The cavernous stone hall was dark
and quiet save for a maid sweeping near the door. Merill ascended to the main
hall, lit by a low-burning fire pit in its centre, and moved around it, making
for the Jarl’s throne, her footsteps echoing on the high, shadowed walls.
Nerves twisted in her gut despite herself – she had seen Markarth’s jarl on
occasion, and had once passed Falkreath’s in the street, but never any more
than that. She was more accustomed to stealing and running from fur-swathed
nobles than speaking to them at their thrones.
