The peacock stood there for a moment, frozen—his friends flanking him, waiting for direction. One of them shifted slightly, like he might step forward, but the boy held up a hand.
Not yet.
His mouth was tight. His pride wounded. But he wasn't stupid.
He looked around the celebration—the music, the firelight, the elders watching from shaded benches, the soldiers laughing around the feast tables. Rashan wasn't just some cousin anymore. People were watching. And more importantly, people were listening.
"I see," he said at last. His voice was calm, but his jaw flexed once, hard. "Enjoy your wine, cousin."
Rashan didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
He just lifted his cup in a lazy toast.
The peacock turned on his heel, cloak snapping behind him as he walked away. His entourage followed, a few of them throwing sideways glances at Rashan, but none of them said a word.
Rashan finally exhaled, slow and steady. He set his wine down and ran a hand through his hair.
He hated these dances.
The words. The games. The false smiles and veiled threats.
But that was noble life, wasn't it?
It wasn't always blades and blood. Sometimes it was keeping your table empty. Sometimes it was knowing when to play the fool and when to show teeth.
And tonight?
He was just trying to enjoy a drink.
Rashan's sister showed up not long after, flanked by a group of girls—most around her age, but one of them definitely closer to his. He recognized the look she gave him: calculating, smug, and far too pleased with herself.
Ah.
So this was a setup.
"Where have you been this whole time?" she asked, arching a brow. "Just sitting here all alone?"
One of the girls, the one closer to his age, giggled.
He didn't use his recall to place her. He could have—probably seen her at some other noble event—but he didn't care enough to bother.
Ugh. They'd definitely been drinking wine.
He started plotting an exit strategy, but then—thankfully—his father rose, lifting a hand for silence. The music quieted, voices fell, and Rashan turned his attention forward as the room began to settle.
Perfect timing.
Samir Sulharen stood tall at the center of the gathering, his presence steady, his voice cutting clean through the air.
"My sons," he began, "and all the other sons and daughters summoned to serve—tonight we honor you."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the courtyard.
"You carry not only the strength of our blood, but the duty of our legacy. You leave as officers, as warriors, and as symbols of what the Forebears have always stood for: discipline, vision, and loyalty to the Empire."
There were nods around the room, murmurs of approval.
"We are not divided. We are not broken. While others bury their heads in the sand or cry for the past—we look to the horizon."
A louder cheer this time. He raised his glass.
"To the Empire. May your blades stay sharp, your will remain firm, and your hearts never forget where you came from."
The room echoed his words.
Rashan lifted his cup slowly, taking it all in.
His father was a Forebear through and through. He believed in unity with the Empire, in shared strength and mutual prosperity. But Rashan couldn't help but wonder how he'd feel when that same Empire—again—left Hammerfell to burn.
The Forebears saw nobility as earned through service and merit. The Crowns, on the other hand, clung to old bloodlines, to tradition. Both had their flaws—but Rashan had no love for politics.
His story didn't end here.
Skyrim still called to him.
And when the next war came—and it would come after the empires surrender… he would be ready.
Eventually, Rashan slipped away from the noise, found the stairs behind the wine cellar, and climbed up to the rooftop. The music faded behind stone walls, replaced by the hush of wind and the soft creak of beams underfoot. He sat on the edge, arms resting on his knees, eyes tilted toward the stars.
He didn't like parties. Too many eyes. Too many expectations. Too much talking.
"Didn't like the party, huh?" came a voice behind him.
He didn't even need to look. Adrien dropped down beside him a moment later, easing into place like he'd done it a hundred times before.
"Oh no," Rashan muttered dryly. "It was delightful."
"Yeah, yeah," Adrien waved a hand, "don't bullshit me, kid."
They sat in silence for a breath or two.
"Nice work with the bread, by the way. That's a real game-changer."
"Yeah," Rashan said. Quiet. Casual.
Adrien leaned back on his elbows, staring up at the sky. "You know… I didn't have to be an Imperial battlemage."
That got Rashan's eyebrow to lift.
"I was a genius," Adrien said with mock seriousness, pausing just long enough to smirk. "One-in-a-generation talent. But don't worry—they'll probably meet you and stop saying that."
He chuckled to himself, which got a grin out of Rashan.
Adrien was no slouch. He might joke like a drunk and dress like a traveler, but the man had been a terrifying swordsman in his prime—and still was, even with one arm. His command of Mysticism alone was staggering.
"But I wanted to see the world," Adrien said after a moment. "So I joined the Legion. Fought in wars. Traveled through more provinces than I can count. Wanted to bleed a little, leave a mark. And I did."
He exhaled slowly.
"You're like me. If the world weren't coming apart at the seams, I could see you leaving. Traveling. Living. You're not meant for this noble bullshit."
Rashan grinned. He didn't say anything, but his teacher had him pegged.
Adrien glanced over. "Kid… if you survive the next decade, you're gonna change this world."
They both looked up at the moons.
Rashan stayed quiet. He was amazed by his teacher intuitions, it was pretty spot on. But surviving the next decade or so was the real trick, wasn't it?
Finally, he spoke. "Well, if I don't survive… I'm blaming my shitty teacher." Rashan said offhandedly.
Adrien barked a laugh. "Fair."
They sat like that a while longer, saying nothing, just watching the stars.
Enjoying the quiet.