Two massive paws pressed against his chest, and Torin fell to the snowy ground. Echo stood over him, her enormous weight pinning him down, her muzzle inches from his face as she opened her mouth wide—as if to bite his head clean off.
Torin couldn't help but chuckle. He reached up, grabbed the top and bottom of her jaw, and pushed her mouth closed.
"I missed you too," he said, "but your breath stinks of fish."
Echo froze. She stared at him for a moment—those dark, intelligent eyes unblinking—and then slipped out of his grasp and clamped her teeth down on his shoulder. Not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to make him yelp.
"Ouch! Stop it, you big hairy beast!" He wrapped his arm around her neck and flipped her over, using her own weight against her. She landed on her back in the snow, legs flailing, and Torin stood up, pointing at her swollen stomach. "If you weren't with children, I'd show you what's what."
Echo huffed—a deep, rumbling sound that was clearly disapproval. She turned away from him in displeasure and slowly pushed herself back to her feet, shaking the snow from her fur.
Torin grinned and turned to the distance.
Berg was watching. The massive white bear stood at the edge of the clearing, his yellow eyes fixed on Torin, his body tensed as if debating whether to charge in and help his mate. But he didn't move. Probably too afraid of how Echo would react if he interfered.
Torin waved at him.
"Looking as stupid as ever, Berg."
The bear let out a small growl—a low, rumbling sound that Torin couldn't quite interpret. Maybe agreement. Maybe objection. Maybe just annoyance at being called stupid by the weird bipedal creature.
Either way, Torin turned back to Echo.
She had moved on to Auri. The Bosmer was scratching behind Echo's ears with both hands, her amber eyes soft, her lips curved in a rare, genuine smile. Echo's eyes had half-closed in contentment.
Torin watched them with a smile. It's good to be back.
Then Echo turned to the dwarven spiders.
They were standing in a neat formation at the edge of the clearing, each one carrying a piece of Torin's workshop strapped to its back—crates of tools, bundles of leather-wrapped components, the larger pieces of his arcane workbench.
They stood motionless, their gem-eyes glowing faintly in the afternoon light, their legs clicking occasionally as they adjusted their loads.
Echo walked up to the closest one cautiously. She sniffed it—once, twice—her nose wrinkling. Then she let out a deep growl of disgust and moved along, giving the construct a wide berth as she passed.
Torin couldn't help but chuckle.
As expected of a Skyrim bear, is what he'd say, if he didn't know the truth behind her distaste for dwemer constructs.
She'd been much younger back then, and so had he, when they'd ventured into one of the shallow dwarven ruins near Markarth—the kind that had been picked over by a dozen generations of adventurers but still held a few secrets for those willing to look.
Echo had been occupied with sniffing a particularly interesting corner when a dwarven spider had dropped from one of those brass pipes and landed right on her back.
The impact had sent her stumbling forward, yelping in surprise, and she'd spun around and mauled the thing before it could scuttle away.
But the damage was done. She'd been scared so badly that she still hated everything that walked on more than four legs.
Amusingly enough, she now hated frostbite spiders even more than dwarven spiders. Torin suspected it was due to exposure—she'd spent so much time around his dwemer constructs over the years, seen them so often, that they'd become almost familiar.
But frostbite spiders? Those were still monsters, her one and only nemesis at that, to be killed on sight.
Torin walked up and patted Echo's back, his hand sinking into her thick fur.
"It's been good seeing you, girl." He scratched behind her ear. "But I have to get back to the College. Report my... success, if you can call it that."
Echo looked at him and let out a reluctant growl—a deep, rumbling sound that was half complaint and half plea.
Torin gave her another pat and smiled.
"I know, I know." He crouched down, bringing himself to her eye level. "Once all my affairs are in order, I'll come looking for you. We'll go on a hunt together." His smile widened. "I hear there's an unmarked mammoth causing trouble on the main road to Dawnstar. Big one. Mean one. Been trampling caravans and scaring off travelers."
Echo's ears perked up. Her ears twitched.
"It'll be just like old times," Torin added.
Echo huffed—a soft, almost content sound—and bumped her nose against his cheek.
Torin stood up, gave her one last scratch behind the ears, and turned toward the path to Winterhold.
"Take care of Berg," he called over his shoulder. "And don't eat too many horkers. Their blubber will give you a stomach ache."
Echo snorted.
Behind her, Berg let out a low, rumbling growl that might have been grumpiness or might have been hunger.
Torin didn't look back.
...
Not long after, Torin was standing in the Arch-Mage's quarters, waiting for Savos Aren.
His dwarven spiders were climbing the cliffs below, slowly making their way up toward the College—a procession of brass and glowing gems, picking their way along paths that no horse or cart could navigate.
Torin had been in a hurry to meet Torygg back in Solitude, and he ended up scaring more than a few people in the capital of Skyrim. But doing the same thing here would not end well.
The people of Winterhold barely tolerated the College. The Jarl was likely just waiting for an excuse to start making trouble—to revoke charters, levy fines, maybe even call for the College's dissolution. Torin definitely couldn't march his small army of dwarven spiders through the town under these circumstances. Not if he wanted to keep the peace.
He stood by the window, watching the tiny brass shapes inch up the frozen cliffs, and hoped they would all make it through with their baggage intact. He really didn't want to waste time sifting through the snow for his belongings.
The door opened.
Savos Aren walked in, his robes swishing against the stone floor. He offered a nod at Torin, his dark eyes sweeping over the young Nord with more scrutiny than the usual neutral look he gave the students he was used to seeing come and go.
"Welcome back, young man." He gave Torin's shoulder a quick pat and headed to his study, not even bothering to sit as he began to scribble something down on a piece of parchment. "Those dwarven spiders making their way up the mountain are yours, I presume?"
Torin paused in surprise for a moment before nodding.
"Yes. They're carrying my belongings. My workshop, to be precise." He cleared his throat. "I was hoping I could get my own space to work on my projects here at the College. A room, maybe, a tower, anywhere I can work without being disturbed."
Savos Aren kept scribbling, his quill scratching against the parchment.
"That can certainly be arranged. We have several unused chambers. I'll have one prepared for you." He paused. "But let's discuss what happened in Falkreath first."
His hands finally stopped moving. He set down his quill, folded his arms, and raised his head to look at Torin.
"I've heard rumors." His voice was flat. "But each one sounded more incredulous than the last. A harvester. A shrine to Molag Bal. A mountain..." He raised an eyebrow. "Broken."
Torin sighed.
"It's a long story."
Savos gestured at the chair across from his desk.
"I have time."
...
Savos Aren opened his mouth, but the words got stuck in his throat.
He had thought the rumors were exaggerated—the way rumors always were, growing taller and more terrible with each retelling.
However, the truth was even darker, and much more ridiculous. A harvester summoned by a cultist. Memory loss. A child's ghost leading the investigation. A mountain broken by a single strike. It sounded like something out of a saga, not a report from a student.
Having experienced his own personal tragedy in Labyrinthian, Savos could tell with a glance that the Falkreath incident had taken a toll on the young Nord before him. Not just physical, not just mental—though those were plain enough in the tightness of his jaw and the shadows under his eyes—but spiritual. Something had shifted in Torin. Something fundamental.
Savos had no idea how to comfort him. Gods knew, he was still struggling with his own guilt and grief, decades after losing his friends in that cursed ruin. What could he possibly say to someone who had just gone through something similar?
He cleared his throat and forced a small smile.
"That must have been difficult." He paused, searching for the right words. "But you did a magnificent job. The College is proud of you."
Torin nodded, his expression unreadable.
Savos leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled.
"This might yet prove to be a coincidence, but Sergius has been complaining nonstop about the endless enchanting requests we've received from all the holds ever since rumors of your exploits in Falkreath began trickling in." He allowed himself a small chuckle. "He's actually running low on soul gems. I haven't seen him this flustered in years."
Torin couldn't help but chuckle.
Inconveniencing that prickly old goat was definitely a bonus.
He could still remember the frustration he had felt when he first read Sergius's book on enchantment. It had been dense, technical, and utterly unhelpful to a boy who was teaching himself magic from scraps and fragments.
And when he had finally come to the College and tried to ask Sergius for guidance, the old man had been completely uncooperative. Grumpy. Dismissive. More interested in his own projects than in helping a student.
Torin's impression of him hadn't improved since.
"I'm glad I could be of assistance," he said, though his tone suggested otherwise.
Savos nodded, his dark eyes studying the young Nord with an expression that was difficult to read. He folded his hands on the desk, the ancient wood groaning softly under his weight.
"Now, then." His voice was casual, almost offhand. "I've heard you're researching—or at least inquiring about—a cure for lycanthropy. Is that true?"
Torin just stared at him blankly for a moment, wondering how the Arch-Mage had even found out. He'd been careful. Discreet. He'd only asked a few pointed questions in the Arcanaeum, and he'd framed them as academic curiosity rather than personal need.
But this was Savos Aren. The man hadn't survived decades as Arch-Mage by being oblivious.
"Aye," Torin said finally, keeping his voice calm. "I have. I noticed there wasn't much material on the subject in the Arcanaeum." He paused. "Why? Is it a problem?"
Savos shook his head slowly.
"It's no problem at all. In fact..." He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the armrest. "If you wish to study the subject in earnest, the College will fund your research."
Torin's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Because it's as you said." Savos spread his hands. "Our material on the subject is disappointingly lacking. We have theories, fragments, a few half-remembered accounts from hedge mages and wandering alchemists. But nothing systematic. Nothing comprehensive." He paused. "And that simply won't do."
Torin couldn't help but grin. A real grin—the first one in days.
"In that case," he said, rising from his chair, "it's better to get a chamber as soon as possible. I have a lot of work to do."
Savos nodded and turned back to his desk, already reaching for his quill.
"I'll have one prepared by tomorrow. In the meantime..." He glanced up. "Get some rest. You look like you need it."
Torin inclined his head and walked to the door. His hand was on the handle when Savos spoke again.
"Torin."
He paused.
"Well done. Truly."
Torin didn't turn around. He just nodded once and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
...
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