Night had fully settled, wrapping the rocky terrain in a velvet cloak of darkness, when Rashan departed the fort with Cassia and Devan at his side. The moon, a thin crescent high above, offered only faint illumination—but with their enchanted masks, darkness posed no barrier.
They moved swiftly across the rugged terrain, covering ground rapidly due to their relentless training and Rashan's carefully formulated alchemical potions. The "sprinter's potion," as Rashan had dubbed it, allowed their bodies to continually replenish their stamina as they ran, a subtle but crucial advantage. Hours of running seemed effortless, their speed easily surpassing that of a slow-moving caravan burdened with cargo and equipment.
After nearly two hours, Rashan raised a hand to signal a stop. Cassia and Devan halted instantly, breath steady and silent. Ahead, a warm orange glow from a newly established campfire flickered, illuminating a makeshift encampment nestled between rocky formations. The caravan appeared to have only just settled in, wagons and tents still in the process of being organized, guards positioning themselves casually around the perimeter. Rashan reasoned they must have stopped just as the sun set fully, seeking safety in numbers rather than risking nighttime travel.
He moved closer, choosing a concealed route between rocky outcrops, Cassia and Devan carefully trailing behind, ghostlike in their silence. Once near enough to observe clearly, Rashan signaled again—this time instructing Cassia and Devan to hold position and establish overwatch from their current vantage. Cassia acknowledged immediately with a subtle nod, her eyes calmly scanning the area, ready to cloak their presence or provide immediate support if necessary. Devan settled quietly beside her, vigilant and alert, carefully positioning himself to cover Rashan's approach and, if needed, swiftly execute an extraction.
Moving alone, Rashan slipped carefully around the guards, easily identifying gaps in their patrol patterns. The caravan guards, confident in their numbers and proximity to safer inland roads, weren't expecting any trouble and had grown lax in their vigilance. This complacency allowed Rashan to pass silently through their perimeter without difficulty, slipping into a perfect vantage point atop a rocky outcropping that overlooked the campfire.
Below, Rashan could clearly see the dignitary, Sorian Al-Satakala, and his second cousin, Jaleel Sulharen, comfortably seated on plush rugs arranged around the freshly built fire. Servants moved quickly around them, laying out platters of rich foods—roasted meats, fresh fruits, breads, and spiced delicacies—alongside elegant goblets filled generously with wine. They appeared to be just settling into the meal, their conversation casual and relaxed, clearly familiar with each other from previous encounters.
Rashan focused his magicka quietly, carefully weaving a subtle alteration spell he'd personally designed for precisely this purpose. Overhearing distant conversations had been a crucial element of intelligence gathering during his past life as a SEAL—allowing for early identification of threats, enemy positions, or critical plans without direct confrontation. This experience had influenced him greatly, prompting him to meticulously craft this particular spell. It amplified sound with remarkable clarity, yet Rashan knew it required delicate handling. Sudden loud noises—shouts, alarms, or clangs of metal—would overwhelm his senses painfully, making it a spell best reserved for careful reconnaissance in exactly this sort of quiet, controlled environment.
At first, their talk was simple pleasantries—Jaleel eagerly boasting of his father's expanding trade networks and prestigious connections, Sorian responding with practiced warmth, expertly flattering Jaleel's pride. Rashan noted grimly how effortlessly the dignitary guided the conversation, each carefully chosen word subtly inflating Jaleel's already considerable ego, playing him expertly like a finely tuned instrument.
"Your family has always displayed remarkable foresight and adaptability," Sorian remarked graciously, gently swirling the wine in his goblet as he offered an approving nod. "Expanding from maritime trade to inland caravans—very astute. Hammerfell's future truly belongs to men of vision such as your father."
Jaleel, visibly puffing with pride and increasingly confident with each generous sip of wine, straightened his posture importantly and nodded vigorously. "Indeed, indeed. Father always says, 'A wise man rides the winds before they shift.' He can foresee opportunities long before others have even noticed them."
Rashan observed Jaleel's foolishness with a cold, detached contempt. Even from this distance, he could plainly see the self-satisfied smirk forming on his cousin's face, completely blind to how smoothly he was being manipulated. Sorian chuckled softly, leaning forward slightly in feigned interest and subtle encouragement.
"Precisely," Sorian replied, subtly steering the conversation toward his true goal. "But speaking of opportunities—and perhaps obstacles—what of this masked commander occupying the inland fort? He was confident enough to deny my entirely reasonable request for cooperation. Such open defiance toward mutual cooperation and unity during wartime is… intriguing, wouldn't you agree?"
Rashan narrowed his eyes carefully, closely watching Jaleel's reaction. He saw his second cousin hesitate, mouth opening briefly before closing again—clearly tempted to boast, yet still barely managing to hold back. Even with the wine dulling his judgment, Rashan could clearly see Jaleel skirting dangerously close to revealing his identity. Rashan felt a brief flash of irritation mixed with relief; family honor still held a faint grip on Jaleel's loose tongue, despite his clear resentment.
"Ah, yes," Jaleel finally replied after a tense pause, attempting to sound important while masking his irritation poorly. "He's arrogant beyond measure. Prideful, stubborn—frankly, difficult to deal with."
Sorian smiled knowingly, his eyes glittering with subtle encouragement. Rashan could see clearly that the dignitary was patiently drawing Jaleel closer and closer to the line, waiting for his foolish cousin to cross it. "Indeed. Curious, then, that General Samir Sulharen places such implicit trust in him. A mere masked commander, and yet he seems empowered to speak for the General himself. Do you perhaps know why?"
Jaleel shifted uncomfortably, conflicted and obviously tempted. Rashan watched carefully, silently assessing just how far Jaleel's drunken pride would push him. Despite his clear temptation, Jaleel still hesitated, retaining at least enough of his wits to avoid openly breaking family honor, though his intoxicated state made the outcome uncertain.
Before Jaleel could fully reply, he abruptly placed down his goblet, wobbling as he rose unsteadily to his feet. "Forgive me, Lord Al-Satakala," he slurred, clearly trying to recover some shred of dignity. "Wine… and a long ride. I must excuse myself briefly."
Sorian inclined his head graciously, the smile on his lips suggesting that he knew exactly how far he had pushed Jaleel, patiently preparing to resume the interrogation when his quarry returned. "Of course. Take your time, my friend."
Rashan watched Jaleel stumble awkwardly away from the fire, heading toward a secluded area beyond the immediate ring of illumination. His opportunity had finally arrived.
Sliding soundlessly from his hiding spot, Rashan expertly tracked Jaleel's clumsy movements through the shadows, easily intercepting him as he paused unsteadily beside a large rock formation, fumbling incompetently with his robes.
Rashan emerged silently behind him, close enough to whisper, voice low and edged with menace. "Hello, cousin."
Jaleel jerked violently, nearly shouting in surprise—but Rashan immediately clamped a firm, gloved hand over his mouth, preventing any noise from escaping. The distant, casual chatter of the caravan men and the dignitary's guards continued uninterrupted, masking the brief scuffle.
Jaleel twisted weakly in his grip, eyes wide with shock and fear. Rashan leaned closer, whispering coldly into his ear.
"You and I need to talk."