What Do You Want

He was now four years old, and dinner was in full swing at the family table.

His father, Samir Sulharen, sat at the head of the table, his posture strong and commanding, his presence undeniable.

To his right sat his mother, Mira, her demeanor poised as always. Dressed in finely woven crimson and gold fabrics, her braided hair adorned with silver beads, she exuded the effortless elegance of a noblewoman. The soft jingling of her golden bangles accompanied every movement of her hands as she dined with the grace of someone raised in refinement.

To Samir's left sat Kamal, the eldest son, positioned close to their father—a clear sign of his status as heir. Kamal sat straight-backed, carefully listening to everything their father said, absorbing every lesson, every unspoken rule of what it meant to be a leader.

Beside Mira sat Saadia, the only daughter, still young but already learning from their mother. She was quiet but keen-eyed, watching, listening, absorbing.

Further down the table, Zahir and Nasir spoke in hushed voices, their tones playful yet measured, knowing better than to be disruptive at dinner.

And then there was Rashan, sitting beside his mother, where any child his age was expected to be—present but largely overlooked.

But today, his mind wasn't on dinner.

Today had been different.

He had been given a rare opportunity—one that most children never got at his age.

He had seen his father spar.

Samir Sulharen wasn't just a nobleman. He was a warrior. A veteran, a battle-hardened commander, a man who had fought and won wars.

And today, Rashan had witnessed exactly why his father was feared and respected.

This hadn't been a simple spar—it had been four against one.

Four of his father's best soldiers.

And Samir had won.

Effortlessly.

Watching it unfold had sparked something in him—a realization.

He had always wondered, even as a toddler, how the warriors in Skyrim could possibly hunt dragons. It had always seemed ridiculous. Even with magic and enchanted weapons, how did mortals fight creatures of legend?

The answer was simple.

They weren't just normal humans.

They were superhuman.

Not in the sense of immortality or godlike power, but something closer to Captain America—enhanced through training, discipline, and sheer willpower.

Maybe even more than that.

He wasn't sure yet—he didn't have enough data.

But his father's raw speed, power, and precision had been inhuman.

And that made him question something else—how did people in this world progress?

There were no levels, no experience bars, no skill trees. No one spoke about growth in numerical terms.

His books were focused on history, politics, and strategy. Nothing on how warriors developed their bodies and skills.

His education had been tailored toward leadership, governance, and noble responsibilities.

Not combat.

Not strength.

And yet, his father and the men he fought had been far beyond anything he had seen in normal human fighters.

It wasn't something that had to be written about—it was something lived.

Strength wasn't a theory or a concept to be studied in books—it was a practice, a way of life.

If he wanted to understand it, he wouldn't find his answers in the library.

He'd have to watch. Learn. Train.

He'd have to live it.

Then, he realized something else.

The table had gone silent.

Everyone was staring at him.

His father, Samir, was looking at him with that intense, scrutinizing gaze.

Crap.

He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had completely missed his name being called.

His father was a fair man, but also stern—the kind of man who expected attentiveness and discipline.

Quickly, Rashan stood up from his seat and gave a respectful bow.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said, keeping his voice clear and steady. "I was simply amazed by your spar and swordsmanship, I…"

His father cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"This is what I am talking about," Samir said, turning to Mira, his tone shifting from authority to something almost amused.

He wasn't speaking to Rashan anymore—he was speaking about him.

"Our son is a genius. The scholars sing his praises, Mira."

Then, his father laughed, a deep, satisfied chuckle that filled the room.

His father looked back at him, eyes sharp with amusement.

"Swordsmanship… a big word for a four-year-old."

Rashan kept his expression neutral, but inwardly, he was already bracing himself.

"The tutor cannot stop singing your praises." Samir continued, tapping his fingers against the table. "In fact, he is recommending you for a position in the courts—perhaps a future as an advisor or diplomat."

A council position. A political career.

Rashan felt something tighten in his chest.

Of course.

For a Redguard noble, that was the logical path for someone with his so-called "gifted mind."

Not a warrior. Not a leader on the battlefield.

But a politician.

Rashan cringed inside.

Noooo.

His father continued, his tone even. "Tell me, son. Would you go with this man?"

Rashan forced himself to nod, keeping his face carefully blank. "If Father commands it, yes."

God, the words were like venom coming out of his mouth.

Fuck me sideways. I should've played dumb.

His father rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His mother remained composed, her expression unreadable, as did his siblings, all watching the exchange with quiet interest.

Then Samir nodded. "A dutiful answer. A filial son."

He leaned forward slightly. "Now, I will ask you as I did your siblings—though they were a year or two older when I first asked them."

The air shifted.

Rashan felt his father's gaze settle heavily on him.

"What do you want?"

This was it.

His moment.

He could lie, give the expected answer, something safe—something that would make his life easier.

Or—

"Fire the tutor."

"Get me a real swordsman to train me."

"Make me a strong warrior like you, Father."

The words left his mouth without hesitation.

He detested that tutor.

Sure, a third-born son might be expected to aspire to a role in court—a comfortable, "honorable" position that kept him far from battle.

Bullshit.

He was going to be Dragonborn.

Fuck being a court advisor.

His father let out a booming laugh.

"I am proud of all my sons," Samir said, grinning. "Each one wants to be a warrior."

He laughed again, nodding approvingly.

"You shall train with your siblings starting tomorrow."

Rashan sat up straighter.

Finally.

His father's amusement faded into something more serious.

"They are up before the roosters crow. Their taskmaster is a stern man—stricter than I am."

His tone left no room for doubt. "If you slack, expect the whip. Just like any man in my army."

Rashan met his father's gaze without hesitation. "Yes, Father."

And just like that, his martial training began.