Disclaimer:

The picture in the cover image is made by the amazing Elleylie whose profile you can find on DeviantArt.
I don't own Skyrim or any of the lore characters or places. I owe the pleasure of engaging in this beautiful world to Bethesda Studios.


Chapter 01: Secret of the Orphan

It had been six moons.

Yrith raised her head, looking away from the book she was gripping like a dear child. Six moons in this gods' forsaken place. If she had spent that time lying here with her eyes closed and only opened them now, she wouldn't have spotted a difference. It was as grey as ever. It was as cold as ever. The wind kept blowing the snow inside her room, like it always had, wailing as it passed through the crevices in the cold stone walls. She had gotten used to this cold, not minding the cloudlets of steam that left her mouth. With every breath, they took away yet another sliver of warmth. She did not remember how it felt to be truly warm. Or, rather, she did not want to remember.

Her eyes drifted back to her book. It was all she had now, those stories of heroes whose hearts were braver than hers. Those six moons had marked the dullness of her life, and the endless escape to a world of her own that had become her prison. Out there, sons and daughters of the rich and noble proudly exhibited their magical talents for the judgement of their masters. She was neither rich, nor noble, and there were no talents she could exhibit. None that she would exhibit. The College of Winterhold had only become her home because someone else willed it. She, for one, had taken an oath, and she was not about to break it.

She fixed her eyes on the lines of text before her. They stayed simple lines, flat and meaningless. Her thoughts wandered. They seemed to gain a life of their own whenever she cut on her classes, as if they extended an invisible hand to her, inviting her to that place she avoided at all costs. The window cracked open, making a final stop to her concentration. The pages of the book flipped wildly under her hand. Her raven hair whipped her face and obscured her view. She sighed, setting the book aside and rising from her cold stone seat on the floor. Papers flew about, fluttering like colorless butterflies. She swam through them to the window, pressing it back into its frame. Through the screen of falling snow beyond it, she could see the fading silhouette of the Hall of the Elements. She glared at it, quickly turning away. No, she would not go.

The sudden absence of the wind's howling revealed footsteps approaching from the outside. Yrith frowned at the door. She knew the sound well, that elegant elven gait, soft on the padded soles of leather boots. She had trained her ears for it. Now it had come for her again.

Grabbing her book, she slid under her bed and waited. She could hear her own breath and her heartbeat was deafening. If only she had left the window open.

The footsteps stopped before the door. Yrith watched it, motionless, the book pressing against her belly. There was a creak as the door opened. An ornate boot appeared on the doorstep, then another. Slowly, unhurriedly, their owner made her way to the middle of Yrith's room, leaving the door to close itself. As it snapped shut, a voice rang above Yrith.

"Come out at once."

She did not even know why she was hiding. Eventually, she would be discovered. But this was a game of wills she was not keen to lose, even if she was to be dragged out of her hiding place.

Like she always was.

The elf graciously gave Yrith time to swallow her pride. She waited, stubbornly crawling even further from the edge of the bed. The window shook again, but it was foolish to hope that it would open and occupy the elf enough to let Yrith make her escape. After all, she was Lady Faralda, the renowned Altmeri master of destruction magic. She had spent ages here in Winterhold, perfecting her craft. She had eyes everywhere. Skyrim's turbulent cold could not put her out of countenance. And much to Yrith's displeasure, she was her foster mother.

The window rattled for the third time, like a wordless countdown to the inevitable encounter. Upon falling silent, a hand slid under the bed and caught the rim of Yrith's robes, pulling her out with surprising strength. She found herself staring into a pair of amber eyes, boring into her with steel-like firmness.

"When will you ever learn?" The elf stepped back to gain a full view of Yrith. The slight Breton girl must have looked horrible with her raven hair tangled and likely full of dust from the floor, her robes tattered, and her round face twisted in defiance. Opposed to that, Lady Faralda stood tall in her fitting periwinkle robes, her refined, slender features a display of cold control polished to perfection. Yrith hated it. Over those six months, she had never seen a sliver of warmth in that face.

"Learn what?" she spat.

Faralda sighed. "It is unbecoming of a young lady to crawl on the floor and avoid her lessons. You have a place to be and I believe it is not this room."

Unbecoming it was, and Yrith could care less. Was she truly expected to act her age when the nobility infesting these walls was an assortment of brats pretending to own the place? She let out a snort.

"My place to be is the place I choose. Just like you are here and not on your guard duty, or whatever task of significant importance they gave you this time," she replied evenly. One corner of her lips quirked up in a smirk for that crispy touch of self-satisfaction. She could feel Faralda's look piercing her, those amber eyes gaining a tinge of icy blue.

"My responsibilities are none of your concern, and if you value your freedom and the comfortable life you've been granted here, you will be on your way at once. Unless you want to spend another night cleaning the corridors, that is."

Yrith straightened her back, staring up into Faralda's face. If only she could be a little taller.

"None of the other students get punished for not attending their classes," she grumbled.

Faralda bared her teeth in a dazzling, yet dangerous smile. "Very well. Feel free to return when you have the coin to pay for your studies like the others do, and perhaps we might set you up under different conditions."

Yrith could feel the sting of her nails digging into the skin on her hands. "I never asked to become a novice in the first place."

Faralda opened her mouth to reply but closed it again. She was not looking at Yrith, but rather through her, and the unreadable mask covering her face seemed to crumple and wither. Yrith felt a cold stab in her chest. She would back away if she could, but the bed behind her pressed into the back of her knees. The tall elf before her shrank into smallness unfit for an Altmer.

"One word, Yrith," she said quietly. "Why?"

Yrith pressed her lips closely together. She had no answer to give. There were so many ways to interpret the question. She had heard it so many times, never daring to ponder its meaning for too long. The reality of her life was not one she was willing to discuss. To put it in words would mean facing her failure. She was not ready to cope with the disappointment that would follow.

Her guardian waited in silence. Yrith turned away, unable to bear that look. The window rattled again, drowning the sound of snowflakes tapping on the glass. Yrith could feel the cold creeping through the gaps between its frame and the wall lick her face. She shivered. Normally, she would happily ignore it.

Faralda waited until their eyes met again. Then, she gave a slow nod.

"I see," she sighed. "Words aren't enough for the two of us anymore, are they?"

Turning on her heel, she left the room, leaving behind the sound of flipping robes. Yrith's blank look was fixed on the open door. The hinges groaned in the draught and the words of Lady Faralda kept ringing in her ears.

Why did it have to be this way? No matter what she did, guilt always caught up to her.

She sank to her bed, resting her head against the palms of her hands. A gust of wind slithered under her shabby robes and bit into her skin. Papers rose again, dancing on her desk until they rustled down on the floor. She let out a breath, eyeing the fraying satchel that was meant to store her papers and textbooks. So this was the price for her comfort. No. This was the price for her failure.

She forced herself up on her feet, grabbing her coat while combing her hair with her fingers negligently. Why would she care for appearances when all those snobbish brats saw in her was a shabby urchin with no talent or appeal? She had no reason to bother. As the last touch, she slung the satchel over her shoulder. It had been long since she had last checked its contents. She shrugged at the fact, hurrying out of her room. Moments after, she was rushing through the College courtyard to the Hall of the Elements, fighting against the waves of snowflakes assaulting her eyes.

The College grounds were almost as dark as the night. The veil of snow now concealed the surrounding buildings, as well as the fountain of bright blue light in the middle of the courtyard. Yrith walked bent low, her long, raven hair soon speckled with white. She kept her eyes nearly closed, missing the bizarre figure of a white-haired sturdy orc dressed in the adept mage robes heading in the opposite direction. She would have ignored him completely, had he not called out to her.

"What's that? Late for the lecture?"

His rough baritone cut through the swishing sound of the wind and caught her by surprise. She staggered, tripping and losing a shoe that was too big for her foot. She groped for it absent-mindedly, hopping around and barely keeping her balance. When she finally found it and straightened her back, her gaze rested upon Urag gro-Shub, the College librarian and a local curiosity. He gave her a hint of a smile.

"Well, good luck with your first impressions!" he hollered, saluting her on his way.

Her eyebrows shot up in an unspoken question, but the orc simply turned away with a wave of his hand and stomped through the accumulating snow. She stared at his silhouette slowly fading in the murk, forgetting momentarily the reason she was standing in the middle of a raging blizzard. As she snapped back to reality, she stumbled ineptly through the courtyard to the massive brass gate of the Hall of the Elements. She pushed on the wing that hummed almost inaudibly with magic. It gave a painful whine that carried through the foyer and further to the center of the building.

Yrith hissed to herself, hoping against all odds that she had not been noticed. She slipped inside, letting the gate shut the gale out. In here, she could hardly hear the faint moan somewhere far above her head where the tall, smooth walls and pilasters touched each other in a graceful vault.

Quietly, she treaded through the vast foyer, into the octagonal room with a fountain of blue light beyond. Gathered there was a crowd of people, all standing with their backs to Yrith. She hesitated. Now was the last chance to turn away and leave this place. Perhaps she should just run.

A Dunmer boy with spikes of fiery hair turned her way, his mouth widening in a smirk. Yrith cussed in her thoughts. So much for her chance. Out of all people, it had to be Cain Aldaryn who noticed her arrival.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," he drawled. Every head around, the classmates that had flocked to him like a pack of starving skeevers, turned to him and then to Yrith. She wished to disappear. Becoming the source of entertainment for the illegitimate offspring of Tamriel's nobility was the last thing she wanted. They stood with hungry eyes, ready for the thrill that was certain to come. Perhaps if Yrith was not around, they would have picked another one from their midst. But the pauper orphan was too tempting a target. She gritted her teeth, staring right into the Dunmer's crimson eyes. "A midget," he continued, scrutinizing her half-bare feet, the limp, discolored robes and the mop of tangled hair sprinkled with melting snowflakes, "soaked and very much late for the class. Then again… it is so very nice to see you here in conjuration. To what do we owe this honor?"

Several people laughed. Most wore the same smirk as the Dunmer, copying the manners of their leader. Yrith scowled and circled them. She would not give them any more reasons to laugh at her account.

She made for the far corner of the octagonal room, looking for Master Gestor, their conjuration master. But instead, the pale blue light of the fountain fell on the figure of a tall, dark-haired Nord man. She stopped, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He was young, but perhaps a few years too old to be a student of their class. She frowned. The man approached her, his pace steady and reserved, eyes fixed firmly upon her. The students went silent, watching them in anticipation.

"Yrith Ravencroft, I presume?" His voice was deep and melodic, with a touch of cold sharpness that sent shivers down her spine. It made her raise her head and look into his dark eyes, staring at her from a face as hard as steel. Definitely not a student. A teacher then? So that was what Urag had meant by first impressions. The knuckles on Yrith's hands cracked as she clenched them into fists. This could hardly get any worse.

"M-master Gestor is…" she hinted a question without answering his. He knit his eyebrows in apparent displeasure. Inadvertently, she took a step back. His eyes slid down to her feet, making Yrith painfully aware that one of them was not properly shod. For the slightest of moments, she could see one corner of his mouth twitch. She fought not to scowl. So their new teacher was the same sort as her classmates.

"Retired as of today," he replied coolly. She took a moment to study him further. A face shaved to nigh perfect smoothness. Brows that were definitely shaped by hand. Carefully coiffured hair, not a single strand sticking out of his braid. A body too thin for a Nord, but too muscled for a mage, bearing just the slightest hint of tan. His sleeveless, yellow-lined silver robes were perfectly clean and entirely smooth, with no single thread hanging loose. His shoes were…

Yrith quickly blinked to hide her sudden urge to laugh. The laces were tied in a way they could not move, one a perfect mirror of the other. The shoes too were clean for the current weather, the leather they were made of reflecting the fountain light. No, he was no noble. But perhaps he was worse.

The man noticed her look and his eyes narrowed.

"I do not like my students coming late to the classes," he added quietly.

"I was searching for my textbook," Yrith muttered the first excuse that had come to her mind. She felt a flush in her face, averting it quickly to pin her eyes to the closest broken tile on the floor.

"We don't have a textbook," he reminded her. A low chuckle came from the side of her classmates. She shuddered. The Hall of the Elements was always quiet. She wished the gale would deafen her and drown the loud beat of her heart, but there was nothing but a faint, distant whine.

"My… restoration textbook." She knew everything about her exposed her. Her trembling voice, her stooped shoulders, clenched fists. It made no sense to lie. And still, she forced herself to proceed. "I lost it and then became so absorbed in looking for it that I just…"

"Came late to the class," he concluded colorlessly. "Well, I do hope you don't lose your textbooks very often."

She stared at him incredulously, forgetting herself momentarily. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. The knuckles on her hands turned white as the snow outside, and she pressed her lips tightly together to stop herself from retorting. Eyes on the ground, she stepped aside to join the crowd that was now roaring with laughter.

"So, Miss Ravencroft," he spoke again, and she could feel an undertone of sly amusement in his melodic voice. So now he would target her. She took a breath, hardening her face into a steel mask before raising her head. "Since you came late, can you step forward and conjure a familiar for me? I wish to demonstrate how the qualities of familiars can vary based on their summoner."

So it had come down to that. Had Lady Faralda hoped for a change when she prodded Yrith's conscience? She would not get it. And this man would regret he had ever called her name.

"I… I can't conjure a familiar, Master…"

She could almost feel the tension in his long, deep exhale. "Singird Larkwing. I'd say you could at least come to class knowing the name of your teacher."

The class laughed louder. Yrith resisted the urge to put her hands over her ears.

"Well, if you can't conjure a familiar, then you'll just have to give it your best. Step forward, please."

She shot him a furious glance and spent all her energy trying to convince herself that stomping angrily would not do her any good. Unwillingly, she shuffled to the teacher's side and faced the heartily entertained class. Then came the moment when everyone fell silent and waited for her demonstration. She carefully avoided every single pair of eyes. Without thinking, she stretched out her hands and waved her arms wildly. Not a spark of magic came out of her fingertips. Nothing happened, aside from their new master sighing almost theatrically. An opinion formed in her head. Of all the teachers in Winterhold, he was already by far her least favorite.

"Tell me, Miss Ravencroft," he accented her name with a hint of scoff, "how long have you been studying here?"

"A-almost six months… sir?"

"Six. Months." He clicked his tongue, seemingly deep in thought, but his eyes hadn't left Yrith for a split moment. She shifted her weight, waiting for what was to come. The class watched in anticipation. No one dared utter a sound. "Six months should be enough to master bound weapons and atronachs for even the least talented of all. And yet, here you stand, flopping your arms like a crippled bird, trying to summon a familiar. Can you tell me how a creature is summoned? In theory."

She shook her head.

"Or what part of your body you need to focus on to draw the energy from your soul?"

Another shake, slower than the one before. She fixed her eyes on his feet, gritting her teeth.

"Do you know where you should direct your energy when you summon a creature?"

She kept staring at those irritatingly clean shoes of his, motionless. She did not need to look up to know his expression. The sigh he gave said it all.

"I see. Mister Aldaryn, would you like to fill in and display your talents?"

There was a shuffle at Yrith's side as the fiery-haired dark elf moved past her, shoving her on his way. When he stood before the class, he gave her a smirk and scanned the small crowd with his eyes. They all watched him with admiration. Cain Aldaryn waited a split moment to enjoy the attention before tucking his sleeves.

With one last meaningful look in Yrith's direction, he raised his hands and narrowed his eyes in concentration. A moment after, a howl echoed through the octagonal chamber and an ethereal wolf-like creature formed before him. It stood there, awaiting orders, oblivious to the applause that came from the ranks of its master's classmates. All except Yrith who just barely suppressed a snort. Master Larkwing nodded in appreciation.

"I will now summon my own familiar," he turned back to the class, "and send it against the one summoned by Mister Aldaryn. While they fight, watch closely and try to analyze the differences between them."

Yrith turned away. Why in Oblivion had she decided to come here? Conjuration had always made her stomach turn. The ugly act of summoning a creature for the purpose of fighting. They knew nothing else, the mindless slaves of their masters. Just like them, she thought. Just like the nobles who had gathered here, just like the teachers who knew no better than to teach them to fight.

She winced as her classmates gasped and cried out at the sound of growling and scratching. She could swear she heard a ripping sound as well. A memory threatened to surface, but she quickly pushed it back to the depths of her subconsciousness. She fought not to close her eyes, not to cover her ears, ignoring with all her might the battle that happened just a few paces from where she stood.

Then, the sounds died out. She raised her head to see Singird Larkwing's familiar standing victorious by its master's side. The teacher – to her utmost displeasure – was staring directly at her with a stone hard, unreadable expression. She shuddered, but before she could turn away, his look shifted to the Dunmer.

"Very well," he said and gestured toward the crowd. Cain waited, but when no words of praise came, he stepped back, his expression unreadable.

"As you could see, if you were watching, that is," the teacher shot a glance at Yrith and several chuckles rose from the crowd, "my familiar was stronger and more tenacious in combat. Even if our familiars had not fought each other, mine would have lasted longer." There was a loud crack as the translucent creature returned to its home plane. "In the next few lessons, I would like to concentrate on how your focus and broadening your pool of magicka can improve your summoned creatures. Conjuration is not just a simple act of summoning a creature or an object from another realm. It involves controlling it, giving it strength and qualities.

"For our next lesson, I should like you to research familiars and atronachs and write down their characteristics. Please, include statistics such as the scale of their strength depending on the conjurer's level of advancement or the amount of magicka you need to invest in different types of creatures. This paper should become your guideline for this subject until the expert classes, so do give it proper attention. You will hand it to me in three days for revision."

Upon his words, a disgruntled murmur rose from the crowd. Singird Larkwing frowned, raising his hand to silence them. Their voices faded one by one, their heads turning to him. He waited for a heartbeat, then looked them over, stopping at Yrith.

"And no excuses," he said with unquestionable finality. "Dismissed."

Smoothing his robes and hair, he rushed out of the Hall of the Elements, accompanied by countless stares.

With a sigh, Yrith made for the entrance gate. If someone thought she would do assignments, then that someone thought wrong. Magic was not her way. Coming here had been a mistake. Soon, even Singird Larkwing would learn that she was not worth his attention.

As she stepped into the foyer, the fiery-haired Dunmer blocked her way. Yrith stepped aside. She did not like his smile. She did not like his wide stance. She did not like the people mobbing around them. She aimed for the gap in their line, between Cain's graceful Altmeri companion known as Leyna Travi, and Ha'risha, the all-too-smug bronze-furred Khajiit always trailing them. The two grinned, stepping closer together. Yrith found herself dragged backward as someone gripped her collar. Once again, Cain stepped in her path.

"Let me go, Cain," Yrith hissed.

"Let me go, Cain, she says," Cain drawled to general amusement. "Say, midget, how about a cup of tea for mutual peace? We'll share our papers with you."

He winked at her. She returned the favor with a snort.

"I think I'll pass. If you would excuse me."

"Ah, there she goes again," he purred and grinned. A set of dazzling, white teeth contrasted his ebony skin. "So unfriendly. Don't you at least have the manners to say thank you when someone offers you help?"

"Not if that someone holds me up like a skeever for slaughtering! Now if you don't mind, I would like to keep walking, so would you please be so kind as to let me go?"

"And if I say no?"

"Please don't. Or I'll…"

"Or you'll what? Call your parents? Oh, that would be a disaster, wouldn't it?"

"Cain…"

"Go ahead, call them. Why don't you? Oh wait… your parents aren't around anymore, are they? Look at me, I almost forgot!"

Yrith felt a rush of fire in her face. How dare he. How dare he speak of her parents. How dare he pretend to know a thing about her! She put both of her hands on his and snarled inarticulately. The crowd surrounding the two of them cheered and whistled. They had formed a perfect circle around them. There was no escape. She took a breath, her eyes narrowing into two slits.

"Let. Me. Go." The words coming out of her mouth sounded strangely alien to her, calm and quiet unlike her usual tone. She looked directly into the Dunmer's crimson eyes and her grip tightened. The elf winced ever so slightly, but quickly reclaimed his composure. His sneer widened.

She did not waste another word. One twist of her hand was enough to send the surprised, unprepared classmate to the ground. A cacophony of screams echoed through the tower. People cheered and shouted and clapped their hands. Leyna Travi stared at Yrith with utter shock, one slender hand covering her mouth. Cain lurched to his feet and bared his teeth with a quiet hiss. Yrith charged into the circle of bodies, but he blocked her way. She took a step to the side and he followed at once. She would shove him away, but he tackled her hair, pulling her closer and jerking her head backwards. She screamed and kicked him in the knee. He screamed back.

"S'wit!"

The insult resonated through the hall as he staggered back, arms stretched so he could protect his wounded leg. Yrith looked at him with unconcealed contempt. For his noble origins, his vocabulary sure was indiscriminate. For a mage, even more so.

He threw a fist. Yrith leapt to the side, searching for a gap in the circle. There was none. They pushed her back to her opponent the moment she wanted to elbow her way to the door. Upon Cain's next assault, she tripped him with a stretched leg. He fell face down on the floor. Slowly, he raised himself on his hands and turned his head to her, his eyes aglow.

"Enjoying yourself, are you?" he growled. He rose until he loomed above her, lifting his hands. Yrith cowered instinctively, expecting him to hit her. He did not move an inch. Instead, a silver screen of frost appeared around his fingers. She backed away until she could feel one of her classmates' breath on the nape of her neck. Magic. He was going to use magic against her. The magic he had learned in this accursed place.

She wanted to run, but the wall of bodies behind her held her firmly in place. Even if she could defend herself, Cain excelled in destruction magic. She stood no chance.

She closed her eyes as Cain's arms stretched and a shower of icy needles burst from his fingertips. As they landed on her skin, it tore, forming a trail of minuscule wounds. Cold gripped her, draining her strength and sharpening the pain. She let out a quiet groan as she sank to the floor, covering her face with shaky hands in retreat. Whatever he wanted of her, if he'd only stop. If he'd only spared her the pain.

"What in Oblivion is happening here?!"

A voice echoed through the hall. The stinging sensation stopped as a sliver of warmth returned to her limbs. Yrith raised her head, only faintly registering their new master looming above the circle of faces. His face was carved in stone, his gaze pinning both Cain and Yrith to the ground. She froze, looking away. At her side, Cain put up a mask of indifference that failed to conceal his unease. The crowd parted, creating an aisle for Singird Larkwing. He stopped inches from Yrith.

"The moment I walk into the infamous College of Winterhold, I see students coming late for classes, unable – or unwilling," he put a strange emphasis on the word and shot Yrith a piercing look, "to cast even the most basic spells, and on top of that, they brawl amongst themselves? This is a college, for the Nine's sake! Being taught here should be a privilege, but it seems that with our new pact, this status would soon be forgotten. Manners seem to come in short supply to our new… students." He pronounced the word with a hint of distaste.

The two antagonists responded with absolute silence. Even the people around them stared wordlessly into the grey of the floor stone, hardly daring a breath. Master Larkwing let the heavy quiet weigh on their shoulders before speaking again.

"I suppose discussion with my fellow teachers is in order. But the two of you obviously need to learn to cooperate. For this following month, every day on dawn and dusk, you will retrieve the fish from the nets down on the shore. For the entirety of this time, all shifts will be relieved of this duty. I hope I have made myself clear."

"What?!" Yrith gasped and the shame of the past moment was replaced with disbelief. Jumping on her feet, she stared deep into the darkness of his eyes. "For a whole month? You… you can't do this!"

"Oh, I can do a lot worse, Miss Ravencroft, and believe me, I will if I deem it necessary." He returned her look with coldness to which not even Cain's magic could compare. She gritted her teeth almost painfully.

"But…"

"Miss Ravencroft, one more word."

She gave him an aggrieved look but fell silent at once. Cain's eyes, now turned to her, were filled with blazing rage, his fists clenched so tightly that the ebony skin on his knuckles had turned almost white. Yrith could not decide whom she hated more. The smug Dunmer, or the Nord teacher whose eyes were now not so secretly smiling with satisfaction. Without another word, she stomped out of the room, thinking fires of Oblivion and pits filled with frostbite spiders.


As always, the Arcanaeum was warm, filled with soft flickering candlelight and heavy smell of dust and paper. Yrith inhaled it deeply, stopping for a moment to appreciate the quiet repose of the place. There would be no flashes of magic or wild battles in the College library, for its caretaker would never allow it.

Yrith stepped into the octagonal inner study, treading lightly on the polished tiles. Urag gro-Shub sat in the usual place by his desk, eyes fixed on a thick book, muttering something through the pair of yellow fangs that stuck out of his mouth like horker tusks. When Yrith reached the three steps leading to the desk, he raised his balding head and a smile spread across his brute face.

"There is my little curmudgeon," he hummed, carefully placing a bookmark on the page before he closed the book and set it aside like his dearest treasure. "So, how did it go?"

Yrith crossed her arms over her chest, pouting. "Why didn't you tell me we had a new teacher?"

He chuckled softly. "But I did, didn't I? Why the long face? Couldn't quite put up with Singird Larkwing?"

"That man is a beast."

"Now there's a thing we will agree on. Anyway, what brings you here? I'd find it hard to believe that you'd come just to see an old orc's face."

"Your face is the only one worth looking at," she muttered, ignoring his frown. "But no. Do you know where Master Larkwing's room is?"

The orc raised a white, thinned eyebrow. "Oh? And just why would you ask?"

She shrugged. "To pay him a friendly visit."

He gave her a long, scrutinizing look. Then he smiled, winking an eye. "No clue, although I heard Nirya fussing about how they removed that enchanting device from the top floor of the Hall of Countenance. Said it was her favorite. Like she's ever used an enchanting device anyway." He gave a theatrical snort. Yrith could not help but smile.

"Thank you," she purred, dropping a curtsy.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Any books today? What can I offer you?"

She shook her head. "Not now. Maybe I'll come back later."

Urag leaned over his desk, touching Yrith's forehead. "Who are you and what have you done with Yrith?"

She snickered, glancing over at the outer circle of the library and the bookshelves lining its walls from pilaster to pilaster. All those tomes they were encumbered with, old and new, fancy and plain, pristine and ragged, she greeted like old friends. All except the grimoires and magic handbooks which she had never dared touch.

"I will stop by later," she said. "Anything I can bring you from the city? Seems I'm going for a stroll later."

"Outside?" The librarian's tone changed from amused to suspicious. Something in his voice made Yrith take a step back.

"Y-yes. That's what I said."

"Alone?"

Yrith would have smiled at his fatherly concern, but the memory of Singird Larkwing made her clench her teeth instead. "With Cain Aldaryn," she muttered.

With no warning, the orc slammed the desk. His unfinished book hopped an inch. Several papers flew. Yrith winced. "It's that demented ogreface of a Nord, isn't it? He and his discipline!"

"W-well, it's a long story…"

He took a moment to draw several deep breaths. His green fingers clutched the edge of his desk, staying there until his rage abated, leaving him with a resigned look.

"A new set of quills from Birna's, and an inkpot to go with them, if you'd be so kind. But Yrith." He placed his broad, bear hands on her shoulders. "Take good care. Do not stray and do not stall. All right?"

"But why…"

"You've heard the news."

"Ah, that. But that's just some madman trying to frame the College. What reason would they have to target one of us? And me of all people."

He shook his head. "Don't tempt fate, Yrith. One can never be careful enough."

"If you say so. It's not like I want to spend more time with that snob than necessary anyway."

"Well well. Have you found any friends yet?"

She pierced him with a look, then turned away, stepping down the stairs. There, out of his reach, she stopped.

"Stop asking. I'm not talking to that lot."

With that, she left the Arcanaeum. The sad, weary sigh behind her back kept her company until it mingled with the painful creak of the old, rusty door.


The Hall of Countenance was never quite vacated. It required patience to move through it undetected. But to exact justice, Yrith had plenty of it. Much to her delight, Drevis Neloren, the College illusion master, never bothered with putting up protective spells in the teachers' dormitory. Perhaps he believed that no one could escape the eyes of the masters of magic. Or perhaps it was simply not worth his time. It was thanks to him that Yrith always managed to find a blind spot. When, after an hour of waiting in the courtyard, the always distraught Nirya rushed from the door, leaving it to snap shut by itself, Yrith found a moment to carefully slip in and simply walk to the stairs on the other side of the octagonal room as though she belonged there. More than half of the residents had left under her careful observation. She could not hope for more.

She climbed the stairs, carefully scanning the area of the second floor. It looked deserted. A door opened somewhere below her. She shrugged, proceeding up. Whoever it was, chances were that they were not going to visit Master Larkwing around lunchtime. And up on the third floor, there was nothing but his room.

As she left the last step behind, she had to marvel at how fast the Collegium had managed to build a new room here. The old enchanting device and laboratory, never used by anyone, had been moved elsewhere. Instead, walls surrounded most of the area, hiding a room at least twice the size of a standard teacher's chamber. Yrith found the disproportion rather unjust.

Despite having seen Master Larkwing leave the tower, she pressed an ear to the lacquered wooden door. No sound came from within. She cautiously grabbed the handle and pulled, and the door wing turned in absolute silence. The absence of the sound pleased her. But of course, Singird Larkwing would make sure that the hinges of his door were always in a state of perfection.

Slipping inside, she finally inspected the room in full detail. The sight made her want to laugh. The room was exactly as she had expected, a perfect mirror to her new teacher's personality. Not a speck of dust lay on the thoroughly polished furniture. Several columns of books were perfectly aligned with the edge of the desk they were placed on. Every door or drawer was shut tight, and even the shelves were lined in perfect symmetry. She dedicated a few moments to a silent meditation on how in Oblivion this uptight Nord could ever survive among his kinsmen. Then she shook her head and rubbed her hands. Time had come to deliver her chef d'oeuvre.

One look and she knew what she had to do. She carefully shuffled the books. From the depths of Singird Larkwing's wardrobe, she withdrew several sets of robes and mixed them with the neatly folded shirts and tunics, wondering in the process why he would need so many clothes in the first place. Several items on the shelves, an hourglass with crystal clear sand, a paperweight in the shape of a moon made in dwarven metal, and a strange soul gem with curling ornaments carved along its edges, switched places. When she was done, she nodded in satisfaction, admiring her own work.

"Punish me for being cornered, will you?" she snorted to herself. "Need a target for your whims? Well, the feeling's mutual."

She took one last book and patted its smooth cover made in blue-dyed leather. Soul Recreation by Telvas Adinor, said the imprinted title. Just as she was about to place it on a pile with books of different size, a sheet of paper slipped from within and fluttered to her feet. She picked it up and curiously glanced at the robust, formal-looking script that covered the page.

Singird Larkwing,

It is with great regret that I inform you of the death of your beloved parents. They passed with honor, providing aid to fellow citizens in need. Their remains will be kept in the Temple of Talos in Windhelm until their collection.

I would like to offer my deepest condolences for your loss. May their brave souls forever rejoice in Sovngarde.

I remain,

Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm

Yrith stared at the letter for a long while, holding her breath unwittingly. A bitter memory crept into her mind, one she did not want to remember. She had spent six moons trying to forget. Perhaps…

She shook her head. She could not start looking for reasons to excuse Master Larkwing's coldness and the injustice with which he had treated her. No, this man deserved no pity, and she had none to offer. Her hand almost automatically clutched and crumpled the paper, but she stopped herself at the last moment. Carefully, with trembling fingers, she inserted the letter back in the book and gently put it where it belonged. With head slightly bowed, she left the room, refusing to look back.


The storm had subsided. The heavy clouds had moved to hinder the sailors who were brave enough to traverse the Sea of Ghosts. The sunlight gave golden lining to the imposing statue of Azura dominating the western horizon. The daedric mistress of balance, ruler of day and night, stood tall on the mountain ridge that separated Winterhold from the Pale, slender hands that held the sun and moon reaching toward the sky.

As Yrith stepped out of the gate, she saw Cain standing on the bridge over the Winterhold strait with a burlap sack in his hand, his gaze turned to the statue and beyond. Instinctively, she gritted her teeth. But when she looked into the Dunmer's face, for a moment, it seemed almost gentle, as if she was looking at a different person.

She approached him quietly, eyes fixed on the uneven path under her feet, avoiding the sight of the icy depths below. The bridge was old, its walls eaten by the tooth of time. Ancient magic was the only thing still holding it in place.

A loose piece of gravel crunched under step. Cain turned around abruptly, his eyes narrowing into his usual sneer.

"Trying to sneak up on me, midget?" he growled.

She sighed. The moment of tranquility was gone. "And just what would it give me?" she said, raising her hands defensively.

"Why should I know? Maybe you're hoping that I fall down and break my bones on those reefs over there. Well you can go ahead and do that yourself. And carry this while you're at it." He threw the sack at her. Yrith caught it instinctively, her lip twitching in rage.

"I'm not your servant!" she hissed.

"No? You might as well be one, shabby as you are. Mind your step, I wouldn't want to sully my shoes."

He stepped out, his elven gait light on the crumbling stone. Yrith followed him, her fist clenched around the sack, imprinting its texture into her skin. She battled in silence with the desire to push him and make him slip over the icing covering the bridge's surface. Instead, she turned her eyes to the handful of cottages emerging before them that were the once proud city of Winterhold. With their dimly lit windows and smoking chimneys sticking out of the snow-covered thatch roofs, they gave off a feeling of coziness. It was an oasis of warmth, set in the middle of a frozen wasteland. On the sides of the cliff that held the city way above the sea level, ruins were scattered here and there, a remainder of a great cataclysm known as The Great Collapse.

Upon reaching the gate at the foot of the bridge, the city welcomed them with the smell of burning wood and roast. Yrith's eyes wandered to the inn, The Frozen Hearth. Not too many voices came from there, but she knew that inside, a gentle fire was burning and the owners, Dagur and Haran, were serving a warm meal to the locals, complaining about poor business as usual. Back in the day, she would visit them and receive a bowl of broth and freshly baked pie. Dagur would dance around her and sing horribly out of tune, making Yrith, hailing from a land of artists, want to cover her ears. That was when her parents had still been alive. In those times, Yrith had known how to smile properly.

Without thinking, she paused to take a pensive look at the inn's old, chipped door. The signboard at its side creaked a lonely tune. She barely ever caught a glimpse of the duo in these days, being mostly confined to the College grounds.

"Are you coming, dog?" Cain's affected voice cut through her thoughts. "Should've brought a leash."

Yrith glared at him, biting the caustic remark that fought its way to her lips. Perhaps she would be satisfied with simply stuffing his mouth with snow to silence him. Rolling her eyes, she rushed past him, leaving the obnoxious Dunmer behind. She could hear his breath quicken as he picked up his pace.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

Yrith laughed. "It seems you're not quite as successful at making me bend to your will when there's no one to hold me down for you." She felt a rush of satisfaction at the truth of her own words. Here, with no circle of people to cut her way, he was powerless. Yrith was confident she knew the place better than he did and could outrun him at any time. The nobility never spent too much time acquainting themselves with the darkest corners around. Yrith, on the other hand, considered it one of her favorite pastimes.

"And you're quite proud for someone who has just been punished and can't even cast sparks."

She shrugged. "But I'm not the only one who has been punished, am I?"

He let out a snort, choosing silence as his next weapon. At last.

The buildings along the road slowly gave way to ravaged ruins. No footprints were cast in the ruffled white blanket around them, its pristine texture contrasting their decay. Even the occasional birds seemed to avoid the space above them, as if it was contaminated and deadly. Walking down the beaten path, Yrith could still feel a tingling touch of cold that had little to do with the eternal winter. Beside her, Cain, having caught up with her at last, shivered.

"Half an hour in your company and I already feel drained," he grumbled, pointing an accusing finger at her. "Let's press on. I can't wait to get back for a warm dinner. Even if that stuff tastes horrible."

For once, Yrith agreed. She gave a silent nod as they descended the slope leading to the fish nets, cautiousness battling the desire to leave the place as soon as possible. With cliffs on both sides, they entered a murky ravine. A shadow of a great iceberg loomed above the dark sea waters in the distance. The ice around them filled the air with soft crackling, occasionally drowned by a distant splash. The sound was strangely regular, travelling between the walls like a restless cricket hopping from one side to another. Yrith tried to follow it with her eyes. A few times, she had a feeling that she saw a flicker of light moving along those icy walls.

A chill tickled the nape of her neck, and she turned after it. Ethereal columns of snow whirled in the wind and obscured her view. Strange. There had been no wind just a while before, and the sky was still crystal clear.

"What are you looking at?" Cain called to her, sneering. "Don't tell me you're scared."

She pierced him with a look, wishing to pull the sack he had made her carry over his daft, spiky head.

"You wish," she muttered.

"So you are scared! The Lone Demon is coming for you, boo!"

"And just what in Oblivion is the Lone Demon?"

"Never heard of the fallen divine? Neither aedra, nor daedra, cast from Aetherius to Oblivion and from Oblivion to Nirn. The Nameless God with no home to return to. He likes to hunt for lost souls and devour them for pleasure."

Yrith raised a brow, sizing the Dunmer up. "Of course. And young maidens especially, doesn't he?" she scoffed.

"You're laughing, but he destroys all that is innocent. All that represents the good of the world, because in his world, there is no difference between good and bad. No difference between any two entities. When he presented his idea of a perfect world to the Divines, they cast him off to Nirn for fear he would turn them into mortals. Everybody fears death. But death is what he brings."

"Great story. I'll be sure to remember it when I finally become a writer."

Shaking her head, Yrith picked up her pace, nearly slipping over a stretch of ice. Just then, the crackling sound drew closer, its echo assaulting her senses. Cold slithered beneath her skin. Shuddering, she searched for the source of the sound. The ice sparkled and sputtered. And moved. Her eyes widened.

"Cain…" she managed to produce.

"You know," he continued, oblivious to her dismayed face, "I'm quite sure he would find your soul delicious."

"C-Cain…" she tried again.

"What? Did I really scare you, midget? Are you afraid for your soul now?"

It shot forward. An ethereal snake-like skeleton of pure ice.

"Behind you!"

The Dunmer laughed.

"Don't try to scare me, midget. I know better than to…"

"Turn around, you trollhead!" she cried. At last, the Dunmer looked over his shoulder. He gasped and took a few quick steps back, nearly tripping over a knob of hardened snow.

"What the… that's an…"

"Ice wraith!" Yrith shrieked. "By the Eight… do something! Do something!"

Cain bit into his lip and backed away, until a wall stopped him. Eyes wide with fear, he raised his hands in between heavy breaths and a sphere of flames enveloped them. He released it as soon as the spell was fully charged. The fire bolt hummed through the air. It seemed to take forever. Yrith held her breath and so did Cain. The missile hit the wraith, but before the two of them could cry out with joy, it hissed and dissolved. The Dunmer forced himself to draw breath and shot again. And again. And twice the fire fizzled and vanished as soon as it touched the creature. It lunged at its attacker and dug its frosty teeth into his cloak. The dark elf screamed, and his legs gave way. Yrith's scream matched his own.

"No!" he yelled. The ice wraith wound about him. He stared at it helplessly, and Yrith could almost read his thoughts. His novice magic could not compare with the power of a fully grown ice wraith. His back pressed itself to the wall of ice behind him, his feet digging holes in the snow. Yrith stood by his side, eyes fixed blankly on the creature. It withdrew, its body arching over Cain. It would strike at any moment. It could kill him. She had to do something. Anything…

Her mind reached far into her past, pulling out memories she had wished to bury. No, she still wished to… she couldn't do it. They would know. It would be the end. But if she didn't…

Time seemed to stop for her. Her eyes found the cowering Cain, his frantic look, the body that trembled not in cold, but in fear. He feared for his life. Perhaps for both their lives. It would be the end either way. She drew a breath through gritted teeth.

Stretching out her arms, she let the sack fall in the snow. Somewhere deep inside her, a pool of magicka swirled, long untouched. She closed her eyes and let the energy flow. Her thought flew across the planes, becoming one with Mundus. Fire, it called. I need fire!

When she opened her eyes, violet sparks burst from her hands, soon taking the form of a graceful blazing figure. Her flame atronach did not need commands. It knew what to do.

It flung itself over Cain's body, sending forth a ball of fire. The ice wraith recoiled. The Dunmer gasped, trying to integrate himself into the wall.

The second ball hit its target. It ignited, the fires of Oblivion themselves eating into the wraith's flesh. The creature hissed and squirmed, desperate to flee, but its movement had slowed into a painful staccato.

The third ball sent it to the ground. It barely managed to release its final hissing breath before it shattered into a small pile of ice. The atronach flew over it, twirling in a pirouette to announce its victory. Yrith let out a deep, shaky breath.

There was a moment of silence. Neither Yrith nor Cain dared move, staring wordlessly at the scene before them. The atronach's fire hummed quietly, until it left for its home plane with a loud crack. Yrith winced at the sound, finally looking at her companion. He looked back at her, his crimson eyes wide with a palette of feelings too rich for Yrith to name them all. They opened their mouths at once.

"Are you–"

"You just–"

They stopped. Slowly, Cain scrambled to his feet, pointing an accusing finger at Yrith.

"What in Oblivion was that?!"

"That was an ice wraith," she breathed, "and it was unusually close to the city."

He knit his brows into a glare. "You know what I mean."

She sighed. So that was it. There would be no words of gratitude coming from that mouth of his. He would not let it slide. He would not care that an ice wraith had just attacked them. As always, he would simply enjoy himself on her account. She wished to punch him. To show this noble boy his place.

"No." She raised her hand in silent warning. "I don't. As far as I'm concerned, you saw nothing. You know nothing and this," she threw her arms about her, "never happened."

"Oh really?"

Yrith stared at him in disbelief. His smug expression was back, sharp in the moonlight, as if it had never left his face.

"You little…" she swallowed the curse. "An ice wraith attacks us, I save your sorry hide and you…"

"Oh no," he shook his head, casting her a meaningful look, "you didn't. Because, you see… that never happened."

"You…"

"Now, why would a person like you hide such talent? I wonder… I don't suppose you'll be fighting with me anytime soon. You never know. My mouth might just… slip."

Yrith felt fire surge within her. Fuming, she grabbed the sack at her feet and took a step toward the Dunmer.

"You know what?" she spat, angry sparks flaring out of her eyes. "Fetch the stupid fish yourself. And choke on it while you're at it! I'm not doing this."

She threw the sack at him with all her might and stomped away, fighting the drifts of snow and patches of ice in her path. She was shaking with fury. He called after her. She refused to listen. Or perhaps her restless thoughts drowned the sound of his voice and she could not hear it at all.


A/N: This chapter has been completely rewritten to match the quality of the latest chapters (20 and further). Eventually, I will rewrite all the parts that seem to be lacking. For the time being, I will welcome any kind of feedback for the following chapters. I am always striving to improve!