A/N: Hello, everyone! So it may come as a shock, but this story lives! It's been kind of a weird year and I haven't gotten to write nearly as much as I'd like, although this chapter was actually written and rewritten several times before I was happy with it, but here it is, finally completed.

This chapter is the longest yet and there's a lot happening, but it's fairly broken up and I hope it'll be interesting!


Chapter 9: The Autumn Snows Have Begun

Things could be worse, after all—in theory, anyway. Monica sat slumped sideways in a chair by the fire, glaring up at the snow-darkened panes of the windows. It'd been several hours since they'd discovered they were stranded, and her mood was only continuing to worsen. The freak blizzard seemed to have taken everyone by surprise—"unseasonably early" was a phrase she heard continually echoed as other patrons began to slowly fill the inn.

Beside her, Aventus heaved a long sigh. "Monica, I'm hungry." It was hardly a subtle demand, and she felt a twist of guilt.

"I know," she replied wearily. In the light of day, the bones of his shoulders protruding through the fabric of his tunic were clearly visible, and her heart broke a little at the sight. "Me too. But I…" She trailed off with a sigh, nervously touching the coinpurse. "We can't. Not right now."

"We could go back to the house," he suggested, his tone brightening ever so slightly. "I left some food there."

"In the middle of a blizzard? And risk being seen climbing through the window in broad daylight?" She shook her head. "No. We can't risk it."

Aventus sighed, a hint of a growl behind it, but at that moment, Susanna appeared beside them with a plate bearing a freshly-baked sweet roll. "Good morning! How's everyone doing?" she greeted. It was far too early and too cold for anyone to be that cheerful, but coming from Susanna, it felt genuine. "Thought you might be hungry."

Aventus' face lit up as she handed him the plate, his hands eagerly tearing into it and stuffing pieces into his mouth, even as Monica felt her eyes widen with panic.

"I can't pay for that," she hissed urgently, but Susanna brushed aside her protest.

"Don't worry about it," she reassured. "I'll tell Nils I dropped one. He'll never know any better." She squinted up at the window. "Shame about the weather, hmm?"

Reminded of her current predicament, Monica also turned to glare at the storm. "I can't believe this," she muttered. "It's only Frostfall; how…?"

"It's been a bad year." Susanna's mouth twisted ruefully. "Belyn Hlaalu was just in here the other day complaining about how long it took to get started with planting this spring. I bet he's tearing his hair out over this right now." She sighed. "It's going to be a long winter. And a hungry one."

Monica slumped back in her chair in defeat. "So what are our chances of getting out of the city any time soon?" she asked dully, cringing in anticipation of the woman's answer.

But Susanna looked merely thoughtful. "That depends," she said, making a small hmm sound. "If you're headed north, you may be here a while. But they've already started clearing the streets, and I expect they'll be starting on the roads by this afternoon." She shrugged. "Normally they're better prepared than this, but no one expected it this early. You're probably looking at a few days, I'd say?"

Monica's heart sank. "I see." Her face must have betrayed her, however, as Susanna's expression suddenly grew concerned.

"Or maybe sooner," she added quickly. "It really all depends." But the snow swirling angrily past the window undermined her attempts at reassurance.


The snow continued through the night, although in the fading twilight, the flakes appeared smaller, falling slower. Was it her imagination? Briefly closing her eyes, she sent a quick, silent prayer to Kynareth and Zenithar: Please calm the skies, and let my coin last. But she still awoke to a steady fall of sleet, a new layer of ice crusting over the snow from the day before.

It finally stopped late in the afternoon, and Monica allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief, although the streets were still packed with an icy mess. By late evening, hunger finally got the better of her, and she reluctantly handed over a few coins for a bowl of stew, which she and Aventus shared, greedily slurping down every last drop. And late in the night, when the inn was finally quiet, Susanna once again snuck them down to the kitchen to sleep.


The third day wasn't much better—a grey sky still loomed overhead, thick clouds threatening to split and spill out more snow, but miraculously, the weather held. Around midday, Susanna slunk past their table and slipped them a wedge of cheese along with a hunk of bread. The bread was slightly stale, and she had to scrape a thin layer of mold off the cheese before it was edible, but they tore into it as though it were a feast fit for royalty. They were polishing off the last of the crumbs when a faint commotion began over at the far end of the room, the rest of the patrons scooting back their chairs and rising to cluster around the window.

Monica stood more slowly, Aventus a silent shadow on her heels as they joined the others. Fortunately, they made way with little fuss, shifting over so she could see out as well. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but the last thing she would have expected were the two long lines of ragged-looking men and women marching through the streets in chains.

Evidently her confusion was clear, as another patron leaned in to explain. "They're sending prisoners out to clear the roads," she remarked. "Probably in exchange for time off their sentences. It's a good deal—for them, and for us." But it didn't seem like such a generous offer, as Monica peered more closely and noticed that they were bone-thin and dressed in rags, with only wrappings on their feet. She let out a small gasp when one of them stumbled, falling heavily against another and nearly knocking them both into a snowdrift, only to be violently yanked upright by a guard in a blue sash.

Bile rising in her throat, she turned away and roughly pushed her way through the small crowd back to her table, unable to watch anymore. Hunching over in her chair, she pressed her nails into her palms, attempting to slow her breathing. She needed out of this city. She needed to be free of the constant, oppressive shadow cast over it. There was nothing good here, she thought bitterly. She would have charged straight out the gates, braving the drifts and throwing herself to the mercy of the winds—if not for the small figure that had slunk into the chair across from her, watching with wide eyes.

She tried to smile, but she doubted the sight of her lips grimly stretched over her teeth was reassuring in the slightest. She could still see the fear reflected in Aventus' eyes, in the tentative frown he wore. "You don't like them," he said. "The soldiers."

He caught on to more than she'd realized. She opened to mouth to reassure him, to convince him—and herself—that there was nothing wrong, but she found herself telling the truth instead. "No," she admitted. To her surprise, this seemed to have the opposite effect than what she'd anticipated. His posture relaxed, his legs curling up under him and his forearms planted on the tabletop as he leaned across it, as though sharing a secret.

"Me either," he whispered. His dark eyes appeared troubled. "They came to the house the same day Ma was buried. They didn't even let me pack my things." A scowl crossed his face, and she was suddenly reminded of ritual remains back in his room. A cold shiver ran down her spine, but she leaned forward as well.

"We don't have an orphanage in Battlehorn," she said. "As far as I can remember, we've never needed one."

"You don't?" Aventus looked up in surprise. "Then what happens to kids whose parents die?" His brows knitted together, and she smiled.

"Someone'll take them in. We're a small community, and we're close knit. Relatives, friends…it's all the same, really."

"But do they still have to leave their houses?" His frown had returned, but she felt her own grin growing wider.

"Yes and no." She leaned back in her chair. "Property's a funny thing in Battlehorn. Technically, the fortress and the surrounding lands belong to Lady Adlen, so the quarters you occupy depend on your job. Mama's the head tailor, and she works closely with Lady Adlen, so we've got quarters in the keep. My friend Heidmir, though—his father's a smith, so they've got a cottage by the forge. A lot of the farmers live outside the walls, so I don't know if it's different for them, but during raiding season they come up to the keep anyhow."

Aventus had leaned back in his chair as well, arms folded across his chest, but his expression was earnest. "Do you like it there?"

"I do," she said, and she meant it with all her heart. "I really do. It's…" But she couldn't have explained the dim, drowsy quiet of Lady Adlen's solar, the rush of the wind on the battlements, the smell of that night's dinner wafting all throughout the keep from the kitchens, lying safe in the warmth of her bed at night, hearing Guinevere humming (and occasionally cursing) as she puttered about in her laboratory. "It's home," she finally said. Doubtful that was the answer Aventus was looking for, but it would have to suffice.

"Hmmph." He cocked his head, staring down into his lap. Then, "Maybe it won't be so bad."

It was the most promising semblance of agreement she'd heard from him yet.


"We drink to our youth, to the days come and gone; for the age of oppression is now nearly done…"

Monica fought the urge to scream, glaring balefully at the bard from her place at their usual table. The bard's voice wasn't bad, but in the past four days, she'd sung that same song on the hour at least—sometimes even more. She could hardly blame her, though—she appeared to make her song choices based on request—and with a room full of Stormcloaks, it was inevitable. But the constant repetition had her ready to snap the bard's lute in half—and the lyrics singing Ulfric Stormcloak's praises made her downright sick.

She was tired; sleeping in a chair meant she was barely getting more than a few hours a night, and on top of it, she had a horrible crick in her neck. But it was the hunger raking at her belly that was truly unbearable. Her head pounded and sickly sense of dizziness had settled over her, but the worst of it was the quiet voice in her head, warning her that they couldn't go on like this much longer.

Her gaze shifted to Aventus, who was sprawled across the tabletop. Like her, he wore an expression of pure wrath—only his was aimed directly at her.

"But why?" His voice was bordering on a whine, and she gritted her teeth together.

"Because we're almost out of coin," she replied patiently—but even she could tell she'd failed to disguise the edge to her tone. "Do you want to walk all the way to Whiterun?"

Aventus huffed, slumping back in his chair. "No," he spat sourly.

"Then please, please stop asking me. We're not spending any more money until we get to Whiterun." She'd counted the remaining combined contents of the coinpurses the night before, down in the kitchen after Susanna had left and Aventus had fallen asleep. A dark fear had bloomed in her heart when she was finished, staring at the neat stacks of coins she'd made on the rickety table, and by the light of day, it had taken root. There was just enough for the fare and inn costs for both of them—and then, if they were lucky, maybe enough for one last meal before they were out entirely. All she could do for now was ignore the hunger—and pray she found work quickly in Whiterun.

A silence fell between them, with only the low murmur of the inn to break it—along with the bard's song. She was on the line, "All hail to Ulfric! You are the High King," and Monica was considering marching over and making a request of her own when Aventus abruptly leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table.

"I can get us food." He'd lowered his voice considerably—and Monica knew what he was about to say.

"No. Absolutely not." She shook her head. "For the last time, we are not breaking back into the house." She hissed the last part through clenched teeth, but she was met with a smug expression from Aventus.

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Then where?" she asked sharply, and his face fell a little. "Where?" she repeated, and he glanced guiltily away.

"Some of the nicer houses have good stuff that they just throw away," he mumbled. "They're not going to eat it, but there's nothing wrong with it, and…" His words trailed off, and she finally comprehended what he was saying.

"Aventus!" She stared at him, incredulous, and his face flushed scarlet. "You can't eat out of the garbage!"

He wouldn't look at her, and she had a sinking feeling. "I've done it before," he muttered. "There's nothing wrong with it—they just don't want it."

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "I thought you said there was food at the house."

"There is." He finally looked up, his dark eyes hard as they bored into hers. "Where do you think I got it from?"

There was an edge to his tone that belonged to someone far beyond his years, and her heart broke even further. The spurt of rage that shot through her veins was cleansing, her ill humor fading away as her fury was redirected to its proper target. If not for Ulfric Stormcloak, she reminded herself, Aventus would have been at Honorhall when she arrived.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But Aventus…" She sighed, tilting her head back. "I can't let you go digging through the garbage for food. I just can't."

He rolled his eyes, frustration filling the tense lines of his features. "But I'm hungry."

"I said no!" Her voice rose higher than she'd intended, and several heads turned their way. Her heart froze, but when they mercifully looked away, she breathed a sigh of relief, mentally kicking herself for her outburst. She couldn't afford to lose control again, lest she run the risk of attracting more attention—or of Aventus making the steely-eyed expression he was wearing now.

"It's not fair," he muttered, and she silently groaned.

"I know," she sighed. "But we'll figure something out. It'll be fine."

She only wished she could believe her own words.


The following morning dawned dull and grey as usual, but as the morning wore on, she began to notice something unusual—bright scatterings of light cast in geometric patterns on the floor. Her heart skipped a beat as she followed them to their source—and sure enough, the panes of the windows showed a bright, clear blue.

Aventus had noticed as well, and she caught his eye as his face lit up. "Well?" she asked. "Should we head outside?"

"Can we?" he asked. His eyes brightened as she nodded, and for a moment, he looked more like a typical kid than he had in the time since she'd met him. His grin was infectious, and she felt her face breaking into one of her own.

"Of course!" She was already on her feet, and Aventus eagerly followed suit as she tossed her cloak across her shoulders. As they collected their belongings, she sighed a little to herself, reaching out to help him untangle his arm from the strap of his pack. It was inconvenient to have to lug everything along with them, but the sun was shining, and there was no chance that was she was going to waste this day indoors.

The air was brisk, but compared to the icy wind from the week prior, it was downright balmy. The sky was crisp and cloudless, and if not for the half-melted piles of slush sending tiny rivers spilling into the gutters, it would be typical weather for Frostfall—even by Cyrodiil's standards.

At Aventus' suggestion, they made their way to the city's marketplace, stepping carefully across the street's sparse dry patches to avoid soaking their feet or slipping on the remaining ice. She breathed in deeply, feeling more energized and alert than she had all week, thanks to the close, stuffy atmosphere of the inn.

The buzz and hum of the crowd in the market was slightly alarming, putting her on alert, but she found herself oddly soothed by the clang of the forge as they approached it.

It hadn't even been two weeks since she'd left Riverwood, but she felt a sudden burst of something akin to homesickness. Part of her almost wished she'd stayed, but the duty-bound part of her released a quick surge of guilt at the thought. She couldn't have left Aventus on his own—even though the boy was obstinate and downright ornery, and even though deep down she was just the tiniest bit frightened of him.

But that was overridden by the fear she had for him. Despite what she'd told him back at the Aretino house, what if the alleged Dark Brotherhood had caught wind of what he was doing? What if an assassin had showed up at the house, not to fulfill his request, but to silence him for calling attention to the shadowy order? Or if not an actual assassin, perhaps some small-time criminal seeking to exploit him in some way? Who knew what harm could have come to him?

She shuddered. No, she'd done the right thing, even if it meant standing here in the middle of Ulfric's city rather than safe by the fire in Alvor and Sigrid's house. She could always return, she thought wistfully, and take Alvor up on his offer—but with Aventus in tow, it just wouldn't be feasible. Helping Alvor out of her own accord was one thing—but as his apprentice, she couldn't expect to rely on charity—or rather, expect Sigrid to take care of Aventus for her. The boy was definitely a handful, and it wasn't even as though the town had a school she could send him to during the day.

"Something I can help you with, ma'am?" One of the smiths stepped away from the forge, and she realized she'd been staring.

"No—sorry," she said, quickly stepping back, but on a sudden impulse, she paused. "Actually, I was wondering," she began nervously, and the smith raised an eyebrow. "How, um, how does one go about getting work? At a forge like this one, I mean?" It couldn't hurt to ask—she'd enjoyed her work with Alvor, and there were sure to be forges in Whiterun.

The smith's other eyebrow rose. "You're kidding me," he said slowly. Suspicion crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You're not…asking for yourself, are you?"

"I am," she said, and she forced her spine a little straighter. She'd done good work for Alvor—and she'd earned her right to be proud of it. She wasn't about to let this stranger intimidate her.

The smith sighed, crossing the remaining distance between them and leaning heavily against a nearby pillar. "Well to start with, I'm not taking on any more help right now. I just brought on three more last month." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where a cluster of young people were gathered around the workbenches. "But generally, you'll want to have completed your apprenticeship, and have done well at it. That part's important." His eyes narrowed. "You'll also want references and examples of your work. Then there's a generally a trial period to make sure you're the sort of person I can work with. Every other forgemaster I've ever met has a similar process, though. It's pretty standard." He crossed his arms over his chest. "That the answer you're looking for?"

"Maybe," she said, squirming guiltily beneath her cloak. "And, ah—how does one go about getting an apprenticeship?"

He exhaled, his breath turning to white plumes in the brisk air. "Well, you won't find one with me, if that's what you're asking," he said, and she flinched. "There's a time for learning, and there's a time for action—and that time's here now. This is a labor of honor, and I don't have the time or the steel to spare on teaching."

"Oh, I didn't mean here," she interrupted quickly. "What about Whiterun? What's the business like there?

He stared at her for a moment before throwing his head back and letting loose a raucous roar of laughter. Monica stared back in horror, her face burning deep scarlet as blood rushed to the surface of her skin. People were watching. His assistants had looked up from their work, and passersby were stopping in the street to gawk. She ducked her head as the tears sprang to her eyes, but at least she resisted the urge to shrink back toward Aventus. She hadn't sunk so low as to cower behind a ten-year-old—yet.

He cut himself off mid-breath when he saw the look on her face, turning it into an awkward cough. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. "Sorry." He cleared his throat. "Whiterun's…err, competitive." His brow wrinkled apologetically, and her heart sank. "It's got the Skyforge, and just about all the trade that goes through the province. Lot of talented smiths make their home there."

"Well," she said, struggling to keep the disappointment from her tone. "I see then." Her shoulders still slumped with dejection, although she didn't know why. It wasn't as though she'd actually expected anything to come of this. "Thank you for your time—and the information."

"Don't mention it." He gave her a brief nod before returning to the forge, and she slowly wandered back out into the street.

Beside her, Aventus was squirming impatiently. "You know how to smith?" he whispered, and she stiffened at the incredulity in his tone.

"I know a little," she replied defensively. "I'm better with leather, but I know how to work a forge." Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of his smirk and sighed to herself. "I just need practice," she muttered, but Aventus was darting ahead to one of the market stands, and she sighed to herself as she hurried after him.


They returned to the inn a few hours later, far more sullenly than they'd set out. The excitement had temporarily distracted Aventus from his hunger, but the exhaustion had finally set in, leaving him crankier than ever. But Monica was downright heartsick, having transcended both the ache in her belly and the chill in her bones.

She'd stopped by the alchemist's, but the conversation had gone much like the one with the smith—except the alchemist hadn't been nearly as polite or informative. It'd been his apprentice, actually, who'd told her the same thing the smith had—Whiterun was competitive, and only true expertise combined with formal education had a chance there.

That left sewing as her only other real marketable skill, but she already knew that was a dead end. She'd gotten the strangest looks when she'd asked about tailors, but she understood why. Embroidery couldn't keep you warm in a blizzard, and the practical garments these Nords seemed to favor could just as easily be made at home—for far cheaper, no less. Sadly, it was the one profession she could probably break into without formalized training, but it'd be solely a matter of luck. And it would most likely require settling in Solitude.

She snorted at the thought, but it immediately brought the reminder of her other problem, the one that had her nearly dizzy with fear. If none of her actual skills could bring her any money, her only other options would be working at a market stand, or perhaps as a maid or something. Although most of the vendors had eyed her with suspicion, a few had been on the chattier side, and from them, she began to understand the dire nature of her situation.

No one she'd spoken to had any need for extra help themselves, but they'd all agreed that surely there would be in Whiterun. But the issue lay in the wages they'd estimated she could expect to make—and Whiterun's high cost of living.

She didn't doubt that they spoke the truth, recalling the amount of money she'd handed over just for a night at an inn and a bowl of porridge. When you added together the costs of lodging, food, and fire, she didn't even know how they'd survive the winter, much less save up for two passages back to Cyrodiil.

If only I hadn't crossed the border. The thought had been quietly stewing at the back of her mind for a while now, but as she sat with an empty stomach trying to sleep upright in a wooden chair, it came screaming to the surface. She tried to remind herself that at least Aventus wasn't alone—that he wouldn't freeze or starve in his family's deserted home, or be killed by a wayward assassin—but she was cold, she was hungry, and she wanted to go home. It was selfish, she knew, but she ached for it—to be safe back at Battlehorn with Guinevere, watching the Great Forest light up with a blaze of color.

But for all she knew, she would never see home again. Skyrim winters were a serious matter—and it was starting to seem unlikely that she'd make it through.


By the following night, despair had settled over her like shroud, leaving her glued to an upstairs chair as the other patrons slowly cleared out. At this point, it'd been days since she'd eaten, but she wasn't sure she even felt the pain of hunger anymore—it was as if it'd gnawed the whole way through her stomach, leaving only an empty hole behind. In a way, it was a relief—she'd probably be going hungry a lot in the coming months, and if this was the worst it ever got, she could endure it. Not that she was particularly optimistic on that front, though.

Across the table, Aventus lifted his head. Dark circles ringed his eyes, and his shoulders were slumped with a weariness that should never be seen in a ten-year-old. "Monica," he said, his voice hoarse with fatigue. "Please."

It was the same request he'd made days ago, and he'd been repeating it every day since. Her pride had prevented her from agreeing at the time, but pride, she was beginning to see, was doing neither of them any favors at the moment. And so she found herself beginning to nod, despite the staggering sense of guilt that accompanied the gesture of approval.

"All right," she whispered, blinking back the tears threatening to spill from her eyes. She couldn't bear to see the look of relief on Aventus' face—she had to look away.

"Really?" His voice sounded so much lighter, as if the weight of years had been taken off from it. "It…it's not so bad. Honestly." There was an anxious note in his tone, and when she finally lifted her gaze to his, his earnest expression threatened to rip her heart out. "You'll see," he was saying. "I'll show you."

"I'll have to take your word on that." It was meant to be a joke, but it came out sounding heavy and flat. She slowly pushed her chair back, ignoring the rush of dizziness as she stood. "Should we go now?"

Aventus' face immediately fell into a frown. "No," he said, rising to his feet. "I know the streets, and all the best houses. I'll be faster alone." He was avoiding her eyes, and she felt a quick twitch of dread.

"Aventus," she asked carefully, "is this illegal?"

He hesitated. "No," he said, "but the guards won't like it if they catch you."

That told her everything she needed to know. She should have put a stop to it right there, but she was too tired to argue with him, and she didn't have the heart to deny him after she'd already agreed.

She sat back down as he tugged on his cloak, her guilt increasing tenfold. She had promised Guinevere she would look after Aventus, and she'd meant it—but never would she have expected she'd be doing such an abysmal job of it.

Aventus was making a beeline for the door, but then he paused, glancing back at her. "I'll hurry," he said. And then he was gone, skittering out into the night.

The moment the door shut behind him, she was on her feet, pacing back and forth across the floor of the inn. She had half a mind to run out after him, to demand that either she accompany him or that he return with her. What had she been thinking, sending a ten-year-old out to wander the streets alone? What if something happened to him? He'd claimed he knew what he was doing, but still…

She groaned to herself, slumping down in her chair again. In the week she'd known him, she'd quickly discovered that Aventus possessed an air of self-assurance most people spent a lifetime trying to develop. But underneath it, she reminded herself, he was just a kid. She'd been incredibly naïve to let him convince her otherwise, and she shuddered at the thought of telling Guinevere that she'd let him run around the city alone in the dead of night to scrounge through nobles' garbage. If she was to take care of him, she told herself sternly, she couldn't afford to be so gullible and irresponsible. And as she sat alone anxiously eyeing the clock, she quietly vowed never to be so stupid again.


It was in the wee hours of the morning when he returned. The fire burned low, the main room of the inn was all but empty, and she'd been nodding off in the corner when she heard the scrape of the latch. She sat bolt upright, staring at the door, and when a small, familiar figure came slinking through, she let out a sigh of relief.

"You're back," she whispered as he tiptoed toward her. His cheeks were pink from the cold, and was it her imagination, or was there a slight spring back in his step? "Did…?" She couldn't even bring herself to ask the question, but he nodded enthusiastically, the first genuine smile she'd seen from him in days breaking over his face.

"Here." He pushed something into her hands, and her heart sank when she saw what it was. An end crust of bread, only slightly stale, and half an apple, a bit mushy but still edible.

She swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in her throat as she spoke. "Aventus, you—you didn't have to…"

He frowned. "Yes I did," he said, a puzzled expression spreading across his features. "Now hurry up and eat!"

She couldn't look at him. She was blinking back tears the entire time, but she managed to force down every last bite, although it may as well have turned to ash the moment it touched her tongue.

They retreated to the kitchen once she'd finished, and although Aventus was out the moment he flopped down on his makeshift bed, Monica sat wide awake in the semi-darkness, glaring in the direction of the pantry. Stocked to the brim with fresh food, yet here she and Aventus were, eating literal trash. She felt a sudden flood of anger—but Susanna had provided them with a place to sleep, and risked her job by sneaking them food as best she could. No, that wasn't the real reason she was angry, but the fury remained just the same, pulsing beneath her skin. And once the steady rhythm of Aventus' breathing assured her that he was truly asleep, she crept back up the ladder to their usual corner, where she buried her face in her hands and wept.

If her goal was protecting Aventus, then she had failed. Never in her life had she failed so miserably. She'd made a promise to Guinevere, but how was she supposed to keep it? She was utterly useless, she reminded herself bitterly, as her trip to the market the other day had proved. She had nothing. She was nothing. And by some horrible trick of fate, Aventus was relying on her for survival. She snorted. Somehow, not even that was true anymore, seeing as he had been the one to provide them with food tonight. And that thought was the worst of all—that she'd become the responsibility—the burden—of a child. Because despite his tough act, Aventus was only ten years old. He should be depending on her, not the other way around.

Her tears had long since dried up, and she was left only with grim resolution. She was out of money, out of options, and out of hope, but she had to find a way. She had to do better. She would do better. And she silently made another promise to herself.


In her dream, she faced the dragon again. She could only stand helpless, petrified with fear as it stalked forward, eyes glittering with malice as its maw cracked open. She closed her eyes bracing herself for a rush of flame—but instead, its jaws snapped down on her arm. "Monica."

She cried out as she was jerked from the nightmare, only to come face to face with a very startled Susanna. "Oh!" Susanna stared at her with wide eyes as she gasped, struggling to slow her breathing back down to normal. "Oh Talos, I'm sorry."

"That's—ah, that's all right." She stuttered the words out, despite her heart threatening to burst straight out her chest. Beside her, Aventus had awoken and sat up, although she still felt as though she was seeing the world through a haze of dragon's breath.

"Nils is going to be here any minute." There was a flicker of annoyance in her voice, and Monica cringed—they'd overslept. "But Arivanya just walked in, and I heard her telling Elda the carriages are going to start running again today."

That was enough to jolt her out of her stupor. "Really?" She leapt to her feet, and Susanna's stormy demeanor softened ever so slightly.

"Yes," she said, a brief smile flickering across her face. "I don't know where to and they're definitely not back to normal schedules yet, but Nils is coming and you need to go!" She made a shooing motion with her hands as Monica and Aventus scrambled to gather their belongings. It only took a matter of moments—they'd slept with shoes on, their cloaks had been used as blankets, and everything else was already in their packs. "Good luck!" Susanna hissed as they fled out into the hallway, and Monica paused to give her a grateful smile and wave. Susanna had showed them a kindness few strangers would, and they owed a lot to the woman—possibly even their very lives.

The air was brisk and blustery as they hurried over the bridge, but nothing near the icy temperatures earlier that week, and although there were melting piles of snow everywhere, the roads appeared clear—from what she could see, at least. And as the stables came into sight, she breathed a long sigh of relief—sure enough, there out in front was a team of horses hitched to a carriage, a few figures huddled in the back and the driver lounging lazily in the seat.

"Mornin,'" he called as they approached, sitting up a little straighter.

She lifted an arm to shield her eyes from the glare of the morning sun. "Good morning," she said. "I heard there'd be carriages today?"

"You heard right. Long as you're going south, that is." He swiveled in his seat to peer off to the north. "The roads up that way won't be clear for a while. And I bet you they're still getting weather." He shifted back toward them. "But I'm about to leave for Whiterun, and there'll be another bound for Riften around noon. Where are you headed?"

She hesitated, suddenly feeling ill at the surge of uncertainty coursing through her. This was it, she thought nervously. Once she handed over the fare, she'd be effectively broke. But she'd made promises—and so many mistakes. With her heart beginning to race, she made her choice. "Riften."

Beside her, Aventus took a sharp intake of breath "What?"

The driver nodded. "Shouldn't be too long. Ulundil'll probably let you wait in the stables if this wind picks up." He squinted at the sky. "But we've got to head out. Nice talking with you."

Monica nodded, backing away as he lifted the reins and set the horses lumbering forward, the carriage rolling east along the road toward Whiterun. The flutter in her chest had turned into a full-on rumble, and she began to think she might truly be sick. Every decision she'd made so far on this journey had been the wrong one—why should this be any different? But right now, she had a bigger problem—Aventus was downright livid.

"Monica!" He was yanking on her cloak now, his grip tight and desperate. "You said I wouldn't have to go back there! You promised!"

Dark fury filled his eyes, and for a moment, she was honestly frightened. This was a boy, she reminded herself, who had spent the past month attempting a grisly Dark Brotherhood ritual. But keeping her promise meant being strong—and that meant she couldn't let herself cave to him.

"Aventus," she sighed. "It's all right. You are not going back to Honorhall."

He glared at her with narrowed eyes. "You said we were going to Whiterun," he snarled.

"Well, the plan's changed," she said, the word coming out much sharper than she'd intended. "I have business in Riften, but I promise, you will never set foot inside Honorhall again."

He didn't believe her. She could see it in his eyes, in the way his glare never wavered, the way he shifted away from her. She exhaled.

"I need you to trust me," she said firmly. "Can you do that?"

But he balefully stared her down, and despite the cold wind, she felt herself breaking out into a sweat. By the Eight, what had she done? Had she really been so blind—been so focused on the future that she'd ignored the fact that her fatal mistake was right in front of her? He could take off, she thought fearfully. He could flee back into the city and she'd never find him again.

But then his gaze softened, just the slightest bit, although he slowly brought his arms up to cross them over his chest. "Fine," he spat, and she allowed herself to breathe again. "But I'm not going back to Honorhall."

She met his gaze levelly. "No, you're not." He stared suspiciously for a moment, and then his posture finally relaxed, arms dropping to his sides.

"All right, then."

He was cold and aloof for the rest of the wait, but she still felt sweet relief soothing her frayed nerves. This was a major victory. His faith in her had been tested, but somewhere along the way, she'd built up enough trust with him for it to withstand.

But despite her triumph, her thoughts quickly turned to what lay ahead. They were almost out of money, and if the risk she was about to take didn't pay off, they'd truly be doomed. In Riften, she would either save them—or make her final mistake.