Cassia left her lover to the Nords and kept walking, hands tucked behind her back, eyes flicking from tent to tent.
Cassia kept her hands behind her back as she walked the edge of the training camp. She moved like shadow—quiet, curious, and watchful.
She paused when she saw them: a pair of young Dunmer men, lean and wiry, flinging throwing knives at a worn wooden board nailed to a post. The blades hit, sure—but not well. Off-center. Inconsistent.
Their movements were sharp but rushed. Self-taught, maybe. Sloppy.
Cassia tilted her head.
Then the older one appeared.
An older Dunmer—mid-fifties, perhaps—walked up behind the pair. His eyes were dark and calm, his step unhurried. He didn't speak at first. Just stood, arms folded, watching them throw.
Then, with a low grunt, he stepped forward, took one of their knives, and corrected the younger boy's grip. "You're slicing across. Pulling your shoulder. Straighten the elbow. Breathe before you throw."
He demonstrated with a casual flick of the wrist.
The blade thudded dead-center—without him even looking.
Cassia's brows lifted slightly. Interesting.
Was he their father?
No. She watched the way the boys stood—the deference, the wide eyes, the slight lean inward like they wanted to impress him. No familiarity. Just respect. Admiration. A mentor, maybe. Or someone they hoped to become.
Then the older Dunmer's eyes slid sideways. "How long you planning to watch, girl?"
Cassia walked forward without hesitation, stopping just short of the board. She looked at him, then the target. Calm. Collected.
"What?" he said, raising a brow. "Don't want to talk to the old dark elf?"
She pointed at her mouth, then shook her head.
He blinked once. "Ah. A mute."
She motioned again—first to the board, then to him.
His brow furrowed. "What, you want to throw knives against me?"
She gave a sharp nod.
"No," he said, without even a pause. He turned and walked off, calling back to the younger Dunmer. "Get your stances right or I'll take your knives next."
Cassia stood still, expression unreadable.
Well, she thought, that didn't go well.
Cassia spent another half hour wandering the camp, hands behind her back, eyes sharp as she searched. She wasn't just passing time—she was looking for a recruit. Someone suitable for Rashan's unit. But nothing had caught her eye.
Until she rounded the corner.
The same young Dunmer boys from earlier—the ones throwing knives—were ahead.
One was on the ground, clutching his ribs. The other was struggling, pinned back against a crate, fists up but failing fast. They were surrounded by three Nords—young, broad-shouldered, and clearly riding the thrill of an easy fight.
But their movements?
Cassia's eyes narrowed.
Sloppy. Undisciplined. All brute, no thought.
This was the edge of the military camp. Fewer tents. Fewer patrols. No one else in sight.
She paused.
Rashan wouldn't like this kind of behavior.
She stepped forward—not bothering to sneak. Just quiet, steady steps. The Nords were too busy playing the part of bullies to notice anything else.
Varen Dreval moved with the slow grace of a man long accustomed to being underestimated. His ash-gray skin bore the faint lines of age, but his frame remained upright, hard-edged. Broad shoulders, lean build. Old scars hidden under tailored leathers—the kind worn by men who still trained, even when they no longer fought. His face, weathered but calm, carried the sharpness of a blade that hadn't dulled.
He'd served once. Not for coin or applause, but for House. For the old ways. His house had fallen in the chaos after the Red Year. Dominion flames had done the rest. Now he kept to the edges of this new war—half-guide, half-ghost.
The two boys weren't his blood. Neither was the mother. But they were under his watch, and that meant something. He'd come to find them and make sure they weren't wasting time throwing knives like half-drunk mercenaries. Then he rounded the corner.
One boy lay curled on the ground. The other was upright, but cornered—back against the wall, fists raised, wobbling.
Three Nords—young, armored in pride more than steel—were pressing in. Loud. Sloppy. The type that hadn't been hit hard enough yet to know better. Varen felt the tension build.
And then he saw her.
The red-haired girl from earlier. Small frame. Loose cloak. Just walking—quiet and smooth. No sprint. No posturing. Like she was approaching a baker's stall, not a brawl.
She didn't sneak. She didn't have to. The Nords weren't watching anything but themselves.
Varen's lip curled faintly.
The first one didn't even hear her coming. She closed the gap and struck from the side—low pivot, precise step, knife edge of her palm straight to the neck. He folded with a choked grunt.
The second turned, confused—and she was already moving. Two fingers struck his throat. Heel to the shin. Then she stepped past his falling body and slammed her elbow into the third's temple before he even finished swearing.
Three bodies hit the dirt in under ten seconds.
No wasted motion. No hesitation. Not a single sound from her.
The cornered boy stared. So did Varen.
She didn't gloat. Didn't even look proud. Just flicked a hand to brush her hair aside and walked off like she'd forgotten something on the next street.
Varen watched her disappear into the dusk, then glanced at the two boys—one blinking, one groaning.
He chuckled to himself, low and quiet.
"Hmm," he muttered. "I like her."
Maybe he should have thorn knives with her.
Cassia walked with her hood up, hands tucked in her cloak. Jalil had already found two good fighters for Rashan's unit.
She hadn't found anyone.
She was a little bummed inside.
She kept walking. Sand shifted beneath her boots. Doors stayed shut. The street felt still.
Then someone stepped in front of her.
She stopped.
Varen Dreval. The same slow, solid posture. He didn't say anything at first. Just watched her like he was measuring something.
"I was a bit rude earlier," he said. "Name's Varen. Varen Dreval."
She didn't answer. Just waited.
His eyes drifted past her shoulder. Back toward the alley.
He'd seen what happened. The two young mer. The Nords. The way she moved.
Good.
She reached into her cloak and pulled a throwing knife. Turned it once in her hand. Pointed to the blade.
Then to him.
Still wanted to throw.
He looked at her for a second. No smile, no raised brow. Just a slow nod.
"Sure," he said.
They walked together toward the wall behind the supply yard. One battered target board hung from a frayed rope. The plank swayed a little in the breeze. Marks covered its face—knicks, cuts, and half-faded paint rings.
Old knives lay scattered nearby, half-buried in dirt. The kind no one bothered to pick up.
The two young mer sat against a crate nearby. One rubbed his jaw. The other kept his eyes low, glancing up only once as Cassia passed.
She didn't slow down. Just stepped around them, grabbed one of the fallen Nords by the ankle, and dragged him off the path. Dropped the legs and walked to the line.
Varen watched without comment.
She pulled another blade, let her arm fall loose at her side.
He gave a nod. "Turn."
She faced away from the board, spine straight, breath steady.
Varen moved the target. Changed the height. Adjusted the distance a little. Just enough to shift the throw.
"Now."
She spun, stepped, released.
The blade hit center. Solid.
No twitch of pride on her face. No adjustment.
Varen reset the board again.
Another round.
She turned. Threw. Hit.
Again.
Each time, the setup changed—higher, wider, slightly angled. She never asked, never stalled. Just turned and threw.
The rhythm stayed tight. Footwork clean. Hands fast. The kind of movement that came from hours repeating things alone, long after others had gone to sleep.
Varen didn't speak. Just watched the way she moved—heel pivot, elbow line, follow-through. Fast. Stripped down. Not pretty. Just effective.
She stepped back. Clapped once.
His turn.
They traded throws for a while. Quiet. Focused.
When she moved, she did it like she already knew the outcome. The throw always landed where it was supposed to.
She threw again.
Center mass.
He glanced at the board. Then at her.
He couldn't tell where she'd learned it. The rhythm didn't match any style he knew. Something foreign in the stance, like it had been designed for faster hands and a shorter reach.
Hard to track how many throws they'd done. Long enough to lose count.
He hadn't out-thrown her once.
He turned back to the board.
She stood across from him, silent, another blade in hand.
The girl could throw.
And she threw so non chalantly he liked her style.
They changed the setup.
Flat stones, bits of broken wood, shattered shingles—anything that could fly through the air. Each target fit the hand, light enough to toss, solid enough to hit.
One threw. The other tracked and struck.
Varen sent the first piece up, a flat arc across the space between them. Cassia's blade left her hand just past the peak. The stone split mid-air.
She tossed the next. A cracked tile curved right. Varen hit it clean.
They kept pace.
Some targets rose high, some dropped fast. Shingles tumbled in uneven spins. Stones kicked sideways in the wind. No two moved the same way.
Cassia adjusted with each throw. A quick pivot, a steady stance, release without pause. Her blades found the mark. Every time.
Varen moved slower. He took the full second. Measured the line. Still hit his mark.
Back and forth.
Light shifted. Wind picked up. Dust moved around their feet.
She caught a jagged plank mid-tumble. He punched through a spinning roof chip just before it fell flat.
One slipped low. She stepped once, didn't rush, drove her blade through the edge.
They stayed even.
Last round.
Cassia picked a flat disc of wood, flipped it with a side throw. Varen's blade chased it, clipped the edge. The disc wobbled, fell whole.
She didn't wait.
One more piece—a broken strip of dried bark—sailed up. She struck it clean. Split it in half before it could dip.
She stepped back. Arm loose.
Varen lowered his last knife.
She had him by one.
He had actually lost, who was this young women he wondered?
"Looks like you won."
Cassia didn't answer. Just looked at him, then jerked her chin for him to follow.
Varen raised an eyebrow but stepped in behind her.
She led him through the camp—past the quiet stretches, toward the noise. Firelight flickered off tents. The smell of sweat, smoke, and spiced wine hung in the air.
They stopped near a row of crates.
Three figures stood close together—two Nords and a Redguard young man. The Nords were easy to place: father and son. Same wide frame, same hard jaw. The younger one looked like someone had pulled him off the older with a pair of iron tongs and less patience.
The younger Nord and the Redguard had both clearly been in a fight. Split lips, bruised knuckles, dirt on their sleeves. They leaned against the crates like they'd earned the right to relax.
A bottle passed between them. Wine. Cheap, but strong enough to smell on the wind.
The Redguard and Cassia exchanged a few quick hand motions. Not random gestures—sharp, practiced. Communication.
The Redguard grinned around a swollen lip, pointed at Cassia, then at Varen.
"Cassia says you'd be perfect for helping our liege."
Varen blinked. "Isn't that what we're all here for?"
The Redguard tilted the bottle, took a drink, and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. "Let's just say he'll be doing it a little better."
Varen looked them over again. The bruised Redguard, the quiet girl, the father-and-son pair.
"I'm just here to do my service and earn citizenship," he said, voice even.
Inwardly, he kept his distance. He'd seen plenty of young nobles with big ideas and sharper swords. They always wanted something. Usually more than anyone was ready to give.
The Redguard lifted the bottle again. "Even better."
Varen gave him a flat look. "How's that?"
"Because it was our liege's idea."
Varen glanced at the Redguard. Then at Cassia.
Now they had his attention.