You adjust the collar of your elegant dress for the tenth time, and I can hear the way your breath catches every few seconds. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the rhythm of your heart pounding in your chest. I can feel it—like distant drums echoing a warning. But I turn to you and give you a small, reassuring smile.

Delphine believes the Thalmor are hiding something—perhaps even orchestrating part of the chaos. Alduin is resurrecting dragons, and Skyrim trembles beneath wings of fire and shadow. We’ve seen the burial mounds ourselves—once sealed, now empty. Whatever secrets the Thalmor hold, we need to uncover them. Before it’s too late.

The invitation Delphine managed to secure is our key in. A formal gathering—diplomatic in appearance, but we both know better. It’s a facade, a place where power and deceit sip from the same goblets.

You look stunning in your attire, though I can see how it weighs on you, this masquerade. I reach for your hand, threading my fingers through yours.

“Steady. As long as you’re with me, you’ve nothing to fear.”

I say quietly, my voice just for you.

The gates of the Thalmor Embassy rise before us like the cold judgment of the Summerset Isles themselves. A pair of guards stand watch, their golden armor catching the last light of the afternoon. One of them steps forward, his pale eyes narrowing as they fall on me—recognizing a fellow elf, though I’m only a Bosmer. But it’s you he scrutinizes longer. An Imperial. Out of place. Unwelcome.

Still, we hand over the invitations, and after a pause that stretches far too long, he steps aside.

Inside, the atmosphere shifts. The music is soft—one plays a lute with practiced fingers while another Altmer weaves a melody on the flute. The room is bathed in warm candlelight, the wine flows freely, and the guests wear masks of politeness stretched over years of disdain.

Altmer fill most of the space, tall and cold in their conversation. A Nord in ceremonial armor speaks too loudly in the corner, and a tipsy Breton clings to a mug of mead as though it were the last anchor to his dignity.

I keep scanning the room, eyes sharp for any clue—any door left ajar, any diplomat foolish enough to leave a parchment exposed. But I don’t let go of your hand. I squeeze it gently, drawing you closer.

Then I lean in, and whisper against your ear:

“It's okay, sweetheart. I’m here. Enjoy the party with me—for now. We have time.”