Farkas's fist flew toward Torin's face—a massive, steel-reinforced hammer of a punch that would have caved in a normal man's skull. Torin raised his shield, the thin metal sheets clicking into place just in time to intercept the blow.
The impact rang out across the courtyard, a sharp clang that made several students cover their ears.
Much like the sword, Farkas's fist bounced off the shield. But it didn't have the same weight as the greatsword, and the big Nord didn't stagger back this time. He simply shook out his hand, flexed his fingers, and prepared to launch another punch.
Torin didn't give him the chance.
His shield arm shot forward—not a block, not a parry, but an attack. The thin shield's edge was on a collision course with Farkas's chest, aimed right at the gap between his steel pauldrons.
Farkas merely scoffed. His armor was thick, his chest was broad, and he'd taken worse hits from trolls and bears. The edge of a thin shield was unlikely to do much more than bruise.
His expression, however, shifted instantly as numerous blades sprouted from the edges of the round shield—thin, curved, wickedly sharp—and began to spin. The whirring sound filled the courtyard, a mechanical buzz that made the students' eyes widen and their feet shift backward.
Alarmed, Farkas jumped back. He moved faster than anyone his size had any right to, putting a good ten feet between himself and the spinning blades.
Torin's grin remained firmly in place, his hand still extended in the punching motion.
Farkas was already a good distance away when Torin's fist stopped. And then, much to the big Nord's surprise, the shield detached itself from the bracer with a sharp click—and began to fly toward him.
It spun through the air like a discus, blades still whirring, trailing a faint shimmer of magicka.
Farkas ducked under it, the shield whistling past his head and continuing on toward the far end of the courtyard.
He straightened, crossed his arms, and gave Torin a strange look—equal parts irritated and impressed.
"That's one dirty trick, brother." He shook his head. "But now you're without your shield."
Torin maintained his grin and merely pointed behind Farkas.
For his part, Farkas gave Torin an offended look, his brow furrowing.
"Just how stupid do you thin—"
That was all he could say before his ears caught the sound. A whirring buzz, growing louder. The shield was flying toward him from behind, already on its return trip, its blades spinning faster than before.
Farkas's eyes widened, and he ducked—just in time to see the shield flying over his head again, its spinning blades humming as they passed. It flew straight toward the bracer and reattached itself with a satisfying click, the metal panels folding back into place.
Torin shrugged.
"I don't think you're stupid at all. Not when it comes to fighting, at least." He chuckled. "That said, I think—"
His sentence was cut short.
A lightning spark emerged from within the shield—a sharp crackle of blue-white energy that made everyone nearby flinch.
The spinning blades shuddered, ground to a halt, and three of them suddenly launched themselves from the edge, flying across the courtyard and embedding themselves into the frost-covered ground with three solid thunks.
They quivered there, still crackling with residual magicka.
Farkas blinked.
"Is it supposed to do that?"
Torin ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"No. It isn't."
Before he could say anything else, Mirabelle Ervine suddenly walked between him and Farkas. Her arms were crossed, her expression was stern, and her eyes swept across the gathered crowd with the practiced authority of someone who had broken up a hundred student brawls.
"Alright, everyone. The show is over." Her voice carried across the courtyard, sharp and clear. "All of you, go about your business."
The gathered students just stood still, waiting for another spectacle. A few of them glanced at each other, clearly hoping for more—maybe another clash of weapons, maybe an explosion, maybe something they could gossip about in the halls for weeks.
Mirabelle gave them a cold glare.
It worked better than words.
The silent courtyard returned to its usual busy loudness as the students dispersed, chatting with each other, returning to their schedules, their conversations gradually fading into the background hum of the College.
Mirabelle turned to Torin.
"I would have thought you'd know better than to disturb other students like this."
Torin scratched his head.
"It was either disturbing students here or in the Hall of Elements." He shrugged. "Here, at least, no one is flinging dangerous spells that might explode in their faces if they get distracted."
Mirabelle's expression didn't change.
"Even then, you could have—" She paused, remembering Farkas's presence, and her jaw tightened. "We will have a very serious conversation about this later."
She turned to Farkas.
"As for you—whoever you might be—how did you even get in?"
Farkas, who had been halfway through picking up his greatsword, straightened and smiled. The blade rested across his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
"The Altmer lady on the bridge. I told her I was here on my brother's invitation, and she told me to head right in." He gestured at Torin with his free hand. "He heard I was coming to Winterhold on a contract and asked me to come over. To test that broken toy of his."
Mirabelle felt her eye twitch.
Faralda. The woman was reliable—mostly—but she could be very partial to talent. And Torin had talent in abundance. It wouldn't be the first time she'd bent the rules for someone she deemed "promising."
She shook her head.
"Then I can't exactly fault you." She crossed her arms. "That said, next time, you'll have to go through the proper channels before visiting the College. Many students and professors are working on important projects. They should not be disturbed by—"
She glanced at his greatsword, his heavy armor, his general size. "—unannounced guests... and brawls."
Farkas firmly shook his head.
"You don't have to worry about me coming often. I've seen enough of his smug face for a lifetime already." He paused, then gave Mirabelle an up-and-down look—slow, appreciative, entirely obvious. "Although... I do think I've found another reason to be here."
Torin's brow instantly rose.
Mirabelle just looked confused.
Torin quickly cleared his throat, walked up to Farkas, and patted him on the shoulder—harder than strictly necessary.
"Come on, brother." He steered the big Nord toward the bridge. "Let me show you out of Winterhold. I have some free time, so maybe we can get a drink. Talk about old times."
Farkas walked beside him, easily matching Torin's pace. He took one last look back at Mirabelle—a lingering glance—before turning his attention to the bridge ahead.
"She has a glare that can cow a saber cat." He nodded, approvingly. "I like it." He glanced at Torin. "Who is she?"
Torin couldn't help but chuckle.
"That's our Master Wizard. Somewhat like a... most senior Companion. She keeps the College running while the Arch-Mage does whatever it is Arch-Mages do."
Farkas grunted. "She seems capable."
"Very."
They walked in silence for a few steps.
Torin gave Farkas another pat on the shoulder.
"You like her, huh?" He grinned. "I'll say some nice things about you in front of her when I get the chance."
Farkas's face, usually so stoic, beamed in expectation.
"I suppose you're not completely useless."
Torin laughed.
...
Standing over his workbench, Torin tuned the tiny gears within the shield's mechanisms. His tweezers—levitated by telekinesis, his hands too large for such delicate work—adjusted a spring here, tightened a screw there, rotated a gear that had been knocked slightly out of alignment.
As his spar with Farkas had proved, the shield still needed more work. Specifically, when it came to releasing the kinetic force it absorbed. A portion of that force had leaked out during the fight, bleeding into the gears rather than being channeled into the shield's outer shell.
The result had been that catastrophic failure—the blades shooting off, the shield's mechanisms seizing up, the whole device nearly falling apart in his hands.
The solution was to strengthen the channels through which the kinetic force coursed. But that was simplifying the matter a bit too much. In truth, it was more complicated—the channels needed to be widened in some places, narrowed in others, reinforced with materials that could withstand the stress of repeated impacts.
The geometry of the pathways mattered. The sequence of the gears mattered. Even the temperature of the inner mechanisms mattered, affecting the expansion and contraction of the metals involved.
It was so much work, Torin really wished Bar-Dar was around.
The Argonian had stopped coming to the workshop entirely. He wasn't missing this time—Torin had checked, had asked around, had even gone so far as to knock on his door—but he was occupied. Deeply occupied, with a project he still refused to talk about.
Whenever someone asked about his work, Bar-Dar would deflect, change the subject, or simply clam up and stare at the floor until the silence became too uncomfortable to maintain.
Still, even if Bar-Dar were here, Torin knew he wouldn't be of much help. This particular problem fell under mechanical engineering—gears, channels, stress, and how to ease it, the physical flow of force through metal.
That was Torin's domain.
And there was another problem. Hermaeus Mora definitely wouldn't like Bar-Dar learning any of the engineering principles Torin was applying.
The Daedric Prince of Forbidden Knowledge had already snatched the Argonian once, had held him in Apocrypha, had only released him because keeping him prisoner served no purpose.
It was already a miracle that the Prince had let him go at all, and Torin wasn't keen on testing his mood.
So he worked alone.
That was it for Torin's section of the workshop. The shield was progressing slowly, steadily, one problem at a time.
As for the Bontain twins—even if they'd already figured out the spear's enchantments, and a message had already been sent to Torygg to reveal its functions, their work wasn't quite done.
The enchantments still needed to be deciphered and recorded for future use. Every rune, every symbol, every minute detail of Shalidor's work needed to be cataloged, cross-referenced, and preserved for the scholars who would come after.
And then—only then—could the work of reversing those enchantments back into spells begin. Spells that could be taught, learned, cast by mages who would never hold Skaldrfong in their hands.
This was the kind of magic that had been lost in time. The absence of it was deeply felt by both scholars of Conjuration and Alteration. Tolfdir and Phinis had their own theories about the enchantments and the doors they would open for their respective schools.
Tolfdir was interested in the teleportation aspect—the way the spear could be dismissed and summoned, crossing the distance between Torin's hand and wherever it had been left.
The old Nord saw possibilities beyond combat: delivering supplies to remote locations, retrieving lost artifacts from dangerous ruins, even, perhaps, creating a network of magical anchors that would allow mages to travel across Skyrim in the blink of an eye.
Phinis was interested in the same thing, but for a different reason. He wanted to study how the spear recognized its owner by absorbing their blood, and apply that mechanism to specific Daedra.
He'd been rather vague about his purposes when Torin had asked—muttering about "binding efficiencies" and "control matrices"—which probably meant he was planning something that skirted the edges of what the College considered acceptable.
As for Svanhild and the research on lycanthropy...
Torin's thoughts were cut short by a knock on the door.
Three sharp raps.
He sighed, turned from the workbench, and strode to the door. He yanked it open, ready to snap at whoever had disturbed him—the twins, probably, come to ask another inane question about the spear's enchantments—
The sight of Svanhild standing there, her notebook clutched to her chest, her expression extra serious, made him stop.
The Nord woman from Solstheim rarely came to his section of the workshop. She preferred her own space, her own equipment, her own carefully organized chaos of notes and samples. If she was here, in person, looking like she'd just seen a ghost...
"What's the matter?" Torin asked, his irritation forgotten.
Svanhild held out her notebook, her fingers trembling slightly around the leather cover.
"I think I know now," she said. A pause. "How lycanthropy was cured."
Torin instantly stepped aside and beckoned for her to go in. She entered without hesitation, her boots soft on the stone floor, and found a seat on the stool near the wall—the one usually reserved for Bar-Dar, though the Argonian hadn't used it in weeks.
Torin leaned on his worktable, arms crossed.
"Alright. Tell me what you found."
Svanhild rubbed the bridge of her nose and shook her head. Her expression was troubled—darker than usual, the kind of troubled that came from reading things you wished you could unread.
"I'm not sure you'll like it." She took a deep breath. "But only two have been known to cure the curse of beast blood, according to the books we received from the Jarls' libraries." She paused. "Hircine himself... and the Glenmoril Witches."
Torin frowned. "Anything about the process?"
Svanhild shook her head.
"Nothing about how the Glenmoril Witches did it. The books are frustratingly vague on that point—mentions of 'secret rituals' and 'ancient pacts,' but nothing concrete." She tapped her notebook. "Hircine, though... that one is more specific. He requires an innocent soul, offered on his summoning day before one of his ancient shrines in the wilderness."
Torin was silent for a moment. The only sound in the workshop was the soft ticking of the shield's gears, still spinning down from his last test.
"Define innocent," he said finally.
Svanhild shook her head again.
"There was no definition. But since this is a Daedric Prince we're talking about..." She met his eyes. "I doubt it's a metaphor."
She closed her notebook and set it on her lap.
"I'm afraid we've hit a dead end."
Torin grunted as he pushed himself off the worktable, his boots thudding against the stone floor.
"Not necessarily." He began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. "We can make our own process. As long as we understand its purpose—to separate the beast curse from the soul and manifest it outside the body—we can find our own way. Daedric bargains aren't the only path."
Svanhild stared at him in shock, her mouth opening slightly.
"And how do you propose we do that?" Her voice rose. "We'll need werewolves for that. Live werewolves. We'll need to—"
She paused as she noticed Torin's unblinking expression.
"The College won't allow experimentation on living werewolves. And I'm very sure there are at least ten laws against it outside the College as well."
Torin gave her a dismissive wave.
"You let me worry about that."
He walked to the door, his hand resting on the handle.
"Go get some rest. I need to write..." He sighed. "...Another letter to the High King."
...
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