[A/N] Sorry that this part's so late... life outside the Internet has not been kind to my writing endeavors recently.

[DISCLAIMER] I do not own The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, or anything related to it; that's Bethesda's deal, not mine (sadly). I also do not own Sithia Dupre; that grumpy little darling belongs to Child of Sithis. However, any miscellaneous OCs not found in-game belong to me.

PART III

The Palace of Justice was markedly different from the other buildings Sithia had infiltrated on her mission around the Isles. Where most Altmer architecture was light and airy, ornamental while being deceptively sturdy, the Palace was much more candid about its strength. The corridors she'd crept through thus far were all built of stone with arched ribs and flagstones on the floors, the one concession to finery being the pale grey color of the stone.

And, mercifully, they were not particularly well-lit.

That's what you get for substituting brackets and torches for balls of magelight. Sithia almost snorted, but remembered at the last minute to stay silent. Mages.

Carefully, she inhaled, filling her lungs with cold air. Now more than ever, she needed to make sure she was completely silent. Moving unseen was no issue, but a step coming down too hard, a gasp for air, or worse yet, tripping and falling... any of those echoing down the hall would alert gods know how many Thalmor soldiers to her location and then her plan would be ruined.

But where are all the guards? Underneath her face mask, a frown creased her forehead. This is a prison; it should be crawling with them.

Aside from the guard she'd strangled at the entrance and the one Finverior had seen making his rounds, she hadn't seen any other Thalmor, period. After three — almost four — floors, three more staircases, and a chain of endless hallways all leading her to the eastern tower, there had been no sign of any guards or Justiciars, let alone her quarry.

The Imperial's teeth ground together. Does she think I can't possibly find her? she demanded silently. Does she think she's impervious to me?

Or worse: is she lying in wait for me?

Sobering, she peered up and down the winding staircase that circled upward into the darkness. Too narrow, not enough to march a number of soldiers up — but just right for a single Justiciar to fire destruction magic down.

Shuddering despite herself, Sithia glanced around her. The entrance to the eastern tower was down the hallway behind her, where she'd come from. That was considerably wider; soldiers marching two-by-two could easily get through it and surround her.

That left the windows.

Tiptoeing over to the nearest one, the Imperial examined it critically. It was tall and thin, and a little on the high side — not a window, then, but an arrow loop. No, it was too wide for that and archery was not a dominant skill amongst Altmer; it was more likely that spells could be fired through this.

Gripping the edge of the window and walking her feet up the side of the wall to the windowsill, Sithia stuck her head out, and then twisted her body to the side and fit her shoulders through experimentally. It was a tight fit, but she was small and slight enough that it would work if it came to that.

Craning her neck up, she reached an arm out and ran her hand along the stone outside the tower. It wasn't as smooth as what was inside, with definite grooves where mortar separated the stone, but not even the Altmer would hold a prison such as the Palace up to the aesthetic standards of a true palace. If the rest of the way up the tower was like this, she'd be able to scale it.

The only problem was her equipment. The soles of her boots had excellent grip and she had grappling hooks in one of her pouches, but she had very limited rope. Even if she had enough rope, there was no chance she could use it and one of her hooks as an anchor; if the hook caught on a windowsill of an occupied room...

Her thoughts were interrupted by a flicker of light reflected in the corner of her eye: bright and bobbing. Magelight.

Without thinking, the Imperial squeezed the rest of her body through the window. Gripping the windowsill, she inhaled deeply, steeled herself, and dropped herself over the edge.

All her breath shot out of her lungs as she plummeted, and her eyes clenched shut involuntarily. Her fingers nearly slipped and her shoulder sockets protested, but she managed to hold on. Her feet kicked out, finding gaps in the stone to seek purchase in.

Sithia struggled to steady her breathing as she pulled herself close to the wall, tensing as she heard the footsteps echo down the hallway within. Fortunately, they did not falter, and she soon heard them fade away.

The Imperial sighed internally. Looks like my route was chosen for me.

Bringing one knee up and out and splaying her legs over the wall, ducking out from under the window and grabbing hold of the stone, she started to climb.

Hiding in plain sight never got old.

Finverior strode down the hallway, his armored boots clanking against the flagstones. Normally, such heavy, echoing footfalls would have made him wince — after all, a loud assassin is a dead assassin — but a fully armored and armed Thalmor guard trying to tiptoe down a corridor was guaranteed to attract attention.

And I don't want to be noticed until the right moment.

From somewhere around the corner, out of sight, a second pair of footsteps joined his. The Bosmer abruptly slowed, turning his purposeful gait into a more meandering, uncertain one until he stopped in front of a random door, just as the Thalmor Justiciar — a real one, not merely wearing the robe as a cheap and convenient disguise — came into view.

Finverior turned, letting relief flood his face. Showtime. "Justiciar," he called, his voice turning clipped and precise, "would you deign to assist me?"

The Justiciar paused, turning his head; he looked mildly irritated at being interrupted from his course. "What is your business, guardsman?"

Composing himself, the Bosmer held up the bundle of papers clutched in one hand — the "missing" manifests from the Gem of Greenheart, but there was no need for him to know that. "Lady Elenwen bade me return these records to the Palace Archives, but…" He looked around, as if baffled. "I seem to have gotten lost."

The Justiciar shook his head. "Clearly, you are new here," he sighed. He stepped forward, peering at Finverior's helmeted face, and his eyes narrowed. "How one of your racial standing was ever selected for your position is a mystery."

Finverior ignored the insult against his race — though not without difficulty.

"As they are, the Archives are not open to common guardsmen, let alone one of a lesser breed, without a Justiciar escort," the other continued stiffly. "I will spare you from the Lady Elenwen's intended humiliation, but if this becomes a recurring event, expect to find yourself bereft of employment — if you are fortunate."

The Bosmer inclined his head in an imitation of respect. "I consider myself very fortunate at the moment, Justiciar."

The Justiciar smiled sourly. "Even more fortunate than you would think, guardsman. Your bumbling breach of protocol at least landed you in the correct wing of the Palace" He turned and swept down the corridor in the direction from whence he'd came. "From which department did those records come?"

Letting out a quiet sigh of relief, Finverior hurried after his unintentional guide. "I believe Lady Elenwen said that they belonged in the Operations Department —"

The Justiciar snorted, the indelicate gesture somehow managing to sound incredibly snooty. "Records from Priesthood, no doubt."

"I would not know, Justiciar," the other responded immediately, keeping an eye on the doors that they passed. I'll need to retrace my steps sooner or later, and it would help if I knew where the fuck I was. "Surely you do not think that I had looked at confidential files."

"One never knows what to think." The Justiciar's voice was cool, but cutting. "I am surprised that more do not know of Lady Elenwen's harebrained scheme."

"You disagree with her methods, Justiciar?" Finverior attempted to sound surprised and a little fearful. A free-thinking Thalmor. Tonight is full of little miracles.

"I bear no grudge towards the Lady Elenwen, but just as a tool is fitted towards its purpose, so is an operation towards its goals." The Justiciar paused at a particularly heavy-looking wooden door and produced a ring of keys from the sleeve of his robe. "If she truly wished to cripple the northern province, she would stop toying with her food and merely put the pretender king and his criminal queen out of their misery."

Not so different from the general consensus, then. "That is what I would do, Justiciar," the Bosmer dutifully replied. "Neglected enemies oft prove dangerous."

"Well spoken, guardsman." The Justiciar sounded grudgingly impressed. "If only more within the Conclave had more practical concerns." Inserting one of his keys into the lock and turning it, he withdrew the key and pushed open the door.

Almost instantly, Finverior pushed him inside and slammed the door behind both of them, whipping out the needle-thin dagger concealed in the papers. "I don't think you'll have that problem with me."

Fools. Fools, every single one of them.

Elenwen glided up the spiraling steps, her grace projecting an air of calm; the only indication of her stormy mood was the tight set of her jaw. Auri-El knew she'd had to hold her tongue in front of the Conclave before, but Cymbaline's scorn alone was enough to test even her restraint.

"What if she's not alone" — ha! The Altmer's upper lip curled ever so slightly. If the Justiciar-Premier knew half of what I know about my dear Sithia, she would dismiss her notions of a "threat" as easily as she did Operation Priesthood.

In any case, the assassination of her uncle — or, for that matter, any of the other Justiciars that Sithia had killed — was of no import to her. Justiciars of their rank might not be easy to come by, but there were always Altmer to train and replace them: ones possessed of good breeding, a firm grasp of magic, and just enough ambition to drive them to succeed and keep them loyal to the Dominion. Besides, old Ruvilan was past his prime. Altmer of his advanced years and poor mental state have no business in official government positions.

The door to her office came into sight at the top of the stairs, and Elenwen lifted the hem of her dress robes so as to allow her to ascend quicker. Drawing out her key and unlocking the door, she stepped inside and relocked it behind her.

The magelights she'd previously cast into the empty torch brackets on the walls had gone out, and the Altmer recast them with a flick of her fingers. The air in her office was surprisingly chilly, and she frowned with distaste. A glance towards the fireplace confirmed her suspicions that it had also gone out, and with a wave of her hand, that was soon remedied.

A soft flapping sound caught her attention, and Elenwen peered deeper into the chamber, trying to discern the source of the noise amidst the eerie glow of the magelights and the shadows cast by the fire. Some loose papers on her desk flapped in the slight breeze, and she hurried over to her desk, moving a ledger over them to keep them from flying away.

Where did a breeze come from?

The Altmer's head suddenly shot up, and her heart stopped at the sight of the shadowy figure standing on the windowsill, limbs splayed out to lock her in place. Even in the half-darkness, she was instantly recognizable.

"Hello, Elenwen," Sithia spat.

[A/N] I think you can all guess what's coming next... in the meantime, please feel free to review!