Rashan stepped into his room, then paused at the door across the hall.
The Ancestor Room.
His family called it that, though its older name—Shurakai—meant The Hall of Echoes in Old Yokudan. Even among the Forebears, who embraced the Empire and its trappings, some things didn't bend. Ancestors mattered.
It wasn't about worship. It was about memory. About weight.
He stepped inside.
The air was still. Quiet. Light filtered in through narrow slats above, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The smell of old incense lingered, faint and sharp—sandalwood and ash.
Relics lined the walls. An old curved saber. A faded Legion standard. A cracked helm with a long dent down the side. Names carved into wood and brass.
At the center of the room hung a single painting.
Zahir Sulharen.
His second brother.
He wore his Legion officer's armor in the portrait—deep red sash, polished cuirass, one hand resting on the pommel of a straight-bladed sword. Eyes like their father's. Steady. Proud. Already dead.
Killed in the second year of the war.
Rashan stood there for a moment, saying nothing.
Just looking.
The portrait would stay up for a year—standard tradition. A way to mark Zahir's sacrifice and let the family remember. It made sense. It mattered.
But the rest of it?
All the names carved into wood and brass. The incense. The stiff silence. The expectation that stillness meant reverence.
He didn't mock it. He didn't fight it.
But if he was being honest, he'd rather be doing anything else than honor the ancestors…
His mother and father had a weekly thing going that lasted a couple of hours.
He made sure to skip it on his first run.
Jalil had said it best once, soft as they left the room together, voice just loud enough to carry:
"You stand there like you're waiting for them to dismiss you."
It had made Rashan smirk despite himself.
Because it was true.
He only went to honoring ceremonies because it was expected. Because his father and mother took it seriously.
But it was a lot more personal when Zahir had earned this place here.
But the others? The names he never knew?
Sure he honored them on the outside and went through the motions but he definitly wasnt devoted like his mother or father were.
As for the gods…
He believed the gods existed. The Daedra too.
That wasn't a question. In this world, their presence was obvious.
But existence didn't mean devotion.
He held no rituals. Said no prayers. Never looked for blessings.
He was just himself. Sure he'd do missions for the gods especially the daedra he was till looking foward to getting Azure's black star.
And as he thought about it…
At this point he did actually beleived the goddess Mara pulled him into this world in the form of Mara's statue in the from of a Skyrim Mod.
And if they were looking for someone who would face his threats personally he was their guy.
He wasn't about to get pious or anything.
With the amount of wealth he had accrued he probably whip up a few more projects and seen as to valuable to go to war
He thankful for the oppertunity at a chance to live a life but that's all he was thankful. This was his life and he meant to live it to the fullest.
This is the path he chose to walk.
There definitly some lower risk higher chances of success paths he could but he wouldn't because where is the fun in that he thought chuckling inwardly.
As he walked back from the Ancestor Room, Rashan let the stone corridors fall behind him. His steps were steady. Measured. No rush.
Redguards embraced the challenge. Life was the crucible—and the blade wasn't just a weapon. It was a mirror. Of will. Of discipline. Of the self.
He cut across the rear courtyard and slipped through the half-collapsed archway that led to the old training ring. No one used it anymore.
Except him.
He stepped to the center.
Drew his sword.
Sat down, cross-legged, the steel resting across his lap.
Then closed his eyes.
The Shehai. The spirit sword. Not a spell. Not a trick of magic. A blade forged from discipline and soul—summoned only by the most devoted sword saints. The Ansei.
It was legend. But it wasn't myth.
He believed it was possible. Or… used to.
He used to think meditation was the way forward. Sit still. Breathe. Clear the mind. Let the Shehai reveal itself.
But now?
He wasn't sure.
Over the years, he'd started to question if stillness was really the path. Maybe the Ansei didn't find their blades in silence. Maybe they found them in motion, in combat, in that exact point where survival sharpened the soul. Maybe it wasn't peace that brought it—maybe it was clarity under pressure.
But he still did this.
Every few days. Only in regression runs, when time was flexible and he could spare the space to try.
Because even if meditation wasn't the key, it still helped. It focused his mind. Helped him organize the chaos.
He followed the same routine every time. One hand on the hilt. One resting lightly on his knee. Eyes closed. Back straight. Sword balanced evenly across his lap.
He counted his breaths to sixty, then started over.
If thoughts came, he let them pass.
If tension crept in, he noted it, then let it go.
He didn't chase visions. He didn't try to force the blade.
Just sat.
For an hour.
Listened to the wind. Let the world move around him.
The Shehai never came.
But if it ever did?
He'd be ready.
So he sat there, still as stone, eyes closed, sword across his lap, the sun beginning to dip behind the wall.
And waited.
Just in case.
Just as Rashan was about to end his meditation, he heard his name being shouted.
"Rashan! Rashan!"
He opened his eyes.
Sadiaa came running across the courtyard—barefoot, flushed, her hair trailing behind her. Her voice carried like wind through the stone. She'd only grown more striking over the years. But there were few left to chase her now, and she had no interest in the ones who hadn't gone to war.
She stopped in front of him, breathless.
"The Empire's taken it back!" she said. "The Imperial City—it's ours again!"
A few seconds later, Jalil and Cassia appeared behind her. Jalil's grin was wide. Cassia's eyes flicked to Rashan and held.
They were expecting a reaction.
Rashan stood slowly. Calm. Measured.
He signed:
"They'll sign a treaty."
That quieted the air immediately.
He kept signing, deliberate now:
"The Dominion gets peace. The Empire keeps Cyrodiil and its heartlands intact."
"And Hammerfell?"
"We're on our own. No more legions. No supplies. No support."
"They'll cut us off to save themselves."
"And the Dominion will be watching."
"Waiting for us to surrender like we were supposed to in the beginning."
"We all know we're not going to do that."
The others fell still.
Then Jalil stepped forward, signing sharply:
"What… no! What the Empire should doing is doubling down- go on the offensive."
"Push now. Drive the Dominion back while they're reeling."
Rashan gave a small smile.
That was Jalil—quick, sharp, tactical. He saw more than people gave him credit for.
Too bad his father only ever called him a bastard. Never saw what he was becoming.
This was kind of man soldiers would follow.
Rashan signed back:
"It's not what they'll do."
"They'll walk away. Pretend it was victory. Let us bleed on
The silence that followed said enough.
Sadiaa looked like she'd just swallowed her breath. Cassia stared at the ground. Jalil's shoulders dropped slightly—his hands clenched.
Reality. Heavy and real.
Rashan rolled his shoulders out and signed:
"We're going out tonight."
"Eat . Breathe. Enjoy fine food and music.
He inwardly thought about how he had been pushing them full burn for years-110% effort."
Plust things like fine dining wouldnt exist when the war really broke out for hammerfell.
Jalil narrowed his eyes. "First the beach, now dinner? You feeling alright?"
Cassia raised an eyebrow. Signed: "Check his pulse."
Rashan laughed along with wveryone else, they all followed.