Alain inhaled slowly, every muscle perfectly coiled, the rhythm of his heart calm yet powerful. The Bosmer scout stepped into position, unaware of the shadow behind him. Alain rose fluidly, the precision of a decade guiding his blade with practiced, ruthless efficiency. In a single blurred motion, the steel flashed across the Bosmer's neck, slicing through skin, sinew, and vocal cords with surgical accuracy. Blood erupted from the savage wound, a dark fountain spurting onto Alain's armored hand. The scout's eyes widened in shock, mouth working soundlessly, before life drained rapidly from his face. Alain caught the body gracefully, lowering it with controlled gentleness, soundlessly onto the damp earth.
As the lifeless form settled, Alain crouched low again, scanning the scene with ice-cold professionalism. His mind was sharply honed by years of imperial training—no hesitation, no mercy, only methodical efficiency.
A heartbeat later, Cassia and Devan exploded into motion, timed impeccably with Alain's silent signal.
Devan moved first, his decades of Morag Tong training erupting forth with sudden, brutal speed. The Khajiit never saw his death approach—a short sword flashed in an elegant arc, severing fur, flesh, and bone as if the victim's neck offered no resistance. The head spun from the Khajiit's shoulders, wide-eyed, its severed windpipe spraying a crimson geyser before the corpse crumpled heavily onto the marshland grass. Devan's face betrayed no emotion; this was his profession, an art form honed across countless bloodstained contracts.
Cassia's strike was born of pure, ruthless precision, drilled into her relentlessly by Rashan's exacting standards. She lunged from her concealment, plunging the razor-sharp dagger sideways through the Bosmer's throat. With practiced cruelty, she jerked the blade forward sharply, ripping through the jugular and silencing vocal cords in one swift, merciless stroke. Blood gushed hotly over her wrist, staining her fingers with warmth as the Bosmer dropped, choking silently, eyes glazed and frantic in death's embrace. She felt no hesitation—she was exactly what Rashan had molded her into, a perfect instrument of silent murder: his hidden blade.
Alain pressed forward, intercepting the next scout without pause. His Blades training evident, every move compact and disciplined. His sword punched cleanly through the Bosmer's sternum, embedding itself deep into the scout's chest. The elf's heart ruptured instantly, sending crimson froth bubbling from gasping lips. Alain withdrew the blade calmly, allowing the body to crumple without ceremony, his mind already tracking the next threat.
But at the forefront, the Bosmer leader reacted swiftly. Young, agile, and armored in supple elven leather, his instincts screamed danger. The second Bosmer scout beside him scrambled in panic to draw an enchanted warning arrow. Cassia and Alain simultaneously launched daggers at him—Cassia's blade narrowly missed as the scout twisted sharply, but Alain's dagger punched deeply into the scout's shoulder with a sickening, wet crunch. He stumbled backward, dropping his bow with a hiss of pain. Cassia, already closing, drove her dagger deep into his exposed throat, wrenching it forward with ruthless efficiency. The spray of blood drenched her face, hot and coppery, the Bosmer gurgling helplessly beneath her as life fled his twitching form.
The Bosmer leader spun into motion, driven by instinctive desperation. Devan hurled two throwing knives in rapid succession, their edges gleaming lethally. With uncanny agility, the elf evaded both blades, executing a flawless side-roll to his feet, already drawing back his bowstring. His fingers reached instinctively for the warning arrow, heart racing with urgent panic.
But Devan had anticipated this, already poised with his own weapon. He stood utterly still, bow fully drawn, its deadly tip unwavering, perfectly aimed at the young Bosmer's rapidly rising chest.
For one frozen heartbeat, they stared at each other—the Bosmer leader's face twisted with defiant fury, Devan's eyes cold, empty, and utterly merciless.
This moment, balanced between life and violent death, stretched agonizingly in the rain-soaked silence.
Devan released his arrow, aiming dead-center at the Bosmer's chest, but the elf reacted with lightning reflexes. He dropped sharply backward into the marsh's thick mud, water splashing violently around him. The arrow shrieked through empty space, slicing through the drizzle barely an inch above his chest. In one fluid motion, the scout rolled deftly to his feet, drawing an enchanted arrow of his own and pointing it urgently toward the gray, drizzling sky—desperate to signal his comrades.
Alain surged forward, blade flashing downward in a swift, lethal arc, intent on ending it instantly. But the Bosmer pivoted sideways, slippery as a serpent, and Alain's sword plunged instead into sodden earth, sending muddy water splashing upward.
Cassia appeared silently at the elf's flank, short sword slicing viciously toward his exposed ribs. Forced to abandon his shot, the Bosmer twisted sharply, raising his bow in defense. Her blade severed the bowstring with a harsh snap, the sound muffled by the damp air.
Without hesitation, the scout drove a fierce, desperate kick into Cassia's abdomen, knocking the breath painfully from her lungs. She stumbled backward, gasping quietly as rain dripped from her soaked hood.
The elf dove forward immediately, narrowly evading twin strikes from Alain and Devan, their weapons hissing inches from his skin. Rolling swiftly upright, he drew two small, hollowed animal horns from his belt and squeezed forcefully. Dense, choking smoke erupted, black clouds billowing heavily outward and mixing with the drizzle, rapidly obscuring visibility.
Alain, Devan, and Cassia tightened their grips on their blades, bodies tensing beneath the oppressive rain. They shared a brief, urgent glance, knowing precisely how dangerous this scout would become if allowed to vanish into the marsh. The darkening vegetation and swirling smoke were his element, and letting him escape now would invite disaster.
Devan, the most prepared among the trio, swiftly reached into his belt pouch and withdrew one of several potions he habitually carried—each vial selected from a small but reliable collection for exactly this kind of emergency. Without hesitation, he uncorked the life-detection potion and drank it down quickly.
Immediately, Devan's vision shifted, senses sharpening, only to be instantly overwhelmed. The thick smoke surged with countless blurred signatures—life permeating every part of the alchemically conjured haze. Bosmer craft, Devan thought bitterly, unmatched in potency and subtlety. His enhanced sight was rendered useless; the cloud itself radiated life, masking his enemy completely.
"Useless," he cursed softly, frustration simmering beneath careful control.
Alain's voice broke sharply through the chaos, confident and decisive. "Get the bows from the fallen!"
Cassia and Devan hesitated for only the briefest moment, clarity replacing confusion. Alain was right—the bows from the scouts they'd already killed lay untouched, mere feet away.
They moved swiftly, charging directly into the dense, choking smoke. The acrid vapor burned their lungs and stung their eyes, but hesitation now would be fatal.
WANT MORE CONTENT TODAY???
READ AUTHORS THOUGNTS BELOW!!!