The knock I gave on Taarie's door was light, but it carried in the quiet of the house. For a moment, I thought she hadn't heard me. Then, from behind the wood, I caught the faint shuffle of movement, quick and sharp, as though she'd been startled.
When the door opened, she stood there with her usual composed face—but her cheeks were a touch flushed, and her hands lingered at her sides a moment too long before crossing over her chest.
"What is it?" she asked.
"You okay?" I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes slightly. "You look—"
"I'm fine." The reply was immediate, clipped, almost too fast. She didn't give me a chance to press further, her tone carrying that finality she always seemed to wield.
I let it go. "…Alright then. Endarie says it's dinner time. She wanted me to tell you."
Her expression softened—barely. She gave the smallest nod. "I'll be there."
And she was.
Dinner that night was simple: bread still warm from the hearth, roasted fish caught fresh from the Karth, and some sort of spiced vegetable stew. Endarie ate in silence, only speaking to ask if I planned to eat faster or slower than a lumbering mammoth. Taarie kept her eyes on her food, though every so often I caught her glancing at me, as if to confirm I wasn't about to drop my spoon or choke on the stew.
Life settled into a rhythm after that. Days bled into each other, each one carrying its own weight. I worked for them—hauling crates of imported fabric from the docks, carrying deliveries across Solitude's steep streets, standing awkwardly behind Taarie when she bargained with wealthy clients who never even looked at me.
I thought at first it would just be errands. But I started to notice something: Taarie always tagged along.
Even when the work was dull, even when she could have left it to me, she came. She didn't carry much—sometimes a bolt of cloth tucked neatly under her arm, more often nothing at all—but she was there, walking beside me, giving directions, making small comments about the streets, the clients, even about the weather.
At first, I thought maybe she didn't trust me not to mess up. And maybe that was part of it. But as the days went on, I realized something stranger: she had no real need to follow me at all.
Not that I complained. She was technically my boss, and if she wanted to shadow me, that was her business. But it was… different.
There was something steadying about her presence.
Then, one evening, she came to me with that same calm expression that always hid something underneath. "There's a performance tomorrow," she said. "At the Bard's College. They're holding a festival. You'll come with me."
"Me?" I blinked. "Why?"
"Because I said so," she replied simply.
I frowned. "Wouldn't Endarie—"
"Endarie will be at the shop," she cut in, her tone firm. "She has no interest in these things."
I hesitated. "Taarie, I don't think—"
"There will be food stalls," she said before I could finish. Her lips quirked in the faintest smirk. "And trinkets. Things worth carrying. Someone has to help me with that."
"…So I'm just a pack mule again," I muttered.
"Exactly."
I sighed, defeated. "Fine. I'll go."
And that was when it happened—the same thing I'd started to notice, the thing that caught me off guard every time.
Taarie smiled.
Not the sly curve of lips she used when mocking her sister, nor the polite grin she gave to nobles she wanted to impress. This one was small, soft, almost unguarded. A smile that made her seem younger, warmer, and altogether different from the sharp-edged elf I'd first met.
It wasn't the first time I'd seen it these past few days. But it was the first time I realized just how much it lingered with me.
I said nothing, only gave a small nod, pretending it was no big deal. But as she turned and walked away, I couldn't help but wonder why that smile unsettled me more than any Daedric quest ever had.