Three and a half months. That was how long he had waited.
And finally—finally—the caravan arrived.
The moment Rashan heard the news, he dropped his studies immediately. This was it. His magic instructor had finally arrived. No more waiting, no more delays. He and Jalil left straight for the gates, eager to meet the man who would be shaping his future.
The caravan rolled in under the afternoon sun, dust rising from the well-worn road as the procession of wagons, horses, and travelers made its way toward the estate. The rhythmic clatter of hooves against packed dirt mixed with the murmur of voices—merchants, mercenaries, and travelers alike speaking in a mix of dialects. The smell of sun-baked leather, sweat, and the faint aroma of salted provisions carried on the dry breeze.
Rashan and Jalil stood near the entrance, scanning the travelers as they dismounted, stretched their legs, or checked their belongings. These were seasoned travelers, many clad in worn but well-maintained armor, their gear dusted from the road. The caravan wasn't just a merchant's convoy—it was a moving community, a gathering of people who had learned that numbers meant survival when traveling across Tamriel.
They approached one of the caravan guards, a broad-shouldered man wearing a mix of Imperial and Nordic-style armor, the crests of past service still faintly visible on the faded leather straps of his pauldrons. He looked like someone who had seen battle before but had settled into the quieter life of a caravan escort.
"Excuse me, do you know where Adrien Daincourt is?" Rashan asked, already knowing the name of the man he was here to meet.
The guard turned to look at him—and Rashan immediately noticed something off about the expression he received.
Not confusion.
Not annoyance.
Something else.
A beat passed before the guard responded.
"Ugh… at the back. Think he's sleeping in the wagon. Probably best to leave him be until he wakes. He drank a bit last night."
Rashan blinked. "…He drank while traveling?"
The guard snorted, shaking his head. "Dude's a menace. Half the guards owe him their lives, though. Restoration and Conjuration magic is good—even with one arm."
That made Rashan pause. One arm?
Restoration. Conjuration. A war hero missing a limb?
Now he had more questions than answers.
As Rashan walked toward the back of the caravan, he took a moment to observe it properly.
Caravans in Tamriel weren't the small bands of merchants or travelers one might imagine from a game. They were moving fortresses, packed with traders, mercenaries, and settlers looking for safe passage.
This one, from what he could see, seemed to be of Imperial origin—a good number of what appeared to be Bretons and Nords, a few Dark Elves keeping to themselves, and scattered individuals of other mixed races. Some bore the hardened look of mercenaries, others the weariness of traders who had spent too many weeks on the road. Horses and pack animals were tethered near the lead wagons, many coated in dust but well-fed, a sign that this was an experienced caravan, one that knew how to survive the road.
The wagons themselves were sturdy, built for long-distance travel, some reinforced with iron bracing along the sides. A few bore protective glyphs—simple enchantments against wear, fire, or even detection magic. No one risked moving across Tamriel without precautions.
This was more than just a trade expedition. It was a testament to how dangerous the world truly was.
Rashan pushed forward, weaving through the gathering travelers, heading toward the back where, supposedly, his instructor lay passed out in a wagon.
They finally got to the wagon.
They smelled him before they saw him.
A thick, pungent mix of sweat, stale alcohol, and something vaguely reminiscent of an old tavern floor clung to the air around the covered wagon. Traveling usually left people smelling less than fresh, but this was worse. This wasn't just the scent of a long journey—it was the kind of stink that spoke of deliberate choices and a deep-seated commitment to poor hygiene.
Jalil, who by now had long since dropped any formalities when they were alone, took one whiff and immediately covered his nose with his sleeve. He peeked into the wagon, took one look at the man sprawled inside, and didn't even hesitate before speaking.
"Are we sure he's alive? Or did they just bring him along out of respect?"
Rashan sighed and looked at his new teacher.
Adrien Daincourt lay slumped half-covered in a rough woolen blanket, one boot missing, the other barely hanging onto his foot. His tunic was wrinkled and stained, his remaining left arm draped lazily over his chest as he snored softly. His right arm—the one he no longer had—left behind only a scarred stump at the shoulder, healed but unmistakably the mark of a violent past.
Even in his current state, he had the lean, wiry build of a man who had once been strong, someone who had seen combat and survived it. But whatever discipline he once had seemed long gone, drowned in whatever he had been drinking the night before.
His hair, or what little remained of it, was a thinning mess of graying strands, leaving him mostly bald except for the stubborn patches that refused to surrender. His face was lined with age, his skin rough and weathered, the kind of man who had lived a hard life and looked every bit of it.
Jalil took another step back, frowning. "Is this what happens when you lose an arm? Because if so, I might start training my left one now."
Rashan exhaled slowly.
This was not what he imagined.
Rashan refused to touch the man. No way. Not happening.
He turned to Jalil and motioned toward the unconscious heap of a Battlemage slumped in the wagon. "Go fetch some servants. Grown men. We're not dragging him back ourselves."
Jalil, still eyeing the sleeping Breton like he might suddenly come alive and start casting spells in his stupor, didn't argue. "Good call. I don't think we have the arm strength—or the stomach—for this." He disappeared back toward the estate, leaving Rashan standing there, staring at what was supposed to be his new mentor and silently wondering how the hell this was going to work.
He shook his head and turned on his heel, heading straight to his father.
When he entered his father's study, Samir Sulharen looked up from his desk, taking one glance at Rashan's expression before letting out a knowing chuckle.
"I see you have met your mentor."
Rashan exhaled, resisting the urge to rub his temple. "Met is a strong word."
His father leaned back slightly, folding his hands before him. "He has lost his family. A mutual friend of mine. A great warrior and mage in his time. I am hoping you can help him, my son."
Rashan gritted his teeth behind a neutral expression.
What am I, a crisis counselor? Ahhh! His mind screamed, but he held his tongue.
His father's tone wasn't forceful, but there was weight behind his words, the kind that did not invite refusal.
"It is not my story to tell, but he has lost much," Samir continued. "It is my hope—and that of our mutual friend—that you, a prodigy, can give him something to believe in again. A reason to teach. A suitable person to carry his legacy."
Rashan felt the weight of that expectation settle on his shoulders.
A mentor was one thing. But a broken man looking for a purpose? That was something else entirely.
"He is a genius Battlemage," his father added after a pause.
That part gave Rashan some pause—a genius? Even in the state he had found him? But it wasn't enough to erase the reality of the situation.
His father studied him for a moment before finally saying, "Give it one year as a favor to me, my son. If it does not work out, I will find you a different teacher."
Rashan inhaled slowly, recognizing what was happening.
This wasn't a command. His father was asking. That alone carried more weight than an order ever could.
After a beat, he gave a slight bow of his head. "Of course, Father."
Samir nodded, approval in his eyes. "Thank you, my son."
As Rashan turned to leave, his father's voice stopped him.
"By the way, I am doubling your stipend. Your navigation chart was very useful."
Rashan paused mid-step.
Okay. Maybe this wasn't a complete disaster.