Rashan sat quietly in the cold camp, his dragon mask's enchanted vision effortlessly piercing the dense darkness surrounding him. Each Anbu mask had been meticulously enchanted with a specialized 'cat-eye' spell, granting enhanced night vision that could be activated or deactivated at will—a practical yet elegant application of illusion magic woven intricately into their designs. Around him, Adrien and several other Anbu operatives remained motionless and vigilant, their breaths forming faint clouds in the chilly night air. They kept no fires, leaving no visible signs of their presence.
Alain managed Anbu intelligence with exceptional skill, quickly proving himself invaluable due to his extensive experience as a former Blade operative. Devan, a seasoned veteran in covert operations, seamlessly partnered with Alain, their combined expertise forming an impressive intelligence-gathering unit. Rashan had strategically placed Cassia under their mentorship, recognizing a unique opportunity for her to sharpen her already formidable skills through direct observation and hands-on experience.
It had taken them a week to execute their first operation successfully—the recent strike against the Dominion commander and his forces had been decisive. The captured Khajiit scout was being held in isolation, a method Rashan remembered from his previous life's training—prolonged solitude often loosened tongues more effectively than pain or threats, particularly when survival was at stake. This Khajiit seemed especially motivated to preserve his life.
Their main operational base was an abandoned Imperial fort located approximately three miles inland from the Dominion front lines. Rashan's father was deeply focused on bolstering Taneth's defenses along the Yer River, where the Redguards maintained a robust defensive line. The overarching strategic plan was straightforward yet critical: if his father consolidated most of his forces to reinforce the defenders at Taneth, the Dominion siege could be decisively broken and their forces driven back into the sea. Fully securing Taneth would isolate Dominion forces, effectively splitting their northern and southern units.
However, Rashan had engaged in detailed strategy discussions with his father, emphasizing that simply driving the Dominion back to their ships wasn't sufficient. A siege from behind Taneth's walls would prove prolonged and costly, given the enemy ships' formidable siege capabilities. Rashan firmly believed they needed to decisively cripple the Dominion forces at Taneth before they could retreat to their ships, neutralizing their ability to maintain a persistent threat.
Rashan rubbed his eyes wearily as he examined the unsettling intelligence reports. Dominion forces had rapidly dispatched advanced scouting parties, swiftly securing several villages near Gilane and tightening their control over key supply routes. To counteract this, Rashan had assigned Jalil and a select group of Redguard Anbu operatives to infiltrate these Dominion-controlled villages. Their Redguard heritage allowed them greater mobility and less scrutiny within these areas, enabling them to gather critical intelligence, identify local resistance fighters, recruit potential allies among discontented locals, and cultivate reliable informants. Rashan trusted Jalil implicitly; the young warrior's innate charisma and strategic thinking made him ideally suited for the delicate and dangerous task at hand.
Rashan studied the intelligence reports spread before him, his brow furrowed thoughtfully beneath the dragon mask. Every detail was critical, and he meticulously absorbed each piece of information as he considered the Anbu's next strategic move. Unlike the simplistic, action-packed battles depicted in stories or games, real warfare demanded patience, meticulous planning, and careful consideration of logistics. There were vital needs like food and rest, rigorous reconnaissance, secure communications, and cautious movement through contested territories. Warfare wasn't merely a thrilling rush from fight to fight; it was disciplined preparation punctuated by precise and calculated strikes.
Yet, despite these realities, Rashan relished the autonomy and direct involvement his command afforded. Leading the Anbu gave him the rare opportunity to immerse himself fully, to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his comrades in the heat of battle rather than remain confined to strategic tables and political chambers.
Reviewing the latest intel, Rashan sensed a potential shift in Dominion strategy. They appeared intent on an inland push, yet Rashan was certain their approach would evolve swiftly once they became aware of his father's tactical movements near Taneth.
He smiled faintly, amused at how their captured Khajiit scout had inadvertently revealed crucial information under prolonged isolation. The Dominion intended to establish a forward operating base in an old Imperial fort roughly ten miles from the Anbu's current location.
Rashan leaned back slightly, feeling a familiar thrill of anticipation coursing through him. Beneath his mask, his smile broadened confidently. The Dominion had unwittingly presented them with their next target—and Rashan was eager to ensure they'd soon regret it.
Two Nights Later…
Rashan signaled silently with a swift, precise motion of his hand. Cassia moved instantly, her form wrapped in subtle illusion magic—a skill enhanced significantly by her Nightblade class training. True invisibility spells were notoriously difficult, but refracting light around her body came naturally to Cassia, making her movements near undetectable even to keen eyes like Devan's. He silently noted her remarkable skill for someone so young.
Her slender figure was a mere shimmer against the shadows as she crossed the open ground, scaling the stone wall with the lithe agility of a hunting fox. Her fingers found each crack and crevice effortlessly, silent as silk sliding across polished marble.
She had exactly one minute before the next patrol passed through.
At the top, she secured a thin, strong rope, lowering it with controlled grace. The rest of the team ascended swiftly, each operative a phantom, their movements seamless and soundless, shadows brought to deadly life.
Atop the battlements, Rashan dropped into a low crouch, eyes sharply assessing every detail of the courtyard beneath. Torchlight flickered over polished golden armor, illuminating two Dominion soldiers who stood rigidly alert, oblivious to the predators above. Rashan turned slightly, signaling Devan with a barely perceptible nod. The Crow-masked Dark Elf responded instantly, drawing an arrow with fluid ease. Muscles tensed and relaxed with practiced precision as he pulled the bowstring taut, held briefly in perfect stillness, then released.
The arrow whispered through the night air, a hushed sigh barely audible. It struck the first guard's helmet precisely through the narrow slit at his eye, piercing into bone and brain, dropping him instantly in a lifeless heap. They needed to move fast now—the body falling could alert someone.
Before the second soldier could fully register the sudden death beside him, another arrow buried itself deeply through the gap in his neck armor, severing critical arteries. He staggered briefly, clutching futilely at his throat, blood cascading silently over his golden breastplate, before collapsing to the stone floor, life swiftly fleeing his convulsing body. He tried desperately to scream, but the only sound escaping his lips was the faint, wet gurgling of blood.
Rashan observed the kills coolly, satisfied by the precision and brutality of the takedowns. He rose, signaling the team forward, a silent harbinger of death in the moonlit darkness.
They all took cover, silently counting down thirty seconds, heartbeats steady, breathing controlled.
The patrol was twelve seconds late as he rounded the corner, torchlight illuminating nothing but empty shadows. Oblivious to the predators concealed around him, he stepped forward carelessly. Rashan was closest, waiting in absolute stillness.
In a heartbeat, Rashan summoned a dagger with practiced conjuration, its ethereal form solidifying swiftly into hardened steel. He lunged forward with smooth precision, one arm locking tightly around the elf's neck from behind. With ruthless efficiency, he plunged the dagger directly into the guard's throat, expertly severing vocal cords in a single brutal motion, preventing any possibility of a scream. Blood welled silently over Rashan's fingers as the guard shuddered violently, briefly struggling before going limp.
Alain watched Rashan perform the swift and silent takedown, inwardly impressed. The Breton Blade considered himself seasoned, but the young Redguard commander—only seventeen summers old—carried himself with the calm, practiced lethality of a veteran operative. Alain felt a quiet chill at witnessing Rashan's competence firsthand. This young man was truly terrifying for his age.
The next step was the courtyard, a critical choke-point they'd studied carefully during reconnaissance. Rashan resisted the temptation to charge in recklessly, opting instead for patient precision. He ordered his team to hold their positions and wait for the guards' shift rotation, a strategic window that would offer their best chance of silently overtaking the fort.
Earlier scouting revealed three potential exit points: a rusted trap door atop the keep, the main gate leading directly into the open courtyard, and a narrow, partially hidden side door descending into the fort's old Imperial dungeons.
They swiftly split into three pairs, each assigned to secure one of these vital entry points the moment the guards shifted positions.
Rashan paired with Cassia, choosing the high vantage of the rooftop. Alain and Devan took up a position close to the dungeon entrance, melting effortlessly into the dense foliage and fallen masonry, shadows cloaking their presence completely. The other two dark elf operatives set themselves at opposite sides of the main gate, hidden securely behind ancient, weather-worn stone columns that blended seamlessly into the fort's crumbling architecture.
The waiting began, the most excruciating part of any mission. Minutes stretched into an hour, then another half-hour dragged past like heavy chains.
Beneath Skyrim's twin moons—Massar and Secunda—the fort lay silent and brooding. Shadows stretched ominously across its cracked stone walls, creating an eerie tableau under the stark, silver moonlight. Each faint shuffle and muffled voice from within amplified the oppressive stillness. A distant wolf howled mournfully, its cry echoing hauntingly over the desolate landscape, further emphasizing their isolation.
The crisp night air settled onto their armor, dry and cold, while every breath Rashan drew was careful, deliberate, nearly soundless. Communication occurred only through subtle hand gestures and whispered breaths, barely audible yet clearly understood. The disciplined silence held firm, every Anbu operative a picture of unwavering patience, their nerves taut yet steady. This wasn't the thrilling heroism of battle—it was the raw tension of true infiltration, a precise balance between readiness and restraint.
In these extended moments, time slowed dramatically. Rashan felt the ache deep in his muscles from staying rigidly motionless, dust creeping insidiously into joints and gauntlets, making each shift increasingly uncomfortable. Once, he adjusted his grip, just enough to ease the tension in his hands, but otherwise remained perfectly still, eyes unwavering beneath his mask. The moons shifted slightly in their celestial paths, marking the slow passage of time.
Finally, the anticipated moment arrived. Dawn's first faint glow began to bleed softly across the horizon, casting a gentle, deceptive light. Four Dominion soldiers emerged casually from the dungeon entrance, their postures relaxed, their movements weary from a long shift. They exchanged quiet, tired conversations and stretched stiff limbs, oblivious to the silent predators waiting in ambush.
Alain and Devan instantly grew tense, poised and completely still within their concealed perch, eyes sharply tracking their targets. Rashan raised a silent hand, signaling readiness.
Devan began silently, fingers weaving intricate patterns through the air as faint, shimmering strands of illusion magic pulsed softly around his hands. He exhaled slowly, releasing the spell in a gentle wave. The Dominion guards froze instantly, their faces blank, eyes vacant—trapped momentarily in a fabricated dreamscape.
One second.
Alain surged forward from the shadows, blade whispering free of its sheath. His footfalls were silent, precise, and swift.
Two seconds.
His blade flashed, slicing cleanly across the first guard's throat. The elf collapsed silently, eyes still staring emptily into the illusion.
Three seconds.
The second guard turned sluggishly, still confused, only to meet Alain's swift, merciless blade piercing his chest. The sword withdrew with practiced ease, leaving no time for the guard to utter a sound.
Four seconds.
Devan, maintaining the illusion with steely focus, drew his dagger. He closed quickly and effortlessly plunged the blade into the third guard's back, precisely targeting the heart. The guard buckled quietly, collapsing into the dust without a sound.
Five seconds.
The final guard stirred, blinking, confusion evident as the illusion began to slip. Alain was already upon him. With swift precision, he caught the elf's head from behind, twisting sharply. A muted snap echoed softly, and the last guard dropped limp into Alain's grip.
Six seconds.
Alain and Devan gently laid their fallen targets onto the ground, concealed swiftly behind crumbling stones and shadowed bushes. No alarms, no noise. Only silence returned to the courtyard, disturbed briefly but now utterly restored.
Now came the most delicate part of the operation—assaulting the interior.
This stage of the mission demanded perfection. The primary objective wasn't simply to clear the fort of enemy presence—it was to capture the Dominion commander alive, and crucially, before he had the chance to end his own life.
Intelligence had been clear and unsettling: high-ranking Dominion officers, especially those placed in vital or sensitive positions, frequently carried suicide enchantments or spells as safeguards against capture and interrogation. The threat hovered over their mission like an invisible sword, ready to fall at the slightest mistake.
Each operative carried a carefully measured vial of sleeping potion—a potent, swiftly acting sedative meticulously crafted by alchemists to immobilize targets swiftly and silently. Whether delivered by blade edge, dart tip, or spell, it was an inelegant solution, but highly effective.
Precision was paramount. Stealth was no longer just a preference; it was essential. Every movement, every breath had to be controlled. Rashan's team needed to infiltrate without alerting guards or drawing attention, silently neutralizing any threats along the way. The slightest misstep—a creaking floorboard, a dropped blade, even a muffled gasp—could alert the commander and give him enough time to trigger his self-destructive failsafe.
The intel dossier described the Dominion officer as older than typical frontline commanders, but that detail offered little comfort. Age had likely only honed his cunning and battle experience. He was seasoned, well-trained, and clad in elite Altmer leathers, robes that were expertly crafted with spell-resistant enchantments. Rashan recognized the style from Thalmor Justiciars in Skyrim, the gear designed specifically to shield powerful spellcasters while allowing agile movement. This alone confirmed Rashan's suspicion: this commander was no common foe. Capturing him would require flawless execution.
Rashan steadied himself with a slow, deliberate breath beneath his mask, the faint rhythm helping him center his focus. They would operate in two synchronized three-man teams—one silently descending from the rooftop, the other ascending stealthily from the dungeon. It would be silent, swift, and precise. Every operative knew their roles by heart.
It was time to execute.