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Chapter Text

The torch flames cast dancing shadows across the stone walls of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary as Lucien Lachance adjusted his black robes, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle. He had been attending meetings with the Black Hand for years, but tonight felt different. Tonight, he would meet his new Silencer.

His new Silencer.

The words still tasted bitter in his mouth; Marcus had been with him for three years; he was competent, loyal, and more importantly, a friend. A rarity in their line of work, where trust was a luxury and attachments were liabilities. And yet, Marcus had been both an ally in the field and a quiet presence in the rare moments between bloodshed, but he was gone now, simply reduced to ashes and a three-sentence report.

The official account had been maddeningly vague: ambushed during what should have been a routine contract. A noble in Skingrad. An open courtyard. A single arrow to the throat. Quick, clean, efficient. And suspicious as hell.

Lucien had read the parchment three times, then burned it.

There was always more to it when a Brother died so... conveniently. Someone had wanted Marcus out of the way; perhaps a rival guild, perhaps someone within, although that was unlikely. The Brotherhood had never been a stranger to hidden agendas.

The Sanctuary creaked around him, alive in its silence. Even the shadows seemed to listen.

He moved to the center of the chamber, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the doorway as if he could will the truth to walk through it. He didn’t like being left in the dark, not when it came to replacements.

He heard footsteps approaching, measured, purposeful, but with an odd lightness that suggested training in moving silently. Not the heavy, impatient tread of most Brotherhood members. These steps were practiced and precise. Cautious, but not fearful.

Interesting.

A flicker of curiosity slid beneath his professional disdain.

"Enter," he called, his voice low but commanding, carrying that theatrical resonance he'd perfected over the years. Like most things about him, it was equal parts performance and threat.

The footsteps paused. A breath. A beat. Then the iron-bound door creaked open.

Lucien allowed no expression to show, but he was already measuring. Posture. Eyes. Weapons. The way they carried themselves. The way the shadows clung to them.

This would not be Marcus, but perhaps that was the point.

Serena paused for just a moment outside the heavy wooden door, her hand steady on the iron handle despite the nervous energy thrumming through her veins.

This is it.

She had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. Lucien Lachance–Speaker, dramatist, and, according to whispered conversations in the corridors, a man who did not suffer fools gladly. One wrong word, one misstep, and you find yourself on the receiving end of a dagger rather than a promotion. His previous Silencer had died just two weeks ago, though the details remained frustratingly vague. A quiet purge, perhaps. Or a message.

Step into the role of a dead man, she thought grimly. What could possibly go wrong?

She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The chamber was colder than the rest of the Sanctuary, lit by wall sconces and a pair of high-standing torches that gave the whole room a flickering, sepulchral glow. Serena’s posture shifted automatically into the poise her mother had drilled into her long before she'd ever picked up a blade. Straight spine. Chin lifted. Measured steps. Her hands clasped lightly behind her back. A lady’s grace, repurposed for darker halls.

Even here, in the bowels of a Brotherhood sanctuary, some habits died hard.

The man behind the ornate desk was exactly what she had expected, and yet somehow nothing as she had imagined. He was tall, pale with sharp cheekbones and a face carved from some forgotten age; he looked more suited to a noble’s oil portrait than the blood-drenched shadows he called home. His robes were midnight black and flawless, his posture immaculate, but it was his eyes that caught her–clever, calculating, and impossibly tired. There was grief there, tightly leashed, curled behind his gaze like a waiting predator.

"Speaker Lachance," she said, inclining her head with practiced deference. "I am Serena. I believe you requested my assignment."

There was a long pause. Lucien said nothing.

Behind her, the door clicked shut.

A rustle of fabric. Someone else moved within the chamber, people she hadn’t seen before. Her eyes flicked to the corner, and three figures stepped from the shadows like smoke solidifying.

The Black Hand.

Serena felt the weight of their presence before they even spoke. Each wore the red-black ceremonial robes of their station, but their faces told different stories.

The first to speak was Mathieu Bellamont, his voice honeyed, almost warm. "So young," he murmured, almost to himself, but with enough volume to make sure she heard. "Yet you come so highly recommended. I do hope you're worth the blood spilled on your behalf, little dove."

Serena inclined her head again, neutral. Do not rise to it. Not yet.

"She looks like a noble’s daughter," hissed Arquen, her eyes darting as if expecting blades from every direction. "Too clean. Too polished. I don’t like it."

"Then you’ll like her even more when she kills someone in front of you," Ungolim cut in smoothly, his dark eyes fixed on Serena with something unreadable. Amusement, perhaps. Approval. "The Night Mother chose her. Or would you doubt Her wisdom?"

Arquen huffed and folded her arms. Bellamont gave a tight, unreadable smile.

Lucien finally rose from his chair, the movement smooth, fluid, almost theatrical. He stepped forward, not stopping until he was close enough that Serena could smell the faint, clean scent of ink and lavender oil on his robes–an oddly gentle contrast to the blood she knew stained his hands.

“I did request you,” he said at last, voice cool and unreadable. “Though why you, remains to be seen.”

He circled her, slowly, like a wolf considering the usefulness of an unfamiliar new hound. Her posture remained perfect, not a flicker of nerves on her face, though he could see the subtle tension in her jaw, the slight shift in her breathing. Controlled. But aware.

“You’re not what I expected,” he murmured. “Most in our line of work wear their violence plainly. You... conceal it.” He stopped in front of her again, eyes narrowing just slightly. “They tell me you specialize in making deaths appear accidental. A useful skill, particularly in certain circles.”

He studied her face, searching for tells. Was she squeamish? Arrogant? Soft behind the practiced mask? Marcus had been refreshingly forthright; a killer who knew what he was and never pretended otherwise.

But this one... this one was silk hiding steel. A puzzle in pearls and daggerpoints.

Lucien stepped to the edge of the desk and leaned against it with casual authority. His tone dropped into something closer to a challenge.

“Tell me,” he said, “what draws a woman of such obvious breeding to our... family business?”

The question hung in the air like incense smoke, heavy and searching. Serena had expected it, of course; her background was hardly typical for the Brotherhood. But the way he asked it, with that slight tilt of his head and those penetrating dark eyes, made her feel as though he was dissecting her soul rather than making conversation.

Dangerous, she thought. But not in the way I feared.

There was grief in his posture, she realized. The way he held himself just a fraction too rigidly, the slight tension around his eyes. He was mourning his previous Silencer, and now he had to learn to trust someone new. Someone who might not measure up to the memory of the dead.

"The same thing that draws most of us, I imagine," she replied carefully. "Necessity. Survival. And perhaps a talent for things that polite society would rather pretend don't exist."

She met his gaze steadily, though every instinct screamed at her to look away. Powerful men were dangerous when they felt challenged, but they were also dangerous when they sensed weakness. She had learned that lesson written in bruises and fear.

"I understand you have concerns about working with someone new," she continued, her voice gentle but firm. "That's... understandable. I'm told your previous Silencer was both skilled and trusted. I have no intention of trying to replace what you've lost. But I can promise you competence, discretion, and loyalty to the Brotherhood above all else."

Above all else. The words tasted strange in her mouth, but they were true enough. The Brotherhood had given her purpose when she'd had nothing left but rage and shame. That had to count for something.

The words should have been reassuring. They were the correct words, the expected response. But something in the way she said them, with that slight hesitation, that careful emphasis, suggested she understood exactly how much weight those words carried. Understood, and perhaps did not offer them lightly.

“Competence, discretion, and loyalty,” Lucien repeated slowly, each syllable deliberate, like wine tasted and judged. “Noble virtues, indeed. Though I confess, I find myself curious about the woman behind such carefully chosen words.”

He pushed away from the desk and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back in a gesture so familiar it made his throat tighten. Marcus used to tease him for this—called it his “Speaker’s Strut.” The ache came sharp and unwelcome, and he tamped it down beneath his ribs where no one could see it.

“You see, dear Serena,” he said, voice smooth and precise, “a Silencer is more than simply an assassin. They are… intimate companions in this work. They know where I go. When I sleep. How I take my meals. They become privy to information that could destroy not just me, but the entire Brotherhood structure.”

His tone dropped to something darker, something that echoed off the stone with the weight of finality. “They must be trusted absolutely. And trust, I have learned, is a luxury that can prove... fatal.”

He stopped pacing. Turned. And for the first time since she’d entered, he gave her the full force of his attention. The silence stretched.

“So I ask you again,” he said softly. “What drives Lady Serena to seek such an intimate alliance with death itself? And please, spare me any more carefully crafted platitudes. I find myself in need of truth tonight.”

The silence stretched between them, thick with expectation. Serena felt that familiar, creeping tightness in her chest–one that always came when she was cornered by a powerful man demanding answers. Her body remembered it even when her mind had moved on. But this was different. Lucien wasn’t looming over her, wasn’t trying to dominate the conversation or test her limits for sport. No, his stillness was something else entirely.

He wasn’t interrogating. He was listening with the raw, searching intensity of someone who had been lied to recently, and badly.

She took a measured breath, letting it steady her, and her fingers drifted down, smoothing an invisible wrinkle in the hem of her dark robes. A gesture of control. Of calm.

“I’ve been with the Brotherhood for seven years,” she said at last, her voice level, controlled, despite the way her pulse thundered beneath her skin. “Before that, I was exactly what you see, a lady of high society. Raised to smile prettily, to curtsy at the right time. To marry well and never, ever ask uncomfortable questions.”

She paused then, not for effect, but to find her footing in the telling. When she looked at him again, her gaze was unflinching.

“But sometimes life presents you with a choice,” she continued. “Kill, or die.”

The words dropped into the room like stones in still water. There was embellishment, no drama. Just a fact.

“I chose to live.”

Flat. Matter-of-fact. As if she were recounting something mundane–weather, travel, household chores. But beneath that calm was something jagged, something sharp and old and well-buried.

Lucien didn’t speak. His expression didn’t shift. But she felt him watching, not just looking.

“The Brotherhood found me shortly after,” she went on, her voice growing quieter, more precise. “Apparently, my… natural talents were noticed.”

Natural talents. Such a clinical phrase for what she had done. For what she had become.

He didn’t need the details. Not the blood. Not the bruises hidden under embroidered sleeves. Not the gurgling sound he’d made when she’d finally stopped being afraid.

Not yet. Perhaps not ever.

She clasped her hands behind her back again, grounding herself in posture even as the moment shifted.

“As for why I seek this particular position,” she said, “I’m told you require someone who can move through noble circles without raising suspicion. Someone who understands the subtleties of politics, of posture, of etiquette. Someone who knows how to make accidents look convincing. How to use poison with precision. How to become invisible in a room full of people who think they know her.”

She tilted her head slightly, the barest hint of a challenge in her expression. “I believe I can provide those services, Speaker. The question is whether you’re willing to trust someone new to do so.”

Another pause. One that invited judgment, but not supplication.

I chose to live.

The words hit him with unexpected force. Not because they were dramatic, they were quite the opposite. It was the casualness of her delivery that gave him pause, the simple, unadorned truth of it. As if survival were the most natural, obvious choice in the world. No grand declarations, no talk of Sithis whispering through the walls, no poetic revenge fantasies. Just a woman who had done what needed to be done to keep breathing.

Practical. Cold. Controlled.

Lucien resumed pacing, slow and deliberate, a habit that had once annoyed Marcus to no end. "Seven years," he echoed as if tasting the weight of it. "Long enough to prove yourself, then. Long enough to become dangerous."

He didn’t mean it as a threat. Not entirely.

"And yet," he continued, "I confess myself curious about this... choice you were forced to make. Few nobles find themselves in genuinely life-threatening situations that can only be resolved through murder."

He paused beside the arched window, though it was less a window and more a narrow slit in the stone, carved long ago for archers. Beyond it, the world was dark. A pale sliver of moonlight cut across the landscape, illuminating the skeletal branches of the trees beyond the Sanctuary's walls.

"But perhaps that's a story for another time."

The silence settled around them again, companionable this time, if strained.

“You’re quite right,” he admitted, turning from the window. “I need someone who can navigate high society. Marcus was... effective in his way. Ruthless. Loyal to a fault. But subtlety?” He gave a small, tight smile. “Let’s just say he preferred the direct approach.”

The words turned bitter in his mouth before he’d finished speaking. The mention of Marcus pulled something taut inside his chest, that familiar thread of pain wrapped tight around memory. Marcus would have scoffed at this whole exchange. Said I was being dramatic. Told me to stop brooding and just throw a dagger and see who ducked.

Lucien exhaled slowly and faced her again.

“Tell me,” he said, voice quieter now, but no less sharp, “what do you know of the circumstances surrounding my previous Silencer’s death?”

The question she’d been dreading, spoken with the same piercing intensity he wielded like a blade. Serena didn’t flinch, but she felt his gaze settling on her like a scalpel. He wasn’t just watching; he was weighing her, searching for any sign of deceit, any flicker of self-interest wrapped in politeness.

She kept her expression carefully neutral, though the weight of his scrutiny pressed against her ribs like armor too tight. “The official report states he was ambushed during a contract,” she said at last, her voice even but slow, each word selected with surgical precision. “A routine elimination that went wrong. Supposedly.”

She paused. “But…if I’m being honest, the circumstances are questionable, at best. Brothers with Marcus’s experience don’t typically walk into ambushes on simple contracts.”

She didn’t need to say more. The implication hovered between, impossible to ignore.

Serena let the silence stretch for a moment, then added softly, “The timing was… too convenient. And in the Brotherhood, convenience is rarely innocent.”

She didn’t mention the rumors, the whispers that had curled through the corridors like serpents: quiet questions about internal betrayal, about shifting power within the Black Hand, about the Listener's increasingly cryptic decisions. But Lucien knew them; he had probably heard them long before she had.

She softened, just slightly. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, “I know grief has no place in our line of work. But I also know it comes anyway.”

She held his gaze. “I understand that trusting someone new, especially under these circumstances, isn’t easy.”

The timing. Yes, she understood more than she was saying, perhaps more than was safe for her to know. Marcus had died just three days after reporting concerns about inconsistencies in certain contracts, about Brothers who seemed to know too much about jobs they shouldn't have been privy to. The official investigation had been swift, clean, and utterly unconvincing.

"Indeed," he said softly, his voice carrying a weight that had nothing to do with theatricality. "Marcus was... thorough in his work. Perhaps too thorough, as it turns out."

He studied her face, looking for any sign that she understood the true implications of what he was saying. A lesser person might have offered empty platitudes or changed the subject. But Serena simply waited, her expression attentive but undemanding. She wouldn't push for information he wasn't ready to give.

Interesting.

"Your honesty is... refreshing," he admitted, moving back to his desk and settling into his chair. "Many would have simply repeated the official story and avoided uncomfortable questions. The fact that you acknowledge what others prefer to ignore suggests a certain practical intelligence that could prove valuable."

He leaned back, his fingers steepled before him. "Very well, Serena of the questionable past and observant nature. We shall attempt this partnership. But understand that the work we do together will likely attract the same attention that proved fatal to Marcus. Are you prepared for that possibility?"

The question hung in the air, and Serena found herself caught between competing instincts. The rational part of her mind understood this was a legitimate concern, a warning born of recent loss and genuine worry for her safety. But the deeper, more damaged part of her heard something else entirely: a powerful man asking if she was strong enough, smart enough, worthy enough to survive what was coming.

She felt her shoulders tense, her chin lifting slightly in that old defensive posture she'd perfected during the worst months of her marriage. Don't show weakness. Don't give him a reason to think you're not capable. Don't– Stop it, Serena. 

She forced herself to take a breath, to recognize what was happening before she said something that would damage this fragile beginning. This wasn't her husband questioning her worth while his hand hovered near his belt. This was a colleague asking a practical question about dangerous work.

"I'm prepared for the risks," she said, her voice steady despite the way her pulse hammered in her throat. "I've been with the Brotherhood for seven years, Speaker. I understand that betrayal and violence are occupational hazards." She paused, then added with careful honesty, "Though I appreciate the warning. It suggests you have more concern for my welfare than whoever ordered Marcus into that ambush."

There. Professional, acknowledging the danger without either false bravado or cowering submission. She clasped her hands more tightly behind her back to hide their slight tremor and met his gaze directly, though everything in her wanted to look away from that penetrating stare.

"When do we begin?"

Chapter Text

Contract: Lord Aldwin Valerius–Anvil noble, suspected of embezzling city funds. Public disgrace would reflect poorly on the Brotherhood's client. Make it look like an accident. The Autumn Harvest celebration at the Valerius estate provides ideal cover.

Serena traced the words with one finger, feeling the familiar calm settle over her for the first time since that unsettling meeting three days ago. This, this she understood, this was where she belonged.

She rose from her chair and moved to the ornate wardrobe that dominated one corner of her small sanctuary quarters. Most Brotherhood members kept their possessions simple, practical. But Serena's wardrobe told a different story, a story of silks and velvets in jewel tones, well-made boots that could pass for fashionable while allowing her to run or fight if needed, jewelry that could buy passage to distant provinces.

Her fingers lingered over a dress of deep emerald silk, its neckline fashionably low to showcase her chest, the cut designed to draw the eye while maintaining an air of refined elegance. Perfect for catching the attention of a certain type of nobleman at a harvest celebration; wealthy enough to belong, attractive enough to be noticed, but not so brazenly seductive as to be scandalous.

As she lifted the dress from its hanger, the tension she'd been carrying since leaving Lucien's office began to ease. Here, in this ritual of transformation, she could push aside the memory of his penetrating stare, the way his questions had made her feel exposed and vulnerable. Here, she was in control.

She laid the dress carefully across her narrow bed and began the process she'd perfected over seven years of similar contracts. First, the bath scented with rose oil; expensive enough to mark her as nobility, but common enough not to raise questions. Then the careful application of cosmetics, lightening her natural complexion to the fashionable pallor of a woman who never worked outdoors, darkening her lashes to make her green eyes appear larger and more innocent.

The dress slipped over her head like water, the silk cool against her skin. She'd had it tailored specifically for these occasions. Her sleeves were long enough to conceal the small scars on her forearms from her more violent contracts, the neckline cut to draw attention where she wanted it. The reflection in the polished mirror showed exactly what she'd intended: Lady Sera Blackthorne, recent widow of modest means, perfectly positioned to catch a lonely nobleman's eye.

She tucked a small vial of concentrated nightshade extract into the hidden pocket sewn into her corset, along with a slim steel blade no longer than her palm. The poison would be her first choice; a few drops in Lord Valerius's wine would cause what appeared to be a weak heart giving out from too much celebration. The blade was insurance, though she'd rarely needed it on contracts like this.

This is what I'm good at, she thought, adjusting the simple silver pendant at her throat. This is what I was made for.

The walk through Cheydinhal's darkened streets to where she'd stabled her horse was peaceful, almost meditative. Gone was the nervous energy that had plagued her during the meeting with Lucien, replaced by the cool focus that had kept her alive for seven years. She nodded politely to the few citizens still abroad at this hour, every inch the minor noblewoman traveling to a social engagement.

She nodded graciously to the few townsfolk still out at this hour: a night watchman adjusting his lantern; a drunk weaving down an alley, singing off-key. No one gave her more than a second glance. To them, she was simply another wealthy widow passing through on her way to some noble engagement.

Her horse, a sleek dapple-gray mare named Meris, was waiting, saddled and restless. Serena mounted with practiced ease, adjusting her skirts to preserve the illusion of effortlessness. The road to Anvil would take several hours, but that suited her perfectly. She needed the time to become someone else.

As Meris fell into a steady canter along the moonlit Gold Road, Serena let Lady Sera rise to the surface.

Lady Sera Blackthorne: Born of old but modest money in the Gold Coast hills. Recently widowed, discreetly charming, observant, but not clever enough to be threatening. Interested in politics only as they affected land rights and dinner invitations. Vaguely melancholic, in the way of all fashionable women with dead husbands and empty estates.

She rehearsed the details aloud in a soft voice as the trees slipped past her:
 “My late husband was fond of vineyards, though I never developed a taste for red.”
 “No, I don’t know Baroness Corda personally, though we’ve dined in the same circles.”
 “Oh, I’ve heard so much about Lord Valerius. They say he’s quite the patron of the arts.”

Each phrase settled into her like a layer of lacquer, polishing away the last remnants of the woman who sharpened blades in candlelight and read poison recipes like poetry.

By the time the sea breeze grew strong enough to carry salt to her tongue and the high torchlit walls of the Valerius estate came into view, Serena could feel the shift had completed. Her posture had changed to a softer, more fluid one. Her expression now carried that faint, deliberate wistfulness that noblemen found irresistible: lonely, but not desperate; wealthy, but not powerful.

She dismounted at the outer gate, allowing a servant to take Meris’s reins as if she were used to such service.

"Lady Blackthorne," she said, handing over a sealed card of introduction she'd forged earlier that week. The guard gave it a quick glance and waved her through, too preoccupied with the influx of late guests to scrutinize her closely. Another noblewoman, another celebration.

Music drifted through the night, lutes and flutes blending with the hum of polite laughter, the clink of wine glasses, the dull thunder of heels on marble as guests danced within.

A valet stepped forward to offer his arm, and she accepted it with a nod, allowing herself to be guided toward the arched entryway of the manor. The scent of roasting venison and spiced apples washed over her, mingling with beeswax and rosewater. She passed through columns wrapped in ribbons and garlands of dried wheat, the air around her thick with the warm excess of harvest opulence.

The celebration was exactly what she'd expected, provincial nobility trying to impress each other with displays of wealth they could barely afford. 

Perfect. 

She accepted a glass of wine from a servant and began the careful work of establishing her presence, engaging in meaningless conversations about harvest yields and the latest fashions from the Imperial City.

Lord Valerius himself was easy to spot–a florid man in his fifties, already deep in his cups despite the early hour. He held court near the main buffet table, regaling a captive audience with stories of his youth. Serena studied him from across the room, noting the way he favored his left leg, the slight tremor in his hands that suggested too much wine was a regular habit. A man whose heart gave out would surprise no one.

He has a weakness for vintage reds, she remembered from the dossier. Two glasses in, and he fancies himself charming. Four in, and he stops watching the help.

Perfect.

Serena stepped further into the room, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Conversation ebbed and flowed as guests turned to look, curiosity sparked by the unfamiliar face. She offered a gentle smile, allowing them to fill in the blanks of her presence. They always did. A widow. A connection through so-and-so. No threat, no scandal. Nothing more dangerous than soft eyes and quiet elegance.

She accepted a glass of wine from a passing servant, barely wetting her lips as she drifted toward the periphery of the room. Watching, waiting, counting goblets, and noting who refilled them. Timing the laughter and mapping the exits.

Underneath the silk and perfume and flawless poise, Serena the assassin stretched like a blade unsheathed.

Soon.

Serena waited until the dancing began, using the movement and music to drift closer to her target. A carefully timed stumble brought her into Valerius's orbit just as he reached for another goblet of wine.

"Oh, forgive me, my lord," she said, steadying herself with one hand on his arm while her other hand hovered near his cup. "I'm afraid I'm not as graceful as I once was."

"Think nothing of it, my dear," Valerius replied with the expansive courtesy of the thoroughly intoxicated. "I don't believe we've been introduced. Lord Aldwin Valerius, at your service."

"Lady Sera Blackthorne," she replied with a perfect curtsy. "I knew your late wife, may she rest in peace. Such a gracious woman."

As Valerius launched into memories of his deceased spouse, Serena's fingers found the tiny vial in her corset. Three drops of nightshade, colorless and nearly tasteless, slipped into his wine while he gestured expansively about his beloved's charitable works. He never even noticed when she stepped back, her hand returning to fan herself delicately.

"You must excuse me, my lord," she said when he paused for breath. "I find myself quite overwhelmed by the warmth. Perhaps some fresh air..."

She was already moving toward the gardens when she heard him call for another toast to his wife's memory. By the time the poison took effect–perhaps an hour, perhaps two–she would be miles away. Lady Sera Blackthorne would simply vanish, as if she had never existed at all.

The path through the garden twisted past marble fountains and sculpted hedges, each one lit softly by lanterns hanging from wrought iron hooks. Serena moved like a shadow among them, careful not to rush. Too fast, and she'd draw attention. Too slow, and she might miss her window.

Behind her, the celebration roared on as fiddles and flutes rose in wild crescendo, punctuated by the clink of glass and bursts of drunken laughter. She didn’t look back.

The route she took to the forest’s clearing was narrow and uneven, meant for deliveries or servants. But she'd studied the estate's layout for a reason; no guards lingered here, no curious guests wandered this far. Within minutes, the torchlit manor was a warm glow behind her, and the road stretched open before her under a canopy of stars.

She didn’t exhale fully until the last of the music faded into silence.

There would be no dramatic collapse, no gasping final words from Lord Valerius. Just a slumped body at the head of the table, his heart simply… giving out. The festival would sour, of course. Whispers would start, and the healer would confirm what she’d intended. By the time the sun rose over Anvil, the Brotherhood’s client would wake to good news.

The night air was cool against her flushed cheeks as she made her way through the manor's elaborate gardens toward the stables. The sounds of the celebration faded behind her, replaced by the peaceful chorus of crickets and night birds. She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Clean, simple, effective. Lucien would have no complaints about her methods.

She was untying her horse's reins when she heard the footsteps behind her.

Years of Brotherhood training took over before conscious thought could intervene. She spun, her hand already pulling the slim blade from her corset, the steel catching moonlight as it arced toward the throat of whoever had dared to follow her.

The blade connected, not with the killing blow she'd intended, but a glancing cut across a shoulder as her target jerked backward. Blood, black in the moonlight, welled up through torn fabric.

"Sithis's blood!" The curse exploded from him, sharp with pain and outrage. "What in Oblivion do you think you're–"

Serena's breath came in sharp, panicked gasps, her entire body coiled for another attack. The blade remained steady in her grip as she spun to face the threat fully, every muscle tensed to strike again. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she could barely hear over the sound of her own pulse.

Male voice. Tall. Moving toward me. Dangerous.

She raised the blade again, prepared to drive it home this time, when the voice came again.

"Serena." His voice changed abruptly, the anger draining out of it as understanding dawned. "It's Lucien. Your Speaker."

The words took a moment to penetrate the haze of terror. Lucien. Speaker. Not her husband's voice, not his heavy footsteps in a darkened hallway. She blinked hard, forcing herself to focus on the pale face before her, the familiar dark robes now torn and bloodied at the shoulder.

But he was watching her now with a different expression entirely–not anger, but something that looked like understanding. A tall man emerges from the shadows, approaching a woman alone in the dark. Of course, she had assumed the worst.

"Speaker?" Her voice cracked on the word, but the blade lowered slightly. "What are you–why are you–"

"Following you?" He pressed his hand more firmly against the wound, his tone carefully controlled now. "A question that seems far more foolish in hindsight than it did an hour ago. I should not have approached you unannounced."

The adrenaline was still coursing through her system, making her hands shake violently. She'd attacked her Speaker, had drawn his blood because some primitive part of her brain had screamed danger at the sound of footsteps behind her in the dark. The blade clattered to the ground as her nerveless fingers finally released it.

"I could have killed you," she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself to try to stop the trembling. "I thought you were go–I thought–"That I was someone intent on harming you," he finished quietly. "Yes, I gathered as much."

In the moonlight, she could see the dark stain spreading across his shoulder, soaking through the expensive fabric of his robes. There was more blood than she'd initially realized, and the cut had been deeper than she'd thought.

"Oh gods," she breathed, the professional part of her mind finally cutting through the panic. "You're bleeding badly. We need to get you somewhere with light, get that wound properly tended."

"I'm sure it will heal well enough on its own," Lucien said, though his voice was tighter than before, and she could see the way he was favoring the injured arm.

"No." The word came out sharper than she'd intended. "I did this to you. Let me fix it." She looked around the stable yard, noting the small tack room with its oil lamp still burning. "There. Can you make it that far?"

He studied her face for a moment, as if weighing whether to trust her proximity again so soon after she'd tried to kill him. Finally, he nodded. "Lead the way."

The tack room was cramped but clean, with a workbench and decent light from the lamp. Serena helped him ease out of his torn robes, trying not to wince at the blood that had soaked through to his shirt beneath. The cut ran nearly four inches across his shoulder—not life-threatening, but deep enough to need proper stitching.

"This is going to need to be sewn closed," she said, examining the wound. "Do you have any needles and thread with you?"

"I'm afraid my traveling kit doesn't typically include embroidery supplies," he replied dryly.

Serena was already moving toward the workbench, where she'd spotted a small sewing kit among the leather-working tools.“Lucky for you,” she said, holding up a fine steel needle and a spool of thread. “And luckier still, my mother insisted on years of embroidery lessons. I can make stitches small enough to barely scar.”

She cleaned the needle and thread as best she could with water from the stable's wash basin, then returned to where Lucien sat on a wooden crate, his shirt pulled aside to expose the wound.

"This is going to hurt," she warned, threading the needle.

"I assumed as much." His voice held that familiar dramatic flair, but she could hear the strain underneath. "I suppose this is what I deserve for startling an assassin in the dark."

"Stay still," she murmured, making the first careful stitch. "And try not to move unless you want this to take longer or hurt more than necessary."

The needle bit into his flesh with surgical precision, each stitch small and even despite the circumstances. Lucien watched her work in silence, his breath steady, though the pain flared with every pass of the thread. Serena didn’t flinch once—her brow furrowed just enough to show focus, but her hands were rock-steady.

He should be furious. He was furious, technically—she had just stabbed him, but rage wouldn’t change anything now. And besides… there was something undeniably impressive in the way she moved. Precise. Controlled. Like this wasn’t her first time holding a man together after nearly tearing him apart.

Of course it’s not, he thought, dryly.

"You're quite good at this," he muttered, more grudging compliment than conversation. He regretted saying anything as soon as her hands paused mid-stitch.

"My mother believed that fine needlework was essential for any proper lady," Serena replied, her voice carefully even. "She never imagined I'd use it to patch up men I'd stabbed in stable yards."

Lucien snorted, despite himself. "I suspect there are many things about your current circumstances that would surprise your mother."

"Undoubtedly." She tied off the thread with a quick, practiced flick, then stepped back to examine her work. "That should hold, provided you don't do anything foolish like follow people through dark forests again."

Ah. There it was.

"I wasn't following," he said, stretching his shoulder slightly to test the stitches. It hurt. It also held. Damned good work. "I was observing. There’s a difference."

Serena was already cleaning the needle, her movements were brisk, but he could feel the storm still brewing under the surface. The moment she let herself think too long about what she’d done, it would come undone.

"Then might I suggest that next time you feel the urge to observe my methods, you announce yourself from a safe distance?" she said, glancing up. Her voice was sharp, but not humorless. "Otherwise, you'll find yourself wearing embroidered ivy up your entire arm."

That earned a small, involuntary smile. Dangerous woman. Not just for her blade or her poisons; for the way she handled herself now, her spine was straight, even as her hands began to tremble. For the way she hadn't missed an artery, whether by skill or restraint or sheer instinct, he still wasn’t sure.

Then it cracked.

She didn’t tremble now, she didn’t pace or clutch at herself. She stood still, eyes on the floor between them, like the words themselves had to be handled carefully. Like she couldn't afford the luxury of regret, but couldn't quite suppress it either.

"You didn’t," he answered after a moment. His tone was measured, without softness.

Her gaze lifted. “That doesn’t absolve me.”

"No,” he agreed. “But it tells me enough.” Serena nodded once, more of a gesture than agreement. Her eyes were shuttered again by the time she turned back to the bloodied cloths, wrapping and setting them aside like it was any other night, any other injury.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” she said quietly.

Lucien didn’t apologize. “And yet here I am.”

"I don't understand." She said, tying off the knot of the final stitch in his shoulder.  "Why were you here? Did you think I would fail? Did you–"No." 

The word came out sharper than he'd intended, and his expression softened immediately. "No, I had complete confidence in your abilities. Your reputation preceded you, remember?"

"Then why?"

Lucien was quiet for a long moment, his free hand absently exploring the extent of his wound. When he spoke again, his voice carried that familiar theatrical distance, as if he were reciting lines rather than revealing anything genuine.

"Perhaps I simply wanted to see your work in person." The admission came out grudgingly, as if he hadn't meant to say it aloud.

Chapter Text

The routine had become comforting in its predictability. Three months of successful contracts, three months of dead drops exchanged with clockwork precision. Lucien's elegant script detailing targets and methods, her efficient reports confirming completions. They'd even developed a kind of professional banter between his dramatic flourishes in the margins and her dry observations about his tendency toward theatrical instruction.

"Do try not to make such a production of the next one," she'd written after a particularly elaborate poisoning in Skingrad. His response had been swift: "Says the woman who convinced half of Anvil that Lady Feyre died composing love poetry to her affair partner. Your flair for the dramatic rivals my own, dear Silencer."

She'd found herself almost smiling at that, sitting in the abandoned watchtower they used for exchanges. Almost smiling had become something that happened more often lately.

The latest contract lay spread across her small desk in the Cheydinhal sanctuary. Viscount Varro - Chorrol. Embezzlement from city coffers. Client prefers discretion. The Old Life Festival celebration at his estate provides an ideal opportunity.

Another social gathering, another chance to don the persona of Lady Sera Blackthorne. The transformation had become second nature now. It was no longer the careful ritual of her early days, but something as natural as breathing. She selected the deep blue silk this time, cut to flatter without being memorable, and began the familiar process of becoming someone else.

The ride to Chorrol was peaceful, autumn air crisp with the promise of winter. Lady Sera had opinions about the changing seasons, mild concerns about her fictional estate's harvest, and polite curiosity about the Viscount's celebrated wine collection. By the time she approached the manor, blazing with light and alive with music, she had buried Serena the assassin completely.

The celebration was grander than Lord Valerius's provincial gathering; Chorrol nobility took their entertainments seriously. Serena accepted a glass of the Viscount's renowned vintage and began her careful reconnaissance. Varro himself was easy to spot, a distinguished man in his sixties holding court near the grand fireplace, regaling guests with tales of his wine-making adventures.

She studied him as she had dozens of targets before, noting his habits, his preferred position in the room, and the frequency with which servants refilled his glass. The nightshade extract nestled in her corset's hidden pocket would make his death appear to be nothing more than an old man's heart giving out during spirited conversation.

Simple, she thought, beginning her approach through the crowd. Clean. Efficient.

She was halfway across the room, close enough to catch fragments of Varro's booming laughter, when a voice cut through the ambient chatter like a blade.

"Serena? Dear gods, is that really you?”

The words hit her with physical force. She turned slowly, every instinct screaming at her to run even as her training demanded she maintain composure. A woman in elaborate burgundy silk stood three feet away, her face a mixture of shock and something that might have been accusation.

Lady Cordelia Blackwood, her former mother-in-law.

"I'm sorry," Serena managed, her voice steady despite the roaring in her ears. "I believe you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm Lady Sera Blackthorne."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, darling." Cordelia's voice carried the same imperious tone Serena remembered from countless uncomfortable dinners. "I'd know my son's wife anywhere, no matter how you've changed your appearance. Though I must say, you look..." She paused, taking in the elegant dress, the carefully styled hair. "Different."

Breathe. Stay in character. You can lie your way out of this.

"Madam, I truly think you're confused," Serena said with Lady Sera's refined courtesy. "I'm recently widowed myself, but I was never married to your son. Perhaps the resemblance—"

"My poor Cassius," Cordelia interrupted, her eyes hardening. "Found dead in his own home, and then you simply vanished. Left quite a scandal behind, I'm afraid. Though I never believed those terrible rumors people spread about him afterward."

The name hit like a physical blow, but it was the dismissal in Cordelia's voice that made Serena's careful composure begin to crack. Those terrible rumors. As if the bruises had been gossip. As if the fear had been fiction.

"The rumors," Serena repeated carefully.

"Oh, you know how people talk after a tragedy. Claiming Cassius was... well, that he had been rather unkind to you. Preposterous, of course. My son was a gentleman; he would never have raised a hand to his wife." Cordelia's voice rose slightly, drawing attention from nearby guests. "I always suspected it was one of those awful political families trying to sully his reputation. Marcus was too honest for his own good, you see. Made enemies."

He was too honest. Serena felt something fragile breaking inside her chest. Seven years of carefully constructed distance, seven years of building a new life, and here was this woman dismissing her trauma as if it were malicious gossip.

"I really must–" she began, taking a step backward.

"You simply disappeared," Cordelia continued, moving closer. "Never even attended the funeral. People said the most dreadful things about that, too, but I defended you. I told them grief affects people differently. Though I must admit, seeing you here, at a party, looking so... well..." Her gaze traveled disapprovingly over Serena's fine dress and jewelry. "It does make one wonder."

The accusation in those words was clear. You should be mourning. You should be broken. You should be sorry.

Serena felt the walls of the ballroom pressing in around her, the sound of music and laughter becoming a distant roar. Every carefully learned social grace, every tool in her arsenal of deception, seemed suddenly inadequate. She was nineteen again, standing in a parlor while this same woman explained why her son's behavior was really her fault, why she needed to try harder to be a proper wife.

"Excuse me," she whispered, and fled.

She pushed through the crowd blindly, ignoring startled exclamations as she knocked into guests and servants alike. The contract, Viscount Varro, the Brotherhood, none of it mattered. All that mattered was getting away from that voice, those eyes, the crushing weight of being seen and judged and found wanting.

She made it to the stable before the first sob escaped her throat.

The horses shifted restlessly in their stalls as she stumbled past them, seeking the darkest corner she could find. Her hands shook as she pressed her back against the rough wooden wall, sliding down until she sat crumpled on the straw-covered floor.

You should be mourning. You should be broken.

The words echoed in her mind, each repetition like a physical blow. Her breathing came in short, sharp gasps that seemed to catch in her throat. The air felt too thin, too warm, as if the stable walls were closing in around her.

My son was a gentleman. He would never have raised a hand to his wife.

"No," she whispered to the darkness, but her voice sounded far away, disconnected. "No, that's not–he did–"

But the doubt was there now, creeping in like poison. Had she misremembered? Had she exaggerated? Marcus had been charming in public, after all. Everyone had loved him. Everyone except–

Her chest felt like it was being crushed by invisible hands. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the roaring in her ears. The carefully constructed walls she'd built around those memories were crumbling, and she was suddenly nineteen again, cowering in their bedroom while Cassius explained in that calm, reasonable voice why she deserved what he was about to do to her.

"You embarrassed me tonight, Serena. In front of my colleagues. Do you know how that makes me look?"

"I didn't mean to–"Of course you didn't mean to. You never mean to, but intent hardly matters when the damage is done, does it?"

Her hands flew to her upper arms, feeling for bruises that were no longer there, had never been there in public places where people might see. Cassius had been too smart for that; too careful, too much of a gentleman.

The panic was consuming her now, seven years of suppressed terror breaking free all at once. She gasped for air that wouldn't come, her vision tunneling until she could see nothing but Cassius’s face, could hear nothing but Cordelia's voice insisting that the man who had made her life a living hell was really a saint.

Maybe she was right. Maybe you're the monster. Maybe you killed an innocent man because you're weak and paranoid and– "Stop," she choked out, digging her nails into her palms until she drew blood. The sharp pain helped, grounded her just enough to remember where she was. Not in that house. Not nineteen. Not helpless.

But the breathing wouldn't slow, and her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird. She was going to die here, in a stable, while her target lived and her mission failed, and the Brotherhood learned that their most reliable Silencer was nothing but a broken girl who couldn't handle facing her past.

She forced herself to focus on the physical sensations: the rough wood against her back, the smell of hay and horses, the distant sound of music from the manor. Real things, present things. Not the phantom pain of old wounds or the echo of a dead man's voice.

Gradually, so gradually she almost didn't notice, her breathing began to slow. The crushing weight on her chest eased just enough to let air into her lungs. Her hands stopped shaking quite so violently.

But the damage was done. She couldn't go back in there. Couldn't face Cordelia's knowing eyes, couldn't pretend to be Lady Sera when she felt like she was dissolving from the inside out. And she certainly couldn't complete her contract, not when her hands were shaking and her mind was fractured and every shadow looked like Cassius rising from the grave to claim her.

She had failed. Completely, utterly, professionally failed.

With numb fingers, she untied her horse's reins and mounted without a word to anyone. By the time the first guests began to notice that Lady Sera Blackthorne had vanished as mysteriously as she'd appeared, Serena was already miles away, riding hard into the night with tears streaming down her face.

Three months later

The inn in Leyawiin was the kind of place that asked no questions as long as coin changed hands. Serena had been moving from one such establishment to another for weeks now, never staying more than a few nights, always keeping the border to Black Marsh in sight. A few more days of travel and she'd be beyond the reach of the Brotherhood entirely.

She climbed the narrow stairs to her rented room, every step an effort. The constant travel, the poor food, the sleepless nights spent listening for footsteps in the corridor, it was all taking its toll. She'd lost weight she couldn't afford to lose, and her hands shook with exhaustion more often than not.

But she was still free. Still alive. Still–The door to her room stood slightly ajar.

Serena's blood turned to ice. She'd locked it; she always locked it. Her hand moved instinctively toward the dagger at her hip as she pressed herself against the corridor wall, listening.

Silence.

Moving with all the stealth her training had taught her, she eased the door open and slipped inside. The room appeared empty, her few possessions exactly where she'd left them, the bed undisturbed. But something was different. The air held a familiar scent, expensive and distinctly masculine.

"Close the door."

The voice came from the chair by the window, calm and utterly unsurprised. Lucien Lachance sat in shadow, his pale hands folded in his lap, his dark eyes fixed on her with an expression she couldn't read.

"Speaker," she breathed, her hand still on the dagger's hilt.

"Serena." He inclined his head with his usual theatrical courtesy. "You've led me quite the chase. Though I must say, your technique for disappearing is admirably thorough."

She closed the door with numb fingers, her mind racing through possibilities. Had he come to kill her himself? Was this some elaborate test? Or had the Brotherhood simply decided she knew too much to be allowed to live?

"I suppose you're here to carry out my execution," she said, surprised by how steady her own voice sounded.

"That would be the traditional response to a Silencer abandoning their post," Lucien agreed. "The Brotherhood takes a dim view of desertion."

"Then get on with it."

Something flickered across his features; surprise, perhaps, or something that might have been concern. "Such eagerness for death seems unlike you. The Serena I know has a rather strong survival instinct."

The Serena you know. She almost laughed at that. "The Serena you knew was better at pretending to be functional."

"Indeed." He rose from the chair with fluid grace, though he made no move toward her. "Which brings us to the rather interesting question of why my most reliable Silencer would abandon a simple contract and flee across half of Cyrodiil. No report, no explanation, no contact whatsoever. Simply... gone." His voice carried a note of something that might have been hurt beneath the professional displeasure. "Rather unlike you, wouldn't you say?"

Serena stared at him, trying to gauge his mood, his intentions. There was no anger in his voice, no condemnation. If anything, he sounded genuinely curious.

"Does it matter?" she asked. "I failed, I ran, I broke my oath to the Brotherhood."

"It matters to me." The words came out softer than she'd expected. "You've never failed a contract before, Serena. Never shown the slightest inclination toward cowardice. So either you've undergone a dramatic personality change, or there's more to this story than 'someone recognized me.'"

She looked away, unable to meet those penetrating dark eyes. "It was... complicated."

"Elaborate."

"Someone I used to know. Someone who knew me before I joined the Brotherhood."

"That much I gathered from the report. What I'm curious about is why encountering this person would drive you to abandon everything you've built here."

The question hung in the air between them. Serena found herself trapped between the truth and the safety of lies, knowing that either choice might determine whether she lived or died.

"It was my former mother-in-law," she said finally. "She recognized me at the party, called me by my real name."

Lucien's eyebrows rose slightly. "Mother-in-law? I wasn't aware you'd been married."

"It was... a long time ago." The words came out clipped, careful.

"Ah." Lucien moved closer, close enough that she could see the faint scar on his shoulder where her blade had marked him months ago. "And I take it this marriage ended poorly, given your reaction to encountering a relative of your former husband."

Here it was, the moment of truth.

"He died," she said simply.

"Most husbands do, eventually. The question is whether his death was... natural."

Serena met his gaze directly for the first time since he'd arrived. "No. It wasn't."

"I see." His expression didn't change, but she caught something shifting in his eyes. "And you were responsible."

It wasn't a question. Serena nodded once, sharp and definitive.

"Interesting." Lucien began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back in that familiar gesture. "So we have a young woman, forced into marriage with a man who subsequently died under mysterious circumstances. Said woman then vanishes completely, only to resurface years later as a highly skilled assassin with an intimate knowledge of poisons and an uncanny ability to make deaths appear accidental."

He stopped pacing and turned to face her fully. "Tell me, Serena. Was killing your husband your first experience with murder, or simply your first experience with murder committed in self-defense?"

The question cut through her carefully constructed defenses like a blade through silk. She stared at him, this pale, dangerous man who seemed to see straight through to the heart of truths she'd never spoken aloud.

"It was my first," she whispered. "And it was self-defense." She paused, then added with brutal honesty, "But I could have been gentler about it. I... wasn't. And I enjoyed every moment of watching him die."

"Ah." Something in his posture relaxed slightly. "That changes things considerably."

"Does it?"

"Indeed, it does." He moved back to the chair and settled into it with characteristic grace. "You see, abandoning a contract out of cowardice is one thing. Abandoning a contract because your safety was genuinely threatened is quite another. The Brotherhood may be ruthless, but we're not unreasonable."

Serena felt something loosen in her chest, hope, perhaps, or simply the absence of despair. "So you're not going to kill me?"

"That depends entirely on whether you're prepared to return to your duties. The Brotherhood invested considerable time and resources in your training, Serena. We'd prefer not to lose that investment unnecessarily."

Return. The word held possibilities she'd been afraid to imagine. "You'd take me back? After I ran?"

"Under the circumstances, your flight was... understandable. Though I do hope you've gotten whatever demons drove you to flee sufficiently under control. We can't afford to have you disappearing every time your past inconveniently resurfaces."

The casual way he said it, as if her past were nothing more than an occupational hazard to be managed, should have stung. Instead, she found it oddly comforting. No pity, no judgment, just practical assessment of risk and capability.

"And if my past resurfaces again?"

"Then you deal with it like the professional I trained you to be." His dark eyes fixed on hers with unmistakable intensity. "Or you come to me, and we deal with it together. The Brotherhood protects its own, Serena. That protection extends to threats both external and... historical."

Together. The word hung between them, heavy with implications neither of them was quite ready to voice.

"I slit him open with a kitchen knife. Not a blade, not a dagger, just one of those dull ones you use to cut bread. It took a long time, and I made sure he knew why. I made sure he saw me while he bled out on our floor like the fucking coward he was."

She sucked in a breath through her teeth, as if the air itself burned.

"He cried. Called for his mother." Her lip curled, whether in contempt or grief, even she wasn’t sure. "I didn't look away. I wanted it to matter. I wanted him to know it mattered."

A pause. No apology. Just–"It was the best decision I ever made."

Lucien regarded her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was matter-of-fact.

"Good. A woman who can't defend herself is of little use to the Brotherhood. But a woman who can, and chooses when to draw her blade..." He smiled, that familiar theatrical curl of the mouth, except now it felt less like a performance. "That’s an entirely different matter."

Relief hit her like a physical thing. Her knees nearly gave out, but she locked them tight, refusing to look weak in front of him. "So... I can come back?"

"On one condition."

Her stomach turned. "What condition?"

"No more running. If something threatens you, truly threatens you, you bring it to me. The Brotherhood protects its own. But we can’t defend shadows, Serena. We can’t protect someone who refuses to be seen."

The offer caught her off guard. "I understand," she said, quieter than before. 

"Excellent." Lucien stood with a rustle of fabric, adjusting his robes like he was trying to reassemble some version of composure. "Then I suggest you eat something that isn’t preserved meat or stale bread, and sleep somewhere other than a stable. You look atrocious."

She gave a tired, crooked smile. "Touched, truly."

"My concern is for your effectiveness as my Silencer. You’re no use to me if you drop dead of starvation or exhaustion."

But there was a warmth beneath the dryness now, and they both knew it.

"Of course," she said. "Purely professional."

"Naturally." He moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the latch. "You'll return with me to Cheydinhal. The sanctuary has proper food, clean beds, and a healer who won't ask inconvenient questions about where you've been for the past month."

The offer, or perhaps command, caught her off guard. She'd only been to the Cheydinhal sanctuary once, during her initial assignment as his Silencer. The thought of returning there, of being welcomed back after her failure, seemed almost too good to be true.

"And after that?" she asked.

 He reached the door, then hesitated, fingers resting lightly on the latch. "For what it’s worth... some choices stay with us longer than others. And it’s nothing to be ashamed of."

She opened her mouth to answer, but by the time the words formed, the door had already clicked shut. And she was alone, with nothing but the echo of his voice and, for the first time in a long while, the quiet weight of hope.

Chapter Text

The Cheydinhal Sanctuary felt different this time.

Serena had been here before, of course, when she was first assigned as Lucien’s silencer. She'd never lingered, never allowed herself to truly see the place as anything more than a dilapidated building in the center of town. Now, as she followed Lucien through the familiar stone passages with her travel pack slung over her shoulder, she felt almost like an intruder. The weight of what had happened at the inn hung between them like a physical presence, making every step feel awkward and uncertain.

"Your quarters have been prepared," Lucien said without looking back at her, his voice carrying that formal Speaker tone she'd grown accustomed to over the months. As if he hadn't seen her break down completely three days ago. As if he hadn't promised to protect her from her past. "I trust you'll find them adequate."

"I'm sure they'll be fine," she replied, matching his professional distance. It was easier this way, safer. The alternative, acknowledging what had passed between them, the vulnerability she'd shown, the way he'd looked at her with something that might have been tenderness, felt too dangerous to contemplate.

They emerged into the main common area, and Serena found herself facing a collection of curious faces she'd only glimpsed in passing before. The Brotherhood members she'd heard about but never properly met gathered around the central table in various states of relaxation and conversation.

"Brothers and Sisters," Lucien announced, his theatrical voice carrying easily through the space, "allow me to formally introduce Serena, who will be taking extended residence with us."

Extended residence. As if she were a visiting dignitary rather than someone who'd nearly fled the Brotherhood entirely. She shot him a grateful look, which he either didn't see or chose to ignore.

"Finally!" A woman with flaxen hair and bright, mischievous eyes bounded up from her seat, practically bouncing with enthusiasm. "I was beginning to think Lucien was keeping you locked away in some tower. I'm Antoinetta Marie, and I have been dying to meet the mysterious Silencer who's been monopolizing all our Speaker's attention."

Despite everything, Serena found herself smiling at the woman's infectious energy. "I hardly think I've been monopolizing anything. Though it's nice to finally put faces to the names I've been hearing."

"Oh, you've been hearing about us?" An older man with graying hair and sharp, glowing eyes looked up from where he'd been cleaning a particularly wicked-looking dagger. "Vicente Valtieri. I do hope the reports have been favorable."

"Mostly warnings about your cooking, actually," Serena replied, earning a bark of laughter from several people around the table.

"Lies and slander," Vicente protested with mock indignation. "My culinary skills are perfectly adequate for keeping us all alive."

"That's setting the bar rather low, don't you think?" An Orc chimed in, lounging against the wall with casual arrogance. "Gogron gro-Bolmog. And before anyone makes jokes about the Orc being the muscle, I'll have you know I'm perfectly capable of subtlety when the situation calls for it."

Serena raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't planning to make any assumptions about your methods, actually. Though I appreciate the clarification."

The Orc looked slightly deflated at her lack of reaction to his posturing. Around the table, she caught several amused glances being exchanged.

"Don't mind Gogron," said an Argonian with dark scales and calculating eyes who'd been watching the exchanges with interest. "He's still working on his subtlety technique. I am Ocheeva. I handle... logistics for the sanctuary."

Something in the way she said 'logistics' suggested her role was considerably more complex than simple supply management, but Serena simply nodded. "Pleasure to meet you."

"M'raaj-Dar," rumbled a Khajiit from the corner, his golden eyes reflecting the torchlight. “This one specializes in the arcane. Hexes. Illusions. Fire, if subtlety fails.”

"The pleasure is mine," Serena replied, inclining her head respectfully. She'd worked with Khajiit before and knew better than to underestimate them based on their seemingly rude demeanor.

"And this is my brother, Teinaava," Ocheeva added, gesturing to another Argonian who had been quietly observing from near the doorway. His scales were a lighter shade than his sister's, and he moved with the fluid grace of someone who specialized in moving unseen.

"A pleasure," Teinaava said, his voice soft but carrying easily through the room. "I have heard much about your work."

"Well, aren't you just fitting right in!" Antoinetta said with obvious delight. "I was worried you might be all mysterious and brooding like some others I could mention." She shot a pointed look toward where Lucien stood near the wall, observing the interactions with his usual theatrical composure.

Serena carefully didn't follow Antoinetta's gaze. "I try to save the mysterious brooding for when I'm actually working. It's exhausting to maintain full-time."

The comment earned another round of chuckles, and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. These were her people, in a way; killers and outcasts who'd found family in the shadows. She'd been part of this world for years without really understanding that aspect of it.

"So what brings you to our humble sanctuary?" Vicente asked, settling back in his chair with the air of someone preparing for a good story. "Finally tired of all that traveling?"

The question hit like a physical blow, and Serena felt her carefully maintained composure waver. How could she explain? How could she tell them that she'd nearly destroyed everything because someone from her past had recognized her? That she'd been ready to abandon the only life that had ever made sense to her rather than face the consequences of survival?

"Complications with a recent contract," Lucien interjected smoothly before she could stumble through an inadequate explanation. "It seemed prudent to allow the situation to... settle before resuming normal operations."

Serena shot him a quick glance, surprised by the rescue. He was still standing with that same formal distance, but something in his eyes suggested he understood exactly how difficult that question had been for her to hear.

"Ah," Vicente said with the knowing tone of someone who'd encountered his share of complications over the years. "Say no more. We've all had contracts that required strategic retreats."

"Speak for yourself," M’raaaj said with youthful bravado. "I've never had to run from anything."

"That's because you've never been assigned anything complicated enough to run from," Ocheeva observed dryly, earning a wounded look from the young assassin.

"Now, now," Antoinetta said, settling into the chair beside Serena with the easy familiarity of someone claiming a new friend. "Let's not overwhelm our guest with tales of professional mishaps. I'm much more interested in hearing about your methods. Lucien's been maddeningly vague about your techniques."

"Has he?" Serena asked, genuinely curious despite herself. "What exactly has he told you?"

"Only that you specialize in accidents and have an unusual background," Gorgon replied. 

"Well, the accidents part is true enough," Serena said, falling into the easy rhythm of professional discussion. "Poison in wine that mimics heart failure, unfortunate falls from balconies, hunting accidents with misplaced arrows. That sort of thing."

"And the unusual background?" Antoinetta pressed, her eyes bright with curiosity.

This time, Serena hesitated. How much of her past was safe to share? How much would they understand versus judge? But as she looked around the table at these people who'd welcomed her without question, who'd shared stories and jokes as if she'd always been part of their strange family, she found herself wanting to give them something real.

"I grew up in high society," she said finally. "Noble family, all the usual expectations about proper behavior and social graces. Those skills... translate well to certain types of contracts."

"High society?" Antoinetta's eyebrows shot up. "How did you end up here? That's quite a leap from ballrooms to brotherhoods."

The question was innocent enough, asked with the casual curiosity of someone making conversation. But it hit Serena like a crossbow bolt to the chest, bringing back memories of Cordelia Blackwood’s accusations, of three days spent running in terror, of almost breaking down completely in a cramped inn room while Lucien watched. How could she explain the gap between her noble upbringing and her arrival at the Brotherhood? How could she tell them about Marcus, about what she'd had to do to survive?

She must have gone pale, or perhaps her breathing changed, because suddenly the casual atmosphere around the table shifted. Vicente's hand moved almost imperceptibly toward the dagger at his belt, while Ocheeva's expression sharpened with alert interest. Even M'raaj-Dar had gone still in the way that meant he was prepared to move quickly if necessary.

"It's... complicated," Serena managed, her voice coming out smaller than she'd intended. "Let's just say that noble society wasn't as safe as it appeared."

From across the room, she felt Lucien's attention focus on her like a physical weight, though she still couldn't bring herself to look in his direction. She could sense his readiness to intervene again, to smooth over the awkwardness with another perfectly crafted explanation that revealed nothing while explaining everything.

But before he could speak, Antoinetta reached over and squeezed her hand gently.

"I'm sorry," the other woman said simply. "That must have been difficult."

The kindness in her voice, the complete lack of judgment or prying curiosity, nearly undid Serena entirely. She'd expected questions, suspicion, maybe even hostility. Instead, she'd found acceptance from people who understood that everyone here had left something behind to join this dark family.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "It was... a long time ago."

"Well," Vicente said with the gruff kindness of someone changing the subject before things could get too emotional, "you're here now. And from what we've heard, you're damn good at what you do. That's what matters."

"Exactly," Antoinetta agreed, her grip on Serena's hand tightening briefly before releasing. "Welcome home, sister."

Home. The word hit her with unexpected force. When was the last time anywhere felt like home? When was the last time she'd been part of something larger than her own survival?

But even as warmth spread through her chest at the acceptance, the exhaustion she'd been holding at bay for days began to creep in around the edges. The adrenaline that had sustained her through three days of terror and sleepless nights was finally wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness that made her limbs feel like lead.

"Thank you," she said again, meaning it more than she could express. "All of you. But I think... I think I need to rest. It's been a long few days."

The understatement of the Third Era.

"Of course," Antoinetta said, immediately understanding. "You look exhausted. Ocheeva, didn't you say her quarters were ready?"

"Indeed," the Argonian replied, rising smoothly from her chair. "This way. Your belongings have already been moved there."

Serena followed Ocheeva through the winding corridors, noting absently how different the sanctuary felt now that she was seeing it as a resident rather than a visitor. The stone walls seemed less cold, the shadows less threatening. It felt... permanent. Safe.

"Here," Ocheeva said, stopping before a heavy wooden door. "It's not luxurious, but it's private and secure. There's fresh water for washing, and clean linens on the bed."

The room beyond was small but comfortable: a narrow bed with thick blankets, a simple desk and chair, a washbasin with a mirror above it. Her travel pack sat on the desk, looking oddly domestic in the space that was apparently hers now.

"Thank you," Serena said sincerely. "For everything. All of you have been so welcoming."

"We take care of our own," Ocheeva replied simply. "Rest well, sister. There will be time for more conversation when you're recovered."

Alone in her new quarters, Serena closed the door and leaned against it, finally allowing herself to truly relax for the first time in days. The silence was profound after the constant vigilance she'd maintained, the perpetual listening for footsteps that might mean discovery and capture.

She managed to wash her face and hands before the exhaustion became overwhelming. The bed, when she finally collapsed onto it without even bothering to remove her boots, felt like the most luxurious thing she'd ever experienced. The blankets were warm and soft, and for the first time in nearly a week, she felt truly safe.

Sleep took her almost instantly, a deep, dreamless unconsciousness that lasted until the next.

When she finally woke, it was to the sound of gentle knocking on her door and Antoinetta's voice calling softly, "Serena? I brought food. You've been asleep for almost a full day."

A full day. She sat up slowly, her body protesting the movement after so long in one position. Sunlight, or what passed for sunlight in the underground sanctuary, was filtering through the small window, and she could hear the distant sounds of normal sanctuary life continuing around her.

"Coming," she called back, her voice rusty from sleep and disuse. She made her way to the door on unsteady legs, opening it to find Antoinetta standing there with a tray of food and a concerned expression.

"You look better," the other woman observed, though her eyes remained worried. "More rested, at least. May I come in?"

"Please." Serena stepped aside, grateful for the company. "I can't believe I slept so long."

"When was the last time you slept?" Antoinetta asked, setting the tray on the small desk. "And I mean actually slept, not just dozed fitfully while listening for threats."

The question was perceptive, and Serena found herself answering honestly. "Before the contract in Chorrol. So...two weeks? Maybe a month? It's all blurred together."

"No wonder you collapsed." Antoinetta settled into the chair, leaving Serena to sit on the bed. "You were running on pure stubbornness and terror. I've seen it before, people push themselves until they find safety, then their bodies just... shut down. Oh! I almost forgot."

She reached into her robes and produced a small wrapped bundle. "I may have stolen some honey cakes from Gogron's private stash. Don't tell him, he thinks he's the only one who knows where he hides them."

Serena picked at the bread and cheese on the tray, surprised to discover she was actually hungry. "Has anyone... asked about me?"

"Lucien's checked on you twice," Antoinetta replied, and something in her tone suggested she'd noticed the careful way Serena had avoided looking at their Speaker the night before. "Both times I told him you were still sleeping and needed rest more than conversation."

"Good," Serena said, then immediately felt guilty for the relief in her voice. "I mean–"

"You mean you're not ready to face whatever happened between you two that's made things so awkward?" Antoinetta said with characteristic directness. "Were you two... You know, involved ?" At Serena's startled expression, she quit her hand gesture and hurried on. "I mean, it would make sense! You work closely together, he's very protective of you, and the tension last night was thick enough to cut with a dagger."

"No!" Serena said quickly, perhaps too quickly. "No, nothing like that. We're just... It's purely professional."

"Uh-huh," Antoinetta said with the skeptical tone of someone who didn't believe a word of it. "So this awkwardness is purely professional, too?" The events at the inn felt too personal to share. But looking at Antoinetta's open, non-judgmental expression, she found herself wanting to explain at least part of it.

"He saw me at my worst," she said finally. "It was everything I tried never to let anyone see. And now I don't know how to... how to go back to the way things were before."

"Maybe you're not supposed to go back," Antoinetta suggested gently. "Maybe what happened changed things, and that's not necessarily bad."

"It feels wrong," Serena admitted.  "Most worthwhile things do," Antoinetta replied, then took a bite of honey cake and grinned mischievously. "Besides, I dunno, he's broody, and he’s absolutely terrifying, but he's kinda cute. I got a glimpse under his hood once when he was reading contracts in the common room." She dissolved into a fit of giggles that was so infectious Serena found herself almost smiling despite everything.

"Antoinetta!" she protested, though there was no real reproach in her voice.

"What? I'm just saying!" Antoinetta managed between giggles. "All that pale, mysterious, dramatic thing he's got going? Some women find that very appealing. Not that I'm interested," she added quickly, "he's way too intense for me. But you... You might appreciate the intensity."

Serena felt her face flush. "It's not like that."

"Mm-hmm," Antoinetta said, still grinning. "Well, if you and our mysterious Speaker aren't a thing, do you have someone? Back wherever you came from?"

The question hit differently than she'd expected. Serena was quiet for a long moment, picking at the bread on her plate. "I was married," she said finally. "He's dead."

"Oh." Antoinetta's expression immediately softened with sympathy. "I'm sorry, that must have been–"I'm not," Serena interrupted, her voice flat. "Killing him was the best thing I’ve ever done, and the world’s a much better place with him in pieces."

The words hung in the air between them, stark and uncompromising. Antoinetta's eyes widened slightly, but not with judgment; more like recognition of a pain she couldn't fully understand but could respect.

"Ah," the younger woman said quietly. "That kind of marriage."

"That kind of marriage," Serena confirmed, grateful that Antoinetta understood without needing all the details spelled out. "So no, there's no one waiting for me anywhere. The Brotherhood is all I have now."

"Not all," Antoinetta said gently. "You have us. You have family here. And maybe..." she glanced toward the door with a meaningful look, "maybe you have more than you're ready to admit."

Serena shook her head, but there was less conviction in it than before.

"Anyway," Antoinetta continued, settling back in her chair with the air of someone prepared for a long conversation, "enough about brooding men. Tell me about your hair routine. How do you get it to look so perfect when you're working? Mine always ends up a disaster after contracts."

Despite everything, Serena found herself almost smiling. "Braids, mostly. Crown braids keep it secure and look elegant if they come loose."

"Crown braids! I can never get those right. Will you show me sometime?" Antoinetta bounced slightly in her seat. "And what about makeup? I heard about you in that green dress at the celebration– I overheard Lucien say y-Oh! How did you make your eyes look so dramatic?"

"Kohl, mostly. And a little crushed pearl powder on the lids." Serena found herself relaxing into the familiar territory of beauty techniques. "The trick is blending it properly so it doesn't look painted on."

"Pearl powder! That sounds expensive. Where do you even get that?" Antoinetta's eyes were bright with interest. "I've been using charcoal for my eyes, but it smudges terribly."

"There's a shop in Chorrol, though..." Serena paused, remembering why she couldn't go back there anytime soon.

"Right, complications," Antoinetta said with understanding. "Well, maybe I can pick some up for you next time I'm there. Oh! Speaking of supplies, what's your favorite poison to work with? I'm still learning about the subtler ones."

The conversation shifted from makeup to murder methods was so seamless that Serena almost laughed.  "Nightshade extract," she replied. "Colorless, nearly tasteless, and the symptoms mimic heart failure. Very difficult to detect if you use the right dosage."

"How do you calculate dosage? I always worry I'm using too much and making it obvious, or too little and having them survive."

"Body weight, mostly. A drop per stone of weight for a quick death, half that if you want it to look more natural, but take longer." Serena found herself falling into teaching mode. "The key is patience. Better to use less and wait than to overdo it and raise suspicions."

"That makes sense. What about delivery methods? Wine seems obvious, but what if they don't drink?"

"Food works well, especially rich sauces that mask any residual taste. Or you can coat the rim of a glass. Even if they only take a sip, they'll get enough." Serena paused to take a bite of honey cake. "Though honestly, most nobles drink enough that wine is usually your safest bet."

"You make it sound so easy," Antoinetta said with admiration. "I'm much better with the more... direct approach. Daggers, mainly. Not nearly as elegant as your methods."

"Each approach has its place," Serena replied diplomatically. "Sometimes direct is exactly what's needed."

"True. Oh, speaking of daggers, have you seen Gogron's blade collection? He's got this one from Hammerfell that's absolutely gorgeous–the handle is inlaid with actual gems. Probably worth more than most people's houses." Antoinetta was off and running again, her conversation jumping from topic to topic with the boundless energy of youth. "And Telaendril has been teaching me about lockpicking, though I'm terrible at it. My fingers are too clumsy, she says. Do you know how to pick locks?"

Serena nodded, feeling oddly content to just listen to Antoinetta's chatter. It was normal, friendly, the kind of conversation she'd never been able to have during her marriage or in the lonely years since. Just two women talking about their work, their interests, their lives.

"Of course you do. You probably know how to do everything useful." Antoinetta sighed dramatically. "Sometimes I feel like such a novice compared to everyone else here. Especially you and Lucien, you both always seem so composed and competent."

"Trust me," Serena said quietly, "I'm not nearly as composed as I appear."

"Well, you hide it well. That's probably another useful skill in our line of work." Antoinetta grinned. "Speaking of hiding things, how do you keep your weapons concealed in those fancy dresses? I can barely fit a dagger in my regular clothes without it being obvious."

"Custom tailoring, mostly," Serena replied, warming to the subject. "I had a seamstress remove one of the corset bones and replace it with a thin steel blade. It's not much, but it's sharp enough to be lethal if you know where to strike."

"Brilliant! What about larger weapons?"

"Thigh holsters work well, especially with dresses that have slits. You can reach through the opening without anyone noticing." Serena demonstrated the motion absently. "And there are special pockets you can have sewn into the lining for poison vials or small tools."

"Thigh holsters," Antoinetta repeated, her eyes bright with interest. "I never would have thought of that. Do they stay secure when you're moving? Dancing, I mean, or walking quickly?"

"If they're fitted properly, yes. The key is good leather that molds to your leg, and positioning them high enough that they don't shift when you walk." Serena found herself genuinely enjoying the technical discussion. "Though you have to be careful with the length of your stride, too long and you might flash the weapon to someone watching closely."

"This is incredibly useful," Antoinetta said, practically bouncing in her seat. "I've been trying to figure out how to carry more than just my belt dagger when I'm working social contracts. Most of my jobs are tavern work, but sometimes I get assigned to fancier venues."

They continued chatting for another hour, Antoinetta's questions ranging from hair pins that doubled as lockpicks to the best fabrics for hiding bloodstains. But eventually, Serena found herself stifling yawns despite the long sleep she'd just had.

"I should let you rest," Antoinetta said, noticing immediately. "You're still recovering, and I've been talking your ear off."

"I've enjoyed it," Serena said honestly. "It's been... nice. Having someone to talk to about normal things."

"Well, anytime you want to discuss poison techniques or fashion tips, you know where to find me." Antoinetta stood and gathered the empty dishes onto the tray. "And Serena? Don't avoid Lucien forever. Whatever happened between you two, he's been genuinely worried. I've never seen him pace the corridors like he has been."

Before Serena could respond to that revelation, Antoinetta was gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the lingering warmth of genuine friendship.

The Black Hand chamber was cold even by Brotherhood standards, its obsidian walls carved with reliefs that seemed to shift and writhe in the flickering torchlight. Five figures sat around the circular table, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods, their identities known only to themselves and Sithis.

"The situation in Chorrol requires discussion," spoke the figure at the head of the table. "Our asset has been compromised."

"Compromised how?" The question came from across the table, sharp with interest.

"Recognized by someone from her previous life. The contract was abandoned, and she fled rather than complete the assignment." Papers rustled as the speaker consulted notes. "Lucien Lachance retrieved her before she could leave Cyrodiil entirely."

"Retrieved or captured?" A third figure quipped, their tone suggesting the distinction mattered greatly.

"Retrieved. She was not brought back for punishment. Our Speaker seems to have granted her sanctuary within the Cheydinhal facility."

A moment of silence as the implications were considered.

"The Blackwood matter," said the fourth figure, speaking for the first time. "We knew this might eventually surface. The question is whether it threatens our operations."

"It threatens our asset," the first speaker corrected. "Which amounts to the same thing. Her infiltration skills are considerable, and her success rate is impressive. Losing her would be... inconvenient."

"More than inconvenient," the second figure interjected. "She's one of, if not our most effective, operators for high-society contracts. Training a replacement would take years."

"Then we protect the investment," the fifth figure said pragmatically. "The Blackwood family's suspicions are hardly our concern. A few well-placed accidents, some strategic pressure on their financial interests... the matter could be resolved permanently."

"And if they've already involved the authorities?"

"Then the authorities will find their evidence mysteriously disappearing, their witnesses suddenly reluctant to testify." The speaker's tone carried the casual confidence of someone accustomed to making problems vanish. "The Chorrol guard is not known for their persistence when investigations become... complicated."

"Lucien seems to have reached the same conclusion," the first figure observed. "His report indicates he's already begun implementing protective measures."

"Protective," the fourth figure repeated thoughtfully. "An interesting choice of words. Our Speaker appears to have developed something of an attachment to this particular asset."

"Attachment can be useful," the third figure said. "It ensures loyalty, dedication to protecting valuable resources."

"It can also be a weakness," the second figure countered. "Emotional investment clouds judgment."

"Only if allowed to interfere with operations. Thus far, Lucien's... investment has resulted in enhanced performance from both parties."

The first speaker leaned back, considering. "For now, we monitor the situation. The Blackwood matter will be handled discreetly. Our asset will remain under Brotherhood protection until the threat is eliminated. Any objections?"

Silence around the table indicated agreement.

"Excellent. Now, regarding the Varro contract that was abandoned..."

Chapter Text

Three weeks into her residency at the Cheydinhal Sanctuary, Serena had fallen into a comfortable routine. Morning training with Vicente, afternoons helping Ocheeva with supply inventories, evenings in the common room listening to Vicente’s three centuries' worth of stories. It was the closest thing to a normal life she'd had in years.

The only disruption to this peaceful existence was Lucien's continued presence in the sanctuary, and her continued efforts to avoid being alone with him. She'd become quite skilled at timing her movements to avoid crossing paths with him in the corridors, at finding excuses to leave rooms when he entered them. If he'd noticed her careful avoidance, and she was certain he had, he'd chosen not to comment on it.

Which was why she was surprised to find Antoinetta knocking on her door after breakfast, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

"Serena? Can I come in? I need help, and you're the only one who might understand."

"Of course," Serena said, stepping aside to let the younger woman enter. "What's wrong?"

"I have a contract," Antoinetta said, flopping dramatically onto Serena's bed. "A real one, not just tavern work. Ocheeva assigned me to eliminate a merchant who's been skimming from Brotherhood clients. But it's at a dinner party, and I have no idea how to..." She gestured helplessly at herself. "How to be fancy enough to fit in."

Serena felt a smile tug at her lips. "Ah. You need lessons in being a lady."

"Exactly! I can kill someone just fine, but I have no idea which fork to use for the fish course or how to walk in proper shoes or, oh gods, what if they expect me to dance?" Antoinetta's voice was climbing toward panic.

"Breathe," Serena said gently, settling into her chair. "It's not as complicated as you think. Most of being a proper lady is just confidence and knowing a few basic rules. Tell me about the contract."

"Lord Casimir Daven. He's hosting a dinner party for Imperial City merchants tomorrow night. I'm supposed to be the daughter of a textile merchant from Chorrol, invited through a mutual acquaintance." Antoinetta pulled a scroll from her robes. "The invitation came through Brotherhood channels, so my cover story is solid. I just... don't know how to be her."

"What's her name?"

"Lydia Morven. Recently lost her father, inherited his business, looking to expand into the Imperial City market." Antoinetta recited the details like she'd memorized them. "She's supposed to be grieving but practical, wealthy but not ostentatious."

"Perfect. That's actually an easy character to play, because grief gives you an excuse to be quiet if you're uncertain, and recent inheritance explains any slight awkwardness about wealth." Serena moved to her wardrobe, considering options. "What did you bring to wear?"

Antoinetta held up a dress that was clearly expensive but utterly wrong for the character. "Ocheeva found this for me. She said it looked 'appropriately noble.'"

Serena examined the garment: deep purple silk with elaborate embroidery and a neckline that bordered on scandalous. "It's beautiful, but it's entirely wrong for a grieving textile heiress. This is what a nobleman's mistress would wear to catch attention, not what a respectable merchant's daughter would choose for a business dinner."

"I knew it!" Antoinetta groaned. "I told Ocheeva it felt wrong, but she insisted it was what noble women wore."

"Ocheeva understands many things, but high society fashion isn't one of them," Serena said diplomatically. "Here, try this instead."

She pulled out a dress of dark blue wool, well-made but understated, with long sleeves and a modest neckline. "This suggests wealth without flaunting it, and the color is appropriate for someone in mourning who's trying to conduct business."

"It's so... plain," Antoinetta said, though she was already reaching for it.

"That's the point. In high society, truly wealthy people don't need to prove it with flashy clothes. The quality of the fabric, the cut of the dress, and the way you carry yourself. Those things signal status much more effectively than jewels or exposed skin."

Antoinetta slipped into the dress, and immediately the difference was obvious. She looked exactly like what she was supposed to be: a young woman of good breeding dealing with loss and responsibility.

"Now," Serena said, beginning to pace as she slipped into teaching mode, "basic etiquette. Never reach across the table for anything; ask for it to be passed. Start eating only after your host begins. If you're uncertain which utensil to use, work from the outside in. And most importantly, remember that Lydia Morven would have been raised with these rules from childhood. Don't overthink them."

"What about conversation? What if someone asks me about textiles or business or–"

"Keep it general. 'Father always said the quality of the thread determines the longevity of the fabric.' 'We've built our reputation on reliability and fair pricing.' Things that sound knowledgeable without requiring specific expertise." Serena pulled out a simple necklace and fastened it around Antoinetta's neck. "And if someone presses for details, redirect. 'I prefer not to discuss business specifics in social settings' or 'I'm afraid such matters remind me too much of my father's absence.'"

"You make it sound so easy," Antoinetta said with genuine admiration.

"It is easy, once you understand the rules. Most noble conversation is just a performance anyway; everyone is pretending to be more refined and important than they actually are." Serena stepped back to assess the result. "Perfect. You look exactly like a respectable merchant's daughter."

"Thank you," Antoinetta said, then hesitated. "Can I ask you something? About... not the contract?"

"Of course."

"There was this man at my last assignment. The tavern one." Antoinetta's cheeks flushed pink. "He was... nice. Asked if he could call on me sometime. And I know I should have just said no, but..." She trailed off, looking embarrassed.

"But you were tempted," Serena finished gently.

"Is that terrible? I mean, I know we can't have normal relationships, not really. But sometimes I see couples in the marketplace or at festivals, and they look so happy, so... normal. And this man, he doesn’t know what I do, he just thought I was a pretty tavern worker, and for a moment I could pretend..." Serena felt her heart clench with sympathy; she recognized that longing, that desperate desire for something real and uncomplicated. "It's not terrible at all. It's human."

"What did you do? If you want something normal?"

The question hit harder than Antoinetta probably intended. Serena was quiet for a long moment, thinking of her younger self, married to Cassius and trying so desperately to be the perfect wife, to make their sham of a marriage into something real.

"I convinced myself I could have both," she said finally.

"Because of your husband?"

"Because I was lying to myself about what was possible. About what I deserved." Serena moved to the pitcher on her desk, pouring a cup of wine for herself and another for Antoinetta. "The Brotherhood isn't just our profession, Antoinetta. It's who we are. We've all done things that put us outside normal society. Trying to pretend otherwise usually just leads to pain."

"So I should forget about him?"

"I think you should be honest with yourself about what you're looking for. If it's companionship, affection, someone to care about, those things are possible within the Brotherhood. But if it's respectability, a normal life, with children, a dog, and a white picket fence..." Serena shrugged. "That's a different conversation."

Antoinetta was quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. "That makes sense. It's just... sometimes the loneliness gets overwhelming, you know?"

"I do know," Serena said softly. "But loneliness is better than pretending to be something you're not for someone who could never really know you."

"Is that why you won't talk to Lucien?" The question came out in a rush, as if Antoinetta had been holding it back for weeks. "Because you're afraid of not being able to pretend anymore?"

Serena turned sharply, startled by the perceptiveness of the observation. "That's not–it's not the same situation."

"Isn't it?" Antoinetta stood, smoothing down the borrowed dress. "I mean, he already knows exactly who you are. What you've done. And he's still..." She gestured helplessly. "You've seen the way he looks at you, right? Like you're something precious instead of something dangerous?"

"He absolutely does not look at me like that," Serena said quickly. "Maybe as someone he watched have a complete meltdown, but not like that. You're imagining things."

"I'm just saying, maybe the scariest thing isn't that he might not accept who you really are. Maybe it's that he already does."

With that observation hanging in the air, Antoinetta moved toward the door, then paused. "Oh! Before I go practice walking in proper shoes, could you show me those crown braids you mentioned? I should probably do something with my hair that looks more...respectable merchant's daughter and less...tavern worker."

Grateful for the change of subject, Serena gestured for her to sit. "Of course. It's actually quite simple once you get the rhythm."

She stood behind Antoinetta and began sectioning her blonde hair. "The key is to start tight at the scalp and add small pieces as you go. Like this, see how I'm pulling from the sides?"

"Oh!" Antoinetta's eyes lit up as she watched in the mirror. "I can see how that would stay secure even if you had to run or fight."

"Exactly. And if a few pieces come loose during the evening, it just looks like you've been dancing or had a long day, not like you've been in a struggle." Serena continued weaving the braid, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. "There, see how elegant that looks? Very appropriate for a young woman of good breeding."

Antoinetta turned her head experimentally, testing the security of the braid. "It's perfect! And it actually feels quite secure. Thank you for everything. The dress, the advice, the hair..." She paused meaningfully. "All the advice."

"Just be careful tonight," Serena said, deflecting from the personal implications. "And remember, confidence is half the performance."

"I'll remember," Antoinetta promised, then headed for the door. "And Serena? When you're ready to take your own advice about being honest with yourself... I'm here."

Alone in her room, Serena sank into her chair and tried not to think about Antoinetta's words. Tried not to remember the way Lucien had looked at her in that inn room; not with disgust or pity, but with understanding. 

Maybe the scariest thing isn't that he might not accept who you really are. Maybe it's that he already does.

She pushed the thought away and began planning her own day, determinedly focusing on anything except the uncomfortable truth that Antoinetta had just forced her to confront.

The shouting from the common room interrupted her brooding two hours later. Serena emerged from her quarters to find most of the sanctuary gathered around the central table, watching as Gogron and M'raaj-Dar faced off in what appeared to be a rapidly escalating argument.

"I told you the contract was mine!" Gogron was saying, his massive hands clenched into fists. 

"This one was assigned the Leyawiin contract by Speaker Lachance himself," M'raaj-Dar replied with deceptive calm, though his tail was beginning to expand in a way that suggested his composure was more controlled than genuine. "Perhaps the Orc should check his facts before making accusations."

"I don't care what Lucien told you later, cat. I claimed that target first, and everyone here knows it!"

Vicente looked up from sharpening his blade. "Actually, I think you're both wrong. That contract was assigned to–"Stay out of this, old man," Gogron snapped, not taking his eyes off M'raaj-Dar. "This is between me and the furball."

The tension in the room spiked immediately. M'raaj-Dar's pupils dilated to slits, and Serena could see his claws extending slightly. "The Orc would do well to watch his tongue before this one removes it."

"You're welcome to try, cat."

"Enough," Ocheeva said sharply, stepping between them. "This childish display serves no purpose. The contract details can be verified through–"

"No," Gogron interrupted, his attention fixed entirely on M'raaj-Dar now. "I'm tired of being overlooked for the subtle work just because I'm an Orc. Tired of watching him get all the interesting assignments while I'm stuck with the tavern brawls and dock murders."

"Perhaps," M'raaj-Dar said with cutting precision, "the Orc receives the assignments that match his capabilities."

The insult hung in the air as Gogron's face went red with rage, and Serena could see him preparing to lunge forward. Around the room, the other Brotherhood members were tensing, hands moving toward weapons. This was about to become a real fight.

"Actually," Serena said, stepping forward with the kind of calm authority she'd once used to manage feuding nobles at dinner parties, "I think you're both missing the real issue here."

Both combatants turned to look at her, momentarily startled by the interruption. The room went quiet.

"Gogron," she continued, meeting his angry gaze directly, "your frustration isn't really about this specific contract, is it? It's about feeling like you aren't being recognized or utilized properly. You're not just muscle, and you want assignments that prove that."

The Orc's expression shifted slightly, surprise replacing some of the anger. "I... yes. That's exactly what I mean."

"And M'raaj," Serena turned to the Khajiit, "your response wasn't really about defending your assignment, it was about defending your competence. You're working hard to establish yourself as a skilled operative, and you heard Gogron's complaint as an attack on your abilities."

M'raaj-Dar's tail had stopped lashing, his ears going out to the sides to show he was listening. He tilted his head slightly, considering her words. "This one... may have interpreted the situation in such a manner, yes."

"The truth is," Serena said, addressing the room but keeping her voice calm and reasonable, "you both have valid concerns, but you're directing them at each other instead of at the actual problem. Gogron, you feel typecast and undervalued. M'raaj-Dar, you feel like your expertise is being questioned. But neither of you is responsible for the other's frustration."

She moved closer to the center of the dispute, her posture open but confident. "The real issue is communication. Gogron, when you express interest in a contract, are you making it clear why you're particularly suited for that type of work? Or are you just saying you want it?"

"I..." Gogron frowned, his anger deflating as he considered the question. "I usually just tell them I'm interested. I figured my record spoke for itself."

"And M'raaj, when you receive assignments that others might also be suited for, do you consider discussing the distribution with your Brothers? Or do you assume that if the Speaker assigned it to you, that's the end of the conversation?"

The Khajiit's ears flicked back slightly. "This one does not typically... consult with others about assignments received."

"Right. So what we have here isn't a conflict over one contract. It's a communication breakdown that's been building for weeks." Serena looked between them. "The question is, what do you both want to do about it?"

M'raaj-Dar was the first to speak, his voice thoughtful. "This one... may have been too quick to assume hostility in Gogron's words. The Orc's skills are more diverse than this one has given credit for."

"And I..." Gogron ran a massive hand through his hair, looking embarrassed. "I shouldn't have called you 'cat.' Or 'furball.' That was... disrespectful. You've earned better than that."

"Perhaps," M'raaj-Dar said slowly, "we might discuss our respective strengths and interests. Find ways to... complement each other's work rather than compete for it."

"I'd like that," Gogron admitted. "I've actually been wanting to ask you about some of your stealth techniques. Mine are... adequate, but yours are impressive."

"And this one has observed Gogron's ability to blend into crowds despite his size. It is a skill worth learning."

Serena stepped back as the two began talking, their earlier hostility replaced by something that looked like the beginning of mutual respect. Around the room, the other Brotherhood members were relaxing, weapons moving away from easy reach.

"Well done," Vicente said quietly, appearing at her elbow. "I was certain one of them was about to end up bleeding on my clean floor."

"Most conflicts aren't really about what they appear to be on the surface," Serena replied, watching as Gogron and M'raaj-Dar continued their conversation. "People just need to feel heard and understood."

"Where did you learn to do that?" Teinaava asked, his soft voice carrying genuine curiosity.

"Managing a noble household," she said with a slight smile. "You'd be amazed how similar the dynamics are. Proud people with specialized skills, competing for limited resources and recognition. The only real difference is the weapons."

"This one is impressed," M'raaj-Dar said, approaching her as his conversation with Gogron concluded. "The sister shows wisdom beyond her years."

"Thank you," Serena replied, noting the formal but respectful way he addressed her. "I'm glad I could help."

"This one would... value the sister's counsel in future matters, should the need arise," M'raaj-Dar continued, and there was something in his tone that suggested this was a significant offer. "Your words carry weight. The sister understands the hearts of people."

It was Ocheeva who explained later, as they helped prepare the evening meal. "M'raaj-Dar doesn't offer respect lightly. In Khajiit culture, acknowledging someone's wisdom publicly is... significant. He's just declared that he considers you an elder worth listening to."

"An elder?" Serena asked, surprised. "But I'm twenty-eight, I'm the same age, if not younger than most of you."

"Age has nothing to do with it," Vicente said, overhearing. "It's about wisdom, judgment, the ability to see clearly. What you did today, defusing that situation without violence, getting them to understand each other instead of just backing down, that's not a common skill."

From across the room, Serena felt eyes on her and looked up to find Lucien standing in the doorway. He'd witnessed at least part of the confrontation resolution, and there was something in his expression that she couldn't quite read. Not quite a surprise, but something close to it. As if he were seeing her in a new light.

Their eyes met for a moment, and she felt that familiar flutter of...something. Fear, uncertainty, she couldn't tell anymore. But before she could decide whether to approach him or flee, he turned and disappeared back down the corridor.

"You know," Antoinetta said, appearing at her side with perfect timing, "avoiding someone becomes much harder when you keep doing impressive things in front of them."

"I wasn't trying to be impressive," Serena protested. "I didn’t want anyone to get stabbed, or worse."

"Mm-hmm," Antoinetta replied, her brow raising. "And the fact that you probably just earned more respect in ten minutes than most people earn in months? Pure coincidence, I'm sure."

Serena didn't have a good answer for that, so she focused on chopping vegetables with a bit more vigor than necessary. But she couldn't shake the memory of Lucien's expression, or the uncomfortable realization that part of her had been pleased to see that look of... what? Admiration? Pride?

Stop it, she told herself firmly. It doesn't matter what he thinks.

But even as she thought it, she knew it wasn't true. It did matter, far more than she was comfortable admitting.

Chapter Text

The masquerade ball was exactly as Lucien had promised; elegant, crowded, and perfectly anonymous. Serena adjusted her silver mask one final time before stepping through the grand entrance of the Varro estate, her confidence bolstered by the weight of the poison vial hidden in her bodice and the knowledge that her greatest threats were already dead.

The black silk dress she'd chosen was far more revealing than anything she would normally wear; the neckline plunged lower than her usual comfort zone, the fabric clinging to curves she typically preferred to hide. But everyone else at the masquerade was dressed similarly, and tonight she'd decided to embrace it. Screw propriety. Screw her usual caution. If she was going to play the part of an ambitious young merchant looking to make connections, she could look the part.

She was Lady Celeste Varian tonight, an up-and-coming merchant from Skingrad with interests in importing rare wines. The identity felt comfortable; it was incredibly close to her former life that the lies would come naturally, yet it was different enough that no one would make connections.

Three weeks of preparation. Three weeks of studying Varro's habits, his guest list, and his preferences. The old merchant had a weakness for intelligent conversation and expensive vintages. She could provide both.

The ballroom was a swirl of silk and jewels, masked faces turning toward her as she made her entrance. Good. Let them look. A woman alone at such an event would naturally draw attention, and attention meant opportunities for conversation, for introductions, for getting close to her target.

She spotted Varro almost immediately; his considerable bulk and distinctive laugh made him easy to identify even behind his elaborate gold mask. He was holding court near the refreshment table, gesturing grandly with a wine glass as he regaled a small crowd with what appeared to be a story about his latest business venture.

Perfect. Exactly where intelligence had suggested he'd be. The man was nothing if not predictable.

Serena moved through the crowd with practiced grace, accepting a glass of wine from a passing servant and positioning herself just within earshot of Varro's group. The story was something about a shipping contract gone awry. It was tedious, but it gave her time to study her target and plan her approach.

He looked older than his portraits. Softer. The kind of merchant who'd grown fat on easy profits and assumed his wealth made him untouchable. She almost pitied him.

"-and then the captain had the audacity to demand additional payment for damages!" Varro was saying, his audience chuckling appreciatively. "As if pirates were my responsibility rather than his !"

"Oh, how frustrating," Serena interjected smoothly, stepping forward with her most sympathetic smile. "Nothing worse than incompetent business partners, especially when they cost you money." Varro turned toward her, his eyes lighting up with interest as they took in her appearance. "Indeed, my lady! Someone who understands the trials of commerce. How refreshing." He executed a gallant bow that looked ridiculous given his size. "Lord Varro, at your service."

"Lady Celeste Varian," she replied, offering her hand with practiced elegance. "I couldn't help but overhear your tale of maritime woes. I've had similar experiences with shipping contracts myself."

Hook, line, and sinker. 

His eyes were already lingering on her décolletage, his attention completely captured. Men like Varro were so predictable; show them a beautiful woman who could discuss business, and they became putty in your hands.

"A woman of business? How marvelous!" Varro's voice carried that particular tone men used when they found female competence either charming or amusing. "And what industry, if I may ask?"

"Wine importing, primarily. Though I've been expanding into rare spirits recently." The lie rolled off her tongue effortlessly. "There's quite a market for exotic liqueurs, and I'm always looking for new business partnerships."

For the next hour, Serena played her role to perfection. She discussed trade routes and profit margins, laughed at Varro's increasingly poor jokes, and allowed him to refill her wine glass while barely touching her own. The poison would need to be administered precisely; too early and he might vomit it up, too late and there would be too many witnesses.

The conversation had drawn a small crowd of other merchants and their wives, all eager to discuss business with the charming young woman who seemed so knowledgeable about trade. Serena found herself enjoying the performance, slipping easily into the role of ambitious entrepreneur.

"Lady Varian," interrupted a woman in an elaborate peacock mask, "forgive me, but your voice sounds familiar. Are you perhaps related to the Blackwood family? I heard the most dreadful news about them just this week."

Serena's blood went cold, but her expression remained perfectly composed. "I'm afraid I don't know any Blackwoods personally. What happened?"

"Oh, it was absolutely shocking," the woman continued, clearly relishing having gossip to share. "The entire family was murdered in their own home! Lord and Lady Blackwood, and I believe there was a son-in-law or a nephew as well. Some sort of robbery gone wrong, though nothing of value was taken."

Another guest leaned in, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "I heard it was much worse than a simple robbery. Apparently, Lady Blackwood was found tortured. Whoever did it took their time with the old broad."

"How dreadful," Serena managed, her heart racing even as relief flooded through her. They were dead. All of them. The people who could have identified her, who could have connected her to Cassius's murder, were gone forever.

"There was some connection to that other murder, wasn't there?" asked another party guest. "The merchant who was killed by his wife? Cassius something?"

"Cassius Blackwood, yes," the peacock-masked woman confirmed. "He was their son. The wife disappeared after she killed him, Sabrina , I think her name was. It was quite the scandal, the authorities think she might have been connected to the family's deaths somehow, though no one knows where she's gone."

They're talking about me, Serena realized with a mixture of shock and dark amusement. They're discussing my disappearance like I'm some mystery to be solved, while I'm standing right here listening to every word.

"How terrible for the poor woman," she said carefully, testing the waters. "I mean, if she killed her husband, she must have been desperate. One wonders what drove her to such extremes."

"Oh, the husband was known to be... difficult," another guest chimed in with obvious disapproval. "There were whispers about his treatment of her. Still, murder is hardly the answer."

"Perhaps not," Serena replied, taking a sip of wine to hide her expression. "But sometimes people are driven to acts they never thought themselves capable of."

Varro, who had been listening to the conversation with the bored expression of a man who had no interest in gossip, suddenly perked up. "Well, enough of such morbid talk! We're here to enjoy ourselves, not discuss murders and missing wives. Lady Varian, shall we find somewhere quieter to continue our business discussion?"

Serena barely heard him, still processing the incredible fortune of what she'd just learned. The Blackwoods were dead, all of them. Her secret was safe, her past buried with the only people who could have exposed her. She felt lighter than she had in years, as if an invisible weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

"My dear Lady Varian," Varro said eventually, his voice slightly slurred from wine, "I wonder if I might show you something special? I have a private collection of vintages from across the Empire in my study. Some bottles that would fascinate someone of your expertise."

There it was. The invitation she'd been waiting for. A private room, away from witnesses, the perfect opportunity…but something in his tone, the way his hand lingered on her elbow, made her stomach clench with sudden panic. 

The study. Alone. 

Away from the crowd, where no one could hear if she screamed.

Just like Cassius used to do. 'Come to my study, my dear. I have something to show you.' And then the door would close and–  "How thoughtful of you," she managed, her voice steady despite the racing of her heart. "Though perhaps we should wait? I'd hate to miss the dancing."

"Nonsense!" Varro's grip on her arm tightened slightly. "The evening is young, and I promise you've never seen bottles like these. Just a quick look, and then we can return to the festivities."

No. No, she wouldn't be led away from safety again. Wouldn't be trapped alone with a man who thought her compliance was guaranteed.

The panic was rising in her chest, but underneath it, something else was starting to rise–something sharp and deadly and absolutely certain.

She remembered he was going to die.

"Actually," Serena said, allowing him to guide her toward the edge of the ballroom, "I'd be delighted to see your collection."

They moved through the crowd toward a quieter corridor, Varro chattering about his rare acquisitions while Serena's mind shifted into the cold, precise focus she'd learned in the Brotherhood. The study would be perfect; it was private, contained, with a balcony that would provide an excellent exit route after the deed was done.

The study was exactly as she'd expected; ostentatious, overstuffed with expensive furniture and lined with wine racks that probably cost more than most people's homes. Varro immediately moved to pour them both generous glasses from a bottle that looked older than she was.

"Now this," he said, turning back toward her with a predatory smile that made her skin crawl, "is a vintage from the late Emperor's private reserves. Worth more than most noble estates."

"Fascinating," Serena replied, accepting the glass while positioning herself closer to the open balcony doors. The night air was cool against her back, providing both fresh air and an escape route.

"You know," Varro said, his voice dropping to what he probably thought was a seductive whisper, "I find intelligent women incredibly... attractive. Your late husband was a lucky man."

His hand reached out to touch her face, and Serena felt the familiar surge of panic-turned-rage that had served her so well with Cassius.

Not again. Never again.

She stepped backward, as if overwhelmed by his attention, her movement bringing her right to the edge of the balcony railing. "Lord Varro, you flatter me..."

"Cornellius, please," he said, following her movement and trapping her against the stone railing. "And there's no need to be shy, my dear. We're both adults, both lonely..."

His hands came up to frame her face, his considerable bulk blocking her view of the study, and for a moment Serena was back in her marriage, trapped and helpless and–

The push was instinctive, born from years of trained reflexes and absolute fury. Her hands shot out, striking him squarely in the chest with all the force she could muster.

Varro, already off-balance from leaning over her and heavy with wine, stumbled backward. His hands flailed wildly, seeking purchase that wasn't there. His mouth opened in surprise, perhaps to call out, but the only sound that emerged was a strangled gasp as he pitched over the railing.

The impact three stories below came with a wet humpl.

For a moment, Serena stood frozen at the balcony's edge, her heart hammering in her chest. Then a strange calm settled over her, cold and precise and utterly satisfying.

He was dead. The fat bastard who'd thought he could corner her, who'd assumed her compliance, who'd tried to take what he wanted without asking; he was dead, and she had killed him.

Not with poison, as she'd planned. Not with careful strategy and measured doses. With her bare hands and righteous fury and the kind of violence that came from the deepest part of her soul.

It felt magnificent.

This was what she'd become. Not a victim to be cornered and used, but a predator who could strike back. Who would strike back? The weak, frightened wife she'd once been would have submitted, would have endured, would have found some way to blame herself.

That woman had died the same night Cassius did. Then, with the practiced efficiency of a trained actress, she threw back her head and screamed.

" HELP! OH GODS, HELP! HE'S FALLEN! "

The study door burst open within seconds, and other party guests rushed in to find her collapsed against the balcony railing, sobbing hysterically into her hands.

"He was showing me his wine collection," she gasped between manufactured tears. "We stepped out for air, and he must have had too much to drink. He leaned too far over the railing, and I couldn't catch him. I tried to catch him, but–"

Strong hands guided her away from the balcony, kind voices murmuring comfort and reassurance. Someone pressed a glass of brandy into her trembling fingers. The performance was flawless; grief-stricken witness, traumatized by the tragic accident she'd been powerless to prevent.

Strong hands guided her away from the balcony, kind voices murmuring comfort and reassurance. Someone pressed a glass of brandy into her trembling fingers. The performance was flawless; she was a grief-stricken witness, traumatized by the tragic accident she'd been powerless to prevent.

"There, there, my dear," soothed an elderly woman, patting Serena's shoulder. "It's not your fault. These things happen."

"Such a terrible accident," another guest murmured. "Poor Lord Varro. And poor you, witnessing such a thing! How dreadful for you."

"I should have been quicker," Serena whispered, allowing her voice to break convincingly. "If I had just reached out faster..."

"Nonsense," a man's voice interrupted firmly. "There was nothing you could have done. The fault lies with too much wine and poor judgment, nothing more."

The crowd around her murmured agreement, their sympathy genuine and complete. Someone mentioned sending for a physician to examine her for shock. Another guest offered his carriage to take her home. The performance had worked perfectly–she was the victim here, the poor young woman who'd witnessed tragedy and would carry the guilt of being unable to prevent it.

"Thank you all for your kindness," Serena managed, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief someone had pressed into her hand. "I think... I think I should return home. I don't feel quite myself."

"Of course, my dear. Perfectly understandable." "We'll have someone escort you safely." "Such a shock for a delicate constitution."

As arrangements were made for her departure, Serena continued her act of traumatized innocence. She accepted their comfort, their assurances that she bore no blame, their promises that the authorities would handle everything properly.

Her first contract back had been completed successfully; the target had been eliminated with no witnesses, no evidence, and most importantly, no complications.

Chapter Text

The carriage ride back toward the city had been blissfully quiet, giving Serena time to decompress from her performance and plan her return to the sanctuary. The elderly merchant who'd offered transportation respected her apparent distress, limiting conversation to murmured condolences about the "terrible accident" she'd witnessed.

She'd asked to be dropped at an inn several miles from Cheydinhal – she needed to rest before the last leg home. In truth, she needed to change out of the low-cut dress that clung with dried sweat and reeked of wine, and to scrub away the memory of Varro's lingering eyes.

The small mom-and-pop inn close to Lake Poppad was perfect; a small, lesser-known spot where nobody asked too many questions. She rented a room, changed into a more practical dress that wouldn't raise suspicion, and settled at the washbasin. She'd already scrubbed away the sweat and wine stains from the evening. Now she worked a few drops of lavender oil between her palms before smoothing it over her wrists, a ritual that helped her unwind after rough contracts.

She was reaching for the small vial of rosehip oil for her hair when she glanced up at the mirror, the vial slipping from her fingers and clattering against the washbasin. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she spun to face the unknown, one hand instinctively moving toward the knife at her hip before she caught herself.

Lucien Lachance stood behind her.

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, hood pushed back. His pale eyes met hers in the reflection as though he'd been watching her routine for minutes. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she spun to face him, one hand instinctively moving toward the knife at her hip before she caught herself.

"Pardon the intrusion, I know rosehip oil is difficult to replace."

“Sithis–how long have you been–" She caught herself mid-curse, swallowing hard as she forced herself back to formality. "Speaker..

"Long enough to confirm you completed the contract." He pushed off the doorframe with that fluid grace that always made her think of predators. 

She forced her breathing to steady. "You were watching."

"I always watch." The simple statement carried weight that she wasn't yet ready to examine. "Though I must admit, the balcony was much more fitting than the poison you'd originally planned."

Heat crept up her neck. Of course, he'd known her original approach. "He got handsy. I improvised."

"Mm." Something flickered in his expression–approval, perhaps. "And how did that make you feel, watching him fall?"

The question caught her off guard. Not whether she'd enjoyed it, not whether it had been efficient, but how it had made her feel . "Satisfied," she said honestly.

"Good." Lucien moved closer, hands clasped behind his back in that familiar gesture. "A woman who takes no satisfaction in sending souls to Sithis lacks proper perspective."

She held his gaze, trying to read the intent behind those pale eyes. "Is that why you're here? To critique my technique?"

"I'm here because you've been avoiding me for three weeks." He said matter-of-factly. "Since Leyawiin, you've completed every assignment through intermediaries, you’ve filed all reports with other Speakers, yet you’ve made yourself remarkably scarce whenever I'm present."

Serena's jaw tightened; she hadn't realized he'd been tracking her movements so closely. "I've been working."

"You've been hiding." He tilted his head slightly, studying her with that unnerving intensity. "The question is why . Did our conversation in that inn room disturb you so greatly?"

"No." The denial came too quickly.

"Then what?" He sounded genuinely puzzled, as though her avoidance was a problem he couldn't solve through normal logic. "We had what I believed to be a productive discussion. You shared information about your past, and I provided context for your return to the Brotherhood. All very straightforward."

She stared at him. Was he serious? "Straightforward."

"Yes. I fail to see what about that interaction would prompt you to avoid all further contact." He paused, frowning slightly. "Unless you regret the... personal nature of what you revealed. Though I assure you, I have no intention of using such information against you."

There was something almost endearingly obtuse about his confusion. As if he genuinely couldn't understand why revealing such information about her past in a dingy inn room might make subsequent interactions feel complicated.

"It's not about regret," she said carefully.

"Then what?" He took another step closer, not in a predatory way, but like someone trying to solve a particularly vexing puzzle. "I found our conversation illuminating. You're far more complex than I initially assessed; your background, your motivations, your methods of survival. It's... interesting."

The way he said 'interesting' made it sound like a professional evaluation rather than personal intrigue. Which, knowing Lucien, it probably was.

"I simply don't understand why that would make you uncomfortable with my presence," he continued. "If anything, I would think shared understanding would make our working relationship more efficient."

She looked away, focusing on the broken glass at her feet. "Maybe that's the problem."

"Elaborate."

His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up until she had no choice but to meet his gaze. "I didn't know what you expected afterward. What do you want from me?"

"I want to have conversations with you that don't involve contracts or corpses," he said, as if this should have been obvious. "Is that so unreasonable?"

The blunt honesty of it caught her off guard. "Conversations."

"Yes. About books, perhaps. Or your opinions on current politics. Your thoughts on the philosophical implications of our work." He released her chin, gesturing vaguely. "Normal discourse between... colleagues."

"Colleagues," she repeated.

"Well, yes. What else would we be?" He looked genuinely perplexed by her tone. "You're an intelligent woman, Serena. Surely you have interests beyond assassination. I find myself curious about them."

There was something so matter-of-fact about the way he said it, so completely devoid of any romantic undertone, that she almost laughed. Here she'd been agonizing over the implications of their relationship, and he simply wanted to... chat.

"You want to discuss books," she said slowly.

"Among other things. Your skincare routine, for instance, I've never seen someone maintain such meticulous self-care while living the life we do. It suggests an interesting relationship with mortality and self-worth."

"You've been tracking my movements for three weeks because you want to discuss my skincare routine."

"Among other topics, yes." He frowned. "Though I wouldn't phrase it as 'tracking.' I simply...noticed your absence. It was conspicuous."

"Conspicuous."

"You're my Silencer, Serena. Your sudden aversion to my presence was bound to be noticeable." He paused. "Was I wrong to find it concerning?"

The genuine uncertainty in his voice made something twist in her chest. For all his theatrical menace and political maneuvering, there was something almost vulnerable about his confusion over basic human interaction.

"No," she said quietly. "You weren't wrong."

"Then you'll stop avoiding me?" The relief in his voice was subtle but unmistakable. "I have several books I think you'd find interesting. And I've been meaning to ask your opinion on the situation in Morrowind; your perspective on provincial politics has always been more nuanced than most."

She studied his face, looking for signs of deception or a hidden agenda, yet she found only patient expectation, like a scholar hoping to discuss his research with a colleague.

"You really just want to talk."

"I really just want to talk." He straightened, smoothing down his robes in that habitual gesture. "Though I should mention, I prefer these conversations to take place in private. Not because of any impropriety, but because I find group discussions tedious. Too many competing voices, not enough depth."

Of course he did. Lucien Lachance, who could reduce a Sanctuary to silence with dramatic flair when needed, yet he preferred intimate intellectual discourse. It was somehow perfectly in character.

"All right," she said. "I can... do that. Talk, I mean, about things other than work."

"Excellent." His smile was genuinely pleased, not his usual theatrical expression, but something more natural. "I have a collection of both philosophical and historical Dwemer texts you might find fascinating. The philosophical implications of their disappearance raise interesting questions about the nature of existence itself."

"You want to discuss philosophy and Dwemer history. And how do you know I know the slightest bit about the Dwemer?"

 "I don’t," he said, the corner of his mouth tilting just enough to suggest a challenge. "But you seem the type to keep useful knowledge close. I’d like to see what you choose to share."

He moved toward the door, then paused. "Should I expect you at the sanctuary tomorrow? For conversation, not just reporting."
"Yes." The word came more easily than she'd expected. "Tomorrow."
"Good." He reached for the handle, then hesitated again. "One more thing, Serena."
"Yes?"

"Thank you. For the honesty here, in Leyawiin... and for this. It's been some time since I've had someone to converse with properly."

Lucien left, the door clicking shut behind him. The admission, more vulnerable than anything he’d offered in their entire exchange, lingered in the quiet. So did the faint trace of expensive cologne.

And with it came the realization that Lucien Lachance might be the most socially awkward man she had ever met; and, inconveniently, one of the most intriguing.

Lucien stood motionless for a moment, listening to the muffled sounds of Serena moving about the room. The conversation had gone better than expected, though he wasn't entirely certain why she'd seemed so surprised by his intentions. Perhaps he'd been too indirect in his previous interactions, too focused on maintaining the proper hierarchical distance between Speaker and Silencer.

He began walking toward the inn's main entrance, his footsteps silent on the worn wooden floors. The evening had been… illuminating. Not just her successful completion of the Varro contract, though watching her adapt when the target became inappropriate had been satisfying in its own right, but her reaction to his presence, her avoidance, her obvious discomfort with what she perceived as complications in their working relationship.

It hadn't occurred to him that she might have misinterpreted his interest.

The night air was cool against his face as he stepped outside, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the inn. He'd been genuine in his desire for intellectual discourse; it had been years since he'd had access to a mind like hers, someone who could discuss philosophy and politics with equal facility, who understood the moral complexities of their work without drowning in either guilt or bloodlust.

Most Brotherhood members fell into predictable categories: the fanatics who worshipped Sithis with blind devotion, the mercenaries who cared only for coin and comfort, the broken ones who'd found purpose in organized death. Serena fit none of these molds. Her motivations were more complex, her perspective more nuanced, and she was, quite simply, interesting.

And she'd been avoiding him for three weeks because she'd shared deeply personal information about her past vulnerabilities she’d likely never intended to expose. Of course, she would feel uncomfortable afterward; most people did when they'd shown that much of themselves to a superior. It was a perfectly rational response to an emotionally charged situation.

The fact that he'd found her honesty refreshing rather than compromising was not something she'd anticipated; perhaps he should have made that clearer at the time, instead of assuming she'd understand his perspective.

Or perhaps the cologne had been too much. It was entirely possible she’d taken it as an affectation, or worse, an advance. The idea was mildly discomfiting; he hated being misread, especially when his intentions were professional.

He mounted his horse with practiced ease, settling into the saddle as he considered the logistics of tomorrow’s conversation. The Dwemer texts would be a good starting point; he thought of one in particular, Tonal Architecture and the Nature of Reality , which had always intrigued him. The Dwemer believed the right resonance could alter a structure entirely. It was, in his mind, an elegant metaphor for influence and choice. And perhaps Serena would appreciate the parallel.

He mounted his horse with practiced ease, settling into the saddle as he considered the logistics of tomorrow's conversation. The Dwemer texts would be a good starting point; philosophical enough to be engaging, obscure enough to require genuine thought. And perhaps he could inquire about her reading preferences, her thoughts on the current political situation in the provinces, her methods for maintaining such remarkable composure under pressure.

The black horse's hooves made soft sounds against the dirt road as they headed back toward his home. Behind him, the inn grew smaller in the darkness, but Lucien found himself oddly reluctant to put distance between himself and that unremarkable building where Serena was probably still trying to make sense of their conversation.

He'd been honest about one thing; it had been some time since he'd had someone to discuss ideas with properly. The others were competent enough, but their interests rarely extended beyond Brotherhood politics and operational efficiency. Useful, certainly, but hardly stimulating.

But Serena was different; she was worth the effort of patience, worth the careful cultivation of trust and understanding. And if she occasionally looked at him with something more than professional respect in her eyes was something he had no intention of acknowledging anytime soon.

Chapter Text

Two weeks before the Varro contract

The estate was exactly as Lucien had expected: gaudy, gold-trimmed, and poorly guarded, quite typical of old-money families who believed their status alone would protect them. He moved through the servant's entrance with the ease of someone who had done this hundreds of times before, his steps silent on the marble floors.

Simple reconnaissance had revealed the family's patterns. The servants retired early, the guards were lazy, and the family itself kept predictable schedules. Chadwick would be in his study, Cordelia in the drawing room with her evening tea, and some pathetic third son would be drunk in the library by now. The housemaid would be making her final rounds.

All of it routine, all of it professional. Eliminate potential witnesses to Serena's past, remove threats to her cover, ensure her safety. Clean, justified, necessary.

That's what he told himself as he slipped through the shadows.

The housemaid was first; a simple matter of a blade between the ribs as she turned down the corridor. Quick, clean, professional. She crumpled without a sound, and Lucien felt nothing beyond mild satisfaction at the efficiency of it. One less witness, one less complication.

The girl couldn't have been more than twenty. Probably sent money home to her family in some village outside the city. But she'd served in this house, had likely seen what happened, had probably gossiped about the family's business.

The blade had slid between her ribs with perfect precision, angled upward to pierce the heart, positioned to avoid bone. A masterwork of economy and effectiveness. Lucien appreciated the clean lines of it, the way her body folded gracefully to the floor. Beautiful in its simplicity.

He felt nothing as he arranged her body. This was work. This was duty. But it was also art.

The cousin was in the library, some third-generation wastrel more interested in his wine than the ledgers spread before him. Another quick kill, another body to arrange. Lucien worked methodically, positioning the scene to suggest a burglary gone wrong. The Brotherhood had trained him well in such matters.

Pathetic creature, really. Born into wealth and privilege, never worked a day in his life, never earned anything. The type of man who would have looked down on Serena for her merchant background while living off family money himself. No loss to the world.

This kill had been less elegant; the angle awkward, the man's position forcing Lucien to work around the chair. But he'd adapted, found the beauty in improvisation. The way the blood had arced across the expensive books felt almost poetic with his wealth and learning stained by the reality of mortality.

Still professional satisfaction, but with an artist's eye for composition. The scene told a story, and Lucien was its author.

It wasn't until he heard Cordelia Blackwood's voice echoing from the drawing room that everything changed.

"-And I’m absolutely convinced that little slut killed poor Cassius," the older woman was saying, her voice carrying the particular cruelty that only came from years of unquestioned authority. "The little whore finally snapped, I suppose. Though I can hardly blame her entirely, Cassius could be quite forceful when he'd been drinking."

Lucien froze in the doorway, his hand still on his blade.

Poor Cassius? The man who had abused his wife so badly she'd been driven to murder? The casual dismissal in Cordelia's voice, the way she called Serena a whore; white-hot rage began building in his chest.

"Forceful?" The other voice belonged to her husband, Chadwick. "That's a generous way to put it. I told you we should have intervened when the servants started whispering about the bruises."

So they had known. They had known their son was harming Serena and had done nothing. Worse than nothing, they were complicit.

"And create a scandal? Please. Besides, she seemed to enjoy the attention. Always so grateful for his affections, so eager to please." Cordelia's laugh was like broken glass. "Until she wasn't, apparently. Stabbed him sixty-something times, can you imagine? Such violence from such a delicate little thing."

Enjoyed the attention. Eager to please.

The rage that swept through Lucien was unlike anything he'd felt in years; not the cold fury of professional displeasure, but something burning and personal. The image of Serena, careful, composed Serena, being grateful for abuse because it was the only affection she knew how to recognize.

Sixty-two times. Good for her.

The thought came unbidden, and with it a warmth that had nothing to do with rage. She had been spectacular in her violence, hadn't she? Driven to the breaking point and responding with such exquisite brutality. Over sixty precise strikes; not random, not panicked, but methodical. Artistic, even.

The blade in Lucien's hand began to tremble with barely restrained rage, and something else entirely.

"Where do you think she's run off to?" Marcus asked.

"Does it matter? She'll surface eventually. Probably in some brothel where she belongs. Though I must admit, I almost admire her for it. Took more spine than I thought she possessed."

A brothel. They thought Serena, brilliant, skilled, deadly Serena, belonged in a brothel. As if violence were the only courage she was capable of, as if killing her abuser was the extent of her potential.

These people had no idea what she'd become. What she was capable of. The graceful way she moved through combat training, the sharp intelligence behind those careful eyes, the way she could discuss poison classifications with the same ease as noble etiquette. How her fingers looked wrapped around a blade hilt, confident and sure.

The most magnificent creature he'd ever encountered, and they thought she belonged in a whorehouse.

How wrong they were about everything. How blind to what she truly was.

Lucien stepped into the room then, and both Blackwoods turned toward him with the blank confusion of people who had never truly feared for their lives.

"Who–" Marcus began, but Lucien's blade had nearly decapitated him before he could finish the question.

One quick cut. Professional. Efficient. But as Marcus gurgled and died, Lucien felt a satisfaction that went beyond professional pride. This man had known his son was a monster and had chosen comfort over justice.

Cordelia's scream died as Lucien's hand closed around her throat. But he didn't squeeze, not yet. Not when there was so much more to discuss.

She was the one. The one who had called Serena a whore, who had implied she enjoyed being beaten. Who had stood by and watched her son destroy something precious and irreplaceable.

Something that belonged to him now, in every way that mattered.

"Tell me more about Serena," he said conversationally, dragging her toward the chair her husband had just vacated. "About these bruises, and about how grateful she was."

"I don't–I don't understand–"You understand perfectly well what I’m asking." Lucien secured her to the chair with practiced efficiency, ignoring her struggles. "Your son was abusing his wife, and you knew about it. You did nothing. And now you mock her for finally defending herself."

This wasn't Brotherhood business anymore. The realization should have concerned him. It should have made him pause, reconsider, and return to professional protocol. Instead, it felt like liberation.

Serena deserved justice. She deserved someone who would make these people pay for every bruise, every cruel word, every moment they had made her feel small and worthless. Someone who understood her true worth, who appreciated what she was capable of.

Someone who could see her for the deadly, brilliant, breathtaking woman she'd become.

The thought sent heat through his veins. When had watching her train become the highlight of his day? When had he started memorizing the sound of her voice, the way she moved, the rare moments when she smiled without guarding it?

If the Brotherhood wouldn't provide that justice, he would. If no one else would see her properly, he would.

He started with small cuts, nothing fatal, nothing that would end this too quickly. Each whimper, each plea for mercy, felt like justice for every bruise Serena had endured. Every mark Cassius had left on her skin.

Cordelia's blood looked so much brighter than her husband's. Maybe because it meant more. Maybe because every drop was personal.

But there was more to it than that. This wasn't just about justice anymore; it was about craft. The precise pressure needed to part the skin without damaging the muscle beneath. The exact angle to create maximum pain while avoiding shock. The delicate balance between consciousness and agony.

Lucien found himself admiring his own technique; each cut was a brushstroke, each cry a note in a symphony of retribution. This was murder elevated to its highest form, not just death, but transcendence through suffering.

He found himself thinking of Serena's careful composure, the way she never quite relaxed even in safety. The haunted look that sometimes crossed her face when she thought no one was watching. All those tiny signs of damage that this woman had helped create.

But also the way she handled her weapons with such fluid precision, the sharp wit that could cut as cleanly as any blade, the unconscious elegance in her movements even when she thought herself unobserved. The way she looked when she was focused on her work, she was beautiful and dangerous and utterly captivating.

Every detail was worth protecting, worth avenging.

And now this bitch was paying for every moment she'd made that extraordinary woman suffer.

"Please," Cordelia gasped, tears streaming down her face. "I'll give you anything–"

"You already gave me everything I wanted," Lucien replied, making another careful incision along her arm. "You told me exactly what kind of people you are, what kind of family Serena escaped from."

The cut was precise, calculated to cause maximum pain while avoiding major arteries. He'd learned anatomy for efficiency, but it served other purposes as well.

"She seemed to enjoy the attention," he repeated Cordelia's words back to her as he worked. "Tell me, are you enjoying this attention?"

The woman's sobs were music. Justice sounded like weeping.

The hours passed in a haze of methodical cruelty. Lucien found himself savoring each moment, each cry of pain. This woman had watched her son destroy something precious and called it marriage. Had probably encouraged it.

He lost track of time. Lost track of everything except the perfect balance of pain and consciousness he was maintaining. Every technique he'd learned for interrogation, every method for keeping someone alive and aware while their body screamed for mercy.

But it was more than technique now. It was artistry. The way her breathing changed with each new wound, the spectrum of sounds she made as he explored different pressures and depths. The beautiful choreography of suffering.

This was what separated true masters from mere killers: the ability to make death into something transcendent. To create meaning through methodology, beauty through brutality.

All of it in service of something that felt more righteous than any Brotherhood contract he'd ever completed.

He thought of Serena's smile, the real one, not the careful performance she wore like armor. How rare it was, how much more beautiful it would be if she could truly feel safe. 

If only everyone who had ever hurt her paid for their crimes in exactly this exquisite fashion.

This was what protection really meant. Not just eliminating current threats, but settling old debts. Making the world a place where Serena could exist without fear, without shame, without the weight of unpunished cruelties.

When Cordelia finally died, it was almost anticlimactic. Lucien sat back in the blood-soaked chair, breathing heavily, feeling more satisfied than he had in months.

Perfect. She had died exactly as she deserved- painfully, agonizingly slow, and completely at the mercy of someone who saw her true nature. Just as she had left Serena to die a little more each day under her son's fists.

Justice was beautiful. Justice was– And then, like a cold slap of reality, the full weight of what he'd done hit him.

"Fuck."

The professional part of his mind catalogued the evidence: extensive torture, obvious personal investment, methods that went far beyond mission parameters. This wasn't an elimination. This was vengeance.

This was obsession.

He stared at the carnage around him, at what should have been a simple elimination contract turned into a personal torture session, at the evidence of just how far his feelings for Serena had pushed him beyond professional necessity.

When had she become more important than the Brotherhood? When had her pain become more real to him than duty, than protocol, than his own professional identity?

When had he started thinking of her as his to protect?

He'd crossed a line tonight. Maybe several lines.

The Brotherhood trained killers, not torturers. They eliminated targets efficiently, without emotional investment. What he'd done here was neither efficient nor emotionally detached.

It was the work of someone who had lost all perspective. Someone dangerous.

But as he began the familiar work of cleaning up the scene, arranging the bodies, covering his tracks, Lucien found he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Not when it meant Serena was safer. Not when justice had finally been served.

She would never know what he'd done for her. Would never know how thoroughly her enemies had paid for their crimes. That was fine. Better, even. She could live with the simple relief of their deaths without the weight of knowing how they had died.

There were no limits. Not when it came to her.

His obsession.

The only question now was how far he was willing to go the next time someone threatened what was his to protect.

And deep down, in a place he wasn't quite ready to examine, Lucien already knew the answer.

Chapter Text

Lucien adjusted the angle of the inkwell for the fifth time in as many minutes, then stepped back to survey his desk with a critical eye. The surface was immaculate; papers in precise stacks, quills aligned like soldiers, not a speck of dust anywhere, just as it should be.

He crossed to the bookshelf and ran his fingers along the spines until he found the book he'd mentioned. Tonal Architecture and the Nature of Reality. It was complex enough for meaningful discussion, and obscure enough to avoid superficial commentary. He pulled it down, hesitated, then frowned. 

Maybe something more accessible?

No. Serena was sharp. He’d seen her adapt on the fly, plan three moves, and outthink targets with ease. She could handle obscure philosophy…right?

He placed the book on the desk, then moved it three inches to the left. Too central, and it might seem presumptuous, as if he expected her to engage. Too far to the side, and it might seem like an afterthought.

This is ridiculous.

Lucien stepped away from the desk entirely. He was treating this like a social engagement when it was simply...professional. Serena was his Silencer; this was a conversation about shared intellectual interests, nothing more.

The knock came precisely on time. 

Of course it did, Serena was never late.

“Enter.”

She stepped into the office with her usual quiet grace, pausing just inside. Her eyes moved from the pristine desk to the organized shelves, then to him. Something flickered behind her gaze, amusement, perhaps.

“Speaker,” she said with a small nod.

“Serena.” He gestured toward the chair opposite his. “Please, sit. I trust you slept well?”

“Well enough.” She took the seat, her movements efficient and controlled. “Though I admit, I’m curious about these philosophical texts.”

Genuine interest. That sent a flicker of warmth through his chest. Most in the Brotherhood tolerated his studies like an oddity, yet Serena seemed genuinely engaged.

“Ah, yes.” He moved to the desk, fingers brushing the book’s spine. “I thought we might start with Tonal Architecture and the Nature of Reality. It explores Dwemer reconstruction theory, but the philosophical implications run deeper.”

Lucien opened the book, thumbing to a page he’d bookmarked, however long ago, in an attempt to hide his nerves. “The premise is that reality can be manipulated through harmonic frequencies. It’s not magic, exactly, but something more foundational. A method of working with the structure of existence itself.”

Serena blinked, interested but clearly out of her depth. “My understanding of the Dwemer is…extremely limited.”

“As is most people's.” He set the book down gently. Perhaps he’d jumped ahead too quickly. “Context might help. I didn’t study them for practical application; it began with questions.”

She leaned back slightly, more at ease as she listened to him speak. “I started reading Dwemer texts not long after joining the Brotherhood,” Lucien said, surprising even himself with the admission. “Our work, death, endings, it forces one to ask questions. What happens when a life ends? Is it destruction, or simply transformation?” He said, taking a sip of the cheap wine that had been in the common area.

Sweet Sithis, this tastes like stale piss and sadness.

“A heavy line of inquiry for a new assassin.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ve always asked too many questions.”

“That doesn’t seem encouraged here.”

“It isn’t,” he admitted. “But curiosity is difficult to kill, even in a place like this.”

Serena tilted her head, watching him. “And what did you decide? About death.”

He hesitated, then said, “That intention matters. But so does accountability. The Dwemer may have escaped mortality, but they abandoned responsibility. We remain. We witness what we do.”

There was a beat of quiet. “That’s a very...human way of looking at it,” she said finally.

He glanced at her, his tone even. “Disappointed?”

“No,” she said. Her mouth curved faintly. “Just surprised. I didn’t think you saw anyone as human anymore.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Some of us still are,” and it wasn’t clear whether he meant her or himself.

She studied him for a moment. “That’s why you read their texts, to understand what happens when you remove accountability from power.”

“In part,” he admitted. “But also because they disappeared without a trace. Did they ascend, or cease to exist entirely? And if they ceased, was that just absence, or something else?”

“You’re really asking if death has purpose.”

He nodded once. “Yes.”

Then, after a moment, Serena said, “That’s not impractical. It’s how you stay sane doing what we do.”

His brow lifted slightly. “You don’t think it’s a rationalization?”

“I think it’s someone trying to find meaning in hard choices,” she said, clearing her throat. “You said this wasn’t magic, exactly?”

“No,” Lucien said, settling a hand lightly atop the open pages. “At least, not in the way we typically define it. The Dwemer didn’t rely on the arcane in the same way as mages; they used tonal architecture, manipulating reality through resonance, frequency, and pattern. It was closer to mathematics than mysticism.”

She tilted her head, curious. “So this does what, predicts behavior?”

“In a sense. It observes patterns, seeks consistency. They believed that everything from people to decisions, even time, could be charted if you listened closely enough.” His voice dropped slightly, more thoughtful than instructive now.

Serena glanced down at the scrawled annotations in the margins. “And do you think they were right?”

Lucien considered the question more seriously than she expected. “I think…sometimes, when I step back far enough, patterns do emerge,” he said. “Some deaths feel inevitable, while others aren’t.”

He didn’t look at her when he said it.

Serena let the words settle between them, her fingers still brushing the edge of the desk. “You’re not wrong,” she said quietly. “But even necessary things leave a mess.”

Lucien’s gaze flicked to hers again, something in his expression unreadable as he closed the book slowly. “I suppose that’s where meaning comes in.”

“Murder as an art form,” he began slowly, “is not merely about the act itself. It’s precision, control, the choreography of moments that must be perfect. A composition where every detail matters.”

Serena gave a small, dry laugh. “Choreography, huh? I suppose I’ve never thought about it like that. For me…it wasn’t a choice, exactly. More like necessity.” She looked down at her hands, fingers curled loosely against her knees. “I didn’t set out to become this, you know that.”

“I do.”

“I was just trying to survive. And then I got good at it, scarily good.” She gave a half-laugh. “You stop seeing people as untouchable after you kill the one person who was supposed to be safe.”

Lucien’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in the stillness of his gaze that was deeper than understanding. “That kind of clarity never comes without a cost.”

She looked at him. “And you? You talk about meaning, about intention, but what brought you to this life?”

He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Precision, control. Art.”

That surprised her. She tilted her head. “Art?”

“A blade in the right hands is more than a weapon; it’s a message, an expression, a disruption. I never saw it as bloodlust, I saw it as…refinement.”

Serena searched his face, unsure if she was meant to laugh, challenge, or admire him for saying it. “You really think it’s art?”

“In the right hands.” “You think mine are the right ones?”

He didn’t look away. “I think you see the world more clearly than most, and you don’t flinch from what it shows you.”

Something in her posture shifted slightly. “Neither do you,” she said, fingers tracing the armrest. “I suppose I should tell you more about why I ran from the Varro job.”

Lucien simply listened, hands clasped lightly in his lap, fingers twitching once before stilling. His gaze flicked to her hand for a brief moment, then back to her face, as if afraid to linger too long.

“He drank,” she said. “A lot. And when he drank, he got…very creative.” Her voice didn’t waver, but it dropped low and dry. “With words, with hands, hell, with anything he could reach, really.”

He shifted slightly, a subtle lean forward, careful not to intrude, tracking the way her shoulders tensed and relaxed.

“I had no dowry. No family left, no place to go that wouldn’t have sent me right back to him.” She laughed softly, without humor. “And it wasn’t proper for a wife to leave. That was always the line; it wasn’t proper, although murder isn’t proper either.”

Lucien’s eyes followed hers as she looked down, brushing a strand of hair back. He noticed the slight pause before she spoke again, the way her fingers flexed against the armrest.

“When I killed him, it wasn’t out of rage; it was clarity. The kind you talked about. I looked at him and knew he’d never stop, and no one would stop him. So I did.”

Lucien’s voice was soft, controlled. “Sixty-two times.” He couldn’t stop the tiny tightening in his chest at the precision of her words.

“With a dull bread knife,” she added, dry. “The only thing I had that he hadn’t already broken.”

A long pause. He let his eyes drift to her face for a beat longer than necessary before glancing down at his clasped hands. “It was your finest work,” he said carefully.

She tried to stifle a laugh, not because it was funny, but because relief tasted almost like betrayal.

“It was,” she admitted. “I tried to talk to his mother about it. He’d gotten creative with a curtain rod the night before and he—” Serena paused, taking a breath. “She simply laughed me off, said he would never do something like that to me, and that I should be grateful. Sometimes I wish I killed her, too.”

Lucien’s mouth faintly turned down, a subtle shift that he immediately tried to suppress. He shifted slightly, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle in the desk cloth. His gaze flicked to the side of her face again, lingering just long enough to notice the quiet tension there. “I…understand,” he said slowly, choosing each word. “I was married once. Not happily. It was also a situation of convenience; we both needed out of our respective homes. I devoted myself to the Brotherhood, to work, to questions I convinced myself were more important than anything else. She left, took our son with her. He would be nineteen now. I…sometimes wish I’d been more present, though I do not regret the choices that drew me here.”

Serena blinked, quiet, her expression softened by curiosity rather than pity. Her shoulder shifted closer to the armrest as if subconsciously bridging the small distance between them.

“Do you…think about them?” she asked after a pause.

“Yes,” he admitted, shifting slightly in his seat, the edge of the chair creaking under the subtle movement. “Sometimes. They were in Riften, last I knew. I used to keep track, but it tangled me further in absence and regret. I cannot claim to understand your choices, or the life you’ve had to carve from necessity. But I do know…how it feels to carry responsibility for a life that moves on without you, and the quiet weight that leaves behind.”

Serena stood after a few quiet minutes, smoothing the edge of her sleeve as if it gave her something to do with her hands. “Thank you,” she said finally, voice soft but steady. “For…listening. And for the time.”

Lucien rose as well, hesitant, unsure if he should offer more than the quiet nod he settled on. His fingers lingered near the desk, twitching slightly. “It was…my pleasure,” he said, words stiffer than he intended.

She glanced at the book still open on the desk. “You should read the Marobar Sul,” she added, almost casually. “Dunmer philosophy, I think you’d enjoy it.” A small smirk tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Though I got more than a little grief for reading it myself; I was supposed to be learning embroidery instead of littering my mind with intellectualism.”

Lucien allowed himself the faintest, careful smile, a tick of shared amusement that felt foreign but welcome. “Noted,” he said, voice quieter, almost to himself.

As she reached the door, she paused, one hand on the frame. Their eyes met, holding just a fraction longer than either intended. That brief connection, half acknowledgment, half curiosity, tangled in the air before she finally turned and was gone, the door closing softly behind her.

He remained standing for a long moment, gaze lingering on the empty doorway, fingers brushing the spine of the book as if he could capture some trace of her presence. The room felt smaller, quieter, and somehow heavier, threaded with words spoken and meanings only half-acknowledged.

He exhaled, careful and deliberate, cursing himself quietly for letting that fleeting connection unsettle him. Returning to the desk, he left the book slightly askew — just enough to seem intentional — though he would never admit it aloud. Almost against his better judgment, his gaze flicked back to the door, tracing the empty frame as if she might reappear, and he cursed himself again under his breath. His fingers twitched once more, brushing the edge of the book, before he finally looked away, shoulders stiff, but the quiet pull of her absence lingered in the room long after it had closed behind her.

Chapter Text

The hollow in the oak tree had been chosen for its practicality; it was hidden from casual view, protected from weather, accessible but not obvious. Lucien told himself this as he approached for the third time in four days, the Chameleon spell shimmering around him like heat waves.

Professional interest, he reasoned, settling against the trunk of a nearby pine. Ensuring operational security.

The drop had been there for two days now. Serena had collected his last assignment quickly, along with the small bundle of travel rations he'd included. 

Purely practical. She needs proper nutrition to maintain effectiveness, it’s nothing more complicated than that.

He waited.

The late afternoon shadows were lengthening when he finally saw her, a flicker of movement at the forest's edge, gone so quickly he might have imagined it. But then she was there, moving with that particular silence that made even the leaves seem to hold their breath.

Lucien pressed himself deeper into the pine's shadow, grateful for the spell's concealment even as some part of him recognized the absurdity. The Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, reduced to invisible lurking like a lovesick apprentice.

Serena approached the oak with practiced efficiency, her hand sliding into the hollow without hesitation. He watched her pause as her fingers found not just the expected correspondence, but the small wrapped bundle beside it.

She pulled out the rations: dried meat, hard cheese, and a few pieces of travel bread. It was nothing elaborate, but she held them for a moment longer than necessary, her thumb brushing over the careful wrapping. Then, so quietly he almost missed it, she laughed.

"Purely professional," she murmured to the empty clearing.

Lucien's chest tightened. Did she suspect? Her tone suggested suspicion; was it amusement, perhaps?

Serena tucked the food into her pack and withdrew a small scroll, placing it in the hollow. As she turned to leave, she paused, scanning the treeline with the kind of careful attention that made his blood run cold. She disappeared into the undergrowth as silently as she'd come, leaving Lucien with his heart hammering against his ribs. That pause, that searching look; she suspected something, but didn't know for certain.

He waited until he was certain she was gone before dropping the Chameleon spell and retrieving her message. Her handwriting was precise, including mission parameters, timeline, and any potential complications. All perfectly professional.

Until the postscript.

P.S. - The rations are appreciated. Practical considerations are always welcome in field work.

Lucien stared at the words, his pulse quickening. The fact that she'd was genuinely appreciative of him sent a dangerous warmth through his chest.

He'd spent three nights poring over the Marobar Sul after their conversation, seeing it through her eyes, imagining what she might think of various passages.

When he returned the next evening to leave her next assignment, the bundle of supplies was larger. Summerset dried fruit, as she'd suggested in passing during one of their earliest conversations. Hard bread that wouldn't spoil. A small vial of clean water, enchanted to stay pure.

All perfectly professional necessities, naturally.

The note he included was brief, focused on mission details and contingencies. But tucked beneath was a separate slip of parchment with a single book recommendation: Commentaries on the Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy by Pellarne Assi.

No signature. No explanation. Just the title, and beneath it: Chapter four discusses resonance theory in practical applications.

Three days later, her response waited in the hollow along with a completed mission report. The official business was handled with her usual efficiency, but her note carried an undercurrent of curiosity that made his hands shake slightly as he read.

The Summerset fruit was thoughtful; someone has been paying attention to field nutrition requirements.

The Pellarne Assi text is fascinating. Chapter four was exactly as advertised, though I confess I'm curious about the connection between resonance theory and...whatever this is. My mysterious academic advisor seems to have very specific interests.

I find myself wondering if they might have thoughts on Rislav the Righteous's tactical writings. The section on battlefield psychology could benefit from theoretical context.

Lucien nearly laughed; she was testing him, seeing how deep his knowledge ran, and how willing he was to engage. The reference to Rislav was pointed — she wanted to know if he understood the connection between psychological manipulation and the architectural theories they'd been discussing.

He did, he understood it so well that it terrified him.

The gratitude, coupled with her intellectual challenge, hit harder than it should have. Lucien found himself reading her request repeatedly, seeing the sharp mind behind it. She wasn't just asking for another recommendation; she was asking him to reveal how deeply he understood the theoretical frameworks behind the work they both did.

When he returned with her next assignment, he'd included a slim volume on Rislav's tactical innovations. Inside the front cover, he'd written in careful margins:

Page 127. The intersection of individual psychology and systemic manipulation. Consider alongside the Marobar Sul passages on harmonic disruption.

Her response came with unusual speed. The mission acknowledgment was standard, but her note carried something new; recognition that made his careful control feel increasingly fragile.

Page 127 was exactly what I hoped for. The connection between architectural harmony and psychological structure is illuminating. My mysterious advisor clearly understands that some foundations, once properly understood, can be rebuilt entirely.

P.S. - The quality of these recommendations suggests someone with access to a very particular library, someone who thinks quite carefully about the practical applications of abstract concepts.

That last line felt like an accusation disguised as an observation. She was circling closer to the truth, testing whether her ‘anonymous correspondent’ might be someone she knew, someone with the resources and knowledge base of a particular Speaker.

Lucien stared at her handwriting until the words blurred, then carefully folded the paper and placed it — not with his official correspondence — but in the drawer of his personal desk. Next to the Dwemer text they'd discussed, and the growing collection of her responses.

The Artaeum reference was a gauntlet thrown down. Those texts were rare, dangerous, and highly restricted; only someone with significant authority would have access to them.

Only someone like him.

That last line felt like an admission of something neither of them was quite ready to name. She'd paid attention to details that mattered only if the gesture itself mattered. The careful distance they'd maintained was eroding, note by note.

Lucien stared at her handwriting until the words blurred, then carefully folded the paper and placed it not with his official correspondence, but in the drawer of his personal desk. Next to the Dwemer text they'd discussed, and the growing collection of her responses.

All perfectly professional, naturally.

But when he drafted his next note at the end of the dead drop, his usually precise language wavered under the weight of everything he wanted to say but couldn't:

The Artaeum texts are complex. Theoretical frameworks with dangerous practical applications. Perhaps better suited to purely academic discussion than field implementation.

Though I admit, the concept of rebuilding mental architecture rather than simply disrupting it has merit. Someone with your insight might find the applications...personally relevant.

P.S. - Some libraries are acquired through necessity rather than privilege, as knowledge seeks those who will use it properly. It becomes dangerous only when wielded by those who understand both the structure and its weaknesses.

He sealed the letter before he could second-guess the implications, before his careful control could reassert itself and reduce everything back to safe academic distance.

Because, despite his anonymity, despite the careful layers of concealment and misdirection, this had stopped being about book recommendations somewhere between her first "thank you" and her recognition of resonance theory.

This was about the way she challenged him intellectually while accepting his care, the way she tested his knowledge was like she was mapping the contours of his mind, the way her handwriting looked next to his marginalia created something that felt dangerously close to collaboration.

Something that felt dangerously close to being known, completely and without reservation.

And the terrifying realization that she might be closer to discovering his identity than either of them was ready for.

Serena’s next drop contained no book, no rations, either.

Just a short note.

There will be no contract this week. Your presence is not requested at the Sanctuary until further notice. Rest. Recover. Do something frivolous.
 –L.L.

She stared at the note longer than she meant to, thumb grazing the edge as if pressure might draw out some hidden meaning. There was no suggestion of reprimand, no subtle rebuke hidden between the lines. And that was the problem.

It was easier when it was only books, when she could pretend it was some archivist with too much time and too little human connection, someone offering curated knowledge out of academic boredom. But this? A week off? An order to rest?

It meant he had noticed.

She folded the note once, twice, then slipped it into her boot. If she thought long enough about the careful word choice: your presence is not requested, she might go mad. There was no stay away in it. No, you are dismissed.

Just: not yet.

As she turned to leave the hollow, something made her pause. It wasn’t a noise, just a shift in the air. A presence that logic told her wasn’t there, yet instinct whispered, watching.

She didn’t search the treeline.

She simply stood a moment longer than necessary, “I don’t need a break.” She whispered to nobody in particular.

Silence. Then, as if the trees themselves held their breath, she added, “But thank you.”

Serena didn’t go back to the sanctuary. She took a different road, one that wound south along the river and dipped through a village too small to appear on any formal map. It had a tavern with a crooked sign and a general store with an elderly shopkeeper who offered her a boiled sweet when she bought a comb and a pot of salve.

She stayed at the inn there. It didn’t have a name, it was simply “The Inn.”

And for three days, she did absolutely nothing.

She washed her hair, sat in the sun, and listened to the sound of chickens clucking in the yard below her window. She bought a plum pie off a passing cart, still warm from the oven, and ate it with her fingers on the stoop, juice staining her knuckles.

She watched the blacksmith’s apprentice practice swordplay with a broom handle.

She reread the tonal architecture book out of order, back to front, pausing to underline passages with a charcoal stub she found at the bottom of her bag.

Once, she found herself laughing out loud, she didn’t remember the joke.

When she left the village, she left a coin purse under the pillow. Too much for what the room was worth. Just enough for what the quiet had given her.

And then, because she wasn’t sure what else to do, she found a clean scrap of paper and wrote two words:

Something frivolous.

Serena folded it in half, carefully, and left it in the hollow.

Chapter Text

Serena had returned to Cheydinhal quietly, entering through the side passage near the stables with no ceremony or attention, just as she liked it. She slept in her own bed, in the same corner room that smelled faintly of rosehip oil and dust and cold stone. Her blades hung on the wall where she'd left them. No one questioned where she'd gone; she hadn't expected them to.

And yet, despite the silence, despite the ease of it, she hadn't been herself since the inn.

Sleep had been elusive, until that night.

In the dream, she stood in a stone chamber that flickered with warm candlelight. The space felt endless and yet impossibly close, like the walls were breathing with her. Serena wasn't exactly in the Sanctuary. She was barefoot, bare-shouldered, and not dressed to kill. Her instinct was to look for weapons or an exit, but her body didn't move like her own.

There was no threat. There was only him.

Hooded. Silent. Standing across from her.

She couldn't see his face, but she knew, in that disorienting, absolute way that dreams allow, she knew it was Lucien. He didn't speak or gesture, but he watched her, and she felt it: not the cold scrutiny of a superior, nor the tension of mutual survival. It was softer than that. He saw her as if he already knew where her shadows lived and had never looked away.

When he stepped forward, she didn't flinch.

When his hand lifted to her face, calloused fingers brushing her jaw, the slope of her cheekbone, her body leaned into it.

The touch was light, like she might vanish if he pressed too hard.

Her breath caught. A slow, shaky inhale. Her skin ached where he touched it, like something molten and secret had stirred beneath her sternum and spilled outward. Her hands rose, not to stop him, but to answer. Her fingers found the edge of his robe. She curled them into it.

And she didn't pull away.

Then his thumb traced the corner of her mouth, his face hovering just inches from hers now. He was still hooded, still silent, but his breath ghosted against her skin. His hand was still on her cheek, the other resting lightly against her hip as if he had always known exactly where it belonged.

His face hovered just inches from hers now. It was still hooded, still silent, but his breath ghosted against her skin. His hand was still on her cheek, the other resting lightly against her hip as if he had always known exactly where it belonged.

Serena wasn’t sure when her hands had climbed his chest, but they were there now, resting over the place where his heart might be, if he still had one.

She could smell the candlewax, the old leather of his robes, the trace of ink and ash. Everything about him was wrong and familiar and tempting.

He leaned in slower than necessary, like he was offering her time to turn away.

She didn’t.

Their mouths were a breath apart, his head tilting just slightly, one last moment suspended–

And then she woke, gasping, her heart lurched like she’d fallen off a roof.

Her sheets were tangled. Her throat was dry. Her lips – she pressed the backs of her fingers to them like it might erase the memory. The candle she lit flickered hard against the walls, throwing shadows she almost mistook for a hooded figure. Her pulse kicked up. 

This is ridiculous. 

She rubbed her eyes and splashed water over her face like it might drown the memory of no kiss, no words, but just the weight of him leaning in slowly, and the awful, stomach-clenching fact that she'd wanted it more than she'd ever wanted anything.

Serena dressed like she was late to a contract she didn’t have.

Get it together.

It was just a dream. Just her mind playing tricks, taking pieces of conversations and careful glances and weaving them into something that felt like...

No.

She wasn't going there.

But as she laced her boots with shaking fingers, she couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at her; not like she was useful, not like she was another broken thing in a place full of broken things, but like she was... worth looking at. Worth wanting.

She was a woman who'd put a bread knife through her husband sixty-two times, and who'd made a living ending lives ever since. The woman who'd forgotten how to be anything but sharp edges and careful distance.

What would someone like him want with someone like her?

Stop.

She reached for her weapons, desperate for something familiar to ground her. But even as she ran her thumb along the edge of her favorite blade, all she could think about was the moment before she'd woken. The way he'd leaned in slowly, carefully, like he was giving her time to pull away. Like he was asking permission, she wasn't sure she knew how to give.

A kiss. That's all it would have been, a simple press of lips that somehow felt like the most dangerous thing in the world, because it would have meant something; an admission that all the careful professional distance, all the polite conversations about philosophy and their pasts, had been covering something else entirely. It felt too much like hope, and hope was a luxury she couldn't afford.

Hope meant there was something to lose.

She'd buried wanting, along with everything else soft about herself, years ago. She’d had to, but apparently not deep enough, because now it was crawling back to the surface wearing Lucien's face and speaking in his careful, precise voice.

The worst part? She didn't just want the dream; she wanted the reality behind it.

This was her room, these were her things, that was just a dream about a man who left her book recommendations and supplies at dead drops. Just a dream about a man who discussed Dwemer philosophy like it was poetry, a man whose careful control seemed to fracture just slightly when he looked at her.

A man who would be away for the next few days, thank the Void, giving her time to get her head straight before she had to face him again with professional composure.

She pulled on her boots and reached for her weapons. If she couldn't sleep, she could at least be useful. 

By dawn, Serena had cleaned every blade she owned twice, reorganized her poison collection by potency rather than alphabetically, and completed a thorough inventory of her lock picks. The repetitive motions helped, as did the familiar weight of steel in her hands.

She could do this. She'd spent years keeping her personal feelings separate from her work, and this was no different. Except it was different, because when she tried to focus on sharpening her favorite dagger, all she could think about was the precision in Lucien's movements, the way he handled his own weapons with the same careful attention she gave hers.

When she organized her poisons, she remembered his comment about only alphabetizing his liquids, and found herself smiling despite her determination to remain unaffected.

When she tested the springs on her lock picks, she thought about his hands – how they'd moved over the pages of the Dwemer text, how she imagined they’d feel against her skin.

This was going to be a problem.

A knock at her door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. Serena set down her weapons and opened it to find Antoinetta bouncing slightly on her toes, practically glowing with excitement.

"You look terrible," Antoinetta announced cheerfully. "Which means you're either plotting something elaborate or you didn't sleep. Either way, I need to tell you about my evening."

Before Serena could respond, Antoinetta had pushed past her into the room, taking in the meticulously arranged weapons and poison bottles with raised eyebrows.

"Definitely didn't sleep," she concluded. "This is your 'avoiding my feelings through excessive organization' arrangement. I recognize it from that time you spent three days alphabetizing the library after Vicente made that comment about your tracking skills."

Serena closed the door and leaned against it. "Your evening?"

Antoinetta threw herself dramatically onto the bed as Serena sat stiffly at the table, pretending not to be affected by anything. Not by the strange dream, not by the residual heat it left in her chest, and certainly not by the delighted humming coming from across the room.

"You're being very calm about all this," Antoinetta said, peeking up from the mattress. "Which either means you're proud of me, or you're hiding something deeply unhinged. And I can't decide which I'm rooting for."

Serena glanced over. "You want me to be unhinged?"

"I want you to share." Antoinetta propped herself up on her elbows. "You've got that look on your face. You’re doing that thing you do when you've murdered someone and aren't sure whether to feel guilty or smug."

"I haven't murdered anyone yet this week."

"Then you've definitely done something emotionally compromising." Antoinetta rolled onto her stomach, chin in her hands. "Start talking, or I start guessing. Loudly."

Serena pressed her fingers to her temple. "…How was your date?"

Antoinetta beamed. "Perfect deflection, but I'll allow it." She sat up. "It was actually… really nice, it was simple. Kind of lovely, he didn't get weird when I didn't want to come upstairs after, he just said goodnight and kissed my hand, if you can believe that!"

Serena gave a quiet hum, softening a little. "So he's not a scumbag."

"Nope." "You sure?"

Antoinetta smirked. "I'm sure."

"…I know he’s not," Serena said after a beat, still avoiding her gaze. "I stalked him home after your date.."

Antoinetta blinked, then burst out laughing. "Gods, of course you did."

"He took the long way around, gave a beggar coin, and stopped to help a street girl pick up her books. You know he's got a kid, right?"

Antoinetta's smile softened. "I didn't."

"She was waiting up when he came home, ran to the door as fast as her little legs could carry her. He gave her his whole attention like she was the only thing in the world."

For a moment, the room was quiet. The soft flick of the candle, the muted hum of city noise through the shuttered window. Then:

"You really did stalk him," Antoinetta whispered.

"I had to be sure.”

"I know, that's why I'm not mad." Antoinetta crawled across the bed until she could nudge Serena's arm with her foot. "You always look out for me. I love that about you. But…"

"But what?"

"You've been walking around like a kicked dog all day. You let me talk for ten minutes straight, you didn’t say anything about my braids being different on both sides, and you’ve been deep cleaning your weapons."

Serena sighed as Antoinetta tilted her head. "You gonna tell me what's eating at you, or do I have to break into your journal again?"

"I don't keep a journal."

"Right, of course not," Antoinetta said, clearly not believing her. "But if you did, I imagine it would be full of very intense and specific feelings that you don't talk about."

Serena actually smiled a little, but it didn't last.

"…I had a weird dream," she said finally.

Antoinetta perked up immediately. "Murder dream or like a sex dream?"

Serena gave her a look. "Do those not overlap for you?"

"Oh, absolutely, but context matters."

Serena hesitated before legging out a deep sigh. "It wasn't about someone I've ever thought of like that." "But now you are?"

Serena looked away. "I woke up before anything happened."

Antoinetta gave a sympathetic little squeal and flopped over again. "Oh, gods, it's worse than I thought. You're actually flustered."

"I'm not." "You are! You're – wait. Is this about Lucien?"

Serena's silence was damning.

Antoinetta sat up so fast her braid hit her in the face. "It is! It's the Speaker!"

"Don't call him that right now," Serena groaned.

"Okay, fine, Lucien, who you swore you found insufferable and now apparently want to–"I don't want to do anything with him."

"Serena."

Serena pressed her palms over her face. "I don't even like people."

Antoinetta snorted. "And yet your subconscious has incredible taste. What was he doing in the dream? Wait, no, actually don't tell me. I want to guess."

"You're impossible."

Antoinetta smiled smugly and settled back into her pillow. "And you're in denial. But I'll leave it there for now. Just know you can talk to me."

"I know."

"And I'll still love you even when you inevitably fall in love with the most terrifying man in Cyrodiil."

Serena threw a pillow at her, but as Antoinetta's laughter filled the room, Serena found herself thinking that maybe her friend wasn't entirely wrong. And maybe that was the most terrifying thing of all.

By the following afternoon, Serena was seriously considering switching dorms.

Not because she disliked Antoinetta – in fact, it was quite the opposite. She liked her too much, enough to let her stick around even when she wouldn’t shut up about the dream.

“Do you think he knows?” Antoinetta asked over lunch, biting into a honeyed roll like she hadn’t just dropped a conversational bomb.

Serena didn’t look up from her ledger. “Knows what.” “That he was in your weird dream, all broody and dangerous?”

“I said nothing happened.”

Antoinetta smirked. “You said it almost happened.”

Serena put her fork down with more force than necessary.

“Ooh, defensive,” Antoinetta said, licking honey from her thumb. “That means it was good.”

“Antoinetta.” “You’re practically glowing! Do you want me to braid your hair? We could get robes that match his and do a little knife-themed wedding ceremony in the crypt.”

Serena glared. “I’m about to stab you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first.” She grinned wickedly. “But honestly, I think it’s cute.”

“It’s not cute,” Serena muttered. “It’s a dream, a stupid dream. That means nothing.”

“You keep saying that, but I watched you drop your fork this morning when someone walked past wearing a hood.”

“I was tired.” “You were startled, and then you got all flushed.”

Serena rubbed her temple. “I haven’t felt anything like this in.. actually, ever. Even when I was married.”

That shut Antoinetta up for a moment. She sat back, studying her with a gentler expression.

“…So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing. He’ll be here in a few days, and I’ll remember why I prefer people dead or unconscious.”

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

“I mean it.” “I know you mean it,” Antoinetta said, tilting her head. “But I also know you, and you don’t do frivolous. You don’t have silly dreams about people you don’t trust.”

That was what gnawed at her most: because she did trust him. She trusted him enough to spar with, to argue with, to let near her when she was exhausted and bleeding and half-mad from adrenaline. She trusted him with her name, her history, even the little pieces of herself she never let anyone see.

And now her body was remembering that trust as something else entirely; as heat. As yearning. As a kiss that didn’t happen, but still lingered.

Antoinetta poked her fork into a dried fig. “You know, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you actually liked someone.”

“I don’t like people.” “You don’t like people,” Antoinetta echoed, mocking her. “Except him. And me. And that stray cat you secretly feed behind the abandoned house.”

“…Fine. I like two people and an animal. Happy?”

Antoinetta grinned. “You’re practically a romantic.”

Serena sighed and stood up from the table. “I’m going to go find a nice, quiet crypt to hide in until I get my head straight.”

“Great! I’ll pack you a lunch. Don’t forget your dream journal.”

Chapter Text

Serena didn't sleep the next night, either. Not for lack of trying, she even tried drinking half a bottle of mead and reading a particularly dry volume on alchemical cross-contamination, but the moment she drifted off, her treacherous mind found him again.

This time, there was no stone chamber, no candlelight, just darkness and the sound of her own breathing, rapid and shallow in the quiet of her room. She was lying on her back, and he was above her, still hooded but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

His hands were braced on either side of her head, caging her in without trapping her. She could have pushed him away, could have escaped, but she didn't want to. Instead, her fingers found the fabric of his robes, pulling him closer, and when he lowered his head to the curve of her neck, she arched into the touch like her body had been waiting for it her entire life.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered against her throat, voice rough with something that could have been both restraint and desperation.

But she couldn't; the words caught in her throat, replaced by a soft sound she barely recognized as her own voice. Her hands slid up his chest, finding the edge of his hood, and when she pushed it back, his face was exactly as she'd imagined: sharp cheekbones and dark eyes and that mouth that looked like it knew how to be gentle and devastating in equal measure.

He was looking at her like she was something precious, something worth savoring.

When his lips finally found hers, the kiss was nothing like the tentative, almost-touch from before. This was deeper, hungrier, full of want that had been building in the spaces between their careful conversations. She opened for him willingly, desperately, her body responding to his touch like it had been designed for this exact moment.

His hand slid down her side, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, her hip, and she… woke up sweating, tangled in her sheets like she'd been fighting off ghosts, her heart pounding and her skin burning with phantom touches.

Damn it.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to scrub away the memory of dream-hands on her skin, dream-lips against her throat. But it lingered, that awful yearning, that sense of something interrupted just when it was getting interesting.

She dragged herself to morning drills with a headache, a sour mood, and the uncomfortable awareness that her subconscious was getting bolder.

"I don't suppose you want to talk about it," Antoinetta said, barely suppressing a grin as she twirled a dagger between her fingers.

"Not unless you want to be on the receiving end of a live blade," Serena muttered.

"Flustered looks good on you."

"I'm not flustered, I'm tired. And confused. And the next time you mention the dream, I'm going to suggest you for dishes."

Antoinetta only winked. "You're just upset because you liked it."

That was the worst part — She had liked it.

By midday, Serena had made the questionable decision to throw herself into a contract – a quick, simple job out in the hills, meant to occupy her hands and, hopefully, exhaust her mind enough to stop thinking. The target was a petty noble with a gambling problem and the wrong enemies. No grand story. No moral ambiguity. Just a blade between the ribs and a clean exit.

It should have been routine; it should have been exactly the kind of mindless work that would burn away whatever foolish feelings had taken root in her chest. But instead, she found herself distracted from the moment she left the Sanctuary gates.

The ride to the target's estate should have been spent mentally rehearsing her approach, cataloguing exits, and timing the guards' rotations. Instead, she kept replaying fragments of her dream; the way his voice had sounded when he'd whispered against her throat, the heat of his hands through fabric, the devastating gentleness in his eyes when he'd looked at her like she was something worth savoring.

She nearly missed the turnoff to the estate entirely, catching herself only when her horse tried to continue down the main road.

Focus.

The target's manor was exactly as described: a modest stone building with pretensions above its station, surrounded by gardens that had seen better days. Two guards at the front gate, one patrolling the perimeter. Windows on the second floor that would be easy to access from the old oak tree, whose branches scraped against the eastern wall.

Basic. Straightforward. The kind of job she could do with her eyes closed.

But when she moved to approach the tree, her mind wandered to the way dream-Lucien had caged her with his arms without trapping her. To the question he'd asked – tell me to stop – and her body's immediate, desperate response. Her foot caught on a root, sending her stumbling against the trunk with more noise than she'd made on a contract in years.

The patrolling guard's head snapped up.

Shit.

She pressed herself against the bark, heart hammering, waiting for him to investigate. But he only paused for a moment before continuing his circuit, apparently attributing the sound to wind or wildlife.

She should have taken that as a warning and recognized that her head wasn't in the game and withdrawn, returned when she could think clearly.

Instead, she climbed.

The window was unlatched, as expected. The target's study was empty, as planned. But when she slipped inside, instead of immediately locating her quarry, she found herself staring at the neat stacks of papers, the carefully arranged inkwell and quills on the desk by the window.

It reminded her of Lucien's office. Of that first evening when she'd noticed how precisely he arranged everything, how his fingers had brushed the spine of the Dwemer text like it was something precious.

The target chose that moment to return to his study.

He was a soft man, running to fat, clearly unprepared for violence in his own home. He opened his mouth to shout, and her training should have taken over – a quick strike to the throat to silence him, followed by the killing blow. Clean. Efficient. Silent.

Instead, she hesitated, just long enough for him to stumble backward and knock over a lamp.

The crash echoed through the manor like a bell.

By the time she recovered, moved, and put her blade between his ribs as intended, voices were already shouting in the corridors below. She'd lost the advantage of surprise, and it was entirely her own fault.

The guards reached the study as she was climbing back out the window. Crossbow bolts whistled past her head, one close enough to part her hair. She dropped from the oak tree harder than she should have, rolled wrong, and came up with her shoulder screaming in protest.

More guards poured from the manor's front entrance. She ran for her horse, grateful she'd had the sense to leave it saddled, and rode hard for the hills with the sound of pursuit behind her.

She barely lost them in the forest, but only because she knew the terrain better than they did.

She had barely completed the contract and returned just before dusk, covered in dust, sweat, and blood that wasn't hers. Far more blood than there should have been, because she'd hesitated at a crucial moment, thinking about something else entirely. About someone else entirely.

Get it together, she told herself as she made her way through the Sanctuary's corridors, every muscle aching from the botched job. He's not even here yet. You have time to–

"Serena."

She froze: that voice did not belong to any of the Sanctuary regulars.

She turned slowly to see Lucien Lachance standing in the corridor, hood drawn back, pale in the torchlight. He looked the same, immaculate, unreadable, but the sight of him sent something unpleasant through her gut. Not fear, not annoyance. Something far worse.

Because for the first time since she'd actually known him, his hood was  down. Not just pushed back slightly for convenience, but fully lowered, dark hair visible in the flickering light. She'd caught glimpses before of the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, but this was different. This was him, unguarded in a way she'd never seen.

His face was sharper than she'd imagined, all angles and aristocratic bone structure, with eyes that seemed to catch and hold the torchlight. There was something almost predatory about the way he carried himself, but it was tempered by an unexpected gentleness around his mouth that made her stomach flip in ways that had nothing to do with fear.

He was beautiful. Devastatingly, unfairly beautiful in exactly the way her dreams had suggested but hadn't quite captured.

Damn it.

"Y–you're early," she said, instantly hating the way her voice sounded.

"A day early," he confirmed. "There was... an efficiency in travel I hadn't anticipated."

She nodded, unable to speak; her heart was hammering in her chest like she'd just run two miles. This was ridiculous. This was Lucien. She'd stood in rooms with him dozens of times, had argued philosophy and debriefed missions, and shared quiet moments over ancient texts. There was no reason for her pulse to be racing like she was facing down a dragon.

Except there was. Because now she knew what it felt like to want him. Knew the weight of dream-hands on her skin and the devastating gentleness in imagined touches. And now she could see the reality behind the fantasy, the sharp intelligence in his pale eyes, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the mouth that looked like it knew secrets she wanted to learn, she wanted to know if somewhere beneath all that careful control was a man who might lean in slowly and carefully and ask permission with every breath.

Lucien's gaze drifted down, taking in the state of her. She was covered in grime and dried blood, a streak of dirt across her jaw, and the faintest wobble to her stance from not having eaten since morning. She probably looked like she'd been dragged backward through a thornbush, which wasn't far from the truth.

"You've had a busy day," he observed gently.

His voice was softer than usual, lacking the formal edge it carried during official business. More like the tone he'd used that night in his office when they'd talked about death and meaning and the weight of choices. It made something flutter dangerously in her chest.

"Something like that."

He didn't smile, but something softened in his expression – a subtle shift that transformed his features from merely beautiful to something approaching tender. "Rest, we can speak properly tomorrow."

Serena nodded again, grateful for the reprieve. She needed time to process this, to figure out how to look at him without remembering every detail of her dreams, how to speak without her voice betraying the chaos in her head.

And then he did the worst thing imaginable; he stepped closer, just enough to lower his voice, close enough that she could smell the familiar scent of ink and iron and leather that had haunted her dreams. Close enough to see the individual dark lashes framing his even darker eyes, the faint scar along his jaw that she'd never noticed before.

"You're pale," he said quietly. "You haven't been sleeping."

Of course, he'd noticed.
He'd seen through her attempt at normalcy in the span of thirty seconds. She should have expected it; Lucien noticed everything, catalogued every detail like it mattered, but somehow she'd thought she could hide this, could bury it deep enough that even his sharp eyes wouldn't catch it.

Up close, with his hood down and his face fully visible, the concern in his expression was unmistakable. It wasn't the detached assessment of a superior cataloguing a subordinate's condition; this was personal. Intimate, almost, in the way he was looking at her, like her well-being mattered to him beyond its impact on her professional performance.

"I'm fine," she muttered.

"Mhm." He didn't believe her. The sound was gentle, almost amused, and it made her want to either flee or step closer. She did neither, frozen in place by the way he was looking at her; not with professional interest, but with something that looked almost like the care she'd dreamed about.

The kind of care that saw her exhaustion and wanted to fix it, the kind that noticed when she wasn't taking care of herself and worried about it.

She escaped to her room the second he turned his back, heart still pounding, hands shaking as she fumbled with the latch. Because seeing his face, really seeing it, unguarded and beautiful and concerned, had been worse than any dream.

Because now she knew exactly what she was trying so desperately not to want.

That night, the dream didn't return, but she couldn't sleep anyway.

Not with the knowledge that he was just down the hall now. She could hear the faint sounds of movement from his office, the soft scrape of a chair, the rustle of papers, the quiet rhythm of someone who kept late hours and worked by candlelight.

The sounds were real, present, and untangible. 

Serena lay awake until light seeped through the thin slit she called a window. She stared at the ceiling, furious with herself for hoping she'd see him again in the dark, and wondering what he was doing, what he was thinking, whether he'd noticed the way she'd stammered like a nervous apprentice.

For wanting, desperately and pathetically, to knock on his door and tell him everything; the truth about the dream, about the books he'd been leaving with her dead drops, the way her chest had gone tight the moment she'd seen him in the corridor, like her body had been waiting for his return without her permission.

But she didn't, because Serena had learned long ago that wanting was dangerous, and this particular want felt like it could destroy everything she'd built if she let it.

So she lay there instead, sleepless and aching, and tried to convince herself that tomorrow she'd be able to look at him without remembering the weight of dream-hands on her skin.

Chapter Text

Lucien had made good time on the road. After Serena's last missive went unanswered longer than usual, he'd found himself rerouting efficiently, declining pleasures he might've lingered at otherwise.

Just business, he told himself. He had contracts to distribute to the higher-ranking Family members; he had to ensure the Listener's right hand remained aligned with their objectives. Nothing more.

Yet as he entered the Sanctuary and walked toward her quarters, something old stirred with dangerous curiosity.

He found her outside her chambers, bloodied from a fresh contract, winded, beautiful.

Something twisted in his chest at the sight. The way the crimson streaked her skin, still wet and gleaming in the torchlight. The flush of exertion in her cheeks, her breathing still elevated from whatever violence she'd just committed. Even exhausted, she moved with that dangerous grace that made his pulse quicken.

He shouldn't find it appealing. The blood on her hands, the slight tremor of adrenaline still coursing through her, the way she stood like she was ready to strike again at the slightest provocation. It spoke to something primal in him, something that recognized a kindred darkness.

He did anyway.

She hadn't noticed him yet, too focused on remembering how to breathe from what seemed to be a particularly rough contract. He found himself watching the shaking motion of her fingers, remembering how those same hands had looked holding that philosophy book. The contrast shouldn't have been so intoxicating.

When she finally looked up and caught sight of him, her eyes widened, then sharpened; that’s when he noticed the shadows beneath her eyes, darker than the kohl she usually wore, and the slight hollowness to her cheeks. She looked tired, not merely from the contract, but in a way that spoke of sleepless nights and restless thoughts.

"You're pale," he said, the words coming out softer than he'd intended. Concern bleeding through when he'd meant to sound neutral, professional.

Her chin tilted up in that stubborn way he'd come to know too well.

"You haven't been sleeping."

It wasn't a question. He could read the signs as easily as tracking a target; the way she held herself too rigidly, the slight tremor in her hands that had nothing to do with adrenaline.

"I'm fine," she muttered, but her voice carried the edge of someone who'd been telling themselves the same lie.

He should have left it there, delivered the contracts, and departed with the same cold efficiency he used with every other Family member. Instead, he found himself studying her face, cataloguing each sign of exhaustion like it mattered. Like she mattered in ways that had nothing to do with Brotherhood business.

The realization sat heavily in his chest. When had he started caring about her sleep? Her well-being beyond her usefulness to the organization?

He then remembered he murdered her in-laws, and realized his care had gone much farther back than he realized.

He nodded curtly and let her retreat to her chambers while his back was turned, forcing himself not to watch her go. Instead, he made his way to the small office often used for correspondence, ostensibly to leave the contracts he'd brought, but his feet had carried him there of their own accord.

The room still held traces of her presence: a half-finished letter on the desk, her handwriting flowing across the parchment in neat, precise lines – books stacked beside it, including one he recognized with a jolt of something uncomfortably warm.

On the Nature of Dwemer Artifice. The same text he'd left in a dead drop three months ago with a note about a passage that might interest her. He'd told himself it was a matter of friendship between colleagues, sharing knowledge that could prove useful. Nothing more.

But there it was, well-worn now, the leather binding soft from frequent handling. Without thinking, he picked it up and let it fall open. The margins were filled with her notes, written in that same careful script. Questions, observations, connections to other texts. On one page, she'd written "L. was right about the third chapter: remarkable insight into their motivations."

His chest tightened; she'd been thinking of him while reading it. Enough to write his initial in her private notes.

He closed the book with more force than necessary and set it back exactly where he'd found it. This was exactly the kind of dangerous territory he couldn't afford to explore.

He needed to leave, deliver the contracts to Vicente and Ocheeva, then find somewhere else to rest before the journey back. Anywhere but here, surrounded by the subtle scent of her perfume oil and the evidence of her thoughts.

Instead, he found himself sinking into the chair behind her desk. Just for a moment, he told himself, just to collect his thoughts before facing the others.

The exhaustion he'd been fighting for days crashed over him like a tide; three sleepless nights on the road, the constant vigilance, the weight of avoiding his own dreams all pressed down on his shoulders until his eyelids grew heavy.

The last thing he registered was the faint ink stain on the desk blotter where her hand had rested, before darkness claimed him.

The dream returned in fragments, more vivid this time, fed by her lingering presence in the room.

It began as it always did, shadows and torchlight, the familiar stone corridors of the Sanctuary, but somehow different, older. She emerged from the darkness like she belonged there, eyes lined in shadow, face upturned toward him with an expression that made his breath catch even in sleep.

Her features kept shifting in that fluid way of dreams; sometimes the Serena he knew, sharp and guarded, sometimes something softer, more open, but he knew it was her with absolute certainty. The way she moved, the tilt of her head, the dangerous grace that made his pulse race even in waking hours.

She'd looked at him like she could see straight through every carefully constructed wall he'd built over the years, past the professional distance and cold efficiency, down to the raw want he kept buried beneath duty and discipline. Her gaze was knowing, almost predatory, but tender in a way that made something in his chest ache.

When he stepped closer, drawn by some invisible thread, she didn't retreat. She never did in these dreams. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, lips parting as if to speak, or perhaps in invitation. The torchlight caught the curve of her throat, the hollow at the base where her pulse would flutter if she were real, if she were here.

His dream-self reached for her face with trembling fingers, and she leaned into the touch like she'd been waiting for it, craving it. Her skin was impossibly warm beneath his palm, impossibly soft. When his thumb traced the sharp line of her cheekbone, she made a sound that was barely audible, somewhere between a sigh and a whisper, but it shot through him like lightning.

"Lucien," she breathed, and the way she said his name was like a prayer, like a confession, like she'd been holding it back for far too long. Her voice was rougher than usual, threaded with something that sounded dangerously close to need.

He remembered cupping her jaw with both hands, drawing her closer until he could feel the warmth of her breath against his lips. The scent of her filled his senses; rosehip oil and jasmine and steel and something uniquely her that he could never quite name but always recognized. She rose up on her toes, closing the last precious inches between them, and when her mouth finally brushed against his, soft, tentative, then bolder–

Then he'd woken with a gasp that echoed too loudly in the quiet room, jaw clenched so tight it ached, hands fisted so hard his nails had left angry crescents in his palms, cold sweat trickling down his spine like he'd committed some type of mortal sin.

The phantom sensation of her lips lingered, and he'd had to press the heels of his hands against his eyes to banish the image of how she'd looked at him in those final moments, like she wanted him just as desperately as he wanted her, like she'd been waiting for him to finally reach for her.

He remembered her laugh when she read a particularly dry anecdote he’d left on a dead drop– it was genuine, like it surprised even her. The way her eyes changed when she asked hard questions other Silencers wouldn't dare voice. Her hands were capable, unforgiving, and how gently she'd touched that book.

He knew better than to indulge fantasy, but when he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her breath near his face.

The next morning, Lucien was up before dawn. He always was; the others believed it to be discipline, or perhaps paranoia. Neither was true. It was a habit, and habit was far harder to break than sentiment, though sentiment was proving increasingly difficult to ignore.

He moved through the Sanctuary in practiced silence, the corridors still dim and empty, the stone cool beneath his boots. As he passed the training room, he paused.

Footfalls. Breath control. Steel slicing air.
He knew that rhythm. Even blindfolded, he would’ve known it was Serena.

He stood outside the half-open door, watching her work the training dummy with a blade in hand. She’d shed her cloak and tied her hair up in a haphazardly tied knot at the base of her skull. Her movements were sharp and fast, too fast for this early. Her form was technically sound, but there was a violence to it that didn’t belong in drills. It wasn’t discipline or focus; it was something else. Something that burned under her skin and made her strike like she was trying to silence a voice in her own head.

Of course, he noticed. He noticed everything about her, and that had become a problem, one he hadn’t managed to solve.

He let himself watch a bit too long; long enough to study the way her muscles moved beneath her skin, the subtle hitch in her breath when her swing fell just short of clean, the flicker of frustration that crossed her brow.

Then he caught himself.

“Your stance slips when you overthink the strike,” he said smoothly, stepping into view like he hadn’t just been staring.

She barely startled and turned toward him with a scowl. “You’re early.”

“I always am,” he replied, crossing the floor. He took a dagger from the weapons rack, the familiar weight settling in his hand. Sharp enough to matter, dull enough not to scar. 

“Spar with me.”

He hadn’t meant to say it like that.

It came out too easily, too sharp at the edges, like a need rather than a command. Like he was asking. Lucien never asked. And yet there it was, lingering in the air between them like smoke, too late to take back.

He saw the shift in her jaw, the hesitation in her eyes; not reluctance, but suspicion. 

She was always looking for the catch, and she was smart to. With him, there usually was one. But this time there wasn’t. 

That was the problem.

Still, Serena nodded and lifted her blade. He mirrored her, focusing on the familiar weight of the dagger in his hand; it was something real to cling to while the rest of him churned beneath the surface.

They moved through the opening forms in silence. Normally, it would’ve felt like meditation, but this morning, he could feel her every step, her every breath, every flick of her wrist, and the soft shhhk of cloth brushing skin. He was too aware as the distance between them felt thinner than usual. And he hated that, he hated her for being the one person he couldn’t seem to tune out.

She missed a beat in her footwork. Slight, barely noticeable, but he noticed, of course, he did. 

“You were already here when I got in,” she said after a while, her voice like a knife just shy of the skin. “Didn’t realize your plans changed that early.”

“Last-minute,” he replied, deflecting her strike with a practiced twist. “I had… other matters to attend to.”

Her eyes flicked up at that, a quick glint of curiosity. “Anything I’d hear about?”

“No.” The answer came too fast. Not unless she’d been watching the Blackwood estate, not unless she’d seen him with blood on his gloves and her name echoing through a dying woman’s breath. He hadn’t even intended to kill the housemaid or the cousin, but they had been there, and Lucien didn’t leave loose ends.

“I was surprised to see you at all,” she added, feinting to his left.

“So was I.” Another truth, and one he hated. They’d briefly crossed paths yesterday, and it had already left the kind of mark that itched beneath his ribs.

It wasn’t just lust; that would’ve been easier. Lust, he could compartmentalize; lust was clean. But she lived too close to the place where his control ended, and that made her dangerous in a way very few people had ever been.

She wasn’t his Silencer, not the way she used to be. She belonged only to herself, and that made every moment she gave him feel like something stolen.

She faltered again, another misstep, this time on the retreat. Their blades locked, and her eyes dipped to his mouth. He froze.

She didn’t look away, and Void help him, neither did he.

“You should keep your weight on your back foot when you hesitate like that,” he said, his voice rougher than intended. “Unless you want someone to notice.”

Her eyebrow lifted. “You noticed?” “I always do.” 

And as soon as he said it, he regretted it. It landed too heavily. His pulse jumped. Panic, actual, tangible panic, threaded through him like cold steel. Because that was the closest he’d ever come to admitting anything, to telling her how thoroughly she’d undone him. And worse, he didn’t think he could take it back.

For a second, he thought he saw it. A flicker in her expression. Surprise, maybe hope.

Then her eyes sharpened, and before he could brace, she twisted.

The movement was fast; her blade swept low, not a strike, but a shift in balance, and in one fluid motion, she hooked her foot behind his knee and dropped him. The breath slammed from his lungs as his back hit the training floor, and the dagger he’d been holding went skittering out of reach.

She was on him before he could react, weight straddling his hips, one hand braced beside his head, the other pressing the flat of her blade to his throat, just enough to make a point.

He stared up at her, stunned. Breathless. Somewhere between humiliation and awe.

“You missed that one,” she murmured, low and close. Her face was inches from his. Her breath was warm against his cheek. Her hair hung down in a dark curtain around them, and for a moment, the rest of the world dropped away. There was only her. And him. And the thin sliver of silence that crackled between them like a wire pulled too tight.

He didn’t answer because she’d taken him down. And by Sithis, he’d let her.

Not because he was sloppy, not because he’d miscalculated, he’d seen the opening and hadn’t taken it. He’d let her get close, let his guard slip, let himself feel something in the moment she looked at his mouth like she might kiss him instead of kill him. That was the truth of it. And now he was paying for it.

He should’ve shoved her off by now. Should’ve rolled her, reversed the position, and reminded her exactly who he was. 

But neither of them moved.

Her eyes searched his face, sharp and unreadable. She didn’t look triumphant or gloat; she just watched him. 

He hated the way his heartbeat picked up under her hand. Hated how hard it was to breathe with her weight pinning his hips, hated how badly he wanted to touch her and how deeply he didn’t dare.

Her fingers flexed on the hilt of her blade, just barely. A subtle shift. Her thumb grazed his collarbone, and he swore it left heat in its wake.

He didn’t think she meant to lean in, but she did.

Just slightly, and the world tilted.

If she kissed him right now, he wouldn’t stop her. If she killed him right now, he wasn’t sure he’d stop that either.

The silence stretched. Thick with tension, thick with everything they’d never said and all the things he’d never let himself want.

His mouth parted. He didn’t know what he was about to say.

And then, finally, she pushed off him smoothly, as if she hadn’t just unraveled him at the seams.

He stayed on the floor a second longer than he needed to, staring up at the ceiling and cursing the part of himself that missed the weight of her, the warmth of her breath, the press of her hips.

This was why she was dangerous. And why, no matter how far she ran, he would never truly let her go.

Chapter Text

She shouldn't have done it.

Serena had told herself that a hundred times on the way back to her quarters. She was still telling herself that now as she paced the narrow floor, barefoot and restless, arms folded tight like she could physically contain whatever the hell had just flared inside her.

Nothing was helping.

Her body was still humming, pulse still climbing every time she thought about the look in his eyes. The breath they'd shared in that infinitesimal moment, the press of her knees on either side of his hips, and the way his chest rose sharply, almost like a gasp.

He didn't move; he didn't stop me.

She stopped mid-step, fingers twitching at her sides. That was the part she couldn't wrap her head around; Lucien didn't tolerate weakness or indulgence. He never let his guard down…except he had; for that moment, something had cracked, and she'd seen it. Then nothing, not a word, not a warning, just that look.

She scrubbed a hand through her hair and exhaled hard through her nose. Void , she needed to cool down.

Her usual tricks – controlled breathing, meditation, and cold water – didn't help. She tried splashing her face, even dumped the entire wash basin over her head, letting the freezing water run down her spine like a punishment. She stood there dripping, shaking, jaw tight, trying to remind herself that this was nothing.

But her body betrayed her; heat curled low in her spine anyway, her skin felt too tight, every inch of her remembered the weight of him beneath her; solid, unmoving, unyielding in every way but that slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his chin when she had him pinned. Like he was bracing for something, or possibly even welcoming it.

Stop. Stop it.

She dragged herself to her cot and sat down hard, elbows on knees, fingers tangled in her hair. This was dangerous , not just because it was Lucien, but because she didn't know what he felt, if he even felt anything at all.

The doubt crept in like poison through her veins. What if she'd misread everything? What if that moment of vulnerability she thought she'd seen was just surprise? Shock at being taken down so easily?

She replayed it again, frame by frame, like examining evidence at a crime scene. The way his breathing had changed when she'd straddled him, the dilation of his pupils in the torchlight, the almost imperceptible parting of his lips when she'd leaned close.

But then her mind turned cruel, offering alternative explanations; maybe he'd been calculating his next move, waiting for the right moment to reverse their positions, maybe the heat she'd felt radiating from him was just exertion from the spar, maybe that look in his eyes – the one that had made her stomach drop and her pulse race – was nothing more than a professional assessment.

"I always do," he'd said when she'd asked if he'd noticed her hesitation.

She pressed her palms against her eyes until she saw stars. Those three words had unraveled something in her chest, made her feel seen in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. But now, in the harsh light of analysis, they felt different. Of course, he always noticed. He was Lucien Lachance, noticing things was what kept him alive, kept the Brotherhood running smoothly. It didn't mean anything beyond professional observation.

Did it?

For all she knew, he was already dissecting the moment, filing it away as a slip in discipline. Maybe he'd lecture her tomorrow, maybe he was disappointed – or worse, maybe he hadn't thought twice about it – maybe he'd looked at her and seen a mistake not worth commenting on.

She stood abruptly and began pacing again, bare feet silent on the stone floor. The walls of her chamber felt smaller now, pressing in like a cage. Her fingers found the leather bracers she'd discarded on her desk, running over the worn material. How many contracts had she completed wearing these? How many lives had she taken with hands that had just been trembling at the memory of touching him?

Void, what are you doing? You're Serena Bla – No, Serena Avenicci. The correction came automatically now, but it still stung. Another lie, another identity to maintain. You're a Murderer, a fingernail of the Black Hand. You don't get to have feelings, let alone ones that make your hands shake.

She'd worked too hard to get here, sacrificed too much to let sentiment compromise everything now. The Dark Brotherhood wasn't a place for soft hearts or romantic entanglements. It was a place for death and devotion to Sithis, nothing more.

But even as she tried to convince herself, her traitorous mind wandered back to smaller moments. The way Lucien's voice changed when he spoke to her privately versus in group briefings. How he sometimes lingered after debriefings, asking about details that seemed unnecessary but felt important. The books he'd started leaving for her — always with some excuse about their relevance to current contracts —  but chosen with too much care for coincidence.

And the dreams she'd been having, the ones where he wasn't the Speaker, wasn't her superior, wasn't untouchable, where he was just a man who looked at her like she was more than his personal blade.

She'd been having variations of them for months now, waking up with her heart pounding and her body aching for something she couldn't name. She'd thought she'd been subtle about her feelings, professional in all their interactions. But what if she hadn't been? What if he'd noticed that too?

The humiliation of that possibility made her stomach turn.

Lucien Lachance didn't want her, not like that. He might respect her blade, trust her with orders, rely on her instincts…but that didn't mean anything. Not in the way she wanted it to mean.

This couldn't be real. It had to be one-sided.

It is one-sided.

She moved to her small mirror, catching sight of her reflection; her hair was still damp and disheveled, her cheeks flushed, her eyes too bright. She looked exactly like what she was – a woman coming apart at the seams over a man she couldn't have.

And yet, when she closed her eyes, she didn't see rejection. She saw his mouth parted ever so slightly, the sliver of tension in his jaw, the unreadable fire in his eyes. She saw the way his hands had flexed at his sides when she'd pushed off him, like he'd been fighting the urge to reach for her.

But wanting to reach for someone and actually doing it were two very different things, and Lucien Lachance was nothing if not disciplined.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sheets as she lay back, still damp, heart still pounding like it was trying to outrun her better judgment. She shifted onto her side and curled inward, making herself smaller.

The rain started as a whisper against the stone walls, so faint she almost missed it. But gradually it grew stronger, more insistent, until it was all she could hear. She found herself listening to its rhythm, letting it drown out the circular arguments in her head.

Maybe by the afternoon, she'd convince herself none of it had happened. Maybe she could pretend it hadn't felt like the air had caught fire. Like she hadn't come undone for a split second and seen him see it.

Maybe it was all in her head, because anything else? Anything more?

That would break her.

Lucien stood in his chambers, motionless as stone, staring at the wall like it held answers he desperately needed.

It didn't.

He'd been standing there for the better part of an hour, replaying the training session with the methodical precision he usually reserved for planning assassinations. Every detail catalogued, every moment dissected, every breath and heartbeat accounted for.

The problem was simple: Serena had taken him down, not through luck or superior skill – though her technique had been flawless. She'd taken him down because he'd let her. Because in the moment she'd looked at his mouth with barely concealed hunger, his legendary control had simply… evaporated .

He'd seen the opening she'd created, he’d known exactly how to counter it, but instead, he'd watched her move with the fascination of a man witnessing his own execution and found himself curious about the blade.

Pathetic.

He moved to the washbasin, splashed cold water on his face, and tried to scrub away the memory of her weight settling over his hips, the way her breathing had changed when she'd realized she had him pinned. The heat that had radiated off her skin through the thin fabric of her training clothes.

The way she'd looked at him – not like a superior or a threat – but like a man she wanted to devour.

His hands gripped the edge of the basin hard enough to hurt.

This was exactly what he'd been trying to avoid for months – since he joined, if he was being honest. From the moment she'd been assigned as his new Silencer, he'd known she would be dangerous to him in ways that had nothing to do with her work.

He'd tried distance, professional courtesy, and cold efficiency; none of them had worked. She'd still managed to slip under his skin, into his thoughts, into dreams that left him waking with her name on his lips and an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with physical want.

Though there was plenty of that, too.

Get a hold of yourself.

But control seemed to be the one thing he couldn't maintain around her. Not when she challenged him in ways no one else dared, or when she looked at him like she could see past every carefully constructed wall to the man underneath, or when she moved through the world with a grace that spoke of violence and vulnerability in equal measure. And certainly not when she'd straddled his hips and pressed a blade to his throat with the kind of precision that suggested she could end him, but the kind of restraint that suggested she wouldn't.

The worst part? He'd wanted her to lean closer; he had been a heartbeat away from reaching up to cup her face, consequences be damned. If she'd shifted her weight, pressed down just a fraction more, he might have done something irreversibly stupid.

Like kiss her, or tell her exactly how thoroughly she'd unmade him.

Like admit that the reason he couldn't sleep most nights was because he spent the dark hours thinking about her hands, her mouth, the way she'd look spread beneath him or above him or pressed against the nearest wall.

He straightened abruptly, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

This was madness. She was his subordinate; she was also a liability he should have eliminated months ago – albeit the Black Hand supported his decision – instead of sparing like some lovesick fool. The rational thing to do would be to distance himself or assign her to someone else's oversight, or to leave strict instructions that their paths were to cross only when necessary.

But then he remembered the way her pupils had blown wide when she'd had him pinned. The way her thumb had traced his collarbone – barely a touch. She'd wanted him in that moment. He was certain of it.

The question was: what was he going to do about it?

Nothing, the logical part of his mind whispered. You're going to do nothing, because this is a complication you cannot afford.

But his body still hummed with the memory of her touch. His pulse still raced when he thought about the way she'd breathed his name during their brief conversation. And somewhere deep in his chest, in a place he'd thought long dead, something had stirred to life the moment she'd looked at him like he was more than just a Speaker, more than just a figure of duty and death and disciplined violence.

She'd looked at him like he was Lucien.

And gods help him, he wanted her to look at him that way again.

He should have kissed her. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as the realization crystallized with brutal clarity.

He should have kissed her. Right there, in that perfect moment when she'd had him pinned and the world had narrowed to just the two of them. When her breathing had gone shallow and her pupils had blown wide. When she'd looked at him like she was barely holding herself back from closing that last precious inch between them.

It would have been insane. Reckless. The kind of catastrophic lapse in judgment that could destroy everything he'd built. But Void , it would have been honest in a way nothing else in his life had been for decades.

Instead, he'd frozen as if he were some untested boy facing his first real temptation instead of a man who'd lived thirty-eight years and learned to take what he wanted without apology.

Coward.

The word sat heavy in his chest, bitter as poison. He'd faced men twice his size with ease, stared into the void of Oblivion itself, and killed people who'd begged for mercy without so much as a tremor in his hands. But one fierce, beautiful woman had him pinned to a training room floor, and he'd been paralyzed by the mere possibility that she might want him back.

He laughed – a harsh, humorless sound that echoed off the stone walls – when was the last time he'd been afraid of anything , let alone his own feelings?

Nineteen years, nearly twenty years since his divorce, since Celia had walked out with half his heart and all of his capacity for this kind of vulnerability. Since then, it had been easy. The occasional casual encounter with people whose names he forgot before dawn, whose faces blurred together in a haze of meaningless physical release.

He'd told himself he preferred it that way. No complications. No expectations. No one who could reach inside his chest and squeeze until he couldn't breathe.

But Serena – Sweet Sithis – Serena had shattered that careful distance without even trying. She'd walked into his life bloodied and defiant and somehow made him remember what it felt like to want someone so badly it became a physical ache. To think about a woman's laugh in the middle of briefings. To catch himself wondering what she was thinking when she got that distant look in her eyes.

To lie awake at night imagining what it would feel like to have her beneath him, above him, wrapped around him, not just physically, but completely . Heart, mind, soul, the whole terrifying package he'd sworn he'd never risk again.

And that was the real problem, wasn't it? He couldn't even untangle what he wanted from her. Was this just physical? The natural result of months of working closely with a woman who moved like violence made flesh, who challenged him intellectually, who looked at him sometimes like she could see straight through his carefully constructed facades?

Or was it something deeper? Something that made his chest tight when she questioned his orders – not with disrespect, but with the kind of sharp wit that forced him to defend his reasoning. Something that made him find excuses to assign her contracts that would keep her close, even when logic dictated she'd be more effective elsewhere.

The uncertainty was almost worse than the want itself. At least desire was straightforward. This…whatever this was, felt like walking through a minefield blindfolded.

Don't say it. Don't even think it.

But the word was there anyway, hovering at the edges of his consciousness like a specter he couldn't banish. Because somewhere between her first contract and now, somewhere between professional respect and midnight conversations about philosophy, he'd done the one thing he'd sworn he'd never do again.

He'd found himself absolutely, irrevocably smitten with her.

No. This was not happening. He was not some lovesick fool pining after a woman who could – and should – put a blade between his ribs without hesitation. He was Lucien Lachance, Speaker for the Black Hand, the most feared assassin in Cyrodiil. He did not spiral because a beautiful woman had looked at him like she wanted to devour him.

And now he was standing in his chambers at four in the morning, spiraling like a man half his age, wondering if he'd just missed his only chance to find out if she felt even a fraction of what he did.

And what exactly was he supposed to do? March to her quarters and demand to know if she'd been thinking about him the way he'd been thinking about her? Corner her in some dark corridor and finally, finally find out what she tasted like?

The very thought made his pulse race and his hands shake, and that terrified him more than any enemy he'd ever faced.

Because this wasn't just about wanting her anymore, this was about needing her in ways that had nothing to do with the physical. This was about the horrifying possibility that she might be the one person who could make him whole again, and the equally horrifying possibility that she might not want to.

What if you're wrong? What if that moment meant nothing to her? What if she was just caught up in the adrenaline, and you're reading something into it that isn't there?

The questions multiplied like poison in his bloodstream, each one worse than the last. What if she regretted it? What if she were in her quarters right now, convincing herself it had been a mistake? What if tomorrow she looked at him with professional distance instead of that heat that had nearly undone him?

What if he'd already lost something he'd never even had?

The rain had started sometime during his third hour of restless pacing, and by the fourth, he'd given up any pretense of finding sleep. The sound of it against the stone was steady, insistent like his thoughts, like the ache in his chest that refused to fade.

He needed air, space. Something other than these four walls seemed to be closing in around him with every passing moment.

It had been a sanctuary within a Sanctuary since he’d come to Cheydinhal all those years ago, where he would go when the weight of command became too much, when he needed to think without the constant presence of others. No one knew about his habit of climbing up there in the small hours; he'd made sure of that. It was the one place in the Sanctuary where he could drop the mask, even if only for a few stolen moments.

The roof.  

Chapter Text

Serena hadn't even noticed the thunderstorm at first; the Sanctuary was too quiet, too insulated from the outside world. But eventually, the sound of it bled in – soft at first, then steadier and more persistent, like a call she couldn't ignore.

She gave up pretending she'd go back to sleep after the third hour of staring at her ceiling.

Her clothes were still damp from earlier, and she pulled her cloak around her shoulders and slipped out of the Sanctuary like a ghost. She didn't light a torch; every twist and turn was muscle memory by now, and the darkness felt appropriate for whatever this restless energy was driving her toward.

When she reached the ladder that led to the hidden exit and roof access, she paused briefly, like the quiet might stop her. But it didn't. If anything, the silence felt expectant.

She pushed upward into the dark.

The rain was cold; not the kind that screamed and raged, but the kind that settled into your bones and softened all the sharp edges of the world. She stepped out onto the slate roof and let it wash over her, tilting her face up to meet it.

She climbed to her usual perch, where the overhang sloped just enough to keep her steady. The slate was slick under her boots, but she'd done this enough times to know which tiles would hold. It was ridiculous, sitting on the roof like some moody street urchin, hoping the rain would rinse away her thoughts. But she needed this – the open air, the endless dark sky, the ache in her knees from kneeling on stone – anything but that damn training room, anything but the ghost of Lucien's expression when she'd taken him down.

She thought about what she'd do tomorrow; if she could face him in the halls, pretend nothing had changed, if he'd want to pretend the same thing, or if he'd —

"Serena?"

Serena's entire body went rigid; she knew his voice like the back of her hand by now, but it was different now, rougher around the edges, as if he'd been in and out of falling asleep. 

"Didn't think anyone else ever came up here," she managed, proud that her voice came out steady.

"Neither did I." There was surprise in his voice, genuine surprise. "I've been coming up here for years when I need to think, I had no idea..."

She finally risked a glance over her shoulder.

He stood a few paces away, and the sight of him made her breath catch; rain had plastered his dark hair to his forehead, droplets tracking down the sharp lines of his face. He wasn't wearing his usual Speaker's robes; just a simple black tunic that clung to his shoulders, and black trousers that looked like he'd thrown them on without much thought. No weapons that she could see, no mask of authority.

He looked real in a way that made her chest ache.

"I couldn't sleep," she offered, turning back toward the horizon that the rain had blurred to nothing.

"I gathered."

The silence stretched between them; not uncomfortable, but filled with anticipation, as if they were both waiting for something neither could name.

She heard him move closer, the careful placement of his feet on the wet slate. Then he was settling beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body through the rain, but not quite touching.

"You're not the only one who couldn't sleep," he said quietly.

That made her look at him again, really look. The rain had darkened his eyelashes and made his eyes seem even more intense than usual. There were lines of tension around them that she'd never noticed before, or maybe had trained herself not to see.

"What's keeping you up?" she asked.

Instead of answering immediately, he was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working like he was fighting with himself.

"The training session," he said finally. "I keep replaying it."

Serena’s pulse jumped. "What about it?"

"How I should have moved, I should have countered your takedown." He paused, his hands flexing against his knees. "But I didn't want to."

"That's a dangerous thing to say."

"I'm aware." His eyes dropped to his hands. "I've been trying not to think about it, or what it means that I didn't want to stop you."

She stared at him as rain streamed down her face, heart hammering against her ribs. He'd just confirmed what she'd been afraid to hope. That the time in the training room – her on top of him, the tension crackling between them – wasn’t one-sided.

"So it wasn't just me," she said quietly, more to herself than to him.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers as something shifted in his expression. "You thought it was?"

She turned to face him more fully, drawing courage from the way the rain was making this feel like a dream. "I've been convincing myself I was imagining things;  the way you linger after briefings sometimes, the books you leave me." She swallowed hard. "The way it feels like there's always something you're not saying." 

“I've been...incredibly careful."

"That's the problem." The words came out more bitter than she'd intended. "I keep thinking I'll grow out of it. This... thing . This stupid ache that starts every time you walk into a room."

Lucien went very still. "But every time I think I've buried it deep enough," she continued, the words pouring out now like she couldn't stop them, "it claws its way back. Usually, when you speak, or when you look at me like you're seeing something more than just another Silencer."

"Because I am, seeing something more," he said roughly. 

The confession hung between them as Serena stared at him, rain streaming down her face. "What are you seeing?"

Instead of answering immediately, he reached up slowly and brushed a droplet of rain from her cheek with his thumb. The touch was feather-light, but it sent electricity racing through her entire body.

"I see someone who's survived things that would break most people," he said, his voice barely audible over the rain. "Someone who challenges me, who makes me remember that there's more to existence than duty and death." His thumb traced the line of her cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "Someone who makes me forget what I'm supposed to be."

"Which is?"

"Controlled. Distant. Untouchable." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I haven't felt untouchable since the day you were assigned to me."

She leaned into his touch despite herself. "How long have you felt this way?"

"Longer than I should have. Longer than I care to admit." His other hand came up to frame her face, both palms warm against her rain-cooled skin. "What about you?"

"I don't know when it started," she admitted. "Somewhere between respect and...this, but I know I've been lying to myself about it for months."

"We both have."

The admission settled between them like a bridge finally built across an impossible divide.

"I dreamed about you last night," she whispered, the confession pulled from her by his proximity, his touch, the way he was looking at her.

His eyes darkened. "So did I, not for the first time."

"What did you dream?"

"You. Beneath torchlight. Looking at me like..." He swallowed hard. "Like you wanted me as much as I wanted you."

Her breath hitched. "I do."

The words hung in the air between them, simple and devastating.

"This is wrong," she said quietly, even as she made no move to pull away from his touch.

"It is."

"You're my superior, there are rules and guidelines…”

"They’re unwritten," he said. “None of this is forbidden per se, though it’s not necessarily encouraged.”

She frowned. "It doesn't matter, the history is still there. I was assigned to you; if this ever came out…” "I would deny it until the Void took me."

Serena gave him a flat look. "And I'd get buried for it."

Lucien didn't argue; they both knew how these things worked in the Brotherhood.

"I've been alone for nineteen years," he said suddenly, the admission seemingly torn from him. "Since my divorce. I told myself I preferred it that way. Clean. Simple." He paused, his thumbs stroking across her cheekbones. "But you...make me remember what it felt like to want someone completely."

" Completely ?"

"Not just..." He paused, seeming to wrestle with the words. "It's more than professional respect. More than..." He cleared his throat, color rising in his cheeks despite the cold rain. " Everything . Your mind, your voice, your terrible habit of questioning my orders because you know there's a better way."

The sky had started to pale at the edges, streaks of warm light bleeding into the horizon. Neither of them had moved to leave, both unwilling to break whatever spell the storm had woven around them.

"I never thought I'd want this again," she said quietly. "After everything…before this." His hands stilled against her face, but he didn't pull away. "I thought I was broken," she continued, her voice barely audible over the rain. "That I'd never be able to feel anything like this without..."

"Without fear?" he asked gently.

She nodded, throat tight. "But this, what I feel when you look at me, it's nothing like that. It's terrifying for completely different reasons."

"Because it's real?" "Because losing it would break me."

"Then don't lose it."

She opened her eyes to find him watching her with such intensity it stole her breath.

"What if we stop pretending?" she whispered.

"Pretending what?"

"That we can walk away from this, that we can go back to just being Speaker and Silencer." She lifted her hand, traced the line of his jaw with trembling fingers. "That we can forget this conversation happened."

His jaw tensed under her touch, and she watched as something shifted in his expression. The careful control he always maintained was fracturing, piece by piece.

"The consequences –"I know." Her thumb brushed across his lower lip, and she felt him shudder. "But I'm tired of pretending I don't want to find out what this could be."

His breathing had changed, become shallower. His eyes dropped to her mouth, then back up to meet her gaze. "Serena..."

"What?"

"If I kiss you right now," he said, his voice rough with barely restrained want, "there's no taking it back."

Her heart stuttered. "I don't want to take it back."

His hands tightened against her face, thumbs stroking across her rain-dampened cheekbones. "Neither do I," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him something.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The rain continued to fall around them, washing away the last of their pretenses, their careful distance, their professional masks.

He kissed her.

It wasn't gentle or tentative; it was desperate, hungry, the kiss of a man who'd been holding himself back for far too long. His hands slid into her hair, tilting her head back as his mouth moved against hers with devastating thoroughness. She responded immediately, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. She could taste the rain on his lips, could feel the tremor in his hands as they framed her face. Every fantasy she'd harbored paled in comparison to the reality of him.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he rested his forehead against hers.

"We can't take this back." "I don't want to."

He searched her eyes, looking for doubt, for regret. When he found none, something in his expression shifted, something that made her chest tighten and her breath catch in her throat.

"Neither do I," he admitted.

The rain continued to fall around them as they sat there in the growing dawn light, foreheads touching, breathing the same air, finally allowing themselves to acknowledge what had been building between them for months.

It was terrifying, it was dangerous, and it was absolutely going to complicate everything.

The descent back into the Sanctuary felt like waking from a fever dream: stone walls, familiar shadows, and the scent of old incense and older secrets.

They separated without speaking in the main corridor, but not without communication. At the junction where their paths diverged, Lucien paused and turned back. Their eyes met for a moment; his still holding traces of that raw vulnerability from the rooftop, hers wide with the weight of what they'd just acknowledged. He gave her the slightest nod, barely perceptible, but she felt it like a promise.

Then he disappeared toward his office, water still dripping from his shoulders, and Serena caught herself watching the way his shoulders moved beneath the wet fabric before forcing herself to look away. She went the other direction, her boots squelching with every step; a ridiculous sound that would have made her laugh under different circumstances.

Her quarters felt smaller than she remembered; as she peeled off her soaked clothing with fingers gone clumsy from cold and adrenaline, she tried to process what had just happened. The kiss replayed behind her eyes, but now, surrounded by familiar walls and the growing light of dawn filtering through her small window, doubt began creeping in around the edges.

Neither do I, he'd said about taking it back, but saying it and living with it were different things entirely.

By the time she made it to the common areas the next afternoon – having slept fitfully through the morning meal – she'd almost convinced herself she could handle this. 

They were professionals. They could maintain the facade, figure out what came next in private.

Then she saw him; Lucien stood near the far wall in his usual spot, speaking in low tones with Teinaava about guard rotations. Every inch the unflappable Speaker – immaculate robes, perfect posture, that familiar hood casting shadows across his features. As if he hadn't been sitting in the rain, confessing to wanting things he shouldn't on the roof hours before.

The hood bothered her more than it should have: after seeing his face so open, the return to his usual concealment felt like a small rejection.

"There she is," Antoinetta called out as Serena appeared. "Wondered where you'd gone to."

"Got caught up with a contract," Serena replied, grabbing a plate and trying to look interested in the selection of bread and cheese. "The storm was worse than I anticipated."

"Terrible weather," Ocheeva agreed from her seat near the fire. "It went on for hours."

Serena nodded, hyperaware of Lucien's presence across the room. She could feel him listening, even as he maintained his conversation with Teinaava. When she glanced up, she caught the slight pause in his words, the almost imperceptible tilt of his head in her direction.

She looked away quickly, heat crawling up her neck.

As she settled at the far end of the table, Vicente looked up from his book with that unnaturally sharp gaze. "You both seem rather...on edge today."

"Both?" Serena's fork paused halfway to her mouth.

"Our dear Speaker has been unusually quiet as well. Distracted, one might say." There was something too knowing in the vampire's tone.

Across the room, she saw Lucien's shoulders tense slightly.

"Maybe the storm kept everyone up," M'raaj-Dar offered with studied casualness, though his green eyes flicked between Serena and Lucien's distant figure.

"Storms do have a way of... stirring things up," Antoinetta added, and Serena caught the edge of a smirk.

They know something. Not everything, but something.

The meal continued with carefully normal conversation, but Serena felt like she was walking a tightrope. Every casual glance toward Lucien's corner felt weighted. Every time their eyes accidentally met – brief, electric moments before one or both looked away – she was sure someone would notice.

She was pushing food around her plate, barely tasting it, when Lucien moved from his conversation with Teinaava. He approached the table with his usual measured stride, but there was something different in the way he moved.

"Serena," his voice was perfectly level, professionally neutral. "Your next assignments."

He placed a small scroll beside her plate, standard dead drop locations and timing. But when he moved to clear the space next to her, she felt the faint crinkle of parchment underneath.

A note, hidden where only she would see it.

Her pulse jumped, but she kept her expression neutral. "Thank you, Speaker."

"Of course." His gloved fingers brushed hers as he set the plate back down, so briefly it could have been accidental.

The touch sent electricity up her arm.

When he walked away, she waited several heartbeats before carefully retrieving the hidden parchment, palming it with the same sleight of hand she used for pickpocketing. The paper was warm from his touch.

I meant every word. 

–L

Simple. Direct. And enough to make her chest tight with something between relief and terror.

She glanced up to find him back in his corner, but this time when their eyes met, he didn't look away immediately. For just a moment - less than a heartbeat - she saw the man from the rooftop looking back at her. Uncertain, wanting, real.

Then Vicente cleared his throat deliberately, and they both startled apart like guilty children.

Vicente looked up from his book with that unnaturally sharp gaze. "You seem rather restless today, dear. Did the storm keep you awake?"

There was something too knowing in the way he asked it, like he was testing the waters.

"Something like that," she managed.

From across the table, M'raaj-Dar's ears twitched with amusement. "Storms do have a way of...clarifying things, no?"

Antoinetta made a thoughtful sound. "I always sleep better after a good storm. Clears the air." Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward where Lucien stood. "Though some people seem more wound up than usual today."

Serena felt heat creep up her neck. Across the room, she caught the slight stiffening of Lucien's shoulders, the way his conversation with Ocheeva became just a fraction too focused.

The note felt like it was burning a hole in her palm. Around the table, her family – because that's what they were, really – continued their meal with expressions ranging from amused to speculative. They didn't know exactly what had happened, but they knew something had shifted.

And looking at Lucien across the room – the careful way he held himself, the slightly too-rigid set of his shoulders, the way he seemed to be working harder than usual to maintain his composure – she realized they were both failing spectacularly at acting normal.

Chapter Text

Serena found the message tucked deep in the hollow of the old oak, just where it was supposed to be. Three days since she'd last checked. Three days since she'd last seen him across the Sanctuary common room, both of them maintaining careful distance.

She unfolded the parchment with steady fingers.

S–

New contract. Lord Caelum, a minor noble making noise about "exposing corruption." Lives alone north of Kvatch: one guard day/night rotation. Target reads in the second-floor study, sunset to midnight.

Needs to look accidental. Structural failure, the house is old, study has exposed beams. If one failed during his evening routine...

Two days, standard rate plus a bonus for clean work. Guard changes at sunset if you need access.

–L.L.

P.S. - I trust you're keeping well.

Serena read it twice, then folded it carefully and tucked it into her belt. It was professional, exactly the kind of briefing she'd received dozens of times before.

Except for that postscript.

She told herself it meant nothing, that it was only politeness, the kind of thing anyone might add to a letter. But her fingers lingered on the parchment longer than necessary before she finally pulled out her own quill.

L–

Understood, I will scout tomorrow. Question on structural approach: compromising supports vs. the beam itself? Best method for timed failure without obvious tampering? My construction knowledge is limited. Locks and walls, yes. Load-bearing calculations, no.

Guidance appreciated.

–S

She hesitated over that last line, quill hovering above the parchment. Too much? Not enough? Did it sound like she was referencing their night on the rooftop?

Before she could overthink it further, she folded the message and tucked it into the hollow.

His response was waiting when she returned from her initial reconnaissance.

S–

Focus on connection points, brackets, and joints where the beam meets the wall. 3/4 inch wrench for bolts, screwdriver for screws. Loosen gradually, leave just enough support.

Timing: failure 1-2 hours into his reading session. Factor weight, movement, and house settling.

Carpenter in Kvatch (Jorik, west gate) for tools. Mention estate repairs.

You adapt well. Always resourceful.

–L.L.

P.S. - I find myself looking forward to your updates on this one.

Serena stared at that postscript for a long moment, her heart doing something complicated behind her ribs. Was he...? No. She was reading too much into it.

She forced herself to focus on the technical details, sketching out a rough plan based on his guidance. The approach was sound. She could make this work.

L–

Tools acquired. Building surveyed; brackets and mortise joints as suspected. Will make initial adjustments tonight during the guard change. Preliminary loosening only.

Concern: The servant checks the property every few days despite dismissal. Early discovery could complicate the accident narrative.

Contingencies?

Your confidence is... appreciated. Been some time since I worked with guidance.

–S

P.S. - I find myself curious what you think of my methods when you're not there to see them.

She sealed the message before she could second-guess the last line.

The response came sooner than expected, tucked into the hollow barely twelve hours after she'd left her message.

S–

Servant: anonymous tip to guards hours after the incident, or delay her visit, sick relative works. Trust your instincts. Technical guidance is just guidance.

More invested in this contract than usual. Your methods have always been elegant.

–L.L.

P.S. - I think very highly of your methods. Distance has never been a barrier to admiration.

Serena read the message three times before the implications fully settled.

He was curious about her work. He'd admitted to watching the weather. And there was something in the tone, warmer than it should be, more personal than professional guidance required.

This was dangerous territory.

She should write back with a simple confirmation. Mission parameters understood, execution to follow. Nothing more.

Instead, she found herself crafting something longer.

L–

The servant is handled. I took your second suggestion. Preliminary work complete. The beam will hold for normal activity, but fail under stress within a timeframe. Everything is ready for tomorrow.

Your investment is noted. Reciprocated. Different, knowing someone else is thinking through each step. Someone whose opinion I value.

Keep wondering what you'd think of my choices. Whether you'd approve.

Will report completion.

–S

P.S. - Your admiration is more motivating than it should be.

She hesitated for a moment before sealing the message.

The contract had gone flawlessly. Lord Caelum’s evening reading session had ended rather dramatically when the ceiling beam gave way exactly as planned. The city guard had ruled it an unfortunate accident, not unexpected in a house of that age.

Serena's final report should have been brief. Mission accomplished, payment requested, moving on to the next contract.

L–

Contract completed. Target was eliminated at roughly 10:30 PM, structural collapse as planned. No tampering detected.

Your guidance was perfect. More than perfect.

Question: Were you thinking of me during the execution? Because I was thinking of you. Wondering if you'd be pleased. If you were waiting to hear.

Collaboration is more satisfying than expected. Something to be said for having someone who understands the work. The way I work.

–S

P.S. - I think I'm getting addicted to impressing you.

His final response arrived the next day, and Serena found herself opening it with more anticipation than any mission closing required.

S–

Excellent work. Clean execution, investigation closed. Payment processed with a bonus.

Yes, I was thinking of you. From preliminary work until your message. Found myself restless. Anticipating your success with surprising intensity.

Watching you take guidance and make it your own, there's an intimacy to it I hadn't anticipated.

–L.L.

P.S. - Consider me thoroughly impressed. The addiction appears mutual.

Serena folded the message carefully, her heart beating faster than mission completion warranted.

This had started as simple professional correspondence. Contract details, technical guidance, and execution reports, the kind of communication that happened regularly throughout the Brotherhood.

But somewhere in the exchange of practical information and polite concern, something else had crept in. An intimacy that had nothing to do with assassination techniques and everything to do with the fact that they were talking to each other for the first time since the rooftop.

They were supposed to be maintaining professional distance, and they were failing spectacularly.

S–

New contract. Multiple targets, all connected to a smuggling ring using noble connections for cover. Three eliminations are required over the next two weeks.

Lord Berich Wotrus - attending Lady Corvina's dinner party, 5th evening of this week.

Count Eugal Luseph - hosting his own ball on the 12th. 

Lady Octavia Tharn - guest at the Autumn Equinox celebration, 20th evening

All must appear natural - heart failure, accidental poisoning, or an unfortunate fall. No connections between deaths can be established. Your background makes you uniquely suited for this work. Payment is triple the standard rate.

I realize this will require... extensive preparation.

–L.L.

Serena read the message twice, a slow smile spreading across her face. He was trying so hard to be professional about this. She could practically feel his careful distance in every clipped sentence.

But she also caught what he hadn't said directly: I know you'll be perfect for this. I know exactly how you'll look in those ballrooms.

She pulled out her quill with particular care.

L–

I'll need to establish Lady Montclair as my identity - a distant cousin to the Montclairs, recently returned from the Gold Coast. A plausible backstory explains any gaps in local knowledge.

For Wotrus: a dinner party requires understated elegance. I'm thinking deep blue silk, conservative neckline, minimal jewelry. The kind of dress that suggests breeding without trying too hard.

For Luseph: his balls are notoriously extravagant. I'll need something that stands out appropriately. Emerald green, perhaps. Lower cut than usual - these events reward a certain... boldness.

For Tharn: Autumn celebration calls for warm tones. Gold or burgundy. Something that moves well for dancing, in case I need mobility.

All gowns will accommodate necessary equipment, naturally.

–S

She sealed the message before she could second-guess the subtle challenge in that postscript.

His response came a day early.

S–

Identity approved, Montclair connection will hold under scrutiny - I've arranged appropriate documentation.

Your dress selections are strategically sound. The Luseph ball approach is particularly... astute. You understand the environment well.

Regarding equipment accommodation, what specific requirements? This will affect the approach recommendations.

Intelligence suggests Wotrus favors the autumn wine from his private reserve, while Luseph has a weakness for flattery regarding his art collection. Tharn never refuses a dance with an attractive partner.

–L.L.

P.S. - I remember such events quite well, perhaps more clearly than I should.

Serena felt heat curl in her spine at that last line. He was thinking about her at those parties, remembering watching her work, seeing how she moved in that world.

Time to push a little harder.

L–

Equipment requirements: standard blade configuration, thigh sheath. The gowns will need high slits for access - nothing that restricts movement if things go sideways.

I'll test the Wotrus approach first; his wine preference makes him vulnerable to substitution. It should be straightforward. Luseph will be more complex. His balls draw imperial attention - more security, more witnesses. I'll need to be particularly charming. For Tharn, dancing creates perfect opportunities. Close contact, easy to slip something into a drink, or find pressure points. The challenge will be ensuring she doesn't collapse mid-waltz.

I assume you'll be conducting oversight as usual? These venues offer excellent vantage points for observation.

–S

P.S. - How high a slit do you think is practical before it becomes...distracting?

She hesitated over that postscript for a long moment, then sealed it anyway.

The first target was down. Lord Wotrus had suffered an unfortunate heart episode during the third course, clutching his chest and collapsing face-first into the soup. Tragic, but these things happened at his age.

Serena's report was detailed.

L–

Wotrus was eliminated successfully. Cardiac arrest via concentrated oleander extract in his private wine. Death occurred during dinner service, witnessed by twelve guests, including two imperial magistrates.

The Montclair identity performed flawlessly. I still remember how to navigate seven courses and three different sets of silverware.

The dress worked perfectly, too. Deep blue silk as planned, with a practical slit to mid-thigh for equipment access. Several gentlemen complimented the choice - Lord Wotrus among them, ironically. I caught sight of your position during the evening. Impressive view of the dining room from that balcony, you would have had clear sight lines to the entire table.

Did you approve of the execution? Or were you too distracted by other elements of the performance?

–S

P.S. - The slit proved quite practical. And judging by certain reactions, appropriately... eye-catching.

His response came within a day.

S–

Clean execution. No suspicions raised, death attributed to natural causes as intended.

Your performance was exemplary. The Montclair persona was convincing; you moved through that room like you belonged there. Which, of course, you did.

The dress was strategically effective. Professional assessment only.

The Faustus ball approaches. Intel suggests a guest list of over two hundred. Higher stakes, more complex environment. Will require maximum credibility.

Prepare accordingly.

–L.L.

P.S. - My attention remained focused on tactical considerations throughout. Though I confess the view was quite...comprehensive.

Enclosed: 500 Septim, including a bonus of 200 Septim.

Serena stared at that last line, her pulse quickening. He was starting to crack. The careful professional distance was developing some serious fissures.

Time to see how much pressure it could take.

L–

Luseph preparations are underway. Emerald green gown as planned - lower neckline, tighter fit. Slit will be higher this time. The ballroom layout requires more mobility, and he keeps his security close. I may need to move quickly. I've been practicing the waltz; it's been years since I danced properly, but the muscle memory remains. There's something to be said for a classical education.

Will you be watching this performance as well? I find myself curious about your perspective on my methods.

–S

P.S. - I hope your tactical focus can handle the increased visual demands.

The second target had fallen beautifully. Luseph collapsed during a particularly energetic quadrille, apparently overcome by excitement and exertion. Tragic, but not unexpected for a man of his appetites.

L–

Luseph has been eliminated. Combination approach - concentrated stimulant in his wine, triggered during physical exertion. Death occurred on the dance floor, witnessed by approximately fifty guests.

The green dress exceeded expectations. I was asked to dance seventeen times - a new personal record. Your surveillance position was more subtle this time. The gallery provided excellent concealment, though I did catch a glimpse of movement during my final waltz with the target.

I confess, knowing you were watching affected my performance. 

–S

P.S. - The higher slit proved quite popular; I may have underestimated its impact.

This time, his response took three full days.

S–

Exceptional work. Luseph’s death is attributed to overindulgence and excitement; investigation was minimal. Your performance was memorable ; the attention you drew was strategically perfect. Everyone in that room was watching you.

Final target approaches. The Tharn celebration will be the most challenging - imperial security, guest screening, and multiple witness pools. I suggest maximum caution.

–L.L.

P.S. - The show was quite thorough. Perhaps too thorough for purely professional observation.

Enclosed: 600 Septim, including a bonus of 200 Septim for...performance bonus.

Serena felt something victorious and warm unfurl in her chest. He was unraveling, and they both knew it.

One more push.

L–

Tharn preparations complete. Burgundy silk with gold threading - appropriately festive. The slit extends to the upper thigh this time. Given the complexity of the venue, I need maximum flexibility. I’m sure you understand.

I've been practicing more...intimate dance forms. The kind that requires close partnership. Trust. The ability to follow someone's lead while maintaining your own balance.

It occurs to me that dancing is not unlike our recent collaboration. The careful attention to timing. The way one person's movement affects the other. The trust required to let someone guide you.

I find myself wondering if you dance, Lucien. If you've ever wanted to lead.

–S

P.S. - I do hope your focus can handle the increased... complexity.

She sealed the message with hands that trembled slightly, not from nerves but from anticipation.

The game had officially begun.

Chapter Text

Lucien stared at Serena's latest message until the words blurred.

I find myself wondering if you dance, Lucien. If you've ever wanted to lead.

He set the parchment down with excessive care, as if it might combust in his hands. Then he stood, walked to his window, and tried to remember how to breathe like a rational person.

This was getting out of hand.

It had started as a simple mission correspondence; professional guidance for a contract that required her particular skills. He'd known she would excel in those environments, had seen her work noble parties before, watched her move through ballrooms like she'd been born to them.

Which she had been, of course.

But knowing she would be effective and actually watching her...those were entirely different beasts.

The dinner party had been manageable; he’d positioned himself where he could observe the target, monitor for complications, and ensure clean execution. Professional oversight. The fact that Serena looked absolutely stunning in that blue silk dress was merely...incidental.

The slit, though.

He'd nearly lost his composure when she'd moved away from the dinner table, the fabric parting to reveal the curve of her thigh, the blade strapped there a dark promise against pale skin. He'd told himself he was observing her equipment placement.

He'd been lying.

The Luseph ball had been worse; that green dress had been a weapon in itself, designed for maximum impact. And she'd known exactly what she was doing. Everyone in there wanted her attention. He'd watched seventeen different fools ask her to dance. Watched her smile and laugh, and charm her way closer to the target. Watched Luseph himself become utterly captivated, pulling her closer during each dance, his hands nearly wandering to places that made Lucien's jaw clench.

And she'd let him. Because it was the mission. Because she was that good at her job.

But when she'd caught sight of him in the gallery, just a moment, a quick glance upward during that final waltz, the look in her eyes had nearly undone him completely. She'd known he was watching, and had played to that audience of one.

Damn her.

And now this latest message, the dancing metaphor was about as subtle as a blade to the throat, the direct question about whether he wanted to lead.

He was a Speaker of the Black Hand. He'd ordered deaths without blinking, manipulated politics across the Empire, and maintained perfect control in situations that would break lesser men.

And one former noble in evening wear was reducing him to the emotional stability of a raw recruit.

He tried to draft a response three times.

The first attempt was pure professionalism: mission parameters, security concerns, tactical recommendations. It read like a training manual and fooled no one, least of all himself.

The second was more honest: acknowledgment of her skill, appreciation for her methods, a carefully worded compliment about her effectiveness. But even that felt like a pale shadow of what was really happening between them.

The third attempt, he crumpled up and threw it into the fire before he could finish it. That contained things that couldn't be taken back, things about watching her move, about the way she looked in those dresses, about what he wanted to do when this contract was finished and she came back to the Sanctuary.

About how he very much wanted to lead, if she was offering to follow.

He paced his fort like a caged wolf. This was insane; she was driving him insane, and she knew it, and she was enjoying every moment of his carefully constructed composure falling apart.

The worst part was that he was letting her, more than letting her, he was participating. Each message had been a little less professional than the last, each response revealing more than he intended. Because watching her work was intoxicating in ways that had nothing to do with professional pride. She was magnificent in those ballrooms, deadly and beautiful and completely in control. She belonged in that world, moved through it with a confidence that took his breath away.

And she was doing it for him, accepting his deadrops, his guidance, and his oversight. The combination of her competence and her submission to his authority was doing things to his head that he didn't want to examine too closely.

If you've ever wanted to lead.

Sweet Sithis, what was she asking? What was she offering ?

He knew what it sounded like and what his body was screaming at him meant. But Serena was subtle, clever, perfectly capable of maintaining plausible deniability while driving him to the edge of madness.

He sat back down at his desk and pulled out fresh parchment. No more pretending this was purely professional, no more careful distance. If she wanted to play with fire, he could oblige her.

He read it once, then sealed it before he could change his mind.

She wanted to know if he wanted to lead? She was about to find out.

Serena found the message earlier than expected, tucked into the hollow with what felt like deliberate precision. He'd been checking the drop more frequently, too, then. She unfolded it with the same casual confidence she'd been carrying through this entire exchange, expecting another carefully worded response that revealed just a little more of his growing frustration.

Instead, she got a bomb.

S–

Your preparations sound comprehensive, and the dress choice is tactically sound for the venue requirements.

I confess, your recent performances have been instructive in ways I hadn't anticipated. Watching you command a room, manipulate targets, and move with such lethal grace has been more affecting than purely professional observation typically warrants.

You ask if I dance. I do, when circumstances require it. I also know how to lead when the situation calls for it. The question is whether you're truly prepared to follow where that might take you. The Tharn elimination will conclude this contract. After which, we'll need to discuss the evolution of our working relationship.

Final oversight will be comprehensive. I find myself reluctant to miss any aspect of your performance.

–L.L.

P.S. - My focus has been entirely too complicated lately. Perhaps it's time we addressed the source of that complication directly.

Serena read it once. Then again. Then a third time, her heart rate increased with each pass.

Oh. Oh.

This wasn't the carefully restrained response she'd been expecting; this wasn't Lucien trying to maintain professional distance while she chipped away at his composure. This was him dropping the pretense entirely.

Whether you're truly prepared to follow where that might take you.

Evolution of our working relationship.

Address the source of that complication directly.

She sank onto a fallen log, message trembling slightly in her hands. This was Lucien Lachance essentially telling her that when this contract was over, they were going to have a very different kind of conversation. The kind that didn't hide behind mission parameters and tactical considerations, the kind that acknowledged what had been building between them for nearly a year.

Her mouth went dry.

She'd been playing a game, pushing his boundaries, enjoying the power of watching his control crack. It had been thrilling, seeing the careful Speaker lose his composure over her descriptions, her teasing, her increasingly bold messages.

But this wasn't him losing control; this was him choosing to let it go. And suddenly she realized she might be in over her head. All her teasing about dancing, about leading, about whether he'd been watching her, she'd thought she was the one in control behind the barrier of written words and playful innuendo.

But Lucien wasn't a man who got pushed around; he was a man who made calculated decisions, even when those decisions involved surrendering to something he wanted. And apparently, he'd decided he wanted her.

The thought sent heat spiraling through her chest, followed immediately by a spike of panic.

The question is whether you're truly prepared to follow where that might take you.

Was she ? She'd spent weeks enjoying the fantasy, the flirtation, the safe rebellion of their increasingly intimate correspondence. But that's all it had been in her mind – fantasy . A game of words and implications that let her feel powerful and desired without actually having to face the consequences.

Now he was calling her bluff, and the terrifying part was that she wasn't sure it had been a bluff at all.

She thought about their night on the rooftop; the raw honesty, the admissions that had changed everything between them. The way he'd looked at her when he said she was all he wanted.

She thought about the way her pulse jumped every time she saw him in the Sanctuary corridors, the way she'd started anticipating his messages, crafting her responses with increasing care. The way she'd been describing her dresses and her movements, wanting him to see her, to want her.

The way she'd been thinking about him while she danced with other men.

Oh, shit.

She was in so much deeper than she'd let herself admit. And now he knew it too.

Final oversight will be comprehensive.

He was going to be watching tonight. Watching her final performance in that burgundy dress with the scandalous slit. Watching her dance and flirt, and charm Lady Tharn into position for elimination. But this time, he wouldn't be watching as a detached professional. He'd be watching as a man who'd just admitted he wanted her the same way she wanted him, a man who was planning to "address the complication" when she got back.

The thought made her skin feel too tight, made her breath come shorter.

She needed to respond, but what could she say? How did she answer a message that had just shifted the entire foundation of their relationship?

She pulled out her quill with hands that weren't quite steady.

L–

Message received and understood. I believe I may have underestimated the implications of my recent correspondence. What began as strategic communication appears to have evolved beyond my initial calculations.

You ask if I'm prepared to follow. I find myself uncertain of the answer, which is itself perhaps an answer. The Tharn elimination will proceed as planned. Though I confess, knowing the nature of your oversight changes the context considerably. We will indeed need to discuss the evolution of our working relationship. I suspect that conversation will be more consequential than either of us initially anticipated.

–S

P.S. - I believe I'm beginning to understand what I've been asking for. The question now is whether I dare to want it.

She sealed the message before she could overthink it further.

As she walked back toward Kvatch to prepare for the evening, one thought kept circling through her mind: she'd been playing with fire, thinking she could control the burn, but tonight, she was going to find out if she was brave enough to let herself get consumed.

Serena stood before the mirror in her rented room, adjusting the gold threading that caught the candlelight, checking the way the fabric moved when she turned. The slit extended to her upper thigh as promised, revealing the deadly blade strapped there, and a considerable amount of skin beside it.

It was beautiful, absolutely perfect for tonight's work.

And she was terrified: not of the mission, Lady Tharn would be easy enough to eliminate during the dancing, a quick application of pressure to the right nerve cluster while she was spun close during a waltz. The imperial security was extensive but predictable, and the guest list manageable.

No , she was terrified because somewhere in the shadows of that celebration, Lucien would be watching. Not as the Speaker overseeing a contract, but as a man who'd just made his intentions unmistakably clear.

…whether you're truly prepared to follow where that might take you.

Her reflection stared back at her, all elegance and deadly grace. She looked like she belonged in these ballrooms, like she'd been born for this world of silk and secrets.

But underneath the confident exterior, her heart was racing.

Because when this night was over, when the contract was complete and she returned to the Sanctuary, everything would change.

And for the first time since this all began, she wasn't sure she was ready for what came next.

Chapter Text

The Tharn estate blazed with light, every window golden against the darkening sky. Carriages lined the circular drive, their passengers emerging in silks and velvets that rivaled the autumn foliage. The celebration was already in full swing when Serena arrived, fashionably late as befitted her cover.

Serena made her entrance with practiced grace, burgundy silk whispering against marble as she glided into the main ballroom. The gold threading caught the chandelier light, making her seem to shimmer as she moved.

But beneath the elegant exterior, her heart hammered against her ribs.

He was here. Somewhere .

She could feel the weight of his gaze even though she couldn't locate him in the crowd. The knowledge that he was watching, not just conducting professional oversight, made every movement feel heightened, charged with meaning beyond the mission requirements.

"Lady Montclair?" A young man with pale eyes and an eager smile appeared at her elbow. "Count Wotrus spoke of you before his...unfortunate passing. Mentioned your grace on the dance floor."

Serena accepted his offered arm with a practiced smile, letting him guide her toward the refreshment table while she scanned the room. Lady Octavia Tharn held court near the orchestra, resplendent in deep purple that complemented her silver hair. The target looked robust, animated; it would be hours before she could maneuver close enough for the elimination.

Which meant hours of performing under Lucien's hidden scrutiny. The thought made her skin prickle with awareness.

She danced the first set with the eager young man, then a second with a portly duke who kept complimenting her "continental style." But she found herself moving differently than usual, more conscious of the way the burgundy silk clung to her, the way the high slit revealed glimpses of her thigh with each turn. More aware of how her hair moved when she laughed, how the candlelight played across her décolletage.

During the third dance, she caught a glimpse of movement in the musicians' gallery above the ballroom. Just a shadow, there and gone, but it made her pulse jump.

Found you.

Her partner, some minor lord with wandering hands, spun her close, and she used the momentum to glance upward again. Nothing visible, but she felt that familiar weight of observation. Professional assessment mixed with something far more personal.

Whether you're truly prepared to follow where that might take you.

The memory of his words made her miss a step, earning a concerned look from her partner.

"Are you quite well, my lady?"

"I may have had a bit too much already," she murmured, offering her most dazzling smile. "Perhaps I need some air?"

She excused herself and moved toward the terrace doors, needing a moment to center herself. This was ridiculous. She was a professional assassin, not some blushing debutante. She had work to do.

But as she stepped onto the moonlit terrace, the cool air hitting her flushed skin, she couldn't shake the feeling that tonight was about more than just eliminating Lady Tharn.

"Magnificent view."

The voice from the shadows made her heart stop. She turned, expecting to see another guest who'd wandered onto the terrace for air. Instead, her breath caught as a figure materialized from the darkness at the far end; black robes emerging from what had been empty space, the red hand emblazoned across his chest stark in the moonlight.

Lucien. In full Speaker regalia, the invisibility spell dissipating around him, his eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

He shouldn't be here ; this is beyond risky, it would be catastrophic if anyone else came outside–

"The grounds are lovely," she managed, her voice barely steady. "Though I'm surprised to encounter... company ."

"I find it difficult to maintain proper oversight from such a distance." He moved closer, each step measured and deliberate, the dark robes making him seem to flow rather than walk. "Particularly when there are more interesting subjects to observe."

The formal words held layers of meaning that made her pulse race; he was speaking professionally, but his gaze held all the weight of their correspondence, their time on the roof, and weeks of building tension.

"You're taking an enormous risk," she whispered, glancing toward the ballroom windows.

"Yes." His voice was rough, "I am."

"Interesting subjects?" She turned to face him fully, the moonlight catching the gold threads in her dress. "I hadn't noticed anything particularly noteworthy."

His lips curved in something too sharp to be called a smile. "Then you clearly haven't been paying attention."

He was close enough now that she could see the way his eyes traced the lines of her dress, lingering on the dangerous slit that revealed the blade strapped to her thigh. Close enough that she could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Your performance tonight has been… exquisite ," he said quietly.

" Performance ?" The word came out breathier than she intended.

"The way you move through that ballroom. The way you dance, the way everyone in there watches you and wants what they can't have ." His voice dropped lower. "But they don't know who you really are, do they? They see the silk and assume softness, yet they don't see the blade strapped to her thigh."

Serena's throat felt tight. "And what do you see?"

He stepped closer, so close she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. “I see a woman who’s been playing a very dangerous game,” he murmured, tilting her chin up with a finger. “Pushing boundaries just to see how far she can go before something, or someone, snaps.”

His hand lifted, hovering just above the line of her neckline, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “I see someone who’s been testing my control with every word, every move. Describing her dresses. Her dances. Her poisons. You knew what you were doing.”

“Lucien–” “I see someone,” he cut in softly, “who asked if I wanted to lead. And I don't think she realized what saying yes might cost her.”

The air between them felt molten as Serena’s heart pounded in her chest – not from fear – but anticipation. She could smell the sharp tang of his cologne, feel the way her body leaned into him even as her thoughts screamed to be careful. To stay professional .

But she’d crossed that line long ago.

“The contract –” she tried, her voice thin and breathless.

“Can wait.” His thumb brushed along her jaw, a featherlight contact that burned like a brand. “Lady Tharn will be dancing for hours. And you and I…” His gaze darkened. “We have unfinished business .”

“Here?” she whispered.

“Why not here?” His smile was slow, wolfish. All pretense stripped away. “You wanted to know if I could lead, let me show you.”

Before she could speak, his hand slid to the small of her back, drawing her in – not roughly, but with an authority that made her knees weaken. And Serena, Serena who’d been so sure she was the one in control, suddenly found herself on the edge of something she couldn’t pull back from.

Then his voice dipped lower, rougher, right at her ear. “Say the word, Serena. Tell me no, and I’ll walk away. But if you want this…if you want me –” He paused, his breath hot against her throat, “I need to hear you say it.”

Her hands curled in the fabric of his coat, the silk of her gown whispering between them.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Lucien. Yes .”

And then his mouth was on hers.

The kiss shattered every illusion of patience either of them had left. His hands tangled in her hair, careful not to disturb the braid around the crown of her head, while the other seized her hip and pulled her flush against him. She could feel the heat of his body through the silk, the tension in his muscles, the hunger that had been coiled so tightly inside him now breaking loose.

She moaned against his lips, her fingers fisting in the front of his robes as she kissed him back with equal fire. There was nothing careful about it; this was surrender.

He broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Hold on to me,” as his hands found the back of her thighs.

And then he lifted her.

She gasped as he pinned her gently but firmly against the cold stone pillar, the contrast against her heated skin making her tremble. His mouth found hers again, devouring her like a man starved, like he’d been waiting for this since the moment they met.

"Still think you're ready to follow where this leads?" he asked, his voice rough with want.

Serena looked up into his dark eyes, seeing her own desire reflected there, and realized that ready or not, she was already falling.

"Yes," she whispered.

His smile was sharp and satisfied. "Good. Because after tonight, after you finish your work in there, we're going to have a very different kind of conversation."

He stepped back, letting the cool air rush between them, and suddenly she felt his absence like a physical ache.

"Your target is getting restless," he said, nodding toward the ballroom windows where Lady Tharn could be seen searching the crowd. "She's been asking about the mysterious Lady Montclair. It’s time to give her what she's looking for."

Serena smoothed her dress with shaking hands, trying to restore some semblance of order to her hair. But she could still taste him on her lips, still feel the imprint of his hands on her skin.

"Where will you be?" she asked.

"Watching," he said, melting back into the shadows. "I'm always watching, Serena. But tonight... tonight I'm not just observing your technique."

 Lady Tharn was an enthusiastic dancer, if not a particularly skilled one. She spun Serena around the ballroom with more energy than grace, chattering about the orchestra, the decorations, and how lovely it was to have such accomplished company.

"You dance beautifully, my dear," she said as they moved through the steps. "So fluid, so... precise."

"Thank you." Serena smiled, letting herself be guided into the more intimate center of the waltz. "I had excellent instruction."

And she had, between the years of dancing masters, deportment lessons, and the careful education of a noble daughter. But tonight, every movement felt different, because somewhere in the shadows above, she knew Lucien was watching.

She could still taste him on her lips.

The memory of that kiss, desperate, hungry, weeks of suppressed desire finally breaking free, made her pulse race even as she maintained perfect form. The way his hands had tangled in her hair, the rough sound he'd made when she'd kissed him back, the absolute certainty in his voice when he'd said they would finish this later.

"My dear, are you quite well?" Lady Tharn's voice seemed to come from very far away. "You look rather flushed."

"The dancing," Serena murmured, allowing herself to be spun closer. "So invigorating."

Lady Tharn laughed, pulling her into the final flourish of the waltz, and Serena found the opening she'd been waiting for. A quick application of pressure to the carotid artery, precisely calculated force applied with surgical precision.

Lady Tharn stumbled slightly, her grip loosening. "Oh my," she said, sounding confused. "I feel rather... dizzy..."

"Perhaps some air?" Serena suggested, supporting her weight with apparent concern as other dancers began to notice. "The excitement of the evening..."

But Lady Tharn was already collapsing, her body going limp in Serena's arms as the blood flow to her brain ceased. Stroke, the physicians would say later, was brought on by the excitement and exertion of dancing. Tragic, but not unexpected for a woman of her age.

The ballroom erupted into concerned chaos as Serena called for help, playing her part perfectly: the concerned dance partner, the innocent bystander, the mysterious Lady Montclair who'd tried so hard to help. Through it all, she was acutely aware of the hidden observer above, who had been watching her work with professional appreciation and something far more personal.

When the physicians arrived and pronounced Lady Tharn beyond help, when the guests began to disperse in subdued clusters, Serena made her excuses with appropriate regret and slipped away into the night.

Three targets eliminated, contract complete.

But as she retrieved her horse and rode away from the Tharn estate, her thoughts weren't on professional satisfaction or payment earned. They were on dark eyes and rough hands, and the promise in his voice when he'd said they would finish what they'd started.

The Drunken Dragon was exactly the kind of establishment Serena preferred for post-mission decompression; clean but unremarkable, expensive enough to ensure privacy but not so luxurious as to attract attention. She'd taken their best room under yet another false name, paid for a week in advance, even though she'd probably leave by morning.

Old habits, even now, with her blood still singing from that kiss, professional caution ruled.

She bolted the door, drew the curtains, and finally allowed herself to exhale.

The burgundy dress hit the floor in a whisper of silk, the blade came off her thigh with practiced efficiency, and was set carefully on the bedside table within easy reach. The elaborate hairstyle she'd worn to the celebration was dismantled pin by pin until her dark hair fell loose around her shoulders.

Only then did she allow herself to think about what had happened on that terrace.

Let me show you.

The memory sent heat spiraling through her chest. She'd expected careful restraint, measured responses, the controlled man she thought she knew. But instead, she'd gotten raw hunger, desperate need, weeks of suppressed desire finally given freedom.

Three successful eliminations, three flawless performances, and all she could think about was the way he'd kissed her like he was drowning and she was air.

She deserved to celebrate properly.

The innkeeper's wife was more than happy to accommodate her requests – the modest copper tub they had, carried up and positioned by the fire, the hottest water they could boil, and something dry and red from the cellar. If she was going to relive the most earth-shattering kiss of her life, she was going to do it in absolute luxury.

After the staff left, Serena prepared her bath and arranged her weapons within easy reach – her favorite dagger was on the side table, another smaller blade tucked behind the washbasin. The window was checked for alternate exits, and the door was barred and warded.

The heat was perfect, just shy of scalding, unknotting muscles she hadn't realized were tense from three weeks of careful performance. The bath salts made her skin feel silk-soft, and the wine, void , the wine was magnificent. Rich and complex, with just enough bite to remind her she was gloriously, triumphantly alive.

She'd left the window cracked open despite the autumn chill, letting in the sound of distant revelry from the common room below and the whisper of wind through dying leaves. The contrast between the cool air on her face and the hot water everywhere else was intoxicating.

This was her ritual; after every difficult contract, every extended mission that required her to be someone else for weeks at a time, she would find a place like this and remind herself who she really was and strip away the false identities, the careful performances, the masks upon masks, until only Serena remained. Tonight felt different, though. Tonight, she wasn't just shedding Lady Montclair's elaborate persona.

Tonight, she was trying to understand what it meant that the Speaker of the Black Hand had materialized from shadow just to kiss her senseless.

She reached for the expensive soap she’d picked up a few days prior, and began the slow, methodical process of washing away the last three weeks: Lady Montclair's sickly sweet perfume, the careful cosmetics, the residue of other people's lives and deaths. She scrubbed until her skin was pink and tingling, until she was nothing but herself in the candlelit privacy of her temporary sanctuary.

The wine was making her feel languid and philosophical. She let herself sink deeper into the tub, water lapping at her collarbone, and considered the evening's revelations.

The way he'd materialized from the shadows, dropping his invisibility spell like it meant nothing. The enormous risk he'd taken just to be near her, to touch her, to claim that moment for himself.

Whether you're truly prepared to follow where this leads.

She took a long sip of wine, letting the warmth spread through her limbs. Ready or not, she was already following; she had been following since that night on the rooftop when they'd finally admitted what was building between them.

But tonight had been different; the careful distance had finally shattered completely.

She thought about the way his hand had felt tangled in her hair, the rough sound he'd made when she'd kissed him back. The absolute certainty in his voice when he'd promised they would finish this.

But what did that mean, exactly? What happened when she returned to the Sanctuary? Would he acknowledge what had passed between them, or would duty and discretion force them back into careful professionalism? The uncertainty was both thrilling and terrifying.

She pushed the questions aside and focused on the immediate luxury surrounding her. Her legs needed attention anyway - three weeks of maintaining a noble lady's appearance had left certain practicalities neglected. She reached for the small dagger she'd placed within arm's reach of the tub - never completely unarmed, even here - and tested the edge against her thumb. Perfect.

Something was soothing about the ritual. The careful scrape of steel against skin, the precision required, the meditative focus. It reminded her that she was still herself, still deadly, still in control of her own body and choices.

Even if those choices were leading her into uncharted territory.

The wine and hot water were making her bold, making her honest with herself about what she wanted. And what she wanted was to see how far this could go, how far she was willing to let him lead. She let herself imagine what would happen when she returned to the Sanctuary. How he would look at her across the common room, knowing what had passed between them. Whether he would find excuses to speak with her privately, or if he would make her wait, let the anticipation build until she was half-mad with wanting.

Knowing Lucien, probably the latter.

The thought made her smile as she continued her careful work, the blade moving in sure strokes. He liked control, liked being the one who set the pace and called the shots. But tonight had shown her something else: that his control had limits, and that she could push him past them if she knew exactly how to apply pressure.

The question was: did she want to?

Her body's response to that thought was immediate and unmistakable. Heat that had nothing to do with the bathwater pooled low in her belly, making her acutely aware of every inch of skin the wine-warm water was caressing.

Yes. She definitely wanted to.

She finished with the blade and set it aside, then reached for the bottle of expensive oil she'd packed, scented with jasmine and something darker. Another indulgence, another way of reclaiming herself after weeks of being someone else.

The oil felt sinful against her skin, transforming the simple act of moisturizing into something almost ceremonial. She worked it into her arms, her shoulders, taking her time, luxuriating in the feel of her own hands on her body.

Tomorrow, she would have to return to the Sanctuary. Face whatever came next. Navigate the new reality of their relationship, whatever that turned out to be.

But tonight... tonight was hers. To remember the way he'd looked at her like she was something precious and dangerous all at once, to relive the moment when weeks of careful flirtation had finally exploded into something real and immediate and absolutely terrifying.

To imagine what his hands would feel like on skin that wasn't constrained by silk and circumstance.

She sank deeper into the tub until the water lapped at her collarbone, wine glass balanced precariously on the tub's edge, and let herself drift into warm, wine-soaked fantasies of dark eyes and careful hands and promises whispered in shadow.

But even as she tried to lose herself in the memory of his touch, darker thoughts crept in.

Whether you're truly prepared to follow where this leads.

The question felt heavier now, weighted with implications she hadn't fully considered in the heat of the moment. Because following meant trusting, and trust was something she'd learned to ration carefully.

Her first marriage had taught her that desire and possession often wore the same face, that men who claimed to want her often wanted to own her instead, control her, break her down until she was nothing more than an ornament for their arm and a vessel for their needs.

She'd killed her husband for it, in the end, then The Brotherhood had found her after that, having recognized her particular talents, and offered her a life where her skills were valued, and where she answered to no one's whims but her own.

But Lucien...Lucien was different; he had to be different. The way he'd asked her if she was ready, the way he'd waited for her answer before kissing her. The way he'd pulled back when she needed air, given her space to breathe even as his own control was fraying.

She set the wine aside and drew her knees up to her chest, suddenly feeling exposed despite the privacy of her room. What if she was wrong about him? What if the careful consideration, the respect for her boundaries, was just another kind of manipulation, or a more sophisticated trap than her husband's crude demands?

The thought made her stomach clench.

But then she remembered the way his voice had cracked when he'd told her on the rooftop that she was all he wanted, the weeks of careful correspondence, never pushing too hard, always giving her room to retreat, the enormous risk he'd taken tonight just to touch her, to prove that what was between them was real.

This wasn't a calculation; this was a man as terrified and desperate as she was.

The realization settled something in her chest, eased the knot of anxiety that had been building. Because if Lucien was scared too, if he was navigating this as blindly as she was, then maybe they could figure it out together.

Maybe trust could be built slowly, carefully, with the same precision they both applied to their work.

She reached for the wine again, letting the warmth chase away the chill of old memories.

The candles had burned lower while she'd been lost in thought, casting dancing shadows on the inn's walls. The water was still perfectly warm, the wine still rich on her tongue, but something had shifted inside her chest.

Tomorrow, she would ride back to Cheydinhal. Back to the careful dance of professionalism and hidden glances. Back to pretending that nothing had changed while everything had changed.

But tonight, for the first time in longer than she could remember, she wasn't afraid of what came next.

Chapter Text

Cheydinhal was exactly as she'd left it three weeks ago: the purple-trimmed houses and all too polite pedestrians still grimaced at the house with the weathered stone and boarded windows. Serena dismounted and led her horse around to the concealed stable entrance, muscle memory guiding her through the familiar routine of homecoming.

But nothing felt familiar anymore.

She could still taste wine on her lips, still feel the phantom heat of bathwater against her skin. Still remember the way Lucien's hands had felt tangled in her hair, the rough desperation in his voice when he'd finally kissed her. The contrast between last night's luxury and this morning's reality should have felt jarring, but instead it felt like stepping between two different lives.

The hidden entrance in the well was easy enough to slide down. Cool air rose to meet her, carrying the familiar scents of old stone, weapon oil, and the peculiar mixture of incense and decay that clung to every Brotherhood stronghold.

Home, or the closest thing she had to one.

"Well, well." Antoinetta’s voice drifted up from the common area as Serena descended. "Look what the wind blew in. How did our mysterious Lady Montclair fare among the nobility?"

"Successfully." Serena emerged into the main chamber, setting her travel pack down casually. "Three contracts fulfilled, no complications."

The common room held its usual evening crowd: Antoinetta lounging in her preferred chair near the fire, Vicente grinding something unpleasant-smelling in his mortar, Teinaava sharpening his claws with meditative precision. The picture of domestic normalcy, if the definition of domestic included a half-dozen professional killers.

"This one is impressed," M'raaj-Dar rumbled without looking up from his scroll. "Three weeks among the soft-handed nobles without throttling anyone? Serena shows remarkable restraint."

"The soft-handed nobles were the easy part," she replied, accepting the goblet of wine Antoinetta offered. "It was maintaining all those curtsies that nearly did me in."

The familiar banter felt strange on her tongue, like a costume that no longer fit quite right. She found herself scanning the room automatically, looking for dark robes and red insignia, even though she knew he wouldn't be here. The Speaker kept his own space and maintained his own schedule.

Especially now.

"Lucien's looking for you," Vicente said without glancing up from his work. "Wants a full debrief once you've settled in."

The emphasis on full debrief made the hairs on the back of Serena’s neck stand on end, though she kept her expression carefully neutral. "Of course, it’s standard procedure."

But there was nothing standard about the way her pulse jumped at the mention of his name, nothing professional about the heat that pooled in her spine at the thought of seeing him again.

Serena glanced down at the simple green wool she'd chosen for the road. Practical, unremarkable, designed to help her blend into the crowd of merchants and minor nobility who traveled the roads between cities — the complete opposite of Lady Montclair's burgundy silk.

“You should probably change,” Antoinetta said without looking up from the book she wasn’t reading.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, if you're meeting with Vicente about poison recipes." Antoinetta’s smile turned wicked. "But if you're reporting to our dear Speaker… "

M'raaj-Dar's purr of amusement rumbled across the room. "This one thinks Antoinetta speaks wisdom. Serena has been away for many weeks. Perhaps she wishes to... make an impression ?"

"It's a mission debrief," Serena protested, though she could feel heat creeping up her neck.

"Of course it is." Antoinetta’s tone was pure innocence. "And I'm sure it will be wonderfully... thorough. "

"I'll just be a moment," Serena muttered, ignoring their knowing chuckles as she headed for her room.

Her quarters were small but private, carved from the living rock and furnished with the basics: bed, wardrobe, writing desk. She'd made a few attempts to personalize the space since she’d been in Cheydinhal, keeping her attachment to physical things minimal. But tonight, as she selected a clean tunic and dark leggings, she found herself paying attention to details that had never mattered before. The way the black fabric clung to her curves, the way her hair looked loose around her shoulders versus pulled back in a practical braid.

Ridiculous. This was a mission debrief, nothing more.

Except it wasn't, and they both knew it.

She brushed her hair out of the braid it had been in for days, armed herself with her usual complement of visible and concealed weapons, and made her way to Lucien's study with the measured pace of someone who definitely wasn't thinking about the way he'd looked at her in the moonlight.

Lucien’s office door was heavy oak, reinforced with iron bands. She knocked twice, heard his voice bid her enter, and stepped into the room that served as both office and private space for the Sanctuary's Speaker.

He was seated behind his desk, formal robes immaculate, hood drawn up as it usually was. Professional distance personified. But when he looked up at her entrance, she caught the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his knuckles whitened where they gripped a piece of parchment.

"Serena." His voice was perfectly controlled, giving nothing away. "Please, sit."

She took the chair across from his desk, acutely aware of the space between them. Three feet of polished wood and careful propriety, when days prior she'd been pressed against his chest, his hands in her hair, his mouth on hers like he was drowning.

"Your contracts?" he asked, reaching for a fresh piece of parchment.

"Complete." She kept her own voice level, professional. "Lord Wotrus suffered an unfortunate cardiac episode during dinner, Count Luseph collapsed on the dance floor, and Lady Tharn had a stroke, per the physicians."

His hand moved across the parchment, recording the details with practiced efficiency. But she noticed the way his gaze lingered on her mouth when she spoke, the tension in his shoulders beneath the formal robes.

"Any complications? Witnesses?"

"None. Lady Montclair was the perfect grieving acquaintance in each case." She leaned back in her chair, trying to project casual confidence. "The alias remains clean for future use, though I plan on giving it a break for the time being since she’s been seen at three high-profile deaths."

"Good." He set down his quill and looked at her directly for the first time since she'd entered. His hand moved across the parchment, recording details he'd already known, but she noticed the way his gaze lingered on her mouth when she spoke, the tension in his shoulders beneath the formal robes.

"Clean work," he said, setting down his quill. "No complications, no witnesses pointing toward anything unnatural. The Brotherhood's reputation for subtlety remains intact."

"Thank you." She leaned back in her chair, trying to project casual confidence. "Though I suspect you already knew the outcomes before I walked in here."

"I did." He looked at her directly for the first time since she'd entered. The impact of that gaze, dark and intense and full of barely leashed hunger, made her breath catch audibly. "But protocol demands a formal debrief."

She watched his eyes trace the line of her throat and linger on the pulse point that was beating far too fast for someone delivering a routine report.

"Protocol," she repeated softly. "Is that what we're calling this?"

His jaw tightened, hands clenching into fists on the desktop. "What would you call it?"

"Honestly?" She leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to match his. "I'd call it two people trying very hard to pretend that the other night didn't fundamentally change our working relationship."

Lucien’s brow cocked at her bluntness. He stood abruptly, moving to the window with his back to her, and she could see the tension in every line of his body.

"And if it did?" His voice was carefully controlled. "Change our working relationship?"

"Then maybe," she said, rising from her chair but not approaching, "we should discuss what that means, professionally speaking, of course."

"The walls have ears here," he said quietly, still facing the window. "And there are... expectations . Protocols that govern how a Speaker conducts himself with Brotherhood members."

"I'm aware." She took a careful step closer. "But protocols can evolve to changing circumstances."

He turned back to face her, and the hunger in his expression made her knees weak. "Changing circumstances," he repeated, as if testing the words. "Is that what you'd call what's happening between us?"

"I'd call it inevitable." Another step, bringing her close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat. "The question is whether we acknowledge it openly or continue pretending that professional oversight explains why you materialized from the shadows just to kiss me senseless."

His breath caught audibly at her directness. "Serena –" "Because if we're discussing the evolution of our working relationship," she continued, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "I should probably mention that having you watch my every move now feels less like supervision and more like foreplay."

The confession broke something loose in her chest. She closed the remaining distance between them, stopping just out of reach, close enough to see the pulse hammering in his throat.

"I think," she said softly, "we should continue this conversation somewhere more private."

His eyes darkened further. "Are you sure? Because once we cross that line –"

"We already crossed it." She reached up, fingers barely brushing the edge of his hood. "Days ago, on that terrace. The question is what we do about it now."

For a moment, she thought he might pull away, retreat behind professional barriers and Speaker protocols. Instead, his hand came up to cover hers, pressing her palm flat against his chest, where she could feel his heart racing.

"Come back here in one hour," he said roughly. "If anyone asks…"Our dead drop location’s been compromised, and we need to find a new one," she finished. "I know how to be discreet, Lucien."

His smile was sharp and full of promise. "Good. Because what I have in mind requires considerable... privacy ."

She stepped back, pulse thrumming with anticipation, and moved toward the door, but his voice stopped her before she could leave.

"Serena?"

She looked back over her shoulder.

"Welcome home."

The words shouldn't have affected her so strongly; it was politeness, standard courtesy. But something in his tone, in the way he was looking at her like she was the most dangerous and precious thing he'd ever seen, made her chest tighten with an emotion she wasn't ready to name.

"It's good to be back," she said simply, and slipped out into the corridor before she could do something truly inadvisable.

One hour.  

She could maintain professional composure for one hour. But after that, she was going to find out exactly where this dangerous game would lead them both.

Chapter Text

Serena stared at her reflection in the small mirror above her washbasin, second-guessing every decision she'd made in the last ten minutes.

She'd returned to her quarters intending to change into something more appropriate for a private meeting with the Speaker. Something that projected confidence and control, something that didn't scream, "I've been thinking about you kissing me against a marble pillar for the past two days.”

Instead, she'd stood in front of her wardrobe for fifteen minutes, pulled out three different outfits, and held each one up to herself while spiraling through increasingly ridiculous scenarios.

The deep blue dress with the low neckline? Too obvious. Like she was advertising exactly what she hoped would happen. The emerald dress with the leg slit? Absolutely not–she'd look like she was trying to seduce him, which would make everything awkward if he wanted to keep things professional. The burgundy silk from her travel pack, similar to what she'd worn as Lady Montclair? Too loaded with memory, too much of a reminder of what had happened on that terrace.

Which left her staring at the black leggings and tunic she'd worn during their earlier meeting. The dress that had been on her body when he'd looked at her like she was something precious and dangerous. When his voice had dropped to barely above a whisper. When he'd admitted that every moment in the same room was torture.

Maybe that was exactly what she should wear.

This wasn't a seduction, she told herself firmly. This was... what ? A discussion of evolving professional dynamics? A negotiation of new boundaries? An exploration of possibilities that both excited and terrified her?

She had no idea what this was, which was why she'd reached for the bottle of Cyrodilic brandy she kept hidden behind her spare boots. Just one shot, she'd told herself. Something to steady her nerves, to take the edge off the anticipation that was making her hands shake like a novice before her first kill.

The brandy burned going down, settled like liquid fire in her empty stomach, and did absolutely nothing to calm the butterflies currently staging a revolt in her chest.

"Wonderful," she muttered to her reflection. "Now you're nervous and slightly drunk."

She'd killed three people in as many weeks without breaking a sweat, had maintained perfect cover for twenty-one days straight, and had successfully seduced and eliminated some of the most paranoid nobles in the Empire. But the thought of knocking on Lucien's door made her feel like a green recruit facing her first contract.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She could walk into a room full of potential enemies and become whoever she needed to be: a charming socialite, a grieving widow, an innocent merchant's daughter. But with him, there were no masks to hide behind, no convenient persona to slip into. There was only herself, raw and uncertain and wanting things she'd never let herself want before.

Another glance at the mirror confirmed what she already knew–the plain black leggings and the sleeveless tunic actually looked good on her; they clung to her curves without being obvious about it, brought out the color of her eyes, and had the added benefit of not looking like she was trying too hard. The brandy had brought a flush to her cheeks that could pass for natural color, and her hair, loose around her shoulders instead of the severe braid she'd started with, softened her features.

She looked... approachable. Like Serena, not like whatever role she might be playing.

She checked her weapons out of habit, the visible dagger at her hip, the throwing knife secured in her boot, the small blade tucked against her ribs. Then she realized what she was doing and laughed at herself. She was arming for a conversation with a man who'd already seen her at her most vulnerable.

A man who'd kissed her like she was air and he was drowning.

The memory sent heat spiraling through her face, making her acutely aware of every inch of skin beneath the leather leggings. The way the fabric moved when she breathed, the way it would feel if his hands...

She cut that thought off before it could go further. Maybe she should have changed after all, maybe she should have chosen something that would remind him exactly what he'd be getting if this conversation went the way they both seemed to want it to.

But then again, maybe the point was that he'd already seen her in this dress. Had already looked at her like she was everything he'd ever wanted while she wore this exact outfit. Maybe continuity was better than trying to be someone different.

Maybe she should stop overthinking everything and just...go.

She took a final look in the mirror, smoothed down her hair one last time, and decided that, nervous or not, slightly drunk or not, this was as ready as she was going to get.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and headed for the door.

Lucien stood in the center of his quarters, surrounded by the evidence of his own neurosis, and wondered when he'd lost his mind completely.

His desk had been cleared and reorganized four times; the papers were now stacked with military precision, his writing implements arranged at perfect right angles, every surface polished to an obsessive shine. His cot – which shouldn't matter, or even factor into whatever conversation they were about to have – had been stripped and remade with fresh linens that still smelled of lavender soap.

And he'd changed his robes three times. First, the ebony set, because onyx was traditional, authoritative, appropriately formal for a Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. Then he'd caught himself in the mirror and realized he looked like he was preparing for a funeral, not a private meeting with a woman who'd kissed him with enough passion to stop his heart. 

So he'd switched to the obsidian robes; richer, more luxurious, the kind of thing he wore for important ceremonies. But those made him look like he was trying too hard, like he was dressing up for her, which was...actually exactly what he was doing, but he didn't want it to be obvious.

Now he stood wearing simple black robes, no ornamentation, no formal insignia. The kind of thing he wore when he wasn't being the Speaker, when he was just himself, whoever that was anymore.

The uncertainty was killing him.

He'd conducted hundreds of meetings over the years: briefings, debriefings, disciplinary hearings, strategic planning sessions. He could negotiate with Listeners and jailors, he could stare down assassins twice his size without flinching, and could make life-and-death decisions with cold precision.

But he had no idea how to handle what was about to happen when Serena knocked on his door.

What if she'd changed her mind? What if the hour of reflection had made her realize that crossing this line was too dangerous, too complicated? What if she came here planning to establish new professional boundaries instead of tearing down the ones they'd already shattered?

What if she hadn't changed her mind at all, and he was about to discover that he was completely out of his depth?

The thought of making a fool of himself, of revealing just how long it had been since he'd navigated anything like this, made his stomach clench with something similar to panic – he was the Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, for Sithis's sake. He commanded respect, fear, and absolute obedience. He did not get nervous about women.

Except apparently he did, when the woman in question was Serena.

He caught himself checking his appearance in the mirror again and forced himself to stop. His hair was fine, his face was clean-shaven, and his robes unwrinkled. He looked...presentable. Professional. Like a man who definitely hadn't spent the last hour obsessing over every detail of his quarters and his appearance.

The lie was unconvincing even to himself.

He ran his hands through his hair, destroying the careful arrangement he'd managed earlier, and forced himself to stop pacing. She would be here soon, they would talk, figure out what this was, what it meant, where it could go.

And if his hands were shaking slightly as he straightened papers that were already perfectly aligned, well, that was between him and his obsessive need to control his environment when everything else felt like it was spiraling beautifully, terrifyingly out of control.

Maybe that was the real problem. For the first time in years, since before his marriage, since before the Brotherhood had claimed him completely, he was facing a situation where he couldn't predict the outcome. Where his usual tools of authority and intimidation would not only not work, but would actively sabotage what he wanted.

What he wanted was for her to look at him the way she had on that terrace. Like he was something worth risking everything for.

The knock, when it came, was soft but confident. Distinctly Serena.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he crossed to the door, and for a moment, he wondered if this was how his targets felt in their final moments, that sense of standing on the edge of something irreversible, something that would change everything.

He took a breath, opened the door, and found her standing in the corridor wearing the same green dress she'd had on during their earlier meeting. No elaborate preparation, no attempt at seduction through wardrobe. Just...herself.

The sight of her, familiar and yet completely transformed by possibility, made everything infinitely more terrifying.

"Come in," he managed, stepping aside to let her pass, and tried not to notice the way she moved with that deadly grace he'd been watching for months, the faint scent of brandy on her breath that suggested she was just as nervous as he was, the slight flush in her cheeks that could have been nerves or alcohol or anticipation.

She stepped into his quarters, and he closed the door behind her with hands that he was grateful weren't visibly shaking.

The soft click of the latch seemed to echo in the sudden silence between them.

Serena stood just inside the doorway, taking in the immaculate state of his quarters with an expression that was carefully neutral. But he caught the slight quirk of her eyebrow as she noticed the perfectly aligned papers, the obsessively organized desk, the way every surface gleamed as if it had been polished within the last hour.

Because it had been.

"Your quarters are..." she began, then seemed to think better of whatever she'd been about to say. "Very organized."

"I like things in their proper place." The words came out stiffer than he'd intended, and he winced internally at how formal he sounded.

"Of course you do." There was something almost fond in her tone, which somehow made everything worse. Or better, he couldn't tell anymore.

She moved further into the room, her movements carrying that deadly grace he'd been watching for months, but there was something different now. A tension in her shoulders, a carefulness to the way she held herself that suggested she was just as off-balance as he was.

The thought was oddly comforting.

"Would you like..." He gestured vaguely toward the chairs near his desk, then realized how ridiculous that sounded. Like this was a business meeting. Like they hadn't kissed each other senseless on a moonlit terrace less than a day ago. "That is, you can sit wherever you're comfortable."

"Thank you." She chose the chair facing his desk but angled it slightly, so she could see both him and the room's exit. Professional habit , he realized. Even here, even with him, she was noting escape routes.

He remained standing, unsure whether sitting would make this easier or more awkward. Everything felt charged, weighted with possibility and uncertainty in equal measure.

"So," she said after a moment, and he could hear the slight strain in her voice that suggested she was working to keep it steady. "Here we are."

"Here we are," he agreed, then immediately felt like an idiot for parroting her words back at her.

Another silence stretched between them, this one less comfortable than the last. He found himself cataloging details he'd never noticed before, the way she worried her lower lip when she was thinking, how her fingers drummed against her thigh in a barely perceptible rhythm, the fact that she kept glancing at his face and then looking away, as if she couldn't quite maintain eye contact.

"This is ridiculous," she said suddenly, and there was a note of frustration in her voice that made him look at her more closely. "We're both adults. We're both professionals. We should be able to have a conversation about...whatever this is...without acting like nervous children."

"You're nervous too?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, and he immediately regretted the admission of his own uncertainty.

But her expression softened slightly, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. "Terrified," she admitted. "Which is absurd, considering I've spent the last three weeks killing people without breaking a sweat."

"I reorganized my desk four times," he found himself saying. "And changed clothes three times before you arrived."

That earned him a small, genuine upturn of her lips. "I changed clothes five times. And I may have had a shot of brandy for courage."

"Did it help?"

"Not at all." Her smile widened just a fraction. "Though it did give me something to blame if I say something completely mortifying."

Despite everything, he felt his own mouth curve upward. "I should have thought of that."

"There's still time. I'm sure you have something stronger than wine in here somewhere."

He did, actually – a bottle of expensive Altmer spirits that had been a gift from a grateful client years ago. But somehow, the idea of needing alcohol to get through this conversation felt like admitting defeat before they'd even begun.

"I think," he said carefully, "I'd rather remember this clearly."

The words hung in the air between them, heavier than he'd intended. Serena's eyes widened slightly, and he watched as a flush crept up her neck.

"Remember what, exactly?" Her voice was softer now, less strained.

And there it was, the question that cut straight to the heart of everything. What were they doing here? What did either of them expect to happen?

He moved closer, not quite closing the distance between them but near enough that he could see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat, could catch the faint scent of jasmine and something else that was uniquely her.

"Whatever this conversation becomes," he said, meeting her eyes directly for the first time since she'd entered his quarters. "Whatever we decide, and whatever happens next."

"And what do you want to happen next?" The question was barely above a whisper, but it carried all the weight in the world.

He looked at her for a long moment, the way the candlelight caught the gold flecks in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips as she waited for his answer, the tension in her posture that suggested she was prepared for him to retreat behind professional barriers.

"I want," he said slowly, his voice rougher than usual, "to stop pretending that what's between us has anything to do with professional oversight."

Her breath caught audibly.

"I want to stop analyzing every glance, every word, every moment of contact for hidden meanings." He took another step closer, close enough now that he could see the way her pupils dilated as he approached. "I want to stop lying to myself about why I’ve followed you to almost every contract you’ve taken, why I’m breaking open books on history or philosophy, why I've been going slowly insane for months pretending I don't want you."

"Lucien–"I want," he continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "to finish what we started on that terrace. Not because we're caught up in the moment, not because the risk of being caught made everything feel heightened, but because we both know this has been building for far longer than one night."

She was staring at him now with an intensity that made his chest tight, her lips slightly parted, her breathing shallow.

"I want to find out what happens when we stop being the Speaker and a Silencer, and start being just...whatever this is." He reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away, and traced the line of her jaw with one finger.

She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed for just a moment before opening again to meet his gaze.

"That's what I want," he said simply. "What do you want, Serena?"

The question hung in the air between them, and he watched as a dozen different emotions flickered across her face. Want, fear, hope, uncertainty; all of it so raw and honest that it made his chest ache.

She pulled back slightly from his touch, not rejecting it but needing space to think, to breathe. He let his hand drop, respecting the distance she needed even as everything in him wanted to close the gap between them.

“I…” she started, then stopped, her fingers twisting together in her lap. “I want that too, all of it. I want to stop pretending this is just professional interest, to stop analyzing every interaction for hidden agendas.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, but steady. “I want to trust that when you look at me like that, it’s because you see something worth wanting, not something you want to own or control or break down into manageable pieces.”

The last words came out in a rush, and he could hear the old pain beneath them. The fear that had been carved into her by hands that had claimed to love her while trying to destroy her.

“Serena.” He kept his voice gentle, non-threatening, the same tone he might use to approach a wounded animal. “You know I would–”

“I know.” She looked up at him then, and there was something fierce in her expression alongside the vulnerability. “My head knows that. But sometimes my body remembers things my mind has tried to forget.”

He nodded, understanding flooding through him. She’d told him pieces of her past over the months, enough for him to know that her first marriage had ended in blood and was full of violence. Enough to know that trust, for her, was something that had to be earned inch by careful inch.

“Then we take this slowly,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “As slowly as you need.”

“Even if slowly means…very slowly?” There was something almost desperate in the question, as if she expected him to change his mind, to decide she wasn’t worth the patience.

“Especially then.” He moved back to give her more space, settling into the chair across from her so they were at eye level. “Serena, I can wait as long as you need me to wait.”

She studied his face, searching for insincerity, impatience, or any of the subtle signs of manipulation she’d learned to watch for. Whatever she found seemed to satisfy her, because some of the tension left her shoulders.

“I do want this,” she said quietly. “I want to see where this goes, what we could be without all the professional barriers. I just…I need to know that if I say stop, or slow down, or not yet, you’ll listen.”

“Always.” The word came out with absolute certainty. “Your boundaries aren’t obstacles to overcome, Serena. They’re information about how to…care for you properly.”

“So,” she said after a moment, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “What does ‘slowly’ look like to you?”

He considered the question, thinking about the woman across from him; deadly, brilliant, capable of ending lives without hesitation, but still carrying wounds that made trust a precious commodity.

“Slowly means we don’t pretend that what happened on that terrace didn’t happen,” he said carefully. “Because it did, and we both wanted it, and I don’t think either of us regrets it.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she nodded. “No regrets.”

“Slowly means we acknowledge that there’s physical attraction here, obviously, but we don’t let that override everything else.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “It means when I kiss you again, and I will kiss you again, it’s because we both want it, not because we’re caught up in adrenaline or wine or the thrill of secrecy.”

“When you kiss me again,” she repeated, and there was something almost playful in her tone despite the seriousness of the conversation.

“When,” he confirmed, his own mouth curving slightly. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t want to. But I’m also not going to assume that because you responded to me once, you’ll always be ready for whatever I have in mind.”

She was quiet for a moment, considering. “What if…what if I am ready? What if slowly doesn’t mean never?”

The question sent heat spiraling through him, but he kept his expression carefully controlled. “Then you tell me. With words, not just body language, that I might misinterpret. You tell me what you want, when you want it, how you want it.”

“That sounds…” She paused, seeming to search for the right word. “Terrifying, actually. I’m not used to being that direct about what I want.”

“We can practice,” he said, then caught himself and added quickly, “I mean, practice communicating. Not…sex Well, eventually sex, if you want, but –”

“Lucien.” Her voice was soft, but there was laughter in it. “You’re rambling.”

“I’m nervous,” he admitted. “This is important to me. You’re important to me. I don’t want to mess this up by moving too fast or making assumptions.”

She stood then, and for a moment, he thought she might leave. Instead, she moved closer, stopping just within arm’s reach.

“What if I told you,” she said quietly, “that right now, in this moment, I would like you to kiss me? Just kiss me. Nothing more complicated than that.”

His breath caught. “Are you telling me that?”

“I’m telling you that.” Her voice was steady, certain. “I want you to kiss me, Lucien. Here, now, because we both want it and because we’re both choosing it.”

He stood slowly, giving her time to change her mind, to step back, to reconsider. But she stayed where she was, looking up at him with clear eyes and flushed cheeks and an expression that held no trace of uncertainty.

“Are you sure?” he asked, even as his hands came up to frame her face.

“Very sure.” Her hands settled on his chest, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his robes. “Kiss me.”

So he did.

This time was nothing like the terrace. No wild hunger, no reckless blur. His mouth met hers slowly, deliberately, as though every press of his lips was a vow he shouldn’t be making. Still, the restraint only sharpened the edges, the heat coiled low in his chest, aching to be loosed.

She tasted of brandy, of warmth, of something dangerous he wanted too much. When she made a soft, desperate sound against him, his control faltered. His thumb traced the delicate line of her jaw, and his lips parted hers deeper, hungrier, before he forced himself to steady again. A careful exploration, yes, but threaded through with the undeniable pull of longing.

By the time he tore himself back, both of them were breathing hard, foreheads nearly touching. Her eyes were dark, her lips flushed and swollen, and he couldn’t stop staring. The restraint held – just barely – but only because if he didn’t cling to it, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop at all.

When they broke apart, she was breathing hard, her eyes dark, and her lips slightly swollen.

“That,” she said quietly, “is what slowly looks like to me.”

“I can work with that definition.”

She laughed softly, the sound vibrating against his chest where her hands were still pressed. “Good. Because I have a feeling we’re going to need to figure this out as we go.”

“Most worthwhile things require some improvisation,” he murmured, reluctantly stepping back to give her space. The loss of contact felt immediate and sharp, but he could see in her eyes that she needed a moment to gather her thoughts.

She moved back to her chair, but this time she settled into it differently; less like she was preparing for a formal meeting, more like she belonged there. “So what happens now?” she asked, and there was something almost shy in the question. “I mean, practically speaking. Do we pretend nothing’s changed when we’re around the others?”

“We figure it out,” he said, settling back into his own chair. “It’s not like there are rules against this sort of thing. The Brotherhood doesn’t forbid relationships between members; it’s just that most people find it easier to avoid the complications.”

“Complications,” she repeated thoughtfully. “Like having to worry about someone you care about every time they take a contract?”

“Among other things.” He considered the question seriously. “Though I suspect I’ve been worrying about you regardless for months already, so that particular complication may already be a lost cause.”

She looked surprised. “You worry about me?”

“Constantly,” he admitted. “Which is…unprofessional of me. I’ve been finding excuses to oversee your contracts, not because I doubted your abilities, but because the thought of you facing danger without backup made me…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Uncomfortable.”

“That’s either very sweet or a concerning abuse of your authority,” she said, though her tone was teasing.

“It’s both,” he acknowledged. “But it means we’re just being honest about most of the complications that come with caring about a fellow Brotherhood member.”

The familiar banter felt good, felt normal in a way that eased some of the intensity of the last few minutes. But underneath it, he could feel the shift in everything between them with the acknowledgment of what they both wanted, the promise of careful exploration, the knowledge that this conversation had changed the fundamental nature of their relationship.

"For what it's worth," Serena said, her voice growing more serious again, "I don't think we need to make any grand announcements. The others aren't blind; they've been making little comments here and there, but..."

"But it's ours," he finished, understanding immediately. "Whatever this becomes, it's between us first."

"Exactly." She smiled, and it was the first completely unguarded expression he'd seen from her all evening. "I'm not ready to have Antoinetta making more pointed comments about my romantic life quite yet."

"She's going to make them anyway," he pointed out. "She's remarkably observant when it comes to other people's business."

"True. But at least this way she'll have to speculate instead of having confirmation." She paused, considering. "Actually, I think it might be better if we don't say anything at all. To anyone. At least not for now."

He nodded slowly. "Probably wise. Less complicated if this stays between us while we figure out what it is."

"And if it doesn't work out..." She didn't finish the sentence, but he understood. If things went badly, it would be easier for both of them if their private business remained private.

"It removes some of the pressure," he agreed. "No expectations from the others, no commentary, no one watching our every interaction for signs of drama."

"I should probably go," Serena said eventually, though she made no move to stand. "It's getting late, and if I stay much longer, people will definitely start drawing conclusions."

"Probably," he agreed, though he found himself reluctant to end this moment. "But before you do... when can I see you again? I mean, really see you. Not just a passing glance, or a passing note via dead drop."

Her smile turned thoughtful. "Actually, I have a contract in Bruma next week. Should be fairly straightforward, and it shouldn't take more than a few days."

"Bruma." He considered this. "I could have business there as well. You'd be surprised how many people perform the Black Sacrament in that city, something about the cold makes people... contemplative about their enemies."

"What a coincidence," she replied, her brow raising in acknowledgement. "It would be convenient if the Speaker happened to be conducting Brotherhood business in the same city where one of his agents was working."

"Very convenient," he agreed solemnly. "Though I suppose if we happened to encounter each other at some tavern, obviously by coincidence, it would only be polite to share a drink. Compare notes on the local... atmosphere ."

"The Jerall View Inn has excellent ale," she said casually. "And the rooms themselves are quite roomy."

"I'll keep that in mind." He stood as she finally rose from her chair. "For purely professional reasons, of course."

"Of course." She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the latch. "Lucien?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For understanding. For being patient. For..." She gestured vaguely at the space between them. "For all of this."

She smiled once more, then slipped out into the corridor, leaving him alone with the lingering scent of jasmine and the certain knowledge that everything had just changed.

Chapter Text

The Jerall View Inn’s common room was nearly empty when Lucien arrived, just a handful of travelers nursing ales by the fire and a bard in the corner playing something melancholy on a lute. He’d been in Bruma for two days, conducting legitimate Brotherhood business while waiting for word from Serena. Her contract should have been finished yesterday at the latest; a simple elimination, according to the client’s specifications. But “simple” had a way of becoming complicated in their line of work.

He spotted her immediately, despite her attempts to blend in with the other patrons. She sat in a corner booth, hood up, nursing what looked like her second or third drink. Everything about her posture screamed exhaustion, from the slight slump of her shoulders to the way she cradled her mug like she was trying to absorb its warmth.

Something was wrong.

He approached slowly, giving her time to notice him before he reached her table. When she looked up, he could see the fatigue in her eyes, the kind that came from a job that had gone sideways in every possible way.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked quietly, gesturing to the empty seat across from her.

“Please.” Her voice was rougher than usual, and she cleared her throat as he settled into the booth. “Though I should warn you, I’m not exactly pleasant company tonight.”

“Rough contract?” He kept his voice low, mindful of the other patrons, even though none of them seemed to be paying attention to their corner booth.

“The roughest.” She took a long sip of her drink, something stronger than wine, by the smell of it. “Every piece of intelligence was wrong. The target wasn’t where he was supposed to be, his guards were twice as numerous as reported, and the escape route I’d planned was blocked by construction that apparently started the day after our client gave us the information.”

Lucien felt a familiar knot of concern tighten in his stomach. “But you completed it?”

“Eventually.” There was something grim in her smile. “Took me three days instead of one, and I had to improvise a completely different approach. The target’s dead, the client will be satisfied, but it was…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Messy.”

“Are you hurt?” The question came out sharper than he’d intended, his eyes already scanning what he could see of her for signs of injury.

“Nothing serious, few bruises, some scrapes, my pride took more damage than anything else.” She shifted slightly in her seat, and he caught the way she favored her left side.

“Show me.” The words were out before he could stop them, and her eyebrows rose.

“Here?”

“Your arms,” he clarified, realizing how that had sounded. “You said bruises, and I can see you’re moving carefully.”

She glanced around the common room, then seemed to decide it was dim enough to risk it. She pushed back the sleeves of her traveling cloak, revealing forearms that were mottled with ugly purple and yellow bruises, some of them finger-shaped.

The sight hit Lucien like a swift kick to the gut, his hands clenched on the table, and he had to work to keep his voice level. “Who did this to you?”

“The target’s bodyguard,” she said matter-of-factly, already pulling her sleeves back down. “Big Nord with hands like dinner plates. He got hold of me before I could slip away.”

“Is he still alive?” The question came out deadly quiet, and Serena’s eyes widened slightly at his tone.

“Lucien–“Is he still alive?” he repeated, there was something in his voice that made her lean back slightly.

“No,” she said firmly. “He’s not. I handled it.”

“Good.” The word came out savage enough that she blinked. Then, as if realizing how he sounded, he forced himself to relax his hands, to breathe. “Seeing someone’s marks on you…”

“Makes you want to kill them?” There was something almost fond in her voice, despite the circumstances.

“Makes me want to hunt them down and show them exactly what happens to people who put their hands on you,” he said honestly, then caught himself. “Which is completely irrational, since you’re perfectly capable of handling yourself, as you did.”

“It’s a little irrational,” she agreed, but her expression had softened. “Also sweet, in a terrifying, possessive sort of way.”

She looked at him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across her face. “That should terrify me,” she said finally. “The possessiveness, I mean. It should set off every warning bell I have.”

“But it doesn’t?”

“It doesn’t.” She seemed almost surprised by her own admission. “Maybe because I can see the difference between possessive and controlling. You want to protect me, not own me.”

“There’s a difference,” he agreed, though his voice was rough. “A significant one.”

She was quiet for a moment, studying his face in the dim light of the tavern. “Would it help if I told you that blood sprayed like a bottle of champagne when I slit his throat? I had to rinse my shoes in the half-frozen river to not have a trail.”

“It does,” he admitted. “And while I’d have loved to see the sight, I’m still imagining creative ways to desecrate his corpse.”

“As much as I enjoy our work chats, we’re in a tavern,” she said quietly, glancing around at the other patrons. “This isn’t the place for that conversation.”

Lucien followed her gaze, taking in the bard, the handful of travelers, and the serving girl who was watching their table with obvious curiosity. She was right, this wasn’t the place for anything important or intimate.

“Do you want to go somewhere more private?” he asked carefully, then immediately added, “I mean to talk. Just to talk, I know you’re tired, and hurt, and probably want nothing more than quiet and a soft bed.”

She looked at him for a long moment, and he could see her weighing options, considering risks and benefits the way she always did.

“Actually,” she said finally, “what I want is not to be alone right now, the contract… it was rougher than I made it sound. I spent three days thinking I might not make it out, and I…” She paused, then continued more quietly. “I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts tonight.”

“Then you won’t be.” The words came out with absolute certainty. “Whatever you need.”

“I have a room upstairs,” she said, then quickly added, “with two chairs and a fireplace. We could talk there, or just… sit quietly. If you want.”

He could hear the careful way she was phrasing it, making sure he knew she wasn’t asking for anything more than company. Making sure he understood that “slowly” was still the operative word, even if she needed his presence.

“I’d like that,” he said simply.

She nodded, finishing the last of her drink and setting the mug aside. “Room seven. Give me a few minutes to get settled, then…” She hesitated, and he could see her working through something in her head. “Actually, would you… When you come up, would you knock? Before you come in, I mean.”

The request was almost hesitant, but Luicen understood immediately. After three days of everything going wrong, of being grabbed and hurt and having to fight her way out, she needed to feel in control of who came into her space and when.

“Of course,” he said, meaning it completely. “I’ll knock and ask, and if you say no, for any reason, I’ll go back to my own room without question.”

Something in her expression eased at that. “Thank you.”

Serena stood carefully, favoring her left side again, and he had to resist the urge to help her. She needed to move under her own power right now, needed to feel capable and independent, even if she was hurting.

“Serena?” he called softly as she turned to go.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you made it back,” he said simply. “I’m glad you’re safe, and I’m glad we had a drink together.” She disappeared up the stairs, leaving him alone with his drink and the knowledge that in a few minutes, he’d be knocking on her door. Not as the Speaker checking on an agent, not as a superior ensuring a job was properly completed, but as… whatever they were becoming. Someone who cared about her enough to sit quietly in her room just so she wouldn’t have to be alone with the memory of a contract gone wrong.

He finished his drink, left payment for both their tabs, and headed upstairs.

Room seven was at the end of the corridor, and he could see light flickering under the door. He knocked gently, not wanting to startle her.

“Serena? It’s me. Can I come in?”

There was a pause, long enough that he wondered if she’d changed her mind. Then her voice came through the door, quieter than usual but steady.

“Yes. Please.”

He opened the door and stepped into the warmth of her room. It was larger than he’d expected, with a fireplace already crackling cheerfully and two comfortable-looking chairs positioned near it. She’d changed out of her traveling clothes into something softer: dark leggings and an oversized shirt that made her look smaller and more vulnerable than he was used to seeing her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, closing the door behind him. “For coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me here.” He took in the room properly, her pack carefully organized in the corner, her weapons cleaned and laid out on the small table adjacent to the bed, everything in its place despite her exhaustion. Even after a contract gone wrong, she maintained her habits. “You seem like you’re in pain. How are you feeling?”

She moved toward the fireplace, and he could see the stiffness in her movements more clearly now, the way she held herself like everything ached. “Like I got thrown around by a Nord the size of a mountain,” she said with dry honesty. “And like I haven’t slept properly in three days because every shadow looked like a potential threat.”

“Sit,” he said gently, gesturing toward one of the chairs. “You look ready to fall over.”

“I feel ready to fall over.” She settled into the chair with visible relief, then looked up at him with something that might have been shyness. “Would you… I mean, if you don’t mind, would you sit with me? I know it’s late, and you probably have your room to get back to…”

“Yes.” He moved to the other chair, close enough that he could see the firelight dancing in her eyes. “There are things I need to do, yes, but this is my priority right now, Serena.”

Something in her expression softened at that, some tension he hadn’t even realized she was carrying releasing from her shoulders. “I keep thinking about it,” she said quietly. “The contract, all the ways it could have gone wrong.”

“But it didn’t go wrong,” he pointed out gently. “You figured it out, you survived, you completed the job. That’s what matters.”

“I know that, logically.” She curled up in the chair, drawing her knees up toward her chest. “But my mind keeps circling back to the moment when that bodyguard grabbed me. For just a second, I thought… ”

“What can I do?” he asked simply. “What do you need?”

She was quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. “Just… stay? Talk to me about something else, or don’t talk at all.”

“Then I’ll stay.” Lucien settled back in his chair, letting the comfortable silence stretch between them for a moment before speaking again. “Tell me about Bruma. Not the contract, the city. What did you think of it?”

She smiled slightly, recognizing the distraction for what it was and seeming grateful for it. “Cold,” she said immediately. “Colder than I expected. The people are friendly in that way that comes from everyone having to survive the same harsh winters.”

“Did you have time to explore at all when you weren’t tracking your target?”

“A little.” Her voice was growing more relaxed, some of the tension bleeding out of it as they talked. “There’s a lovely little bookshop near the chapel. The owner was telling me about some rare texts on ethically sourced gems that just came in from Rimmen…and the wine selection at the inn is surprisingly good for somewhere so far north. It’s no Surilie Brothers’, obviously, but respectable.”

As she talked, describing the city and its people, he watched the way the firelight played across her face, the way her posture gradually relaxed as the mundane conversation pulled her away from darker thoughts. This was what she needed, not grand gestures or passionate declarations, just his presence and the quiet comfort of normal conversation.

He realized it was what he needed, too, after days of worrying about her, of imagining all the things that could go wrong, just sitting here listening to her voice was enough.

The conversation eventually wound down into comfortable silence, the fire crackling softly between them. Serena had curled deeper into her chair, her eyes growing heavy despite her obvious efforts to stay awake.

“You should get some sleep,” he said gently. “You’re exhausted.”

“I know,” Serena failed to stifle a yawn, “I just…don’t want you to leave yet.”

“I don’t have to leave right away. I can stay until you fall asleep, if you’d like.”

She was quiet for a long moment, and he could see her working through something in her head. 

“Actually… I don’t want you to go back to your room tonight.” He could see the slight tension in her shoulders, the way she was watching his face for his reaction, ready to retreat if she’d pushed too far too fast.

“Serena…” he began carefully.

“I don’t mean –” she said quickly, color rising in her cheeks. “I’m not asking for…I just mean stay. Sleep here. I have a perfectly good bed that’s large enough for two people to share without…complications.”

He could hear the vulnerability beneath the practical words, the admission that she needed his presence in a way that had nothing to do with physical desire and everything to do with comfort, with trust.

“Are you sure?” he asked gently. “Not about wanting me to stay, I can hear that you mean it, but are you sure you’ll be comfortable? That you won’t feel…too crowded?”

The question seemed to surprise her, and he watched as understanding flickered across her face. He was thinking about what he knew about her first marriage, about the ways trust could be violated in intimate spaces, about how sharing a bed could feel like vulnerability or safety depending on who you were sharing it with.

“With you?” She considered the question seriously. “No, I don’t think I’d feel trapped. But…” She hesitated, then seemed to decide on honesty. “I tend to be a…rough sleeper, especially if something’s left me a bit unsettled. I don’t want to wake you or make you uncomfortable if I’m restless.”

“I’ve slept through worse,” he said, plainly. “And if you do have nightmares, I’d rather be here if it’s needed than lying awake in my own room wondering if you’re alright.”

Something in her expression softened at that. “You’d stay? Just to sleep, nothing more?”

“I’d stay,” he confirmed. “For whatever you need, however you need it.”

She was quiet for a moment, staring into the fire, and he could see her weighing the decision. When she looked back at him, there was something settled in her expression, as if she’d come to a conclusion she could live with.

“I’d like that,” she said simply. “I’d like you to stay.”

He nodded, feeling something settle in his chest at her words. “Do you need to get ready for sleep? I can step out into the hall for a few minutes if you need privacy.”

“That would be… yes, thank you.” Serena stood carefully, taking her time getting up. “There’s a spare shirt in my pack if you want something more comfortable to sleep in. It might be a bit small, but it’s better than sleeping in your robes.”

“Thank you.” The shirt she’d mentioned was soft linen, well-worn, and clearly a favorite. He waited while she gathered what she needed and disappeared behind the folding screen in the corner.

When she emerged a few minutes later in a long sleeping tunic, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder, he took his turn changing. The shirt hardly stretched across his shoulders, and hit just above his navel. He usually opted to not wear a shirt when he slept, but the shirt was comfortable and smelled faintly of the jasmine soap she used.

The bed was smaller than what he was used to, but large enough for two people if they didn’t mind being close. Serena had already settled on the right side, leaving him the left, closer to the door, a consideration he appreciated, knowing it gave both of them a clear line of sight to the exit.

“The fire should last most of the night,” she said as he settled beside her, careful to leave space between them. “But it gets cold in these mountain inns, especially given that your room is in a basement. Don’t be surprised if you wake up freezing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He pulled the blankets up, hyper aware of her presence beside him, the warmth radiating from her body, the soft sound of her breathing.

“Lucien?” Her voice was quiet in the darkness.

“Yes?”

“Thank you. For coming to Bruma, for being here, for… all of this.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said gently. “Get some sleep. You need it.”

She was quiet for a moment, then he heard her shift slightly. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Serena.”

Despite the unfamiliar bed, the awareness of her beside him, the dozens of different thoughts - professional and extremely unprofessional - racing through his mind, and exhaustion from his travels, the emotional intensity of the evening began to pull him toward sleep. Beside him, Serena’s breathing had already begun to slow and deepen, the events of the past few days finally catching up with her.

He was just drifting off when he felt the mattress shift slightly. Even in sleep, Serena was moving closer, seeking warmth in the cooling room. He held perfectly still as she settled against his side, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder, one arm draping across his chest.

She was deeply asleep, her body finally relaxing completely for the first time since he’d seen her in the tavern. The trust in the gesture, falling asleep against him, vulnerable and unguarded, made something in his chest twinge with an emotion he wasn’t quite ready to name.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he adjusted his position slightly to make her more comfortable, his arm settling around her shoulders. She made a soft, contented sound and curled closer, her face pressed against the borrowed shirt that smelled like her.

Outside, the Bruma wind howled against the windows, but here in this small room, with the fire crackling softly and Serena warm and safe in his arms, Lucien felt something he hadn’t experienced in years.

Peace.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, allowed himself to marvel at how perfectly she fit against him, and let sleep claim him as well.

Chapter Text

"Your form is getting sloppy," Marcus called out, catching his blade by the handle with practiced ease. "When's the last time you actually practiced instead of just watching the rest of us throw?"

Lucien retrieved his own knife from the wooden target, examining the slightly off-center hit with mild annoyance. "I practice plenty. Some of us just don't feel the need to show off."

"Right." Marcus lined up his next throw, tongue poking out slightly in concentration, a habit he'd never managed to break despite years of Lucien's teasing. "That's why your blade's sitting a full inch left of center."

"I was aiming left of center."

"Of course you were." The knife left Marcus's hand in a smooth arc, embedding itself dead center with a satisfying thunk. "Just like I'm sure you meant to knock over your ale when you reached for it."

Lucien glanced down at the small puddle spreading across the wooden table. "The mug was poorly placed."

"The mug," Marcus said, settling into his chair with a grin that made him look years younger than his thirty-something-odd years, "was exactly where you left it. Face it, old man, you're getting distracted."

"Old man?" Lucien raised an eyebrow as he wiped up the spilled ale. "I have perhaps five years on you, at most."

"Five very hard years, apparently." Marcus reached for his own mug, taking a long pull of the dark ale they'd been working through. "Seriously, though, what's got you so scattered lately? You've been...I don't know. Different."

Lucien considered the question while lining up his next throw. Different. He supposed he had been, though he'd hoped it wasn't obvious. The truth was, he'd been thinking about the infiltration specialist from Anvil. They'd only met twice, both brief encounters during her transition interviews, but something about her had stuck with him.

Maybe it was her directness; most new recruits were either terrified of him or trying too hard to impress. She'd simply answered his questions with competent precision, asked intelligent follow-ups about Brotherhood protocols, and treated him like... well, like a person rather than a title.

Or maybe it was the way she'd handled herself during the practical assessment. Watching her work had been like watching poetry in motion – deadly, efficient poetry that left no doubt about why the Anvil Sanctuary had recommended her so highly.

"Uh, hello, Nirn to Lucien," Marcus said, waving a hand in front of his face. "See? This is exactly what I'm talking about, you're somewhere else entirely."

"I'm thinking about staffing decisions," Lucien said, which wasn't entirely a lie.

"Staffing decisions that require that particular expression?" Marcus's grin turned knowing. "Let me guess…this is about our new Silencer candidate."

Lucien's knife went wide, missing the target entirely. "I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, you absolutely do." Marcus leaned back in his chair, looking far too pleased with himself. "Serena, right? The one from Anvil? Pretty, deadly, completely professional, and you can't stop thinking about her."

"She's a promising recruit," Lucien said stiffly, retrieving his wayward blade. "I'm simply considering how best to utilize her skills."

"I'm sure that's the only thing you’re thinking about utilizing." Marcus took another drink, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Which is why you volunteered to personally oversee her transition training instead of assigning it to me like usual."

"You've been busy with other contracts."

"I finished the Skingrad job two weeks ago, and you know it." Marcus shook his head, still grinning. "Come on, Lucien. We've been friends for what, twenty years? I know when something's gotten under your skin."

Twenty years, had it really been that long? Lucien supposed it had; they had both been barely more than boys when they first arrived at the Sanctuary, all raw talent and nervous energy. Now he was one of the most reliable Silencers in the Brotherhood, and more importantly, the closest thing to family Lucien had.

"She's..." Lucien paused, searching for the right words. "There's something about her. The way she carries herself. The way she thinks through problems. She's not like most recruits."

"Ah." Marcus nodded sagely. "So you're attracted to her competence."

"I'm professionally interested in her potential."

"Sure, and I'm professionally interested in that barmaid at the Bloated Float." Marcus dodged the small chunk of bread Lucien threw at him. "Look, there's nothing wrong with finding someone intriguing. Just...be careful, yeah? Mixing business with pleasure in our line of work tends to get complicated."

"There's no mixing involved," Lucien protested. "She'll be assigned to you for training, just like every other new Silencer."

"Will she?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Because I heard through the grapevine that you're considering keeping her here for extended evaluation instead of sending her back to Anvil."

Damn. Lucien had hoped that particular decision would stay between him and the record books for a while longer. "Extended evaluation is standard for recruits showing exceptional promise."

"When's the last time you did an extended evaluation?"

"That's not the point."

"That's exactly the point." Marcus leaned forward, his expression growing more serious. "Lucien, I've seen you interact with dozens of recruits over the years. You're professional, thorough, and completely detached. With her...you're not detached."

The observation hit closer to home than Lucien cared to admit. He had been less detached with Serena, though he'd thought he was hiding it well. During their first meeting, when she'd asked about advancement opportunities within the Brotherhood, he'd found himself talking longer than necessary, enjoying the way she listened with complete focus, the intelligent questions she asked.

"Perhaps," he said carefully, "I'm simply recognizing exceptional talent when I see it."

"Perhaps," Marcus agreed, but his tone suggested he wasn't buying it. "Or perhaps you're a man who's been married to his job for so long that when someone genuinely interesting walks through the door, you don't quite know what to do with yourself."

That stung, partly because it was true. Since his first marriage had ended badly, inevitably, he'd thrown himself completely into Brotherhood work. The Speaker's role consumed everything: his time, his energy, his thoughts. There hadn't been room for any attachments, and he'd told himself he preferred it that way.

But then Serena had arrived, and suddenly he was finding excuses to walk past the training rooms, volunteering for oversight duties he usually delegated, and spending entirely too much time thinking about her presentation at last week's professional development session.

She'd been discussing infiltration techniques; how to blend into different social circles, how to adapt mannerisms and speech patterns, how to become whatever the target expected to see. He'd told himself he was there for purely educational reasons, to evaluate her teaching methods for future reference.

That excuse had lasted right up until she'd demonstrated how to adjust her entire bearing to play different roles, transforming from deadly assassin to innocent merchant's daughter to sophisticated noble lady in the span of minutes. Watching her work had been mesmerizing.

"Hell of a demonstration she gave," Marcus said suddenly, as if reading his thoughts. "Though I have to say, when she played that noblewoman character? Sweet Sithis, the way that dress fits her..."

Lucien felt heat creep up his neck. "That's not relevant to her professional capabilities."

"Professional capabilities." Marcus snorted. "Right. Because you were definitely focusing on her teaching methods when she bent over that table to point out something on the map."

"Marcus–"

"I'm just saying, the woman knows how to fill out a bodice. And those legs? When she hiked up her skirts to demonstrate how to smuggle a weapon..." Marcus made an appreciative sound that made Lucien's jaw clench. "I'd let her infiltrate whatever she wanted, if you catch my meaning."

"She's a colleague," Lucien said stiffly, though he was painfully aware that his face was probably flushed. He had noticed the way the demonstration outfit had accentuated her figure, how gracefully she moved, how her eyes had sparkled with intelligence as she explained techniques, how her laugh had sounded when someone asked a particularly good question.

He'd also noticed several other Brotherhood members watching her with obvious appreciation, and had felt an entirely unprofessional stab of something that might have been jealousy.

"A colleague," Marcus repeated, grinning wickedly. "Is that what we're calling it? Because brother, you're redder than a Cyrodilic apple right now."

"I am not –” "Oh, you absolutely are." Marcus leaned back in his chair, looking delighted. "Oh, this is rich. The great Speaker Lachance, brought low by a pretty woman in a tight dress, talking about poison techniques."

"She wasn't discussing poison techniques, she was –" Lucien stopped, realizing he was only making it worse.

"So you were paying attention to what she was saying," Marcus observed. "Interesting. Most men would have been too distracted by the... presentation ... to focus on the actual content."

"Of course, I was paying attention. It's my job to evaluate –"Your job to evaluate her assets ?" Marcus's grin was absolutely wicked now. "Because that's definitely not what it looked like from where I was sitting."

Lucien threw another piece of bread at him, harder this time. "You're impossible."

"I'm observant," Marcus corrected, catching the bread and popping it into his mouth. "And I'm right. You've got it bad for her."

"I have nothing 'bad' for anyone," Lucien muttered, but he could feel his face cooling as the conversation moved away from detailed descriptions of Serena's... attributes. "She's a skilled operative who shows promise. That's all."

"Mm-hmm." Marcus didn't look convinced, but he seemed to take pity on his friend's discomfort. "Speaking of skilled operatives, did you get the report from Vicente about the Leyawiin contract?"

Grateful for the change of subject, Lucien nodded. "Clean elimination, no complications. The merchant's wife never suspected her husband's death was anything other than a heart attack brought on by stress."

"Good. That's the third cardiac arrest this month; people are going to start thinking there's something in the water supply." Marcus retrieved his knife from the target and lined up another throw. "What about the situation in Skingrad? Any word from the contact there?"

"Still waiting. The target's been more cautious since his business partner died under suspicious circumstances last year." Lucien made his own throw, pleased when it landed closer to the center this time. "Patience, in this case, will serve us better than haste."

"Patience," Marcus repeated with a snort. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one who has to sit in a cramped attic for hours watching the bastard's routine."

"Actually, I was thinking of reassigning that one. You've been doing a lot of surveillance work lately. Maybe it's time to give you something more...direct."

Marcus paused mid-throw. "You feeling sorry for me, old man?"

"I'm managing resources efficiently," Lucien replied. "Your skills are better utilized in active elimination than passive observation."

"My skills are best utilized wherever the Brotherhood needs them," Marcus said, but there was warmth in his voice. "Though I admit, I wouldn't mind getting out of that damn attic. The smell of rotting thatch is starting to follow me everywhere."

They fell into comfortable silence for a while, focusing on their throws. The common room was quiet around them; most of the other Brotherhood members had retired to their quarters or departed on contracts. It was peaceful in a way Lucien had come to appreciate over the years, these moments of normalcy between the violence and secrecy that defined their lives.

"Oh, before I forget," Marcus said, breaking the silence. "Antoinetta mentioned something about the stores running low on that particular blend of poison you prefer. She's put in an order, but it might be a few weeks before it arrives."

"The paralytic compound?"

"That's the one. Apparently, there was some issue with the supplier in Morrowind, political troubles or some such." Marcus shrugged. "In the meantime, she's got alternatives that should work just as well."

"Good to know." Lucien made a mental note to speak with Ocheeva about backup suppliers. "What about your gear? Everything in working order?"

"Always fussing," Marcus said fondly. "Yes, Father, everything's fine. Blades are sharp, armor's maintained, and poison supplies are adequate. I'm not a green recruit, you know."

"Humor me."

"I always do." Marcus finished the last of his ale and stretched. "Speaking of which, I should probably get some sleep. Early start tomorrow if I'm going to make it to Chorrol by midday."

"The blacksmith contract?"

"The very one. It should be straightforward: catch him alone in his shop, make it look like an accident with his own forge. In and out within a day, two at most."

Lucien nodded. It was a routine contract, the kind Marcus had handled dozens of times before. "Safe travels. And Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

Marcus grinned. "I'm always careful. It's what keeps me alive." He gathered up his blades, sheathing them with practiced efficiency. "Besides, what's the worst that could happen? It's just some blacksmith in Skingrad who's been cheating his customers. Hardly the most dangerous target we've faced."

As Marcus headed toward the door, he paused and looked back. "Oh, and Lucien? Whatever you decide about our lovely infiltration expert, just don't overthink it to death, all right? Life's too short to spend it all worrying about what might go wrong."

After Marcus left, Lucien remained in the common room for a while longer, absently throwing knives at the target while his mind wandered. The evening had been good, the kind of easy companionship he'd come to value more than he'd ever expected.

Tomorrow, Marcus would head to Skingrad for what should be a simple elimination. In a few days, he'd be back with another successful contract completed, probably with some ridiculous story about the local tavern wenches or the quality of the ale.

It was a routine they'd followed dozens of times before. There was no reason to think this time would be any different.

Lucien had been reviewing contract assignments in his study when the knock came, sharp and insistent against the heavy oak door. He'd called for entry without looking up from his papers, expecting Vicente with a question about poison requisitions or perhaps Ocheeva with news about supply deliveries.

Instead, a young woman in travel-stained leathers stepped into his quarters, her face grim with the kind of expression that made his stomach clench with sudden dread.

"Speaker Lachance?" Her voice was steady, professional, but there was something underneath it, reluctance, perhaps. The kind of tone reserved for delivering news no one wanted to hear.

"Yes?" He set down his quill, giving her his full attention. She wore the Dark Brotherhood's colors, but he didn't recognize her; probably a messenger from one of the other Sanctuaries.

"I bring word from Skingrad." She reached into her pack, withdrawing a sealed letter bearing the unmistakable marks of official Brotherhood correspondence. "There's been...a complication."

The word 'complication' in Brotherhood parlance could mean anything from a delayed contract to a blown cover to… it couldn’t be, anything but that.

Lucien’s hands were steady as he took the letter, broke the seal, and unfolded the parchment. His eyes moved across the words with practiced efficiency, processing the information with the same clinical detachment he brought to all official reports.

Speaker Lachance - Regret to inform you that Silencer Marcus Quintus was killed during the elimination of the designated target in Chorrol. Ambush by unknown parties during what should have been a routine contract. Target was also eliminated in the confusion. Marcus fought well but was overwhelmed. The body was recovered and prepared according to Brotherhood customs. Awaiting further instructions.

The words swam on the page for a moment, their meaning sliding away from him like water through his fingers. He read them again, more slowly this time, as if careful attention might somehow change their content.

Marcus Quintus was killed. Marcus fought well but was overwhelmed. Body recovered.

"No." The word escaped him before he could stop it, barely above a whisper. "No, that's not... there's been a mistake."

The messenger's expression grew more uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, Speaker. There's no mistake. I saw...I was there when they brought him back."

I'm always careful. It's what keeps me alive.

What's the worst that could happen? It's just a blacksmith.

The letter crumpled slightly in his grip as his hands began to shake. Marcus, who had been throwing knives and making the same crude jokes he always did, just two nights ago. Marcus, who had told him not to overthink things, who had grinned and said life was too short to spend it worrying about what might go wrong. Marcus, who would never walk through that door again with ridiculous stories and easy laughter and the kind of friendship Lucien hadn't realized he'd been taking for granted.

"How?" The question came out rough, strained. "How did it happen?"

"The details are unclear," the messenger said carefully. "It appears the target was expecting trouble; she had hired mercenaries as protection. Marcus eliminated the blacksmith as planned, but the guards were waiting. They caught him before he could escape."

Guards. Mercenaries. A simple blacksmith who'd been cheating customers had somehow anticipated assassination and prepared for it. The kind of routine contract Marcus had handled dozens of times before turned deadly by circumstances no one could have predicted.

"Was he..." Lucien stopped, swallowed hard, and tried again. "Did he suffer?"

"It was quick," she said, and there was genuine kindness in her voice. "From what the witnesses said, he fought like a demon, but...there were too many of them."

Lucien stared down at the letter in his hands, the words blurring as something hot and stinging gathered behind his eyes. Marcus, overwhelmed. Marcus, fighting alone against impossible odds. Marcus, dying in some hot, humid city while Lucien sat safe in his study, completely unaware that his closest friend was breathing his last.

"Thank you," he managed, his voice sounding strange and distant to his own ears. "For bringing word."

The messenger nodded, clearly relieved to have discharged her unpleasant duty. "Is there...is there anything you'd like me to convey regarding the contact? Any instructions?"

Instructions. As if this were just another administrative matter to be handled. As if the death of his closest friend was simply a logistical problem requiring efficient management.

"Tell them..." He paused, struggling to find words that weren't a scream of rage and grief. "Tell them Marcus served the Brotherhood with honor. His death will not go unanswered."

After she left, Lucien sat alone in his study, staring at the letter that had just torn his world apart. The morning sun streamed through his window, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like tiny, mocking spirits. The same sun that had risen on Marcus's last day, that had watched him die alone and far from home.

Life's too short to spend it all worrying about what might go wrong.

The irony was bitter as poison. Marcus had been right; life was too short. Too short for hesitation, too short for taking things for granted, too short for assuming that the people you cared about would always be there tomorrow.

And far, far too short for two decades of friendship to end with a crumpled letter and the crushing knowledge that he'd never get the chance to say goodbye.

The letter slipped from his numb fingers, floating to the floor like a black leaf. He stared at it lying there, this piece of parchment that had just rewritten his entire world, and felt something crack open in his chest.

Marcus was dead.

The words kept circling in his mind, simple and impossible and absolutely final. Dead. Not injured, not missing, not captured. Dead. Gone. Never coming back.

He thought about the knives still lying on the table in the common room, Marcus's blades that he'd cleaned so carefully before retiring. The half-finished mug of ale was probably still sitting there, growing stale. The joke Marcus had made about Serena, the way he'd grinned when Lucien blushed, the casual way he'd said "safe travels" as if there had been any safety in their world.

I'm always careful. It's what keeps me alive.

But careful hadn't been enough. Skill hadn't been enough. However many years of successful contracts, of surviving impossible odds, of being the Brotherhood's most reliable Silencer, none of it had been enough when faced with the wrong circumstances, the wrong moment, the wrong enemies in the wrong place.

Lucien's hands clenched into fists on his desk, his vision blurring as the grief hit him like a physical blow. Marcus, who had been more brother than friend. Marcus, who had teased him about everything and supported him through the worst parts of being Speaker. Marcus, who had pushed him to be human instead of just a title, who had seen through every wall Lucien built and stubbornly refused to let him hide behind his authority.

A sound escaped him that was barely human. He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with the force of trying to contain something too big for his chest to hold.

This was why. 

This was exactly why he kept his distance, why he maintained professional boundaries, and why he didn't let people get close. Because caring about someone in their world meant living with the constant possibility of this moment, the messenger at dawn, the clinical report, the devastating finality of loss.

And now Marcus was gone, and all those careful walls felt like nothing more than a prison he'd built for himself. What good were boundaries when the person you'd built them to protect was already dead?

He sat there in his study as the sun climbed higher, surrounded by the mundane evidence of a life that had to continue despite feeling fundamentally broken. Papers that needed reviewing, contracts that required assignment, and now, the endless paperwork of a failed contract and a dead Brother.

The Brotherhood would go on; it always did. There would be another Silencer to train, another trusted operative to rely on. The work would continue because the work always continued, regardless of who lived or died in service to it.

But there would never be another Marcus. Never again those easy evenings throwing knives and drinking ale. Never again that particular brand of irreverent wisdom, that ability to make Lucien remember he was human beneath the Speaker's robes.

The grief settled into his bones like winter cold, a weight he would carry for the rest of his days. And with it came a promise, carved in pain and sealed with loss: he would never again make the mistake of caring this much. He would do his duty, lead his people, and serve the Brotherhood with unfailing dedication.

But he would never again let someone close enough to leave this kind of devastation in their wake.

Present day

Lucien stood at his window, looking out at the pre-dawn darkness that shrouded Cheydinhal, and wondered when he'd become such a liar.

Because despite every promise he'd made to himself after Marcus died, despite a year of maintaining careful professional distance, despite every rational reason to keep his heart locked away, he'd done it again.

He'd let Serena in.

Not just physically, though the memory of her in his arms still made his pulse race. But deeper than that, more dangerous than that. He'd let her matter. Let himself care about her safety, her happiness, her future in ways that had nothing to do with Brotherhood efficiency and everything to do with the way she laughed when something genuinely amused her.

The way she'd trusted him tonight with her boundaries, her fears, her carefully guarded heart.

The way she'd kissed him like he was something precious instead of just another complication in her already complex life.

He thought about Marcus, about that last evening they'd shared, about his friend's advice to stop overthinking things to death. Life's too short to spend it all worrying about what might go wrong. At the time, it had seemed like dangerous counsel. Now, six months after losing the person who'd given it, he was beginning to understand what Marcus had really been trying to tell him.

Life was too short. But it was also the only life he had.

And maybe, just maybe, some risks were worth taking, even knowing how much it would hurt to lose what you'd found, even knowing that dawn messengers existed, that routine contracts could turn deadly, that caring about someone in their world meant living with the constant possibility of devastating loss.

Tomorrow, he would travel to Bruma. He would meet Serena at the Jerall View Inn under the pretense of Brotherhood business, and they would take another careful step into whatever this was becoming between them.

It terrified him. But for the first time since Marcus died, the terror felt like something he could live with, something that might even be worth the risk.

Chapter Text

The Jerall View Inn's common room was nearly empty when Lucien arrived, just a handful of travelers nursing ales by the fire and a bard in the corner playing something melancholy on a lute. He'd been in Bruma for two days, conducting legitimate Brotherhood business while waiting for word from Serena. Her contract should have been finished yesterday at the latest; a simple elimination, according to the client's specifications. But "simple" had a way of becoming complicated in their line of work.

He spotted her immediately, despite her attempts to blend in with the other patrons. She sat in a corner booth, hood up, nursing what looked like her second or third drink. Everything about her posture screamed exhaustion, from the slight slump of her shoulders to the way she cradled her mug like she was trying to absorb its warmth.

Something was wrong.

He caught the barkeep's attention with a subtle gesture, nodding toward Serena's table. "Another beer, please. And another of whatever the lady in the corner booth is drinking," he said quietly, placing coins on the bar along with a folded piece of parchment. "And this."

The barkeep – an older Nord woman who had seen her fair share of travelers buying drinks for attractive strangers – glanced between him and Serena. "I'll see she gets it, but I can't promise she'll be interested."

"Just deliver the message," Lucien replied. "Nothing more expected."

He watched from across the room as the barkeep approached Serena's table, setting down the fresh drink and the note before retreating with professional discretion. Serena looked up in surprise, her gaze scanning the common room until it found his. Even from a distance, he could see the exhaustion in her face, the careful way she held herself that suggested injury.

She unfolded the note, read it quickly, then looked at him again. After a moment, she gave the slightest nod and returned her attention to her drink.

The note had been simple: Room seven. Knock three times when you arrive.

Twenty minutes later, there were three soft knocks on his door.

"Come in."

Serena entered quietly, closing the door behind her and locking it. Only then did she lower her hood, revealing the full extent of her exhaustion: her hair was disheveled, her face pale, and there were shadows under her eyes that spoke of too little sleep and too much stress.

"Rough contract?" he asked quietly, though her appearance had already answered the question.

She nodded, settling into the chair across from his bed with visible relief. "Everything that could go wrong, did. Bad intelligence, unexpected complications, the target was better protected than reported." Her voice was hoarse, rough from exhaustion. "It took three days instead of one."

He waited, letting her gather her thoughts while he assessed what he could see of her condition. She was favoring her left side, holding her arms carefully, and there was a stiffness to her movements that suggested significant bruising underneath her traveling clothes.

"Are you hurt?" The question came out more sharply than he'd intended.

"It’s nothing that won’t be better in a week." She paused, then seemed to come to a decision. "The target's bodyguard got hold of me; he was a big Nord with hands like dinner plates."

She pushed back the sleeves of her cloak, revealing forearms mottled with ugly purple and yellow bruises. Some of them were clearly finger-shaped, evidence of someone grabbing her with enough force to leave lasting marks.

Lucien’s hands clenched involuntarily, and he had to work to keep his expression controlled. "Is he still alive?" The question came out deadly quiet.

"No." Her tone was quiet, days of exhaustion having properly caught up to her. "I slit his throat."

He nodded, though the savage satisfaction he felt at that confirmation was probably not entirely appropriate. The protective rage that had flared at seeing someone else's marks on her was both irrational and overwhelming.

She was watching his face, reading his reaction with the same professional assessment she brought to evaluating potential threats. "You're angry."

"Yes." There was no point in denying what was probably obvious to someone with her training. "Irrationally so, considering you clearly handled the situation."

"Irrationally?" There was something almost fond in her voice, despite the circumstances.

"Yes." He met her eyes directly. "I'm not usually like this."

She smiled at that, the first genuine expression of warmth he'd seen since she'd arrived. "I gave as good as I got, if it helps. That particular bodyguard won't be putting his hands on anyone ever again."

"It helps somewhat," he admitted. "Though I'm still working through some rather creative fantasies involving desecrating his corpse."

That earned him a quiet laugh. "There you are."

The comment hung between them, carrying weight beyond its simple words. She knew him, not just professionally, but now personally. She knew his protective instincts, his capacity for violence on behalf of people he cared about, his tendency toward controlled but intense responses to threats against those who mattered to him.

When had she become someone who mattered this much?

"I should go," she said after a moment, though she made no move to stand. "You probably have clients to meet with, or someone to recruit, and I need actual sleep."

"You could stay," he offered carefully. "If you want. There is a perfectly adequate bed, I can sleep on the couch, and you look like you could use a good night's rest somewhere secure."

She studied his face for a moment, and he could see her weighing options, considering risks and benefits with the same careful calculation she brought to mission planning.

"Just sleep?" she asked.

"Whatever you're comfortable with." He meant it completely. "Right now, I'm primarily concerned with making sure you're safe and get the rest you clearly need."

She nodded slowly. "I'd like that. It's been a difficult few days. And I trust you."

The simple statement carried more weight than a dozen elaborate declarations. In their world, trust was a precious commodity, not given lightly or without consideration.

"Then stay," he said simply. "Everything else can wait until tomorrow."

She nodded slowly, some of the tension finally leaving her shoulders. "I should get ready for sleep, then. Do you have anything I could...?"

"There's a spare shirt in that wardrobe," he offered. "Probably more comfortable than sleeping in what you’re wearing right now."

"Thank you." She accepted the soft linen shirt he retrieved – well-worn and clearly a favorite. "I'll just..."

She gestured toward the small washbasin in the corner, and he nodded, settling into the room's single chair to give her privacy while she changed. He focused his attention on the dying fire, on organizing his thoughts about tomorrow's travel, on anything except the rustle of fabric behind him and what it meant.

When she emerged a few minutes later, he looked up and felt his careful composure fracture entirely.

She was tall – he'd always known that, had noted her height as a professional advantage in her specific line of work – but seeing her in his shirt somehow made the difference in their sizes more apparent. The linen that fit him normally hung loose on her frame, the sleeves extending well past her wrists, the hem reaching nearly to her knees. Her hair was braided loosely over one shoulder, and without her usual leathers and weapons, she looked...

Breathe, he told himself firmly. She's injured, exhausted, and trusting you to be professional about this.

But the sight of her wearing his clothes, in his room, about to share his bed – even purely for comfort and safety – was doing things to his concentration that were entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. This was Serena. The woman he'd been carefully not thinking about in personal terms for the better part of a year, despite the way conversations with her had become the highlight of his days, despite the way he'd started finding excuses to review her mission reports personally, despite the growing awareness that what he felt for her had moved well beyond professional interest.

And now she was standing in his room wearing his shirt, looking smaller and more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her, asking him to share his bed because she didn't want to be alone after a traumatic contract.

The trust implicit in the request was staggering. The fact that she felt safe enough with him to be this vulnerable, to wear his clothes, to sleep beside him—it was both humbling and terrifying in its implications.

"Better?" he asked.

"Much." She moved toward the bed, then paused. "Are you sure about this? I know it's... unconventional. "

"I'm sure." He stood, beginning to remove his own outer layers. "Though I should warn you – I'm told I can be a restless sleeper when I'm thinking through problems."

"And I might have nightmares," she admitted quietly. "The contract left me more unsettled than I initially realized."

"Then we'll figure it out." He settled onto the bed's left side, closer to the door – a positioning that gave her the clearer escape route – something he suspected she'd appreciate even if she didn't consciously notice. "Rest is what you need most right now."

She slipped under the blankets beside him, careful to maintain space between them despite the bed's modest size. "The room gets cold at night in these mountain inns," she warned. "Don't be surprised if you wake up freezing."

"I'll keep that in mind." He could feel the warmth radiating from her body even with the careful distance she was maintaining, could hear the soft sound of her breathing beginning to slow as exhaustion finally caught up with her.

"Lucien?" Her voice was quiet in the darkness.

"Yes?"

"Thank you. For being here, for understanding what I needed without me having to explain it fully."

"You don't need to thank me," he said gently. "Get some sleep."

"Goodnight," she murmured, already half-asleep.

"Goodnight, Serena."

He lay awake for a while longer, listening to her breathing deepen, aware of her presence beside him in ways both comforting and complicated. But eventually, the combination of his own exhaustion and the simple peace of knowing she was safe drew him toward sleep.

He was just drifting off when he felt the mattress shift slightly. Even in sleep, Serena was seeking warmth in the cooling room. He held perfectly still as she settled against his side, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder, one arm draping across his chest.

She was deeply asleep, her body finally relaxing completely for the first time since he'd found her in the tavern. The trust implicit in the gesture – falling asleep against him, vulnerable and unguarded – was causing an emotion to bud that he wasn't sure if he would ever be ready to name.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he adjusted his position slightly to make her more comfortable, his arm settling around her shoulders. She made a soft, contented sound and curled closer, her face pressed against his chest.

Outside, the Bruma wind howled against the windows, but here in his small room, with the dying fire crackling softly and Serena warm and safe in his arms, Lucien felt something he hadn't experienced in years.

Peace.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, allowed himself to marvel at how perfectly she fit against him, and let sleep claim him as well.

Serena woke gradually, pulled from sleep by the pale light filtering through frost-covered windows. For a moment, she was disoriented – this wasn't her room, wasn't her bed, was she wearing his shirt – and then awareness returned in a warm rush. She was in Lucien's room at the inn, curled against his side with one hand fisted in his shirt, his arm around her shoulders.

She'd slept through the night without stirring, which told her more about how exhausted she'd been than any words could have. The nightmares she'd feared never came; instead, she'd slept peacefully, anchored by his steady presence beside her. For the first time in days, she felt truly rested.

She didn't move immediately, didn't want to disturb the quiet intimacy of the moment. Instead, she let herself take in the unfamiliar surroundings: his room, neat and organized even in a temporary inn, his scent on the pillows and blankets, the way the morning light filtered through windows that weren't hers.

There was something profoundly intimate about this, waking up in his space, wearing his shirt, having sought his warmth in sleep without conscious thought. More intimate than sex might have been, somehow. To have slept so trustingly against him, to wake up feeling safe in a way she rarely allowed herself.

The fire had died to glowing embers sometime in the night, and the room had grown cold enough that she could see her breath when she exhaled carefully. But under the thick blankets, with Lucien's warmth beside her, she felt perfectly comfortable. More than comfortable – she felt like she could stay here forever, listening to his steady heartbeat beneath her cheek, feeling the absolute rightness of being here.

This was dangerous territory, she knew. Allowing herself to feel this safe, this comfortable with someone was rarely wise in their profession, but as she lay there, as she felt the peace of having him close, she found she didn't care about wisdom or professional complications or any of the dozen reasons this was probably unwise.

She cared about the man sleeping peacefully beside her, about the trust he'd shown her by letting her stay, about the way he'd looked at her last night when she'd asked him not to leave. Everything else felt secondary to that.

Lucien stirred slightly beneath her, his breathing changing as he began to wake. She remained still, letting him come to consciousness naturally, curious about how he would react to finding her curled against him.

She felt the moment he became fully aware of their position – her head on his chest, his arm around her – but he didn't pull away or seem uncomfortable. Instead, he simply waited, letting her decide when she was ready to acknowledge that they were both awake.

"Morning," she said quietly, her voice rough with sleep.

"Good morning." His voice was soft, careful, and she could hear the smile in it. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than I have in days." She didn't pull away immediately, wasn't ready to lose the warmth and comfort of his presence. "Did I...? I didn't have nightmares, did I?"

"Not a one. You slept straight through." She could feel his chest rise and fall as he spoke, could sense his contentment at having her close. "You were exhausted."

"I was." She was quiet for a moment, processing the fact that she'd slept so peacefully against him, that her body had sought his comfort even in sleep. "Thank you. For staying, for letting me..."

"You don't need to thank me," he said gently, his hand moving to stroke her hair. "Sweet Sithis, it’s absolutely freezing in here."

She laughed softly, the sound still husky from sleep. "I warned you about mountain inns. The fire must have died hours ago." She shifted slightly, immediately feeling the loss of shared warmth as cold air crept between them. "We should probably get up, get the fire going again before we both freeze."

"Probably," he agreed, though neither of them made any move to leave the warm cocoon of blankets and shared body heat.

"In a minute," she said, settling back against him with a small, contented sigh. "Just...one more minute."

He tightened his arm around her slightly, pulling her closer against the cold. "Take all the time you need."

She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice was soft and thoughtful. "I keep thinking I should feel awkward about this. Waking up in your arms, sleeping so peacefully when I barely know how to sleep alone most nights."

"But you don't? Feel awkward, I mean."

"No." She lifted her head to look at him properly, her hair falling across her shoulder in the morning light. "I feel... safe . Which is terrifying in its own way, but not awkward."

There was something in her expression that made his breath catch, a softness that was purely her, without any of the masks or careful control she usually maintained. In the pale morning light, with her defenses down and trust written clearly across her face, she was devastating.

"Serena," he said quietly, and something in his tone made her eyes focus more intently on his face.

"Yes?"

Instead of answering with words, he reached up to brush a strand of hair away from her cheek, his fingers lingering against her skin. She leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment before opening to meet his gaze.

"Can I kiss you?" The question was barely above a whisper, but in the quiet room it felt loud as a declaration.

"Please," she breathed, and he could see the want in her eyes, soft and warm and completely honest.

He kissed her slowly, gently, mindful that she was still waking up, still processing the intimacy of their position. But she kissed him back with a quiet intensity that made his chest tighten, her hand fisting in his shirt to pull him closer.

It was different from when he kissed her on the terrace: less urgent, completely free of adrenaline. A kiss between people who were choosing each other in the clear light of day, who had spent a night learning to trust each other in new ways.

When they broke apart, she was breathing harder, her cheeks flushed with something that had nothing to do with the cold air.

"Good morning," she said again, but this time there was laughter in her voice, and something that looked dangerously like happiness.

"Very good morning," he agreed, his thumb tracing along her jawline.

She kissed him again, briefer this time but no less sweet, then settled back against his chest with a contented sound. "We really should get up," she murmured against his collarbone. "The fire, breakfast, our respective responsibilities..."

"We should," he agreed, making no move to let her go.

Her breathing was already beginning to slow again, the warmth and comfort and safety of being held pulling her back toward sleep. He felt the moment she relaxed completely against him, her body going soft and pliant as drowsiness reclaimed her.

"Serena?" he asked softly, but she was already drifting off again, her face peaceful against his chest.

He smiled to himself, settling more comfortably against the pillows. They would have to get up eventually; there were practical matters to attend to, the journey back to their respective duties. But for now, in this cold mountain inn with frost on the windows and Serena warm and trusting in his arms, the rest of the world could wait.

Let her sleep a little longer. Everything else would still be there when she woke.

An hour later, when the sounds from the corridor had grown too loud to ignore and the cold had begun to seep through even their shared warmth, he finally stirred her gently.

"Serena," he murmured against her hair. "We really do need to get up now."

She made a soft sound of protest, burrowing deeper against his chest. "Don't want to."

"I know. But if we don't get the fire going soon, we're going to freeze to death, and that would be a terrible waste of two incredibly talented assassins."

That earned him a sleepy laugh. "Practical as always." But she did lift her head, blinking in the morning light. "What time is it?"

"Late enough that we should probably make an appearance downstairs before the innkeeper starts wondering what happened to his guests."

She sighed, reluctantly pulling away from his warmth. "You're right. And I have that series of contracts in the Highlands – I should get on the road soon if I want to make decent time."

"The Highlands?" He tried to keep his voice casual as he sat up, immediately missing her warmth as the cold air hit him. "Those are the contracts from the drop behind Novaroma?"

"The very ones." She was already moving, gathering her things with the efficient grace he'd come to associate with her preparations. "Three targets spread across the region, all connected to the same smuggling operation. Should keep me busy for the better part of a fortnight."

He nodded, though something in his chest tightened at the thought of two weeks without seeing her. "I have my own travel ahead of me. Black Hand business in Bravil."

"Bravil?" She paused in her packing, glancing at him with something that might have been concern. "That's Listener territory. Important business?"

"Important enough." He didn't elaborate; some Brotherhood business was compartmentalized even between them. "Nothing I can't handle, but it'll likely keep me occupied for some time."

They dressed efficiently, the easy intimacy of the morning giving way to the practical reality of their respective responsibilities. But even as they prepared to leave, he found himself cataloging details: the way she braided her hair with quick, practiced movements, how she checked her weapons with the same methodical care she always showed, the small sound she made when she stretched to work out the stiffness from sleeping curled against him.

"When will I see you again?" The question slipped out as she shouldered her pack, and he was grateful it didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

"That depends on how quickly I can complete the Highland contracts," she said, then paused in her preparations to look at him directly. "When you finish in Bravil, send word to the Sanctuary. I'll make sure I'm there when you return."

"Even if it takes longer than expected?"

"Even then." Her voice was soft but certain. "What we started here...I don't want to leave it unfinished."

Relief flooded through him, though he tried not to let it show too obviously. "Neither do I."

She moved closer, rising on her toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. "Be careful in Bravil," she murmured against his mouth. "Be careful in the Highlands," he replied, his hands settling briefly on her waist. "And if those contracts prove more complicated than expected –"

"I'll send word," she finished, understanding the concern behind his words. "I promise."

They stood there for a moment longer, reluctant to break the spell of the last twelve hours. Then Serena stepped back, shouldering her pack properly and pulling up her hood.

"I should go first," she said practically. "Less conspicuous than leaving together."

"Of course." He moved to the window, checking the street below. "Clear path to the gates. No one who looks like they're paying particular attention."

"Good." She paused at the door, her hand on the latch, and looked back at him one more time. "Thank you, Lucien. For everything. Last night was exactly what I needed."

"It was exactly what I needed to," he said quietly. "Travel safely, Serena."

She smiled quickly, then slipped out into the corridor. He listened to her footsteps fading down the hall, then settling toward the inn's entrance, before moving away from the window.

In a few minutes, he would follow, make his own way to the stables, begin the journey to Bravil, and whatever Black Hand politics awaited him there.

Chapter Text

He sat in perfect stillness at his desk, the letter from Cheydinhal spread before him like a map to salvation. Lucien Lachance would be arriving in Bravil within the week for “consultation on regional operations”; such clean, bureaucratic language to describe what would soon become the Listener’s final mistake.

The Brotherhood had always been fond of its little euphemisms. “Purification” instead of fratricide, or “Sending Souls to The Void” instead of admitting they were all just killers playing dress-up in the shadows, pretending their work had meaning beyond the coin that changed hands afterward.

Mother would have laughed at their pretensions.

He traced the seal at the bottom of the letter with one finger, savoring the irony. The Night Mother’s children, so proud of their spiritual calling, so convinced of their righteousness. They had no idea that rot had already taken root in their precious family tree, had been growing and spreading for months while they played their games of loyalty and brotherhood.

Lucien Lachance, the golden Speaker. The one who never questioned, never faltered, never showed a moment’s doubt in the Night Mother’s wisdom. Perfect, obedient Lucien, who had somehow earned praise that should have gone to worthier servants. Who walked through the Brotherhood’s halls like he belonged there, like he hadn’t stolen his position through political maneuvering and carefully cultivated favor.

The man made his skin crawl.

There had been others before Lucien, of course; other Speakers who had needed correction , who had forgotten their place in the natural order. But none of them had been quite so… insufferable in their competence. None had smiled with such quiet confidence while accepting assignments that should have been beyond their capabilities, none had looked at him with that particular expression of polite disinterest, as if he were furniture to be acknowledged and then dismissed.

Mother had always said that pride was the deadliest sin, that those who thought themselves above correction would find themselves humbled in the most devastating ways. She’d been right about so many things, even when her voice had grown sharp with disappointment, even when her hands had left marks that took days to fade.

Especially then.

He stood, moving to the window that overlooked Bravil’s twisted streets. Somewhere out there, common criminals went about their petty business, theft, assault, the occasional crude murder, while thinking themselves dangerous. They had no concept of true artistry, true purpose. They killed for coin or passion or desperation, never understanding that death could be so much more elegant when properly orchestrated.

The Brotherhood had understood that once, before they’d grown soft. Before they’d started accepting contracts from anyone with sufficient gold, before they’d begun treating assassination like a trade instead of a calling. Before speakers like Lucien had turned sacred work into mere efficiency.

But that would change soon enough.

He’d been so careful, so patient. Months of building trust, of appearing loyal while documenting every weakness, every relationship, every vulnerability within their precious family. The Listener trusted him. The other Black Hand members saw him as reliable, unremarkable, exactly what he needed them to see. None of them suspected that he spent his evenings planning their destruction with the same methodical care they brought to their contracts.

Lucien’s visit would provide the perfect opportunity; the Speaker would arrive expecting normalcy and to conduct his business and return to his Sanctuary as usual. Instead, he would find himself walking into a carefully prepared trap, one that would not only eliminate him but also the Dark Brotherhood itself.

Mother would have been proud of such thorough planning. She’d always appreciated attention to detail, even when she’d had to use pain to teach its importance. Even when her lessons had left scars that ached on cold mornings like reminders of love expressed in the only way she’d known how. The other Brothers and Sisters will fall in time, of course. Some quickly, some slowly, depending on how useful they might prove during the transition. But Lucien… Lucien will die knowing exactly why he was dying, exactly how thoroughly he’d been outmaneuvered by someone he’d never bothered to truly see.

That thought brought the first genuine smile he’d felt in weeks.

He returned to his desk, pulling out fresh parchment and reaching for his pen. There were letters to write, arrangements to make, allies to contact, though “allies” was perhaps too strong a word for the various dissidents who would serve his mission.

The Brotherhood thought of themselves as a family, bound by sacred oaths and shared purpose. They would learn, as they died one by one, that families could be destroyed from within just as easily as from without. That trust was a weapon that could be turned against those foolish enough to offer it.

That some children never forgave their mothers’ killers, who left them alone in a world full of people who would never understand the particular way love could feel like broken glass under the skin.

He began to write, his handwriting precise and controlled. By the time Lucien Lachance reached Bravil, everything would be ready. The Speaker’s precious Brotherhood would begin to crumble, and he would finally have the satisfaction of watching their perfect, golden boy fall from the pedestal he’d never deserved to occupy.

Mother had always said that patience was a virtue. Soon, very soon, he would discover just how right she’d been about that, too.

Chapter Text

L–

Highland contracts are proceeding smoothly. First target eliminated without complication, Darius Vayne, the smuggling operation's contact in Bruma, died quietly in his sleep from a rather potent nightshade preparation. Your intelligence was accurate, though his private study was far more heavily trapped than reported. Nearly lost three fingers to a rather ingenious poison needle mechanism. The weather has been surprisingly pleasant for this region, though I suspect that won't last. The locals speak of early snows this year, which should provide useful cover for the remaining eliminations.

Second target confirmed for tomorrow evening. Trell frequents the Tap and Tack every third day for his "business meetings." A convenient routine for someone in his profession. Will report completion via usual channels.

I find myself thinking of cold mountain inns more often than is probably productive for my current work. Strange how certain accommodations leave such lasting impressions on one's... focus.

–S

S–

Recent incidents within the family have grown more troubling. Brother Caldius was found near Anvil, killed with his own blade. Sister Miriel disappeared entirely while working a contract in Skingrad; her target was found alive and unharmed, but she never returned to report. The pattern suggests either extreme carelessness or something more sinister.

I'm pleased to hear your Highland contracts are progressing well. Your reputation for efficiency continues to impress the Listener, though I suspect he has no idea about your apparent talent for acquiring comfortable sleepwear. The bonus for Vayne's elimination has been noted in official records. I should return to the Sanctuary within a fortnight. Perhaps we might discuss your next assignments in person, thoroughly, and at length. There are several contracts in Skingrad that require a delicate touch, particularly given the recent difficulties in that region.

As payment, I’ve attached 750 Septim, as well as a completion bonus for excellent work with the Trell assignment.

–L.L.

P.S. I may have procured a bottle of that Skingrad vintage you mentioned. For purely professional tasting purposes, naturally.

L–

Your "professional tasting" sounds promising. I've always believed in the thorough evaluation of regional specialties.

The third Highland target was eliminated yesterday. Lydia Montrose proved considerably more challenging than anticipated. Noble families are more paranoid than usual lately, and she'd hired Redguard mercenaries as personal guards. Had to improvise extensively, including a rather dramatic escape involving a merchant's cart, several very confused chickens, and a conveniently timed house fire that destroyed most of the evidence.

The mercenaries were handled. Three additional casualties beyond the primary target, though they were hardly innocent parties. The client wanted discretion above all else, and burning down half a manor hardly qualifies as subtle. I'm discovering that certain shirts make excellent sleepwear, particularly on cold nights when one's thoughts tend to wander to warm beds and warmer company. Purely practical observations, of course. Though I admit the shirt smells faintly of that soap you use, which has proven rather distracting during surveillance work.

Two days until I'm done here. Looking forward to those thorough discussions, and perhaps some of that vintage you mentioned. Any explanations of the Skingrad difficulties? If they're connected to the recent family losses, that changes the risk assessment considerably.

–S

S–

I find your practical observations both fascinating and personally relevant to my interests. Academic curiosity about Brotherhood logistics, naturally. The fact that you've been distracted by memories of my soap is noted and filed under "mission-critical intelligence."

Recent family incidents have escalated–Silencer Gaius was found dismembered near his last known contract location in Cheydinhal. No signs of struggle at the scene, suggesting either overwhelming force or betrayal. The pattern disturbs me more than I care to admit in official reports.

Your improvisation with the Montrose contract shows exactly the kind of adaptability we need in uncertain times. The additional casualties are regrettable but understandable given the circumstances. I'm approving full hazard compensation plus a discretionary bonus for creative problem-solving in the sum of 1,000 Septims. The client's estate can absorb the extra costs.

I'll be conducting interviews upon my return, which may delay our... comprehensive review of assignment protocols. However, I believe private consultations often yield the most productive results. My quarters remain available for extended strategic planning sessions, should you find yourself in need of a quiet workspace where we won't be interrupted by bureaucratic concerns.

That said, I'm already procured. The question is whether you're prepared for delivery.

–L.L.

P.S. Your resourcefulness under pressure continues to impress me. Both professionally and otherwise.

L–

Highland contracts completed as of this morning. All targets eliminated, all objectives met, all evidence disposed of. The final target, Kristofer Single Hand, required the most creativity. His villa was a fortress, but I discovered his weakness for young Breton serving girls and a particular vintage of wine. Took three days to establish the right cover, but he died very pleasantly in what appeared to be natural circumstances during an evening of... recreation.

The smuggling operation should be thoroughly dismantled now. Their gold reserves, confiscated. Their contacts, eliminated or scattered. Their trade routes, disrupted for months, if not years. A comprehensive success that should satisfy even the most demanding clients.

I may have spent some time today purchasing items that might prove useful for extended strategic sessions. I trust your interviews won't take so long that we can't schedule at least one private consultation before I'm assigned elsewhere? I have several questions about recent security protocols that require... hands-on demonstration.

–S

S–

I find myself eager to inspect your...acquisitions. For quality assurance purposes, naturally. The intelligence on remaining smuggling contacts is invaluable, and the additional materials you've procured show admirable attention to detail.

Interviews will be expedited. Sister Mira was found with her throat slit in what should have been a secure safe house. Makes the situation more urgent. I'm implementing enhanced security protocols immediately, which makes private meetings both more necessary and more... discreet.

Your final target elimination shows exactly the kind of sophisticated approach we need. The Kristoff contract will serve as a template for future high-security assignments. Full payment plus an exceptional performance bonus has been authorized by the Listener himself. Your reputation reaches the highest levels of the organization.

My chambers. Tomorrow evening. Bring your equipment. We have much to discuss regarding both operational security and... personal protocols.

–L.L.

Chapter Text

Serena had been back at the Sanctuary for two days, and every shadow felt like it held a blade meant for her back.

The atmosphere had changed completely since she'd left for Bruma. Where once there had been the usual undercurrent of competitive tension that came with any gathering of assassins, now there was something else entirely: a paranoid stillness that made everyone move like they expected attack at any moment. Conversations stopped when she entered the room, and eyes followed her movements with the kind of assessment usually reserved for potential targets.

She'd arrived to find Telaendril barricaded in her quarters, accepting food only from Gogron, who'd apparently appointed himself her unofficial bodyguard. M'raaj-Dar had disappeared entirely, whether dead or simply gone to ground, no one seemed to know. Even Vicente, as ancient and powerful as he was, had taken to varying his feeding schedule in ways that suggested a genuine concern for his safety.

And through it all, Lucien's chambers remained empty, his return delayed by whatever crisis had erupted in Bravil just as he'd been preparing to leave.

She sat in the main hall now, ostensibly reading reports but actually watching the other members through her peripheral vision, watching for tells, for nervous habits, for anything that might suggest which of her supposed family members was systematically murdering the others.

Because it had to be one of them. The kills were too clean, too well-informed, too perfectly timed to be the work of an outsider. Someone in this Sanctuary knew exactly how to find Brotherhood members at their most vulnerable, knew their routes and operational schedules. It could be someone she'd probably shared meals with, trained with, and worked alongside for months.

The thought made her stomach turn.

"You're back."

The voice made her look up from the reports she hadn't been reading. Antoinetta stood in the doorway, but not with her usual confidence; her hand rested near her dagger, and her eyes swept the room before settling on her face.

"Two days ago," she confirmed, noting the way he kept his distance, how he'd positioned himself near the exit. "You look well."

"Alive counts as well these days." Her smile was strained. "How were the Highlands?"

"Profitable." She set the reports aside, but kept her hands visible. Even conversations with colleagues felt like negotiations now. "Any word from Lucien?"

"Nothing since yesterday." Antoinetta moved closer, but still maintained careful distance. "Though given recent... developments , some wonder if his delay is entirely political."

The implication hung in the air between them; multiple dead Brotherhood members, and now their Speaker was conveniently absent when he should have been here by now. It was an ugly thought, but it was also exactly the kind of suspicion that would occur to professional paranoids who'd watched their colleagues die one by one.

"Lucien wouldn't," she said quietly, though she hated that she felt the need to defend him at all.

"Wouldn't what? Kill Brotherhood members who might threaten his position, or simply look the other way while someone else does it?" Her voice was carefully neutral, but she could hear the genuine uncertainty beneath it. "I'm not making accusations, Serena, but we're all thinking things we never thought we'd have to think."

Serena couldn't argue with that. She'd been thinking the same ugly possibilities herself, much as she hated it. Not seriously, she knew Lucien, trusted him in ways that went beyond professional necessity. But in the dark hours before dawn, when sleep eluded her and she listened for footsteps in the corridor that might herald her own death, even her certainty wavered.

That's what this was doing to them. 

The systematic murders weren't just eliminating Brotherhood members; they were destroying the trust that held the organization together, making them see enemies in every shadow and betrayal in every delayed message.

"Has anyone considered that might be the point?" she asked quietly. "Making us suspect each other instead of looking for the real threat?"

"Of course." Antoinetta’s laugh was bitter. "But knowing you're being manipulated doesn't make the manipulation less effective. At least five of us are dead across Cyrodiil, Serena. Seven professionals who should have seen death coming and didn't. That suggests either incredible skill from an outsider, or inside knowledge from someone we trust."

"Or both." The new voice made them both tense, hands moving instinctively toward weapons before they recognized Vicente's measured tones. The vampire emerged from the shadows near the entrance, moving with that fluid grace that never failed to remind them what he was.

"Both?" Serena asked, though she dreaded the answer.

"An outsider with inside knowledge. Someone is feeding information to enemies we haven't identified yet." Vicente's dark eyes moved between them, and she wondered if he could smell their fear the way he scented blood. "Or someone we trusted who's revealed their true loyalties."

The possibilities were all terrible in different ways. An external enemy with a Brotherhood informant. A trusted member who'd always been a traitor. A respected colleague who'd been turned through blackmail or torture, or simple greed.

"Has the Listener shared their thoughts on the matter?" Serena asked.

"The Listener shares very little these days," Vicente replied dryly. "Though they have implemented new security protocols. All contracts require secondary confirmation; dead drops are to be... monitored more carefully ."

That last gave her a chill she tried not to show; her communications with Lucien were becoming increasingly intimate and tactically detailed. It was exactly the kind of intelligence that could be weaponized if intercepted – personal information mixed with operational data, payment records, target details, everything a traitor would need to manipulate Brotherhood operations.

"Monitored how?" she asked, keeping her voice casual.

"Random inspection, cross-referencing of intelligence to identify potential leaks." Vicente's tone was matter-of-fact, but she caught the warning in his words. Be careful what you commit to writing. Be careful who you trust with sensitive information.

Be careful, period.

The sound of approaching footsteps made all three of them tense, hands moving toward weapons in a choreographed response that would have been automatic paranoia just a month ago. Now it felt like basic survival.

But it was only Grogon, moving with the heavy tread that made stealth impossible for him under the best of circumstances. He nodded to them as he passed through the hall, but she noticed he kept his massive hands near the war axes at his belt. Even Grogon, simple as he was, had learned not to trust in safety.

"I should check the perimeter," Antoinetta said after the Orc had disappeared down the corridor toward Telaendril’s quarters. "Vicente, will you..."

"I'll remain here until our Speaker returns," Vicente confirmed. "Someone should maintain normal routines, even if normalcy itself has become suspect."

After Telaendril left, Vicente settled into one of the chairs with that fluid motion that looked effortless but suggested coiled readiness. For several minutes, they sat in comfortable, or at least familiar, silence.

"You're worried about him," Vicente said eventually, stating a fact instead of asking a question.

"Shouldn't I be? Seven members dead, and our Speaker is delayed by convenient Black Hand business?" She kept her voice level, professional, but knew Vicente's enhanced senses probably caught the undertone of fear.

"You know him better than that."

"I thought I did." The admission slipped out before she could stop it, revealing more about the state of her nerves than she'd intended. "But I thought I knew a lot of people who might be dead now, or might be killers themselves."

Vicente was quiet for a long moment, studying her with those unnervingly perceptive dark eyes. "Trust is a luxury we can no longer afford," he said finally. "But so is complete paranoia. The balance between them may determine who survives this."

Before she could respond, they heard it; the soft scrape of the sewer entrance opening, followed by familiar footsteps in the corridor beyond. Quick, purposeful, with the slight drag of the left foot that came from an old injury, Lucien thought no one noticed.

Relief flooded through her so intensely it was almost painful, followed immediately by a different kind of tension. He was back, he was alive, and now she'd find out whether the trust she'd been fighting to maintain was justified.

Lucien appeared in the doorway. He was alive, unharmed, exactly as she remembered, but there was something different about the way he held himself. A tension in his shoulders, a sharpness to his gaze as it swept the room, cataloging threats and exit routes with the automatic assessment of someone who'd learned not to assume safety anywhere.

His eyes found hers immediately, and for just a moment, his expression softened with something that looked like relief. Then his gaze shifted to Vicente, and she watched him recalibrate, remembering that private moments were a luxury they could no longer afford.

"Vicente, Serena." His voice was carefully controlled, professional. "I trust you've been briefed on recent developments?"

"Thoroughly," Vicente replied, rising with that fluid grace. "Though we were beginning to wonder if you'd suffered the same fate as our other missing members."

There was no accusation in the vampire's tone, but the words hung in the air with sharp edges nonetheless. Lucien's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Black Hand politics proved more...complex than anticipated," he said carefully. "Additional members were lost while I was in Bravil. The situation required immediate attention."

"More members?" Serena couldn't keep the alarm out of her voice entirely. "How many?"

"Three confirmed dead. Two missing, presumed dead." Lucien moved into the room, but she noticed he positioned himself where he could see all the entrances, his hand resting casually near his dagger. "The pattern is escalating beyond simple elimination. Whoever is doing this wants the Brotherhood to know they can reach anyone, anywhere."

"Including Speakers conducting Black Hand business?" Vicente's question was delicately phrased, but the implication was clear.

Lucien's smile was sharp as a blade. "Especially Speakers. I spent the last day in a safe house, waiting for confirmation that the road back here wasn't compromised." His gaze flicked to Serena, and she caught something in his expression: a mix of frustration and something that might have been an apology. "I couldn't risk leading enemies back to the Sanctuary. Not with so much at stake."

The explanation was reasonable, professional, and exactly what a responsible Speaker would do under the circumstances. It was also exactly what a traitor would say to explain a convenient absence during multiple murders.

She hated herself for thinking it, but the thought came anyway.

"What did you find in Bravil?" she asked, keeping her voice neutral. "Any leads on who might be behind this?"

"Nothing conclusive." Lucien settled into a chair but remained alert. "But the pattern suggests someone with intimate knowledge of Brotherhood operations. Safe houses, communication protocols, and assignment schedules. Information that should be restricted to the highest levels."

"Black Hand levels?" Vicente asked quietly.

"Or Speaker levels," Lucien confirmed. "The scope of the intelligence suggests a betrayal at the very top of our organization."

Serena felt something cold settle in her stomach. If the traitor was operating within the Black Hand, no one was safe. No communication was secure, no location truly hidden, no trust justified.

"Have you shared this assessment with the Listener?" Vicente asked.

"They think I’m being too paranoid." Lucien's gaze moved between them, and she could see him making calculations, deciding how much to reveal. "But I want to hear your observations first. You've been here while the murders continued. What have you seen?"

"Fear," Serena said immediately. "Paranoia, everyone suspects everyone else, normal Brotherhood functions are breaking down because no one trusts their colleagues enough to work effectively."

"Which may be exactly the point," Vicente added. "Destroy us from within by making us destroy each other through suspicion."

Lucien nodded slowly. "It's effective. A traditional enemy would have to fight through our defenses, overcome our training, and match our skills. But an enemy who can make us question our own allies..."

"Turns our strengths into weaknesses," Serena finished. "Our secrecy becomes isolation. Our independence becomes vulnerability."

"And our trust becomes a weapon that can be used against us." Lucien's voice was steady, but she heard the burden of knowing that his decisions could mean life or death for everyone under his command. "Which is why we need to be very careful about who we trust with sensitive information going forward."

The warning was clearly directed at both of them, but she felt it personally. Their communications, their growing intimacy, their plans to meet privately; all of it suddenly felt dangerous in ways she hadn't fully considered.

"Understood," she said quietly, and saw something flicker in his eyes that might have been regret.

"I should write the Listener," he said, standing. "Vicente, would you ensure the common areas remain secure? Serena, I'll need a detailed debrief on your Highland contracts; there may be connections we haven't identified yet."

"Of course." She stood as well, hyperaware of the formality between them, the careful distance they were maintaining. "When would you like to conduct the debrief?"

"This evening. My office, after I've written the Listener." His voice was perfectly professional, but she caught the slight emphasis on ‘office’, a reminder that some conversations required absolute privacy. "There are...aspects of your reports that may require detailed discussion."

"I'll be available whenever you need me," she replied, and hoped Vicente couldn't hear the double meaning in her words.

Lucien nodded once, then strode toward the corridor that led to the Listener's quarters. She watched him go, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he moved like he expected attack from any direction.

"He's afraid, too," Vicente observed quietly after Lucien had disappeared.

"Shouldn't he be? His own people are being murdered, and he can't protect them."

"That's not the kind of fear I mean." Vicente's dark eyes fixed on her with uncomfortable perception. "He's afraid of losing something specific. Something, or someone , that matters more than Brotherhood politics or professional duty."

The observation hit too close to home, and she worked to keep her expression neutral. "We all have things we don't want to lose."

"Indeed." Vicente's smile was knowing but not unkind. "The question is whether those things make us stronger or more vulnerable in times like these."

Chapter Text

The corridor to Lucien's office felt longer than usual, each step echoing softly in the oppressive silence that had settled over the Sanctuary like a shroud. Serena paused outside his door, her hand raised to knock, and tried to quiet the warring voices in her head.

He's been gone for days while Brotherhood members died. He had legitimate Black Hand business. He has access to all the intelligence a traitor would need. You know him. You trust him. You trusted other people who might be dead now.

She knocked before the paranoia could paralyze her completely.

"Come in."

His voice sounded tired, strained in a way that was either genuine exhaustion or careful performance. She opened the door and stepped into the familiar warmth of his chambers, automatically cataloging details that might have changed: new papers on his desk, different arrangements of furniture, anything that might suggest deception or hidden agendas.

Everything looked exactly as it had before she'd left for the Highlands. The same meticulous organization, the same careful positioning of chairs near the fire, the same faint scent of parchment and ink, and whatever soap he used.

The same, except for the tension radiating from the man who stood by the window, looking out at nothing.

"Lock the door," he said without turning around.

She did, noting that he'd already drawn the heavy curtains and placed a chair against the door that led to his private study. Precautions that spoke either of legitimate security concerns or a guilty conscience.

"How was your meeting with the Listener?" she asked, settling into the chair across from where he usually sat but remaining ready to move if necessary.

"Enlightening." He turned from the window, and she could see the exhaustion in his face now, the kind that came from days of constant vigilance, of sleeping with one ear open and one hand on a weapon. "He is implementing new protocols: no one travels alone, all communications monitored, random searches of personal quarters."

" Searches ?" The word came out sharper than she'd intended.

"Looking for evidence of treachery. Unauthorized communications, unexplained wealth, anything that might suggest divided loyalties." His smile was grim. "We've reached the point where the cure for paranoia is more paranoia."

She thought about their increasingly intimate dead drops, about the generous payments he'd been including, about the personal items she'd started carrying that connected her to him. Any of it could be misconstrued under the wrong circumstances.

"And if they find something that looks suspicious but isn't?" she asked carefully.

"Then we hope whoever's conducting the search is interested in the truth rather than convenient scapegoats." Lucien moved away from the window, closer to her, but she noticed he maintained a careful distance. "Which brings us to why I asked you here."

Her stomach clenched. "To debrief about the Highland contracts?"

"Among other things." He settled into his usual chair, but perched on the edge like he might need to move quickly. "Serena, I need you to understand something. The situation has changed completely since you left. The rules we've been operating under, the assumptions we've made about safety and privacy – none of that applies anymore."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that everything we've shared, everything we've written to each other, everything we've planned, it's all potentially dangerous now. If someone is monitoring communications, if they're building a case against either of us..."

He didn't finish the sentence, but she understood. Their relationship, their growing intimacy, their professional and personal entanglement – all of it could be twisted into evidence of conspiracy, of divided loyalties, of priorities that threatened Brotherhood security.

"So what do you suggest?" The question came out colder than she'd intended, defensive in a way that made his expression tighten.

"I suggest we be very careful about what we commit to writing. About how often we meet privately. About anything that could be interpreted as..." He paused, seeming to search for the right word. " Compromising ."

The word hit her like a slap. "Compromising."

"Serena –" "No, I understand." She stood abruptly, moving toward the door. "Professional relationships only. No personal complications that might interfere with Brotherhood loyalty. Message received."

"That's not what I meant." His voice was sharp now, and she heard him stand, heard his footsteps as he moved to intercept her. " Damn it , that's not what I meant at all."

She stopped with her hand on the door latch, not turning around. "Then what did you mean?"

"I meant that I care about you too much to let paranoia destroy what we have, but I also care about you too much to get you killed through my own stupidity." His voice was closer now, just behind her shoulder. "I meant that if someone is looking for evidence of treachery, our relationship gives them perfect ammunition to use against both of us."

"And you think I'm too naive to understand that risk?" She turned to face him and saw something raw in his expression that stopped her anger cold.

"I think you're brave enough to take risks I'm not sure I can live with," he said quietly. "I think you trust people more than this situation warrants, and I think that trust could get you killed."

"People like you?"

The question hung between them, sharp and painful as a blade. She saw him flinch, saw the way her words hit home, and felt a stab of regret even as part of her was glad to have wounded him.

"Yes," he said simply. "People like me."

The admission was so honest, so devoid of defensiveness or manipulation, that it cut through her anger like ice water. She studied his face, looking for signs of deception, for the careful masks she'd learned to identify in targets and colleagues alike.

All she saw was exhaustion, fear, and something that looked suspiciously like grief.

"Lucien," she said more gently.

"I've spent the last three days wondering if I could trust my own people," he said, moving back toward the window, putting distance between them. "Wondering if the Black Hand members I've worked with for years might be feeding information to our enemies. Wondering if people I've shared meals with and considered family might be the ones systematically murdering Brotherhood members."

He paused, staring out at the curtained window as if he could see through the heavy fabric.

"And then I come back here, and I have to wonder if you're safe, if our communications have been compromised, if my feelings for you have made you a target or made me more of a liability than I already am." His laugh was bitter. "Trust has become a luxury I'm not sure any of us can afford."

She watched him standing by the window, shoulders rigid with tension, and felt something in her chest crack open. This wasn't the calculated distance of someone trying to manipulate her; this was the exhausted honesty of someone who'd been carrying impossible burdens alone for too long.

"So what do we do?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know." He turned back to her, and the vulnerability in his expression made her heart ache. "I know what I want to do. I want to lock that door and forget about traitors and the Hand and dead colleagues. I want to hold you and pretend that we can have something normal, something good, something that isn't poisoned by the work we do and the enemies we've made."

"But?"

"But I also want you to live through this, and I'm not sure those two things are compatible anymore."

She moved closer to him, slowly, giving him time to retreat if he wanted to maintain distance. When he didn't move away, she reached up to touch his face, feeling the tension in his jaw, the exhaustion carved into the lines around his eyes.

"What if I'm willing to take that risk?" she asked softly.

"What if I'm not willing to let you?"

The question hung between them, and she could see him struggling with it, working through all the terrible possibilities in his mind.

"The traitor knows our patterns, Serena. They knew exactly where to find Caldius, exactly when Miriel would be alone, exactly how to get close enough to Gaius to butcher him without a struggle. That level of intelligence suggests someone with access to the highest levels of Brotherhood operations."

He began pacing, the controlled movement of someone trying to contain restless energy. "And now Matthieu is missing. A Black Hand member, someone who should be nearly untouchable, just...gone: no body, no signs of struggle, no witnesses. He simply vanished from what should have been a secure location."

"You think it's another Black Hand member," she said, watching his agitated movements.

"I think it has to be. The scope of information, the precision of the attacks – it points to someone with the highest possible clearance." His hands clenched into fists. "Someone who sits in the same meetings I do, who has access to the same intelligence, who knows every operational detail about every member of the Brotherhood."

"That's –" "That's terrifying, yes. But it also means that anyone close to me becomes a target. Anyone who might be used to manipulate me, to distract me, to compromise my judgment." He stopped pacing to look at her directly. "Don't you see? Our relationship makes you the perfect leverage against me."

"Lucien –"

"They could harm you to force my compliance, or kill you to destabilize my effectiveness, or simply threaten you to make me question every decision, second-guess every order." His voice was rising slightly, the careful control beginning to crack. "I've seen what losing people does to operational efficiency. I've watched good siblings become liabilities because they were too focused on protecting someone they cared about."

"So you want to end this? Push me away for my own protection?"

"I want to keep you alive," he said fiercely. "Even if it means –"

She kissed him.

It was the only way to stop the spiral of fear and rationalization that was consuming him, the only way to cut through the endless catalog of dangers and possibilities and worst-case scenarios. She stepped into his space, grabbed the front of his robes, and pressed her mouth to his with enough force to drive all the words back down his throat.

He went rigid with surprise for a moment, then melted against her with something that sounded like defeat. His arms came around her automatically, pulling her closer, and she could feel the tension in his body begin to dissolve as if her touch had released some tightly wound spring.

When they broke apart, he was breathing hard, his forehead pressed against hers.

"That's not going to solve anything," he said quietly, but his arms remained around her.

"It solved the immediate problem of you talking yourself into pushing me away out of some misguided protective instinct," she replied, not moving back. "Now, can we discuss this like rational adults instead of you spiraling into worst-case scenarios?"

"Those worst-case scenarios could get you killed."

"Everything we do could get us killed, Lucien. That's the nature of our work." She reached up to cup his face, forcing him to meet her eyes. "But hiding from each other, cutting ourselves off from the one good thing we've found in this bloody profession isn’t survival, it’s just another kind of death."

He was quiet for a moment, and she could see him processing her words, weighing them against his fears.

"The risk –" "The risk is real," she agreed. "But so is the risk of making decisions based on fear instead of strategy."

"What we have," he repeated quietly, and there was something careful in his tone, as if he too was navigating around words that felt too large, too final.

"Yes. Whatever this is, whatever it's becoming." She met his gaze directly. "I care about you, Lucien. I care about you enough to take the risks that come with that. I care about you enough to be careful, to be smart, to take precautions that keep us both safe. But I don't care about you enough to pretend it doesn't exist just because someone might use it against us."

He stared at her for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. "You realize that everything you just said is exactly what someone would say if they were trying to manipulate me?"

"Yes," she said simply. "It's also exactly what someone would say if they were telling the truth. You'll have to decide which one you think I am."

The silence stretched between them, weighted with possibility and risk in equal measure. She could see him making the calculation, weighing trust against survival, affection against paranoia.

Finally, slowly, he smiled, the first genuine smile she'd seen since he'd returned.

"I think," he said quietly, "that I care about you too much to let fear make this decision for me."

"Good." She moved closer, eliminating the careful distance he'd been maintaining. "Because I've spent months thinking about that terrace, and I'm not ready to give that up because some bastard is trying to tear the Brotherhood apart from the inside."

"Have you now?" The words came out rough, urgent, and she could see the shift in his expression as professional concern gave way to something more immediate, more personal.

"I have, but…" She gestured toward the door, though she'd already started working at the fastenings of her leather bracers. "What about security protocols? Monitoring? All those very logical concerns about being careful?"

"The door is locked. The room is secure." His hands moved to the ties of her tunic, fingers working with the same careful precision he brought to everything. "And right now, I don't care about anything except proving to myself that you're real, that you're here, that we're both alive."

She understood that need, felt it echoing in her own chest. After days of paranoia and suspicion, after wondering if everyone around them might be an enemy, after the fear that he might push her away, she needed this too.

His hands were already on her before the words fully settled in the air, slow and deliberate as he worked the leather ties of her tunic loose. There was no hurry, only quiet intensity in his touch, as if he was memorizing every inch of her skin, committing it to memory before he let himself explore fully. His fingertips skimmed over her collarbone, tracing a path down her ribs, light enough to make her shiver but sure enough to ground her.

His gaze never wavered from hers, dark and assessing, waiting for her silent permission. When her lips parted slightly, breath shallow and trembling, and her eyes flickered that tiny nod, it was all the answer he needed.

"Good," he whispered, voice rough against her ear, sending heat spiraling through her. "If you need me to stop, say it. If you want more...you'll tell me. If you’re unable to speak, you give me one tap to keep going, two taps if I need to slow down, three taps, and I stop everything. No questions asked."

She nodded, throat tight, and gave him one clear tap against his chest.

Serena shivered as he guided her backward, the back of her knees pressing into the soft couch cushions. Every careful movement pressed her closer to him, and she could feel the steady weight of his body anchoring her even as her pulse spiked. His hands lingered at her waist for a moment, fingertips tracing the curve of her hips with deliberate slowness, teasing, testing.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, breath catching as he leaned in, letting his mouth hover near her ear without touching her. The heat of him, the scent, the low hum of his voice; it was unbearable and electrifying all at once. She pressed slightly into him, needing the contact, needing to feel every inch of him, every subtle shift as he studied her.

He traced a line from her jaw down to her collarbone, teeth grazing lightly, tongue flicking teasingly. His hands drifted upward to her breasts, thumbs brushing over hardened peaks with deliberate, expert pressure, sending shivers racing through her. Her back arched almost of its own accord, body trembling, heartbeat thundering.

His other hand slid down, spreading her thighs, exposing the slick heat beneath. “Tap if it’s too much,” he reminded, voice low but commanding.

She tapped again, tiny and uncertain.

“Perfect,” he said, voice thick, not soft, but possessive. “Just like that. You’re made for this.”

His mouth found her cunt, tongue tracing slow circles, two fingers sliding inside in time with the rhythm he set. Her hips jerked, desperate, and he held her steady, anchoring her against him, all while still letting her signal when it was too much.

"Quiet," he murmured, pressing his palm softly over her mouth. "No one else needs to hear, but I want to hear you."

His tongue traced slow, relentless circles over her clit, paired with two fingers sliding inside, curling in time with the calculated rhythm he designed to build her up and break her down again. Her hips jerked involuntarily, desperate to chase release, but he held her steady, anchoring her trembling body with strong hands.

"You're doing so damn good," he breathed, voice husky with praise. "So quiet, so perfect. Just like this."

The first orgasm crashed through her, muscles clenching tight around his fingers, breath hitching in a stifled sob. She pressed harder into his hand over her mouth, eyes wide and glassy, barely able to believe the intensity of what was happening.

He didn't stop. His tongue moved with unwavering patience, flicking and dragging, while his fingers pressed deeper and curled with wicked precision. "That's it," he murmured against her skin. Her thighs shook, knees threatening to give way. The second release came like a storm, her body collapsing into the pillow beneath her hips, helpless and completely undone. He cupped her flushed face, thumb brushing over her cheekbone with quiet reverence.

"Still with me?"

Her nod was desperate, eyes wide and unsteady, followed by a shaky tap against his shoulder.

He held her close, letting her body tremble and ride the last aftershocks of the climaxes he’d coaxed from her. Her back was still arched against the couch cushions, chest heaving, fingers tangled in his shoulders. He reached for a pillow from the nearby chair, sliding it beneath her hips with careful precision.

The subtle lift shifted her body in a way that made her gasp softly, opening her fully, exposing her entirely to him. Her eyes widened, overwhelmed by the new angle, the stretch, and the quiet promise in his deliberate motion. He pressed a hand to her hip, holding her steady, thumb brushing along her flushed skin.

“Tap if it’s too much,” he murmured, voice low and dark, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. She gave a tiny, trembling tap once against his shoulder.

Slowly, he pressed the head of himself to her entrance, letting her adjust to the stretch, feeling her muscles clench and quiver around him. Every careful movement, every measured push, drove her higher, teasing her senses, keeping the tension tight and electric. The pillow beneath her hips gave him the leverage to angle just right, to drive in deep, steady, and completely deliberate, holding her in the sweet spot where every nerve screamed.

Her breath caught, body trembling again, and he leaned down, lips brushing hers in a fleeting, predatory kiss. “Mine,” he murmured, low, possessive. “So fucking perfect for me.” Her body shook violently, back arching against the couch cushions as he pressed closer, each thrust deliberate and controlled, driving her higher, keeping her on the edge while he maintained a slow, merciless rhythm. Gasps and shuddering moans escaped her lips despite every effort to stay quiet, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails grazing the skin as she tried to anchor herself. His breath was hot against her neck, teeth grazing lightly as he murmured, low and possessive, “So good… so fucking good …mine. Only mine.”

She was lost, consumed entirely, when he drove one final thrust deep inside her. Her body convulsed, shaking from the intensity, a ragged cry trapped in her throat as pleasure tore through her in relentless waves. He followed her over the edge instantly, every muscle clenching, teeth grazing her collarbone, hands sliding over her sides and hips, whispering low, dark praise. “Mine… all mine… You did so fucking well…you’re perfect.”

Lucien’s hands roamed slowly, deliberately, cupping her flushed face again, thumb brushing over her cheekbone with quiet reverence. His other hand traced down her side, fingertips grazing her spine and hips, grounding her. “You’re safe,” he murmured, voice low and rough, brushing a strand of hair from her damp forehead. “That’s what matters…just breathe with me.”

She whimpered softly, pressing into his chest, still shaking, and he let his lips brush over the crown of her head, then down her neck, feather-light, each touch gentle but charged, steadying her. Another tiny wave of pleasure shivered through her, involuntary, and he let her body ride it, thumb tracing small, comforting circles over her shoulder. “So good…look at you…incredible…” 

For a heartbeat, neither moved; only the sound of their synchronized breathing filled the space between them. Then, with uncharacteristic tenderness, he reached behind his desk and withdrew a folded black shirt from the cabinet. "Here," he said, extending it without fanfare, his voice still rough around the edges. "It's clean."

She accepted it wordlessly, pulling the soft cotton over her head. The fabric settled against her skin, the hem skimming her thighs; it was far too large, still warm from his touch, and carrying the subtle essence of him that made something flutter low in her chest.

They gravitated toward the worn leather couch nestled in the corner of his office. His arm found its place around her shoulders with practiced ease, her head settling naturally into the hollow beneath his collarbone. The candle had burned low, bathing the room in honeyed light that danced across the walls. At some point, she couldn't pinpoint exactly when, her eyelids grew heavy. The last sensation that registered was the steady, hypnotic rhythm of his breathing beneath her cheek before sleep drew her under like a gentle tide.

Chapter Text

"…I told you it wasn't the floorboards creaking!"

The whisper was followed by a muffled snort, the sound of someone trying and failing to contain their amusement. Another voice, lower, but no more discreet, murmured back, "I thought you were exaggerating. Sweet Sithis, I never thought they’d actually do it…"

“...How much do we all owe Telaendril?”

“Twenty Septims.”

“Twenty?!”

Lucien's eyes snapped open. He didn't move at first, letting the haze of sleep burn off as the quiet shuffle of boots and the faint scent of candle wax told him exactly where they were: his office. And judging by the warmth pressed against his side, Serena was still here, too.

A second voice, maybe Antoinetta's, drifted through the small opening in his office door. "Well, she's certainly wearing his shirt. Look at the size of that thing on her."

"Do you really think they…" 

"Oh, they definitely did! Look at how they’re –"

The nearest object within reach happened to be one of his boots. Lucien threw it with practiced precision, and the leather projectile struck the door with a resounding thud that made the hinges rattle. The whispers cut off immediately.

"The next person who utters another word gets my letter opener between their ribs," he called out, his voice still rough with sleep. "And before you assume I'm joking, ask yourselves if you've ever seen me joke about that particular promise."

Hurried footsteps retreated down the corridor.

Serena stirred against him, a soft sound escaping her lips as consciousness slowly returned. Her dark hair was tousled, catching the morning light that filtered through the narrow window, and the oversized black shirt had shifted during sleep, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone.

"How are you feeling?" The question came out softer than he'd intended, his fingers finding their way to her hair almost without thought.

She blinked up at him, her eyes still hazy with sleep. "Like I've been thoroughly..." She paused, color rising in her cheeks. "Well."

His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Good." The possessive satisfaction in his voice was unmistakable. She was here, and the entire Sanctuary now knew exactly whose she was.

They dressed in comfortable silence, Serena retrieving her scattered clothes while he pulled on a fresh shirt and located his missing boot. When she moved to leave, however, his hand caught her wrist.

"Where are you going?"

"To face the inevitable teasing," she offered, but there was something uncertain in her expression.

"No." His grip gentled but didn't release. "Stay close today. I have business to attend to within the Sanctuary, and I want you close by. Come," his hand found the small of her back, guiding her toward the door. "I'll walk you to your room."

The corridor felt different in daylight, and thin rays of sun came streaming through the small windows near the ceiling. She was acutely aware of his presence beside her, the way he positioned himself slightly ahead, as if shielding her from prying eyes. When they reached her door, he paused, his hand still resting possessively at the base of her spine.

"There's a dead drop for you this evening," he said quietly. "The usual place in the Imperial City sewers. Nothing urgent, but it needs handling."

She nodded, then hesitated. "Lucien…"

"Rest today." His fingers briefly traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up towards him. "I'll handle the gossip."

Twenty minutes after leaving her, Lucien strode into the main hall where the Brotherhood had gathered. The leather satchel in his hands was unusual; he rarely distributed contracts personally anymore, preferring to leave such mundane tasks to others. But today was different. Today, he had a point to make.

"Contracts," he announced, letting the bag drop onto the wooden table with deliberate force. "Standard rates, standard rules." His dark gaze swept the room, lingering meaningfully on each face. "What isn't standard is my tolerance for gossip this morning."

Telaendril shifted uncomfortably. Vicente raised an eyebrow. Antoinetta examined her nails with exaggerated interest.

"Let me be exceptionally clear," Lucien continued, his voice dropping to that silky tone that made smart people start reaching for weapons. "Anything you think you may have heard, seen, or overheard in the past twelve hours is now classified as information you never possessed. Anyone who feels compelled to share observations about...domestic arrangements...will discover exactly how creative I can be with a blade, bow, or improvised weapon."

He pulled out the first contract, unrolling it with casual precision. "M'raaj-Dar, you have a Breton merchant in Anvil who's been skimming from the guild. Make it look like bandits."

The Khajiit nodded silently and took the scroll, surprisingly not muttering a rude comment under his breath.

"Telaendril, there's a court mage in Skingrad who's been practicing necromancy a little too publicly. The Mage’s College wants it handled quietly."

"Of course." Telaendril’s amber eyes glittered with anticipation.

"Antoinetta..." Lucien's smile turned razor-sharp as he handed her a contract. "A chatty innkeeper in Bravil who apparently can't keep his mouth shut about his patrons' business. I'm sure you understand the importance of...discretion."

Her return smile was equally predatory. "Message received, Speaker."

Lucien straightened, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve; a gesture that somehow managed to seem both casual and vaguely threatening. "I trust we have an understanding."

The hall fell into blessed silence.

Serena had never been particularly good at rest days. The concept felt foreign; there was always too much quiet, too much time to think. She paced the small room for nearly an hour, reorganizing her weapons, refolding clothes that were already perfectly folded, before finally surrendering to exhaustion. The events of the previous night had taken more out of her than she'd realized.

She curled up on her narrow bed, still wearing the clothes she'd hastily thrown on that morning, and let sleep claim her.

When she woke, the light filtering through her single window had shifted to late afternoon gold. Her body felt heavy, sated in a way that made her cheeks warm with memory. But it was the items placed carefully on her bedside table that made her sit up fully alert.

Lucien’s black shirt from the night before lay neatly folded, as if it had been laundered and pressed, though she caught the faintest trace of his scent still clinging to the fabric. Beside it sat two sealed letters.

The first bore the Dark Brotherhood's official seal, pressed deep into crimson wax. She broke it open to find Lucien's precise handwriting, each letter formed with mechanical perfection:

Your target awaits in the Imperial City sewers, third junction past the main entrance from the Waterfront District. A fence named Marcus Valerius, who has been selling stolen museum artifacts to collectors. Make it appear as a goblin attack; there have been reports of unusual activity down there lately. Payment will be deposited in the dead drop behind the loose stone in the Talos Plaza District monument, northwest corner, after confirmation of completion. Timeframe: 48 hours maximum.

– L.L., Speaker

It was clinically professional and utterly devoid of anything personal.

The second letter bore no seal at all, just her name written in that same familiar hand, though the letters seemed less controlled somehow. She opened it with fingers that trembled slightly:

Your voice saying my name haunts every moment of this endless day. I've conducted three performance reviews within the Sanctuary today and haven't absorbed a single word anyone said because I keep thinking about how you felt against me, how you trembled when I touched you. The way you looked at me afterward is branded into my memory. I want to see that look again, but unfortunately, duty calls us both away. I have business in Bravil (yes, that cesspit, spare me your sympathy), and your assignments will take you through Chorrol and Skingrad before you end up in that same wretched city.

Four days. Five, if my estimations are correct. I'm already counting the hours and imagining all the ways I plan to remind you who you belong to when we're reunited.

There are establishments near your drop points that might serve for lodging. The Count's Arms in Anvil is clean, and the proprietor minds his own business. In Skingrad, try the West Weald Inn; the beds are adequate, and the doors have decent locks. And if you find yourself in Bravil before I locate you, The Lonely Suitor is the only inn worth the time, though that's not saying much.

Purely professional recommendations, you understand. The fact that I'll be staying at the Lonely Suitor during my time in Cyrodiil's armpit is merely a coincidence.

Is it possession? Obsession? I don't know the difference anymore, and I don't care to learn it. What I do know is that the thought of anyone so much as looking at you makes me want to paint the walls with their blood.

Don't get yourself killed while I'm gone. I have very specific plans for what I intend to do to you, and death would be terribly inconvenient.

P.S. Keep the shirt. Wear it, if you're feeling generous. I want my scent on your skin when I find you.

Serena set the letter down carefully, as if the parchment itself might burn her. Her heart was racing from his words, from the implications, from the sheer intensity that radiated from every line of his elegant script. She could practically hear his voice in the words, that silky tone that could shift from deadly to intimate in a heartbeat.

Four days. Possibly five.

She picked up the shirt he'd returned to her, holding the soft fabric to her face. It still carried traces of him; sandalwood, soap, a faint tinge of blood, and something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The scent made her stomach flutter with a mixture of anticipation and something that might have been fear, if she were being honest with herself.

Paint the walls with their blood.

The casual way he'd written it, as if discussing the weather, sent a shiver down her spine. This was Lucien Lachance, Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood. She'd seen him kill without hesitation, had watched him orchestrate deaths with the precision of an artist. But last night...he'd touched her like she was something to be treasured.

Something to be possessed.

She folded both letters carefully, tucking them into the hidden compartment of her travel pack along with the shirt. The professional letter she'd burn after memorizing the details, standard protocol. But the personal one…

That one she was keeping.

The Imperial City sewers reeked of decay and stagnant water, but Serena had worked in worse conditions. She moved silently through the tunnels, her boots making no sound on the slick stone as she navigated toward the third junction. The air grew thicker with each step, heavy with moisture and the acrid stench of waste.

Gerrich Valerius proved to be exactly where Lucien had indicated – a nervous, sweating man with darting eyes who clearly knew his business had attracted unwanted attention. He crouched beside a makeshift table constructed from wooden crates, examining a stolen ceremonial dagger by flickering torchlight.

"Come on, come on," he muttered to himself, wiping perspiration from his brow with a stained sleeve. "Just need to move this last piece and I'm gone. Clean slate, new city..."

Serena watched from the shadows as he wrapped the dagger in oiled cloth, his hands trembling slightly. Whether from nerves or the damp cold, she couldn't tell. It didn't matter.

She waited until his attention was fully focused on securing his illegal wares before moving. Her blade found its way between his ribs, angled upward toward the heart. He barely had time to gasp before his body went limp.

The staging itself took longer than the actual murder; Serena carefully positioned the body to suggest he'd been overwhelmed by the goblins that had been plaguing the tunnels. A few strategic cuts, some scattered gold coins to suggest interrupted theft, and she even went so far as to coax one of the rats close enough to gnaw at his extremities before shooing it away.

Professional. Thorough. Exactly what was expected of her.

But as she made her way back through the tunnels and collected payment from the dead drop along the way, Lucien's words echoed in her mind: I want my scent on your skin when I find you.

Anvil - Two Days Later

The Count's Arms proved to be exactly as Lucien had described: clean and discreet, with a proprietor who asked no questions when she paid for her room in advance and requested that her meals be left outside her door. She'd arrived that morning, travel-stained and weary  after receiving her new assignment that had been waiting in the usual dead drop.

Lord Janus Hassildor's wine merchant had been embezzling from the city's nobles for months, watering down expensive vintages and pocketing the difference. A crime that might normally warrant a beating or imprisonment, but the merchant had made the fatal error of bragging about his scheme to the wrong person at the wrong tavern. That person had been an off-duty guard whose sister worked in the Hassildor household. 

The sister had mentioned her employer's growing frustration with the declining quality of his collection. The guard had connected the dots, and someone with gold to spare had arranged for a more permanent solution to the problem.

Serena spent the afternoon observing the merchant's routine from the shadows of Anvil’s marketplace. Aldric Fennis was a creature of habit: morning visits to various vineyards outside the city walls, afternoon inventory in his shop's basement, evening drinks at the Grey Mare where he regaled other patrons with tales of his business acumen.

She struck during his evening routine. The Grey Mare's basement was accessible through a cellar door that faced the alley, and Fennis had developed the unfortunate habit of using it as a shortcut when he'd had too much to drink.

He stumbled into the cellar just past midnight, humming off-key and reeking of the very wine he'd been diluting. Serena was waiting behind a stack of barrels, patient as death itself.

"What – who's there?" Fennis squinted into the darkness, swaying slightly. "This is private property, you can't…"

She moved behind him as he stumbled forward, and when he turned to investigate the sound, she struck him hard across the temple with a heavy wine bottle. The blow sent him crashing to the stone floor, his skull connecting with the unforgiving surface with a wet crack.

He twitched once, then lay still.

The scene was already staged; a drunk man stumbling in the dark, striking his head on the stone streets. She positioned his body more naturally, scattered several coins near his hand to suggest he'd been counting his evening's winnings when he fell, and placed the broken bottle nearby as if it had fallen from his grasp.

It would pass a close inspection. The man was known to drink heavily, the cellar was dimly lit and full of hazards, and accidents happened to careless people every day.

Back in her room at the Count's Arms, Serena found herself sitting by the small window, staring out at Anvil’s quiet streets. The town was peaceful, almost idyllic compared to the grime of the Imperial City or the decay of Bravil. She could imagine what it would be like to stay here, to live a normal life in a place like this.

The thought lasted exactly three seconds before she dismissed it as foolish fantasy.

She pulled Lucien's letter from her pack and read it again by candlelight. His handwriting seemed to leap from the page, each carefully formed word carrying the weight of his intent.

Four days. Possibly five.

Skingrad - Three Days Later

The West Weald Inn was indeed adequate, as Lucien had promised. The beds were comfortable, the doors had solid locks, and the staff seemed genuinely committed to minding their own business. Serena had checked in under the name "Viera Gallenius," paying for two nights and explaining that she was a traveling merchant evaluating potential suppliers in the region. Her target this time was more challenging: Therana Veloth, a magistrate whose tendency for corporal punishment had grown too harsh for the court’s comfort. Unlike the previous contracts, this woman was intelligent, paranoid, and surrounded by magical wards that would detect most conventional approaches.

Serena spent the first day studying the courthouse from various vantage points around Skingrad. Therana rarely left her office, and when she did, it was always in the company of at least two city patrolmen. The breakthrough came when Serena noticed the woman's one weakness: vanity. Despite her cruelty, Therana maintained an extensive collection of beauty treatments and cosmetics. Every morning, a servant girl from the local apothecary delivered fresh supplies of rare herbs and alchemical components used in the judge’s daily beauty regimen.

Serena followed the servant girl – barely sixteen, nervous as a sparrow – to her source: an elderly alchemist named Bothiel who specialized in cosmetic preparations for Skingrad's wealthy elite. The old woman's shop was cluttered with exotic ingredients and bubbling distillations, the air thick with the scent of flowers and minerals.

"I'm looking for something special," Serena told her, adopting the accent and mannerisms of a minor noble. "A gift for my lady mother. She's always been particular about her complexion treatments." Bothiel's eyes lit up with the gleam of a merchant sensing profit. "Ah, a discerning customer! I have just the thing: a new preparation I've been developing. Distilled moonstone powder mixed with vampire dust and nightshade extract. Very exclusive, very effective."

"Vampire dust?" Serena feigned concern. "Is that...safe?"

"Oh, perfectly safe in the right proportions," Bothiel assured her, bustling around her workshop. "I've been supplying it to Magistrate Therana for months now. She swears by its rejuvenating properties."

Perfect.

The substitution was almost embarrassingly simple. While Bothiel prepared her "special order" in the back room, Serena slipped a vial of concentrated deathbell extract into the container of vampire dust powder. The translucent powder was nearly identical in color and texture to the vampire dust; indistinguishable to the naked eye, but far more toxic when absorbed through skin.

Therana would apply the tainted mixture to her face each morning, absorbing the poison slowly through her skin. The deathbell would mimic and amplify the rejuvenating effects initially, making her skin appear more radiant than ever. But within days, the cumulative toxicity would begin showing: nausea, disorientation, and gradual organ failure. By the time anyone identified the cause, she would be beyond help, and the evidence would be consumed along with the cosmetic preparation.

The servant girl delivered the tainted supplies the next morning as usual. Serena watched from across the square as the package disappeared into the tower, then checked out of the inn and began her journey south.

She would be halfway to Bravil before Therana applied her morning beauty treatment for the final time.

As her horse picked its way along the increasingly poor roads that led toward Cyrodiil's most wretched city, Serena found herself thinking less about the successful completion of her contracts and more about what awaited her at the end of this journey.

I'm already counting the hours and imagining all the ways I plan to remind you who you belong to when we're reunited.

Even after three days of steadily declining road conditions, Bravil still managed to exceed Serena's worst expectations. The city squatted beside the Niben like a festering wound, its buildings listing drunkenly against each other as if too weary to stand upright. The air was thick with the stench of rotting fish, human waste, and something else she couldn't identify but suspected she didn't want to.

She understood, intellectually, why the city had fallen into such decay. The lack of proper Imperial funding, the geographic isolation that made trade difficult, and the way corruption had eaten through what little infrastructure remained, like rust through iron. However, understanding didn't make the smell any less offensive or the mud any less likely to ruin her boots.

The Lonely Suitor proved to be exactly what its name suggested: an establishment that catered to Bravil's more desperate residents. The sign above the door was so weathered that only half the letters remained visible, and the building itself seemed to sag under the weight of decades of poor maintenance.

Inside, the common room was dimly lit by smoking oil lamps that cast more shadows than light. A handful of patrons hunched over their drinks at mismatched tables, speaking in the low murmurs of people who'd learned not to draw attention to themselves. The air was thick with pipe smoke and the acrid smell of cheap ale.

The innkeeper looked up from his ledger as she approached—a thin, nervous man with graying hair and the pinched expression of someone perpetually disapproving of his clientele. His eyes narrowed as they took in her travel-stained clothes and the sword at her hip.

"We don't allow... working women in this establishment," he interrupted, his voice carrying the righteous tone of someone who considered himself a moral authority. "This is a respectable inn."

Serena blinked, momentarily taken aback by the assumption. Then understanding dawned, and she had to suppress the urge to laugh. Bravil's reputation for prostitution was apparently well-earned if innkeepers made such assumptions about armed women traveling alone.

"I'm not a prostitute," she said flatly. "I'm a traveling merchant, and I need a room."

The innkeeper's expression remained skeptical. "Traveling alone? No husband, no escort? What kind of merchant –" "The kind with enough gold to pay in advance," she cut him off, letting irritation creep into her voice. "Do you have a room available or not?"

He hesitated, clearly torn between his moral posturing and the prospect of actual payment. Before he could respond, recognition flickered across his features.

"Wait...are you here to meet someone? Tall fellow, dark hair, darker eyes? Checked in this afternoon and said his wife would be arriving this evening?"

His wife?

Serena was taken aback, though she managed to keep her expression neutral. Lucien had told the innkeeper they were married. The implications of that lie sent a complex mix of emotions racing through her chest.

"Yes," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "That would be my...husband."

"Oh! Oh, forgive me, madam." The innkeeper's demeanor shifted immediately, suspicion melting into embarrassment. "Room 7. He mentioned you'd been delayed by business." He fumbled for a key from the board behind him, his cheeks flushed. "He seemed quite eager for your arrival."

"I'm sure he was." She accepted the key, noting the way her fingers didn't tremble despite the anticipation and confusion coiling in her chest. The word husband echoed in her mind, foreign yet oddly appealing. "Thank you."

The man's reputation for moral prudishness was clearly well-founded, probably the only reason Lucien had felt comfortable claiming they were married. In a city where prostitution flourished in every shadowy corner, an innkeeper who actually enforced standards about unmarried couples sharing rooms was likely rare enough to be noteworthy.

Room 7 was on the second floor, at the end of a narrow corridor that creaked ominously under her boots. The walls were thin enough that she could hear snippets of conversation from the neighboring rooms: a woman's laugh from one side, heated voices arguing about gambling debts from the other. The floorboards protested every step with groans and squeaks that would make stealth impossible.

She paused outside the door, key in hand, and took a steadying breath. Four days of anticipation had led to this moment, four days of Lucien's words echoing in her mind during every quiet moment between contracts. The lock turned easily, and she stepped inside.

The room was exactly what she'd expected from Bravil, which was to say barely adequate. A single narrow bed dominated the small space, clearly designed for one person, and a short person at that. Given that she and Lucien were both tall (she at 5'10", he at an imposing 6'4"), it would be a tight fit at best. The walls showed stains from years of neglect, and a small window offered a view of the alley behind the inn, complete with the sounds of retching from someone who'd clearly overindulged.

A washbasin sat in one corner beside what she assumed was meant to be a bath, though calling the shallow, rust-stained tub a "bath" was generous. She tested the water from the pitcher; it was barely lukewarm and would likely be stone cold within minutes.

The floorboards creaked treacherously as she moved around the small space, and she could hear every word of what sounded like a business transaction taking place in the room to her left. On her right, someone was either moving furniture or engaged in activities she preferred not to contemplate.

It was, without question, the worst accommodation she'd stayed in during her travels. And yet...

The fact that the room was already paid for sent a warm flutter through her chest. Lucien had been here, in this space, had stood where she was standing, and made arrangements for her arrival. The practical consideration of it: ensuring she had a place to stay, removing the need for her to negotiate with the prudish innkeeper, spoke to a thoughtfulness that made her heart skip.

He'd planned for her comfort within the limitations of what Bravil had to offer. That he'd chosen to present them as husband and wife to secure the room...that detail carried implications she wasn't quite ready to examine. She set her pack down carefully, noting how the floorboards immediately announced the movement to anyone listening. Privacy would clearly be at a premium in this establishment.

From the common room below, she could hear the rumble of voices and the occasional burst of laughter. The inn was filling with its evening clientele, people seeking warmth, drink, and temporary escape from Bravil's harsh realities.

Serena moved to the small window, looking out at the narrow alley. The city's problems were visible even in this limited view: crumbling masonry, refuse that hadn't been collected in weeks, evidence of the economic struggles that had reduced one of Cyrodiil's cities to this state.

She understood why places like Bravil existed, even sympathized with the residents who had few options for bettering their circumstances. The Empire's resources were stretched thin, trade routes had shifted over the years, and corruption at various levels of government had siphoned away what little aid might have reached the city.

Understanding didn't make the accommodation any more pleasant, but it did provide context for why Lucien had described it as "Cyrodiil's armpit" with such disdain.

The lukewarm water in the washbasin was better than nothing, she supposed. She cleaned the travel dust from her face and hands, grateful to wash away the grime of four days on increasingly poor roads. Her reflection in the cracked mirror looked tired but alert, dark hair escaping from the practical braid she'd worn during travel.

She changed into cleaner clothes, then paused, remembering his postscript. Keep the shirt. Wear it, if you're feeling generous. I want my scent on your skin when I find you.

From her pack, she retrieved the black shirt he'd returned to her. He’d washed it, but it was still carrying the faintest trace of his scent. The fabric was soft against her skin, far too large for her frame but somehow comforting in its oversized embrace. There seemed little point in trying to make herself presentable in luxury when luxury was clearly impossible in this place, but she could honor his request.

The wait stretched longer than she'd expected. She sat on the narrow bed, then moved to the single rickety chair, then back to the window. The sounds from neighboring rooms continued: conversations, movement, the occasional burst of laughter or argument. The sun sank lower, painting Bravil's squalid streets in shades of orange and red that almost made them look picturesque.

Evening deepened into night. The common room below grew louder as more patrons arrived seeking drink and temporary warmth. She found herself listening for familiar footsteps in the corridor, but heard only the heavy tread of other guests and the inn's staff moving about their business.

Whatever business had delayed him was clearly more complex than expected. She told herself it was probably Brotherhood matters; there were always complications, always loose ends that needed attention. But the anticipation was wearing on her. Four days of building tension, of his words echoing in her mind during every quiet moment, and now...more waiting.

The last thing she remembered was the sound of rain beginning to patter against the window, adding its voice to the symphony of urban decay outside.

Chapter Text

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Speaker Lachance," the former Imperial Legion deserter began, settling into the chair across from Lucien's desk with the confidence of a man who believed his military background made him irresistible to any organization. "I want to start by saying what an honor it is to be considered for membership in your esteemed organization."

Lucien nodded politely, though his attention had already begun to drift. The man's lips were moving, forming words about dedication and skill, but all Lucien could focus on was their shape – full, well-defined, remarkably similar to Serena's. He found himself remembering how her mouth had felt under his, the way she'd gasped when he'd bitten her lower lip just hard enough to – "...exceptional track record in urban warfare, having served three tours in the contested territories near Morrowind. My commanding officers consistently praised my initiative and creative problem-solving abilities..."

Creative problem-solving. The phrase drifted past Lucien's consciousness. He made an appropriate sound of acknowledgment while his mind wandered to far more interesting territory; Serena had mentioned creative problem-solving in her last report, though in a very different context. Something about improvising with available materials when her original plan had been compromised. The way she'd described it, breathless and slightly flushed from the excitement of a successful improvisation...

"...which brings me to my newest specialty: poison craft. I've been developing some truly innovative applications, particularly with nightshade derivatives. Would you like me to describe my latest breakthrough?"

"Mmhm," Lucien murmured, which the deserter apparently took as encouragement.

"Excellent! So the traditional approach is to concentrate the extract, but I've discovered that if you dilute it with precisely the right ratio of moon sugar and then introduce a stabilizing agent. I use powdered troll fat, though I suppose mammoth fat would work as well. You can create a compound that's completely odorless and tasteless, but with a delayed action that makes detection nearly impossible..."

The man's voice became a distant buzzing as Lucien's thoughts drifted entirely. Had Serena completed the Imperial City contract days by now? At this point, she was likely in Anvil, or perhaps already moving toward Skingrad. He'd calculated the travel times obsessively, accounting for weather, road conditions, the possibility of delays...

She would be staying at the Count's Arms tonight if his estimates were correct. The proprietor was discreet, the rooms were clean, and she would be safe there. The thought of her settling into bed, perhaps wearing the shirt he'd returned to her, sent a familiar heat curling through his chest.

"...of course, the real innovation came when I realized you could enhance the potency by adding just a trace of vampire dust. Not enough to be detected by conventional means, but sufficient to amplify the nightshade's effects tenfold. I tested it on a group of prisoners – volunteers, naturally, who were already condemned to death anyway – and the results were quite remarkable..."

Lucien's attention snapped back momentarily. Had the man just admitted to unauthorized human experimentation? That seemed like something he should probably address, but the deserter was already moving on to describing his "field applications" of various toxins, and Lucien found his focus slipping away again.

I want my scent on your skin when I find you.

Had he really written that? The memory of composing that letter seemed almost dreamlike now, a moment of complete abandonment to impulse that he still couldn't quite believe he'd allowed himself. But he didn't regret it. If anything, he regretted not being more explicit about exactly what he intended to do when they were reunited.

"...tracked the target for three days before finding the perfect opportunity. Innkeeper's daughter, sweet little thing, very trusting. One conversation about her sick mother, and she was practically begging me to help doctor the family's evening meal. The poison worked exactly as designed; completely undetectable until it was far too late. The whole family was dead by morning, and everyone assumed it was bad meat from the market..."

Something in the man's tone penetrated Lucien's distraction just enough to register disapproval. The Brotherhood had standards; killing civilians without contracts, especially children, was explicitly forbidden. But before he could formulate a proper response, his mind had drifted away again. Three more days, possibly four, before Serena reached Bravil. The uncertainty was maddening. He'd considered riding out to intercept her, but that would mean abandoning his duties here, and there was still so much to handle before...

Three more days, possibly four, before Serena reached Bravil. The uncertainty was maddening. He'd considered riding out to intercept her, but that would mean abandoning his duties here, and there was still so much to handle before...

Before the Black Hand meeting.

The realization hit him like cold water. The emergency conclave that had been called to address the growing traitor situation, how had he nearly forgotten something so crucial? All five Speakers would gather to discuss intelligence leaks, intercepted contracts, and the growing evidence that someone within their ranks was feeding information to their enemies. It was exactly the sort of meeting that required his complete focus and preparation, the kind of gathering that could determine the fate of entire sanctuaries.

And he'd nearly let it slip from his mind entirely because he was too busy fantasizing about reunion scenarios.

The significance of it settled over him like a heavy cloak; this wasn't just another routine conclave, this was a crisis meeting that could result in the restructuring of the entire Brotherhood hierarchy. Lives hung in the balance, including potentially his own if suspicion fell on Cheydinhal Sanctuary.

But every time he tried to focus on preparation: reviewing intelligence reports, analyzing patterns of compromise, identifying potential suspects, thoughts of Serena intruded. Her voice saying his name. The way her skin felt against his, the promises he'd made in that letter, written in a moment of complete abandonment to desire.

"...which brings me to my most ambitious project yet. I've been developing a technique that combines nightshade with a paralytic agent derived from cave mushrooms. The victim remains completely conscious and aware, but unable to move or speak, while the nightshade slowly shuts down their nervous system. It's quite elegant, really; they can watch their own death approaching but do absolutely nothing to prevent it. I call it the 'Silent Scream.' Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"What?" Lucien blinked, suddenly aware that the man had stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that?"

The deserter's expression shifted slightly, enthusiasm dimming into uncertainty. "I was asking if you'd like me to demonstrate the Silent Scream technique. I have all the necessary components with me, and I'm sure we could find a suitable test subject somewhere in the city..."

Test subject. Random civilian. Unauthorized killing for demonstration purposes.

Even through his distraction, Lucien recognized this as problematic. The Brotherhood had strict protocols about recruitment tests, and they certainly didn't involve murdering innocent people to show off.

"That won't be necessary," he said, struggling to refocus on the conversation. "Your...theoretical knowledge is quite impressive."

"Theoretical?" The man leaned forward eagerly. "Oh no, Speaker Lachance, this is all based on extensive field testing. I've refined these techniques through dozens of applications. Would you like to hear about the merchant caravan I eliminated single-handedly? Seventeen people, including the guards, and not one of them even realized they were under attack until it was far too late..."

Seventeen people. A merchant caravan. This was sounding less like legitimate assassination work and more like simple mass murder, the kind of indiscriminate killing that brought unwanted attention to the Brotherhood.

Lucien tried to summon the focus necessary to properly evaluate this candidate, but his thoughts kept scattering. Serena would be checking the dead drop soon. Had he included enough detail in his instructions? The layout of that particular location could be confusing if you weren't familiar with the area...

"...naturally, I made sure to collect trophies from each kill. Ears, mostly, though I have a few fingers from the more challenging targets. I keep them in a special box, would you like to see?"

"Trophies?" The word penetrated Lucien's wandering attention like a blade. "You keep...trophies?"

"Oh yes!" The man's face lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "It's important to maintain proper records, don't you think? Each one represents a successful application of technique, a lesson learned, an improvement made. I have detailed notes on every single kill, including sketches of the death positions and time stamps for how long each stage of the process took..."

This was getting worse by the moment. Keeping trophies from unauthorized kills, detailed documentation of crimes, mass murder presented as technical innovation... Even in his distracted state, Lucien could recognize that this man was exactly the sort of uncontrolled psychopath the Brotherhood specifically did not recruit.

"I see," he said carefully, trying to inject some authority back into his voice. "And you believe these...methods would be valuable to our organization?"

"Absolutely! The Brotherhood has such a reputation for precision and artistry, but I think you could benefit from a more scientific approach. Systematic testing, controlled variables, quantifiable results. I could revolutionize your entire operation..."

Revolutionize. This delusional butcher thought he could improve upon centuries of Brotherhood tradition with his amateur experiments in torture and mass murder.

Lucien opened his mouth to deliver a firm rejection, but instead of words, what emerged was: "There is a man at the Inn of Ill Omen in Bravil. His name is Rufio."

The deserter straightened attentively. "Yes?"

"Kill him." The words came out automatically, a standard initiation test delivered without conscious thought. "Once you do that, sleep in a secure location, and I will visit you."

"Excellent!" The man practically bounced in his chair. "Should I use the Silent Scream technique? I've been wanting to test it on an older subject, see if the paralytic agent works differently on aged nervous systems..."

"Use whatever method you prefer," Lucien said wearily, already regretting the hasty assignment. "You have your orders."

The deserter gathered his belongings with obvious excitement, still chattering about technical specifications and experimental variables as he headed for the door. The moment it closed behind him, Lucien slumped back in his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples.

Three days. It had been three days since he'd left those letters, three days of wondering if she'd read them, if she'd understood his meaning, if she was even now traveling toward their arranged meeting.

Three days of being utterly useless at his duties.

The message arrived three days later, delivered by a nervous courier who refused to meet Lucien's eyes.

"Report from Bravil, Speaker," the young man stammered, thrusting a sealed letter toward him before backing rapidly toward the door.

Lucien broke the wax seal with growing dread. The contents were brief and professionally worded, but the implications were clear: the recruitment test had been a complete disaster. The deserter had been found dead in an alley behind the Inn of Ill Omen, victim of his own incompetence with poisons. Rufio remained very much alive and apparently none the wiser about how close he'd come to death.

"Spectacular failure," Lucien muttered, crumpling the report. Not only had he failed to properly evaluate the candidate, but he'd also sent an unstable amateur to conduct an initiation that had predictably ended in the candidate's death rather than the target's.

This was what happened when he allowed personal distractions to interfere with his professional judgment. This was why he didn't form attachments, didn't let emotions cloud their thinking, and didn't spend days obsessing over reunion fantasies instead of focusing on their duties.

But even as he berated himself for the lapse in judgment, even as he recognized the dangerous precedent he was setting, Lucien found himself reaching for his travel cloak.

Rufio still needed to die; that much was non-negotiable. The initiation had been assigned, the target selected, and the Brotherhood's reputation for completing contracts was absolute. If the candidate had failed, then Lucien would have to handle the matter personally.

And if that meant traveling to Bravil ahead of schedule...that was simply an unfortunate coincidence.

The next appointment proved even more challenging. A grieving widow had performed the Black Sacrament to avenge her husband's murder, and she deserved his complete attention. The ritual was sacred, the contract binding, but instead, he found himself nodding along to her tearful account while remembering the soft sounds Serena had made when his teeth grazed her throat.

"He was a good man, Mr. Lachance," the woman sobbed, wringing a damp handkerchief between her weathered hands. "Thirty-three years we were married. Thirty-three years, and that bastard Gaston Tussaud killed him over a gambling debt that wasn't even his own."

Lucien forced himself to focus on her words, on the pain etched into every line of her face. This woman had lost everything, had turned to the Dark Brotherhood in her desperation for justice. She deserved better than his distracted attention.

"Tell me about your husband," he said, pulling out parchment to take proper notes. "What was he like?"

Her face transformed as she began to speak about the man she'd loved: his kindness, his terrible jokes, the way he'd sung off-key while working in their garden. Lucien found himself genuinely listening, drawn into her memories despite his wayward thoughts.

"And I want him to suffer, Mr. Lachance," she concluded, her voice hardening with resolve. "The way my beloved suffered. Can you promise me that? Can you promise me that Tussaud will know what it feels like to lose everything?"

He refocused sharply, meeting her red-rimmed eyes with complete sincerity. "Madam, I assure you that your husband's killer will experience considerable discomfort before meeting his end. He will understand loss intimately before I allow him to die."

She seemed satisfied with this response, pressing a purse of coins into his hands with trembling fingers. As she departed, Lucien realized he'd actually absorbed the details of her story, had taken comprehensive notes, and had conducted the meeting with appropriate gravity.

Perhaps he wasn't as far gone as he'd feared.

But then he found himself staring at the closed door, imagining what it would be like to lose Serena the way this woman had lost her husband, and the thought made bile rise in the back of his throat. When had she become so essential to his existence that the mere possibility of her absence felt like contemplating his own death?

Dangerous territory, he told himself. Focus on the work.

But the work felt hollow without the promise of her waiting at the end of it.

By the time the Black Hand meeting convened that evening, Lucien's composure was hanging by a thread. He'd managed to conduct the day's remaining business adequately, reviewing territory reports, approving three routine contracts, settling a dispute between two members over preferred assassination methods, but his attention kept fragmenting. As the other Speakers droned about territorial disputes and resource allocation, he calculated travel times between cities.

If Serena had completed her Imperial City assignment efficiently, if she'd taken the main road to Skingrad instead of the forest path, if she'd ridden hard rather than taking her time...

"Lachance."

The Listener's voice cut through his calculations like a blade. Every head at the table turned toward him, and Lucien realized with growing horror that he'd been asked a direct question and had no idea what it was.

"Your thoughts on the traitor situation?"

The traitor. Right. There had been some discussion about compromised contracts, leaked information, and someone within their ranks feeding intelligence to enemies of the Brotherhood. All information that had passed through his ears without making the slightest impression on his distracted mind.

Lucien smoothed his features into composure. “The situation demands precision. A traitor thrives in chaos, and panic will only cloud judgment. What we need is careful investigation, baited trails, false intelligence to draw them into the open.”

The silence stretched. His pulse hammered, though outwardly he sat still as stone.

“Careful investigation?” Speaker Alval sneered, his parchment-thin voice dripping disdain. “While our Brothers bleed out on cobblestones? You would have us sit idle and let this corruption spread?”

“Better to act than to wring our hands,” Speaker Alor cut in, bristling. “Enhanced surveillance protocols: track every message, shadow every member. No one moves unwatched until we root out the snake.”

“That is a monumental waste of time,” Arquen said coldly, her scarred hands folding with surgical precision. “You all know the only solution that guarantees results.” She let the word drop like poison. “Purification.”

The chamber rippled with discomfort. Even the shadows seemed to draw tighter.

“Purification,” the Listener echoed slowly, fingers drumming against the dark wood. His gaze swept the table, unreadable. “It would solve the problem definitively. But where to begin? Cheydinhal has suffered three compromised contracts this month. Chorrol lost two Brothers in targeted strikes. Even Bruma reports… irregularities.”

Cheydinhal. Lucien’s stomach clenched. His sanctuary. His people. Vicente, with his dry humor and ancient patience. Antoinetta, ridiculous and bright. M’raaj-Dar, Telaendril, even the newest recruits who trusted him. They would not survive being hounded like criminals.

He didn't want to think about what would happen to Teinaava and Ocheeva if Purification was the answer.

The debate continued, voices rising and falling as each Speaker presented evidence and suspicions. Lucien forced himself to focus completely for the first time all day, contributing observations and analysis while his mind simultaneously processed the implications.

If Cheydinhal was purified, he would lose everything he'd built there. But if the traitor remained unidentified, the entire Brotherhood could be at risk.

And if Serena had completed her assignments efficiently...

Stop. He cut off that line of thought with ruthless discipline. Whatever happened in this room, whatever decisions were made, she would be safe. She was operating under his direct orders, using routes and methods he'd specifically chosen. The traitor situation, whatever its scope, wouldn't touch her.

It couldn't touch her.

"I believe," the Listener said finally, raising a hand for silence, "that we need time to consider our options carefully. The decision to purify is not one to make hastily." He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his dark robes. "Let us reconvene in an hour. I've brought sweet rolls. Hadvar has been pestering me for weeks to make them, and I had far too many left over. Consider it fuel for clearer thinking."

Ungolim smiled as he produced a cloth-wrapped bundle from his satchel. "My husband seems to think my baking skills are wasted on matters of murder and mayhem. Who am I to argue?"

The tension in the room eased slightly as the Listener began distributing the pastries: golden, perfectly glazed sweet rolls that filled the chamber with the scent of cinnamon and sugar. The incongruity of it – discussing mass murder while sharing homemade treats – would have amused Lucien under other circumstances.

Now, he accepted his portion mechanically, his thoughts already calculating. An hour break. Enough time to send a message, perhaps. Or to review intelligence reports that he should have been studying instead of dwelling on memories of silk-soft skin and breathless whispers.

"Excellent as always," Speaker Alor commented, taking a bite. "Your Hadvar is a lucky man."

"Lucky enough," the Listener replied with fond exasperation. "Though his sweet tooth will be the death of me. Or at least my flour stores."

Lucien barely heard the exchange. His mind was already racing ahead to what the second half of this meeting would bring, to the decision that would determine the fate of everyone he'd sworn to protect.

The second half of the meeting dragged on interminably. The Listener ultimately decided on a Purification; Cheydinhal Sanctuary would be cleansed by the end of the month. The words fell like stones into still water, sending ripples of finality through everything Lucien had built.

He accepted the Listener's decision with outward calm, burying his feelings about it behind the mask of professional detachment he'd perfected over decades of service. He nodded at appropriate intervals, voiced agreement when required, and mentally calculated the fastest route to the Lonely Suitor.

Vicente would die. The twins would die. They would all die, and by his own hand if necessary, because the Brotherhood's survival trumped everything else. It always had. It always would.

But tonight...tonight he needed something else. Something that wasn't duty or sacrifice or the greater good.

Tonight, he needed her.

The moment the Listener dismissed them, Lucien was on his feet. He made his excuses quickly: there were many loose ends to tie up around Cheydinhal before the Purification, preparations to be made, final arrangements to be handled. All of those were true, though not the reason for his haste.

He strode through Bravil's fetid streets toward the Lonely Suitor, his heart hammering against his ribs with an anticipation that had nothing to do with Brotherhood business. The establishment squatted beside the canal like a diseased toad, its timber walls stained dark with decades of Bravil's humid air, but its windows glowed with warm lamplight and the promise of what waited inside.

The night clerk looked up from his ledger as Lucien approached: a nervous Redguard with the wary expression of someone who worked late shifts in Bravil's seedier establishments.

This isn’t the usual innkeeper.

"Good evening," Lucien said, summoning his most charming smile despite the turmoil roiling beneath his composed exterior. "I checked in earlier today, Florius Odill. I believe my wife arrived earlier today. Erina Odill? I was delayed by business in the capital."

The lie came easily, and claiming marriage was the only way to ensure they could share a room without the innkeeper's moral objections.

"Oh yes, sir!" The clerk's demeanor brightened considerably. "Room 7, sir. Lovely lady, very polite." He reached for a key from the board behind him, movements eager with the prospect of a satisfied customer. "She mentioned she would be expecting you. Here's the spare key."

"Much appreciated." Lucien accepted the key with steady fingers, though his pulse was anything but steady. The small piece of metal seemed to burn against his palm, a tangible promise of what lay ahead. "Has she been in long?"

"A few hours, sir. Asked not to be disturbed, said she needed rest after the road. But I'm sure she won't mind her husband's arrival."

Her husband. The lie sat strangely on his tongue, foreign yet oddly appealing. What would it be like, he wondered, if it weren't a lie? If she truly were waiting for him not as a colleague or even a lover, but as a wife?

The thought was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with Brotherhood politics.

"Indeed," he managed, his voice steady despite the direction of his thoughts. "Thank you for your discretion."

As he climbed the narrow stairs to the second floor, each step bringing him closer to room 7, the weight of the evening's decisions pressed against his shoulders. Purification. The end of his sanctuary, the death of his people, the destruction of everything he'd built in service to the Night Mother.

But for now, for whatever hours remained of this night, none of that mattered. Behind door number 7 waited the one thing that had consumed his thoughts for four interminable days, the one person who could make him forget – albeit temporarily – about duty and sacrifice and the prices that leadership demanded.

Room 7 was just ahead, lamplight flickering beneath the door. His hand was steady as he raised it to knock, despite the chaos of anticipation and need roiling beneath his carefully maintained composure.

Lucien Lachance, Speaker of the Dark Brotherhood, condemned from his own sanctuary, prepared to claim the one thing in this world that was entirely, completely his.

Chapter Text

Lucien eased the door open with the practiced stealth of someone who had spent decades moving unseen, unsuspected. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the dying embers in the small fireplace and a single candle on the bedside table that had burned low in its holder.

And there she was.

Serena lay curled on her side atop the covers, wearing his black shirt just as he'd requested. The fabric had ridden up slightly, revealing the smooth curve of her thigh, and her dark hair spilled across the pillow like spilled ink. One hand rested beneath her cheek, the other clutched loosely at the shirt's collar, as if even in sleep she was holding onto some piece of him.

Lucien's breath caught in his throat.

He stood frozen in the doorway, key still in his hand, door still ajar behind him. Three minutes passed – he counted them by the steady rhythm of her breathing. Three minutes where he simply drank in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst who'd found an oasis.

She was here. Real. Safe. His.

The possessive thought should have disturbed him. Instead, it settled into his bones with the weight of absolute certainty.

Her lips were slightly parted in sleep, and he found himself remembering the taste of them, the soft sounds she'd made when he'd kissed her breathless. The way she'd said his name. The trust in her storm-gray eyes when she'd looked at him afterward, vulnerable and completely unguarded.

Completely mine, he'd written in that letter. Looking at her now, bathed in warm candlelight and wrapped in his shirt again, the words felt like prophecy.

A soft sound escaped her – not quite a sigh, not quite a murmur – and she shifted slightly, the movement causing the shirt to slip further off her shoulder. Lucien's hands clenched at his sides. Even unconscious, she was driving him to distraction.

Finally, some vestige of common sense penetrated the haze of want and possession clouding his mind. He stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him with deliberate care, the soft click of the latch seeming unnaturally loud in the quiet space.

The sound didn't wake her, but it seemed to settle something in him. The frantic urgency that had driven him through Bravil's streets, the desperate need to confirm she was here, safe, waiting; it made the past five days of waiting worth it.

He moved to the small chair beside the window and began removing his boots, leather creaking softly in the silence.

The knife was airborne before he even registered the movement.

It embedded itself in the wooden chair back, inches from where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. Lucien froze, his right boot half off, and slowly turned to find Serena sitting upright in bed, a second blade already in her hand.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other across the dim room.

"Lucien?" Her voice was rough with sleep, confusion replacing the lethal focus in her gaze.

"Did you just try to kill me?"

"I..." She blinked, taking in his familiar form, the way he sat perfectly still with one boot dangling from his hand. "Maybe?"

Despite everything – the knife in the chair, the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, the fact that she'd nearly taken his head off – Lucien found himself smiling. "Your reflexes are excellent."

"You scared the hell out of me." She lowered the second knife but didn't set it aside entirely. "What are you doing here?"

"You invited me."

"I did no such thing."

"If you find yourself in Bravil before I locate you...The Lonely Suitor is the only inn worth the time," he quoted. "'The fact that I'll be staying at the Lonely Suitor myself is merely a coincidence.' I believe those were my exact words."

"You said you would be at the same inn, not staying in my room."

"Minor technicality." He finished removing his boot and started on the second. "You're here, I'm here, the specific location seems irrelevant."

Serena watched him with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and fondness. After a moment, she scooted toward the far side of the narrow bed, making room. "The Lucky Lady doesn't exactly cater to people our height."

"We'll manage." He stood, began working the clasps of the curiass he wore under his robes. "We always do."

"That's presumptuous of you."

"Is it?" He paused, meeting her gaze across the small room. "Tell me to leave, Serena."

The challenge hung between them like a blade's edge. She could end this now, send him back to whatever inn room he'd booked for himself, maintain the careful professional distance they'd abandoned five nights ago.

Instead, she pulled back the covers in a clear invitation.

"I missed you," she said simply.

The admission hit him harder than her thrown knife had. Lucien finished removing his armor in silence, hyperaware of the way she watched him, of the anticipation building between them like a gathering storm.

When he slipped into the bed beside her, the fit was indeed tight. They were both tall, the mattress narrow, and there was nowhere to go except against each other. Her back pressed to his chest, his arm curved around her waist, her head tucked beneath his chin like she'd been designed to fit exactly there.

"Your letter," she said quietly. "The things you wrote..."

"Too much?"

"Not nearly enough." Her fingers found his hand where it rested against her stomach. "Five days felt like five years."

"I rushed out of a Black Hand meeting to be here."

"The traitor situation?"

"Among other things." His breath stirred her hair. "I couldn't concentrate on anything except getting to you."

"That's dangerous, Lucien. For both of us."

"I know." His arm tightened around her. "I don't care."

She was quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing idle patterns across his knuckles. When she spoke again, her voice held an edge of heat that made his pulse quicken.

"I wore your shirt. Like you asked."

"I noticed."

"I've been thinking about what you wrote. About reminding me who I belong to."

His hand stilled against her stomach. "Serena..."

"When you're ready to stop being patient," she continued, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "when you're ready to stop being gentle...I want you to remember that I chose to be here. That I chose you."

The words sent shocks into his brain; for a moment, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the invitation in her voice, the way she pressed back against him like she was trying to meld into his skin.

"Sleep," he managed, voice rougher than he'd intended. "We both need rest."

"Is that an order, Speaker Lachance?"

"It's a request. From someone who's spent nearly a week thinking of very little else except all the ways he wants to worship you properly. And when that time comes..." His lips brushed the shell of her ear. "You'll need your strength."

She shivered against him, and he felt her smile in the darkness. "Promise?"

"Promise."

Within minutes, her breathing had evened out into the rhythm of sleep. Lucien lay awake longer, his arm tightening around her unconsciously as his mind churned through the evening's revelations. Cheydinhal Sanctuary’s Purification. Brothers and sisters who would be dead within the fortnight, eliminated not by enemies but by their own organization's ruthless pragmatism.

But as exhaustion finally claimed him, his last conscious thought wasn't of death or betrayal. It was the way she'd said his name when she'd realized it was him, soft and relieved, like coming home.

Lucien woke slowly, awareness returning in layers. First came the unfamiliar sounds: different birds outside the window, the distant murmur of canal traffic. Then the scent of her hair beneath his nose, silk and something floral that he couldn't name but had committed to memory. Finally, the weight and warmth of her body against his, peaceful and trusting in sleep.

She was still here, still his; he hadn’t been dreaming when he’d gone to sleep the night before.

The possessive thought should have concerned him. Instead, it settled into his bones like a fundamental truth.

In the pale morning light filtering through the grimy window, he allowed himself to simply look, to memorize. The dark cascade of her hair across the pillow, the gentle curve of her shoulder where his shirt had slipped down, the way her lips were slightly parted in sleep. She looked so peaceful, so utterly unguarded, and the trust implicit in that vulnerability made something fierce and protective unfurl in his chest.

Mine, his mind whispered. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. Mine to –

His thought process ground to a complete halt as she shifted in her sleep, the movement causing the shirt to ride up and reveal more of what lay beneath. His shirt – which looked long even on her frame – and what appeared to be the most deliberately provocative pair of small clothes he'd ever seen in his life.

Sweet Sithis, do those even qualify as an article of clothing?

She had chosen to wear those: the tiny scraps of black lace that barely qualified as clothing, that left absolutely nothing to the imagination, that made it clear she had very specific intentions when she'd packed for this trip.

His breathing became ragged as his gaze traced every revealed inch, every deliberate provocation. The way the lace sat against her skin, the way it barely covered what it was supposed to cover, the way it seemed designed specifically to drive him completely insane.

Never dishonor the Night Mother, he recited desperately in his mind. Never betray the Dark Brotherhood or its secrets. Never disobey or refuse to carry out an order from a Dark Brotherhood superior. Never steal the possessions of a Dark Brother or Dark Sister. Never kill a Dark Brother or Dark Sister.

It wasn't working. His mind kept drifting back to lace and skin and the deliberate choice she'd made.

Gogron in the bath, he thought frantically. Gogron in the bath, covered in soap suds, singing that awful drinking song he knows. Gogron's hairy back. Gogron's grandmother. Gogron and his entire extended family –

Serena stirred against him, and every coherent thought fled his mind entirely.

The soft sound she made as she began to wake, the way she unconsciously scooted closer seeking warmth, the flutter of her eyelashes as consciousness slowly returned – it was too much. He was trying so hard to be respectful, to let her wake naturally, not to take advantage of her vulnerable state, but she was right there, barely clothed, having clearly planned this entire scenario.

His arm tightened again of its own accord, drawing her fractionally closer, and he cursed himself for his own body starting to betray him. It didn’t matter how many rules he recited, or how fiercely he tried to banish the image of her lace-clad body from his thoughts: her warm body was pressed against him, her skin soft beneath the fabric of his shirt, and there was no denying the truth. She had done this on purpose. She had chosen those small clothes, knowing exactly what they would do to him, knowing he was on his way, knowing he would see.

Breathe, he commanded himself. Center yourself. Find your calm. Focus on –

But every meditation technique he'd ever learned, every method of mental discipline that had served him through decades of training, crumbled to dust the moment she stretched languidly against him and made a sound that was pure, unconscious invitation.

His body had fully betrayed him now: there was no hiding his physical response, no pretending that her proximity and those deliberately chosen scraps of lace weren't affecting him. She had to know; it would be impossible for her not to know.

And she was ignoring it. Completely, deliberately ignoring the evidence of what she was doing to him while somehow managing to press closer, to shift against him in ways that made the situation infinitely worse.

"Good morning," she murmured through half-lidded eyes, voice still rough with sleep. Her fingers traced idle patterns across his chest. "You're very warm."

Her voice was soft, almost an afterthought, but it sank into him like a blade slipped between ribs. Warm. As if that was all he was, not the man who had lain awake too many nights replaying the way her lips had parted for him, the way her body had yielded when he told her to kiss him, how he had been reliving her coming apart underneath him at the most inopportune times.

He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the stillness, and forced his arm to ease its grip on her waist. “Go back to sleep,” he managed, though his voice was far rougher than he intended. “You need the rest.”

But she didn’t pull away. If anything, she tucked herself closer, her hand wrapped around his, lashes fanning against his shoulder. Her hips shifted idly, not with intent, just the unconscious movement of someone finding comfort – except to him, it may as well have been a dagger drawn across his composure.

He could smell her hair, faint traces of brandy still on her breath, the lingering sweetness of her skin. Every nerve screamed at him to tip forward, to close the smallest of distances and remind her exactly what she’d invited when she chose those undergarments, when she’d packed for this trip with such deliberate care.

Instead, he shut his eyes, jaw clenched, and held still. His hand hovered, caught between the desire to cup her face and the discipline not to move at all.

She shifted again, head tilting up just enough that her lips nearly grazed his throat. He bit back a curse, every muscle coiled so tight it hurt.

“I’ve been thinking about the letter you left me with my dead drop locations for the last week, Lucien,” Serena whispered, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear. “The way you said you wanted to do things to me, and yet you didn’t detail them. I’m wearing your shirt, just like you asked, too.”

His entire body went rigid. The words struck deeper than any blade, dragging him back to the letter he’d sent, the one she had obeyed down to the last detail. The shirt, though he hadn’t mentioned the lace (not that he was upset about it), the careful invitation woven into every choice – she hadn’t stumbled into this by accident. She had planned it. For him.

Slowly, achingly, he lowered his gaze until it caught hers. Her eyes were still hazy with sleep, but nothing was unknowing in them. No innocence. She was aware. Every bit as deliberate as he was.

He almost broke then. Almost crushed his mouth to hers, let himself taste what she was offering so boldly. But the weight of his vows, the iron bands of control he’d forged over the years, were barely holding on.

Instead, he drew a breath that scraped like fire down his throat and forced his voice into something resembling calm. “Serena…” His jaw clenched, every muscle in his body fighting to keep his composure. “You cannot begin to know,” he rasped, “how dangerous it is to say that to me.”

Serena only tilted her chin, closing the scant space between them until he could feel her breath ghost across his mouth. “Then why are you being so damn respectful?”

The last thread of his discipline frayed to nothing. He caught her mouth with his, no longer slow or tentative but fierce, consuming, a kiss that tasted of weeks of denial and letters written in the dark. His hand slid from her jaw to the back of her neck, anchoring her as if afraid she might slip away, while the other pulled her flush against him.

“You’re still holding back,” she whispered, voice husky, the words hot against his ear. “After all that ink you spilled. After everything you promised me.”

His breath shuddered out, his hand tightening against her hip, fingers biting into lace and skin. “If I give you what I wrote,” he rasped, teeth grazing her pulse, “I will not stop. I will not be gentle.”

“Good,” she said simply, tilting her head back to bare more of her throat.

Something in him broke. His hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt, rough palm skimming her stomach, then lower, fingers deliberately toying with the edge of lace. He felt her shiver, arch into him, and the sound that left his chest was half-growl, half-groan.

“You think I haven’t imagined this every night since?” His mouth was hot against her jaw, words spilling between kisses, sharp and fevered. “You, waiting in my shirt. Nothing else. Lace, I’d rip from you with my teeth if I had less patience. The way you’d beg when I had you on your knees. The way I’d ruin you over and over until you couldn’t remember your own name.”

Her nails dug into his shoulders, pulling him closer, her breath quick and uneven. “Then stop holding back.”

His hand slipped fully beneath the lace, fingers brushing her clit and plunging into her cunt, and he groaned at the feel of her. “By Sithis,” he whispered harshly, forehead pressed to hers. “You’re already wet for me.”

She gasped when he pressed harder, his fingers moving with devastating precision, and her legs parted instinctively. “Lucien –”

Her breath stuttered as his fingers moved, steady, merciless. She clutched at his shoulders, but it wasn’t enough for him; he wanted her helpless, wanted her caught beneath the weight of everything he hadn’t let himself give.

“What do you want?” she gasped, eyes wide and searching, half-daring him.

He pulled his hand back suddenly, and she made a broken sound of protest. His fingers caught her wrists instead, pressing them firmly above her head against the pillow. The sight of her pinned beneath him – shirt bunched, lace askew, breath ragged – nearly undid him again.

“You want to know?” His voice was quiet. “I want to mark you. Here,” he pressed his mouth to her collarbone, teeth grazing before biting down just enough to make her gasp, “...and here.” His lips traced down to her sternum between her breasts. “Everywhere that will remind you you’re mine. But nothing where the world can see, if that’s what you want.”

She swallowed hard, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes. Nothing they can see.”

“Good,” he breathed, the words almost a growl. His grip on her wrists tightened. “I want to take my time with you. Tease you until you’re shaking. Bring you to the edge again and again until you can’t bear it, until you’re begging for release.”

Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, and he noticed – of course, he noticed. A faint, knowing smirk ghosted across his lips before he bent to kiss her again.

“And when you think you can’t take more,” he murmured against her mouth, “I’ll give you more. Over and over, until the only thought left in your head is me.”

Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm, her pulse beating frantically beneath his mouth. “Lucien…”

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much,” he said firmly, thumb stroking her wrist in stark contrast to the iron grip holding her in place. “I’ll never give you more than you want. But I will take everything you’ll allow me to.”

Her breath caught in her throat, every nerve on fire, and he lingered there, watching her chest rise and fall beneath his gaze. Slowly, deliberately, he traced the outline of her breasts, letting the pads of his fingers brush just beneath the lace, teasing, leaving faint trails of heat that were invisible to the world. Her skin shivered under him, hips arching almost instinctively, and he growled low, a sound meant only for her.

“You’re doing so well for me,” he murmured, pressing his palm against her hip and letting it linger, the other hand maintaining the pin on her wrists. “Good. So tight, so responsive. Look at you, burning just from being mine.” He edged closer to her most sensitive places, grazing her clit with the merest touch, watching her struggle against his restraint. She gasped, tried to move, tried to push him away, but it only made him press slightly harder, just enough to make her whimper, not enough to let her fall.

He alternated his attentions, dragging slow, teasing kisses down her neck, across her shoulders, and then back to the hidden planes beneath her breasts. Every touch, every flick of his fingers, was a map of ownership, marks she wouldn’t show anyone. He watched her shiver, the way she arched into him, every reaction stoking something primal in him.

“You feel that?” he rasped, pinning her gaze with a slow, deliberate burn. “All of this? Mine. All mine. And I’m not done.” He edged her again, fingers moving with precision, guiding her closer and closer to the point of collapse. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered between kisses, thumbs tracing circles on the insides of her thighs, over her hips, across her ribs. “Do you want more?”

“Yes,” she gasped, voice trembling, nails digging into his shoulders.

“And you’ll take everything I give you?” he asked, voice low, dangerous, each word weighted with intent.

“Yes,” she said again, and it was all he needed.

He pressed her wrists further above her head, lips returning to her throat, teeth grazing, nibbling softly, leaving tiny, hot marks beneath her skin. His fingers returned to her clit, circling, teasing, dragging her higher, pulling her to the edge. Her body tensed, muscles trembling, and he stopped just shy of release, letting her hover, gasping, desperate, burning with need.

“You’re mine to push,” he murmured, brushing her hair back, lips trailing over her jaw. “And I will. Over and over. Until you can’t remember anything but me.” He edged her again, careful, precise, until her knees quivered and she arched into his hand. “Good girl,” he rasped, voice rough with want. “So perfect for me.”

When he finally allowed her to collapse over the first edge, he didn’t relent; he lingered, dragging her back up slowly, fingers and lips marking her in places only he would ever see. The undersides of her breasts, the curve of her hips, the inner planes of her thighs, every inch bore his claim, every gasp and whimper his signature.

Her body trembled against him, wet, heated, overwhelmed. He took her to the brink again, slower this time, edging, teasing, pressing her to overstimulation just enough that her cries became ragged and high-pitched and her eyes started to water. “You’re doing so well,” he murmured, biting the shell of her ear, thumbs brushing over the marks he left, reinforcing them with every touch.

Finally, when she could take no more, when her muscles quaked and mind whirled, he let her come under him, riding the wave with deliberate, patient care, then pressed inside her, slow, relentless, igniting the overstimulation fully. Her cries became his symphony, every shiver and clench a note of surrender, a map of desire he had drawn across her skin and soul.

And through it all, he whispered her name, over and over, low, rough, claiming, marking, controlling, until she could think of nothing but him, and he could feel the same, burning hotter with every tremor, every shudder, every desperate gasp she gave him.

Hours later, they lay tangled together in the aftermath, both breathing hard and thoroughly spent. Serena was completely boneless against him, her body slack with exhaustion and satisfaction. She'd lost count of how many times he'd brought her over the edge, each one more intense than the last, until she could barely remember her own name.

"I can't...I can't move," she mumbled against his chest, voice hoarse.

Lucien's arm tightened around her protectively, still reeling from the intensity of what they'd shared. He'd never experienced anything like it; the complete trust she'd given him, the way she'd responded to his touch, the sounds she'd made when he'd finally stopped holding back. It had been everything he'd fantasized about and more.

"Sleep," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Rest."

Within minutes, she was unconscious, her breathing deep and even. Lucien held her close, marveling at the trust implicit in how completely she'd surrendered to sleep in his arms, and eventually exhaustion claimed him too.

Chapter Text

When Lucien woke several hours later, the sun was high and Serena hadn't moved an inch. She was deeply asleep, her face peaceful but showing the telltale signs of their morning activities: flushed skin, tangled hair, the satisfied exhaustion of someone who'd been thoroughly worshipped.

He tried gently shaking her shoulder. "Serena? You should eat something."

Concern flickered through him; she needed food, needed water, needed to take care of herself. The choice that she was his responsibility now had been made long before the night they spent in Bruma; that her well-being mattered to him in a way that felt fundamental was both new and startling.

She was sweaty from their earlier activities, her hair damp against her neck, and he found himself wondering if she was sore, if she needed a bath, if there was anything else he could do to care for her.

The thought stopped him cold.

He'd had his fair share of encounters over the years – some passionate, some violent, some both – but he'd always left shortly afterward. He never stayed after; he never wondered if they were comfortable or needed anything. He had never felt this consuming need to tend to someone else's well-being, even when he was married.

What was happening to him?

Decision made, he dressed quietly and slipped from the room.

The Lonely Suitor’s common room was mercifully quiet at midday, most patrons having either left or passed out hours earlier. He ordered bread, cheese, fruit, and ale, simple fare that would be gentle on an empty stomach, and was heading back up the stairs when a familiar figure emerged from the shadows near the back entrance.

Speaker Alor.

"Lachance," the older man greeted with a knowing smile. "Fancy meeting you here."

Lucien's blood ran cold. "Alor. What brings you to this...establishment?"

"Business. Same as you, I imagine." His gaze flicked to the plate of food. "Though your business seems to require...sustenance."

"Indeed." Lucien kept his voice level, professional. "If you'll excuse me."

"Of course." Alor’s smile widened. "Give my regards to your business associates in Cheydinhal."

Serena woke slowly, immediately aware that something was different. The bed beside her was still warm, but no one was there. Her heart plummeted as the realization hit her.

He'd left.

She sat up carefully, her body protesting the movement, a reminder of just how thoroughly he'd claimed her that morning. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the emotional pain flooding through her chest.

Of course, he'd left. What had she expected? That he'd stay and hold her? That what they'd shared meant something beyond physical gratification?

She felt used. Discarded. Like every fear she'd harbored about trusting someone had just been confirmed in the cruelest possible way.

Maybe Cassius was right, maybe she was only good for two things, maybe she wasn’t worth anything more than a quick fuck, maybe she —

Lucien stepped through the door, carrying a plate of food and looking surprised to see her awake. "You're up. Good, you need to eat."

"You…didn't leave."

"You thought I left?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Serena." He set the tray down and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his hand finding hers. "I went to get you food. You need to eat something after this morning."

The gentleness in his voice put her at a loss for words. "I thought...nobody’s ever..."

"This is new for me, too." He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "But you do need to eat. And probably drink some water."

She nodded, accepting the care he was offering. "Could you bring me my bag first?"

He retrieved it without question, watching as she rummaged through a hidden compartment and withdrew a small vial of dark liquid.

"What's that?"

"A tincture," she said simply, uncorking it and drinking the contents in one swallow. "I take it every morning. It helps...regulate things and prevents...complications."

Understanding flickered in his eyes. Contraceptive. Of course, she would be practical about such things.

But there was a part of him, a possessive, irrational part, that almost wished she didn't take it. He pushed the thought away. That was just the possessiveness talking, the same instinct that made him want to mark her, to claim her in every possible way. It didn't mean anything.

Did it?

"Smart," he said instead, keeping his voice neutral. "We should talk about...precautions. Boundaries. What we're comfortable with going forward."

She nodded, settling back against the pillows. "After breakfast?"

"After breakfast," he agreed, though part of him was already looking forward to that conversation; to learning more about what she wanted, what she needed, how far they could push the boundaries they'd only just begun to explore.

An hour later, with food consumed and water drunk, they settled facing each other on the narrow bed. The conversation that should have happened before their morning activities hung between them, weighted with both anticipation and necessity.

"We should have talked about this first," Serena said, breaking the silence.

"We should have," Lucien agreed. "Though I can't say I regret learning some of your...preferences the way we did." He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus. "Ground rules first. We check in throughout, constantly, if necessary. And if we're planning to try anything new, we discuss it beforehand. No surprises in the moment."

She nodded, understanding the unspoken consideration behind the rule. "Agreed."

"Is there anything you've wanted to try, or have any concerns about?" he asked, settling back against the headboard.

She was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out her next words. "Choking," she said finally. "It's a hard no. For now, at least. Never say never, but... not yet."

The disappointment he'd felt initially lifted considerably at that qualifier. "For now," he repeated, unable to keep the hope from his voice.

"Impact seems like something you’d enjoy," she said, then paused. "I've never...I have concerns about that."

He studied her face, noting the tension around her eyes. "It is something I enjoy very much, but we don't have to explore it. Ever, if you don't want to."

"I might want to. Eventually. But I'd need more time."

"Whenever you're ready, it’s your choice entirely." He meant it, even as part of him filed away the possibility for the distant future.

She took a breath, color rising in her cheeks. "There's something... I read about knife play once. In a rather trashy novel. The idea has always... intrigued me."

Lucien's eyebrows rose, genuine surprise and interest flickering across his features. “That’s unexpected,” he murmured, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Unexpected, but far from unwelcome.”

"You'd be open to it?"

“More than open,” his voice dropped lower. "Though that would require extensive trust and preparation. If we were to explore it, you would set the limits. I would never cut deeper than you allow.”

"Of course." She paused. "What do you need from me? Besides the obvious boundaries."

"Active participation. Enthusiastic consent." He watched her face carefully. "I need to know you want whatever we're doing, not that you're just...enduring it."

Serena’s mouth went dry; no one had ever prioritized her actual desire before, her genuine enthusiasm. The concept was so foreign that it left her momentarily speechless.

"That's..." she started, then stopped. "You actually care if I want it?"

The question revealed more than she'd intended, and Lucien's expression grew serious. "Of course I care if you want it, Serena." His hand found hers. "I'm into some intense things, but none of them interest me unless you want them as much as I do." He brushed a stray hair out of her eyes.

"That's not what I'm used to."

"Then we'll take our time until it becomes what you're used to. And if you don’t want something, or if absolutely anything feels wrong, or you don’t want to do it anymore, you will tell me, and it stops immediately. No questions asked."

"Absolute hard limits," he continued. "Besides what we've discussed?"

"No sharing," she said immediately.

"Agreed." His voice sharpened. "I also refuse to degrade you or cause you genuine harm."

"And no..." she wrinkled her nose, "bodily fluids. I read about that once and immediately closed the book."

"Noted and agreed." He almost smiled. "Anything else?"

They spent another hour discussing possibilities: shock spells, her desire to occasionally take control, various scenarios they might explore when trust had been fully established. The conversation was both practical and incredibly intimate, laying groundwork for a future neither had expected to want.

Finally, comfortable silence fell between them. Lucien found his gaze wandering over her disheveled form; the marks he'd left on her hips and thighs, the faint bruises on the lower curve of her breasts peeking out through the low neckline of his shirt, her thoroughly mussed hair. She was covered in a light sheen of sweat, looking thoroughly debauched and absolutely perfect.

"Everything alright?" she asked, noticing his stare.

"You're sweaty and your hair is," he paused, making an expanding motion by his head. “...Big? I knew it had a wave, but not that much.” He said, the words coming out rougher than intended.

"Bravil's humid, and we've been...quite active."

He noticed then how she shifted slightly, favoring one hip. "You're sore."

"A little." She didn't sound bothered by it. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Hot water helps with sore muscles," he said, glancing toward the small bathing area behind the privacy screen. "I could run you a bath."

"That sounds nice." She stretched, wincing slightly. "Company would make it even better."

Company. 

She wanted him there, in the bath, sharing that level of intimacy. The idea was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure; it was a level of vulnerability he'd never experienced, not even during his marriage when he'd been desperately trying to make it work.

He couldn’t do it, not with everything else going on.

"I'll..." he cleared his throat, "I'll wait outside the screen. If you need anything, just call."

Disappointment flickered across her face, but she nodded. "Of course."

The moment the words left his mouth, regret flooded through him. He busied himself with gathering both of their things while she moved behind the privacy screen, trying not to think about the opportunity he'd just declined.

The sound of water filling the tub was torture. Worse was his memory of watching her at the Drunken Dragon after the Tharn estate mission – how he'd told himself it was for her protection, maintaining surveillance through her window, how he'd been unable to look away when she'd bathed, when she'd used her dagger to shave her legs. The image was burned into his mind forever.

Through the privacy screen, her silhouette was perfectly outlined against the lamplight – every curve, every movement magnified and thrown into stark relief. He could see everything: the arch of her back as she settled into the water, the graceful line of her neck as she tilted her head back, the way she moved her hands along her skin. Had he still believed in the Nine, he'd have thought Dibella herself was personally torturing him.

Desperate for distraction, he pulled out his leather satchel and rifled through the Black Hand notes he'd been carrying. Reports on the traitor situation, deployment orders, intelligence briefings – anything to occupy his mind. But his eyes kept drifting back to that damned screen, to the hypnotic play of shadow and light that revealed far too much.

He tried to focus on the notes, on how to explain to Serena what needed to be done, what role she would have to play in the coming Purification. But the words blurred together as her silhouette shifted, as she lifted her arms to wash her hair, as every movement seemed designed to drive him completely insane.

Finally, he gave up, shoving the papers back into the satchel. He'd tell her everything at the fort. 

"Lucien?" Serena's voice came from behind the screen. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he managed to choke out. "I'm going to head to my home. Clean up there."

"You have a home?"

"A fort, actually. Outside Cheydinhal." He was already pulling on his boots. "You will meet me there when you're ready. There are...urgent matters we need to discuss."

"What kind of matters?"

But he was already at the door, desperate to escape before he did something foolish like join her in that bath. "I'll explain when you arrive. I marked it on your map. Safe travels, Serena. I’ll see you soon."

The door closed behind him with more force than necessary, leaving him standing in the corridor, wondering if he was the biggest idiot in all of Tamriel.

Chapter Text

Lucien stared at the assignment scroll in his hands, the parchment crackling under his white-knuckled grip. The ink seemed to mock him – temporary guardianship of two Argonian hatchlings, aged approximately three years in developmental equivalent. Behind the formal language lay the unspoken truth: the Dark Brotherhood had decided he was the most qualified person to raise a pair of baby lizards.

"You're the only one who would be competent enough to raise something," Vicente had said with that infuriating diplomatic tone. "You already have some experience in Riften, do you not?"

Had. Past tense. Because his now ex-wife had taken their son and disappeared two years ago, during his early days with the Dark Brotherhood, leaving only a scathing note about "incompatible life choices", her wedding ring, and the lingering scent of her perfume on his pillow.

Now they wanted him to play father again.

He crumpled the assignment and threw it across his quarters, watching it bounce off the stone wall. It landed beside a dusty crib he still hadn't bothered to dismantle.

Three days later, Lucien found himself in the Imperial City Public Library.

"Argonian Physiology and Development," he muttered, pulling yet another tome from the shelf. "A Comprehensive Guide to Reptilian Dietary Requirements. Child-Rearing Practices of Black Marsh.”

The librarian – a matronly Breton woman with suspicious eyes – had been watching him for the better part of an hour. He supposed a twenty-something Imperial man checking out books on raising Argonian children did seem rather odd. 

If only she knew the half of it.

He flipped through pages of anatomical diagrams and feeding schedules, taking notes in his neat script. Raw fish, apparently. Lots of it. And they'd need heat sources: Argonians were cold-blooded, unlike human infants, who generated their own warmth. The books mentioned something called "clutch bonding" and "parental imprinting."

Great. I'm about to become a surrogate parent to two baby lizards.

The first thing Lucien noticed wasn't their size, though they were impossibly small, barely reaching his knees, but their eyes. Ancient eyes in tiny faces, watching him with the wariness of creatures who had already learned that the world was not safe.

"Hello," he said quietly, crouching down to their level. He'd practiced this moment, reading about non-threatening postures and calm vocal tones.

The larger of the two – a female with dark green scales – hissed and lunged, tiny needle teeth sinking into his forearm. The smaller male followed suit, latching onto his hand with surprising strength. “Fuck! That hurts. I don’t want to turn you into boots.”

Neither of them let go, the harsh tone in his voice only making them bite into his flesh harder.

"Ah. Right." Lucien’s voice softened, remembering that raising his voice was only going to make things worse. He decided not to pull away, instead letting them hang from his arms like scaly ornaments. "You're scared. That's...that's normal."

He'd come prepared. Slowly, carefully, he reached into his pack and withdrew two whole fish – expensive things from the city’s market - but the books had been very specific about freshness. He set them on the floor and gently shook his arms until the hatchlings let go.

They stared at the fish, then at him, then at the fish again, as their tiny stomachs rumbled audibly.

The female approached first, sniffing delicately before tearing into her meal with vicious efficiency. The male followed, making small pleased sounds as he ate. When they finished, they looked up at Lucien with fish scales stuck to their snouts and something almost like gratitude in their reptilian features.

The female crept closer, pressing her snout against his hand. A small, tentative chirp escaped her throat. The male bumped his head against Lucien's knee, similar sounds emerging from his chest.

"There we are," Lucien murmured, something in his chest loosening slightly. "You're just babies. Scared babies."

The male looked up at him and made a sound that could almost have been a word: "Pa–ka?"

Lucien's breath caught. "No. I'm Lucien. Can you say Lucien?"

“Pa..KA. Paka!” The smaller male squeaked, sniffing up Lucien’s arm in search of more fish. “No, it’s Lucien, or Eliminator.”

“Paka!” The female chirped, mirroring her brother.

“I am not your father. I am Lucien.”

But they'd already decided what to call him, and no amount of protesting on his end would change that any time soon.

"Paka! Paka, look!"

"It's Lucien," he corrected automatically, though his heart did that annoying flutter thing it always did when they called him father. "What's wrong, Teinaava?"

Teinaava –he'd named him and his sister, Ocheeva, after famous Argonian heroes, though they were too young to understand the significance to their heritage –  came running across the training room, one hand pressed to his mouth and tears streaming down his scaled cheeks.

"What is it?" Lucien knelt beside him, automatically checking for injuries. "Are you hurt?"

Teinaava opened his mouth to reveal a gap where one of his front teeth had been. Blood stained his gums, and the lost tooth gleamed white in his palm.

"It fell out!" he wailed. "It just fell out and there was blood and –"

"Oh." Lucien felt simultaneously relieved and ridiculous. Of course. They were growing. "It's alright, Teinaava. It's supposed to happen."

"It's supposed to happen?" Ocheeva appeared from seemingly nowhere, as she often did. Even at five, she was already showing promise as a sneak.

"Yes." Lucien sat back on his heels, thinking quickly. "When children grow, they lose their baby teeth to make room for adult ones. It's perfectly normal."

"But it hurt," Teinaava sniffled.

"I know." Lucien found himself reaching out to stroke the top of his head, the way he might have comforted his own son. 

Kristoff would have lost his first tooth by now. I wonder if he got my height or Sigrid’s lack of it.

"Tell you what: the tooth Orsimer will come later, yes. He's a...a very small Orc who collects lost teeth from good children. If you put that under your pillow tonight, he might leave you something."

Both children perked up with interest. "What kind of something?" Ocheeva asked.

"A gold coin, if you've been very good."

From across the training room, he heard Marcus snort with barely contained laughter. When he glanced up, he quickly busied himself with adjusting his bow strings, but his shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.

That night, Lucien crept into their shared bedroom and slipped a gold coin under Teinaava's pillow, carefully extracting the tiny tooth. He looked at it for a long moment – so small, so fragile – before tucking it into a small wooden box he'd started keeping in his quarters.

Their first tooth. I'm keeping their first tooth like some sentimental fool.

Over the following weeks, Ocheeva lost three teeth in rapid succession. Each morning brought excited squeals about the "Tooth Orsimer" and his golden gifts. Lucien's coin purse grew noticeably lighter.

"You know they're going to lose about thirty teeth each, right?" Vicente mentioned casually one evening, clearly enjoying Lucien's predicament far too much.

"I'm aware," Lucien replied stiffly.

"Mmm. And that's not counting the molting cycles."

“Molting cycles?” Lucien had read about those but somehow hadn't connected them to his improvised mythology about generous Orsimer.

He found out about molting the hard way three months later when Teinaava woke up screaming, convinced he was dying because patches of his scales had started peeling away.

"It's normal," Lucien assured him, holding the trembling child while Ocheeva watched with wide, worried eyes. "Remember how I told you about losing baby teeth? This is the same thing, but with scales. You're growing bigger, stronger scales underneath."

"But it itches so bad," Teinaava whimpered.

"And it looks scary," Ocheeva added, poking at a loose patch on her own arm that had started lifting at the edges. “Does this mean I’m gonna be ugly, Paka?”

Lucien took a deep breath and made another decision he'd immediately regret. "Neither of you will grow up ugly, Ocheeva. And you know how the tooth Orsimer collects teeth? He...he also collects first molts. Yeah, but since molting is much harder than losing teeth, he leaves two gold coins."

The children's faces lit up with wonder and excitement. “Two gold coins?” “Paka, I can get sweet rolls for everyone!”

Behind him, he heard the distinctive velvety chuckle of the Sanctuary’s newest recruit, Telaendril. "Tooth Orsimer now, is it? Getting creative."

By the end of their first molt – which took nearly a week and left their shared bedroom looking like someone had fought a dragon – Lucien had paid out fourteen gold coins and filled half his wooden box with delicate, translucent scales.

"This is going to bankrupt me," he muttered, carefully arranging the shed scales in his growing collection.

"You could always tell them the truth," Marcus suggested, leaning against his doorframe with an insufferably smug expression.

"What truth? That I made up a mythical creature to comfort them, and now I'm financially committed to maintaining the illusion for the foreseeable future?"

"That you love them enough to play pretend tooth fairy for years."

Lucien paused in his careful cataloguing. "It's called being responsible. They needed comfort, I provided a...creative solution."

"Sure." He grinned. "That's why you've started a baby book for each of them."

He slammed the box shut a little too quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"The journals, Lucien. We've all seen you writing in them after they do something new. Yesterday, you spent twenty minutes documenting Ocheeva's first successful lock pick."

"It was a complicated lock," he said defensively.

"It was a practice lock for beginners."

“She’s five, Marcus. And she was so proud of herself that I thought she was going to jump out of her own skin.”

That night, as he slipped two more gold coins under tiny pillows and collected the day's lost teeth, Lucien reflected on how thoroughly his life had been turned upside down by two small Argonians who insisted on calling him Paka and seemed determined to bankrupt him one tooth at a time.

When he found a drawing they'd made of their "family" – two reptilian figures, and one obscenely tall human holding hands under a carefully drawn Dark Brotherhood symbol – he realized he didn't mind nearly as much as he should.

"Paka, the mudcrab claws taste funny."

Lucien looked up from sharpening his dagger to see both children chewing contemplatively on the shellfish he'd brought back from his latest contract. Something cold settled in his stomach at their expressions; they weren’t quite right, somehow sluggish and unfocused.

No. No, that's not normal.

"Spit them out. Now." His voice carried enough authority that they obeyed immediately, though Ocheeva made a face at the waste of food.

"But we're still hungry.." Teinaava started to say, then doubled over, clutching his stomach.

Oh gods, oh Sithis no…

What happened next would haunt Lucien for the rest of his life: both children began convulsing, their small bodies seizing violently as their breathing turned ragged and labored. Ocheeva's scales took on a grayish pallor, while Teinaava made horrible gasping sounds, his tiny hands clawing at his throat.

This is happening again, I'm losing them, I'm losing everything again.

Lucien had never moved so fast in his life. He scooped them both up – so small, so terrifyingly fragile in his arms – and ran for the sanctuary's healer, his heart hammering against his ribs like a caged animal.

Not them. Not them. Anyone but them. Take me instead. Take Marcus, take Vicente, take literally anyone else.

Every step felt like an eternity. Teinaava's breathing was getting shallower, Ocheeva had gone limp in his other arm, her usually vibrant scales fading to an ashen gray that made his blood turn to ice.

They're dying. They're dying, and it's my fault. I brought them that food. I did this.

"Help!" he screamed as he burst into the healer's chambers. "Help them, please!"

The healer – an ancient Dark Elf woman with extensive knowledge of poisons and their antidotes – took one look at the children and began barking orders. Lucien found himself pushed aside as she worked, his hands shaking violently as he watched her mix antidotes and force bitter liquids down their throats.

This is what loving someone gets you, a vicious voice in his head whispered. This terror. This helplessness. This is why Sigrid left, because you're cursed to lose everything you care about.

"Shellfish allergy," the healer explained tersely as she worked. "Uncommon in Argonians, you did nothing wrong. It’s not your fault for wanting to bring them a treat. Sometimes fatal, you got them here just in time."

Just in time. The words should have been comforting, but all Lucien could think about was how close he'd come to losing them. How easily they could have slipped away from him forever.

He didn't leave their bedside for three days. He held their small hands and whispered promises to Sithis, the Night Mother, and whatever gods might listen.

Let them live, and I'll do anything. Anything. I'll be a better guardian, a better father. I'll never put them in danger again. Just let them breathe. Let them wake up. Let me see their eyes open one more time. I don’t care how many more times they crawl into bed with me after night terrors, or if they steal my robes for their nests — Void, just let them wake up.

He catalogued every breath, every flutter of their eyelids, every tiny movement that meant they were still fighting. When Teinaava's fever broke on the second day, Lucien cried for the first time since Sigrid had left with Kristoff. When Ocheeva's scales began to regain their color on the third day, he actually fell to his knees in gratitude.

I can't do this, he realized with crystal clarity as he watched them sleep. I can't love them this much and survive losing them. It will destroy me.

When they finally woke up, groggy but alive, Teinaava's first word was “…paka."

The word hit Lucien like a physical blow. All that love, all that terror, all that desperate need to keep them safe – it crashed over him in a wave so powerful it nearly brought him to his knees again.

I love them too much. This will kill me.

"Don't call me that." The words came out harsher than he intended, torn from his throat by fear and exhaustion and the terrible realization of how much he had to lose.

Both children flinched as if slapped. Ocheeva's eyes – so bright and trusting moments before – went carefully blank. The same look she'd worn when they'd first met, when she'd believed the world was full of people who would hurt her.

I'm hurting them. I'm becoming the thing they need protection from.

"I'm not your father," he continued, each word feeling like he was swallowing glass. "I'm Lucien. Or Executioner Lachance, if you prefer. But not...not that."

Because fathers don’t lose their children. Because fathers don’t fail. Because I've already lost one child and I can't – I won't survive losing you too.

He was twenty-two years old and terrified of loving something he could lose again. So he did what terrified young men do: he tried to push away the thing that scared him most.

The children nodded solemnly, and something bright and beautiful died behind their eyes. They never called him Paka again, though sometimes he caught them whispering it to each other when they thought he couldn't hear, soft, wistful sounds that made his chest ache with regret.

Coward, he told himself as he watched them retreat into careful politeness. You're a coward, and you've just broken their hearts to save yourself from the possibility of having yours broken first.

It would take him years to realize that his heart was already broken, it had been from the moment he'd scooped their convulsing bodies into his arms and run through the sanctuary screaming for help. The only question was whether he'd let it heal or keep ripping the wound open out of fear.

"Remember," Lucien murmured, crouched behind a crumbling wall with two small figures pressed against his sides. His heart was beating so loudly, he was sure the targets would hear it. "Quick and quiet. In, complete the contract, out. No complications."

Ocheeva and Teinaava nodded seriously, identical expressions of concentration on their young faces. The targets were simple: two city guards who'd been skimming from merchant bribes. Hardly a challenge for trained assassins, but these weren't just any assassins. These were his babies, about to take their first lives.

They're ten years old, a voice in his head whispered. What are you doing?

But this was their world. Their heritage. Better they learn properly, under his protection, than fumble through it alone later.

"We know, Lucien," Ocheeva whispered, and he noticed she'd started calling him by his name consistently since the mudcrab incident. "We've practiced this."

They had. For months, he'd run them through every possible scenario until they could execute the plan in their sleep. Even so, his hands shook slightly as he watched them slip through the shadows toward the guards' usual patrol route.

Please let them be safe. Please let them come back to me whole.

He waited exactly thirty seconds before following them. He'd promised to let them handle it alone, but he'd be damned if he was letting them out of his sight during their first kill.

The first guard went down silently, Ocheeva's blade finding the gap between his helmet and curiass with surgical precision. The second guard turned at the soft sound of his partner's body hitting the ground, only to find Teinaava already behind him, small hands steady as he drew his dagger across the man's throat.

Lucien had to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. His vision blurred slightly as he watched them calmly clean their blades and check the bodies, exactly as he'd taught them.

That's my girl. That's my boy. Look at them – they're perfect.

When they emerged from the alley, bloodied daggers already cleaned and sheathed, Lucien had to clear his throat several times before he could speak.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

They looked at each other, then back at him. "Good," Ocheeva said simply. "We did it right."

"We made you proud," Teinaava added, and the hopeful note in his voice nearly undid Lucien completely.

More proud than you'll ever know.

"Sweet rolls," Lucien announced, his voice only slightly hoarse. "I think this calls for sweet rolls after you two get cleaned up."

Their faces lit up like sunrise. They chattered excitedly as they walked to the Sanctuary, comparing their techniques and asking if he'd seen Ocheeva's approach angle, if he'd noticed how quietly Teinaava had moved. Lucien half-listened, mostly focused on the overwhelming warmth in his chest.

Their first successful contract. They're going to be incredible assassins.

Lucien didn't look up from his paperwork, but his quill paused for just a moment. After years of painstakingly studying every Jel grammar text he could find – initially to better understand Teinaava's emotional needs, though that had expanded considerably – he'd become more fluent than they realized. 

“The fool thinks he understands everything, and he won't let you even talk to that cute new guard,” Teinaava muttered to his sister, who had been lamenting minutes earlier about how Lucien absolutely refused to let her speak with the guard. The guard had been transferred from Leyawiin on disciplinary action for unprofessional conduct towards the city’s residents.

“I know. I can’t believe how angry he was with you for smoking mugwort with Scar-Tail, Teinaava.”

Teinaava's voice carried a particularly bitter edge in his response that made Lucien's chest tighten. He'd been tracking the boy's moods through his Jel mutterings for months now, ever since he'd noticed Teinaava growing increasingly withdrawn. The language lessons had started as a way to understand what his ward was going through during his more difficult moments. Now they served as an unintentional window into both children's frustrations with his parenting.

Ocheeva snorted with laughter.  “And he acts like we're still hatchlings at the breast. What’s next? Is he going to chew our food up for us so we don’t choke?”

That stung; Lucien had been trying to protect them, yes, but apparently his efforts were coming across as infantilizing overprotectiveness. The guard Ocheeva had mentioned – he'd seen her talking to the young Imperial, had noticed the way she smiled differently around him. Of course, he'd put a stop to it. She was sixteen, for the love of Sithis, and who knows how much older he was. Not to mention that the Brotherhood was no place for teenage romance complications.

And Teinaava's complaints about not being allowed to smoke with Scar-tail; well, what was Lucien supposed to do? Let him dabble in illicit substances, which could turn into Sithis knows what? He’d rather die than see him become a Skooma addict.

They were slipping away from him, and he didn't know how to hold on without driving them further away.

"If you're going to insult me," Lucien said mildly, still not looking up, "at least be creative about it."

The sudden silence was deafening. He finally raised his eyes to see both teenagers staring at him with expressions of horror and mortification.

"You...understand Jel?" Ocheeva's voice came out as a squeak.

"I understand more than you think I do," Lucien responded, his Jel nearly perfect, and allowed himself a small smile at their twin looks of panic. "I've had years to learn, after all. Did you really think I'd remain ignorant of my children's native tongue?"

My children. The words slipped out before he could stop them, but for once, he didn't take them back.

Teinaava and Ocheeva exchanged a look – part embarrassment, part something softer.

"Does this mean we're in trouble?" Teinaava asked quietly.

Lucien set down his quill and really looked at them. When had Ocheeva gotten so tall? When had Teinaava's voice started changing? They weren't the frightened hatchlings who'd bitten him all those years ago. They were growing up, and he was still trying to protect them like babies.

"That depends," he said carefully. "Are you planning to continue commenting on my 'ridiculous' appearance, or shall we discuss why you think I'm being unreasonable about...certain social activities?"

Both teenagers shifted uncomfortably.

"You won't let me talk to anyone," Ocheeva muttered. "That guard was just being friendly."

"That guard was looking at you like you were a sweet roll and he hadn't eaten in a week," Lucien replied dryly. "He’s also a transfer from the Leyawiin guard, and the countess tortures Argonians for fun. There's a difference."

"And you won't let me do anything the other kids in the city do," Teinaava added, finding his courage. "I can't go to taverns, I can't join their games, I can't... I can't be normal."

The word 'normal' hung in the air between them like an accusation.

Lucien's jaw tightened. "Normal? You mean like smoking nirnroot and Sithis knows what else behind the Wayshrine with Scar-Tail like some common street thug?"

Teinaava's face went pale beneath his scales. "You... how did you…"

"How did I know?" Lucien's voice dropped to the deadly quiet tone that made hardened assassins nervous. "Because when my sixteen-year-old son starts 'visiting friends in the city' and coming home with glassy eyes and reeking of alchemical herbs, I tend to investigate. What’s next, stumbling around Bravil with a bottle of Skooma? I’m not an idiot, Teinaava."

Both teenagers had gone very still. Even Ocheeva looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor.

"Do you have any idea," Lucien continued, his composure cracking slightly, "what nirnroot can do to an Argonian's respiratory system? Do you know what happens when it interacts with your natural poison resistance? I spent three hours reading toxicology texts after I caught you, terrified that you'd already done permanent damage to yourself."

Because you're not normal, he wanted to say. Because normal sixteen-year-olds don't carry poisoned daggers and know thirty different ways to kill someone silently. Because normal teenagers don't have fathers who know exactly which herbs can kill them and in what doses. Because I'm terrified that if I let you out of my sight, something will happen to you and I'll lose you the way I lost everything else.

Teinaava was staring at his hands, shame radiating from every line of his body. "I didn't know it was dangerous for us. Scar-Tail said –"

"Scar-Tail," Lucien said flatly, "is an absolute moron who barely managed to pass his Shadowscale training and has already been disciplined twice for reckless behavior. He is not someone whose judgment you should trust with your life."

The silence stretched uncomfortably until Ocheeva cleared her throat. "So… no compromises then?"

Lucien looked between his children: one defiant, one ashamed, both so young despite everything they'd been through. He took a deep breath and tried to find his equilibrium again.

"Perhaps we can discuss some compromises," he said finally, though his voice still carried an edge. "But they will not include unsupervised experimentation with potentially lethal substances. Are we clear?"

They both straightened with sudden hope, and Lucien realized he'd do anything to keep that light in their eyes, even if it meant letting them grow up faster than he was ready for.

Lucien had presided over dozens of promotion ceremonies in his time as Speaker. They were usually brief, formal affairs: a few words about duty and honor, the presentation of new ranks, and perhaps a small celebration afterward.

This was different.

The entire sanctuary had gathered in the main hall, but all Lucien could see were the two figures kneeling before him. Twenty-two years old now – adults by any measure – but part of him still saw the tiny hatchlings who had bitten his hands and chirped at him over raw fish.

Ocheeva knelt before him in the traditional pose, her head bowed respectfully. She'd grown into a formidable woman who was strong, intelligent, and commanding respect from assassins twice her age. The sanctuary couldn't function without her organizational skills and steady leadership. Even now, he could see her maintaining perfect posture despite the weight of the moment.

"Ocheeva," he began, and was surprised to hear his voice catch slightly. Get yourself together, Lucien. This is supposed to be professional. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Your service to the Dark Brotherhood has been exemplary. Your dedication, your skill, your leadership, all mark you as worthy of advancement."

He drew his ceremonial dagger – the same one he'd been sharpening the day they'd nearly died from mudcrab claws – and his hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he touched it lightly to each of her shoulders.

Twenty years. For twenty years, I've watched her grow from a frightened baby into this incredible woman.

"I hereby promote you to the rank of Matron of this sanctuary. May you lead with wisdom and strength."

When she raised her head, he saw tears tracking down her scaled cheeks. Her eyes – those ancient, knowing eyes that had watched him with suspicion so long ago – now shone with something that looked like love.

Don't cry, old man. Not in front of the whole sanctuary.

But his own eyes were burning, and he had to blink several times to keep his vision clear.

"Thank you," she whispered, so quietly only he could hear. And then, even softer: "Teeba neh, Paka." (Thank you, father.)

The Jel slipped out like a prayer, like something too precious to say in the common tongue. He should have corrected her; he'd spent years training them not to call him that. Instead, his throat worked soundlessly for a moment before he simply nodded.

My daughter. My brilliant, strong, perfect daughter.

He turned to Teinaava and nearly lost his composure entirely. The young man – and when had he stopped being a boy? – was looking up at him with such hope, such desperate need for approval, that Lucien's chest constricted painfully.

Teinaava had struggled for years with confidence, always believing himself less capable than his sister, always fighting to prove his worth. But Lucien had watched him grow, had seen him develop his own unique strengths. His stealth was unparalleled, his loyalty absolute, his gentle heart somehow untouched by the darkness of their profession.

"Teinaava." Lucien's voice was steadier now, though his chest felt tight with pride. He had to pause for a breath before continuing. "You have overcome every challenge placed before you. You have grown from a frightened hatchling into an assassin of remarkable skill. Your perseverance honors us all."

The same ceremony, the same formal words of promotion. But when Teinaava looked up at him, Lucien saw layers of memory: the child who had once called him father, who had cried over a lost tooth, who had nearly died from mudcrab claws, who had been so afraid he wasn't good enough.

You are good enough. You've always been good enough.

"I'm proud of you," he said quietly, abandoning formality entirely. The words were meant for Teinaava alone, but in the hushed sanctuary, everyone heard them. "So very proud of the man you've become."

Teinaava's breath hitched, and he whispered something in Jel that sounded like "Paka wutulm" (beloved father). His own tears started then, tracking silver trails down his dark scales.

Oh, my boy. My sweet, sensitive boy who thinks he's not enough.

Lucien found his own vision blurring as he touched the ceremonial blade to Teinaava's shoulders. "I hereby promote you to the rank of Assassin, with all the honors and responsibilities therein."

When both of them rose, Lucien had to turn away briefly to collect himself. His hands were shaking, and he could feel the eyes of the entire sanctuary on him. Their composed, controlled Speaker had been reduced to barely contained emotion by his children.

Let them see, he thought fiercely. Let them see that I love them. I should have let them see it years ago.

Antoinetta Marie started the applause, and the rest of the sanctuary joined in. But Lucien barely heard it over the sound of his own heartbeat and the whispered Jel coming from his children as they embraced each other.

“The old, stubborn father is crying. You did something incredible.”

“So did you. You deserve this.”

Later, alone in his quarters after the celebration had wound down, Lucien opened the wooden box he'd kept for nearly two decades. Baby teeth and shed scales, pressed flowers and childish drawings, carefully preserved like holy relics. At the bottom lay two leather-bound journals – meticulous records of every milestone, every achievement, every precious moment of watching two orphaned hatchlings become the finest people he'd ever known.

He pulled out the most recent entries: "Ocheeva successfully reorganized the entire sanctuary filing system. Her efficiency is remarkable." "Teinaava completed his stealth trial in record time. His technique is flawless." "Both children showed exceptional judgment during the Skingrad contract. I couldn't be prouder."

My children, he thought, and for the first time in years, the words didn't hurt. 

Chapter Text

Fort Farragut loomed before Lucien like a judgment rendered in weathered granite. He'd chosen this place deliberately; it was isolated, defensible, far enough from the sanctuary that screams wouldn't carry. The irony wasn't lost on him that he was preparing for the destruction of his family in the ruins of another empire's failures.

He walked straight through the front door without ceremony, knowing his guardians would sense his approach long before he announced himself. The heavy oak door creaked open at his touch, revealing the familiar gloom of the entrance hall.

"Evening, gentlemen," he called to the shadows as figures began materializing from the darkness. Two Guardians stumbled into visibility first, their ethereal forms wreathed in the remnants of Imperial Legion armor. Behind them, four more reanimated skeletons stepped forward with the distinctive clicking gait of animated bone.

"I trust you've kept the place presentable?" Lucien continued conversationally, as if he were speaking to living servants rather than undead guardians bound to his service through careful necromancy and generous compensation in the form of regular soul gems.

One of the Guardians inclined his head respectfully and gestured toward the main chamber with a sound like wind through dry leaves. One of the skeletons attempted what might have been a salute, though the motion was somewhat undermined by the way his shoulder joint creaked ominously.

"Excellent." Lucien reached into his coat and withdrew a sock he'd acquired from Serena's things during their time in Bravil. "I'll be having a guest in the coming days, a young woman, dark hair, about so tall." He held up the cloth, and immediately the assembled guardians turned their attention to it with the focused intensity of hunting hounds. "This is her scent. She's to be allowed entry without harassment. Consider her under my protection."

The Guardians examined the fabric with interest, their forms flickering as they processed the information. After a moment, all six nodded their understanding. They'd served Lucien long enough to know he didn't make such requests lightly. In all their years of service, he'd never granted safe passage to anyone. The fort was his private retreat, his sanctuary within a sanctuary. That he was willing to share it now spoke volumes about the woman in question.

"Right then," Lucien said, tucking the fabric away. "I'll be in my study. See that I'm not disturbed unless the fort is burning down around us. And Sebastian," he addressed the lead skeleton directly, "try not to let your jaw fall off again. It's becoming embarrassing."

The skeleton in question reached up to check his mandible with what could only be described as skeletal chagrin.

"Right then. I'll be in my living space. See that I'm not disturbed unless the fort is burning down around us."

Lucien’s living area had been carefully prepared over the years to serve as his private retreat. Books lined the walls, comfortable furniture arranged before a large fireplace, maps, and correspondence organized on a heavy oak desk. It looked like the study of a scholar rather than the planning room of an assassin.

Lucien went directly to his bookshelf and retrieved a small brass key from behind a volume of Dwemer poetry. The locked box it opened was unremarkable – plain wood, about the size of a bread loaf – but its contents represented the most dangerous weakness a Dark Brotherhood Speaker could possess.

Inside, nestled carefully in silk wrapping, lay the evidence of twenty-two years spent pretending professional duty was stronger than love. His wedding ring from his marriage to Sigrid sat beside hers, both bands tarnished with abandonment. A tiny woolen sock was all he had left of the son he'd barely known before she'd disappeared with him. But most of the box belonged to the two who had saved him from that grief; two leather-bound journals: meticulous training records for Ocheeva and Teinaava, but filled with observations that had nothing to do with Brotherhood protocol. 

"Teinaava's first successful lock-pick – he was so proud of himself." 

"Ocheeva drew a portrait of the Family today. I'm apparently very tall with stick arms." 

"Both were sick with fever; I stayed up three nights straight watching them. Note: never again let them swim past mid-Hearthfire."

Beneath the journals lay carefully preserved fragments of a life he'd never meant to live: stick figures labeled "Paka," "Ocheeva," and "Teenava" under a crooked Dark Brotherhood symbol. A collection of baby teeth, saved like precious gems. The last remaining threads of Teinaava's security blanket, worn to nothing by seven years of being carried everywhere, though Lucien had caught him sliding it into his armor before a contract he was worried about. Pressed flowers from Ocheeva's brief fascination with alchemy. Tiny clawed handprints pressed in clay.

The evidence of fatherhood he'd never been allowed to claim.

Lucien carried the journals to his desk and stared at his wine collection. The vintage from High Rock would be civilized, appropriate for civilized work. His hand moved toward it, then past it to the vodka. 

But this wasn’t civilized work.

His hand hovered over the bottle, then slid past it, bypassing the delicate stemware entirely. Instead, he reached for the squat glass bottle of vodka tucked in the back. He pulled the cork and didn’t bother with a glass. The first swallow burned, stripped away the veneer of refinement he so carefully cultivated over the years.

Another swallow.

Sithis commands this Purification. The corruption must be cleansed.

Lucien’s faith felt hollow against the weight of what he was planning. He'd raised them from hatchlings – Teinaava hardly had his baby teeth, Ocheeva was still small enough to sleep curled against his chest during thunderstorms. He'd been eighteen years old and broken from Sigrid's abandonment, and suddenly responsible for two Argonian infants who bit everything and required feeding every few hours.

They became everything to you.

Lucien settled into his chair and opened Ocheeva's journal to the first page.

"Day one with the hatchlings. They bit me. Extensively. 

Note to self: Argonian teeth are remarkably sharp even as infants. Successfully fed them raw fish. They seem less hostile now."

He'd been so young. Younger than Antoinetta was now when he'd found her strung out on skooma in that Skingrad alley, desperate enough to follow a stranger who offered her food and purpose. Another broken thing he'd tried to fix by giving her somewhere to belong.

Sithis demands their blood.

After an hour of reading – entries that chronicled first words and first kills with equal pride – Lucien set the journals aside and reached for fresh parchment. The duty felt like swallowing glass, but it had to be done. If Serena was going to execute his family, she deserved the tools to do it mercifully.

Instructions for Elimination - Sanctuary Purification

Ocheeva and Teinaava - Both have severe shellfish allergies. Exposure is typically fatal within hours. Concentrated stock in food or drink is recommended. Complete trust is maintained with all Family members – direct administration should present no difficulty.

His hand trembled as he continued writing, the vodka doing nothing to steady the shake.

Note: They will call for each other when distressed. Do not allow this to compromise resolve.

Telaendril - Nightly sleeping draught of nightshade and lavender for chronic insomnia. Deep unconsciousness is usually achieved within thirty minutes. Throat cutting during sleep is recommended for efficiency and mercy.

M'raaj-Dar and Gogron - Both achieve deep sleep states once unconscious. Blade between ribs while sleeping would be kindest. M'raaj-Dar sleeps left lateral, heart easily accessible. Gogron sleeps supine. Neither should wake with proper technique.

Antoinetta Marie - Enjoys wine and conversation above all else. Recommend sharing vintage while discussing current events. She would prefer to die engaged in her favorite activities. Poison wine after the second or third glass – she'll be relaxed and happy.

The entry for Antoinetta stung more than expected. He'd pulled her out of that alley, cleaned her up, and given her purpose when she had nothing left. 

Vicente Valtieri.

Lucien stared at the name for a long time, vodka making the letters blur. Vicente, who had been like a father when he'd returned to Cyrodiil broken and penniless. Vicente, who had guided him through Brotherhood politics and helped him build something resembling a life. Vicente, who knew him better than he knew himself.

Vicente, who had been acting strangely for weeks – tiring more easily, not feeding, appearing ill despite his vampiric nature, losing track of details he would normally remember perfectly. And uncharacteristically sentimental in recent conversations, as if saying goodbye without words.

Vicente Valtieri - Vampire, ancient and powerful. Direct confrontation inadvisable. Garlic consumption will compromise supernatural abilities within two hours. Cardiac puncture during the vulnerability window, preferably with a silver weapon or a wooden stake, is recommended.

Additional notes: Vicente has displayed a recent decline – unusual fatigue, memory inconsistencies, and uncharacteristic emotional responses. He may be approaching some form of natural end. Timing considerations may be relevant.

He set down his quill and retrieved a sealed scroll from his locked drawer.

Contingency option: Vengeful spirit summoning scroll. Deceased murder victim, hostile to Brotherhood insignia. Deploy only if other methods fail. Warning: Difficult to control once released.

The alcohol was making him restless, and his hands needed something to do besides write death sentences for people he loved. Cooking had always helped him think, and there was a practical necessity to consider.

Lucien's kitchen was small but well-appointed. He had always found cooking meditative: it was precise, methodical, requiring just enough focus to quiet his mind. Tonight, with vodka warming his blood and grief sitting like lead in his chest, the familiar ritual was especially necessary.

Shellfish stock was simple enough. He had good crab shells, proper aromatics. As he worked – roasting shells, building flavor layers – his mind wandered despite his efforts to stay clinical.

How many times have you cooked for them? Celebration dinners after successful contracts, comfort food when they were sick, elaborate birthday feasts...

The thought of their last birthday celebrated together made his hands still over his knife work. They were turning eleven, and they had both requested honey cakes. Ocheeva had helped, mostly by stealing bites of batter and offering commentary.

Stop. Focus on duty.

The stock would be tasteless when properly diluted, an easy addition to any meal.

Outside, night was falling over the abandoned fort. The shellfish stock simmered on the fire, filling the kitchen with rich aromas that should have been appetizing if Lucien could forget their purpose. He'd finished the vodka bottle somewhere between adding the bay leaves and adjusting the seasoning – the familiar motions letting his guard down enough for the grief to surface.

Twenty years. You raised them for twenty years.

The sound of the front door opening reached him through stone corridors, followed by the whistle-shriek of his guardians sensing an intruder.

Serena.

"No, you idiot —" Lucien stumbled toward the main hall. "She has safe passage, you damned —"

By the time he reached the main hall, three guardians were scattered fragments, and the fourth was backing away from a very irritated woman with a dented dagger.

"Stand down!" Lucien shouted, his voice carrying more alcohol than authority. "I told you she was under my protection!"

The remaining guardian flickered uncertainly before dissolving, clearly confused by mixed signals. Serena lowered her blade but remained tense, dark eyes flicking between Lucien and potential threats. A deep shoulder cut bled freely through her torn blouse.

"Your hospitality needs work," she said dryly, though he caught the tremor beneath her composure.

"I gave them your scent," Lucien slurred, approaching with careful steps meant to hide his obvious intoxication. "They should have recognized —"

He stopped when Serena went rigid, her entire posture shifting to defensive alertness. Her breathing had quickened, and her sword grip tightened despite the lowered blade.

She’s just had an unexpected fight, he thought initially, then noticed her eyes. Not post-battle adrenaline, this was something else. She looks…afraid.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked quietly.

The question carried weight he didn't immediately understand. Lucien blinked, suddenly aware of how he must appear – unsteady, reeking of vodka, voice too loud in the echoing corridors.

She's afraid of me.

The realization cut through his alcohol-dulled thoughts; she wasn't just concerned about his condition – she was genuinely frightened.

"Serena." He kept his voice soft, controlled, and took a deliberate step backward. "You're injured. Let me get you something for that cut."

He started toward the remaining guardian, irritation flaring. "You absolute –"

"Don't."

Sharp enough to stop him mid-word. "Please. Just...stop shouting."

Lucien paused, taking in her defensive posture, the way she held herself like she expected violence. The guardian flickered uncertainly in the shadows.

"Right," he said quietly, stepping back from both the guardian and her. "Of course. They're just... doing their job. Poorly." He gestured vaguely at the bone fragments. "We should get you seen to first."

Professional distance. Keep it professional. Don't think about how she looks when she's in your bed, or when she laughs at something you've said. Don't think about how this might be the last time you see her before it all ends.

Serena took in the details of his living space while keeping her distance, her tension slowly easing as she realized he was making a deliberate effort to stay out of her personal space.

"You gave them my scent," she said eventually, not quite a question.

Lucien froze in the act of gathering medical supplies, his hands stilling on a roll of bandages. How could he explain that without sounding like a complete lunatic? Well, you see, I may have taken a piece of your clothing because I wanted my undead guardians to know not to kill you...

"I…" He cleared his throat, still facing away from her. "I wanted to ensure they wouldn't attack you. They needed to…recognize you as..." As what? As important to me? As someone under my protection?

"As someone they shouldn't kill," he finished lamely.

"Right." There was something almost amused in her voice, though he couldn't see her expression.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, desperate to change the subject. "I have potatoes, some dried meat. Beer, wine…" He gestured vaguely toward his modest food stores, then winced as the motion made him sway slightly.

"I'm fine." She sat down heavily in the chair farthest from him. "Just…fix my shoulder."

Lucien approached with the medical supplies, his movements careful. But the vodka had done more damage to his coordination than he'd realized. His hands shook as he tried to clean the wound, and he had to stop twice to steady himself against the chair.

"Sorry," he muttered, dabbing at the cut with what he hoped was gentle pressure. "I'm not usually this…"

The bandage slipped from his fingers. When he tried to retrieve it, he accidentally pressed too hard on the wound, making Serena hiss in pain.

"Damn it." He pulled back, frustration evident in his voice. "This is going to leave a terrible scar. The stitching needs to be –"Lucien." Serena's voice was steadier now, though she was clearly in pain. "Why have you been drinking?"

He stilled, hands hovering over the half-finished bandaging. The question he'd been dreading was just asked in the calm tone of someone who already suspected the answer would be terrible.

"Because," he said quietly, not meeting her eyes, "I'm going to assign you to help me execute a Purification of the Cheydinhal Sanctuary. I’m going to ask you to kill people we call family, and the two I raised from hatchlings and love more than my own life."

The silence that followed was deafening.

"A purification," Serena repeated slowly. "I've heard the term."

"Then you know what it means." Lucien's voice was flat. "The Purification is one of the most extreme measures we are forced to carry out. It’s so extreme, it has only been carried out twice." He finally met her eyes. "The Black Hand voted on it, myself included. No exceptions, no survivors." He took a shaky breath, trying to regain some of his composure. “The Hand approved your assignment to this task. You're…untainted by whatever corruption has infected the sanctuary."

Serena stared at him, and he watched the full horror of what he was asking settle over her features. Her gaze drifted to the open journals on his desk; pages filled with his careful handwriting, documenting years of small triumphs and precious moments.

"Those are…" she started.

"I documented everything," his words came out with more emotion than he’d intended. "Twenty years of raising them. Every milestone, every achievement, every moment I was proud of them, documented." He stood unsteadily and retrieved a box from his shelf, setting it before her. "It’s everything from the first time I met them to their most recent advancements."

His hands shook as he opened the wooden box, revealing its contents like evidence of a crime. "Their baby teeth. Pressed flowers they picked for me. Drawings they made of our 'family.'" He picked up the remnant threads of Teinaava's blanket, worn to almost nothing. "Teinaava carried it everywhere until he was seven, and I told him he couldn’t bring it to his first contract."

Serena's eyes caught on the tarnished rings. "And those?"

"From my first marriage." He stared at them for a moment, then suddenly snatched them up. "I don't know why I kept them." He threw them toward the fireplace with more force than accuracy. They bounced off the stone hearth and rolled across the floor with tiny metallic sounds.

"Pathetic," he muttered, not bothering to retrieve them.

Lucien sank back into his chair and reached for the parchment covered in his neat handwriting. When he spoke again, his voice had changed; it was stripped of its usual authority and control, reduced to something raw and broken.

"I wrote instructions for how to kill them all as mercifully as possible," he said, scanning the list. "Ocheeva and Teinaava have a fatal shellfish allergy. I’m making a shellfish stock; they both have a fatal allergy. Just a spoonful of the stock in their dinner, and they'll be…the suffering will be minimal. They'll call out to each other…" His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "Telaendril takes sleeping draughts. She'll sleep through anything. M'raaj-Dar and Gogron sleep deeply. Antoinetta enjoys wine and gossip. Let her die happy, talking about the things she loves. You can tell her whatever you want about our relationship, too. She's going to die anyway."

He set the paper down, his hands trembling. "And Vicente…he's been ill lately, though he won't admit it. Probably dying already. I'm just hastening the inevitable."

Lucien stared at his shaking hands, horrified by how much he'd revealed, how completely he'd stripped himself bare in front of her. The vodka had torn down every wall he'd spent decades building, leaving him exposed and vulnerable in ways that terrified him more than any assassination contract ever had.

Chapter Text

The Black Road stretched before Serena like a path to damnation, each hoofbeat of her horse marking another step toward the unthinkable. She'd made it perhaps halfway when the full weight of what she was about to do finally crashed over her.

She pulled her horse to a stop beside a grove of birch trees, their white bark ghostly in the afternoon light. For a moment, she just sat there, staring at the glass vial of shellfish stock secured in her saddlebags alongside a bottle of wine that would serve as both gift and weapon.

I'm going to kill them all.

Suddenly, she was sliding from her saddle, her legs giving out as she hit the ground. Her breath came in sharp, panicked gasps as the reality sank in completely.

Ocheeva, who had always been kind to her. Teinaava, who was gentle and thoughtful. Vicente, ancient and wise, and Antoinetta, who had become a close friend despite everything. Everyone in that Sanctuary was going to die, and it was about to be by her hand.

She pressed her hands to her face and sobbed. Anyone passing by would think she'd lost her mind, kneeling in the dirt beside the road, crying like her world was ending.

Maybe it was.

But they're compromised, she reminded herself desperately. Someone betrayed the Brotherhood. Someone informed the targets about what would happen to them. This is necessary. This is –

The justifications felt hollow against the weight of what she was about to do: she was about to murder her friends, people who had celebrated her highs and mourned her lows, people who were the closest thing she had to family left.

I’m about to murder two people raised by my –

She cut that thought off before it could fully form. She couldn't afford to think about Lucien right now, about the way his voice had broken when he'd read her that list.

She had a job to do.

Serena forced herself to her feet, wiped her face with shaking hands, and climbed back onto her horse. The rest of the journey passed in a haze of forced numbness as she built walls in her mind, compartmentalizing everything that was about to happen.

Survive this. Protect yourself. Do what must be done.

It was the same mindset that had gotten her through years of marriage to a man who found creative ways to hurt her. Dissociation as a survival mechanism. She could feel herself slipping into that familiar, terrible calm as the city gates of Cheydinhal came into view.

Everything felt different the moment she walked through the doors; there was a tension in the air, a brittleness that spoke of recent trauma and barely contained grief. The usual easy camaraderie that marked their gatherings was absent, replaced by the careful movements of people trying not to shatter.

Antoinetta, Gogron, and Teinaava were gathered in the common area around a low table covered with maps and correspondence, their voices hushed. 

"Serena!" Antoinetta's greeting was warm but subdued, relief evident in her voice. "Thank the Void you're here. Have you heard about M'raaj-Dar?"

"No." She set down her pack carefully, the wine bottle clinking softly against the glass vial of stock she carried. "What happened?"

"He’s… he’s dead, Serena." Gogron's voice was gruffer than usual, rough with suppressed emotion. The massive Orc was staring at his hands, unable to meet anyone's eyes. "They found him in Chorrol yesterday morning. Someone took their time with him, tortured him before putting him out of his misery."

"The city watch said it looked like he'd been questioned," Antoinetta added, her usual animated gestures subdued. "Whoever did it knew what they were doing."

Teinaava's face was pale beneath his scales, his hands fidgeting with a quill as he spoke. "Someone silenced him. But why? What could M'raaj have known that was worth..." 

Everyone was thinking the same thing: if someone had wanted M'raaj dead badly enough to torture him, then the Brotherhood's security had been compromised far worse than anyone had suspected. The implications were staggering, and Serena could see the fear in their faces as they grappled with the possibility that they were all targets now.

"He wasn't the most pleasant person to work with," Gogron said heavily, "but he was family. He was one of us."

"And now he's dead because someone wanted information badly enough to carve it out of him," Antoinetta said, her voice sharp with anger and grief. "Information about us, about our operations, about…" She gestured helplessly at the maps spread before them.

Teinaava looked up at Serena with eyes that were too old for his young face. "We're trying to figure out what he might have known, what someone could have wanted from him. But M'raaj has been involved in so many contracts since he joined two years ago."

The irony was crushing; here they were, frantically trying to identify the threat to their family, while the real danger sat among them.

"Where are the others?" Serena asked, though she already suspected the answer would complicate everything. Her voice sounded remarkably steady to her own ears.

"Ocheeva's in her chamber, going over security protocols again," Antoinetta replied. "She's been at it for hours, cross-referencing every contract M'raaj worked on in the past year. Poor thing is driving herself to exhaustion trying to find a pattern."

"Vicente..." Teinaava hesitated, then continued more quietly. "He's been off, he’s keeping to himself more than usual. We tried to include him in the planning, but he said he needed to rest. He looked fragile."

Gogron grunted in agreement. "Ancient bastard's finally showing his age. Never thought I'd see the day."

"And Telaendril is on her way from Leyawiin," Teinaava added. "She’s got no idea what happened, and we’re drawing straws on who has to tell her."

"It's my turn to make dinner," Antoinetta continued, getting up off the couch and stretching her arms above her head. "Though I'll admit, I don't have much appetite after today. Still, we all need to eat."

Serena saw her opening, the moment she'd been preparing for since leaving Fort Farragut. "Would you like help? I brought wine, thought we could all use something to lift our spirits after everything."

Antoinetta's face brightened for the first time since Serena had arrived. "That would be lovely. Yes, please. It's been so grim here today, it would be nice to have some company while I cook. And wine..." She managed a small smile. "Wine sounds perfect right now."

That evening, Serena found herself falling into an easy rhythm with Antoinetta, chopping vegetables while the other woman seasoned the large pot with aromatics and an excessive amount of garlic.

"Seafood stew seemed appropriate," Antoinetta said, adding herbs to the mixture. "The twins' birthday is next week, and I think this might be their favorite meal. Though given everything that's happened with M'raaj..." She shrugged sadly. "I doubt they're in any mood to celebrate. Still, thought it might cheer them up a bit."

Their birthday. 

Lucien hadn't mentioned that detail when he'd written his careful instructions for their deaths. Had he forgotten, or had it simply been too painful to include?

"This is nice," Antoinetta continued, her usual animated energy returning slightly in the comfort of routine. "It's been so tense lately, with all the security concerns and Vicente acting strange. It's good to have some normal conversation for once."

Serena nodded, trying to keep her hands steady as she diced carrots. Nothing Antoinetta was talking about was registering; she felt like she was watching herself from outside her body, observing a woman who laughed at Antoinetta's jokes and shared stories about recent contracts.

"Speaking of normal conversation," Antoinetta said with a grin, "I have news. Remember that Redguard I told you about? Dhi’ban?"

"The innkeeper?"

"That's the one. Well, things have gotten serious." Antoinetta's smile was soft. "He introduced me to his daughter last week. Serena, she's the most adorable little thing you've ever seen. Five years old, gap-toothed smile, and completely fearless. She's already decided I'm her new best friend."

Despite everything, Serena found herself genuinely smiling. "That's wonderful, Antoinetta. You look happy."

"I am happy. Terrified, but happy." Antoinetta stirred the stew thoughtfully. "It's strange, you know? I never thought I'd be the type for domesticity. But watching Dhi’ban with his daughter, seeing how gentle he is..." She trailed off, then shot Serena a knowing look. "But enough about me. I want details about you and Lucien."

Serena felt heat rise in her cheeks as she focused intently on her vegetable chopping. "What makes you think there are details to share?"

"Oh, please." Antoinetta laughed. "The man has been different since you arrived, and you’re never here anymore! You should see the way he looks around for you when he thinks no one's watching." She leaned closer conspiratorially. "So come on. Give me something. How far have things progressed?"

When Antoinetta turned away to check on the bread in the oven, Serena seized her moment. Her hands trembled as she unscrewed the vial of shellfish stock and poured it into the large pot they were cooking the stew in. The liquid was nearly colorless, just as Lucien had promised. 

"Well," Serena said, sliding the vial into the wastebasket, "things have been... complicated."

"The best relationships usually are," Antoinetta replied, turning back with a satisfied smile. "That should be ready in about an hour." She wiped her hands on her apron and gave Serena her full attention. "Now, complicated how? Good complicated or bad complicated?"

"Good complicated, mostly." Serena found herself genuinely relaxing into the conversation despite the horror of what she'd just done. "He's not what I expected when I first met him."

Go on..."

"He's thoughtful in ways I didn't think men like him could be." Serena paused, remembering the things left in dead drops, the way he'd stepped back when his drunken state frightened her. "He pays attention to things. Small things. Things I like, things that make me uncomfortable..."

"That's a good sign," Antoinetta said warmly. "And physically? Because let's be honest, the man seems like he –"Antoinetta!" Serena laughed, feeling her face flush deeper.

"What? I have eyes. And you're glowing in a very particular way that suggests –"

"Suggests what?" Ocheeva's voice came from the kitchen doorway.

Serena felt her mouth go dry. There was no way she was going to be able to continue the conversation in front of her.

"Oh, nothing," Antoinetta said quickly, shooting Serena an amused look. "Just catching up. How is everything coming along?"

"Slowly," Ocheeva sighed, setting down her papers on the counter. "I've cross-referenced every contract M'raaj worked on in the past two years, but the patterns aren't clear." She rubbed her temples tiredly. "I could use a break from thinking about it."

"Perfect timing then," Antoinetta said. "Dinner's almost ready, and Serena brought wine. We could all use a proper meal and some normal conversation."

"That sounds wonderful," Ocheeva said, managing a small smile. "It smells incredible in here. Is this the seafood stew?"

"Your favorite," Antoinetta confirmed. "Thought it might lift everyone's spirits."

"Perfect. Should I call everyone for dinner?" Serena asked, proud of how normal her voice sounded.

"In a few minutes," Antoinetta said. "Let me just check the seasoning one more time." She turned to Ocheeva. "How are Teinaava and the others holding up?"

"As well as can be expected. Teinaava's taking M'raaj's death hard, you know how sensitive he is. And Gogron's been unusually quiet." Ocheeva leaned against the counter, looking every inch the sanctuary matron despite her exhaustion. "We'll get through this, though. We always do."

Despite the shadow of M'raaj-Dar's death hanging over them, the meal was pleasant. Everyone had gathered around the large wooden table except Vicente, who had sent his apologies through Ocheeva – he wasn't feeling well enough for company.

Serena watched as Ocheeva and Teinaava filled their bowls with the stew, as they laughed at one of Gogron's crude jokes, as they discussed contract assignments for the coming week. Normal conversation. Normal people living normal lives, completely unaware that they were consuming their own deaths.

"Remember when M'raaj tried to show off his illusion magic during that contract in Skingrad?" Antoinetta was saying, gesturing with her spoon. "He was convinced he could make himself invisible to get past the guards?"

"Nearly blew the whole contract," Gogron chuckled. "His spell failed halfway through, and he ended up standing in plain sight in the target's bedroom, looking like a fool."

"Took us a week to set up another approach after that fiasco," Telaendril added dryly. "He spent the entire time insisting it was the moon phase that interfered with his magic."

"He always did think he was more skilled than he actually was," Ocheeva said with a small smile. "Remember how he'd practice new spells for hours, trying to impress everyone?"

"Still," Teinaava said quietly, "he was family. Whatever his faults, he was one of us."

"To M'raaj-Dar," Ocheeva raised her cup. "May Sithis grant him the peace in death he never found in life."

They drank in solemn tribute, and Serena forced herself to join in, the wine tasting like ash in her mouth.

The twins will call out for each other, Lucien had said. Don't let it affect you.

"Speaking of family," Antoinetta said, brightening deliberately, "we haven't forgotten what next week brings, have we?"

Both twins looked up in surprise, and Serena watched their faces transform with genuine pleasure.

"You remembered," Teinaava said softly.

"Of course, we remembered," Gogron rumbled. "What kind of family would we be if we forgot?"

"Happy birthday, you two," Telaendril said warmly. "Twenty-three years old. Where does the time go?"

"We were going to have a proper celebration," Ocheeva said, her voice catching slightly, "but with everything that's happened..."

"We'll celebrate when this is all over," Antoinetta declared firmly. "When we've identified the threat and dealt with it. Then we'll have the kind of party you two deserve."

The twins seemed fine throughout the main course, though Serena thought she noticed Teinaava coughing once or twice during the meal. The shellfish allergy would take time to manifest – probably another couple of hours, according to Lucien's notes.

Enough time for everyone to go to bed, and for her to complete the rest of her work.

"Vicente's been really off lately," Telaendril mentioned as they finished eating, concern evident in her voice. "Yesterday I found him in the library, staring at the same page for twenty minutes. When I asked if he was alright, he couldn't remember what he'd been reading."

"He's ancient," Gogron rumbled. "Maybe age is finally catching up with him."

"Vampires don't age," Ocheeva pointed out, though there was worry in her voice. "Not like that."

"Maybe it's mental," Antoinetta suggested. "All this stress about security breaches, losing M'raaj...even Vicente isn't immune to grief."

Teinaava shifted uncomfortably in his seat, one hand moving to scratch absently at his throat. "I tried to talk to him yesterday, but he seemed distant. Like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn't."

"Could be a curse," Gogron suggested. "We've made enough enemies over the years. Someone with magical knowledge could –" Or maybe he's just tired," Telaendril interrupted. "When did any of us last take a proper rest? We're all running on nerves and determination."

Ocheeva scratched at her lips, a small, unconscious gesture. "Whatever it is, we should keep an eye on him. He's been family to all of us for so long..."

As the evening wound down, the first subtle signs began to show. Teinaava had moved on from rubbing his stomach to scratching more frequently at his throat and neck. Ocheeva was doing the same, though she was trying to be more discreet about it.

"I think I'm getting sick," Teinaava said finally, pushing back from the table. "Stomach's been bothering me all evening."

"Mine too," Ocheeva admitted, one hand pressed to her abdomen. "Probably just the weather change. You know how it affects us."

"Weather changes have been getting to me, too," Telaendril agreed. "I've been feeling it in my head."

"Get some rest, both of you. Sleep it off, you'll feel better in the morning." Serena said, grabbing empty plates to take back to the kitchen. 

The twins excused themselves, Teinaava pausing to hug Antoinetta and thank her for the meal. "It was perfect," he said. "Thank you, Antoinetta."

Ocheeva lingered a moment longer. "Thank you all for remembering our birthday. It means more than you know."

And then they were gone, walking toward their chambers with slightly unsteady steps, leaving the others to begin clearing the table.

"Well," Antoinetta said as Gogron and Telaendril began making their own excuses for the evening, "shall we adjourn to the main living area? I believe someone promised me wine and conversation."

Serena nodded, her throat tight. "Lead the way."

Serena poured the wine carefully, her hands steady as she filled both cups with the unpoisoned vintage. She would allow herself this small luxury: a few more minutes of genuine conversation with a friend before she destroyed everything.

They settled into comfortable chairs by the fire, wine cups in hand, and Serena found herself genuinely relaxing for the first time all evening.

"So," Antoinetta said with a knowing smile, "where were we in the kitchen? Something about your relationship with Lucien being 'good complicated'?"

Despite everything, Serena felt heat rise in her cheeks. "You have an excellent memory."

"It's a gift. Now, details. Real details this time." Antoinetta took a sip of wine and settled back expectantly. "How did things actually start between you two?"

Serena found herself talking, the words coming easier than they should have given the circumstances. "We developed a friendly relationship quickly," she smiled softly, taking a long sip of the wine in her cup. "And then I stabbed him in a stableyard, thought he was going to hurt me, or worse."

"You did what? And you lived?” Antoinetta’s shock made Serena cock an eyebrow.

“What do you mean, I lived?” 

"Serena, the man has killed people for far less than drawing steel on him. There was an assassin right after I joined," Antoinetta leaned forward, her voice dropping to a whisper. "She failed one of her contracts; there was a witness, it wasn’t what the client wanted, and the whole thing was a mess. Granted, she was given verbal warnings, but Void, she was awful. Lucien…I’ve never seen someone die so slowly with so much blood. It took weeks for Gogron to get the blood out of his boots. Telaendril tells the story much better than I do."

"That's different," Serena protested, though she felt a chill run down her spine. "I didn't threaten him, I was just...scared."

"Still. The fact that you put a blade in him and he didn't immediately retaliate says something significant." Antoinetta's expression grew thoughtful. "What happened after you stabbed him?"

"He looked at me like I was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen," Serena admitted, the memory still vivid. "Not angry, not even surprised really; he was fascinated.  And then there was the incident at the Black Marsh border." Serena's expression grew more serious. "I'd run from a contract, my ex-mother-in-law recognized me..." She gestured vaguely. "I was fully planning to run to Black Marsh. Lucein was in my room at the border; by all rights, he should have killed me for deserting the contract."

Antoinetta leaned forward, intrigued. "But he didn't."

"He found me, cornered me completely. I was ready to die. But then I told him why I'd run, about the memories it had triggered, and he just..." Serena shook her head in wonder. "He let me live. More than that, he understood."

"And that's when things changed?"

"Gradually. He invited me to his office, just to talk. The dead drops became less professional; he'd include personal observations, ask questions that had nothing to do with contracts." Serena felt herself smiling at the memory. "It was dangerous and completely unprofessional and probably the most exciting thing that had happened to me in years."

Antoinetta grinned. "I love it. Continue."

"The real turning point was during that contract near Kvatch. I was at a party, and our drops were nowhere near professional," Serena's voice dropped slightly. "I needed to get some air, he just appeared – as he does – and suddenly we were…he had me against one of the stone pillars on her terrace."

"Ooh," Antoinetta practically purred. "And?"

"And we both came to our senses before anything too compromising happened. But then we arranged to meet in Bruma afterward, completely off the books."

"Just to talk," Antoinetta repeated skeptically.

"I don’t think that’s what either of us had planned, but yes. Though it was incredibly risky for both of us." Serena's expression grew thoughtful. "That's when I realized how different he was from what I'd expected. He sent me a glass of wine from across the inn, and he talked with me about the contract I had that went completely wrong. He let me stay in his room and expected nothing more than for me to have a good night’s rest. It was the first time in my life that my boundaries mattered more than someone else's desires."

Antoinetta's smile softened. "That's beautiful, actually. I didn't know he could do that."

They drank in comfortable silence for a moment before Antoinetta refilled their cups, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Alright, I have to ask since we were interrupted in the kitchen," she leaned forward conspiratorially, "is the sex really that good? Because I have to tell you, the man has quite the reputation."

Serena nearly choked on her wine. "What kind of reputation?"

"Oh, you know how it is. Word gets around about these things." Antoinetta grinned wickedly. "Let's just say his previous encounters have left quite an impression. Apparently, he's rather... intense."

"Antoinetta!"

"What? I'm just saying, from what I've heard, how he kills and how he fucks are very similar."

Serena felt her face burning, but found herself curious despite her embarrassment. "And how exactly did you come by this information?"

"You'd be surprised what people share. Plus, there was that incident with someone in Chorrol a few years back..." Antoinetta waved her hand dismissively. "Ancient history, but very enlightening."

Serena took a large gulp of wine, trying to process this new information about Lucien while simultaneously preparing to poison her friend. The cognitive dissonance was overwhelming.

"So?" Antoinetta pressed. "Does the reputation hold up?"

Before Serena could answer, she reached for the poison vial, her hand trembling slightly. She added the drops to Antoinetta's cup as her friend looked toward the fire, lost in thought.

"The reputation..." she began, then cleared her throat. "It's accurate. Very accurate."

Antoinetta turned back with a knowing grin. “I knew it! The way you blush whenever someone mentions his name was a dead giveaway.” She took a sip of her poisoned wine, completely oblivious. “Details, woman. I’m living vicariously through you here.”

“Antoinetta!” Serena protested lightly, though the corners of her lips betrayed her with a faint smile. “Some things should remain private.”

“Fine, fine,” Antoinetta said, leaning closer. “But the intensity thing? That’s real?”

Serena inclined her head, her voice low, even, as though describing the weather instead of what burned in her chest. “It’s real. Let's just leave it at that.”

Antoinetta’s eyes sparkled. “Go on. I can handle it.

Serena hesitated, then allowed herself a small, grim smile. “He loves leaving marks in places no one else would see. He likes knowing I’ll carry him with me for days.”

Antoinetta clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes sparkling with delight. “Serena! That’s...by Sithis, that’s positively indecent.”

Serena's face flushed as memories flashed through her mind: the evening they spent in his office, the morning in Bravil, the intensity in Lucien's eyes, the way he'd made her feel things she'd never thought possible after everything she'd endured.

They talked for another hour: about relationships and fears and the strange life they all led in the shadows. Antoinetta's voice gradually became softer, her words slightly slurred as the poison began to take effect, though she attributed it to the wine.

"I should probably head to bed," she finally said, trying to stifle a yawn. "Getting tired all of a sudden. Must be the wine hitting me harder than usual."

"Must be," Serena agreed quietly.

Antoinetta stood, swaying slightly, then turned back with a warm smile. "Thank you for this. For talking, I mean. It's been too long since I had a proper heart-to-heart with another woman."

She stepped forward and pulled Serena into a fierce hug. "I’m so happy for you," Antoinetta whispered in her ear. "We need to do this more often."

Serena hugged her back, her eyes stung, and were welling up. "Sleep well, Antoinetta."

"You too."

And then she was gone, walking unsteadily toward her chamber for the last time, leaving Serena alone with the taste of bile rising in her mouth and five more murders to complete before dawn.

Chapter Text

Serena waited twenty minutes before making her way toward the main dormitory, her footsteps silent on the stone floors. The sanctuary felt different now, as if the very walls knew what was transpiring. She paused at the entrance to the dormitory, listening carefully. From within came the sounds of restless sleep: someone turning over, some wheezing, the soft whisper of fabric against stone. 

Normal sounds. Living sounds. Soon, there would be only silence.

She slipped inside and let her eyes adjust to the darkness, cataloguing the scene before her as her mind slipped further into the dissociation that had become her armor.

Telaendril and Gogron had fallen asleep together in his bed, and the sight stopped Serena cold for a moment. She'd never known they were involved, had never seen so much as a meaningful glance between them during all her time at the Sanctuary. Yet here was Telaendril curled against Gogron's massive frame, her hand resting on his scarred chest with the unconscious intimacy of long familiarity. They looked peaceful, domestic in a way that seemed almost impossible for two people who killed for a living.

How long have they been together? Serena wondered distantly. How many quiet moments like this have they shared while the rest of us had no idea?

The thought made what she was about to do even more obscene. She wasn't just killing two assassins – she was destroying a love story that no one else had even known existed.

In the bed across from them, Teinaava tossed fitfully, his breathing shallow and labored. One hand pressed to his stomach, soft sounds of distress escaping his throat as his body fought against the allergen that was slowly shutting down his systems. His usually vibrant scales had taken on a grayish pallor that was visible even in the dim light.

From the direction of Antoinetta's bed came the increasingly irregular sound of slowing breath; the poison was working its way through her system, her body gradually forgetting how to sustain itself.

Five more, Serena counted mechanically. Just five more and it's over.

She drew her dagger with hands that no longer shook; the dissociation had transformed her into the weapon her assignment needed her to be. She approached Telaendril and Gogron's bed first, knowing that speed would be essential once she began.

For a moment, she hesitated. They looked so peaceful, so content in each other's arms. Telaendril's face was relaxed in sleep, free of the sharp intelligence and carefully maintained distance she showed the world. Gogron's features had smoothed into something almost gentle.

They're happy, Serena realized with a pang. In this nightmare world we all inhabit, they found each other, and they're happy.

The blade sliced across Telaendril's throat so quickly she never woke. Blood bloomed dark across the pillow, stark against the tan fabric. Serena moved immediately to Gogron, but the Orc's eyes opened just as the steel found his neck; confusion flickered across his features for just an instant before recognition dawned.

He knew. In that final moment, he understood what was happening. His lips moved as if to speak, but then the light faded from his eyes and he was gone.

Two, she counted, mechanically wiping her blade clean on the bedsheets. Two down.

She was still cleaning blood from her dagger when she heard Teinaava's voice, thick with pain and growing panic.

"Ocheeva?" He was struggling to sit up, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated as his nervous system began to shut down. "Ocheeva, are you alright? I can hear you..."

Down the hallway came the sound of someone fighting desperately to breathe: sharp, wheezing gasps that spoke of airways closing, of a body losing a battle against an allergen it couldn't process. Each breath was a struggle, each inhalation more labored than the last.

The allergy is progressing faster in her, Serena realized with clinical detachment. She must be more sensitive to shellfish. Her system is shutting down quicker.

"I'm coming," Teinaava called weakly, trying to stand. His legs gave out immediately, and he crashed to the floor with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the stone chamber. The impact sent a fresh wave of pain through his already compromised system. "I... I can't... what's happening to us?"

His voice carried genuine terror now, the confusion of someone whose body was betraying him in ways he couldn't understand. This wasn't a clean death in battle or even the quick end of an assassin's blade; this was prolonged suffering, and he knew something was horribly wrong but couldn't comprehend what.

Serena dove into her own bed and pulled the covers over her head, forcing her breathing to remain slow and steady as she listened to the twins die. Every fiber of her being screamed to help them, to run to their aid, to ease their suffering somehow. Instead, she lay frozen, playing the part of an innocent bystander while two people she cared about suffered their final moments.

Teinaava was crawling now; she could hear the scrape of his claws against stone as he dragged himself across the floor toward his sister's chamber. His breathing was becoming as labored as hers, each movement taking tremendous effort as his body began to fail.

"Ocheeva...Ocheeva, please..." His voice was barely a whisper now, filled with desperation and love and growing fear. "Something's wrong...I can't...I can't breathe right..."

Don't let it affect your resolve, she reminded herself desperately, pressing her hands to her ears to try to block out the sound. This is necessary. This is –

But the sounds continued. Teinaava's crawling grew weaker, his breathing more sporadic. She could hear him stopping to rest, gasping for air, then forcing himself to continue toward Ocheeva's chamber. From that direction came increasingly erratic breathing – wheezes and gasps that spoke of a system in complete failure.

"Ocheeva...I'm coming..." Teinaava's voice was fainter now, barely audible. "Don't be scared...Paka will...Lucien will come..."

But Lucien wouldn't come. Lucien had sent Serena instead, with specific instructions for making their deaths as merciful as possible. This was mercy, according to the man who had raised them from hatchlings.

The sounds from both chambers grew weaker, more sporadic. Teinaava's crawling stopped somewhere between his bed and the hallway to the main corridor. Serena could hear his labored breathing, could picture him collapsed on the cold stone, one hand stretched toward the door.

The gasping breaths became shallower, further apart. Longer silences between each struggle for air.

And then, finally, absolute silence.

Serena lay in the dark for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, listening to her own heartbeat and the terrible absence of all the sounds that should have filled a living sanctuary. No breathing. No movement. No whispered words of comfort or confusion.

Just death, settling into every corner like fog.

When she finally forced herself to move, her legs were stiff and her hands were shaking again. The dissociation was beginning to crack at the edges, reality seeping back in despite her best efforts to keep it at bay.

She checked each body methodically, her training taking over even as her heart shattered with each confirmation.

Telaendril and Gogron, still intertwined in death, their secret love story ended before anyone else had even known it existed. Antoinetta, peaceful in her bed as if she had simply chosen not to wake up, her face relaxed and content from their final conversation about love and happiness.

And Teinaava collapsed in the hallway with one hand stretched toward his sister's door, his face frozen in an expression of desperate confusion. He'd died trying to reach her, trying to help even as his own body failed him.

Serena was steeling herself to check on Ocheeva when she heard footsteps in the corridor behind her. Slow, deliberate steps that spoke of someone moving with great effort. She spun, her blade already in her hand, to find Vicente watching her from the shadows of the doorway. He looked even frail in the dim light, his pale skin almost translucent, dark circles under his eyes that had seen too much over too many centuries. But his eyes were observant as they took in the scene before him: the bloody dagger in her hand, the too-still forms scattered throughout the dormitory, the reality of what had transpired in his family's sanctuary.

For a moment, Vicente simply stared, his ancient mind processing what he was seeing. Then understanding dawned across his gaunt features – not shock, but a terrible recognition.

"I can't –" The words wouldn't form. She doubled over, the blade clattering to the floor as she pressed her hands to her face. "I can't do this. I can't…"

"Oh," he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Oh, my dear girl."

A harsh coughing fit seized him suddenly. When he pulled his hand away from his mouth, Serena could see dark flecks of blood on his pale fingers.

"I had a feeling something was wrong when you returned," he continued, wiping his hand on a handkerchief. "So tell me, child, why are you doing this?"

Serena opened her mouth to give him the clinical explanation: Purification, security breach, necessary elimination. Instead, what came out was a broken sob that seemed to tear itself from her chest. “I had…there were orders for a —”

"A Purification," he said when he could speak again, the words carrying the weight of personal experience. "I should have known, the signs were all there. M'raaj's torture, the security concerns," he looked at her with something that might have been sympathy. "I executed one myself, back in Morrowind. House Hlaalu had a sanctuary in Balmora; it was my sanctuary."

His ancient eyes grew distant, seeing ghosts from centuries past. “ I purified eighteen people, people I'd worked alongside for decades." His voice cracked slightly. "There was a traitor among us, feeding information to the Temple authorities. It was the only way."

"I used poison when I could," he continued quietly. "Seemed kinder than blades. Let them die peacefully, thinking they were simply taking ill. The others got a blade to the throat. But I can still see their faces sometimes, still wake up thinking I hear their voices calling my name." He studied Serena's face, taking in her barely controlled composure, the way her hands shook despite her training. "The guilt never truly leaves you, child. You learn to carry it, but it never goes away."

Serena looked up at him through her tears. “Is Ocheeva…you know, gone?”

"She is," he said gently. "Come with me, if we're going to do this, we should do it properly."

Vicente slowly led her to the common area, settling into his usual chair with a soft grunt of pain.

"I'm dying," he said without preamble, as if commenting on the weather. "Have been for years now, actually."

Serena stared at him, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "What?"

"A degenerative disease I picked up about fifty years ago," Vicente explained calmly. "Magical in nature, it affects vampires differently than mortals. I could manage it for decades, but..." He gestured vaguely at his frail appearance. "I haven't been feeding the way a normal vampire does. I haven't taken human life for sustenance in longer than I care to admit, though people have offered willingly. Noble of me, I suppose, but it's allowed the disease to progress to a point where I can no longer ignore it."

Another violent coughing fit seized him; the blood on his handkerchief was darker now, more substantial.

"About a year ago, it really began to take hold. The forgetfulness, the fatigue, the way simple tasks have become more challenging." His smile was tired but peaceful. "I've been wondering when it would finally claim me."

Serena felt fresh tears streaming down her face. "Vicente, I…"

"You're going to kill me," he said matter-of-factly. "I know, and I understand why you must." He leaned forward slightly with great effort. "But I would ask you for a kindness, if you're willing."

She nodded wordlessly.

"I want to choose how I die," Vicente said quietly. "I've lived in darkness for centuries, child. I've forgotten what sunlight feels like on my skin." He looked toward the sanctuary's entrance, gesturing to where it met the basement of the abandoned house. "I want to see the sun rise one more time. Even if it kills me."

Serena's breath caught. For a vampire, exposure to sunlight meant agony. It meant burning alive from the inside out.

"It will hurt," she whispered.

"Yes," Vicente agreed. "But it will also be beautiful, and it will be my choice." He reached out and gently touched her hand. "Will you sit with me? I don't want to die alone."

“Of course. Anything you need.”

"Good." Vicente smiled, the expression transforming his gaunt features. "But first, would you walk with me to my chamber? I have some affairs to put in order."

Vicente's room was sparse but comfortable, filled with three centuries' worth of accumulated possessions. He moved to his desk with careful deliberation, pulling out parchment and ink with hands that shook only slightly.

"A letter," he explained, settling into his chair. "For Lucien. He'll need to know about the illness. About why I never told him."

Serena watched as he wrote with the careful script of someone who had learned penmanship in a different age. His writing explained the disease, his choice not to burden anyone with knowledge of his condition, and his gratitude for the years of companionship Lucien had provided.

But then his writing shifted, became more personal.

My dear boy, she could see him write, by the time you read this, the Purification will be complete. I want you to know that none of us are angry with you: we understand necessity, even when it breaks our hearts. You made the only choice you could make, and though it will haunt you for the rest of your life, it was the right one.

You will have to live with this forever, even though you didn't swing the blade yourself. I know that weight – I've carried it for a century – but you are stronger than you know, and you have something now that I didn't have then. You have someone who loves you, and whom you love in return, even if you're both too stubborn to admit it.

Instead of continuing to read over his shoulder, Serena picked at her fingernails, counted the stones on the wall, and made a mental note to trim her split ends when she left the Sanctuary. After another ten minutes, Vicente carefully sealed the letter and handed it to Serena. 

"It’s time."

Vicente moved slowly through the sanctuary, every step causing him visible anguish. When they reached the stairs leading to the main floor of the abandoned house they called home, he paused, one hand gripping the stone banister as another coughing fit seized him. Blood flecked his lips, darker now than before.

"Vicente…" Serena started forward, but he held up a hand to stop her.

"I can manage," he said firmly, though his breathing was labored. "I've been managing for years."

The climb was agonizing to watch; each step seemed to drain more of his remaining strength, his movements becoming increasingly unsteady. But Vicente refused help, maintaining what little dignity he had left as his body betrayed him step by step.

The second floor was worse. By the time they reached the top, Vicente was leaning heavily against the wall, his face paler and drawn with exhaustion.

"There should be a window to the roof in the gable," he said between harsh breaths. "Can you...Can you find it?"

Serena located the narrow window, pushing it open to reveal the slanted roof beyond. Dawn was still hours away, but she could sense it waiting on the horizon like a promise of pain. "Here," she said, carefully helping him through the window. 

The roof was steep but manageable, with the chimney providing a solid anchor point. Vicente settled against it with obvious relief, his breathing slowly evening out in the cool night air.

"I brought rope," he said quietly. "I need you to tie me to the chimney. When the sun rises, my vampiric instincts may override my conscious choice. I don't want to flee at the last moment, and I don't want to hurt you if the bloodlust takes hold."

Serena's hands shook as she retrieved the rope. "Vicente, I don't know if I can –"You must," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "This is my choice, Serena, let me make it with dignity."

With tears streaming down her face, she secured him to the stone chimney. Not tight enough to cause pain, but secure enough that he couldn't escape when instinct overwhelmed reason.

They sat together in the darkness: the sanctuary below was silent now. No more voices, no more laughter, no more family gathered around tables sharing meals and memories.

"Tell me," Vicente said eventually. "What will you do when this is over? When you have to face Lucien again?"

Serena was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. I don't know how either of us will live with what we've done."

"Differently than before," Vicente said with certainty. "A Purification changes you, child. It has to. The person who walks away from this night won't be the same one who walked in." He studied her face in the dim light. "The question is whether you'll let it destroy you or teach you something about the weight of necessary choices."

"How did you manage it? After Morrowind?"

Vicente moved slowly through the sanctuary, every step causing him visible anguish. When they reached the stairs leading to the main floor of the abandoned house they called home, he paused, one hand gripping the stone banister as another coughing fit seized him. Blood flecked his lips, darker now than before.

"Vicente…" Serena started forward, but he held up a hand to stop her.

"I can manage," he said firmly, though his breathing was labored. "I've been managing for years."

The climb was agonizing to watch; each step seemed to drain more of his remaining strength, his movements becoming increasingly unsteady. But Vicente refused help, maintaining what little dignity he had left as his body betrayed him step by step.

The second floor was worse. By the time they reached the top, Vicente was leaning heavily against the wall, his face paler and drawn with exhaustion.

"There should be a window to the roof in the gable," he said between harsh breaths. "Can you...Can you find it?"

Serena located the narrow window, pushing it open to reveal the slanted roof beyond. Dawn was still hours away, but she could sense it waiting on the horizon like a promise of pain. "Here," she said, carefully helping him through the window. 

The roof was steep but manageable, with the chimney providing a solid anchor point. Vicente settled against it with obvious relief, his breathing slowly evening out in the cool night air.

"I brought rope," he said quietly. "I need you to tie me to the chimney. When the sun rises, my vampiric instincts may override my conscious choice. I don't want to flee at the last moment, and I don't want to hurt you if the bloodlust takes hold."

Serena's hands shook as she retrieved the rope. "Vicente, I don't know if I can –"You must," he said, his voice gentle but firm. "This is my choice, Serena, let me make it with dignity."

With tears streaming down her face, she secured him to the stone chimney. Not tight enough to cause pain, but secure enough that he couldn't escape when instinct overwhelmed reason.

They sat together in the darkness: the sanctuary below was silent now. No more voices, no more laughter, no more family gathered around tables sharing meals and memories.

"Tell me," Vicente said eventually. "What will you do when this is over? When you have to face Lucien again?"

Serena was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know. I don't know how either of us will live with what we've done."

"Differently than before," Vicente said with certainty. "A purification changes you, child. It has to. The person who walks away from this night won't be the same one who walked in." He studied her face in the dim light. "The question is whether you'll let it destroy you or teach you something about the weight of necessary choices."

"How did you manage it? After Morrowind?"

"Badly, at first." His smile was rueful. "I spent decades trying to forget, trying to pretend it hadn't happened. Threw myself into contracts, into violence, into anything that would silence the voices in my head. But eventually I realized that forgetting them would be the real betrayal. They deserved to be remembered, even if those memories hurt."

"And Lucien? How will he handle it?"

Vicente's expression grew thoughtful. "Lucien grieves like he loves; completely and without reservation. He'll blame himself for every death, even though he wasn't the one who made the final suggestion. I can’t see him calling for one, either. He'll carry their faces with him for the rest of his life." He paused, coughing softly. "But he's stronger than he knows. And he has something now that I didn't have then."

"What's that?"

Vicente's eyes were kind despite his pain. "Someone who understands the weight of what he's done. Someone who chose to carry that burden with him."

They talked about the traitor situation as the night wore on, Vicente admitting his suspicions about various members over the years.

"I had wondered about M'raaj-Dar," he said quietly. "His behavior had been self-centered lately. More than usual. But his death suggests he was a victim rather than a perpetrator. Now..." He shrugged. "It could be anyone, or perhaps the traitor died with the sanctuary, and we'll never know who it was."

"Does that matter now?"

"For closure, perhaps to understand how our security was compromised, but the damage is done." He looked toward the horizon, where the faintest hint of light was beginning to appear. "The Brotherhood will survive this, as it has survived other Purifications. But it will be different. Smaller, more careful, more suspicious of its own members."

As dawn approached, Vicente turned the conversation to more personal matters.

"This thing between you and Lucien," he said softly. "It's real, isn't it? Not just physical attraction or professional respect."

Serena felt her face flush. "I think so. Yes."

"He loves you, you know," Vicente said, his voice quiet, almost casual.

Serena froze. Her head turned sharply toward him, eyes wide. "What? No, that’s not..." She faltered, words tangling. "It’s only been a few months since… since this started. It wouldn’t make sense for either of us to even think that."

"Wouldn’t it?" Vicente’s smile held no mockery, only certainty. "I’ve known Lucien for decades. I've seen him with his brief liaisons, his careful emotional distance, but with you…" He shook his head, almost in wonder. "With you, I see a man I thought long buried."

Serena tried to argue, tried to dismiss the old vampire's words, but suddenly she was remembering things; the way Lucien had looked at her when she'd put a knife in his shoulder, not with anger, but with fascination. The books he'd started leaving in their dead drops, chosen specifically for her interests. The way he'd spared her life when she'd run from the Brotherhood, when by all rights he should have had her killed.

The careful attention to her comfort, her safety, reminding her she had a choice in all things. The way he'd stepped back immediately when he realized his drunken state frightened her.

Maybe their "thing" had been developing longer than either of them cared to acknowledge.

"You'll never hear him say it to your face," Vicente said, watching her expression change. "He's not built that way. He shows love through actions, through choices, through the way he moves heaven and earth to protect what matters to him."

Serena felt her stomach drop as the realization hit her fully. Shit. He does love me. And I...

Vicente caught the look on her face and let out a soft chuckle, quickly cut short by a cough that spattered blood across his sleeve.

"He’s spent decades closing himself off," he rasped. "He won’t lower those walls easily. He’ll test you, push you away, convince himself he’s protecting you by keeping you at a distance."

Serena’s brow furrowed. That wasn’t the man she knew. With her, Lucien had been patient, even gentle in his own strange way. He hadn’t pushed her aside at all; if anything, he’d drawn closer. The thought unsettled her more than Vicente’s words.

"And if I’m not strong enough for that fight?" she asked quietly, though what she really meant was, what if he changes?

Vicente’s gaze burned with urgency as the sky lightened in the east. "Then you’ll both lose something precious. But if you are, if you’re patient enough to wait for him to trust what’s between you," he paused, gathering breath. "There is no one in this world more capable of devotion than Lucien Lachance."

The first ray of sunlight crested the horizon, spilling gold across the room. Vicente closed his eyes, letting the warmth wash over him. A soft, almost fragile smile tugged at his lips.

"It's beautiful," he whispered. "I'd forgotten how beautiful a sunrise could be."

The light touched his skin, and immediately wisps of smoke began to rise from his pale flesh. But instead of the agonized screams Serena had expected, Vicente smiled – genuinely, peacefully – as if he were greeting an old friend.

"The warmth," he murmured, his voice growing softer but still carrying wonder. "I can actually feel warmth again. It's been so long since I felt anything but cold."

The smoke thickened as more sunlight reached him, his skin beginning to take on an ashen pallor. But his expression remained serene, almost euphoric. Tears tracked down Serena's cheeks as she watched this ancient creature find joy in his final moments. His form was becoming less solid now; the edges of his body began to blur and dissolve, but his eyes remained bright, fixed on the growing light. "The disease," he said, each word requiring effort now, "it took away my ability to feel much of anything. Pain, yes, but also... joy. But this..." He lifted his face toward the sun, and more of his form dissipated. "This I can feel completely."

"Vicente…" Serena started, but he shook his head gently.

"No grief, child. This is not a tragedy. This is a choice, this is freedom." His voice was barely audible now, more thought than sound. "I am choosing to end my existence rather than let the disease take the last of who I am."

The sun climbed higher, and Vicente's form became increasingly translucent. "Remember what I told you," he said, his voice growing weaker as the sun's rays intensified. "About Lucien, about love, about forgiveness. Remember that some sacrifices are worth making." He paused, drawing what might have been his final breath. "And remember that sometimes... the most loving thing you can do is let go."

His eyes found hers one last time, brilliant with an inner light that had nothing to do with the sunrise consuming him.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For sitting with me. For letting me choose. For helping me find peace."