Rashan stopped mid-step as his father walked past him, a rare small smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"Come, let us see how you have progressed in your training."
Rashan followed, keeping pace beside his father as they moved through the halls of their estate. The stone corridors were lined with banners displaying the sigil of their house, the flickering glow of torchlight casting long shadows against the walls.
His father's voice was calm but firm as he spoke. "Tell me, Rashan, what is the foundation of a noble's duty?"
An easy question.
"To govern with wisdom, lead with strength, and uphold the honor of his family and people."
His father gave a small nod of approval before continuing. "And what is the role of a noble in times of war?"
"To fight, to command, and to protect the interests of his people, whether on the battlefield or in court."
Another approving nod. The questions continued—things any noble son was expected to know. The history of Hammerfell, its cities, its alliances and rivalries, the expectations of leadership. Rashan answered each one with confidence, drawing on the extensive knowledge he had gained through his studies.
Then the questions grew harder.
His father's gaze sharpened as he asked, "What does our alliance with the Empire provide Hammerfell?"
Rashan didn't hesitate. "Economic stability, military support, and trade security. As long as we remain part of the Empire, we benefit from its infrastructure, its resources, and its deterrence against outside threats, including the Dominion."
His father nodded but did not interrupt.
"However," Rashan continued, "it also places limitations on our sovereignty. Imperial laws and policies do not always align with Hammerfell's needs, and while their presence strengthens us, it also leaves us vulnerable to their decisions. We are bound to treaties we may not have signed ourselves, to politics we do not always control."
His father gave an approving grunt, but the questions didn't stop there. They became more specific, more nuanced—things that weren't just memorized facts but required real analysis.
Finally, his father asked something truly difficult
Rashan barely had time to process the weight of the question. If you were the High Elves, where would you attack first?
A loaded question.
His father rarely spoke of war in theoretical terms with him. When he did, it was never from the perspective of the enemy.
This wasn't just a test of knowledge—this was something more.
Rashan hesitated for only a moment before deciding to take a risk. He asked a question in return, knowing it might irritate his father.
"Do we have the support of the Empire?"
His father stopped mid-stride and turned to him, one brow raised. There was a pause, a moment of consideration, before he answered.
"Assume we do not."
Rashan nodded slowly, mind shifting gears. That changed everything.
"Then I would attack the coastal cities first," he said without hesitation.
His father resumed walking, his expression neutral. "And why does this depend on Imperial support?"
Rashan exhaled and followed, choosing his words carefully. "Because if the Empire stands with us, then the Dominion faces a two-front war. Their naval superiority would be challenged, and they wouldn't be able to commit all their forces to Hammerfell alone. But if we stand alone? Then attacking our coastal cities is the best option. The Dominion can land overwhelming forces directly at our doorstep, secure strong supply lines, and use our own ports against us."
His father gave a slight nod, still unreadable. "And how should we defend?"
Rashan stopped walking, considering his words.
According to history, Hammerfell suffered heavy losses early in the war. The Dominion did take the coastal cities, and it took five years of brutal fighting to drive them out.
Fighting conventionally hadn't worked. Hammerfell hadn't won by meeting the Dominion in open battle.
Rashan met his father's gaze and gave his answer.
"We let them come in."
His father visibly paused at that.
There was no emotion on his face, but Rashan saw it—the slight twitch of his fingers, the way his gaze sharpened. Surprise.
"Explain."
Rashan took a breath. "If they land in force, we cannot stop them from taking the cities—not right away. The only way to defeat them is to weaken them first. That means they need to find nothing of value when they arrive."
His father's brow furrowed slightly. Rashan pushed forward.
"We evacuate the cities and enact a scorched earth strategy. Before they arrive, we burn everything—supplies, storehouses, anything that could sustain an invading army. Then, we let them advance inland. The further they move, the more they rely on supply lines that stretch back to their landing points. We harass those supply lines, cut them off at key passes, and force them to overextend."
His father's silence was almost deafening.
Rashan swallowed, then finished. "The Alik'r is not a place an army can live off the land. If we deny them resources, they will starve before they ever reach our heartland."
His father finally let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly.
"A ruthless strategy," he murmured. "And yet, perhaps the most effective."
He studied Rashan for a moment longer before turning forward once more.
"Come. Let us see how your training has come along. Grab a training sword."
Rashan exhaled, steadying his emotions.
That had gone better than expected. He had made his father think. That was progress.
As they stepped into the training grounds, Rashan saw his father's personal guards engaged in drills, the rhythmic clash of steel filling the air.
Rashan grabbed a training sword, its weight familiar in his hands. Though he trained in many weapons—axes, maces, spears—the sword was his foundation. It had been drilled into him since he first held one, and of all the weapons he practiced, it was the one he moved with most naturally.
Across from him, his father did the same, gripping his own training sword with the ease of a man who had done this countless times before. There was no ceremony to it, no unnecessary movements. Just readiness.
Samir Sulharen stood calmly, his blade loose at his side. "Come. Show me what you have learned, my son."
Rashan didn't hesitate.
He circled his father, his grip firm but controlled, watching carefully. His father wasn't just a warrior—he was the standard.
Still, Rashan had an advantage none of his siblings did.
He had killed before.
Not in this life, but that didn't matter. The instincts remained. He knew what it meant to fight when losing meant more than hitting the ground. He had been trained for life-or-death encounters before. In another life, with another body.
His brothers had given him a nickname—Wolverine. Not because he was the strongest, or the fastest, or the most skilled. But because he never stopped coming. No matter how many times they knocked him down, no matter how outmatched he was, he always got back up. That was his strength.
So he struck first.
Fast. Direct. A quick thrust toward the centerline—not testing, not feeling out the opponent, just pure intent to hit.
Samir deflected it instantly.
Rashan was already moving before the block fully connected. He pivoted, shifting his weight, bringing his sword around for another strike at a different angle. He didn't stop to think. He didn't reset his stance to something ideal. He kept attacking.
Samir took note of that.
It wasn't just recklessness—his son wasn't throwing wild swings.
Rashan's footwork was sharper than it should have been for a boy of his age. His strikes weren't just rapid, they were measured. Most boys fought with hesitation, or worse—flash. They wanted to look good, to impress, to imitate the warriors they saw around them.
But Rashan fought like someone who understood what a fight was supposed to be.
Samir parried another strike and watched how his son adjusted immediately, already flowing into the next attack. He didn't pause. Didn't flinch. Didn't stop.
Relentless.
Not the wild aggression of a child trying to prove himself. But the persistence of someone who had learned the hard way that stopping meant losing.
It was impressive.
But it still wasn't enough.
Samir stepped into Rashan's guard, knocking him off balance with a single, calculated movement. The momentum Rashan had been building vanished instantly, and he staggered, barely catching himself.
The fight was over.
Samir saw the moment his son realized it.
There was no frustration in Rashan's eyes, no pout or sulking, no childish anger. Just understanding.
He knew exactly what had gone wrong. He knew why he had lost.
Good.
Samir straightened, lowering his sword slightly. "Again."
Rashan exhaled, tightening his grip, feet shifting back into position.
And he came at his father once more.
Samir continued the exchange, his blade moving with precise, effortless control as he tested his son's ability. Rashan came at him again, adjusting, adapting. His movements were sharp, efficient—not the wild, reckless swings of a child, but practiced strikes aimed with intent.
Samir deflected each attack, observing his son's footwork, his weight shifts, his recovery. Rashan wasn't faster than him, wasn't stronger, but he fought with an intensity that forced even experienced men to take him seriously.
His trainers had spoken of him before, just as they had spoken of all his sons.
They had praised Kamal's discipline, Zahir's tactical mind, Nasir's adaptability. But when it came to Rashan, there was always something different in their tone.
They were satisfied with all his children, but they were impressed with his youngest.
"The boy learns faster than anyone I've seen," one trainer had said. "Most children need drills beaten into them for months before the movements become natural. He only needs to see it a few times."
Another had added, "It's his memory. He never forgets a lesson. Never makes the same mistake twice."
But it wasn't just his ability to learn.
It was the way he fought.
Ruthless. Efficient. A boy of seven should still be learning discipline, should still hesitate, should still lack the confidence to fully commit to his attacks.
Rashan did not hesitate.
"If he keeps this up, he'll be an apprentice by twelve," one trainer had marveled, shaking his head. "I've never seen this before."
Unheard of.
Samir had remained silent as they spoke, as he always did when his trainers discussed his children. He let them talk, let them measure his sons, let them see the strengths and weaknesses in them all.
But now, as he parried another strike, he had to admit…
They weren't wrong.
His son wasn't ordinary.
Still, there was a long way to go.
Samir stepped forward again, cutting through Rashan's momentum, forcing him off balance. Rashan caught himself, adjusted immediately, but Samir gave him no time to recover. Pressure. Force. Control. He dictated the fight, not his son.
Another strike. Another deflection. And then, with one decisive movement, Samir ended the exchange, knocking Rashan's sword from his hands. The wooden weapon hit the ground with a dull thud.
Silence.
Rashan breathed hard, his chest rising and falling. He was covered in sweat, his body aching from exertion, but he didn't look away from his father.
Good.
Samir nodded, stepping back. "You're improving."
It wasn't praise, not in the way a child might expect it. But Rashan understood.
He bent down, picking up his sword, and without hesitation, took his stance again.
Samir allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
"Again."
Samir pushed his son harder than usual, testing him, stretching the limits of his endurance. For hours, Rashan kept pace, his breathing ragged, his limbs aching, but he refused to yield. His training, the relentless discipline he forced upon himself, was paying off. Even at seven summers, he was faster, more precise, and more relentless than boys twice his age.
But Samir could see it—he wasn't being pushed.
Rashan was impressive, yes, but Samir wasn't struggling. The difference in their strength, speed, and experience was still a canyon between them. The boy could fight all day, but a warrior had to do more than endure.
He had to overcome.
The. Samir changed the lesson.
He started hitting him.
Not recklessly, not with cruelty, but with purpose. A sharp strike to the ribs. A precise sweep of the leg. A controlled but firm hit to the stomach. Enough to hurt, but not enough to break. Enough to force reaction, not just resistance.
Rashan stumbled, gasping slightly at the blow to his stomach, but his feet remained planted. He didn't retreat, didn't cower. He clenched his jaw, shoulders heaving, and reset his stance.
Samir didn't let up.
"Can you continue?"
Rashan wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, his grip on his training sword tightening. There was no hesitation.
"Yes, Father."
Samir watched closely. This was the true test. Would Rashan falter? Would he shrink under the weight of exhaustion and pain?
No.
The boy kept coming.
And what surprised Samir most—he adjusted.
The next time Samir struck, Rashan rolled with the impact, mitigating the force. When Samir swept his leg again, Rashan shifted his weight faster, catching himself before he could fall completely. The mistakes he had made minutes ago were already being corrected.
Samir felt something stir in his chest.
His son wasn't just enduring the lesson.
He was learning.
Samir struck again. Rashan deflected—not perfectly, but better than before. The gap between them was still vast, but the boy was shortening it, inch by inch.
Samir grinned inwardly, keeping his face neutral.
He was convinced now.
His son was a prodigy.