Killing Bandits
Rashan currently stood outside the cave. He was seventeen years old.
The year was 4E 175.
The Dominion held the Imperial City. For nearly a year, golden armor marched through the ruins of Cyrodiil's heart while the Empire staggered to recover. The legions collapsed inward, chasing losses, spreading thin. The provinces felt it first—Elsweyr, Black Marsh, even High Rock. Hammerfell gave up its soldiers to support the war in the east. Not because the fighting reached it, but because the Empire couldn't afford to lose anything else.
Now the land cracked along the edges. Towns lost their watchmen. Roads turned silent. Caravans vanished. Bandits bloomed in the dark like mold.
Pressure. Enough to snap what the Dominion hadn't even touched yet.
The cave ahead reeked of sweat, fire, and half-rotted food. Rashan had tracked the movement for six days. Two shifts a night. Sentries rotated at dusk and again before dawn. One gap along the front entrance. Another by the runoff. He'd watched the pattern hold every time.
He raised his hand—two fingers forward, then a sharp drop.
A adolescent man wearing a Wolf mask broke left. Jalil slipped between brush and stone like muscle wrapped in smoke. His mask carried the shape of a desert hound—gray lacquer, clean edges, black markings etched along the muzzle and brow. No mouth. No expression. Just presence.
A adolescent women wearing a Fox mask moved right. Cassia flowed like she had never known hesitation. Her mask shaped like a flame-tailed trickster—white base, red streaks curling along the cheeks and ears. Lightweight, fast, balanced for speed.
Rashan adjusted the strap of his own mask. Bone-white, reinforced with black steel, the horns swept back over the crown. Crimson script traced the jawline. Slitted eye shapes. Smooth plate. Every part fitted for control.
He forged each one by hand.
He wanted the unit to move like special forces—tight, anonymous, sharp. The masks gave them an edge. Most men hesitated at the sight of a faceless killer. Symbols worked faster than blades. Clean lines. Animal forms. No wasted decoration.
The idea came from another life. Long hours in a hospital bed. A ruined body. Nothing to hold onto but wires and a screen. The anime ran in loops. Always the same comfort. Always the same edge.
Naruto.
His favorite.
The ANBU masks left an impression—white ceramic, red markings, animal faces shaped for fear and precision.
He operated their unit like a special forces unit:
Chalk maps scratched onto tabletops. Patrol cycles tracked to the second.
Signals drilled until they moved without thought.
Fallback routes marked by terrain. Bleed protocols mapped by distance.
Strike fast. Exit clean. Reset. Repeat.
Over the last three years, he shaped them piece by piece—Jalil and Cassia trained to move like muscle memory. Movement. Sightlines. Pressure points. Observation. Extraction. Each raid began with planning, ended in silence, and left nothing to trace.
The cave ahead breathed heat. One sentry stood by the fire.
He gave the signal.
Rashan and Jalil kept watch as Cassia crept through the dark.
Both of them handled a bow better than she did. Cleaner draw, faster correction. But Cassia wasn't built for distance. Her edge lived up close. She moved like someone who never needed a second chance—quiet steps, sharp timing, just enough illusion magic to tip the odds.
She wore a refractive veil, cast tight across her form. It bent the light along her edges, scattered her outline, dulled her shadow. Shapes blurred where she passed. Lines broke across the surface of her limbs like warped glass. At night, it tricked the eye into looking past her.
The sentry stood near a crate stacked with sacks, posture lazy, shoulders rolled forward, hand draped near his sword hilt. He scanned nothing. His head tilted once, slow, loose. Breath shallow and bored.
Cassia came in low and from the side, her body angled to stay outside the arc of his vision. Her right foot rolled heel to toe in complete silence. Left foot followed. She pivoted just behind him and moved fast.
Her left hand clamped over his mouth, fingers locked across the cheek and jaw. Her thumb pressed beneath the chin, forcing the head back in one sharp motion. His body reacted, stiffening, but her weight dropped behind him. One knee drove into the back of his leg, collapsing it instantly.
The blade was already moving.
Her right hand came in from low, reverse grip, point upward. The steel pierced beneath the jawline and drove through the soft tissue. Cartilage gave. The tip split the base of the skull, angled up and slightly back—right into the brainstem. His body jerked once, then went slack.
She caught him mid-collapse, one hand at his collar, the other behind the ribs. He weighed nothing. She lowered him to the dirt like setting down a wrapped bundle.
No scrape. No drop. Just motion.
She adjusted her grip, checked the body, raised a single finger.
Target down.
Cassia, still masked, moved behind the storage crates and disappeared into shadow. The body of the Breton had already been stashed—dragged into a low gap behind a broken barrel and covered with a torn canvas sack.
One down.
Intel had the count locked at seventeen confirmed bandits. No outside fighters. One central fire. Rotations came every hour. Two sentries at a time, same path, same mistake.
Sixteen left.
Plus two possible hostages.
A Dunmer merchant family had been hit near the coast road. Their wagon was found wrecked and empty. Guards dead. Two daughters—teenagers—taken. No trace since.
Rashan wanted to save them.
But rushing created mistakes.
And mistakes got people killed.
The team waited for the next rotation.
Wind pulled soft across the camp. Cloth shifted on crates. Fire crackled low in the pit.
Then footsteps.
A Redguard and an Orc stepped out of the main passage, still talking, half-laughing—something about a fight, maybe a wager. Their pace slowed at once. The Orc glanced toward the empty post. The Redguard followed.
The silence hit them too late.
Rashan and Jalil loosed in sync.
Timing—drilled until it lived in muscle memory. No words. No glance. Just release.
The arrows hit with weight. Dense impact. Flesh and bone folding around the steel.
The Orc dropped straight down, throat pierced, spine split at the top. His legs gave out beneath him. The Redguard staggered a step before his body pitched sideways—arrow driven clean through the neck at an upward angle, lodging deep behind the jaw.
Both bodies hit the ground seconds apart.
Fourteen left.
Rashan and Jalil moved as soon as the path cleared. Cassia already had the Redguard by the collar, dragging him behind the crates. Jalil stepped in beside her and took the Orc by the shoulders—heavier, slower to move. Together they rolled the corpse into a hollow beside the firewood stack and covered it with an oil-stained cloth.
Rashan moved to the entrance, bow drawn, eyes scanning.
Once the bodies were hidden, he gave the signal.
They advanced in formation—tight, deliberate.
Rashan led with his bow drawn and ready. Cassia followed, low and fluid. Jalil brought up the rear, longbow raised, breathing measured. Every step was part of the plan.
The corridor bent. Firelight flickered.
Rashan raised a fist.
Stop.
The room opened wide—crates, barrels, low firelight. Four shapes inside.
The compass at the top of Rashan's vision marked four red enemies. Two seated near the fire. One standing at the back. One pacing along the wall.
He gave the signal.
Cassia moved left. Jalil shifted right. Rashan centered.
He pulled a ceramic vial from his belt—his own blend. Flashburst mix: sunroot for the light, void crystal for the pressure, sealed in resin that only responded to magicka. No flame. No shrapnel. Just sound, light, and force.
He threw it underhand.
The vial rolled into the center of the room.
Magicka pulsed.
Flash. Crack. Pressure.
The room exploded with white light. The fire staggered in its own pit. Stone groaned under the pressure.
The bandits flinched—
A Khajiit slammed backward into a stack of crates, dazed.
A Dunmer shielded his eyes, stumbling.
A Nord flinched hard, trying to stand.
An Imperial froze mid-step, blinking.
They moved.
Rashan released—his arrow punched into the Khajiit's ribs and kept going. It struck with a dull crack, splitting bone on entry, the force of it lifting him half off his feet before the body collapsed sideways.
Cassia's arrow snapped through the Dunmer's chest—angled high and tight, the shaft buried clean through the sternum, pinning him against a crate before his knees gave out.
Jalil's arrow drove into the Nord's neck just above the collarbone, punching through the base and exiting near the spine. Blood sprayed across the floor. The Nord dropped to one knee, coughing hard.
The Imperial tried to crawl.
Jalil was already moving.
He stepped behind the Imperial, grabbed a fistful of hair, and wrenched the head back. His blade came down sharp—angled in behind the clavicle, piercing the artery, and severing the top of the lung. The knife twisted once and pulled free.
The body fell with a wet slap, twitching once, then still.
Room cleared.
Rashan checked the compass.
Twelve left.
He couldn't see anyone close—just the bend ahead. A hard U-turn in the stone. The walls narrowed, the light dipped. His compass showed three red markers moving in a loose triangle.
He stopped the team with a closed fist. Waited. Listened.
A voice drifted around the bend—lazy, low, and edged with something foul.
"Think we'll get a turn? Damn boss won't let us have any fun…"
Rashan didn't move.
They were talking about the hostages.
He didn't need to hear more. The tone said enough. He'd seen that brand of cruelty before—different battlefield, same sickness.
Behind him, Jalil's breath caught slightly. Cassia's grip tightened on her bow.
Rashan stayed calm.
He cast Night Eye on himself. The dark peeled back into silver-blue clarity—walls, crates, and the vague outlines of the three men ahead. He cast it again on Jalil, then Cassia. No motion wasted.
He gave the signal.
Cassia shifted left. Jalil took the right. Rashan advanced straight up the middle.
He pulled a flash potion from his belt. His own creation—sunroot for light, void crystal for pressure, sealed with a resin binder keyed to magicka. No flame. No fire. Just sound, force, and time bought.
He rolled it forward.
Magicka flared.
Flash. Crack. Pressure.
The light burst white, loud and close. The tunnel swallowed the sound and hurled it back. Everything beyond the bend staggered under the impact.
They moved fast.
A Bosmer flailed against the far wall, disoriented.
A Redguard ducked low, trying to draw steel.
A Nord stood half-upright, blinking through the wash.
Cassia fired first. Her arrow slammed into the Bosmer's chest, just above the heart. The body hit the stone with a dull thud.
Jalil's shot took the Redguard in the gut, angling up through the ribs. The man choked and dropped hard.
The Nord charged.
Rashan sidestepped the rush and let the man overextend. One hand caught the wrist. The other struck the elbow joint from below. A crack followed—a clean break.
Rashan twisted behind him, yanked the head back by the hair, and drove his dagger up beneath the chin. The steel pierced through the top of the palate and into the brain.
The Nord collapsed mid-step. Rashan let him fall.
Nine left.
Rashan moved first. The tunnel opened into a wider chamber—arched stone, crates shattered, the floor scattered with bones, cloth, and filth.
His compass flared—nine red markers, grouped tight.
Then the sounds hit him.
Sobbing. Metal scraping. Heavy breathing.
Laughter. A voice barking orders. Another one panting.
He leaned just far enough to see.
They were performing unspeakable acts on the hostages.
Two Dunmer girls, barely older than Cassia, bound at the back of the chamber—helpless, broken, motionless.
Rashan grimaced.
People were the worst.
Behind him, Jalil stood frozen, muscles coiled so tight his shoulders shook. Cassia didn't move, but her entire stance had shifted—tense, silent, like a pulled string.
It was the first time either had frozen like this.
Then again this was the first time they seen the worst people had to offer, people could be very shitty.
Rashan snapped his fingers—short, sharp. Enough to snap them back.
Both turned to him. Eyes burning.
He signed fast:
Cassia would provide overwatch from elevation.
He and Jalil would fire two shots each, then breach.
The goal was to try and save the hostages.
Rashan moved forward. Bow drawn, stance locked. Jalil mirrored him.
Cassia climbed into position.
He gave the signal.
They breached.
Rashan's first arrow slammed into a Nord's back—snapping bone, sending him forward into the dirt.
Jalil's first shot struck a Khajiit clean through the neck—blood hit the fire before the body dropped.
Second volley—Rashan fired into a Breton's ribs, snapping through leather, lungs, and spine.
Jalil's arrow pinned a Redguard to a support beam by the thigh. He screamed.
Cassia's arrow followed—hit a Bosmer moving toward the girls. It split his skull clean.
Rashan dropped his bow and drew steel.
Four left.
Rashan crossed the chamber first.
The Redguard came at him from the left—shirtless, scimitar already raised, body slick with sweat and blood that wasn't his. He shouted something that didn't matter. Rashan watched his feet, not his mouth.
He stepped off-line as the blade came down, raised his own sword in a tight vertical guard, and let the strike glance harmlessly off the flat. Then he stepped in and drove his blade forward—low, tight, right beneath the ribcage. It punched deep. Rashan twisted as he pulled it free, dragging the edge wide on the exit. The Redguard's knees buckled. He collapsed, still trying to speak, and didn't get the chance.
Jalil flanked right.
A Dunmer lunged from behind a stack of crates, blade raised high like a butcher's cleaver. Jalil dropped low, cut across the front leg, and took the knee apart in a single stroke. The Dunmer screamed. Jalil answered by driving his sword straight through the chest—both hands, one motion, pinned him to the floorboards.
A Nord barreled toward Rashan, roaring. Big. Heavy. His swing had weight behind it.
Rashan ducked the first cut, then parried the follow-up and caught the Nord's arm with his free hand. He pivoted, locked the man's wrist against his chest, and brought his sword down in a vicious arc. The blade chopped into the side of the neck and didn't stop. The body jerked once, then sagged against him, dead before it hit the ground.
The last one—the Imperial—was already running.
Half-naked. No pants. The bastard had been mid-act when they entered.
He made it three steps.
Cassia's arrow hit him square in the lower back. He pitched forward with a shriek and hit the stone, clawing with blood-slick hands.
Jalil didn't slow.
He walked straight up, raised his sword overhand, and brought it down with full force—into the gap between the Imperial's shoulders. The scream cut off. The blade sank deep.
Then—nothing.
Silence.
Just fire crackling. Blood dripping from steel.
Rashan stood in the center of the chamber. His sword was red. His boots were soaked. Nine corpses surrounded him.
He turned.
The two Dunmer girls were still bound near the back wall—crumpled against stone, their bodies streaked with dirt, blood, and bruises.
They wore nothing.
Whatever clothing they'd once had was torn away and left in rags across the floor. One of them had tried to cover herself with her legs, curling in tight, shoulders hunched like she could shrink into the wall. The other didn't even try. She sat upright, wrists tied behind her back, posture stiff, gaze locked on the fire like she was watching something only she could see.
Her face was blank. Hollow. Blood crusted across one nostril, and deep red marks ringed her arms and ankles where she'd been restrained too long.
The smaller girl trembled with every breath. She kept her head down, hair hanging like a curtain, hiding what little she could. Her ribs showed when she inhaled. Her legs shook so hard the stone beneath her scraped from the motion.
Rashan approached slowly.
No weapons drawn. Just the knife in his hand—held low, pointed away.
He crouched beside them. Quiet. Focused.
He cut the bindings from the older girl first. One quick draw through the rope. She didn't flinch. Didn't speak. Her arms dropped limp at her sides.
Then he turned to the younger one. She pulled her knees tighter as he approached, but didn't fight. He cut her free just as fast—gentle, practiced, efficient.
He took a breath.
"It's done," he said, voice quiet. "You're safe now."
They didn't answer.
Didn't move.
They just sat there—silent and small—wrapped in the aftermath of something that never should've happened.
Behind him, Jalil checked the last body for signs of life. Cassia didn't speak. Her bow was lowered, but her hands were still clenched around the grip.
Rashan stood slowly.
They'd survived.
But as he looked at them—eyes empty, bodies still—he found himself wondering:
Would they ever live again?