Rashan sat quietly in the small, stone-walled chamber of the captured fort, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he scanned the latest intelligence report delivered from his father's spies. It had been four and half weeks since they'd annihilated the Dominion's reinforcing company, and still no aggressive moves had come from Gilane. Rashan tapped his finger against the parchment, mildly disappointed. He'd half-expected—perhaps hoped—that the Dominion would react impulsively, sending another force barreling down the Imperial highway straight toward the compromised fort.
Instead, it seemed the enemy commanders had opted for caution. The loss of an entire company had shaken them, prompting a predictable but frustratingly cautious response: rather than bolstering Gilane and making another attempt at reclaiming their lost position inland, the Dominion had redirected reinforcements to Taneth, another coastal stronghold.
Rashan's lips thinned slightly in contemplation. It was a logical decision, he admitted privately. With one company massacred in such ruthless fashion, only a fool would throw more lives away down the same contested route. Dominion commanders were arrogant, but not foolish. Rather, they were disciplined, calculating, and politically adept—even their harshest occupations were tempered by cold pragmatism. Rashan knew from experience that Dominion occupation often followed a precise formula: swift and brutal suppression of resistance, strategic application of martial law, and careful exploitation of political divisions. They weren't interested in ruling burnt-out husks; the Dominion sought compliance, order, and dominance.
Now, according to the reports, the commanders in Gilane had begun to crack down hard on the surrounding villages. Curfews tightened, patrols doubled, and public punishments became frequent displays. Merchants suspected of supporting resistance found their goods confiscated or destroyed, their livelihoods methodically dismantled. Families who had lost kin in the attack on Rashan's ambush were publicly shamed, some imprisoned as examples, others interrogated until they revealed sympathizers.
Rashan set the parchment down, the grim news oddly comforting in its own way. Each act of oppression the Dominion committed sowed more resentment, fueling quiet anger that simmered beneath outward compliance. And anger, Rashan knew, was a useful tool. Angry villagers became willing informants; resentful merchants made easy spies; grieving families turned willingly to sabotage, discreetly aiding Anbu's growing network.
Rashan's attention settled on a dossier concerning an influential merchant scheduled to arrive in Gilane—a High Elf of considerable wealth and significant political clout named Aravel Larethian. Aravel was an elder statesman among the Dominion's merchant elite, known for a sprawling trade empire extending across Summerset and Valenwood. His wife had passed years prior, leaving behind a turbulent power vacuum within the family that had yet to be decisively settled.
As Rashan meticulously reviewed the dossier. He had strongly emphasized intelligence gathering regarding dignitaries, merchants, noble envoys, military attaches, and other figures of strategic value entering Dominion-occupied coastal cities. Now, this groundwork was paying off.
Aravel was of particular interest due to his family's intricate connections and ambitions. Of his four children, two served directly within the Dominion's military: his eldest daughter commanded a company actively engaged in field operations, while his second son held an officer's rank stationed near Taneth—now notably reinforced by Dominion forces following the annihilation of their company near Gilane. The remaining son and daughter were embroiled in a fierce, often cutthroat competition to inherit and further expand their father's merchant empire. This internal rivalry, exacerbated by the ongoing war, presented precisely the sort of fracture Rashan sought to exploit.
Rashan's finger traced the neatly written notes provided by Alain, whose past connections as a Blade proved invaluable. Alain leveraged dormant Imperial networks quietly supporting Hammerfell beneath a carefully maintained facade of neutrality mandated by the White-Gold Concordat. Officially, the Empire had withdrawn all military and diplomatic support from Hammerfell. Yet beneath that official stance, a covert network thrived: Imperial bureaucrats, sympathetic Legion veterans, and disillusioned officers discreetly facilitated intelligence exchanges, clandestine trade, and the movement of volunteers across the border, all under plausible deniability.
A grim yet satisfied smile formed beneath Rashan's mask. Aravel Larethian represented precisely the type of high-value target needed—a figure whose removal would send potent political shockwaves throughout Dominion ranks. The ensuing chaos would ripple not only through the merchant class but also deeply impact military and political spheres, intensifying familial rivalries and destabilizing internal Dominion politics. Moreover, such a targeted strike would unmistakably signal that Hammerfell remained defiant, unconquered, and fiercely resistant.
He nodded firmly to himself, tapping the dossier with decisive clarity. The course ahead was unmistakably clear.
Assassination.
Alain obtained Aravel Larethian's itinerary through a former Imperial intelligence contact still embedded deep within Valenwood. Although officially unified under Dominion rule, Valenwood harbored subtle yet significant internal divisions—particularly among traditionalist Bosmer who strictly adhered to the sacred Green Pact.
Under previous Imperial rule, Valenwood had enjoyed relative autonomy and respect, or at least been pragmatically respectful, for Bosmer traditions. While the Empire required allegiance and taxes, they generally permitted Bosmer communities considerable self-governance and, crucially, honored the Green Pact—the solemn Bosmer oath forbidding any harm or consumption of their forests' vegetation. Imperial administrators wisely refrained from interfering, maintaining stability through respectful pragmatism.
By contrast, the Aldmeri Dominion, despite being elven kin, imposed far harsher policies of cultural assimilation and central control. Altmer administrators frequently dismissed Bosmer rituals and aggressively reshaped forest terrain for military infrastructure, clearing sacred groves, constructing roads and fortifications, and repeatedly violating the sacred Green Pact. To devout adherents, these intrusions were not merely offensive—they represented profound sacrilege, stirring resentment and fostering quiet but resolute defiance among traditionalist clans.
Leveraging these tensions, Alain's Imperial contact recruited a Bosmer informant whose devotion to the Green Pact superseded any allegiance to the Dominion. This informant, employed discreetly as a clerk within Valenwood's trade commission, secretly copied Aravel's meticulously logged merchant travel itinerary as it passed through administrative channels. These critical documents were then quietly relayed first to Alain's contact, who swiftly arranged for their covert transport to Hammerfell, ultimately delivering them directly into Alain's waiting hands.
As he finished reading, Rashan took a long sip of watered wine from his flask and wiped his face thoughtfully. Evening had settled in quietly. He decided he'd still get a late workout in—his rigorous training regimen remained a priority whenever time allowed. With their food supplies secure, Rashan typically dedicated at least an hour daily to physical conditioning.
Recently, some of the other Anbu—especially those not on watch—had begun joining him during these sessions. They found his training methods intriguing, particularly Alain and Devan, who had increasingly started to ask detailed questions about his unique techniques. While the fort didn't offer the means for his usual underwater weight training and swimming drills, Alain and Devan had discovered these methods while questioning Rashan about his broader training practices. When Rashan casually mentioned these underwater exercises, intended to expand lung capacity and maintain a lithe yet powerful physique, it opened the floodgates of their curiosity, prompting endless animated discussions about endurance, breath control, and unconventional combat conditioning.
As Rashan stepped into the cool evening air of the fort's courtyard, he settled into his training routine—a precise blend of slow, deliberate yoga-like poses seamlessly intertwined with controlled combat forms. Each movement flowed carefully into the next, emphasizing perfect balance, muscular control, and disciplined breathing. This style was deceptively challenging; it demanded meticulous focus, extraordinary core strength, and precise control over every muscle fiber, pushing even experienced fighters to their limits.
At first, some Anbu members—especially the larger, more heavily built warriors like the Orcs and Nords—had been skeptical, viewing the slow, deliberate sequences as too gentle or meditative to be useful. Yet after several attempts, they'd quickly realized the immense difficulty of maintaining perfect form and stability. The deliberate pacing ruthlessly exposed every weakness in their balance and muscular endurance.
Over the past few weeks, these same larger warriors had grown noticeably stronger in unexpected ways. Their balance and footwork improved drastically, enhancing their combat agility despite their size and bulk. Additionally, their breathing became steadier, their movements smoother, and their strikes more precise. Alain and Devan had eagerly pointed out these improvements, encouraging others to adopt Rashan's unconventional approach, leading to a growing respect for the profound discipline underlying his seemingly calm and gentle exercises.
Taking a deep breath, Rashan moved over to the water barrel, soaking a cloth and quickly scrubbing himself clean. A proper bath was impossible within the captured fort—limited water supplies had to be conserved strictly for drinking, cooking, and essential hygiene only. Thus, a quick wash using just enough water to remove sweat and grime was the most practical option available.
After drying off, he carefully applied a subtle alchemical potion designed specifically to neutralize and mask scent, a necessary precaution to maintain stealth and avoid detection by enemy scouts. He readjusted his mask into place, the cool ceramic resting securely over his features. Wearing the mask had become mandatory for all Anbu members whenever awake—unless eating or sleeping. Rashan wanted the mask to become their identity, a silent symbol of unity and anonymity.
In a few hours, he would pay another quiet visit to his Bosmer prisoner, Rashan thought, a faint, enigmatic smile forming beneath his mask.