A Wedding

Life moved on.

Training continued, but the intensity shifted. He still lost to his older brothers, but it was no longer the one-sided match it had once been. Rashan was faster, his stamina lasting longer than before, but his brothers were still stronger, still more refined. He had started using his stamina bar in fights, and while the improvement wasn't drastic, he could tell it had increased by maybe ten percent over the last year—a direct result of the grueling training he had put himself through.

A year of breaking himself down, pushing past exhaustion, testing his limits without relying on resets. That effort had left its mark.

Between ages six and seven, his stamina had increased by three or four percent. At first, he hadn't thought much of it, but now that he was eight, the steady gains were clear. The older he got, the more these small increases would snowball into something significant. If a single year of pure, unrelenting training had granted him ten percent, then what would five more years look like?

When he wasn't training, he delved back into his studies, though they felt increasingly mundane. Most of it was cartography and navigation—something he paid special attention to. One day, he would have to navigate his way to Skyrim, and he needed to understand every route that could get him there.

But what fascinated him most were diaries—occasionally, he got his hands on one, and they were the only texts that didn't bore him to death.

Right now, though, he had his own project in mind.

With his perfect recall, he was working on something that could actually be useful—seafaring maps.

His family had stakes in trade, which gave them access to various merchant records, port authority logs, and fleet manifests. He had spent months studying old ship logs, comparing the routes taken by different merchants, seeing where paths overlapped and where they diverged. Many of these records weren't formalized maps but handwritten accounts—navigators noting shifting currents, hidden reefs, seasonal winds, and areas prone to piracy.

As he studied, he started noticing inefficiencies.

Redguards were excellent sailors, but their navigation methods were inconsistent. Each fleet, each major merchant house, and even naval patrols used different charts, some outdated, some missing key information. There was no single, standardized sea-route system, meaning merchants often took redundant or needlessly risky paths depending on what information they had. Some captains relied on their own experience rather than maps, treating their routes as closely guarded trade secrets rather than knowledge that could improve Hammerfell's overall seafaring strength.

As a SEAL, Rashan had been intimately familiar with maritime navigation. Military-grade maps consolidated data efficiently—depths, tides, coastal landmarks, and optimal routes were compiled into a single system that all naval operatives used. That didn't exist here. Instead, Redguard navigators had to cross-reference multiple sources, often hand-copied over generations, sometimes full of conflicting notes or outdated hazards that no longer existed.

So he decided to make his own.

Using the records available to him, he began compiling a single, comprehensive sea-route map—a master chart that could standardize merchant routes, naval patrol zones, and natural hazards.

If done right, his map would have several advantages:

• Efficiency: By streamlining existing trade routes, ships could take safer, faster paths, avoiding unnecessary detours.

• Navigation Standardization: Instead of relying on individual fleet records, a shared map would ensure all Redguard ships had the same up-to-date information.

• Increased Profits: A more efficient route meant faster trade, fewer wasted resources, and more consistent commerce between Hammerfell's port cities and foreign markets.

• Military Applications: A more detailed understanding of coastal defenses, safe harbors, and naval chokepoints would be invaluable to the Redguard navy.

For now, it was just an experiment—something he could refine over time. If it was good enough, maybe his father would sell it, or even use it to expand the family's influence in trade.

If not, it was still knowledge. And knowledge was power.

It was getting dark, and the day was almost over. Time was running out.

Rashan had to load before the day changed, or else he wouldn't be able to do his regression run properly. Without it, he wouldn't be able to perform any actual physical training—not in a way that counted.

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders before stretching out his arms. His body felt strong, conditioned, but he still had so much further to go.

His thoughts drifted to his brothers.

His oldest brother, Kamal Sulharen, was 21—a fully grown warrior and the heir to the family name. Strong, disciplined, and methodical. A man who had been trained since childhood to lead, fight, and command.

Rashan fought him weekly—and lost. Every single time.

It wasn't even close. Kamal outclassed him in raw power, refined technique, and sheer experience. Rashan never won, never even came close to winning, but he forced himself into those matches anyway.

Because losing to Kamal now meant winning against others later.

His brother was getting deployed to the Empire for five years of military service. The Empire was bolstering its forces in response to the increasing Thalmor aggression—an escalation in military readiness that was becoming harder to ignore. The diplomatic facade between the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion was cracking, and like any great power sensing the inevitable, the Empire was ensuring its legions were prepared.

But first, there was a wedding.

Kamal was to be married, bringing his bride with him as he took his post as an officer in the Imperial military. It was a path befitting the heir of their house—duty, honor, and a role that would elevate both his standing and the family's influence, the perk of being an officer.

He thought about his brother's wife-to-be and realized he didn't even know her name.

Oops.

Even with perfect recall, he had managed to completely overlook something that should have been simple.

He had a way of getting too focused on training—on sharpening himself, improving, and preparing for what was to come. Everything else became background noise.

His mother had noticed.

She had sat him down once, away from the bustle of the household, in the shaded courtyard where the warm breeze carried the scent of desert flowers. The soft hum of distant conversations drifted through the halls, servants moving quietly in the background. He had been reading, fingers idly tracing the edges of the pages, when she spoke.

"My little star, why are you so serious?"

Her voice had been soft, but there was something behind it—concern, curiosity, maybe even a hint of sadness.

Rashan had paused, setting his book down carefully. He looked at her then, really looked, and saw the worry etched into the corners of her expression. She had seen it.

The way he trained relentlessly. The way he pushed himself beyond reason. The way he studied not just for knowledge but with intent, as if he were preparing for something no one else could see.

He had wanted to tell her the truth. That he had seen the end of the world before it even began. That he knew the name of the thing that would one day burn the sky and consume everything.

But that wasn't something a son told his mother.

So, instead, he had chosen a different answer.

"This is what I enjoy doing, Mother." He met her gaze, unwavering. "We both know I am not normal—I see things others don't at my age. But the training, the studying… I enjoy it, Mother."

She had studied him for a long moment before sighing. Then, she reached out, brushing a hand through his hair—a habit she never quite let go of, no matter how much older he got.

"I only worry because I love you, my little star."

He had nodded, but he had never truly answered her. Not in a way that would ease that worry.

And maybe, deep down, he knew he never would.

He sighed and got up.

There was supposed to be a celebration tomorrow.

Redguard weddings—especially noble ones, and even more so when it involved the heir—were a grand affair. They weren't just about the couple but about the uniting of two families, the strengthening of alliances, and the public display of honor and prosperity. The ceremonies would be elaborate, steeped in tradition, and filled with the kind of extravagant festivities that could last for days.

The betrothal had already been arranged long ago, but there would still be a formal ceremony reaffirming the agreement between the families. Oaths would be spoken, gifts exchanged, and the couple would perform a symbolic act of unity, likely clasping hands over a ceremonial blade to represent their bond—strength bound by duty, devotion forged like steel. There would be a blessing offered by the priests of Tu'whacca, ensuring that the marriage was honored not just in the eyes of the living but also in the realm of the ancestors.

No Redguard wedding would be complete without the sword dance, the Rhona'ta, performed in honor of the couple. It wasn't just a display of skill but a deeply symbolic tradition, a dance that spoke of balance—between partners, between love and duty, between the blade and the heart. The finest sword dancers of the household would perform, their movements swift and fluid, the clash of steel like music to those who understood its rhythm. The bride and groom themselves might even take part in a ceremonial exchange of blows, a ritual test to prove they could stand together in battle as they would in life.

Then would come the procession, a celebration that would spill into the streets, with musicians playing, dancers moving in dazzling displays of agility, and food overflowing from banquet tables. The estate would be filled with the scent of roasted meats spiced to perfection, saffron rice, honeyed dates, and fresh bread with thick, fragrant butter. Wine would flow freely, and the night would stretch on with laughter, song, and endless storytelling of heroes past.

Somewhere amid the celebrations, the formal decree would be read, marking the official joining of the families. It was a political act as much as a personal one—an alliance sealed in both love and pragmatism, securing wealth, status, and power for generations to come.

Rashan had no intention of spending his first runs on the celebration. The regression run would be for that, since there was no escaping the family obligation. But on his first run? Training. Reading. Pushing himself forward.

At least he would get some time with his sister, he thought as he reloaded the day.