Rashan stood calmly over the defeated high elf, observing his shallow, labored breathing with detached scrutiny. The elf's limbs twitched sporadically, involuntary tremors reflecting the immense trauma inflicted. Blood seeped slowly outward, pooling darkly beneath the crumpled body—a grim confirmation of the brutal effectiveness of Rashan's strike.
Kneeling swiftly, Rashan withdrew a vial of slow-acting sleep potion from a concealed pouch within his armor. The elf was already deep in shock; this sedative would simply ensure that he remained unconscious without additional complications. A more potent variant existed, but its harsh side effects risked making the commander worthless for interrogation.
He uncorked the vial, tipping its contents into the elf's slackened mouth. Predictably, the Altmer instinctively choked, a reflexive cough attempting to reject the foreign liquid. Rashan's grip tightened without hesitation, firmly forcing the elf's jaw upward until the potion was reluctantly swallowed. He held the elf in place, watching coldly until the commander fell back into complete stillness.
Quiet footsteps approached from behind—Cassia, favoring her wounded shoulder. Blood saturated her armor, leaving dark streaks down her arm, though she'd clearly already tended to the injury. Rashan noted the familiar hardened substance at the wound site—a precise use of his alchemical solution, the mixture coagulating blood into a crude but effective seal. Cassia had likely followed this with a healing potion to begin restoring her vitality, exactly as she had been trained.
She'd managed well under pressure. Rashan acknowledged this objectively—though she would still require his careful attention later. Restorative magic depended heavily on active awareness; without deliberate aid, her injury could linger or worsen.
He briefly glanced toward the ice shard embedded in the wall, recognizing immediately how dangerous a blow it had been. Even he might've been caught off-guard had positions been reversed. The delayed appearance of the red enemy marker above the elf had nearly proven costly, highlighting a critical limitation of his HUD—it only registered hostility at the instant the enemy decided to attack. Useful, yes, but far from perfect. Rashan noted this with detached practicality.
Heavy footsteps drew his attention. Alain emerged at the stairs, irritation clear in his movements.
"Lost my damn blade fighting that churl down the steps," Alain muttered tersely, rubbing his knuckles in frustration. "Had to beat it down bare-handed."
Rashan nodded slightly. Churls weren't simple summons—they varied widely in strength depending on their conjurer. Given the intensity of Rashan's own fight, it was unsurprising Alain had faced a formidable opponent.
"Help me get him onto a cot," Rashan said calmly, indicating the elf with a curt gesture.
Together, they lifted the unconscious commander. The elf groaned weakly as broken bones shifted, but Rashan felt no sympathy—only quiet satisfaction at having neutralized a dangerous enemy asset.
Rashan knelt quietly beside the unconscious elf, his breathing calm, deliberate, and measured. He worked methodically, fingertips carefully releasing each clasp of the Dominion officer's layered armor—distinctive Justiciar-style robes woven of silksteel and enchanted cloth, meticulously reinforced beneath decorative patterns of black and gold. Piece by piece, Rashan peeled back the layers, revealing the precise aftermath of the orichalcum strike.
At first glance, the damage was visibly severe—a stark, protruding swell beneath the elf's ribs, dark bruising spreading rapidly across pale skin. A broken rib visibly jutted outward, sharp and grotesque, having punctured through muscle and torn through the surface from the immense force of the blow. Blood seeped slowly from the wound, pooling thickly along his side. Most battlefield healers might glance at such a wound and instinctively release magicka into a generalized Restoration spell, hoping its energies would seep inward deeply enough to mend internal damage.
Yet, Rashan knew precisely why this wouldn't work. General Restoration magic, and even powerful healing potions, primarily accelerated the body's natural regeneration—they closed wounds, knitted skin, and repaired muscles and bones that were properly aligned. However, internal damage of this severity—particularly ruptured blood vessels, torn organs, or misaligned bones—required direct intervention. If left unattended, a Restoration spell or potion might actually seal the surface tissues first, trapping internal bleeding and damaged tissue within, ultimately causing infection, hemorrhaging, or organ failure beneath apparently healed skin. Even among skilled healers, ninety-five out of every hundred lacked the intricate control and surgical knowledge required to focus their healing magic accurately enough to handle such critical internal injuries.
Most healers in this world didn't even consider direct surgical intervention—opening a wound further to treat internal damage was seen as reckless, bordering on madness. But Rashan's unique knowledge, combining precise medical techniques from his previous life with practical alchemy and carefully targeted Restoration spells from this one, made him certain of his approach.
He reached deliberately into his belt pouch, fingers closing around a vial filled with a pale, faintly luminescent fluid. Uncorking it swiftly, Rashan poured the liquid generously over his own hands first, then across the elf's exposed injury, and finally along the thin, gently curved dagger he'd drawn from a discreet sheath beneath his cloak. A sharp scent—medicinal alcohol, antiseptic herbs, faintly bitter—cut through the still air.
Disinfection.
A fundamental principle from his previous existence, yet one strangely overlooked here. Even seasoned healers relied almost exclusively on Restoration magic after contamination had already set in, never considering that infection could be prevented rather than merely treated. Rashan knew from brutal experience that infection killed as surely as any blade; cleanliness wasn't convenience—it was necessity.
He allowed the disinfectant to evaporate briefly, then steadied himself, gripping the dagger confidently. Rashan wasn't a Restoration master; releasing generalized magicka into complex internal injuries exceeded his current abilities, risking unnoticed and untreated damage. Instead, he'd devised a more guaranteed method, employing a precise blend of alchemical solutions, careful surgical intervention, and narrowly targeted Restoration spells.
Rashan gently sliced into the wound, deliberately widening the existing tear just enough to grant clear access. Blood welled slowly from the fresh incision, immediately stemmed by the quick application of a conglomerate potion—his personal concoction designed to rapidly clot blood and suppress internal bleeding without obscuring visibility. This granted him crucial clarity to fully examine the damage within.
As he assessed the internal injuries—small tears, ruptured vessels, bruised organs—he channeled carefully controlled pulses of Restoration magicka through the fingertips of his free hand, releasing focused, highly localized bursts of healing energy directly onto each injured area. Unlike broader Restoration spells, which relied on diffused healing energy to blanket an area, Rashan's targeted spells methodically knitted torn tissue and sealed damaged vessels individually. It was slower, but far more precise and efficient.
Once satisfied with the internal repairs, Rashan placed careful fingertips around the fractured rib. With slow, practiced pressure, he shifted and realigned the broken fragments, feeling them grind slightly before sliding into proper alignment. The elf shuddered involuntarily, a quiet groan escaping through unconscious lips, but Rashan held steady until the bone sat correctly beneath his touch.
Exhaling slowly, Rashan released a sustained stream of Restoration magicka directly into the fractured bone, carefully guiding its energies along the rib's contours. He visualized the fibers and fragments knitting together, restoring the bone to seamless integrity. Only when he felt the bone solidify beneath his fingers did he slowly shift outward, layer by layer, closing damaged muscle fibers with gentle, focused releases of magicka.
Finally, Rashan drew the edges of the external wound together, holding them firmly between two fingers as he cast a final, precise Restoration spell. Magicka pulsed softly along the surface, seamlessly sealing the wound without the crude necessity of stitches, leaving only a faint, barely visible scar in its place.
He withdrew his hands, satisfied. The elf's breathing had stabilized; the immediate threat was neutralized.
Rashan's attention then shifted toward the faintly glowing rune visible on the elf's chest, directly above the heart—unmistakable, identical to those reported by other Anbu operatives in previous engagements. Firsthand experience and field intelligence had already confirmed these suicide runes: Dominion commanders would rather take their own lives than risk capture and interrogation.
That wouldnt require the same careful precision.
He couldn't wait to actually interrogate the elf once he woke up…
But first things first… time to remove the rune.