Solitude was in an uproar and the royal court was suffering for it.

Thorunn was the only one to spot the Argonian in Dark Brotherhood armor apart from the three guards he had slain. The rest of the guests had been too consumed with the bleeding bride and the guards had been too focused on protecting the High King. As a result, she was talked over whenever she brought it up. "The Dark Brotherhood is no more," they would say, and she would clench her fist. "Commander Maro took care of them before half of Skyrim even knew of the dragons' return."

Thorunn would have agreed had she not seen that glint of red and black leather armor. When she was a girl, the Dark Brotherhood had a presence in Skyrim that was made of gold. Her mother used to warn her, "Be good and true to people, else you may just have someone chanting the Sweet Mother in your name." That never stopped Thorunn, of course. The same day her mother told her the nature of the organization, she'd cut off a boy's finger with a kitchen knife for making fun of her tattered clothes.

She'd gathered bits and pieces of information regarding the mysterious assassins, none that she actively sought out. She knew the obvious parts: They were Daedra worshipers, revering the avatar of entropy and chaos Sithis and their spiritual leader, the Night Mother. She knew the way to contact the Dark Brotherhood was through the Black Sacrament, though the only words she knew from the chant were "sweet mother, sweet mother"- that mother being the Night Mother, of course.

And she knew that not long ago, just shy of a year, perhaps, a boy in Windhelm had been attempting to use that chant. Thorunn had ignored those rumors, laughing in ridicule at the idea. What else was she to do? A prepubescent boy alone in a house stabbing a skeleton during some sort of black magic ritual- the image was entertaining. Now, she reflected, she should have taken it a bit more seriously. She couldn't help but think that if she'd talked that boy down, the Brotherhood wouldn't have gained enough notoriety to go after someone as highborn and revered as Vittoria Vici.

"There has been talk of the Dark Brotherhood rising to power again," reasoned Ulfric, sitting at the table in the long hall amidst his court.

He sat in the throne at the very end, with Galmar to his left and Thorunn to his right. A number of other court members were positioned around the table: Jorleif, Ulfric's long-standing steward; Sybille Stentor, the court wizard who'd remained even after Elisif stood down due to her oath of fealty; Freya Gentry, a diplomatic Nordic woman with burn scars on her neck, who'd been added to the court after Ulfric's coronation; and Velerys Dothri, a Breton man too clever for Thorunn to ever trust him.

Thorunn was grateful even for this sliver of hope. She let out a breath, leaning back in her seat. Finally, after two days of unrest, he was listening to her.

"We cannot be pointing fingers without aim," said Freya. She was a firm-toned, stubborn woman with typical Nordic features, her blonde hair wrapped in a tight bun at the nape of her neck and a thin layer of black coal resting atop and below her eyelids. She was more slender and graceful than most Nords, a sure sign she had been raised a noble and not a commoner or soldier. She'd never had to lift a finger in her life, Thorunn bet, but even so, she respected the lady. Thorunn could never spend as much time in a court as this woman had.

"And we're not," Ulfric responded. "The Dragonborn says she saw the assassin and we have no other directions to point our fingers at this point in time. The Brotherhood is our only lead, and I say we should look into it, even if it is only a goose chase. I fear if we do not find a culprit soon, our accusers will tear the palace down again."

Freya's jaw visibly clenched. "You say you have received word from the Emperor."

"That I have," Ulfric confirmed. He gestured to Jorleif, and the steward rose from his seat to fetch the roll of parchment sitting on the far desk. He returned to Ulfric at once. The gold seal of Cyrodiil gleamed in the candle light as the parchment was passed to Ulfric. He unrolled it, eyes touching the wording. Thorunn noticed that he was skimming over a great deal of the letter, but she said nothing and waited patiently. "He only requests that the body be returned to Cyrodiil. He is alarmingly passive."

"That is all the letter says?" piped in Velerys, tone sharp. A short and slender man roughly in his mid-forties, Velerys had dark hair and even darker eyes that blended well with his swarthy, freckled skin. Streaks of gray flowed through his short beard and the temples of his hair. He was a mage, Thorunn knew, as all folk hailing from High Rock were, but she suspected he favored a pair of daggers over magic. His hands were too rough and too calloused to be solely used for magic.

Ulfric's eyes narrowed at the Breton. He leaned back in his iron chair, thumbing his chin thoughtfully. "No, Velerys, that is not all that the letter says, but it is the only thing that pertains to this meeting." It was abundantly obvious that Ulfric wasn't letting on as much as he could be, but that was well within the right. He was the High King, after all. Their words were mere whispers against a thunderstorm.

But Thorunn didn't fall for that. She arched a brow, giving him a domineering look. His gaze reached hers and softened briefly, though the look was gone as soon as it had appearance. He inhaled sharply, leaning forward. "Have we reached a conclusion on the best course of action to take?" he asked.

"I still vote for taking care of our accusers the same way we always do," said Galmar. It was the first thing he'd said since the beginning of the meeting. His eyes were glossed over and his posture lazy; he was bored, no doubt, and Thorunn had to admit she was on the same page. "With an axe." A hungry grin rose to his lips, revealing a couple gold-capped teeth.

Ulfric chuckled despite himself. "My dear friend, if we continue to answer all questions with an axe, we will have no people to rule over."

Galmar shrugged and reached up to pat the hilt of his greatsword affectionately. "Suit yourself. Let me know when you change your mind."

"Of course," Ulfric turned his gaze to the rest of them. "Well?"

Freya cleared her throat and leaned forward, clasping her fingers together atop the table. "Investigate this Dark Brotherhood, but spare no men or resources until we have solid evidence. Our dear Dragonborn is the one that claims this Brotherhood is on the rise, therefore I deem it best to send her and her own flock."

Thorunn's eyes narrowed dangerously. There was nothing inherently offensive in Freya's statement. Thorunn just didn't quite appreciate that sneer on her face as she spoke of the Companions. "Do not speak of me as if I'm not here." she ordered, with a surprisingly coolness.

Freya bowed her head, surrendering and saying no more.

Ulfric's eyes passed to Velerys. "What say you?" he prompted.

"I second Freya," the Breton said. "though bringing the Companions into this may bring more trouble than it's worth. We do not want to attract unwanted attention. Work alone, Dragonborn, for the time being."

Ulfric nodded, leaning back in his chair once more. "Fair enough. It's settled, then. Thorunn, you are to begin investigating the Dark Brotherhood's whereabouts. I suggest reading up on the organization first to better strategize. You have unlimited access to my personal library should you choose to search for books regarding them. Should it come to pass that you are in need of resources, be it sneak thieves or poisons, you need only ask."

Thorunn didn't see this task as any more difficult than everything else she'd gone through thus far. One of the simpler quests, in fact. "Very well," she submitted, deciding she would start with the library he'd offered up to her. The High King's library had books that weren't available anywhere else in all of Nirn. If there was some dark secret within the Brotherhood that she needed to know before charging headlong into their establishment, that was the place to find it.

Ulfric sighed warily. "And what shall I do with the accusers locked in the cells?" He was looking specifically at Galmar for this one. Around twenty-two prisoners had been accumulated since Vittoria Vici's death, all of the same crime: Accusing the Stormcloaks of being the murderers and spitting vile things regarding Ulfric and his head being cleaved.

Galmar's sigh was heavy. He always looked especially old when he did that. The wrinkles around his eyes crinkled and the gray in his beard seemed to become more prominent. "I say give them a couple lashings then let them loose," he said. "They're all common folk, low-borns that can't rub two coppers together. They pose no real threat."

"Fine. Guards, pass that along to the prison guards. Five lashes each to the accusers." Ulfric pushed his chair back and stood. "This meeting is adjourned." He looked down at Thorunn, locking eye contact, then nodded his head, willing her to follow him.

Without question, she did, knowing already where he planned to lead her. She noted he was carrying the role of parchment with the Emperor's seal on it and knew then that he was not leading her to his quarters for a romantic getaway. Something about that letter was troubling him.

Upon reaching his quarters, he closed the door behind them and locked it. He stood with his back facing her for a few tense moments, his head bowed as if in prayer. Then his head rose and he turned to face her, handing her the roll of parchment. "He knew" was all he said.

Choosing not to comment, Thorunn unrolled it and began to read.

Ulfric Stormcloak,

I should first congratulate you on your victory against the Empire. I only hope you knew what you were signing up for when you donned your crown, and I hope that you can keep it long enough to know how truly heavy that crown can be. Being the ruler of a country is no moonlit stroll through a meadow. Friends become users and traitors and greed-soaked lechers, family becomes a liability, and your own heart becomes so thick with paranoia that you can scarcely sleep without seeing knives replace the springs in your bed.

But enough of that. You should already know all about that, no? You are a self-proclaimed natural born king, therefore you were born knowing the darkness that awaited you. Such sadness touches me to picture a boy no older than ten with a weary look in his eyes and a heart too heavy to keep up with his paranoia-honed mind.

I have received news of my cousin's assassination- you will note that yes, I use that word openly, because that is exactly what it was. Do not be blind by the love you have for your country. It has its sharp edges and it is clear to me now that the Dark Brotherhood is one of them. The sanctuary they had here in Cyrodiil was torched by my own kingsguard about a year ago. I suggest you do the same, and quickly.

Please return my cousin's body to Cyrodiil. She will want to have an Imperial burial. The Snow-Shod family is welcome to attend the funeral if they so please. I had been planning to make a visit to Skyrim to solidify your coronation with a treaty to officially rid your country of the Empire and all it has to offer, both good and bad. Perhaps after you deal with this Dark Brotherhood, we can revisit that idea.

The real target the Dark Brotherhood seeks is clear to all. You would do well to be wary and trust no one, as I have learned to do.

Emperor Titus Mede II