The wind screamed in Winterhold. It ripped across the shattered, frozen chasm like a blade of pure cold, whipping snow into a blinding, horizontal fury.
At the foot of the great, precarious bridge that stretched toward the College's lone, shimmering tower, Feralda stood like a statue carved from ice and resolve.
The Altmer Mistress of Destruction was wrapped in layered grey mage robes, over which she wore a thick cloak of frostbear fur, the hood drawn tight against the gale. To any passing fool—had there been any fools mad enough to be out—she might have looked like just another frozen casualty of the Hold.
She was anything but.
Less disciplined mages, the ones who spent more time bickering over theory than practicing willpower, might have questioned the duty. Why stand guard in a killing storm? Even the ice wolves are buried in their dens.
Feralda had no such doubts.
The College's enemies did not take holidays. The Nords of the town across the chasm, with their superstitious grumbling and deep-seated distrust of magic, were as stubborn as the stone they lived on.
She could definitely imagine one of their more fanatical sons or daughters trying to scuttle across the bridge during the whiteout to start trouble within the college, thinking the way would be unguarded.
The thought was almost amusing in its idiocy. Almost.
Besides, Feralda was not merely disciplined. She was a Master of the School of Destruction. The chaotic, raw power of flame and frost was her domain, and bending a mere element like cold to her will was child's play.
A subtle, sustained whisper of magicka radiated from her core, maintaining a pocket of bearable warmth around her. The howling wind and driving snow were nothing more than background noise, a canvas of white upon which she could mentally trace the intricate patterns of a new explosive rune she was designing.
Her reverie was shattered not by sound, but by sight. Movement. Dark, shifting shapes resolving in the wall of white to the north, coming from the direction of the fishing port, not the town.
Trespassers. On the approach road.
Her frown was hidden deep within her hood. Without a word, she raised a gloved hand, fingers curling in a quick, practiced gesture. A ball of concentrated flame, no larger than an apple, burst to life above her palm. With a flick of her wrist, she sent it sailing forward through the blizzard.
It didn't fizzle or dim in the snow; it cut through, a miniature sun that banished the swirling white in a sphere of stark, flickering light.
The illumination fell upon three figures.
The lead one was a Nord. Not just any Nord—a mountain of a man, tall and broad enough to make the term "burly" seem inadequate. He was dressed for travel, not the cold: an amalgamation of steel pauldrons, toughened leather, and worn fur trim.
It looked laughably insufficient for the climate. Typical Nord hardiness, she thought with a flicker of disdain. Or typical Nord stupidity.
Beside him, and seeming utterly unperturbed, was a Bosmer woman. Her attire was even lighter—practical hunter's leathers suited for the forests of Valenwood, not the roof of the world.
Yet, Feralda's trained senses immediately prickled. There was a shimmer in the air around the elf, a controlled, humming aura of magicka. She wasn't resisting the cold; she was subtly repelling it, a far more elegant and efficient solution than her companion's mere endurance.
And the third figure…
Feralda's eyes, glowing faintly with the reflected firelight, widened a fraction.
A massive, shaggy cave bear plodded beside the Nord, its fur matted with snow, its breath leaving great plumes in the air. It didn't snarl or posture. It just walked, as calm as if on a summer trail, its dark eyes reflecting the magical flame with an unsettling intelligence.
The Nord raised a hand, not in threat, but in a clear, steadying gesture. His voice, when it came, cut through the wind's roar with surprising clarity, deep and calm.
"We seek passage to the College! We mean no trouble to Winterhold or its guardians!"
Feralda let the ball of fire hover, casting long, dancing shadows that made the approaching trio look even more like phantoms in the storm. This was a rather… unique group, to put it mildly.
Still, they didn't seem like brigands to Feralda—at least, the Bosmer didn't. Her magicka signature was controlled, disciplined.
The Nord, though… Feralda had personally chased off at least three of his kind from this very bridge in the last month alone. They were all bulk and bluster, smelling of mead and armed with more steel than intellect. This one was bigger, but that only made him a larger version of the same problem.
"The College does not accept guests without good reason," she stated, her voice cutting through the wind like a shard of ice. "State your business. Clearly."
The giant Nord turned his head slightly toward the Bosmer woman—a brief, silent check—then looked back at Feralda. A calm, easy smile touched his lips, utterly at odds with the freezing hellscape around them.
"I don't know about her," he said, his tone almost conversational. "But I'm here to join the College."
Feralda didn't comment. Not verbally. Her golden eyes, visible now in the firelight, performed a slow, deliberate sweep from his snow-dusted boots to his fur-lined shoulders.
It was the exact same look a jeweler in the Imperial City would give a mud-stained beggar asking to see the most expensive diamond necklace—a mixture of incredulity, disdain, and weary professionalism.
The Bosmer let out a soft, muffled chuckle at the reaction. The Nord's smile didn't even twitch.
The Bosmer then cleared her own throat, the sound sharp in the wind. "I also wish to join the College."
Feralda gave a single, curt nod, the fur of her hood brushing her cheeks. "To join the College, you must pass a certain test. It takes place within."
She paused, letting the howl of the blizzard fill the space. "The time of the College mages, however, is extremely valuable. You will first prove to me that you at least have a chance of passing before I allow you to set foot on the bridge."
The Nord nodded along, his expression turning politely attentive. "And we wouldn't wish to waste the time of the esteemed scholars within," he agreed, his words surprisingly measured. "Please, tell us what you require of us."
Feralda's gaze flicked back to Torin. Her brow lifted, just a fraction. He was certainly more… eloquent than the usual stone-headed Nord who stumbled up here demanding the college close its doors and cease to exist altogether. She'd give him that.
Niceties, however, did not translate to talent. A silver tongue would be of no benefit to a mage weaving Magicka.
"Very well," Feralda said, extinguishing the hovering fireball with a casual clench of her fist. The sudden plunge back into the roaring, white gloom felt heavier than before. "To join the College, one must be able to cast spells of all schools at the apprentice level, at the very least. I will not waste the time of my colleagues inside with those who cannot sense the weave of magicka, let alone shape it."
She gestured with a gloved hand toward Auri. "You first. Demonstrate an apprentice-level spell from the School of Destruction. Any one will suffice. Succeed, and you may cross."
To an outsider, it might have seemed like a petty power play—a gatekeeper making applicants jump through hoops. But Feralda's logic was cold and practical, honed by years of watching hopefuls waste the precious time of masters like Faralda herself.
She wasn't required to test anyone out here in the freezing dark. This was a courtesy.
A courtesy to Tolfdir, who'd have to gently explain to some farmer's son that yes, "concentration" meant more than just squinting really hard. A courtesy to Colette, who'd sigh over another student who thought Restoration was "just for healing cuts."
It was a filter, a simple sieve to catch the utterly hopeless before they cluttered the Hall of the Elements with their disappointment.
By focusing on Destruction, however, she was giving potential students the best chance. Most would-be mages started there. Fire, frost, spark—they were visceral, understandable. The principles were straightforward: channel energy, impose will, release.
Anyone with a shred of talent and a bit of self-study from some moldy spell tome could usually manage a flicker of flame or a weak jolt. If they couldn't even do that, they had no business inside.
And if they could? If they passed her little test but failed the real, more comprehensive evaluation inside? Well, then they'd have seen the College. They'd have felt the thrum of power in the air, glimpsed the arcane wonders, understood the magnitude of the opportunity they'd missed.
That taste of magic, that glimpse of true potential, was often the best motivator. They'd go away, work harder, scour Skyrim for more basic knowledge, and perhaps return in a year or two actually ready to learn.
Apprentice-level knowledge wasn't exactly common, but it wasn't locked away in some ivory tower, either. A determined soul could find it. If they wanted it badly enough.
Her golden eyes settled on Auri, expectant and utterly without warmth. "Begin."
Much to Feralda's confusion, Auri simply gave a calm nod. Then, instead of raising her hands or speaking an incantation, she unslung her bow from her shoulder in one smooth motion, nocked an arrow, and drew the string back, aiming the tip not at Feralda, but upward into the blind, snow-choked sky.
Irritation flared in the Altmer's chest. Is this a joke? A crude display of marksmanship? She opened her mouth, a sharp reprimand already forming on her tongue.
Then she felt it.
It wasn't the usual gathering of magicka in the palms, nor the vocal shaping of a spell. Instead, a focused, humming stream of energy flowed from Auri's core, down her arms, through the polished wood of the bow, and into the arrow itself.
It was seamless, almost like an enchantment being activated in real-time. The arrowhead began to glow a sullen, deep orange, then a bright cherry red.
Before Feralda could fully process this unorthodox channeling, Auri released.
Thwip.
The arrow cut upward, defying the howling wind with unnatural speed and precision. It rose like a comet in reverse, a thin trail of heat haze shimmering behind it, until it was swallowed by the blizzard's veil.
A heartbeat later, the grey-white sky above them bloomed with fire.
WHOOMF.
A sphere of roiling flame erupted soundlessly in the distance, a brief, furious sun that lit up the swirling snow from within before collapsing into dissipating embers and smoke. The explosion was muffled by the storm, but the flash of light and the sudden wave of displaced, warmer air that washed down upon them was unmistakable.
Feralda stared.
She had lived for centuries. She had studied at the Crystal Tower, debated theory in the Arcane University, and mastered forces that could unmake stone. She had seen magic woven into staves, into rings, into the very words of a shout.
But she had never, ever, seen someone use a bow as a focusing rod for a Destruction spell. It was… bizarre. Ingenious. Borderline heretical to purists who saw spellcasting as a sacred, formal discipline.
Yet, the amount of magicka involved, the clean and controlled complexity of its flow into a physical projectile… that was no apprentice fumbling with Flames. That was the work of a practiced hand, blending martial skill with arcane precision.
Finally, after a long moment of silent reassessment, she gave a single, slow nod. Her voice, when she spoke, held a grudging thread of respect that hadn't been there before. "Unconventional. But effective. The power is clearly beyond apprentice grade. You may pass."
She then turned her golden gaze to Torin, the dismissal already settling back into her expression. "Your turn."
Torin, however, just offered a sheepish, almost apologetic smile and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah, see… I'm afraid I can't. I haven't actually learned a single Destruction spell."
Feralda's expression didn't so much as flicker. It was the answer she had been expecting from the moment she'd laid eyes on him. The confirmation was as satisfying as it was tedious. "Then you are not fit to become a student of this College. The bridge is closed to you."
Torin let out a long, weary sigh that plumed in the cold. "Well… that's inconvenient. But it can't be helped."
He shifted his weight, his tone turning practical, as if discussing the price of firewood. "Tell me, is there anywhere here in Winterhold where a man could buy spell tomes? Specifically for Illusion, Destruction, and Conjuration? The basics."
He flashed that easy smile again, completely undeterred. "Give me some study material, and it shouldn't take me more than a month or two to meet your expectations. I'm a fast learner."
Feralda's gaze hardened, turning from dismissive to frostbitten steel. Normally, at this point, she'd simply repeat herself until the fool gave up or she'd summon a more… persuasive spark to encourage their departure.
But the sheer, breathtaking delusion of the statement she'd just heard—a month or two—compelled her to act. It was a mercy, really. To let this walking mountain of misplaced confidence down now, before he humiliated himself in front of the entire college.
Her eyes narrowed to slits of molten gold. "Judging from what you've said, then you should be able to cast Restoration and Alteration spells at the apprentice level or above. Correct?"
Torin nodded, his expression earnest. "Aye. They always felt like the safest forms of magic for a two-year-old to poke at. Less chance of burning the house down."
Feralda's eyebrow gave a single, involuntary twitch. "Are you telling me," she enunciated slowly, each word crisp with disbelief, "that you have been studying magic since you were two years old? And entirely on your own?"
Torin let out a thoughtful hum, scratching his beard. "Now that you mention it, I could've been anywhere between one-and-a-half and two. I'm a bit fuzzy on the exact date of my birth. Hectic delivery."
Feralda's expression darkened further. The sheer, brazen scale of this lie was insulting. Her tone dropped, colder than the ice clinging to the bridge. "And how old are you now? And to what level of spells can you cast in these two schools?"
Torin shrugged, the motion casual. "Fifteen or sixteen. As I said, my birth was rather hectic." He cleared his throat, as if moving on to a more relevant point. "And I can cast Alteration and Restoration at the expert level."
A profound silence fell, broken only by the shriek of the wind. Even the blizzard seemed to hold its breath.
Expert level.
Feralda had to call upon every century of practiced Altmer composure, every ounce of willpower honed in the calm eye of magical storms, to keep her face from twisting into outright fury. Her jaw tightened until her teeth ached. The polite, professional mask she wore for petitioners shattered, leaving only stark, incredulous contempt.
She didn't shout. Her voice came out as a low, seething hiss, the kind that precedes a lightning strike.
"Demonstrate."
The word was a challenge. A verdict waiting to be written in the cold, hard language of failed magic.
...
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