Rashan's attention immediately shifted to the faintly glowing rune etched into the elf's chest, directly above the heart. He recognized it instantly—this was a Dominion suicide rune, unmistakable in both appearance and function. The intricate geometric sigil pulsed subtly beneath pale skin, precisely anchored by delicate, glowing lines of Destruction magic stabilized through careful, refined Enchanting.
Dominion commanders always bore these runes, willingly and even proudly, as Rashan knew from firsthand experience and countless detailed reports—including those from his father. Rather than suffer capture and interrogation, Dominion officers habitually triggered these enchantments by willingly channeling their magicka into the rune, causing an immediate, violent detonation that ruptured their hearts.
The rune was precisely keyed to the elf's unique magicka signature, making any attempt at magically dispelling or neutralizing it too dangerous, risking premature activation. Rashan disliked unnecessary gambles, especially when simple solutions existed.
The elf remained motionless, entirely unconscious under the potent sedative effect of Rashan's sleep potion. His breathing stayed slow, shallow, and steady, providing Rashan with a narrow but safe window to act decisively.
The simplest solution was physical removal.
Drawing his dagger once more, Rashan carefully chose five small donor sites along the elf's body—precisely distributed areas to minimize trauma: one from the shoulder, one near the hip, two from the calves, and one from the thigh. Using steady hands and meticulous precision, he cut shallow incisions no larger than small coins, lifting tiny strips of skin from each area. Each incision bled only briefly before Rashan pressed his palm to the skin, gently channeling Restoration magicka. The wounds closed smoothly and completely under his guidance, leaving no trace of injury behind.
His HUD flickered softly—15% magicka remaining.
Not ideal, but manageable, Rashan thought calmly.
He carefully arranged the five harvested skin samples onto a clean, flat stone, aligning their edges carefully. Releasing a measured pulse of Restoration magicka, he coaxed the edges to merge gently together, forming a stable, palm-sized skin graft. It wasn't perfect—the nerve endings would never reconnect properly—but it would hold, which was enough.
Rashan then returned his attention to the rune, swiftly and methodically slicing around its edges, cutting just beneath the skin. Blood welled thickly from the precise incision, but Rashan calmly applied a measured dose of conglomerate potion, immediately stemming the bleeding. The rune-bearing flesh lifted cleanly away in one smooth, decisive movement.
Without hesitation, Rashan pressed the newly-formed graft securely onto the exposed muscle. He released a final, careful pulse of Restoration magicka, feeling the tissue bond neatly beneath his fingertips. Skin connected smoothly to muscle, sealing the wound effectively.
He slowly drew back, breathing steadily.
No more suicide rune.
A few hours later…
Soreness pulled Eldanaris slowly from the depths of unconsciousness—a heavy, persistent ache that spread across his chest and side with each sluggish breath. His limbs felt leaden, as though submerged underwater, while his mind drifted in a fog clearly induced by some carefully measured potion. He knew the sensation well enough: sleep draught, subtle stabilizers. Predictable. Effective.
Keeping his eyes closed, he silently took stock. The chill of stone pressed against his back—cold, damp, old. The scent of aged mortar and mossy stone hung in the air. Imperial construction, unmistakable in its stark, practical style. Familiar, too. The fort. The same one he'd secured, then lost. They had never even bothered moving him.
"You can open your eyes." A voice, young yet disconcertingly composed, broke the quiet. "Your breathing changed as you woke. There's no point in pretending otherwise."
Eldanaris opened his eyes slowly, deliberately, revealing nothing but mild disdain in his golden gaze.
The cracked ceiling above confirmed his suspicion instantly—familiar patterns, familiar aging. The same fort. The same place of his defeat. A bitter irony, to awaken a prisoner within his own captured stronghold.
He shifted slightly, testing his restraints, and pain flared sharply along his ribs, drawing a faint, involuntary wince. The memory surged back vividly—the brutal strike, the impossible weight of that conjured blade, its calculated violence. He reached inward, trying to channel magicka toward the rune inscribed above his heart, to trigger the quick end he'd prepared for.
Nothing answered.
He tried again, harder. Still nothing.
A faint irritation on his chest drew his attention downward. The rune was simply gone. A neatly grafted patch of pale skin sat in its place, sealed with Restoration magic rather than crude stitching. Clever. Efficient. Infuriatingly effective.
His wrists felt weighted; glancing down, he found smooth metal bracers engraved intricately with disruption glyphs designed to scramble magicka flow before spells could form fully. More cleverness. More frustration.
He raised his gaze, meeting the figure standing quietly nearby, still masked in that stark white dragon visage—just as he'd seen in their confrontation. The figure reached up smoothly and removed the mask, revealing a youthful face beneath. Human—Redguard, specifically. Younger than Eldanaris had imagined, his expression dispassionate yet commanding, a presence shaped more by quiet authority than age or experience.
The Redguard smiled faintly, his eyes steady, calculating. "My name is Rashan," he said simply, without arrogance or humility, merely stating fact. "And you are my prisoner. What is your name?"
Eldanaris stared at him silently, expression cold and unmoved, golden eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He would not grant the dignity of his voice to this lesser being. To Eldanaris, an Altmer, a proud scion of the Aldmeri Dominion, silence was the only suitable response. He did not owe his captor even a moment of acknowledgment, let alone conversation.
Rashan smiled calmly, the faint expression carrying a quiet, cold professionalism. He'd seen this behavior before, both in this life and his previous one. Back then, he'd been an engineer and technical specialist—rarely directly involved in interrogations, but closely familiar with their protocols and effectiveness. He'd accompanied extraction teams, handed prisoners off to the CIA or other shadowy, three-letter organizations who did the true interrogating. Pain, he remembered vividly, was always a last resort. Typically, intelligence operatives favored isolation, psychological manipulation, even conversation—building trust to break down barriers. But Rashan didn't have the luxury of time. He needed actionable information within the next twenty-four hours. Dominion plans moved quickly; delays meant lives lost.
He'd retrieved some intelligence from the elf's quarters—notes, maps, fragmented plans—but they were incomplete. Their value lay primarily in corroborating whatever truths he extracted from the elf. Each piece of information would be cross-referenced, tested. But first, he had to break the silence.
Pulling a wooden stool forward, Rashan sat comfortably beside the cot, facing the elf directly. His gaze remained steady, composed, and dispassionate.
"Look," he began evenly, deliberately establishing familiarity and control simultaneously. "I want to be candid with you. You possess information I need, and normally I'd rely on isolation—keeping you in the dark, disoriented, left alone until you chose to speak. Unfortunately, we both know there's no time for such methods."
The elf regarded him silently, his expression meticulously blank yet unmistakably proud, superior, the slight tilt of his chin subtly defiant. He maintained the distant, unyielding demeanor of a noble who felt secure in his perceived superiority.
Rashan's smile grew slightly, more knowing, patient yet edged with danger. "Instead, we'll begin immediately with waterboarding. An effective technique, quite reliable for situations like this."
He watched closely as the elf's expression remained unchanged—blank, composed, a subtle touch of arrogance lingering in those golden eyes. Rashan knew instantly that the elf didn't understand the word "waterboarding." Good. Ignorance would amplify uncertainty, uncertainty would breed fear, and fear would break his silence.
Rashan leaned slightly closer, his voice lowering to a calm, unsettling pitch. "And if waterboarding doesn't yield the answers I seek, perhaps I'll introduce you to a new idea from my own experience. Imagine the slow, precise cracking and chipping away of teeth until the nerves beneath are raw and exposed. Pain—excruciating, overwhelming, unavoidable. Such nerve pain tends to extract truthful answers remarkably quickly."
He paused deliberately, letting those vivid details settle heavily in the silence between them.
"Continue to play these games if you wish. You will soon find them deeply unpleasant."
He slowly drew back, breathing steadily.
No more suicide rune.