Looking for Recruits

Meanwhile….

Jalil moved through the camp, casually taking in the conversations around him. Word had spread quickly that Rashan's unit was recruiting, and he could feel the air charged with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. The sounds of chatter filled the air—warriors, mercenaries, and civilians alike talking about the opportunity to join a special force, but unsure if they'd be chosen. Jalil's eyes scanned the faces, looking for those who stood out, those who had that certain something.

His gaze landed on a pair of Nords in the center of the camp, father and son, locked in a brawl. They were massive, towering over most of the other fighters around them. The father was a bear of a man, probably in his forties, with a thick beard streaked with gray. His skin was weathered, tough, and every strike he threw seemed to echo with the weight of years of battle. The son, younger but no less imposing, was a near replica of the father, only in his twenties. He had the same broad shoulders, thick neck, and a look of pure determination in his eyes.

Their light fur armor looked well-worn but well-maintained, showing the signs of many battles fought. They were a perfect example of Nords—strong, relentless, and always ready to prove themselves. They were currently engaged in a brutal two-on-two match, each man paired with another opponent. The father and son duo dominated, their punches landing with bone-crushing force and their stamina unwavering.

The air in the camp was thick with the smell of sweat and anticipation as the father and son squared off against their opponents, their massive forms silhouetted by the flickering torchlight. Jalil stood at the edge of the circle, watching them closely as the fight began.

The father—broad-shouldered with a thick, graying beard—launched the first blow, his fists moving like hammers. His opponent—a much younger Nord, perhaps in his late twenties—tried to dodge, but the father's punch landed square on his chest with a sickening thud. The sound of bone meeting muscle echoed through the camp, and the younger man staggered back, winded. He clutched at his ribs, but the father was already on him, swinging again. The punch hit the man square in the side, sending him crashing to the ground. His opponent rolled away, gasping for air, trying to regain his footing.

Meanwhile, the son, matching his father's size and strength, was locked in his own struggle. His opponent, a younger, leaner man, tried to keep his distance, darting around the son in an attempt to avoid the oncoming blows. But the son was relentless. With a growl, he closed the distance and struck out with a brutal right hook. The punch caught his opponent on the jaw, snapping his head back with a sickening crack. The man staggered, disoriented, before the son's left hand found his throat in a crushing grip. With a snarl, the son slammed his opponent's back into the ground with bone-jarring force, pinning him there.

Jalil watched, impressed by the raw power and vitality on display. These men were built for this—each strike, each movement, was fueled by years of combat, honed by instinct and training. It was impossible to ignore the way the father and son absorbed hits without faltering, their bodies trained to take the punishment and retaliate with overwhelming force.

The father's opponent tried to strike back, throwing a wild punch that aimed for the father's head. But the older Nord moved with practiced ease, ducking under the punch and returning with a vicious elbow to the man's throat. The blow landed with a sickening crack, and the younger man crumpled to the ground, clutching at his windpipe, unable to breathe.

Not missing a beat, the father stepped over his fallen opponent, his eyes already on his next target. He swung a wide hook that sent his other opponent reeling back, before following up with a brutal jab to the gut. The force of the blow lifted the man off his feet, sending him sprawling to the ground in a heap.

On the other side of the circle, the son wasn't far behind. His opponent, having recovered somewhat, lunged toward him with a wild punch aimed at the son's head. But the son was faster, ducking under the punch and delivering a vicious uppercut to the man's ribs. The sound of cracking bones filled the air as the man gasped in pain, clutching his side.

The son didn't give him a moment to recover. He followed up with a brutal right hook, landing it squarely on the man's cheek, sending him spiraling to the dirt. The opponent lay there, dazed, his face bloodied and battered.

Jalil felt his admiration grow as he watched the Nords take their opponents apart. It wasn't just strength that made them formidable, but the way they withstood punishment. They could take blow after blow, shrugging off the pain as if it didn't faze them, and keep coming back for more. Their vitality was unmatched—what would've sent a normal fighter reeling only seemed to ignite their determination.

The fight was nearing its end. The father stepped forward, locking eyes with his son, who stood over his fallen opponent, fists raised in challenge. They were a team, and they knew it. The two of them exchanged a silent nod, before turning to face their remaining opponents.

In a coordinated, fluid motion, they closed in on their opponents and struck in tandem. The father's punch landed first, crashing into the side of his opponent's face with brutal force, while the son followed up with a punishing blow to the stomach. The last of the fighters fell to the ground in a heap, barely able to make a sound.

The crowd around the fight erupted into cheers, impressed by the sheer power and resilience the father and son had shown. Jalil stood back, his eyes still wide with awe. These were the kind of warriors he was looking for—strong, unyielding, and capable of taking on anything in their path.

Despite the brutality of the fight, Jalil knew that these were the kind of men he wanted in his unit. Resilient, tough, and willing to fight for their cause. They would be a great asset in the battles ahead.

As the last of the fight drew to a close, the crowd around the circle began to cheer. The father and son stood victorious, their opponents groaning on the ground but still alive—well, mostly. Despite the brutality of the fight, there was no malice in the Nords' eyes. Instead, there was something else—respect.

With a grin, the father extended a hand to his downed opponent, helping him up to his feet. The son did the same with his own fallen adversary, hoisting him to his feet. They clasped arms, exchanging words in a low, guttural tongue, before the father slapped his opponent on the back with a hearty laugh.

"Good fight, good fight," the father said, wiping sweat from his brow and shaking his head. "You've got a lot of spirit."

The younger man, still a bit dazed, managed a weak smile. "And you've got a hammer for a fist."

"You're not wrong there," the father chuckled, before turning to the crowd. "It's what we do best."

The son, who had been quiet throughout the exchange, nudged his opponent with a smirk. "Don't feel bad. You lasted longer than most."

The two men exchanged a brief, nodding handshake. The tension from the fight melted away, replaced by camaraderie, just like it always did after a brawl among warriors.

Jalil watched the scene unfold, appreciating the Nords' natural sense of honor, even after a fight so fierce. He had seen his share of violence, but this? This was how it should always be—no grudges, no anger. Just the fight, and then the respect that came after.

The father slapped his son on the back, grinning. "What do you say, boy? Let's have a drink and celebrate a good scrap."

Without missing a beat, the son pulled out a small flask from beneath his furs and tossed it to his father, who caught it with a knowing smile. The father uncorked it, took a long swig, then offered it to his son. The son took a drink as well, and then the father held the flask out to their defeated opponents.

"You've earned it, too," the father said, nodding to the men who had fought against him. They looked hesitant at first, but after a moment, they took the flask, each of them taking a swig, albeit with less enthusiasm than the Nords.

"Doesn't matter if you win or lose," the father continued, giving a gruff laugh. "A good fight is a good fight."

Jalil tapped his chin thoughtfully, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A good fight is always a good fight," he mused aloud, then decided to poke the bear.

He walked up to the father and son duo and said, "That was a good fight." His tone was light, but there was challenge beneath it as he looked directly at the son. "I wish to test your mettle."

Inwardly, Jalil believed his mettle would impress them more than any recruiting pitch. Why not prove it with a fight? Let fists do the talking.

The father and son looked at each other, then the older man laughed, clapping his son on the shoulder. "Oi, Gorrun—show this Redguard what a son of Skyrim can do."

Jalil grinned. Just then, he caught Cassia walking down the street. They had split up earlier, figuring they could cover more ground that way.

She spotted him and walked over, her hands moving in sharp, fluid signs. What are you doing?

Jalil smiled at his lover, eyes glinting as he turned away. "Picking a fight," he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he stepped into the ring.

Cassia crossed her arms and stayed to watch.

Jalil reached up and unfastened the plated armor covering his upper body, letting it fall aside with a dull thud. Underneath, he moved like someone used to carrying weight—shoulders squared, spine loose but alert. His chest and arms were carved with the precision of hard years. Not bulky, but strong—every line earned from two-a-days, from sword drills and long runs under the desert sun.

And lately, from swimming.

Rashan had worked them hard—underwater exercises, breath-holding drills, full-body resistance training using the current as weight. It showed. Jalil's muscles were cut lean, his core solid, every movement efficient and powerful.

His skin, dark and smooth, was unmarred. Alchemical treatment had erased every scar long ago, leaving no sign of the blows he'd taken. Just clean, defined muscle and the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly how strong he was.

A few women nearby inhaled softly. One nudged another. Even a couple of the men stopped mid-conversation to glance over.

The Nord father barked a laugh. "Oi! Pretty boy's gonna fight my son."

Jalil didn't answer.

He just grinned.

The moment Jalil stepped into the circle, he tapped into everything Rashan had drilled into him. Not just brute striking or pretty footwork—actual method. Rashan called it "martial arts," strange words from another life, but it worked. Each fight built from structure. Each move carved from intention.

He dropped his weight slightly, hands open, eyes sharp. Across from him, Gorrun rolled his shoulders and stepped forward with the kind of swagger only earned through victory. His arms were thick, trunklike, and his chest bore the bruises of a dozen fights. But his movements were tight, efficient. No wasted effort.

The Nord lunged.

A hammering fist shot toward Jalil's face—a straightforward strike with all the power of a man who didn't think he needed anything clever. Jalil sidestepped, brushing the punch with his forearm and angling around Gorrun's flank. He struck quick—three times to the ribs. Pop-pop-pop. In and out.

Gorrun turned with a growl and fired a heavy elbow toward Jalil's face. Jalil dipped under it and slid away, feet gliding like water.

The crowd began to murmur.

Then came the next exchange.

Gorrun pressed forward, jabbing now—testing. Jalil deflected with his forearms, checking each strike, conserving energy. He moved in tight, slipping past a wild cross and answering with a snapping knee to the thigh. It landed solid.

Gorrun grunted.

A left came high. Jalil rolled under it and answered with a backhand, then a spinning elbow to the temple. Gorrun stumbled—but only a step—and answered with a body blow that caught Jalil off-balance.

The Redguard hissed, breath knocked loose from his lungs. He staggered back, ribs throbbing. But his stance held. He circled.

Then charged.

A flurry of palm strikes and short punches followed—hammering at Gorrun's core. He ducked a counter, slid to the side, and punished the Nord's ribs again. That was the weakness. He kept digging.

The fight stretched.

Round after round.

Sweat clung to both fighters now. Jalil's nose bled in slow lines, and his cheek had begun to swell. But Gorrun's breathing had grown heavier, his side marked with blooming bruises.

Still, neither backed down.

Jalil dodged another hook, ducked a second, and slid under the third—then used the shift in momentum. He planted, pivoted, and let his body flow upward with the force of the turn.

His fist caught Gorrun under the chin.

A clean, brutal uppercut.

The crowd gasped. Gorrun rocked back a step, then another—but didn't fall.

He spit to the side, blood mixing with saliva, and reset his stance.

Jalil wiped his own face and grinned through the haze.

This was a fight.

Jalil was fucking ecstatic. Ancestors save him.

When Rashan had given him the chance to be a warrior, to be more, he hadn't just accepted it—he gave everything. Every drop of sweat. Every broken knuckle. Every bruise earned in silence.

Because this? This was what he was made for.

And it was all because of Rashan.

He loved Cassia—truly, deeply—but if you asked who he'd follow without question, whose command he'd take without hesitation? That was Rashan. Always Rashan. Not just out of loyalty, but because Rashan had seen something in him no one else had. Because Rashan believed in him before he'd believed in himself.

This life, this strength—it was a gift. And Jalil would serve that gift till his last breath, whether it brought him glory, hardship, or anything in between.

But right now, it brought him this—a fight worth everything.

Gorrun was a wall of a boy. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a carved-from-stone jawline and blond hair braided back from his face. His thick fur armor clung to his sweat-slicked frame, and though younger than his father, he moved with that same wolf-born aggression. He bled, but didn't flinch. His chest heaved. His jaw clenched. He hadn't come to play.

They closed in again.

The Nord boy swung with heavy might.

Jalil used movement to angle through the first blow—just enough to slip the force. The second he took deliberately, stepping into it. His torso twisted with the hit, his foot sliding to reduce the impact.

Vitality bore the brunt.

His body held. Barely.

But it let him inside the Nord's defense. He surged forward.

Two quick body shots—one to the liver, one to the solar plexus. The Nord staggered back, gasping. Jalil smelled blood in the air and moved to finish.

Jalil's fist cracked hard against the Nord's jaw—blood snapped from the boy's mouth as his head twisted sharply. Still, he stood.

Still breathing. Still braced.

Jalil stepped in, one foot dragging slightly from fatigue. His lungs burned. Muscles throbbed. But he saw the moment.

The Nord didn't raise his guard again.

Instead—he smiled.

Not a grin of madness. The kind that came from soul-deep satisfaction. The kind a warrior wore when he'd been tested properly and bled for it.

Jalil answered with a clean uppercut that drove straight through the centerline.

The Nord's boots left the ground—just an inch—before his body hit the dirt with a thud, flat on his back, limbs sprawled.

Silence took the air.

Then the ring exploded.

Voices roared. Tankards lifted. Dozens of Redguards and Nords alike hollered at once, a mix of disbelief and celebration. Old warriors slapped each other's shoulders. Young ones pointed and whooped. Someone near the edge screamed for more. And at the center of it all, the Nord's father bellowed with unrestrained joy.

"THAT'S how it's done!" he roared, storming into the ring with thunderous strides. "A real fight! Gods above!"

He laughed like it was the best thing he'd seen in years, grabbing his son's arm and pulling him upright with a proud grunt. The boy winced, still dazed, but grinned back through a split lip and swollen jaw. His eyes never left Jalil.

Jalil exhaled, shoulders sagging slightly, his ribs pulsing with each breath. He turned as the wave of claps and cheers rushed in—and spotted her.

Cassia.

She stood just beyond the ring, hood still drawn low, a few loose strands of red hair catching the light. Her mouth curved in a faint smile—quiet, proud. Her eyes never left him. She signed with a flick of her fingers and a small tilt of her head: You're an idiot.

He grinned through the sweat, the bruises, and the ache in his jaw.

And I love you too, he signed back—simple, clear, just for her.

And then the crowd swallowed him—warriors dragging him into the center, hands pounding his back, someone thrusting a flask into his hand, another calling for a rematch. Jalil just laughed. Ancestors help him, he lived for this.

The Nord's father stepped in close, his grin wide and breath still heavy from laughing.

"I owe you a drink," he said, voice rumbling like a boulder shifting.

Jalil smirked, rolling his shoulder, still feeling the ache where Gorrun's fists had found purchase. "Actually," he said, tone casual but clear, "I'd rather recruit you and your son for my liege's unit."

The Nord's brow lifted, grin cooling into curiosity. "Oh?" he said, eyeing Jalil more carefully now. "And what's so special about this unit of yours?"

Jalil wiped the sweat from his jaw, then met the man's gaze. "It's led by my liege. A noble, yeah—but not one chasing songs or statues. He doesn't care about glory. He just wants to see the Dominion bleed. And he'll do anything to make sure they lose."

The Nord snorted. "A noble not after honor and glory? Bah."

Jalil gave a slow shake of his head. "Neither are we." He let that hang for a moment. "We're not the ones standing in front of armies with banners and trumpets. We'll be the ones burning their supplies, collapsing their bridges, and cutting down their officers before they ever see us coming."

The Nord's smile returned—this time smaller, tighter, but far more real.

"That so?" he said.

Jalil nodded. "You said it yourself. A good fight is a good fight. And the Dominion's marching toward us thinking they've already won."

The man's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He glanced at his son, who stood nearby with a split lip and an eager glint still burning in his eyes.

"Name's Dorran," the father finally said, gripping Jalil's forearm. "And you already met Gorrun. You've got our attention."