Today was the twenty-fifth. The twenty-fifth day that Veta has been constrained to her cell, inhaling with each breath the dankness that oozed from the walls and the musk of dried blood and piss. She was allowed free movement within her quarters, whatever ‘free’ could mean; the guards had clearly not pegged her for a particularly dangerous mage. The same could not be said for others surrounding her. She had heard hushed orders from guards concerning sand and oil, procedures that befall the more magically-oriented criminals of Tamriel. 

She wasn’t overly keen on mages. Magic was fine. Parlour tricks and spells that have utility, such as the ones her mother taught her, were one thing. The ability to burn entire villages with fireballs was another, and she knew well that those who seek such power often let it corrupt them. She has previously put down such dangerously curious individuals who could not handle such destructive responsibility. 

Veta had spent these few weeks reflecting on her life over the past year or so. The decisions that had led her here, the regrets she had. But mostly she had nurtured remorse of her reality, the fact she was never going to get back the life she had, due to her failure and her naivete. Exercise was her only other activity in her dark cell, though she did not particularly enjoy getting her face close to the floor when she undertook push-ups, she felt vulnerable to catch a disease and promptly die an agonising death. Perhaps such a fate was the only way to escape these walls. She had seen nobody since she was thrown into the cell. No taunting from the guards, no indication of any trial or further justice. Just a stone-walled room and a bucket, with hints of the outside world teasing her through sunlight piercing a narrow slit at the top of the back wall.

Until now. 

Veta jumped up from her bed as she heard stone scratching stone, the first foreign sound she had heard for some time. She heard authoritative footsteps echoing in the corridor, pausing frequently before continuing. The steps got closer and closer until they stopped right outside her cell. Staring in, with an expression of smug contempt, was a burly man with sharp eyes and a beard of hay. Even from the dim lighting, Veta could see a scarline hugging the left side of his face, a vulgar reminder of battles long since fought. His garments were certainly of noble origin. No, regal origin.

Vera’s eyes widened as she began to realise who this might be. She had never seen the man before, but there was an air of unspoken authority of the absolute kind surrounding this man, an indescribable feeling of dominance and well-deserved self-righteousness. This man, Veta suspected, was the King of Kings, the Emperor himself. Something in her heart told her so, but she knew not why or how. She just knew. By this point, he had ceased his staring, and had returned to somewhere else in the block. Moments after, the distinct sound of metal bouncing on stone echoed throughout the dungeon, and Vera’s eyes locked onto the ring that had made its way into her cell.

“[b]Put those on. Then we’ll talk[/b].”

The former-knight hesitated at first. Such a demand was much like asking to eat an unknown mushroom in a forest littered with the corpses of the curious. However, she reasoned that if the Emperor wanted her dead, she would be in a wagon to a mass grave, alongside many others who had stood in the way of Havfyg I the Dragonborn, or had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time during his wars of (re)conquest. 

With nought else as an alternative, Veta reluctantly placed the ring on her littlest finger of her left hand. If the need came to amputate it, at least it would be her least useful finger on her non-sword hand. She patiently waited for the next command, or the next inkling of what exactly was happening, and why the Emperor felt the need to socialise with criminals in such a dire setting.