The College of Winterhold, of the Province of Skyrim, Tamriel || 4th of Morningstar

My hands worriedly rake through my braids, hoping none of them were burned off. I didn't expect my foray into the Midden to take as long as it did. Nor did I expect to nearly die at the hands of scrolls that I hope and pray to Julianos were not poorly written on purpose. Add running into a certain Thalmor "advisor" seeing me at my worst, on top of being condescending and lecturing as if he had any authority over me, and I could have used the mark and recall spell Tolfdir taught us to teleport out of there in a heartbeat. But no matter. My disastrous excursion is blessedly over, and I waste no time heading back to the Hall of Attainment. My robes were in a terrible state, and I'm eternally grateful I keep spares in my wardrobe. I try to ignore the strange looks I get from other students passing me by on the way out of the Hall of the Elements. Wardrobe malfunctions and bodily harm resulting from spells and magickal experiments gone awry seem to be the one thing the College always accounts for. Or at least, the one thing Mirabelle always accounts for. I'm sure it was her idea after all to provide students with spare robes and clothes in each of their rooms, in anticipation of this exact scenario. She's been Master Wizard for longer than I've been here, I imagine she's seen everything at this point. I suppose I shouldn't complain too much, my robes are in tact enough to not be indecent and my wounds are superficial despite how sore I am. I walk briskly through the courtyard, hugging myself tightly. Miraculously, it's barely evening. The Midden had an uncanny way of swallowing time, making it go much faster while you were down there. It was one of the many reasons why students, especially the newer ones, never ventured down there alone. The biting cold is finding its way through the gaps in my robes, licking the burned section of my midriff and left shoulder. The frigid chill feels heavenly on my burns, but numbing to the rest of my body. I grit my teeth which each gust, quickening my steps. Cold this severe could literally freeze you in place, making it increasingly harder to move. It was why frost magic was so effective against melee opponents.

I all but burst through Attainment's door, nearly crashing into someone in my haste to get inside. That someone being the very mage responsible for the predicament I am currently in. J'zargo stands before me, just beyond my reach, with one hand outstretched. He'd been reaching for the door handle when I rushed inside. He stares at me frozen in place and wide-eyed, enlarged feline pupils taking in my ragged appearance and the current state of my robes. I'm sure he can smell the scent of smoke on me as clearly as anyone else can, even moreso considering his sense of smell is stronger than most. I'm sure he can also see the visible burns on my skin, even in the dim lighting of Attainment's foray. I don't need to say a word. He knows what I've just been through. He's still gaping at me as I level him with a cool stare, tearing off the burned remains of my robe's hood in the process. "Your scrolls didn't work, not unless they were meant to explode and inflict damage onto the caster." Whatever he hears in my voice snaps him out of his stupor. "Oh... that is most unfortunate," he says carefully, his words sounding warbled in the Khajiiti accent. If I was naive enough, I would say he looks frightened. But whether this is due to my anger, or his scrolls having a consequence he claims is unintended, I can't tell. "No, the scrolls were not supposed to explode... but J'zargo is pleased you have returned in one piece instead of many!" His whiskers twitch as he grins, hoping to ease the situation. His attempt at making a joke, however light-hearted and well-meaning, falls flat. "Next time, find someone else to test your scrolls. Or better yet," I move around him and head for my room, not sparing him a passing glance, "test them yourself."

##########

An hour later, I've massaged my wounds with restoration spells, changed into an undamaged pair of robes, and I'm feeling much more human.

Had I been thinking practically, I could have taken some of the snow and ice outside to use against my burns. Many of the novices of destruction magic have done the same, using the cold environment to their advantage. But I thought better of it once I made my way to the warm respite of the Hall of Attainment, unwilling to leave even for a few seconds. And there was no better way to practice restoration magic than on active wounds. Though I may be healed, I still ache and feel sore. It hurt tremendously to move in the aftermath of using just one of J'zargo's busted scrolls, and I'm still sore in the parts that gave me the most excruciating pain. I narrowly avoided sharing this with Ancano, but the scrolls had high durability. The reason why my robes were in tatters and my skin was so badly burned is because J'zargo somehow managed to make the spell last a full minute, twice as long as the average flame cloak spell. And they exploded like fireballs when the perimeter made contact with anything. I could see the logic in this, especially if one were to use them to clear out dungeons and caves full of undead enemies, or frost wildlife like ice wraiths and frost trolls. But the additional length of the spell meant the caster suffered from its after-effects until it wore of. I was that caster. I lean forward heavily from where I sit at the foot of my bed. What I thought would be a favor for a colleague nearly cost me my life. I'm surprised my hair didn't burn clean off my scalp.

J'zargo's competitive nature was off-putting to everyone around him, including me and the rest of our cohort. I often saw him training with Onmund in the practice grounds below the Hall of the Elements after lectures. At first I assumed they had become friends. Onmund later confided in me that J'zargo would often attempt to goad him into duels while they practiced, and even try to spar with him more than once. Onmund learned to ignore him and focus on his own work, and eventually J'zargo relented, but the odd behavior left a mark on him. I mull over what Ancano told me about there being "no uplifting or benefiting from the advancement of magic in death". I don't even know why he of all people would cross my mind at this time. It had been morbidly blunt, and I was momentarily shocked into silence. But taking into account that I nearly died in the Midden, I begrudgingly admit he was making a valid point. Being overly helpful and nice to the wrong people and for the wrong reasons will get you nowhere but the grave, and often fast. I had begun to think I was cold to J'zargo in the way that I informed him of how poorly his scrolls performed, I even regretted my outburst. But his scrolls could have killed me, and while it was not out of the ordinary to have your peers evaluate your work, this felt wholly irresponsible on his part. I can only hope he's learned his lesson now, and that he won't ask me or anyone else for help with scroll-testing again.

Ancano's words really angered me. Who in Oblivion was he to tell me - or any of us for that matter - how we should conduct our magickal learning and research? Was he expecting this place to be like the Aldmeri Dominion? Was he hoping to run this place like the Aldmeri Dominion? Immediately he struck me as one of those Altmer who think themselves better than everyone, soley based on their ancient heritage. They looked down on the rest of us, seeing us as lesser beings beneath their notice and respect. Even Faralda and Nirya were humble, although the latter had humility in a much smaller concentration. The Aldmeri Dominion was chock-full of them, his sense of superiority more than fitting for his position as Justiciar. I had fire coursing through my veins and so many thoughts I was working respond with, when I remembered something mother told me, many years ago. She was teaching me about Aldmeri social culture and etiquette, and apparently when Altmer give practical advice that may sound rude and unwarranted in the moment, it more often than not comes from a good place. Meaning that the Altmer who gave the advice means well and wants to see you succeed. "Although 'succeed' in this instance generally means they want you to do better, but on their terms. When my kin give you practical advice, especially free unsolicited, their wish is for you to take it and use it in practice next time." I smile at the memory. It was a rare moment when my mother was lucid enough to make sense in laymen's terms. Often she spoke in riddles that would make the untrained mind and ear increasingly frustrated for lack of understanding, but it seemed she reserved her lucid moments for me.

Mother's memory reminds me that I have yet to send the letter I wrote to her to the courier's office. While worth a venture into town on its own, I'm well aware that Tolfdir should be receiving news from the Jarl about our Saarthal excursion by tomorrow, and I have yet to sufficiently prepare for how long we might stay there. I would rather send the letter before I leave. Today is out of the question, after what I went through I want today over as soon as possible. Perhaps I can ask Faralda, if she would be willing. She makes nightly trips to Winterhold, usually to mingle with the locals at the Frozen Hearth. Show them not all of us are dangerous, or Daedra worshippers like Ancano foolishly thought we were. And it's no secret that I am among her best students, showing prodigious skill in destruction magic. When I cast the orange lightning bolt spell for the first time a few months ago, she was stunned into silence for a long moment. I remember feeling my stomach drop, believing I had done something wrong or forbidden, punishable by expulsion from the College. I had nowhere to go, and my unease nearly morphed into panic before she finally spoke. "By the Aedra... how did you do that?" It was then that she explained the history of the lightning bolt spell, the original color of it, and how the orange variety was discovered. To date, no one knows how the orange lightning bolt is cast, as few others have had luck in recreating it. Including Faralda herself. I was unsure how to feel, seeing as I had managed to surpass Faralda even in this one area. But I knew better than to let ego get in the way of my learning. I turned to her and asked her what else there was to learn. The resulting grin on her face was my answer.

It had been a while since I last cast the spell, resorting to the original blue variety for anything lighting magic-related. That is, until I nearly blasted Ancano's head clean off his shoulders, right next to Master Drevis' office, in the Hall of Diligence not even two days ago. I still remember the look on his face, the way he was slow to emerge from where he managed to dodge the projectile heading for him faster than the speed of light. I still don't know how he moved that fast, or how he wasn't irate at almost losing his life. But I surmised he realized the blunder he made in sneaking around vacant offices and catching people off guard in the process. A mistake he is surely smart enough not to repeat, not any time soon. I chuckle. It is no wonder he wanted space from me. But that still begs the question of why he was in the Midden to begin with. Had I not been preoccupied with recuperating after nearly dying, I would have demanded that of him when we caught each other. For all I know he could have been snooping around and spying for the Dominion. Granted, the Midden has nothing of interest for anyone, save for those gifted in conjuration magic. Spending even a few moments down there will have even the most seasoned of adventurers believe it is nothing more than an icy, dilapidated dungeon, the ruins of which our College was built upon. The Atronach Forge is the only point of interest, provided one knows how to use it. The only other explanation is that he could have been searching for me, but that doesn't sit well with me. I remember the way he looked at me after Toldfir's demonstration, with an almost predatory interest. His whole outlook on me changed, like something was revealed to him as he watched us. Watched me. Is that why he went down there? And more importantly, how would he have known I was down there at all? I didn't tell anyone where I was going, although Thesla, the Alchemy master, surely saw me leave. We may not know each other well, but I highly doubt she would have disclosed to a plainly uniformed Thalmor Justiciar where I was even if he asked politely. The Dunmer aren't terribly fond of their Aldmeri kin, no matter how far removed they are from their Chimer origins.

I crack my neck in both directions, hearing muted but satisfying crunches. At evening time, most of the professors and students would be at the Cantina, the College's version of a tavern. Thesla manages a counter in the Hall of Acumen, serving freshly cooked meals and drinks of all sorts. The fare one would find at an inn like The Frozen Hearth down in Winterhold, without leaving the College grounds. It was an idea Mirabelle pitched to the Archmage several months ago, explaining it would be essential to nourhsing the bodies and minds of the students and ensuring that their studies and magickal performance were up to par with professors' demands. Not to mention, not all of the students would know how to cook or work a stove pit. And if the alchemy experiments were any indication, we would be saving the College and Oveld's sense of smell by having someone in charge of food preparation who knew what they were doing. The Archmage agreed, and everyone has benefitted from the decision since. I tend to cook my own meals whenever I can, but the Cantina's reputation is well-deserved, and not just for the homey and welcoming atmosphere. Master Thesla outdoes herself, cooking dishes from many parts of Tamriel. She prefers Nordic and Dunmer cuisine, a nod to two of Winterhold's historic largest demographic of inhabitants. The College was the first place I ever had kwama egg quiche, flin, roasted guar and ochre mash. Dunmeri delicacies you'll find nowhere else, she described them. I always forget to ask her how she knows so much about cooking and alchemy in general, and how she gets the ingredients for some of these dishes in the first place. Perhaps I will tonight, but not at this moment. Contemplative solitude appeals to me more than anything delicious and savory, and I know the one place to acquire it in abundance.

##########

By the blessing of Julianos himself, the bath house is completely empty. A sprawling, stone-lined room with a deep pool situated in the middle. The steam emanating from it is so thick, it's almost hard to see. In a corner off to my left is a small hearth, an equally small fire currently smouldering inside. A large chandelier hangs above the pool, lined with tiny candles. On the pool's right is a large stone table, a bench lining either side of it. Another bench is inside the pool itself, running the whole length of the right wall. To my left are four rows of tall display cabinets next to the heart, housing all the bathing essentials. The water calls to me like a siren's song, I cannot resist even if I tried. I make quick work of undressing, choosing the right soap from the cabinet's offerings, a few pouches of therapeutic alchemical salts and some long linens to dry off with. Master Thesla managed to come up with the salt pouches in particular by grinding them into a fine powder and adding a few neutralizing indregients to them, effectively ridding them of their adverse side effects. The result was a topical application that had therapeutic benefits when added to baths or pools. The bath house pool has stone steps leading into the deeper section in the back left corner, although the water barely reaches my collarbones. The stones absorb additional heat from the water, making them feel heavenly to walk on. For some people at least. The rest of the pool went up to my shins, easily walkable. There is another stone table inside the pool, similar to the one next to it, in a shallow end. I take a seat at the bench on the right, and an appreciative moan escapes me as I settle in, the water level stopping just below my breasts. Placing the linens on the lip of the pool behind me, I pour the contents of the pouches into the palm of my hand one by one. I work them into my sore spots and aches, feeling the pain melt away as their scents invigorate my sinuses.

I'm not aware of who it was that authorized the creation of this bath house, but they have my thanks in particular. Master Thesla makes sure the cabinets are well-stocked, and in return we make sure to keep the place as spotless as we left it. Most people use it as a way to keep the cold out, but some other students use it for recreation. Indeed, we have a few Argonians who have made it a habit to visit the bath house for hours at a time, rejuvenating themselves and keeping their scales from drying out in the already cold, dry air around us. The salts are my favorite addition, as relaxing as they smell. My aches and pains disappear in no time, and I feel my eyes close as I sit back, enjoying the ambiance the room is providing. The fire softly crackling in the hearth, the soothing swish of the water with each subtle movement I make, the hot steam caressing my face and body, it's nearly enough to put me to sleep. But it also gives me the chance to reflect on the day, on how things went. And I find my mind wandering to a particular event in the Midden, when a certain Thalmor Justiciar witheld my amulet from me. I hated the smirk on his face. Hated how small it made me feel and how condescending it made him look. And worst of all, I hated how it was... not unpleasing to look at, the way it complimented his sharp cheekbones and lit up his amber eyes. I would have asked where he found my amulet, had I not seen the state of the chain for myself. The heat from the scroll's spell melted it off my neck. I remember how he looked at said scrolls, reminding me of Master Drevis' reaction to a prank someone played on him almost a year ago. I took too long studying the features of his side profile, having never been in close proximity of a Justiciar and much less an Altmer his age. The sharp jaw, equine nose, low brow and deep, expressive amber eyes. Despite everything, I had to admit to myself that by Aldmeri standards, he was quite handsome. Too bad he was a Justiciar. Too bad he was an enemy. I was very close to openly smiling at him.

I frown. But of course, that leads to the "bargain" he proposed, where I initially thought he was attempting to proposition me. Perhaps I should be fortunate that I have no personal experience with the war crimes the Aldmeri Dominion committed in Hammerfell and elsewhere, that I had been lucky enough to be born in a different time and in a different province not yet ravaged by the threat they posed. But it was a possibility I was not naive enough to ignore, not when he likely lived through it and may have even partaken in those foul, awful deeds himself. Those deeds were committed against my ancestors, who had the audacity to resist an encroaching Elven invasion, after being abandoned and left to die by an Empire more than willing to cut a loose end to save itself. But his reaction took me by surprise. His nostrils flared, the charming smirk vanishing in the blink of an eye, and he openly snarled at me. He was mortally offended at what I was suggesting, which made me more curious than afraid of his sudden outburst. His reaction was so strong, it was clear he hated being associated with the actions of his predecessors in Hammerfell, who treated my ancestors worse than beasts. And he didn't calm down until I pointed out that I only made this assumption because he was a man, letting that particular implication settle between us. Men have done terrible, terrible things across Tamriel. Men of all races. The Aldmeri ones especially. It worked, and I watched and listened and his mood returned to normal. What was that about, anyway? Normally people don't have reactions that visceral unless... unless they have personal experience in the matter. What did that mean? Was he disgusted by the war crimes committed in Hammerfell? Did something like this happen to him or his family at some point? So many questions ran through my mind in that moment, questions that still linger now. I wonder if I will ever have an answer for them.

My eyes open. I cannot let myself be deluded into thinking a Thalmor Justiciar might be even a little bit decent or redeemable just because he's opposed to sexual assault and war crimes against humans. He is quite the opposite. He belongs to an organization that is actively waging war against humankind, in the name of Elven supremacy. His aversion to what his people did in Hammerfell could very well stem from disgust at us humans in general, not wanting to sully his own with the likes of 'lesser beings' as they have taken to calling us. Even if to fulfill a power dynamic. What's more, the Aldmeri government is itching to go back to war with an already weakened Empire. The College may be politically neutral, but the land we sit on is not. Winterhold and much of its residents have aligned themselves with the Stormcloak cause, and if a Thalmor Justiciar was sent here, then the assignment must have come from a higher-up. And he could be spying on us all without us knowing, gathering intel to send back to his chain of command or whoever he's working with. But why start searching in the Midden, of all places? I suppose his being new prevents him from accessing certain points of the College, so he will want to explore everything he can that he does have access to, leave no stone here unturned. And he was quite interested in the Atronach Forge, although he foolishly thought it was linked to Daedra worship, an idea I couldn't help but laugh at. The College has used the Daedric letter for 'O' to represent the conjuration school of magic for centuries, even before the Mages Guild disbanded in Cyrodiil. Absentmindedly, my teeth find the inside of my cheek and massages it pensively. It might be a good idea to tell Mirabelle that Ancano was in the Midden, and maybe even the Archmage too. He didn't leave right away when I left. I thought for sure he would follow me out, attempt to stalk me, but I came back up alone. Which means he stayed behind, doing gods only know what. Mirabelle always chides us not to bother the Archmage "unless it's absolutely necessary", and surely this would be deemed a necessary-

A cold, gentle breeze caresses my face and shoulders, followed by the barely audible creaking of one of the bath house doors. I sigh, the disappointment I feel instantaneous. I didn't mind company in the bath house from time to time, it was a nice place to unwind from the day's demands and socialize with others in the College. But I really enjoyed being in here alone, the contemplative solitude I sought after was great while it lasted. Moving quietly, I aim to make myself decent before someone steps inside. I could use a break from the pool anyway, sitting at the dry table or even by the fire would be helpful. I glance at the door as I reach for the linens behind me, and freeze in place. My stomach drops. I did not mind company in the bath house from time to time.

But not this company.

Through the steam floating aimlessly throughout the room, a figure stands halfway in the bath house, one foot in the room with one of the doors bisecting his body. Ancano is staring at me, wide-eyed and slackjawed, like he's just an Oblivion gate open before him. His hair is disheveled, some of it is plastered to his face and looks... burned? His robes are in equal disarray, riddled with holes and some parts of it missing. Not unlike my robes after I used J'zargo's scrolls. Don't tell me... Did he use the scrolls too? Is that why he stayed behind in the Midden? Did he just now resurface? I didn't bar the door when I came back up... and I didn't remember seeing it lowered when I arrived at the bath house. His eyes look dangerously close to popping out of their sockets, I've never seem him look so expressive. I may have uttered a noise, I may have moved to try and shield myself, unprepared for unexpected exposure to him of all people. I prayed the steam did the heavy lifting by censoring me from view. I don't remember what I did in that moment, but whatever it was, it was enough. Before I can even blink, he's gone. Without so much as a sound, he disappears behind the same door he shuts with such swiftness and force, I only have time to belatedly cover my chest. I stay rooted at the spot, waiting to see if he or someone else will return. It all happened so fast, I could have imagined seeing him there after I had just been mulling over his strange behavior. The Justiciar has an uncanny knack for swiftness, and I'm once again reminded of the other day when I nearly killed him after he scared me. The chill in the air and the delayed shifting of the steam in the room tells me he really was there. After a moment of quiet stillness, I decide I've spent enough time in the bath house. I all but rush out of the pool, not wanting to be caught off guard again by anyone else. My stomach growls softly while I work to dry off and dress as fast as possible.

Dinner sounds positively lovely.

##########

The door creaks open again as I approach, fully dressed this time. I do not want or need a repeat of what just happened. I stop completely, before seeing a familiar face peek through the opening. Master Thesla looks surprised to see me at first, then gives me an amused look. "Oh my, I was wondering what was in here," she allows me to step out before peeking back in. "I presume you are alone?" I've always been fond of her deep, rich timbre. It pairs so nicely with her Dunmeri accent, making her sound old and cultured. Winterhold used to have a sizable Dunmer population, larger than that of Windhelm. But understandably, many followed their Nord neighbors, packing up and leaving after the Great Collapse. Only a small handful of them chose to remain, mainly due to familial ties and family-owned businesses. Master Thesla's family had been among those to leave, while she stayed behind and eventually settled into the College of Winterhold. Having been here for a decade already, I can't see the College running smoothly without her and her alchemical knowledge. "I am... at least, I was." I'm not sure I should tell her about the uncomfortable experience I just had. Turns out, I don't need to. She pulls the door closed behind us, giving me a knowing smile. "You must have given that good-looking Thalmor quite an eyeful."

My jaw hangs open as heat flushes to my face. I don't know which bothers me more; Master Thesla confirming his good looks, or that she caught him peeping. "He's not that good-loo- I mean, you mean you saw him? Did you try to stop him?" I'm mortified that my first instinct is to deny his attractiveness. I try not to sound as betrayed or embarrassed as I feel, but Master Thesla merely chuckles as she walks to the door leading to the Midden. A high bun accentuates her sharp facial features, highlighted with thick blood-red striations that run vertically along both sides of her face. The color matches her eyes. They almost mimic my white ones, except none of them are horizontal and some of hers have intricate, circular patterns within them. Her hair is an unusual color, a muted coral. I can't tell if it's been dyed it or if that's her natural color, which makes it impossible for me to tell how old she is in elven years. I've never thought to ask her, either. Her cuisine expertise, alchemical knowledge and cooking techniques speak for themselves. Lifetimes of knowledge, my mother would always say when I asked her to tell me more about the Altmer. Having the exact same ancient ancestors, the Dunmer are no different. But one race was cursed due to another group's follies and selfish ambitions. The others found themselves waking up to military dictatorship overnight, forced to fight wars and participate in conquests they never asked for. Both have suffered all the same. It was a pity it didn't unite them.

"Don't worry, it was purely an accident, otherwise he would have dealt with me," she lowers the bar to the Midden, the aged wood creaking and groaning in its holster as it settles into its handle. A heaviness I wasn't aware of dissolves from my chest and shoulders. I feel better knowing he wasn't intentionally peeping, and that Master Thesla would have defended me had he tried something, anything. But being exposed to him of all people was... unsettling. And that didn't explain his unkept appearance. "He came barging out of here like a mad man," she indicates the door behind her with a nod of her head, as if reading my mind. "Looked like he got into a fight with a flame atronach and lost. I saw him go in this morning, thought he was looking for you until you returned alone. I presumed he used those same scrolls J'zargo gave you," I roll my eyes in spite of my composure. "He had a dazed, lost look about him, like he saw something he shouldn't have," Master Thesla continued. "If he was down there this long, I can't imagine what else might have happened to him..." she trails off, and she need not continue. The Midden has a haunted reputation among those who have been here long enough. Lots of strange things have happened there over the years, as if the Atronach Forge wasn't strange enough. Students going missing, coming back days or even weeks later, looking like they had been through Oblivion itself. It was one of the first places Phinis took to searching himself when the previous group of apprentices all went missing. No trace of them was found there, or anywhere else to this day.

Master Thesla shifts her attention back to me. "He stumbled over to the door when he noticed the steam, he clearly didn't know what was behind it. The next thing I know he took off, sprinting like a scamp out of Oblivion and redder than the Red Mountain itself," she smirks, amused by my discomfort. "The way he bolted, I thought he saw a wraith. It wouldn't be the first time someone left a summoned Daedra unsupervised on College grounds. He headed upstairs, I'm quite certain I heard the main door open and shut. In any case, I suppose he won't be doing that again." I'm about to tell her that I hope he doesn't, and that I hope he's learned an important lesson in snooping unfamiliar grounds, when my stomach growls again. Much louder than it was in the bath house. Master Thesla chuckles again. "Let me guess, you haven't eaten yet?" I shake my head no. "I had something before I went into the Midden, but I was going to come to you for dinner after the bath house." She nods, heading to her alchemy station behind us. "Master Thesla, why do you think the Justiciar is here?" I follow behind her. She usually keeps the keys to the Cantina on her. I can't tell for sure, but if she's here then the Cantina is likely closed. That was disappointing. I could always cook something, but a fresh meal from someone else was always a soul-healing respite. The alchemy master begins cleaning up her station, shelving ingredients left out during the day and gathering empty mixing bowls, carrying them to the far corner next to the display shelves. "He wants what he thinks will serve the Dominion's best interests, or perhaps his own," she says simply, as she starts to rinse a pile of empty cups and bowls in a water basin I hadn't noticed before now. "Those people are nothing if not predictable. Ambitious too, they're not ones to waste time on something that they believe won't pay off at some point. I can't imagine how he thinks the College will help him or the Dominion, but if it means they have less time to harass innocent people, then so be it."

I half-smile. Master Thesla, like many others in the College, had many polticial opinions she kept to herself. Everyone knew the College was a place for learning and studying magic, nothing more. Mirabelle loved boasting that we weren't similar to the Synod at all, since we couldn't care less about the politics of the outside world. Politics wouldn't help anyone here, although that didn't stop us from having opinions of our own. Some, like Onmund and Brelyna, even joined the College to get away from politics altogether, having been smothered by them in their own families. So far, they seem to have had it worse than anyone else. Onmund was escaping his parents' fervent support of the Stormcloak cause, a career path they were expecting him to take in the current civil war had he not moved here instead. Brelyna and her family are members of House Telvanni, one of Morrowind's original and ancient Great Houses, and she is the first to leave Morrowind in a long time. All of the the Dunmer's most powerful and oldest wizards, those who showed prodigious talent in magic, made significant magickal contributions and lived for millenia, came from House Telvanni. Perhaps the most famous of all was Divayth Fir, one of the people responsible for curing the Blight epidemic that ravaged Vvardenfell in the third era and threatened the mainland. By that time, known as the Nerevarine Prophecy, Divayth was at least 3,000 years old. Rumor even has it that the Archmage himself had correspondence with him at some point, meaning there's a chance he's still alive. The pressure Brelyna must have felt, having ancestral ties to magickal legends of that caliber, must have been suffocating. It is no wonder she came to Winterhold alone, a city within a province where no one would know her heritage or her lineage. No one would expect anything of her, she could just be.

It occurs to me that the College's political policy might be difficult now with a uniformed Thalmor marching on our grounds, but that really just begs the question of why he's here to begin with. Something we're all internally asking ourselves, I'm sure. Master Thesla seems to think he's spying for the Dominion, an opinion I am sure she doesn't share alone. It makes little sense for Mirabelle and the Archmage to agree to have him here, for gods only know how long, but he hasn't posed a threat to any of us. Yet. "Between you and me, Ira, I'm surprised Mirabelle and the Archmage even let him in," Master Thesla continues after a beat, reading my mind again. "The Thalmor don't exactly have a good reputation in Tamriel at the moment, especially not after the Great War in Cyrodiil," she's finished rinsing the dishes and is now drying them one by one, with a small tea towel. She sets them down somewhere in the counter's inner shelves in front of me. "We've always had a strictly neutral and uninvolved stance when it came to politics both local and national. Not even the Jarl expects anything of us, save for not blowing the city or the hold clean off the map. And I have to wonder how in Vivec's name he agreed to allow a Thalmor Justiciar into his city in the first place. But if our newest member starts poking his nose into our business, it's going to pose a real problem for the rest of us if and when he starts asking questions of a nature... unrelated to magic, if you catch my meaning."

I caught her meaning transparently. Our alchemy master believes Ancano is bidding his time with his advisor role before he starts interrogating people, in typical Thalmor fashion. I can imagine what he might possibly want to interrogate us about. None of it is any good, and none of it makes sense either. The College of Winterhold may be situated in Stormcloak-allied land, but as Master Thesla explained, our institution itself is neutral and politically unaffiliated. Our uninvolved reputation, however, could make us a target to outsiders. For all I know, the Stormcloaks could be planning an attack on the College itself, and it is these moments that make me regret our lack of connectedness with the province outside of our grounds. Ulfric's men have every reason to hate mages, especially now that we're more frequently associated with the very Aldmeri Dominion that many of them fought in the Great War. Faralda regularly spends time in the city alone, assuring the locals with her presence and conversations that none of us mean any harm. She would have warned us long ago of any impending danger targetting us that she sensed coming from the locals, but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist outside of Winterhold. The Imperials would never march directly onto the city, but the Thalmor might, provided they have significant reason to believe their meaningless treaty has been violated in some way. Perhaps they received word, somewhere and somehow, that something unlawful was happening at the College. They need only arrive with an official document from the Emperor himself, if that would even suffice. Given their reputation across Tamriel, most people are afraid of them, and rightfully so. Some of those they take prisoner never return. The ones that do are rarely alive. And the ones that are alive are broken in mind, body and spirit. Most would believe anything the governing body of the Aldmeri Dominion told them, none would be bold enough to call a potential bluff to their face.

"I had my doubts about that too, Master Thesla, but I believe Mirabelle and the Archmage know what they're doing. They wouldn't knowingly endanger any of us. If they share our doubts and suspicions, then they might already have a system in place that will protect us if something does happen." Master Thesla hums thoughtfully, wiping down the counter a final time. No one else is here or in the training area. It's hard to tell without any windows here, but I get the sense that it's late. My stomach growls again, gnawing in its emptiness. I really should leave, get to Attainment and make something to eat, but this conversation is too important. It is the first time I've been able to talk to someone about the implication of Ancano's being here at length, someone who wasn't among my apprentice cohort and someone I could speak freely with. Confidentiality can be... difficult for certain members of the College. And while I trust most everyone here, it's a risk I don't want to take. "A valid point, muthsera," Master Thesla walks up to me, keys in hand. The Dunmeri nickname sounds endearing coming from her. "And please, call me Thesla. "Master" seems too informal a title for me, and I'm not that old," she cringes, and I give her a genuine smile. "Perhaps," she continues, "we should continue this discussion at the Cantina? Your empty stomach is only going to complain louder the longer we stay here."

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True to her reputation, Thesla was an excellent chef. Within an hour she had prepared a full course meal, just for us, at the Cantina after we left the Hall of the Elements. I had been right when I saw her in the training area beneath the Hall of the Elements. The Cantina was indeed closed, but as she told me on the way there, I had been fortunate enough to catch her before she had the chance to lock everything up. I was treated to baked ash yams, horker and ash yam stew, slaughterfish steak, cabbage biscuits. She even saved room for dessert with spiced trama root cake, and a fresh pot of gingergreen chai. During that time, I finally got the chance to ask her what I've been dying to know for months. How did she get her ingredients? Where did she learn to cook so well? Why did she choose to stay behind in Winterhold when the rest of her family packed up and left? And in return, I learned more than I thought was possible about our resident alchemist. Thesla had traveled all over Tamriel as a mercenary, collecting odd jobs here and there and sleeping wherever she could. She's seen more of our world than most others, maybe even more than the Archmage himself. Somewhere along the way, she had a dish in a tavern that completely changed her outlook on life. On that day she quit her mercenary work and began a culinary pilgrimage across Tamriel, collecting techniques and recipies just as effortlessly as she had collected bounties. The ingredients she uses are specially imported from all over, but mostly from the mainland and even Solstheim from time to time, whenever the trade routes permit. "Having the same ingredients for cooking and alchemy is quite efficient, and a real coin-saver," she explained.

Surprisingly, she had no interest in alchemy at first. It was a shock to her parents when she returned home and announced she wanted to be a chef. But alchemy and cooking toe a dangerously thin line, and before she knew it she had more than proficient knowledge on potions and reagents. At some point after the Great Collapse, tensions between the locals and magic users living in the city were reaching a boiling point. Thesla's family were never on the receiving end of this, as there were still Dunmeri families living in Winterhold at the time. But it became increasingly obvious that Winterhold was never going to recover from the destruction wrought by the Great Collapse. They, like other families Dunmeri and Nordic alike, decided it was time to leave for greener pastures elsewhere. Morrowind was out of the question. It was too far, too expensive, too perilous of a journey. And after Red Mountain's eruption and the frequent ash storms, it was practically uninhabitable. Windhelm was closer, had a similar climate to Winterhold (albeit with far more sunny days) and already had an established Dunmer community. Refugees from Morrowind and those lucky enough to survive Red Mountain's eruption on Vvardenfell fled en masse to Windhelm, the capital city of Ulfric's rebellion. Her family decided Windhelm was the safest option. Master Thesla took her chances with the College of Winterhold, hoping the alchemy skills she learned would be of use to the instutition. It was a gambit that paid off, as there had been no alchemy instructor at the College for quite some time. Thesla scoffed bitterly into her cup of tea, a humorless smile on her face. "If my family had known how inhospitable the Nords were going to be in Windhelm, they might have stayed here after all."

I'm about to ask her about her family when I hear the door creak open. My encounter with Ancano earlier makes me panic at the sound. My heart even skips a beat when I see a tall Altmer in the doorway, not unlike the way Ancano stood. The flowing blonde hair and forest green robes immediately put me at ease. "Oh, my apologies," Nirya's prim voice echoes across the empty room to where we're sitting. She's being unusually polite. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I thought..." She trails off, looking around the room as if searching for something or someone. "No need for apologies, we were just sharing a pot of tea," Thesla waves her over. "Why don't you join us? There's plenty left." Nirya hesitates for a moment, looking behind her at something neither of us can see. She then steps into the room, closes the door behind her and briskly makes her way to us. "Very well, although I can't stay for long," she takes a seat at the table in between us both. Waif-like and delicate, her skin is so pallid a shade of yellow she is nearly white, making her dark green eyes contrast so sharply they're almost completely black in dim-enough lighting. With bone-straight hair that cascades down her back and sharp cheekbones that give here a severe look, Nirya is the standard of female Aldmeri beauty. Thesla begins pouring a cup of chai for her when she asks abruptly, "I don't suppose either of you have seen Faralda anywhere recently, have you?" Thesla and I share a brief look. For as long as I've been here, Nirya has had a bizarre one-sided rivalry with, at the time, the only other Altmer in the College. At first I thought it was due to their ranking. Faralda was the destruction master and Nirya was a mere scholar, researching anything and everything magicka-related with no emphasis like the other masters. However, over the past few months Nirya's rivalry has taken a paranoid edge. She's now convinced Faralda, acting out of sheer jealousy, is out to get her. To sabotage her in a way in which Nirya has refused, time and time again, to elaborate. As if that wasn't bad enough, she's also been trying to rope other people into it. Asking their opinion on Faralda's teachings, inquiring about her whereabouts throughout the College. Sometimes I pity her. The odd behavior has alienated not a small number of people from her in the College.

"I have not. It's late enough, she's probably in town mingling with the locals," Thesla sets Nirya's cup in front of her, steam curling upwards from the piping hot liquid. She then refills my cup first, and hers last. "Honestly, I would think two Altmer women in the same institution would become fast friends. It makes little sense for the two of you to be at odds with each other." An emotion flashes across Nirya's face that looks too close to rage for my comfort. She settles into a haughty pout and scoffs as us both, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Hmph. She's clearly gotten to the both of you already. Allow me to explain," Nirya leans forward and lowers her voice, conspiratorially. "She's threatened by me. By my superior good looks, my might as a wizard, and my intellect as a scholar." She speaks slowly, like she's hoping that will make us understand her better. "I know she's trying to turn people against me, to get under my skin. And it shan't work I tell you, oh no," with a vigorous shake of her head, she takes a soundless sip of her chai. I exchange another look with Thesla, who looks like she regrets mentioning Nirya's rivalry with the destruction master. I clear my throat, seizing an opportunity to change the subject. "Nirya, earlier we were discussing the Justiciar on our grounds, Ancano. What do you make of him?" Nirya pauses, cup partially raised. She narrows her deep green eyes at me, before turning to Thesla with the same look. "Don't trust that one," she places her cup down. She sounds more serious than she did about Faralda, and it immediately puts me on edge. To my knowledge, Nirya has no affiliation or loyalty to the Aldmeri Dominion. Alas, her obsession with Faralda has been so off-putting, I never thought to ask her about this before. It doesn't help that it's never come up either, the natural assumption being that politics are left outside of the College. Irrelevant to magickal discussion. But now I'm curious. Does she know something that Thesla and I don't?

She rolls her neck while Thesla steeples her fingers together in front of her, quicker to respond than I. "Is it safe to presume you had a... bad run-in with the Thalmor, sera?" I mentally will away my encounter with that same Thalmor earlier, instead making a mental note to ask Thesla about the meanings of the Dunmeri pet names she uses. Nirya shakes her head. "No, thank Lorkhan," she shifts in her seat. "But I've seen how he moves around the College, watching all of us. He's up to something. Most here are up to something, but in his case, it's nothing good." I lean back in my seat, considering her words and my conversation with Thesla earlier. "Is it something we should be concerned about?" I ask her. Maybe bringing this up to Mirabelle and the Archmage is a good idea after all. Nirya tilts her head, eyes narrowed as she stares at the ceiling above us. "Hmmmm... no, not at the present at least. I get the sense he's searching for something specific. I haven't figured out what it is, but the gods as my witness I will get to the bottom of it." Considering Nirya's current embroilment with the destruction master on top of her own duties in the College, I have my doubts that she will. But I silently take her word for it, nodding and bringing my own cup to my lips. Bittergreen chai was something of a specialty Thesla liked to make, not just for the taste. It had magicka restoring properties, perfect for those needing a quick pick-me-up after practicing in the training area for hours on end. Served hot, it kept all of us warm during the protracted cold Winterhold weather. I'm savoring a long sip, feeling the heat spread throughout my body, when I hear an almost dreamy sigh come from Nirya. "Quite a shame. He is rather handsome though, isn't he?"

My sip turns into a violent choke. My cup slams down as I double over in my seat, clutching my chest. Nirya's face changes from alarm to open confusion, both because of my sudden coughing fit and Thesla's raucous laughter.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This one took a while too, but I think this is a better ending. I'm gonna try and add some more anecdotal things to her chapters, it feels like Ancano is more fleshed out than she is. Also trying this technique that I've seen in so many other novels but I don't know if it has a name. Where you give enough info for certain actions and scenes to make the reader guess or assume what's going to happen, without holding their hand through it. I think it went pretty well here. But so far so good!