The arcanaeum’s air was thick with the scent of ink and dust when you stumbled upon a tucked-away chamber you’d never noticed before. Shelves bowed under the weight of ancient tomes, and in the center, Ancano paced like a caged hawk, pausing only to scratch hurried notes into a black leather journal.

The Altmer’s reputation among the few Breton students at the College had always been… unusual. He was almost cordial, at first. But as the weeks passed, that warmth cooled into distance. Each time you’d dared to ask about his work, his reply had been the same and measured, final “Studies of great importance. I cannot go into detail at this moment.”

You rounded the corner fully, boots whispering over the stone. His head snapped up. Those gold-coin eyes locked on you, sharp enough to cut.

His voice was low, edged. “Just what are you doing in here, student?”