An Oppertunity

Rashan sat in his chambers, fingers idly tapping against the smooth wood of the low table beside him. The warm air of Hammerfell carried the scent of distant dunes through the open lattice, but he barely noticed.

It had been weeks since he had asked his father about learning magic. Weeks of silence. No answer, no acknowledgment—just the same routine as always. He had half a mind to bring it up again, but if his father hadn't answered by now, what difference would it make?

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

The heavy wooden door creaked open, and Amira stepped inside, balancing a brass tray with practiced ease. She moved like a woman who had spent a lifetime in service, every motion careful, every action efficient.

She was a woman in her late forties, her sun-kissed skin lined but firm, her movements precise but never hurried. Years of service had worn away any excess, leaving only discipline behind. Her once-dark brown hair was streaked with silver, tied back into a simple yet dignified bun. Though she had never been a warrior, she carried herself with a disciplined grace, her posture always straight, her hands steady. Her hazel eyes had a sharpness to them, missing nothing, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

She placed the tray on the table beside him—roasted lamb, dates, warm flatbread. The scent curled into the air, but Rashan barely glanced at it.

Instead, he looked at her and nodded. "Thank you, Amira."

She paused—just for a heartbeat—before offering him a slight smile. She was familiar with Rashan and his fair kindness. Nobles didn't often bother learning the names of their servants, much less addressing them with simple courtesy.

But Rashan had never been like most nobles.

He was by no means soft on laziness—he had reported idleness and carelessness once or twice when necessary—but he would never punish diligence. Hard-working people shouldn't suffer for being human.

He had seen it firsthand.

A year ago, when he was six, a young boy had been sent to his chambers to deliver fresh linens. The boy had been five years old, tall and thin for his age, with cinnamon-brown skin, tightly coiled black hair, and dark, watchful eyes.

His name was Jalil.

Rashan had barely looked up at first. He had been preoccupied, flipping through a book at the time, but then he heard it—the sharp intake of breath.

He glanced over just in time to see Jalil freeze.

The bundle of cloth had slipped from his grasp, landing in an unceremonious heap on the floor. The boy had gone still—too still. His breath had hitched, his hands clenched at his sides.

And then Rashan had noticed Amira, standing near the doorway, her body tensed—not because of the boy, but because of him.

She expected him to strike her son. It was common for noble children to imitate their parents, especially their fathers. Many servants had learned the hard way that their punishment didn't always come from the master of the house—it could just as easily come from his sons.

She didn't move, didn't speak, but Rashan saw it—the way her shoulders locked, the slight tightening of her jaw.

She was bracing for what she thought would come next.

Rashan had knelt down instead. "Here," he had said, picking up a folded piece of linen and handing it back.

Jalil had stared at him, wide-eyed, as if he didn't quite understand what was happening.

"Perfection is impossible," Rashan had told him. "We can only achieve excellence. And excellence is determined by the process. When we fail, we must examine the process to understand what led to a poor result and improve from there."

A phrase from his past life. Something he had once believed as a soldier, a lesson that had stuck with him even in this world.

Jalil had taken those words to heart.

Over the past year, he had thrown himself into his work, but more than that—he had started watching the guards train, mimicking their movements with a wooden stick.

Rashan had even sparred with him a few times. Jalil was easily beaten, but he had potential. So Rashan had half-jokingly offered some advice.

"If you're serious about training, you should start running laps."

It had been a joke.

But this morning, as Rashan walked through the courtyard on his way to training, he had seen Jalil running laps—well before the sun had even risen.

Which was why today, Rashan was going to do a bit of investigating.

Redguard noble families often had assistants, squires, or future guards—young warriors chosen to train alongside them, growing into loyal companions. His brothers had each taken one.

Rashan hadn't.

But maybe…

That would change.

Rashan stopped just as Amira turned to leave.

"Amira, please hold for a second."

She paused, turning back toward him, her expression carefully neutral. "Yes, young master?"

He closed the book resting on his lap, his fingers lingering over the cover as he considered his next words. He had always carried himself with a dignity expected of noble sons, but right now, he wasn't just speaking as a noble—he was weighing a decision that could alter the course of another's life.

Finally, he spoke. "I have a question about your son."

A flicker of tension crossed Amira's features, subtle but noticeable. "My son, my lord—has he offended you?"

Rashan shook his head. "No, quite the opposite." He leaned back slightly, his gaze steady. "I saw him running this morning. How often does he do this?"

Amira didn't hesitate. "Every morning and evening, my lord. After his chores are done, of course."

Rashan was silent for a moment, studying her.

"I assume this started after I spoke to him months ago?"

"Yes, young master," she confirmed without delay.

A quiet hum left his lips.

He had suspected as much. Rashan wasn't easily impressed, but discipline, consistency, and perseverance—those were traits of value. The boy was barely six, yet he had already shown a level of dedication that many warriors lacked.

He turned his attention fully to Amira. "I would like to offer your son a chance," he said at last. "To train with me in the mornings. To see if he has what it takes to be part of my personal retinue. I haven't chosen one yet."

A brief silence followed.

He expected gratitude. He expected hesitation. He didn't expect the sheer disbelief that flickered across Amira's face.

She blinked, as though she had misheard him. Her mouth parted slightly, but no words came out at first. It was a rare sight—Amira, who always carried herself with composure, was momentarily stunned.

And Rashan understood why.

A servant's child, training alongside a noble's son? It was not unheard of, but it was not common either. Those who were chosen as companions for noble heirs often came from warrior families or were hand-picked by their fathers. Servant children? They had their place, and it was not on the training grounds.

Rashan smiled faintly, sensing her unspoken thoughts. "He is your son, Amira. This is serious. If he was to succeed—if he truly became a warrior—he could die. This will be your choice… and his."

She inhaled sharply, her hands clenching into loose fists at her sides. For the first time since he had known her, Rashan saw unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

Amira was not a woman who cried. She was a woman who endured. But this… this was different.

"My son is… very determined," she said at last, her voice steady despite the emotions behind it. "You are offering him a chance at his dream, my lord. I already know what his answer will be."

Rashan nodded. "And what is your decision?"

Amira took a breath, shoulders squaring. The disbelief was gone now, replaced by something else—resolve.

She looked him in the eyes, unwavering.

"What mother would hold back a son from the opportunity to seize his dreams?"

Rashan gave Amira a firm nod. "Tell your son nothing and have him report here after his chores are complete."

She bowed her head slightly. "Of course, young master."

She turned and left, the door closing behind her with the same quiet efficiency she applied to everything. Rashan exhaled and leaned back in his seat, tapping his fingers against the table in thought.

He still had time before he would load and regress. For now, he would attend his lessons, spend the day reading, and wait.

A knock at his chamber door. He set his book aside, already knowing who it was.

"Enter."

The door opened, and Jalil stepped in, bowing his head with the stiff formality of a boy trying too hard to appear composed. "Greetings, my young master."

Rashan's sharp gaze flickered over him, taking in the way he stood. Shoulders squared, back straight, but there was tension in him. Nervous. He was trying to hide it, but Rashan had seen that same tell in soldiers before battle, in young nobles about to spar against a superior opponent.

It wasn't fear—not exactly. More like a boy trying to control his expectations, unsure if the ground beneath him was steady or if it would crumble at any moment.

Rashan smiled slightly, his tone light. "No need to be nervous. I imagine your mother told you this was a good thing, yes?"

Jalil gave a quick nod, a little too stiff, as if afraid of saying the wrong thing.

He was being cautious.

Rashan chuckled inwardly. The boy would adjust.

But this wasn't just a casual offer—Rashan had planned this. He had been watching for months.

Amira had arrived at the Sulharen estate six months after leaving another noble household, alone, with no husband and no mention of one. That in itself had been unusual. But Rashan had never believed in coincidences.

He had done his research, quietly gathering what he could about the family she had once served. The nobleman in question was a warrior—a skilled swordsman, a battlefield strategist, a man whose name carried weight among Redguard warriors. A man known for his talents.

And Jalil?

Jalil looked just like him.

Rashan had seen the noble once at a social function, and that was all the confirmation he needed. The resemblance was undeniable. The same sharp brow, the same strong jawline. Even the way Jalil moved—the subtle shifts in his stance—were familiar.

Rashan didn't just want to see if the boy could fight. He wanted to know if he had inherited more than just his father's face.

Because looks meant nothing. Talent, discipline, and drive—that was what mattered.

And if Jalil had those?

Then Rashan was prepared to make sure he had the chance to use them.

Rashan folded his hands in front of him, studying Jalil's expression before speaking. "I would like to offer you an opportunity."

He had already spoken to his father about it. The old man had given him a long, measuring look before giving a slight nod. It wasn't unusual for noble children to train young retainers who might one day become part of their personal guard. His father likely assumed this was the same. But Rashan's reasons went beyond tradition.

"You will train with me in the mornings for a year. At the end of that time, the trainers will evaluate your progress. If you prove yourself—if you are worth investing in—then we will take the next step."

Jalil's face remained carefully neutral, but Rashan could see it—the restrained energy in the boy's stance, the way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. If Rashan wasn't watching, he was sure the boy would have jumped for joy.

"Of course, my young master! When do I report?"

"Tomorrow morning." Rashan's tone was measured, though he could see the anticipation in Jalil's eyes. "Your chores will still be expected of you, but you will have breakfast with me."

Jalil's eyes flickered with surprise, but he remained silent. Eating alongside a noble, even informally, was no small thing. It was an implicit acknowledgment that he was being given a chance to rise above his station.

"I also train in the evening," Rashan continued. "You are welcome to join me. If you do, you will dine with me in the evening as well."

Food was essential to training. Jalil wouldn't receive the same alchemic treatments Rashan did, but that didn't mean his diet would be neglected. Proper nutrition was a foundation of strength, and Rashan intended to ensure the boy had every advantage he could provide.

"Of course, my lord!" Jalil straightened, his excitement barely contained.

Rashan watched as the boy all but bounced out of the room, enthusiasm radiating from him.

That excitement was good. Encouraging, even. But enthusiasm alone wouldn't carry him far. Rashan had seen what real training required.

In the SEALs, they didn't just try to break you physically. They shattered you mentally, broke you socially, stripped you of everything except what you truly were.

Jalil had no idea what was in store for him.