"Six fireball scrolls is all I managed. I was not expecting you to leave so soon on another journey." Wuunferth bundled the scrolls with twine and handed them to Rendarion.

"Over a week has passed since we returned from Korvanjund," Rendarion replied, slipping them into the already packed bag in front of him. Despite the numerous items already stuffed inside, the bag showed no signs of being full.

Wuunferth picked up his pipe and took a few puffs. "It's going to be quiet without you here, constantly begging me to enchant this piece of jewelry or that."

Rendarion swung the bag onto his back, testing its weight and feel. Even with the tent and bedroll rolled up, he barely felt its presence. "Another masterful enchantment, Master Wuunferth," he said, flashing a smile.

The old man grumbled. "Be gone with you. I have scrying and research to do."

Rendarion gave a polite nod before exiting the wizard's personal quarters. He had never understood why outsiders commented that the Nords of Skyrim feared magic. Growing up, Rendarion always found that it was the misuse of magic that most people feared. Many were wary of its excessive use due to past events in Winterhold.

Passing into the throne room, Rendarion slowed to a pause. Malik and Ygrid barked at him in greeting, the pair of huskies lounging by the empty throne. The door to the war room was closed, and behind it, he could hear the raised voices of Galmor and Yrsarald. Ulfric must also be inside since Rendarion didn't see him at the table. He started edging closer to the door when the guard stationed beside the left side of the throne cleared her throat.

"I wouldn't. Galmor is not in the best of moods."

"What happened?" Rendarion adjusted his course to approach her.

"Another woman was found dead floating along the docks. According to the other guards, she appears to be a merchant who passed through some time ago."

Rendarion felt the world tilt on its axis. "Another one? Any clues? Are they making the public aware of it?"

The guardswoman shook her head. "No clues that I've heard of. As for the public, well, of course, we don't want the people to panic, but Viola has her nose in everyone's business. She's going around screaming about it."

Rendarion licked his lips. "Can't the guards investigate it further?"

She gave a bitter laugh. "We're stretched thin with the war as it is. There are more brigand attacks on the roads each day. Brunwulf has even hired a few mercenaries to patrol, but I'm not sure what good that's doing." She shrugged.

Rendarion gazed at the closed war room door. A day or two delay in leaving wouldn't hurt. He could lend his aid. Just as he was about to make up his mind, the door opened, and Ulfric emerged. He gave Rendarion the barest of glances before climbing onto the throne.

"Speak, boy. I feel your eyes on me," Ulfric said, meeting Rendarion's gaze. At the command, Rendarion approached the throne.

"I could stay and help with the Butcher case. I might be able to glean something from the scene," Rendarion suggested.

Ulfric smirked. "Are you an Argonian now, able to traverse the frozen waters of the Sea of Ghosts? A soothsayer speaking to the ghosts of the dead?"

Heat spread up Rendarion's ears. "No, but an extra pair of eyes is..."

"I gave you a task. One that is just as urgent. Leave the murder investigation to us. Jorlief and Galmor are planning a course of action. Wuunferth is working on scryings to see what he can find. There is nothing for you to do here," Ulfric interrupted.

"My Jarl, I meant no disrespect." Rendarion bowed his head and stepped back. He knew nothing more he said would change Ulfric's mind. He waited a beat to see if Ulfric had more to say, but the faraway look in his eyes told Rendarion that the conversation was over. "I'll take my leave."

The crisp air blew on Rendarion's skin as he exited the Palace of Kings. He breathed in deeply, finding comfort in the sounds of life in the city. Rendarion walked the familiar steps to the Gray Quarter, where his family maintained a home across from Ambarys bar. Though growing up there had been cramped, he couldn't think of anywhere else he'd rather live.

The door to the three-floor apartment opened with a creak. Though the fire in the stove had long gone out, heat still wafted from the glowing coals. A ladder leading up to the second and third levels made the entrance a little cramped. Behind it sat the oven and a small cupboard for storing things. A few sacks and barrels lined the wall, holding food supplies.

Rendarion set his pack down atop one of the barrels and climbed the ladder to the second level. Here stood the bed he had inherited from his parents. He paused, looking at it. In the late winter nights when the wind howled like ice wraiths, he would snuggle up close to his mother, listening to her tell stories of Valenwood. Sometimes he still saw his parents sitting on the edge of the bed, foreheads pressed together.

Rendarion shook his head and moved to the floor-length cabinetry across from the bed. He opened the cupboards above, carefully taking out healing and stamina potions that had been meticulously crafted. The alchemy station that took up half the countertop sat covered in dust. Rendarion had never touched it, lacking the skills of his mother to create even simple potions. It was not for her lack of trying; it was simply a skill he had never mastered.

He wondered if his mother envied his father, spending most of his time learning to forge and craft. Galmor sometimes teased him that he came out of his mother holding a hammer. The gods knew that sometimes Oengul had to chase Rendarion away with threats of bodily harm just to get his work done.

Moving to the wardrobe, Rendarion sorted out a few changes of clothes. Traveling through Stormcloak-held territories wouldn't pose a problem with his armor, but he needed something that wouldn't draw attention to himself. He wanted to give the Thalmor and Imperials one less reason to target him.

An hour later, Rendarion stood back on the first floor, hands on his hips, surveying the assortment of packs and sacks. His main travel pack held a one-person tent with a sleeping roll, two waterskins, the fire scrolls given to him by Wuunferth, an assortment of potions, and his quiver. The other sacks contained food, clothing, and, most importantly, Jarl Ulfric's axe. Rendarion figured he'd need to wake up early to pack everything on Frost.

However, it was late. A drink at the Gnisis sounded like just the thing he needed before setting off. Ambarys may not have liked having him there, but the ash hopper stew he made was some of the best on this side of Morrowind. Maybe Scouts-Many-Marshes would be there, and he could convince his friend to keep an eye out for anything related to the Butcher.

The walkway between the Gnisis and Rendarion's house was pitch black, with only minimal light from the torches that Ambarys lit at sundown. Even with spring approaching, the night came early. Rubbing his hands over his elbows, Rendarion hurried across the stairwell to Gnisis. He reached out to open the door when a force seized hold of his shoulder, whipping him around and slamming him against the stone wall.