Books. Books and riddles. There could never be a straightforward way to get this far, could there? All I've done to collect these blasted books and I still haven't quite reached my goal. My purpose.

"Surviving there, Hal?"

I grunted in response.

"You've been pouring over those pages for hours now. What are you even looking for?"

Cicero made to move towards my secluded corner of the inn. Maybe it was the warning look of fire I gave him that made him stop. Or maybe it was the dagger I thrust into the wooden table. I just can't tell sometimes.

His hands went up in a signal of surrender. "Easy there. I was just curious."

I liked Cicero. He's a good friend to have. His brothers run a successful business, and it's always a good idea to have a merchant willing to take things off your hands. But being friends does not mean he's privy to all my secrets. Sometimes a reminder has to be sent.

My hand fiddled with the hilt of my dagger as I studied page after page of the books again. There had to be something here. The sponsor said as much. Though, something didn't seem right about her. I, of all people, understand the need for secrecy, but a sewer hardly feels a fitting place for such a notorious cult. It may have been several years since the Oblivion Crisis, but the Mythic Dawn were far some silent. They acted much like the Assassin's Guild now, still striking out at those connected with Dagon's defeat from the shadows. It had been a pain to learn what I had so far, and the commentaries proved as elusive as is to be expected from a cult so detested. Us Bosmer's are renowned hunters and hunt for these books I did. Now I just had to decipher a way to reach the Dawn.

With a sigh, I realised I was getting nowhere. Perhaps Cicero was right: maybe fresh air would do me some good. A packed the four volumes and my notes into my knapsack. I nodded at Augusta as I passed the main desk; she smiled in return. A generous tip, and a quiet request for some peace did wonders at repelling unwanted questions. Septims did a wonderful job at keeping mouths shut, even in a place as venerable as the Tiber Septim Hotel.

It was only after choosing the hotel I realised the irony behind making camp here. Perhaps I was drawn to the notion of searching for the old Emperor's nemesis whilst living in a place devoted to him. Hiding in plain sight. I smiled at the thought.

The room was cosy. I wasn't for the luxurious life, but it was a nice change to escape the rugged life for a while. My knapsack I slid under the bed; my dagger I placed on the bedside table. I checked under the pillow for the second one. It was an old ritual of mine. Place one in plain sight, to put an attacker off guard. Heck, even let them take it and threaten you. But when they least expect, stick 'em with the hidden one. Works a charm.

My sword lay across the chair. My dagger rarely left my side, unless the sword took my fancy. It was a fine blade. Thin and light, much like a cutlass. Designed for fast feet and quick stabs and slashes, it suited me perfectly. I couldn't stand the heavy knights in their clunky armour. A well-placed stab or arrow can penetrate even the thickest of men, a skill I'd become an adept at over the years.

The Imperial City is the perfect place for an evening stroll. The streets are rarely packed, and I avoid the Market District like the plague. Awash with too many merchants and hopeful adventurers, turning their loot into a comfortable profit. Money is all well and fine, but do they not realise there's more to life than just exploring the unexplored of Tamriel?

Perhaps now is as good a time as any to explain why I search for the Mythic Dawn. I was a soldier during the Five Year War. I was there during the Assault on Vindisi. I saw ... things no Elf should have to see. Things like that change you. Witnessing the Wild Hunt firsthand ... something broke inside me. Nothing seems moral or immoral to me anymore. Us Bosmers, to have something so destructive, so vile, innate within us is just too much.

I left my family at that point. A wife, even a child of three. The love I bore for them, it was still there, but I could no longer access it. A veil lay across my feelings, an impenetrable defence against what lay beneath. My mind seemed to consider it both a blessing and a curse. I'm not sure what I'd call it.

The journey to Cyrodiil proved simpler than I had anticipated. The Oblivion Crisis had ended, our "saviour" Martin Septim now a permanent landmark in the Imperial City. I've seen it. I was underwhelmed. Valenwood has a city that moves around the province given a certain season; what does the Imperial City? Another shrine to Akatosh.

Part of me would have welcomed a Daedric victory. I know the words I say, and I know the horror people find in them, but a broken mind will do that to a person. There would be much adventure to find in a world dominated by Mehrunes Dagon.

I do not mean to say I was seeking the Dawn for this purpose. That time had passed. Yet I felt a horrific allure towards the cult, one I was too damaged and weak to resist.

It was as I was walking by the Waterfront, the setting sun glistening like rubies on the water's edge, that my mind travelled back to my meeting with the Sponsor in the sewers. It had been a strange meeting. Not necessarily difficult, just strange. I had been expecting a stern, emotionless devotee to interrogate me. Instead, I was greeted by a woman, her legs crossed as she reclined on a chair. The gloom had been hard to pierce, but I could've sworn she was swaying. Her eyes never seemed to focus on me properly.

That was about it. She asked my name, I obliged, she passed me Volume Four and that was about it. No conversation, no questions, just an unsuspected willingness to gift me the mysterious volume.

I'm not sure where the brainwave came from. Perhaps it was fate, but fate and I have never been on a first name basis. Regardless, I cut my walk short and half ran back to the Tiber Septim. Sprawling the four volumes across my bed, my excitement rose with each paragraph I read, as a hidden text formed from the first letter of each paragraph revealed itself to me. I could not stop the grin from rising to my face. Even the veil surrounding my emotions had to break occasionally.

Fate, it seemed, was not done with playing tricks on me. My door burst open, an Imperial Legion barging in, his hand already on the hilt of his sword. Cicero stood behind him and it all clicked in my head. The bastard had routed through my stuff. Intrigue would be the death of us all.

I made a move for my dagger, before freezing as the guard drew his sword. "Stop right there, criminal scum!" he brandished the blade at me, the silver glistening in the candlelight. "We have it on good authority you consort with the Mythic Dawn. The next move is yours – resist arrest and I will strike you down where you stand, filth!"

Cicero hadn't moved, for good reason. My eyes bore into his. They held him there, like a spider paralyses its victim. The guard moved towards me cautiously, flicking my dagger off the tabletop. He relaxed then. Big mistake.

As he lowered his sword, with a litheness expected of an assassin, I dove my hand under my pillow and came spinning round. My second dagger lodged itself in the guard's neck, the resistance of his flesh nothing more than a momentary distraction before I flicked my wrist and sent the dagger flying towards Cicero. It caught him full on in the chest, the momentum of it carrying him backwards into the corridor, knocking over a vase as he went.

The pounding of footsteps coming up the stairs filled my ears. Clanking, armoured footsteps. It must have been more Imperials, the commotion enough to stir even their lazy hides into action. I spat on the floor. I don't remember feeling fear, but perhaps that was just the adrenaline coursing through my body. There was no time to collect my daggers, or even the volumes. So I did the only logical thing.

I jumped out the second storey window.