Fabrisse Book 2 (Chapter 2)

“You know you have to pass Basic Thaumaturgy II before registering for any new elective, right?” Said Liene as she stuffed Fabrisse’s face with a slice of pie.

The familiar scent of cinnamon and baked merryberry curled around them as Fabrisse, Liene, and Tommaso settled onto the worn wooden bench outside the little pie shop they’d claimed as their unofficial meeting spot. 

Fabrisse bit into the pie, the sweet filling distracting him for a moment as he chewed. He already knew the rule. He’d tried to push his limits, juggling Wind Thaumaturgy II, Fire Thaumaturgy II, Basic Thaumaturgy II, and Synaptic Control I—all capped at four electives per year. None of those courses were wrapping up anytime soon, except Basic Thaumaturgy II, which was the one he was retaking after failing just two months ago.

Tommaso grinned beside him, swirling the last dregs of his mulberry cider in the glass. “Maybe this time, Fabri, you’ll actually pass,” he said with a playful nudge.

Fabrisse gulped, swallowing a piece of pie in the process. “I have to,” he muttered. “Otherwise, I’m stuck.”

Liene tilted her head. “Well, you could always apply for Accelerated Proficiency Assessment. If you improve your synaptic clarity enough, maybe you can ace the test for Syn Control I.”

Accelerated Proficiency Assessment was basically a way to test out of courses one already knows the fundamentals for. Veliane Veist did it last term, skipped half her classes just by acing those exams.

Tommaso raised an eyebrow. “But ah! Can he hold a flame for more than five seconds? Might be hard to cut corners if he can’t.”

“I think I can do Syn Control I,” Fabrisse exhaled.

The final test for Synaptic Control I consisted of two parts. First, you need to demonstrate solid Synaptic Threading techniques—basically how well you can weave your mental focus into aetheric currents. Second, you pick from a set of ten basic, Rank I skills—fire, water, earth, and air elements all included—and you have to cast five of them with good control and timing. The examiner scores you on how precise and fluid your spellcasting is, especially how well your timing aligns with the synaptic threading.

Two months ago, the idea of a test that tested you on more than one affinity had felt like a looming mountain. But now . . . now he actually felt something else. Confidence. He wasn’t sure he’d ace it yet, but he knew he could improve his synaptic clarity enough to get there before time ran out.

Tommaso elbowed Fabrisse lightly. “Well, if you need help with fire, dude, I’m your guy.”

Fabrisse raised an eyebrow. “You’re leaving in three days.”

“Which means you get three days of free tutoring,” Tommaso said. “I usually charge 200 Kohns per lesson, you know. And no refunds. Though I’d very much prefer our last day here is spent on having fun and not studying.”

“I can’t afford fun right now,” Fabrisse slightly winced.

“Even if it’s leaf hunting?” Liene chimed in. “You know, like you promised?”

My schedule’s jam-packed. Between the four subjects and his job at the library, there’s barely room for anything else. I haven’t even been able to visit the Wing of Stratal Studies. 

But . . . he did promise Liene he’d go leaf hunting. 

Maybe we can manage it this afternoon, after four, once my fire class is done. 

As much as he hated fire thaumaturgy, he couldn’t afford to skip any more important lessons. 

“So . . . after four?” Liene tilted her head until her peering directly aligned with his line of sight.

“You remember my schedule?”

“Of course! I’d be a bad friend otherwise.”

“That makes me a bad friend then,” Tommaso coughed before chugging down his cider.

“That’s nothing new! You’ve always been a bad influence!” Liene reached over Fabrisse’s shoulder to try and clap Tommaso on his shoulder, but her arm wasn’t long enough.

“Being good ain’t fun.” Tommaso shrugged.

“But leaf poetry is,” Liene grinned at him before widening her grin as she turned to Fabrisse. “So . . . four?”

***

Leaf poetry was not that fun.

It wasn’t even poetry, not in the sense that it had to rhyme or have a point. From what Fabrisse could tell, it was just Liene crouching under the ventrafig tree again, scribbling incomprehensible phrases onto leaves like she was preparing an eccentric ransom note.

He followed a few steps behind her, watching as she plucked a fresh batch from the ground, brushing each clean with her sleeve before setting them in a neat pile. Today’s ink was a pale blue that looked exactly like diluted laundry soap.

She dipped her brush, wrote something quick and looping, and set the leaf aside.

He leaned forward. It read:

the clouds eat
the shape of our certainty

He stared at it. He turned the leaf sideways to see if it made more sense that way. It did not.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“It means,” she said, not looking up, “whatever you feel when you read it. Isn’t that wonderful?”

By the time she’d finished five more leaves (“dust remembers / the weight of our footsteps” being the most nonsensical), Fabrisse was starting to suspect that leaf poetry wasn’t about the poetry at all. It was about creating a situation in which he was forced to stand around, baffled, while she quietly enjoyed herself.

And she was enjoying herself. He could tell by the tiny way her mouth twitched every time he frowned at a new one.

“Can I write one?” he asked finally.

“Of course.” She handed him a blank leaf and the brush.

He hesitated only a second before writing:

this is a leaf
the end

She took it from him, examined it with mock reverence, and placed it gently in her ‘finished’ pile. “Perfect,” she said. “Brutal minimalism. Very avant-garde.”

He sighed. Come to think of it, besides getting into hijinks, their interests were not that similar. No matter how accommodating Liene was about his rock obsessions, she wasn’t really into them. Fabrisse doubted she could name more than five common quartz without guessing.

She had moved on to a new leaf, and her voice had fallen into that gentle hum she got when working, almost like she was performing a private ritual.

He let his eyes wander to the gravel at his feet. He should be in the library right now, reviewing synaptic clarity drills. Or in the courtyard, running through elemental cycling. His boot scraped against the dirt. Packed soil and shallow roots stood beneath—good enough. He let out a slow breath, clearing the noise of Liene’s brushstrokes from his head.

[Spell Cast: Steadroot (Rank I — Basic Earth Anchor)]

The stillness entered him first. Thin lines of pressure ran downward, knitting with the stubborn lattice of dirt and stone until the ground beneath him. He wouldn’t be visibly able to see how still he’d made the ground unless something else was trying to move it, but he could feel his aether leaving his fingertip as he cast the spell.

[Mastery Training: Steadroot (Rank I)—Progress to Rank II: 3%]

The familiar text slid into his peripheral vision.

Quest Available: Practice Makes Perfect

Objective: Repeat mastery training of a Rank I spell until it reaches Rank II.

Reward: +1 FOR, +3 Mastery Points (affinity register upon spell reaching Rank II), +75 EXP

[SYSTEM NOTE: The ground can’t complain, so you can do this as much as you like.]

He stared at the last line for a second too long. The system’s sense of humor was starting to worry him.

Still, it only made him more focused. If it wanted him to grind the same spell until it leveled up, fine. He’d already resigned himself to spending an absurd amount of his life standing on dirt for incremental benefits.

Or maybe . . . not now. Not Earth Thaumaturgy.

Menus folded out in crisp golden lines. His mind jumped immediately to fire and air skills—those were the units he was studying right now. If he could rank one of them up before the term’s final assessments, the points might tip his grades just enough.

I need to distribute my attribute points first, though.

This was a no-brainer: 3 points in RES.

And maybe . . . he should finally get serious about Basic Combustion Funnel. In a flame thaumaturgy assessment, it was just showy enough to leave a good impression without setting anything (important) on fire.

Someone’s silhouette had already framed in the curl of the Eidralith’s glyph he’d idly left hovering. Someone that looked very much like Liene.

Fabrisse cut the connection, and the gold lines dissolved into the air. It was Liene.

Liene stood there, hands planted on her hips, eyebrows arched in exaggerated disapproval. “Really in your prodigy era now right, Fabri?” she squinted at him, “Careful, or next thing I know you’ll be racing for the leaderboard with the rest of the overachievers.”

She kept her smile light. He’d seen that smile before, more times than he could count. It was the one she wore right before speaking, only for the words to turn out small and unimportant. The pattern had become so familiar now that he could almost predict the pause before it.

Professor Kaldrin’s voice cut through the courtyard, “Fabrisse!” The tall figure strode toward him with purposeful steps. “You scheduled another practice session with me at five and a half. Don’t be late this time. And good afternoon, Miss Lugano.”

Liene stepped back. “You should get back to your studies,” she said, the grin she wore not quite reaching her eyes. “Seems like your head’s already elsewhere.”

Before he could reply, she pulled one of the freshly inked leaves from her finished pile and held it out. The pale blue words were simple:

you can’t pour from an empty cup

“Here,” she said, pressing it into his palm. “This one’s easy to get.”

Fabrisse glanced from the leaf to her face. “You could come along,” he said, not wanting her to think he was brushing her off. “Kaldrin’s fine with spectators.”

She hesitated. He knew she had restorative theory tests coming up.

“Well,” she said after a beat, tucking her brush behind her ear, “I can always find some more free time.”