Passing Feralda's test—with, admittedly, more violence than elegance—opened a new door for Torin.
The Mistress of Destruction had signed off on his progress with a grudging nod and the comment that he was "adequate, if overly fond of physical solutions." High praise, coming from her.
With that hurdle cleared, Torin was free to seek out the other masters of the College. Tolfdir had been clear: a well-rounded mage studied all schools, not just the ones that came naturally. And so, armed with fresh parchment authorizations and a growing curiosity about the arcane arts, Torin began his circuit of Winterhold's finest instructors.
...
The healing ward was warm.
Not magically warm, though Torin suspected that could be arranged. Simply comfortably warm, with soft carpets on the stone floor, cushioned chairs arranged in a semicircle, and shelves lined with books on healing, wards, and the ethical treatment of the wounded.
It felt less like a classroom and more like a particularly well-appointed sitting room.
Colette Marence herself was a small Breton woman with kind eyes, an eager smile, and the energetic demeanor of someone who'd spent her entire career defending her chosen school against those who dismissed it as "lesser magic."
When Torin entered, introduced himself, and explained his purpose, her face lit up like a bonfire.
"A Nord who wants to study Restoration?" She clasped her hands together. "Oh, this is wonderful! Usually you lot come in here wanting fireballs and lightning, acting like healing is for the weak."
She bustled forward and, before Torin could react, reached up and pinched his cheek firmly. "And look at you! Such a strapping young man! You clearly take care of yourself—that's the first step to being a good healer, you know. You can't pour from an empty cup!"
Torin endured the cheek-pinch with the stoic patience of a man who'd survived far worse. "I've always found Restoration useful," he said honestly. "Keeps me alive when things go wrong."
"Smart boy!" Colette released his cheek and patted his arm. "Very smart. Now, let's see where you're at. Tolfdir's notes say you've got a solid foundation—healing spells, wards, that sort of thing. But Restoration is about more than just patching up cuts. It's about protection. About turning back forces that seek to harm the living."
She bustled over to a shelf and retrieved a slim tome, handing it to him with the gravity of a general presenting a sacred relic.
"Turn Undead," she announced. "The first real test of a Restoration mage's mettle. Any fool can heal a scraped knee. It takes conviction to face the unliving and remind them they don't belong here." She beamed at him. "Learn this spell, dear. Come back when you can cast it. I want to see those undead running!"
...
Later.
The Middens were exactly what they sounded like: the lowest level of the College, a warren of damp stone corridors and forgotten chambers that smelled faintly of mildew, old magic, and something Torin preferred not to identify.
It was here that the College kept its more... experimental facilities. Including, apparently, a summoned skeleton that Phinis Gestor used for necromancy demonstrations.
Torin had gotten permission to use it for his test. Phinis had been oddly enthusiastic about the request. "Finally, someone who wants to make it run away instead of at him," the old necromancer had cackled. "Take all the time you need."
Now Torin stood at one end of a narrow stone chamber, the skeleton rattling at the other. It was a standard conjuration—bones held together by will and magic, empty eye sockets somehow managing to convey mindless aggression.
It clacked its jaw and took a shuffling step forward.
Torin took a deep breath and prepared himself.
The spell weave was different from anything he'd learned before.
Restoration magic, when turned toward offense, required a specific kind of conviction—a certainty that the undead should not exist, that their very presence was an affront to the natural order.
Torin had never thought about it that way. He'd always just wanted things to stop trying to kill him or to exist altogether.
But as he faced the approaching skeleton, he found that conviction surprisingly easy to summon. This thing was a mockery of life. A puppet of dark magic.
It didn't belong here, in this world of breath and blood and warmth.
He raised a hand and pushed.
Golden light erupted from his palm, washing over the skeleton in a wave of pure, radiant energy. The effect was instantaneous—and frankly, hilarious.
The skeleton screamed. Or at least, it made a sound that was definitely a scream, despite having no lungs, no throat, and no apparent capacity for vocalization. It threw its bony arms up as if to shield itself, spun on its heel, and ran.
Straight into the stone wall.
The impact scattered its bones like a child's toy knocked from a shelf. Skull bounced one way, ribs another, pelvis clattering to a stop near Torin's feet. The magical glow in its eye sockets flickered once, twice, and then winked out entirely.
Torin stared at the pile of remains. Then at his hand. Then back at the pile.
"Huh," he said.
From the doorway, Phinis Gestor let out a wheezing laugh. "Oh, that's beautiful! I haven't seen one of my little friends run like that since the last time the Archmage came down here to complain about the smell!" He wiped a tear from his eye. "I'll have to extract the residual magicka of the spell from its bones and study it..."
Torin flexed his fingers, still feeling the echo of that golden light. It had worked. Really, genuinely worked. And it had felt... right. Like pushing back against something that needed pushing.
He smiled, gathered the scattered bones into a respectful pile for Phinis to reconstitute later, and headed back upstairs to find Colette.
...
Torin returned to Colette's warm, carpeted chamber with the satisfied glow of a man who'd just watched a skeleton run face-first into a wall. The Breton woman was waiting for him, practically vibrating with anticipation.
"Well?" she demanded. "How did it go?"
Torin allowed himself a small smile. "The skeleton ran. Straight into a wall. Fell apart."
Colette squealed. Actually squealed, clasping her hands under her chin and bouncing on her heels. "Oh, that's wonderful! That's perfect! I knew you had the right temperament for it!" She rushed forward and, before Torin could react, pinched his other cheek. "Such natural talent! Such conviction!"
She released him and stepped back, her expression shifting to something more complicated—pride mixed with a genuine, reluctant sadness.
"I hate to do this," she admitted. "Really, I do. Students with your talent for Restoration don't come along often. But the rules are the rules, and Tolfdir was clear about your education needing to be... well-rounded."
She sighed. "There isn't much else I can teach you, dear. You've mastered the anti-undead spells, and your fundamentals are solid. The next branch of Restoration—the darker branch, dealing with poison and pestilence, with taking life instead of saving it—that requires absolute devotion to the school. A specialization I don't think you're interested in."
Torin shook his head. "I'll stick to healing, if it's all the same."
"I thought so." Colette patted his arm. "You're a healer at heart, my boy. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Now go—find Phinis Gestor for Conjuration. And if he gives you any trouble, you come right back here and tell me. I'll pinch his ears off."
...
If Colette's workplace was warm and inviting, Phinis Gestor's corner of the College was... not.
The Conjuration classroom was located in a drafty tower room cluttered with summoning circles, cages of various sizes (some empty, some not), and shelves lined with skulls and preserved limbs. The air smelled of sulfur and something metallic, and the constant, low hum of bound Daedra vibrated through the stones.
Phinis himself was a thin Breton man with wild grey hair, sunken eyes that gleamed with perpetual amusement, and the kind of smile that suggested he found the entire world hilarious for reasons he wasn't sharing. When Torin entered, Phinis looked up from the skeleton he was apparently having a conversation with and beamed.
"Ah! The famous Storm-Caller!" He waved the skeleton away—it shuffled obediently into a corner—and approached with his hand extended. "I've heard all about you. Wrestling bears, smiting bandits, turning my poor skeleton into a pile of kindling. Delightful, simply delightful!"
Torin shook his hand cautiously. "We've already met before, sir... didn't we...? I'm just here to learn..."
"You're no fun. You were supposed to play along... but yes, Tolfdir sent word. Well-rounded mage and all that." Phinis's grin widened. "Shall we begin?"
They began.
And Torin hit a wall.
Not a literal wall—though after some of Phinis's demonstrations, he wouldn't have been surprised. No, this was a wall of prejudice, deep-seated and stubborn, that he hadn't even realized he'd built.
Conjuration, as Phinis explained it, was the art of summoning. Creatures from Oblivion, spirits from the beyond, even the souls of the dead given temporary form. It was about reaching into other realms and pulling things through.
Every time Torin tried to grasp the spell matrix, his mind rebelled.
Daedra, he thought. Summoning Daedra. Giving them a foothold in this world. Inviting them in.
His memories of the game—of Mehrunes Dagon's invasion, of the havoc Daedric Princes could wreak—were hazy but persistent.
And then there was Sheogorath, who'd already taken an interest in him, who'd visited him, who'd made it clear that Torin's path was being watched by powers beyond mortal comprehension.
The last thing he wanted was to open any doors for something nasty to slip through...
Phinis, to his credit, didn't help matters. Every lesson came with warnings.
"Of course, if you lose focus during a summoning, the Daedra might break free and attack you. Terribly embarrassing."
"Now, this particular Atronach has been known to turn on its summoner if you use the wrong tone of voice. Don't ask how I know."
"The key to banishing a Dremora is confidence. If it senses doubt, it will absolutely try to remove your spine."
Torin's jaw would tighten. His grip on his spellwork would falter. And Phinis would watch him with those amused, knowing eyes.
After a week of this, they sat across from each other in Phinis's cluttered tower, a pot of tea between them that Torin suspected was drugged but couldn't prove.
"You hate it," Phinis said. It wasn't a question.
Torin hesitated, then nodded. "I don't trust it. Summoning things from other realms—things that want to be here, that want to cause harm—it feels like inviting a wolf into your home and hoping it's in a good mood."
Phinis sipped his tea. "A fair assessment. And not entirely wrong." He set the cup down. "Here's the thing, young man. I could force you through this. Make you learn, make you practice, make you pass the tests. But Conjuration, more than any other school, requires a certain... comfort with the uncomfortable. A willingness to dance with dangerous partners. If your heart isn't in it, you'll be a liability to yourself and everyone around you."
He leaned back, steepling his fingers. "I'll talk to the Archmage. Explain the situation. Most mages of the College are expected to reach apprentice level in all schools, but... exceptions can be made. Especially for those with talent in other areas."
Torin blinked. "You'd do that?"
Phinis shrugged. "I'm a reasonable man. And honestly? Watching you squirm every time I mention Daedra has been entertainment enough. I don't need to see you actually try to summon one and have it eat your face." He grinned. "That would be less entertaining. Messy. So much paperwork."
Torin let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank you. Truly."
"Don't thank me yet." Phinis's grin took on a sharper edge. "You still have to learn something. The Archmage will expect at least novice-level competency. So here's your task."
He reached into a drawer and produced a slim tome, tossing it to Torin. "Conjure Familiar. The simplest summoning in the school. A wolf spirit—friendly, loyal, eager to please. No Daedra involved. Just a bit of nature magic given form."
He pointed a bony finger at Torin. "Learn it. Cast it. Come back when you can keep the wolf alive for more than a minute."
Torin caught the book, weighing it in his hands. A wolf spirit. That... that didn't sound so bad. It wasn't a Daedra. It wasn't opening doors to Oblivion. It was just... a magic wolf.
"Alright," he said. "I can do that."
...
Torin stood in the center of the College's main courtyard, a respectable crowd of students and faculty gathered at the edges. Word had spread that the famous Storm-Caller was being tested by Phinis Gestor, and apparently academic drama was the only entertainment Winterhold had to offer.
His wolf familiar sat at his feet.
It was a good wolf. A great wolf, actually—translucent silver, with bright blue eyes and an eager, panting expression. It had taken Torin three days to get the spell right, and another four to maintain the summoning for more than a few minutes.
Now it sat patiently, looking up at him with the devoted gaze of a real animal, waiting for commands.
Phinis stood across from him, looking profoundly pleased with himself.
"Excellent work, Torin!" he called, his voice carrying across the courtyard. "A fine familiar! Strong, healthy, well-summoned! You've clearly mastered the basics of the basics!"
Torin allowed himself a small smile. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after—
"Now for your test!" Phinis's grin widened into something genuinely maniacal. "A duel! Conjuration against conjuration! You and your wolf familiar... against me!"
Before Torin could respond, before he could even process, Phinis raised his hands and began casting.
The air rippled. Summoning circles blazed to life around him—one, two, three, four, five—each one disgorging a creature of pure, terrifying purpose.
A Flame Atronach materialized with a shriek of burning rage, its molten form crackling with heat. A Frost Atronach followed, a hulking giant of living ice that shook the ground when it landed. A Dremora appeared in a flash of red light, its armor black as obsidian, its greatsword already drawn.
Two more lesser Daedra—a Clannfear and a Scamp—screeched and chittered as they took shape.
Phinis Gestor, the mild-mannered, slightly unhinged conjuration teacher, threw his head back and laughed. It was not a sane sound.
"ATTACK!" he bellowed, pointing at Torin's wolf.
The five Daedra moved as one.
Torin's wolf familiar, brave to a fault, planted its feet and growled. It lunged at the nearest creature—the Clannfear—teeth bared, ready to defend its summoner.
It lasted perhaps three seconds.
The Clannfear caught it mid-leap, its beak-like jaws closing around the wolf's spectral throat.
The Dremora's greatsword took off its hindquarters in a single, casual swing.
The Flame Atronach immolated what remained. By the time the Frost Atronach and the Scamp reached the scene, there was nothing left but dissipating spirit-stuff and a faint, fading whimper.
With a wince, Torin stared at the empty space where his familiar had been. The Daedra stood amidst the lingering sparkles of its dissolution, looking bored.
The courtyard was silent.
Phinis Gestor wiped a tear from his eye—a tear of pure, unhinged mirth—and clapped his hands together. "WONDERFUL! Absolutely wonderful! The look on your face! Priceless!"
He strode forward, stepping around his still-smoldering Daedra, and clapped Torin on the shoulder.
"You passed, by the way. Obviously. The wolf was perfect—well-summoned, well-controlled, brave to the point of stupidity. That's all I needed to see."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Consider this your first real lesson in Conjuration: never assume your enemy will play fair. Never assume a duel will be one-on-one. And never, ever, get attached to your summons when your opponent can summon something bigger."
He patted Torin's shoulder again, then turned to address the crowd, spreading his arms wide.
"SHOW'S OVER! BACK TO YOUR STUDIES! NOTHING TO SEE HERE EXCEPT A VERY EDUCATED YOUNG MAN AND A CONJURATION MASTER AT THE TOP OF HIS GAME!"
The students dispersed, chattering excitedly. The faculty shook their heads and wandered off. Phinis's Daedra, one by one, vanished in puffs of sulfurous smoke.
Torin stood motionless in the center of the courtyard, still staring at the spot where his poor wolf had died.
After a long moment, he turned to Phinis, who was still beaming at him.
"You," Torin said slowly, "are absolutely insane."
Phinis's grin widened. "Thank you! Now, about that talk with the Archmage—I'll put in a good word. You're definitely not cut out for advanced Conjuration, but you've got the basics. That ought to be sufficient."
He patted Torin's cheek—not a pinch, thankfully—and wandered off toward his tower, humming a tuneless little song.
Torin stood alone in the courtyard, flexing his hands, feeling the echo of the spell that had briefly given him a loyal companion.
Poor doggy...
...
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