It was the day of the wedding—finally.
Rashan was happy it had arrived, not because he particularly cared for the ceremony, but because it meant things could go back to normal afterward. No more endless preparations, no more guests crowding the estate, no more ceremonial obligations. He would miss his brother, of course, but routine was something he valued far more than celebration.
This was his regression run.
He had already used today's first run to squeeze in half a day of studying and training, though he had hidden himself well—he was sure he would have been noticed otherwise.
Just out of curiosity, he had stayed in that first run longer than usual, not regressing right away.
His parents had been furious.
His mother had been furious in the elegant way only she could manage—sharp words laced with disappointment, the kind that made nobles and warriors alike pause. His father? If looks could kill, Rashan was pretty sure the man would have ended his bloodline on the spot.
And when he had casually told them he had been busy?
Yeah. That had almost ended him.
He was pretty sure his father had started looking for a switch to make his back raw.
But that was the first run. That version of the day was already gone.
Now, he cleared his thoughts and stepped outside.
He had to wear formal Redguard attire, something he rarely did. It was elegant yet functional, tailored for nobility but still a clear nod to their warrior traditions. He wore a deep crimson tunic embroidered with golden geometric patterns, marking his lineage, with a black silk sash wrapped firmly around his waist. Over it, he had a sleeveless, navy-blue outer robe—light enough for the desert heat yet layered just enough to appear dignified. His pants were fitted but loose enough to allow free movement, woven with subtle diamond patterns near the hems, a signature of his house's style.
He was used to going barefoot, preferring the feel of the ground beneath him, but today he had to wear formal sandals with leather straps wrapping up his calves. They were stiff and restrictive, and he hated every second of it.
As he adjusted the fit of his sash, he caught sight of his sister approaching.
Saadia Sulharen, 14 years old, the only girl among their siblings, and the sharpest of them all in wit and social maneuvering.
She carried herself like a noblewoman, head high, gaze sharp, and posture effortlessly poised. She had inherited their mother's deep brown skin and striking dark eyes, framed by thick lashes that always seemed to hide a thousand unspoken thoughts.
Her long, black hair had been woven into intricate braids, adorned with golden rings and delicate chains—the craftsmanship precise, every detail carefully placed for the occasion.
Her attire was regal yet practical—a flowing indigo dress with gold embroidery, the fabric layered just enough to flow elegantly without restricting movement. A golden belt cinched at her waist, accentuating her form while displaying her station. Delicate bangles lined her wrists, and a sheer navy-blue veil rested over her shoulders, meant to be drawn over her head during the ceremony but left open for now.
She looked him over, eyes lingering on his formal attire before smirking.
"You look miserable."
Rashan sighed, straightening his sash. "And you look beautiful, dear sister."
Saadia smirked, tilting her head as if deciding whether or not to accept the compliment. Then, with an air of dramatic grace, she gave a slow, regal nod. "Naturally."
"I'm sure you'll have endless admirers fawning over you all evening," Rashan continued, adjusting the stiff collar of his robe. "Meanwhile, I shall bravely take refuge by the banquet tables, indulging in endless delicacies, far from the exhausting world of noble small talk."
Saadia laughed, the sound warm and knowing. "Ah yes, that sounds exactly like something you'd do. Just don't eat so much you fall asleep before the night ends."
"No promises," Rashan said, grinning.
She rolled her eyes, then reached over and ruffled his hair, much to his dismay. "Come on, little brother. If you hide too well, Mother will have my head."
The wedding was held outdoors, as was tradition, under the open sky where the stars and moons could witness the union. The estate's grand courtyard had been transformed for the occasion, lined with flowing silken banners in the deep reds and golds of their family crest. Ornate lanterns hung from intricately carved wooden arches, their soft glow illuminating the finely woven rugs and cushions arranged in a semi-circle around the ceremonial space. The warm night air carried the scent of desert blossoms, mingling with the rich spices of the forthcoming feast.
The guests arrived first, nobility from neighboring houses and dignitaries from the Empire, their presence a testament to the importance of the event. Their conversations hummed in the background, voices laced with both genuine excitement and the subtle maneuvering of courtly politics.
The bride's family arrived in procession, draped in rich fabrics, their entrance marked by the rhythmic beat of ceremonial drums. The bride herself, veiled in shimmering gold, was led forward by her closest kin. The veil was sheer enough to show her features but concealed just enough to preserve the moment of revelation for the groom.
Kamal stood waiting at the center of the courtyard, clad in a deep crimson robe embroidered with golden filigree, the attire of a warrior-noble. A ceremonial scimitar rested at his side, its hilt wrapped in fine leather, a symbol of both his station and his readiness to protect his new household. His expression was unreadable, but Rashan knew his brother well enough to recognize the quiet pride beneath the composed exterior.
The priest of Tu'whacca stepped forward, dressed in flowing white and gold robes, raising his hands to silence the murmurs. The air grew still as he spoke, his voice carrying over the gathering. He recited the ancient words of binding, invoking the blessing of the ancestors and the gods, ensuring that the marriage was not just a contract of the present but a bond that would be honored beyond death. The couple exchanged vows, their words firm, steady, spoken not just for each other but for the families that stood behind them.
The final act of the ceremony was the sword dance. It was tradition—more than just spectacle, it was a symbol of unity and strength. Two warriors stepping forward to demonstrate not just their skill but their understanding of balance, of moving as one. Kamal and his bride took up blunted ceremonial blades, stepping into a slow, deliberate exchange. It was a test, a display of trust; the movements were not meant to wound but to prove their ability to face life's battles together. Their strikes were precise, their footwork measured, and as the last clash of steel rang out, the crowd erupted into cheers.
With the formal rites complete, the celebration truly began.
Musicians struck up a lively tune as servants moved swiftly to arrange the feast. Long, low tables were brought forth, draped in rich fabrics, and piled high with food. Roasted lamb seasoned with saffron and cloves, trays of honeyed dates and almonds, steaming spiced stews, and freshly baked flatbreads stacked beside bowls of fragrant butter. Wine flowed freely, poured into delicate glass goblets that caught the flickering candlelight.
Rashan could already see the groups forming—noblemen engaging in negotiations disguised as pleasantries, warriors boasting of past battles, and the younger nobles indulging in flirtations beneath the soft glow of the lanterns.
He, of course, had no intention of being pulled into any of it. The food was far more interesting.
As the night stretched on, the air grew heavier with celebration. The best men—Kamal's closest companions and fellow warriors—stood one by one, offering their speeches. Some were filled with laughter, recounting old war stories or youthful mischief. Others spoke with reverence, honoring the legacy Kamal carried and the path he was about to walk. The words were well-crafted, powerful in their sincerity, spoken in the way only Redguard warriors could—a mix of poetry, humor, and undeniable strength.
Even Rashan, despite his usual detachment from these kinds of social gatherings, found himself drawn in by the moment.
And then, in the midst of the joy, he saw it.
The world slowed.
Perfect recall.
His eyes caught it before anyone else did.
The faint shimmer of fletching, barely visible in the dim lantern light. The motion—the smooth, precise arc of a projectile cutting through the air. Too fast. Too clean. Too practiced.
A bowshot.
From where?
The trajectory told him everything in a second. The angle. The power behind the draw. The type of bow used. His mind mapped it before his heart even had time to react.
It had come from above. A rooftop. A high vantage point. A professional's shot.
And then—impact.
The arrow struck cleanly, center mass.
A direct hit.
It punched through Kamal's chest, the steel-tipped shaft slamming through cloth, piercing muscle, splitting bone. The impact sent a dull, wet thud rippling through the moment. His body jerked back slightly, feet shifting to keep balance, but it was too late.
Rashan watched as his brother's breath hitched, his mouth parting slightly as if he hadn't quite processed what had happened. His hand instinctively moved toward the wound, fingers brushing against the arrow embedded deep in his ribs.
Then—blood.
A slow bloom of dark crimson, staining the gold embroidery of his ceremonial robes, spreading outward like ink on silk.
For a fraction of a second, there was silence.
And then—
Chaos.
A scream cut through the night—sharp, panicked. The sound of a goblet shattering against stone. Someone shouted orders, but the words were lost in the sudden surge of movement.
Guards reacted immediately—scimitars drawn, eyes scanning the rooftops, some already moving to form a protective barrier around the nobles.
Kamal staggered, legs buckling, falling to one knee. His bride lunged toward him, hands trembling as she reached for the arrow, as if she could undo what had just happened.
But Rashan wasn't watching them anymore.
His mind was locked onto the shot. The angle. The trajectory.
Somewhere in the dark, the assassin was still there.
His SEAL training kicked in immediately.
His brother was dead.
There was no saving him.
He could grieve later. Right now, he needed to see the assassin. That was all that mattered. That was what he needed to do now.
The moment shattered around him in waves of chaos—shouting, panic, guards rushing to Kamal's side, weapons drawn, guests stumbling back in horror. But Rashan wasn't watching them.
His eyes were locked on the rooftop.
Where did the shot come from?
The placement was perfect—high ground, clear line of sight, a clean escape route. The assassin had calculated everything. But so had he. Rashan had seen the angle, the speed, the trajectory—his mind had already mapped where the archer had fired from.
He moved.
A soldier rushed past him, trying to get to the main entrance—Rashan twisted out of the way, weaving through the shifting mass of bodies. Servants ran, ducking behind tables for cover. A noblewoman screamed, hands over her mouth, too shocked to move. Guards pushed forward, forming a shield wall near Kamal, swords drawn, barking orders at one another.
Rashan didn't stop.
He pivoted sharply, ducking under an overturned bench, boots skidding slightly against the stone as he sprinted toward the side of the courtyard. His lungs burned, but he ignored it. His body felt weightless, driven purely by instinct.
Two guards blocked his path ahead—they weren't the enemy, but they were in the way. Rashan didn't slow down.
The first one turned just in time to see him coming. "Boy, get ba—"
Too late. Rashan dropped low, sliding between them before either could react, using their confusion to slip past their defensive line. He heard their surprised shouts behind him, but it didn't matter. He was already gone.
He darted toward the outer walls of the courtyard, the nearest access point to the rooftops. The shot had come from the eastern corner—just beyond the servant quarters. A smart placement—less guarded, easy to blend in with the movement of house staff.
That's where they would be escaping from.
He reached the back entrance—a narrow, shaded alley where servants often passed through unseen. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, his breath sharp and controlled.
And then he saw them.
A servant.
Moving fast, slipping out of sight while everyone else ran toward the chaos.
That wasn't what set Rashan off.
He knew every servant in this house.
Every. Single. One.
And that face? Didn't belong.
The skin tone was off—too dark, but not naturally. Painted. The features beneath? Imperial. The structure of the nose, the set of the jaw—it was all wrong for a Redguard.
Blackface. A disguise.
And the moment Rashan saw it, the assassin knew.
Their eyes met and he pointed at the assassin and went to yell, but didn't.
Then—the fake servant bolted toward him- exactly what he wanted.
Rashan sighed as he saw the assassin approach.
The things you did for family…
This was going to suck.
The killer moved fast—too fast. One second, Rashan was watching him, the next, a strong, gloved hand clamped onto his shoulder, yanking him forward with brutal efficiency. Cold steel kissed the side of his throat, a dagger, small but wickedly sharp, positioned with the kind of precision that left no room for error.
Rashan didn't resist.
Guess he was about to find out if his feature worked.
The assassin's grip was like iron—controlled, practiced, not an ounce of wasted movement. The smell of leather, oiled steel, and the faint metallic tang of blood lingered on the man's gloves. Up close, Rashan could see beneath the fake darkening of his skin, the angular Imperial features that had no place among the servants of this house.
"Boy, you have two options." The assassin's voice was low, steady, and utterly indifferent. "You stay quiet, or I kill you."
The blade pressed harder. The man grinned. "I am not against that."
How dramatic.
Rashan stared him down, meeting his gaze without fear. Then he opened his mouth to shout.
The assassin didn't hesitate.
A brutal, practiced thrust—steel punched through his throat.
Efficient. Clean. Lethal.
The pain was instant, a white-hot burn tearing through flesh and cartilage as the blade sliced through his vocal cords like silk. His body jerked violently, hands flying up on instinct, but there was nothing to grab, nothing to stop. A wet, choking noise gurgled from his ruined throat as his lungs tried and failed to pull in air.
Vision blurred. Limbs numbed. The world tilted.
Then—blackness.
Everything vanished.
Rashan's eyes snapped open.
He was in his bed. The familiar ceiling greeted him, shadows dancing from the flickering lanterns. The scent of incense hung in the air, mingling with the cool night breeze drifting through the open window.
Death reload.
Save feature locked for three days.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.
Yeah. That sucked.