Severa Book 2 (Chapter 15)

Severa’s breathing had stabilized by the time they reached the dungeon’s entrance. The weave of warmth Halveth had threaded into her had dulled the worst of it—what had been a gnawing, suffocating throb in her chest was now only a muted undertone, steady enough that she could draw full breaths without shuddering.

Only now did she realize one thing: her weapon was gone. “My . . . my dagger.” The Embervein was supposed to be strapped to her side, nestled in its sheath. Now only the sheath remained. 

Halveth said, “I’ve retrieved it for you. It’s wrapped in cloth in my inventory.”

I don’t even know that I’ve dropped it. That’s how far gone I was.

“Merry . . . I’ve failed you.” The words broke from Severa as soon as she could manage them.

“In no way have you failed,” Merry said at once, voice steady, almost sharp in its certainty. “Your adversary was several multitudes above your level. No Magus-Student could have met that challenge head-on. You came close.”

Severa stayed silent, eyes lowered, the words she wanted to summon folding back into her throat. That got Halveth to turn to her.

“I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re going to keep all your wounds locked in again,” she said. “If you have something to say, say it.”

“I . . . failed to feel again.”

“Were you trying to cast joy or mischief?” Those were popular emotions that Severa had typically avoided.

“Rage, Merry.” 

Halveth’s brow furrowed. Rage was the last thing she expected Severa to lack. It was an amplifier, brutal and consuming, and Severa’s entire problem had always been bleeding too much of it, burning herself out before her precision could make the difference.

“Why?” Halveth asked. “What blocked it? You’ve never been short of anger.”

I can’t tell her. I can’t tell her I was scared.

DeShawn’s prompts cut through her thoughts again.

Response Options:

• Spontaneous remark or light teasing — Estimated Attitude Toward You change: -2.7% ~ +0.4%

• Change the subject — Estimated Attitude Toward You change: -0.4% ~ +0.1%

• Short reply — Estimated Attitude Toward You change: -0.7% ~ +0.1%

• Admit you were scared — Estimated Attitude Toward You change: +0.5% ~ +1.0% + Potential changes to Mental Health Stability

What—

[You want me to write up auto-responses for ya? Because I can.]

I—

Before Severa could response, another option apparition showed up:

Response Options:

• “Guess my rage clocked out early. Even anger needs vacation time.” — Estimated Attitude Toward You change: -2.7% ~ +0.4%

• “Merry. You must’ve seen that void gate back there?” — Estimated Attitude Toward You change: -0.2% ~ +0.2%

• “It doesn’t matter.” — Estimated Attitude Toward You change: -0.7% ~ +0.1%

• “I was . . . afraid. That’s what stopped it.” — Estimated Attitude Toward You change: +0.5% ~ +1.0% + Potential changes to Mental Health Stability

Why in the nine hells would admitting weakness, of all things, raise Halveth’s attitude? Halveth was strict, iron in her bones, result-driven to the marrow. The woman praised victory and measured every word in terms of tactical utility. Admitting to fear—openly, shamefully—should only earn a scornful look. 

I don’t believe you, DeShawn. How confident are you in your estimation?

[68%, for Halveth. Picking the optimal option, man, it’s statistically better than you running your mouth.]

Severa’s thoughts circled, and only when Halveth filled the silence for her did she realize she’d stayed silent.

Halveth said, “The pressure’s gotten to you,” she said, utterly unsparing. “You’ll get used to this kind of pressure. Not today, but one day.”

Which, Severa admitted, was probably not the wrong diagnosis.

The phantom text dissolved from her vision, the branching options shuttering in on themselves until only the truth remained: she’d made her choice, whether by hesitation or will.

She’d selected the fifth option: Silence.

Halveth’s Attitude Toward You change: 0%

[Coulda been worse. Also, girl, I gotta show you something]

Mental Health Stability
  

Theoretical Understanding: Low — 39% (-1%)
  

Practical Exertion: Moderate — 32% (-5%)

Stress Resilience
  

Theoretical Understanding: Moderate — 65%
  

Practical Exertion: Moderate — 53% (-2%)

The numbers burned across her vision. Mental Health Stability: 32%. 

I’m not unstable. I’ve got it under control. Almost. I just need . . . a rest. And some more training.

[Feel free to doubt it. But the stats don’t cap, girl. Numbers don’t lie.]

The dungeon mouth receded behind them, stone dripping with the echo of what had nearly consumed her. The path ahead stretched into uneven ground, part moss and part scree, and even with Halveth coaxing the wind at their backs, quickening their pace, the walk wasn’t short. Each step thrusted Severa deeper into herself.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. I’ll scale down my ambitions. No more reckless plunges into the unknown. Next time, only Tier II. I’ll scout twice, three times if I have to. I won’t dive headlong into unstable grounds again. Not without certainty.

Control. Yes. I can control my emotions. I just lost the rhythm today, that’s all. 

[Do you always talk to yourself that much?]

Severa immediately winked three times with her left eye and DeShawn promptly shut up.

By the time the treeline thinned, the shadows of towers already stretched across the horizon. Midnight draped the path in velvet dark, the sky stripped to stars and the faintest blade of a waning moon. Severa tilted her head, and there it was—the South Westeros Branch of the Unified Synod for Thaumaturgic Studies. Even from a distance it was impossible to mistake: the campus wasn’t so much built as it was imposed on the land, a citadel of scholarship that had swallowed an entire valley whole.

The outer wall curved like the rib of some colossal beast, black stone fused with veins of quartz that caught the late sun and threw it back in fractured brilliance. The fortifications stretched wide enough to encompass not only libraries and lecture-halls but the actual contours of the valley itself—streams, hills, even a portion of the cliff-face had been folded into its design. A single bastion at the northern corner stood as high as the spires in the capital, its top lost in haze. That was home to the Synod’s Aetheric Beacon.

“It’s getting . . . really cold.” Severa’s teeth clattered together as she clasped her own arms.

Her vision wavered at the edges, as if the dark were thickening into a haze. She triggered Sanguine Focus, but only managed to pull the blur back to baseline, to the simple clarity of an ordinary gaze.

“Hold still,” Halveth said. The warmth threaded through her before, now surged in sudden, blinding pulses against Severa’s back. Each interval pressed into her like the sun itself had fallen behind her shoulders, radiating through her chest, forcing her heart to slow, her breath to deepen.

Halveth murmured, “I’ve informed Draeth. He’s still awake, and he’ll send someone to meet us inside the Synod grounds. You won’t be alone.”

Draeth was the Headmaster of the Synod, and the man who’d sanctioned the majority of Severa’s dungeon runs. 

Headmaster Murelien Draeth was a man set firmly in the older decades. Even in an age where most patrons had long stopped paying handsomely to sponsor dungeon expeditions, it wasn’t uncommon for him to hire recently graduated Magi to explore them. There were few opportunities left that offered substantial rewards for legitimate artifacts, and Draeth had learned how to leverage that scarcity. Most of his clients (and very often Draeth himself) demanded results fast, and he’d learned that newly minted Magi often took more risks and could be manipulated into doing the dangerous work he didn’t want to touch himself. 

But Severa knew she was an anomaly. To her knowledge, she was the only Magus-Student he’d ever authorized to enter dungeons alone, without a certified party. Every other student was required to travel in teams under supervision. Draeth, for all his political cunning and obsession with artifacts, had trusted her with a freedom no one else had. That thought tightened her chest with pride, and now, anxiety.

Severa would be in trouble with Draeth if he found out she’d taken the liberty to explore a closed off dungeon, with consequences. And in turn, Draeth would be in trouble with far bigger players.

What if someone finds out how I’ve almost lost my life in an unsanctioned dungeon, and use this to shut down dungeon delving for good? They would start by questioning Draeth on how he’d allowed a student to roam such dangerous ground alone. Draeth was the largest patron of dungeon expeditions in all of Westeros; if his reputation faltered, the repercussions could cascade. 

“We’re to be greeted by High Instructant Bellare,” Halveth said. “He’s travelling past the Eastern grounds as we speak.”

“Merry. We need to take the most secretive route,” Severa said, her voice low, cutting through the chill that had crept up her spine. “Can you keep the healing lighter? Just enough to keep me moving?”

Halveth’s hands wavered for a moment before she eased the stabilizing warmth. Severa shivered, rubbing her arms, and realized with a sinking weight that she couldn’t conjure any aether of her own. All she could muster was enough resonance to sustain Sanguine Focus, and even that felt like dragging a lifeline through treacle.

No. No no no. What if . . . I’ve lost all my resonance with the aether and can’t ever get it back again?

“Merry. That Dragonkin . . . wasn’t normal, was it?” Severa could feel how shaky her voice was right now. “It had void energy in it. Whatever it’s imprinted on me, it’s sucking my aether pool.”

Halveth whispered in her ear, “Keep moving, Severa. That’s all that matters right now.”

Severa’s chest tightened as Halveth’s silence stretched. It could only mean one thing: Halveth knew the situation was grim. Every step dragged against the cold that had seeped into her bones, and panic throbbed behind her temples. Aether control was the one thing she’d ever been good at. What would happen if she no longer had any aether to control?

Spellcasting had defined her for all her life. Without it, she was untethered.

Her hands trembled. She clenched them into fists. Instinctively, she winked three times with her left eye.

DeShawn. Show me the numbers.

The snarky voice in her head took more time than usual to answer.

[I can only show you your social and emotional measurements. You know that.]

I don’t care! Just show me numbers. Something. Anything. Please.

[If you say so, girl.]

Social Aptitude
  

Theoretical Understanding: High — 85%
  

Practical Exertion: Extremely Low — 27% (-4%)

Political Savvy
  

Theoretical Understanding: Moderate — 70%
  

Practical Exertion: Low — 37% (-1%)

Mental Health Stability
  

Theoretical Understanding: Low — 38% (-2%)
  

Practical Exertion: Extremely Low — 20% (-17%)

Stress Resilience
  

Theoretical Understanding: Moderate — 65%
  

Practical Exertion: Moderate — 46% (-9%)

Empathy Quotient
  

Theoretical Understanding: Low — 39% (-1%)
  

Practical Exertion: Low — 34% (-1%)

Charm Factor
  

Theoretical Understanding: Moderate — 67%
  

Practical Exertion: Moderate — 60% (-2%)

Why is everything dropping?

[You can’t be flexing your social game right now, girl. It’s all tied up with your mental power at the moment.]

It can’t be. I—

Severa stepped on something and almost tripped, and Halveth had to steady her. As the secret path wound between the outer walls of the Synod ground.

[Girl. Stop thinking. Breathe or something.]

She passed a cracked plaster wall of the Supreme Thaumarch Muradius, and her thoughts snagged on the memory of her room, where once she’d taped a cheap poster above her bed. Long gone now, replaced with a thaumagraph of her and Forsing, both of them smiling like the world wasn’t such a collapsing thing. The poster’s old caption still clawed at her: Scale the toughest dungeon and you can change the world.

Change the world? She could barely keep her legs steady. She actually tripped on uneven stone, pitching forward before Halveth’s arm steadied her. Her hands wouldn’t warm.

The numbers jumped again in her head—dropping, sliding, bleeding red—and she couldn’t stop watching them fall.

What if . . . What if I can’t . . .

[The more you think, the more you spiral.]

I’m nothing. I’ll be nothing.

[Severa. Listen to me.]

Then a familiar voice rang in her ears. “I have to sleep. I’ve got a lecture and two tutoring sessions tomorrow.”

Her Sanguine Focus seemed to be working again, as she’d picked up conversations even before anyone entered her field of vision. She knew that voice. It belonged to Fabrisse Kestovar.

Immediately, she was met with a notification.

Changes to: Mental Health Stability

Practical Exertion: Extremely Low — 24% (+4%)

Why is it clawing back up?

The sound of someone else resounded, but it was all warped and muffled. Only Kestovar’s next words were comprehensible, “It’s Wind Thaumaturgy.”

Changes to: Mental Health Stability

Practical Exertion: Extremely Low — 25% (+1%)

She stopped walking, and raised a shaky hand as if she could touch the numbers inside her mind.

It’s gone up again.

Is it because of . . . him?

I’m cooking y’all. Tying up all the plot points and the overarching mysteries regarding the Void faction into coherent world building.