The first thing I noticed wasn't Taarie's dress—it was how much effort she'd put into mine.
When she told me earlier that I'd "have to look decent for once," I thought she meant just a quick brush and maybe a tunic. But when she set the clothes out for me, I realized she was dead serious. A dark jacket lined with gold trim, clean trousers, boots polished to a shine, and even a sash that—if I was being honest—looked a little too noble for a guy who spent most of his time hauling fabric crates across Solitude.
"You expect me to wear this?" I asked, holding the jacket like it might bite.
Taarie, already dressed and standing in front of her mirror, glanced over her shoulder. "Of course. You're not stepping outside with me looking like some vagabond. Not when there are eyes everywhere tonight."
I opened my mouth to protest—but then I saw her.
The red dress she wore clung elegantly to her frame, tailored so precisely it almost looked like it had been painted on. Gold thread embroidered the hem in delicate swirls, catching the light with each movement. Her hair, usually kept practical and neat for work, had been styled into soft waves that framed her sharp features. For the first time since meeting her, I didn't see the sharp-tongued merchant who ordered me around. I saw… well, someone else entirely.
My protest died before it could form. "…Right. I'll wear it."
Her lips curved—just slightly, like she knew exactly the effect she'd had.
We left Radiant Raiment together, stepping into Solitude's streets just as dusk settled. The city was alive in a way I hadn't seen before. Lanterns hung from ropes strung between buildings, swaying gently in the evening breeze. The air carried the smell of roasted meats, sweet breads, and spiced mead, mixing into a dizzying swirl that made my stomach growl. Music echoed from the Bard's College ahead—lutes, flutes, and voices all blending into a chorus that spilled into every corner of the city.
Taarie walked beside me, her posture perfect, her expression calm. But just as we reached the crowded street leading toward the college, she stopped and turned to me.
"Your hand," she said.
I blinked. "What?"
She extended hers toward me, palm open. "You're supposed to take it. A proper gentleman doesn't let a lady walk alone through a festival crowd."
"I mean… you've been fine walking alone all this time."
Her brows arched. "Are you refusing me?"
"No, no, I just—" I cut myself off with a sigh and took her hand, awkwardly at first. Her grip was light but steady, her fingers surprisingly warm against mine.
"There," she said simply, turning forward again.
And so we walked, hand in hand, through the festival.
It felt strange at first. Strange, but not unpleasant. People pressed around us—families with children darting between stalls, traveling merchants hawking their wares, nobles mingling with townsfolk for once—but with her hand in mine, it felt like the crowd parted for us without effort.
We stopped to watch a troupe of jugglers perform with flaming torches. Taarie's lips twitched upward when one nearly dropped his, catching it at the last second with an exaggerated bow. At a food stall, she ordered honey cakes and handed me one before I could protest.
"I thought I was here just to carry things," I said, biting into the pastry.
"You are," she replied, but her eyes softened as she watched me eat.
Every so often, when she thought I wasn't looking, she smiled. Small, quiet smiles, the kind she probably didn't even realize she gave. And each time I caught one, something tightened in my chest—something I didn't quite want to name.
For a while, I let myself enjoy it. The music, the laughter, the warmth of her hand in mine. For a while, it felt almost normal.
But then…
The air shifted.
It was subtle at first. A chill at the back of my neck, like someone breathing down it. The laughter and music faded, not in reality, but in my perception. My eyes scanned the crowd on instinct, my gut twisting with a familiar unease.
I knew this feeling.
The weight of a gaze. A heavy, invasive presence.
My grip tightened on Taarie's hand.
"Chad?" she asked, noticing the change. "What is it?"
I didn't answer right away. My eyes moved over faces—nobles chatting, drunk sailors laughing, children tugging their parents toward sweets. None of them looked at me. None of them mattered.
But then I saw him.
A man standing apart from the festivities, near the edge of the college steps. Cloaked, hood pulled low. He wasn't watching the performers. He wasn't eating or drinking. He was staring straight at me.
Our eyes didn't meet—I couldn't even see his. But I felt it. That same oppressive weight I'd felt when Meridia dragged me into her light. That same suffocating dread when Hermaeus Mora's tendrils brushed the edges of my mind. And behind it all, a colder echo. One I hadn't felt directly, but recognized anyway.
Miraak.
I froze, the noise of the festival suddenly distant.
The man didn't move. He didn't approach. He only stood there, watching.
Taarie tugged gently at my hand, grounding me. "What's wrong? You've gone pale."
I forced a breath, tearing my gaze away. "…Nothing. Just thought I saw someone."
She frowned but didn't press, her grip tightening ever so slightly as though she sensed more than I was saying.
When I glanced back, the man was gone. Vanished into the crowd as though he'd never been there.
But the weight of his presence lingered, heavy in my chest, impossible to ignore.
Even in the light of the festival, under music and laughter, I couldn't shake it. The reminder was clear.
No matter how much I tried to live in this world—no matter how much I let myself enjoy it—Miraak and Mora were still out there. And they were watching.
Always watching.