Fabrisse Book 2 (Chapter 3)

“There’s absolutely no problem with the Varnic pose,” said Kaldrin as he demonstrated his own take on the Varnic pose for synaptic threading. “And there’s no problem with rapid, precise micro-adjustments to get your synaptic control to where it should be, either. In fact—here—watch this.”

Before Fabrisse could ask what this was, Kaldrin’s hands darted through the threading sequence, each finger flick and wrist turn snapping into place with surgical precision. “It’s all about cadence,” he said, tapping a small brass timer at his belt. “You hit your release exactly when the tick changes. Not before; not after.”

The timer gave a crisp chick sound. Kaldrin’s fingers splayed—thread released in a clean, invisible snap—then he reset in the same breath. At the second chick, a scatter of golden aetheric sparks ran from his palm like startled fireflies, tracing the air before fading.

“Golden is the color of reverence,” Fabrisse said slowly. “How can you be reverent and not follow the standard form?”

Kaldrin smiled faintly. “I can believe in many things aside from the standard form.”

For someone who seemingly went way back with Lorvan, Kaldrin had already shocked Fabrisse with his approach to, well, everything. Lorvan would have swatted his knuckles for even thinking about a non-standard form, let alone using one. Every drill under him had been done strictly by the book, feet and fingers exactly where the diagrams said, no deviation allowed. Kaldrin was demonstrating to him the deviations.

“You keep this running for the whole session,” Kaldrin continued, winding the device as he restarted the motion. “Your body learns to match the beat.”

Liene, already leaning over, plucked the timer from his hand. She turned it over with a studious squint, then—without asking—started copying his movements behind him, glancing at the ticking face like she’d been doing this for years.

Kaldrin took the timer from Liene and passed it to Fabrisse. “Your turn.”

He set his Varnic stance. The chick sounded; he moved—but his fingers landed the pose a breath too early. The next tick, he overcorrected, hitting the arc just late enough to feel the aether slip past him.

[Intermediate Synaptic Threading—Progress to Understanding: 3%]

[Reward: +6 ~ +12 SYN]

He could connect with the aether now with his improved SYN, but catching it at the exact moment the timer struck was another challenge entirely. The form had to be in the precise spot and his fingers had to complete the gesture on the beat, or the aether just drifted away like water through open hands.

With a DEX of 18, Fabrisse was plenty fast—sometimes his pose landed perfectly, movements sharp and timed to the exact tick. But the instant he released, no aether responded. His body was fast enough, but his intent hadn’t quite caught up to those movements. Coordinating form, timing, and will within such a razor-thin window was harder than he’d imagined.

After a while, his movements became sluggish and he felt like sitting down and taking a break.

[Physical Fatigue—Focus Drop Doubled]

[FP: 19/34]

[SYSTEM NOTE: Please train your physical STR to avoid early fatigue. Feeling fatigue after 5 rounds of synaptic threading is substandard.]

Fabrisse sighed. With Lorvan’s focus-boosting ring on his hand, he can probably afford a few more rounds.

***

[Intermediate Synaptic Threading—Progress to Understanding: 22%]

The clock struck seven. A single session had gotten him almost one-fourth to the finish line.

On Fabrisse’s hands were two bottles of water Liene had gotten for him; one now nearly empty. They were walking side by side down the quiet east corridor, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off stone. Kaldrin stayed close behind, glancing at his watch every now and then.

“Why are we heading this way?” Liene asked, glancing at the shadowed arches ahead. “What are you looking for?”

“I’m looking for the training ground,” Fabrisse said, taking another drink. “There’s one that’s empty at this hour.”

Liene’s eyes widened. “Are you really considering training in the evening too?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“How much time have you spent training today again?”

“Nine bells and approximately twenty four minutes,” Fabrisse answered.

She stopped, staring at him—utterly blank for once, no clever remark ready.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Fabrisse asked, frowning.

“You’re really becoming an overachiever now!” she said at last, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I’m just catching up. It’s only been two days, Liene . . .”

“Mm-hmm.” Her voice carried a teasing lilt again as she fell back into step beside him. “Just catching up. Sure. Soon you’ll be correcting my form.” She clicked her tongue. “I’d love to join you but . . . you know, I actually have to study. But make sure you get home before eight.”

“I’m sure Professor Kaldrin will remind me to.”

“I could,” Kaldrin said from behind them, “or I could pretend I did and let you learn why the curfew starts at eight.” The joke was in poor taste given everything that had happened, but none of them really minded.

They reached the tall iron gate of the east training ground, Fabrisse already picturing the open space and quiet air he’d have to himself. But when he peered through the bars, his steps slowed.

It wasn’t empty.

In the center of the field stood Severa Montreal, her stance anchored, one hand raised in a poised line. The air around her compressed into a narrow thread, and with a flick of her finger, a needle-thin lance of wind ripped across the distance, striking the bullseye on a far-off target board so hard it punched clean through the center. The target rocked on its stand. 

She was alone today, which wasn’t that surprising given that her mentor literally got arrested three days prior. Still, it was strange seeing her without any powerful adult figure standing within berating distance.

“Uh . . . The training ground is taken.” Fabrisse rubbed the back of his head.

“Taken?” Liene peered in. “There’s literally only one person there. You have half the field to yourself.”

“But it’s Montreal.”

“Come inside. What’s the worst that could happen? Her striking up a conversation?” Liene nudged him on his elbow. “I doubt you guys will ever bond over exceedingly rare rocks, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

You don’t know that she took my pebble once . . .

“I’ll be nearby.” Kaldrin nodded. He’d stay close to keep watch, of course. Even though the threat of the Void faction was over for now, one could never be too safe.

Fabrisse took a hesitant step forward, then stopped again. She’d seen them.

It was impossible not to notice when Severa was staring at you. Her eyes, deep crimson and unblinking, locked with his for a fraction of a second, the kind of gaze that felt like it could pin a person to the spot. Only a Montreal could have eyes like that—bloodied in color, sharp in gaze, and edged with something that anchored the air.

His shoulder tightened.

She looked away a moment later, already resetting her stance for another shot, as if their presence had barely registered. 

Fabrisse turned back to Liene. She studied Severa for a second then said, “Well, if you feel uncomfortable . . .”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I need to feel uncomfortable anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mentor Lugano said discomfort is needed for growth.”

“You’re not supposed to take that literally. But he’s right! Just keep on practicing and don’t care about her.”

Fabrisse nodded. He gave Liene and Kaldrin a brief wave, and they departed.