They dressed to impress that night.
Rashan stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his tunic. Years of three-a-day training—technically six, thanks to regression—had shaped him into something sharp. Strength without bulk. Swimming had been part of that plan from the beginning—conditioning, yes, but also control. He didn't want to move like a wall. He wanted to move like a blade.
His build showed it. Lean muscle, efficient frame, no wasted weight. A body forged for precision and endurance.
His tunic was deep blue, high-collared and fitted close, with subtle gold embroidery running the cuffs and sides. Refined but clean. No jewelry. Just a leather band at the wrist, and a blade tucked beneath the coat—out of sight, never out of reach.
Jalil stood next to him, tying his sash.
He was a little younger, but already slightly taller—his father had been a full head taller than most, and Jalil had inherited the frame. Broader in the shoulders, longer in the reach. He didn't carry himself like a noble or a soldier. He carried himself like he belonged in every room he entered.
His outfit leaned into it—crimson over black, sleeves rolled, bracers polished, a thin silver clasp at the throat. He looked like someone who broke hearts and probably laughed about it afterward.
They glanced at each other in the mirror—two different styles, same edge behind the eyes.
Rashan gave a nod. "Let's go."
The ladies dressed no less impressively.
Sadiaa entered first. She didn't need to do anything to turn heads—she was built for it. Her gown was a rich plum silk, fitted at the waist and flowing just enough to catch the light with every step. Gold accents traced the neckline and cuffs, simple but precise. Her figure moved like it had been carved to exact proportions—curvy, slim, and graceful from every angle. Striking dark eyes, deep lashes, high cheekbones. The kind of presence that didn't ask for attention. It just held it.
Cassia followed behind her, and if Sadiaa was sculpted elegance, Cassia was controlled heat. Her red hair was pinned back in a loose twist, a few strands left free by choice, not accident. She wore a deep green dress, sleeveless, fitted close, with a high slit up one leg that showed just enough to stop thought. The fabric clung to her with clean, deliberate lines, shaped to her lithe, athletic frame—toned legs, narrow waist, perfect posture.
Cassia didn't wear a smile, but she didn't need to. The way she carried herself was its own statement—sharp, magnetic, impossible to ignore.
Jalil blinked once and let out a low whistle.
Jalil froze the second Cassia walked in.
Actually froze. Mouth slightly open, words half-formed, like he'd just been gut-checked by the gods themselves.
Rashan didn't need to look twice to know what did it.
Cassia wasn't just dressed up—she looked good. Red hair pulled back sharp, that black and bronze dress hugging her just right, slit running high enough to make any man rethink his entire purpose in life.
Jalil clearly had.
Rashan glanced at him. His brother's eyes were wide, jaw tight, like he was physically trying not to stare. Which, in its own way, was more obvious than if he just stared.
He sighed. For the love of—just tell her already.
They'd been circling each other forever. Acting like friends. Laughing like friends. Sparring like friends. The only two people who didn't seem to know they were in love were them.
It would've been hilarious if it wasn't so tragic.
Rashan rolled his shoulder and looked away.
As for me?
He didn't have time for slow dances and missed signals.
There was the widow next door—forty, sun-kissed, and absurdly attractive. Always managed to be outside when he trained. He went over once, then again. No strings. No complications.
A couple of the waitresses from that fine dining place, too. One of them always gave him a look when he passed by—he gave it right back. Then there was the housewife with the bastard husband everyone knew was cheating.
They knew what it was. So did he.
It wasn't love. It wasn't anything close. Just something to take the edge off. Keep the fire from building too high.
Everyone had their way of staying sane.
Jalil still looked like someone had sucker-punched him with a dream.
Rashan gave him a nudge. "You blinked," he said flatly.
Jalil snapped upright, clearing his throat. "Shut up."
Rashan smirked and kept walking.
As they walked through the streets, Rashan noticed it right away.
No guards posted. Fewer stalls open. The usual buzz of trade had thinned to a whisper. People moved slower, spoke less. The air held a kind of quiet weight—like everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It hadn't hit yet. Not fully.
But it would.
When the Dominion turned its full force on Hammerfell—and the Empire stayed silent—then they'd feel it. No supply chains. No reinforcements. Just Redguards standing on their own.
At least, that was the official story.
In truth, Hammerfell wouldn't be completely alone.
After the Empire signed the White-Gold Concordat, a few still came. Nords, outraged by the treaty, crossed the border to fight as volunteers. Orc warbands and mercenary clans joined in—driven less by honor and more by hatred of the Dominion. Scattered Dunmer mages, exiles and outcasts, offered their skills where they could. A few Imperial defectors—officers who refused to accept surrender—stood alongside Redguard fighters.
Even forgotten Yokudan tribes, buried deep in the Alik'r, rose from their silence to defend the land of their ancestors.
Hammerfell had no formal allies.
But they were never truly alone.
As Rashan walked a few paces behind them, he caught the way the evening light hit his sister's curls, the way Jalil leaned just slightly closer to Cassia when he laughed, the way Cassia's fingers lingered on his shoulder just a little longer than necessary.
They were still young. Still full of sparks and smiles and untapped fire. Watching them like this—the joking, the teasing, the subtle glances—they looked like kids again.
And for a second, that made Rashan pause.
In the game, there was no Jalil. No Cassia. No him.
None of this.
Just a world shaped by other hands, with cities that burned and names that faded.
But this trio? Them?
He believed they could carve something different into the stone of history.
If they survived what was coming.
He shook the thought off and stepped forward, sliding between his sister and Cassia, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders.
"The best news," he said, deadpan, "is that I'm paying."
Sadiaa rolled her eyes hard enough to tilt her head. Cassia gave him a flat look. Jalil just barked a laugh.
Even with most of his bread fortune funneled right back into production and expansion, Rashan was absurdly rich—and everyone knew it.
He just grinned like the smug little noble he sometimes pretended to be.