Chapter One
Minanhe

"Hlaalu!"

I look up from the fish I'm fileting to see Fadila Balvel staring coldly at me. I don't hold it against her; like most Dunmer, she just looks angry all the time.

"Muthsera Balvel?" I reply quietly. My ma often says—at least as often as a woman who rarely speaks can—not to talk too low, as it's rude and people sometimes cannot hear you. A word unheeded is a wasted word and only outlanders are wasteful, I can hear her say in my mind.

Fadila flicks her wrist at me in a strange, violent manner. It is a way of telling someone to stop what they are doing in our little fishing village of Hla Oad. "Are you even supposed to be working today?"

I find myself looking at her incredulously, despite my better nature. "I work every day, muthsera. I'm here to help my mother."

She shakes her head and makes what could have been interpreted as a smile. "Niala can handle herself, Hlaalu. Tomorrow is your birthday. Go relax. The fishing will go on without you."

If no one else in the world can spare me a kindness, it's always Fadila. I nod quickly and strongly say, "Blessings, muthsera," before wrapping my fish in cloth and setting it in a crate filled with fake frost salts; the real thing is far too expensive for us fisherfolk, but we are fortunate to be friendly with the unmentionables at Fatleg's Drop Off, one of whom taught my mother how to make an ice cold powder out of slaughterfish scales. Where she developed her knack for magick and alchemy is something that has always eluded me.

My ma Niala didn't grow up in Hla Oad and I wasn't born here. Shipmaster Salavel often tells a story of how she found my mother, curled up in a ball in a tiny cranny of her ship, Harpy, making sure I would stay quiet by putting her hand over my mouth. Salavel says that Niala was scared and emaciated and entirely silent, simply shaking and holding her child. Hla Oad is so accustomed to all sorts of criminals passing through, but a taciturn woman seemingly on the run was source of fascination for them. Naturally, she was taken in with humility, and I've been told that, after the townsfolk plumped her out the best they could with what little resources are available, my mother turned out to be a very pretty Dunmer. The thought is weird to me now because she's thin, sinewy, and hollow. I still love her, but she's a walking corpse in my eyes.

I don't really know what to do with myself, so I decide to look for Minanhe Yissabinissi. As her name implies, she is of Ashlander descent, but really, I call her half-Ashlander because although her father is indeed from a clan (he claims to have left on his own accord, but everyone knows that only those who commit crimes against members of their clan are removed from their brethren), he has not been hesitant to inform me that the mother of his daughter was not. She died giving birth to Minanhe, so there's no point in pursuing the thought of who she may have been.

I'm not afraid to admit that I love her. She's perfect, honestly. Her skin is like onyx, black and iridescent in the moonlight, her hair like a long mane of fire that she keeps so modestly braided down her back, and her eyes smolder like Red Mountain. To be fair, I'm certain that my mind is clouded by my obsession with her, but it suits me just fine. It doesn't hurt that we both know how to fight, either; she's skilled with knives and archery and I found myself favoring one handed blades. Ma says beauty lies in strength and skill.

I finally find her picking apart a dead scrib a few minutes outside of the village with one of her special knives, this one made of chitin, that I spent weeks stealing slaughterfish scales to trade to Trasteve for at Fatleg's—anything to impress a girl, he joked to me. My guess is that she found the scrib already dead and her natural curiosity got the best of her. Not like there's a shortage of kwama in Vvardenfell, anyway. She notices me after a few minutes, obviously surprised that I'm not working, and puts the knife away, standing up and addressing me in her broken, syrupy accent that she adopted from her father at a less severe degree than he.

"Dannas!" she exclaims—of course, she's so soft-spoken that a normal tone is like shouting for her. "Is something wrong at docks?"

I shake my bluish grey head, my greasy black ponytail refusing to follow as it hangs straight down, hardly swaying. "No, 'Anhe. Balvel just let me leave for the day." Then I can't help but smile. "You know what tomorrow is, don't you?"

She rolls her eyes. It's so cute when she does it. "You never let me forget, I am sure. But I not give you present until next morning so you bother someone else."

With that, she spins on her heels, her long plait flicking like a whip behind her, but I've played this game with her before. After Minanhe gets a few yards away, I run over, letting out a battle cry, and tackle her to the ground. She's no match, her body suited better for speed, so I actually grab her shoulders and bring her down on top of me. She giggles as her body lands on mine, bruising me in several places, and all I can do is laugh.

We never get the opportunity to be happy, but something feels different today. It feels like something good is going to happen. She rotates her body and her stomach is flat against mine; there are many spots where our clothing has been tousled and our skin touches. Minanhe's warm skin and heavy breathing press against me and my heart skips a beat. Of course, this is the part where she bats her eyelashes and gets off of me. Of course.

I groan a little as I stand, refusing her offer to help me. For a moment, she stares at me a little awkwardly then her lips curl. "Father need me help clean and organize home. You and Muthsera Hlaalu eat with us tomorrow. I cook! Trader from West Gash teach me special dish. I see you in morning by the tree! Before the sun!"

I watch her scurry off and I can still feel her ash skin against mine as I adjust my clothing. Oh well, I tell myself. The time will come someday. It's useless to dwell on what is not, however, so I resolve to occupy my free time on my own accord. What is there to do, though? Hla Oad isn't the most exciting place in Morrowind or even the Bitter Coast, seeing as Balmora is close enough for any traveler to avoid the entire region when necessary. Most people say it's the smugglers and other delinquents residing nearby and, of course, at Fatleg's, but they're good enough to us. Maybe they're not the nicest folk around, but trade is trade and they have more Dunmer than outlanders, so they can't be all that bad.

Finally, I end up practicing swinging my rusty iron sword, traded off of Trasteve like most of the things I own, that I keep stashed in a hollowed out stump. The cracks of the metal against soft and rotten logs catch the attention of a nearby guard on patrol. I recognize him even with his helmet on; his name is Arvel, apparently from some plantation out east but couldn't stand the farm life, and he's helped me practice swordplay before when his patrols are particularly unsavory. After he corrects my stance a little and spars for some time, he returns back to the village and I stow my blade.

Exhausted, I decide to spend the rest of my evening at home, trying to clean some of the dishware and floors then making a pithy meal of marshmerrow stew that I manage to find a little scrib jerky to compliment. When Niala arrives from work, she eats the meal without a word as she normally does and crawls into her hammock. I do the same, stripping down to my trousers, and, thanks to my little training session with Arvel, I actually sleep fairly well.

Nix hounds always howl before the sun goes up and it's a habit for me to rise with them. Niala is still sleeping—she normally doesn't get up until the light hits the horizon—so I dig quietly for my nicest tunic, a light blue thing that compliments my darker skin tone, and pull on my shoes, coated in the filth and murk of the swamplands, grabbing a bite of left over jerky promptly leaving for the tree, resisting the urge to sprint. It only takes a couple minutes to reach it, but the air is so thick with dragonflies and cicadas that the noise drowns out the village entirely, making the spot virtually cut off from the rest of the world, a little haven in the middle of the bog.

It takes me a split second to realize that something's wrong. Minanhe isn't anywhere nearby.

"'Anhe?" I call out. No reply. "'Anhe, where are you?"

The air is heavy with fog, so I don't really notice anything amiss with the location itself for a few minutes. After Minanhe doesn't show however, further inspection leads me to something horrible: blood on the mossy grass. I groan. This is bad. I touch the red liquid and it's cold and viscous. Rubbing my fingers, I try to imagine why the blood is there at all, so desperately wanting it not to be Minanhe's. She's strong and feisty. There's no way she would let something like this happen.

I continue to investigate the area and I see scratches of fingernails against the tree bark with bits of dirty, yellow nails stuck in the flesh. It's a crime scene. There's no more doubt in my mind.

I don't really know what to do. Should I search around? Should I get Niala or Minanhe's father? A guardsman? My stomach ties in knots and I start to run blindly back to Hla Oad when my foot gets caught and fall over. Knees scratched, I pick up whatever it is that I tripped on.

It's Minanhe's chitin knife.

I decide to go to her home and get her father. After all, I assume that since he once lived amongst the Ashlanders, he's bound to know how to track someone down, especially with all evidence left behind. I rush to his home and, without thinking, slam the door open, making something fall and clang against the floor. I see him sitting at a small table, staring at a book that I'm almost certain he can't read, and he looks up at me calmly. His expression is always unnerving though. He doesn't trust me. He hasn't ever since he learned my surname, despite my insistence that I have nothing to do with the Great Houses.

"Sera Hlaalu?"

I fight the sickness that's been building in my esophagus and choke out a frenzied plea for help. "Sera Yissabi!" Such is the name he has allowed me to address him by, seeing as Ashlander names are so long and unpronounceable for most of us simple fisherfolk. "It's 'Anhe! We were going to…but now she's…come with me!"

He sets the text down and rises quickly. I lead him back to the tree where he immediately scans the area, examining the blood, the claw marks, the grass, and even searching the radius. After a few minutes, he sees something that catches his eye: incomplete marks in the mud. I can't tell if they're from footsteps or dragging because some was clearly trying to cover the tracks. It's my worst nightmare.

"'Anhe.." I mutter.

Yissabi turns to me. "Hlaalu…Dannas. Listen to me." I wait with baited breath. "I follow after my daughter."

"I can help, sera."

He scowls. "You cannot. Minanhe is my daughter. She is my responsibility and I am hers. Your responsibility is Muthsera Hlaalu. You cannot leave her."

"Sera, please…"

"No." I can feel my heart drop. There is no arguing with this man. There never was as long as I have known him. "Stay with your mother. She is all which matters to you."

It pains me to know that he is right. "Be careful, sera.

He nods and says something that touches me inside. "And you, serjo."