Lydia watched as her mistress tentatively reacquainted herself with the tools of their bloody trade. As the guards milling around the edges of Castle Dour courtyard looked on in awe, Malsar pirouetted, twirling riposte after masterful riposte, spinning and whirring, her glowing red blades shining like blood in the sunlight. She cast a deadly silhouette with her Nightingale hood obscuring her face, leaving only her red eyes visible. "The Dragonborn," onlookers muttered to one another as she worked, betraying not the slightest hint of strain as the minutes wore on.

Dovahkiin, indeed, Lydia recalled soberly. Malsar had never shared the details of her journey into Sovngarde, but Lydia had seen the red scar knotted across her back as she dressed just a few hours earlier. Neat stitching had reduced the gaping wound to a tidy red line, meandering like a river through its valley. It would have crippled any other warrior. She remembered Malsar muttering something about the heroes of Sovngarde bleeding away the damage to the sinews as they swept her back to reality.

Glancing up at the sun, Lydia realised they ought to be leaving soon. Malsar preferred to travel by night, claiming that the moon was a more faithful guide to her than the sun. She looked less starved in her current attire – Nightingale armour had a strange talent and shifted with her every movement, the living armour of Nocturnal's protectors.

Lydia approached her mistress slowly, and Malsar dropped her blades. She wasn't so much as breathing heavily, the epitome of finesse even after months of crouching in a damp dungeon. Elves were certainly durable creatures, however irascible their personalities might be. "It's time to go" Malsar stated before Lydia could speak.

"It is," she replied, watching as Malsar sheathed her blades, earning several cries of disappointment from the crowd.

They elbowed through the spectators and Malsar picked up a bushel of ebony arrows from the fletcher as they passed the shop. Her Nightingale bow was strapped to her back, the drawstring slathered with a fresh coating of Malsar's homemade solution.

"Would you prefer to take a cart or travel on horseback?" Malsar asked, a proposition that rendered Lydia somewhat taken aback. Her mistress rarely gave her a choice.

Thinking of Shadowmere's unblinking gaze, she hastily blurted the answer Malsar no doubt expected, "I can pay for the cart, if you'd like?" She could have sworn her mistress smiled at that, though her eyes were unreadable.

"'Lo there Malsar," a ruddy faced cart driver greeted them as they reached the turnoff for the stables, "Need a ride?"

Malsar flung her knapsack onto the cart by way of an answer. The cart-driver acted as though this were normal procedure, "Where d'you want to go?" Malsar merely shrugged, motioning to Lydia.

"Riften," Lydia supplied, earning a curious look from the cart-driver. Malsar leapt lightly onto the back of the wagon and sat, stretching her legs luxuriously. Lydia hopped awkwardly over her and sat stiffly, watching Malsar settle comfortably against the rough wood. Malsar possessed that feline ability to achieve comfort virtually anywhere.

As the cart began to move, rocking sickeningly from side to side, the driver glanced back at Lydia, whose eyes were fixed on her muddy boots, and launched into a lengthy, one-sided discussion about Riften's sordid history.

"Black-briar mead, best in all of Skyrim. They sell it up near Whiterun now. Place called Honeyside. I remember the bloke who used t'sell there – snarky bastard. He's in Dragonsreach now, 'parrently he 'ad a go at poisoning the Guard Captain. Bloody stupid, if y'ask me…"

This time, Lydia was sure Malsar was smirking.