Malaik and Saif, Anbu Redguards, remained concealed on their vantage point, eyes sharp as they silently observed the Dominion company moving through the marshland below. Thick vegetation and intermittent drizzle limited visibility, forcing them to rely on brief glimpses between tangled branches and shifting foliage. Each soldier moved cautiously, causing occasional overlap or obscured lines of sight, making a precise headcount impossible.
Still, the scouts' practiced eyes discerned rough estimates of troop composition:
20–25 Bosmer archers, identifiable by their slight builds, subtle camouflage, and distinct longbows.
20–25 Khajiit warriors, notable from glimpses of their feline forms and fluid, graceful movements beneath the dense canopy.
10–15 High Elven mages, evident by their robes, minimal armor, and careful, reserved positions within the formation.
50–60 High Elven infantry, lightly armored warriors whose elegant but minimal gear indicated an emphasis on speed and maneuverability rather than heavy combat.
After exchanging a quick, silent look, Malaik and Saif rapidly communicated these estimates using precise hand signals. With the composition relayed and verified, Saif stepped back silently into the dense underbrush, swiftly moving to report directly to Rashan. The main force was approaching rapidly; within the next hour, they would enter the designated kill zone.
Meanwhile…
Alain, Devan, and Cassia remained utterly motionless, concealed beneath meticulously prepared camouflage. Mud, moss, and dense marsh vegetation clung tightly to their armor and masks, rendering their forms nearly indistinguishable from the marsh itself. Cassia's subtle illusion spell further blurred her outline, weaving shadows and mist gently around her figure.
Yet despite their careful preparations, each heartbeat felt painfully loud, each slow, measured breath an exercise in absolute control. A tense, heavy silence enveloped them, broken only by the faint rustling of wet leaves and the approaching footsteps.
Step… step… step…
Five scouts—five Bosmer, agile and quiet, and one lithe Khajiit—advanced cautiously through the marsh, eyes narrowed and searching intently. Each scout moved methodically, scanning the tangled vegetation and damp terrain with practiced efficiency. Their bows were drawn halfway, fingers resting lightly on taut bowstrings, ready to react instantly at the slightest provocation.
The lead Bosmer scout, a younger elf with piercing amber eyes and sharp, angular features, signaled softly to the others, coordinating their movements with silent hand gestures. Alain watched him carefully, noting the heightened tension in the scout's stance—their missing comrades were undoubtedly on their minds.
Alain's fingers tightened slowly around the hilt of his blade, muscles coiled, ready. Beside him, Devan's jaw clenched, his breathing slow, rhythmic, carefully controlled. Cassia, still masked by her illusion, felt the weight of this critical moment. Her muscles tensed beneath her careful concealment, nerves held at a knife-edge of readiness.
Another step, another slow, measured stride brought the scouts dangerously close. Alain and Devan watched intently, hyper-aware of every subtle shift and movement, waiting for any sign they'd been detected. Cassia barely dared to breathe, her heart thumping softly yet insistently within her chest.
The scouts were now barely twenty meters away, their wary eyes passing slowly over every shadow and curve of vegetation. Every second stretched excruciatingly, each heartbeat measured in painful clarity. One misstep—one wrong breath—would spell disaster.
Step by cautious step, the enemy moved inexorably closer, unknowingly edging toward a hidden clash that would decide the mission's fate.
Alain, Devan, and Cassia lay utterly still, their bodies pressed flat against the marshy ground beneath dense, damp vegetation. Rain pattered softly overhead, droplets sliding down their camouflaged forms and seeping coldly through layers of mud-covered cloth. The air was heavy with humidity, filled with the earthy scent of decomposing leaves and stagnant water. Each breath they took felt cautious, measured, a conscious effort to remain invisible, silent—unnoticed.
Ahead, partially obscured by mist and hanging branches, six scouts slowly approached their position. Five Bosmer and one Khajiit moved forward cautiously, their steps quiet and deliberate, eyes scanning carefully across the thick foliage. Each moment drew them closer, step by cautious step.
Step… step…
Alain felt the calm stillness he'd cultivated over decades as a Blade settle into his limbs, heart steady but alert, pulse strong yet slow. He had lived his life in moments precisely like this—tense, balanced between action and patience, each breath carrying the promise of violence. The grip on his dagger remained relaxed, fingers ready yet loose, poised to strike or remain still in equal measure. The nearest Bosmer scout, lagging just slightly behind his companions, came ever closer, unaware that each careful step brought him perilously near Alain's concealed blade.
Step… step…
Devan lay equally motionless, but his heart thudded harder, not from fear but anticipation and the subtle dread of age. Decades ago, in Morrowind, he had stalked targets as effortlessly as breathing, a proud operative of the Morag Tong. Now, the crisp certainty of youth had dulled slightly. The stakes had changed. He was here now for his daughter-in-law, his grandchildren—family he'd vowed to secure citizenship and safety for. His breath was steady, yet carried the heavy weight of responsibility. The assassin he had once been stirred slowly within, cool and familiar, reminding him sharply of the ruthless skill still buried deep in his bones.
Step… step…
Cassia, perfectly concealed beneath layers of camouflage and her subtle illusion magic, felt her pulse quicken slightly. Her training resonated in her mind: endless days, months, and years spent perfecting exactly this—being invisible, unseen, waiting motionlessly until the perfect moment to strike. She was Rashan's hidden blade, honed meticulously for situations precisely like this one. She felt no doubt, no hesitation. Instead, her mind sharpened further with each passing second, anticipation mingling seamlessly with readiness. She trusted Alain to choose the moment, and when he did, she would respond with precision.
Step… step…
The Bosmer scout moved closer—so close now that Alain could hear his cautious breathing, see the faintest twitch of his eyes scanning the underbrush. Alain's muscles coiled subtly, mind focused entirely on the imminent strike. Cassia and Devan waited silently, muscles taut beneath the tension.
This was the moment.
Just one more step.
Cassia and Devan lay concealed at the outer edges of their carefully arranged ambush, positioned slightly forward and outward from Alain, creating a subtle arc that encircled the approaching scouts. Alain waited silently in the center, positioned directly in the path of the slowly advancing Bosmer group.
The enemy scouts moved cautiously, roughly evenly spaced across the marshy ground, creating a loose formation as they stepped forward. Their leader, Arannis, was slightly ahead at the front, eyes carefully scanning the dense undergrowth ahead. Two Bosmer scouts followed a short distance behind him, staggered slightly back and spaced apart. Behind them, the Khajiit scout paced quietly, alert and cautious, while at the rear, another Bosmer lagged slightly further back, positioned closest to Alain's hidden spot.
Cassia and Devan remained utterly still at their positions on each flank, hidden by vegetation and their careful camouflage, ready to collapse inward when Alain initiated the strike. They watched patiently, breath steady, each second ticking slowly toward the inevitable moment of action.
Cassia, Alain, and Devan each understood precisely what their objective was. A single mistake—a single scout raising an alarm through an illusion spell or firing an enchanted warning arrow—would instantly alert the main Dominion force. It was standard practice for scouts: the moment danger was detected, they'd send up a magical signal or illusion flare to warn their company behind.
Cassia tightened her grip on her dagger, breathing softly and evenly beneath her camouflage, illusion spell shimmering faintly around her. Alain remained motionless, blade held in a deceptively loose grip, ready to surge forward in a heartbeat. Devan steadied himself, mind focused, prepared to unleash a carefully crafted illusion at the first sign of trouble.
Each heartbeat felt magnified, the silence thickening with every careful step the scouts took closer. This moment was critical; everything depended on perfect execution.
The make-or-break moment had arrived.