I

  My first journey to Riften was a wondrous venture indeed—the first time in many, many years that I felt truly content, almost happy. The ghosts of the past, those stubborn shades that cling to me no matter how I try to shake them off, must have taken their leave, leaving me free at last to enjoy the beauty of the new lands to which my tragic fate had dragged me.

  I still wonder what drove them off, for I would dearly love to repeat the experiment. Perchance, if the Divines—or whoever listens—take pity on me, they might leave for good, and I shall be free. Free! Just an ordinary woman living in this beautiful, sorrowful world!

  I can think of only two causes for this rare peace of mind. First, Courtney—my irrepressible friend—is the finest companion I could wish for: a partner in travel, in life, in laughter, and in all the small battles that come between. Our ways are similar, or where they differ, they fit together like paired blades.

  Second—and this one, I confess, troubles me a little—perhaps my Nordic blood was stirring, feeling at last a tremor of the earth where my forebears lived and fought and loved and died. Yet, when I think more on it, I believe the true reason was this: the two Daedric Princesses who had so shamelessly taken up residence in my soul must have, for once, come to some agreement in the shadows of Oblivion, and granted me a brief holiday of my own. Neither of them troubled me during those long, golden days on the road to Riften.

  But even that explanation falters on closer thought, for Nocturnal—my beloved Mistress—is not apart from me. She is always within me, as I am forever within Her—we are bound, like shadow and flesh, each shaping the other.

  Be that as it may, those were wonderful days—days of clear skies and bright sunlight, when the road seemed to unroll itself just for us, and we passed through places of enchanting beauty and met people as curious and diverse as the land itself.

  After three hard nights of sleeping under the dark, always whispering pines, lulled by the forest and bitten by the cold, we reached Darkwater Crossing—exactly where my daddy's marvellous map said it would be! There, we benefited from that ancient Nordic custom, the right of hospitality, granted to all who wander the winding roads of Skyrim—except the peddlers, who must pay for their bread and bed.

  Darkwater Crossing is just a wonderful example of how the people of the Far North can thrive in small, self-sufficient communities that scarcely need anything from the outside world. The settlement lies upon the river that gave it its name, and the first settlers cleared just enough land for their crops, leaving the forest to loom and whisper all around them—the wooden houses stand among ancient firs that sing their eternal, quite sad song beneath the blows of the bitter winds that reign in this place.

  Not far from the village, the land grows wild and strange: a volcanic plain, barren and ashen, yet rich in minerals and laced with steaming pools and sulphurous vapours. The contrast is startling—green life and fertile soil giving way, step by step, to the cracked breath of Nirn's fire!

  Courtney and I were welcomed by the headman and owner of the Goldenrock Mine, Verner—called Rock-Chucker by his fellow villagers, a title he bears with amused pride. Verner is an honest and hard-working man, though perhaps a little too old and patient for his young wife, Anneke. She is a lively, restless creature whom everyone affectionately calls Crag-Jumper—and once you spend a little time in her company, you'll see she deserves the name entirely! This woman moves indeed like a wild goat on the cliffs and, well... let us just say she enjoys jumping from one thing to another, in every sense of the word!

  Well, Anneke the Crag-Jumper took full advantage of the unexpected arrival of some guests, and the very next morning, she flatly refused to go into the mine. Her excuse was that she had to show us "the interesting places" around the village, and since her husband never dares oppose her wishes or whims, that's exactly what happened.

  She led Courtney and me quite deep into the nearby volcanic region, where the earth smokes and murmurs like a slumbering beast. There, she showed us something truly wondrous: a grove that shelters a peculiar cave, home to an ancient tree revered by many across Skyrim as a living god—or at least, as the avatar of one.

  Eldergleam, that's its name. Some strange yet peaceful devotees live beneath its immense canopy, caring for it and whispering prayers in the soft light that filters through branches and roots alike above. It's a place of beauty and stillness, yet I felt something else in the air—a subtle pulse of dark energy, the kind that speaks of hidden power, and I knew at once that the tree had ways to protect itself, should danger or folly come too close.

  As we walked back, Anneke, who can talk even more than Courtney (and that's saying something), told us a great deal about Darkwater Crossing and the mine. We learned that the village belongs to the hold of Eastmarch, under Lord Ulfric's rule—the very man I had saved in Helgen, whose precious safe-conduct still lay hidden in my pocket.

  But as we approached Darkwater Crossing and the sun dipped behind the surrounding peaks, Anneke suddenly grew quiet and melancholy. Suddenly, out of nowhere, she said she would dearly love to travel with us to Riften. That evening, when her husband returned home—tired, covered in dust, and full of good intentions—Anneke, who had meanwhile eaten heartily with us and even dozed a bit while we washed our clothes, sprang up and declared, loud and clear, that she was leaving tomorrow.

  Poor Verner tried to protest, but one sharp look from her silenced him faster than a pickaxe through soft ore. Then, in a tone fit for the Earl himself, she proclaimed that she had every right—no, the maternal obligation—to visit her daughter from time to time.

  And that's how we learned, much to our surprise, that Anneke, who seemed about our age, had a daughter grown enough to live on her own in another mining settlement further south, somewhere on the road to Riften.

  The next morning dawned crisp and pale, with the smell of frost and smoke in the air. Verner was already at the forge, trying to look busy—though it was obvious to anyone that the poor man was just pretending not to watch the door. Then it burst open, and out came Anneke the Crag-Jumper, armed as if she were going to war with Molag Bal himself. She had somehow unearthed a massive Nord longbow from a chest and slung across her back an old steel sword that must have weighed as much as one of Verner's mining hammers. She looked radiant and terrifying, all at once.

  "By Shor's beard, woman!" Verner shouted, dropping his tongs in the dust. "Where in Oblivion are you going with that?"

  "To Shor's Stone and then mayhap Riften," she said with calm authority, tightening her belt. "With my friends. Someone must keep them safe, and since you can't even keep yourself safe from your own snoring, I'll handle it."

  Verner stared helplessly at her for a long moment, then rubbed his forehead. "Anneke, please, the mine... and the Earl ordered us—"

  "The mine will still be there when I return!" she cut him short. "But my daughter won't come here, so I'm going to her. And if Ulfric himself has a problem with that, he can come and tell me in person."

  At that, she threw a heavy travel pack over her shoulder, kissed her stunned husband on the cheek, and turned to us with a broad smile. "Well then, girls, shall we see what Skyrim's roads are hiding today?"

  And so, with poor Verner still standing by the forge, mumbling prayers to whichever god protects old miners with brave wives, the three of us set off down the narrow path that wound along the Darkwater River. Behind us, I could hear Verner's hammer fall once, twice, then stop again—as if even the tools pitied him.

  The road grew rougher as we pressed eastward. For several days, we toiled up a steep, relentless slope that sapped the strength from our limbs; yet Skyrim, in her strange way, wounds and heals the body alike: the very exhaustion that wrung us dry also blessed us with deep, dreamless sleep and a hunger fierce as wolves. By the time we neared Shor's Stone—the next true settlement on our path—Courtney and I had learned to ask nothing of the little hamlets that drowsed among the forested hills. We slept instead by our own fires, tightly wrapped in our cloaks, while the night-watch fed the embers with fragrant fir branches until dawn, and the surrounding forests fed us with fresh meat and wild berries.

  Slowly, my northern blood began to wake in me, whispering that this rough life was not so terrible after all; perhaps even... pleasant!

  Anneke, for all her tempestuous ways, proved a delightful companion: tireless, quick with laughter, and a huntress of remarkable skill. As we walked, she told us of her life before Verner and the mine — how she was born in Windhelm and trained as a scout in Ulfric's youth militia, where she excelled in the arts of tracking and archery. Later, she joined the Stormcloak host itself and fought in what the lying Imperial chroniclers still call the "Markarth Incident."

  When peace returned, she said, the priestesses of Dibella from Markarth took her in as a novice, but she never became a priestess, though she liked it there well enough. Verner, an old family acquaintance, reappeared in her life after a long absence and convinced Anneke to marry him.

  Throughout her story, our new friend kept complaining about married life, saying it was one of the worst misfortunes that could ever befall a woman, and begged us never to marry. Courtney and I laughed so hard we nearly fell off the trail, which bewildered her even more, so we had to explain, between fits of giggles, that men like very much to pass their time with girls like us, but marriage is never on their mind. Anneke smiled then, nodded as if she understood... though I am quite certain she never did. Ah, these Nords—especially the rustic ones—so valiant in battle, so hopeless in matters of the world!

  As we left the lands of Eastmarch and entered the Rift, the road began to twist through dense, whispering aspen and birch woods, and the air itself grew warmer and wary. Near the ruins of an old watchtower — a crumbling relic half-eaten by moss — three men stepped out upon the trail and barred our passage.

  They wore tattered Imperial uniforms, though the way they carried themselves betrayed no discipline. Their leader, a tall one with a rusted cuirass and a grin full of missing teeth, demanded a toll "for safe passage through Imperial territory."

  Anneke didn't even let him finish. Without a word, she raised her bow and loosed an arrow straight into his chest. The man fell to his knees with a strangled cry, and chaos erupted.

  The fight that followed was short but instructive — and, from the point of view of a strategist, rather fascinating. Anneke, having dropped her bow, drew her greatsword and waded in like a storm, cursing and laughing in the same breath. Courtney darted away, light as a fox, then turned and sent two arrows in quick succession into the melee.

  As for me, I did what I always do: I kept observing and thinking. And when the right opportunity arrived, I acted! First, I wove a weak shield spell around Anneke when she faltered, then finished off the wounded man as he tried to get up. When I saw another raising his mace toward Courtney, I darted in and stuck out my foot — and down he went, with all the dignity of a sack of flour. Anneke's sword took care of the rest. Meanwhile, I tried to draw the attackers' attention to me with sudden movements, feigned strikes, and loud shouts. Especially shouts. I'm really gifted at that!

  In the end, none of us was even scratched. The three bandits lay still upon the road, and Anneke, leaning on her sword, spat in disgust. "Imperial soldiers, my arse," she said. "No patrol from the Cyrodiilic army would dare come this far into the Rift. These are deserters — or worse."

  Indeed, their armor bore no insignia, no legion tags. I looked upon them with a strange feeling — not triumph, but clarity. That skirmish, brief as it was, marked a turning point for me. I began to see that a battle is not merely a brawl among thugs, but a living game of movement and wit — that even small and weaker forces may prevail when the mind, not the arm, leads.

  We continued our journey and, apart from the fairly frequent encounters with brigands and the usual assortment of Skyrim's wild and irritating beasts, we met no great trouble or peril until we reached Shor's Stone. On the contrary, our journey became more and more pleasant, especially for Courtney and me, for the air grew warmer with every league we advanced. At one point, we even began to believe we weren't in Skyrim at all but in the chillier northern reaches of Cyrodiil.

  This mildness, I later learned, comes from the great mountain chains—the Velothi and the Jeralls—that cradle the high plain of the Rift, shielding it from the cold winds. Add to that the two vast lakes, Honrich and Geir, whose blue waters feed both fish and trade, and you have a land blessed beyond most of Skyrim.

  Countless longships glide across those lakes, their hulls heavy with grain, apples, corn, honey, and cider—the treasures of the Rift's fertile soil. Ah, the Rift! Even now, the very thought of it fills my mind with warmth. It felt, then as now, like a land gently watched over by a kind and drowsy god.

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  And yet, for all its bounty, the Rift, which is the richest land in Skyrim, was poorly ruled and administered when I first arrived. The Earl's men were few and slothful, the borders with Morrowind and Cyrodiil barely guarded, and bands of deserters and all manner of wretched folk roamed the countryside, preying on the peasants who worked the fields and tended the orchards. But the land itself—rich, golden, forgiving—remained unbowed.

  II

  We arrived at Shor's Stone on a cold, misty morning. The fog was so thick that we could scarcely make out each other's faces, and all around lay a deep, unsettling silence. Every stray sound—a snapping twig, a clink of metal—came to us muffled and distorted, as though the world itself were wrapped in a thick, damp blanket of wool.

  That strange feeling that had haunted us since dawn—ever since we woke numb beside the dead campfire, for Courtney had fallen asleep on watch—grew stronger with each step. And then, just at the edge of the little mining town, we found a fresh corpse.

  Now, in the Skyrim of those days, finding a corpse was hardly a novelty; the land was littered with them, like mushrooms after rain. But this one... this one was different. A middle-aged woman, unnaturally pale even for the dead, her limbs twisted in a grotesque parody of life after death; her neck was broken clean through, and her head turned at a hideous angle that made even Anneke grimace.

  While my companions raised their bows—expecting, no doubt, more unpleasant surprises—I crouched to examine the body. The clothes were untouched, no sign of struggle or robbery. And yet... two small, neat punctures marked the skin of her neck, each rimmed with a faint red halo.

  "By Shor, no wolf nor brigand could have done this," Anneke exclaimed.

  "Or if it did, it was a wolf with manners...", grinned Courtney like the fool she is sometimes, always in the most improper moments.

  I told them both to shut their mouths and cautiously sniffed the thick, silent fog around us, trying at the same time to distinguish any sound around us, however faint. And, straining my senses to the utmost, I smelled fresh grave scent and very vaguely distinguished a subterranean rustling, something like a rat trying to widen its dirty tunnel.

  I knew at once what could have done that—it was obvious: an exemplar from Regnum Animalia Daemonica, subregnum Viventes Maledicti, ordo Sanguinarii, genus unknown yet—an entity of that accursed breed of the undead, a monstrosity against nature, a dweller in the darkness, a bloodsucker— a vampire, how the romantic writers name it. The fact that it was not cataleptic and manifested by day might have unsettled a lesser mind; still, I remembered the lessons of Maria, my extraordinary tutor in Bravil, and the learned notes of Vincente Valtieri's expedition to Vvardenfell—which I once read in the original, in the sacrosanct Sanctuary of Cheydinhal—and I knew that this may be a weakness and not mandatory a strength.

  "Put your weapons away," I told my companions. "You won't need them."

  "Oh? And what if the wolf comes back?" Courtney asked, her bow half-raised.

  "Then he'll kill all three of us without even trying," I said lightly. "Let's first see if anyone's alive in this place. Ah— forgive me, Anneke," I added, noticing the sudden shadow that crossed her face.

  "So you think it's vampires?" she murmured.

  "No, Anneke. A vampire. They usually don't share their meals," I said, thoughtfully.

  We moved through the fog-choked streets toward a small wooden house surrounded by a nice garden. Anneke ran ahead and hammered on the door, shouting, "Sylgia! Sylgia, open up! It's me — your mommy!"

  Footsteps sounded inside — cautious, hesitant — then silence, broken only by Anneke's renewed screaming. The fog swallowed her voice so strangely that each cry seemed to fade before it reached my ears. It was almost funny, like listening to a bad dream.

  "Stop shouting, Anneke! My ears hurt," I said. "Besides, whoever's hiding behind that damn door — most likely your daughter — is terrified out of her wits. A cowardly and pitiful creature, too frightened to open her own door to three shivering girls!" I chuckled.

  The latch clicked. The heavy oak door flew open, and there stood a young woman, tall as a Nord shield-maiden, holding a wood-chopping axe. Her hair shone like ripened wheat, her eyes like shards of the morning sky — but her face was twisted with fury.

  "What are you doing here, Mother? How could you leave Father alone? Or—" she faltered. "Has something happened to Verner?"

  "I'm very pleased to see you too, Sylgia," Anneke growled. "And no, your precious father is quite unharmed — though likely still boring holes in rock and my patience!"

  "Mother! Don't you dare speak of him like that!" Sylgia's shout sent the nearby hens scattering in a panic.

  "Enough!" I said calmly. "Both of you — shut up! And perhaps you, girl, will welcome us inside before we all freeze solid. We claim the sacred right of hospitality," I added with a smirk.

  "Ah, you must be the woman who called me a coward," Sylgia snapped, glaring down at me.

  "Exactly," I said, smiling sweetly. "Elsie. At your service."

  She froze, looking at me with hate, and I immediately started to like her; so I gently slipped into her thoughts and painted a cute, foolish little picture: the two of us, two golden-haired girls, one thin and short, the other tall and athletic, by a warm stove, eating honey cakes, laughing softly. Her jaw unclenched. Sylgia lowered the axe and stepped aside. "Come in, then," she said quietly. "Before the mist eats you alive."

  It was warm and very pleasant inside, the fire whispering softly in the small hearth, and the whole room was bathed in the amber glow of a lantern—the kind used in heavy fog by brave sailors who dare to sail the dreadful, treacherous waters of the Sea of ??Ghosts. We took off our heavy, wet, and cold cloaks, and Sylgia took them and hung them by the fire. Then she made a curt gesture for us to sit down at the small round table where the three of us could barely fit, and she brought us sausages, bread, and strong beer.

  "Do you have anything weaker for me to drink, my dear Sylgia?" I asked sweetly.

  "Ah! A milk-drinker, then!" she exclaimed, triumphant.

  "Oh, sweet milk would be highly appreciated," I said.

  "But I have no milk... perhaps some berry juice?" she offered, a shadow of worry crossing her face, as if her hospitality might fail the sacred standard of her ancestors.

  "Yes, berry juice would be wonderful," I said softly. "Although... perhaps a drop of honey?"

  "I have no honey..." Sylgia's voice sank, her composure cracking for the first time.

  "Ah, never mind, my dear," I said quickly. "It's perfect as it is."

  Surrounded by Sylgia's worried care and by the puzzled looks of Anneke and Courtney, I ate slowly and tactfully, then washed it all down with berry juice. It wasn't to my taste, but I didn't wish to trouble our hostess any further. When I had finished, I sighed with satisfaction and asked, "Well, what's the story then, Sylgia?"

  The girl began to speak in a hesitant voice, telling us of the strange things that had been happening in Shor's Stone for several months. The first death had been that of a miner, young, healthy, and newly married. His wife found him cold beside her one morning, pale as snow, with two small red marks upon his neck. Those marks, she later said, had been there for some time, though none of them had paid them much mind. The Shor' Stone people were not worried about them either, except Filnjar—the blacksmith, village headman, and owner of the Redbelly Mine, the heart that kept the whole community alive.

  The very morning the miner's death became known, Filnjar ordered several men to seal off an old gallery that had recently been reopened. Ah, the eternal dilemma of Skyrim's mining villages: after decades—or even centuries—of exploitation, the veins grow poor, the rock gives less and less, and men, greedy and desperate, dig deeper into the mountain's dark flesh!

  So the old shaft was blocked with boulders and planks, and everyone went back to their work, pretending the darkness slept quietly again.

  A few weeks later, the neighbors noticed that the deceased miner's wife had not left the house for several days; alarmed, they knocked on the door and finally broke it open. The woman was lying dead in her bed, cold and still; no sign of struggle and no wounds except two red marks on her neck, though in her case, the spots had grown grotesque, almost like open sores.

  "This time," Sylgia continued, "Filnjar sent a rider to Riften to fetch a priest of Mara. The man arrived the next day, together with a young novice. They spent long hours performing exorcisms — first in the houses of the dead, then in every street, muttering prayers and swinging their censers. When they were done, they took their gold and left as swiftly as they had come."

  "For a while, everything seemed calm again. Only one strange thing happened: the alleys were suddenly littered in the morning with dead rats. People joked about it at first — at least the pests were gone — but Filnjar frowned and said nothing."

  "Then an old man died in his hut at the edge of town. No one thought much of it — old men die, that's the order of things. But a week later, two more were gone: a husband and wife who lived even further away, in the forest. They died within days of each other — first the woman, then the man who, as the people said, couldn't bear to live without her. Again, no one asked too many questions—it was sad, yes, but natural."

  "Still, Filnjar sent again to Riften for priests. This time, more came — five of them, all dressed in white, ceremonial suits, bearing holy water and clouds of incense. They held a grand liturgy, chanting all day and the following night, walking the streets, entering the houses, and even sprinkling the edges of the surrounding forest.

  When they left, Filnjar's purse was nearly empty. The priests of Mara may serve the goddess, but they know well the price of piety."

  "Then came the strangest thing of all. One morning, the townsfolk found that all the cats were dead — every single one. Then the pigs, the cows, and the sheep followed. And still, no human died... until the morning you arrived."

  She shivered and clasped her hands together. "That woman they found on the street — it was different this time. She wasn't old. And she looked... drained. And badly mangled... There was fear in her eyes even in death. That's when everyone locked themselves in their homes."

  After a short pause, Sylgia sighed and said, "Now, none of us know what to do..."

  "I do!" said Anneke sharply. "You'll take a few clothes, and we'll leave Shor's Stone immediately — without wasting a moment!"

  "No," I said, smiling faintly. "We can make some money here — serious money. And perhaps learn something interesting while we're at it."

  Anneke stared at me as if I'd gone mad, but I went on calmly: "So, Anneke and Courtney, you'll stay here in the house. And you, Sylgia, will come with me to Filnjar."

  "Yeah, right — like I'm staying here alone," Courtney muttered. "I'm coming with you!" I saw the flicker of fear in her beautiful eyes and couldn't help but laugh.

  "Shut your pretty gob, darling. It's highly unlikely that bloodsuckers would strike in broad daylight..." I paused, then smiled wickedly. "Though not entirely impossible."

  "How do you even know there's more than one?" asked Anneke.

  "As I said — silence, both of you! We have no time to waste. Sylgia, come!"

  I grabbed my crossbow — useless against those hellish creatures, but it looked suitably impressive for people around — and we stepped into the gray daylight.

  As we made our way toward the blacksmith's house, I asked Sylgia if there was a hunter in the town, as there usually is in these small and isolated settlements.

  "Yes," she said. "An old one. Gustav, his name."

  "Then we'll see Gustav first."

  The man opened the door without hesitation, and suddenly we stood before a figure that radiated quiet strength: muscular without bulk, his face deeply carved by weather and vigilance, his eyes sharp and fearless.

  He didn't ask who I was, which I appreciated. Instead, he answered my questions simply and directly.

  I wanted to know whether, during all these troubled months, he had noticed anything unusual in the nearby woods.

  His reply brought me closer to understanding the nature of our enemy.

  At first, he had found the corpses of small animals — rabbits, foxes, even crows — untouched, without wounds or blood. Then, slowly, the forest had gone silent.

  No birds, no beasts, no life.

  As if all of them had fled before something unseen.

  That was enough for me. I already knew what kind of creature we were dealing with — I mentally placed it in genus U. druidicus arboriphagus, the arboreal feeder — a rare, ancient strain of the vampiric order.

  And in that moment, I felt the thrill of discovery rising in me again, stronger even than fear.

  Then we went to Filnjar's workshop; it smelled of hot metal, soot, and exhaustion. He looked up from his anvil as we entered — a broad-shouldered Nord with hands like hammers and eyes red from sleeplessness.

  "If you're here about weapons or repairs, I'm afraid I've no time," he said gruffly. "I have other worries: too much death around, and no miners left who dare go down the shaft."

  "Ah, yes, the dead... and the undead," I said softly, stepping closer. That's precisely what I'm here about. You see, I specialize in... rare problems."

  He frowned. "You're a mercenary, then?"

  I smiled. "No, nothing like that. Let's call it a professional of the unseen. And I solve problems, any kind of problems... for the right price, of course!"

  He didn't like that. His eyes narrowed, and he crossed his arms. "And what would that cost me, then, professional?"

  "Ten thousand septims," I said sweetly.

  His jaw dropped. "By Shor's beard! Ten thousand? For what? Waving your hands and muttering at the mist? Like those damn priests did?"

  I leaned on his forge, letting the heat cast flickering shadows across my face. "For risking my life, you old skinflint," I said slowly, " only to save a town that doesn't even have the sense to really wish that. You people are so attached to your filthy coins — shiny little bits of nothing — that you'd rather die clutching them than spend a single copper to live another day."

  "That's robbery," he growled.

  "Oh, my dear Filnjar," I sighed, as if explaining astrology to a child, "robbery is when someone takes your gold without asking. I am offering you hope. Hope comes at a premium."

  He clenched his fists. "You talk too much for a stranger."

  I smiled again, showing a hint of teeth. "Yeah, you're damn right, Gramps... and I could also talk to whatever's lurking in your mine. And in the nearby forest. Mayhap it pays better."

  For a heartbeat, he froze. Then he swallowed hard. "You're serious."

  "Entirely."

  We stared at each other for a long moment, and I saw the sweat bead on his temple. Then he muttered, "I don't have ten thousand. Not even close. The priests— they took most of it already."

  "Of course they did," I said sweetly. "They always do. Tell you what — I'm feeling generous today. Let's make it three thousand. You can pay in installments. Say, one thousand after the deed is done, then five hundred every month. Paid to Sylgia here... I'll even write you receipts if it makes you feel civilized."

  He blinked. "Three thousand... in installments?"

  "Do we have a deal, Master Filnjar?"

  He hesitated, then sighed heavily and extended his hand. "Deal."

  I shook it with both of mine, smiling like a little, cute saint. "Splendid! Oh, and I'll need access to your mine— and perhaps the key to your storeroom. For... preparations."

  He looked as if he'd just signed a pact with Molag Bal himself.

  Which, in a sense, he had.

  "Two more things," I said, rising. "First, you'll give me discounts whenever I pass through this charming little town of yours. Second — you'll gather a few brave souls, hand them shovels and spades, and we shall pay a visit to the local cemetery. Just imagine it: a merry company, out for a bit of digging and, perhaps, some butchery afterwards. Quite adorable, isn't it? Ah, and before I forget — gather every clove of garlic you can find in town."

  "Nobody will come," Filnjar grumbled, rubbing his temples.

  "I will!" Sylgia said at once, her voice ringing like a hammer on steel. Then she added, fiercely, "And I'll make them ashamed that a girl has more courage than they do — you'll see, they'll follow!"

  Filnjar sighed — ah, what a sigh! It could've extinguished the forge. "Yes, maybe they will," he muttered. "Let's go, then."

  "Master, the key to the mine, if you please," I said lightly. "I'll take a look around while you gather your... volunteers."

  He handed me the key, still frowning. "And take a torch from that corner."

  "I don't need one, old man," I grinned. "It dulls my senses."

  He looked at me again — really looked — long and scared, like he saw Mehrunes Dagon Himself and sighed hard once more.

  Then we parted ways — he and Sylgia toward the graveyard, heavy and slow; I toward the darkness of the mine, smiling as always.