Chapter 02 – A Job Offer

History becomes a battlefield, and the Dominion seeks to dictate the tale.
Meanwhile in Riften, Ruby slips into the shadow of the Thieves Guild.

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~*~

The main hall still smelled of damp plaster and freshly polished wood. Scaffolding surrounded the alcoves, cluttered with ropes, crates, and tools. Workers bustled in every direction, hauling wrapped busts or lifting carved stone slabs into place. The noise was constant, but not chaotic. Every piece found its place.

At the center of the hall, beneath the newly restored dome, a sharp cone of light fell upon a pedestal still awaiting its statue. Auryen Morellus stood with arms crossed, his gaze both proud and critical.

Draped in a practical traveling robe with sleeves rolled up, he supervised the work with a sharp tone, often peppered with remarks about "archaeological integrity" or the "blasphemous placement of a Dwemer pedestal." Nothing escaped his judgment unless it was precisely where it belonged.

Two workers -massive Orsimer- passed in front of him, bent under the weight of a carved column still streaked with dust from the quarry. Auryen frowned and followed briskly.

“Gentlemen, that column goes in the reception hall. Not Natural Sciences.”

The two porters grunted in what might have been agreement. Without pausing, they turned as one, beginning a careful pivot with the column still balanced on their shoulders. Auryen ducked just in time to avoid the base brushing dangerously close to his temple.

He sighed, ready to resume his rounds, when a ripple of tension passed through the air. A wave of silence spread across the nave, subtle, but unmistakable. The workers slowly stepped aside, their movements stilled.

A figure had entered unannounced, clad in black robes embroidered with silver.

Auryen dusted off his robe, masking the sudden stiffness in his posture. He grimaced slightly at the white smudges now staining the fabric.

“Master Orondil,” he said with measured neutrality. “What a charming surprise.”

The Thalmor stopped at a deliberate distance, hands clasped behind his back, expression composed. A flicker of disdain twitched at the corners of his mouth as he scanned the hall. His aquiline nose wrinkled, offended by the scent of damp plaster.

“My visit is not an inspection, Professor Morellus. Merely… a diplomatic reminder. A friendly clarification between enlightened Altmer.”

Auryen raised an eyebrow, wiped his fingers on a cloth tucked into his belt, and descended a few steps toward him.

“I’m listening.”
“The Aldmeri Dominion wishes to remind you that any relics of Aldmeri, Altmeri, or related origin remain the rightful property of our people. Their transfer or display outside the authority of the Council may be interpreted as… smuggling.”

Auryen offered a faint smile. Around them, the workers slowly resumed their tasks.

“Fascinating. And yet, last I checked my credentials, they still read ‘Curator of the Solitude Historical Museum’, not ‘highway smuggler.’”

Orondil reluctantly stepped aside as a cart full of debris rumbled past, though his hands never left their formal grip behind his back.

“The Dominion doesn’t question your loyalty, of course. But the items you’ve begun to gather here... touch sensitive domains. Ancient magic. Forgotten texts. Artifacts tied to bloodlines the Empire might have preferred erased. You see the concern?”
“I see that history doesn’t belong to those who try to censor it, Master Orondil. And erasing a name from a scroll doesn’t erase its consequences.”

The Justiciar’s smile tightened. His eyes narrowed.

“Such bitter words for a man of science. I suppose, after so many years in the Empire, you’ve picked up some of their habits.”

Auryen held his gaze for a moment. Then, without a word, he turned away and gestured broadly to the hall alive with movement.

“This museum will be a place of memory, not propaganda. The Nords deserve to know what their ancestors left behind... and what was taken from them. If that troubles your administration, I invite you to file a formal complaint. In writing. Ten copies.”
“I’m sure you will. And I’m equally sure the Archmage will support your… historical ambitions. If consulted.”

Auryen stiffened, just for an instant.

Orondil offered a shallow nod -cold and precise- then turned to leave.

“Best of luck, Professor. And do be careful. Museums are delicate places. Coveted places. Accidents tend to happen.”

Without another word, he vanished beyond the doors, leaving behind a chill sharper than the one waiting in the snow outside.

Auryen stood still for a long moment. The noise around him hadn’t changed, but the morning’s sense of purpose suddenly felt distant, hollow.

He drew a slow breath, descended the last of the stairs, and slipped into his study. The only room somewhat in order, still filled with the scent of leather, wax, and ink.

He closed the door gently behind him.

At his desk, he unrolled a blank parchment. Paused.

The visit hadn’t surprised him. And yet… he hadn’t expected the noose to tighten so soon. No one had cared when he purchased the Hall. But the arrival of those first crates -relics gathered across years of quiet expeditions- must have drawn the attention of the wrong kind of eye.

The parchment crinkled under his clenched fingers. Jaw tight, quill in hand, he began to write, firm and deliberate:

“Seeking adventurous associate(s), willing to explore Skyrim’s forgotten corners to preserve and document the remnants of the past.”

He stopped. Crossed out “document.”

Replaced it with:

“…protect.”

~*~

From the North Gate stretched an endless line of carts and travelers, all slowed by the guards’ inspection. Hood pulled low, Ruby watched from the roadside. She had no papers, no coins for the entry tax, and barely enough food. For a heartbeat, she considered slipping into the back of a wagon. The thought died instantly: a guard had just rammed his spear shaft into a hay bale, dragging out a stowaway screaming in pain. The arrest triggered a surge in the crowd that sealed Ruby’s growing panic.

Her chest tightened. Twenty yards to the next checkpoint. Pressed between backs, elbows, baskets, she felt her breath shorten. She tore herself out of the line, pushing upstream like against a river. Skirted onto the verge. Strided away fast.

The air south of the walls wasn’t any kinder.

Lake damp smothered the alleys, thick with the stench of fish, wet wood, rotting vegetation. Shanties thrown up against the walls formed a grimy belt, a weeping scar cinching Riften shut. As she crossed the waterlogged alleys, guard shouts and travelers’ cries still reached her… muffled, threatening, as if the whole city whispered against her. The pressure rose, insidious, almost physical. Ruby quickened her pace, then broke into a run, shoving past people she barely saw.

Too many people. Too many walls. Too much stone.

She couldn’t say how long she wandered like that, always twisting deeper, until she stumbled onto a gray, muddy bank. Here, the wall plunged straight into the lake. No dock, no path. Only dark water and bare stone. The only opening led into the sewers. She stared at it, lips tight.

“Oh no,” she muttered. “Not that.”

A beggar slumped against a stack of rotten crates called out, voice cracked.

“Hey, girl! Where you goin’ like that? Lost, huh? Too clean to be hangin’ around here.”

Ruby didn’t answer. She paced the bank, eyes combing the stone, nose burning from the stench. The beggar kept on muttering, mocking, curious, or maybe just glad for company. Ruby ignored him. For a moment she thought about climbing the wall, but the stone gleamed wet, slick as glass.

The beggar hiccupped, a sound so out of place it yanked her from her thoughts. For the first time she looked straight at him, then at the wreck of shacks around them. Regret crept in, sharp and heavy. Under her clothes, Markab’s medallion pressed like lead against her throat, its weight growing with the enormity of what she’d walked into.

The beggar twitched, gesturing weakly at nothing, muttering to himself, or to her. The slum was as miserable as he was. What was she doing in this gutter? His broken motions seemed to point at everything: walls, sky, water… and then, a tree.

A little further off, a tree. Tall, gaunt, but alive. Its crown bent toward the rampart, one branch stretching out, not quite close enough, but nearly.

She didn’t hesitate. Climbing was no trouble. Even tired, her body moved with the surety of years spent hunting on treacherous ground. The beggar’s cracked voice rose beneath her, half absurd blessing, half deadly curse.

Halfway up, she chose the thickest branch, the one angled toward the wall, and stood on it. It sagged in silence beneath her weight. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a guard’s silhouette walking away, back toward the North Gate. Now or never.

A breath. Then she leapt.

Her foot slipped. It wasn’t a leap, it was a fall, momentum broken, arc too low. Her fingers slammed onto the top of the wall in a jolt that knocked the air from her lungs. Her hips hit stone, arms shaking violently. She slid, clawed, scrambled for a hold. Boots scraped moss-slick parapet. A cry tore up her throat but died before leaving her lips.

Below, the beggar shrieked, spurring her, cursing her, maybe both. Somehow she managed to hook a leg over, wedge her boot into a crack, and heave with torn arms. She rolled onto the walkway, ribs aching, palms raw and bleeding.

A groan. Down below, the beggar still called to her.

Footsteps on stone. The guard, drawn by the noise. Ruby pressed against a collapsed stretch of parapet, panting, hidden in shadow.

The guard stopped above the beggar.

“Outta here, scum. Want me to run you through?”

The beggar flailed obscenely, then went quiet. A spit. Footsteps fading.

Ruby waited a few more seconds, until silence fell thick as a blanket. Eyes closed, she exhaled slow, rough, painful. Then, slowly, she rose.

She was in Riften.

Not through the gate. But she was in.

~*~

Riften’s docks devoured everything.

Ruby slipped into them, pressed on all sides by the crosscurrents of voices, crates, arms, and shouts. The piers seemed to vomit Men and Mers in whole clusters, silhouettes dripping with sweat and mist as they rushed from one gangway to the next. Wet planks groaned under boots, ropes snapped in the air, curses cracked like maneuver orders.

Everything moved too fast. Too hard. As if the slightest pause might break some invisible balance.

Ruby clutched her pack tight, fists clenched, palms still burning from her fall. Every brush made her flinch. She edged between bodies, watching for any gap, any glance. She felt like nothing more than another obstacle, a grain of sand jammed into a machine running at full tilt.

The buildings oozed with lake grime. Blackened wood, swollen with damp, peeled away in slabs. The stench of fish, algae, and sweat hung thick, plastered to the skin. Faces passed without stopping. A constant, jagged murmur clung to beams and sails like a rain of ash.

Ruby felt blurred. Invisible, and too much. Too young. Too alone.

A man called out as she passed the shadow of a warehouse.

“Not where you board, kid,” he grunted, without malice. “If that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

She froze. Instinct told her to keep walking. Slowly, she turned.

The man, a foreman, hunched over a soaked ledger on a wobbling table, ink-stained hands, a pipe forgotten at the corner of his mouth. He studied her; no mockery, no kindness either. Just the look of someone too tired to be surprised.

“I’m looking for work,” she said. “I was told I might find some here.”

His eyes flicked from her boots to her brow. Chafed hands. A pack too light. A wary stare.

“Unless you can lift more than you weigh, I got nothin’ here,” he said. “Not for shapes like you.”

Ruby stiffened, but didn’t look away.

“I’m looking for a man. Brynjolf.”

That name. She let it fall like a password. An incantation. The foreman raised a brow but didn’t seem to know it.

“Brynjolf? Never heard of him.”

She pressed on, voice low.

“It’s important.”

He turned to a dockhand passing by.

“Hey, Arvid! Brynjolf ring a bell?”

The man hesitated; a fraction, barely a beat. But Ruby saw it. A flinch. A flicker of fear. Then he shook his head too fast, too firm.

“No, boss. Never heard the name.”

The foreman let it pass. He shrugged, weary.

“Too many names, too many folk passin’ through. If it’s an alias, or someone keeps low, good luck. I ain’t a ledger.”

The ground shifted under her. Maybe she’d been wrong. She stammered:

“Sorry… had to try.”

She stepped away. But his voice caught her.

“Hey!”

She turned back.

“If you don’t find your Brynjolf, come back. I’ll find somethin’ for you. Not glorious, but it pays sometimes in kind. Warm food, a roof. That’s somethin’.”

She nodded. Silent. Then melted back into the flow.

She asked again. Once, twice. Some answered with quick shrugs, hurried silences. Others cut their tone short, or turned on their heel without a word. A mute fear seemed to slither behind every look.

The name “Brynjolf” weighed heavy in the air. And every refusal drove the edge of despair deeper.

Further on, the shacks thinned. Ruby walked long, until her strength faltered. She leaned against a fence devoured by moss, pulled the last scraps of dried meat from her pack. Chewed without hunger. Her fingers shook through the split leather of her gloves. The ache beneath her ribs had returned, dull and settled.

She pushed herself up.

One street. Another. Still nothing. Closed doors. Vanishing voices. Absent eyes.

Then, a voice.

“Hey, kid!”

A laborer, out of breath. He ran toward her.

He slowed at her side, gave her a quick look, furtive. A warning:

“That man you’re lookin’ for… Brynjolf?” he murmured. “Try the market. Big one, center square. Always a crowd. He might be there.”

Before she could answer, he was gone, shoulders low, eyes darting. No one seemed to have seen him. No one paid him any mind.

Ruby stood still, stunned.

Too many silences. Too many eyes turned away.

She clenched her jaw.

What had she gotten herself into?

~*~

Leaning between two stalls, under the shadow of a frayed awning, Brynjolf watched everything, and no one. With one eye he followed the crowd, the shouts, the gestures. With the other, he kept Brand-Shei in the corner of his vision.

The Dunmer wasn’t hostile today. Just tense. Quieter, more watchful. He wasn’t a troublemaker, no. But he had stirred trouble. By asking questions. Harmless, on the surface. But here, words didn’t have to be dangerous to become so. All it took was for them to fall in the wrong place. In the wrong ear.

Sooner or later, Mercer would hear of it. And Mercer never answered with words. He answered with absences.

A movement caught Brynjolf’s attention.

Someone approached. Unhurried. A fluid shape, slipping to his side as naturally as a reflection sliding across water.

“They’re askin’ for you down at the docks,” she breathed, straight to the point. “Looks like… a stray little cub.”

He raised one brow lazily. The art of not reacting came to him like second nature.

“Hidin’ kids on us, Bryn?” she teased with a crooked smile.

He only shrugged, casual as ever.

“Anybody actually say somethin’?”

She’d already palmed an apple. Tossed it from hand to hand with a motion so smooth it seemed pointless, while the merchant cursed blindly.

“Nah. But she’s bound to have been steered this way.”

She bit into the fruit. Then drifted off without another word. A scuffle between two merchants and a cart driver sent a ripple through the market, and Brand-Shei stiffened. His nerves got the better of him; he chased off a group of children too sharply from his stall.

Brynjolf lingered, eyes lost beyond the stalls. Brand-Shei was no longer his problem. For now.

~

For Ruby, every stall looked the same. Every face blurred into the next. She wandered in circles, drowning in a maze of herb baskets, dripping nets, sticky barrels. Too many people. Too many voices. Too many eyes saying nothing.

She was about to turn back when a voice reached her. Calm. Steady.

“Word is you’ve been lookin’ for me.”

Ruby spun, startled, and took a step back, wary.

A man leaned against a wooden pillar, watching her with a half-smile. His dark clothes, not rich, were clean. His hands unsoiled. A quiet confidence, the kind of man who knew every cobble in this square, and was no sailor.

He didn’t move. Didn’t say anything else.

Ruby stayed silent. He sized her up like one would a pack beast, no malice, no pity.

“Khajiit got your tongue, lass?” he asked, amused.

She stiffened.

“… You’re Brynjolf?”

He didn’t get the chance to answer. His gaze had caught something.

A golden glint. Subtle, but clear. A chain, fine, tucked beneath her collar. Pale gold, unusually pure. Brynjolf narrowed his eyes. His smile faded.

He stepped toward her. Ruby recoiled instantly. Intimidation flared into fear.

He lifted one hand, palm open.

“That trinket. Show me.”

She faltered.

“I… it’s mine.”
“I don’t doubt it,” he said softly, but his tone left no room for argument. “But I’d like a look.”

Her eyes flicked between his and her collar. Unsure. Slowly, she pulled the cloth aside.

The chain slid over her skin. The medallion showed itself; old engravings, dulled stones, years of wear. Brynjolf’s hand hovered inches away, suspended. Ruby forced herself not to flee.

When he touched it, it was slow. Not rough, but taut, almost pained. He turned it between his fingers, then slowly closed his fist. The chain tugged against her throat.

“Where’s it from?” His voice was grave, direct.

Ruby swallowed hard.

“Someone gave it to me…”

The chain drew tighter against her skin. A painful shiver traced her neck.

“No lies, girl. Who?”
“A woman. At Helgen. Her name was… Markab. Markab Steel-Blood.”

Silence.

The name hung between them. Ruby saw again -briefly- the gloved hand passing her the jewel. And that gaze she hadn’t understood. Not then.

The rings clicked faintly. Brynjolf closed his eyes for a beat, then released the medallion. He drew a long breath and rubbed his face, as if to wipe away a thought too heavy.

Ruby had stepped back, spine pressed to a stack of rotting crates, heart racing. With a trembling hand, she folded the medallion back against her chest. It lay there, heavy, like a promise. Comforting? Or threatening? She couldn’t yet tell.

Brynjolf steadied himself. A flicker of surprise -or irony- lit his eyes.

“She gave it to you? To you?”

Ruby glared, irritated. Then, sharply, she dug into her pack and pulled out a small leather sheath. She wasn’t sure she could speak without shaking, so she held it out in silence, arm rigid.

He recognized it instantly.

“She really gave you this?” he pressed, brows drawn.

Ruby nodded, curt. Her hand brushed her neck where the chain had bitten her skin.

“Yes. Supposed to be her ‘letter of recommendation.’”

She tucked the medallion away, this time hiding it deep beneath her worn vest.

Brynjolf nearly laughed. Not in mockery. Just… from weariness, maybe. Proof that Markab’s habits hadn’t changed. She still scattered breadcrumbs without ever following them, leaving others to piece things together.

He forced a professional smile, tried to draw the blade. Nothing. The weapon stayed stubborn in its sheath.

Ruby frowned, puzzled.

“It’s stuck. I tried,” she warned.
“Not stuck,” he corrected. “Enchanted. It only answers to its bearer.”

Her brows knit, suspicious. A locked dagger? One detail too many.

“Trust Markab to hand out a blade with a magical latch,” Brynjolf said with a crooked smile. “Always had a flair for drama.”

He handed it back. She stowed it without comment.

A silence fell. The kind where the market came rushing back… hawkers’ cries, hooves clattering, wheels grinding tired cobbles. The world resumed, as if their exchange had never happened.

Brynjolf managed a repentant smile.

“… She sent you my way, huh?”

He hadn’t expected an answer.

Five years. Five years with nothing but rumors between pints, whispers in the square. And now she sent him a girl, like tossing a message to sea. No plan. No instructions. Just a name, a jewel, and a dagger in the bag.

And he wasn’t even surprised.

That was her style. Markab never sent anything by chance. But she never gave maps either.

“She said you could help me.”

He smirked, and studied her. Not with disdain, but with the quiet sharpness of someone long trained to read faces.

Small, but sturdy. Nordic bones, probably, with some other blood running deeper. Under her nerves, the signs were clear: amber tinge in the eyes, restless spark barely caged, and -above all- that tension in the shoulders, common in those who hadn’t slept beneath a roof in far too long.

She looked young. But high cheekbones and a hardened gaze betrayed more years than you’d think. Her skin bore the mark of wind and frost. Clothes ragged, but practical. And her bow -worn yet well-kept- spoke louder than any words.

Hunter? Probably, Brynjolf thought. Survivor, without a doubt.

He gave a small nod, mostly to himself.

“Down on your luck, girl?” he asked, a touch of provocation.

She grimaced.

“That obvious?” she growled, irritated at being read so fast.
“For an expert, yes.”
“Expert in what?” she shot back.
“Money, of course!” he declared with fake grandeur. “No coin-purse at your belt, no inn key. You’re sleepin’ rough. And believe me, it shows.”

She rolled her eyes, hitched her pack up with annoyance.

“And this expert could help me?” she snapped in kind.

His smile broadened. She had bite. Perfect.

“Maybe so. Especially if your hands are quicker than your tongue.”

He crossed his arms, studied her a moment longer, feigning hesitation, finger tapping his chin. But he already knew what he’d do with her.

If Markab had sent this girl, it meant she’d seen something in her. And Markab never bothered with dead weight.

“Find me at the Ragged Flagon. We’ll talk business.”

He turned away. Behind him, she hesitated, then hurried to catch his stride. He heard her quicken to match his steps.

“Where is it?”

He stopped, half-turned, and pointed a finger at her, pinning her on the spot.

“Uh-uh. Not so fast, girl.”

A grin cut across his face, shadow of amusement in his eyes.

“Prove to me you’re more than a shiny trinket and a cursed dagger.”

Then, without waiting for her reply, he moved off, swallowed by the crowd. Ruby froze. He waved a hand in farewell without looking back.

She stood stiff, fists tight. The market swallowed him. He was gone.

A ragged sigh escaped her. Shoulders sagged under the weight of events piling too fast.

“… Now what?”

Breaking through Riften’s walls had felt hard. But that had been only a porch, crumbling. The real wall had just risen in front of her…

And she had no plan. No map. No key. Just a name, in a city that rejected her before it even knew who she was.

~*~

Riften by night was no more welcoming than Riften by day. The streets emptied, shadows thickened, doors shut without a sound. Ruby had been wandering for what felt like hours. She no longer knew which quarter she was in. Maybe the one no one came back from.

Her boots sank into the mud, sucked down with every step. The stench of alcohol, mildew, and cold ashes clung to her throat. No one spoke to her, yet everyone seemed to be watching. As if she had crossed some invisible line.

The façades pressed in close, crouched under half-dead lanterns. A few windows still pulsed with muffled laughter, with sighs she didn’t need to picture. Ruby realized she had stumbled into a quarter where the night never slept. Painted silhouettes, men and women alike, leaned in their doorways, throwing words, laughter, promises.

She stopped before a low house wedged between two collapsing hulks. A reddish lantern swung above the door, marked with a peeling sign. Ruby hesitated. A voice rose behind her, warm, drawling:

“Lookin’ for somethin’, pretty one? Or just plain lost?”

A woman in her thirties leaned against the doorframe, long pipe glowing red at her lips. The embers painted her face in crimson. She studied Ruby openly, without mockery but without shyness. Ruby faltered.

“The Ragged Flagon. I need to get there. I’m looking for someone.”

The hostess arched a brow, tilted her head, and drew slow on her pipe.

“You even know where you’re settin’ foot, sugar?”

Ruby shrugged. She had nothing left to lose. Her sentry contract with the Khajiit caravan had long since slipped away. No gold, no gear, no bearings. Might as well push her luck.

“It’s a rat-hole tavern. Nobody’s gonna point you there.”
“Just a direction, that’s all I’m asking,” Ruby pressed.

The woman gave a brief, husky laugh, blew a mouthful of smoke that drifted into the night.

“A direction, huh…?”

She stopped laughing, seemed to think, then stepped closer. Her thin, blotched hand brushed against Ruby’s clothes. Ruby stiffened instantly, the memory of Brynjolf and her medallion still raw. But the woman only tugged at a strap of her jerkin, lifted it, let it fall. Did the same with her scarf, a frayed flap of her vest.

“Looks like you stitched this mess up yourself.”
“I did,” Ruby snapped, stung.

She pulled her clothes tight to her chest, harsher than she meant. The woman raised a calming hand.

“You want a direction? Try the Ratway.”

She stamped her heel on the ground, heavy, her gaze insistent. Ruby froze. The gesture, clearer than words, cracked open in her mind like a lock snapping. The Ratway? She remembered hearing guards mention it, never thinking it meant the guts beneath Riften.

“The Ragged Flagon’s in the sewers?!” Ruby choked, exasperation bursting out.
“Ain’t the Imperial City, sweetcheeks,” the woman replied with a shrug.

Ruby threw her head back and closed her eyes, a grimace of defeat curling her lips. I’ll never find that damn tavern, she growled inwardly. This was worse than tracking a wounded stag through fog. She straightened up with a sigh of irritation, aware of the mocking look sliding over her.

The woman took another drag on her pipe. The embers flared, lighting up her eyes for a heartbeat, then she exhaled a pale, lazy plume of smoke.

“What’d he say to get you runnin’ like that, huh?” she asked with a brief laugh, pulling her shawl tight against a sudden breeze.

Ruby opened her mouth to snap back… then closed it. He hadn’t promised anything. Just two words: talk business. The truth hit her like a bitter taste. Her own foolishness made her want to scream. The woman across from her seemed to read the whole scene as if she’d seen it a thousand times.

“Lemme give you a piece of advice, sugar,” she said, waving her long pipe like a warning. “Don’t go chasin’ after those types. Full o’ promises… but when it’s time to show up? Nothin’ but air.”

Ruby leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. The hostess didn’t take her eyes off her.

“I don’t really have a choice,” Ruby muttered, spreading her arms before letting them fall, empty. “I’ve got nothing left.”

The woman tapped her pipe empty with a practiced flick, then knocked the bowl against the doorframe to clear it. With her heel, she crushed the last embers into the muddy stone. In the distance, the bells of the Temple of Mara rang out the night hour. She pushed the door open with a lazy sway of her hip.

“Stick around a bit if you want. Back here, no one’ll bother you. Fella leavin’ my place later? Regular down at that tavern.”

And without another word, she stepped inside and shut the door.

~*~

Ruby settled where she’d been told to wait, behind the house, on a shaky stack of barrels and splintered crates. Time stretched thin. Damp crept into her clothes, her bones, even her breath. Her eyelids burned. She pulled her legs in tight, numb from hours of walking.

Under the pale flicker of a swaying lantern, she studied her hands. Torn bandages revealed raw skin, scraped and scored by the wall’s stone. The blood had dried, the pain dulled, but the flesh was still tender, fragile. She cursed silently. Her hands were her tools, her weapons, her survival… and she’d thrown them away for a promise made in dust.

Since Helgen, that moment had haunted her. The officer from Windhelm. His eyes. His words, few, but sharp, brutally clear. Ruby lived on instinct, and until now it had never betrayed her. She hadn’t accepted that pact for coins. It was a vow. Rough, wordless, but real. She shivered at the memory. An immediate understanding, inexplicable. A bond without speech.

Yes. The promise was real. And the road to honor it, littered with traps. But she had nothing left to lose.

The night had sunk into its deadest hours when a window creaked open. Ruby slid to the ground, moving as smoothly as she could despite her fatigue. Moments later, a door opened. A man stepped out. Heavy coat, belt buckled in haste, hood pulled low.

She followed at once, cautious. Her boots rang too loud on the cobbles. She slowed, matched his stride. The man walked briskly, sure, relaxed. Riften was finally settling. The streets emptied, shadows lengthened. And Ruby had fewer and fewer blind spots to disappear into.

She nearly lost him at the first alley. She caught up only by following the lingering smell of wine trailing him like an invisible thread.

Every corner was a threat. She wasn’t made for cities. Roofs felt like snares, alleys like jaws about to snap shut. More than once she thought he’d spotted her. But he moved on, unbothered. As if he knew every stone, every cracked flag.

The ground shifted. Cobblestones gave way to mud and stagnant puddles. Ruby glanced up. The wall. A stretch she didn’t know. She had no idea where she was.

Her pulse hammered. The man turned a corner. She followed close behind… and found only emptiness.

Behind a half-collapsed house, eaten by damp, there was nothing. Only stone, waterlogged earth, refuse. Silence, heavy.

She swept the dead end with her eyes. Nothing. Panic rose. She shoved it back. Not now.

She searched by touch. The ruin still reeked of wine. Charred walls, blackened, frozen in a smoky past. Ruby knelt, sifted through broken planks and debris.

Under the ashes, her fingers struck something: dry wood, cold metal. A trapdoor. Iron-banded, hidden beneath a fallen chimney stack.

She crouched, felt for a latch. Her fingers found a ring. She pulled. Nothing. The lock was massive, sunk into the wood, offering no give, no catch.

This wasn’t a common lock. Not one you broke with a brick and luck.

The key had to be special.

Ruby froze, fists tight. Then the truth settled in: if this was an entrance to the Ratway, sooner or later someone would come out. She climbed onto a fallen wall nearby, not far from the hatch, and waited, ignoring the absurdity of it.

Hours dragged. Cold gnawed at her. Silence broken only by stray dogs and the muffled wail of a tavern. Her eyelids sagged, but she forced herself to stay alert, fingers locked on stone.

Then, a muffled creak. The trapdoor opened, slow. A slim, hooded figure climbed out, glanced left, right. Ruby held her breath. As the man moved off, she slid along the surviving edge of the roof, hugging the house walls.

This time, she learned from her mistakes. Instead of tailing him straight, she stayed high, stepping over fallen beams, circling along the walls. She had to move fast, before he reached a busier street. The figure headed into an empty alley. Ruby drew a deep breath, gambled everything.

“Pssst.”

One step. The figure stopped, confused. Ruby gave him no time to look up toward the sound.

She dropped on him from the roof. The impact slammed him to the ground. He barely grunted before his head cracked against the stones and he slumped out cold. A groan, a twitch of the arm. She ignored it. Shaking, breath ragged, she searched his pockets. Found a ring of keys. Three, four, maybe five. She ripped them all free.

Without waiting, she ran back to the ruined house. Breath short, fingers trembling, she tried one key, then another. Metal screeched, finally gave way. The hatch opened onto a shaft of shadow.

Ruby drew one last breath of the freezing night air. Then slid into the gap. The air thickened as she pulled the hatch shut behind her. She nearly slipped climbing down the ladder slick with damp before her boots hit dusty stone. Half-blind in the dim glow of scattered torches, she moved forward, away from the trapdoor.

At last, she pressed her back to the bricks and slid down the wall.

~*~

The stench hit her full force. Reek of muck, rusted metal, and human waste. Ruby pressed the crook of her arm against her mouth to choke back a gag. Her eyes struggled to make out more than faint bluish glimmers filtering through the grates above. Stagnant water slid in viscous rivulets down the stone, tracing black streaks.

She moved into the tunnel, a distant torch casting just enough light to make warped shadows dance. Every sound echoed: the slap of her steps, the trickle of water, hollow reverberations. It felt like she was being followed by her own footsteps.

Panic clawed up her chest, but she forced herself to breathe slow. She knew this feeling: in dense woods or caves, noises twisted by the dark made the mind see enemies everywhere. Observe. Look for signs. Every living thing leaves a trace.

At a fork, she crouched, pressed her fingers to the wet flagstones. To the left, the stone was layered with powdery, sticky grime. To the right, it was wiped clean, polished by use. Overlapping boot marks pressed into the muck. Ahead, a cobweb dangled, broken at shoulder height, disturbed by a phantom breath. Ruby straightened: this tunnel was traveled.

She advanced, following the clues as one follows tracks in snow. Each branching path became a riddle: one side, air cold and still; the other, a warm draft tinged with smoke and stale drink. She took the latter.

Once, her foot slipped on a cracked stone. The floor opened to a gaping hole. She pitched forward, one hand catching the edge just in time. Nails scraped, arms screamed. With a grunt, she hauled herself up and rolled aside, panting, heart pounding. From the black depths rose the steady drip of water, echoing like a clock.

She pushed herself up, trembling. Falling here wasn’t an option. Not now.

Ruby pressed on, step by step, until she faced a heavy wooden door, iron-bound. Unlike the others, it wasn’t swollen or rotted. The handle, polished smooth, gleamed faintly. The floor before it, was swept clean of dust. Her gut screamed: this was it.

She inhaled, laid a hand on the latch, and pushed.

The door groaned open onto a low-vaulted chamber. No tavern din. Just a few lanterns swaying, their flickering glow doubling shadows across crates, iron-hooped barrels, an empty table.

The air was drier, smelling of wood, sour wine… and the dust of a place where nothing joyful happened.

Ruby stepped forward twice. Too late.

A hand shot from the dark, seized her collar, and slammed her against the table. The blow ripped the breath from her chest. A cold blade pressed to her throat.

“Wrong hole to crawl into, girl,” hissed a sharp voice.

Ruby looked up. A hard-faced woman, blonde strand plastered to her temple, glared without blinking. Her stare, as sharp as the dagger, shimmered with cruel irony.

“I… I was just looking for the Ragged Flagon!” Ruby stammered, voice strangled.

A short, humorless laugh burst out. The blade pressed harder against her skin.

“And what, you thought you’d get in by pushing the first shiny door?”

Footsteps echoed in the hall. Ruby turned her head just in time to see a drenched figure fill the doorway. A Bosmer, blade already drawn. His eyes lit with fury when they met hers.

“You…” he hissed.

He lunged, dagger raised, ready to pin her to the wood. Ruby recognized him instantly: the man she had knocked out and robbed. Her gut clenched.

“It’s her!” he spat. “Told you, Vex. Find her again, I stick her.”

The woman -Vex- didn’t flinch, but her predator’s grin widened. Her eyes gleamed with a vicious spark.

“So, Niruin, you want the first cut?”

Ruby tried to speak, but her throat locked. Each breath rasped against the blade’s edge. Still, she forced out one desperate word:

“I just wanted… to find the~”
“The Ragged Flagon, yeah, I caught that,” Vex sneered. “But you don’t get it, sweetheart. Pick the wrong door down here, you pay up front.”

Niruin’s grip tightened on his dagger. Ruby, pinned to the table, understood: no flight, no excuse.

The whole room had shrunk around her. Nothing left but cold steel, jeers, and the taste of fear.

“What’s all the noise?” called a new voice, curious more than threatening.

Ruby didn’t dare turn her head. Vex and Niruin didn’t budge.

“None of your business, Rune. We’re takin’ care of a rat,” Niruin growled, eyes locked on his prey.

But the young man stepped in anyway. His lantern lit the scene: Ruby on her knees, blade at her throat. His gaze caught hers; she threw him the most pleading look she could. He stiffened… then turned on his heel, and Ruby’s heart sank.

“Better get Brynjolf before you hack her up,” he tossed over his shoulder, disappearing down the hall.

The name struck Ruby like a gasp of air. Brynjolf. If he came, maybe… maybe~

“So what now?” Niruin snarled, dagger still high.

Vex tightened her hold, yanked Ruby by the braids. Pain folded her to her knees.

Footsteps approached. Heavy. Even. Then a voice, mocking:

“Knew I heard some racket.”

Brynjolf filled the doorway, arms crossed, smile tugging his lips. His gaze swept the scene, lingered on Ruby -blade at her throat- then flicked to Vex and Niruin. And he laughed.

“By the Nine… you’re serious? This girl?”

The laugh rolled through the room, insolent, cutting. Ruby, frozen, felt it slap her like a hand. She was the public’s joke.

“You think this is funny?” Vex snapped, jaw tight. “She was nosin’ where she didn’t belong.”

Brynjolf’s grin didn’t falter. His eyes sparked with that trademark irony.

“I told her to find me at the Flagon. Alright, so she picked the wrong door… but she found me.”

Another laugh. Then his hand lifted, calm but unyielding:

“Put the toy away, Vex. I sent her.”

A heavy silence. Vex’s teeth ground. She hesitated… then shoved Ruby aside and sheathed the blade with a snap. Niruin seethed quietly.

Brynjolf shook his head, amused.

“Yeah… some potential there. We’ll see.”

He stepped back, arms spread theatrically.

“Welcome to the Thieves Guild, girl. Well… not quite. This here’s the storeroom. But you weren’t far.”

That laugh again, light, mocking, like it was all a game.

Ruby, shaking, pressed a hand to her throat where the blade had marked her. The words echoed heavy inside her, like a sentence.

The Thieves Guild.

Ice pooled in her gut. She’d crossed an invisible line. And there was no turning back.

What had she gotten herself into?

~*~

Notes:

As always, happy to discuss with you about the story! 😊