They moved swiftly into the dense, choking smoke. Lungs burned immediately, eyes stinging sharply from the thick, acrid haze. Visibility dropped to barely an arm's length, the marshland reduced to muted shapes flickering at the edges of perception.
Devan held his breath briefly, ears attuned to every subtle sound—the slight splash of footsteps, muffled movements, the faint swish of grass. His life-detection potion, usually reliable, was worthless now, completely disrupted by the Bosmer's alchemical smoke. A clever tactic—far cleverer than most scouts would employ. This Bosmer knew his craft, likely trained for countermeasures, precisely designed to foil common tracking methods.
Alain moved silently ahead, his outline barely visible, shoulders taut beneath his cloak. Cassia kept pace slightly to Devan's left, her movements shadow-quiet, steady breaths controlled despite the choking fumes. Devan held position on their right flank, sword gripped firmly, blade poised low and defensive. They advanced slowly, every sense alert, muscles coiled, bodies tense with readiness.
A faint splash sounded to Devan's right. Instantly, he pivoted, slashing reflexively into the dark haze. The blade found empty air, slicing through smoke alone. Before he could correct his stance, movement blurred suddenly behind him. Devan spun—but not quickly enough.
The Bosmer appeared through the haze, barely visible, dagger flashing forward in a swift, calculated jab. Devan twisted sharply, managing to deflect a lethal strike, but felt the bite of steel carve a shallow, burning line along his ribs. Hot blood welled instantly, soaking into the leather beneath his armor, but Devan refused to yield ground or lose composure. Pain was temporary; hesitation meant death.
He swung again, tight and controlled, but the Bosmer vanished again into the smoke, footsteps silent, movements fluid, as though born from the marsh itself. Devan stepped back, sword held defensively as he quickly evaluated the wound. Shallow. Not severe enough to slow him significantly, but enough to sharpen his anger.
Cassia and Alain adjusted immediately, silently shifting positions in the smoke, instinctively forming a tight triangle. Not a single unnecessary word passed between them; their breathing, their movements communicated clearly enough. They'd trained together endlessly for moments precisely like this, rehearsing ambushes and counters with ruthless efficiency until instinct surpassed speech.
Cassia's eyes strained painfully through the thick smoke. She felt a subtle displacement of air to her left—a presence so slight, she almost missed it entirely. Trusting instinct, she lunged sharply forward, her blade thrusting through empty smoke just as the shadow slipped past her.
The Bosmer reacted faster, pivoting gracefully as Cassia overextended slightly. He twisted around her flank, delivering a precise, brutal strike—his elbow crashing directly into the base of her skull. White-hot pain exploded through her senses, vision darkening as she stumbled forward, barely catching herself on trembling limbs before collapsing into the marshy ground. Her sword dropped silently, sinking slightly into the mud.
Alain immediately closed the gap, silently slashing downward in a swift, efficient arc. The Bosmer pivoted backward again, narrowly evading the strike, but Alain's relentless advance gave him no space to counterattack further. Devan rejoined instantly, sword darting sharply forward, limiting their foe's available angles.
Sensing the fight shifting against him, the Bosmer surged backward into the smoke, retreating rapidly toward the marshland's dense foliage. Alain caught Devan's gaze briefly, their eyes communicating urgency clearly enough: they couldn't afford to lose track of him now. Without hesitation, they pursued, swiftly but cautiously, weaving expertly through smoke and shadows, each step carefully measured.
Breaking free of the smoke's oppressive confines, Alain immediately halted, raised a hand, signaling sharply with practiced gestures. Devan understood instantly, halting silently, breath carefully controlled, heart thudding steadily in his chest.
Ahead, the Bosmer had emerged fully into the marsh, his figure a fleeting shape rapidly disappearing into tangled vegetation. Without hesitation, Alain signaled again—precise, quick motions confirming pursuit. They shifted immediately, racing silently across the marsh's slick ground, eyes locked onto the faint disturbance of grass and mud that marked their foe's passage.
Behind them, Cassia slowly stirred, consciousness flickering, head throbbing with blinding pain. She pressed a trembling hand to the back of her head, breath ragged as she forced herself upward. Her legs shook violently beneath her, but sheer determination dragged her upright. Reaching down, she grasped her sword once more, fingers tightening firmly around its hilt despite blurred vision and nausea.
She knew her role—injured or not, she wouldn't allow herself to become a liability.
She began moving slowly forward again, each careful step steadying her, gathering strength despite the lingering dizziness. Her eyes narrowed, focusing intently, refusing to yield to weakness. Ahead, Alain and Devan pressed forward relentlessly, the Bosmer's fleeing form a barely visible silhouette in the distance.
They couldn't afford to fail—not here, not now. The mission depended entirely upon stopping this scout before he reached safety, before he could send warning of the ambush. Each knew precisely what failure would cost.
Cassia grit her teeth, forcing her battered body to move faster. She refused to let pain stop her.
The Bosmer ran like the forest had been stitched into his bones.
He flowed between trunks and brambles with the ease of a lifelong scout—feet landing precisely where roots wouldn't catch, shoulders turning just enough to glide through thickets without slowing. Every motion was efficient, effortless, designed purely for escape.
Alain and Devan struggled just to keep him in sight. Their light leather armor allowed freedom of movement, but still scraped bark and snagged branches, leaving a trail of torn leaves and broken twigs behind them. They had speed and strength, but this terrain favored the elf, who twisted and ducked at the last second, always just out of reach.
Minutes dragged by, each second a heartbeat of frustration. Alain lunged, his blade swinging to clip the Bosmer's legs. The elf didn't slow, didn't even look—he simply jumped, flipping lightly over the strike. Devan shifted in sharply from the side, trying to herd him into thicker brush, but the elf anticipated it and pivoted with uncanny precision, squeezing past with barely inches to spare.
Their breathing grew ragged, muscles straining from the relentless chase. They were faster on open ground, stronger in combat—but the Bosmer knew the marshlands, using every tree and branch to slow them. Each close attempt ended with empty air, leaving Alain cursing bitterly under his breath.
Then the marsh betrayed its protector.
The elf darted down a narrow defile, a pathway choked with dense, thorny undergrowth and wet, moss-covered stones. He realized his error only when the wall of impassable roots loomed ahead, rising like a web of twisted bone.
Alain surged forward with a roar, driving in from behind, blade aimed low to disable. Devan came around wide, boxing him in from the side. The Bosmer spun with desperate grace, slipping under Alain's first strike, pivoting immediately away from Devan's next thrust. His movements were impossibly fluid, still untouched by steel.
Alain adjusted quickly, fury lending strength and speed. He swung wide, forcing the elf to backstep into Devan's path. Devan's blade grazed the elf's sleeve, cutting fabric but missing flesh by inches as the Bosmer bent backward nearly double, his hands brushing the earth before springing upright again.
The battle became a relentless dance—steel slicing air, elf twisting and ducking, always a breath ahead. Alain's strikes grew rougher, angrier, hacking branches and vines to trap him, while Devan's attacks tightened, controlled and precise, trying to corner him.
They closed in, a half-dozen furious exchanges leaving them sweating, muscles trembling. Still, the Bosmer evaded, exhausted but unwilling to surrender, his breath ragged, eyes darting for an escape.
Cassia arrived silently, unnoticed, cloaked in layers of illusion magic she'd maintained while tracking them. She didn't rush into the fray; instead, she lingered at the edge of the engagement, watching, timing, patient and calculating.
Finally, the Bosmer ducked beneath Alain's heavy, frustrated swing, stumbling slightly on slippery stones. Cassia saw the opening instantly.
Her hand snapped forward, striking precisely at the base of the elf's skull, just behind his ear—a carefully measured blow. He shuddered, knees buckling briefly, eyes glazing as consciousness wavered.
Devan stepped in instantly, the illusion he'd painstakingly prepared surging forward. It wasn't flashy, just a faint shimmer in the air as it settled into the elf's mind.
The spell was straightforward but exceptionally precise. It pressed the Bosmer back into the thought patterns he'd held before his comrades fell and the ambush shattered his rhythm. It locked him within the marshlands—removal from this environment would instantly break the spell, and no new commands could be introduced without collapsing the fragile weave. He would simply carry out his original mission, unaware anything had gone wrong.
In about an hour, he'd awaken with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
The Bosmer blinked once, adjusted his collar absentmindedly, and resumed his patrol as if he'd never been interrupted.
Behind him, Cassia relaxed her stance slightly, eyes sharp and satisfied. Devan slumped, spent from the magical effort, hands shaking softly. Alain exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from his brow.
Silently, they fell into position behind the elf, shadows trailing their unwitting guide making sure he did as he was supposed too.