As Rashan walked slowly back to his quarters, a quiet introspection settled over him. He knew fully that most traditional Redguards would disapprove of his interrogation methods, perhaps even vehemently condemn them. Redguard culture prized honor, valor, and direct confrontation above all—open combat over shadowy tactics. But he had made it explicitly clear to his unit that they would undertake what their fellow Redguards would not. To Rashan, honor was valuable, but survival and victory mattered far more.
The Dominion needed to be driven from their shores, and swiftly. Rashan held no illusions about his own future here; once Hammerfell was secure—if it ever truly became secure—he intended to leave, perhaps wandering Tamriel or heading straight for Skyrim. He wasn't sure he had the luxury of time, but if he survived, he'd see what opportunities arose.
He hoped to shorten the conflict significantly. History, from both this life and his last, proved repeatedly that small, elite units could dramatically alter the course of conflict. At the Naval Academy, he'd studied cases—such as the British Commandos disrupting Nazi supply lines, or American Ranger units securing crucial beaches and turning points—proving how a handful of highly-trained soldiers, operating precisely and secretly, could significantly tip the scales.
It was exactly why he wore the mask. It wasn't merely psychological; it was practical. Concealing his identity allowed him and his unit to act without political or familial repercussions. He'd even instructed his father to keep him entirely secret—to treat him as black ops would be handled in his past life. His father had agreed, though Rashan doubted he truly understood the depths he was willing to explore.
Part of him considered faking his death if necessary. It would grant his family deniability and ensure their reputation remained intact, safe from being stained by actions their peers might deem dishonorable. Nobles and merchants controlled narratives here—not cameras or photographs like in his former life. If he did this correctly, no one outside his unit would ever fully grasp the extent of his operations.
Rashan stretched his shoulders, a familiar eagerness simmering beneath the surface. He didn't seek glory or recognition. He craved the intensity of the mission, the electric thrill of victory, the exhilaration of knowing he was working to shift the tide—potentially reducing this war from five years down to three or four.
He sighed quietly, acknowledging the harsh truth he'd accepted long ago: a modern mindset, obsessed with comfort and morality, would never have won wars like World War II. Victory required recognizing and confronting harsh realities head-on. Bad things happened in war, no matter how careful one was. His bread project had saved lives, but inevitably, others would suffer because of his decisions.
Rashan finished the thought with a resigned exhale, focusing his mind back on practical matters. He needed to check on Cassia's wound; thankfully, the injury had only impacted muscle and bone, bypassing crucial ligaments and tendons like the rotator cuff. He needed to be sure he had healed it correctly.
Drawing another deep breath, he found an old, musty sheet—perfectly unpleasant, exactly suited for waterboarding. As he gathered what he needed, he decided he'd call Cassia, Devan, and Alain. Devan and Alain were highly experienced; for Cassia, however, it would provide both valuable support and an essential training experience. After all, he was shaping her into an operative who would do what needed to be done, regardless of honor or comfort.