Arannis took one cautious step toward the open gate, then another, each footfall deliberate and silent, as if testing the forest floor for hidden snares. The morning sun spilled over him, washing away days spent in shadow and illuminating the Bosmer scout clearly for the first time. He stood of average height for his people, lithe yet tightly muscled, built for stealth and agility rather than brute strength. His sun-bronzed skin bore faint scars, thin and faded, each a quiet reminder of close calls on countless hunts beneath Valenwood's verdant canopy.
He wore traditional Bosmeri leathers, the craftsmanship impeccable, each seam stitched tight and flawless, each section carefully dyed in hues of deep forest greens, dark earthy browns, and muted greys. Tiny leaf-patterns and intricate vine motifs had been subtly worked into the supple hide, an artistic tribute to Y'ffre himself. His thick, brown-black hair was tied back loosely, strands drifting across pointed ears, framing a lean face defined by sharp cheekbones, a narrow nose, and piercing, almond-shaped eyes that glowed faintly amber-gold in the sunlight.
In one hand, Arannis held his cherished bow. The wood itself was carefully tended, polished smooth from use and familiarity, but the bowstring—severed during his capture—had been meticulously replaced by one of Rashan's Anbu. Arannis silently begrudged how perfectly it had been restrung: precise tension, smooth feel, utterly reliable.
He hesitated, his gaze turning once more to Rashan and the pristine white mask the Redguard calmly held out. As a hunter, Arannis had long ago learned to trust his instincts. There was a simple saying among his clan, quietly spoken around night-time fires and during patient stalks beneath the trees: "The mind doubts, the heart wavers, but a hunter who lives trusts his gut." At this moment, his gut urged him with absolute clarity—not to fight this young Redguard.
Even in their brief, quiet walk from the cells to the gate, Arannis had closely observed Rashan's movements, sizing him up through the practiced eyes of a seasoned tracker. Rashan was of average height for a grown Redguard, but given his youthful appearance, Arannis sensed he likely had room yet to grow. The Bosmer had noted the extraordinary physical discipline evident in every precise step Rashan took, each careful motion showcasing meticulous balance and finely honed control. Beneath Rashan's attire, Arannis could clearly discern a lean, hard physique, shaped by rigorous training and relentless discipline—a body that betrayed no weaknesses. This young man was clearly trained to near-perfection, a quiet predator in his own right. Instinct whispered clearly: to challenge Rashan meant certain death.
And yet, his instincts went further still. They urged him toward the mask, to accept the strange path Rashan offered.
For three silent, drawn-out seconds, Arannis stood frozen, the quiet hum of insects and gentle rustle of distant leaves filling the tense void. His heart pounded in his chest, a steady rhythm echoing the internal battle between instinct and caution. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, possibilities unraveling like tangled vines, each pulling him toward a different fate. Then, slowly, decisively, he did what every good hunter must—he trusted his gut.
Turning deliberately, he stepped toward Rashan, stopping just short of the young man's quietly smiling face.
He met Rashan's steady gaze, his amber eyes intense. His voice came out quiet but firm. "When we retrieve my brother, you'll help me cleanse my clan."
Rashan's smile never wavered, his reply immediate and calmly confident. "Sure."
Cleanse. The word carried profound weight to Arannis, heavier than Rashan could fully grasp in that moment. It meant far more than mere revenge or justice—though those were indeed part of it. To Arannis, cleansing meant purging the traitors who had defiled their sacred traditions, removing the Altmer puppets who had betrayed their clan, and reclaiming the ancient, proud ways of the Green Pact. It meant restoring honor, respect, and purity to his people—no matter how many would have to fall to see it done.
As Arannis accepted the mask, carefully lifting it to his face, Rashan spoke once more, his tone easy yet firm.
"I'm going to have a set of armor crafted specifically for you. We can't have you operating in your traditional leathers—not when they carry so many clues about your identity. We'll stow your gear safely, if that's acceptable to you. I'll have it sent inland, where my mother and sister are currently staying. It'll be safest there."
He paused, studying Arannis quietly before continuing. "Meanwhile, I'll commission something more suitable to your skills—finer armor and a bow worthy of your talents. I'll handle the enchantments personally."
Arannis blinked in genuine surprise. He's an enchanter, too? He quickly masked his reaction, glancing discreetly at Rashan's youthful face. By Y'ffre, how young was this Redguard?
"Until then," Rashan continued casually, unaware—or perhaps simply unconcerned—by the reaction he'd provoked, "you'll have to use our standard Anbu gear. One of the others will walk you through our procedures and operations. Training should only take about a week or so. Afterward, you'll join our roving patrol, hunting down Dominion scouts—they've been growing more frequent over the past month."
Devan approached silently, mask already in place, motioning for Arannis to follow him back into the fort. But just as Arannis began to move, Rashan reached out and gently clasped his shoulder. Arannis turned slowly, meeting the young Redguard's steady, respectful gaze.
"About your Green Pact," Rashan said quietly, his voice low and serious, "I imagine you'll be honoring many High Elves in the coming weeks."
Arannis blinked again, genuinely taken aback. His previous commander had explicitly forbidden strict adherence to the Green Pact—particularly its most sacred and controversial tradition, the Mourning Feast. According to ancient Bosmeri customs, the dead were honored through ritual consumption, their spirits respectfully guided back into the embrace of Y'ffre's forest. But Dominion rulers had fiercely suppressed these rites, labeling them savage and barbaric. To hear Rashan not only acknowledge but endorse the practice was profoundly meaningful.
After a thoughtful moment, Arannis slowly nodded, conveying his quiet appreciation. Rashan smiled faintly and released his shoulder, dismissing him with a gentle wave. As Devan led Arannis back into the fort, Rashan closed the gate behind them, pleased. He had successfully recruited an exceptionally skilled scout.
Yet, there remained another matter—someone still had to inform the Dominion at Gilane of their location.
Rashan's gaze shifted thoughtfully toward the cells, where the Khajiit prisoner still waited. He'd closely observed the Khajiit's nature over the past month: fickle, opportunistic, his primary instinct always survival. Rashan had no doubt that the moment the Khajiit was set free, he'd bolt straight back to Dominion-held territory and spill every detail he knew. Rashan was counting precisely on that.
Read Author Note FUTURE OF NOVEL DEPENDS ON IT