Chapter 12: Of Doubt and Treachery

"So," Singird said as he sipped from his cup. It was his favorite smuggled tea which he deemed fitting for an occasion like this, "I suppose it's time to reveal what I've kept from you since the day I made you confess about your parents." He was uneasy. He knew this moment would have to come sooner or later, yet he felt so unprepared. How would she handle it? How would she take the fact that he lusted for her power, and that there was a killer on the loose who had murdered her parents in cold blood and now was after her? He was worried she might hate him. And he was worried she might hurt.

She sat there, with those big, silver eyes pinned on his person, waiting patiently for him to start. He had to smile. Always so curious, this one. When it came to gaining information, she could be so focused. So intent on finding more about him, and about herself. He knew that this time, he would have to be open with her. She had shared her story with him. He would have to do the same.

"Let me start with a story of mine," he said as he leaned against the backrest of his chair. "I come from a long line of mages. My parents grew up down in Falkreath, but they received their education in Winterhold. They were scholars of sorts, with their heads deep down in some sort of research, but they never shared it with anyone. They never took sides, and whenever someone came asking for help, they were ready to give it. They did not care for race or origins, allegiances or patron deities. The only thing they did not let anyone touch was their research. I was often left on our family farm with my uncle so I would not get in the way. It was infuriating, but they did feed me and provide good education for me, including the magical one. I can't speak half badly of them."

Singird felt his own brows furrow as he spoke. He had almost forgotten how it had felt for him to be left behind. In a sense, he was similar to young Miss Ravencroft who had conjured an atronach just to chase away the feeling of loneliness. She nodded in understanding. For a brief moment, he felt the urge to pull her closer, but he resisted. This was not the time. There were things he had to overcome on his own, and she had enough burdens on her shoulders.

"I was always curious what it was they were doing. I am not the type to sneak up on people." Miss Ravencroft winced at that and he could almost touch the guilt that gnawed on her consciousness. He could picture her with an ear pressed to the door, listening to her own parents. In a sense, it was adorable, although he could picture himself trying his hardest to discipline her for that kind of misdemeanor. "But occasionally, I had a good chance to listen. Most of what my parents said sounded like gibberish to me and I could not make much sense of it, but they often spoke about my great-grandfather, Ulfar Larkwing. I daresay they were obsessed with him, yet somehow the information they could find on him was scarce and mostly just in the form of rumors."

He paused to take another sip and watched the greyness outside the window. There was a crow on its ledge, as it lately liked to be. Ever since Yrith Ravencroft's first night, it liked to sit there and caw endlessly. The girl often chased it away, disturbed in her sleep or in reading. Now it was silent, as though it was listening. Singird knew it would not hear a thing through the magical protections that were renewed twice a day. Nothing would come through without him noticing.

"What happened to him?" she asked, gripping her own cup as though it was the only warm thing in the room.

"He died in the Great Collapse. Or so it is said, but my parents thought otherwise. They were convinced that there was more to it than the Collegium claims, and so they investigated. You can imagine they weren't very popular around here. I took after them," he chuckled. "It continued for years. Around the time the magical murders started occurring in Skyrim, they were invited by Jarl Siddgeir to join the Imperial army. To someone like my parents who prided themselves on their neutrality, such an invitation was an insult. At the same time, I was invited to serve as the Jarl's court wizard. I was… too naïve to realize what that meant. I went along with it, seeing it as an opportunity to find my place as a mage. The invitation for my parents soon turned into obligation and I was not allowed to leave the court before their service was over."

He fell silent again. The biggest failure of his life was always a sore subject for him. Perhaps no one but he and Jarl Siddgeir knew of it. And now, Miss Ravencroft. Not even his friend Toddvar knew, and perhaps if he did, their friendship would be over that instant.

Singird opened his mouth to continue, but then he noticed the look Miss Ravencroft was giving him. It was full of sympathy. He froze in shock. Had he made her feel sorry for him? The girl who had gone through so much more than him? He had no words to soothe her. This was his own mistake, and she was probably comparing it to her own. How could he say anything to calm her when he had not forgiven himself?

"When my parents received permission to return for a few days," he said, determined to finish his story, "they went straight to Winterhold. They did not even stop by to see me, the only thing that held them back was that Winterhold was deep in the Stormcloak territory. They negotiated an exception for themselves. As long as they would carry no weapons and avoided populated areas, they were allowed to pass. They swore on their neutrality long before they were recruited, and strangely enough, they were mostly respected for it. Alas, nevertheless, they never returned. All I received was an obituary from Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm and a few documents regarding their death. The Jarl claimed they died an honorable death while helping some people escape a landslide. Their remains were supposed to be kept in the Temple of Talos, but I never got to see them. There were only ashes."

"Do you think Ulfric's men killed them then?" Miss Ravencroft was watching him so intently, the sheets underneath her creased in her clenched fists.

"Maybe they did, maybe they didn't. I don't think it's relevant. Killed is the key word here. I am quite certain this whole thing was a setup and it was made to be absolutely unassailable. Except I dug out our family history and death at a young age seems to be the usual symptom of being a Larkwing. There were all kinds of disappearances. I searched for anything that could give me a clue on their death, but the only thing they left behind were their notes on Ulfar Larkwing. After some months of research and calculations that I covered up as 'tending to our farm', I managed to reconstruct this."

He handed her a paper, the same one he had shown Master Gestor some time ago. She took it gingerly, first regarding it with cautious curiosity, but then her eyes widened. She recognized what it was immediately. He had trained her well.

"A summoning ritual circle!" she breathed in triumph. "But this one is… are these constellations? What do they mean?"

"Not just constellations. See this little symbol?" he pointed at the circle in the middle. "That is an anchor. This whole diagram symbolizes the exact time and place of my great-grandfather's death."

She stared at him, then at the paper, then back at him. He could almost feel the cogs in her head turning. When he let the silence linger, she shook her head.

"Are you… are you planning to… summon him?"

Despite her disbelief, she caught on quickly. "Exactly. That is what my parents were trying to do and that is what I will try to do as well."

"So how do I…"

"This ritual," he continued, sensing what she was about to ask, "is not just some ordinary conjuration spell. To reach Aetherius, you need incredible amount of magical energy. Amount that I could not possibly possess."

"And that's why you need… me?" If Singird did not know better, he would say she was excited. Happy that he wanted to use her. Grateful for what he thought was the worst kind of deceit. Her silver eyes sparkled with interest she could not hide. She was gazing at the paper, holding it like a holy relic, no doubt calculating in her head.

"Indeed," he nodded slowly. He waited for a reaction, but she was so immersed in the paper she almost discarded his existence. "Miss Ravencroft?"

"What? Oh…"

"I know this experiment could be dangerous, so if you don't want to…"

"I want to! I'll help!" There was a strange emphasis on the last word. So that was it. She wanted to feel useful. Did she think she owed him something? Or perhaps she thought she owed the world something. Of course she did. He was feeling guilty over what had happened to his parents, and he was not even the one to kill them. Miss Ravencroft still thought she had killed hers. She was feeling responsible and useless, and anything that would give her purpose she would accept. The realization dawned upon Singird with horrible distaste at his own actions. How could he ever use this girl?

"Miss Ravencroft…"

"When do you think I'll regain my power?"

"In a few weeks, perhaps. But…"

"Then I better prepare myself."

"Miss Ravencroft… please, hold on. I said I'd tell you everything and that is what I intend to do. There is one more thing left."

She looked at him, brows quirked up in question. She must have noticed his unease as the excitement retreated from her face. He took a breath. No more secrets, he promised himself. No more pretending.


"But… that's impossible!" she said for the umpteenth time. Singird was at his wits' end. He had never expected her to refuse to believe in her innocence. She was so convinced she had been the one to kill her parents, so intent on repeating she was at fault, over and over again. No matter what kind of evidence he brought up, she always managed to find a gap in his reasoning. True, he could not present any solid proof to her, but why did she refuse to be relieved? It was as though she would lose something important if she admitted the truth. He could not understand.

"After seven months of dreading what you believed to be the truth, when you could finally put all that blame behind you… it's impossible?"

She did not reply. Her hands and feet played a strange game of tag on the bed. She was fidgety with unease which he could not comprehend. There were no tears, no relief, no anger and no gratitude. She was in complete denial. Singird got a strange feeling there was something she was not telling him, but how could he ask without even a hunch?

"Say, Miss Ravencroft. Why did your parents move to Winterhold?"

She stared at him, her eyes becoming distant for a split moment when she searched for a memory. Then she sighed. "'Because the enemy is near,'" she said colorlessly. There was an undertone of pain in her voice, internal struggle she could not quite cope with.

"What does that mean?"

She shrugged. "They never told me. This is all I got for an answer."

"So they were chasing someone?"

"Maybe?"

"Have you considered that someone could have gotten ahead and killed them instead?"

She winced, but again, there was no response. She grabbed her cup and downed it in a single movement, pretending she had not heard the question. A corner of Singird's mouth twitched. He was becoming very impatient with her.

"And have you considered that someone might be the one after you?" he pressed. She pursed her lips.

"Or it could be the AWA trying to get back at me for killing them," she muttered, one fist obstinately clenched, fingers nearly tearing the sheets, while the other gripped the cup with such strength that Singird was worried it might crack.

"And how would the AWA learn about it?"

"They have their ways. That person can concoct the Spirit Blight… only the AWA can do that."

"Speaking of which…"

She nodded. There was a lull. She finally put the cup on her end table, frowning at the crow still sitting there in silence, patient and motionless.

"Same applies to the antidote. It can only be spellbrewed, and I don't think there's anyone beside the AWA members who can do that."

"Which would mean Qassir Tahlrah is either a spellbrewer, or knows someone from their ranks," Singird concluded. He knit his brows. Qassir Tahlrah was shady enough to be anyone at all. Singird had considered the option that it was the mysterious Redguard aiming for Miss Ravencroft's life. He had appeared out of nowhere and had been suspiciously close when the avalanche took her. But why would he save her then? Letting the Spirit Blight devour her without revealing anything would have been the easiest thing to do.

And then there was Cain Aldaryn who was with her every time something happened. But how could these children be capable of such horrendous feats?

"Say, Miss Ravencroft. Why do you think it could not have been Cain Aldaryn?"

She shot him a look that clearly said what she thought about his opinion. "Because someone from the AWA would never argue with me that expanding my consciousness is the wrong way to do it. It was their literature I got it from."

"Sound argument, but only half-right. You underestimate people's ability to pretend."

"If Cain is fake, then I'm Saint Alessia," she sputtered. Singird fought hard to suppress a glare. Under any other circumstances, he would not tolerate such behavior from her. He sighed.

"Very well. Can you tell me anything about the Spirit Blight then?"

"Not much." Gazing upward, she looked up like a student trying to remember a definition from a textbook. "It's the only poison that disintegrates a person's soul. It becomes nothing more than lifeless energy and it's unable to return to Aetherius. The Blight destroys memories, feelings, everything that makes a person an individual. My parents could make it and they also knew the antidote. Other than that…" She shook her head.

The only new piece of information for Singird was that her parents could make it. He shuddered, wondering why the Ravencrofts would need to make such a deadly concoction. And what did the recent events mean then? The person trying to kill Miss Ravencroft had clearly decided to play an emotional game with her, seeing how normal attempts to kill her would not work. They had almost succeeded at it. It had taken Singird a great deal of effort to convince her it was not the time to give up yet. He was certain the person who had done it must have known the whole family well. Out of the mages he knew, there was only Lady Faralda, but she could have done it so many times before. Other mages from the College could be lying about not knowing them to cover up the truth, but there was the tingling sensation at the back of his head, telling him there was something he was missing. An important fact he kept overlooking, but it was definitely there somewhere.

"What about the black fluid you disgorged?"

She shivered at the memory. He could feel the shadow of pain cross her face, but she shook it off. "I've… never heard of anything like that. It was… strange. I think… I think the Blight started taking effect much sooner than I realized and… this was the result. Though I read the effect was supposed to be quick and immediate. I guess not even the AWA literature is always correct."

"Or you were made to believe so," Singird mused aloud. "Say, Miss Ravencroft, is there anything else? Anything related to your parents or you that could help. Did you ever have any enemies? Other conflicts? Did your parents suggest anything?"

"Well…" She looked away, bright red flush dying her cheeks. A crooked smile flashed over her lips, a timid sign of her guilty conscience. He knew that face well, and if he should pick one expression that would represent Yrith Ravencroft in his eyes, it would be this one. "There is the cipher."

"Cipher?"

"Yes. We… found it with Leyna a while ago in my parents' old house."

Singird's eyes widened in disbelief. With Leyna Travi… that meant after the avalanche incident. After he had gone out to warn her about venturing outside. He felt color retreating from his face. She was already lucky to be alive, but this…

"You went to your parents' house," he repeated quietly. It was not a question, he did not need to confirm. But he was angry. The kind of cold angry that would freeze the blood in her veins. And it did. She looked at him, eyes wide with panic. "Just when did you do that and why in Oblivion could you not take my advice for once in your life?"

"I was angry," she peeped. "It was right after the argument with Urag…"

The day of the Spirit Blight incident. Anything could have happened.

"Tell me everything," he demanded. "Every single detail of what happened that day."


"So this cipher you found… where is it?"

She groped about her robes, finally withdrawing a crumpled piece of paper. It was torn at some places and stained by the Spirit Blight, but the symbols on it were still discernible, if a bit smudged. Singird frowned in disapproval at the lines of text that covered it, some crossed or blackened out in a very disorganized manner. Below them was some sort of a code.

"We could not find a way to decrypt this," she shrugged as she handed it to him. He took it, staring at the characters of the cipher, some capital, some not. It hurt his eyes and there was something peculiar about it. The same letter would have a different counterpart depending on whether it was capital or small, but was that really it?

"The words are too short," he shook his head. "One can't possibly hope to decipher this."

Miss Ravencroft nodded. "That's what we thought too."

"In that case, there must be some kind of key. If this can't be decoded using the standard method, then perhaps we're looking at it the wrong way. If this message was meant for you, I suppose it's something only you would be able to figure out. The method suggested by Miss Travi could be wrong entirely."

"But I don't know what…"

"We have time. Think about it. You said it was from a book? Could it be something that concerns the note in it? Or its story? A memory that connects you to it?"

She stared at the paper, shaking her head. "My parents always loved to overestimate me," she sighed as she threw herself flat on her bed. Singird snorted.

"Your parents loved you," he told her gently. "If this is a message from them, then they must have put it together just before they died. They had faith you'd be able to get to the root of this. No doubt they wanted to protect you."

She shot him a glance, cheeks dyed with soft pink. She did not utter a single word, but he felt the gratitude that flicked from behind the curtain of grumpiness she had raised over her face. He smiled. At times, she was like a mirror image of his own person. The question was whether that should make him happy or worried.


"Is the mid… I mean, Yrith, all right?"

The lesson had ended, but three students, Cain Aldaryn, Leyna Travi and Qassir Tahlrah, remained, asking after their friend. That is, Cain Aldaryn and Leyna Travi remained while their Redguard classmate pretended to be idly standing nearby, very much interested in the plain paving of the Hall of the Elements. The rest of the class had left, grouped around the babbling Ha'risha who loudly announced how dull and useless Conjuration is in comparison to Illusion which can get a person very far. Unfortunately, Singird could not discipline novices for stating their opinion, no matter how much he wished for it at times.

He looked at the querying Dunmer. Cain's crimson eyes were pinned on him as though his life depended on the answer. Singird did hope Miss Ravencroft was right about her supposed friend. "She will be," he said evasively. He could not risk revealing she had lost her magic, even if it was likely that the culprit already knew.

"When is she coming back?"

"When the time is right. Now go. You have an assignment to work on, and the exams are coming close."

The boy muttered something under his breath, but gestured to his Altmeri friend to leave. The two of them gave Singird a slight bow before excusing themselves. Qassir Tahlrah followed them shortly, but just as he approached the closing door, a thought occurred to Singird.

"Mister Tahlrah," he called to him. The Redguard glanced over his shoulder, brows quirking above the deep blue eyes. "A word, if you will?"

He chuckled, picking a slow, relaxed pace to close the distance between the two of them. "Did I mess up my last assignment?" he asked in a light, conversational tone. "I did think it was a bit off…"

Singird swallowed the caustic remark he was so close to spitting. This… boy, or whatever he was, always so easygoing, always fooling around as if he had nothing better to do. He wielded magic like a wooden stick, and there was not a disaster that could shake him. Now that he thought about it, Singird did not even know who his parents were. There was just this boy who came out of nowhere and laughed everything off. A Redguard on top of that, belonging to a race that was said to be the least magically gifted.

"No, I want to discuss Miss Ravencroft."

"The urchin? What about her?"

"Perhaps we should take this somewhere else so we can…"

"There's no need. I'm quite comfortable here. So what is it about the urchin?"

How audacious could one boy be? Qassir Tahlrah was annoying enough when he was showing off in class, but this was a whole new level of casual arrogance, as Singird would call it. He suppressed a glare, forcing his stirred thoughts to behave. "You saved her back then."

The boy gave a theatrical shrug. "Whatever might you be talking about?"

Singird stared at him in disbelief. He was playing with him! Leading him on, and now Singird, the initiator, was feeling unsure. Was it safe to talk to him? Who was he, and why was this youngster so good at both magic and manipulation?

No, he would only say as much as was absolutely necessary.

"The Spirit Blight," he said. "You managed to get an antidote for it."

"Ah, that thing that almost got her? It actually has a name?"

Fists clenched, Singird fought the urge to punch him in the face, savagely, like an animal. With no magic, just to let out his frustration. Qassir Tahlrah could turn his every word against him. No matter what he said, he could not beat him in his own game. But all things considered, there had to be a limit. Whatever he was trying to pull, sooner or later, he would have to bump into a wall. Very well. If it was going to be like this, so be it.

"It does," he uttered colorlessly. "And you managed to get an antidote. How did you get your hands on it?"

The Redguard circled the central fountain, by no means in hurry. Then he stopped and leaned comfortably against the cold wall, flickering blue light deepening the shadows in his tanned face. Somehow, Singird could imagine him with a pipe, unconcerned, smiling like a Khajiit offering the finest brewed skooma in Tamriel.

"Interesting. So this antidote is something that is hard to obtain, I take it?"

Another question instead of an answer. Singird's fingers flexed and clenched into fists again. He took a breath. Relax, he told himself. This is exactly what he wants. He wants to drive you into a corner. He makes weapons out of your questions… then you should do the same.

"Which makes me question your methods and resources," he stated, face hardening into his iron battle mask.

"Doubt is very popular these days," the boy returned thoughtfully. "I helped a friend. Is there anything wrong with that?"

"It is the right thing to do, and that is exactly why I am asking. What if some others will need to… help a friend?"

"Then perhaps those others should first admit to having a friend."

"You are digressing."

"Am I truly? Or is it just you who interprets it that way?"

Singird was at his wits' end. How in Oblivion was he supposed to react to that? Was Qassir Tahlrah simply avoiding answering his questions, or was he trying to tell him something? Then again, if he wanted to elude the conversation, he could just leave. Was it entertaining to toy with his teacher like this? Or was there a hidden purpose behind those riddles?

"Why would you say so?"

"Why indeed? A sound question, yet I must ask another one once more. Who do you blame for the current events?"

"No one," Singird cut resolutely. What kind of question was that?

"Then who do you suspect?"

"How dare you…"

"Dare what? Ask a question? Then you're afraid to answer it?"

The Redguard smiled. He was the epitome of wickedness, cruel, wide smile spread over his face. Chills ran down Singird's spine upon looking into his eyes, but there was something behind that veil of twisted artifice that brought doubt in his own judgement.

"Afraid? No. But you asked a question that has no answer. It could be anyone, though if you're suggesting otherwise, I cannot see it."

"True," he nodded, "it could be anyone. How convenient, isn't it? There are so many who could take the blame. So tell me, Master Larkwing, what do you expect me to say?"

"Something that would make more sense than what you're saying now."

"What do you mean?"

"That you're leading me on and I might just have enough of it."

There was a lull. The boy's face grew darker with shadows that had not been there before. His smile vanished, replaced by a deep frown. Eyes like two sapphires were underlined by darkness that not even the pale fountain light could penetrate.

"I am, aren't I?" he breathed. "How truly convenient. Then perhaps, Master Larkwing, I have just demonstrated the tactics that person uses to lead us all on. I cannot give you the answer you are looking for. But you can find it yourself. Here." He tapped his chest where his heart was.

Singird now openly glared at him. He had just been ridiculed by one of his own students, a boy in his teens that pretended to know all the truths of the world. "Why can't you just answer a simple question?"

"About the antidote, you mean?" the Redguard laughed bitterly. "Very well, I shall give you an answer to the last one. Two answers, actually. Because first, that knowledge would be useless to you. You are either suggesting that I am aiming for the urchin's life, or you think I have some extensive knowledge about her… enemy, so to speak. In both cases, you are mistaken. And second," his voice dropped so he was barely audible in the humming of the fountain, "I am not entitled to tell you."

"Wha…"

The boy rose and moved toward Singird. On his way, he picked up a piece of paper lying on the floor, likely dropped by some student on the way out. He unfolded it, quickly scanned the first line and folded it back. "This seems to belong to Leyna Travi," he stated matter-of-factly as he placed it on the fountain wall, just beside Singird.

He stopped just a few inches from him, leaning closer. Singird could feel his breath on his neck, face twisting in distaste, but he froze as the Redguard spoke.

"I am taking a risk by telling you this," he said in a low voice. "Consider it a personal favor. They are on the move. I shall be leaving Winterhold. But they will be back. They are drawn to this place. Beware the end of Last Seed."

He pulled away, making for the entrance. "And Master Larkwing," he called to him as the gate opened before him into the grim, snowy courtyard, "you know what else you have in here?" His hand reached for the chest once more.

Singird was about to tell him to stop with the foolish jokes, but instead, he just shook his head, half curious what the answer was going to be.

Qassir Tahlrah smiled again, this time in earnest, and the air around him suddenly became brighter. "Yrith Ravencroft," he said. And with that, the gate closed behind him, leaving Singird speechless and confounded. And, for some unknown, mysterious reason, also hot in the cheeks.


It had taken Singird a few moments to shake off the daze that came afterwards. He had asked so many questions, yet instead, it felt as though he had been the one being questioned. Or, rather, tested. The boy had admitted to knowing something, yet just like Urag gro-Shub, he refused to tell him. Singird could only guess whether they shared the same reason. One thing, however, he was now certain of. There were many people and many places in Winterhold that held pieces of the puzzle, yet somehow, general distrust made it difficult to put them together. Distrust that was perhaps more than simple wariness. It was fear of each other. Qassir Tahlrah was right. Someone had planted the seed of doubt among the people here. Someone who would grow stronger when others grew weaker, someone who took advantage of discord.

He sighed as he leaned to the fountain wall and closed his eyes. He let the blue, ticklish light stream of magicka wash over his face. It was cold and warm at the same time, helping him concentrate and ponder the Redguard's words. He played the whole conversation over and over in his head, trying to make sense of it. He had not learnt who Qassir Tahlrah was, nor had he made any progress in finding the culprit. Yet he still had that tingling feeling that there was something he was missing, and it had nothing to do with the magic caressing his head.

At last, he rose. His hip grazed the paper that still lay on the fountain's edge. He picked it up, opening it to scan its contents. It was a letter by the looks of it, written in the Altmeri language. Singird had once learned the script, and so he recognized the name Leyna at the beginning, but the rest remained hidden. Deciding he would return it to its right owner later, he folded it again, but just as he did, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed another name somewhere in the middle of the letter. Yrith Ravencroft.

After a lightning-fast contemplation, he changed his destination from his room to the Arcanaeum.

The library was surprisingly lively this time of the day. Students and teachers alike paced from one book case to another, flipping pages in books and taking notes in preparation for exams that would take place in Frostfall. Students would then be sorted into expert classes where they would continue their education. Singird had no doubt the Destruction class would have the most applicants while Restoration would probably have the least. But he knew for sure whom he wanted in Conjuration, and he would not care if she was the only one to join.

He scanned the room. Fortunately, most people were gathered in the magic section of the library. The language studies department was completely deserted which worked in Singird's favor. Avoiding the orc who loomed above the library like a hawk, watching for the first careless soul to make a sound louder than a quiet hum, he slid into the lifeless corner and pulled out a few dictionaries. Fortunately, the letter was concise, written in simple modern language, apparently in hurry, made to be easy to understand. The translation Singird made was rough, but there was no time to give way to his perfectionism. As he approached the end, he grew anxious, and when he finally finished his work, he felt color retreating from his face. This could not be right. By the Nine above, this could not be right.

Leyna,

Things have changed. Chaos now reigns the Dominion. People are turning on each other, stabbing their allies in the back. Alinor is not safe anymore, not even for our kind. I have been forced to take refuge elsewhere. Do not worry for me, I am safe. But you are not. I apologize. I sent you away, hoping you would be safe in the far north, but time has proven me wrong. Watch out for the Justiciars. Here is hoping the College staff will have enough dignity to protect you, but if the worst comes to the worst, escape. But do not leave alone.

There is a girl in Winterhold, going by the name Yrith Ravencroft. Become her friend. Gain her trust. Even if you are to turn the whole College against you, she alone must become your ally. It is essential that you bring her with you wherever you go.

If by any chance the two of you manage to stay safe in Winterhold, you will take her to the promised place when the time comes. You will know when that is.

You must not fail, Leyna. Many a fate depend on this arrangement.

Stay alert, daughter of the Travi.

Auri-El guide you.

Your father,

Selas Inarion Travi

This must have been a cruel joke. Leyna Travi, Miss Ravencroft's first friend at the College. The very person he had defended before the Collegium, the person they had decided to risk their lives for. He had stood up for her, and so had Lady Faralda and Urag gro-Shub. Had she befriended young Yrith only so she could betray her afterwards? Was she planning to sell her out, to harm her? What would he do about it? Confront her directly? No, that could result in a disaster. But what of Miss Ravencroft? The poor Miss Ravencroft who still might have no friends at all?

He clenched his fists, crumpling the letter he was gripping in his hands. Several people winced as they passed him, letting him know that the expression he wore could not be classified as friendly. He was not feeling friendly. If Leyna Travi was behind all this…

He took a breath and cursed himself for the thought that had almost seized his mind. Slowly, calculating his every movement to maintain control, he returned the dictionaries into place. Their backs were in a perfect line, their titles were in the right order, even the colors matched as they should. With gritted teeth, concealing his expression, he left the Arcanaeum. As he reached the College roof, he drew in the fresh air. The breeze was cold and refreshing, and the view was as astonishing as ever. The icebergs contrasted the dark sea that carried them on its currents. The mountains were tall and mighty, and the statue of Azura ruled them from above. Yet, somewhere beyond it, a column of dark smoke rose to the skies, revealing a camp that belonged to either the Imperials, or the Stormcloaks. The war was close.

The College of Winterhold was fighting a war of its own. A war that made people doubt each other. Singird could not put his trust in anyone. That was, anyone but Miss Ravencroft. But then again, she was the main reason for his doubt. It was because of her that he often got heated. It was because of her that he was scared and doubtful. And… it was because of her that he was hopeful. Before he knew it, she had filled his whole life. He had known her for a month or so, yet he felt as though he had known her for ages.

In fact, he did not mind being upset over her. He was more than willing to fight this war for her, to protect her and support her until she would be able to stand for herself. What he did mind were her tears. When she was broken and hurt… that was when he ached. He felt this stabbing pain in the chest, like a white-hot knife piercing him over and over again.

He stopped just before the entrance to the Hall of Countenance with his hand on the handle, staring into a knab in the wooden door. Suddenly, he realized that Qassir Tahlrah was right. Singird had forgotten all about his original motives. His actions were driven by her, and the insuppressible need to protect her. And the pain he felt when he realized how hurt she would be upon hearing about Leyna Travi's treachery… deep inside he decided that he could never tell her. He could not bear to break her. After all, Yrith Ravencroft was really in his heart.

He pulled the handle and entered the tower. His room was just a few paces away. She was somewhere inside, waiting for him, with her head buried in a book. Upon opening that door, she would not be the same anymore. He would see her in a different light. Now this was a situation.