Between Light and Darkness

8

The faint sound of footsteps echoed ahead, likely some apprentice late for their next lesson. As I neared the Hall of the Elements, the distant crackle of magic filled the air—Tolfdir was teaching a class of Destruction, no doubt.

Stepping into the hall, I leaned against the entryway for a moment, observing the scene. Tolfdir stood at the center of the circular chamber, his gentle yet firm voice instructing a group of students as they practiced casting fireballs at targets placed along the far wall. The vibrant bursts of flame illuminated the room, casting flickering shadows that danced across the ancient stone pillars.

One apprentice, a young Breton, conjured a particularly powerful flame that exploded on impact with a satisfying boom. A few of his peers cheered quietly, clearly impressed by his control, while others whispered in excitement as they watched the display.

I crossed my arms, a faint smile playing at the corners of my lips. Tolfdir's method of teaching was hands-on, and while I could appreciate that—gods knew I did the same when I was an apprentice—I couldn't help but think they could benefit from more structured reading. Not that I would ever suggest that to him; Tolfdir had produced some of the most talented mages I'd ever seen, and I wasn't about to question his success.

As if sensing my presence, Tolfdir looked up from his lecture and caught my eye, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment. He didn't stop speaking, though, his attention firmly on the students before him.

"Remember," he called to the class, "control is everything. A powerful spell means nothing if you can't direct it where it's needed." His voice was calm, but his words carried weight, the wisdom of centuries echoing through the hall. "Keep your focus, your mind sharp. Destruction magic is not just about raw power; it's about precision."

I watched for a few more moments, admiring the way he effortlessly balanced his authority with patience. The students hung on his every word, their eagerness to learn palpable in the air. A few of them fumbled with their spells, sending sparks harmlessly into the stone floor, but Tolfdir was quick to correct their form, guiding them without discouraging their efforts.

Satisfied that the class was in good hands, I stepped back from the entryway, deciding not to interrupt. There were always a hundred things that needed my attention as Arch-Mage, but in that moment, I felt a sense of pride in the College. Between Tolfdir's teaching and Urag's relentless pursuit of knowledge, Winterhold was in capable hands.

Still, I made a mental note to mention to Urag that the students could benefit from reading more. Even Tolfdir's bright pupils could use a few quiet moments with a tome or two.

I turned away from the Hall of the Elements and made my way back toward the Arcanaeum, already planning the rest of my day. There were still too many things left to do, and time always felt like it slipped away faster within these ancient halls.

I headed back up to my quarters, where I knew Urag would be waiting. As always, that Orc was almost a hundred steps ahead of me. The familiar scent of old parchment and musty books hit me the moment I entered, a comforting sign that I was exactly where I needed to be.

Urag barely glanced up from his work, his focus unbroken, but with one swift motion, he handed me a lantern and a rolled-up parchment, gesturing toward a spot he had set up beside him. He'd been in this exact place many times before, preparing for some long, late-night study session that would likely end with both of us exhausted, but victorious in whatever mystery we were unraveling.

I couldn't help but smile at the scene