Meeting Father

Rashan still got up before the sun, the sky just beginning to lighten. His brother would be leaving today, headed for an Imperial-controlled border city near the Summerset Isles.

He had been allowed to sleep in—a rare rest day—but there was no rest for the vigilant.

There were no saves, no reloads. He couldn't study all day, reset, and start over. That meant today, he had to balance training and study, as he usually did.

First, a run.

Then, his father's study. He wanted to talk to him.

Then more studying. More training. No wasted time.

Jalil was already waiting for him, and they set off. Weighted runs. His burden was twice as heavy as Jalil's. His muscles strained under the added weight, every step pressing into his legs like a slow grind of stone against steel. His breathing stayed controlled, his pace even. Endurance mattered more than speed. Speed was useless if he burned out too soon.

Jalil kept pace beside him, but Rashan noticed the difference—his friend's movements were looser, less burdened. The gap in weight wasn't just a test of strength; it was a test of will. How much could he push himself past his limits?

His calves tightened with every incline, the resistance pulling against him with each step. One foot forward. Again. Again. There was no quitting, no stopping, only the next step.

Fun times.

After that, some light sparring and footwork drills. Precision over power. He worked through basic forms first—each strike fluid, each block measured. Then movement drills, focusing on balance, reaction time, spacing. Small adjustments, shifts in weight, subtle corrections. The kind of training that didn't look impressive but made the difference between victory and defeat.

It was the usual routine. It never got easier. That was the point.

Then, after breakfast—which was served by Jalil's mother, Amira—Rashan took a moment to appreciate the familiar warmth of the household. Amira always seemed to have a smile on her face when watching her son and Rashan interact. There was something about the way she looked at them—pride, maybe, or just the quiet satisfaction of seeing Jalil alongside someone she trusted.

As they ate, he and Jalil talked. Rashan had been getting him to be more informal over time, slowly chipping away at the deference Jalil had initially shown him. He considered Jalil a friend, not just a training partner or attendant. More than anything, he admired his tenacity—the way he never complained, no matter how grueling the training became.

Jalil finished first, standing up to tend to his chores after a filling, healthy meal that was clearly designed to keep him strong for his duties.

Rashan remained seated, still eating at his own pace. Amira was ever dutiful, ensuring everything was prepared without ever needing to be asked.

Eventually, he finished and thanked her before heading off. A change of clothes. A moment to freshen up. Then, he made his way to his father's study.

He grabbed a rough draft of his navigation chart and map project—a work in progress, but one he could actually be proud of. It looked good. The lines were precise, the structure clear. It wasn't just a rough sketch anymore—it was something that could hold up to scrutiny. Something that, if presented correctly, could be taken seriously.

But looking good wasn't enough. He needed plausible reasoning, logical foundations, and proper research. If he wanted his ideas to be accepted, he couldn't just introduce concepts from his old life without ensuring they made sense here. Too much too fast, and it would seem impossible—or worse, suspicious. This world had rules. He had to work within them.

But that wasn't the only thing on his mind.

Jalil.

The boy was being wasted on chores. He was sharp, disciplined, and eager to learn, yet instead of honing those skills, he was stuck fetching and carrying, completing tasks that any servant could do. Rashan had already been teaching him in small ways—quizzing him on concepts, testing his memory, introducing him to ideas beyond his station. But that wasn't enough.

Unlike the game world, reading wasn't a universal skill. Education wasn't something granted to all but determined by family, trade, and social standing. Jalil had potential, but without proper education, it would go to waste.

Rashan had never been more grateful for the choice he had made—noble birth.

It gave him resources, knowledge, and opportunities others could only dream of. It gave him access—the kind that let him even think about education as a necessity, rather than a privilege.

He walked to his father's study, map project in hand, thoughts still turning. But as he approached, he saw the door was closed.

That meant "Do Not Disturb."

There was a chair nearby, so he sat down to wait patiently. It was a little too high, and his feet didn't quite touch the ground. He let them lightly sway, absentmindedly, as he settled in for the wait.

Eventually, the door opened. He had waited—what, maybe twenty minutes? Long enough to go over his thoughts a few times, but not long enough to be impatient.

His father stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable for a moment before a smile broke through.

"Come in, my son. Did you wait long?"

"Not too long, Father."

Rashan stood, adjusting the map project under his arm, and stepped inside. His father didn't move toward his usual place at the large desk. Instead, he gestured toward a smaller seating area off to the side, where two chairs faced each other with a low wooden table between them.

His father sat down first, and Rashan followed, settling into the chair across from him.

"My son," his father began, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "You have done a great thing, rooting out an assassin—and your talent for remembering everything is very rare."

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if the weight of recent events lingered.

A moment later, a servant entered, carrying a steaming pot of coffee. The rich, dark aroma filled the study, its scent unmistakable.

There were two cups.

He hadn't been allowed coffee before—not in this life, at least. In his old one, he had loved black coffee, particularly cold brew for its smoothness and lower acidity.

Here, coffee was still a rare and expensive drink, something reserved for nobles and high-ranking officials.

There was a small jar of honey on the tray, and his father added a bit to his cup. Rashan made a mental joke about fu fu coffee—a term he had used in his past life for coffee that had anything extra added, like honey or cream. Black was the only real way to drink it.

He didn't comment, just took his own cup and lifted it to his lips. Bold, rich, strong—slightly bitter. It was good, but not quite what he wanted. Cold brew. If only he could crush the beans, let them steep for two days, and pour it over ice.

A fleeting thought crossed his mind—were there Destruction mages who specialized in ice? If so, maybe he could convince one to chill his drinks on command. A personal ice mage, now that would be luxury.

The thought amused him, but he let it go with a soft chuckle, turning his attention back to his father, who had settled comfortably in his chair, studying him with the same measured patience he always had.

"My son, do you realize how many people speak of you?"

Rashan met his gaze, waiting.

"Since you were a small child, you have trained as a warrior—not because you were told to, but because you chose to. Never once have you needed to be woken or reminded of your duties."

His father took a slow sip of his honey-sweetened coffee before continuing.

"You fight your brothers and lose daily, but you still improve—not because you lack skill, but because you are young, and they are nearly men."

There was no disappointment in his tone, no expectation that Rashan should somehow be winning against older, stronger brothers. Only observation. A statement of fact.

His father set his cup down, leaning forward slightly.

"I tell you this because you are intelligent, and I hope you do not let this feed your pride. Even now, I receive inquiries. It is my belief that soon, I will have a list of betrothal offers for you—a fourth son. I have not yet even arranged anything for your third brother."

Rashan kept his expression neutral, but internally, he noted the significance. A fourth son, and yet there were already discussions about potential matches? That meant his name carried more weight than he realized.

His father regarded him carefully.

"And because you are intelligent, I will ask you once more." His voice remained steady, his expression unreadable. "What is it that you want?"

The question caught him off guard—not because he hadn't thought about it, but because he hadn't expected to be asked outright.

In that moment, Rashan understood why his family was strong. His father wasn't just powerful—he was wise. He wasn't merely raising sons, he was shaping their futures.

Rashan met his gaze and spoke carefully, offering a half-truth.

"I want to be a powerful Spellsword, to travel Tamriel and uncover its secrets."

His father chuckled, shaking his head slightly.

"I suspected as much. Your ambitions stretch beyond these lands." He took another slow sip of coffee, nodding thoughtfully. "As a fourth son, you are less bound by expectation."

But then, his expression turned more serious.

"Yet there is still your family. Sometimes, what we desire and what is required of us do not align. We are expected to contribute."

There it was. The weight of duty, of legacy. No son of this house could simply wander Tamriel without responsibility.

Rashan suddenly felt very glad he had brought his navigation charts.