Hearing a sound—something between a squeak and a groan, muffled against the palm of his hand—Torin raised an eyebrow.
"I'm going to assume this is you begging for your life," he said, his voice almost conversational. "Here."
He opened his hand.
For one glorious fraction of a second, Enthir fell. His amber eyes went wide, his mouth opened in a silent scream, and then—
Torin's massive hand wrapped around the top of his head like a child grabbing a ball.
The elf's body kept going for a moment, momentum carrying him down, and something in his spine went pop-pop-pop in rapid succession.
Enthir's pained wince was immediate and heartfelt.
Torin's grin widened, cold and amused. "You know, some people call that spinal traction. Pay good money to have it done to them." He tilted his head, considering. "My method might include a slightly higher risk of permanent damage, but still. You should count yourself lucky."
Enthir, still wearing that same pained expression, tried to look down at the abyss below. Tried being the operative word—his entire head was immobilized in Torin's grip, like a bird in a cage made of fingers. He couldn't move an inch.
After a long moment, he turned his eyes back to Torin—the only part of his head he could move—and spoke with visible reluctance.
"I am... grateful." He cleared his throat with difficulty, the sound catching. "Ahem. So. I ask... what will it take to resolve this unfortunate misunderstanding we seem to find ourselves in?" He paused, searching for footing. "Would an apology be a good start?"
Torin gave him an amused look, the kind a cat gives a mouse that thinks it can negotiate. "You think too highly of yourself if you think an apology even begins to suffice."
Enthir tried to shake his head earnestly—a gesture of humble agreement—and was immediately reminded that his head no longer belonged to him. The attempt just made him look like a fish twitching on a line.
"Of course not," he said quickly. "An apology just felt... due. That's all. A courtesy, nothing more."
The wind howled between them, whipping snow into Enthir's exposed face. He blinked against it, helpless.
Torin studied him for a long moment, that flat grey gaze taking in every twitch, every micro-expression.
Enthir had spent years reading people—decades, maybe—figuring out what made them tick, what they wanted, what they feared. It was how he'd survived in a world that didn't have much use for a fence with sticky fingers and loose morals.
But this one? This massive, too-young Nord with his old eyes? He couldn't get a single clean read...
The wind died down for a moment, and in that sudden quiet, Torin spoke.
"Here's what's going to happen." His voice was calm, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining how to skin a rabbit. "You're going to start talking, and you're going to explain to me how you knew I was responsible for rigging the skeever fights."
Enthir's face went through a whole journey in about two seconds—surprise, then calculation, then something that looked a lot like fear trying very hard to hide behind a mask of cooperation. The wind picked up again, whipping his dark hair across his amber eyes.
"I have my ways," he said finally.
Torin's grip tightened.
Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to make Enthir's face twist like someone had grabbed his jaw in a vise, enough to make his teeth click together, enough to remind him exactly whose hand was wrapped around his head and whose feet were still dangling over a very long drop.
Torin's expression, on the other hand, had gone completely empty. No mirth. No warmth. Just those flat grey eyes, staring at Enthir like he was already a corpse that hadn't figured out it was dead yet.
"That's the wrong answer, my pointy-eared friend." His voice was soft now, almost gentle. "Keep this up, and the next pop you hear won't be coming from your spine. It might just even be the last pop you ever hear."
He tilted his head ever so slightly, a predator studying prey.
"I'm talking about the sound of your head exploding... just so we're clear..."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The wind howled around them, tearing at their clothes, but Torin felt none of it. His focus was entirely on the elf in his grip, on the micro-expressions flickering across that sharp face, on the sweat he could feel forming on Enthir's forehead despite the freezing cold.
Because yeah, he could feel it. Enthir was sweating through his skin, a fine sheen of panic that had nothing to do with the temperature. His pulse hammered against Torin's palm like a trapped bird.
Good.
But then Enthir's jaw tightened. Not in pain this time—in resolve. His amber eyes, wide and fearful a moment ago, settled into something harder.
"Even then," he said, each word careful, measured, "I cannot. Will not. Reveal what you wish me to reveal."
Torin blinked.
That wasn't the response he'd expected. Not from a fence, not from a survivor, not from the kind of man who'd built a career on knowing which way the wind was blowing and adjusting accordingly.
Enthir was supposed to fold. That was how this worked—you applied pressure, the other person broke, everyone went home with a clearer understanding of the pecking order.
But here he was, dangling over an abyss, literally one squeeze away from a very messy death, and he was refusing?
Torin let out a thoughtful hum, studying the elf's face like a puzzle box he couldn't quite figure out.
In the first place, Torin didn't even think anyone would be stupid enough to try and shake him down for something like this even if they found out, let alone someone like Enthir.
He hummed. The urge to deliver on his promise was real. Tempting, even. There was something deeply satisfying about the idea of watching this smug little operator find out exactly how far his cleverness could take him before it ran out of road.
But.
He had to think about consequences. Not just the obvious ones—expulsion from the College, which was guaranteed if he killed a member, even a slimy one like Enthir.
The College might look the other way for a lot of things, but murder wasn't on that list. And expulsion would mean leaving before he'd learned everything he came here to learn. Before he'd figured out what Tolfdir was really trying to teach him. Before he'd found a cure for Kodlak's soul.
But beyond that? There was the politics of it.
The College of Winterhold was... not popular. The locals hated it, blamed it for the Great Collapse, for every bad harvest and hard winter since. The Nords of Winterhold city would love nothing more than an excuse to storm the bridge with torches and pitchforks.
And if word got out that a young Nord mage had killed an elf in the College, the rumors would write themselves.
Young Nord stands up to elven oppression. College tries to punish him. Locals riot.
It would be a mess. A bloody, complicated mess that would get people killed on both sides.
Torin let out a long breath, the kind that steamed in the cold air and carried all the frustration he wasn't letting show on his face.
"Fine." The word came out flat, resigned. "You can keep your secrets... for now."
He swung Enthir back over the railing—not gently, exactly, but not like he was trying to break anything either—and set him down on solid stone. Then he let go.
Enthir's legs did that thing where they forgot how to work for a second. He grabbed the railing with both hands, knuckles white, and just... stood there. Breathing. Probably reassessing every life choice that had led him to this moment.
Torin waited. He wasn't in a rush. The cold didn't bother him much anymore—years in Skyrim had seen to that—and watching Enthir pull himself together was its own kind of entertainment.
The wood elf straightened his robes with hands that shook slightly. Ran his fingers through his wind-tossed hair. Adjusted his collar. Rolled his shoulders, winced when something in his spine popped again, and pretended that hadn't happened.
By the time he turned to face Torin, he'd almost managed to look like someone who hadn't just been dangling over an abyss by his face.
Almost.
Torin met his eyes and held them.
"You'd do well to remember that you owe me your life, elf." His voice was quiet, conversational, but it carried. "And I don't forget a debt."
Enthir cleared his throat, the sound careful and controlled. "Most certainly." He paused, then added, with just a hint of his usual smoothness, "I'm not in the habit of forgetting such things either."
Then he turned and walked back toward the College courtyard.
Same stride as before. Same casual confidence. Same air of someone who belonged exactly where he was and knew things you didn't. From behind, you'd never guess anything had happened.
The guy was good, Torin had to give him that.He watched Enthir disappear through the archway, those narrow shoulders relaxing a fraction once he thought he was out of sight.
Torin's eyes stayed narrowed.
The reasons to let him live had stacked up fast once he'd started thinking past his first impulse.
Beyond the obvious consequences?
Enthir could be useful.
Having someone like that in your pocket—assuming you could actually keep him there—was the kind of advantage that paid dividends. Information. Access. Resources that would otherwise be unobtainable.
A fence who dabbled in magical contraband could prove very valuable indeed.
And Torin had just given him a very memorable demonstration of exactly what happened when he crossed the wrong person.
Besides—and this was the real reason Torin's eyes stayed narrow even as Enthir's figure faded into the snow—there was still the question of Drevis Neloren.
He still suspected the Dunmer master was involved in this somehow. The timing was too neat, the test too specific, the coins on Drevis's desk too conveniently abundant the morning after.
And now Enthir shows up, talking with certainty of details he should only be able to speculate, refusing to elaborate with fear in his eyes that wasn't related to his possible, immediate demise?
In the first place, Enthir didn't strike Torin as someone stupid to think such a simple scheme would work against him.
There was definitly something more to his actions... not that suspicion did him any good.
He couldn't exactly march into Drevis's quarters and demand answers based on a hunch. The man was a master of Illusion—if he wanted to hide something, he'd just make everyone believe it wasn't there.
Confronting him directly would be pointless.
But with Enthir out and about, if the two were indeed connected...
If there was a link between the fence and the illusionist, Torin would find out. Eventually. Enthir would slip, or Drevis would contact him, or one of them would do something that confirmed what Torin already suspected.
Release the mall fish to catch the big one.
For now, that was the play, and patience was the name of the game until he figured out the rules.
...
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