Torin smiled and shook his head slowly. "I'm afraid not. Illusion would drive too far from my path."
Drevis studied him for a long mont, his dark eyes unreadable behind that calm, composed facade. Then he nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture.
"I understand. Such things cannot be forced, after all. A mage must follow the current that pulls them, not fight against it." He picked up another coin, adding it to a growing stack. "You've done well, Torin. More than well. If you ever change your mind, my door remains open."
Torin inclined his head in acknowledgnt. "I appreciate that. Truly." He paused at the threshold. "But I must be going now. Other lessons await."
Drevis said nothing, rely shifting his attention back to his coins and offering a casual, dismissive wave. The conversation was over. Torin was free to go.
He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing softly in the corridor. Behind him, the faint clink of gold continued its rhythmic song.
As he walked, Torin found himself musing on the path not taken.
Illusion would have been a fine addition to his repertoire. A useful tool, if he'd actually put in the ti to master it. The ability to hide in plain sight, to make opponents see threats that weren't there, to slip past guards and through locked doors—these were not insignificant advantages. Any sensible warrior would recognize their value.
But illusion, for all its utility, was problematic in its own unique way.
It wasn't volatile like Destruction, which could burn the user as easily as the target. It wasn't dangerous like Conjuration, which invited daedric influences into the world.
It was considered the most subtle school of magic, the least likely to draw attention or cause collateral damage.
Among Nords, it garnered the least scorn right after Restoration—which mostly just ant they didn't actively spit when they heard the na since they didn't even understand its principles.
And that, ironically enough, was the problem.
It was too subtle. Too sneaky. Too much like trickery, like deception, like the kind of magic that thieves and assassins used to slip daggers between ribs while their victims laughed and drank and never saw it coming.
Such magics did not suit a warrior.
They certainly did not suit a Companion.
Torin could picture it with uncomfortable clarity: Kodlak's face, that patient, weathered face that had raised him, taught him, loved him.
The disappointnt. The confusion. The slow, dawning realization that his adopted son—the boy he'd pulled from the blood and snow, the man he'd shaped into a shield-brother—was relying not just on magic (which Kodlak barely tolerated) but on trickery. On deception. On magic that hid and lied and cheated.
Kodlak would probably blow a blood vessel. Right there on the spot. And then, after recovering, he'd search high and low for Torin just to beat him black and blue.
No. Illusion was not for him. He liked the bones in his legs as they were. Not broken.
Torin turned a corner, leaving Drevis's coin-filled chamber far behind, and focused his mind on the next lesson. Whatever that might be.
...
Tolfdir sat on a weathered stone bench in the College's courtyard, his gaze fixed absently on the towering statue of Shalidor, the first Arch-Mage.
The legendary figure stood frozen in stone, one hand raised as if casting so great spell, his stone eyes gazing eternally toward the sea. Snow had gathered on his shoulders, dusting him in white.
Tolfdir saw none of it.
His mind was elsewhere, tracing the labyrinthine path of his own mory. Yesterday. He'd definitely had the alembic yesterday morning. He'd used it for a small experint—sothing to do with frost salts and glowing mushrooms. Then he'd... what? Set it down? Put it in a drawer? Lent it to soone?
The trail went cold sowhere between lunch and an unscheduled nap.
This is the third ti this month, he thought mournfully. I'm losing my mind. Or my alembic. Possibly both.
A shadow fell over him.
Not a small shadow—a large shadow, the kind that blocked wind and the feeble winter sunlight simultaneously. Tolfdir blinked, squinting upward, and found himself staring at a familiar broad chest wrapped in fur and leather. His gaze traveled up. And up. Until it t Torin's calm, patient grey eyes.
"Morning, Master Tolfdir."
The old Nord's mouth opened slightly. He looked at Torin. Then at the space beside him on the bench. Then back at Torin's face.
"I've finished learning to the satisfaction of every school's master," Torin continued, "just as you instructed."
Tolfdir blinked. Slowly. Processing.
Every school's master. In a couple of months.
The words settled into his mind like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples of realization outward. This boy—this young man, really—had accomplished in weeks what most students struggled to achieve in decades of dedicated study.
He'd started with a handicap, too—that deep-seated prejudice against Conjuration that had made Phinis's lessons a battle of wills. But aside from that hiccup, which was understandable given his background and temperant, he'd moved through the curriculum like a knife through fog.
Suddenly, the fact that Torin had reached expert level in Alteration on his own, without guidance or resources, made a great deal more sense.
Still, Tolfdir's brow furrowed.
He hadn't expected Drevis to sign off so quickly. Illusion, like Alteration, was one of the more difficult schools to master. Not because the spells were complex—though so certainly were—but because of what they were. Most schools transford magicka into sothing else: fire, ice, lightning, healing light, bound weapons. They took magical energy and shaped it into tangible effect.
Illusion didn't do that.
Illusion used magicka to change the world, or more precisely, perception of it. It didn't create light—it convinced your eyes that light existed. It didn't silence footsteps—it convinced ears that no sound had been made. It was subtle, difficult, and required a mind that could grasp the mutable nature of... everything.
And Torin had mastered it to Drevis's satisfaction so quickly...
Tolfdir stared at the young man before him, seeing him with fresh eyes. The size, yes—that was obvious. The warrior's bearing, the calloused hands, the axe always within reach. But underneath that, sothing else. A mind that understood. That grasped not just the how but the why.
"Well," Tolfdir said finally, his voice carrying a note of genuine wonder. "I must say, my boy... you continue to surprise ."
Torin's expression didn't change, but sothing warm flickered in his eyes. "I'll take that as a complint."
"You should." Tolfdir shifted on the bench, patting the space beside him. "Sit. Tell about your journey through the schools. I want to hear everything—especially what Drevis put you through. That man's thods have always been unusual..."
...
Having heard Torin recount the saga of his lessons with Drevis Neloren—the infiltration, the skeever fight, the subtle magic, and the mysterious coins—Tolfdir couldn't help but chuckle. The sound was warm and genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes.
"That is very much like him," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Not an easy man to read, that Drevis. I've known him for long, and I still couldn't tell you half of what goes on in that head of his." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "I can tell you, however, that man hasn't lost a bet in fifteen years. Not one."
He let out another chuckle, then his expression shifted, becoming more serious, more focused. The teacher in him surfacing.
"Still. Now that you've broadened your horizons and acquainted yourself with the other schools of magic, tell ..." He fixed Torin with a curious gaze. "How do you think they differ from Alteration?"
Torin lowered his head, his brow furrowing in thought. The wind tugged at his hair, and sowhere in the distance, an ice wraith shrieked—or perhaps just a gull. Hard to tell in Winterhold.
After a long mont, he raised his head, his grey eyes eting Tolfdir's patient gaze.
"Restoration, Conjuration, and especially Destruction," he began slowly, working through the thought as he spoke, "they're less... instinctual than Alteration. They require knowledge—the right words, the right gestures, the right ntal frawork. But that knowledge is about transforming magicka into sothing else. Fire, light, healing energy, connections between realms and anchors. You're not changing the world; you're changing the magic, shaping it into a tool."
He paused, checking his own logic. Tolfdir nodded encouragingly.
"And Illusion?"
Torin let out a soft sigh. "Illusion is more like Alteration in that it uses magicka to create change. But the change isn't applied to the world itself—it's applied to the target's perception of it."
He held up a hand, wiggling his fingers. "A Fear spell doesn't make anything actually scary. It just convinces the target that sothing scary is there. An Invisibility spell doesn't make you vanish—it makes everyone believe you have." He paused again, then added, "Well, the Illusion spells that don't simply manipulate light and shadow, that is. Those are more like... temporary alterations to the physical world? But still perception-adjacent."
Tolfdir's grin widened, spreading across his weathered face like sunrise over the Sea of Ghosts.
"Correct. Entirely correct." He leaned forward, his eyes bright with the pleasure of a teacher watching a student grasp a difficult concept. "And that, my boy, is precisely why there aren't as many masters of Alteration as there are masters of other schools. Destruction, for all its power, is ultimately simple. You learn to channel, you learn to aim, you learn to control. It's a craft. A valuable one, but a craft nonetheless."
He gestured broadly at the courtyard, at the statue of Shalidor, at the College itself.
"Our school requires sothing more. A flexible mind. An open mind. The willingness to look at a rock and see not just a rock, but its essence. To understand that 'hard' and 'soft' are not just properties, but concepts. That the world is not fixed, but fluid—if you have the will to reach in and reshape it."
He tapped his temple. "It's not about transforming magicka. It's about understanding reality. And then convincing it to be different, to suit your needs and heed your will."
Torin absorbed this, turning it over in his mind. Understanding reality. Convincing it to change. That was what he'd done with Ebonyflesh, wasn't it? He hadn't just learned a spell—he'd understood ebony. He'd grasped its story, its essence, its place in the world. And then he'd convinced his own flesh to share that story.
"Alteration," he said slowly, "is a conversation."
Tolfdir's grin softened into sothing warr, prouder.
"Yes. Exactly that. A conversation with the world." He reached over and patted Torin's knee, a gesture of genuine affection. "And you, my boy, are on your way to becoming a very fluent conversation partner."
...
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