Tam'Akar-Aldmerish for "Dawn Dragons." An elite force of Inquisitors that are ranked higher than Justiciars or Thalmor mages. Their job is to establish their religion across the Dominion and push out any naysayers of the Altmer pantheon. The Tam'Akar is a small force of the strongest Altmerish mages with the charge of an army of Thalmor fists. The Thalmor fists are the Dominion soldiers made up of pure Altmer. In Valenwood, the only operating Tam'Akar members are Aridiil and his team.

Members:

Aridiil the Nefarious - Aridiil was once looked at as a hero to the Bosmer people. Before the Thalmor's rise to power, he was a simple missionary sent to Valenwood to garner support for the fledgling political party. Having his plans put on a standstill because of the Oblivion Crisis, he teamed up with Leila's mother to defeat an army of Daedra. Now he's the captain of three other dangerously strong Altmer on a mission to find Ara of the Ghost Bow's power that she hid in Valenwood.

Florentine - An Altmer beauty, even among the Altmer. Her blood carries the innate ability to control Earth destruction magic, an element that can't be learned but inherited through her bloodline. She's ruthless and indifferent and would follow Aridiil to the planes of Oblivion.

Andalf the Conjuror - A master of the Conjuration school. Was once apart of a group of Knights known as the 'Sons of Auriel' under the guard of the King of Alinor. After the Thalmor came into power, they recruited Andalf to become an Inquisitor.

Liemo - A boy of only eight. He possesses an unlimited supply of magicka and has already mastered stronger elemental destruction magics such as wind. He is said to be almost as talented and strong as his Captain, Aridiil.

The work Augoth did was something more than mere enchantment. It was something more that may never surface on Nirn ever again.

Chapter 10: The Enchanter's Power

Five dummies stuffed with sun-dried elk sinew lined the excavated dojo wall. We painted them with the yellow and red ink of Aldmeri Round-Teeth Squid from the Topal Coast of Elsweyr. Their red rings served as targets for our arrows, but most of the time they're destroyed by the practice of sword and knife. We fashioned them with the brass crowns of Dominion soldiers.

For days, my mind replayed the battles with the Tam'Akar endlessly repeating. And every time, I kept finding small, minuscule openings that I'd miss amid the fight. Even the plethora of opportunities that Aridiil could have taken to end my life as well. It was stupid, foolish, and it was against my training under Tutor Rollyn. Never leave an opening on yourself and always explore any openings of your enemy. If I was to witness myself fight the Altmer, I would have hung my head in shame. And yet they toyed with me, made me believe I had even the slightest chance to defeat them.

Florentine's endless, indifferent beauty shaped its way on to the first dummy. I ran my hand down fuller of a bone-carved training sword no bigger than a child's shin. It wasn't Osseinium, but a bone made from a meager animal with no significant quality. I imagined the dummy to live and lanced at it as if I was in a real fight. My body flowed through the techniques that I've learned over the years, ripping through the wolf skin casing. I felt myself closing all the openings that I would have had in the real fight. I closed them off and moved with such elegance and grace and mixed it with fury and disorder. As I was taught.

I rained slashes and lunges in a storm of attacks, covering the elvenoid replica with imaginary wounds. Dried pelt shavings exploded out of the sowing in a maelstrom of stuffing. I poured my anger and frustration in every attack. Feigning modesty no more; I hated failure. It helped foster the anger growing in the pits of my being, erupting with the pain of worthlessness.

Not being her. Not being her equal no matter how hard I trained. It hurt. It hurt so much.

I feigned a defense against powerful boulders the terramancer would throw my way in my mind's eye. I pretended that the earth shook and ripped open to throw me off my guard. People who battled with magic were always so unpredictable. Magicka is a dangerous deal. Which is why a warrior that wields anything magical is considered the strongest of them all.

Florentine's face slipped from my mind, replaced with Mother's.

I've only ever seen my mother's face on oil paintings and portraits around my father's estate. I did look like her as everyone would say. We shared the oval face of a maiden in the spring years of her life. Mother's face could have held its youth up until old age. Her honey-lined, almond hair flowed in fractious waves down to just her shoulders as mine fell at the center of my back. Her brow was soft, labeled by razor eyebrows above her signature emerald-gemmed eyes. The ones her children share. But mother's eyes betrayed her virtuous beauty. Behind those eyes was a thousand ways to kill, they were as sharp as any warrior's. At home, my brothers say she was pure of heart, a great woman to love and give love. She was a mother. But with her political pull, battle sense, and discipline, she was as much as a raging ox compared to father. I would have hated that side of her.

I didn't hate Mother. Void's guidance, I never even met the woman. But I hated what she was, and what people expected me to be. I couldn't be like her; I couldn't fill her boots. I didn't have the Ghost Flame or childhood in the Ranger Guard. I don't have a horde of Daedra to stop, family to avenge, or team of the most powerful warriors in Valenwood. I don't have any of that. How could I possibly have been like her? It just wouldn't have made sense. Not for me, anyway.

I pushed the training sword slowly against the figure and toppled it over.

'She mopes.'

'When our luck runs out, and the Tam'Akar finally pulls our card, you won't be saying that, Milkar.' I said, turning to my brother.

He'd braided his hair into one ponytail stretching towards that back of his head. All his hair was pulled away from his face, divulging the dynamic face of an elf, too advanced for himself. He'd a change of armor again. This time decorated ribbons of leather layered his chest plate like ribs on a slender animal. It was representative of the Ranger Guard's armor efficacity. A silver-made crescent was emblazoned above his chest, between the collarbone. Those emerald eyes beaming straight at me with amused intensity. The emblem of a waning Secunda was the consummation of our new name.

I pulled my eyes from the silver crescent on his armor and brought it to his eyes. 'It's a good name, brother.'

He peeled himself from the wall and crossed his arms. 'I think so too.'

Our little team grew with the arrival of Augoth Thornbush. Since rescuing him from Monsotar's dog's, the master enchanter has helped us with loads of information on our chosen enemy. But Monsotar was a cunning Bosmer. He kept his secrets well hidden. The best we got from Augoth was the layout of the Thieves of the Wood's network and how it worked. It was good enough.

It was Milkar's idea to give the gang a name. Something that matched our role in Valenwood's underground liberations. We were the light that cuts into the darkness of the night sky. Like the sleepy moon, we are the sickle of silver. A sliver of light in a world doused in black.

'Why don't you don the new armor?' Milkar asked. 'Is it not to your liking.'

'I prefer the black leathers,' I said, holding my vambraces to the dull lamplight. 'It reminds me of the raven.'

Milkar walked over to the barrow of training swords. I'd set this chamber up to be a place where the team could practice. We decided that if this road leads us into conflict with the most dangerous soldiers and fighters of Tamriel, then we need to keep our skills sharpened. 'Did you feel the need to become a better fighter after Aridiil?' Milkar pulled a sword from the training set.

'How fast would Father have disposed of Aridiil?' I inquired. 'We were skeevers against a golem.'

'I wouldn't say that.' He trained an eye down the flat of the blade, making sure its level was perfect. 'You can beat Aridiil, if you actually tried, that is.'

'How could you say I didn't actually try?'

'Because I know you, and I know you can beat him.'

'Aridiil was a warrior of the Circle of Seven. He stood by Mother's side against the Daedra. He played with us, made us think we had a sliver of a chance.'

Milkar shook his head. 'You aren't fighting the way Tutor Rollyn taught you. At first, I thought you were just apprehensive, skittish even, but no. You revert back to the student when you fight strong opponents. Someone who isn't sure of herself.'

I raised an eyebrow. 'What do you mean?'

Milkar took a stance that I recognized to be Tutor Rollyn's signature sword stance. I flinched a bit, remembering all the time Rollyn had beat the techniques into me day after day, week after week. My brother smiled up at me. 'I'll show you.'

'How do you—'

'You're not the only who trained under Rollyn the Special,' he said.

I took my favorable stance. My power leg pulled back with my toes facing outward, and the toes of my forward leg pointed forward. I kept my sword arm straight and pulled so that the blade is at an acute angle to the ground. My free arm is up with the palm facing towards my opponent.

I was the first to attack. To start, I drove my forward leg down and brought my right leg up and into an uppercut strike with the sword. That was an easy parry for Milkar. I guess it was a bit too predictable, especially for someone as skilled as Milkar. After the parry, I straightened to block his counter, it was nothing easy. He feigned a lung, but by the small twitches in his arms, I guessed he was moving differently. I moved accordingly and slapped the palm of my free hand against the flat of the blade, bracing for a stab.

The force of the blow drove me back, dragging my feet through the dust. It was my turn to attack again. I brought the sword up and back down onto his blade again and again but to no avail. Finally, I went in for a lung. Milkar angled his sturdy body toward my sword, allowing the entire sword to slip past his guard. As I thought I had him, he snaked his arm around mine and pulled me closer towards him, seizing my body.

'This isn't some fencing game, Leila.' He tightened his grip on me. 'You're just throwing techniques that you've learned over the years. You aren't allowing your natural instinct to guide you.' He tossed me aside. 'With all your skill and potential, you still will never win against people like the Tam'Akar or Monsotar.'

I stumbled away, tripping over my own feet clumsily, and crashed into a practice dummy. A dust plume sprouted around me as I glared into my brother's. 'I said I wasn't good enough, thank you for showing that I was right.' I stood and patted my leathers.

Milkar shrugged. 'You still haven't shown me the real you. The Leila that can cut down men easily.'

'Soldiers and thieves aren't the same compared to the sheer power Aridiil wields.'

'Aridiil bleeds just like any other mortal,' he said, pouncing on me.

Tutor Rollyn taught me that fighting was merely a dance, and the song was that of the sword. The sword song. If you pluck a note on a harp is that music? If you combine the note of a piece, does it become a song? Sword fighting is much the same. A single technique is not the song, it's how we piece together the composition that matters.

I felt, perhaps, that my mind wondered too many times to the days with my tutor, when life was simple but hard. For me, it was either become strong, die, or disappoint my father. None of that mattered—all I have are the memories. Because memories are all, we are. Moments and feelings, captured in the hardened resin of our forests. Chip away a girl's memories, and you destroy her as surely as hammering nail after nail through her skull.

In some way, I understood Milkar's words. My fear gets the best of me, and so I'm far more meticulous in my fights against powerful foes. I noticed it against Florentine in the Hall of Heroes and again against Aridiil. My body knows what it must do, and yet, I force it to obey me. I can hold my own against the best fighters in Valenwood, but that kind of fighting will only take me so far.

My mind coiled over the thoughts as Milkar pinned me time after time.

'You're distracted,' Milkar barked. 'Focus and feel the warrior in yourself. You know how to fight on the level of the legends, just allow yourself to do it. Let your mind and body become like water, let it flow.'

I sucked air into my lungs. Sometimes the difference between a mouth that cries fright and one that sits silently in its bravery is a deep breath. A moment to recollect yourself and assess your bearings. I tried to unfurl the vines of fear the gripped my mind. I hated it. Fear that is. Fear keeps us weak; the fear of what we don't know, or of what we do know.

I felt the loosening of my arms and of my legs. I unclipped the worry in my heart, and I filled my mind with the sword song. That clicking reflex that all men and women develop after years of smashing their metal against someone else's metal came to me as if it never left. It was good.

The Milkar that stood before me changed. No longer was there Milkar Lockharte, a son of Ara High-Arrow, the deadliest fighter of the Saltow Pits. He wasn't Mother's legacy anymore. He was a Bosmer with a sword.

With my confidence, I took his flank, but he twirled out of the range of my sword. I made sure to step back away from his counter, and easily enough, his sword met only air. He went in again, instead of parrying, subjecting myself to a counter that would lose me the sparring match. I simply step away. Again, and again, his sword came, and my body made the simplest of moves to avoid him.

This is what I remembered. This is what Rollyn taught me.

On his final swing, I finally brought my sword up, catching the timing perfectly. If we were using real swords, his hand would have dropped away from his wrist, losing his sword arm for good. Instead, his training sword flew end over end and clattered to the ground. I pinned him with the end of my own training sword.

'Checkmate.'

'Ah,' he said. 'Very good.'

The adrenaline coursing through me shook my hands and rattled my breathing. Through my panting, I looked at my brother. The clear satisfaction in his face hadn't helped to soothe the inflation of my ambition. This was confidence of the best. Of Mother. Because if Milkar had ever needed the ground to soak blood, it is I who will be his sword.

'You hold this world in your hands, Milkar, and however you shake it, and however the pieces fall into place, you better change it.'

We left the training room and out into the main chamber. This place has changed much since starting my idiosyncratic rebellion against destiny. We've expanded outside of the mound of hard amber that we called our hideout. That was thanks to Esmond and his superior magical abilities. They say home singing is an art only passed down from shaman to shaman among the Greenpact Bosmer. Some are known to home sing for the Dominion and even the Camoran crown. But it seems Esmond's thievery stretches far beyond coin or the casual priceless trinket.

Shimmer Root was massive despite being a mere sapling. It was hundreds of years older than I was, but it won't reach its peak growth for another thousand years. That made it the perfect hideout for mud-squatting criminals like us. Milkar set us up for success, even though none of us knew how to be a criminal or a thief for that matter. One thing is right: we are merely a bunch of rebellious delinquents thinking we're something. The only person here that has any reputation as a thief and notorious criminal was Esmond. That fool was once one of Monsotar's top Nightblades in the Thieves of the Wood. Up until he met my brother.

The tree's center, an entire world of its own, was sung into a field surrounded by a forest of oak and lustrous mushrooms significantly larger than even the oaks. Bioluminescence poured from them, making sure we don't slam into each other in the dark. It's not odd for explorers to find adventure inside a Graht-Oak. Most have hallowed chambers larger than an old cave system. Shamans sing entire villages into existence in these great and old trees. Ours make the best home to a bunch of misfits.

But it's about vision. A vision that my brother can see and one that I will help him realize. Some men are too dull to see what could and what will. Not Milkar. He doesn't populate his mind with maybes and torture himself with should haves.

Now that vision is finally coming to fruition. We raised the walls of swirling, braided, and knotted vine. The sparkling gem flowers growing in the walls twinkled like shimmering moonlight in a low falling waterfall. What was a mound of dirt, amber, and flora now was a dwelling of magnificent beauty any thief would want to pluck from its place.

'Finally, you've come up!' Aranwen exclaimed, approaching us whilst licking his lips.

The sweet, salty aroma of snail gumbo growled my stomach to life. I groaned with hunger and followed Aranwen out to fire pit smoldering a large pot of the stuff. Elren sat on a coupling of protruding roots, his feet dangling and eyes on me. I took up a seat next to him.

'Smells good,' I said to him.

Elren's gentle smile brought a breath of air to my soul. There are people who say a lot without saying much. Elren was one of those people.

In the bleak moments of our lives. The times where you can sit back and take in the world as it is. To enjoy it as it is. Those are the moments you should soak in. Lay them across the wrinkles of your brain and iron them to memory. We have our own stories, the lot of us, and each story creates the anthology that was our family.

'It's not that simple, you see,' Augoth Thornbush began explaining to Esmond. 'Our blood contains the magic that is imbued in an arcane enchanter. More potent too!'

'But where do you get the soul? How can you imbue enchantments without souls?' Esmond's frustration brought me to a giggle.

'Only the most power enchanters can power the school without souls.'

'The arrogance!'

Augoth clicked his teeth and shook his head. 'You misunderstand. Souls hold the purest form of magicka, which is why they are used for imbuing magicka to weapons. Like water, souls need to fill a container. By filling in that container with a soul, the soul powers it with their magicka.'

Esmond stroked his chin.

I giggled again. There are no half measures with mages. No in-betweens. Esmond is probably the most skilled master of the Illusion school of magic, but his lack of understanding of Enchantment was bafflingly hilarious.

'So, what do you fill it with, master enchanter?' I asked. 'If not souls, what do you use?'

Augoth hung his head in shame. 'My curse allows me access to pure magicka.'

'Your curse?'

Augoth slowing nodded. He peeled his leather glove from his hand and raised it to the show. The flesh over his entire hand was a grueling mix of blistered skin, exploding puss dripping from open wounds. The skin melted away from the muscle in some parts whilst other spots, scabs cracked and sizzled.

'By the gods man! Put that thing away!' Aranwen yelped. 'We're eating here.'

Elren gagged beside me, Milkar stood with amused disgust written on his face, but Esmond still stood with stroking his chin in a birdbrained confusion. I was the first to explode in maniac cackling before Milkar and Elren joined in. Gods, I loved this team. Aranwen nearly toppled that entire snail gumbo with his laughter.

I took a deep breath to steady myself, but it came out rattled. Maybe just for a briefing moment, I thought of moments like this wasn't going to last forever. That there was a huge world out there for us to bleed for. I observed the moment with a still mind. Family, I thought. This was family. This was what I was missing.

I felt the warmness of Elren hand on my arm. I looked into those smiling brown eyes and saw something truly astonishing. I saw the world.

'What?' I asked, softly.

'Thank you.' He rubbed his palm over my skin.

'For?'

'Not running away that night.'

My heart drummed loudly against my chest. A new feeling grew in the pits of my belly. A bubbly sensation. 'You—' I forced the words from my mouth. 'I like you, Elren. You should open up more.'

'What kind of power did you deliver to Monsotar to leave your hands so scarred?' The question sent spiderweb cracks through the moment.

Milkar didn't hold back the terror on his face.

'You can create an enchanted sword with the touch of your finger, leaving little damage. But Mother's Ghost Flame left you scarred and unusable for an entire century.'

Milkar stomped slowly, menacingly towards Augoth. He grabbed Augoth by the wrist and raised his burned hands to his face. He growled low, angry, something you rarely see in Milkar. 'What did you create for him? What does he have now?'

'I—I! Please! I didn't have a choice.' Augoth wept.

'Brother, why don't you bugger off,' Aranwen barked.

Milkar ignored Aranwen's order. 'Tell us what we're dealing with.'

'Okay. Okay! I'll tell you everything.' Milkar released the poisoned hand.

'Milkar...' I whispered.

Elren sighed.

'Monsotar is the worst kind of person. He'd kill all of us given the chance!' Augoth began rubbing his wrist. 'I had no choice!'

'Explain.'

Augoth peeled the other glove from his hand, revealing it to be just as raw as his other. The flesh burned and liquefied from the raw magicka. 'It's called Goldfire. Well, at least that's what he calls it.'

'Goldfire?' I asked, my brain searching all databases in my head on legendary weapons. 'I know there's a Goldbrand.'

Augoth slowly nodded. The face of a man full of sorrow and defeat. Goldbrand, the name sends chills down the spine of anyone verse in daedric artifacts. A sword of pure gold and of pure evil. Its fire can burn as hot as the sun. The books say that the dragons of the North forged it and that it can burn the world away just as the dragons are fated to do.

'Goldfire was created in the likeness of Goldbrand. But to say it is stronger or weaker, I cannot.' He held up his hands. 'This is only the second worst reaction of an enchantment I've experienced in my life... There was one other that nearly cost me my life.'

'The Ghost Flame.' Milkar took a closer look at Augoth's hands. 'If this Goldfire did this to your hands, then certain anything like Mother's power would destroy them.'

'No healing spell has ever worked,' Augoth said.

Esmond's face shook his head in stark protest. 'That's because you're not thinking it through. You can write into magicka what you need from it. Which is why the schools of magic exist. With raw magicka, your affinity controls its purpose.' His miraculous perspicacity struck us odd.

'Heal it with raw magicka,' Milkar said.

Augoth huffed the air of his frustration. 'I've thought of that. Raw magicka is too dangerous. Without the innate ability, anyone who has tried to control it has killed themselves.'

Esmond stuck his hand towards the old Enchanter. 'Your hands please.'

'What?'

Esmond, by all the gods in Aetherius, had to be one the oddest, strongest, most talented beings in the newly named Silver Crescents. I, for all intensive purposes, needed to see what was about to transpire. I climbed my down and made watched Esmond alight his hands with magicka. The clever craft of magic is the manipulation of reality in some way using a driving energy present within all creation. We call this energy magicka. It's said that the only way to handle magicka and use it to alter reality is through spells. But magicka doesn't stop at a simple incantation of ancient words and knowledge. They govern the special innate abilities of living beings as well, those things outside of the common schools of magic. Using raw magicka outside of spells or incantations is the equivalent of using your stamina outside of physical stimulation. A truly hard concept to think on. But sometimes we're not taught to wrap our heads around such transcendent concepts.

The rest of us were deathly quiet, even Aranwen who'd usually have a lot to say, said nothing. We watched the blinding light emitted from Esmond's hands. The swirling blue force slithered as if it bore the mass of smoke, flickered as if it were a fire, and rippled like water. Esmond's flesh bubbled and erupted like a pig's skin thrown in an open flame. The smell made my head swim.

'H—how?' Augoth stuttered.

Esmond let the magicka evaporate from his hands, leaving the skin of it boiling and smoking.

The look of shock told tales of my family's astonishment.

'The Thornbush ancestor wanted to discover a way to power enchantments without sending souls to the Soul Cairn. Which is why your magical affinity is used for enchantment. But at the cost of your body.' Esmond explained in full to Augoth. Something the master enchanter probably already knew.

'My magical affinity,' Esmond raised his hand higher for all the Silver Crescents to see, 'is healing.'

Slowly but surely, Esmond's hand had scabbed in places where it oozed blood and liquefied flesh. In moments, all wounds on his hands were completely gone. Augoth still held his doubts but eventually gave in to what he'd just witnessed. Esmond summoned raw magicka to his hands once more, this time holding Augoth's within his.

Their flesh sizzled away until the white of their bones peaked through the torrid flesh. Esmond ceased his magical frying. Plumes of evaporated flesh lifted into the air, leaving a pungent smell of rotted roasted pork harrying the nose.

But then miraculously, their hands began to heal. Veins and blood vessels squirmed as skin built its many layers to close that of which should not be exposed. New and fresh, like a baby. Augoth infected flesh was ready to create as the gods intended them to, or whatever curse intended.

There is an intense, overwhelming profundity when you and the lot of your friends have the same idea in mind. When you realize that your power had just become limitless. Perhaps, this euphoria is what Monsotar or Aridiil must feel when they wake every morning. However, what Aridiil and Monsotar failed to realize is that you should always pay close attention to who's right at your feet because they can rise and take you out.

'So,' Aranwen began, 'I don't know about any of y'all, but I lost my appetite.'

'Listen up!' Milkar took center stage. We trained our eyes on our leader. 'Aranwen, Elren, Leila, and Esmond. I believe a thank you is in order for joining me on my assault against those who wish to rot Valenwood from the inside out. I have no doubt that we can grow, and we can win this fight.'

'We're with you, brother,' Aranwen shouted.

'Augoth,' Milkar looked down at the master enchanter. 'Your power can benefit us all. I feel it can deep down. For years, Monsotar has trapped you to work for him. He abused your power to create perversions of your talent. I wanted to stop him, so I did.'

Augoth rubbed his clean hands together, reveling in how smooth his skin was. The old Bosmer smiled, creasing a thousand wrinkles on his face. 'I—I couldn't thank you enough.'

'You can thank me,' Milkar began, 'by joining us. Help us like you did Mother.'

'I—'

'It's your choice, Augoth. My protection will never cease, so you don't have to feel pressured.'

Augoth nodded warily. 'I will help you as long as I get to use my cur—my abilities are just that, my own.' Augoth flinched away from Milkar slightly.

'I will not ask you to use your abilities. You have been in Monsotar's network, so it is your mind that I need the most. What you've seen; what you can tell us.'

Milkar stretched a hand towards Augoth. A sign of comradery. The first sign that told us that we could finally win this. Augoth took my brother's hand then.

Milkar smiled. 'Welcome to the Silver Crescents.'