Rashan was sitting in his room, adjusting the cuffs of his formal tunic. He was waiting on his sister—she was supposed to escort him to the clan celebration.
Jalil and Cassia didn't have to help work the event. In fact, they could go as guests. His bread contribution had earned him a certain level of status now, and by extension, that status extended to the people closest to him. All was good.
Though they could only attend as attendants, not comrades—so he told them to hang back, train, and enjoy the night.
Jalil, of course, couldn't resist getting a jab in before he left. He leaned in just enough to make it dramatic, and signed:
"Try not to trip and embarrass all of Hammerfell, Lord Rashan."
Cassia laughed—an actual laugh, not just a smile—and gave a small shake of her head.
Rashan rolled his eyes and signed back, "Remind me why I keep feeding you?"
Jalil bowed low, all mock elegance. "Because I'm charming. And Cassia would avenge me."
Cassia didn't deny it. She just shrugged.
They mostly signed when she was around. Good practice, and honestly, Rashan was pretty sure Cassia preferred it that way.
Not long after, there was a knock at the door.
He stood and opened it to find his sister, dressed sharply, hands already moving.
She signed a quick greeting—sharp, but clean.
When she found out about the sign language training months ago, she had demanded to be included.
Now she had a very basic grasp of it. Rashan figured that was mostly thanks to Cassia, who had started spending more time with her whenever she wasn't with Jalil or learning magic from Adrien.
Rashan followed his sister through the carved stone halls of the estate, footsteps quiet against polished tile.
Sadiaa Sulharen was twenty years old and carried herself like someone used to being watched. Her stride was confident, smooth—trained. She wore a deep crimson sash pinned with a gold family clasp over a layered silk tunic, her waist cinched by a lacquered belt shaped in old Yokudan knotwork. The long split of her outer robe swayed as she walked, revealing tailored trousers and soft-soled sandals that barely made a sound. Her jewelry was minimal, but expertly chosen—red jasper earrings and a matching band around her wrist.
She was beautiful. Striking, even.
Not just in the way of noble daughters, but in a sharper, more dangerous sort of way. The kind of beauty that pulled eyes across a room. The kind that made men forget themselves. Even when she said nothing, people noticed her. It wasn't something she flaunted. It just… happened.
Rashan, of course, didn't register any of that. She was his sister. As far as he was concerned, she was just Sadiaa—sharp-tongued, endlessly stubborn, and smarter than most people gave her credit for.
But Rashan had his own presence, even if he didn't know it yet.
Thirteen summers old, lean and broad-shouldered, with a steady gait and a soldier's discipline already in his frame. His training had paid off—three-a-day workouts, hard sparring, long-distance conditioning. His muscles were beginning to shape, not thick, but defined, roped along his arms and back like cord under tension. His jawline had started to square. His cheekbones were cutting in.
He had their father's eyes. That quiet, unreadable intensity.
In a few years, he was going to be devastating—and everyone except Rashan seemed to know it.
But right now, he just walked beside his sister like any boy following his older sibling to a formal event, fussing with his tunic, eyes scanning the corridor.
He wasn't thinking about how they looked.
He was already strategizing for whatever came next. And that was- Could he leave early?
Maybe. But he'd at least honor his brothers. He would miss them.
Rashan mostly stayed off to the side. The estate's great hall had been opened up, and the gathering was large—larger than he expected. It wasn't just for his brothers. Other men and women from clan were being honored too, all called into Imperial service. Officers, quartermasters, scouts. A few of them he recognized from family functions. Others from training sessions or past sparring matches.
It was a night of praise, pride, and quiet tension.
He wasn't planning to stay the whole time. Maybe long enough to honor his brothers. Long enough to say goodbye. Then slip out early, if no one noticed.
This wasn't his place. Not really. His destiny wasn't here. It was in Skyrim.
Still, he held a mug of wine in one hand and leaned against a shadowed pillar, watching the hall from the edge. The music had a smooth pull to it. Redguard flutes and hand-drums, the rhythm light and flowing, perfect for the slow, elegant spin of the dancers in the center.
He took a sip.
It was good. Crisp and dry, with a bite of fruit and smoke on the back end.
Redguards didn't treat wine like a luxury. It was a part of life. A point of pride among noble vineyards and family cellars. Even the cheaper bottles were brewed with care. Lower in alcohol than some Nibenese imports, but smoother—and far better for long conversations or hot desert nights. You were expected to drink at celebrations. It wasn't a question.
Still, it had been years since Rashan had tasted anything fermented.
Back in his old body, alcohol was a risk. A glass of wine could throw off his medication, tank his blood pressure, or make him black out. Between nerve damage and all the pills, his body hadn't been able to handle it. So he'd stopped drinking completely.
But tonight…
He let the sip linger before swallowing, feeling the warmth slide into his chest. He took another pull. The music, the wine, the soft hum of conversation—it actually felt good.
Then, of course, someone had to ruin it.
A Redguard adolescent—maybe seventeen, eighteen at most—drifted toward Rashan's table like he was circling a prize.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, with his braids tight and glinting, oiled just enough to catch firelight. His tunic clung to his chest like it had been cut for a parade, not a farewell celebration. A ring on every finger, teeth too white, and a smile that said he'd never been told no.
Rashan didn't recognize him. He could've used his recall to figure it out—trace his face back to some forgettable family gathering, a name dropped in passing—but he didn't.
Didn't care.
He was enjoying his wine and the music. His table was empty. He planned to keep it that way.
The boy strode up and dipped his chin like they were equals. "Cousin. It is good to see you again."
Rashan didn't stand. He didn't even straighten.
"Sure," he said flatly. "Nice to see you too."
The boy smiled wider and seated himself without asking.
"Yes, it is. What a night, no?" he said, gesturing toward the celebration. "The firelight, the music, the legacy of our warriors echoing beneath the sky… These are the evenings bards live for."
Rashan took a slow sip of wine. "Yup."
"I've come to speak with you," the boy said, voice lowering like they were about to discuss matters of state, "about your sister."
Rashan sighed—internally, because externally he just blinked.
Of course.
Marriage proposals between second cousins weren't exactly common, but they weren't taboo either. Not among nobles. Not when land and alliances were involved. It was the kind of old tradition Rashan had seen a thousand times in court politics.
Didn't mean he liked it.
"She's a vixen among women," the boy continued, with the kind of heat that made Rashan's wine taste sour. "And I must—"
"I'm gonna be honest," Rashan cut in. "Me and my sister don't get along."
The boy blinked. "Oh?"
"We're mortal enemies."
"…I'm sorry?"
Rashan nodded gravely. "She snores."
"She… snores?"
"Like a sabrecat giving birth."
The boy looked genuinely confused now.
Rashan leaned forward, tone dead serious. "You ever hear someone snore so loud it shakes your bedroll from two rooms away? That's her. Every night. The walls in our estate are stone and she still manages to echo."
"I—"
"I haven't slept in years."
There was a long silence.
The boy stared, not quite sure if he was being mocked. Rashan took another sip of wine.
"Are you… making fun of me?" the boy asked cautiously.
Rashan met his gaze and said, completely deadpan: "Yeah. Kinda."
The boy's brow twitched.
He wasn't used to being dismissed—Rashan could see it. He was probably the son of someone important, the kind of young noble who trained shirtless in public and expected praise for it. The kind that thought words like "vixen" made him poetic.
He leaned in.
"I understand you're protective of her."
Rashan blinked once, slowly.
"She's my nemesis."
The boy tried to smile, like they were still playing a game. "You jest, but beauty like hers doesn't go unnoticed."
Rashan didn't answer right away. He took another sip of wine, tilted his head just enough to look thoughtful.
"You know what happens when someone gets between a sabrecat and her sleep?"
"…What?"
"They die."
That one landed. The boy leaned back just a little, like he wasn't sure if Rashan was joking anymore. Good. Rashan didn't blink.
Across the courtyard, dancers moved around a fire pit. Someone plucked a string instrument with lazy rhythm. Cassia's laughter—light, real—drifted from the training yard.
Rashan set his cup down.
"Listen," he said. "There are a hundred women here tonight. Some even snore less. You could flirt with any of them. Impress a bard. Recite your poem to the moon. But if you bring your soft-chewed poetry near my sister again, I will personally tie your hair to a horserack and forget you exist."
The boy's mouth opened. Then shut.
Then he stood. "Good evening, cousin."
Rashan raised his cup lazily. "Sleep well. If you can."
He watched the boy disappear into the crowd and leaned back in his chair.
Maybe he'd have another cup after all.
Sadly, the peacock came back.
Rashan heard them before he saw them—three sets of footsteps, measured and deliberate. Not loud enough to draw attention. Loud enough to signal intent.
He took one last sip of wine, savoring the smoothness, then set the cup down with practiced ease.
When he turned, the peacock was there—same oiled braids, same self-satisfied grin—only now he'd brought company. Two boys trailed behind him. One broad-shouldered and square-jawed, clearly the muscle. The other lean, sharp-eyed, and quiet. Watching.
Rashan didn't move. He didn't smile.
"Cousin," the peacock said smoothly. "I felt our last exchange ended too abruptly."
Rashan didn't even blink. "I felt it ended just fine."
The boy gave a theatrical laugh. "Still sharp. I like that."
"You brought friends," Rashan noted.
"Just conversation," the peacock said innocently. "We were speaking of you. You've made quite the impression, haven't you?"
Rashan stepped around the table, slow, casual, controlled.
"You came back because earlier didn't go how you wanted."
The boy's smile twitched, just for a second. "I came back because I believe in second chances."
"I don't."
The brawler's weight shifted. The wiry one didn't move.
The peacock boy coughed into his hand, dude was overcompensating with his ridiculous outfit and excessive jewelry… maybe he was overcompensating for a small "package" Rashan thought to himself laughing inwardly.
The peacock didn't take the hint. Of course he didn't.
"I only returned," he said, smoothing the front of his tunic, "because I thought perhaps you didn't understand the sincerity of my offer. I speak of your sister with admiration. It isn't a small thing."
Rashan gave him a long look. Not hostile. Not impressed. Just tired.
"You know," Rashan said mildly, "I've had a lot of wine tonight. Good wine. Better than I usually drink."
The peacock blinked. "I… see."
Rashan nodded. "And it's funny. Because even after half a cup, I still don't care what you think about my sister."
That knocked a bit of the shine off his teeth.
Rashan stepped a little closer—not enough to threaten, just enough to force eye contact.
"Let me make this easier for you," he said. "There's no offer. No discussion. You've said your piece. I've said mine. And now you've come back with your cousins like this is a duel for honor."
He smiled. Slow. Flat.
"It's not."
The boy's mouth opened like he might try again, but Rashan was already walking past him.
"Enjoy the festival," he said over his shoulder. "There's wine somewhere. I suggest you drink it before you embarrass yourself."