"Ah. I was wondering when you would arrive."
M'raaj-Dar sat comfortably in the Sanctuary, lounging to regard those who had come to kill him. To kill all of them, undoubtedly, those who had already fled. The Black Hand circled him where he sat, blades at the ready. He only shrugged under their stares.
"The Silencer could not complete his task. The others have fled – I do not know where." His eyes landed on J'ghasta in particular, a little tilt of his head for the Speaker he'd once served. The other cat grinned wide.
It was him who'd taught M'raaj-Dar how to speak like the Cyrodiils, to drop the third person. He who'd seen potential in the young mage, so full of hate after his rejection from the Arcane University. He who'd sent him to Cheydinhal, to Lucien with promises of his potential.
And he'd lived up to it. Sithis take them all, he had. Oh, he wasn't like them, with blades and arrows and poisons, but he handled his contracts as smoothly and coldly as they, wisps of frost from corpses that shattered like glass. He'd been loyal, and all his loyalty was for naught. All upturned by that whelp who betrayed them, and just as he'd been foolish enough to begin to trust him. All this, said in a smirk and the raise of a goblet.
"You know, of course, there can be no survivors of a Purification. Not with the traitor still loose." A smooth purr from J'ghasta. "And we cannot trust that you are not the traitor yourself. That you don't know exactly where the others have fled. If you tell us, you will spare yourself much suffering. Do the right thing, Brother."
The right thing. Brother. Acidic those words, dragging a hoarse cackle from M'raaj-Dar's throat. Brother – oh, the mistakes he'd made. Trusting this family. Any of them. He'd given them everything and now…
"I will, Speaker. This one assures you he will."
He knew he wouldn't live, couldn't. Outnumbered, outskilled in such close quarters. But he fought like a wildcat, snarling, throwing vicious spells that charred to bone and froze flesh solid. They had no choice but to put him down, and that was precisely how he wanted it.
They wouldn't use him for their own ends. Never again.
The hems of black robes shuffled around him as he lay there. His goblet spilled, wine mingling at the edges of the dark pool beneath him. His breaths coming low, shallow. Then a low, rasping laugh.
Their confusion was palpable until the reason he chuckled became clear, blood burbling up to stain his furred jaw. Schemer, their little pet rat. One of the touches that made this place not a lair or a hideout, but a Sanctuary. His home. The rat came close to M'raaj-Dar's outstretched paw, sniffing, nuzzling it.
His head rung. Someone moved, their blade poised to strike downwards into his heart as he flopped onto his back. The rat clambered up atop him, nestled in the crook of his neck as he often had. At least someone, he thought distantly.
At least someone remembers what loyalty means.