From the shelter of the rocks, Rashan watched the docks breathe.
The stone shelf pressed against the outer edge of Taneth's harbor, narrow and worn by salt, framed by a crooked line of merchant buildings and ship moorings. The fire still glowed behind them—thick orange light cast long over the quarter. Smoke rose above rooftops like a slow-moving storm.
Guards shouted in the distance. The granary had drawn most of the district. That gave them space.
Below, the drydock stretched wide.
The central pier cut straight to the water. Scaffolding rose around three hulls-in-progress. The resin house stood tight to the sea wall, slate-roofed with slatted vents. The tar platform crouched under heavy timber beams. Lanterns swayed along the outer walk. The loading ramp sloped toward the lower planks near the warehouses. Five critical zones. Rashan could see them all.
They slipped down from the rocks like smoke.
No alarms sounded. No voices called. Other guards and dockhands remained scattered across the zone—working, standing, moving cargo—but the trio avoided them cleanly, drifting past stacked rope coils, ducking behind hull frames and stacks of supply crates. Timing mattered. Shadows and noise from the fire gave them just enough room to move.
Rashan met Cassia's eyes.
She moved first, slipping into the dark along the edge of the pier. Her hood sank deeper as she moved. Jalil followed a curve in the stone and dropped low, crossing toward the resin house like smoke. Rashan veered toward the scaffolding.
He stopped beside a support brace, hands already working.
The first flask came free from the belt. He pushed the soft wax top, heard the snap of the inner beaker. A smooth shake. The vial warmed faintly in his hand. He placed it under the arch and drew the accelerant bottle—thick, sharp, hand-sized. He poured in clean strokes, soaking the timbers in a wide arc.
Target one—set.
He crossed to the tar platform. The barrels rose around him like oil drums. He slipped between them and set the second flask. The accelerant caught the light—slick over black wood.
Target two—set.
He moved fast toward the ramp—and a shift caught his eye.
Five men stepped out from behind the loading frame—two in guard leathers, three in work aprons. Spread but close enough to see. One dockhand lifted a hand, pointing toward the glow of the fire. Another turned—and caught the motion of Rashan crossing.
His hand moved for a horn.
Rashan moved faster.
Two strides. Palm strike to the ribs. The guard folded. Rashan caught him mid-fall and brought him down smooth.
Jalil reached the second before he could react. Arm hooked across the throat. Controlled pressure. The man sagged.
Cassia darted from the flank—one dockhand dropped from a strike to the base of the skull. Another turned, stumbling back, hands lifted. Rashan caught him, forced his balance off, and brought him down. Jalil took the last—one clean pivot, shoulder lock, down.
Five down. Unmoving. Breathing steady.
Rashan reached for the sedative. One vial per man. He dripped the shimmering green mix into each mouth, guiding each swallow with a press of the throat. Their breath deepened. Muscles slackened. Calm followed.
Jalil hauled two over one shoulder and carried them down the side ramp. Cassia gathered the third. Rashan followed with the last pair. The dinghy swayed beneath the dock, tied beneath the third mooring line.
They placed all five inside—tucked into canvas, settled low.
Then Rashan turned back.
He planted the third flask beneath the resin house. The fourth under the loading ramp. The fifth at the base of the pier. Each one already cracked and stirred. Each one waiting.
He poured the last arcs of accelerant in long, deliberate strokes across the joints and beams.
Then he climbed down into the sea.
Cassia held the stern line. Jalil took the lead. Rashan grabbed the mid-rope and guided it level. The dinghy floated quiet. They swam with calm strokes, just beyond the reach of the lanterns, following the southern coast into the dark.
Behind them, the drydock stood still.
But not for long.
They swam a couple of miles downstream, hugging the coastline as their bodies worked against the tide. The night stretched heavy above them, layered with cloud and shadow. The fire from the granary had faded to a soft orange smear on the horizon—distant now, more memory than light.
A merchant ship passed ahead, cutting clean through the bay entrance, its sails straining as it moved into deeper waters. Rashan held still, just under the surface. It looked like a Nord vessel—broad, with familiar sigils burned into its hull. No Khajiit on board. No unnatural night eyes watching the waterline.
He'd already cast night vision and waterbreathing on Cassia and Jalil. Their breathing stayed even, silent. No motion broke the surface but the slow drag of the dinghy behind them, tied and quiet.
They reached the mouth of a shallow inlet and guided the dinghy into a thick bed of reeds. The hull disappeared into the growth, wedged beneath hanging grass and layered shadow. Inside, the dockhands and guards slept motionless, wrapped in canvas. They'd wake safely, hours later.
Then Rashan gave the signal. One more mile.
They swam again—single file now, deeper into the tributary that cut through the old farmland south of the city. The water cooled as it narrowed, the current thick with reeds and driftwood. They moved like river spirits—silent, unseen.
When they climbed out, the last blaze glowed behind them—just a flicker now against the black of night.
The trail curved beneath old trees, a worn path used by orchard workers seasons ago. Weeds grew tall between stone walls, but the route still held.
Set into the side of a hill was a hatch—iron-bound, half-covered in moss. Jalil moved ahead and opened it.
The cellar took them in like it had always been waiting.
Inside, the air turned still and cool. The chamber curved low, dug deep into the earth with reinforced walls and stonework lined in clay. Three small beds sat along the back wall. Folded blankets. Supplies on shelves—hardtack, dried fish, water skins, extra maps. An oil lamp burned low on a narrow table.
They didn't speak.
Cassia shut the door behind them and slid the locking bar in place. Rashan sat first, cloak still wrapped tight around him. Jalil followed. Cassia stayed standing a moment, scanning the room, then joined them.
Together, they pulled back their hoods and veils—faces drawn, damp with effort, but focused. Their gear stayed on, blades at the hip, belts fastened, boots still wet. But the masks came down. At least here, in the dark, they could breathe.
Cassia signed first. Two sharp gestures. Rashan replied with a simple nod. Jalil added his own sign, brushing fingertips to shoulder, then chin.
No words.
Just the soft glow of the lamp and the flicker of firelight across stone.
They ate a little. Checked their weapons. Watched the map spread across the table without touching it.
Outside, the wind passed through the reeds like a whisper.
Inside, the silence held.
Tomorrow night, the bridge would fall.
As he laid on his bed Rashan stared at the ceiling.
The lore said Taneth held. He knew that. It was one of the few cities that didn't fall when the Dominion invaded. People pointed to it as a victory—proof that Hammerfell stood firm.
But that wasn't how he saw it.
Yes, the city held. On paper. But holding it didn't end the war. It didn't even slow it down. It dragged the fighting out for five years. The Dominion kept pressure from the sea the entire time—ships bringing fresh troops, mages, and supplies while Redguard forces were locked in place, bleeding to keep the walls up.
Holding Taneth didn't break the invasion. It just gave the Dominion somewhere to focus their strength—urban combat, coordinated battlemages, naval support. The exact kind of fight they were designed to win.
The war only started turning when the Redguards pulled back—when the fight moved inland. Away from their ships. Into the terrain. That's where Hammerfell started to win. Not because the cities stood, but because the land swallowed the Dominion whole.
So no—he didn't care what the books said. The city holding didn't mean it should've been held.
Burning the docks, the grain, and the drydock wasn't a betrayal. It was correction. They weren't going to waste years defending terrain the enemy was built to exploit.
Rashan hoped it wokld to a quicker and more decisive victory.
Collapsing the bridge over the Yer would do more than stop foot traffic. It would plug the river—block light boats from slipping upstream, deny access past the delta, and cut off any chance of the Dominion using the waterway as a supply route. The war galleons couldn't make it that far inland anyway, but smaller craft might've tried. Not anymore. It would also mark the best line to hold—far enough in that the sea couldn't support them, and tight enough to bottle their advance.
It would take a lot for time to remove the stone and timber from the river to allow troop transports upstream but even then the river had many natural obstacles.
It's why caravans were still the preferred method of trade from the inland.
Rashan waited with his comrades through the next day.
They stayed in a dry cellar beneath an old merchant house—stone walls, no windows, and a low ceiling braced with timber. The lamp near the door gave off a soft amber glow, casting a narrow pool of light over the room. Three narrow beds lined one wall, stiff with tightly packed straw and wrapped in dark cloth. Their blackout gear leaned against the far corner—veils folded, gloves stretched out, boots cleaned and realigned for quick wear.
They spoke only in sign. Quiet, brief, tactical.
Cassia sat near the back wall, adjusting the ties of her bracers. Jalil rested with one foot up, slowly rolling his ankle—always moving, always conserving energy. Rashan leaned with his back against the support beam, fingers tracing a pattern on the floor in the dust. His eyes moved across the small chamber without urgency. He knew every board in the ceiling now. Every place where the timber bowed or the stone chipped.
They ate as needed. Water drawn from a rain catch, cool and clean. Bread—dense and dry, but filling. It had weight and purpose. It was meant for times like this. He understood why the poor valued it—affordable, dependable, just enough flavor to remind you it wasn't punishment. His bread had found its place.
They rested in shifts. No one undressed. They slept in armor, cloaks still on, boots loosened only slightly. Every few hours, they rotated positions, checked the lamp, sharpened a blade or repacked a satchel.
When night reached its deepest point, Rashan stood.
No words.
They dressed in silence. Hoods pulled forward. Veils wrapped tight. Leather gloves checked twice over. Belts braced. Every movement practiced. Every strap memorized.
Before they left the cellar, Rashan cast Waterbreathing and Cat's Eye—first on Cassia, then Jalil, then himself.
They slipped into the alley, crossed narrow streets, and ducked into reeds without sound.
At the water's edge, they entered the Yer.
The current caught their legs first. Then their hips. Then they sank, gliding beneath the surface. Rashan swam like he always had—shoulders tight, motion efficient, eyes cutting forward. The cold helped. Focused the breath. A Redguard cargo ship passed nearby—sails down, lanterns swaying. They dropped lower, moved beneath it, and didn't rise until the wake passed.
The night cloaked them. Clouds covered both moons.
They kept low, following the coastline. The Yer narrowed as it bent past the old merchant piers. Soon the wreckage came into view.
The drydock spanned a massive slope of stone and scaffold—an entire wall of the waterfront dedicated to labor, masts, and repair. Blackened scaffolds rose in uneven tiers, half-charred, some still holding shape. Stretched along its edge, the piers curved like ribs beneath the surface, slick with soot and ash.
The resin storehouse had collapsed inward, warped steel doors buckled like paper. Overturned barrels scattered near the loading ramps, their contents hardened in wide streaks down the slope. A cart rested in the shallows—axles snapped, wheel cracked, frame half-burned. Wind shifted the last of the tar smoke through the reeds.
Rashan watched in silence, keeping his hand against the river's edge as they passed. A heavy, iron-fitted capstan—once used to lift entire hulls—stood blackened and still, its crank fused in place. The entire harbor felt stretched. Deep. Hollowed out. Bigger in its ruin.
They swam on.
The Yer curved again, and the bridge came into view. Arches of granite rose from the water, steady and wide. The ramp twisted upward on their side of the riverbank, flanked by tall reeds and framed by an old wall of stone. Willow trees clung to the bank nearby, their roots tangled deep in mud.
The team eased into the cover of the reeds and waited.
From here, the crossing stood clear—ancient, worn smooth by time and traffic, even at the dead of night there was traffic over the bridge.
They waited in the reeds until the bridge cleared of traffic.
One cart passed. Then a rider. Then footsteps—two, maybe three people walking across. Rashan counted every step. His pulse stayed level. Their moment came once the echo faded downriver.
Jalil signaled with two fingers. Cassia moved first. Rashan followed.
They crossed the open road quickly, hoods down, bodies low. At the center span, they crouched by the edge and looked over.
The climb was steep but familiar. Ten feet down to the first ledge—stone shaped into an old builder's brace. From there, a sequence of footholds curved beneath the arch. Water rushed beneath. Mist clung to the walls. The stone felt damp and coarse under Rashan's gloves.
He dropped first. The ridge caught his boots. He shifted his weight, tested the hold, then moved. One step at a time. Clean, practiced. Each ledge led to the next.
Cassia came next. Her footfalls landed without sound. Jalil followed with steady motion, his weight moving like a climber trained on stone.
They spread to their positions.
Rashan reached the southern support column. He pulled the flask from his belt—sealed wax top, beaker inside. He pushed the top until he felt the crack of glass. A short shake. The mix began to react.
He wedged the flask into the seam beneath the column's weight line. The fit was tight. Satisfying.
He drew his accelerant bottle and poured a winding trail along the spine. The liquid clung to the stone. It spread across the base in measured strokes, wrapping each column in a curved path, every inch traced with fuel.
Across the arch, Cassia mirrored the same pattern—fast, exact. Her trail arched between stones and met Rashan's at the center.
Jalil braced against the middle column. His potion locked beneath the main load point. His accelerant spread in a wide arc under the spine.
Bootsteps crossed above them. A wagon, slow. The wheel sound rolled across the bridge, then faded. They paused, motionless, pressed to the underside. Shadows drifted in the mist. Only breath and heartbeat filled the space.
Once the last pour finished, they pulled back.
Climbing out took longer. Rashan led again—hand over hand, boots sliding against the curved surface. His gloves pulled wet grit from the stone. Above the ridge, he reached the ledge and hauled himself up.
Cassia came next. Then Jalil.
The three regrouped at the far side, tucked behind a broken wall half-covered in brush. Rashan checked their movement once. Everything was in place.
The flasks sat beneath load points. The accelerant wound its way across the underside in a full circuit.
Rashan signaled with two fingers, and the trio slipped from the reeds.
The river pulled cold against their bodies as they dipped beneath the current, swimming with steady strokes toward the city's inner wall. This was the Yer's narrowest bend—a choke point where stone barriers split the current in two. The steel floodgate stood closed, barring passage through the channel.
They surfaced quietly at its base.
Rashan found handholds along the stone arch—old chisel marks from workers or smugglers who knew this route well. They climbed carefully, one after the other, fingertips gripping damp stone until they reached the roofline.
From there, the rooftops became their road.
They moved swiftly and quietly, keeping low to avoid moonlight and watching for patrols. Rashan led through familiar paths, crossing tiled ridges, navigating narrow gaps, stepping lightly over clay shingles and flat terraces. They crossed merchant lofts, passed temple towers, and navigated around drying laundry and bundled herbs left beneath window ledges.
The city remained quiet until the sudden tolling of alarm bells echoed through the air—the bridge must be on fire, Rashan thought.
They reached the warehouse rooftop where they'd stored their ropes—hidden beneath loose tiles behind a disused chimney stack. Rashan knelt, pulling aside the debris to retrieve their coils. He glanced below to watch a three-man patrol pass by along the wall's walkway.
They waited silently as the footsteps faded.
Cassia moved first, securing her rope to a sturdy anchor near the warehouse edge. She descended swiftly, confident and silent. Jalil followed, his larger frame precise and smooth as he reached the ground.
Rashan looped his rope securely, tested the anchor once, and then followed them down.
As his feet touched solid ground, he turned back toward Taneth.
In the distance, flames had consumed the bridge, illuminating smoke in dark plumes against the night sky. With a deep groan, the stone arches finally collapsed inward, sending heavy rubble crashing into the Yer River below.
Mission complete.
Rashan turned toward the desert beyond the inland wall, and the trio vanished quietly into the brush.
The trio sprinted about two miles outside of town, arriving at a small, isolated shack hidden among scrub brush and thin desert palms. A modest stable stood beside it, quiet and well-kept, prepared in advance and awaiting their arrival. No one else was present—exactly as Rashan had arranged.
Beside the horses stood neatly arranged sets of armor, each crafted specifically for the war ahead—armor Rashan had personally ordered and enchanted. As for the blackout gear they had worn during the operation, it had served its purpose. An urn waited nearby, already prepared. Without ceremony, they stripped away the evidence of the night's sabotage, tossing each piece into the urn to burn.
Rashan donned his new armor, pulling on fitted leather tailored precisely to his frame. The design carried unmistakable Redguard influence—supple goat-hide layered with carefully stitched panels, dyed in deep shades of earthy brown and dark red, accented with thin gold trim. It hugged his chest and shoulders snugly, flaring slightly at the waist and leaving him room for quick, agile movements. He had commissioned the armor himself, aiming for a slightly more modern, streamlined appearance—distinct yet perfectly suited to the culture and climate of Hammerfell.
He had personally enchanted each piece: a subtle weave of basic enchantments that provided practical protection. The first layer kept heat at bay, cooling the wearer against the desert sun. The second added modest resistance to slashes and blades, while the final layer offered minor protection against fire—nothing complicated or flashy, just straightforward, practical magic.
Jalil preferred a hybrid design—mostly lighter leather for agility but reinforced strategically with medium steel plates at his chest, shoulders, and forearms, compensating for his lack of Rashan's alteration spells. His armor bore the same straightforward enchantments: protection against heat, fire, and blade.
Cassia wore the lightest armor of the three, crafted from flexible, fine-grained leather dyed in muted shades. Her armor held enchantments tailored specifically for her role: a basic chameleon weave, subtly blending into surroundings when she remained still, sound-dampening enchantments to muffle her movements, and heat reflection to keep her cool beneath Hammerfell's harsh sun.
Once dressed and equipped, they mounted swiftly, guiding their horses into a smooth trot that quickly built into a gallop. Behind them, the flames in the urn rose higher, turning their former armor into ashes and embers, erasing the last traces of the night. The smoke curled upward, silent and thin—a final whisper of the chaos they'd left behind.