That night, Adrien sat alone in the guest house, a flask of wine resting on the polished mahogany table before him.
It was fine furniture, befitting a noble's estate—flawless, without a single scratch or imperfection. The kind of thing he would have never owned in his younger years, the kind of thing a man like him didn't belong sitting at.
He hadn't touched the flask. Not yet.
The drink was a ritual. A way to keep the past at bay, to dull the sharp edges of memories that cut too deep when left unchecked.
The drink let him forget.
Let him sleep.
But tonight, for the first time in a long while, he hesitated.
His mind wasn't on the past this time.
It was on the boy.
Not just today—for weeks now, Adrien had been watching Rashan.
Each morning, before the sun had even fully risen, the kid was already training. Running with extra weight, pushing his body through relentless drills, striking through sword forms over and over until exhaustion should have set in—but never quite did.
The boy was good.
No—better than good.
Disciplined. Focused. Dangerous.
Most nobles trained out of obligation, just enough to keep up appearances, to wear a sword without embarrassing themselves.
Rashan trained like a soldier preparing for war.
And that servant boy, Jalil?
He was good, too.
Talented, sharp, fast on his feet—but not like Rashan. Jalil was impressive, yes, but Rashan moved with intent. With purpose. There was something relentless about him, something that didn't belong in a child his age.
Adrien exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face before reaching for the flask.
His fingers curled around the smooth metal.
He lifted it toward his lips.
Stopped.
For a long moment, he just stared at it.
Drinking was easy. It kept the ghosts at bay. It drowned out the things he didn't want to think about.
But something about tonight felt different.
Something about that boy felt different.
Instead of drinking, he set the flask down.
A quiet breath escaped him.
Maybe not tonight.
Instead, he stood, stretching his one arm before rolling his shoulders.
A walk.
That seemed like a better idea.
Without another glance at the flask, Adrien stepped outside.
It was a clear night, the air crisp and cool, the sky stretched wide and endless above him. The stars were out in full, sharp pinpricks of light against the vast darkness, and the moons hung heavy in the sky—Secunda smaller, Masser casting its pale glow over the land.
Adrien stood outside the guest house, hands tucked behind his back, watching the heavens.
Damn bastard.
His lips curled slightly at the thought of Rashan's father.
A stubborn, insufferable, honorable bastard. An amazing comrade.
He had forced this on him.
Not that Adrien had any real choice left.
There had been a time—a lifetime ago—when his choices had been endless. When he had been a battlemage in his prime, a decorated soldier of the Imperial Legion, a man with purpose. A man with a family.
His wife, his son.
They had been his future. His reason to keep fighting.
But the war had taken his arm.
The Thalmor had taken the rest.
His home? Burned. His family? Gone. The Dominion had come, sweeping through the lands like a storm that stripped away everything in its path. His comrades had died in the fighting, but his family?
They had been executed. Systematically.
He had been away on duty, serving the Legion. By the time he returned, there was nothing left.
That was the moment the man he had been ceased to exist.
After that, it had been easier to stop trying.
Easier to let the drink dull the edges.
At first, it had been a crutch. A way to cope. Then it became a routine. Then a way of life.
Until there was nothing left.
No command. No battlefield. No war to fight. No home to return to.
When Rashan's father found him, Adrien had already accepted his fate. He thought this arrangement would be just another step toward the inevitable.
Some noble's whim.
Play tutor for a spoiled rich boy, get some decent liquor, and waste away until he faded into irrelevance.
But now?
Now, he wasn't so sure.
This boy—Rashan—he wasn't just another noble brat looking to toy with magic as a hobby.
He had drive.
Discipline.
Purpose.
And Adrien had been watching him.
For weeks now, he had observed Rashan's morning training.
The kid didn't miss a day.
Weighted runs before sunrise. Weapon drills over and over until his body should have given out, but it never did. He was focused, methodical, relentless. This wasn't for show. This was the training of someone who knew his future was already written in steel and blood.
Even his servant—Jalil—was good. Talented. Quick. Disciplined. Not quite at Rashan's level, but close enough. Enough to matter.
Adrien breathed in the night air, watching the moons overhead.
He knew what this was now.
Not a noble's whim.
Not a job.
This was legacy.
And, sure enough, before sunrise—just as expected—he saw movement.
The kid.
Rashan, followed by Jalil, making their way out to the courtyard for training.
Like clockwork. Unshakable.
And then, he saw them—his trainers.
Or rather—his former trainers.
Because Adrien stood up.
By decree of Legate Adrien Daincourt of the Imperial Legion, decorated veteran of the Great War, former battlemage of the 12th Imperial Legion—
He was taking over Rashan's training.
And, for the first time in years, he felt something beyond bitterness.
Something like purpose.
—————————————————-
Rashan lay in his bed, his body aching in a way that felt both brutal and deeply satisfying.
Adrien was a monster.
Even with one hand, the old battlemage had systematically beaten the crap out of him and Jalil.
It wasn't just skill—it was experience, precision, control. Every movement was calculated, every counter perfectly timed. He didn't need two hands to dismantle them. He fought like a man who had long since stopped relying on strength alone and learned to turn every battle into a lesson for his opponent.
And his exercises? His techniques?
They were unlike anything Rashan had ever seen.
It was structured—but not rigid. A mix of discipline and adaptability. He didn't just teach them to fight; he taught them how to think while fighting.
And today, for the first time, he had begun teaching Rashan the true foundations of Battlemage and Spellsword combat.
The forms. The stances. The way magic and steel flowed together as one.
They had only scratched the surface—barely touched the tip of the iceberg.
At first, when Adrien announced that he was taking over his martial training, Rashan had decided to humor him.
He figured the old man was just a washed-up veteran clinging to the past.
But then?
Then Adrien proved just how wrong he was.
Rashan hadn't just learned something today—he had been completely reeducated.
And after the first session, he had gone to his father.
He had asked, bluntly, "How good was Adrien, really?"
His father had given him a simple, unwavering answer.
"The best."
Now, lying in his bed, Rashan felt his muscles burn with exhaustion, but his mind was buzzing with excitement.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow, they would train again.
And not just in his regression run.
No—he was going to make damn sure his first run included this training, too.
Because this?
This was worth it.