As he returned to his quarters, Torin let out a groan and collapsed into the bed. He stared up at the ceiling—wooden beams, dust gathering in the corners, a faint water stain spreading from the wall—and let his mind drift.
It had been a very busy while, to say the least. But he'd pulled it off.
He'd officially managed to legalize capturing and experimenting on feral werewolves.
The first hurdle had been none other than the High King himself. As open-minded as Torygg was—and Torin had come to respect the man's willingness to consider ideas that other rulers would have dismissed out of hand—he wasn't exactly comfortable with the proposal.
Torin couldn't blame him. He wasn't fully comfortable with it either. The idea of capturing living creatures, imprisoning them, and subjecting them to magical experimentation was... distasteful.
It skirted the edges of everything he believed about honor and decency.
But considering the alternative—capturing innocent souls and sacrificing them to Hircine, or whatever dark rituals the old texts described—this was much better.
Being the lesser of two evils, of course, wasn't a valid argument. Not in front of the High King of Skyrim. Torin had needed to offer Torygg some tangible advantages, something concrete that would make the risk worth the reward.
So he'd offered military power.
Many werewolves—the sane ones, the ones who had chosen the beast blood or been cursed by it but retained their minds—were seeking cures.
They didn't want to spend eternity in Hircine's hunting grounds. They wanted Sovngarde, or whatever afterlife they longed for that wasn't Hircine's Hunting Grounds.
They wanted peace. And according to the letters Torin had received from Kodlak, a good portion of them would be more than happy to dedicate a few years of their lives in service to a king who cured them.
That had intrigued Torygg very much. Skyrim's military had been depleted by the Great War, and the ongoing conflict between the Empire and the Thalmor threatened to drain it further.
A regiment of werewolves—warriors who fought like beasts, who knew no fear and felt no hesitation—would be a formidable asset.
But Torygg was nothing if not thorough.
He'd questioned how that would apply to the feral werewolves. The ones who had lost their minds, who were no better than animals, who couldn't consent to service because they didn't understand what consent meant.
Torin had no choice but to make a concession.
The research would not be limited to finding a cure. It would also include finding a way to restore sanity to the feral werewolves—so that they, too, could enter the High King's service. Or refuse, if they chose, once their minds were healed.
And for the sane werewolves, the ones who chose to be cured, Torin would also need to develop a method for controlling their transformations in the meantime.
They couldn't be expected to serve in the High King's army if they risked turning into beasts at the worst possible moment.
The second hurdle had been none other than the Arch-Mage, Savos Aren.
His biggest burden and worry was the College's reputation among the locals.
Winterhold's citizens already viewed the mages with suspicion, blaming them for the Great Collapse, accusing them of meddling with forces they didn't understand. Something like this—capturing feral werewolves, experimenting on them in the depths of the College—was bound to compromise what little goodwill remained, or so he'd stated.
However, when he heard that the High King had agreed to legalize the act, his tone had shifted. Not to enthusiasm—Savos Aren was not a man given to enthusiasm—but to grudging consideration.
He'd agreed to support the project, but with his own conditions.
The first was the support of the High King's court for the College of Winterhold. He didn't want mere words—empty promises and vague assurances—but concrete actions that would help restore the College's reputation.
He wanted the favors owed. Deals struck. The kind of political capital that couldn't be easily measured but was invaluable nonetheless. And Torin had then been forced to act as the middleman between the Arch-Mage of the College and the High King of Skyrim.
He'd mediated their negotiations, passed messages back and forth, smoothed over misunderstandings, and translated the polite language of diplomacy into actual terms that both sides could agree on.
The resulting agreement had several provisions.
All court wizards in Skyrim would be declared members of the College—not just in name, but in practice, with all the rights and responsibilities that entailed. They would be expected to contribute to the College's research, share their findings, and send promising students to study in Winterhold.
In turn, it would become mandatory for every court to have a court wizard. No more relying on hedge mages or wandering alchemists. Every Jarl would be required to employ a properly trained mage, certified by the College, to advise them on magical matters and protect their holds from supernatural threats.
The College would give priority to the High King and the Jarls for enchanting services, consultations, and any other magical assistance they might require—over anyone else, including private citizens, merchant guilds, and foreign powers.
The rates for those services would be discounted, a favor owed to the Crown in exchange for its support.
There were other terms—more on the boring side, as Torin had described them to a visibly amused Auri. The Crown would provide certain materials to the College at reduced cost.
The College's scholars would be granted supervised access to otherwise restricted ruins, ancient sites that had been off-limits for generations. The High King would issue a formal declaration affirming the College's importance to Skyrim and urging the Jarls to cooperate with its mages.
It had been a daunting process. Frustrating. Exhausting. Far more than Torin had bargained for when he'd first started down this path.
But it was done.
Three months later, the paperwork had been signed and sealed. The agreements had been witnessed and notarized. A space within the Midden—the deepest level, far from prying eyes and curious students—was being prepared for the research.
Because where else would you do something like this, even if it was legal?
Still, that was only the first step.
Torin would need more students and even professors to help Svanhild. The research was too large for one person, and he couldn't afford to spend all his time on it himself. He'd have to find people who were competent, discreet, and comfortable working with—and experimenting on—living creatures.
He'd need to actually figure out how to capture some feral werewolves.
The companions came to mind. They were legendary hunters, and all this trouble was for Kodlak. Still, Torin wasn't sure Kodlak would agree... he'd probably have to convince him.
He'd also need to get an expert on souls. Someone who understood the nature of the beast curse, how it attached itself to the spirit, how it could be removed without destroying the person in the process.
Phinis Gestor had volunteered—enthusiastically, perhaps a little too enthusiastically—but Torin didn't give him an answer yet. He wasn't sure of the old Breton's motives.
Then he needed the services of an illusion mage. Someone competent enough to trick the soul itself into not feeling pain during the experiments. Because Torin wasn't in the business of torturing people.
Feral or not, these were still living beings, still capable of suffering. If this research was going to extend to the soul itself—if they were going to probe the deepest reaches of the curse—they needed to do it without causing agony.
Drevis Neloren, Torin thought. Maybe. If he's willing to help.
That was a problem for another day.
Torin rolled onto his side, stared at the wall, and tried to sleep.
...
Standing before one of the stone pillars in the Hall of Elements, Torin bashed his shield against it.
The impact echoed through the cavernous chamber—a sharp crack that made a few nearby students jump. The pillar held, ancient stone weathered by centuries of magical accidents and training exercises.
The shield held too, its thin metal plates flexing slightly before snapping back into place.
Torin paused. He rotated the blades on the shield's edge—a flick of his wrist, a soft click as they locked into a new position—and bashed the pillar again.
This time, the blades bit into the stone, leaving shallow grooves in the surface.
He repeated the process several times, bashing the pillar with more strength each time. The shield absorbed the impacts, channeled the force, and held firm. No gears seized. No blades flew off. No lightning sparked from the mechanisms.
Everything was continuing to progress without much trouble.
The lab in the Midden was almost done. Svanhild had overseen the final installations—cages reinforced with magical wards, workbenches designed for dissection and analysis, containment fields to prevent the werewolves from escaping or harming themselves.
The space was cold, damp, and smelled of old stone and older magic. It was perfect.
The Bontain twins were steadily deciphering the enchantments on Skáldrfang. They'd reached a point where they didn't need to study the weapon directly anymore, having already transcribed its runes onto dozens of sheets of parchment.
Now they were cross-referencing those transcriptions with ancient texts, comparing Shalidor's work to other examples of First Era enchanting, building a framework that would allow future scholars to understand the spear's magic without ever touching it.
Bar-Dar was still busy with his own project—still adamantly vague about what that project entailed. Torin had stopped asking. The Argonian would either reveal it when it was ready or keep it secret forever. Either way, it wasn't Torin's concern.
And the shield was very much done. Ready for real combat.
There was still the possibility of certain malfunctions here and there—the blades might jam, the kinetic absorbers might overload, the summoning mechanism might fail to recall the shield to his arm. Nothing serious. Nothing that couldn't be worked out in time, through real-world testing and iterative refinement.
Outside the College, the orphanage was also done. The building stood on the acre of land Jarl Siddgeir had granted him, overlooking Lake Ilinalta, its stone walls warm and solid, its windows bright with torchlight... or so Runil described.
It had opened its doors two months ago, and was already taking in orphans from all over Skyirm.
Runil had written to Torin last week, his letter full of news. Most of the orphans he'd received were mer, Khajiit, and Argonians. Honorhall Orphanage in Riften took in Nord children and other "manish races," as the steward had bluntly put it, but refused to accept anyone else.
The other holds had similar policies, some spoken, some unspoken, all of them leaving the non-human orphans to fend for themselves.
There were also some human children at K'hila's Haven. Honorhall couldn't take them all either—too many orphans, not enough beds, not enough coin.
And so Runil had opened his doors to anyone who needed shelter, regardless of race, and the children had come.
Torin smiled at the thought. He hadn't seen the finished place yet—hadn't had the time to make the journey south—but with Runil running the orphanage, it would be a place worthy of K'hila's memory.
The old Altmer had a good heart, a patient soul. He'd make for a good caretaker.
And since Torin had gone out of his way to start an orphanage, he'd be lying if he said the idea to do something about Grelod the Kind hadn't crossed his mind.
The woman who ran Honorhall in Riften was a monster in her own way—cruel, abusive, the kind of person who should never have been put in charge of children.
In another life, behind a screen, Torin would have been happy to take matters into his own hands.
But he wasn't stupid enough to even entertain the notion. Assassination—even of someone like Grelod—was a line he wasn't willing to cross. There were easier and less reprehensible ways to deal with her.
Like writing to Torygg about it, he mused. Having the High King as your pen pal sure is convenient.
He bashed the pillar again, with all his strength this time. The impact was thunderous—a crack that echoed through the Hall of Elements like a thunderclap. The stone pillar split, a jagged fissure running from the point of impact down to the floor, and everyone within earshot bolted away in horror.
Torin just smiled as the blades on his shield rotated smoothly back into their resting position. No jams. No misfires. No sparks.
He retracted the shield into the bracer, the metal plates folding back with a series of soft clicks, and a familiar voice came from behind him.
"What did that pillar ever do to you?"
Torin turned to find Auri standing with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised, her amber eyes glinting with amusement.
He grinned. "I just despise things that are taller than me."
Auri raised her head—deliberately, pointedly—to look him in the eye.
"You must really love Bosmer, then."
Torin laughed—a genuine, warm sound that echoed off the stone walls.
"I don't hate them."
Auri shook her head, but a small smile tugged at her lips.
"As fun as this is... do you need something from me?" She tilted her head. "The Breton twins told me you were looking for me."
Torin nodded, his expression shifting to something more serious.
"I'm heading to Whiterun. Could do with some company." He paused. "Echo isn't available. She just gave birth."
Auri gave him a bemused look.
"I was the second choice." She gestured vaguely. "After a bear?"
Torin shrugged.
"Not just any bear. The bear. Echo." He smiled. "You should be flattered."
Auri sighed—long, heavy, the kind of sigh that meant she was pretending to be annoyed but wasn't really.
"Whatever." She turned toward the exit. "When do we leave?"
Torin fell into step beside her.
"Tomorrow. Dawn."
"Fine. I'll pack."
...
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