Chapter 26 - Raldbhtar
The cart rumbled away with the creak of wheels and hooves, leaving Aventus and Babette alone on the stone path. A damp, glacial wind snaked its way along the river, stripping away what little warmth the pale sun might have offered. Ahead, the mountains loomed like gray fortifications crowned with mist, and nestled within their folds, the jagged silhouette of a Dwemer ruin jutted skyward, its silent towers piercing the landscape. Raldbthar.
Aventus swallowed hard. This was it. The place where he would commit his first premeditated kill—not one carried out in the haze of panic or self-defense, but deliberately, with method and intent. The weight of that reality settled heavily on his shoulders, as if one of the ruin's massive stone slabs had been placed upon him.
Beside him, Babette adjusted her cloak and stepped forward, graceful and unbothered. Aventus followed, heart pounding, mind on high alert. As they neared the entrance—an arch of tarnished, intricately wrought metal—he caught the distant creak of malfunctioning Dwemer machinery and the faint murmur of voices, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.
Suddenly, Babette halted, raising a hand. Aventus froze. Just ahead, partially hidden behind a boulder, a bandit sat slouched on a stone bench, an old crossbow resting across his lap. His head bobbed slightly, as if he were dozing.
Babette sighed.
"This is what happens when you hire incompetents. Stay here—I'm hungry!"
Aventus didn't even have time to react before Babette vanished into the shadows, moving like a specter. He spotted her reappear behind the guard, gliding closer like a feline stalking its prey.
She placed her small hands on the man's shoulders and, in a gesture almost affectionate, tilted his head to the side.
A sharp crack. A muffled gurgle. The man went limp, his body folding like a puppet with its strings cut. Aventus turned away quickly, his throat tightening. He heard a strange, wet noise behind him and clenched his fists to suppress the nausea rising in his stomach.
"Come on," Babette called cheerfully. "The appetizer is over."
He obeyed, carefully avoiding the corpse as he stepped under the ancient archway. Babette pulled a small glass vial from her pouch and handed it to him. The liquid inside shimmered in a greenish-blue hue.
"Potion of Life Detection," she explained. "Just take a sip—not too much. It's expensive to make, and I don't want you wasting it gawking at fish in the river."
Aventus obeyed, grimacing as the thick, metallic-tasting liquid slid down his throat. Almost immediately, his vision shifted—deep within the ruins, past the entryway, he saw faint pinkish forms flickering in the darkness, like distant will-o'-the-wisps. He paled.
"There are a lot of them," he whispered, voice tight with unease. "Ten—no, twelve. We can't go in head-on. We'll have to be quiet, take them out one by one…"
Babette burst into laughter.
"That's your plan? Tiptoe and crawl around? How dull! "
She shrugged and strode forward into the ruins without a care.
"I'm still hungry. Come, let's have some fun."
Aventus felt a cold shiver crawl down his spine. Clenching his dagger tightly, he followed, reluctant.
oOo
The inside of Raldbthar was like Markarth: cold, geometric, imposing. Aventus had heard stories of the Dwemer and their engineering marvels, but seeing them firsthand was something else entirely—great pipes of tarnished copper snaked along the walls, occasionally hissing out bursts of steam. The floor, a mix of stone and metal, echoed faintly underfoot, but Babette moved like a shadow. Aventus tried to imitate her.
The blurred shapes of their enemies faded from his sight as the potion's effect wore off, leaving him in uneasy uncertainty.
The corridor opened into a square chamber, dimly illuminated by a softly glowing Dwemer lamp. A bandit sat at a wooden table, gnawing on a piece of stale bread. Aventus crouched behind him, his fingers clenching around his dagger until his knuckles turned white. He mentally rehearsed the steps he had learned—immobilize, strike, withdraw. Inhale, exhale. Simple. Basic.
He wrapped his arm around the bandit's throat, squeezing firmly, his dagger poised beneath the man's jaw. Heart pounding, he whispered:
"Night mother, sweet mother, accept this offering…"
A sudden movement to his right. A shadow lunging at him. Too fast to react.
Then… A blur. A flash of steel. A strangled gasp.
Dark liquid splattered across the floor. Babette had intercepted the attacker in the blink of an eye, striking with the same motion to finish Aventus's own target. Wiping her hands, she shot him a sharp glare.
"By Sithis, Aventus! When you have to kill, kill!Don't talk!"
Aventus felt his grip suddenly lighten. He looked down.
"Eugh! Gross!"
He recoiled in disgust, shoving away the only part of the body he still had in its hands. Before he could regain his composure, Babette casually strode toward the end of the chamber. At the junction of several corridors, she inhaled dramatically, as if breathing in the scent of freshly baked pastries.
Then, in a high-pitched, singsong voice, she called out:
"Ohhh! Snack time!"
Silence fell. Tense.
Then—hurried footsteps. Shouts of confusion. Dark figures emerging from the hallways.
Aventus's stomach twisted.
"Babette, what are you doing?" he hissed.
She turned, eyes glittering with feral delight.
"Having fun!"
The bandits swarmed into the room. Everything happened too fast for Aventus to process. Babette exploded into movement, a blur of impossible agility, weaving through the attackers like a wraith. Each strike was precise, merciless. A body dropped. Then another.
Aventus, frozen in place, tried to raise his dagger but stumbled backward, tripping over a corpse. The air was thick with the clash of weapons, the dull thud of blades striking armor, the choked gasps of dying men.
One bandit turned and bolted toward a side corridor. Aventus saw him flee, panic evident in his every step. Had Babette noticed? Was that Alain Dufont?
A metallic click. A sharp snap.
A horrible, wet crunch.
One of Raldbthar's many Dwemer traps.
Silence returned, broken only by the slow drip of something thick pooling onto the floor. Babette reappeared beside Aventus, her face alight with amusement.
"You know what has more brains than that bandit?" she asked, gesturing toward the gruesome scene.
Aventus swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe. He knew Babette by now. He knew exactly what she was getting at.
He stared at the blood-smeared wall. His voice came out unsteady.
"The wall…" he murmured.
Babette beamed.
"Good answer!" she chirped.
oOo
Babette stretched with a satisfied sigh, sweeping her gaze across the room. The tiled floor was littered with bodies, some still smoldering from the searing spells she had unleashed here and there. Sticky blood seeped into the metallic grooves of the floor, slowly trickling into a drainage channel once meant to carry away the fluids of Dwemer machines. At last, silence reigned, broken only by the distant hiss of escaping steam.
"Well…" she murmured, dusting off her bloodstained cape. "That's the main course taken care of. Now for dessert."
Aventus swallowed hard. His legs trembled despite himself. He wiped his dagger against his sleeve, trying to steady his nerves.
"Where is Alain Dufont?"
"Right there," Babette replied, nodding toward a golden door. "That must be his office. I saw him flee inside, and unless he's figured out how to walk through walls, there's no other way out. He's trapped."
Aventus followed her gaze. A flickering golden light from a Dwemer lantern danced above the doorway. He glanced at Babette, who had casually perched herself on a chest, legs crossed.
"You… you're not coming?"
"No. This is your contract. Your responsibility. You need to learn."
"But what if he—?"
"He has nowhere to run."
She pointed her own bloodstained dagger at him. "And remember: simple and efficient. Get in, strike, get out."
Aventus nodded, though his heart thundered in his chest. He pulled the small vial of poison Muiri had given him from his belt. Twisting the cap off, he let a few drops slide onto the blade, watching as the liquid coursed down the metal, exuding a faint floral scent. Just a scratch would be enough.
Before him, the bronze door hung ajar, warped on its hinges. He stepped forward, breath held, and pressed his palm against the handle. It was cold, rough beneath his fingers. He pushed gently.
The room was small, almost cramped, cluttered with scrolls and crates. A single Dwemer lantern cast flickering shadows over the ancient engravings. Near a desk strewn with maps, Alain Dufont stood ready, gripping a massive silver warhammer. The weapon gleamed dully in the dim light, and on its head was an unmistakable engraving—the emblem of the Shatter-Shield clan.
Dufont lifted his gaze and barked out a harsh laugh.
"What in Oblivion is this?! Aren't you a little short for an assassin, boy?"
Aventus didn't answer. He raised his dagger, steadying himself, and took a cautious step forward.
Dufont smirked, unimpressed. He was a massive man, his face weathered by years of violence and excess. His tunic, far richer than those of his men, was embroidered with fine velvet patterns and fastened by a silver chain. A ring set with a deep red gemstone gleamed on his finger, and his eyes sparkled with mocking amusement.
"You look nervous, kid. Let me guess… Muiri sent you? That little fool still loves me, doesn't she?"
Aventus clenched his jaw.
"She hates you!" he spat. "You betrayed her! You're going to pay for what you did!"
Dufont threw his head back in laughter. "Of course she hates me. She's just another naïve girl. A flower to be plucked and discarded. But trust me, she was useful. Just like every other lovesick idiot."
The words struck Aventus like a punch to the gut. A burning heat surged through his chest. His breath quickened. His heart pounded so hard it felt as though the walls were closing in. He forced himself to stand tall—he was the hand of justice. He couldn't waver.
He declared, as firmly as he could, enunciating every word:
"Muiri is not an idiot! And by my hand, justice will be served!"
The proclamation, meant to be cutting and powerful, instead came out high-pitched and rushed, sounding pitiful even to his own ears. A wave of shame washed over him.
Dufont sneered, twirling his warhammer as he stepped forward.
"There is no justice, kid. Only the strong and the weak."
The hammer whistled through the air. Aventus barely managed to dive aside in time. The weapon smashed into the floor with a thunderous crack, shattering a stone tile. Dufont, shockingly fast for his size, swung again. Aventus rolled under the desk and scrambled to his feet on the other side.
"Come on, boy! Show me what you've got!"
The bandit lunged, sending his hammer in a brutal horizontal sweep. Aventus ducked just in time, but his dagger slipped from his grasp, clattering to the floor beneath the desk.
He backed up, his spine pressing against the cold stone wall—trapped.
Dufont loomed closer, his grin savage.
"Game over, brat."
The hammer swung down.
Instinct took over.
Aventus dove to the side. The metal struck stone, sending shards flying. Using the momentum, he rolled between Dufont's legs, spotted his dagger beneath the desk, and reached for it—
Too late.
A heavy boot slammed into his chest.
The air was knocked from his lungs in a brutal impact. He crashed onto the floor, gasping.
"You should've stayed home, boy," Dufont growled, lifting his weapon high above his head.
Pain, fear, rage—all swirled into a single, deafening scream inside him.
No.
Not here.
Not like this.
Not by him.
Aventus's gaze darted to his dagger. It was right there. The hammer was falling.
In a last, desperate effort, he snatched up the blade and drove it into Dufont's arm.
The bandit let out a howl of pain, stumbling back, clutching his side. The wound seemed shallow, but already, an eerie purple hue spread from the gash. The poison was taking hold.
Dufont sagged against the wall, breath ragged.
"What… what the… hell is… this…?"
Aventus pushed himself up, still shaking, and locked eyes with him.
"This," he said, voice trembling, "is the justice you mocked."
Dufont let out a strangled groan, knees buckling. His lips turned blue, his pupils dilated. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only wet gurgles escaped. His body convulsed, muscles seizing as the poison corroded his insides. He reached toward his hammer—grasping, straining—but he never made it.
Aventus took a slow step back. Then another.
He watched as Alain Dufont collapsed, not felled by strength, but by a single, poisoned blade—a weapon crafted by the very woman he had destroyed.
Silence fell.
He stood there for a moment, his breath uneven. Then, he wiped his dagger clean and looked down at the body.
"Justice is served," he murmured.
Yet, despite his words, a tremor ran through him. His breathing became even more erratic. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the glassy, lifeless eyes of his victim.
Behind him, Babette appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips, an exasperated expression on her face.
"What part of 'Get in, strike, get out' do you not understand?" she exclaimed, snapping him out of his daze. "That idiot almost got you!"
Aventus took a deep breath, trying to steady the tremors still rattling his hands. Babette approached, her light footsteps barely audible on the stone floor. She stopped beside Alain Dufont's corpse and looked down at it with a disdainful pout.
"Not very elegant, but effective," she remarked, scrutinizing the dark wound and the sickly purple hue spreading across the dead man's arm. "Muiri's poison did its job well. And you… well, you're still standing, which is probably a good thing."
She turned to face her apprentice and flashed a dazzling smile.
"Congratulations, Aventus. Your first real contract completed."
Aventus felt a shiver of pride despite the fatigue and tension. Babette's gaze was teasing, but beneath her usual layer of irony, he detected something real—acknowledgment. He nodded without speaking, forcing his breathing to slow. His eyes fell back on Alain Dufont's corpse. The weight of the kill pressed on him, but he could bear it. He would bear it. The man hadn't been innocent. He had been a traitor, a manipulator, a liar. His death wasn't some whim—it was necessary. Muiri's suffering had been acknowledged. One less monster haunted Skyrim.
His gaze landed on the weapon discarded on the floor. The silver warhammer , massive and heavy, still bore the Shatter-Shield emblem. The weapon seemed both out of place and deeply symbolic amidst the ruin and death.
"This hammer… It belongs to the Shatter-Shields," he murmured. "It's proof of his crimes."
"And?" Babette raised a brow. "The contract is done. We got what we came for. We collect the payment, and we move on to the next one."
"No! I want to bring it back. The body, the hammer… everything. I want the Shatter-Shields to know that Muiri was a victim, not a conspirator. That justice has been served."
Babette burst into laughter.
"Justice? Oh, my dear apprentice, how many times do I have to tell you? The Dark Brotherhood doesn't bring justice. We kill. That's it. If we start dressing it up as something noble, we're lying to ourselves. And that gets you killed."
"I bring justice!" Aventus countered, his voice firm. "And not just for Muiri! The Shatter-Shields need to know the truth!"
The vampire sighed, shaking her head.
"Well… your idealism is adorable. Ridiculous, but adorable. Fine! If you want to play the hero, you might as well do it properly. Come on, let's find something to haul this sack of meat."
They found a cart filled with various goods—likely part of some stolen loot—and emptied it onto the ground. Alain Dufont's body, stiff and cold, was loaded on, the warhammer placed prominently on his chest. Babette rummaged through the wreckage and pulled out a dusty tarp, draping it over the grim cargo.
"Alright, let's go over the plan," she said, dusting off her hands. "We're two poor, starving orphans returning home after a long day of digging for roots. Nobody notices us, nobody asks questions. The body stays hidden. And you? Try to look miserable and exhausted. Actually, just—just don't change anything from right now."
"Very funny," Aventus grumbled.
"Thank you!" she quipped, rolling her eyes.
Aventus turned to Alain Dufont's desk. A quill and parchment lay beside a map covered in scribbled notes and a purse full of septims. He dipped the quill into the inkwell and wrote slowly, tracing each letter with deliberate precision:
To the Shatter-Shield Clan,
The traitor Alain Dufont has paid for his deeds. He deceived Muiri, your loyal servant, for his own schemes and left her in disgrace. Today, justice has been done.
Here is your hammer, stolen and defiled by this man, and the body of the one who betrayed you. May this truth bring you peace.
Aventus set the quill down and examined his work, satisfied. Then, he poured a bit of ink into his palm, coating his entire hand in the dark liquid, and prepared to press it onto the parchment.
"No!" Babette suddenly cried out, seizing his wrist.
"Why?" he asked, startled. "It's my signature."
"It's the Dark Brotherhood's signature! And we don't do that !"
Aventus hesitated, then simply pressed the tips of his fingers to the parchment, leaving behind five nameless smudges of ink, not forming the Black Hand.
"Oooh, dark and mysterious! What are they going to call you now?" Babette teased. "'The Fingers of Justice'? So dramatic! So painfully naive!"
"Hey, that actually sounds cool!" Aventus shot back with a smirk.
"You're hopeless, kid!"
They loaded the cart, and as the sun dipped below the horizon, they set off toward Windhelm.
oOo
The evening mist rose slowly from the docks of Windhelm as Babette and Aventus passed through the city's great gates, pulling behind them the cart laden with their grim message. The air was damp, thick with the mingled scents of sea salt and forge soot. A thin layer of snow had settled on the cobblestones, muffling the sound of their footsteps, but not the relentless creaking of the wheels over the frozen stones. Aventus walked in silence, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He could feel the weight of Alain Dufont's murder on his shoulders, but it was not a paralyzing guilt. It was a burden he accepted, an indelible mark reminding him that he had chosen this path.
"We should finish the job now," Babette said casually, pulling the cart behind her. "We're going to the Shatter-Shield estate anyway. Might as well take care of the second target while we're at it."
Aventus clenched his jaw and shook his head. He had been preparing for this conversation.
"No."
Babette stopped, arching a brow. "What do you mean, no?"
"Muiri only performed the Black Sacrament for Alain Dufont. Not for Nilsine."
"She asked for her to die. That's reason enough."
"No. Not for me. Nilsine hasn't done anything."
Babette let out a dramatic sigh, as if dealing with an especially stubborn child.
"Aventus… Do you really think the Brotherhood bothers with such trivial details? If we started being picky about contracts and a client's exact wording, we'd lose our reputation in no time. A wish spoken is a wish we must fulfill. Nilsine must die."
Aventus halted the cart, dropping his hands onto his hips. He met Babette's gaze with an intensity she wasn't used to seeing from him.
"No! There is no contract. I have the right to choose! This isn't a betrayal of the Brotherhood nor a blasphemy against the Night Mother."
He straightened and added in a calm, unwavering voice:
"This is my mission. I decide."
Babette studied him for a moment, as if weighing his words. Then she shrugged.
"As you wish. But enjoy this choice while you can, Aventus. Because believe me, the Night Mother won't give you many."
Aventus looked away. He knew that. But as long as he still could, he wanted to decide. He wanted to believe that he had a say in what the Brotherhood expected of him.
They resumed their journey through the biting cold. Within minutes, they reached the austere home of the Shatter-Shield clan. It was a strong house, much like Windhelm's Nords—imposing and proud. The cart was left in the courtyard, right in front of the door. Aventus pulled back the tarp, adjusting the corpse, carefully placing the warhammer atop it, making sure it was impossible to miss. The letter was tucked beneath the weapon, waiting for the first person to step outside in the morning. Their task was done. All that remained was to leave.
And yet, Aventus remained standing there, a mischievous smile creeping onto his face.
"Babette," he whispered, "I hope you know how to run fast."
Without another word, he marched up to the massive wooden door and knocked.
Three times.
Silence. Then hurried footsteps.
Aventus leapt back and bolted, vanishing behind a wall, heart pounding with excitement as he stifled his laughter. Babette joined him in a blur of movement, arms crossed in feigned exasperation.
"By Sithis, Aventus, you're just a little menace."
"And you're a grumpy old hag," he shot back with a smirk, then turned his attention to the unfolding scene.
The door creaked open, and the figure of Tova Shatter-Shield appeared in the doorway. Her gaze swept over the snowy street, likely searching for whoever had knocked at such a late hour.
Then her eyes lowered.
It took a moment for her mind to comprehend what she was seeing.
The lifeless body of Alain Dufont, sprawled atop the cart, and resting on his chest like an offering—the Shatter-Shield family's warhammer.
A strangled gasp escaped her lips. Her hands trembled as she raised one to her mouth, then turned her head and called out in a raw, choked voice:
"Torbjorn!"
Aventus saw the patriarch appear next, approaching with measured steps. When his eyes landed on the corpse, his expression turned to stone. He reached for the family's weapon with a shaking hand, lifting it, staring at the engraved symbol on the tarnished metal.
Tova collapsed to her knees in the snow, wracked with sobs. Torbjorn, however, remained still, gripping the hammer as if it were a phantom from the past.
Babette crossed her arms and shook her head.
"Come on, you idealistic fool," she murmured to her apprentice. "Let's get out of here before we're seen."
oOo
Aventus and Babette had left the Shatter-Shield estate behind, disappearing into the quiet streets of the wealthier district. No more carts would be departing the city that night, meaning they needed to find a place to sleep. Aventus had naturally taken the lead. He walked without truly thinking, guided by some ancient instinct, a memory imprinted in his mind like an invisible map. It wasn't until he stopped in front of the door that he fully realized where his steps had taken him.
He had come home.
The house stood there, unchanged. An austere stone façade, windows clouded with frost. It looked abandoned, a ghost frozen in the snow, a relic of a past he would have rather left behind. And yet, at that moment, seeing it still standing filled him with something strange, something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Security.
Babette brushed past him and pushed the door open without ceremony. The latch was unlocked—why would it be? He hadn't had time to secure it when he left last, and no one ever came here anymore. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the stale scent of melted candle wax long extinguished. Aventus stepped in cautiously, closing the door behind him with care, as if afraid to wake some slumbering ghosts.
The darkness was still, but he knew this house. He knew where to place his feet, how to avoid the creaking floorboards. He moved down the hallway, Babette trailing behind with studied nonchalance, until they reached the main room.
Everything was exactly as he had left it.
The circle drawn on the floor, the candles long melted into waxy puddles, and in the center, the remnants of the effigy and the dagger. The weapon he had gripped in his trembling hands, kneeling, striking again and again, chanting the Black Sacrament in a desperate whisper.
Babette took in the scene for a moment before letting out a soft, mocking laugh.
"This place could really use some decorating. A few flowers, maybe a rug… Oh, and incidentally, you could have cleaned up."
Aventus crossed his arms and shot her an annoyed look.
"I would have, but a rude old man kidnapped me before I had the chance."
She arched a brow, feigning outrage.
"Oh, so all this mess is poor Festus's fault? What a pitiful excuse."
He didn't bother responding. His eyes were fixed on the place where he had once knelt, pleading with the Night Mother to answer his call. He remembered the tremor in his voice, the crushing weight of fear on his chest. He remembered the exhaustion, the hunger, the despair.
And most of all, he remembered the moment the door had opened.
Not to reveal an assassin clad in black.
But Hunfen.
He saw the boy again, calling his name, looking lost and afraid. He saw those eyes searching for his own. He saw that moment when his world, once reduced to nothing but solitude and shadows, had suddenly been filled with light.
And after that… there had been warmth.
Not just the warmth of the fire Lydia had rekindled, but the warmth of a home, even a fleeting one. The feeling of being surrounded, of being seen, of being heard. Hunfen, voice trembling with excitement, eyes gleaming as he spoke of his journey across Skyrim just to find him. The news of Grelod's death, so pitifully mundane. Then Lydia, silent yet protective, ladling out soup as if she were a mother tending to her children.
For the first time in a long time, he had felt important to someone.
Aventus ran a hand over his face and took a deep breath.
"You look like you've got a lot on your mind, kid," Babette remarked, leaning against the wall.
He shook his head and turned away from the ritual circle. Slowly, he climbed the stairs, Babette following at his heels.
The upper floor was untouched. The bedrooms silent, frozen in time. He opened the door to his mother's room. The scent was faint now, almost gone, but he thought—perhaps imagined—that he could still catch a trace of the floral perfume she used to wear. He closed the door and stepped into his own room.
Nothing had changed there, either.
The chest at the foot of his bed, the small desk, the unfinished parchments, the wooden figurine of a Nord warrior he had carved himself… Everything remained as it was, as if he had never left.
A sigh escaped him, and he slowly sat on the bed.
For a moment, he closed his eyes.
And he imagined.
He imagined a life where everything had been different.
A life where Naalia was still here, where sickness had never taken her. A life where he had never needed to run, never needed to beg killers in the dark. Where he had never been alone.
He imagined himself picking up a book, sitting by the fire while his mother prepared tea.
He imagined playing outside, running through the snow, laughing.
He imagined inviting Hunfen over. They would have spent the afternoon battling with wooden swords. He would have shown him all the hidden places of Windhelm, the market stalls, all the things that mattered.
Aventus opened his eyes.
The ceiling of his room blurred. His throat was tight. He rolled onto his side, curling his knees toward his chest, eyes fixed on the flickering candle on his dresser.
A quiet sigh came from Babette.
"You okay, kid?"
He nodded without answering.
Silence settled. Then, in an unusual gesture, the vampire leaned forward and blew out the candle.
"Then sleep."
He heard her settle into the chair across from him. He closed his eyes. In the comforting darkness of familiar walls, his mind drifted again. To a life he would never live.
Sleep took him.
And in his dreams, he saw a boy with golden hair, laughing, calling to him from the top of a snowy hill, shining like the sun.
He reached out his hand.
And Aventus, without hesitation, took it.