Riften by night was no more welcoming than Riften by day. The streets emptied, shadows thickened, doors shut without a sound. Ruby had been wandering for what felt like hours. She no longer knew which quarter she was in. Maybe the one no one came back from.

  Her boots sank into the mud, sucked down with every step. The stench of alcohol, mildew, and cold ashes clung to her throat. No one spoke to her, yet everyone seemed to be watching. As if she had crossed some invisible line.

  The fa?ades pressed in close, crouched under half-dead lanterns. A few windows still pulsed with muffled laughter, with sighs she didn’t need to picture. Ruby realized she had stumbled into a quarter where the night never slept. Painted silhouettes, men and women alike, leaned in their doorways, throwing words, laughter, promises.

  She stopped before a low house wedged between two collapsing hulks. A reddish lantern swung above the door, marked with a peeling sign. Ruby hesitated. A voice rose behind her, warm, drawling:

  “Lookin’ for somethin’, pretty one? Or just plain lost?”

  A woman in her thirties leaned against the doorframe, long pipe glowing red at her lips. The embers painted her face in crimson. She studied Ruby openly, without mockery but without shyness. Ruby faltered.

  “The Ragged Flagon. I need to get there. I’m looking for someone.”

  The hostess arched a brow, tilted her head, and drew slow on her pipe.

  “You even know where you’re settin’ foot, sugar?”

  Ruby shrugged. She had nothing left to lose. Her sentry contract with the Khajiit caravan had long since slipped away. No gold, no gear, no bearings. Might as well push her luck.

  “It’s a rat-hole tavern. Nobody’s gonna point you there.”

  “Just a direction, that’s all I’m asking,” Ruby pressed.

  The woman gave a brief, husky laugh, blew a mouthful of smoke that drifted into the night.

  “A direction, huh…?”

  She stopped laughing, seemed to think, then stepped closer. Her thin, blotched hand brushed against Ruby’s clothes. Ruby stiffened instantly, the memory of Brynjolf and her medallion still raw. But the woman only tugged at a strap of her jerkin, lifted it, let it fall. Did the same with her scarf, a frayed flap of her vest.

  “Looks like you stitched this mess up yourself.”

  “I did,” Ruby snapped, stung.

  She pulled her clothes tight to her chest, harsher than she meant. The woman raised a calming hand.

  “You want a direction? Try the Ratway.”

  She stamped her heel on the ground, heavy, her gaze insistent. Ruby froze. The gesture, clearer than words, cracked open in her mind like a lock snapping. The Ratway? She remembered hearing guards mention it, never thinking it meant the guts beneath Riften.

  “The Ragged Flagon’s in the sewers?!” Ruby choked, exasperation bursting out.

  “Ain’t the Imperial City, sweetcheeks,” the woman replied with a shrug.

  Ruby threw her head back and closed her eyes, a grimace of defeat curling her lips. I’ll never find that damn tavern, she growled inwardly. This was worse than tracking a wounded stag through fog. She straightened up with a sigh of irritation, aware of the mocking look sliding over her.

  The woman took another drag on her pipe. The embers flared, lighting up her eyes for a heartbeat, then she exhaled a pale, lazy plume of smoke.

  “What’d he say to get you runnin’ like that, huh?” she asked with a brief laugh, pulling her shawl tight against a sudden breeze.

  Ruby opened her mouth to snap back… then closed it. He hadn’t promised anything. Just two words: talk business. The truth hit her like a bitter taste. Her own foolishness made her want to scream. The woman across from her seemed to read the whole scene as if she’d seen it a thousand times.

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  “Lemme give you a piece of advice, sugar,” she said, waving her long pipe like a warning. “Don’t go chasin’ after those types. Full o’ promises… but when it’s time to show up? Nothin’ but air.”

  Ruby leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. The hostess didn’t take her eyes off her.

  “I don’t really have a choice,” Ruby muttered, spreading her arms before letting them fall, empty. “I’ve got nothing left.”

  The woman tapped her pipe empty with a practiced flick, then knocked the bowl against the doorframe to clear it. With her heel, she crushed the last embers into the muddy stone. In the distance, the bells of the Temple of Mara rang out the night hour. She pushed the door open with a lazy sway of her hip.

  “Stick around a bit if you want. Back here, no one’ll bother you. Fella leavin’ my place later? Regular down at that tavern.”

  And without another word, she stepped inside and shut the door.

  Ruby settled where she’d been told to wait, behind the house, on a shaky stack of barrels and splintered crates. Time stretched thin. Damp crept into her clothes, her bones, even her breath. Her eyelids burned. She pulled her legs in tight, numb from hours of walking.

  Under the pale flicker of a swaying lantern, she studied her hands. Torn bandages revealed raw skin, scraped and scored by the wall’s stone. The blood had dried, the pain dulled, but the flesh was still tender, fragile. She cursed silently. Her hands were her tools, her weapons, her survival… and she’d thrown them away for a promise made in dust.

  Since Helgen, that moment had haunted her. The officer from Windhelm. Her eyes. Her words, few, but sharp, brutally clear. Ruby lived on instinct, and until now it had never betrayed her. She hadn’t accepted that pact for coins. It was a vow. Rough, wordless, but real. She shivered at the memory. An immediate understanding, inexplicable. A bond without speech.

  Yes. The promise was real. And the road to honor it, littered with traps. But she had nothing left to lose.

  The night had sunk into its deadest hours when a window creaked open. Ruby slid to the ground, moving as smoothly as she could despite her fatigue. Moments later, a door opened. A man stepped out. Heavy coat, belt buckled in haste, hood pulled low.

  She followed at once, cautious. Her boots rang too loud on the cobbles. She slowed, matched his stride. The man walked briskly, sure, relaxed. Riften was finally settling. The streets emptied, shadows lengthened. And Ruby had fewer and fewer blind spots to disappear into.

  She nearly lost him at the first alley. She caught up only by following the lingering smell of wine trailing him like an invisible thread.

  Every corner was a threat. She wasn’t made for cities. Roofs felt like snares, alleys like jaws about to snap shut. More than once she thought he’d spotted her. But he moved on, unbothered. As if he knew every stone, every cracked flag.

  The ground shifted. Cobblestones gave way to mud and stagnant puddles. Ruby glanced up. The wall. A stretch she didn’t know. She had no idea where she was.

  Her pulse hammered. The man turned a corner. She followed close behind… and found only emptiness.

  Behind a half-collapsed house, eaten by damp, there was nothing. Only stone, waterlogged earth, refuse. Silence, heavy.

  She swept the dead end with her eyes. Nothing. Panic rose. She shoved it back. Not now.

  She searched by touch. The ruin still reeked of wine. Charred walls, blackened, frozen in a smoky past. Ruby knelt, sifted through broken planks and debris.

  Under the ashes, her fingers struck something: dry wood, cold metal. A trapdoor. Iron-banded, hidden beneath a fallen chimney stack.

  She crouched, felt for a latch. Her fingers found a ring. She pulled. Nothing. The lock was massive, sunk into the wood, offering no give, no catch.

  This wasn’t a common lock. Not one you broke with a brick and luck.

  The key had to be special.

  Ruby froze, fists tight. Then the truth settled in: if this was an entrance to the Ratway, sooner or later someone would come out. She climbed onto a fallen wall nearby, not far from the hatch, and waited, ignoring the absurdity of it.

  Hours dragged. Cold gnawed at her. Silence broken only by stray dogs and the muffled wail of a tavern. Her eyelids sagged, but she forced herself to stay alert, fingers locked on stone.

  Then, a muffled creak. The trapdoor opened, slow. A slim, hooded figure climbed out, glanced left, right. Ruby held her breath. As the man moved off, she slid along the surviving edge of the roof, hugging the house walls.

  This time, she learned from her mistakes. Instead of tailing him straight, she stayed high, stepping over fallen beams, circling along the walls. She had to move fast, before he reached a busier street. The figure headed into an empty alley. Ruby drew a deep breath, gambled everything.

  “Pssst.”

  One step. The figure stopped, confused. Ruby gave him no time to look up toward the sound.

  She dropped on him from the roof. The impact slammed him to the ground. He barely grunted before his head cracked against the stones and he slumped out cold. A groan, a twitch of the arm. She ignored it. Shaking, breath ragged, she searched his pockets. Found a ring of keys. Three, four, maybe five. She ripped them all free.

  Without waiting, she ran back to the ruined house. Breath short, fingers trembling, she tried one key, then another. Metal screeched, finally gave way. The hatch opened onto a shaft of shadow.

  Ruby drew one last breath of the freezing night air. Then slid into the gap. The air thickened as she pulled the hatch shut behind her. She nearly slipped climbing down the ladder slick with damp before her boots hit dusty stone. Half-blind in the dim glow of scattered torches, she moved forward, away from the trapdoor.

  At last, she pressed her back to the bricks and slid down the wall.