Report

"Guess we're going to track her down, huh?" Jalil said, still catching his breath, hands on his knees.

Rashan didn't look away from the drain.

"No," he said evenly. "You are."

Jalil straightened, brow furrowing. "Wait—seriously?"

Behind them, the two guards had started to drift off, clearly assuming their role in the chase was finished.

"This is a good opportunity," Rashan said. "Real-world experience. You're going to find her. Follow her. Don't approach. I want to know everything—where she goes, who she meets, when she's alone. No contact. Just pattern recognition."

Jalil gave him a sidelong glance. "And how exactly am I supposed to do all that? Use clairvoyance?"

Rashan gave the faintest smile. "You'll figure it out. I believe in you."

Jalil hesitated, gears turning. Then his eyes followed the guards retreating toward the street.

Without another word, he jogged after them. "Guards! Oi—did you hear the young noble's orders? He wants that girl tracked. If she's seen again, report to me directly. I'll be coordinating observation. Understood?"

The guards halted at once.

One straightened his posture, saluted with a fist over his chest. "Understood, young ser. We'll circulate her description immediately."

The other nodded, tone respectful. "If she surfaces again, we'll report to you."

Jalil gave a quick, confident nod and turned back toward Rashan, eyes shining just a little.

From the alley, Rashan watched it unfold with arms crossed, lips twitching in amusement.

Quick thinking. Confident delivery. No hesitation in pulling rank.

He liked that.

The boy was learning.

Jalil sighed as he looked down at the report in his hands.

It had taken the better part of two weeks. The first just to find her again—the red-haired street rat who'd outmaneuvered a noble and slipped through a runoff drain like it was her second home. The next week, he'd spent watching—not following too closely, not getting involved. Just observing. Tracking her movements. Building a picture.

And now… it was all on paper.

A tight, detailed report. Names. Patterns. Habits. How she moved. Who she spoke to. Where she slept when it rained.

It wasn't pretty.

He didn't say anything. Just folded the parchment once, tucked it into a leather sleeve, and made his way to Rashan's study.

The door was open.

Rashan didn't look up as Jalil entered. He was adjusting one of the small crystal ink vials on his desk, the light catching it just right.

Jalil walked forward, stepped into his line of sight, and held the report out in both hands.

Rashan took it without a word. His eyes scanned the front, then flipped it open. Quiet. Focused.

This was standard procedure—at least, it had been back in his SEAL days.

Observation. Routine reports. Debriefs.

It was second nature to him.

But for Jalil?

It was training.

And he'd done it right.

Rashan kept his face plain as he read the report, eyes scanning line after line with practiced detachment.

The structure was rough in places. The language leaned a little too casual in a few spots, and one or two entries lacked follow-up detail. But the bones were solid. Discipline. Pattern recognition. Patience. Jalil had done the work—no hand-holding, no guidance.

This was a real op. And the boy had done well.

He didn't say that out loud. Praise was a tool, not a habit.

Across the room, Jalil sat low in a wide-backed reading chair, legs folded beneath him, flipping through a heavy tome from Rashan's father's library. The spine was cracked, the vellum yellowed with age, the title on the cover long since worn away. But Rashan knew the book. Everyone in the estate's upper hall did.

"The Practical Guide to Tamrielic Beasts – Officer's Edition."

It wasn't written for scholars. It was written for young nobles expected to lead border patrols, defend trade routes, or take command in emergencies. It had no flowery metaphors. Just field-tested facts.

Jalil was halfway through the troll section.

TROLL – Forest Type

Range: High forests, shaded ravines, moss-covered caves

Disposition: Territorial, solitary, aggressive when approached

Size: Commonly over two full strides tall

Weight Estimate: Greater than a fully armored destrier

Strengths:

– Rapid regeneration. Non-magical wounds heal quickly unless seared

– Crushing strength. Limbs capable of breaking bones or smashing wooden shields

– Extended reach. Uses wide arcs in close quarters, capable of striking multiple targets

– Stamina. Trolls do not tire easily and can endure heavy damage

Weaknesses:

– Fire. Strong aversion; stops regeneration and can drive them into retreat

– Targeted bleeding. Deep and repeated wounds can slow healing over time

– Limited awareness. Easily baited or distracted; weak situational focus

– Joint exposure. Knees, elbows, and spine are lightly protected—ideal targets

Recommended Tactics:

Avoid prolonged melee unless heavily armored. Strike quickly, retreat, repeat. Use terrain to your advantage. Fire-based weapons or oils are highly recommended. Always confirm a kill—trolls have been known to recover minutes after collapsing.

Rashan let his eyes rest on Jalil for a moment longer. The boy wasn't faking focus. He was reading like he meant to remember it—like he expected it to matter.

Good.

He turned back to the report.

The girl. Imperial. Eleven.

Small for her age—malnutrition, almost certainly long-term. Thin frame, wiry muscle, but efficient in movement. She didn't speak. Not once during the observation period. Jalil suspected she was mute.

She kept a tight pattern—never sleeping in the same place twice. Drain tunnels, roof alcoves, broken balconies—always places with at least one exit and limited exposure. No companions. No adult supervision. No one looking after her.

Then came the notes on her home life.

Jalil had gone into detail.

Rashan read it, line by line—but he didn't dwell on it.

Not right now.

He breathed out slowly through his nose and set the report down.

It was bad. Worse than he'd expected.

Just her and her mother—but the mother had issues. More than that, really. The kind of problems that left marks deeper than bruises.

The kind that didn't heal easily.

The girl had instinct. Awareness. Control.

But she also had trauma. Probably more than she even understood.

And Rashan didn't have the time—or the luxury—to rebuild someone from the ground up.

He tapped the desk once, then leaned back.

All he could do was offer.