A few days later, four heavily laden wagons rumbled steadily down the worn Imperial highway, wheels grinding softly against weathered stone and packed earth, their axles groaning gently beneath the heavy cargo. Around them moved an escort of Dominion soldiers—ten disciplined Altmer warriors in tight, coordinated formation alongside ten wary, agile Khajiit fighters whose keen eyes scrutinized every shadow and crevice in the jagged terrain. Accompanying them closely, five lithe but battle-hardened Bosmer archers maintained careful positions, bows loosely gripped, fingers poised near quivers, ready to respond instantly to any sign of threat from the maze of eroded gullies, crumbling rock formations, and sparse scrub brush that composed these unforgiving badlands.
Trailing silently behind, clad in plain, concealing robes that obscured their distinctive glass armor, strode the Auroran Sentinel commander and his nine elite warriors. Ordinarily, such direct oversight would be unnecessary—even counterproductive—but the twisted landscape of rugged ravines and shadowed bluffs severely restricted visibility, making long-distance observation impossible. The Sentinel commander trusted only his own experienced gaze to evaluate this elusive enemy firsthand.
They had traveled approximately two-thirds of their route, the blazing midday sun high above them, when suddenly, at a sharp bend in the road, arrows exploded from above, slamming mercilessly into wagons and guards alike. Shouts of alarm, pain, and confusion erupted instantly as men staggered, shields raised hastily to block the relentless volley.
Without hesitation or even a shift in demeanor, the Sentinel commander and his warriors invoked ironflesh alteration spells. Their bodies shimmered subtly beneath the robes, flesh and skin hardening into something resilient and near-impenetrable. Their posture remained calm, perfectly composed, and utterly detached from the chaos rapidly unfolding mere paces ahead.
Almost immediately afterward, a sizeable force of twenty-five to thirty fierce Redguards burst forth from nearby gullies, charging with bold fury toward the caravan. They wore traditional ceremonial Alik'r armor, blades catching flashes of sunlight as they surged forward, their battle-cries echoing off the surrounding rocks. Yet the Sentinel commander made no move, his narrowed eyes carefully assessing the scene. This crude and straightforward ambush felt disappointing, beneath the caliber of intelligence he had been given.
The Dominion troops guarding the wagons quickly rallied into disciplined defensive formations, shields and blades meeting the charging Alik'r warriors head-on. Yet the Sentinels remained entirely motionless, detached and vigilant, calmly observing the violence unfolding around them.
Abruptly, arrows filled the air once again—but this time they flew not toward the caravan, but directly into the charging ranks of the Redguards. The Alik'r fighters found themselves caught brutally between the sharp blades of the Dominion guards and the merciless, pinpoint volleys of arrows from unseen archers hidden among the rocky landscape. Many Redguards crumpled immediately, pierced through armor, limbs, and throats. The most seasoned warriors among them instinctively drew upon their deep reserves of Will and Vitality to withstand the assault, fighting forward with unyielding defiance. Yet, their numbers dwindled rapidly under the punishing hail of arrows.
Even now, the Sentinels stood unmoving, their eyes coldly observant, assessing, waiting patiently.
Then, the Sentinel commander heard the unmistakable thunder of horses' hooves rapidly approaching from behind. Turning calmly, he observed another fifteen Redguard warriors bearing down on him and his nine soldiers from the rear flank, their expressions fierce and determined, blades raised high in deadly anticipation. They surged forward atop powerful Hammerfell steeds, armored and muscular, hooves kicking up a choking cloud of dust in their furious charge.
The commander made no motion to dodge or defend, merely tilting his head slightly. Instantly, five Sentinels stepped silently forward, forming a disciplined, perfectly aligned barrier directly in the path of the charging cavalry. They stood with serene, unwavering confidence, robes gently billowing in the rising wind as the mounted attackers thundered ever closer.
Three horse-lengths away, in perfectly coordinated timing, the five Sentinels unleashed a potent Destruction spell. Their hands moved as one, palms flattening toward the earth as powerful magic surged outward. The ground trembled violently before massive spears of hardened rock erupted from the dry soil, thrusting upward with ruthless, unerring precision.
The riders, committed fully and charging at full speed, had no time to react or evade. The stone spears punched upward, instantly impaling horses and riders alike. Terrible screams pierced the air, mingling with the sickening crack of bone and the agonized cries of horses. Riders were violently thrown from saddles as mounts were skewered through chests and underbellies, bodies tumbling helplessly forward onto unforgiving stone.
Several horses, skewered horribly, crashed and tumbled violently across the unforgiving earth, their agonized screams abruptly silenced as their massive bodies slammed into the ground, crushing their helpless riders beneath their immense weight. Others, driven by pain and sheer panic, toppled sideways with frantic, flailing movements, flinging their riders headlong onto the waiting stone spears below. These unforgiving spires punched mercilessly through hardened leather and robes, ripping open flesh, shattering bones into jagged shards, and erupting in sprays of crimson gore. One rider's chest exploded open as a spear burst through his armor from beneath, showering the ground in viscera, while another was impaled directly through the neck, his blood cascading down the stone spike as his limbs convulsed briefly before falling still.
Within mere heartbeats, what had been a disciplined, powerful charge was reduced to a horrific tableau of slaughter: bodies twisted and bent grotesquely, broken limbs protruding at unnatural angles, entrails spilled onto the dry, cracked earth, rapidly staining it a deep, brutal crimson beneath the blazing midday sun.
Without hesitation, three Sentinels calmly ceased maintaining the earth-shaping spell and stepped forward with deadly precision, drawing their elegant glass longswords in fluid, synchronized motions. With chilling detachment, they swiftly moved among the wounded Redguards still gasping, crying out in agony amid their mangled steeds and shredded robes and leather armor. One Sentinel's blade arced downward cleanly, severing a fallen warrior's head in a single precise stroke; the decapitated head rolled to a rest with vacant, staring eyes still wide in shock. Another wounded rider, struggling feebly to push himself upright, barely had time to register the shimmering emerald blade as it plunged mercilessly through his throat, cutting short his desperate gasp in a spray of arterial blood. A third Sentinel dispatched his victims with mechanical efficiency, the blade effortlessly carving through padded cloth, flesh, and bone alike, silencing the few remaining groans of agony into final, gurgling silence.
The Sentinel commander stood motionless, his features impassive beneath the concealing hood. He calmly surveyed the chaotic aftermath with cold detachment, his eyes tracing slowly over twisted corpses, blood-slicked stone spikes, and the shredded remnants of flesh. Despite the effectiveness of the response, a faint irritation gnawed at the edges of his composed expression. This did not match the intelligence he'd meticulously reviewed—this crude tactic seemed beneath the cunning adversary he had been promised.
Suddenly, from among the rocks along the edge of the battle-scarred highway, a lithe figure emerged silently. A Bosmer—his leather armor more traditional, less ornate than the Bosmer archers who had initially guarded the caravan—stepped gracefully toward the commander. The lead Sentinel, Erendriel, regarded him with subtle expectation, his gaze sharp and calculating. This Bosmer was part of an elite unit he had personally recruited, ten warriors whose exceptional skill and unmatched woodland instincts made them a highly valued asset. Even among his talented peers, this one was particularly adept, his movements silent and efficient, his demeanor quietly confident despite the brutal carnage around him.
Erendriel tilted his head slightly, voice calm but edged with quiet urgency, "Where are the others?" He was specifically referring to the rest of the Bosmer scouts—the elite archers tasked with securing their position and eliminating threats from the shadows.
The Bosmer warrior met his commander's gaze steadily, replying without hesitation, "We found three others watching nearby. They were wearing the masks. The others are currently in pursuit."
Erendriel felt the faintest smile curve the edges of his lips, anticipation igniting within him. At last, the prey he sought had revealed itself from the shadows.