New Command

Rashan, Jalil, and Cassia rode their horses hard through the days and into the nights, pushing the sturdy mounts known for their exceptional stamina. Three days of relentless riding passed before they finally caught sight of his mother's caravan just beyond Riverpoint.

Relief flooded Rashan as they rejoined the massive caravan heading toward Elinhir, the destination he had carefully chosen months ago. Elinhir was not only one of Hammerfell's inland strongholds but was also home to Rashan's main bread production facility. There, Amira and the skilled baker managed one of his largest storage depots. The city's infrastructure was solid, and its resources well-maintained, providing a crucial foundation for their refugee plans.

Elinhir, unlike the coastal cities, was not a strategic target in the Great War. Its location inland, far from naval threats and direct Dominion interest, ensured that the only pressure it would face was minimal at best—intended solely to stretch Imperial and Redguard forces thin. This fact reassured Rashan. He knew the city would hold strong, making it the perfect sanctuary for those fleeing the coast.

Upon their arrival at Elinhir's bustling gates, Rashan's relief grew deeper still. The city was lively and organized, its strong walls manned by disciplined guards. Supply lines were stable and abundant, and the city's defenses were reassuringly robust. Rashan had chosen wisely.

Yet as they approached, Rashan realized the sheer scale of his mother's caravan had exceeded his original estimates. Behind it stretched a seemingly endless stream of refugees and wagons. He had anticipated a large group, but the actual numbers surpassed his careful preparations.

The city itself would not be able to accommodate everyone immediately. But Rashan had planned for such an eventuality. On the outskirts of Elinhir, space had already been designated and prepared for a refugee camp. While it was now clear that the camp would be slightly larger than he initially envisioned, Rashan remained confident. They would manage.

As they settled the caravan into its temporary encampment, Rashan surveyed the area with a thoughtful eye. This arrangement would work. It had to. Here, at least, they could regroup, recover, and prepare to meet whatever the war threw at them next.

The week would be infuriating.

What should have been a swift consolidation of leadership turned into endless posturing, arguments, and squabbles over rank and precedence. Rashan watched with growing irritation, biting back words as the camp became a stage for each commander's pride. Without official military authority himself, he could only observe, grinding his teeth while hours became days wasted on hollow debates.

His mother, typically composed and practiced in diplomacy, found herself equally exasperated, unable to bring clarity to the chaos despite her best efforts. Nothing moved forward, and uncertainty festered among the ranks.

Finally, at dawn one morning, the mood shifted.

Horns sounded from the edge of camp, sharp and commanding. Rashan lifted his gaze from the maps he'd studied fruitlessly for hours and exchanged a questioning glance with Jalil. The two quickly stepped from the tent, joining Cassia and his mother as they hurried toward the gathering soldiers near the camp's entrance.

A column of riders moved steadily through the makeshift streets of tents and cookfires, horses tired but proud beneath their riders. At the front rode Rashan's father, Samir Sulharen. Dust clung to his armor and cloak, signs of a hard and hurried journey. Yet his posture remained as imposing as ever, straight-backed and confident, his eyes sharp as he scanned the assembled ranks.

A proclaimer stood at the head of the column, holding aloft a scroll stamped prominently with the seal of the king. With practiced ceremony, he unrolled it and began to speak in a clear voice that carried across the silent crowd:

"By the order of King Fahara'jad and the Council of Elders, Samir Sulharen, son of Bashir Sulharen, Lord-Commander of Taneth, is hereby appointed Supreme Commander of Central Hammerfell's armies. Let all present heed his authority and grant him their utmost obedience, respect, and cooperation. May honor guide us, and may victory favor our steel!"

The camp erupted into cheers, relief palpable in every shout. Discipline returned swiftly as the troops fell silent again at Samir's raised hand. He dismounted smoothly, handed the reins to a waiting aide, and moved toward Rashan and his family with purposeful strides.

He paused only briefly, eyes warm with deep relief and pride, before pulling Rashan's mother into a passionate embrace. Rashan watched quietly, smiling as his father kissed his mother's forehead with tenderness that contrasted sharply against the grim surroundings of the war camp.

Turning next to Rashan, Samir gripped his shoulders firmly, looking him directly in the eyes.

"My son, thank you for watching over them. You've held our family honor well."

Rashan clasped his father's forearm, nodding deeply. "I'm glad you're here, Father. Finally, we can get something done."

Samir laughed, tension visibly lifting from his shoulders as the camp swiftly reorganized around them, soldiers quickly shifting into action under renewed and undisputed leadership.

After a day of organizing and settling into command, Rashan was summoned to his father's tent on the outskirts of Elinhir. The military encampment stood distinctly separate from the refugee camps, positioned strategically to instill order, clearly defining civilian spaces from military operations. Soldiers, both seasoned and freshly arrived, drilled in the open spaces between orderly rows of canvas tents.

Stepping inside, Rashan found his father seated behind a broad wooden table covered with maps and scattered documents. For the first time in weeks, his father appeared refreshed—dressed comfortably yet formally, befitting his command.

"My son," Samir gestured warmly, dismissing the officers who had gathered around him. "Sit. We have much to discuss."

Rashan settled into a chair opposite his father, nodding respectfully. "Father."

Samir regarded him thoughtfully before speaking. "Your proposal to bring foreign allies into our fight has found success—partial success, at least. Those who choose to stand with us will receive payment for their sacrifices. Additionally, we've established a lower tier of citizenship available to those who commit fully to our cause, along with protection guaranteed by the might of Hammerfell."

Rashan nodded slowly, thoughtfully considering the implications. Internally, he knew this would greatly appeal to the displaced Dunmer, who had long wandered without sanctuary. The promise of protection, on the other hand, was like a beacon to the Blades, whose lives were in constant jeopardy due to the Empire's betrayal.

"Not everyone agreed, of course," Samir continued with a tired sigh, eyes flickering briefly in frustration. "But several wiser heads prevailed over short-sighted objections." He muttered something under his breath, and Rashan caught the faint edge of annoyance directed toward the Crown traditionalists.

"As reinforcements continue to arrive," Samir continued clearly, "many of the foreign volunteers will be integrated directly into our ranks. We'll ensure their talents and strengths are properly utilized."

Rashan agreed silently, knowing integration was essential for unity. "That's wise, Father."

Samir leaned forward, the maps crinkling under his elbows. "I'd like your assistance in forming our strategic plans. You have an eye for this, Rashan. Help me position these new forces effectively."

Rashan straightened, eager yet serious. "Of course."

Together, father and son pored over the maps, discussing each foreign group individually:

• Nords: Fierce front-line warriors, ideal for breaking through enemy lines. Best used for heavy assaults or critical defense.

• Bretons: Masters of defensive magic and resistance, useful as magical shields or in supportive roles.

• Orsimer: Unmatched shock troops, their heavy armor and raw power suited to targeted assaults and breakthroughs.

• Dunmer: Agile skirmishers and skilled marksmen, perfect for guerrilla warfare, scouting, and raids.

• Blades: Highly disciplined and elite fighters, exceptional in targeted assassinations, espionage, and strategic strikes behind enemy lines.

Rashan leaned forward, pressing his finger against the map. "We shouldn't commit our main forces to retaking the coastal cities immediately. It's too soon. Let the Dominion push inland. Let their lines spread thin."

Samir gave a low breath through his nose. "A sound plan… but you should know. The coastal cities have already fallen. Gilane, Rihad, Hegathe—gone."

Rashan's jaw tensed, but he held the look of someone listening.

"Taneth," his father went on, "is half-fallen. Most of the city was overrun… but the remnants pulled back and reorganized a defensive position along the river Yer."

Rashan blinked. "The riverline?"

He let the surprise show, kept his tone measured. He'd expected resistance—but not a full fallback to the Yer. At least, not yet.

Samir nodded. "The local commander reorganized after the drydock, granary, and bridge were sabotaged. Claimed Dominion saboteurs."

A pause followed.

"Odd thing," his father muttered. "The Dominion didn't strike similar targets anywhere else. And those structures—well, they're vital if you plan to march inland."

He gave Rashan a sidelong glance before continuing.

"In any case, your strategy still holds. Let them come deeper. Stretch their lines. And when they think they've gained ground—" his father tapped the map lightly—"we strike. All at once. Disrupt their logistics. Sever their command."

Rashan nodded. "But we need to reinforce the Yer."

Samir's hand moved to the bend in the river. "Yes. That line must hold."

Rashan adjusted his posture and pointed elsewhere on the map, shifting the conversation.

"I have another idea, Father."

"Oh?" Samir asked, calm and sharp. "Speak."

"We'll need small warbands. Sixteen warriors, no more. Quick-footed. Light-armored. Able to move without waiting on the main host."

"Sabotage missions. Deep strikes. In and out. They'll serve the command, but strike as the moment allows. Hit what matters. Leave the Dominion scrambling."

"They can move before the banners even rise."

Samir's brow lifted, then slowly lowered in thought. "A keen idea."

Rashan offered a faint grin. "I'd like to lead one. This is what I've trained for. Jalil and Cassia too. You know I've built us for this."

He didn't want to be separated from them. And truthfully, if given even a little freedom, he could carve a path through enemy lines they'd never recover from.

Samir studied him a long while.

Not as a father. As a commander.

"You want warriors to follow your word," Samir said. "But you're seventeen. You've never held command in the field. Why should they trust your voice when blades are drawn?"

Rashan didn't flinch. "Because I'll lead from the front. I won't ask what I won't do first. I've fought harder, trained longer, and studied more than half the men wearing rank. Let me show them. If I fail, strip the band from me and send me to the supply tents."

Samir's lips curved slightly, not quite a smile—more a mark of approval.

"I'd be disappointed if you hadn't asked," he said. "You have my blessing. Choose your sixteen."

They bent over the map again.

Plans unfolded—faster routes, hidden passes, choke points waiting for fire and steel. Rashan shared pieces of remembered lore, strategies that had turned the tide of the last war. Hard lessons. Forgotten tactics.

When to strike. When to vanish. When to let the enemy stretch too far—and snap.

Together, father and son shaped the future.

As Rashan stepped out of his father's tent, the air felt different—charged, alive.

The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders, but beneath it was something else. That old feeling. The edge before a mission. The tension before the move. It wasn't nerves—it was readiness.

He didn't need to think long about where to begin.

Thirteen more. That's what he needed.

And he already knew exactly where to find his first.

The old man had said he wanted to be there—to see the making of a legend.

Rashan chuckled as he made his way across the camp.

He planned to give him a front-row seat.