Chapter 4

Severa’s robes scintillated with thousands of minuscule interwoven wardthreads as she ambled up the dais. She bowed before the floating Eidralith with exacting reverence before commencing the Invocation of Concordance.

Unlike utility or battlecasting—where incantations were often raw, sharp, and focused on effect—the spells for Eidralith resonance were ceremonial in nature. These rites, taught only to upper-echelon students and flamekindlings, were aetheric alignments meant to demonstrate fidelity to the Twelvefold Flame and the guiding philosophies of the Synod.

The first spell Severa coaxed into being was a simple luminance—a coaxed thread of gold that whispered between her palms in a respectful manner. It unfurled like the memory of light, symmetrical as prayer, its glow tracing a mnemonic known as “That which burns remembers its shape.” Gold was the color of devotion, and she had coaxed a perfect gold.

For Thaumaturges, emotions and mnemonics were equally important. A well-used mnemonic could become stronger with each use over centuries, like footpaths worn into existence. Meanwhile, the right emotion could strengthen the effect of the spell.

Next came the Spiral of Veneration, a kinetic mnemonic whose gesture-path traced the remembered orbit of the Second Moon during the Founding Alignment. Her footfalls resonated gently with the local weave, syncing with ward-lights that reverberated in affirmation. She was trying to channel her reverence.

There were four elements to a Thaumaturgic spell: technique, intent, emotion, and innate resonance. Headmaster Draeth had explicitly commended Severa on how her innate resonance was the best he’d seen in a long time, which basically meant she was born to be good at magic. All that was left was to nail the performance.

An indigo-violet color followed the path of her fingers, and with it, a full, round chime. All indicative of a flawless reverent performance.

Fabrisse muttered under his breath, “I pray she’d trip just once. Just to prove she’s mortal.”

He turned his head, almost against his better judgment.

There, two rows ahead, sat Veliane Veist, the person who had rightfully rejected his confession.

Of course.

She angled forward ever so slightly, chin resting on her fingers, gaze locked on Severa like she was watching the moon unveil its second face.

Veliane had always admired competence. He watched her now, soaking in every elegant gesture Severa made, every perfect pivot in the Spiral of Veneration, and something in his chest wrinkled with fossilized hope.

Despite the most beautiful spellwork Fabrisse had ever seen, the dumb box didn’t open.

A ridiculously low subharmonic tone vibrated through the sanctum, enough to send a few banners swaying. Everyone else waited, and waited.

Nothing else happened.

Severa’s poise of victory gave way to something just barely short of disbelief.

Archmagus Draeth’s expression didn’t change. Neither did Rubidi’s. But Fabrisse noticed the way Severa’s fingertips curled.

Draeth waved Severa off, and she retreated with her head down, before seemingly realizing she needed to keep her chin up. Rubidi stepped forward and offered her a ceremonial clasp of forearms. “You have brought honor to the Synod,” she said, just loud enough for the entire chamber to hear. 

“The Eidralith has responded,” Draeth’s voice was heavy with gravitas. “Enough to confirm that its slumber has ended.” He lifted his chin. “Not since Thaumarch Iriadel of the Ninth Flame—two full spans ago—has the Eidralith acknowledged any entreaty. And now, after forty-seven years of silence, it has answered.”

A murmur rippled through the congregation. One could almost hear the rewriting of academic treatises in real time. A few of the elder magi nodded, as if this partial resonance were exactly what they’d predicted all along. 

Yes, of course. The Eidralith has, for forty-seven years, done absolutely nothing, and in doing so, commanded the most reverence of all.

Draeth’s voice rang out once more, regal and absolute. “Let all those of high distinction and rank among their peers come forward. Let them, too, be granted a Vothiculum, if the Eidralith sees fit to acknowledge more than one.”

Severa bowed once more, gliding to the side of the dais like a queen graciously allowing others to try the crown she already knew was hers.

There were more in line, of course. Each of the Branches had sent their best. And each, in turn, had entrusted a pupil to the Synod—the sacred academy charged with preparing them for resonance. Now, they would be tested.

“Cuman Gollivur of the Aeromantic Branch,” Draeth called. “Adept of the Sixth Tier. Step forward.”

Cuman, the bully? He gets to go second? What’s wrong with this school?

Cuman, broad-shouldered and perpetually stained with chalk-dust, rose with the slow gravity of someone trying not to sweat through his ceremonial collar. His hands twitched as he bowed theatrically to the dais and began the rites.

He was precise. His Spiral of Veneration was a touch slow, but his alignment aura shimmered a respectable cobalt-blue. Fabrisse didn’t know he could produce such a color.

The Eidralith did not react.

Draeth gave him a short nod and dismissed him with a wave. “A worthy attempt.”

“Aldren Nanan of the Branch of Obscurant Cabal,” came the next name. “Master of Glyphcraft and Binding.”

It was weird for Fabrisse to hear all the different disciplines come up to perform Thaumaturgy. In most magical traditions, glyphcraft is studied like geometry or language. It seemed impossible something as rigid as that could draw from mnemonics and emotional alignment. In Thaumaturgic Glyphcraft, however, rather than being etched or drawn, glyphs are traced in the air with ritualized gestures that encode a concept or intent.

Aldren, wiry and intense, moved like a lit wand. His Invocation was more aggressive, full of tight gestures and exacting syllables. He conjured a sigil wreath that was bright green—the color of triumph. It was difficult to sustain without fluttering, and his wreath collapsed just before the final bow.

An Archmagus shook his head once he heard the whimpering sound coming from the sigil at the end. Fabrisse hadn’t paid enough attention in class, but he figured that triumphant invocations were not supposed to whimper.

Still, he held his posture and exited with grace. The Eidralith remained inert.

A third name was called. Then a fourth. Then countless.

The Eidralith, ever unimpressed, continued its cosmic silence.

At last, Draeth called, “Veliane Veist, Third Flame Honorific, Scion of the Veist Lineage. Step forward.”

Fabrisse felt his breath hitch. He hadn’t known she’d been selected for a Vothiculum. She belonged to the class after Severa’s, and usually the juniors wouldn’t be called upon this year.

Veliane rose. Her dark hair was braided into a crown, and when she moved, it was like ink gliding across a spellcircle.

She approached the Eidralith and gave a measured bow. Her incantation was quiet, nearly whispered, the kind of resonance that operated with precision rather than spectacle. When her hands moved, they carved invisible glyphs through the aether like calligraphy.

Her spell glowed an indigo which was a hopeful mimicry of Severa’s, but paler. There wasn’t any aural signature to finish off her performance.

She also failed.

Veliane held the final position of her rite for a few seconds longer than necessary. As she turned to descend, Fabrisse caught a tear in her eyes.

You’ve never cried before. Why are you crying?

It hurt more than he expected to see someone like her cry—someone who actually deserved to be up there. If she’d been scared, she could’ve just cast the Invocation of Emotional Disproportion. The color it summoned was a hideous charcoal, but at least the sound it made was funny.

Draeth, unshaken, stepped forward. “The Eidralith has chosen. Let us proceed to the next phase of—”

As Veliane walked past a ceremonial urn, Fabrisse caught a warty piece of Stupenstone nestled awkwardly between the ridged tiles and the obsidian pedestal.

One of his rocks was still missing.

Fabrisse’s satchel suddenly felt too light.

He glanced around. No one was looking at him now. All eyes were on Draeth, who had turned toward the altar’s far side to summon the attendants for the rite’s transition.

This was, of course, the part of the ritual where incense would be lit anew, the votive glyphs recharged, and the irrelevant bystanders escorted out of the sanctum.

Fabrisse inhaled.

And executed the ancient, forbidden technique known only to a select, desperate few.

The Scoot of Dire Retrieval.

He duck behind a column, did a shuffle, then finally, after a silent forward crawl, carefully timed with the swaying of incense smoke and the murmured mutterings of ceremonial magi, his palm landed on the stone.

There it was.

His worst-looking Stupenstone, so ugly it brought a tear to his eyes.

A thrum shook the rafters.

The Eidralith smoldered like a white fireball, then screamed. Aether chains that had not so much as quivered in forty-seven years snapped loose. The velvet coverings were flung back.

A few screamed. Rolen ducked behind his podium.

Fabrisse gasped, “Oh no, my rock—”

The Eidralith crossed the sanctum in a blink as it flew straight at Fabrisse.