The morning sun over Whiterun was pale, its warmth faint against the cool mountain air. Kael stood outside Jorrvaskr, adjusting the straps of his armor, his thoughts still lingering on his recent battle with the abomination. The encounter had pressed deep into into skull just how ridiculously weak he was.
So he was pulled aback when he saw the satiric Elara swaggering into Jorrvaskr.
A mage's apprentice—he hadn't expected her to be sent with them. Yet when Skjor had called the Companions together for their next mission, there she was, robes freshly pressed, staff in hand, looking just as determined as the seasoned warriors beside her.
A band of raiders had taken root in the northern foothills, terrorizing villages along the trade routes. Word had reached the Jarl, and the Companions had been tasked with putting an end to the threat. It was straightforward work, yet the tension in the air suggested otherwise.
"Don't lag behind, pup," Farkas grunted as Kael checked his gear. The massive Nord's easy grin softened the words, but there was weight beneath them.
"I wasn't planning on it," Kael replied, tightening the buckle on his bracers.
Aela the Huntress was already waiting by the gate, bow slung across her back, impatience etched into every line of her body. Vilkas leaned casually on his greatsword, expression unreadable, while
Skjor, as always, was the pillar of calm authority.
And then there was Elara. She shifted uneasily as the rest of the Companions prepared, but her gaze never wavered. Kael caught her studying him once or twice, as though trying to measure something—him?
Their journey north was long and silent at first, broken only by the crunch of boots on the dirt path and the occasional call of hawks circling above.
"You've fought raiders before?" Kael asked, falling into step beside her.
"Not directly," Elara admitted, her voice low. "My master says it's time I learn beyond books and scrolls. But raiders aren't beasts. They'll use tactics. Rage. Fear. It's… different."
Kael nodded. "Different, is good for growth."
Aela, walking a few paces ahead, glanced back with a smirk. "Careful, Elara. Don't let him fill your head with confidence too early. Bandits may be rabble, but cornered prey can be vicious."
The mage straightened at the warning, though Kael saw the flicker of doubt cross her face. He knew the feeling well—facing something you weren't ready for, doubting if the strength within you was enough. He wanted to say more, but Vilkas cut in before he could.
"We'll see what she's made of soon enough," Vilkas said evenly. "Just keep your focus, all of you."
By the time they reached the outskirts of the village, the sky had begun to darken. Smoke curled faintly from the east, where farmland stretched into the hills. Villagers met them at the gate, their faces etched with weariness and fear. A man with a scar across his cheek stepped forward, voice heavy.
"They come at night. Always at night. They take our crops, our coin… they've taken lives. Please, Companions. End this."
"We will," Skjor assured him. His eyes swept across the group. "But stay sharp. Raiders this bold rarely work alone."
They spent the afternoon fortifying the village's defenses—positioning archers on the rooftops, reinforcing the gates, and setting torches along the perimeter. Kael worked alongside Elara, helping her arrange defensive wards with powdered chalk and rune stones she carried in her satchel.
"You've done this before?" he asked, curious.
"Not in the field," she admitted, drawing a rune with precise, trembling fingers. "But I've practiced for years. These should hold—at least for a while."
Her focus was unwavering, but Kael noticed the faint sheen of sweat on her brow. He handed her a water skin without a word, and she accepted it with a quick nod.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the village grew eerily quiet. Children were ushered inside, doors barred, and only the Companions remained out in the open, scattered across the square. Kael could feel it in his bones—something was coming.
Hours passed. The torches flickered in the wind, casting long shadows across the dirt road leading into the village. Then, faint at first, came the sound of footsteps.
Not one. Not two. Dozens.
A low horn echoed through the hills, and the raiders emerged from the darkness—torches in hand, weapons glinting in the firelight. Their leader, a hulking figure with scars crisscrossing his chest, raised his axe and roared.
"Burn it all! Leave nothing!"
The night erupted into chaos. Arrows hissed from the rooftops. Raiders surged against the gate. Kael drew his blade, heart pounding as he moved to meet the charge.
"Elara! Stay close!" he shouted over the din.
"I'm not helpless!" she snapped back, thrusting her staff forward. A bolt of crackling light arced into the raiders, sending two sprawling to the dirt.
Aela let two arrows loose with deadly precision hitting two raiders simultaneously in the skull, while Farkas and Vilkas waded into the thick of the fighting with steel flashing. Skjor barked orders, holding the line with unshakable ferocity.
Kael fought at Elara's side, keeping his strikes measured but fierce.
The previous, he had been warned to conserve his strength as much as possible. These bandits were behaving like they had ulterior motives in mind... well, asides banditing.
For every raider he cut down, another surged forward. The villagers' defenses were holding, but barely.
The tide of battle pressed closer to the square, the torches painting everything in wild, shifting light. Kael's muscles burned, he ducked under the arc of a soldier's halberd, the iron head screeching as it skimmed across the cobbles where his skull had been a heartbeat earlier.
He drove forward, shoulder-first, ramming the nearest foe aside. The man reeled back into the blaze of a toppled torch, and fire licked greedily at his cloak. Someone screamed—high, ragged, close enough that it might have been Kael himself—and the clash of steel swallowed it whole.
Then, through the chaos, he caught a glimpse of something that made his blood run cold.
Beyond the raiders, just at the edge of the torchlight, a pair of eyes gleamed in the darkness. They weren't the eyes of a man. They were too bright. Too hungry.
Kael's grip tightened on his sword. Whatever lurked in the shadows was no mere raider.