Four months later, the air in Whiterun felt different. It was still the same city, with the same smells of baking bread and forge-smoke, but a new, poisonous tension had taken root. Torin sat on the stone steps of Jorrvaskr, his gaze fixed on the plaza below. His eyes, usually alight with curiosity, were cold and hard.
Two High Elves, clad in the distinctive black and gilded robes of the Thalmor, moved through the crowd with an air of supreme entitlement. They stopped citizens at random, their voices carrying a condescending lilt as they interrogated them.
Torin's hands, resting on his knees, twitched with a simmering impatience. Behind his eyes, memories flashed—the stormy night, the golden armor, Helga gripping her axes as she charged out to meet her fate.
He closed his eyes, taking a slow, deep breath to master the surge of hatred. When he opened them, he cast one last, disgusted look at the Justiciars before turning his back on the scene. He pushed himself up and headed for the training yard.
'At least the knife-eared bastards know to stay away from Jorrvaskr,' he mused, shaking his head. The Companions' reputation was a shield even the Thalmor were wary of testing.
The familiar sounds of combat from the training yard were a balm to his frayed nerves. Vilkas and Farkas were locked in a spirited spar, the clang of steel on steel ringing through the air.
A little distance away, Aela stood, her form a picture of focus as she sent arrow after arrow into the heart of a straw target. The sight of his shield-siblings, carrying on with unwavering normalcy, helped calm the last of the storm inside him.
He took a seat on the wooden porch, pulling a heavy spell tome from his satchel. The cover was embossed with the title: The Basics of Kinetomancy.
It was a fancy term for the minor, novice-level applications of telekinesis, a far cry from the true adept-level spell that could lift entire objects, but it was a start. True telekinesis required a profound understanding of Alteration that he had not yet attained.
Still, his magical studies were progressing smoothly—almost too smoothly. He had already devoured and internalized every scrap of knowledge from the books he had "requisitioned" from Farengar's library.
His constant presence at the Temple of Kynareth had begun to wear on the priests. Danica Pure-Spring, in particular, had been patient, but she had finally told him she had taught him every novice and apprentice-level Restoration spell she knew.
To guide him further into the mysteries of the school would demand more time and energy than she could spare from her duties as a priestess and the caretaker of the ailing Gildergreen.
He had, once again, hit a wall. But Torin was nothing if not resourceful. With the official channels of knowledge closed to him, he turned to the unofficial ones. After days of patient, and at times frustrating, negotiation with the shifty shopkeeper Belathor, he had finally struck a deal.
In exchange for a written pledge—signed and witnessed—that he would purchase all future goods Belathor procured for him at a price slightly above market value, the merchant had agreed to use his contacts to acquire "specialized literature."
A week later, a grubby note arrived. Belathor had found a few things. The haul was meager, only three books, but to Torin, it was a lifeline.
The first was Stoneflesh, the direct and potent upgrade to the Oakflesh spell. Thanks to his deep mastery of its predecessor, understanding the principles of hardening his skin to the toughness of rock came easily. He had mastered it within a day.
The second was Magelight. In practice, it was only marginally different from Candlelight; it created a stationary, bright ball of light that would illuminate a fixed area before eventually dissipating.
The sole reason it was considered an Apprentice-level spell, as opposed to Candlelight's Novice rank, was the need to accurately aim and project it over a distance.
Sure enough, Torin's first few attempts saw the glowing orb sputter against a nearby wall or fly off into the sky. But after an afternoon of focused practice, he could place it precisely where he wanted, leaving him with only one spell left to learn from his costly new collection.
Letting out a sigh that was equal parts anticipation and weariness, Torin opened the final book to its first chapter. The introduction, which took several pages to elaborate on a concept that could have been summarized in a paragraph, explained that Kinetomancy—or telekinesis—was the magic of energy and movement.
It posited that, unlike other spells under the Alteration school, and perhaps all schools of magic, it was a distinctly physical art. It demanded not just a sharp mind and a strong will, but a body capable of channeling and withstanding the tangible forces it manipulated.
This requirement, the text warned, became exponentially more critical the more advanced the application.
The idea that his massive, warrior's build might be an asset to his magical education, rather than a hindrance, was a revelation that gave him pause. It was a concept that had never occurred to him, and it sent a fresh wave of eager anticipation coursing through him.
He was just about to delve deeper into the text when he felt a gentle but insistent pressure clamping down on the leather of his boot.
Torin looked down, and a genuine, unguarded smile softened his features. The bear cub was there, her tiny teeth worrying his ankle, her dark eyes fixed on him in a clear, demanding plea for attention.
His hand instinctively reached down to pet the soft fur between her ears, but she was having none of it. With a quick, practiced swipe of her paw, she batted his hand away and let out a low, rumbling growl that was more impatience than threat.
Torin rolled his eyes with fond exasperation. "Hungry again, are you? Fine, you little tyrant. I'll get your meal."
He carefully marked his page and set the spell tome aside, pushing himself to his feet. He had only taken a few steps toward the mead hall when Aela's voice, laced with mocking amusement, cut through the air.
"And there he goes," she announced, notching another arrow without looking at him. "Torin the Wise, slayer of bandits, student of the arcane... and caretaker of demanding beasts."
A low chuckle rumbled from Farkas, who was taking a break from sparring. "If you're going to keep the thing and spend half your coin on its food, you should at least give it a name. 'Bear' seems a bit plain."
Torin gave a dismissive wave over his shoulder without breaking stride. "I'm working on it! It has to be the right one."
Vilkas, ever the pragmatist, just shook his head at the scene before fixing his brother with a stern look. "Stop wasting time and get back in position. Your guard is still sloppy."
Aela herself just offered Torin's retreating figure one last, sharp-toothed grin before turning back to her target, her next arrow striking dead center with a definitive thwump.
Several minutes later, Torin returned from the kitchens, carrying a wooden bowl filled with a mixture of chopped red meat, a small river fish, and a raw egg. He placed it on the ground with a soft clink.
The cub needed no further invitation, immediately trotting over and burying her snout in the meal with quiet, focused gusto.
Watching her eat, Torin smiled softly. Their relationship, much like the name he still hadn't settled on, was a work in progress. It was a series of small, hard-won victories. She no longer spent her days cowering in the little wooden house, only emerging for meals.
Now, she was a familiar, ambling presence in Jorrvaskr, her small, furry form often seen investigating a corner of the forge or sunning herself on a warm stone.
She had grown comfortable enough to be in the same space as him and the other Companions, a silent observer to their training and their feasts.
But the final barrier remained.
She steadfastly refused to allow anyone to touch her. This was a particular source of exasperation for Torin, who found the sight of her soft, dense fur almost irresistibly inviting.
Every tentative reach of his hand was met with a warning growl and a swift, batting paw. The trust went only so far.
After a moment of watching her devour her meal, Torin shifted his attention back to the spell tome. The text continued its laborious explanation, couched in the vague, archaic, and often contradictory language that seemed to be the hallmark of mystical writing.
It spoke in flowery, unscientific terms about concepts that were, at their core, deeply specific and physical.
The author rambled about how all things occupied a "sacred position in the Aetherius-touched tapestry of space." Torin mentally translated this to mean that every object had a location in a three-dimensional grid.
The spell, then, was described as "exerting the caster's sovereign will via the river of magicka to generate an unseen but felt force of intent." In simpler terms: use magicka to create an invisible force. This force would then "persuade the object to journey from its ordained resting place to a new one chosen by the caster."
The text also alluded, in a frustratingly roundabout way, to the complications of mass and displacement. It mentioned that "the greater the object's essence and the more space it commands, the more of the caster's own spiritual vigor must be offered to compel its movement, for the very world resists such change."
Torin parsed this as: the heavier and bigger the object, the more magicka and force you need, not only to move the object itself but also to push aside the air or any other matter in its path.
It was a clumsy, mystical way of describing basic physics, and it took all of Torin's patience to decipher the useful principles buried beneath the poetic nonsense.
The introduction went on to emphasize that simply moving an object from one point to another was merely the first, foundational step in mastering Kinetomancy—and ironically, it was the most mentally demanding.
True mastery, the text claimed, lay in more advanced applications that involved generating telekinetic force from within the caster's own body and channeling it outward through their extremities. This was where the high physical demand originated.
It cited a vivid example: a mage besieged by three warriors. Instead of targeting each individually, the mage could emit a powerful telekinetic burst from their entire body, sending all three assailants flying backward.
In such a scenario, the mage did not need to be "formidable" enough to withstand the external impact of the burst, but they did need a body robust enough to withstand the immense force coursing through their own limbs and core without shattering their own bones or tearing their own muscles from the inside out.
The book posited that if the basics of force application were truly learned, then these advanced techniques would be relatively easy to master—provided the student possessed the requisite, and rather high, physical fortitude.
Finally, with the lengthy introduction out of the way, the text moved on to the practical instructions for the basic Telekinesis spell. Torin's eagerness to dive in was a palpable itch in his fingers.
He was just about to read the first incantation when a familiar, gravelly voice, one he hadn't heard in months, echoed from inside Jorrvaskr's mead hall, cutting through the yard's ambient noise.
"Everyone! Gather 'round, if you would!"
It was Kodlak.
A spontaneous, unforced smile spread across Torin's face. He hadn't even realized how much he had missed the old Harbinger's steadying presence until he felt it again. He closed the book with a definitive thud, not even bothering to mark his page, and immediately headed toward the hall.
He fell into step beside Aela and the twins, who were already moving with the same sense of purpose. Even the bear cub, her meal forgotten, hesitated for only a moment before trotting cautiously behind the group, her innate curiosity overcoming her wariness.
...
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