Arannis Farsong sat cross-legged on the cold, uneven stone floor of the old Imperial cell, clothed only in coarse sackcloth that chafed at his skin with every restless shift. In the cramped space across from him, a talkative Khajiit had once again attempted idle chatter, his voice full of optimistic friendliness. Arannis had ignored him—again. Conversation felt pointless; escape even more so. His captors had seen to that, reinforcing the ancient iron bars with painstaking care. He'd tested them subtly in the first few hours, finding them frustratingly solid beneath their weathered exterior.
Periodically, a Redguard—judging from the glimpses of dark skin beneath his armor and robes—appeared in the hallway. Always the same man, always silent, his face obscured by an eerie white mask painted meticulously into the fearsome visage of a dragon. The figure would enter quietly, place a stool directly opposite Arannis's cell, and then simply sit. Watching. Waiting. He never spoke, never threatened. The silence he brought was more unsettling than any taunt or threat could have been.
Dawn approached once more; faint streaks of amber sunlight filtered through a narrow slit set high in the hallway wall outside his cell. He marked another careful scratch on the damp stone, silently tracking days he doubted would ever truly matter again. Closing his eyes briefly, he allowed memories of home to flood in—vivid flashes of Valenwood's lush canopy, leaves whispering softly overhead as the great migratory trees of Falinesti slowly shifted through the seasons, the rich fragrance of blooming blossoms, sweet wild berries, damp earth, and the gentle hum of insects filling the dense forests. Arannis sighed quietly, the ache of nostalgia sharp enough to hurt.
When he opened his eyes again, the grim reality returned in stark clarity. He was thoroughly, undeniably screwed. The memory of waking from that damned illusion spell—witnessing firsthand the sheer destruction left behind by these Anbu—had sealed that truth into his bones. At first, he'd braced himself for torture, interrogation, threats…but none came. Just endless silence, broken only by meals and the Khajiit's futile attempts at conversation.
Even if he somehow managed to slip out of these chains and bars, he couldn't realistically return to Dominion ranks. They had barely trusted him to begin with; his grandfather, a respected clan leader and the most vocal critic of Dominion violations against the sacred Green Pact, had recently died under suspicious circumstances, along with an entire hunting party, officially listed as victims of "wild beasts" deep in Valenwood's forests. Arannis had barely been permitted time to perform the sacred Mourning Feast—a solemn rite of ritual consumption to honor the fallen according to the Green Pact—before being swiftly ordered away to the front lines in Hammerfell, denied any chance to investigate the suspicious nature of the deaths.
Arannis felt deep in his gut that the Altmer had a hand in his grandfather's demise, especially considering that shortly afterward, guardianship of his younger brother—still barely more than a child—had been abruptly transferred to a distant relative openly loyal to Dominion rule and disdainful of the traditional ways. This relative quickly assumed his grandfather's former position within the clan, aligning closely with Dominion interests. With his grandfather's protection gone, Arannis, considered an exceptional talent even among skilled scouts, had found himself abruptly conscripted into frontline service, conveniently removing a potential source of future opposition. His parents, staunch supporters of his grandfather, had already perished fighting on the Empire-Dominion front lines, deliberately deployed into the deadliest conflicts—a common Dominion tactic for silencing the most capable Bosmer who resisted Altmer dominance.
His little brother was now effectively a hostage, kept obedient through political control rather than physical chains. Arannis had no illusions about what his sudden return from a disaster like this ambush would mean—questions he couldn't safely answer, and scrutiny that would endanger the only family he had left.
He exhaled bitterly. The Dominion had taken nearly everything from him. Perhaps if they believed him dead, his brother might remain safe. Showing up alive after the devastating ambush would only invite suspicion—questions he couldn't possibly answer safely.
His bleak thoughts were interrupted by a faint commotion in the hall. The Khajiit eagerly called out in greeting as two massive Anbu guards—one unmistakably a Nord by his towering size and pale skin, the other clearly an Orc by sheer bulk and presence—opened the cell across from Arannis's.
"Ah, my friends! Finally, yes? Time to stretch these legs," the Khajiit purred brightly, eagerly following them out. The door shut with a heavy metallic thud, echoing softly down the corridor.
Moments later, the familiar sound of footsteps returned. Arannis glanced sideways, already knowing who would appear. Sure enough, the masked Redguard quietly entered the cell block, placed his stool precisely across from Arannis's cell, and seated himself with deliberate calm. Yet this time, with a casual ease that took Arannis by surprise, the young Redguard reached up and removed his dragon mask, revealing a face far younger than Arannis had expected.
Arannis stiffened subtly in surprise, studying the Redguard's features carefully. By Bosmer standards he himself was still considered young at twenty-five, yet this Redguard looked noticeably younger—far too youthful, it seemed, for one commanding warriors as ruthless as the Anbu.
"Hello," the Redguard spoke evenly, eyes steady and focused.
Arannis deliberately turned his gaze back to the stone wall, feigning his usual disinterest.
Unperturbed, the young man continued in the same calm, unwavering tone. "My name is Rashan Sulharen, leader of the Anbu."
Arannis exhaled softly, annoyed, but kept his silence—until Rashan spoke again, adding quietly, "And you are Arannis Farsong. We need to talk."
Arannis slowly turned back, eyes narrowing sharply, suspicion and surprise mingling. How in Y'ffre's name did this Redguard know his name?
Rashan continued calmly, breaking the heavy silence. "I'll keep this brief. I believe we're alike in one important way—we don't care for bullshit or theatrics. Though, admittedly, when it unsettles my enemies, I don't mind indulging a little."
Arannis tensed slightly, remembering vividly how they'd permitted him to witness the psychological torment they'd inflicted on the Altmer commander. It had been deeply unsettling—but Arannis couldn't summon even a shred of sympathy for the commander himself. Still, these "Anbu" were frighteningly ruthless.
Rashan leaned forward slightly, his youthful features sharp in the faint morning light that filtered into the dim cell. "You," he continued, his tone calm and direct, "are exceptional. Based on the reports from my people and everything else I've learned about you, there's no doubt. But you have a serious problem."
He waited a moment, gauging Arannis's reaction carefully. "You cannot return to the Dominion. After losing a hundred soldiers on your watch, your position—which was tolerated at best only because of your skills—will vanish completely. You have no allies left to shield you from repercussions at home."
Arannis deliberately turned away, eyes fixed stubbornly once again on the cold stone wall, silently defiant as Rashan continued, unfazed.
"Your grandfather was murdered," Rashan said softly, voice measured, "and your younger brother is effectively a hostage now—to a family member who is nothing more than the Dominion's puppet. Young Caelrin—is that his name?"
At the sound of his brother's name spoken by this outsider, Arannis whipped his head back toward Rashan, eyes blazing dangerously. "Xarxes take you," he hissed venomously in Jel, the Bosmeri dialect reserved for curses that needed no translation. If looks alone could kill, Rashan would have been struck down in an instant.
Rashan merely raised his hands slightly, a gesture of disarming honesty. "Look, I'm not going to get anywhere with you locked up in this cell, and I don't particularly enjoy torturing people who hate the Dominion just as much as I do. Especially not when I believe we should be allies."
Rashan reached calmly behind him, retrieving a pristine white mask. It was similar to his own, but marked elegantly with the emblem of a tree, beautifully detailed in subtle, sweeping lines.
"I want you to join me. The Dominion already believes you burned to ash in that ambush," he said, chuckling softly but without cruelty. "I'll make you a promise: When we win this war—and we will—I will personally travel with you back to Valenwood to retrieve your brother. I have no intention of remaining in Hammerfell once this is all over. Destiny is calling elsewhere, though," he added cryptically, "I don't have to answer it right away. I'll have time to burn."
Arannis studied Rashan skeptically. The cryptic remark about "destiny" struck him as odd—maybe even a little unhinged—but beneath that unsettling comment, he saw something else far clearer and more compelling: absolute, unwavering confidence. On paper, Hammerfell's chances against the Dominion seemed slim at best, but Arannis couldn't dismiss the image still burned vividly into his mind—the brutal efficiency that had cut down a hundred Dominion troops, or the defiant strength of Taneth, stubbornly holding despite all odds. Rashan clearly believed every word he said, and that, Arannis realized quietly, was not something to take lightly.
"Help me," Rashan continued softly. "Join us. Fight beside me. Or don't."
Rashan smiled faintly again, more gently this time. "Either way, let's get you out of here."
Without waiting for a response, Rashan rose and calmly unlocked the cell door, stepping back slightly as it swung open. Arannis stared in disbelief, hesitating a long moment before cautiously stepping outside. Rashan didn't bind his wrists or place any restraints upon him, merely motioned for Arannis to follow. Still skeptical and wary, Arannis complied, following Rashan quietly into another room where, to his surprise, all his gear had been carefully laid out and preserved.
Arannis donned his clothing and gear quickly, still refusing to speak as his mind raced with suspicion, disbelief, and cautious curiosity. Rashan then calmly led him toward the fort's main gate.
Standing before the open gate, Rashan held up the white mask bearing the intricate tree design. Bright morning sunlight now streamed through the opening, bathing the stone courtyard in a gentle golden glow. "Decision time," he said gently. "You're free to go where you wish. You can return to the Dominion and face harsh questions—or vanish into the wilds. Or," Rashan lifted the mask slightly higher, "join us."
"But if you choose otherwise," Rashan added, now donning his dragon-marked mask again, "please run straight to Gilane and tell them exactly where we are. There are eighteen Anbu, one hostage, and no support coming. I'd prefer that outcome over desertion—even if it is the safer choice. After all, Arannis Farsong, you're technically already dead."
Arannis stood silently, staring out through the gate into the fresh morning light. Dew shimmered softly across blades of grass, the air crisp and filled with the earthy fragrance of a waking world. Paths unfolded outward, each calling him gently toward freedom. He imagined slipping silently into the forest beyond, leaving behind politics, pain, and the memory of Dominion chains, vanishing beneath the comforting embrace of familiar trees as he sought out his brother.
Slowly, he turned his gaze back to Rashan, eyes settling once more upon the white mask, its intricate tree emblem catching the morning sun. It spoke quietly to him—both a promise and a burden, a new life bound up in secrecy, trust, and blood.
He remained poised on the threshold, balanced between two paths, two futures, and two worlds, each quietly calling out his name.
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