Rashan returned home before the sun.
The woman he'd spent the night with still slept tangled in sheets that now carried more memory than silk. Her perfume lingered in the fold of his collar, but he'd already left—boots on, belt cinched, cloak drawn as the sky turned from charcoal to pale blue.
His stride was steady, fluid. Indomitable Stamina had done its work—he felt clean, restored. The night had been long, and very full, but he thrived on routine. Pleasure never disrupted it. If anything, it reminded him why he stayed sharp.
By the time the estate came into view, his mind had already moved on—run, stretch, regression, drills, study, magework. No different from any other day.
He stepped into the courtyard, ready to greet silence.
Instead, he found Jalil and Cassia already waiting near the sand pit.
Both in training gear. Both standing straight. Both looking far too awake for people who'd had permission to sleep in.
Rashan slowed to a stop and raised one brow.
"What are you two doing here?" he asked, dry as a desert stone. "Weren't you scheduled for rest? Sleeping in? Maybe taking a break from the relentless, soul-crushing pace I supposedly enforce?"
Jalil thumped a fist to his chest. "Reporting for duty, my lord."
Mock-formal. Perfectly timed. The corners of his mouth twitched. The grin hovered just under the surface. A jab, clear as day. The kind meant to poke at Rashan's endless drive—we know how you are, and we showed up anyway.
Rashan stared at him for a beat and considering a comeback quirp.
In this room this morning which he shared with Jalil, Jalil's bed had been perfectly made. And very much empty. Hard to miss, considering Rashan had to grab his training gear from the same room that morning. The comeback wrote itself. But Cassia stood right there—arms crossed, face blank, that still-watchful calm she always wore.
He kept the comment to himself.
Exhaled through his nose.
"Fine. Since we're all bright-eyed and enthusiastic—endurance drills."
He moved toward the sand pit.
"Hope that morning motivation survives the second hour."
After training, Rashan ate like a dying god.
Three plates—stacked. Fried root slices dusted with ground saltrice and chili, layered bread still warm from the oven, thick date paste, two eggs, a bowl of dried fruit soaked in honey and milk, and fish flaked with black pepper and lemon ash. Jalil watched halfway through the second plate, muttering something about "witnessing a crime."
Indomitable Stamina was a strange gift. When Rashan pushed himself to the absolute edge—all-out, redline training, deep regression runs—his body demanded obscene amounts of food to recover. It was like throwing coal into a furnace that never cooled. He needed more than grown warriors twice his size just to keep functioning.
But on quieter days? Light sessions, focused drills, stillness?
His body flipped.
Hyper-efficient. Tight-burning. He needed less than the average man, and still felt sharper than most.
It was one of the few perks he never stopped appreciating.
He wiped the last smear of date paste from his plate with a sliver of bread, rolled his shoulders, and rose from the table in silence.
The estate was quiet.
Rashan returned to his study and slipped into his next rhythm—books open, chalk on slate, runework half-sketched across a folding board. Spell formulas bloomed and vanished beneath his fingertips. Conjuration patterns. Restoration feedback loops. Personal enchantment theory. Clean, controlled work. The kind that demanded focus and offered clarity.
Jalil sat nearby, near the corner window, pulling his boots on and latching the final straps across his forearms. He wasn't a mage. Never would be. But he came to Adrien's magework sessions anyway—to learn how to fight them.
How to face spellblades in close quarters. How to cut through warding. How to read a caster's rhythm and keep pressure high until the spell collapsed. Jalil studied it like a second blade—silent, serious, always watching.
Rashan respected that. Even if he didn't say it out loud.
He was just finishing the wrap around his wrists when the knock came.
Once. Then again.
Fast.
Jalil looked up, brow furrowing.
Then the knock came again—louder this time. Urgent. No rhythm.
He stood, crossed the room, and pulled the door open.
Sadiaa stood in the hall—breathless, eyes wide, hair tangled from the wind. Her cloak hung half-loose across her shoulders, one hand gripping the doorframe. She'd run.
"What is it?" Jalil asked immediately, stepping forward.
She looked past him, straight at Rashan.
"They're back," she said, voice thin.
Rashan stepped out from behind the desk, still tightening the last strap. "Who?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Father. The fleet. Everyone. They're coming home."
Her voice held something bitter under the breathlessness.
"You were right. About the Empire."
Jalil turned sharply toward Rashan. Their eyes met.
Rashan didn't speak right away. He finished the wrap around his wrist, pulled it snug, then let his hands fall to his sides.
He exhaled. Once. Slow. Full.
The silence sat in the room like the weight of armor.
His gaze shifted toward the far window—toward the sea, toward the city.
"So it begins," he said quietly.
An hour later, they stood before his father.
He remained in uniform.
Dust clung to the armor. The cloak draped over one shoulder had stiffened with sweat and road grit. One of the leather straps at his side had snapped and been tied back with cord. The plates across his chest bore new dents. His boots carried the desert with them, trailing dry earth across the polished floor of the estate's war chamber.
He had not changed. He had not bathed. He had walked in from the road and gone straight to his seat.
The room held only those closest to the truth.
His mother stood by the hearth, hands clasped in front of her, face pale but composed. Sadiaa remained near her, arms folded, gaze locked forward. Rashan stood to one side of the room, posture easy but alert. Jalil stood beside him, silent and focused. Cassia lingered behind them, watchful as always. Adrien leaned near the column, arms folded behind his back, expression unreadable.
His brothers had yet to arrive. Their detachments moved through the mountain roads and high passes. About two-thirds of the Redguards who had served remained in transit, still marching home across the provinces.
At the head of the table, Samir Sulharen sat in silence.
The tall glass of wine at his right hand had already been drained once and refilled.
He had said nothing since their arrival.
When he finally raised his gaze, his voice came low and steady—roughened by dust and time, but clear.
"I believe you have heard fragments. I will speak the rest."
He sat straight, the weight of command carved into every line of his face.
"After the Dominion seized the Imperial City, the legions fell back. We reorganized. We retook the city."
He paused, jaw tight.
"Street by street. Gate by gate. We fought through fire and rubble. Every bridge had a cost. Every tower gave us nothing for free. But we reclaimed it."
He reached for the goblet, drank once, and set it down without sound.
"Then the Dominion offered peace."
His eyes scanned the room, slow and deliberate.
"The terms resembled the original ultimatum. Talos removed. The Blades disbanded. Worship erased. History rewritten. But one detail changed."
His voice sharpened slightly.
"This time, the Empire retains its territory. They surrender nothing."
He paused.
"Except us."
His fingers pressed into the table.
"The Emperor has agreed to withdraw from Hammerfell. Fully. No terms beyond that. We are not traded. We are not held. We are simply removed from the map."
He inhaled through his nose and released it slow.
"The White-Gold Concordat was signed. After our victory. After the dead were buried. The ink dried before the banners finished rising. And once it did, the Dominion sent its first demand."
He let the silence stretch.
"They ask for our surrender."
He finished the wine and set the goblet aside.
"A summit will be held in Hegathe. Every general, governor, and noble with a sword to raise will be present. King Lhotun will lead the council."
His gaze moved across the chamber, resting briefly on each of them.
"I will be there."
His father exhaled, heavy and slow.
The fire in his eyes had not dimmed. Rashan could see it now—not the fire of war, but the kind that came from betrayal. The kind that scorched slower. Deeper.
It lived in the lines around his mouth. In the way his hand tightened around the goblet before he drank again, draining the last of the wine.
"Fucking Thalmor," his father said.
The words landed like stone.
Rashan's chest shifted slightly. He had never heard his father curse. Not in war councils. Not in private. Not even during funerals.
The room felt heavier after that.
Samir Sulharen set the empty goblet aside.
"I can speak plainly now," he said. "Many men feel what I feel. Officers. Captains. House guards. Militia. Veterans from every province."
He looked up.
"We will not surrender. We will fight. Emperor be damned."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose with the edge of his hand.
"Leave me. I need time to settle my thoughts."
Boots shifted. The old floor gave a faint groan as chairs were pushed back.
His mother left first, expression unreadable. Sadiaa followed, though her hand lingered on the edge of the table for a moment longer. Jalil dipped his head and turned without speaking. Cassia trailed behind, always quiet. Adrien lingered last—his hand on the doorframe—then left.
Rashan stayed.
Everyone had left.
The doors stood open behind him, the room half-lit now as the sun shifted behind the high walls. Only Rashan remained.
He stood still, hands behind his back, posture straight, as if reporting to a commander rather than a father.
Samir looked at him—eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but still sharp.
"Yes, my son?"
Rashan stepped forward. His voice came steady.
"Hammerfell will not submit. Nor should we."
Samir nodded once.
"But we are not alone in this."
Rashan let that line breathe.
"There are others who hate the Thalmor. They may not fight for us, but they will fight beside us."
Samir leaned forward, listening now.
"The Bretons. Especially those in Evermore. They have watched Dominion agents pull strings across their courts and covens. The Nords will fight without hesitation if it means drawing Thalmor blood. Blades in hiding. Orc strongholds. Disavowed mages. Refugees from Bruma and Chorrol. Outlaws. Castoffs. Free swords."
Rashan's gaze did not waver.
"They all want war. Not for honor. For vengeance."
Samir's jaw shifted slightly—taking it in.
"When we win," Rashan said, each word like a hammer, "those who stand with us should be rewarded."
Samir blinked.
"Not with titles. Not with thrones. But with land. Status. A binding oath of recognition."
He stepped closer.
"Low-citizenship. Rights of protection. A stake in what they bleed to defend."
He let the silence fall.
His father stood still for several heartbeats. Then slowly—almost hesitantly—he rose from his chair.
He stared at Rashan as if seeing him clearly for the first time in years.
Then—
He stepped forward, arms wide, and pulled his son into a hard, full embrace—armor pressing cold against linen, one hand wrapping around the back of Rashan's shoulder with a kind of desperate strength.
"You speak like we could win this war!," Samir said. His voice cracked—not from weakness, but from something deeper breaking loose.
He pulled back just far enough to look him in the eye.
"You are a true son of Hammerfell."
And then he laughed.
A full, rough, honest laugh. Not the laugh of a man returning from war, but the kind that comes after tasting hope for the first time in weeks.
"I will speak this at the summit. I will see it carved in the war table if I must."
He gripped Rashan's shoulder once more.
"Thank you, my son."
He turned to the table and parchments and told Rasahn "Help me write this out."
He didn't wait for Rashan's answer. Parchment was unrolled. Ink readied. The map scroll moved aside to make space.
"What happens when they serve," Samir said. "What they're owed. What they leave behind. Terms of reward. Duration. Inheritance. Recognition. All of it."
Rashan sat beside him and wrote while his father spoke—sharp lines, deliberate phrasing. Nothing poetic. Everything built for war councils and noble ears.
"They should be paid," Rashan said.
His father gave a short nod. "Yes, I agree my son they should be paid. Volunteer or soldier, they bleed the same."
Together they filled the scroll with the shape of something real. A framework. A plan to honor those who chose to fight. Foreign volunteers. Bound service. Terms clean enough to survive the summit.
Once the structure had shape, Rashan spoke again.
"There's another piece."
His father looked over.
"If this moves forward, I want to lead a unit. Small. Specialized. Fast targets. Precise raids. Quiet work—where noise would cost us."
He kept writing as he spoke.
"I'd choose the team. Redguards at the center. A few trusted volunteers from other races—Nords, Bretons, Orsimer. Anyone with a reason to fight."
He paused.
"Jalil would be my second. Loyal. Disciplined. Carries the image people follow."
Another pause.
"And Cassia. Illusion-trained. Silent. Quick. We've trained together long enough to move as one."
He looked at his father.
"This is the kind of work we've been preparing for."
Samir watched him a moment longer, then looked back to the scroll.
"I will consider it," he said.
He capped the ink, rolled the parchment with care, and tucked it into his satchel. Every movement came sharp and clean, like muscle memory from command days that never faded.
By the time his personal guard arrived, Samir stood fully armored. Twelve riders waited outside, no words spoken between them.
He gave Rashan a final nod, then stepped into the night.
The doors closed. The sound of hooves faded. The house fell silent.
And Rashan remained—pen still warm in his hand, staring at the scroll they had just written.
The work had already begun.