I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

"Careful," Ibnor murmured, his voice low and serious. The air in the shadowed alley felt colder, a subtle shift he couldn't quite place. "If I'm not wrong, there'll be Thalmor down there."

Harin's chin lifted, a flicker of defiance in her emerald eyes. "You think they can touch me?"

"Heh, you're right." Ibnor paused, a crease etching itself between his brows. He glanced around the alley, its damp stone walls slick with grime. "Wait… where's Lydia?"

"At the inn. This won't take long." Harin dismissed his concern with a wave of her hand.

"When you're done, go to Helgen," he instructed, his tone firm.

"Helgen? Why?" Harin's brow furrowed.

"I'm rebuilding it."

"Really?" Surprise softened her features. "I didn't expect that."

"What did you think I'd be doing?" Ibnor asked, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

Harin's gaze sharpened, a playful glint entering her eyes. "Oh, I don't know… charming every tavern wench from Riften to Dawnstar, no doubt. Like some wandering bard." She paused, her smile fading, her eyes tracing the line of his arm to his wrist. "Though I suppose you've had ample opportunity to… appreciate Dibella's blessings, haven't you? You wear the mark so… casually."

"What? Where?" Ibnor asked, genuinely confused, his gaze searching his own clothes.

Harin took his hand, her fingers cool against his skin, and turned his wrist. A simple silver bracelet circled his wrist, a small, polished moonstone nestled within its delicate links. "This?" he admitted, a touch of surprise in his voice. "I barely even notice I'm wearing it."

"It's not the bracelet—it's the gem," Harin said, her voice flat, the playful tone gone. "A symbol of devotion to Dibella. It's common knowledge." She looked at him, her eyes a complex mix of hurt and something akin to disappointment. "You know what they signify, yet you didn't even realize you had one on. That tells me a lot."

"Harin, I…" Ibnor began, reaching for her hand, but she subtly pulled away, her gaze dropping to the cobblestones at their feet.

"Don't," she whispered, her voice laced with resignation. The chill in the air seemed to deepen. "It's not my place to tell you how to live."

"Harin…" he pleaded, the unspoken tension between them thickening.

"Just… don't." She looked away, a sigh escaping her lips, a wisp of white in the cold air. "Telling you to stop… it's not fair to either of us." She turned back, her gaze locking with his, the pain in her eyes clear.

"Is this about… him?" Ibnor asked softly, the unspoken name hanging heavy between them like a shroud.

"There's a shadow of him I see in you," Harin confessed, her voice thick with emotion, her breath catching in her throat. "Until I'm certain… we can't… I can't…" Her words trailed off, the pain in her eyes mirrored in the tightening of her jaw.

"I understand," Ibnor said quietly, a pang of sympathy tightening his chest. He saw the struggle in her face, the internal battle she was fighting.

"I like you, Ibnor. I really do," she whispered, her voice barely audible, as if afraid someone might overhear. "But it's not the right time. You have your path, your purpose. I have mine, and… my own ghosts to lay to rest."

Ibnor gently drew her into a hug, his arms wrapping around her. He felt the tension in her body slowly ease as she rested her head against his chest.

"For what it's worth," he murmured into her hair, the scent of lavender and woodsmoke clinging to it, "I'm glad I met you."

"Me too… me too…" she whispered back, her voice choked, her grip tightening on his coat.

"I missed you," he confessed, his voice soft with longing.

"I missed you too," she replied, her own voice trembling slightly against his chest.

They stood there for a long moment, the embrace a silent conversation, a physical manifestation of the unspoken longing that pulsed between them. The press of their bodies was a grounding force against the turmoil within, a desperate attempt to find solace in each other's presence. Foreheads touched, eyelids drifted closed, and for a brief, stolen moment, they found a fragile warmth in the cold, shadowed alley, a quiet hope for a future that felt impossibly distant.

Harin slowly tilted her head back, her gaze meeting Ibnor's. He lowered his head, his eyes searching hers, a question unspoken between them.

"Just… promise me you won't go wearing an Amulet of Mara and settling down with some milkmaid," Harin said, a faint smile playing on her lips, her voice a mix of playful challenge and genuine plea. "That's all I ask. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Ibnor replied, his voice firm, a silent vow hanging in the air.

Ibnor cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking her cheekbones. She leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering closed, a soft sigh escaping her lips.

"I trusted you then," she said softly, a hint of vulnerability in her voice, "and… I still do." She hesitated, her eyes searching his for reassurance, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. "I know this is selfish, but…"

Her words were cut short as Ibnor's lips met hers. The kiss began gently, a tentative exploration, then deepened, becoming a silent exchange of emotions too complex to articulate, a promise and a goodbye intertwined. When they finally drew apart, a silent promise hung in the air between them, a fragile thread connecting them to a future they weren't yet ready to face. 

"I hate to interrupt, but please refrain from showing such… displays of affection in a public establishment," Vekel said dryly, wiping down the already spotless counter with a practiced hand.

Harin startled, jumping like a frightened rabbit. A flush crept up her neck, and without a word, she turned and fled, disappearing into the dark maw of the Ratway. 

"I'll find you later…!" her voice echoed back from the tunnel's depths.

Ibnor chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint heat rising in his own cheeks. He turned to find himself facing a united front. Vekel, Delvin, Tonilia, Vex, and even Dirge all stared at him, a mixture of amusement and knowing glances in their eyes.

"What?" Ibnor asked, trying to maintain a nonchalant air, though he could feel the tips of his ears burning.

"Nothing…" Delvin said, a wide smirk spreading across his face.

"'I missed you…'" Vex mimicked in a high-pitched, teasing tone.

"'I missed you too…'" Tonilia chimed in, her lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

"Not another word from either of you!" Ibnor's ears burned a deeper shade of red. He threw up his hands in exasperation and turned to leave, muttering under his breath, "This is what I get for showing a little… humanity."

He walked out of the Ragged Flagon, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere inside. He could practically feel the weight of their gazes on his back, the echoes of their teasing ringing in his ears. He needed some air, some time to clear his head. He found himself walking towards the Riften docks, the gentle lapping of water against the wooden pilings a soothing counterpoint to the turmoil in his mind.

He leaned against a railing, gazing out across the dark waters of Lake Honrich. Harin's sudden appearance, their brief but intense reunion, and the subsequent ribbing from his Guildmates had left him in a strange state of emotional disarray. He hadn't expected to see her again so soon, and certainly not in Riften. Their conversation… it had been a mix of longing, regret, and a fragile hope for something more. He replayed their kiss in his mind, the brief touch of her lips against his, the unspoken promise that hung in the air between them. It had felt… right, but also impossibly complicated.

"Gotta keep your head straight," he told himself. "Still have a lot to do. Get back there and grind hard. But now, we sleep."

Ibnor went into the Cistern and spent the night.

Niruin's insistent nudge roused Ibnor from a deep sleep. 

"Delvin needs you," the elf murmured, before disappearing into the shadows of the Ragged Flagon's common room. 

Ibnor groaned, pushing himself up from his bedroll. A quick wash in the icy basin and a hasty comb through his hair were all the preparations he needed. He descended the winding stairs, the familiar scent of stale ale and damp stone filling his nostrils. Delvin stood behind the bar, polishing a tankard with unnecessary vigor. 

"You wanted to see me?" Ibnor asked, approaching the counter.

"Yes. Got two requests coming in this morning," Delvin said, his eyes glinting with a hint of excitement.

"And? We get a lot of requests these days," Ibnor replied, leaning against the bar.

"These are different. Big league. One from Whiterun, one from Windhelm." Delvin tapped the counter twice. "Whiterun first. Olfrid Battle-Born needs a… discreet solution. and I told him you were the man for the job. Don't make me look like a fool, understand?"

"And Windhelm?"

Delvin lowered his voice, glancing around the near-empty tavern. "Torsten Cruel-Sea says a rival crew's muscling in. They're not just lifting purses—they're hitting hard, leaving bodies. Bad for business. Bad for everyone. See what you can do about it."

Ibnor nodded, absorbing the information. Two jobs, both requiring discretion and finesse. The Battle-Borns' request piqued his interest. Dealing with nobility always had its own set of… complexities.

Ibnor traveled swiftly to Whiterun. The city bustled with activity, merchants hawking their wares and guards patrolling the streets. He made his way to the house of the Battle-Borns and, after a brief inquiry, was directed to Olfrid Battle-Born.

Olfrid paced anxiously in one of the side chambers, his face etched with worry. "You're here! And not a moment too soon. If anything should happen to Arn, there'll be hell to pay."

"Calm down," Ibnor said, holding up a hand. "Who's Arn?"

"A close friend of mine. We fought together on the battlefield for many years. Now it's up to me to save him one more time… this time from the executioner's block in Solitude."

"Solitude? Then why am I here in Whiterun?"

"The city guard in Solitude is seeking Arn for a serious crime. When he fled here, he was arrested for drunken behavior. Can you imagine? Fortunately, his identity isn't known to the authorities in Whiterun, so there's still a chance to save him."

"All right. Just point me to the prisons."

"Hold a moment. This is more than a simple prison break. I want to have Arn's name stricken from the record books permanently. I'm setting him up with a new identity. It's the only way to throw the guard permanently off his trail."

"So what's the job?"

"The job is two-fold. First, steal a letter that was sent from Solitude warning Whiterun's guard to be on the lookout for Arn. The second is to change Arn's name in the prison registry to his new identity."

"Sounds easy," Ibnor remarked.

"If it were easy, I'd have tasked a stable boy, not a professional."

"And a professional like me appreciates a straightforward job. Saves everyone time." Ibnor's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Anything else?" He was already growing tired of Olfrid's condescending tone.

"These items are within Dragonsreach—the Jarl's chambers and the Steward's study. Not exactly open to the public. And let me be clear: if you're caught, there's no connection between us. Understood?"

Ibnor met Olfrid's gaze, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Olfrid, a little free advice. Worrying aloud rarely improves a situation. It just makes the worrier look… anxious. I'm here to handle this. That's why you hired me." He turned and left, the unspoken message hanging in the air: Trust me, or find someone else.

Night deepened, and Dragonsreach became a labyrinth of shadows. Ibnor approached a rarely used service entrance, tucked away behind a stack of crates. He pressed his ear to the cold stone, listening for the rhythm of the guard patrols. Two, moving in opposite directions. He timed their passing, a silent countdown in his head.

When the moment was right, he slipped through the unlocked door – a lucky break, or perhaps someone's oversight. The narrow passage led to a dimly lit storage area. The air was thick with the smell of dust and old tapestries. He moved like a whisper, hugging the walls, his hand resting on the hilt of his dagger.

A low murmur of voices reached him. Two guards were stationed just beyond a heavy wooden door, their conversation drifting through the cracks. Ibnor paused, listening intently. They were discussing a recent brawl at the Bannered Mare, their attention clearly elsewhere.

He drew a small vial from his belt—a concoction of crushed deathbell and nightshade, a potent sleep powder. He carefully blew a small puff of the powder through the keyhole, waiting for the effects to take hold. A few moments later, the conversation abruptly ceased. He gently pushed the door open. The two guards slumped against each other, fast asleep.

He stepped over them, moving further into the depths of Dragonsreach. The thick carpets muffled his footsteps as he navigated the maze of corridors. He avoided the main hallways, sticking to the shadows, using pillars and tapestries as cover. He saw a patrol approaching from the other end of the corridor. He quickly pressed himself against the wall, becoming one with the shadows until they passed.

He reached the Jarl's chambers. The lock was a simple one, easily picked. Inside, the flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows. He spotted the letter on the Jarl's desk, nestled amongst other parchments. He moved swiftly, silently, taking the letter and tucking it into his coat.

The Steward's study was his next target. Another lock, another swift manipulation of his lockpicks. Inside, he found the heavy registry. He worked quickly, amending Arn's entry, his hand steady even in the dim light.

With both tasks complete, Ibnor retraced his steps, a phantom returning to the shadows. He left Dragonsreach as silently as he'd entered, leaving no trace of his presence.

He returned to Olfrid, presenting him with the stolen letter.

"Arn? Never heard of him," Olfrid said with a relieved smile. "I guess that means you're finished. Here's your payment. Tell Delvin that he has my support and all the weight it carries in Whiterun from now on. I think he'll be quite pleased." 

Olfrid pressed a heavy pouch and a finely crafted ring into Ibnor's hand. The ring, cool against his skin, pulsed with a subtle magical warmth. A bonus, Olfrid had said, a flicker of something akin to respect in his eyes now that the job was done. Ibnor nodded his thanks and left, Whiterun receding behind him as he headed north towards Windhelm.

The landscape transformed, the familiar rolling plains morphing into a harsh, craggy terrain. As Windhelm's imposing stone gates rose against the grey sky, the sharp clang of metal and the raw edge of raised voices sliced through the air. Near the entrance, a scene unfolded: two Nords were cornering a dark elf woman. One, a hulking brute with a face flushed crimson, looked as though he could wrestle a bear and win. The other was leaner, wiry, with eyes that held a cold, calculating glint, like a predator assessing its prey.

"You come here where you're not wanted," the burly one, Rolff, snarled, spittle flying from his lips with each word. "You eat our food, pollute our city with your stink, and refuse to help the Stormcloaks."

The dark elf, Suvaris Atheron, stood her ground, though a tremor ran through her voice and her hands clenched at her sides. 

"We haven't taken a side because it's not our fight."

"Hey," the leaner Nord, Angrenor, chimed in, a nasty smirk twisting his thin lips. "Maybe the reason these gray-skins don't help in the war is because they're Imperial spies!"

"Imperial spies?" Suvaris scoffed, a flicker of anger briefly eclipsing the fear in her eyes. "You can't be serious!"

Rolff took a menacing step closer, invading her personal space, his breath hot and stale on her face. "Maybe we'll pay you a visit tonight, little spy. We got ways of finding out what you really are."

Ibnor had witnessed this kind of intimidation too often. It invariably began with harsh words, escalated to violence, and sometimes, descended into something far darker. He approached, his hand instinctively moving towards the hilt of his dagger before he consciously forced himself to relax his grip. He wasn't looking for a fight, but neither would he stand idly by.

Rolff turned his attention to Ibnor, his sneer morphing into a look of open hostility. 

"You. You a Dark Elf lover? Get out of our city, you filthy piece of trash."

"I don't like your attitude," Ibnor said, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion that might betray his intentions.

Rolff's eyes narrowed, his fists clenching and unclenching. 

"Don't like it? Too bad. This is our city. Ours! Don't think I can take you? One hundred septims says I can punch you back where you came from."

Ibnor considered the offer. Rolff was all brute force, lacking in finesse. A brawl wasn't his preferred method of resolving disputes, but it would be quick, decisive, and profitable. A hundred septims was a useful sum. 

"You're on."

Rolff grinned, a flash of predatory excitement in his eyes as he cracked his knuckles. "All right. Fists only. And none of that magic stuff, either. Let's go!"

Rolff charged, telegraphing a clumsy haymaker. Ibnor sidestepped the wild swing with practiced ease, the rush of air from the blow ruffling his hair. He moved inside Rolff's clumsy guard, a blur of controlled movement. A precise jab snapped Rolff's head back, followed by a swift, rising uppercut that connected with bone-jarring force against his jaw. Rolff staggered, a crimson trickle of blood appearing at the corner of his split lip. Ibnor pressed his advantage, delivering a final, targeted blow to Rolff's temple. The big Nord's eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the cobblestones like a felled ox.

Ibnor stood over him, breathing steadily, his expression neutral. Suvaris watched the scene unfold, her eyes wide with a mixture of lingering fear and dawning relief. Rolff lay sprawled on the ground, dazed and disoriented. 

"That wasn't a fair swing," he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred.

Ibnor held out his hand, palm up, his gaze fixed on Rolff. 

"You lost. Give me my money."

Rolff grumbled and groaned, fumbling through his purse with clumsy fingers. He thrust a handful of loose coins at Ibnor. 

"Yeah. Here."

Ibnor meticulously sifted through the coins, counting out exactly one hundred septims. He ignored the remaining copper and silver pieces that Rolff had offered. Pocketing his winnings, he looked down at the defeated Nord, his expression hardening. 

"Your tongue wags too freely," he said, echoing Rolff's earlier threat, his voice now laced with a chilling edge. "I'd hate to see it… silenced prematurely."

He turned and walked towards the imposing city gates, leaving Rolff to slowly and painfully pick himself up from the cold cobblestones, while Suvaris watched him go, a flicker of something akin to awe, and perhaps a touch of fear, in her dark eyes.

Within the high stone walls, Windhelm was a city of stark contrasts. The cramped, squalid Grey Quarter, home to the dark elves, stood in stark opposition to the grand stone halls of the Nord clans. Ibnor knew where to find Torsten Cruel-Sea. He made his way into the city's rougher districts, discreetly inquiring about the man among the shadows and back alleys. The responses he received were terse and cautious, but eventually, he was directed towards a dimly lit tavern, even more dilapidated than the Ragged Flagon. The air around it hung heavy with the smell of stale ale, sweat, and something else… something sharper, metallic. This had to be the place.