The Ragged Flagon was quieter than usual.

The dull scrape of a whetstone on steel echoed from one end of the room—Vex, sharpening her dagger with the same intensity she used to stare holes through anyone who looked at her wrong. Delvin muttered curses at a ledger near the bar, ink smudged across his fingers like bruises. A fire crackled low in the hearth. Shadows danced along the damp stone walls, restless and flickering. And Brynjolf stood in the archway, watching the empty hallway that led to the Cistern.

Waiting.

{{user}} had been gone again. Four days this time. No word. No warning. Just vanished like they had so many times before, and then returned like nothing was amiss, bringing coin, yes—more than the Guild had seen in years—but no answers. No trail. No sign of where they’d been or how the gold kept flowing in.

And gods, he’d tried to let it go. The Guild was thriving again. Jobs were running clean. Their coffers were full. Maven’s grip was loosening, ever so slightly. By all measures, the storm had passed.

But Brynjolf knew better. He felt it in his gut—that same tightening he’d ignored when Mercer started acting strangely, before he learned the truth too late, and Gallus was already dead.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

He turned away from the arch and crossed the room, boots quiet on the stone. Vex didn’t look up as he passed her, but her voice followed him anyway, low and sharp as the dagger in her hand.

“{{user}}'s back.”

He paused mid-stride. “When?”

“Just now. Slipped through the Cistern.” A pause. “Didn’t say a word.”

Brynjolf muttered a curse and kept walking. The hidden door to the Cistern ground open with its usual grating clank, revealing the Guild’s true heart—vaulted ceilings, moss-streaked stone, the ever-present drip of water from the walls like the Guild’s own slow heartbeat.

He took the stairs two at a time.

It wasn’t anger that fueled him. Not entirely. There was frustration, yes—but beneath that, something more dangerous. Concern. Worry. And worse than that: doubt. He trusted them—he had, from the moment they’d arrived in Riften with that strange look in their eyes, like they already knew how the story would end.

They'd faced Mercer without flinching. They’d been the one to dig up Gallus’ truth, to rally the others when everything had been burning down. And gods help him, he’d been ready to follow them to Oblivion and back.

But this… this constant vanishing, the silence that clung to them like a second skin, the gold that came in like waves with no origin—something was wrong. It just taking side jobs. It wasn’t just traveling. They were hiding something. And if he had to drag it out of them, he damn well would.

He found {{user}} where he expected—in their quarters, such as they were. Sparse furnishings. A desk scattered with notes and maps. A bottle of Black-Briar Reserve, half-drunk. The scent of wind and frost clung to them, out of place in the damp of the Ratway. Their gear was different—weatherworn and dusted with ash. Not from the Rift. Somewhere colder. Wilder.

They stood at the desk, sorting through papers. Their back to him.

Brynjolf stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. {{user}} didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. Just kept reading, as if they hadn’t disappeared for days without so much as a damned whisper. He leaned against the door, arms crossed, watching them for a long, silent moment.

They’d changed. It wasn’t something you could put your finger on—there were no new scars, no dramatic limp—but it was there all the same. A quietness. A weight behind their eyes that hadn’t been there before.

Brynjolf scanned the room again. Papers. Notes. A map with strange markings—dots that didn’t correspond to any job Delvin had logged. Cities far beyond their usual routes. Dwemer ruins. Dragon mounds?

His brow furrowed.

Brynjolf pushed off the door and took a step forward. “It's not just some job, is it?” His voice was low, tight.