I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

Ibnor entered the dimly lit tavern, the air thick with the smell of stale ale, sweat, and a faint metallic tang. It was even more rundown than the Ragged Flagon, the tables scarred and sticky, the floor strewn with sawdust and spilled drink. This had to be the place. He scanned the room, searching for Torsten Cruel-Sea. 

He scanned the room, his gaze settling on a figure hunched in a dark corner booth. Torsten Cruel-Sea. The man sat slumped, his shoulders bowed, his face obscured by shadow. He nursed a drink, but his gaze was fixed on the dark liquid in his tankard, as if searching for answers in its depths. The set of his jaw, the way his hand gripped the tankard, betrayed a deep, simmering grief.

"Delvin Mallory said you had a job for me." Ibnor approached the table. 

Torsten looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, the whites veined with red. The sorrow in them was raw, almost palpable. 

"My daughter… Fjotli…" His voice was rough, barely a whisper, catching in his throat. He swallowed hard, his hand trembling as he reached for his drink, spilling a few drops on the table. 

"She was murdered a few months ago. Left her lying in the street… in a pool of her own blood." He took a shaky breath, his gaze dropping back to the tankard. "I always told her she wore too much jewelry. Said it would be the death of her… I never thought…" He trailed off, the unspoken thought hanging heavy in the air between them.

"I assure you it wasn't anyone from the Guild," Ibnor said, his voice gentle. 

Torsten waved a dismissive hand, his eyes still fixed on his drink. "No need to explain. I'm well aware of your Guild's methods. This… this was different." He paused, a bitter twist to his lips. "It took me weeks, but I finally tracked down the killer. A bloody Altmer at that. A bloody Altmer! Can you imagine?"

"What happened to him?" Ibnor asked, his voice carefully neutral, observing the sudden tension in Torsten's posture.

Torsten's jaw tightened, the muscles in his face clenching. A flicker of something dark and dangerous – a cold, hard glint – flashed in his eyes before he quickly masked it. 

"Let's just say I'm a firm believer in an eye for an eye and leave it at that. He fancied himself a thief in some sort of a new Guild forming around here. Gave me some valuable information before… well, you know."

"What exactly do you need me to do?" Ibnor pressed, cutting through the heavy silence that followed.

"Well, like I told Delvin, I think we can help each other. You recover what I'm looking for and take out a rival Guild in the process."

"It's something they took from Fjotli, I assume."

"Exactly. One of the pieces stolen from her was a silver locket, a Cruel-Sea family heirloom. I want it back."

"Deal. Where do I begin?"

"The only name I have is Niranye. Has a house right here in Windhelm. That's where you should start looking."

Ibnor left the tavern, the stench of it clinging to him like a shroud. He navigated the bustling streets of Windhelm, discreetly inquiring about Niranye. The information he gathered was consistent: she had a stall near The White Phial during the day and frequented the New Gnisis Cornerclub in the evenings. He opted for the stall, hoping to catch her before she disappeared for the night.

He found her amidst a vibrant display of trinkets and baubles, her voice smooth and practiced as she haggled with a customer, her hand gesturing towards a small, intricately carved wooden bird. 

"Yes, can I help you with something?" she asked, turning to Ibnor with a practiced smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I'm here about Fjotli," Ibnor said, watching her closely.

"Fjotli… Fjotli…" Niranye's brow furrowed, but her eyes flicked away for a fraction of a second, a telltale sign of unease before she forced her gaze back to his. The feigned confusion didn't quite ring true. "Oh, of course, the poor girl who was murdered. Such a beautiful young thing… a tragedy to be certain."

"Drop the act," Ibnor's voice hardened, the pleasantries discarded like a worn cloak. "I know you're involved."

Niranye's eyes widened, the practiced smile vanishing. Her hand flew to her chest in a theatrical display of shock, her breath catching in her throat. 

"How dare you! You're accusing me of taking part in such a… such a… heinous act? I should have you arrested for even suggesting such a thing!"

Ibnor leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, menacing whisper, his eyes locking onto hers. "You might be a decent thief, but you're an awful actor."

Her carefully constructed facade crumbled. Her eyes darted nervously around the marketplace, searching for an escape, and a tremor ran through her hand as she clutched at a nearby tapestry. 

"Now, just a moment. Let's think about this… you know, discuss it like two rational people."

"I'm listening," bnor's gaze remained unwavering, pinning her in place.

"Look," Niranye whispered, glancing nervously around. "I had no choice. They're crazy… I could be killed!"

"Who's crazy?"

"It's a guild of Altmer thieves, they call themselves the Summerset Shadows. Their leader, Linwe, he's the worst of the lot. He steals valuables from the dead."

"You mean he murders his marks," Ibnor countered, his voice sharp.

"No! Linwe prefers stealing from the deceased. Digs up the corpses, breaks into the Hall of the Dead… He even stole that locket right off that poor murdered girl's body… or what was left of it."

"How'd you get involved?"

"I used to fence for the Thieves Guild in Skyrim a long time ago. When Linwe moved into the area, he contacted me and said if I didn't fence for them, he'd kill me."

"Tell me where Linwe's hiding."

"If I tell you, you need to promise not to kill me. I'd prove to be quite an asset to the Thieves Guild… I'm one of the best fences in Skyrim."

"I'm not going to kill you. That's not our way."

"Linwe is holed up at a place called Uttering Hills Cave. He's got his entire Guild there, so be careful. After you're done with all this, come back anytime, and I'll make good on my end of the bargain."

"What happened to Fjotli?" Ibnor asked, his eyes narrowing, pressing for the truth behind the rumors.

"I don't know," Niranye insisted, her voice still trembling, but her gaze meeting his for a fleeting moment. "Rumor has it that she was murdered… butchered by a madman. I really try and stay out of such things. Torsten might think Linwe or myself are responsible for Fjotli's death, but I can assure you nothing could be further from the truth."

"I'm sorry I misled you," Niranye added, her voice laced with a mixture of fear and forced sincerity, as Ibnor turned to leave. "Return when this is over, and we'll talk about my involvement in the Thieves Guild."

The information was clear. The Summerset Shadows hadn't killed Fjotli, but they had desecrated her grave. Uttering Hills Cave was their hideout. It was time for Ibnor to deliver a message. 

Uttering Hills Cave was a jagged wound in the mountains west of Windhelm, a place where shadows seemed to cling to the rocks even in midday. Ibnor approached cautiously, his senses honed, the crunch of his boots on the loose scree the only sound breaking the mountain's silence. Two Summerset Shadow lookouts patrolled the entrance, their eyes constantly scanning the terrain. They were wearing armor that looked similar to the Guild's, but in light grey. Ibnor melted into the shadows, a ghost amongst the boulders, moving with the fluid grace of a predator. He bypassed them, choosing stealth over confrontation. He wasn't here to spill blood unnecessarily, but to send a message.

Inside, the air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet stone and a faint, metallic tang. The path ahead forked. From the depths of the cave, he could hear the low murmur of voices. He chose the left path, moving with practiced silence, each footfall measured and precise. A single Shadow patrolled this tunnel, his footsteps echoing softly in the narrow passage. Ibnor waited until the guard turned his back, then slipped past him, pressing himself against the cold stone wall.

Both tunnels opened into a larger cavern, the flickering light of a fire painting dancing shadows on the damp walls. Two more Shadows huddled around the flames, a simple cooking pot bubbling over the fire. Ibnor observed them, his mind quickly calculating the best approach. He noticed one Shadow periodically moved away from the fire to patrol a short section of the cavern. Ibnor waited for this opportunity, then silently slipped behind the remaining Shadow at the fire and swiftly incapacitated him with a precise strike to the pressure point behind his ear. He carefully dragged the unconscious body behind a cluster of crates, then circled around and neutralized the patrolling Shadow when he returned.

A rough-hewn door led deeper into the cave. Beyond it lay a circular tower room. At the bottom, an alchemy lab was set up, complete with various tools and ingredients. A bandit patrolled the passage leading to the next level, and another sat slumped against the wall at the far end, seemingly dozing. A chest was hidden on the other side of the wall where the alchemy lab was set. Ibnor silently took down the patrolling bandit first, then approached the slumped figure. A quick, silent motion rendered him unconscious as well. He quickly looted the chest before moving on, and collected the dropped colored balls.

The next room held the Summerset Shadows' banner – a dark cloth emblazoned with a stylized silver shadow. A thought appeared: Burn the Banner. Ibnor paused, considering. This wasn't just about retrieving the locket; it was about sending a message. A message that the Thieves Guild could infiltrate their most secure hideout, steal from under their noses, and leave a calling card that would resonate with fear. He decided to proceed.

Doors branched off to either side of the banner. The door to the left led to a small chamber with two more Shadows, one awake, the other asleep on a bedroll. Ibnor bypassed this room entirely. He wasn't here for a massacre.

The other door led to Linwe's quarters. The room was sparsely furnished: a simple bed, shelves, and a locked chest. Linwe himself stood near the chest, seemingly engrossed in examining a small object – likely the locket.

Ibnor knew Linwe was sharp. He couldn't risk a direct confrontation. He retreated to the banner room and cast a small fire spell at the banner. The cloth quickly ignited, flames licking at the dry fabric, sending thick plumes of smoke billowing through the cave and triggering shouts of alarm from the remaining Shadows.

As shouts and the sound of running feet echoed through the cave, Ibnor slipped back into Linwe's quarters. Linwe had rushed out to investigate the commotion, leaving the room empty. Ibnor swiftly located the silver locket on a small table near the bed. He snatched it, then melted back into the shadows, disappearing into the chaos he had created.

He left Uttering Hills Cave as silently as he had entered, the burning banner a beacon against the darkening sky, a clear declaration of the Thieves Guild's presence and their superior skill. This wasn't just a theft; it was a silent extermination warning. If the Summerset Shadows dared to challenge the Guild again, it wouldn't be a simple theft they'd have to worry about.

Ibnor returned to Windhelm and found Torsten in the same dimly lit corner of the tavern, slumped in the same worn booth. The air still carried the familiar scent of stale ale and regret. He slid into the opposite seat and placed the locket on the scarred wooden table.

"I have Fjotli's locket."

Torsten's gaze, fixed on the swirling dregs in his tankard, slowly lowered. His face, a mask of hardened grief since Ibnor had last seen him, seemed to momentarily crumble. The sharp lines around his eyes and mouth softened, replaced by a wave of raw emotion. It wasn't relief, not entirely. It was a flood of memories, a painful reminder of what he had lost. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers gingerly tracing the delicate silverwork of the locket. The familiar curves and lines, the small dent near the clasp – he'd seen Fjotli fidget with it countless times. A single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his weathered cheek.

"It pains me to see this…" His voice was thick, choked with emotion, "to be reminded of Fjotli… but I'm… I'm grateful it's back." He closed his fist around the locket, as if clutching a piece of her. "Tell Delvin… he has my support."

Ibnor returned to the Ragged Flagon and spotted Delvin leaning against the bar, one elbow propped on the worn wood, a half-empty tankard dangling loosely from his other hand. A wide grin stretched across his face as he saw Ibnor approach.

"Olfrid sent his compliments," Delvin grinned. "His friend Arn is getting his fresh start. And he's pledged the Battle-Borns' full support." He clapped Ibnor on the shoulder, the force of it nearly sending him stumbling. "Torsten was… well, as grateful as a grieving father can be. He's already working on setting things up for us in Windhelm. And that banner? Burning it? That was a stroke of genius. They'll know we mean business."

Delvin leaned in, lowering his voice. 

"This… this solidifies things. We've got new connections, new recruits. You've got a real knack for this thieving business, Ibnor. Never seen anything like it. You keep this up, you might even impress Vex. Now that'd be a sight." He paused, the jovial mask slipping, his expression turning serious, almost somber.

"The Guild's stronger than it's been in years, thanks to you. We've been through some dark times, but they're behind us now. And I'm going to say something I'll deny to my dying breath if you ever repeat it. You walk through this Guild, Ibnor, you hold your head high. You're the best damn thief we've got."

"Look," Delvin muttered, tilting his chin towards the entrance of the Flagon. "Brynjolf's coming. Been asking about you for days. Best hear him out."

Brynjolf entered, his usual booming presence subdued, his face etched with a serious expression that cut through the tavern's usual din. He bypassed the bar and headed straight for Ibnor. 

"Ibnor," he began, his voice low and grave, brooking no argument. "We need to talk. Somewhere private."

He led Ibnor through the labyrinthine corridors behind the bar, past storage rooms and sleeping quarters, finally stopping at a small, secluded alcove. It was a space usually reserved for hushed deals and clandestine meetings, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and the lingering echo of whispered secrets.

"Karliah and I have been discussing the future of the Guild," Brynjolf said, his gaze meeting Ibnor's, his expression unreadable. "And… well, it's time."

"Time for what?" Ibnor asked, a sense of foreboding settling in his stomach, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"You've proven yourself, lad," Brynjolf stated, his voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. "Mercer's treachery exposed, the coffers overflowing, those recent jobs… especially the Sload business… you've done more for this Guild in a few months than Mercer did in decades of lining his own pockets." He paused, a flicker of genuine sadness crossing his features. "Mercer… he was a good thief, once. But he lost his way. Forgot what the Guild was supposed to be about."

He shifted his weight, his gaze becoming more intense. "Karliah and I had a long talk before you got back. Thanks to you, the Guild's back on its feet, stronger than ever, and we finally rooted out the rot. We both agree… you're the only one who can fill Mercer's shoes. As Guild Master."

A beat of silence hung in the air. "It's not just about the gold," Ibnor murmured, his thoughts drifting back to the chilling events in the Twilight Sepulcher, the weight of Nocturnal's oath still heavy on his soul.

"Aye, you understand that," Brynjolf said, a hint of relief softening his stern features. "And that's precisely why…" He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "Karliah and I… we're in agreement. It's your time to lead."

"Me?" Ibnor asked, the question less a surprise and more a confirmation of what he already knew in his heart.

"Aye. You." Brynjolf ran a hand through his thick beard, a weary look in his eyes. "I've been at this game a long time, lad. Longer than I care to admit. I've stolen from kings and queens, framed nobles, pulled off heists that'd make your head spin. I'm good at what I do. Maybe even one of the best. But leadership… that's never been my strong suit. Never wanted it, never cared for the responsibility."

"But…" Ibnor began, a protest forming on his lips.

Brynjolf held up a hand, silencing him. "No buts, Ibnor. The Guild needs someone who understands loyalty, someone who understands what it means to protect something bigger than themselves. They respect you. They might not be shouting your name from the rooftops, but they've seen what you're capable of. They saw how Mercer betrayed them, how he valued gold over the Guild itself. They know you're different."

Ibnor considered his words, the weight of the decision settling on him. He hadn't sought this, but the responsibility felt… right. He thought of the oath he'd sworn, the future of the Guild resting on his shoulders.

A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine smile this time. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it," he admitted, a hint of playful mischief in his voice. "Had to play it cool at first, you understand. Keep up appearances."

Brynjolf chuckled, a genuine laugh that rumbled in his chest. "Then it's settled. You're the Guild Master. We'll make it official soon enough. But for now… you've got other matters to attend to. Helgen's still waiting."