Note: Starts with Aurelia's birth (4E 183), jumps to 12 (4E 195). Romance takes off six years later. (4E 201) So there's a few chapters of ages 12-18 as Aurelia and Ondolemar handle life as mentor and mentee while developing mutual respect and a unspoken friendship before the shift to romance come 4E 201. Slow burn, power plays, and a sabre cat companion! Can this Nordic Disney Princess convince this Thalmor Elf that Skyrim is cool?

Chapter 1

Aurelia

15th of Evening Star, 4E 183

The Blue Palace lay hushed in the pre-dawn chill, save for Queen Elira's strained breaths echoing off stone. Two months too soon, her child came. A small, fragile girl, born as the first light crept through the windows.

Sybille Stentor moved swift, her hands glowing faint with magicka while cradling the infant, her irregular gasps a knife to the silence. Elira watched—pale, sweat-slick. A tear slipping free, her smile trembling as her vision blurred.

"Closer, Sybille—please," she rasped, voice thin but warm.

"Of course," Sybille murmured, still weaving incantations, stabilizing the child and easing her into Elira's arms. The newborn stirred, reacting to her mother's fading heat. The infant letting out a soft cry, frail but alive.

Elira's gaze softened—love cutting through exhaustion. "Aurelia," she whispered, barely a breath. Her fingers brushed the baby's, curling round them. The life flickering in her eyes, dimming fast. Sybille's chest tightened as she saw the blood pooled beneath the queen, too much, too quick. The childbirth's toll beyond her spells.

With a final exhale, gentle, almost relieved, Elira stilled, her spirit slipping away. Aurelia nestled closer completely unaware, mewling faintly in the quiet, the room colder for her loss.

12 Years Later, 15th of Evening Star 4E 195

Aurelia roamed the wooded hills beyond Solitude her golden hair catching the winter sun, her steps light despite the snow. At 12, she was all restless spark. She spent her free time wandering past the city's edge, her breath fogging in the crisp air. A high, thin mewl pricked her ears. A soft sound, lost among the trees.

She pushed through snow-laden shrubs, her boots crunching-until she saw it: a sabre cat cub, gold fur dulled by frost, trembling in a hollow. Its wide eyes met hers, frightened, but bright. Another mewl escaping as she knelt, hand outstretched slow. The cub hesitated, then stepped forward nudging her palm with his nose, cold and damp.

She scooped him up. His small body small, shivering as she tucked him against her chest then she trekked back to the Blue Palace. In the gardens, she hid him behind a clutch of shrubs, leaving a pile sweet rolls taken from the kitchens. Pleased with the tiny sanctuary she's made for the cat she looked smiled down at her new found friend, then she bolted for the throne room, dirt smudging her skirts.

Sybille emerged from a shadowed arch sharp and suddenly. "Aurelia—where've you been?" Her voice cut, half-scolding half-worried. Her eyes narrowing at the mud streaked across her charge. "You look wild."

Aurelia froze. "Exploring," she said while brushing at her dress, a grin tugging despite herself.

Sybille sighed while reaching out, thumbing dirt from Aurelia's cheek with a practiced swipe. "Your father's waiting. There's someone here for you to meet. No more delays." Her gaze held steady. "Mind what I've taught you."

Aurelia nodded, straightening and lifting her chin. Adjusting her stride smoothing into something poised as she headed for the throne room, the cub's mewl still soft in her ears.

Aurelia paused at the threshold, drawing a deep breath, smoothing her mud-flecked dress with quick hands before she stepped into the throne room. The air shifted—heavy with her father's gaze. High King Torygg sat atop his throne, his face calm, a flicker of pride warming his eyes as she approached.

Beside him stood a tall figure—straight-backed, hands clasped tight behind him—Thalmor robes draping sharp lines, hood low, shadowing his features. Pale amber eyes cutting through, keen, unblinking—watching her like a hawk might a sparrow.

"Aurelia," Torygg's voice rang out warmly, edged with relief, "you've made it at last." He gestured to the man at his side. "This is Justiciar Ondolemar—head of the Thalmor Justiciars. He'll guide you in the years ahead, teaching you diplomacy, politics, even High Elven." His gaze flicked to Ondolemar, brief, steady—then back to her. "He's got wisdom I trust. Learn from him, give him your respect."

Ondolemar inclined his head slightly, a measured move, his hands remained clasped behind his back, his stare cool and discerning. "An honor," he said, voice smooth, deliberate, carrying a faint Altmer lilt. "I'll steer you through what leadership demands—its complexities, its weight. We'll face what's coming together."

Aurelia straightened—chin lifting, meeting his eyes with her own. "The honor's mine, Justiciar," she replied, voice clear, unshaken despite the prickle of his scrutiny. "I'm ready to learn."

Aurelia slipped out of the throne room her breath easing loose, shoulders dropping as the heavy doors thudded shut. A Justiciar as her mentor. At 12, she caught the edge of it, those amber eyes weren't just watching; they were weighing her.

She started down the corridor her boots scuffing the stone-trying to shake the itch in her chest. A soft rustle trailed her, sharp enough to spin her round. Sybille stood there—framed in the dim, her look soft but knowing.

"Have I messed up?" Aurelia asked, voice low, barely a murmur as her eyes were flicking up.

Sybille shook her head. "Not yet." Her tone steadied and firm, not coddling. "Trust him like you'd trust a blade—useful, but sharp. Stay quick—true. Push back when it fits." A faint dry, warm smile cracked. "You'll manage."

Aurelia nodded—chin nudging up, a spark catching.

"Dinner's waiting," Sybille added her eye glinting. "Odar's got sweet rolls out."

Aurelia's breath hitched as she remembered, "I've got to—" She bolted, skirt catching air, down to the gardens. She shoved through the shrubs, heart thumping, finding the sabre cat cub curled tight, asleep, crumbs dusting his fur.

She crouched down to look at him closer. She smiled down at the little beast, so still, so oblivious. Sybille's words echoed—trust him like a blade—and Torygg's too—wisdom to learn. Her fingers brushed the cub's side, soft and warm. Maybe she could play this. She could learn from Ondolemar, keep her guard up—turn their game to hers. She stood, dusting her hands—heading for the dining hall, thoughts settling sharp.

The next day, Aurelia slipped into the palace library. Her pulse was quick, nerves buzzing under her skin. Her first lesson meant her chance to prove something. Ondolemar lounged at a broad oak table with scrolls and books fanned out like a half-played hand. His eyes flicking up as she neared. He gave a short, cold nod, with barely a twitch of effort.

"Sit," he said his voice low, clipped.

Aurelia dropped into the chair across from him, her eyes darting to the sprawl of papers. Elvish-High Elven—swirls she half-knew, tangled and sharp. Her gut tightened. Nervousness setting in. She'd heard it was a beast to crack.

Ondolemar slid a scroll her way casually, like tossing a coin. "High Elven's no mere tongue," he started, tone smooth, drifting, "it's how we think—history, culture, Tamriel's pecking order. You'll need it—leading, dealing, whatever's coming." His gaze held—lazy but pinning, watching her squirm.

She unrolled it the scroll. The letters curling like thorns. She tried her best to fight the twist in her chest. He didn't blink. "This isn't school play," he added coolly, "it sharpens you—or it doesn't. Start."

He was calm but unyielding—idling through her stumbles like a cat with a mouse. Each slip, her tongue tripping on a vowel, her rhythm off-he'd cut in: "Wrong. Again." No heat, just a flick of precision—every correction a nudge to perfect, no slack given. She grit her teeth—starting over, voice steadier each time, chasing his standard.

Hours in, she tackled a scroll solo, the words jagged, foreign, scraping her throat. She faltered. Her cheeks hot as she bit her lip to hide it. Ondolemar watched staying silent too long, then leaned a fraction closer. "Pronunciation's weak," he said his voice colder, edged. "High Elven's not a Nord grunt. Every sound has weight—miss it, you miss us."

She tried again, swallowing the sting, pushing the syllables sharper. He tilted his head slightly, judging. "Better. Barely. It's intent—or it's noise. You'll get there when you mean it."

He stood swift and fluid then gathering scrolls and books in a neat stack, hands moving like it was nothing. "That's today," he said evenly, "some ground gained. Focus harder next time." His eyes flicked to her, dismissing. "You're done, Lady Aurelia."

10th of Evening Star 4E 195

Ondolemar stood in the embassy's shadowed hall his back straight, hands tucked loose behind him-waiting with the ease of someone used to biding time. A senior Justiciar sat across from him a parchment rustling under their fingers, eyes scanning it slow, deliberate, letting the silence stretch.

Finally, they glanced up with a blank face, unhurried. "Ondolemar," they said, voice flat, carrying weight, "the Dominion has a new post for you. Solitude. You'll serve the High King—or so he'll think. Your real work's his daughter, Lady Aurelia."

His brow twitched—slight, quick—"Torygg's daughter?"

"Yes." The Justiciar's gaze sharpened cold, pinning him. "She's a child. We need her mind bent our way—loyal, whether she knows it or not. You're her mentor now. Shape her."

Ondolemar dipped his head, barely a nod, his eyes steady. "Clear enough."

The Justiciar leaned in just a fraction his voice dropping low. "She's not to slip. You'll report her steps—keep her on track. If she balks, nudge her quiet. Understood?"

"Perfectly," he said smoothly and unruffled, tilting his head in a faint bow, already weighing the game.