Something was burning. It was to the bitter, biting smell of scorched food that Wulf awoke. His shoulders ached, his wrists were raw and his face felt like it was on fire. He hoped that was not the case.

Slowly, more and more of his surroundings registered. The warmth and flickering of a fire. The fact that he was lying on his side, arms behind his back. Hay, scratching roughly against his cheek. By the sound of things, he was alone for the moment. Wulf groaned and tried to roll over only for his ribs to send a stab of pain through his side. Somebody had beaten him up. Just wonderful.

He realized that his hands were bound behind his back when he tried to scratch his nose. The Nord sighed and resigned himself to lying still. He really wasn't into that sort of thing.

Unconsciousness was like a quicksand, trying to drag him under. The warrior conjured a tiny spark to burn through the rope around his wrists and retied his bonds more loosely. Nobody would notice the smell amidst the stink of a burnt meal. Wulf then gave in to the desire of his body to rest and dozed off again. Ironically, this was the longest and most peaceful sleep he had had in days.

Voices. They were like tiny needles stabbing into his head; each word a painful throb to enhance his headache. Despite himself Wulf tried to understand what they were saying, without much success. An echo distorted every sentence – he had to be in a cave. The arm he had been lying on felt numb, like it was not a part of his body and his breathing was heavy, the air stuffy and too hot. For a brief moment the Nord wondered if maybe he was hurt worse than he had believed at first. The voices were coming closer too, a man and a woman. Soon, he could make out footsteps that stopped not a foot away from where his head was resting.

Then, after a brief pause, some tricked over his face, wet and cold.

If that bastard was taking a piss on his face-

Wulf's snorted and jerked back, now fully conscious and his eyes opened. The one that wasn't swollen shut did, at least.

He saw a pair of boots, caked in mud and corded pants, patched at the knee, thankfully done up. When Wulf rolled on his back he saw a dark figure, backlit by the campfire, holding a pitcher of water and currently emptying it over his head.

"Rise and shine", the bandit drawled, and tipped the jug entirely.

"Fuck you", Wulf responded without any heat and shivered with the splash of icy wetness. Something grit between his teeth. Wulf winced and felt around with his tongue and spit out a broken off part of his tooth. There went his good looks.

He did not need Jarl Idgrod's magical foresight to predict a particularly nasty death by being strangled with his own entrails for the bastard who had knocked him out. Wulf sat up, spluttering and shaking his head to get rid of the wet strands of hair that stuck to his face. The revenge fantasy remained.

Then, he looked around. Cave. Bandits. His fortune had not improved much.

"He's awake", the bandit called to somebody Wulf could not see.

Wulfryk was alive, which meant this was not the run-of-the –mill robbery; hit and run with no witnesses left. He had to be worth more to them alive than dead, which gave the Nord some precious time to think of a way how to escape. Maybe they wanted to ransom him to the Jarl?

Wulf was all in favour. Then he could just lie here and let them do all the work.

On the other hand, they might want to turn him over to Skald.

Right. Escaping it was.

When the guy in front of him moved to the side, Wulf saw another man lean against the far wall with his arms crossed. He pushed off and sauntered over, but did not come any closer than strictly necessary. He had hair so red the top of his head looked like it was on fire in the flickering light of the campfire, and skin covered so heavily in freckles he looked sunburnt. With a sinking feeling in his stomach Wulfryk realized that they had met before. It was the Silver Hand he had bumped into on his way to Jorrvaskr, right before he had left with Farkas to walk into their trap.

"You try anything", the redhead who likely as not was the boss of this rabble addressed his prisoner, "We slit his throat."

"Whose?" Brands? Or that guy's who had woken him so rudely? Yes, please, though that was probably too much to hope for.

The Silver Hand snapped his fingers like his underling was a dog. He kind of did look like a mutt.

"Bring the boy."

They did, at knife's point and Wulf recognized the Jarl's son, dishevelled and shaking with two clear streaks from crying across his dirt-smeared face. He might have said something highly inappropriate for the ears of a ten-year-old, then.

"Going to behave yourself?", the redhead asked gently, like he was enquiring after the weather. Something about his manner seemed off, but Wulf could not pin it down.

"Yeah", the Nord answered. Like he had any choice.

Nelkir was led away again. When he had disappeared, the redheaded leader nodded in satisfaction and ordered Wulf's bonds cut, much to the warrior's surprise. Wulfryk rubbed his wrists, like any person would, not letting on that he had loosened them hours ago.

They mustn't have thought him a threat if they let him go freely about their cave, but then the guards had weapons and he did not. Any fight he'd get himself into, he was bound to lose. Wulf did not like the options that left him with. The Silver Hand yet had to reveal what he wanted him for. He pulled a bottle out of a pack and pressed it into his captive's hands.

"Here", he said. "She did not want you harmed. Rest assured the one responsible had been appropriately disciplined." The words were delivered tonelessly, and they sent goosebumps down Wulf's back.

He sniffed the contents of the bottle and to his great surprise he recognized the delicately sweet smell of blue mountain flowers, an ingredient for cheap healing potions. The warrior downed the contests and felt the tingling of magic, across his face and side.

He did not understand what was going on, but it appeared somebody wanted his hide intact.

"Clean yourself up", the Silver Hand ordered. "You cannot go back like this. Return when you're done and we will talk." With those words he left and his underling pointed Wulf to the left side of the cavern.

As far as Wulf could see the cave had three rooms, divided by wooden planks. The biggest space was the one in front where the campfire burned and where he had woken up. There, most of the outlaws also slept, judging by the furs covering the floor, whilst the leader and Nelkir had disappeared into a room on the right.

Wulfryk entered some sort of storage chamber and found two buckets of lukewarm water and a small basin, soap, a comb and scissors. Nothing he could use as a weapon unless he wanted to use the scissors to cut off the bandits' pinky fingers. Somebody had even laid out his clothes for him to change into. How considerate.

Wulf washed and ran the comb through his beard and trimmed it to its appropriate length. He took an age to comb out the snarls in his hair, but his captors did not seem to mind. Nobody told him to hurry up.

The bruises on his side had disappeared and his face, still tender, no longer felt hot and swollen to the touch. He felt better once clean, even if he was going to burn all of the rags when he was back in Whiterun.

The warrior returned to the main hall and Mutt informed his boss.

"You wanted to talk?", Wulf asked the Silver Hand who was sitting at a tiny table and even offered him a seat. This whole meeting was strangely civil and unemotional.

The redhead nodded. "It is not my intention to harm you or the boy", he explained. "But I am willing to trade, though I grow impatient."

'How generous of you', Wulf thought but did not say so. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "Just wait", he told the other Nord. "I have it from a reliable source Balgruuf is going to put up a reward. You'll just say you were travelling when you stumbled over the boy and he'll be too relieved to ask more questions."

"I have no interest in either of you", the bandit responded, bored. "My boys will welcome the gold, but I want the relic."

It was not the answer Wulf had been expecting. He blinked, confused. "What relic?"

"The boy will tell you all you need to know", the Silver Hand replied impatiently. "You get me the relic and I will let him go, unharmed. We have eyes in Whiterun. Do not talk to anybody of this, don't go informing the Companions or the Jarl. You have until midday tomorrow, Wolf." His lips twisted with wry amusement, the first flicker of emotion he showed, gone as quickly as it had come.

Strange as it seemed the gesture almost made him more human. There was something profoundly wrong with the guy, Wulfryk decided. It showed in his stiff, jerky movements, his wide-eyed, unblinking stare and the monotonous drawl.

Additionally, his plan had one big flaw. "I am a Thane of the city and a Companion", Wulf pointed out, not in the mood for any games. The guy obviously knew who he was, had chosen his victim carefully, curse him. "Somebody might want to talk to me", the warrior said and asked, "What do I do then?"

"Buy a coffin", the bandit suggested and got up, calling for one of his friends.

Wulf sat down to talk with the boy when he was led in. The watchful bandit's knife never wavered from the child's throat. It wasn't to keep Nelkir in check, either. These people weren't taking any chances.

The boy had been crying again, Wulf could see. He did not blame the boy. He was, in the end, just a kid who had done a dumb thing and was paying for it thousandfold.

"Please, sir", the boy sniffed. "I never meant to!" He did not explain what, but went on, a waterfall of words and sobs.

"Put that away", Wulf turned on the bandit keeping a hold on the child. If he only lowered the knife, stepped back... "Don't you see you're making him hysteric?!"

But the man only snorted, his hold tightening on Nelkir's shoulder, until the boy cried out in pain.

A few moments passed in silence until the Jarl's son looked up again. "Please, help me."

"I'll do my best", Wulf assured him and hoped he sounded convincing and confident. Children made him uncomfortable, weeping ones twice so, and he had no idea where to begin so came straight to the point. The faster he got moving, the sooner the boy would be out of here.

"So, what's this relic of yours?" The topic seemed to help Nelkir calm down, thank the Divines.

"It is a magic weapon", Nelkir whispered. He told the Nord everything, from when he had stumbled over it to where Wulf could find it, in the cellars of Dragonsreach.

"What kind of weapon?", Wulf enquired after he was done, already weary.

"A sword, I think", the boy replied uncertainly. "With magic."

"How do you know all this?"

Nelkir's eyes went wide with shock and something that wasn't entirely sane. "She told me", he whispered.

"Who is 'she'?", Wulf wanted to know.

"You will understand when you meet her", the boy said, and stared at a place above Wulf's head, dreamlike. They took him away after that, humming, and with a vacant gaze.

The redheaded Silver Hand came to see his prisoner off.

"You fuck me over after this is done, and I will burn you alive", Wulf promised. He conjured up a spark, not enough to make the guard nervous, but to show he meant business.

"I know", the bandit replied dispassionately, as if indifferent to his fate. "You'll get the boy", he said, "And there won't be a hair missing from his head. Last thing I want is something not going to plan."

Wulfryk had only one question left. "How did you know where I would be, anyway?", he enquired. He had not planned ahead, had not told anyone which route he was taking and not even several units of Skald's soldiers had been able to find and ambush him.

The man blinked slowly and did not answer.

Wulf wanted to punch him in that vacant face. "Let me guess: your imaginary friend told you?"

The bandit was every bit as apathetic as he had been before. "Don't make fun of the Lady", he cautioned softly and without emotion.

Good to know the Jarl's kid and the thug shared that particular brand of crazy.

Wulf was about to say so, when the redhead held something out, the motion nearly mechanical. "This is yours, I believe."

It was Wulf's knife, the same one he had been given as a gift nine-and-ten years ago and that he never parted with. The bandit's smile was unwavering, as if he dared the man before him to use it on him and forfeit the captive boy's name.

Wulf would have liked nothing more than to ram it into the socket of one of the maniac's eyes.

He took the knife instead and returned it to its rightful place at the small of his back, fastening the belt with a more forceful yank than necessary.

The bandit's broad grin resembled a grimace. Wulf did not waste threats on a madman. He would be back for the bastard.

Brand was guarding the entrance and saw Wulf outside where a severed head was rotting atop a spear, flies swarming the milky eyes. The bandit looked away nervously. He walked in a safe distance behind the warrior who had once had him at his mercy. What a wonderful way for life to get back at him, Wulf thought.

He could slit the other man's throat and blow the rest of the bandits up. But there was no way he could do it with no one noticing. Then they would kill the boy and blame it on him – or he would be left with Nelkir's corpse and Wulf doubted strongly it would be any consolation for Balgruuf that he managed to get rid of all of the kidnappers.

Just when one Jarl was already all geared up to have Wulfryk's head on a spike, he did not need another out for his blood. He needed Balgruuf on his side, especially to put an end to Skald's accusations. His kid might be a rude, spoiled brat and Wulf hoped his father's housecal would tan his hide with a leather belt once all this was over, but the boy was also terrified. Scared and alone, tricked and looking up to the warrior as a saviour.

Wulf's horse was tied to a post in front of the cave's entrance, saddled up and ready to go. The bastards had known they had him backed into a corner. His pack was there too and a rudimentary search revealed that nothing was missing. Brand tossed Wulf's sword at the warrior who wondered how much that relic must be worth for a pack of robbers to refuse to acquire a weapon of Eorlund's make. A lot, apparently.

The Nord mounted up without delay and turned his horse in the direction of Whiterun without a backwards glance.

He needed a plan to get into Dragonsreach.

Evening was falling by the time Wulf walked through Whiterun's gates. He had left his horse outside, saddled and ready to go, and pulled up his hood. The gates would close soon, and there was a throng of people jostling to get inside the city before nightfall. Wulf joined the masses and slipped past, with none of the guards suspecting that their Thane had returned. Unfortunately, that was the easiest part.

Wulf hunkered down on a bench next to the wall where he conveniently could observe Jorrvaskr and the keep and unwrapped his dinner. Since they did not want him talking to anybody or setting foot in one of the inns, the bandits had provided him with enough food to last for two days, three if he ate sparingly. How bloody considerate of them. But bread was bread no matter where it came from and Wulfryk was hungry enough not to be picky. He chewed slowly and considered his options.

When darkness fell the warrior rose, drew his cloak tighter around himself and slowly walked in the direction of the Cloud District. He had not seen as much as a single lit candle in the Companions' mead hall which was well as the passage from the Underforge would serve as his escape route. Hopefully, he would not run into any of his shield-siblings. Ria and Athis had said that everybody who could be spared would be out looking for the Jarl's boy.

They would not find him, of that Wulf was sure.

The Nord took the steps that led to Jorrvaskr and then some more, up to the Skyforge. The legendary forge never went cold, not when Eorlund was not working it and not in the coldest of winters. Wulf didn't spate any thoughts to marvel on it.

He knew of only one way into the Jarl's keep other than the front entrance that was closed at this hour for regular visits and too well guarded to attempt any break-ins. Wulf had debated just walking in and asking a guard to wake the Jarl and to spill the whole truth. He had been taken down by the same outlaws who had kidnapped his son and they would release him if he brought them some sword hidden in the cellar.

Surely an heirloom was worth less than Nelkir's life?

But what if Balgruuf refused to believe him? What if Skald's men already had talked to him and the Jarl just thought that Wulf was robbing him?

There was one other thing. Wulf did not know who that Silver Hand contact was. It could be one of the guards, it could be the old man sitting on a bench beneath the Gildergreen and smoking a pipe or the woman hanging up laundry by the light of a lamp.

It was even possible there was no one watching him. That the Silver Hand had made that up to scare him into compliance. It did not matter. Wulf could not afford to gamble with Nelkir's life. If he took the front doors it might send the wrong kind of message. And then Wulf would have to explain to Balgruuf why he endangered his son, in the best case.

After some more thought Wulf abandoned the idea. Too much could go wrong that way. Balgruuf might not trust him and persist on having his soldiers handle the matter and any way Wulf turned the outcome, he did not see how it could go well. No, he'd steal the relic the old-fashioned way and explain everything afterwards. If Nelkir didn't vouch for him, Wulf was personally going to kill the blighter.

Much like the front doors, climbing the porch was out of question. Much too conspicuous and time-consuming, even if he actually had an idea how to scale the overhanging balcony. The drop was a rather prominent turn-off as well.

That left one other way in; through the dungeons. Wulf knew they led into Dragonsreach because Lydia had mentioned it a couple of times; never in the context of how to best break into the Jarl's keep, but as a member of the guard she had been stationed there often enough.

It would be difficult. Though he meant to enter the prison, Wulf did not want to end up there. His best hope was that there would be fewer guards than usual since he highly doubted it would be left entirely unguarded.

The warrior cursed and ran his hands through his hair. He tied it together with a leather band so it would not get in his eyes and descended the stairs, sticking to the shadows. Wulf tried Jorrvaskr's back door and found it unlocked. He stole inside on tiptoe, but the place was quiet enough for him to know that if anybody was there, they were below, in the underground rooms.

Wulfryk did not have to search for what he had come here for. He grabbed an almost empty bottle of mead off the table and pocketed it, as well as a coat that somebody had negligently slung over the back of a chair. No need to soil his own. The Nord mumbled an apology to its owner and promised he's buy them a new one once this was over.

He was out of Jorrvaskr again after half a minute. No need to make his potential watcher nervous.

Wulf climbed the cliff behind the Skyforge until he was almost level with the keep. The rocks were rounded and slick and provided few handholds and the stonework on top crumbling. The Nord cursed every time he grabbed a loose stone, almost dropping it atop his head and more so when he cut open the side of his hand. He arrived on top bathed in sweat and with his arms shaking. He used to love climbing walls as a kid, but then he had not been wearing a full set of armour. Still, it was less strenuous than explaining to the soldiers why he was taking a stroll over the palace grounds at this hour.

From his hiding place Wulf could see the light of the lit braziers and the shapes of the soldiers watching the bridge and double doors. Four men. He would have had to pass them had he not taken the unconventional way. Wulfryk allowed himself a brief pause for his breath to grow steady again, but not long enough to cool down. Then, he exchanged his cloak for the other one, and poured the dregs of the mead over it.

A drunk accidentally stumbling where he was not supposed to be was less likely to raise suspicions and alert any soldiers to a potential threat.

Wulf left his hiding place and approached the lone guard on duty with a silly smile and a slightly unsteady gait. "Hey there, handsome."

"You should not be here, citizen", the man replied in a bored voice and moved to intercept him, one hand on the hilt of his sword. His eyes went wide though when Wulf came closer, and he straightened. "Thane! I'm sorry, I did not recognize you. Is there something you need?" He sounded about as uncomfortable as Wulf felt.

"Have you seen Signy?" Wulfryk remembered Lydia's guard friend from the celebration in Jorrvaskr. He felt bad for dragging her name into this, but he had not come up with anything better. "She told me she was on duty until midnight. We wanted to plan a surprise for my housecarl." He pretended to take a swallow from the bottle.

He needed to get closer to the man. It had probably been unnecessary for him to pretend being drunk. The other man's guard was down seeing as he was talking to one of Whiterun's more honourable citizens. But, it made things easier.

"Thane?" In the light of the torch the soldier's face was hard to read, but he sounded confused. "She has left to find the Jarl's son."

Wulf slapped his forehead like a man just realizing he had made a stupid mistake, exaggerating the movement. "Of course! I- I'm sorry to have bothered you", the warrior slurred his apology. He made as if to leave, but turned back to the soldier. "Is he really gone? Gods, how is the Jarl taking it?" Wulfryk lowered his voice and let some concern seep into it, and wobbled precariously from the spin.

Wulf felt like the worst kind of shit when he let himself totter against the soldier. The guard forgot to reply to the question, but cursed and moved to support Wulfryk. He could not have it said that he let the Thane fall flat on his face on his watch.

Wulf snuck his arm across the guard's throat and used his other for leverage to tighten his grip. Before the other man knew what had happened he was jerking and kicking for his life as Wulf dragged him down where he could use his weight to pin him against the ground and where the earth swallowed the sound of the soldier's heels drumming against it.

"I'm sorry", Wulf told the man who was clawing his forearms to ribbons, too far gone to attempt to land a proper hit – damn, he should have thought to bring bracers or gloves – and when he saw the vein at the side of his victim's neck stand out, he pinched it hard enough to interrupt the blood flow, all the while counting the seconds in his head. When the guard finally went limp in his grasp, he let go. The last thing Wulf wanted was to kill the unfortunate sod.

The entrance to the dungeons was locked and a very brief search revealed the guard did not have the key, but Wulf managed to coax open the lock without any difficulties. A shame to have a double-barred pin lock on the keep.

Maybe he should inform the Jarl to employ a proper locksmith? Nah, Wulfryk guessed that there was no one, apart from himself, of course, who actually wanted to break in into a prison. Usually it was the other way around.

Wulf opened the door and peeked through, but he could not see or hear anything. A speck of magical light showed that the dungeon was empty, of both prisoners and guards. The latter most likely because of the lack of the former. At last, a shred of luck. The warrior left the torch burning to give off the illusion that everything was alright and dragged the unconscious soldier inside, gagged him and bound him to the bars. He also applied some healing magic to the man's throat to keep it from bruising up and the guard from suffocating as a result.

Last, Wulf tossed the mead-splattered coat over the man to make him look like a curled up, sleeping prisoner at first glance.

He did not know where exactly the corridor would lead him, so he moved cautiously along the isle, cells to his left and right until he arrived at the door. Somebody coughed at the other side of it.

This would be tricky. Sending up a prayer to Rajhin for the door to be unlocked, Wulf pulled it open and stepped through it in one swift motion. The guard on duty turned immediately. "Wha-"

Wulf slammed the edge of his hand into the side of the guard's neck. She broke down, and he caught her across the middle and pulled her through the door before putting her out cold with a punch to the back of her head. The second soldier joined the first one, a couple of cells further away.

Wulfryk sneaked back, and up the stairs. He was surprised to find out that he emerged in the main hall. To his left stood the long dining tables, he could even catch a glimpse of the Jarl's throne. The slow regular tread of a soldier on patrol alerted the warrior that there were more guards nearby. The Nord flatted himself against the wall, waited until the footsteps faded, signaling that the soldier was further away before he crept forward.

To his right there were the kitchens with a fire burning low in the massive hearth. Wulf slipped inside, after a brief glimpse to convince himself he was not going to run into the cook. But no, everything was deserted, and the lone guard on patrol as unhurried as he had been before.

He had no time to lose.

Another set of stairs was leading down at the back of the room and Wulf tiptoed into the cellar, feeling his way in the dark and stepping close to the wall. Further down he did not want to bother, the steps naked stone, no longer covered by wooden boards. An unlocked and thankfully unguarded door later and he could breathe easier, knowing he was in the right place.

These had to be the storage rooms and servant's quarters.

On the right side there was a door, and with no better lead Wulf tried it first. He caught a glimpse of a bed and a small figure atop it, and hurriedly closed the door again.

Balgruuf's little blighters had to sleep in the cellar!?

Wulf shook his head. This wasn't right, but it was none of his business. He had a relic to find. Nelkir had never seen it since it was behind a closed door, but he had described the corridor. It took the warrior a while to find the right one. How much time had passed since he had taken out the first guard was difficult to estimate, but so far things seemed calm upstairs. Then again Wulf wasn't sure he would hear any disturbances this far below the keep.

Like much of the cellars the wing he found himself in was abandoned. Moldy straw covered the floor along with discarded furniture, barrels and sacks, everything covered in a thick layer of dust, disturbed only by small footprints. Nelkir had come here more than once, apparently. Wulf looked around as he walked on, brushing aside cobwebs.

Shelves, some bolted to the walls, some merely leaning against them, were cluttered with all manners of junk. Wulf picked up a silver plate at random and brushed over it with his sleeve. He lent some more energy to his light, making it shine brighter and inspected the damage done to his face. Most of the cuts were scabbed over and the swelling had gone away with the healing potion, as well as the toothache.

He smiled and saw that the lower part and corner of his front tooth had broken off, forming an uneven ridge. It felt far worse than it actually looked, he decided with a feeling of immense relief. His looks were the smallest of Wulf's problem, but he felt better nonetheless. The warrior tossed away the plate, forgetting himself for a heartbeat and winced at the resounding clamor.

"Ssshhh!", Wulf hissed sharply at the reckless piece of dinnerware.

When it stopped spinning on the floor and he quit glowering at it, Wulf looked up to find himself at the end of the corridor. There was the turn, with the ugly painting the Jarl's son had described on the opposite wall – and the doors!

Wulfryk pulled out his roll of tools from the breast pocket where he always kept them and knelt to inspect the lock. It was of an old design, nothing he had not seen as before. This was going to be easy as pie. He braced one arm against the wood and reached out with the other and jerked back violently when he felt the hairs on his arm rise.

Nelkir had mentioned that only his father and the court wizard had the key, but Wulf was confident in his ability to jiggle most locks. He had never taking into account a magical lock though.

"Shor's Breath and Bones!"

Wulf could not go back to search Balgruuf or Farengar for the key. At some time one of the guards were bound to notice that their buddy was missing. Then, all hell would break loose. Although he was sure he would find his way quicker when walking the dark passages for a second time, he did not want to waste any more time. He straightened, with his hands on his hips and glared at the doors. They were made of two wings, reinforced at the top and bottom, with old carvings and paint that had almost entirely flaked off. The lock held them closed.

The Nord pulled his knife and scratched at the wood. It came away in slivers, spongy to the feel. Rotten. The cold and damp must not become it very well. Wulf grinned.

The lock was magical, yes. The doors not so much. The warrior backed up a few steps.

It took three kicks before the wood around the lock splintered and broke out and the magical device cluttered uselessly to the ground. Wulf paused for a few seconds to see if the noise had stirred up some sort of commotion, it the quiet of the underground the only sounds he could make out were that of mice scurrying and his own breathing. He had to be out of hearing range.

Good. He still had a relic to find.

That last task proved to be easier than he had anticipated. As soon as Wulf entered the room his eyes were drawn to the rack upon which a sword was laid out as if on display in a shop. This had to be it!

The blade was shaped like an Akaviri Dai-Katana. Wulf had seen similar, but this one appeared to be of superior make. The warrior sighed. He loved singly-edged blades that curved slightly. There was no reason to it, as a sword was only ever as good as the one who wielded it, and though he could wield any common northern sword, he never felt as confident with it.

Wulf had an idea then. He would take the sword and sneak into Balgruuf's private quarters and inform him of what was going on without anybody from the outside any wiser. Then he'd get out again as fast as possible and complete the deal. High on the feeling of success, he grinned and grabbed the sword, testing his two-handed grip on the hilt.

It was warm, as if it had been lying in the sun just a moment ago, and it seemed to tremble at his touch, almost like it had been waiting for him to find it all this time. It fit the palm of his hand as if it had been moulded to it. Too bad he already had-

Wulf was distracted by the carvings on its flat side, the language one he did not recognize and the edge that was not marred by even a flick of rust. The black ebony ore curling like smoke, a shadow even in the dark,

The sword was...perfection.

It...was...his.

xxxx

He had come to her. Her Champion.

She had always known he would, for no mortal could resist the allure of power, and least of all hers. It had taken long enough, each life a string in the net she had woven around the one who would lead her to glory in this forsaken corner of the mortal realm. One tweak on a string and the whole web trembled, cautiously, almost delicately for she did not want to undo her creation.

Though she was eternal, she was not patient.

It all had begun the day the Jarl had found her artefact, crafted over ages uncountable and infused with its creator's spirit. He might have it hidden away in the cellars where few others wandered and behind locked doors, but he did not suspect that a simple touch was all it took for her to have a hold over him.

A Jarl was an influential man, a ruler amongst lesser mortals. But he was also possessed of a strong will and as fun as it would be to watch his sanity unravel, at the time she had felt that change was coming to Mundus. A ripple was shaking the foundations of the world she had her eyes on, like an earthquake would its surface.

Something had caused it.

Power. It was at the core of all things; raw and ancient and drawing closer.

So, she had bidden her time.

The Jarl had lost himself in work, had put his heart and soul into service in an attempt to fulfil his unquenchable desire to bring wealth and safety to his people. He wanted to be loved by his subjects, the need born of his bitter childhood, his inability to please his father, to ever earn a few words in praise. The Jarl succeeded, but as time wore on he succumbed to his greed for gold and luxury, and his own family was forgotten.

Eventually the child, neglected and angry, had been drawn by her blade's soft keening, the whispered promise of an end to the loneliness, and of retaliation.

A mortal child was hardly fit to be a champion for a Prince, but it was an ideal servant; easy to influence and unquestioning once it had been convinced, weak but quick to acquire and to dispose of.

Her influence increased.

Soon she could sway others and laughed as she watched the wretched lives of the mortals take a turn for the worse. She could not indulge herself to her heart's content though, for the city had already been claimed by another.

Pluck a string and withdraw, such had been her game until now and by the time Hircine came sniffing, her presence was no longer detectable. Let the dog chase its own tail.

His pets she could not touch at first, not directly, but that was no reason to become discouraged. She would find a way to weaken her rival's hold over them, slipping into the cracks and crevices where he did not hold sway. She was not a force – she was the softest of whispers, a stray thought, the spark of jealousy that flared up in the most unfortunate time or a gentle push to tip the scale – and her greatest asset was her voice.

Unlike his idiot brother, the other young wolf was easily garnered. Suspicious by nature it barely took any coaxing at all to drive his mistrust to its peak. There was pain from a loss that had happened during his younger years and the drive to prove himself, perfectionism and, most interesting to her, envy. Well suppressed until now, it escalated in the meeting with her chosen. So many longings. For adventure in a faraway country, for the freedom to travel and to lay aside obligations, to escape duty and indulge in the pleasures of live.

All of which he could not do, but saw the other live.

Then the worst thing possible happened; they left her. And when they returned far too much of her work had been undone. She could not allow that to happen again. Thriving on the angry thrill of a fight and no small amount of attraction, a spark of lust was kindled. It worked out flawlessly, the spark kindling a fire and she had withdrawn then, allowing things to play out on their own.

The other wolves needed her attention. They had taken long to fall under her spell, but she eventually coerced them into betraying their leader. And what a glorious day it had been!

That, and a thousand other betrayals she had entertained herself with until the day of her triumph would come to pass . The jealous worker who poisoned his master's mead, the Captain who was a spy, the lose tongue who betrayed the traitor hiding in the inn, the thoughtless cruelty of a child, the wife who cuckolded her husband.

It amused her whilst she awaited the arrival of her champion. There were like made for each other. She coveted lies, murder, sex and secrets. He had each of those in abundance.

Except that when finally within her grasp, he proved almost completely impervious to her manipulations. Instead she had to watch him fall into Hircine's paws. Such waste! Just for one moment when his control slipped briefly before he shook her off again, she almost had him kill Hircine's lapdog. But he had gotten away and she had been left to her rage as her grasp slipped, her plans shattered.

Her retaliation had come swiftly. A nudge to have the whelp chase away his friend in a fit of rage and to drive his bitch after her friend instead of her lover.

Then there had been the sweetness of screams and in the other young wolf's mind she finally found a foothold. She had allowed to indulge herself in the art of torture the mortal performed, though such crude violence was not her way.

Taking over the group that called itself the Silver Hand had been one of her more brilliant moves. They were thriving under her patronage, even though the leader had to die. She was focused on hunting Hircine's pets and only that, not receptive to the Prince's persuasion.

Her second though...he had promise. She had sent him back to the city to kill the Harbinger and rescued him when the dogs turned the fight in their favour, chuckling at the betrayal of his friends. His part had been to ensure that the position of Harbinger passed on to the whelp who was already well under her sway. Her servant had performed well and she decided he might yet be of use.

It was time to have her servants meet.

That had been harder to arrange than she had expected, but after a few failed attempts the boy-child passed on all that he knew about the relic to someone in the position to act.

Soon, she would need neither of them.

From the north, the Drabonborn was drawing close. Yes, she now had a name to put to the power she had sensed earlier.

She was so close to success. He was coming, ever closer, until he was right there. Her chosen one needed only to touch-

The Prince that called itself Mephala laughed, and through her relic she spoke.

"Come, my child. We are bound now, you and I. Together, my Champion, we shall accomplish great, terrible deeds."

AN: Next update will be TWO chapters.