"Has the intruder been taken care of?"

"Yes, your lordship. The Bosmer is being interrogated as we speak, though he kept ranting about not knowing where he was and claiming he's done nothing wrong."

"Hmph. So he's a liar, too."

Arto watched, perched on a rafter above the guard barracks, as Andel Indarys, Count of Cheydinnhal, and a guard exchanged words. His heart pounded – a vigorous thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump – like the sound of a charging horse. It was no mere reconnaissance mission anymore. No, he felt to the core of his bones that it was turning into something much greater. Anxious, he listened.

"And I suppose he came with burglary in mind," the Count said.

"We won't know for sure until we get a solid answer from him. But we think he had… worse intentions than just stealing."

The Count was perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"Well… in his possession we found… well – best see for yourself."

Rummaging, and then from his pocket the guard produced what looked like three oval-shaped coals. Arto observed a purplish glow emanating from them.

The Count jumped an inch away from the guard as if he'd been shocked and clutched his chest. Arto's heart skipped a beat; he knew what those rocks were even without the count's frightened reaction.

"Wh-wh-wha? H-how? Wh-why?" the count stammered.

"Trust me, your lordship. We'll get to the bottom of this," the guard said, quickly shoving the stones back into his pocket, as if afraid that any more of their presence might kill the Count. "If he's a necromancer, then he'll be dealt with properly."

"B-b-but why me?" Indarys said, finding words at last. "Why my town, my estate? What about my son? Is my son safe?"

"He's safe, and your wife, too. We've assigned them and you with full protection of the guard."

There was a brief silence, and then the Count cleared his throat. "May I confide something to you, my friend?" he said, his gaze shifting to the floor, shuffling his feet nervously.

"Of course," the guard said, taken aback, but concerned.

The Count opened his mouth, about to speak, but closed it shut, unable to find the right words. He hesitated a moment longer, and then spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, but Arto's sensitive hearing caught all of what he told. "I… I feel as if there's been… been a change," he said. "It's as if there's a great charge in the air – do you know what I mean?"

The guard creased his brow. "Can't say, but things have been shaky since the death of Uriel Septim – what with all the riots and whatnot."

The Count persisted. "But this is different! It's as if… as if… ah, I don't know," Indarys said, shoulders sagging.

The guard shrugged. "In any case, you should get some rest, my lord. Tend to your family – the guard will handle things."

"I suppose you're right," the count sighed, then straightened up. "I assume you have other important things to do. Return to your post."

"Yes, my lord."

Indarys turned to leave. "And don't worry," the guard added. "We'll make sure this issue is solved."

"Ah" was the only reply before the count left the guard barracks. And once the count had left, Arto made his move.

Edhelas felt like the most unlucky man in the world. No, was the most unlucky man in the world was more like it. He was being accused of something he didn't even remember doing. Not only that, he was being framed as a necromancer. Talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Look, it doesn't do you any better by lying to us. Tell the truth, and it'll spare us all the trouble."

The guard sat across from him, annoyed and tired; his voice a complete monotone. It was obvious he'd didn't want to be there – rather be drunk or sleeping, presumably – and didn't want to deal with Edhelas's pleas, so he continued to coax him into admitting his "crimes" - which he wouldn't do.

"I told you the truth already a thousand times over. I don't know why I'm here. I don't remember anything before waking up on the floor of the count's chambers, but I'm certain I had no intention of harming anybody."

"But if you don't remember, how can you be so certain that you meant no harm?" the guard countered, frustration seeping into his tone.

"That's absurd! I –"

"Look, how about we start over, and this time tell me the truth: who sent you here? Was it Mannimarco, or the 'King of Worms' as your people call him?"

"My people?"

"Don't play dumb, necromancer."

"Necromancer?"

"You heard me," he said, then pressed on. "You know we found three black soul gems hidden in your pockets. All of the evidence is against you. There's no other alternative from the truth. So, tell me," he leaned in closer, "who sent you?"

Edhelas gritted his teeth and hissed, "I… already… told… you."

The guard sighed and stood up. "Aye, men! Take him back to his cell!" he called, then gave Edhelas a curious glare. "It seems we'll have to use different tactics to get this one to talk."

As the guard left two other guards marched in and, holding an arm each, hauled him to his cell, where they flung him down on the hard stone floor. They slammed his cell door behind them, the loud "click-click" of the lock echoing throughout the dungeon.

Edhelas got up, listening to the fading footsteps of the guards. They could have at least given me some food…

Edhelas awoke later that night, thinking that it was because of his grumbling belly, or the lumpy bedroll he'd been sleeping on.

To Oblivion with this shithole, he said to himself.

He peered through the bars of his cell. Perhaps there was a guard around that he could annoy; Akatosh knows, it'd probably make him sleep better. Or at least ask for some food, and maybe a comfier bed. Of course, the most likely reaction would be that he'd deny his request, but at least he could say that he tried.

But there wasn't a guard. Only a dank blackness greeted him, broken by the lit torches of his and other prisoners' cells, two more flickering down the hall.

He caught a shimmer in the corner of his eye, but saw nothing when he looked and passed it as a trick of light.

Bah, getting a bit too jumpy…

He turned to go back to bed, but heard a faint cough seeming to come just outside his cell. He whipped around to find that no one was there. And then there was a voice.

"You're supposed to be a necromancer? No offense, but I imagined you'd be a bit more… able, if you get my meaning."

The words were frozen in Edhalas's throat. Pondering his sanity, he did nothing but stare at the visible space beyond his cell. Perhaps prison was already getting to him.

"See? You don't even know how to look for me."

"Wh-who are you?" Edhelas squeaked.

"Not yet, friend," the voice hastily replied. "You certainly are not a necromancer. No magical skills, none at all."

"Try telling that to the guards," Edhelas joked, though still on edge.

"I already have." The voice sounded serious, but Edhelas wasn't sure.

"Look. Look closely," the voice continued. "You're looking straight at me. Now you just have to see me."

Edhelas wasn't sure what he meant, but he did notice a slight distortion in the darkness outside his cell. Looking closer, he noticed that the distortion was in the shape of a man – tall and hooded, cloaked in what seemed to be robes.

"I… I see you, I think."

"Good. Now, reach out and touch me."

Edhelas made no move at first, paralyzed by uncertainty, his thoughts torn between action and inaction. What could this man possibly want with me? he thought. What is he capable of?

Then, trembling, he inched his fingers, hand, arm out between the bars to the distorted glimmering air. He hesitated the last few inches – afraid of what he might discover with a single touch – and yelped when he felt something grasp his wrist. A high elf clad in robes as black as the darkness surrounding him materialized with a poof of green cloud. He held Edhelas's wrist with a grip so tight it made Edhelas cringe. He squirmed and jerked his arm, but the Altmer's grip held as if he were doing nothing at all.

"Not bad. Seems you have a keen eye, as Bosmers and elves alike do," the Altmer said, smiling.

When he smiled, Edhelas noticed that his canines were thin and elongated – barely prodding his lower lip – and his eyes shown with a dull red hue. He gasped and the Altmer let go, his smile sparkling with amusement as Edhelas realized what he was.

"Wh-what do you want with me, vampire?" Edhelas stammered, taking a step back.

The Altmer laughed. "Ah, you mortals are so very entertaining. One mere look at a vampire and you shake like leaves. I haven't even drank from you, and who's to say I want to? Honestly, you don't look very appetizing."

It was awkward, Edhelas decided, to be talking to a vampire about the matters of eating. "You didn't come for blood, then," he said, slightly shaking. "I suppose you came here for something else other than just for conversation. Unless you're very bored."

The Altmer chuckled. "Right to the point. And a good sense of humor, too. That's always nice. But your witty tongue will be useless to you in the future, unfortunately."

"Future?"

He flashed another smile, curling and sly. "You'll find out soon enough. But first let's get you out of this cage."

With a wave of his hand, the door glowed with a pale yellow light, then dissipated as a loud click was heard; the lock had been undone. Quite the magician, Edhelas noted. Most wouldn't dare use magic to open prison locks – they were too complex and secure and took a lot of energy to undo. Alteration magic was mainly used for the cheaper and flimsier locks; only those well-practiced in the art of Alteration were able to pull off such a feat. It was hard not to be impressed.

The Altmer tapped the door and it swung open, its rusty hinges moaning. Edhelas clapped his hands to his head, clenching his teeth. "Damn it, man, do you have to be so loud? At this rate the guards will throw both of us back into jail."

"Is that so?"

He slammed the door behind Edhelas, the bang echoing along the walls. ("Son of a bitch!") The sound woke the few other prisoners, mumbling and groaning, confused.

"Oh, perfect. Just perfect. You wake them up and-"

"Just follow me and stay close. Mind your tongue, too, or you won't be having it for long," the Altmer barked

Edhelas kept quiet.

The guard watched the two elves descend the stairs leading to the main hall, his heart picking up a good pace. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade on instinct. Just in case…

He could care less about the Bosmer. It was that high elf – dressed all in black, a hood hiding most of his face – that made him so nervous.

Usually, men like him wouldn't scare the guard. After all, he was specially trained to handle such men, if the case may be. And he'd tried, too. When the elf approached him, demanding the prisoner or his life, he'd swore to give him hell. And that was his biggest mistake. He was on his back, unarmed, pinned down before he could blink. The elf held a knife to his throat, creating a slight pressure on his jugular, but that wasn't his only concern.

Those eyes. Those red eyes, glowing with rage. And those teeth thin and sharp…

The guard shuddered. He'd hoped never to encounter a vampire, the stories heard as a young boy fueling his fear. But it was even worse that he was in affiliation with the Dark Brotherhood – an order of trained assassins who murdered for gold and, in most cases, pleasure.

Through a deadly hiss he laid it all out to him – that he would kill him, his family, his friends if he didn't oblige to his demand – the pressure of the blade steadily increasing. Fearing for his life and others', he agreed. He could release the prisoner. He'll tell the other guards; they won't stop him.

Before the elves left the Altmer gave the guard a brief smile – purposefully exposing his long canines – along with a wink. The Bosmer seemed too shocked to notice anything, keeping his gaze straight ahead. Whatever the Altmer wanted with him the guard wasn't sure of. And he didn't care to know, either, as long as that damn vampire didn't sink his fangs into his neck.