Chapter 1

Not for the first time, I found myself wondering what deity I have slighted to deserve the pitiable fate that has befallen me. Standing among the ruins of a once great city - the original capital of the entire province if I remember this bit of history correctly - I can think of no worse predicament than my current one. Half frostbitten and cursing every deity in the Nordic pantheon.

Winterhold, the northeastern-most region and city of Skyrim, is lending credence to my prevailing theory that this province was by and large hostile to non-Nordic life. It is daylight when I reach the city, although the sun provided little warmth. And visiting Skyrim during the cold season meant the sun didn't stick around for very long. The cold had managed to slow my movements considerably, making my limbs feel steel-laden despite my thick layers and avoidance of strenuous exertion. It was even becoming difficult to breathe, as if it took extra effort for my body to pull air from the environment into my freezing, cold-battered lungs. Yet every Nord I’ve encountered here has worn fewer layers than I did. And they were completely unfazed by the weather that seemed Oblivion-bent on killing me since I got here. I at one point mused if their love for drink was for practical reasons. As if the razor-sharp winds weren’t bad enough, there was snow and ice everywhere. The windswept ground, of which I could barely see, the snow-burdened rooftops, the iced-over windows; I’m quite sure ice has found its way in my ears and nose, both of which have long since lost feeling. The few people I saw didn’t seem eager to linger outdoors for long. I tug my hood further over my head and brush away the errant icicles that formed in my nostrils and ear cavities, with gloved fingers that had grown numb long ago.

It is daybreak, and for once I am grateful for the gloomy, overcast sky. The sunshine reflecting from the surrounding snow would most certainly blind me before I reach the College, making my trek more miserable than it needed to be. Winterhold’s architecture was impressive, and rivaled that of Solitude in the West. It was, however, overshadowed by a distinct lack of activity. Solitude had been bustling, chaotic even, and reminded him of a noisier version of his home Alinor. There was rarely a quiet moment, even indoors. Whereas Solitude had been alive, Winterhold felt and looked dead. I pause for a moment. Dead didn’t seem to be the right word. Abandoned was more fitting, haunted even. The reminder of the Great Collapse - when the Sea of Ghosts battered the city for days on end, for reasons still unknown - hung in the air above me like a thick curtain. It felt like the Ghosts that inhabited the sea beneath them lived within the city walls too. I knew the Nords were too superstitious for their own good, something the Dominion used to their advantage plenty of times, but the feeling that hung in the air around me makes me hurry my steps, all the more eager to keep my passing here brief.

The city - or what was left of it - looked every bit like the ancient Nordic citadel it had been hailed to be in its prime. Buildings made of dark stone, wood and metal lord over me as I made my way through the city’s nearly empty streets, adorned with carvings of the creatures most sacred in Skyrim’s early mythology. He recognizes the effigies of an owl, a hawk, a dragon’s head. What windows he saw were so encrusted with ice, I could not see through them. Interspersed between these structures were the broken and empty remains of old ones, no doubt what was left after the Great Collapse. I was momentarily taken aback by the distinct lack of life here, and briefly wondered if the Jarl had somehow anticipated the arrival of a Thalmor agent and set up an ambush for me in these same ruined lumps of metal and stone. I imagined groups of Stormcloaks hiding within the numerous heaps of snow I saw around me, watching and waiting for me to take a wrong step and fall into their trap.

What I found instead were sparse reminders that not everyone had left the city after it was engulfed by the Sea. In a secluded wing of the city, right next to the inn, a lone blacksmith tends to a forge, interestingly wearing mage robes. Nestled between a few pillars on the other side sits a small, lonely shrine. The shape, a raven sitting atop an orb, is not one I recognize. A few guards makes their rounds patrolling the alleyways in between buildings. I can physically feel the heat of their glares watching me as they pass one another. I briefly wonder if it was a mistake to come here in my Thalmor uniform robes, but in the end I pay them no mind. My robes signify my authority, regardless of whether I'm in Stormcloak or Imperial territory. I enter an arching overpass and catch a Nord man and woman underneath, in a heated argument. What I gather of its tail end suggests they are siblings, and one of them is too hard-headed to listen to reason. Neither of them pay me any attention, likely believing I am a hopeful novice of the College. Apparently the students are known to frequent the city proper from time to time.

Thinking of the College reminds me of how close I am. It also reminds me of something else, much more painful and shame-inducing. Something I vowed not to think about when I arrived here. Subconsciously, I stuff my hand into the pocket of my robe for the object nestled within. I wrap my cold fingers around it, comforted by its presence and the weight of it in my hand. The chain brushing against my fingers somehow providing more warmth than the lack of exposure itself. I swallow, shift my shoulders, adjusting the pack securely snug on my back. I will dwell on that later.

I comes across a narrow, stone arch high atop a sloping walkway. A solitary figure awaits at the top.

##########

Faralda, master of Destruction magic and keeper of the College gate, stands before him. Her high collar robes signify her ranking in the College, and I surmise the deep red color represents the destruction magic she teaches. The robes have black swirls on them and gold filigree on the seams and edges, making her stand out in the harsh surroundings. She watches me impassively, golden eyes even with my own. She has already explained I would not be gaining entry into the College unless I proved his magical capability to her in the form of casting a random spell of her choosing. Clearly, this is a joke. I scoffed, crossing my arms. Had she not been an Altmer herself, this would have been an insult. But I’m confident a fellow Altmer would have respect for the Dominion. She would be out of her right mind not to. “As I’m sure you know,” I tell her, “that an agent of the Dominion is far more magically qualified than anyone who might be within this College’s walls.”

Something briefly flashes in Faralda’s eyes as a corner of her lips twitch upward, an almost a smile, before schooling her features. I get the sensation she knows something I don’t, and isn’t willing to let on, but I don’t know for sure and it bothers me. “Be that as it may,” she replies in a smooth, even-toned voice, “I cannot break protocol for even one person. The fairness of my trial lies in everyone participating, regardless of genetic superiority.” I can’t help but smirk at the subtle recognition in her response. We are considered the First Children for a reason. It took a pathetically small amount of effort to cast an orb of magelight, shining brilliantly with colors of splendor, on the dark metal sigil at her feet. An upside down five-pointed star with a pupil-less eye in its center, the official seal of the College of Winterhold.

“Very well,” she tells me as she shields her eyes, no trace of emotion in her voice. The small alcove that served as the entrance to the bridge in which they stood made the light from the spell bounce back at them in distracting angles. Their foggy breath in the frigid air somehow made the ball of magelight brighter, worsening their vision. “You may pass. But before you do anything else,” she says as I begin to move, “speak with Mirabelle Ervine. She’s the master wizard of the College. If you wish to have an audience with the archmage, you must go through her first.” I frown involuntarily when I hear the name. A Breton. I could care less for anyone who wasn’t an Altmer, but Bretons are insufferable. Often haughty, and treated the other races of men as inferio. The extra magicka they were born with, courtesy of our lineage, was a mere fraction we purebloods had at their disposal. They thought themselves different from the rest of the humans, and they carried themselves like one us of. It bothered me more than it should.

My facial expression must have given my inner thoughts away, for after a beat she added, “Mirabelle may be master wizard, but she’s the one who really runs the College of Winterhold. The day-to-day operations are all her doing, and she’s closer to the archmage than any of us." She pauses for a moment. "Go against her, and you won’t be doing yourself any favors.” I sense the warning in her tone clear as day. It won’t help me to antagonize any of the higher ranking mages in the College. I sigh and readjust my pack. It feels like the longer I stand in this cold, the worse I ache. “I appreciate the... warning, Faralda.” I put on my most charming smile when I add, “Perhaps I'll be seeing you around.” My attempt to ingratiate seems to have missed its mark. Faralda squints at me, a blank expression on her face. “Perhaps you will,” she replies evenly. “Do be careful when crossing the bridge. The ice build-up makes it quite slippery, especially at night.”

##########

Perhaps this is the real test, I think to myself as I gingerly make my way along the sorriest excuse of a bridge I have the displeasure of seeing, let alone crossing. The sun was beginning its slow descent to the horizon, becoming brighter and oranger the lower it dropped. I had no expectations for decent infrastructure in this hovel of a province, but the state of this bridge was beyond unacceptable. And to make matters worse, the cold was starting to become unbearable. I thought I was suitably prepared, but I have deeply underestimated how harsh this weather really is, especially this far north. Blessedly, there is enough snow on the slopes of this bridge to provide enough traction for me to walk without falling, and the ledge that lines the bridge left and right are high enough for me to grasp when I feel my footing falter. More appalling to me is that this bridge doesn’t have adequate steps. "You’d think they’d have fixed something this detrimental by now", I grit as I nearly lose my footing on an invisible patch of ice. A morbid thought crosses my mind. Has anyone ever fallen? I decide not to think about falling as I make my way higher up a death trap of a bridge and towards the College. The howling wind and blowing snow make for poor visibility, but I can make out the faintest outline of the College from where I'm standing, and I appear to be halfway there.

I soon come across a section of bridge that is completely exposed. The high ledge that had followed me from the start abruptly ends in a small portion of the bridge on both sides. There are even parts of the walkway itself that are gone, leaving an impossibly small sliver for me to cross. Subtly showing the true heights the waves from the Sea of Ghosts reached when it battered Winterhold and parts of the College into a stony pulp. I feel his stomach dip slightly at the sight, and turn around fully to look at the city behind me. What remained of Skyrim’s former bastion seems to watch me back, an abandoned and impassive sentinel watching my voyage to the top. Steeling myself with a deep breath, I face the bridge to begin a careful shuffle across, willing myself not to look down. Heights have always been a source of discomfort, a stubborn fear from my childhood in Alinor that refused to leave no matter what I did. Unfortunately, curiosity happens to be another stubborn childhood remnant. A cursory glance downward makes me freeze, not from the cold, but what is beneath the bridge.

Houses. A better description would be the remants of houses. Numerous wooden buildings, broken and scattered among the cliffs directly underneath the city of Winterhold, and they looked ancient, even by Skyrim standards. A metal rooftop juts outward from a awkward angle, a few others are parallel with the ground. Debris in the form of errant wooden planks and broken glass frames litter the sandy shore below them, the snowy outcrops above them. The decades after the Sea of Ghosts finally calmed and abated itself back to its original sea level, the shifting of the ice beneath them and the turn of the seasons had eroded Winterhold’s surrounding landscape completely. The structures that were halfway to the sea were now stuck in purgatory along the cliffside, fused into the snow and rock as if that had been their fated design. And above it all, the battered remnants of Winterhold loomed over them, a grim reminder of when the Sea of Ghosts developed a mind of its own. I'm simultaneously horrified and morbidly fascinated. The Sea of Ghosts did all of this?, I wonder.

I become painfully aware of how high up I am. I swallow thickly and shuffles as hurriedly as I'm able until I fully cross the exposed section of the bridge. I stop to glance up at the towering structure in front of me, shuttering a breath I did not realize I had been holding. This close, I am finally able to see the College clearly. Bland is the first word that comes to mind. Made of a pale grey stone, two adjoining buildings with blue windows high atop the exterior, and thick clusters of icicles upon their roofs spread out on both sides of a tall tower proudly displayed in the middle of the College. The bridge becomes a path leading straight into the tower, which I assume to be the main building. A large circular window at the very top of the tower bears the College’s sigil, the same one at the entrance where Faralda stood.

In spite of myself, I'm relieved. The College looks like any other boring and uninspired Nord structure I've seen so far. It doesn’t look like-

No. I can't think about that. Not now at least.

At the end of the bridge, I reach a set of metal gates bearing the same sigil of the College. On either side are two storm atronachs, presumably keeping guard from trespassers. They have no reaction to my presence, yet I feel them watching me all the same. The gates open on their own upon my arrival, the sigil splitting evenly in half, and I cross the threshold into the courtyard.

##########

The massive and sprawling courtyard of the College was surprisingly bustling and full of activity, despite the emptiness I encountered in Winterhold. I had been told the College was the only reason people came to Winterhold. I believed it when I first stepped foot into Winterhold, and now I see they were correct once again. Guards in robes of various colors, decorated in symbols I recognize as the five schools of magic, patrol the courtyard, large staves strapped to their backs and daggers at their hips. A wide stone walkway shoots out to the middle of the space and continues to the other side. Additional walkways from the left and the right connect in the middle, forming a rudimentary “T” in the center, with tall evergreen trees scattered in the snowy portions between the walkways. In the dead center of the courtyard, a shallow well serves as the base for a narrow pillar of brilliant blue light that shoots upwards several dozen meters high. Behind the well is a large stone statue of a figure in billowing robes, his pose emitting a powerful aura. I will have to inspect it later.

Stone pillars that make up the structural integrity for the courtyard line the perimeter. To my right, a wooden board has been affixed to the interior of one of the pillars, an awning above it shields from snowfall, and a large piece of parchment is tacked seamlessly onto its surface. The parchment contains an intricately detailed map of an aerial view of the College grounds, complete with a brief explanation of each area. To my left is an identical wooden board, this one with a small table next to it. Moving closer, I see at least a dozen smaller parchment papers nailed to it, hand-written notes and missives, and a small metal sigil in the top left corner. The small table is covered with a white tablecloth. A quill rests inside an inkpot, a lit candle sits on a silver brassier next to it. Someone has left a small hammer and set of iron nails as well.

I make a mental note to investigate what is presumably the missive board for the entire College later. Several dozen paces away from the pillars, a group of mages, bundled in thick robes, emerge from a door in a single-file line. They are too far away for me to see exactly who they are. Once outside, they spread out and begin to cross the courtyard, chatting amongst themselves as they make their way toward a set of huge wooden doors on the opposite end of the courtyard. None of them spared a glance at him. The statue largely obscures his view of the doors where the mages disappeared, but based on a cursory glance of the map, I assume it to be the entrance to the "Hall of the Elements". Purportedly a great hall for lectures and group activity.I have no doubt I will glean much of my targeted information here.

As I walk towards the stone well, I'm mildly caught off guard when I recognize the figure portrayed in statue. Wearing majestic robes with a cape that appears to be flowing backward from an unseen surge of energy, the stone emanation of Shalidor stands with his feet firmly planted and spread apart, his hands outstretched on either side with his palms facing upwards and clutching two orbs of brilliant and perpetual magelight. The orbs are different colors - red in his right and blue in his left. I wonder if there is a significance to their color and placement. Shalidor, a Nord, is considered to be the founder of the College of Winterhold, having been its first Archmage and overseeing the construction of the College back in the First Era. The irony is not lost on me that a Nord master of magic is responsible for the most reviled institution in all of Skyrim. As predictable as it was that the College honored his admittedly impressive legacy this way, a part of me thinks it’s a bit... excessive. Shalidor was a revolutionary mage at best, and a reclusive quack at worst. Writing himself away inside his “fortress” for years isn’t the life I would envision for myself if I were in Shalidor’s position, especially considering the accomplishments of the great Sages of Sapiarch...

##########

“Are you a new arrival?” A nearby voice snaps me out of my musings, almost making me jump. I hadn’t noticed the woman to the right of the statue, facing away from me and completely engrossed in a book. Reading out in the open, in this miserable weather, was unconscionable to me, but I recover myself enough to find my voice. “You are Mirabelle, I presume?” I'm surprised my authoritative tone hadn’t been lost to the extreme cold. “I am Ancano, an agent with the Aldmeri Dominion. I have been sent as a representative to advise the Archmage in promoting relations between the Dominion and your College.”

Mirabelle flips through a few more pages before closing her book - I catch the title as On Oblivion - and tucking it into the crook of her arm, fully turning to face me. I am several heads taller than her, but she is slightly taller than the average human. Approaching her middle ages with shoulder-length brown hair, the Breton woman regards him with a discerning, no-nonsense gaze that brokers no arguments, bargaining or trifling. Despite the chill around them and the thin robes Mirabelle wears, she doesn’t appear as affected by the weather as I am. Either I've underestimated my intolerance to the cold, or she’s been here long enough to have gotten used to it. “Ah, yes,” she says after a moment. “We’ve been told to expect you.” I silently thank Estormo for his work. The strings he pulled had been successful. “As I’m sure you’ve been briefed, the College remains neutral in matters relating to local and foreign policy. We aren’t the Synod, after all,” she says almost dismissively.

“Because of this,” she continues, “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to see the Archmage as of yet, much less advise him. Until further notice, you are to be a guest of the College.” I can feel the annoyance blossom within me. I know enough to know “guest” roughly translates to “lack of access to key places of interest on College grounds.” I try to remember Faralda’s warning, I attempt to be civil, and it takes nearly all of my willpower not to lash out at the Breton woman before me. “I hope you realize,” I begin carefully, “that by delaying the start of my assignment, I would have to stay here longer than you or the Dominion anticipated.” Surveillance of the College was the primary reason I wanted this position, but curiosity was the true reason. Scouting out threats or potential tools of power to use against the Empire, all under the guise of quashing the Stormcloak rebellion, was a convenient addition.

Mirabelle doesn’t miss a beat. “I believe I made myself quite clear, Ancano.” Hearing my name in her voice is grating to my ears. she made herself quite transparent. But it doesn’t mean I like it. “Yes, of course,” I reply in a measured tone. “I’m simply trying to understand the reasoning behind the decision.” Inside, I'm seething. They should be grateful the Dominion is even taking an interest in this snow-buried and ruined hovel. It’s no wonder everyone in the province shuns them. They’re seen as a blight on the province, they contribute nothing to whatever passes for society here at large, and they expect everyone to respect them, bend to their whim. I feel my jaw clench slightly. Oblivious to the venomous thoughts surging through me, Mirabelle crosses her arms, holding the book to her chest. “You may be used to the Empire bending over backwards for you, but you will find the Thalmor receive no such treatment here.” She makes a move to walk away, but not before adding in a firm voice: “You are a guest of the college, here at the pleasure of the Archmage. I hope you appreciate the privilege and opportunity.”

I've already vaporized her several different ways in my mind and can feel a faint but persistent pulse in my forehead in time with my heartbeat. But I manage to be as courteous as I can be when I respond, “Yes, of course.” Then, as an afterthought, “the Archmage has my thanks.” Mirabelle seems to find this answer acceptable. “Very good,” she nods once. “Then our business here has concluded. I’ll arrange for a room to be assigned to you in the Hall of Attainment, where we house all our new arrivals.” She points to a wooden door on the other side of the courtyard to the right of the entrance, the same door the group of mages came from. “Your room will be on the first floor, first door on the right. In the meantime, I will arrange a meeting with you and Savos as soon as he's available.” She walks away without waiting for a response, and slips behind the great wooden doors behind the statue of Shalidor.

Alone and sufficiently irritated, I heave a sigh and mentally prepare myself, to the best of my ability, for what I feel will be the most difficult assignment of my career in the Dominion.

I am unaware of how deeply I have underestimated its difficulty.

################################################################

AUTHOR'S NOTE

WOW I did not think I would be able to write so much for a first chapter! I wrote this out back in November 2024, and posted it here with revisions and re-writes. I have 3 chapters so far. I don't have a name for this yet, and I'm honestly not sure where I'm going with this, but let me tell you how it started:

I've been playing and modding Skyrim for about 7 years now. Today (July 7th, 2025) happens to be my 10th anniversary on the Nexus Mods website! Mods have come a LONG way since then, including quest mods and mods that expand on vanilla quests (quests that are already part of the game). Many Skyrim players hate the College of Winterhold questline, due to its predictability and lack of immersion. Some players become the Archmage after casting two spells total, and it can break immersion for those not playing magic builds. There's even a mod that lets you choose not to be Archmage!

Contrary to those players, I always become Archmage in my playthroughs. My current build is a Redguard battlemage, and belonging to the College of Winterhold fits her perfectly and aligns with her backstory. But the predictability of the quest kills the immersion for me as well, especially as someone who gets fatigued playing the same quest over and over again. Of course the Thalmor goes bonkers, tries to control the Eye of Magnus, and fails when he's killed by the player character. At some point I thought to myself, what if the quest ended differently? What if you actually teamed up with the Thalmor - Ancano in this case - to contain the Eye of Magnus?

And that's how this started. It's my personal interpretation of what it would look like if a Thalmor agent, the game's main antagonists, collaborated with the player character in the College of Winterhold questline. I've had so many scenes and ideas racing around my head over the past two months that I can't wait to translate to word, I'm honestly really excited about this!(Also this is my first ever fanfic so pls be gentle)

You may have noticed the icon waaayyy up top in the top right corner, next to the header. That picture is a screenshot of an Ancano replacer that I got from this mod. The mod author gave Ancano a lore-friendly make-over, keeping him as close to his vanilla appearance as possible, which I like a lot. The icon will change for each character who has a chapter, which so far will only be two; Ancano and my player character, whom you'll meet soon enough!

OK I think I've rambled enough, but if you've read this far, thank you so much!!

-T.L.S.