Metalborn in Skyrim

Kael stood at the center of the training hall, surrounded by his fellow students. The large, open chamber hummed with magical energy as fire, frost, and sparks of arcane power crackled around him. The air smelled of burning parchment and ozone, a testament to the many spells being cast.

His hands were outstretched, a simple cantrip resting on the tip of his fingers—a flame spell, nothing more. Tolfdir, their instructor, had given them one simple task: conjure a steady flame in their palm and sustain it for a full minute. Most of the other students had already succeeded, moving on to practice more complex manipulations of fire. But Kael—Kael couldn't even get the spell to ignite.

He felt the energy in the air, the pull of magicka that Tolfdir had so patiently explained. He reached for it, tried to shape it, to force it into existence, but something within him resisted. His body felt like a dam blocking a rushing river—every time he tried to push through, the energy wavered and collapsed before it could take shape.

A flickering light sparked from his palm, but it fizzled out almost immediately. A few feet away, a Dunmer student, Valtren, scoffed audibly.

"Are you even trying?" Valtren's crimson eyes gleamed with amusement. "Or are you just here to waste everyone's time?"

Kael clenched his fists, willing himself to ignore the remark. He wasn't going to give up. He had faced worse than a few cruel words.

Tolfdir, who had been observing from the side, stepped forward. "Kael, focus on feeling the flow of magicka, not forcing it. You must guide it, not demand it obey."

Kael nodded and took a deep breath. Once more, he reached for the magicka around him. He could feel it there, as real as the stone beneath his feet, but every time he tried to take hold of it, something in him twisted against the effort, making it impossible to shape.

Another failure.

Laughter rippled through the group, and Valtren shook his head. "Maybe you should go back to swinging a sword. It seems to suit you better."

Kael's jaw tightened, but before he could retort, Tolfdir shot Valtren a warning look. "Mockery has no place in the study of magic, Valtren. Every student progresses at their own pace."

Valtren raised his hands in mock surrender. "Of course, Master Tolfdir. I was only suggesting he focus on something he can actually accomplish."

Kael ignored him and turned back to his empty palm. No flame. No heat. Nothing.

He was beginning to feel the weight of doubt creeping in.

Later that evening, as the other students left for their dormitories, Tolfdir stopped Kael before he could leave the training hall.

"I would like to work with you privately," Tolfdir said, his voice gentle but firm. "There is something unusual about the way you interact with magicka, and I want to help you understand it."

Kael hesitated, then nodded. "I appreciate that, Master Tolfdir."

The old mage smiled warmly. "Good. Meet me here tomorrow evening, after classes."

Kael felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he wasn't broken. Maybe he just needed a different approach.

The next evening, Kael stood before Tolfdir once more. The chamber was empty now, save for the two of them, the flickering light from enchanted sconces casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Tolfdir gestured for him to sit. "Tell me, Kael, what do you feel when you attempt to cast?"

Kael thought for a moment. "It's like I can feel the magicka around me, but when I try to draw it in, it pushes back. Like… like I'm trying to catch water in my hands, but it keeps slipping through."

Tolfdir nodded, stroking his beard. "Interesting. This is not unheard of, but rare. Some individuals have an innate resistance to magicka. This does not mean you are incapable of spellcasting, only that your approach must be different."

Kael exhaled, absorbing this. "So what do I do?"

"First, we must determine whether your body is resisting magicka itself or if your will is unconsciously rejecting it. Close your eyes. Do not try to cast, merely reach out and feel."

Kael did as he was instructed, allowing his awareness to expand beyond himself. The magicka was there—swirling, pulsing, alive. He reached for it as gently as he could, without trying to bend it to his will.

For the first time, he felt something shift. It was subtle, a thread of connection that hadn't been there before. Tolfdir must have seen something on his face because he smiled.

"There. You felt it."

Kael opened his eyes. "I did. But it's still… distant."

Tolfdir nodded. "It will take time. But time is what you have."

The next evening, Kael stood before Tolfdir once more. The chamber was empty now, save for the two of them, the flickering light from enchanted sconces casting long shadows across the stone walls.

Tolfdir gestured for him to sit. "Tell me, Kael, what do you feel when you attempt to cast?"

Kael thought for a moment. "It's like I can feel the magicka around me, but when I try to draw it in, it pushes back. Like… like I'm trying to catch water in my hands, but it keeps slipping through."

Tolfdir nodded, stroking his beard. "Interesting. This is not unheard of, but rare. Some individuals have an innate resistance to magicka. This does not mean you are incapable of spellcasting, only that your approach must be different."

Kael exhaled, absorbing this. "So what do I do?"

"First, we must determine whether your body is resisting magicka itself or if your will is unconsciously rejecting it. Close your eyes. Do not try to cast, merely reach out and feel."

Kael did as he was instructed, allowing his awareness to expand beyond himself. The magicka was there—swirling, pulsing, alive. He reached for it as gently as he could, without trying to bend it to his will.

For the first time, he felt something shift. It was subtle, a thread of connection that hadn't been there before. Tolfdir must have seen something on his face because he smiled.

"There. You felt it."

Kael opened his eyes. "I did. But it's still… distant."

Tolfdir nodded. "It will take time. But time is what you have."

Over the next hour, Tolfdir guided Kael through various techniques. The first step was simply to continue feeling magicka without attempting to shape it. He likened it to listening to a conversation in a crowded room—learning to discern individual voices before attempting to join in.

"Magicka is a force of nature," Tolfdir explained, pacing slowly. "Those who wield it shape reality, but they must first understand its language. You are struggling because you are approaching it like a physical task, but magic is not about force. It is about harmony."

Kael nodded, closing his eyes again. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. He felt it—the energy surrounding him, vast and unshaped. His instincts told him to grasp it, to take control, but he resisted that impulse. Instead, he focused on merely existing within the flow, letting it brush against him like the wind through his fingers.

Minutes passed. Then, something clicked.

For the briefest moment, he was not just feeling the magicka—he was a part of it.

His eyes snapped open. Tolfdir saw the recognition on his face and smiled. "Good. Now, let's try something simple."

The old mage held out his hand, conjuring a tiny orb of golden light that hovered just above his palm. "This is a basic illumination spell. It requires almost no effort to maintain. I want you to focus on the feeling of magicka and see if you can coax it into forming something similar."

Kael extended his palm, taking a slow breath. He reached outward, feeling the presence of the magicka around him. Instead of trying to seize it, he invited it in. At first, nothing happened. He concentrated harder, channeling the sensation of warmth and light.

A flicker. A tiny spark of gold shimmered above his palm before vanishing like a candle snuffed out.

Tolfdir grinned. "That is progress, Kael. You are learning to approach magicka differently, and that is the key to success."

Kael let out a breath, staring at his empty hand. It wasn't much, but it was more than he had managed before.

"Try again," Tolfdir encouraged.

Kael did. Again and again. Each time, the flicker lasted a fraction longer. By the time their lesson ended, he had managed to produce a dim, wavering light that persisted for nearly ten seconds before fading.

Tolfdir patted his shoulder. "Well done. Keep practicing, and in time, you will wield magic as easily as breathing."

Kael wasn't sure if he believed that yet, but he had taken the first step. And for now, that was enough.

—————————————————————

Kael sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of his chamber, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows against the walls. The lessons with Tolfdir had given him a new perspective on magic, but he still felt as though something within him resisted conventional spellcasting. He had spent the past hour focusing on his breathing, trying to feel magicka as naturally as he felt the air around him.

But tonight, he wanted to push himself further.

Laying out a small assortment of metal vials in front of him, Kael carefully uncorked one and took a measured sip of the liquid inside. The distinct taste of tin hit his tongue, and he felt his senses sharpen almost immediately. The dim light of the candle seemed to brighten, the texture of the stone floor beneath him became more defined, and even the faint sound of wind outside carried greater clarity.

Taking a deep breath, he stretched out his hand, channeling the energy he had begun to understand. A flicker of golden-orange flame sputtered into existence at his palm, wavering as though uncertain whether it belonged there.

"Alright," he murmured to himself, "let's see how this works."

Kael burned tin and focused on the flame. Immediately, the fire shifted from its normal orange hue to a piercing blue, almost crystalline in its intensity. He could see every detail of its flickering edges with unnatural clarity, as though the flame itself had become sharper.

Switching metals, he burned pewter, feeling the familiar surge of strength course through his limbs. As he conjured the flame again, it deepened into a bold, crimson red, burning steadily with an almost tangible heat. It was as though the fire had gained weight, grounding itself more firmly in his grasp.

Curious, Kael reached for a different vial and took a careful sip. Brass.

The moment he burned it, the flame turned a smooth, calming green. The edges of the fire flickered gently, almost hypnotic in the way it moved. It radiated warmth, but in a more subdued way—more like the comforting glow of a lantern than an open blaze.

Next, he tried zinc. The moment he burned it, the fire flared into a wild, vibrant violet, casting eerie shadows across the walls of his chamber. The flame danced unpredictably, as if infused with an unnatural energy, its color deep and rich, almost electric.

The possibilities were endless.

He spent the next hour experimenting, switching between metals, watching as the flames transformed into every shade imaginable. Copper dulled the fire to a muted gray-blue, flickering like smoldering embers. Steel made it shine a brilliant silver, while iron turned it an eerie, almost ghostly white.

By the time exhaustion crept in, Kael leaned back against his bed, exhaling slowly. His mind buzzed with possibilities. If different metals influenced the color of his flames, could he refine this technique further? Could he create flames with entirely new properties, based on what he burned?