As a visitor from another world, Dumbledore naturally had even more thoughts about Winterhold—a city governed by spellcasters.
He saw that, once the people of Winterhold no longer had to worry about food and clothing, they could invest in education and train more spellcasters. The city had general schools for children, wiping out illiteracy. Ordinary folk were willing to spend more time learning and training instead of being consumed by survival.
The bond between spellcasters and ordinary people was so close it was almost like they were one inseparable whole.
Could the divide between wizards and Muggles melt away like this?
If magic and technology were truly combined, it would inevitably create an entirely new world.
After sunset, Dumbledore said he wanted to learn more about this world's magic, and the Arch-Mage, Savos Aren, invited him to visit his laboratory.
Aranea Ienith, the Dunmer priestess, delivered Azura's oracle to Skyl.
"Lady Azura has heard of your achievements. Hermaeus Mora's great defeat has delighted the Daedric Princes. However, you took the Eye of Magnus, and that has thrown the world's future into uncertainty. My Lady hopes you will come to her realm, so you may discuss the fate of this world together."
Skyl didn't regret taking the Eye of Magnus. He truly needed such a powerful energy source. Still, it was a debt. If he were alone, he could simply never come back to this world again. But now he had a career in Winterhold—he'd put down roots here.
For the people of Winterhold, for the mages of the College, Skyl had to settle what he owed.
But entering another god's realm carried risks. He had to think carefully.
Azura was indeed one of the more "benevolent" Daedric Princes, but mortal notions of good and evil could never be applied to gods. If she turned on him suddenly, Skyl would be in a very bad position.
He couldn't exactly expect that door-shaped sigil of his to rescue him again, could he? After what happened to Hermaeus Mora, the local divine circle was surely wary of Skyl by now. Azura was perfectly capable of speaking to Skyl directly through telepathy, yet she hadn't done so—probably because she didn't want to get burned.
Seeing his hesitation, Aranea offered reassurance. "There's no need to force it. If you have doubts, I can serve as the oracle's messenger and become the bridge for communication between you and my Lady."
Skyl asked, "Does Lady Azura want something from me?"
"That is something you must discuss with my Lady in person." Aranea hesitated. "My Lady does not wish to place her gaze upon you. I can arrange a summoning rite and let my Lady's will descend into my body."
"A divine descent would put an enormous burden on a mortal body." Skyl refused her kindness. "I'll make a trip to Oblivion instead. For a spellcaster, traveling Oblivion is an important academic undertaking anyway. Please tell Lady Azura that the outsider will not break his word."
For scholars who studied Conjuration, Oblivion was like an unseen second homeland. Many mages took pride in traveling a Daedric Prince's realm, and some famous ones even left travelogues behind.
Skyl had no intention of bringing a whole crowd to visit Azura's divine realm. This wasn't a group brawl—he could go alone.
He still needed to return to The Tower of Tomes and check his notes. Last year, while researching Conjuration, he had recalculated the spacetime coordinates of sixteen realms of Oblivion. In theory, he could reach any Daedric Prince's domain through an Oblivion Gate.
"Let's have dinner before I leave." It was already late. Skyl had spent the day touring Winterhold with his guests—this evening's banquet had to be eaten and drunk to full satisfaction. Besides, he'd also invited old friends like Kliman to a reunion meal. After being apart so long, it was time to make some noise.
The College set the banquet in the Hall of the Midnight Sun, Winterhold's most luxurious and formal building. As host, Jarl Korir was responsible for the ceremonial words and for entertaining the otherworldly wizard Dumbledore and Azura's priestess Aranea.
The Nord lord did one thing and one thing only: he kept urging people to drink.
Dumbledore and Savos Aren seemed to have formed a friendly rapport. Two school heads, all smiles—pouring each other drinks. In fact, Savos Aren, as a Dunmer, looked young, but his actual age was far greater than Dumbledore's. If you really insisted on rank, he could call white-haired Dumbledore "little brother."
Brelyna sat beside Skyl with her cup in hand, occasionally speaking about official matters with other College mages nearby.
The immigrants from Riverwood were old friends too, and they didn't stand on ceremony at all. Once they'd had enough to drink, the bard Sven lifted his lute and began to play softly.
"Anyone want a song?"
"We've got the Dragonborn here!" someone shouted. "Sing The Dragonborn Comes!"
The guests burst into laughter. A few young people—Nords, Imperials, and Bretons—also fetched instruments: a hand drum, a wooden flute, little bells. Together they played an ancient tune.
It was a legend passed down across Skyrim: when Alduin the World-Eater returned, the land would burn to ash, and the people would live trembling under disaster—until the Last Dragonborn appeared, defeated the dragons, and brought peace back to the world.
The music rose, bright and steady, and the grand hall fell quiet. People set down their brimming cups, their greasy knives and forks. They stilled their hands—and, for a time, set down the worries in their hearts as well. Their gazes turned to the cheerful musicians, and then to that blond Nord man.
Skyl smiled as he listened, nodding to the rhythm.
For the people of Skyrim, this melody was something they'd absorbed since childhood. It burrowed deep into the heart and carried the stories of generation after generation—always stirring courage when times grew hard.
For Skyl, a visitor from another world, the song was a piece of his own past—an era of memories he could never quite catch up to again.
The feast continued. Cups were raised again and again. Everyone wanted to drink with the Nord man seated in honor, because they believed he was the hero destined to defeat Alduin.
Candlelight shimmered on mellow liquor, and faces flushed red.
People talked loudly about Skyrim's situation: the civil war's impact on Winterhold, and the land's future—independence, or returning to Imperial rule. Aristotle said man is a political animal, and it truly was so: everyone had a stance. Every banquet eventually turned into an unofficial political meeting. No matter the world, it was always the same.
Brelyna leaned close to Skyl's ear and whispered, "By Magnus… my dear sun."
"What is it?"
"Don't envy others. One day, your name will shine in epics as well."
Skyl shook his head, then slowly nodded. "If that is the inevitability of history, then I'll accept it gladly." He met Brelyna's crimson eyes. "Maryon—do you think the Dragonborn is reliable?"
"He's a very special person. Warm and generous, naturally optimistic, unrestrained."
"What if I wanted him to stand alongside Tiber Septim—Tamriel's greatest emperor, who later ascended as the Ninth Divine, Talos—and end the strife of Skyrim… even of this continent, this planet? Does he have that kind of capacity?"
Brelyna thought for a moment, then slowly shook her head. "Skyl, the conflicts of this world are the gods' game. As the name Nirn itself suggests—an arena. War will never vanish from this world."
Skyl fell silent, thoughtful. "The gods use heroes as pieces, playing with fate across the board of all living beings. So in that sense… a hero is both the one who calms chaos, and the root of calamity as well."
Together they looked toward the Dragonborn in the crowd. The Nord man laughed without a care in the world, drinking cup after cup without falling.
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