Torin scoffed, the sound sharp and dismissive.
"So you say, and yet I only have your word to prove it." He shook his head slowly. "I'm growing more and more convinced that we've made a mistake in coming here. Perhaps we should return to Skyrim and come back once the true ruling power in Daggerfall has been decided. Otherwise, our efforts will be for naught."
Gautier was still smiling at those words, and not one bit phased. His expression remained calm, almost pleasant, as if Torin's bluntness was nothing more than a minor inconvenience to be politely overlooked.
He gestured dismissively, his fingers waving through the air.
"Caution would certainly advise as much, given the circumstances. But do know that you aren't expected to act on our behalf before you're assured of our intentions and that we have the power to act upon them."
He interlocked his fingers, resting them on the table. "We only ask that you be patient for now. Once the coronation is complete—to which you all are invited, of course—we will declare your presence and our intentions to cooperate with the people of Skyrim publicly."
He paused, letting his words sink in.
"Until then, I hope you will not allow your skepticism to drive a wedge between us. We are, after all, on the same side—even if the path we must walk is more winding than either of us would prefer."
Torin went silent and merely stared at the count for a few seconds. Gautier met his gaze with the same calm smile, unblinking, unruffled.
Finally, Torin sighed—a long, heavy sound that seemed to carry all the weight of his frustration.
"Fine. We'll wait." He crossed his arms. "Know, however, that our patience is limited, and you are most certainly testing it."
Gautier let out a chuckle, the sound genuine and warm.
"I apologize for that. I truly wish we could have provided you with the hospitality and honors befitting warriors of your station." He shook his head slowly. "But alas, the situation demands otherwise."
He slowly stood up, his chair scraping softly against the floor. The butler noticed this immediately and left the dining room with a quiet bow.
Gautier turned to face the assembled group.
"Now I must bid you farewell. Matters of the court require my attention." He paused, his eyes sweeping over Torin, Bragi, and Qasim. "I trust you will find the accommodations here adequate for the time being. The village may be modest, but the hospitality is genuine."
The butler returned with the count's sword, holding it with both hands. Gautier took it and slid it back into his belt, adjusting the scabbard with practiced ease.
"In the meantime," he added, gesturing at the butler, "he will be responsible for escorting your people into the city. One by one, as we discussed. He knows the routes, the guards, the safe houses. You will be in capable hands."
Torin was still clearly skeptical, and he didn't bother to hide it. His arms remained crossed, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the count with an expression that said I'm watching you.
But he nodded nonetheless.
"Very well. We'll give this much a chance, at least."
Gautier inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment, and then turned to leave.
The door closed behind him.
Soon after the count's departure, the dinner table emptied with remarkable speed.
The baron was the first to leave—without so much as eating a single bite. He had barely touched his wine, had pushed his food around his plate with the dull, mechanical motions of a man who was not actually present in his own body.
He made his excuses in a rushed, breathless voice—pressing matters, I trust you understand—and fled the room with the desperate urgency of a man escaping a burning building.
His sweat-stained handkerchief was still clutched in his hand as the door swung shut behind him.
It seemed the brief meeting had caused him a great deal of stress. His face had been flushed, his hands had trembled, and his eyes had darted nervously toward the count whenever the conversation grew too pointed. It was clear that he wanted nothing to do with any of this.
Perhaps he was only involved because of the location of his territory—a convenient staging ground for the queen's schemes, far enough from the capital to avoid notice, close enough to be useful.
The others followed soon after. A few servants had been hovering near the edges of the room, but they quickly made themselves scarce.
One by one, the remaining guests made their excuses—fatigue from the journey, early morning duties, correspondence to attend to—until only Bragi and Torin were left at the table.
The skald let out a long, heavy sigh, staring at the half-empty plates and the flickering candles.
"That could have gone better," he said.
Torin looked at him, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"That might have been a bit—"
His words died in his mouth as Bragi's face twisted into sudden, sharp anger.
"You were too generous with those damned Bretons." His voice was tight, controlled, but the rage beneath it was unmistakable. "We do not need to tolerate such disrespect. We are the High King's envoys, yet they treat us like criminals—like we're something to be hidden away, smuggled into their city like contraband."
Torin couldn't help but chuckle. He had expected the skald to admonish him for his outburst, to lecture him on the importance of diplomacy, to remind him that patience was a virtue.
Instead, Bragi seemed to have every bit of the famous Nord temper that everyone back in Skyrim had.
"Let them scheme," Torin said, leaning back in his chair. "Let them play their little games. It won't be too late to turn our backs on them once we find out what they're scheming."
He grinned—a sharp, predatory expression. "And whatever it is they're scheming might not necessarily be bad for us. First and foremost, we need to understand what's happening. Who's plotting against whom. What the queen actually wants, and what her opponents are willing to do to stop her."
He shrugged, the motion casual, almost lazy.
"You can't win a game unless you know its rules. And right now, we don't even know what game we're playing." He paused, his grin widening. "But we will."
Bragi clicked his tongue, a sound of pure exasperation, as he leaned back in his chair. The candlelight flickered across his weathered face, deepening the lines of frustration around his eyes.
"I think I'd prefer to return home," he said flatly. "This is already shaping up to be more trouble than it's worth. We came to fight sea giants, not to wade through Breton politics."
Torin shrugged, his own expression mirroring the skald's weariness.
"I would too. This is shaping up to be a very troublesome task." He paused, running a hand through his hair. "However, it's much too early to return now."
Bragi frowned, his brow furrowing deeply.
"What do you mean? If the situation is this tangled, if the queen's own court is working against her, what hope do we have of accomplishing anything? We could spend months here and still end up exactly where we started."
Torin shook his head slowly.
"We can't exactly go back on our word on mere suspicion. If word got out that we abandoned our mission because we felt something was off, we'd be mocked."
He winced. "And by extension, the High King would be mocked as well. Any future attempts to make alliances outside Skyrim would be met with suspicion. No one would trust us to follow through."
Bragi let out a hum, his fingers drumming on the table.
"So we stay long enough to find out what they're scheming..." He paused. "And then we leave?"
Torin smiled—a thin, knowing expression.
"Perhaps. Or perhaps a more suitable choice will present itself by then." He tapped the table with his index finger. "Gautier said it himself—there's an ongoing, barely suppressed struggle for power. Someone is trying to undermine the queen. Someone is working against her from within her own court."
His eyes met Bragi's, sharp and calculating.
"And if we can tip the scales in someone's favor..." He paused, letting the implication hang. "I imagine they'd be very grateful, don't you think?"
Bragi gave Torin a strange look, his expression caught between surprise and suspicion.
"This doesn't sound right." He leaned forward, his voice lowering. "The High King sent us as warriors and diplomats. Eloquence and a strong arm should have been enough. We weren't sent to play kingmaker in a foreign court."
Torin met his gaze without flinching.
"Sometimes, you need to fight fire with fire, whether you like it or not." He shook his head. "Either way, there's not much we can do but play along until we have a better grasp of the situation. Once we do, the range of our options will increase."
Bragi held his gaze for a long moment, his jaw tight.
Then he let out a breath—long, slow, heavy with resignation.
"Fine," he said. "We play along. But I don't like this at all..."
Torin grinned.
"I wouldn't expect you to."
...
Three days later, inside Daggerfall's oldest and most distinguished inn, the King's Fairy.
The interior was bustling with activity, a lively chaos of merchants and mercenaries, dock workers and travelers, people from every walk of life crammed together under the low wooden ceiling.
The air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, spilled ale, and the ever-present salt of the nearby sea. Voices rose and fell in a dozen different accents—Breton, Redguard, Imperial, the occasional Nord—as stories were exchanged and deals were struck over foaming mugs.
Torin had little interest in the hubbub. He sat alone on the balcony of the second floor, a half-empty mug of ale in his hand, his gaze fixed on the crowded streets below.
The city of Daggerfall sprawled before him, a maze of stone and timber, its rooftops glinting in the pale afternoon light. The sounds of commerce drifted up to him—the shouts of vendors, the rumble of carts, the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer.
Butler Mathis stood at the door behind him, his posture stiff, his expression unreadable. He had been assigned to accompany Torin—to "assist" him, as the count had put it—but so far his assistance had consisted mostly of standing in corners and saying nothing.
Torin turned to look at him, shook his head, and sighed. Then he turned away to the crowded streets below.
The process of "smuggling" Torin, Bragi, Qasim, and the entire entourage into the city had been slow, but overall not unpleasant. They had simply gone through the front main gate, one by one, escorted by Mathis or one of his associates.
The soldiers standing guard had been instructed not to ask questions, and they had obeyed with the practiced efficiency of men who knew better than to question their betters.
Once inside the city, they did not stay together. Torin and everyone else had been separated and housed in the manors of various nobles aligned with the queen's faction.
Or so it was for everyone else, at least.
Torin had ended up at the King's Fairy—the inn, not a noble's estate. He suspected the count had deemed him too blunt to be trusted in polite company, or perhaps said nobles weren't keen on keeping a bear in their manors.
Either way, Torin didn't bother to object. He wasn't in the habit of keeping polite company either.
In any case, Torin wasn't displeased with this particular arrangement, even if the others—especially Bragi and some of Torygg's soldiers—were. If they were separated, they were ineffective as a fighting force. If the queen or her people wanted to use them for some kind of scheme, their usefulness would be limited.
There was also the possibility that they didn't care about the others—that they only wanted to make use of Torin himself, or Qasim. He couldn't speak for the Redguard, but they would definitely find that leading him by the nose wouldn't be so easy.
Another possibility was malice—that by separating them, the queen's people intended to act on some vicious plan. But that would be incredibly foolish.
There were easier and less stupid ways for the Bretons to declare war on Skyrim than to corner their representative—a man known for breaking a mountain—in their own capital city. Unless, of course, the Bretons had plans to renovate their capital, in which case Torin was happy to oblige, even without Kyne's aid.
He was just about to head out and visit the local arcanium to browse some magical tomes when he noticed a sudden shift in the crowd below.
The people were parting, flowing around something like water around a stone.
A man in a dull suit of steel armor, riding an old, weathered horse, passed through the gap.
His armor was practical rather than decorative—scarred in places, dented in others, the kind of armor that had seen real use. He wore no cloak, no banner, no symbol to mark his allegiance. But the way the crowd moved around him, the way they whispered behind their hands as he passed, told Torin all he needed to know.
This was someone important. Or dangerous. Or both.
The man seemed to sense Torin's gaze. He slowed his horse, his helmeted head turning slowly, deliberately, until his visor was pointed directly at the balcony where Torin sat.
Even from this distance, even with no way to see his expression beneath that steel mask, Torin could feel the hostility radiating from him. It was a tangible thing—a weight in the air, a coldness that had nothing to do with the weather.
Torin just stared at him blankly, meeting the unseen gaze without flinching, without looking away.
The man held his gaze for a long moment. Then he turned his horse and continued on his way, the crowd closing behind him like water over a stone.
Torin watched him go, his expression unchanged, but his mind already turning, already filing away the encounter for later consideration.
Interesting, he thought. I didn't know they made'm like that in High Rock.
He finished his ale, set the mug down on the railing, and headed inside.
...
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