Chapter 1

The glow of the setting sun had long since melted behind the horizon. The two riders moved leisurely through the forest toward the town. Dry branches crackled beneath horses’ hooves, and they smelled of fallen leaves and damp.

‘I'll bet you a barrel of ale from old Angus's Inn!’ said one of the riders, a swarthy man dressed in a thick leather jacket and carrying a large quiver behind his back.

‘Yeah, you just keep your mouth shut, Zeno. Tormund is only good for squirrel pelts and trash,’ answered the other, a tall, fair-haired man named Danus. A short hunting bow hung on his horse’s saddle.

‘There. So, there is no need to argue.’

‘To hell with it,’ Danus raised his head and rose in the stirrups. ‘We're almost there,’ he said with an unhappy look.

‘Are you still upset about the boar?’

Danus only waved his hand in reply.

‘Who knew that lizard would sell me a rotten rope?’ justified Zeno.

‘You shouldn't take junk from Argonians. I've been telling you all along, but it fell on deaf ears! We didn't even have time to hurt him. At least we could have found him by the tracks. Eh!’ he waved his hand again, disappointedly.

A thin hunting trail snaked down the hillside, covered with rotting leaves. Danus's horse stiffened, and the hunter pressed the stirrups into its flanks. From the left side of the slope came quick, rustling footsteps, as if large drops were falling on dry fallen leaves. The riders fell silent and stopped, listening to the silence and looking into the bluish depths of the forest. Steps again. A quick, light, barely discernible stomp through the undergrowth. Both turned their heads at the sound, hoping to spot a boar. Zeno drew his bow and, with a quick movement, put an arrow on the bowstring. There was silence again. Each of the hunters strained their ears as hard as they could, listening diligently.

Another stomp on the fallen leaves, only now from the right, very close. A thin shadow flashed between the trees.

‘Did you hear it? Two legs,’ Danus whispered.

‘A man?’

The hunter shook his head.

‘Too light. A Khajiit, maybe?’

They waited a few more minutes. No more footsteps were heard. The hunters cautiously moved their horses onward, but they did not speak. Zeno did not put his bow behind his back, still holding the arrow to the bowstring with his thumb.

The forest began to thin, and the outline of the town showed through the trees. The riders began to descend into the lowlands, and then they heard footsteps again. Very fast, as if a large bird were running through the forest.

‘Man!’ Zeno suddenly shouted. ‘I told you, there he was!’

There was indeed a man kneeling on the ground with his hands. His head was down, and his long black hair hid his face. From either side of the riders came a stomping sound. Danus noticed two pale creatures in the corner of his eye. Creatures were darting in their direction. Zeno began to look around nervously.

‘I don't like this. Let's leave…’ Danus didn't have time to finish his sentence.

The man on his knees raised his head, and the blood in the hunter's veins froze with horror. The man's face was contorted in a grimace of pain. His features were blurred, as if his skin were slowly melting, taking on a ghastly, ugly appearance. The man opened his mouth, and black blood spurted out of it onto the undergrowth. His right hand, which he had been resting on the ground, began to deform, fingers twitching, throwing leaves and dirt into the air.

Danus spurred his horse to a gallop. At the same moment, a pale blur swept from the forest toward him. Instantly, it knocked the rider out of the saddle in a single motion, and he fell dead. The hunched creature turned its head toward the second hunter. Its elongated muzzle whistled as it inhaled. A bloody scrap of leather jacket dangled from its long claws. Zeno gripped the reins with his hand, trying to hold on to the saddle, but the horse went wild and reared up in an attempt to defend itself. He made an awkward movement, trying to turn the horse and keep his balance, and dropped the arrow, which fell silently on the dry foliage, disappearing in the dark. The horse jerked forward, and the hunter could not hold on. He was thrown aside and toppled over on his back.

Only now, lying on his back, to his right a few feet away, did he notice another monster. It stood as still as the first, staring at him with narrow eyes, but it did not attack. The creatures were waiting for something. The man who had been kneeling on the low ground rose and began to move toward Zeno. His figure no longer had arms, only thick black outgrowths oozing the same black blood. Where the man's head should have been, there was an outgrowth reaching toward the hunter, black and shiny, like a giant serpent.

Zeno lay on the ground, unable to move. His fair hair was streaked with leaves, sticking to his face. He felt the heavy footsteps of approaching terror, and could only let out a shriek before he died.

***

The wagon was slow, and Ra'Jah caught up with it easily. He drew level with the man on the driver’s bench and raised a hand in greeting.

"Well met, travelers. May your road be safe."

The man gave the Khajiit an unkind glance, but nodded back. In addition to the sacks of beets and several barrels of unknown contents, the wagon was filled with two peasants, a heavily tanned man in a straw hat and a yellow-eyed Argonian.

- How many more miles from here to Kvatch? - The Khajiit spoke again.

- Six miles,” said the man in the straw hat.

He was hiding his face from the hot autumn sun, but Ra'Jah could see that he was watching him with interest from beneath the brim of his hat.

‘Are you here in Kvatch on business or just passing through, sir?’

He addressed the Khajiit respectfully. He must have noticed by now that Ra'Jah was not dressed like an itinerant merchant. He wore a richly embroidered tunic and pants of expensive fabric. On one shoulder, despite the warm weather, was a woolen cloak fastened with a silver brooch.

‘I am an envoy. I come to Cyrodiil to Count of Kvatch from the province of Skyrim, from the Jarl of Windhelm, Wigwan Raven.’

The man on the horse whistled. The Argonian was already looking at the Khajiit with undisguised interest. Ra'Jah turned his head and gave his companion an expressive look. He didn't immediately understand what was going on, but then he did and quickly introduced himself.

‘My name is Sabinus, and this is Otius and Inzara,’ he waved his hand at his companions. ‘We are farmers and traders. We grow and make goods. We're going to the market now. But you won't go straight to the Count,’ he added hastily.

‘Why not?’

‘Lord Sylvan is in charge of such matters. He's very tough, but he's a true Imperial.’

The Argonian made a hissing sound, but Sabinus pretended not to notice.

‘I must speak to the Count personally, and I have no time to divert to any lords,’ he said.

‘Well, that's up to you, sir. But all such matters do not pass by Sylvanus in Kvatch.’

Ra'Jah frowned but said nothing.

‘Are you traveling all this way alone?’ The one sitting on the driver seat, apparently Otius, asked.

‘Why? I was accompanied to the borders of Cyrodiil. And here... Though I am far from a warrior, and prefer dialogue to weapons, I can still stand up for myself.’

‘So, you've crossed the Colovian Highlands alone, too?’

‘Yes. Why should I be afraid in these parts?’ replied the Khajiit.

‘Something to be afraid of,’ the Argonian hissed.

Sabinus poked him in the side.

‘What Inzara means is that it has not been very safe around the forest lately. But that's the way it is now. By winter, wolves and bears may come closer to the city. But we're safe here, don't worry.’

‘That's true. But the weather's so warm right now. Why would the beasts come to the city before the time?’ said Otius. ‘Don't look at me like that, Sabinus. My lord is a clever man. He has traveled more than you have, and he has seen a lot. Maybe he can tell us something useful.’

‘What is it?’ Ra'Jah asked.

‘There have been several incidents near Chorrol and then our farms,’ the Argonian spoke. ‘The first one was about a month and a half ago. Two hunters died there. One was killed by a bear, I think. He had a claw wound on his chest, but it was a strange bear. All he did was kill him, but he didn't touch him.’

‘And the other hunter?’ Ra'Jah asked.

‘The second one was even stranger. He was strangled.’

‘They had a quarrel, that's all,’ Sabinus interrupted the Argonian. ‘One of them strangled the other and then got caught by a bear.’

‘Did they have weapons on them?’ Ra'Jah asked.

‘Of course they did. Each one had a short sword and a bow,’ said the Argonian.

‘Then why didn't they use them? Why would one strangle the other?’

Sabinus was silent for a moment, scratching the back of his head and pushing his hat back on his forehead.

‘I'm afraid you're right,’ Ra'Jah concluded for them. ‘This is a strange case indeed.’

‘You are right,” Inzara agreed. ‘Only he was not alone. Another dead man was recently found on the Colovian Highlands, not far from here. And with similar wounds,’ the Argonian hissed ominously.

The Khajiit's eyes glittered animal-like, but he continued to speak calmly.

‘Yes, it's a nasty business. And no one did anything about it?’

‘Why not?’ Sabinus said, brightening at once. ‘The Count ordered it to start an investigation.’

- But no one did,” the Argonian sputtered again.

‘This is not a simple matter, master Ra'Jah,” Sabinus said to the Khajiit, not noticing his companion's words. ‘It happened either at night or when the Count was away. We must be dealing with some kind of elaborate criminal.’

‘Maybe a criminal, maybe someone else,’ the Argonian stood his ground.

‘Enough of this, Inzara,’ the farmer finally said. ‘You're only spreading rumors and scaring the good guests.’

‘I'm not frightened by such stories, I'm from the land of dragons,’ Ra'Jah said. ‘But, Inzara, you do speak too boldly, as if you had seen something. If you've seen something, you should say so, but if you haven't, the advice is right, don't start rumors.’

‘Maybe I have,’ the Argonian hissed. ‘Only people like them,’ he made a careless gesture toward his companions. ‘It's better not to know. They live and trust in the grace of the Count and the Emperor. They do not see what is going on under their very noses.’

Sabinus glanced at the Argonian and shook his head.

‘I saw them. Early in the morning,’ Inzara said at last. ‘The sun had not yet risen. The forest was hazy, but the horizon was already brightening. So, I saw who it was.’

‘Well, who was it? Come on, spit it out,’ Otius said.

‘Hunched, with white skin. Claws as long as daggers and mouths as narrow as flies. Two of them. I barely got away, though they didn't chase me.’

‘Talk more!’ Sabinus spat under the wheels of the wagon.

‘I’m telling you, I saw it,’ the Argonian hissed again.

‘Quiet.’ Ra’Jah cut in.

He wasn’t smiling. On the contrary, a predatory glint lit up in the Khajiit’s eyes.

‘Tell us instead – how did they walk? On two legs, or like beasts?’

‘On two, master.’

***

As he had been warned, Ra'Jah could not get to the Count at once. As soon as he arrived at the gate, introduced himself and announced the purpose of his visit, the guards escorted him to Sylvan's office. He didn't object, deciding that it wasn't necessary to change the established routine.

As Ra’Jah stepped into the modest chamber nestled in the eastern wing of the keep, Sylvan rose from behind a tall table strewn with parchment and greeted him with courteous formality. He was clad in dark steel armor—a sight Ra’Jah found most unusual. The man's fair hair was drawn back into a neat tail. Ra’Jah noted that Lord Sylvan’s right hand rested upon the hilt of a broad sword, fastened securely at his belt. This, too, struck him as odd. Men of Sylvan’s status did not customarily bear arms nor don armor within the castle walls, least of all in their studies.

‘Please, be seated, good sir…’

‘Ra’Jah,’ came the reply.

“Lord Ra’Jah,” Sylvan said, motioning toward the chair across from him. “Might I inquire as to the purpose of your visit to Cyrodiil?”

‘I am an envoy of Jarl Vigwan Raven of Windhelm. I have been tasked with speaking directly to the Count of Kvatch.’

‘And so you shall,’ Sylvan interrupted, his tone sharp but not unkind. He then added, more gently, ‘As soon as I see fit to grant you such an audience.’

The lord reached for a blank parchment, removed the lid from a small silver inkwell, and dipped into it a long, orange quill. With precise movements, he began to write. His narrow face, marked by sharply defined cheekbones, a callus upon his middle finger, and slightly furrowed brows, made him look a man of focus and meticulous habit.

‘Master Ra’Jah,’ Sylvan spoke at last, having set down his quill. "I trust I may rely upon your understanding, and would ask to see the documents you have surely brought with you.’

Without delay, the Khajiit extended a scroll sealed with the bold crest of Jarl Vigwan. Sylvan took it and studied it in silence for some time, his eyes scanning each line with careful precision. At last, he returned the scroll.

‘Very well. You bear all the necessary credentials. However, you will not speak with the Count until tomorrow morning. He is presently absent from the town.’

Ra’Jah nodded, yet made no move to depart.

‘Have you further questions for me?’ Sylvan asked after the silence between them grew too long.

‘In the town,’ Ra’Jah began slowly, ‘I have heard talk of unrest in the Colovian Highlands.’

‘Do you fear something in particular?’ Sylvan folded the parchment in half and slid it into a drawer, the act deliberate, making clear that he remained only out of courtesy.

‘In truth, I do,’ said Ra’Jah. ‘What I have heard does not strike me as idle gossip. The townsfolk—farmers especially—speak of troubling things with uncommon urgency...’

‘Be that as it may,’ Sylvan interrupted again, his tone now sharper, ‘these are but rumors.’

‘Some in the market even described the creatures they’ve seen,’ Ra’Jah pressed on, ignoring the rebuke. ‘And their descriptions reminded me quite vividly of...’

‘Of what?’ Sylvan's gaze narrowed, eyes fixed intently upon the Khajiit. Twin black points bored into him.

Ra’Jah had the distinct sense that the lord did not expect him to finish the thought—let alone give voice to the fear stirring in his mind. Yet he spoke it nonetheless:

‘Daedric Hungers.’

Sylvan smiled faintly and lowered his eyes to his hands.

‘That is nonsense,’ he said with a scoff. ‘There are no such creatures in the Colovian Highlands. Nor, to my knowledge, anywhere in Cyrodiil. Hungers are minor daedra—perhaps seen in Morrowind, or the outlying islands, but not here. Still, if you fear for your safety, I shall assign men to escort you to the very borders of our province. Though I assure you... such precautions are unnecessary.’

Ra’Jah offered a grateful nod and rose. As he exited the chamber, he noticed no guards, no sentries. No one had greeted him—and none now came to bid him farewell. At first, he found it odd. But as he stepped into the courtyard, the reason became clear.

A young woman approached him. Her dark skin and flowing, black curls marked her as a Dunmer. And yet her eyes—violet, not crimson—set her apart from her race. By her dress, Ra’Jah could tell she was one of the Count’s servants.

‘Master Ra’Jah?’ she asked meekly.

He nodded.

‘I have been ordered to escort you to your chambers.’

‘Ordered? By whom?’ the Khajiit asked with a slight frown.

‘Lord Sylvan. You are to be honored with residence in the keep, until your business is concluded.’

Ra’Jah understood. Sylvan would brook no refusal—and the Khajiit did not challenge the command. Though he suspected the reason behind such hospitality, he followed the girl without protest. Sylvan was a man of power and severity. He trusted no one—Ra’Jah was no exception. The lord meant to keep him close, and Ra’Jah could not say the decision was unwise.

The girl led him to a spacious, sunlit chamber in the southern wing of the keep and made sure all was in order.

‘Forgive me,’ Ra’Jah asked as she turned to leave. ‘Your name?’

‘Neldren, my lord,’ she replied.

***

As the cold light of the moons drove the last hues of sunset beyond the horizon, Neldren slipped away from the keep. By now, it required little effort for her to vanish without a trace. Once the kitchen servants had finished their duties and the fires were low, she made her way to the pantry. From there, through an unlocked side door, she stepped into a small square courtyard hemmed in by stone walls.

These walls, far lower than the outer fortifications, were thick with ivy and neglect. But more importantly, within the courtyard stood an ancient, wide-limbed elm. With practiced ease, Neldren climbed onto a low branch, planted her foot firmly on the next, and, steadying herself upon the rough stones of the wall, vaulted cleanly to the far side.

The rest of the way was much easier. She skirted the eastern flank of the keep, rounded the old astronomical tower, crossed the shadowed garden court with silent haste, and emerged—just as planned—through the main gate. And just like that, she was in the town. Effortless.

She pulled back the plain hood that had cloaked her features and tousled her dark, curling hair. Her gait shifted—no longer the meek pace of a maid, but the stride of a young woman bold, graceful, and confident. In the keep, she had gone unseen. But here, she would be noticed. Tonight, she had to be.

If her calculations held, she was just two short. And if fortune favored her tonight, she would claim another. By week’s end, perhaps… just perhaps, she would finally complete what had begun thirteen years ago.

She walked with purpose, unfazed by the predatory eyes that followed in her wake. In truth, Neldren welcomed them. The night was her domain. At last, a weathered sign came into view at the street’s bend—The Kestrel. Neldren had been visiting this tavern for almost a month now, but luck had smiled upon her only once so far.

He was a traveling merchant and a bard. For two nights, he played his lute in The Kestrel, and for two nights, she watched him from across the room—silently, as he watched her. Each time, she left just before his performance ended. He thought how beautiful she was and saw nothing else. She, however, saw everything: how he played, how he drank, what he said, and with whom he spoke.

On the third night, she stayed. She heard every note. They left the tavern together. That night, he broke the lock on a neighboring barn. They lay together upon sacks of oats, speaking long into the dark. Neldren had always known how to speak in such a way that men revealed just a little more than they ought.

He spoke of the towns he’d traveled, of the lords he’d serenaded, of the applause—and of how he’d left their halls with pouches secretly lined with stolen silver. He told her how he drank, how he fought, and how he once gave a concert for children in a village near Chorrol. And how, that very night, he fled under the cover of darkness after crushing two farmers’ skulls with a stone.

Now she needed just two more.

Neldren ascended the tavern’s crumbling porch. Inside, Vant—the resident drunk—greeted her with a wide grin and courteously held the door. She returned his smile, this one different than the others. It was genuine. Harmless, stumbling Vant was not what Neldren was looking for.

The Kestrel was nothing to behold: grimy tables long unwashed, ceilings blackened by smoke and soot, benches worn with age, and a squat, square bar at the center, manned by its grim-faced owner.

As she entered, she gave a subtle sign to Angus.

The Kestrel was the foulest, most forsaken pit Kvatch had to offer. Its keeper, Angus Valius, believed Neldren sold her company—and had been quite surprised the first time she appeared at his door. Such women did not frequent in his tavern. But as it later turned out, he was not at all against this kind of activity. On the contrary, he had even made explicit proposals to her several times, but each time he had received an evasive and joking reply.

Watching her sit quietly for hours, observing his patrons, Angus often wondered why Neldren always left alone… or worse, with some vile stranger, instead of paying attention to him, a man who was not young, but had his place and some money.

‘If only it were so simple, dear Angus,’ she would think, each time she saw the bewildered look on the old man's face.

Tonight, luck had returned.

The tavern was nearly empty. Two farmers sat near the bar, within easy reach of Angus, who brought them mead without delay. Neldren studied their faces carefully—but found nothing of what she sought. They were simple men, bent only on drinking themselves senseless and forgetting home till morning.

She seated herself at the far end of a long bench and waited. If tonight brought nothing, she would return tomorrow. Most of her evenings now passed this way.

At half past one, the tavern door creaked open. Three entered. Gaunt, grey-faced men, eyes sharp and suspicious. One of them caught sight of Neldren and bared a crooked smile. A grey hood concealed a long scar that ran from his ear to his cheekbone. She did not meet his gaze. Her attention was on the one leading them.

The red-haired one. Broader than the rest. His stride was bold, his manner brazen.

As he crossed the threshold, he gestured to Angus, who quickly brought them three tankards of mead and scurried off to fetch some food. These men were no strangers here, not by the way Angus served them. Yet Neldren had not seen them before. That meant they came infrequently—likely due to the nature of their work.

Bandits, she thought at first, eyeing the hooded one. But no—on closer look, she saw their hands. Rough, worn, marked by rope and crates.

Smugglers.

She decided to wait until all three were done with the goat ham. The scarred one continued to stare, but Neldren feigned ignorance. The red-haired one didn’t notice her until his second tankard was drained and the meat gone.

Then she caught his eye—and he was full of lust.

She was full of hate.

Rising slowly, she swayed her hips as she crossed the tavern.

‘Mind some company, boys?’ she asked, smiling.

The scarred one grinned—but seeing the red-haired man’s gaze, he faltered. Whatever spoils the night might bring, they would not be his.

‘Have a seat, beauty,’ the red-haired one said with a nod.

‘My thanks.’

Neldren sat across from them, her violet eyes locked upon her target.

‘And what do they call you?’ she asked, ignoring the others.

‘Zedric," he growled. ‘Though most know me as the Giant’s Finger.’

He smirked. The name clearly pleased him.

She smiled once more, her gaze flicking across his chest.

‘I hope the name is well-earned. You are a merchant, Zedric?’

‘You could say that,’ he laughed, exchanging a glance with his fellows.

Had she not approached, had she simply left the tavern, they almost certainly would have followed. And perhaps then, Zedric would’ve shared his trophy with the others. But not now.

Now, she was his—and he would kill any man who dared claim otherwise.

Together, they left the tavern, stepping into the humid, stuffy night. Neldren kept her darkened eyes on her companion, and the Khajiit on the neighboring rooftop kept his gaze on her.

***

The room was dark, yet Zedric could see her silhouette clearly. A slender figure, long legs, a small but high-set bosom. Curls of black hair flowed over her shoulders. She moved toward him slowly and with grace, as though she were sneaking up on him.

‘Come now, closer, my sweet,’ he said hoarsely, licking his parched lips.

She obeyed, placing her soft palms upon his chest. A shiver ran through him. Zedric struggled to restrain himself, not to throw himself upon her. Never had he desired a woman so fiercely. Certainly not his wife.

He reached toward her breasts, but she pulled away.

‘And my skin... it does not trouble you?’

‘No, sweet, as I told you. On the contrary, it is beautiful. And your eyes, they—‘he paused.

Her eyes were no longer violet, as they had been when he met her at the tavern. Now, they were jet-black.

Neldren smiled and leaned forward, as if to kiss him. Upon her bare chest, an amulet gleamed. A broken eight-pointed star. Zedric recognized it at once—the Amulet of Arkay. Once red, the stone at its center was now ashen gray.

‘You like my amulet?’

‘I would gift you a thousand such things,’ he growled with animal desire, gripping her hips. ‘Yours is broken—and the stone, darkened.’

‘You are right.’

Darkness fell across Zedric’s sight. A searing pain cut through his body, and in the next moment, there was emptiness.

***

‘The Count awaits you in the main hall,’ the servant informed Ra’Jah, knocking lightly upon the door.

The Khajiit had heard her footsteps in the corridor before she arrived. He had been ready since early morning—there remained only to follow.

Neldren left him at the entrance and departed in haste.

The Count sat in a low-backed chair at the far end of the hall. He looked pale and weary. His fair, narrow face, framed by long black hair falling to his shoulders, suited a page more than a noble. On either side of the hall, long tables were lined with benches, adorned with silver goblets and platters of food.

As Ra’Jah stepped forward, he noticed Lord Sylvan standing nearby. He remained clad in armor, one hand resting upon the hilt of his sword. That habit no longer struck the Khajiit as strange. Only two kinds of men kept their hand ever at their blade: cowards, or those afraid they might not draw fast enough. Lord Sylvan did not seem a coward.

Approaching, Ra’Jah bowed and extended the scroll toward the Count, but Lord Sylvan raised a hand, stepped forward, and took the document himself.

‘There is no need to guard me so closely, Sylvan,’ the Count spoke. ‘I can sense the simplest enchantments, should the need arise.’

His voice was high, yet hoarse—like one who had either taken ill or shouted through the night.

‘Forgive me, my lord,’ Sylvan replied with a slight bow of his head. ‘I am but fulfilling my duty.’

The Count made a careless gesture, clearly granting permission to unseal the scroll. Sylvan broke the wax and unfurled the thick parchment.

‘Here, my lord,’ he said, offering the scroll.

The Count took it with one hand and swiftly scanned its contents.

‘Windhelm asks for our men?’ he looked up at Ra’Jah.

‘Not merely men, my lord. Vigwan Raven seeks the aid of your court mage, whose renown has spread far beyond the borders of Cyrodiil.’

"I fear your request cannot be granted," the Count said quietly. ‘Our court mage, Pilus Attius...’

He swallowed sharply. The Count looked as though he lacked even the strength for speech.

‘Pilus Attius is dead,’ Sylvan finished in his stead. ‘Forgive us. The Count is unwell. I would advise we conclude this meeting.’

‘My condolences,’ said Ra’Jah. ‘Jarl Vigwan will be sorely grieved by this news. May I ask—what was the cause of death?’

‘Disease,’ Sylvan answered curtly.

Ra’Jah glanced at the Count, but the man sat motionless, eyes fixed upon the stone floor, his chest rising and falling with heavy breath.

‘Then I shall trouble you no further," Ra’Jah said, bowing once more. "I would make but one final request—that I might remain in the keep another day. There are preparations I must see to before I resume my journey.’

Lord Sylvan regarded him in silence, then allowed a thin smile to cross his lips.

‘But of course, Master Ra’Jah,’ he said, with practiced politeness. ‘You are welcome to remain with us a while longer.’

‘My thanks,’ the Khajiit replied, bowing once more as he turned toward the exit.

That night, he would walk around the halls again.

***

After nightfall, when the trembling flame of the candle on the bedside table finally drowned in a pool of gleaming wax, the Khajiit opened his eyes. They glimmered in the dark, catching the faint light of stars beyond the window. There was no moon that night—and there would be none.

An autumn wind had at last carried the golden fall of Skyrim to this land—and soon, it would bring the winter.

Ra’Jah rose from the bed in silence and turned the door’s handle. A long, black corridor stretched in both directions. No man would see his own hands in such darkness, but the eyes of a Khajiit needed no light. He looked around. Seeing no guards, he slipped out.

One hand trailing lightly along the stone wall, he moved swiftly until he reached a fork. One arch led downward, toward the servants’ quarters. The other, a spiral stairway, rose toward the Count’s chambers.

Ra’Jah chose the path upward.

With feline grace, he climbed thirty-six steps and found himself in a similar stone corridor. Here, the walls were lit by torches set in iron stands. That morning, from the courtyard, he had taken note of the tower where the Count’s quarters lay. The high stained-glass windows made it easy to discern.

He advanced noiselessly, ears keen for any sound. From below, he heard scullions rattling pans in the kitchen, doors groaning and slamming open in the barracks to the west, and the northern wind howling through the flagpoles. These sounds brought him calm. They told him the keep moved through its ordinary rhythm—that danger had not yet awakened.

At the end of the hall, the voice of a child reached him. Ra’Jah froze, listening. The voice was soft, at times laced with laughter, as though the child were playing with someone.

The Khajiit crept closer, passing beneath banners bearing the town’s crest. The voices came from behind a door beside the Count’s chambers. Now, he could hear even the crackling of the hearth and the full exchange.

‘I want a little donkey of my own,’ said the child.

‘Then ask your father. I'm sure he won't refuse you,’ replied a woman’s voice. Ra’Jah recognized Neldren at once.

‘And our stablemaster will take care of it,’ the child said—likely a girl, the Khajiit guessed.

"Then what’s the point of having a donkey if you won’t care for it yourself? Feeding it, brushing its mane?’

‘I’ll visit him every day and bring him apples. Donkeys like apples, too, right? Like horses?’

‘They certainly do, my sweet.’

‘And will you give it to me when I grow up?’

‘The donkey or the amulet?’ Neldren laughed.

‘The amulet,’ giggled the girl.

‘When I’ve finished a few matters,’ said Neldren, ‘I shall give it to you, as a keepsake, my lady.’

‘I don’t like it when you call me that, Neldren.’

‘Then I’ll only call you that when we’re not alone.’

Ra’Jah understood now: the conversation was between Neldren and the Count’s daughter. He glanced at the dark door to the Count’s chambers—then turned back. He had learned all he needed.

Ra’Jah knew well that Lord Sylvan did not trust him. To put guards outside his room would have been too blatant a gesture—too revealing of his true opinion toward Windhelm’s envoy. But to leave the Count’s door unguarded? That Sylvan could not allow.

And so the corridor stood empty.

Which could only mean one thing: there was no one left to guard.

The Count was once again out of the castle that night.

***

'Neldren! Neldren!'

She lay amidst the tall grass, eyes closed, pondering why not a single cloud marred the sky this day. The scent of lavender clung to the warm air, and the buzzing of bees drifted close.

'Neldren!'

The girl smiled. Her father would not find her easily; the grass veiled her well. She heard footsteps nearby, held her breath, then sprang to her feet.

Before her stood a thin, stooping man. Sweat clung to his brow, his hair damp and stringy. When he saw Neldren, he curled his lips in a crooked grin, revealing jagged teeth. She took a step back.

'Neldren, there you are,' came her father's voice from behind. He strode toward them, a hoe resting on one shoulder. His jet-black hair was tied back in a long tail that trailed behind him. He was tall, so tall that the grass in which Neldren was hiding reached only his knees. Drawing near, he laid a hand upon her shoulder.

'What is it, Vikram?'

The man’s grin faded into a twisted grimace.

'A matter to speak on, Naeros.'

'I am at work, with my daughter — can you not see?'

'I see,' Vikram replied, baring his teeth again as his eyes flicked to Neldren. 'But the matter won’t wait. You’ve held us off long enough. Arkold wishes to speak.'

'I told you, I am busy,' said Naeros, stepping forward. His red eyes glowed with a quiet menace.

Vikram shrank further into himself, seeming half the size of the Dunmer before him. A spasm flickered across his face.

'Then we shall come by this eve.'

With that, he turned and made haste, as though fearing pursuit.

'What did he want?' Neldren asked softly.

'To talk,' Naeros sighed. 'Come. I’ve need of thy help.'

They made for the cart, where a broad, shaggy mare waited in her harness. The sun burned high and merciless.

'You were hiding in the grass?' her father asked, and Neldren saw the hint of a smile on his face.

'I was wondering why the sky has borne so few clouds of late.'

'Yes, the weather seems touched by madness. The crops suffer in such heat. Will you help me load the radishes?'

'Of course.'

They toiled till the sun sank low. When the heat had faded and the cicadas sang in the grass, they broke bread — coarse rye with cheese and crisp radishes. Then their cart rolled out upon the dusty road, past fields washed in the crimson glow of the setting sun.

***

'Where are we from, father?'

She would ask this question as often as she dared, and he was ever willing to answer.

'Our people came from the Isle of Summerset, far to the west of Valenwood.'

Whenever he spoke those words, the crimson hue of his eyes seemed to dim, as though a shadow fell upon them — the shadow of broad-leaved trees and blooming groves of the lands he described.

'I, like those I once knew, have never walked those shores. Many, unlike myself, have since passed from this world. I can tell you little of that land, Neldren,' he would say, his tone grown solemn. 'As a child, I was raised in our second homeland — the blessed lands of Morrowind.'

'And where is that, father?'

'It lies far from here. The Velothi Mountains divide us from it — named for Saint Veloth the Pilgrim. He was mighty among the Chimer. He led our people from war-torn lands and gave us new life in Tamriel.'

'Was he a mage?'

'Aye, Neldren. He was a great mystic. Veloth taught us the ways of the Daedra — to know the good from the wicked — and thus won us a chance at survival. Yet that knowledge came at a price. Our people were not always as we are now.' He ran a calloused hand down her soft cheek, and she laughed. 'Once, our skin bore the hue of gold — as did our eyes.'

'Golden?' Neldren would always ask, wonder in her voice.

'Yes, little one,' he would smile. 'Golden, like the sun, like the sands of Summerset’s tropical lagoons. Though we lost our homeland, we remain set apart. We shall ever be different from the wild Bosmer and the cruel Altmer who claimed the lands we once called ours.'

'Even me?'

'Especially you, Neldren.'

Then would he tell her the old tales of their kind — those he had not yet forgotten. He spoke of singing woods and blooming groves, of coral wastes and lands he had never seen, yet described as though he had wandered them in truth. He told of dark caverns and high towers, of golden bays, of tunnels deep beneath the earth, and fertile grottoes where sea-creatures dwelt and thrived.

And Neldren would drift to sleep to the sound of those stories, dreaming that one day, they would leave behind their present life — leave cold-winded Cyrodiil — and return to the blessed lands.

***

The knock on the door was so forceful, it sounded like someone meant to break it down.

‘Want me to knock on your head like that, Darm?’ said Naeros as he opened the door. ‘Think that might teach you how to do it properly?’

The brute he addressed didn’t seem particularly alarmed. He only made a dumb face and stepped inside. Vikram followed behind him, along with another man — bald and silent.

‘We came to talk, Naeros,’ said Darm. ‘Didn’t want to come here, but you’ve been hiding on purpose.’

‘I’m not hiding from anyone.’

‘You are, Naeros,’ Vikram cut in. ‘But now you’re going to talk.’

‘And what is it you want to talk about?’

‘Arkold wants to know when you’ll help us,’ Darm rumbled.

‘Why doesn’t Arkold find someone else if I no longer suit him?’

‘Come on, Naeros. Let’s not lie to each other. You had no trouble getting what he asked for before. And now you’re trying to slip out of it.’

‘I never told Arkold I’d work for him forever.’

‘You don’t have to,’ said Darm. ‘Just finish this.’

‘Arkold says this’ll be the last favor,’ Vikram added.

Naeros said nothing for a moment, his eyes moving slowly from one man to the next. Vikram stayed behind Darm, keeping his distance. The bald one stood silent in the doorway. Naeros’s gaze drifted to the wood axe resting by the hearth, then to the door behind which his daughter slept.

‘Fine,’ he said at last. ‘Tell Arkold I’ll come to him tomorrow. He’ll have what he asked for.’

***

It was his time. The night always brought him peace, made him calm and clear of mind. Perhaps it was because, as a boy, he and his father often herded the cattle under the stars. Or perhaps Naeros simply knew that in the dark, his shadowed skin made him harder to see.

He left the hut in the third hour, leaving Neldren behind. The thought alone made his heart tighten. A dreadful sense of the inevitability of something terrible had not let him go since he had left the house.

He had crossed nearly two miles of open fields when he stopped, turning back in sudden resolve. He would take Neldren and leave Cyrodiil this very night. Where they’d go — what did it matter? They’d face whatever lay ahead.

But those thoughts faded as the city walls crested the hill. He would see this through. One last task. Then they wouldn’t need to flee. Arkold had sworn to leave the city himself, and they could finally live in peace.

Naeros crept along the eastern wall, flattening himself against the cold stone when he heard the guards’ voices. Torchlight flickered faintly for a moment, then drifted away with the sound of boots on stone.

He had done this a hundred times. All he had to do was slip down the old gutter, squeeze through the broken grate beneath the wall, and follow the sewer to the house he wanted. Arkold’s men had done good work. Darm the Giant had dug and shored up the passage himself, carving it straight to the basement they needed. Vikram had cleared the skeevers from this stretch weeks ago. Now, the route was safe enough to move cargo all night long.

Naeros waited a minute, then slid down the grass-covered slope and crawled toward the grate. Dew-soaked grass slapped his arms, and cicadas sang deafeningly all around him.

He reached the bent iron bars. The stench of sewage hit him, but he didn’t flinch. He was used to it. To Naeros, that stink meant safety — it meant he’d made it this far unseen, past the most dangerous part.

With a practiced twist, he slipped through and strode into the tunnel, boots splashing through the filthy water.

Two left turns, then right, then left again, then straight to the long-abandoned, rotting crates. The hidden path continued a few feet forward and sloped gently up — a narrow crawlspace shored up with timber beams and packed earth.

A faint candle-glow flickered ahead. Naeros heard no voices. That troubled him.

The smugglers were silent, listening for his steps.

He rose to full height as he entered.

The room, cluttered with crates, barrels, and rusting tools, was lit by two weak stubs of candle set on a pine table. The warped floor reeked of damp and mold.

He saw Vikram by the far wall, nervously rolling two gold coins in his hand. Darm sat nearby, dozing in a chair. Naeros also recognized the bald one — the one who had come to him earlier that night.

‘Did you bring it?’ the bald man asked.

Naeros glanced at Vikram.

‘Why is this skull speaking to me?’

The bald man twitched, but Darm opened his eyes and rumbled.

‘Quiet, Rent. Naeros — did you bring what was promised?’

‘I will show nothing until I see Arkold. I speak only with him.’

‘Arkold is gone. Left the town. Won’t be back soon, if at all. Just hand it over, and you can be on your way. No one will trouble you again.’

Naeros scanned the room. Darm’s axe rested in the corner. The brute’s eyes had drifted shut again. Vikram was unarmed. Only the bald one carried a weapon, and he stood too far to make use of it in time.

If they meant to kill him, they’d have to earn it. All of them knew what Naeros was capable of in a fight.

He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it onto Darm’s lap. The big man opened it with one thick finger, letting a handful of black stones spill into his palm.

‘Good,’ he growled, like a bear.

‘Are you going to stand in the doorway all night, Naeros?’ said Vikram.

‘I am fine right here,’ Naeros replied. He thought that if an attack did come, this position would be his best chance of defending himself.

Then he felt it — a faint draft at the back of his neck.

A breath. Behind him.

He turned too late. Someone had followed him in silence.

A crushing blow to the skull sent him crashing forward into the table. One of the candles tipped and hissed out.

Darm leapt up, grabbing his axe. Vikram shrank into the corner, hiding behind the door leading to the house above.

The attacker stepped from the tunnel. Naeros heard only his voice — high and hissing. He felt the blood running through his hair, down his face.

‘He carrying anything worth coin?’ asked the bald man. ‘Necklace’s got some gray stone on it.’

‘Check his pockets,’ hissed the voice again.

‘Looks like some cheap barbaric charm. Probably Maormer trash,’ muttered Vikram.

‘He’s still alive!’ barked Darm — panic in his voice. Naeros knew why.

In one motion he leapt to his feet, knocking the Argonian off balance.

He was dizzy, but he drew his sword and swung it sideways. A sharp swing — the bald man gurgled and fell, choking on blood.

A brutal strike caught Naeros in the jaw, but he stood firm. Darm slammed into him, trying to crush his windpipe with a forearm. The axe was useless here — too tight a space.

For a heartbeat, they wrestled in place. Naeros couldn’t break the hold, and Darm couldn’t reach his throat.

Argonian drew his dagger and stabbed Darm in the leg. Darm howled like a wounded beast and staggered back.

For second, Naeros thought the Argonian was trying to help him. But one look at the lizard’s face showed the truth — he’d missed. The blade was meant for Naeros.

With a snarl, Naeros caught him by the throat and landed two punishing blows, skinning his knuckles on bloody teeth and thick skin of the lizard.

Darm came again, but Naeros was ready. He ducked, seized the fallen dagger, and drove it up beneath the Argonian’s ribs.

The creature wheezed and slumped, sliding down the wall in silence.

Naeros turned to face Darm.

Only the two of them remained. Vikram had fled long ago.

The room swayed like a ship at sea. He raised the dagger — too short to strike first.

Darm already had the axe in hand.