The Festival of Blades—a celebration of warrior traditions, honor, and skill, held in honor of the ancestors and the warrior gods of the Redguards—had finally arrived.
Rashan had waited six long years for this moment.
Before now, he had always been stuck with the other children, kept in the safety of the family estate while the warriors and nobility participated in the festivities.
He had never been wise enough to complain outright, but his mother always knew.
Whenever she caught him watching the gates longingly, his small hands clenched into fists, she would kneel down, cupping his cheeks with warm hands, smiling softly.
"I know you are special, my little star," she had whispered each time, her tone gentle yet firm. "But there is a time and place for everything."
And then, each year, the same promise:
"When you are six, your father will allow you to go—accompanied by your sister."**
Now, that day had finally come.
The first rays of morning sunlight bathed the city of Taneth in a golden glow as Rashan and Saadia left the estate together.
His older brothers had already gone ahead with their father, their place among the warriors secured, but Rashan was still too young to compete.
That didn't mean he wasn't going to watch and learn.
The morning was filled with tests of skill, a warrior's proving ground, where the finest fighters from noble houses and common backgrounds alike displayed their strength, speed, and discipline.
The Festival of Blades was a reminder of what it meant to be Redguard.
And Rashan wouldn't miss a single moment of it.
began.
The Festival of Blades was in full swing, and Rashan could barely contain his excitement.
The streets of Taneth were alive with energy—the scent of spiced meats filled the air, merchants called out their wares, and warriors in richly dyed sashes clashed in mock duels under the morning sun.
For the first time, he was here.
Not stuck behind the walls of his family estate. Not left with the other children, forced to listen to secondhand stories.
He was standing among the crowd, beside Saadia, taking in the sights, sounds, and raw intensity of the Redguard warriors in their element.
"You're staring too hard," Saadia murmured beside him, nudging his arm. "People will think you've never been outside before."
Rashan huffed, crossing his arms. "I haven't been outside for this."
His sister only laughed softly, but her golden eyes gleamed in amusement. "Fair enough."
The two of them stood on the edge of the main training square, watching as the first trials began.
The competitions were meant for adolescents and young warriors—a chance to prove their skill before an audience, to gain recognition and respect.
His father didn't compete.
This wasn't for seasoned warriors.
It was for those who had something to prove.
And right now, his brothers were among them.
In the open sparring circle, Kamal, the eldest, stood tall, his stance relaxed but imposing. His opponent—a young noble from another house—was already circling him, looking for an opening.
The wooden training swords clashed, the sharp crack of impact echoing through the air.
Kamal was calm, controlled, his movements precise. He let his opponent waste energy, dodging, parrying, until—
A single sharp counter.
His opponent stumbled, sword knocked from his grasp.
A decisive victory.
The crowd cheered, but Kamal only gave a short nod before stepping back, ever composed, ever disciplined.
"He makes it look effortless," Rashan muttered, eyes narrowing.
Saadia smirked. "That's because he trains like a madman."
Next came Zahir.
Unlike Kamal, who was patient and methodical, Zahir was fast, aggressive, relentless.
His duel was a blur of movement, the clash of wood against wood ringing out in rapid succession.
Then—he did something unexpected.
A faint stumble, a moment of weakness.
His opponent lunged—
And Zahir sidestepped, twisting at the last second, slamming the hilt of his practice sword into the boy's ribs.
A trick. A setup.
Rashan's eyebrows lifted. "That was intentional."
Saadia chuckled. "He's always been a little slippery."
And then there was Nasir.
If Kamal was disciplined, and Zahir was unpredictable, then Nasir was calculated.
He didn't rush.
He didn't play mind games.
He just watched. Waited.
And then, with surgical precision, he struck.
His opponent didn't even see the final blow coming.
The match ended in seconds.
Rashan exhaled slowly, his hands clenching at his sides.
Watching them fight, he felt a weight settle in his chest.
They were strong. Strong in different ways, but undeniably ahead of him.
"How long do you think it'll take for me to beat them?" he asked, voice low.
Saadia considered for a moment before shrugging. "That depends."
Rashan frowned. "On what?"
Her eyes flickered toward him, her smirk faint but knowing. "On how hard you're willing to push yourself."
Rashan grinned.
"Then I'll push harder than anyone."
Then there was the food.
Rashan had always liked food—a good meal had been one of the few consistent joys in both his past and present life. But the Festival of Blades?
This was something else entirely.
Spices filled the air, thick and rich, a blend of cumin, coriander, cloves, and saffron. The scent of roasted lamb, sizzling over open flames, made his stomach growl.
Clay ovens glowed red-hot, bakers pulling out fresh flatbreads, steam rising as they brushed them with oil and sprinkled crushed herbs on top.
Skewers of grilled meat, charred and dripping with juices, lined the stalls, each one cooked to perfection. Vendors walked through the crowds, balancing trays stacked high with golden-fried samosas stuffed with spiced vegetables or minced goat.
Rashan grabbed one, biting into the crispy outer shell, the explosion of flavor making him hum in satisfaction.
Saadia laughed beside him. "Good?"
He barely gave her a glance, chewing quickly before answering, "We need ten more."
She snorted, rolling her eyes, but handed over a few coins to the vendor anyway.
They moved deeper into the festival grounds, past stands selling dates dipped in honey, bowls of saffron-infused rice, and clay jugs of chilled pomegranate juice.
Sweet, sour, spicy—it was a whirlwind of flavors, each one better than the last.
Rashan took his time, sampling everything he could.
This wasn't like the refined meals at home.
At the estate, food was served with etiquette, placed in elegant bowls, eaten with delicate portions. Here?
Here, it was messy. Loud. Alive.
Warriors ate with their hands, drinking deeply from bronze goblets, laughing between mouthfuls. Children darted between tables, snatching sweets from trays before running off.
It was pure, chaotic joy.
And Saadia?
She was in her element.
Unlike Rashan, she had friends here—other noble girls and boys who greeted her with enthusiasm, pulling her into their conversations.
For a moment, Rashan hung back, watching as she ran ahead, chatting easily with a few of her friends, her laugh blending into the noise of the festival.
He sighed.
He didn't have many friends.
Not because he didn't try—but because it was hard.
The other kids his age? He couldn't relate to them.
They played, they ran, they talked about things he pretended to care about—but it was all so distant.
And the older ones?
To them, he was still a child. No matter how sharp he was, no matter how much he learned, he was still seen as the youngest son of a noble house, just a little boy in their eyes.
Which left him somewhere in between.
Not quite a child, not quite accepted among the older warriors.
For a second, he felt the weight of that loneliness.
Then—
Saadia glanced back.
She had every opportunity to leave him behind.
To run off with her friends, to enjoy the festival like any other child her age.
But she didn't.
Instead, she slowed her steps, waiting for him to catch up before offering him another piece of flatbread with a smirk.
"You still hungry?"
Rashan took the bread, tearing a piece off with his teeth before grinning. "Always."
She laughed.
And just like that, the loneliness wasn't so heavy anymore.
The warm glow of lanterns flickered inside the large hut, casting long, dancing shadows across the gathered crowd. The scent of burning incense mixed with the lingering aroma of spiced food, creating a comforting haze in the air. Warriors, elders, and children alike sat cross-legged on woven rugs, some nursing cups of warm date tea or a thick, honeyed drink meant to stave off the night's chill.
Rashan sat near the center, his cup warm in his hands, the heat seeping into his fingers as he listened.
At the head of the gathering, an old man sat atop a raised cushion, his weathered face lined with age, his dark eyes sharp despite the years. He was one of the elders of Taneth, a man who had seen war, seen peace, and now spent his days telling stories to those who would listen.
And Rashan?
He was listening. Intently.
The old man had told many tales that night—stories of great battles, of fallen kings, of the shifting sands and the wisdom of the ancestors.
But the one that captured Rashan's full attention—the one that made his breath slow, his hands tighten around his cup, his pulse quicken—was the story of the Shehai.
The old man's voice lowered, deep and rich, filled with reverence as he began.
"In the time before Hammerfell, before even the waves that carried us from Yokuda, there were the Ansei—the Sword-Singers. Warriors unlike any other, men and women who did not just wield the blade… they became the blade."
Rashan leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the elder's every movement.
The old man raised a gnarled hand, mimicking the motion of unsheathing a sword. His fingers trembled slightly, but his voice did not falter.
"Most men train with steel and call themselves warriors. But the Ansei… they trained with their very souls. They did not fight for war. They fought for honor, for discipline, for mastery of self. And when an Ansei reached the peak of their skill, when their soul and their blade became one—then, and only then, could they call forth the Shehai."
The hut was silent.
No laughter, no whispers, no shifting bodies.
Even the youngest children, who had spent the night half-distracted, playing with the fringes of their scarves, now sat still, wide-eyed.
"The Shehai… the Spirit Sword."
His voice dipped, filled with awe.
"A blade made of pure will. Unbreakable, weightless, sharper than any steel forged by mortal hands. It was not a weapon of magic, nor was it gifted by gods. It was the sword of a warrior's very soul, the final proof of a Sword-Singer's mastery."
Rashan swallowed hard, barely daring to blink.
The elder let the words linger, letting the weight of the legend sink into the listeners before he continued.
"The greatest of them all was Frandar Hunding, a man who wrote the Book of Circles, a master whose Shehai could cleave through stone, steel, and even fate itself. When the warlords of Yokuda sought to drown the land in endless bloodshed, he led the last true Sword-Singers in a final battle, cutting down tyrants and warlords with the power of their Spirit Swords."
A warrior so skilled, so disciplined, that his very will became a weapon.
Rashan's mind raced.
A sword of the soul.
It wasn't magic.
It wasn't granted by divine beings.
It was pure willpower, pure mastery, the absolute peak of a warrior's discipline.
And yet…
No one alive today wielded it.
Rashan had never seen one. No one had.
It was a legend now. A story.
The elder's voice grew softer, more somber.
"But the way of the Sword-Singers is gone. Their numbers faded, their teachings lost. Hammerfell still remembers their name, but who among us today can claim their spirit?"
Silence.
The flickering lantern light made the old man's lined face look almost hollow, as if he too mourned the loss of something great.
Then, he looked at the gathered warriors, at the young men and women listening with rapt attention.
"There are still those who seek the old ways. Those who dream of walking the path of the Ansei, of reclaiming what was lost. But the Shehai… it does not come to those who merely wish for it. It is not learned like swordplay. It is not passed from father to son. It is earned, through mastery beyond what any of us can fathom. It is a sword of the self, and only the greatest may ever glimpse it."
The story was ending.
Some of the warriors nodded solemnly, murmuring their appreciation for the tale. A few children whispered among themselves, already losing focus, their young minds eager for another story.
But Rashan?
He just sat there, staring at the firelight, his heart pounding.
His father was one of the strongest warriors he knew, and yet even he was said to be two levels below Master.
Even the greatest swordsmen in Hammerfell could not summon the Shehai.
Was it truly lost?
Or had no one been strong enough to reach it?
A thought struck him then, sharp as a dagger.
"If no one alive can do it… then that means there's still a first."
His fingers clenched around his cup.
A goal. A legend. A path no one had walked in centuries.
He had no idea if it was possible.
But he would find out.