Torin wandered through the snow-dusted courtyard, his breath pluming in white clouds, his footsteps leaving a trail of prints that the falling snow slowly erased behind him. The conversation with Tolfdir lingered in his mind like a half-remembered dream—present but elusive, just beyond full grasp.
They'd talked for over an hour after his recounting of the other masters' lessons. About Alteration, mostly. About what it meant to truly master the school, beyond simply learning spells and casting them efficiently.
And somewhere in that rambling, philosophical discussion, Tolfdir had dropped a observation that had struck Torin like a physical blow—not because it was new, but because it was something he'd noticed long ago and never fully examined.
Almost every spell, from every school, could be replicated through Alteration. Not efficiently. Not practically. Yet it was still possible.
Necromancy and other forms of specialist and ritualistic magics were the exception, Tolfdir had noted—the manipulation of souls and the dead required a specific kind of magic that Alteration couldn't touch.
But everything else? Fire, frost, lightning, light, shadow, healing, even the summoning of creatures (though that was stretching the definition to its breaking point).
Instead of transforming magicka into flame and shaping it into a Firebolt, they could reach into the world and burn the very air itself, creating a trail of fire that would seek its target through will alone.
Instead of turning magicka into an icicle and hurling it, they could freeze the moisture in a specific area, forming that icicle from nothing and directing its flight. Instead of casting Courage to steady an ally's nerves, they could subtly alter the ally's perception of danger, making the threat seem smaller, more manageable.
Torin had noticed this years ago, back when he was first teaching himself the basics. He'd tried, once or twice, to replicate simple spells through Alteration—and had quickly abandoned the attempt.
It was terribly inefficient. The magicka cost was astronomical, the concentration required immense, and the results were always inferior to simply using the proper school.
So he'd filed the observation away and never thought about it again.
But Tolfdir, in that maddeningly vague way of his, had insisted that this single fact—this simple observation—was the key to something. That understanding its significance was the difference between lingering on the cusp of true mastery and actually achieving it.
When Torin had pressed for clarification—when he'd asked, with some frustration, what exactly he was supposed to understand—Tolfdir had just smiled that gentle, infuriating smile and shaken his head.
"If I told you," the old Nord had said, "you wouldn't understand anyway. Not truly. The words would just be words. And worse, they might close doors in your mind that need to stay open."
He'd patted Torin's shoulder with a weathered hand. "This is one of those lessons you have to discover for yourself, my boy. Like understanding a person—you can't just be told who they are. You have to spend time with them. Learn their rhythms. Let them reveal themselves to you."
Torin had wanted to argue. Had wanted to demand a straight answer for once. But he'd held his tongue, because deep down, he recognized that approach.
It was Kodlak's approach. The old Harbinger had guided him the same way—not by giving answers, but by letting Torin find them himself. By trusting that the journey was as important as the destination.
Hands-off guidance. Frustrating as all hell. But effective, in its own way.
What is it with these old Nords and their wise, hands-off ways anyway? Torin grumbled to himself, shaking his head as he trudged through the snow. Couldn't just give a straight answer if their lives depended on it.
He was so wrapped up in his internal muttering that he almost walked straight into the figure that materialized in his path.
Torin halted abruptly, his hand twitching toward his axe out of pure instinct before his brain caught up. His eyes narrowed, studying the man—no, the mer—who had appeared so suddenly before him.
Short. Thin. Light brown skin that spoke of summers in Valenwood. And eyes—amber eyes, gleaming with a sly, confident intelligence that immediately put Torin on alert.
"Hello, Storm-Caller."
The wood elf's voice was smooth, casual, the tone of someone who knew exactly who he was talking to and wasn't the least bit intimidated. A confident grin spread across his sharp features.
"We aren't yet acquainted," he continued, "but we'll get to that in a minute. For now, it would be in your best interest to follow me."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and began walking toward the courtyard's exit, heading straight for the great bridge that connected the College to Winterhold. His pace was unhurried, deliberate. The air of someone who expected to be followed.
Torin watched him go for a moment, then let out an amused scoff.
He recognized this one. Not from any prior meeting—they'd never spoken—but from memories that didn't quite feel like his own anymore.
This wood elf was one of the more memorable characters from that hazy recollection, thanks to his involvement in multiple quests, his connections to various factions, and his overall... shady nature.
He was a fence. A merchant of illicit goods. A man who always seemed to know things he shouldn't, and was always willing to share that knowledge—for a price.
Enthir, Torin mused, falling into step behind the retreating figure. That's his name. Enthir.
Curiosity piqued, he followed.
They crossed the courtyard in silence, passing students and the occasional faculty member who paid them no mind. Enthir led him across the threshold and onto the great bridge, that long, exposed span that connected the College to the frozen world beyond.
The wind here was sharper, more insistent, tugging at their clothes and howling through the chasm below.
Enthir walked to the exact center of the bridge, then stopped. He turned slowly, facing Torin, and scanned their surroundings with obvious satisfaction.
"This should be far enough from any prying eyes and ears," he said, his voice carrying easily despite the wind. "My name is Enthir, and I have much to discuss with you..."
Torin crossed his arms, the leather of his vambraces creaking softly.
The wind howled around them, whipping snow across the bridge, but his grey eyes remained fixed on the wood elf before him. Unblinking. Unreadable.
"Much to discuss, you say?" His voice was calm, level. "I'm listening."
Enthir's grin widened, curling at the edges like a cat that had found a particularly plump canary. He took a step closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially despite their isolation.
"Well, we can begin with the fact that someone managed to tamper with the skeever fights down in the Midden." His amber eyes gleamed. "Quite cleverly, I might add. Subtle magic, well-timed influence. The kind of work that would impress even the most jaded observer."
He paused, letting the words hang in the frozen air.
"Then there's the consequences said someone might face," he continued, his tone turning thoughtful, "if I were to... I don't know... inadvertently blurt out their name in a drunken fit... I've been to known to enjoy a drink or ten, after all."
The edge of Torin's lips rose ever so slightly—a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
This son of a bitch, he thought, dragged me all the way out here just to blackmail me.
Which wasn't surprising, really. Not considering who and what Enthir was. The question was: how had he found out?
An image flashed in Torin's mind: Drevis Neloren, sitting calmly amid his stacks of coins, counting his winnings with that serene, unreadable expression. Drevis, who had assigned the test in the first place. Drevis, who might have benefited from the outcome.
Had the Dunmer master sold him out? Was this a simple shakedown, orchestrated by a pair of dastardly elves looking to squeeze some extra coin from a promising mark? Or was there something deeper at play—some obscure political maneuver Torin couldn't yet see?
Or was he simply reading too much into it? Could Enthir have sniffed this out on his own, using his network of informants and his own keen observations?
Torin couldn't figure out which was true. And honestly, at this moment, he didn't need to.
Calmly, his expression never shifting, he asked: "And what might these consequences be?"
Enthir's grin softened into something more calculating. "Nothing serious or official, of course. The betting ring operates outside the College's influence—technically, they haven't broken any rules the administration cares about."
He let out a thoughtful hum. "However... the organizers of these events are rather resourceful. Influential in their own right, among certain circles. Turning someone into an outcast amongst their peers?"
He shrugged delicately. "Very easy for them. A word here, a whisper there. Suddenly no one wants to share a table with you. No one wants to partner with you on projects. No one wants to talk to you."
He spread his hands, as if to say such is life. "Not the end of the world, perhaps. But unpleasant. Very unpleasant."
Torin nodded along slowly, his expression thoughtful, almost contemplative. The wind whipped between them, carrying snow that gathered on their shoulders and hair.
"Very unpleasant indeed," he agreed, his voice mild. "I can already see how that might affect one's life in the College. Disturb their process of learning and research."
He shook his head, clucking his tongue sympathetically. "The support of one's peers is a valuable resource, after all. A major benefit of joining the College. No reasonable person would want to lose it."
Enthir's grin deepened, satisfaction radiating from every line of his sharp features. "So you do understand. Good, good. That makes things eas—"
"But let's just say," Torin interrupted, his tone shifting from mild to something colder, harder, "hypothetically speaking... what if said someone wasn't as reasonable as you might imagine?"
Enthir's grin faltered. Just slightly.
"What if," Torin continued, his grey eyes flat and unreadable as winter stone, "he decided he doesn't care about consequences? What if he decided that bashing your skull in and the conseqounces associated with the act were a small price to pay for not having to endure looking at your smug face for another second?"
The wind howled. Snow swirled between them. Enthir's expression froze.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Enthir let out a chuckle—a bit forced, a bit shaky, but a chuckle nonetheless. "Now that's what I call scary. Truly. But surely you don't think you can—"
He never finished the sentence.
One moment, Torin was standing a respectable distance away, arms crossed, expression cold. The next, he was there, his massive hand closing around Enthir's face with shocking speed.
The wood elf's eyes went wide, his body going rigid with shock as he was lifted—literally lifted—off the ground.
Torin turned. Walked to the bridge's railing. And extended his arm over the chasm.
Enthir dangled in the air, suspended by nothing but Torin's grip on his face, his feet kicking uselessly at empty space. Below him, the frozen abyss waited, a long, cold drop to whatever lay beneath the ice.
Torin's expression didn't change as he spoke. Not a flicker. Not a twitch. Just that same flat, winter-cold stare, fixed on the wood elf dangling helplessly over the abyss.
"You want to know what I think?" He let out a soft scoff, the sound barely audible over the wind. His grip on Enthir's face tightened—just slightly, just enough to make the elf's eyes water. "I think you've spent so much time toying with meek scholars who'd rather bend than fight. I think you forgot there are men out there with more temper than sense."
Enthir made a sound—something between a groan and a whimper—as Torin's fingers pressed harder against his jaw. His legs kicked uselessly, finding no purchase, no escape.
"Or maybe," Torin continued, a slow, cold grin spreading across his face, "you never learned that in the first place. Lived your life thinking you were the cleverest person in every room, and no one ever bothered to correct you."
He leaned forward slightly, bringing his face closer to Enthir's. The wood elf's amber eyes were wide now, not with calculation but with genuine, primal fear.
"Never too late for a good lesson," Torin said. "That's what I always say."
...
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