Cheers erupted from the stands of the Arena as the Gray Prince parried yet another swipe of his combatant's blade. He seemed… bored. He was toying with his prey, a mere girl barely of seventeen. She had been thrown into the ring on her quest for fame and glory, but those reasons for fighting seemed long and distant now. All she could think of right now was how to parry the swings coming from the orc, who was now on the offensive. The only thought on her mind was of survival. Strength seeped from her body and seemed to be feeding Agronak's fury and power. It was almost as if the sight of her bloodshed was the source of his raw skill with the blade. She swung in an attempt to turn the tides of battle in her favor. The Gray Prince smirked and parried the edge of her sword with grace. The recoil caught her helm and exposed lips, splitting it in two. She let out a cry of agony as she tasted the blood on her tongue and blinked back her tears, knowing fully well that the second she allowed them to spill would be the second that her life was forfeit to the Prince's blade. Agronak seemed to have this same realization on played on it as such, and again he moved on the offensive. His patterns gained in speed, but remained graceful and meticulous. Everything fell into place, as if he had planned this from the very beginning. Every move he made was deliberate, as if he knew what she was going to do in her haphazard scuffle for life.

She let out another shriek of pain as he caught her in the wrist. Her sword fell from her grip, and she gaped at the blood flowing freely from her new wound. The Prince let out a chuckle as he took a step forward. The girl sunk to her knees and awaited her death. Agronak looked into the girl's bright blue eyes. There were no tears to be found.

With a shout, he lifted his sword to decapitate her head. As if in reply, she let out her own battle cry and summoned all the strength that remained in her body to rip a steel dagger from its resting place in her boot. He was caught off guard as she surged forward, dagger aimed for his heart. His armor deflected the attack, and it instead nicked him on an open place on his arm. Fire blazed in his eyes as he turned upon the girl, and, with an almost unseen swipe, severed the girl's hand from her wrist. The crowd, which had been shrieking the Prince's exaltations, fell into a stunned silence. The hand fell from the wrist and into the dirt, dagger still clenched in its grip. The girl let out a shriek of terror which resounded on all sides of the Arena, shattering the silence. As she looked into the Gray Prince's face, she found no iota of mercy in his yellow eyes. In panic, she threw her good arm and her stump in front of her face.

The Gray Prince took another moment to chuckle, almost demonically this time. He seemed to be a man possessed. The crowd, once more enraptured, slid forward in their seats, straining to see the fate of the poor girl. Silence was once more destroyed by her muffled sobs, only to be shortly returned as the Gray Prince hit her with the flat of his blade. This sent her sprawling on the ground, and she laid there, knowing that she was defeated. An odd feeling came over the Prince, one he had many times before every kill. It was as if a voice awoke inside him and whispered, 'I must feed,' though not in those many words. He wanted nothing more than to end this young woman's pitiful existence. So he did. He severed her head from her neck. It hit the ground with a sickening sound, and Agronak removed the helm. The girl's face was forever frozen in fear, tear-stained cheeks attracting the dirt from the ground onto the dead flesh. The crowd let out a cry of approval, and The Gray Prince waved to his fans and returned to the Bloodworks.

--

Two young eyes peered at the Gray Prince from the stands of the blue team's fans. They belonged to a girl, almost eight-years-old.

"Papa, the other man… he's just sleeping right?" she asked her father. Ingar looked uncomfortable and glanced at his wife for help.

"Of course, Nhiilaa. He's just napping," Hjotra said loudly, glaring at her husband. He shrugged.

'How was I supposed to know they actually killed each other? I thought it was all for show!' he whispered into her ear. The girl looked up at her mother.

"I want to be just like him when I grow up," she said, crossing her arms.

"The Gray Prince, Ijorta?"

"No, Papa, the sleeping man! Then I could take a nap whenever I want and people would cheer at me for doing it! All Momma does is tell me to wake up and study harder! I don't like to study. It makes my head hurt." Nhiilaa pursed her lips as she looked at her mother defiantly. Hjotra frowned in return.

--

About an hour after the fight, Nhiilaa walked onto the battlefield with a sackcloth sheet. Normally it didn't bother her when she had to clean up the bodies, especially since she had been the cause of some of them. This time, however, she had tears in her eyes as she rolled the torso of the corpse onto the sheet. The dead girl's name was Perinea Andris, a Breton who'd come from a large family. She had been born right here in the City, a middle child who often went to the Arena to hide from her brothers and sisters while playing games of hide-and-seek. Her family lived on the Waterfront, and she'd taken up jobs with the blue team cleaning the Bloodworks in order to help with the finances. They'd been doing a bit better once she decided to start fighting in the Arena, and had figured that she would have defeated the Gray Prince. Her family had such high confidence in her that once she won, they were going to move out to Anvil. Nhiilaa had arranged for her father's business partner to hire the sons as dockhands. Everything hinged on that one battle though, and the Prince had been looking a little weak lately. Out of shape. Nhiilaa had no idea what she was going to tell Perinea's mother.

She picked up Perinea's head and hand and laid them next to the rest of the corpse on the sheet. After bundling it tightly shut with thick ropes, she carefully took the mass into her arms, cradling it as if it were a child. She looked to the stands and noticed the Emperor, Uriel Septim VII, sitting in an expensive seat. This was not much of a shock; Agronak hadn't fought a bout in a month, and the Gray Prince's battles attracted the most attention. They tended to be the bloodiest, most interesting battles and spectators from all over Cyrodiil attending just one of his matches. However, it was an hour after the fight, and the Emperor hadn't left. He was seated, in somewhat of a trance, sipping his wine, it appeared. What bothered her is that it seemed that he was staring at her. She looked around; several other workers were busily turning the dirt with shovels, making the blood pools less visible and still more were picking up weapons. All she was doing was removing the corpse.

Nhiilaa shrugged and walked towards the entrance to the Bloodworks. She would have to cremate the body and hand Perinea's mother the ashes herself. Perinea's family would have had no idea that she had been killed, since they were most likely working down at the docks.

--

"You're new here, aren't you?" A gruff voice had spoken behind the young Nord, causing her to jump in fright. She turned to face an orc, but he had impossibly pale skin. In fear, she nodded, making a tiny squeak. The orc let out a booming laugh and bent down closer to the young girl.

"Take my advice, Nord. Don't make any friends. You never know when they're gonna get killed," he said with a wink. Tears welled in the girl's eyes and she sniffled an affirmative. Bucket in hand, she dashed off to go take care of whatever chore she had this morning. An Altmer woman appeared behind the orc and frowned disapprovingly.

"That was just cruel, Agronak. She's just a kid," she said, crossing her arms and leaning on a nearby wall.

"It's the truth. Hell, if she ever starts fighting she'll probably have to kill 'em herself."

"Well now she probably won't even fight. Gods know we need all the fighters we can get."

"The kid would never last two battles. It woulda been better if'n she never came here," a Dunmer in the corner whispered. Agronak and the Altmer nodded, knowing it was true. The Bloodworks were no place for a child.

--

Nhiilaa tossed Perinea's corpse into the furnace. The blaze took to it immediately, nearly scorching her hands in the process. She yanked them back with a yelp. No tears came now; they seemed to have been singed in the tear ducts before they could be fully formed. After the remains had been burned completely, and the fire had died down, she swept the ashes into a pewter urn. Since the two had been so close, the urn was worth the expense. She pressed the lid down tight onto it and tucked it into a makeshift bag made from one of Perinea's tunics. Owyn glanced upwards as Nhiilaa made her way toward the door to the City, and nodded in seeing the bundle under her arm. He knew that it had to be done, if not more for Perinea's family than for Nhiilaa herself.

She stepped out into the street to be greeted by the cold night of the City. The icy wind on her skin was refreshing, and she was glad for the stark contrast than the hot, muggy climate of the Bloodworks. The night was quiet, the silence only being broken by her muffled footsteps on the stonework. Beggars did what they did best, scrounging for alms pitifully. She kept her head down, her heart secretly going out to them, but keeping a stiff face. Her pace quickened as she began to job down to the docks toward the Waterfront, almost dropping her bundle a few times on the way. Soon, even the muffled footsteps gave way to the sounds of children crying of hunger in the shacks nestled on the bank of the Rumare. The Garden of Daraloth seemed to glow with the torchlight from Armand Cristophe's torch, new Thieves' Guild recruits with their eyes gleaming, awaiting their chance to join the ranks of the infamous guild.

Finally she arrived at the shack of the Andris family. This particular shack was a tad different from all the rest, in it that it was one of the shabbier looking ones. In places the thatched roof would cave in, the cheap wooden walls seemed to be rotting in others. The door was slightly off its hinge, and it tilted at an odd angle, exposing the light and sounds from within the shack. If one knocked too hard, it was quite possible that the entire shack would crumble, crushing the inhabitants in its wake. Fearing this, she tapped on the door frame just enough to be heard above the laughter coming from inside. A moment later, a woman with a haggard face opened the door. Her face was alight with a smile not only on her lips, but in her weary brown eyes. Nhiilaa held the bundle out for the woman to take it. The woman took it with a confused look and beckoned her inside. Nhiilaa ducked under the frame and stepped in after her, taking a place on a crate sitting next to another crate which served as the table. The inside of the shack was sparse, a few bedrolls tucked in the corner next to the shabby stone fireplace. Four more people, three men and a woman, sat on the floor in front of it, laughing jovially. They all had the same hair and eyes of Perinea's mother, but theirs' were not worn and tired. They were all young, ranging from fifteen to twenty-three, but it was obvious that they'd seen their share of pain from the way they sat, and the way they carried themselves. The eldest child, a man, took the still-wrapped urn from his mother's hands and unraveled the rope holding it in place, revealing the gleaming surface. His face fell as he lifted the urn, appraising its approximate weight. The others strained to see what it was in the dim light, and he held it toward the fire. Now the light bounced off the surface of the urn, casting it instead into their eyes. Five pairs of eerily similar eyes cast their gaze to Nhiilaa, who shifted uncomfortably where she sat. A girl of about fifteen lifted the lid, and her mother let out a horrified shriek. It resounded through the entire Waterfront, and the air seemed to lament with her.

Nhiilaa lowered her eyes in an attempt to hide her shame. The mother began to weep, and she took that as her cue to leave. All but one pair of the eyes stared back at her in complete agony, and that one pair, belonging to the son, looked up at her in utter contempt. He shook with rage, and it radiated from every pore on him. Instinctively, she put a hand defensively where she wore a dagger at her belt. His lips formed curses and shouts, but at that moment her senses were lost to her. She rushed out of the shack, tears flowing from her own eyes and down her cheeks.

--

Tears moistened a pair of yellow eyes as the owner touched a pale hand to the face of his opponent. Carefully, that same hand lifted off the helm worn on the corpse's head. The face was that of a would-be beautiful Altmer woman. Cuts and burns marred her features, and her chestnut-brown hair was in a disarray. The tears that had formed in his eyes rolled down Agronak's cheeks as he used two fingers to shut the woman's emerald green eyes, which in life had blazed with unstoppable fire, but in death stared back at him like two glossy stones.

A blanket was then placed gently over the Altmer's face. The Gray Prince looked up into the face of a Nord girl, now fifteen. She held out a hand, which he took, and helped him to his feet.

" ' Don't make any friends. You never know when they're gonna get killed.' Isn't that what you told me?" she said as gently as she could.

"Sometimes it just can't be helped," he whispered, lifting the corpse into his arms. He breathed in deeply, his breath breaking with another sob.

"Sometimes it's just worth the pain."

--

She ran until it felt as if her lungs would collapse. A sharp pain erupted in her knees and wrists, and she came to the realization that she had fallen. Blood gently flowed from her knees and onto the pavement, but she didn't care. Her lungs were on fire from running, and her throat burned with the pain. Breath came out short and in broken, painful sobs. She laid her head on the stones and begged internally for death, for some merciful killer somewhere to find her in the dank alley and slit her throat and take her satchel of gold. Nothing mattered now. Footsteps echoed throughout the alley. They were metallic, and she figured either it was some City guard or some heavily armed mercenary. She hoped it was the latter.

"Sometimes it's just worth the pain, isn't it, Nhiilaa?" A voice, gentle and broken asked her. She lifted her head and saw it was Agronak, her friend's killer.

"How could you…" she whispered, her voice as broken as her heart. All her shame and sorrow morphed into pure fury and rage. She shook as she stood, fire vehemently pouring from her eyes.

"How could you?!" she screamed, as she pulled her dagger loose from her belt and lunged for Agronak's throat.