The Future

It had been three months since his father told him about the retired Battlemage who would be coming to stay with them, and yet—nothing. No arrival, no word, just waiting.

Then, finally, a letter arrived. But instead of good news, it only confirmed what Rashan had suspected—delays.

The caravan had run into a territorial dispute between two noble factions, forcing them to reroute. That meant an extra couple of days on the road, waiting for safe passage or finding an alternative route. Now, it would be another two months before their guest arrived.

Travel in this world was not guaranteed.

Even with Imperial roads, movement across Tamriel wasn't as simple as the game had once made it seem. In the game, a trip from one hold to another felt like a half-day's ride, but in reality? It was often a full day of travel on horseback, sometimes longer depending on conditions.

And conditions were becoming more unstable.

Tamriel was still under the Empire's banner, but Rashan could see what was happening—their authority was ebbing. In name, the Empire still ruled, but in practice? More and more disputes were being handled locally—nobles settling conflicts among themselves, regional leaders imposing their own laws, independent factions growing bolder.

The rule of law still existed, but it was being tested. Local lords were less willing to wait for Imperial decrees, and the Empire's presence in daily affairs was becoming more symbolic than actual enforcement. Some provinces, like Valenwood and Elsweyr, had already seceded, falling under Thalmor control. The Dominion's reach was expanding, even if it wasn't through open war.

Rashan had his own suspicions. The Thalmor.

The Dominion's strength wasn't just in its armies—it was in sabotage, subterfuge, and political manipulation. They didn't need to conquer through brute force when they could erode Imperial control from within. If the Empire was forced to deal with growing internal disputes, they would have less time and resources to check the Thalmor's influence elsewhere.

And if the Empire collapsed under its own weight, the Dominion wouldn't even need to lift a sword.

It was just a theory. But every small delay, every regional conflict, every sign of Imperial weakness—it all fit too well.

Rashan sighed and put the letter down. The wait continued.

He looked at the navigation chart—it was finally finished. Precise, clean, and well-documented. It had taken time, but it was ready.

Time to make a delivery.

He ran his fingers over the parchment one last time, feeling the fine texture of the paper beneath his fingertips. Every mark, every notation—a culmination of months of study, trial, and refinement. He had cross-referenced older charts, adjusted for inaccuracies, and ensured that every detail was accounted for.

His father would recognize its value.

Just as he stood, stretching his arms before picking up the chart and heading toward his father's study, a knock sounded at the door.

Jalil was sitting in the corner of the room, studying his letters. His writing was still slow, his strokes slightly uneven, but his improvement over the last three months had been remarkable. Rashan had been impressed—Jalil learned quickly.

"You're improving," he remarked, glancing at the parchment in Jalil's hands.

Jalil grinned slightly, but before he could respond, the knock came again.

Rashan opened the door.

His sister, Sadiaa, stood there. She didn't say anything right away, simply stepping inside uninvited and lowering herself onto one of the seats near his desk.

There was something in her expression—not quite troubled, but not at ease either.

She was silent for a moment before finally saying, "Second Brother is being drafted by the Empire."

Rashan blinked.

"A lot of young men are," she continued. "Father believes Third Brother will soon follow."

Rashan exhaled, setting the navigation chart aside as he took in the news.

He had expected it, eventually. The Empire always needed soldiers. But hearing it out loud made it feel real.

Sadiaa had always been closer to their siblings. She understood them in a way Rashan didn't. She could read their moods, sense their worries even when they didn't voice them.

He, however, had been a Navy SEAL in his past life. He had been the one sent away before—he had been the one to leave. He understood duty. He understood the way war stripped men of their choices.

Being sent away to fight—it was part of being a soldier.

Still, he wasn't sure how to respond.

"Oh," he said after a moment, the word feeling hollow. He searched for something more, something meaningful, but nothing came.

Sadiaa didn't press him. Instead, she sighed softly and said, "Will you accompany me on a walk?"

Rashan nodded.

"Sure."

He turned to Jalil, who had been silent, pretending not to listen. "Please stay here."

Jalil nodded without hesitation, his fingers tightening slightly around his parchment before returning to his studies.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the courtyard gardens as they stepped outside. The air was warm but crisp, the breeze carrying the scent of salt from the distant sea mixed with the familiar arid heat of the desert.

They walked without urgency, moving past stone archways and shaded terraces, stepping onto the winding pathways of the estate gardens.

For a time, they simply walked in silence.

Sadiaa spoke first, breaking the quiet with idle conversation. She spoke about the suitors who had begun lining up, though she didn't seem eager about it.

"Father has already turned down three of them," she mused, lightly tracing her fingers along the petals of a flowering vine. "The fourth had the audacity to ask me my opinion."

Rashan glanced at her. "And?"

Sadiaa smirked. "I told him his beard looked like an unkempt camel's mane."

Rashan snorted.

She continued, mentioning their brothers, wondering how they were feeling about their impending service.

"I spoke to Second Brother this morning," she said, tilting her head slightly. "He didn't seem worried. If anything, I think he's looking forward to it."

Rashan considered that.

For some, war was a duty. For others, a way to prove themselves.

For Rashan, it had been both.

She spoke about the weather, how cooler winds were coming in from the west, a sign that the harsher heat of summer would soon give way to more bearable days.

They walked through the orchard, past the rows of citrus trees where the air was tinged with the faint sweetness of ripening fruit. A few stray leaves rustled in the wind, breaking the stillness.

They walked for what felt like hours, sometimes speaking, sometimes just enjoying the quiet company of one another.

By the time they returned to the estate, the sun had dipped low into the horizon, painting the sky in hues of deep orange and soft gold.

Rashan felt lighter.

It hadn't been a deep conversation, nor had it resolved anything. But perhaps it didn't need to.

Sometimes, just walking was enough.

As Rashan walked back to his room to retrieve the navigation charts for his father, his mind turned toward the ramifications of the upcoming war.

It wasn't too late—he still had time to deliver his work. But his thoughts wandered as the weight of what his sister had told him settled in.

Second Brother was being drafted. Third Brother would likely follow.

That meant only one thing—the Empire was preparing for war.

Rashan was nine years old now. That meant the year was 4E 167—and if the timeline in his memory was correct, the Great War was only four or five years away, assuming it all stayed the same.

It would start in 4E 171 when the Aldmeri Dominion formally presented their demands to the Empire:

1. Dissolve the Blades.

2. Outlaw Talos worship across all Imperial lands.

3. Surrender several key provinces outright.

Of course, Titus Mede II refused—which would lead to the Dominion invading Cyrodiil and Hammerfell in force.

Hammerfell… his home.

Rashan already knew what to expect. The war would start with devastating Thalmor victories. The Dominion's forces would sweep through southern Cyrodiil, capturing the Imperial City within two years. By the time the war reached its full height, entire legions of the Empire would be annihilated.

And Hammerfell?

The Dominion would push into the province hard. It would be brutal.

But Hammerfell would fight back.

What Rashan remembered from the lore was that Hammerfell's resistance was so fierce and unrelenting that even after the Empire signed the White-Gold Concordat, Hammerfell refused to surrender. The province would fight on its own for five more years, eventually forcing the Dominion to a standstill.

And when the war finally ended in 4E 180, Hammerfell would be a free and independent nation, but at a terrible cost.

Cities would be ruined.

Thousands—tens of thousands—would be dead.

And the Thalmor? They wouldn't just go away.

They never truly left.

Even though the Dominion formally retreated, Rashan remembered the history. The Thalmor still worked from the shadows. Their agents infiltrated noble houses, gathered intelligence, and planted seeds of future conflicts.

Hammerfell had pushed them back. But it had not destroyed them.

What It Meant for Him

By the time the Empire signed the White-Gold Concordat in 4E 175, Rashan would be old enough to fight.

The war would rage for years before then, but in the end, the Empire would lose. Not in the sense of complete destruction, but in a way that mattered. The Aldmeri Dominion would shatter Imperial legions, take southern Cyrodiil, and even capture the Imperial City, forcing Titus Mede II to flee.

The Empire, however, would strike back. They would regroup, counterattack, and retake the city—but at a devastating cost. The Dominion's armies were too entrenched, their resources vast, and even in victory, the Empire was bleeding.

That was when the Empire would surrender.

In 4E 175, the White-Gold Concordat would be signed, a humiliating peace treaty that would allow the Empire to survive—but at a steep price.

• Talos worship outlawed across all Imperial lands.

• The Blades disbanded, their members hunted down.

• The Thalmor gaining unchecked influence within the Empire.

• And most damning of all—Hammerfell was ceded to the Dominion.

But Hammerfell would not bow.

The moment the treaty was signed, Hammerfell's leaders rejected the Empire's decision. They refused to hand over their lands, and as a result, Hammerfell was officially removed from the Empire.

And so, while the rest of the Empire licked its wounds, Hammerfell stood alone.

For five more years, Hammerfell would fight without Imperial aid, defending its cities, lands, and people against the full might of the Aldmeri Dominion.

It would be brutal.

It would be desperate.

It would cost countless lives.

But Hammerfell would endure.

By 4E 180, the Dominion would be forced into a stalemate, not because they wanted peace, but because they couldn't break Hammerfell's resistance. The Thalmor had won against the Empire, but Hammerfell was a different kind of beast.

They would withdraw, leaving Hammerfell an independent nation, no longer part of the Empire, no longer bound by the White-Gold Concordat.

The war would end. But Rashan knew the scars would remain.

Cities would lie in ruin, entire families would be wiped out, and while the Dominion's armies had left, their influence had not.

The Thalmor never truly left.

Even in defeat, they would work from the shadows—undermining, manipulating, planting the seeds for future conflict.

Hammerfell had won its freedom, but the war was never truly over.

If the Empire was already increasing its drafts, that meant the buildup to war had begun. It might not be in the open yet, but the pieces were moving.

His brothers would fight in it.

His people would suffer for it.

And he?

He was only nine years old.

Too young to fight. Too young to be taken seriously. But he wouldn't stay that way forever. If war was coming, he had time to prepare.

And preparation was something he knew how to do.

He reached his room, pushing the door open. Jalil was still inside, studying his letters, his head tilting up slightly at Rashan's entrance.

Rashan grabbed the navigation charts, rolling them carefully before tying them with a leather cord.

It was time to focus on what he could do.

For now, that meant delivering these to his father.

For later?

He would be ready for what was coming.