Commander Erendriel Larethar stood silently in his cabin aboard the Dominion warship Auriel's Radiance, a sleek vessel of polished glass and pale moonstone slicing quietly through the dark waters off Hammerfell's coast. Pale candlelight flickered softly across his angular, elegant features, highlighting the sharp cheekbones, the precise, refined lines of his face, and the icy blue depths of his gaze.
A subtle rustle from the open window drew his attention. He turned gracefully, eyes settling upon the eagle perched quietly on the windowsill, feathers smooth and sleek beneath the moon's gentle glow. The bird regarded him calmly, utterly still, carrying itself with a poised dignity that suggested the skilled hand of a Bosmeri handler—a common and useful asset within Dominion intelligence.
Erendriel approached without hesitation, noting the small scroll carefully bound to the eagle's talon. With practiced ease, he untied the delicate binding and took the scroll into his hand, the bird stayed where it was.
He turned the parchment over, noting the crimson wax seal bearing the unmistakable eight-pointed sunburst of Auriel. A slight tightening of anticipation touched his chest. Only orders of the highest priority carried this emblem. Breaking the seal with precise fingers, he unfolded the scroll and scanned its brief, carefully written contents.
A faint, cold smile touched Erendriel's lips. So, it seemed their intended destination had changed; they were no longer headed toward Taneth. Instead, Dominion Command now directed them toward Gilane—toward a new and troubling enemy.
He stepped out onto the deck, the cool night breeze immediately brushing past his neatly bound platinum hair and catching softly at his glass armor, crafted to flawless perfection and engraved subtly with motifs honoring Auriel himself. Beneath the shimmering starlight, the Auroran Sentinels stood perfectly arrayed, disciplined and motionless.
These were no mere soldiers—they were the pride of the Dominion, each hand-selected from Summerset's most noble houses, trained since childhood to embody the Altmeri ideals of strength, purity, and absolute supremacy. Their glass armor gleamed gently beneath the moonlight, helmets crowned with intricate winged designs symbolizing their devotion to Auriel and the Dominion's sacred mission.
Their reputation was not merely ceremonial. The Auroran Sentinels had become infamous during the Great War, feared by Imperial legions who learned to dread the sight of their glass armor and weapons. Erendriel himself had personally overseen some of the Dominion's most devastating triumphs.
He vividly recalled the siege of Leyawiin—how his small unit had methodically dismantled an entire Imperial cohort entrenched behind heavy fortifications. The Sentinels' coordinated magical barrage had reduced the city gates to molten slag, trapping hundreds of Imperial soldiers behind blazing wreckage. Amid the smoke and chaos, the Sentinels had calmly advanced, striking with calculated precision, cutting down Legionnaires who had no time to form ranks or respond effectively. By sunrise, Leyawiin's defenders had become little more than charred bodies and smoldering ashes.
At the Battle of the Red Ring, even as Dominion forces faltered under Imperial counterattacks, Erendriel's Sentinels had stood their ground with unwavering discipline. They had held their position for hours against overwhelming Imperial numbers, spells and blades carving a bloody path through the Legion's finest. Their defiance had bought critical time for the Dominion's commanders to withdraw safely, though at a heavy cost to their enemies: Imperial generals afterward referred to that blood-soaked section of battlefield as "Auriel's Judgment."
Perhaps their most notorious exploit had been at Bravil. Imperial archers, confident behind sturdy walls, had dared to fire arrows defiantly toward Dominion lines. Erendriel ordered a swift, ruthless response: the Sentinels summoned storms of lightning that tore through armor, flesh, and stone alike. Flames conjured from their fingertips had engulfed entire ranks, reducing proud Imperial soldiers to heaps of molten metal and charred remains, conjuring daedra to assist them in their divine missions. Word of the massacre spread quickly, turning whispers of the Auroran Sentinels into fearful warnings shared in hushed Imperial encampments.
Now, standing before these elite warriors who had forged their legend in fire and blood, Erendriel's gaze swept over them briefly, noting their flawless stance, their unwavering discipline.
"My Sentinels," he began, voice smooth yet firm, resonant across the deck. "We have new orders. Our course has been altered."
None of the nine high elves sentinels moved or reacted visibly as the sailors around them paid no head continuing to their duties as they should—though he could feel the subtle intensity of their collective focus sharpening.
"Our destination is now Gilane," he continued. "Dominion Command has identified a troubling enemy—these so-called 'Anbu.' Masked rebels who believe they can strike fear into the Dominion's heart."
A ripple of quiet contempt passed through the ranks, subtle yet palpable. Erendriel allowed a small nod of approval. He knew precisely why Dominion command had chosen the Auroran Sentinels for this task.
These Anbu would soon learn their place beneath Auriel's gaze, brought swiftly and decisively to justice by blades honed on Imperial blood, and spells forged in the flames of Cyrodiil's burning cities.
Commander Erendriel stepped back into his cabin, noting with quiet satisfaction that the eagle had returned precisely as trained, standing motionless atop the polished windowsill, its sharp eyes reflecting pale moonlight. He retrieved a fresh sheet of fine parchment, dipped a quill gracefully into the inkwell, and began composing his reply, each elegant stroke sharp and precisely measured.
He requested every available scrap of intelligence to be ready upon their arrival at Gilane. His gaze briefly flickered toward the navigational chart once more, confirming their approach—two days precisely. Precision was vital; perfection demanded nothing less. Dominion supremacy depended upon flawless execution, and Erendriel would tolerate no errors from his informants or his own forces.
Sealing the scroll carefully with crimson wax bearing Auriel's symbol, he bound it securely to the eagle's talon, whispering a brief command before releasing the bird into the starlit darkness. Watching it vanish, he exhaled slowly, allowing a faint, irritated expression to cross his usually impassive face.
Hammerfell. Merely thinking the name drew a subtle curl of distaste to his thin lips. A harsh land of endless sand and oppressive heat, filled with stubborn, defiant creatures who dared call themselves warriors. Redguards—humans whose arrogance was exceeded only by their foolish pride. Their very existence was a blemish, their pretensions of strength laughably misguided.
To Erendriel and all true Altmer, humanity was inherently flawed, and Redguards exemplified the worst of human ignorance—barbarians who clung fanatically to archaic codes of honor and nonsensical pride in martial traditions long since outdated. These desert dwellers fancied themselves disciplined and fierce, yet their discipline was as hollow as their courage was fleeting. The Auroran Sentinels had proven this repeatedly throughout the Great War, shattering their formations with contemptuous ease, their fragile steel buckling beneath Altmeri glass blades and dissolving under storms of summoned lightning.
Yet still these creatures fought, their defiance fueled by a blind faith in their own primitive ideals. They chose pride over enlightenment, sand and squalor over the civilization and order offered by Summerset. Such misguided arrogance required correction—violent, thorough correction. The Dominion's sacred duty was clear: to crush this delusional resistance utterly, teaching Hammerfell and every last Redguard within its borders their proper place beneath Auriel's guiding hand.
And now these masked fools, these "Anbu," dared strike from the shadows, presuming to threaten Dominion strength. They were nothing but rats, hiding in darkness. He would personally see to their extermination, removing their stain from this land once and for all.
Adjusting the pristine enchanted glass armor that fit him like a second skin—each segment shimmering faintly in the pale moonlight, refracting it into hues of green and gold—Erendriel straightened, his expression returning to practiced neutrality. His armor was more than mere protection; it was a declaration, a statement of purity, superiority, and refinement beyond anything the crude blacksmiths of Hammerfell could ever produce. It symbolized the eternal brilliance of Summerset, a light destined to shine over all lesser peoples, guiding them to accept their inferiority or face annihilation.