Disclaimer:

  This fanfiction is a work of fiction inspired by the Magic: The Gathering universe, created by Wizards of the Coast. All characters, settings, and lore associated with Magic: The Gathering are the property of Wizards of the Coast and its affiliates. This story is not intended for commercial use and is purely a fan-created piece meant for entertainment purposes only. I do not claim any ownership of the original material and acknowledges the rights of the original creators. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Enjoy the journey through the multiverse!

  Chapter 1: The Frosted Unknown

  The cold struck Miguel Reyes before his senses fully returned. A biting chill licked at his skin, his breath forming plumes in the air. He stumbled, his boots crunching into snow that stretched out as far as his eyes could see. Jagged cliffs surrounded him, their surfaces coated with ice. The wind roared like a living thing, drowning out any other sound. Miguel pulled his cloak tighter, his pulse quickening.

  “Where am I this time?” he muttered, his voice lost to the wind.

  The Nexus’ pull had flung him back into the Blind Eternities after the tumultuous events of the Crimson Gale, and he had barely managed to stabilize himself before landing here. Wherever here was. His surroundings were alien, yet there was something... familiar in the raw, primal air of the place. He wasn’t sure if it was comforting or foreboding.

  Miguel glanced around, wary of danger. Survival instincts honed in Veralith urged him to test his magic before anything else. Drawing a deep breath, he stretched his fingers and focused, channeling his thoughts inward to the wellspring of energy within him. A faint green glow shimmered around his hand, curling into a small, flourishing tendril of ethereal vines before dissipating into the frosty air.

  A grin broke across his face. “Still works.”

  The relief was immense. Planar magic—the unique system he had developed under Thalanor’s tutelage—remained intact despite the unfamiliarity of this plane. He wasn’t completely helpless, and for that, he allowed himself a small laugh.

  Miguel straightened, recalling Thalanor’s lessons. The archdruid’s voice echoed in his mind, a steady guide even in this distant world.

  Channel mana like water through a stream, Thalanor had often said. Let it flow naturally; force will only break the current. Respect the energy, and it will yield to you.

  He breathed slowly, attuning himself to the rhythms of the plane. Blue mana swirled like a calm ocean tide, steady and reflective. Green mana surged in pulses, a primal rhythm resonating with the life that clung stubbornly to this frozen land. He focused further, expanding his senses outward.

  That’s when he noticed it—a faint, almost imperceptible hum of something else. It was different from the mana he knew, almost like a faint thread intertwined with the currents he recognized. It was too subtle to fully grasp, but it was there.

  “Interesting,” he muttered, frowning slightly. “Not mana, but...” He shook his head, storing the observation away for later. He needed more information, and standing out in the open was an invitation for trouble.

  Reaching deeper into his repertoire, Miguel prepared a spell. He focused on life auras, a technique he had refined in Veralith. The spell illuminated the life energies around him like fireflies in the dark. Distant clusters of faint glows appeared in the periphery of his mind’s eye, scattered and sparse. Most were small and fleeting, likely the local wildlife.

  But then, he felt it—a stronger concentration of life energy far to the north. A settlement, perhaps? It was his best lead.

  Miguel dismissed the spell, the afterimage of the glowing life forces fading from his vision. He adjusted his cloak and began trudging through the snow, heading toward the presence he had sensed. The cold was relentless, but his determination burned hotter. Whatever lay ahead, he was ready to face it.

  “Alright,” he muttered to himself, “let’s see what you’ve got, mysterious frozen wasteland.”

  Miguel Reyes pressed onward, the faint life aura guiding his steps through the snow-laden expanse. The cold gnawed at him with relentless persistence, but his mind remained focused. As he trudged forward, he turned his thoughts inward, crafting a solution to the biting chill.

  The cold was more than uncomfortable—it was draining. Miguel considered his options carefully, weighing the mechanics of spellcraft. Should he deflect the cold entirely or shield himself against it with a magical layer? He pictured the first option: creating an invisible barrier to redirect the frigid winds. While the mana cost for such a spell would be negligible, maintaining the focus it required would demand too much of his attention. It wasn’t worth it.

  “A self-sustaining buff it is,” he decided aloud, his breath fogging in the icy air.

  He concentrated on the idea of a protective layer—a magical insulation against the freezing temperatures. The spell would weave itself into his body, fortifying his natural resilience. He imagined it like a second skin, supple and responsive, but impervious to the cold. Miguel drew on his affinity for green mana, channeling its essence into the spell. The warmth spread through his limbs almost instantly, and the relentless bite of the wind faded into a mild, distant sensation. He sighed in relief, his focus shifting back to the trail ahead.

  Minutes turned to hours as he followed the faint signal of clustered life auras. Finally, a silhouette emerged on the horizon. Miguel narrowed his eyes, the jagged outline of buildings becoming clearer with each step.

  A town—or what was left of one.

  The settlement clung precariously to the edge of a sheer cliff, with crumbling stone walls and weather-worn wooden beams forming a patchwork of structures. The snow-draped ruins gave the place an air of desolation, though faint lights glimmered through the frost-covered windows, proof of life persisting in the harsh environment. Dominating the skyline was a massive structure that loomed above the rest: a towered fortress of stone and spires that defied the elements. The very sight of it sent a jolt of recognition through Miguel’s mind.

  “Winterhold,” he whispered, the name stirring memories from the video game Skyrim. Still, he couldn’t be certain yet. He resolved to play it cautiously.

  At the edge of the town, figures in armor stood at their posts, spears in hand. They were humanoid, and Miguel’s tension eased slightly. As he approached, he noted their heavy fur-lined cloaks and steel helmets, designed for protection against both the elements and potential threats. The guards’ eyes followed him warily as he stopped a few paces away, raising a hand in greeting.

  “Hail,” Miguel began, his voice calm. “I’m a traveler, lost and unfamiliar with these lands. Might I ask where I am?”

  The guards exchanged glances, and one of them stepped forward. “You’re in Winterhold,” he said gruffly, his accent confirming Miguel’s suspicions. “What brings you here?”

  Miguel’s thoughts raced. He decided to stick with half-truths. “I was caught in a storm and found myself wandering here,” he explained. “Could you tell me about the town? Perhaps where I might find lodging?”

  The guard pointed toward a weathered building at the town’s center. “The Frozen Hearth. You’ll find a room there if you’ve got coin.”

  “Thank you,” Miguel said, inclining his head. “One more thing…” He hesitated, gauging their expressions. “What of magic in these parts? Are there any practitioners here?”

  The guard’s expression hardened. “If you’re looking for magic, the College is your best bet,” he said, nodding toward the towering structure on the cliff. His tone carried an edge of disdain. “Though don’t expect the townsfolk to take kindly to it.”

  Miguel nodded, filing the information away. “Understood. Thank you for your help.”

  The guard grunted and returned to his post. Miguel turned toward the Frozen Hearth, the faint glow of its windows offering a promise of warmth. As he stepped inside, the tavern’s interior greeted him with the crackle of a roaring fire and the low hum of conversation. The air was thick with the smell of mead and roasted meat.

  The barkeep, a burly Nord with a weathered face, looked up from polishing a tankard. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  Miguel approached the counter, offering a polite smile. “A room for the night, if you have one available. And some information, if you don’t mind.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  The barkeep nodded. “Coin first, then we’ll talk.”

  Miguel produced a few gold coins from his satchel—universal currency he’d kept from Veralith. To his relief, the barkeep accepted them without question. After handing Miguel a key, the man leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “That structure on the cliff,” Miguel began, feigning casual curiosity. “What is it?”

  The barkeep’s expression soured. “The College of Winterhold. A bunch of mages playing with fire and other nonsense. Most of ‘em don’t bother us, but they’re the reason this town’s half the size it used to be.”

  Miguel’s suspicions solidified into certainty. He had landed in Skyrim. The College of Winterhold, the distrust of magic… it all lined up with the lore he remembered. He forced himself to remain calm, masking his excitement.

  “I see. Thank you,” Miguel said, retreating to a nearby table. As he sipped the mead he’d ordered, he listened to the conversations around him, piecing together more details about the state of the town. For now, he decided, it was best to keep his magic hidden. The distrust was palpable, and Miguel needed time to assess the situation fully.

  But one thing was certain: his next steps would take him to the College. If he was to survive and grow stronger in this plane, he needed to learn the magic of Skyrim.

  By the time the patrons of the Frozen Hearth had pointed Miguel to the court wizard, he had already mapped out his next steps. The College of Winterhold was still his ultimate destination, but rushing in without preparation was not his style. Miguel had learned from his time on Veralith under Thalanor that approaching new challenges systematically always yielded better results.

  Sitting at a corner table of the tavern with a tankard of warm mead, Miguel considered the information he had gathered. The locals’ distrust of mages was palpable, laced with half-whispered rumors about dangerous experiments and strange disappearances. While they didn’t outright ostracize magic, it was clear that anyone with a spellbook was viewed with suspicion. This made Miguel realize he’d need to tread carefully when discussing his intentions with the townsfolk—and even more so with the College itself.

  His decision to first acquire a beginner spell tome was solidified for several reasons. Learning the magic of this plane would serve as a bridge between his own planar magic and the local system. More importantly, it would help him determine how his existing abilities interacted with this plane’s energy—what he had already come to think of as "Magicka." Miguel also noted that his affinity for Blue mana and Green mana could shape his ability to cast and learn specific types of spells. He was eager to test if his mana affinities would synergize with the spell tomes or if they would present challenges.

  Finally, there was the issue of Faralda, the supposed gatekeeper of the College. Miguel remembered the test from Skyrim—a demonstration of magical aptitude before gaining access. If that part of the game mirrored reality, he would need to show at least a basic understanding of this plane’s magic to avoid rejection at the gates. A spell tome or two could help him pass whatever rudimentary trial was required.

  Having settled his thoughts, Miguel decided to approach the court wizard as suggested by the tavern patrons. The next morning, after securing a modest room at the Frozen Hearth for the night, he made his way to the Jarl’s residence. Winterhold was a small and desolate town, the kind that seemed to have more history than it did future. Stone structures with wooden frames clung precariously to the cliffside as if defying the icy winds that roared across the landscape. The streets were sparsely populated, with townsfolk bundled in heavy furs trudging through the snow. The biting cold didn’t bother Miguel thanks to the protective spell he had crafted earlier, but he still feigned discomfort to blend in.

  The Jarl’s residence was as humble as the rest of the town, a single-story longhouse with a thatched roof and an unassuming wooden door. Inside, the warmth of a central hearth greeted him, along with the scent of roasting meat. The court wizard, an aging Breton with a thin beard and sharp eyes, sat at a table laden with scrolls and alchemical equipment. He looked up as Miguel entered, his gaze scrutinizing.

  “And who might you be?” the wizard asked, his tone cautious but not unfriendly.

  Miguel offered a polite bow, recalling the formalities he had seen in his fantasy novels. “I’m Miguel, a traveler and aspiring student of magic. The folks at the Frozen Hearth suggested you might be able to help me get started.”

  The wizard arched an eyebrow. “Magic, you say? Not many here in Winterhold admit to such an interest these days. Still, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised.” He gestured to a bench by the fire. “Sit, then. Tell me—what do you know of magic? Have you studied before, or are you simply curious?”

  Miguel took the seat and carefully worded his response. “I’ve studied... other forms of energy manipulation, though I’m unfamiliar with how magic works here. I was hoping to start with the basics—a spell tome or two, if you have any to spare or sell.”

  The wizard nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard. “So, you’ve some theoretical knowledge but no practical experience in our ways. That’s not uncommon among travelers. You’re lucky I’ve a few extra tomes gathering dust. Most would rather take a blade to their problems than learn the intricacies of spellcasting.”

  Miguel let a small smile slip, thinking of how different that mindset was from his own. “I’d appreciate whatever guidance you can offer.”

  The wizard stood and crossed to a chest against the far wall, pulling out two tomes bound in aged leather. “These should serve you well. One’s a simple restoration spell—healing yourself in a pinch can be life-saving. The other is a basic destruction spell, firebolt. Don’t set anything in here ablaze, mind you.”

  Miguel accepted the books with genuine gratitude, eager to test them. “Thank you. How much do I owe you?”

  The wizard waved a hand dismissively. “Call it a favor, young man. If you find your way to the College, tell them I sent you. They could use more students with a thirst for knowledge.”

  With the tomes in hand, Miguel retreated to the Frozen Hearth to experiment. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his rented room, he opened the first tome, examining its contents. The instructions were simple yet detailed, describing how to channel Magicka and shape it into the desired effect. As he read, he felt a faint pull within himself—Magicka resonating with his planar magic. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, channeling the energy through the spell form described.

  A small flame flickered into existence in his palm. Miguel grinned.

  “It works,” he murmured to himself. “This is going to be interesting.”

  As the first rays of dawn broke over Winterhold, Miguel rose from his bed at the Frozen Hearth, refreshed and eager to begin his experiments. The two spell tomes he’d acquired had already provided valuable insights, but Miguel knew that reading about magic and practicing it were entirely different endeavors. Today, he intended to push his understanding further.

  After a quick breakfast and a polite farewell to the innkeeper, Miguel made his way outside the town. The frigid morning air nipped at his skin, though his cold-resistant spell kept him warm. He followed a narrow path leading away from the town’s borders, choosing a secluded area near a rocky outcrop where he wouldn’t be seen by any of the wary townsfolk. The snow crunched underfoot as he scanned the area, ensuring he was alone.

  Satisfied, he took out the tomes again, their worn covers already familiar in his hands. His mind lingered on the events of the previous night. Learning Firebolt had taken some effort, requiring focus and repetition to align the spell’s framework with his own planar magic. By contrast, the instant understanding and effortless casting of the Healing spell had left him dumbfounded. He recalled the energy he had felt while casting it—an innate connection, almost instinctive.

  “This must have to do with my Green mana affinity,” Miguel muttered, pacing as he reviewed the information in his head. Green mana was tied to life, nature, and instinct. Restoration magic, which focused on healing and mending, aligned almost perfectly with that description. It made sense that his affinity had accelerated his ability to grasp the spell. Yet, he couldn’t afford to make assumptions. He would need to test this correlation further, perhaps by seeking out other spells in the school of Restoration.

  But for now, practice was his priority.

  Miguel began with Firebolt. Standing with his feet firmly planted, he channeled the spell as described in the tome, focusing his will on the image of a fiery projectile in his mind’s eye. The Magicka within him surged, mingling with his planar magic, and a streak of flame shot from his hand, sizzling through the cold air before dissipating against the rocky outcrop.

  He exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the icy air. The spell had cost him more energy than he expected, though not so much that it was unsustainable. Raising his hand again, he repeated the process, this time quicker. Another bolt of fire sprang forth, striking the same spot. The second cast felt slightly easier, as if his body was acclimating to the Magicka flow.

  “Alright,” Miguel muttered. “Let’s see how far I can push this.”

  Over the next hour, he tested the limits of Firebolt. He cast repeatedly, observing the gradual drain on his Magicka reserves and the sensation of recovery between uses. It became clear that his natural planar magic allowed for a faster recharge compared to what he suspected was the norm. He also experimented with dual casting, focusing the same spell in both hands. At first, the energy resisted, the flow disjointed and difficult to maintain. But after a few attempts, Miguel managed to release two bolts simultaneously, though the strain was noticeably higher.

  “Dual wielding is possible, but it’s not efficient. Not yet,” he noted aloud, the sound of his voice breaking the stillness of the snow-covered field. He realized that if he practiced, he might be able to dual-cast more effectively, but for now, it was better to stick to single casts for consistent results.

  Next, he moved on to Healing. This spell was almost laughably easy to cast. The warm, greenish glow of restorative energy enveloped his hands as if it had always been a part of him. Miguel tested its effects, creating minor abrasions on his arm with a sharp stone and then healing them within moments. The process was seamless, and he felt no noticeable drain on his Magicka.

  “This is definitely tied to Green mana,” he mused. The natural alignment made casting the spell almost instinctive, which confirmed his earlier hypothesis. The restoration spell practically cast itself, leaving Miguel confident that he could use it extensively in the future.

  With the basics tested, Miguel decided to practice combinations. He alternated between Firebolt and Healing, testing how quickly he could switch from offense to recovery. It was challenging at first—balancing two different spell frameworks in rapid succession required focus—but by midday, he had made significant progress. He even attempted casting Firebolt with one hand and Healing with the other. The act of splitting his focus felt unnatural, but the attempt was not without merit. It hinted at possibilities he hadn’t yet explored.

  As the sun climbed higher, Miguel leaned against the outcrop, catching his breath. His Magicka reserves were depleted, though his planar magic provided a steady recovery. More importantly, the morning’s practice had been a success. He now understood the nuances of both spells—their costs, limitations, and potential applications in combat or utility.

  “This is going to be invaluable,” Miguel said, looking out at the horizon where Winterhold’s meager collection of buildings stood against the stark whiteness of the landscape. The practice had strengthened his resolve. With enough effort, he could master this plane’s magic just as he had mastered his own planar magic.

  Tomorrow, he would seek out the court wizard again, inquire about additional spells, and begin preparing for his eventual visit to the College of Winterhold. But for now, he allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction. His journey had only just begun, but Miguel Reyes was nothing if not persistent.

  CHAPTER END...