Alain and Devan appeared silently beside Cassia, their arrival as quiet as the drifting marsh mist. Alain swiftly assessed the immediate surroundings, eyes sharp, scanning for any overlooked details. Beside him, Devan stood poised, his breathing measured, attention directed toward the surrounding foliage, the paths, and particularly the ridge above.
No one spoke; communication was unnecessary. Each operative understood the procedure—the P.A.C.E. plan—another of Rashan's strange terms that they had quickly learned to trust. They knew their roles precisely, understood the timing, the expectations, the contingencies.
The scouts Cassia had neutralized needed to remain undiscovered and unware two scouts were missing. Alain moved closer to the fallen Bosmer, carefully positioning the body beneath thick brush, ensuring no immediate trace could catch an observer's eye. Simultaneously, Devan examined the surrounding area, his senses alert, subtly flexing his fingers in readiness. His illusion soell quietly beneath his fingertips, poised to alter perception if enemy scouts approached too closely—a quiet but critical safeguard in maintaining their concealment.
They were confident another Bosmer with an awakened animal bond was unlikely; such powerful bloodline abilities were uncommon. Still, caution was absolute. Each member moved methodically, ensuring the kills remained hidden and the enemy unaware of the looming threat.
Devan signaled silently with concise hand gestures. They spread out cautiously, covering potential approach paths toward the ridge. Their objective was clear: prevent Dominion scouts from detecting Rashan's carefully laid ambush on the high ground. Alain took the eastern flank, disappearing among the trees, while Devan moved closer to the main route, fingers subtly tracing illusion patterns in the air, readying subtle spells that would alter an approaching enemy scout's perception without alerting suspicion.
Every seasoned commander understood the strategic importance of the high ground, particularly in narrow passages or gorges. Only an incompetent leader would neglect to thoroughly investigate such terrain. The Dominion was many things—but incompetent was not among them.
As Alain and Cassia melted silently into the dense brush, Devan steadied himself near the forward path, carefully beginning to weave his illusion. Each thread of magicka required meticulous preparation, precisely attuned to the subtle ambiance of the marsh—the gentle drizzle, shifting leaves, distant murmurs of wildlife. The spell was potent yet delicate, demanding nearly all of his available magicka. Once fully prepared, his reserves would be committed, allowing him at most one or two precise casts, depending entirely on the mental resilience of his targets.
After several moments of careful concentration, Devan completed the spell and stored it, holding it dormant within his mind, ready to be activated at a moment's notice. The illusion itself was elegantly straightforward: it compelled the target to naturally follow through on their original intentions—to meet their comrades, calmly deliver a reassuring report, and confidently confirm that all was well. For roughly an hour, they would remain entirely convinced of their memories and actions, their minds smoothly following the expected course.
Devan knew the spell's subtle limitation all too well. Eventually, as the illusion waned—assuming the target survived—they'd awaken to an unsettling sense of déjà vu, a lingering suspicion that something had been wrong. By that point, ideally, the false information would already have been relayed, and the target swiftly dispatched before they could fully grasp the truth.
Meanwhile…
Commander Iltharin moved steadily through the dense marshland, his elven armor gleaming faintly even beneath the dim, filtered sunlight. Around him marched ninety Dominion soldiers—Altmer battlemages, agile Bosmer archers, Khajiiti scouts, and a handful of heavy-armored Orsimer warriors. Progress had been slower than he hoped, but stealth and caution demanded it. They were now entering the final third of the marsh, a treacherous landscape ahead—narrow ridges and dense vegetation that any experienced officer knew screamed ambush.
He glanced forward, eyes narrowing slightly. His forward scouts had reported in just before entering this stretch, confirming no signs of enemy activity. Yet he knew from experience and protocol that another report was due soon. Standard Dominion procedure mandated that forward scouts confirm safety and clear passage once more before the main force navigated tricky terrain like this.
Almost as if summoned by his thoughts, a young Bosmer emerged soundlessly from the thick brush lining the marsh trail. Iltharin recognized him immediately—Arannis, his head scout. Youthful, lean, and agile, with chestnut hair tied back in tight braids to keep clear vision, Arannis was a prodigious talent. The Bosmer approached swiftly yet quietly, offering a respectful yet somewhat stiff salute, hand pressed lightly against his chest.
Iltharin acknowledged him with a faint nod, his expression unreadable. A subtle but tangible tension existed between them, rooted deeply in political differences. Arannis was a strict traditionalist, deeply committed to the Green Pact and fiercely opposed to the Dominion's more heavy-handed interventions in Valenwood—particularly the manipulation of forest spirits and sacred groves. Iltharin himself suspected Arannis's grandfather, an outspoken traditionalist elder, had been quietly "removed" by Dominion operatives—a suspicion he kept strictly private but strongly believed.
Yet despite the quiet tension, Iltharin relied heavily upon Arannis for one simple reason: his skill was unmatched among the scouts. He trusted the young Bosmer's expertise implicitly, even if he questioned his loyalty privately.
Arannis paused, meeting the high elf's gaze steadily. "Commander Iltharin," he reported calmly, voice clear but quiet. "The route ahead remains clear thus far. No signs of enemy presence detected. My scouts have spread along the forward perimeter. We expect to pass through the ridges safely—but advise caution as always."
Iltharin inclined his head slightly, maintaining a composed exterior even as his instincts remained wary. "Understood, Arannis. Resume forward scouting. Report any changes immediately."
Commander Iltharin signaled subtly, prompting the Dominion company to resume their slow advance. Nearly a hundred soldiers moved quietly forward, their boots softly pressing into the marsh's muddy, rain-soaked ground, each step muffled by thick layers of wet vegetation and the gentle drizzle still falling from a bleak, gray sky. Disciplined gazes swept through the dense landscape as the company maintained careful, vigilant silence, traversing the narrowing, winding route toward the fort ahead.
Ahead of the main force, Arannis turned back into the marshland after concluding his brief report to Iltharin. Slipping smoothly between tangled undergrowth and thick reeds, he swiftly and silently resumed his forward scouting role. His task remained straightforward but crucial: to rejoin his six fellow scouts—five Bosmer and one Khajiit—positioned far ahead, ensuring the route remained clear and safe.
Should any threat arise, each scout carried an enchanted arrow—a simple but effective precaution, cheaply imbued with illusion magic designed to produce a bright flare visible from a distance when shot skyward. A practical safeguard, ensuring swift communication to the company trailing behind.
Arannis moved onward, senses sharp, movements practiced and silent, returning swiftly to the hidden pathways through the marsh.