Show it to Dagur

Sure, Necromancy is seen as just another school of magic by the College, but Dagur still wouldn't take too kindly to sheltering a necromancer. Anyway, the college- and the guards, for that matter- would be interested in the fate of Nelacar's 'subject.'

Taking a seat at the bar, you surreptitiously beckon Dagur over before sliding the scroll across the counter to him, gesturing for him to keep silent. As he read, his face went from slack with shock to a twisted scowl in a matter of seconds.

"Haran, watch the bar. We're out of salt"

"Wh--"

He stalked out before she even had a chance to finish.

Confused, she threw you a cursory glance, unsure whether she'd berated him too harshly or it was something you'd said to provoke such a reaction.

Not a moment later, the silence (and nearly the door) was shattered as the Winterhold guards stormed the inn, spilling into the room with the bitter cold.

Nelacar, who hadn't looked up from his notes until now, suddenly found himself unceremoniously hoisted from his seat by the scruff of his neck and clapped in irons.

"You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her people. What say you in your defense?"

Composing himself rather quickly for a man surrounded by around eight heavily armed guards, he cleared his throat before calmly responding.

"Really now? What are the charges?"

"****, trading illegal goods, suspected Daedra worship--"

He scoffed at the last one.

"You think I needed to sell my soul for what I've accomplished? Well, not my soul at least..."

You sensed a swell of magicka permeating the air, concentrated around Nelacar's cuffed hands, which were obscured behind his robed back.

"GET DOWN!!" you bellowed.

You're not sure whether the guards realized the Altmer was plotting something, or it was just their instinct to obey orders. Either way, the entire unit dropped to the ground like they'd been shot.

This proved to be their salvation, as anyone within a few paces of the necromancer would have crumbled to ash from staring down the fire bolt that leapt from his outstretched fingers. His hands were liberated from their dull iron shackles through the sheer heat emitted by the incendiary projectile.

Perhaps being the only mages in the room made it easier to track.

Perhaps using one of the only spells you knew and practised gave you some inexplicable bond with the element.

You saw it arc towards the bar as if in slow motion. Being robbed of its intended target would not mean the bolt was cast in vain.

You felt, rather than heard the sharp intake of breath and stifled scream from Haran; facing imminent **** yet rooted to the spot and paralyzed with fear.

Your pounding footsteps matched only the snare drum in your chest as you threw yourself at the barmaid with scarcely a second to accept the reality of your probable demise.

Surreal silence met your ears as the blistering heat tore a scream from your lungs. You shut your eyes tight, lest the blaze turn them to bubbling gelatin in their sockets.

You bury your head in the crook of Haran's neck, shielding her body with your own. Through the searing pain coating your back like a viscous poison, a stupid part of you can't help but be dimly aware that her petite breasts are digging into your chest...or that her hair smells like fresh snowberries.

As you succumb to the ether that laced your vision, you take grim solace in the fact that there are worse ways to die.

Darkness. Silence. Numbness.