Rashan calmly descended toward the caravan, mask securely in place, eyes impassively fixed on Jaleel. His second cousin straightened slightly as Rashan approached, wearing a carefully practiced, pretentious smile.
Jaleel Sulharen stood tall—just slightly taller than Rashan—his broad shoulders accentuated by the tailored merchant's coat he wore, embroidered with intricate patterns of deep crimson and gold. He was fair-skinned for a Redguard, though unmistakably of Hammerfell stock, his features sharp and attractive in a haughty sort of way. Long braids cascaded neatly down his back, decorated with polished beads and small golden clasps, a clear sign of wealth and status. His eyes, dark and calculating, regarded Rashan with thinly veiled arrogance.
"Hello," Jaleel began formally, his voice smooth and overly polite, dripping with practiced confidence. "I am Jaleel Sulharen."
Rashan nodded once, voice cool and detached. "We are Anbu. Your supplies are appreciated."
He noticed the slight flicker of irritation pass through Jaleel's eyes—likely offended Rashan hadn't removed his mask, a subtle snub to someone accustomed to being shown respect. Still, Jaleel said nothing openly, unwilling to compromise his carefully maintained pretense of civility.
Taking the supply manifest from Jaleel's outstretched hand, Rashan quickly scanned its contents. Immediately, his irritation flared behind his mask.
"What the fuck—half the supplies I requisitioned are missing," Rashan stated coldly, lifting his masked face directly toward Jaleel. "Where are the alchemic supplies I specifically asked for?"
"Ah, yes," Jaleel coughed awkwardly, shifting his weight uncomfortably as his facade briefly cracked. "Well, you see, the main forces have pressing demands, and it is wartime—resources become scarce—"
Rashan cut him off bluntly. "My Anbu will verify your claims. If what you say proves true, you have my sincere apologies. But if you are lying, I will break both your arms."
He deliberately chose that threat, knowing Jaleel vividly remembered how it felt. Predictably, Jaleel's carefully crafted composure immediately fractured, his face flushing indignantly.
"How dare you!" Jaleel sputtered angrily, his dark eyes flashing with wounded pride. "I'm risking my life—and the lives of my men—to deliver these supplies!"
Rashan remained utterly impassive behind his mask. "Unload my supplies. I will personally investigate these shortages. Should your claims prove false, I shall report directly to my commander, General Samir Sulharen."
Jaleel visibly paled, suddenly flustered. "Wait—you report directly to General Sulharen himself?"
"Yes," Rashan replied simply.
Quickly scrambling to salvage the situation, Jaleel hurriedly assured him, "There's no need for concern. Another shipment is already scheduled and will arrive within the next week and a half to remedy this oversight."
"We won't be here in a week," Rashan dismissed him flatly. "Don't bother. But if this happens again…"
Privately, Rashan felt a surge of annoyance. Jaleel was clearly up to his usual games, seeking petty advantage where he could. Rashan could easily report him directly—but honestly, the hassle wasn't worth it. He only needed to set a clear precedent: don't fuck with me. Jaleel could play his games with anyone else—just not with him.
Jaleel quickly attempted to smooth things over, regaining a measure of his outward calm. "Rest assured, from now on, whenever your Anbu require supplies, I shall personally make sure you receive priority."
"Or I will break your arms," Rashan repeated coldly, watching with satisfaction as Jaleel's regained composure shattered again.
Suppressing a satisfied grin behind his mask, Rashan turned away to begin unloading the caravan's supplies. Just then, the fort's gates swung open—the Orcs posted above allowing entry. Cassia, Devan, and Arannis returned from their patrol, masked and clearly weary from their mission.
As Jaleel's caravan prepared to depart, his gaze fell suddenly on Cassia—her unmistakable fiery-red hair and distinctly slender form recognizable even beneath her mask. Rashan saw recognition bloom clearly in Jaleel's widened eyes. Jaleel had seen Cassia before, the day he'd cornered Jalil into that unfair spar—she had been the one who alerted Rashan and spoiled his plans.
Jaleel quickly glanced back at Rashan, suspicion and realization visibly dawning. Clearly, the threat about breaking arms had dragged Jaleel's mind back to that humiliating day.
Rashan merely shrugged inwardly. He honestly didn't care if Jaleel recognized him beneath the mask; in fact, he welcomed it. With the implied connection to his father clearly established, Jaleel would think twice before trying to shortchange the Anbu again.
Afterwards...
As Jaleel departed from the fort, anger simmered beneath his carefully composed expression. That arrogant bastard… even now, Jaleel still dreamed from time to time of vengeance—visions of personally breaking Rashan's arms haunted him, fueling his quiet resentment. How dare he humiliate him again, threatening him openly as if he were nothing?
His caravan guards exchanged wary glances, recognizing the storm gathering on Jaleel's face. Each guard subtly took a half-step backward, familiar with their employer's volatile temperament. When Jaleel was pleased, he lavished praise and rewards, but when his mood soured, even minor errors—or none at all—could result in lost wages, double watches, or worse.
The caravan trundled steadily along the dusty road, leaving the fort further behind as afternoon shadows began lengthening. After they'd passed safely out of sight of Rashan's position, Jaleel spotted another group approaching from ahead. He narrowed his eyes slightly, appraising their rich clothing and distinguished bearing. Their leader was unmistakably a noble—a Redguard, dressed in the elegant robes and traditional turban marking him clearly as Alik'r Crown nobility. Behind him marched five disciplined warriors, their polished lamellar armor glinting sharply in the sunlight.
As the dignitary drew closer, Jaleel recognized him immediately: Sorian Al-Satakala, the influential Crown nobleman whose name had grown increasingly familiar through recent dealings. He recalled briefly glimpsing a detachment of Alik'r soldiers on powerful, finely-bred horses departing from the fort earlier—this man must have been part of that very delegation. But where was the rest of his entourage now? And why was Sorian here, meeting him so soon after speaking with Rashan? Jaleel quickly buried his suspicion beneath a carefully cordial mask, deciding it best not to openly question the noble's intentions—yet.
His father, Hadi Sulharen, had begun shifting their business subtly toward Crown supporters—always claiming pragmatically that the Forebears' influence was waning, and it was wise to side with the eventual victors. Hadi was shrewd, always anticipating where the scales would ultimately tip.
Sorian's eyes brightened with recognition as they neared each other. His carefully groomed salt-and-pepper beard accented the dignitary's shrewd expression as he offered Jaleel a warm, polished smile. He inclined his head respectfully, performing a graceful Redguard gesture of greeting reserved specifically for noble houses.
"Honor and fortune upon your house, my noble friend," Sorian said smoothly, his voice richly resonant and impeccably courteous. "It is a pleasure to cross paths with you here, Lord Jaleel Sulharen."
Jaleel mirrored the dignitary's polite greeting, bowing gracefully in return. "And may your ancestors ever watch over you and yours, Lord Al-Satakala," he responded formally, offering the traditional salutation with practiced nobility.
Sorian's dark eyes glittered with quiet amusement. "I see you've already made the acquaintance of our masked mutual… acquaintance," he said casually, his gaze briefly flicking toward the distant fort. "Quite the enigmatic figure, isn't he?"
Jaleel paused, caution briefly shadowing his features. Even his pragmatic father had certain firm boundaries. Family was family. You never publicly aired your grievances or, worse still, involved political adversaries in settling private scores. But as Jaleel stood there, a surge of bitter memory overtook him—the humiliation he'd endured, the searing agony of bones snapped like kindling, the merciless whispers and veiled laughter that haunted his dreams. How many restless nights had he spent planning his retribution, plotting ways to regain his honor?
Seeing Jaleel's hesitation, Sorian leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "Please," he continued smoothly, gesturing invitingly. "I have a camp nearby, well-stocked with fine wine and good food. Perhaps we might discuss our friend's... activities and motives."
Jaleel weighed his options silently for another moment. Family honor was sacred, yet the burning desire for personal revenge slowly won out.
"He is no friend of mine," Jaleel replied firmly, deliberately emphasizing the word friend as he fixed his gaze directly on Sorian. "You, Lord Al-Satakala, however, have my ear."
Sorian's smile deepened knowingly, eyes sparkling with intrigue. "Excellent," he said, turning to lead the way. "Come then, Lord Sulharen—let us speak openly."
Jaleel, with a single commanding gesture, redirected his caravan's course, instructing his guards to follow Sorian Al-Satakala toward his nearby encampment.
Meanwhile…
Rashan sat heavily in his chair, fingers drumming slowly against the surface of his desk. He was quietly fuming behind his mask. Out of cautious concern for Jaleel—because, despite everything, the fool was still family—he had reluctantly sent Cassia and Devan back out to discreetly follow and observe the caravan. Caravans were vital wartime resources, and Rashan intended to ensure nothing befell it, even if its leader irritated him beyond measure.
But now Jaleel had gone off with that damned Alik'r dignitary, Sorian Al-Satakala. Rashan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully behind his mask as he recalled the look of recognition that had flashed in Jaleel's eyes upon seeing Cassia. He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly as he processed the implications.
Rashan tapped the desk rhythmically, frustration simmering beneath his careful outward calm. His cousin wouldn't reveal his identity, would he? The question hung heavily in Rashan's mind. Yes, Rashan concluded grimly—Jaleel most certainly would, especially recalling the young noble's past actions and opportunistic character. Given the petty way he'd shorted their supplies, Rashan seriously doubted Jaleel had grown more honorable in recent years.
This complicated things, Rashan thought bitterly, his irritation deepening further.
Guess he would be going out tonight to visit his cousin...