Dear Master,

I have made my way to an immense college of the arcane. I am learning more there about the inhabitants of Oblivion. It is fascinating! I will send you my notes.

Your servant,

Alzena

"Yes," the shopkeeper in Solitude complimented me, "much better. This will fetch you a pretty penny." Bronze curls dangled into her face as she squinted at the staff. "Much more than that moldy old plate you tried to pawn off on me the other day."

"Oh, I'd love to sell it to you," I apologized, "but my Master would never let me-"

I clamped my mouth shut. First rule of the Academy – keep the apprenticeship secret.

Fortunately, she was still busy running her fingers along the wood. "The College," she mused. "Yes, someone at the College might know what it does."

"The Bard's College?" I asked in confusion. With its fluted ramparts, it was the most prominent school in Solitude.

She laughed. "Sorry, I keep forgetting you're not from around these parts. I meant the College of Winterhold. It's a school for those mage types."

A mage school – brilliant! I could carry on my research as I was trained to – from the warm safety of their libraries. They might even need scribes, or tutors.

And so, I emptied my coin-pouch to pay for a carriage. The mountains sped by, and snowdrifts soon gave way to snowpack, until I soon found myself inside the College's stone towers.

There, I encountered an orcish library-master whom a girl my age had called by the curious name of Urag gro-Shrub. His greenish skin was overshadowed by a bustling white beard, hacked into submission – like a shrub, I thought, and suppressed a giggle.

Ulrag glowered. "You are now in the Arcaneum, of which I am in charge."

The Arcaneum – what a name!

"It might as well be my own plane of Oblivion," he warned me. "Disrupt my Arcaneum, and I will have you torn apart by angry atronachs."

I gasped. Did they banter about the forbidden at this College so freely?

Urag rapped his enormous desk for emphasis. "I don't care if you wrote it yourself. You want a book, you get it through me."

"Understood," I replied, basking in the scent of oil-cloth and leather, the charcoal bite of fresh ink. Meticulous rows of scrolls and books lined up like soldiers in Urag's private army.

"The archmage approves of nearly all research," he continued. "A mage is only as good as what he knows. I try and make sure as much knowledge is available as possible."

Suddenly, I remembered my books. I had been afraid to show them to the shopkeeper in Solitude. Reaching into my pack, I dug beneath my worn change of clothes, and held out my daedric primers. In turn, he grasped a handful of gold coins from a rickety iron box, and dropped them into my outstretched hand.

"The Arcaneum is always accepting new volumes," he pronounced. "I'll take what I can get."

Even better – Urag had a number of scrolls that needed copying. It was tedious work, and made my hand ache – but the Master had made me do it enough times that I could trace out reed-thin letters without smearing the ink.

In return, Urag spoke to the arch-mage, who let me take meals with the students, and lent me a bed-roll.

The real reward, however, came on the day when Urag hauled out a ponderous, antiquated chest, and unlocked it with a key from his massive brass ring. I coughed at the dust clouds.

"We've been keeping this collection since the Second Era," he announced, beaming. "Books have come and gone during that time, but it's mostly intact. I don't want to see you treating any of these books poorly."

"I'll be very careful," I promised, and meant it. Cautiously, I extracted the tomes and scrolls, fearful they would crumble to pieces. They smelled of animal-skins and must. It really had been some time since someone had gone through them.

I remained in the library long after sundown, as Urag manned his post with almost a smile. Eventually, he retired, and I remained, my eyes glued to The Mad God and The Doors of Oblivion.

"Sheogorath is already inside each of us," some long-past soul had inscribed on the parchment. "You have already lost."

I dug deeper, and, in my excitement, nearly missed the unadorned leather-bound tome. Brushing off the cobwebs, I leaned closer to decipher its faded title: Encounters with the Daedra, With an Appendix on the Flora and Fauna of Skyrim. By Master Yoneleth, Imperial Academy of Cyrodiil.

What?

Glancing around furtively, I opened the book. It was, without a shadow of doubt, my Master's hand.

The pages were crammed – even the margins were choked with timelines and translations.

I flipped through the pages, and mouthed the precisely scribed headers – Sheogorath, Azura, Boethiah, Dagon. Dagon? I shivered – even the smallest child in Cyrodiil knew how Dagon had invaded our world. This was the entire reason why we had a Department of Daedric Studies – to prevent the daedra from threatening us again.

Furtively, I clasped the book under my robes, and stole to my bed-roll, where I continued reading by the light of a candle.

I learned that, long before his hair had gone grey, my Master had travelled to Skyrim like me. He had embarked on the same quest – to learn more about the daedra – and had climbed the treacherous mountains to explore several shrines. One was actually not far from the College – it was built by the dark elves for a lady named Azura.

I would have to ask around about that.

In the chapter on Dagon – the name still filled me with distaste – the Master had even painstakingly etched a dagger, complete with jagged runes on its hilt, which gleamed with the same vermillion and indigo inks that my Master had taught me to mix.

I looked long at the picture. I was sure I had seen it somewhere before.

All of a sudden, I sat up, startled. I had seen that dagger before. The Master kept it locked up in a chest. He did not show it to outsiders.

Why hadn't the Master told me this?

Why hadn't he told me he had been to Skyrim?

And, if he had already been here himself – then what was I doing here?

I had almost been killed, and had nearly starved. A daedric lord had even petitioned for my soul.

Was the Master trying to get rid of me?

Was he trying to condemn me to Oblivion?

I couldn't fathom why he would do such a thing – although joyless, he was never cruel – but the questions lingered, long after the candle had burnt out.