Aftermath and the Future

Rashan sat on the floor of his room, back to the wall, whetstone beside him, untouched. His training sword lay across his lap. He wasn't sharpening it—just holding it. Thinking.

The estate was quiet.

Jalil lay in the other bed, sore and bruised. His ribs were wrapped, his arm still stiff. Rashan hadn't allowed a healer. Just one check from Adrien to make sure nothing would interfere with natural healing—no internal bleeding, no fractures that needed setting.

After that, Jalil was left to recover on his own.

Servants still brought him the usual alchemic recovery salve—the same blend Rashan used after his hardest training days. It was rubbed into the muscles, helped with soreness and inflammation, but didn't take away the pain. It supported healing. It didn't cheat it.

That was important.

The pain was part of the process.

Rashan glanced over from the floor. Jalil lay flat on his back, breathing steady, arms at his sides. His eyes were half-lidded, but he was awake.

He looked over and gave a crooked grin through a bruised lip.

"I won the one-on-one," he muttered.

"Didn't know it'd turn into a seven-on-one."

Rashan let out a short breath. Almost a laugh.

He stood, stepped across the room, and tossed a rolled strip of leather onto the cushion beside him.

"Grip that," he said.

Jalil picked it up and started to squeeze. His hand shook a little, but he didn't stop.

Rashan turned back toward his own bed. But at the edge of the room, he paused.

His voice was quiet.

"The lesson isn't how to move when you're strong."

"It's what you do when you're not at a hundred percent."

He actually encouraged Jalil to practice his form—twice a day. Just light movements. Shadow forms. Nothing hard. Just enough to remind his body how to move when it didn't want to.

It was all part of learning. Of adapting.

And with the usual daily alchemical treatment—just part of the routine—and the kind of resilience the people of this world were built on, Rashan knew Jalil would be fine in no time.

Rashan stayed in his room.

His father had told him to while things were investigated. It wasn't a command—just a polite ask, spoken with quiet expectation. And that was enough.

It didn't bother Rashan.

They still let him have visitors. Cassia and his sister were constantly over, drifting in and out like familiar shadows. They didn't say much. They didn't have to.

Later, his mother and father came in.

They questioned him carefully. Each word deliberate. Each pause stretched just long enough to measure his responses. No accusations. No leading tone. Just quiet, precise listening.

He gave them the truth.

Every detail. Nothing added. Nothing taken away.

Rashan believed in two things: the value of your word, and the strength of your fist.

No performance. No rehearsal. Just action, and the reasons behind it.

He lived by simple rules:

Be straight with me, and I'll return the favor.

Bite me, and I'll bite back.

After they left, the room settled again.

He look over to see

Cassia and Jalil were at it again—signing back and forth like they had their own damn language now.

Well, they kind of did.

Jalil had picked up her signs fast. Not perfect, but fast. Smooth enough to make her smile more often. Or whatever her version of smiling was—a quick quirk of the mouth, a little breath through the nose, that flicker of brightness in her eyes. It was subtle, but it was real.

Jalil had a way of pulling things out of people they didn't think they still had.

Rashan lay on his bed, arms folded behind his head, watching them from the corner of his eye. He sighed.

It was obvious where this could go. The way they signed to each other, the way she tilted her head when he talked, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the room who made sense.

He didn't mind it.

But he didn't want it to derail anything either.

They were building something tight. Disciplined. A unit. Puppy love had a way of getting messy—confused loyalties, frayed focus, too many words that meant too much.

He turned his gaze back to the ceiling.

As for himself?

Yeah. The drive was already there. His body burned after training, the fire in his chest sharper each day. The kind of energy that pushed him to move, to fight, to want.

He'd have sex. That much was inevitable.

But love? A relationship?

He let out a quiet snort.

That was for men who could afford to slow down. For lives without destiny dragging behind them like a shadow.

He was Dragonborn.

And in the life that was waiting for him—there was no space for a wife or children.

Just war.

Just mountains to climb.

Just gods to defy.

And Dragons to Kill.

Rashan lay back on his mattress, arms folded beneath his head.

The day settled into his muscles, the weight of it earned.

His eyes closed.

He let sleep take him—slow, full, unresisted. He couldn't recall the last time he'd napped. Maybe when he was a baby, he figured.

Then the room faded.

After a full day in his room, Rashan learned the full story of what had happened.

The peacock had a name—Jaleel Sulharen. A closely related cousin. Blood close enough to matter.

His father, Hadi Sulharen, was Samir's cousin and carried equal weight in the clan. A wealthy noble with a massive trade fleet, contracts in every major port, and the kind of influence that never raised its voice but still moved cities. The kind of man who whispered and watched the world shift around him.

Jaleel was his only son from his first wife—the woman Hadi had loved more than anything. She died young, and every bit of love left behind was poured into the boy like honey into wine. He gave him everything. Praise without effort. Status without steel. The result was exactly what you'd expect.

Now Jaleel lay in bed with broken arms and a bruised ego, and Hadi was furious.

Not at his son.

At Rashan.

He spoke of insult. Of image. Of reputation.

Samir answered in kind—with a Tahl'ith Vehrin, a duel of honor. Quiet. Formal. Not to the death.

Hadi declined. Said it would make the matter too public.

But everyone in the room knew the truth: he was protecting his son from another beating.

Samir smiled. Calm. Steady.

"Then we can make it very, very private."

Hadi declined again.

Without missing a beat, Samir leaned back in his chair and asked, "Do you still like those navigation maps you lease from me?"

Hadi narrowed his eyes. "What does that have to do with anything? This is a matter concerning your youngest son."

Samir didn't blink.

"My youngest son is the author of those maps."

Silence followed.

And just like that, the conversation ended.

Later that day, Samir stepped into Rashan's room, scroll still under his arm, and gave a quiet chuckle.

"You should've seen his face…"

"He loved that wife of his so much he raised the boy soft. But his first love will always be Septims. Anything that touches his coin?"

"He folds."

He turned to go, then paused just before stepping out of the room.

"Try using more tact next time."

Then he left, still smiling—like nothing had happened at all.

As for now, Rashan walked to the ocean alone, thinking about what was coming.

His second and third brothers were officially gone—sent off to join the Empire's legions as officers.

The year was 4E 171.

He remembered it clearly from his past life due to perfect recall.

This was the year the Aldmeri Dominion would issue their ultimatum to the Empire. The demands would come soon: ban Talos worship, disband the Blades, hand over agents, surrender territory, and allow Thalmor authority inside Imperial lands.

The Emperor would reject it.

And when that happened, the Dominion would invade.

Cyrodiil would burn. The Imperial City would be sacked. The war would tear through the Empire's borders, and the Legion would struggle to hold the line.

Eventually, the Empire would sign the White-Gold Concordat.

Talos worship would be outlawed. The Blades would be hunted. The Thalmor would be given power within Imperial territory.

And Hammerfell?

Hammerfell would be excluded from the final treaty.

The Empire would withdraw completely, severing its ties.

And Hammerfell would stand alone, forced to fight the Dominion without support—because they refused to give up their land.

Rashan stood at the edge of the surf, staring out at the open water.

He still had a month or two until his fourteenth birthday.

Rashan sighed, thinking about what he would do.

He was still too young now—but he wouldn't be when Hammerfell had to truly fight.

Until then, he'd keep training.

His teacher had started slipping conjuration into their lessons. It wasn't approved, redguards hated conjuring and especially necromancy.

Rashan wanted to be able to summon a shield, a bow, and a short sword—gear he wouldn't have to carry but could always call on- the only weapon he wanted to carry was a sword.

He also wanted to summon a flame atronach, and eventually a frost atronach. But summoning was harder than it looked—more than just gestures and will. It demanded precision, focus, control, and lots of magika.

He was also working to get familiar with Soul Trap. Enchanting was next on the list. His teacher only had theoretical knowledge, but Rashan didn't mind. He could help give him a foundation and build from there.

His favorite Daedric artifact had always been Azura's Black Star.

Dark implications aside, in a real-world setting, some souls probably deserved permanent erasure. Not everyone needed to be reborn or have an afterlife, shitty people existed everywhere.

As for alchemy—he'd started dabbling in poison. Nothing fancy yet, just early tests. He didn't plan on becoming a full poison master, but it was another tool, and he wanted every edge.

He let the thoughts of war drift through him as he sank beneath the waves, settling on the sea floor. The silence there was clean. Still. Untouched.

He closed his eyes and let that silence hold him—just for a while.