Watching Torin disappear down the corridor, his broad shoulders blocking out the magelight for a moment before he turned a corner and was gone, Savos Aren leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath.
His finger found the surface of his desk and started tapping. An impatient rhythm, the kind he couldn't quite control when his mind was working through something complicated.
Others wouldn't feel it. Couldn't feel it. To most people, Torin was just a big Nord with sharp eyes and too much talent for anyone's comfort. But Savos had been Arch-Mage for decades.
He'd studied at the College when it was still recovering from the Great Collapse, worked his way up through every rank, seen things that would break lesser mages.
His connection to the forces of Aetherius wasn't something he talked about—wasn't something most mages even developed—but it was there. A constant hum beneath the surface of the world, a sense for the currents of magic that flowed through everything.
And right now, those currents were screaming.
Not loudly. Not obviously. But they were there—presences hovering around that young Nord like crows around a battlefield. Multiple presences. Daedric princes, if he wasn't mistaken, though identifying them specifically was beyond even his abilities.
Savos's finger tapped faster.
Conjuration wasn't his forte. Never had been. He understood the theory well enough—had to, as Arch-Mage—but the deeper nuances of Oblivion's realms, the signatures of specific princes, the subtle differences between one daedric influence and another?
That was Phinis's territory. And Phinis, for all his eccentricities and his unsettling habit of talking to empty air, knew his subject better than anyone alive.
So when Savos had felt that first flicker of something wrong around Torin, he'd gone straight to the Conjuration master.
Phinis's reaction had been... telling.
The old Breton had taken one look at Torin—just one, from across the courtyard—and gone pale. Actually pale, his skin losing what little color it had.
He'd grabbed Savos's arm with a grip that should have been impossible for someone his age and pulled him into his quarters, muttering about wards and privacy and things that shouldn't be spoken of in the open air.
Then he'd explained.
The amount of attention Torin was getting, Phinis had said, was positively frightening. Not just one prince sniffing around. Multiple. Interested. Watching. Waiting for something—an opening, a weakness, a moment of desperation they could exploit.
Phinis had actually used the word "frightening." Phinis Gestor, who summoned dremora for conversation, who kept company with things that didn't have names, who thought "terrifying" was a compliment.
Even he looked shaken.
The conversation they had once Phinis had the chance to teach Torin was just as alarming.
"It might actually be a good thing he's so disinterested in Conjuration," Phinis had said, pacing his cluttered quarters with restless energy. "If he'd taken to it—if he'd shown even a fraction of the talent he's displayed in other schools—and with the curiosity of those entities..."
He'd trailed off, shaking his head. "Disaster waiting to happen. That's what it would be. A disaster."
Savos had asked, carefully, if that meant Torin was dangerous. If they should do something—limit his access, watch him more closely, maybe even...
Phinis had laughed at that. A sharp, barking laugh with no humor in it.
"Dangerous?" He'd stopped pacing, fixing Savos with those strange, too-intense eyes. "The princes aren't interested in him because he's powerful. They're interested because he's interesting. You have no idea what those... things would do for a simple bit of entertainment. And if he ever decided to invite them in—if he ever reached out and asked for their help—"
He'd let the sentence hang. He didn't need to finish it.
Savos hadn't slept well that night.
But here was the thing. Here was what kept him up even more than the fear of what Torin might become.
The boy hadn't used them.
Not once.
Savos had gone back through Torin's records, talked to every master who'd taught him, pieced together as complete a picture as he could. And what he'd found was... unexpected.
Torin's achievements—and they were achievements, there was no denying that—had come entirely from his own effort. His own study. His own stubborn, relentless application of a mind that seemed to chew through magical theory like a wolf through raw meat.
And through all of it, through every breakthrough and every struggle, he'd never once reached out to the entities hovering at the edges of his existence.
Never asked for help. Never made a deal. Never even acknowledged them, as far as anyone could tell. Besides that, even Phinis had confirmed that the daedric auras were lingering around him, not radiating from within, which was a good sign.
Still, even then, Savos Aren didn't rest assured.
Relying on hope wasn't his style. Hope was for younger men, for people who hadn't spent decades watching promising mages crash and burn.
If he was going to stake anything on this young Nord—if he was going to let himself believe that Torin might be the one to restore the College's reputation, to bridge the gap between Winterhold and the Nords who hated it, to become something the province hadn't seen in generations—then he needed to be sure.
Not sure about Torin's talent. That was obvious.
Sure about his character.
Beyond the daedric interest. Beyond the opinions of muscle-headed warriors who'd raised him. Beyond whatever peasants he might have helped years ago, whose gratitude would fade with time and whose judgments were based on a single interaction.
Savos needed to know who Torin really was. What drove him. What he'd do when pushed.
So he went to the masters.
One by one, in their quarters, in the halls, wherever he could catch them. And he asked.
Faralda had been... Faralda.
The moment Savos brought up Torin's name, her eyes had lit up with that particular gleam he'd learned to recognize over the years. Ambition. Calculation. The look of a politician spotting an opportunity.
"A remarkable young man," she'd said, leaning against her desk with practiced casualness. "The talent, Arch-Mage. The talent. I've never seen anyone pick up Destruction so quickly—and with no formal background, no foundation in the basics. He just... understood."
Savos had nodded, letting her talk.
"If he continues on this path, if he applies himself..." She'd trailed off, letting the implication hang. Then, more carefully: "He could be a major figure in the College someday. Perhaps sooner than later."
Translation: Feralda wanted to be on his good side. Wanted to be the one who'd supported him early, who'd seen his potential before anyone else. Whether that was genuine belief in his character or simple political maneuvering... well.
With Faralda, you could never tell. High elves played games within games, and she'd been playing longer than most.
But she wouldn't praise him so highly if she thought he was a real threat to the College. That much Savos trusted. Faralda was ambitious, but she loved this place. She wouldn't hand a knife to someone who might stab it.
Colette Marence had been worse.
Much worse.
"Oh, Torin?" The Restoration master had practically bounced in place when Savos found her in her quarters, surrounded by half-finished potions and stacks of research notes. "He's wonderful! Do you know he came to me first? Before any of the other schools? He said Restoration was the foundation of everything else, that a mage who couldn't heal was a mage who wouldn't last."
She'd beamed at the memory, apparently forgetting that Torin had only come to her after Tolfdir sent him.
"And the questions he asked! Such thoughtful questions. Most students just want to learn the spells, you know. They want to heal faster, better, more efficiently. But Torin wanted to understand why. Why does healing work? What's actually happening to the tissue? Can Restoration affect magical wounds the same way as physical ones?"
She'd clasped her hands together. "It's been years since I had a student who actually thought about Restoration instead of just treating it like a convenience."
Savos had smiled, nodded, and made his escape as quickly as politeness allowed.
Colette was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant—one of the finest Restoration specialists in Skyrim, maybe in all of Tamriel. But she was also a complete and utter buffoon when it came to judging character.
Anyone who showed genuine interest in her beloved school was automatically a good person in her book. She'd probably praise a vampire if it asked her about tissue regeneration.
Tolfdir had been next.
And Tolfdir, predictably, had been useless.
Savos had found him in the courtyard, staring at a patch of snow like it held the secrets of the universe. When asked about Torin's character, the old Nord had just smiled that gentle, infuriating smile and said:
"He asks good questions."
Savos had waited for more.
"He asks good questions," Tolfdir repeated, as if that explained everything. "The right questions. And he listens to the answers. Really listens, not just waiting for his turn to speak. That's rarer than you'd think."
"What kind of questions?" Savos had pressed.
"About magic. About the world. About himself." Tolfdir's gaze had drifted back to the snow. "He wants to understand. Not just how, but why. And when he figures out the why, he wants to know what comes next. That kind of mind... you can't teach that. You can only hope not to break it."
Then he'd wandered off, still muttering about questions and answers and something about snow that Savos hadn't quite caught.
Useless. Cryptic. Utter nonsense to anyone who didn't know how sharp Tolfdir really was.
But Savos knew. And underneath the nonsense, there was genuine respect. Tolfdir didn't hand that out easily.
Festus Krex had been... Festus Krex.
The old master of Destruction had been in his usual spot. When Savos approached, he'd looked up with the expression of a man who'd rather be doing literally anything else.
"Torin?" Festus had snorted, a harsh sound that turned into a cough. "Big lad. Scary eyes. Decent with fire, for a Nord."
"His character," Savos had prompted. "What do you think of his character?"
Festus had stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. Actually laughed, a wheezing, rattling sound that went on too long.
"His character? You want me to judge someone's character? I'm a bitter old man who sets things on fire for a living. What do I know about character?"
But then his expression had shifted, becoming something almost thoughtful.
"He kept me at arm's length, but the boy's got a temper. I've seen it. The way he looks at people sometimes, like he's measuring them for graves. That's not something you learn—that's something you're born with, or made into."
He'd shrugged bony shoulders. "But he keeps it on a leash. Most people his age, with that kind of fire inside them? They'd have exploded by now. Burned every bridge, made enemies of everyone who tried to help. He hasn't."
He'd fixed Savos with those ancient, watery eyes.
"Ask Drevis. He sees more than the rest of us. Always has."
So Savos had.
And Drevis Neloren, Master of Illusion, had looked at him with those dark, unreadable eyes and said:
"Festus says I see more than the rest of you. That's not true. I just pay attention to different things."
He'd been in his usual chamber, surrounded by crystals and lenses and books whose titles seemed to shift when Savos tried to read them. The Dunmer's expression was, as always, utterly calm. Serene, even.
"Torin has a temper," Drevis continued. "Festus is right about that. I've felt it—the edges of it, anyway. He keeps it contained, but it's there. A fire waiting for fuel."
Savos had leaned forward slightly. "And?"
"And he doesn't like being manipulated." Drevis's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "He really doesn't like being manipulated. I gave him a test—a practical exercise in Illusion—and he passed it brilliantly. But afterward, when someone tried to use that knowledge against him..."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. "Let's just say the results were educational."
"Educational how?"
Drevis's smile widened, just a fraction. "The someone in question came to me afterward. Shaken. Physically shaken, in a way I haven't seen in years. He wouldn't tell me what happened, but he made it very clear that Torin was not to be... approached again."
Savos absorbed this. "So he's dangerous when provoked."
"Everyone's dangerous when provoked, Arch-Mage. The question is what counts as provocation." Drevis picked up a crystal, turning it in the light. "He doesn't start fights. He doesn't look for trouble. But when trouble finds him..." A shrug. "He strikes as the type to finish it. Thoroughly."
"Is that a judgment of his character?"
"It's an observation." Drevis set the crystal down. "Character is what you do when no one's watching. I haven't watched him when no one's watching. But I've watched how he treats people—students, masters, that strange little Bosmer girl who follows him around. He's patient. He's curious. He doesn't talk down to anyone, even when he could."
He met Savos's eyes directly.
"And he loves that bear like it's his own sibling. You can fake a lot of things, Arch-Mage. You can't fake that."
In the end, Savos hadn't gotten as much from the masters as he'd hoped.
Opinions, yes. Observations, sure. A collection of impressions that painted a picture of a talented, intense young man with a temper he kept on a short leash and a peculiar gift for making people feel either deeply respected or profoundly threatened.
But nothing concrete. Nothing he could point to and say: this is who he is. This is what he'll become.
So his thoughts turned, as they often did, to Mirabelle Ervine.
She was by far the most reliable person in the College. Had been for years.
While the masters pursued their eccentricities and the students stumbled through their studies, Mirabelle kept things running. Scheduled classes. Mediated disputes. Made sure the wards stayed up and the supplies got ordered and no one accidentally summoned anything that ate the younger students.
If anyone in this place had a handle on what people were really like, it was her.
Savos had been planning to officially offer her the Master Wizard position in a few more months. Give it some ceremony, some weight. She'd earned it a dozen times over. But maybe...
Maybe he should do it sooner. Give her the title, give her the authority, and task her with something specific: watch Torin. Observe him. Figure out what made him tick.
Savos had just about made up his mind to seek her out when a knock came at his door.
He looked up, frowning slightly. Visitors at this hour were rare. Students who needed something usually went to their masters first. The masters themselves just walked in, most of them, too old and too set in their ways to bother with formalities.
"Enter," he called.
The door opened, and Torin ducked through.
Savos's eyebrows rose despite himself. He'd been thinking about the young Nord constantly for days, and now here he was, filling the doorway with those broad shoulders, that calm grey gaze sweeping the room before settling on the Arch-Mage.
"Arch-Mage." Torin inclined his head respectfully. "I hope I'm not interrupting."
"Not at all." Savos gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Please. Sit."
Torin sat. The chair creaked slightly under his weight—it was built for elves, mostly, delicate things that expected delicate occupants—but he didn't seem to notice. Just folded himself into it with the easy grace of someone used to making his body fit wherever it needed to.
"I have a request," he said without preamble.
Savos leaned back, intrigued despite himself. "Go on."
"I received a letter from Whiterun yesterday. The Companions have a contract—something in Falkreath that needs handling. The Jarl's personal request." Torin's eyes met his, steady and direct. "I intend to go. But I want to do it as a representative of the College, not Jorrvaskr."
Savos blinked.
That wasn't what he'd expected.
"Explain."
Torin's lips curved into something that might have been a smile. "The Nords don't trust mages. That's not news to anyone. But they didn't always feel that way. Our ancestors called magic the Clever Craft. Respected it. Sought it out."
He paused. "Some of them still do, in the old holds, the old families. But most have forgotten."
Savos said nothing. Just listened.
"This contract is an opportunity." Torin leaned forward slightly, his voice taking on an edge of intensity. "A chance to remind people what mages can be. Not threats. Not dangers. Useful. Someone's killing Falkreath's people—torturing them, from what the old man wrote."
"If I go there as a Companion, I'm just another warrior with an axe. If I go as a mage—as a representative of the College—suddenly it's different. Suddenly people see a wizard solving their problems instead of running from them."
He let that hang in the air for a moment.
"I'll need to ask Kodlak's permission, of course. The contract came to us, not to the College. But I don't think he'll refuse. The old man's practical like that." A pause. "And I'll need to bring Auri. She's a better tracker than I am, and if we're hunting someone who's been evading the Jarl's people for weeks, we'll need every advantage."
Savos studied him for a long moment.
The logic was sound. More than sound—it was smart. The kind of political thinking that most mages never bothered with, content to hide in their towers and mutter about the ignorance of the common folk.
Torin wasn't just asking permission to leave. He was offering something. A chance to rebuild bridges, to change perceptions, to do what Savos had been trying to do for years with far less success.
And underneath that? A chance for Savos to see him in action. To watch how he handled himself outside the College's walls, away from the masters and their observations. To get the kind of read that no amount of questioning could provide.
He didn't have to think about it long.
"Approved," Savos said.
Torin's eyebrow rose slightly. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." Savos allowed himself a small smile. "You're right. This is an opportunity. The College has been isolated for too long—partly by circumstance, partly by our own choosing. If you can remind the people of Falkreath that we're not all dangerous hermits..." He shrugged. "That's worth more than a dozen recruitment drives."
Torin nodded slowly. "I'll need a letter. Something official, with your seal. Something that says I'm acting on the College's authority, not just my own."
"You'll have it." Savos reached for a sheet of parchment. "Anything else?"
"Not that I can think of." Torin rose, the chair creaking in relief. "I'll send word when it's done. However it goes."
He turned to leave, then paused at the door.
"Arch-Mage?"
Savos looked up.
"Thank you. For trusting me with this." Torin's grey eyes held his for a moment. "You won't regret it."
Then he was gone, the door clicking softly behind him.
Savos stared at the closed door for a long moment.
Then he reached for his quill, dipped it in ink, and started writing.
The letter would be official. Formal. Stamped with the College's seal and signed with his name. But underneath the formal language, underneath the diplomatic phrasing, there would be something else.
Show me who you are, he thought as his quill scratched across the parchment. Show me what you're made of. And maybe—just maybe—show these people that we're not the enemy they think we are.
Outside, the wind howled across the bridge, carrying snow and salt and the endless cold of the Sea of Ghosts.
Inside, Savos Aren wrote, and hoped.
...
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