Commander Iltharin narrowed his golden eyes, gazing cautiously along the narrowing path ahead. To either side, thick marsh vegetation stretched away into tangled, murky depths, draped in mist and shadow. Twisted roots emerged like grasping fingers from stagnant pools, while overhead, dense foliage hung heavily, trapping the humidity and amplifying the oppressive dampness.
Iltharin slowed the Dominion company, nearly a hundred soldiers following silently behind him. The marshland, locally called the Serpent's Path, was increasingly uncomfortable; mud tugged at their boots with every step, and drizzle dripped ceaselessly from a grey, overcast sky. More importantly, the path was flanked by wooded ridges—rising sharply, about forty feet high, close enough to make Iltharin wary of ambush.
His eyes scanned the higher ground instinctively, tension coiling subtly in his chest. If an enemy wanted to strike, those ridges would offer a devastating advantage. Yet he saw no immediate sign of threat—only dripping leaves and shifting shadows.
He paused, awaiting a signal from Arannis, his lead scout. He expected either Arannis himself or at least a signal-flash from the mirrored signaling devices Dominion scouts frequently carried—small, enchanted glass reflectors capable of subtle coded messages. Common throughout Dominion ranks, these mirrors allowed scouts to discreetly communicate over long distances without the revealing trace of magicka.
Then it appeared—a soft, rhythmic flash of reflective glass from high above, atop the wooded ridge. About forty feet above the marsh trail, Iltharin glimpsed Arannis's signal clearly through the drizzle and mist. The scout was positioned exactly where he should be, choosing to remain on higher ground rather than descending to meet directly, a choice Iltharin found perfectly natural. The Bosmer scout had always been more at home among trees and marshland solitude than within structured military ranks.
The simple message flashed to him clearly: all was clear ahead, and Arannis would continue scouting forward rather than rejoining immediately. Iltharin acknowledged with a small nod of relief. Any anxiety dissipated quickly, replaced by a desire to finish this miserable march swiftly and rejoin the rest of the Dominion's forces in dryer, more hospitable terrain.
With newfound confidence, he signaled sharply, increasing the company's pace as they moved deeper into the marsh, eyes alert but spirits briefly lifted by the familiar reassurance of a scout who had yet to fail him.
The high elf commander strode confidently forward through the marshland, mud sucking quietly at his boots with every step. Iltharin's expression was calm, almost serene, as he moved at the head of his column—two neat rows of Dominion soldiers marching quietly behind him. The drizzle continued, a steady whisper that seemed to intensify the silence rather than break it. The dense trees and tangled vegetation pressed in from both sides, the marsh narrowing further into a natural choke point.
Meanwhile, Rashan sat perfectly still on the ridge, his muscles taut with anticipation. Every nerve hummed with controlled energy. His thoughts flickered briefly to Cassia, Alain, and Devan, still unseen. He pushed the concern away swiftly—he trusted them. Right now, he had other priorities. Saif had already reported the Dominion's approach, and Rashan could feel his pulse quicken, adrenaline beginning to flood his veins.
He shifted his gaze downward, watching the enemy's measured advance with quiet respect for the elven commander's position. The elf was in front, leading by example. Rashan admired the bravery, the integrity in that choice. But respect wouldn't save him. The commander would soon lie broken beneath stone or spears or perhaps writhing in flames.
Everyone around Rashan knew their roles intimately, drilled over and over until it was second nature. Near the highest ridge, the Anbu Orc, Garuk, stood poised beside one of the massive boulders—his heavy warhammer ready to strike away the wooden supports that held the stone in place. Nearby, Dorrun stood ready by a second boulder, eyes locked on Garuk, waiting for the precise moment to act.
Step by careful step, the Dominion soldiers entered deeper into Rashan's carefully orchestrated trap. Their double-column formation—a standard military procedure allowing swift maneuvering through narrow passages—fit perfectly into Rashan's planned kill zone. As the formation stretched further into the choke point, the Dominion unknowingly stepped deeper into an inescapable noose.
Below Garuk and Dorrun, slightly lower on a secondary ridge still some twenty feet above the muddy path, Rashan waited alongside his small strike team. Adrien, Tariq, Jalil, Rashaad, and Khalid crouched silently beside him, each gripping glass vials of Rashan's specially-formulated accelerant. Nearby, two other Anbu—an Orc and a Nord—readied dozens of smaller, head-sized stones meant to rain chaos once the larger boulders dropped, creating further panic and injury among the trapped Dominion forces.
The initial sound was subtle—a sharp crack echoing through the marshlands as warhammers shattered wooden supports above. Commander Iltharin jerked his head upward, his breath freezing in his chest at the ominous sound.
"Above!" someone shouted, but it was already too late.
A sudden, thunderous cascade of head-sized stones exploded from the ridge overhead. The Dominion soldiers barely had time to react before the barrage slammed mercilessly into them. Helmets crumpled with sickening metallic screeches, skulls fractured audibly beneath the force, and limbs snapped with wet, gut-wrenching crunches.
Screams tore through the marsh, raw and unfiltered, the sudden agony drowning out disciplined formations and orders. Iltharin saw a Khajiit warrior crumple instantly, a stone striking him directly atop his head, collapsing his spine grotesquely inward with a horrific pop. A Bosmer archer staggered as a boulder smashed into his shoulder, tearing muscle and sinew as he fell, his scream ragged and wild.
"Shields up! Shields!" Iltharin roared, his voice strained with urgency and fury.
Around him, soldiers scrambled desperately, adrenaline surging, their bodies reflexively bracing and shifting to endure impacts. High Elf warriors, disciplined even in chaos, drew on their Vitality, their internal energy surging desperately to reinforce bone and muscle. Many took direct impacts and stayed standing—bones fracturing rather than shattering outright, skin bruising violently instead of tearing apart completely. Still, the sheer brutal kinetic energy staggered them, left them stumbling and vulnerable.
Before Iltharin could shout further commands, a new, terrifying roar overwhelmed the screams of agony—a deeper, seismic rumble. Two massive boulders thundered down from either end of the ridge, strategically released to trap the company within a deadly corridor.
One immense stone crashed into the front ranks with catastrophic force, pulverizing soldiers instantly beneath its massive weight, grinding metal, bone, and flesh into a grotesque, indistinguishable pulp. The rear was sealed similarly, soldiers crushed and battered, their desperate cries smothered instantly beneath tons of cold, merciless rock.
Trapped, battered, and bleeding, panic clawed through Iltharin's company, disciplined troops devolving rapidly into terrified chaos. Soldiers stumbled blindly, shields raised futilely as stones continued their brutal assault, breaking bones, crushing limbs, splintering armor.
From his concealed position twenty feet above, Rashan watched with a quiet, fierce exhilaration. His heartbeat quickened, breath steady but eager, eyes sharp and bright beneath his mask. His fingers tightened around the bowstring.
This was it—his perfectly orchestrated killzone had been established. Now, the slaughter truly began.