Rowan Mercer currently couldn't cast any spells that originated outside this world.
That didn't mean he was powerless.
His body still housed an immense reservoir of magic.
As long as he learned spells built on this world's magical framework, he could pour his own energy into them and amplify their effects far beyond normal limits.
Even a beginner spell like Flames became something frightening in his hands.
In time, once he fully grasped how this world's magic functioned at its most fundamental level, Rowan intended to adapt and redesign spells he had mastered elsewhere, reshaping them to fit local principles.
From the outside, it would look no different from a mage inventing new magic.
Which happened all the time.
Most experimental spells faded into obscurity because they were impractical or weaker than established ones.
Rowan's would not share that fate.
The carriage rolled past endless golden wheat fields, scattered farms, and distant breweries. By late afternoon, the massive walls of Whiterun rose before them.
The carriage came to a stop at the city's stables and transport yard.
After Rowan paid the driver, he and Avier stepped down.
They were immediately intercepted by the stablemaster, Skulvar.
"Looking to buy a horse, sir?" Skulvar asked with a practiced grin. "Best stock in all of Skyrim. Strong, fast, tireless. They'll carry you and your cargo without complaint."
Rowan glanced down at his clothing.
Tailored noble attire. Clean. Well-cut. Expensive.
Five hundred septims well spent.
Appearance mattered.
Skulvar hadn't bothered anyone else leaving the carriage yard.
He had stopped Rowan.
"Pick two good horses," Rowan said to Avier.
Carriages were slow and followed safe, winding routes.
Once Rowan finished his business in Whiterun, he planned to ride directly to Winterhold.
Bandits, beasts, and bad roads held no meaning for him.
He could run faster than a horse if he wished, but dragging Avier along at that speed would turn the man into paste.
Better to travel normally.
While Avier spoke with the stablemaster, Rowan's attention drifted toward a nearby haystack.
Something felt… familiar.
He walked over.
Half-buried in straw was a woman with pale Nordic features, wearing little more than underclothes, a sword strapped loosely at her side.
Several empty bottles lay scattered around her.
She was snoring.
Rowan waved over a stable hand.
"Who's that?"
The worker chuckled.
"Sofia. Local drunk. Passes out there all the time. Don't let the looks fool you, though. Anyone who gets handsy ends up in a healer's bed for weeks."
Rowan nodded.
So it really was her.
He had no intention of recruiting anyone else. Avier already fulfilled the only role Rowan needed: someone who understood the local world.
Rowan turned away and headed toward the cluster of striped tents set up across from the stables.
A Khajiit caravan.
One of the roaming merchant groups commonly found outside Skyrim's cities.
A Khajiit merchant approached with an easy smile.
"Need something, friend?"
"Books," Rowan said. "Spell tomes and regular books. All of them."
The merchant's ears twitched.
Books were expensive.
Magic books even more so.
Selling an entire stock at once was the kind of profit caravans dreamed of.
The Khajiit practically beamed as assistants hurried to bring out crates.
Rowan flipped through the collection.
Frostbite.
Sparks.
Basic Destruction spells.
With Flames already in his possession, Rowan now had the three foundational elemental spells.
Fire.
Ice.
Lightning.
Good.
Magic in this world was generally divided into five schools: Destruction, Alteration, Conjuration, Illusion, and Restoration.
Destruction focused primarily on the three elements.
A solid starting point.
"Sir," Avier said as he returned. "The horses are purchased and stabled. Ready whenever we leave the city."
Rowan nodded.
"Let's head inside. We'll stay the night and leave in the morning."
They joined the flow of travelers moving through Whiterun's outer gate, passing several interior checkpoints before reaching the main entrance.
News of Helgen's destruction had not yet arrived.
The gates were open.
No heightened security.
Inside, Rowan and Avier went straight to the Plains District's largest general store.
Avier handled food and water for the journey north.
Rowan went back to hunting books.
Whiterun was divided into three main districts.
The Plains District, filled with shops, markets, and inns.
The Wind District, mostly residential, home to the Companions and several temples.
And towering above everything else, Dragonsreach.
The Jarl's palace.
And the city's prison.
Whiterun felt alive.
And Rowan intended to strip it of every useful book it possessed.