One Small Favor

Rashan sat at his desk, his fingers absently tracing the inked letters of an old tome as he read, absorbing its contents with sharp focus. The early morning light filtered through the windows, casting a warm glow over the neatly stacked books and scattered parchment. His room was quiet, undisturbed, the only sound the occasional turn of a page or the faint chirping of birds beyond the open shutters.

This was his first run of the day—the one no one else would remember.

Feigning illness had become second nature to him. He didn't overdo it, just enough to convince the servants to leave him be. His father rarely pried into such things, trusting that if Rashan needed the rest, he should take it. Jalil, of course, knew better, but never questioned it aloud.

So, he spent these "sick days" in complete isolation, doing what he couldn't afford to waste time on in his actual run.

Reading. Studying. Practicing theory.

Whatever Adrien had assigned him, he worked through with discipline, testing small principles of magic, analyzing runes, or breaking down combat manuals. He wrote notes, re-read old texts, traced spell diagrams, and memorized everything he could.

Because soon, once he reset the day, all of this knowledge would be ingrained into him without having taken a second away from his training.

Once the day reloaded, he would move on to his regresssion run.

His morning conditioning. The grueling martial training that burned his muscles and honed his body into something faster, sharper, and stronger.

The sword had always felt natural in his hands. The weight of it, the way the steel shifted mid-swing, the balance between grip and motion. It was different from a bow—where precision ruled, where the smallest movement, the faintest breath, could change the outcome of a shot. With a sword, there was weight behind every strike. The moment it connected, he could feel the shock vibrate up his arm, a conversation between metal and flesh. The edge had to be directed, not just swung blindly. Control mattered more than power.

A bow, though, required patience. Holding his breath just long enough for the string to steady. Feeling the way his muscles adjusted, tightening in anticipation. The moment of release was fleeting, but perfect—letting go of the arrow was like exhaling after holding something in for too long. And with his HUD, the crosshair made it even smoother. It was subtle, almost instinctual, that small mark aligning with his focus, guiding his aim with the barest shift. It wasn't like he had some unnatural precision, but it helped. It let him adjust before he loosed an arrow, making the difference between a good shot and a perfect one.

The spear was another matter. Awkward, unfamiliar. Longer reach, but slower recovery. It forced him to be mindful of his positioning, to think not in close quarters but in measured distances, in the space between him and his opponent. The way it moved was nothing like a sword, the momentum different, the weight distribution shifting with every thrust.

Jalil, as always, would be there. His shadow. His training partner. Rashan made sure he trained alongside him, improving his footwork, his movements, his ability to react.

Then, after driving his body to exhaustion, came the next part.

Magic.

His lessons with Adrien.

And today?

For what felt like endless weeks of balance drills, movement training, and conditioning, today he was finally going to learn real magical theory.

Not just control. Not just discipline.

Actual spellcasting principles.

He was more than ready.

Rashan arrived at the training hall, settling into his usual seat. A few minutes later, Adrien finally strolled in.

Rashan immediately noticed something different.

The man had shaved.

For once, his face wasn't hidden beneath that scruffy, unkempt mess of stubble. The sharp angles of his Breton features were more visible now, making him look less like a washed-up drunk and more like an actual mentor.

Progress.

Then, as he stepped closer, Rashan caught the familiar, unmistakable scent of alcohol.

Never mind.

The man had definitely been drinking.

It wasn't as overpowering as before, but it lingered, the faint but sharp aroma of wine and aged liquor clinging to his clothes. Rashan resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Of course, he had been raiding the family's wine stores.

His mother hated the man. She had been wary from the start, but that one disastrous dinner had sealed her opinion.

Adrien had been himself—loud, blunt, utterly tactless. And more than a little bit drunk.

His father, a man who valued decorum, had gone red in the face from sheer embarrassment.

The servants whispered about it for days afterward.

From that night on, he had never been invited back.

Now, he ate alone in the guest house.

Amira had told Rashan that the staff constantly complained about him. He left dishes everywhere, rarely cleaned up after himself, and treated the guest house like a tavern. A brilliant spellcaster, perhaps, but certainly not a respectable house guest.

But none of that mattered right now.

Rashan shook the thoughts away and focused on the reason he was here.

Adrien stretched as he walked further in, rolling his shoulders before cracking his neck with a sharp pop. He let out a satisfied sigh, as if he had just woken from the best nap of his life.

"Well, kid," he said, dragging a chair over lazily before slumping into it, "you're physically suited for my training."

He shot Rashan a lopsided grin.

"I am a Battlemage, after all. Hence—battle first."

He gestured vaguely, waving a hand as if this was the most obvious thing in the world.

"That's why you did what you did first. And now? Magery."

Then, to Rashan's growing irritation, he actually chuckled at his own joke.

The laugh was low, dry, entirely self-satisfied.

Rashan closed his eyes for half a second.

Breathe.

This was going to be a long lesson.

Adrien leaned forward, resting his one arm on the table, his expression shifting from amused to something more focused, more intent.

"Alright, kid. Time for your first real lesson in magical theory."

Rashan straightened slightly.

"All magic—no matter what school, no matter what form it takes—stems from one source."

His tone was different now. More measured. He wasn't just talking, he was teaching.

"Mysticism."

Rashan blinked. He knew the term. He had read about it in passing, often referenced in older texts, but most modern magical studies didn't focus on it as its own school anymore.

It was because of his past life and the wiki's he had any kind of grasp on the subject.

Adrien smirked, catching the recognition in his eyes.

"Ah, you've heard of it. Good. Then let's take that knowledge and actually make sense of it."

He sat back slightly, tapping a finger against the wood.

"Mysticism is the foundation of all magic. It is the raw interaction between a living being and the magicka that flows through Mundus. Every spell, every enchantment, every invocation—it all begins with Mysticism."

He gestured with his hand, almost absently, as though tracing unseen currents in the air.

"Most people don't realize this because magic has been broken down into schools. Neatly categorized, labeled, divided for ease of learning. But before those classifications existed, Mysticism was the root. It is the manipulation of the unseen forces of magicka itself."

He held up a finger.

"Alteration? That is Mysticism bent toward reshaping the natural world. It manipulates the structure of reality, reinforcing it, reshaping it, or, in some cases, bending its rules outright. Flesh spells, water-breathing, lightening one's step—all of it is the direct control of the physical world through magicka. It's not illusion; it's genuine change. The best Alteration mages don't just deflect weapons or harden their skin—they make the impossible into reality itself."

A second finger.

"Restoration? That is Mysticism directed inward. The power to mend, to cleanse, to restore life force and essence. Some healers will tell you it's about divine intervention, but that's religious nonsense. Restoration is simply understanding how to redirect magicka into the body—knitting flesh, purging sickness, reinforcing vitality. And it's not just healing. The same principles that allow a mage to mend wounds can be turned outward—purging foreign magics, disrupting enchantments, even turning the very essence of a person against itself. Some of the most feared Restoration mages weren't healers, but those who understood disease, decay, and the rot that comes with unchecked life."

A third finger.

"Conjuration? It's Mysticism reaching beyond the natural world. Tearing open a connection to Oblivion, binding spirits, summoning entities, or even shaping magicka into tangible force like bound weapons or armor. It's not creating something from nothing—nothing ever comes from nothing—but rather pulling from what already exists beyond the veil. The truly skilled don't just summon—they command. Binding daedra, shaping ethereal forces into solid form, even calling forth the lingering souls of the dead to act in the physical world. Some go further, not just calling on Oblivion, but tapping into Aetherius itself, though that's a risk even the wisest of mages seldom take."

He let his fingers rest, tapping the table once more.

"Destruction? Mysticism given shape—force channeled into raw, external power. Fire, frost, shock—it is energy directed outward, rather than manipulated passively. Some call it the art of ruin, but it's no different than smithing metal or cutting stone—it's just magic as a direct tool of force. It's not merely destruction, but transformation. Some of the greatest Destruction mages don't simply burn their enemies, they reshape the battlefield itself—turning water to steam, air to flame, ice to mist. It's the manipulation of raw, violent change, the kind that reshapes nature at its most primal level."

His expression turned slightly amused as he continued.

"Illusion? Mysticism bent toward the mind. It's not trickery, not in the way most people think. It's understanding perception. Every living thing has an innate connection to magicka, even those who don't use it consciously. Illusion exploits that. It's suggestion, manipulation, the shaping of thought through an unseen medium. The weak-minded fall easily, but true masters don't just manipulate perception—they redefine reality. Some don't need to cast spells to make themselves invisible; they simply convince the world they are not there. A strong enough Illusionist doesn't need to whisper into a man's mind to control him—he makes the man believe he was never anyone else to begin with."

He studied Rashan's expression, the way the boy absorbed his words, the way his mind turned with each revelation.

"And then there are the paths that scholars don't speak of. The places where Mysticism was cut away from polite society, not because it was false, but because it was dangerous."

He held up another finger.

"Necromancy. The branch of Mysticism that Conjuration turned its back on. It is not summoning. It is binding. It is the art of taking what was once filled with life and turning it into something that obeys. The reason necromancy is feared isn't because it's unnatural—on the contrary, it's deeply rooted in nature. The cycle of life and death is constant, unbroken, and Necromancers simply decide to interfere with it. The best of them don't just raise the dead—they strip souls bare, reforging them into new entities entirely. But it is risky. One mistake, one flaw in understanding, and the magic turns on its caster."

He exhaled through his nose, letting his hand drop.

"Every school of magic is just an extension of Mysticism, honed into different applications. Over time, the classifications became clearer, the methods more refined, and so they were divided into 'schools' for easier study. But they are all—every last one of them—just branches of the same thing."

Rashan absorbed the words, turning them over in his mind.

This wasn't just some basic explanation.

It was deep, fundamental knowledge.

It made sense.

More sense than the arbitrary "schools" of magic that had been neatly separated in books.

He had never heard it explained like this.

Adrien watched him, noting his reaction, and then smirked.

"Now, I want you to tell me—based on what I just said—how do you think magicka actually works?"

Rashan remained silent for a long moment, his mind turning over everything Adrien had just said.

Mysticism as the root of all magic. The idea that the division of the schools was a construct—a convenient classification rather than a fundamental truth. It was a perspective he had never considered before, but one that made sense the more he thought about it.

He took a breath, then spoke.

"Magicka is a force that exists within all living things and the world itself. It comes from Aetherius, leaking through the sun and stars into Mundus, forming the invisible energies that magic users channel."

Adrien nodded slightly, as if expecting him to say that.

Rashan continued.

"But magicka itself doesn't have form or function—it just is. The way it's used depends entirely on the mage. Mysticism, if it is the foundation of all magic, must be the practice of directly interacting with that raw, formless energy—before it is shaped into any of the specific schools we define today."

He glanced at Adrien, but the man didn't interrupt, so he pushed forward.

"The Ayleids, the Chimer, and early Nibenese sorcerers all viewed Mysticism as its own distinct discipline because they hadn't yet divided magic into categories. Their spells—things like teleportation, soul trapping, scrying, and absorbing magicka—were all based on the idea that Mysticism allowed them to touch something beyond physical reality. Even today, there are remnants of that idea. Alteration bends reality, but it doesn't create something from nothing. Conjuration brings things from other realms, but it doesn't make them appear out of thin air. Destruction doesn't produce energy—it reshapes the energy already present. All of them are manipulating forces that Mysticism made possible to begin with."

Adrien didn't react right away, so Rashan continued, his voice steady, certain.

"The Dwemer had a different take on magic, treating it more like an exact science. They rejected Mysticism as a 'school' but still used it—they just didn't call it that. Their Tonal Architecture, Numidium, the disappearance of their entire race—all of it was based on the idea that reality itself could be rewritten. That's the same principle as high-level Alteration magic, just taken further than any modern mage dares to go."

This time, he saw Adrien's eyes narrow slightly, the hint of approval in them.

Rashan pressed forward, drawing from the knowledge buried in his mind—both from his own studies and what he remembered from his past life.

"Every culture that uses magic has its own way of explaining it, but it all comes back to the same principle: magicka is a force, and Mysticism is the act of shaping it before it becomes anything else. Some claim magic is divine, a gift from the Aedra or Daedra. Some believe it is merely a part of nature, something woven into existence itself. But no matter the explanation, every spell cast is proof that magicka follows rules. It can be studied, understood, replicated. It might not be 'science' in the way the Dwemer saw it, but it is a process—one that can be refined, controlled, and, perhaps, even perfected."

Adrien finally leaned back, watching him with an unreadable expression.

Rashan knew his answer wasn't perfect. There were gaps in his understanding, things he couldn't yet explain. But the logic held. The history supported it. And, more importantly, it felt right.

The older man exhaled through his nose, then smirked.

"Huh," Adrien muttered. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all."

For a brief moment, Rashan thought he saw something rare on the Breton's face.

Actual approval.

Adrien had been stunned silent for a solid five seconds after Rashan finished speaking.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, his head tilted slightly, his lips parting as if to say something before he stopped himself.

What the fuck?

His fingers absently scratched at his jaw, his expression flickering between disbelief, amusement, and something dangerously close to impressed.

What is this kid? Nine? Ten?

Adrien had trained soldiers. He had taught battle-hardened warriors who could barely read their own names. He had listened to scholars drone on for hours about theories they barely understood themselves. But this?

This was a child. A child who had just broken down the fundamental structure of magic like he had been studying it for decades.

What the fuck.

And then, he started to laugh.

A full, genuine, belly-deep laugh, like Rashan had just told the best joke he had heard in years.

Rashan frowned. What the hell was so funny?

His answer had been good. Solid. Logically sound. He had drawn on historical knowledge, on theory, on practical understanding of magicka's nature.

So why was Adrien laughing like a madman?

"Kid," the man finally wheezed, shaking his head, "I have high expectations for you."

Rashan blinked, still confused. Okay?

Adrien leaned forward, resting his one arm on the table. His sharp, stormy Breton eyes met Rashan's directly, and the laughter faded—replaced with something much colder.

"Just make your teacher a promise, yeah?"

Rashan tilted his head slightly, intrigued but wary. "What kind of promise?"

Adrien exhaled, tapping his fingers against the wood before speaking, his voice low, steady, and filled with a weight that wasn't there before.

"My arm… and everything I loved—was taken by the Thalmor."

Rashan felt the shift in the air. The words weren't spoken with bitterness, but with something far worse.

Certainty.

Conviction.

Adrien's voice didn't waver when he spoke next.

"You might dodge this first war, because of your age, but there will be a second. Maybe a third."

His eyes locked onto Rashan's, steady, unwavering.

"And you'll fight in one of those."

Rashan inwardly tensed.

Wow.

That was… shockingly accurate.

He didn't even blink, didn't hesitate—just stated it as a fact.

As if there was no question that war would come again. That it was inevitable.

That Rashan would be in the middle of it.

Then, Adrien leaned forward, his voice dropping lower, quieter.

"Kill every fucking Thalmor you see," he said, his tone casual—too casual. "Would you be willing to do that?"

Rashan stared at the man.

Well.

That was… an interesting question to ask a kid.

For a long moment, he didn't answer.

Then, with a completely straight face, he responded.

"Did you have anyone specific in mind?"

Adrien roared with laughter.

A full, uncontrollable burst of sound, tilting his head back, slamming his palm against the table like Rashan had just told the funniest joke in Tamriel.

Then, he looked at Rashan again—still laughing.

And laughed even harder.

Rashan just stared at him, waiting.

Adrien never actually answered his question.

Instead, still chuckling, he finally shook his head and continued the lesson.