What’s Happening

Rashan sat his horse at the edge of the yard, one hand loose on the reins. The mare shifted under him, tail flicking at flies. Sunlight stretched across the stone path, throwing long shadows over packed dirt. The edge of the training ground was scattered with bootprints, hay scraps, and the dry scuff marks of weapon drills.

Cassia stood twelve paces from the target post. Her stance was solid—shoulders level, feet placed in a balanced line. Her braid was tied tight behind her back. A dagger spun once in her hand, then she stepped forward and threw.

The blade turned twice in the air and struck the post with a clean thunk.

Another followed, then another.

Each landed within a handspan of the others—one near the center, one a little low, one just above the line. Her mechanics were clean. The knives hit hard enough to sink deep into the grain, handles trembling slightly from impact.

Jalil walked up, brushing dust from his sleeves. His tunic was half-untucked, and a bruise showed faint yellow across his forearm. He raised his hands and signed:

"Spar?"

Cassia didn't hesitate. She signed back:

"Yes."

Jalil had insisted on learning sign language six months ago when Rashan first started teaching it to Cassia. He said if they were going to talk without him, he was going to learn how to answer. Cassia picked it up faster—Jalil added flair and extra motion, but between them, it worked.

Rashan turned his horse and rode toward the range.

The field stretched ahead in uneven rows. Straw targets stood at different intervals, weather-worn and scarred from months of use. Some were tilted, one had a sword gash through the frame, and a few still held old arrows from previous drills. The dirt was dry and rutted, shaped by hoofprints and the drag of training dummies.

He reached the main lane and eased the horse into a canter.

He pulled his bow from the saddle loop and nocked the first arrow. As he drew, the HUD crosshair settled in his vision—faint, stable, and centered. It didn't move with the horse. It stayed fixed, a steady point Rashan had trained his aim around. It didn't aim for him, but it gave him a reference—one that let him adjust faster and recover between shots.

The first arrow loosed and struck high—just inside the outer red ring.

The second caught the far left, half-burying itself in straw.

The third hit clean—center ring, just off the bullseye.

He kept riding.

Arrow four landed near the top edge. Arrow five clustered tight beside it. Six hit low and to the right, just inside the target's edge.

He shifted his weight in rhythm with the horse's gait, letting the movement carry him through each draw. His shots weren't grouped perfectly, but none veered off. Every arrow landed.

By the time the horse slowed to a walk, the targets were marked with shafts spread across center, left, and high arcs. The straw bulged where the wood beneath had cracked from repeated impact.

The HUD crosshair still floated in his vision—unchanging, patient, and ready for the next shot.

Rashan eased his bow back into its loop and rolled his shoulder once, the string still warm against his fingertips. The targets were a mess of straw and fresh punctures. A few arrows stuck out at odd angles. He'd grouped maybe four in the upper red ring, one in the center, the rest scattered along the flanks.

He looked at the spread and exhaled through his nose.

Learning the bow had taken work. A lot more than he expected. Reading the wind, adjusting for movement, figuring out how much his own breathing pulled the string off-center—none of that came from a loading screen or a tooltip. It was days of bruised fingers, cramped shoulders, missed shots, and repetition until his arms shook.

He hadn't even seen a crossbow yet. They existed—he knew they did. Skyrim had them.

Maybe they'd become more common once the war kicked off properly. War tended to speed up convenience.

He rode back toward the yard and slowed as he passed the sparring area.

Cassia and Jalil were circling each other near the shaded end of the yard. Jalil held a short training blade. Cassia had a wooden dagger and a strip of cloth tied around one arm to simulate an injury—one of Rashan's drills.

She moved well. Fast steps, low guard, eyes locked on his hands.

Still, she wasn't a match for Jalil. Not head-on.

But that wasn't the point.

He wasn't training her for straight-up fights. Her role was different—mobility, support, escape. Her drills were built around scouting, fleeing, dodging, distraction, lockpicking, and relaying intel.

And she was sharp.

Sharp enough that a few months in, Rashan had asked Adrien to test her for magicka sensitivity. The old man had watched her meditate, asked a few questions, then nodded once and said, "She's got it."

She was focusing on the fundamentals—mainly Mysticism. The early principles. Energy flow, spatial awareness, how magicka behaved in relation to thought and focus. Adrien had her reading dense primers and outlining core theory in a notebook so worn it looked like it belonged to a third-year student.

Rashan had tossed out a comment early on—Illusion might suit her. Maybe a bit of Alteration later. Something subtle. Nimble. She'd given a small nod, but hadn't said anything.

She was still a ways off from anything more. He'd asked Adrien if tomes would help her ease in.

Adrien waved it off.

"Tomes are shortcuts," he said. "They let you absorb another mage's comprehension of a spell, sure—but that comprehension isn't yours. It's a crutch. Makes you faster, but weaker. The power behind your casting suffers. So does your ability to grow."

Then he added, "She's talented. Actually talented. I'd like to teach someone with above-average potential for once so I can finally show off my skill as a teacher. You ruined that for me."

Rashan raised an eyebrow.

"Right. Sorry for being too competent."

Adrien didn't blink. "Exactly."

Rashan squinted. "So I've been holding you back."

"You're a genius. When you learn something in a day, nobody claps for the teacher."

Rashan shrugged. "I kind of taught myself."

Adrien pointed toward the back room. "Go cut herbs before I start clapping for real."

Rashan rolled his eyes, turned to head toward the herb room—and stopped.

Across the yard, someone was running straight toward him.

It took a second to register who it was.

Varen Dreth.

The baker.

A dark elf in his late fifties, thick around the middle with a permanent dusting of flour on his sleeves and boots. He wore his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a crooked tie, and always smelled faintly of yeast, ash, and honey. Varen never left the bakery. He barely left the kitchen. Most days, he barked instructions from the doorway and sent apprentices out for errands.

Now he was running full tilt—apron flapping, hair half-loose, one hand gripping his side like he was holding in a lung.

Rashan blinked.

Varen never ran.

And judging by the look on his face, something had either gone horribly wrong…

Or very, very right.