Chapter One

Finding Direction

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A lone woman was sat, perched atop Whitewatch tower in the shroud of darkness, her black armor cloaking any sight of her. Her bow was trained on a target down below, a target that was walking leisurely as he began to pass by the guard tower. She pulled back her arrow and squinted slightly, taking care that her aim was deadly. When the shot was perfectly lined up, she released her arrow, watching as it whizzed through the air in a matter of seconds, closer and closer to its mark.

A moment later, there was chaos.

The man fell to the ground, dead on impact, and his band of guards looked around wildly for the source. They couldn't find it, of course. She was already gone, having stolen away into the night once more, her footsteps light as a feather, breathing soft and steady.

The woman met her contact back in Whiterun, who paid a hefty sum for the deed to be done. With a coin purse now filled to the brim, she retired to the back of The Bannered Mare to count her earnings. Ten thousand septims seemed like petty change compared to the amount she had amassed over her life up to this point, but the truth was, she wasn't really in it for the gold. No, not quite.

Some would call her an assassin. She called herself that as well, for a long while. Recently, though, she began to think of herself more as a vigilante—someone who would rid Tamriel of the scum that regular law enforcement seemed to overlook. Rapists, those who hurt children, and those who murdered for their own personal or political gain were just a few of the despicable sorts that she enjoyed wiping from the realm. The job being very lucrative was just an added bonus.

Eventually, the woman booked a room with the innkeeper and went upstairs to settle in for the night. She had a long road ahead of her the next few days. Her next contract took her to Riften, and she knew it to be a very worthwhile contract from the letter she had received several days prior. The thought of being on horseback for so long was never an appealing one, but it was an occupational hazard, she supposed.

Sighing, she peeled off her armor and set it on the chair across the room, and then ripped her hair from the tight ponytail she kept it up in. She pulled back the furs on the bed, thinking about how long it'd been since she'd had a proper night's rest in a real bed as she cozied up under the covers. Her eyes closed then, and it didn't take long for her to drift off into a dreamless slumber.

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She woke up early the next morning, just before the sun's rising. She donned her dark armor once again, and paid the innkeeper—with a bit extra as a tip—on her way out of the tavern. Her horse was waiting for her just outside the city walls, having been boarded at the stables for the night. She patted the mare affectionately, then strapped her leather pack to the horse's side before swinging a leg over, giving the horse a little kick to get her going. And then she was off to Riften.

Let's get this over with, she thought.

She rode for two days, only stopping once to make camp overnight. On the second day, she arrived in Riften at just about sundown. She put her horse up at the stables there, and then headed off to meet her contact. He was a shady-looking man, a Bosmer on the short side, even for Bosmers. They met on the docks just outside of the city, and he greeted her with a handshake.

"Alright," he said, clearly not one for pleasantries.

But then again, neither was she. "Let's get down to business."

As they spoke, she learned that this contract was indeed very worthwhile. The mark had murdered the Bosmer's lover, simply because she had rebuffed his drunken advances. And the Bosmer was willing to pay twenty thousand septims to see the job done—certainly not a sum to sneeze at. She gathered all the details, learning that the mark would be leaving the city very soon, with no guard detail and no companions with him. This would be a piece of cake.

She strolled back around to the front walls of the city, casually so as to not draw any suspicion. She walked down the road until she spotted a guard tower, unoccupied and a good bit away from the city gates. Taking the steps two at a time, she reached the top in a matter of seconds and peered over the side of the tower, keeping her eye out for an Orc wearing fancy clothes.

She kept up this stakeout for a good while, yawning as minutes turned into an hour. This game of cat and mouse was getting boring, and she leaned her elbows on the tower's ledge as she peered out into the darkness. And then, she spotted him.

Ducking, she quickly readied her bow, nocking a single arrow. One was all she needed. She raised herself then, watching him meander down the road—clearly drunk—as she took aim.

One breath in, one breath out. And then, she released.

The arrow hit him square in the middle of the chest, and he didn't have time to cry out before he collapsed in a heap on the ground. There were no guards in close proximity, no one to witness the Orc's untimely demise.

She smirked to herself. Piece of cake, indeed.

She quickly made her way down from the guard tower, and dragged his lifeless form into some bushes on the side of the road. She took the ring off his finger—the proof the Bosmer had asked for—and gave his body a bit of a sarcastic salute before she headed off, back to the docks.

The Bosmer was pleased. So pleased, in fact, that he threw in an extra five thousand gold, and let her keep the ring for herself. She stowed the hefty coin purse in her pack, gave him a final handshake, and made her way into Riften. She reckoned that she'd earned a drink.

She headed to the local tavern—The Bee and Barb, as the sign said. Immediately upon walking in, she felt several suspicious eyes on her, and couldn't help but chuckle to herself. Guess they don't take kindly to strangers.

She walked to the bar, where an Argonian woman stood polishing some cups. The Argonian looked up at the stranger approaching, and an immediate scowl graced her face.

"We don't serve your kind here," the Argonian sneered.

"Pardon me?" She cocked a curious eyebrow.

"The Ragged Flagon would be better suited to your kind, thief." The Argonian said the last word with malice in her voice.

The woman laughed. They think I'm a thief? It was a terribly funny notion, but as she glanced around the room, she saw that no one else was laughing. In fact, all the eyes on her seemed just as hostile as the innkeeper's. She sighed, deciding she didn't really fancy getting into a bar brawl tonight.

"Alright, then. Where can I find this Ragged Flagon?"

The Argonian pointed out the way, seeming eager to get this woman out the door. She headed out, toward the sewers like the Argonian specified. What kind of tavern operates in the sewers, anyway?

She found the entrance to the sewers easy enough, but it was a bit of a maze to find the actual entrance to this supposed tavern, and she had to dispatch more than a few skeevers on the way. Once she found the door, she pushed it open to a wide, round room. It didn't look like much, but she hoped she could at least find a drink in this ramshackle establishment.

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The red-haired thief sat in the Ragged Flagon, a mug of mead in front of him as he stared down at his notebook, quill in hand. He was trying to do work, but the raucous thieves around him had the opposite idea in mind.

"Brynjolf," the barkeep, Vekel, called to the red-haired thief. He motioned to the empty mead on the table. "Another one, then?"

Brynjolf smiled. "Aye, that'd be good, thanks."

Vekel set another bottle on the table and retired back to his post behind the bar. Brynjolf took a long swing, wincing as a crashing noise resounded behind him, followed by laughter. The other thieves seemed especially rowdy tonight, for some reason.

By the Eight, it's only the middle of the week, he thought.

He endured a few more minutes of this debauchery, and was just about ready to retire to his bedroom when a stranger walking into the tavern from the Ratway entrance caught his eye.

It was a woman, kind of petite, clad in all black with a mask obscuring the lower portion of her face. She wore a tight, dark ponytail, with a dagger on her hip and a bow swaying on her back. If he had to guess, she looked late twenties, maybe early thirties, but it was hard to discern with the mask.

I don't like the look of her, he thought, his eyes narrowing.

He averted his gaze as she made her way around the pond in the middle of the room, passing right by his table on her way to the bar. Could she be a mercenary, perhaps? A fellow thief, even? Someone who just enjoyed looking a little unsavory? He looked at her again as she sat at the bar and scanned the tavern, and they briefly made eye contact. She gave him a curt nod before she turned toward Vekel—who had one eyebrow raised in Brynjolf's direction—and ordered an ale for herself.

Consider my interest piqued, lass.

He hesitated for a brief moment, before taking his open notebook and sidling up in the empty seat beside her at the bar. She'd removed the mask now, and he didn't expect her to be so good-looking. He noted a long scar that ran along her left cheek, stopping just under her bottom lip, and another, smaller scar beside it.

"You from around here, lass?"

"No," she said coolly, taking a sip of her drink.

He paused for a moment. "Are you… looking to join the Guild, then?"

"No," she said again, not glancing in his direction. Brynjolf was finding that she was a woman of few words.

"Well, I don't suppose you came here for my charming personality, then?" He smiled, trying a different approach.

She rested her steely gaze upon him now, her expression bored. "No."

He blinked. "Well, you've got me stumped, lass. Why don't you save me time and just tell me what you're doing here?"

She pretended to ponder that for a moment, taking another drink. "No."

Between the drunken fools disturbing his work, and now this, Brynjolf was just about at his wit's end. His temper was rising, and he snapped his notebook shut and leaned over the bar.

"Listen to me, lass. You're up to something, and I don't like it. You can tell me now, or I can have my friend Dirge over there take care of you for me."

Her lip twitched up into a smirk then. "You're awfully easy to rile up."

"And I'm not fooling around," he said. "I can have you hauled back out into the Ratway right now—alive or otherwise, that's up to you."

She leaned in close, her grey eyes locked on his.

"Try anything," she hissed, her voice low, "and I'll slit your throat right where you sit."

Her sudden threat made a chill run down his spine, but he tried his best to maintain his composure.

"You'd be hunted from here to the sea in minutes," he retorted. "Is that what you want?"

"I'll be gone before anyone even knows what happened," she whispered, and Brynjolf got the sense that she wasn't one to bluff.

"You really want to take that risk, lass?"

"No," she said flatly, leaning back in her chair now. "I want to be left alone, and you keep pursuing conversation with me."

Her words caught Brynjolf off guard for a moment. Her tone was so nonchalant, as if she were trying to bat away a pesky insect.

"A woman comes in here, dressed like a bandit, armed like a soldier," he said, his voice hushed but his tone almost a growl, "and I'm the one being unreasonable. You don't think you may look a tad suspicious, lass?"

"I think," she said, leaning in toward him again, "that I am trying to enjoy a drink, and you are harassing me for no reason."

Brynjolf blinked a few times as she maintained icy eye contact. He'd never met anyone quite as infuriating as the woman sat before him. He wasn't a violent man, but she seemed to know just how to push his buttons.

This is not worth the effort, he thought.

"Aye, enjoy your ale, then," he mumbled, before taking his notebook and moving back to his table.

Brynjolf sat for a long moment and mulled over the strange interaction. He wasn't sure what to make of this woman, but alarm bells were going off in his head. She was bad news, and he was sure of that, at least.

With a deep breath, he opened his notebook again and took up his quill. The boisterous thieves milling about were just as distracting as they had been before, but he felt he had to stay and keep an eye on this peculiar woman, for their sake and his.

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Finally, she thought, as he took his leave. How many times do I have to threaten a person before they get the hint? Usually once will suffice, but that man is persistent.

She took a sip of her ale, grateful that the conversation was over. She didn't come to drink and chat. No, she came to plan.

On her journey to Riften, she had caught wind of a mark in Solitude, one that especially intrigued her. She had heard the contact was looking for the Dark Brotherhood to do the deed, but figured she'd try to beat them to the punch. The kicker? This mark was the contact's father, and he'd done despicable things to his own daughter. Just thinking about it made her grit her teeth.

She finished off her ale and motioned to the barkeep for another, immediately taking a long swig. This was how she sat for a long while, drinking ale after ale, scrawling plans in her notebook and plotting out the best route to Solitude.

Minutes turned into hours and the tavern slowly began to clear out, leaving only the rowdiest patrons behind. And… that man. She was vaguely aware of him a few tables behind her, scribbling away in a notebook of his own. He set her on edge. He wasn't threatening to her, not in the slightest. He was more aggravating than anything. Eventually, she heard him push his chair in, and she breathed a sigh of relief as he made his way through the tavern and turned a corner, out of sight.

Until he wasn't.

Barely a moment later, he reentered the tavern, and took the seat next to her once again. She pretended not to notice him, and stared hard down at her notebook, clutching her bottle in her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him motion to the barkeep for a drink. Then, he cleared his throat.

She sighed. "Back to hassle me again, huh?"

"I'm sorry, lass, if my curiosity offended you before," he said, as he took a bottle from the barkeep. "But you should know that this city is full of people whose curiosities may run a little darker than mine." He paused for a moment, taking a sip of his drink. "I'm saying this as a stranger who thinks you should be more careful of how others might perceive you."

"I can handle myself," she said dismissively. "Thanks for your concern."

"I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot, here, lass." He stuck his hand out. "I'm Brynjolf. It's nice to make your acquaintance."

"Charmed." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, and she blatantly ignored his outstretched hand.

His hand moved back to his drink, and he was silent for a moment before speaking again.

"You say you're not from here." He propped his head up on his palm, cocking an eyebrow. "I was just curious how a woman such as yourself ended up in a place like this."

Is he seriously trying this right now?

She glanced at him then, looking bored. "Is this how you get women to talk to you? Just flirt until they crack, right?"

"That's not… no." He lowered his arm, and any trace of a smile was wiped off his face.

"Mhmm." She raised her own eyebrow now, clearly satisfied at his sudden embarrassment. "I'm sure it's worked for you a million times, hasn't it?"

"I, uh, suppose it has worked a few times," he muttered. "Maybe not quite that many, though…"

"Let me be clear, then." She stared at him, hard. "Not interested."

He blinked a few times before recovering. "Aye, alright. How about a drink, at least? Can I interest you in that?" He motioned to her now-empty bottle.

"I suppose."

Brynjolf called over the barkeep, Vekel, and got an ale for the both of them. They sat in an uncomfortable silence for several beats, and she tried to manifest telekinetic powers to get him to leave. She had no such luck, though. He finished off his first drink and moved onto the ale, then glanced over at her again.

"Are you unmovable when it comes to any form of romance, then, lass?" he asked, sipping his drink thoughtfully.

"I'm unmovable when it comes to most forms of social interaction." Her eyes flitted to his. "I'd think you would have figured that out by now."

He chuckled lightly. "Aye. I'm wondering if you have it in you to hold a conversation longer than five seconds, let alone a romance."

"No and no." She took up her own drink now. "I say what I need to say, and nothing more."

"And that usually works for you, I take it?" he asked.

She glared at him. "Usually. You can't seem to take a hint, though. Just keep on coming back, like a puppy."

"I know you might not appreciate my persistence," he replied, giving her a wry smile, "but can you deny that it's effective? You could have gotten up and left if you'd liked, lass, gone to the Bee and Barb instead. I think you're almost as engaged in this conversation as I am."

"I was actually kicked out of the Bee and Barb," she said flatly. "This was my only option for a drink. But sure, you can believe it's because you're so engaging, if that helps stroke your ego."

He raised an eyebrow. "You got kicked out? What ever did you do to earn that honor?"

"I looked suspicious."

He laughed then—a genuine, animated laugh. "You don't say? And now you're in another tavern, looking just as suspicious. That's an impressive feat, considering you're among a bunch of thieves. You attract suspicion wherever you go."

"Seems to be that way."

They stayed in silence for several moments. Brynjolf finished off his ale quickly, and she thought he might just throw in the towel and leave her be now. Unfortunately, he spoke up again.

"What's the story behind the mask, lass?" he asked, as a new ale was set in front of him. She didn't see him order that, so she suspected Vekel had taken his own initiative on that one.

She glanced down at her mask, sitting on the bar in front of her. "Necessary for my line of work."

"And what is your line of work, exactly?" The words came out fast, perhaps a little too fast. She could tell he was a bit tipsy now as he leaned in on his elbows, curious.

She pondered the question, weighing the pros and cons of revealing herself to him. Maybe if I tell him, he'll finally leave me alone, she thought. Worth a shot, I guess.

She leaned in close as well, staring into his eyes, challenging him. They stayed like this for a beat, before she finally answered in a low voice:

"I'm an assassin."

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The words made Brynjolf's flesh crawl, and he immediately regretted asking.

An assassin? he thought in horror. Ysmir's beard, what have I gotten myself into here?

Taking a large gulp of his drink, he tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. He felt like he had just tossed himself into a vulture's den. He attempted to reconcile the image of the admittedly beautiful woman sitting before him with this new knowledge of her chosen profession.

"You… kill people. For a living." He tried to bite down his nerves, but the attempt was unsuccessful, much to his chagrin.

She leaned back and cocked an eyebrow, seeming thoroughly amused by his panic. "That's right."

The words came out before he could even give it a second thought. "Could you kill me?"

"Are you asking me to?" She raised her eyebrow even higher, a hint of a smirk gracing her face.

Brynjolf felt the heat rise up his neck.

"Well, no, of course not, lass," he replied quickly. "I meant… would you? If someone had paid you to do so?"

She contemplated this. "If the price was right, perhaps."

He stared at her. She seemed unfazed at the idea of taking his life, as if it was something she'd done hundreds of times before—and if he had to guess, she probably had. That was deeply unsettling. Still, he found himself mesmerized by the sheer casualness of her tone, like she was discussing something as mundane as the weather.

"Of course, no one has paid me to kill you," she continued, "so you live to annoy me for another day."

"How much?"

She paused. "Pardon?"

"How much would someone have to pay? A hundred septims? A thousand? More?" He wasn't sure he really wanted the answer, but he couldn't stop himself from asking.

"More."

"Five thousand, then. Ten thousand?" He couldn't resist. How much was someone's life worth to her?

"I think seven thousand is the lowest I've ever been offered," she said.

"Seven thousand septims." He stared at her with a mixture of fear and fascination. "If I had that kind of gold, I bet you'd take the job, wouldn't you?"

"I might."

It was like a game to her. She had no problem talking so nonchalantly about putting a price on someone's head. This was an entirely different creature than the woman he had first encountered.

"Seven thousand septims," he said again. "That's nothing to you, isn't it?"

Another smirk played on her lips. "I do well for myself."

This woman had likely become rich from a career of murder. She had surely taken countless lives for larger amounts of gold than Brynjolf could ever hope to see in his life. And she was sitting here in front of him, calm as a summer's day, taking another sip of ale.

"You know," he said after a long pause, choosing his words carefully, "most people would consider your line of work to be a bit… unethical."

"Oh? And what would they consider thieving?" she challenged.

"Different breeds of unethical, lass," he said.

"Let me be clear." She leaned in toward him. "I'm not going to kill any run-of-the-mill farmer or barkeep just because someone pays me to do it. I'm a bit more… selective."

He arched an eyebrow at this, but kept his mouth shut.

"So to really answer your question," she continued, "no, I wouldn't kill you. Unless you gave me a good reason to, that is."

He wasn't sure if this should assuage his fear or not, but he felt some of the tension in his shoulders release anyway. She continued to look at him, and he noticed that much of the harshness had left her face at this point, although her expression still wasn't particularly welcoming. He also noted that the most conversation he'd gotten out of her so far was about murder.

"You've got it all figured out, don't you, lass?" he said coolly, though his mind was still reeling.

She gave him a simple nod, saying nothing.

"How long have you been doing this?" He was feeding a morbid curiosity at this point. She was compelling, and terrifying.

She stared at him hard, seeming to think over the question before answering. "I was fifteen the first time."

"Fifteen?" He looked at her with a mixture of fascination and pity. How could a person commit their first murder at only fifteen? "Gods, you were… you were just a child. Who gave you that contract?"

She paused for a long moment—so long, in fact, that he thought she might not answer. Then, she took a breath. "I did."

He narrowed his eyes in confusion. "You… gave yourself a contract? I'm not sure I follow, lass."

"It's a long story." She took her notebook sitting on the bar, stowing it in her pack, and then stood abruptly. "One for another time."

"Wait, you're leaving?" He wasn't expecting that. If anything, it seemed like her frigid exterior was just starting to unthaw. "Can I at least ask your name, then?"

She secured her mask back onto her face before extending her hand. "Cas."

Cas. He pondered the name as he took her hand in his own, giving it a firm shake. "It was… interesting talking to you, Cas."

"Take care, Brynjolf."

With that, Cas tossed her pack over her shoulder and took her leave, exiting the Ragged Flagon quickly and gracefully. She was like a ghost as she flitted out of the room, black cloak trailing behind her, with footsteps so light that not even a skeever would wake from its slumber. Brynjolf found himself staring at the doorway long after she was gone.