Adrien never showed up for dinner.
He was still sleeping it off.
Apparently, after his long and exhausting travels, the man required some extra rest—or so the servants claimed. Fine. Whatever.
That meant Rashan had to wait until the start of the new week before finally meeting his so-called instructor.
Days passed. The Breton never sought him out. He stayed in the guest house, seemingly content to exist in his own world, detached from any obligation or responsibility.
Rashan didn't bother going to meet him either. Why would he? If the man was too much of a washed-up drunk to bother fulfilling his duty, then Rashan wasn't about to go chasing after him.
That changed at the start of the new week.
By midmorning, Rashan had already completed his usual training regimen. His muscles burned in that familiar, satisfying way—a sign of progress, of discipline. He had been up before dawn, running his weighted laps, striking through sword drills, reinforcing muscle memory until every movement felt sharp and efficient. Sweat had dried against his skin before he had cleaned up and changed into looser robes suited for study.
Now, he sat in the study hall, waiting.
It was a quiet, stately room, lined with dark wooden shelves, heavy with tomes, scrolls, and alchemical texts. The scent of parchment and old ink filled the air, mingling with the faint traces of spice from the smoldering incense in the corner. A single wide table occupied the center of the space, its polished surface reflecting the warm glow of sunlight filtering through the high, narrow windows.
Rashan sat alone at that table. Waiting.
And waiting.
His fingers tapped absently against the wood, his eyes drifting to the brass sand clock mounted on the far wall. He watched the grains fall, marking the slow, agonizing passage of time.
The sun rose higher, stretching the shadows along the tiled floor. The quiet of the room grew heavier, thick with his growing impatience.
Then—an hour late—the door creaked open.
The smell hit Rashan before he even turned his head.
The thick stench of stale alcohol, sweat, and unwashed fabric wafted into the room, clinging to the air like a foul mist. He already hated everything about this.
Adrien Daincourt strolled in without a hint of shame, moving with the lazy indifference of a man who had no intention of explaining himself. His tunic was wrinkled and loosely fastened, his belt crooked, and his one remaining arm swung lazily at his side. The man's face—lined with age, unshaven and weathered—spoke of someone who had long since stopped caring about appearances.
But his eyes, despite the sluggish way he moved, were sharp.
Rashan gritted his teeth.
Adrien flopped into a chair with a groan, running his fingers through the thinning strands of what remained of his graying hair.
"Alright, alright, I'm here," he muttered, as if this were some massive inconvenience to him. He adjusted his seat and gave Rashan a lazy once-over before leaning back, looking entirely unimpressed. "So, you're the noble kid who wants to learn magic."
His tone carried that patronizing edge, the kind that spoke of a man who had seen far too many privileged brats playing at war and power, and he was expecting Rashan to be just another one.
Rashan's fingers curled into his palms.
Adrien exhaled heavily and waved a hand. "Alright, then. Tell me—what do you think magic is?"
Rashan's glare hardened.
"What do—"
"Listen here," Rashan cut him off, standing smoothly from his chair.
Adrien raised an eyebrow, his expression amused but indifferent as he looked down at the nine-year-old who dared to interrupt him.
Rashan met his gaze unflinching.
"You may be my father's friend—that is fine," he said, his voice even and unwavering. "But my time is valuable. You will show up on time, sober, and presentable. I do not care if you are hungover—if you are late again, I will see to it that you are cut off. Food, drink, comfort—all of it."
Adrien blinked, his lazy expression shifting slightly.
"You teach me," Rashan continued, voice edged with steel, "and I'll make sure the wine flows until you're plastered and drinking your life away. But if you waste my time, you will have nothing."
Adrien let out a slow, thoughtful breath, rubbing his temple as if he were considering his next words. "And who do you think you—"
Rashan cut him off again.
His voice was clear, firm, and precise as he gave his official noble title.
"I am Rashan Sulharen, fourth son of Lord Samir Sulharen, heir of the Sulharen estate, blood of the Forebears, and student of the arcane."
His voice carried not arrogance, but certainty. A statement of fact.
Then, without waiting for Adrien to acknowledge it, Rashan turned on his heel and headed toward the door.
Just before reaching it, he stopped.
He did not need to, but he wanted to make a point.
Without looking back, Rashan recited—word for word—a passage from The Old Ways, one of the most revered magical treatises written by the Psijic Order. His voice was steady, unbroken, and precise. Not a single misplaced word, not a single hesitation.
"Magic is not a force of chaos, nor is it merely a tool of will. It is a balance between thought and reality, an echo of Aetherius that shapes Nirn through understanding. To wield it is not simply to command the elements, but to recognize the threads that bind all things—the Mundus itself bending, not to power, but to perception."
The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of ages. The Psijics had always spoken of magic as something beyond mere manipulation—a force that connected the very foundations of the world. Rashan let those words settle before, in a smooth transition, he spoke again—not quoting this time, but forming his own thoughts, built from hours of study, observation, and reasoned analysis.
"Magic is the language of existence, a system governed not by raw force but by understanding. Spells are not merely words or gestures, but equations—principles woven into the fabric of reality. To master magic is to master cause and effect, to understand why fire burns, why ice freezes, why light bends, and to use that knowledge to impose one's will upon the world. Power is not in the strength of one's magicka, but in knowing how the world moves and making it move as you wish."
He paused, but only for a fraction of a second. Then, as if to drive the point home, he continued, voice calm, measured, and unwavering.
"A sword in the hands of a brute is just steel, but in the hands of a master, it is precision, intent, and inevitability. Magic is the same. It is not fire, or lightning, or frost. It is not even restoration or illusion. It is understanding. It is will made reality, but only if the mind behind it is strong enough to shape it correctly."
Silence.
Adrien had said nothing throughout the entire thing.
Rashan did not wait for approval or acknowledgment. He turned on his heel, walked to the door, and slammed it behind him without a single glance back.
For a long moment, the old Battlemage sat in that silence, staring at the door, his expression unreadable.
Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as a quiet chuckle escaped him.
"That," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his graying hair, "was a very good answer."