The cistern was colder than the rest of Riften in the winter, and dampness made it all the worse. Braziers were kept hot, and several thieves huddled around one as they chatted in the soft lighting. It was never bright in this place, and on an overcast day like this one, sunlight barely reached them, seeping down through the ceiling's central opening. The open grating brought ventilation to the stone rooms and tunnels that the Thieves Guild called home, but wedged between lake water and the surface world, even that sometimes proved insufficient. Today, the air was crisp, and it drifted over the pool at the room's center, the water near black in the light's absence.

Mercer Frey stared at the water a moment longer, remembering a time when these rooms had been filled with near constant activity. Now it was calm, almost silent in the chill of winter, and it suited him more than the chatter ever had. He didn't miss having countless footpads underneath or the barrage of questions that accompanied them. He could have taken the whole lot of thieves and cast them into Oblivion some days—could even remember when Brynjolf had accidentally locked himself inside a cabinet as a young thief. No, he didn't miss any of that. What he missed was the flow of gold and jobs, the kind that had kept the guild influential and even feared.

There'd been jewels fit for kings. Relics that collectors would kill over. Rare tomes and the personal writings of those foolish enough to put emotion to paper...

Mercer shifted gray eyes back to the man before him, and felt a surge of impatience. Maybe it was the lightness in the other man's stance. The hope, he thought with a touch of disdain. Brynjolf had practically skipped through the cistern yesterday, alerting him to the fact that something was brewing.

"This had better be worth my time," he said without pretense.

"I wouldn't be bothering you if it wasn't."

Mercer doubted that, but sat back in his chair, inviting his second in command to continue.

"Go on."

"There's a newcomer in town. A young, nord lass. She isn't much to look at, but seems to know what she's doing." Brynjolf reached inside his shirt and pulled free a chain and pendant. Gold glinted in the candlelight, drawing Mercer's eyes. "I found this on her. Pretty little bauble, isn't it?"

"Let me see it," he ordered, taking the pendant for closer examination. A symbol was carved into its back, and it struck a vague sense of familiarity in him. Two lines curved into each other, joining and forming a single loop, like a curling grapevine.

"Is it a Breton design?" Brynjolf asked. "She mentioned Daggerfall."

"Could be. An old one perhaps."

"Maybe the lass was being more honest than I thought." Brynjolf was sitting forward now, an eager gleam in his eyes. "She claims to have stolen it from a king."

Mercer scoffed, running a finger over the delicate engraving. He'd heard his share of bullshit in life, and if that didn't sound fantastical, nothing did.

"What did she do?" he asked. "Wave it around and brag about it?"

"Nothing so foolish. She hunted me down and demanded it back—wouldn't be convinced that I didn't have it. For a moment, I thought she'd pull her dagger on me, or maybe her sword."

"Not everyone's swayed by honeyed words," he mused, focused on the pendant. The design could easily be Breton, but it wasn't a common motif, and he'd seen his fair share as a young thief.

"You almost sound approving, Mercer."

"There are already enough fools in the world who are swept away by flattery," he scoffed. "If you put forth an effort and the girl saw through it, she's not a complete idiot." Although her having told a stranger some tale about stealing from a king suggested otherwise.

He finally set the pendant aside, well aware of his second's easy command with women. Charm was a talent he personally lacked, and for which he had no inclination. People like Brynjolf were incredibly useful, even necessary, compensating for any deficits in stealth with verbal wit—not that the younger thief was heavy-footed. He considered Brynjolf with a certain level of regard as he thought through the matter.

"Maybe she didn't take it from a king," Brynjolf conceded. "But it's definitely not hers. She looks a bit ragged around the edges, and her purse was light as a feather. She had little more than the pendant to her name by the time I got to her. The lass is clearly on her own, a little lost if you ask me. That's not what will interest you though. It gets better."

Mercer knew that tone, and although his stare did nothing to encourage it, he couldn't deny being intrigued. He was willing to bet that someone was missing the pendant, and badly. It had been a long time since any of guild's stolen goods had captured his curiosity.

"She cut my purse this afternoon. Took it from me right in the middle of the market after having a beggar destroy my entire stock of potions." Brynjolf counted the woman's accomplishments on his fingers. "Bribery, destruction of property, and theft. Not bad for one afternoon."

"But you caught her doing it?"

"Not fast enough to stop her."

"A single shout and the guards would have tossed her in prison," Mercer disparaged.

"Everyone starts somewhere," the redhead replied, undeterred. "She's bold and has a quickness about her. With a little polishing, she could put those skills to use for us."

"And because she has nowhere else to go, you think she'll be happy to live in a sewer." Mercer's delivery was dry, his voice carrying an edge of warning. "You've been bringing in strays lately. The last one didn't even last a week." At least the man had the good sense to look embarrassed by that particular lapse in judgement. "Your potion scheme couldn't cover the expenses, never mind the dent it put in our reputation. The guards laughed at how quickly they caught him, and now your potion stock for the week is gone. I assume you have a backup plan for that."

"This one's different," Brynjolf insisted.

Both men were stone-faced as they regarded one another, a hint of tension rising about them. Very few were willing to go head-to-head with Mercer, and if it'd been anyone else, he would have had less patience. His second was, however, not without talent, and unlike himself, willing to expend energy on inexperienced whelps. Someone had to take on the unpleasant task. Truth be told, Brynjolf had a certain knack for tapping unexpected resources as well, particularly the human kind. As if to reinforce the point, the man's mouth slipped into a smile, cutting tension.

"I was little more than a stray when you brought me in."

"You don't need to make an argument for this girl," Mercer stated. "If she's as talented as you say, it will speak for itself. Not that she's here," he wryly observed.

"I'm giving her the night to think about it. I'll need the pendant."

"Leverage?" he guessed. So help him, if Brynjolf tried to bribe someone into joining the guild in a misguided notion that it would work a miracle, he would take the pendant back and kick the girl out on her ass himself. They didn't need reluctant thieves taking up space and poisoning morale.

"It's just to secure the conversation," Brynjolf assured him. "Since she's resisting my best efforts and all."

"Fine," he agreed. "Do what you need to, but the pendant stays with me for now." His tone left no room for argument, and after a pause that was too long for his likng, Brynjolf nodded. "I want to know what we're dealing with. Someone must be hunting the girl if this isn't hers."

"Aye," Brynjolf agreed, rising. "Maybe she'll be kind enough to fill in the details."

Maybe. And a good thief knew to consider every lead before sorting rubbish from the gems. The men shared a parting nod before Brynjolf strode away, empty formalities and farewells of no use between them. Of everyone left in the guild, Brynjolf and Delvin had served the longest, and they'd learned long ago that pleasantries held little value to him. Then there'd been Vekel, a would-be-thief who'd wisely given up on that ambition, followed by others and the constant turning of seasons and passing names. Some didn't last long or severed ties. Some had broken the rules and paid for it. Everyone had their reasons for joining, and staring across the cistern, Mercer imagined it a cauldron where humanity poured its contradictions and castoffs, as if to bury them. The ones that truly embraced that were still here.

He rolled the pendant between his fingers, thinking. He would need to make several inquiries before he even considered believing whatever this supposed thief had to say, assuming Brynjolf captured her favor. He wasted little time in retrieving parchment and quill, and jotted brief notes, signing nothing and sealing the letters with unmarked wax. Vex could handle the delivery. Let her have a moment of self-perceived importance. She would be looking to redeem herself after botching the Goldenglow job.

Goldenglow, he darkly recalled. Before Brynjolf had interrupted him, he'd been looking into the matter, studying the payment trend in his ledger and when they'd been delivered. The estate had been slowly raising resistance to the guild's demands for several months now, but at the time he'd thought it a reflection of the general trend in Riften. People were getting too bold—too relaxed in their attitude toward the guild, and damn if it didn't need corrected. Corrected immediately.

He worked as afternoon faded into twilight and then darkness. The cistern was fuller now, and lanterns flickered like fireflies in a cavern. There was nothing left here to occupy him, not tonight, and it was cold as a hagraven's tit anyway. Brynjolf was apparently of the same mind. The man had changed into his leather and was heading for the exit, probably to see what his latest target was doing. Mercer stood and trailed after him, heading for the ladder that opened into Riften's graveyard. The entrance was hidden within a mausoleum, beneath a slab of sliding stone. It was but a quick climb and he was free of the cistern.

Brynjolf was already making his way between tombstones, his figure clear beneath the moonlit sky. It would be a full moon soon, offering more light than a proper thief ever needed. Mercer was disinclined to step free from the mausoleum as he considered his surroundings, struck almost immediately as he was by movement against the graveyard's wall. A dark shape was huddled there and sliding forward, creeping toward the unsuspecting Brynjolf.

What do we have here?

Mercer hoped that the little sneak hadn't become alerted to the guild's back entrance. If so, there would be the hassle of disposal, but more than that, he was annoyed that someone in the guild had been careless enough to be seen. He suspected that Brynjolf, in all his distracted hope over recent events, might be that person. Still, it wouldn't do to have the man killed by some interloper, especially a potential assassin sent to weaken the guild.

He crept forward, undetected by both of the people ahead of him. It was too easy. Neither thought themselves prey, and in their foolishness, he would teach them a lesson.


Prim's toes and fingers had gone numb from waiting outside. It might even be necessary to sleep here, hidden between the tombstone and wall where she sat, if her target didn't show. She'd already waited a good portion of the evening, and was beginning to lose hope. Brynjolf had disappeared inside that mausoleum, to pay respects to the dead perhaps, only he hadn't reemerged. She'd finally taken a peek inside to find the space empty, but a kicked pebble had found a crevice and fallen, bumping and echoing through some hidden chamber. Even if she'd known how to get inside, she didn't dare try, not knowing who or how many people might be waiting with drawn weapons.

What had she gotten herself into this time? And when would she be able to spring her ambush?

I am going to strangle him, she vowed.

Just as she considered quiting for night and finding a warmer location to sleep, a figure detached itself from stone. Someone was leaving the mausoleum, and the almost nonchalant gait made her body spark to life. It was him, and he was alone. She wouldn't let him get away with her pendant a third time.

She wasn't particularly experienced at sneaking up on people, so she counted her blessings that the man seemed distracted tonight. It was only a matter of winding between tombstones and readying herself to pounce. She didn't feel bad about kicking him on the back of the knee and watching him stumble, nor about jumping on top of him and holding his face in the dirt. He was the one who'd chosen to do this the hard way.

"Don't even think about it," she growled, grabbing the dagger from his belt. She tossed it aside and leaned closer to his ear. "Where is my pendant?"

"Prim?" The man had gone still, his voice muffled. She kept the tip of her own dagger pressed against his back, but allowed him to turn his head. "Well, well, lass. Color me impressed. I didn't think I'd see you again so soon."

He sounded collected, but she smelled anxiety. He was concerned, and well he should be. She dug the tip of her dagger into the leather of his armor to further the point.

"My pendant," she repeated. "Where is it?"

"Not on me." Damn it all to Oblivion! "But I'd be happy to discuss it if you let me off the ground. I'll keep my hands where you can see them. I was actually on my way to see you, lass. We never got the chance to finish our conversation from yesterday."

"There's nothing to finish," she said, frustrated by the turn of events.

"I took your pendant. You took my purse. I'd say we're even."

She fell silent, staring at his profile. His attention was fixed on her while she thought, wondering if making a deal with him was her only option. Maybe she could still work this to her advantage. Maybe...

Pain exploded in the back of her head, making her vision spin and blur. Then the darkness closed. Her body pitched forward, sprawled across Brynjolf as a groan escaped her lips.

"Looks like your persuasion skills needs some work, Brynjolf."

The cold voice carried a touch of derision, and she could make no sense of the words as she fell unconscious.


This was not her home, Jorrvaskr, or even The Bee and Barb, and she didn't recall reserving a room there for the night anyway. It certainly wasn't anywhere she wanted to be, not judging by the almost stifling smell that seemed to push her even further into the stack of blankets beneath her. What was that? Sewage? A faint trace perhaps, and then earth and mead and something suspiciously like skeever. Divines please tell her that she hadn't been stuffed underground somewhere to rot.

Prim cracked her eyes open and found a stone ceiling above her. She was resting atop crates and blankets in what looked like an underground chamber of sorts. It was dim and her head was pounding, but she had no difficultly picking out the the sound of voices and someone sweeping a stone floor. Everything was stone here, and in the midst of it all, she distinguished Brynjolf sitting at a table with an older man who was bald and rough-tongued.

A moment of anxiety seized her when she realized where she must be and with whom. The question now was how she could escape. There were others as well, a Redguard woman and a man she took to be the bartender—a thin Nord with long hair and a mustache. She didn't move, fearful of drawing attention to herself.

"Mercer looked downright terrifying when you brought her in—like he was going to rip someone's head off. I haven't seen him that worked up in a while, Bryn."

The redhead muttered something that Prim couldn't hear.

"I don't have a problem with you bringing her here," the bartender stated. "Just make sure she doesn't cause problems or Dirge will kick her out. I would have paid to see her take a swing at Mercer's head."

"Did she really?" the bald one grinned.

"She woke up when we were trying to get her down the ladder. She fell on him and started swinging like he was going to kill her."

"She's lucky he didn't."

"It was a sight to see," Brynjolf noted, more reserved than the other two men in his humor. "I pulled her off before it got out of hand."

"I'm sorry I missed it. No wonder he was so pissed."

"I'm being serious about Dirge kicking her out if she tries anything in here."

Dirge? She began picking scents apart and tensed. There were even more people down here than she'd thought. She smelled a second woman and another man. Could she perhaps roll off the crates, away from them and into the water below? She was resting on a wooden platform that stood in a pool of some kind, and if she moved slowly enough, might lower herself down and wade away from these strangers.

"She might be staying awhile," Brynjolf stated.

"If you persuade her," a clipped, female voice replied. The woman was light-haired and lithe, leaning against the bar. "Right now, she's just an extra mouth to feed. She doesn't belong here."

"Yet," Brynjolf emphasized. Was the man defending her?

Prim squeezed her eyes shut as a wave of pain rippled through her. She felt sluggish. Perhaps they'd given her medicine or drugged her? This had bad shades of being held hostage by bandits, which she'd heard enough tales about to be a bit paranoid when traveling. Her sword and knife were gone, and her hands were tied together atop her stomach. She was blurry indeed to have not realized as much sooner, or perhaps her senses were merely overwhelmed by this place in her injured state.

If I transform, they probably can't stop me. It would break my hands free.

No, she internally shouted. That was the last thing she should be considering.

"She's awake," someone stated.

Footsteps. She turned her head and watched the Redguard woman draw near.

"She looks dead, or maybe it's just because you Nords are so pale."

"If I'm dead, I'm being punished for something," Prim muttered.

"And she's mouthy," the Redguard continued, tone level. "You usually like the sweet, naïve ones, Brynjolf. When did that change?"

"To bed, Tonilia," the man gruffly replied. "Not to bring into the guild."

Guild. Theives Guild. Prim wondered if it might be a better deal to roll into the water and drown. Then she was looking up into green eyes, and perhaps it was due to the lighting, but they almost looked apologetic.

"How are you feeling, lass? You took quite a hit to the head."

"Mercer isn't known for being gentle," someone wryly commented.

"I'm not dead," Prim considered, her mouth fighting to form words. "Did you drug me?"

"Just a little mead and medicine to ease the pain," he assured her. "More mead than anything. You must be a bit worried, and I don't blame you, but you're in no danger."

"I'm in the Ratway?" she guessed.

"Quick one, aren't you?" His voice regained some of its humor, and he smiled down at her. She didn't reply, choosing to close her eyes instead. "I'd suggest continuing our conversation from earlier, but I'm worried you'll try to hit me. We can talk after you rest."

"I'm ready to talk now," she responded, opening her eyes. He looked surprised at that, then pleased, and she couldn't fathom the reason. "Can you untie me? Please?"

"Don't you dare," the bartender called from where he was sweeping. "I'll not have someone throwing punches around the Flagon."

"Did you hear that, lass?" Brynjolf asked. "I can't let you free unless you promise to keep your hands to yourself."

"Says a thief." He tapped her bindings with a playful smile. There was something about this man that seemed untarnished despite his profession, and for all she knew, she owed him her life. It was possible that one or more of these people thought she should be killed for knowing too much. "I promise," she ground out, lifting her hands toward him.

Her bindings fell free, and she slowly rose into a sitting position, feet dangling over the crates. She wanted to vomit, and sucked in air against the sudden urge. A hand landed on her shoulder, gentle and steadying.

"Take it easy," he cautioned. "Vekel won't take kindly to you making mess."

"And some of us are eating supper," the bald man interjected.

"Doesn't anyone here know how to stay out of a conversation?" Brynjolf chided, stepping between her and the others. "This isn't the most private place to have a conversation," he continued, more quietly. "Perhaps we should discuss our business elsewhere."

"I'm not going anywhere alone with you."

He didn't reply as she tried to stand and wobbled. Almost instantly, she returned to sitting on the crates, her defenses muddled as she let the thief ease her down onto her back.

"You'd best lie down a bit longer," he suggested. "We wouldn't want you toppling into the cistern."

"Your offer," she mumbled. "The one you've been trying to get me to discuss. What is it?"

"It's simple really. You're out of money and are—shall we say?-already familiar with my line of work. Your little stunt in the market was inspired. I didn't think you'd take it that far...or further," he ruefully added. "I've got to say, lass, it's been awhile since we've seen someone like you stroll through Riften. You caught me by surprise."

He sounded impressed, although she was going to need to deflate him a little. Her mouth opened to do so, but he kept talking.

"I'm not going to force you to do anything, lass. Of that, you have my word, but you're a natural thief, and if you pick the right friends, there's real money to be made in that. Not the quick gold that covers a meal," he emphasized. "But real money that lets you relax a little in life. You'd have resources and a place to stay."

"You want me to join your guild," she simplified.

"Yes. For our benefit and yours."

She sensed his anticipation, and stubbornly fixed her gaze on the ceiling. She had no desire to live as a thief, and had barely stolen anything in her life. What she had stolen had not been to line her own pockets or even to keep herself afloat. No, there'd been personal reasons, but to someone like him, it probably made little difference.

"I'm not a thief," she stated.

"Funny. I seem to recall someone setting me up and robbing me this afternoon."

"For reasons that need no explanation."

"That's the way every job is," he dismissed. "And what are you planning to do tomorrow? You've no money and nowhere to stay. Riften is just as cruel as the rest of Skyrim in winter. You'd starve or freeze without wandering hands. I'm guessing you know a thing or two about doing what's necessary to survive. What about this offer isn't appealing?"

He sounded curious, as if he thought the offer ironclad. Was he serious? She focused through the pain in her skull and met his gaze.

"The jobs you do for one," she said. "I'm not selling strangers false promises, bottled or otherwise. I say good riddance to your smashed potions."

Someone guffawed in the background, and Brynjolf spun, his tone harsher than she'd previously heard.

"Enough of your eavesdropping, Delvin!" He turned back to her. "That objection is easily fixed, lass. We have many jobs that don't involve that sort of thing. What would you say to robbing a tomb or taking spellbooks from some necromancer holed up in a cave? Or robbing someone who can spare the damage, like, for instance, a king? There are different kinds of thieving, and some people deserve what they have coming."

"I..." She didn't know what to say. She'd justified her few thefts in life for those very reasons, and she didn't regret them. And what would she do for the rest of winter? Whiterun was several days away, not far, but she'd certainly need funds to get there. She was no forester or huntswoman who could fend for herself in the wilderness without supplies, and what of his interest in working with her? He was most persistent, so perhaps he was willing to negotiate.

He looked down at her with a patient smile, like he had all night to wait for an answer.

"We're like a family down here," he casually added. "Everyone has a specialty or type of job they focus on."

Family. She considered the word, but she already had that with the Companions. She didn't need to adopt some group of thieves as friends and quickly dismissed the notion. Money, a place to stay while she sorted herself out, a chance to do some more research...those were certainly more appealing, and there was something already familiar and easy about interacting with Brynjolf.

And getting my pendant back, she darkly thought.

"What are the strings attached to this?"

"You work on jobs contracted with us, and in return, you get a cut. Don't cross us, and you're free to do what you choose."

"And if I choose to leave?"

"Plenty of people have left," he replied, looking away from her for a moment. "They weren't punished in any way. It's up to you, lass. What do you think?"

She took time formulating a response, less resistant now that she knew she could walk away, or so he said. And if not, she was back to running. The thought rankled her—almost made her reject the whole affair on principal alone. Instead, she breathed deeply and wondered what alternative she had for the winter. If she said no, would she be endangering herself now that he'd brought her here? The gods had a funny way of tying her life into knots.

"I'll join." Did he look relieved? "On several conditions."

"Oh?" he challenged. "Let's hear them."

"I'm not obligated to do any given job. I want a job thoroughly presented before I accept, and if I choose to reject it, that's how it is. Two," she continued. "My pendant. I want it back. Now. Three, I'll go along with this for a month. At the end of the month, I'll choose whether I want to stay or not."

"Is that all?" he laughed. "Lass, you have yourself a deal. Like I said, we operate on a come-and-go basis down here. Get your feet wet and see how you like it. I guarantee you'll want more." She wouldn't count on that, but held her tongue as she again attempted to stand. He helped her along, walking her toward the others. "You can welcome the newest member of the guild."

"What about Mercer?" the light-haired woman questioned. Her features were sharp, or maybe it was her expression that made them so. Prim detected a note of caution in her voice.

"What about him?" Brynjolf challenged. "He'll come around."

"Once she completes a job," the one named Vekel agreed, leaning against the bar. "Welcome to the guild..."

"Prim," she answered. "You can call me Prim."

"Pretty little thing," a gruff voice commented.

"Shut up, Delvin," Vex sniped.

"Prim, this is Vex. Delvin. Vekel. Tonilia. And the silent one over there is Dirge."

"Hello," Prim spoke, bobbing her head. Vex was eyeing her in a highly critical fashion that made her wary. "Maybe I could get some sleep?" she suggested, still unsteady.

Brynjolf steered her clear of the others, toward what looked like a cabinet. She wasn't entirely sure as the room suddenly began to spin.

"Just a few more steps, lass."

Her feet kept moving, but she wasn't paying attention to the direction they took. There was a tunnel and then another room, large and circular with a pool at its center. She heard arrows striking a soft surface, and jolted, alarm bells ringing in her head. Strong hands kept her moving though, and suddenly she was on a bed, a real one, although the mattress sagged and smelled of someone else. She didn't care as Brynjolf momentarily appeared above her.

"Get some sleep and we'll talk more later. You made the right choice, lass."

She drifted off into the darkness, wanting nothing more than to wake up somewhere in the sunlight. One month. She would see how it went for one month, and thereafter, all bets were off. The idea gave her comfort as she shifted between sleep and awareness. Sometimes people passed by, but she didn't recognize them, and then all was silent. Nothing moved about her, and somewhere, she was aware of someone gently snoring.

Her eyes next opened to near darkness. Few lanterns remained lit in the cistern, and the beds nearest her were occupied. She was on her side, watching moonlight snake across the pool's surface. A desk stood by itself across the way, a candle burnt almost to its holder scattering light across a stack of paper. A man sat there, alone and removed from the rest of the room, elbows resting on chair arms and fingers steepled together. His features were difficult to determine from this distance, but his hair was lightly colored, his leather armor fitted and much like Brynjolf's.

She sat up in her darkened area, and couldn't remember how she'd gotten there. At least the headache was gone, but feeling the back of her head revealed a bump. She winced. Someone hadn't held back with their strike, and running a tongue along her mouth, she was surprised to realize her lip was split. A quick inspection revealed several bruises on her arm, but nothing more. She couldn't remember fighting, but hadn't the others mentioned something about an attack?

She gingerly rose to her feet, unlikely to fall back asleep in such an unfamiliar setting, surrounded by people she didn't know. It would be best to take a quick walk around the room to ease her discomfort, making note of any entrances or exits. It would be a bonus if she could find her sword or dagger, but for now, she was content to pace the pool's edge, eventually reaching a rack of weapons. Her hand ran over the hilts, her blades not among them.

Her movements froze as an uncanny sensation teased her mind. It was the man at the desk. He was watching her, although his position had not changed. She felt rather than saw his eyes, and instinctively tensed. It was ridiculous really, to feel threatened by a mere look over such distance, and now that he'd seen her, she might as well introduce herself. He might think her an intruder otherwise.

Her pace remained steady as she crossed the walkway that arched over the pool, forcing herself to not close the distance as quickly as she might have to relieve his stare. She could see him more clearly now, and he did not look pleased. There was a sternness about him—an authority that made her wonder just who he was. His short hair had started to gray, scruff hugging his jaw and shadows rimming his eyes in the candlelight. She thought his eyes might be a deep gray, and traced several scars across his face, perhaps to avoid meeting his gaze.

She reached his desk and his eyes flickered across her body. Again, her skin prickled, but she offered him a soft greeting anyway.

"Good evening."

"What are you doing in the cistern?"

His tone was demanding, the voice behind it low and a bit gruff. Prim felt momentarily unbalanced before her gaze hardened in reply to his.

"I came with Brynjolf."

"I know," he said. "But last I checked, you were laid out in the Ragged Flagon, unconscious and drooling. What are doing in here?"

"Drooling?" she frowned. "Is everyone in the guild rude by nature, or does living in a stinking hole in the ground do it?"

"Why you little, impudent brat." He was scowling now, but didn't move. He didn't need to. Even standing, Prim suddenly felt like she'd strayed into very dangerous territory. The man was making her uneasy, and he hadn't so much as lifted a finger. "I told Brynjolf we should just toss you over the city walls," he said.

"Well, thank you," she warily released. "For not doing so." He shifted his body to more directly face her, and candlelight caught his eyes, revealing them to be slate-colored, just as she'd suspected. He was clearly Breton. "Brynjolf brought me in here for a bed," she spoke. "He said we could talk business later."

"Was that before or after he made you an offer?"

The question carried so much weight that she feared answering it incorrectly would mean terrible news for the red-haired thief. She almost glared at the man opposite her in defiance.

"After," she stated. "I walked over here to introduce myself now that I'm in the guild, but I can see I wasted my time. I'm Prim, in case you were wondering."

"I already know your name," he coolly replied. "Or what you call yourself anyway. I'm assuming you have a surname as well."

"I do, but you haven't even given me your first."

His eyebrows arched ever so slightly, and he stared a long moment before shaking his head with an almost dismissive air.

"Mercer Frey, although I don't suppose it means anything to you."

She'd heard his name before. It had bounced around in the other room, when the other thieves had been discussing...oh, Akatosh preserve her. She'd attacked this man. For a moment, she had a very clear image of dropping onto his chest and grabbing the straps crisscrossing over his armor. She'd aim a fist directly at his face, and he'd caught and gripped her hand with such force no wonder it ached. The bruises, were they from him grabbing and throwing her back? Or from Brynjolf pulling her off the man? Her memory fizzled and died at the moment both men seized upon her.

"Oh," she said.

"Remembering a little more of your night?" he guessed.

"I tried to beat you senseless against the floor. Yes, I'm starting to remember a bit of that. Did I...? I didn't do anything too violent, did I?" Like biting anyone, she dreaded. Or growing fur perhaps. No wonder the man was being so cold and snide with her. She wouldn't be too pleased with someone who'd tried to kill her either.

"Don't worry," he drawled. "A second hit to the head fixed it."

"A second...?" She frowned, feeling another headache coming. "I guess I can't blame you. So you're the one with knuckles of iron." This was awkward. Really awkward, and judging by all the comments she'd heard about this man, he was very high up in the chain of command here. That would explain the desk as well.

"I..."

He cut her off, his words quick and impatient.

"You can apologize in the morning, when I feel like hearing it."

He stood, dismissing her without a word. As soon as he left the light, she lost him. He didn't make a single sound in the darkness, and she frowned when the sound of sliding stone reached her. The hidden entrance in the graveyard. He was already through it? That quickly and silently? She didn't know anything about this Mercer Frey, but she obviously needed to watch herself.