Its come to my attention that recently, fanfiction hasn't been letting people see the new uploads of chapters. It also hasn't been letting those people see changes to author profiles either, which leaves me with no way to contact people if it is happening. If you're reading this, it's fixed. If not...rip, I guess.

The Moral High Ground

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"...and that's about the extent of it." Finished Margret, looking up.

Her, Hjar, and Octavia were sat together in the latter's private quarters. The room was fairly spacious, with a meticulously maintained bed, desk, and bookcase. The bookcase was full to bursting with dozens of different tomes in (Hjar had tried to count) at least seven different languages.

Octavia herself leaned back in her chair, whistling appreciatively.

"Wow." She summarised.

"Yeah." Margret nodded.

"That was quite possibly the most ridiculous story I've ever heard. Well, the most ridiculous that didn't involve my younger brother. And that's even with you obviously omitting bits to protect your new Forsworn friend."

They both stared at her in silence, and she glanced between them for a few seconds before wincing. "Ah. Did you tell me directly that she was a Forsworn, or did I figure it out?"

"I think our reactions have made that point moot by now." Hjar sighed.

"Right. Sorry, I have a habit of coming out with my deductions without-"

"Without explaining them properly!" Hjar finished, gleefully. "I do that too! Also, uh, please don't murder me for coming from a culture that's a sworn enemy of yours."

"Oh don't worry, really, you're fine." Octavia leaned backwards, steepling her fingers. "So...not that it's your fault, but you've caused sooo much trouble."

"We know." The pair of them chorused.

"Markarth had two jobs. Provide silver to the Empire and not fall apart because of the Reachmen. So it's not a very high-performing hold at the moment." Octavia sighed. "Maro's not going to like this, neither will Tullius. We'll need to wait and see how it turns out, but...damnit, there's so many ways this could go. Best case scenario we just walk into the chaos and reassert Imperial control. Worse case scenario we have to fight a new, entirely separate civil war. Worst case they join the Stormcloaks. I wish I had eyes on the inside, but frankly I'm just glad you're out of that madness."

"Glad to hear it. I'm sure as Oblivion not going back in." Margret chuckled.

She glanced significantly across at Hjar, who replied with a 'what? Not any of my business.' look.

"We can't give you intelligence." Margret continued, reaching into her bag. "But we can give you some insurance."

"Insurance how-" Octavia's eyes alighted on the envelope that the redhead pulled from the bag. "Oh no way."

"Oh yes way." Margret held the paper out, and it was immediately snatched from her hands. "That right there is the deed to Cidnah mine."

Octavia held the document up to the light of the fire, scrutinising it. Then she snapped her fingers, leaving it floating in mid-air, and started casting an array of spells at it. "Oh, wow...this is genuine. How did you get this?"

"The treasury wasn't exactly well defended in the chaos. Matter of fact, we weren't even the only ones who'd gone in and started looting." Margret smirked.

"The hardest part was finding the key on Thonar's corpse." Hjar added, with a shudder. "And getting all the guts off it..."

"You genuinely went in to complete your mission even as the city fell apart?" Octavia shook her head, laughing. "Margret, you are a national treasure."

Margret flushed, and started stammering embarrassed rebuttals as Octavia folded up the paper and clicked her fingers again, making it (seemingly) vanish into thin air. "Well, if there is a Reachman takeover, this won't be much use. But it certainly makes it easier manipulate what's left of the Silver-Bloods, and if this does end up being resolved through debate rather than war (Divines, I hope it does) then we've just got the biggest bargaining chip available." She nodded to Margret and Hjar. "Excellent work. Both of you. I'll get you both a hefty bonus for this."

"Thank you, Ma'am." Margret lowered her head, while Hjar looked away awkwardly. "So...what happens now?"

"Well, isn't that the big question." Octavia steepled her fingers again. "Margret, you're more than entitled to some paid leave. Your quarters here are untouched, but if you decide you want a holiday in Cyrodiil, let me know."

"Thanks, but I think I'll stay here." Margret replied, glancing across at Hjar. "I...want to see all of this through."

"Well, if you insist." Octavia clearly noticed the glance, but didn't acknowledge it, turning to Hjar. "And as for you, I'm not sure it's up to me to decide. If you want a job, or maybe to be relocated somewhere, I can arrange-"

"Sorry, but no." Hjar interrupted, raising her hand apologetically. "I've got...unfinished business I need to sort out."

By which I mean 'a group of deadly assassins has decided I'm in debt to them and there's nothing I can say to convince them I'm innocent.' But I'm sure as Oblivion not admitting that here...

"Are you sure you don't want me to come?" Margret offered, turning to her with a concerned look. "If it's something dangerous, then-"

"Margret, you know how well equipped I am to deal with danger." Hjar reassured. "And it's...personal. Not a problem I want foisting on you."

"Well, alright." Margret sat back, clearly troubled. "Just...come back safely, alright?"

"I will. I promise." Hjar said. It wasn't technically a lie, which was good enough for her.

"...You know you can kiss if you want to, I won't tell anyone." Octavia interjected, still watching them.

"MA'AM!"

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"...and that's about the extent of it." Finished the new Archmage, looking up. "If you have any further questions, please ask. I'll do what I can to do explain further."

Jarl Korir stared coldly downwards, mulling over both what he had been told, and who he was looking at.

Archmage Meteuse stood before him, wearing robes that looked less like normal mage finery and more like a proper Nord fur coat. There was a sword at his hip (rare, most mages didn't bother with martial arms) and a big fur-wrapped something on his back. He looked...young. Korir was used to wispy bearded Elves, but Alexander was a Man who seemed barely out of boyhood. Nonetheless, there was a strength to his posture. This boy has killed, more than once. And it's not broken him, like it does some of my men.

That was reason enough for Korir to try and keep his temper from exploding, but in case he needed more...What this man has done was impressive enough to make the most self-obsessed, arrogant collection of spellcasting bastards in the country let him order them around. That's something to note. Indeed, beside and behind Meteuse, Mirabelle (one of their number Korir had dealt with many times before) was respectfully leaving him to talk, only speaking when asked for advice.

"So, let me get this straight." Korir leaned forwards in his throne. "You went digging in an ancient Nordic crypt, disturbing the dead, and uncovered some mighty powerful magic orb."

"That's right." Alexander nodded.

"Now you had no idea what it was or what it could do, but you started playing with it anyway?"

"We did." Alexander acknowledged.

"And you let someone you knew was a Thalmor spy poke around at it and set it off."

"Aye." Alexander agreed. Behind him, Mirabelle winced.

"And what you allowed sent your orb spiralling out of control." Korir stood, anger rising despite his attempts to coral it. "That thing forced my people out of their homes. Houses have been destroyed. Supplies lost. I have six citizens down with frostbite, and ten injured from fighting those flying things!" He stabbed a finger down towards the Archmage. "You may have saved Winterhold, boy, but you're the one who put it in danger in the first place! Have you any excuses?"

Alexander Meteuse held his gaze for a few seconds. Then sighed, and looked downwards. "None at all. You're absolutely right."

That...completely took the wind out of Korir's sails, actually. He blinked, dropping his outstretched hand. "You what?"

"You're right." Alexander admitted, spreading his arms in supplication. "It was entirely our fault. Amano-"

"Ancano." Mirabelle whispered.

"Ancano may have been the one to use the Eye, but we allowed him to it, we dug it up in the first place. It was a string of preventable mistakes that lead to your hold being put into danger." Alexander narrowed his eyes. "With Savos Aren dead, I as Archmage am now responsible for that harm. And I am truly sorry."

Slowly, Korir sat back down. "You're a lot more respectful than most of the mages I've dealt with in the past." He admitted, gruffly. Glancing at Mirabelle, "Most just seemed keen to deflect as much responsibility as possible. Especially this one."

Mirabelle scowled, but Alexander put a hand on her shoulder, replying "Let's not behead the messenger here, Korir, or insult my colleague. Mirabelle just delivered the bad news. But again you're right. The College of Winterhold is a part of Winterhold, whether we want to be or not. So we need to be held accountable for the way we affect you."

"Well said." Korir leaned back, arms on his armrests. "So? How do you intend to repay us for your mistake?"

"Well I'd give you gold, but we don't have any." Alexander replied, frankly. "However, we're the greatest mage college in the country. We can do so much more than coin."

He turned, started pacing. "Colette Marence is our eminent restoration mage, a brilliant healer. She has agreed to make herself available to the citizens of Winterhold for the next few weeks. If you're willing to trust her, I assure you your people will be right as rain after some time in her care. We also have assorted potions we can provide you with, for those who don't want our magicka all over them." He rolled his eyes, exasperatedly. Korir almost felt himself wanting to join the boy for a moment, which was startling.

"Those who were left homeless by the event are of course free to take residency in the College while the rebuilding takes place. If you find yourself needing more hands..." Alexander smiled. "I can't give my apprentices orders, and this isn't in any way their fault, but from what I've heard they're all very eager to help. I'm sure that if your people asked, they'd be happy to assist with construction, gathering supplies, or keeping the fires lit. I hear they proved during the crisis that they are both very determined and very creative."

"Hmm." Korir hmm'd. It was more than he'd expected to be able to pry out of them, and they were giving it willingly. "We can make arrangements. But you can't expect that to repay the many debts your people owe us."

"Such as?" Alexander asked, his expression implying he'd expected the question.

"How about the dozens of cases of your magic running amok throughout the decades?" Korir offered. "How about the great collapse? You can apologise all you like, but you're apologising to a remnant of what Winterhold once was!"

"Yes, I expected this to come up..." Alexander looked around, then walked closer to the throne. "Do you want to know what really happened? When most of Winterhold city fell into the sea, all those years ago?"

Korir leaned in, eyes widening. "Aye?"

"Well me too!" Alexander rocked backwards, leaving Korir flabbergasted in his wake. "But I have no idea. Archmage Deneth was my predecessor's predecessor, Korir. This event happened eighty years ago. Perhaps (for literally zero sensical reasons) Deneth actively destroyed the city. Perhaps it was an accident of the College's doing, that they then covered up to protect themselves. Or perhaps it was simply a really long storm, or the aftermaths of an eruption, or one of a thousand other accidents that the College's warding protected it from. I assure you I'll be performing a full internal investigation, but..." Alexander spread his arms. "Nobody here today was alive to witness it. Isn't it time to simply call it a tragedy and move on?"

Korir scowled. "So begged the two Archmages before you." He pointed towards his room. "I have a book in my bed-table that lists the name of every family that was lost in that disaster. Pages and pages are filled. This is about justice, Archmage Meteuse. Should we call the sacking of the Imperial City a tragedy and move on? Should we forgive and forget every time a Thalmor enforcer makes another of our citizens disappear?"

Alexander stared at him for a few seconds with inquisitive eyes. Then, "I have a gift for you, Jarl Korir."

"Eh?" That was a non-sequitur if he'd ever heard one.

Alexander reached behind him and unstrapped the fur-bound package on his back, continuing, "Tell me. If you're out alone in Skyrim, which one weapon or tool is the most important?"

"The axe." Korir replied, immediately. "A good axe lets you protect yourself, you can cut down trees to make a fire, hunt and skin an animal, strike a flint on it if you really have to. No true Nord leaves for the wilds without one."

"Sounds about right. You'd know it better than me." Alexander set his 'gift' down between them, and began unwrapping it. "But you and I aren't alone in the wilderness, are we? We're both leaders. You are a Jarl, Korir; what is your prime duty, above all others?"

That also wasn't a question that merited any thought. "To protect my people." He replied.

"To protect your people." Alexander nodded. "And for that you need..."

Korir looked down at what had been unwrapped, and narrowed his eyes. "A shield?"

It was a simple thing. Wooden, metal rimmed, a standard circular Nord shield. It's face was charred black, as though some great fire had struck it's front, leaving a few flakes of dark blue paint around the edges. "Is that..."

"One of your own Hold guard's shields." Alexander nodded. "It was found abandoned on College grounds; seems one of your men was willing to come and defend us after all. I thought I should return it." He hefted it up, and Korir noticed a slight blue shimmer to its surface.

"I've enchanted it." The Archmage continued. "This shield is now resistant to any kind of magical attack. Mirabelle, if you would..."

He turned, and his assistant summoned lightning in one hand, fire in the other. Bolts of both flew towards the shield, and though Alexander staggered backwards there was no visible effect on it's surface.

"Heh. I do good work. It's no Spellbreaker, but it should help you protect yourself next time some pesky mages come and attack." The Archmage proffered the shield.

Korir hesitantly stood, then reached out and took it. Nothing felt wrong about the weight of it in his hands, it was...a shield. Sturdy. Strong.

"You are Jarl of Winterhold." Alexander said, stepping back. "Just like I with my College, your duty is to ensure what is best for your people. To that end, your focus must be on the present. And the only reason you should look to the past is to help you better prepare for the future." The Archmage crossed his arms. "For people like you and I, there is no room for pride. There is only action and consequence. Our quarters are grand because it benefits our people to appear strong. We collect payments from them so we can put that money towards strengthening the group as a whole. I beseech my apprentices to work because attendance without learning would leave them ill-prepared for the future. You call upon your citizens to fight a war because to do otherwise would surrender your country's future to its enemies. Promises of honour, power, and glory may motivate our people, but they should never direct what choices we make. To allow otherwise would not only make us selfish, it would spit on the sacrifices of those before us, who brought us to where we are."

Alexander walked forwards, and held out his hand. "I want us to be allies, Korir. Not because we like each other, not because we need each other, not because of the actions of those who came before us. But because doing so will make Winterhold a better place for those we both have to protect. Are you with me?"

Korir looked at the Man's face. What he saw there was simple, raw certainty.

Slowly, the Jarl of Winterhold strapped the shield to his arm. Then he reached forwards and took the hand. "Aye. I'm with you. Now let's talk about how to help that healer of yours do what she needs to."

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"...And that's about the extent of it." Finished Dulurza, looking up.

Ngh...ow, that hurt...why do I feel so...achey...

Oh, wonderful. You're back.

Ugh...I am. What hit me?

You took over my body and almost killed a woman.

Took over? Is that how it went? Hmhmhm. Darling, you were begging for my help.

Elisif tried not to let the sudden reawakening of her tenant show on her face, looking between the rest of the people in the meeting.

"What do you mean, gone?" General Tullius demanded.

"Are you genuinely asking that question?" Dulurza replied gruffly, leaning against the far wall. "Gone. Not there anymore."

"Gone as in 'butchered' or gone as in 'left'?" Tullius rephrased, crossing his arms in clear annoyance.

"Left, sir." Rikke filled in. "No signs of struggle or disturbance. The fort was a ghost town when we searched it; all the supplies and tools had been taken."

"Borgakh had plenty of time to get back and report her failure." Dulurza added, quietly. "They must have realised they didn't stand a chance against a prepared army, took their chance and fled."

Inside Elisif's head, Potema's voice was recovering its usual volume and confidence.

Oh, now I remember. Oh, this is juicy.

Can you just...not? Right now?

How could I be quiet? Tell me, Elisif, how does it feel to know that your favourite new toy was planning to murder you?

"...can't have just vanished into thin air." Tullius leaned over his map, scowling. "How haven't they ran into any of our patrols yet?"

"They won't be using Nord roads." Dulurza snorted. "And I bet that's all it takes. All your men are busy with the Stormclaoks."

"Then where are they going?" Tullius demanded.

"No idea."

"Oh, for..."

"Anywhere." Dulurza shrugged. "Further Northwest into the mountains. Off into one of the other holds to rebuild. To be absorbed into one of the other tribes. Planning to raid Dragon Bridge or one of the other Haafingar villages out of spite. I...The tribe's actions have become so senseless recently I don't know what they could be planning anymore."

"For the love of the Eight..." Tullius sighed, stepping back from the map. "I can't be dealing with this. I'm already fighting one war, now I have to deal with a Forsworn uprising in Markarth, and a thrice-damned rogue Orc tribe in my own hold, not to mention all the delays with the Emperor..."

"The Emperor?" Elisif asked, coming out of her reverie upon hearing the word.

Tullius stopped, looked at her. Then across to Dulurza.

"This conversation is starting to go beyond what either of you should be hearing." He said, calmly.

Elisif almost growled. "Concealing more information from me, General?" She asked, icily.

Her aggression seemed to briefly take him aback, but he recovered quickly. "I mean no disrespect, Jarl. But with the war as delicate as it is, key information should be kept need-to-know. The fewer that know, the better."

"So I am not trusted, then? Understandable. Perhaps I am a Stormcloak spy." Elisif stood up. Her headache was growing again, and she had always hated the stifling atmosphere of Castle Dour. "Should you ever decide that your caged bird deserves to know what happens In Her Hold, feel free to send a messenger to me. Good day, general."

Tullius made some noncommittal noises, returning his gaze to his map. Elisif nodded to Bolgier, stood quietly in the corner, who moved to her side as she began to leave. Dulurza briefly started in Elisif's direction as well, then froze, winced, and instead moved ahead to the door.

Thank Talos she remembers the new status quo. I'm not sure I'd be able to rebuke her if she came to my side...

You truly don't trust her, do you? Potema's drawl once more interrupted Elisif's thoughts.

How could I? She was planning to kill me!

Planning, and yet chose not to.

Well, yes, but...Elisif grit her teeth as she stepped out into Solitude's sunlight. What's your angle? Why do you care about Dulurza?

Because I enjoy her. Potema replied, frankly. And because it's in my interests that this country is in as good a position as possible when I take it over.

I won't let you-

Yes yes, hush. Potema sounded simply bored of Elisif's protests. So, you don't feel you can trust her?

Elisif looked up at Dulurza, walking a few paces ahead of her. I...I want to trust her. But I can't.

Oh, poor baby. But there's a way we could change that~

Elisif looked from side to side, as though someone might somehow be close enough to hear what she was thinking.

What way?

Oh, it's simple, my dear. Potema's voice took on that edge, the one it usually only held when discussing the uses of parsing knives. You don't trust what she'll do because you don't think she knows what she'll do.

All you have to do is force her into a situation where she has to choose...

8˂

L'laarzen stood on the inside of the prison cell, and Mercer stood on the outside.

She waited.

Mercer kept staring at her. "You actually believe you can beat me in a straight fight." He said. "You know what I can do and you still want to tousle with me?"

"Or perhaps Khajiit is bluffing, and wants you to get cold paws and leave." L'laarzen offered.

"Perhaps." Mercer acknowledged, smiling. "Nocturnal, it's been far too long since I've been able to play a game like this."

He took a step towards her cell. Then another.

She darted forwards a step, flexing her arms out to either side, and he jolted back towards the railing behind him.

She grinned.

He narrowed his eyes, and walked back towards her.

She rushed forwards again, grabbing the bars of her cage.

This time, he didn't flinch.

"You didn't bring the key, did you." She decided.

"I'm not that stupid." He replied. "It's somewhere safe, I assure you. And what it has unlocked within me stays open."

"Good to know." L'laarzen said.

She rattled the bars of her cage.

Again, he didn't so much as twitch.

And then she threw the door open, crashing it into his face and shoving him backwards, as she charged out into the landing and swiped at his face with one claw.

Of course, she'd picked the door open before he even arrived. Who did he think she was?

The shock lasted barely a moment, he was able to put a gauntleted hand between L'laarzen and his face, but that wasn't what she was going for. She ducked low, rushing past him as he staggered away with her other hand reaching for his belt. The sword there wasn't secured in it's sheath (he'd clearly expected to need it) and it came free with a clean ring.

Before he could catch her, she took the remaining two steps to the edge of the landing and hurled the weapon over the bannister, sending it falling into the (thankfully empty) communal area below.

There. Karliah said that crossing blades with you would be foolish. But there are so many ways to avoid doing so.

She felt his arm grip onto the back of her rags, and she spun, bringing one leg up and sweeping it around to crack across his jaw. He stumbled backwards, losing his grip on her, and she followed him, claws drawn.

She swiped for his throat twice; but he batted both away, so she kneed him in the groin and tried again.

This time he caught her hand in his, eyes hard and locked onto hers. She expected the crush but didn't allow it, bringing her other hand up and raking her claws down the inside of his arm.

The boiled leather of his armour split into shreds, but she drew no blood. He swung with his other arm at her head, and she ducked, before trying again, and this time he released his grip, pulling his arm back and away from her.

He threw a straight punch at her abdomen, which she swerved past, and then she kicked at the side of his knee, aiming for the break. He shifted his stance, catching her kick on the front of his knee, and then surged forwards.

The sheer momentum he was able to generate just from a standing position shocked her, she was forced stumbling back into the bannister as he bore down on her again, his arms up in a boxer's stance.

She ducked two of his punches, then made the mistake of blocking the third on her forearms. It slammed her back again into the bannister, and she had to grit her teeth against the pain of it.

He's too strong. Much too strong. But L'laarzen is better than him; she is certain of it.

She punched twice at his abdomen, feinted again for his throat, then when he swerved back, elbowed him in the stomach.

He hardly seemed to feel it, reaching out to grab her, but she slid left, backing up to regain space and eyeing him warily.

Mercer didn't wait, charging her like a bull.

His style was blunt, simple, and effective. He kept his arms up over his face, his stance low, and just kept on trying to punch her. A decent strategy, when landing one quick straight would break bones.

She, on the other hand, was like the wind. Swirling, untouchable, and sharp when she needed to be. Within half a minute she had torn the skin of his forearms to shreds, blood dripping onto the wooden floors, while he hadn't even landed a glancing blow on her. But the pain didn't even seem to register, and he was just pushing her backwards around the prison. Shouts began to emerge from the other cells, the prisoners taking notice of the brawl going on outside their doors. Soon, the guards would notice too.

Restrategising...

She dropped to a crouch, body coiling, and reached out to his legs, trying to hamstring him.

He scooted backwards, naturally, and brought his arms up to take advantage of her new elevation-

Now!

She sprang upwards, putting one foot on the bannister for an extra boost, and flipped full over his head.

Her stomach stung, tendons stretching farther than they were comfortable stretching, but her body held.

In one smooth motion, she grabbed one of his arms and twisted it, landing with it in a vice grip and forcing Mercer down onto one knee.

She slammed her foot down on his shoulder, reached down to slit his throat from behind-

And then he stood up.

Her mistake was a fairly simple one, in truth. She, like most people, did not have much experience fighting people with incredible strength. It had been a logical assumption that she needed to avoid his attacks rather than block them, yes, but what she hadn't realised was that all her usual grapples and holds wouldn't work.

She realised all this as, with an enraged roar, Mercer surged to his feet, taking L'laarzen up with him. Her back slammed into the roof, forcing her to howl and lose her grip on him. Then he grabbed her left arm, and flung her away.

She felt the arm crack, as she was sent flying into the bannister.

It was not a very sturdy bannister.

The old wood shattered with the force of her collision, and she fell amidst a hail of splinters down to the lower level, her back slamming onto one of the tables with a mighty crash.

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Mirabelle was silent as they left Korir's hut, after over an hour of further discussion. She was silent as they walked through Winterhold, silent as they crossed the bridge, and silent as they walked up the spiral staircase. It was only when they emerged into the Archmage's quarters that she opened her mouth, and said "How...did you...do that?"

"Hm?" Xander looked at her, as he dropped himself into a seat.

"You played him." Mirabelle still couldn't believe what she'd seen. "Like a damn fiddle. Korir is the most stubborn, ignorant, incorrigible man I've ever had the displeasure of dealing with, and you...you made him agree with you! You made him like you! How?"

"On the contrary, Korir was easy." Xander removed his robe, one he'd found far in the back of Aren's cupboard. "Refreshing, actually. Do you know how rare it is to meet someone who actually believes in what they're saying? Honourable politicians don't exist in Cyrodiil. The only honourable man in the Imperial City is the emperor, and you can tell he's honourable because everybody hates him."

"But-but you told the truth." Mirabelle sat down across from him, confused. "And then...you didn't? You admitted to all the things I've been told not to admit for fear of him actually attacking us. And...it worked? And the strangest part is that you admitted to all that, and then you lied about the most inane things!"

"Oh, that. That was...more complicated." Xander leaned back and grinned, eyes alight in a way she usually only saw listening to the masters talk about their subjects. "It's actually really fun to get to explain all this stuff, I've been tutored on it since I was six. Okay so, most of the time when someone's being confrontational, the first instinct is to rise to the aggression. Butt heads and try to make them break, or dig your heels in and refuse to give any ground. But it's actually often best to back down. Once I admitted responsibility (and let's be honest, there was no way for me to deny it without looking a real prat), his urge to 'win' was sated, and he was able to sit down and discuss the rest sensibly. I only lied when it benefited us and we could get away with it. Case in point, I said we couldn't afford to pay him with money. That was a lie, we do have some money, I just didn't want to give it to him. But since I slipped that in among all my concessions, he let it go."

"And...the speech? About the shield, or, whatever it was." Mirabelle asked. "Did you come up with that on the spot?"

"Hah! No, I'm not Octavia. I'd rehearsed the basic beats of it ahead of time, just had to ad-lib a little based on how he was responding." Xander explained his actions with a straight posture and proud smile. "Step one was convincing him that he and I were in the same position, both to build empathy and to imply I knew what I was talking about. Step two was convincing him what I thought he should do in his position, without making it seem like was telling him how to do his job. That bit was a little tricky; I have a tendency which I'm still working on to just tell people bluntly if I think they're wrong. And step three was linking what I thought he should do back to what I actually wanted, which was for him to stop pushing me about the Great Collapse business and accept our help. The shield was just a visual aid, made the point feel more tangible and real."

Mirabelle leaned back, shaking her head in disbelief. "That...that was brilliant. I can hardly believe I'm saying this, but...the College might not be doomed after all."

"Thanks? I think?" Xander said, looking half embarrassed and half chuffed with himself.

They were interrupted by a buzzing sound, and one one the objects on Savos' old desk started flashing.

"Oh no." Xander was immediately on his feet, crouching behind his chair and staring at it. "What is that? Did I do it? Will it explode?"

"That's from the College's wards. The ones that have been such a topic of discussion lately." Mirabelle walked unconcerned up to the device. She tapped it, causing a plate-sized projection to appear above it, and started analysing. "A foreign magical signature is approaching the castle. This wants to know whether to let it in or not."

"Oh, nifty." Xander straightened up a little. "Is it a person?"

"No, it's flying in from the west." Mirabelle manipulated the projection, frowning. "It looks like a...Daedra? Not a Daedric Prince." She rapidly corrected, when Xander ducked back behind the chair. "Not even a Dremora, it's makeup is more like...do you know the Summon Familiar spell?"

"Oh. Oh!" Xander's posture visibly relaxed. "Yeah, let it in. Don't worry, I know what it is. Come on, let's head to the roof."

Mirabelle raised her eyebrows but nonetheless did as requested, flagging the intruder as a non-threat and following him to the stairs. "Is this what I think it is?" She asked.

"If you think it's a familiar summon being repurposed as a carrier pidgeon, then yes." Xander replied, walking ahead of her. "When she was still at school, my big sister Octavia worked out this clever way to rig a soul gem to-Well, point is she taught the other three of us. Over long distances it's not really any cheaper or safer than regular mail, but it's...personalised. This means one of my siblings are contacting me."

He stepped out onto the roof and Mirabelle stepped after him, the cold wind pulling at her robes. Looking out, the bird was already visible flying towards them. It glowed a ghostly purple, and looked like one of the hawks common in central Cyrodiil.

"Oh, nice, it's Julius! That's his favourite bird." Xander held an arm out, and the daedra-hawk elegantly slowed its descent and landed there. It held out one leg, with a very ordinary (but very ornate) scroll tied to it.

"Okay, let's see here..." Xander took the scroll, patted the hawk, and it vanished in a classic desummoning swirl. "It says it's from the Aldmeri dominion, that's weird, why's brother middle-manning an official commun...uh...oh."

Xander opened it. Started reading. Shut his mouth.

"It's a response to that time we killed their agent, isn't it?" Mirabelle said.

Xander nodded, blankly, still staring at the page.

"So, what do they say?" She walked up, trying to see the page as her panic rose. "Are they demanding recompense? Giving it up as a bad job? Threatening legal action? Is this a declaration of war?"

"Uh...none of the above." Xander turned it over to her, showing her the flowery writing. His face was, quite simply, bewildered.

"They're...inviting us to a party."

8˂

L'laarzen gasped in a shuddering breath, laying spread-eagled on the table as her body burned.

She'd told Mercer that she was healed. That had been a lie. Life on the run was not an optimum environment for recovery.

Her head rang, her left arm was bent at an odd angle, and her back...she couldn't move. It was difficult enough just to breathe.

And then Mercer walked up to the hole in the bannister upstairs, and she quickly regained the motivation.

Golden light pulsed between her fingers, and rejuvenating energy flooded her body. This wasn't a 'heal me' spell, this was a 'allow me to function for a few more minutes so I don't die, I'll pay the price later' spell.

The ache spiked, but adrenaline flooded her system and it was enough for her to make herself roll sideways off the table just as Mercer jumped down to her. She crashed onto the floor, rolled, then stumbled to her feet, catching sight of Mercer's fallen sword and kicking it further into the corner as he crashed down in a crouch where she had just been.

"Is that all?" He said, rising to his feet and stepping off the table. "Come on, I thought you were something special!"

L'laarzen turned back to him and swung her right claw, but her speed had dropped considerably; he grabbed her wrist with one hand and punched her in the elbow with the other.

The arm broke, and she screamed.

He tossed her backwards, then didn't so much kick her as put his foot in her back and shove, sending her sprawling to the floor.

"Heh. Heheheh...ah, you bitch." Now he sounded hurt, which was odd, she heard him working his arm around in circles. "That was an interesting hold, cat, where did you learn it?"

"Go chop off your manhood and bury it in the desert." She snarled back, trying to get her hands underneath her.

"Hmph." He worked his boot under her stomach and hiked her over, dropping her onto her back.

She blinked up at him through bloody eyes, watching him crouch over her.

"I'd say this isn't personal." He told her, pressing one hand down on her sternum and raising the other fist into the air. "But it absolutely is."

"K-gah! Khajiit sees why you are a thief, and not an assassin." The pressure Mercer was putting on L'laarzen's chest made it agonising to suck in a breath. Still, she managed it. Her eyes narrowed. "You talk far too much."

Flashes lit up her hands, and she launched twin streams of flame at his face.

Mercer howled, staggering backwards and pulling his hands up to protect his head. L'laarzen didn't waste a second, dragging herself up to her feet and beginning a staggering run in the opposite direction. Too late, she realised that the stairs were the other way, and so fixed her gaze on one of the wooden support beams.

Come on girl. One last push-

She leapt, hitting the pillar at full speed.

One step (ow) two (ow) three (OW) and then she reached forwards to dig her claws into the wood and pull herself up. One arm was broken, the other sprained. It was a ridiculous thing to even attempt, and the only reason she was even trying was the cold terror running through her.

"GET BACK HERE, CAT! I'M NOT THROUGH WITH YOU!"

She screamed aloud as she gripped on, held, her arms felt like lightning was running through them and she forced herself to shove herself upwards again, and then again, and her head was peeking out over the edge of the upper floor and then-

Her left arm gave out. Of course it did. She hissed as it lost its grip and dangled uselessly beside her. Her feet slipped off, and her right claws tore half a foot long gashes in the pillar before losing its grip, she went into free fall-

And an arm reached down, grasping onto hers.

"Gods above, lass!" Panted Brynjolf, his upper body dangling dangerously over the railing. "You're an absolute maniac!"

Other hands joined his, grabbing onto her arm, then shoulders, and hauling her up over the edge, at which point she collapsed on the balcony and groaned pitifully. Footfalls and shouting echoed around her, as she closed her eyes and curled up. "T-Took you long enough." She hissed.

"Well I wasn't exactly dawdling!" Enthir's voice appeared nearby. "And-Oh, Stendarr's mercy, how are you still alive? Someone get this woman a healer!"

There was a loud thud, and L'laarzen snapped her eyes open. Mercer was stood on the balcony opposite her, and from the way everyone had just gone quiet, it was possible he'd jumped up in one leap.

He surveyed everyone gathered (over a dozen people, in the chaos L'laarzen couldn't even count who was there) before his eyes landed on her. His face was red, cracked, and blistering from the flames that had caught him before he could block them. The rage in his gaze was blood-curdling.

"I knew she would escape!" He said, eyes not leaving hers. "Someone put a dagger in her before-"

"We know the whole story, Mercer!" Brynjolf shouted. "We've seen what you've stolen! Give yourself up now!"

Mercer bared his teeth. "So. Karliah isn't dead, is she?" He said to L'laarzen. It wasn't a question.

She was barely, barely, able to smile. "Y-your weakness, Mercer. Is that you do not trust others. And so you cannot be in two places at once."

Twenty minutes earlier, Enthir was stood in the Cistern of the Ragged Flagon, arms raised above his head with a variety of daggers pointed at his throat. One of his hands clutched a red book.

"I'm aware how this all sounds." He admitted, looking between Brynjolf, Vex, and Delvin. "But there's a few easy ways to check if I'm lying. The first is to open that safe, and see if there's less than you expect."

"And what if you are lying?" Brynjolf demanded.

"Then kill me." Enthir shrugged. "But if we spend too long debating here, I'm not the only one who's head is going to roll. What do you think Mercer's going to do to L'laarzen, huh? Have a nice chat?"

The three of them turned, and shared significant looks with each other.

"C'mon..." Karliah muttered to herself, traversing Riftweald Manor as fast as she could. Mercer's bedroom had been a no-show, and now she was knocking on every wall, checking under every painting, and uprooting every bookshelf in her search for something incriminating.

"I know it's too much to hope for a big book that says 'evil deeds here', but give me something."

She entered another pointless room, skimming over the tables and brushing her hands across the walls before coming to a cupboard in the corner. Karliah flung a few pieces of noble attire haphazardly out into the room, before rapping her knuckles against the back.

It echoed.

Oh?

She grabbed the cupboard and tried to shake it, but found that it couldn't be moved from the wall. So she took a few steps backwards, then ran forwards and thrust her foot at the back.

The hidden door opened with a slam, revealing a passage deeper into the earth.

"Here we go..." Karliah rubbed her palms together, and jogged inside.

Back in the present, Mercer finally took his eyes off L'laarzen and surveyed the room, his eyes landing on Brynjolf. "She'll kill you." He growled. "The moment you stop being useful, she'll slit your throat and dump you in the canal."

"I think we've heard quite enough from you, Mercer." Brynjolf replied, evenly.

"Enough!" Shouted some guard or another. "Mercer Frey, you are wanted on suspicion of thievery, murder, and attempted murder of a prison inmate! Surrender immediately!"

Mercer just sighed, and started walking towards the door.

L'laarzen forced herself up onto her elbows- "Get out of his way!" -she shouted, before the strain became too much and she collapsed again.

She didn't see what happened next, just heard a lot of shouting, screaming, and sounds of exertion. Then a thunder of footsteps, chasing out the door and away.

Beyond that, she was too hurt and tired to care.

L'laarzen curled up again, and passed out.

Ouchie.

Events unfold with suitable levels of pain and dramatic flair. L'laarzen is able to (technically) outplay Mercer, and out him to the world. In what I think is a much better solution from a literary perspective than just walking into the guild while Mercer isn't home and immediately everyone trusting you again. There's reasons so many people don't like the Thieves guild, Skyrim.

A quick foray into Elenwen's head reveals she's going through at least as much hell as Dulurza is right now. Meanwhile Xander is finally in his element! Which means it's about time to throw him into a situation where he's far less comfortable. Break out the Summerset Wine, folks!

Next Time: Someone takes a nap, someone meets 'family', and someone gets mail.