The dawn is blood red and cold. Frost gleams on the pale grass. Sentries dot the perimeter of the camp, puffs of breath escaping their lips as they pace, weary from a night's watch.

"There can't be more than fifty, Stormborn," Driathia Nightvale murmurs beside me, her dark eyes narrowed and focused. Her black hair is pressed flat to her skull, the tips of her brown ears red from the long hours spent outside.

"At least," I say as the Bosmer eases her daggers silently from their sheaths.

"Swords will win where diplomacy failed," Ildari S'thain notes from her perch on a tree limb above us. The Dunmer's voice is low and tired. She nocks an arrow to her bow, weary red eyes sweeping over the camp. A strand of blue-black hair has escaped her braid and hangs down in front of her eyes. She doesn't seem to notice it.

Ildari has always hated to kill. She prefers to talk people out of violence rather than instigate it.

"We tried to get them to surrender," Jaastia Draconis says. The short Imperial woman's grey eyes are dark, hardened like fine steel from grief. "You'll remember that they sent the messenger back without their head."

Her cousin had died along with the chance for peace. They would be avenged.

Jaastia slides her helmet over her face, drawing her sword and raising her shield. "For Isorta, and for the Queen," she says quietly, turning to enter the clearing.

A soft rustle of leaves and Dria vanishes into the forest, no doubt making for the sentries.

"For the Queen," I echo.

Ildari sighs, dropping lightly from the branch to follow me.

"One more camp and this bloody business will be done," Ildari says.

"Yes," I reply, calling fire to my palm, fingers wound tight around the wood of my favored staff.

"Nocturnal, guide my hand," Ildari whispers and draws the arrow back to her mouth. The shot slams into a soldier wearing the bear hood of Ulfric's failed rebellion.

Horns blow on the opposite side of the camp, a swell of sound that stirs those sleeping to rise and take up arms.

They are too slow.

We slay them all. The frost-covered grass is soon stained with blood, the air reeking of smoke and death.

"What should we do with the bodies?" Dria asks, cleaning her daggers and sheathing them once more.

"Burn them," Ildari says quietly, "even rebels deserve some respect."

I sigh, but gather fire to my hands and send it out, incinerating the bodies in an instant of white-hot flame. It takes only moments before ash and melted armor are all that remains.

Jaastia is silent, and I notice that the left pauldron that covers her shoulder is dented in. She winces every time she moves. I murmur a healing spell and carefully weave the magic through her flesh. She gives a sharp hiss of pain but then subsides, moving to unstrap the ruined pauldron.

"Better?" I ask. She nods.

"My thanks," she murmurs.

"Are we done then?" Dria asks, wiping a splatter of blood from her cheek with one finger before bringing it to her mouth. Always thirsty for the spilled life-blood of her enemies.

"Yes," I say, glancing over the clearing one last time before turning back to my companions.

"Back to the city?" Ildari suggests. "Seeing as we need to re-supply and repair Jaastia's armor."

"Sounds like a plan," Jaastia says as we turn away from the ruins of the camp.

Two more camps remain, one to the far south, another to the west. Ulfric's soldiers are resilient despite the loss of their leader. No matter, they will tumble into the Void one way or the other.

More likely sooner rather than later if we have our way.