Commander Eldanaris sat rigidly in the fort's inner chamber, a wide stone room that had clearly once served as a commander's quarters during the Empire's reign. The space was stark, purely functional: a simple writing desk cluttered with intelligence reports, several storage crates stacked haphazardly in the corner, a modest cot with threadbare sheets, and a worn wooden chair where he now sat hunched forward, brow furrowed in concentration.
Though aged at 175 years—venerable even by Altmer standards—Eldanaris's presence remained commanding. His golden eyes, sharp and analytical, still glowed with unwavering intensity. His silver hair, meticulously groomed, was pulled back tightly into a warrior's knot, highlighting the angular, authoritative lines of his face. Age had not softened him; it had hardened him into a disciplined veteran, dedicated fully to the Dominion's cause. While younger officers occupied safe council rooms far from harm, he insisted upon leading from the front. His legacy would be carved from battlefields, not parchment.
This forgotten Imperial fort had been seized mere days prior, meticulously selected as a critical staging area for the Dominion's next inland push. Its strategic advantages were undeniable: elevated terrain, easily defensible positions, concealed routes for rapid reinforcement, and ideal proximity to essential supply lines. Every detail had been thoroughly analyzed and accounted for.
Throughout the night, Eldanaris had tirelessly examined troop movements, projected routes, and supply chain vulnerabilities, his candle slowly guttering down to a feeble flame as dawn approached. The high, narrow slit of a window began to glow softly, signaling the end of his vigil.
Then, breaking through the heavy silence, came the familiar creak of the rusty main gate. It had operated like clockwork since their arrival—opening and closing once for the shift change, then opening and closing again ten minutes later as the relieved guards returned inside. Routine was paramount.
But this morning, something was off. The gate had opened and closed for the shift change, yet it hadn't reopened the second time. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen minutes later still nothing. The returning guards should have reentered by now.
Eldanaris straightened cautiously, unease settling heavily in his stomach. Perhaps they lingered, exchanging idle chatter, stretching limbs sore from the night's watch. Yet, experience had taught him never to dismiss instinctive unease.
His sword, elegant and lethal, had rested quietly beside him all night. With practiced calm, he took it up, the blade settling naturally at his side.
Commander Eldanaris cautiously stepped out of the inner chamber, the dim corridor stretching ahead of him like an ominous tunnel. As he moved, every detail felt heightened—the cold, rough texture of the stone walls beneath his fingertips, the unsettling stillness of the air, the eerie silence where there should have been the murmurs of his guards changing shifts. He glanced briefly toward the narrow slit of a window—was it truly dawn, or had some other unnatural light deceived him?
Two tense minutes passed as Eldanaris navigated the narrow stairway leading downwards, each step intensifying his unease. There was no comforting shuffle of armor, no muffled conversation between soldiers ending their shift. Nothing but the oppressive silence.
Then he saw it—a crumpled figure sprawled lifelessly on the cold stone floor, illuminated faintly by the pale glow filtering from a distant torch. One of his guards, unmistakably dead. His golden eyes sharpened, instantly alert, scanning the shadows for threats.
Movement.
Two intruders stood over the fallen guard. The closer figure—a lithe, stealthy woman—hadn't noticed him yet. Eldanaris reacted immediately, conjuring an icicle nearly a foot long, its edges razor-sharp, frost misting around its deadly tip. He unleashed it with ruthless precision.
At the last possible instant, the woman turned sharply, alerted by some primal instinct. It was almost enough—but not quite. The icy projectile slammed into her shoulder with brutal force, cutting deeply into her vitality and pinning her against the wall. Her breath hitched sharply, muted by fierce determination despite the pain.
Another intruder surged forward, his blade flashing out with disciplined speed and lethal intent. Eldanaris swiftly summoned a Daedra Churl, its towering form erupting with a savage roar as it intercepted the swordsman. The intruder countered with practiced grace, his strikes fluid and precise—a textbook execution of advanced sword forms Eldanaris immediately recognized from extensive study. A Blade.
The swordsman moved seamlessly from attack to defense, the distinctive style unmistakable in every controlled slash and parry. Each movement spoke volumes of rigorous Imperial training—methodical, disciplined, and deadly efficient. Locked in fierce combat, the man and the summoned Churl tumbled violently down the stairs, their battle carrying them out of sight.
Eldanaris barely had time to refocus before another figure calmly stepped forward, emerging from the shadows—this one wearing a stark white mask intricately painted with the unmistakable visage of a dragon. Eldanaris studied the figure closely, noting the unique weapon he wielded—a heavy, ruler-like blade forged from unmistakable orichalcum. A tool of brutality.
Without hesitation, Eldanaris summoned a powerful frost spell, the frigid stream rushing forward. The masked man instantly countered, a magical ward flaring brilliantly as it effortlessly absorbed the attack. Undeterred, Eldanaris watched his opponent cast an ironflesh spell unlike any he'd seen—remarkably tangible, firm, and robust, devoid of the typical ethereal glow.
Impressed despite himself, Eldanaris smiled faintly. He matched the intruder's magic, feeling his own skin harden beneath his familiar arcane armor. Blade poised, he squared off, anticipation coursing through his veins.