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The simple jobs, Shadow reminded himself. Those are the ones that get you killed. But there was nothing that the young Master Assassin could do about it, except do his damnedest not to die this far away from home. Crouched in the shadows, the young Khajiit flicked his tail rapidly against the wall, the only outward sign of his agitation.

If another Khajiit had been in this gods cursed dungeon, they might have been able to see the Shadowsword, dressed in the form fitting black leather armor and hood of his order that both had the sheen of enchantment on them. Green eyes, glowing with the shimmer of a cat's in the dark peered out from under that hood. Any observer would notice that Shadow was bigger, a bit bulkier, than many Khajiit, but he still had the lean, feline agility that marked the race. But it was his eyes that would have stopped any observer- deep set, tired, and hiding a secret pain. Loss was evident in those eyes, the loss of something dear, and a loss that should not have come to one only a few years into their second decade of life.

Deep in the bowels of some unnamed ruined fort outside the hold of Whiterun, in southern Skyrim, the Empire's most deadly agent was on the hunt. Rumors had reached the Imperial City that the new Jarl of Whiterun (whose father had died suddenly) had turned to daedra worship. While this was not in and of itself a crime, the rumors also indicated that the Jarl had designs on the High Kingship and eventually, the Dragon Crown itself. To any other authority, this would have posed a dilemma: on the one hand, interfering in local politics over something as insignificant as rumors would have been seen as heavy handed- but if they were true...

But Tiber Septim, who had founded the Empire, had come up with a solution to this dilemma long ago: the Shadowswords- elite agents that specialized in subtlety. They could investigate and act on rumors, and could cover their tracks well enough that no one even suspected that such agents existed. They robbed, blackmailed, cajoled, and eliminated as necessary to protect the stability of the Empire- as the Blades were the bodyguards of the Emperor, the Shadowswords were the secret bodyguards of the Empire. And Shadow was the best, the Master Assassin, the greatest of the Shadowswords, master of both Steel and Shadow. Shadow had become the Emperor's favored tool in dealing with situations like the Jarl of Whiterun. But this time was different. This time, for the first in years, the Master Assassin hunted alone.

Shadow closed his eyes, trying to hold back the pain and tears. This was his first assignment since... since... since that night in Cheydinhal. The thick copper smell of blood, thick enough to be detectable over the acrid stink of burnt fur and the pitch and ashes from the torches. He passed through the bound door, hearing nothing, an absence that frightened him even more than any sound could. As he entered the room, his eyes fell upon the table in the center and the grisly...

NO! Shadow bit on his lip hard enough to draw blood, the pain intense enough to banish, for the moment, that painful memory. He had to focus on the here and now. The Jarl's particular cult was meeting deep in these ruins, using the fact that the place had been taken over by necromancers to hide their movements. From down the corridor, Shadow heard the scuffle of movement- self-pity and loss would have to wait; now he had a job to do. Quickly, he ran his hands over his equipment, loosening his twin longswords in their sheaths, making sure his dagger was ready, and unslinging the bow from his back. Finally, the Khajiit pulled the mask of his hood over his nose, leaving only his eyes visible. It was time to hunt.

The chamber ahead reeked of death: blood and rot seeping into the very air. Fortunately, Shadow could see no zombies- only three skeletons. Like most undead, skeletons drew a lot of their reputation from living creatures instinctive dread of them- in reality, to anyone with experience, they were not terribly fearsome. Notching an arrow, Shadow mentally prepared himself. Aim for the point where the skull joins the spine. This would cause the head to fly off, severing the controlling magic and cause the skeleton to collapse into a disjointed pile of bones. This meant that Shadow had only to pick his target. The room he was looking into was a large room, almost square, with four large columns holding up a vaulted ceiling. Across from the doorway where the Master Assassin crouched was a gated arch, one of the skeletons was looking through it while the others patrolled the otherwise empty room. The patrolling ones were armed with shields and axes; the one that had its back to Shadow was armed with a bow. That one would be the greatest threat, Shadow knew. He knew well the spells cast on guardians like these: they would only investigate anything out of the ordinary. Sneaking by them would be easy, but if he ran in to trouble with more alert beings further in the ruins there was no guarantee that these would not show up to give him even more problems. The simplest solution was to just take them out now. Shadow drew the bow back to his ear, waited until the axe guards where on opposite sides of the room, and fired.

The arrow flew straight and true, catching the archer skeleton right in the join between the skull and the spine. The head popped straight up in the air, and the body fell to the ground with a clatter. Both of the axe wielders rushed to the sound, and Shadow heard the boom of a door flying open. His second arrow was already on the way, catching one of the remaining skeletons in the neck and snapping it cleanly. Shadow heard cursing, but had already drawn for his third shot. The last skeleton turned to face in his direction, an action that sent the orange feathered arrow through its mouth- parting the lower jaw in spectacular fashion before the rest of the head followed. By this time, the necromancer who had come running into the room was on to the hidden attacker's location, and shot a bolt of lightning into the doorway. But Shadow was no longer there.

He came out of a roll half a step to the side of the path where the necromancer was charging his blade clearing his scabbard even before he finished the movement. The necromancer never got the chance to correct his error, as Shadow's sword easily parted the fabric of his hooded robe, snuck in between two ribs and found the Nord's heart. But as the Khajiit withdrew from his strike, he felt pain in his opposite shoulder blossom. Whirling around, the assassin found himself facing another necromancer- but only for a moment, as the elf's head parted from his shoulders in the wake of Shadow's blade.

The assassin staggered backwards, collapsing to the floor. He grasped at his shoulder. The second necromancer's blade had gone in one of the few joints in the Shadowsword's armor and had bitten deeply into his shoulder. His gloved hand came away bloody. How had the elf gotten behind him? Even as he pondered the question, he could feel the cold beginning to seep into his shoulder. Sprawled on the stone floor, the cold enveloped him. As it had for these many months, ever since... ever since Ra'jarr had died.

The pain of the thought brought all the memories of that night in Cheydinhal racing through his mind, the whole painful scene playing out again- forever etched in his memory. But as he blinked against the tears that inevitably formed, another memory floated before him, one that all but banished the chill.

Shadow had barely relocked the door before Ra'jarr was on him, his hands running over Shadow's back, pressing him against the door, his lips meeting Shadow's. The Master Assassin closed his eyes, savoring the taste of his older mate, the press of him against him, and the warmth that he always felt in Ra'jarr's arms. And by the Gods! His scent. That wonderful, spicy, musky, scent that told Shadow how much he was loved- he drank it in, savoring it. Ra'jarr broke the kiss first.

"The Emperor's personal chambers?" he said with a sly smile. "This is mischievous, even for you."

"He won't need them," Shadow said. "He just uses them when he has company, and he'll be down at the party for hours yet."

That was all he got out before they were back at it again, kissing, nibbling, and licking at each other with all the urgency a that a couple that knew that every time might be the last time could muster. Over a month of forced separation added to their urgency, and in moments, fingers that had been exploring lovers' curves began working buttons. There was no set routine to this, no assigned roles- but it became quickly clear to the young Master Assassin that Ra'jarr was in charge this time. He flung Shadow's shirt open and all Shadow could do was pant and moan in ecstasy as Ra'jarr's hands ran over his muscular chest and his flat stomach, nibbling on his shoulder all the while. Ra'jarr finally separated from him, dropping his trousers while Shadow removed his shirt. Ra'jarr twirled in place, showing off his lean, muscular form- his tan fur taking on a golden hue in the light from the fire, his erect manhood and wonderfully tight rear on full display. Shadow's tail thrashed against the door, fully aroused by his mate's display, wanting it over at the same time he wanted it to go on forever.

Ra'jarr stepped back to Shadow, kissing him, rubbing his crotch against Shadow's regrettably still clothed crotch, running a hand down the front of Shadow's pants and clearly liking what he found. Shadow in the meantime was exploring the curves of Ra'jarr's rump, stopping to play with the base of his tail. Time blurred for Shadow, and the next thing he knew, he was being pushed onto the Emperor's bed- his pants long missing, and his arousal on full display for his mate. Ra'jarr knelt down, putting a cheek on Shadow's thigh, and began to lick happily at his love's shaft. Shadow moaned his back arching in pleasure. Ra'jarr's warm, raspy tongue sought out all the secret places on his mate's manhood, causing pre to all but pour from Shadow's tip.

"Been too long my love?" Ra'jarr asked with a giggle, his hand rubbing the warm fluid all over Shadow's shaft.

"An eternity," Shadow moaned as Ra'jarr positioned himself to take Shadow into his tail hole.

Gently, Ra'jarr lowered himself, the tight, warm, inviting confines hugging and griping Shadow's shaft as the rest of his love cradled him. Ra'jarr began moaning himself as Shadow slid into him, his member twitching as he rocked, the tip just tickling Shadow's stomach enticingly. Then they embraced, and Shadow rocked his hips, each movement pushing more of him into the warm tightness of Ra'jarr. Shadow growled, Ra'jarr moaned and purred, their chests touching, gently biting each other's shoulders, licking muzzles and ears, kissing, and taking turns stroking Ra'jarr's shaft. Finally, Shadow gasped and tightly grabbed Ra'jarr's hips as he climaxed, pumping cum deep into his love, his shaft throbbing with each release. Then it was Ra'jarr's turn to climax with a moan, shooting his cum all over Shadow's stomach, chest, and even splashing his face with his warm stickiness. Exhaustion claimed them, and Ra'jarr dropped the few inches that had separated them, and they cuddled, kissing and licking each other's muzzles. They lay there for a long time, dozing and expressing their love for each other.

Eventually, Shadow sat up and ran a finger along Ra'jarr's shaft and cupped his balls before giving his mate's equipment a happy lick.

"Hey!" the older assassin protested, in vain, for his arousal betrayed him.

"My turn," Shadow whispered as he crawled to the end of the bed, putting his rear on display for his love. Ra'jarr giggled, running a hand over Shadow's firm backside and a finger teasingly over his tail hole. Then he bent down and ran his tongue over the same area- much to Shadow's delight. The young Master Assassin moaned in pleasure as Ra'jarr rubbed his erection over Shadow's rump, his hands playing with the base of Shadow's tail. Finally, he set his tip in place and made his first thrust...

At that exact moment, the lock on the door clicked, and it swung open- allowing the Emperor a full view. He stood there in the doorway key still in hand, a look of shock and bemusement on his face...

The memory vanished in the bitter aftertaste of a healing potion Shadow couldn't remember drinking, but there was the flask in his hand- and the cold in his shoulder was replaced with the pins and needles sensation of it healing rapidly. The Emperor (who was one of the few who knew of their relationship) had been more amused by the incident than anything else. The former priest had known that something was up when he had seen the pair dancing at the party. While Mara, the goddess of love and marriage, welcomed love in all its forms- many felt that the goddess frowned on same gender relationships. Of course, he had not expected to find them in the full throws of love making in his bed. Shadow smiled to himself, and suddenly the stone floor didn't seem so cold. He could almost feel Ra'jarr's warm weight pressing against him.

Shadow. Promise me, promise me that I won't see you any time soon... Promise me you'll live the longest life you can, that you'll find another male to make you happy... that you'll live for both of us. Swear to me... by the thing you hold most dear...

"I swear," Shadow told the memory as he had at the time. "I swear by my love to you."

And now, more recent memories flooded back. He had seen that second necromancer, but his mind had blocked it out, allowing the elf to get behind him... Shadow shivered at what he had almost done. No, he thought. Never again. He had promised his love that he would live the fullest life he could, for both of them- no more weakness, no more trying to take the coward's way out. The pain... he would just have to live with- no one could replace Ra'jarr in his heart, but by the Nine, he would not disappoint his love again. Nor his Emperor. With a renewed sense of purpose, the Shadowsword picked himself off the floor. The Khajiit disappeared into the shadows that where as much his home as any place on a map. It was time for the Jarl of Whiterun to die.

The Master Assassin had not long been gone from the room when, unnoticed and forgotten by the necromancers who had desecrated the place, a symbol etched into the walls when the fort had been in service began to glow. And if any but the dead had been in the room to see this glow, they might have also heard a woman's gentle laugher. And they most certainly would have recognized the symbol, one out of place in a necromancer's lair, but perhaps not so in a soldier's barracks: the symbol of Mara.

Beorn Trollhammer, Jarl of Whiterun, looked around at the assembled robed figures. These were the best, his Spiders, the ones that would carry him to the Imperial throne he so deserved. In the back of the chamber, his younger son Grendor guarded the door. While he would have prefers Brador to assist in this endeavor, his eldest son had a much too Imperial outlook to assume his proper place in the world. Trollhammer smiled. Mephala, the daedric prince known as the Webspinner, would be pleased. He had spun his web well, and his Spiders would help him claim what he had always known was his.

Tomorrow they would ride to the capital and when they arrived, they would set in motion the chain of events that would end with the murder of the High King of Skyrim.

The meeting ended, all the assignments passed out, all the toasts drunk, and all the oaths sworn. Trollhammer withdrew into the inner sanctum, closing the sturdy oak door behind him and leaving his son to sort out the final details. The door, when locked, sealed the sanctum off from the rest of the fort- Mephala was a god of secrets after all. But his caution also prevented him from hearing the muffled cries of his followers.

This was no chance strike by the Master Assassin of the Shadowswords; he had not just followed the Jarl into this dungeon to carry out his mission. Those were the marks of lesser assassins, and while Shadow certainly could have succeeded in such a strike, the finesse that was demanded of him also demanded preparation. He had been in the area around Whiterun for weeks- knew the ins and outs of the Jarl's routine, had watched him sleep, had found this place, and knew it by heart. He knew who the Jarl served, and had made his own plans accordingly. By the time the Jarl had finished consulting with the Webspinner, the Shadowsword's own web would be spun. And then it would be time to see who the better spider was.

Trollhammer emerged an hour later to absolute silence and darkness, save for a single torch burning by the entrance to the chamber. In the days when his ancestors had fought the elves from what was now the Imperial Province, this had been the hidden armory to the castle. It had been designed to be difficult to locate by an unfamiliar attacker, and was located deep underground. Neither the silence nor the darkness was terribly surprising, but Trollhammer had expected a few of his Spiders to be milling about and Grendor certainly should have been back from his assigned task. Trollhammer paused, sensing something had changed. Then, without warning, a hooded body fell into the circle of torchlight.

"My lord!" the Spider screamed, a rasp in his voice. "The shadows..."

And with that, he was suddenly dragged back into the shadows, where Trollhammer heard the gurgle he knew too well came from a man with his throat slit trying to talk. The Nord lord unsheathed his sword and lunged forward, grabbing the torch as he passed, ignoring the splinter that shoved into his palm. He quickly located the body of his follower, but there was no sign of the assassin.

"Coward!" Trollhammer yelled. "Face me! Or do you fear the light?"

The Jarl waved the torch in front of him, sending the shadows dancing in strange forms. A grim chuckle came from those shadows, distorted from echoing off the stone walls, but definitely coming from in front of him. There was no hesitation as Trollhammer followed the laugh. He followed the cowardly assassin through the ruins, time distorting as the chase continued, and the crazily dancing shadows playing tricks on the Jarls eyes. Time and again, he thought he caught a glimpse of the man he was chasing, only to arrive and find another one of his Spiders dead from one precise wound. He growled each time, galled by the audacity of the killer.

"Who are you?! Who sent you?!" Trollhammer called time and time again, his voice sounding strange in his ears, which he put down to the odd echoes off the stone walls of the tight corridors. Each time, the only response he got was another laugh. His head swam a little as the close corridors reflected the heat of the torch back to him. "The Brotherhood? You think the Dark Brotherhood can stand in my way?"

"Perhaps," the voice said, responding for the first time since the chase began. Oddly enough, other than hearing a masculine quality, Trollhammer could not determine the race of the speaker. It was an Imperial accent though, so the assassin had clearly been raised in the Province. "But if the Dread Lord waits for you at the end of this chase, it is no doing of mine."

"I ask again: who are you?!" The Jarl was becoming aware now of where he was in the castle- the assassin was leading him to the throne room. The fool, Trollhammer chuckled. There was only one way in or out of that room- if the assassin went in there, the experienced warrior could trap him and kill him easily. "If not the Brotherhood, whom do you serve? Not the Empire, clearly. Septim is too much of a fool to employ such tools. One of the other Jarls? Someone hoping to claim my throne? That fool son of mine has finally learned what it takes to rule?"

"You have been told my name," the voice replied cryptically. "That is all you need to know."

The voice had hardly finished speaking when the booming sound of a door slamming reached his ears. His heart leapt, only the door to the throne room made such a sound. He had the assassin trapped! He sheathed his sword, pulling his dagger to work better in the close spaces and raced up the corridor to the throne room door and wrenched it open. Set up for service in a time of conflict and paranoia, the throne room had an unconventional layout. Rather than the throne being on a raised platform directly across from the entrance, it was in an alcove off to the side. That alcove was designed so that anyone seeking an audience would have to come to the exact center of the room before they could view the lord, but thanks to some expertly carved slots, the reverse was not true. The only place for an assassin to hide in the room, even as shadowed and decrepit as it was, was the throne. Trollhammer threw the torch into the center of the room, casting even more shadows to dance in front of him. Even with the heat from the torch gone, sweat continued to pour down his face and his heart raced in anticipation of the kill. The Jarl of Whiterun knew all about the security of the room, and now he too could see those slits and saw that someone was indeed sitting on the throne, apparently focused on the dropped torch. Trollhammer pressed up against the wall, knowing that he would have to be quick as he edged closer to the throne and the momentarily distracted assassin.

Time seemed to drag as Trollhammer crept along the wall, his heart hammering in his chest. Finally, he was in position. Without hesitation, he leaped around the corner and drove his dagger into the cloaked and hooded figure on the throne. He heard a muffled moan, which did not satisfy him, so he stabbed the assassin again and again for his arrogance in challenging the future High King of... No! the future Emperor of Tamriel. Finally, he stepped back and laughed, reached up to yank the hood off this fool... and fell backwards to the floor as Grendor's face was unveiled. For a few heartbeats, Trollhammer allowed himself to believe that his son had indeed betrayed him. But then, somehow, he noticed that the younger man was bound to the throne. He scurried away from the crime he had committed, much to the amusement of the true assassin.

"What's wrong High King?" the assassin asked from the swirling shadows, and for the first time Trollhammer noticed the feline tones of a Khajiit. "Thrones are never won without bloodshed. And now you don't have to look over your shoulder constantly for an over eager successor."

"NO!! This isn't the way it was supposed to be!"

"Isn't it? You sought to take by force what was not yours by right. And you think the Webspinner cares about those that cannot keep their secrets well?"

"You did this!" Trollhammer cried, his voice coming in choking gasps. What was wrong with him?

"I merely played the game you laid out," the shadows whispered. "You chose this end."

"And I suppose you will kill me now?" Trollhammer jeered, holding the dagger out in front of him.

"I already have," the shadows taunted. "This morning, when you failed to find your gauntlets. Perhaps you are beginning to notice the symptoms: rapid heartbeat, distorted perceptions, trouble breathing? The classic signs of nightshade overdose."

Trollhammer looked at the torch in betrayal and at the small blood spot on his palm. The followers of the Webspinner were wrongly reported to use the poison in worship... But they did not, for the exact reason the dancing shadows had given- even the smallest amount could prove fatal. Trollhammer was dead, killed by a coward's weapon.

"I will not die like this," he whispered. "Not by a coward!"

And without another word, Beorn Trollhammer, Jarl of Whiterun, put the bloody dagger to his neck and slit his throat. His body went numb and although he knew he collapsed to the ground, he did not feel it. All he cared about was that he had denied the assassin his kill. He willed himself to have a satisfied smile, but he could not feel if he succeeded. As he watched the torchlight grow dim, one of the shadows became more solid, detaching itself from the others and kneeling down in front of him.

"If this little victory comforts you as you enter the afterlife, then so be it. But it took me several nights of thinking to come up with a way to satisfy the Emperor's request that you die by your own hand."

Horror filled Trollhammer's mind as he realized how thoroughly he'd been outmaneuvered by the one enemy he had least expected. But as that rejection set in, it was already too late...

Shadow stood up from the corpse of Beorn Trollhammer. His job was finished, done exactly the way the Emperor had requested. There was nothing to be gained by his staying here. But he felt the cold, hollow sensation that reminded him that he would be going home to an empty house. No lover to greet him, to remind him of the other side of life- the side that wasn't all about death and duty. A random memory came to him then, of him and Ra'jarr making sweet rolls, brushing and licking each other and wondering how flour could get everywhere. The barest hint of a smile crossed the assassin's lips. But it vanished instantly as a voice came from the statue of Mephala that was at the other end of the throne room.

Well done Khajiit! Shadow was no stranger to dealing with the Daedric Princes, and in their eyes even that much acknowledgement of his individuality was rare. Most often, they simply used the term 'mortal'. You have proven yourself quite the web spinner of your own. Your trap was perfectly laid. You would do quite well in my service.

"Sorry," Shadow hissed as he strode over to the statue before deliberately turning his back to it. "I already serve one master."

It is indeed a pity that you have given your service to the dragon, but if you serve me, anything you ask for shall be yours.

The words had barely echoed around the room when Shadow whirled around, drawing his sword in a smooth motion. The blade seemed to flash orange, hinting at the enchantment that it held. Shadow turned away and sheathed the blade. As he did so, the stone head of the statue dropped off, cut cleanly through.

"You have nothing I want," Shadow told the desecrated statue as he finally stalked away from the chamber, his boots echoing loudly in the corridors, now that only the dead could hear them.

Ralas Telvanni, the Shadowswords' mage trainer and nominally second in command, was getting worried. There had been no word from the Master Assassin for three weeks, which was highly unlike the young Khajiit. He hadn't even made an entry in his enchanted journal, the Black Book of the Shadowswords- which Ralas could read as well. Ralas' concern was purely personal, since the success of Shadow's mission had been reported in the Black Horse Courier broadsheet. It had been a flawless job, as the paper (which was not always pro Imperial policy, even with an Imperial grant) had reported that Beorn Trollhammer, Jarl of Whiterun had died by his own hand after ritually offering his youngest son to Mephala, the Daedric Prince known as the Webspinner.

Ralas knew only too well what kept the Master Assassin away: Shadow was still very much in mourning for Ra'jarr, and this was his first mission since his mate's death. The Dark Elf couldn't blame Shadow for taking time off, if that was indeed what he was doing, but he worried that the youngster might do something... drastic in his mourning. And it was a pity too, as he looked across his desk at the surprisingly nervous looking Orc that sat there. Grubak, his name was: formally of the Imperial Legion, for reasons that the Master Assassin could readily sympathize with and perhaps even aid with. Ralas was acting in the place of the Grandmaster and was accepting the Orc into the Shadowswords. Secretly, the mage hoped that Shadow would report in and meet the Orc.

He had just given up hope on that prospect and had risen to shake Grubak's hand when the door swung open to admit, of all people, Shadow. The mage whispered a silent prayer to Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time and patron of the Shadowswords, as the Khajiit kicked off his boots (in deference to the mage's wishes for all who entered his office) before crossing the deep carpet that bore the symbol of the Shadowswords: the Imperial dragon, with a dagger for a tail. Shadow took in the scene, as Grubak also sized him up- again, the Orc looked strangely nervous.

"It is good to see you my friend," Ralas greeted warmly. "I was beginning to worry about you."

"I made a stop on the way home," Shadow replied, his voice quiet and a bit sad. "At the Throat of the World."

"You climbed the Seven Thousand Steps?" Grubak said with awe in his voice. Shadow nodded distractedly. "And what did you find at the top of the world?"

Shadow puzzled over that for a moment, while Ralas adjusted his opinion of Grubak. The Orc clearly had been educated- if not formally, then he remembered a great deal of what was said to him. The mage smiled, Grubak indeed might be the answer that he sought.

"Perspective," Shadow finally answered.

"Shadow, this is Grubak," Ralas entered into the pause that followed while the two warriors examined each other. "Grubak, this is the Master Assassin Shadow, whom I was telling you about. Grubak is joining us from the Imperial Legion, and I think he would be an excellent student and partner for you Shadow."

"No clan name?" the world wise Khajiit asked as he grasped the Orc's hand. Grubak appeared to be in his late teens, maybe twenty- more than old enough to have undergone the rituals that marked him as an adult and a full member of his clan. A shadow of shame crossed the Orc's face.

"It was taken from me... for allowing myself to be unmanned."

Shadow looked puzzled, thinking the Orc must have met some unfortunate turn in combat, but Grubak turned to Ralas.

"You did not say he was handsome. I expected him to be lean and lanky, like all the rest."

"Forgive me," Ralas said with a bow that hid his smile at the stunned expression on Shadow's face. "But it is not my practice to judge the handsomeness of males. Besides, I wanted you to form your own opinion."

Grubak turned back to the Khajiit who had such pain in his eyes, and as he did so the barest hint of a smile crossed his feline muzzle. It was gone as quickly as it came, but deep inside, the Orc's heart beat harder. He knew that he would do anything to see that smile again, to take that pain away and replace it with joy. Unknowingly, Grubak stood a little straighter, his confidence returning.

"Taken from you, huh?" Shadow asked a small hint of anger and hope in his voice. "Well then my handsome friend, we'll just have to earn it back."