His anger was fire. His hate an infernal.

Chapter 7: Fire

They could have lived a more notable life. They should have surrendered to the rule of law when they had the chance. But they didn't. They were a disease, Montedor thought. And diseases needed to be cured and eradicated.

They called this rotting carcass a home, but now it's nothing more than a burning crater. Its occupants executed. Justice was served here. And it was dealt by his hand. Another successful campaign.

Montedor stood amongst the chaos. The stink of burning rot stained his nostrils. The waters bobbed with the bodies of the dead. Any armored soldiers must've sank, but these waters were shallow enough for easy retrieval. Montedor turned to the nearest seargent-at-arms and directed him to begin retrieving their people.

His father's blade served well in the fight—if you wanted to call it anything other than a slaughter—and he felt as if he was growing closer to his goal. However, it won't be done until that wretched excuse of a Bosmer, Leila Lockharte, is destroyed.

Moonstone clad soldiers on Altmerish war boats floated through the waterways, trailing long, linen nets. He felt triumphant, although a pang of failure flushed his mind in small waves. The Black Raven was here. She was right here! Yet, Montedor had no choice but to let her go. It's too early to engage. Arvancano failed in his task to capture to her. Of course, it should've been up to him. Only he had the skill and drive of hatred for the woman to accomplish such an important task. But he will kill her. He was promised that much.

Valenwood is such a cesspool of criminals and scum with the audacity to call themselves defenders of the people. For however corrupt the hierarchy were, only the Dominion could uphold the law across these lands. Montedor was the only one that understood. Leila and her inglorious henchmen changed this province for the worse.

As a boy, Montedor always knew that what his father did was wrong. And he knew that there wasn't many people that could stop him. But one night, Monsotar came to him, liquor and weedworm on his breath, and told him that Leila Lockharte was the only person that could. For the first time, Montedor saw a side of his father that he was never meant to see. Someone like him was too evil to have the ramblings of a guilty Mer. From then on, he viewed Leila Lockharte as a hero. After the Battle of Centaurcrass, he knew she was anything but. She and people like her were a disease he needed to burn away in order for the province to truly flourish.

Montedor found a quiet corner away from the common fodder. They used hydromancy to end the fires threatening to rage into the forested swamp. The rotted Graht-Oak was nothing more than a floating husk. Its wood was far too decayed even to build a boat.

An underground army and the Council of the Raven were only myths and rumors, but Montedor didn't want to take chances. With the Iron-Scales gone, another large part of that power was gone.

Reaching into a small pocket under his robes, he pulled out a small, smooth orb glistening a white hue. He rubbed it twice and tossed it at his feet.

Montedor waited patiently until gleaming magicka shot from the orb, taking three separate positions around him. The three apparitions of magicka swirled in formless shapes before becoming into more recognizable forms, growing a head, limbs, and even clothes. Three Altmer stared back at him.

'My Lord,' Montedor began, taking a knee, 'the job is done. The Argonian clan linked to the Silver Crescents have been destroyed.'

The magical form directly in front of him smiled. 'Very good, Montedor. Yet another organization have been brought to sweet justice. All the better to cripple the terrorists plaguing Valenwood.'

Montedor felt an air of reproach radiating from the Altmer to his right. He narrowed his eyes at him as he stood. 'My Lord, there is something else I should report.'

'What is it, assassin?'

'There were still a few whom managed to escape, but it was no fault to our precise and calculating attack.' Montedor watched the Grand Inquisitor intently. 'The Black Raven was here. I wanted to stop her as it were, but that was not my mission.'

Lord Nethilvere closed his fingers together in front of him. 'I see… so it seems Captain Arvancano has failed in his quest to capture the only person that could stop our inquisition.'

Nethilvere turned to Arvancano, the High Elf was clawing at an invisible grip around his neck. 'We are talking about Leila Lockharte here, My lord. You cannot expect me too—'

Arvancano clutched desperately at his throat. His golden-pale face quickly grew red and purple as he crumbled to the ground. 'What I expect, Captain, is for every Tam'Akar inquisitor to be clear of their duty to this inquisition. I didn't give you two battalions of purely Altmer warriors and Justiciars to fail in your duties. Success is vital. You of all people should understand, apprentice of Aridiil.' Nethilvere squeezed the air before him harder. Montedor deemed such magical prowess unnatural.

He could feel the depths of which The Grand Inquisitor's magicka reached. Thousands of miles of land and sea didn't put a damper on the strength of the Altmer's telekinesis spell. Simply frightening.

Finally releasing the agent, Nethilvere reeled backwards. 'How upsetting, ' he said, looking down at Arvancano's pitiful form. 'What did Aridiil ever see in you?'

Arvancano heaved for air. Pathetic. The Altmer were always supposed to be more dignified than this. But it seems even these Inquisitors can resort to barbarity if they wanted. They're nothing but pawns, complex pieces of his own board. And Montedor held no respect for any of them. To defeat the Silver Crescents; that was his only goal. He needed them.

The third Altmer, a female, the highest ranking High Inquisitor of the Tam'Akar, and Nethilvere's second, stood quietly in all her gracious beauty. She had golden eyes that were too perfect; too pure; too bad she was pure evil. White hair ran like purified silk down her shoulders. Seruniil was anything but gracious or beautiful on the inside, however. With her power she could level a mountain, raise islands, or break Nirn itself. She raised a slender hand. 'It is good that the assassin has done a wonderful job here.' She looked around. 'However, with the issue of collecting souls… You see, the blue soul gems may power our arsenal, it is not proficient for our end goal.' Lady Seruniil turned to Nethilvere. 'We have a mountain of soul gems, but it isn't practical for the ceremony. We need the Longtree's blood.'

Lord Nethilvere nodded, turning his attention again to Arvancano. 'You can take him and his team for whatever good it will do.'

'Do not fail me again, Captain. Unless you want to be reunited with your late master.'

'Yes… My Lord,' Arvancano responded.

'As for you, Montedor. Travel to the tip of Greenshade, find the sacred burial site of the Wood Orcs and there you will find your prize.' Nethilvere showed a stark row of decayed teeth. 'Or…perhaps, she will find you. You need only have some patience.'

Montedor nodded before crushing his communicae orb beneath his feet. He scowled as the magical forms of the Tam'Akar disappeared. His hatred boiled whenever he spoke with them, akin to his hatred of Leila Lockharte. She was the sole reason he harbored so much hate in his heart. Twenty years… that's how long he thought of the day when she killed his father. Every last moment of that time has not faded, he remembered it all. Revenge will be his, no matter the costs or sacrifices he needed to make.

'Rethinking the proposition you made to our golden-skinned lords?'

Montedor swung on a heel. His uncle was almost identical to his father beside the youthfulness his father kept. Every corner of Gazil's face displayed his age with brackets of wrinkles and a sleek bald head. Salt and pepper stubble stippled his face. There was a constant wildness to his moss-green eyes. Than man lost his mind a long time ago, caring only about the hurt he inflicts on others. With his Daedric sword, Leech, Gazil was a force to be reckoned. And that's the only reason he kept him around.

Gazil reveled in the death around him. He lifted hishead towards the sky as if he drank in the despair.

'Nethilvere is nothing more than a means to an end,' Montedor turning from his uncle and walking through to Eprorn's crater. 'Once I'm done toppling the criminal conglomerate, I'll kill him too.'

'You speak so boldly around them. Remember, there's always an ear sticking out of a shadow.' Gazil laughed as he kept pace behind Montedor.

Montedor scoffed. The soldiers were nothing more than fodder to him. Having the numbers of an army sometimes gave an edge, but these Altmer meant nothing.

Eprorn had been toppled and burned to char, and if it weren't for the swamp, so would the surrounding woods. Two decades passing, and Montedor has seen many parts of his home burned, some of it his fault. All for something better. The Silver Crescents quickly intertwined itself within the fabric of Valenwood like a bloodsucking parasite, creating an almost symbiosis between the people and the outlaws. Mer of faith, the rich, the royal, even those whom have sworn to protect these forests are guilty of feeding the sickness.. Montedor saw throughout his life… and now he's sworn himself to burn away all the infected, even he needed to wipe everyone out to have the province reborn.

If his father was the Crow, then he would be the Pheonix.

When Montedor was younger, he looked up to his father, however, he was too naïve to see that his father was a criminal of the highest sin. Being the Guildmaster, he called himself king of the underground world. No king should have to hide in shadow like he did. Monsotar's death was his own fault.

'Lord Montedor!'

Montedor turned to the soldier. A troop of them surrounded a group of five kneeling Argonians. Half of them looked near dead. 'What is it?'

The Altmer waved his swords towards the Argonians. 'The transports are filled and ready to head to Forgress Trial. These are what's left. What would you like us to do?'

'If you have what you need then there's no reason to keep them around,' Montedor said.

Why should he care? Why should he feel for them? Choices in life were simple, and they chose wrong. So, why? Dominion Law was the closest to perfection, and yet, they've chosen to ignore it.

Montedor looked into their eyes, one at a time. He saw in there… sorrow. Perhaps these mistakes won't be made in their next life.

Montedor closed his eyes and when he opened them again, he could feel the hatred swelling inside of him. Blocking off any sympathy, he turned his heart to steel. 'Kill them,' he said and turned away.