The sun had climbed past its peak by the time Torin reached the rugged foothills north of Falkreath. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the only sounds were the chittering of squirrels and the steady crunch of his own boots on the forest floor.
He found a decent spot—a small, relatively clear dell not far from the road, but shielded by a thick wall of brambles and ancient firs. It was as good a place as any to wait.
He sank onto a moss-covered log with a soft groan, the weight of his travel pack and armor feeling heavier after the hours of walking. Pulling a strip of dried venison from his pouch, he tore into it with his teeth, the salty, tough meat a familiar comfort.
Echo, who had been sniffing intently at a beetle scurrying through the leaf litter, padded over and flopped down at his feet, her large, dark eyes fixed on his meal with hopeful intensity.
"Patience, you bottomless pit," he muttered around a mouthful, but he couldn't suppress a grin as a vibrant blue butterfly, seemingly oblivious to the young bear's presence, fluttered erratically through the air and landed right on the tip of her black nose.
Echo froze. Her entire world narrowed to the delicate, twitching insect perched on her snout. Her eyes crossed comically, trying to focus on it, and she let out a tiny, confused whuffle.
The butterfly's wings fanned open and closed once, twice, then it took off, disappearing into the dappled sunlight. Echo shook her head violently, sneezed, and then looked back at Torin's jerky as if the entire bizarre incident had never happened.
Torin chuckled, tossing her the last of his piece. He leaned back, tilting his head to gaze at the sky through the canopy. The sun was still well above the treeline; a good four, maybe five hours of solid daylight remained. He let out a long, slow sigh that was part weariness, part resignation.
His plan for catching this Aesrael was… simple. Brutally so.
He'd turned it over in his head during the long walk. The guards said the elf knew these woods like the back of his hand, that he melted into the trees like a ghost.
Torin's own tracking skills were passable—Aela had drilled the basics into his thick skull, enough to follow a fresh trail or spot a broken branch. But trying to out-ghost a ghost in its own territory was a fool's errand.
So, he wouldn't.
Instead of trying to be stealthy, he'd do the exact opposite. He'd be a beacon. Aesrael was a bandit, a predator. And predators were drawn to easy prey, or at the very least, to anomalies in their domain. Nothing in the wild was more anomalous, more blatantly noticeable, than a big, fat bonfire in the gathering dark.
Even with the thick greenery muffling the light, the column of smoke would be a dead giveaway against the twilight sky. And if the fire itself wasn't enough, the smell of roasting rabbit or pheasant would surely pique the interest of that hound of his.
A hungry dog was a noisy dog, and a noisy dog was a liability its master would have to investigate.
His gaze drifted back to Echo, who was now contentedly licking her paws. A wistful thought crossed his mind. It would have been so much easier if he could just point her at a scent and say, "Find." But she was still more of a clumsy, oversized cub than a seasoned hunting companion.
She'd grown used to him, sure, followed him around Jorrvaskr like a shaggy, four-legged shadow. But "obedient"? Not even close.
She had a mind of her own, a stubborn independence that made her more of a distraction than a pet. Trying to get her to track a specific scent would probably end with her chasing a squirrel up a tree or trying to befriend a mudcrab.
"No," he said aloud, scratching behind her ear. She leaned into his hand with a grunt of pleasure. "We do this the loud way. Let's make some noise and see what comes sniffing."
He pushed himself off the log with a grin. Time to gather firewood. It was going to be a long night.
...
The fire had burned down to a deep bed of coals, painting the small clearing in a shifting dance of orange and black. The spit-roasted hare was glistening, its skin crisping, filling the air with a smell that made Torin's own stomach growl in sympathy.
Echo, lying beside him, had been dozing, but her head suddenly lifted, ears swiveling towards the wall of shadows beyond the firelight. A low rumble started in her chest.
A moment later, a hound slunk out of the darkness.
It was a big, lean thing, built for running, with a brindled coat and intelligent, wary eyes. It completely ignored Torin, its focus locked on the sizzling hare. A string of drool dripped from its jowls.
Echo's rumble escalated into a full-throated growl as she pushed herself to her feet, the fur on her shoulders bristling. The hound's attention snapped to her, and it answered with a guttural snarl of its own. The two predators stood frozen, sizing each other up, neither pleased with the other's presence.
"Easy now," Torin murmured, his voice a calm counterpoint to the tension.
Right on cue, the hound's master emerged from the thicket. The elf moved with a hunter's grace, his form tall and slender.
Dressed in practical, worn furs over leathers, he had the golden skin and sharp, aristocratic features of his kind. Pale blonde hair was tied back from his face, and his yellow eyes caught the firelight like a wolf's.
A well-crafted bow was in his hand, and a slender longsword hung at his hip. His gaze swept the clearing, taking in Torin's armored form, the Companions' knot on his pauldron, and the now-standing young bear, in one swift, calculating glance.
The elf's tense posture melted into an apologetic smile. "Do forgive the intrusion," he said, his voice smooth and cultured. "My companion here has a nose that overrules his better judgment. The scent of your cookfire proved… irresistible."
Torin returned the smile, a thin, knowing curve of his lips. He placed a firm, steadying hand on Echo's head, and she reluctantly quieted, though her body remained taut. "Not a problem," Torin said easily. "I know all about dealing with a bottomless pit of a beast. Hard to stay mad at them, though."
The elf let out a practiced, charming chuckle. "Indeed. Though this one has put me in a bit of a bind, I'm afraid." He sighed, the picture of a weary traveler. "We were on our way to make camp for the night when Fenrir here caught the scent and bolted. I gave chase blindly, and now…" He gestured vaguely at the encompassing darkness beyond the fire. "I find myself thoroughly turned around in this gloom. A rather embarrassing predicament for someone who fancies himself a woodsman."
Torin kept his amiable mask firmly in place, but internally, he was laughing. The damned elf was lying through his perfectly straight teeth. He'd probably crept up expecting some soft merchant or a lost pilgrim—easy prey. Instead, he'd found a heavily armed, armored warrior sitting with a bear for a companion.
Both of them were young, sure, but the sight was enough to give any sensible bandit pause. This little performance was his way of gauging the threat, trying to figure out if Torin was a naive kid he could trick or a dangerous fighter he'd have to kill.
"The woods at night will do that," Torin agreed amiably, his eyes never leaving the elf's. "It's easy to get lost. Why don't you and Fenrir share the fire for a bit? The hare's just about done."
The elf's face brightened with a practiced, grateful smile. "That is most kind of you. The night is chill, and a friendly fire is a welcome sight." He moved with fluid grace to sit on a fallen log opposite Torin, placing his bow carefully within reach.
His hound, Fenrir, remained standing, muscles coiled, its eyes flicking between the roasting hare and Echo. "My name is Larethion," the elf said, his yellow eyes fixed on Torin. "What might I call you, young friend?"
Torin didn't so much as twitch an eyebrow at the obviously fabricated, flowery name. He kept his own easygoing smile plastered on his face.
"Torin," he said simply. He gave Echo a solid pat on her shoulder; the bear let out a huff, her gaze still locked on the other animal. "And this grumpy one here is Echo."
"A pleasure," Larethion said, his tone smooth as honey. "Though I must say… it is a rare thing to meet someone as young as you, traveling the wilderness alone."
He let the statement hang in the air for a moment, his eyes doing another quick, assessing sweep of Torin's gear. "If you don't mind my asking, why camp out in the dark when the comforts of Falkreath are so close by?"
Torin hummed internally. This was the test. The bandit was trying to figure out his worth. A pauper sleeping under the stars wasn't worth the arrow it would take to kill him. But a wealthy fool, slumming it for thrills? That was a prize.
He put on his best impression of a naive, over-eager youth, widening his eyes with feigned excitement. "Oh, staying at the inn would be far too boring! This is my first real journey on my own, you see. No servants, no guards." He gestured grandly at the surrounding darkness. "I'm hungry for a proper adventure, not just stories by a hearth. Got to start somewhere, right?"
The change in the elf's demeanor was subtle but immediate. The last vestiges of tension bled from his shoulders, and his smile became less cautious and more… predatory.
A faint, greedy light sparked in those wolf-like eyes.
Torin could practically see the calculations going on behind them. The fine armor, the mention of servants, the story of a rich brat playing at being a warrior…
He wasn't looking at a potential threat anymore. He was looking at a fat, fleece-ready sheep, wandering stupidly into the wolf's den.
That's it, Torin mused, keeping his innocent smile in place. You're not thinking about a fight anymore, are you? You're thinking about a ransom.
He could almost see the number of septims flashing behind the elf's eyes. It was all he could do not to chuckle. The bandit had just made the last mistake of his life.
Time to burst your bubble. The thought was a shard of ice in his mind, but his face remained a mask of amiable naivete.
"Looks like our meal is just about ready," Torin said, his voice light and conversational as he slowly rose to his feet.
He stretched casually, as if working out a kink from sitting too long, his movement fluid and unhurried. He took a single step forward, positioning himself directly over the heart of the fire, the intense heat washing over his legs.
The elf, Larethion, watched him, that condescending, greedy smile still playing on his lips, utterly unsuspecting.
Then, with a violence that shattered the night's false peace, Torin moved.
There was no war cry, no shouted threat. It was pure, brutal efficiency. His boot, clad in sturdy leather, slammed into the base of the carefully built pyre. A shower of searing, white-hot embers and burning logs erupted outward, flying directly into the elf's face and chest.
A choked cry of shock and agony tore from Larethion's throat as he threw his arms up, his fine features contorting. The stench of burnt hair and fabric filled the air.
In the same motion, Torin's hand dropped to his belt, his fingers closing around the cool, familiar grip of his silver throwing axe. The world narrowed to the screaming, blinded elf before him.
...
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