Sloan stopped in place.

The figure was dressed in motley -- actual motley, red and white and stitched in patterns that had no business existing outside a jester’s fever dream. Bells dangled from the edges, chiming softly every time the wind caught them. A painted face stared skyward in theatrical despair.

“Oh, Mother,” the figure wailed to the heavens, arms flung wide. “Your poor Cicero is betrayed by wheels! By wood! By the cruel indifference of roads that refuse to remain flat!”

Sloan exchanged a glance with Lexzal. “You’ll know if you find him.”

The Argonian let out the snort that passed for his laugh and responded in a remarkable approximation of Kira’s voice, “He…stands out.”

The farmer’s door burst open and a large Nord burst out, pitchfork in hand. “I told you, I’m not fixing it! Get away from my property!

The jester spun with alarming speed, grin snapping into place like a mask pulled tight.

“Ah! Angry Farmer returns!” Cicero clapped his hands together. “Has the rage cooled? Has the kindness bloomed? Has the Farmer reconsidered helping poor, stranded Cicero and his precious cargo?”

“I said no!” the farmer barked. “You’ve been screaming all day! You’re scaring my goats!”

Cicero gasped, hand to chest. “The goats? Oh no! Sweet goats! Cicero would never wish distress upon goats!”

Sloan and Lexzal stepped into view; the man in motley noticed instantly. His grin widened--not startled, but alert. His eyes flicked from Sloan to Lexzal and back again, measuring, before the bells resumed their cheerful ringing.

“Ohhh,” he breathed. “Company!”

The farmer followed his gaze. “You know these two?”

“Know?” the man clasped his hands beneath his chin. “No know, no! But Cicero likes them already. Very serious. Very quiet.”

Lexzal inclined his head. “You are Cicero.”

Cicero bowed deeply, nearly toppling forward. “Guilty! Devotedly!”

“You were expected."

“Oh dear! That sounds ominous.”

Sloan shook her head. “You’re late."

“Late!” Cicero echoed, scandalized. “Cicero prefers delayed by circumstance.” He leaned forward and whispered as if imparting a great secret, "The roads here are vicious wheel-eating monsters!" A giggle, then he sang:

"Oh I have been through forests of creatures, scary and strong,

through deserts I could fight them all day long,

but there is one creature I cannot overthrooooooowwwww,

the terrible monster called the Skyrim pothole!"

The farmer slammed the butt of the pitchfork into the dirt. “Are you here to take him away?”

Lexzal stepped past Sloan without answering and crouched beside the ruined wheel. He examined the splintered spokes, the bent iron, the scarring on the rim. His expression tightened--not much, but enough that Sloan noticed.

“It is beyond true repair but I should be able to get it to hold together long enough to reach a place where we can purchase a new one.” He looked at the farmer. “Do you have tools?”

The farmer paused, then grunted and nodded toward the barn. “Tools are in there. Welcome to them if it gets him out of here.”

Lexzal nodded. “Obliged.”

The farmer gave Cicero one last glare and stomped back to his house while Lexzal went to the barn. Cicero stood in place and nodded enthusiastically.

“Goodbye, angry farmer! It is better that you are not here. Anger is terrible for wheels. And Mother dislikes tantrums.”

Sloan’s attention sharpened. “Mother?”

Cicero waved a hand airily. “Oh, she’s very particular.”

Lexzal returned moments later with an array of tools, then knelt by the broken wheel and began laying out them out in ordered rows. Cicero crouched beside him immediately, too close, peering with exaggerated fascination.

“Ohhh, clever lizard! Cicero likes clever lizards. They make things behave.”

“Stand back,” Lexzal said.

Cicero stood. Then sat. Then stood again, humming loudly. Bells chimed out of rhythm as he began to narrate every motion:

“Ladies and gentlemen! Witness now--the moment! The turning of the age! The wheel that refused! Behold!" Cicero swept an arm toward the broken spokes. "The aftermath of rage! The scars of temper upon innocent wood! See how it lies--shattered! Betrayed! Abandoned by geometry itself!”

Lexzal ignored him, fingers moving through the debris with careful intent. He lifted one splintered spoke, turned it once, and set it aside.

“Aha!” Cicero gasped. “Rejected! Unworthy! Cast aside like a liar in court!”

Another piece followed. Then another. Lexzal sorted with methodical calm, arranging fragments by length and integrity, his motions precise, economical.

“And now!” Cicero whispered loudly, crouching as if the moment demanded reverence. “Now the clever lizard thinks.”

Lexzal withdrew a narrow iron brace from the pile. The bells rang as Cicero staggered backward in mock astonishment.

“IRON!” he shouted. “The secret weapon! The unyielding spine! Ohhh, the audacity!”

Lexzal tested the rim, pressing, measuring. He adjusted the brace by a fraction, then fitted it along the weakest arc.

“See?” Cicero told the empty road, nodding vigorously. “He does not rush! Rushing leads to regret! Regret leads to yelling! Yelling leads to broken wheels!”

Lexzal threaded cord through the remaining spokes, looping and tightening with deliberate tension, redistributing the strain so the wheel would turn rather than collapse inward.

“And behold!” Cicero cried. “The weaving! The binding! A marriage of wood and will!”

Lexzal pulled the cord taut, tied it off, tested the give with the heel of his hand. The wheel shifted--but held.

Cicero pressed both hands to his chest. “It lives!”

Lexzal adjusted the axle, shaving down a warped edge with a short blade, movements so controlled they barely seemed to exist.

“Such gentleness!” Cicero sighed. “Such restraint! He does not fight the wheel--he negotiates!”

Lexzal re‑seated the wheel, tightened the final fastenings, then rocked the cart forward an inch. It rolled; Cicero screamed.

“IT TURNS!” he shrieked, throwing his arms wide. “THE CIRCLE ACCEPTS ITS DESTINY!”

Lexzal stood, brushing dust from his hands. “Inelegant but sufficient. This will hold. For a time.”

Cicero dropped to one knee before the wheel, bowing deeply. “Thank you,” he told it in a low solemn tone. “You have chosen cooperation.” He sprang back up, spinning toward Sloan with manic delight. “Did you see? DID YOU SEE? History! Craft! ART!”

Sloan stared at the wheel, then at Lexzal. “How long?”

The Argonian shrugged. “Long enough.”

Cicero nodded gravely. “Yes. Long enough is the best kind of enough.” The bells chimed as he threw an arm around the air, addressing his invisible audience once more. “And thus, through patience and intellect and the refusal to panic, the journey continues!”

He leapt onto the cart bench, bowed extravagantly, and whispered to no one in particular, “She likes that part.”

“Sit,” Sloan commanded as she climbed onto the bench beside him and took the reins.

He sat. Then immediately stood again.

Lexzal tightened the final knot and rose, wiping his hands clean. “South,” he said.

“Ohhh yes,” Cicero sang. “Toward trees and whispers and Mother’s favorite silences!”

Sloan frowned. “You keep saying that.”

Cicero beamed at her. “Cicero pays attention.”

“To what?”

Cicero tapped his temple. “Patterns. Preferences. Very subtle things.”

The cart creaked into motion. Lexzal walked alongside for a time, staff tapping softly against the road. Sloan kept the reins steady, eyes forward.

“You were entrusted with something,” Lexzal said after a time.

Cicero laughed. “Ohhh yes. Very precious. Very quiet. Doesn’t like sunlight.”

Lexzal’s pace slowed. His posture stiffened, just slightly. Sloan noticed, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was seeing -- Argonian expressions were not her strength.

“The container.” Lexzal’s tone held what felt like a careful neutrality. “Does it contain the Night Mother?”

Cicero’s face lit up with radiant delight. “Oh yes!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands. “Cicero is her Watcher! He takes very good care of her.”

Lexzal stopped walking. Sloan noted and reined in the cart, then looked from one to the other.

“What is that?”

Lexzal inhaled, then exhaled very slowly. “A sacred object. And a dangerous one.”

Cicero leaned forward with a new gleam in his eye. One less frivolous; one filled with danger. “She is not an object,” he scolded. “She is the truth and the dark.” A pause. “Or the truth in the dark. Hmm, which is more poetic?” Then his laugh was back as he danced and sang a terribly dirty ditty about things done in the dark.

Lexzal let out a soft, sharp sound under his breath and muttered, “Tsalk’thir.”

Sloan did not know much Jel, but she recognized a curse when she heard it. She felt a chill she couldn’t quite name. “I don’t know what any of this means.”

Lexzal resumed walking, though his grip on the staff had tightened. “It means,” he said, after a moment, “that this assignment carries consequences far beyond what was disclosed.”

Cicero leaned back on the bench, humming cheerfully. “She’ll be so happy in her new home, I just know it!”

Sloan looked at the box secured behind the bench--plain wood, iron-bound, utterly silent. Nothing about it looked dangerous…and yet the road ahead felt heavier now. Longer.

Cicero laughed, bells ringing brightly in the dusk, and bent to murmur to the unseen presence beside him. “Almost there." He said it like a promise.

Sloan didn’t know who--or what--that promise was for. But as they continued south, a sense of foreboding settled into her bones, quiet and insistent, like the certainty of a storm still beyond the horizon.

The wheel turned. The bells rang. And whatever they carried waited.

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Not with her -- never that --but around her, the way a body adjusts to a foreign object lodged beneath the skin. The tension no longer spiked when she entered a room. Conversations didn’t halt outright, only softened, reshaped. People stopped watching her hands quite so openly.

Her early assignments had been small and deliberately unglamorous -- deliveries that weren’t meant to arrive late; a drunk mercenary who needed to fall off a bridge in the rain; a courier whose satchel had to be retrieved without anyone realizing it had ever gone missing. Work that tested patience, observation, and restraint.

In a lot of ways, her new “family,” as they liked to call themselves, were a lot like the old.

Naza took the most visible interest in Sloan’s progress; she handed out most of the assignments and ran the debriefings after the missions. She was this timeline’s version of Mishi (especially since Mishi was dead. Which made Sloan wonder if Naza had been this way before Mishi’s death or whether Naza was literally replacing her dead compatriot). Her style was different than the constant belittling and accusations of incompetence Mishi had used – Naza phrased her questions as idle curiosity while her sharp eyes catalogued every answer.

The Nord, Tusef, was the new Jorg (which made her wonder where the actual Jorg was. Maybe he had died too?) He challenged Sloan in fight training, blunt-force spars meant to exhaust rather than instruct. He hit hard and without apology, as though daring her to break so he could justify his initial assessment. Sloan relished the training – thanks to the time travel back to her orphan body, her skills and physical abilities were still a far cry from their peaks. Her training with him always led to good honest physical exhaustion.

Then there was Gilna, who was this timeline’s version of Gilna and who was still conspicuously absent.

What Sloan didn’t remember from last time was the inclusion of not one, but two Argonians. She had had only limited dealing with them before because they were so rare in Skyrim, so to find two in the same group was a surprise.

Veezara watched everything and said almost nothing. When he did speak, it was usually after Sloan had already noticed whatever flaw or pattern the Argonian was about to comment on. It unsettled her more than open scrutiny would have.

Lexzal, on the other hand, treated her with a measured, distant respect after their first exchange. He didn’t test her -- he evaluated her, occasionally offering corrections in passing, always phrased as observations rather than commands.

“You step too heavily when you are thinking,” for instance. “Predators must be mindful of their every step.”

She adjusted.

The other Redguard, Babette, was friendly in a way that never let Sloan forget it was a choice. She asked questions that seemed harmless until Sloan realized they were triangulating information from angles she hadn’t considered. Where had she learned to move like that? Who had taught her to read rooms? What had she done before she’d come looking for the Brotherhood?

Sloan answered carefully with truth, but never all of it. Not that they would have believed all of it, of course.

By the time Kira summoned her (and, to Sloan’s brief surprised, Lexzal), the routine had settled into something dangerously close to comfort. The request itself was strange enough to snap that illusion cleanly in half.

“You’re going north,” Kira said, standing over a table strewn with maps.

Sloan felt the shift immediately--not fear, but attention. This wasn’t a test disguised as busywork -- this was something else.

She and Lexzal stood a few paces apart, close enough to read one another’s posture, far enough to avoid suggesting familiarity. Lexzal’s hands were folded behind his back, his gaze already on the map.

“Purpose?” he asked.

“A problem,” Kira replied. “Or the absence of one.” She traced a finger along a route etched into the parchment. “River Run Road first. If there’s no sign, continue along Pale Rise toward Dawnstar.”

“So we’re looking for a traveler,” Sloan said, more statement than question.

Kira’s mouth twitched. “A brother. Late.”

“How late?” Lexzal asked.

“Long enough to be inconvenient.”

Sloan leaned closer to the table, studying the terrain. The route south from Dawnstar wasn’t forgiving, especially for someone traveling alone--or trying not to be noticed. “He disembarked in Dawnstar?”

“From Cyrodiil,” Kira confirmed. “Ship was logged. Cargo accounted for. Passenger disembarked.”

“And after that?” Lexzal asked.

“That’s what you are going to find out. He should have been here days ago.”

That settled uneasily in Sloan’s chest. The Brotherhood did not misplace its own without consequence.

Lexzal was quiet for a moment, considering. “Possibilities?”

“Several,” Kira said. “None of them tidy.”

Sloan straightened. “Description?”

Kira lifted her gaze from the map, expression unreadable. “Oh, believe me -- you’ll know if you find him.”

That was not helpful.

“His name is Cicero,” Kira added, as if it had only just occurred to her to mention it. “He…stands out.”

Sloan paused, then nodded once. Lexzal’s eyes flicked briefly toward her--acknowledgment, not commentary--and they left together.

Whatever they were walking into, it wasn’t meant to be subtle.

They left before dawn and did not hurry.

The road carried them north through thin light and colder air, the first day passing with little more than the sound of boots on frost‑stiffened dirt. They spoke rarely, and when they did, it was practical. By the third day, the rhythm of travel had settled. They broke when terrain demanded it, not when the sun did.

The dark posed no obstacle to Sloan, only nuance. She noted animal tracks veering off the road, the faint disturbance of brush where something had crossed hours earlier. Lexzal noticed different things: the condition of the road, the age of the frost, the places where carts slowed or stopped without obvious reason. They pointed out what they observed, sometime debating whether it might have anything to do with their quarry, each time coming to the agreement it likely did not.

They had been walking for most of the afternoon when Lexzal broke their mutual silence.

“Do you always leave before dawn or is that for me?”

Sloan didn’t look over. “It keeps people from asking questions.”

“That answers both possibilities.”

She allowed a small breath of amusement. It wasn’t quite a smile. “You don’t ask many questions yourself.”

“I ask the ones that survive consideration.”

“And the rest?”

“Were never worth the answers.”

They walked in silence for a time. Wind moved through the grass at the roadside, bending it all one direction. Sloan adjusted her pace without thinking; Lexzal matched it a step later.

“You don’t carry much,” he said.

“I don’t like to be slowed.”

“By weight?”

“By choices.”

That earned a glance from him--brief, measuring. “You learned that early.”

“Earlier than I wanted.”

He nodded, accepting the limit she’d drawn.

After a while, Sloan said, “You’ve done this kind of work before.”

Lexzal’s staff tapped once against a stone. “I’ve enforced rules. I’ve written them. I’ve broken them when they stopped serving their purpose.”

“And when they did?”

“I enforced them harder than anyone else.”

She considered that. “What changed?”

“The realization that the law rarely belongs to the people who suffer under it.”

“That sounds like regret.”

“It sounds like arithmetic. Regret implies I would choose differently now.”

“And would you?”

Lexzal did not answer immediately. When he did, it was careful. “I choose differently now. That is not the same thing.”

They crested a low rise. The road ahead curved out of sight, bordered by scrub and stone. Sloan slowed, then resumed her pace once she’d confirmed there was nothing waiting.

“You were something official,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Not here.”

“No.”

“Did you leave or were you removed?”

His expression did not change, but his voice cooled by a fraction. “Both.”

She let that stand.

A mile later, he said, “You don’t speak like someone raised gently.”

“No.”

“Nor like someone raised cruelly.”

“Neglect is cruelty in its own way.”

“Fair enough.”

She glanced at him then. “You don’t talk like a killer.”

“I don’t kill because I enjoy it.”

“Neither do I.”

That was the closest they came to agreement.

The light shifted as afternoon leaned toward evening. Lexzal stopped once to study a marker stone at the side of the road, tracing a finger over an old sigil before moving on without comment.

“You read those,” Sloan said.

“I used to have to.”

“And now?”

“Now I prefer knowing where other people think boundaries are.”

“Why?”

“So I know when I’ve crossed them.”

She considered that, then, surprising herself, blurted, “I don’t remember my parents.”

Lexzal looked at her, surprised enough to show even on his lizard face.

“I remember places,” she continued. “Floors. Sounds. How people breathe when they’re lying.”

“Do you miss them?”

“I don’t know who they were. I thought I did, for a time. Now I miss not having to wonder.”

He inclined his head. “That is…reasonable.”

They made camp as the light faded, small and unobtrusive. Lexzal prepared the fire with practiced efficiency, never wasting motion. Sloan watched his hands, the precision.

“You were trained,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Formally.”

“Yes.”

“Not here.”

“No.”

She passed him a strip of dried meat. He accepted it, nodding once.

“You don’t talk about your past,” he said.

“You don’t talk about yours.”

“True.”

“Does that bother you?”

“How could it when I do the same? It suggests survival.”

The fire cracked softly. Night settled in around them.

After a while, Lexzal said, “If we find him tomorrow--this Cicero--what do you expect?”

Sloan stared into the fire. “Noise.”

“Yes.”

“Disruption.”

“Also yes.”

“And underneath?”

She met his gaze. “Something intact.”

Lexzal considered that. Then, quietly, “You’re not wrong.”

They fell silent again, the conversation finished not because there was nothing left to say, but because neither of them was ready to say more.

The road would give them time.

And time, they both knew, was dangerous.

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There was no echo -- just the sound of stone settling into stone, as if the passage itself had decided she could not go back. The air inside the sanctuary was cooler than the forest above, thick with the smell of oil, iron, and old smoke. It wasn’t damp, exactly, but it felt used. Worn smooth by years of bodies passing through, breathing the same air, bleeding onto the same stones.

She didn’t move, at first. She stood just inside the threshold and observed.

The cavern beyond unfolded to her vision in patient layers -- edges resolving where others would see only swallowed shape, movement separating itself cleanly from shadow. Stone textures emerged, seams and scuffs made visible by nothing more than the faintest difference in tone. The concept of dark was not the absence of sight for her. It was simply a quieter way of seeing.

She remained still, letting her eyes soften, pretending adjustment, while around her, people believed themselves unseen.

Someone leaned against a pillar to her left, weight distributed for balance rather than rest. Someone else lingered high on a ledge cut into the stone, posture loose but angle precise enough to give a clear view of her entry. Two more figures stood behind braziers just far enough back to let the light fail around their faces.

Hidden, so they thought. Sloan let her shoulders slacken a fraction, played the part.

“Well,” a woman said from the deeper shadows, her voice calm and unforced. “She didn’t light a torch.” Kira stepped forward into the low glow in the center of the room, not concealing herself, not ornamenting the moment. She didn’t need to – command clung to her like a second skin, not loud, not brittle, but undeniable. She motioned Sloan forward as braziers around the room flared to life, lifting some of the veil of darkness.

As Sloan walked deeper into the sanctuary, more of it revealed itself – tables arranged for work rather than gathering; weapons placed where hands would naturally fall, not where they would look impressive; maps weighted at the corners, ink dark and recently refreshed.

People emerged more clearly into view.

A woman sat near the largest table, chair tilted back, one boot braced against a crate. Her face was sharp, clever, openly curious. She watched Sloan with the relaxed focus of someone assessing a problem they expected to enjoy solving.

Across the cavern, a Nord stood near a support pillar, broad-shouldered and deliberately still. His hands weren’t near his weapon, but Sloan could see the tension in his forearms, the micro-adjustments in stance that betrayed readiness.

Others pretended indifference less convincingly. A Redguard woman smiled too easily; an Argonian angled his body away while keeping one eye trained on her; a mage stood near the far wall, her attention divided between Sloan and something unseen.

Kira stopped near the center of the space and turned.

“This is Sloan,” she said. “She came looking for work.”

Someone snorted softly.

The woman at the table leaned forward, elbows braced, smile sharpening. “Your name’s already being whispered. That usually doesn’t happen unless someone’s made a mess.”

Here it was – the thread tightening. Sloan felt the attention sharpen -- not hostile, not yet, but alerted. The shape of suspicion changed when a name entered it, especially one that carried history.

“I didn’t make the mess. But I didn’t step around it either.”

That earned her a quiet, thoughtful sound from the Argonian, off to the side. He regarded her now more directly, eyes reflective even in the low light. “You carry echoes,” he said. “Not your own.”

Sloan resisted the instinct to look away. “So does everyone standing in this room. Some of you just learned to listen for them sooner.”

Across the cavern, the Nord’s mouth twisted. “That’s an artful way of dodging the point,” he said even as the Redguard woman laughed softly, friendly on the surface, and added, “You’ll fit in just fine, then.”

Sloan caught the precision of that laughter, the way it was calibrated to diffuse rather than connect. False warmth. She offered a small, polite smile in return.

Kira finally raised a hand, and the subtle friction in the room eased -- not gone, just paused. “She is not Melissa’s daughter. I re-confirmed the death of Trendil Shae – it cannot be doubted.”

The name fell into the space like a stone dropped into water.

Sloan kept her face neutral. Inside, something clenched -- not fear, but inevitability; she was suddenly very glad she had decided against the ruse of pretending to be Trendil.

“But resemblance invites speculation,” Kira continued. “And speculation has weight.”

The mage near the wall regarded Sloan with new interest. “Lineage is a dangerous thing to assume. But patterns have a way of repeating.”

Sloan paused then gave them a calculated truth. “I do not know my lineage. Whatever it is, I am not a pattern – I am a consequence.”

Silence answered that. Not approval. Not rejection. Assessment.

Kira turned slightly, angling her body so Sloan was no longer alone at the center, but not entirely shielded either. “You’ll stay. For now. You’ll be given space. And tasks. We’ll see what you do with both.”

“And if she brings problems with her?” the woman at the table asked.

Kira’s gaze was steady. “Then we see whether she becomes one -- or solves them.”

That was as close to reassurance as anyone here offered.

As the conversation drifted, people began to disengage in pieces, not all at once. Movement fractured, routes reestablished. A slow, deliberate return to routines that now included Sloan as an unresolved variable.

She noticed all of it.

Not just the movement, but where people thought the dark concealed them. The assassin who slipped onto the ledge above without sound, certain the angle hid him completely. The Argonian who retreated into a shadowed aisle between storage racks. The thin smile the Redguard woman dropped the moment she turned away.

Sloan let none of her observations show, of course.  She kept her gaze forward, her posture measured, her reactions appropriately delayed. She allowed the braziers to guide her, stepping where they would expect her to step, slowing where the light thinned. Better they think she navigated by what they could see.

Kira walked her deeper into the sanctuary, explaining little and assuming much. Sloan absorbed what she could -- the layout, the exits, the places where sound carried strangely. The places where it didn’t.

“You’re being watched,” Kira said, not unkindly.

“I know. I would expect no less.”

The Matron nodded; the answer satisfied her more than the truth would have.

As they stopped near a curtained alcove meant to pass as sleeping quarters, Sloan felt it fully then -- the weight of presence pressing from all sides, from darkness that was not dark to her at all.

This place dealt in things unseen; she simply happened to see them. But she cautioned herself not to become reliant on it - she would not make the mistake of believing that advantage made her safe. One of Gilna’s first lessons had been to avoid relying on just sight; eyes could be fooled all too easily.

The thought made Sloan realize her once-mentor had not been present nor, for that matter, had she seen Jorg. She could believe the former had managed to stay hidden even with Sloan’s strange gift, but in no timeline would the same be true of the latter.

It felt like a coincidence, and coincidences made Sloan itch, but there was nothing she could do to try to solve the mysteries, if they even really were such. She shook off the silent foreboding and concentrated on what she could control; learning her way around the maze that made up the home of the Dark Brotherhood. And also the hideout’s layout.

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She came for the armor.

The black-and-red thing that wasn’t really a thing -- more like a second skin that decided to pretend it was cloth. It had saved her once already. Well, twice, if Mallin’s little demonstration after she first put it on counted. She could still feel, if she let herself remember it, the obscene little moment of disbelief when Mallin’s dagger had struck her belly and bounced away like it had hit a stone wall.

The cabin was worse than she remembered. The roof sagged like an old man’s spine and the inside smelled of rot and dust and the sour ghost of smoke. She moved through it with practiced care, stepping where the boards looked strongest, letting her eyes do the work her hands didn’t have time to do.

The etched mark in the floor was still there, invisible unless you knew how to look. Sloan knelt, pressed the latch, and waited for the familiar soft click.

It clicked, but the sound was wrong -- too loud, too hollow. The trap door lifted with less resistance than it should have, and for a heartbeat she told herself the hinges had just warped with age.

Then she saw the splinters.

Not in the cabin. On the stairwell itself -- fresh, pale wood against old dark boards, like bone showing through torn skin. She eased down two steps and found the cause: the narrow inner door, a second concealed panel set into the stone like it belonged there -- was hanging half off its frame. The latch had been ripped clean out. One hinge pin lay on the stairs like a dropped needle.

Sloan stopped breathing without meaning to. Her first instinct was simple and ancient: back away, seal it, pretend she’d never come. Her second instinct was newer and meaner: press forward. Someone had already come; someone already knew. Someone was ahead of her in this new iteration of the game.

She drew a dagger and slid through the broken panel, body low, eyes moving. The air in the hidden cellar still carried that strange, clean chill of worked stone and old magic, but the room itself had been violated -- shelves stood open, drawer fronts yawned. Papers that had once been stacked into tidy, labeled piles now carpeted the floor in torn, careless drifts.

The wall where the armor had hung looked like a smile missing teeth. Three of the mannequins lay toppled, their polished wooden limbs snapped. The ebony half-plate was gone. The Dwemer shell was gone. Even the dark Blade armor -- whatever a Blade truly was -- had vanished. And the worst absence of all was the one Sloan had come for: the black-and-red, impossible half-suit. The hooks where it had hung were bent outward, as if whoever took it had yanked too hard in a hurry.

Sloan forced herself to search anyway, because hoping for miracles was a child’s habit and she’d spent too many years being one. She checked behind the map table, inside the cabinets, under the scattered parchment. She found only emptiness and the faint track-marks of boots in dust where no one was supposed to tread.

The broken panel bothered her more than the missing treasures. Theft made sense; Skyrim had no shortage of desperate hands. But the damage looked wrong -- too clumsy, too loud. Like whoever found the place hadn’t known what it was until the last second, had tried to open what couldn’t be opened, and had broken it by accident. Or like someone had been interrupted mid-robbery and had torn their way out with brute force.

She stood in the wreckage for a long moment, listening to the weight of the mountain above her and the thin, useless scrape of her own breath. It felt ridiculous to mourn an outfit; it felt even more ridiculous to realize she’d been counting on it like a prayer.

Finally, she heaved herself back into the cabin, lowered the trap door, and set it as neatly as she could, as if tidiness might undo what had been done. Outside, the wind had sharpened and the trees whispered against each other like conspirators. Sloan pulled her hood up and started walking.

Kira’s instructions came back to her in pieces -- not as words, but as images and turns: a fork in the road that looked like nothing, a standing stone that leaned like a drunk, a stretch of scrub where the birds went quiet. The Dark Brotherhood’s base. Not the Vixen; not the pleasant façade placed upon the darkness for the sake of society. This was the tong unmasked - the thing beneath the thing.

Without the skin-tight armor, Sloan felt suddenly soft. Human. Killable. Her knives were sharp and her hands were steady, but steel didn’t matter much if the wrong person decided she should stop breathing – she had only managed to kill Kira last time because of it, after all.

By the time the sky fully surrendered to night, she saw the place. If you weren’t looking for it, it was nothing -- just a sagging wedge of rock and bramble pressed against the hillside, a mouth choked with ivy. No lamplight. No smoke. No sign that anyone lived, breathed, ate, or slept within. Which was, of course, the point.

She found the marker Kira had mentioned -- a notch cut into stone that looked like a crack unless you knew what it was -- and slid her fingers into it. Cold stone bit at her nails. Something shifted deep inside, followed by the quiet grind of hidden gears.

The opening widened just enough for her to slip through. Sloan stopped at the threshold anyway, because thresholds were where lives changed and she’d had enough of that for one lifetime. She closed her eyes, counted her heartbeats until they slowed, then drew in a deep breath that tasted of damp earth and old secrets. Then she opened her eyes again, stepped forward, and let the dark swallow her whole.

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The warehouse was easy to find—a hulking shape of weathered wood and iron, its windows boarded over. Sloan studied it for a solid hour but saw no movement, so sign it had been used in years. She did not, of course, believe what she saw – she assumed she, herself, was being observed at that moment.

Finally, after weighing her options, she decided this was a time when the straightforward approach suited best. She moved from her spot, pulled the hood of her cloak over her head, then forced her legs to carry a gait of casual abandon as she made her way down the steps to the pier then along it lengths to the warehouse door.

The door was chained but the heavy lock was open. Sloan slipped inside, her footsteps muffled on the dust-covered floor. The air was thick with the scent of stale salt and old fish and shadows pooled in the corners. Sloan stepped away from the door and, with her back to the wall and waited, just to see if any surprises were ready to be sprung at that moment.. After a handful of seconds, she decided they hadn't left anything exciting at the entry and looked around.

The room was unlit. There were a few old crates and barrels here and there, just enough to provide cover is someone needed it. The only thing that felt out of place was a single lantern set atop two stacked crates in the center of the room. It stood out because it looked somewhat new and un-dust-covered, and a closer inspection revealed its oil reserves were full.

She still had some hours to go, so she made use of them, scouting every corner and crevice of the place, ready at any moment for a trap to be set off. But there was nothing of interest. Not a tripwire, a barbed latch, or even an explosive rune hidden beneath the thick layer of dust that covered the floor.

Sloan shrugged and lit the lamp on the assumption that whoever was going to join her would need it, then sat on a barrel just on the outside of the circle of light it provided and waited, feeling vaguely disappointed and unfulfilled. This had seemed the perfect time for the Brotherhood to test her, to see if she was aware of her surroundings and could take care of herself. Instead, it was just a boring old building.

Time stretched, each minute marked by the slow drip of water from a leaky roof, and Sloan wondered if the waiting was the true test. Although she had not been told to show up four hours early, so…

At last, the door creaked open and a figure stepped inside—a woman, tall and cloaked, her face partially obscured by the hood of her cloak. Sloan stood but kept her own hood up and her hands in sight and well away from her daggers – if this was Kira (and from the way she moved, Sloan was certain it was), a fight was the last thing Sloan wanted.

“Sloan.” There was no mistaking Kira’s voice. It was smooth as an adder and twice as dangerous. “You’re punctual. I can add that to my very small list of things I know about you.”

Sloan kept her posture relaxed, but her mind raced. No one else snuck in with Kira and tried to use what would have seemed to them to be the cover of darkness to circle Sloan. She was nearly 100% confident it was just the two of them. “Did you send for me to talk about my personal life?”

Kira’s lips curled in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I sent for you discuss many things. First and foremost, debts…and opportunities.” Kira took a step into the light and lowered her hood, giving Sloan her first clear look at her face. If she had retained any doubts about her visitor’s identity, they were erased in an instant - Kira looked as cold and beautiful as ever.

Sloan turned her body incrementally to keep Kira centered in her view, but the Matron merely sat on a broken barrel, crossed her legs, and placed her hands on her knee, in the process somehow making the dusty warehouse feel like an elegant salon. After a moment, Sloan accepted the implied request and stepped further into the light herself, settling on a different barrel a little closer to the Matron.

Kira’s smile moved a little higher, cresting at the top of her delicate cheekbones. “Let’s begin with Grelod the Kind. She was a contract. A simple job, but important to the Brotherhood’s reputation. You killed her without sanction. That’s a problem.”

Sloan shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “She was a monster. I did the world a favor.”

Kira’s eyes narrowed. “You did yourself no favors. The Brotherhood doesn’t tolerate interference. Contracts are our lifeblood - when someone takes what’s ours, we bleed. And when we bleed…well, we get a little cross.”

Sloan felt the tension in the room coil tighter. “If you wanted payment, you could have sent a letter. This feels more like a reckoning.”

“Oh, it is. But Grelod was only the beginning. Or, I suppose, the end. Someone else came first, no?”

Sloan sighed. They knew, after all. Well, it probably hadn’t been too hard to connect Mishi’s murder to the girl who was supposed to be in the bed Mishi was found in, nor to connect the dots from there to the orphanage. In retrospect, Sloan should have seen this coming. “Mishi was trying to kill someone I needed alive. I had no choice.”

A pause as a very brief but definite blink of surprise crossed Kira’s face. “You know her name. Curious.” A pause, then, “Yes, Tihwen Black-Briar was contracted to be killed as well, although that contract was subsequently cancelled for unrelated reasons before we had to admit its failure to be satisfactorily concluded. You are lucky the Black-Briar family is filled with more politics than the rest of Tamriel combined – I will not demand recompense for him.”

“Very generous of you. But?”

Another smile, and this one almost reached Kira’s eyes. “But you stole one of our contracts and killed my finest assassin. You owe us.”

Sloan head tipped back and she let out a laugh, which made her hood shift back on her head an inch or two. “Of course I find myself indebted to you ag…what?”

Kira’s expression has shifted in an instant, from her usual cold façade to a keen stare that felt as if she was trying to peel away Sloan’s skin with her eyes. Sloan went on the defensive immediately, tightening her body as she shifted incrementally to her left so her right hand would have a clearer shot with her dagger, should it become necessary.

“Lower your hood.” Kira’s voice had flattened to a familiar tone of command, one that led to immediate obedience or swift death. Sloan reached up and pulled her hood off without hesitation and was rewarded with her second moment of the Matron being caught off guard as Kira let out a hiss.

Then a long silence as the two studied each other while Sloan’s heart pounded in uncertainty and Kira’s face melted back to an intense inscrutability.

Finally, Kira shook her head as she shifted her leg to the floor and bent forward, elbows on her thighs. “I suppose that explains things. And complicates them infinitely. Greetings, Trendil Shae. I see rumors of your demise were premature. What are you doing here? If you are trying to stay out of your mother’s sight, getting involved with the Brotherhood is an odd way to go about it. Or are you looking for protection?”

It took every bit of Sloan’s self-control not to react, although, of course, she was certain she had spilled some minute tells of her shock, just as the Matron had. She allowed silence to linger as her mind gave furious chase to this twist in the conversation.

Being Trendil brought with it instant credibility in this Skyrim and supplied a unique type of leverage that could be utilized in so many tantalizing ways.

On the other hand, that path was fraught with dangers, most notably the ubiquitous Melissa Shae, who would likely have an extreme reaction to the news her wayward daughter was not only alive but working for a different tong. It took only a few seconds for Sloan to decide the risk was not worth the possible benefits.

“I am aware I look like the late Trendil Shae, but I am not her. My name is Sloan and I have no connection to the Jatbûfî Tong.”

Yet another long silence as the two stared at each other, then Kira sighed and stood, so Sloan did as well.

“Very well. I’ll play your game, if that’s what this is. If you are truly not Trendil, the game will be the same. Just safer for all of us.

“Consider this an invitation to our home. In the southwest reaches of Skyrim, in the Pine Forest, you'll find the entrance to our Sanctuary. It's just beneath the road, hidden from view. When questioned by the Black Door, answer with the correct passphrase: ‘Silence, my brother.’ We shall discuss the repayment of your debt once you have arrived.”

Sloan gave Kira a acknowledging nod then stood still and watched her slip into the darkness beyond the range of the lantern. Only after the figure of the Matron passed through the warehouse doorway and another twenty minutes passed by did Sloan take a deep breath and leave the place herself.

As Sloan made her way through the quiet city streets, she gave brief flirtation to the idea of refusing the Matron’s “invitation,” but that path led to nothing but pain and a lot of death, likely including her own. No, for better or worse, she was back in Kira’s debt and employ. But at least she hadn’t had to be a whore first! Also, there would be no Mishi around to criticize every move Sloan made this time.

After all was said and done, this was an improvement over her previous life. All she had to do now was find a way to use it to help with the larger issue; no matter how powerful the Dark Brotherhood (or the Jatbûfî Tong, for that matter) on their own, they were nothing in the face of ten-thousand dragons...but they could be powerful allies in the fight.

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It was a small thing at first: a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye, a shadow that lingered a heartbeat too long. She tested it, pausing at a vendor’s stall to finger a length of silk, using the opportunity to cast a careful look around.

There. In the reflection of a rain-streaked window, Sloan caught a glimpse: a Khajit, tawny-furred, acting for all the world as if she was merely looking at the wares in the window. Had Sloan not known the cat, the ruse might have worked.

But, of course, she recognized Gilna.

Sloan’s mind flickered with memories – a kitchen and knives, a deer in the woods; a deadly game of tag in the rafters of a church. Sloan’s lips curled into a wry smile; a smile that faded when she realized what the presence of her old friend (inasmuch as anyone had been a friend) meant: somehow, Sloan had been connected to the murder of Grelod. And probably Mishi as well.

And the Dark Brotherhood was not happy about either one.

That assumed Gilna was part of the heretofore mythical organization, but Sloan had little doubt, knowing Kira was in charge of the tong. Even if it wasn't the Brotherhood themselves, the Khajit's presence meant someone was on to Sloan.

Sloan thought about simply walking over the cat and striking up a conversation, but she knew Gilna would not like that. The cat loved to play with her prey; Sloan decided to let her. She turned away from the silk and entered a narrow alley, her steps casual but deliberate. The alley twisted behind a row of shops, empty save for a few crates and the lingering scent of fish from the morning’s market.

She didn’t have to wait long. Gilna appeared at the mouth of the alley, moving with her usual confident caution.

Sloan slipped deeper into the maze of alleys, her boots silent on the damp stones. She darted through a gap between two buildings, emerging onto a narrow lane lined with laundry flapping in the breeze. She snagged a shirt that smelled of soap and wet linen as she ducked beneath a sagging clothesline and quickly exchanged it for hers, then tossed her shirt down one alley while turning the opposite direction, picking up her pace while weaving through the labyrinthine backstreets of Solitude. She slipped into the shadow of a crumbling archway, pressed herself against the cold stone, and waited. The city’s noise faded, replaced by the distant caw of gulls and the slap of water against the docks. Her heart hammered in her chest, but her breathing was steady.

After counting fifty heartbeats, she slipped out of the alley and onto the main street, blending with a group of sailors heading toward the docks. She kept her head down, her stride loose, but her eyes were always moving, scanning for the flicker of a tail, the glint of feline eyes in the gathering dusk. She saw nothing but the normal flow of the city.

Just as the sailors turned to follow the path downward, Sloan doubled back, taking a circuitous route through the market square, past the statue of Torygg, and into the warren of alleys near the Winking Skeever, where she used a barrel to boost herself onto the closest low rooftop, then onto a higher one. She moved along the roofs until she found a vantage point overlooking where she had exited the alleyways earlier.

The Khajit was there, gripping Sloan's shirt as she scanned the crowd, her tail lashing in frustration. Sloan grinned as she slipped to a lower rooftop below, crept her way to the edge, and, with a final peek, dropped down behind the cat and pulled out her daggers.

“You always did rely too much on your nose in dark places.”

Gilna had lost nothing of her reflexes in this new world – she had turned with daggers in hands before Sloan had finished her sentence. Sloan was ready for the move, though, and Gilna stopped short as Sloan’s own daggers pressed into the fur of the khajiit’s neck.

Gilna laughed and eased her daggers back into their sheathes. “You do not disappoint.”

Sloan smiled as she lowered her daggers. “I was not aware I had a reputation.”

The khajiit snorted. “Of course you do. The Dark Brotherhood is not made of fools, you know. We know it was you who killed Grelod the Kind in Riften.”

Sloan’s heart thudded once, hard, but she kept her face impassive. “I did you a favor – the pay would not have been adequate. You should be grateful.”

Gilna snorted again. “Grateful? Maybe. But you know how these things work. Grelod was a contract, and you took it without permission. The Brotherhood doesn’t like loose ends.”

“You haven’t tried to kill me, so I assume this is about something else. What does the Brotherhood want with me?”

They studied each other for a long moment, the silence between them thick with unspoken questions, then Gilna’s tail flicked. “I am not the one to say. I was sent only to find you and deliver a message. The Matron wants to meet you. You’re to come to the old warehouse by the docks at midnight. Alone.”

Sloan weighed her options as she searched Gilna’s face for any sign of recognition, any hint the cat remembered the past. But, predictably, there was nothing -- just the cool professionalism of a hunter delivering a message.

“And if I refuse?”

Gilna’s lips curled into a smile, all sharp teeth and amusement. “You won’t. The Brotherhood doesn’t take kindly to being ignored. Besides, aren’t you curious?”

Sloan allowed herself a small, enigmatic smile. “Curiosity can be dangerous.”

“For some. For others, it is a matter of survival.”

With that, Gilna melted back into the shadows, her footsteps silent on the damp stones. Sloan stood alone in the alley and forced herself to keep her breath steady, to avoid showing the fear that played Sparklekins down her spine and flooded her belly with a gnawing ache.

The one thing she had hoped to avoid had gone out of its way to find her; it seemed she would have to play out the game after all.

Well, then, play it she would. She was prepared this time, or more so, at least – she knew who this Matron was (she gave her head a shake – of course Kira was still called The Matron in this world!) and had some idea what she wanted. It was a giant step ahead of where Sloan had started last time.

She slipped out of the alley and headed for the shops to prepare for the encounter as best she could as a wave of regret passed over her – she still had not swung by the old cabin where her mother (or whoever Melissa was to her)’s supply cache was hidden. That armor had saved Sloan from Kira’s wrath once before; suddenly she felt exposed without it.

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 Sloan shook her head. “That is what the file said. They are starting to build contingency plans for the dragons and even more for the war, since they are afraid the two sides will come together to fight a common opponent.”

“I suppose that makes sense. Still, it puts us back at the beginning.”

“Pretty much. Also, there were some other files pertaining to other people of interest for the Thalmor. I’ll look at them more thoroughly when I go back, but you might be interested to know they have a file on you.”

“I assumed they would. Did it show any signs they know where I am?”

“Not from what I was able to glean. It is a very large folder, so I didn’t have time to go through the details. The most recent entry was from a couple years ago, about a possible sighting in Dawnstar.”

“Interesting. Someone up there had sharp eyes! Anything else?”

“You might also be interested to know Ulfric Stormcloak is connected to the Thalmor in some way. Again, his file was very thick, but it looks like he worked for or at least with them for some time.”

“Are you suggesting the leader of the Stormcloak rebellion, which is dedicated to the expunging of both the Empire and the Thalmor, might be in cahoots with them?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time a man in power secretly played both sides of the field. I suspected this might be the case but wanted to get some confirmation before saying anything since so much has changed. Last time, our Trendil discovered Ulfric was not just in cahoots but was actually a Thalmor puppet. The war in our previous lives was stalled on purpose by those in charge. The soldiers were sent on skirmishes with each other or to fight unrelated battles against others, such as the Foresworn. Other than the Stormcloaks taking Whiterun and Falkreath early on, nothing really happened in the war until our version of Trendil took things into her own hands very late in the game.”

“This is all very fascinating. It sounds like the war was real, at least for a time, if the Stormcloaks captured cities. Then something must have changed.”

“Perhaps. I know Jarl Balgruff did not want to take sides in the war; perhaps his recalcitrance extended to the plan to stall everything, so the powers that be decided he needed to be removed.”

Delphine nodded. “Siddgeir, in Falkreath, is young, impetuous, and full of Imperial zeal. He may have been removed for similar reasons.” She sighed. “I’ll see what my little birds can dig up. What other files did you see?”

“Those were the only ones I opened. Most of the rest were labeled with what seemed like some kind of code instead of real names. Fred200, HM1919, CC, Tirloque and Malicia, MTB, hyperiondl, Miauzi, Esbern, Lucky Sparrow, Yor…what?” Sloan stopped as Delphine gasped.

“Did you say Esbern?”

“Yes. Do you know that name?”

“I do, indeed! I thought he was dead, but it seems strange for them to carry a file on a dead man.”

“Is he important? I can look through his file next time I’m there, if you want.”

“Please do. Make it your priority, even over Ulfric. If he is alive, he could be the key to finally getting some answers.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“He is a Blade, like myself, but he is also a scholar and historian. If anyone knows why the dragons are back, it would be him.”

“All right. I’ll go back and take a look.”

“Thank you. Speaking of Ulfric, there is possible big news on the civil war.”

“Oh?”

“Rumor has it that the Stormcloaks and Imperials clashed in an ancient temple dedicated to one of the old gods on the trail of some ancient Nordic relic. Although they outnumbered the Imperials ten to one, the Stormcloaks were routed by a single quote-unquote ‘she-devil.’”

“A she-devil? Like some sort of Daedra?”

“It could have been a summoned minor Daedra, I suppose. Atronachs are very popular with mages from both sides of the war. But no summoned atronach is powerful enough to route an entire company of soldiers on its own.”

“So what do you think happened?”

“It was probably a member of the Keṣ Tshaâki. Are you familiar?”

Sloan nodded, even as she parsed through her memories. Her Stormcloak clients had been very talkative about their opponents’ military system and tactics. So many boring lectures and stories while they boozed themselves into fucking shape! “The KeTs? Yes, I heard about them. Some sort of special assignments team with the Imperials, right?”

“Exactly. There are a lot of ancient ruins around Tamriel filled with old coins and relics. One of the main jobs of the Keṣ Tshaâki is to delve into those places to recover what they can. They are chosen for their battle prowess and make formidable foes.”

“If one is capable of routing that many soldiers at once, they must be!”

“Indeed. But that is not the big news. Apparently none other than Galnar Stone-Fist was leading the Stormcloaks.”

“Wow! The right hand man himself? I'm pretty certain an event involving the loss of Galnar did not happen last time.  Do we know what happened to him?”

Delphine shook her head. “My little birds didn’t get there until after the battle was over. They saw a few Stormcloaks straggle out but none that fit Galnar’s description. My guess is the stragglers were left for dead by the Imperials. ”

“Did your contacts trail them?”

“Yes. They went back to Windhelm, although quite a few succumbed to their wounds along the way.”

“interesting. I Can’t  imagine they would just leave his body if he died, so presumably the Imperials captured him. “

“That's my assumption. We’ll know for certain soon. The execution of  figure that important would certainly be announced.”

“Unless they ransom him instead. “

 Delphine frowned. “It seems unlikely they would send him back for any reason. The removal of the Stormcloaks’ top general would do much to move the war forward. “

“If the situation is the same as ours, they may well return him under the premise of a ransom or prisoner exchange to keep the balance. They will not want the war to end.”

Delphine tapped the table, the only sign of her clearly troubled thoughts. Finally, “Well, that may be. If so, there still would be some sort of announcement.”

Sloan nodded. “No doubt.”

“On a side note, this whole thing made me realize something. I think I may know what happened to our elusive Dragonborn.:

Sloan quirked an eyebrow.  “Oh?”

“Just a suspicion.” Delphine snorted. “Although your report on the Thalmor and the dragons proved my suspicions are not always accurate.” She sighed and poured herself a glass of wine from the bottle on the table. “Help yourself, if you like, while I tell you what I think may have happened.”

Sloan shrugged and poured herself a glass as well, although she did not take a sip until she saw Delphine do so first.

“We know the Dragonborn was at Ustengrav three weeks ago, at about the same time as you. I sent my little birds to scout for her along every path from Ustengrav to High Hrothgar I could think of but there was no trace of her. I think that is because she knew the civil war needed to end before the dragons could be dealt with…”

Realization dawned on Sloan and she finished the thought. “…so she went to Solitude to join the Legion.”

“Exactly. Now, imagine you are General Tullius…no, not him. He is Cyrodillan, he wouldn’t care. Imagine you are his Legate, Rikke, who is a Nord, and the bloody Dragonborn strolls into your office. What are you going to do with her?”

Sloan nodded. “Make her a KeT.”

 “Yes. You wouldn’t put someone like the Dragonborn in the regular lists. You would place her in the Keṣ Tshaâki “

“Are you suggesting the KeT who defeated all those Stormcloaks was Sian?”

“No, the rumors explicitly mention cat ears, so it was probably a Khajiit. I was pondering the mystery of our lost Dragonborn when my little birdies brought me the news and the realization that their so-called she-devil was probably really a Keṣ Tshaâki led me to put two and two together.”

Sloan nodded. “It makes sense and explains why she wasn’t where we thought she would be.”

“It should also make it easier to find her. I have my little birdies watching for her around Solitude.”

“That’s a good idea.” Sloan drained the last of her wine and stood. “I’ll head back to the Embassy in a couple days. I need to make arrangements first.” She paused as a yawn came unbidden to her lips, then laughed. “Before that,though, I think I’ll sleep.”

“You’re welcome to sleep down here. There are a couple beds behind that curtain.”

“I…think I’ll take you up on that, thank you.”

“Off course.  Have a nice rest – if you need anything, I’ll be upstairs playing innkeeper.”

“That sounds…peaceful.”

Delphine snorted. “If you think innkeeping is peaceful, you have never been an innkeeper.”

Sloan just smiled as Delphine left, then sighed and started removing her daggers as, for the first time since forever, it seemed, she dreamed of a different life; a simple one, not invested in murder and secrecy. A life where she could be…well, normal.

It seemed a dream more impossible than any.

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Merks shrugged. “It’s tiring but not too hard. I just imagined I had a poker crammed in my ass to remember to stand straight and tried to say as little as possible.”

“Saying as little as possible is the biggest key to any infiltration endeavor. Listen, don’t speak, and you will likely learn more than a dozen questions could garner. Speaking of questions, you said you grew up at the College of Winterhold, correct?"

“Yes, I was left there when I was very young.”

“So you don’t…” Sloan stopped as the carriage chose that moment to slow then shudder to a halt. She frowned and glanced out the window as she eased her daggers from their concealed thigh sheaths but kept them hidden beneath the folds of her dress’ skirt. “We have no scheduled stops until the manor. Be ready.”

Voices, that of the driver and another Sloan did not recognize, then the door to her left opened unexpectedly, revealing the driver, who touched his cap at her. “Pardon, ma’am.”

Sloan waited for more – this was hardly the way carriage drivers normally treated their high society passengers! – but he stepped aside and, a moment later, two disheveled young women, dressed in simple tunics and trousers, climbed in and seated themselves without a word on either side of Merks, who looked from one to the other with an expression of confusion that matched Sloan’s own feelings. A moment later, a grey striped male khajiit slid onto the seat next to Sloan. The door to the carriage closed, there was a dip from the driver’s weight as he clambered back to his place, then the carriage began moving once again.

Sloan gripped the dagger closest to the cat, studying his every move to anticipate whatever he might be planning, but took the advice she had just given Merks and kept her mouth shut so the cat would make the first move.

As if he knew what Sloan was thinking, the khajiit smiled as his bright golden eyes locked with Sloan’s. “M'aiq wishes you well.”

“Does he, then?”

“He does, indeed. You have no need to fear M’aiq; you may put your daggers away.”

“So Mai’q says. I think I’ll hold onto them for a bit longer.”

 M’aiq shrugged. “You may suit yourself, of course.”

“So I see. How much did you bribe the driver to pick you up? It must have been quite a sum.”

“M’aiq paid nothing – he merely asked for a ride for himself and his friends.” He gestured at the girls, but neither responded; indeed, they had moved not a bit since sitting and they kept their eyes on the floor of the carriage.

“You friends, are they? Isn’t slavery illegal in Skyrim?”

“It is indeed, for which M’aiq is happy. M’aiq has rescued them from their plight and is bringing them to their home. However…” he leaned forward until his snout was mere inches away from Sloan’s “…these are but the first raindrops of the torrent yet to come.”

“Of that, I have little doubt.”

The khajiit laughed. “You are more guarded than your sister, M’aiq sees. Here, have some tea while you tell M’aiq your story.”

“My story? There is little enough there to interest you.” Sloan accepted the tea cup, a dainty thing painted with pink flowers, but only held it as she added, “After all, who wants to hear about an orphan?”

“M’aiq is very interested, he swears!” The khajiit resumed his place on the leather couch in front of the fire.

“I…fine. I don’t remember my parents – I thought I knew who one of them was, at least, but even that might not be the case – and spent my childhood at the Honorhall orphanage in Riften.”

The room was warm, so she began to peel off the dress as she continued, telling him about her desperate hours once free of the orphanage, of the loss of her money to a thief and her own clumsy attempted robbery. Her underthings came off as she told him about her crashing entrance into the Vixen and they began to stroke each other while she recounted her first time with a man and her training in the arts of pleasure.

She moaned her way through the months of working as a whore as the cat’s rough tongue stroked her nipples, then made her way north to Windhelm as his tongue made its way south on her. She shuddered through a rising fire as she recounted her time with Aventus and her night on the streets, her brief stint with slavery, of her fulfillment of her promise to Aventus with the killing of Grelod.

She rolled the cat over and stroked his cock while her past self went through the secret training and came out the other side as a fledgling killer, then sank herself on his cock while she talked of her missions. They rocked together in growing speed as she discovered what she had thought was her family, of the search for Melissa, of the betrayals at the hands of her closest comrades and the meeting of her sisters.

They climaxed together as she screamed of he luck-filled victory over Kira, then she collapsed on top of him and panted through the denouement; the start of her life all over again, and all that seemed to portend.

“That was quite a tale. M’aiq wonders at the things you have endured.”

The room had grown chilly, so Sloan pulled herself away and began to pull her dress back on while the room began to creak. “I haven’t been through nearly as much as some of the others. From what I can tell, Sian spent at least a few years as a slave in a mine.” She heard the distinct sounds of horses’ hooves as the room seemed to move beneath her as she sheathed her daggers. “And I’m pretty sure Aithne has gone through something really bad as well.” She squinted at the setting sun through the window of the carriage. “Some day, I’ll find out what it was.”

M'aiq’s voice laughed, though Sloan could not see him. “Some day, perhaps. But it is you for whom M’aiq worries the most. Remember: it is when the storm is at its fullest that the first signs of its end begin.”

“My lady? We’re at the manor.”

Sloan blinked and looked around. Merks sat alone on the bench across from her. “What…where did they go?”

Merks frowned. “Where did who go?”

“The women and…and the…” She frowned as well. “…someone? Wasn’t…didn’t we pick up travelers?”

“No, my lady. We haven’t stopped since we left Whiterun, nor has anyone joined us. You…you fell asleep a few hours ago.”

“Did I?” Sloan laughed as the door opened and the carriage driver extended the steps, though Mishi cast dispersions at her in her head for her laxness. “That was careless of me.” She shook away the vestiges of whatever dream she had had and shifted to step out of the carriage. As she did so, a dainty teacup with delicately painted pink flowers fell from her skirt and tinked on the floor of the carriage but did not break. She frowned at it. “Where did that come from?”

“I…don’t know, my lady. Maybe Ser Grey-Mane snuck it into the carriage somehow? He seemed quite taken with you.”

Sloan laughed as she picked up the cup and, after a brief glance-over, stowed it in her purse and moved toward the door. “He did seem that way, didn’t he? And I’ll be sure to take advantage of that in the future. For now, we need to get to Riverwood.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sloan sighed as she started walking toward the manor Delphine had somehow procured for their cover. She had gathered the information they needed from the Thalmor; she put strange cups and hazy dreams out of her head and focused on the job. It was time to decide what came next.

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Sloan smiled and moved to a table with a variety of interesting tools. “Oh, Runny, you’re so funny, thinking you can tell me what to do.”

She picked up a needle-sharp dagger and pretended to study the blade as the elf’s shoulders tensed. He turned around and she gave him her best smile.

The predatory one.

“That’s better.” She set down the knife and picked up a bullwhip, letting the leather slide through her fingers.

“Who are you and what…”

Crack! The whip snapped and he yelped as it slapped his arm.

“AAAHH! Hey! What…”

“Did I say you could speak, dog?”

Another crack and the whip snapped against Rulindil’s hand, which dropped the similar whip he had been carrying.

“I’m going to call the guar…” Crack! “AAAHHH!” The elf grabbed at his thigh, where the whip had left its third mark.

“Tsk tsk. You’re still talking, dog.”

He glared at her but he did not speak.

“Good dog! You are learning! Now let’s see you beg.”

“I…” Rulindil’s eyes boggled at her but he clamped down on this words while turning a furtive glance back at his victim.

“Ah, is that why you’re being so recalcitrant? You don’t want your little toy to see you like this? Oh, Runny, I see we have much work to do. Still, you have earned a reward for your obedience, so I’ll grant your request.”

In one smooth motion, Sloan swept up the dagger and threw it into the human’s throat. The man gave a start then jerked against his bonds as what little of his lifeforce drained away. Moments later, his body slumped.

Rulindil make a gargling sound but Sloan shook her head as she rubbed the whip against her hand. “Oh, don’t be upset. You know he had already told you everything he knew.” Another smile. “And we both know you were only doing it because you longed for it to be done to you. Don’t we?” She pointed at the floor. “Come on, dog. Get down and beg.”

A long pause as they stared at each other, then the elf lowered his eyes and himself.

“Good boy!” Sloan picked up more things from the table and approached him. “You deserve another reward! Good dogs get collars. Don’t they? Who’s a good boy?” She leaned over and looped a leather collar over the elf’s head then tugged it so it fit snug around his neck. His body quivered.

“Such a good boy. You may stand.”

Rulindil pulled himself up, though his head stayed down, and Sloan reached out and ran light fingers over his crotch. His raging erection jumped under the cloth. “Oh, Runny! You have waited so long for this, haven’t you? Poor boy. Here, let’s get you prepared. Open up!”

Ten minutes later, the naked elf stood in the center of the room, arms locked in manacles dangling from the ceiling while drool leaked from the edges of his ball gag and red welts intermingled with thin cuts over his ass and legs.

“Now,” Sloan said as she ran her fingers up his thighs, brushed against his tight sack, and then around the base of his swollen shaft, “I am going to be gone for a moment. You are not, under any circumstances, allowed to come until I return and tell you you may. Do you understand?”

He nodded, his eyes wide, as he sucked in breath around the gag.

“Good.” She reached up and tightened the collar a notch, then set a small table in front of him, upon which she piled a torn open pillow which she situated in such a way that every move he made tickled his cock with the light touch of the down.

Or so she hoped. She wasn’t sure it would work and wasn’t sure how long she would be gone, so it was entirely possible his body would decide it was over and deflate. She ran her fingers up his cock and then smacked his ass as hard as she could before turning away.

It took less time than she feared to find the files. They were in Rulindil’s office, as she had hoped, not somewhere else in the building. She paid special attention to the contents of the folder marked “Dragons Return” but there were some other interestingly labeled files she glanced through as well. Although she had been practicing, she wasn’t quite back to the point where she could memorize pages at a glance, so she concentrated on memorizing the key points she found.

The return trip was not as smooth – there were more guards in the area than she expected, so she had to move slower than she preferred, waiting for her opportunities before slinking from shadow to shadow – and she re-entered the torture room and breathed a sigh of relief when she found nothing had changed.

She found Rulindil in the same state she had left him. The pillow had fallen away and his erection was beginning to soften, but it was enough. Sloan slid up behind him as quietly as she could and smacked his ass. He yelped through the gag as his cock jumped back up.

“You are SUCH a good boy! You deserve a real treat.”

Sloan moved in front of him, then slowly unzipped her form-fitting leather bodysuit. His eyes glued themselves to her hand as it traced down her body, revealing the skin of her chest, then bursting slowly out as it passed between her breasts. They seemed to jump free from the tight restraints of the outfit, her nipples already hardening in the cool air.

Her hand continued downward, over her stomach, then below. The zipper stopped just short of her mound; she reached up and pulled down on the shoulders of the outfit, peeling it away from her skin in increments until she stood topless before him, then pushed further down, finally stepping out like a moth from a cocoon. She rubbed her hands over her naked body as she approached him.

“Because you have been such a good boy, I am going to give you a special reward. You may come…” she leaned forward and whispered in his ear, “…in my mouth.”

He grunted and shivered as she knelt, ran her fingers up his thighs, stroked his balls, and passed her lips over his cock, taking the full length of him in.

She paused a moment as it pulsed against her tongue, then began to move her head as her fingers continued to stroke him. He would not be long – she could already taste his pre-come begin to leak. She shifted to a faster rhythm, then grabbed his red and swollen ass and squeezed and spanked him while letting her teeth brush against his shaft. He let out an inarticulate cry through the gag and began to spurt, so Sloan spanked him harder and pressed him into her, her tongue stroking the underside of his cock as she sucked at it like a straw.

His body shuttered as her mouth was filled with his salty spunk. She swallowed and sucked, swallowed and sucked, not letting him loose even after his body shuddered to a stop and he sagged while his cock began to soften.

As the tip reached the front of her mouth, Sloan began to lick the head and he jumped. He tried to pull away but she kept him in place, keeping the over-sensitive organ moving for a few more seconds while Rulindil jerked at his binds.

Finally, Sloan released him, standing and running a hand up his stomach and chest, then stroking his cheek.

“Such a good boy. Would you like me to visit you again? Yes? Of course you would. And don’t worry, I know you have a ‘big tough’ reputation to uphold. No one will know about this but us.” She smiled then slapped his ass one more time before turning away to put on her clothes.

She had a much easier time returning to the party since her new plaything had, after being released and allowed to get dressed, given her a writ with his personal seal to allow her access to the grounds. She slipped back through the kitchen, reclaimed her outfit one piece at a time, then rejoined the party just as some drunken fool wearing the regalia of the East Empire Trading Company was yelling, “"I protest! This is an insult to the dignity of my person! This time I'm completely innocent!” as he was being escorted out.

Sloan sighed then plastered on her “upper class socialite” smile and began to mingle. The fun part of the job was over; now she had to bear through the rest.

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Merks shook his head. “She acts like it is a simple spell but the only other one I know who can do that from so far away is Professor Marence, and she can only do it once every few days because it drains so much of her mana. Not even Professor Awtesse or even Archmage Aren can teleport farther than the town. That I know of. And she acts like wards don’t even exist.”

“Truly? I believe she said it’s the one of the first spells she learned. How curious.” Sloan leaned forward and straightened the ruffled ascot that was sticking out from under Merks’ jacket. “I always hated this style. Fortunately, it will be out of fashion in only a couple years. You look good in that outfit, though. You should wear something other than college robes more often.”

Merks flushed. “I don’t usually have a reason to wear anything else.”

“Why would you need a reason? Do those robes augment your abilities in some way?”

“I…no, they’re just robes.”

“Then you don’t usually have a reason to wear them, either. Wear what you like.” She laughed. “Of course, if you prefer the robes, that’s a different matter.”

“I don’t know if I prefer them or not. I’ve…never really thought about it.”

“No? Just got to the college and they handed you robes and you never looked back?”
 

“Well, yes. In a way. I got to the college much earlier than most – I was five when my parents…left me there.” He shrugged. “All they had for me to wear was robes, so that is what I wore.”

“Ah.” Sloan leaned back on her seat. “We have something in common, then. Be glad you were left at the college and not at an orphanage. Or, at least, not the one in Riften.” She could not repress a shudder at memories she had tried her best to stamp out.

“Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful. I realize how lucky I was to be left there, not least because I started learning magic years before others of my age. It’s just…”

Sloan gave him a small smile as a pang went through her. “Who are you parents and why did they abandon you?” At his stricken look, she shrugged. “As I said, we have much in common.”

“I…” Merks paused, then cleared his throat as he dabbed at a teary eye with a finger. “This road is so dusty. So what is our plan when we get there?”

Sloan held back her laugh at his clumsy segue and answered in a more businesslike tone. “We have our invitations, thanks to Ser Gray-Mane, so it will be easy enough to get in the door. Once there, I’ll need you to cause a distraction while I slip away.”

Merks shifted on his seat while his face contorted in a clear attempt not to show his fear. “Um…how do I do that?”

“If you were just a normal man, it would likely be impossible, and I would not have brought you along. However, you are not normal and this should be very easy for you.”

“Really? I can’t imagine how.”

“No? Can you juggle?”

“Juggle? No.”

“Not even fire?”

“Fi…ohhhhh.” Merks’ expression cleared as her meaning got through. “Yes, that I can certainly do.”

“What else can you do?”

“A lot. Fire is my specialty. Although I could do some ice magic as well, I suppose.”

“Perfect. You don’t need to keep your performance going for long – just enough to get their eyes on you.” Sloan winked. “If you do well enough, you might get invitations to become a court wizard for someone.”

“I’m only in year fourteen! I don’t think I’m ready for that!”

“I have met most of the court wizards around Skyrim. Believe me, you could do it. Whether you would be keen to is another question - their most essential skill is boot-licking.”

Merks burst out laughing. “I don’t think I’m ready for that, either!”

“Then prepare some polite declinations – you will likely need them soon.” Sloan glanced out the window of the carriage as it eased to a stop. “Looks like we’re here. Ugh, that snow. At least this time I won’t have to wade through it. Are you ready?”

Merks took a deep breath and nodded as the door opened and an elven courtier lowered the folding steps. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

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This is just a divider, there is more below

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Sloan began disassembling her dressy outfit the moment she slipped out of the banquet hall into one of the servants’ passageways, thankful that it was still where she remembered it. The nice thing about nobles was, they wanted their servants to be discretely available, so the entryways to the servants’ wings were hidden between or behind opulent décor, making it absurdly easy to leave unnoticed.

She left her gown tucked into a tight roll on a shelf behind a row of think folded towels; put her jewelry, aside from a large diamond ring, inside one of her gloves, wrapped that glove in the other, and crammed both into a shadowed space between a storage trunk and the wall; pulled off the flouncy underskirt and hid it in the back of a mop closet.

She kept the heeled shoes because they were a necessary part of the tight black leather outfit she had been wearing underneath, and which was now her only clothing as she entered the kitchen.

It took only a brief glance around before Sloan found the first person she had wanted to see, and she made her way across the kitchen, ignoring the stares from those around her.

Francine looked exactly she way she had when Sloan had seen her before, although her skin was flushed from heat instead of cold this time. She was talking, of course, and seemed to be the only one in the kitchen not to notice as Sloan sidled up to her.

“…and make sure you don’t over-flour it this time. Last time it had so much flour, it could have help up a mammoth. Now next we’ll add…what are you looking at?”

Francine turned her head and jumped.

“Oh! I didn’t expect…”

“I’m not her,” Sloan said, and Francine faltered as she blinked.

“I…no, I guess you wouldn’t be, you…”

“She says thank you.” Sloan took Francine’s hand and pressed the ring into it, then wrapped the woman’s fingers around it. “Good luck with your new shop. I’ll try to visit some day.” Then she turned and left through the door to the back of the house while Francine, for the first time in the short time Sloan had known her, stood silent.

She had hoped there would be few enough elves in the areas away from the party that she could slip to the offices and get what she came for, but that slim hope died almost immediately.

“You, there! What are you doing here?”

Sloan sighed, then plastered on her work smile and turned. She had hoped for one of the bureaucrats – Gilna had called them the “buzzing bees” – who were always scurrying about the place with their slightly-panicked expressions and armfuls of important-looking papers, but, alas, it was a guard. An irritable one, at that. Although that described the lot of them.

“Oh good, perhaps you can help me. I am looking for Third Emissary Rulindil.”

The guard scowled. “What business would someone like you have with the Third Emissary?”

“It is very simple – I am a gift for him.”

“Do you? Perhaps if you give it to me, I’ll forgot I saw you here.”

“I didn’t say I have a gift for him. I said I am a gift for him.”

The guard paused. “What do you mean? Who sent you?”

Sloan sidled forward and lowered her voice to a purr. “Oh, now, you know I cannot tell you that. These things must remain discrete.”

“I…” The guard looked around as if hoping for reinforcements. “I’ll escort you back to…”

“That wouldn’t do. The Third Emissary is expecting his gift. Do you want to be the one responsible for its failure to appear?”

The guard blanched. “No! I…I’ll bring you to him! Right this way.”

He gestured and Sloan took his arm in both of hers and smiled up at him and batted her eyelids.

“That’s a good boy. Perhaps the Third Emissary will be willing to share. I would enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”
 

The guard gulped and looked straight ahead as he started to walk.

“The thought of two of you at the same time fills me with…” Sloan shuddered and moaned.

“Ah! Yes. Um…through here.”

They stepped through the back door to the courtyard beyond, then wended their way along a path shoveled clear of snow to the administration building that sat at the back of the property. The place which Sloan and Mallin had used to hide from the dragons.

She wondered if they were there, yet. There wouldn’t be as many, of course. Had they migrated there one at a time? Was that cliff face some ancient dragon weyr to which they instinctively returned? So many questions still unanswered!

They entered the foyer of the building but, instead of heading upward, as Sloan had expected, the guard led her to a door along the back hall, then stopped and cleared his throat.

“He is…in one of his sessions. So we were told not to disturb him. But if he’s expecting you…”

“Of course, honey. Thank you!” Sloan detached herself from his arm, then lifted one hand and trailed it along his angular cheek. “I hope to see you again soon!”

“Ah! Um…yes! Yes, I…would like that too.”

Sloan gave him a tinkling laugh as she opened the door and stepped through, then paused a moment as it clicked behind her to take a deep breath. She had gambled a lot on Third Emissary Rulindil being the same in this world as the last. Now it was time to see if that gamble had paid off.

The door had led to a small landing with stairs heading downward, so she followed them to another door, then stood and listened.

At first, there was nothing. Then she heard a muffled voice, then the sharp crack of a whip and a loud cry and Sloan nodded to herself and muttered, “Good to know some things haven’t changed.” Then she took another deep breath, turned the handle, and stepped through the door.

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“I have some daggers you can use. Don’t worry, you will like them.” Delphine opened a display case and pulled out a pair of ebony daggers. “These things will slice through metal. Although try not to actually slice metal. Also, I got you all licenses for armor and weapons. The local guards have been too afraid to challenge your orc companions so far, but that won’t last. We don’t need any trouble. Did you get the horn?”

Sloan shook her head. “No. Sian got there ahead of us.” She smiled as Aithne pulled out the note. “She left a note, though.”

“I am…perplexed.” Delphine set the daggers on the table in front of Sloan, took the note, scanned it, then snorted. “’This time,’ eh? I assume that means she is from the future, like you two. Maybe that’s why she went there first – maybe the past version of me managed to get the horn before her.” A pause. “If that’s the case, though, why didn’t she come to me straight away? If she knew me before, she would know I am a Blade and am sworn to serve the Dragonborn.”

Sloan shrugged. “The only thing I know about Sian so far is that she is unpredictable. I suggest we focus on finding ways to help her instead of trying to find her. Assuming she does remember, we know she knows about you, so I imagine she will find her way to you sooner or later.”

“Didn't you tell me she had been captured and forced to work in a mine last time? How can we be sure that won't happen again?”

"That's a good point. But the evidence at this point suggests she has help, so hopefully whoever is with her can keep that from happening."

Delphine tapped the table with a finger. “I suppose. I guess the best way to help is to learn as much as we can about the dragons and who might be behind them. I suspect it has to do with the Thalmor, but we can’t be sure.”

Sloan smiled. “Why don’t we ask them?”

Delphine smiled back. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Aithne blinked. “Um…I don’t know much about the Thalmor, but aren’t they…”

She paused and Sloan grinned at her and supplied, “Untrustworthy?”

“Monsterous?” added Delphine.

“Callous?”

“Malicious?”

“Vicious?”

“Disagreeable?”

“Despicable?”

“Contemptible?”

Aithne cleared her throat. “Dangerous?”

Delphine nodded. “Oh yes. Very.”

“I was scared out of my wits every time I had to deal with them,” Sloan agreed.

“Well…then how do we ask them about the dragons?”

Sloan exchanged a look with Delphine, then smiled at her sister. “Indirectly. I’ll pay their embassy a little visit and poke around a bit. We can add ‘fastidious’ to the list of words for them – if they know about the dragons, they will have detailed records somewhere.”

Delphine gave Sloan an approving nod. “I was going to ask if you would do that.”

“I…” Aithne looked a little poleaxed. “Um. Be careful.”

“Oh I shall, believe me. I have infiltrated that place a dozen times…well, eleven, I guess – the last time, the place was virtually empty – and those were the most petrifying hours of my life. But if things haven't changed too much, I will hopefully be able to procure a way to go there whenever we want.” Sloan glanced at Delphine. “I’ll need an invitation to one of their soirees. And some nobles' clothes.”

Delphine nodded. “I have already reached out to my contacts. If you head to Solitude, everything should be prepared by the time you reach it.” She glanced at Aithne. “Oh. Unless you get there today. Then you might have to wait a few days.”

“No, I need to establish myself as a new money up-and-comer or they’ll just kick me out as soon as I get there. At best. I’ll head to Whiterun and make a few wealthy connections, then travel with them to the Embassy.”

“That is a good plan. I have some outfits here that should be good enough to get you started and you can purchase more in the city.”

“Yes.” Sloan smiled. “Nothing like a good shopping trip for bonding!”

“Um…” Aithne glanced from one to the other. “You will need a man to accompany you. Do you want to take Merks with you? He is smart and capable.”

“That…is a good point.” Sloan considered. “If you think he is up to it, it would be best to have someone who knows what’s going on.”

“I’ll tell him. He…won’t be happy, but I’ll tell him it’s either that or I drop him back off at the college. In the meantime, what should I do? To help?”

Sloan shrugged. “Kill dragons, I suppose. Even though they won’t stay dead for long, we need to keep their numbers as low as possible for as long as possible. As a bonus, that will be a great way to make money – dragon hide, meat, teeth, and bones will likely be worth a fortune.”

Delphine nodded. “Also, you’re with the College of Winterhold, aren’t you? If you can look through their records for anything dragon related, that would be a big help. They have one of the largest libraries in the world, but few have access to it.”

Aithne nodded. “I have been doing research on them but haven’t found much of use.” She blinked. “That reminds me, last time you visited us in the College. You were looking for information about a…a Shout for the Dragonborn. I think it was called Dragonrend? Does that sound familiar?”

Delphine shook her head. “I have not heard that term. Sounds like I was making some progress, though! Did you have any information on it?”

“No.” Aithne shook her head. “The Arcaneum has an extensive section on dragons but, it turns out, precious little useful information. I have read all of it three times, and the only things I have learned were that some group of rebels fought the head dragon, named Alduin - who is absolutely terrifying in person, by the way -  at the top of the Throat of the World and came out victorious. I cannot begin to imagine how. Alduin disappeared, assumed killed, although there is no mention of his body, and the rest of the dragons became permanently killable at that point.” A pause. “Well, until now.”

Delphine’s eyes narrowed. “The Throat of the Word, eh? It can’t be a coincidence that the Greybeards established their monastery there. That bears further investigation, but that place is even harder to get into than the College. Legally, anyway.” She sighed. “I suppose if our enigmatic Dragonborn ever shows up, she will be able to tell us more about the place.”

“What about your friend?” Sloan gestured at nothing in particular. “I expected him to be here with you, but I haven’t seen him.”

Delphine frowned. “What friend? Orgnar is upstairs, but he’s…”

“Not him. Last time you were with an older man. A Nord.” Sloan thought back. “I do not believe you ever said his name. Aithne, do you remember him?”

Aithne shook her head. “Only Delphine came to us. Although you did keep saying ‘we found,’ or ‘we learned,’ so it sounds like you were working with someone else.”

“This is frustrating.” Delphine laughed. “I need to stop trying to figure out what future me knew and just start learning those things for myself.”

Sloan hesitated, but decided this was her best chance to know, and asked, “Since we are talking about people from before, do you happen to know someone named Kira?”

Delphine stilled and her eyes narrowed. “How do you know Kira?”

“She was the leader of the Tong I was in last time. That Delphine told me she taught Kira all she knew.”

“This Delphine did the same. Kira is the head of the Dark Brotherhood.”

Sloan nodded. “Of course she is.”

“I would not recommend seeking her out, if that is your plan.”

Sloan shook her head. “Oh no, I am staying as far away from her as possible. If all goes well, she will never even know I exist this time.”

“That is wise. I know only one person who could best her.”

“You?” Aithne guessed.

Delphine laughed. “No, I have become old and she has surpassed me.” She cast a meaningful look at Sloan. “Only your mother, if she is your mother, is Kira’s equal.”

Sloan lifted her eyebrows. “So you don’t think she is my mother?”

Delphine shrugged. “There is no doubt you both carry her genes in some way. You look and move very much like her. But if you are her daughter, the timing is strange. She only had one daughter that I know of, and you cannot be her. She would have been about the same age as you, and it would be odd for you to have been born around the same time without anyone knowing about you.”

“I…” This news shook Sloan to her core. All this time, she had believed Melissa was her mother, had staked her burgeoning new identity on being Melissa Shae’s daughter. Her mind wheeled as it tried to reprocess all she knew about herself.

Aithne’s voice broke through Sloan’s scrambling thoughts. “What do you mean, ‘she would have been the same age’? Did something happen to her?”

“Yes, she died. She and her childhood friend ran off to get married against Melissa’s wishes, so Melissa had her assassins hunt them down. They died on the pass between Hammerfell and Skyrim.” Delphine shook her head. “Of the twenty assassins sent to kill them, only two survived. Trendil was nearly as gifted as her mother.”

Sloan’s body jerked as the shock of this revelation passed through it. Her brain scrambled to switch paths from ‘Melissa might not be your mother’ to, “Wait…Trendil? She’s…she’s dead?!”

Aithne cursed as Delphine glanced from one to the other, nodding. “Yes. Did you know her?”

“I…yes. She was the most amazing swordfighter I have ever seen.” Sloan shook her head, trying to get her brain to process this information. “I was really counting on her help again.”

“Swordfighter? She was an assassin. As you well know, swords are not the usual tools of that trade.”

“What?” Sloan shook her head. “The Trendil we knew was a soldier for the Stormcloaks and was amazing with swords. I got no indication she had anything to do with any of the Tongs.”

“Um…” Aithne cleared her throat. “What is a Tong? Is that a kind of school for swordsmen? Because, as I understand it, that’s what Melissa does – teaches at a swordsman’s school.”

“No, a Tong is what they call guilds for assassins.” Delphine took her turn to shake her head. “As far as I know, Melissa has never run any kind of school, especially one for swordsmen – she hated the things. She said she found them clumsy.”

They sat for a time just looking at each other, but the conflicting realities failed to coalesce into something understandable.

Finally, Sloan sighed and said, “I assume this is some difference between our Skyrim and this one. There have been a fair number of them so far. But this one…hurts the most. I was really counting on Trendil to help us again.” She gave a soft laugh. “She’s who I was looking for in Windhelm when we crossed paths. No wonder I couldn’t find her!”

Even as she said the words, a memory bubbled to the surface – the Stormcloak recruiter gave Sloan both an irritated scowl and a valuable piece of information as she approached: “I told you, we don’t take women! This is exactly why – you’re clearly too stupid to understand what I’m saying.”  

He had recognized her. Or someone who looked like her. But if Trendil was dead, who else could it have been? Sian came briefly to mind, but Sloan discarded that idea as unlikely. Which left no one else, unless there was yet another doppelganger out there. Who had also happened to try to join the Stormcloaks, for some reason.

The more she examined it, the more only one scenario seemed to make sense. Sloan thought about sharing her growing suspicion but decided to hold onto it – she had nothing further to back up the flicker of hope that accompanied it. Instead, she shook her head to clear it and put the focus back on the present; if Trendil was alive, she would have to continue to fend for herself. For now.

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Which was fine on a day when they were traveling across country – it was nice to have a safe place to go when one needs to rest in the middle of the wilderness – but hardly seemed necessary when they were in a town that had an inn.

Of course, Sloan supposed, she could have just stayed at the inn anyway while the rest of them went back, but then she would be by herself. And she had spent so much time by herself.

All her life, in fact.

Sure, she had had friends at the orphanage. And at the Vixen, at least when she was one of the Ladies. None of them had been close, but until now, they were the closest she had had to a family. During her time as an assassin, she had been on good terms with Gilna and Jorg, but rule number one in that line of business – trust no one – precluded the possibility of true friendship.

And apparently her mother, the elusive Melissa Shae, was an assassin as well, so even had Sloan found her in her past life, she might not have found the family she had hoped for.

So, no, she had not stayed at the inn. Aithne (well, and Trendil and probably Sian) was the closest thing to real family Sloan had, and that made Aithne’s family Sloan’s as well, so Sloan went with them to the orc stronghold and endured the tough undercooked meat the orcs preferred and slept in the tiny dirt-floored hut they provided and protested not a bit.

It did bring up an interesting question, though, so as they mooshed through way through the shallow bogs, she sidled up to Aithne and asked, “Do you know your parents?”

Aithne blinked, clearly startled by the question. “Of course! They live in Hammerfell. My father is a merchant and…” She trailed off as her expression turned contemplative. “Oh, I should visit them. It’s been, what, about a month since we got to this new Skyrim?”

Sloan did some quick calculations and nodded. “Thirty-three days, I think.”

“The Jaunty Spirit should have reached port right around now. Of course, there is always some leeway in ETB, so they probably won’t start to worry for a week or so more.”

“The Jaunty Spirit is a ship, I take it?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Sorry. I was a naval officer on it. It hit an iceberg in the Sea of Ghosts and sank. I was…the only survivor. That’s how I came to Skyrim in the first place.”

“I didn’t know they employed mages in the navy.”

“They do – they’re very helpful for weather control – but I wasn’t one of them. I didn’t know any magic at all the first time. I mean, you know, last time? I…ended up at the College of Winterhold about a year and a half after it sank. Last time.”

“Ah. So the ship sank again this time but no one but you knows for sure because it wasn’t due to its port of call until now.”

“Right. When it doesn’t show up, they will send out search parties, but they probably won’t find it. Then…they’ll inform the families of the sailors.”

“Including your parents.”

“Including my parents.”

“What are their names, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I…don’t mind. They are Shon and Zasa Shae. But why do you want to know?”

Sloan shrugged, though her heart had started to pound when she heard the name Shae. “I’m just trying to piece together how we may or may not be related. Do you happen to know a Melissa Shae?”

“Um…I think that is my father’s...cousin? Or something? I think she runs some sort of school for swordsmen in the north, somewhere around Dragonstar. I don’t know much about her – they didn’t seem to be close. Do you know her?”

“I…know of her. I think she is my mother.” At Aithne’s questioning look, Sloan added, “I grew up in the Honorhall orphanage in Riften. I never even knew I had family until after I aged out. I did some research last time and discovered…clues about Melissa.” Which reminded her, she needed to find Melissa’s old house again. The items in the hidden basement – especially the armor that had saved her from Kira – would be invaluable.

Aithne blinked. “Ah. I didn’t know that. Do you think…”

“Looks like we might be too late!” Chyehye’ voice cut Aithne off and both turned to find they had reached their destination. The orc woman stood over a clump of something that, as they approached, turned out to be a dozen dead bodies - bandits or scavengers, by the unkempt looks of their armor – laid out in a neat row. Their arms had been crossed over their chests and they might have looked peaceful had it not been for the gashes all over their bodies.

Nyatt let out a low whistle. “If this was your Dragonborn’s work, she must be mighty indeed.”

“Or she had allies,” Merks suggested. “Look at those cuts – some of them are from a blade, others have scorch marks, as if cut by flame. I would guess there were at least two people. Probably more, to defeat a dozen opponents.”

Sloan looked over the bodies then over the area, which was set up as a campsite. “I agree there were at least two. But there didn’t necessarily need to be too many more. I know people who could have done this by themselves.” Three people, in fact. Although Sloan had killed one of them in the Riften prison.

Chyehye looked around as if expecting enemies to rush out of the trees at any moment. “These people died recently. As recently as a handful of hours ago, at most – they are cold but have not yet begun to stink. Could be their killers have left. Could be they’re still here. Or maybe…” She turned and looked at the entrance to the ruins. “…they’re in there.”

Sloan shrugged and tugged off her cloak so her arms would be free of it. “I guess there is only one way to find out.”

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“You were right.” Sloan sighed as she sheathed her daggers. “We were too late.”

Chyehye snorted. "That much has been obvious since we entered. Everything is already dead." A pause. "Well, dead again."

They stood in a row contemplating the altar and the note it held in place of the horn that was supposed to be there.

Nyatt shook his head. “How did she get here so fast? Can she fly like a dragon?”

Aithne shrugged. “Who can say?” She stepped forward and, after a pause, gingerly picked up the parchment. Two rocks dropped to the floor as she unfolded it, read it, then laughed.

Sloan raised an eyebrow. “Well don’t keep us in suspense - what’s it say?”

Aithne glanced back at them, still laughing. “It says, ‘Haha I got here first this time.’”

“That settles it,” Sloan said amidst the others’ laughter. “Sian was here and she also remembers last time. That is good to know, at least.”

“So it would seem,” Aithne agreed. “So what now?”

Sloan shrugged. “I don’t think it behooves us to try to guess where she will go next. I don’t want to spend the next six years playing Follow the Dragonborn all over Skyrim. I suggest we go back to Riverwood and see what Delphine has to say.”

“Sounds good to me. Anyone object? No? Then gather around.”

Aithne held out her hands and her spouses took them. Sloan took Chyehye’s and Merks’, who clutched reluctantly with his other hand to an equally-reluctant-looking Nyatt.

Five minutes later, as they walked through the gateway into the town, Sloan cursed at herself because she had forgotten to hide her daggers, which were confiscated with a stern lecture about the frailty of woman and several gropes of the ass. It was a reminder how much she hated this new Skyrim’s towns. Maybe staying at the orc stronghold wasn’t so bad after all.

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On the other, they stood out like a sabrecat among barn kittens. The best method for staying out of view was to blend in with those around you. But a group with what seemed like twin women and a pair of orcs, including the largest specimen of the species Sloan had ever seen, could do nothing but stand out. Only the young male mage, Merks, might pass for normal, but his College robes carried their own screaming voice for attention. Wulfgar had stood out for similar reasons before they had parted ways with him eight days before.

To be fair, Sloan supposed, they didn’t have a reason to hide. They were together to rid the world of dragons, not sneak into inaccessible places to assassinate someone. Still, as they stepped through the gateway into Riverwood and nearly every head in the vicinity turned their way, she fought to keep from fidgeting - the attention made her itch.

Sloan spotted Delphine the moment they entered the inn. The sometime Blade was playing the part of innkeeper and Sloan didn’t want to risk breaking that cover, so when Aithne started to call out, Sloan placed a discreet hand on her sister’s arm and gave her head a minute shake. Fortunately, Aithne appeared to get the hint and closed her mouth, though her eyes read confusion and surprise.

“Human taverns all look the same,” Nyatt commented as he sat on a bench that groaned in response.

“You have no idea how true that is,” Aithne responded.

There was something dark in her voice when she said it and Sloan peered at her sister-of-sorts. Sometimes she wished she could read minds – actually, she had wished for that ability a lot in her past life – it would have been so helpful! – because there was clearly so much trauma packed into that one sentence. Sloan thought back to the Aithne of before, the one missing an eye, the one who had seemed innocent yet world-weary all at the same time. Whatever her story, it had not been a happy one.

“Welcome to The Sleeping Giant. What can I get you?”

Sloan turned gratefully away from her thoughts and looked up at Delphine. “Ales all around, please. And I heard a rumor you have private tastings. Is that true?”

“I have some special vintages put away for the right guests. But I can only accommodate two at a time. Would you and your sister care to follow me?”

“Certainly.” Sloan and Aithne rose as one, then Sloan paused as Aithne set a gentle hand on the suddenly agitated arms of both Merks and Nyatt.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Aithne shook her head as Merks began to say something. “And so will you – Cheyhye will protect you in anyone tries to bother you.”

This was obviously the wrong thing to say (or perhaps the right one) because the worry on both their faces turned to instant anger. Sloan tried not to laugh as she and Aithne followed Delphine away from the table and into a room behind the counter.

 The room looked like a regular storeroom but Delphine pressed down on the lid to a barrel tucked in the back corner and a hidden wall slid aside. That led to a downward flight of stairs and then a small room stuffed to the brim with weapons and armor of various types along with a giant table with a map of Skyrim laid out, held down on one side by a flat fist-sized rock that had been carved into in some script Sloan didn’t’ recognize. Red ink Xs dotted the map, although Sloan could not tell at a glance what they were meant to indicate – none of them seemed close to cities, towns, forts, or any other inhabited places she could think of.

Delphine walked to the other side of the table, looked over the map for a moment, then looked up at Sloan and then Aithne.

“That is uncanny. You did not tell me you had a twin.”

“I apologize, it did not seem relevant at the time. However, you should know there are at least two more who look like us, including the Dragonborn. Whose name is Sian, by the way.”

“Indeed? Well, that is good to know.” A sigh. “It seems you were right. I am glad you are not my enemy, but this…” Delphine tapped the map. “This has disaster etched all over it.”

Sloan studied the map closer, but still could make no sense of it. “What are those marks?”

“They are dragon burial mounds.” This, unexpectedly, from Aithne, who was looking at the map with an expression of wonder. “Delphine is…that stone had them marked. She is transcribing the map on the stone to this one so she can trace the pattern of the dragons’ re-emergence.”

Both Sloan and Delphine gave Aithne a hard stare, then Delphine cleared her throat. “Yes, that is exactly correct. I am Delphine, as you apparently already know,” this with a glare at Sloan, who shook her head, “but I have not had the pleasure?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry. I am Aithne.”

“You appear to know a lot about this, Aithne. I take it you are also from some other Skyrim?”

“I…” Aithne flushed and looked around as if just now noticing the room. “Um. Yes.”

“I suppose that explains it.” Delphine ran a hand through her auburn hair. “I apologize, I should have made sure you knew about the dragons’ return and the destruction of Helgen before beginning, since you have been on the road.”

Sloan nodded. “We did hear, although too late to change course – we were already halfway to Helgen when we learned it was no more. We would have taken a different route and been here days sooner had we known. Has there been any sign of Sian?”

“Not…exactly. But maybe.” Delphine tapped the flat stone. “This is the Dragonstone. As you,” a nod at Aithne, ”said, it has a map of the dragon burial grounds. It was rumored to be buried in Bleak Falls Barrow with one of the last Dragon Priests of old. I only knew about it because I went straight from Helgen to Whiterun to confer with the Jarl’s court wizard, Farengar. Our hasty research uncovered many lost things – more than we likely would have found had I not talked to you in Windhelm. You gave me a place to start.

“We were able to confirm your claims that the dragons came back from the dead unless confronted by a Dragonborn. We were not able to determine why that suddenly stopped happening, though. We also learned about the Dragonstone and were mostly certain it was interred in Bleak Falls.”

“Ah. So you sent Sian to fetch it for you?”

“What? No, I would never entrust someone I don’t know to do a job like that. I came back here to get my crypt-delving gear so I could retrieve it myself and discovered it had been delivered here, to my tavern, in my absence.”

Sloan raised a surprised eyebrow. “That…does sound like someone who knew what was going to happen. So it seems Sian is here and alive. That is good to know.”

“Maybe? It was delivered by a priestess of Dibella, according to Orgnar. Would that be her?"

Sloan and Aithne exchanged glances then shrugged in unison.

“None of us met her last time,” Aithne said.

Sloan nodded. “Honestly, we don’t know much about her. That seems…unlikely, but who knows? Did she look like us?”

“I don’t know. Orgnar is not great at remembering faces." Her face contorted, and she said in a passable facimile of the man behind the inn counter, "She was a woman. She was wearing robes. She said to give you this."

Sloan laughed. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter too much. It seems likely she was involved somehow – how else would she have known about the Dragonstone, including where it was and where it should go? The question is, what do we do next?”

Delphine cleared her throat. “As it happens, I have an idea about that. I know where she is going to go – and where she will be sent after. If we can get there first, we can force her to come to us.”

“I…okay, explain, please.”

“She was summoned by the Greybeards. I assume you heard the Shout from the Throat of the World last week?”

“It was…hard to miss.”

“Indeed. Her first step will be to climb the 7000 steps to High Hrothgar to see the Greybeards. They will begin her training – I’m not sure how long that will take, but I imagine it will be at least a few days - then send her to Ustengrav to fetch a relic they keep there as her final trial before they officially accept her as Dragonborn.”

“That’s…how do you know all that?”

“I got lucky during my research with Farengar – he had a book that laid this all out. By my estimate, she arrived at High Hrothgar three days ago. Four, if she hurried. At the very worst – if I’m wrong and the training only lasts an hour instead of days - she would still be only as far as Helgen on her way to Ustengrav. So if you leave immediately, you should be able to get there ahead of her with plenty of time to spare.”

“All right. Where is Ustengrav?”

“Just east of Morthal, where the Drajkmyr swamp ends and The Pale Highlands begin.”

Aithne perked up. “In that case, I can get us most of the way there today. And, if what you say is true, we should have time for a quick side trip.”

Sloan frowned at her sister-of-sorts. “What side trip?”

“Remember Labyrinthian?”

“How could I forget? You want to go there again?”

“I need to – I need that staff. Plus, poor Atmah and the others need to be released again.”

“I…suppose. But we're a sister short this time.”

“We are, but Chyehye is very strong and I have learned a lot since then. And Merks is also strong.”

Aithne’s voice picked up a certain tone whenever she mentioned Merks, and Sloan was dying of curiosity to know the story behind it, but she passed by the question to ask, “What about your husband?”

“Nyatt? He can carry the gear.”

“Really? As big as he is, he can’t fight?”

“He is strong but he has no talent for fighting, poor guy. Please don’t mention it, though – he has been through a lot because of it.”

“From what I know of orc culture, I can only imagine. Can he use magic?”

Aithne blinked, opened her mouth, closed it again, pursed her lips, then opened them again to say, “I hadn’t thought to find out. Orcs with magical affinity are rare but they certainly exist.” And here, her voice grew unexpectedly warm. Such an enigma, she was! Sloan itched to crack the puzzle open.

Instead, she turned to Delphine and nodded. “Sounds like we have a plan. We should be back in…” she glanced at Aithne, who supplied, “Three days, at most.”

Delphine frowned. “If you can get from here to Labyrinthian, then to Ustengrav, then back in only three days, you must be fleet of foot!”

Aithne shrugged. “As long as I have been somewhere before and can remember some defining feature to focus on, I can teleport there.”

“I have heard about mages who could do so, though I thought it a difficult spell to master.”

“Not really. It’s the first…no, second one I learned.”

“Well…” Delphine seemed lost for words for a moment. “…I am not a wizard, so I cannot guess at what you can do. I look forward to seeing you again. We have much to do.”

“That we do.” Sloan turned toward the doorway, then paused as visions of Kira flooded her mind; especially of that last encounter, when she had learned how Kira had been expecting Sloan to betray her at any moment. She glanced back. “Oh, I should mention – Aithne knows nothing about my mother and I suspect Sian knows even less. Do not fear for your back – we are not here to stab it.”

Delphine laughed, and her voice grew a bitter edge. “My guard is always up, no matter who I am speaking with. But I appreciate the reassurance. Know that I, too, am not seeking blood.” A pause, then she cut the small tension with a wink. “Well, not any of your blood.”

Sloan laughed and led the way out of the room while Aithne stared from one to the other, her strange innocence back in front, and Sloan shook her head – someday she was going to unravel the mystery of Aithne. She was certain there was something there, some gem of truth at the center of her dichotomous sister that would help Sloan answer the questions about her own life. It somehow, in that moment, seemed a more important mission than anything the dragons presented.

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Much to Sloan’s surprise, he did not demand payment (via money or sex) once they reached the road. He simply introduced himself as they continued to walk together.

“I am known as Wulfgar. I am a Monk of the Voice. You may have heard of us by the colloquial term ‘Greybeards’.” He laughed and stroked his decidedly-ungrey beard. “As you can see, I have yet to live up to the name.”

As Sloan introduced herself, her mind spun as she tried to remember anything at all she had heard about the Greybeards. Only two things came to mind. “Your monastery is on the Throat of the World, right? I thought your order never left the mountain?”

“That is true most of the time. Every ten years, we are allowed to take a year-long sabbatical. I decided to take my year to visit every bit of Skyrim I could. Squeeze ten years of experiences into one, if you will.”

“Has it lived up to your hopes?”

“Indeed! I have seen things I never imagined existed. The downside to becoming cloistered at a young age – you miss out on many of the things the world offers.”

“Have you thought about quitting?”

“Well, of course, from time to time. But there is nothing in the world (that I have found, anyway) that can replicate the feeling of speaking with the Voice. The first time you Speak a newly mastered Word…” A visible shiver ran through Wulfgar’s body. “It is something that cannot be explained; it must be felt, spiritually, emotionally, and physically."

“So this Voice is some sort of magic?”

“In a way. It is the language of the dragons, and dragons were creatures of magic. Their words…it is difficult to explain. The words in their language are like empty vessels. If you fill them with mana, they become Words of power. But before you can fill the words, you have to know their shape. It takes months or even years to learn the shape of even a single word.”

“That sounds…complicated.”

“It is, and it can be very frustrating. But the end results are well worth the time and aggravation.”

“So what about the Dragonborn?”

Wulfgar barked a short laugh. “So you have heard about the legendary Dragonborn! Well, I suppose that is not a surprise – we are in the home country of Tiber Septim, after all. By all accounts, the Dragonborn has an innate ability to Speak as the dragons do. He does not need to learn the shape of the Words; he merely needs to be shown the Words and he will understand their shapes instinctively.”

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

“In a way, I suppose I would be jealous of one who could do that. On the other hand, I wonder if having such an easy path would take away from the experience. One of the best parts of mastering a new Word is the catharsis, the release of everything you have put into it. If you just knew the Word from the start, there would not be that build up. It all sounds so…hollow, somehow.”

“I understand that, I think. So the Dragonborn can use these Words as long as they learn them?”

“Well, sort of. There is still the matter of filling the Words with mana. Dragons, being magical creatures, filled the Words as they spoke them but humans do not have that capacity. Even after learning the shape of a Word, it takes days or weeks or even months to fill them. Depending, of course, on one’s own affinity for the arcane.”

“So…once you have spoken an empowered Word, it can’t be spoken again until you fill it again?”

“That is correct. Unless, again, you are the Dragonborn. He can fill a Word permanently. Or could – in order to do so, he must slay a dragon and absorb its lifeforce, called zii. A little difficult to do if there are no dragons about!”

He laughed, but to Sloan, who had been trained in the art of laughing naturally, the forced sound of it was as jarring a tell as a lie. The monk may have been on a sabbatical, but she was willing to bet he no longer was.

“I see. And only the Dragonborn can absorb the lifeforce, I take it? I thought as much.” She paused, but didn’t want to lose this chance at the answers to questions that had been troubling all of them. “Is that why only the Dragonborn can kill the damn things permanently?”

Wulfgar raised his eyebrows. “it is. How did you know that?”

“It was something I heard…a long time ago. So your year is up?”

“As it happens, it is not. I have been summoned back early.”

"How early?"

“Very early. I have only been gone for four months.”

Sloan nodded. “So it finally happened. The dragons are back.”

The monk’s calm broke – he froze in place, then turned toward her. His gaze was unfocused no more; he stared at her with all the frenzied conviction of a prophet as he repeated his own question. “How did you know that?”

Sloan smiled and, for the second time in as many days, said, “I can tell you the entire story, but I don’t know if you will believe any of it.”

He held her eyes for a long moment, but Sloan stared back without blinking until Wulfgar’s gaze retreated back to his affable façade. “Well, the road is long. A story or two would help pass the time.”

Sloan laughed. “So it would.” And, for the second time in as many days, she told her tale.

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The sun had dipped close to the horizon by the time Wulfgar ran out of questions about Sloan’s previous Skyrim. She had, of course, skipped the whoring and assassinations, focusing on what she knew of the story of the world in general – the appearance of dragons after thousands of years; the slow buildup of their numbers as they were raised from the dead one by one; their apparent inability to permanently die without a Dragonborn present; and, of course, the final fate of the world, with just a little taste of what she knew about said Dragonborn’s very conspicuous absence during all of it.

“If my sabbatical had not been cut short because of this very reason, I would not believe a word of what you say. However, as the dragons have nearly turned into mythical beings that some now question ever existed at all, I cannot find a reason to doubt the veracity of your story, for if you were trying to deceive me, you would nev…”

“What are you doing all the way out here? And who is this human?”

Sloan jumped and turned, cursing herself. It should not be so easy to sneak up on her! Especially since the speaker had not been sneaking.

A female orc on the driver’s bench of an open cart looked down at them with an expression marked with curiosity. Several armed-to-the-tusks male orcs sat in the back, also watching the two travelers with curious but not unfriendly stares.

“I am Wulfgar. And we are both…”

The orc waved her hand. “I wasn’t talking to you, old timer.”

Sloan raised her eyebrows as Wulfgar muttered, “I’m not that old.” Questions of her own raced through her. The orc didn’t seem angry or aggressive; if anything, her attitude bordered on familiarity. It seemed odd – the orcs she had known had been suspicious at best and downright hostile at worst. Perhaps the orcs of this Skyrim were not the marginalized outcasts from before?

With little to go on, Sloan judged it safest, in the moment, to take things at face value, and answered with the simple truth.

“I am just traveling with this man. Why do you want to know?”

“You…” The orc stopped and stared at Sloan for a long moment, then shook her head. “I think I see now. I am Chyehye. It is late in the day - I invite you to stay the night at our Kwåim. It is close by, it will be safe, and there will be a wedding tonight. An orcish wedding is not something outsiders get to see very often!”

Sloan glanced at the old man, uncertain, but his eyes had lit up and he gave the orc woman a deep bow.

“A rare opportunity indeed! I am Wulfgar and I would be honored to witness such an event.”

“We are honored to have you.” Chyehye responded with a bow of her own, then turned to Sloan. “And you?”

Sloan shrugged and bowed, since everyone else had. “I am Sloan. Lead the way.”

They walked beside the cart for the next hour, and Wulfgar spent the time asking every question he thought of about their culture and history. He also asked about their cargo, which turned out to be three humans, a woman and two men. All were stripped naked and hogtied. At Wulfgar’s inquiry, one of orcs said, “Don’t let their looks deceive you - they are werewolves. They killed one of our kin…”

“And almost killed three more!” Chyehye called back from her seat.

“…so we hunted them down.”

Wulfgar’s attention sharpened on the bodies. “That is fascinating! I didn’t realize werewolves were real.”

“They are, and no mean foes.” Chyehye stopped the cart and glanced back at them. “We are about to approach the gates. It is unusual for outsiders to visit and they normally are not welcome at all. Please keep your hoods up until I have had an opportunity to talk to our chieftain – it would not do to start a brawl.”

Sloan began to protest, then shrugged and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. It was a flimsy disguise, at best – anyone would be able to tell at a glance neither of them was an orc - but Chyehye had betrayed no signs of dishonesty, so they paced the cart as it rolled to the gates, then into the inner sanctum of the orc stronghold.

It was a sight to behold – everything was bedecked with massive displays of flowers and bright streamers, and torches and braziers kept the encroaching night from roosting. Despite her misgivings, no one seemed to notice them; they were all too busy with the festivities. She stayed in the darkest corner she could find and watched everything.

Wulfgar showed no such concern or restraint. He wandered about with a delighted expression, talking to anyone who would listen. No one seemed to take special note of him aside from some startled glances, which probably meant the chieftain had been informed of their presence. Although how that information might have been disseminated through the rest of the clan so quickly and silently made that unlikely.

Music started playing somewhere as Sloan chewed on the minor mystery. The crowd began to still, settling into a loose semi-circle around a small hut next to the primary building, which afforded Sloan a better opportunity to study the inhabitants. She noted, with a small shock of surprise, another human among them; a young man with a sullen expression wearing what looked like College of Winterhold robes stood near the front of the crowd but off to one side. He presence, perhaps, helped answer her previous question – the orcs were already used to humans being about – but raised several more, such as why a mage from the college would be here.

She had learned only a little of the mages last time – there had never been need to contact them for any of her jobs – so she could only speculate about their motives. Maybe he was here to scout some orcish apprentice candidate? Did the school work that way? Maybe…

A final note blared, then the music went silent, the crowd stilled, and Sloan’s swirling theories coalesced into a single chord of disbelief that overrode all other thoughts as two figures stepped out of the hut and she got her first look at the bride.

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She shook her head as she tapped the calendar next to the vanity. A rarity, that - few people in a land like Skyrim needed to know the exact date. Only the wealthy (and people who had assignments that needed completed by a specific date) bothered having an actual physical calendar. This one had not been used for some time, judging by the layer of dust on it, but the embedded magic still worked - it showed the current date: Sundas, 17 Last Seed, of the year 201. She had been at the Vixen for just over two weeks at this date last time; had had her maidenhead taken but was still in training and was another week away from being entrusted with real clients. 

A different life for a different person. Sloan gave herself a soft laugh and stood while, behind her, the Three Idiots quarreled amongst themselves.

Introducing Tihwen and Yek to Aventus had seemed like a good idea. Aventus needed something to do to make a living and Tihwen and Yek needed someone to help center them. Aventus was the youngest of the three but he had proven himself to be resourceful and intelligent, in Sloan’s eyes. He had, after all, masterminded his own escape from the orphanage and had shown near-inhuman tenacity when calling upon the Dark Brotherhood.

Unfortunately, it appeared her plan had backfired – the three had, in fact, bonded with a disconcerting immediacy, probably very much aided by Tihwen’s exceedingly low-cut dress. As they talked in excited tones about their plans, Aventus’ eyes never left Tihwen’s cleavage. Instead of centering Tihwen and Yek, it appeared they were dragging him down to their level.

Well, it couldn’t be helped. Besides, this had accomplished her two primary goals – get Aventus in a position where he would have gainful employment (by helping with Tihwen’s jam and, perhaps, Yek’s potions) and extract herself from the equation with a clear conscience. They (okay, Yek, at any rate) had managed to survive this long on their (or his) own for this long – surely they could figure things out from here.

They didn’t seem too broken up when she told them she was leaving. In fact, they barely seemed to notice at all – Tihwen just waved and said, “Goodbye!” while Yek gave her a nod. Only Aventus managed to pull himself away from his faceful of breasts to give Sloan a quick hug and a breathy, “Thank you!” before turning back.

Sloan paused on the doorstep of Aventus’ house, enjoying the cool early morning breeze (although not the stench - it was around the time the chamber pots were emptied around the city) while she tried to decide what to do next. All her efforts to find Trendil had crashed into dead ends; if her sister-of-sorts was in the city, she was well-hidden. More likely Trendil was not in the city – apparently the Stormcloak recruits had been sent on missions of some sort. It was impossible to know who had been sent where without access to the records, and Sloan had no way to gain access to those without putting herself at more risk than she felt comfortable with.

She heard the voice long before she saw them – a gaggle of young nobles, wrapped in overly-wrought robes, with a familiar face in the center. The last time Sloan had seen that face, it had been sinking into a bog in Drajkmyr. Benrad Gray-Mane, aka Jaunty, aka Dragonscorcher was holding court as the group walked.

“…and my cousin Avulstein…you know Avulstein, of course, or Av, as I call him. No, you can’t, only those close to him can. He is the son of Eorlund – yes, that Eorlund Gray-Mane, he is famous, as, of course, is the rest of my family (we are direct descendants of Ysgramor of the Five Hundred Companions, don’t you know) – Av said, ‘It is too bad none of us are brave enough to join the Stormcloaks. We could really get…’

“Yes, he did too! And I, of course, have always been the bravest of the family. Everyone says so. So I said, ‘Fear not, O cousin of mine! For I, Benrad Grey-Mane, Slayer of Monters, shall…’

“What? Yes I did, I killed that skeever when I was…no, it was not ‘just a large-ish rat,’ it was a skeever! The biggest anyone had ever seen! Everyone who saw it agreed! Anyway, I said, ‘Fear not, O cousin! I, Benrad Grey-Mane, Slayer of Monsters, shall take it upon myself to…”

The group turned a corner and disappeared, though Benrad’s voice continued to rise above the noise of the street for quite some time after.

Sian bit her lip as she considered (then stopped herself with internal reproach vis a vis Mishi’s mocking voice – this was exactly the kind of habitual tell she needed to re-purge), then smiled, turned, and re-entered Aventus’ house.

“…to be somewhere where I can grow my snowberries or I won’t be able to make jam,” Tihwen was saying.

“Maybe the roof? There is a small…”

“That wouldn’t be big enough! I need…”

“Hey, you guys won’t believe who I just saw outside.”

All three turned and, in an eerie lizard-like way, blinked at her in unison.

Tihwen raised her eyebrows and shifted, probably for the sole purpose of making her breasts jiggle. “I thought you left.”

“I did, but then I came back. Guess who I saw?”

“Um…” The three turned and mumbled together, but Sloan wasn’t that interested in the game.

“Benrad Grey-Mane.”

“No fair!” Tihwen twisted her lips down but, with her face, it came out more like a grimace than the cute pout she had probably hoped for. Too bad she had refused the makeup lessons!  “You didn’t give us a…wait, Benny is here?”  

Sloan nodded, holding back a triumphant smile. Of course the nobles all knew each other.

“Yes!” She feigned excitement. “I overheard him telling his friends that he is joining the Stormcloaks!”

Both Yek and Tihwen turned sour.

Yek waved a dismissive hand. “Nah, he wouldn’t do that. That would be far too much work for him.”

Sloan bit back a curse as she scrambled to get them back on the hook. “But he did! Avulstein said, ‘Too bad none of us are brave enough to join the Stormcloaks. We could gain control of all the mines by “conquering,”’ she added finger quotation marks, “’them!’”  And Benrad said he, being a monster-slayer, would do it.”

Yek snorted, but their attention was back. “Is he still claiming that mouse was a skeever? I was there – it was already mostly dead from poison. He just stepped on it.”

Tihwen looked surprised. “Really? I heard he saved his little sister and was a hero!”

Yek shook his head. “The only heroic thing he ever did was save a pile of coins from falling off a table.”

Tihwen laughed and the other two joined her while Sloan seethed in impatience as she pretended to laugh along. They were ignoring the important part! Time to take a small chance.

“Do you think they would really do it?

“Do what?” They had already turned away and Yek didn’t bother looking at Sloan this time.

“Join the Stormcloaks just to try to ‘conquer’ a bunch of mines.”

“Oh, that. Sure, probably. That’s what wars are for, after all – to make money.”

Sloan festered in silence as the three began to talk again, this time with ideas about meeting up with Benny, then left again.

She had been trained to act as a noble, to fit in with their soirees and tea parties, but she clearly had years to go before she actually understood how they thought.

Well, she had started the rumor, at any rate. Last time, the Grey-Manes had managed to keep their plot a secret from the public for the entire course of the war. At the very least, the public would have whispered inklings of it this time. Maybe it would help finish the war sooner.

Either way, Sloan felt she had accomplished as much as she would be able to in Windhelm, short of randomly running into Trendil as she left. With no firmer plan, it was time to head to Riverwood. Maybe Delphine would be able to help find the other sisters.

On her way out, she mused as she began to walk, perhaps a visit to a few of the inns and taverns throughout the city. A rumor spread best when it seemed to appear from nowhere yet was suddenly everywhere. Might as well plant some seeds as she went.

Next chapter

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Start from the beginning

“Impressive instincts.” An amused somehow familiar female voice. Sloan tried to remember where she had heard it as it continued, “I was right about you. So who are you?”

The blonde woman Sloan had rescued sat at the table. Her expression matched her sardonic tone but it was something else that tugged at Sloan’s mind. She knew this woman, she was certain of it. But who…

It came to her in a flash and the name blurted out before she could stop it. “Delphine?!”

The woman’s expression shifted in an instant to a calculating mask and a knife of her own appeared as if summoned. “How do you know that name?”

Sloan heard Mishi’s voice sneer, “Sloppy!” in her head as she eased her dagger down and laid it on the floor. Delphine had taught Kira everything she knew, and Sloan had only beat Kira because of Melissa’s armor; she inferred from this that she did not want to be on Delphine’s bad side.

“I apologize, I should know better than to just blurt out people’s names. I just…did not expect to see you. Here.”

Delphine had not moved a muscle. “You did not answer my question.”

Sloan eased away from the dagger and sat on the bed, placing her hands on her knees so they would be in full view. “My name is Sloan Shae.” It still felt strange to say her last name; she had known it for two-and-a-half-ish years but, having lived most of that time under the guise of false identities, it still felt foreign to her tongue.

The name seemed to have an effect on Delphine as well – although she did not move, her demeanor eased just a little. “I thought as much. What is the Jatbûfî Tong doing in Dark Brotherhood territory? My understanding was that the truce forbade that.”

That was a lot of information to parse at once, starting with the fact that the Dark Brotherhood apparently existed in this Skyrim. She would have to apologize to Aventus. Also, apparently Melissa was part of a Tong, which had certainly never come up as even a hint of a possibility last time. Although that would explain why she had been so difficult to track down.

Sloan didn’t have enough information to answer Delphine’s question, so she tried deflecting it with one of her own. “You are with the Dark Brotherhood? I thought you were with the Blades.”

Delphine stilled back to being wary. “No. I am not with the Brotherhood. And the Blades have not been around for a decade.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know much about me; much that I have taken great pains to conceal. Did Melissa send you?”

“No. I am not part of the Jatbûfî Tong. You can think of me as a freelancer.”

Delphine raised an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe they would just let one of their own leave the Tong.”

“Probably not. But I was never part of the Tong. I was raised in the Honorhall Orphanage and didn’t know I had any family until after they kicked me out.”

Delphine’s other eyebrow raised. “That raises many more questions than it answers.”

Sloan smiled. “I know. I can tell you the entire story, but I don’t know if you will believe any of it.”

A pause, then Delphine stowed the dagger and smiled. “Try me. Care to join me for dinner?”

***

Two hours later, Sloan pretended to sip wine while Delphine tapped her chin in thought.

“You were right – that tale is very difficult to believe. If the dragons really are coming back, that changes everything. Especially if what you say about a Dragonborn being here is true – if there is a Dragonborn, she will need to be my top priority.”

“There are no signs of dragons yet. I don’t know exactly when they started showing up last time, but I suspect they will arrive any day now.” If this version of Skyrim has them, Sloan did not add out loud.

Delphine fingered her wineglass as she thought. “Do you remember anything at all? Surely there were rumors when something as momentous at that happened.”

Rumors, eh? Sloan tried to think back. The first murmurs of dragons had filtered into the Vixen soon after she started working there. Sometime after her training but still early enough that she wobbled in the heels.

The thought made her smile – sometimes she missed those simple innocent days, despite the numerous dicks they brought with them.

She shook her head, trying to parse through half-remembered tales she hadn’t paid much attention to in the first place. Only one thing seemed to stand out.

“Helgen.”

Delphine raised an eyebrow. “Helgen? What about it?”

“It was destroyed, somehow. There was talk about it for weeks. Some thought it was from the war but others claimed a dragon did it. The dragon rumors did start around the same time, so I don’t know if they really had anything to do with it or if people just conflated the two things because they both happened around the same time.”

Delphine frowned. “Helgen does seem like a logical place for the Stormcloaks to strike. That would give them a base of operations on the other side of the pass and put them in range of both Falkreath and the underbelly of Whiterun.” She laughed. “My tavern in Riverwood might be in danger.”

“Now that you mention it, the Stormcloaks did take both Whiterun and Falkreath in quick succession. Although I don’t think that happened until a year or two later.”

“Well, it does take a lot of time to organize large scale engagements. Two years does not seem unreasonable to consolidate the smaller towns around the area and prepare for taking a city like Whiterun.” Delphine sighed. “Despite the outlandish sound of it, your bearing shows you speak the truth as you know it. Although I am cognizant that you have been trained to hide your tells.” A laugh. “At the very least, it cannot hurt to be prepared. I’m going to put out some feelers for Stormcloak movement then head back to Riverwood. You may join me, if you wish.”

Sloan shook her head. “I am looking for old friends who might be able to help.” She had not mentioned her sisters, other than the rumors of a Dragonborn – she had learned during her many debriefings to be concise and stick with only the relevant facts. “Perhaps when I find them, we’ll come to Riverwood. It’s not like I know where else to begin.”

“Sounds good.” Delphine stood, wiped a napkin over lips before dropping it in a dainty pile on the table, and started to rise.

“A moment.”

Delphine raised an eyebrow and resettled herself in her seat. “Yes?”

“I apologize – I know the professional courtesy is not to ask, but if you don’t mind – what was your goal in pretending to be a victim earlier?”

“Ah, that.” Delphine laughed. “Since it is no longer relevant, given your information, I don’t mind telling you: I think there is something strange about the way the Stormcloaks have gone about things. I was going to infiltrate and investigate. I assume you had a similar plan? As I thought. Then you surely discovered that they send their volunteer whores to their camps, not keep them in town.”

Sloan laughed. “I learned that too late.”

“My goal, then, was to present myself in a way that might tempt that man to keep me in the barracks. My intel suggests that, despite their claims, only the volunteers who meet certain criteria are made into so-called ‘Campers.’ The rest become general barracks whores and scullery maids. Those who resist the initial…let’s call it interview are deemed too calcitrant to go.”

“I see. Then I should have followed your example.”

“Since we are breaking professional courtesy, what were you after?”

“I believe a relative of mine may have joined the Stormcloaks. I was hoping to confirm my suspicions. And maybe try to reverse that decision, if it wasn’t too late.”

Delphine raised an eyebrow. “A relative of yours? If he is anything like the rest of your family, the Stormcloaks may just win this war after all.” She stood and gave Sloan a nod. “I hope to see you again, should your words be true. That said, although it would make you a liar and an enemy, I hope to learn your message of doom is untrue.”

“I would not mind being proven wrong, in this case. But I do not believe I am. Watch the skies, my friend.”

“Travel safe. If all comes to pass as you have said, find me in Riverwood. If it does not, hope our paths do not cross again.”

“Farewell.”

Sloan watched Delphine leave the inn then “accidentally” spilled the rest of the wine and left after many apologies and coin. Much like with Mishi all that time ago, she did not believe Delphine had poisoned her drink but it was not a chance she was willing to take.

She had not found what she was looking for; at least, not yet. But she had found a contact, some information, and a place to begin. It was more than she had had at the beginning of the day. She went to the room her companions had rented as she considered her next steps, opened the door, and stepped in.

Then promptly turned around and left the room when she found said companions going at it again. On her bed, no less.

She would need to do something about those two, sooner rather than later. She stood in the hallway and thought for a bit until an idea came to her – perhaps she could fix both of her Windhelm issues in one stroke. It was worth a try and, since she currently had no way to scope out the Stormcloaks (well, she had ways, but none she was desperate enough to try just yet), she figured she might as well give it a go.

With new resolve, she turned and made her way back out of the inn, then turned the corner toward Aventus’.

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She had thought about seeking out those men on subsequent trips but unsanctioned murders had generally been frowned upon. And Sloan hadn’t really enjoyed killing in the first place.

The other reason her first trip stood out was the first place she went after she and her still-bickering companions entered the city. While Tihwen and Yek procured a room for them at the inn, Sloan went around the corner to Aventus’ house and let herself in.

Just as before, she heard the thumping and the muttering. This time, however, she was prepared when she turned the corner and found him doing his strange incantation.

Or thought she was.

“You can stop n…” The words died on Sloan’s tongue when she got a full look at him. “Aventus?” She frowned as he jumped as if hit by a stone and looked up.

“Whaaa…you! What are you doing here?” His voice was raw, as dry as paper, and his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. He looked on the brink of collapse but the knife never wavered.

“So you are Aventus?” It was scarcely to be believed. The Aventus she remembered had been younger than her by a good six or so years; the boy – no, man – before her was somewhere around her age. 

The knife paused for just a moment as he gave her an amused snort. “It hasn’t been that long, Sloan.” He resumed his floor stabbing but kept his eyes on her.

“I…um…right. Well, you can stop doing that. Grelod is dead.”

The knife stilled again as Aventus’ eyes widened and he gasped. “What? When? How?”

“Grelod is dead. Nine days ago, give or take a few hours. Tincture of nightshade in her nightly glass of wine. I made it myself – I call it Grelod’s Fate.” She winked.

“But…how do you know that? The Dark Broth…”

“I did it on my way out of town.” At his incredulous look, she leaned forward and added in a dramatic stage whisper, “I went back to the orphanage and pretended everything was going terribly and I wanted back in. Then I slipped the poison in while she was laughing in my face. Oh, and by the way, the Dark Brotherhood doesn’t really exist.”

“Yes they do, Ted said so and he knows everything. She’s really dead?”

“Yep!” Sloan decided not to argue the Ted point.

“Ahhhh.” Aventus dropped the knife and flopped onto his back. “I am so tired.”

“I imagine so. Get some sleep – I’ll clean this up.”

“You don’t have…” the boy-man paused to yawn, his eyes already fluttering. “You don’t need do to that.”

Sloan smiled as Aventus passed out. “No. But I’m going to anyway.”

She studied him for a moment before moving. Another momentous difference between this timeline and the last. What could it mean? Had things been changed on purpose or was it just from some random shake of some sort of cosmic dice?

She shook her head. There was no way to know and nothing she could do about it anyway. The important thing was that he would need help. Last time she had sent him a stipend from her pay every month and had stopped by to visit him whenever she was in Windhelm. She had no source of steady income this time, so that would be difficult to replicate. She had no idea how he had managed to survive as long as he had before she had found him; he probably would have been out on the streets before too long without Sloan’s payments.

Something to think about. In the meantime, she started gathering up the bones of the skeleton while her brain switched back to the main reason she had come to this city.

***

The Stormcloak recruiter gave Sloan both an irritated scowl and a valuable piece of information as she approached: “I told you, we don’t take women! This is exactly why – you’re clearly too stupid to understand what I’m saying.”

A big puzzle piece dropped in her lap, just like that. Sloan had wondered how this reality’s views toward women in the military (or even having weapons or armor in general) would change Trendil’s plans. She thought back to those double whirling blades slicing through everything in their paths in Labyrinthian and allowed herself a small smile – the Stormcloaks were missing out if they had rejected Trendil!

“Of course.” Sloan feigned embarrassment. “I…I came back to apologize for my earlier rudeness.” She gave the recruiter the “you are the most special man I’ve ever met” eyes and the man melted.

“I see! No harm done, heh.” He smiled as he unconsciously adjusted to the typical “father with benefits” role, and Sloan mentally kicked herself again for pulling a knife on Yek. Men were so bloody easy to manipulate, physical weapons were almost never necessary.  “Have you changed your mind about helping out the cause by being a Camper? In that case, just go down the hall and talk to Tulmuk.”

Sloan blinked as her mind shifted tracks.

Of course. The fact that the man still had a head after suggesting Trendil, a professional warrior from a fancy sword school, should consider becoming a whore spoke volumes about her sister’s self-control. She allowed her mind a brief play with Trendil in the starring role as Sloan on that first night in the Vixen, with those intense golden eyes, habitually aggressive posture, and predatory gait. She would have scared half the crowd away…and got a truly amazing maidenhead price from somebody with deep pockets and very niche sexual tastes.

She laughed and, at the man’s tilt of the head, demurred, “Of course! I’m so stupid, how could I forget?” She looked down the hallway. If Trendil had found a way to join – and Sloan was willing to bet she had – here was a way to infiltrate. “I’m…I’ll do it!”

“Thatta girl! And don’t worry – like I told you before, the volunteers are restricted to the officers. You won’t have to worry about servicing the general population.”

Sloan very much doubted the veracity of that statement but she gave him a nervous smile and wave as she made her way up the hall.

She heard the sound of crying before she reached the room, then a loud slap. It wasn’t too hard to imagine what might be happening, and when she turned into the room, her suspicions were confirmed.

Only one other “recruit” was in the room – a pale blonde-haired Breton. What remained of her dress was in tatters and a giant naked Nord man held her in place bent over a table as he rammed into her from behind.

“What are you crying for? This is what you signed up to do, bitch!”

“Nnnnnnooo, it’s…please stop, this isn’t…”

Sloan sighed then turned on her Vixen voice and shifted her walk into a hip-swaying sashay. “Well, hello. I see I’ve come to the right place.”

Both looked at her, the man in surprise, the woman in tears.

“I don’t think she understood what she was signing up for.” Sloan undid her belt and tossed it to the side, then slipped out of the dress she had procured from Luthi’s cabin, letting it pool onto the floor. Her underthings followed on her next two steps as she sidled up to the Nord and placed a hand on his arm. “I do. Why don’t you let her go home to her mommy?”

He snorted and yanked out of the woman, who crumbled to the ground, sobbing, and stepped back.

“Oh my, you are a hungry boy, aren’t you?” Sloan ran a finger along his soaking, engorged dick. “Let me just help this poor thing and we’ll take care of that.”

“She can take care of herself, bitch.”

The Nord reached for her, but Sloan ducked under his grasp and knelt by the woman. “Take my clothes and go,” she whispered as she urged the woman to move with her hands. “Quickly.”

Then, as the woman scuttled away, Sloan turned to the Nord and found herself face to face with his cock.

“Ooh, you have a big one, I see!” It was, in fact, slightly larger than average. Sloan started to stroke it, cutting off his angry growls in a moment, then took it in her mouth.

It tasted like the Breton (Sloan sent a thankful prayer that the Nord had not chosen to use the woman’s ass), which was a much better flavor than many of the unwashed sweaty cocks she had had in the past. She was not particularly interested in extending this and, having had no chance to take the potion that would forestall pregnancy, she did not want to chance actual sex, so she used every trick she knew to get him to come before he decided to try something different.

It did not take long; after only a few strokes she slid him down her throat and he let out a guttural grunt/roar. She looked up at him and smiled and swallowed very drop and continued to stroke until his dick fell limp.

He grunted as she stood and said, “Finally, a woman who knows her place! You will be very popular in camp.”

“Whatever I can do to help the cause, sugar.” Sloan picked up the remains of the woman’s dress and wrapped it around herself.

“Good to hear.” The Nord yanked on his uniform then sat at the table and poured himself a mug of ale. “The next patrol leaves tomorrow at sunup. Be here in travelling clothes by then. Understood?”

“You got it, honey.” Sloan tightened her belt with her pouch (thank the divines the Breton had not taken that), then leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek while dripping two drops of Grelod’s Fate into his cup. “If you ever find yourself in my camp, look me up. I’ll make sure you have a very nice time.”

“Oh, you can count on that.”

Sloan left the room in a bad mood. She had learned nothing and accomplished little, save for saving a woman from rape (although not even that, since his dick had already been in her) and killing a single Nord. And now all she could taste was his spunk. She had assumed she would be sent to the barracks, where she would be able to look around and gather information. Instead, they actually wanted their whores in their camps. 

She shook her head and headed for the inn for a change of clothes and the largest drink they carried.

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“I can’t help it! They’re so…jiggly!”

Sloan rubbed her temples. She had assumed Tihwen’s enthusiasm for grabbing his own breasts would wane over time but in the three days they had been traveling, the only moments his hands had been breast-free was when he was eating, pooping, or stroking his own ass. Even when it was his turn to drive the cart, one hand was clutching his chest.

His body had turned out to be shapely enough (although his face fit the “only a mother would love” category, in Sloan’s opinion. He had refused all offers of makeup that would have helped mitigate the issue), but he was entirely obsessed with touching it. It was all Sloan could do to make him keep clothes on – keeping him from groping himself was a challenge well outside her skillset. At least he hadn’t started masterb…

“Hey, there are people up here. Looks like they’re building a house?” Yek pointed from his vantage on the driver’s seat of the wagon and Sloan leaned over the rail on her side to peer ahead. “Since when does anyone live in this desolate place?”

A fair question. They were in the midst of the salt flats that ran the course between Kynesgrove and the Velothi Plateau, upon which sat the Rift.

It had been easier than expected to extricate themselves from the place, thanks in large (if not intentional) part to Yek, whose biggest asset so far was being male. He had provided perfect cover for when she needed to re-enter the city to take care of her loose ends and instrumental in getting back out - it had been a surprise to Sloan to hear about the “women must have a male escort outside of cities” law, but the other two had not only known, both had assumed it was why Sloan has insisted (they had been tactful enough not to use the word “forced”) on Yek’s company.

But here, though the terrain looked flat and smooth from a distance, it was made of rough, broken sheets of jagged rock interspersed with bubbling hot springs. A sour smell like rotted eggs clung to everything. It did not seem the best place to try to eke out a living.

As the wagon rolled to a stop, however, two figures set down their tools and approached, and Sloan began to remember.

“You are…Craft and Hollow?” Sloan frowned as the names tumbled from her lips. That wasn’t quite right. She had been trained to remember everything; apparently, like her sluggish and weak body, that part of her other self needed to be retrained.

Visions of her ill-fated, slavery-interuppted trek from Windhelm back to Riften swam from her memory. She had stopped here, during that trip. The couple had shown her kindness and had suggested the wiser course of staying there until other travelers came by, so her passage would be safe. She had refused, with Aventus' plea fresh in her mind.

She had only passed by on her subsequent trips through the area; there was something about the place that placed it at just the wrong time to stop in a journey. 

She had watched their town grow and prosper over the years– it had been bigger every time she passed through until, by the end, it was close in size to the towns like Riverwood or Dawnstar, though she had never learned the key to their success.

Well, not the very end – it had been nothing but burned ash the last time Sloan had seen it; she had thought it a bit strange since the main force of the dragons was still days away from swarming that portion of Skyrim at the time.

The male Khajiit’s tufted eyebrows rose. “You have heard of us? But this should not come as a surprise. Kra’aft’s goods are known all throughout Skyrim! And beyond, though, it must be admitted, to a much lesser extent.”

The woman laughed. “Known for his Skyrim-sized ego, perhaps. Greetings, I am Holo, this is my husband Kra’aft.”

“Hello, I am Mertle, this is Yek and Ti.” Sloan had tried to get Tihwen to remember a fitting female name, but the exercise had proven beyond his boob-obsessed brain, so they had settled on his abbreviated name. It would be a tell to anyone trying to track them, which made Sloan itch.

“Well met,” Yek said, while Tihwen looked up from peering down his shirt long enough to nod.

“Would you care to rest awhile?” Holo gestured toward their half-completed building. “We don’t have much, but we are always ready to help travelers in this wasteland.”

“We don’t have ti…” Sloan started, but she was overridden by the two men (well, one man and one pseudo-woman), both of whom gave enthusiastic shouts.

Sloan had tried to teach Tihwen something about moving like a woman, but what little he may have understood had already fled his mind – he vaulted from the back of the wagon and followed their hosts with the typical male strut while Sloan followed behind, shaking her head. It wouldn’t take an expert to realize he was a man, no matter what his body looked like.

It was during dinner, a light and delicious stew with crusty bread and cheese, while Sloan was trying to get what information she could from their hosts, that the whispering began – all through the conversation, Tihwen and Yek held a semi-private undertoned discussion that grated on Sloan’s nerves.

“After the bandit attack, this one decided he had had enough travel. Fate set us here, so here must be where we are meant to be.” Kra’aft laughed. “Much to my wife’s dismay.”

“This seems…” began Sloan, but the sibilant hissing was punctuated by a brief yelp, and she stopped and turned to face them. “What are you two doing?”

“Um…nothing.” Yek rubbed his arm and refused to meet Sloan’s gaze.

“Best friend stuff,” added Tihwen. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I understand you two are being extraordinarily rude to our hosts.”

That seemed to get through to them – members of high society as they were, they at least understood the importance of propriety. They mumbled apologies with red faces and were silent the rest of the meal.

Later that night, after their hosts had retired to the lone separate room of the house, Sloan was woken by a thumping and more violent whispers. A quick glance around the room told her her transitory companions were not in the house.  Something else she would need to re-train herself in, she mused as she eased from her bedroll – the old her was a light sleeper who would have been instantly aware of the movement of the pair getting up and leaving, especially since neither were the least bit stealthy.

She slipped out the door and followed her ears and, as soon as she peeked around the corner of the house, regretted it. In retrospect, she should have seen it coming. Instead, she got to witness Yek doing so.

A naked Tihwen lay flat on his/her back glaring up at the equally naked Yek as the elf strained and groaned into the night. A moment later, Yek collapsed onto Tihwen, his breaths heavy as he rested his head on Tihwen’s chest.

“You’re done already?” Tihwen shoved at Yek. “You did it wrong!”

“What do you mean?” Yek lifted his head and glared back. “Obviously I did it right. I came, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but I didn’t! Get down there and keep going!”

Sloan closed her eyes and turned away, wishing she could close her ears as well, because she could still hear them.

“I can’t, I just came. Have you forgotten what it’s like to have a dick?”

“You still have fingers and a tongue, don’t you?”

“Ew, I’m not licking you! Especially when you’ve got come all over you!”

“It’s your come!”

“That doesn’t make it better!”

It was somewhat improved once Sloan got back inside; she could still hear them but couldn’t make out distinct words. She shook her head and smiled a bit as she settled back into her bedroll; Tihwen had learned an important lesson about what it was like to be a woman. She wondered if he would carry the lesson with him once he turned back into a man. She thought it unlikely – he didn’t seem the sort to extrapolate his experience to others. He would probably just be glad to be on the male side of things once again.

In a way, she was envious of him. Perhaps she could get enough of this potion to live as a man – it would make navigating this wretched world so much easier. But even the thought of it felt wrong, like she would be betraying some secret pact with…she didn’t know, the universe, or something.

Besides, she thought as she settled in and closed her eyes to try to get back to sleep, she was well-versed in the ways men thought; nothing could make her want to live like that.

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Tihwen looked startled. “You know him? How did you know this is his cabin?” His eyes widened. “Have…are you one of his women?”

Well, there was a tricky question to answer. She had received one of those coveted (he always paid very well – getting chosen for one of his “dalliances” paid the equivalence of a week’s normal work) invitations twice in her past life. She wondered where he ordered his whores from since this version of Riften didn’t have the Vixen.

It occurred to Sloan in a flash that she had given up on finding the Vixen too early. Just because it wasn’t on the canals didn’t mean it didn’t exist, at least in some form. She should have checked the other brothels in town. Of course, she had been arrested before she could do more. And, now that she had killed Kira’s best assassin, it was probably better not to make her presence known to the tong.

Instead of answering his question, Sloan pointed at the thin line of smoke that rose from the cabin’s chimney. “I thought you said no one would be here.”

“No one should be.” Tihwen shook his head, his expression one of bafflement. “My father is in Solitude and no one else comes here.”

“Ibta knomp dro ĩts.” Sloan muttered one of Gilna’s favorite phrases with a wistful smile as she went back to studying the cabin. Never trust an amateur, indeed. “Wait here.”

Although the sun was just tugging at the horizon, so darkness prevailed (well, for everyone but her), Sloan took no chances, slipping with care through the trees then edging to the window. A quick glance revealed a bedroom with a tawny-haired elf sitting at a desk, his back turned to the window.

When she returned and mentioned this to Tihwen, a wide grin crossed his face and he shouted, “Yek!” then bounded out of cover.

A startled Sloan hissed, “Wait, don’t…” but it was far too late. Tihwen went straight to the front door of the cabin and yanked it open, once again shouting, “Yek!”

Sloan shook her head and followed, keeping back and well hidden, with the dagger she had taken off Mishi in hand.

Inside the luxurious cabin, Tihwen and the elf were acting like frenetic puppies, hugging and pounding each other on the back and yelling all at the same time. The cacophony made it easy for Sloan to slip into the cabin, get behind the two without being noticed, then make her way to the bedroom.

A quick glance at the desk the elf had been working at revealed notes written in a strange runic language and scribbled drawings of indecipherable design. She could make no sense of any of it but her guess was that it was magic related. She snagged a couple wadded up pieces of parchment scattered on the floor, presumably rejected drafts of whatever the elf was working on, stowed them away in her hip bag, then eased to a spot where she could observe the two men without being noticed.

“…the same as always,” Tihwen was saying. “My family needed someone to take the blame for Marmel because one of his men got caught smuggling, so off I went to prison again.”

The elf shook his head. “I know you have told me you do not mind being sent to prison over and over for your family’s crimes, but I still don’t think it’s right.”

“Well, it’s either that or I take part in the family business in a more direct way, and that doesn’t interest me. I don’t want to get involved with mead making, racketeering, bribery…any of it. I just want to grow my snowberries in peace. Getting sent to prison for a couple weeks every few months is a small price to pay.”

“I suppose. So what are you doing here, if you are supposed to be in prison?”

Tihwen’s eyes grew large and he leaned forward and whispered (but loudly, so it wasn’t really a whisper), “I’m on the lam!”

“On the lam?” The elf’s incredulous voice spoke volumes. “You mean you escaped?”

“Yes!” Tihwen was grinning like a mad man – clearly he was enjoying every moment of this conversation.

“Why? You just said…”

“Someone tried to kill me in prison!”

“What?!” The elf recoiled. “Why?”

Tihwen shrugged, still grinning. “I don’t know! It’s very exciting! Some woman snuck into my cell and tried to stab me!”

“Oh, so you angered one of your lady friends! Now it all makes sense.”

“Pfft, I don’t have any ‘lady friends,’ as you well know. Although it was a lady who rescued me.” Tihwen glanced around. “Where did she go?”

“So a lady tried to kill you but a different lady saved you?” The elf’s voice had flattened from incredulous to skeptical. “Are you sure you didn’t just have a vivid dream? Or some weird sex fantasy since you haven’t been laid in a year?”

Tihwen puffed up, indignant. “How would you know how long it has been since I’ve slept with someone? I did it just last week, I’ll have you know.”

“Your hand doesn’t count. None of this makes sense. Are you sure you weren’t hallucinating?”

“I can assure you, it is true,” Sloan interjected as she stepped from the bedroom. Both men jumped and Tihwen even squeaked a bit.

The elf whirled around but froze when he found himself chin-to-point with Sloan’s dagger.

“My question is, why are you here? Tihwen assured me this cabin is only used for his father’s dalliances and no one else came here.”

“Erm…” the elf replied as Tihwen shouted, “No, it’s fine! This is Yek, he’s my friend!”

“You just broke out of prison, Tihwen. You are a fugitive and you could go back to prison for real if you are caught. How do you know your ‘friend’ here won’t alert the authorities the moment we leave?”

“He wouldn’t!” Tihwen protested at the same time the elf said, “I wouldn’t!”

“We’ve been friends since we were children,” the elf continued, his eyes locked on the blade.

“So answer my question. Why are you in this cabin?”

“Luthi lets me use it when he is away. It’s a nice quiet place to do my research.”

“What kind of research?”

“Alchemy. Please, Tihwen is my best friend. I would never do anything to hurt him.”

Sloan frowned but she didn’t have enough evidence to justify incurring Tihwen’s wrath by killing the loose end. “Fine.” She sheathed the dagger and took a half step back. “I hope your research is done, though, because you are coming with us.”

The elf nodded, then frowned and shook his head. “What? I can’t leave now! I am right in the middle of an experi…”

“Come with us or die. Those are your choices.”

“But surely!” Tihwen interjected. “Yek wouldn’t betray me!”

“Perhaps he wouldn’t. That doesn't mean he wouldn’t betray me.”

“But…”

“No, Ti, it’s all right.” The elf took a deep breath. “She’s right. I mean,” he hastened to add, “she’s not right that I would betray either of you. I would never! Especially since you saved Ti’s life. But I understand your caution. Besides, my research isn’t nearly as important as helping Ti.”

The elf stood straight, then bowed to Sloan. “Allow me to properly introduce myself. My name is Yeknyaw̃fwi rõ Pintaw̃sa, but most non-Altmer seem to have trouble pronouncing that, so you may just call me Yek.”

“Nyopfef ekwi, Yeknyaw̃fwi.” Sloan returned the bow. “Ěfwe rees nuupfawːmě yĩs tsaw̃ tsẽnunye.”

The clearly startled elf let out a short laugh. “You know Altmer?”

Sloan smiled. “Only a portion. Like your research, my language studies were unexpectedly interrupted. Now, we need to get as far away from the Rift as possible. Everyone around here is going to recognize Tihwen, so we’ll need to disguise him.”

“Ooh!” Tihwen clapped his hands. “Like in a spy novel!”

“Exactly. There should be a cache of makeup here for your father’s dalliances. I can…”

Yek cleared his throat. “If it is a disguise you want, I have something better than any amount of makeup.”

He moved to a chest placed against the wall, shoved some papers and assorted discarded clothes off, and opened it. Sloan gripped the dagger, watchful for any sign the elf might try to pull out a weapon, but after some rummaging, Yek withdrew a vial filled with a murky green liquid.

“Here we are!”

Tihwen stared at the vial and his voice turned from eager to hesitant. “What…what is that?”

“My greatest triumph so far! I have made a killing with this.” Yek stood and handed the vial to Tihwen, then leaned forward and added in a dramatic tone, “It changes your gender!”

“What?!” Sloan and Tihwen said in unison, but clearly for opposite reasons.

Sloan’s mind immediately jumped to all the infiltration possibilities such a potion would provide. One of the most difficult things to do was pass for a man – there was only so much makeup and (very) tight undergarments could do.

Tihwen, on the other hand, blanched and tried to hand the vial back. “Are you mad? I don’t want to be a woman!”

“It isn’t permanent. It only lasts for a month or so.”

“A whole month?!”

Sloan shook her head at Tihwen. “Being a woman isn’t that bad, although you men seem intent on making it as difficult as possible. A month would give us plenty of time to get out of the Rift.”

“But…”

Yek pushed the hand clutching the vial back toward its owner. “Don’t worry, your body will look like a woman’s but you will still be yourself.”

“But…”

Sloan added, “It’s either this or hide under a bale of hay in the back of a wagon until we get away from the area.”

“But I get allergic smelling hay!”

Sloan smiled. “Then this should be an easy choice.”

“It is! I’ll take the sneezing and itchy rash!”

Yek leaned forward again. “Just think, an entire month of getting to touch boobs as much as you want!”

Tihwen perked up. “That’s true!”

“See? Everything has an upside! Drink up!”

Sloan shook her head as the suddenly enthusiastic Tihwen pulled out the stopper, lifted the vial like a toast, and quaffed it. Men, at their core, were very basic creatures with very basic motivations. A little flash of skin and a husky voice were more effective than any number of knives, something she apparently had forgotten along the way. She mentally returned Tihwen’s toast and murmured, “Thank you for the reminder.” It was a lesson she was determined not to forget again.

* Good morning, Yeknyaw̃fwi. May your branch never fail.

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Fortunately, she had the same darkness Tihwen’s assassin was relying on and said assassin’s attention was focused on their quarry. Sloan slipped into Tihwen’s cell as the figure shifted the screen out of the way.

Sloan saw at a glance she wasn’t going to have quite enough time – the assassin’s dagger would reach its mark a solid half second before Sloan could get there, which was forever in assassin time. She would have to take a risk.

As the figure stepped to the bed, dagger held ready, Sloan grabbed the carving knife from the desk and said, “Sorry, I need him alive.”

This had the intended effect – the assassin whirled as Sloan took the two steps between them and plunged the carving knife at the figure’s neck.

It was a close thing. The assassin was quick, nearly as quick as Kira had been, but Sloan could see their attack, where they could not see hers. It gave her just enough warning to be able to sidestep. As the carving knife buried itself in the figure’s neck, she felt the dagger graze her ribs. The assassin was good – even in the pitch black, they had nearly scored a fatal blow – and she feared for a moment the short carving knife might not be enough, but it had done its job. Sloan barely had the wherewithal to catch the black dagger in her other hand before it could clatter against the stone as the figure crumpled to the ground.

The snoring stopped and Tihwen’s eyes popped open. He took in a deep breath as his eyes cast about in the darkness seeking something to latch onto and Sloan quickly clamped her hand over his mouth.

“Shhh.” She waved her other hand in a shushing movement, too late realizing it was still holding the dagger, so it probably looked more like she was making a stabbing motion as she hissed, “It’s okay, it’s just me. Your cell neighbor.” Then again, he probably couldn’t see her or her other hand in the pitch-black prison, so hopefully he hadn’t noticed. She flipped the dagger around so its blade hugged her forearm. “I’m going to turn on your lamp but I need to know you aren’t going to yell out. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. Please nod to tell me you understand.”

He looked very confused and frightened, but after a moment he nodded. Sloan nodded back, then lifted her hand. When he immediately sucked in a breath, ready to call out, she slapped it back down.

“SHHH! Someone tried to kill you and we don’t know if the guards had a part in the attempt, so we don’t want them here right now. You want to live, don’t you? You want to see your snowberry bushes again? Yes? Good. Then for love of all that is divine, do not make any loud sounds!”

His expression and his nod seemed a little more controlled, so Sloan slowly lifted her hand again. This time he did not seem ready to call out, so she took two careful steps away, ready to rush forward again should he seem about to do something stupid.

Fortunately, he appeared to have regained some of his senses – he simply stared at the area where she had been standing while clutching the sheets of his bed in white-knuckled double fists.

When, a moment later, Sloan had found and turned up the small oil lamp, spilling the first light into the area, his gaze snapped to her then to the body that lay on the floor between them, and his eyes widened anew. Sloan tensed, ready to rush forward again, but he kept his shaky voice low.

“Who is that? Who are you?”

“Good questions. While I try to find answers, get up and gather anything you might want to keep from here.” She knelt next to the assassin as she spoke. “Small portable things. Not the dragon statue, for instance. We’re going to need to travel fast and light.” She turned the body over and pulled the hood from the figure’s head and couldn’t stop a gasp from escaping.

“You know who that is?” Tihwen peered down from the bed. He hadn’t moved an inch.

“Yes. Her name was Mishi. You are a very lucky man. But you won’t be for long if you don’t get out of that bed.”

As he grumbled (quietly) and climbed out of the bed, Sloan took a moment to stare at Mishi’s empty eyes.

“Who was sloppy this time?” She murmured the words, but knew, even as she said them, that they were false. Had they been on equal footing (sighting?), Sloan knew she would have lost their brief struggle. Only her strange new ability to see in the dark had given her the win. Though it turned out not to have mattered, in the long run, she had been right to ask Trendil to kill Mishi the last time.

Well, one concern she would not have to deal with this time. That was a relief.

Naturally Mishi had not brought much of use with her, though the dagger was of very high quality, of course, and her pouch of thieves’ tools was worth more to Sloan than a fair amount of coin would have.

It took Tihwen’s help to get Mishi’s body to Sloan’s cell, another reminder that things were back to the beginning. In her previous life, her training had given her the strength to move bodies but her orphanage body was weak. She swiftly traded clothes with Mishi then tucked her into the cot, blanket pulled up over the dead woman’s face.

“What about me?” Tihwen glanced around nervously. “Won’t they notice I’m gone?”

“Your screen will keep them from noticing for a time. But it depends on whether they knew you were going to die. Come on, let’s find out.”

She took his hand to lead him through the (to him) impenetrable dark until they reached the door to the exit, then Sloan whispered, “Stay here,” before using the key on the door and slipping through.

The guard was fast asleep at his post, slumped, drooling, and lightly snoring. That answered that – the guards had not been in on it. Sloan motioned Tihwen through then led the way to the small armory.

“We’ll dress in guards’ outfits then walk out of here. Although I don’t see any women’s sizes.”

Tihwen snorted as he scowled at the uniforms. “They’re so unkempt! And of course there aren’t any women’s sizes – there are no women in the guard.”

“What?”

“There are no…”

“Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’ll make do. Get dressed. No, put it on over your clothes. We won’t need them for long.”

A few minutes later, two helmeted guards stepped out of the prison into the Riften night and made their way through the streets, then exchanged nods with the bored attendants as they were let through the hidden postern that Sloan was relieved still existed, and into the wide free world beyond.

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She flipped to her stomach and buried her head in her arms, which helped a bit but made her back feel exposed. She sighed and sat up just as footsteps and jangling keys approached.

“Here it is, just like you left it.”

“Are you sure? I was in the middle of my model. I’d hate to have to start over.”

“Don’t worry, we didn’t touch anything.”

A guard – not the one who had arrested her - and a prisoner came into view from around the corner of the cell block. Sloan assumed he was a prisoner, anyway, despite his well-tailored noble’s clothing in lieu of the prison outfits everyone else worse. Sloan studied the man as the two stopped at the cell next to hers and the guard opened the door.

The man entered the cell with a sigh and went straight to the heavy desk that was placed along the back wall. He moved with the unconscious grace of the well-born; clearly his clothing was not a mirage.  

The desk was not the only odd accoutrement in the cell – it had a plush feather bed, a pair of stocked bookshelves (Sloan had borrowed a couple of the books in her three days there), a thick rug that covered most of the floor, and an assortment of curious odds and ends. It looked more like a comfortable bedroom than a cell. Sloan had wondered what it was all for. Now, apparently, she was finding out.

“We got you someone nice to look at this time, too.” The guard gestured at Sloan. “Just let me know if you want to do more than look.”

The man waved a hand without looking back. “I would not be so uncouth, as you well know, James. You may go.”

The guard made a rude gesture toward the prisoner, tossed Sloan a leer, then locked the door and sauntered away.

The man sighed again as he turned the oil table lamp up a few notches, opened a drawer of the desk, and removed something that, once it was on the desk top and Sloan got a good look at it, made her heart skip a beat.

“That’s a dragon!” The words slipped out of her mouth without thought (she heard Mishi’s sneering, “Sloppy!” in her head).

The man turned to her with an expression of quiet surprise. “It is. The dragons are my passion. Well, and making snowberry jam, but that is on hold once again.” Yet another sigh as he turned back and began fishing small tools from a smaller drawer. “I just know no one is watching my plants, even though they promised they would.”

Sloan stood, peering at the carved statue as she moved closer. The base and back half were still rough-hewn wood, but the front was intricately detailed. Too detailed, in fact.

“Why does it have front legs?”

The man frowned. “They aren’t wyverns, they’re dragons. They have four legs.”

“True, but they don’t have separate front legs - their front legs are part of their wings. The wings fold back and the…I guess it’s sort of their wing elbows become the front legs.”

“What? That’s preposterous! Who told you that?”

“I…” Sloan stopped as her mind caught up to her mouth. The return of the dragons would not be widely known, if they were even back yet.

Yet this seemed an opportunity – here was a man who was clearly wealthy and connected. Exactly the sort of person she had been seeking. Someone who could get her information or, at least, have connections who could do so. She smiled and blinked with her best innocent-child expression.

“I saw a picture in a book.”

“Well, whoever wrote that book was a fool.”

“Really? The dragons have been gone a long time. How do you know so much about them?”

He told her. For the next three hours he told her, in fact – everything she might ever want to know about his twin passions of dragon research and snowberry jam making, all the time carving delicate peels of wood from his statue. If his jam-making was as good as his carving skills, it must be very good jam indeed. When she said, “I would love to try your jam someday,” it wasn’t even a lie.

He brightened at the words. “Really? I’ve given it away as gifts and such, but I don’t think people actually eat it. I have also sold some to the market vendors but I think they only bought them because of my family name, not because they intended to sell it.”

“Your family name?”

Another sigh, the latest in a long string of them. “Yes. I don’t mind telling you because it is hardly a secret. I am Tihwen Black-Briar.”

Ah. Another twist, and decision time. The Black-Briars were the local power broker family, far more influential than the actual government. What their matriarch, Maven, said was law in this little corner of Skyrim. But an orphan fresh out of Honorhall would not know that.

So, then, keep the orphan ruse or try a different track?

In the split second she had to decide, she deemed the safest route was to stick with the innocent role. Any hint that she might know about the local politics could turn him against her in a flash.

She blinked. “Black-Briar? Like the mead?”

Tihwen laughed. “Yes. My family made its fortune with that mead.”

Sloan thought that might start another long lecture on the making of mead, but it did not seem a subject that interested him. Instead he yawned, set down his tools, and stood.

“It is nice to have someone in the next cell who is interested in pleasant conversation. Usually it is just a drunk or, worse, some loud-mouthed brawler, and their noise and stink make it difficult to concentrate. So I thank you.”

“I…thank you. It was nice for me too. I learned a lot!” And she had – she did not have to feign her enthusiasm.

He smiled. “I am glad. But it is late, so I shall retire for now. I hope you have pleasant dreams.” He gave her a sort of half-bow, then turned and walked toward his lush bed, but took a moment to adjust a large screen so he was hidden from her view.

Sloan laughed to herself as she crossed back to her own rough cot and laid back down. She had access to a Black-Briar, a spot of good fortune. Now she only needed a way to make use of that fortune. As plans started to percolate in her head, leading her thoughts along twisted paths, she finally was able to slip into sleep.

She awoke some unknown time later. It still seemed as bright as day to her eyes, but her internal clock told her it was still deep into the night. She had slept for maybe an hour or two. Her bladder was not complaining, so that meant something else was. She focused on staying still and keeping her breath even and deep, as if still asleep, as she scanned the area.

It did not take long to find the culprit, and culprit they certainly were – a figure dressed in dark clothing slipped along the corridor between the cells. Definitely not a guard. Had Sloan not had this strange new ability to see in the dark, she might not even have noticed the figure, even with her training, especially since, she now noted, all the torches in the area had been doused.

As it was, she saw with perfect clarity when the figure stopped at the door to Tihwen’s cell, unlocked it with a key (not a pick, Sloan was interested to note), and pulled the door carefully open just enough to slip inside. Had there been any question of the figure’s intent, it was answered when they pulled out a black-bladed dagger and advanced with careful steps toward the screen hiding the bed, behind which Tihwen’s snores filled the air.

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Sloan stopped as a burly guard stepped toward her, then put forth her best innocent face.

“Me?” She squeaked her voice on the word.

“Yes, you.” The guard stopped, towering above her. “What are you doing with that dagger?” He cast a dismissive eye over her. “If you have a license, I’m the Jarl of Solitude.”

Sloan didn’t have to feign her surprise or ignorance on this one. “License?”

“Aye. You know women can’t carry weapons without a license.”

What?! “I’m…sorry, sir, I…um…just got out of the orphanage this morning. I didn’t know.”

“Oh, one of Grelod’s, are ya? Figures. We’ve told that woman many times to make sure you kids know the law before she dumps another homeless wretch on us. Fine. Come with me – we’ll make sure you don’t have anything else you’re not supposed to and explain all the laws, then you can be on your way.”

Several options went through Sloan’s mind but none of them seemed her best course of action (at least, not here in the middle of the busy street), so she surrendered the dagger and followed the guard. She grimaced as they walked – she would have a choice to make once they were in the Guard Station, and she wasn’t sure which way she should go.

She was going to be raped, possibly by more than one guard. If she allowed it. The question was, should she? On the one hand…well, she didn’t really want to be raped, especially since she had not taken any of the medication that would stave off pregnancy. On the other, though, murdering the entire station would add unneeded complications to her agenda. Perhaps best to just let them do what they were going to do – it was not really different than a whoring assignment, in effect. She would even get paid, after she picked all their pockets.

The guard interrupted her thoughts. “Where did you get this, anyway? You don’t look like you could afford something like this.” His voice had taken a suspicious bent.

Sloan told the truth, more or less, since it was the most plausible response for something like this anyway. “I found it by the canal.” Murky things happened down there, so someone stumbling across a wayward dagger was not out of the question. Four of them however…

“Ah.” The man’s tension and his suspicious tone melted away. “It’s dangerous down there. Probably safer to stay in the upper city.”

“Yes, sir.”

As they reached the central guard station, her escort held the door for her. His voice had lost its aggressive tone – he sounded almost kind as she passed by him into the building. “I feel bad for you kids, just dropped off in the middle of the city with just the clothes on your backs. Just through that door on the right. It’s like you aren’t given a chance. Here we go.

“Now, don’t worry – nothing bad is going to happen to you here. I’m going to have to touch you, but I promise, it’s just a formality to make sure you don’t have other things you didn’t know you weren’t supposed to have. All right? Then we’ll go over the other laws you probably won’t know, and then…well, then I’ll have a question for you to answer, and then you can go. If you choose to.”

Sloan blinked, once again not needing to fake her discombobulation as he started a thorough but professional pat down. No groping, no leering, nothing but…

“Wait, what is this?”

Sloan cursed to herself. She had meant to do something about the other daggers – maybe drop them here and there along the path – but had distracted herself thinking of how to deal with the rape that hadn’t materialized. She was acting just as sloppy as Mishi had always accused her of being.

The guard hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to remove your clothes.” His eyes were wary now, but he still acted more professionally than any guard Sloan had ever known before. And she had known many. In fact, there was a decent chance she had slept with every guard in Riften at least once. So why didn’t this one look familiar?

Another mystery to try to solve later. For now, she made a show of being embarrassed as she slowly began to remove the clothes she had taken from the canal ambushers.

It was decision time. It was only her and the guard in the room – another strange thing; in the previous Riften, she would have been taken to the middle of a room full of guards so they could all enjoy the show – so she wouldn’t have any difficulty killing him and slipping away.

Perhaps it was the oddly kind way he acted that made her decision for her; she never had been able to shake the dim sense of guilt from all…well, most of her assassinations. She had no real motivation to kill an innocent man out of convenience. With a sigh, she took off her clothes, setting the other three daggers on a nearby table as she did.

“Don’t tell me you found all of those by the canal as well.” The guard’s tone had shifted to something more hardened and icy but he still acted like a professional. Which is to say, he did not grab the naked woman in front of him and try to have his way with her. “This looks more like the work of a thief. Typical for you orphans.” He shook his head, but his eyes still betrayed a hint of that empathy. “I suppose it’s not all your fault. Still, though, I’m afraid the law is the law. I’m going to have to arrest you.”

He turned away (and Sloan, even as she broke into tears and pleaded in the way a real teenager in her position would, resisted the offer of such a tempting target of his exposed back for those daggers), rummaged through a cabinet, turned back, and handed her a bundle of clean if plain clothes. “Put those on. And don’t worry – you have probably heard about the bad things that can happen in prisons, and many of them are true, but I’ll put you in a cell of your own.”

Sloan shook her head through her continued faux sobs as she put on the rough linen clothes. Who was this guy?

She got at least a partial answer after he brought her to the prison and, as promised, locked her into a spacious cell devoid of other inmates. As she clung to the bars while gulping down sobs, he paused, then reached down and lifted her chin with his finger.

“Listen. I know you didn’t know any better. I promise, I’m going to make sure you’re not in here for long. But…” A pause, and then she finally got a glimpse of his game. “Look, you’re only going to end up dead or keep ending up in here if you live the way you have started to. And I won’t always be around to make sure you don’t get put in a cell with rapists and murderers. I don’t want to see that happen to you. So, tell you what – when you get out of here, I’ll bring you to my house. You can live with me. It’s not a big house, but it’s safe, it’s warm, and you will have food and a place to sleep. You don’t have to say anything now,” as Sloan opened her mouth, “just think about it. I’ll be right back with some food.” The guard’s finger moved from her chin to caress her cheek for a moment, then he gave her a soft smile before walking away.

And there it was – instead of forcing her, his game was far more insidious. The grateful pretty orphan girl with nowhere to go and no one to turn to, rescued from a short unhappy life on the streets by a gallant man who takes her in and provides for her. In exchange for her undying loyalty and gratitude, as well as her body, of course. That girl would be better off than a slave but no more than a kept whore, something she wouldn’t realize for years, if ever. She would probably think of herself as an unofficial spouse, but would have none of the agency or rights to go along with it. The moment she stopped being young, pretty, and/or compliant, she would be right back on the streets with no life skills to protect her.

Current Sloan had no interest in such an offer, of course – she had much bigger fish to fry – but would past Sloan have taken it? She thought back, remembered her desperation, especially after she found her money had been stolen. If she had been arrested instead of stumbling into the Vixen and had received this same treatment, this same offer…

She probably would have taken it. It certainly would have been better than going back to having nothing on the street. It would at least have given her some stable time to think. And she had ended up being a whore regardless, so even that wouldn’t have been much different. Of course, all the things that happened after were another question.

She allowed herself a quiet laugh as she paced away from the bars and sat on the low platform bed. Even this prison (including the food, which the guard came back with as promised) was nicer than the orphanage had been. Re-killing Grelod bumped up a spot on her internal to-do list.

In the meantime, though, she settled on the bed and ate while half-formed plans swirled around in her head. There had to be an opportunity here that could help her get where she needed to go. She only needed to figure out what it was.

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“Thank you, ma’am.” Sloan took the bundle of clothes with faux shaking hands and nervous smile. The woman’s price for a set of battered hand-me-downs had been beyond ludicrous, but “real” Sloan wouldn’t know that, of course. It didn’t matter – getting more money was easy enough. “What about that dagger?”

The shopkeeper’s eyes raised in surprise. “What things could a girl like you need a dagger for?”

“Um…protection?” Sloan made her voice squeak.

“Nonsense. There are guards everywhere. You will be perfectly safe.”
 

Dammit. “Yes’m. But I need a knife for eating.”

“You don’t need a knife that big to eat, child. You would cut your mouth open! But fret not – I have just the thing over here.” She moved to the end of the counter and pulled out a battered wooden box. Inside sat an array of worn and dented utensils.

“It is good to see children who know how to eat properly. You were in the orphanage, right? Grelod is doing a fine job teaching you all to be well-mannered. Because of your manners, I’ll give you a special price – pick out a spoon, fork, and knife, and I’ll sell you all three for only six Septims.”

Only Sloan’s training kept her from reacting to the outrageous price. The entire box was worth maybe three coppers all together!

Still and again, “real” Sloan wouldn’t know that. She beamed as if she was being given the best gift of her life and made a show of picking through the implements. They were, of course, of terrible quality, but they all had pointy bits, which was all she needed at that point. She chose the three that looked least likely to snap in two, paid the woman for the clothes and the utensils, and left.

Once outside, Sloan stepped into the alley beside the building – the same one that led to the back section of the town where Gilna had demonstrated what her real job was, coincidentally – and, after making sure no one was watching, slipped out of the orphanage gown and into the clothes. They were ill-fitting – the pants were too small and rode up her crotch while the shirt was two sizes too large. The latter was to her benefit, though – she palmed the small knife in one hand and the fork in the other, letting the sleeves of the shirt dangle past her hands to cover them.

Good enough for now. Street urchins were seldom noticed, so even had she more money, it would have been a good disguise to use. Next stop: the Vixen.

As she made her way down the steps to the lower canal, she considered (for probably the hundredth time that day) whether going to the Vixen was a good idea. She had talked herself out of the idea several times already, but she needed information and contacts.

The downside was that Kira would no doubt recognize Sloan again and her game would start anew. But Sloan was forewarned about it this time. Kira had said she had hoped to mold “Melissa’s daughter” herself. While it had been nice to know she had a mother somewhere, the idea of her was still abstract. Kira, on the other hand, had been more of a mother to her than anyone. Maybe she could talk to the Matron, let her know she knew, at least a little bit, and that she was not there at Melissa’s behest. Maybe she could make Kira’s dream come true.

As long as it didn’t interfere with her plans to find the Dragonborn. Either way, if things went sour again, it wouldn’t happen for years. Enough time to find the Dragonborn and deal with the dragons.

Even as she finished the thought, Sloan arrived at the door to the Vixen only to find…there was no door to the Vixen.

She took a confused step back and surveyed the wall. There was a doorway farther along, but it was weathered and broken; in no universe would Kira allow the door to the world’s foremost brothel to look like that.

Still, better make sure. She stepped toward the door and, as she passed a narrow alley between buildings, arms reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her into the dark.

Sloan learned some important lessons in the alley.

First, and most surprising, was that she found she could see with perfect clarity. The alley was between two buildings and another had been built on top, so the only light came from the gloomy entrance from which she had been grabbed.

That didn’t matter. She and the four men in the alley may as well have been standing in the middle of a field on a sunny day, for all the darkness mattered.

The second lesson was, itself, two-fold: 1) small metal forks work remarkably well for stabbing people in the eye and 2) small dinnerware knives do not.

By the time Sloan exited the alley, she had three-hundred-twenty-six more septims, a better-fitting shabby-but-not-homeless outfit, a few pieces of jewelry, and four daggers, three of them carefully hidden under the clothes. The Riften canal had four more anonymous corpses.

An hour later, a frustrated Sloan clambered the steps back into the city proper pondering her new options. Whatever this Riften was, it was decidedly not the one from which she had been swept. And not just because this one had not been dragon-razed.

The Vixen was no more.

No, that was not correct – The Vixen, by all appearances, had never existed in the first place in this version of Skyrim. So where were the people who had worked there? It was hard to imagine a version of the world where Kira did not hold a position of authority somewhere.

She supposed it didn’t matter, really. She had debated whether to go there in the first place. With that question answered for her, it was time to make other arrangements. She needed a plan but had no contacts, no solid information, and a shaken understanding of this new version of the world. She would have to do a bit of scouting, relying on good old-fashioned eavesdropping and drink-buying.

She patted the purse with her new-gotten money and made her way toward The Shattered Weasel, the inn closest to the gates, and therefore the one with the most travelers.

It was time to get to work.

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The Bee and Barb hummed with the normal activity of the day as locals, taking a break from their daily routine, came in for a pint and the latest news from the rest of Tamriel via the merchants and other visitors fresh through the Cyrodiil gate.

“What the…”

Mirren had continued walking a few steps, but now turned, frowned, and gestured sharply. “Come child, you are blocking people’s way.”

Nothing made sense, but Sloan had been trained to play whatever part was needed at only an instant’s notice. She nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am!” then hurried to join the elderly woman.

“You must be aware of your surroundings, girl. You can’t just stop and start daydreaming in the middle of a room.”

Sloan dropped her head in subservience as she muttered, "I'm sorry, ma'am. I shall be more careful."

A long pause, then, before Mirren sighed. "I worry for you, child. As I do for all our charges once they are gone."

“Gone, ma’am?”

"Yes, child. Have you not yet realized our purpose? You are of age - it is time for you to go your own way." Mirren pressed a small purse of coins into Sloan’s hand. "Do have a good life."

Sloan clutched the purse reflexively as her mind wheeled. It was all playing out exactly as it had before. Was this some sort of dream? It didn’t seem so.

Mirren paused, watching Sloan as if expecting a response, but finally shook her head and walked away.

Sloan let her go – there was no information she needed from the woman. She spotted an open table in the corner of the room and made for it, then slipped into a chair with her back to the wall. Then she studied the room as she tried to get her thoughts in order.

It all seemed impossible. She was in Riften, which was sixty miles, give or take, from Parman’s cave. Also, there was the small issue of how the city had just been razed by a horde of dragons. This inn should not exist, say nothing of carrying on with the hubbub of a normal day.

Talen-Jai, the proprietor of the inn and one of the Vixen’s top information brokers, approached her table and spoke before Sloan could say anything. “Tables are for paying guests only, little missy. You will need to purchase something or leave.”

Sloan checked her tongue. She had been about to greet the Argonian in the casual way she had grown accustomed to, but, of course, if she somehow really was back at the beginning of her story, Jai would have no idea who she was. And probably would be offended if a stranger called him by such a familiar diminutive of his name. She shifted to a more subtle tactic.

Sloan lifted the purse Mirren had given her and responded in a timid voice, “I have money. Do you have honeyed absinthe?”

Talen-Jai shook his head. “No, I’ve never heard of such a thing. It sounds too strong for a girl your age, anyway. How about a nice mead?”

Sloan nodded, but it took every ounce of her trained self-control not to let the deep shock that ran through her show on her face as he turned and walked away.

He had not responded to the code words. He should have been able to recognize from her order that she was not who she seemed, should even now be giving her precious information. She tried to quell the feelings of panic that welled up. If the code words didn’t work, that meant…

The obvious answer slapped her across the face and she paused, then laughed as her tension drained. Of course the code words hadn’t worked – they were from six years in the future. This timeline, if it was real, was back to being well before she had become an assassin. She had worked as a whore for several months and then in the kitchen for a year and several months more. Her first kill was still two years off, in this timeline, if it wasn’t a dream.

As Jai returned with her mead and she fished out the coins to pay for it (noting with annoyance that the orphanage had given her a sum total of ten septims, enough for maybe a week’s worth of meals if stretched and maybe one set of fourth-hand clothes. It was as if they wanted their charges to become whores or beggars!), her already-shaky dream theory faded further. Everything was far too detailed and coherent for this to be a dream.

So either Parman had drugged her or cast some sort of strange spell on her that was making her hallucinate, or this was real.

She rejected the drug hypothesis out of hand – she would have noticed if her food or drink had been tainted, and she was a light enough sleeper that he would not have been able to creep up on her while she slept.

The spell seemed possible – who knew what wonders magic could create? – but this all seemed too real to be a hallucination from any cause.

No, the most likely scenario, impossible as it seemed, was that she was somehow back at the beginning of her story. Except this time, she knew what was going on. This time, she would be able to guide the story along tracks of her choosing.

Her thoughts turned to her pseudo-sister, Aithne the student from the College of Winterhold; surely she would know if magic could do something like this. Had she jumped back through time as well? Would she recognize Sloan if she saw her? What about Trendil the Stormcloak? These were paths worth pursuing – either one would make for a powerful ally. And she knew how to find them.

And then there was their mysterious fourth sister, the elusive Dragonborn. Sloan wished she had pressed Delphine a little harder on Sian’s story because she had no idea where to begin looking. And that was a concern because, if this really was the same thing all over again, the dragons would be returning soon, if they hadn’t already.

Sloan’s mental list of tasks resorted themselves. Much as she longed to get back to the path of her even more elusive mother, it was clear her top priority was to find this long-lost Dragonborn sister and make sure she did not get kidnapped and sent to a mine to slave away her life again while the world burned down. Although a stop at the hidden cache near Helgen to retrieve her mother’s armor would not be a bad idea – it had certainly proven useful!

She finished her drink, stood, and headed for the door. She needed money, information, and, above all, some clothes – she had nearly forgotten that Mirren had dumped her in the Bee and Barb wearing what amounted to little more than a flimsy nightgown, the only outfit the children wore in the orphanage. It was a wonder they didn’t try to save money by stripping their charges before kicking them out so they could recycle the nightgowns.

Sloan added “kill Grelod again” to her mental list as she stepped out of the inn and into the wide world.

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