When I woke from my faint, I was stretched upon the long table in the inn's hall. Delphine's face hovered above me, and from her crooked mouth came words as sharp as thorns:

  "Well, well, look what the cat dragged into my inn!"

  "Madam Delphine, now is hardly the time for jokes," said the soldier who had carried me there, his voice full of reproach. "She's scarcely breathing!"

  "Do not fret, good man. She belongs to a foul kind—these never die quickly enough, no matter what you do to them!"

  The soldier gave a weary shrug and left me alone with the hag.

  "Well then," Delphine sneered, "what did you do, eh? Get drunk and tumble down the stairs?"

  I shut my eyes, unwilling to behold her grin again—it made me long to claw at her face, to gouge her eyes out and leave her as blind as a mole.

  "Never mind," she muttered after a pause, "you're lucky. The healer, Danica, still lingers in Riverwood. I shall fetch her. And you—don't you dare run off, bitch!"

  I lay there with pain and fever consuming my weary body, my mind a hellish theatre of horrid scenes: Arvel bursting like a rotten tomato when the Lucky Dagger split him, the draugr king or whatever it was that huge creature and its henchmen hunting me through that cursed tomb, the mangled corpses of those wretched brigands, and—oh, this haunted me most—the half-dead snow troll clawing for my injured leg.

  But then Danica came, and she laid her gentle hand upon my brow. With grave concern, she studied the bandage about my right shoulder and the sorry state of my leg.

  "You have broken bones, my dear," she said, patting me lightly on the head. "Many..." Her voice grew thoughtful as her hand passed gently over my chest. Then she bent down and, to my wonder, sniffed at the bandage. A soft exclamation escaped her lips: "This is not your ordinary milk of the poppy..."

  I looked into her eyes, pleading for her silence, and she, wise woman, gave a slight nod and asked no more. Then Danica turned to Delphine, who all the while had been lapping up every word with greedy ears and brighter eyes than usual.

  "Delphine, let Elsie have my room. It is paid for a week yet, as you know. And please, help me bring her there."

  Delphine gave a curt nod and went to rouse Orgnar, the cook. He came lumbering forth, grumbling, but smiled widely when he saw me, and lifted me as though I were no heavier than a feather. A dove feather. That made me chuckle—for oh, how I love to be carried in strong arms! So I bared my teeth in a grin and cried out:

  "And bring me something to eat, Delphine—will you, my dear?"

  "Don't you want something to drink too?" Delphine asked, grinning.

  "No, my dear Delphine, I still believe the rats are pissing into your barrels..." I answered in my sweetest look and voice. I felt Orgnar choking back his laughter, and I was very proud of myself.

  On the way, still worried, I asked Danica about Aela. To my relief, the priestess assured me the Huntress was safe, out of danger, though she had lost much blood and would be forced to rest a long while. At this, I felt suddenly lighter, as though a great stone had been lifted from me—the first morsel of good news after days of misery and torment.

  In Danica's chamber, Orgnar placed me upon the bed with unexpected gentleness for such a gruff man—exactly as one might set down a sick child. Or, a wounded kitten, I thought, amused... but the amusement soured as I recalled Nocturnal's recent mockery, and for a moment anger overcame me. I mastered myself, however, when Orgnar asked, in his rough voice, if I cared for fried eggs and bacon.

  I smiled sweetly and told him to bring the eggs as they were, for fire would spoil them. And to fetch me a great carafe, truly great, of the sweetest milk, poisonously sweet, and hot. And a hunk of bread, big and thick.

  The man frowned and confessed the inn had no milk at all, but that he would buy some from the town once the folk were awake.

  "Go to Gerdur," I told him. "She has a fine cow, red and broad." And I mewed, stroking myself like a spoiled cat. I also demanded a generous cut of mutton—necessarily medium rare.

  "Oh, medium rare..." Danica smiled. "An aristocrat!"

  "No, just a famished woman," I replied.

  Orgnar bustled about and set all in order. After laying the meat upon the hot pan, spreading divine scents throughout the inn, he brought me bread, eggs, and heated water mixed with honey. Then, with a great armful of wood, he stoked the hearth till it roared. At last, he turned, beaming, and asked if I felt better now, and whether there was aught more he might do for me.

  I smiled sweetly in return and assured him I was quite content. So they both left me to eat in peace, and eat I did. In the end, I think I even dozed a little, for I started when Orgnar returned, bearing a big steaming pot of milk. Then I remembered my request and thanked him from my heart. The milk was divine, cloyed thick with honey, just as I had asked; I felt as though I were being born anew. Yet the sharp stab of pain that seized me when I shifted but an inch reminded me of the sorry wreck I truly was.

  And just as I was beginning to pity myself in earnest, Danica entered, accompanied by Gerdur. Each bore an armful of wooden splints and bandages, which they dropped with a thud into one corner before going in search of a bucket of hot water.

  I watched them with growing dread, for I have ever feared medics and their instruments of torture! Danica caught my frightened gaze and broke into a wide smile.

  "Elsie," she said, "you come to me with half your bones broken, yet you laugh, and jest, and eat like a pig—and when you see a few mere bandages and splints, you turn yellow... Why is that?"

  "Ah, no, Danica, I am only concerned for Aela's health..." I answered, but my eyes betrayed me.

  "Don't you worry about her, my dear... Aela's fine and still sleeping," the priestess chukled. " She'll come to see you later!" she added.

  Danica smiled again, and together with Gerdur fetched Delphine's tub—while I, greatly amused, listened with delight to the innkeeper's indignant protests.

  They undressed me like a child and lowered me into the tub of warm water. There, they washed my broken body for a long while, with much care and gentleness. When they had wiped me down, they set me upon the table.

  Danica asked if I would take something for the pain, and I declined, for I knew her concoctions were too feeble for me, serving at best to provoke a bout of diarrhea. Then they began their grim work. Danica set each of my broken bones back in place, and I gave not a moan, for Delphine stood at the door, watching with greedy eyes the tortures I endured. Yet I could not stop the tears that streamed down my cheeks without ceasing.

  Danica would pause now and then to stroke my hair tenderly, whispering, "It won't be long now, Elsie! Very soon I shall be done." But she lied—lied only to encourage me—and I knew it.

  At last, the priestess finished her operations, and I was turned into a thick bundle of bandages and wooden splints. They laid me in bed like a doll and covered me with a woolen blanket. I dozed a little after all the torment, and when I woke, the rays of the sun streamed through the high window like golden rivulets.

  And there stood Aela—her fiery mane untamed, her eyes fixed on me with burning love. Yes, true love blazed in those wolfish eyes of hers! She bent close, patted me gently on the head, and whispered:

  "You saved my life twice, my sister!"

  She paused, thoughtful, then added: "For that, I will see you made a Companion the very moment we return to Whiterun."

  Aela did not ask about the barrow, nor that cursed trinket, which surprised me somewhat. Yet I only stroked her hand and said:

  "I am not certain I am capable of fighting your way, Aela. So..."

  "So," she cut me off impatiently, "you are more than qualified to be a great warrior among us! And that is final!"

  Ah, Aela is stubborn—perhaps as stubborn as I am, though I rather doubt it. So I laughed, and she, too, began to laugh, and then she embraced me with care.

  Later, she brought me something sweet to eat—a hearty sweet roll and a cup of steaming milk, rich with honey.

  "Courtesy of Orgnar," Aela said, then added with a chuckle: "Delphine made him pay for it, and he gladly did... more than that, he went and bought up all the milk in town. Ah, you have your way with men, little devil!"

  "With some women too..." I answered with a grin. That did it—Aela smiled, and in that instant, we felt like two sisters long separated who had at last found each other again. Sisters never to be parted again!

  The rest of the day passed quietly. Toward evening, Danica came and told us she must return to Whiterun; her many duties at the Temple of Kynareth called her back. Gerdur would look after me until her return and also keep a close eye on Aela's slow recovery.

  As she left, I heard her scolding Sven, telling him to cease his hideous bawling, for within the inn lay two gravely wounded heroines. Heroines—yes, she used that word, and though I am not one to boast nor to be boasted of, still I felt a warmth at hearing it. Yet I always prefer discretion... But discretion was already impossible in the Bleak Falls Barrow's affair, and I could only pray to Nocturnal that the matter would remain, somehow, hidden from the authorities of Whiterun. At least for a while...

  The next morning, Leif arrived with Lydia in tow. He rented all the remaining rooms and then, for good measure, the entire inn—for he paid Sven's wages for two weeks and sent him off to Whiterun to enjoy the city for a while.

  My dear daddy burst into my chamber like a hurricane. Oh, he may be old and look frail, but he is a dangerous tiger when his beloved daughter—that's me—is thought to be in danger! Now, that was a touching and rather lengthy scene, and I shall not linger on it. What matters is that I felt at once as though I were home again, as in Breezehome—serene, relaxed, protected. And that, as my wise readers will surely agree, is a most wonderful thing for any woman.

  Even Lydia's very presence heightened that feeling of home, and I must note that our housecarl was exceptionally kind and attentive throughout our stay at the Sleeping Giant Inn. Delphine, too, suddenly discovered a kindness within her—though in truth it was the music of Leif's money bag that softened her heart. And I cannot blame her, for I myself am half-mad for the sound of gold.

  Ah, gold! That was Lydia's sole irony during this time. With a sly glint in her eye, she asked if the bag I had carried with me was large enough to hold the gold found in the barrow.

  I told her, plain as daylight, that I had never entered the barrow at all, for a snow troll had mangled me first. At this, her eyes grew as wide as two great plates, and she demanded every detail. I gave them with relish—every bloody, dreadful detail—save for the part the Lucky Dagger had played in my escape from beneath the giant paw of that half-dead troll. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my daddy smirking, despite the tension of the tale. Yet I went on, adding with great delight a few supplementary lies, enough to make Lydia gasp and look at me with newfound respect.

  So much respect that Lydia even felt obligated to share my little story that very evening in the inn's hall, where most of Riverwood gathered to listen with wonder—or disbelief. Oh, she even insisted, again and again, that the troll had been slain by her young mistress!

  That, of course, annoyed Delphine and made her scoff aloud: "That guileful, cattish bitch could not kill so much as a skeever!"

  From my chamber, I listened with wicked delight to the scandal that erupted the very moment the harpy's tongue loosed those words. Hod shouted that it was no way to speak of a respectable lady like me. Others bellowed that no snow troll could be felled by a mere slip of a girl, nor even by a seasoned soldier. Voices rose, tankards slammed on tables, and the whole house shook with quarrel.

  At length, Delphine declared she would pay fifty septims to any man who brought her the troll's head. This, of course, fanned the flames yet hotter. Another fierce debate broke out—half the company insisting that troll-flesh could not be hewn, not even from a corpse; the other half swearing it could, if only one were bold enough to try.

  Alvor the smith said that he had the skill and strength for such a business, while the city's hunter Faendal, Hod, and even Embry the drunkard volunteered to accompany him and see it done. Thus, an expedition was set for the morrow.

  My daddy turned his eyes upon me, worried and searching. I merely shrugged and told him the truth: that the troll lay exactly where I had left it.

  Not long after, Lydia came to my chamber with Faendal and Hod in her wake. The hunter asked me where exactly the troll's carcass might be found, and I—timid as a frightened kitten—replied that I could not say with certainty, for it had been night and the place was unfamiliar to me.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Leif, half convinced by now that my tale was no more than fancy, added that trolls are known to stir for a long time even after being mortally struck.

  From behind the little company, there came a resounding peal of laughter. Delphine, clutching her stomach, gasped out between fits: "I told you so!"

  Very amused by her performance, I stammered still louder and whispered that the beast's body must lie upon the small plateau near the barrow, not far from the path to the White River bridge.

  "Unless it ran away in fright lest this unbearable little wench should return!" Delphine went on shamelessly with her show. And oh, how happy it made me! For I could see all present frown at her venom. Even Faendal, who scarcely knew me, protested: "There is no need for mockery in such an exciting case, Delphine."

  Lydia, red with fury, turned at once to Leif and demanded his leave to go with them in the morning. My poor daddy looked torn in two, and my heart was secretly glad of it, for I disliked beyond measure that he doubted my story. Though, to be fair, he had every cause—seeing that I had lied to him shamelessly more times than I could ever count.

  In the end, with a broken sigh, he granted Lydia her request, and the company departed.

  A little later, Aela came to me, saying that Lydia had asked to borrow her great dagger—the one wrought by Eorlund himself at the Skyforge.

  And then, a little embarrassed, Aela asked whether the creature had indeed been a snow troll.

  "Who knows? Perhaps it was but a polar bear. You could hardly tell the difference, Elsie—especially at night, in the fog. And you are a newcomer; you've not yet learned all the beasts that roam our realm. Yes, that must be it!" she finished, quite pleased with herself for finding so convenient a way to rescue me from trouble.

  Leif sighed with relief and murmured, "You are a clever girl, Aela. Yes, a polar bear! And they, too, will stir long after mortal wounds are dealt."

  Their concern for my reputation—and their lack of belief in me, above all Aela's—began to gnaw at me. "Aye, mayhap it was the ghost of a white rabbit!" I burst out angrily. Then, turning cold, I told Aela I wished to sleep.

  She hastened to add that even a polar bear would be a worthy trophy for a seasoned hunter, but her words left me colder still. With a curt gesture, I dismissed her. Puzzled, she departed, convinced she had just adorned my tale with a fine and credible lie. Poor Aela! She is not made for falsehood; her lies are laughably candid...

  When she was gone, I bade Leif remain, and to him I told the whole tale—the real one: Arvel's hideous transformation into an unfinished draugr, the giant undead that shattered my bones, the Lucky Dagger slicing troll-flesh as if it were butter.

  "And I put a bolt in the monster's eye—the middle one!—from three paces off. With that!" I snarled and slammed the dwarven crossbow on the floor in anger.

  My daddy grew strangely melancholy at the first mention of the Lucky Dagger. He listened to my tale without interruption, his eyes fixed upon me, and when I had done, he sighed and said:

  "Forgive me, Elsie. I believe you. Now I am certain you are no ordinary mortal. For such as you, even what is impossible for others may become strangely easy."

  He took my hand, pressed it gently, and whispered, "May I see the dagger? Please, daughter—it is not mere curiosity of an old man."

  I rummaged through my tattered armour until I found the thing in its hidden place. Drawing it forth, I held it out to him. Yet he would not touch it. He only gazed upon it for a long while, reverence and sorrow mingling in his face.

  At last, he said: "I saw it once before—centuries ago—in a dark, dusty house in Balmora, in that land now buried deep beneath the ashes of Red Mountain..."

  He paused, and his voice dropped lower: "I even tried to draw it out—from the body of my beloved wife. But it would not let me. Look here."

  He showed me a twisted scar upon the inner flesh of his left hand—my daddy is left-handed, as am I.

  "It was no cut, no burn," he went on, his voice trembling. "The flesh froze and thawed in the same instant. I nearly lost the hand altogether."

  Now his eyes brimmed with tears, and my anger was gone in a heartbeat. Pity and love welled up instead, as I saw him bent and weeping before that terrible toy. Quickly, I slipped the Lucky Dagger back into its hiding place, then stroked his scarred hand and said softly:

  "Come now, daddy. You shall tell me that story another time..."

  Then we both went to bed, for it was late, and the owl was chanting its mournful song outside, beneath the eaves.

  Later, when we returned to Whiterun, my daddy wrote a short essay upon my exquisite daedric toy, after poring over several dusty manuscripts from his great library. I shall copy it here exactly as Leif penned it:

  * * *

  The Lucky Dagger—is it lucky indeed?

  They call it Lucky. The name is a jest, a cruel twist of irony that clings to the blade like dried blood. Nothing about this dagger is fortunate—save for the hand that manages to survive holding it.

  Its blade is forged of meteoric iron, dark and almost lightless, save for the occasional shimmer that flits across it like a vein of quicksilver. That shimmer is never still. It crawls, pulses, slithers, as though the metal itself remembers falling from the sky. The dagger does not rust, nor dull, nor chip, though it has tasted the bones of men, beasts, and daedra alike. Especially daedra. That is its true appetite: not the fragile flesh of mortals, but the arrogant immortals who think themselves untouchable. The Lucky Dagger cannot kill them—nothing can—but it can silence them, rob them of form, force them to retreat into the shadows of Oblivion for spans of time long enough to matter. Long enough to change a battle. Long enough to betray.

  The hilt is plain. Deceptively so. Bone, ordinary and uncarved, worn smooth by hands both desperate and damned. No runes, no jewels, no sigils. Just the kind of hilt a farmer might carve for a kitchen knife—save that this bone is always alive in its own way. It shifts with moods that are not its wielder's. Cold as a glacier when the dagger sulks, broods, or refuses; searing hot when happy and eager, when it hungers for blood. Those who have gripped it too long bear scars where the hilt's spite burned or froze them, and they learn quickly that this little toy is no ordinary servant.

  For the Lucky Dagger kills when it wishes. And usually, it wishes. Oh, it longs to draw the life from everything that breathes, both in the mundane and in the outer spheres—even from its wielder. Yes, its very master! There are tales in the dusty chronicles of Bravil's Great Arcane Library, speaking of owners whom the Lucky Dagger drove to madness, until they turned it upon themselves and died. Always by its edge, of course, and most often in a manner drawn-out, grotesque, and exquisitely painful.

  And still it passes from hand to hand, most coveted by every assassin in our puny world—for it cuts through any armor, no matter how enchanted. Yet only the Grandmasters of hidden guilds, the High Priests of Sithis, or the Listeners of our Lady are ever accepted by it, and only to some extent. For if the dagger dislikes its bearer—his nature, his habits—it will refuse to act. Or worse...

  It has no interest in cutting rope, cloth, or cheese, unless it finds the humiliation amusing. But if a mortal throat is offered, or a daedra's shell, the blade leaps with joy, humming with anticipation. Yet here lies a terrifying catch... Sometimes it strikes too eagerly. Sometimes not at all. Its betrayal is not random but perverse: it chooses its moments, sometimes to save, sometimes to damn. That is its truest luck—its wielder never knows if the dagger is on their side, or waiting for the sweetest instant to laugh and let them die.

  And yet, those who once grip it rarely let go. For in its treachery lies a dark promise: with it, even gods may bleed, should you ever meet them.

  by Leif the Sage

  * * *

  The next morning brought a spectacle worth remembering. The would-be adventurers gathered before the door of the Sleeping Giant, full of bluster and boasting. Long they wrangled with Riverwood's sergeant, who sought to forbid their march to the cursed barrow. And yet, the longer they argued, the more their boldness melted away, until at last their courage failed them altogether, and they declared it best to abandon such a perilous undertaking.

  Only poor Embry seemed truly sorrowful, for he mourned the loss of Delphine's promised reward. And it took all of Lydia's stern resolve to prod them forward toward their intended quarry. Yet what is a plan made upon a bellyful of mead? Such midnight bravado rarely survives the cold brightness of morning—and still less the pounding of a hangover.

  In the end, they departed, though Frodnar with his mutt and the little girl Dorthe ran after them for a while, until a paternal slap or two brought them swiftly home.

  I watched the whole procession from my window, nestled in Leif's arms, while he held me there with the tenderness of a father and the devotion of one who would not let his daughter miss a single moment of the comedy below.

  I took advantage of the inn's quiet—Delphine being away to Whiterun on her shopping errands, and no patrons about—and showed Leif the bauble I had taken from Arvel. My daddy's eyes widened in surprise—ah, I fear it will be a long while before he grows accustomed to my secretive and deceitful nature!—then settled upon the object with keen and undisguised interest.

  I confess I, too, was curious to examine, in proper light, that seemingly trifling trinket which had stirred so much scandal and death. It looked somewhat like a hand, fingers spread in greed—or in pain. Yet it was no mortal hand, for it bore but three fingers.

  This fancy of mine, and especially the objection regarding three fingers, led Leif into a long discourse on the forgotten peoples who may have walked Tamriel millennia before us. Yes, even before the Ayleids, whom I ventured to mention—if only to avoid appearing too ignorant before my daddy. He smiled and gently corrected me, saying that the Ayleids, their wondrous departure aside, kept no true mysteries. "Only their sorceries held unfathomable, deep mysteries," he concluded.

  Yet for all his erudition, Leif could not decipher the tiny runes etched upon the claw. They wound about symbols far more familiar: beasts and birds, unknown perhaps, but not alien—creatures surely of our own world.

  I placed the bauble in his hands to keep, and he resolved to study it further in Whiterun, using some strange instrument of his that magnifies whatever is placed before it. I was astonished to learn such a thing existed, but Leif assured me there were many other stranger wonders in the world. I did not contradict him, for had I not already seen more than my share of strangeness?

  In any case, we agreed to say not a word of it to anyone until he had examined the cursed trinket in full.

  Leif also intended to visit Lucan's store and inquire where he had come by that peculiar claw, but I persuaded him to leave the matter in my hands. When my father asked how I meant to accomplish such a thing, I only smiled and assured him that I had my ways—ways both proven and ineffable.

  Seeing him puzzled and worried, I added quickly that it was not what he imagined, but something tied to my... feline nature. And there I bared my claws and explained the terrible truths that lurked behind.

  Once again, Leif was astonished. At last, though, he sighed and said perhaps there was more to learn about me than he had ever dared imagine.

  "I'm afraid you love me less now, Daddy," I mewed—and even summoned a crocodile tear to roll down my cheek. Ah, how swiftly he bent to embrace me, tenderly, carefully, assuring me that, on the contrary, all these things made me dearer to him still—priceless, he said.

  I smiled, purring: "See, Daddy? That is precisely how I shall convince Lucan to tell me the truth!"

  Leif laughed heartily then, declaring that he would give up—at least for the moment—trying to understand my methods or my thoughts. Yet I need not fear, he added, for his trust in me was growing day by day.

  I smiled incredulously at that, my gaze lingering on the diamond ring upon his finger—regarding it with far greater interest than he realized. But Leif did not notice...

  Just then, Orgnar arrived, bearing us a wonderful luncheon, to which he added a cup of sweetened milk for me. My daddy reached at once for his purse to pay the generous supplement, but the cook waved him off.

  "It is my pleasure to serve the little lady," he said. "And besides, it will cost you an arm and a leg to stay here—you'll see! Delphine will see to that!"

  Leif chuckled, then went to his room and returned with a bottle of flin, which he shared gladly with Orgnar. The man was delighted by so fine a Dunmeri vintage, and the three of us enjoyed a merry hour together—until Delphine came back with a cart groaning under the weight of supplies, shouting for Orgnar to come and unload it.

  Not long after, the Bleak Falls Barrow expedition returned.

  They came with shouts and triumphant cheers that we could hear long before the merry group came into sight. It was late afternoon, and the inn's hall was already swelling with thirsty locals; so when the five—Lydia proudly at their head—strode in, a general chorus of cries and exclamations shook the rafters.

  "They brought the head!" Leif exclaimed.

  "Did you doubt me, Daddy?" I asked, fluttering my lashes.

  "Er... no, but—" he stammered.

  "Yes, you did, Daddy!" I chuckled. "Go on, go down and see!"

  But before I could finish, my door was flung wide and Alvor and Hod burst in, carrying between them a stretcher on which lay that monstrous, enormous head.

  "Look, ma'am! Look at this thing!" Alvor shouted. "It's all yours now!"

  The approving roar of the crowd followed them into the room—but Delphine's shrill voice cut through it:

  "I paid for that trophy! It's not fair for the pretend bitch to get such a rare prize for free!"

  Immediately, Hod wheeled on her, bellowing:

  "Shut up, Delphine, and stop insulting the young lady! And besides, you agreed to pay us fifty septims to bring you the troll's head—not to hand it over to you!"

  At that, Delphine nearly choked with rage, her face turning a shade of purple not often seen outside of rotten plums. A hush fell. Dozens of eyes fixed on me—waiting, demanding.

  So I folded my hands meekly, summoned my sweetest trembling voice, and spoke:

  "Oh, most esteemed and valiant folk... you have brought me this wondrous thing, yet for me—so delicate a girl—it is truly terrifying. So, as my thanks, I shall kiss each of the fearless heroes... except Lydia, who, I am quite sure, would not wish it!"

  The room held its breath. Then I continued, tilting my head with the most innocent smile I could muster:

  "But the troll's head... I gift to our gracious and lovely hostess, innkeeper Delphine! On one condition only—that she pin it proudly upon the wall of the common room, for all to see. And beneath it, a little inscription: 'Brought down by a little bitch... alas!'"

  At that very moment, Delphine's face went from purple to chalk-white, and she dropped like a sack of potatoes right there on the floor. Gasps filled the hall—then Lydia leapt forward like the dutiful housecarl she was and cried:

  "Stand back, I'll take care of her!"

  She seized the largest jug of water within reach—one that Orgnar had just carried up from the well—and, without a second thought, poured the whole freezing torrent over Delphine's head.

  The result was immediate. Delphine shot upright, sputtering and coughing, her hair plastered to her skull, her apron dripping like a mop. The crowd erupted into thunderous laughter, slapping knees, stomping the floorboards, and some even howling like wolves at the sight.

  Delphine blinked furiously, then forced the most brittle smile ever worn by a woman in Skyrim. With water still running down her cheeks, she turned to me and said through clenched teeth:

  "My... deepest thanks to our distinguished lady guest, whom I have the honor to host beneath my roof. In her name, tonight, all drinks shall be free!"

  The hall exploded with cheers. Tankards banged on tables, Embry shouted he'd drink until dawn, and Faendal called for music. But while Delphine raised her dripping arms to quiet the crowd, her eyes locked on mine with such murderous venom that I half expected her to leap across the room and claw my throat out. I only smiled sweetly back, fluttering my lashes like a little, adorable saint.

  The feast began in earnest. Ale flowed like rivers, roasted meat vanished by the plateful, and the walls of the inn shook with song. In the midst of it, Aela slipped to my side, her wild hair shining like fire in the torchlight.

  She bent close and whispered:

  "Sister... forgive me. I doubted you. About the troll. I should never have done so."

  I laughed softly and stroked her hand.

  "Aela, it matters not. The whole village believes now. Even Lydia swears by it."

  Aela's eyes softened, and for a fleeting moment, I thought the Huntress herself might cry. But instead, she pulled me into a careful embrace, mindful of my splints, and murmured:

  "Next time, I'll stand with you till the end."

  After a week, Danica returned to Riverwood and examined both me and Aela with utmost care. She even unwrapped the bandages that bound me so tightly, pressed along my bones with her healer's hands, and then shook her head in silent bewilderment. Yet she held her tongue, though her eyes lingered on mine with a puzzled light.

  At last, she murmured that I might take a bath whenever I pleased, and even attempt a few steps about the room—slowly, gently, as one treads upon thin ice. I smiled and embraced her dearly.

  "You are an extraordinary woman, Danica, and most dear to me. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you have done."

  And I kissed her.

  She blushed faintly, whispering: "You are extraordinary, Elsie. But do not fear—I am no gossip, nor am I overly curious." Then she clasped my hand.

  Soon after, she reminded us that the carriage stood ready outside, and that, unless we had further business in Riverwood, we might all return to Whiterun together. Lydia looked a touch forlorn, for she had begun to accompany Faendal on his hunts through the forest, but she uttered no complaint—duty made flesh, that one!

  Leif, without fuss or bargaining, laid down the heavy sum that Delphine demanded for our keep—aye, she knew how to make a purse groan—and thus, with debts paid, we set forth.

  It was a gentle journey, the kind that passes more in laughter than in miles. And when at last the walls of Whiterun rose before us, they glittered in the soft light of a late summer sunset, as though the whole city had been dipped in gold.