Rashan moved silently through the predawn darkness, sprinting fluidly alongside the towering Nords, Dorran and his son, Gorrun. It was nearly three in the morning—the deepest part of night—and their enchanted Anbu masks, carefully imbued with a subtle yet effective Night-Eye enchantment, bathed the rugged terrain in muted shades of bluish-grey, revealing every rock, shrub, and shadow clearly beneath the moonlight.
Earlier that day, Rashan had already run patrols alongside the other Redguards and the stoic Orcs in their unit. He pushed his team relentlessly, determined to remain vigilant even though the Dominion had yet to respond to the deliberately freed Khajiit scout, Dar'ava. Rashan had expected swift retaliation, but the silence had stretched now for over a week—unnecessarily dramatic and irritatingly cautious, in Rashan's opinion. Their primary target, the influential Altmeri merchant, wouldn't arrive for nearly another month, forcing the Anbu to spend their days and nights in continuous patrols and constant preparation.
Local Hammerfell commanders near Gilane were now demanding control of the captured fort Rashan currently occupied, but thus far he had successfully resisted their attempts, leveraging his father's name and the undeniable fact that he had personally led its capture. For now, it allowed him to operate with relative freedom and autonomy.
Running at Rashan's side, Dorran and Gorrun were quintessential examples of Nordic strength and pride. Dorran, at forty-one, stood tall and commanding—over a head taller than Rashan himself—with a powerful build that spoke clearly of decades spent in harsh climates and fierce combat. His broad shoulders, massive chest, and thick, corded muscles were plainly visible even beneath the specially tailored black leather armor Rashan had designed for the Anbu. The armor, slightly enchanted to stimulate Will recovery, resist the harsh Hammerfell heat, and subtly increase its density against blades and arrows, hugged Dorran's imposing form. His blonde hair, streaked faintly with silver, spilled from under his hood, woven carefully into thick warrior braids. Piercing eyes, the color of glacial ice, gazed steadily from beneath his mask with a calm, ever-watchful intensity.
Gorrun, who had recently turned twenty, ran beside his father, matching his pace effortlessly. Like Dorran, Gorrun was impressively built, with dense, tightly packed muscles shaped by relentless training. His youthful frame still lacked his father's seasoned bulk, but it held remarkable power and vitality. Golden-blonde hair fell thickly around his shoulders, carefully braided to mark his own early victories. His eyes were identical to his father's—clear, glacier-blue, and filled with youthful eagerness tempered by disciplined training.
The father and son rarely seemed to sleep deeply, always volunteering for the earliest patrols and guard duties, claiming restless energy kept them from proper rest. Rashan had quietly noted this unusual habit, impressed by their inexhaustible stamina and dedication.
Tonight's patrol had taken them half a day's travel toward Gilane. Rashan had prepared carefully, providing each of them with his custom "Sprinter Potion," specially brewed to replenish their Will as they ran, sustaining their rapid pace and intensity far longer than normally possible. He deliberately avoided horses, despite their speed, as mounts were noisy, cumbersome, required constant maintenance, and severely limited their tactical flexibility. On foot, with the support of his carefully crafted potions and enchantments, the Anbu moved swiftly, silently, and unpredictably—striking from unexpected angles and vanishing without a trace.
Ahead, Gilane's distant silhouette began to slowly emerge beneath the pale moonlight. Rashan pressed forward, flanked by the formidable Nords, eyes scanning sharply beneath his mask, ever vigilant, ever ready.
Then they waited, utterly silent and patient, as the horizon began to soften, bathed in faint streaks of lavender and fiery gold. The sky's gentle brightening touched the rocky badlands, casting jagged shadows across the uneven terrain.
Rashan reached quietly into his pouch, retrieving a slim vial filled with a translucent potion he'd carefully brewed—a subtle, experimental blend of finely ground Chaurus eggs, distilled Nirnroot, and trace amounts of powdered Moon Sugar. Though imperfect, the potion was intended to replicate a basic illusion effect, one that subtly shifted his appearance to blend into the rugged surroundings. It was crude by magical standards, no stronger than a novice mage's first fumbling attempt, but Rashan had few regrets. Choosing the Healer class had bolstered his innate alchemical skill, turning potions into a practical alternative amidst the war's relentless demands. For now, his illusions relied on stillness, requiring absolute discipline and control; the slightest unnecessary movement risked disrupting the delicate camouflage.
As the sun finally crested the horizon, its pale amber glow spread across the land, bringing a Dominion patrol into view. Five High Elves marched arrogantly along the wide stretch of the Imperial highway, their brilliant golden glass armor shimmering ostentatiously, as if daring any resistance to strike them. Strategically, the patrol mattered little—just a routine march between quiet farmland near Gilane and outlying villages. But Rashan firmly believed in consistent, vivid reminders that the Anbu still lurked, merciless and watching.
Drawing a quiet breath, Rashan smoothly conjured his spectral bow, a pale, ethereal weapon softly glowing with azure hues. Reaching back, he carefully drew a physical arrow from his quiver. While he preferred conjured weapons for their convenience, physical arrows remained his preference for precision and reliability. He calmly aligned the shot, the HUD's targeting cursor settling effortlessly over the vulnerable gap just below the Dominion leader's helmet—right where delicate flesh remained exposed.
He released the bowstring in perfect synchrony with Arrowshift, propelling the arrow forward with unnatural speed. The missile streaked like lightning, punching through the Elf leader's throat with brutal, ruthless efficiency. Blood sprayed violently outward in a crimson arc, the leader crumpling instantly, choking helplessly as he collapsed into the dust.
The two Nords exploded from their hidden positions near the roadside, heavy battleaxes drawn, their black leather armor gleaming dully beneath the dawn's first rays. Rashan had slightly enchanted their armor himself—subtle enhancements designed to boost Will recovery, endure Hammerfell's punishing daytime heat, and slightly increase leather density, enhancing protection against blades and arrows.
The Nords' Will surged visibly as they moved, enhancing their speed and strength as they barreled forward. Dorran, his massive frame radiating terrifying calm, reached the first infantryman before he could react. The huge Nord's axe swung in a brutal horizontal arc, cleaving through the soldier's chestplate, bone, and muscle with a savage, wet crunch, splitting the Elf nearly in half. Hot blood splattered vividly across the ground, staining the pale armor crimson.
Without hesitation, Dorran pivoted sharply, using his axe handle to crush another elf's jaw, shattering it like brittle porcelain. The elf staggered backward, screaming through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth, only for Dorran's follow-up swing to sever his head completely—helmet and all. The lifeless body fell heavily, twitching grotesquely.
Gorrun mirrored his father's brutality with youthful ferocity. His axe flashed in a ruthless upward strike, carving deeply into an elf's midsection. Blood and viscera erupted from the gaping wound as the soldier stumbled to his knees, staring in shock at the gore spilling freely into his hands. In the same fluid motion, Gorrun spun on his heel, burying his axe blade deep into the collarbone of another Dominion soldier, cleaving through armor, flesh, and bone. The soldier howled in agony as he crumpled, twitching feebly in the blood-soaked dirt.
The final elf, panic-stricken, tried desperately to flee, turning frantically away. Gorrun caught him by the shoulder, spinning him violently around, his axe splitting the elf's helm and skull in a single powerful blow. Shattered armor fragments scattered, embedding themselves in blood-soaked earth.
Rashan watched from his concealed position, a cold smile hidden beneath his mask. The swift, merciless violence pleased him—the Nords had executed their task with brutal, uncompromising efficiency, exactly as he'd envisioned.
They traveled swiftly back toward the fort, pushing steadily through the scorching heat without pause. Rashan allowed only a brief rest before pressing onward, unwilling to risk lingering openly. With the fort finally coming into view, he eased their pace slightly, signaling Dorran and Gorrun to slow down and catch their breath.
Small talk drifted naturally among them, eventually touching upon the broader implications of the war they now fought. Gradually, the conversation shifted toward the Empire, and Dorran's mood darkened visibly beneath his mask. His jaw tightened, pale-blue eyes narrowing sharply, and his voice grew thick with old bitterness and restrained anger.
"I was there when we retook the Imperial City," Dorran rumbled, a deep, cold bitterness permeating his words. "I watched as brave warriors and good soldiers gave their lives to reclaim it, pouring their blood onto streets they'd sworn to protect. And once we'd finally pushed those Dominion bastards out, when honor and courage demanded we strike them down and finish what they'd started, the Empire chose to sign that damned treaty instead."
Dorran shook his head in disgust, fists clenching tightly. "Weakness disguised as peace. They had victory in their grasp and let it slip away, choosing compromise over courage. Now look where we are. All that sacrifice, wasted."
Gorrun walked quietly beside his father, nodding firmly. He didn't speak—he didn't need to. His silence alone spoke clearly enough, echoing the anger, resentment, and disappointment Dorran had instilled in him from a young age.
Dorran's cold eyes flicked toward Rashan. "The Empire made its choice. Cowards and diplomats chose dishonor over strength. A nation unwilling to fight when it matters most isn't worth the blood spent defending it."
Rashan listened quietly, offering no meaningless reassurances or hollow words. He simply nodded once, respectfully acknowledging the depth of the Nord's bitter feelings.
As they continued toward the fort, Dorran let out a low, satisfied chuckle, finishing his thought. "After the Empire made their coward's peace, I returned home and fetched my lad here from the clan—he'd been training, eager to fight proper battles. Then I heard Hammerfell had the guts to stand tall against those arrogant golden-skinned knife-ears. Well, we set out straight away. Jalil invited us to your little trial of yours, and now here we stand, doing exactly what we came for."
He cracked his knuckles beneath thick leather gauntlets, a grim, cold satisfaction filling his deep, rumbling voice. "Killing damned High Elves."
Meanwhile…
Commander Erendriel Larethar sat quietly within Gilane, carefully reviewing the limited intelligence he had gathered on these elusive "Anbu."
Information remained frustratingly sparse, but from what little he had, one fact was clear: these adversaries were disciplined, precise, and ruthlessly efficient—favoring small, elite units, strikingly similar in style to his and other Auroran Sentinels units.
His gaze returned once again to the interrogation reports of the Khajiit scout. Most of the scout's original story held true, but under more forceful questioning, one deeply unsettling detail had emerged clearly: the Khajiit abandoned his claims of escape and admitted he'd been deliberately set free. The implications troubled Erendriel greatly—such arrogance and calculated confidence suggested a dangerous opponent.
Even more concerning, another Dominion patrol had been ambushed just this morning along what should have been a secure route. The patrol leader had fallen instantly, pierced by an arrow that had driven unnaturally deep, despite bearing no detectable enchantment. The other soldiers had been butchered brutally, their golden armor rent by powerful blows unmistakably delivered by heavy battleaxes.
Erendriel carefully recalled the Khajiit's mention of Orcs, Nords, and even a Dark Elf accompanying the Redguards, all wearing identical masks. Such a mixed-race composition led him to conjecture that this Anbu group likely originated from Taneth, the one coastal stronghold still openly defiant—heavily reinforced with foreign volunteers and mercenaries of various races.
He tapped the polished surface of his desk thoughtfully, dissatisfied. Erendriel needed clearer, actionable intelligence—he needed answers.
His cold eyes narrowed slightly as he turned once more to the scattered reports of recent ambushes. Commander Erendriel Larethar carefully traced each attack location with his finger, thoughtfully piecing together a plan. He would keep patrols running as usual, but gradually increase their size—making it appear as though he was simply tightening security after recent attacks.
Additionally, he would prepare an "essential supply shipment," directing it toward one of their occupied villages conveniently situated in the direction of the captured fort. Such an appealing target would surely lure out the "Anbu," giving him the perfect opportunity to finally capture one alive and obtain the answers he sought.