Winterhold was almost exactly as he remembered it. Cold, freezing, and ugly.

At least it wasn’t snowing. Yet.

But there were differences, which was expected after all the time he had not visited. It was the kind of differences that was surprising him.

New buildings had been erected, mostly small wooden houses, and even a few shops. There were more people around, and the whole settlement seemed to be booming.

“What happened here? The Jarl ban all the taxes?” he asked as Haming helped him get down from the wagon.

“Why don’t you ask him? I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”

“I have other things to do,” he said, hobbling over with his crutch. The wounds on the legs were not healed yet, even with the use of magic.

“Yes, you told us this. But what are we supposed to do?” the young archer asked, gesturing to his fighters and what-was-her-name… Feida, or something like that.

“Drink something in the inn. Find out about what’s going on in the region. Don’t draw attention to yourself. The usual.”

“What about your stuff? The junk and the—”

“I will send someone to take my belongings, among which the ancient armour stands out,” he said drily.

“Whatever you say, boss. Are you sure you don’t want a hand with—”

“I bet that the place has still a policy about ‘mages only’, even if the town has changed. I’ll go alone.”

“Suit yourself, boss. Join us at the inn later?”

“I’ll try,” Conrad said, as he started to limp towards the College, at an extremely slow pace.

As he proceeded on the well-worn road, he absorbed all the sounds he had never heard here, before.

A cacophony of hooves and rusty spokes, of hammers on hot metal, and loud, brash voices that filled the air.

All things that were found in other settlements.

But there was one thing that was missing. There were no childish laughs.

There were no children.

How was it possible for a city that had gained so many inhabitants and seemed to be in an expanding stage to have no children?

As he struggled to think of a good reason for this, Conrad suddenly stopped.

He felt his honed instincts kicking in, and his free hand went to the handle of his axe, concealed under the heavy fur mantle he had been given by Haming.

He had found himself under the scrutiny of a small number of onlookers who were lingering around the entrance of a tavern, mugs and flagons in hand.

And weapons on their belts.

Since when had Winterhold had more than one inn, anyway?

They looked like seasoned fighters, their eyes were too shifty for Conrad’s tastes, and they were interested in him.

That was never good.

Was it because he was a ‘new’ arrival in town, or for other reasons?

Conrad was suddenly happy that his cowl was concealing the scarred side of his face from their view.

Now that he thought about it, something seemed off ever since they had arrived, and now he realized what it was.

Everyone was carrying a weapon. Everyone.

What had happened to the dying town?

“What are you looking at?” he growled, giving his best angry Nord performance. He was sure that he could beat them if they tried anything funny.

But without his armour on, he felt so exposed. Walking with it on would have been asking for trouble for his wounded legs.

“Heh, another ‘tough guy’,” one of the group snarked, derision dripping from his words.

Conrad blinked at him, stupefied. Had this tavern trash just—

“Look at him. He can barely stand!” another laughed, to be quickly joined by his companions.

The tension seemed to evaporate completely as they forgot about him and turned back to their drinks.

On any other day, Conrad would have taught them a lesson. In his younger days, he would have crushed them. He could feel his soul, his dragon soul, screaming in outrage, eager to rain down his righteous fury on these weaklings who dared to insult him.

But he couldn’t risk being arrested or kicked out of the town.

He had things to do, and this was not worth it.

Grumbling, he swallowed his pride and resumed his walk towards the College.

At least Haming and the others would pass unnoticed around here.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

A pair of hooded figures were walking along the arcade that surrounded the College’s courtyard. They were both wearing the clothes associated with the apprentices of the school, but while one of them was walking in long, elegant strides, the other did so in an undignified manner, nervousness showing with each of her steps.

“I tell you, Beta, you worry too much,” the controlled one said.

“But what if they expel me because I can’t do it?!” his companion asked, panic in her voice.

“None have ever been expelled from the College because they were less than adequate in Restoration. Calm down!”

She went ahead and did the opposite.

“It could happen, Sven! I could be the first! I could—”

“What’s going on?” the young mage asked suddenly, looking ahead of his companion.

“I’m having a panic attack, that’s what’s going on!”

“No, not you,” Sven said, gesturing to the entry of the courtyard. “There.”

Beta followed her friend’s line of sight and noticed the commotion at the entrance of the courtyard, right in front of the statue that greeted the newcomers to the College.

A group of students of various classes were staring too something, whispering to each other frantically.They heard yelling, but the little flock of scholars were obstructing their view.

“What do you think has happened?” Beta asked. Her friend kept moving.

“Probably another sellsword that tried to sneak into the College while the bridge wasn’t being watched. Come on, let’s check.”

As they approached their fellow students, they could hear the voice of one of the senior students—for the good of her, Beta couldn’t remember his name—intimidating a stranger into leaving.

The stranger was a tall, blond-bearded Nord around his fortieth winter, leaning heavily on a crutch. A hooded fur mantle concealed his attire, but Beta saw an axe strapped to his belt.

“I insist that you, sir, evacuate the property,” the senior apprentice said, almost disdainfully.

“And I insist that you step aside, before I break your nose,” the stranger said in a gruff voice.

“Told you,” Sven whispered. “Typical sellsword.”

“That’s an axe, Sven,” she replied.

“So what? Axe, sword, same thing.”

“Access to the College of Winterhold is currently restricted to its members, sir. So if you will not leave, I will be forced to—”

“I would love to see you try… mageling,” the stranger snarled.

“I’m warning you! If you don’t vacate the College now, I’ll be forced to make you vacate it!”

“Come on, Beta. Let’s go,” Sven said, having lost interest just like a few other students. Reluctantly, the Nord girl followed him.

“Are you sure it will be fine? That guy could attack them.”

“They can handle it. We have stuff to do, and it wouldn’t be the first time a nobody was kicked out of he—”

“FUS!”

The sound resounded along the arcade, alongside the startled yells of a few students.

Silence followed, quickly substituted by expressions of confusion and awe.

“Impossible,” Beta whispered. The only person still able to use the Thu’um, besides the Greybeards, was—

She turned, only to see that the stranger was plowing through her fellow students who were utterly still, their eyes widened in surprise. The senior apprentice was flat on the ground, slowly getting up, still in shock.

All of the novices were whispering like a bunch of gossipers, but a single word was on everyone’s lips.

“Dragonborn,” Beta said, never turning her sight from the living legend that was walking right in her direction.

Well, more like limping in her direction, but that didn’t matter in her opinion.

She was sure that she was going to have another panic attack.

“You!” the limping legend exclaimed, pointing in her general direction. Beta wasn’t sure if he was pointing at her or Sven, but she was too panicked to care. “Tell me where the Archmage is! And someone explain to me why the bridge hasn’t been repaired yet after all these years!”

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

“You have always known how to make grand entrances, Conrad. Tea?” Mirabelle Ervine asked, from the other side of her desk in her private quarters.

“Yes, please. I was freezing on that bridge,” he replied gratefully. The long trip on the snow hadn’t helped.

“I’ve never met a Nord that hates the cold like you do,” the Archmage said, as she poured a cup for Conrad and one for herself.

“I’m not a typical Nord,” he snorted.

“You use an axe, you’re proud of your beard, and you love mead so much that you’d like to swim into it,” the older woman said as she put down the kettle on a wooden coaster.

“Your point?” Conrad said, sniffing his cup’s content.

“Around here, that makes you a Nord. Especially in the eyes of the students used to dealing with the new… townsfolk.”

“Just because I’m not a skinny little shit doesn’t make me a barbarian! I mean, look at Urag gro-Shub. By the way, how is the old Orc?”

“Wait… you didn’t know?” Mirabelle asked, becoming really serious.A long pause followed between the two long-time acquaintances.

“When?” Something in Conrad’s voice sounded a bit broken at that moment. “He died two summers ago. Passed away in his sleep,” the Archmage replied sadly, lowering her gaze.

Mirabelle stared at him, as Conrad sipped silently from his cup. Then he looked to the ceiling, sighing.

Another friend huh… his world will never change it seems.

"Sorry," he said, refusing to show his mournful figure. He will mourn later but not now. Time to change subject. "What happened at the city?"

“It grew up,” the woman said, taking a sip of her own.

“... I can see that. Care to explain why? There was nothing around of interest here, aside from the College.”

“That’s simple, Conrad. It’s your fault.”

Conrad blinked, taken aback.

“My fault?!”

“You’re the Dragonborn of legend, the man who slew Alduin, the hero of the Siege of Whiterun and of the Battle of Cold Rock Pass. Defeated the Aldmeri Fleet using an army of Dragons. And who knows how many other things you’ve done. Everyone knows you’re a Nord spellcaster, everyone knows that you were trained right here. Did you really think that people wouldn’t flock to your fame?”

“I think I need something stronger than this,” he muttered, placing the half-empty tea cup on the desk.

“Third drawer behind you,” Mirabelle said, taking a sip of tea.

“And they all want to come to the college?!" Conrad asked, as he retrieved a bottle of sujamma from the counter.

"At the start, yes. We gained quite a few students, we even had to build a few more rooms."

"I thought that magic was scorned in Skyrim. Even more than the other imperial provinces. Not even my fame justifies such a flow of new apprentices," Conrad said skeptically as he poured the liquor in his own cup.

"It's not. Magic is still distrusted in the holds, but lot of students came from the rest of the Empire, too. But we couldn't take all of them."

"So why’s the city full of armed thugs? I doubt they want to start using magic."

"They came with the mining company. A lot of new mines were opened along the Sea of Ghosts—"

"And they were paid to assure the mines’ safety, I get it. Wait... Who owns the mines?"

Mirabelle's face tightened in a grimace.

“The jarl does. It was his idea to revive the city, and convince all the families that followed to stay, since the College would not help. As if we could,” she snorted. “And when news spread, people with troubled pasts started showing up here to find a fresh start. When the new inhabitants are not working or guarding the mines, they usually laze around the town or in one of the inns. From what I gathered, it was difficult to keep order in the first months.”

“So what did our young jarl do?” he asked, tasting the sujamma in his mouth.

“He gave them a purpose. Now, they are useful for various things.”

“What things?”

“Fighting bandits, hunting down monsters, search for treasures in the ruins on the coast, or explore what remains of the old Winterhold.”

“Are you saying… that the jarl turned Winterhold in a city of adventurers?”

“Yes,” Mirabelle said, with a glum expression.

“That… that is hilarious,” he said, barely containing his laugh.

“I don’t find it entertaining at all. We get harassed from them every time we get in town, and—”

“Alright, alright. Having your isolated College sitting beside a town full of people that raid ruins for coin is bad for you, I get it. Let’s speak of more serious matters, now,” Conrad said, pouring again the sujamma. “The Thalmor.”

“Ah. Took you long enough,” Mirabelle stated, proffering her cup.

“Did they cause problems for the College?” he asked, serving the liquor to the Archmage.

The ‘because of me’ went unsaid.

“They tried, but not for long,” she said, savoring the exotic liquor. “We may be a little school of magic, but they know that is better to avoid the ire of mages. And you have been absent for… nine years?”

“Eight and a half,” Conrad corrected drily.

“Yes, well, with your long-term absence, we could avoid suspicion from the Justiciars, even with your… independent activities.”

“Independent activities? That’s the understatement of the year, Mirabelle.”

“Why did you come back, Conrad?” she sighed, knowing too well that this was no courtesy visit. “I suppose it’s not to finally accept the title of Arch-Mage, right?”

“You guessed right,” Conrad said with a small smirk.

“This is the fourth time it’s been offered to you, you know.”

“And for the fourth time, I refuse it. You know too well that I can’t manage this place, since I’m always on the move, and my name’s at the top of the Thalmor’s hit-list.”

“That’s a shame. But at least I get to keep the biggest room around here,” Mirabelle smirked while leaning back on her seat. “Now spit it out.”

“Did you heard of what happened in the Hjaalmarch?”

“Just that a few days ago, the Thalmor Embassy sent more patrols inland. And I think that it’s better if I don’t know anything else.”

“Good. Let’s just say that I need to stay in a quiet and cozy place for a while. And since I had some research to do, I decided to make a visit.”

“Research? What kind of research?” Mirabelle asked, arching an eyebrow.

“About these runes,” Conrad said, retrieving the parchment he had written in that cave in the middle of nowhere. He didn’t really need it anymore. He could clearly see the symbols every time he closed his eyes.

He silently observed as Mirabelle Ervine, the Archmage of Winterhold College, raised an eyebrow in confusion at the paper sheet spread on the desk.

“Conrad.”

“Yes?” he asked, distractedly pouring another serving of sujamma in his cup.

“What in Oblivion is this?”

“I have no idea,” the man responded. “But I want to find out.”

“Is that even writing? Even the dragon language looks decipherable,” the woman said, leaning over to take a closer look. “This is just… gibberish!”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“Where did you find it? Was it inscribed in a stone? A mural? In one of the ancient tombs where you like do dwell?”

“Do you really want to know?” he asked, smirking.

Mirabelle snorted.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“Good, because I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”

He knew that Mirabelle had an open mind concerning the supernatural, being a mage and the Archmage to boot, but saying things about long-dead brothers’ lost souls and undead dragons didn’t sound very smart to him. Who would have believed it?Even he was still trying to make up his mind about it.

“Still… are you sure you need the College resources for your research? I don’t think—”

“It has something to do with magic, or at least I think so.”

“Conrad, this looks like chicken-scratch.”

“... Yes. Your point?”

“Why would you even think it has something to do with magic?!”

“It has to do about how I found it, and I can’t—”

“You can’t tell me, I got it,” Mirabelle said, slightly exasperated.

“The library of the Arcaneum is my best shot at finding answers. Will I be able to access it?”

“Of course you will, Conrad. You are still part of this College, after all,” the Archmage smirked. “There will be some… conditions, of course.”

Conrad blinked, unsure if he had heard her right.

“Conditions?”

“It’s been quite a lot since you last came here in person, or even wrote to us for that matter. So, you’ll have to… make amends.”

“Come on, Mirabelle. You know I couldn’t—”

“Since your research will take some time, I have the perfect task for you in mind. As I said to you earlier, we now have an unprecedented number of students.”

“So?” he asked, even if he had a bad feeling about Mirabelle’s ramblings.

“Conrad, students outnumber teachers twenty to one. Our lessons are now not focused on small classes, and—”

“Am I dreaming? Mirabelle Ervine, lamenting about the number of new apprentices she has to manage?” he snickered.

Mirabelle was less than amused.

“Do you really think the quality of our education system hasn’t declined? Do you really think—”

“Alright, alright. I see your point, but what does that have to do with me?”

“You are more than qualified to take a few of our classes, to make the lives of our regular instructors a little easier.”

There was a small pause as the two mages, Archmage and four-time candidate for the title, met each other’s eyes.

It should be noted that one of them looked distinctly panicked.

“No way in Oblivion, Mirabelle.”

“Oh, yes. You are going to take some apprentices, Conrad.”

“Give me one, valid reason why I should—”

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

“Welcome, apprentices. I am Conrad Harissen, and I’ll be your… mentor in this class,” Conrad growled, doing his best to ignore the youngsters’ wide eyes that were almost surrounding him.

There were so many of them, especially if he compared this lot with his own class when he’d joined the College. They looked so young… which make him feel older than he really was. And they were whispering and looking at him in awe.

He already hated them.

With the aid of his crutch, he started to pace in front of the students assembled in the Hall of Elements, the place traditionally used for the spellcasting classes and practice. Conrad wanted to look them right in the eyes, hoping they would get scared and never show up anymore.

“Today, I’ll show you the basic of the most known school of magic: Destruction,” he said, trying to ignore the pains coming from his right leg. He made a mental note to speak with Colette Marence later, the wound was healing too slowly for his liking. “As you may know,” he said, “Destruction has only one use and purpose. To do harm to your enemies. Behind all the fancy words, all the theory, all the preparation… it’s a weapon that uses magicka to rain death upon your foes.”

To underline that last statement, he made some flames flicker in his free hand, so that all the apprentices could see. That ceased all the whispering at once.

“Since I can’t let you kill yourselves, we’ll start with the basics to protect yourselves. That would be the lesser wards to repel a magic attack,” he said, inwardly smiling at the memory of his own first lesson. Tolfdir had been a great teacher, and Conrad still thought fondly of the old man.

“If you have any questions, ask them now,” he said quickly, realizing that he had spaced off for a few seconds.

It was obvious that they were intimidated by him, because nobody was asking questions, and most of them were avoiding his gaze.

“Look,” he sighed, “I’m just a teacher here, alright? So, ask a question, I won’t burn you.”

Probably.

Slowly, a hand timidly raised among the flock of students. Maybe he could be able to start this, finally.

“Yes, you there. Ask away!”

“Could you tell us about the dragons, master?”

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

“Boss, over here!” Haming waved from his seat inside The Frozen Hearth, as Conrad made his way towards him.

“Two weeks without looking for me, boss. I’m wounded!” the younger man wailed as the blond sat at his table.

“I was busy. And don’t call me that!”

“Relax,” Haming said, passing him a mug of mead. “Nobody’s giving a damn about us. They just want to drink and forget their problems. So, what have you been busy with? Your research?”

“I wish, I wasn’t even able to start my research yet.” Conrad said, gritting his teeth. “I’ve been too busy with teaching a group of talentless rats how to not burn their own fingers with the excess magicka they put into the spell which would make them risk losing control of the power they’re waving around.”

“Wait, what?”

“Mirabelle made me a teacher for a bunch of brats who can’t even light a candle on their own.”

Haming blinked for a moment, before bursting out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” Conrad grunted.

“Yes it is! Just wait until I tell Feida and the others—”

“Who?” the blond asked, confused.

“Feida. You know, the woman who tried to poison you? Because the Thalmor forced her to? Nice curves?”

“Oh, her,” he muttered, tasting the mead. “Did you interrogate her? Are you sure her story is genuine and she’s not a double agent planted on us?”

“I’ve sent a few letters while you were playing with the mages. Her story is good, so she’s just another victim of the Thalmor—”

“—or she has a damn good cover. We have seen it happen before.”

“I’ll have to keep an eye on her, right?”

“Damn straight you’ll have to. Just don’t get distracted by those nice curves, kid.”

“Look who’s talking. Boss, if I remember correctly, a few years ago, with that brunette from Riften—”

Conrad frowned, looking Haming right in the eyes, not uttering a single word.

Whatever statement or joke the young archer wanted to make, it died in his throat as he slightly leaned away from his friend and mentor with widened, worried eyes.

“Er, what I meant to say is, yeah, good advice?” the younger man quickly back peddled, not looking him in the eyes.

“Yes, I thought so. Now, tell me what have you done in the last weeks, and what you’ve found out about the town.”

“Well… By the way, your eyes are slitted, boss. Let's start from the guys then… I found them a job!”

“What job? No, let me guess. Guards at one of the mines?”

Haming had the decency to look slightly offended.

“No boss! What do you take me for? I’m a freelancer!”

“Oh, it’s one of those jobs…”

“Hey! It’s a good deal! Me and the boys are paid to hunt down monsters around the city. And bandits, if they become too pesky, but it hasn’t happened so far.”

“I doubt the brigands would become too pesky around this town, between the mages and the biting cold. What can you tell me about those mines?”

“They’re scattered on the whole hold. But most of the ores are not close to the surface, so the miners must dig deep. And I mean, deep.”

“Fuck,” the older man said, gulping another sip from the mug. “How long, before the excavation catches the attention of the Falmer?”

“Worst or best chance?”

“Never been an optimist, Haming,” Conrad said, cleaning his beard from the remaining drops of mead.“Less than one year. Then some miners will start to disappear.”

“It always starts that way,” he admitted, grimly.

“The jarl won’t listen to us, you know. The city is expanding, it’s growing, all thanks to those mines.”

“Then we do what we always do. We hope for the best, but prepare for the worst,” Conrad simply stated.

“How?” Haming asked after a small pause.

“You have already inserted your men here, their cover is solid for now. Form a cell, and recruit more.”

“Recruit—Boss, the people here are mostly mercenaries, sellswords...Shit, I’m sure that some people were bandits, once! And when they’re not working, they’re either drunk or in a brothel!”

“I know. Can you blame them?”Haming’s jaw went open wide, before he was able to formulate his next question. “How can you think of recruiting them?”

“Not all of them, of course!”

“So we—”

“So you need to observe them. Look, see those two guys at the bar? The Orc and the Dunmer? What do you think of them?”Haming followed his eyes, and looked at a pair of mercenaries who were enjoying their own drink without caring about the people around, not even each other.

“I don’t know,” the younger man admitted after a few seconds. “A green guy who loves heavy shields and a skilled archer?”

“The Orc is a former legionnaire. Do you see the tattoo on his left arm? It’s barely visible, but it’s there. He probably deserted during the Civil War, and now he’s hiding in this frozen hole,” Conrad said, not even looking away from his drink. “The Dunmer, however, has killed a lot of people with his bow. You can tell by the way he’s carrying it, and how he moves, like a predator. That guy kills for sport, Haming. Be careful around him.”

Haming looked at him, and then at the pair at the bar, speechless.

“How did you—”

“The eyes, Haming. Look how he watches everyone. He’s imagining how fun it would be to aim an arrow at them. His eyes are surprisingly honest.”

Then he took another sip, which by the counts of most other people was actually a very, very large gulp.

“Where’d you learn how to do it? This… looking at people and reading them.”

“Riften,” Conrad said drily, and his tone didn’t permit further questions about that.

“Alright. So, we prepare the city for the inevitable meeting with the Falmer, in secrecy?”

“People still think that the blind bastards are like goblin tribes, just an occasional nuisance. Or just a fable to scare the children. They won’t listen. But maybe establishing a group here is a good thing.“

“Really? How so, boss?”

“In the last few years, we’ve ignored the western holds, concentrating our efforts on the regions where the Thalmor are more influential. But we can’t keep going on like this forever. We need more people, weapons, food—”

“You’re starting to sound like Delphine, boss,” Haming smirked.

“I take offense to that.”

“Speaking of her, boss… I’ve received a letter from her. For you.”

“Great. Something about the fact that I’ve not gone to Cyrodiil to hide in the ruins of that temple?”

“Something like that. Do you want to see it now or…” Haming rambled, pointing towards the inn’s patrons.

“Just give it to me. I’ll surely need a drink after reading it,” Conrad said, urging the archer with a gesture of his hand.

As Haming extracted a parchment from his satchel, Conrad swiftly snatched it and began scanning the content.

After a few seconds of reading the letter, Conrad flinched.

“Yep,” Haming acknowledged.

“Well, at least she’s happy that I went to a place that the Thalmor avoid.”

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

That night, once he was back in his room inside the teachers’ quarters, Conrad dreamed of leaves.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

“This, my unworthy students, is the College’s library, better known as the Arcanaeum. I suspect that a few of you could be already know this, but I wanted to be sure.”

Conrad ignored the students’ various expressions of curiosity and enthusiasm—or lack thereof—as he guided the brats into the room full of tomes and ancient texts.

His leg was still hurting, but at least he didn’t need a crutch anymore. The healing sessions with Colette were doing their job, along his own limited knowledge.

“You might be curious as to why I’ve decided to move our lesson on Alteration here, instead of meeting you in the usual place, the Hall of Elements. A mage should study not only how to cast his spells, but also the theory behind them. In addition, even knowledge of not-magical nature could be useful once you’ll leave the College. Trust me on this one,” he said, starting to take a few books from the shelves. “So, instead of exploring the great possible applications of the basic Alteration spells, we’ll do a session in the library.”

“Is this really necessary, master?” one of the students said. Sten, Sven, something like that. “I mean, we already know the theory, and it’s not that—”

“Tell me, whatever your name is, do you know how the Dragon Priests died out?”

“My name is Sven!” the youngster sputtered indignantly. “After months with us, you would think that—”

“The question, Sven. It’s ancient Skyrim history, you know.”

“I—I don’t know, master,” the apprentice admitted, blushing.

A few snickers could be heard around, but Conrad was sure that very few of them knew the answer.“Right, so you can all see my point. You never know when this,” he said, gesturing to the bookshelves surrounding him and his class, “may become useful.”

“How could knowing how the Dragon Priests died out be useful?!”

“Various ways. It could save you from another humiliation from your teacher, for example,” Conrad said, as he placed the books he had gathered on a desk.

This time, the snickers were a little louder.

“Should we focus on something in particular, master?” a student asked.

What was his name? Not that Conrad cared.

“Choose on your own. I’m not here to tell you what you should read. Just don’t bother me too much.”

“Oh, I see now,” Sven said, smirking like he had resolved some kind of enigma. “You just want an excuse to do your own research, don’t you master?”

He knew? But how?

“What research?” one of the girls asked.

“Those runes that master Conrad has been researching since the day he came back to the College. With no result so far,” Sven explained smugly.

Shit, the little twit was on to him.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, student.”“I’ve heard the other teachers—”

"The other teachers should teach, instead of chatting like midwives,” he growled, and a few of the students looked a little intimidated by him. But they were starting to get used to it. Conrad didn’t like that at all.

“I’m just saying that it’s something we could do on our own time, instead of not doing our usual lessons,” the young Imperial insisted. A few voices expressed their support for his statement.

“True,” Conrad conceded. “Too bad that your whole bunch is terribly lazy on your own time, just hanging around in the campus. Or going to the brothel. Yes, I’m speaking to you, third guy in the last row! I saw you sneaking out the other day! Who do you think you’re fooling?”

The apprentice in question looked like he wanted to die instantly. The girls around him shuffled away, a little disgusted.“Alright class! Enough drama for today. Pick a book, or even better, a lot of books, and start studying! Except for you, Sven. You’re going to read this, and I’m expecting you to memorize its contents,” he said, taking a small volume from a shelf and placing it in the lad’s hands.

“‘Uncommon Tastes, by the Gourmet’?” Sven read from the cover, before realizing, “Master, this… this is a cookbook!”

“A fine guide to the Bretonian cuisine, actually,” Conrad deadpanned, starting to search for the other tomes he needed.

“Why should I study a book about cooking?!”

“Do you know any spell that can cook a fine Bretonian soufflé? Because I don’t.”

Not having an answer for that absurd statement, the young Imperial went to look for a seat, grumbling under his breath. It was then that Conrad noticed one of the other students, looking lost among the shelves.

What was her name? Stupid kids…

“You! Bertha, right?”

“B-Beta, master Conard, sir,” whispered the poor thing. She looked like a deer who had seen the hunter aiming a crossbow at its neck.

“Whatever. Come here, lass.”

Slowly the young apprentice came closer to him, and with each step she looked closer to having a panic attack.

“You’re still having trouble with your Restoration spells, right?” he asked as he reached for a volume.

“Yes, sir. I do. I’m sorry, I promise that—”

“Here,” Conrad said, giving the poor girl a copy of ‘Racial Phylogeny’. “This should help. Study it and experiment a little with your spells.”

The young girl was speechless for a few seconds, but slowly reached for the book.

“Thanks, master,” she whispered, before departing in long, nervous strides.

Satisfied that his good deed for the day was done, Conrad opened one of the tomes he had selected.

“Pardon me, master,” a raspy voice said behind him.

Conrad snapped his head, turning suddenly. One of the apprentices, a Khajiit, was standing right behind him. How did he sneak up on him unnoticed?!

“Ta’Sava has problems with Illusion. Would master recommend a book about that?”

Stupid kids. The only thing stopping him from outright throwing books at the students as they pestered him with questions about what texts they should study was the respect he had for Urag gro-Shoub’s memory.

That, and the certainty that the old Orc’s ghost would rise from the grave if any dared to damage his precious books.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

“Mirabelle? A word, if you please?” Kaden asked as the Mirabelle crossed his path.

“Of course, my old friend, walk with me. You seem distressed, is there something wrong?”

“It’s about… well, it’s about Conrad Harissen.”

“I see,” Mirabelle said, frowning slightly. “Has he done something that troubles you?”

“Yes, but it’s not something that he did. More like… how he did it. And how he’s still doing it.”

“Kaden, what are you talking about?”

“His teaching methods are… unorthodox at best.”

“Oh, yes, I can see that,” Mirabelle smirked. Kaden had studied and started his career as a Teacher during the years of Conrad’s absence, so it was natural that he would not have been used to him.

“The other day he forced all his class to exercise, Mirabelle!” Kaden said as he stepped in front of her, blocking her way. “While throwing spells! And—”

“I’m sure that a little exercise will not hurt our students, Kaden. It could even be good for them. Actually, I’m sure that a few of them are enjoying it.”

“And he’s so… so unlike a mage! I swear, if you didn’t force him to, he would never wear his robes. And he’s rude, and—”

“Even if he’s not a typical mage, I want you to remember that he’s never been ‘typical’. And that he was considered for the title of Archmage on multiple occasions, long before my name was even brought up. And the only reason he’s—”

“RUN! HE’S CRAZY!” a voice resounded in the hallway.

As both teacher and Archmage turned their heads, they saw a small group of students sprinting in their direction.

“Ta’Sava did not sign up for this!” a young Khajiit said frantically as he passed the stupefied pair.

“What—?”

“PRACTICAL LESSON?!” another voice thundered. As Conrad came around the corner, his hands cloaked with electricity. “I’LL GIVE YOU MAGGOTS A PRACTICAL LESSON!”

He was not gaining on the students, but he was more than making up for that with his lightning bolts.

Before the flabbergasted Mirabele and her fellow mage could react, both Conrad and his students were long gone.

As Mirabelle turned towards the teacher, she saw that he was looking at her, arching an eyebrow.

“He was missing them on purpose… I hope,” Mirabelle sighed. “I’ll talk to him.”

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

“So, how’s your research going?” Colette asked, while pointing to a student where to move his hand.

“No luck so far,” Conrad muttered as he closed and discarded another priceless tome about ancient runes. “And it’s getting on my nerves. It’s been five months, and I’ve still got nothing!”

“Please, master Conrad, remain calm. Otherwise I will not be able to properly heal the damage to your ligaments,” Beta, the insecure apprentice, said.

Since his leg was still aching, but the damage was now minimal, Colette had asked to use his limb as practice for her own teachings. Outside of the normal studies, of course. So while a number of apprentices in their late teens hovered around his leg, casting pathetically weak spells, he had decided to try to keep going with his own research. After all he didn’t need to move for studying, and after Sven’s little number a few weeks ago, all the campus knew about the mysterious runes.

Conrad was aware that the students had started a betting pool about whether he would be able to figure them out or not, and how long it would take.

He was reaching for another volume—a fine edition about symbols and their usage in magic of other countries, which was sadly a very limited knowledge—when he felt a weird sensation in the right knee.

“Are you sure a group of apprentices is good enough for this, Colette?”

“Masteeeer!” Beta wailed, her fellow students looking as offended as she.

“Bear with us for a little more, Conrad. Then you’ll be fine,” the Restoration teacher assured.

“I hope so,” he said, before turning to the study group in front of him. “If I can’t walk straight after this, I’m sending a Storm Atronach in your rooms tonight. Again.”

“No, you will not. Not after Mirabelle’s telling-off,” the old Breton woman said.

“Spoilsport. They didn’t know about that,” Conrad said, as he saw the apprentices relaxing a little.

“You know, you would have healed at least two months early if you had practiced this on your own. Is your knowledge of the healing spells so rusted?”

“It’s not rusted. I was just… busy doing other stuff. For various years.”

“Sure you were,” the healer mused, smiling slightly. “There, all done. You can stop now, students. Conrad, try to flex the leg please.”

Nodding, Conrad slowly got up, testing his limb’s recovered strength. He flexed it, made a few steps and finally put all his weight on it.

“Well?” Beta asked, nervously as always.

“No pain, no aches… I’m finally fine. Thank you, students,” he proclaimed, with a slight smile. “Now, where are my pants?”

“On the desk behind you, master.”

“Why, thank you,” Conrad said as he started to put them on. “Now—”

“SVEN HAS MADE HIS SOUFFLÉ FOR EVERYONE, PEOPLE! COME TO EAT!”

To say that everyone was startled would be an understatement. The students jumped, Colette looked alarmed, and Conrad was searching for a missing weapon on his belt.

Ta’Sava was standing right in the middle of the crowd, no one having noticed his arrival. His furry eyes twitched in amusement, and he beamed at his peeved peers mockingly.

“Damn Khajiit,” Conrad grumbled. “I should never have taught you that spell of invisibility.”

Said Khajiit only grinned even more.

“Alright, kids. Go enjoy your meal before it gets cold,” Colette said to the students, who gladly started to gather their few belongings. “And don’t be too hard with Ta’Sava, Conrad. After all, you’re proud of him and the others.”

“HA! As if!” he snorted in a maybe too forceful manner. Too bad that his eyes were probably betraying his denial.

Damn azure pool-like eyes.

“I think that young Sven missed his calling. He would have been an excellent chef,” Colette remarked as the group, teachers and apprentices alike walked towards the room’s exit.

“Don’t tell him that, master Colette! I had to force him to start using those recipes!” Beta protested.

“AH” Ta’Sava barked. “Beta just had to look at Sven with her big, mushy eyes!”

Conrad couldn’t help but chuckle at the poor girl’s expense, watching as her face turned red while she tried to defend herself from that statement.

“Yeah,” another student joined in. “Sven ended up popping his soufflé!”

As the students’ chatter started to become louder, Conrad found himself remaining a little behind the others.

Their voices grew dimmer and dimmer, until they were but echoes bouncing off the stone walls of the ancient building. Conrad suddenly realized that he hadn’t yet set foot outside of his room.

A sense of… wrongness had intruded his mind, and he couldn’t explain why.

He looked around. The room looked perfectly normal, not a single thing out of place. Then where did this horrible sensation come—

Behind him! Conrad whirled, using the momentum to swing a power fist towards this intruder.

Fortunately the far shorter Khajiit managed to dodge, ducking right under it.

“Master, master! It is just your disciple!” Ta’Sava pleaded, throwing up his empty hands to show that he carried no weapon.

Conrad remained silent for a few seconds, his other hand still raised to strike. Obviously it wasn’t the young student the cause of his uneasiness, because he could still feel it, reverberating all over the room.

“How many times have I told you to not sneak on me when I’m alone, Ta’Sava?” he asked. Nice save. Maybe the apprentice would not take him for a madman.

“Ta’Sava is sorry, master. Ta’Sava was sent to fetch master Conrad when master Colette realized that he had not followed us,” the beastfolk explained. “Is...master alright? Master Conrad looks...suddenly troubled.”

“I… I am fine, Ta’Sava,” he replied. Or at least he hoped to be. “I was just—”

As Conrad was searching for an answer, he felt the room getting slightly colder, like heat was fleeing the room. A change too sudden to be natural.

“Master, what—?”Then the smell of rotten fish came.

“Fuck,” Conrad hissed. He had to get the kid out of here, now. “Something has come up, Ta’Sava. It may take a while, I’m afraid.”

Conrad hoped that the Khajiit would just take the hint and leave, but apparently the tension in his voice was thick and palpable.

“Is Master sure that—”

“GO, Ta’Sava,” Conrad said, gritting his teeth. “And tell everyone that for tonight, this room is off limits.

The student’s ears went flat as the chill reached him, and he felt the same sense of unease that had assaulted Conrad only moments earlier. His pupils dilated and his fur bristled while he looked around for a threat he couldn’t see. Talos, the kid was going to panic.

“Go,” the blond Nord said, posing a hand on the Khajiit’s shoulder, trying to shake him out of it.

Ta’Sava didn’t need to be told again. With a last look back to his teacher, he fled from the room.

Conrad slammed shut the door behind him, locking it.

That’s when the chuckles started, a deep, rich sound.

“My, my, Dragonborn. Perhaps your student’s fear was quite… warranted,” a condescending voice resounded behind his back.

“What. Do. You. Want,” he said, without turning. He was walking on the edge between cold fury and unleashed rage.

“What do I want? Oh, no, Last of the Dragonborns. That is not the right question.”

"And what is the right question... Hermaeus Mora?” he asked, turning towards the floating, formless mass of slick darkness and eyes. “You are not welcome here, or anywhere around me. You should know that—"

"I have what you seek, Dragonborn," the daedric prince said, silencing him for a few seconds.

"... Of course. I should have thought as much,” Conrad sighed. “You know every secret, don't you?"

"That is not a matter of importance. I have the knowledge you require, and it could be yours as well... for a price," it stated smugly, as though it were savouring the moment.

"Oh? And that would be...?" the Nord mage asked, inwardly cautious of the poisoned honey that he was being offered.

"The price? All you need to do is come work for me once you've completed this little... quest," the Lord of Secrets whispered all around him, while a tendril touched Conrad’s shoulder, like it wanted to assure him.

"No matter what you ask, or what I would gain,” Conrad snapped, slapping the cold tentacle of darkness. “I will not serve you. I made that more than clear in Solstheim, years ago."

This was Conrad’s statement, but inside him...inside him, a small part of him was tempted to accept. It would have been so simple. In five months he had achieved nothing, and he was almost out of options.

"So high and mighty,” it hissed. And it was a terrible sound. “I suppose I could sweeten the deal with some knowledge about your brother's life, and of the people that took him as one of their own."

"You—you knew of… of course you did. You bastard."

Rage blossomed as the words were ripped from his lips. The Daedric Prince had always known about his missing twin, even before they met on the icy island that was now part of Vvenderfell.

"I know everything, Dragonborn. The more a thing is unknown or secret, the more precious it is for me,” Hermaeus Mora explained with a condescending tone. “Now, make your choice. Serve me and gain that which you desire, or drown in your own ignorance."

A pressure engulfed the room as the Daedric Lord made his presence ever stronger. The pressure was terrible, and Conrad was already feeling his head spin.

"CHOOSE," it boomed, and the Dragonborn fell on one knee. Like he was pleading, humiliated.

No way he would give in. No way in Oblivion.

"I—” he gasped, “I don't need the help of a mass of floating eyeballs with an ego to figure this out."

The pressure was dispelled instantly, as it had never been there. Conrad was able to breathe normally again, but the foul stench of corruption was still present.

"You're making a mistake, Dragonborn,” the Deadric Prince said, his—its—voice seemed more disappointed than angry. Good. “You will serve me in the end. It is inevitable. Why struggle? I could make your life so... easy."

Yes, it could. It could. But—

"In your wet dreams,” Conrad growled. “Now get out of my room!"

"Very well, but remember, we will meet again—”

“Not if I can choose so. Get out.”

“—because in the near future, you will stumble across a great number of secrets… S-rank secrets."

"What?" Conrad blinked, confused by the unfamiliar term.

But the Daedric Prince had left, leaving behind no proof of his presence. Even the foul smell was fading fast.

Stumbling, Conrad managed to get on his feet. He had sent a Daedric Prince away, verbally flipping the bird to it. And one of the more dangerous ones to boot.

Somehow, this didn’t taste like a victory. The fact that the Lord of Secrets showed an interest in those runes, and Conrad finding out their meaning, was worrisome.

Maybe the thing had an agenda in… wherever his brother had lived? But even then, why ask him? The Dremora should have known that he would refuse, even if the temptation had been great.

A gamble, perhaps?

“Minato, what mess have you gotten me into? And I haven’t even started yet,” he sighed.

Maybe Sven’s soufflé would raise his spoiled mood. He still had to plan tomorrow’s Alchemy lesson, after all.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

That night, Conrad simply passed out on his bed once he finally came back in his room, his belly full of mead.

In his drunken slumber, he dreamed of four faces of stone, carved on the side of a small mountain.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

He ignored the whispers, and started the lecture as programmed.

"As you may know, before the facts known as the Oblivion Crisis, the Mages Guild was a single organization, widespread on all Tamriel. After the Crisis, and the Thalmor's claims that they had saved the Mundus from the invasion of daedra, the general public started to believe that magic, and all magic users, were somehow responsible for those terrible events,” Conrad said, not really interested if his students were listening to him.

The last week after Hermaeus Mora had been terribly stressful and had taken its toll. But it was not the Daedric Prince that had annoyed him.

It was the rumors.

“Both of these claims… are lies," Conrad growled to the students. Maybe he shouldn't have done that during a lecture, but damn it felt good.

He observed passively the young faces in front of him, who were now focused on his person.

"If you wish to know more about the Oblivion Crisis, I suggest you to check the Arcanaeum, or wait until we'll speak about it in another lecture."

He remained silent for a few seconds, more absorbed from his own thoughts than from the lecture he was supposed to give.

Normally he wouldn't have minded the rumors. He would have just ignored them. Nines knew that there were already a lot about him.

“The Mages Guild was dedicated to the study of magic, much like our own College today. Unlike the College of Winterhold, though, they provided their services to the general public.”

He didn’t blame Ta’Sava, he really didn’t. The poor kitten been scared out of his fur, and it was not his fault if someone had seen him in such conditions and he hadn’t been able to explain why.

“Which mostly means that they financed themselves selling potions and minor magical items and spells. More advanced—and dangerous—knowledge was reserved for the members, who were properly trained by the guild.”

Conrad knew that it was influencing him. Because among the frustration of how badly the secret war against the Thalmor was going, being forced to lay low, and the fact that his research going nowhere, he now had to face the worried and even scared expressions of his students.

All his problems in the College, though, had origin in his research. His obsession with the runes that Minato had imprinted in his mind, and that somehow Hermaeus Mora was interested in giving to him that knowledge, for its own agenda.

Speaking of those, why couldn’t the dead idiot implant more stuff in his head with such a spell?! An explanation, a way to use them...something.

But no, he had messed with Conrad’s brain to give him four symbols and a wish from beyond the grave. And Conrad was an idiot like his deceased brother apparently, because he wanted to fulfill that request.

“This doesn’t mean that they were a magic shop spread on all Tamriel. I just want you to understand how different the perception of magic was back then,” he said, trying to concentrate again on the lecture. “They were mostly researchers, studious, archivists. But some of them were pioneers, who explored new ways to apply the power of the magicka, creating most of the spells that we still use these days.”

It didn’t work. Somehow, he couldn’t put himself in the—boring, he admitted that much—lesson about the past glories of the Mages Guild.

His mind kept thinking about the unexpected visit from Hermaeus Mora.

“Their first concern, as stated from their charter…was ensuring that all of Tamriel would benefit from their knowledge,” he sighed, more because of his inner turmoil than from a genuine nostalgia for such days.

He had to admit it, after almost six months of work. He was stuck at the very first step, because the Arcanaeum couldn’t help him. Whatever those runes were, no mage had ever seen them and put them on text, and without some reference, it could take years to decipher them and discover their purpose.

“The philosophy and politics of the guild changed various times since its founding during the Second Era. The change that we can still painfully feel, after two centuries, is the ban of the necromancy applied by the Arch-Mage Hannibal Traven," he continued, before doing a totally planned pause. "I can see that you're confused. How could a decision like that, done for good reasons, influence us badly? Anyone wants to take a guess?"

A few seconds of silence passed. Strangely, Conrad couldn't decide what was the worse alternative: his students' newfound fear of him, or their inability to gather a conclusion from the given information.

"Fine, you asked for this. You!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger in a random direction, without even looking. "Answer the question."

The poor guy squeaked, like if Conrad had pointed a finger that was charging a deadly spell in his direction.

"It's, uh, it is because—" the student managed to ramble, somehow, "It is because the, um, necromantic cults?"

Conrad blinked. The little rabbit had managed to reply, after all.

"Exactly. You've all probably heard of them. Hiding in ruins, in caves, in the wild. Experimenting with things that should not be disturbed," he droned to his students, before changing his voice to a dangerous tone. "Should you ever join one of those bands of so-called 'mages' who only wish to use their power to inflict harm on passerbies, much like common bandits… I will hunt you down myself."

Maybe he was being too hard on them. But he didn't care anymore. He was angry, and he wanted to vent.

Even if he was angry at himself.

“Now, to continue our lecture,” he said, ignoring the shock on some of his student’s faces. “The various cults and groups of outlaw spellcasters have the same origin. During the Oblivion Crisis, the Mages Guild had to face their own crisis. Mannimarco.”

A part of him, a very small part of him, thankfully easily squashed...was regretting refusing the deal with The Lord of Secrets.

“Mannimarco, who had secretly survived for centuries, gathered a large number of followers after the ban of the necromancy,” Conrad said forcefully, not wanting to dwell on those thoughts. “His forces attacked, weakened and effectively crippled the Mages Guild, who was forced to rely on their own strength since the Empire was busy dealing with the invasion of Daedra.”

His mind just couldn’t let it go, of course. Because he had hoped to be a better person. He was not a knight on a white stallion, rescuing damsels in distress, but he had always thought that he would have been able to resist such an obvious temptation.

Or at least, resist it with more firmness.

“Mannimarco was finally destroyed in a duel with Hannibal Traven’s successor, but the troubles for the guild were not over. As I briefly told you before, people’s perception of magic started to change after the Oblivion Crisis, and the Mages Guild were among the suspects. Even if it was widely known to the higher-ups of the Empire’s government that the responsibilities were the cult known as Mythic Dawn, accusations were made.”

Fuck, why couldn't those thoughts leave him alone? This was the reason why he hated to deal with Daedric Princes. They always messed with his head.

Even the two he could at least tolerate.

And Hermaeus Mora reminded him of a too personal matter.

“In the end, the Mages Guild was dissolved. A schism occured, in more ways that you may think. Two organizations raised by the ancient guild’s ashes: the Synod, and the College of Whispers. These two groups are rivals today, competing with one other in the pursue of ancient, often forgotten knowledge. But they’re not the only ones, no. Even our College used to be part of the Mages Guild, and like the College, there are now some small, independent magic schools scattered all around Tamriel.”

And of course, he had been tempted because his research hadn't advanced at all.

Damn, he was thinking in circles now.

Repeating the same things over and over again was a symptom of madness, right?

It wasn't like he could ask Minato again. The portal to enter inside the Soul Cairn was inside Castle Volkihar, deep within Thalmor territory.

With the whole "laying low" situation, it wasn't a good idea.

And he couldn't summon Durnehviir to ask him to ask Minato. The dragon probably would have asked for a fight in exchange, and doing such a thing in an inhabited area was an even worse idea than hiking in hostile ground while the enemy was actively searching for him.

And he would not attempt to enter the Soul Cairn like the last time, almost dying. He doubted it would have worked without the dragon’s help, which would mean, a fight.

He hadn’t felt this frustrated, helpless and angry since the woman he loved had tried to kill him—

“Master…?” a voice dared to interrupt him.

“WHAT?!” he snapped viciously.

Only to realize that he had lashed against the poor, concerned Beta. The girl instinctively retracted, her expression full of hurt.

It felt like he had just kicked a puppy.

Why were all looking at him like that? Maybe he had overdone it, but—

He had stopped talking, completely lost in his thoughts. How long had he remained silent, before Beta, of all people, had found the courage to talk to him?

Conrad understood perfectly that he was losing control, that he was letting himself lose control.

What if he hadn't just screamed at the poor girl? What if he had reacted as if an enemy had sneaked up on him?

He had to stay away from the kids, for their own good.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

"Conrad, what in Oblivion is wrong with you?!"

"Mirabelle, please..."

"Yelling at the students like that? You're not their blasted drill-master! This is a COLLEGE, Conrad. A MAGE'S college. Or have you forgotten?"

"So, throwing fireballs at them is fine, but not yelling at them?"

Mirabelle's features darkened. "Conrad, do not test my patience."

"Alright, sorry, Mirabelle. It's just—I don't really know. That's the problem."

"Conrad, what am I going to do with you?" the Archmage sighed, rubbing her eyes in frustration.

"I don't know. Maybe I should leave. I can pack my things in an hour."

"That would be for the best, Conrad," Mirabelle nodded gravely. "Feel free to come back once you've… cleared your mind. Take care of whatever you need to."

Conrad nodded in return, and without any further words, he left the Arch-Mage's office.

He debated immediately going towards his room to leave, but he decided against it.

He had left a little mess in the Arcanaeum the previous night, too tired to put the books in the right shelves. Since the new librarian was not… efficient like the old Orc had been, he supposed he could check it.

Then it was just a matter of prepare his bag, getting out of the robes Mirabelle had forced him to wear for months, and… and what?

He doubted he could complete his research, unless he wanted to try the Arcane University of the Imperial City. But he had no contacts there. It would be a fruitless journey.

No, he knew what he would do. He would find a nice spot to lay low without being a problem, wait until the Thalmor didn't expect anything, and go straight to Serana's former home.

Maybe even ask Serana to join for a ride.

Then he would punch Minato in his incorporeal face, over and over again, while screaming "Six months wasted!"

And only then would he ask to his brother to explain better.

If entering into Castle Volkihar revealed itself to be too risky…

Well, he had tried, at least. He could just go back doing what he had done for the last years. Even if the idea of surrendering didn't suit him at all.

As he entered the College’s library, he found himself face to face with the last person he wanted to see now.

Beta was frozen in place a few meters away, a stock of books and scrolls balanced precariously in her hands.

She stared at him, moving her lips like she wanted to say something.

Conrad just ignored her and went to collect the books he had consulted. They were exactly how he had left them.

“Master,” the girl finally managed to say, after just staring at him for some minutes. “I—”

“I’m not your master anymore, Beta. It’s better this way,” he interrupted her, without looking away from the books he was piling. “You kids will get a better teacher. A more patient one.”

“We don’t want a different teacher. We just want to know what happened to you, Master Conrad.”

Damn, why couldn’t she just… hate him, fear him, or avoid him? This was unbearable.

“It’s complicated, Beta. And as I said, I will not be your teacher anymore. I’m leaving the College today.”

Silence descended again in the Arcanaeum, interrupted only by the soft shuffle of paper.

“It has to do with you being… well… the Dragonborn?” she asked, timidly.

“Not really. Yes. Whatever… Look, Beta. This is not… easy for me. Could you just leave me alone?”

Once again, he was rewarded with a hurt expression. Why had he started to care for these kids?!

“I was here before you, Master,” Beta sniffed stubbornly, clutching her papers tightly.

“You know what? You’re right. I’ll go then,” Conrad said, putting the books on a shelf, not really caring if the placement was correct. Urag gro-Shub would probably punish his not enough diligent successor, anyway. He would have been long gone before the old Orc raised from the grave to punish him.

“Do you really have to leave now?!” the girl exclaimed while he started to move towards the exit.

“The sooner, the better,” he said, not looking back once. He reached for the door’s handle.

“I—I… Since you’re leaving, could you at least help me with this research I need to do for a class!?”

What.

He slowly turned towards the girl, knowing that the right now he had the most incredulous face that Nirn had ever seen.

“What did you say?” he asked, unable to understand why the girl had asked him that.

“I asked… if you would help me with a research of my own? For the extra curriculum?”

“What are you working on?” he sighed, caving in. Those pleading eyes could have convinced a troll to not eat the girl.

“I… I’m reading these old scrolls,” Beta said, not believing that it had worked. “They describe a spell of… Mysticism?”

“Ah, yes. The so called ‘Lost School’,” he mused, slowly coming closer to the girl to check the texts she was showing him.

“Lost?” Beta blinked.

“Well, have you ever heard of it before?” Conrad smirked, grimly. “After the fall of the Mages Guild, a lot of things changed. Some traditions were lost, as well. Mysticism was a school that was slowly abandoned. But its spells, or the majority of them, were incorporated in other schools, mostly Alteration.”

“Oh,” was all that Beta managed to say.

“Now, this spell you are studying?”

“Here it is,” she said, handing over a large, thick scroll. “It’s supposed to allow the user to teleport himself, but—”

“Let me guess,” Conrad interrupted her after checking the details of the scroll. “You can’t teleport at all, right?”

Beta’s eyes widened, and she looked to panic for a second before deciding to go for embarrassment.

“Yeah, I’m sorry that I’m not that good.”

“It’s not your fault, Beta,” he sighed. Seriously, the girl was a ball of yarn made of insecurities. “The fact is, you have only half of the spell.”

“Huh?”

“Which doesn’t surprise me, since a lot of the old Mysticism lore has been scattered and half-forgotten,” he mused. “I’ve heard of this spell. It’s composed of two separate ones. This is quite a good find, Beta. Be sure to tell to Mirabelle about this, if she doesn’t already know.”

“But… what use is it? If it’s just half of a spell…”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that with enough time, a mage could reverse-engineer the other half. See, this part of the spell, ‘Mark’, is the one that is casted first. It creates a magic rune in a location or an item. The other part of the spell, that you don’t have, allows the user to teleport back to where the first rune—”

It was right then that an idea bright as a fireball exploded in Conrad’s brain.

And for a few, long seconds, he just remained completely silent, staring at the scroll in his hand.

“Master… you’re kinda scaring me again,” Beta tried to laugh, but her voice was full of apprehension.

Conrad blinked, and stared at her, and then at the scroll.

“Sorry, sorry, I just… realized something,” he half-whispered, more talking to himself than the girl. “Would you mind if I borrow this… for… a while?”

“But… my research?” the student asked, confused.

“No matter! You just made top of all my classes as far as I’m concerned!”

“What? But… weren’t you leaving?”

“Leaving?!” Conrad exclaimed loudly. “Preposterous! I have a research to finish first!”

And with that, he left the poor, confused Beta in the Arcanaeum.

He was back in the game.

:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:x:

A loud knock disturbed him. He was tempted to shout the good old Fus-Ro-Dah at the intruder, but sadly he had closed the door from the inside.

“Go away! I asked to not be disturbed!” he yelled without stopping scribbling notes on a parchment.

“Masteeer!” a voice lamented from behind the thick wood barrier.

“Beta, I’ve told you I don’t wish to be disturbed! I’m at a breakthrough, here!”

“Ta’Sava told you guys that it was not a good idea.”

“Oh, shut up, fur-face! You were worried more than any of us!”

“Does Sven want to start a brawl with Ta’Sava?!” was the angry reply.

“Guys, shut up! You’re not helping. Master, you’ve not left your room in days! We’re starting to get worried!”

“I’ll leave when I’m done! Just a few more minutes…”

“Master, it has been two weeks!”

“What’s going on here?” a new voice asked. Mirabelle. “Why are you all in front of this door?”

“We’re trying to get master Conrad out of his room, Arch-Mage,” was the explanation given.

“Conrad? When did he came back?”

“I never left!” he shouted towards the door. Then he added another scribble on the paper and crossed other two. “Didn’t you notice?”

“What?! Why has no one informed me about—”

“How did you even survive, master?! What did you eat? Books?!”

“Food is for the weak!” he argued. Also, he had eaten. Two days ago. Three. Whatever.

“Master… if you come out, we have mead for you.”

Conrad remained still for a full minute, not responding to the obvious bait.

He went back to his work, giving the last touches to the whole thing.

"Give me that!" Mirabelle ordered.

Then he heard the sound of a bottle emptying.

She wouldn't dare...

And to his absolute horror, the precious nectar began to trickle in from under the door.

"Conrad," Mirabelle said, "If you don't come out right now, this mead will never go past your lips."

Conrad gritted his teeth. He was almost done!

"Oh, look at that. One bottle down, nine to go."

He heard a loud gulping noise. “Ah, delicious. There’s nothing like honey mead.”

Conrad’s eyes went flat.

"Alright, alright! You win! I'm coming!" he replied, hurrying to open to unlock the door. It was almost time to field-test his newest spell, anyway.

As he opened the door, he found himself face to face with a not pleased Arch-Mage who had an empty bottle in her hand.

And various students were watching the scene. Conrad absently noted the other bottles, safely in Beta’s hands.

“You monster,” he hissed.

“What are you doing in my College, Conrad? Didn’t you said that you would leave?”

“I did. Then I changed my mind when I realized how to complete my research!”

“Master smells bad,” Ta’Sava lamented, stepping back along his fellow classmates.

“Wait, you realized what?”

“No time to explain! Follow me!”

“Follow you where?”

“To the roof! And you may want to send someone to clean the pots inside my bedroom.”

As he walked in the hallway in the direction of the stairway, he heard Mirabelle ordering to the apprentices to do something about the horrible smell and whatever it originated from.

A small fight amongst themselves as to who had to do it. In the end, Sven was shoved forward.

He had almost reached the door to the highest place of the College, when Mirabelle—and some of his students, minus Sven—caught up with him.

“Conrad! Why are you going to the roof?” the Arch-Mage asked, now more curious about what he had in mind than the fact that he had practically stolen a room for weeks.

“Just need to test a spell I researched, and I’m afraid it can’t be done with walls around. Or a roof over your head,” he explained, pushing the door.

“A spell that can’t be used inside—Please tell me that you have no intention of experimenting with the Icarian Flight! There are less idiotic ways to kill yourself!”

“What? No! I have no intention of imitating a long line of idiots that could not even figure out that they had to land. I just need to do this in the open,” he said, stepping in the snow-covered terrace.

“Fine, but I expect you to give me an explanation afterwards,” Mirabelle mumbled.

“No promises, but I’ll try,” Conrad said as he stopped right in the middle of the roof.

There, the moment of truth. Either he had guessed right, or he had to punch Minato’s ghostly face as soon as possible.

Even if he knew that his theory was a longshot, he had to try.

Conrad started to charge magicka in both of his hands, ignoring the students watching him curiously, held in place only by a protective gesture from Mirabelle.

A azure-white ball of magicka appeared in his hands, looking highly unstable.

He kept concentrating on the spell, overcharging it with arcane energies… before releasing it, high above him.

The ball of light immediately soared, at high speed, moving in a precise direction…

“East,” Conrad whispered, before smirking. “Sneaky little bastard…”

“Conrad, was that—”

“Wait a moment, please,” he interrupted, charging again the very same spell and releasing another ball of light that imitated the previous one. “Mmh, the direction is constant, so it’s not a fluke.”

“Conrad,” Mirabelle said with a hard voice. “What. Was. That.”

“It was a clairvoyance spell. A modified version, created by me to cover longer distances, and to search for a precise thing,” he replied, still watching the still visible light that was still moving towards the horizon. “It uses quite a lot of magicka, though.”

“The runes you showed me,” Mirabelle realized. “Are you going to explain me why they’re so important to you now?”

“Later, in your office. For now, let’s just say that I think they’re similar to a foreign version of the ancient ‘Mark’ and ‘Recall’ spells. Kids, time for a question of geography,” he said, looking towards his confused students. “What lands lie at east?”

“...Vvanderfell?” Beta meekly asked.

“Well, yes. But...what lies further? On the other side of the sea?”

“Akavir, master Conrad?” Ta’Sava replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Indeed,” Conrad sighed. “I am going to need a ship.”