Rain droplets splashed on Cyra's face, rousing her from slumber. She could see flashes of lightning through the tiny window of her cell high above. The bars on the window kept her inside, but they did little to keep the storm out. Rain formed rivulets down the cell wall pooling on the floor and saturating the straw pile she slept on. Cyra cupped her hands to catch some of the running water and splashed it on her face, trying in vain to scrub away some of the grime. She'd lost track of how long she'd been in prison and someday she hoped she might lose track of the reason why as well.
"Ah, you're awake are you Imperial?" a voice sneered.
Cyra knew the voice well; she'd listened to his taunts mercilessly since they'd thrown her into this gods forsaken pit,
"Shut up Valen," she hissed at him.
"Are you going to make me? Do you have some sort of special deal worked out with the guards? Special treatment for special services?" the Dark Elf mocked in maniacal laughter.
Cyra stepped over to a part of her cell that was hidden from his view and crumpled into a ball.
"I know you can still hear me whore. You're going to die down here you know, I'm sure they'll treat you real nice before the end though," Valen called, "Your own kinsmen think you're nothing but trash; criminal scum, you give all Imperials a bad name."
Long ago, perhaps the taunts would have brought her to tears but Cyra found that she had none left to shed as of late. There was no one left in all of Tamriel that cared or perhaps that even knew she was locked away down here. She went through the motions of sleeping and eating by rote: her mind languished and her body grew frail.
Lightning rent the sky and the thunder that followed shook the very foundations of the prison; in the silence that followed she could hear footsteps and voices coming down the stairs. It was odd, she thought, usually a guard came in the morning to shove the stale prison rations and a clean chamber pot through the small opening at the base of the bars: that was it. Cyra never saw more than one, perhaps two guards at a time, but now muffled footsteps and muted voices belonging to several were advancing down the stairs.
"They're coming for you! HA HA HA HA HA! You're going to die!" Valen cackled madly.
Cyra rose and pressed against the bars, trying to count the shadows in the flickering torchlight.
"...We must keep moving Sire..." bits of the conversation wafted down the hall, Cyra retreated into the shadows as the glow of torches approached.
"What's this prisoner doing in here? This cell is supposed to be empty!" A woman outfitted in a unique set of armor exclaimed as she stopped in front of Cyra's cell.
"The usual mix up at the watch," an Imperial man with said offhandedly.
"Get this door open," she commanded.
"Right away Captain; you there, Prisoner, over by the window and you won't get hurt," the Imperial directed. He wore matching armor, Cyra had never seen armor like it before: the steel was layered in small bands and ornately embellished.
"Over by the window prisoner!" The man demanded: he made a shooing motion with his hand. Cyra felt a little disoriented by the sudden intrusion but moved to comply; the door to the cell swung open and the three armored people marched in, escorting an elderly man dressed in splendid raiment.
"Nice and easy prisoner, just stay right there," the second guard spoke in a placating tone, a Redguard. Cyra did her best to press into the corner of her cell away from the group.
"You. I know you. Come closer," the elderly man said suddenly beckoning to Cyra.
"Sire, really," the Captain chided.
Cyra approached tentatively,
"Yes, you're the one from my dreams. Today is the day then, I go to my grave," the man said in resignation.
"I...I don't understand," Cyra said hoarsely, "Who are you?"
"By the grace of the Nine I am your emperor, Uriel Septim. Assassins have killed my heirs and they hunt me even as we speak. My Blades are leading me out of the city to a place of safety," the old man explained earnestly.
"What should I do? I'm a prisoner here," Cyra asked, suddenly struck with a strong desire to help the man.
"You must go your own way, we will cross paths again before the end," Uriel replied.
"Better not shut this door, there's no way to open it from the other side," one of the guards said as the Captain depressed a stone in the column and a secret passage swung open.
"Looks like today's your lucky day Prisoner, that's as close to an Imperial pardon as you're going to get. Just stay out of our way," the Redguard said bringing up the tail of the party as they moved through the party.
"Lucky day indeed. Months and months of living in this hole and all I had to do was press the right stone..." Cyra trailed off. She paused for a moment to wave mockingly at Valen whose gray face had turned purple in rage,
"I'd say that I'll miss you but, well... I won't," Cyra called before blowing him a kiss and following the Emperor's party into the dark.
It didn't take long for her to catch up with the group; they were progressing through the long forgotten tunnels slowly, with great caution.
"Prisoner, stay back or I'll cut you down where you stand," the Imperial guard said coldly.
"Alright, alright... I'll be back here in case anything sneaks up on us," Cyra replied, dropping back a few paces. The smoothly hewn stone walls reflected light from the torches carried up ahead. The arched doors and recesses were finely crafted and shaped with the pale stone. The place seemed to have been an underground sanctum from long ago.
Suddenly the Redguard called out,
"Here they come again! Protect the Emperor!"
A steady stream of assassins seemed to materialize out of thin air.
"My life for the dragon!" the Imperial called as he and the Captain joined the fray. Cries of effort and pain intermingled as the guards attempted to hack their way through the assailants.
Cyra crept close to the Emperor: he stood poised with his silver sword drawn, ready to use it if need be.
"They just keep coming," Cyra marveled as another assassin cropped up in the place where one had been cut down.
"This is only the beginning. The worst is yet to come," the Emperor replied calmly.
"That's all of them," the Redguard called out.
"Captain Renault?" The Emperor inquired.
"She's dead Sir," the Redguard replied.
"We must keep moving Sire," the other guard called from the base of the stairs.
Cyra followed the Emperor down the stairs, pausing for moment to pick up the Captain's fallen sword.
"I don't understand, this place was supposed to be secret, how did they find us?" the Redguard mused.
"Don't know but we have to keep moving, I'll take point, Baurus you bring up the rear. Don't worry they won't be the first to underestimate the Blades," the Imperial directed as he assumed command, turning to Cyra, "You stay here Prisoner."
Cyra narrowed her eyes and was about to protest when the Emperor turned to her,
"You must find your own way from here, our paths will cross again before the end though, I am sure of it," he said gently.
The small group filed through the doorway and then closed the door leaving Cyra in the oppressively dark sanctum. She grasped the door only to find that the Blades had locked it from the other side.
"Oblivion take that man!" she cursed the Imperial guard. A scratching noise that grated on the ears and nerves began to crescendo at her left. Cyra grasped Captain Renault's sword tightly although she was unsure it would do any good in the darkness.
With a crumbling sound, one of the walls gave way; two huge rats plunged through the opening. A small amount of light trickled through the opening as well, enough for Cyra to aim her strikes effectively. The rats leapt viciously at her, Cyra hacked again and again with the sword until they lay dead at her feet. She paused to catch her breath for a moment; the forced inactivity of prison had left her feeling inept. She could still remember how to hold a sword and swing it, but it felt like being a novice all over again.
Cyra stepped over the rat corpses and crawled carefully through the hole in the wall into a cavern scattered with great support columns, it seemed to be some sort of substructure to the Imperial City. Light filtered through a few holes in the ceiling dimly lighting the cavern, Cyra spied a chest in the corner as well as the remains of someone that had once ventured into the same depths. An old torch lay nearby, Cyra let flame crackle at her fingertips just long enough to light the aged pitch, the drain she felt told her how long out of practice she was with any of the arcane arts: not that it had ever been her particular gift. Cyra held the torch over the corpse; how exactly the adventurer had met their demise was unknown but a quick examination of the worn armor told her that it wasn't by any sort of weaponry. Cyra shook the bones out of the leather chest piece and sniffed it gingerly, it smelled old and musty but at least it didn't smell of death. She adjusted the buckles on the armor the best she could, a few of the straps had rotted and snapped but anything would afford her more protection than the standard issue prison sackcloth. She shook the bones from the boots and knocked them vigorously against the ground with one final shake for good measure to knock anything loose that might be living inside before pulling them on. She cringed a bit at the feeling against her bare feet,
"Well, beggars can't be choosers," she said out loud with a shudder as she tentatively wiggled her toes. Cyra poked through the other items the adventurer had left behind and gathered up what she thought might still be useful into a partially rotted leather knapsack, shouldered a quiver of arrows and an old rusty bow.
She slowly crawled around the sub-terrain picking up the occasional item and putting down a few more rats before coming across a door and the corpse of a goblin. She riffled through the goblin's pack and discovered a key and a few potions, scrolls and gems which she added to her own cache before trying the key in the door: it fit perfectly. The door swung in to reveal a pitch-black tunnel leading deeper underground; having nowhere else to go, Cyra moved forward.