A plan

Rashan found Adrien outside his tent, sitting in the shade with a chipped mug of bitter tea and a familiar scowl nesting under his brow.

The old Breton didn't look up. "If it isn't my favorite prodigy. I figured you'd be off charming generals or bending maps to your will by now."

Rashan smirked. "Got something better. I've been given command of a strike unit."

Adrien glanced up, one brow arched. "Huh."

"Sixteen fighters. Hand-picked. Independent ops."

Adrien took a slow sip, let the silence stretch. "And you're telling me this because…?"

"I want you in the unit."

The mage coughed mid-sip, eyes narrowing. "You what?"

"You heard me."

Adrien wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, eyeing Rashan like he was inspecting a cracked blade. "You're asking a one-handed, semi-retired battlemage to crawl through enemy lines with you?"

Rashan crossed his arms. "You're still the most dangerous mage I've ever met. More field time than half the camp combined. And you're the one who said you wanted to be there when legends were made."

Adrien grunted. "I meant watching. Comfortably. With better tea."

"Come on," Rashan said, fighting a grin. "You've been babysitting me for ten years. Might as well make it official."

Adrien sighed and leaned back, the cot creaking beneath him. "And here I thought I'd finally shaken you."

"You could've," Rashan said. "If you weren't still terrifying at seventy."

Adrien snorted. "Sixty-eight. And flattery works—fine. I'll come."

Rashan blinked. "Really?"

Adrien waved a dismissive hand. "Don't make me regret it. And you better have decent boots and passable rations."

"No promises on either."

They stood there a moment, sun warming their shoulders. The camp murmured around them—canvas flapping, boots crunching gravel, distant orders barked and ignored.

Then Adrien gave a short nod. "Alright, Commander. Let's see what kind of legend you're planning to write."

Having secured Adrien for his strike unit, Rashan went to find Jalil and Cassia.

They were where he expected—just outside the training ring, near a row of hastily-built sparring posts. The earth was loose and dry, still holding the shape of cart wheels and boot prints from the last supply drop. Nothing in the camp felt settled yet—ropes still being tied, tents still creaking under the wind, soldiers still finding their place.

Cassia sat on a crate with one boot off, rolling her ankle slowly, her armor beside her in neat formation. She didn't look up, but her eyes flicked toward Rashan as he approached.

Jalil leaned against the fencing, arms crossed, watching two recruits try and fail to match tempo in a footwork drill. He didn't look impressed.

Rashan signed, Strike unit's confirmed. Sixteen max. Fast operations. Independent. Three weeks to prep.

Cassia shifted slightly, listening with her eyes. Jalil pushed off the post and signed, Do I get to be in it, or do I have to impress the commander first?

Cassia let out a short, silent laugh. A shoulder shake. Nothing flashy—just her usual answer to Jalil being Jalil.

Rashan rolled his eyes at Jalil's joke, then signed, I need you to start spreading the word. We're holding tryouts.

Jalil's smirk faded into something more focused. Open to everyone?

Yeah, Rashan signed. Start with the foreign troops. Most of them just got here. I want them to know this unit's an option before command buries them somewhere else.

Jalil nodded once. No hesitation. What kind of fighters are you looking for?

Strong. Focused. No dead weight, Rashan signed. If they move well and don't flinch, I want them in the ring.

Jalil gave a sharp nod, the grin returning just slightly—not for show, just something he couldn't help. He glanced at Cassia, and without a word, she stood and fell in beside him.

Rashan didn't need to say anything else. They all understood what came next.

With his lover in tow, Jalil turned and walked off to carry out Rashan's orders—already scanning the camp for the right fighters.

The work had begun.

Rashan sat quietly in his tent, the faint light of the lantern flickering as he pored over the names on his ledger. The war weighed on his mind heavily. He had the weight of responsibility pressing down on him—not only for Hammerfell's survival but for the people who had been displaced by the Dominion's reach. There were more than just Redguards in this fight.

Nords had come south—refusing to accept the Empire's surrender after the Concordat. Some still wore Legion red out of habit, others had burned it long ago. They were fierce, battle-hardened, and loyal to their cause. But loyalty was a tricky thing—some fought for freedom, others for revenge, and some simply because they had nowhere else to go. Rashan knew they needed to be organized, but he understood their motivations better than most.

The Bretons had joined the cause as well. Wandering in from the north, stray battlemages, rogue knights, sons of lords who felt they had no place in the Empire's new order. They weren't all here for the right reasons, but they knew how to fight, and that made them useful. Their loyalty was harder to pin down. Some were here for honor, others for their own personal agendas. But every warrior on the battlefield counted. They were often treated as lesser by both the Nords and the Empire, but here in Hammerfell, they were united by one common enemy: the Dominion.

Then there were the Dunmer, refugees from the chaos of Morrowind, their homeland shattered by the eruption of Red Mountain and the rise of the Thalmor. They were quiet, calculating, and sharp-eyed—trained to survive and to fight when necessary. Many had suffered at the hands of the Dominion. They had been displaced, treated as second-class citizens, and their memories of loss and survival gave them an edge. They fought for their homes, and they fought because they had nothing left to lose.

Rashan was keenly aware of their pain. He understood their resentment toward the Thalmor, and he saw the fire in their eyes when they spoke of the destruction of Morrowind. The Blades among them, those who had been trained as elite spies and operatives, had a deeper understanding of what was at stake. They fought for survival, yes, but they also fought for the chance to reclaim their lost dignity.

Rashan had made a point of observing them closely. He knew they had been discarded by the Empire, and many had lost faith in the very systems that had once protected them. But now they had a new opportunity—one to fight on their own terms, under their own banner. He could give them that chance, to reclaim something they had lost.

There were other groups too—the Imperials who had come south, some defectors from the Legion, others who had seen the cracks in the Empire and decided to stand with Hammerfell. There were even some Orsimer, outcasts from Orsinium, who had their own reasons for siding with the Redguards. They were all different, yet they had one thing in common—they were all tired of being pushed around by the Dominion.

Rashan wasn't naive. He knew that not every soldier on his side would fight for the same reason, but he also knew that their cause was just. Hammerfell needed to be free, and the people who had come to its defense were its last line of hope. He needed them to come together, to put aside their differences and fight as one. Not just for Hammerfell, but for themselves.

His focus shifted to the next step. The team he was forming needed to be a force of its own—specialized, agile, and ready to hit the Dominion where it hurt the most. They would operate independently of the main army, striking at supply lines, cutting off communications, sabotaging infrastructure, and creating chaos in their wake. They would be the vanguard, moving swiftly and quietly, acting on opportunities and responding to commands when needed