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.

  Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “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.