Before they moved out, Rashan sent Cassia ahead.
Operational protocol. No exceptions.
She was their scout for a reason. Light-footed. Unseen when she needed to be. Her illusion magic didn't make her invisible, but it bent light just enough to distort her outline. At night, that was all it took.
Her role was simple: observe, report, and warn. She knew a flare spell—a bright, arcing streak she could launch into the sky if something went wrong. That was her only exception.
Even if they were close to the city, protocol didn't change. Familiar roads made people careless. Rashan didn't tolerate that.
Protocol existed for a reason.
Especially now.
They had hostages.
He and Jalil had helped them scavenge boots from the storage crates in the bandit camp—cracked leather, the laces frayed, but they fit. Better than bleeding feet on open stone.
Still, the girls could barely walk. One limped. The other kept drifting, as if her legs couldn't decide which direction they belonged in.
Rashan didn't say a word. He stepped over, placed a hand on each of their shoulders, and cast a Restoration-based stamina spell. Gentle, low-charge—just enough to help the body hold itself up.
Then he layered a passive version of Longstrider over them both. Weaker than the active spell he used himself, but it lengthened their stride. Smoothed their steps.
He gave them each a small potion from his belt pouch. Light stimulant. The kind meant to get soldiers through the last few miles of a retreat.
Potions in this world weren't like the game.
You didn't chug two liters of glowing goo and walk it off. Most were smaller than your hand. Clear-topped vials, easy to unstopper. Measured doses. Precise results.
They drank.
It helped.
They weren't fast, but they moved.
Rashan adjusted the pace without comment—shorter marches, longer rests, flatter routes with more cover. He watched for terrain that might funnel them into bad angles. Avoided choke points. Chose tree lines over open ground.
Cassia scouted the path ahead in wide arcs, never too far, never too close. The girls walked in the center of the group, arms still wrapped around each other, faces buried under dirt and trauma. One still hadn't spoken. The other stared at the ground like it might disappear.
No one rushed.
No one relaxed.
The sun shifted overhead. Shadows stretched long.
The journey took a day.
They made it through the gate with their masks put away.
The guards didn't stop them. By now, they knew the rhythm.
When the two Dunmer girls finally looked up and got a good look at him—and at Cassia and Jalil—they blinked in quiet surprise.
They hadn't expected their rescuers to be so young.
Rashan didn't say anything. He just waved Cassia and Jalil over and had them escort the girls to an inn near the lower quarter. He paid for a room and their food—a week's stay, no questions asked.
It wouldn't cost much, if he was being blunt. And he didn't mind showing a little humanity when he could.
After that, he turned and headed toward the office that handled bounty claims.
He never bought into the Skyrim fantasy where you just strolled into a Jarl's keep, marched up to the steward, and claimed your gold. That worked if you'd just killed a dragon. Maybe. But a two-bit bandit? That went through channels.
As it should.
The office was packed when Rashan arrived.
Farmers, tradesmen, bounty runners—some waiting to file claims, others there to complain. It didn't matter. He walked straight to the front.
Being a noble had its benefits.
The bureaucrat behind the counter stood the moment he saw him.
"Lord Sulharen," he said, polite and quick. "A pleasure as always."
Rashan didn't waste time. "The bandits east of the spring are dead."
The man nodded, reached into a drawer, and placed a few small silver ingots onto the table. Dense. Clean-cut. Not like the game—no oversized blocks of cartoon metal. These were practical. Trade-standard. Easy to weigh and hard to fake.
Rashan took them without comment.
"The recovered items will be accounted for," the bureaucrat continued. "Your recovery fee will be calculated and sent to your estate within the month."
Rashan gave a short nod, then turned toward the Redguard officer seated nearby.
"I also recovered two hostages. Dunmer girls. Daughters of a merchant family."
The man looked up.
"Dunmer?" he said, voice flat. "Well. That's two less dead bodies to clean up, I guess."
Rashan sighed.
Shitty people existed everywhere.
He stepped closer, placed his hand flat on the counter.
"I expect their belongings returned to them."
The bureaucrat straightened.
"Of course, my lord. After the standard recovery fee is deducted—for your services, and ours."
Rashan didn't blink. "The normal fee," he said.
Calm. Clear. Measured.
The man nodded quickly. "Yes, of course, my lord. The normal fee."
He was hearing "my lord" more often these days. Less 'young noble.' More weight behind the title now.
Rashan gave a final nod and turned to leave.
Rashan found them midafternoon, sitting near the edge of the market, half in shade, quiet.
They hadn't slept. He could tell.
They weren't shaken. But they weren't steady either.
Killing hadn't bothered them.
It never had.
But this was the first time they saw what the kind of people who deserved to be killed were actually capable of doing.
Rashan stopped in front of them and gave a small nod.
"Alright," he said. "We're off. Time for some R and R."
Jalil raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"Meet me at the beaches."
Their eyes widened.
Cassia blinked. Then smiled—just a flicker. Jalil grinned wide, like someone had just handed him a drink and no responsibilities.
"Oh, we're actually relaxing?" he said. "Thought you'd only let us do that after we died."
Rashan grinned at him. Not big, not flashy. Just that quick, crooked one that meant he was actually enjoying himself for half a second.
"Three hours," he said. "No armor. If either of you brings a weapon, I'm throwing it into the sea."
Jalil threw up both hands. "Even my backup dagger?"
Cassia nudged him—sharp elbow, subtle smirk.
Rashan shook his head and turned to go.
They followed him.
They returned to the estate just long enough to change—shucked off bloodstained leather, dust-coated linen, anything that smelled like iron or death. No armor. No gear. Just light shirts, sandals, and the salt-heavy breeze waiting for them outside.
Then they walked.
The path to the beach cut through old stone alleys and wild grass. The city fell behind in pieces. Noise faded. Air shifted. Wind came in clean off the water.
Rashan didn't just want to give them rest. He wanted to give them a pause. A breath. One afternoon that still felt like it belonged to them.
Because the real war was coming. And he could feel it now.
The Empire would retake the capital—he'd bet his life on it. And then they'd call it a victory. They'd smile for the crowds, sign a treaty, and walk away like the bleeding had stopped.
The White-Gold Concordat.
It would leave Hammerfell alone.
And when the Thalmor came back—and they would—there'd be no one left to stand beside them.
He glanced sideways.
Jalil walked loose and quiet, hands behind his head like he was trying to pretend the sun still felt normal. Cassia followed behind, silent, eyes sharp but far-off. Neither of them had slept, but they weren't on edge either. Just heavy. Like something had settled on them and hadn't quite let go.
He waited until they were clear of the city before saying anything.
"I know that cave was a lot," Rashan said.
No one responded, but they both looked over.
"Killing didn't shake you. It never has." He didn't say it like a judgment—just fact. "But seeing what people who deserve to be killed are capable of? That's different."
He let the words sit, then added—
"It's going to get worse. Especially when the real war arrives."
That made them trade a glance. Just a quiet, wordless look. The kind that asked, Isn't the war already happening?
Rashan didn't answer. He didn't need to.
He kept walking.
"Don't focus on what they did," he said instead. "Focus on what you did."
He looked out at the horizon.
"You dropped a stone into a pond. The ripples don't stop with you. You kept it from happening to someone else."
He scooped up a small rock without breaking stride and tossed it into the brush.
Didn't watch it land.
They said nothing, but the air between them lightened just enough to breathe.
The sun had shifted low behind them now—coloring the sky in rust and gold. The sea stretched out ahead, all shimmer and wind and salt.
Jalil kicked off his sandals and broke into a jog straight into the surf. "Gods, I missed this," he called out.
Cassia smirked and followed, slow but steady, arms loose, shoulders finally starting to relax.
Rashan stayed back for a moment, standing at the edge of the sand with the wind in his face, eyes half-closed.
Just listening.
He sighed letting go of the things to come.