I'm Really Not the Dragonborn.

"The Stormcloak suspicion… that's just the beginning. It's never just about the thing itself, is it? It's always about who's using it, who benefits from it, what it represents. Their paranoia… it's predictable. But we can use it to our advantage. We need to control the narrative. Emphasize the practical benefits, downplay the magical aspect. Make it about efficiency, not sorcery. If we play our cards right, the issue will no longer be of a concern." 

"Your Majesty, I understand your sentiment, but what concrete steps should we take to address these concerns? How do we control the narrative, as you say?" Illia stepped forward. 

Ibnor turned back to her, his grim smile fading into a look of steely determination. 

"We show them the results. We make these clocks indispensable. We make them so useful, so convenient, that even the most superstitious Nord won't want to be without one."

"A practical approach. True, it's better than simply trying to convince them with words." Illia agreed. 

Ibnor steepled his fingers, considering.

"Beyond simply allowing them to become accustomed to the clocks, we should actively promote their benefits. Public demonstrations showcasing their accuracy, perhaps. Sponsored events where precise timing is crucial – a fishing competition judged by the clock, for example. We should also prioritize distribution to key figures: merchants, guild leaders, even respected elders. If they embrace the clocks, others will follow."

The plan took root quickly. Dawnstar's rhythm shifted, governed by the steady tick-tock of the magically powered timepieces. The change was subtle at first, a gradual synchronization of daily life. Then, it became undeniable.

Breakfast was at seven, the aroma of smoked fish and freshly baked bread wafting through the crisp morning air. The market, once a chaotic scramble of bartering and haggling, now bustled to life with a newfound order. Merchants, consulting their newly acquired clocks, precisely coordinated deliveries. 

"Right on time, as always, Brennus!" Elmsworth, the fishmonger, called out to a burly Nord unloading crates of cod. "This clock of yours is a marvel, truly." Brennus chuckled, adjusting his own clock on his wrist. 

"Aye, Elmsworth. No more guessing with the tides. Makes business much smoother."

Court convened at nine sharp in the hold's main hall, no longer delayed by tardy petitioners offering flimsy excuses. Brina, known for her punctuality, surveyed the assembled crowd with a satisfied nod. 

"Let the proceedings begin," she announced, glancing at the large clock mounted on the wall behind his throne. "We have matters of import to address, and time is a precious commodity."

A nervous merchant, who had previously been notorious for his late arrivals, breathed a sigh of relief. He'd arrived early for once, clutching his own clock tightly in his hand.

Training drills began precisely at six in the morning, the clang of steel ringing out across the training grounds. Guard Captain Valerius, a stern but fair man, oversaw the exercises, his own clock clipped to his belt. 

"On the mark, men!" he barked, as the first rays of dawn touched the horizon. "No more straggling! Discipline and precision are the hallmarks of a true guard."

A younger recruit, still fumbling with his new clock, nearly tripped over his own feet trying to keep pace. 

"By the Divines," he muttered under his breath, "this thing's faster than I am!"

"You'll get used to it, lad. It takes some getting used to. But trust me, you won't want to go back." An older guard clapped him on the shoulder. 

Even within the homes of Dawnstar, the clocks exerted their influence. Wives waited at home for their husbands, knowing precisely when to expect them. No more anxious pacing by the window, no more unfounded fears of accidents or misfortune. No more lingering in the taverns, no more fabricated tales of unexpected delays.

In the Windpeak Inn, the innkeeper, Thoring, chuckled as he polished tankards. 

"Used to be I'd have to practically drag some of these lads out of here when their wives came looking," he said to a passing bard. "Now, they're all checking their clocks and hurrying home like good little sheep. It's a miracle, I tell you."

The clocks had woven themselves into the very fabric of Dawnstar's existence, transforming the town from a loosely organized settlement into a community bound by the shared rhythm of time. The rhythmic ticking became a constant reminder of progress, a symbol of the new era Ibnor had ushered in.

One afternoon, as Ibnor was immersed in paperwork within his study, a sharp knock echoed through the room.

"Enter," he called, not looking up from the intricate diagrams spread across his desk.

A guard entered, his posture stiff and formal.

"My King, Anya request an audience."

"Send her in," Ibnor replied, finally setting down his quill.

The guard stepped aside, and Anya entered. Her usual quiet demeanor was replaced by a palpable excitement. Her eyes sparkled, and she could barely contain a wide grin. Ibnor immediately understood. The magical illumination project, the enchanted lamps had made a breakthrough.

"My King!" Anya exclaimed, hurrying forward. 

She carefully placed a small, intricately crafted lamp on his desk. It was made of polished brass, with a crystalline lens encasing a softly glowing core. The light it emitted was warm and steady, a stark contrast to the flickering torches that usually illuminated the room.

Ibnor leaned closer, examining the lamp. The craftsmanship was impressive, and the light was remarkably consistent. 

"This is… excellent, Anya," he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "The prototype is remarkably effective."

"Prototype?" Anya asked, tilting her head. Her smile faltered slightly.

Ibnor sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He should have used simpler terms.

"Yes, prototype," he repeated. "It's… well, it's the first version. The initial working model. It proves the concept, but it needs further adjustments, refinements before it can be manufactured."

"Manufactured?" Anya's brow furrowed in confusion. 

Ibnor closed his eyes for a moment, gathering his patience. He could see Illia, who had entered the study unnoticed during Anya's excited arrival, covering a smile with her hand. He shot her a pointed look, but she simply shrugged, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

She'd been in Anya's position countless times, having trouble understanding what Ibnor was saying only to be met with Ibnor's explanations of concepts she hadn't fully grasped. It was a recurring dynamic between them, a gentle reminder of the time in Helgen back then. The memory brought a genuine warmth to her expression.

"Let me explain," Ibnor said, taking a deep breath. "A prototype is like… a rough draft of a story. It has the basic idea, the core elements, but it needs editing, polishing, and refinement before it's ready to be published – or in this case, manufactured for wider use."

"Ah," she said, nodding slowly. Anya's expression slowly cleared. "So… this is the rough draft of the lamp. I see that now, though I failed to understand why you didn't simply say produce."

A soft giggle escaped Illia's lips. Ibnor rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Because," he said, directing a playful glare at Illia, "sometimes, a more… elaborate explanation is necessary to convey the full meaning."

"Don't worry about it," Illia interjected, her eyes still sparkling with amusement, " sometimes His Majesty the king, just speaks in riddles. It's a habit."

Ibnor chuckled, shaking his head.

"Very well," he conceded, turning back to Anya. "It's a very good rough draft, I must say. But we need to consider things like energy efficiency, durability, and ease of manufacture before we can start making them for everyone."

"I understand," Anya said, her excitement returning. "So, what adjustments do you suggest?"

"The craftsmanship is excellent, Anya, truly. But this join here, where the base meets the stem… it feels a little weak. If the lamp were to be knocked over, it might break."

Anya frowned, examining the joint closely. "I used a standard soldering technique," she said, "but I suppose a stronger weld could be used. Perhaps with a touch of dwarven metal?"

"An excellent idea," Illia interjected, stepping closer. "Dwarven metal is renowned for its durability. However," she added, tapping her chin thoughtfully, "procuring a sufficient quantity might be costly. Perhaps steel would be a more practical alternative for manufacturing—forgive me, mass production." She gave Ibnor a quick, amused glance.

Ibnor chuckled.

"A fair point, Illia. Cost-effectiveness is always a factor. Steel it is, then. And what about the lens?" he asked, turning back to Anya. "The light is beautifully consistent, but could we perhaps make it adjustable? A dimmer, perhaps?"

Anya's eyes lit up.

"I've been experimenting with focusing crystals," she explained. "By rotating this inner ring," she demonstrated, twisting a small, almost invisible band on the lamp's core, "we could control the flow of magical energy, thus altering the intensity of the light."

"Ingenious, Anya. Truly ingenious. But how durable is this mechanism? Could it withstand repeated use without wearing down?" Ibnor peered at the mechanism, impressed. 

"I've used enchanted gears, reinforced with ebony," Anya replied confidently. "They should hold up for quite some time."

"And what about the power source?" Illia asked. "How long will a single charge last?"

"Currently, it's about… twelve hours of continuous use," she admitted hessitantly. "But I'm working on a more efficient energy matrix. I believe I can extend it to at least twenty-four."

"Twenty-four hours would be ideal," Ibnor said. "That would make it practical for both indoor and outdoor use. Imagine, no more fumbling with torches in the dark. These lamps could illuminate entire streets, making Dawnstar safer at night." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the lamp. "This is a remarkable achievement, Anya. You've truly outdone yourself."

"Thank you, My King. I'm eager to continue refining it." Anya beamed, her initial excitement returning. 

"Let's focus on increasing the battery's life, strengthening the joint, and ensuring the focusing mechanism is robust. "

"Battery… my King? This isn't meant to be a weapon." Anya, frowned in confusion.

"I mean the power source. I was envisioning a type of power source device, using a series of energy matrices to produce a stronger power, thus a battery." He explained with a smile, but sweating nervously underneath, cursing himself.

"Good going, genius! I should consider myself thankful for knowing why a battery is called so."

"Battery… That's an… interesting term. It does sound like a collection of things working together." Anya said, tilting her head slightly. "Tell me more about how these energy matrices function."

"You're quite perceptive, Anya. I envision it as a sort of… organized system for storing and releasing magical energy. Think of it as a series of interconnected… magical reservoirs, working in concert."

"Interconnected magical reservoirs… that's fascinating. So, the energy flows between them, creating a more stable and powerful output… like a… like a battery of reservoirs, perhaps?" Anya's eyes widened slightly. 

"Precisely," Ibnor confirmed, relieved that he was explaining it in a way she understood. "Exactly like that."

"It sounds… efficient. Perhaps I'll adopt that term, 'battery,' for my own notes. It has a certain… practical ring to it." Anya nodded slowly. 

"Sure, go ahead. Illia, perhaps you could look into sourcing the necessary materials, while Anya experiments with different types of crystals for the lens to see if we can achieve even better results."

"Of course, Your Majesty," Illia replied, already making notes on a small piece of parchment.

"I'll get right to it," Anya said, carefully picking up the lamp.

Anya left, her footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Ibnor watched her go, a small smile playing on his lips. He turned to Illia, who had remained in the study.

"Town is developing," Illia began, once the door had closed behind Anya. "What now?"

"How's the situation?" Ibnor asked, moving towards the window and gazing out over the bustling town.

"The clash between Imperials and Stormcloaks is increasing. Skirmishes have been reported to be more frequent," Illia said, her voice grave.

"What about the town?" Ibnor pressed.

"Dawnstar is developing fast. Walls are in place. Guards are fit, only needing experience. Emergency contingencies are in place—an escape route through the docks. If there's no war, this place could become more than just a haven, more than just Solitude's northern cousin. If there is war… at least we can survive."

"Everything is in order then?" Ibnor asked, turning back to face her.

Illia didn't answer immediately. She simply stared at Ibnor, her expression unreadable.

"What?" Ibnor asked, a slight unease creeping into his voice.

"You're thinking of escaping your duty," she stated, her voice flat.

"I'm not!" Ibnor protested, perhaps a little too vehemently.

"Then tell me you're not planning to go gallivanting off on some adventure," Illia said, her eyes narrowing.

"This… I was thinking of recruiting talented individuals," Ibnor stammered, avoiding her gaze.

"You are the leader of Dawnstar now. The King, as you yourself said. This hold is yours. Back in Helgen, it was different. A Thane is not a King. You cannot simply do as you wish."

"Relax, Illia. You did it in Helgen. It's the same here… just bigger… more responsibilities…" Ibnor began, but trailed off under the intensity of her glare.

"You have Brina to help…?" Ibnor offered weakly, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. Illia remained unimpressed.

"Fine! But there are times I must go," Ibnor relented, throwing his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

Just then, a sharp knock echoed through the study. A guard entered, holding a sealed scroll.

"My King, a message from Lady Harin."

Ibnor took the scroll, breaking the seal and quickly scanning the contents. His expression shifted, a mixture of anticipation and concern flickering across his features. He looked up at Illia, a sense of urgency in his eyes.

"It's from Harin… She joined the College of Winterhold. They've found something in Saarthal. Some kind of Orb." Ibnor nodded slowly. "Saarthal… the College… this could be it."

He turned to Illia. 

"I know," Illia said, even before he could say anything, her gaze fixed on him. "This is one of those times, isn't it?"

"Go," She said, a hint of a smile touching her lips. "We'll keep things here running smoothly until you come back."

Ibnor journeyed east, the imposing silhouette of the College of Winterhold growing larger with each step. The bridge leading to the College, a narrow stone arch spanning a chasm of icy water, seemed precarious, yet it had stood for centuries. As he approached the entrance, he saw her: Faralda, the Breton mage, stood as always, guarding the gate.

"Halt," she called, her voice firm. But as she looked closer, her expression softened. "Wait… I know you. You're the one who… came with the Dragonborn last time right?" Recognition dawned in her eyes. "Ibnor, isn't it? What brings you to the College?"

"I just want to peruse your library once again," Ibnor replied, giving an excuse. "It's a treasure trove, it'll be a loss for me not taking this opportunity."

"Indeed. Very well, you may enter." Faralda nodded.

She gestured towards the gate, which shimmered and dissolved, allowing him passage.

Ibnor stepped onto the courtyard. The College of Winterhold was a breathtaking sight. He took his time to observe the towers of white stone rising against the stark, snowy landscape, with their spires reaching towards the sky. Arches and walkways connected the different buildings, creating a complex network of paths. The air crackled with magical energy, a palpable hum that vibrated through Ibnor.

He noticed the architectural style was a blend of ancient Nord and arcane influences, with intricate carvings and glowing runes adorning the walls. The courtyard itself was paved with smooth white stone, and several braziers burned with blue flames, casting an ethereal glow. He took a deep breath in. He didn't really notice all these beautiful view the last time he came.

However, as Ibnor took a few more steps, he noticed something was off. The wind wasn't blowing, the snow wasn't falling, and the students and mages milling about were completely still, frozen in place as if time itself had stopped. 

"Is he already here?" He thought. 

"LOK!"

Ibnor lets out a Shout, announcing his arrival. The world snapped back into motion. The wind picked up, swirling snowflakes danced in the air, and the students and mages resumed their activities, seemingly oblivious to the moment of suspended time.

Harin emerged from one of the nearby buildings, a look of confusion on her face.

"Ibnor? What are you doing?" she asked. "Why did you roar like that?"

"Is he still here?," Ibnor asked. "the one who had frozen time."

Harin frowned.

"The monk? He was just here, we were finishing our conversation. He left just before… well, just before you roared." She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. "You know something?"

"Yeah, I was hoping to meet him. Too bad." Ibnor confirmed. "I know about the Eye of Magnus. Don't worry about it. Just do what you need to do."

Harin's expression softened.

"Okay," she said, a small smile gracing her lips. She leaned in and kissed him quickly before turning to go back inside. "I'll see you later." 

Just as Harin disappeared back into the College, Ibnor turned to find himself facing a tall, slender high elf dressed in the distinctive robes of the Thalmor. The elf's features were sharp and haughty, his eyes cold and calculating. Ibnor immediately recognized him: Ancano, the unpleasant and patronizing Thalmor agent, the self-proclaimed "advisor" to the Arch-Mage.

"Well, well," Ancano drawled, his voice laced with condescension. "Look what we have here. What brings you to the College, outsider?"

Ibnor met Ancano's gaze steadily.

"The same question could be asked of you," he replied evenly.

Ancano's thin lips curled into a dismissive smirk.

"I am Ancano," he announced, as if the name alone should command respect. "Advisor to the Arch-Mage. I assure you, my presence here is quite… official." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Now, I ask you again: what is your purpose here?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," Ibnor replied.

Ancano's smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of irritation.

"I have made it quite clear that my role here is as an advisor to the Arch-Mage," he hissed. "It is my job to know these things. My role as advisor to the Arch-Mage is aided by knowing everything that transpires here."

Ibnor simply shrugged.

"I have a great many things on my mind," he said, his voice calm but firm. "Your concerns, however, are not among them."

"You're not going anywhere until I find out what you're up to!" Ancano said, his voice rising slightly.

Ibnor remained unfazed.

"I am allowed to be here," he countered, his voice unwavering. "As free as any other. And while you may call yourself an advisor, let us not forget your true position. You are a guest of the College, here on the pleasure of the Arch-Mage. You would do well not to overstep your bounds. You have no official authority here."

Ibnor continued, his gaze fixed on Ancano.

"Whatever my purpose here may be, it is a matter for the Arch-Mage to address. If he has any issue with my presence, I'm sure he is more than capable of informing me, himself. You, however," Ibnor finished, his voice laced with a hint of steel, "can advise him to take action if you deem it necessary. Until then, I would appreciate it if you left me alone."