Chapter 18 — Infiltrating
When Astrid stepped into the courtyard of the Thalmor Embassy, the night air carried a crisp mountain chill—sharp, clean, and laced with the faint scent of pine drifting from the surrounding hills. Lanterns floated above the stone pathways, casting soft golden light that shimmered off polished marble pillars and the silver embroidery of noble attire.
Dozens of guests drifted across the courtyard, their extravagant robes swirling like waves of silk and velvet. Laughter tinkled, wine glasses clinked, and soft music played from a small ensemble near the fountain. Nobles, merchants, scholars—even a few high-ranking Jarls' envoys—all mingled beneath the Embassy's towering elven architecture.
But the moment Astrid entered the lantern glow, a ripple passed through the crowd.
Heads turned.
Conversations faltered.
Several guests openly stared.
Astrid kept her steps steady, chin slightly lifted, her cloak flowing behind her like a midnight river. Her beauty—elegant, composed, sharp yet gentle—shone even amid the wealthy elite of Skyrim. She could feel the weight of their gazes, admiration mixed with curiosity.
A Thalmor guard stepped forward, his elven armor gleaming with unnatural luster as though polished moments ago. His expression was stern, posture rigid, chin raised with habitual arrogance.
He lifted a hand, stopping her just before she reached the main archway.
"Invitation, please, miss."
His tone was polite, but rehearsed—forced courtesy masking suspicion.
Astrid gave a soft, nonchalant nod as if she had expected the interruption. She slipped a hand into her cloak and retrieved the invitation letter, her movements smooth and confident.
"Here it is. Go ahead and check," she said, offering the parchment with a faint, practiced smile.
The guard accepted the letter with both hands, his long fingers tracing the emblem of the Embassy. Behind him, Astrid noticed several more guards—some in radiant golden armor, others in flowing black robes embroidered with silver Thalmor sigils. Their eyes were sharp, unblinking, constantly scanning the guests.
Mage-class, she thought. And dangerous.
The guard took his time—too long—turning the parchment over, comparing its seal with the reference sheet he pulled from his belt. Another guard watched her from the corner of his eye, sizing her up.
Astrid kept her breathing steady.
Calm.
Unbothered.
As if she were merely another noblewoman attending a political gala.
Finally, the first guard straightened his posture and returned the invitation.
His expression shifted into a thin, diplomatic smile.
"Thank you, miss. You may enter."
He stepped aside with a formal gesture, allowing Astrid to pass through the towering golden doors—into the very heart of Thalmor territory.
Despite their cold reputation, the Thalmor behaved with calculated politeness toward the guests. Their smiles were stiff, their bows shallow, their voices sweetened only by necessity. Astrid could feel the tension beneath their courtesy—an invisible thread pulled tight. They had to maintain appearances tonight. Every gesture, every word, was part of their effort to charm Skyrim's elite and expand their influence.
The interior of the Embassy glowed with warm golden light. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead like frozen stars, illuminating polished marble floors and elegant banners embroidered with the Aldmeri Dominion crest. Soft elven music drifted through the hall, carried by enchanted instruments floating in mid-air.
Astrid stepped deeper inside, trying to blend into the atmosphere of wealth and diplomacy.
Then a poised figure glided toward her—tall, golden-haired, and radiating authority.
Ambassador Elenwen.
Her smile was graceful but razor-thin, the kind used by someone who measured every expression for political effect.
"Welcome," Elenwen said, voice smooth as silk yet cold beneath the surface. "I'm not sure we've met. I am the Thalmor ambassador to Skyrim. And you are…?"
Astrid lifted her chin slightly, schooling her features into polite warmth.
A forced smile. Relaxed posture. Controlled breathing.
Nothing suspicious.
She assumed Elenwen was the kind of woman who enjoyed hearing her own titles.
"You're Elenwen? I've heard so much ab—"
But her sentence was abruptly cut short as a man stepped between them, moving with hurried yet respectful steps.
Malborn.
Dressed as a simple party servant—brown vest, clean apron, hair tied back—he held a tray of drinks as a perfect disguise. Only Astrid could see the tension in his eyes.
He bowed quickly.
"Excuse me, Miss Elenwen," he said, voice trembling with just the right amount of nervousness. "But we seem to be running low on drinks for the guests."
Elenwen's jaw tightened.
A tiny twitch at the corner of her eye.
Annoyance, barely contained.
She clicked her tongue sharply.
"If you think the drinks are running low, then go get more from the back," she snapped, waving dismissively as if brushing away an insect.
With Malborn's interruption derailing her attention, Elenwen's interest in Astrid evaporated instantly. She smoothed her expression back into a diplomatic smile.
"My apologies. Please, enjoy the food and refreshments."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and swept toward another cluster of important guests, her robes trailing elegantly behind her.
The moment she was out of earshot, Astrid exhaled slowly, letting her shoulders ease.
She stepped closer to Malborn near the drink table, pretending to inspect a tray of wine goblets.
Malborn lowered his voice to a professional tone for anyone watching.
"Yes, miss? Do you need another drink?"
But as he leaned forward to set down an empty glass, his whisper slipped beneath the music and chatter:
"I'll wait for you at the back door once everyone is distracted."
Astrid gave a small nod, subtle enough to avoid attention—just a slight tilt of her head, a glimmer in her eyes.
The mission had begun.
Now, she needed a distraction.
Astrid drifted deeper into the crowd, weaving between clusters of nobles who chatted in forced laughter and carefully curated smiles. Perfume, wine, and the faint scent of roasted meats mingled in the air. Crystal glasses clinked. Lutes played softly from the upper balcony. The embassy's gilded pillars shimmered under warm candlelight, casting dancing shadows along the walls.
But gods… socializing was exhausting.
Every conversation felt like wading through mud.
Most of the guests were judgmental, snobbish, or eager to flaunt their wealth and status. Their eyes flicked over her outfit, assessing, comparing, judging. Every nod she gave felt like a tiny battle.
As she let her gaze wander—searching for someone who could create the chaos she needed—she caught the slurred muttering of a man near the refreshment table.
"This party wouldn't be any fun without more drinks, right?"
The man swayed slightly, holding an empty glass with loose fingers. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes unfocused—already halfway to drunk oblivion. Astrid recognized him instantly.
Razelan.
She had overheard his name earlier from the nobles gossiping: a man known to "become a problem" when intoxicated. Which was precisely why the Thalmor had forbidden staff from serving him any more alcohol.
He didn't notice her approach at first. When he finally turned and saw her, he jolted as if waking from a dream.
"Ah—my apologies, miss!" He straightened his posture clumsily and attempted a dignified bow. "I didn't see you there. Allow me to introduce myself. Razelan—imports and exports, by trade. Observer of human nature, by avocation."
He placed a hand dramatically over his chest, nearly losing his balance in the process.
Astrid hid a smile behind a polite expression.
Yes. This was her man.
She remembered the whispers: Give Razelan another drink and he'll cause trouble for everyone.
Exactly what she needed.
She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice to a sympathetic tone.
"Your friend looks like he needs another drink," she said lightly, glancing toward Malborn with a subtle tilt of her head.
Malborn, noticing the signal from across the room, approached with a tray. He handed Astrid a goblet filled to the brim.
"Here. Give it to him," he murmured, his expression neutral but his eyes understanding.
Razelan's eyes widened like a child receiving a rare treat.
"Ah! A generous soul among a gathering of pinch-pennies and lick-spittles!" he exclaimed loudly, raising the glass triumphantly. "If there's anything—anything at all—I can do for you, do not hesitate to ask!"
He downed the drink in one long swallow. His shoulders relaxed, his eyelids drooped, and a rosy glow spread across his face.
Astrid stepped closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear.
"Actually… there is something you can do for me."
Razelan gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart again.
"Of course! Anything for you, my truest friend! What do you need?"
Astrid's eyes sharpened just slightly.
"I need you to cause a scene. Get everyone's attention for a few minutes."
Razelan stared at her… then burst into loud, hearty laughter.
"Is that all?" he boomed, staggering a little. "My friend, causing a scene is—hah!—my specialty. Stand back… and behold my handiwork!"
Perfect.
He was drunk enough that he wouldn't remember a single thing by morning.
Razelan marched straight toward the center of the hall, puffing out his chest. Then—
Chaos.
He slammed his empty glass on a table, nearly breaking it, and began shouting about the quality of the wine, the arrogance of the nobles, the terrible state of Skyrim's trade routes—anything and everything that came to his intoxicated mind.
Guests gasped.
Nobles stepped back.
All eyes turned toward him like moths to a flame.
Even the guards—Thalmor with raised brows and growing irritation—shifted their attention entirely to the commotion.
One of them muttered under his breath:
"Damn it… he must've managed to get another drink."
And that was Astrid's cue.
With Razelan's drunken uproar echoing through the grand hall, Astrid took her chance. She slipped away from the commotion—moving like a shadow, head lowered, steps light—as all eyes turned toward the stumbling drunk who was now loudly accusing a noblewoman of "hoarding the good wine like a miserly troll."
The moment she reached the corridor, Malborn emerged from behind a pillar and motioned for her to follow.
They navigated through the narrow service hallway, dimly lit by flickering sconces and heavy with the scent of roasted meats and expensive Elven spices. The soft clatter of dishes and muffled chatter from the kitchen grew louder as they approached.
Inside, a Khajiit cook was stirring a pot with exaggerated boredom—until he noticed them.
The feline's ears shot up, fur bristling as he snapped, tail lashing sharply behind him.
"Hey! What are you two doing here?"
His pupils narrowed into dangerous slits.
Malborn didn't flinch. He stepped forward, face tense, voice low and sharp.
"You saw nothing.
And I saw nothing… about you stealing ingredients from here."
The Khajiit froze instantly—whiskers twitching, shoulders rising defensively.
His ears slowly folded back.
"A-Ah… that. Yes. I saw nothing," he said, raising both furry hands in surrender.
Malborn jerked his chin at a small wooden chest tucked under a table.
"Astrid. Your equipment—everything you left with me."
She dropped to one knee, flipping open the lid. Her familiar weapons, armor, and tools gleamed faintly under the dim kitchen light. She touched each piece with a quiet exhale—relief mixing with anticipation.
"Thank you," she whispered.
But then she looked up at him, brows knitting.
"Malborn… once this place turns into chaos, you won't be safe either."
He hesitated. Just for a breath.
Then he forced a reassuring smile, though his eyes betrayed the fear tightening his jaw.
"Don't worry. I know this place better than anyone. If things go bad…"
He tapped the side of his head.
"I'll find a way out."
Astrid gave a firm nod—trust mixed with worry.
Malborn closed the door behind her, locking it with a soft click. The corridor beyond was colder, dimmer, lined with stone walls that swallowed sound. The soft glow of a lantern ahead painted long, sharp shadows.
Voices echoed from a side room—rough, casual, tinged with arrogance.
Astrid pressed her back against the wall and listened.
"Did you see those robes march in this morning?"
"Who're they with? More of the Emissary's treaty enforcers?"
"No. High mages from Alinor."
Boots scraped, followed by a dismissive snort.
"Guess she's finally worried about all these dragon attacks."
"Good. I was wondering how the hell we're supposed to defend this place from a dragon."
"If a dragon shows up, maybe it'll eat the mages first. Might give us enough time to kill it."
"Hah! I'd pay to see those arrogant bastards taken down a notch!"
Their laughter boomed—deep, careless, heads leaning together as they slapped each other's shoulders.
Perfect.
Astrid slid her bow off her back in one smooth, silent motion.
She nocked two arrows.
Her breath steadied.
Her eyes narrowed.
One angle.
Two exposed skulls.
She released.
Thwip.
Both men collapsed mid-laugh, their bodies hitting the floor with a dull double thud. The hallway fell silent.
Astrid stepped in, checking their pulses—unnecessary—but habit. She stripped their bodies quickly and efficiently: a sword, a shield, and enough Thalmor armor to offer some protection without restricting movement.
As she fastened a pauldron, a soft, unwelcome sound cut through the stillness—
A door creaked open.
Footsteps approached.
"Hey, you two, get back to your—"
Before the sentence could finish, Astrid spun, drew, and fired in a single fluid motion.
The arrow buried itself in the man's skull.
He toppled forward, dead before hitting the stone.
The corridor returned to silence.
Only Astrid remained standing.
But deeper inside the embassy…
more voices waited.
Astrid moved deeper into the Embassy, her footsteps silent against polished Elven tiles. The hallways grew narrower, colder, the air thick with incense and the faint metallic tang of magicka residue. Lanterns set in golden sconces cast long shadows that flickered like living things.
She slipped past patrols—holding her breath whenever two Thalmor guards walked by, their armor clinking softly, their voices arrogant and dismissive. She waited behind pillars, ducked beneath tables, and glided like mist down the corridor until she reached a door marked with elegant Elven carvings.
The Solar.
She eased the door open just enough to peer inside.
Two figures.
A Nord—broad, tense.
And a Thalmor mage—robes pristine, eyes sharp with suspicion.
The mage sensed the shift in the air first. His head turned—
Thwip.
Astrid's arrow hit him between the eyes before he could even raise a hand.
The Nord jolted, scrambling for a dagger at his hip. His fingers barely brushed the hilt.
Thwip.
He collapsed next to the mage, lifeless.
Astrid exhaled slowly.
A clean job. No noise. No mess.
She searched the room methodically. A small office lay beyond—scroll racks lining the walls, a desk covered in parchment, quills, and delicate Altmeri ink. Beside it sat a locked chest with intricate Elven engravings.
She knelt, pulled out her lockpicks, and began working.
A soft click.
Inside: stacks of documents sealed with golden wax, lists of names, patrol schedules—valuable intelligence. But nothing about dragons. Nothing she needed.
Then she saw a folder stamped with a red sigil.
Esbern.
"Somebody name Esbern knew about dragon and he hiding in the Ratway…? Delphine will want this."
She tucked the papers into her pack—
BRING!
A bell rang loudly through the halls.
Her heart clenched.
"Damn… they must've found the bodies."
She spun toward the hall—
Only to nearly collide with Malborn.
His face was pale, drenched in sweat.
"A-Astrid! The distraction you caused—it's fallen apart. They know something's wrong."
He grabbed her wrist.
"I know a safe route out. Quick—follow me!"
They ran down a winding corridor that smelled of mold and old blood. Malborn shoved open a heavy wooden door.
The interrogation chamber.
Inside, three Thalmor stood around a bound prisoner. Torches crackled along stone walls stained with older, darker marks.
The prisoner screamed as one interrogator twisted a glowing blade close to his skin.
"Stop, please! I don't know anything! I've told you everything!"
"Silence," the second interrogator snapped.
"Master Rulindil will ask the questions."
"No—please—"
"Again."
Astrid's eyes hardened.
Thwip.
An arrow tore through the first interrogator's temple.
The second spun toward her, eyes wide.
"Intruder!!"
He grabbed for his sword—but Malborn's hand moved lightning-fast.
Thnk!
His dagger buried itself deep into the elf's skull.
"Stay dead, you fucking Thalmor!" Malborn roared, his face twisted with long-held fury.
The last Thalmor stepped back so fast he tripped over a chair. His sword clattered away as he dropped to his knees.
"N-no—please! Spare me! I won't tell anyone, I swear!"
But Malborn's rage only deepened. His breath shook, eyes full of years of fear and humiliation.
He grabbed Astrid's sword from her belt before she could react.
"Would you spare me," he hissed, "if I were in your place?"
The elf had no chance to answer.
Malborn rammed the blade into his gut.
The elf choked—then Malborn yanked the blade up and brutally decapitated him.
The prisoner trembled uncontrollably, shrinking away from both of them.
"P-please… I don't know anything… don't hurt me…"
Astrid knelt, lowering her weapon and softening her voice.
"It's alright. We're not Thalmor."
The man's eyes widened with realization—and hope.
"Please… free me. I know a way out!"
They cut his ropes and searched the interrogators. One carried a brass key.
"Good," the prisoner said shakily. "There's a trapdoor in the back room. It leads to the escape tunnels."
He opened it, revealing a ladder descending into darkness.
But before they climbed down, he paused and glanced back nervously.
"You two look strong, right? Because… there's a frost troll down there."
Astrid smirked, rolling her shoulders and drawing her bow.
"Don't worry. I got this."
Malborn nodded, breathing harshly but determined.
"I've got a few spells left. I'll back you up."
The tunnels were icy cold, lit only by faint blue mushrooms and the glow of frost coating the stone. Their breaths came out as mist.
And waiting in the center of the cavern—
A massive frost troll, fur white as snow, breath steaming like smoke.
Behind it, at the far end of the tunnel, a faint glow from the exit.
"We can kill it from here…" Astrid whispered.
"But I'm out of arrows."
Malborn quickly pulled a bundle from his robes.
"Elven arrows. Took them off the guards."
Astrid grinned.
"Bad day for you, troll."
She nocked three arrows at once—an impossible shot for most.
Thwip—thwip—THWIP!
One arrow pierced each eye.
The final arrow sank deep into its skull.
The troll toppled with a thunderous crash.
The prisoner fell to his knees, whispering praise to any god who would listen.
They reached the exit tunnel. A cold wind brushed Astrid's face as they emerged into Skyrim's night—clear skies, countless stars, and the scent of pine.
Malborn exhaled shakily, his limbs trembling.
"Now… I'm a fugitive of the Thalmor," he said bitterly.
"Everything I had—gone…"
The rescued prisoner bowed deeply, nearly touching the ground.
"Thank you for saving me. If you ever need help… come find me in Riften. I owe you my life."
With farewells exchanged, they parted into the night.
Astrid tightened her cloak and turned toward the distant trees of Riverwood, documents secure in her pack.
Time to deliver what she'd found.
Time to uncover the truth about Esbern.
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