Rashan spent the rest of the day getting everything in order.
He checked his notes, reviewed production numbers, cornered Varen twice about drying times and yield consistency. Amira too—storage, logistics, shelf flow. He wasn't guessing. He needed actual answers. The kind you brought to a man with septims, land, and too many people whispering in his ear.
He'd done something kind of like this before.
Back in his old life. After the war. After the hospital. After everything went sideways. He'd signed up for a minor business degree online. Some rehab counselor said it would help stimulate his brain. Give him "structure."
He barely passed.
Perfect recall meant he remembered the whole class now—every lecture, every assignment, how often he struggled to keep up. The test questions? He could recall them word for word. But his answers? They were awful. He definitely had a brain injury. And honestly, he was pretty sure they gave him a pass out of pity. Or respect. Or maybe both.
Didn't help that 20/20 ran a segment on him. Whole piece. Combat injuries. Chemo. The works. Cut to the soft music, some shot of him staring out a hospital window. Very inspiring bullshit.
He grinned as he looked at his business plan.
Now he had something real. A market plan. Production estimates. Shelf life. Cost per unit. Scaled labor.
The kind of pitch you didn't wrap in emotion.
It sold itself.
He was meeting with his father tomorrow.
Rashan had already made the arrangements—his sister would be there, since she'd been one of the earliest investors. Varen, too. The baker had earned his seat. And Amira would join them as well; she'd quietly kept the operations running behind the scenes from the start.
When he'd asked his father for the meeting, the answer had come easily.
"Of course," his father had said.
But Rashan had pushed further. He'd stood there, posture steady, voice calm.
"I'd like to request something else," he said. "Allow me into the room because I am your son—but once I'm in, I want you to treat me like you don't know me."
His father had raised an eyebrow at that. "And why would I do that?"
"Because this is a real opportunity," Rashan said. "For our family. For Hammerfell. And I'll be asking for a very large investment."
There had been a long pause.
His father studied him, silent. Not dismissive. Just weighing him.
Then finally, with a slow nod:
"Very well. As you have asked, my son. The second you walk into that room… you will be treated like any other man with a proposal."
The next morning, Rashan stood alongside the breadmaker, Amira, and his sister. All of them were dressed professionally—well, as close as it came in Hammerfell. Varen wore a clean tunic with a high collar and fitted vest. Amira had on a formal wrap gown, neat and modest, tied at the waist with a decorative cord. His sister wore her usual noblewear, understated but sharp.
He had actually bought Varen and Amira's clothes for them.
At first, they resisted. Varen muttered something about looking like a stuffed merchant, and Amira said she wasn't a noblewoman.
But Rashan had explained what he was doing.
"This isn't just a favor," he'd told them. "It's business. We need to look like we belong in the room."
Now, they were waiting.
It had been half an hour past the agreed time.
Rashan didn't sit. He didn't pace either. He just stood there, eyes on the door, practically buzzing.
He was excited. Really excited.
Jalil had punched him in the shoulder for good luck on his way out. Cassia had given him a thumbs-up. The two of them had gone off to train after that. They didn't need to come.
Fifteen minutes later, a servant finally stepped through the doors.
He gave a short nod, posture formal. "Lord Sulharen will see you now."
No "your father." No familiarity.
He was taking the request seriously.
Perfect, Rashan thought.
His sister leaned in and muttered, half-joking, "You're nuts for having father treat us like an outsider."
He grinned. "A little, but I am confident."
His sister gave him a small chuckle as she followed him into the room, he could tell she believed in him.
His father already had his plans.
The moment Rashan stepped through the doors, he saw the setup. This wasn't just a meeting—it was formal. Serious. Not a gesture of support. A test.
His father sat at the head of the chamber, posture upright, hands folded over one knee.
And he wasn't alone.
Seated to either side were two men Rashan had known since before he could walk. They'd been around for every major decision in the household—quiet, constant presences in the background of his childhood.
To the left was Hakam al-Rahim, silver-bearded, with deep crow's feet and sharp eyes. He had once been a battlefield tactician during the border skirmishes in southern Hammerfell. Now, he handled most of the Sulharen family's logistical and trade concerns. He never spoke unless it mattered.
To the right sat Bashir Nadim, broader, slower-moving, but no less dangerous. A former duelist turned political advisor, he had the posture of a man who measured people the way others measured coin. He rarely smiled. But when he did, it meant something.
These were not the sort of men you lied to.
Rashan entered and gave the slight bow expected of him. Then moved to the table.
He sat, posture straight. Varen took his seat beside him. Amira followed, quiet and composed. His sister slid into place last, brushing her robes smooth.
They were all here now.
Time to begin.
One of his father's advisors was the first to speak.
"We've reviewed your notes," said Hakam al-Rahim, his voice smooth but direct. "Tried the bread samples. And reviewed the alchemist's assessment. Your bread is… promising."
Bashir Nadim picked up the thread without missing a beat.
"The question," he said, "is whether that promise is founded in reality… or fantasy."
Rashan sat still.
He had, of course, withheld certain things. Key notes. The means by which he had achieved the preservation time. And more importantly, how he planned to competitively produce it at scale.
He looked at both men and spoke clearly.
"I will tell you, good sirs. But I would ask that the means by which this is to be achieved be kept on a need-to-know basis. What we have achieved is nothing short of revolutionary."
He glanced around the room—specifically at the servants standing along the walls.
The advisors shared a brief look.
His father didn't move.
Then finally, in that low, steady voice of his, Lord Sulharen spoke.
"Have the servants leave the room."
There was a quiet shuffle of footsteps as the staff exited without a word.
His father continued.
"Let me hope, for everyone's sake, that you are not simply grandstanding."
Rashan blinked.
Whoa. He's taking this seriously.
Best dad ever.
Rashan snapped his fingers once and looked at his breadmaker.
Varen stood immediately, clutching the sealed parchment he'd brought with him.
A leader like his father didn't do everything himself. He had servants, advisors—people he trusted to execute, to speak in his name. That wasn't laziness. That was leadership. Delegation showed trust, authority, and presence.
Rashan intended to lead the same way.
This wasn't just a pitch. It was a demonstration of acumen.
Varen stepped forward and unrolled the parchment, laying out the method in clean, direct terms.
I implemented a staged dehydration process to extend structural stability and shelf life. We built a false hearth to maintain low, consistent heat—rotating loaves every few hours, drying them in controlled intervals."
He laid out the parchment with diagrams and drying cycles.
"It takes three days per batch. The loaf is dense, stable, fully set. No crumbling. No breakdown. The internal matrix holds."
He raised a hand and counted off each step.
"Storage is handled using clay-lined jars sealed with beeswax. The clay regulates temperature and airflow. The wax prevents ambient moisture from re-entering. Both are fully reusable. After each cycle, the wax is collected, filtered, and reapplied. One jar and wax lining can support dozens of preservation cycles with only minimal loss."
He pointed to another diagram.
"The curing process finishes with ash-layer buffering. It insulates the loaves during cooldown and allows a controlled crust-char—locking the moisture inside without compromising the outer shell."
He stepped back, letting it land.
"Twelve-year preservation. Consistent quality. Ingredient flexibility. Scalable and sustainable."
One of the advisors leaned forward slightly. Bashir's voice cut through the quiet.
"What exactly is a false hearth?"
Varen nodded, as if expecting the question.
"It's a controlled heat chamber," he said. "Stone-lined, built with a hollow foundation. No open flame. The fire is drawn below and across the walls by shaped flues. The heat wraps around the chamber, not through it."
He gestured to the parchment again.
"We use layered bricks to hold and release warmth slowly, evenly. Think of it like a bread kiln—but the goal isn't to cook. It's to dry. Low heat, no burning, and airflow that can be tuned with vent stones. The loaves never touch direct flame. They cure."
He gave a small shrug, almost a smile.
"Took a few tries to get it right. But once the flow was balanced… it worked better than anything we've used before."
Hakam leaned forward slightly, eyes on the parchment.
"This false hearth… it's actually very ingenious. How did you come up with the design?"
Varen glanced back. "Ah—it was actually the young master's idea," he said, nodding toward Rashan.
Silence.
Both advisors turned to look at him—like they were trying to reassess a number that suddenly didn't add up. One tilted his head, the other narrowed his eyes slightly. A shared look passed between them—quiet, thoughtful, maybe even impressed.
Rashan's father didn't speak right away.
But something in his expression shifted. His gaze lingered, heavier now. Not proud. Not surprised. Just… focused. Like he was reevaluating where his youngest son actually stood at the table.
No one said a word.
All eyes were on him.
Rashan didn't flinch. He didn't explain.
He turned to Amira instead and gave a small gesture.
"Will you please present how we plan to achieve competitiveness with our product."
Amira stepped forward, parchment under her arm. She unrolled the schematic onto the table and began smoothing it flat.
Production lines weren't used in Skyrim. Not for bread. Not for most things. Goods were still made one at a time, start to finish, by a single craftsman. This could change that. Every industry, eventually.
Rashan quietly thanked Henry Ford.
Amira tapped the diagram.
"This is how we achieve cost competitiveness."
She pointed to each section as she spoke.
"The line is divided into stages—preparation, curing, drying, sealing. Each team works one stage only. Once the system is active, a batch finishes every day."
She gestured to the offset heat chambers at the far end.
"The drying cycle is staggered. By overlapping timing across batches, we reduce downtime and maximize output. Ingredients are staged the night before, rotated in shifts."
She glanced briefly at the parchment, then back to the room.
"With six ovens running, we produce around 400 loaves a week—out of our very small bakery."
She let that hang for a moment.
Amira tapped the schematic again, then looked up.
"If Lord Sulharen were to invest… and we had a larger facility, outfitted for scale…"
She pulled a second parchment from her satchel—this one a rough floor plan.
"A larger bakery built to purpose—say, twelve false hearths, properly spaced—staffed by fifty trained workers in rotating shifts, could sustain four full production lines."
Her tone remained composed, but there was weight behind her words.
"That's 80 loaves per line per day. 320 per day total. Over 2,200 loaves a week."
She let the number hang a moment.
"All with a shelf life of twelve years, made with half the water requirement of standard tackbread. Costs drop with volume. Efficiency rises. Supply meets demand."
She didn't overstate. She didn't need to.
Rashan watched the way the advisors leaned closer to the diagram along with his advisors.
Rashan grinned, watching them study Amira's schematics.
Now was the time to close the deal.
He stepped forward, voice calm, deliberate.
"My lord… esteemed advisors…"
They looked up.
"Imagine you're on campaign," he said. "Your soldiers have been eating standard tackbread for three months. No meat. No fruit. No spices. Just dry flour and salt—hard as stone, thin as ash."
He let that sink in.
"Morale drops. Strength wanes. Recovery slows. Everyone starts breaking down—slowly at first, then all at once."
He tapped the edge of the table.
"Now give them this."
He motioned to the loaf. "Our bread. Dense, nutrient-packed, preservable, and designed to restore stamina and sustain vitality."
He looked each of them in the eye.
"This isn't just a product. This is the kind of thing armies are built on. This is how you extend campaigns. Feed garrisons. Supply outposts. And you don't have to pay three different guilds to do it."
Then, quieter:
"Now imagine what someone would pay for that."
He let the silence stretch just long enough.
Because this wasn't just about soldiers. Or rations.
This was about profit.
This was about influence.
And this was about authority.
He could see it on their faces already. They weren't thinking about bread anymore.
They were thinking about contracts.
About control.
About what came next.