Another Day

Over the next few weeks, they locked everything in.

Rashan kept fifty-one percent. His sister got ten. The rest went to the family. He wouldn't have to deal with the day-to-day, which, honestly, was how he liked it.

Only one condition.

Amira and Varen—the baker—would stay exactly where they were. Their authority wasn't negotiable. If it involved the bread, they spoke for him. End of discussion.

The main production site was getting built on one of the Sulharen clan's inland farms—one tucked into the rocky highlands west of Elinhir. Dry climate, solid ground, and far enough from the coast that when the Dominion came knocking, it wouldn't burn with the first cities. It wasn't flashy, but it was secure. That was the point.

They'd expand, of course. But for now, it was a start.

Rashan went back to training.

Then the news came.

His brothers were being pulled into Imperial service—officer tracks. His oldest brother's term got extended.

Kamal already had two kids—a niece and nephew Rashan hadn't even met.

The war was getting closer.

To mark it, his father announced a clan celebration. A proper sendoff for all the men and women being called to serve.

Rashan exhaled hard.

Last time the family all got together?

There was his eldest brother's wedding.

Also his assassination.

And him dying.

So no, he wasn't exactly looking forward to it.

Life moved on.

Training continued. The bakery scaled up. War crept closer.

And Rashan felt it—all of it—settling in his chest like weight strapped to his ribs.

Too many moving parts. Too many faces relying on him. Too many hours in the day that still weren't enough.

So he went to the sea.

Just outside the city's southern cliffs, past the flood channels and erosion-carved stone, a narrow footpath led to a bay untouched by trade. No docks. No piers. Just a half-moon cove with clear water and black rocks warmed by sun. It was a place locals ignored, the kind passed down in quiet maps and forgotten trails. That suited him just fine.

He stripped down to a tight wrap, tied it firm, and waded in.

The water took his breath for a second—cold, clean, cutting straight through the skin. Then his lungs adjusted. He rolled his shoulders once, exhaled, and dove.

The training began.

He started with laps—twenty-yard bursts from one side of the bay to the other, holding his breath as long as possible before breaking the surface with a quiet gasp. He used the stone wall for resistance drills, climbing down and back up the submerged face using only his arms. Then reverse kicks. Body drags. Directional flips. Breath-control dives where he forced his heart rate down and stayed under longer than was comfortable.

No wasted movement. No panic. Every kick and pull was clean.

The average SEAL—he remembered—could hold their breath two to three minutes under operational stress.

He used to hit five.

It wasn't about lung capacity. It was discipline. Breath control. Understanding how your body lied to you when it wanted to breathe, and how to push past the lie without passing out.

He swam until his muscles burned. Then he kept going. Slow underwater pushups against the rocky basin. Treading water with his arms above his head. Static holds locked in a flex, core shaking with effort.

Time stopped mattering.

Eventually, when his body was spent, he went still.

He let himself drift to the bottom of the bay, right between two kelp-slick boulders.

Silt plumed gently around his legs.

The light from above cut through the water in pale, shimmering lines, scattering across the stone in golden ribbons.

Tiny fish flitted past his shoulders.

He closed his eyes.

And for a time, there was nothing.

No merchants. No plans. No politics. No war.

Just the pressure of the sea around him, the weight of water against his chest, and the silence and peace that only existed underwater.

After the bay, Rashan dried off, changed, and made his way through the city's side alleys toward the clinic. The sun had dropped a little lower by then, and the air was heavy with steam and crushed herbs. He slipped past the open shutters and into the ward.

He didn't do scut work anymore.

Now they had him treating minor cases. Assisting with the harder ones. He was fast, methodical, and never forgot anything—not once.

One of the older healers, a tired Redguard with rough hands and a permanent squint, muttered as Rashan passed him, "There goes the boy who remembers everything."

It wasn't praise. Just fact.

Inside, a man sat on a low bench with his leg outstretched. The lower thigh was swollen, puffy with infection, heat rolling off it in waves. Rashan rolled up his sleeves and moved to the station, cloth tied over his face, gloves on, as the alchemist set down his satchel.

The procedure was brutal—but necessary.

The alchemist cut into the inflamed skin with a small iron blade, and pus burst free in a wet hiss. Rashan steadied the leg while the alchemist worked. The room filled with the sour stench of infection.

The wound was drained, and an alchemical antiseptic was poured directly in—a bubbling solution of bloodgrass distillate, pine resin, and vinegarroot. It foamed up in the gash like it was alive. The flesh twitched, hissed, and began to settle.

Next came the poultice.

Rashan mixed the blend from memory—voidroot, powdered bone ash, dried mountain mint—and handed it off. The alchemist gave a small nod. The blend was correct.

The poultice was packed into the wound, sealed with cloth strips, then sewn shut with a treated thread that resisted tearing.

He watched all of it. Helped with half of it. Not just the actions—but the way the body responded. The way reagents fought back against rot. The way tissue swelled, then receded.

Every detail was another piece of understanding.

Because Restoration magic wasn't just channeling energy. It required precision. Timing. A deep knowledge of the body—what to mend, what to stimulate, what to leave alone. The spell could close a wound, but if infection remained beneath, the patient would still die. To master healing, he had to understand what real healing demanded. Without magic.