacred rot.

I tensed like a cornered beast. Then, driven by instinct, I leapt forward, squeezing past the thin—oh, so thin!—body and the wall, scattering all the blankets and clothes that had wrapped around me. I didn't look back. I didn't care how it reacted. I just ran—ran as though Death itself were on my heels.

In mere seconds, I had run through the entire length of the dead-end gallery. I crossed the deadly trap without hesitation, guided by nothing but instinct. Only when I stopped, gasping and heart pounding, did I turn.

The vampire was right beside me.

The torch was gone. It was now on all fours, sniffing. Then it opened that cruel slit it called a mouth—and from within came a high-pitched, thin, pleading sound.

Terror flooded me. I crawled back, inch by inch, but the creature did not follow. It only knelt, sniffing the air, keening that unbearable, hollow lament.

Every fiber of me, every instinct, screamed: 'Run!! Run until the very End of the World, if that's what it takes!' But I was frozen—paralyzed not by fear alone, but by something more. And so, I stayed.

I watched the terror for a while. Then something broke inside me. The dread began to unravel—into calm, then into something odd: Acceptance. And a strong need to understand.

I crouched low, watching it; watching this nightmarish creature until my fear melted into fascination. Then, slowly, hesitantly, I reached out.

My hand met only the void.

The vampire was gone.

Yet I knew it had been real. I did not even flinch when I felt it behind me. This time, however, it was silent. It stood, tall and spectral, watching me for a moment longer. Then, without a sound, it turned and drifted away, vanishing into the depths of the sewer; behind it left something like a faint spiritual vibration: not memory or thought, but... sorrow. Endless, soundless sorrow.

In the deep silence reigning after its departure, my amulet hummed—three notes, like a lullaby forgotten by time.

III

The encounter with the abyssal entity drained me like a feverish dream—I was left hollow, stretched thin inside my own skin. I spent days practically lying low after that strange, dark event. I ate and slept; I slept deeply, without dreams—or at least without dreams I could remember. Each time I awoke from that leaden sleep, I felt rested and stronger. Fear no longer haunted me, and I did not hesitate when faint flute tunes and murmurs of distant laughter echoed through the underground. I went straight to investigate the source of the noise.

New guests had settled in the sewers of the great city, this time beneath the Arena District. They were adults—ragged and frightening, with hoarse voices and cruel eyes—spending their nights in the galleries, but always returning to their activities in the capital by day. Men and women alike—beggars and thieves, people who wouldn't hesitate to kill for a handful of coins. They weren't organized, but the terrible winter that had fallen upon the Imperial City had forced them together, much like wolves.

I avoided provoking them, yet I found a peculiar pleasure in spying on their lively gatherings, their rambling conversations, and the restless, troubled sleep of the drunk. I would creep close to them, listening in on their talks; each night, I slinked among the snoring, groaning bodies as they sank into the murky waters of sleep, haunted by alcohol and skooma. I stepped with the utmost care, sniffing past their grimy clothes, trying to deduce from the smell whether they were men or women. Then I would return to my little den and sleep.

I ate and I slept.

Well-fed and rested, soothed by the peculiar amusement these new guests provided, I felt my body—and more importantly, my soul—fully recover from the terrible shock that had exhausted them. I was beginning to understand that the world was far more complex than it had first seemed; the encounter with that terrifying entity had toughened my spirit and planted a seed within me: the desire to understand at least some of the strange things that happened daily around us. Moreover, a question had emerged in my young mind—small at first, but alive and sharp: 'What else lives in the dark?'

The newcomers to my domain kept to themselves, neither disturbing me nor crossing into the deeper tunnels beneath the Arena District. But it hardly mattered, for one night, shortly before winter's end, a platoon of warrior monks descended into the tunnels and slaughtered them all. I was there, witnessing the entire massacre. The monks came with torches, clubs, spears, and swords, showing no mercy as they butchered everyone who slept there, exhausted from the day's crimes. The Order members then carried all the mangled bodies out of the sewers, and silence returned once more to the underground.

During the cleansing, my amulet grew warm as blood seeped into the cracks between stones—not in horror, but in recognition. It also reacted with a faint vibration, and in my mind resonated a sultry voice: 'You are not like them! You are not prey but the darkness' daughter, and the twilight adores you, kitten!' 

I was sad when it happened—it stole the only game I had left in those dark galleries. But I soon found solace, slipping into my imagination and dreams whenever I felt bored.

Not that I had much time left in the subterranean realm, for winter ended as abruptly as it had begun. One night, a warm, fragrant breeze swept through the great city, and by morning, the sun blazed wildly in a high, clear sky. The snow vanished with startling speed, and the sewers flooded with gushing waters, rushing toward their destination, Lake Rumare.

I emerged from the depths like a little rat—soaked, reeking, caught off guard by the rising tide in my cozy lair... yet very much alive, and eager to taste the world once more!

The great city suddenly awoke under the warm spring sunlight. Yet this awakening unfolded under the worst possible circumstances, as the melting snow exacerbated the famine that had long reigned in the capital. Travel along the Empire's roads, now turned into veritable swamps, came to a halt, and all human activities across the realm ceased. Even the dreadful war that had ravaged the Empire's eastern territories came to a standstill, and, as I learned later—much later—diplomats from the two warring states held a first meeting during this period. An armistice was signed, dignitaries exchanged polite, artful words while embracing each other—meanwhile, both armies, sunk in the mud, stood watching each other with weary suspicion, waiting.

The slow thawing of the ice that had gripped Lake Rumare in an unyielding embrace was a spectacle worth watching—oh, it held the water captive for so long and was so thick that when it finally began to crack and shift, it did so in a terrible, treacherous way! All the ships trapped by the frost in the Imperial City's harbor suffered terribly during this period—two even succumbed to the pressure, sinking and further disrupting the port activity long after the last shards of ice had drifted away and the lake cleared.

As a young and healthy being, I was swept up by the joy that accompanies the sunlit days of this season. The warm wind that constantly blew from the south, carrying at first only the dense smells of the city awakening from its long winter sleep, and later the intoxicating scents of a reviving nature, filled me with restlessness and a yearning for life. At times, I ached to run wild across green meadows and under beautiful trees of the city's parks!

Yet the blinding light of spring, the wide-open spaces filled with enchanting scents, and the crowded, noisy streets did not suit me well after the time I spent in darkness and silence. Moreover, my small winter shelter was now unusable, and having lost all my meager possessions to the waters that flooded the city's underground, I was forced to struggle anew for survival. And even though I was much more experienced than a year prior, the general situation in the capital had changed drastically. Over the cold season, Stendarr's Order had managed to eliminate most of the city's vagrants, both adults and children, and I had now to compete with the elite of this social class, with true urban survivors, all ruthless and highly skilled.

At the same time, the growing poverty that wrapped the city's people in a tattered shroud—heralding a famine of unprecedented proportions—only worsened and complicated my life. So, instead of enjoying the warm, generous sun, the fragrant spring breeze, and nature's rebirth like any child might in normal times, I was once again plunged into the relentless fight for survival!

Finding a quiet and hidden place to rest and dream became a daily ordeal. My habit of sleeping during the day and prowling at night served me well, though. I snuck into various cellars—especially those of craftsmen in the Merchant District—and usually managed to rest undisturbed in those dark, damp places. Undisturbed by people, at least, for the dampness that plagued the city until summer seeped into my small, frail body, filling my young bones with cold and pain. But exhaustion always won in the end, and I slept, regaining the strength I needed for the endless struggle fate had chosen for me.

During that time, obtaining the daily food had become a daunting task for most inhabitants of the Imperial City. Even wealthy traders or skilled craftsmen from the Merchant District sometimes had nothing more than oat porridge with a few scraps of meat floating in it for lunch... Ah, the meat of those times! I shudder at the memory; throughout my tumultuous life, I've often eaten things that might seem inedible or plain repulsive to most people, but the meat sold at exorbitant prices during that troubled spring in the capital's markets was particularly suspect! Fish was in high demand, and when Lake Rumare finally thawed enough for the fishermen to venture out, they made small fortunes. The homes of the rich were now tightly guarded, and even in their vast kitchens, cooks sometimes shrugged helplessly, unable to prepare the lavish meals their masters were accustomed to. Yet it was precisely their pantries and storehouses that became my most reliable food source until the first merchant ships managed to sail up the Niben and reach the Imperial City's port.

The black market for food experienced an unstoppable boom—one that even Stendarr's well-organized and ruthless Order struggled to suppress. Most southern merchants preferred selling their goods to speculators prowling the port like predators. These men bought up every shipment brought up the Niben, offering prices far higher than any local trader could afford.

As a result, the city's markets were suddenly flooded with outrageously expensive food. "Flooded" may be too strong a word for what happened, but, despite the famine ravaging the capital, those goods did linger in market stalls for days—unbought, unaffordable. It wasn't long before starving and furious crowds began attacking the stalls of the speculators, killing vendors and taking the food by force.

The Order intervened in force, and for a time, the Imperial City teetered on the edge of civil war. When the first starving citizens were hanged in the Arena—which had quickly become the Order's preferred place of execution—angry mobs armed with whatever they could find, sharp or not, began launching open attacks on the warrior monks' patrols. Suddenly, the citizens came to see the Order not as a protector, but as an enemy. The monks, lacking true military training and being, in truth, little more than sanctified thugs, were overwhelmed in the first large-scale clash, and the people won. Then the crowds seized the fallen monks' weapons, and within days, Emperor Titus Mede II found himself besieged in his own palace.

The commander of the City Guard refused to order his crossbowmen to fire on the famished crowd, which clamored to speak with the emperor; his replacement also declined any hostile action against the ragged and hostile masses; several platoons of monks from the Order melted away like the winter snows when they were sent against the desperate front lines of the people gathered in the imperial palace's plaza. And one light cavalry squadron, the capital's only mounted military unit, was surrounded by the mob and forced to retreat step by step—their horses too—in the Imperial Palace's great hall.

The armed citizens did not follow. Instead, they remained outside, massed beneath the palace walls, loudly demanding that the emperor show himself and hear their grievances. And so, Emperor Titus Mede II stepped onto the balcony and promised the starving people bread and new laws.

And he really did try to keep the promises he made on that restless spring day! For Titus Mede II, that weak yet kind emperor, truly loved his people. But everything, absolutely everything, was against him! The greedy southern Dominion, the inept ministers on his small council, the greed and corruption that poisoned the hearts of so-called entrepreneurs, the betrayals of some provincial nobles, and even the strange weather patterns of those terrible years in Cyrodiil—all these eroded the already fragile foundations of the Empire.

The Grand Council passed law after law in the days that followed, and for a time, food prices stabilized. Government officials began buying goods directly from the ships that docked in the harbor and then redistributed them to the local traders who were to sell the food at prices fixed by law. But soon, the greedy merchants arriving from distant lands decided that the emperor's offer was too low; tempted by the local speculators' cartel, many began unloading their cargo in secret, along the shores of Lake Rumare. From there, the goods were smuggled into the city and stored in private, secret warehouses—some near the docks, others deep in the Merchant District.

What followed was a brutal campaign: the Order of Stendarr fought a relentless war against these smugglers and speculators, whose cruel goal was to strangle the city's markets. It was a fierce, evenly matched struggle, and it only ended when the imperial land routes were finally reopened, rescuing the government and population from what had seemed a hopeless situation.

For me, it was a harsh and dangerous time. The Order's patrols roamed the streets day and night, raiding warehouses and searching every corner where food might be hidden. I had to rely on every trick and instinct I had learned to survive in the chaos, but true respite only came when the sewers became livable again.

Without a space to call my own—no matter how filthy—I was constantly on edge. The endless raids and street skirmishes shattered my sleep. I couldn't stash food or even a spare set of clothes, and I became once more a skeletal, ragged creature with feverish eyes and an empty mind—a small predator, hunting through an urban jungle that honed my instincts and etched the fight for survival by any means into my soul forever!

But summer arrived! Much earlier than expected... The food shortage in the capital gradually eased, and in the end, the crisis resolved itself. Drawn by rumors of the great famine and hoping for high profits, many a merchant flooded the city's markets with goods; with the recent truce in effect, even the wealthy county of Anvil was supplying the metropolis, and all these soothed the citizens and allowed them to settle back into their familiar routines, finally.

I returned to my old hideout beneath the Great Market of the Imperial City. In no time, I recovered physically; ah, youth has its own silent and irreplaceable magic! Given food and rest—the bare necessities of all mortal creatures—it revives even the most depleted yet healthy bodies.

And so it came to pass that summer held the land in fevered clasp, hot and withered, whispering of woes yet to come upon the Empire, though cloaked in fair deceit. The breath of day grew thick as stewed vapours, the air as still as sleep. At midday, you could sometimes catch glimpses of the cheerful, unsettling ghosts of arid Elsweyr, shimmering and swaying through the empty streets. The poor souls and toiling folk did trudge nearly naked beneath the sun's cruel eye, which hung aloof in heaven's pale and faded dome—so pale it often seemed to fade into grey.

Rain never came. One by one, the city's wells ran dry as their lifeblood slipped further into the earth's unseen veins. Even Lake Rumare withdrew, inch by inch, until one day I found myself stepping out from the sewers onto land once claimed by its depths. The main spillway—part of the Talos District's drainage system—was long, very long, and once protected by thick bronze grates. But centuries of restless waters had eaten through the metal, and now the tunnel gaped open like a forgotten gate, not into the lake's depths, but onto a beach of fine white sand, nestled at the base of high, hollowed cliffs.

It is astonishing what can be found in such a place: rusted swords half-buried in the sand and jagged like broken fangs, shattered urns spilling their last dust into the dirt, bones cracked and gnawed by time itself, and many other countless shards of forgotten lives. The centuries that had passed over the Imperial City had composed here a silent elegy and painted a fantastic fresco — a testament to the cruelty, tenderness, and folly of all those who had once walked these shores.

It was a true museum of Man and Mer!

And yet, there was nothing to admire, at least for someone like me. Everything—absolutely everything—was nothing more than a hollow tribute to the vanity of fleeting mortal lives upon these beautiful and cruel lands. And the little predator I had become did not linger to ponder such futility. There was nothing to eat among these remnants, and not even a scrap of usable clothing!

So I contented myself with a long swim in the lake's warm waters, beneath the serene glow of Masser. O, sweetest of solace—bathing in star-kissed water! That night, I vowed to seek such bliss wheresoe'er warmth and depth waters conspired to meet. Just as a wood-born siren might—free, wild, and unbound.

I did not return to the capital's sewers; in my subteranean kingdom, the stench had grown unbearable, and the heat had turned all its galleries into suffocating, airless crypts. Instead, I spent most of that summer wandering the lands around the Imperial City and its outskirts. So I visited many of the nearby villages, little hamlets nestled beneath sleepy hills, and roadside inns, prowling and hunting — always watching, always listening. Day after day, with bare feet and bright eyes, I roamed the dusty roads around the Empire's capital—I came and went like a breeze with no name yet with a clear purpose in mind. And I was free and healthy and happy; those were ones of my happiest days in my life!

Most of the villagers, unlike the wary folk of the city, were simpler and far more generous, and I soon discovered, to my great delight, that a smile wrapped in sorrow, some crocodile tears and a few carefully chosen words, preferably whispered with downcast eyes and a trembling voice, could buy me bread, and on occasion, even cheese or fruit. Yet their kindness and gullibility never kept me from spying on them from the shadows, eavesdropping, and stealing—stealing only as a game because I was not truly hungry, not for food, and certainly not for friendship.

I was delighted—yes, truly!—by slipping into their homes during the day, while they toiled in the fields, or at night, when the entire family slept the deep, sweet sleep of those who earn their living by the sweat of their brows—just to play a little with them. Sometimes I would shift their belongings ever so slightly: a comb out of place, a knife turned the wrong way, a single sock gone missing—nothing more! And I also left occasional faint footprints in the dust, or the soft scent of jasmine or nightshade on their pillows, whispering to them in their sleep, nonsense mostly: words without meaning. Or syllables carried on the hush of breath... They would not recall them come morning, no — but they would feel them, and that was enough.

I did not wish them harm, my friends! Truly, I did not! I just liked... being close. There was such joy, such wicked, trembling delight, in listening to their dreams shift beneath my voice, in seeing their limbs twitch ever so slightly, in feeling — though they never knew it — the heat of their pulse against my palms as I stood close enough to touch, but never did. 

And soon enough, they began weaving stories of ghosts visiting their homes, muttering in low voices over mugs of ale at the tavern.
I would sit nearby, head lowered, listening to their frightened babble with quiet delight.
They spoke with such seriousness, such worry—and I could barely stop myself from laughing!

Charming whispers inside my little mind kept telling me that I was doing clever, funny, interesting deeds — and that what I took with my own hands was always far more precious than anything freely given. Sometimes the Voice would speak even sweeter things. It told me that everything in the world was mine by right, that I could take and play and wander where I pleased, for those people—those simple creatures—were, in truth, my subjects.

And the Voice, that warm and silken thing coiled deep within my mind — neither mine nor wholly foreign — would often murmur at dusk, when the world held its breath and I walked barefoot beneath the young stars. "They sleep," it would purr, "because they are merely mortal. But you, my little kitten, you prowl and watch and hunt. You slip between breaths and locks, between the slivers of time where no one else dares dwell. They belong to the sun — and they die. But you, my darling, you are twilight's beloved daughter."

As I said, I never meant harm. Yet I didn't ponder the consequences of my actions — not when the whispers praised and justified my every deed, wrapping my mischief in layers of meaning and mystery. "But what is the harm," the Voice would murmur, just as Secunda rose high over the sleeping land, casting silver shadows across the fields and forests, "when the world lies at your feet, and you— yes, you—are its rightful monarch?"

Now I know better.
Lies. All lies — shameless, poisonous, sweet lies... and so many temptations, each laid like priceless pearls along the path my beloved Mistress Nocturnal wove for me — knowing all too well how easily my poor, wild, and young—oh, so young!—soul would follow their shimmer into shadow.

There was one exception, though.  Among the many inns scattered across the Red Ring Road, there was one where the innkeeper—a woman past her youth but rich in laughter and care—truly seemed to like me. Whenever I crossed her threshold, thin and dusty from the road, she greeted me not with suspicion, but with small, sweet cakes dusted in sugar, or a warm cup of milk, or—on occasion—a piece of soft, nice clothing. Oh, her eyes were always full of warmth and kindness, and I was always welcome there, free to curl up and sleep wherever I pleased!

She even asked me—more than once—to stay. To live with her family, to have a place, a bed, a name that someone might call gently in the morning. But I didn't tell her my true name; I was too wild—even feral—and unused to kindness or love. The very thought of someone drawing close to me filled me with dread. And so, despite the free food and the undisturbed rest I found in her care, I eventually stopped visiting because I couldn't bear the feeling of being treated gently.
And yet, something inside me—something faint and deeply hidden—resonated with those quiet gestures of goodwill. Perchance that's why, out of all the places I wandered around the Imperial City, hers was the only one I never stole from.

I also paid a visit — or rather, a series of visits — to the vast refugee camp that had sprung up southwest of the Imperial City, nestled along the shores of Lake Rumare, near the point where the road to Skingrad first winds into the forested hills. The people there had made something of a life for themselves. A proper village had risen just like a stubborn weed from stone — the land cleared, the soil tilled, and the settlers bent all day long over the land the Emperor generously had granted them. They were well-organized, I'll give them that. And despite the great cemetery that loomed not far beyond the camp, filled with the victims of the cruel winter just passed, the residents seemed cheerful and content. But oh, there was no innocence there! Unlike the villagers of the true countryside, who greeted me with bread and trust, these folk had the eyes of those who had seen the edge of ruin and vowed never to look back. They were harsh, tight-fisted, endlessly industrious — and obsessed, yes, obsessed! — with the idea of gaining wealth. You could feel it in the air they breathed: the ambition, the stinginess, the hunger. And I was delighted; here were not gentle hands and warm hearths, but prey. Perfect, amusing little prey for the predator I had become.

When I stole from kind hearts, I admit there sometimes came a faint twinge — a soft, gnawing little thing that flitted through me like a shadow on the wall. Never enough to stop me from taking whatever caught my eye, but just enough to unsettle me—a bit.

But in this new village, there was no such discomfort. No remorse. Here, I unleashed myself!

I stole with impunity. I stirred mischief just for the thrill of it.
Many of my bad, very bad, deeds had no real purpose beyond my own amusement.
I went so far that the villagers set up nightly watchmen to catch me, only making the game more exciting, sharpening the wild instincts that often overtook me.

For a while, I had tremendous fun!

Until the Order's patrols arrived.

And with them came the dogs.

Not the village curs with missing fur and eyes like puddles — no. These were creatures bred for war, trained to hunt in the dark, never abandon their prey, and tear it limb from limb.

Oh, how I loathed them!

From the very depths of my soul!

So I ran away. I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, barefoot and breathless, until the last bark faded behind me and the fields gave way to stone. I did not look back — not once. There are times, you see, when wisdom takes the shape of flight, and even the proudest spirit must yield to the terror of fangs trained upon flesh.

Thus, I returned to the capital. I found that I had missed it — the crowded streets, the ceaseless murmur, the peculiar rhythm of a city that never truly slept. The Imperial City, my City, that grand and lumbering beast of marble and filth, gold and grime, greeted me with open arms and unrelenting motion. Things were... better. The great drought had begun to loosen its grip, and the people — always resilient, ever adaptable — had made peace with the Order of Stendarr. I, too, was forced to admit — though not without a certain grimace — that the monks had done more good than ill, at least within the ring of the capital. Their rule was strict, but not cruel. Order had returned to the chaos, and with it came bread — and, wonder of wonders, even a little butter to melt into the crust. There was beer, too. So much beer, in fact, that it flowed more freely than water in those days of parched fountains and cracked stone cisterns.

And yet, amid the bustle, there crept uneasy whispers. The war — that old, limping beast — had risen once more, dragging its iron and fire limbs across the land, and Anvil, our great western port, had fallen to the elves. But it seemed the Dominion had stretched itself too thin this time, for their triumph was swiftly followed by exhaustion, and as the leaves yellowed and autumn's first blessed rain kissed the scorched earth, a peace treaty was signed.

The people breathed easier, and the Empire licked its wounds and straightened its back. Despite the defeat, the imperial army paraded proudly through Talos Plaza District, and for the first time in my life, I beheld an Iron Legion. Gods, what a sight it was!

Towering men with golden hair and blue, northern eyes; their beards thick, their steps thunderous, their armor gleaming in the weak light of the autumnal sun. Sons of Skyrim, every one of them — proud, grim, magnificent! They marched like heroes from some forgotten age, and as I stood among the cheering crowd, my little heart pounded with something I did not yet understand.

I was not one to be stirred by crowds or flags or glory. I stole from these people. I feared them. I mocked them. But as I gazed upon those iron-clad titans, some part of me — something strange and tender—reached out. I didn't understand back then, but now I know: it was the call of my Nordic blood.

I even dreamed, for one fleeting moment, that the handsome captain near the front — broad-shouldered, sun-kissed, wild-eyed—might glance down, see me, and lift me up into his arms.

Of course, he didn't.

None of them saw the small, unkempt figure at the edge of the crowd, with golden curls tangled like weeds and eyes the very color of their own.

But I cheered with the rest — perhaps louder than most—swept up in that illusion of safety, of grandeur, of steel-clad guardians standing firm between us and the darkness rising from the south.

A brief, dazzling interlude followed in the life of the great city — so short, so strangely golden, that even now, when I look back, I wonder whether it was real or simply a season I dreamed.

Talos Plaza bloomed like a garden in celebration. Day after day, the people feasted in the streets, laughing and dancing beneath garlands of lanterns that swayed gently in the autumn breeze. The Arboretum, too, took on the air of a sanctified festival — there, the priests of all gods, each draped in the colors of their cult, lifted their voices in songs of thanksgiving. Their chants rose to meet a sky painted in softest gold and pale lavender, a sky that seemed — for once — to listen.

Peace had come.

And with it, abundance: there was bread, oil, and beer enough for all — even the poorest could eat without shame or fear. The Order's patrols walked without arms, garlanded with flowers by laughing children and old women alike. For a fleeting span, it felt as though the city had remembered how to breathe.

As for me... I, too, basked in this strange, gentle light.

My wild wanderings slowed. The sharpness of my instincts — honed through hunger, flight, and secrecy—began to dull, like the edge of a blade long unused. I had grown careless. Too comfortable.

I no longer barred the manholes near my little hidden den beneath the city's skin. I spent fewer hours crouched in shadows and more in idle dawdling. But with the same old discipline — half-instinct, half ritual — I began preparing my subterranean home for the cold that would surely return.

Clothes, thick blankets... and pillows. Ah, pillows! As I speak these words — an old rogue grown slow and solemn — I can confess this without shame: I love pillows. There is something sacred in them, I think. Even now, when I sleep—alone, yes, always alone—I find myself clutching a large, soft pillow to my chest, like a child clasping her first and final treasure.

Hm, that's strange, isn't it?
That, after all I've seen and heard, after all the blood, the murders, the tricks, the thefts, the lies, and the whispers in the dark—it is that softness, and not steel, that still brings me peace.

Yet all this carefreeness, all this foolish softness, eventually drew predators. Not the big ones—the kind that wear armor and drink wine.

No.
But the small, hungry kind. The kind that remembers.

And when they spotted a slim, restless figure moving in and out of the sewers, it didn't take long for their grief to become certainty.

That small golden-haired boy, still young enough to cry at night, old enough to sharpen his vengeance into steel—the one who had once adored his sibling and listened with awe to his tales spun in the marble palace where they had temporarily resided in the previous winter—had come to a grim conclusion after hearing the reports from his gang fellows.

'I was the ghost that haunted their nights.
The thief of their food.
The one who had lured his brother to his death.'

So he hunted me and set a trap—a trap I fell into, with no hope of escape.

They lay in wait for me on a rainy, cold autumn night, by all three manholes through which I usually made my way out of my little nest. When I left my den to prowl the city, the urchins threw a fishing net over me—a piece of a trawl. Then they beat me mercilessly, slashed me with their small, wicked serrated blades, and would have certainly killed me in the end if my savior hadn't appeared.

Rasha, the young and handsome Khajiit who saved me that night from the jaws of death, was on his way home to his parents' house. As I found out later—much later—when he glimpsed, through the light fog veiling the city in its cold, damp shroud, the struggle I was caught in—helpless, with no way out—he was sorely tempted to keep walking and mind his own business, to avoid the trouble that wasn't his. After all, my beloved Rasha had never been a hero or a knight in shining armor, like the ones from the stories my dear mother Kiersten used to tell me. But, as he later confessed, my screams echoing into the night—like the last strains of a life about to fade—caught his attention. Something inside him, beyond reason or habit, twisted his path and pulled him—compelled him, as my dear brother Rasha would say—to come to my aid.

Now, as I write these words, I see him clearly once more: a tall, muscular young Khajiit, his long cloak billowing in the wind, a short, black sword raised above his head. The urchins tormenting me were not quick to abandon their prey, but he leapt into their midst like a wolf among rats, and the little predators stood no chance. I glimpsed the flash of blades and heard brief cries, muffled by the rain. Then, cutting the net that bound me, he lifted me in his strong arms as if I were no more than a wounded bird.

And I—bloody, dazed, in pain and terror—bit him. Scratched him.
Over and over.
But he only tightened his grip gently and carried me, still squirming and crying, to safety.

To warmth.
To his parents' house.
To a new life.

Chapter Text

So, I was lucky enough to be adopted by Rasha's family. A special, warm, and joyful Khajiit family!

And then... happiness and joy: sunny days filled with laughter, endless races through the grassy fields with my new brothers and sisters; strange-tasting food at first, but soon a world of unimaginable delicacies!

I slept among them, cradled in their soft, fluffy arms.
I played, laughed, and sometimes even fought with my new siblings.
On quiet, golden evenings, I would often sit together with the kitties, listening to our father Ra'ha's wonderful stories and jokes. Many nights, he would lounge among us, gently stroking their fur—or my hair—and planting tender kisses on our foreheads until the sweet sleep embraced our so happy souls.

I remember our mother, Shaira, sometimes watching from a shadowed corner, her sharp, yellow eyes gleaming in the dark, always alert, always attentive. Oh, she ruled us all with a firm hand—except for Rasha, her most beloved son, who could bend her will with nothing but a smile!

Those were the happiest days of my life, spent among that kind family who welcomed me as one of their own!

Now, as I write this, my mother and father, my brothers and sisters—they are gone...
All of them. Vanished, as if they had never existed!
And yet, I'd like to believe that as long as I live, my beloved parents and siblings are not truly lost.
I know their souls linger within me, struggling to be heard—in my tears, in my laughter, in my memories... even in the quietest whispers of my heart.

Back then, though, happiness—and especially acceptance—did not come easily to me.

I was deeply intimidated by the near-constant presence of that strange being, as I thought of her at first: my dear mother Shaira. Until then, I had never been so close to a Khajiit. Her yellow eyes, her soft fur, the swift, silent grace of her every movement—all of it unsettled me deeply.

As if that weren't enough, some of the many children from the family that had so gently, so unexpectedly taken me in would often sneak into my room. Our mother Shaira forbade it, of course—but you know how hard it is to keep a Khajiit from going wherever they please...

They were warm, curious, and full of kindness.
But I was like a cornered animal, shaped by a year of hardship.
And they... they were so different—and above all, far too gentle.
Their kindness frightened me.

Fortunately, I couldn't react as my instincts urged me to—I was too badly injured, my body broken by the dreadful beating I had endured.
So, I surrendered.
I let them care for me, wrap me in their warmth and tenderness.
At first, I did so reluctantly. But over time, their signs of love became like a much-needed drug.

I remember something funny—and telling. One day, our father Ra'ha brought a young Khajiit doctor to tend to me. Even now, I smile, remembering how our mother Shaira's eyes narrowed the moment they stepped inside—a silent warning, sharp as a blade. And Ra'ha? Ra'ha understood instantly; without a word, he turned and left, taking the doctor with him.
When he returned, he brought another physician — this time, a human, an Imperial citizen.

Throughout the time I lay helpless, tormented by the excruciating pain that tore through my body and soul, I was exceptionally well cared for.

I remember waking in the dead of night, crying out in agony—and Shaira was always there, soothing me with potions the doctor had provided. The little ones would bring me toys and sweets, while our father spared no expense on doctors and medicine. Their devotion was unwavering. Priceless.

Even now, after so many years, I still cannot understand what I ever did to deserve it!

However, my beloved Mistress Nocturnal might know something about this. But whenever I ask, She only feigns ignorance... and giggles shamelessly.

As I slowly recovered, I began to observe those who often visited my room.

First came my mother, Shaira—a middle-aged Khajiit, rather tall for her kind, slender rather than stout, and always carrying herself with an upright, commanding posture. Her hands, though firm, were skilled and comforting. Her eyes, sharp and watchful, held no malice—only the quiet authority of one who had spent a lifetime shaping the world around her.

Then there was Rasha.
He would often slip into my room, silent as a shadow. He never spoke to me—only sat and watched, his gaze steady and unreadable.
Sometimes, when Shaira wasn't looking, he would gently stroke my hair, letting it slide through his fingers.
Strangely enough, I was never afraid of Rasha—not even back then, when the swarm of kittens buzzing around me felt overwhelming.
That alone spoke volumes about him—and what was destined to happen between us.
Because anyone else would have feared him.
Rasha was young, cruel, strong, and rarely smiled.
Even his own family—except for Shaira—seemed to avoid him whenever they could.
There was something about him... something coiled tight beneath his skin, like a beast waiting to be unleashed.
But it was his eyes that struck me most: cold, unreadable.
Eyes like his, I would only see again many years later, far from this place—somewhere north of the Jerall Mountains...

Our father, Ra'ha, rarely visited while I was ill. Yet whenever he entered my room, I always recognized him by the lightness of his step and the warmth shining in his gaze.

As for my numerous brothers and sisters, I couldn't yet tell them apart. Some would leave sweets on my bedside table; others simply watched me from afar, their yellow eyes wide with curiosity.

Then, one day—a day when a terrible blizzard howled outside, rattling the windows of my room—I managed to get out of bed and take a few hesitant steps. From somewhere deep within the house came laughter, shouts, and exclamations of joy. But to me, any unfamiliar sound spelled danger—a lesson I learnt in the Imperial City's bowels.

Despite the dizziness clouding my thoughts, I slipped out of the room, softly closing the door behind me.
The noises seemed to come from below, so I began descending the wooden staircase.
The steps were steep and narrow.
Each movement was a struggle, but I couldn't stop.
I had to find out what was happening.
Who was making those sounds?
Why?
And if necessary... I would run. Hide. Try to escape!

With every step, the noises grew clearer, layering over the relentless howl of the blizzard outside.
Together, they formed a strange, unsettling symphony—one that set my nerves on edge, sharpening my instincts like a blade.

I pressed forward, devoured by terror—only to find myself, suddenly and completely, at the heart of one of the most exuberant family gatherings imaginable. As I would later learn, that day marked a major religious celebration for the Khajiit people: the Day of the Cat Mother, as they call Nocturnal—at least here, in Cyrodiil. Coincidentally, it was also our father Ra'ha's birthday.

I froze, hoping to slip by unnoticed, but that was impossible. A human, no matter how skilled or gifted, cannot sneak past a Khajiit—let alone an entire gathering of them, even when they are fully engrossed in one of their favorite pastimes.

The truth was, they had sensed me the moment I left my room.
Yet none of them reacted in any special way.
To them, I was already family, and the doctor had informed them I would soon be able to move around again.
As my dear mother Shaira would later explain, they saw my recovery manifesting on such an auspicious day as a good omen—nothing more.

But for me, it was an utterly shocking experience. Amid their joyous celebration, one of the smaller kittens turned toward me, his bright eyes gleaming with excitement.

"Look! The human cub is awake!" he shouted, then darted toward me with open arms.

Every head in the room snapped in my direction.
Under the weight of their curious gazes, I felt exposed. Defenseless.
Panic surged through me like ice water.
I was terrified.
My instincts screamed at me to run—to vanish into some dark corner and hide there until the danger had passed!
I turned sharply and tried to flee—but my legs gave way.
The room spun. Pain seared through my body.
And I collapsed onto the thickly carpeted floor.
My vision blurred, and just before unconsciousness took me, I dimly recognized the feeling of strong arms lifting me. 

Rasha—His presence, steady and unyielding.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard our mother's voice, sharp with anger, but the words melted into the haze of my mind.

Then—darkness.

When I awoke, I was back in my bed.

Rasha had carried me here—I knew that. He was there, looking at me with yellow, cruel eyes.
Rasha had been gentle... careful. Why?

Nebulous thoughts swirled through my fevered mind. And then, suddenly, I understood.

'Oh... it was Rasha. He cares for me. He always protects me!'

Then came the pain—sharp and relentless—followed by the fever, wrapping me in its smothering heat.

Moments later, Shaira entered, her expression unreadable as she began tending to one of my reopened wounds. A little while after that, Ra'ha appeared. His touch was featherlight as he stroked my hair, his warm, kind eyes watching over me.

But then, Shaira turned to them. She spoke—her tone calm, yet firm—and asked them both to leave. Ra'ha... and Rasha.

I tried to protest.
I wept.
In a broken whisper, I begged her to let Rasha stay.

Shaira merely patted my head, closed the door behind them, and then... she spoke again.
She said many things.
Her voice was steady. Unwavering.
But in my fever-ridden mind, only one message remained:

'You must not be afraid. No one—absolutely no one—in this house wishes you harm. And under no circumstances are you to leave this bed until the doctor sees you again.'

Then she brought me two large mugs of milk sweetened with honey.
The second one had a dash of sleeping powder mixed in.
Soon after, the world faded away once more.

Many days passed before I regained my strength.
Before my body—and more importantly, my soul—began to heal.
Shaira cared for me with unwavering devotion.
Her hands were skilled and her will—unbreakable.

Ra'ha would visit occasionally, his voice warm, weaving jokes and short stories into the quiet air of my room. His kind smile was a balm for my weary heart.

Rasha came often. But, as always, he never spoke. He would simply sit there, his intense and cruel gaze fixed on me. And yet, somehow, his presence alone healed me more than Shaira's patient hands or Ra'ha's comforting words. More than their kindness. More than their warmth.
I felt as if I were drawing strength from Rasha's cold stare. Through all those long days, when everyone else surrounded me with tenderness, he never smiled.
Yet he was the only one I wasn't afraid of.

I vividly recall a bright winter morning when my body was nearly whole again.

It was Rasha's birthday, and the entire house buzzed with quiet excitement. I was still confined to my bed, but Shaira and Rasha came to sit with me, allowing me to share in the joy of the day.

Our mother brought a tray laden with treats, and under the golden light of the morning sun, my room filled with the rich, warm aroma of spices. The gentle sunlight, filtering through the window, wrapped me in its embrace, almost as tender as Shaira's healing hands. Drowsy, heavy-eyed, I drifted between wakefulness and sleep, lulled by the warmth, the scents, and the comfort of Rasha's presence.

And then, the peace of my room was broken by a soft, hurried sound—the pitter-patter of tiny feet darting across the floor. I turned my head just in time to see a very young Khajiit struggling to place a small, clumsily wrapped package on my nightstand. Slightly embarrassed, she gave me an awkward smile, and in that instant, I almost forgot my fear, captivated by the small gift and the adorable cub who had brought it. I smiled back and reached out toward her, but before I could utter a word, she vanished out the door like a tiny, graceful shadow, her cute grey tail waving with a hint of worry.

In that fleeting moment, something stirred within me—a fragile, hesitant longing to stay. To belong among these strange, warm-hearted beings.

Shaira and Rasha were both watching me. She, visibly concerned; he, as cold and impassive as ever. But when they saw me smile—just a shy, uncertain smile—they suddenly burst into laughter.

"You should scold Elira, Mother," Rasha said, still laughing.

Oh, how rare it was to see him like that... I think it was the very first time I had the privilege of seeing Rasha truly happy. So young, so strong—and, for a moment, so kind...

"Her name is Elira? Could I play with her? Or at least talk to her?" I asked, my voice trembling with hope and fear.

They both sighed, the tension lifting from their shoulders. Shaira reached out and gently stroked my hair, her touch featherlight, her voice warm:

"Soon, little one. Soon you will talk and play with all the children in the house."

And then she smiled—oh, what a smile it was! Gentle, reassuring, as if she could see a wonderful future unfolding.

"Even the father might be willing to play with you," she added, a twinkle in her eye.

And she hadn't been exaggerating in the slightest. Our father, Ra'ha, was perhaps the most playful and jovial soul in the entire household. Alongside the little cubs, he played a tremendous role in healing my wounded spirit, mending my deeply wounded soul with laughter, kindness, and love.

But it wasn't easy.

The year I had spent alone in the sewers of the Imperial City and the habits I'd formed as a small predator surviving in an urban jungle teeming with all sorts of voracious hunters had left their mark. I had become wary, cautious, and always distrustful. And, truth be told... I'd also developed a rather troublesome habit: I liked to acquire things. Anything I fancied, really!

So once I could move around freely, I began sneaking into the kitchen to steal sweets.

But as I've already told you, dear friends, no human can sneak around unnoticed in a Khajiit household! They all knew about my nightly raids through the pantry stuffed with treats—every single one of them. Yet not a soul ever said a word. No scolding. No punishment.

Looking back, I can't help but laugh at how convinced I was that nighttime gave me the perfect chance to slip past Khajiit's senses!

One day, our mother Shaira gently pulled me aside and told me many things I hadn't known. She spoke at length about the Khajiit people, painting vivid pictures of their ability to move nearly unseen through crowded alleys, their unmatched agility, and—most impressive to me—their remarkable capacity to see better at night than in broad daylight.

Bursting with pride, I began boasting about my own sneaking skills, certain I could match theirs. Shaira smiled, stroked my hair, and offered a single piece of advice:

"Never try to outmatch a Khajiit in their own craft."

But old habits die hard. My former nocturnal life in a tough environment—the streets and the bowels of the great beast that is the Imperial City—had shaped me; hunger and fear had carved odd patterns into my soul. And so, even in this warm, generous home, I continued to take what I wanted—not out of need, and not because my siblings wouldn't share, but because the impulse had become part of me, as natural and involuntary as breathing.

Nocturnal, when She's displeased with me, calls me a sick woman in this regard... But I always laugh when I hear that, for She's far sicker in this respect than I could ever be! And Lady Luck knows that, but She loves to tease me!

With rare exceptions, my brothers and sisters—Nocturnal bless their warm and patient souls—never reacted angrily. Maybe because Shaira had forbidden them to lay a hand on me... or perhaps because of something else: Rasha.

Once, after one of my sisters caught me stealing her ring and gave me a well-deserved beating, Rasha stepped in. He said nothing at first—only stood there, watching, his eyes growing darker by the minute. In the end, cold and calm, he stated that from then on, he would kill anyone who touched me again.

Oh, I didn't feel safe. Not at all! I felt ashamed! Bitterly, deeply ashamed and from that day on, I tried—truly tried—to stop taking what wasn't mine. To be content with what my dear parents gave me.

I didn't succeed completely. But over time, this problem became less annoying for all of us because I rarely kept what I stole. It was enough to enjoy it for a day or two... then I would give it back or leave it somewhere to be found. So, eventually, my siblings grew accustomed to this nasty habit of mine and, with the typical and quiet tolerance felines often show toward less intelligent species, they allowed me to indulge my instincts without further comment.

As for my pantry raids... well, Shaira warned me often that eating too many sweets would make me sick.

Naturally, I didn't listen.

And one morning I woke up with such terrible stomach aches that I avoided sweets for weeks afterward!

Thus, in the end, despite the many difficulties caused by my temperament, my lingering habits, and my innate nature as a Nightingale, I fully integrated into the wonderful family that Nocturnal Herself had gifted me. By late winter, my body was healed, and for the first time since my arrival, I could join my brothers and sisters in the fresh snow that blanketed the Imperial City in its shimmering, icy mantle.

There is something uniquely delightful about playing with Khajiit cubs. Their energy seems endless, their joy contagious, and their movements... almost too graceful for this world! Watching them react to snow, however, was utterly amusing. While they adored it, as any carefree, well-fed child would, they also approached it with feline caution, flinching now and then when the cold crept under their fur. Because of that, our games often turned into playful battles—friendly skirmishes filled with laughter, tumbles, and sudden pounces. Far from mere amusement, they helped rebuild my muscles, which had weakened during my long illness.
So that when spring finally arrived, spilling warmth and color across the capital, it found me stronger than ever.

I was once again ready to face the streets of the metropolis. I longed for it—not just for the thrill of haunting and spying, or for the velvet hush of night cloaking my steps—but for something deeper, darker. Alongside my hunger for nocturnal prowling, thoughts of vengeance had begun to take shape in my mind.

To tell the truth, I must say that I no longer needed to steal or hide to survive. The family that had taken me in was generous, well-off, and kind. I could ask for anything I truly needed—and, more often than not, I would receive it. Yet despite all this comfort, I remained loyal to the habits I had formed in the dark.

So I began slipping out once more—wandering the streets of the capital beneath the twilight haze or starlit skies—my steps light, my senses sharp. I would always return just before dawn, collapsing into my bed as the household was beginning to stir.

My brothers and sisters were utterly baffled by my behavior; Shaira, on the other hand, grew more watchful. I'm certain she followed me more than once through the night-shrouded alleys of the Imperial City. And while she never confronted me outright, I think she found my little escapades intriguing and, at least to some extent, amusing, because one beautiful evening near the end of spring, she took me aside for a long conversation.

Our mother said many things—some gentle, some firm—but all spoken with great care. Then she decided that, given my habits and instincts, I was old enough to begin learning certain things that would serve me well in the years to come. She also made it quite clear that my nightly adventures needed to stop, at least for a while.

Oh, there was no arguing with Shaira! My beloved mother was used to giving orders—and even more so to seeing them obeyed! So, despite my laziness and stubbornness, I found myself adopting the schedule she imposed on me, starting the very next morning.

My first lessons came directly from Shaira herself. First, my dear cat mother taught me how to move unseen—how to melt into the shadows or dark corners as if I had never been there at all.

Ah, that part was a little rough for me, because she treated me just like one of her own kittens. Every time I got distracted or wasn't diligent enough, she would nip me or give me a sharp little scratch—a swift, unmistakable reminder to pay attention. I feared but didn't resent that—on the contrary, I began to admire her. There was something both fierce and graceful in the way she moved, in the way she taught—like a creature shaped by instinct but refined by discipline.

She also trained me in hand-to-hand combat, particularly in the art of using claws. Yet here she was gentler, always wearing padded gloves when sparring with me. And when she decided I was ready, she presented me with a beautiful pair of steel claws. After giving me a few playful taps with them, she looked me straight in the eye and said, with a stern voice:

"Never wear these when playing with your brothers and sisters."

It did not sound like a threat. Oh no! It was a rule, a new one for me, and in our house, Shaira's rules were sacred.

My beloved brother, Rasha, took it upon himself to teach me knife fighting. 'A knife is a dangerous weapon in the hands of someone who knows how to use it,' he explained, his voice calm as ever. 'Against street thugs, it's more than enough. Most humans and elves fear the knife—sometimes, just showing it is enough to make them run.'  Then, after a long pause, he added, 'But don't rely on it against any Khajiit. They are much quicker than you.'  And finally, 'It's useless against armored foes.' After that, he taught me the finer points of dagger fighting—subtle wrist movements, misdirection, precision—and eventually took me to an archery range, where he paid for my first lessons with a crossbow.
Ah, how heavy that ugly thing felt in my arms!
But I was determined to learn, and Rasha, ever silent and watchful, stayed by my side through it all.

Our father, Ra'ha, joined the training in his own way. He taught me a few tricks about lockpicking and shared some rather amusing tips on snatching coin-pouches from drunkards and daydreamers alike. But while my mother’s and brother’s skills were honed to near-perfection, dear old Ra’ha was... well, just a bit clumsy in these particular arts. More than once, he stood blinking in disbelief as I picked simple locks faster than he could explain the theory. So, in the end, it was agreed that I should continue refining those skills on my own — a decision I welcomed with quiet, secret delight.

It didn't take long before my apron's little front pocket began to jingle with the first few coppers I had earned using nothing but my own hands and wits. Bursting with pride, I rushed to the sweet stall at the corner of our street and spent every last coin on an enormous assortment of candies.

And, of course, I shared them with all my siblings.

Because by then... I truly felt like one of them!

Ah, I was now able to wander agilely and fearlessly through the streets of the capital, even in broad daylight! From those days onward, I formed a habit I've never quite abandoned: I always carried a knife, hidden in a sheath strapped to my left leg; oh, I think I forgot to mention, dear friends—my most skillful hand has always been the left one. Later, however, in a faraway land where the tropical sun scorched the soil and skin alike, I learned to fight with equal ease using both hands... but that's a story for another time. Back then, I searched tirelessly for those who had wronged me, but my efforts were in vain—I had already become well known in the city's underworld, making me easy to avoid. Every criminal in the great town knew I was under Rasha's protection, and he was truly respected and deeply feared by all who lived outside the law. His name alone was enough to make even the most hardened thugs think twice!

Meanwhile, the laws themselves had grown lax; the relentless monk patrols had been replaced by old soldiers from an auxiliary cohort—men far more interested in the free beer and sausages they received from innkeepers than in any actual law enforcement. Petty crimes began to flourish. So did taverns, gambling dens, and brothels. But oddly enough... the city thrived. Everyone seemed content. The rich grew richer, the poor grew poorer—but at least everyone had bread on the table and beer in their mugs. And what beer it was! Thick, golden, and so nourishing that even the beggars seemed satisfied.

As for me, I could not carry out my plans for revenge, and perhaps it was for the best. The truth is, deep in my heart, I didn't truly desire it. It had been little more than a childish ambition—an echo of fear and pain that still lingered inside me. And the wise words of that venerable priest of Mara often came back to me, soft as a blessing, so, as he said, I forgot and forgave.

I benefited greatly from abandoning my vengeful thoughts. I was so thoroughly enveloped by the love and understanding of my new family that my soul was completely at peace. Ah, my brothers and sisters, my dear mother Shaira, and my beloved father Ra'ha... they understood me in ways no one else ever had. Where most families might have struggled to tolerate my peculiar joys and habits—let's not pretend they weren't odd and nasty—this wonderful group of feline souls welcomed them without judgment.

Perhaps that wasn't such a surprise. Apart from the little ones, Rasha, and I, nearly every member of our family was involved, in one way or another, with the Thieves' Guild. Some quietly, others quite boldly. And our mother Shaira... well, she was more than just involved; she held a position of real influence, both within the Guild and among the city's less official circles of power.

The Thieves' Guild of the Imperial City during those years... There is little I can say about that organization, which eventually vanished, swallowed by the flames of the Great War. Not much more than what I could piece together from a few dusty chronicles, or letters so old and mold-eaten they nearly crumbled in my hands. And yet, from the long columns of figures in financial ledgers, from securities, mortgage documents, and the endless receipts found in the incomplete archives I uncovered years later in Riften, one thing is certain:
The Guild had changed in the worst possible way. It had become more of a financial institution than a true thieves' brotherhood—one concerned less with heists and shadows, and more with investments, bribes, and real estate.

Whatever else it might have been, I was never brought into it. My mother, Shaira, never introduced me to this world, and Nocturnal's hand was likely at play here, just as She guided so many other unseen threads in the tapestry of my early life.

As I've mentioned before, my father was a truly kind soul, and all the kittens adored him, while they generally feared their mother, Shaira. Ra'ha had once been a thief himself, though not a particularly gifted one. But it was through that life that he met Shaira—and together, they built something far greater than coin or reputation: a warm, joyful family where his kindness and her cleverness coexisted in perfect harmony.

By the time I came into their home, Ra'ha had long since left the shadowy life behind and had become an actor, a beloved performer at one of the largest theaters in the Imperial City.

And what a comedian he was!
He could weave new stories out of thin air, craft jokes that had even the grumpiest merchants chuckling, and slip so effortlessly between tongues: the Common speech of the Empire and the rich, musical cadence of Ta'agra, the sacred language of the Khajiit.

That language is no easy thing. Subtle, complex, utterly alien to a human ear. And yet, under Ra'ha's gentle guidance, I learned it far more quickly than I would have thought possible, despite my usual struggles with foreign tongues.

Of course, the whole family helped. They corrected my mispronunciations, laughed at my mistakes—always kindly—and celebrated my little victories. But it was Ra'ha—his patience, his creativity, his relentless good humor—that truly lit the path. No matter how distracted I was, he found a way to bring me back, often with a joke, a story, or a mock-serious frown followed by a silly dance. Naturally, I couldn't help but compare him to the others...
To Shaira, with her stern glares and sharp claws, who would scratch or nip when I failed to focus...
To Rasha, who muttered with tight lips and colder eyes, "You're so stupid," when I made a foolish mistake!

Yet, regardless of their styles, I absorbed precious knowledge from all three. They were persistent and generous in their efforts to teach me, never giving up until they had passed on their full range of skills. And so, from a wild, ignorant, and dirty creature, I bloomed into a spirited, sharp-tongued teenager—clever, bold, and just cheeky enough to be charming.

My brother Rasha played an extraordinary role in this metamorphosis. He was the undisputed leader of a gang that "protected" the merchants and artisans from our district. In this capacity, he spent most of his time roaming the streets of the Merchant District in the company of his comrades. And since Rasha was like a god walking among mortals to me, I couldn't help but follow him all the time, just like a stray pup chasing after its master through the cobbled alleys of the capital.

At first, I kept my distance, too scared by the loud voices and the fierce, hardened appearances of his companions. But time wore down my fear, and slowly, day after day, I crept closer, until I was walking beside them, nimble and quite unnoticed—at least in the beginning—on the old streets of our neighborhood. None of them mocked me; quite the contrary, before long, they all seemed relieved whenever I showed up and were truly happy to see me. One of Rasha's trusted men, Rolf, told me one warm summer afternoon, as we were sipping cold lemonade on a terrace, that their leader was much more lenient with them when I was around. And he wasn't lying—I could see it with my own eyes; Rasha's behavior almost always changed when I was around, and ruthless as he could be, softened in my presence. He cared deeply for me, and during their skirmishes with rival crews—blades flashing, curses flying—I would sometimes catch his eyes searching for me with worry thinly veiled behind a mask of coldness.

I, however, saw all their street battles with other gangs as nothing more than a game. I would laugh and dance amid these fierce men as they cursed and fought with fury! I was so agile and quick that I could easily weave between them, avoiding any accidental or intentional blows. And at the end, Rasha would always scoop me up in his arms and carry me home to our parents. 

Ah... to be cradled in his embrace was to feel the whole world spin around me— I was strong, safe, invincible, and his cold, intense eyes, feared by so many, were to me like wells of odd fire—mysterious, brilliant, and full of life! We were truly very happy together, and though Rasha tried hard to maintain his aloof and tough demeanor, he even began to behave a little more kindly toward the rest of the family.

Shaira was especially grateful for this. Though she never approved of her son's activities, she found some measure of peace knowing we were together on the now dangerous streets of the Merchant District. We even began to grow closer, she and I—genuinely. Often, we would spend long, quiet hours together, sitting in the warm twilight by the kitchen window, speaking softly of the one person we both adored: Rasha.

As for my other brothers and sisters, I could write an entire book just about them alone! Each was like a jewel, sparkling with its own brilliance. But I shall spare you the full list, dear reader, though not without guilt. Allow me, at least, a few glimpses:
There was Nahshi, light as air, training with the Imperial Circus, her body defying gravity in ways that made even trained acrobats stare in awe.
There was Elira, with her mesmerizing charm and natural elegance—so graceful it almost hurt to look at her.
And Ra'irr, my peculiar, gifted brother, who could speak entire sentences without ever moving his lips... or so it seemed.
They were all so gifted. So deeply themselves. I could go on and on, and still I wouldn't do them justice!
So let them rest, my precious siblings, in whatever peace Nocturnal grants to those She calls her own.
May She wrap their souls in eternal velvet shadow and sing them lullabies in the language only the stars understand!

I lived with them for four years—four years of laughter, of warmth, of countless little joys.
And I loved them all with a depth that still stirs my heart, even now, so long after they are gone.
In return, they welcomed me fully and unconditionally, with a kind of fierce tenderness that only those who have suffered and endured can truly offer. That sprawling, curious, often chaotic family became my haven—my refuge and my school, all at once!

They taught me much—practical skills and their language, of course, but more than anything, they taught me how to live among people.

It was strange, in a way, how closely I resembled them, despite our differences. They were Khajiit, and I... well, I was something else. But in spirit, we were cut from the same cloth—restless souls shaped by shadow, drawn to danger but yearning for warmth. And above us all, as always, the gaze of the Goddess. Nocturnal, She of the twilight veil, looked upon our strange home with fondness—perhaps even love. And smiled down upon us, for a while...

Unfortunately, Lady Luck is a deceitful and demanding entity. Nocturnal tends to get bored very quickly, and on top of that, the other one—the Spider, Her beloved friend—was also watching me. Her gaze and whispers cast a dark spell over our happy family... Toward the end of my time with them, I was constantly aware that something bad was bound to happen. All seemed the same as before, but Rasha became unusually relentless and violent, more than ever. Everything around me seemed to change subtly, and I, too, felt restless. I imagined I was simply worried about Rasha, who often argued with our family's members, especially with our mother, Shaira. But it was more than that; now I know I felt a painful separation looming— one that would shatter the peace I had found here, amid this welcoming family that now regarded me as a daughter and sister.

I gave Rasha the amulet I had worn every day for several years. I'm not sure why I did it, but looking back on the next events, I think the Goddess wanted to accompany my brother on the first steps of the path destined for both of us. Of course, Rasha initially refused to accept what seemed like a cheap trinket and a symbol of a cult he neither understood nor wanted to. However, his attitude changed when I pressed the amulet into his hand. As always in moments like this, the amulet seemed to come alive; it was warm and appeared to vibrate slightly, and Mara—well, Mara of the amulet—smiled unsettlingly at both of us! Not with the gentle benevolence her worshipers praise, but with that strange, knowing, and mocking smile that always makes me shiver. Our mother, Shaira, watching silently from the threshold, reacted cheerfully to our little scene and uttered the first prophetic words of many she would speak in the future:

"Now I feel completely at peace, Rasha! I am certain that Elsie's wise spirit will watch over you, even in the darkest and most perilous places you may walk!"

I smiled, shy and uncertain, and Rasha laughed heartily. When Shaira told us about a fascinating tradition regarding amulets like this one, one from far beyond the Jerall Mountains, we were both surprised— I, a bit embarrassed, but suddenly thrilled by the idea, and Rasha, skeptical but visibly intrigued. Then, our mother embraced us both and looked at us with love.

In the days that followed, Rasha and I wandered the streets of the Imperial City together, inseparable. My brother was unusually kind and attentive to me, and I was both amazed and overjoyed, savoring his presence and the clear light of the spring days. Ah, I was so young, and I couldn't have guessed that, in truth, my brother was saying goodbye to the city where he had spent his childhood and grown up! We passed under the lush, green canopy of the ancient trees in the Arboretum, our laughter echoing in the filtered light. We stood side by side at the edge of the docks, watching the ships come and go, and we strolled through the crooked, slippery alleys of the Waterfront District, where danger danced in every corner—but with Rasha beside me, I never felt fear. On holy days, or whenever the gates were open to commoners, we would wander into the grand halls of the Imperial Palace. There, surrounded by the glittering marble, the echo of footsteps in sacred silence, I felt a strange serenity—as if even the gods allowed themselves to pause and admire the world. I would squeeze Rasha's hand, and he would smile, just faintly, as though he knew some secret I was still too innocent to grasp. At dusk, we'd find ourselves seated on the terraces newly opened in the Talos Plaza District, where perfumed breezes carried the sounds of music and laughter. We talked about everything and nothing—our words drifting with the twilight, blending into the city's golden haze. And when he told stories—those rich, winding tales he spun from thin air—I would sit spellbound. He spoke like one who had lived many lives, full of wisdom and wit, and every word he offered felt like a gift crafted just for me.

But as with all things beautiful and fleeting, these joys did not last long. One day, without saying goodbye to anyone, Rasha left our parents' home forever. That morning, when I realized what had happened, something broke inside me, and I knew that my happy life here would soon come to an end. And, not long after that morning, the dream came.
But not just any dream.

Chapter Text

That dream... still vivid, still fresh—though years have passed since then—ah, I could swear it visited me just last night! I remember it with crystal clarity, and I know, deep in the marrow of my bones, that it will haunt me in every eerie detail for all of my journey through this beautiful and sorrowful world.

I was running through a dense pine forest; the strong scent of resin, the ground so soft it felt like silk, and the mist, deepening the usual darkness of such gloomy woods, summoned around me a realm both unreal and magical. I suddenly stopped in a small clearing where the rays of a pale noonday sun barely managed to thin the damp mist; I did that because I heard my name being called by many overlapping voices! Frightened, I looked around, and then I saw it!

Through the heavy fog, a raven, perched on a gnarled branch, turned to look at me with an eye gleaming like a midnight shard. A low voice, flowing like honey laced with venom, whispered my name: 

'Elsie...'

In that moment, I knew—the Twilight had chosen me. Terror filled my chest, yet wonder bloomed beside it, delicate and dark like a midnight flower. So I ran. I ran until the shadows of that day grew longer—and behind me, the raven laughed.

Then suddenly it was night, and under the high, starry sky, a woman of peculiar appearance and exquisite beauty stood tall, her presence commanding, like a queen of the shadows. Her hair flowed in cascading waves, so black it seemed to devour the moonlight, while her eyes gleamed with a cruel kind of wisdom. Draped in a cloak that shimmered like the night sky, she appeared less human and more like an embodiment of the Void itself. Facing her was a second figure — petite, golden-haired, clothed in a dress adorned with delicate snowflake patterns. This other woman seemed fragile, like a snowdrop blooming in the darkness, yet there was a faint defiance in the way she held herself. Her wide, innocent eyes seemed to plead for understanding, though they were tinged with the weight of an unspoken destiny.

"Listen, my pet," the tall woman purred, her voice smooth yet cutting like a blade wrapped in silk. "For thou art mine own chattel, and times of tribulation do lie afore thee, I shall bestow upon thee one of mine own most cherished gifts for a worm such as thee. Use it well, and forget not that thy woeful life belongs to me! Forget not that thy soul I can hold ceaselessly at the boundary betwixt thy miserable realm and mine own domain. Wherein I keep the soul of thy unworthy mother!"

Her words struck like the tolling of a funeral bell, each one reverberating with a promise of despair! And yet, beneath her malice, there lingered something unsettlingly tender...

"Ah, but don't you take my words to heart," she continued, a playful smile curling her lips. "Verily, I do take pleasure in possessing thee, mine own sweet worm, yet I shall chastise thee with severity each time thou doth transgress against me! Thus, until our next rendezvous, take heed of thy life, for it is mine own possession..."

Her voice faded like smoke, but her presence lingered, oppressive and inescapable, and the golden-haired woman did not move, her expression torn between awe and fear. The scent of nightshade hung heavy in the air, and the tall woman's long cloak seemed to move of its own accord, as though alive... 

And then, the dream dissolved into darkness, leaving behind a chill that settled not on skin, but deep within my soul, as if her shadow had never truly left.

Overwhelmed by the terrible heat of that summer night and utterly exhausted from my dream, I woke up dazed and frightened; strangely, however, I wholeheartedly wished to see that terrible and majestic woman again. Moreover, what I had heard about my mother Kiersten's soul, whom, to my shame and sorrow, I had already nearly forgotten, deeply unsettled me. I did not yet understand why she claimed my mother's soul or why she sought to burden me with this knowledge, and this question tormented me for a long time.

But now I know that Nocturnal, my beloved Mistress, lied shamelessly. She has no power over the limb between realms. Anyway, it is in Her nature to lie, and Nocturnal's lies are never without purpose, while her truths are never complete. She's a hard-to-understand and difficult goddess, yet she has a great power of seduction. From the beginning, I hated Her, and I also worshiped Her; later, I even came to love Her. How could I not? She is a divinity, and I am Her Chosen! Her words hurt more than any blade, but they also bound me to Her in ways I could not yet comprehend.

About Her gift... It is truly something rare, a precious boon for someone like me, just as She said. I came to draw upon Nocturnal's blessing for the first time on a day when I was fleeing a group of vigilantes. Exhausted and cornered, I slipped into a narrow, shadowy alley, hoping to find a sewer manhole or other way out. But there was none. Pressed against a stone wall, knife in hand and heart racing, I waited for the worst... Yet the monks rushed past me, and even though one of them looked straight into my eyes, they continued their race; they didn't see me! 

I stood there for quite a long time, stunned, realizing that I now possessed a power unlike anything I'd known before—a gift to unlock doors once sealed!

However, I offer a word of caution to my friends who may one day become the so-called beneficiaries of Nocturnal's gifts or favors. Like the Mistress Herself, all of Her blessings are dazzling—immensely valuable, yes—but cloaked in veils of deceit and disillusionment... And that disillusionment can sometimes prove fatal! Never—and I cannot stress this enough—never place your full trust in anything granted by Nocturnal! Do not stake your life on any situation involving Her gifts, I beg you, friends! 

Lady Luck is capricious and cruel—divinely cruel, of course, in a manner that far exceeds anything the fragile mortals could ever inflict or endure. She delights, on occasion, in withdrawing Her boons without warning—sometimes for a moment, sometimes forever.

Even this gift of becoming invisible to the eyes of those who hunt me is maddeningly unreliable. I can in no way control the moment it activates; I only know with certainty that I must be out of sight for it to even have a chance to trigger. And as for the moment when I become visible to mortal eyes again... ah, best not to speak of it! It is entirely arbitrary and independent of my will, my actions, or even my desperation.

In those bewildering days, as I struggled to comprehend the unpredictable nature of Nocturnal's gift, the city seemed to be caught up in its own game of shadows. Restlessness spread through the streets, as if unseen forces were subtly intruding into the lives of mortals. Life in the capital carried on much as it had, yet a growing unease crept among the people. Whispers turned to rumors, and soon the citizens began stockpiling food or more elusive valuables. The poor, driven by fear, hoarded what little they could; the wealthy turned to gold and gemstones, while property values—land and homes alike—plummeted.

Troubling news echoed from distant lands: in the north, the province of Skyrim was rife with major unrest, and its once inexhaustible supply of recruits for the Imperial legions seemed to have dried up. It was also said that the Dominion had filled the fortified city of Anvil with first-rate combat forces, veterans of previous wars. The Imperial army, in response, had been deployed to the County of Skingrad, with one legion marching toward Bruma. For the first time in centuries of relative peace, male citizens of the Empire aged fifteen to twenty-five years were being mobilized and trained for war.

Meanwhile, the warrior monks of the Order of Stendarr once again took on the heavy burden of maintaining order on the streets of the Imperial City, their presence growing more visible as they intensified efforts to curb the criminal activity. Stendarr's tribunal presided over most of the crimes committed in the metropolis, delivering swift and severe judgments.

As for me, these events and worries barely touched my world; my life carried on much the same, except for the ache left by Rasha's absence. Without him, I could no longer enjoy anything; even the city's streets lost their charm and became boring—boring and tiresome. Everything that had once delighted me or kept me busy now seemed dull and stripped of meaning. Again and again, I asked my mother when he would return, and each time, she gave the same answer: "Soon, my dear. Soon."

One day, worn down by my endless questions, Shaira took me aside. Her voice was unusually somber.

"Elsie," she said, "Rasha is dead. He will never come back to us. It's time you faced the truth."

"No, mother! Rasha can't die—he's too strong, too clever! Why are you tormenting me with these lies instead of telling me where he is? I'll leave and search for him. I'll ask his friends—I'll do whatever it takes to bring him back!"

Shaira's eyes darkened with sorrow. For a long moment, she hesitated. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said:

"You're right, my dear. Rasha hasn't died. But... it would have been better if he had. He walks now in the shadow of a cruel god, in a land where only pain and silence dwell. You must not seek him."

"I will search the most dangerous corners of the world for him if I must, mother! I will bring him home—to you, to us!"

To my shock, Shaira began to weep. I had never seen her cry before. She pulled me into her arms, held me tightly, and through her trembling sobs, whispered:

"If you find him, Elsie... he will take you with him—into Sithis's realm. And then... neither of you will ever return."

We wept together in each other's arms for what felt like an eternity. Now, looking back on the things my beloved mother Shaira told me during that time, I remain astonished by what I can only describe as a prophetic gift—something she seemed to reveal on certain rare occasions in the final year I spent as part of her family.
Sometimes, her words carried a strange and solemn weight, as if she could see not only the past and the present, but also glimpses of a distant future—even one she herself could not comprehend.

In those days, a rare bond had formed between us, rooted in our shared love for the same man—a love that only deepened after his seemingly permanent departure. Many of those last summer afternoons passed in long conversations, with Shaira speaking endlessly of Rasha. She told me of his childhood, his illnesses, and the struggles she faced in raising him. According to her, Rasha had been a brilliant but difficult child, often distant, his sharp mind shadowed by a puzzling indifference to the joys and sorrows of those around him. Yet Shaira was proud of him, though her pride was always tinged with sadness.

It was then that she gave voice to another prophecy, veiled in riddles:

"Rasha will never return to me, Elsie. But one day, he will find you again. And then, no matter how much he loves you, he will let you go and place you into your next mother's arms."

I didn't understand, nor could I have, and her words felt cryptic, both tender and terrible. I smiled and told her she was my only mother, and that I could never imagine, let alone accept, another. But Shaira didn't share my certainty. Her gaze turned stern, her voice steady:

"You don't need me anymore, my daughter. You must grow up, Elsie, and face the world with strength and responsibility. Your time for childish dreams is over!"

Her words stung, not because of their harshness, but because of the deeper meaning I couldn't yet see. My mother often spoke like that: severe, unwavering, her piercing yellow eyes demanding more from me than I thought I could give. And yet, I cherished those moments.
Harsh as they sometimes were, they were the clearest signs of her love. The memory of her voice still lingers with me—gentle but resolute, heavy with a wisdom that seemed to come from another world. Only much later, long after her second prophecy would shatter everything I knew, did I begin to understand the depth of her foresight and the weight of her love!

Shaira never truly seemed at ease unless we spoke of Rasha... or moon sugar. Our mother was proud that Rasha had always scorned alcohol and rejected the wondrous gift that Nocturnal Herself had bestowed upon the cat folk: the moon sugar. She, however, was a devoted consumer of this divine stuff. During those intimate days, she introduced me to the pleasures it could bring, speaking of it as though it were a sacred tether to the divine—a shard of the goddess's own grace. And yet, even as Shaira guided me through its wonders, she never failed to caution me against its dangers. Oh, just like all blessings that come from my beloved Mistress!

"The gift is sweet, Elsie," my mother would say, "but it is also a test. Those who are too greedy are bound to lose themselves."

And so, the last summer I spent in the Imperial City slipped away fast, much too fast. Or perhaps it only feels that way now, as I look back with nostalgia upon that wonderful and carefree life I was fortunate enough to share within the embrace of that fascinating and kind-hearted family.

I continued to spend much of my time with Rasha's gang. Rolf, who had taken over leadership after my brother's departure, was very fond of me and never missed a chance to show it. The others treated me like a lucky mascot—protective and always indulgent—because, truth be told, I was an impudent little brat!

Yet the times had visibly changed, and their lives were no longer as easy as they had once been. Back in Rasha's time, Nash, our treasurer, would walk into a neighborhood merchant's shop with a smile, and they would promptly pay their dues, bowing and grinning obsequiously. Now, however, with the warrior monks of the Order stomping through the city's streets in their heavy boots, the traders and craftmen had grown insolent—some even dared to tell us, to our faces, that they no longer needed our protection!

My comrades decided that such people needed—nay, as Rolf rightfully claimed, asked!—to be punished and brought back onto the "right path." I eagerly joined their initiative, even contributing my own malicious ideas. So we began a full-blown campaign of terror against those who, in truth, were merely trying to make a living through honest, hard work and skill, and, as is often the case in such affairs, our primary targets were not the truly wealthy—no, we struck at those too poor to defend themselves, too powerless to raise their voices. At first glance, it seemed we had every chance of succeeding in our intimidation efforts...

Yet the Order of Stendarr was vigilant—unyielding, even—and, to make matters worse, my beloved Mistress Nocturnal, who had recently made her definitive appearance in my life, seemed utterly determined to enjoy Herself thoroughly at my expense.

Thus, the two forces that would soon shape my fate acted seemingly apart—one in the name of righteous order, the other cloaked in divine mischief—and I unwittingly stepped irreversibly onto the path of ruin.

Anyway, in this confession of mine, I won't place the blame on anyone else for what happened next. The Order of Stendarr was a strict institution—perhaps too strict, it's true—but it sought only to preserve order and peace during troubled times for the Empire.
As for Nocturnal... well, Lady Luck never forced me to do anything. She merely watered the seeds that had long ago taken root within me.
Meanwhile, I—foolish, headstrong, eager—was thoroughly delighted by everything unfolding around me, and the misdeeds I began to commit in those days didn't burden me in the slightest.
Quite the opposite: I relished them!

My friends were anything but subtle, and their means of intimidation typically involved physical threats, which, if necessary—or sometimes simply for fun or to set an example—were carried out swiftly and with extreme severity. However, as I played no role in these punishments or corrections—it depends on how you'd like to call them—I began to grow bored with the monotony of our daily routine; moreover, these methods no longer worked as effectively, given that the Order's patrols were highly vigilant and would intervene promptly in any situation involving physical altercations. I sensed ...oh no! I realized—as if hearing it whispered into my mind by a voice not my own—that the game was no longer about brute force. It required something else now. Finesse. Precision.

Thus, I set my mind to work. I conceived intricate plans, little devilish schemes, and when the moment seemed ripe, I drew Rolf aside. We were dining lavishly—sweet, golden wine from the sun-kissed hills above Anvil filled our goblets—and with a voice cool and composed, I began to share my vision.

My tone was calm—like the matter concerned someone else entirely—as I managed to hide my passion and yearning for power, burying them beneath a layer of careful indifference. Yet my ideas were risky, difficult to execute for people like them, and with apparently low odds of success. The outcome? "Uncertain, at best," Rolf mumbled sometimes. Still, he eventually agreed to discuss my proposals at one of the gang's meetings. Hm, maybe the wine did help, after all!

These meetings were a tradition left over from Rasha's time: regular gatherings where the gang received wages and, sometimes, bonuses for particularly impressive exploits. In the curious spirit of the forest brigands and their free brotherhoods, decisions about the gang's direction were occasionally made by open vote.

Rolf himself had been confirmed as the gang's leader during one such meeting after my brother's sudden departure.

I find this voting system strange—maybe even dangerous; none of the many legal or illegal organizations I later joined ever adopted such a procedure. However, it didn't take long for me to see its advantages in this particular case, especially since I sensed that Rolf was, in truth, quite hesitant about my proposals. Likely, he didn't take them seriously, dismissing them as nothing more than the naive ramblings of the sweet yet mischievous little girl who accompanied them on their wanderings.

Ah, I was vexed, but I didn't show that. ' A little girl? Well, for now, just let him think that.'

So I swallowed my fury and, in the days that followed, I spent more and more time in Nash's company. I knew our treasurer was growing uneasy, even dreading the day wages had to be paid. In those new circumstances, it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to find the necessary funds, especially since more and more merchants were refusing to pay their "protection taxes."

I did everything I could to win him over: flattered him, kept him company, and quietly fed the worries that had already begun to gnaw at him. Once I saw that he was truly listening, I gently suggested that I could contribute directly to the gang's prosperity—through a few well-executed robberies—provided I had the support of a couple of members. He chuckled and patted me gently on the head, though doubt clouded his eyes.

"And once you're inside, how would you avoid being caught by the owner? Besides, at night, in the dark, you'd be stumbling around like a blind skeever in a fox den," he added, then burst into laughter at his own stupid joke.

I told him that my first attempt would take place in broad daylight, but I would need two of the boys to follow my instructions to the letter.

He laughed even harder. "I'll think about it," he said.

In any case, they both kept their promise and brought the matter to the others' attention at their next assembly, where they 'debated' a lot of nonsense between fits of stupid laughter and smug little grins. I wasn't surprised that no one took it seriously. The boys roared with laughter, jeering at the thought of taking orders from a little girl. They were all kind to me, yes—and in the end, they even playfully ruffled my hair. Yeah, they always did that... And me... I left that meeting more irritated than I cared to admit. And more determined than ever to show them exactly what I was capable of.

I decided to focus all my attention on the butcher who had once broken my bones—the same wretched scoundrel who had also stolen my stolen septim. This was personal, and it only fueled my ambition, sharpening my hunger to pull off a grand heist.

I spied on his home and habits for several days and nights. I no longer wandered the streets with my gang, and my friends figured I was sulking — and, well, they weren't wrong! I didn't go home either, which earned me a stern scolding from Shaira. But nothing else mattered to me then. My thoughts, my time, my breath—all of it was fixed on that small, sallow-faced man with his badger eyes.

I came to know his home, his family, and their routine better than they likely did themselves. His house was tall and narrow, wedged between others on one of the twisted lanes of the Talos Plaza District. On the ground floor were the shop—by far the largest room—and the kitchen, connected by a hallway with two doors: one opened onto a neglected inner courtyard that felt more like a well, and the other led to the street. From this hallway, a steep staircase led up to the two floors used as living quarters by the butcher's family, and then on to the attic.

I memorized the position of every valuable item—whether on display or hidden away in cupboards and drawers. I even discovered a stash of coins in a secret compartment inside a worn, dusty cabinet filled with forgotten odds and ends in the attic!

I also came to know his wife well—a gentle, timid woman devoted to Stendarr—and was equally familiar with every detail of his daughters' lives. They were two sweet and obedient things with an odd habit of attending the nuns' school every working day, right on time.

Although this detail was absolutely irrelevant to what I was planning, I spent a great deal of time carefully and delightedly spying on the activities performed by the girls under the watchful eyes of the sisters.

The students usually sang hymns to Stendarr. This bored me terribly, though I couldn't deny the beauty of their young, crystalline voices blending in perfect harmony. They also read from heavy, leather-bound books and, surprisingly, wrote on wax tablets using slender lead styluses. As I watched them scribble lines, I caught myself wondering what it would feel like to hold such an exquisite tool, perhaps of magical nature, and make words appear—real words, my own words. Oh, that seemed like great wizardry for me, and I thought only special people, maybe blessed by Stendarr, could do such a thing!

And, as the crowning joy of these nice routines, they were granted breaks during which they played freely in the school's lush, sun-drenched garden! "Such life...!" I often murmured, quite envious.

Yet, not everything there seemed so nice to me. The girls were also taught how to sew, weave, and cook various dishes—or were even made to sweep the floors and beat the rugs until clouds of dust filled the air...

Ugh, I'd better stop here—just thinking about such chores makes me ill! The memory of those terrible days in the Order orphanage's laundry still haunts me...
But oh, to read... to truly read! That was something else entirely! That dream burned in me, quietly, stubbornly—like a precious candle hidden beneath rags. I wished—I longed to know how to read, especially since some of the passages they recited aloud were so vivid and captivating!

None of that really mattered to me at the time, though. My goal was set and clear, all moves thoroughly planned, and now I had to carry out the first proper heist of my life. So, one morning at dawn, I slipped in through the skylight and into the butcher's attic, heading straight for the dusty old cabinet stuffed with junk.

The stash was right where I'd seen it—coins, lots of coins!—packed into a pitiful hiding place. Yet, while feverishly rummaging through it, I was disappointed because there wasn't any true treasure there—just a few gold pieces, a decent number of silver ones, and one big sack full of copper coins. I was a bit puzzled because that sack seemed too heavy for someone like me, but my resolve was great and, naturally, I wanted to take the whole lot of them.

To make things trickier, I didn't have much time to spare—I'd chosen that morning carefully, knowing exactly what the family would be doing at each hour. Everything had to run like clockwork. So, as quickly as I could, I tore up some old bed sheets I found in the attic and made small sacks. I filled them with coins and tied each pouch to a length of rope I'd discovered in a dusty corner. Then, taking a few risky trips across the neighbouring rooftops, I stashed the bundles inside nearby chimneys, securing the ends of the ropes around their bases. Sweaty and out of breath, I returned to the attic to continue robbing the house methodically.

First, I caught my breath while the family woke, had breakfast, and tidied up. Once the daughters left for school, as they always did, I slipped into their room and took all the trinkets I knew they kept in their drawer. Then, extremely satisfied, I tucked those small and cheap jewelry into the chest pocket of the apron I wore over my dress.

Next, I waited for the butcher's wife to leave for the market—as she usually did—and as soon as she left the house, I carefully plundered every room, knowing that the maid, still in the kitchen, might come up at any moment. I worked fast and took anything shiny, small, and remotely valuable. Two rather large silver candlesticks gave me some trouble, but since I was determined not to leave anything behind, I wrapped them in a cloth and tied them with a ribbon the mistress of the house was particularly proud of.

With every pocket stuffed full of glittering spoils, I didn't stop there—I rolled up a thick, finely woven rug and, straining under its weight, carried it down to the backyard. From there, I spent the rest of the morning, right up to noon, ferrying the loot to a hiding place I'd prepared inside the main sewer gallery under the Talos Plaza District. By the time I was done, my arms ached and I was drenched in sweat—but I felt utterly satisfied. Phase one of my plan was now complete!

I caught my breath for a moment and then went to enjoy a lavish lunch at an expensive restaurant near the Temple of the One. Oh, I stuffed myself so much and was so tired that I decided to rent a room at the adjoining hostel, leaving instructions to be woken an hour before sunset. I slept like an innocent child, unburdened by any sin or worry. Rested and refreshed, I hurried back home.

Cautiously, I paused at the doorstep, trying to gauge where Shaira was and what she might be doing right then. But as I had both expected and feared, I couldn't slip past her unnoticed. She caught me just as I was about to sneak into the girls' room, where I slept and kept my things.

Our mother confronted me sternly, asking where I'd been for the past few days—and, more importantly, what on Nirn I was up to next. I put on my most innocent expression, looked her straight in the eye, and allowed a few tears to well up. I mumbled something vague and pitiful. Her tone softened. Concern replaced suspicion. She reached out to touch my shoulder—And that was my cue! I darted past her, slammed the door to our room behind me, and locked it.

Looking around, I saw that only my sister Elira—the sweetest of them all—was there. She stared at me in shock, a hint of worry beginning to flicker in her usually playful gaze. But I smiled and raised a finger to my lips; she smiled back, nervously, and sat on her little bed, quietly watching me with her adorable eyes.

Meanwhile, in the hallway—on the other side of the door—Shaira was rattling the handle and yelling, calling my name. I ignored her. I dashed to my wardrobe and quickly changed into my finest dress. Off came the heavy boots—on went a pair of satin slippers I normally saved for holidays. I let down my long, golden hair, combed it out quickly, and let it fall loose around my shoulders like a gleaming silk cloak.

Then I rushed to the open window, hesitated for a moment, and called out: "Don't worry, Mama—and forgive me!" I shouted. "I'll be back tonight and I'll explain everything!"

With that, I swung one leg over the windowsill. The window was on the second floor, but I grabbed the drainpipe and slid down to the flower-filled courtyard below. Oh, and what a courtyard it was—overflowing with stalks and leaves of that plant so beloved by all the cat-folk... and by me as well!

It was already late, and I began to fear I'd fallen behind my plan. Ah, that copious meal and that foolish afternoon nap—two mistakes I could hardly forgive myself for! Breathless, I ran toward the butcher's shop; the streets were bustling with people at that hour of a summer evening, as velvet dusk began to settle over the ever-restless city. Weaving through the crowds, I reached my destination just as the sun dipped beneath the horizon.

To my shock, the shop was not shut up with its shutters down—it was teeming with customers! A few were even waiting outside! Nervous but elated, I hid behind a heap of garbage left for the night's waste collectors and watched closely as patrons bustled in and out in a way I had never seen before.

Finally, when night had almost blanketed the capital in its silken, sweet, and warm darkness, the last customer exited, arms full of packages. I rushed forward and burst into the shop like a storm, shouting wildly, my eyes wide with feigned horror.

"There's a man with a torch on your roof, master! Smoke's already pouring from the attic!"

The butcher gawked at me, mouth agape—oh, he was desperate, I could see and cherish that! Normally, I could hardly hope that a man so cunning and self-assured could be so easily deceived, yet that evening, his soul was already torn between the joy of the day's unexpected crowd of customers and the unsettling news of valuables missing from his home. With a strangled voice, he barked at his apprentice while locking the counter, where the sweet clink of gold and silver rang out:

"Stay here, Jon! Mind the shop!"

Then he grabbed the same club he'd once used to make a point — straight to my young bones—and charged up the staircase.  Voices echoed from above. Then, moments later, a cry rang out—inhuman in its despair!—and it shook the whole house, as if all the grief in the world had been poured into that single, gut-wrenching scream. The butcher had just reached the attic and seen the chaos I'd left behind! And, of course, the cabinet with its secret compartment hung open and empty...

The apprentice glanced at me uncertainly, but all he could see was a very young, well-dressed woman with wonderful, golden hair cascading around her shoulders, looking shaken and frightened. I gazed back at him with wide and innocent eyes—oh, this figure works on nearly every young, and not only, man!

He whispered, "Please, miss—would you mind watching the shop for just a moment?" And without waiting for a reply, he dashed upstairs.

The joy I felt then was almost divine. Without hesitation, I seized the cleaver stuck into the butcher's workbench and smashed the lock on the counter. I grabbed a bag hanging from a hook and filled it with every coin from the drawer. And let me tell you, friends—there was a lot of money in there! Far more than I'd even hoped! Far more than could be explained by a day's honest trade, even before a major holiday!

In mockery, I scattered a few copper coins on the floor, then walked out of the shop, calm and composed, as though nothing had happened; moments later, I vanished into the shadows of the Talos Plaza District's alleys with my heavy prize.

I felt alive—more alive than ever before. A powerful thrill coursed through me, and I was utterly convinced of my brilliance, my cunning, my great, unmatched talent. And in that spellbinding moment, a strange, dark melody seemed to stir deep within me—a song of triumph.

Ah, how naïve that golden-haired girl with wide, seemingly innocent eyes truly was! I can't help but smile sadly now as I write these words, knowing what I didn't know then: Nocturnal plays a strange and cruel game every time a thief reaches for something that glitters or embarks on a heist. But more than that, my beloved Mistress is so perverse that She's rarely content with the simple emotions Her divine game is meant to stir. No, She cheats, and She does it so boldly, so shamelessly, that I still find myself admiring Her nerve, even after all these years spent together.

Yes... Right so! Nocturnal did cheat most grossly that fateful day when I lost my soul! She, my precious and beloved Mistress, says that She found Her perfect match among mortals in those unforgettable moments, but She's a big and shameless liar—that She really is! In any case, on the day of the grand heist, Lady Luck wrapped me forever in Her warm and silken web—a wondrous and beautiful fabric spun tight with vain promises and sweet poisons. Because from that bewitched, perfumed summer night onward, my passion for shiny things became something wild, something boundless—utterly beyond my control!

Chapter Text

I

On my way home, the thrill of such a great victory gradually faded, and I found myself wondering: 'Am I indeed a lucky girl... or has something strange just happened?' That unusual crowd of customers, the ease with which I had fooled two grown men, and the hefty, rattling bag hanging from my shoulder made me think twice.

Oh, not so deep as to even faintly presume that some divine hand was at work—no, I was far too proud of my cleverness and cunning! Yet it was enough to bring me back down a little on Nirn, and to seriously think about what I should do with so much money.

As I've told you before, I lacked nothing in those days—and more than that, I wasn't used to spending money, at least not in large amounts. Of course, I had already begun to sense that money could be something more than a mere means of survival, but I was still far from grasping its true power in this world, where most of us squander our allotted time far more foolishly than we ought to.

Lost in thought, I suddenly sensed I was near the Arboretum—a faint vibration sang at the edge of my hearing. I turned off the main path and entered the gods' park, making my way toward the small glade where the statue of Mara stood. No one else was there. It was cool and quiet—only a few distant whispers and giggles drifting over from Dibella's statue plagued the celestial, soothing silence that lingered all around.

I lit a candle on the altar, knelt, and greedily gazed at the statue. But Mara from the park, as always, remained cold and indifferent, her face etched with sorrow and pity. Nothing more—She kept Her distance and didn't wish to speak with me.

I lay down on the thick, soft grass and tried to think. During my time spent in the bowels of the great city, I had often turned to the goddess for guidance whenever fear or doubt crept into my soul. But now, Mara of the amulet was far from me—somewhere out there in the wide world, traveling at Rasha's side. A soft sigh escaped me at his remembrance. Ah, how I desired him beside me now—to speak to me, to advise me, to look at me with his cruel and yellow eyes!

Disappointed and slowly overtaken by the exhaustion of such a full and frantic day, I headed home through the sleeping city, arriving sometime after midnight.

Only one light was burning inside, coming from the small study where our mother often sat, sometimes meeting strange people who sought her counsel only after nightfall. I went straight there and found Shaira waiting for me. I told her everything: what I had done, where I had been, what I had seen and felt during my absence. She listened in complete silence. Her face shifted, passing from worry to curiosity, and at last to a kind of disbelieving relief. But when I reached the part where I began to list, in full detail, all the baubles and glittering trinkets I had stolen from the butcher's home, her astonishment turned into something wordless and wide-eyed. And then, when I emptied the bag onto her little table, coins and shine tumbling into the candlelight, Shaira sighed deeply. She looked at me with an expression I had never quite seen on her face before—half fear, half sorrow. Without a word, she rose from her chair, slowly circled the table, and gently took my hand. She pulled me after her, and with quiet steps, we left the house.

We walked silently through the empty streets until Shaira asked me my father's name. I told her I didn't know—that I had only ever known my mother, Kiersten, who had been killed a few years earlier.

As soon as she heard the name, Shaira stopped and gripped my shoulders. I could feel her gaze piercing through the night that enveloped us.

"A tall woman, blonde, with gray eyes—yes? Or perhaps... only you truly know the color of her eyes," she murmured, staring at me intently.

"Yes, mother," I replied, shivering.

I even began to feel a little afraid, for now she was holding me tightly, and her yellow, probing eyes had started to glow—two strange, unsettling lights in the dark. Then Shaira embraced me and pulled me close against her chest. I felt her sigh deeply as she gently stroked my hair.

"Elsie, my daughter," she whispered, "I fear you have brought the Darkness with you."

"Oh, mother... but She is so beautiful! And so powerful..."

"Yes... and terrifying when angered, vengeful beyond measure—and above all, deceitful! Has She granted you Her gifts?"

"Only one, mother."

"I see. Perhaps we should not speak too freely of such things, as She loves secrets and hidden corners, mysteries and lies. Still, you ought to know—though perhaps the Cat Mother hasn't told you this yet—that you sure are what we, the thieves, call a Nightingale, a guardian and confidant of the Goddess. This is an extraordinary thing, magnificent in its very nature, for you are Her chosen one among mortals. And more than that, you were given this honor at birth—for your mother, Kiersten, was a Nightingale as well. And while that may be a good and useful thing for you, for everyone else around—friends and even family—the Goddess's grace is nothing but danger and threat. For She is exceedingly jealous!"

Shaira fell silent, as if weary from the weight of what she had just shared. I shivered under the chill of a sudden breeze that swirled the dust around us; a sharp raven caw pierced the quiet of the night, and I felt my mother tremble. She gently pushed me away from her and sighed again.

"Then..." I began, my voice trembling.

"Then we'll live our lives as before, my daughter! No one can defy fate, especially when it is woven by Nocturnal herself! And let us hope the Goddess will be merciful to us all. At least... for a time."

Neither of us said another word, and together, we returned home.

She refused to accept the money I tried to entrust to her; my mother merely shook her head and looked at me, troubled. I barely managed to convince her to take two gold coins—to buy gifts for the family, I told her. Then Shaira gave me the address of a man who, she said, would be willing to purchase the goods I had stolen.

She rummaged through the drawer of her small desk and retrieved a scrap of soft leather engraved with symbols that meant nothing to me.

"Give him this. And don't you go there with any of your friends!" my mother added, her voice suddenly firm.

The following morning, I awoke feeling good, and a big smile bloomed on my face. Ah, my first heist had been such a big success, and now I could already picture my friends' long faces as I showed them what a little girl can do when she really puts her mind to it!
'Would they still be laughing then? I highly doubt it. But you never know—men are such mutts!' I murmured, bursting into laughter.

As for Shaira's strange words and behavior, they scarcely crossed my mind at all—they were like the faint buzzing of a mosquito near my ear...

My sisters were already bustling about in our room, which now resembled a hive of bees in full summer activity—with all the fuss but, gods be praised, none of the noise! After some playful bickering with the younger ones and a brief dash around our cozy room with Elira, I dressed as best I could and headed out into the city streets, where the day's heat had already begun to reign. Oh, gods! A heavy, wet heat, pressing down from a pale, low-hanging sky!

First, I checked the stash I had set up in the sewers beneath the Talos Plaza District and retrieved most of the trinkets, including those two silver candlesticks I'd been so smug about. Then, feeling as bold and brilliant as ever back in those days, I went straight to Sebastian.

Sebastian was the first fence I ever met—and I must confess, he made a lasting impression on me! Just picture him: an elderly, massive—though not fat—Imperial with an imposing posture and a voice both loud and melodious—like gentle thunder, if such a thing exists!

He owned an antiquities shop which, beyond its countless dusty tomes, offered pieces of art of every kind—and for nearly every taste. Naturally, it also had the inevitable back room so typical of such dens.
But what struck me most was the grandeur of the front room: a vast, high-ceilinged space where expensive items were laid out with elegance and impeccable taste.
Everything in that nice place whispered of wealth, refinement, and exquisite decadence—a truly enchanting lair!

Apart from the antique dealer himself, the shop employed three young men—well-groomed and impeccably dressed—all tending to the needs of the few customers who, despite the early hour, were examining the displays. Oh, everyone there was so immersed in admiring those truly marvelous things, so it was easy for me to discreetly catch the old merchant's attention and show him the token I had received from Shaira.

Sebastian gave a few quiet instructions to his associates and saluted the customers, then beckoned me to follow. He moved slowly, leaning on an ebony cane with a golden handle—yet his impressive presence was in no way diminished by his pace.

Once we reached the back room—yes, that back room—he sank with visible satisfaction into a richly upholstered armchair and gestured toward the large table between us.

I opened my bag and, with pride, began laying out all the trinkets and cheap jewelry I had stolen. He gave them one glance—only one and then said flatly, not even bothering to inspect them further:

"Five septims for the candlesticks, three for the rest. Why did Shaira send you to me?"

I met his disapproving stare with ease and no fear. Smiling impudently, I extended my hand across the table. Sebastian sighed, then counted out eight gold coins and placed them before me.

"Now, if our business is concluded, I have work to attend to," he added curtly, clearly surprised I hadn't left yet.

Without a word, I pushed the sold items aside and emptied the rest of my bag onto the table. From it came a sparkling cascade of gold and silver coins, jingling as they fell and catching the old man's attention at last.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at me, now clearly intrigued.

"My mother told me you were trustworthy enough to handle my money. Well... here it is—for now," I said, tossing the eight septims on top of the gleaming pile.

"Ah! Now I begin to understand!" Sebastian replied with a grin, tapping his cane twice against the floor. Almost immediately, a cheerful girl—just a little older than me—burst into the room, cheeks flushed and eyes bright.

"Dara, count the money and give this young lady a receipt," he instructed, then turned to me:

"And lest I forget, my commission is one percent per month. You may come at any hour, day, or night if you intend to withdraw all your funds at once. For smaller sums, however, please respect our business hours."

With that, he stood and turned to leave, but I remained seated, watching him.

"Is there something else?" he asked, a bit uncertain.

I gestured toward the girl, who was already deep in her task, counting the coins and arranging them into tidy bundles tied with silk thread.

"Yes, go on," Sebastian said. "You may speak freely. Dara is my daughter—and, Stendarr willing, the future heir to this business," he added proudly.

The girl turned her mischievous little nose toward me and smiled sweetly.

"Very well then," I said. "In that case, I must insist that you make an exception and reduce your outrageously high commission. I assure you, the amount I'll be depositing here will soon grow; it wouldn't be fair for you to get rich just because I let you use my money."

His eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting that. And I pressed on, tone even and cool:

"Also, we're not quite done today. I'll need you to send one of your servants with me to carry some goods I plan to sell you. Oh—and to help me bring a big sack, filled with coins, to add to my deposit."

He chuckled, clearly amused but entirely unmoved.

"You're becoming quite endearing, young lady! But the commission stands. As for the servant, he can accompany you right now."

Both the retrieval and transport of the remaining stolen goods turned into quite the little adventure—a comic and welcomed one, perhaps, to a superficial mind like mine, though likely worrisome to anyone inclined to connect the dots and glimpse the larger picture.

To begin with, the servant Sebastian had assigned to me flatly refused to set foot in the city's sewer galleries. It took a fair amount of persuasion—and, more importantly, the promise of a septim—before he begrudgingly agreed to follow me into the dark access tunnel beneath the Talos Plaza District.

But after stumbling and cursing his way behind me for a while, no sooner had we stepped into the main collector tunnel than the man slipped and plunged right into a decanting pit. Eventually, soaked to the bone and swearing in every dialect I'd ever heard (and a few I hadn't), he clawed his way out, panting and pale as death, looking for all the world as though he'd just escaped the clutches of one of Dagon's horrors!

Needless to say, he refused to go a step farther, and I was left to drag the heavy sack on my own. And then, of course, I had to go back again—for the rug...

By the time we finally emerged into daylight, the poor man was soaked through and reeked so badly that there was no way he could walk through the capital's crowded streets without drawing a great deal of attention. Especially with a sack full of coins on his back!

Yet back then, my audacity knew no bounds, so I left him waiting beneath the archway of the sewer entrance and set off to fetch him a change of clothes.

Of course, it never once occurred to me to just buy something from one of the many rag-peddlers nearby. Oh no! I had absolutely no intention of spending a single coin, and I must admit—though I do so with a trace of shame—that I was already plotting how to avoid giving the servant the septim I'd promised him.

So instead, I headed toward the great bazaar near the Temple of the One. A lively crowd bustled about, slipping in and out of makeshift shops or loitering around the stalls of traveling merchants who often lingered in the Imperial City during the sultry summer months. On the way, I took full advantage of the throng, lightening a few pockets here and there, my hands as quick and discreet as a faint sigh.

Then I slipped into an improvised tailor's shop, where the master and his two apprentices were busy tending to customers and adjusting garments—some bought there, others brought from elsewhere. I distracted the tailor by rummaging through a pile of clothes on the counter, seemingly desperate to find a cashmere shawl—but of course, I never did. When he finally offered me one, I wrinkled my nose and scoffed that it was ugly and far too old. Then I pointed to a roll of silk perched high on the upper shelf.

As he climbed the ladder to retrieve it, and I was just about to snatch a few things from the table, a sudden breeze—light and fragrant—swept around me like a whispered caress.

Startled, I stared around, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. The shop remained as it had been: apprentices bent to their tasks and customers waiting their turn, everything bathed in the sticky heat of a midsummer afternoon.

Yet something unusual—and deeply disturbing—was happening: my mind had suddenly become as clear as crystal, and my soul felt as light as a snowflake. Just like on that distant winter evening when I first met Maria, I began to sense the presence of those around me—I knew their thoughts, I felt their hunger, and I could hear their secret pulses. Even the light shimmered with unnatural brilliance, and the once-dim shop now burned too brightly for my unaccustomed eyes. They began to sting, protesting the piercing radiance! Every sound, no matter how faint, rang out sharp and pure, echoing with pristine clarity. Ah, I could even hear a mouse gnawing beneath the floorboards!

When the tailor returned with that roll of silk in his hands, I watched as his expression shifted—first confusion, then mild irritation.

"But where is the little lady? She asked me to bring this..." he muttered, slapping the fabric down onto the counter with a grunt.

And in that instant, I understood. And I was afraid.

Never before had Nocturnal's gift awakened so... brazenly. Not in the safety of night, not cloaked in shadow—but now, here, in broad daylight, surrounded by strangers.

I lifted my left hand and saw nothing. That was when true fear gripped me. I began to tremble.

But then Her voice came—clear and loud, dark velvet stretched taut over steel:

"Be thou not a fool, sweet dove! I am with thee now... and I would have us make merry together. Take whatsoever doth please thee from the counter yonder."

I obeyed, acting mechanically, like one of those intricate contraptions sometimes found in the depths of the Dwemer ruins. I took a set of clothes for the servant waiting in the city's sewer, two brightly colored ribbons, a cute short skirt, and a richly adorned leather vest for myself. And, of course, I didn't forget the roll the tailor had left on the counter. 

I thought that would be all. But then Nocturnal spoke again:

"Verily, thou dost disappoint me. Thou hast yet to grasp the skills most needful for thy station anew. Go thou hence and pry open the counter's drawer! Behold, the merchant doth even now turn to measure yon woman..." She said, giggling delightedly.

I did exactly as She instructed. From the drawer, I took all the gold coins and a fair number of silver ones. Then, light as a feather, I slipped through the bustle of the shop and stepped into the blinding daylight.

I stopped, swaying and trembling. The outdoor brilliance overwhelmed me, and all the sounds and smells around me assaulted my senses savagely. I could even sense the auras of joy or misery surrounding the people nearby and vaguely understand their immediate intentions. But this newfound ability was still dim and barely intelligible to me... 

I felt as if I might faint and crouched on the ground. That's when my beloved Mistress's voice rang out again—harsh this time:

"Fall not, thou wretched worm! Think not thyself so frail as to yield afore the pitiful emanations of lesser minds. Rise, press on, and halt not! By mine command, thou shalt obey!"

Her words echoed through every fiber of my being, and with them came a sudden surge of boundless energy, burning away all my weakness!

Just as Nocturnal commanded, I managed to keep walking, weaving through the crowd that filled the bazaar in the golden light of that afternoon. Soon, the sunlight no longer stung my eyes, and my ears and nose began to adapt to the onslaught of stimuli around me. In truth, it had never been a true assault or something like an aggression—only that my senses were heightened far beyond what any ordinary, unused to magic human could bear.

Yet the true challenge came not from the sights, sounds, or smells... but from thoughts!

From emotions. From the moment I stepped out of the tailor's shop, I was swept up in a flood of mental effluvia—scattered echoes: fear, desire, regret, boredom, hunger... and countless other shards of the mortal psyche, all washing over me at once.

Though they all came as subtle vibrations of varying harmonics—much like scent or sound—their interpretation, or rather, their deciphering, demanded far greater effort and skill. To the mind of a novice, unaccustomed to the exquisite art of separating and silencing such impressions, it was like standing amid a storm of disembodied voices—some whispering, some shouting, none intelligible on their own, yet all clamoring to be heard.

And woven through it all was the overwhelming spiritual presence of Nocturnal—resonating in the marrow of my bones, threading through every fiber of my being. My mind teetered on the brink. Soon, I began to perceive peculiar things: saints with blazing halos, demons coiled in shadows, cherubs weeping blood, ghosts reaching out with trembling hands—each one desperate to touch me, to embrace or to tear, to cradle or to maim.

Oh, it was maddening... yet strangely sweet. And deep within, I could feel the Daedra basking in rapture, drinking in every flicker of terror and thrill I experienced, feasting upon the chaos within me. She desired me to feel a bit of Her own divine ecstasy—to share, if only for a moment, in what it means to be a god.

I assure you, friends: without training or a disciplined will, such an experience could easily fracture one's grasp on reality—and send him straight to the bedlam. Forever!

But as the moments passed, Nocturnal loosened Her grip, and I slowly began to adapt. The noise softened. The impressions stilled. Bit by bit, I began to feel at ease in that strange, brilliant hurricane.

And more importantly, I started to notice the opportunities. I'm a practical girl, after all!

So, I didn't hesitate to take advantage of the moment. On my way back, I claimed a few jewelry and more coins—some from pockets, others from unattended merchant stalls. With each bold deed, I felt Nocturnal shiver with delight, and sometimes, after a particularly daring act of theft, Her shameless giggle would be followed by brief, intense jolts of pleasure—a kind of ecstasy I had never known before. It made my body tremble and my spirit feel as if it were soaring through the void between stars!

At one point, my Mistress longed to feast alongside me, and thus my body returned fully to the mortal plane. It hadn't been wholly in Her realm—but rather suspended, balanced precariously on the limb between the two worlds, leaning gently back toward the one I knew. I offered a weak protest. Truth be told, I had begun to savor that strange state, where shadows and glimmers from Her Daedric kingdom overlapped subtly with the colors and textures of Tamriel. I even feigned concern for the servant I had left behind, murmuring that he might vanish with my sack of coins...

But Lady Luck only laughed, assuring me the poor soul was deep in enchanted sleep and would remain so until I returned.

So I surrendered to Her will. I indulged in a lavish meal, accompanied by sparkling wine from the vineyards of Skingrad. At the end of it, Nocturnal declared Herself pleased—satisfied with me, with our deeds, with everything. She chose to linger with me a while longer... And so She did!

We spent many of the following days together, and those were truly wonderful days—drenched in the wild, restless energy Her presence awakened in me. Nocturnal was unusually attentive and tender during that time. We behaved, in truth, like newlyweds. The misunderstandings and quarrels, of course, would come later, just as they always do in the mortal world.

That evening, though, everything unfolded with such delightful ease that life itself began to feel like a beautiful dream.

The servant was indeed fast asleep in the shadow beneath the archway by the main collector gallery in the Talos Plaza District. I woke him, and he quickly changed into the clothes I had brought; then, together and laden with the goods I'd acquired, we made our way back to Sebastian's antique shop.

The old man was waiting for us, and we followed him through the already familiar passage. The usual knocks on the floor echoed below, and Dara appeared promptly, smiling—her fiery red hair cascading in waves over her shoulders. She was breathing heavily from the dash, her chest rising and falling in a way that struck me as both cute and oddly stirring.

I spread out all the items I'd brought on the large table—everything except the sack of coins, which the servant had left in a corner. Sebastian appraised the merchandise carefully, nodded approvingly, and pulled a handful of gold coins from his safe, handing them over without a word. Then the sack was opened under his amused gaze, and Dara's peals of laughter filled the room.

"You girls have work to do all night!" Sebastian said, half-sympathetically.

But Dara shook her flaming mane, wrinkled her mischievous little nose, and laughed:

"Not a chance, father! If Elsie agrees—and she must!" she giggled, locking eyes with me, "we'll solve the problem quickly and very cleverly."

I looked at her, puzzled and slightly annoyed by her brazenness. But I'll admit it—she was dazzling, her eyes dancing with mischief. Nocturnal chuckled inside my mind and whispered:
"Careful, dove... Dara is an old, sly fox."

Yet Dara was far from old—and although she possessed all the vices of a fox, she also had its cunning grace.
And her idea? Simple and clever: we'd weigh one of the coins at the alchemist's shop nearby, then wrap the whole sack in a blanket and find its weight on the coal merchant's scales...

Sebastian sighed, but didn't object. He rose with a tired elegance and said:

"My esteemed client, I shall now leave you to finalize the transaction as you see fit. But do remember—you are always welcome in my home. Next time, come through the main entrance. The one with the colonnades. And please—send my warm regards to Shaira."

Once he left, Dara and I got to work. I was tired from the day's adventures—and, truthfully, enchanted by Dara's charm—so I followed her plan without protest. She then fetched more gold coins from the safe and added them to the growing pile on the table.

I took twenty-five septims for myself and slipped them into the pouch at my hip; the rest I left in Dara's care. She handed me a parchment with figures written in neat, round script. I couldn't read—not even numbers—but I accepted the receipt without looking and tucked it into the inside pocket of my vest, casually and without a second thought.

"Oh, my golden-haired princess is so kind and trusting!" Dara laughed, planting a kiss on my cheek. It sent a shiver down my spine, and I felt Nocturnal chuckling softly, as if amused by my reaction.

I think I blushed. Dara smiled knowingly, slipped an arm around my waist, and led me gently to the exit. At the threshold, she turned to me and said, in an almost playful tone:

"You should bring your goods straight to me next time, little princess. And, while we're at it... We should spend more time together! Why don't you drop by tomorrow evening? Maybe we can go somewhere cozy and get to know each other better..."

I then went to meet Nash; I found him, as expected, lounging with a few of the gang in that dingy tavern where they tended to rot whenever life had no particular plans for them. Which, lately, seemed to be very often!

I tossed fifteen gleaming septims onto the beer-stained table, telling him that the money represented my contribution to the shared wealth for that month. When the coins jingled on the greasy table, the boys stared in disbelief, our treasurer sighing in relief and thanking me warmly; he said he'd speak to Rolf about putting me on the gang's payroll as a regular. But I just laughed and told him I didn't need a wage.

Then, like a true bard, I spun them a tale worthy of minstrel songs—woven with truth, laced with lies, and sprinkled with just enough danger, hardship, and heroism to make even me believe it.

I could feel the Goddess within me purring with pleasure, thrilled by the audacity of my shameless exaggerations. And just as I brought the story to its glittering climax, I added — with just the right hint of disdain — that if only one of them had gotten off their lazy backside and helped me, we could've added over a hundred septims to our common purse!

That did it. Their jaws dropped, eyes widened. Even Nash, who knew money better than most priests know their prayers, had never seen such a pile of gold in one place! For a moment, he stared at me in awe, but then they started doubting my story, laughing like the fools they were! And yes, they tousled my hair again, like they used to do whenever I amused them...

Annoyed, I pushed their hands away and hissed that they could go check for themselves if they didn't believe me. I whispered the butcher's address into the treasurer's ear and left without even glancing back, not when they called after me, not when they begged me to return, claiming they'd only been joking.

And Nocturnal laughed heartily—deep, rich, and wicked—while I felt her subtle, warm caress on my hair and neck.

Intermezzo

In the quiet of this starry summer night, I pause to reflect on those distant, vanished events.

What happened then was more than mischief—it was a turning point in my life, rushing at me with a force I could neither halt nor steer.

Worse still, I welcomed it. I even summoned it. I longed to be known, be wealthy, to bend people and circumstances to my will.
And what's truly strange is that I was still so young — barely more than a child — and not so long before, I had been little more than a canal rat...

Truth be told, I wasn't just boasting to feed my pride. Not entirely, at least.

There was something else behind it—something harder to name. 

Maybe it was the way they looked at me, seeing only that cute little girl who used to hang out with them, sometimes singing and dancing. So maybe, just maybe, I wanted to show them I'd become something more. Someone they couldn't ignore or laugh at without consequences. A woman who can bring gold!

No. It wasn't about the gold...

It was about the weight of the coin in my hand. The story behind it. The simple truth that I had done what none of them — mature and harsh as they were — dared even to try.

And somewhere deep inside, I think I wanted them to be proud of me. Just for a moment. Even if they'd never say it out loud. 

Yet, I also wanted them to listen to me, trust my decisions, and follow my orders!

Ah! So it was about power and its intoxicating, perverse call...

Power has been granted to me in the end, and it didn't corrupt me. It just unveiled me: cold, merciless, greedy, hypocritical, mendacious, and vengeful. Maybe more, but in short, just hollow! A perfect politician, but still a very young woman...

No! It couldn't go on like that.

So maybe I have to thank Nocturnal for Her dirty schemes... Yes, I have to do that!

Funny how we never see the crossroads until long after we've passed them!

But enough of that — I'm rambling again! Back to the real story!

II

I got home very late, and Shaira was still waiting for me, as she'd been doing more and more lately. The lamp was lit, casting soft shadows across her tired face. Without a word, she led me to her study, and there I told her everything about the day's adventures—the thefts, the deals, the people. This time, I spoke the truth, leaving out only Nocturnal, who grew uneasy the moment I met Shaira.

But my mother sensed the Goddess's presence from the faint shift in my bearing, the brightness in my gaze, and a newfound, uncanny agility—marked by a barely perceptible grace that no longer felt entirely human. And more than anything, she was unsettled by the absurd string of flawless heists I had just recounted. Shaira visibly tensed as I spoke, and when I showed her the receipt Dara had given me in exchange for the deposited gold, she flinched—just slightly, but enough for me to notice. Her gaze turned uncertain, troubled even.

I felt her fear, and that hurt me. I stood and stepped toward her, longing for that warm affection she so rarely gave. But she gently pushed me away and, handing back the parchment, said in a low voice:

"You're a wealthy girl now, Elsie. And from now on... all of us in this family will do everything we can to show you the deep respect you deserve."

I protested—confused, intimidated, and deeply saddened. I told her I loved them all and would always be her loyal daughter. But Shaira only shook her head and added nothing more. Moreover, throughout our entire conversation, she avoided my eyes, staring instead at the woven patterns of the carpet beneath our feet. And when she finally spoke again, it was only to tell me to follow her.

She led me to Rasha's room.

It had been locked all this time, kept pristine by her own hand. Everything was in perfect order—not a cushion out of place, not even a speck of dust. Shaira told me I would sleep there from now on, and that in the morning, my sisters would move my belongings in. Then she asked which of them I preferred as a servant.

Oh, that was too much for me!

I replied—firmly, though nearly trembling with shame—that I would not allow any of them to humble themselves before me, and added that I was more their servant than they were mine.

Then, hearing Nocturnal giggling with wicked amusement inside my mind, I felt vexed and hurried to add that all I truly wanted was to contribute to the well-being and happiness of our family. That nothing—nothing—had changed in my heart.

The Daedra burst into uncontrollable laughter.
'You're such a miserable worm! How sweet of you!'

Shaira didn't utter a single word. Still averting her eyes, she gave me a slight bow, turned, and quietly left the room, gently closing the door behind her.

And I was left alone.

Well... not quite; Nocturnal was there, along with me, of course. Yet She is not the kind of presence that could comfort you, and I felt abandoned and sad. The joy of triumph that had thrilled me all evening suddenly vanished, replaced by a dull sense of futility.

Still, there was nothing better to do than try to sleep, so I lay down on the bed—the same bed where my brother Rasha had slept for so many years, even before we met! That thought only deepened the sadness that made my soul vibrate painfully. I sorely missed the days when I had been so ill and surrounded by the love of this wonderful, warm family! And most of all, I missed Rasha's steady gaze—his cruel, relentless eyes, in which I had often found true wells of strength and resolve... But I eventually fell asleep. So I slept and I dreamed—and it was the first night I ever spent with my Mistress. Oh, not as a supplicant, but as Her chosen vessel!

In my case, sleeping in the Daedra's arms is always restless and tangled in strange, vivid dreams. That night was no different. I dreamed in the eerie light of that alien sun, always filtered through the branches of the black-leaved Tree that grows in Evergloam. The images were confusing, surreal, and soaked in a beauty that frightened me.

Back then, I understood nothing. I didn't know—how could I?—that Nocturnal grows bored easily and Her divine essence often drifts through Her Kingdom while Her vessel lies dormant and dreamless. So I became... jealous. I struggled to hold Her near, to bind Her ethereal presence to my soul even in sleep! And the only thing that struggle left behind was an aching weariness—as if I had worked harder in slumber than I ever did awake.

Many things in my life began to change starting that very next morning!

I woke to the sound of a timid knock on my door—and at the same time, heard Nocturnal's unmistakably mocking whisper in my mind:

'Rise and shine, Your Highness! Your humble subjects dearly need your bright and wise presence!'

I sighed, rolled over with a grimace, and wished to shut Her out, but She was in one of Her playful, chatty moods that day—those were the worst in the beginning.

A moment later, one of my sisters peeked in and told me a man was asking for me at the door.
When she described him, I knew instantly: Rolf. That made me jump out of bed faster than a merchant spotting a tax collector!

Knowing full well how much Shaira despised the man, I dressed in a hurry and went straight into the courtyard, where he was waiting... rather impatiently, as always. I looked at him, puzzled. He had never dared cross the threshold of our house before—and this hardly seemed the moment to start. But Rolf just grinned, grabbed my hand, and pulled me outside, into the street, already bustling with people in a morning rush.

As we walked, he apologized again and again for the boys' behavior, swearing they only meant to tease their dear friend. In truth, he said, they were eager to work with me—and ready to listen to whatever plans I had. And since I was one of them, I surely couldn't abandon the gang now—not when times were so hard, and the whole crew was hanging by a thread.

Rolf said all this while clutching my hand tightly, throwing tender glances my way from time to time; I was overjoyed, though I did my best not to show it.

We stopped at the Hoarse Rooster, the tavern our boys usually used as a meeting place. It was closed to the public that day, and nearly everyone from the gang was already inside—even a few part-time hopefuls still dreaming of earning a place among us.

As I stepped through the door, everyone lifted their mugs and cheered, grins spread like wildfire, and someone began chanting my name. A moment later, some old friends swarmed me—laughing, hugging, even lifting me into the air with their strong, calloused arms. And they even forgot to ruffle my hair!

Oh yes, the boys had thrown a party—a celebration in my honor, to mark my official admission into the gang! I laugh now, but back then my heart melted. All these rough men—thieves, thugs, rogues, and fools—were my comrades. My people!

'Your subjects,' chuckled Nocturnal inside me, purring like a cat that had just found the warmest sunbeam—or its bowl full of milk!

And maybe She was right. That welcome meant more than I could say.

Amid cheers and drunken laughter, I was formally confirmed as a full member, no longer the girl they used to tease and pat on the head. And though I'd already been one of them in practice for a long time, the pride I felt in that moment was very real. Their recognition fed something inside me, and I felt a fierce, sudden need to prove myself worthy of their trust. And maybe something more. I wanted to lead them. Guide them. Shape them into something greater. Because I knew they were brave and loyal lads. Just a bit naive—good-natured dimwits, really. Except for Nash, of course—he was actually sharp!

But I didn't linger. Once their voices grew hoarse and their gestures sloppy from too much cheap liquor, I quietly said goodbye to Rolf and Nash and slipped away into the noisy evening streets, heading home.

I proudly recounted the entire story to my mother. In detail. Shaira—who, as I may have mentioned before, disapproved of this kind of association and deeply despised the gang since Rasha's time—listened calmly. She neither protested nor commented on anything I said. Once I finished, she simply remarked, in a quiet but firm voice, that it might be time for me to learn how to read figures and numbers—and, above all, to learn how to calculate.

Shaira, like everyone else in our family, couldn't read or write, but she alone had mastered the magic of arithmetic and was remarkably skilled at adding long columns of numbers in her head and remembering sums with uncanny accuracy.

As for me, although I was initially delighted and even flattered by my mother's initiative, I have to admit that all the knowledge she crammed into my poor, dizzy head felt unbearable at times, and I often wanted to give up. But Shaira was unrelenting—unlike anything else between us, since that memorable night when I'd come home holding Dara's deposit certificate—she was firm when it came to arithmetic study, so despite my struggles and outbursts, she persisted until I could perform complex calculations. Now, that was something quite useful, even necessary, for someone with a taste for shiny things, wasn't it? Even Nocturnal admitted that—although I must add here, as an odd little detail: She cannot, for the life of Her, grasp such distinctions—like the one between five and twelve septims, for instance. I suppose, to a Daedra like my beloved Mistress, that's not a difference at all, just merely mortal nonsense. At least, that's what She says, scoffing, whenever I ask Her how much money I have in my little pocket. Yet maybe it means something more... something like the deep incompatibility between minds of entirely different natures! Though interestingly enough, Mephala, a Daedra as well, seems to understand those small details very well.
Strange, isn't it?

Meanwhile, the dynamics in our household had shifted completely. Except for my father and the little ones, all the family members treated me with special deference, and the older ones even began offering me small sums of money from their work. At first, I was embarrassed and tried to refuse; however, Shaira explained that these offerings honored the Goddess, who, as she put it, might take offense if neglected.

My mother was always deeply respectful—and visibly fearful—whenever she spoke of Nocturnal in my presence. Her words were few, each carefully chosen to express absolute submission and unwavering reverence toward the Daedra. This flattered the Goddess, of course, though only in that peculiar, unsettling way of Hers... I often sensed Her open disdain for Shaira and the other members of my beloved family. That hurt me. And, although I longed to question Her, to voice my confusion and defiance, I always remained silent and vexed. Because back then, Nocturnal had not yet granted me the right to speak with Her directly, and, more often than not, She referred to me in Her monologues as "worm" or "pet". Moreover, She couldn't stand almost everyone I held dear or cared about; only Dara pleased Her, and the Goddess never stopped praising her great intelligence.

Nocturnal particularly disapproved of Ra'ha, who, like any true artist, possessed a fiercely independent spirit and an irreverent tongue; he often mocked the gods and the Daedric Princes alike, both in his performances and in private.

As for me, my father's loving presence and the playful warmth of my younger siblings were rare and cherished comforts during that brief, fragile time we still shared under the sun of the mortals.

I could feel my beloved Mistress sneer, Her quiet malice flickering in the background, whenever Shaira trembled while I played with my little sisters, who, like all their feline kind, couldn't resist the instinct to cuddle, purr, and be noticed.

She also grew visibly irritated whenever my dear father caressed my head and, half-joking, asked what new useless, charming, or peculiar gift the playful Cat Mother had bestowed upon me lately...

To all the changes that had already twisted my once-familiar life, another ominous development soon added itself: my growing role within the gang, where I began spending most of my time. Almost overnight, I became the main contributor to our collective funds—a fact that quietly, but decisively, increased my influence and, eventually, my authority.

I was wise enough not to undermine Rolf's leadership. I left Nash in his position as treasurer and advisor, and through the two of them, I effectively became the true leader of the gang during the following six months. During that time, our power grew steadily. What had once been a modest neighborhood crew of thugs was turning into a structured organization—one bold enough to claim dominance over the Imperial City's underworld and to dictate its own terms to the merchants and craftsmen of the capital.

I replaced the crude intimidation tactics used by my comrades with something subtler and, as it turned out, far more effective.

Those who refused to pay our "protection fee" were no longer threatened or assaulted. Instead, after declining our politely formulated offer, they soon began to experience... occurrences.

Strange and inexplicable events would unfold around them. Often, in the dead of night, they and their families would be startled awake by whispers, sudden laughter, or the sound of breaking glass—usually mirrors or windows belonging to them. And no matter how thoroughly they searched, stumbling through their homes with flickering lamps—lamps that had the peculiar habit of going out in the darkest corners—they could never find a trace of the ghost that tugged at their clothes or sent them sprawling to the floor with a playful trip of the foot.

Sometimes, they would wake in the morning to find strange symbols or ominous messages scrawled—usually in red—across the interior walls of their homes or shops. The warnings hinted at ruin, failure, or personal disaster. And indeed, if the merchants continued to reject contributions to what I modestly called the "poor relief fund," some of those predictions came to pass.

Bakers would find their sacks of flour soaked in rancid oil, their entire stock ruined overnight. Uncooperative innkeepers would wake to find their beer and wine barrels mysteriously drained—either from loosened stoppers or tiny, almost invisible holes drilled during the night that flooded their cellars. More than once, bags full of living rats were occasionally emptied during the night into the stalls of stubborn grocers.

Even the skilled and well-off craftsmen were not spared. Blacksmiths and armorers, for example, would wake to discover that their tools had vanished—over and over, no matter how often they replaced them or how securely they were locked away. Or their apprentices, especially the newer ones, would all leave at once, without notice or reason, never to return.

Alchemists who ignored my polite offer would soon be surrounded by angry "customers," loudly accusing them of selling dangerous or ineffective potions. And if that didn't break them, a timely anonymous tip would summon an Order patrol, who always managed to discover a small vial of skooma tucked among their otherwise pristine shelves and glassware.

Oh, we used so many tricks and tactics that only listing them all would fill pages!

What truly mattered was that, in the end, even the most stubborn merchants reluctantly agreed to pay, unable to bear my devilish persistence and resolve. Nocturnal was proud of me—at least, that's what She claimed—going so far as to compare my patience to that of a "panther lurking in the tall grass". I had no idea what a "panther" was, and of course, Lady Luck didn't bother to explain. 'Ask your oh-so-clever Shaira,' She said. Naturally, I didn't because I had a feeling it was some kind of  Daedric prank... So, the traders and the artisans caved in after some of them tried to appeal to the authorities.

The officials, however, were powerless to stop the wave of coercion spreading across the commercial and artisanal districts of the Imperial City. Yet before long, they began noticing a strange pattern: a short-statured, well-dressed young blonde woman—unfailingly polite and seemingly naive—kept turning up, under different guises, in far too many complaints to be a coincidence. It wasn't long before the watchful eyes of the Order began to turn in my direction.

At the same time, we started offering real protection to all residents of the Merchant District—shielding them from theft, extortion, and violence of any kind. It took no time at all to win the trust and admiration of the district's poorer inhabitants, among whom our base of operations remained well hidden. This earned us not just popular support, but also an endless web of safe havens, impossible for the warrior-monks of the Order of Stendarr to fully investigate.

Unfortunately, our expansion disrupted the Thieves Guild's operations in this part of the capital. At first, they sent warnings and veiled threats, which I nonchalantly ignored. But everything changed the day one of our boys was assassinated just outside his home.

I knew I had to retaliate.

With Nocturnal's enthusiastic approval—She was utterly delighted by the escalating drama—our response was swift and brutal. In less than a week, we dismantled or absorbed every rival gang that dared resist, and the few Thieves Guild members who still lingered in our district fled in panic. After that, none of them even dared set foot in the Merchant District again.

Through all these schemes and actions, each one inspired, guided, or directly aided by Nocturnal, I became the de facto leader of the unaffiliated underworld.

My rise to power, shrouded in shadow and carried out with an elegance that inspired both admiration and fear, inevitably drew the attention of the higher leadership within the Order of Stendarr. The whispers of Thieves Guild representatives, murmured into the vigilant ears of the authorities, did much to fan the flames of official suspicion.

My mother, Shaira, had begun warning me—at first with gentle words, then with increasing severity—about the danger looming above my head and, as she often insisted, above our entire family. But I was too full of myself, too enthralled by the apparent infallibility of my methods and the divine providence I believed was guiding me.

Looking back, I can even admit that the notoriety I had gained filled me with a reckless sort of pride—one that pushed me toward ever more daring and rash ventures. And so I walked boldly down the path of wrongdoing and ruin, with no thought of turning back.

Thus, the autumn and winter of that year passed almost in the blink of an eye.

Absorbed as I was by the ever-growing demands of my position in the gang and my increasingly intense relationship with Dara, I barely noticed when the war between the Empire and the Dominion reignited with the arrival of spring. Even the fall of the fortified city of Leyawiin—handed over to the Aldmeri Dominion without so much as token resistance—left me cold.

I watched the new wave of refugees, this time from the County of Skingrad, not with pity but as yet another nuisance for the Order of Stendarr to manage. As I saw it, their arrival was merely an opportunity, and so I decided to extend our influence into the Talos Plaza District.

From that moment on, a collective madness ensnared us all in its murky grip.
The great city was now shaken by street battles between our boys and mercenaries hired by the Thieves Guild. Refugees, growing in number and desperation, filled every public square and park in the Imperial City to the brim; and following them—just as flocks of scavenging birds trail behind armies—a multitude of criminals of all kinds crept into the capital, pushing the chaos of those days to the brink. Even the warrior-monks of the Order now walked the streets with swords drawn instead of their traditional maces...

Against this grim and unsettling background, on a windy and bitter spring day, tragedy struck our family with devastating force. My father, Ra'ha, in a moment of incomprehensible recklessness, attempted to pickpocket a nobleman—a trade he had long abandoned. Careless and superficial as he always had been, he didn't see the two bodyguards shadowing the lord, so Ra'ha was caught in the act and quickly overpowered by the guards. By some cruel twist of fate, one of my brothers happened to be nearby. Seeing the commotion, he rushed to Ra'ha's aid. The confrontation escalated— one of the bodyguards was killed, my brother fell during the struggle, and the city's warrior-monks intervened, arresting my father on the spot. 

The trial was swift, and Ra'ha was sentenced to hang.

Desperate to save him, my mother leveraged every remaining connection and sacrificed a great portion of the family's wealth.

And somehow—miraculously—she succeeded. By Imperial decree, Ra'ha was pardoned and released.

In the late afternoon, he returned home shaken and trembling, his eyes filled with tears, and begged forgiveness for my brother's death. Shaira tried to console him, and we all did what we could to comfort him. But Ra'ha was a broken man—I saw that clearly. All the life and joy that once lived within him were gone; he was now just a shell of the man he had been.

I felt Nocturnal grinning, satisfied, and I shuddered with disgust. She only said:
"Go on, worm! Go and lick its boots—maybe it'll feel better after that! You're becoming an animal, just like them!"

And then Her divine essence left my soul.
I knew it.

The Brotherhood of Stendarr, long exasperated by the unrest tied to our family—and especially by my deeds—decided to take matters into their own hands and act outside the law.
That very night, under the command of Grandmaster Ser Gregorius Clegius, the so-called Holy Mountain, a vengeful mob armed with spears, swords, maces, and torches descended upon our home.
They slaughtered my entire family and set our house ablaze.

I survived—not by strength, nor cunning, but only because of Nocturnal's gift.

As the flames devoured everything I had once known, I fled—barefoot and broken—leaving behind grief, guilt, and ashes.

All that remained was the shadow of who I had been...
... and the promise of what I would become.

Chapter Text

I ran. I ran as if the entire world were crumbling behind me, as if death itself were at my heels. Pain tore through me—each breath burned, fire seared my lungs. I ran until my legs gave out, until every shred of strength left me.

As I fell to my knees, the fog thickened around me—its milky, red-tinged haze wrapping me like a burial shroud.

I could barely see. But that didn't matter.

Because the horror that had driven me to flee was gone—swallowed by something even darker: despair, guilt, and grief.
They struck like a tidal wave, dragging me under, and the weight of my failure—of everything I had lost—crushed me.

And in that moment, as I screamed—a raw, guttural cry that tore through the mist and vanished into silence—something inside me broke.

I no longer cared.
Not about the others.
Not about their lives.
Not about their pain.

I wanted to go back.
To find Gregorius Clegius and rip his heart from his chest with my bare hands.
To taste his blood, to feel its warmth spill over my fingers, as if that could somehow quench the fire consuming me.

But I couldn't even stand.

So I stayed there, trembling, staring into the swirling fog—its sinister glow borrowed from Masser's crimson light.

And then, the vision came, vivid and terrifying.

I saw cities aflame, their people screaming and falling beneath the cold gleam of steel.
I glimpsed endless lines of grey-faced souls, backs bent under the weight of misery, driven forward by the overseers' merciless whips.
The stench of death hung thick and unrelenting. Above, crows darkened the sky with their cries, and ravens feasted on the fallen.

Amid this disaster, I felt its source — a powerful, hollow, cursed entity. It had forsaken both Gods and Daedric Princes, and was a sad, lonely soul, devoured by its own void.
Its essence struck me as vivid scents: incense, tempered steel, sweat of man and beast, crushed nightshade, musk, and blood.

And then I knew: That abysmal thing... was no stranger to me.
Oh, no! She wore a shape I recognized — the one I would have seen whenever I dared to look into a mirror.

I came to my senses, trembling and weeping. Then I rose and set off through the damp and cold streets. I wandered through the deserted neighborhood, and when the darkness of the night began to dissolve into the sickly grey of that rainy spring morning, I slipped into the city's bowels.

I hid in the sewers, searched for my old hiding spot, cleaned the vermin around, and took refuge there.

I waited.
I sharpened my knife and lingered.
I cut my hair, smeared myself with ash, and waited.

I slept and dreamed. I dreamed of my family—my mother's stern gaze, my father's gentle voice, the laughter of my brothers and sisters echoing through our lost home. They felt so close, so alive, and yet so far, unreachable. I wept for them and for the beast I'd had to become.

I killed rats and ate their flesh, drank their blood.
I lingered for a while longer... awaiting...

Once a month, the Order of Stendarr held public executions—grim ceremonies always preceded by the Grand Master's moralizing sermons. I waited for the day, and at dawn, when the first pale rays of light began to reveal the capital's filth, I emerged from the sewers like a dirty, shivering ghost.

I made my way to the Arena, where the spectacle was to unfold, and slipped in unnoticed, taking my place among the city's beggars. On this day, they were tolerated and showered with generous alms: coin, drink, food—courtesy of the Order.

Late in the afternoon, the Grand Master arrived, flanked by guards, and climbed the scaffold. I watched him closely, burning every detail into the ruins of my soul.

Yet even for a confused mind such as mine, one thing stood out—
He wore no armor.
Not even the customary chainmail shirt.

I moved closer to the stockade surrounding the fighting area and listened to the Mountain's first words.

My hands trembled as they rested on the fence, my knife hidden beneath the rags I wore. The Grand Master's voice echoed through the arena, but I heard nothing—nothing but the blood pounding in my ears. Then, all at once, my body grew light, as if I no longer controlled it, as if an unseen, foreign will guided me forward, and my mind became sharp, crystalline, terrifyingly clear. And from within that hollow clarity, I heard Her mocking voice:

"Go now, worm. Go and fulfill thy pointless madness. I shall watch over thee..."

I sprang like an arrow loosed from a bow, leapt the tall fence with impossible grace, raced across the sand, passed through the Mountain's guards unseen, climbed the steps of the scaffold, and stood before Ser Gregorius Clegius. He was still speaking, voice proud, chest out, basking in the attention, so pleased with himself.

"Enjoy this, little one," Nocturnal purred.

Suddenly, his eyes widened—first in confusion, then in horror; my blade found its mark before I even knew I had moved, and I severed his jugular vein in a single, perfect stroke. He choked and fell to his knees. Blood sprayed, warm and thick, over my hands, my face, my chest, and in that instant, my world narrowed to a single, pulsing point: his dying eyes. I fell upon him like a beast,  tearing, stabbing, clawing, bathing in his blood, drinking from it. I was in a special state, another one entirely; the nearby guards were like specters, merely immaterial shadows. There was nothing else but his blood, my knife, and the raw ecstasy of my awakening! I didn't even feel the brutal blows crashing down on me, nor did I hear the crowd's deep roar. Only the sound of the Mountain's choking and the pleasure—a paroxysmal pleasure unlike anything I had ever known, though I would taste it again... in very different circumstances.

They beat me mercilessly, dragged me away like a sack of filth, and yet at that moment, I felt nothing. Only when they hauled me from the arena did I sense something—two burning points piercing through the red mist veiling my sight. I looked and, beyond the fence, I saw my brother Rasha. He was looking at me, eyes like twin embers shining through the haze; he gave a single, solemn nod, pulled his hood down, and melted into the crowd.

I wasn't held long. By the very next day, they dragged me before the judges, who sentenced me to death by hanging and burning alive at the stake for murder and witchcraft. They barely looked at me as they recited the charges—words that fell flat, hollow, and irrelevant to me. That morning, I stood before them, not as the accused, but as something beyond their reach or comprehension. The pain ravaged my body, unbearable, consuming, it's true, but it was still overcome by the ecstasy of the revelation taking root inside me: I was no longer subject to their judgment.

I was the judge and the executioner, too—and I had done what had to be done.

After the trial, they took me to one of the Order's fortresses, a grim structure along the Ring Road, not far from the shores of Lake Rumare. It was part of the same complex as the orphanage where I had once spent some months years ago. Inside the keep, the halls echoed with distant prayers and the hollow clang of armor, like everywhere these warrior monks lived, studied, or prayed. I was locked in a small, clean room filled with bright light; there, they tended to my wounds, even set my broken ribs with some semblance of care.

I don't like to remember those days; they were full of suffering of many kinds. The pain was endless—sharp, searing, and cruel; it stripped away all thoughts and left me trembling, a mere dirty sack of nerves and bones. Even the dread of the torments to come faded into the background—a mere shadow next to the agony consuming me. Time blurred. I no longer knew whether it was morning or dusk.
My world dissolved into pain and fever and silence. Sleep came in broken fragments—
and with it, wild, burning nightmares.

Nights were the worst. I would often wake gasping, hurting from every twitch and turn, and then lie there, trapped in the pain embrace, begging sleep to come again, save me from that world of suffering.

And in those long, dark hours, fear began to take hold of me. The fire of vengeance had gone out, the ecstasy I felt at the scaffold was now just a bitter memory, and in its wake came the awareness. I was going to die. My mind played out every horror: the slow torture, the sermons, the burning. I imagined their glee as they dragged me out to the stake, their chants rising like a dirge.

Above all else, I feared death. Only days before, I thought I had nothing to lose, and I told myself life had no more meaning. But now, broken and helpless, I wanted to cling to it—even this shattered, shameful life—with the desperation of a drowning child. But there was nothing I could do. And so, between the pain, fever, and fear, my body slowly began to heal.

Eventually,  my weakness subsided and the pain dulled just enough for me to feed myself, to sleep for more than a few broken moments. Yet soon, a new kind of torment began. Each night, a priest visited my cell. He came in silence, lit a candle, and sat beside me, and then he began to read. Sermons. Endlessly long, bitter sermons—about damnation, about the flames that would eternally devour my soul if I refused to renounce the devils within me. He never shouted; his voice was even, measured, and cold, as if describing the inevitable fall of rain. Oh, he was relentless, like drops of water, dripping one after the other in the same place, in an endless and already painful sequence!

By day, a nun replaced him. She was young, with soft hands and vacant eyes, and read from the same thick book, but her tune was different, with words filled with promises. She spoke of the delights awaiting the righteous. The embrace of divine light, the harmony of souls lost in endless worship... Ah, you already know, I won't bother you more: that sterile and lifeless paradise of Stendarr, so boring that even now it haunts my dreams when I eat too much in the evening!

That stupid woman annoyed me more than I could bear. I loathed her. While I feared the priest's burning damnation, her cloying sweetness filled me with rage. I wanted to scream, to curse, to rip that gentle tone from her throat; I longed to lash out and give her a proper beating!

And so, between dreadful threats and boring, sanctimonious sermons, time passed. My body healed, but my mind began to rot from the lack of sleep and the relentless thoughts of the horrifying tortures that awaited me here and in the Aetherius.

So one night, when the priest asked if I regretted my actions, I nodded, tears streaming down my face. I begged for forgiveness, crying pitifully. He smiled, turned, and left without another word.

The next day, they moved me to a dark, damp cell in the keep's basement. Oh, damp is such an understatement! Anyone who knows these centuries-old fortresses near rivers or lakes understands: no matter how well-maintained or repaired, their foundations are always rotten with water and mold. The air was heavy, thick with the stench of decay, and the cold didn't just bite my skin—it slid beneath it, crept through my bones, and wrapped around me like a wet burial shroud.

They cut my food to a single piece of bread per day and a half-liter of water—about a pint, if you're an Altmer. It wasn't sustenance. It was a ritualized starvation and a slow, deliberate wearing away of my body.

Time lost all meaning in that place. The only visitor I had was the man who brought that pitiful ration—always alone, always silent, with only a torch to light his way through the fetid maze of the fortress undercroft.

In the first days, before I was completely drained by the lack of food and water, I tried to search for a way to escape. After all, there, in the underground, I was in a place that felt familiar, and the lock on the barred door was just an old, heavy model, corroded with rust. And my guardian... Ah, it would have been enough to extinguish the torch, leaving him helpless in the shadows that enveloped the place! To be honest, it was a ridiculous prison, and someone like me should have been able to escape from a place like this at any time. Yet I was no longer a woman awaiting execution but a cracked vessel, filled with scary echoes. I felt afraid and powerless. I tried to suppress these sensations—feelings that had been foreign to me for so many years—but I failed. As time passed and my strength ebbed away, I was horrified to realize that, mentally, I had regressed into a frightened little girl—one who reminded me all too vividly of the small golden-haired child who had wept bitterly while clinging tightly to the gravestone on her mother's freshly dug grave. I even began to rock myself gently in the dark, as I once did in the attic of the orphanage when the older girls mocked me and I whispered songs I barely remembered, lullabies that once meant safety.

With each passing day, this state of mine only worsened, so when the fortress commander finally appeared and informed me that my execution would take place the next day, I was nearly mad.

I laughed. A harsh, grating sound that even startled me. I spat at him, lunging forward to gouge out his eyes. His boot found my stomach, sending me sprawling to the floor, gasping for air. I kept laughing, though, like a madwoman, until my ribs ached and my voice cracked. Then, as suddenly as it began, the laughter stopped. Terror and despair rushed in, filling the void. I screamed, a raw, animal sound, and flung myself wildly around the narrow cell. My fists pounded the damp, mold-covered walls; my head struck the cold stones until the pain became unbearable. At some point, I must have fainted, for the next thing I knew, I woke with my mind as clear and bright as it had been the moment I paid our debt to Ser Gregorius.

In that instant, I heard a soft chuckle resonate within me. Nocturnal's voice, velvety and calm, whispered into my thoughts: "Small dove, dread not, and vex thyself no more. Thy kin hath done their part. I shall linger with thee, my kitten—watching, listening. Slumber now, and drift."

I fell into a deep sleep, and a silken darkness wrapped around me, cool and weightless. It felt like drowning—but sweetly, willingly. And when I opened my eyes... I was elsewhere. In my beloved Mistress's realm—Evergloam, as it is called. For the first time, I wandered freely through its tranquil beauty, awestruck by the serene charm of Her kingdom. It is nothing like the grim depictions spun by the priests of Stendarr. Evergloam is a land of fairytales, cloaked in enchanting, shadowed forests that seem alive with whispered secrets.

Streams of clear, swirling waters sparkle in the half-light, their surface dancing with silvery reflections. The air hums with the songs of vibrant, jewel-like birds, their melodies weaving an otherworldly harmony. Gentle and harmless creatures, some strange and others familiar, roam the glades, embodying the peace that reigns in this place.

In the heart of the shivering forest stands the Tree of Life. Its branches stretch endlessly into the heavens, radiant with a peculiar, ever-shifting light, while its roots burrow deep into the shadowed soil of Nocturnal's realm. The tree is the essence of creation itself, its presence a nexus of arcane power. Its whispers carry all the mysteries of the mortal world, speaking directly to those who dare to listen. And in that moment, as I stood before it, the Tree offered me solace, strength, and an understanding of the infinite. It anchored me, its presence a balm to my fractured soul. Even in the depths of despair, I found hope within the embrace of my Mistress's plane.

I woke only when the heavy metal door creaked, and my old acquaintance, the priest, entered my cell, flanked by two vigilantes. They chained my hands and feet. After so long spent in confinement, I no longer remembered how to walk properly, and the chains clung to me like dead weight. So they dragged me, stumbling, into the fortress's inner courtyard.

Outside,  the day was brilliantly sunny, and the sudden, savage flood of light blinded me. My eyes burned. My legs collapsed beneath me, and I fell, unable—or unwilling—to rise. One of the vigilantes ended my defiance with a few brutal kicks, forcing me upright before shoving me into a cart pulled by a donkey. The priest climbed in beside me. From the moment we departed, he resumed his endless litany, reading aloud from his cursed book, his voice droning like a funeral bell.

The road was thick with people. They jeered, spat, hurled insults—some with obscene laughter, others with pious contempt. Their voices merged into a hateful blur. In my mind, I saw only the face of my father, Ra'ha, and heard only the voice of my mother, Shaira. In that moment, I swore I was nothing like these wretched beings mocking me. I belonged to my kin—those who truly understood honor and loyalty, who share the warmth and love—the cat people, Khajiit, as they call them.

When the cart reached the bridge, the pious were waiting. My former brethren—those faithful to Stendarr—greeted me with filth: rotten food, trash, dung. The priest shielded himself in his cloak but kept reading, unshaken. I sat exposed, drenched in their contempt, my shame now complete. And yet... I felt oddly calm. As if their hatred no longer mattered. After all, this was my parade, my celebration: a wretch in chains, honored with rotten cabbage and holy scripture.

At last, our grim convoy arrived at the city gates—massive, ancient things, carved with the Empire's proud symbols. One of the vigilantes handed the execution writ to the gate sergeant, who examined it slowly, nodded... and then slit the man's throat in a single, fluid motion. The other soldier drew his sword too and charged the monks.

Chaos erupted. From behind, three Argonians surged from the crowd, striking fast and with deadly precision; steel flashed in the sunlight, and in a heartbeat, blood painted the thirsty cobblestones. A thunderclap tore the sky and, somewhere farther down the bridge, lightning struck into the assembled masses. Screams followed—high, brittle, and unending. More lightning fell. Smoke rose and flesh burned.

And then... the dead rose; animated by some dark force, they tore into the living crowd like starved hounds, their fingers digging into warm flesh as if it were soft clay. Broken bodies twisted and writhed, lifted by some unholy, great power; some still wore garlands or festival paint—ghastly decorations on already rotting masks. They turned on the living, clawing and biting with ravenous hunger; the air thickened with rot, smoke, and panic. I gagged on it and nearly fainted.

The skirmish at the gates was over, and all vigilantes lay dead; the sergeant removed his helmet and leapt into the cart, plunging his sword into the priest's heart without hesitation. Then he turned to me, and I saw him. Rasha! My beloved brother! His face was older, hardened... but his eyes—his eyes held me. I saw grief, pride, and a desperate, terrible love.

"I am here with you, Elsie," he said, his voice steady and full of resolve. "Nothing will separate us now." He kissed me, his lips trembling with emotion.

The others dropped rope ladders from the bridge, and one by one, we descended; Rasha carried me down like I weighed nothing. Below, a boat waited, its oarsman pale with fear, and we shoved off just as screams broke into animal howls above us. The whole scene had dissolved into a grotesque nightmare; the sky had blackened, and now we stood beneath a veil of twilight—an unnatural darkness that devoured the day. From the bridge, horribly mutilated corpses began to fall, one after another, hitting the lake surface with sickening thuds—like sacks of meat hurled from a butcher's cart. Some had missing limbs, others trailed intestines like grotesque streamers; yet they moved. Gods, they moved! And the whole place stank like a slaughterhouse on a sultry summer day! When the boat scraped against the far shore, the oarsman reached for his fee, and Rasha only laughed before cutting him down with a swift sword stroke. "Too many witnesses," he murmured, more to himself than to me. The mage accompanying us shattered my chains with a spell, and cold steel clattered to the deck.

Then Rasha took me in his arms again, and all of us rushed toward the edge of the weald bordering the Green Road. There, seven horses awaited us, tended by an old man with cloudy eyes. He, too, asked for payment, and Rasha gave him his reward—swift and fatal. And he laughed. A sound I hadn't heard since I was a child. A sound both terrible and precious!
He kissed me, tender and rough, and we mounted and then rode down the Green Road like ghosts chasing the wind.

"Elsweyr is somewhere there," I murmured, a faint smile on my lips. And in the silence that followed, I heard Her—Nocturnal—chuckling softly, like the rustle of leaves in moonlight.

Chapter Text

I

We galloped south along the Green Road for as long as the light lasted. As the day gave way to night and the trees stretched their shadows long, very long, across our path, we urged our weary horses forward, entering the ancient forest that loomed ahead, dark and watchful, heading towards Niben.

The weald took us in suddenly as if it had been waiting all along, its veil embracing us like a protective shroud. Above us, gnarled branches twisted and knotted into vaults that choked the last threads of daylight, while the trees whispered a chant older than memory, low and soothing, yet also full of otherworldly, unsettling meanings.

Torches were lit, and before the darkness fully claimed the woodland, our foam-lathered horses carried us to the riverbank. There, we made camp, and while the others unpacked the saddlebags, Rasha handed me a tunic and a pair of boots—oh, boots! I stared at them for a moment, their leather oddly foreign. How long had it been since I wore such things?

I took the clothes and shoes, cradling them to my chest like a treasure. The fabric felt soft and unfamiliar beneath my fingers, and the boots, scuffed but sturdy, seemed almost like finery.

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice small and hesitant.

In the flickering torchlight, I crouched down and, without thinking, began to peel off the filthy rags clinging to my skin. My fingers fumbled at the knots like a child wrestling with an oversized puzzle.

As the tattered remnants of my prison life fell away, I looked up—and saw Rasha sharply turn his back. I tilted my head, puzzled, and glanced around. The others didn't seem to notice, or maybe they chose not to.

Then, something stirred inside me—a flicker of understanding. My cheeks flushed, and a strange tightness gripped my chest. Not shame, exactly—just something nameless, distant, like a faint echo of a forgotten self.

'Had I once cared about being seen? About bare skin, glances, eyes? Why? When?'

What was that? Embarrassment? Modesty?

No, they felt absurd, just relics from another life. Still, I dressed quickly, savoring the feel of fabric that didn't chafe or cling.

The boots seemed stiff at first, and I huffed as I tugged them on—then giggled, startled by my own clumsy joy. When I stood, I stomped the ground twice, testing them like a child trying on shoes for the very first time.

"They're good," I declared, my voice bright with simple, unthinking delight. "Really good."

Once dressed, I devoured everything they gave me— bread, cheese, dried meat— like a famished beast; my hands moved faster than my thoughts, and my world narrowed to the sensations of hunger and satisfaction as if everything else had melted away in the heat of the moment.

I must have fallen asleep mid-bite because the next thing I remember was a dream—or was it?

I dreamt of a willow tree, ancient and so twisted that I could scarcely believe such a thing still existed. It leaned protectively over me, its gnarled limbs swaying in the gusty wind, and as it gently stirred its branches, it whispered stories—fairy tales so old that, back then, the sun was young and hot and the world still warm with the primordial fire.

First, it showed me my beloved Mistress, Her long black hair swirling around Her bare body like a velvet cloak, subtly stealing a strange Key from a radiant, golden-haired goddess who sat on a high ivory throne beneath the Moon and Stars. The sun-deity screamed harsh curses, but Her voice rang hollow, as Nocturnal vanished into the Void, laughing.

Then the willow spoke of its memory—or perhaps that of an ancestor—of the Noble Elves passing by, clad in gleaming silver armor and rich silks,  eyes full of starlight, bound for the Land Beyond that Sea now long vanished and remembered only in the sapient trees' chants.

I was amazed by the great vision of those beautiful beyond words beings, and I expressed my distrust. " Thou must believe me, m'lady. I'm the wisest from my kin where the saplings are wiser than sires," the willow told me, "for they inherit all we remember." And then it spun numerous tales about the Ayleids, but I forgot them all...

Oh, how I long to speak with that tree again! But after so much war, so many harvests... perchance it, too, like the entire weald, has passed into oblivion, becoming just another echo in this sad, cruel world...

Later, the dream darkened. I saw the Sea People, grim and bearded, marching with fire and steel through the forest, razing villages, tearing down shrines. And then— then I saw Her: another goddess. Cruel. Deeply alien. Beautiful beyond comprehension. A face neither man nor woman, but something altogether different—carved from darkness and will. She sat upon a throne carved from a monstrous diamond, and behind Her, a colossal spider spun a silvery web so perfect, so alive, it pulsed like a heartbeat. Hooded people dressed in long, black robes kneeled before Her, under Her red and sharp as obsidian eyes, while She looked with serene cruelty at those who worshiped Her.

When I awoke and opened my eyes, an ancient willow truly loomed above me, its gnarled limbs stretched impossibly wide, each branch dressed in silvery leaves that shimmered like a thousand tiny moons. Sunlight filtered through the canopy in slender beams, casting ever-shifting, intricate patterns across the forest floor. The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of earth, moss, and growing things.

I lay swaddled in my brother's heavy cloak—wrapped so tightly it felt more like binding than comfort. The coarse fabric scratched gently against my skin, and its weight grounded me, anchored me. My fingers wandered through its folds, as the dream still hummed inside me like a song remembered from childhood: distant, haunting, and painfully beautiful.

And then, without warning, a rush of joy. Not the triumphant kind, nor even relief; just something inexplicably pure, childlike. I giggled. I looked around as though I'd never seen the world before.

The Argonians were gone—vanished into the woods or mayhap just in the Niben like ghosts or rather the amphibious creatures they were—but my brother and the other two crouched by a small fire, speaking in hushed tones. I watched Rasha for a time. He was a man now: broader, surer, worn by deeds and worries I could only imagine; my brother no longer resembled the strong boy who'd once vanished into the morning mist, leaving our parents' house and me behind. Oh, that memory belonged to another life—or perhaps it was never real, just a dream of that cute girl singing and dancing among thugs!

I couldn't stop looking at him. Something inside me stirred—warm, bittersweet—and spread outward like honey spilled in the sun. I didn't move, only stared, and, apparently, my gaze was more intense than I realized, because soon Rasha turned his head and met my eyes. He smiled.

Then he came to me with quiet, careful steps. Kneeling at my side, he reached out, gently brushed a strand of hair from my face, and asked:

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes, Rasha. I could eat everything you've got... and a horse and a half on top!"

I giggled, genuinely amused by the sound of my own voice.

"No, no, Elsie—don't you eat the horses! They belong to our brother Cicero, who'll be leaving soon. He's been waiting for you to wake up because he really wants to meet you."

My brother chuckled softly, and just then, a short, broad-shouldered man rose from the fire and walked over to us. He reached out and shook my hand.

"So, you're Elsie, Rasha's little sister. The one who sliced through the Mountain like it was a chicken. I'm Cicero. And though I'm just a human like you, know this: I'm Rasha's blood brother, which makes me your brother too. If you ever pass through Cheydinhal and need help, ask for me at the alchemist's."

He said this with a smile as he embraced me, then turned to Rasha. They shook hands firmly, and without further ceremony, Cicero mounted his horse. With a sharp whistle, he gathered his herd and rode off along the narrow path by the Niben, heading north.

"A loyal friend," Rasha murmured, watching him disappear between the trees. "The kind you don't find often."

He turned back to me. "Now, let me introduce you to Lady Elena—someone who'll help you more than you can may guess in the days ahead."

He helped me out of the heavy cloak he'd bundled me in, then took my hand and guided me toward the fire, where a hooded woman was warming her hands.

"Lady Elena, this is my sister, Elsie," said Rasha.

The woman gave me a brief glance, nodded once, and returned to tending the fire.

"She doesn't talk much," Rasha added with a half-smile. "But when she does, it's worth listening."

We ate together then. Oh, how good it is to eat real food again—even if just dried meat and crumbs—after living in starvation for so long!

"Now I'll take a nap," my brother said, stretching out beside the dying fire. "Go play in the woods a bit, but don't stray too far."

The forest was ancient, gnarled, thick with trunks and fallen limbs, all so covered in moss and lichen they looked like no trees I'd ever seen. A deep silence reigned beneath their boughs, broken only now and then by quarreling birds somewhere along the riverbank.

I dared not disturb the sacred hush of that ancient weald, so I began slipping between the trees like a feline—just as my dear mother Shaira had once taught me. Soon, a strong animal scent caught my attention, and I followed it until a red flame flashed ahead. Ah—just a fox, passing swiftly on its business!

'But what business does a fox have?' I wondered, amused, and wetted my finger, raising it.
No, there was no wind at all, so I excitedly followed the fox, which seemed in such a hurry. Oh, it sure was up to something! Not long after, it halted, ears perked toward something ahead. A rabbit! A fat and very busy rabbit was digging and tugging roots or who knows what from the damp soil. The fox lunged and snatched it with effortless grace, then trotted off, the rabbit dragging beneath its narrow jaws. 'Meat! Fresh, juicy meat!' I thought as I shivered with lust. Oh, I was so interested in good food at that moment! Just think about: A fresh roast, sizzling over an open fire... Oh, how delicious it would be!

'Yes, let's follow the fox,' I whispered with a grin. 'She's carrying my supper!' Then I noticed—I could hear her footsteps clearly, crisp in the underbrush; playfully, I shut my eyes and began tracking her only by sound alone.  Soon it stopped; a soft whimper rose ahead. When I opened my eyes, I saw that red flame standing before a moss-covered stump, its hollow wide and dark. From within it, a faint glow shimmered—stranger still, the fox herself glowed, barely but surely, like a beast from a fairy tale!

Her kits stumbled out, tumbling over each other to reach the prize their mother had brought. "No, no, not so fast!" I yelled, rushing forward, determined to claim that rabbit for myself. The vixen noticed me at once and barked, sharp and fierce; her cubs darted back into the den, and I grinned: 'Good! My roast is still whole.' I dropped to all fours and slinked closer, graceful, silent. It sprang—claws out, jaws open—but I dodged lightly and raked her side with my own nails. The fox shrieked and crumpled, twitching, and I grabbed the rabbit. Then I felt movement again behind me—of course, it'd come for my leg this time. I struck her aside, fast and hard. It rolled over, gasping, but rose once more, eyes ablaze with fury. 'Stay down, little beast. I don't want to kill you. You're not good for eating anyway.' I looked straight into its eyes, and under the pressure of my gaze, the fox whimpered once and slunk back to its den, tail between its legs. With my prey in hand, I padded away, soft and careful, a little amused and a little hungry. Oh, and more certain than ever that next time, I'd do the hunting myself!

As I sank deeper into the weald, it felt darker and seemed older, denser, immersed in a humid, difficult-to-breathe air. To my left, a faint flicker of blue caught my eye. I sniffed, but nothing unusual came, so I crept closer yet found nothing but mold clinging to the rim of an ancient stump, so wide that even three lads clasping hands could not have circled it. I chuckled and learnt that all living things have their own aura—even those who are not good for eating! A bit far away, I saw a small thing glowing greenish; oh, it was a rabbit hopping carelessly among the shrubs and decaying trunks! I followed it, very tense, until it stopped and began digging near a fresh stump—the fallen tree beside it still bearing green leaves on its limbs. I lunged and grabbed the rabbit by its ears! But the little beast twisted and scratched me so deeply that I almost let it go! I laughed softly, feeling the sharp, vivid pain, and whispered, "Ah... it feels so good to be alive!" With a smooth motion, I tore it apart with my claws and hung the warm carcass from my belt. Then I thought, mayhap it was time to return to my brother.

But I heard something—heavy breathing; slow, careless steps. Curious, I slipped behind a fallen trunk and crouched low among the branches. A strong redish aura shimmered ahead, growing with each plodding footstep. 'Something big!'. And then came the stench, foul and thick, clinging to the inside of my nose like rot. A bear. Massive, lumbering, and looking stupid, it ambled through the undergrowth, sniffing. Its snout turned in my direction. I shifted quietly, gliding behind a thicker trunk. It came closer and paused exactly where I'd been moments earlier. It sniffed again, long and deep, then licked the ground. Blood. Oh, I had forgotten the scratch! A smile curved my lips. 'Yes... Maybe it is indeed time to return.' I did so, although I would've liked to play with that monster a little longer!

It wasn't hard at all to find our encampment again, and when I arrived, I slipped behind my brother, the warmth of the fire touching my face, and hugged him tightly from behind.

"I'm back, Rasha! Look what I've brought!" I said proudly, dropping the two rabbits at his feet.

He turned, delight in his eyes—then a flicker of alarm.

"How did you catch these?! Wait—Elsie, your hand! You're bleeding!"

I held it up like a trophy. "Yes, these rabbits almost killed me! I fought bravely, though. You should've been there to save me, brother!"

As he reached to examine the wounds, his concern made me bolder, and I threw my arms around him again, pressing into his warmth. I kissed his cheek. Then again, longer this time.

He stiffened.

Hands firm on my shoulders, Rasha gently pushed me back. His eyes searched mine—soft, uncertain, nearly wounded.

After a quite long pause, he murmured, "Come on. Let's get Lady Elena to look at that hand."

We went together, hand in hand, toward the hooded woman who was reading, lying on the grass. Without a word, she took my injured arm and pulled me down beside her. Her grip was painfully firm;  as she pressed hard on the wound, she drew back her hood and looked straight into my eyes.

I gasped softly—more from shock than pain.

It was Maria!

The very same—seemingly unchanged; the same old lady I had last seen years ago, in that strange house from the Elven Garden District. That angular face and those piercing eyes commanded me to keep my mouth closed without even uttering a single word.

I obeyed, though part of me ached to embrace her. The sight of Maria sent a warm ripple of surprise through me, and foolishly, I even found myself wanting to introduce her to Rasha as an old and trusted friend.

How naive I was, thinking she might welcome such familiarity!

She examined my hand, then opened a pouch at her side, pulled out a thin needle, and a minuscule jar of pungent ointment. As she introduced the mixture into my wounds, pain flared like fire. I whimpered despite myself, but Rasha's hand remained steady in mine. His stern and cruel eyes gave me the strength to endure, even as tears blurred my vision.

When she finished, Elena bandaged my hand with the same precision, then placed a surprisingly gentle hand on my head.

"Good girl," she said—her tone firm and measured, devoid of warmth but not unkind. "Rest now. And no more wandering—your hand needs time to heal."

I nodded, too exhausted to speak.

Later, near the fire, we shared a simple meal that felt like a banquet to me. After the dinner, Elena pulled her hood low and wrapped herself tightly in her cloak; her breathing slowed almost at once, and soon she was asleep. Rasha and I lingered by the dying fire, the stars above winking through the dense canopy of trees overhead. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt safe, and stayed close to my brother for a long while, the two of us listening to the dense, humid whispers of the forest night. We spoke softly about the loved ones we had lost, and at one point, Rasha murmured that they must all be in Nocturnal's realm by now. I clung tighter to him.

I knew they weren't there.
But letting him believe so brought a fragile comfort, perchance...

Eventually, I drifted off, lulled by his voice telling stories from our time spent together in the Market District.
And then, I dreamed of my Mistress again.

"I'll leave you now, my little dove," Nocturnal purred, Her voice laced with amusement.
"You'll make new friends soon, and I don't like them at all. Still, they'll teach you... useful things."

A low chuckle followed, soft and cold.

"A part of me remains within you, though, until your mortal life ends. I am a touch weaker for it, but you? You're far stronger than most of your kind! From now on, you'll have the power to influence the will of other creatures... and perhaps more. But don't think it's easy. It's a delicate craft—one that requires discipline and subtlety. Your new acquaintance, Elena, can guide you in mastering it."

"Once you reach Bravil, seek out Rashid at the Guild. He'll see to your needs, though your new mother will most certainly give you more than enough..."

"My new mother?" I cut her off, my tone sharp. "I don't want a new mother! My mother is Shaira, and she's dead! And—since when did you learn to speak properly? Can I answer you now?"

Nocturnal's laugh was deep and resonant, mocking yet strangely affectionate.

"Ah, you're as charming as ever, little worm. But try to behave—you'll live longer... And no, I didn't learn to speak because I already know everything! Well, almost everything... but that's none of your concern."

Her tone turned sly. "Yes, we can talk now. Though how or why—this is far too complex for a fool like you to grasp."

My face flushed with indignation, but She pressed on, unfazed.

"Suffice it to say, I am a part of you now, and you... Well, you've carved out a small place in me. You may also visit my kingdom whenever you please. There's always something nice waiting for you there!"

I tried to speak, but She didn't allow that. Her voice softened into an ominous calm.

"As for your new mother—listen closely. She's one of the pious ones. You'll play nice, won't you? Her god watches everything, so behave and do not test my patience. Farewell."

II

We remained there, in our small camp by the banks of the Niben, until the autumn began; Rasha even built a small hut from branches and leaves for us. During all that time, my body became strong again, and I noticed with amazement that my steel claws, the gift from my dear mother Shaira, were part of me; they acted exactly like a cat's claws, normally retracted and almost invisible, and oh gods, they grew, and needed to be arranged and filed just like nails!

And after my wounds healed—something that happened quickly, far too quickly for a human being—I used them frequently in hunting. I roamed often, by day or night, through the old forest, which had now become familiar to me, almost devoid of secrets. Upon my return, I always carried two or three rabbits at my belt, and sometimes, when I amused myself by climbing the ancient trees along the banks of the Niben, I brought back a few birds from the countless nests built high in their branches.

Rasha was amazed by my hunting skills; he showed his admiration through words and tender gestures, so different from his usual cold and distant behavior that I both knew and admired. My brother sometimes expressed his desire to accompany me on my hunts, but I laughed and told him he would undoubtedly scare off every rabbit from Bravil to Bruma with those boots of his. So, Rasha tried his luck at fishing in the murky, sluggish waters of the river; he didn't have much success, though, which spurred me to try my hand at it—but not with a rod or a net!

Late at night, just before dawn, I slipped quietly into a dense reedbed that covered one of the Niben's many bends. Standing knee-deep in the warm, soft mud, I waited patiently until I caught sight of a faint phosphorescent glow that signaled the approach of one of the many carp or catfish that thrived in these waters. I judged the size of the fish by its aura, never settling for just any specimen; I always waited for one large enough to satisfy my hunting ambitions. Then, while the fish was greedily nibbling at succulent roots, I pounced and captured it with neither hesitation nor escape. My claws were like hooks—swift and merciless—giving my prey no chance to flee!

After my second fishing triumph, when I caught a catfish almost as large as myself, Rasha broke his fishing rod in two and hurled it into the Niben. He laughed heartily and declared that, from then on, his only job would be to cook whatever his skilled and beloved sister brought home. And I must say, he had a remarkable talent for it; even now, after so much time has passed in the hourglass of eternity, I have not forgotten the divine taste of the exquisite fish soups my dear brother prepared!

We were so happy there, together on the forested banks of that ancient river, and I wished that time in my life would never end! I felt—and behaved—like a small, innocent girl once more, and Rasha was so young that, even though our souls still bore deep scars from the loss of our loved ones, the joy of life spent together in the heart of nature was not overshadowed by any of the dark specters that would come to haunt us in the years that lay ahead.

I got very close to Elena during this time; wise as she was, she knew too well that I was a little more than a sassy and wild girl, so she, usually taciturn and reserved, began to engage in long conversations with me.

She questioned me at length about the life I had led in the bowels of the Imperial City and was particularly interested in the rapid development of my hearing and smell. Elena asked many questions that I deemed meaningless about these two aspects, thinking there were far more interesting things I could have told her about my deeds in the galleries of the capital's sewer system. But, as always, when someone paid attention to me, I became extremely talkative, and in the end, I told her everything.

I mentioned the amulet of Mara, and Elena smiled faintly when I asked why the face on the amulet had such a different expression from the figure of the goddess's statue in the Arboretum Park. However, she didn't answer my question, so I told her about the venerable priest whom I had met on that long-ago gray and frosty afternoon. She told me his name was Pyrokar and assured me I would meet him again in Bravil. "Her Sacred City!" Elena added with an enigmatic smile.

She also seemed fascinated when I told her about the abyssal creature I had encountered in the darkness of the metropolis's underground and asked in detail about the sounds I had perceived while I was in its thrall. After I answered all her questions, she spoke at length about the vampires that could sometimes be found in the depths of the Dwemer Ruins from Vvardenfell. Elena then added that the one I had encountered was "The Father of Magic," but she refused to elaborate on the statement when I asked her about it.

She laughed heartily as I recounted, in vivid detail, my pranks on the band of urchins who had settled, without my permission, in the marble dome beneath the Imperial Palace. And she murmured in a low voice, "A little beast sometimes needs to play..." To my puzzled look, Elena simply responded by taking my left hand and pressing on it, forcing my claws to unsheathe, much like one might coax a cat's claws into view. She looked at them and smiled softly as she told me that my Mistress Nocturnal is a mischievous and perverse goddess.

In the end, Elena made me tell her almost everything that had happened since our memorable meeting in that strange house from the Elven Gardens District. But, generally, she didn't answer my questions and never commented on any of the strange dreams that had dominated that period of my life, even though she listened with particular attention as I described them. When I mentioned the second gift Nocturnal had given me and Her statement that Elena could help me fully understand all its aspects, she said, "All will be revealed in time." And, as usual, she added nothing more—only urged me gently to keep speaking, no matter how trivial the subject.

And so, between my conversations with Elena, my solitary wanderings into the old forest, and the wonderful moments I spent with my beloved brother Rasha, the final days of that terrible summer slipped away far too quickly...

When the first morning frost heralded the arrival of autumn, I knew that soon we would leave that place where I had been so happy, and where some of the deepest wounds of my soul had begun to heal. And so it was: on a cold, rainy morning, Rasha set fire to our little hut, and I cast one last glance at the ancient willow that had watched over our summer nights. In that moment, I understood that I would never return to this magical place where, as I would only later come to understand, profound changes had already taken root in both my mind and body.

Then, all three of us set off along the Niben to the south, and in the evening, when the weather cleared up a bit, the walls of Bravil emerged from the mist, glowing softly in the twilight.

Chapter Text

Bravil! Oh, Bravil is the most beloved city of my youth and also the place where the powers of my mind blossomed swiftly, just as my eminent mentor Elena once said! I love Bravil and I need Bravil! I yearn to return to its embrace and live there—and who knows? Perhaps someday this dream will become reality!

The Holy City, Bravil, is the only place in the mortal realm where, under the full light of Secunda, I can commune with our Mother in a way that feels nearly physical—her essence flowing through the statue of the Lucky Lady and wrapping me in its dark, warm, divine embrace. Ah, it is so good to lie prostrated at the feet of that magnificent statue, and I wish to pray, meditate, and draw in every sacred teaching there, to devour them like a restless, starving soul! Or perhaps to light black candles in our Mother's not-so-holy temple that rises above the town, and listen to Her voice—so soft, so sweet—whispering the truest and most beautiful words ever spoken in this world!

Ah, if only the vigilantes knew what twisted worship and heretical rites unfold in Bravil's Temple of Mara! But I rest easy in the knowledge that, should some of them, the lower ranks ones maybe, ever stumble upon the truth... it would be the last discovery of their wretched little lives!

Bravil is the most fascinating and dangerous city I have wandered in my life so far. It is built along the Larsius River, which served the settlement's ancient inhabitants as a natural fortification against invaders, but nowadays is little more than a miserable and foul-smelling canal.

The houses are almost all made of wood, and in most parts of the city, they are stacked so tightly together that they resemble pieces of a precarious, overburdened domino set. In Bravil, more than in any other city I've lived in, there is a severe shortage of land, and builders have resorted to incredible feats of inventiveness and daring to make do with what little space there is. Not to mention tenants who sometimes add new rooms atop their buildings—small at first, starting with flimsy cloth walls, only to grow into bizarre, unexpected expansions. Or the rickety bridges strung between rooftops, some of them later enclosed and turned into ramshackle apartments rented for mere copper coins per month. The streets are so narrow and the buildings so close together that neighbors can easily toss household objects from one window to another!

To visitors, the city appears filthy and impoverished, and indeed, many destitute souls dwell within its walls. Yet beneath this squalid facade lies a different truth: Bravil harbors some of the wealthiest individuals and organizations in all Cyrodiil. This jewel of the southern lands is a paradise for smugglers and merchants of exotic goods from Elsweyr and beyond, and around these shadowy fortunes has flourished an entire industry of gambling dens and vice establishments—whose owners may well be the most prosperous citizens of all.

The Order of Stendarr is not welcome here, and you can rarely spot groups of heavily armed and armored vigilantes slipping uneasily through Bravil's narrow, shadowed alleys toward their official affairs at the Temple of Mara. In fact, even the priests of Mara do not like them, but they submit to the religious authority of the Order to some extent, though never completely, and never willingly. I, who know more about such matters than any sentient being still breathing in this world, can tell you that the greatest oddity of the city of Bravil comes from the subtle connection—if that term is even appropriate—between Mara and Mephala. The priests from the Temple of Mara in Bravil are all initiates to some extent in this mystery, and their understanding of concepts like "good" and "evil" strays far from the orthodox views held by their brethren elsewhere. In Bravil, light and shadow do not clash—they embrace, and here, in the Holy City, the divine and the profane share the same altar.

Ah, I could fill entire tomes with stories of the Holy City, Bravil — but that is not the purpose of this humble writing, so let us return to my tale. Rasha parted ways with us at the edge of the forest, and my heart broke with a bewilderment I could scarcely name, for I had believed he would always remain at my side—just as he promised! My brother explained to me that he dwelt in Leyawiin and that he would come to see me whenever he could. Oh, Leyawiin... I didn't even hear of Leyawiin till then, and more, its name sounded so ugly to me! I asked where this city was, and Elena told me it was somewhere very far in the South, and the road a perilous ribbon through wild lands. This scared me, and I couldn't fathom why I must be left behind, so I wept and pleaded, but my protests fell unheeded. In despair, I cast myself upon the ground like a stubborn cub, vowing not to move another step without my brother. They let me calm down amid bushes and trees, and while I sulked in the grass, both went to the roadside and spoke at length. When at last they returned, Rasha gathered me up in his strong arms, grinning from ear to ear. He kissed me, held me tightly, and with a laugh told Elena that he feared unleashing a "wildcat like Elsie" into the teeming streets of Bravil. To my astonishment, grave Elena smiled and promised him that the "wildcat" would soon be safe in her new home, under the care of the Mother.

Then Rasha hugged me again and turned back into the forest, slipping through the shrubs; the sparse trees closed behind him like a dark curtain falling on a play whose final act had just ended, and I felt as though the weald itself was swallowing him whole, taking him farther from me with every step! Moreover, I foresaw that it was the last day I saw the wild freedom of the forest! And ahead of me lay the Holy City... and all that waited beneath its crumbling rooftops.

With tears still streaming from my eyes, I swore, in a childish outburst, I'd never trust a man again: 'They're all liars! Didn't my brother swear we'd never be apart again?' It seems, however, that I had spoken my thoughts aloud, because I saw Elena burst into laughter; she gently pulled me close to her, hugged me, and told me that I was wrong. In fact, Rasha loves me very much and is deeply saddened by our parting, but he is not allowed to enter the Holy City. "Not yet," she added as the smile faded from her lips. Then she simply turned and ordered me to follow, and I had no choice but to trudge after her through the mud of the Green Road.

And I did so hesitantly, but also eager to know more; though I had never seen Bravil, the way Elena spoke of it in our long conversations filled me with both dread and curiosity. 'What kind of place could it be, where the Mother herself walked among mortals, even if only in the shadows of night?' I wondered as we entered town shortly before Bravil's gates were closed for the night.

The city was already shrouded in the evening's thick mists, and I could barely make out anything around me or understand what was happening nearby; only the pale auras of the people still walking the streets told me that Bravil was a very crowded city. The smells I was picking up in abundance suggested poverty and filth above all else, and the unsettling presence of a great throng of people stirring somewhere in the eastern part of the city. The strong effluvia wafting from there reminded me of the Waterfront District, and, very curious, I asked Elena if the town had a port. She curtly confirmed my assumption and then told me in a harsh voice that we had no time for pointless chatter. And then, my companion led me quickly through winding, dark alleys to a heavy bronze gate embedded in a tall, soot-stained wall that loomed like a fortress in the fog. There she knocked with the attached hammer, then whispered something through a small window, and the gate opened suddenly and silently as if it had just been waiting for her voice. We parted ways there, and Elena embraced me while saying, "We'll meet again, Elsie."

And just like that, she vanished into the night, leaving me to cross the threshold alone. An old, crippled man carrying a lantern that glowed like a dying ember led me through the courtyard, vast and hollow in the pitch-black, tar-thick night, to a richly carved door, which he opened before me. He touched his forehead, bowed deeply, and then left. I was very surprised by this reception and also a bit frightened, thinking perhaps Elena had brought me to the wrong place, but when I entered the great hall, my surprise turned into outright panic! Soft rugs, so thick my feet sank into them, as if I were walking on sleeping, gentle beasts, painted in pale tones that still radiated opulence, intricately crafted brasswork pieces gleaming dimly in the room's diffuse light, the huge paintings adorning the walls paneled with dark wood, all gave the impression of fabulous, overwhelming wealth. At least for me, who had never seen such things in my parents' house, and they had by no means been poor!

A man dressed entirely in black leather emerged from the semidarkness, his movements so smooth and quiet that he seemed less like a man and more like a shadow given form. One moment, he was standing near the far wall; the next, he was close enough for me to feel the faint chill radiating from him. I hadn't even seen him move. Then I noticed that the lamplight failed to touch him properly, as though it shielded away from the deep black of his garment, and his shadow stretched long and thin across the floor, bending unnaturally toward me, as if it had a mind of its own.

When he gestured for me to follow, I had a moment of panic and wanted to flee back through the door, hoping to find Elena again. But the man gently took my hand, his grip firm but not forceful, and pulled me after him. I hesitated, a shiver running down my spine as the scent of jasmine drifted faintly through the air—the same scent I had once smelled in the glade where Mara's statue stood in the Arboretum park. But there was no other way, so I followed him nervously through a narrow, long, and blindingly lit corridor, so bright that it brought tears to my eyes and made me squint. I stopped, but the man tightened his grip just slightly and gently urged me forward.

All the while, I felt myself strangely drawn to him, tethered by some invisible thread - as though part of me, despite my fear, longed to reach out and embrace him. Yet with every step, the crawling unease along my neck grew stronger, as if the very world protested against his presence here, in the mortal realm.

Finally, he led me into a small, dimly lit room, where a tall woman (ah, but all women are tall to me, yet this one was so slim that she seemed to have an unreal height) dressed all in silk stood, petting a huge leopard cuddled up tightly against her body, its yellow eyes half-closed in an apparent sleepy surrender that made me wonder: 'Was it tamed... or merely waiting?'

Once again, fear gripped me, and I froze in place, but the woman smiled at me and said, "Leave us now, First among the Faithful." The man left without a word. She pushed that magnificent beast aside with a curt gesture and approached me. Reaching out her hand, which I shook shyly, she said, "I am Alisanne Dupre. If you let me, I shall be your mother for a time. Though truthfully," she added, "I would have preferred to be your elder sister, but our Mother has other plans." She smiled warmly and embraced me.

Instantly, a wave of love swept over me, and deeply moved by Alisanne's attitude, I hugged her as tightly as I could and began to cry uncontrollably, like a little child. You see, dear friends, I am very fragile at heart, and people had generally treated me with coldness and even cruelty until that moment. Well, maybe not all of them, but the majority persecuted and mocked me deservedly or not, that remains for you to decide—and a simple gesture of kindness, of tenderness, made me, as it does even nowadays, deeply moved.

"Ah, we will be good friends for the time that fate has granted us, I feel it," Alisanne sighed and kept me in her embrace for a while. Then she leaned back slightly, her hands resting on my shoulders, and looked me over. "Oh, Elsie, but your hair is so dirty and tangled! And on top of that, you smell absolutely dreadful. You do realize that, don't you?" She chuckled lightly, her laughter like soft chimes. "Come," she said, holding my hand tenderly.

After I was thoroughly cleaned over several days, bathed again and again until my skin felt raw and new, fed dishes unlike anything I had ever tasted, and allowed to rest under silks, Alisanne's demeanor shifted—the playful, loving, and tender sister all but vanished—and she became a strict and severe mother. There were still evenings filled with warmth, when we played like carefree girls, kissing and caressing each other, and wonderful nights when she told me beautiful or strange stories that had immersed my life in a mystical, fairy-tale atmosphere! But outside those precious moments, she was unrelenting. Her punishments came swiftly and struck hard, and she never hesitated to push her discipline to the brink of cruelty. Every mistake, every lapse in judgment, was met with a severity that left no room for mercy. Her relentless approach left scars—both physical and emotional—but it also shaped the woman I was destined to become. Even now, I do not know if she truly loved me... or just molded me for her own ends? But does it even matter when love and purpose are forged in the same fire?

Thus began my life in the heart of southern Tamriel, under the watchful eye of my beloved mother, Alisanne, within the sanctum of the Dark Brotherhood Headquarters. Lady Dupre was the last Listener in a long, unbroken line stretching back into the veiled mists of the Merethic Era—an ancient echo of Sithis's will now fated to fade into oblivion. 

She was a formidable and intelligent woman, her erudition matched only by her unwavering devotion to the cult of Sithis. Never again have I met someone so consumed—utterly dissolved—into the sacred void of their own faith. Even the most fanatical zealots I encountered later seemed pale beside Alisanne, who sometimes tended to act not merely for Sithis, but as Sithis, her every breath a silent prayer to the nothingness beyond all things.

And yet... even then, there was a... silence around her that I did not understand. The Spider, whose web holds every strand of the Brotherhood's past and future, never whispered true in her mind. I know that now and only saw this clearly much later, but even in those days, something about my mother's isolation felt unnatural, as if she stood and chanted sermons in a temple built for a god who never came!

In the time when I had the honor and fortune to know her, the High Priestess Alisanne lived solely to preach the principles of the ancient cult of the Void. Of course, I speak here of the teachings preserved within the doctrine universally accepted across the Black Marsh, where Sithis is worshipped not as a mere symbol, but as a god, and His name is uttered daily by priests who serve in alien temples unlike anything known to man or mer. These shrines, half-drowned in swamp and silence—or cloaked in peculiar, mournful tunes—seem less like places of worship and more like wounds in the very fabric of the world: places where reality itself warps and trembles beneath the weight of an ancient and terrifying truth.

Unfortunately, this extraordinarily gifted and devout woman lived and acted in a nefarious time—perhaps the most cursed age ever faced by both the Dark Brotherhood and the cult of Sithis. The ancient order, whose origins are buried deep in the grey mists of forgotten centuries, dating back to when the first Listener was granted the unspeakable privilege of hearing Mephala's divine voice, had entered its twilight, and its sanctity had been irreversibly tainted.

Tragically, the Brotherhood's fate had long been shackled to that of the Cyrodilic Empire through the disastrous and mercantile aberration known as the Black Hand—something akin to a governing council, though never truly sanctified by the crowned Queen of Oblivion. Indeed, Mephala's favor was a thread the Hand never managed to grasp—in the end, their greed and excessive pride earned only Her terrifying wrath.

Thus stood the Brotherhood by Alisanne's time: devout in ritual, blind in truth. But truth, as I would come to learn, is never silent for long!

With the disintegration of that once-mighty state, the Brotherhood lost nearly all its sanctuaries, save for the fading bastions in Leyawiin and Cheydinhal. I will not dwell here on Astrid's pale imitation in Skyrim's frostbitten lands: a clan of devoted, worthy, good people, yes, but without whispers, without a Mother, without a Listener. A Brotherhood Sanctuary in name only—driven not by Sithis, but by a fierce woman's will, sharpened by pain and pride.

The final and fatal wound did not come from enemies without, but from within—from the Black Hand itself. In their folly and arrogance, they sought to secularize the sacred, to twist the Brotherhood's spine until it bent to mortal logic. They dared to turn the divine contract into mere commerce, and in doing so, they severed the last thread binding the cult to its true purpose. That thread, once cut, could not be rewoven.

And in the end, driven by wrath, in a climax soaked in blood and shaped like a red sunset swallowed by storm-born clouds, Mephala, both Mother and Sovereign, punished every last soul of the Dark Brotherhood. Without distinction. Without mercy. Innocence and faith meant nothing before Her divine revenge. Or almost nothing... for, true to the cunning and supreme perversity that defines Her essence, She spared two of them. Oh, She even fell in love with one of them!

But that, my friends... is another story entirely!

The time I spent with my third mother was perhaps the strangest and most captivating period of my life. Alisanne chose, with deliberate and curious intent, to treat me as if I were once more a little girl. Each morning, she dressed me in charming, doll-like outfits: short skirts, flowery blouses, dainty little boots, and long, colorful socks. Then she would brush my hair for what felt like hours, until it shimmered like silvery spider threads in the sun, tying it with silk ribbons she carefully selected in different shades. I surrendered gladly to this curious and cute existence, one that might have seemed absurd and even ridiculous to those who had once known me as the Laughing Ghost, the shadow queen of half the Imperial City's underworld and criminal world.

I accepted the sweetness as I did the pain.

Alisanne's punishments were brutal and immediate. She would lash me with the same whip she sometimes used upon herself, kneeling in silent ecstasy before a small statue of Mara in her spartan chamber. I screamed and wept, just as she expected and wanted me to. Yet over time, strangely, my perception of pain began to dull—as if something inside me had snapped... or awakened. I no longer felt as other people did. And her sorrow hurt me more than her whip ever could. Still, the scars on my back remain. Pale and deep. They, too, are part of the woman I am.

Ah, my new and most respected mother even managed to temporarily cure me of that irresistible urge to claim every shiny thing that wasn't mine. And she did it with such grace and humor! I remember the morning her plain gold ring—the only piece of jewelry she ever wore on that splendid body—disappeared. She entered my room smiling, holding in her hands a velvet box brimming with priceless jewelry: rubies and emeralds of impossible worth, their soft glimmer set in gold and platinum filigree so delicate they looked spun by Mephala's own spiders. She placed the box before me like a gift. Then, almost as an afterthought, she said, "Now, may I have my ring back? A very dangerous ring, by the way."

That was Alisanne: she never needed to raise her voice. She had a way of reading the flaws in people as easily as others read books. And once she saw your weakness, she knew precisely how to reach into it—gently, cruelly, patiently, or all at once. Whatever method she chose, it was always effective, at least in my case.

I had more than I had ever dreamed of in Alisanne's house. And I don't mean only gold or material luxury. I was given tutors—real ones, the best she could summon. They taught me to read and write, to speak with elegance, to understand history and nirnography, alchemy, and etiquette. Her vast library, filled with tomes from forgotten realms and freshly written treatises from across Tamriel, became my sanctuary. I devoured everything: chronicles, arcane lore, esoteric philosophies, even poetry—which, to my surprise, no longer seemed ridiculous.

She made certain I studied music—so I sang, played the lute and the flute, and even learned to dance with elegance, though not without initial clumsiness. I was also taught to draw and paint, and I found great joy in this art. Some days were devoted entirely to acrobatics and physical training in the courtyard of the mansion, where my beloved companion and friend, Leo—Alisanne's majestic leopard, would often join in. The great panther became quite attached to me... or perhaps only to my bed. On many nights, with the fluid arrogance only felines possess, Leo would abandon Alisanne's narrow, tough bed in favor of mine—fluffy, soft, and filled with warm pillows. Looking back, I wonder if Leo ever loved me at all, or merely tolerated me in that imperious, charming way cats reserve for anyone who shares their comfort.

The First among the Faithful personally trained me in close combat, especially in the use of daggers. I quickly mastered the art of dual-wielding, soon handling both blades as though they were extensions of my hands. The crossbow became my constant companion, and I trained with it daily. Eventually, Alisanne gave me a gift I still treasure—a master-crafted crossbow, elegant and light and ancient, forged by the People of the Deep in some forgotten age. I still don't know how she acquired it. I suspect it cost her a fortune... or something far dearer.

I also learned from my mother about Sithis and the faith that worships Him. Alisanne often spoke of Him—not merely as Sithis, the name you might know, my friends, but as the One God. Yet even that is a veil, a mere placeholder. A name for the Nameless. A word to anchor the Unknown. The Void!

Ah, the Void! What is the Void, after all? I don't know, but it might be the generating Matrix, both the origin and the undoing of all things—a force or entity beyond imagination. Or something else entirely, so far from mortal understanding that any attempt to grasp it becomes blasphemy or folly. With time, the Void came to represent death: the death of all life, whether on Nirn, in the shimmering chaos of Oblivion, or even in the pale brilliance of Aetherius. I now know this is only a shallow, comfort-wrapped interpretation. One that might suffice for peasants... and even kings. But not for scholars. And certainly not for those of us who dare to think.

In our mansion in Bravil, there was a wide room—something like a miniature temple nave—where Alisanne preached her doctrine to those who came to listen. On such days, silent crowds flowed into our house like rising water. They arrived humbly, reverently, and they departed the same way. I was always at her side, bearing her ritual implements, sacred books, and ceremonial vestments. I helped her dress in the robes of the cult, and later again in the softness of her everyday garments.

My mother was so beautiful... and her body often made me feel strange and confused. And the smile she gave me whenever she caught me blushing? It shimmered brighter than candlelight!

Oh, Alisanne burned with a feverish devotion during the liturgy—her eyes often turning hollow, as though something from beyond the mortal veil had drained them of life and light. Her passion was palpable, almost overwhelming, a fervor that edged into holy madness. Especially in the presence of the faithful, and of those lost, sorrowful souls who came seeking a God unlike all others: one who made no promises... and did not threaten either.

Her religious service was incomplete and chaotic, though! I know this now, preaching in the name of Sithis myself. I often wonder how a woman like Alisanne could have taken such a wrong turn along the thorny paths of the One God's cult. Perchance not the absence of communion with our Unholy Mother unhinged her; rather, Mephala misguided her, and the Spider whispered just enough truth to sustain her devotion, and just enough falsehood to unleash her insanity. And so, Alisanne's faith, deprived of clarity yet swollen with purpose, burned not with the dark light of the Black Sun—but with mere illusion, an unholy fire fed by the venom of a goddess who often delights in the ruin of her own subjects.

In her sermons, my mother often proclaimed that true followers of Sithis have no right to stand by and merely observe the existing social order. They are not meant to contemplate quietly, but to act—to tear down illusions, expose the lies of rulers and kings, and help dismantle what had grown stagnant with age and rot. "Power," she would say, "is a subtle poison that seeps into the bones of those who hold it too long."

"The secular world," she would say, "is not ruled by harmony, but by conflict; not by balance, but by transformation, by change, perpetual change. The ultimate truth lies not in preservation, but in disintegration—as the single path toward rebirth. Only through cataclysm can something stronger, purer, and more beautiful rise from the ash."

She also preached that death must never be feared, but welcomed. "For death," she said, "is the most sacred proof that Sithis is still at work—unmaking, reshaping, ensuring the world remains in a state of endless becoming."

"Sithis is the God of the desperate and the brave," Alisanne used to say. "He is the enemy of order—more precisely, of that order which leads to stagnation, complacency, and, inevitably, decay. Under such conditions, the most dreadful and hypocritical tyrannies flourish."

"Our God does not give, nor does He take. He has no interest in individuals, for even nations, in all their pride and noise, are structures far too small for His silent work. He is deaf to mortals' prayers, whims, sorrows, and joys."

"Yet at times, He notices—when war rips through vast lands like a flaming blade, people flee across broken empires, or great revolutions uproot the bones of the rotten thrones. No, He does not intervene. But once the dust settles, we might ask ourselves: did He move a piece or two on the vast chessboard of the world?"

Each of Alisanne's sermons ended with the same ritual words:
"We serve not for reward, but for Truth."

The First Among the Faithful always stood nearby during these sacred gatherings, motionless in the shadows of the altar room. He never spoke, yet his presence was like the cold edge of a blade—unmistakable, unsettling, yet strangely reassuring.

We both knew: he was always watching. Watching us and guarding the temple.

And Leo... ah, my poor Leo! On those days, we always had to lock him in our bedroom. I'll never forget the mournful, almost offended look he gave us each time we left. But once freed, he'd burst out like an arrow into the sunlit garden, pouncing and rolling in the grass with such raw joy that—for just a moment—the Void itself felt warm!

And so the seasons passed, one after another, and after what felt like an eternity of comfort and contentment, Elena returned on a hot summer day. I ran into the courtyard to greet her, arms already half-extended, ready to embrace her if she would allow this, but I froze mid-step.

She barely resembled the woman I had once known along the Niben's forested banks. The old lady looked now younger—very young in fact! Though her posture, ornate hood,  and cold gaze whispered of something long familiar, yet distant. And her voice... Ah, that voice had not changed!

"What happened to Alisanne? Has she gone mad?" Elena asked, staring at me with a mix of contempt and amusement. "What in Oblivion are those silly garments you're wearing?"

I stammered, taken aback. "But—"

"But you look even more foolish now than when I left you here. That's what I see..."  she cut in, her tone as dry as ash. "Tell me, what does the esteemed Alisanne do these days? Just preach sermons and play dress-up with Lucien? Or with that damned cat of hers?"

"Lucien? Who's Lucien? And Leo is not a damned cat—he's loyal, and graceful, and sensitive and affectionate!" I snapped, more offended than I wanted to admit.

Elena gave a faint, pitiless shake of the head. "Leo is a primitive killer. And Lucien, a cultured one. No great difference, unless you're a fool." And with that, she stepped past me and into the reception hall, where Alisanne awaited, lost in thought.

They both retired into the cult chamber, behind that heavy blackwood door.

Elena left a while later, without casting so much as a glance in my direction. Not a word. Not even a nod. I stood in the courtyard, half-angry, half-hurt, watching her fade into the dusk, and then I turned back to my chores.

The very next day, she returned.

And from then on, Elena visited often—and took me walking through Bravil.

Chapter Text

"The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

H.P.Lovecraft

Elena was my true spiritual mentor and helped me comprehend certain subtleties that Alisanne might have revealed to me herself. Now that both of them are gone, I reflect on it all without resentment, and I bear my mother no anger, though a quiet sorrow lingers for all that was left unspoken. I often try to remember her love—if it was truly love, what I believed I sensed in her soul —and, especially, how fiercely I loved her in return. I also feel a deep sadness realizing how lonely this brilliant woman must have been; moreover, I believe she never truly grasped the subtler truths of our faith, being far too consumed by her rituals and devotion to Sithis. Yet Sithis is just a dead end on the long and arduous path to uncovering these dark mysteries. There are moments when I even question if He exists at all, and I have reasons—some personal, others terrifying—to suspect that, if Sithis does, He is not of this world.

Elena, though... Elena possessed an uncanny wisdom and a wealth of knowledge that felt boundless. I vividly remember our walks through Bravil's narrow, winding alleys, the time we spent by the Old Lucky Lady statue, the invaluable advice she gave me, and the astonishing tales she told me at the foot of that strange monument.

Bravil, you see, my friends, is not just a southern city. It is a wound in the very fabric of the world—a place still soaked in ancient magic, that strange and alien magic of the Ayleids, which lingers even now in its stones, soil, and waters.

The city itself rises atop the bones of an ancient kingdom once ruled by the First Elves—the Noble Elves. While all visible remnants of that great civilization have long since turned to ash and dust beneath the trampling feet of countless hordes of wild peoples, much of it endures beneath the surface. There still lie, buried deep in Bravil's holy soil, underground galleries and vaulted sanctuaries—secret and sacred spaces accessible only to those highly initiated in the deepest mysteries of the Oblivion's Queen. However, even they seldom dare to descend into those places imbued with the Ayleids' lost magic, for its subtle details are no longer known to any living soul, and their whispers have teeth and claws.

So Bravil is a dangerous town even from this perspective, for the ancient Elves' enchantments remain fundamentally incompatible with the actual mortal essence. Yet those attuned to magic—to its faint vibrations, its pulse—can still absorb knowledge simply by opening themselves to the divine whispers lingering in the soil, the air, the echoing waters, and the stone, especially the stone! It is particularly easy to do so when one has a mentor and medium as powerful and erudite as Elena. So under her brilliant guidance, I came to understand and fully master Nocturnal's second gift—the deeper boon. It was here, in Bravil's winding alleys and neglected gardens, that I first began to use it—on Men and Mer alike. Even on Khajiit and Argonians!

During our long, circling walks through the city's broken veins, Elena spoke to me of strange, esoteric bonds—impossible bonds—between Mara and Mephala. It sounds like madness, I know. The goddess of mercy and the daedric spider of lies, linked? Yet such a connection may seem contradictory only to minds trained to see the world in binaries: light and dark, good and evil, kindness and cruelty. The truth is more tangled, and our gods—if they are gods at all—are entwined in ways we barely dare to glimpse.

Still, we could attempt to solve the riddles scattered throughout Bravil—to uncover their hidden meanings and, perhaps, claim the reward. One of them lies in the Statue of the Lucky Lady.

That great and ancient monument rising from the heart of the Holy City's plaza always responded to Elena's presence and acted as a powerful resonator whenever we were near it, which makes me believe that my esteemed teacher was herself a traveler through the strange Daedric realms, beyond the boundaries of our narrow mortal plane. And I drank deeply from that hidden fountain of knowledge; the marble opened for her, and as Elena chanted in forgotten tongues, I absorbed echoes of what she summoned.

But I digress again. Let it suffice to say that Elena refined my abilities in what the world calls Illusion Magic—though there is nothing illusory about its effects when mastered. She also trusted me, in time, with secrets from the noble schools of Restoration and Alteration, to the extent my understanding could grasp them.

Toward the end of my studies under Elena's guidance, I dared to ask her why she uses a different name than the one she had given me when we met in that unsettling manor from the Elven Garden District. Elena smiled melancholically and did not answer my question directly. Instead, she told me the tragic tale of the life of a simple and gentle woman who, far away beyond a boundary that no mortal can cross, had seen her beloved son die to atone for the sins of those who did not deserve him. And for their descendants' sins, and the descendants' of their descendants' sins, and so on, in an almost endless chain that ultimately led to the revelation of the Absolute Divinity. I was shaken by the way Elena ( or Maria) told the whole story—there was sorrow in her voice, and love, and something like awe— and when she fell silent, her gaze holding mine, I stammered something weak, some shallow commentary, that did not express the turmoil in my heart at all. Finally, grasping for words, I offered the only one that came to me: "Tragedy."  Elena smiled again—softly this time—and told me I had understood nothing. Then added, as if in passing, "Perhaps one of the priests of the Great Mother will explain it to you, when the time is right."

That was the last of our long conversations. We parted at the gate of Alisanne's mansion—a place Elena never set foot in again while I was still there. Just as she turned to leave, she paused, glanced back at me, and said something that has haunted me ever since:

"You know, Elsie... in some twisted way, Alisanne has always been like a daughter to me."

My beloved brother Rasha didn't keep his word, and for years, I saw nothing of him. One day, though, he was allowed to enter Bravil—as he told me later—and settled in a modest room within one of the many boarding houses lining the docks. Rasha began visiting my mother's residence frequently, and the two of them would often withdraw for long discussions behind closed doors. After these visits, my brother would vanish from the city for days, sometimes weeks. Looking back now, I cannot help but suspect that, for a time, he served as Alisanne's Silencer. I have no proof, but I also believe they attempted, and ultimately failed, to reopen the long-abandoned Sanctuaries in Anvil and Chorrol.

During those happy days, I spent more time with my brother than ever before. I remember now with painful joy and nostalgia our walks through Bravil and the meals we shared in the charming little taverns along the docks. Oh, how many wonders I saw there, magicians and charlatans, fire eaters and snake tamers, fortune-tellers and soothsayers, all those wonderful people, new and sometimes downright strange to me, arriving from the South on those huge ships that frequently docked in the port! Rasha would spoil me with whatever caught my eye, buying me cute trinkets and strange baubles from the merchants peddling exotic wares in their little booths clung to the water's edge, and I still have the small jade ring he gave me one warm, fragrant summer evening!

Together, we often wandered beyond the city's walls, strolling idly or lying for hours by the banks of the Larsius River. Oh, how many tranquil hours we spent there, basking in the golden warmth of summer days, while the air would hum with the unending symphony of insects, especially the tireless chant of the crickets! Rasha would gently stroke my hair as he spun strange tales that I'm certain he wove right there, on the spot. So many times, I drifted into sleep, cradled by the warmth of the soil and lulled by his voice, softer than I'd ever heard, while he would sit beside me in silence, guarding my dreams, until the Sun dipped below the horizon and the scented shadows of the summer night embraced the land.

But the fateful, final, heart-breaking—as I see it now—moment came. My mother, Alisanne, entered my room in the dead of night, shooed away Leo—who was curled up, purring softly in my arms—and said, "Elsie, it's time. Put this on and follow me."

I had long since grown used to her severity, so I instantly obeyed, slipping into the ragged garment she handed me. She wore a short black robe, plain and frayed with use—and, to my surprise, was barefoot. So was I, and we were both dressed just like two beggars on a holy day. Together, we descended into the cellar, where the First among the Faithful awaited us, holding a long, narrow leather case inscribed with strange runes. After shutting the door behind us—barely managing to keep out Leo, who probably thought I was simply changing my sleeping spot—he pressed a hidden notch in the wall. A doorway swung open with a soft groan, revealing a damp tunnel that smelled of fresh earth, moss, and ancient stone.

He lit a torch and stepped into the darkness ahead with the fluid grace of a big cat, leading us into the gloomy corridor ahead. The passage soon widened, and the flickering torchlight revealed a cavern—part natural, part shaped by forgotten hands. Marble columns rose into the shadows above, their surfaces etched with unsettling and alien symbols, and the floor was paved with great slabs carved in intricate patterns. The air was thick with the scent of myrrh, and waves of magical energy pulsed silently through the space like a slow, invisible wave. The sheer uncanniness of the place overwhelmed me; my legs buckled under the weight of that presence, that something that saturated the very rock, and had the First among the Faithful not caught me, I would have collapsed. In the end, I fainted, and when I awoke, my mother's calm, happy face was gazing down at me. Her eyes did not shine only with pride, but with something deeper. Something I could not yet name.

Alisanne gently caressed my hair and kissed my forehead, then rose to her feet and turned to the First among the Faithful.

"Lucien, leave us now. Wait in the courtyard, and when the time comes, take Elsie to the Temple of Mara. Once you have entrusted her to Lady Elena, return to where you belong. Our Mother calls you to Her side once more. It was a great honor to have you by my side, even for so short a time."

The First among the Faithful touched two fingers to his brow and bowed deeply to Alisanne, then repeated the gesture toward me. He fixed the torch in a wall sconce and, without a sound, melted into the darkness.

"Is he...?" I whispered, stunned.

"Yes. And no. He is... something else. But we don't have much time; it's not yet good for you to linger here. Follow me, Elsie!"

I rose, still dizzy from the marble altar where they had laid me, and followed my mother into a shadowed alcove.  There, she lit a candle and placed it into a heavy gold holder. Its flickering light revealed a tall bronze sarcophagus, standing upright like a relic from beyond time itself. Alisanne gently pressed her hand on my shoulder, and I knelt before it, almost without thinking. Her voice, low and solemn, began to recite the Tenets one by one, and I repeated them after her with a reverence that surprised me. After I had sworn full adherence, Alisanne lifted me to my feet.

"It is done," she said. "Let us go now. And take this—my graduation gift to you."

She opened the leather box and gave me a dagger simple in craftsmanship, its bone hilt smooth and worn with use.

"It is a faithful weapon. It served me well—I hope it will be a good friend of yours, too."

I took it and ran a finger lightly along its edge. Despite my caution, I cut myself—a shallow nick, no more—but blood welled immediately, far too much for such a wound. The air shifted. A slow, rhythmic pulse began to throb around us—inaudible but unmistakable—and something old began to stir. My ears started to ache. A thick scent of rot rose from the stone, clinging to the walls, to our skin. Alisanne stopped mid-step. Then it came: not fear—not the kind I knew—but something far more ancient and nameless. A glacial, primal dread so strong that I began to tremble uncontrollably, and cold sweat streamed down my spine.

I froze. I couldn't take a single step, and Alisanne, still staring at me—staring through me—suddenly fell to her knees. Blood burst from her nose and mouth in great, trembling rivulets, staining her chin and soaking the collar of her robe.

Her eyes widened immensely, and within their boundless depths I saw it—for the first time, I saw the Void.

My mother groaned, and through the tears pouring from her eyes, she spoke—her voice cracked, frail, and trembling:

"Kneel beside me, my sister. Our Mother demands a communion of blood."

I dropped to the floor beside her, helpless, my heart slamming in my chest like a trapped bird. With shaking fingers, she took the dagger from my hand and pressed its edge to her brow. Her breath caught—and then she drew it across her forehead in a single, deliberate stroke.

Blood welled immediately, dark and rich, running down her face like a scarlet veil. She looked at me and whispered:

"Drink, my dear... And forgive me, if you can."

I leaned forward and kissed the wound, reverently. I tasted her blood—warm, bitter, alive—and in that instant, the protective veil was torn.

I saw our Mother as She stood, so calm and cold, within Her grand sarcophagus. Her gaze met mine, steady and unreadable, and yet, in that moment, I felt love in Her eyes. Compassion, even. And recognition. I began to tremble uncontrollably, moaning softly, helplessly, as the sarcophagus dissolved into nothingness, and around our Mother began to float the Void—alien, vast, and utterly beyond comprehension.

I cannot truly describe what I experienced then; there are no words in our world for that, nor valid comparison terms, but I can try to come up with something. So after an immeasurable plunge into darkness—a darkness thick with dust—I caught a glimpse of strange green fields, veined with rivers or streams of gold and silver. I call them fields and rivers, but they were all twisted beyond recognition, and nothing resembled what we know. These plains were bound together by countless threads, and populated by innumerable entities, unmoving, lifeless—or perhaps only sleeping.

Above me, distant and ominous, a constant roar reverberated through the air. A searing current rose toward what, for lack of a better word, I must call the sky. And then—oh, unspeakable horror—there it was: something like a vast grinding machine, a monstrous contraption, alive and hungering. The vortex began to pull me toward it, the stream of air twisting my body, drawing me closer to that nameless, devouring evil thing.

My skin burned; every nerve screamed. Pain overwhelmed me—total, unbearable. And dread... so much fear that my mind started to melt over the terror and pain!

And then—suddenly—the entire horizon turned a pure, radiant blue, like the sky on some early autumn mornings. That serene azure enveloped me, and in the far distance, I saw strange, pale beings—white and trembling—rushing across the endless blue like angels in flight.

Then I heard His voice. Not Hers. His. Wrathful, incomprehensible, thundering words from beyond all language. Then there was a deafening reverberation, as if an enormous bell had rung once from a faraway place, its tolling shaking everything around me.

And after that—nothing. Utter silence. I must have fainted.

I found myself in my mother's arms, and she was staring right into my eyes as she gently shook me. We were both lying in a pool of blood while a bitter wind howled through the chamber, and the marble floor beneath us rippled as if alive. A terrible dizziness clouded my mind, and the ancient columns groaned deeply as they swayed beneath the immense weight of the ceiling, now cracked with deep, jagged fissures. The air still pulsed with that unbearable rhythm, and shadows flickered all around; many unknown ghosts and some other rather familiar ones trembled and whispered in voices I couldn't quite understand, though some... some felt like faint echoes of the past. At some point, I glimpsed the reproachful face of my beloved mother, Shaira. She looked at me for a long, silent moment, shook her head sadly, and vanished.

Then the underground tremors ceased. The pulse receded, and the phantoms vanished. But the dust still drifted around us, like the ashes of some great ritual gone terribly wrong.

I turned to Alisanne and found her watching me intently—cautious, distant. Her blood-soaked face and those cold, severe eyes frightened me. I tried to hold her tighter, to bury my face against her chest.

But Alisanne pushed me away and held my gaze.

"What did our Mother tell you?" she asked.

"Nothing," I murmured weakly.

"As your Listener, I command you to tell me the truth," she hissed. Her voice cracked as she spoke, and I felt the weight of her question pressing down on me like a boulder.

"She didn't say anything... she just stared at me."

"Then what did you see? What did you hear? I command you to tell me everything!" she shouted, rising to her feet.

"Oh, mother... why don't you believe me? She didn't speak... she only looked. But I—" I hesitated, then whispered, "I heard His voice... I didn't understand it. But I heard Him."

Alisanne trembled. She reached down, lifted me from the floor, and whispered sharply, "You claim you heard Sithis? Don't be absurd, Elsie!" Her voice faltered. "And... you look injured. No, not just injured—you look different..."

Her gaze shifted. The dagger in her hand lowered, slowly, and her eyes, moments ago aflame with fury, softened—just a little.

"Do you want to kill me, mother?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

Alisanne collapsed against me, sobbing. Her tears mingled with the blood still streaking her face. She pulled me into a trembling embrace and whimpered, "Yes, Elsie... yes. I want nothing more than to kill you... But I can't."

Then, as the silence settled around us like ash on smoldering embers, she took my hand and said, "Come."

She dragged me through the dust-choked, torn-up chamber; we ran, stumbling together through the narrow, damp tunnel, and soon we were back in our home basement. Leo, who had been waiting, stared at us for a heartbeat. Its fur bristled all at once, and it let out a low, almost human moan before bolting up the stairs, tail tucked tight between its legs.

Alisanne didn't stop. She kept pulling me forward, rushing up the final flight. When we reached the receiving hall, she let go and turned to face me, silent—a long, unreadable stare. Then, after a pause, she placed the dagger back in my hand and grabbed a robe from a hanger, tossing it at me.

"Leave now, Elsie. And never come back here," she whispered.

"No, Alisanne... please don't ask me to do this! I won't run away again! No matter what happens, I'll stay. I'll stay here with you, my beloved sister!"

I reached for her, desperate. But my mother grabbed my shoulders, shaking me—her fury bursting to the surface like fire through ice.

"You don't understand, do you?"

I stared at her, consumed by fear and sadness. Her eyes pierced through me, searching for an understanding they couldn't find. I couldn't grasp her anger—after all, I had done everything exactly as she had commanded! And the fact that her moods hovered between fury and fear only puzzled me further. This wasn't the strong and resolute Alisanne I knew!

Her hands trembled, but they gripped my shoulders more tightly with every breath. The air thickened, heavy as stone, and I could feel her dread bleeding into mine. Something was collapsing inside her. Her eyes were hollowing out—as if Alisanne were sinking irreversibly into the world of madness. And then, I heard her voice again—more breath than speech:

"You'll kill me if I let you stay... If you remain here, you'll be the end of me. Our Mother did something terrible today. Leave now."

Her whole body began to tremble. Her fury melted into despair. She whimpered, barely able to stand, and pulled me close.

I embraced her—Alisanne, my mother, my sister—and held her as tightly as I could.
For a moment, we stood like that: two broken and bleeding women, clinging to the last warmth we might ever feel.

And then, swallowing my sorrow like poison, I turned and ran out the door.

Leo, who was lying near the entrance, groaned once more when it saw me and bolted into the dense bushes by the fence.
I ran toward the gate—strangely open—and saw no trace of the old gatekeeper.

It was unbearably hot outside. The air itself felt solid, dense as glass, and all the grass in the yard had withered to a yellow ash. The old sycamore tree stood cracked, as though struck by lightning—and the sky...
Oh, the sky!
It had the hue of freshly split steel, veined with streaks and shifting shapes—like a nest of writhing serpents had slithered across the heavens. And it hung low, oppressively low, as though about to crush the city beneath it.

Lucien wasn't there, so I hurried onto the street and instantly felt like a stranger, a profound emptiness growing within me; the buildings nearby were twisted—no longer shaped by mortal nirnometry. Where once were walls and rooftops, now stood bizarre angles, wrong curves, and alien symmetries—as if Bravil itself had been reimagined by a mind that had never known humanity.

And the windows! Dark. Silent. They gaped like mouths of void, and behind them, unseen eyes—gleaming, unblinking—seemed to stir in the gloom, watching me.

Like in a dream, I walked towards one of the openings that must have once been a doorway, and I intended to go inside, examine the strange silvery cobweb that clung across the door, pulsing faintly like something alive.

Right then, slithering along the wall, Lucien appeared, smiling faintly as he handed me a pair of boots. I pulled them on hastily, eager to make my way toward the Temple of Mara—but Lucien shook his head and gestured for me to follow.

He led me there, but not by any common path. We slipped through Bravil's narrowest, most winding alleys—sometimes even stepping down onto the slick stone ledges flanking the canal—always avoiding the crowds, always choosing shadow over sunlight.

Near the temple, he left me beneath the broken awning of what must once have been a merchant's stall. I waited, barely breathing, until he returned—not alone, but with Elena.

The moment she saw me, her expression changed. That composed, unshakable woman visibly trembled!

"So it's happening again, this is the Sign!" she said, her eyes fixed on me.

Lucien smiled once more, shook his head, and pressed his forehead against hers before leaving without haste, vanishing into the maze of contorted walls. Elena quickly removed her hood. Her voice was calm, but her eyes betrayed her dread.

"Ah, I see... So, the Queen took you for a little stroll through Her realm... and you, cheeky girl, peeked over the fence. Or mayhap She made you do it—yes, She can do that."

She exhaled slowly, then added, more to herself than to me:

"I'm surprised you're still alive..."

Then she gave me her ornate hood and said sharply:

"Now, take this and cover your face as much as possible. And follow me. Quickly."

We hurried toward the Temple of Mara and melted into the throng of pilgrims and townsfolk going—some limping with painful steps, others running frantically—to the grand portal. The city's narrow streets swarmed with people, and the wide square before the temple was full of a restless, swaying mass. Some knelt in prayer, others trudged slowly, weaving through the crowd like leaves drifting in a faint, searing wind.

The sky was cloudless, yet wholly unnatural—turned a haunting violet, a hue I'd never seen on any summer day, where the sky is usually washed out, of such a pale blue. I searched for the sun itself, but it was gone, or perhaps only hidden, and the air shimmered strangely, trembling with playful phantoms or sorrowful ones.

Many people wept. Others wailed or plainly howled, clutching one another in desperate attempts to offer comfort or anchor themselves to what was left of the world. The city wasn't merely afraid—it was grieving. A kind of existential collapse, a collective shattering of meaning, rippled through everything.

In front of the temple was a wide open space; bordering the wild, sorrowful weald of people—a living forest of grief and flesh—stood a strange clearing, a sudden hollow carved into the chaos. As we stepped into it, I saw the ground was strewn with birds.

All the birds of the city—pigeons, sparrows, starlings, even crows... but no ravens, no, not a single raven!—lay sprawled across the granite slabs. Some fluttered weakly. Others lay still—not dead, no, not dead—but stunned. Their small, round eyes watched me as I passed, wide with terror, as if they had seen something no living thing should witness.

Near the temple, between us and the sealed gates, stood a dense line of Mara's priests and acolytes, shoulder to shoulder, each one gripping a wooden baton. Their faces were grim, and they did not move as we approached. Elena leaned close to one of them, whispered something, and he nodded silently before slipping through a smaller door set into the massive portal. Moments later, he returned, accompanied by an imposing figure: a tall, broad-shouldered old man clad in Mara's ceremonial robes. I recognized him instantly—it was the same wise priest I had once met years ago in the Arboretum park. At his raised hand, a narrow opening formed among the gate's guardians, and Elena took my hand, guiding me through that threatening corridor of grey robes and batons, into the Temple of Mara.

Inside, the contrast was shocking. The chill struck me harshly, in brutal contrast to the searing heat outside. Moreover, the air was thick with the sweet smoke of burning spices rising from massive silver urns, choking and oppressive, and I suddenly felt exhausted and very sick. So I leaned heavily on Elena. She stopped, grabbed my arm tightly, and looked straight into my eyes.

What I saw there froze me to my core— for the Void Itself stared back through her gaze.

I collapsed to my knees on the glossy marble floor, and then strange, half-remembered words poured from my mouth: 

"Your puny world is unstable now, and balance must be restored—at any cost.
Elena, you know your task. Do not delay. Complete your quest—now!
Pyrokar, you must guard My vessel. Hide it, hide Elsie! Complete her initiation into My cult.
And soothe Bravil. Dismiss them all, send them home.
Then wait... All of you—wait for my next orders." 

I'm not sure these were the exact words. What I wrote here is only the meaning as I remember it. Yet I still recall the sound of the voice with crystal clarity—and I am certain it wasn't mine. It was a commanding voice, sultry, and at the same time, sweet. A very insidious voice it was, the kind that could turn the harshest men into docile pups, or doves into venomous serpents.

Elena and Pyrokar lifted me gently to my feet and guided me into a quiet chamber in one of the temple's towers. They laid me down on a soft bed, and Elena took my hand.

"I'm leaving you now, Elsie," she said softly. "And we won't meet again. Not in this world, at least. I wish you happiness... though I doubt you'll be allowed the carefree joys of ordinary people. You can trust Pyrokar completely, and don't you dare leave the Temple until he allows you to do that! Oh, and keep my hood. It might help you remember me now and then."

She smiled faintly, and in her eyes I could see warmth again and not the terror from before; then she turned to Pyrokar:

"Farewell, my old friend! You should know that our Brotherhood is gone; Our Lady has dissolved the old oaths, and there is no Listener in this world anymore. But initiate Elsie exactly as you would any new disciple and, above all, don't forget her dagger! This is the Lucky Dagger, and someone must bleed on its blade in the hand of its new bearer as soon as possible. If not..." She hesitated, then added: "It will choose someone on its own. And when it does—it will drain them of every last drop."

"I already bled on it... My mother, too," I murmured. 

"Ah! Wonderful!" Elena gasped, and a strange ecstasy lit her features.

"Then it has drunk its fill, and I would dare say that the past, as wicked as it was, and the future, so unknown but fresh anyway, have touched for a moment in Eternity!"

She ran her fingers gently along the dagger's hilt, then looked at me.

"Tell me, Elsie, do you love Alisanne?"

"With all my heart, Elena," I whispered. 

"Then mourn her for a time," she said softly, "and remember only the beauty you shared over your time together!" 

She sighed, leaned down, and kissed me—long and gentle—on the lips. Then she turned and walked away, her cloak swirling behind her like a falling curtain. Pyrokar nodded slightly, then left in silence, closing the door gently behind him.

And just like that—I was alone.

Perhaps not for long... or maybe for an eternity—I cannot say. All I remember is that, during that time, I spent most of it wandering through Nocturnal's realm, trying desperately to speak with my beloved Mistress. And though I felt Her presence always—so close, so deeply interwoven with my being—She would not, or perhaps could not, answer my questions. When my dreams overtook me in that little cottage from Evergloam—ah, how I loathe that name, not because it's ugly, but because it's so beautiful there that it just mocks the truth—I would often feel Her caressing my neck, playing idly with my hair. But nothing more. Never more.

Pyrokar did initiate me into the sacred teachings of Mephala's disciples, but I won't say anything of that. Not here. Not now. Mayhap never! You see, my friends, the Queen of Oblivion is vengeful, and nobody, not even Nocturnal—especially not Nocturnal, for love binds these two enchanting devils—could shield me from Her wrath!

In a small drawer from my daddy's house in Whiterun, lies a sealed envelope containing everything. The seal was broken once—clumsily—and poorly resealed. Ah, that nosy old man! But perhaps... perhaps that is what true love looks like. Perchance he loves me more than anyone ever has, or ever will... I love him dearly in return, and I fear for him because everyone who has cared for me has left this world. Everyone... except my beloved Courtney. But there is still time for that... She's beginning to fade, to grow reckless...

After a time of dreams and silence, the venerable priest came to me and said:

"Elsie, your time here is over. You may leave whenever you choose, but once you step outside these walls, I can no longer guide or help you. I'm not permitted to. Our Lady wishes for you to be free—unchained. She wants you to taste, if only for a brief while, the true life of Her city. May luck walk always with you," he said.

"Wait, please, reverend..." I said, meeting his gaze. "My mother...?"

"The esteemed Alisanne Dupre is gone, my lady," he replied.

"Ah... And Elena? Where can I find her?" I asked, perhaps with a flicker of hatred in my eyes. 

Pyrokar saw it and gave me a small, weary smile. "Elena... Elena was never entirely..." He sighed softly and paused. "Elena... how to put it? Elena is spent, my lady. She lies now at the very foundation of our restored, renewed world. Sometimes, you might find her in the howl of the wind or the falling rain. Just listen... carefully." 

Then he knelt, kissed my hand with a reverence that felt old and sacred, and withdrew in silence.

I left my sanctuary at once, and just outside the door, I found a large sack. Inside were my clothes, the crossbow Alisanne once gave me, my mother's cult book, and all my jewelry. I returned to my former room, changed slowly, and with my big baggage slung over one shoulder, I stepped out into the square before the Temple of Mara.

A golden, fragrant autumn day had draped itself over the city like a benediction.

"Now to find Rasha," I said aloud. And I laughed. Oh, Her city was all mine now—ripe and waiting!

Chapter Text

I

I didn't find Rasha. The innkeeper told me he hadn't hosted any Khajiit in recent years. Considering what Elena had said, I wasn't too surprised by his lie, but I started to worry. Rasha had been close to Alisanne—too close not to be caught in the storm. Still, I didn't panic. Back then, Rasha seemed to me like something carved from the old world—strong, clever, and always one step ahead of everyone. Like a god. Or, at least, like how a god should be. Now that I've met a few... I wouldn't take them as examples, not even for raising a kitten.

I rented a room in the same inn. The owner took one look at my shoes, the cut of my coat, the weight of my bags, and didn't ask for coin in advance. That was a blessing—I didn't have a single septim in my little pockets, not even a fake one to jingle with meaning.

Then I hit the streets. Bravil was pulsing like a swollen wound—rowdy sailors shouting by the alleys, bakers crying out their last pies, women with rough voices dragging drunk dudes by the collar, and more smoke in the air than incense in Mara's chapel. I walked a bit, not rushing, just feeling the place again.

The sun was already low, yet still scorching, searing the cobblestones and walls with its burning fingers, so I wandered down toward the harbor district, hoping to find a bit of shade—and perhaps a dash of entertainment. Dockside quarters always bustle with interesting folk, don't they? As I strolled along, musing over how to track down the Guild of my Mistress's subjects, I passed a tight crowd gathered around a troupe of acrobats—probably from Elsweyr, judging by the striped costumes and the smell of cardamom—and I thought, 'Why not?'

While a tall Khajiit stood on his hands and juggled knives with his toes, I slipped behind a chubby merchant too enthralled to blink and cut his side pouch clean, catching the fall like a proper alley stray cat. Oh, five shining septims went into my little pocket at once! Then a woman who laughed like a broken bell contributed to my dowry with two more... And a scribe, dressed far too fine for this district—gods help him—just some silver.

By the time the act ended, I had enough coin to eat, drink, pay my rent for weeks, and maybe even bribe my way into a few interesting basements.

The harbor district was just as lively as before, teeming with people of all sorts and kinds. Traveling merchants from the south loudly praised their goods, and bargaining with them was a real pleasure; generally, when they asked for twenty septims for an item, you could be sure they'd sell it for less than five!

I entered a blacksmith's shop and bought a proper knife—a hunting one with a short, two-edged blade. I found a secluded corner and strapped its sheath around my left leg, then stepped confidently and cheerfully towards the harbour's entertainment area,  which was full of taverns, pubs, and other such establishments.

I had a meal on a terrace from where the docks were visible. Ah, I will never forget the taste and especially the scent of the fish fried in oil from Bravil! Nor the beer, so bitter and tasty, produced here! Lost in thought, I remained in front of my tankard, watching as a bulky ship with most of its sails torn and tattered entered the port.

A crowd was hurrying towards the docks—merchants flanked by their servants, customs officers barking orders, and dockworkers pushing through with loud grunts—while a band of urchins darted between their legs like rats in a flood.

To my amusement, I saw that at least one of those ragged, mischievous brats was relieving pockets as he moved, working in tandem with two other boys who kept bumping into people, feigning helplessness and idiocy. I moved to a free table at the edge of the terrace and watched the thieving trio with interest. Their coordination was impeccable. The two decoys performed with flair, their antics almost theatrical; one of them, a boy with crooked legs and a face riddled with warts, wept without pause and waved a filthy wooden tray inches from passersby's faces. People, annoyed, kept tripping over the third boy, who scurried around underfoot.

It was both pitiful and hilarious: the little beggar's tray was nearly full, food, fruit, even coins glinting among the scraps. Meanwhile, the ringleader was hard at work, slipping his little, dirty hands into one pocket after another with all the elegance of a master thief.

Then, just as the ship finished docking and the gangplanks were being lowered, a voice rose from the crowd:

"Thieves! They stole my purse!"

Chaos followed, and people began searching for the culprits. Suddenly, a bigger brat burst into the fray, seemingly furious, and put on a dramatic show of beating up the pickpocket—slapping him, shoving him to the ground, and shouting loud enough for the whole dock to hear. The two decoys screamed like gutted hens and vanished into the throng, while the thief and his attacker tumbled together in the dust.

When I saw this, I stood up, tossed a few coins onto the table, and dashed toward the fight scene. It ended almost immediately as the bystanders rushed in, drove off the attacker, and helped the "poor victim" to his feet.

I burst into uncontrollable laughter and nearly lost sight of the bigger urchin—the "aggressor"—who was now fleeing at full speed, slipping like an eel through gaps in the angry crowd. But not fast enough to escape me. I caught him in a narrow alley and grabbed him by the filthy rags he wore.

He stopped instantly and turned on me like a snake. In his hand gleamed a thin, serrated blade.

I seized his wrist and, gripping his throat with my other hand, twisted until the knife clattered to the ground. Then I slapped him—once, twice, over and over—until blood ran from his nose. I threw him to the ground, pinned him, and carved a beautiful, reddish line across his cheek with one of my claws.

When he began to roll his eyes, I loosened my grip and smiled sweetly. Then, in my most polite tone, I asked him to take me to his gang leader. He grimaced and squirmed. So I gave him another delicate souvenir on his other cheek and told him, quite sincerely, that I would kill him if he didn't do as I said. I looked him straight in the eye—and watched him surrender to the power of my smile.

And so, a few moments later, we strolled hand in hand through the alleys of Bravil, just like two good, old friends.

The brat led me to one of those places politely called "dance halls" in Bravil, and there I met, for the first time, my dear friend Courtney, who was busy serving drinks at the lounge tables. 

When she saw us, she handed her tray to a colleague and beckoned us with a flick of her chin. We slipped through a curtain and into one of those cramped back rooms every place like this has. There, she stopped and looked us over, eyes sharp, expression torn between suspicion and amusement.

I let go of the brat's collar. "I'm looking for Rashid," I said.

She relaxed and her eyes widened — ah, Courtney is absolutely adorable when she does that! — and with a grin, she shoved the urchin out the door. But not before collecting all the money he'd lifted from the little performers.

Then she turned to me, that grin still on her lips. "Let's see them nails, luv!"

I held up my left hand, exposed the terrible claws, and gave her the full horror show. Her laughter rang out like a bell — cheeky, and entirely too loud. Then she locked eyes with me and said:

"So the li'l princess is 'ere! Golden hair, a li'l dolly, all sugar 'n spice 'n bleedin' beastly claws! An' she's sniffin' after Rashid! Oi, I'll be makin' a fine purse o' coin fer this, I will! Now come on, sit yer pretty arse down an' 'ave a bevvy wiv me. Me treat!"

"Can you speak more clearly?" I asked, genuinely baffled.

"Nah, luv, that ain't 'appenin'!" she laughed and took my hand, dragging me back out.

Then she took me to the dancing lounge and we plopped ourselves at one of the lounge's nicer tables — velvet chairs, golden lamps, silk runners — clearly reserved for people with more money than manners. The owner herself hurried over, giving Courtney a wary look.

She let out another of her crystalline laughs and called over her shoulder,

"Nadia! C'mere, luv, sit wiv us. Ain't every bleedin' day girls like us get ter meet a Nightingale, innit?"

Nadia's eyes widened. "Oh, I've seen one once already, Courtney!"

"Don' matter," Courtney grinned. "You'll see anuvver one right now!"

Nadia pulled out a chair, sat down beside us, and waved over one of the other girls, ordering snacks and drinks.

"On the house!" she said warmly, giving Courtney a knowing wink. "You're off tonight, Court."Then she turned to me with a wide smile. "If the honored Nightingale wants a guide an' a companion in Bravil, she's yours to command."

"If Courtney wants..." I said gently, with a hint of amusement.

"Too right, kitten!" Courtney shot back, laughing again, light and fearless.

But something flickered in my eyes at that word. I looked away, my voice barely above a whisper. "Kitten... It's been a long time since someone called me that."

Courtney leaned in, her tone softer now. "So not kitten, then. Maybe... esteemed an' respected Nightingale?"

And just like that, the tension cracked — the ice between us shattered in a single laugh. We toasted and feasted like old friends, the kind who hadn't seen each other in years but somehow remembered the same songs until the evening wore on, and the city outside faded behind velvet curtains and clinking glasses.

Ah, from the bitter beer of Bravil to the sweetest and most deceptive liqueurs of the Summerset Isles, with a mandatory stop among the sour and delicious wines of Elsweyr — all the known and unknown drinks of Tamriel passed across our table. Also, candied almonds, strange eggs from rare Black Marsh reptiles, enormous exotic nuts from Valenwood — and many, many other exquisite drinks and meals! But the true delight, at least for me, was the hearty sweet roll from Skyrim.

You see, my friends, blood always speaks and demands; vague memories, maybe from my distant childhood — so far away that they felt like a tale from another world, a realm once lived by a cute and blonde little girl who was no more — made me ask even for horker stew.

Nadia looked at me with teary, kind eyes. "It's been a long time since another Nightingale — another golden-haired woman — asked us for such a meal. And, just like then, I must apologize. We cannot prepare that here. The shores of the Sea of Ghosts are so very distant now — especially now."

And that's how I first learned that another war, of a strange kind, one between brothers, was raging in the North, far beyond the Jerall Mountains.

Evening came, and as the place filled with well-dressed people, the variety show began. The girls, all dressed so temptingly and sweetly, performed dances of strange and wild beauty to music that ranged from nostalgic and melodic tunes of Valenwood to the violent, yet harmonic rhythms of Hammerfell.

At one point, despite Nadia's protests, Courtney rose from the table, dashed upstairs, and returned in the blink of an eye, dressed for the stage. She took her place among the dancers, where she appeared to be the lead. 

Let's just say that from that moment on, the performance became divine, and the band, stimulated by the impressive presence of the soloist on stage, released chords of a rare perfection. My soul vibrated, wept, and laughed — and I knew, without a doubt, that Courtney, this tavern girl, would become my dearest and closest friend! 

After midnight, the show ended. We said goodbye to Nadia, who, as always, seemed to live between joy and sorrow, and cheerfully made our way to my hostel.

The boy behind the counter started protesting when he saw Courtney following me up the stairs. So we turned back. I walked up to him, smiled sweetly, grabbed a button on his shirt, and gently pulled him toward me. I kissed him and stared into his eyes — and he melted under my gaze, looking back at me as if no one had ever done that before, and Courtney was laughing again — her laugh already so dear to me! A bit later, I learned she had used this opportunity to grab the silver bell from the reception counter and the full set of spare keys hanging from a nail underneath... Of course, I took them amid her protests and returned them to the poor boy, who now sat miserably behind the desk, already missing them. I placed them gently back on the counter beside him and left in the same quiet mode I had come.

We woke up very late, and after eating nearly all the hostel's ice cream, set off to the residence where I was supposed to meet Rashid. Since my clothes didn't fit her, Courtney was still wearing her dancer costume, and people kept turning their heads as we walked down the street, so we ducked into a shop where she bought herself some new garments and a pair of shoes. 

Our short morning stroll through Bravil, freshly washed by the night's rain, had been rather pleasant. Courtney is a wonderful woman — lively, full of joy and jokes — but she also has a sharp tongue and, sometimes, can be terribly cheeky. Now and then, she'd pick fights in the street, hurling insults with the carefree grace of someone who grew up without parents, amid the noisy, ragtag gangs of Bravil's urchins. Oh, she's a true daughter of the South, and as I was to find later, maybe she even has some Elven blood in her veins—the wild kind, that of the elves of the weald.

That day, she was especially cheerful, chattering about the reward she was going to get from "the Godfather."

"So, Courtney," I said, "you weren't entirely alone in the world after all! You have a godfather — and he sounds like a wealthy man."

She giggled and replied, "Ah, ain't just me Godfather, is it? 'E's our Godfather, the lot of us — includin' you, I s'pose, though me li'l nose tells me summat's up!"

And she wrinkled her funny little nose in such a cute way that I couldn't help myself, and tiptoeing, I kissed her right there, in the middle of the crowd.

We arrived at the Godfather's villa, and inside, a tall, broad man with a wicked scar cutting across his face greeted us. Courtney, bold as ever, addressed him familiarly and waved a hand toward me:

"Brassius, this 'un 'ere's the Nightingale our Godfather's been waitin' on fer years."

He stepped aside to let us pass, but as soon as my foot hit the stairs, Brassius suddenly reached out and clamped onto my left leg, exactly where I kept my knife. As the man felt the weapon through the fabric of my shirt, he seized my right arm, fingers digging in until my joints creaked. Brassius grinned and growled:

"The knife stays with me, Nightingale."

Instantly, I slashed him deep across the wrist with my claws before the grin could fade. He let go in shock, and I bolted up the stairs. His surprise lasted only a moment before the brute rushed after me.

Courtney leapt in his way, but Brassius shoved her aside with a swing of his shoulder, and in a blink, he was at the top beside me. I waited, calm, knife in hand, locking eyes with those dull, fish-dead pupils.

"Stay where you are, brother, or I'll kill you," I said sweetly.

He responded by unwrapping the enormous chain he wore around his waist, grinning again.

"Let's dance, Princess."

But just before the first step of our dance, Courtney started screaming at the top of her lungs. A door slammed open, and out stepped a young golden-haired man with a delicate, refined face, irritation already twisting his features.

"What's going on here? Courtney, when will you stop your antics? Are you drunk again?"

"Yer the bloody pissed bloke an' a berk, Tom!" she shrieked. "Yer villainous monster, Lucas the gorilla, wants ter kill the Nightingale! An' 'e gave me a right beatin', 'e did! Now I ain't workin' fer a long time — an' I ain't workin' fer you swines no more, neither!"

 And she started cursing wildly, her voice so shrill and loud I thought the rafters might crack.

Right then, an elderly man, broad-shouldered, with an expressive face that radiated calm and quiet authority, stepped into the hallway behind Thomas. He lifted a hand, almost lazily, and said:

"Leave them alone, Lucas. Please. Courtney... why are you disturbing the peace of this house? And who is this young lady?"

"She's on the 'unt fer Rashid, name's Elsie, innit? An' she's got bleedin' beastly claws! Found 'er meself, Godfather, I 'ave!" Courtney declared, swelling with pride.

The old man's smile was faint, almost indulgent, as he approached. He looked straight into my eyes, and I met his gaze, sharp and unflinching. His smile deepened, touched now with a shade of melancholy.

"Indeed... She has her eyes. What's your mother's name, little lady?"

"Shaira," I replied without hesitation.

"Shaira? The former Doyen from the Imperial City?" His brows lifted in mild surprise.

"Yes, Gramps — her, even her. May her soul rest in peace," I said.

"Gramps?" He chuckled—low and unexpectedly warm. "I'm already starting to like you, ragazza. Though the name is Vito, and I'd like to be your Godfather, as I am for all who live in this neighborhood. And I'm not speaking of Shaira. I mean the mother who gave you life."

"Ah... her name was Kiersten." I sighed, and tears welled unbidden in my eyes.

"Yes... Kiersten." His voice softened, rich with memory. "The last Nightingale to visit us before you, Elsie. Come with me, please."

Then he turned slightly, his tone severe again:
"You too, Courtney. And Thomas — tell them to bring pastries and sweets for the girls."

"An' some bleedin' wine fer me, Tom!" Courtney chirped.

"Just a little beer for Courtney," the Godfather said with a mild frown, "and make sure it's cold."

Inside his office, he settled behind a massive desk of polished mahogany and motioned for Courtney and me to take the armchairs in front of him.

Courtney leaned forward, dropping a pouch onto the desk with an exaggerated sweetness.
"Yesterday's takin's from the 'arbor, Godfather."

His brows drew together — just slightly — and she sank back into her chair at once, folding her hands like a schoolgirl caught passing notes.

"So, Elsie..." His voice was warm, measured. "What can I do for you? I've been expecting you for years. Though I suspect you found a more welcoming host back then."

"I'm looking for my brother. Rasha."

"Rasha..." He tasted the name, almost to himself. "Shaira's eldest. Alisanne's right hand, more or less. He left Bravil just after Alisanne died. Rasha was wounded, and my men helped him slip out of town with a rather large crate, onto a cart. He took the Green Road north. One of my boys went with him but never came back. So, I assume your brother wished to vanish. You all in the Brotherhood have a... talent for that."

His faint smile held no mockery — only recognition.

"That's all I know. We've had no word from the North in over a year. The secondary roads are cut, Niben patrolled by Altmer boats, and the surrounding forest is teeming with elvish scouts and their auxiliary troops. Even the Green Road's a death trap."

"Then I'll go north."

He shook his head once, slowly. "I'd advise you to wait. The North is wide, and danger grows with every week. Better stay here for a while. Perhaps we'll hear something about Rasha from our brothers in the Imperial City in the meantime."

"Then I'll stay Godfather. A couple of months, maybe. May I keep Courtney with me? She could show me the city... teach me your ways."

"If you wish — and if Nadia can spare her."

"Ov course she can!" Courtney chirped. "She told me yestaday she couldn't stand me no more an' that disappearin' fer a while'd do me good! Besides, the Nightingale's so tiny — someone's gotta look after 'er in this wretched town!"

The Godfather's smile turned almost private. "Between us, Courtney... I don't think Elsie needs your protection."

"We don't even have to deprive Madame Nadia of her services," I said. "I want to work there with her girls."

"Are you sure about that, Elsie? Maybe you don't fully understand what they really do there. If you want to learn our ways, my son Thomas could use you."

"What does Thomas do?"

"Ah, financial investments, legal contracts, liaison with judges and the militia," he said with a smile.

"Boring," I muttered.

"Then there's my other son, Sonny. He handles... more interesting matters for a girl like you. But I doubt you two would get along."

"No, Godfather. Please. Nadia's place. At least for a while."

A small sigh. "So be it. You can live here if you like."

"Thank you, Godfather, but I already have a place in the port district. I like it there."

"As you wish, Elsie. Give your address to Thomas — we'll keep an eye on you."

He rose, came around the desk, and kissed me lightly on the cheek. Then, with a mischievous slap on Courtney's backside — which made her squeal — he opened the door for us.

"I expect more and faster from your team at the docks, Courtney!" he said, half-smiling.

We left his villa in high spirits, especially after Courtney flashed a triumphant grin at Lucas. Then we went to Nadia's, where she welcomed us with open arms.

So, in the end, I remained in Bravil for more than just a couple of months. That time... well, it was among the happiest of my life so far. The house was always alive — laughter spilling from the lounge, clinking glasses, music drifting in from the street outside. The scent of expensive wine, exquisite, perfumed candle wax, and too many other nice fragrances hung in the air like a silky, soft curtain. All the girls were kind to me and Courtney... well, Courtney became my closest friend! And not just a friend, but a mentor: she knew every trick, every shortcut, every face worth knowing in Bravil. Nadia treated us well, better than I expected. Sometimes, when she thought no one was looking, she even let her eyes soften — just for a heartbeat. Beneath the tough, madam-like facade, I'm convinced there was beating a mother's heart.

They taught me things I'd never have learned anywhere else — things worth knowing for a girl like me. And I also picked up a bit of the secret jargon of the Guild, the silent signals, and the ranks within the internal hierarchy.

The first lesson came on my third evening at Nadia's.

Courtney plopped herself down beside me on the lounge sofa, her skirts rustling like an impatient cat's tail. In her hand, she held a scrap of paper covered in strange markings.

"Alright, kitten," she said, grinning, "time to teach you 'ow ter talk without movin' yer lips."

"I'm just a country girl! Keep in mind that, will ya?" I replied, putting on my best wide-eyed innocence. "Don't know nothin' 'bout city tricks."

She snorted. "Yeah, an' I'm the Empress o' Cyrodiil. Now shut yer gob an' look."

The paper showed a series of little scratches, curves, and dots — nothing that made sense at first glance. Courtney tapped one mark with a perfectly manicured finger.

"That means safe house. Three scratches like this one? Means the safe house is full, don't bother knockin'. This li'l hook here — that's for job done, so's the pay's waitin'."

She made me repeat each sign, tracing them with my own finger. I did, feigning the clumsy hesitation of a farmhand handling silk for the first time.

"You learn quick, kitten," she said after a few minutes, leaning back. "Betcha could pass fer a born thief in a year."

I gave her my sweetest smile. "Oh, no, Courtney — I'm just a silly girl. Mama taught me to milk cows and bake bread, not to snatch things or cut purses."

She laughed so hard she spilled half her wine. "Sure, luv. An' I s'pose them claws o' yours are fer slicin' pie."

I just looked down, letting her think she'd won.

I smile now when I remember how my dear Courtney wanted to teach me how to slip quite unseen and unfelt through the unaware crowd—oh, I was a little sly and didn't tell her anything about Shaira's lessons. This attitude toward a friend, a beloved friend, was understandable, though; after the years of severity and hard study I spent in my mother Alisanne's company, I just wanted to play a bit. Like a young panther in the thick urban jungle where we lived!

That afternoon, the sun poured molten gold over the roofs of Bravil, and the alleys steamed with the smell of warm tar, river water, and too many bodies crammed together. Courtney dragged me away from the port, grinning like a fox with feathers in its teeth.

"Right, kitten, today we see if yer ready. I'm gonna walk ten paces ahead. Yer job's ter shadow me without lettin' me catch yer at it. An' if the chance comes... pinch summat. But clean, mind you — I don't want ter spend the night explainin' things ter Lucas Gorilla."

I widened my eyes. "Oh, Courtney, I don't think—"

"Think later. Now keep up."

She strutted off, weaving through the crowd like a ribbon of smoke. I let her get her lead, then melted into the flow of people — head down, steps light, the way you walk when you're supposed to be invisible.

Every few moments, she threw a glance over her shoulder, but I was never there. I was beside a flower stall, admiring blooms. I was behind a cart, haggling over apples. I was a golden shadow tucked between two gossiping matrons.

At the corner of Rivet Street, she paused to watch a troupe of buskers. Her coin purse — a bright green velvet thing — hung low on her hip. She had left it there on purpose; I could almost smell the dare.

So I brushed past her, smiling at a juggler, and in that single moment, my claw nicked the string and caught the pouch without a sound. By the time she turned around, I was three steps away, leaning on a railing, watching the river.

"All right, kitten, show me yer—" Her hand patted her side. Then her eyes widened. "Oi. Oi!!"

I held up the green pouch, dangling it between two fingers, and put on my sweetest smile. "Were you looking for this, darling?"

Her jaw dropped, then she burst into laughter so hard she had to lean on the railing beside me. "You little devil! I never even felt it go!"

I leaned closer. "You told me to pinch summat. You didn't say it couldn't be yours."

She clutched her belly, still laughing. "Holy Mother, you're gonna own this stinkin' city one day! Just promise me you'll remember yer poor old Courtney when you do."

I slid the pouch back into her hand and winked. "Oh, I'll remember. You're the one who taught me to keep my claws sharp."

We even faced dangers — great dangers — together on the night streets of Bravil. Always, girls like us seem followed by trouble, and most men, especially the younger ones, see us as easy targets, sure prey... Hm, that's not true, not even a bit! I remember one night, dark and heavy with the scent of rain, in Bravil... the beginning of the end...

It started with a whistle. Not the merry kind — the sharp, slicing sound that meant move now or die.

Courtney froze mid-step, her smile gone in an instant. "Keep walkin', kitten," she murmured without looking at me. "Two blokes behind us. Three more in front."

The fog by the river was thicker tonight, muffling the shuffle of approaching boots. I slid my hand under my shirt, feeling the comforting curve of the knife's hilt.

"You take the front," I whispered.

Courtney's eyes glinted. "Always do."

The first man lunged out of the mist — big, ugly, holding a short cudgel. Courtney sidestepped with a dancer's grace, her elbow driving into his gut before he could swing. I caught the glimmer of steel from the side — a knife — and I turned just in time to rake my claws across another man's arm. He screamed and dropped it.

"That's one each," I said, smirking.

"Don't keep score, luv," she shot back, sweeping a kick into a third attacker's knee.

The last two came at me together, one with a chain, the other with a rusty hook. Bad mistake. I ducked under the hook, grabbed the chain mid-swing, and yanked the wielder into his own friend. They went down in a tangle of curses and blood.

Courtney snatched up the cudgel and tapped it against her palm. "That's all you got, boys?"

Silence. Then the five shapes limped away into the fog, muttering threats they didn't dare to back up.

We stood there for a beat, breathing hard, the river lapping quietly beside us. Then Courtney started laughing — that pure, ringing laugh that always made trouble sound like fun.

"Ya know, kitten," she said, tossing the cudgel into the water, "we might just be the worst thing Bravil's thugs ever saw."

I grinned. "Correction — we are the worst thing they'll ever see."

II

During all this time, I began to understand how the Thieves Guild from Cyrodiil worked—totally wrong, as I know now.

The Guild's branch in Bravil, at least, had surely strayed far from the old ways—those once agreed upon by our ancestors and Lady Luck Herself. I must add here: She, my beloved Mistress, is a tough businesswoman at heart, and Nocturnal doesn't like being cheated—what's allowed to Her, She permits to no one else—and the Daedra always strikes with furious anger those who dare break a vow!

In those days, the Bravil Thieves Guild was more like a bank. And what I found both strange and deeply upsetting was that they never stole from the rich, even though that's exactly where they could have. After all, that's exactly where the fat coin lies! Yet, on the contrary, they preyed mercilessly on the poor, the hardworking folk, and the small shopkeepers and artisans—both those from Bravil and the many who came from far and wide to do business in this city of contrasts, so full of riches and dangers.

They even lent money with interest, and were ruthless when it came to collecting debts from the poor, but oddly lenient with the skooma traffickers, who enjoyed an almost legal operation in the city. Because, you see, friends, in Bravil, you can buy or sell that dangerous, seductive liquor in certain places — perfectly legal — but you're not allowed to possess it! Which is ridiculous, considering the city guard doesn't have the right to search you without cause!

I can't help but laugh now — though there's still a spark of anger — when I think back to those twisted laws. Bravil was, more than anywhere else, a city where the rich grew ever richer and the poor sank deeper in misery. And its laws... Ah, better not to dwell too much on them, or my quill might snap in outrage!

Courtney and I ended up in jail thanks to one of those peculiar laws. Our line of work wasn't technically forbidden in that glittering yet hopelessly musty city. But any unmarried woman without a family could be accused of "indecency" on nothing more than a couple of loose tongues. And in this Southern jewel, female "indecency" always came with heavy sentences in Bravil's murky prison.

Ah, that damp, gloomy dungeon! Not quite as bad as the Order's jail where I'd once spent a few months, but the food and sleeping bunks were truly nightmares dressed in stale, moldy bread, wet, rotten stone, and rusted iron.

And here's the absurd part: you could buy food from anywhere in the city — yes, even from the finest locals! — and, laughably enough, you could purchase furloughs. At exorbitant prices, of course!

I still picture those guards — supposed to be cold-blooded brutes — dashing through the corridors with trays of steaming delicacies, looking for all the world like waiters in some twisted tavern. It was ridiculous... and a little shameful.

I should not forget to add that Courtney, of course, thrived behind bars. She found plenty of friends there, made other ones in hours of dirty gossip, found rivals in moments, and, above all, got into fierce brawls before the day was out. Oh, she really loves to fight sometimes... she aches for that!

Me? I found none of it amusing. I even felt guilty, sitting there with hot pastries and nice sausages while the less fortunate women watched us with hollow eyes. And all that catfighting was utterly ridiculous!

Courtney and a few of her old friends even started a skooma racket inside the prison, right under the indulgent gaze of the guards. And, as always, the main buyers were the same women who looked on with envy while we dined like queens.

Those days spent in jail left a bitter taste. I began to drift away from Courtney, avoiding her and especially her little circle. And then... one day, after she tried again to rope me into her dirty, petty business, something in her must have shifted. She just stopped. Gave it all up.

And we were friends again. Though to this day, she still half-jokingly scolds me for "ruinin' me chance ter get filthy rich behind bars, luv."

Ah, whenever we remember those days — when we were so young and thought ourselves so clever — we laugh and embrace. Little did we know, and I dare say we were completely innocent; our wave of true crimes and wrongdoings was far from its beginning!

And the great city was thriving — and fully breathing — even in those dreadful days for all of Cyrodiil. Life there felt different from that of most other Imperial lands... perhaps with the sole exception of Cheydinhal, where Duchess Nephatah Indorys had already committed a rather different kind of betrayal than Bravil's mayor.

When the elves began advancing from the south, from the newly conquered Leyawiin, the dignitaries of Bravil had the wisdom — or perhaps the cunning — to declare the city's independence. They paid sacks of gold to the Altmer commanders so that Bravil would be spared and the army's plunderous gaze would not fall upon this jewel of the southern lands. The city council even arranged for a monthly tribute — a bribe in all but name — to be paid directly to the Dominion.

Meanwhile, Courtney and I carried on with our merry, mostly uneventful lives. Now and then, the Godfather would scold us sharply for stealing from our rich clients — but that was all. Still... I'm quite certain he had a hand in our eventual imprisonment.

At one point, I was even given a small team of urchins to lead and train. However, after my experience in the Imperial City, where the street kids never truly accepted me, this new job held no appeal for me at all. So I gave it up soon enough — under the Godfather's surprisingly benevolent gaze.

On holy days, which are delightfully frequent in Bravil, we often dined with him and his family. It was an exemplary household, in its own way — only Sonny, the eldest son, stood out, being far more untamed and violent than the rest. Ah, eldest sons! They do have a peculiar way about them... and he reminded me so much of Rasha that I would often fall silent, saddened, wondering if my beloved brother was still alive.

No news came from the other Guilds of Cyrodiil. Time slipped by, and I had grown so accustomed to my life in Bravil that all the strange, terrifying events before felt like a distant dream... almost a story I'd once heard, not lived. Yet sometimes, I went with my beloved Courtney to the Temple of Mara. There, we lit black candles beneath a certain statue of the goddess, and I would feel those strange, pleasant shivers deep in my soul again.

Courtney swore that Mara — "our beloved Mother," as she called her — spoke to her in those moments, offering advice, making promises of protection. But now... now we both know better which aspect of Mephala it truly was that whispered sweet lies into our ears!

For a while, life flowed smoothly — a rare, fragile calm in our tumultuous journey. But the day of reckoning came when the skooma traffickers from Elsweyr decided to seize all operations in Bravil. I am certain my Mistress Nocturnal had a hand in it, even if She refuses to admit it. Ah, there are no greater liars in all of Oblivion than Nocturnal and Mephala — sick with deceit, both of them! And Nocturnal... She sometimes takes far too much pleasure in using the Queen's own perverse methods.

Street battles erupted like summer storms — sudden, deafening, and gone just long enough to give you false hope before returning worse than before. The Elsweyr Skooma Syndicate fighters poured into Bravil from the south docks, dozens upon dozens of Khajiit, all snarling, all armed to the teeth, and all high enough on skooma to forget pain, fear, or even the concept of death.

The Godfather's loyalists tried to hold the streets, but it was like trying to stop a flood with a broom. He even hired Argonian mercenaries from the swamps — fierce fighters, cold-eyed and disciplined — but against those frenzied, half-mad cats, they lasted barely a week. I still remember the last night clearly: the alleyways echoing with yowls and laughter, the moonlight flashing on curved Khajiiti blades, and the acrid-sweet stench of skooma smoke drifting through every street like funeral incense. Ah, it tore at my heart — fighting the Khajiit felt like striking down my beloved, long-lost family all over again! Yet I gritted my teeth, and my crossbow sang its deadly song, cutting swathes through their furred rows.

The City Guard? They stood idle, leaning on their spears, watching the chaos as though it were some gladiatorial game. I have no doubt they had their purses fattened by the Syndicate — gold enough to buy their eyes shut and their consciences silent.

In the end, the Godfather's men were slaughtered, his mercenaries scattered or bribed away, and his territory consumed piece by piece. The Khajiit took the city's veins — the docks, the warehouses, the alleys where coin changes hands — without ever touching the temples or the mansions of the rich. They didn't need to. The gold was already flowing to them.

The Godfather and his entire family perished in the chaos, and Courtney and I, having fought alongside their few remaining men, decided to flee the Holy City, for there was almost nothing left for us now. Nadia, too, had died. Her saloon was looted and burned to the ground. Nothing held us anymore in that marvelous and dangerous city... or so we thought!

So, in the dead of night, we left Bravil aboard a smuggler's boat, which dropped us off on the southern shore of Lake Rumare just as dawn broke. And since I remembered, with crystal clarity, that distant day when Cicero—Rasha's blood brother—had told me to seek him out at a certain alchemist's if I ever needed help, we set out for Cheydinhal.

We avoided the Altmer patrols as best we could, for the Imperial City — once the king of cities on Nirn — was under siege. Where once only fireworks and the rumors of lavish parties would rise into the sky, now thick black smoke billowed, and the dry, rhythmic thud of catapult stones striking its mighty walls echoed in the distance...

Chapter Text

War. War never changes.
Ron Perlman, "Fallout".

Our journey to Cheydinhal proved to be much longer and more arduous than I had anticipated, based on the map I had purchased from an antiquarian in Bravil. Both of us knew that war haunted the lands of Cyrodiil, but until then, we could never have imagined what a realm might look like after years of conflict.

The clashes between elves and humans were occasionally interrupted by necessary breaks for the troops to recover from battles, or by ceasefires during which sterile and endless negotiations took place. Yet, these brief respites were far from enough to heal the scarred lands. The ancient weald that once lined the southern shores of Lake Rumare had been turned to stumps and slivers, cut down for the construction of siege weapons and the countless rafts used to ferry fresh troops to the never-ending slaughter beneath the city walls. The hamlets and inns that once dotted the fertile fields and roads surrounding the city lay all in ruin, charred and abandoned, with the remains of the fallen — corpses and skeletons — staring with empty eyes at the unforgiving sky.

The crows and ravens, those harbingers of war and witnesses to its horrors, were everywhere in the mournful landscape of the Imperial City. Larger than in times of peace, they filled the air with their dark wings, their raucous cawing echoing with either joy or spite. Ah, they are wise creatures, especially the ravens, and could tell you so much about the deeds of mortals in wartime! But, my friends, heed my warning: do not listen to what they say. Their words may astonish you, terrify you, and shatter your belief in the goodness of your fellow men!

The ominous sight of the sky and the oppressive look of the barren, desolate plain made us shiver deep into the morning chill. We decided not to venture on our journey to Cheydinhal until the protective darkness of the following night had fallen because we feared the elf patrols as well as the frequent troop and convoy movements that are more than likely to happen around a city besieged for so long. And we were so tired; an overwhelming weariness had already absorbed any trace of will or strength, both being exhausted from the harrowing street battles we'd taken part in Bravil. Moreover, Courtney and I were already longing so much for the Holy City, for Her City... Just as we emerged from the shadow of its walls, Bravil began to haunt us, whispering, calling, pulling us back into its rousing embrace. We ached for it, as one aches for a lost paradise... or a forbidden vice one cannot live without. Yes, just like a skooma addict missing his precious liqueur, and something like that hurts more than you may imagine!

So we sought shelter as best we could under the banks of the Niben and tried to sleep. Despite the continuous din of the siege, we managed to rest fairly well until evening, when, after we had eaten and darkness began to blanket the land, we set off on our perilous journey toward Cheydinhal. Courtney was cheerful and optimistic, but my mind was haunted by fear and uncertainty. I was tormented by the thought that we were facing so many hardships and dangers for a promise made years ago by a man who might no longer even be alive... But there was no other choice—no safer refuge to run to.

We trudged for a while north along Lake Rumare's shores through the mud, and the damp earth smelled of riverweed and cold stone. From time to time, we heard the dull splash of fish breaking the water's skin — tiny, fleeting lives untouched by the war above. That fragile peace wrapped around us for a few hours, until Masser rose like a red coin in the heavens, casting its bloody light over the land. The shadows grew longer, the night softer, and our steps felt lighter — though the danger was only a heartbeat away. Yet, our trek became easier, and by the time dawn's first blush bloomed in the east, we were already very near the place where the Blue Road begins its winding path through the heart of the Heartlands, toward Cheydinhal.

To my unpleasant surprise, we found the old ruined, once abandoned fortress from that place repaired and used by the elves. It was teeming with soldiers just waking up, hurriedly preparing for whatever duties awaited them that day. I abandoned any thought of resting in the shadow of the fort, knowing full well that daylight would only expose us to danger, and taking advantage of the morning mist, we crept past the old ivy walls toward the fork where the two roads diverged.

Despite the weariness gnawing at our bodies, we pushed on along the Blue Road, which in that region is quite steep, the unforgiving slope sapping the few strengths we had left. Endless, one after another, the reddish, desolate clay hills stretched around us, and at that moment, we had no slightest idea where we could stop to refresh our strength.

The sun climbed in the sky vault, burning away the caring shadows of night, until the land lay bare beneath its merciless, searing glare. Soon, from the north, thick plumes of dust rose above the road, carrying with them the murmur of voices and the steady, drum-like pound of hundreds of marching feet. The sound swelled with every heartbeat, so we slipped from the road and vanished amid the hills on its right flank, praying the column would just pass us by.

Their slopes leaned over us, and the red clay crumbled under our boots as though the earth itself meant to swallow us. Even the wind betrayed the passage of soldiers — tar, oil, sweat, and iron smells clung to it like an invisible stain. Each ridge we climbed felt like it might bring safety... or the sight of steel helms glinting on the crest.

Yet no shelter came. Only more mounds of scorched clay, their narrow valleys slick with damp, some hiding small, reeking swamps that seemed to drink the last of our strength.

By late noon, we stumbled upon a relatively flat spot filled with dry reeds that rustled in the wind. The ground was dry, and the vegetation tall enough to offer some cover, so we decided to stop and rest. Without daring to try to light a fire, we ate a generous share of the few provisions we'd taken with us. And we saw that our canteen was nearly empty! Ah, it hadn't even occurred to us to fill it back at Lake Rumare, and perhaps it was for the best because its waters were, in those days, teeming with corpses, old and new.

The reeds whispered ceaselessly around us, their dry song blending with the sigh of the wind, so we planned to sleep for a few hours. Our slumber lasted longer than intended, and when I finally woke, the light had already turned dim and diffused. The sun — pale and cold — hung low in the western mists, barely visible through the haze of dusk. Hunger gnawed at us again, so, with a heavy heart on my part and unhidden delight from Courtney, we almost finished our meager provisions.

Then, with a mischievous grin, my friend revealed a bottle of flin. I tried to stop her, but she just laughed in my face, claiming she was cold and didn't want to catch a chill. So, in the end, we emptied the bottle together and, truth be told, we both felt a little better afterward.

Meanwhile, the sun had set, and the night promised to be foggy and damp, so we decided not to venture further among the arid mounds and spend the night right where we were. We still didn't dare to light a fire, and even if we wanted to, there wasn't anything worth burning around us except for the dry reeds, which wouldn't have helped much anyway. So we lay down tightly embraced and wrapped in Courtney's wide cloak, but luckily for us, she did exactly what she always does in such situations. She managed to pull the entire thing over herself in her sleep, and I woke up in the middle of the night, teeth chattering, a vague, creeping fear coiling in my chest.

The first thing I saw was two green, blazing eyes fixed on me, a low growl rumbling in my ears. I sprang to my feet with a startled cry, and the eyes slid back into the darkness, the growl swelling into a deep, guttural snarl. Courtney shot upright behind me, fumbling with the lantern, and when the weak light flared to life, the sight froze the blood in our veins.

Six wolves ringed us in a loose circle, their eyes glinting like shards of cold, greenish fire in the lantern's glow. And then I saw it: a massive gray mongrel with scars lacing its muzzle and a single torn ear was creeping forward; it moved slowly, with the deliberate grace of a seasoned predator, and I could see in its posture that it was ready to lunge. The others were gradually tightening the circle, following their leader. I tried to meet its gaze, hoping to use my hypnotic power, but the beast averted its gaze, watching me sideways with cautious suspicion.

Desperate, I drew my knife, knowing it would do little against seven famished beasts.  Courtney, trembling, gripped my shoulders from behind—and then, to my astonishment, she began to chant in strange, lilting syllables, each one soft yet clear, like an incantation from some foreign, faraway land. One of the wolves froze mid-step, let out a sharp whine, and suddenly turned on the pack leader with a savage snarl.

The alpha, caught completely off guard, met its challenger in a violent tangle of fur and fangs, while the rest of the pack, startled and confused, hesitated, pacing in confusion.

Seizing the moment, I locked eyes with another one—luckily, this one didn't look away. I slipped my will into the beast's mind, holding it frozen until it let out a desperate whimper and bolted into the fog. Two more followed quickly, vanishing into the cold, misty night.

Meanwhile, the leader brought down its rival, but its victory was hollow; blood matted its mangled fur, and it crawled toward us with labored, staggering motions.

Once again, strange sounds spilled from Courtney's lips—soft and melodic, like a mournful lullaby in a language no mortal tongue had spoken for centuries. At her call, one of the last wolves turned without hesitation and attacked its companion in a flurry of teeth and snarls.

I felt Courtney's body shake violently against me. Her chant broke off mid-breath, and she crumpled to the ground in a faint.

The leader, bleeding heavily, hesitated, and it turned its head just enough for me to act. I hurled my knife with all the strength I had left. The blade struck deep into its throat; the beast let out one last, ragged growl before collapsing in a dark heap.

It was over. Courtney's wolf had killed its rival and now limped to her side, lowering its massive head to rest on her knees. It whimpered softly, ears flattened, eyes wide with what could almost be called... concern.

As she regained consciousness, Courtney stirred, blinking groggily—then saw the wolf. Her scream tore through the night.

"Stop yelling, Courtney!" I snapped, half laughing. "The beast is now your baby."

She froze, staring at me like I'd lost my mind, then slowly turned toward the wolf. It didn't move. Just gave a low whine, like a scolded pup.

"My... baby? Are you crazy?" she croaked, shaking all over.

I couldn't help but smile, exhausted as I was. "Yes. Now it is. And you'd better take good care of him. He just killed a brother for you."

Just then, the wolf whimpered and gently licked her face! Courtney let out a strangled shriek, shot upright like a spring, and began running in circles, flailing her arms and screaming hysterically. The poor beast, startled and confused, yelped, leapt back, and let out a long, mournful howl. And I—gods forgive me—despite the dread still hanging in my mind, I burst into a peal of wild laughter! Sometimes, after enduring fear, much spilled blood, and the stench of death, this is how some souls choose to unwind: through madness... or mockery. I saw later that such manifestations often occurred in the aftermath of the great battles. Or after a walled city would fall...

Eventually, our mad outbursts faded. Courtney approached slowly, steps hesitant, uncertain. I stood beside the wolf, now lying on the ground, licking its wounds with patience.

"We won, my dear," I whispered, embracing her. "You won, actually."

Her body was ice-cold against mine, trembling. Silent tears traced her pale, drawn cheeks.

The wolf didn't move, only its glowing green eyes followed her patiently.

Still catching her breath, Courtney reached out, hand shaking as it brushed the rough, matted fur. The beast didn't flinch; only its tail gave a subtle twitch—a quiet sign of acceptance.

She stared down at it, whispering, "I... I don't know what this means..."

Her fingers tangled in my hair as she continued, voice faint, "No... I don't know how I did it. When I was little, I used to hide in tavern corners, waiting for scraps. That's where I heard stories whispered by drunks. Tales of people who can tame wild beasts, befriend them, even speak with them in a certain way... and of beast-men, who turn into savage, bloody creatures when Secunda shines full. And of the dead, restless dead not staying dead—corpses rising from their tombs to punish the living who dare to disturb their places. So..."

"These are true stories! I've seen the undead with my own eyes, Courtney," I said softly. "And the beast-men... I read about them in a book of legends from far-off Skyrim. As for the beast-tamers, they're real. In Valenwood, almost every child knows how to speak to the wild."

Her eyes were wide, lips parted, caught between fear and wonder.

"So, my dear," I said with a grin, pulling her closer, "I suppose one of these days I'll have to take a good, closer look at your ears, check them thoroughly... who knows, maybe you're not as human as you seem and think!" I laughed, then drew her into an embrace and stole a kiss.

The night was bitterly cold and foggy, not a trace of any of Nirn's moons, and we both still trembled with fear. We huddled close, wrapped tightly in Courtney's wide cloak, and sometime before dawn, utterly exhausted, we finally managed to doze off. As the pale light of morning began to filter through the mist, the wolf came and licked our faces, and we woke, the terror and strange events of the night flooding back to us. But Courtney, fully herself again, was laughing now—radiant, hungry, and teasing for food—while the wolf whimpered playfully at her feet.

I watched them for a while: she was so beautiful, her loose hair dancing in the breeze and her eyes shining, and her wolf, its fur still sticky with blood, was gently licking the very hand that caressed it. But I... I was lost. I must say I was desperate, for I felt that, after a long spell of calm, those strange manifestations that had plagued me for years were stirring again.

Ah, I remembered Nocturnal—and that distant dream haunted me that morning! The beautiful and cruel goddess who insulted me, then caressed me with sweet words... the knowledge that her avatar belonged to something far beyond the mortal plane, so alien my mind often refused to believe the reality of all that had touched my short life. These memories left a hollow in my soul. And above all—just as a skooma addict aches when denied their vice—I missed Bravil. I longed for its winding streets, the lively bustle of the port district, the great statue that keeps watch over the city's heart, and most of all, the cool, incense-heavy shadows of Mara's Temple, tinged with the bitter perfume of burnt spices.

But there was no time for longing, so we hastily ate what was left in our bag and set out again on that dreadful road, terribly thirsty because the flin from the night before was now taking its full revenge!

We wandered most of the day through the clay hills, taking turns now and then to climb to the top of one and survey the land. It was exhausting work—the slopes were steep and slick, offering no foothold and no shrub to grasp. The weather did us no favors: heavy clouds loomed above, and by noon, a fine, cold rain began to fall, draping the world in a damp, wearying mist.

But luck had not yet abandoned us. Late in the afternoon, we came upon a wide valley, at the heart of which lay the rippling waters of a lake. A faint scent of smoke drifted in the air, and soon we spotted a cluster of huts along the shore. Dogs began barking in the distance, and then, behind us, came a soft whimper. I turned—and there was the wolf, our wolf, the same one that had shadowed us in silence, staring intensely, somehow sad, at me with those piercing green eyes.

"Ah... It's time to say goodbye," I murmured, smiling faintly. Then, to Courtney: "Go on, give your little one a proper kiss."

She laughed and ran to it, dropping to her knees, hands sinking into its thick, blood-matted fur, and whispered something I could not hear. The wolf nuzzled her cheek once before slowly turning away. It started toward the hills, but stopped often, looking back at her, as if torn. Its steps were hesitant, each one dragging at first. Then, something changed. Its body lifted; its ears caught the wind; the fur along its neck bristled ever so slightly. Oh, the wilderness was calling it! And it remembered who it was; step by step, the gait grew surer, the tail no longer curled in the soft submission of a companion, but lifted high—the proud banner of a creature reclaiming its kingdom. Just before vanishing into the mist, Courtney's wolf turned once more. Not like a dog longing for its master... but like a friend, bidding farewell. Forever.

We pressed on until we came upon a small, temporary settlement—a ragged cluster of makeshift huts crouched by the lake's edge. Its people were war refugees, they told us, having fled from the south, from a quiet fishing village near Leyawiin, now burned, looted, and left in ashes.

Most were women, elders, and children. Only one adult man moved among them. At first, they greeted us with guarded eyes, but once we shared the reason for our trek through the wilderness, suspicion gave way to a wary acceptance.

They told us we could reach Cheydinhal by following the river that fed the lake northward. But they also warned us: the city had shut its gates early in the war and now turned away all but a chosen few. Around its walls, bands of desperate refugees drifted between the muddy camps, where cholera had already begun its grim harvest.

"No one gets in or out," one elder said, her voice flat, "unless they carry gold... or swords."

Ah, yes... the war merchants! Those who, curiously, always find a way to supply both sides in a conflict.

Even as the woman spoke, I caught the flicker of bitterness in her tired eyes. I could picture them all too well: their heavy carts piled high with goods, the well-fed horses, the guards in polished mail. They strolled across battlefields as though wandering a market, their faces and souls untroubled.

To them, war was no tragedy—it was a much-desired opportunity, another dirty coin to be collected.  They moved from one army's camp to the other without the faintest trace of shame, their wares filling the bellies and arming the hands of both sides, blind to cause and deaf to cost.

Courtney, noisy as ever, asked one of them how these merchants managed to pass through the sealed gates of Cheydinhal. A woman snorted bitterly, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the lake.

"Gold," she said. "Gold opens more doors than any key, child. In these times, it speaks louder than the cries of the dying. They walk freely where we starve and beg, their laughter drifting over the groans of the ill and the wounded."

As night fell, stories whispered through the hamlet—tales of how these traders sent their lackeys to scour the battlefields in the aftermath of the great battles. Cloaked in darkness, their hands rooted through blood-soaked garments, prying rings from stiff fingers, cutting coin purses from the belts of the fallen. Their faces remained blank, as if carved from stone, untouched, like those of the merciless gods who watched indifferently from above, untouched by the suffering of mortals.

"They take from the dead," murmured a thin boy, "to sell to the dying."

And somewhere in their tents, their masters waited, sipping sweet wine from silver flagons and counting coins by lantern-light.

Yes. Right so. Ah... War. War never changes.

We stayed the night among those poor souls, who shared with us what little they had—boiled roots, a scrap of stale bread, a morsel of fried fish—and let us rest beside them on bedding made from dry grass and leaves.

When we prepared to leave in the morning, we tried to pay, but the man only smiled bitterly and said money would be of no use to them. So Courtney gave him her cloak, and I offered him my knife—small things, but he seemed genuinely pleased.

"Gold means nothing to the nearly dead," he said, and without another word, he led us to the place where the Reed River spilled into the lake. There, in silence, we parted ways.

We followed the river northward, upstream, through a narrow valley where wooded hills loomed on both sides. The path was unforgiving—steep, winding, and wild—and our progress painfully slow, so only by late afternoon did signs of Cheydinhal begin to emerge. Not the proud city walls, but something far darker: the sprawling filth of a huge refugee camp, choking the fields, clinging like rot to the city's outskirts.

What we saw there should never be seen by any living soul!

An endless tide of misery—ragged figures huddled under tattered shelters, tents stitched from scraps of canvas and rotting cloth. Among them lay heaps of unburied dead.

We had already seen enough bodies floating on the surface of the Reed or hanging tangled among the branches of the old willows, dipping their lush branches into the river. But this... this was something worse.

I thought of our friends from the lakeshore, remembering their pale fires flickering in the mist, and feared they too might end like this—forgotten, tormented by disease faces among the dead. Nothing to do, though, so we kept our distance from the camp, skirting wide around the skeletal beings that shuffled and stared with hollow, fever-bright eyes.

We saw exhausted, starving men fighting over a meager piece of moldy bread; children sobbing beside the lifeless bodies of their mothers; mad-eyed women softly singing lullabies to cold, stiff babies clutched to their breasts.

The terrible stench and the mixture of muffled sobs and sudden, sharp cries that filled the air etched themselves into my memory, adding new, grim layers to the picture of war I had begun to form.

You see, my friends, back home, in my mother Alisanne's house, I had read many histories that sang of heroes and kings, glorious battles and clever generals. Yet none of those stories spoke of this. No chronicler ever wrote of the silent, ghostly masses of ordinary people, slowly dissolving in the flames and miasmas of such shining wars. For that is how they are described by historians who write in warm, clean chambers—either after or before enjoying their sumptuous meals and draining goblets of noble wine. And all of them, with only a few rare exceptions whose writings never reach the eyes of common readers, are paid from the generous coffers of the war's victors. For wars, strangely enough, build fortunes that, in times of peace, could only be amassed over many generations.

Well, here lies the craft—if not the trick—of written history: it is often molded by quills hired from the purses of those who prevailed. A deed of war may be called a wicked massacre or an act of justice, even a kindness, depending on whose side committed it. And so the parchments fill with polished lies, while the truth rots quietly in early, unmarked graves... and in the fading memories of the few who survived.

But I digress again, so I'd better return to the story... As we neared the Blue Road, the wretched hovels haunted by sick and hungry creatures grew fewer, and here and there, vast mass graves lay partially covered, poorly hidden beneath loose earth and broken boards. The road itself was strangely deserted and clean—almost eerily so—giving no hint of the dreadful misery just beyond the sparse trees. Yet, from time to time, we passed blackened piles of bones and ash, grim reminders of the great fires used to dispose of the dead.

Later, I learned the truth: detachments of heavy cavalry regularly rode out from the city to "cleanse" the road, driving away—or killing outright—the humble, diseased shadows who dared approach the gates, still hoping, foolishly, for mercy from their kind within.

We quickened our pace toward the towering gates, only to be halted by a tall, mustached sergeant who raised his crossbow and barked for us to stop. I calmly reached into my bag and drew out a heavy pouch, shaking it so the divine chime of gold sang in the air. His eyes widened; he lowered the weapon and gestured for us to approach.

I told him plainly that we'd pay whatever he asked if he could slip us into the city.

At that moment, I saw more than just a glint of greed in his eye. Behind the twitch of his mustache and the shadow of his brow, a darker spark flickered: the thought of killing us right there and taking everything. It would have been easy, he believed; two tired women and no witnesses. Just another pair of nameless corpses to toss into the ditches.

I didn't flinch.

I looked straight and long into his eyes—not warmly, but with intent.

The change was instant. His grip on the crossbow slackened; the crude idea wilted and slipped from his mind like a dream at dawn. He couldn't have said why, but at that moment, killing us seemed absurd. Almost foolish, even!

"Both of you—after dark," he muttered quickly, voice low. "Small gate, north side of the wall. It'll be open."

I nodded and let a few gold coins spill "accidentally" into the dust, their gleam sealing the deal better than any oath.

Then we stepped away from the road and melted into the northern thickets, hidden beneath the whispering branches, waiting for nightfall.

As promised, the gate stood slightly ajar, a torch's glow trembling beyond. Expecting the worst, I pulled my crossbow from the bag and handed it to Courtney, who had already lit our little lantern. She braced the weapon against her shoulder, seemingly ready to shoot, although neither then nor now does my dear friend know how to use such a weapon, and I stepped forward alone, toward the siege gate.

The sergeant emerged, the torchlight painting his face in flickers. I made sure he saw both the pouch of gold in my right hand and the dagger in my left. His gaze slid past me to Courtney, and I saw the old, familiar conflict in his eyes—greed against self-preservation. He regretted coming alone, I could feel it... but bringing another would have meant sharing the gold. And who wants that, my friends?

The sergeant stopped, unsure, the torch trembling in his hand. I whispered for him to come closer and leave the gate as it was. He obeyed, stepping into my reach. And then it struck — a wild, overwhelming desire, a dark and sweet hunger coiling deep in my gut. I longed to feel the dagger slide past leather and flesh, to tear into the soft warmth beneath his ribs until the heat of his life spilled out over my fingers. I could almost smell the blood, and a shiver of pleasure ran through me. I ached to kill him, oh, how my soul screamed for it! But I restrained myself with great effort. So I sent the beast back into its cage, and instead, I hurled the pouch at his feet with a sharp flick of my wrist, my voice cold as steel: "Don't move."

"Go!" I told my friend, who dashed into the city, vanishing into the darkness, and then I felt the bastard tensing, hand creeping toward the hilt of his sword.

"You'd die," I murmured sweetly, locking eyes with him. "And that would be such a shame... There's a lot of gold in that pouch. Why not enjoy it? And who knows—maybe we'll even be friends."

He relaxed, grinning and said, "You're right, lady. Maybe we'll meet again in the city."

"Sure, why not?" I said with the warmest smile I could summon, stepping backward through the gate.

We ran through Cheydinhal's wide, silent, and deserted streets at that hour, pausing only when certain we were alone. Courtney burst into laughter. "Ah, my dear kitten is actually an old fox!" I pulled her close and, relieved, hugged her tightly.

It didn't take long to find a warmly lit inn, its door open and the air thick with the divine scent of roasted meat and spiced wine—an invitation no weary and hungry traveler could resist. We took a room, ordered a feast fit for queens, and drank more than was wise. Sweet wine from the vineyards above Anvil, goblet after goblet, until sleep claimed us both.

That night, Nocturnal — my beloved Mistress — returned to haunt my dreams after years of silence. But I won't speak now of what passed between us. It was... embarrassing. There were harsh words, insults, whispered threats dressed as promises. And lies. Oh, so many lies — from both of us! Yet amid these sweet poisons we always adored, there were also vows of eternal love... and a touch upon my cheek that still burns.

Morning came with poundings on the door. Groggy, I opened it.

And there stood Cicero.

Chapter Text

I

Certainly, Cicero was far less surprised than I, for he smiled broadly and said:
"Rasha was sure it was you who slipped into town last night! Illegal, I must say..." He grinned slyly at me.

Before I could collect myself, he brushed past and stepped into our room. Two burly sergeants followed—mail-clad, armed as if for battle with spear, short sword, and shield. They would have entered as well, but I blocked the doorway, planting myself firmly before them.

"They stay outside. And perhaps you shouldn't have barged into our room either."

"Ah, forgive me, Elsie, you are right. Maccius, wait downstairs in the hall." He then shut the door and turned back to me, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

"Who is she?" Cicero asked, nodding toward Courtney, who only rubbed her eyes and scowled at him for waking her.

"She is my dear sister," I replied without hesitation.

Cicero chuckled. "Yes, you do have a curious gift for discovering long-lost 'kin' in the strangest places. Who knows—perhaps I shall become your brother soon as well."

"Maybe you already are," I returned evenly.

"Is that so? Things are rather more complicated than you imagine, Elsie. But no matter—get dressed and follow me. Rasha is a busy man, and the Duchess's private council is about to begin shortly. He wishes to see you before the session."

"The Duchess's private council? What Duchess? And since when has Rasha stood among the nobility?" I asked, truly astonished.

"I told you—we have no time. You shall hear all you wish on the way."

"Very well. Then kindly leave the room while we dress."

"She is not coming with us," Cicero said, nodding at Courtney.

"Oh, but Courtney is coming. Otherwise, we both remain here. After all, Rasha can visit me after his important discussions with the Duchess and her sycophants..." I smiled sweetly, but with teeth.

Cicero rolled his eyes, then laughed. "Women... Very well. As you wish. We will wait downstairs."

"Oh, and one more thing!" I called after him. "Send your hounds away. I dislike the clatter of steel behind me—it makes me nervous. And who knows what might happen then..." My voice was soft, almost tender.

Cicero scratched his head, sighed heavily, and slipped out of the room. By then, Courtney was fully awake, and we dressed quickly in our best clothes. I slid the dagger into its hiding place beneath my skirt, and together we stepped outside.

A carriage drawn by six magnificent horses stood waiting. Cicero, with exaggerated courtesy and a broad smile, opened the lacquered door as if he were welcoming us to a palace.

All my instincts revolted then — Cicero's courtier clothes, the armed escort, and now this exquisite carriage, lacking noble insignia, it is true, but in no other way humbler than those of lords! It reeked of a trap, of a golden cage, and it unsettled me deeply. So I snapped:
"Here's the thing, friend — we are humble girls, unaccustomed to such royal pomp. We'll walk."

"But you'll be late. I already told you, Rasha is in a hurry," Cicero objected.

"Ah, that's alright! We'll meet him after he's done advising the Duchess. It's been years since we last saw one another, so I think he can wait a few more hours for our reunion. In the meantime, we invite you to breakfast. You see, we are very hungry..."

Cicero sighed again, a deep crease carving itself between his brows. "You're terribly stubborn, Elsie. I wonder if your sister—what was her name?—is like you."

"Oh, no, sir!" Courtney interrupted brightly. "I'm not like that! I'm a very friendly girl, and I always get along with charming men like you. You'll see if you join us for a meal!" She laughed and extended her hand to him. "My name is Courtney."

That made Cicero smile despite himself. "As you wish, Elsie. I fear Rasha will punish me for the delay... but I trust you'll tell him it was you who refused both escort and carriage."

"You can count on it," I replied.

And with that, Courtney tugged him cheerfully back inside the inn, where we ordered a copious breakfast.

During the meal, made all the more pleasant by my dear Courtney, who outdid herself in sweetness toward Cicero, I learned many things that truly surprised me. But perhaps they were not so shocking after all... You see, friends, in turbulent times like wars and revolutions — ah, revolution, that oh-so-romantic word that tastes of wine and blood (mostly blood) — peculiar shifts may occur in what we might call the natural and old order of things. And, as the old saying goes, when the floods rise, it is always the scum that floats to the top first.

Deeply unsettled by the loss of Anvil and Leyawiin to the elves, terrified by the betrayal of Bravil's notabilities, and further alarmed by the rebels in the North threatening to engulf Bruma in their flames, the Emperor raised the County of the Nibenay Basin to the rank of a duchy. He then bestowed the hereditary title of Duchess upon Nephatah Indarys, the former Countess of Cheydinhal.

Historically, the Nibenay Basin and its rulers had never been particularly inclined toward loyalty to the Imperial heartland, and the influx of Dunmer and their culture after the eruption of Red Mountain only widened the rift. So perhaps Titus Mede II believed that in this way, he might strengthen his relation with this insecure region in such perilous times.

Be that as it may, the freshly made Duchess now ruled her lands with an iron hand, crushing opposition and punishing deviations from the official doctrine with ruthless severity. To my private delight and relief, I learned that one of Nephatah's first decrees was to expel those pious nuisances of the Order of Stendarr from her city.

But the true shock came when Cicero told me of the new temple: a soaring house of Mephala now stood in the central square, casting its shadow beside the old and venerable Cathedral of Arkay! Cicero had little to say about how these rival priesthoods managed to coexist, their teachings being so utterly at odds. Yet our Lady's official cult had been accepted with surprising ease — whether out of genuine fervor or mere resignation, it was hard to tell. Then again, with so many Dunmer in Cheydinhal, I suppose it was only a matter of time.

And as for Rasha... well. The former thug of the Merchant Quarter, the Brotherhood's top assassin, and very likely Alisanne's last Silencer, now wore the mantle of Minister of Internal Affairs in the Duchess's government!

I must admit, friends, all this news left me gaping, and I nearly dropped my fork right onto the table. And that last piece of information, oh, that one I didn't like at all! It concerned me deeply because you see, the cult of Sithis rests on a doctrine that rejects the authority of mortal rulers altogether — elves included, no matter their skin color.

For the initiated, Sithis is the harbinger of change and, inevitably, of dissolution. That last notion is subtle, too subtle to dissect here in what is only a minor page of my memoirs. But if one gifted scholar were to distill this creed in simple terms, it is that He, the Dread Lord, will forever gnaw at the foundations of order. The mundane order, I mean. My daddy, in his strange, alien wisdom, has a peculiar word for this ceaseless work of Sithis: he calls it entropy. I won't belabor the point further; I'll let you mull that one over.

Over time, hearing all this news, I grew restless, uneasy, and curious beyond bearing about Rasha. We left the inn and stepped into a sunlit Cheydinhal that looked less like a jewel of the East and more like a city under siege. Cicero walked ahead, whistling as though nothing were wrong, while Courtney and I followed side by side, our shadows long and our thoughts longer still.

I won't weary you with tedious descriptions — neither of his sumptuous villa, nor of the steward who looked more like a cavalry general than a servant. Let me say only this: when Rasha finally arrived that evening, he overwhelmed me completely. My most beloved brother had become a massive man, his long, graying sideburns lending weight to a face carved with the usual lines etched by years of command. His eyes flashed like lightning beneath a furrowed brow, and his stride was that of a man accustomed to power, a master among masters.

Cicero rose instantly as Rasha entered, and to my surprise, Courtney followed suit without hesitation. My brother came toward us with equal, measured steps, then spoke sharply:

"Cicero, leave us alone for a while, please."

"I'll be in your office, Rasha, if you need me," Cicero replied, before bowing himself out.

Rasha turned his gaze upon us. I met it squarely, curious, searching.
"Who is she?" he asked at last.

"Oh, nobody important, Rasha," I said lightly, "just my beloved sister, Courtney."

He glanced at me and suddenly burst into laughter. Then he strode forward and swept me up in his arms as though I weighed nothing at all, kissing me with fierce affection.

"Perhaps she can stay then; we're family, aren't we?" A big smile softened his grave face for an instant. He turned to Courtney, his voice warm and full: "I'm very pleased to meet you, Courtney. Any soul my invaluable Elsie loves is a friend of mine."

"Oh, I'm chuffed, guv'nor! I'm over the moon, I am!" Courtney blurted out, and I burst into laughter. You see, whenever she's deeply unsettled — which happens very, very rarely — Courtney slips back into her Bravil slang.

"You've scared her, Rasha! And for that, I'll punish you. Your penance will be to join us for dinner!" I giggled.

"Join you? Where's that?" he asked, raising a brow.

"The Three Goats Inn, first floor, second room on the left," I replied.

He looked a little puzzled, then quickly recovered. "Yes... after all, this is your evening, Elsie. We'll do whatever you wish."

But of course, it wasn't quite like that. He refused to dismiss his escort and carriage when we returned to our hostel. Still, the evening proved delightful, thanks largely to my dear friend, who by then had recovered her spirits and turned funny and cheeky once more. Rasha, though... he was not entirely present. Shadows of thought clung to him; even when he smiled, the furrows on his brow deepened from time to time, and his gaze grew stern, as if weighed down by burdens we could not yet see.

At last, late into the night, we parted with a promise to visit him the following day around noon. He had pressed me, oh, how he pushed me, to move into his sumptuous villa at once. I gave him vague assurances, but truthfully? I had no intention of making such a move. At least... not yet.

The next day, Courtney and I went to the Temple of Mephala. Both curious and impatient, we were deeply disappointed. Apart from the building, which was majestic and gleaming, overshadowing the nearby old cathedral of Arkay, the interior felt dull and lifeless. No fragrant resins perfumed the air, no whispered chants stirred the spirit, no trace of that secret, intoxicating joy we had once known in the Great Temple of Bravil! Only priests, mostly Dunmer, performing their ritual with dry diligence... And Her statue, towering above the grand marble altar — beautifully carved, yes, but strange, aloof, untouchable. We left disillusioned and decided instead to wander through the city until our meeting with Rasha.

Cheydinhal is a typical Imperial city, but one unmistakably marked by its large Dunmer community. They had settled here in large numbers after the great catastrophe that turned Vvardenfell into a wasteland of cooling lava and choking ash — the cataclysm that erased the great city of Vivec from the face of Nirn and swallowed its culture in merciless flames!

The town was immaculate — unnaturally so. Wide, symmetrical, and well-cleaned streets stretched out with geometric precision, lined by colorful houses and stately buildings. But something felt off. There were no beggars, not a single urchin darting through alleys. The commercial square was well-stocked and orderly, yet it lacked the chaos, bickering, and laughter of real trade. Guards in full plate stood at every corner, spears gleaming, eyes sharp. They didn't slouch. They didn't smile. They were there to watch. The silence weighed on us: no gossip, no pushy merchants, no drunken songs spilling from taverns. Even the taverns themselves were sober — no ale in the morning, only tea or fruit juice with plain meals. Life here took place behind doors and shutters, quiet and hidden, and the people moved briskly, dutifully, almost grimly, as if joy had been outlawed. After our years in Her Holy City, this place seemed cold and almost lifeless. And so, unsettled, we hurried on toward my brother's mansion.

We met Rasha at his villa. The first thing he did was hand me the bag of money I had given the sergeant who had smuggled us into the city. I stared at it, confused, until my brother chuckled softly.

"He won't need it anymore," Rasha said. "The scoundrel betrayed us. And in wartime, betrayal has only one end."

Then, with a kind smile, he invited us to dine with him. The meal was pleasant enough, and afterward, he sent the maid to show Courtney the small, well-kept garden of the villa. Once we were alone, the mask slipped. His expression shifted; his eyes softened, his shoulders sagged. The commanding figure I had seen the night before seemed to vanish, and before me was simply a weary Khajiit, heavy with burdens.

He reached for my hand, his voice low, almost pleading.

"I need your help, Elsie. The Duchess's court is like a nest of serpents, and this city..." — he exhaled — "it's no safer for me than for you. You are the only one I can truly trust."

I asked about Cicero. Rasha frowned.

"Cicero is loyal, in his way. But he doesn't understand. Or perhaps he refuses to. Too zealous... and perhaps a little envious."

Then he told me. Patiently, with carefully chosen words, he spoke of the plan he and the Duchess had forged — to bring back the Morag Tong. To resurrect, here in Cheydinhal, the ancient order that had once nearly destroyed the Dark Brotherhood itself.

I felt the blood drain from my face.

"But... they are the enemy, Rasha! Or they were, once. Why in Oblivion would you want to bring them back now?"

Rasha's gaze darkened, as if the weight of his confession pressed heavier than he had foreseen. He drew a long breath, then spoke with renewed determination, his words carrying a mixture of excitement and caution.

"Because, Elsie, they were never our enemies. Not truly. The Brotherhood and the Tong... we were born from the same roots. The Tong came first, the true disciples, and we strayed, turned into an imperfect shadow. I'm sure we lost something essential on our different path. You see, in their ways lies a strength we've forgotten, a purity we've abandoned. The Duchess can see this, and she supports me. Together, we will raise the Morag Tong from the ashes — and in doing so, heal our Brotherhood. They will be reunited at last and forever this time."

I shook my head, still struggling to understand. His words struck me like a heresy in silk robes, beautiful and dangerous. My soul screamed against it, but still, the certainty in his eyes shook me.

"You can't mean this, Rasha. Bring them back? The very order that betrayed us, that helped bring about the fall of our First Sanctuary?"

Rasha rose, his gaze unwavering. He walked over to me slowly, his massive frame seeming to crowd the vast chamber itself, and his eyes locked on mine, unblinking.

"Yes. Betrayal cut us once, but those hands are only forgotten dust now. The Tong I speak of is not the one that slew our forebears. It will be ours, rebuilt, reforged, stronger than ever. The old hatreds? Let them rot with the bones of our foolish ancestors."

The fire crackled in the hearth, but I shivered as though the room had turned to ice.

"You're not just playing with bones and ancient grudges," I whispered. "You're prying open a grave our Lady herself sealed. You're unmaking what our Mother buried centuries ago. Can't you see what you're doing?"

My brother's voice softened, the intensity dimming into a quiet plea.

"Our Mother... She is silent now, Elsie. Perhaps She waits for us to act, to prove our worth with boldness — with faith in what we can build, not in what was lost. I believe in this future. Bigger than us, bigger than the Brotherhood. If we let it slip, we'll be nothing but shadows that fade. But with the Duchess's help... we can live in the open, without fear. We can have a place in this world again."

He was so confident, and his certainty was disarming! For a heartbeat, my doubts wavered, drowned in the calm, steady rhythm of his voice. He believed — not in gods, not in Daedra — but in himself, in his vision, and that was hard to ignore. His conviction made my faith falter.

"I don't know, Rasha..." I murmured, torn between dread and longing.

Before I could say more, he gathered me into his strong arms and kissed me. The act silenced every protest on my lips.

"Patience and trust, Elsie," he whispered, raw and urgent. "Please — I need you. I need you now more than ever."

The warmth of his embrace, the storm in his eyes, the naked plea in his voice... all pressed upon me until my faith, even my instincts, fierce and feral, shrank before the one truth I could never deny: my love for him.

"I'll trust you," I whispered, trembling. "My love..."

Rasha smiled then, not tenderly but with the gleam of a man whose resolve had only hardened.

 "Good. You won't regret this."

He then strapped on his sword and led me, armed escort and carriage included, as usual, to what had once been, for centuries, the sacred Sanctuary of our Brotherhood in Cheydinhal—now, in his vision, destined to be the cradle of the Morag Tong's return.

The mansion still bore the grandeur of another age, but it was worn, and its courtyard strangled by weeds and overgrown bushes. A few workers busied themselves with repairs, hammers echoing dully while others scraped moss from weathered stones and hauled away tangles of dead vines. But beneath, in the basement, we reached the heart of it: the place where generations of our kin had whispered oaths in the dark—where Lucien Lachance had once walked as a boy, then youngster, dreaming and learning, always searching and yearning for the divine essence of Mephala. Who, in turn, watched him with love and care, eventually revealing Herself to Her most faithful servant. The whole Sanctuary still remembered Ser Lachance and wept for him! I knew that, and wondered how Rasha could fail to feel it? The air itself still held traces of his sanctity and devotion... Yet my brother was deaf and blind to many other unsettling signs and whispers.

Rasha just locked the door behind us, then, raising the torch above his head, led me to a small chamber cut into the stone. It was little more than a vast niche, almost cylindrical, its walls gleaming faintly in the dim light. And there, upright, waiting, stood Her sarcophagus. The one I saw for the first and last time in the Ayleidic temple underneath Alisanne's mansion.

Then, suddenly, I felt Her overwhelming presence. Nothing stirred, no light shifted, no sound broke the silence—yet I felt It. The air pressed heavily upon me, strange and foreign. A sweetness, like jasmine scent or incense smoke, brushed past my senses, though no censer burned. And with it, a deep wave of guilt surged through me.

I faltered, swallowing hard. My hand trembled, aching to reach out, to touch the bronze, to kneel and beg forgiveness. Because I knew. As surely as I knew my own heartbeat, I knew: this was not a ruin. Nor a tomb. This was Her house.

And She was watching us both.

Not with tenderness. Not with grace.
But with wrath, with impatience.
A though warning. For me alone.

I glanced at Rasha, but he went on calmly, blind to it all.

I drew a sharp breath, pushed aside Her suffocating will, and stepped closer to the sarcophagus. My fingers grazed its surface as I whispered, almost defiantly: "The Godfather spoke to me about the day you left Bravil with Her."

"The Godfather?" Rasha chuckled, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Ah, you mean the ever-resourceful Vito, who always demanded a steep price for his services. But I must admit, it was always worth it. How did you meet him, Elsie?"

"Life brought me to him," I murmured, my voice thick with memories. "But now he's dead, like many of my friends from Bravil."

"Interesting... How did it happen?" Rasha's curiosity piqued, his tone shifting.

"It's a long story," I sighed, "But tell me, Rasha—when you fled Bravil, did you ever think of me?" I fixed him with a steady gaze.

Rasha placed the torch into a niche in the wall and gently took my shoulders in his hands. His voice softened, a tinge of regret in his eyes. "No, Elsie. Not at all. That day, a series of dark events unfolded, and I confess that, as I remember it now, I had completely forgotten about your existence. Like, though you hadn't existed at all... It's hard to believe, I know, but it's the truth."

I let out a small, bitter laugh. "Yes, I may believe you, Rasha. It was indeed a strange, dangerous day..." I whispered, memories swirling around me.

"We'll talk about it more later, Elsie," he said, his voice firming up. "But right now, I want to show you something important." He pressed a hidden spot on the wall behind the sarcophagus, and a door slowly creaked open, revealing the darkness beyond.

Behind it was a narrow, damp corridor. We stepped inside and walked a while, the air growing heavier with each step. At the end of the tunnel, Rasha operated a hidden lever in the wall, and with a low groan, a gate swung open, revealing a deep, narrow valley. We emerged into the cool air, surrounded by thick, tall bushes that seemed to swallow up the sound of our footsteps; behind us, the ivy-covered walls of Cheydinhal loomed in the distance, very tall and menacing.

"The ancient Counts of Cheydinhal built this tunnel and hideout," Rasha said, his voice low, almost reverent. "Before it became a Sanctuary for our Brotherhood, this was the last haven of the Morag Tong."

That was already too much for me. "So... you claim the Dunmer brought the Tong from Vvardenfell?" I snapped. "But their order was disbanded, nearly forgotten, long before they came here! Brother, I want to believe you. I want to help. But don't speak nonsense!"

He stood silent, and I, spurred on by our Lady's poisonous whisper, pressed further: "So this is your wish," I said quietly, "To build something new... upon what we've just lost."

"Not upon, Elsie," Rasha answered, eyes fixed on the ruins in the valley. "Within."

I shivered again. "But this place... it's sacred. It's Hers."

He turned, his jaw tight. "She is gone, Elsie. You know it. Her whispers have stopped. The Listener hears nothing but echoes."

Elena's last words stabbed through my mind: 'There is no Listener in this world anymore!'

"What Listener? You speak like a heretic," I hissed. "And you want to drag me into that madness?"

He stepped closer, hurt flickering in his eyes. "No. I want you with me. There's a difference."

I pulled away. "And when you bring the Tong back? What then? You think you can tame them? You think the Duchess will let you hold the reins?"

"She trusts me," he said quickly.

"She uses you," I snapped. "She'll use your blasphemous Tong too—until you're too dangerous. And then you'll vanish, like all her enemies."

He didn't answer. Silence spread, thick as the weald around us.

"You forgot about me once, Rasha," I whispered, trembling. "Don't pretend you won't do it again."

His face darkened. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" I turned back toward the tunnel entrance, ivy brushing my shoulders like warning fingers. "I came here because I love you, Rasha. Because I believe in you. But I won't follow you blindly. Not if you commit sacrilege."

He didn't follow me. Not at first. I heard only the wind and the groan of ancient branches.

Then, at last, his voice came—low, raw, defeated.

"Then I'll walk that path alone... if I must."

I glanced at him, torn between love and what I thought was my duty, pondering his words. "Does the Duchess know about this tunnel?" I asked, frowning slightly.

"No," he replied. "I don't believe she does. During her grandfather's time, another escape corridor was built—one that leads straight into the palace basement."

"And how do you know of it?" I asked, eyes narrowing, and I reached out, trying to probe his psyche, to peel back the truth beneath his words. For a heartbeat, I felt the frail bridge form—my spirit gliding toward his, nearly slipping into the stream of his thoughts.

But Rasha felt it somehow. He averted his gaze and smiled coldly.

"Ah... don't you try your tricks on me, Elsie," he whispered, his voice trembling with restrained anger. "That would wound me deeply and upset me beyond measure! I'm not a fool or a plaything for you, little sister. I intend to trust you fully—but only if you renounce these dirty games." His voice dropped lower, each word edged like steel: "So I would appreciate it if you never try to pry into my thoughts again."

A pang of guilt stung me, tangled with frustration. For a moment, I wondered if I had crossed a line. I lowered my gaze to the ground, but the thought lingered: 'those who love each other shouldn't have secrets or hidden agendas'. Yet, he was my big brother, and I had always been obedient to his anger and will.

"You know I'd never do that to you, Rasha," I whispered. But strangely for a woman like me, the lie felt bitter in my mouth.

His gaze softened, though shadows lingered in his eyes. "Good. Keep it that way," he said, his tone gentler now, but still tinged with anger. Then, after a pause, he added almost casually: "Alisanne revealed the secrets of this Sanctuary to me," he continued, his voice calm and resolute. "You see, our esteemed Listener trusted me and sent me to Cheydinhal with a mission. She ordered me to keep our Brotherhood alive no matter the cost—and that's what I'm doing now. With or without your permission..."

A grin flickered across his lips, but faltered almost at once. His voice dropped again, this time deadly quiet. "Alisanne also told me I should kill you, Elsie, should we ever meet. But she was... a very ill woman by then. So, you see, you're still alive."

He paused, letting the words sink like poison. The grin returned, sharp and mocking. "And instead of your grave, I offer you the high and respectable position of my lieutenant. Provided, of course..."—his eyes gleamed—"that you stop acting like a guileful little witch with me."

A tidal wave of thoughts and emotions crashed through me as I listened to his words, especially the last ones.

So, Rasha had lied when he claimed he'd forgotten me, that day he fled Bravil with our Mother!
And Alisanne, my beloved mother and revered Listener, was a coward in the end! She hadn't even found the nerve to plunge the dagger into my chest herself!

I was filled with astonishment, fury, fear, and disgust all at once. I wanted to leap at my brother and rip his eyes out with my claws. I wanted to scream, to weep, to flee somewhere far away and bury myself in the earth's deepest burrows.

But I did none of these. I just nodded slowly and asked, „And this Sanctuary's Speaker? Where is he? May I speak with him?"

„But you're speaking with him right now, Elsie!" Rasha laughed, a playful edge to his voice. "And, to spare you more questions, let me tell you this: aside from Cicero, the Cheydinhal Sanctuary holds two other Brothers, currently lodged in my villa, guarding my mansion. You'll meet them soon enough, but I'll warn you—they're not exactly the sharpest tools in the shed. Just your typical cutthroats. Anyway, let's return now. There will be time for questions later."

We retraced our steps through the tunnel. As we walked, Rasha showed me the hidden triggers that set its mechanisms into motion. At one point, we passed a chilling cell, its purpose unspoken yet all too clear, so I chose, quickly, not to ask.

II

We finally arrived at Rasha's villa, where we parted ways. I went to fetch my friend, and together we returned to our hostel, where we would remain until the repairs to the Sanctuary were completed. Once the work was finished, the ancient and sacred haven would become my home for the rest of our time in Cheydinhal.

I met Nephatah Indarys during an official reception. Rasha introduced me simply, saying, "My sister, Elsie," and the Duchess offered a polite, official smile—one that, for all its grace, never touched her eyes. In time, I came to realize that her eyes never smiled. Perhaps they never could. She was, in her own way, a remarkable woman: formidable, driven by an unyielding will, and possessed of a quiet authority that made her stand apart from everyone else.

As for me, I was still young and naïve, inexperienced in dealing with nobles or their privileged circles—that special kind of servants who believed they were above the common folk. Throughout our early encounters, the Duchess remained an enigma to me. I could never anticipate her wishes, nor divine her true motivations. She always seemed one step ahead, her intentions veiled beneath layers of calculated indifference. After some time, I came to believe that her actions—both public and secret—were guided by familiar forces: greed, ambition, and envy. Simple, perhaps. But far-reaching in their consequences!

But as I reflect now, I realize how mistaken I was. My understanding of her had been undoubtedly naïve—almost childish. That remarkable, cunning woman still rules her small kingdom to this day, as I write these very words, and her power is built on nothing but the relentless pursuit of her own interests and wishes. Allegiances mean little to her—they are for sale, just like the lives of her subjects. Nephatah is always open to negotiation, with anyone, everyone, and she is willing to part with anything she possesses, so long as the price is right: provisions, promises, her own integrity—should she even have any left—, the small but highly trained army of the Duchy of Niben, and her loyalty, if it suits her. Nothing is off the table.

Her sole obsession is power. And her ambition is, in its way, deceptively provincial. It's not that she lacks the means—or the desire—to reach beyond her duchy's narrow borders. On the contrary, that hunger lives deep within her, coiled and patient, like a predator watching patiently from the tall grass. Yet Nephatah knows: any thought of expansion would draw the gaze of her stronger neighbors, and they would tear her realm apart.

She still restrains herself—not from modesty but sheer calculation. The Duchess is far too shrewd to take such gambles now, and she only consolidates, tightening her grip on what is already hers. Oh, she rules her corner of the world with deliberate grace, from behind the scenes, always watching, always pulling strings.

Nephatah is a true sovereign—a she-wolf in silk, cunning and feral beneath her finery. Her reign is one of quiet dominion, veiled threats, and whispered promises. No one is truly safe from her reach. I admire her. Truly.

Anyway, apart from that, at the proper time, Nephatah took advantage of the chaos caused by the Empire's collapse and, with cold indifference toward the trust the Emperor had placed in her, instead of supporting her liege, she began carving out a kingdom of her own, one built on hoarded wealth and secret alliances. And when the war's outcome became evident to those with eyes to see, Nephatah dispatched peace emissaries to the Elven High Command in Cyrodiil, cutting off the flow of taxes and supplies bound for the Empire. The elves welcomed her proposals, and in return, their armies bypassed her lands entirely. From that moment on, things grew... simpler. While the Dominion's marauding troops ravaged the loyal Imperial territories, the Duchess's lands flourished, untouched by war, and her goods became the subject of a very lucrative trade with the invading army.

Although the Duchess's cunning brought peace into her realm, not all the nobles in the duchy—or the influential figures in Cheydinhal—were so easily swayed. Some openly opposed Nephatah's politics; certain barons refused to recognize her authority and even organized armed bands that harassed the Dominion's rear guard and supply convoys. These internal conflicts within the duchy put tremendous pressure on Nephatah's relations with the Dominion's High Command, who urged her to act decisively and solve the matter swiftly.

Perhaps now you begin to understand the role Nephatah envisioned for Rasha and the reestablished Morag Tong. This should come as no surprise: the Tong has long served as a tool for resolving political tensions among the great houses of Morrowind. Where politics and crime intertwine—and nearly always, crime overlaps politics— it was only natural for the Dunmer elite to turn to an organization that worshiped Mephala—an ancient and wise guild whose cunning and bitterness were deeply poured in its Creed and Charter. At its height, the Morag Tong was a formidable force, shaped by the endless intrigues of a culture that prized subtlety above all. And the Duchess Indoryl is a true Dunmer at heart; although she was raised in Cyrodiil and never saw Vvardenfell, Nephatah thinks and feels exactly as her ancestors did. So, she turned her greedy eyes toward Mephala, thinking perhaps that she could use that long-forgotten Guild for her own benefit.

Yet Nephatah, for all her cunning, failed to see one simple truth: the Tong was never a weapon to be wielded by mortals. It was, and always will be, Mephala's faithful blade. No hand but Hers may guide it—unless She allows it.

Moreover, Mephala is not a logical patron. She cares nothing for commerce, nor for the subtle games of mortal politics. In all Her divine ambiguity, She grew restless—or perhaps She simply wished to renew the Vows, the Creed... and Her pawns as well. Thus, the Queen of Oblivion turned against Her own children. They broke their oaths, betrayed and butchered one another, until suspicion consumed them all. And so, by Her will, the once-mighty Tong was buried in silence and blood.

Still, for centuries, the exquisite mechanism of the Morag Tong worked well. Disagreements between political or commercial rivals were solved with civil precision and discretion, avoiding bloodbaths and open warfare. In my opinion, this method is far preferable to the brutal wars that often ravage the lands of those who disagree on a political level. It is far less destructive to eliminate a baron and his heirs than to raise armies and besiege his fortress. And, of course, it is considerably cheaper, with far fewer casualties.

But of course, such an organization does not exist—nor operate—without consequences. It breeds corruption. It breeds ambition. And it breeds revenge. Those who rise through its ranks inevitably seek to twist its power to serve their own ends, and soon enough, the line between loyalty and treachery begins to blur. What starts as a tool of control can become the very hand that seizes the throne. A secret army, elusive and highly trained, may begin as the enforcer of a ruler's will—but it can just as easily unseat him, replacing him with a puppet. Or worse: with its own Grand Master.

Therefore, a wise ruler must permanently keep a vigilant eye on the Grand Master and his inner circle. He must have his own agents—spies within spies—and even they must be shifted, removed, replaced before their loyalties begin to drift. But the Grand Master is no fool. He always weaves his own network of informants, countermeasures, and silent blades to thwart the ruler's gaze. And so, the cycle sustains itself. A dance of shadows, a game where trust is an illusion and power is the only constant.

In the end, such collaborations are destined to fail. Sooner or later, the balance shifts. The only exception is the rare case where the ruler and the Grand Master are truly one, bound not just by mutual interest, but by something far deeper—an understanding so absolute that neither fears betrayal. Only then, within that rigid but secure construct of their own making, can such a system endure for a lifetime.

In any case, I understood nothing of these subtle and dangerous truths during my time in Cheydinhal as the Grand Master's sister... and his lover. All I knew—clear as a blade at my throat—was that we were making a terrible mistake, and there could be no good end to it. But I had no choice; just like our mother, Shaira, before me, I could never refuse Rasha. His smile, pleading eyes, or even just the quiet command in his voice—it was enough to sway me.

And so, hand in hand, we followed the path that led him to ruin. As for me... I became what I am now: a restless, sorrowful creature, forever searching for her lost loved ones in places where they no longer exist.

Back then, following my total surrender to Rasha's will, we began to build a hybrid and utterly incomplete organization. Cicero and the other two members of the Brotherhood, Garnag and Pontius, came to live with me and Courtney in the Sanctuary building, and soon after, Rasha sent us a handful of recruits who needed to be trained—physically, mentally, and, of course, spiritually.

That was when my brother asked me to initiate the secret cult of Mephala in the basement of our dwelling. I stared at him, astonished, and told the truth:  not only had I never heard of any secret cult of Hers, but I hadn't even been initiated into the official one as a priestess. He didn't want to believe me, simply refusing to understand that Alisanne venerated Sithis and preached only in His name.

From my perspective, Rasha was deeply confused about this matter. He insisted Alisanne had always practiced a secret form of Mephala worship, both in her residence in Bravil and at our Mother's Mausoleum. He even spoke about Alisanne's lion. A lion! How I shuddered when I heard that! In my mother's mansion, there had only ever been a single guardian animal—a leopard, graceful and deadly...

But I truly began to question things when Rasha called our mother Shiara. Shiara! And yet I knew with unshakable certainty that her name had always been Shaira!

Then came more strange claims. He spoke of my many fulfilled contracts, calling me a seasoned operator of the Brotherhood—except I had no memory of such deeds, none beyond the one killing I had committed to repay our debt to Ser Gregorius Clegius. And still more: Rasha recalled shared memories from our childhood... though I had joined his family at a time when he was no longer a child.

Rasha often saw the disbelief and astonishment in my eyes and always tried to convince me, to make me remember: "But Elsie, we've always known it this way, haven't we?"; his voice was pleading, but there was something desperate in it... Almost as though he, too, was searching for answers... but in the wrong places. I often believed that the man before me was not the brother I remembered; yet, there were so many moments, so many details that did feel familiar, all saying that Rasha was still the same man I had once known... just altered a bit by life, and something else I couldn't yet name.

I still don't have answers to this strange matter—not even now. I keep thinking of that day in Bravil... the day when my mother, Alisanne, and I bled together on the blade of the Lucky Dagger, and the world trembled—when even Mephala Herself seemed to slip, to falter in Her divine judgment. Perhaps that was the moment everything else fractured. Perchance it was then that Rasha and I became... something else. Changed. Transfigured. And now we were caught in this twisted reality, where memory no longer aligned and truth was as elusive as a whisper in the dark.

In any case, my inability to initiate the secret cult of Mephala dealt a heavy blow to Rasha and his feelings toward me. From that moment on, I felt something had changed between us and sensed that a cold barrier, subtle yet undeniable, began to rise, spoiling our relationship that had once been so simple, so profound.

Though in terms of training the recruits, nothing truly changed. The physical conditioning and the mental disciplines—they all continued as planned. Once their instruction was complete, the novices were sent to meditate for a few days in the Temple of Mephala. Afterward, I would conduct the initiation ritual beside the Mother's sarcophagus in the basement of our dwelling; yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that none of them were anything more than ordinary cutthroats in the end because a few prayers and rites couldn't transform a killer into a true faithful of the Queen—not without something deeper, something more meaningful. Not without a bit of faith... And none of them were believers; they were highly trained assassins, yes—but without a creed, without a soul!

Still, both the training and ritual continued by Rasha's command, and through my own quiet yet active compliance. But the doubt remained, gnawing at me from within. Was I truly doing what was right? Or had we already lost something too sacred to ever reclaim?

Around this time, and mostly out of boredom, Courtney began to join the recruits during their weapons training. To my surprise—and hers—though she had never held such a weapon before, it quickly became clear that she was a natural with the bow. Not just competent... a master; it was as if the curved piece of wood had been waiting for her all along, a forgotten limb of her own body rediscovered. She handled any bow with instinct, precision, and an almost eerie grace, but especially the short one, that subtle, agile weapon often wielded by children and young scouts in Valenwood.

Cicero proved to be a perfect mentor for our new collaborators and an unexpectedly delightful companion for me and Courtney. We often spent our free evenings wandering through the beautiful, though always slightly chilly, parks of Cheydinhal. Ah, Courtney and I would always long for the tropical warmth of Bravil! Or we'd retreat into one of the quiet, spotless taverns scattered across this extraordinary city—so clean, so orderly, so... fair.

I must admit that Courtney and I often longed for the bustling life of Her City, and yet the discreet, soothing charm of Cheydinhal's peaceful life grew on us quickly. At least it did for me, because Courtney was born for battle. And for arguments ending in scandals, I might add! But our life in Cheydinhal flowed peacefully and without problems for a while, and I remember now with melancholy those days when we were still together and so happy, even if dark clouds had already begun to gather beyond the edges of our sight.

Eventually, the time came for our work to begin. I couldn't and didn't want to understand how our Brotherhood could function without a Listener, and Elena's words, spoken in the Great Temple from Bravil, always rang in my mind with painful clarity:

"You should know that the Brotherhood no longer exists; Our Lady has dissolved the old oaths, and there is no Listener in this world anymore," Elena said back then, on that unforgettable day, with a determined voice and a certainty that left no room for doubt. Ah, right now, when I write down these very words, her voice still echoes in my memory, cold and loud, as though she had spoken not just to me and Pyrokar but to the future centuries themselves!

Yet to my brother's obvious relief, it was Cicero—of all people—who brought us that parchment marked with the symbol of the Black Hand and on which, among other things, was written: "In times when Our Lady does not wish to speak to us, we must hear the pleas of the desperate and vengeful. And the people must know that their prayers to Our Lady do not go unanswered." I must say that I had suspicions about the authenticity of that document because everything there flagrantly contravened our doctrine. And the words I quoted earlier are a blasphemy because it is not within our power to decide which of the prayers addressed to Our Lady are worthy of receiving an answer! But I will never know the truth because poor Cicero's mind is lost now, and although I can easily probe into everyone else's minds, his is forever closed to me! Or, who knows, perhaps one day Mephala will decide that we are unworthy, like our predecessors, and will open the doors of darkness again; this time for me and him!

Back then, I didn't express my doubts because I didn't want Rasha to believe that I opposed his dream, and the next day, early in the morning, when the dawn had not even kissed the sky, we were both received in audience by the Duchess. My brother told her we were ready to begin the activities of the Morag Tong, and then I shuddered again, knowing that what we were doing was forbidden and blasphemous, and I begged Nocturnal to advise me. But the Daedra only answered with giggles, a cascade of mocking whispers, laughter so delicate and cruel that it felt both insane and obscene, and the Duchess delightedly accepted my brother's request for the organization's approval. She appointed Rasha as the Grand Master of the Morag Tong and gave him a ducal patent in this regard; also, she handed me a formal decree lifting my death sentence, valid throughout her duchy.

And there I was, drowning in despair at Rasha's disregard for the sacred precepts of our ancient order, yet I could barely suppress my laughter when I saw the solemn expression with which Nephatah bestowed upon him the title of Grand Master. As if she—Nephatah Indoryl, a mere mortal, descendant of those cursed by Azura—could ever impersonate the most cunning and depraved of all Daedric Princes!

I burst out laughing only after leaving the Duchess's chamber, the absurdity of it all breaking through my despair, and Rasha stopped and looked at me in amazement. I then turned to him and, standing up on my tiptoes as much as I could, I hugged him with love. Still surprised, Rasha picked me up in his strong arms and kissed me for a long time. And then, looking straight into my eyes, he asked me why I'm so happy...

"Oh, my love," I whispered through my smile and tears, "let us live our lives the best we can, for as long as we still have each other. For nothing else is promised to us."

Chapter Text

Our first target – and the first contract to come from our so-called Morag Tong– was a political one. The man was the wealthiest furrier in the region and the head of the woolen guild, in a land known for its vast sheep flocks and rich forests teeming with precious fur-bearing game. A staunch supporter of the Empire, he was vocal and influential in the city, holding a significant position within Cheydinhal's administration.

Rasha executed the contract himself, based on the target observation reports compiled by Cicero and me. It was nothing spectacular, not worthy of being remembered in the immortal chronicles of the Brotherhood—just an assassination, carried out with cold precision and professionalism.

After completing the mission, my brother entered the ritual chamber, which we had set up beside Mother's sarcophagus; in the presence of Cicero and me, he dedicated this first sacrifice to our Lady. Garnag and Pontius, the other two long-standing members of the Brotherhood, were also present that night in the Sanctuary.

At the end of the small ceremony, we all went through the sacred formalities required to establish the Brotherhood's ruling structure, the Black Hand, as it has always been known. All five of us became part of this conclave, and our first decision was to appoint a Keeper, a sacred guardian for our Mother.

Everyone hoped this would create a path to communicate with our Lady, and Cicero claimed that this had been done in similar situations in the past. He was, indeed, an authority on these matters—at least to me; I trusted Cicero, for as far as I knew him, he was well-versed in the ancient traditions and a true follower of the Brotherhood. Cicero was far more spiritual than Rasha, and he genuinely aspired for the Dark Brotherhood to fulfill its intended purpose: carrying out the orders given by a Listener in the name of our Mother. For my brother, none of this seemed to matter much, though I suspect that, at least in the beginning, he would have been relieved to take orders from Alisanne or at least to receive her advice.

Given the circumstances, we chose Cicero to take on the role of Keeper. To our surprise, he was both proud and delighted, declaring that it was the greatest honor he had ever received in his life.

Thus, Cicero, along with Garnag and Pontius, moved into the Sanctuary's underground sleeping quarters. Cicero's responsibility was to maintain daily contact with Mother's sarcophagus, while the others would assist as needed. All three of them continued to execute Morag Tong's contracts during this period, although Cicero was only called upon for very special assignments.

In this way, the Sanctuary in Cheydinhal began to function just like any other from the past, or so Rasha, who had once been active in the Brotherhood Sanctuary in Leyawiin, reassured me. I carried out the few contracts entrusted to me by my brother—simply, efficiently, without hesitation or remorse. I should add that each time, I received the appropriate bonus for completing the mission in secret, without witnesses or complications.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about these contracts; maybe only the fact that my targets were mostly prominent figures in the duchy's politics or administration—well-placed individuals who, after a short time, began to take extra precautions: hiring bodyguards and fortifying their homes. However, to me, all these measures meant little; I never considered that the difficulty of the contracts had increased over time.

Some of my brothers were not as fortunate as I was. I remember with sorrow the case of a young Breton girl—pretty and shy—who was brutally killed by an angry mob. They chased her through the city's streets after she failed her mission...

At one point, Rasha began distributing rolled parchments to certain members of the Morag Tong. These documents, co-signed by Rasha—the Grand Master of our Order—and the High Priest of Mephala in Cheydinhal, bore a solemn title rendered in ornate script: Honorable Writ of Execution. In practice, it was a death sentence issued in the name of Mephala, legitimized both by secular authority within the duchy and the highest religious office of Her faith.

According to the ancient Charter of Morag Tong, such documents should only have been issued after the Grand Master reviewed petitions from the citizens of the realm. But, as I had suspected from the start, here in the Duchy of Nibenay Basin, the Writs were issued at the direct command of the Duchess. That was a blasphemy and a sin; it was also a deviation from the ancient Morag Tong Charter and a stark departure from both the sacred practices of our forebears and the very tenets of the Dark Brotherhood itself, which we all had sworn to uphold in the name of our Lady.

I disliked those Writs from the very beginning, from the first day I saw one and heard about their use. Rasha tried to explain that they were useful and made our activities safer. He quoted from the Morag Tong Charter; honestly, I don't believe he even owned a genuine copy of this rare, nearly impossible-to-obtain tome. But according to Rasha's version, the assassin was supposed to present the Writ publicly at the crime scene after carrying out the sentence. Under these circumstances, the "honorable murderer" was not to be arrested by the authorities or attacked by any witnesses. I use terms like "murderer" and "crime" because, deep down, I firmly believe that such acts are ordinary crimes, whether or not they are accompanied by an "honorable" piece of parchment.

Anyway, regardless of any edict of the Morag Tong Charter, all these were very bad and twisted; the Dark Brotherhood's operations are not about safety or bound by the mortals' laws. Moreover, our Creed says nothing about writings; it speaks only of total obedience to Our Lady's thoughts and desires, and, in particular, of the absolute secrecy that must surround both the deed and its executor—secrecy, not declarations of public approval or legal sanction from those who hold the secular power in this world.

Ah, a new wave of bad feelings washed over me! In my mind, the thought took shape that we were nothing more than comedians, dancing to the Duchess's tune and mocking our Lady, who is always watching and reflecting upon the deeds of her worshippers. Furthermore, we operated under the banner of the Morag Tong—yet the Tong had long since been dissolved by Mephala Herself, replaced by the Dark Brotherhood.

Aside from these sacred matters, more practical social issues began to emerge. Our operatives began to use the Writs freely, no longer trying to stay hidden. It was enough to follow the target until they were near a sergeant on duty, then strike, fulfilling the contract. Afterward, they would present that absurd piece of parchment to the guards and seek refuge under their protection, shielding themselves from any potential retaliation by witnesses. For me, this procedure felt embarrassing and blasphemous—utterly unlike the methods and rituals that had once defined our Brotherhood.

Soon, these deeds became widely known, and the citizens of Cheydinhal were quick to grasp the meaning behind the sudden surge of crime sweeping through the town. I still can't comprehend how Rasha could have been so naive in this regard... As the Minister of Internal Affairs in a state with harsh laws, he was already feared by most of the city's inhabitants, yet these new measures made him the most despised figure in Cheydinhal. True, among the Dunmer who lived here, some recognized the methods of an organization they had once respected; these swiftly extended their support and sympathy to those bearing an "Honorable Writ of Execution." But, as one might expect, this caused a deep rift between the two large communities, which had, until then, coexisted peacefully.

The limit of my patience was reached when Rasha handed me one such Writ and asked me to leave it by the target's body once the contract was completed. I could no longer keep quiet. I threw the document to the floor and demanded the summoning of the Black Hand for that afternoon. To my surprise, Rasha was gentle and almost understanding. After picking up the document, he put his hands on my shoulders and said, "It will be as you wish, my dear."

The outcome of that meeting was far from what I expected. Garnag, with his stupid Orc grin, and Pontius, with his equally foolish expression, supported adopting Morag Tong's infamous and ridiculous method. Cicero, on the other hand, refrained from expressing his opinion. He seemed distant from us, and that did not surprise me too much; for some time, Cicero had begun to change, becoming closed off and suspicious of others. It all started when he was given that unfortunate contract for a stupid clown who had mocked the Duchess and her politics in every tavern and market of the town. I won't get into that story now, though it's quite interesting and significant for what came next. Those scholars who wish to know more can find the tale in Cicero's journal, which, I understand, has become relatively widely distributed in copies.

In any case, I did not protest or challenge the decision made by the acting Black Hand. Once we were alone, I silently invited Rasha to follow me. I took his hand and led him to our Mother's sarcophagus. There, I drew my dagger and cut my palm. I pressed my bloody hand against the bronze casing that protected Mother's body, and while holding his hand, I spoke with a low voice:

"With all my heart, I want to help you, Rasha. I'd give my life for you if it would make a difference. But I swear, by the holy body of our Lady, that I will commit no more crimes... not like this. Because what we are doing now is ordinary crimes, serving a policy that will, without a doubt, grind us into its machinery once it has achieved its goals. Please forgive me, brother!"

Rasha stared at me with a piercing gaze, then let out a long, resigned sigh. "Let it be as you wish, Elsie. You know that I love you more than anything else, and I wish you no harm. But you're wrong; the Duchess will support our Brotherhood in exchange for the services we render in the name of an organization that, in reality, no longer exists. Take a break for now, and come see me whenever you feel ready." He patted me gently on the head, saluted me, and walked away.

I remained by the sarcophagus, reaching out for some omen, some guidance. I begged our Lady to speak, to show me the path we were meant to follow—but nothing came. I stayed there alone until dawn's first light finally dispelled the night's shadows, and I felt the silence like a reproach. I thought of everything I had done in the last weeks; all in the name of an organization that no longer resembled our ancient, sacred Brotherhood, which once served a divine purpose. Clearly, I was nothing more than a common criminal, no better than any cutthroat roaming the streets!

A few weeks of uneasy quiet followed that day... In the meantime, I took it upon myself to teach Courtney how to read. To my surprise and delight, my friend was an exceptional student! I couldn't help but remember the tremendous struggles I faced in my early days as a learner in my mother Alisanne's mansion during those long-gone years; the connection between the spoken and written word seemed so elusive to me! Though I had mastered the alphabet, it took countless hours of hard work from my tutors to help me grasp this art! But Courtney, after no more than ten days of study, could easily comprehend and spell relatively complicated texts. Not long after, she began asking for more books.

We went together to the Mephala temple searching for writings, but the priests looked at us with surprise, explaining that their tradition was strictly oral. The written word, they said, only served to tarnish the relationship with the divinity. I was taken aback, but since they were Dunmer, I assumed this must have been part of their ancient cultural practices. Now, however, I know I was wrong—terribly wrong—and they were shamefully lying; later, I would uncover treasures of holy texts from their cultural heritage that had been carefully hidden away.

We then tried Arkay's temple, where the priests directed us to an old man who was in charge of the temple's huge library. Ah, there we discovered a cultural treasure—made available to the general public without any obligation or payment! Anyone who wished could peruse any book from the countless shelves filling the library, all in the comfort of a spacious room dotted with dozens of desks. That chamber was almost always empty, and Courtney soon became a frequent visitor, eagerly devouring a vast array of writings, spending her days in the quiet solitude of the study room.

Meanwhile, during this time, I resumed my meditative walks through Cheydinhal, hoping to find some peace and serenity in its once-beautiful parks. But the town had changed; it was no longer the same place we had walked through that distant spring night. People had become uneasy; their once solicitous and serious expressions were replaced with suspicion, and their eyes, once open and welcoming, now flashed with fear or hatred. The news of the Imperial City's fall to the elves struck Cheydinhal's people like a thunderbolt, leaving a deep, oppressive silence in its wake. While the court celebrated the victory of the allies, the town's commoners were gripped by horror and anger, repulsed by the reports of atrocities committed by the Altmeri in the newly conquered city. Multiple versions circulated, but most claimed that the elves had not left many of the inhabitants of the martyred town alive. Some hopeful souls whispered that the Emperor had escaped, and that His Imperial Majesty would rally the northern legions to punish the elves for their crimes...

In those unsettling days, I also had my first experience of walking into a tavern and witnessing, as if on cue, all patrons rise and leave in unison. The innkeeper, excessively polite and overly benevolent, greeted me, but in his eyes and soul, I saw and felt only fear and contempt. In the marketplace, too, it was impossible to escape the whispers... Words like "murderous whore", "elves' servant", or "butcher's bitch" hissed behind my back. I never attempted to confront the perpetrators, nor did I feel hatred toward them; I simply interrupted my walks, retreated to the Sanctuary, and, to feel closer to our Mother, changed my place of rest.

I was now living with my three brothers in the old dormitory in the basement of our mansion, and, naively, I hoped that being so close to her sarcophagus would somehow make our Lady speak to me and show me the right way. It was a grim place to stay, to be honest: Garnag and Pontius spent their days endlessly playing dice and trying to drain the many barrels of beer that filled our shared bedroom. And Cicero... ah, Cicero!—he lived and slept beside Mother's sarcophagus, lying on the cold, unforgiving stone floor. It was a struggle to get any rest in such a narrow, cold space, but our Keeper seemed utterly unbothered by all these discomforts. He devoted himself entirely to tending to the sarcophagus and Mother's body during the day, and spent his nights dreaming beside them. Cicero appeared to have great satisfaction in his duties, but when I tried to approach him, seeking advice or even just a talk, he grew increasingly hostile, as though my words were an insult to our Unholy Mother's will. His eyes would narrow, his hands started to tremble, and, above all, he became more distant with each passing day, as if he had seen or heard something that none of us could.

At first, I thought it was merely devotion—an obsession born from his boundless loyalty to our Lady. But soon, I realized that something was whispering to him in the dark! His lips would move soundlessly when he thought himself alone, and at times, I caught him laughing under his breath, like someone savoring a private joke only he could hear. Whenever I tried to listen, he would stop abruptly, his gaze flickering toward me with veiled suspicion. Yet, he never banished me from his little sanctuary; on the contrary, he insisted that I visit more often, though he refused to answer any of my questions.

Cicero no longer allowed anyone, except me, to enter the small sacred room, whose door he always locked when necessity forced him to leave it. In the beginning, I thought it was only to protect our Mother's body; later, I began to suspect that he was also guarding something else—a secret shared only between him and our unseen Lady. One night, I awoke to find him standing by the sarcophagus, whispering in a voice that was nothing like his own. It was low, slithering, full of venom and delight; oh, it sounded eerily like my own voice in the Grand Temple at Bravil, on that unforgettable day when time and space shattered for a moment! Then, suddenly, his head jerked toward me.

"Did you know, my dear sister," he murmured, his voice honeyed with mockery, "that some things refuse to die even when they are slain? But our Mother sees all, and She does not forget... nor does She forgive!"

I ran; his laughter echoed in the chamber long after I had fled back to my bed, its echo seeping into my bones. That night, for the first time, I realized with absolute certainty—Cicero was no longer just our Keeper. He had become something else—something far more dangerous, maybe a divine and sanctified tool!

In one of those confusing days for me, Pontius returned from his wanderings through the city and brought us the news that the war was finally over. The martial law that had oppressed the citizens for so long was lifted, and the city gates stood wide open to the outside world once more.

Courtney took full advantage of that; in those days when I exiled myself in the Sanctuary, she often went out on her own to hunt—or rather, to wander through the dense forests around Cheydinhal. From what she later told me, I learned that during this time, she had honed her innate ability to communicate with wild animals and often slept in the woods, where Courtney seemed to have found a new, comfortable home for herself. While I sought redemption in the stillness of Mother's sarcophagus, my dear friend found peace in the rustling leaves and the cries of distant animals. I envied her, in a way; she found answers in the weald, where I could only see beasts, damp soil, and ancient trees... Or fallen leaves and glistening streams...

It was during this time that a Dominion embassy was established in the city, and soon after, all kinds of Imperial agents, spies, and hired assassins began to infiltrate the streets and taverns, igniting riots and systematically eliminating the most notorious members of our Morag Tong. One day, an enraged mob stormed the elvish embassy, and it was only a matter of time before the ambassador was dragged from his office and lynched by the furious crowd. But the city guards swiftly intervened, quelling the riot in a brutal bloodbath; in the aftermath, countless arrests were made, and many were sentenced to death or thrown into the city's prison.

I was also told that violent clashes often flared between the two dominant communities that made up the city's population, with the guards invariably siding with the elves, a division that seemed to deepen with every passing day. This, at least, seemed strange and even incomprehensible to me, for Dunmer and Altmeri had never been true friends, nor even sincere allies; they had always been, at best, uneasy neighbors—until now. It seemed the Imperial population had finally reached the breaking point of their forbearance! Or perhaps... this was never truly about the elves and the Imperials; not just about Altmer and Dunmer. In times like these, no one is truly innocent! No, not one! We, those of us who kill for a living, no matter the form or the justification, are all guilty! And as black as sin itself!

Not long after these events, the first assassination attempt on my brother, Rasha, took place. His group was ambushed in broad daylight on a street that had been deliberately blocked just before his passage. My brother narrowly escaped—almost by miracle—as the crowd bustling through the streets took the side of the assassins, who struck with chilling professionalism. But, fortunately, a small detachment of heavy cavalry was nearby, thwarting their meticulously laid plans. None of the assassins could be taken alive, and another bloodbath followed!

Rasha, however, was seriously wounded in the attack. When I found out, I could no longer bear the separation from my brother, a dissociation I had forced upon myself until then. The weight of my guilt and worry became unbearable, and I left the Sanctuary at once, clad head to toe in Morag Tong ceremonial armor, the Lucky Dagger strapped to my side for all to see, and the crossbow in hand. With fierce determination, I carved my way through the hostile mob, parting them like a blade, until I reached my brother's villa.

Relieved, I found the mansion's gates guarded by a platoon of soldiers and a detachment of mounted lancers stationed in the courtyard.

I stormed into his bedroom to find Rasha lying in bed, surrounded by doctors and nurses. I ordered them all to leave, and when the room was finally empty, I threw myself onto his bed, crying and sobbing into his chest. He wrapped his arms around me and, gently stroking my hair, whispered, "It's not that bad, Elsie. Just a few scratches..."

"From now on, I will always be by your side, Rasha! I'll be your shadow, your slave, and I'll protect you from everyone. I'll do anything you ask of me..." I promised, my words choked by tears.

I then ordered the servants to bring an additional bed into Rasha's room and to gather in the courtyard. I called the doctors one by one, carefully observing their responses and movements. I dismissed the ones who seemed unsure and selected two to remain, then sent all the nurses away. After ensuring no one could enter or leave Rasha's room without my permission, I went to the courtyard, where I examined the gathered servants. I kept only the cook, the housemaid, and a groom, then turned my thoughts to Courtney, wondering where she was now. I needed her more than ever...

And, strange as it was, my friend rushed through the gate of Rasha's villa late that evening! Her hair was tangled with leaves and dry herbs, her clothes were crumpled and filthy, but her eyes sparkled with life, and a huge smile lit up her face as she threw herself into my arms. And then, as we sat embraced in the garden, both of us cried like two proper girls should!

We took turns tending to Rasha, always one of us staying awake and watching over him. His condition worsened rapidly, and a terrible fever took hold of his already weakened body, drained by blood loss. Worse still, one day, I caught the cook trying to poison the soup I had ordered to be prepared for him! I couldn't allow this to go on any longer, and I made the desperate decision to move him to our Brotherhood's Sanctuary, convinced it would be the only place where he would be safe.

The doctors protested vehemently, but I disregarded their objections. That very day, I ordered Rasha to be moved to his carriage, which Courtney and I loaded with pillows and covered its windows with wooden boards torn from the villa's interior walls. With a heavy heart, we began the slow journey to the Sanctuary, surrounded by the cavalry detachment stationed at Rasha's villa.

Our journey was fraught with danger; the city's once peaceful streets had transformed into a chaotic, unsafe place. It felt as though I wasn't even in Cheydinhal anymore—the quiet, clean city I had known had become a seething mass of anger and unrest. Crowds of furious citizens roamed the streets, showing open contempt and hatred.

Now, I realize that the Imperial population had many reasons for their anger, but, in my opinion, the Emperor made an unforgivable mistake when he sent his secret service to operate and stir things up in Cheydinhal. To counteract this uninspired move, the Duchess had invited the Dominion's secret police, the so-called Thalmor, to establish a presence here. Its agents were cruel, arrogant, and ruthless; their methods of investigation alienated the already restless populace. Mass arrests were common, and the interrogations were brutal, unlike anything any citizen of the Empire could have imagined. Those who were lucky enough to be released from the Thalmor Prison returned home battered and broken, further fueling the people's hatred for the Duchess and her supporters. Strangely, the Imperial spies and saboteurs, who were once seen as villains, had suddenly become heroes in the eyes of the common folk, who began to protect and assist them. But this only worsened the situation, intensifying the Duchess's repressive measures.

All along our journey, we were met with jeers, insults, and even objects thrown from windows at our carriage and its escort. I feared another ambush, like the one that had nearly claimed my brother's life, and, despite the danger to Rasha's health, I ordered the crew to increase speed. After what felt like an eternity of fear and anxiety, we finally arrived at the Sanctuary and carefully transported Rasha to the brightest room in the building. I breathed a sigh of relief and immediately began organizing the Sanctuary's activities to care for and protect my brother. I ordered all contracts that had not yet started to be postponed and set up a permanent guard by Rasha's bed. I chose Garnag and Pontius as permanent guardians of my ill brother, and they were to answer with their lives for any threat to Rasha's life. The following days passed in uneasy calm, though my brother's condition did not improve.

A few members of our Brotherhood, who had been on missions, returned to the Sanctuary one by one. Having trustworthy people around us gave me a slight sense of relief, but the respite was short-lived. Nephatah summoned me to the palace to report on the situation. She greeted me coldly and immediately voiced her displeasure with the state of peace and order in the capital. She also accused my brother of gross negligence regarding the presence and actions of the Imperial agents in the city; I couldn't defend him. I merely informed her that I was only a member of the organization Rasha led, not involved in the operations of the ministry he headed. I also told her about his deteriorating health, stating that my brother was in critical condition.

Nephatah looked at me with sharp eyes and, after a long silence, told me that from now on, she would take full control of the Ministry of Internal Affairs. She ordered me to coordinate the Morag Tong's activities and fulfill my brother's duties until his recovery.

But she didn't stop there. The Duchess entrusted me with a special task—one she claimed was critical for the peace of her lands. A rogue southern baron, a border warlord who had recently declared his independence from the duchy, had to be eliminated; he was deeply connected to the Dominion, so special precautions would need to be taken.

Chapter Text

The contract concerning Baron Herbert Iovanovic and his eldest son, Darius—the Lord's scion and Na-Baron... I shudder even now at the mere memory!

For one, it wasn't truly a contract in the strict sense, not according to the traditions or doctrine of the Dark Brotherhood. It was a double assassination ordered by Duchess Nephatah Indarys, a mission entrusted to me by the secular power. To make things worse, this task seemed from the beginning like the most difficult task of my life up to that point. Despite my full awareness of my abilities, which I trusted completely, I was still young and painfully inexperienced... especially when it came to surviving outside the cities, in the wild, and its merciless surroundings.

What disturbed me the most, however, was the growing certainty that I was about to commit two politically motivated murders—on the command of a mortal who had arrogated to herself the power to decide over life and death. A terrible premonition gnawed at me even then, whispering that Mephala would disapprove, whether I carried out the killings myself or simply planned and directed them.

There was also something in the Duchess's gaze during our last audience that I couldn't forget... A flicker, a hesitation? No—more like a chill, something hidden behind her perfectly measured words. She dismissed my brother's services too quickly, and it didn't sit right with me. I began to wonder whether she had already grown tired of us—the so-called Morag Tong—and if, perhaps, she had decided that we were no longer of use.

Still, no matter how uneasy I felt, one thing remained certain: my brother's life and position depended on the success of this mission... or so I firmly believed in those restless days.

I returned to the Sanctuary, troubled and filled with ominous forebodings, and I locked myself with Cicero and Pontius to consult and plan the execution of the contract. The Duchess had advised me to seek the support of the Baron's younger son, young Sullius. In her view, he would inherit his father's title should certain obstacles be removed, and he had a direct interest in the mission's success.

Pontius was excited at the prospect of having a potential ally within the targeted family, but Cicero was more cautious. He warned us not to reveal our intentions or identities to the young man and also suggested postponing any planning until we had gathered sufficient information about the baron's residence and family.

Following Cicero's advice, I visited the library of Arkay's Temple and took notes on the essential points. From the Cyrodiil Nobility Yearbook, I learned that the baron hailed from an ancient lineage, an unbroken line of warriors stretching back centuries; their reputation as skilled and fortunate fighters was well-established. The Empire had entrusted this family with the defense and administration of Cyrodiil's southeastern frontier, near the Black Marsh border, and their ancestral home was a wooden fortress located on the banks of the Panther River.

The Illustrated Atlas of Tamriel revealed that the stronghold stood atop a small hill, surrounded by a swampy and densely forested region, with only one road leading to it—a narrow, winding path threading through the marshes, occasionally crossing wooden bridges and platforms built over the waterlogged terrain.

To my growing unease, I also discovered that the baron was half-Orc; his mother, a famous Orcish princess from the north, had married into the family many years ago. Troubled yet intrigued, I delved into studies about the Orcs and their way of life, especially their hidden mountain strongholds. What disturbed me most were the Wise Women of Orc society, particularly because, according to the Yearbook, the baron's mother was still alive. And it was to be expected that she was one of these Wise Women.

This deeply worried me, as I had read that these female shamans were exceptionally skilled in various magical disciplines—Illusion foremost among them. The more I learned, the more unsettled I became. All Orcs revere Malacath, their harsh and unforgiving patron. But the Wise Women... they display a fervor bordering on religious fanaticism! I came across mentions of a secret cult, among them, a hidden doctrine known only to the females and directly linked to Him. Its influence was said to stretch far beyond the mountain strongholds, though few knew of its true purpose.

Armed with this new knowledge, I returned to the Sanctuary that evening, eager to resume the mission planning as soon as possible. Yet I found Cicero waiting for me in the garden, just by the porch. That struck me as odd—he had rarely left his lair since being appointed Keeper, and never without a justified reason. Pale and visibly agitated, his eyes darted about nervously before he approached me. He asked me to follow him to his den—the sarcophagus room. I stopped in my tracks, startled, and looked him in the eye.

Cicero, who once zealously forbade anyone from entering Mother's quarters, now stood before me like an eager puppy, practically begging me to come with him!

"Sister," he said, breathless, his voice more like a whisper, "Come—come with haste. She calleth thee."

"To where?" I demanded, frowning, my hand unconsciously grazing the hilt of my dagger.

He lifted a trembling hand toward the door of the mansion. "To Her chamber. To the sarcophagus room. To Our Lady's tomb. She... our Mother... She would speak with thee."

I stared at him, stunned. "You bid me enter the Black Room? You, who once barred it even to Rasha?"

Cicero's lips curved into something between joy and dread. "Aye! The very same. She calleth for thee, Elsie. For thee alone! And I... I am but Her humble herald!"

His voice dropped to barely more than a breath:

"She hath spoken to me, sister—each night, in dream and silence, She whispers. Not in riddles, nay, but in the true tongue, the old tongue. She is displeased. She is wrathful. And She demandeth that we forsake the false altar upon which we have laid our creed. Rasha... I told him, and he scoffed. He knows not what wakes in the crypt beneath our feet. But I know. I see. And now, She would wish to have thee see also."

His eyes glinted—madness, perhaps... or prophecy. For a moment, in the breathless hush between us, I felt the world shift around me, as if the very stones listened.

I took a deep breath, gently clasped his hands in mine, and looked him straight in the eyes. It was easy—too easy—to read Cicero's mind, so open, so painfully honest. There was no lie there. No hidden motives, no veiled intentions. Only pure, unshaken faith. His love for Our Mother glowed like a pure flame within him, flickering but never wavering, and his devotion burned with the fervor of a true believer.

I released his hands slowly and whispered, "I believe you, Cicero. I'm certain Our Lady speaks to you, but we must proceed cautiously. First, we need to understand the true meaning of her words. Only then should we consider sharing them with the others."

"Thank you... Thank you, from the depths of my heart, my dearest sister," Cicero sighed, his voice trembling on the edge of tears.

He threw his arms around me, clutching me with the desperate gratitude of a soul who had been alone for far too long. And I... I returned the embrace, letting my fingers drift through his hair, holding him longer than perhaps I should have... But it was the kind of embrace one grants to a child caught in the throes of an illness no healer can cure.

Because once again, as I touched his soul, I felt it—that same cold abyss stirring behind his fragile warmth. The Void.

And then, for the second time in my life, I crossed into that realm. Not because I was forced, not truly. I didn't want to go, but curiosity, recklessness, and perhaps even a hidden yearning pulled me forward, drew me beyond the forbidden veil, deep into the Darkness. Or better said—into the space beyond the Darkness, where form and reason fall away, and only She lingers.

On the far side of the plane, bathed in the dim rays of the Black Sun, amidst silvery webs shimmering faintly in the gloom, the Mother appeared first. Worn and withered by time and sorrow, yet overflowing with compassion and boundless love, She spoke to me and wept. I lingered in Her cold embrace, feeling the weight of ages, until from the uncanny mist embroidered with false luminaries emerged Her Highness—the Queen of Oblivion!

Oh, my friends, this avatar of Mephala is truly magnificent! Yet disdainful and merciless toward mortals of all kinds... The Mother held my hands tightly, standing with us in silent sorrow. But the Queen... The Queen cast a cold, unyielding gaze upon me, offering no mercy as She dictated Her will. A shiver ran through me, a mixture of repulsion and awe, but the monarch was resolute—She would not spare me from the ultimate, most profound misery.

The Mother wept still, but the Queen stood grim and unflinching beneath the vast web woven by the Eternal Spider, who, of course, was there as well. The Eternal Spider, ever patient and eternal, would never miss such an opportunity to reunite the Trinity!

At last, my mind returned from that harrowing and perilous journey. Though not as terrified as I had been the first time, I was left overwhelmed by a swirling tempest of emotions too complex to name fully. Yet I will try to outline those most clear: boundless love for the Mother; a deep respect, bordering on fear, for the Queen—the great schemer and sovereign of all that lurks in the dark realms of the Daedric plane; and a mingled disdain and rejection for the supreme Spider, who ensnares us all in its treacherous webs.

And right then, after the three aspects of Mephala had been reunited in my honor, I was struck by a vision so powerful it nearly made me faint. A sharp precognition overwhelmed me, granting a blurred glimpse into the future of the Dark Brotherhood.

In that vision, I saw myself—soulless, yet exalted—seated as High Priestess of Sithis' cult, ruling over both men and mer from an ivory throne. A mad Cicero sat at my feet, purring like a contented cat, whispering fervently to our Unholy Mother.

I trembled with unease, yet a strange excitement thrummed within me, for I beheld the grandeur of my apparition in the Grand Plaza of Bravil, right beside the statue of The Lucky Old Lady.

I also understood that the souls of the three of us would form the matrix from which the new Brotherhood would emerge: mine, that of an accursed murderer and thief; Rasha's, the False Speaker of Cheydinhal and a glorified thug; and Cicero's, the Holy Keeper, madness incarnate and a tool of the divinity.

While still shivering under the weight of this vision, my beloved Mistress, Nocturnal, appeared in a hurry and began to speak. I listened with indifference to Her hurried plea, which tried to convince me that all of this was entirely my fault and that She was in no way involved—these events being more the work of some mere criminals than the reasoning of a superior being like Herself.

I grinned at Her and declared that, besides being a monster, She was above all a cowardly monster. I also told Her not to bother me again until the final act of this sinister play was complete.

Lady Luck did not giggle shamelessly as usual but simply said, "When everything is over, come and rest for a while in your mansion from my realm... Courage, my little dove!"

And then She left lightly, leaving behind only a trace of sadness... No final embrace. No word of solace. No explanation.

Nocturnal, who once enveloped me in Her eternal shadow and protected me, had now given me nothing but a cruel lie followed by a swift departure. Was this all I was to Her? A fleeting memory for Her amusement? A tool carelessly handed over to Her beloved friend Mephala?

I tried then to regain my composure and mental peace. It was difficult—painfully so—for it is no small thing for a mortal to withstand any manifestation of Mephala. And Nocturnal's hollow excuses, as weightless as shadow itself, brought no comfort at all, only anger and sorrow!

Yet Cicero was still there, gazing at me with such hope and love that something in my heart began to soften. I turned my thoughts toward what had to be done. Towards what lay ahead.

"Come, brother," I said gently.

But Cicero stopped, puzzled. "Sister, shouldn't we go to my nook? Our Mother awaits."

"It's not necessary, brother... Our Mother has already spoken to me."

He froze—as if struck by a wasp—and looked at me, disbelieving, almost afraid.

"The Words...?" he asked timidly.

"Ah, yes. The Words..." I gave a bitter laugh. "How could I forget that I must say them?"

I leaned closer and whispered, "Darkness rises when silence dies."

And then I looked into his eyes. Sadly.

Tears welled up in his bright, blue, childlike eyes, spilling down his cheeks as he gripped my hands tightly.

"The Listener... We have a Listener!" he cried, trembling.

"Hush, brother. I am no Listener. I am the mother of a new family, one yet unborn, that shall rise in the future—amid snow and ice, far, far away, on the frozen shores of the Sea of Ghosts."

"Of course... Of course, esteemed L—beloved mother," he whispered, sighing deeply.

We remained there for a while, hand in hand, watching the sun drown in the blood-red west. Then I turned to him and said again, "Come, brother."

We walked together to Rasha's chamber, where Courtney and Garnag stood vigil by his side. I stepped close to the bed, looked down at my wounded brother, and said,

"Goodbye, brother... and get well soon. For me. For the Brotherhood. And for Our Mother.

Rasha moaned softly in his fevered sleep, as if trying to open his eyes, but nothing more happened. I took Courtney aside and entrusted her with overseeing the Sanctuary's affairs, asking her to watch over everyone during my absence. I also insisted that she keep my departure secret for as long as possible. As I have mentioned before, something in Nephatah's behavior deeply unsettled me, and I decided to leave the town unnoticed and unseen. I apologized for the heavy burden I placed upon her shoulders, but though I was troubled by this decision, no other soul around me seemed fit to bear it.

Together with Cicero, I descended into the basement of the old Sanctuary and, under a pretext, woke Pontius and sent him away. There, in the silence of that crypt, before the sarcophagus, I asked Cicero to kneel. Then, solemnly, I spoke the Words of Initiation, thus beginning a cycle destined to last for centuries, far beyond my time in this world.

There was something sacred in that moment, perhaps because Cicero was the first of many, or perchance because he was so deeply moved by the holiness of it all.

Our Mother smiled upon us both. And at the end, I said:

"Rise, First among the Faithful! Our Mother loves you most among all Her children and wishes to keep you by Her side for all eternity. I, Elsie, in the name of our Mother, now dissolve the Black Hand—it shall never rise again! I, Elsie, in the name of our Mother, appoint you Keeper of Our Lady!"

Transfigured, Cicero kissed my hand and said with trembling joy:

"I feel Her within me, my beloved mother... and I know She will never speak to me again. But I am so happy..."

"No, brother," I replied gently. "Our Mother will not speak to you again until you are entirely Hers. You must open your mind to Her and surrender your being completely! You must become the First Sacrifice. Only then will She always be with you, whispering in the silence, waiting in the shadows. You will become Her only vessel in this world."

Cicero smiled and wept all at once. I continued:

"But beware, brother, and be patient. Our Lady will shape you in Her own time. Do not speak of what has happened here—not yet. First, let us resolve the matters of the present. Only after that, together, will we be able to guide our sisters and brothers to the true path of the Brotherhood."

He nodded solemnly, his arms wrapping around me in a warm embrace, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Thank you, mother," he whispered. "I promise to be calm and wise, to understand our Lady's will—and to see it fulfilled."

Thus began our collaboration—supposed secret, silent, and sacred. A conspiracy born not of ambition, but of faith, and it was meant to steer the Brotherhood back to its true purpose.

But for now, I had to return to the world of men. For the Duchess's request still lingered... and it was time to act.

Chapter Text

For my brother's sake, the mission entrusted to me by the Duchess had to be fulfilled. At any price, even if it would cost me the little I had left to give, my life. The odds mattered not, nor did I spare a moment for such a peddler's reckoning; the blood that would flow—mine or theirs—counted for nothing. Oh, human blood was cheap ware in Cyrodiil in those times!

So I prepared for the perilous journey, casting aside all further planning. At dusk, beneath a soft and steady drizzle of spider-silk threads drifting from the ancient poplars above—like the ashes of some unseen funerary pyre—I emerged through the Sanctuary's hidden gate into the narrow valley, now bathed in the fading light of the dying sun.

While slipping past the moss-covered walls of Cheydinhal, I cast a nostalgic glance at the siege gate through which we had first entered the city, then continued to the ducal stables near the town. There, hidden in the bushes, I waited patiently until nightfall, when I crept into one of the barns. A bay horse caught my eye.

I reached into him with my gaze, whispering nonsense with a sweet voice, and the animal shuddered once as though some secret bond had been recalled from another life. Then it bowed its head, yielding to me. In a heartbeat, I was astride him, and it felt as though we were one being.

The startled guards stirred only too late. They rose, blinking, and could do nothing but stare in astonishment as I rode past, the horse's hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones. And then I was gone—racing like a frenzied sprite through the open gate, swallowed by the night.

Behind me, the city closed like a fresh tomb, sealing away all my hopes and fears, and I was a new woman now, a weapon in fact. Ahead lay only the dusty road, the strength of my resolve, and the promise of spilled blood.

The hours passed in a blur as my steed galloped tirelessly along the Blue Road under Secunda's light. By the time dawn set fire to the horizon, the Corbala River was already behind me, so I reined in the lathered horse, letting him fall into a weary trot. Soon, a sparse forest appeared on my left. There I stopped, resting until noon before resuming my journey, always southward, always steady, my mind returning again and again to the mission.

I was sad and worried... My brother's illness deeply concerned me, and the thought that I would soon have to deal with the swamp folk in their own realm unsettled me even more. I was definitely a city girl, and had never laid eyes on a marsh, a true, vast, and dangerous one, like that where fate had chosen to drive me in. The narrow and single path to the Baron's fortress was surely closely watched and thoroughly patrolled; in such lands, every stranger is first a suspect, and soon enough, maybe even seen as an enemy. So, it was to be expected that, even if I managed to slip past the outer sentries and guards, the people living in the hamlet surrounding the fort would question my presence and meet me with distrust. And the stronghold itself? I could hardly imagine a way inside. Heavily guarded, no doubt, and doubly so with the borderlands so scarred by the war.

Above all, the swamp frightened me. Depending on the circumstances, a swamp may prove either a priceless ally or a deadly foe. To strangers, especially to intruders, it is most often the latter: a place that slows the body, sickens the blood, breaks the will, swallows the careless, or delivers them straight into the hands of a waiting patrol.

I tried hard to cast these thoughts aside, repeating to myself: "I shall not think of this now; I'll worry about it later." Again and again I whispered it, until the words became a shield of sorts. And so, bit by bit, my dread softened, and I pressed on—no less determined, though perhaps a little lighter of heart.

After crossing the bridge that arched above the muddy waters of the Silverfish River, I dismounted and unsaddled the horse, removing every sign of ownership. Then, a little ways off from the Yellow Road, I let it go. The steed lowered his head and began grazing lazily on the lush grass along the riverbank, as though it had forgotten me already.

I entered the dense forest, where the first shadows of dusk were starting to settle. I stopped by an old, thick-barked tree—so ancient it seemed a true patriarch of the weald—and changed into the rags I had brought. I left my possessions tucked into one of the deep, moss-filled hollows that creased its mighty trunk.

The path to Fire Moth, the baron's residence, stretched before me — cleared and well-kept, it followed the meanderings of the river, allowing me to move swiftly for most of the night beneath the two moons, Secunda and Masser, which shone high in the vault of the sky, both pale and watchful. A breeze from the east stirred the forest into whispers, and soon, it began to carry the pungent scent of the swamps.

Deep into the swamp now, by the water's edge, I crouched and worked quickly. I smeared mud across my cheeks and brow, darkening the pale skin that would have betrayed me. I rubbed the grime into my clothes until their coarse fabric hung damp and mottled. Then, tying back my hair, I slipped on the wig I had prepared—its strands dusted with fine river sand, giving them a dull, lifeless hue. My reflection in the black water barely resembled me: a stranger's eyes stared back, hollow, spectral, waiting to be tested.

As dawn broke, the swamp mists around me rose like a shadow wall, and I left the road, seeking a safe place to rest among the trees which were unlike those I had passed before—they clearly belonged to a different realm. Their swollen trunks bulged with vegetation, and the twisted limbs painfully clawed upward, toward the sky that always seems impossibly distant in these lands, no matter the season. I ate the last of my provisions, then wrapped myself in my cloak and slept until noon. I resumed my march toward Fire Moth, walking with deliberate caution and dragging one foot as though maimed. Every few steps, I grimaced, letting my face twitch with imagined pain. Ah, the pretense was exhausting, and it wasn't easy to maintain such a performance, but I dared not drop the charade—not when unseen watchers might lurk amid the trees. Soon, I spotted a wooden guard tower and at its top, an archer stood watch, observing the surroundings. Two soldiers lounged below, throwing dice on a rag. Their eyes passed over me once, flat and uninterested, before returning to their game.

I approached directly, lowering my gaze, and in a pitiful tone asked if they had any food.

The younger of the two swore and stooped to grab a stone, but the older caught his hand and motioned me closer. From his satchel, he pulled a chunk of bread and tossed it at me.

I limped forward, mouth twisted, eyes crossed in feigned stupidity. I clutched the bread with a claw-like hand and started to devour it, tearing at it like a half-starved mongrel, gulping without chewing.

Then I collapsed to the dirt at their feet, still chewing noisily, never letting my eyes leave them—hungry, vacant, and just a little too eager, like a beast that might bite the hand that fed it.

The older one bore the look of a seasoned mercenary, one who had survived too many tiresome skirmishes on this dangerous frontier—his face weathered, his weary eyes those of someone who had seen far too much. The younger, however, was plainly a novice. His hands were soft, unscarred, untouched by the calluses that mark years of wielding weapons. And his eyes? Oh, clear and bright, indicating an eager, unblodied yet pup. These like him tend to die like flies when the real stuff begins...

I studied their gear. A heavy club, a short spear, a dagger at each man's side... and, as was customary among the swamp folk, the slender blowpipe slung across their shoulders for poisoned darts. Their weapons gleamed with meticulous care, but the armor was mismatched and worn, pieces scavenged from battlefields or bought from cast-off lots. Only the archer above, perched in the watchtower, bore a mail of any real quality, shiny and well-kept.

While I gnawed on the bread, the older one—the one who had given me alms—asked what I was doing in those parts. I let out a foolish giggle, rolling my eyes, and blurted that I was looking for a husband, that I wanted to be married. The younger burst into cruel laughter, but the veteran merely sighed, his gaze weary, and shook his head.

"War," he muttered. "When will all this end?"

I locked my gaze with his, and for a heartbeat, his soul lay bare before me. Beneath the fatigue, sadness, and a bit of pity for me, I saw a fragment of deep memory: a little girl with short blonde hair, her body broken and bloodied by the roadside; beside her, a boy knelt weeping, his grief as raw as an open wound. I gently comforted his wounded soul and replaced the girl's image with my own; then I shed a few crocodile tears, and without breaking eye contact, I asked if I could join them on their way back to Fire Moth once their guard shift ended, confessing that I feared the beasts lurking in the swamp.

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded and told me to wait a bit further from the tower.

I curled up on the damp ground, feigning sleep while the two mercenaries resumed their game. Dice, of course—soldiers everywhere seem to cling to this pastime. Yet something about them unsettled me: They weren't drinking. No bottles, no beerskins, no coarse laughter to drown out the silence. That alone set them apart from every duty watch I had ever passed, and I thought that perchance the baron's discipline ran deeper than I ever had imagined, since soldiers posted in such a lonely, quiet place, where temptation was at hand and danger seemed remote, would normally have drowned their boredom in ale. These men did not, and that worried me deeply.

Toward evening, a caravan appeared—merchants with their servants and laden pack animals. They were halted, their goods and group checked with meticulous thoroughness, and once their intentions were deemed honest, they were allowed to proceed toward the baron's fortress.

Not long after, from the opposite direction, a column of soldiers marched up the road from the fortress itself. Their armor was dirty, frayed, almost ragged... yet every weapon gleamed as though freshly honed, polished to perfection. At their head strode a tall Argonian sergeant, scales glistening faintly in the fading light, and his sharp eyes sweeping every shadow with methodical precision.

The archer climbed down from the tower, saluted, and delivered his report. In short order, the watch was relieved; three fresh soldiers took their places. As the exchange concluded, the older guard leaned close to the Argonian and murmured something, gesturing toward me. The sergeant's gaze snapped to mine—cold, disdainful, utterly without pity. He studied me for the briefest moment, then nodded.

I was to fall in with the column bound for Fire Moth.

Nearly a hundred soldiers marched in that column—a sight that made my blood run cold. And since I saw none stationed on our return route, I understood at once: they were all scattered throughout the swamp, woven into it like the fibers of a living net, ensuring the narrow, plank-lined road was never unwatched, never unguarded.

I shivered. To escape this realm after completing the double assassination... Ah, that would be far more difficult than I had ever dared to fear! I had prepared myself for the worst—but this was worse than anything I had imagined: A swamp alive with hidden eyes and sharp, steel fangs lurking through it—a fortress surrounded not by walls, but by flesh that breathed and watched!

By the time nightfall came, we reached the village. The soldier who had shown me kindness handed me his bag, which still held some food, and wished me "good health." And then I was alone, very close to my targets, the swamp behind me, full of mercenaries and dangers of all kinds.

It was almost pitch-dark. Only here and there, timid lights flickered behind shuttered windows, while ahead, a glow spilled out onto the muddy alley, mixed with the uproar of harsh voices: the hamlet's tavern.

I went there, pushed open the door, and peeked inside: a large room, choked with heat and smoke thick as stew. In a far corner, a huge clay stove hissed, its scent of roast meat lost beneath the heavier stench of sweat, beer, strong spirits, and other nameless fumes. A hellish, dirty-yellow light wavered over hoarse voices that roared through the gloom — laughter, curses, drunken songs.

The tavern was packed at that hour and a true spectacle in itself; the swamp people are unlike any others, bound by customs that might seem unsettling, even menacing, to outsiders. Here, in this smoky den, no dice were rattling in corners, no laughing girls weaving between the tables. Instead, the patrons drank in silence, their expressions grave, as though every sip of the thick local spirit carried the weight of a ritual. They smoked massive, oddly shaped pipes that exhaled sweet, resinous fumes—an intoxicating haze that dulled the senses and pulled at dreams like unseen, soothing fingers.

Their speech was harsh, guttural, clipped. Many of the words were alien to the common tongue of Cyrodiil—borrowed, I guessed, from Argonian dialects, for several of that scaled race sat among them, nodding at intervals with reptilian indifference. Against the hushed, wary murmurs of the locals, the caravan blazed like fire thrown into water. Their leader was a grizzled Khajiit, his sharp amber eyes cutting through the haze with unsettling clarity. Around him sprawled a mismatched collection of wanderers: weathered men and women of every race, their laughter and coarse jokes swelling above the silence of the locals. Two massive orcs, their skin mapped with intricate tattoos, slapped the tables with their broad hands, booming with laughter.

They drank, they roared, they sang—loud and shameless, songs I knew too well from Bravil's foul docks. Yet the Khajiit leader never joined their revels. He remained still, sober, every flick of his ears betraying attention. His gaze swept the tavern with quiet calculation, watching everything, missing nothing.

I greedily devoured the whole scene from the doorway before staggering toward the clay stove's fire, tripping over stools, boots, and curses tossed my way. I did so clumsily on purpose; I wanted every eye to mark me—the innkeeper's most of all, and that of the old Khajiit.

Once there, I rummaged quite a long time through the soldier's bag, eventually pulling out some large beef bones and tossing them directly into the flames, as if intending to roast them.

As you might imagine, the room, already thick with the smoke of cooking meat and pungent pipe weed, was quickly flooded with the acrid stench of scorched marrow and charred bone. The patrons started to cough and curse, and it didn't take long for the Argonian innkeeper to come storming from behind his counter, tail lashing, his slit-pupiled eyes burning with fury.

He barked at me to leave at once.

I whimpered, bowed, and cried, begging him to let me stay by the fire, to spare a morsel of food; but all the while I kept feeding the fire, turning the charred bones with a madwoman's devotion. The Argonian, clearly losing patience, snapped at me again. In return, I leaned closer and muttered—just loud enough for him to hear—the filthiest curses I had picked up from Bravil's docks, words that would make even a sailor wince. That did it: he grabbed my shoulder, rough and fast, intent on throwing me out. I let out a shriek that rattled the rafters and raked my claws across his scales, drawing thin lines of blood. My sobs broke loose in wild torrents.

The innkeeper's roar shook the tavern. Enraged, he wrenched a massive club from its hook above the stove and swung. I slipped aside, easily dodging the hit, then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, writhing and convulsing as though his blow had crushed my bones.

I wailed in Ta'agra, the syllables musical and desperate: a sister's plea, begging the old Khajiit not to let a foreigner beat me to death.

The effect was instant. The old Khajiit rose from his place with the quiet authority of a man used to command and moved fast, catching the Argonian's arm before the club could fall again.

"Let her be, master," he said softly, his amber eyes narrowing. "Allow me to speak with her. Please!"

The innkeeper hissed, baring his teeth in frustration as he held up his bleeding hand for all to see.

The Khajiit chuckled and murmured that such tempests were hardly unusual among our kind, then soothed the Argonian with promises of fair payment for the trouble. His words carried a practiced ease, the tone of one who had bartered away a hundred quarrels before.

Then he extended a hand to me, the gesture almost gentle. I recoiled, curling in on myself, sobbing harder, yet never breaking the gaze I locked upon him.

What I saw in those yellow, slit-pupiled eyes impressed me far more than the Argonian's rage: no kindness, no pity, not even contempt. Just two glimmers flickering in the depths—one of curiosity, one of faint amusement—adrift in an ocean of greed that had long since consumed the rest of his soul. And a question: 'How can I profit more from her; the Ohmes are so rare in this part of the world...'

I knew then how to shape myself and him. Not too much, not too little; I just planted in his mind the smallest seed of tenderness, a trace of weakness his heart of stone might permit itself to notice. And I whispered, trembling, in a voice that cracked like dry reeds, that I was hungry, that I was cold, that I was alone and very scared.

The Khajiit's whiskers twitched. Once more, he extended his hand. This time, I let mine creep forward, hesitant, trembling, before surrendering to his grip. A pitiful moan left my lips as he drew me up and guided me to the long table where the caravan feasted. Without a word, he pressed a plate into my hands, heaped with meat and bread.

This was my true trial. Tears I could summon at will, screams I could craft to pierce bone—but now I had to choke down greasy slabs of roast and gulps of some searing liquor that scalded my throat and twisted my gut. My stomach turned against me, yet I endured. I chewed, swallowed, forced it down, sip after bitter sip, until the charade was complete.

When the plate was empty, I crept to him again, bent low, and pressed my lips to his hand in frantic gratitude—once, twice, again and again, like a starving kitten licking the paw of a master.

Only then did I retreat, dragging myself on trembling limbs back to the hearth, curling small before the fire as if to vanish in its glow.

From behind the counter, the innkeeper was still glaring at me with raw hatred. I smiled back at him—brazen, defiant—and when no other eyes were on me, I bared my claws. I let them gleam in the firelight. Not long, just enough for him to glimpse the edge of ivory...

He froze. His jaw flexed, his shoulders tensed as if to lunge—then he thought better of it. Muttering darkly in his guttural tongue, he slunk back to his duties, though his eyes never strayed far from me.

Ah, these innkeepers of southern Cyrodiil... Each one a swollen tick, fat with skooma coin, their cellars full of rancid brews and fouler secrets. Some even—so it's whispered—hide away stolen children, chattel for the Dominion's mages and their unspeakable experiments. But that is another tale, best left for darker hours!

That night, I kept to the hearth, patient and small, while the caravan wound down its feast. Laughter dulled, mugs emptied, pipes guttered to ash. And when at last they rose, I tilted my head like a stray cat begging scraps, eyes pleading for the Khajiit's mercy.

The old merchant gave only a curt nod. That was enough.

So I rose, limping, hunched, and trailed them into the night. The door shut behind, and the night swallowed us all.

Fog pressed close, wet and suffocating, thick with the eerie chorus of hidden creatures. The marsh breathed and shifted all around me, vast and alive, a realm with its own will. You see, my friends, the swamp has a life of its own—richer, deeper, and more treacherous than any other land. It is cunning, hostile to strangers, and never sleeps... especially not in the dead of night.

Now, with years between, I can name its dangers and chart its moods. But then? Then it was my first true step into its heart—and in truth, the swamp terrified me more than the baron's whole garrison.

Worst of all was the thought of the ending: how I might escape this cursed land once my task was done. But, as ever in the last time, I cast such fears aside, whispering the mantra: I shall not think of this now; I'll worry about it later.

For now, I had only one goal: to weave myself into the old merchant's favor, until his greed bound him to me more tightly than any vow.

He led me to their camp, a cluster of worn tents and crates huddled in the foul-smelling market square, where stray dogs fought over scraps and the mud reeked of rot. There, under the wavering light of a torch, the old Khajiit fixed his gaze on me and asked, in a voice that betrayed neither warmth nor cruelty, how I had ended up so far from Elsweyr. I lowered my eyes, let my voice falter, and spun my tale. I told him I had lived in Leyawiin, that when the elves came and sacked the city, they dragged me with them for a time, only to cast me aside like refuse on a dusty road near Bravil. That I had begged for a while in the docks until even the beggars had driven me off. Then came the embroidery: that my parents had been prosperous merchants, that I had grown among silks and spices, that I had learned the songs of the south and the dances of the north. That I could weigh furs and gems with a glance, judge the value of any trinket, and speak in tongues learned at my parents' knees. A river of lies—but lies shaped to fit the hunger I saw burning behind his eyes. He studied me long, his stare unblinking. I held it, never flinching, and behind my pitiful trembling, I let a different message slip through: I am useful to you. Keep me, and profit will follow. At last, the corners of his mouth curled. He handed me a rough camel-hair blanket and told me to sleep with the servant women. I kissed his hand in thanks, and I knew—I had already crossed the first threshold.

Morning came with the clamour of trade. The market square swarmed with locals bringing wild honey sealed in clay jars, reptile skins stretched taut on frames, sacks full of rice and smoked fish tied in bundles. Few coins changed hands; barter was their lifeblood. The caravaners bought, sold, weighed, and measured, and I drifted among them, always helpful, always visible.

When the bustle was thickest, I slipped away. Narrow alleys led me uphill, until the fortress loomed above: a dark crown of timber on its mound. High palisades, sealed gates, towers with sharp-eyed archers, a ditch crawling with stagnant water and reeds. A citadel of wood, yet dangerous all the same. I measured the walls with my eyes, traced the lines of ascent in my mind, and  I knew—I could climb this when the time came.

Satisfied for the moment and understanding that I couldn't do more now, I returned to my master and tried to be as useful as I could.

By dusk, trade waned. The caravaners packed the goods, and the square emptied. Then the old Khajiit summoned me. He rummaged long through his saddlebags and drew out garments that, though patched, suited me far better than my rags.

"Wash," he ordered, "and dress. Our kin should not look like beggars."

I obeyed. When I came back, timid, lowering my gaze, he studied me a moment, then let slip a smile.

"Better. You no longer shame our race."

I pressed my head low in feigned humility. But inside, I was already trying to weave his place into my web...

We spent the evening in the usual manner at the village tavern, and the following night passed quietly. The next morning, we resumed our activities as we had the previous day. Now the influx of buyers was even greater because, attracted by the news of the merchants' arrival, many lone hunters from the surrounding areas had come to trade their goods with those the caravan had brought from the south.

Around noon, a richly dressed Orc matron arrived at our stalls, flanked by two armored soldiers. Speaking the common tongue in a guttural, broken manner, she asked the old Khajiit for remedies, poisons, and the sorts of concoctions prized by healers and hedge-witches alike.

I set aside whatever I was doing and hurried closer. While my master displayed the specific goods she requested, I leaned in and asked him, casually, about the price of some rare products just brought in by an Argonian hunter.

The old lady sensed my mind before she even saw or heard me; she stopped examining the goods, turned abruptly, and looked me straight in the eye.

I saw deep astonishment in her gaze and felt her weak powers trying to probe my thoughts. Immediately, I put myself on guard and summoned the sweetest vision for an Orc that I could muster: I conjured in my mind a realm drenched in blood, vast battlefields where warriors of all kinds, but especially Orcs, clashed heroically. And there, towering between the blood-soaked lands and the smoke-darkened sky, I placed Malacath.

Ah, just as I had seen him in a book from my mother's vast library—draped in furs, his muscles enormous, a massive sword gripped in his right hand. I couldn't resist coloring his right tusks red before slipping the image, whole and vivid, into the elderly lady's mind.

She visibly shuddered, her eyes flickering from astonishment to joy, then to something deeper—an almost sacred ecstasy.

"Who... are you, child?" she asked, her voice trembling with reverence.

"Me...?" I stuttered. "Just my master's humble servant, ma'am."
I looked down, twisting my heel in the dirt like a scolded pup.

"Ah, don't mind her, lady!" purred the old Khajiit. "A pitiful thing. I took her in out of sheer pity—soft in the head, you see."

"I wasn't asking you," the Orc snapped, her gaze never leaving mine. Then, taking my hand in her gnarled fingers, she leaned in:

"Tell me, child... has the Master ever spoken to you? Even in a dream?"

"Oh, kind lady," I breathed. "He speaks to me every day. He is gentle. He feeds me, lets me sit by his fire."

And as I spoke, I painted her mind with many other nice visions: crimson battlefields, orcish glory beneath a sky black with smoke. And reigning there—Malacath again, savage and divine, blade in hand, tusks streaked red.

Ah, Malacath...The old and surly Malacath! My beloved Mistress Nocturnal and her dear friend Mephala, the Queen of Oblivion, laugh often at his fury. They sometimes tease him, mock him hard as only two venomous wasps like them can, and then flee seemingly desperately, screaming, from his rage, though either of them could easily defeat or calm him at any time!

You see, the Daedra are like us after all. Playful. Petty sometimes. Divine occasionally. It happens that they even enjoy silly pranks and childish games... Well, most of them do. Some, however, are truly terrifying. But if you think about it, you'll realize there are just as many dreadful beings among mortals as well!

But, once again, I digress, and I apologize for that, my friends! Let us return to our tale and see what that lady said.

"Not your current master, child," the old Orc murmured, eyes aglow, "but the Lord of glorious battlefields—the one who crowns the brave with riches and crushes the cowardly without mercy."

"Ah... Him," I whispered, shivering more with each word. "He visits me often, ma'am... but only in dreams. His voice is so harsh, his great, bloodstained tusks so frightening..."

She let out a sharp laugh, tusks gleaming. Then, turning to the Khajiit with command in her voice:
"I'll buy her. Name your price!"

The cat's whiskers twitched with greed; he scratched his head, flicked his ears, then bowed deeply, tail flicking behind him. "Five hundred gold coins, madam. Not a copper less."

"Done. Come to the fortress for payment. Bring everything I chose," she said, already turning away.

Immediately, I feigned panic and started to run, wailing desperately, "But I don't want to go!" 

Only to promptly trip over a stone and sprawl into the mud!

One of the soldiers grabbed me roughly, hoisting me to my feet. I struggled helplessly against the steel arms locking me in place, but sensing his intent to grab me by the hair, I swiftly calmed down. It wouldn't have been very proper for him to yank the wig off my head, now would it, my friends?

The old lady approached, pushed him aside with a grunt, and took my hand—the one I had scraped raw moments earlier.

"Come, child. No one will harm you, and you will be well-fed!"

I burst into crocodile tears and followed her, stumbling along behind.

At the fortress, the merchant received a heavy pouch and left utterly satisfied, not even sparing me a final glance. My new mistress, meanwhile, led me to a vast and filthy chamber where dirty straw was scattered across the damp floor. The place reeked of sweat and mildew, and the beds—if they could be called that—were heaped with grimy, moth-eaten blankets.

"You'll stay here until we get to know each other better," she told me curtly.

Then she added:

"What is your name?"

"Ashivi, mistress," I murmured.

"Are you a Khajiit?" she asked, surprised.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied, feigning embarrassment as fat tears welled in my eyes and rolled slowly down my cheeks.

"But that is something special... Then you must be one of those Ohmes—so rare these days! Where did you spend your childhood?"

She tried to speak in Ta'agra, but her words were clumsy, tangled with foreign intrusions. I could barely understand her through the accent, yet her eyes remained sharp, probing me like a knife point.

"In Leyawiin, ma'am. My parents were rich merchants," I answered, my voice smooth and melodic, offering her the purest Ta'agra I could summon.

She seemed delighted. Her broad face lit up with pride and satisfaction, certain now that her gold had not been wasted.

"I am the mother of Baron Ivanovic!" she declared. "And also the Wise Woman of this blessed place—this fortress of worthy warriors! Perhaps, with my great powers, I can heal a poor, broken creature like yourself. But you will serve me, and you will obey only me!"

With that, she turned and walked away with theatrical dignity, leaving me alone.

I lay down on one of the filthy beds in that miserable room—less inviting, even, than the ducal stables in Cheydinhal—and, for the first time in many weeks, I felt calm. Content. Somehow, I was beginning to sense that our Mother would approve of my actions. The caravan's arrival in this godsforsaken corner of the Empire at just the right time, the ease with which I'd slipped into their ranks, the effortless way I'd ensnared the Fire Moth Wise Woman's fevered imagination, and now, my entrance into the fortress—not as a prisoner or burglar, but as a servant— all these made the path ahead seem far less grim.

My thoughts began to race.

And I was startled to realize that maybe, just maybe, I was walking a path laid out for me long before I was born...

Chapter Text

"What are you doing in my bed? Out with you, filthy brat!"

I awoke to the grumbling of a sturdy woman who was shaking me with surprising strength.

Still dazed from sleep, I blinked around; it was late in the evening, and the room, dimly lit by a few smoky tallow candles, was crammed with men and women settling down after a day of merciless toil.

"Ah, forgive me, auntie... I didn't know it was your bed! I'm new here, you see..."

She paused, narrowing her eyes in suspicion.

"You're not from around here... Who are you?"

"The mistress bought me today from the traders who arrived in the village a few days ago. She brought me here," I replied in a trembling voice, trying to summon the most innocent glance I could muster.

"She bought you? They're buying people now? Well... I guess I'm not surprised. Even before the war, the old lord had strange tastes—and his sons even worse. You must be hungry. Come with me."

She led me out across the now darkened courtyard to a soot-stained cookhouse, where an older woman, wrinkled and weary, was stacking enormous, blackened pots onto wall hooks.

"Something to eat for this little one, Asta!" said my companion.

The old woman gave us a tired, measuring look.

"There's not much left. And the mistress locked the pantry. I won't be calling her now—though maybe you'd dare, Una..."

Una gave a bitter laugh, while Asta rummaged through a drawer and produced a dry crust of bread and a thin wedge of cheese. Then, from a battered chest by the door, she drew a small onion and a few shriveled radishes.

"Take them and be gone. I want to sleep," she muttered.

Una gathered the food into the folds of her worn dress, and we turned to leave.

"But who are you?" Asta asked in the same weary voice.

"I'm Ashivi. I just arrived..." I stammered.

"She's the new slave, our mistress bought her from that Khajiit swindler who's peddling in the village!" Una added.

"Well, good luck to her, then... Slaves now, huh. That's a new one," the old woman grumbled, waving us off.

Back in the large common dormitory, Una led me to an unclaimed bed and laid the food upon it. She gave me one last, pitying glance before leaving me alone.

Knowing I may be watched, I ate as much of the miserable food as I could force down, then shoved the rest beneath the filthy pillow with feigned care. All the while, I kept my eyes open, greedily examining the room.

The hall was filled with gray, hollow faces—men and women alike—but none were very old or very young. Their bodies were frail, drawn thin by endless labor—even the men had that same gaunt look, and they spoke little, did not jest or smile, but just sat upon their soiled bedding,  eyes fixed on the crumbling, mold-covered walls.

They had little time to waste anyway, for soon a soldier entered the dormitory, and everyone scrambled into bed as if on cue. Wordless, he passed between the rows, extinguishing the candles one by one and pocketing them as he went. I lay on my miserable bunk and waited, counting my heartbeats, until the chamber filled with snores and restless groans—a heavy symphony, loud enough that even a marching patrol might pass unheard.

I slipped carefully out the door and into the night. A dense, clinging fog had settled over the courtyard, swallowing both sight and sound. Gravel crunched softly beneath my bare feet, while the reddish glow of Masser seeped dimly through the mist like a faint, spectral luminescence. Far off in the swamp, strange, mournful cries rose and fell—long, wavering calls that spoke of ravenous beasts... or restless spirits.

In the baron's manor, the windows blazed with light, and I crept along the walls toward them. The main door stood shut and unguarded, at least from the outside, and from within came the hoarse clash of voices, the clinking of mugs, a bawdy, howling chorus, and all manner of drunken babble.

I pressed my face to a greasy pane and peered inside. A vast chamber spread before me, its floor scattered with straw; in the middle stood a massive table, overflowing with all kinds of plates, trays, jars, bones, and food scraps. Around it swarmed a pack of filthy soldiers, eating, drinking, arguing, or singing—rather howling. And at the head of the table, enthroned in a richly carved wooden chair, sat the largest man in the room—broad-shouldered, dressed in gleaming armor. His features were almost human—Imperial, even—save for the unmistakable tusks curving from his mouth. His thick, graying hair hung in greasy waves down his shoulders, while his beard hung in several crude braids, thick as a ship's rope and matted enough to lose a hand in.

'Baron Herbert', I thought, my eyes gleaming with curiosity.

The walls were lined with weapon racks and heavy fur cloaks, some mud-caked, others surprisingly elegant; in one corner blazed a vast fireplace, thick logs hissing and cracking beneath a roaring flame. Beside it, half-hidden in shadow, stood a single door. No other exits were visible, so this had to be the entrance to the rest of the manor. Good to know...

Satisfied for the moment, I slipped away from the window and crossed the courtyard. The stables loomed ahead: a rickety structure that housed a few scrawny horses. Nothing remarkable there.

Then again—why would swamp-dwelling soldiers need horses for battle?

As I examined the barn and peered into its darker corners, a low growl rose, then multiplied into a chorus of barks: from the sinister whines of hunting hounds to the deep, hoarse baying of enraged war dogs. A cold shiver raced down my spine, and blind panic seized me; without thinking, I bolted from the stables, my legs barely keeping pace with my terror. My only thought: get away!

I tore across the courtyard toward the common dormitory, barefoot and breathless. Out of the corner of my eye, a door swung open—two soldiers stumbled forth from what looked like the guardhouse, their torches blazing in the fog like menacing stars.

I stopped dead and slid into the shadows, silent as mist, while they ran straight toward the kennels.

Then, the manor door creaked open and light spilled into the yard in gilded waves; with it came a gust of wind that stripped the fog, as though some cruel hand had torn away my last shield.

Moreover, there it was... Masser, that wicked, traitorous moon, grinned mockingly above—and in its crimson glare, the hulking figure of Baron Herbert appeared in the doorway, commanding in a harsh voice,

"Wake the kennel master!" he roared. "Release the dogs—set them on the hunt!"

I froze mid-step and collapsed flat onto the cold earth, pressing myself into the gravel like a small, puny lizard trying desperately to sink into the dirt. The courtyard, already small, had become a stage, and I, the hapless actress who had blundered into the wrong play.

Torches flared across the yard; soldiers spilled out, fanning across every patch of ground.

And then—ah, then I felt it. A gentle caress upon my neck, cool and fresh as a spring breeze. It brushed through my hair, and with it came sudden strength, a delicious lightness of body. I knew at once—my Mistress had veiled me again in Her protective, sweet, loving cloak.

Oh, Nocturnal's touch! It coiled about me like midnight silk, wrapping me in shadows, teasing me with Her unseen embrace. I heard Her giggle in my mind, a cruel, playful whisper full of nonsense only She and I could delight in...

I dared not smile. Not yet.

From somewhere in a dark spot near the fence, right by where the whimpers and furious barks were coming from, I heard another sound: a sickening rustle, sharp squeaks, and the vile, wet shuffle of countless tiny paws scurrying over the dirt. That was too much for me. Because you see, dear friends, I am—shamefully, pathetically—afraid of dogs. Not the common curs, though I do not like those either. I mean the merciless beasts bred for war and for hunt, the ones with burning eyes and teeth like obsidian knives.

Nearly paralyzed by terror, I forced myself to focus. I had to move, and somehow—I don't even know how—I crawled across the muddy gravel like a desperate worm, dragging myself toward the dormitory door.

I moved faster than I believed possible. Or perhaps—perhaps in moments like this, time bends and collapses, folding itself around the mind like some pitiful, deceptive veil.

I slipped inside and remained crouched by the ajar door. Through the crack I watched: the courtyard blazed like an infernal stage—torches flaring, dogs barking, soldiers searching, all whirling together in a madness of light and sound.

One man sprinted for the kennel, releasing the beasts.

And then the horror began.

I scarcely dare set it down in writing, for what came that night was not merely unnatural—it was unholy. A visitation, a trespass of something vile and loathsome upon our fragile plane of waking reason; and even now, when I summon the memory, I feel my very thoughts curl like parchment before a sickly flame.

As I said, it began with a sound—an abominable rustling, welling up from every crack and crevice of the earth itself. At first, it was faint, like dry leaves shifting beneath a forgotten moon. But it grew—ah, how it grew!—swelling with dreadful speed into a cacophony of squeals and scuttling claws, as though a horde of chittering things had burst forth from sewers older than the oldest catacombs we know.

Then they came: rats—swamp rats—yes, vermin, but no vermin known to man or beast. They moved with a coordinated frenzy, driven not by instinct but by will—a will not their own. Their eyes gleamed with a grotesque intelligence, reflecting the torchlight with a greenish, corpse-like sheen. Their bodies were twisted, bloated, patches of fur hanging like rotted moss; their ulcerous hides glistened as though steeped for centuries in noxious, unseen vapors.

The hounds, savage beasts of war, recoiled at first. Then, maddened by training and terror alike, they lunged forward. Yet the rats—ah, the rats did not flee. They stood their ground. Some leapt, teeth flashing, tails lashing like the tentacles of abyssal creatures. One—I swear it!—stood upright upon its hind legs and gestured mockingly, as if aping the rites of some obscene, forgotten cult.

The courtyard dissolved into chaos. Soldiers cursed and faltered; flames guttered and died. One man screamed as he fell, smothered beneath a writhing tide of vermin. Another was torn when a hound, maddened by the scent of blood and corruption, turned upon him. Flesh tore. Bones snapped. Time itself unraveled.

And above it all—something watched. I did not see it, yet I felt it: vast, cold, delighting in the ruin. My reason whispered the name Peryite—though the syllables twisted bitterly in my throat, as if the very fabric of language rebelled against the naming of such a presence in our mortal world!

Now, looking back with a calmer mind, I know I could never have seen all those details with mere human eyes, despite the flood of torchlight in the yard—for I still remember the long, scaly tails, the rotting, pus-slick fur of those nightmare-born creatures that had, providentially, come to my aid.

I say providentially, though mayhap Providence it's not the right word, because I now know that night was the opening chapter of a lesson in humility, given to me by the two goddesses who had so deftly entwined themselves into my existence. Much later and far beyond the Jerall mountains, on a frozen night when Secunda bathed the world in her yellow-greenish glow, my beloved Mistress, Nocturnal, reminded me of it all with a loving smile. She told me then that her dear friend, Mephala, greatly amused by my plight, had persuaded even the reclusive, misanthropic Peryite, Lord of Abominations, to come to my aid, to lend a hand!

Be that as it may, by then, many of the household servants woke up and had gathered at the door, now flung wide, staring in bewilderment at the monstrous battle raging in the courtyard. The vermin had sown such chaos that even the highly trained hounds turned upon the soldiers. When at last the horrible creatures scuttled back into the darkness from whence they came, the yard was strewn with corpses of rats and dogs, and with groaning soldiers too wounded to rise.

In time, the uproar subsided, and we all returned to our beds.

As for me, I dared nothing more that night. My careless wanderings had already led me into a grievous mistake.

Intermezzo

So... how should I put this? I once heard a tasty expression from my daddy, so let's try it: "I f**ed up."

No excuses, no sugar-coating! I managed to turn my very first night there into a masquerade of noise and commotion so absurd that I can scarcely call myself a Nightingale at all.

I'm ashamed—truly, bitterly ashamed!

But enough self-pity. Let's get back to the story!

The following days were indeed hard for me; the baron's mother seemed to have forgotten I even existed, while the stronghold steward, far from sympathy, treated me with open contempt. Since I was utterly useless in the rice fields and ruined Asta's pots and utensils in the kitchen, he finally decided I was fit for nothing but mucking out stables and running errands for the horse-keeper.

I bore it better than expected, for I have always loved horses. At the time, I knew little of their needs or preferences; yet, something in my behavior there won the stableman's goodwill. As you might have guessed, he was also the master of the dogs, and I took that as an opportunity. Soon enough, I was allowed to follow him into the kennels, so I tried diligently to win the hounds' trust. But despite my efforts, I couldn't do that; they sensed my innate aversion and fear as the mongrels always do, and they grumbled low in their throats, full of suspicion even when I threw them the pieces of meat that were their due. In the end, I abandoned my hopeless struggle and refused to enter their stinky pen further.

Meanwhile, the old baroness kept her eyes on me. Beyond her flaws, she was a Wise Woman, and the vermin that had erupted into her courtyard only to vanish again in the night had left her deeply uneasy. It was natural that she would be torn between suspicion, fear of a bad omen, and curiosity.

I suspected this and behaved as simply and even foolishly as possible throughout this probationary period. I waited and endured with the infinite, divine patience of a cunning predator, and finally, the day came when the grand lady deigned to descend among the small and insignificant beings who served her. Consequently, she also visited the stables and asked me how I felt there. I fell to my knees before her, my eyes full of tears, and thanked her for offering me such an abundant life. I wasn't exaggerating entirely, keeping things in proportion; aside from the utter misery that reigned in the workers' dwelling, the food provided was both adequate and varied, and I could even say, if I overlooked the overwhelming amount of spicy seasonings, that it was quite tasty. She then asked me if Malacath had shown himself to me again, and I replied, "No". But immediately, putting on the most frightened expression possible, I told her that on the first night I slept inside the fortress, I had dreamed of a giant green dragon surrounded by packs of diseased rats. "Peryite..." she murmured, lost in thought.

In that moment of vulnerability, locking eyes with her, I seized the opportunity to infuse her mind with the disgusting, raw images of the vermin that had overrun the manor courtyard that night. At the same time, I pretended to faint and collapsed at her feet. It was a gamble. I knew I was taking an enormous risk, and a woman like her could well have deemed me a dire omen given the dreadful connection to the enigmatic, so feared by many Peryite, and cast me out—or worse. But I had already wasted too much time; I had to provoke a reaction. Fortunately, the old lady reacted just as I had hoped. She ordered her valet to carry me into the castle, straight into her maid's chamber. There he laid me in a bed and quietly withdrew, leaving me alone in the dim chamber with the scent of lavender lingering in the air.

After a short while, as I lay there examining that small, cute room, a maid entered carrying two buckets of steaming water in her hands. She poured them into a large wooden tub set in the corner, wiped her palms on her apron, and turned to me.

"Undress and wash yourself! You're stinking up my room!" she said, with a mischievous little giggle. Then, more cheerfully: "By the way, I'm Yvonne. I'm supposed to teach you the household chores. The Baroness says you're a bit stupid, but don't worry—I'll try to help. What's your name?"

"As...hivi, ma'am," I stammered, then asked timidly, "Will you beat me?" I widened my eyes as innocently as I could.

"Oh, no, never! Unless you start first!" she laughed, shaking her head. "Now come on—undress and get into the tub. I'll help you wash."

"I'm... ashamed," I whispered again.

"Oh, so we've got ourselves a shy little princess!" Yvonne teased. "Fine, I'll step out. I need to fetch you some clothes anyway. Just throw those rags you're wearing into this basket."

When she left, I let out a breath of relief and slid into the tub. The hot water was bliss. I scrubbed myself until my skin tingled, even rinsed and combed out my wig, and stayed in that divine warmth for as long as I dared. When Yvonne returned, she only cracked the door open, leaving a folded set of clean clothes by the wall.

Once dressed, I felt almost human again.

Then began my first real lesson. Yvonne led me through nearly the entire residence, pointing out the rooms we were to clean, her tongue never once at rest. She was endlessly talkative, to the point of irritation—quick-witted, fond of gossip, and, as I soon discovered, secretly enamored with the Baron's youngest son, Sullius.

Oh, Yvonne was no common servant! To call her a maid would be an insult. "Maid" is such a dull, gray little word, and Yvonne was anything but gray: lively, sharp, sly—a soubrette, or rather a soubretine. One ear forever pressed to the keyhole, one hand always pilfering her mistress's wardrobe. She seemed to know everything about her masters, perhaps more than they ever suspected of themselves, and while working, she spilled her treasures freely: the nobles' quirks, their meals and routines, the duties expected of us, even whispers of the old Baroness's magical pursuits—spoken with the trembling awe of near-religious dread.

I, meanwhile, kept my face blank and my pace sluggish, feigning stupidity—while in truth, I memorized every single word. By evening, I knew the faces and ways of the three male members of the family as if I'd lived there for years.

Baron Herbert was a spectacle of a man—huge, loud, with a booming laugh and sparkling eyes, the very image of those warlords who ruled the borderlands by their own steel. He carried that rough joviality common to men of his kind; when he first laid eyes on me, he studied me as one appraises a horse at market—then promptly groped me in full view of the household, with that shamelessness typical of such provincial nobles.

His eldest son, Darius, might have been a younger copy of his father, except his eyes betrayed something far different. Where the baron's gaze was full of crude vitality, Darius's was dead and cold, a pair of frozen stones. He bore none of his father's coarse exuberance; instead, he regarded me with a cold disdain that cut deeper than mockery. When his gaze passed over me, it was not as if I were invisible—it was worse, as though I were nothing at all.

The youngest son, Sullius, was another matter entirely. A frail figure compared to those massive men who despised him openly, he seemed to belong to another breed altogether. The baron addressed him only with cruel jokes, and Darius ignored him as one ignores his shadow. But this young man, who seemed so harmless and lost in this family that respected and followed many of the customs typical of the Orc race, had lively eyes, so vivid and restless they seemed to possess a life of their own, glimmering with thoughts too swift for his thin and pale lips. Which he usually held tightly together, speaking rarely and using few words, which he chose like a miser counting coins. When his gaze found me, only for an instant, I felt it like a chill along my spine. A brief smile crept to his lips, and his look was that of a snake testing its prey, trying to lull it into stillness. Then, just as suddenly, he turned away, feigning eagerness to attend to his father and brother.

At that moment, I knew I had lingered far too long in that fortress. The thought of my brother, whom I had left on the thin—oh, so thin!— line between life and death, was now joined by the dreadful certainty that I would not leave this place alive once my task was done. I didn't spend much time thinking about the Duchess's involvement in the grim fate being prepared for me, and instead, I decided to act that very night, despite the risks involved in this desperate action.

I quickly learned more about Sullius from Yvonne, who was eager to talk of him, and from her chatter, I pieced together the grim, unsettling truth. The boy had strange inclinations since childhood: he delighted in cruelty, in the torture of prisoners or unlucky fugitives dragged across the border.

He also dabbled in obscure alchemical experiments, according to Yvonne, who was often tasked with purchasing rare and peculiar reagents whenever she accompanied the old Baroness to Bravil for major supply trips. Books, too, rare and sometimes forbidden tomes, which she had to acquire in secret, hidden from her mistress's eyes.

Yet the most alarming piece of information was this: from time to time, Sullius would slip alone across the border into Black Marsh, vanishing into that desolate land to visit a crumbling Daedric shrine half-sunken in the mire.

That single detail sealed my decision. My instincts screamed it: I had to act and leave, and soon, or risk losing not only my mission—but myself!

So, as soon as I could, I retrieved my rags from the basket Yvonne had tossed into the waste storage and returned to our room, where I pretended to sink into an early, heavy sleep.

Inside, though, I was nowhere near slumber. My mind raged like a storm, thoughts spinning wildly, fear wrapping itself around me like a wet, suffocating shroud. For a moment, I nearly lost myself in it. Then I forced the panic back down, sending it to oblivion to be buried deep in its shivering sands. And I remembered who I was. Not a trembling girl, not a plaything of fate—but a perfect mechanism, a sentient weapon shaped and sharpened for bad nights exactly like this.

Yvonne fussed around the room for a long while, even after the usual drunken howlings from the dining hall died away and the great house seemed to settle into a deceptive stillness. Twice she leaned over me, whispering, shaking my shoulder—longing for chatter, no doubt—but I gave her only the slack breath of exhaustion. At last, she sighed, snuffed the lamp, and climbed into her bed.

I waited. Cold and resolute now, and playing absent-mindedly with the great, velvety Cat of Shadows who came purring to me that dreadful night. I counted Yvonnes's breaths, one by one, until they slowed into the soft rhythm of true sleep. Then I rose and headed toward the masters' wing.

The corridors were dim, the sconces burning low, shadows crawling across the stone walls in trembling amber. I kept to them, moving like a thought kept secret. No guards. Either they had been dismissed for the night, or, more likely, this house valued the illusion of privacy above the reality of vigilance.

When the moment arrived, I became what I was made to be and did what I had to do. Quickly. Cleanly. Without hesitation. I even turned one of their own weapons against them—a dagger still warm from its master's belt.

And then it was done. I slipped through Darius's window into the night and dropped silently into the courtyard below.

Around me, the dark was absolute—thick, suffocating, like the air inside a sealed tomb. Only the drifting wisps of fog shimmered faintly, ghostlike, in the torchlight by the manor's doors.

I hesitated. Escape into the swamp now would be suicidal; even in daylight, it was a twisting, murderous maze, and tonight—under this black shroud—it was nothing but a deathtrap.

Yet the thought of remaining near the scene of my deeds made my stomach twist.

Then a sudden light flared in Yvonne's room, and that made me act. I darted toward Asta's cookhouse and scrambled onto its roof. Easy work—the building was low, its beams half-rotted, perfect for my claws. And besides... I'm small, I'm frail-looking—but far stronger than you'd guess from my appearance.

Shouts tore through the night, followed by the panicked, ragged scream of the old baroness. Soldiers and half-dressed servants poured into the courtyard, torches flickering weakly, their glow carving twitching tiny islands of light in the dark.

Sullius was among the first to emerge from the keep. Unlike the others, he was fully armed: leather reinforced with steel, bow in hand, sword at his hip—as though he had been waiting for this very moment.

His shrill voice cut the chaos like shattering glass:

"Catch the murderess! She killed my beloved father and brother! Arrest my grandmother at once! She brought this snake into our home!"

One of the soldiers stepped forward, defiant:

"You have no right to arrest our mistress, young master! It is she who names the Lord's successor!"

"I have no right? Of course I do!" Sullius spat back. Then, with no more words, he drove his dagger into the man's chest.

Chaos ignited. Some soldiers turned instantly on their comrades, cutting them down without warning. Then, instead of searching for the "snake", they stormed the keep, dragged out the master-at-arms, and beheaded him right there in the mud.

And after that, I saw them seize the old baroness—bound, her head stuffed in a sack, dragged to the dungeon, and shoved inside without ceremony, just like a sack full of filth.

The servants had all gathered in the courtyard, frozen in place, staring at the bloodied ground and the sprawled corpses. In the reddish torchlight, filtered through the swirling mist that coiled like damp arms around the yard, the whole scene looked like a nightmare.

"What are you doing here?" Sullius snapped at them. "Back to your rooms and sleep."

Then, turning to the soldiers:

"And you—have you caught the murderess?"

"No, my lord, not a trace of her... Have mercy on us!" said a huge Orc, stepping forward and instantly dropping to his knees.

"For now, I forgive you. Especially you, my faithful Yagur." Sullius's eyes glittered. "From this night forward, you are my master-at-arms. Gather the guards, drag down those useless archers from the towers, and all of you—go to sleep, you lazy, witless dogs! I'll hunt down that bitch myself—with my powers!"

"Yes, my lord!" Yagur bellowed, kneeling again and pressing his lips to Sullius's hand.

At that moment, I knew exactly what would come next, and I waited—half amused, half embarrassed—for the young scoundrel to sniff me out. But even so, I wasn't prepared, because, as I was about to learn, Sullius was no ordinary rascal.

He pulled a small crystal orb from his pouch and waved it lazily through the air. Lots of sparks leapt from it—tiny motes of shifting color—and gathered into a narrow single glowing thread, drifting toward Asta's cookhouse.

Sullius followed it casually, kicked the kitchen door wide open, and bellowed in that horrible, glass-shattering voice of his:

"Old hag! Out with you! Help Yvonne prepare the bodies of my father and brother for burning! Move your withered bones, witch—I want it all done by dawn!"

Asta cursed under her breath but shuffled toward the castle gate. Sullius lingered in the kitchen for a moment before stepping outside again. This time he whistled softly, his voice suddenly smooth, almost charming—though to me it still sounded like a whole pit of snakes writhing in their mating song:

"Listen, lady... stay put until I saddle a horse for you by the gate. Dawn's near. If you ride now, you'll hit the swamp's edge with the sunrise. In the saddlebags, you'll find a seal for the sentries and some gold for you. Ah, don't pout—coin is not payment for your butchery, but for the delightful spectacle you gave me, flailing and sighing and weeping your crocodile tears. You might as well have walked in as a lady, envoy of our gracious Duchess, and finished it all on the very first night. But you didn't trust me, and that was wise, very wise, of you. I meant to kill you—afterward, of course! The only question was how long I would keep you alive, and how inventive I'd be about it. But now... after watching you dance through your pretty lies, I've changed my mind. You amuse me, and I like you. So fly, my little bird, fly as fast as you can! Ah, to not forget! Carry my humblest bows to our Duchess, from her most loyal and obedient servant—Baron Sullius Ivanovic."

Then he left the kitchen. Moments later, I caught his faint whistle in the mist. Feeling like the biggest clown in Dark Brotherhood's history, I slid down from the roof and made my way across the courtyard.

I followed the faint snorting of a horse to the gates. There it was—the mare, tied neatly, the doors already thrown wide open by the young Baron's hand. I paused, sniffing the night air like a wary beast, searching for some hidden snare. Nothing. That was odd. Sullius had to be nearby.

No time to linger, though. I untied the reins, vaulted into the saddle, and spurred it hard into the gloom.

Behind me, Sullius's mocking laugh rang out—shrill, triumphant, merciless; once again, I felt ridiculous, and my cheeks burned hot, shame prickling me like needles as the hill fell away under pounding hooves. His laughter chased me for a seemingly impossibly long time through the fog, echoing in the hollows of my chest while my heart was pounding hard.

But then—something cracked. The absurdity of it all struck me like lightning. I, Elsie, self-proclaimed mistress of shadows and flawless exits, reduced tonight to a blundering fool... Yet, it was not so bad as it seemed... In fact, I had just met a rascal even worse than myself, and now the shame itself seemed utterly senseless!

And so, quite suddenly, I laughed. At first, a broken snicker, then a full, wild storm that burst out of me without control. A raw, guttural laughter that ripped through the silly shame coiled in my soul. I laughed as Masser drifted his reddish disc across the sky. I laughed until tears smeared the road ahead. I laughed until I could scarcely breathe, until Sullius's echoing jeers vanished, replaced by my own voice ringing madly through the night.

Until I fully realized the truth:

This double murder—botched and clumsy—was a farce. A lesson. A cosmic slap of divine elegance.

It was not merely a failure of my skills. It was a gift.

It was Her gift.

In the merciless tenderness of our Mother, She had stripped away my illusions, showing me for what I am: an imperfect tool, flawed and blunt. My mind, I once considered so brilliant, is, in fact, quite dull. My nerves, which I believed to be tempered steel, are as frail as silk.

And She revealed one more truth—that despite the endless contempt for life I had shown since my beloved family's slaughter at the hands of Stendarr's monks, I still wanted to live. Desperately. Pathetically. I clung to life like a miserable worm in mud.

But perhaps that is no shame. Now that I am older, I can understand: it is the law of all mortals, especially the young and healthy. They always crave one more day. One more sunrise. One more step along their private Golgotha.

...Ah. I digress again, don't I? Forgive me, my friends!
Let us return to the tale.

As the road curved down toward the village, the weight of that terrible night began to lift. I felt lighter. Wiser. More myself than I had been in weeks. The mare beneath me, calm and steady, followed its instincts, and soon we entered the sleeping hamlet, where the planks of the main road echoed hollowly beneath its hooves.

At the edge of the village, a group of soldiers blocked the way. One of them stepped forward, and I recognized him: the same kind and sad soul who had spoken gently to me when my farce had first begun.

I reached into a saddlebag and found a pouch heavy with coins. Likely a few hundred septims. I gave it to him, but another voice cut across the silence.

"He's not in charge here," snapped a tall Argonian, stepping forward with authority. "I am!"

"Then for you, I have this," I replied, handing him the seal.

He examined it closely, eyes narrowing, then widening. Without a word, he returned it and gestured me onward.

The old soldier whispered, stunned:
"But... my lady—"

"I'm only returning the bag you kindly gave me that day, good man," I said with a smile. "A little lighter and smaller now... but I hope you'll forgive me for that."

With that, I spurred the mare and left the village behind.

By then, dawn had broken. The horse carried me swiftly along the swamp road as the morning promised a rare clear sky day. Here, in this tangled, misty land, the sun usually struggled to pierce through, but now cheerful rays danced among twisted branches stretched hungrily toward the heavens.

Even the birds—those gloomy, swamp-born creatures—sang with reckless enthusiasm. Their concert pleased my ears, and my heart felt light, my soul unburdened by the two bloody murders behind me. Not even the carnage that followed, nor the terror that had gripped me in the dark hours, could disturb this odd, serene calm.

I could feel Nocturnal's gentle fingers brushing through my hair, soft and loving, and Her whisper settling into my mind like velvet: encouragement, sweet and knowing. I was still alive. I was still Hers. And that was all that mattered.

Soldiers appeared on the road again and again, always where I least expected them. Each time I showed them the seal, each time they bowed and waved me through. For now, Sullius was Baron Sullius—and I had no doubt he possessed all the qualities needed to become a political figure of note. (Dear listener, feel free to replace qualities with whichever word you find most fitting. I won't be offended.)

At the final checkpoint, near the tall watchtower that overlooked the valley, the guards retained the seal, saluted me with exaggerated bows, and wished me a "safe and pleasant journey."

I rode straight to the tree where I had hidden my clothes and my mother's dagger—my precious keepsake from Alisanne. There I stopped. I changed, stuffing the servant's rags and castle garb into the hollow. Out of curiosity, I checked the saddlebags again, and as expected, I found food and even a flask of drink.

I hesitated for a heartbeat, then burst out laughing and took a hearty swig. 'If Sullius had prepared surprises for me... I would soon find out!' Then I urged the mare forward, galloping whenever the road allowed.

I was still so naïve back then... Much later, Nocturnal would confide that She and Her dear friend Mephala had laughed themselves breathless at my expense over this very contract. And yes, much later and under very different circumstances, I did meet Sullius again. But that, dear friends, is a story for another time.

For now, my journey went smoothly, without delay, along the Empire's dusty roads. When the sun began to sink under the red horizon and the long fingers of dusk stretched across the land, I dismounted at last near the ducal stables of Cheydinhal.

A stablehand hurried to meet me. I handed him the reins with a grin.

"I borrowed a horse from here a while back," I said. "I'm bringing another in return."

The old man stared, wide-eyed. The color drained from his face, and his hands trembled as he took the reins. He said nothing—just nodded slowly, then led the horse away with hesitant steps into the barns.

Chapter Text

The old barn keeper's odd behavior, the nervous glances he kept casting over his shoulder as he led the horse away, stirred a troubling doubt in my mind. The peaceful state of mind I had enjoyed for most of the morning suddenly turned into anxiety and concern; a sense of foreboding came over me, wrapping my mind in its murky web. I decided not to enter the city through the main gate as I intended, but to retrace my steps and return the same way I had left— silent, unseen, through the secret entrance to our Sanctuary. Now that I think of it, that was the most natural and safest route for a creature of the shadows like me.

So, as discreetly as possible, I made my way toward the forest near the city walls, walking through the trees rustling and swaying in the dry wind blowing from the west. I ventured deeper into the wood, and as I neared the old siege gate through which I had first entered the town, I changed my direction, turning northward. As night spread its silken waves over the forest, I suddenly broke into a run, occasionally altering my course. After a brief dash among the dimly lit tree trunks, I stopped abruptly, lay down on the ground, and crawled into the shelter of a moss-covered rock. I listened carefully and, as I had suspected, heard hurried footsteps and heavy breathing behind me.

I soon spotted two silhouettes dressed in long, dark robes with hoods pulled over their heads. 'Thalmor agents!' flashed through my mind. This really surprised me, filling me with concern. 

Their purpose remained obscure to me, but I had seen enough to fear them; I had witnessed their actions against the Imperial spies and the discontented population of Cheydinhal before, and I knew they were brutal, efficient fighters with basic magical knowledge.

I couldn't fathom why they would be interested in me; as far as I knew, they were allied with Nephatah's government, as was I. But remembering the Duchess's behavior during our last meeting, I told myself that the situation might have changed during my absence. 

My worry about my brother's condition intensified, and my heart began to race. I took a deep breath and did my best to calm down; then, as the two agents anxiously scanned the area, I crept toward the siege gate. Once there, I made as much noise as possible, trying to make them believe I had entered the city that way. Then I sneaked quietly along the walls of Cheydinhal until I reached the deep, narrow valley where the secret entrance to the Sanctuary lay hidden among the shrubs and vegetation. I waited there for a while to ensure no one was following me, then slid down the steep walls of the ravine.

Reaching the bottom, I noticed, as much as the dim light of Secunda allowed, that the vegetation that had nearly filled the valley was now lying on the ground, the grasses withered, and many bushes were torn. Once again, I stopped, listened carefully, and surveyed my surroundings, making sure no one was nearby. Then, with a trembling hand, I activated the mechanism to open the secret door. It opened smoothly, without a sound, just as it had the day Rasha showed me how the ingenious mechanism worked.

I walked carefully into the narrow corridor, wondering how I would navigate the overwhelming darkness ahead, but this worry quickly faded, replaced by a much bigger one! In front of me, where there should have been only darkness, flickered a faint, ghostly light; maybe a candle... 

I lifted my skirt, drew my dagger from its usual spot, and carefully walked through the tunnel, pressing tightly against one of its walls. It wasn't long before I realized that the other secret door, the one leading to Mother's little mausoleum, was ajar, and as I reached it, I heard the soft, regular breathing of a sleeping person. With utmost care, I opened the door and saw Cicero lying asleep on the cold floor of the small room. I breathed a sigh of relief, put my dagger back, and then bent down to shake the Keeper gently.

Cicero instantly woke up, his eyes widening with great surprise and love when he saw me in the light diffused by the small candle burning in one of the supports. 

"Mother... You're here..." he exclaimed, hugging me fiercely. 

Then he fell to his knees at my feet, clutching them as he began to cry, shaking with sobs. 

"I thought you were dead... Ah, mother, forgive me! I am so unworthy and silly! So helpless..." 

He was sobbing and wailing like a forlorn child, and I was deeply shaken by these strange displays, so unusual for a grown man. When I saw that he was dressed from top to bottom in the clothes he had taken from that foolish clown he had killed so long ago, I remembered the vision Mephala had given me that evening when I had spoken the Words before the Keeper; I trembled with repulsion!

I grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to stand. I sought his gaze, fixing my eyes on his, trying to probe his mind. But within, I found no thoughts, memories, or traces of emotions; there was only darkness, a frightening, all-consuming gloom, just like in Sithis's realm of nothingness. And from that void, a laughter rose—loud, much too loud, insane, and mocking. Oh, the Queen's words came one after the other in a cold cascade:

'Finish the bloody deed, you unworthy little piece of work! And don't you ever try to sneak into my realm again, you hear?' 

Her shrill, screeching voice shook my entire body and nerves. 

A terrible, unbearable pain shot through me, and I immediately closed my eyes, breaking the frightening contact. I pushed Cicero further away and looked at him questioningly, without uttering a word.

"Forgive me, mother... I'm not worthy!" he mumbled, still crying. 

"Rasha... What about him?" I asked, feeling awfully tired. 

"Ah, our Listener... He's like a father to us, your children!" Cicero chuckled through his tears.

"Is he here?" I continued my questions, already feeling they were in vain. 

"Yes, he is always here! And he's very worried because you don't wish to talk to him... Go, mother, go now and talk to him!" Cicero answered, looking at me with a confused expression. 

I immediately closed the secret door through which I had entered and ordered him, already beginning to taste the bitterness in my mouth: 

"Come with me, Keeper!" 

He began to laugh, a sharp, unpleasant laugh, and said, 

"You jest, mother... You know I'm not allowed to leave this place. Not now. Not ever, perhaps..." 

I sighed and opened the door leading to the Sanctuary chambers. Inside, the common dormitory was lit, and a few people, some of whom I knew to be old Morag Tong members, were engaged in typical activities for those living in closed communities, isolated from society. A pretty girl, a Dunmer, was braiding a pair of woolen gloves, and a middle-aged man, Trebonius, an Imperial, was slowly and lovingly carving a piece of wood. Others were whispering in a dark corner, and an elderly Breton woman, Anda, was wiping her dagger's blade with an oil-soaked cloth. Apparently, they paid me no attention as I passed among them, but when I turned abruptly before entering the corridor leading to Rasha's room, I caught them all staring at me tensely; all of them, absolutely all of them, had stopped what they were doing and were staring at me. I just turned my back on them and walked into my brother's room.

Rasha was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. As soon as I entered, he fixed his gaze on me and, after a moment of silence, said in an even voice:

"Finally, you're here! Where have you been wandering lately?"

"I've been carrying out a task entrusted to me by your mistress, the Duchess! I'm also happy to see you again, Rasha! And I'm very pleased to see you alive and well!"

"Yes, I'm fine, don't you worry! But our affairs are not going well at all, and unfortunately, you were not here when I really needed you... Why did you neglect your duty, and above all, how could you leave that harlot Courtney in the complete command of the Sanctuary?"

"That 'harlot' is my best friend and she's like a beloved sister to me! She took care of you and watched over you, Rasha, when you were sick and helpless! Besides, she was the only one with a mind and soul in this whole place! Where is she now?" I asked angrily.

"I wouldn't know! Maybe she went where all whores go, a place I'm sure you know more about than me!" Rasha answered, looking at me with an angry glare.

"Ah! Rasha, why do you want to dig up a past that doesn't matter, a past in which I, too, needed you to advise me and help me learn how to live? I hope you're aware that, no matter what I might have done in Bravil after Alisanne's death, you're the only man I've ever loved and still love! More than my life, I might say! But I ask you once more... Where is my dear sister Courtney?"

"I don't know! I should have killed her, but I only banished her... She's been gone since before the attack on the Sanctuary..."

"The attack on the Sanctuary..." I whispered, looking at him in stunned surprise.

"Yes, our Sanctuary was attacked by an enraged mob of locals! Our people fought back, killing many of the attackers, but just as they seemed ready to withdraw, a group of Thalmor agents intervened. Many of our people died, and the rest of us fled underground. Garnag and Pontius helped me get here." Rasha said, staring at me.

"Where are Pontius and Garnag now? I didn't see them among the others..."

"They're both in the city... Almost every night, they secretly try to clear the entrance to the cellar! The building was burned down by the Thalmor agents, and now, above us, only scorched ruins remain."

I remained silent for a while, trying to understand what had really happened. Then I told Rasha about the incident that had occurred on my arrival.

"I was stalked by two Thalmor agents when I tried to enter the city..." I told Rasha, recounting the entire incident, not forgetting to mention the strange behavior of the groom.

Rasha responded very calmly as if everything were self-evident: "I'm not surprised! Our organization had become exactly what it was always meant to be—a secretive force, beyond the reach of the government!"

He casually added that the Duchess had issued an arrest warrant for him. Then, in that same serene, almost detached tone, he continued to lay out his plans for the future of the Dark Brotherhood. I felt utterly drained, my mind reeling under the weight of his absurd schemes involving agents specializing in "listening," "contracting," and "execution"; they tormented my weary soul. 

Oh, how I longed for the peace of my cottage in Nocturnal's realm! I could almost hear the quiet there, feel the soft, warm darkness enveloping, lovingly embracing me... I longed to live there with Rasha, that young and cruel Rasha who had saved me on that rainy evening long ago. 

This brought back memories; I saw once more our big, happy family, the one my beloved brother had given me! But that life was gone, a distant dream gone with the wind, and I could see my Mistress shaking her head sadly, her refusal echoing in my mind...

My thoughts snapped back to the present, and, unable to bear it any longer, I interrupted my brother:

"We are doomed! Sooner or later, the Thalmor agents will break in here!"

Rasha looked at me calmly and, stating that I must be tired after my long wanderings, said it would be better if I rested first. Then he added that there was a small chamber available, right next to his, which I could use. He got up from his bed, approached me with unsteady steps, stroked my hair gently, and, looking me in the eyes, asked:

"You are on my side, aren't you, Elsie?"

"Yes! I'll always be on your side, Rasha!"

"I'll come with you to show you the room!"

"No, no need... I know it," I said, turning my face away from him and walking towards the door.

"Elsie..."

"Later... Tomorrow, Rasha," I sighed and left the room.

The room had been meticulously cleaned and prepared to host someone. I knew this as soon as I entered, having been here before—back when I sought refuge in the Sanctuary, no longer able to bear the methods my brother imposed.

I also knew this was once Vincente Valtieri's room. My mother Alisanne told me many stories about the legendary Sanctuary of Cheydinhal, and Valtieri, that great undead scholar, featured prominently in them. As a vampire—a strange one who chose to live within the mortals' society and was accepted despite his terrifying nature—I suspected certain precautions were taken with his living space. Indeed, the door to his room had an unusual feature; it could only be locked from the outside. 

I smiled as I entered; fresh blankets covered the narrow stone bed, pillows were piled high, and fresh flowers adorned the vase on the round table in the corner. Everything bore signs of love, care, and hope, and once again, I felt sadness gnawing at my soul.

I sat at the small table in one corner and opened the bag given to me by the young baron, Sullius. Besides provisions—far more than a girl like me could eat—and a flask of sweet, burning liquor, there was a rose. A red one and faded now, but once a magnificent specimen... I inhaled its scent, sweet but tainted by decay, and my sadness deepened. My thoughts began to wander, and I reflected on the strangeness of human nature—and by that, I mean the nature of all mortal beings. I ate and drank from the baron's generous gift before crawling into the bed, tightly hugging the largest pillow as I slipped into the treacherous waters of sleep.

The next morning, after waking, I stopped by Rasha's room to say good morning. He smiled, called me to his bed, and kissed me. He then asked me to visit the Sanctuary, talk to the people, study the training methods, and report back with my views. 

As I walked through the Sanctuary, I felt like I was living an absurd dream. Everyone was quiet, going about their daily chores as if the Sanctuary wasn't under a terrible threat. Some were in the small training room, practicing dagger or hand-to-hand combat. Others prepared the daily food, while Pontius and Garnag slept after their night's hard labor.

I then went to Mother's room and tried to talk to Cicero. But Cicero, dressed as before, was preoccupied, paying me little attention. He was meticulously tending the mummified body, and the bronze sarcophagus glowed pale in the flickering light of a small candle burning in a niche. All the while, he chanted strange incantations, addressing various questions and words of praise to our Mother. When I touched him and spoke, he shook slightly, looked at me mildly, and said, "No, mother, it can't be now, Cicero is very busy, oh poor Cicero! And not tomorrow, nor the day after, until this farce is over! Forgive the small and poor Cicero, sweet mother!" 

From that moment, he paid me no further attention. Later, I spoke with Garnag and Pontius, but neither was willing to share much. Garnag was particularly reluctant to discuss Courtney, whose fate worried me terribly at the time. Pontius revealed little more than Rasha had already told me, but in his eyes, I detected a vague desire to talk more—and a flicker of fear.

And so, in this odd way, the days passed one after the other, with the people of the Sanctuary mechanically completing their tasks, just like those eerie mechanisms hidden in the long-buried ruins of the People of the Deep. I avoided them as much as possible, wandering almost unnoticed through our heaven's galleries and chambers. 

There was a peculiar, echoing silence in the narrow corridor of our Sanctuary. Whispers occasionally drifted, emerging from the shadowy corners. I always tried to make sense of them. At times, I thought I understood a few words, but I won't repeat their meaning here. Oh, no! Absolutely not, my friends! For within those murmurs were dark and dangerous invocations—each demanding treachery and murder...

And I was not the only one who heard the sinister whispers! No, for they were not meant for me; their true recipients understood them all too well, twisted words that seeped into their minds, urging them to kill. And so, they did. Morning after morning, we would find yet another member of our false Brotherhood lying dead in their bed...

I talked with Rasha, trying to bring him back to reality, but he kept building castles in the sand, even discussing the reopening of the Leyawiin Sanctuary! One day, after more than half of the Sanctuary's residents died or left and never returned from their missions, I asked him if he would consider running away with me, just the two of us. He shook his head, looked at me seriously, and replied that there was no other place in the world where we could survive, except for the Sanctuary of Cheydinhal. 

During his last days, Rasha lived and acted only according to the desires and aspirations he believed to be reality; ultimately, he declared himself the Listener of the Sanctuary of Cheydinhal and was utterly convinced that our Mother would speak to him sometimes... My brother was so certain of the path he had to lead his people on that I realized there was no use trying to change his mind. And so, time passed, keeping us all trapped inside his dream for a short while...

I knew all too well that it was my duty and obligation to set things right. Mephala had commanded it and revealed the only path to achieve it. And yet, I hesitated, watching my beloved brother's blasphemies and wrongdoings unfold. People—good people— had died because of him... But their deaths had always been inevitable. The Spider had condemned them long ago, for their time had come. Because our ancestors had wronged Mephala!

It was Cicero who first made the right move. One day, he denied Rasha entry to the room where the Mother's sarcophagus was kept, compelling my brother to call a meeting of the Black Hand to elect a new Keeper—an opportunity he seized with pleasure.

Cicero laughed and cursed them when they summoned him for the meeting, and I, grim and resolute, took my seat at the table where the others already gathered: my dear brother Rasha, calm and imposing; Garnag, unconcerned, clearly preoccupied with thoughts of his flask of beer; and Pontius, uncertain, glancing nervously at Rasha every so often.

It was clear to me that, sooner or later, this whole game I had been indulging in over the past few weeks would come to an end. So, when Rasha declared the session open, I stood, serenely, and stated that I had long since disbanded the Black Hand structure. As such, this meeting was utterly meaningless, and any decisions made without my approval were invalid. I added that I was the true Black Hand and that Cicero had been appointed Keeper by me, in the name of our Mother, and only death could remove him from his duty.

They remained silent, staring at me. Rasha with eyes sharp as daggers; Garnag with his mouth agape, clearly struggling to understand; and Pontius, eyes flickering with a glimmer of hope.

No one spoke, so I continued. 

"From this moment forward, I hereby declare the Cheydinhal Sanctuary unsafe and inoperable for all members of the Dark Brotherhood. My first command is to find a new haven for us all." I then settled back into my seat, my gaze fixed on a dull spot on the wall, which shimmered faintly in the flickering light of the torches.

Rasha reacted very calmly and asked me by what right I was speaking like that. Without looking at him, I answered:

"I am empowered by Mephala herself, and, if you allow me, I will do my best to convert all these still living in the Sanctuary to the new doctrine—and to keep them alive and well-trained; with your help, of course! Because, Rasha, at this point, the new Dark Brotherhood has only two true, sanctified adepts: me and Cicero!"

Rasha's voice grew cold as he replied:

"I have been sure that Cicero's miserable behavior of late is closely linked to your influence and departure, just when we all needed you most here in the Sanctuary! Elsie, you leave me no choice but to expel you from the Black Hand! And, at least for a while, you will be confined to your room!"

He said it sternly, but there was no trace of resentment in my brother's voice. Still, I could see disappointment and sorrow in his eyes—eyes that looked so old and tired...

"If I may be allowed," Pontius straightened his voice, "she's right, at least about the safety of the Sanctuary, and we won't be able to dig up the entrance to the cellar, no matter how hard Garnag and I try."

I almost froze in disbelief because, in the next moment, Garnag, who was so obedient to Rasha and had no other care but to have his bottle full of beer, said, 

"Even if we accomplish that, we won't be able to hide it from the eyes of the Thalmor agents."

"I'm sure they've already partially traced us by now," added Pontius.

After a brief silence, Rasha told them to shut up and then ordered me to go to my room and stay there until he came to visit me.

Once again, I proved myself to be a coward and an incompetent fool, unworthy of our Mother's trust. I rose and went to my chamber, then sulkily crawled into bed, so that when, after a while, my brother came in, he would find me lying there, clutching the large pillow tightly, gazing up at him with innocent, wide eyes.

My brother smiled, then laughed out loud, and as he sat down on the only chair in the room, he said:

"Elsie, you are much more Khajiit than I, you know that?"

"Of course, Rasha! You have been a very good tutor, and I thank you for that! You saved my life, changing my fate twice, and gave me a warm, loving family when I was wandering hopelessly through the sewers of Imperial City! And on top of that, I love you. I love you so much that the feeling is sometimes painful for me..."

"Yes, I think I know that," he said thoughtfully. "Still, you women are hard to comprehend for any ordinary man... And you, well, you're more twisted than most..."

Then we both remained silent for a while, just looking at each other, deeply enjoying being together.

"We have decided to replace Cicero with one of our new followers, Mya," Rasha said.

"Don't do that, brother! I beg you!" I replied.

Rasha didn't answer. He just stared, lost, at the table on which the flowers of that day were slowly but surely withering... He then stood up and told me that I was confined to my room and that I was not allowed to talk to any of the Sanctuary people who would come to bring me food or clean my room.

"Rasha!" I yelled, and he stopped but did not turn to me.

"You will die, and I will never forgive you for that!" I cried and burst into tears, holding the pillow tightly to my chest.

But Rasha simply shrugged and walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.

Chapter Text

"You have to make the good out of the bad because that is all you have got to make it out of."
R.P. Warren

It wasn't long before Rasha returned, his arms laden with books and manuscripts. He'd gathered everything he could find in the Sanctuary—and let me tell you, our haven held plenty of fascinating writings! That didn't surprise me; the legendary Sanctuary of Cheydinhal had hosted all sorts of folks over the centuries, including scholars and learned, erudite individuals.⁣
⁣
My brother didn't say a word, not even when I tried talking to him. He wouldn't meet my eyes—just dropped the books and scrolls in a corner of my room... and walked out. Again.⁣
⁣
Those books became my solace during the long days of confinement. Truth be told, I was exceptionally well cared for the entire time I was locked away. Each day, the flowers were replaced with fresh, fragrant ones, and I even enjoyed the town's famous pastries! Risky as it must've been, they still brought me those apple pies, warm and spiced, and the delicate cones glazed in honey.
⁣
Rasha himself visited often, especially in the evenings, but he never talked again about the Brotherhood. I tried, especially in the beginning, to appeal to his common sense and convince him of the rightness of my arguments, but whenever I pressed the matter, Rasha would rise without a word and leave the room.

However, as the days slipped through time's unforgiving hourglass, my brother became increasingly sad and seemed to age before my eyes. The fire that had burned in his eyes began to fade, and he grew melancholic in a way I had never witnessed before. Rasha spoke a lot about our happy days on the dangerous alleys of the Merchant District and reminded me of the hot, fragrant evenings we spent on the shores of the Larsius River, often pausing mid-sentence to stare into nowhere, lost in thought.

It was as if he wanted me to remember all our life together, to imprint his remembrance into my memory forever — as if, without saying it, he was already bidding me farewell. I did not realize it at the time, and perhaps it was for the best. Somewhere deep inside, a fragile hope still lingered — the hope that he might yet be saved, that Mephala would show mercy in the end. And She did, though only in Her own twisted way.

I remember with a pang of sorrow the evening when he finally stopped locking the door behind him.
⁣
At the time, I thought nothing of it. Now, as I sit in the attic of my daddy's cottage in Whiterun, writing these words, I am pierced by guilt. Perhaps Rasha was asking for my help—subtly, silently, through that single act. Maybe leaving the door unbarred was his way of inviting me to share his burden, to involve myself in the fate of the Sanctuary.

Ah... it breaks my heart to think that might have been the truth! Yet I shall never know.

The only thing I do know is this: the affairs of the Sanctuary, and the life within it, were going from bad to worse.

Pontius was the one who told me everything, and what I am about to share comes from him alone.

When Rasha informed him that he was to be replaced by Mya, Cicero did not protest; he just turned and walked out of his den without a word.

The girl—the new Keeper—accepted her role, but she still chose to sleep in the common room with the others. A curious decision, perhaps born out of modesty or fear.

Later, Cicero asked Rasha to let him join the team working on the cellar passage, and my brother—ever pragmatic—saw no reason to refuse.

The very night Cicero went out with the other two, Mya died. That happened in her sleep, so they said. There was no sign of violence on her body nor traces of poisoning, and Mya was young and healthy, so it seemed impossible for her to pass away like that. And yet, no one investigated, and her death was added to the growing tally of dark mysteries that plagued our so-called Sanctuary.

But unlike the others, this death had weight. No one was willing to assume the Keeper's burden, so, quietly, without explanations, Cicero was reinstated in his former role. The cycle resumed, as if nothing had happened, and the Sanctuary breathed again—but thinner, weaker, with fewer voices in its halls as the number of our Brotherhood members continued to drop steadily.⁣

Not long after, Garnag and Pontius were ambushed by Thalmor agents while working at the cellar door. Garnag was wounded, and Rasha immediately called off the entire operation.

During our rather interesting and prolonged conversation, Pontius also mentioned Courtney. He told me that, before she left, she had entrusted him with a message for me, one he was to keep until my return.

Courtney wanted me to know she would linger in the area for a while and that on the first day of every month, she would be waiting at the inn where we had spent our first night in Cheydinhal.⁣

We talked for hours that quiet night, and feeling closer to Pontius than ever before, I pressed him to share more about what had happened during my absence, especially about Cicero and his relationship with Rasha. But when I mentioned Cicero's name, Pontius shuddered, as though a poisonous snake had slithered into the room, and spoke reluctantly and briefly. He said that Cicero had once bragged, during a Black Hand meeting, about what had happened between him and me that late evening when I was preparing to leave the Sanctuary and head south. And that was all, he refused to say more about our Keeper.

Not long after, he suddenly embraced me—tightly, almost desperately—before bowing deeply in front of me, his eyes filled with something I could not name. Then he left without another word, and I never saw him again. Later, Rasha told me that he had been sent on a "listening" mission and never returned. I still hope—perhaps foolishly—that he just ran away like so many others. I really like to think that somewhere in the world, Pontius still breathes...

And the time came when only four of us still breathed in the Holy Sanctuary: myself, Rasha, Garnag, and Cicero. Beyond our den, which had become more a trap than a haven, unrest swallowed the city, turning it into a battleground. Nephatah's cunning policies bore fruit at last—dark fruit, dripping blood, and the Imperials, the most oppressed of all, rose in desperate revolt, turning the barricaded streets and their shuttered homes into fortresses.

The Dunmer had no love for the Imperials—memories of conquest and humiliation still burned hot—but they, too, were impoverished and dissatisfied with the unrest that had been going on for some time; moreover, none of them, Dunmer or Imperial, had any patience left for the Thalmor and their ruthless methods. So chaos, long festering in the shadows, surfaced at last, and the revolt swelled, spreading like wildfire through dry fields, uniting Cheydinhal's poor citizens in one furious cause against hardship and tyranny.⁣⁣

It was during those restless days that Cicero came to me. He stood in the doorway, his eyes accusing, and asked plainly what I was going to do next.

What followed was not a conversation but a strange, broken monologue, Cicero shifting from fervent pleas to veiled threats or from confused justifications to pious glances toward me. I listened quietly at first, but soon I grew vexed and told him to remember who he was talking to and to tend to his chores.

His face fell, and his eyes took on the look of a dog, beaten though it had done no wrong. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said:

"Yes, mother."

And our Keeper walked away, slowly, deliberately, each step heavy with reproach.
⁣
Hm... I scolded Cicero because of my own weakness, which led to hesitation and wasted time. In truth, I knew exactly what I had to do! Mephala revealed it some time ago, and despite his confused mind, the Keeper was right: Rasha would never let us take our Mother's sarcophagus and flee the city. No matter how I pleaded, he would not accept abandoning Cheydinhal, and he would stay, even if it meant doom.

And the days slipped away, pulling me toward a date I had long awaited with dread and hope alike: the first day of the month. Would Courtney be there, waiting in that inn where we once began our Cheydinhal's adventure? After all, it had been so long since she was banished from our Sanctuary... Yet there was nothing I could do but wait.⁣

In the meantime, I tried once more to talk with Rasha, to make him understand that leaving was not cowardice but necessity. Yet all my words fell into silence, swallowed by the iron wall of his will. And so, when the appointed day arrived, I donned again my rags of a beggar and slipped out of the Sanctuary at first light, when the sky blushed rose—the fragile color of a wound not yet touched by pain.

The forest stirred around me in waking life: birds sang, the wind danced among the branches, the trees whispered tales older than kingdoms. But none of it touched me. My heart was too heavy, too bruised for joy.

Through the great gates of Cheydinhal, I passed with ease, mingling with peasants and merchants pressing into the city to hawk their wares. Who would notice a ragged beggar, eyes cast down, just another hungry soul searching for bread?

I meant to go straight to the inn where Courtney might be waiting. But a rising haze of dust, drifting above the ruins that crowned our Sanctuary, turned my steps aside. Against my will, I went there first.

What I saw sealed our fate.

A host of laborers, sweating and straining, toiled over the rubble of the burnt house. Their picks struck stone, their shovels groaned in the earth. With so many hands, the work advanced swiftly. The truth was undeniable: the cellar would soon be laid bare.

Oh, gods! The dust swirled upward in golden spirals, and in that trembling air I felt a breath—not wind, but Mephala's sigh. She was content. Content, and mocking. And She showed me three faces from the shadows of my heart: my mother Alissane, beloved and gone; Lucien's smile, cold and enigmatic; and Leo's sleek body, playful and fierce. All gone. All gone—and soon, Rasha as well.

Grief flooded me, then despair. For had I not known all along that it must come to this? That there was but one path, the only way to save the sarcophagus and our Mother's holy body, the only way for the Brotherhood to be reborn and endure for centuries?

And yet, knowing it, I recoiled. To save Her, I must kill him.

Rasha, my brother.

With my soul shattered and doubt gnawing like a worm through every vein, I turned from the ruin and went on toward the inn. Each step felt like the toll of a bell heard by no one but myself—a funeral knell for the one who still lived, and for me as well.⁣⁣

On my way, I glimpsed fleeting scenes of unrest: ragged men arguing with guards, a Dunmer woman weeping over her child, young Imperials hurling stones at a passing Thalmor patrol. Yet I closed my heart to them. Cheydinhal, with all its noise and ruin, was already fading into the past, and ahead of me lay only another escape, another desperate flight toward unknown horizons.

So many such departures had already scarred my short life, each tearing away a piece of me as I left behind the graves of those I loved. And I began to wonder if this was my true fate: to remain forever the accursed fugitive — never allowed to stay, never allowed to belong, always bringing death upon those who cared about me. Yes, that made sense after all: Sithis was my betrothed. And strangely, I welcomed it, as Mephala wove this thought into my tormented mind like a silken thread of doom.⁣

The innkeeper did not want beggars in his hall, so I sat outside near the doorway, my little pot for alms at my side. The cobblestones pressed cold into me, and I wrapped my rags closer, not against the chill, but against the doubts and fears tearing my soul apart. What I was about to do weighed on me like a curse, and it was one of the most abject murders a mortal could commit.

Rasha—my father, my brother, my lover—who had never wronged me, who had shaped my life and heart, was doomed to die by my own hand. And though I told myself it was for the sake of our Mother, and the only way for our Brotherhood to be reborn, that thought did not ease me. No, it only sharpened the cruelty of it, as if the gods themselves were mocking me with their harsh indifference and sly schemes.⁣
⁣
Fortunately, I did not have much time for such troubling thoughts. I heard a soft, lilting whistle from above, and there she was: Courtney, her eyes bright and a big smile blooming on her face. She was standing in the window of her room and motioned me to come up. I shook my head and lowered my gaze, so shortly after, my beloved friend stepped outside instead, her walk as natural and free as ever, and strolled into the streets.

I followed her through the crowded marketplace she wandered, and then to a mercery, from which she emerged waving a few blue ribbons in her hand. We exchanged glances and then traded roles—she behind me, I leading. Without a word, we slipped from the city gates into the open road.

After a while, I turned sharply and then waited in the hush of the roadside brush, heart hammering, until her soft steps found me again. And Courtney came, and we fell into each other's arms. She smelled of wind and wildflowers. Her hair, untamed and sunlit, spilled over me like a silken wave. We laughed, and we wept, clinging as though to prove to ourselves that we were truly there, alive and together.

"I thought I would never see you again!" she cried.

Her voice was both a wound and a balm. My heart, bruised as it was, drank in her presence like a convalescent sips sparkling wine—weak still, but made whole again, for a time. She wanted to speak, to tell me everything at once, but I pressed a finger to her lips and hushed her with a look.

Together we walked into the forest. The warm southern wind stirred the leaves above us, filling the air with whispers. After a long, winding detour, we reached the ravine where the hidden entrance of the Sanctuary lay waiting.

I descended into the small valley and showed Courtney how to use the hidden mechanism that opened the iron door to our haven. Then I led her to the chamber where our Mother's sarcophagus stood, revealing also the second secret contraption.

Inside, Cicero, who had just been chanting, rolled his eyes when he saw my friend and opened his mouth to speak, but I silenced him with a single look, cold and stern. He instantly clamped his mouth shut, looking very worried, though. I briefly ordered him to search our den for the crate used by Rasha when he had brought our Mother from Bravil.⁣

And then I left again, Courtney by my side.

After we emerged once more into the sunlit weald, we stopped in a small glade. The grass was tall, bending in the breeze, and the world seemed—just for a heartbeat—untouched by shadows. I sank into the green softness, pulled Courtney close, and with my arms wrapped tight around her, I whispered, looking straight into her bright, questioning eyes:

"You must leave right now for Poppad Lake. Look for the fishermen who sheltered us when we first came. If they are still alive and around, hire one with a boat—he must sail up the river as far as he can to the city walls. If you cannot find them, then go south, to the Yellow Road. Search the villages there for a cart to rent..."

I pressed a small purse of gold into her hands.

Courtney stared at me, then suddenly laughed, a short, sharp burst that cut through the fragrant silence like a silver bell:

"The little golden-haired princess, Her Highness, commands, and her most humble, loyal servant obeys! Tell me, my darling—what will you do while I play the errand girl?"

"Me?" I said quietly. "I must murder Rasha. And then prepare his body for the great passage."

The laughter froze on her lips.

Her eyes widened, the ribbons she held slipped from her hands into the grass, and she seized mine with a desperate force.

"You can't be serious!" she gasped.

"I'm deadly serious," I said. "And please, Courtney, don't ask me more. Not now. The story is long, far too long, and you would not understand anyway... But afterward—afterward, we will have all the time in the world to talk."

For a long moment, there was only silence. Then, through trembling lips, she whispered,

"If Rasha must die... then promise me you won't do it yourself! You won't survive it, Elsie. It will destroy you. And I—I couldn't bear to lose you..."

Tears welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks as she pulled me against her heart.

And I—weak as I was, torn between duty and love—rested in her embrace, drinking in the warmth of her body, the scent of her wild hair, the trembling of her breath.

Oh, how my heart swelled with love for her in that instant, fragile and fierce at once!

But I had terrible things to do.

"I'll see about that, my dear," I sighed, untangling myself gently. "Now go. We must not linger. Make sure the boat is here in two days, at dusk."

I rose to my feet before she could answer. Without daring to look back into her pleading eyes, I turned, went to the hidden entrance of the Sanctuary, and vanished once more into the dark.

⁣I walked into the alcove where Mother's sarcophagus rested, cold and uncaring. Ignoring Cicero, I sank to my knees, my tears dripping onto the cold stone as I whispered:
⁣
"𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘪𝘧 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘶𝘱 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘦. 𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴, 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦."⁣
⁣
From his shadowed corner, Cicero let out a piercing croak:
⁣
"𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦!"⁣

A fury flared wildly in me—I rushed at him, grasped his shoulders, shaking him violently, avoiding those eyes of his that seemed now black and deep as a midnight well. But he did not resist. Calmly, almost tenderly, he pried my hands away, yet did not release them; instead, he held them gently in his grasp, and with a dry little laugh, whispered:

"Don't fret, sweet mother... poor little Cicero will do it for you. Just say the word."

His voice was no longer sharp or shrill, but low, grave—an echo from some abyss where time itself had drowned. And when his hands touched mine, I trembled.

I could not look away. His gaze—dark, obsidian, endless—became a mirror. In it, I saw my own guilt, the ruin of our brotherhood, and above all, the hungry for revenge smile of Mephala. Ah, yes—the Queen smiled! Upon him, upon me, upon the weave of fate itself. I knew then that She forgave us both.

Yet in those same eyes lay kindness, sadness... the fleeting gentleness of one who carries madness as others carry wisdom. In that moment, the clown was no longer a fool but a sage—an emissary of something stranger, older than the world.

From that gaze, peace descended on me—a peculiar peace. Only those who have lived it know what I mean. It is not hope, not joy, but true, absolute resignation: the solace that comes when you know that a beloved soul, after a long and painful illness, is standing at the last threshold, ready to cross, and all you can do is clasp their hand as they pass beyond.

And I said loud and clear:

"Do it, First Among the Faithful. In the name of our Lady, I command you."

At once Cicero's face lit up, as though a candle had flared within him. The gravity vanished; his eyes returned to their clear, crystalline blue, and his voice rang through the chamber like the laughter of a child:

"Sleep now, sweet mother! Cicero will fulfill your command!"⁣

I left then, passing through the vast and almost empty common dormitory. Only Garnag sat on his bed, staring into nothingness. I let him dream awake, and my steps echoed loudly along the deserted corridor as I passed the door of Rasha's room. I did not stop. I did not enter. I moved on.

In my chamber, the little crystal vase still held the flowers he had once picked for me. Their petals drooped, weary of life, and as I crossed the room, one fell—soundless, weightless—like the last fare thee well uttered by a gentle soul.⁣

I lay upon the pillows he had given me with such quiet devotion. I tried to read from one of the books he had brought, but the words blurred before my eyes, refusing to take shape. Closing it, I surrendered to my thoughts, and they carried me back to him:

Rasha — young, strong, agile, cruel, and brave, as he had been that rainy autumn night when he tore me from the hands of my tormentors.
Rasha — wrathful as a vengeful demon, fighting against all odds upon the Great Bridge of the Imperial City, rescuing me from death once more.
Rasha — mature and merciless, yet burning with life, as he had been in those happy days of Bravil, when the shadows that embraced us with love seemed eternal.

Sleep, that balm of oblivion, drifted through my remembrances, enfolding me in its gentle embrace, and Rasha faded, becoming but a dream among many others.

Shaira came first, her eyes soft in a way they had never been in our time spent together. She was young again, as I never saw her, holding a small kitten to her breast with infinite tenderness. Beside her stood Raha, tall and proud, his great whiskers twirled with vanity, his smile sly and amused—the father who had always been a gifted comedian.

Shaira placed the kitten in my arms.

"I entrust him to you, my dear daughter. I beseech you, guard well my beloved son!"

"Yes, Elsie, take good care of him! Our boy is a bit wild, not like us," Raha added with a chuckle.⁣

My mother and father's faces blurred and melted away; their voices faded, and in their place came the Darkness.

Into the Darkness, amid countless silvery webs—delicate yet eternal—upon a throne carved from a monstrous diamond, sat the Queen. She cast me a contemptuous look, though not without a trace of satisfaction, and said:

"Why did it take you so long? Well, you may leave now, little thing."

"Wake up, sweet mother! They are close now!"

The dream shattered into small shards and suddenly vanished. Cicero was shaking me with blunt insistence, and I rose from Darkness dizzy and very confused.

"And besides," he added, his voice quivering with mirth, "our Mother needs us; her works can't wait much longer."

"Who are they?" My words stumbled from lips still heavy with sleep.

"The Duchess's hounds, mother," Cicero sang, and in his mouth the word "hounds" had a chilling sweetness.

"Ah... Sithis' will, then! And Rasha...?"

"Your command has been fulfilled, sweet mother."

At that, a sickness spread within me—an exhaustion like the first chill of fever before an illness consumes the body. My thoughts were sluggish, yet at last I whispered:

"We must protect our Mother's body. They must not find Her... no matter what happens to us."

"But the hounds won't be entering here any time soon, mother!" Cicero's giggle echoed like glass shattering in the silence. "Poor Cicero took care of everything while his sweet mother slept. Ah, how beautifully you slept... and your smile!"

He seized my hand, childlike, pulling me into the corridor. His laughter led me forward until he stopped at a familiar door. He flung it wide.

Rasha lay stretched upon his narrow bed. The candlelight trembled across his still face. Garnag stood guard, stiff and foolish, like a statue carved by a drunken mason, the candle quivering in his hand. His eyes were vacant, yet fixed on the dead with a reverence that pierced my soul. He was still faithful to my brother...

I bowed my head in silence and followed Cicero further. The air grew stale, the walls close. He stopped before a mound of rubble and stone blocking the cellar's passage.

"Ah, little and helpless Cicero did this," he chuckled, pointing to a jagged hole in the wall. The iron claws of a grappling hook jutted from its depths—an ancient protective mechanism, long hidden, long forgotten, now awakened by boundless loyalty.

I understood and felt sadness and regret again; the legendary Sanctuary of Cheydinhal was about to vanish beneath stone, dirt, and silence, just as the ancient Brotherhood had faded into myth.⁣
⁣
I returned with Cicero behind me to the room where Rasha's body was lying. I avoided looking at him for the time being and began to give commands. I sent Garnag to fetch water—lots of water, all the water from the Sanctuary, and I asked Cicero to search the plinth of Mother's sarcophagus and look for a way by which this could be brought into the secret corridor that led to the hidden ravine near Cheydinhal's walls.⁣
⁣
When Garnag finished his task, I sent him off to assist Cicero in his work and returned to Rasha's body. I stripped him of his blood-stained clothes, washed his body, and trimmed his beard and sideburns. Then I clothed him in his shining courtier's garments — deep velvet and silver thread — and shod him in fine leather boots, the golden spurs glinting mournfully and chiming like a fragile echo of the days when he strode alive and terrible across the world.
⁣
It was terribly hard to accomplish all these sad chores because my brother's body was completely stiff, having the hardness and coldness of stone. This seemed odd to me, but I was so overwhelmed by the significance of the work I was doing that I didn't give it much thought. Cicero came a couple of times, eager to tell me something, but I shooed him away without wanting to hear what he had to say.⁣
⁣
And later, drained of strength, with a wounded and grieving soul and a mind overwhelmed with shame and a huge sense of guilt, I finished everything I felt I had to do for the moment.⁣
I pulled up a chair beside the bed where my brother's body lay. And then I wept, a cry that eased my soul a bit, just as a short summer rain cools only a little the cracked earth, parched by the sun's blinding heat. I stopped only when I felt a hand on my shoulder.⁣
⁣
"How dare you—!" I snapped, whirling around in blind rage.⁣
⁣
But in front of me stood Courtney, her eyes soft with love and sorrow, like a summer storm held just behind her lashes. And behind her, with one eye black and blood running from his nose, came Cicero limping.⁣
⁣
"That harlot thrashed little Cicero, mother!" he sobbed.⁣
⁣
"Did you do that, my dear?" I asked Courtney and she replied, "Yes."⁣
⁣
An overwhelming laughter burst from my chest, where my heart was struggling in pain. Cicero instantly forgot that his leg hurt and started hopping on one leg across the room.⁣
⁣
"Mother is merry, mother is content, ah, Cicero is so happy!"⁣
⁣
And Courtney took my head in her arms and, burying her face in my hair, began to cry. And that made me cry again. But this time it was a cry that heals wounds not yet hardened into scars — the kind that soothes young hearts, untwisted yet by time. And when we both calmed down and looked into each other's eyes, we knew we had important and sacred work to do.⁣

I got up and went to the room where Mother's sarcophagus was. I say it was because the two of them, Cicero and Garnag, had already carried it near the secret exit from the Sanctuary. Garnag was sitting on the ground and drinking from his ever-present pitcher of beer while Cicero, crouched in a corner, was mumbling something:⁣
⁣
"One last thorn... One more for the Queen's crown. Out it must come... out, out..."⁣
⁣
I ignored him and asked Courtney why she was back so early and if she had gotten the boat. And Courtney looked at me in astonishment and replied that she had come just when I had ordered her, and the boat was waiting on Reed River, a few stone throws from the walls of Cheydinhal.⁣
⁣
I gathered all four around me and told them that we should bury Rasha. I would have liked his grave to be somewhere under the ancient floor of the Sanctuary, but I feared that those who'd enter here later would vandalize his resting place. So I decided to take him outside and bury him somewhere in the weald that bordered the secret valley. I wrapped his body in a silk drapery with the Black Hand sign imprinted on it—a drapery that had adorned his room until then.⁣
⁣
Then we carried him deep into the whispering forest, as far as our limbs and hearts would allow, and there, in a small clearing, close to the huge trunk of an oak tree, under the spectral light of Secunda, Cicero, Garnag, and Courtney dug my brother's grave. I stood and watched them, and when they came to me, I told them that the hole was not deep enough. And they nodded gravely and continued digging until I let them know it was enough.⁣
⁣
Then Courtney and I went down into the grave and laid my brother's body carefully at the bottom.⁣
⁣
We wrapped him tightly in the silk wrapping, and then I leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. Courtney looked at me questioningly, and I nodded briefly. And she kissed Rasha on the forehead, too. We both climbed out of the grave with the help of Garnag, and then all three of them began to shovel the loose dirt over my brother's body. And when the grave was half filled, Cicero stopped, put the shovel down, and said:⁣
⁣
"Ah, little Cicero is so tired..."⁣
⁣
Then, with a sigh, he sat down.⁣
⁣
The other two continued their work, and I took Cicero's shovel from the bottom and tried to help them. But Courtney turned to me and, looking affectionately, told me to stay out of the way and not to tangle them. And just then, Cicero pounced like a snake from below and killed Garnag.⁣
⁣
We both watched as Cicero pushed Garnag's body into the grave and then, serene, as if nothing had happened, continued to fill in the hole.⁣
⁣
Courtney clung to me, and I felt her trembling. I held her close, and she lowered herself to the ground and hugged my legs. My hand wandered softly through her hair, and we waited while Cicero finished burying the bodies. He put down the shovel, came over to us, and looked at me with his pure blue eyes, soft and questioning like a child's.⁣
⁣
"Cicero finished his work, mother! He finished all tasks, exactly as you wished! Can we go now? Little Cicero is hungry! And cold!" he scolded in the cool of the coming morning.⁣
⁣
"No, not yet, Keeper! Come to us and kneel!"⁣
⁣
And Cicero did that, and with both of them at my feet, I chanted a hymn to Sithis and entrusted Rasha to our Mother, begging Her to be merciful to him as to all the other brothers and sisters who had died for their mistakes, greed, pride, and lack of faith. I then swore that the new Order would follow only the old ways and begged our Lady to renew our Vows and Creed when She was willing. And then I said in a loud voice:⁣
⁣
"The Dark Brotherhood is no more! Therefore, I hereby outlaw any so-called current Listener!"⁣
⁣
Then I watched them both. Cicero looked at me in awe, and Courtney gazed at me with tearful, amazed, and loving eyes.⁣
⁣
Right then, to the east, Masser, still hidden by the mountains, began to cast its reddish glow over the land. Somewhere, not near but neither too far away, an owl began to hoot...⁣
⁣
'𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵,' I whispered as I gazed lovingly at them.⁣

And yet, somewhere deep beneath the weight of darkness and silence, a spider stirred in her web...

⁣
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐧𝐝⁣
⁣
𝘉𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘋𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 2023- 𝘔𝘢𝘺 2025

Chapter Text

𝐀𝐥𝐝𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐢 𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧; 𝐀𝐥𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐫⁣⁣
The Altmer, or self-proclaimed "Cultured People," are a tall, golden-skinned race native to the Summerset Isles. Known to the rest of Tamriel as High Elves, they are often perceived as proud, elitist, or even snobbish. Altmer have an impressive lifespan, living two to three times longer than humans.⁣⁣
Regarded as the most sophisticated civilization in Tamriel, the Altmer take pride in their cultural dominance—Tamriel’s common tongue is rooted in their language, and many of the Empire’s arts, laws, and sciences stem from their traditions. They are highly intelligent, strikingly beautiful, and exceptionally gifted in the arcane arts.⁣⁣
The Aldmeri Dominion (meaning "Home of the Elves") is their powerful empire, centered in the Summerset Isles. ⁣⁣
In Elsie's world, this Dominion is aggressive and expansionist, seeking to assert Altmer's authority over all of Tamriel.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐀𝐫𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐚𝐧⁣⁣
The Argonians (Saxhleel, or People of the Root in their native tongue) are the reptilian natives of Black Marsh, a vast and unforgiving swampland in southeastern Tamriel. Other races, often in a derogatory manner, refer to them as Lizard Folk.⁣⁣
Masters of guerrilla warfare, the Argonians have defended their borders for countless centuries, striking from the marshes of their treacherous homeland. Agile and cunning, they possess a natural immunity to poison and disease, can breathe underwater, and are exceptional swimmers. Though often underestimated, they are also adept spellcasters and masters of stealth.⁣⁣
In the rigid racial hierarchies of Tamriel, they are classified as "Beastfolk" (Betmeri), distinct from Men and Mer. Their alien nature is the subject of much speculation—Argonians are often seen as expressionless, enigmatic, and slow to trust, making them one of the most mysterious peoples of Tamriel.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐀𝐲𝐥𝐞𝐢𝐝⁣⁣
The Ayleids, also known as the Heartland High Elves, were the first race to establish an empire in Tamriel, ruling over what is now Cyrodiil for countless ages, dating back to a time before recorded history. They were the founders of the Imperial City and the architects of the White-Gold Tower, which they revered as the Temple of the Ancestors.⁣⁣
According to TES lore, the Ayleid Empire collapsed long ago, brought down by a massive slave rebellion. However, in Elsie’s universe, their fate took a different turn—rather than falling to ruin, the Ayleid people chose to leave the mortal world, sailing across the unknown seas in enchanted boats toward a fabled paradise, the land of eternal spring. What they found there... well, that’s another story. No spoilers—sorry for that!⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐃𝐚𝐞𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐜 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐯𝐬. 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬⁣⁣
In the world of The Elder Scrolls, the term "Daedric Prince" refers to powerful, otherworldly beings who exist outside the traditional pantheon of gods. While both Daedric Princes and gods are divine entities, they are fundamentally different in nature and influence. Daedric Princes are beings of immense power who rule over specific realms within Oblivion, the chaotic and often dangerous dimension that exists outside the mortal world. These entities are not concerned with maintaining order or following moral standards; instead, they are driven by their desires, whims, and goals, often causing conflict, chaos, or corruption in the process. They are not bound by the typical laws of mortality or creation, and their influence can be unpredictable.⁣⁣
On the other hand, gods (also known as Aedra) are the traditional deities that play a more active role in the creation and sustenance of the mortal world. The gods are typically associated with stability, law, and the maintenance of natural and societal order. In contrast to the Daedric Princes, gods are often revered by the mortals as sources of protection, guidance, and worship.⁣⁣
While mortals can invoke and interact with both types of divine beings, the Daedric Princes are known for their fickleness and often malevolent nature, offering power or favor in exchange for loyalty or service, while gods are seen as more reliable and generally benevolent in their influence.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝⁣⁣
A secretive guild of assassins operating across Tamriel. Though they serve Sithis, the embodiment of chaos, their spiritual matron is Mephala, whom Sithis entrusted with guiding the Brotherhood in his name.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧⁣⁣
Go to Aldmeri Dominion; Altmer.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐃𝐮𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐫⁣⁣
The Dunmer, known as Dark Elves by the Imperials, Ash-Elves by the Daedra, or Pureblooded Folk by themselves, are the grey-skinned, red-eyed natives of Morrowind. Though often called Dark Elves, they and their Aldmeri kin prefer the term Dunmer. The word dark carries many meanings—"dark-skinned," "gloomy," and "ill-favored by fate." The Dunmer, with their grim pride, embrace all these connotations with enthusiasm.⁣⁣
Blessed with sharp intellects and agile, resilient physiques, Dunmer excel as warriors and sorcerers. They live two to three times longer than humans, and their pride makes them distrusted by others, just as they, in turn, distrust outsiders.⁣⁣
Often described as proud, clannish, ruthless, and cruel, the Dunmer value loyalty and family above all else. They are infamous for their quick tempers and long memories, nursing grudges that last for generations. Despite their formidable talents, their vengeful nature, internal strife, and history of betrayals have kept them from achieving greater dominance in Tamriel.⁣⁣
Dunmer raised in Morrowind are said to be far harsher and less welcoming than those who grew up under Imperial influence, though even the latter never truly forget where they come from.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐄𝐦𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞⁣⁣
The Empire refers to the realms ruled by Men on the continent of Tamriel. Its seat of power lies in the Imperial City, the beating heart of the Empire—both in this novel and in TES lore.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐊𝐡𝐚𝐣𝐢𝐢𝐭⁣⁣
The Khajiit (meaning desert-dweller in their native tongue, Ta'agra) are a race of feline-like people from Elsweyr, known for their exceptional intelligence and agility. These traits make them naturally skilled thieves and acrobats, though many are also formidable warriors.⁣⁣
Their anatomy differs greatly from that of both Men and Mer, not only due to their fur, tails, and digitigrade stance, but also because of their unique digestive system and accelerated metabolism.⁣⁣
Elsie has always held a deep fondness for the Khajiit. Raised by a Khajiit family, she adopted many of their traits and customs—and, of course, she is fluent in their notoriously difficult language, Ta'agra. At times, she even claims to be Khajiit herself, specifically of the Ohmes kind.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐡𝐚𝐧⁣⁣
Lorkhan, the Missing God, is present in every Tamrielic mythic tradition. He is said to be the architect of Nirn, the one responsible for the world's creation—a divine act that disrupted the celestial order in ways that are still debated by scholars and priests alike.⁣⁣
Legends tell that after Nirn took form, the gods turned against him. Some say he was slain, others that he was mutilated, his divine essence stripped away and cast adrift. His sundered heart, the Heart of Lorkhan, is said to hold unimaginable power, forever lost... or perhaps merely waiting to be found.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧 ( 𝐋𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞)⁣⁣
Once a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, Lucien Lachance became a legend among assassins—feared, respected, and ultimately betrayed. Yet death was not the end for him. In Elsie's world, Mephala herself claimed his soul, binding it for eternity within the Spiral Skein, where he now serves as her most trusted and loyal shade.⁣⁣
Whispered to be Her favorite, Lucien moves unseen through the silken shadows of her realm, a voice in the dark and a dagger behind the veil—ever plotting, ever watching.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐡⁣⁣
Malacath is the Daedric Prince of Exile, Curses, and the Ostracized. Once revered as the god of the Orcs (Orsimer), Malacath embodies strength, defiance, and revenge, especially for those who have been cast aside or rejected by society. Unlike other Daedric Princes, Malacath is a deity who prizes honor and loyalty above all, especially in the face of adversity. Though his followers are often seen as outcasts, Malacath provides them with a sense of identity and purpose, guiding them to embrace their marginalized status and fight for respect and survival.⁣⁣
Malacath's realm, the Ashpit, is a harsh, desolate land of burning ruins and twisted landscapes, a reflection of the hardship and suffering endured by those who follow him. It is a place where only the strongest survive and where vengeance is a core tenet. Those who invoke Malacath do so for strength and justice, often calling on him in times of great personal or communal strife.⁣⁣
Malacath's followers value resilience, revenge against betrayal, and the fierce defense of their kin. Though he is vengeful and unforgiving, Malacath's code is one of personal honor, and he expects loyalty and respect from those who serve him.⁣⁣
"𝘛𝘰 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘺 𝘔𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯. 𝘛𝘰 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦."⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐚⁣⁣
Mara is the Goddess of Love, Compassion, and Fertility. In Elsie's world, Mara is revered as a nurturing goddess, embodying both the healing power of affection and the dark complexities of desire. While she is a symbol of romantic love and maternal care, her influence often comes at a cost. The relationships she fosters are not always pure or innocent, as Mara's followers are taught to believe that true love can only be realized through sacrifice and devotion, sometimes leading to obsession or manipulation. Mara's realm is one of boundless affection, but it is also a place where hearts can be torn apart by passion and longing.⁣⁣
Her followers, often priests or devoted lovers, invoke Mara's blessings to ensure prosperity, harmony, and the growth of families, but they also understand that Mara's love, much like the forces of nature, is unpredictable and can be as destructive as it is healing.⁣⁣
"𝘛𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘴𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯."⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫 is the larger of the two moons of Nirn.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐌𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐚⁣⁣
Mephala is the Daedric Prince of Murder, Secrets, and Intrigue. She is a master of manipulation and deception, thriving on the chaos of conflict and the destruction of relationships. Mephala is often associated with the darker aspects of social and political maneuvering, where shadows and whispers create webs of power. Her followers are those who seek control through subtlety—assassins, spies, and schemers. Mephala's influence is said to weave through all aspects of society, nurturing the hidden tensions that lead to betrayal and treachery.⁣⁣
Mephala's realm, the Spiral Skein, is a place of ever-shifting labyrinths, where deception and complexity reign supreme. It is said that to understand Mephala's true nature is to embrace the endless cycle of conflict and manipulation. She is a deity who feeds on strife, often playing both sides to her advantage.⁣⁣
"𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘣 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘪𝘧𝘵."⁣⁣
In Elsie's world, Mephala manifests in three avatars: the Unholy Mother (linked in ways beyond mortal comprehension to the goddess Mara of Bravil), the Queen of Oblivion, and the Eternal Spider.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐥𝐞⁣⁣
A Nightingale is a member of the Nightingale Trinity, a secretive inner circle within the Thieves Guild. While there is no formal connection between the two, the Trinity often holds great influence over the guild's affairs. Membership is granted by Nocturnal herself, who chooses from among the most skilled thieves.⁣⁣
Initiates must take an Oath before Nocturnal, vowing to guard the Twilight Sepulcher, her sacred temple, and ensure that the Skeleton Key, her most treasured artifact, remains within its sanctum.⁣⁣
Contrary to common belief, the Oath is not an act of religious devotion, but a contract—a business transaction between thieves and their patron. While many Nightingales hold deep reverence for Nocturnal, they do not worship her; they serve her interests in exchange for her favor.⁣⁣
Elsie, however, was not chosen—she was born a Nightingale. For generations, the women of her bloodline have served in Nocturnal's shadow, nearly every lineage producing at least one Nightingale. Yet unlike others, she never took the Oath, nor will she ever be asked to. To Nocturnal, she is not just a servant, but a confidant, an extension of the Goddess's will—a vessel through which the Lady Luck indulges in mortal affairs and weaves her influence into the political and economic currents of Tamriel.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐍𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥⁣⁣
Nocturnal is the Daedric Prince ( or the Daedric Princess) of Darkness, Shadows, and Thievery, revered by thieves, spies, and those who live in secrecy. She created and rules the Evergloam, a realm of perpetual twilight, often referred to as the "cradle of shadow." Scholars describe it as a place of eerie, dim light, where towering forests stretch across a purple-hued landscape, and the trees cast long, haunting shadows.⁣⁣
Nocturnal is a patroness of stealth and secrecy, offering protection to those who operate in the shadows. Her followers believe that through darkness and hidden actions, great power and success can be achieved, though always at a price.⁣⁣
She is a deceptive and mendacious entity, a master of lies and illusion, who thrives on manipulation and secrecy. Nocturnal is also known for her love of ravens, creatures she holds in a near-obsessive reverence.⁣⁣
"𝘐'𝘮 𝘜𝘳-𝘥𝘳𝘢! 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘖𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘔𝘦𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘢, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘕𝘰𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭— 𝘰𝘳 𝘓𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘓𝘶𝘤𝘬!"⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐎𝐡𝐦𝐞𝐬 ( a Khajiit variant)⁣⁣
The Ohmes are a rare, bipedal breed of Khajiit, known for their striking resemblance to humans—or, more specifically, to the Bosmer (wild elves). They are often shorter than their elven counterparts, yet share similar features. Lacking the fur that defines most Khajiit, many tattoo or paint their faces to mimic feline markings, ensuring their heritage is unmistakable.⁣⁣
Due to their appearance and adaptability, Ohmes are often regarded as exceptional spies and diplomats, capable of blending seamlessly into diverse societies.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐭𝐞⁣⁣
Peryite is the Daedric Prince of Pestilence, Disease, and the Culling of the Weak. His dominion is one of suffering and purification through illness, where pestilence is both a curse and a means of cleansing. Peryite governs the natural cycle of decay and renewal, often bringing about diseases and plagues as a reminder of mortality's inevitability. He is revered by those who see illness as a necessary evil, a tool for the eradication of weakness and corruption. In his view, disease is not inherently evil, but a force that tests strength and purges the unworthy.⁣⁣
Peryite's realm is filled with the diseased and the afflicted, and it is said that the Prince's power manifests most strongly through the spreading of contagions, especially the slow and insidious kind. His followers often work in silence, administering pestilence and plague as a means of purification or as a form of punishment. Peryite's influence is feared, yet some consider him a necessary evil, his actions serving as a reminder that balance can only be achieved through both creation and destruction.⁣⁣
"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘬 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘶𝘮𝘣, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘳𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘱𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥."⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐚 is the smaller of the two moons in orbit of Nirn.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐒𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬⁣⁣
Sithis is the primordial force of chaos; the very embodiment of change and entropy. Though often spoken of as a god, Sithis is neither Aedra nor Daedra—he is beyond such classifications, a concept more than an entity; he is not something that 'is,' but rather something that 'happens'.His domain is the Void, a realm of nothingness that lies beyond both Oblivion and Aetherius. Sithis is feared by the common folk and nobles alike, and rarely worshiped openly, except in the Black Marsh, where the Argonian people hold him in reverence. Assassin organizations like the Morag Tong and the Dark Brotherhood regard Sithis as their supreme patron, yet he never speaks to them directly—only through his chosen intermediaries.⁣⁣
In the end, to define Sithis is a futile endeavor—for how does one describe that which is, at times, nothing at all?⁣⁣
"𝘞𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦! 𝘖𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘯𝘦. 𝘞𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘚𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘳. '𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘶𝘴!' 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥. '𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘶𝘴 𝘥𝘪𝘦!' "⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐒𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐤𝐞𝐢𝐧⁣⁣
The Spiral Skein is the realm of Mephala, the Daedric Prince of secrets, lies, and hidden murder. It is a twisted plane of Oblivion, structured like a vast, living web—each thread leading to deception, intrigue, or doom.⁣⁣
At its center stands a strange and unsettling palace, an architectural contradiction built from a chaotic mix of opulence and decay. Here, walls of gold-veined obsidian stand beside crumbling sections of splintered wood, tarnished brass, and rotting cloth, as if the grandeur of the structure were forever tainted by the filth it tries to conceal.⁣⁣
Deep within lies the Throne Hall, a vast, lightless chamber where darkness pools like ink. At its heart sits a throne carved from a monstrous, faceted diamond, cold and majestic in its strange beauty. Around it stretch delicate silver webs, their silken threads trembling under the scurry of countless tiny spiders, ever-watchful, ever-moving.⁣⁣
Also, see Mephala.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐫⁣⁣
Stendarr is the God of Justice, Mercy, and Vigilance; in Elsie's world, He is a rigid and unyielding divinity. Stendarr is a protector of the existing social order and a judge who demands strict adherence to his laws. Those who stray from His teachings are seen as heretics, to be either redeemed or eradicated. Stendarr's realm is one of order, but it is also a place where suffering is often inflicted to bring about the "greater good". His fervent and fanatical followers, the members of Stendarr's Order, are very busy with sinners' purification, which is often obtained on the burning pyres of redemption... Modeled after the Spanish Inquisition during the end of the Reconquista, the Order of Stendarr from Elsie's world is zealous and unforgiving, enforcing moral and societal purity with a heavy hand.⁣⁣
The common people still see him sometimes as a benevolent deity, but this is only valid in times of peace and prosperity when His Order usually retreats in their fortified monasteries...⁣⁣
"𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘥. 𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘫𝘶𝘥𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘭𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯."⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥⁣⁣
Tamriel is one of the main continents of the planet Nirn. It is divided into nine provinces: Black Marsh, Cyrodiil, Elsweyr, Hammerfell, High Rock, Morrowind, Skyrim, Summerset Isles, and Valenwood. These provinces were once united under the rule of the Empire, with its capital in Cyrodiil.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐫⁣⁣
The Thalmor refers to an Altmeri governmental organization that has served each of the three historical Aldmeri Dominions in varying capacities over time. The term also commonly applies to its members and the paramilitary agents who enforce its will.⁣⁣
In The Elder Scrolls lore, the Thalmor are often portrayed as elven supremacists, seeking to dismantle the Empire and eradicate the worship of Talos, whom they view as an affront to their religious doctrine (though it is important to note that this perspective is heavily influenced by accounts from former members of the Blades, the Imperial secret police).⁣⁣
In Elsie's world, however, the Thalmor function less as overt conquerors and more as a secret police, enforcing the political agenda of the Dominion through surveillance, coercion, and subtle manipulation.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝⁣⁣
The Thieves Guild is dedicated to the gathering and training of those who are stealthy and shadowy in their nature. Although criminal by its very definition, for untold years, local authorities in places throughout Tamriel have tolerated the existence of the guild for its role as "crime regulator", as it does not tolerate competition or egregious conduct from its members (not to mention the personal financial benefits for authorities who play nice). It is usually considered to be a distinct entity, though, of course, other organizations of the Empire do not officially condone their actions.

Chapter Text

Those who believe that the Voice died with the spilled blood understand nothing of the nature of things that cannot die. They are shallow and think only as pitiful mortals do.

When the Old Covenant was broken and the Sanctuary of Cheydinhal slipped into oblivion, it was not the end, but a new beginning. That morning, the Black Sun rose once more from the west. There were two suns in Nirn's sky that day, and people everywhere trembled and wept.

The invocation was uttered in the northern weald of the Duchy of Nibenay, beneath the cold eye of Secunda and the satisfied gaze of a Goddess thirsty for blood and righteous vengeance.

And the Goddess was so satisfied, so content, that She granted everything asked of Her that day.

The four—and then the three—were neither heroes nor villains. Three of them were the last living shadows of a Brotherhood that had forgotten how to die with dignity. And the fourth, who was never truly Dark Brotherhood because Elsie would not allow it, was an anchor. She kept her beloved friend whole in those terrible times and warmed her heart with a love burning and boundless.

That night, Elsie, daughter of night and sorrow, buried her brother not just in the damp forest soil, but deep within the flesh of the Old Law, birthing from betrayal's ashes a new Creed—quieter, purer, fiercer.

What became of them after that?

There are many tales, too many versions—perhaps all of them are true, in their own way. Each speaker or scribe saw the story through their own eyes, full of sympathies or resentments. And let's not even speak of the historians—all of them are parasites in robes, scribbling lies for their supper! Yet all sources agree on one point: after the fall of the old Dark Brotherhood, Elsie, Cicero, and Courtney traveled to the frozen lands of Skyrim.

What happened there?

It's written plainly in The Tamrielic Chronicles by Leif the Sage, a work universally accepted and included in the official histories of Nirn. A canonical text. But those truly learned know of an apocryphal version—written by Elsie herself. Just between us, Leif's opus is the "politically correct" version of a much truer, far more interesting, and dangerous book.

And later? Long after peace had wrapped its warm arms around Tamriel?

Of Cicero, old tales still echo in the crumbling harbors of Morrowind—that he sometimes laughed through tears, and wept through laughter. And that once a year, on a certain night, he would disappear into an ancient forest near Cheydinhal to bury his own shadow. And speak with an old friend.

Of Courtney, it is whispered that she once saw the moon and stars rise again above a reborn elven kingdom, somewhere beyond the forested hills of Valenwood. But that's not true. Everyone knows her mausoleum in the autumn forests near Riften—it's hard to miss and remains a place of pilgrimage for many Bosmer. The Courtney who ruled wisely in Valenwood was her daughter.

And of Elsie... nothing more is said. For those who try to speak of her never live long enough to finish the tale.
The Order of Stendarr sees to that.

We, the faceless chroniclers, are left only with forgotten testimonies, parchment gnawed by time, and whispers from beyond the Void.
But we know—oh, we know—that when silence deepens across Tamriel, and the forgotten sun begins to bleed once more, the faithful shall return.
And they shall speak her Name again.

— From The Chronicles of the Empress, author unknown, banned in four provinces and once burned in public by the Order of the Holy Light.

Chapter Text

Full name: Elsie Leifsdotter
Aliases: The Laughing Ghost, The Siren of the Woods
Approximate age at 4E 200: 19 years
Species: Human, Nord (with old blood, influenced by Daedric magic – descendant of a lineage where most women were Nightingales)
Place of origin: Unknown, possibly Riften
Astral Sign: Gemini ( by her daddy...)

🔮 Physical Appearance

Hair: Golden blonde, extremely long and wavy, sometimes with silverish reflections in Secunda's light

Eyes: Usually grey-ash, cold and hypnotic, like a starless night – yet capable of conveying deep sorrow, and warm joy; they are deceptive and change their color often, from yellow to dark green

Skin: Pale, almost translucent, like porcelain

Preferred attire: Short black robes made of fine and slightly transparent materials, combined with leather, lace, and ritual accessories. She wears strange amulets around her neck and rings carved with ancient runes

Particularities: Long, blood-red nails – actually retractable, cat-like claws. Her beauty is not just enchanting, but menacing – like a warning hidden in a soft melody.

🧙‍♀️ Powers and Abilities

Magic: Specializes in illusion magic and mind control.

Voice: Extremely melodic, capable of calming beasts or seducing spirits. It is said that to hear her sing in the weald means you'll never return.

Intelligence: Calculating and strategic, yet capable of deep compassion in rare moments. Sometimes displays childish behavior.

Favorite combat tools: Wields a ritual dagger called Lucky Dagger and uses magic combined with illusions to deceive her enemies. Occasionally, a heavy crossbow.

💔 Backstory and Character Traits

Elsie was born neither good nor evil; she was a girl like any other—maybe a bit shyer than most—but her troubled life demanded hard choices. Orphaned at a young age, she grew up on the streets of the Imperial City, often taking refuge in its sewers. A Khajiit family adopted her, and that strongly influenced Elsie's behaviour and habits. It is believed that she was instructed and initiated in Sithis' Mysteries by Alisanne Dupre, the last Listener of the vanished Dark Brotherhood.

Later, she killed the only man she ever loved, which caused her to withdraw into herself for good and forever. Elsie devoted her life to rebuilding the Dark Brotherhood and reshaping the Thieves Guild.

Temperament: Cold on the outside, but not at all devoid of sensitivity. Can be fiercely loyal to the rare few who earn her trust.

Motivations: Discovering the truth about her origins, fulfilling the commandments given by Nocturnal and Mephala, and releasing an ancient force bound by a forgotten pact.

Detentions: Imperial City, Fort Nikel: unknown duration—awaiting execution— by the Order of Stendarr; Bravil, Municipal Penitentiary: six months for indecent behavior by Bravil Municipality.

Warning: Exceptionally dangerous at nights when Secunda is full, during which she usually isolates herself as a precaution.

Miscellaneous: Subject exhibits compulsive tendencies toward theft and habitual dishonesty. Psychological pattern includes persistent acquisitive compulsion (kleptomania) and a proclivity for deception, both casual and calculated. Noted by multiple observers across jurisdictions.

🌙 Quote

"The world is neither kind nor just cruel. But I... I can be both. Or none of them."

Note

This document was recovered from the Imperial Archives of the White-Gold Tower. It is presumed to be a compiled excerpt derived from two now-unavailable observation dossiers: Codex Obscura: Psychological Extract – Subject E.L., reportedly held by the Thalmor Secret Archive of the Dominion, and Elsie: A Secret Accounting of Thought and Tendency, once preserved within the records of Cloud Ruler Temple. Both sources are believed to have been lost or deliberately destroyed.

Chapter Text

Money and thieves

"Money must flow, souls must come and pass, and locked gates must be opened with the right key—and the key, of course, is Mine."
Nocturnal, Codex Daedricus, the Twilight Appendix

Nocturnal is a restless entity. Her soul is deeply troubled—obsessed, even—with the deep desire for what She calls progress. Yet Her understanding of progress is strange, twisted, and entirely alien to mortal logic. She interferes in the world of men and mer with remarkable impudence, trampling the unspoken rules of the so-called Daedric Code with shameless delight.

Take, for instance, the Thieves Guild. Nocturnal founded it not out of justice or rebellion, but simply to keep wealth from stagnating, to make sure it doesn't rot in dusty vaults and damp caverns. While She does not fully comprehend the mortal concept of money, Lady Luck desires it to circulate—wildly, feverishly—through the veins of Tamriel's trade. She allows no rich man, no noble house, no merchant syndicate to rest easy. No lock is safe enough. No guards are numerous enough. For She, the Mistress of Twilight, has crafted a Daedric eugenics program—a divine breeding experiment that spans generations.

Yes, you heard correctly.

She forges lineages of exceptional thieves—mortal vessels selected, paired, and shaped like livestock on Nirn. It is, in essence, a sacred animal husbandry. But instead of cattle or horses, She breeds gifted thieves with hands like whispers and minds sharp as moonlight.

"The blood of mortals is clay. I am the potter, and sometimes I create amphorae of unparalleled beauty and grace. When I wish, I fill them with My divine essence."

Nocturnal, Sibylline Archives of the Shadow

That alone would be enough to leave scholars and chroniclers scratching their heads. No matter how learned or seasoned, no mortal mind can fully grasp the twisted elegance of Her schemes!

And beyond all that—beyond breeding, fortune, and theft—there is Her true passion: gambling!

But make no mistake, we are not speaking of the petty coin games played in taverns. No, Lady Luck gambles in fate. She places bets on the lives and deaths of her followers, wagers made with perverse delight and rules only She understands. The stakes are often cruel. The outcomes? Terrifying or amazing; death or incomensurable wealth. And Her games? Oh, they are always intricate, theatrical, filled with traps and illusions.

My beloved daughter, Elsie the Nightingale, once wrote in her already published tome:
"I can't help but smile sadly now as I write these words, knowing what I didn't know then: Nocturnal plays a strange and cruel game every time a thief reaches for a coin that gleams under moonlight, or embarks on a heist that feels too perfect. But more than that—my beloved Mistress is so perverse that She's rarely content with the simple thrill Her divine game is meant to stir. No, She cheats. And She does it boldly, shamelessly—so much so that I still find myself admiring Her nerve, even after all these years we spent together."

So apparently, She is no mere player. Perchance She is a master cheat, one who has elevated deception beyond perfection—perhaps even beyond absurdity. Scholars debate whether Her games serve a higher purpose, or if they are merely expressions of Her infinite boredom. But make no mistake: Lady Luck cannot be trusted, cannot be predicted, and certainly cannot be understood by mortal minds.

Even the wisest among us catch only rare glimpses of Her true intentions!

The Voidwalk of Nocturnal

Nocturnal is... unsettling in another way, too. Long ago—before Nirn was even born from the primordial ashes—She embarked on a strange journey into the forbidden realm of the Void.

At the time, She was still young, wild, even feral. The voyage itself came in the wake of the so-called Incident of Azura's Key—a calamity more whispered than written. That journey wasn't a mission, nor a conquest; it was an escape. A mad flight, punctuated by mocking laughter, and shadowed by an entity in the full glory of its unspeakable power.

The event is ancient. Oh, no! It's timeless. One of those rare myths that cloaks a shard of truth in a lavish tapestry of exaggeration, metaphor, and half-lies. And yet... that Key still exists. It now rests in the possession of my daughter, and it remains the subject of bitter contention between Nocturnal and Azura—a silent war of veils, threats, lies, and insinuations.

The full tale cannot be told here. Not even a skeletal version would fit in this space!

What matters is this: when Nocturnal returned from that true Odyssey into the Void, She was not the same. Something had changed; She was more focused, more silent, and vastly more powerful.

Which leads any free-thinking scholar to consider the unspeakable:
That perhaps She met Him there, in the black cradle of the Void—the true Master: Sithis.

Of Sithis and the Wars

Sithis... We mortals know little of Him, and what little we do know, we mostly fear—irrationally, pitifully, like children afraid of the dark without knowing why.

Yet there exists a select group in Tamriel who do not fear Sithis. No—they revere Him. They speak His name with reverence, and dedicate their lives to carrying out His Work.

I am not referring to the Lizard-Folk—the Argonians, as some call them. True, they honor Sithis in their own way, offering chanted prayers in moss-drenched shrines half-swallowed by the great swamp of Black Marsh. Yet their fear is ritualistic, ancestral. It is cautious. It is not understanding.

I speak of the Dark Brotherhood.

To the common people of Tamriel, they are no more than an underground crime syndicate, murderers for hire, or a cult of knives and whispered riddles. But this is only the surface. Beneath that surface lies an ancient, sacred mission—a covenant sealed in blood with the Dread Father Himself.

Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to speak of them. Not yet. Not ever, perchance... My daughter—yes, she will tell you, when and if the time is right, all that can be said about the Dark Brotherhood... and maybe about Sithis too.

What matters for us, for the purpose of this chapter, is this:

After Nocturnal returned from Her forbidden journey into the Void, something shifted. The world itself seemed to stir, like a beast waking in discomfort. The Aedra remained silent, but the Daedric Princes... oh, they grew restless! Wars erupted across Oblivion—true wars, not mere power plays or philosophical feuds, but cataclysms of will and form. Whole realms were scorched and reforged. It was then that the great Daedric kingdoms, as we know them today, were born.

Later, when mortal and conscious life came into being on Nirn, the same pattern emerged—though on a smaller scale, and in slower time. Thinking beings began to form tribes, then kingdoms, even empires... and instantly turned against one another. Endless war, endless ambition. The same cycle.

And here lies the first great paradox:

In the realms of Oblivion, the chaos eventually stabilized—after uncounted eons of destruction, the Princes reached a state of tense yet solid equilibrium. But on Nirn, war never ends. Kingdoms rise and fall, blades are drawn anew, and peace—true peace—is a lie told between massacres!

Why?

Perhaps the answer lies in that meeting in the Void.
Or mayhap Sithis is not only the end of things, but also the thing that must never stop. At least for the mortal realm, because the Daedric one is stagnant from the beginning.

Still, I don't intend to speak about Sithis in this particular study; Sithis, as my daughter told me some time ago, is just a tricky "dead end" for anybody trying to grasp some of the basic laws that govern Mundus. So, let's return to Nocturnal and see what Elsie says about her first perception of Lady Luck—an onirical one!

Wherein Elsie confesses her true and only love, and the first dream that bore Her name

"I love my Mistress Nocturnal! I love Her so much that the feeling is painful sometimes. Lady Luck is often haunting my dreams, yet the first one was truly tremedous in intensity and significance:

'I was running through a dense pine forest; the strong scent of resin, the ground so soft it felt like silk, and the mist, deepening the usual darkness of such gloomy woods, summoned around me a realm both unreal and magical. I suddenly stopped in a small clearing where the rays of a pale noonday sun barely managed to thin the damp mist; I did that because I heard my name being called by many overlapping voices! Frightened, I looked around, and then I saw it!

Through the heavy fog, a raven, perched on a gnarled branch, turned to look at me with an eye gleaming like a midnight shard. A low voice, flowing like honey laced with venom, whispered my name:

'Elsie...'

In that moment, I knew—the Twilight had chosen me. Terror filled my chest, yet wonder bloomed beside it, delicate and dark like a midnight flower. So I ran. I ran until the shadows of that day grew longer—and behind me, the raven laughed.' "

This paragraph is part of my daughter's memoirs and is relatively well-known. But let's reflect a bit on an apocryphal passage, one that Elsie erased at some point from the aforementioned tome:

"I think Nocturnal loves me. In Her own, twisted way, of course!

I love Her with all my heart, and I can feel Her breath on my neck and hair when I lie or try to sleep. I hear Her giggles when I cheat. She is the only one who never asks me to be honest. Perhaps because She knows I couldn't even if I tried, or perchance, She likes me in that way...

And yet... I hate Her. How could I not? We are too much alike!
And this hate of mine... It's of a special kind... Hm, it's not the way one hates a tyrant or an enemy. No, I hate Her like a child hates the parent who never held them, but always watched from the shadows. I hate Her because She owns pieces of me that I didn't even know I'd lost.

My Khajiit family — gods, I loved them. Warm paws. Soft purrs. Honest lies and shared scraps. They taught me to steal because they loved me. She taught me to vanish because She wanted me to be Hers. And, truth be told, I like to be owned by Her!

So I walk in both shadows now. One of fur and yellow, cruel eyes. And one of raven feathers and warm mist. And I suppose... that's who I am.

Oh, not to forget! The cat people revere Noctra, but they also fear Her terribly! And She? She doesn't like them at all, 'they are too smart for their own good!' as Lady Luck often says."

Well, what can I say? Perchance she, my beloved daughter Elsie, is not so sure about Her beloved Mistress's feelings! She is very wise for her age and also knows all too well that Nocturnal is a Daedra, an entity truly alien, but as any person in love, Elsie would want to bind somehow Her Mistress in the web of her passion. In any case, I must make a remark, an important one! This manuscript was recovered from a scorched codex found deep within the Evermist Crypts, near the statue of the Laughing Raven. The ink used is peculiar—when read under moonlight, it seems to shimmer. Some claim Elsie never wrote these words, that they were whispered into the pages by Her Lady Herself, in a cruel imitation of her voice. Others believe this is Elsie's purest confession, one she never dared publish in her "Story of a Nightingale." Either way, it reveals a soul in turmoil—torn between love and a most intimate form of surrender.

Nocturnal as an animal lover

"Oh yes, She is indeed an animal lover! Well, in Her own brilliant way, sure... What would you expect? She's a Daedra and not a benevolent one, I assure you of that!

Lady Luck has a curious fondness for the fauna of Tamriel. From the shadows, She watches them—beasts and birds alike—with gleaming eyes and a little smirk (I know She smirks!). With just a thought, She can stir them into frenzy or lull them into a trance, like a lullaby sung with moonlight. She's especially interested in or amazed by monkeys, foxes, and otters. Yes, otters! They're sneaky, smart, and always playing in the twilight waters. But Her greatest respect is saved for ravens—big, black, clever birds. Always circling Her mortal avatars, always whispering secrets. They are wise, cunning, and most of all... malevolent. And honestly, that's a pretty perfect way to describe a goddess like Her! Now, felines? Oh, that's a strange one! Nocturnal does not like house cats. Or tigers. Or lions. Yet She adores leopards—especially those rare, velvety black leopards who move like shadows and never miss a step. Silent. Deadly. Gracious. Beautiful. They are Her chosen ones among the beasts, and yes, She keeps an entire horde of them in Evergloam! I hope one day She lets me ride one!"
Excerpt from "Nocturnal, My Love and Bane" by Elsie Leifsdotter

This is one of those juvenile essays written by Elsie when she was very young and still pretty happy and content with her life. Written in the 197th Year of the Third Era, when the Nightingale was but sixteen years old and lacking the depth of her later theological treatises, this text showcases Elsie's budding obsession with Nocturnal — filtered through a lens of some kind of childlike wonder and curious zoological passion. Some scholars dismiss it as whimsical nonsense, but the Priests of Nocturnal have included it in several ceremonial readings, considering it a form of innocent revelation.

Let us now recap. In this little study of Nocturnal, the Goddess of Twilight, I have gathered together the universally known legends, my personal deductions drawn from the careful examination of countless manuscripts preserved in the Great Library of Arcana in Bravil (and here I must thank my daughter, Elsie, for granting me unrestricted access to whatever I wished to study), as well as quotations from various works signed Elsie Leifsdotter.

I have not included the uncertain — such as the rumors of great funds from the Thieves Guild of Tamriel being diverted into strange works of science or art — nor my private opinions on the peculiar forms of "divine inspiration" that sometimes touch mortal artists and scholars, past or present.
Some of their works are so extraordinary that I sincerely doubt they could have been conceived within the narrow bounds of mortal thought. Yet, as a sober chronicler concerned above all with the truth, I have refrained from recording anything that is not supported by at least some evidence — even if controversial.

In any case, I shall continue my research. And when the time is right, I will add new facets to the strange, alluring, and perilous "personality" of the Goddess.

Here ends the excerpt from my work, "Tamrielic Chronicles" by Leif the Sage.

Now, let's have Elsie, my beloved daughter, add some words!

Elsie, the Siren of the Weald, the wild avatar
Sometimes, when I wake up gasping from the Dream, I walk barefoot outside. I let the soil bite my soles and the dew soak my hair. I crouch low, and I listen. And in those moments, I feel the part of me that was never tamed—by books, by rituals, by the Lady Herself.
There is a jungle inside me, wet and dark and full of growls.
One day, I'll run into it. And I won't come back.

P.S.
As long as I breathe, I will never stop searching for Her. Sometimes I feel Her close—a shiver down my spine, a burst of laughter in the corner of the darkness, a black feather falling on my chest in the middle of the night. Other times, I see Nocturnal in the eyes of a panther, when they shine like two small stars.
I thank Her for Her secrets and hate Her for the things She has taken from me, but above all, I love Nocturnal — with a love that bites and caresses at the same time.
If you want to know the truth about Lady Luck, don't look in the big books; look in the whispers, in the footsteps on the damp earth, and in the laughter of the ravens.
— Elsie Leifsdotter, Nightingale

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Leif the Sage. Just a Preamble.

My real name is not for your tongue to speak, nor for your ears to keep. In Whiterun, where I have tarried for some centuries, they call me Leif the Sage, for my true name—being Dunmer—proves troublesome to their northern mouths. I do not correct them. A sage, they say, though in truth I am but a seeker of what is hidden, a hunter of truths buried under metaphors and lies. If there is such a thing as an honest chronicler—though I admit I sometimes doubt the possibility—I strive to be one. My life is given over to words, to the pursuit of knowledge in its most obscure and perilous forms.

For this cause, I have begun a great undertaking, which I have called "The Chronicles of Tamriel", wherein I strive to set down faithfully such matters as few dare even whisper. But it was my beloved daughter, Elsie—my daughter by choice, whom I call with fondness my brave Nightingale—who pressed me to write down this particular chapter. Because, truth be told, I fear Mephala. I dread Her!

She, Elsie, serves dark powers, aye, and bears titles which would make most shudder: Nightingale by birthright or High Priestess of Sithis by vocation. Yet she remains my heart's child, and for her sake I have undertaken this labor. Through her intervention, I gained entry to the Great Library of Arcana in Bravil, that labyrinth of dust and parchment where secrets cling to every page like cobwebs. There, with her blessing, I held in my hands any tome I wished, and from those dim shelves I have pieced together what fragments I could concerning the one whom some dare call the Queen of Oblivion.

This work, therefore, is not idle fancy nor fireside tale, but the fruit of long searching, of doubt and of reverence alike. Whether all I set forth here be true, the reader must judge. I merely write what I have found and what I believe, as near as one may approach truth in the shadow of Mephala.

And here, gentle reader, I must put aside the plain tongue of our day, for such speech is too meagre to compass Her dread majesty. In the manner of the ancients, therefore, and with the gravest of words, I shall set forth what little can be said of Her, whom none may know entirely.

The black grimmoire-short quote.

Lo, behold Her whose name is whispered in shadow, and whose visage is never fully seen. Mephala, Sovereign of Web and Wile, is not as the Princes whom the vulgar mind may yet dimly conceive; nay, She is a Stranger even in Oblivion, a tapestry of riddles woven in the dark, where reason findeth no purchase. To call Her Queen is but to speak in mortal folly, for Her dominion is not as the diadems of earthbound monarchs, but as a secret tribunal enthroned amidst the Princes of Oblivion, holding sway by subtlety, deceit, and the ever-drifting veil of truth half-told.

Mephala and Nocturnal. An explanation.

Mephala is a close companion of the Ur-Dra, Nocturnal. They are such good friends that they are seldom apart, forever plotting, weaving schemes, and even indulging in mischief within the lands of Oblivion. As my daughter Elsie once remarked, the Daedra are very much like us. I quote from her own tome, The Story of a Nightingale, Chapter XIX:

"... Playful. Petty sometimes. Divine occasionally. It happens that they even enjoy silly pranks and childish games... Well, most of them do. Some, however, are truly terrifying. But if you think about it, you'll realize there are just as many dreadful beings among mortals as well."

Aye... But perchance it'd be easier if I began with an analogy. Nocturnal may be likened to the Trader and the Illuminated Ruler, while Mephala stands as the Sovereign and Fierce Keeper of Ancient Traditions. The comparison is weak, I grant you, but it may serve to reveal something of Mephala's divine essence.

Nocturnal delights in appearing before mortals. She shows herself in many guises—as a woman of varied age, clad in different garments or not at all, yet almost always hooded and accompanied by a raven. Or more, She greatly loves them. Ah, She takes such joy in meddling with mortal lives! Mephala, by contrast, is far more reserved. She grants but few the grace of beholding Her presence. To some chosen ones, She truly reveals herself as the Unholy Mother of the Dark Brotherhood. Many more may claim to hear Her whispers. I will not deny them outright, yet I suspect She only toys with such mortals, for Her power of persuasion is a weapon as sharp as any blade. And the Daedra needs to hone it now and then.

Thus, Mephala and Nocturnal are contraries made whole. How to explain it? Think of Water and Fire, both familiar in their gentler forms, sustaining the small world we dwell in. Now imagine them magnified upon a cosmic scale, and twisted: a Furious Water, ever striving to preserve, and a Soothing Fire, restless to change all things, perpetually discontented yet never grumbling. Such is the strange harmony between them.

In this manner, their friendship becomes clear—if friendship is a word that may be used of Princes Daedric. And perhaps you begin to suspect, as I do, that both trespass the unwritten laws of their realm, intruding often into the mortal world, sometimes with a gentle touch, sometimes with ruthless force. Should they be accused, they would answer that they acted merely in sport, for experiment's sake. Yet no one dares accuse them, for they are both consorts of Sithis and, in truth, only exquisite instruments of the Master's will.

Thus have I spoken of Nocturnal's ways beneath the will of Sithis, as is fitting in Her own chapter of this Codex Daedricus. Of Sithis and His secret bond with Mephala I must now discourse; and here plain words shall not suffice, for we draw nigh unto the deepest of mysteries. Therefore, must I again set aside the common tongue and take up the elder speech, that the matter be uttered with the reverence it demands.

The Black Grimoire-Mephala. The Triune Avatars.

Behold, for She is not One but Thrice-made, a mystery unto gods and mortals alike. First ariseth the Spider Eternal, primal Weaver whose threads are older than dawn, whose web no blade may sever. Then enthroned amidst the Daedric Princes, abideth the Sovereign of the Oblivion, arbiter and mediator, who ruleth not by crown nor sceptre, but by guile, subtle as shadow, steadfast as silk. Last cometh the Unholly Mother, who bendeth low to touch the mortal dust, veiled in whispers, blood, and covenant. Thus is She a Trinity indivisible: Weaver, Sovereign, Mother—threefold avatars of one unfathomable Majesty.

The Eternal Spider. An assumption.

At first glance—and most especially for the young scholars—the Eternal Spider is elusive, perhaps even impossible, for mortals to comprehend. Some would argue that It is not an avatar at all, but rather Her very essence, flowing ever between the Sovereign and the Mother. My daughter once told me she beheld the Spider in the company of Mephala's other two forms. Yet Elsie, though she possesses eyes most rare and enchanted, is still bound by mortal sight—too frail to pierce the veil divine.

What little we know of the Spider comes from fragments and whispers. It is said to weave webs of surpassing beauty within Mephala's Daedric realm. I have read of such marvels in the diary of Ser Lucien Lachance, and Elsie herself—who twice has ventured into the lands illumined by the Black Sun—speaks of them with awe.

When I was young, before ever I bore arms in Indoril Nerevar's great army, I studied for a time at the great university of Vivec and spent a brief, somehow wasted, season in the class of natural philosophy, presided over by none other than Divayth Fyr. He was a genius, aye, but a mentor of two coppers' worth; the ancient geezer was far more interested in his uncanny experiments—which shocked even the most liberal minds of our day—than in teaching his pupils. Yet when pressed, he would always guide the earnest seeker with unerring precision to the truest sources. The Great Library of Vivec held hundreds of thousands of volumes, and I sometimes thought Divayth Fyr had read them all.

It was by such dismissive guidance ("Read that, and you'll know enough,"  he said) that I stumbled upon a tome of weight: Threads of Eternity, attributed to the arch-mage Shalidor. Therein was set forth a vision of a metaphysical web, spanning all the spheres of existence, woven by every living thing, and in turn governing the fates of those who wove it. So perhaps the Eternal Spider is merely Mephala's will embodied in a vessel, akin to a vile creature —a spider given shape for a season, being replaced by another every time She needs a new work done.

In theory, such a lattice should grant the Daedra perfect dominion. Every thought, every motion, every secret whisper would flow into the web, and by the web back to Her. Nothing could stir without Mephala's knowing, and no hand could move save as part of Her tapestry.

But ah, gentle reader, theory is a fair and tidy thing, while practice is always a tangle. Mortals are unruly spinners. Though guided by the Spider's unseen threads, they weave their own fears, longings, and follies into the fabric. The result is never the flawless design Mephala envisioned, but a patchwork both marvelous and maddening. Thus, She must make endless adjustments, sending forth cults and brotherhoods as the fine-tuned fingers of correction. And still, the web frays.

Once in an age, a single soul arises who unravels more than a hundred Spiders could mend. Such a one was Elsie, my daughter, who, with her own bright stubbornness, has undone patterns spun across centuries. But here I risk speaking too fondly, and the tale belongs to her tome, not mine. For now, let it suffice: the Eternal Spider is not the end, but the beginning of Mephala's design—a design forever woven, forever spoiled, and forever begun anew.

The Sovereign. Quite a certainty.

Mayhap, of Mephala's three avatars, the Sovereign is the most comprehensible—or at least, the least impossible to understand—for mortal minds.

Oblivion itself is a curious, amazing realm. It is united, it has no enemies beyond its own borders, and it hungers not for bread or water. The Daedra need nothing, yet crave everything. And there, dear reader, lies the trick. Because of that, they, the Daedric Princes, can still dig up "casus belli" whenever they desire.

In ages long past, the Princes of Oblivion made war upon one another in a chaos without end. It raged across eternity—heroes and villains intermingled, slain and reborn, in battles that were grand in sound but empty in sense. No one triumphed, no one lost; it was a theater of vanity, destructive and absurd. Some whisper it was Nocturnal who first stirred this conflict, but no mortal can say with certainty. What we know is that Mephala brought the discord to heel. And thus, in strange unanimity, the Princes named Her Sovereign—monarch of monarchs.

"How," you may ask, "can such a one as She rule over that squabbling host of swollen egos?" The answer is simple: She is the greatest liar and schemer in all the spheres. She stirs one hand while soothing another, spins lies today and truths tomorrow, weaves one delicate snare with a glimmer of false benevolence while binding another with poisonous silk. Her artistry lies not in strength, but in the web itself—so fragile it seems, yet stronger than any steel.

Thus, the Princes come to Her for counsel and reconciliation, and always She has the answer—for it was She who stirred the strife in the first place. To alter a single thread of Her weaving may be to change the whole pattern, and so peace and harmony endure... but only as long as She wills it.

One exception must be named: Nocturnal. Lady Luck's kingdom is apart, its gates opening freely into mortal twilight. Anyone—aye, even you, gentle reader—may stumble upon that portal and step across, unopposed. What awaits you there, I shall not attempt to foretell. Yet though Her realm is sovereign, Nocturnal and Mephala share a strange concord. Lady Luck calls Her "Queen" in public, yet never bends to the Spider's will. They quarrel, they jest, they rage, they embrace; they are forever at odds, forever entwined. Two divine wasps, stinging and laughing, each one too cunning ever to yield, and too bound ever to part.

So let it be understood: Mephala is no Queen as mortals reckon the word. She is, rather, a Judge, an Arbiter, a Sovereign not of thrones and crowns, but of balance itself—balance maintained not by truth, but by the exquisite tension of lies.

The Unholy Mother for the chosen ones. Just the Lucky Old Lady for the people of Bravil.

To portray this avatar of Mephala, I did not need to rummage through the dust-veiled vaults of Bravil’s Great Library of Arcana. No, I merely waited for my ever-busy daughter, Elsie, to spare a sliver of her costly time upon an old coot like me. She knows, I daresay, more of the Mother than any mortal has right to know. But she is a mendacious little witch, my girl, and so I did what any honest chronicler ought not to confess: I searched her secret drawer in the attic of my home (secret, so she believes).

For this trespass, I was punished at once. What I found there—writings on the rites of initiation into Mephala’s cult within the Dark Brotherhood—was more than I could bear. Let it suffice to say: I shall not put to page what I read. Too perilous, and of no profit to those who wish to understand the Mother as She manifests to mortals.

So let us speak instead of Bravil, for the Mother is bound there more closely than anywhere else in Tamriel. And here I yield the floor to my daughter, quoting from her own tome, The Story of a Nightingale, Chapter XII:

"Bravil! Oh, Bravil is the most beloved city of my youth and also the place where the powers of my mind blossomed swiftly, just as my eminent teacher Elena once foretold! I love Bravil and I need Bravil! I yearn to return to it and live there—and who knows? Perhaps someday this dream will become reality!

The Holy City, Bravil, is the only place in the mortal realm where, under the full light of Secunda, I can commune with our Mother in a way that feels nearly physical—her essence flowing through the statue of the Lucky Old Lady and wrapping me in its dark, warm, divine embrace. Ah, it is so good to lie prostrated at the feet of that magnificent statue, and I wish to pray, meditate, and draw in every sacred teaching there, to devour them like a restless, starving soul!

Or perhaps to light black candles in our Mother's not-so-holy temple that rises above the town, and listen to Her voice—so soft, so sweet—whispering the truest and most beautiful words ever spoken in this world!

Ah, if only the vigilantes knew what truly takes place in Bravil's Temple of Mara! But I rest easy in the knowledge that, should some of them, the lower ranks ones maybe, ever stumble upon the truth... it would be the last discovery of their wretched little lives!"

Now, what temple in Bravil does she mean? In that stinking town, there is but one grand cathedral, and it is dedicated to the goddess Mara. And the “vigilantes” of whom she writes are, of course, none other than the honored Vigilants of Stendarr, those stern hounds of our state church.

But mark well: this is the astonishing and dreadful revelation—that Elsie speaks of the Temple of Mara in Bravil as none other than the House of Mephala!

Moreover, my daughter told me plainly that what the people call the Lucky Old Lady is to the chosen ones the Unholy Mother. To the many, a sainted matron dispensing small blessings and mercy. To the initiates, a whispering spider-goddess, cloaked in maternal guise, binding her children with silken threads of blood and secrecy.

The Black Grimoire-Wherein is writ of Mephala, our Moder, Wyfe, Syster and Doghter—an Enygma beyond þe wytte of Menne.

Lo, the Mother Unhallowed, whose bosom is both cradle and grave. She broodeth over Her children with tender hands, yet those same hands draw forth the blade in their defence. Her house is a web, cunningly ordered, where every thread is numbered and each strand answereth to Her will.

She feedeth Her brood with honeyed words, yet poison lieth beneath; She comforteth with whispers, yet bindeth with lies. So is She at once the Nurturer and the Slayer, the midwife of secrets and the widowmaker of truth.

Think not to call Her false, for falsity in Her is a higher verity. Neither deem Her cruel, for cruelty in Her is but another face of care. All opposites are reconciled within Her weaving, and none may tell where mercy endeth and murder beginneth.

Thus is She terrible in Her beauty and adorable in Her peril; the snare of kings, the solace of orphans, the Widow, the Mother, the Ever-Beguiling. To love Her is to perish, and yet none can turn away.

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My "Odyssey" continues... beyond the snowy peaks of the Jerrals, in Skyrim, the Land of the Heroes!

Chapter Text

Once again, I begin one of my tomes with complaints and sad remembrances, and for that, I beg forgiveness from you, my friends. Yet what can I do? We were hunted like rabid dogs all across the Duchy of Niben, and Nephatah Indarys had placed a bounty of five thousand septims on my sorry head. Luckily for us, all the old and skilled bounty hunters of the realm had perished long ago, in the first flames of the Great War. And even had they been alive and around, their filthy work would have been hard to carry out in our case. Yet, we took precautions and, against all reason, we went first through the hills to the dangerous southern lands, toward Bravil; after waiting two weeks in the reeds around a foul pond, we took the main road as ragged refugees bound for Bruma.

Thus, our trek toward the northern realm was arduous from the very beginning, yet laden with meaning—a crucial step in our initiation into the new Order, which awaited its unsealing beyond the snow-draped peaks of the Jerall Mountains.

The journey itself through the barren Imperial lands was perilous and exhausting for all of us. "Us"... that meant Courtney, Cicero, and me. And our Unholy Mother, of course, whose presence none of us could ever ignore. Well, perhaps our Keeper was better acquainted with Her, but we, the girls, grew uneasy with every day, with every hour spent near the sacred vessel. It whispered, somehow, and became harder and harder to ignore...

Moreover, each of us carried our own ghosts. I was hollowed out by sorrow and adrift beyond words; Courtney, though brave and reckless by nature, was unmistakably shaken—utterly scared, to tell the truth! And Cicero... well, Cicero was Cicero. And that was that!

After a few days, when he had been the true guide and soul of our expedition, Cicero changed. He grew withdrawn and wary of everything—especially everyone around him. Except me, his "mother", of course...

That change came after some brigands ambushed us on the Ring Road, shortly after we left the Duchy of Niben behind. They mistook us for helpless travelers, and that was their last mistake.

Courtney and I cut them down swiftly, for they were no more than poor peasants—broken, cruel men, shaped by endless wars and the brutal age. We salvaged their horses—beasts in far better shape than we expected—and they proved invaluable, letting us scout ahead when needed. I say "we," but in truth, it was only Courtney or me. From that day on, Cicero refused to stray from our Mother's sarcophagus, keeping always at Her side, indifferent to threat or terrain. Nothing could sway him.

Things grew easier and somewhat safer after we left behind the wild, desolate outskirts of the looted Imperial capital. As we reached the Silver Road and pressed onward toward Bruma, bandits and deserters gave way to the beasts of the forest, who posed no great threat to us, being less malicious and more predictable. Yet, as I would later discover, the wolves and bears—smaller and timid in Cyrodiil—were themselves part of our rite of passage, and also an omen of what was to come. Ah, just a few weeks after these nuisances plagued us along the sloping road to Bruma, their distant, stronger, and more brazen kin would rise as a major threat on the northern slopes of the Jeralls!

Near the Empire's northern town, we established a camp in the dense pine forest outside the city and began searching for a way across the mountains. But first, we bought provisions and warmer clothes from the city's traders, and on that occasion, I saw again the town of my early childhood, and sad remembrances veiled me in their bittersweet shroud. Anyway, we didn't have time for nostalgia, and the horses and the ox, no longer needed, were sold; in their place, we took a sturdy mule.

We couldn't follow the old road connecting the Imperial lands to their northern province. What we carried with us, far too peculiar and precious to risk even the slightest exposure or the faintest chance of discovery, would have been quickly discovered by any customs officer or border guard.

The Pale Pass, long neglected, nearly forgotten, and even feared by many, was closed to us as well. An auxiliary cohort of the Imperial Legion had recently been stationed there, guarding the canyon from a small, well-kept fort at the mouth of the gorge. Courtney went there on a reconnaissance mission and returned grim-faced, telling us the soldiers were disciplined and vigilant—quite remarkable for mere auxiliary troops. But war raged across the province of Skyrim, and that, as we would soon discover, changed many things.

Thus, we turned to other paths and wandered for a long while along forgotten or hidden mountain trails—known to few, remembered by fewer, guided by a shepherd we hired; and true proved his guidance, though the path was cruel and tested us each to our marrow. When at last we reached the high plateau beyond the snowy peaks of the Jeralls—where the winds howled like demons do—our faithful guide vanished in the dead of night, leaving without a word.

I understood his behavior; Cicero's mutterings and erratic ways throughout our journey had clearly unsettled him—perhaps even frightened him. The man abandoned half his promised pay just to escape our company sooner. Understandable. Entirely understandable!

Just picture us: a merry madman whose eyes sometimes gleamed with homicidal glee; a tall, flame-haired girl, plainly frightened, yet always ready to draw the short sword at her hip; and a slight, pitiful creature—myself—with long—too long—pale hair and serpent-like eyes, weeping and whispering to no one in particular.

We made camp on those barren heights, recovering as best we could from the torment of our arduous climb. Our mule, too—driven too hard along the merciless mountain paths—needed time to regain its strength. And even there, though our bodies found some respite, the Mother's sarcophagus remained our unyielding burden: sacred, inscrutable, and far heavier in spirit than in stone.

In that desolate and bitterly cold place, the howling wind seemed to echo the unrest within our hearts. My concern for Courtney deepened. Cicero, the Holy Keeper—ever more unhinged—had begun watching her with narrow, unreadable eyes. He whispered to himself without cease, muttering vile words just loud enough for me to hear: Sanctuary, harlot, defiled...

There was venom in his tone, unmistakable and aimed with purpose. And I knew all too well what he was capable of, even at the mere suspicion that the sanctity of our Mother's Haven was at stake!

So when Courtney offered to scout the cliffs ahead in search of a descent into the valleys below, I felt a rush of relief I dared not show. I trusted her instincts. I always had. And she left.

As for me, I remained behind, drifting into sorrowful remembrances. My heart ached with longing for Rasha, and the cruel certainty that I would never see him again weighed heavily upon me. I filled the days with memories of our walks through the sun-drenched alleys of Bravil, and the quieter years in the Imperial City when he would talk to me in the shadow of the White-Gold Tower.

Cicero continued to tend to our Mother's body with his usual, solemn frenzy, and meantime, my beloved Mistress, Nocturnal, chose to summon me to Her realm: Evergloam.

Oh, Evergloam—what a paltry name for so enchanting a place! But what can one expect from the scholars and priests of Stendarr? They copy the drunken scribbles of their forebears, only to scrawl new lies atop the old, onto their wretched scraps of parchment.

No matter. Lady Luck embraced me once more, wrapping me in Her priceless love and warm, velvety darkness. She granted me rest in my cosy cottage, nestled deep within the whispering forest that cradles the Tree of Life.

She, my greatest love, also spoke to me—Her voice at once a command and a caress. I was to go without delay to Riften and attend to our business. And I was to speak with Brynjolf: a good man, valuable, though—how did She put it, smirking?—"a bit rusted."

I returned to our bleak realm, renewed and strengthened. Though Rasha remains forever a painful thorn in my heart, I knew then that I still had meaning in this world—something beyond the Spider's request, something closer to mortal understanding.

Oh, how naïve I was back then! I weep—and laugh—as I write now. Yet that illusion, sweet as it was, helped me endure. It allowed me to move through life with grace, to live with a simple purpose. At least for a while...

I even came to see Cicero as a holy, innocent tool, and I ceased hating him. In truth, my hatred had been unjust, as he had done only what I commanded of him. I know that now.

Time passed quickly, and one evening, Courtney returned, her face radiant, her eyes bright, and her untangled, fiery hair billowing in the bitter wind. There was hope in her soft, sneaky steps.

"Got a way down," she said. "It ain't pretty, luv—but it'll do."

We departed at dawn. Three days of ice and aching limbs, of coaxing our mule and cradling our sacred burden—and then: Skyrim.

The Land of Heroes!

Chapter Text

My daddy wrote some quaint lines about my arrival in the northern realms, and I'll quote them right here in this text, which desires to be Chapter XXX of my Memoir.

As my beloved daughter Elsie wrote nought of the Helgen event and just a little about her first days in our frozen, harsh, yet beautiful lands—ah, Skyrim is such a cruel yet gorgeous mistress!—I shall allow myself to weave the tale from her scarce tellings and not-so-trustworthy recollections. However, I hope she will write herself this chapter of her memoir and not just copy my scribblings!

Regardless, a right hard task this shall be, and—mayhap worse—the outcome may not come out as a sooth chronicle of what did truly come to pass, chiefly regarding Helgen. Alas, naught can I do to mend the affair! Unfortunately, Courtney will say nothing of it—she remembers nothing, she says; she has quite forgotten, she says; she has not the time just now, she says—so I must gather disparate and odd fragments into a tapestry meant to be true history, if such a chronicle even exists!

Ah, forgive me! I nearly forgot Cicero's version... Yet that is a wondrous tale indeed, and I dare not place it into a sober, scientific tome! For instance, he claims a talking fox led him through the forest, a singing stone gave him shelter for a rainy night, and... well, I daren't say more.

So, once upon a miserable time—as all proper stories begin—

In the wake of the Dark Brotherhood's fall in Cyrodiil, after the nefarious events from Bravil and the passing of Cheydinhal's Sanctuary into oblivion, Elsie hastily left the Imperial lands, in the company of Cicero and their Unholy Mother.

Courtney, of course, was with them from the beginning. All three—or maybe I should say four?—followed quite forgotten, winding and hard to come to mountain trails—no longer in use for centuries, yet wide enough for the long, narrow carriage that bore our Lady's sacred sarcophagus.

After crossing the Jerall Mountains, they approached Helgen along the main road, knowing little of the war that ravaged our lands, and on a cold and misty morning, all chaos erupted above that fortified town fated to become ash and dust.

Here come some curious facts in my humble opinion. When I say that, I speak under the reserve that many of Elsie's behaviors and actions are hard to understand for me—even now, when we have been together for quite a long time!

First, in those confusing and dangerous moments, Courtney suddenly vanished into the surrounding weald. Now this is utterly absurd—considering her deep affection for my daughter and her usual bravery, this is impossible to believe!

Second, on that morning, trying to protect the Keeper and, especially, their precious cargo, Elsie allowed—she says—some Imperial soldiers to capture her, giving Cicero a chance to continue his journey undisturbed. She just surrendered! That's what she tells me whenever we discuss the matter, and I cannot contradict her or ask further questions because my daughter would start weaving lies. Elsie is stubborn and, like her beloved Mistress Nocturnal, is truly a mendacious little witch! Hm, I hope Lady Luck will forgive me for saying that, after all, I'm just an old Dunmer, one of those cursed by Her sworn enemy, Lady Azura...

So the Imperial soldiers took my girl to the execution block like they did with all fugitives or suspect persons whom they caught near that restless frontier. When my daughter was seeing her death near, an unexpected ( quoting Elsie ) but very welcome ( quoting Elsie ) event occurred. A black dragon—Alduin Himself— was summoned, and burned down all the Imperials and locals alike while saving Elsie's life. In all the confusion, scared to death ( quoting Elsie ), she took the dagger from one of the fallen soldiers and cut one of the other convicts'—a gagged man— restraints, and then they fled to the hills. Hand by hand, I presume...

The dragon did not follow them—though it circled the area for a while—then returned to its business ( quoting Elsie). Leaving the burning Helgen behind, Elsie and the man she saved from death ran until they reached the shore of Lake Ilinalta.

There, Elsie said, "Here our ways part."

"Why? You should come with me, I am a great Lord in this realm! My name is Ulfric, known as Stormcloak," replied the man.

"And I am the Emperor's wife, so now I must return to my husband, who is anxiously waiting for me," Elsie grinned. Then she shook his hand and disappeared into the surrounding forest.

After a while, she reached Whiterun by nightfall, and the next morning, I met her on one of the city's alleys. Our meeting was no mere accident or coincidence: she was looking for me, knowing me to be the richest and most connected fence in all Skyrim. At least, so she says...

Elsie showed me the signs and spoke our secret tongue, so when she asked where she might find the Doyen here in Whiterun, I told her the truth: there is no Doyen, and the Guild has no foothold here—or in any other city of Skyrim. I advised her to travel far south, to Riften, if she wished to learn more. I also told her that if she had something hot to move, I could help.

But Elsie only grinned and asked me for advance coin—actually, a great deal of coin. Well, I do not usually hand out free money; they always bring me something in exchange: I usually take jewelry, but property titles are just as good. Well, the little devil gave me something too: a cold and lingering look. I had seen such eyes just once before, in the face of the only man I ever truly feared. His name was Lucien Lachance, and my old bones still tremble when I recall him, especially when he came asking for money.

"Five thousand septims," she said. And smiled again. Sweetly. Like a thief in the church's sanctum.

Now, I am an old Dunmer. I have seen countless battles, wars even, dragons, Clavicus Vile's tax collectors, and many—far too many—other horrors and wonders... but that smile? That smile nearly finished me.

So I took Elsie to my home and handed over the coin as if I were signing my own will. Lydia hissed like an angry cat when she saw it, and Elsie smirked again—very satisfied; she does love shiny things, indeed!—and said, "I'll bring you back the money, Gramps, don't you worry!" But she lied, as my beloved daughter often does—she never gave me my gold back!

I was glad when she finally left my house. Then I asked Lydia to fetch her armor from the barracks. My brave housecarl scoffed, saying she did not need plate steel to smash such a pitiful creature. But I knew better, so I insisted—and won, in the end.

Afterward, I often saw Elsie wandering Whiterun's streets, talking to folk—especially those merry girls at The Drunken Huntsman, and the blacksmith, Adrienne. I must also mention that she reunited with Courtney. They were both living at the Huntsman and soon befriended all those noisy and charming young women who ruled the place with their laughter and gossip.

One morning, at sunrise, Elsie knocked on my door. After letting her in, she inquired, "I'm heading to Riften, Gramps. Do you have any message for the Guild?"

"I told you the Guild no longer operates here in Whiterun—nor anywhere in Skyrim, save for that stinking hole in the South. So no, I have no message, my dear. By the way, what should I call you?"

"You can call me whatever you please, Gramps. Well, if nothing else, I shall be on my way then!"

Then she left, leaving behind a faint scent of nightshade. Or so I thought. It is unsettling—how Elsie carries upon her skin this complex bouquet of jasmine and nightshade, layered with incense and other scents too dangerous or mundane to name.

Not long after that, terrible noises shook the town square—not the familiar clamor of battle or siege, but something odd and wrong. The very stones beneath our feet rippled, dogs began howling throughout the city, and black clouds gathered in an instant, rolling across the sky like spilled ink, while a thick veil of fog descended, turning midday into twilight. And the air around us... Oh, the air itself seemed to thicken while carrying scents of sulfur and old, very old ice.

Rushing to the city walls, I found them teeming with people—some already trying to flee inward, others pressed against the battlements in morbid fascination. Children wept while their mothers clutched them close, covering their eyes, yet unable to look away themselves. Old Nordic veterans who had survived countless battles stood frozen, their weathered faces pale with recognition of something beyond mortal warfare.

The Western Watchtower burned in the distance, but these were no ordinary flames. Fire and frost danced together impossibly, while shadows writhed like living things around the structure. Above it, terrible creatures long thought to be no more than legend wheeled in great circles—shadow, flame, and blizzard made flesh. The dragons were massive beyond comprehension, their wingbeats creating thunderclaps that shattered windows throughout the lower city. Each beat sent waves of supernatural cold and searing heat alternately across the walls, making men's breath mist even as sweat poured down their faces.

The garrison's arrows vanished into the misty sky like drops of rain—some simply disintegrating in the creatures' aura, others deflected by scales harder than steel. I watched seasoned archers, men who could split an apple at a hundred paces, loose volley after volley in growing desperation. Their captain shouted orders that made sense for fighting men, but how do you form a shield wall against something that breathes winter itself?

The little garrison fought desperately, and I have seen many things in my life—I even had done business with the People of the Deep before being a mere soldier in Nerevar's great army—but never anything like this. This was not a battle but a ritual of slaughter. Brave men charged with spears that snapped like twigs against the creatures' hide. Others tried to maintain formation even as their comrades froze solid beside them or burst into flames that no water could quench.

I saw one dragon—if dragon is what they truly were—descend upon a company of pikemen. The soldiers held their ground with admirable courage, their weapons bristling outward like a steel hedgehog. But the creature just breathed, and half the company became ice statues, their final expressions of defiance preserved in crystal clarity. The survivors broke then, as any sane men would, scattering like leaves before a hurricane.

The battle raged all day, though time itself seemed twisted. Moments of terror stretched into eternities, while desperate last stands passed in heartbeats. The creatures moved with a terrible intelligence, coordinating their attacks, herding the defenders like wolves with sheep. Sometimes they would pause their assault entirely, hovering just out of arrow range, as if savoring the fear below.

On the walls, the crowd's mood shifted like weather—from panic to awful fascination to numb horror. Some prayed loudly to every god they could name. Others stood in stunned silence, tears streaming down their faces. A few laughed with the brittle edge of minds pushed too far. The very old and very young seemed to understand first what the rest of us couldn't yet grasp—that we were witnessing something beyond victory or defeat, beyond the natural order itself.

By evening, the dead and the wounded started to be brought into the city—those few that remained whole enough to carry. Burns that wouldn't heal, frostbite in the middle of summer, and wounds that seemed to drain the very life from men. The survivors spoke little, their eyes holding the hollow look of those who had gazed into the abyss.

And then, as night fell, the flames and clamor ceased at once. The sudden silence was more terrifying than all the roaring had been. Even the wind died, and the world held its breath. The creatures hung motionless in the air like dark stars, their eyes glowing with cold fire.

A strange, grave voice echoed through the heavens—ancient beyond measure, speaking in a tongue that predated mortal speech. It then chanted what seemed to be a name, each syllable reverberating through our bones.

My daughter's name—Elsie.

Afterward, the last fighters began to arrive in Whiterun in small groups—pitiful, wounded, their armor scorched and twisted into odd shapes. Then came a larger, noisier band: the merry girls from the Drunken Huntsman. They carried Elsie. She was not burned, not wounded... yet pale as death, and she could scarcely stand.

I followed the clamorous group to the Temple of Kynareth, where the injured were gathered in rows upon rows, the air heavy with groans and the smell of blood and herbs. There were many—far too many and Danica was moving ceaselessly among them, her hands never still, her voice soothing but strained. I offered to take some of the wounded to my mansion, but our most respected healer and high priestess shook her head: all were gravely injured, she said, and needed to remain in the holy house under the goddess's watchful eye. Then I asked, almost timidly, if I might at least take Elsie, who still lay as if unconscious. Danica bent over her, examined her carefully, and frowned. "This one is not injured," she said at last. "But she's not looking well... oh, no, not at all. When she comes to her senses, Leif, you may take her—if she agrees, that's it."

At that very moment, Irileth entered, hard-eyed and resolute, flanked by a small squad of soldiers. Her voice cut through the chamber:

"Where is the woman who spoke to the black dragon?"

No one answered. The silence pressed in. Then Courtney stole close to me and whispered, "Leif, Elsie is the one... Please, do something!" Claire, bolder, raised her voice and declared that the woman had not yet reached town. Irileth did not linger; she ordered the supposed witness brought to the Earl's court as soon as she appeared, then swept from the temple, soldiers at her heels.

I turned—and there was Elsie, her eyes suddenly wide open.

"Yes, my lady," she said to Danica, her voice weak but clear. "I will go with Gramps, if I may."

"You may, my darling," Danica replied, smiling as she smoothed Elsie's hair. Then, with a soft chuckle: "Gramps! That's a good one."

So, with Claire and Courtney practically carrying her, Elsie made her way slowly to my home, where Lydia awaited us—very worried, even furious. Ah, those two... they could never abide each other, and never would, not to the end of days!

This is an excerpt from "Tamrielic Chronicles" by Leif the Sage (integral, unmodified quotes). Apart from that, I must say: I am terribly sorry for frightening my daddy, but I needed the money badly, and he is such a skinflint that I really had no choice! And, oh, why should I waste ink and expensive parchment on another tale when he already spun a perfect, true one? Hm?

Elsie Leifsdotter