The next morning, I went straight to Adrianne at the city forge, and, full of hope, asked if she could craft me some silver bolts. To my disappointment, she shook her head. Yet after a pause—yes, these Nords do take their time now and then!—Adrianne remarked that perhaps her husband might know a trick or two and could help me.

  "His father was a goldsmith, skilled enough with the finer metals so Ulberth may have picked up something in his youth," she said, then snorted. "Though I wouldn't bet on it."

  But Ulberth, called by some the War-Bear, was away for several days, off to fetch raw materials. So I turned my steps toward Jorrvaskr, knowing they had the finest smith in all Skyrim—Eorlund Gray-Mane himself, though I was aware he rarely deigned to take commissions from common folk.

  Aela, I found brushing her fiery mane—oh, a vision to behold! But when I made my request, her eyes blazed, she spat on the ground, and cursed as though Mehrunes Dagon himself had walked through the door. She snarled that if I ever dared utter the word silver again within a hundred meters of Jorrvaskr (three hundred twenty-eight feet, should an Altmer happen to be reading this), she would see me torn apart limb from limb!

  Ah, of course—now I remembered! Werewolves, too, are cursed creatures, and silver is their bane. I laughed, asked for forgiveness, and told her that I gladly accepted her offer. That turned her mood on the spot. She was as delighted as Courtney at the scent of trouble—nay, more so, for the she-wolf longs even more for battle though she does not brawl in the streets like my beloved friend.

  "When shall you be ready to depart?" she asked, eyes shining.

  "Right now," I answered without hesitation. And so it was set—we would leave that very afternoon, toward evening, pursuing the sun's dying light.

  I hurried back home and burst into Breezehome, brimming with excitement and restless anticipation. From my great travel bag, I drew forth my marvellous crossbow, and both Leif and Lydia gasped at the sight of it. My daddy remarked that such a contraption must surely be worth more than all the Earls' family jewels—he knew, of course, since half of those trinkets had found their way into his keeping, pledged to him in pawn and courteously "safeguarded" within Dragonsreach for Balgruuf's sake. Lydia, however, stared not only with awe but also with envy.

  I took pity on her and let her hold the Dwarven device, to study at leisure while I gathered my gear. Ah, my cute light armour! What a wonder it was—masterfully wrought, a thing of beauty: supple leather reinforced with rings of steel mail. Adrianne had laboured two full weeks upon it, and though she demanded a high price to match, it was worth every septim. The armour fit close against my body, light and pliant, and was full of clever pockets and compartments for short throwing knives, darts, daggers, poisons, remedies, and other nice, useful toys much needed by assassins such as myself.

  I added a wide, elastic sack for gold and trinkets—I laugh aloud even now, writing these words, remembering my foolishness! Then Lydia came, carrying my crossbow. She even helped me strap it across my shoulders, and to my surprise, she pressed into my hands a satchel full of provisions and a flask of dark, strong ale. She shook my hand, murmuring, "Would it not be wiser if I came with you, if only as far as the barrow's entrance?"

  I did not accept her offer, and just then, Aela stormed into Breezehome. A magnificent vision she was—steel-clad from throat to hip and a long dagger at her belt (or rather, a short-sword by Cyrodiilic standards, though in Skyrim all weapons grow larger and heavier). Her only concession to mobility and feminine grace was a short skirt of forged steel chains. Her feet were shod in colossal boots of gleaming plate, each step resounding as though the earth itself trembled. To this day, I wonder how she ever managed to run beneath so much iron!

  Lydia stared in amazement at that superb Valkyrie with her fiery mane billowing, not daring to utter a word. My daddy, however, remained wholly unimpressed. After embracing me long and hard, he said, "Do not forget, girls—the draugr have no fear of steel. You especially, Aela, try not to f**k up, will you?"

  We stopped at the city's forge, where Adrianne's strong hands worked with calm precision, unstringing and restringing what was no ordinary weapon but rather a marvel wrought of craft and will. The bow was long—so long it nearly matched the height of an average man, and in Aela's grip it seemed less a tool and more an extension of her own wild strength. It was no simple stave of wood; no, it was a composite, layered cunningly from horn, sinew, and heartwood, its limbs bending with a resilience that no single timber could have offered. Some said yew made the finest bows, others swore by ash or elm, yet here the core was fashioned of northern mountain birch, chosen for its lightness, its stubborn refusal to splinter in the cold. Upon it had been laid strips of elk sinew, drawn tight and glued with resins so secret that even Adrianne muttered them under her breath like spells.

  Near the grip, worked in iron and polished bone, gleamed a small notched wheel—a clever contrivance that allowed the tightening or loosening of the bowstring with the precision of a jeweler. That string itself was no mere hemp cord but plaited gut, glistening faintly with the oil that kept it supple even in Skyrim's bitter frost. The recurved tips, blackened and lacquered, gave the weapon a deadly elegance—their curve promising a sudden, snapping violence once the string was drawn.

  And to fully draw it! Gods, what strength was needed—this was no bow for common hunters stalking elk, nor even for soldiers who rained arrows from city walls. It demanded the shoulders of a barbarian warrior and the will of one who had faced strange beasts in the dark. Adrianne tested it once, the great bow creaking as though it resented mortal hands; yet when the string was loosed, the sound was sharp and pure, like the crack of ice breaking on a winter lake.

  I confess, I shivered with delight and great respect merely to look upon it. Aela, though, just slung it across her back as though it were but another ornament, her fiery mane spilling over the polished grip. She also took the quiver, hung it on her hip, and we went out through the city gates just as they were about to be closed for the night.

  The sun blazed low upon the horizon, hot and red as molten iron. For these northern lands, the heat was uncommon, almost oppressive, yet behind us, thick black clouds rose swiftly, swallowing the pale sky.

  "It may be a storm later," Aela said, glancing back with that lupine half-smile of hers. "You are not afraid of a little windy sleet, are you, Elsie?"

  "No..." I answered, though I shuddered. "But I do not like it. Too cold for my southern bones, Aela! Nor do I like wet weather, like any—" I stopped short, curious to see if she would finish the thought.

  "Big cat?" she asked, her eyes narrowing with sudden intensity.

  "Exactly. A panther, to be precise."

  Her face lit up with recognition. "So that was the beast from my dream! I had heard tales of the great cats of the south, but never thought to see one."

  "Yes," I replied, smiling. "A black panther... sleek and dangerous."

  "Dangerous indeed, from the look," Aela murmured, her smile sharpening. "Tell me, Elsie—are you dangerous too?"

  "Very," I said, and we both burst out laughing, our voices carried off on the rising wind.

  "Not in our traditional way, though," Aela added, her tone softening. "I knew it the first time I laid eyes on you, and perhaps that is why I was so eager to watch you fight. Still, you should know that in our realm, there are other cats, no less deadly than yours. We call them sabre-cats: swift, savage, cunning. I would not welcome the sight of one tonight. They prowl most fiercely in darkness."

  "I know," I whispered back. "I too prowl in the dark... and in places of shadow."

  So we walked on, our laughter fading into silence, until the blackened ruins of the Western Watchtower loomed before us, stark against the bloody sunset. There, a sentry came running, breathless, calling out to Aela.

  "All day a dragon has circled above Secunda's Kiss Pass!" the sentry had warned. "I hope you're not heading for the mountains, my lady!"

  "We're only taking a stroll," Aela lied. "Looking for wolves to hunt."

  "Good luck then! There are plenty— they howl all night." The soldier shivered, saluted, and hurried away.

  "You lied! So, you are a liar, Aela!" I teased.

  "No, I'm not," she grinned, unrepentant. "But Balgruuf himself ordered us to avoid dragons and not to provoke them."

  The dragon's shadow nagged at me. After my last brush with Alduin, I no longer saw dragons as mindless terrors. They moved with purpose, or maybe they were even someone's tools. I kept the worries to myself, though, because Aela is a simple woman and does not understand the hidden arcana and mysteries; her world is simple—courage and fear, strength and weakness—black and white. And we pressed on towards the lone mountain looming ahead of us.

  Ah, the high plains around Whiterun! They rolled out like an ocean of grass, covered in tall, coarse grasses too rough for domestic animals to graze. This highland steppe teems with small dangers: skeevers—the Skyrim variant of Cyrodiilic rats, but larger, disease-ridden, and far more aggressive—and mudcrabs, those giant, vicious nuisances that lurk in every damp place. And of course, the ever-present wolves, prowling in small but menacing packs throughout the brief, intense subarctic summer.

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  Aela delighted in stirring them all, raining death on anything that dared to move and deliberately making a lot of noise, only to bring more of them upon us. I watched as she chased, killed, and laughed. But I said nothing. Her violence was a part of her; my protests would fall away like dust; moreover, at some point, she looked at me, puzzled by my restraint and asked bluntly, "What's this? You don't like killing?". "Nope," I said. The word was small and firm between us. We both laughed, but the sound had edges.

  When the night crept across the plateau, a circle of fire winked ahead—a camp. Aela's eyes burned wild. "Giants!" she cried, exultant. "They are home tonight. Good. Very good."

  That was enough, and I couldn't hold it anymore. "Aela, stop. Please. We have a tough job ahead. Why stirr them? This is madness."

  She shrugged, embarrassed for a breath. "Maybe you're right, Elsie. Arrows cost gold—Kodlak always reminds me of that—and I've spent a fortune. Still—" Her grin returned, impish and fierce. "I only wanted to show you how to sneak up on them. To spy on their stinky lair."

  I almost laughed in her face. Almost. Instead, I restrained myself and followed, curiosity braided tight in my soul. How does one move like a faint breath while clad in clanging steel plates? How does one become a shadow while wearing thunder for boots? These questions kept me close.

  So we crept on—Aela, a storm of iron and joy, and I, a quieter specter with a wary feline pacing beneath my skin—toward a fire that promised two things: troubles and peril. Above us, perhaps the dragon still circled, and the night smelled of smoke, of crushed grass, and fir trees scorched by the sun.

  She led me onto a small cliff, not far from the giants' fire, and began to crawl forward with grace and ease, making surprisingly little noise while sneaking. I was curiously watching her movements when I felt something behind me. It came against the wind, silent as a thought, the way a true predator approaches its prey, and only a faint rustle, no more than a sigh, betrayed its presence. I sank low, heart steady, and glanced over my shoulder.

  There it was—a splendid, enormous feline, its body flowing like water through the grasses, its eyes glowing molten amber. Two big fangs, gleaming in Secunda's light, brought to my mind: "Ah, Aela's sabre cat!"

  Slowly, I drew one of my poisoned darts. Then, reconsidering, I drew another—the last one—and laid it ready on the ground. I forced myself into stillness, feigning ignorance; the thrill of the hunt embraced me in its alluring arms—but in my own way, and that means cold blood and patience, infinite patience if necessary.

  So I waited, heart steady... till the beast crept close enough; I knew it by the sound of its breath. I bared my right hand's claws, turned swiftly, and flung the first dart. The second followed at once, just as the velvet shadow jumped upon me. I rolled hard to the right, knife flashing into my grip.

  The cat landed near, muscles coiling, but the venom was already at work. Its stride faltered, its golden eyes dimmed, its muzzle stiffened as the jaws locked. Yet even then, it lashed out an enormous paw, swift as lightning. I dodged again to the left this time, breath hissing, then I dug my claws deep into the back of its neck, pulled its head, and opened its throat with a single cut.

  After that, for me, there was a moment of deep silence—the kind of silence that rings. Then I breathed deep, trembling not with fear but with awe. The beast lay beside me, still magnificent even in death, its fur soft and gleaming like shadowed silk.

  "Forgive me, sister," I whispered, stroking the cooling pelt. "You would have killed me."

  And I gave that first kill to Nocturnal, my great love, who chuckled, well pleased.

  Meanwhile, that devil, Aela, had slithered into the giants' camp—unnoticed, as she boasted later—hiding herself behind two great logs used by the creatures to store water or mammoth milk. From there, she waved to me; I returned the gesture, relief warming me when I saw her slip back, leaving the huge fellows unbothered.

  I had my own little surprise prepared: the sabre cat's body I had arranged in such a way that it looked poised to spring. With deliberate calm, I walked toward Aela.

  "Ha! Did you see me?" she whispered triumphantly. "What do—" Her voice broke into a sharp cry: "Beware, fool!" She loosed an arrow straight into the carcass, then dropped her bow in an instant. The dagger flashed in her hand, her whole frame stiffened, a statue of ferocity.

  I chuckled, unable to resist. "Aela, why did you kill my friend? Gods, girl, you're such an insensitive cutthroat..."

  Her face fell; her eyes grew wide as plates. She sighed heavily. "How in Oblivion did you kill that thing?"

  "Oh, it committed suicide," I answered softly, smiling with teeth. "Collapsed right next to me—perhaps terrified by a certain huntress on her wild rampage, cutting down anything that moves."

  Aela laughed then, dry and a little bitter, as she crouched by the dead beast. "An impressive specimen! I must skin it, take the fangs, maybe some claws—"

  "No!" My voice snapped sharper than I intended, and my eyes burned. "This is my kill, and I will not allow it. We have no time—and besides, it is unworthy. The beast was noble, a splendid opponent."

  She drew back at once, chastened. "I'm sorry, Elsie! Forgive me. At least... let me take one fang. Just one. Lydia would cherish it—she could set it in her helmet, and she will be grateful, I promise."

  Her plea bored more than angered me, yet I waved a hand and let her indulge her foolishness—better to end the quarrel quickly, to leave this place behind and press onward toward our true goal.

  We entered the gorge just as the storm broke upon us. The wind rose in fury, tearing through the narrow pass; the sky churned with thick, ashen clouds, and from them came a torrent of watery snow, falling in cold, wet sheets. The canyon howled deep, and above us, the firs sighed, bending under the strong gusts that seemed to shake the entire mountain. Rocks clattered loose, thundering down the slopes, and in the blinding swirl, our sight shrank to nothing.

  Aela gasped, leaning close: "We cannot go further, Elsie! There is a cave nearby—we must take shelter!"

  "All right, lead on," I mumbled, soaked to the bone, shivering in the gale.

  Soon, a wound in the flesh of the mountain took shape to our left; Aela slipped inside and lit a torch that revealed a small, almost round grotto.

  "It's empty," she breathed in relief, and quickly searched the corners and the small cracks in the walls. "No snakes—that's good." Then she turned briskly. "Elsie, wood! Let's bring some inside."

  "A fire? Here? So close to the barrow, in this cursed gorge?" I muttered, doubting her judgment.

  "Nothing could be worse than death by cold, trust me, girl," she answered with a smile.

  So we gathered fallen branches, dragging them inside, and soon the fire roared, warm and cheerful, its light pushing back the storm yet expelling the protective darkness too. Aela stretched her cloak across the cave mouth, a poor but welcome shield, then, without hesitation, began to strip off her sodden gear, laying armour and garments by the blaze.

  "Come, Elsie! Undress and dry yourself, or you'll wake stiff as a draugr."

  I hesitated only a moment before doing as she bade. Heat crept back into my bones, and I sighed in content. "Let's eat, Aela. I'm starving. You?"

  She laughed, shaking her fiery mane. "More than hungry—I'm famished! But provisions? None. So we sleep. A good sleep is often better than supper."

  "Not tonight, Huntress. Look what I have." With a flourish, I opened my bag. Inside were Lydia's gifts: bread, fried meat, cheese, and to my astonishment, a croissant, golden and flaky as morning sunlight. My heart softened; I thought, 'Our brazen housecarl is not so bad after all,' and chuckled.

  "Why do you laugh, Elsie?" Aela asked, already gnawing great chunks of fried meat.

  "I was thinking of Lydia. She can be useful... sometimes." I sighed. "But the rest of the time? A mean harpy, sharp-tongued and cruel."

  "No, you are wrong, my friend!" Aela exclaimed, cheeks full. "She is strong, honest, and true." Then, with a sudden whoop of joy: "Yay! She even gave us a flask of booze! Glorious! And what did I just tell you?"

  Then, between quick bites, Aela told me Lydia's tale—how she had first come to Whiterun one spring evening, dressed in rags, thin from hunger, with nothing but a rusty sword at her side. She had spent her first night under the starry sky, curled up in the courtyard of Jorrvaskr, waiting for Kodlak to return from a hunt in the hills. Yet before Kodlak, it was Balgruuf who came upon her during his morning stroll through the city. He saw her there, fierce and unyielding, striking at straw dummies with all the fire of desperation, and he decided at once: this woman must serve as his guard.

  So when Kodlak returned, he refused her request to join the Companions and instead sent her to the Jarl's barracks. There, Lydia received a new uniform, a sturdy shield, a gleaming sword, and a contract—three meals and two septims a day, and a bunk in the guards' hall.

  "I would have loved to have your Lydia as a Sister" Aela said, gulping greedily from the flask, "but Kodlak bends too easily to politics. If Balgruuf asked for me as a maid, our Harbinger would obey without a murmur. Only—" she laughed wildly, nearly choking on her drink, "—the Earl would soon regret his wish!"

  She took another long swig. "Ah, this is good ale! Lydia knows what truly matters in life. Here, Elsie—take a drink!"

  "No, thank you," I said, shaking my head. "I like my mind awake and clear. And perhaps you should restrain yourself, Aela—you never know what waits beyond the next corner... or just outside our cave."

  "With this storm?" she scoffed. Even Ysgramor himself wouldn't dare to wander in such a blizzard!"

  So we spoke a while of Ysgramor and the first Companions, and by the time the flask was drained, Aela declared that when she became Harbinger, she would tolerate no orders in Jorrvaskr save her own. That thought made me laugh aloud. Ah, Aela—so simple in her ambition! Yet people do not follow because one is good, or strong, or beautiful, or clever. No—men and women alike will bend their will only when given three things: a purpose to drive them forward, protection to shield them from the horrors of the world, and sustenance to keep hunger from their bellies. A leader, therefore, is not a master but a servant, bound to inspire, protect, and provide. And often, he must choke down his own vanity, silence his pride, and sometimes even set aside love itself, making compromises bitter as wormwood.

  But I did not trouble her with such wisdom. She was already drunk, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with fire. Instead, I teased her gently, wondering aloud whether she would be called Harbinger in a Skirt or perhaps the Harbingeress. I spoke so candidly, with such mischief, that she did not even punch me as she first intended. Instead, she toppled back, snoring so loudly that surely even the draugr in their barrow must have stirred at the sound.

  Outside, the storm raged on with its frightening symphony, but in our cave, it was warm, almost cozy. The only thing that troubled me was the fire—its glow was far too bright. I tried adding wet wood, hoping for a dimmer light, but all I got was smoke that stung my eyes and throat. So I shifted the cloak over the mouth of the cave, letting some fresh air inside.

  Then I set myself up. I sat far from the fire, crossbow loaded and resting at my right hand. On my left, I laid out four throwing knives in a neat line, one by one, like shining promises. The cave's wall was cold against my back, so I wrapped my cloak around me, and with that warmth came the drifting pleasure of half-dreams.

  Ah, moon sugar would have helped! I must remember to ask Khaila for some next time we meet, I told myself. My mind wandered freely at first, but always in the same order it returned—gold, people, power. And the vision grew: gold would draw people near, for it buys both swords and bread; then people and steel forge power. And power... oh, power might yet bring Her Holy City within my grasp, though it lay far away in a land seared and blistered under the pitiless Sun.

  Thus, the purpose grew sharp before me: the Companions must fall into my web, one way or another. I tried to coax Lady Luck's opinion on this matter, but She was sulky that night and snapped back, "A certain worm has some business to attend in Riften, if only the worm in question would have the grace to tend to them."

  I grinned and shut Her off with exquisite satisfaction. But—as always—I was a fool. I did not understand, not yet, that Nocturnal was merely showing me the easiest path to heaps of gold.