Ivarstead cut a very different picture than it had two weeks before. Barricades had been erected across the roads and guards stood watch with weapons drawn. Issana was startled by the mix of liveries: only a few now bore the crossed swords of the Rift, while across the shields of the rest was emblazoned the great bear sigil of Ulfric Stormcloak.

Aside from the soldiers, the streets were deserted.

"Halt!" One of the soldiers leveled a spear at them as they approached the town. "Who are you?"

Issana swallowed nervously as she saw several soldiers nocking arrows to their bows. "We're on our way to Riften. Just passing through."

"Riften?" said the guard. "What's your business there?"

"Home."

"What work do you do?"

Issana frowned. "Mercenaries."

"Really?" said the guard. He looked her up and down. "You don't look like a mercenary to me. Whose pay?"

"Maven Black-Briar."

The man burst out laughing. "How stupid do you think I am? Hah! Maven Black-Briar indeed."

"Look," said Issana, "all we want is a place to spend the night and replenish our supplies. The innkeeper, Wilhelm, he knows us. We were here two weeks ago on our way to Whiterun."

The guard gestured to a second soldier, who turned and strode into town. "You don't mind if we check that, do you?"

The soldier returned a moment later. "Innkeeper recognized the description. Story checks out."

The first guard stepped aside to allow them past the barricade. "Lucky you. Keep out of trouble."

Issana stepped through and entered the town. The sun was setting behind the Throat of the World, already casting deep shadows into the streets as they made their way to the inn. Aside from a few patrolling guards, they saw no one. All of the townsfolk were indoors, shutters closed. Issana could feel the tension in the air, a taut silence as if the whole world was pulled tight, ready to snap.

The inn was no different. A few men and women sat around the room, backs to the wall. There was little conversation; most of them seemed too occupied with watching one another warily. Three soldiers with the emblem of the Stormcloaks on their tunics leaned against the bar, the only source of noise in the inn. They drank and laughed uproariously, apparently oblivious to everything around them.

Issana took a table at the far end of the room and Rune joined her. Wilhelm approached a moment later. Issana gestured with a nod towards the soldiers. "Busy night?"

Wilhelm glanced over at the soldiers nervously. "Arrived two days ago, nearly twenty of them. Offered the town guards the chance to pledge themselves to Ulfric, or leave." He hesitated. "Not everyone went quietly… Good people died that day."

A hearty guffaw resounded through the inn. "Ho there! Barkeep!"

Wilhelm turned, a worried expression on his face. "Excuse me," he murmured, and strode over to the bar.

Issana watched as one of the guards reached into a pouch and pulled out some coins. "Got any more of that mead, barkeep?"

Wilhelm went behind the bar and backed away to the wall, clearly putting as much distance between himself and the soldiers as possible. "Only a few more bottles," he said. "You and your fellows have nearly cleaned me out."

The soldier threw his arms wide. "Then what're we waiting for? Let's finish 'em up!" He slammed the coins onto the bar. "Whatever you've got left. If you please..."

Wilhelm glanced down at the coins and fidgeted for a moment. "That's…" he began. "That's not even enough for one bottle."

The soldier leaned an elbow onto the bar and beckoned Wilhelm with his fingers. "You'll have to come closer," he said, dropping his voice low. "I must have misheard you. I thought you said that this wasn't enough money."

Wilhelm's face paled. "Y-yes, of course. I'll fetch the bottles, just give me a moment."

Rune turned his gaze from the soldiers back to Issana. "Shame poor Wilhelm's got to deal with them. Soldiers are unpleasant enough even without a war on."

Wilhelm returned, fumbling with an armful of bottles. One of the soldiers reached over the bar and tugged one out of his grasp, nearly dislodging the rest. Wilhelm hastily dumped the bottles onto the bar. "Last of my Honningbrew," he said. "As requested."

Issana sighed sadly. "Last of the Honningbrew," she echoed. "Might even be the last anywhere in Skyrim."

Rune laughed. "Oh? And whose fault is that?"

Issana gave him a dark look. "Not mine, thank you very much."

Rune grinned. "No, I suppose not. You sure you couldn't have dealt with that mage in a way that didn't burn the whole place down?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Ah, I wouldn't worry about it," said Rune, waving dismissively. "Maven's reasonable, isn't she?"

Issana snorted and was about to reply when something across the inn caught her attention. She leaned out from her chair to see. Rune turned his head. "What? What is it?"

A burly orc had risen from his seat near the edge of the room. His green skin rippled with muscle and his tusks jutted upwards from his mouth, giving him a permanent grimace. His voice was deep, menacing. "You should pay him what you owe."

The middle soldier, the one who had paid for the mead, turned around. "Excuse me?"

The orc rested one hand on his table where a heavy, wooden crossbow lay. "I said, you should pay him what you owe."

The soldier nudged his two companions. "Hear that, boys? Tuskface here thinks we should pay more than we ought. Thinks we haven't earned our keep by looking after the town. What do you think about that?"

The two other men turned around, snickering. "What are you gonna do about it, greenskin?" said one.

"Careful now, orc," added the other. "You get on the wrong side of us and you might wind up being labeled an Empire-lover."

"Believe me," said the orc, "that is the least of my fears."

"Oh?" said the middle soldier, taking a step towards him. "Is it true, then? Do you-" He swayed momentarily but caught himself. "Do you know what we do to Empire-lovers?"

The orc's fingers touched the crossbow, just for a moment. "Three drunkards don't frighten me."

The soldier sneered. "Well," he said. "Maybe we oughta change that." His hand edged towards his axe.

The orc's fingers crept over the crossbow.

Issana gave Rune a quick glance. "I think Wilhelm has the right idea."

Rune's eyes swept the room and settled on the innkeeper crouching in a corner behind the bar. He nodded. "We might want to take cover."

For a moment, nobody moved.

Then the door to the inn exploded inwards. A guard, tunic bearing the crossed swords of the Rift, stood framed in the entrance, eyes wide with panic. "Look out!" he gasped. "We're under-"

Issana let out an involuntary yelp as a spearhead erupted from the man's chest. He looked down, confusion playing about his face before the spear vanished and he pitched forwards onto his face. Behind him stood a man clad in the leather and steel of an Imperial legionary.

A second later, all hell broke loose.