After the emotional whiplash of Phinis Gestor's "test," Torin was almost relieved to move on to the next school. Almost.
Illusion. The magic of perception, of bending light and sound, of tricking the mind into seeing what wasn't there and missing what was. It was subtle magic, the kind that required finesse rather than brute force. Torin wasn't sure he had the temperament for it, but again, Tolfdir had been insistent.
Drevis Neloren, the Master of Illusion, was... different.
The Dunmer occupied a quiet corner of the College, a small chamber off the main hallway that Torin had passed dozens of times without ever noticing. That, he later realized, was probably the point.
The room was sparse but comfortable—a few chairs, a desk cluttered with crystals and lenses, shelves lined with tomes whose titles seemed to shift when viewed directly.
Drevis himself was a slender, soft-spoken elf with dark red eyes that never seemed to focus on anything for more than a moment, yet somehow missed nothing.
Their first meeting had been... unremarkable. Drevis had greeted him politely, assessed his current knowledge with a few simple questions, and assigned him his first tome: "Light in Darkness: Foundations of Illumination Magic."
No lectures. No warnings. No eccentric rants.
It was so normal that Torin found it deeply unsettling.
He'd grown accustomed to the College's peculiar brand of madness. Tolfdir, for all his wisdom, wandered the halls aimlessly and held class wherever his feet took him.
Colette was convinced the entire magical community looked down on Restoration and took every opportunity to defend her chosen school's honor.
Phinis Gestor held conversations with skeletons and found genuine joy in watching his students squirm.
Even Feralda, rigid and ambitious as she was, wore her political scheming like a second skin—impossible to miss once you knew what to look for.
They were the kind of people you'd recognize as extraordinary after a single interaction.
But Drevis? Drevis just... taught. He explained concepts clearly, demonstrated spells precisely, and sent Torin off to practice with a calm "See you next week." No theatrics. No hidden agendas. No unsettling laughter.
Normal, Torin thought one evening, walking back to his quarters after another straightforward lesson. He's normal. In a college full of lunatics, that makes him the strangest one of all.
He couldn't shake the feeling that there was more going on beneath the surface. That perhaps Drevis's mastery of Illusion wasn't just academic—that maybe, just maybe, the reason he seemed so normal was because he was very, very good at making people see normal, regardless of what lurked underneath.
But Torin had no proof of this, and he wasn't about to accuse a master mage of hiding behind his own magic. So he studied diligently, learning the spells Drevis assigned: Pale Shadow (a spell that creates an illusion in any shape or form that would vanish with one hit, no matter how light), and Courage and Fury as spells to strengthen allies and disrupt enemies.
Weeks passed. Torin's understanding of Illusion grew, and with it, his respect for the school's subtle power.
A well-placed Fear spell could empty a room faster than any fireball. A touch of Invisibility could make a man a ghost. And Clairvoyance—that strange, shimmering path that appeared only to the caster—had already saved him hours of wandering the Arcanaeum's endless shelves, although it isn't as convenient as the game made it seem.
Finally, after Torin had demonstrated proficiency with the assigned spells, Drevis called him to his chamber for what he assumed would be his final test.
The test, unlike Drevis Neloren's unassuming image, was anything but mundane or ordinary.
Torin sat across from the Dunmer master, expecting perhaps a final demonstration of some advanced spell, or perhaps a philosophical discussion about the nature of perception.
Instead, Drevis laid out a plan so elaborate, so utterly absurd, that Torin had to actively stop himself from laughing.
There was, it turned out, a secret betting ring operating in the deepest levels of the Midden. Weekly events. Skooma-soaked, moon-sugar-fueled, absolutely illegal by College standards. And the main attraction? Skeever fights.
Actual rats. In a pit. With mages placing bets.
Torin's first thought was that the College administration had finally decided to crack down on this particular brand of student degeneracy, and they wanted him to do the dirty work. He was already mentally composing his refusal—he hadn't come to Winterhold to bust up rat fights—when Drevis continued.
The objective wasn't to shut anything down. It was to infiltrate. And once inside, using only Illusion magic, Torin was to subtly influence the outcome of a fight so that a specific rat—a scrawny, underfed thing that had never won a single bout—would emerge victorious.
Torin had questions. Many, many questions.
Drevis, in his calm, measured way, explained. The organizers of these events were not stupid. Far from it. They'd implemented safeguards over the years, the most important being a simple rule: anyone who'd studied Illusion for more than a few months was barred from entry.
Too much risk of someone rigging the fights, they'd reasoned. Too much potential for magical interference.
Torin, however, had only been studying Illusion for a short time. No one in their right mind would believe he was already capable of influencing a fight. They'd let him in without a second thought. And that, Drevis explained with a faint, satisfied smile, was precisely why this task was the perfect test.
It wouldn't be easy. Far from it. He'd need to cast spells subtly, under the noses of dozens of mages—some of whom might sense magical interference if he wasn't careful. He'd need to read the room, time his influence perfectly, and ensure that when the scrawny rat won, it looked like luck, not magic.
Torin was suspicious. Deeply, profoundly suspicious. The whole setup reeked of something more than a simple test—a personal favor for Drevis, perhaps, or some long-running bet between masters. But he had no real reason to refuse.
The task was challenging, yes, but it played to his strengths: observation, timing, and the kind of subtlety he'd honed over years of reading dangerous situations.
Besides, there was another factor that tipped the scales.
Pocket change.
Torin had brought enough gold with him to the College to cover his needs, but more gold never hurt anyone. And if he was going to infiltrate a betting ring anyway, well... it would be foolish not to place a small wager on the rat he was about to make win. A little extra coin for his trouble. A little reward for a job well done.
Drevis, when Torin pointed this out, had merely smiled and said nothing. Which, Torin reflected later, was probably answer enough.
So it was settled. In three days' time, when the next skeever fight was scheduled, Torin would descend into the Midden. He'd find the secret ring. He'd bet on the underdog. And he'd use every scrap of Illusion magic he'd learned to make that rat the victor.
It was insane. It was ridiculous. And it was, Torin thought, all in good fun.
...
The days came and went in a blur of preparation and nerves, and somehow—against reasonable expectations—Torin pulled it off.
The infiltration had been the easy part. A bit of Muffle (hastily learned) to quiet his footsteps, a touch of Candlelight to navigate the darker passages, and he'd found the secret chamber without incident.
The betting ring was exactly as described: a rough-hewn space in the deepest Midden, lit by flickering torches, filled with students and the occasional junior faculty member all clustered around a central pit. The air smelled of damp stone, excited sweat, and rat.
Getting inside had been trivial. A few nods, a muttered password he'd extracted from a talkative apprentice, and he was in.
Placing his bet on the scrawny rat—a pathetic creature the locals had dubbed "No-Cheese" for its uncanny ability to lose—had raised a few eyebrows, but no one questioned him.
A new face with gold to spend was always welcome.
The hard part had been the magic.
Illusion, Torin had learned, was subtle. It didn't blast or burn or transform. It suggested. And suggesting to a room full of mages—some of whom might sense magical interference—that a particular rat looked slightly more threatening, slightly more intimidating to its opponents, required a delicate touch.
He'd done it in layers. A Fear spell so weak it barely registered, aimed not at the rats but at their perception of Cheese-No-More. A Calm spell on the bigger, meaner rats, just enough to dull their aggression.
And at the most crucial moment, when Cheese-No-More stood trembling before its final opponent, more troll than skeever, Torin had cast a tiny, almost imperceptible Courage spell on the underdog.
The rat had won. Not gracefully—it had basically triumphed through the other rat's confusion—but won nonetheless.
The crowd had erupted in shocked cheers and groans in equal measure. And Torin had collected his winnings with the serene expression of a man who'd just gotten very lucky.
Half magic, half social engineering. Though he had to admit, his social skills were a bit rusty. Years of dedicating himself to magical study—first in his workshop in Markarth, then in his secluded lair inside the Broken Fang Cave—had left him more comfortable with books and enchantments than with people.
But he'd managed. Smiled in the right places. Nodded at the right jokes. Collected his gold and slipped out before anyone thought to ask too many questions.
He'd even had fun. Which was surprising, and a little unsettling.
Drevis Neloren, Torin reflected as he climbed the stairs back to the main College, had just earned himself a spot on a very short list: elves Torin didn't actively dislike.
It was an exclusive club. The Dunmer master had made it in on his first try.
...
The Next Day
Torin knocked on the door, expecting perhaps a brief debriefing, maybe some congratulatory words, and then a clean break from Illusion studies.
He'd done the test. He'd passed. Time to move on.
The door opened to reveal Drevis Neloren sitting at his desk, surrounded by stacks of coins. Not a few coins. Stacks. Neat little piles of septims arranged in what appeared to be some kind of organizational system.
Drevis was methodically counting them, his long fingers moving with practiced efficiency, his expression one of serene concentration.
He looked up as Torin entered and offered a calm nod. "Ah, Torin. Good timing. There are no lessons today—I must sort out the department's budget for the semester. Administrative duties, you understand."
He gestured vaguely at the coins. "But I can spare a minute or two. Report?"
Torin stared at the coins. Then at Drevis's placid face. Then back at the coins.
The Dunmer had said it so naturally, so confidently, that Torin might have believed him. Might have accepted the "department budget" explanation without a second thought.
But he'd already harbored suspicions about Drevis's true nature—suspicions that the master of Illusion might be hiding more than he revealed, that his apparent normality was itself a kind of magic.
And now, seeing him calmly counting coins the day after a rigged skeever fight...
Torin filed the observation away for later consideration.
Whether it was actually budget money, or winnings from a bet Drevis had placed on Cheese-No-More, it didn't really matter. Torin had benefited from the arrangement. He'd passed the test, earned some gold, and even enjoyed himself.
What Drevis did with his own finances was his own business.
So Torin just shrugged and delivered his report. The infiltration. The betting. The subtle magic. The victorious rat. The collected winnings. He left nothing out—there was no point in hiding anything from a man who'd probably already watched the whole thing through some invisible scrying spell anyway.
Drevis listened patiently, nodding at the appropriate moments, his fingers never pausing in their counting. When Torin finished, the Dunmer set down a small stack of coins and fixed him with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"Well done," he said simply. "You've demonstrated proficiency, creativity, and the kind of practical application that most students never achieve. I have nothing more to teach you—at least, nothing at this level."
He paused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "Unless, of course, you're interested in mastering Illusion in earnest. In which case, we have much to discuss."
Torin considered this. Mastery. A path to deeper understanding of this strange, subtle school. The ability to bend perception, to hide in plain sight, to make others see what he wanted them to see.
It was tempting. More tempting than he'd expected.
...
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