The gates of Solitude loomed ahead, tall and formidable against the evening sky. The stone walls, bathed in the dying light, felt like a silent promise of safety. Crimson hues stretched across the horizon, their glow tracing the edges of the great arch that marked the city's entrance. A faint breeze rolled in from the sea, carrying with it the scent of salt and woodsmoke.
My legs ached with every step, boots scuffing against the cobbled road. It felt as though the stones themselves resisted me, dragging down each footfall. Jordis walked a few paces ahead, her shoulders slumped beneath her armor. Titus, beside her, kept his hand resting lightly on his sword's pommel, more out of habit than concern. Aldis and Belrand trudged just behind me, their conversation reduced to occasional mutters.
"I can taste that Skeever stew already," Titus muttered with a tired grin, his voice scratchy from the cold air.
"If you get to it before I do," Belrand shot back, his laugh dry but genuine.
I chuckled under my breath. Even after all we'd endured, there was comfort in their familiar bickering. The weight in my limbs felt easier to bear knowing warmth, food, and the simple safety of Solitude awaited us.
The guards at the gate barely spared us a glance. One of them nodded as we passed, recognizing Aldis in his officer's armor. We didn't stop. None of us wanted to delay a second longer.
The streets were quieter than usual. Most shops had closed for the evening, and the few townsfolk still out moved briskly, eager to reach their own hearths. The tavern stood at the far end of the street, its windows glowing invitingly. The faint strains of a lute drifted out, weaving between the chatter and laughter inside.
When we stepped into the Winking Skeever, the warmth hit me like a wave — a rush of roasted venison, spiced wine, and the tang of fresh bread. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the walls. Drunken sailors roared with laughter near the bar, their voices filling every corner of the room.
"Over there," Jordis muttered, pointing to a table near the fire. She practically dragged her feet as she crossed the floor, her armor clanking as she collapsed into a chair. Her head tipped back, eyes closing with a low groan of relief.
"Don't fall asleep just yet," Titus warned, dropping heavily into the seat beside her. "You'll wake up with Belrand licking your plate clean."
"Try me," Belrand shot back, grinning as he waved down the tavern maid.
Before long, steaming plates piled high with meat and bread landed in front of us. Jordis let out an audible sigh, dragging her plate closer like a dragon claiming treasure. She stabbed a fork into her food without ceremony, barely pausing to chew.
"Slow down," Aldis said through a mouthful of bread. "If you choke, I'm not hauling your corpse up the stairs."
Jordis just grunted, too busy devouring her meal to respond.
I sat back in my chair, savoring the warmth that seeped into my bones. My gaze drifted to the window, where the last light of day lingered on the rooftops. For the first time in what felt like weeks, I felt like we could breathe again. The road had been long, but Solitude had always felt like home.
Karliah pulled her hood low, her shadowed face barely visible beneath the fabric. Her violet eyes flicked toward me, sharp and calculating as always.
"I'm heading out," she murmured, voice quiet yet firm. "I need to check on our hideout."
"Be careful," I said, meeting her gaze. "Just pay a visit anytime."
Karliah's expression softened slightly, a rare flicker of warmth. "I will." With that, she turned and melted into the evening shadows, disappearing like smoke in the wind.
I lingered for a moment, staring at the door she'd vanished through. The others — Jordis, Titus, Aldis, and Belrand — were halfway through their meals, their tired faces softened by the flickering tavern light. Jordis sighed in contentment, her head tipping back against the wall. Titus snorted at something Belrand muttered, chuckling around a mouthful of bread.
But I barely touched my food. Something gnawed at me — a dull weight in my chest that no amount of warmth or comfort could shake. Kylie was in Riften, married to the leader of the Thieves Guild. And then there was Jayson... off on his own, walking into the heart of the Dark Brotherhood. Whatever plan he had — if he even had one — I couldn't imagine how he'd pull it off.
I pushed back my chair, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. "I'm heading to the Emperor's Tower kitchens," I muttered. They barely noticed — too wrapped up in their much-needed rest.
The walk to the kitchens was quieter than I'd expected, the streets unusually calm. The cold air nipped at my face, and the distant hum of the marketplace seemed muffled, almost distant — like the city itself was holding its breath.
The kitchens, however, were anything but quiet. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread, warmth rolling off the hearths and ovens. Steam hissed from bubbling pots, and the sharp thwack of knives hitting cutting boards kept a steady rhythm. Voices overlapped — cooks barking orders, servants bustling to and from the dining hall.
And then I saw her — Nica — standing at the far end of the room, her back turned as she stirred a pot. Her dark hair was pinned up, a few stray locks curling at her temples. She moved with practiced ease, her hand deftly working a ladle through the simmering stew.
"Nica," I called softly.
She turned, her eyes wide with surprise — and then they softened. Nica's beauty was the kind that seemed effortless, but what truly set her apart was the delicate quirk in her expression — her left eye tilting outward just enough to catch notice. It gave her face an endearing charm, a quiet uniqueness that made her smile more striking.
"Nikolai?" she breathed. For a heartbeat, she just stared — and then she broke into a smile so warm it seemed to push away the cold clinging to my bones.
"I didn't know you were back!" Her voice shook slightly, as if relief and disbelief were fighting for space. She abandoned her ladle and hurried toward me, flinging her arms around my waist and pressing her face into my chest.
I held her tightly, my arms curling around her shoulders as if I could anchor her there forever. Her warmth, her scent — a mix of flour, herbs, and something unmistakably her — washed over me. The tension I'd carried for days seemed to unravel, leaving only the steady beat of her heart against mine.
"I was worried," she whispered, her voice muffled. "About you... about everything."
"I know," I murmured, tightening my hold. "I know."
For a long moment, neither of us moved. The clatter of the busy kitchen seemed distant, the warmth of the hearth fading beneath the comfort of her embrace. For the first time in what felt like weeks, I let myself breathe.
Francis and Sir Oscar strolled in behind me, their presence a comforting reminder of familiar faces in an unfamiliar world. Sir Oscar still wore that same quiet dignity about him — graying hair swept back neatly, and a well-groomed beard that softened the lines of age carved into his face. His eyes, though, were what stood out — bright and sharp, flickering with a warmth that never seemed to fade. Unlike the man I remembered back home, this version of him carried himself like a seasoned warrior, clad in Imperial armor that gleamed faintly in the firelight.
Beside him was Francis. Taller than most, he had a lean frame that belied his strength. His black hair, once unruly, was now cropped short, and his sharp features always seemed caught in a half-smirk, like he was on the verge of some sarcastic remark. He wore a patchwork of leather armor, practical yet worn, and the short sword strapped to his hip looked as if it had seen far more use than I wanted to think about.
They exchanged nods with Nica as they passed, each snatching a chunk of bread from the counter like a pair of wolves grabbing a quick meal before the hunt. I let them be — there were more pressing things to say.
"Kylie's in Riften," I told Nica softly.
She turned from the pot she was stirring, wiping her hands on her apron. Her dark hair clung to her forehead from the heat, but her face still held that quiet elegance I'd always admired. Her left eye — that charming outward tilt that made her look so uniquely her — widened with curiosity.
"She's safe," I added. "And... she's married now."
"Married?" Nica's brow arched in disbelief.
"To the Thieves Guild leader," I said with a crooked smile. "Turns out she's been here longer than us."
"Thank the Divines she's alright," Sir Oscar said from behind me, his voice low with relief.
I shifted uneasily. "Yeah... but there's more." I glanced at Nica, gauging her expression. "The vampires are on the move— dangerous ones. I need to report it soon, before it spreads. They tried to eat us."
Her smile faltered. The warmth in her eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by concern.
"And..." I hesitated, feeling the words weigh heavy on my tongue. "We managed to escape the vampires, and… There had been a war between the Thieves Guild and the Dark Brotherhood when they tried to assassinate Pyeath Shadowthorn. It turns out that he is the Thieves Guild Leader. The Brotherhood's weakened... and I'm hoping that gives Jayson the edge he needs."
The warmth in the room flickered out like a candle in the wind. Francis' hand froze mid-bite, and Sir Oscar set his bread down slowly. Nica's gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers curling tightly around her apron.
"What?" I asked, my voice tightening. "What is it?"
Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Heavy boots — deliberate and firm. The sound alone made my gut twist.
Malik entered the room, his broad frame filling the doorway like a boulder blocking a path. His face was grim, shadows clinging to the sharp angles of his jaw. His gaze locked on me with an intensity that turned the air cold.
"We need to talk," Malik said, his voice low and hard — like steel scraping stone. "Come with me to Castle Dour. You too, Sir Oscar. Francis."
"What's this about?" I asked.
Sir Oscar and Francis' silence told me enough — it was about Jayson.
I followed Malik out of the kitchens, Francis and Sir Oscar trailing close behind. The chill of the evening air bit through my armor, and I pulled my clothes tighter around my shoulders. Malik's pace was brisk, his boots grinding against the stone with each hurried step. He wasn't wasting time — whatever this was, it wasn't good.
"Ulfric Stormcloak escaped Helgen," Malik said without preamble. His voice was low and clipped, like he was trying to keep the anger from bleeding through.
I stopped mid-step. "Escaped?" The word stuck in my throat. "How?"
Malik turned, the firelight from a nearby brazier flickering across his face. His expression was tight, jaw clenched like he was biting down on a curse. "A Dragon attacked Helgen," he muttered. "But that's not the worst of it."
His tone made my stomach tighten. "What happened?"
Malik exhaled slowly, like he was about to drop a boulder on my chest. "Jayson's wanted for the massacre at Northwatch Keep."
I blinked, certain I'd misheard him. "What?"
"The Thalmor are claiming he did it," Malik said grimly. "No survivors — their soldiers, their captives... everyone was slaughtered."
I stared at him, cold dread seeping into my bones. "That's impossible." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "Jayson wouldn't—" I stopped myself. Jayson could be ruthless — I'd seen that side of him before — but this? Slaughtering prisoners? Women? Children? My chest tightened. "That doesn't sound like Jayson," I said again, though the words felt weaker this time.
Malik must've seen the hesitation in my face because he stepped closer, gripping my shoulder firmly. His hand was rough, calloused from years of fighting.
"Don't worry," he said quietly. "I find it suspicious too. This smells like politics — Jayson probably got tangled in something bigger than he could handle." His voice lowered even more. "I heard rumors... some say he's not on the run. Some say he's being held somewhere."
"Where?" I demanded, my heart pounding.
Malik shook his head. "Nothing solid. Just whispers from soldiers passing through. But if the Thalmor have him..." His voice trailed off, and his hand tightened on my shoulder. "If they have him, they won't keep him alive for long."
I swallowed hard, dread curling in my gut. I knew the Thalmor. They didn't take prisoners — not unless they had something to gain. Whatever Jayson had done — or hadn't done — one thing was clear: he was in trouble, and if we didn't act fast, we might never see him again.
The Winking Skeever buzzed with its usual chaos — sailors slurring sea shanties, merchants haggling over contracts, and a bard plucking at his lute in the corner, trying to out-sing the rising din. The warm scent of roasted meat clung to the air, battling with the tang of stale ale.
Our table sat tucked near the hearth, the flickering flames casting long shadows across Jordis' face as she leaned back, eyes half-lidded with contentment. Titus was slumped beside her, lazily spinning his empty mug across the table's surface with his fingers. Aldis, usually composed, looked like he'd melt into his chair any second.
"Not bad," Jordis muttered, patting her stomach.
"Could use some mead," Titus grunted, lifting his mug like a soldier brandishing a broken weapon. He turned to me with a smirk. "Belrand, you're closest to the bar. Be a friend?"
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, dragging myself to my feet. My limbs still ached from the road, but Titus wasn't wrong — I was closest.
Corpulus Vinius stood behind the counter, polishing a mug with a worn rag. The man looked up, offering a tired smile. "Evening, Belrand. What can I get you?"
"Couple mugs of mead," I said, tossing a few septims onto the counter. "And... got any good rumors?"
The smile faded from Corpulus' face. He set the mug down and leaned in slightly. "Plenty," he muttered. "Not sure you'd want to hear this one, though."
I frowned. "Try me."
He glanced over his shoulder, then back to me, voice lowering. "Word is... The Warlord of Solitude. Jayson. Is now a wanted man. Thalmor are claiming he butchered everyone at Northwatch Keep — guards, prisoners... no one left breathing."
My stomach tightened. "That doesn't sound right," I said, more to myself than to him. Jayson was brutal when he had to be, sure, but not like that. Not a massacre. Not slaughtering innocents.
"That's what folk are saying," Corpulus muttered, eyes narrowing. "But..." He leaned closer. "Some say it's a cover-up. That the Thalmor aren't hunting him at all. They claim Jayson's actually their prisoner."
"Prisoner?" I repeated, my voice louder than I intended. A drunk sailor glanced over, but Corpulus ignored it.
"I don't know why," he said with a shrug. "I just pour the drinks." He motioned toward a rowdy crowd further down the bar. "But if I were you... I'd tell your friends to keep their heads down. The Thalmor have eyes everywhere."
I grabbed the mugs of mead and returned to our table, my mind racing. Jordis arched a brow as I slid her drink in front of her.
"Everything alright?" she asked.
"Fine," I lied, sinking back into my chair. But my mind wouldn't rest. Jayson... a murderer? No. Not the man I knew. Not the man who faced threats to the peace of Skyrim and stood his ground when half of Solitude wanted to forget their responsibilities. Jayson was more than that.
But if the Thalmor had their hands in this...
Things were bound to get worse.