Rashan stood silently, masked face revealing nothing, as he watched the Alik'r dignitary pace restlessly through the fort's modest war room. Weeks of diligent labor had slowly transformed the chamber: mold and grime steadily vanished, replaced by cleaner stonework, orderly wooden furniture, and fresh breezes drifting through newly opened windows. The musty air of neglect now yielded to a sense of quiet discipline and functionality—exactly as Rashan preferred.
The dignitary, Sorian Al-Satakala, embodied Alik'r pride and arrogance, standing tall and regal with a bearing of practiced nobility. His meticulously groomed salt-and-pepper beard framed a stern, angular face, highlighting a strong jawline and prominent cheekbones. Dark, piercing eyes regarded Rashan with carefully restrained impatience, revealing years of political maneuvering behind their calculated gaze. Rich robes of deep crimson silk edged in intricate gold embroidery cascaded elegantly from broad shoulders, announcing status and authority with every subtle movement. A ceremonial scimitar, immaculately polished and finely etched with traditional Yokudan script, rested conspicuously at his hip—a weapon as much symbolic as practical, gleaming sharply in the filtered sunlight.
His escort of twenty-five Alik'r warriors had arrived with him, though they now stood stiffly waiting in the courtyard, watched closely by ten of Rashan's own masked Anbu—silent, disciplined sentinels ensuring nothing went amiss.
The dignitary stopped pacing, fixing Rashan with a carefully controlled stare. "We are here to relieve you of this fort. Gilane's Dominion forces grow increasingly aggressive, and we cannot risk it falling into enemy hands. It requires a more... experienced touch."
Rashan raised a gloved hand calmly, stopping Sorian mid-sentence. Behind his mask, he remained utterly unreadable. "My orders come directly from Lord Sulharen himself," he responded evenly. "No handover of this fort is to be permitted. Dominion reinforcements from Gilane must not reach Taneth. The fort stays under my command—no exceptions."
Sorian's eyes narrowed, frustration simmering visibly beneath his practiced composure. He clearly saw Rashan merely as an underling, a subordinate blindly loyal to Forebear leadership—entirely unaware that he spoke directly to Lord Sulharen's own son. Rashan carefully maintained this anonymity; it served him far better than revealing his true identity would.
"Then accept our support," Sorian pressed firmly. "Let my warriors reinforce your defenses, at the very least. Surely you see the wisdom in that?"
Rashan shook his head, his voice politely detached yet resolutely firm. "Your offer is appreciated, but unnecessary. This fort stands secure. Additional forces would only draw unwanted attention."
Sorian's jaw tightened, irritation clearly rising beneath his careful exterior. Rashan recognized the political maneuvering: the Alik'r were loyal to the Crown faction, longstanding rivals of his father's Forebear party. With the Empire's abandonment of Hammerfell, Forebear influence had surged, making Rashan deeply wary of Crown intentions—especially offers of "support" that might conveniently place a Crown-controlled force in position to claim credit and leverage.
After nearly three tedious hours of increasingly tense debate, thinly veiled threats, and circular arguments, the dignitary finally pivoted to a different approach, demanding Rashan's intelligence on Dominion movements. Rashan calmly handed him a carefully prepared stack of documents—thorough yet intentionally useless, containing only general knowledge widely known among frontline commanders.
Sorian's expression darkened further. Clearly, he suspected Rashan had access to deeper information, something owed largely to Jalil's careful network-building—though Rashan wasn't about to reveal that advantage.
Blinking behind his mask, Rashan briefly drifted from the conversation, returning attention only when the dignitary once more circled back to the fort's strategic importance. Rashan, impatient, cut him off bluntly: "I will not repeat myself again."
Sorian's eyes flashed angrily for an instant before swiftly regaining composure and pivoting to a final point. "Then you will not interfere with our planned operation. Our scouts have reported a critical Dominion supply shipment departing Gilane, heading toward a village in the direction of your fort."
Rashan tilted his head slightly, intrigued despite himself. Alik'r intelligence was rarely this accurate or proactive—he quietly wondered how they had managed such timely information. Their strength, he knew, lay purely in battle, rarely extending to espionage or proactive strategy.
"We intend to intercept and destroy this shipment," Sorian stated firmly, eyes fixed challengingly on Rashan. "Keep your men clear. We do not require your involvement."
Rashan held the dignitary's stare for a silent moment before calmly responding, "Do as you see fit. That shipment cannot reach its destination—how you ensure that does not concern me."
But privately Rashan resolved to quietly dispatch his Anbu to observe from the shadows—ready to step in should the Alik'r falter.
As the Alik'r dignitary and his escort finally departed, Rashan exhaled softly behind his mask, his attention quickly drawn to a caravan slowly making its way toward the fort. Finally—supplies, Rashan thought, a wave of relief washing over him.
Whether in his past life or this one, Rashan understood that wars hinged on one critical factor above all else: supplies. Soldiers could endure the fiercest battles, withstand terrible odds, but without regular deliveries of food, medicine, weapons, armor, and raw materials, even the strongest armies inevitably crumbled. An army without supplies was a blade without a handle—dangerous to wield and destined to fail.
Rashan had felt the pinch acutely in recent days, especially with his alchemical stock dwindling dangerously low. The advantage of having an experienced alchemist around was that obtaining raw ingredients—simple herbs, powdered minerals, and dried reagents—was far easier than transporting fragile finished potions. Rashan could craft precisely what his team needed on-site, leveraging local materials and maximizing flexibility. Alchemy required precision and delicate handling, making raw ingredients far more practical and reliable to transport safely.
Armor repairs also relied heavily on consistent supply shipments. One of Rashan's Anbu, an Orc named Grogmar, was skilled in armor crafting and repair. Though he specialized primarily in plate armor, he was adept enough to handle the black leather gear the Anbu typically wore. The dedicated leatherworker, a Redguard, had been assigned to Jalil's infiltration missions—leaving Grogmar stretched thin and urgently awaiting fresh materials like leather straps, replacement rivets, and sturdy fabric linings to maintain their armor properly.
The caravan moved closer, creaking slowly through the gate as Rashan watched. Passing by the departing Alik'r delegation, the dignitary paused, briefly eyeing the wagons with evident suspicion. Rashan inwardly scoffed. Politicians had always irritated him, in this life and the last. Military leaders who dabbled in politics especially grated on him. Let them play their little games with pen and parchment—at the end of the day, the true value lay in the strength of one's fists and the integrity of one's word. Words alone had never stopped an arrow or deflected a blade. Only strength dictated the course of history.
As Rashan moved down to greet the arriving caravan, he recognized the man leading it: Jaleel Sulharen, his cousin, whose arms Rashan himself had broken after the arrogant fool ambushed Jalil during training. A slow smile spread beneath Rashan's mask as he approached.
His second cousin, Jaleel Sulharen, stood stiffly awaiting Rashan's approach. A few years older than Rashan—who had himself just turned eighteen—Jaleel's expression was guarded as Rashan calmly approached, masked face carefully unreadable.
Traditionally, the Sulharen family's enterprise had revolved around maritime trade, with merchant vessels navigating Hammerfell's coastal waters. However, anticipating Dominion naval blockades, Rashan had advised the family to diversify inland—leveraging the growing success of his nutrient-dense bread to expand their trade caravan network. His father, Samir Sulharen, had embraced the idea enthusiastically, funding much of the initial investment, though he characteristically delegated all practical matters to his cousin, Hadi Sulharen—Jaleel's father.
For all Jaleel's faults, Rashan had to admit that Hadi was a shrewd businessman, meticulous and strategic. Seeing Jaleel leading this particular caravan made perfect sense; it allowed Hadi to keep his son away from the true dangers of frontline combat while publicly presenting Jaleel's role as essential to Hammerfell's wartime logistics. Observing the caravan closely as it rolled into the fort's courtyard, Rashan noted immediately it was significantly larger and better-guarded than most. Clearly, Hadi intended to keep his son safe above all else, but given their proximity to contested areas, the family could easily justify the heightened security as necessary precautions for vital wartime supplies.
Suppressing a smirk behind his mask, Rashan stepped forward to greet his second cousin as the caravan came to a halt.