Chapter 27

To Fabrisse’s shock, it took them less than seven minutes to contain all the remaining Clucklebeaks. They couldn’t fly for very far nor for very long, and they always stopped after a while to perform their multiplying ritual, which was basically just an act of intimacy. Lorvan warned that these creatures were aetherically imbued, though, so there was no telling what could happen once they laid an egg.

Fabrisse tried not to picture what an aetherically infused egg looked like. He failed.

Feathers were now drifting through the courtyard like post-combat confetti as they walked back toward the direction of the North Pond. A few glyphlights stuttered above them, still recovering from the sudden magical noise.

Lorvan walked ahead, back straight, robes barely dusted, surrounded by thirteen softly glowing hexagrams. Each one hovered midair with a neatly contained Clucklebeak suspended inside like a very disgruntled star in a magical snow globe.

He extended a hand toward Fabrisse without turning his head. “The fourteenth, please.”

Fabrisse glanced down at the bird still nestled in his coat. It opened its eyes wide as it gazed at him longingly. Then it nibbled his collar. Then it fluffed itself and gave a soft, non-aggressive gwaark as it rubbed affectionately against his sternum like a cat that had made a very odd evolutionary detour.

[Perfect Resonance Progress: 24%]

“This one’s smaller than the others,” Fabrisse said. “And kind of cute. Can I keep it?”

“No,” Lorvan said flatly.

“I mean, I’ve got room—”

“I have thirteen ducks, Kestovar.”

Fabrisse blinked. “And?”

“Thirteen is an unlucky number.”

Fabrisse squinted. “I didn’t know you believed in that sort of thing.”

“I don’t,” Lorvan said, and for a second, Fabrisse wasn’t sure if he was joking. One could never tell when Lorvan was joking.

From the side, Liene gave a short laugh. “Wait, you believe in unlucky numbers? I’m your sister and I didn’t even know that.”

Lorvan finally turned, just enough to give her a look that could sterilize pondwater, but eventually said nothing.

The clucklebeak in Fabrisse’s arms let out a very small honk and licked his chin.

“Okay,” Fabrisse whispered. “But he’s definitely the lucky one.”

The three of them made their way toward the North Pond. Fabrisse kept pace beside Liene, who was still rubbing her forehead where a Stupenstone had made very un-magical contact.

The pond perimeter was surrounded by a glimmering silver dome, nearly transparent but laced with weaving runes along the edges. Fabrisse wondered how much inner resonance must one have to maintain this spell, or maybe if it was a collective effort. At one edge, an entire section of the aetheric dome had collapsed like torn fabric, revealing a ragged tear through which threads of ambient energy leaked and swirled like spilled ink in water.

Two Magi—one in formal azure blue robes assigned to magi, the other in field gear with scorched cuffs—were working at the breach, patching runic seams with slow, careful glyphwork and clipped arguments.

Fabrisse gazed at the scale of it and asked Lorvan, “So . . . you’re just going to release them? Into the pond?”

Lorvan responded, “Yes.”

Fabrisse nodded slowly. “And no harm releasing one fewer, right?”

Lorvan stopped.

“I’m sorry,” He said. “Is this your attempt at negotiation?”

“No,” Fabrisse said quickly. “Just a thought. From someone who’s already emotionally bonded to one of them.”

The clucklebeak in his coat peeped agreeably.

“You cannot emotionally bond with a clucklebeak,” Lorvan said. “They are fundamentally incapable of complex affection.”

Thaumaturgically, yes. But my glyph says otherwise.

“It’s licking me right now,” Fabrisse continued.

“It is tasting your coat,” Lorvan corrected.

Liene stifled a laugh behind her wrist. “What if it accidentally wandered off during release?” she said with wide, false innocence.

Lorvan gave her a long, withering look. “If I turn around and find fewer than fourteen spheres, I’m filing a form 9-G for obstruction.”

Fabrisse crouched at the edge of the containment line. The pond shimmered beyond, quiet now save for the sound of gently paddling water and a few errant feathers drifting like spells gone soft.

Lorvan raised a hand. “Now, Kestovar.”

Fabrisse exhaled slowly. He looked down one last time at the small, scruffy bird in his arms. It was no longer flapping nor squawking.

He leaned down and whispered into its plush, somewhat damp feathers. “I’ll come back tomorrow. With some bread.”

The clucklebeak tilted its head.

Then, in an almost too-serious motion, it gently tapped its beak to his collarbone, and made a sound like a polite knock.

Fabrisse’s throat tightened a little. He opened his coat and let the clucklebeak step out.

It waddled two paces forward. Then paused and looked back at him.

Liene said, “Oh, Lorvan. Don’t be so—”

Lorvan interrupted, “Call me mentor inside Synod ground, please, Miss Lugano.”

Finally, the creature trundled into the containment field, where the rest of the flock was already being released into the pond by Lorvan’s gliding glyphs.

[Clucklebeak Released: Familiar Bonding Potential — Dormant]

[Status: Will Remember You]

[Note: Return with offering to progress Familiar Link.]

Liene sidled up beside Fabrisse, shoulder to shoulder. “So,” she said softly, “bread tomorrow?”

“Are you buying or am I?” He asked.

Then Lorvan sidled up in front of the both of them. “The better question is . . . what were you two doing in the courtyard at 8:46 PM?”

The duckling disappeared into the shallows.

Fabrisse rubbed his shoulder. “I was practicing Stone Thaumaturgy,” he said.

Lorvan raised an eyebrow.

“With me,” Liene added quickly, folding her arms. “He was. We were doing basic synaptic channeling, specifically focus and emotional alignment. It was legit.”

“Fine. But next time you need to report to me if you trained this late. And do not loiter outside after the ninth bell.” 

Fabrisse didn’t plan to. There wasn’t really anything to do outside that late, and it was the official curfew time too.

Lorvan turned to Fabrisse. “I must ask, because on your own, you seem relatively stable. You don’t attend official classes, yes, but you still conduct research in your own time.” He turned to his sister now. “But when you're with Miss Lugano, you seem to develop a tendency toward . . . unnecessary risks.”

“But we were really practicing thaumaturgy!” Liene spoke before Fabrisse could. “I won’t lie about this. Not if it concerns Fabri’s progress.”

Silence followed. Not disbelief, just that kind of stillness Lorvan reserved for reviewing either highly implausible excuses or highly implausible truths. He studied Fabrisse for a moment longer before saying, “You’re serious you want to pursue this route?”

Fabrisse didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He didn’t even pause to think. It wasn’t like he’d planned this answer. It had just . . . landed. Like the duck.

Another beat of silence.

Then Lorvan gave an audible exhale. “If it were another student,” Lorvan said slowly, “I’d advise them to pick something more pragmatic; something that doesn’t take fifteen years to master and still makes people laugh at the entrance exams.” Then he looked up, eyes level. “But since it’s you, Kestovar . . . any spellwork is good spellwork.”

Fabrisse’s eyes widened. “Wait . . . what does that mean?”

Lorvan pulled a rolled scroll from his sleeve—how did he even store things in there?—and flicked it open with a snap. “I’ll connect you with Magus Exemplar Konan. She’s the best Earth Thaumaturge in the Synod. She’ll be delighted to finally have another student. If you do well enough, she might even refer you for a grant. However, you have to promise me this one thing.” He paused for a second before looking straight at Fabrisse in the eyes. “You will take your studies seriously this time.”

Fabrisse could not lie. He wasn’t doing this for prestige. That would be hypocritical, especially after everything he’d said about students who clawed ahead just to stack titles and win favor. But the grant—

If he earned it, his mother wouldn’t have to keep funneling her hard-earned coin into tuition she could barely afford. She’d trusted him to make something of himself here. And he had to start believing in himself, too.

“I will,” he said.