Rashan sat in his room, eyes closed, steadying his breath. They had just celebrated his twelfth Name Day. Two years had passed since he began his magical training, but in truth, he had experienced four. Every day, twice. Every lesson, every exercise, every theory—reinforced beyond what anyone else could manage. It was why he was on the verge of something impossible.
He now called Adrien Teacher Adrien. The man no longer drank, but oddly, he still carried a wine flask everywhere he went. A habit, maybe. A reminder. Whatever the reason, he was clean, composed, and disciplined, though his sharp tongue remained. His mother even allowed him at the family table again, a reluctant show of respect. Rashan had seen the shift, how his father had known all along that Adrien would rise from his downfall.
Magic was no simple thing. It wasn't like the games he once played, where magicka was just a resource bar to be spent and refilled at will. It was something deeper. A force that needed to be shaped, directed, controlled. Even prodigies spent years before they could properly cast their first spell. Most accomplished it at fourteen or fifteen. A select few managed at thirteen.
Twelve?
Twelve was unheard of.
And yet, here he was.
He had an advantage others didn't. His HUD. He could see his magicka, watch how it flowed, how it responded when he meditated or pushed himself. He understood it in a way no scholar ever could. The theories, the rituals, the years of trial and error mages struggled through—he had been unraveling them all since the moment he first understood what magicka was.
His focus was Alteration. Three spells: Oakflesh, Windstride, and Longstrider.
Oakflesh was straightforward—a defensive reinforcement spell that could be cast and remain passively active, fortifying the body against harm. It was a well-known spell, widely used. Simple, but essential.
Windstride was something different. A subtle but effective speed-enhancing spell, making movement more fluid, reactions sharper, and footwork more precise. It was a cast-and-forget spell, able to remain active in the background once imbued. This wasn't a spell found in the games, nor was it in common magical texts—but it existed here, a product of deeper magical theory.
Longstrider was something else entirely. It wasn't passive—it required constant maintenance. In the games, it was simply a speed buff, but here? It had to be actively fueled. The moment Rashan lost focus, the spell would falter. It worked not just by increasing speed, but by enhancing stride, extending endurance, and reducing fatigue. The longer one ran, the more useful it became, but it wasn't something that could just be "turned on" and forgotten.
Each spell was different. Each required time, dedication, and understanding.
And Adrien had made one thing very clear from the start.
"You will not use spell tomes."
Rashan had questioned it at first. Wouldn't the Imperial Army encourage the use of spell tomes?
Adrien had scoffed, answering gruffly. "Yes, they do."
It made sense—the Legion needed mages to be functional as quickly as possible. Spell tomes were efficient, giving soldiers access to pre-formed spells without the need for deep study. A battlemage needed to be able to hurl fire or summon a ward without spending years in a library.
But then Adrien had added something Rashan hadn't expected.
"I was taught in High Rock to be a mage before I became a warrior."
That changed everything.
High Rock had some of the oldest magical traditions in Tamriel. While Skyrim and Hammerfell were more skeptical of magic, and Cyrodiil focused on practical application, High Rock had arcane lineages that stretched back to the Direnni. The Bretons didn't just use magic—they cultivated it. Their noble houses prided themselves on magical education, and true mages were not simply spellcasters—they were scholars, tacticians, and alchemists.
The difference was clear.
A battlemage trained by the Imperial Legion was a soldier first and a mage second. They learned spells quickly and efficiently, but their understanding was often surface-level. They fought with magic, but few mastered it.
A mage trained in High Rock was something else entirely. They weren't taught spells—they were taught principles. They understood theory, structure, and refinement. They didn't just know how a spell worked, they understood why it worked.
And that was why Adrien refused to let him use spell tomes.
"You have the best teacher," he had said, his tone carrying no arrogance—only certainty.
Rashan hadn't understood what that meant at first. But now, he did.
Tomes were shortcuts. The magicka and comprehension of another mage were imbued into the page, allowing a reader to imprint their understanding into their own mind.
But that wasn't real learning.
It was borrowing. A mage who relied too much on spell tomes risked never truly understanding their own magic—because their knowledge wasn't earned, it was given.
"Most mages today are nothing but second-hand spellcasters," Adrien had said. "They don't shape magic, they mimic it."
That was why Rashan had taken the long road. He hadn't simply memorized spells—he had dissected them, analyzed their structure, and broken them down piece by piece. He knew the weight of every alteration, the effort it took to shape magicka properly.
His breathing was steady. His mind sharp.
He was close.
Soon, he would be casting magicka.
Besides, there was a benefit to all his work—true comprehension. The deeper he understood Alteration, the easier it would be to learn other spells within the same school. Mastery wasn't just about casting—it was about understanding the principles behind the magic. The more he refined his control over Alteration, the more efficiently he would be able to manipulate its energies in the future.
He sighed, leaning back against the thick cushions of his bed. He and Jalil now shared a room. His quarters were huge, and after months of Jalil constantly coming and going, Rashan had simply told him to move in. His parents had initially resisted—the idea of a noble heir sharing a room with a servant, even a personal attendant, was unheard of. But Jalil was no ordinary servant.
His martial skill had become impossible to ignore. Like Rashan, he was unnaturally disciplined for his age. His strikes were precise, his endurance relentless. His parents had finally relented—perhaps because they saw Rashan's unshakable will, or perhaps because they, too, recognized Jalil's potential. His father had once been an exceptional warrior himself. If his son had chosen a worthy comrade, then there was no reason to object.
Of course, in public, Jalil was still proper, deferential, and respectful. But when no one was watching?
Jalil was his brother.
Not by blood, but in everything else that mattered. They trained together, studied together, fought together. And when they were alone, Jalil wasn't afraid to tease him, to challenge him, to push back in ways no one else did.
The boy had a sharp, sarcastic humor that caught Rashan off guard more times than he cared to admit. He kept it perfectly hidden when others were around, never letting his mask slip. But when it was just the two of them?
It was like having a brother in every way except name.
And yet, Rashan suspected something else—something unspoken.
His father and mother knew exactly who Jalil's father was.
They never said it aloud. Not once.
But there were moments—fleeting expressions, small hesitations, a look exchanged between them—that told Rashan the truth was there, just beneath the surface.
He had never pressed the issue. Jalil never brought it up either. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe he did.
But in the end, what did it change?
Jalil was Jalil. His brother. That was enough.
Then there was Amira.
It had been late when she approached him. The house was quiet, the lanterns dimmed. Rashan had expected her to ask if he needed anything—tea, a meal, anything a servant might offer.
But instead, she stood there, hesitant, uncertain in a way he had never seen before.
And then she simply asked, "May I hug you?"
There was no formality in her tone. No hesitation in her intent.
This was not a servant speaking to her young master.
This was a mother thanking the boy who had changed her son's fate.
He had only nodded before she pulled him into a firm, steady embrace.
It was the first time he had truly felt how small she was compared to him. How much she had endured. How much weight she carried on her shoulders.
"Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder. "For everything."
For Jalil. For making him something more than a servant. For making him family.
For giving him a future.
Rashan stood still, letting her hold him, but when she pulled away, he responded in his usual, logical way.
"Well, his father is a very talented warrior. I would expect nothing less."
Amira chuckled softly, shaking her head.
"I figured you knew. You are a smart boy."
Then, after a brief pause, her expression changed—thoughtful, distant.
"May I ask you something personal?"
Rashan gave a small nod. "Of course."
She only ever called him by his first name when they were alone.
"You are smart, hardworking… and beautiful. Why didn't he make you a concubine?"
It wasn't an insult. In Redguard culture, to be a noble's concubine was an elevated status, a mark of favor, security, and privilege.
Amira exhaled softly, her hands folding in front of her. "It was complicated. His wife despised me… and she turned the other concubines against me. My ending here was the best his father could do."
Rashan had corrected her at the time, "It's the best he wanted to do."
Amira had chuckled at that.
He leaned back in his bed, exhaling slowly, letting the quiet of the room settle around him.
Then—for the first time since his birth—he felt it.
Something deep within him stirred.
A shift. A change.
It wasn't physical. It wasn't external.
It was his system.
It was activating.
And then, a realization struck him with absolute certainty.
He was getting a perk.