Daniel Newwyn

Chapter 112

A dozen more void-things erupted from the ground like warped insects, limbs slick with glassy shadows and flailing in sick arcs.

Tommaso raised both hands overhead. “Sing of Trials; Ring of Fire.”

[Spell Detected: Ring of Fire (Rank V)]

Crimson runes blazed beneath his feet in a perfect circle. Flame burst up in a towering wall, then imploded like an inferno scythe collapsing on everything inside. The creatures barely had time to shriek before they were reduced to cinders.

The air sizzled, steam and ash swallowing the pondside yard.

Fabrisse flinched, shielding his eyes again as his vision pixelated. He blinked hard to reset, but the afterimage still danced at the edge of his sight. When he could see properly again, he saw Celine hacking at the newly-spawned nearby creatures with crystal javelins, one forming after another.

The void creatures spawn too fast, he thought, jaw tight. That’s what Rolen warned us about.

Once the rift opens, the voidspawn would take almost no aether to manifest. What they needed was efficient control, smart spacing, and someone tracing the aether source that was feeding them.

Then Fabrisse caught Ilya lifting two fingers and twirled them into one another.

In the prep chamber, during the calibration trials, Ilya had practiced that exact same motion. That was her aether tracking spell.

Tommaso had already repositioned to higher ground, arms weaving arcs of flame in tight, rhythmic patterns. Instead of detonating in wide bursts, his fire spirals now danced like living sentries, corralling void-things into specific paths, funneling them away from the others.

“He’s really good at this,” Fabrisse murmured.

[Proximity Alert: Hostile Pattern Detected]

A void-thing leap atop one of Celine’s summoned bulwarks. Its limbs twisted in a jerking spasm, jaws splitting in three directions as it lunged straight for Fabrisse.

He immediately flung a Stupenstone at its head. It didn’t hit the head, but its elongated neck.

[Damage Dealt: Slight Disorientation]

That didn’t do much.

Celine jerked her body as she yelled, “Snap!”. Her bulwarks rotated, grinding on a crystal hinge. The sudden shift flung the creature off its perch with bone-snapping force. It hit the stone with a crunch and didn’t get up.

Crystal mnemonics are so clean. Or maybe she’s optimized her spell.

Then Celine went on the offensive. Her crystal javelins stabbed out in rapid succession, but it was her positioning that mattered—she cast from behind summoned bulwarks, forcing the creatures to waste energy climbing over them or skittering into her carefully-laid traps. 

The stone beneath his boot gave way, warping like a rug yanked from beneath him. A void-thing tore upward from the ground with a sickening slurp of broken earth.

Celine yelped in surprise—not a scream, just a sharp intake of breath as she instinctively recoiled.

Fabrisse’s pulse spiked, but his hands moved without hesitation. “Tremblehold.”

A pulse ripple, barely visible, but the effect was instant. The creature’s footing slipped mid-lunge, legs splaying. It stumbled with a confused hiss.

A trio of crystal shards shot out, pinning the creature to the ground with a hiss and a crack. It writhed once, twice—then Celine stepped in and drove a javelin down through its center.

“Good cast!” Celine said. “Help me control your own space. I’m—” she fired shards at another incoming void creature. “—a bit occupied.”

That Tremblehold worked really well. Sure, the effect might not have been a full two-meter radius and the duration might not have been three seconds, but that was an instantaneous cast. The mitts and the quartz had helped a lot.

He caught a glimpse of Ilya from afar. Her eyes were half-lidded as she anchored her feet in a stance meant for stillness. Thin strips of milky white sparks snaked between craters, through the wreckage of shattered stone and scorched feathers, searching. 

We can find it, Fabrisse thought, heart pounding. We can track the leak and end this before the real collapse begins.

A sharp crackle echoed across the perimeter. Fabrisse turned just in time to see the outer wards wrinkled, but not shatter. Something had slipped through.

Distortion spread beyond the dome’s boundary, mist coiling in from some quiet fracture in space. A figure emerged, not with the violent shock of teleportation, but with a strange, liquid smoothness. One more step forward, and they were inside the barrier. They were cloaked head to toe in layered wraps of dusky gray and black. No skin showed—only folds of fabric stitched in overlapping bands, like ceremonial bindings. Even their eyes were veiled behind a mesh so fine it seemed to drink in the light.

[Spell Detected: Phase-Walking (Veil/Mist – Tier IV)]

they launched forward, a blur of motion that barely seemed to touch the ground. Their velocity was unnatural, a straight-line streak aimed directly at Ilya like a drawn blade loose from its sheath.

[Spell Detected: Accelshift (Veil/Air – Tier IV)]

“Too fast—!” Fabrisse choked out.

Tommaso’s arm slashed outward, palm flared open. “Whiplash!” A spiraling jet of compressed air tore across the path of the oncoming figure, sharp as a cyclone’s edge.

The force howled through fractured light. But the figure raised a hand—barely more than a flick of the wrist.

A translucent plane of violet shimmer snapped into being just ahead of them.

[Spell Detected: Kinetic Energy Barrier (Energy – Tier ?)]

The wind slammed against it with a thunderous crack, then dispersed.

That’s three high-tier elements already. There’s no mistaking it.

The masked figure was Ganvar. She could cast spells that clean with no mnemonics and minimum movements. Her DEX and SYN had to be off the charts.

Tommaso gritted his teeth. He twisted low into a stance, wind and fire curling around him in dense coils. His foot scraped against stone—just enough to bait a reaction.

The masked figure took it.

They surged. A sudden burst carried them in a seamless lateral dash. The movement barely stirred their cloak.

Tommaso smashed his palm down. “Whipspin!”

A vortex of wind and fire snapped to life at her flank, an angled spiral meant not to hit, but to force a dodge upward.

They launched themselves into an arc, vanishing and reappearing at an oblique, inverted angle. A spear of bent light formed in the air, barely visible until it refracted into a blinding crescent midflight.

[Spell Detected: Refraction Lance (Light – Tier IV)]

Tommaso cursed, raising both arms. “Scattershield!”

A fan of compressed air burst forward, deflecting the arc just enough to shear it into the pondyard tiles. The ground exploded behind him in a glare of heat.

From the edges of the broken courtyard, more Voidspawn spilled through. One leapt for Tommaso’s back.

He twisted, slammed his heel down. A coiling tether of wind wrapped around his legs and blasted him skyward just in time to avoid the creature’s lunge. He spun in the air, wind hardening beneath his boots as a platform. Another beast leapt toward him. He cut it down with a crescent of flame before pivoting back to keep Ganvar in view.

Tommaso’s next spell hit like a declaration.

“Searing Judicant,” he roared, both hands flaring with sunfire.

Strands of molten radiance spiraled into the sky, plunged like a falling sun, then converged into a single column of flame aimed directly at Ganvar. Fabrisse winced at the sudden whiteout, even from meters away. That wasn’t just flame. That was Tommaso’s execution move.

Ganvar didn’t move. She raised one palm and shot out . . . something. A sigil, maybe, in the shape of a sharp blade. The moment they connected, the blade skewered the conflagration of fire and unmade it thread by thread, as if the very essence of combustion had been dissected.

[Skill Detected: Pierce of the Iron Saint (Metal – Tier VI)]

That’s Rimmar’s skill.

But the lance didn’t stop there.

It punched straight through the gutted remains of the flame, hurling forward. Tommaso’s eyes widened as he swept his arms, and knocked the lance off course by inches. It shrieked past him, the force shearing a groove into the stone.

That’s such a powerful move, and looks like it’s supremely effective against single-shot fire.

Meanwhile, Ilya remained in place, boots anchored into the cracked terrain. Her arms glowed with tracing lines again. “I’ve almost locked the core leak,” she called, squinting. “Just keep them off me!” At the same time, she fired a volley of Snowshots—needle-thin darts of frost that zipped toward the masked figure from the side.

The cloaked figure didn’t even dodge. The snow projectiles vaporized inches from her cloak, steam curling upward without a sound. They must’ve cast a spell, but Fabrisse didn’t know what.

Curses. That’s Ganvar. Why isn’t Tommaso going for a disruption spell? He has to know, doesn’t he?

“Celine,” Fabrisse whispered. “Can you move me closer to the dome?”

“Why?” She furrowed her brows. It wasn’t part of the plan.

“I have just the thing to disrupt her pattern.”

“How?” She asked, but walked backward to move closer to the dome already.

“I’ll collapse the structure,” he said with conviction.

Chapter 111

The North Pond was off-limits today, but a No Entry sign had never stopped Tommaso Ardefiamme before.

With one quick hop, he planted a boot on the lowest rung of the fence and vaulted over it like it was a stage prop. His hair, tousled by the wind, fell over one side of his shoulder as loose waves danced with the motion. The barrier wasn’t even aether-imbued—just ironwood slats and faded paint. It wasn’t meant to stop anyone, really, but still existed as a polite warning.

Tommaso landed on the other side with the tiniest of noises, and turned back with a grin, brushing his fingers through his wind-tousled hair. “Are you coming, or do you need a push?”

Fabrisse hesitated, casting a wary glance at the fence. There was only one reason why these places would ever be off-limits. Everyone knew the leyline beneath the pond had flared last year and badly burned a third-year. 

The pressure dropped around Fabrisse like being sucked into a storm. Then, whoomph, he was airborne, lifted and pushed by an unseen current, just high enough to clear the fence. He landed gracelessly on the other side, staggering before catching the fence with his back. The wind tugged at his cloak like it was laughing at him.

Tommaso didn’t so much as flinch. “Points for style,” he said, already halfway down the path toward the pond, the rust-brown fall of his hair swaying like a comet’s tail behind him. “Minus several dozen for coordination.”

Fabrisse straightened his coat with deliberate care. “Next time, maybe ask before flinging me like a skipping stone.”

Tommaso raised a hand without turning. “But then we’d lose the element of surprise.”

They walked toward the water. The aetheric dome encasing the entire perimeter of the pond and its vicinity had now become transparent, but tinged with silvery hues where the threads of raw aether twisted into overlapping runes. It curved like a protective shell over the pond and surrounding grounds, a feat of structural spellwork too refined to be recent, and yet Fabrisse knew it had only been reconstructed this week.

The timing had been too convenient.

Just yesterday, Headmaster Draeth’s voice had echoed through the mess hall like thunder in a jar—measured, official, and absolutely final. The North Pond and surrounding glade were to be declared strictly off-limits until further notice due to ‘an urgent leyline irregularity.’ A leak, he’d said. Possibly dangerous. Spellcast dampeners were to be installed, patrol routes adjusted, and all field lessons redirected to the southern ranges.

That had been all the students needed to hear. No one questioned a leyline disturbance—not after the last third-year had to regrow half their skin. Even the most arrogant enchanters knew better than to tempt that kind of volatility.

They entered through a doorlike space shaped by vertical seams in the weave, where glowing aether clustered into shapes vaguely resembling doorknobs. 

The day had come.

Fabrisse stared at the notification glyph that’d shown up since half an hour earlier:

[Mastery Training: Tremblehold (Rank I)—Progress to Rank II: 57%]

And his attributes:

STR (Strength) 8

DEX (Dexterity) 15

FOR (Fortitude) 8

INT (Intuition) 24

RES (Inner Resonance) 5 (+3) [+2] [+???]

EMO (Emotional Attunement) 11 (x1.15)

SYN (Synaptic Clarity) 9 [+3] [+???]

His DEX had increased naturally by 1 since his commencement of Tremblehold training, and he was wearing the throwing mitts today. He had known this day was coming, had trained for it, studied for it, been briefed, warned, drilled. But the truth was: he still didn’t feel ready. How could anyone be, against a threat like this?

He extended his robe and peered into the Silvian quartz inside. The quartz now held the key. If this thing functioned the way it should, it should lure his enemies here within minutes. They’d be idiotic to pass up such an easy chance to ambush, be it a trap or not. Realistically, Fabrisse didn’t have enough people around him to effectively trap such a powerful enemy.

Inside the dome, the structure felt stable, almost pristine. But Fabrisse’s eyes were trained now. Even as he stood within the magical shell, he could spot the tiny punctures, no wider than a fingernail, freckled across the interior. Near the edge of the pond, a strange frost clung stubbornly to one patch of stone untouched by sunlight.

Fabrisse reached into the side pocket of his coat and pulled out a small wax paper bundle. He peeled it open to reveal two slices of dense rye bread, one of which had been very obviously gnawed on by him earlier out of stress, the other intact. 

He held it up. “Mercy. Breakfast.”

From somewhere in the underbrush came a faint cluck—then a rising warble that sounded like an over-caffeinated kettle. A moment later, Mercy the clucklebeak burst forth in all his glory: part bird, part mistake, and entirely too enthusiastic. His stubby wings flapped uselessly as she galloped over, talons scritching on the stone. His iridescent tail feathers swayed like a parade gone off-script.

He crouched down and scratched the side of his head. “Good boy,” he murmured. “Don’t eat anything glowing.”

“Why did you name a male duck Mercy?” Tommaso asked as he crouched over.

Fabrisse didn’t look up right away. He tore a corner off the bread and offered it to Mercy, who snapped it up with the vigor of someone who hadn’t eaten in thirty seconds. He let out a happy trill that sounded like a xylophone being dropped down a flight of stairs.

“Because,” he said dryly, “Wrath felt a little on the nose.”

[Reminder: No need to bond further with a familiar if a link has already been established.]

Wow. Thanks for the emotional guidance, you cold, floating rectangle.

“Do you believe what Rimmar told us?” Fabrisse asked as he watched Mercy swim back to her natural habitat.

“If Ganvar shows up and we’re in trouble, there’s no harm trying disruption spells,” Tommaso said.

They stayed near the water’s edge, where the reeds leaned like silent eavesdroppers and the glimmer of the dome rippled above. Fabrisse sat on a half-submerged boulder, arms resting on his knees, watching the stillness stretch too long. His fingers dug into his satchel, reaching for Gravelkin, clutching it tight.

It was too still.

Even the usual forest ambience felt blunted. No rustle of wings. No trilling from treetop singers. No buzzing insects. Just the gentle lap of water and the occasional splash from Mercy chasing imaginary threats.

[Current Environment: Stable.]

“Guys.” The voice cut through the quiet.

Fabrisse reacted before he thought. A Stupenstone whipped from his coat sleeve and flew through the air. The spell-charged stone hit something just above the treeline—

The stone rebounded against an invisible surface with a hollow thunk, and spun end-over-end before dropping on the ground.

“Chill . . . It’s just me.” It was only now that the invisible surface formed into a visible crystal shield. The center bore a faint ripple where the Stupenstone had struck, as if the shield had momentarily liquefied to absorb the force, then solidified again without a single fracture. Behind the shield was Celine.

“Why are you here?” Tommaso walked back to her. “This place is off-limits.”

Celine being here was asking for trouble. The only reason she knew about this at all was because she happened to be involved in the last entanglement with the Void-things. That was the reason why Liene had to be kept in the dark: magus-students should not involve themselves with matters of this proportion, as it would only cause them danger.

“I came to bring urgent news. Have you heard? Archmagus Rolen has been sent off-Synod.”

“What? Since when?” Fabrisse asked.

“Just this morning. Headmaster Draeth sent him on some urgent negotiation with the Miruun Collective,” Celine said, stepping forward. “It wasn’t announced publicly, but I overheard two of the logistics scribes whispering about it in the Hall of Cinders.”

Tommaso exchanged a look with Fabrisse. “Rolen’s gone? That’s insane. He’s the fallback.”

According to the original plan, Archmagus Rolen was the final-tier failsafe. Without him here, there would be no one powerful enough to deter whoever was controlling the Void-thing. They were free to go full-force.

Fabrisse grabbed another Stupenstone so hard his palm started to hurt. The real danger starts now.

But why would Headmaster Draeth send Rolen away right at this moment?

Above them, aetheric light twisted just a little sharper at the seams.

“You need to get out,” Tommaso pointed at the entrance as he commanded Celine. “Out.”

But it was already too late.

The ripple overhead, a rift of pure blackness on the dome’s weave, tore itself open. Then came the sound, like knuckles being popped.

Fabrisse turned toward the water just in time to see the first one rise.

It unfolded from the shadow beneath a lily pad, wrong and twitching. The creature looked like a stitched amalgam of wet driftwood and eel-flesh, with too many joints and a face that almost had eyes. Its movements were jerky, like it couldn’t quite remember how a body should work. It dragged itself halfway out of the pond, then stopped—waiting.

Then another crawled out from beneath the reeds. Then two more from under a split boulder. Then dozens, seeping out of cracks, shadows, reflections that hadn’t been there a moment before. Each of them looked no bigger than a dog, but their long limbs and the way they moved suggested they were very nimble.

Tommaso’s eyes darted from one writhing creature to the next. “They’re not crawling in,” he muttered. “The rift’s letting them form. Anything lurking in the aether can anchor through cracks, shadows, reflections . . . whatever’s weak. We need to find who cast that rift.”

One of the creatures slipped from the crook of a broken tree root, crawling low like a spill of tar. The thing lunged at Celine from behind.

She spun in surprise. “Fracture. Lattice. Seal!”

A burst of bluish light erupted at her feet. The creature let out a wet, metallic shriek as it was pinned beneath a crystalline cage that hadn’t been there a blink ago. Fragments of sigils still hovered in the air around her palm, fading like embers.

“It’s begun,” Fabrisse murmured.

Just as Fabrisse took a step back, the ground rippled beneath his boot—then cracked open like brittle skin. A void-creature surged, its needle limbs reaching for his ankle.

But it never made contact.

A spear of hoarfrost shot through the ground, catching the thing and freezing it solid as it lurched, locking it in a jagged sculpture of ice and death.

Fabrisse stumbled back, breath caught in his throat.

From the center of the glistening patch of ice by the water, a figure rose as if drawn up through a mirror. Pale, composed, and rimmed in frost: Ilya Snezhnaya.

Tommaso let out a low whistle as the frost cleared. “That’s my girl,” he said, grinning wide. “Dramatic timing, lethal grace, and cheekbones sharp enough to—”

Ilya didn’t even look at him. “Ardefiamme. Focus.” Then she turned to Celine. “Since you’re here,” Ilya said. “Can you stay close to Kestovar?”

Celine didn’t look thrilled to be included in anyone’s defense plan, but her eyes flicked to Fabrisse—still pale from his near miss—and she gave a sharp nod. “Got it.”

She dashed toward him, fingers already sketching tight arcs through the air. Three crystal shields burst forth with a crack of light, locking into a tight rotation around Fabrisse like orbiting blades.

“You stay within this, okay?” she ordered, adjusting the angle of one with a flick.

Fabrisse glanced at the glimmering geometry. “What if they come from the ground?”

Celine paused. “Uh. Good question.”

He stared at her. My guardian doesn’t seem that reliable . . .

A pair of void-creatures lunged from the underbrush, slick limbs writhing with impossible joints.

Tommaso spun, coat flaring, arms slicing the air in sharp triangles. “Incinerate. Scatter. Dance.”

A triad of fire spirals burst outward—one low, one high, one horizontal—twisting through the air in perfect synchronization. They slammed into all the creatures from three sides, compressing just before impact.

The things exploded in bursts of ash and whiplash heat.

Tommaso let the smoke part around him. “Dragon scales, I love choreography.”

Ilya shrugged. With a snap of her wrist, a crown of ice shards circled above her palm.

Beside her, Tommaso swept one hand, summoning a sinuous arc of flame that coiled around his arm like a wyvern.

They stepped forward together, spellwork building at their heels.

“Let’s go find that Voidrifter,” Ilya said—

—but Tommaso cut in, flames swirling high behind him. “Let’s track that shadow-sick bastard down, rip reality a new seam, and make him regret ever sliming his way out of the aether.”

Ilya sighed. “Right. That.”

Shadows tore themselves loose from the stone. More void-creatures erupted into form.

Tommaso grinned. “Perfect timing.”

With a mirrored sweep of their hands, they cast. The spells surged—ice sharp as shattered glass, fire whirling like a dragon’s breath.

They spun together, intertwining like twin serpents in a death-dance, weaving heat and chill into a single, burning helix. Steam screamed from their collision path, and wherever they struck, the voidspawn disintegrated—frozen and incinerated all at once.

“They’re clearly just showboating . . .” Celine murmured.

“Yeah.” Fabrisse nodded.

The battle had begun.

(NEW) Chapter 54

Half of this chapter is new content :) I think it's pretty fun and you should read it.

The ventrafig tree was a peculiar tree.

It didn’t grow like the others in the courtyard grove. While most trees stretched skyward with ambition, chasing the sun, the ventrafig sprawled low and wide, its limbs twisting like lazy serpents. Its leaves were large and fan-shaped, turning yellow weeks before any seasonal change, and they gave off a faint scent of old ink and parchment when crushed underfoot.

Which made them the perfect leaves for Liene to practice transcription on.

She crouched beneath its gnarled canopy now, plucking leaves from the ground and brushing them clean with her sleeve. Beside her sat a small lacquered case filled with narrow inkbrushes and glass vials, as if she were preparing to transcribe ancient lore instead of, apparently, doodling letters onto discarded plant matter.

He didn’t understand the ritual, or the reasoning. He’d watched her do it three times over the past year, always quietly, always with the same serene focus. The leaves she finished writing on were set aside with a kind of reverence, only to be scooped up later and gently tucked into a satchel. None of the professors commented. None of the other students asked, probably aside from her best girl friend Celine. Fabrisse hadn’t either.

Today, though, he’d come with a different kind of question.

He stepped closer, the gravel crunching beneath his boots. Then he said it with all the casualness of someone asking to borrow a quill. “Can I harmonize with you, Liene?”

Her inkbrush froze mid-curve. One of the leaves fluttered from her fingers.

“What?”

“Uh . . .” He scratched his head. “Can we harmonize?”

“W–what?” It came out squeakier the second time.

Fabrisse immediately regretted everything.

“I mean—not like—emotionally emotionally,” he said, lifting both hands like he was trying to calm down a frightened deer. “Just . . . magically. You know. There’s a spell called Harmonization that they teach in Emotional Tuning III.”

Liene’s mouth opened. A flush rose so fast up her neck it looked like someone had dumped red ink down her collar. “Why me? I don’t know how to do it.”

“You just passed Emotional Tuning III . . .” Fabrisse crouched beside her, grabbing the pot before it emptied completely. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just need to try harmonization with someone and you were the only one who—”

“Who what?”

“Who’s expressive with her emotions and not Tom. I figured you’d be good at it.”

Liene narrowed her eyes at him, but the edges of her mouth were already curling upward. The flush on her cheeks lingered, but her voice found its footing again—light, teasing, and just a touch dramatic.

“Oh, I see,” she said, nodding solemnly. “You came to me because I’m expressive and not Tom. Such high praise. Truly, what every girl dreams of hearing.”

“I didn’t mean—”

She held up her hand. “No, no, let’s not ruin it. It’s fine. I’ll try to live up to the towering standard of not being Tom.” Her tone was hurt, but in a mocking manner, and her eyes were twinkling.

He gave her a look. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I mean, you did just interrupt a sacred transcription ritual,” she said, gesturing to the leaves with exaggerated offense. “These were going to say very profound things. Possibly Hope or Do better next time.”

He glanced at the one still in her lap. It read:

“The wind does not ask

if it is wanted

for it brings the scent

of time we flaunted.”

He knew she did poetry in her free time. He just didn’t know she’d write them on leaves. And in italics.

She noticed him staring. “Before you ask,” she said, flicking the corner of the leaf with a finger, “they keep the ink. The leaves, I mean. Once they dry and get pressed, they don’t crumble like regular ones. Something about the oil in ventrafig bark or the sap in the veins. I don’t actually know; I just know it works.”

He kept staring at the leaves. “You’re making a herbarium of emotional damage.”

She looked absolutely delighted. “Exactly! A very delicate, highly flammable anthology of feelings. Would you like to be featured?”

“I’ll pass,” he muttered. “But thanks.”

Liene leaned forward, mischief blooming fast behind her grin. “We could start with something small. I’ll write your most repressed emotion on a leaf and float it down the river. A symbolic release. It’s very therapeutic. Or. Or! We can collect feathers from the eastern rookery at dawn and bind them with ventrafig twine. For reasons.”

Fabrisse narrowed his eyes. “What reasons?”

“Unclear,” she said brightly. “But it feels spiritually important. Come on, wouldn’t you like a feather crown for emotional insight?”

He opened his mouth, but quickly closed it before he blurted out something agreeable and possibly stupid.

For a terrifying second, he was almost about to say yes. She was already reaching for another leaf, poised like a priestess of whimsy. But then he remembered—he wasn’t here for bird feathers or emotional leaf therapy.

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “Harmonization. That’s why I’m here.”

“Oh right,” she said, as if only just remembering. “Thaumaturgy. Less poetic, but sure, let’s ruin the mood. Also, pie?” She pulled from her satchel two mini mulberry pies and handed him one. It was unknown whether she brought pie along with her everywhere.

“Thanks.“ He took it from her. “Well . . . Can you help me with it?”

“I can harmonize, but my skill is Rank II at best, and I have no idea how to teach a spell that complicated,” Liene replied. “Why don’t you ask Lorvan?” She plopped on the ground as she watched Fabrisse munching on a tinier slice of the already tiny mulberry pie.

Fabrisse replied, “He’ll ask me to spend weeks honing my Emotional Tuning. That’s so boring.”

“Well then, maybe we should start with Emotional Tuning first. But you struggle at that too.”

“You don’t have to rub salt into the wound . . .”

She wasn’t wrong. A big part of why he failed so hard at hitting the demon with his Invocation of Grief during last week’s training was that his poor Synaptic Clarity didn’t allow him to align the emotional climax of his fake story with the release of the spell, but he wouldn’t have had to do that had he felt actual emotions to begin with. Many expressive students could still make do with poor control because they still had the needed emotions to cast spells, even if their handling of the spell was lacklustre.

This is the tutorial, glyph! Why are the conditions so hard? Who in their right mind makes an impossible tutorial?

[SYSTEM NOTE: Control of one’s emotion is a basic spellcasting prerequisite.]

[ADDITIONAL NOTE: If you lack both emotional access and control, please consider enrolling in a different field. Suggestions include Rune Copying, Ancient Bureaucratic Theory, or Decorative Divination.]

[SUGGESTION: You may initiate a Tutorial Path Recalibration.]

[Would you like to restart Tutorial Protocol with a more compatible discipline? Recommended paths:

– Procedural Glyph Rendering (Low-Emotion Track)

– Administrative Chantcraft (Audit-Focused)

– Bureaucratic Summoning (Form 12-C Required)]

Hey . . . that actually doesn’t sound that bad.

[WARNING: This choice is permanent. You will become emotionally inert.]

He tapped the prompt away in horror.

Okay, maybe not.

[CONFIRMATION NEEDED: Are you paying attention?]

Yes?

[REMINDER: This interface is referred to as the System, not “glyph.” Terminology adherence ensures proper documentation, accurate troubleshooting, and consistency across all interdepartmental communications. Continued misuse may result in flagged entries.]

Oh, okay. You could’ve told me sooner, System . . .

“I’m not sure anyone can teach Harmonization to you if you don’t have decent Emotional Tuning,” Liene continued. “Why don’t you attend your next Emotional Resonance workshop?”

“I’ve skipped too many of those to understand the methods now.”

Liene exhaled slowly. Fabrisse swore she was resisting the urge to throw the rest of her pie at him. “Then you need a tutor.”

“A what?”

“A tutor. You know, those terrifyingly competent people who get paid to fix your ignorance?”

Fabrisse stopped chewing. “Wait, that’s still allowed?” He thought they’d banned tutoring since a few years ago.

“Yes. We are in the Synod, Fabri. It’s basically half a school and half a talent bazaar.” She tapped her fork against the edge of her plate. “There’s a whole registry of magus-certified tutors—some of them are adjuncts, some are specialists on academic rotation. A few are even senior-year students who passed High Distinction and now make side coins helping lower tiers not explode. Also, they can gain credits that count toward their Mastery Ledger or apprenticeship bids.”

“So I can just . . . book one?”

“Through the Arcanum Registry, yes. If you can afford the fee or barter something useful. Some even offer first-time assessments for free.” She shrugged. “If you’re too scared to ask Lorvan, or if he doesn’t have time, this is literally your only option. Unless you want to keep failing grief spells until a ghost starts coaching you out of pity.”

Fabrisse groaned. “What if they laugh at me?”

“They won’t laugh at you.”

“How much does it cost?”

“I’m not sure. The last time Lorvan tried to get one for me, he forked out 85 copper coins per lesson. I was a first-year then.”

He looked at her, then peered inside his satchel. He only had stones. He then looked into his pocket, and saw one copper coin. One. That was to pay for the pie.

Liene studied him further, then reached over to fix a stray curl that had come loose near his temple. “Silly. What are you afraid of?”

“Huh?”

“If it gets you to study . . .” She grinned. “I’ll lend you money for a lesson. Cool?”

Chapter 110

Lorvan had said there was nothing Fabrisse could do about the lore clerk situation. That it was political, above his clearance, best left alone. But Fabrisse had spent the entire night lying awake, watching the cracks on his ceiling shift with the moonlight, thinking about it over and over again.

By morning, he’d decided—no, resolved—that there was one thing he could do.

He knew Severa Montreal’s schedule. Everyone did, if they were paying attention. Monday morning: open-air thaumaturgy practical, then came her private session in the mirrored tower. There existed a thin gap of time between them, just enough to intercept her without a crowd.

The pulse in Fabrisse’s chest raised as the practical ended and the class began to disperse. He could see her already walking away, one of her aides trailing behind like a shadow. He moved quickly to close the distance, his mind running through the plan on repeat.

Stay calm. Be firm. If it turns angry, fine. Just don’t lose your words. Don’t look small. Don’t give her silence.

He reached the edge of the practice grounds just as she stepped past the eastern gate. The sky was wide and open above them, a wash of pale blue, and the air still purfused with sparks from the spellwork earlier.

“Montreal,” he called.

She turned.

That was all it took.

The moment her poised gaze locked onto him, his throat tightened. His fingers, so tightly clenched a second ago, began to shake. Just a tremble at first, then worse. He tried to hide it by tucking his hand into his coat, but it was too late. He knew she saw it.

She always saw too much.

She said, as if amused, “Is something the matter?”

Fabrisse closed the distance in a few quick steps. “Yes,” he said, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. “There is.”

He inhaled, steadying himself. The words were there. He’d practiced them in the mirror, muttered them into his pillow, rewritten them in his notebook so many times the ink had bled.

He forced his voice to work.

“I saw you the other morning,” Fabrisse said. “Outside the registry antechamber at the Grand Library. You were with—”

“Ah,” she interrupted breezily. “You must mean Renalt. My house assistant.”

“Your house assistant was just appointed as Lore Clerk.” His tone stayed level, but his pulse was a drumbeat in his ears. “He doesn’t even attend the Synod.”

“Oh. Is that what this is about?”

Fabrisse gritted his teeth. “You know exactly what this is about.”

“I really don’t,” she said, tone light as air. “Lore Clerk, you said? Hmm. I had no idea he’d even applied. How ambitious of him.”

“You expect me to believe,” Fabrisse said, voice sharpening now, “that a non-initiate, a house aide with no academic citations or certifications, just happened to secure an appointment within the Synod—and you had nothing to do with it?”

“I expect nothing from you, Kestovar.” Her smile was measured, glacial. “And frankly, you give me too much credit. If I had that kind of sway, I wouldn’t be wasting it on my butler’s butler.”

Fabrisse narrowed his eyes. “You were standing right there. You watched him accept the folio.”

Severa lifted one shoulder in a dainty shrug. “Oh, I might’ve glanced up. But I was reading, Kestovar. You’ll forgive me for not committing your emotional spiral to memory.”

His hands curled into fists. “Stop lying.”

Her smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew ever so slightly, glimmering at the edges like polished ice. “It must be stated, for the record, that I bear no personal hatred toward you, Kestovar.” She tilted her head, studying him as one might a cracked teacup. “If I had any influence over the matter—and I’m not saying I did—it was purely for your well-being.”

“My what?”

She said, almost regretfully. “you’ve relied too long on the patronage of others. Your mentor padded the path for you. This little setback? Consider it an educational correction. You are a perceptive one, Kestovar, but it’s time you learned how to stand on your own two feet.”

He stared at her, stunned. His mind reeled, grasping for a reply—something sharp, something that would land. A retort, a rebuke, anything to break the poised, glacial calm in her voice.

But nothing came up.

“If it helps,” she added with a flutter of her fingers, “I’m sure someone will hire you to shelve scrolls. You do seem to enjoy the library.”

Before he could speak, a low voice interrupted from behind her. “Severa.”

She turned slightly, her expression immediately switched into something much more polished. “Mentor Rubidi,” she said, inclining her head. “I was just finishing up a conversation.”

Then, she turned to Fabrisse with a cool, departing smile. “If you’ll excuse me—” But the words never quite finished.

Fabrisse didn’t know where it came from. Maybe some subterranean vault of anger cracked open at just the right angle. But it surfaced whole, sharp-edged, and brimming with clarity. “You’re worse than me, Montreal,” he said, his voice flint-hard. “Way worse.”

She paused.

“You have five different people tutoring you in their spare hours,” he went on. “Pulling strings behind closed doors, setting up private reviews so you can jump ahead. And then you lecture me about patronage?”

For a moment, her face didn’t move. And then it did, but not in the usual way. There was no smirk, no breezy dismissal, but the shadows of something tightly reined. Her jaw tensed for half a second and her gaze veered past him, but he wasn’t sure where she was looking.

Fabrisse had never seen Severa Montreal speechless before.

And it didn’t last long.

Severa’s mouth parted slightly, but when she spoke, her voice came quick, sharper than before. “You think you know what I’ve been given? Those tutors you mention—I earned every hour of their time. You think they just handed me their secrets out of kindness?” She scoffed, a brittle sound. “You have no idea what it takes to stay ahead.”

Fabrisse took a step forward. “You should see what kind of rot your tutors are hiding behind the scenes. The names they erase. Only then can you come speak to me about morals.”

The proud line of her mouth faltered, tugging downward before she caught it. A faint furrow formed between her brows. Whatever retort she might’ve had caught somewhere behind her teeth, swallowed by something colder, quieter.

Rubidi stepped forward, a long shadow cast across the cobbled path. “Montreal,” she said, with just enough weight to it that she moved.

Severa straightened, turned her back to Fabrisse without a word, and let Rubidi guide her away. But not before the elder thaumaturge gave Fabrisse a sidelong glance, all disdain and condescension, as if trying to remind him of his place with just the angle of a brow.

He’d used up everything—his courage, his breath, whatever reserve of defiance he’d scraped together overnight. And now, with Rubidi’s sneer still hanging in the air like smoke, Fabrisse looked away.

His heart was hammering. His hands trembled anew.

When he finally looked up again, Severa was nearly at the far archway, her posture collected but no longer effortless. Walking just a pace behind her now stood a man Fabrisse didn’t recognize.

Tall, with a posture too formal to be local, the stranger moved with a precision that suggested military discipline, or maybe the etiquette of some far-flung court. His skin was a warm bronze tone, and his features were sharp in a way that made them look carved, not grown: hawkish nose, angled cheekbones, and eyes that gleamed with a gold-flecked amber even in the shade of the cloister.

He looked like someone who came from the Kingdom of Raza. He looked like he held a surname that didn’t belong to any old houses in the capital.

He looked like High Instructant Ratuk Mustafa.

It took only a second.

One second where Fabrisse’s eyes met the man’s.

One second where memory flared, unbidden and feral: of iron pressure locking around his ribs, of the taste of copper in his mouth as his vision was swapped with darkness, of the streak of black that had flown at him like a spear. 

And in that moment, those gold-flecked irises—so elegant, so composed—eclipsed into black.

Fabrisse couldn’t breathe.

A dozen reasons for panic bloomed in him at once, too many to grab. His mouth opened, then closed again. No air came. 

And just as quickly, the man looked away.

The wind suddenly sounded too loud in his ears.

Chapter 109

“Ganvar struggles with mass disturbance spells.” Rimmar said as he morphed into the shadows, blending himself into the corner of the room.

Tommaso and Ilya’s quarters were technically rented Synod property, but stepping through the threshold felt like walking into a hidden world stitched together from heat and . . . frost. The layout was standard issue: a single sitting room with a kitchenette and a bedroom tucked behind a sliding panel. But that was where the conformity ended.

A wrought-iron chandelier hung askew from the ceiling, its candles replaced by rune-lit bottles that glowed orange and blue. Playing cards scattered across every available surface: tables, windowsills, a half-melted basin, even tucked between books on the single overloaded shelf. Empty tumblers shared space with vials of frostvine bitters and ember-aged whiskey, one of which was still smoking. A bearskin rug, enchanted against flame, sprawled under a coffee table made from reclaimed spellstone that crackled faintly with residual heat and cold. The couch looked like it had once been elegant velvet, now faded and singed at the edges, a patchy throw blanket of stitched-together bar towels and silky shawls draped over the back.

The room was an organized mess.

“They actually live together,” Fabrisse murmured. He hadn’t expected that. It wasn’t unheard of among the citizens of the Kingdom of Raemhold, but it wasn’t common either. Most pairs didn’t last long enough to risk that level of permanence. The few who did were either reckless or deeply committed. Possibly both.

Ilya had collapsed face-first onto the bed in full uniform, boots still on, one arm dangling off the edge like she’d simply short-circuited. Her silver-blonde braid was slightly unraveling, and the corner of her coat had caught on the pillow, but she didn’t seem to care. Or notice. Or possibly even exist on the same plane anymore. But Tommaso had never once commented on how odd she was.

I don’t think she’s drunk, Fabrisse thought to himself, but she acts like she’s drunk all the time.

Tommaso sat backwards on a chair, arms slung over the backrest, legs kicked out to the side, like even sitting was something he refused to do the normal way. A burnt-orange scarf hung from one wrist. “What kind of mass disturbance?” He asked.

Rimmar, still half-shadow, didn’t answer right away. It took another second for him to speak up, “She doesn’t like erratic movement, say, stuff flying around in unpredictable arcs. Anything that doesn’t follow a clean trajectory can scramble her. She deliberately cast safe during those portions of practical tests, so you wouldn’t know she’s bad at it if you vet her past performances.”

Tommaso leaned back slightly, tilting the chair on two legs. The balance was ridiculous. He didn’t seem concerned. “I think I have a few ideas.”

Fabrisse felt particularly concerned about this one detail, but Tommaso took the words out of his mouth before he decided to speak, “Though. Why come to us? Why are you offering to help?”

“I have reasons to believe she’s the one targeting you, or at least contributing to opening the shadowfolds,” Rimmar spoke without pause. “All she ever did was take away from the weak. I won’t allow that.”

“What did she do?” Fabrisse asked.

“She tutors. She offers guidance to first-years, apprentices, even late bloomers, and volunteers to ‘help them realize their potential.’ You must’ve seen her ridiculously low rate. But have you seen her list of past students?”

“No . . .”

“They’re ones that can cast rare element or hybrid spells since their formation years. Blood; flesh; silk; energy, to name a few. The ones with odd resonances—ones the Synod hasn’t fully mapped or understands poorly.”

Tommaso’s chair dropped flat to the ground with a soft thud.

Rimmar went on. “They trust her. She’s patient at first. Kind, even. And then, during those one-on-one sessions, she starts to draw. Not just spells—she siphons the resonance itself. Not all at once. Just enough that the student begins to feel off. Sluggish. Scattered. And most never realize it’s not just exhaustion or burnout. It’s her, rewiring them piece by piece for someone else’s research.”

“She alters them?” Fabrisse asked, voice low.

“She hollows them,” Rimmar said. “The gifts they’re born with start to fade. Sometimes, she changes them forever.” He extended a hand from the darkness. “Look at me.” 

The shape of Rimmar’s hand resolved, barely catching the room’s strange mix of light. The hand looked burned out of existence, its outline blurred and wavering like a mirage. Fabrisse could see his languid skin, but no visible veins or knuckles—just a silhouette of fingers made from pure black, not like ink or shadow, but like something that refused to reflect light at all. A nothingness carved into space.

“I didn’t ask for darkness,” Rimmar said. “My innate affinity was Metal. Don’t be surprised if she could shoot steel. In fact, be careful of any variation of ‘Pierce of the Iron Saint’. That used to be my skill.”

Fabrisse swallowed.

“Sounds like she deserves to be burned at the stakes,” Tommaso said as he glanced over at Fabrisse, who was just staring at Rimmar.

“She doesn’t even bother to hide it afterward,” Rimmar added. “Once they’re no longer useful, her mask slips. There’s contempt there, like they were stupid for trusting her, like they deserved it. She’s that kind of person.”

“Why has nobody ever reported her?” Tommaso asked.

“Most of them got removed from the Synod after the extraction was complete, before they could do anything. Whoever is behind her is very powerful.”

The warmth of the room suddenly became so distant and thin. The words were still echoing, but it was the tone that struck him more. Rimmar’s voice wasn’t angry. It was flat. He got used to it.

He wanted to disbelieve; wanted to think that Rimmar was the one lying all along. But his mind wandered to the memory of Rolen’s disgusted face as he shattered the small quartz crystal Ganvar had given him. The one that had contained active, invasive tracking. 

His throat tasted like copper. He raised a hand to his mouth to stop the wave of nausea that crept up his chest like bile. How could someone do that? How could a person wear compassion like a cloak, only to peel it back once they’d harvested what they wanted?

What if it had been me?

What if someone had taken his Stone affinity? The stillness he felt holding a piece of polished Stupenstone, the joy in identifying a rare shard of sun-crystal buried in the rubble of a riverbank, the thrill of coaxing out a structure’s memory with a tap of his fingers. 

Then what would be, of me?

Maybe Rimmar had been an entirely different person before all this.

Tommaso’s voice slapped Fabrisse back to reality, “Rimmar did have an affinity to Metal during his foundation years, Fabri. It’s confirmed in the documentation.” Then he tapped on the side of the table with his knuckle. “Damn.”

Rimmar had retracted his pitch black hand, and it was Fabrisse’s turn to stare at his own. He activated Stonesway, and three of his Stupenstones floated out of his satchel and swung around in an orbit.

There was no room for doubt. He would take Ganvar down. And he would need strength to do that.

Chapter 108

There was no longer anyone around. Well, except for Ilya, who was resting her back against an oak tree, a book in her hand. Her raven was perched on her shoulder, peeking at her book like it could read. But having Ilya around felt very much like having no one around.

“Uh . . . Can you help me with Stone spellcasting then?” Fabrisse scratched his head.

“I don’t get paid for that.” She said as she flicked a giant floating snowflake over to Fabrisse.

He dodged the snowflake as he muttered, “But you do nothing much anyway . . .”

She said with her voice unchanged, “I’m not a good teacher. But Ardefiamme can help you.”

“He’s not here.”

“He’s not here, yet,” Ilya corrected him.

“Huh?”

A swirling flame, no larger than a coin, spun through the clearing like a playful firefly. It traced a looping arc overhead before descending and fizzing out in a puff of ale-scented smoke just above Fabrisse’s nose.

Tommaso strolled into view, his coat trailing smoke like he'd just stepped off a battlefield. Unlike his usual full-blown infernos, this display was almost tasteful—if you ignored the tiny embers still dancing around his boots. 

“I heard someone was in need of a stone spellcasting consultant,” he said, placing extra flair on the last word.

Fabrisse stared at him. “How do you always show up like this?”

“Like what?” he asked. “Last time I didn’t bring ale.”

“Where—”

Tommaso reached into the folds of his coat and pulled out a sweating bottle of ale. He gave it a reverent look, then popped it open with a flick of his thumb. The cap vanished in a puff of sparks.

He took a long chug, then leaned one elbow against the crooked wooden sign just behind him. NO ALCOHOL ON DORM GROUNDS, it read in stern red lettering, partially obscured now by the lazy drift of smoke curling off his sleeves.

Tommaso exhaled with a satisfied “Ahhh,” then glanced up at the sign. “Oh,” he said. “This still here?” Then he reached into another coat pocket and pulled out another bottle of ale. “You want one?”

The bottle in Tommaso’s hand froze and zipped to the side, trailing a fine mist of snowflakes, straight into Ilya’s waiting hand. She didn’t look up from her book as she caught it.

Tommaso grinned. “Good call! It’s better when it’s cold.”

“No alcohol on dorm grounds,” she said as she stood and closed her book with one hand. Then, without another word, ice bloomed beneath her feet like a spreading flower, lifting her effortlessly into the air. She glided upward and over the campus fence, leaving behind a sparkling trail.

She touched down just past the boundary marker, cracked the bottle open with her thumb, and took a long drink.

Tommaso watched her go with something like admiration. “Elegant and responsible. That’s a fineeee combo.”

For two people who claimed to be in a relationship, Fabrisse didn’t think he’d ever seen these two engaged in anything remotely romantic.

Then Tommaso turned back to Fabrisse, wagging the remaining bottle invitingly. “C’mon. Just one. It builds character.”

Quite a character Fabrisse became the last time he’d drunk . . .

“Don’t you know what’s happening in two days?” Fabrisse asked.

“Of course I’m aware.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t be drinking right now?”

Tommaso held the bottle out like a peace offering. “Exactly why we should. The more stressed you are, the more reason to let loose. That’s basic spellcaster logic.”

“That’s not logic. That’s a coping mechanism.”

Tommaso raised the bottle to his lips. “Potato, flaming potato,” he said, then took a long, showy gulp.

Fabrisse folded his arms. “I’m serious. I have two days to learn something useful, and I’ll get it done with or without your help.”

Tommaso raised an eyebrow as the bottle paused halfway to his mouth. “If you’re so serious, tell me what you’re vying for.”

Fabrisse flipped through the pages of the books he’d consulted, pointing out specifically the path he wanted to take: Tremblehold into Faultweave.

“Boring,” Tommaso interrupted, waving the bottle. “You know what you need? Pebblecast.”

“Why?” Fabrisse asked.

Tommaso jabbed a finger in the air triumphantly. “It’s super fast to cast and doesn’t require any emotion. Faultweave requires neutral emotions, which isn’t a high bar to cast, but neither Shame nor Joy are neutral emotions. Also, how am I going to contribute to tilting the ground and making it look cool at the same time?”

“We don’t have to make it look cool.”

“You launch those pebbly little needles; I turn them into miniature lava blades. Boom. Instant collaboration. That’s synergy, my friend.”

“. . . Can you help me with Tremblehold?”

Tommaso stared at him for another while and said, “Fine.” Then he craned his neck and drank the last of the ale. “I’ve already smoldered the cork. Guess this is the only choice.”

***

“Repeat this sequence, man. It ain’t that hard.” Tommaso mimicked the gesture he'd skimmed from Anabeth’s book. He hadn’t even seen Celine model the movement earlier, yet somehow, he was already closer to getting it right than Fabrisse.

Guess it isn’t much trouble for someone so fast, Fabrisse thought. His Spectral Appraisal had returned Tommaso’s two physical attributes: STR 69 and DEX 89. Fabrisse had been somewhat proud of his 11 DEX, and until he realized what that kind of gap actually looked like. He simply could not comprehend how it felt to be eight times more dexterous.

He planted his feet and tried to follow the sequence, and do all of that without shifting weight to the back leg or tilting the spine more than five degrees. The moment he reached the third motion, his body felt like it had locked up in protest. The angle made no sense. His knee wanted to rotate with the hip, but the shoulder demanded the opposite. His spine tried to help and only made everything worse. It felt less like a casting form and more like trying to assemble furniture from directions written by a sadist.

“This is worse than Faultweave,” he muttered, gritting his teeth. He regretted spending 5 Mastery points on Tremblehold already.

Tommaso, by contrast, flowed through the movements again with casual precision. His body moved like it remembered the shape before his mind did—shoulders rolling with whip-smooth ease, knees gliding into stance like they had practice on a different axis of gravity.

It’s actually ridiculous how Stone spells require ridiculous dexterity to get done right, he thought, but he got that he had to nail the area of effect. Stone is stable, weighty, and resistant to rapid change. Launching a stone is a different matter, but to shape or command existing shapes effectively with magic, a caster must coax it into motion through very specific geometric patterns, almost like guiding tectonic energy along faultlines.

“Tier III and IV spells require much more complex patterns than this,” Tommaso said as he repeated the sequence. “So you better get used to it. You’re doing better already.”

Fabrisse exhaled and centered his stance, or at least what felt like center. He completed the sequence and cast the spell. A muted thrum pulsed from his hand into the ground, but it wasn’t sharp; it staggered like a hiccup. 

[Mastery Execution Summary: Tremblehold (Rank I)]

→ Effectiveness Rating: 55%

→ Grounding Stance Deviation: 23° from recommended axis

→ Net Area Disruption: 1.1m² out of possible 2.0m²

→ Effective Duration: 1.4s (Reduced from 3s)

→ Instability Pressure: 42% of target threshold (DEX checks unlikely to be imposed on average targets)

Fabrisse clenched his jaw and muttered, “Self-directed Query Invocation.”

Semi-transparent projections of himself re-enacted the cast in a glowing, fragmented sequence. Each motion left behind drifting Sparks—residue markers of spell alignment and Aetheric timing.

There—a cluster of nearly transparent sparks flared out from his left hip during transition. And near the tail end of the form, another set of yellow flickers bled from his casting hand, flaring after the pulse had already fired.

So he still released the spell late. His knees were too wide, his back foot came up a moment too early, and the activation spark from his palm lagged behind the grounding pulse by what looked like almost a full second. His stance had thrown everything off.

[Mastery Training: Tremblehold (Rank I)—Progress to Rank II: 6.9%]

[Mastery Training: Self-directed Query Invocation (Rank I)—Progress to Rank II: 8%]

“Fix the stance and your movements will get better. You don’t need a Query Invocation to tell you that,” Tommaso walked up to him. 

But it will help me tonight, when I pull an all-nighter to train, Fabrisse thought.

Fabrisse squinted up, only now noticing the orange spill of sunset across the clouds. The long shadow of the training pylon had stretched halfway across the field without him realizing.

“Is it really almost sundown?”

Tommaso tilted his head. “Time flies when your knees are at war with your spine.”

Fabrisse exhaled a short laugh, wiping sweat off his brow. “Hey, uh . . . Do you mind sticking around for a while? Maybe like . . . three more hours? I’ve gotta get this sequence locked before it burns a crater in my brain.”

Tommaso gave him a look like he’d just asked if air was optional. “Why not? I was called back to hang out with my best buddy anyway.” He ruffled Fabrisse’s hair, smirking. “If Lorvan’s too busy brooding in a library tower or being a cryptic ass, that makes me your official stand-in mentor.”

Fabrisse slapped the hand away, half-smiling. “Then where were you the past few days, huh?”

Tommaso’s grin thinned. “Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Well, have you heard from Professor Kaldrin?”

“I’ve heard many things . . .”

“About the . . .” He looked around, and when he saw there was no one but Ilya, mouthed soundlessly. “Investigation team.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Your friend’s been following you around. We should pay him a visit.”

“Friend? You mean Celine?”

“No. I’ve tracked Celine for a day, and she only snapped sketch-scrolls of the Synod’s Skybrace team like a tabloid hawk.”

“Then who?”

“Well, him.” Tommaso nodded toward a tall pylon across the field, half-shrouded by the creeping dusk near the dorm garden’s edge.

Fabrisse opened his mouth to ask again, but the hairs on his arms prickled.

A sliver of motion peeled away from the pylon’s shadow. The outline of a figure in a dull charcoal cloak emerged, not by stepping forward, but by letting the veil of shade roll off him in strips. For a moment, it was impossible to tell where the shadow ended and the spell began.

“Excellent stealth spell for a third-year student, Rimmar Ciemnosc,” Tommaso said, “What’s your business?”

Rimmar Ciemnosc stepped into full view. Ilya, standing to the side of the training field, glanced at Tommaso and gave a short nod.

Tommaso inclined his head in return, then leaned toward Fabrisse and muttered under his breath, “He’s not casting spells anymore. No malice, for now.”

Rimmar kept walking, each step unhurried but even. “I’m just here to lend a hand,” he said. “No one’s following me, or stalking you. But go ahead, see for yourself.”

Audio Book Narration

My friend, who’s in acting school and is practicing to become a voice actor, has generously spent his time to narrate Chapter 13, a fan favorite chapter, for us. If you wish to listen to the audio version of Chapter 13, feel free to do so here and let me know what you think of his performance!

Chapter 107

“Huh? Copy?” Celine tilted her head. “Faultweave won’t trigger unless you’ve properly learned Tremblehold.”

“I know,” he replied. “But I’m not trying to cast it. I just need to copy the motion. I think that’s the last piece.”

She gave him a skeptical look but didn’t stop him. “Alright,” she said slowly. “But don’t twist your knee. The stance sequencing’s weird if you’re not used to it.”

Fabrisse nodded, then took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for half a second, recalling her movements in sequence: the weight pressed into the left foot, the subtle wrist flex, the delay.

The ground stayed still. He thought he’d missed a couple steps, but he could tell exactly what he’d done wrong: he didn’t shake his fingers. That understanding might’ve been enough.

[Observation Progress—Faultweave: 100%]
[NEW SPELL REGISTERED: Faultweave (Tier II)]

Faultweave (Rank II)
Type: Active (Instant)
Tags: Disruption / Strategic Control
Element: Earth (Directed Vibration)

Prerequisite: Tremblehold & Granule Drift

Casting Requirement: Mastery of Tremblehold and Granule Drift; SYN ≥ 12

Aetheric Reaction Equation: 30% Emotional Channeling (Neutral Emotions) +  30% Sequencing Speed + 15% Mineral-based Terrain + 15% Synchronization +10 Grounding Stance → Tremblehold

Effect:
Generates a microburst field that subtly redirects the balance of affected targets within a 3.5m² zone. Unlike Tremblehold, this spell allows the caster to manipulate directional instability—nudging, slipping, or rotating the target’s posture at precise angles.

Affected targets must pass a DEX check (DEX = 12 + Caster’s INT modifier (+1 DEX per 10 INT) or suffer Disadvantage on attack actions or reactive movements (e.g., dodges, parries, counters) for up to 6 seconds.

If the target is mid-motion (e.g., jumping, stepping, pivoting), they may be lightly displaced (max 0.3m) or forced off balance, possibly interrupting techniques or combos.

Channeling Control Check: Required on first successful cast: DEX + INT ≥ 20 to stabilize the field without backlash.

Cooldown: 15 seconds.

“I think I’ve got it,” Fabrisse murmured.

“You’ve learned the spell?” Celine asked. 

“No. But I think I’ve learned how it worked. I can unlock it later.”

“What do you mean ‘unlock’?”

Fabrisse froze for a bit too long. Why did I say that? She’s not supposed to know about the Eidralith. “Ah—sorry. Bad phrasing. I mean I’ll try to recreate it later, on my own terms. You know. Practice until it clicks. Haha.” He gave a half-laugh that sounded more like a cough and quickly looked down, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Riiiight.” Celine squinted. “I only let you off the hook because I know better than to dig into it again.”

“Are there any Tier 3 spells in the book?”

“There are. But I can’t cast them. I didn’t plan on delving that deep into Stone Thaumaturgy, you know.”

Well, there goes my hope of learning more high-level spells, he thought. If he couldn’t observe someone cast a spell, he’d have a hard time registering it.

He needed a distraction, so he asked, “So . . . what’s gotten you into Stone Thaumaturgy? Very few people choose it as an elective.”

Celine shrugged, accepting the change of subject. “Yeah, it’s supposed to be difficult. But Anabeth’s lineage has training methods that basically shortcut the hard part. They’ve been tuning their affinity for generations. So learning lower-tier Stone stuff is barely harder than Water, if you’re in the know.”

“That’s a terrifying advantage.”

“Oh yeah. But Stone’s not the end goal.” She held up two fingers. “I’m building out from Stone and Fire. Once I’ve got both tuned, I’ll be able to access Crystal derivatives.”

“That’s cool.” Fabrisse nodded.

Celine nodded along, her eyes lighting up a bit. “Right; right? It’s miles beyond basic Stone. Crystals are structured but responsive. They don’t need to be shaped the way raw Stone does, and they practically grow themselves if you thread the aether right. If you do Fire well, I’d recommend going with that hybrid affinity too.”

A sharp voice cut across the clearing. “Hey, guys. How are you doing?”

Fabrisse stiffened. Celine’s smile froze.

Liene strolled over with an easy smile, but there was a tightness behind her eyes that didn’t match her tone. She stopped a few steps away, hands clasped behind her back like she was simply taking a walk. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. It looked like you two were having fun.” Her gaze lingered on the half-formed glyphs in the dust. “Stone practice, huh? Interesting. Pretty sure that wasn’t on anyone’s schedule today.”

Celine blinked. “Right. That’s—yeah. I totally spaced.”

“We all did,” Fabrisse mumbled, suddenly aware of how warm his collar felt.

“Oh, no worries,” Liene said lightly. “I was just waiting by the east steps, just for fifteen minutes! Y’know. For the thing. The thing we planned.” She gave Fabrisse a pointedly cheerful smile. “Alchemy Tower?”

Celine clasped her cheeks. “I, ah, I forgot! Sorry. We can still go now, right?”

“You forgot. It’s fine! You both just . . . forgot.” Liene’s smile tightened.

“I didn’t!” Celine stiffened. “I just—uh—we should go now! Let’s go!” She glanced at Fabrisse, then turned to Liene with an apologetic grin. “I’ll grab my stuff—come on, we can still make it, yeah?”

Without waiting for an answer, she gave Fabrisse a quick wave, half-guilty and half-encouraging. “Keep it up! You’re on a roll.”

She dashed off toward the eastern steps, leaving a small puff of dust behind.

Liene stayed put.

She turned slowly to Fabrisse, still wearing a faint smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes anymore.

“I heard you’re re-taking your Synaptic Control practical,” she said. “You’re really tryharding now, huh?”

“Uh, yeah.”

The silence dragged out, long enough to make Fabrisse feel uncomfortable.

“You’re studying hard; that’s great!” Her voice lifted just slightly too high to sound natural. “But hey, maybe you’ll have time in like three days? Just a bit? Pie shop or something?”

Fabrisse hesitated. Three days . . . He might be busy. Especially with the Void thing going on . . . He might be super busy, and possibly in danger, actually. He wished he could’ve told Liene about this, but Archmagus Rolen had made it clear: nobody could tell anyone about the incident. And he was going to follow that warning religiously. Liene was just a student like him; she wasn’t well-equipped to deal with this level of threat. Dragging her into trouble would be the last thing Fabrisse wanted.

Then the obvious choice would just be to decline the plan or at least propose another date. But saying no felt weirdly difficult. Not because he couldn’t, but because it was Liene asking.

He scratched the side of his neck. “Let me . . . check my schedule?”

That wasn’t a yes. But it wasn’t a no, either.

Liene grinned like it was the best answer in the world. “Okay! I’ll remind you when the day comes.”

Before he could say anything else, she leaned in and gave his cheek a light pinch, briefer than usual.

“Don’t flake on me, Mister ‘I Forgot,’” she said. “Pie shop. I’m serious.”

“Will Tom be there?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll be.” Tom probably wouldn’t be there.

And just like that, she turned and jogged off in the same direction Celine had gone, her hair bun bouncing behind her.

Fabrisse exhaled slowly and stared at the glyphs in the dust, the lines now smudged from Celine’s footsteps.

He wasn’t sure if that went well or not.

Chapter 106

“I think you should learn this one.” Celine flipped to a specific page in Anabeth’s book with the confidence of someone who’d dog-eared it in her heart. Her finger landed beneath a spell diagram scrawled in rough charcoal: Pebbleburst.

“It’s so satisfying,” she said, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “It’s like—like hurling a rock but it shatters midair and rains down as sharp little fragments. It’s great for crowd control, or just for flair. I used it to stop a thief once. He ran away swatting at his own face.”

Fabrisse leaned in, studying the glyphs. It did sound useful, and it had a certain chaotic elegance to it, but . . . he hesitated. The spell seemed to hinge on speed and flick reflexes, with lots of quick gestures and momentary targeting. It wasn’t the kind of grounded, structured magic he’d imagined himself pursuing, but more like something a sprinter would cast as they leapt.

“It’s so flashy,” Celine beamed, already flipping to a companion page. “It pairs perfectly with Cragscatter, look—”

“Celine,” he muttered. “You overestimated my athleticism.”

Fabrisse explained his expectations in the spells he wanted to learn. Celine listened intently until the end.

“Okay, okay,” she said, gently closing the page on Pebbleburst with a soft flap. “You’re more pressure-and-anchor than razzle-dazzle. Got it.”

She flipped a few pages back, then forward, then back again, muttering under her breath. “I don’t use a lot of trapping spells, but there’s one that might be up your alley.”

Her finger landed on a layered diagram titled Tremblehold.

“It’s kind of like setting a passive tension zone,” she said, tapping the corner. “You anchor it to the ground, and if anyone steps into the radius, the spell pulses and destabilizes their balance. It’s not a full trap like a snare or net, but it messes with footing. Super disorienting.”

“How is it different from Granule Drift?” He asked.

Celine perked up. “Good question! Granule Drift spreads stone into fine particulates, like sand or ash. It’s great for slowing people down, but it’s more of a surface effect. Tremblehold works deeper. It pulses through the ground itself. Like—” she wiggled her fingers, “—the terrain goes ugh under their feet. Throws off their center of gravity. It’s sneakier.”

Fabrisse raised an eyebrow. “Can you show me?”

Celine’s grin sharpened. “Sure.”

There was a beat of silence.

“. . . Not on me.”

Too late. She was already stepping back with a bounce in her heels, fingers weaving a practiced shape through the air. “Oh come on, you’re standing on the perfect patch of gravel. Just a light pulse.”

“Celine—”

The glyph flared beneath him before he could finish. At first, nothing happened.

Then the ground betrayed him.

His stance wobbled. A deep thrumming rippled through the gravel beneath him, low and sudden, like a distant drumbeat striking through stone. Pebbles skittered against his boots without rolling. Fabrisse tilted left, then forward, then back, as if the terrain couldn’t decide which direction was ‘down.’ It felt like he was on a lurching boat.

He flailed, caught himself with a sharp inhale, then glared.

“That was rude.”

“No, that was Tremblehold, Rank II,” her grin widened.

Fabrisse adjusted his footing, still mildly rattled. “Can you do it again,” he said flatly. “But not on me this time? I want to see the shape of the cast.”

Celine clasped her hands behind her back, utterly unrepentant. “Sure, sure. For science.”

She scanned the nearby gravel, then stepped a few paces to the side. With a small breath, she rolled her shoulders and fluidly brought her hands up. Her fingers curled then swept down in a hooked crescent as her thumb flicked a sharp crosscut. The motion looked deceptively gentle, almost like she was coaxing a thread loose from the air.

The ground lurched with a subtle, traitorous pulse. The pebbles didn’t bounce so much as jitter. It was like watching a heartbeat travel through soil. Fabrisse could imagine the exact moment their balance would have shifted sideways.

“There’s no mnemonic?” He asked.

“Anabeth’s spells don’t ever have mnemonics. She just thinks about casting them,” Celine replied.

[NEW TIER I SPELL REGISTERED: Tremblehold]

Tremblehold (Rank I)
Type: Active (Instant)
Tags: Disruption / Tactical Control
Element: Earth (Vibration)
Casting Time: 2.5 seconds
Cooldown: 3 rounds

Aetheric Reaction Equation: 38% Mineral-based Terrain +  32% Sequencing Speed + 15% Grounding Stance + 15% Synchronization → Tremblehold

Effect:
Emits a shallow seismic pulse through a 2m² patch of ground. For the next 3 seconds, the targeted terrain subtly shifts in microbursts, causing instability in footing. Affected creatures must make a DEX check (DEX = 10 + Caster’s INT modifier) or become momentarily unbalanced (imposing Disadvantage on movement or precision actions until their next turn).

Effective Depth: 0.3 meters
Displacement Pattern: Irregular, lateral (non-damaging)

Perception Difficulty:
Most targets will not recognize the source unless they witnessed the casting.

Channelling Stability Check: DEX ≥ 10 & FOR ≥ 4 to prevent cast distortion when under pressure.

Limitations:

• Ineffective on liquid, enchanted terrain, or floating platforms
  
  

• No effect on creatures that are flying, hovering, or have Tremorsense
  
  

• Only disrupts footing—does not cause falling or direct damage
  
  

Casting Requirement: SYN ≥ 6

The spell is great for Rank I, Fabrisse thought. Sure, it didn’t pin the opponents down like Stonebind did, but Rank I Stonebind could only pin down small creatures anyway. The radius of the effect was greater, and the opponent had to go through a harder DEX check. He’d already cleared the casting requirement, too.

The equation looked great, too. He wasn’t sure what Sequencing Speed would entail, but that seemed to rely heavily on DEX. The quicker and more precise he could move, the better the effect would be.

He glanced at the spell again, tracing the displacement pattern with his thumb. “Is there a higher-ranked version of this? Something it branches into?”

“There is, actually,” Celine said brightly. “If you master Tremblehold and Granule Drift, you can unlock Faultweave. It’s a Tier II spell.”

“Faultweave?”

“Mhm. It lets you control the microbursts more precisely—so instead of just making people trip, you can steer their footing just enough to ruin their balance right before they strike. Some casters use it defensively. Others use it to line up enemies for a bigger spell. It’s pretty flexible.”

Fabrisse asked her to demonstrate. Celine nodded, and a grin later, the floor suddenly became super slippery and titled at a weird angle. One of his feet slid half an inch out, then the other compensated, only to find itself tricked again. It wasn’t violent, but it was annoyingly unpredictable, like walking on jelly over a tilted floorboard.

He stumbled two steps back before catching himself against a nearby tree.

Celine clasped her hands behind her back innocently. “That one had a bit of Faultweave in it. Do you feel the difference?”

“Yeah, but! Can you stop casting spells on me . . .”

“Okay, okay,” Celine said, laughing. “Watch the ground over there then.”

She pointed a few paces to the side, where a patch of pebbles was slightly raised, scattered with fallen leaves. Fabrisse focused on it.

Granules of sand rolled in spirals, gleaming like they had been dunked in water, before settling half a foot from where they’d started. Then came a softer second, more refined pulse. The ground flexed and tilted, not uniformly, but in a localized curve. It was the opposite of a quake; no violence, only a traitorous slide across the surface tension of solid matter.

[WARNING: INT insufficient. Please repeat the observation and find out key spellcasting sequencing.]

“I missed it?” he muttered. Maybe he needed to observe Celine’s stance. He was obviously not intuitively sound enough to figure out how to cast a spell just from looking at how the ground flexed.

“Did you watch me?” Celine asked.

“Obviously not . . .” He exhaled. “Can you do it again?”

Celine stepped back into a neutral stance. She moved lightly, then did a half-step twist like she was kneading the air underfoot. Her fingers shook and her wrist flexed a little. Then she syncopated a beat of motion: left foot press, fingers twitch, pause, then the pulse. 

The terrain responded as before, but this time, Fabrisse saw the pattern behind the effect.

[Observation Progress—Faultwave: 57%]

Still not enough.

“Again.”

Celine gave him a look—half amused, half surprised at his seriousness—but didn’t argue. She attempted the spell again, slower this time, almost demonstrative. He watched the staggered rhythm: how her core stayed centered while her limbs made the adjustments. The spell wasn’t brute force. It was timing, micro-adjustments, pressure modulation.

[Observation Progress—Faultweave: 89%]

[Note: Core synchronization required to finalize imprint. Would you like to attempt a cast?]

Fabrisse’s fingers flexed at his side. He stepped forward and rolled his shoulders once.

“I’m gonna try copying yours,” he said.

Chapter 105

“You cannot be serious.” Fabrisse stared at Greg Johnson in disbelief. Liene burst out laughing so hard that she started snorting like a piglet.

“I-is that a person?” Celine said, this time in a hoarse whisper. She had now abandoned her poise and simply stood rooted to the ground like a miscast petrification spell had taken full effect.

“I just said his name. . .” Fabrisse murmured.

It wasn’t like this was the first time Fabrisse had seen Greg shirtless. Greg was his roommate, after all. But it felt like the first time every time. Like Greg was hiding some cursed-level glamor spell that only wore off under very specific, sweat-drenched conditions. 

Fabrisse had lived with the guy for nearly a year. He’d watched him go to class, go home, read theory, go to class again, annotate entire textbooks with incomprehensible sigils, and repeat the cycle without deviation. Greg’s diet was exclusively functional—grains, broth, nutrient bricks, and one alarming week where he subsisted entirely on fortified jelly cubes for ‘cognitive clarity.’ He never trained, never lifted, never so much as touched a resistance charm.

That was not a body built on fortified jelly cubes.

“Why are you outside, Greg?” Fabrisse asked.

Greg narrowed his eyes, as though the question had to travel through several layers of analytical filtration before reaching an answer.

“I live here,” he replied.

“Then why are you . . .”

“Naked at the top?” Greg glanced down at his bare chest, then back up at Fabrisse, blinking slowly like he was the one confused. “I removed my shirt to regulate core temperature while drafting my essay on emotional sweat as a regulatory mechanism in thaumaturgic focus.”

Celine made a soft strangled sound in the back of her throat. Liene wheezed.

Fabrisse didn’t answer.

Greg continued, “It’s titled Perspiration and Precision: Cognitive Clarity through Dermal Venting. Preliminary results are promising. The clarity spike post-sweat onset was statistically significant.”

Fabrisse didn’t answer.

“Now, if you no longer have any questions, I’ll be on my way. I need to annotate the results before the perspiration dries.”

“Hi Greg!” Liene waved at him in a voice that sounded suspiciously cheerful. “Remember me? I scaled the window and climbed into your dorm room the other day!”

“Oh, yes.” Greg looked her way. “You’re Fabrisse’s girl . . . friend.”

“There’s a friend over here that really wants to get to know you!” Liene chirped. “She’s just a little bit shy and doesn’t talk much, but she’s really into writing essays on dermal venting!”

Celine yelped as Liene shoved her forward with both hands. She stumbled a step and immediately clutched her chest.

“Hi!” Celine said.

“You also conduct perspiration analysis?” Greg asked.

“Yes. I mean. I could. Under the right mentorship.”

“Good. I need a subject for my perspiration consistency log. Preferably one who exhibits strong emotive outbursts under social stress.”

“You guys could perspire together!” Liene added. Celine glared at her with reasonable murderous intent.

Fabrisse slowly walked backward inside the dorm. 

Unfortunately, Celine saw his backward shuffling and dashed at him, grabbing his arm like a lifeline. “Fabrisse! I need you for something!”

“What?”

“It is something important and we really need to talk between ourselves, away from outside influence,” she spoke as loudly as possible, preferably for everyone to hear. Her words came out at a volume so loud that maybe even Lorvan (who’d strategically vanished from the scene) could hear it from inside his quarter.

“Okay . . . But I need a third-party observer.”

“There’s your observer!” Celine pointed to the far end of the road. Ilya Snezhnaya showed up just in time, this time with a donut on her hand, to deny Fabrisse any chance of backing out.

“Sure.”

“Let’s get out of here . . .” Celine hurriedly pushed Fabrisse away from the horror scene.

Liene called after them as they jogged off. “Celine! Next time we come over, make sure to strike a pose and say ‘we’re just academic partners’!”

***

Fabrisse had thought Celine only needed an excuse to remove herself from that embarrassing mess she’d gotten herself into, but it turned out she actually had something to talk about.

“I asked Anabeth if she had any book on Stone Thaumaturgy that she could give you. Here’s what she’s got.” She sat down next to him at the bench as she gave him the book.

Fabrisse glanced at it. It was small, bound in faded ochre leather, and entirely unmarked—no title, no author, no publisher’s insignia. Only when he tilted it into the light did faint embossing emerge along the spine: Sedimentary Syntax and the Secrets Beneath.

He whispered, “I’ve never heard of this.”

“You wouldn’t have.” Celine put her hands behind her back. “It’s not in general circulation. Anabeth said this one’s passed down through her bloodline—Stone-bonded inheritance or something like that. So don’t go lending it out or dropping it in a magma vent.”

“Reassuring confidence.”

“I mean it.” She looked over, unusually serious. “One week, alright? Then I return it before she notices. There’s another one she owns that’s even more restricted, but you’d basically need her surname to access it.”

“I don’t think I’ll be applying for that scholarship anytime soon.”

Celine shrugged. “Your loss. I hear the family dinners are all rock puns and ritual incantations.”

“Thank you for this, anyway.” It seemed like she was still trying to compensate for the guilt she felt, but Fabrisse wasn’t about to question that now.

“You’re welcome. ”

Fabrisse flipped the book open, careful with the aged pages. The text inside was written in tight, precise script, with diagrams that looked like someone had sketched them in charcoal and pressed them into the paper with sheer will.

He muttered, “She even writes like she’s throwing stones.”

Celine raised a brow. “Huh?”

“Nothing.”

He turned another page, but his mind wandered. Anabeth seemed like a caricature of herself—stoic, blunt, and with a truly supernatural ability to hit her mark with whatever rock happened to be nearby. It was oddly admirable. If there weren’t any exclusive skills to be learned or no hidden lineage secrets or buried branches of Stone Thaumaturgy, then maybe, at the very least, he could learn how to channel aether into stone like she did.

“Is Greg into cuteness?” Celine asked suddenly, cutting through his thoughts.

“What?”

“I mean,” she said, gesturing vaguely at herself, “does Greg like the cute aesthetic? That’s all I have.” Her features were undeniably cute—big, earnest eyes, soft cheeks that dimpled when she spoke, and a mouth that always looked like it had just finished saying something kind. It gave her this approachable, sunlit energy, like someone who should be carrying armfuls of fruit in a watercolor pastoral scene. Only her nose threw things off a little—just a bit too prominent for the rest of her face, like it had been borrowed from a different blueprint. But we can’t all be sculpted by the Goddess, and frankly, it made the rest of her charm feel that much more human.

“I’m not sure if Greg’s into anything . . .” Fabrisse replied, narrowing his eyes slightly. She shouldn’t have asked that question. That made her seem like . . . him. Second-guessing herself wasn’t what he had in mind when he thought of Celine Moose as a person, much less for a guy she’d just seen for the first time fifteen minutes ago. “He’s into quiet, I guess. He likes quiet and hates badgering.”

“Oh. Is that so? Good thing I’m not the badgering type.” She laughed.

What does that mean? I never said she was. Though she could very well be . . .

“Is he enrolled in the Synod?” Celine asked again.

“You’re supposed to be a news hogger.”

“Just answer the question.” She nudged him in the elbow.

“Yeah. He just never shows up anywhere.”

Being the master of randomly changing topics she was, Celine continued, “I have a few spare tickets for a jousting competition next weekend. You and Liene and Greg should come too.”

“I can’t leave Synod grounds though. And I have to study.” Speaking of studying . . . “Do you have some spare time? I really need help with some new Stone Thaumaturgy skills I’ve just learned.”

Celine gave an awkward smile, the kind you do when you’re about to refuse someone. “I’d love to help you out, but . . .”

“I can convince Greg to go to the jousting competition.”

Celine immediately snatched his book before he could react, flipping it open with a snap. “I sense great potential in you. We must study. Training starts now.” She grabbed his arm and stood, pulling him up with her. “I want you to cast five stone spells. Now. Chop-chop-chop. We’re not going home until you’ve shattered at least one bench, scared three pigeons, and carved my name into the cobblestones.”

“You didn’t have to be that enthusiastic—”

“Shush!” She put a finger over her lips. “No talking. Throw stones. Now.”

Chapter 104

Note: I've changed the magic system a bit, so now ARC is RES. Check out the details here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/changes-to-magic-134960131?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link

“I did not know Montreal could be that petty,” Lorvan said, his gaze fixed on the empty space ahead as he walked Fabrisse home.

Fabrisse didn’t reply. There wasn’t anything to say.

“You were in the top two. This is the job for you.” Lorvan exhaled, sharp and short. “Such a disgrace.”

“So nothing can be done.”

Lorvan’s mouth twitched. “Nothing official. But we’ll figure something out. There are plenty of opportunities for those who seek them out.” 

“But . . .” But he needed the money now. No amount of overtime work would be able to compensate for a month’s worth of pay, and he’d need to spend time practicing to pass classes too.

“So? Are you going to do anything about it?” Lorvan asked.

Fabrisse stayed silent.

“We can’t do anything about the situation. It’s better to move on.” Then, Lorvan pivoted back to their original topic before he learned that his student hadn’t landed the job. “Just to be clear, the Eidralith can imprint a spell and its execution proficiency directly into your memory?” 

Fabrisse sighed. He hadn’t gotten over the rejection earlier yet, but he should’ve known better than expecting Lorvan to dwell on it, or offer him consolation. The man treated failure like a splinter: irritating, inevitable, and best dug out quickly so the real work could resume.

“Yes, but not all skills,” Fabrisse replied. “Just some of them, and only after I gained a certain number of points. Like how I can only graduate after I’ve earned enough credits.” He then opened his [Skills] glyph section and asked. “Which skill should I learn, Mentor?”

“Run me through the options again,” Lorvan said. “You said the Eidralith gives you a detailed breakdown of the spell’s strength, range, and duration in numbers?”

“Yes.”

“Then give me the numbers.”

He presented the data as told.

“So, right now I have 11 Master Points, and these skills cost 5. The System calls them skills, not spells,” he said as he pulled up the Tier 1, Common-grade Stone Thaumaturgy skills.

Stonebind (Rank I)

Type: Passive Activation (Trigger-based)
Tags: Combat / Utility
Element: Earth (Stone)

Effect:
Anchors a single creature’s foot or object (max 10kg) to stone or packed dirt surfaces using localized aetheric compression.

• Anchor Duration: 2.5 seconds (or until forcibly broken)

• Break Condition: STR 7

• Cooldown: 10 seconds

• Trigger Condition: Target must be stationary or moving at ≤1.5 m/s
  
  

Limitations:

• Ineffective on flying, phased, or creatures larger than Medium-size

• Surface must be stone-based (brick, flagstone, compacted dirt)

Casting Requirement: SYN ≥ 6

Pebble Ward (Rank I)

Type: Active (Reaction)
Tags: Combat / Utility / Melee
Element: Earth (Stone)
Essence Cost: 5
Casting Time: Instant (Reaction)
Cooldown: 60 seconds

Effect:

Summons a brief, hovering shield of sediment and pebbles to intercept an incoming attack.

• Intercept Limit:

  • 1 physical projectile (arrow, bolt, thrown weapon, etc.)

  • OR 1 magical flare (Rank I, non-piercing)

• Interception Radius: 0.5 meters around the user

• Duration: Instantaneous (triggered and resolved within 0.2 seconds of cast)

Conditions:

• Casting Requirement:

  • SYN ≥ 8 (Synaptic Clarity — for fine-tuned reaction casting)

  • DEX ≥ 8 (for hand-eye coordination and timing)

  • User must be in contact with natural ground (stone, soil, sand, etc.)
    
    

• Activation Trigger:
  Must declare activation before the projectile resolves
  (requires line of sight or sensed approach, e.g. auditory cue)
  
  

Break Conditions:

Pebble Ward can fail under either of the following:

• Force of projectile > 50 Newtons (roughly equivalent to a high-velocity arrow or small spell bolt)

• Attacker’s RES (Resonance) ≥ 10

Stonewhisper (Rank I)

Type: Utility / Active
Tags: Narrative / Detection
Element: Earth (Stone)
Essence Cost: 5
Casting Time: 6 seconds (ritual-like focus)

Effect:
Using a fist-sized stone, the caster hears faint seismic echoes of movement within a 10-meter radius.

• Detectable Events:

  • Footsteps (within 2 minutes)

  • Tunnel disruption (earthworm to humanoid size)

  • Vibration anomalies (dropping objects, doors opening)
    

Duration: 8 seconds of receptive focus

Casting Requirement: SYN ≥ 10

Clarity Ensurance: RES ≥ 10 (echoes might muffle if lower)

Fails On: Wet stone, deep soil, magical interference

Granule Drift (Rank I)

Type: Active (Channeled)
Tags: Exploration / Mobility
Element: Earth (Stone)
Casting Time: 4 seconds
Cooldown: Once per Short Rest

Effect:
Softens a 1m² area of compacted stone or concrete, breaking it down into coarse sediment.

• Max Depth: 1 meter (vertical or angled)

• Collapse Delay: 3 seconds after cast

• Channelling Stability Check: INT ≥ 12 to avoid misfire if emotionally unsettled
  

Limitations:

• Will not work on magically reinforced surfaces

• Dangerous if used overhead or unsupported

Casting Requirement: SYN ≥ 5

Slatecast (Rank I)

Type: Active
Tags: Combat / Utility / Ranged
Element: Earth (Stone)
Essence Cost: 5
Casting Time: 1.5 seconds
Cooldown: 6 seconds

Effect:
Forms and launches a thin shard of slate-like material from surrounding grit or dust.

• Range: 8.8 meters

• Damage: 15~35 N (on hit)

• Hit Bonus: +2 to ranged attacks

• On Miss: Shard dissolves harmlessly into sand

Casting Requirement: SYN ≥ 9

And finally, Stone Resonant Carry. The simplest skill to explain.

Stone Resonant Carry (Rank I) (Passive)

  ✦ While holding an Aetherically-Active Common mineral, gain temporary attribute bonuses based on mineral type.

  ✦ Path Synergy: Celestial Hoarding. This effect also applies to minerals stored in inventory.

  ✦ Current Carry Limit: 3 Stones Active

Oh no. I completely forgot my training for this skill. The training isn’t supposed to be hard, either.

They turned another corner, and now they were only a few blocks away from Fabrisse’s dorm. Lorvan nodded to himself as he finished listening to Fabrisse’s relaying of information. “With only knowledge of these four spells, I say you’re better off ignoring the offensive spells.” 

“Why?” Fabrisse asked.

“The offensive capability of Stone-based spells aren’t worth it for the cooldown. I’d hazard that you’ll have to upgrade Slatecast quite a few ranks before you’re actually on par with a non-magical archer. The warding spell is also quite weak, and Stonewhisper’s attribute requirements are too high. Trapping, on the other hand, is a cast dependent on the environment. So long as you’re on a rocky surface, you can be quite a hassle.” He paused, thoughtful, then continued, “So you have two spells that can work in conjunction with each other: Stonebind and Granule Drift. Anchor the foot first with Stonebind—short window, but it’s enough. Then, while they’re stuck, trigger Granule Drift beneath them to let them sink even more. Compacted dirt turns to loose sediment, and suddenly that solid ground they trusted sinks under them.”

Fabrisse only nodded. 

“Also, you’re saying it requires less Synaptic Clarity for a successful cast for Stonebind and Granule Drift?” 

“Yeah. Only 5 for Stonebind and 6 for Granule Drift for consistent casting. The other ones require like 9 or 10.”

“Look into their Aetheric Reaction Equation.” Fabrisse had also explained the concept of equations to Lorvan, and his mentor hadn’t really questioned it. He just said that breaking down a spell into an equation would be an intuitive way to analyze it.

Fabrisse did as told and returned these results:

48% Stone-based Terrain + 20% Casting Technique + 20% Aetheric Synchronization + 12% Mnemonic → Stonebind

48% Stone-based Terrain + 25% Aetheric Synchronization + 22% Casting Technique + 4% Mnemonic → Granule Drift

“Perfect then. You just need the right posing and coordination, which with your dexterity, you should be able to follow.” Lorvan continued, “The cooldown duration for Stonebind is rather unfortunate, but if that reduces significantly as it scales and if the combination of Stonebind and Granule Drift unlocks higher-level spells, you should go this route. Become a Seismic Trapper.”

“I like the sound of that.” He was thoroughly impressed with the way Lorvan dissected spells like moving parts in a machine—identifying angles, testing tensions, already three steps ahead on how to use them in the field. That was why Lorvan was the mentor and he was the student.

“An obvious weakness would be that you’ll need to have stones underneath your feet.” Lorvan gestured downward with a slight tilt of his chin. “But look down, Kestovar. What do you see?”

Fabrisse glanced at the ground beneath their boots. The road was paved with irregular cobblestones, their edges worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic. “Stone,” he said.

“Stone,” Lorvan repeated. “Every road in the campus is stone-laid. For as long as you’re in the Synod, you’re in your elements.”

“That’s . . . you’re right.”

“There’s probably a Sediment Thaumaturgy spell that turns the sediment into quicksand. You should look into that. I’d advise unlocking Sediment and train your affinity in that element if you go this route.”

“I’ll look into it.” Fabrisse nodded.

He had learned so many things from this short conversation alone. Ideally, a perfect spell to learn would have these three components:

First, it should be easy to cast, preferably something with as little synchronization as possible, and not limited to a single emotion when channeling.

Second, it needs to open up a potentially overpowered mastery path that uses up very few Mastery points.

Third, it scales up well. If the Rank II and Rank III versions are significantly stronger than its base version, the skill alone could be worth it even without unlocking Tier 2 skills.

Now he just needed to get home and dig through the textbooks. If they could offer no better alternative or allow him to learn spells that were direct derivatives of Stonebind and Granule Drift, this build would be a no-brainer.

By the time he returned to the front steps of the dorm, the last of the cobbled path gave way to familiar flagstones—squared, flaked at the edges, and darkened by the faint mist clinging to the garden hedges. 

Liene and Celine were already waiting.

Well, not waiting, exactly.

They stood off to the side, under the shade of the archway, looking like two girls locked in a meandering conversation, laughing over something and spinning half-formed thoughts into full-bellied giggles. 

From a distance, it looked like they’d been chatting like that forever.

Fabrisse slowed.

Celine noticed him first. “Hey. Over here!”

Fabrisse pointed at himself. He wasn’t sure if she was calling him.

Liene beamed as she spotted him. “Hey Fabri! Come! Good morning, Mentor Lugano!” She waved too. Their waves were somehow almost in sync, but never quite. Liene’s hand always rose a beat before Celine, like two dancers stuck half a step apart.

Fabrisse glanced over his shoulder.

Lorvan was still standing a few steps behind, now with his arms folded. But when Fabrisse caught his eye, Lorvan gave a small nod—more approval than permission, like a commander dismissing a soldier to shore leave. 

He turned back and jogged over to the girls.

“What are you two doing here?” he asked, slightly out of breath. “I thought you had rituals class.”

Liene leaned in as if she were about to share a conspiracy. “I proposed a new extracurricular.”

“Oh no,” Fabrisse said immediately. “What is it this time?”

“A jump-and-slide relay down the irrigation channels behind the Alchemy Tower.”

[Sidequest Available—Hydrosprint Hijinks]

Objective: Race your friends through the water channels. Participation alone ensures quest completion.

Reward: +1 FOR

[WARNING: This quest may result in minor injuries, detentions, or accidental character development. Proceed?]

Accept Sidequest?

[Yes] [No]

1 FOR? I don’t need FOR now. I haven’t even thought about FOR.

Even if the rewards were as respectable as they usually were, he was in no mood for a sidequest today.

“Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I need to practice. I just finished mastering basic synaptic threading and now I have a lot of catching up to do.”

Liene blinked. “Wow! You’re really serious about your studies now!”

She didn’t say it with sarcasm—just genuine astonishment, as if she’d spotted a rare celestial alignment in broad daylight. 

“He went to the library this morning, Liene.” Celine elbowed her. “Maybe you should add study dates into your—Mpppph!” Her mouth was promptly sealed shut by a rag-shaped light beam morphed into a rag-shaped light rag.

Liene’s grin returned, though it was smaller this time. “Well . . . if you change your mind, we’ll be starting at the mossy arch. Anabeth will be there too, and she won’t be overpowered in this game. First one to the fountain wins.”

Celine was finally able to spit the light rag out with a dramatic ptooey after some great spontaneous acrobatics. The spell dissolved in the air.

“Wow, Liene. Aggressive much?” she huffed, wiping her mouth.

Liene flipped her hair with mock elegance. “Don’t mind Celine,” she said brightly to Fabrisse. “She’s obsessed with teasing others because she herself is lonely and doesn’t know the concept of boundaries or deeply resonating friendships.”

I’d say you don’t quite understand the concept of boundaries as well . . .

Celine stared at her, scandalized. “That was so specific. I’ll have you know not resonating with every single walking thing is a positive trait.”

Liene arched a brow, sensing the shift in dynamic like a predator catching the scent of an opening. Her smile turned sly. “Oh? And is that why you always freeze up when boys actually like you back?”

Fabrisse, still standing off to the side, resisted the urge to back away like a startled forest creature.

Why am I the spectator of this? he thought.

“Freeze up? I’m not you.” Celine placed a dramatic hand over her chest, eyes turned skyward as though delivering a monologue to an invisible audience. “I am immune to mere physical attraction. I once sat in the same room with the two most beautiful people on campus—Instructant Lugano and Professor Kaldrin—and I wasn’t even phased.” She paused and lowered her gaze. “No man will ever reduce me to a giggling mess with just a smolder and a jawline.”

Just as Celine finished her declaration with regal finality, the dormitory door behind them opened.

Out stepped a guy. 

Shirtless, with a towel draped around his neck like an afterthought.

His hair was damp, plastered in thick strands to his forehead, as if he’d just wrestled a summoned beast or deep-cleaned the entire atrium hall. Sweat glistened across his well-defined torso—not the golden bronze of an athlete, but the pale, almost academic kind of toned, like a sculptor’s statue left in the shade. He paused, squinting into the morning light, then casually raised a hand to wipe sweat from his brow. His other hand lifted to his fogged-up glasses, which he wiped against the towel with absent precision.

Celine immediately locked up like a stone golem. “W-w-w-w-who’s that?” she whispered.

Liene and Fabrisse widened their eyes as they turned to each other before turning back to the guy in unison.

“That . . . that’s Greg Johnson,” Fabrisse said. But why is he shirtless?

Chapter 103

Fabrisse had tried to calm Lorvan by claiming that he had thought of a brilliant plan to end the attacks once and for all. Upon hearing the plan, Lorvan became unreasonably mad.

“Using yourself as bait? Do you actually think they will fall for that lousy little scheme?” Lorvan seethed as he rose from his desk. Fabrisse stood awkwardly near the doorway, begging for the rage to stop so he could retreat in peace.

Lorvan paced around in his room, crossing in front of the tall case displaying the miniature airships. Today, his quarters bore a strange dissonance. A half-unrolled scroll lay skewed across the desk, a blot of ink staining its edge like a spill of oil. One of the normally upright quills had fallen onto the floor. The glass display case of miniature airships remained untouched, but a clean cloth meant for dusting sat folded and unused beside it.

“I—” Fabrisse began.

“No. You didn’t think,” Lorvan’s voice was serrated. “You’ve equated recklessness with strategy, and worse, you think self-sacrifice is clever. I won’t dignify it by pretending it’s noble.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Do you want to die?” he asked.

“No. Not really,” he gulped. He had seen Lorvan mad, but he had never seen him this verbally mad.

He spun toward the desk, gripping its edge for a moment like he needed to ground himself. “What happens if they take the bait and bring backup? What if they cut you off into the Void realm which they could guard much more easily if you try to bait them into a vast and secluded area? Did you think about contingencies?”

Fabrisse stared at the inkblot on the scroll for a few seconds. In a tiny voice, he mumbled, “Both Archmagus Rolen and Professor Kaldrin approve of the plan. You should hear it first.”

Lorvan froze. Then he let out an elongated, exasperated sigh, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Present your plan then.”

Fabrisse hesitated, then began to lay out the strategy he, Archmagus Rolen, and Professor Kaldrin had spent the day refining. Lorvan didn’t interrupt. His fingers remained at the bridge of his nose for most of it, and when they finally dropped to his side, his gaze had dimmed into something murky. He didn’t look convinced, but he wasn’t shouting anymore either.

“Rolen must know the aggressors can sense it when they’re baited,” Lorvan muttered. “They aren’t fools.”

“Of course they will. But from their reckless attack patterns, I suspect they’ll willingly walk into a trap,” Fabrisse replied. “They’re probably that confident in themselves. And if they don’t take the bait, then no one’s in danger to begin with.”

Lorvan’s lips pressed into a tight line. He turned away, pacing again, slower this time. “Fine. Let’s do it. But you’ll need to rapidly improve. And you’ll need to rapidly improve in two days.” 

***

The Grand Library of the Synod’s Southwestern Branch stretched high above Fabrisse as he sat on one of the long benches tucked between towering shelves of polished ironwood. An awe-inducing sprawl of arching domes and luminous vaults, each surface of the Grand Library was painted with sprawling celestial diagrams and scenes of ancient scholars transcribing from memory by starlight. Light poured down from the glass oculi in soft golden shafts, illuminating dust motes that drifted like tiny spirits between the layered balconies.

Overhead, a mural of the First Scriptorium stretched from one end of the dome to the other, so masterfully painted that Fabrisse had to remind himself it wasn’t a window into another world. It made him feel small, but in a good way—like he was on the cusp of something meaningful.

He’d done well. 

The interview had taken place in one of the quieter antechambers, behind a gilded screen woven with the Sigil of Records. Fabrisse had anticipated every question, from citation hierarchies to restoration procedures. His hands had not trembled once during the live book-handling assessment, and the Subcurate’s assistant had even murmured something close to perfect.

Now, with the bulk of nerves behind him, he simply let himself sit. He folded his hands, allowed himself a small smile, and exhaled.

His interviewer—the Deputy Subcurate of Lore Management—had told him to wait for the final result to be brought in writing. “Protocol,” she’d said with a brisk smile, already moving to sort the next candidate’s folios. “But between us, I’d say you’ve little to worry about.”

With newfound confidence, some time to spare, and both Lorvan and Ilya guarding nearby positions, he turned his attention to his total Mastery Point accumulation.

Stone Thaumaturgy Mastery: 11

He’d actually checked what would happen if he upgraded his Stupenstone Fling to Level 4.

[Spell Upgraded: Stupenstone Fling (Rank IV)—Unlockable with 50 Mastery Points]

Type: Directed Aetheric Projectile (Force/Emotion-Harmonic)
Status: Semi-Optimized → Refined
Targeting: Homing + Predictive (Emotion-Attunement Lock)
Base Force: ~65 N (sharper stones can puncture thin armor or break bone at close range)
Base Range: 14.9m
Charged Range: 19.7m
Accuracy Variance: ±6.2% (improved from 8.5%)
Charge Duration: 0.81s
Cooldown: 2.2s
Max Sustain: 3.0s

[Improve Emotion Charge Capacity]

[New Feature: Stagger Pulse]

[New Feature: Predictive Arc Tracking]

[Improved RES Scaling (Rank IV Max Bonus)]

He hadn’t had the time to read through the sub-sections below, but at first glance, it didn’t seem worth it already. It took five times the points to upgrade it to Rank IV, and both the base force and range would only double that of Rank II.

There was no point upgrading Stupenstone Fling with Mastery Points anymore. But . . . they’re my Stupenstones though . . .

He buried his hands in the satchel full of useless stones. They’d stayed comparatively useless even with great effort, and his chest ached a bit at the thought of setting them aside.

Maybe some collectibles should just stay collectibles.

But if not Stupenstones, then what should I do? Should I unlock two new Tier 1 skills?

No. Not right now. I need to acquaint myself with as many unlockable skills as I can; preferably getting to know Tier 2 and Tier 3 skills too. Then I’ll know which skills are the best to unlock. 

He was, after all, in the Grand Library. It was a better time than any to comb through the collective knowledge of the greats.

He strolled over to the Earth Thaumaturgy section, tucked all the way in the western wing mezzanine, hidden behind a spiral staircase and flanked by two decorative columns that had long since fallen out of alignment with the rest of the architecture. Years ago, when he’d first begun formal studies under Lorvan’s reluctant mentorship, he’d made the effort to find out exactly where the foundational categories were kept.

He passed it by. Rows of bronze-inked treatises glowed with curated charmspells to keep them dust-free and ever-legible. Titles floated lightly in front of the spines, like docile familiars ready to be called upon. Tectonic Channeling: From Ripple to Quake. Granular Intent and the Mutable Core. All good starting points—but too general for his needs today.

What he needed was Stone Thaumaturgy.

He circled twice around the inner ring of the mezzanine, brows furrowed. If he’d known a locator charm, it would’ve been useful. But then he’d have to master Sound, which would mean he would have to master Air.

It wasn’t until he noticed the layer of undisturbed dust clinging to a carved lintel that something clicked. Following the trail, he reached a half-lit stairwell coiled into a narrow ledge that looked like it hadn’t been swept in decades. There wasn’t any protective charmspells here; just a few crooked plaques nailed in at inconsistent intervals—Petric Studies, Gravitic Manifestations, and finally, half-hidden behind a drooping banner for the Siltform Symposium:

Stone Thaumaturgy and Subharmonic Applications.

The section was cramped and irregular, but that only made it feel more personal. The spines here were rougher, bound in cracked resin and faded cord.

He crouched, running his fingers along the uneven spines until one stopped him. “Fundamentals of Stratiform Manipulation: A Primer for Aspiring Petramancers.” It was written by Professor Margenholt herself.

He flipped past the foreword, past the embellished but unhelpful dedication (To those who coax strength from stone rather than shatter it—), and dove into the contents.

There they were.

A whole cluster of minor forms and construct-style utilities tucked into the “Core Frameworks” chapter:

• Grainbind (Tier I): temporarily compresses loose particulates into a bonded shape, up to 200g mass.
  
  

• Stratum Step (Tier I): reinforces stone beneath the user's feet for shock absorption.
  
  

• Echo Vein (Tier I): allows low-range stone resonance tracing, useful for underground mapping or pulse-based communication.

By the brief description alone, Grainbind looked very promising. If there were, say, sand around, he could turn them into stones and launch them with a different spell.

He flipped through the pages eagerly, scanning every diagram and margin note, pausing at footnotes with a kind of reverent focus. The book explained the logic of grain cohesion, the subtle pulsing of aether across particulate bonds, the need for short rhythmic inflections in the casting breath. It even included a visualized aetheric cycle showing the spell’s expected anchoring effect on dry vs. damp material.

Still, no system ping.

He frowned. “Eidralith,” he muttered under his breath, tapping the side of his temple. “Why didn’t you register the spell?”

There was a slight delay, and then:

[Processing query…]

Spell registration failed. Reason: Incomplete comprehension.

For skill registration, an intuitive understanding of the spellcasting process is required.

Sources of intuitive understanding include:
— Direct observation of spell use
— Guided instruction or casting attempt
— Sufficiently detailed step-by-step casting sequence or aetheric diagram 

He scowled at the glowing system text, then glanced back down at the open page.

Incomplete comprehension? But the book had a step-by-step guide. It wasn’t like the entry was vague. It even outlined the aetheric sequence, the intake breath patterns, the expected resonance timing.

Maybe his Intuition stat wasn’t sufficient. He required real world feedback.

He closed the book and tapped it against his knee.

“Fine. You want intuition?” he muttered, slinging the worn volume into his satchel beside his battered notes and the ever-present pouch of sad, mostly useless stones. “I’ll give you intuition.”

He’d borrow the book, bring it back home and set aside an afternoon. Maybe do some practice shaping with the sand patch outside the dormitory laundry chute. He’d start with ugly spell attempts first and adjust from there.

Things will turn out well. I have time for preparation, and I’m getting a job which pays me 6,000 Kohns a month. I’ll figure out the rest later.

He picked up another three Stone Thaumaturgy books he believed would include higher-level skills, then walked out. When he returned to the front antechamber, the Deputy Subcurate was already there, standing beside the brass-inlaid registry podium, arms folded neatly behind her back. A sealed folio lay atop the podium’s surface.

“You should read the final decision yourself,” she said, formal again.

Fabrisse stared at her, confused. “Oh. I thought you said—”

“I did,” she said, softly now. “And I meant it. Your scores were exceptional. Your handling placed you among the top two this season.” Then he glanced aside. “But in the end, the slot was filled via discretionary appointment.”

Discretionary?

Fabrisse turned to look past her.

Standing at the far end of the room, just inside the threshold of the Grand Library’s western transit vestibule, was a young man dressed in finely tailored charcoal silks with barely noticeable arcweave threading. He was about Fabrisse’s age, maybe slightly younger.

That’s the assistant butler for House Montreal. The butler for the butler.

Fabrisse stared, stunned.

He’s not even enrolled in the Synod. I’ve never seen him in a single seminar, not once.

And the girl standing beside them, leafing disinterestedly through a bound treatise on darkness-anchored glyph matrices?

Severa Montreal.

He didn’t need to see her eyes to know she had seen him, the way she scrunched her nose and the near-invisible sneer tugging at her otherwise impassive lips.

He’d nailed every question. But what did that matter when Severa Montreal could walk in and hand a title to the butler’s butler?

How am I going to earn enough money now?

He turned back toward the Subcurate, his face calm again. “Understood,” he said.

Then he picked up the folio, tore the seal without ceremony, and read the rejection for himself. He folded it once, slid it into his back pocket, and left without a word.

Changes to the magic system

The system’s over-complexity has always been a weaker part of the book, so Rolen is making changes to it. Here are the changes. They will be gradually implemented into later chapters of the book after another round of revision.

1. Both Thaumaturgy and System definition now require these components for casting a spell:

Technique

(or aid from magical Items)

+

Intent

(through emotions, mnemonics, or simply thinking about casting the spell)

+

Timing

(casting the spell at the right time)

This is to cast a good spell. Many spells don’t call for all of these elements, like Shameflare.

2. Then, to control the spell, you need the fourth component: Inner Resonance. Because of this, ARC (Aetheric Resonance Control) has simply been replaced by RES (Inner Resonance).

3. How is this different from the last version?

Intent merged with emotions and mnemonics

You can communicate intent through thoughts and mnemonics anyway. No need for this to be a separate component.

Control & Resonance merged into one

Inner Resonance is basically how good you can control your spell. There’s no need for them to be separate stats.

4. So now, the stats tracked by the system serve simple purposes:

STR: How physically strong you are

DEX: How physically fast and stealthy you are

FOR: How fast you can physically heal and how resilient you are to emotional & mind manipulation

SYN: How good your magical timing is

INT: How well you immediately deduce and intuitively find out how a spell works

EMO: How well you control your emotional channeling

RES: How good you control your spell, and how much spellpower you amplify AFTER the spell is cast

The reason why Stupenstone Fling is so hard for Fabrisse to cast is because it requires a lot of timing through SYN, something that Fabrisse really sucks at. The reason why it’s weak as heck and often doesn't reach the maximum speed, power, or flies in a weird arc is because his RES is bad.

40% Stupenstone Core Alignment (Stable) + 40% Thread Synchronization + 20% Kinetic Channeling Efficiency

His timing already accounts for 40% of the base effectiveness of the spell. Messing it up would mean the spell sucks.

In contrast, the reason why spells like Shameflare are so easy to cast is because its Aetheric Reaction Equation is simple:

60% Shame + 40% Thought → Shameflare

He just needs to think about casting Shameflare and feel the shame to cast it.

Some spells are harder to cast, but the components aren’t Fabrisse’s weakness, like Veil of Shame. Here’s its equation:

68% Emotional Overload: Shame + 24% Mnemonic + 8% Thread Synchronization → Veil of Shame

So he just needs to feel overwhelming shame and cast the right mnemonic to cast the Veil of Shame. If he times his emotional release well, it makes the Veil a bit cleaner (a perfect 100% instead of 92%).

Chapter 102

Celine Moose hadn’t talked much as she was escorted back to her dorm, and Fabrisse was surprised how close she actually lived from him. Just two buildings apart—though, technically, that was two entire dormitories and a courtyard with a security ward that screamed politely if a non-resident crossed after curfew. Still, close.

They now stood in the front garden of the girl's dorm, under the suspiciously passive supervision of Ilya Snezhnaya, who leaned against a hedge a good twenty paces away, pretending to be absorbed in her arcanoprism. She had run out of baguettes, and she had informed Lorvan about the incident. He would arrive at about fifteen minutes, and he would likely be in a reasonably angry state. 

Fabrisse kept his hands firmly in his coat pockets. He wasn’t technically in the dormitory building, so he hadn’t violated any conduct clauses yet—he hoped. The garden, after all, was still part of the campus commons, wasn’t it? Sort of? 

No one had kicked him out yet, at least.

Celine sat on the edge of the stone fountain in the middle of the garden, hands folded in her lap. She hadn’t looked at him since they got there, but she had made efforts at conversations. Like now. “Fabrisse. Um, I can call you Fabrisse, right?”

“I mean . . . You’ve already done so.”

“I don’t know why, but . . . I’ve actually thought of the possibility others will be interested in your unbinding. Then I went ahead and took the money and set up the meeting, and . . . and left you there. I—I was really stupid.”

“It’s okay. I do pretty stupid things too. It happens.” And she was literally harmed as well, not just him. He could never bring himself to hold a grudge against her, especially not when she was in this state.

Then she stood, brushing off her skirt. “Can you wait here for a couple minutes?” she asked, still not quite meeting his eyes. “I—I know your guardian’s watching, so it should be fine, right? No trouble.”

He glanced at Ilya. She was still scrolling with dramatic disinterest.

He nodded. “Yeah. I’ll wait.”

“Okay.” She turned, then took off toward the building.

She was so small, and the way she ran—arms close to her sides, head slightly ducked, legs a little too fast for her balance—made her look like a startled baby deer making a break for cover. Watching her run reminded him of Dubbie a little.

He watched her disappear through the front doors of the dorm. Then he let out a quiet sigh and looked up at the clouds.

Archmagus Rolen had given Celine a good scare before letting them go. The conversation had gone like this.

“Miss Moose. I do not believe I need to reiterate the utmost importance of confidentiality as for Mr. Kestovar’s case,” Rolen had said.

“Yes. I’ll never say a word, Archmagus,” she’d responded.

“You should also understand the severe potential academic repercussions should you disclose any information you shouldn’t,” Professor Kaldrin had added. To Fabrisse, it sounded very much like a threat, and a very unnecessary one at that. Poor Celine could only say ‘yes’ to that.

Celine was being honest. That much, Fabrisse could tell. He wasn’t the best at reading people, but her voice had the kind of guilt choking at her throat that he thought one wouldn’t reasonably fake. If Celine was really into journalism, of all things, it would be for the betterment of the world.

Celine returned just a few minutes later, clutching something tight to her chest like it might disappear. She hesitated at the edge of the fountain before walking over and extending it toward him—an envelope of waxed parchment, sealed with a thin red binding thread and faded sigils stitched into its corners.

She held it out with both hands. “Here,” she said. “This is from the informant. The one who paid for the meeting.”

Fabrisse stared at it, not taking it right away.

“It’s two thousand Kohns,” Celine added, quieter. “I—I didn’t even open it until just now. I don’t deserve it. And I know you’ll need to pay your tuition soon.”

“How did you know?” Fabrisse’s eyes opened wide.

“Liene told me about your situation.”

“How did she know?” Fabrisse’s eyes opened wider.

“She knows more about you than you think. Also, it’s not hard to find out if you dig a little bit into your academic history.”

Fabrisse stared at the envelope again. Two thousand Kohns. He didn’t even need to peek inside to know how much that was. That amount would cover nearly half his tuition for next semester—possibly more, if he was careful. His fingers twitched inside his coat pockets.

It would solve a lot of things. Not all of them. But a lot.

And yet . . .

Am I really going to take the easy way out again?

Let someone else pay off the consequences for me? Again?

He gently reached out—not for the envelope, but to push it back toward her.

“I can’t take this.”

She stared at him. “Fabrisse. How much money do you have right now?”

“I—”

“Take it. You can worry about your pride when you’re not short of money.”

“Thank you.” He smiled at her. “But I would still like to see if I could make it first.”

Celine stayed silent for a long while. Finally, she tilted her head as if peering at Fabrisse from another angle would reveal another side of his personality. “You know. Liene always talks about you, and we all wonder what you’re actually like, since you fail classes all the time and her grades go way down whenever you two spend too much time together.”

“Well, okay . . .” That didn’t sound flattering.

“But you’re put-together, Fabrisse. I think you’re very nice, and I hope you can fit in at the Synod. Academically, at least.” Then she slowly retracted her hands and put the envelope in her robe pocket. “If you change your mind about the money, come to me. Or if you need information on anything. I still chair a professionally-run journalist board, you know.”

“Thank you.”

“And you seem mature.”

“I can assure you that I am very much not.” Fabrisse replied dryly, already regretting making eye contact again.

Celine smiled at that—small, wobbly at the corners. She probably didn’t quite believe him but appreciated the effort anyhow.

“We need someone grounded to keep an eye on Liene, since we, well, specifically I, am not that grounded myself. One time we went on an excursion, and she climbed into a ravine because she thought she heard whimpering. Then she got bit by a wolf.” 

“Where?”

“No, regular,” Celine continued despite Fabrisse’s visible confusion. “I was right there, too, by the way. I could’ve stopped her. Should’ve, probably. But instead I leaned over the edge and said, ‘Yeah, I hear it too. Might be a pup. Let’s go save it!’ We were in a nature reserve, Fabrisse.”

Fabrisse didn’t know what to say to that.

“So, um, we’ll keep in touch?” Celine extended a hand, probably for a handshake. He gave her a weak one.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Their hands had barely separated when the front gate creaked open with the kind of restrained violence that meant someone had wanted to slam it and decided against it at the last moment. Lorvan stormed through the garden path, and his eyes had already locked onto Fabrisse, possibly from a mile away.

Just as Fabrisse thought. He looked reasonably fuming.

Chapter 101

“We need a safe space,” Rolen said the moment he entered. Fabrisse opened his mouth to speak, to explain about Severa and Dir and everything else, but the words dried up as Rolen raised one hand. The classroom trembled faintly as a line of chalk-thin light traced itself across the floor in a semicircle around them.

“Archmagus!” Celine exclaimed. She didn’t say anything else.

Kaldrin stirred. “You're folding a spatial shell?” he asked, blinking in disbelief. “Inside a sealed ward perimeter?”

“The aggressors don’t play by the rules,” Rolen replied. “We’ll also have to bend space to our will. Rolen gave a short nod. “This structure was built on an old convergence fracture. There's a leyline wound just beneath it. Most forget.” He drew a small sigil in the air with two fingers, the world seemed to stutter like pages of a book being turned too fast to read.

Rolen chanted,

“By wound and well, by twist and seam,

Fold this realm into the dream.”

Fabrisse felt his stomach flip. The light from the holes in the wall collapsed to pinpricks, the ceiling peeled like petals folding. and the floor fell away without ever really dropping. 

One moment, they were in the dusty, forgotten classroom.

The next, they stood in a space that felt carved from a dream.

The walls were gone, if there had ever been walls. The floor glinted beneath their feet, a rippling plane, reflecting their bodies but not their faces. Above them, the ceiling stretched into infinite fractals, folding and unfolding like mirrored origami, a cascade of motion without sound. Leylines drifted lazily through the air in spheres of colors a bit too bright for Fabrisse’s liking.

The taste of lemon and iron filled Fabrisse’s mouth, vanishing just as quickly.

“What . . . is this?” he asked hoarsely. He turned to Celine and she looked also in awe, if not moreso than Fabrisse.

“A pocket fold in the leythread,” Rolen replied. “Aether doesn’t come from our world. It leaks in from somewhere else. This—” he gestured to the surreal landscape around them “—is a subspace of that dimension. To explain more simply, it’s like a sleeve between fabric and lining. That’s the basis of all spacefold spells, whether it be voidfold or lightfold.”

“He dropped us into the leyline with a Light-based spell,” Kaldrin said. “Luxcradle, is it?”

Rolen nodded. “My own spin on it. Works wonder if you’re literally standing over a leyline, don’t you think?” He drew a swift circle in the air with one finger. A thin ring of light spun out from the gesture, stabilizing into a flat disc of glyph-light that hovered between them. The light glowed strong even within the already bright space. Crisp runes etched in the air, viscous like ink, before morphing into words. Each name hovered in place, connected by delicate lines of script and sigil logic.

“I have been doing background research on all 21 known Darkness-type users within Synod grounds.” Rolen tapped a few glyphs to cluster them by affiliation, year, and restriction level. “This is cross-referenced from last month’s override list, student archive entries, and public detainment records,” he said. “I’ve already excluded any with null sigils or diviner wards. What’s left . . . are the real suspects.”

A smaller cluster of names detached from the glowing glyph web and drifted forward, each one encircled in a faint pink hue.

“These are the ones connected to the Committee on Research Authorization,” he said. “Most aren’t publicly affiliated with Darkness practices, but alignments don’t always show up in their paperwork.”

The names floated in front of Fabrisse:

— Arine Teckon
— Dr. Veroch Giannis
— Clyne Ravorne
— Errett Qos
— Ratuk Mustafa

Mustafa? Fabrisse’s brows furrowed, and the conversation between Rubidi and Lorvan outside the classroom hall replayed in his head. “That’s . . .”

“Yes,” Rolen said. “The personal instructant invited solely for the purpose of teaching Severa Montreal.”

The glyphs dimmed.

“Now I hope you understand yet another reason why I prevented you from reporting to the Synod,” Rolen continued. “If House Montreal is involved, they will never side with you. At least no Monasterie or Fullmann, which would make up half the council.”

Rolen narrowed the list with a swipe, filtering the high-level glyphs away and summoning a second lattice—fainter, denser, and packed with lesser-known names. “These are mid- to low-level contributors tied to the Committee through co-signed research, funding proxies, or instructional influence.”

He pointed one finger, and more names began to glow:

— Darian Vult
— Sera Kephra
— Warren Wysth
— Ganvar Ciemnosc

Fabrisse flinched.

Ganvar? She said she didn’t practice Darkness. 

I’ve been so naive. Why would anyone give me anything for free? This is the price to pay for relying on shortcuts; on artifacts. I have to fix this now.

Fabrisse’s hand moved almost on instinct. He reached into the inner lining of his coat and pulled out the rock that had never left his pocket in days—the Silvian quartz Ganvar had given him. He extended the crystal toward Rolen.

“Ganvar Ciemnosc gave me this. I think . . . there might be something malicious in it.”

Rolen took it without a word. The moment his fingers closed around the quartz, the glow of the floating glyphs stuttered. He narrowed his eyes.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then he snapped his fingers, and a thin filament of golden light slithered across the surface of the quartz, tracing patterns far more complex than any standard binding spell.

His face darkened.

“That wasn’t a conduit,” Rolen said grimly. “It was a tracker laced with cloaked aether signals and passive drift anchors. It was extremely subtle work; I wouldn’t have detected it if I hadn’t held it directly.”

Fabrisse’s mouth went dry.

Kaldrin exhaled. “That level of cloaking . . . is it Archmage-level?”

Rolen didn’t immediately answer.

“Possibly,” he said at last. “I heard about your incident just outside Synod ground, Kestovar; the one with the Skittlewhits. That was an unsanctioned, spontaneous activity. There was no way the attacker could’ve known where you were if they hadn’t actively tracked you. But we need to think about whether we’d want to destroy the quartz now.”

“Why shouldn’t we?” Kaldrin asked. “Sure, they’ll know if we destroy the tracker, but that’ll deter them from attempting another reckless assault.”

“Because we don’t know if we can use it as bait.”

Bait? Fabrisse thought, and suddenly an idea lit up inside his head. What if . . .

Fabrisse’s voice came low and quiet. “And you said Archmage Terevin Sil is a known Darkness Thaumaturgy practitioner?”

Rolen nodded once. “Confirmed by three independent observations. She’s clever enough to mask it, but the Order has seen indirect effects of Darkness seep and relational decay near her wards. It’s not just theory anymore.”

Fabrisse stared into the luminous, dreamlike space swirling around them.

“Do you know who else it could be?” he asked.

Rolen didn’t hesitate.

“There’s no one else.”

And with that, the pieces slid together.

Severa’s rage.

Mustafa’s arrival.

Ganvar’s tutoring.

The quartz.

The Committee’s inaction.

The Synod’s silence.

Rolen bent his knees and lowered himself as if into a chair—except there was nothing beneath him. He simply sat in the air, cross-legged and composed, his coat settling against an invisible surface that did not exist. “That has been my mistake, Kestovar. This type of meddling is unprecedented, and no one has ever thought of extracting the Eidralith from its binder before. The spellcasting framework for such techniques has possibly only been perfected recently.” He exhaled. “I’ve underestimated what these individuals could potentially do inside Synod grounds and have not prepared appropriate defenses. They must know I am shielding you by now, and my reputation within the institution is not stellar. If whoever is behind all this can forcefully reassign me or temporarily transfer me from the Synod, I’m afraid my hands are tied.” He paused, glancing downward at the shimmer beneath his crossed legs, as if the nothing he sat on were a precarious ledge. “There is one option. We can report privately to the Headmaster.”

Kaldrin said, “You’re serious? He never listens and if you come to him for help, you’re all but his puppets.”

“As serious as I’ve ever been. Draeth wouldn’t tolerate tampering with artifact research, especially not the foundational kind. If he catches even the scent of unauthorized manipulation, he’ll descend on it.”

“No, Mikhael. You cannot do this.” Kaldrin’s voice sharpened as he tried to stand, but abandoned the idea halfway through. “Draeth will twist it. Either he’ll use your report as proof of your submission to his authority, or worse. He’ll blow it wide open and trigger a full institutional audit. You know how he is.”

For the first time, Fabrisse saw Rolen not actively talking and simply staying silent.

Kaldrin leaned forward. “Have you even heard the rumors about merging the South Westeros Branch with the North Westeros Division? This could hand them every excuse they need. One false step, and you’ll be reduced to a proxy, Mikhael. Do you want to be a puppet mouthpiece for the North Westeros Doctrine Committee?”

“I will walk when that happens. I have every right to.”

“That’s the thing with you.” Kaldrin scoffed. “You always take the stupidest path to solve a complex problem. In that regard, you’re no different from Draeth.”

Fabrisse had been listening to every word. He thought he knew the flaws of Rolen’s approach, and he had thought of a solution. But should he really be voicing his thoughts? 

Do I really know more than the professors and the archmagus, people with hundredfold the power and thousandfold the wisdom?

But this is my life on the line. I must contribute.

“If I may, Archmagus, Professor.” Fabrisse stood before he lost the nerve. His voice wavered at first, but he steadied it. “I want to propose a solution.”

Kaldrin and Rolen turned to him, then turned to each other, then turned to him again. The collective staring (from Celine too; she’d been doing nothing but contributing to collective staring and fidgeting now that she didn’t have a pen and a notebook with her) got him feeling nauseous. But he endured.

“Let’s hear it,” Rolen said.

“We’ve been too passive,” Fabrisse continued. “They want to take me, and we’re just fending them off. If they want to take me . . .” He stared down at his hands. They trembled. “Let them have it. Let them take me. How . . . how confident are you in your battlecasting, Archmage?”

Rolen stared at the floating sigils, which had all but faded into smeared ink. “I’ve burned a few memories out of history and names off the records.”

“Archmagus, I need your aid.” He curled his hands into a fist. The trembling stopped. “We will catch the Void-thing, on our own terms.”

Then a quest appeared. The quest appeared.

[QUEST RECEIVED: “Chain the Void”]

Objective: Catch the mysterious attacker.

Reward: +2 ~ +20 Random Attributes, depending on contribution.

+500 ~ +5000 EXP, depending on your contribution.

+4 ~ +40 Random Mastery Points, depending on your contribution (Only for Elements with at least a Trace Affinity.)

Title Received: ‘Void-Binder’

[SYSTEM NOTE: “It’s showtime”.]

[ADDITIONAL NOTE: This phrase was manually logged into system memory by Calibrator Kim_02 in 2064 AD. It has not been edited or removed since.]

Chapter 100

Professor Kaldrin was a young man, much younger than Fabrisse had expected from a professor. He was likely no older than twenty-eight, and probably still younger than Lorvan. Clean-shaven with well-proportioned features, he looked like someone who’d once modeled for Synod recruitment posters. His dark hair was combed back with just enough deliberation to suggest effort without vanity. If you ignored the ragged slice torn into the side of his undershirt and the grime streaking the hem of his cloak, he looked remarkably put-together—smartly dressed in neatly tailored layers, a professor’s badge gleaming just beneath his collarbone.

The classroom they found was forgotten. Dust clung to the old stone trim and the scent of dried ink hung in the tip of Fabrisse tongue, irremovable, like it hadn’t been used in decades. A few of the wall slats bore holes where light leaked in, too high and too sharp-edged to be proper windows. One of them looked like a collapsed ward frame. Even the mounted illumination glyphs hadn’t held a charge in years. Nobody taught here anymore. Nobody was supposed to be here.

Kaldrin had told Fabrisse and Celine that his wound was but a scratch, but he had all but collapsed into the nearest chair the moment they moved into an empty classroom across from the refectory. He exhaled slowly, gripping the edge of the desk with white knuckles as he eased himself down. At least Fabrisse couldn’t see any further bleeding. The self-healing had worked.

Celine seemed to have remembered everything, well, at least up until the point her eyes rolled to the back of her head. She had at least calmed herself enough to no longer mutter apologies on repeat, but she still looked pretty dazed. She wrung the hem of her sleeve in tight little twists, and her hazelnut eyes darted between Kaldrin’s wound and the closed door, as if expecting the Void-wrapped thing to burst through at any moment. 

“So . . . um. Should I contact Archmagus Rolen?” Fabrisse kneeled down across from Kaldrin.

“I’ve already done it, but you should update him with our current location.”

“I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Zonas Kaldrin,” he said, voice level but grave. “My primary field is artifact resonance—specifically Pre-Order artifacts.”

Celine hadn’t quite regained her composure judging from her shaky voice. “Pre-Order?”

“That is, relics created before the First Codification of Magic. In this case”—his eyes flicked briefly to Fabrisse—“the Eidralith. I was its last warden before accepting a professorship.”

Fabrisse’s brows shot up. “You were with the Eidralith?”

Kaldrin gave a slow nod. “For half a decade. Which is why Archmagus Rolen summoned me. The Synod has long had a department responsible for the Eidralith, and they’re forming a research task force to study the Eidralith’s instability. Or rather, to find the cause of it. I was also supposed to become your guardian, Mr. Kestovar.” He turned to Fabrisse. “But then you got attacked.”

Fabrisse held his breath. Nobody said anything, so Kaldrin continued, “The moment I arrived, you were ambushed. So after some rather urgent deliberation, I was folded into the investigation team. We came to the conclusion it would be easier to arrest the aggressor if I am not publicly present as your guardian.”

Fabrisse narrowed his eyes. “There’s an investigation team?”

“There is,” Kaldrin said quietly. “Its exact makeup is confidential—for now. But you’ll be working with some of them soon enough.”

Kaldrin’s gaze landed on Celine. She had curled into herself in the corner of the classroom’s long desk.

“Miss Moose, isn’t it?” Kaldrin asked in as measured a voice as he could possibly muster. “Are you alright now?”

Celine looked at him, wide-eyed like a lost doe. She gave a quick little nod, then another, as though the second would make the first more believable. “Y-yes. I think so. I’m sorry I— I didn’t mean to— I just—”

“You don’t need to apologize for being afraid,” Kaldrin said as he pressed his golden-glowed palm on his wound again. 

“What happened to her?” Fabrisse asked.

“That whip didn’t do serious damage, but it had a neuro-freezing effect. You were both going to be human dolls in that realm, and I have no doubt the spellcaster was skilled enough to fold the void realm into a small containment glyph to discreetly carry around.”

“That said,” he continued, tone still soft but more deliberate now, “back in the hall, you mentioned something about your informant.”

Kaldrin heard it too? He must’ve been following us for longer than I thought.

The Professor continued, “And you kept apologizing like it was your fault the thing found us. I’d like to understand what you meant by that.”

Celine cast her gaze to the ground and swallowed. “I didn’t mean for it to go like that,” she muttered in a voice barely above a whisper.

Nobody said anything. Celine exhaled shakily and rubbed the back of her neck. “I . . . I run an unofficial news channel. Mostly just harmless student gossip and bits I pick up from staff and visiting dignitaries. Nothing big. I’ve go . . . informants, you could say. Friends. People who like to talk if I—never mind.”

Kaldrin didn’t respond, and neither did Fabrisse—who had frozen slightly at the word informant. Celine caught the shift and hurried on. “A week ago, someone I’d worked with before messaged me through one of the secured glyphs and asked if I could help him set up a private meeting with Kestovar. He said he just wanted five minutes alone.”

Kaldrin’s brow furrowed. “And you agreed?”

“I knew he was one of those artifact obsessives,” Celine cast her gaze even lower. “You know, the kind that memorizes containment glyphs for fun and worships anything with a relic bound to their name. And . . . He looked broody, but I didn’t think it was anything sinister. He was offering two thousand kohn.”

Fabrisse’s eyebrows lifted. “Two thousand?” How could there not be anything sinister if he was dropping that amount of cash?

“That’s more than two weeks’ pay for an instructant,” Kaldrin murmured. “And four times a Magus’s base stipend.”

Celine nodded miserably. “I thought there was no way anything could go wrong. The meeting spot was a public space, and he was a registered student. I didn’t think he’d—” Her voice broke. “I didn’t know he’d not be . . . human.”

“What’s his name?” Kaldrin asked. “Which Department does he belong to?”

Celine flinched. “Rimmar Ciemnosc.”

No way.

“I asked around, and he was listed in the Department of Glyph Theory under the name Rimmar Ciemnosc. I’ve met him once before at a lecture on deepwater resonance. He kept scribbling down footnotes and asking what brands of pen certain researchers used. I thought—” her voice faltered again, “I thought he was just lonely.”

That’s the real name. His sister is literally my tutor.

“What does he look like?” Fabrisse couldn't sit still anymore. His nerves had frayed to threads, and the classroom suddenly felt far too small. He stood abruptly, drawing a glance from Kaldrin and a small flinch from Celine, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he paced to the far wall where the tall holes spilled dusklight onto a cluster of desks as Celine listed the features of Rimmar Ciemnosc.

They all matched: dark circles, always hunched, sometimes wearing a hood indoors, and casting spells in grayscale.

But that couldn’t be right. There was no way he would’ve been that obvious. Rimmar must’ve been used as redirection.

“If that’s a student,” Kaldrin added, “it might be the case that the spellcaster used some sort of shapeshifting ability. They’ve turned into High Magus Kairon before.”

Shapeshifting, in the context of Thaumaturgy, was considered an advanced form of recursive spell structuring, and one of the highest-order applications of aetherform manipulation. The only affinity Fabrisse had heard could attempt convincing and human-like shapeshifting was Flesh Thaumaturgy, a tribryd of Fire, Water, AND Earth, and while that school of practice wasn’t banned, it was gross.

“Can Void Thaumaturges create human-like shapeshifts?” Fabrisse asked.

Kaldrin pressed a hand to his side, breath hitching as a fresh wave of pain crept up his ribs. “Void?” he echoed, jaw tight. “Not truly. They simulate images to cloak the mind and force perceptions to misalign. It's an illusion, but not a meaningful transformation.” He winced again and leaned heavily against the table. “I’m a professor of Applied Symbolic Systems. I grade theses on recursive glyph drift. I’m not supposed to be bleeding in a hallway.”

Fabrisse couldn’t quite look Kaldrin in the eyes anymore; not after he’d said that. He was starting to doubt his decision not reporting to the Order-visiting archmagi. Terevin Sil and Lellian Dir seemed like even more powerful figures than those in the Synod, and he had no way to know if Rolen didn’t have any ulterior motive for not wanting to escalate this case to a higher authority. It seemed very clear that Rolen was relying on his personal detail which might be limited in options, and from Kaldrin’s inadequate showing, he felt an urgent need to demand more decisive action from Rolen himself.

But they’ve gone through the trouble to protect me. I can’t possibly demand more than this.

Then he’d have to be strategic with what he had. To catch the perpetrator, once and for good.

He turned away from the others, letting his eyes trace the fractured outline of one of the slanted holes in the wall. It wasn’t like the others. This one was taller, almost perfectly vertical, but there was nothing that suggested it was properly carved. A vein-fracture, maybe—when liquid or something buried deep in the substrate cooled too quickly under pressure. It could cause the rock to split from within, leaving a path that looked unnatural, almost architectural. The fact that it aligned so closely with the wall was probably just a coincidence.

He approached it, half-hoping for a distraction. The dusklight spilled in unnaturally, too strong for this hour. And as he neared, the hair on his arms prickled. Something about the light angle didn’t make sense. It wasn’t coming from the sun, but some sort of aetheric lighting.

Fabrisse squinted. Beyond the slit was the outside gardens, illuminated under the glyphlight network that ran along the campus paths.

And standing in the middle of it, as if in some performance staged for his benefit, was Severa Montreal.

Even from here, she looked pristine. Her braids, lacquered into stillness with rose-gold beads, caught the light at perfect intervals. She moved through a sequence of advanced crystalform arrays, each one executed with exacting precision—conjuring floating, reflective geometries with no visible focus vector.

Her mentor, Rubidi, stood behind her with their arms crossed, nodding once in a while but not interfering.

It all seemed perfectly normal until the smoke started curling in.

Not mist. Smoke. It slithered between the hedges and rose up in languid arcs before coalescing into a figure with impossible smoothness. Fabrisse knew that outline.

Archmagus Lellian Dir.

What in the Flamus are they doing together?

The smoke solidified into him, tall and composed, hair unbound and floating as if underwater. He greeted Rubidi and Severa calmly, exchanged a few words Fabrisse couldn’t hear, and Severa gave a small, deliberate bow.

Then Lellian turned back into smoke, like he was never a person at all. The fog rippled backward into the trees.

Without hesitation, Rubidi and Severa followed.

Why’s Severa here? The attack happened so close to her. Could it really be a coincidence, given the only lead he had right now was Elon Montreal’s Pre-Binding Codex? 

Out of all the Archmagus claiming to want him under them, Lellian Dir was the only one who hadn’t approached. Had he been spending this time doing something else; something more malicious?

The door to the classroom opened. Fabrisse turned.

Mikhael Rolen had entered the room.

Chapter 99

The hairs on the back of Fabrisse’s neck stood as a pressure ripple surged toward him from the entrance. His body moved before his mind caught up.

A tendril of absolute void cracked through the space he’d just been standing in, severing the edge of his sleeve with surgical silence. It didn’t bend any light or make any sound.

He dove sideways, instinct guiding him better than sight ever could. His knees slammed into the tiled floor and skidded. The whip hissed past his cheek, a hair away from smashing him with the breathless chill of the void.

That’s the same whip!

Another pulse; another wrongness. Smaller than the one hitting Celine, but wasn’t any slower. Fabrisse flung himself in the same direction as before, heart pounding in his throat. The second void whip lashed through the space he’d just vacated, perfectly mirroring the arc of the first.

It was following a pattern.

He hit the floor hard again, shoulder first this time, and scrambled to his feet. His back slammed into a cold marble wall. There was no way left.

“C-come out and fight fair!” He shouted. “L-like a . . .” He couldn’t find a word to finish his sentence.

“Oh, I’ll come out,” a voice resounded. But it didn’t come from the void. It came from the floor.

A seam split open in the tiles beside him, unzipping reality with a wet crunch. Darkness poured out—but instead of swallowing him, something punched through it. 

A hooded figure surged upward from the rift, a blur of motion and force. Fabrisse stumbled back, expecting a blow—

—but the figure pivoted past him. The newcomer raised a hand, fingers splayed, and a shimmering disc of pitch black force caught a third void-whip midair, deflecting it with a shriek of twisting space.

The shield cracked instantly under the impact, but held long enough.

Then the figure turned, eyes glinting from beneath the cowl. He spread his palm and fired a bolt of darkness straight at Fabrisse. This one seemed to have been powered by devotion, judging from the golden sparks buzzing around it like electric wasps, orbiting the core of inky black. 

A ring of shadow flared and curved, forming a hexagonal dome of woven strands—dark yet glinting with golden starlight, each line inscribed with sigils that throbbed with steady rhythm. The cage locked shut with a final metallic chime, anchoring him in place.

Fabrisse blinked. It wasn’t cold inside, like the void outside. It was warm. Warm darkness was a weird thing.

He barely had time to catch his breath before the figure shouted, “Catch her!”

“What—”

From behind the broken pillar, Celine’s limp body lifted into the air, surrounded by a bubble of suspended aether. The moment it cleared the pillar, the figure hurled her forward like a spear of moonlight.

He threw himself to the side within the cage just in time to catch her crashing into him. The impact knocked the wind out of him, but he wrapped both arms around her reflexively, cushioning her fall as they tumbled to the side of the cage. It lost its spark for exactly that moment, then resumed its lightning-like charges as soon as Fabrisse got his foothold.

The figure didn’t explain further. He stepped beyond the edge of the cage, facing the churning dark that still festered at the broken threshold of the room.

“I can’t hold the fold open and fight at the same time,” the figure muttered, almost to himself. “I just need a crack. Enough to force it into manifesting.” Then he said, louder, “Don’t touch the cage. Stay grounded. When it breaks the fold, we run.”

Fabrisse checked up on Celine Moose. She wasn’t bleeding, and it didn’t look like she suffered from any external injuries. But her eyes were half-opened and unfocused, and her right cheek was soaked with her own drool, which was rather worrying. He checked her breathing and her pulses and they seemed normal.

What happened to her?

The void fought from the threshold. The tendrils writhed out in fractal bursts of anti-light, refusing to give shape to itself. The hooded figure rolled his shoulders, cloak lifting like mist, and muttered a short phrase that made the air pull in around him.

This is too high-level for me to comprehend. Whoever this person is, they must be at least Magus Exemplar level.

Chains of darkness uncoiled from his arms—three at first, then six, then more, slithering like serpents and etching themselves with golden veins. Each link screamed with a clanking sound Fabrisse couldn’t hear but felt in the roots of his teeth.

He snapped his hand out.

The chains launched forward like thrown harpoons, diving through the twisting void with impossible precision. One missed. The second curved around like a whip. The third struck true.

It didn’t wrap around a limb or a head—it anchored into nothing. A clutch point in space that resisted like a living thing.

The void screamed.

Space twisted into spiralling ribbons of void. The aggressor came out.

Dragged out like a fish caught on a hook, the figure was hauled from the fold in a warped tumble of limbs and smoke. A half-formed thing—cloaked in void, head shrouded by a featureless mask save for four glimmering sigils orbiting where the eyes should be. 

The hooded figure snapped his wrist again. More chains burst from the ground, slamming into the aggressor and yanking them down.

The hooded figure knelt, slammed his palm against the floor, and literally peeled the marble floor. It curled away as he inscribed a sigil mid-air with one finger. Each stroke hung in place like fire suspended in ink.

A tear began to open beneath Fabrisse and Celine—a yawning fold in space, its rim lined with mirrored light and geometric glyphs like rotating puzzle pieces.

The hooded figure’s voice sharpened, threading command through every syllable:
 “Brace yourselves. I’m dropping the cage.”

Fabrisse tightened his grip around Celine’s shoulders, heart hammering. The base of the cage inched toward the breach.

Then the void roared.

The bound aggressor’s body shuddered, then exploded in a burst of inverted light—white that splattered like ink, silence that cracked like thunder.

Chains snapped. Golden-veined links unraveled midair, burning into ash.

The aggressor raised one arm. From its palm, a perfect circle of nothing formed—a glyphless, silent seal—and launched it toward the tear in the floor.

He’s cutting the passage.

The seal struck the fold before the cage could drop in. It imploded on contact, collapsing the tear in a sudden flash of concussive compression. The floor slammed shut like a book snapping closed.

Fabrisse cried out, shielding Celine as arcane shockwaves rattled through the cage walls. She made a gagging sound.

The chains on the aggressor’s arms melted off, leaving streaks of gold dripping down its limbs like molten wire.  It turned its featureless face toward the hooded man, and its sigil-eyes flared with furious brilliance—four rings rotating independently like mismatched gears.

Then it lunged like a rabid dog.

Its tendrils whipped out in a spiderweb pattern. The hooded figure moved with fluid certainty, arms tracing quick arcs as he wove layers of translucent wards between himself and the oncoming storm. His magic flared gold, then deep violet, then black again. Each shield he raised cracked under the impact but reformed instantly.

They were meant to withstand.

He’s not trying to win. He’s—he’s buying time.

Fabrisse felt a tug at his wrist. He looked down and saw that Celine’s fingers had closed around his hand. Her eyes were still unfocused and glazed with pain, but they were searching. Her lips moved.

“Celine?” he whispered, leaning closer.

She tried to speak again. It came out as a whisper, threadbare and broken by shallow breaths. 

He put a finger over her lips. “Save your breath. It’s okay.”

She finally stared at his face now and managed a weak nod.

The clash was becoming untenable.

The aggressor’s strikes came too fast for Fabrisse’s eyes to track. It had now formed blades of folding dark, warps of logic-defying reach. One blow shattered five layers of wards, and the hooded figure was forced back as his boots skidded across the floor.

Fabrisse could only see shockwaves and the strobe of colliding magics, each flash lighting the black-shrouded form of the void-being as it pressed. It had gained the upper hand.

Tendrils surged again—too many this time. They punched through a final barrier like spears through silk, slamming into the hooded man’s side. He staggered, breath torn from his lungs.

A second wave came. The void was hungry now, scenting blood.

Then the aggressor stopped.

Shrouds of darkness furled in like smoke being sucked into a vacuum. The howling void stilled. One by one, the rotating sigils over its face halted their spin.

Fabrisse stared in disbelief. The void influence was retracting. The being seemed to fold into itself, body glitching at the edges, gradually losing solidity. 

It turned, shuddering, and stepped backward, melting into the crack it had torn into space. The gap closed behind it without a sound. The room fell silent, save for the hiss of still-dissipating energy.

The hooded figure reeled himself upright, blood soaking the left side of his robes, and tore a fresh sigil into the air with three fingers and a snarl of effort. The glyph expanded with radiant urgency and a lack of proper elegance.

A crack split open across the chamber’s far end. The hooded man turned toward the suspended cage. He reached out with both hands, twisted something invisible, and in a sharp jerk, he yanked the entire cage across the threshold and out of the warped space.

For one agonizing second, it felt like falling through glass. Then Fabrisse found himself in the secluded place behind the refectory again.

Celine had now clutched his arm so hard it started hurting. “I—I’m sorry. It took the shape of the informant . . . I—I thought . . .”

“It’s fine.” Fabrisse patted her on her back. “I know this feeling.” Panic. He’d been there before. “Breathe. It’s all good now.”

“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .” And that was all she said for the next minute.

The surrounding space seemed . . . normal. Apart from the pen Celine had thrown, everything was where it should be on the table. Background noises had returned from the refectory, and Fabrisse could hear people chatting like nothing had happened.

[Combat Completed: + 3 EXP]

[Progress to Level 6: 1570/2750]

The hooded figure stumbled once, then righted himself with a grimace. He reached up, unfastening the clasp of his cloak, and let the blood-soaked garment slip off his shoulder. Beneath it, a deep gash ran from his ribs down past his hip, likely from the void thing’s strike. He snapped his fingers, summoned a thread of pale golden light and pressed it to the wound. The magic crawled over the torn flesh, slow and shaky. It wasn’t healing fast, but it was working. He’d survive.

Fabrisse, breathing hard, caught a clearer look at the discarded cloak. His eyes narrowed.

That wasn’t a Synod issue cloak.

It bore the iconography of the Southern Branch of the Order, stitched in archaic threadwork around the hem. Someone from the Order just walking around the Synod grounds, and someone that strong? That wasn’t casual.

He also seemingly had access to everywhere. He was in a Synod building the last time he watched over Fabrisse too, and Fabrisse was sure that building was in possession of the Department of Aetheric Resonance Research, which meant only academic researchers could enter such a place.

Rolen said his aid didn’t come from the Synod. If this person was his aid, then . . .

“Are you,” Fabrisse whispered, still half in shock, “Professor Kaldrin? Of the Outer Fold?”

The man turned, hood still obscuring most of his face. He paused for a moment and said, “Have you heard of me?”

That meant yes.

Chapter 96

[ACCESS: STONE THAUMATURGY SKILL TREE]

[SYSTEM NOTE: All these skills are Common-level skills. Please refer to the known Skill tree to access Tier 2 (Rare-level) skills.]

[WARNING: Be sure to refer to double-check the requirements for unlocking every Skill. Some Tier 2 skills cannot be unlocked until the prerequisite Tier 1 skills are available. Mastery Points are difficult to earn, so use them strategically to specialize into specific builds.]

[EXAMPLE: Defensive Stone Tank Build requires a vastly different skillset than Stone Golem Summoner.]

He checked his existing and unlockable Common-grade skills, and saw a new one under the unlockable sections (skills he hadn’t had yet).

Twisted Stone Swing (Rank I)

Active

Defense / Reaction

Forms a stone and/or infuses aether into an existing stone, and reinforces the momentum of a swinging motion. Adds weight and torque mid-strike, causing a whip-like snap of brittle stone that can crack bone or stagger unarmored targets. Especially effective when used with staves or picks.

This spell wasn’t here before. But I saw Liene use it just now and recognized it.

Then another glyph popped up.

[SYSTEM NOTE: Many Tier 1 Foundation Spells cannot be learned until the calibrator is aware or reminded of their existence. Please observe other spellcasters in training, revise study materials or consult local databases (e.g. Grand Libraries) to unlock Tier 1 compatibility.]

[ADDITIONAL NOTE: Certain legacy spells may not appear in contemporary study scrolls. Seek out oral traditions, discarded grimoire fragments, or unindexed spirit-encoded archives. Antiquated terms may include ‘Tongue of Sparks’, ‘Breath-Tether’, or ‘Third Arm of the Beaver.’]

Third Arm of the Beaver? That’s a mistake, right? It’s supposed to be ‘Weaver’.

[SYSTEM NOTE: It says what it says.]

Huh.

He scrolled the glyph down below and saw a number of higher-level Epic-graded spells, all of which he recognized from the textbook ‘Codex Thaumetica: Glyph Theory & Applications’.

Lithocrash Array (Rank I)

Type: Offensive Terrain-Based AoE
Requires: Seismic Teeth + Stonepulse
Description:
Unleashes a chain of pressure-triggered tremors across a 10-meter cone of fractured ground. The spell plants volatile stone “nodes” underground that explode upwards when stepped on or triggered manually.
Effect Notes:

• Deals double damage on naturally rocky or cobbled terrain.

• Can stagger or knock down foes.

Tect Barrier (Rank I)

Type: Reactive Shield / Terrain Anchor
Requires: Stonepulse + Gravelgrip
Description:
Summons a concave shell of fractured plate-stone anchored by deep geolocking. While active, caster becomes immovable unless forcibly teleported or the spell breaks.

Coretongue (Rank I)

Type: Utility / Sensing / Buff
Requires: Stonewhisper II + Seismic Teeth
Description:
The caster can ‘speak’ with deep stone layers and receive tremor feedback, granting tremorsense, tunnel mapping, and weak-point detection.
Effect Notes:

• Duration-based (90 seconds), increases in precision with focus.

• Can detect moving targets through floors/walls (limited range).

• Grants +20% accuracy for earth spells cast while in contact with ground.

Okay. These are the Tier 3 spells I know from my studies, but there might be more. 

There was even a Tier 4 spell, the Legendary-graded, Synod-named Faultvein Convergence. This spell had been attempted by the Rank VI Professor Margenholt.

Faultvein Convergence (Rank I)

Type: Ultimate / Terrain Reshaping (Long Cooldown)
Requires: Lithocrash Array + Coretongue
Description:
Temporarily awakens fault lines beneath a target area (up to 20m diameter), creating unstable fissures, sudden uplifts, or plunges. Enemies may fall, stumble, or be cut off by stone walls rising from the earth.
Effect Notes:

• Environment-based spell. Cannot be used on metal or magical flooring.

• Costs a high amount of aether. Long cooldown.

• Synergizes heavily with Lithocrash (e.g., traps them, then collapses terrain).

Fabrisse stared at the skill for five seconds straight even after he’d finished reading it. Plunging enemies to the nether was an insane ability. He didn’t know it could be as powerful as the description made it out to be, though. The textbooks mentioning Rank VI Stone Thaumaturge Margenholt only noted that she cracked the ground a little.

Is this the full capability of Stone Thaumaturgy? This can be as powerful as any other element. And there might be more skills that I haven’t learned the name of yet.

He double-checked the spells he could see, and saw that Stupenstone didn’t really have synergy with anything.

Stupenstone Fling has really limited potential. 

As hurtful as it felt, he might have to stop dedicating so much time on the Stupenstone until he could actually find spell combinations to unlock skills higher up. To do that, he’d need to refresh his knowledge and possibly pay a trip to the Synod Archive.

Speaking of the Archive . . . I have a job interview in two days.

He had a newfound motivation to nail that interview now. What could possibly be better than earning some Kohns on the side while educating himself on all the Stone skills recorded throughout the history of Thaumaturgy?

Fabrisse gaped at the glowing projection of his Stone Thaumaturgy Skill Menu, utterly absorbed in the interplay of spells and their potential. So absorbed, in fact, that he didn’t notice the eerie quiet settling over the alcove. The usual bustle of distant voices, the clatter of trays and stray laughter all had faded into an unnatural hush. 

He squinted at his screen, then at the flickering light outside the narrow window. Something was off; the colors in the refectory seemed drained, as though a dim shadow had smothered the vibrancy of the room.

A chill prickled down his spine. Am I in a Void trap again? he wondered. He thought of a random shameful moment and immediately activated his Veil of Shame. This is bad, bad, bad. I’m so stupid. How could I have agreed to being left alone? And stare at the System at the same time.

He bit his lower lip.

This should never have happened. I will never let it happen again.

If I get out of here in one piece . . .

[PRAXIS-NODE Auto-Defense Activated]
[Proximity Alert: Hostile Pattern Detected]
[Caution:————]

[SYSTEM ALERT: ————. . . EIDRALITH FAILSAFE INTERRUPTED. . .]

[UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS ATTEMPT DETECTED— ]

Before Fabrisse could stand, the door burst open. Celine stumbled through, breath ragged, hair half-unraveled, eyes wild with something that didn’t look like fear—it looked like guilt. 

The aura bleeding off her made it obvious. It shimmered in jagged, sputtering shades of ashen violet—the telltale hue of regret turned volatile. Sparks crackled off her skin like little shards of lightning. Her entire body glowed in a fractured halo, pulsing in mismatched rhythms.

A crescent of crystalized aether traced the side of her face like a cracked mask, one shard splitting just beneath her eye. Defensive reaction—probably automatic. Crystal was a high-level hybrid element, and it was notoriously draining to use. One would only use it for defense when in grave danger.

He jolted.

“Fabrisse. Run!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the marble pillars. 

What? How? Run where?

She grabbed her pen. Sparks of aether ignited at her fingertips, writhing like living filaments up the shaft. The metal cracked as aether wrapped around it, and the pen elongated, crystalizing into a midnight-blue lance, runes burning white-hot along its length. Celine spun, brandished the weapon with both hands, and drove it straight into the dark. It exploded into the darkness outside the door, and promptly reduced itself into nothing.

She turned to him, her shout morphed into a desperate growl, “Smash the window and get out! It’s all my fault. I–I didn’t know. I’m so sorry!”

In the span of a heartbeat, as Fabrisse scrambled to his feet, something like an impossibly black whiplash slammed into the back of her head. Shattering sounds of crystalline crumbling resounded. Celine’s eyes turned white immediately. With a strangled cry, she collapsed onto the floor.

Fabrisse shuddered. He grabbed a Stupenstone from his satchel, but his shaking hand dropped it immediately as he touched it. He stared at the entrance.

Darkness sucked it in like a black hole.

Chapter 97

Celine led Fabrisse around the curve of the refectory’s outer wall, past a decorative barrier of climbing ferns enchanted to hum softly when brushed, and into a semi-private study alcove nestled between two tall bookcases. Technically part of the refectory’s library annex, it was just secluded enough to muffle voices but still open enough not to count as ‘alone.’ The round window behind them framed the arched bridge outside, where someone was currently juggling teacups with levitation runes.

Fabrisse took the seat opposite her but didn’t settle. His eyes traced the curve of the window behind them, noted the distance to the nearest corridor junction, clocked two other students whispering over a textbook nearby, and made a mental note of the alcove’s modest shielding enchantment. It looked like basic audio distortion with no locking spells.

If he needed to leave, he could do so in under four seconds without even brushing the table. Not that he expected to. Celine wasn’t a threat—at worst, she was an unstoppable conversational tide, flooding into places you'd thought walled off. He’d never heard of her doing anything truly cruel.

He tucked his satchel a little closer to his side and folded his arms.

Celine, already sitting sideways with one elbow propped on the table, leaned forward with bright eyes and zero sense of personal boundaries. “So—Eidralith resonance. I know the Archmagi must’ve told you not to talk about it, but they didn’t say I couldn’t ask, right?” she said, flashing an impish grin before barreling on. “I’ve been digging into historical artifacts with overlapping ethereal signature decay—stuff like the Glass Compass Array, the Wounded Oracle, even that one weird harp they keep locked under salt in the West Wing—you know the one? It hums grief.”

Fabrisse stared at her.

“I’ve been very interested in the inner workings of the Eidralith, and by extension, your progress!” Celine, undeterred by his stare, leaned further in, her voice dropping just enough to qualify as ‘conspiratorial.’ “So I’ve been working off this theory. What if it links to your soul or responds to your thoughts? I knew historical binders with the Eidralith were able to cast spells so easily. Maybe it allows you to skip intent and mnemonics entirely? Do you know Archmagus Croleh was the first person to be able to utilize Lightning Thaumaturgy and Silk Thaumaturgy? Maybe it gives them affinity with entirely new elements?”

Fabrisse raised an eyebrow.

“So? Am I right?”

“No,” he said.

“Ugh. How wrong?”

“Completely.”

“Not even a little bit?”

“Not even close.”

Celine tilted her head. “You’re not just saying that to throw me off, right?”

“Well . . .”

Celine pouted. “You shut that theory down immediately, which means it was dumb, not dangerous. But when I said something closer before, you hesitated justttt a little. So maybe that one was near the mark—” She flopped back in her chair with a groan, took out her notes, and laid them out on the table. “How about this? I’ll tell you what I know, and then you tell me what you know. Deal?”

Fabrisse didn’t answer.

She opened a folder anyway. “So. I found this in the sealed archive. Most people think the Eidralith is some kind of divine gift or just a one-off relic, but that’s not the whole story. Turns out, it’s made from the same material as the Origin Stones.” The Origin Stones were the asteroids that first fell into the Realms and spread aether everywhere.

That actually got Fabrisse to sit up straight. She saw his reaction and grinned.

“Early research suggests whoever binds with the Eidralith gains some kind of direct access to the source of aether,” she added. “They just don’t know what kind of access, or what it actually does.”

Well, that makes sense and doesn’t make sense at the same time. The system doesn’t give me any aether, but it does give me a way to ‘access’ it through improving my resonance, among other things.

Fabrisse leaned forward, interested. “What else did they say?”

Celine immediately sat back and wagged a finger at him. “Nuh-uh. I gave you something. Your turn.”

“Fine. Something for something.” He tapped his fingers once as he thought to himself, I don’t have to give her actual information, do I? There’s no way she can confirm it. Celine seemed like a genuinely nice girl if you could look past her nosiness, but he had to prioritize protecting himself. And she would be the last person he trusted with a secret. “The Eidralith is a storage. It gathers excess aether whenever I over-channel and save it for later.” That should explain why I was able to cast better spells.

Celine whipped out her pen and started scribbling like mad in the corner of her notebook.

“Go on,” she said as she scribbled.

He didn’t.

After a beat, she looked up and frowned at him. “Wait—how do you tap into that extra aether? Does it give it to you automatically when your pool runs short? Do you feel any resonance?”

Fabrisse gestured vaguely next to her temple.

“That’s all I can say,” he replied evenly.

She stared. “That’s all you will say.”

“Uh . . . can I go now?” He rubbed his shoulder.

Celine glanced at her glyphwatch and made a face. “Mmm—five more minutes? I just need to check something in the archive room real quick.” She was already halfway out of her seat before he could answer. “Don’t touch anything,” she added, pointing at him as she backed toward the door. “I’ll know.”

He leaned back, staring after her. “Okay.” Then he lowered his voice, “I’m not in a rush. Not like anyone’s waiting for me.”

“Liene might!” Celine called cheerfully, and then she was gone.

With nothing to do, he decided to check out his Mastery distribution now. He should have 11 Earth Thaumaturgy points.

He did.

His recent gains had been crazy. It only took him two weeks to gain half a level, and while he had been more diligent during that time, it was very likely that the Eidralith had enabled exponential growth one way or another. 

But as he opened his Mastery allocation, he was met with a grim reminder.

Added new research notes

I'm also solidifying the skill tree, and this is the basic explanation of how it works. This is public knowledge, but you guys should know it anyway.

Chapter 96

There weren’t many chances in life to catch Liene acting shy. Normally, Fabrisse would’ve jumped at the opportunity to tease her for it—if he weren’t also the one being teased today.

The Synod’s Refectory of the Seventh Fire Dragon had the architecture of the headquarters of a minor cult. Marble pillars inlaid with gold-veined obsidian ringed the cavernous space, each one crowned with open-jawed dragon busts belching slow spirals of magical steam—meant, allegedly, to keep the soup warm. The vaulted ceiling was so high it echoed, crisscrossed with hanging brass pendulums that swayed dramatically every time someone so much as shifted a chair.

In the middle of it all, under the suspicious glow of one particularly judgmental chandelier, Fabrisse sat very still, a bowl of root-stock soup going lukewarm in front of him. Liene, sitting beside him, kept fussing with the cuff of her robe. A probable reason was that her clothing today didn’t have any random quills stuck on them, and she was uncomfortable with plain cloth.

Celine had leaned in across the table, arms folded like she was interrogating a fugitive rather than a friend. The scribbling duty had been transferred to Ploosh, who was nodding along even though nobody was talking.

“So,” Celine began with far too much casual innocence, “how long have you two been hanging out?”

Fabrisse stared at his soup with intense focus. “Who’s ‘you two.’”

Celine directed the next jab at Liene, “You’ve been way closer since you came back from your field excursion. I’m just saying. Something happened, right? Something interesting?”

Well, yeah. The Eidralith happened. Maybe a professional gossipmancer like her should be more interested in that.

Liene made a soft throat-clearing noise, the kind she usually reserved for interrupting unnecessarily long presentations. “Well, I mean, Fabrisse’s still adjusting,” she said, not looking at anyone. “You know. With . . . everything recently.” Her voice dropped half an octave on ‘recently’.

“Oh!” Celine latched onto the thread like a starbeetle to jam. “I was meaning to ask about his recent binding—oh, no, no, no. Don’t try and reroute this, Miss Strategic Deflection,” Celine interrupted, holding up a hand. “Because you nearly got me asking about the Eidralith—which would’ve been clever, by the way—but I remembered. The Foundational Rites of Clarity!”

Fabrisse winced.

“Yes, that ceremony,” Celine went on, eyes gleaming. “The one where the Headmaster literally said you two were ‘too entangled in one another for objective discernment of clarity’ and had to pause the rites.”

Fabrisse muttered into his soup, “That’s not exactly what he said though . . .”

Celine grinned, sensing blood. “Sure, sure, not exactly. But you guys did get physically entangled, which I’m told is very bad form during a clarity rite. Honestly, if you wanted everyone at the Synod to start talking, that was one efficient way to do it.”

Liene said, “We were attempting Harmonization. It was to try to win the event, that’s all.”

Anabeth, who had been silently ladylike beside them, spooning soup with unhurried elegance. “That is not allowed during the ritual, you know. Liene wouldn’t happen to disregard the rules, wouldn’t she?”

“Oh, she very much would!” Celine’s eyes gleamed. “But the more important question is, why would our girl Liene care enough to try winning the Petal ritual, in the first place.”

Anabeth said with the carefully enunciated rhythm of a person whose voice never broke into any register lower than condescending, “I was present. And what I observed was two people so obviously caught up in one another that the resonance between them produced a harmonic feedback loop.

Ploosh scribbled in silence.

Celine leaned back with a devilish grin. “Look, I’m just trying to get a sense of the emotional climate before we tackle the dangerous soul-bound artifacts, alright? Maybe Kestovar and Liene here have to perform harmonization because a higher entity obliged them to.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Anabeth added, calmly reaching for her glass of mintwater. “We’ll circle back to the Eidralith. I’ve been brushing up on binding artifact theory, and I have . . . questions.”

Thank you, Fabrisse thought. Anything would be better than the petal ritual topic.

Liene gave a short, amused exhale—barely a laugh—and finally looked up from her sleeve. “Alright, that’s enough. You’re going to make Fabrisse blush.”

Celine gasped, delighted. “Are you saying he has blushed before? I knew it!”

“Fabri needs a more delicate environment so you don’t trigger an emotional backlash,” Liene said. “Which, as we’ve all been told several times, is not recommended during soup.”

I appreciate you covering for me, Liene, Fabrisse thought. But saying, ‘Fabri this, Fabri that’ will just make them tease us more.

Anabeth set down her spoon. “The soup’s getting cold,” she said, and with a flick of her fingers, ivory aether-light danced across the surface of her bowl, steaming it gently back to warmth.

That, finally, was enough to redirect attention. The table came to a still.

Ploosh resumed scribbling at a more languid pace. Celine relented with a dramatic sigh and reached for her bread wedge. Liene pretended to be fascinated by the leafy garnish floating in her soup. And Fabrisse, with immense gratitude and a single slow breath, allowed himself the minor miracle of simply taking a bite. Warm, salty, vaguely rooty. Bliss.

***

After a few minutes of blessed, slurping silence, the table began to disband in the slow way of half-finished conversations and second helpings. Anabeth excused herself with her usual gravity, citing a ‘time-sensitive divination appointment.’ Ploosh trailed after her, still scribbling. Liene remained seated, idly rotating her spoon in her empty bowl, though she had sat straighter, more guarded, like someone very consciously not eavesdropping.

When Celine leaned a little too casually toward Fabrisse and asked, “Hey, do you have five minutes?” Liene didn’t say anything. She stood, adjusted the strap of her satchel, and gave Fabrisse the briefest glance. 

He communicated with his eyes, ‘wait, don’t go! I can’t take a private interview!’

Then Liene turned to Celine with a polite smile and said, “I’ll catch you both later,” before slipping away into the late-lunch crowd.

Fabrisse watched her go.

Then he looked at Celine.

“. . . Five minutes?” he said.

“I swear it’s not about Liene,” Celine said, hands raised like he was a startled deer. “I just want to ask a few questions about the Eidralith. Official gossipmancer business; no prying! Just the arcane stuff. Promise. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

He considered her carefully. He would much rather be unlocking a new skill with his Master Point now, but it wasn’t like he could use that as an excuse.

They were still in the refectory, near one of the absurdly sculpted dragon-head columns. Students were milling about, carrying trays, arguing over seating charms, loudly failing at quiet spells. It was, by all accounts, a public space.

Safe enough.

Fabrisse gave a small nod. “Alright. Five minutes. No commentary on my nonexistent romantic history.”

“Scout’s honor,” she said, already steering him toward a less echo-prone alcove near the corner windows. “I’m only interested in cursed relics and potentially unstable magical resonance fields.”

Right, Fabrisse thought. What could possibly go wrong?

He followed her lead.

Chapter 94 & 95

He charged his Stupenstone for what felt like less than a second and released.

[SPELL CAST: Stupenstone Fling (Rank III)]

The pebble arced even more beautifully than in his training runs with Tommaso. The throwmitts steadied his grip; the angle was clean; the follow-through smooth. Amber sparks followed the pebble like celebratory fireflies. It soared in a gentle rise, then curved downward just the way he had wanted it to be. It must’ve been the best throw he’d ever made.

The first glyphlight lit like a torch.

The second lit like a torch, but brighter.

The third didn’t.

The stone dipped too early, sliding off its line. He scrambled to twist his hand and send it on an upward arc, but it was too late. The stone skidded into the grass just past the second checkpoint.

Above the field, the band of glyphscript read:

“4.8 ARC · 8° deviation · 2 GLY-PASS · no chain”

Ilya took a bite of her baguette, chewed thoughtfully, and called out, “Five points.”

He felt his fingers curl in frustration. His throw was better than Ploosh’s worst; better than his own usual throws. But this was supposed to be a Rank III throw, and that looked nothing like a Rank III skill. He had the mitts on, his Silvian quartz in his pockets, and everything.

It all happened too fast. Even though he only had 12 registered ARC, he knew the unspecified boost from the Silvian quartz would add up to over 15, enough for him to bend the arc of the stone during flight. He’d tried.

“Not bad,” Celine called out from the bench. “At least your pebble didn’t cry on the way down, like your Liene!”

“I’m right here!” Liene yelled.

Fabrisse adjusted the strap on his throwmitt and paced a slow semicircle around the edge of the casting line. His eyes traced the glyphlights, the curvature of the ground, the tall scoring banner waving gently with the breeze. The breeze! I noticed it this time. The wind wasn’t enough to disrupt a heavy throw, but enough to toy with a pebble.

He rolled his next Stupenstone between his fingers. The calibration had to be tighter. His angle had been good, but too passive in the follow-through. He needed a firmer push to keep the pebble from listing under pressure.

He breathed in, visualized the glyphpath, and channeled the charge just below overcast.

This time, when he released it, he knew it was better. His stone moved at a sharp angle, just grazing the optimal arc curve. He even accounted for the breeze with a slight wrist torque on the exit.

The stone flew. It sang.

First glyphlight: lit.

Second glyphlight: brighter.

Third glyphlight . . . swayed by the wind.

The stone dipped, caught a whisper of wind, and veered just two degrees wide. It struck the grass past the target, again, just past the second checkpoint. The board lit:

“4.8 ARC · 6° deviation · 2 GLY-PASS · no chain”

“Curses . . .” He slapped a mitt on his forehead.

“Still five,” Ilya called, tearing off another bite of her baguette.

He stayed crouched, staring at the trail of sparks the pebble left in the air. It had the distance. It just didn’t have the stability.

His ARC — only 12, for this one — wasn’t enough to stabilize the tail end. Even though he had the strength to reach the target, the pebble wobbled near the end like it had lost confidence. His channeling couldn’t maintain the kinetic sheath through the final glyphlight.

Then what went wrong?

[WARNING: Emotional Catalyst Mismatch]

EMO Booster operating at 30% capacity

Detected Emotion: Shame

Recommended Catalyst for this ability: Joy; Rage; Reverent

The realization hit with clarity. He looked up at the field again—the glowing glyphlights, the invisible current of the air, the way sparks trailed behind a stone like it had a dream to chase. To beat this wind, he had to feel real joy.

But how could he evoke joy when he could only think about his last two failed attempts?

“Fabrisse Kestovar. Your final try,” Ilya said, voice carrying over the field. “I’ve called you two times already.”

He blinked. The glyphlights faded from his peripheral vision as he looked up, dazed. He’d been so deep in his own self-reprimanding loops that he hadn’t heard a word.

A flutter of footsteps approached.

“Hey.” Liene jogged up to the casting line, unscrewing the cap on a squat silver flask. “Do you need water? You look like you’re about to pass out from overthinking.”

He reached up mutely, took the flask, and sipped. It was ice-cold and citrusy, exactly what she always packed. It was always something with lemonroot and mint with her. 

“T-thank you,” he muttered. 

She nodded. “If there’s anything—”

Celine called out, “Oh good! Nursemaid Lugano to the rescue. Stand behind him and fix his posture, Liene! You can do it!”

Rinna chimed in from the sidelines. “That’s technically not allowed, Liene! Emotional support’s an unfair advantage!” Anabeth burst out laughing. Ploosh burst out laughing more loudly.

Fabrisse flushed, tapping the side of his satchel exactly four times. He could tell from Liene’s red ears that she was just as embarrassed, and that both of them just wanted to walk right away. But she didn’t step back. Instead, she leaned in slightly and whispered, “What do you need to feel?”

He hesitated. When he spoke, he could barely hear his own voice, “Joy.”

She gave a small nod. “Okay. Then think back to your last happy moment. You were able to cast joy last time, remember? And don’t sweat it too much.” She smiled, quiet but steady. “It’s just a game. You’re doing great.”

Fabrisse glanced over to the gossip girls. Celine fixed her eyes on Fabrisse and grinned when he looked over. Rinna was about to say something too, but Anabeth gave her a nudge and shushed her with a finger to her lips.

“Fabri,” Liene dropped to one knee in front of him. Before he could react, she was already tugging gently at the hem of his sleeve, straightening his cuff and checking the latches on his kinetic mitts with small motions. “Are you feeling nervous?”

“No.”

“You’re tapping your satchel.”

“Oh.” He glanced down. He’d been tapping at the side of his stone pouch for probably far more times than he’d have liked. He didn’t expect Liene to notice it, nor did he expect him to make a connection between his habit and nervousness, however right or wrong it might be. 

She gave him a small shake of her head. “Why did you wear mitts? You always forget to tighten them. If you’re going to add more accessories, you should care about the little things like this.” She fastened the last strap and hesitated for a breath before glancing up at him. “I—I don’t mean it like—I mean. I know you’re trying your best. Just have fun. You’ll feel the right emotion.”

All the girls were quiet now. Fabrisse wasn’t sure if they were watching him or waiting for him, but for once, the silence didn’t feel mocking. It felt like space.

Liene finally stepped aside, her eyes lingering on him for just a second longer than necessary before she backed toward the sidelines.

Fabrisse crouched and reached down to the pebble he had set aside—Gravelkin, the only Stupenstone he’d ever named. Its surface was polished smooth, with a slight seam near the base like a birthmark. 

Maybe a sharper cut could knife through the breeze more cleanly. But it wouldn’t curve. And he needed the curve.

Fabrisse rolled Gravelkin between his palms once, then gripped it firmly in his throwmitt. 

He knew he potentially had one skill, Gravelkin (Rank II), which allowed Gravelkin to mimic simple shapes. This had to be the time to use it.

He opened the Mastery interface.

Earth Thaumaturgy Mastery: 13

Tier 2 – Unlockable with Mastery Points

You can now unlock these:

Stone-Based Thaumaturgy Tier II:

Skill Name

Type

Tags

Mastery Req

Description

Gravelkin (Rank II)

Active

Summon

10 (Earth - Stone)

Upgrades your bonded Gravelkin: now capable of limited mimicry (simple shapes), glows on proximity to conflict.

Path Synergy: Celestial Hoarding Upgraded. Up to 3 stones can grant attribute gains while in your inventory, unequipped.

He had been saving up for later, but this was as good as it could get for him if he were to spend 10 Mastery points on something. Not only would it aid him now, it would allow him to gain the benefit of the Lodestone immediately without having to actually hold it in his hand. If this new unlock allowed him to finish the Arc Pebbles quest, it was like getting an immediate 2 Mastery Points rebate. The upside was too good to pass up.

He pressed his thumb to its surface, closed his eyes, and let the shape of Anabeth’s pebble play through his mind again—the curve, the balance, the way it had flown like it was born to do it. Then he murmured, low under his breath, a line he came up with on the spot:

“Weight to back, edge to air, curve the wind and split it fair.”

[SKILL CAST: Gravelkin (Rank II)]

[Passive Activated: Gravelkin (Rank II)]

Registering New Unequipped Item: Lodestone, Elemental

Effect: Boosts EMO, SYN by 25%. Boosts DEX, INT, STR, RES by 12%

He could feel the aether inside his palm stirring, tickling the surface of his skin. The stone responded—hesitantly at first, then with a faint shimmer along its surface. The shape didn’t lock in perfectly. The curve was a bit too shallow, the back end not as cleanly rounded. But it was close enough.

Then the memory returned, to when he and Liene had managed to cast joy together. Their joint focus had kindled that shared emotion, enough to touch the ritual bowl with their petal offering. Enough to matter. He had believed in himself then, because she had believed in him too. It hadn’t felt like an achievement. It had felt like relief. Like lightness.

He’d sprinted down the hill like a man on fire with laughter, feet barely catching the ground, Dubbie barking madly behind him and never catching up. Wind in his face, voice lost in the air, no shame, no second-guessing.

That feeling. That moment.

His chest lifted. The faintest warmth flickered at the edge of his vision.

[EMO Booster: 84% capacity]

[Detected Emotion: Joy]

[Emotional Alignment Confirmed]

Sky-blue sparks flared.

He threw the stone.

Gravelkin left his hand like it had always belonged to the air.

The sheath held, narrow and honed, precise as a needle gliding through fabric. It curved with the glyphlight’s spiral, not hesitating once, tracing the arc like it had memorized the path. Sky-blue scintillation clung to its tail, arcing out, bright as frost in the morning sun.

It missed the third glyph by a breath, too shallow on the approach. So in awe of the motion was Fabrisse that he’d forgotten to correct the path again. But maybe if he had corrected that path, the curve wouldn’t have been that beautiful.

The score lit up beside the line:

“7.5 ARC · 5.8° deviation · 2 GLY-PASS · no chain”

“And what does that translate to?” He looked at Ilya expectantly. He’d already known. It was more than enough.

Rinna actually let out a quiet, “What?” Even Anabeth couldn’t have managed a curve like that.

Ilya didn’t smile, but her voice carried a distinct upward lilt. “Nine points. Your total is nineteen.” She paused, letting the weight of it land. “Congratulations on second place, Kestovar.”

Ploosh’s jaw dropped. Rinna clicked her tongue and said, “So he does know his stuff.”

Anabeth nodded once and said, “Well. Hardly just a theory man anymore, is he?”

Quest Completed: Impressively Not First

Rewards:

✦ +2 Earth Thaumaturgy Mastery

✦ [Passive Unlocked] — Measured Hand: Slightly increases stability of fine aether manipulations when under observation.

✦ Reputation Shift: “Hmm, maybe he actually knows what he’s doing”

Optional Bonus: Failed

Fabrisse’s fists clenched at his sides, not from tension, but to stop himself from bolting straight toward Liene like a madman. His legs twitched with the urge. His chest buzzed like a spell just barely contained. He grinned despite himself and quickly looked down at his boots, stepping on one foot with the other. Calm down, Kestovar. Just breathe.

Liene hadn’t moved. She stood at the edge of the line with her arms crossed tight, her expression locked somewhere between pride and panic. Her mouth tugged upward, barely, before she cleared her throat and looked away.

[Sparring Completed: + 40 EXP]

[Progress to Level 6: 1567/2750]

[Gravelkin (Rank II)—Progress to Rank III: 2%]

[Emotional Trajectory Shift Detected]
Primary Emotional Catalyst: Shame
Secondary: Joy (Retained – 40% compatibility penalty)

Your spells may now respond to affirming emotional signatures. Positive catalysts grant increased durability and reduced fatigue cost.

Wait. Does that mean . . . I’ve unlocked Joy? Can I consistently cast joy now?

The silence lingered a moment longer before—

“Wait, what’s the prize again?” Anabeth asked, already strolling toward Ilya with her usual poise.

Ilya reached into the crook of her arm and pulled out a third baguette.

Anabeth blinked. “That one’s bitten.”

Ilya raised an eyebrow. “Do you want it?”

Anabeth stared at the bread, then at Ilya, then back at the bread. “. . . No thanks.”

Celine burst out laughing from the sidelines. “Best second-place drama ever. We all know this one’s going in the records.”

Fabrisse took half a step toward the edge of the field—just enough to signal polite retreat—but Celine was already on him.

“Whoa whoa whoa, where do you think you’re going?” she said, cutting him off with a gleam in her eyes.

Ploosh and Anabeth flanked the sides like they’d rehearsed it.

“Second-place reward,” Anabeth said with mock gravity, “is a free lunch on us. That’s the rule.”

“You made that rule up just now,” he said, bewildered.

“Yup,” said Celine. “It’s binding.”

“I—I have to log my cast notes—”

“Your logs can wait,” said Ploosh. “This is way more important.”

Rinna had already wandered off, muttering something about needing to make her ten-minute appearance in Theory & Application before anyone took attendance. But the rest of the girls were grinning like they were … hunters and he was a deer caught in a trap.

He turned to Liene, the only person who might save him. She stood a little outside the circle, hands awkwardly behind her back, clearly trying to act like she wasn’t part of this.

She met his eyes and mouthed silently: I'll get us out of here. Don’t worry.

And that’s when it hit him.

They weren’t even that into Arc Pebbles. It would’ve been obvious by now, because they weren’t offered a free skill and two Mastery Points.

He had been the only one taking this seriously.

They were just here to watch him get roped into shenanigans.

Fabrisse closed his eyes and sighed. “. . . Fine,” he said.

“Great choice!” Celine called, grabbing him by the elbow. And so, second-place baguette-less but surrounded, Fabrisse was led off the field—not as a loser, and not quite a winner either.

Just a guy with a very good curve, and some very strange friends.

I am buffing the Stupenstone Fling

The Stupenstone Fling is now travelling too slowly and not dealing enough damage, so I'm upgrading the base version (Rank 2), as can be seen in Chapter 35 on Royal Road.

For this reason, its speed and range when it approaches Rank 3 will also need to be changed, and I'll fix the range on Patreon over the next few days. It doesn't alter your reading experience otherwise, unless you're really into stone physics!

Chapter 93

Liene stepped up to the plate like someone ordered to recite ancient druidic tax codes in front of Headmaster Draeth. She winced as she charged her pebble, but the thing buzzed like it was excited to be thrown nonetheless. It would be disappointed.

She raised her arm and released it.

The pebble floated upward a grand total of twelve centimeters, stuttered like a nervous bug, and flopped forward into the grass with a muffled sound.

It didn’t even reach the first checkpoint. The stone just rolled to a passive stop without a spark.

The glyphscript read: “ARC: 0.14 · DEV: 91° · GLY-PASS: ✖”

“I . . . can’t channel into a rock!” Liene threw her hand up. “Why do I have to join, Celine?”

“You volunteered!” Celine chirped, clapping like a goblin coach. “For friendship.”

Ilya said, “Zero point.” She had finished eating her baguette and had pulled out another baguette, this time without ham. She had not started eating that one yet.

Liene sighed and picked up another pebble. This time she planted her feet more firmly and squared her shoulders. Fabrisse, watching from the side, narrowed his eyes.

She was doing the stance properly, for a skill he didn’t have: Twisting Stone. Not just mimicking—it had the quiet rigidity of practice. She’d clearly been doing her homework.

The pebble glowed an ivory in her palm as she concentrated, fingers curling in ever so slightly. She launched it.

It wobbled past the first checkpoint, but took a sudden nosedive halfway through and bellyflopped into the dirt.

Above the field, a thin band of glyphs unfurled.

“ARC: 1.6 · DEV: 47° · GLY-PASS: ✖”

Ilya repeated, “Zero point.”

Third try.

Again, the stance. Again, the correct hand tension, the breath, the balance. Her control wasn't the problem.

It’s the stone, Fabrisse realized.

Earth Thaumaturgy was brutal to break into. It was even worse than water. If you didn’t have any prior experience, no baseline affinity—it felt like trying to sculpt with someone else’s arms. The stone didn’t listen until you earned its trust. 

Liene’s third pebble launched with clean intent, only to tumble midair and land with a theatrical bounce far off-target.

“ARC: 2.1 · DEV: 23° · GLY-PASS: ✖”

“Zero point,” Ilya said. “You’re now currently joint-second, alongside those who haven’t thrown yet.”

Liene let out a sigh, turned around, and immediately locked eyes with Fabrisse. He hadn’t said a word. She grinned at him awkwardly as she walked back to her place.

“Next, Anabeth,” Ilya announced.

Anabeth flipped her braids over her shoulder and sauntered up like she’d been waiting for this her entire life. “Let it be known,” she said, holding the pebble aloft like it was sacred, “that I was born for this. My ancestors were literally quarry mages. One of them married a stalagmite. That’s how deep it runs.”

“Yeah yeah,” said Rinna, waving her off. “Just throw before my class starts.”

“The referee’s on her second baguette already,” Celine added.

Anabeth scoffed. “Jealousy is unbecoming.”

Fabrisse leaned forward to catch Anabeth’s form.

She closed her eyes, inhaled, and pulsed the pebble with a soft orange shimmer—so fast and smooth the spark trailing behind it was a perfect comet tail. Then she let it fly.

It soared.

The arc it cut through the air was a gentle curve, rising clean then dipping low like a crescent moon. Four glyphlights lit up one after another—fwoom, fwoom, fwoom, fwoom—as the pebble skipped cleanly between them, tracing a flawless skip-chain path.

Did she even power that? I could barely catch the sparks from the aetherically arc.

Ilya walked over to the official glyphplate and called it aloud, “5.8 ARC, 3° deviation, 4 GLY-PASS, skip-chain. Final tally: 16 points.”

Anabeth smiled without looking back. “You may applaud now.”

No one did but Liene.

Anabeth’s second throw was just as effortless. She flicked it underhand this time, like skipping a stone across a river at sunset. Another four glyphlights lit up in its wake—like she wasn’t even trying.

“5.9 ARC, 4° deviation, 4 GLY-PASS, skip-chain. Final tally: 16 points,” Ilya read out again. 

“That’s awesome,” Liene had already clapped. “C’mon, Rinna, clap. You’re just bitter now.”

“Can we remove Anabeth from the competition next time?” Rinna grumbled. “It’s no fun knowing who’s won already.”

Theoretically, 28 was the highest possible score, but anyone scoring half that was already extremely impressive. It was almost impossible for a magus-student to score a 10 in ARC and achieve zero deviation.

Third throw. This time Anabeth didn’t even do her little speech. She just walked up, this time with a mnemonic whispered under her breath, and lobbed the pebble like she was tossing away a bad idea. It sliced through the air like a breeze-painted ribbon in a continuing arc. She didn’t correct the trajectory once. Another four glyphlights. Another perfect glyph skip.

Ilya didn’t even wait for it to land. “6.7 ARC, 5° deviation, 4 GLY-PASS, skip-chain. Final tally: 18.”

Fabrisse tried to track the arm angle, the point of synchronization, even the orange sparks on the stone’s core—but it was like trying to follow the recipe for a symphony.

The third time, he caught it the moment right before she released the pebble. That was when her fingers straightened just a little and the orange sparks flared.

Maybe that was it.

Maybe that was something he could actually copy.

Ilya announced again, “Next. Ploosh.”

The short, stone-faced girl stepped up with none of Anabeth’s grace but all of her stubbornness. Her pebble was thick and flat, not a flashy pick, but she took a long time syncing it to her rhythm. She hurled the pebble low and fast, like she wanted it to punch through the glyphs, not skip off them.

Two glyphlights lit up clean. The third lit up for a moment, then stuttered and died. Then nothing.

“4.1 ARC, 10° deviation, 3 GLY-PASS, no chain.” Ilya glanced up. “Final tally: 7 points.”

Ploosh grunted and stepped back without a word.

“Better than Rinna,” Liene offered.

“Not by much,” Rinna said, eyes narrowed.

“You scored a zero, girl,” Celine scribbled.

Her other two attempts were no better: six points and three points. Her total tally was 16.

He watched Ploosh’s angle again in his head. Watched where her throw veered, where the third glyph had almost rejected the pebble. He couldn’t be that aggressive. Fast charge, but slower throw. Channel my emotions at the right time. Got it.

“Fabrisse,” Ilya called as she pulled out a butter knife and began spreading something onto her newly procured second baguette. “Try not to hit the official.”

He stepped forward.

Behind him, Ploosh was still mumbling to herself about the third glyph. She looked like she was trying to pretend she didn’t care, but the way she kicked a pebble on her way back said otherwise.

Sixteen points. That was his mark to beat.

Fabrisse’s shoulders loosened slightly. Okay. He didn’t have to be a prodigy. He just needed more than six.

Behind him, Liene gave the world’s quietest clap. Her fingers only barely made contact and she glanced sideways to make sure Celine wasn’t watching.

Fabrisse kept his eyes ahead. He didn’t need distractions.

Let’s channel what I know best.

He thought about the moment he ‘hugged’ Liene during the petal ritual, and how both their ears had turned red.

Amber sparks flurried around his Stupenstone.

Chapter 92

Celine Moose was one of the few Earth Thaumaturgy practitioners within her current year, and by far the huggiest. Bubbly and prone to unsolicited hugs, few expected her to be interested or any good at it, until she made the ground eat a flask of water during mid-term. Her experience with Stone Thaumaturgy, though, was less triumphant. She could form small quartz crystals out of thin air and throw them with dramatic flair, but it was said that her accuracy was less than that of a sneeze in a wind tunnel. One shard famously ricocheted off three walls and a glyphlight before lodging itself into Archmagus Rolen’s biscuit. It didn’t help that her gossip club was there to witness it, and they wouldn’t let her live it down.

In any case, Celine was still a better Stone Thaumaturge than Fabrisse. But today, Fabrisse had the Stupenstone Fling, Rank III.

“Are you really wearing those mitts to an Arc Pebbles game?” Liene asked. She’d somehow chosen to dress like a typical magus-student would dress: creased robe, aetherically-imbued cuffs, and the kind of hat that only people with perfect posture could wear without looking ridiculous.

Fabrisse looked down at the oversized, rune-stamped gauntlets in his hands. They looked ridiculous in orange and made his hand sweat during summer (which was approximately now). “But the +3 ARC . . .” he muttered to himself.

“Say it in a volume a person next to you can hear, Fabri . . .” Liene peered in closer. Unfortunately for her, Celine Moose had brought along her entire magical gossip council consisting of five giggling girls, and as soon as they started giggling and whistling at Liene, she took a conscious step back. That had saved Fabrisse from getting his personal space invaded again.

They stood at the edge of the South Practice Terraces, a sunken quad-shaped courtyard carved directly into the valley behind the Old Synod Library. The terrace was tiered like an amphitheater, with runic balustrades marking out five arc-lanes that stretched across the sand-covered pitch. Each lane was separated by shallow channels of enchanted water—meant to nullify stray pebbles and penalize wild shots. Aetheric sigils shimmered in the air above each lane, calibrated to register and display the curve, height, and speed of every throw in glittering glyphscript. The referee today, the ever impartial Ilya Snezhnaya who’d been hired for 15 Kohns an hour and a ham baguette, would power these sigils and tabulate the scores.

At the center of the pitch sat a set of chalky stone rings set in concentric distances—the five Arc circles. 

Ilya Snezhnaya stood at the edge of the pitch, baguette crumbs dusting the sleeve of her robes. She cleared her throat, “Arc Pebbles rules—listen once, I won’t repeat. One. Everyone gets three pebbles. You arc them—meaning curve, not chuck them like you’re trying to bean a banshee. The most graceful arc that lands in an inner circle wins. Grace is determined by the throw path and how many arc glyphs you pass.” She stopped for a second. “Two. Stray throws that cross into water channels, hit another lane, or explode a spectator’s lunch will be deducted points. If you hit me, I deduct your points.” She stopped for another second, only that this second turned into two seconds and everyone started looking at her weird. “Three. Bonus if your arc passes through a minimum of two glyphlights. Triple bonus if your pebble skips glyph-to-glyph. Your tally will be your final point.”

Then she walked off the lane with her baguette. “Begin.”

Fabrisse didn’t think there would be five people knowing how to control flying rocks to join an Arc Pebbles game, but there were. His competitors were Celine Moose’s ever-loyal gossip council: Rinna, Ploosh, Liene, and the ever-boastful Anabeth, who specialized in mid-air levitation assists and could ricochet a pebble off someone’s ego from twenty meters away. The reason why the entire council learned Stone Thaumaturgy was unbeknown to Fabrisse.

And then there was Liene, who had absolutely no idea how to levitate rocks. She’d joined anyway.

But Celine Moose—Queen of Passive-Aggressive Enchantments—stood off to the side, leaning against the runic balustrade with a very amused grin and a suspiciously gossipy-looking notebook. It was already half-filled. She waved at Liene and Fabrisse like he was a test subject. He tried not to make eye contact.

“Liene! You’re standing too far away from him!” Celine called out.

“What?” Liene turned to her.

Celine grinned. “You’re not in optimal support radius! The closer you stand, the more aligned your resonance arcs. You might even cast a harmonization spell!”

The others giggled.

“That’s not—” Fabrisse started, then stopped when Liene scooted three whole steps closer to him like a badly controlled puppet.

Now they were within awkward-arm’s-reach.

Fabrisse cleared his throat and looked straight ahead. Not at Liene. Not at her eyes, not at the way her sleeves were nervously half-pulled down over her knuckles.

“Much better!” Celine boomed as she scribbled gleefully in her notebook. “Now let’s see if emotional tension improves spell resonance.”

Rinna adjusted her gloves. “Can we start? I have class in fifteen minutes.”

Fabrisse sighed, checking his quest again.

Quest: Impressively Not First

Objective:
Participate in the upcoming Arc Pebbles match.
Achieve second place. Not first. Not third. Second.

Optional Bonus:

Land a banked arc toss that rebounds off a warded ring and still lands inside a scoring circle.

Do not let Celine Moose capture your resonance arc signature (trace pattern) in her ‘Field Notes of Fools and Flirts, Vol. IV.’

Okay, second place. That shouldn’t be too hard.

Ilya snapped her fingers. From the center of the court, the scoring sigil etched into the ground surged with structured light. Its loops and spires illuminated in sequence, like someone lighting a fuse made of glass.

“First up,” Ilya announced from the sidelines, “Rinna.”

Rinna stepped up to the boundary line, adjusted the cuffs of her gloves like she was preparing to conduct surgery, and took a deep breath. Then she took a step back. The pebble buzzed once as it floated in her palm.

She mimicked an actual throw. The pebble sailed forward with bursting sparks of red, then immediately veered off course like a moth chasing a streetlamp. It whizzed past the outer ring and plinked harmlessly against a glyphlight, which dimmed in protest.

The glyphscript numbers beside Ilya showed a half-hearted “1.6 ARC, 23° deviation, 0 GLY-PASS”.

Ilya raised one brow, unimpressed. “Zero points,” she said, before biting off a corner of her baguette. “Aim for the pitch next time.”

Fabrisse squinted at the flight path. That pebble had been charged—too much, and with the wrong stuff. He’d seen that kind of overcommunication before: spells that got muddled by too much emotion. 

He made a quiet mental note. Too long. Her charge time had gone over a second—maybe 1.2? He wasn’t sure if she was using the same type of modulation spell as his, but if it was close, then anything above 0.8 seconds risked fuzzing the command vector.

Rinna huffed, clearly annoyed, and lined up for a second attempt. This time, she narrowed her stance and dropped her shoulders, letting the tension out.

The throw was still messy, but better. Less sparks, more glide. It clipped the fourth ring and bounced inward, just barely skimming the edge of the third circle, enough to light up a point-glyph.

The glyphscript reacted immediately: “2.9 ARC, 12° deviation, 1 GLY-PASS”. The path glyph drew a thin dotted line through the trajectory, followed by a faint spiral where the rebound occurred.

“Legal bounce,” Ilya said, chewing on her baguette. “Grace still counts if it happens by accident. One point.”

Rinna lined up for her third toss, this time visibly more focused. Her gloves brushed together once—an unconscious tic, maybe—and then she took a stilling breath.

Fabrisse leaned forward, watching closely. Her posture changed, not the way he would stand. The angles were off from what he was used to in his own resonance configuration. Not transferable. Not helpful.

The pebble left her hand in a clean arc, a lazy swoop that looked, at first, like it was headed too wide again.

Then, near the end, it changed.

The arc softened, dipping in with a kind of elegant sag. It passed through the second ring—not grazed, through, dead center—and the sigil flared with approval.

The sky glyphs bloomed in gold: “4.2 ARC, 4° deviation, 2 GLY-PASS”, with a curved signature pattern and a pulsing glint where it crossed the second ring.

Ilya nodded. “Four points. Marked clean. Your total is five points. Congratulations!” She gave a thumbs-up which was made all the more comical by the fact she kept her deadpan face while munching on her baguette.

Wait—what did she do at the end? Fabrisse’s eyes darted between the ring and her hand, trying to catch the gesture that must’ve caused the shift. But he was too late. The moment had split in two, and he hadn’t caught either.

“—She moved her hand like this.” Liene was suddenly beside him. She mimed a sharp lateral flick with her wrist, thumb pressing in like she was pinching an invisible thread.

Fabrisse stared at her arm. “Thanks—”

Scratch scratch scratch went Celine Moose’s quill. She had already flipped to a fresh page in her notebook, grinning like a villain as she labeled a new entry. “Remember Liene!” She whispered. “You go next!”

Fabrisse resisted the urge to groan.

Chapter 91

Ilya had finished eating her baguette when she finally arrived at the valley. The first thing she asked was, “Why is there a valley within the Synod campus?”

There wasn’t an answer.

Next to Tommaso, Dubbie tugged on her sleeve and leaned in with a whisper, eyes wide. “Is that her?”

Tommaso glanced between them. “She might look like an Ice Queen, but she’s actually very friendly. Come say hi!”

I mean, he’s not exactly wrong, Fabrisse thought. But I wouldn’t call her ‘friendly’. She’s just odd.

Still, with some light nudging, Dubbie eventually shuffled forward toward Ilya.

“Hi,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Hello.”

They stared at each other and said nothing else for a good three seconds.

Dubbie inhaled sharply like she was preparing to dive into deep water. “So . . . do you, um . . . like bread?”

There was another long pause.

Ilya blinked. “As a concept, yes.”

Tommaso cleared his throat. “So . . . this valley, huh? Whatever cool thing can we do here?”

“We need to find my other rock first,” Fabrisse said.

Tommaso and Dubbie sighed.

***

[Mastery Training: Stupenstone Fling (Rank II)—Progress to Rank III: 100%]

[SYSTEM NOTICE: Stupenstone Fling is now Rank III.]

[Training Completed: + 14 EXP]

[Progress to Level 6: 1527/2750]

Tommaso had spent his evening hovering at a reasonable height and speed so Fabrisse could fling rocks at him (he’d found the missing Stupenstone, by the way), and it’d done him wonders. His friend had a good understanding of arcforms, and an even better understanding of how to yell helpful things like ‘Too low!’ and ‘Ow, that one actually hit!’ without ever changing altitude.

Fabrisse, for his part, had learned two things.

One: Tommaso had the aerodynamics of a soggy kite, which made him the perfect mid-air target.

Two: He could actually try to change the arc mid-way, at least in theory. He got his Stupenstone to wobble a little during flight, but that just made the velocity dipped. He blamed his abysmal ARC.

He opened [Skills] to check out his Rank III Stupenstone Fling.

[Spell Upgraded: Stupenstone Fling (Rank III)]

Type: Directed Aetheric Projectile (Force/Emotion-Harmonic)
Status: Stabilized → Semi-Optimized
Targeting: Homing (emotional signature lock)
Base Force: ~33 N (approx. like getting beaned with a fast-thrown stone—small bruises expected)
Average Accuracy Variance: ±8.5% (improved from 11.2%)
Charge Duration: 1.2s → 0.98s (–10% via Stonebound Synapse)
Cooldown: 2.4s between charges
Max Sustain: 2.4s
Emotion Charge: Up to 25 EMO points
→ +1% damage per EMO, capped at 1.25x multiplier
→ Required to access emotional feedback effects
→ Infused emotion alters impact visuals & aetheric pulse

Recommended Emotions:

• Joy (sky-blue smolder, strong integrity tracking)
  

• Rage (fractured red glow, high kinetic burst)
  

• Reverence (violet haze, awkwardly majestic)

How do you throw a rock at someone reverently?

There was a bigger problem. Embarrassment was not a recommended emotion, and that was the only emotion he could reliably conjure. 

There was more detail below, so he glanced down.

New Feature: Range Scaling Unlocked

Stupenstone Fling now benefits from range upgrades!

— Range increase is gated by ARC and SYN stats.

— If ARC or SYN is below 10, no range boost is applied.

— Above 10:

+1% range per ARC point

+0.5% range per SYN point

Maximum scaling up to stat 25. (Cap: +15% from ARC, +7.5% from SYN)

Example: ARC 15 + SYN 20 = +12.5% Range

SYSTEM NOTE: The spell still cannot cross continents.

New Feature: Base Force Scaling Unlocked

 Stat Scaling (Active when stat ≥ 10):

• +0.1% per DEX (refined aim and snap speed)
  
  

• +0.15% per STR (physical torque and anchoring)
  
  

• +0.3% per ARC (harmonic burst shaping and precision control)
  
  

Max Scaling (at stat 25):

• +1.5% from DEX
  
  

• +3.75% from STR
  
  

• +7.5% from ARC
   

Total Max Force Bonus: +12.75%

New Feature: Arc Correction (Unlocked at ARC > 15)

Effect: Allows up to 2 minor trajectory corrections during the projectile’s travel.

Trigger: Each correction consumes a fraction of the aetheric shaping buffer (automated).
 No additional cast time or cost.

Requirements:
 ARC ≥ 15 to activate
 ARC ≥ 20 improves correction fluidity (reduced variance penalty)

Correction Limit:
 • Max: 2 corrections per Fling
 • Each correction can alter trajectory up to ~8°

Now, Fabrisse was very much not a math man. Start throwing percentages and conditional scaling into the mix and his brain began to fold in on itself like badly summoned parchment.

Still. He knew this much: More stats = more better.

And if ARC kept showing up like this—boosting range, base force, emotional clarity, and now even letting him steer the damn rock mid-air—then yeah. ARC was clearly the stat to chase.

“Yo. You still giving me the silent treatment?” The glyph flickered away. Tommaso was suddenly beside him, arms crossed, looking far too casual for someone who had clearly just appeared from somewhere he wasn’t before. His hair, once a subdued cascade half-tied and half-falling over one shoulder, had taken on a bolder hue in the light—burnished now with streaks of copper and ember-red, catching the sun like slow-burning flame.

“No. I’m just . . . thinking.”

“You’re no longer mad, right?” He asked.

“I’ve never been mad.”

“Can never be too sure with you.” He shrugged.

Now that was the line that would make Fabrisse mad, but he decided to let it slide for now.

Meanwhile, a few meters off, Dubbie and Ilya sat side by side on a log someone had rolled over for seating. Dubbie shifted uncomfortably every few seconds, picking at the frayed seam of her sleeve. She wasn’t used to long silences unless they were her silences, and this one didn’t feel like hers at all. The silence between them was so dense it might’ve qualified as a minor warding field.

“So, we cool?” Tommaso extended a hand. But not just any hand—a ridiculous, overly formal handshake pose, pinky out, palm tilted like a duchess might offer it for a glove-slap challenge.

Fabrisse stared at the hand.

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but took it anyway. The grip was brief and firm, then immediately ruined by Tommaso yanking him forward slightly and smacking a second hand on top like they were sealing a shady back-alley potion deal.

“Cool,” Tommaso said with a grin, letting go. “So. You joining the Arc Pebbles game tomorrow? I heard from Linny.”

“Yeah. It’s good for my personal progress.”

Tommaso shrugged. “You might do better than you think. Your throw power isn’t the quickest, but Arc Pebbles is about landing beautiful arcs in quick successions. You have rather quick hands, so it might work to your advantage.”

My recharge time might have something to say about that . . .

When he didn’t hear a response, Tommaso continued. “Your arcs look good, but you’ll have problems with longer shots and actually hitting the target. You’d wanna make sure to focus on those tomorrow.”

Speaking of which . . .

He pulled up his profile. The same attribute distribution showed up.

CALIBRATOR PROFILE: FABRISSE KESTOVAR_28

Level: 5

Cumulative EXP: 1527/2750

Focus (FP): 16 / 37

STR (Strength)

8

DEX (Dexterity)

14

FOR (Fortitude)

8

INT (Intuition)

23

ARC (Aetheric Resonance Control)

3

EMO (Emotional Attunement)

11

SYN (Synaptic Clarity)

7

[Attribute Points: 3]

[SYSTEM NOTE: Click on the numerical value next to an attribute to distribute your remaining points.]

[SYSTEM WARNING: Distribution is final. No redistribution is allowed.]

He stared at his ARC for a brief moment, then put all his attribute points into them.

Chapter 90

The cranecrow shrieked. The smaller crow cawed back, just as irritated. But the wind-surfing idiot was herding them both, swooping in figure-eights, arms flapping to maintain his own chaotic balance.

“Tom? What is he even riding?” Dubbie mouthed.

Tommaso passed overhead again, carving a messy circle above the valley and yelling, “Turn around, bird! You forgot to pay tuition!”

The cranecrow shrieked again but curved reluctantly back, the wind buffeting too fiercely to resist. The smaller crow flanked it, reinforcements on the return leg.

The valley air turned electric.

Fabrisse’s eyes twitched. “No. Nope. I’m not letting Tom be the reason I finish this quest.”

He cracked his neck.

[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 148 meters]

[Target Trajectory: Returning to the central valley. Flight speed reduced by gust manipulation.]

“I’m herding him your way!” He shouted over to Fabrisse. “Catch him!”

How? Fabrisse thought. How can you herd a bird with wind and get it down at the exact altitude for me to catch it?

But he wasn’t about to argue now.

With both arms out like a conductor, and way more flair than necessary, he carved a rising spiral into the air, catching the cranecrow in the eddy. Airflow tightened in bands around its wings, pressing it down. 

The creature cawed and screeched, but the currents carried it anyway. The wind cushioned it in delicate layers of green and blue sparks—one under the chest, one nudging the spine, one bracing the wings—and soon it was gliding lower, lower, almost as if choosing to descend.

[SKILL DETECTED: Windwright’s Spiral—]

He swatted the notification away. Really, the worst time to be detecting skills. I’ll have to find a way to turn off skill detection during tense moments later.

Because of his interaction with the glyph, it showed him the main section. The word [Profile] flashed over his eyes, and he realized he still had three additional attribute points. He promptly opened [Profile].

[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 105 meters]

CALIBRATOR PROFILE: FABRISSE KESTOVAR_28

Level: 5

Cumulative EXP: 1513/2750

Focus (FP): 22 / 37

STR (Strength) 8

DEX (Dexterity) 14

FOR (Fortitude) 8

INT (Intuition) 23

RES (Inner Resonance) 3

EMO (Emotional Attunement) 11

SYN (Synaptic Clarity) 7

[Attribute Points: 3]

[SYSTEM NOTE: Click on the numerical value next to an attribute to distribute your remaining points.]

[SYSTEM WARNING: Distribution is final. No redistribution is allowed.]

There was no time to use Spectral Appraisal on the beast.

My STR is only 8, but surely I’m stronger than a crow. 

[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 75 meters]

[Projected Intercept Arc: High confidence]

“Fabri! Dubbs! It’s coming!” Came Tommaso’s shout.

Fabrisse’s breath caught. The cranecrow was practically skimming the air in front of him now—six meters, five, four. Any higher and it’d clear his head. Any lower and it’d clip the scrubby ridge.

[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 56 meters]

But right now, if he just raised his hand, there was a real, stupid, one-in-ten chance he could catch the damn bird clean out of the air.

I need to catch it fast. I have to put them all on DEX.

[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 33 meters]

No. This is bait. I have every chance to catch it again. But I won’t have any chance to redistribute.

He needed those points to go into RES and SYN.

Fabrisse swatted the glyph away.

[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 9 meters]

The cranecrow swept overhead like a feathery missile. He tried to guess its trajectory. No good. He left it to intuition.

[DISTANCE TO TARGET: 4 meters]

He threw his arm up, fingers snatching at air and wing.

For a heartbeat, he had contact.

Then it twisted—slick and sinewy—and slipped through his grasp, one feather shearing off in his hand. But the brief grapple was enough to knock the creature off its precise glide. It wobbled, teetered, and skidded through a gust, spiraling lower uncontrollably.

“Dubbs!” Fabrisse shouted.

Dubbie surged up from behind a boulder like a goblin in ambush. From behind a scrub-laced outcrop, Dubbie soared, arms raised, her oversized paper lantern already torn open and messily padded on the inside with grass. With the grace of a collapsing tent, she jumped and slammed the lantern down over the cranecrow’s head like a reverse fruit trap.

BOFF.

The bird thrashed. She held on, legs swinging as she was nearly lifted with it—until the extra padding and sheer awkwardness of the setup tangled its wings inside.

[SYSTEM NOTE: Target subdued. Stability Rating: Questionable.]

[SYSTEM NOTE: Please refrain from cramming wild avians into portable lighting implements.]

[SIDEQUEST COMPLETED: The Stupenstone Heist]

Objective: Retrieve the Stupenstone from the Cranecrow before it escapes the valley bounds. 

Reward: + 1 Air-based Thaumaturgy Mastery Point

Bonus Objective COMPLETED: Recover your dignity by doing it without getting pecked more than twice.

Bonus Reward: + 1 Inven—

A small object vaguely in the shape of a glowing Stupenstone flew out of the lantern as the cranecrow thrashed one final time. It launched itself at the direction of Ilya’s crow who was swooshing in. Ilya’s crow frantically plunged to dodge the Stupenstone, and its beak accidentally pecked on Fabrisse’s forehead for no particular reason.

[Peck Count: 1]

[DAMAGE TAKEN: Slight Swell (Forehead)]

“Ouch!” He dove to the grass, clutching his head. His elbow hit the ground at a weird angle.

[DAMAGE TAKEN: Slight Bruise (Elbow)]

[Bonus Objective Still Completed]

[Bonus Reward: +1 Inventory Slot]

Fabrisse lay in the grass, cheek stinging, lungs on fire, and his left boot mysteriously missing. Somewhere behind him, Dubbie was still wrestling the lantern, now hopping in a frantic circle as the cranecrow inside attempted a prison break with sheer rage and talons.

Tommaso drifted overhead again, upside-down this time, windboard spinning lazily beneath him like a broken weather vane. “We did it!” he yelled. “I think! I’m also bleeding slightly!”

Fabrisse groaned. “You are not allowed to narrate my victories anymore.”

He stared up at the sky, letting his eyes unfocus. The clouds drifted by with infuriating serenity. All this for Air Thaumaturgy Mastery. So not worth it.

Then something caught his eye—a soft, chalky glow peeking out between blades of grass just a few meters away.

The Stupenstone.

Fabrisse blinked. “Okay. That’s worth it.”

Now that he thought about it, the Eidralith had been rather nice in terms of quest giving. It had only given him quests he had either thought of doing already (apart from stoning Cuman; that was just pushing him towards dark desires) or quests that tied directly to what was happening around him. It would be a concern if it actually gave him a quest that demanded him to slay 15 Clucklebeaks, but so far none of that had happened yet. 

He rolled onto his side with a grunt, crawled forward, and scooped the glowing stone into his hands. It was warm. It felt like potential.

And then he froze.

“Oh no,” he whispered.

Because somewhere, out there in this endless field of ridges and scrub, was the other Stupenstone. The one he’d used to throw at the glowing one.

Which meant now he had to go find a rock. In a valley. Full of rocks.

“You gonna lay down there forever, dude?” Tommaso peered into his vision with a stupid grin, blocking half the sky view.

Fabrisse buried his face in his non-bruised elbow and let out a long, ragged sigh. “Curse me and my rock obsession.”

Chapter 89

They watched in helpless silence as the two shapes tangled above the ridge—one large and laborious, the other sleek and desperate. Ilya’s crow was faster, sure, but it couldn’t corner the cranecrow. Not in open air like that. Every time it tried to force a turn, the gangly intruder just rose higher, wings flapping like a tent caught in a storm. The smaller crow was giving it all. But it was just one bird.

Until suddenly, it wasn’t.

With a sharp crack of frost splitting air, the crow multiplied. One became five. Not duplicates exactly, but mirror-ghosts sculpted in semi-solid ice—cold constructs that dove with shared instinct and a blur of feathered precision.

“Whoa,” Dubbie gasped.

“Did . . . did it just Ice-split itself?” Fabri squinted up, shielding his eyes from the glare. “That familiar can use Ice-based Thaumaturgy? But it can’t even chant mnemonics.” He had never heard of familiars smart enough to cast spells themselves, much less employ advanced magic like cloning.

But Fabrisse was already scanning the ridge. Sure enough, not far off, a figure stood with one hand held out, arm extended, wand pointed like a conductor’s baton. The other hand? Holding a half-eaten baguette.

“Ilya,” he muttered. “Of course.”

The wand sparked faintly blue, mist curling at its tip as she guided the crow and its illusory siblings like pieces on a board. One dove. Another flanked. A third forced the cranecrow into a sharp spiral it hadn’t meant to take.

Most thaumaturges he knew avoided wands, staff, whatever. There was a whole stigma around enhancement artifacts, like it meant you couldn’t do the theory work, or were compensating for a weak casting core. But Ilya didn’t seem to care. She wielded that thing like it was a dinner fork. 

Then she took another bite from her baguette as she sauntered, completely unhurried. Look at her sluggish pace! Surely retrieving my Stupenstone is a little more important than baguette.

The five crows flew with bizarre synchronicity, weaving around the larger bird like slivers of stormlight. The cranecrow shrieked and thrashed its wings under the sudden assault. Each time it veered left, one crow zipped past its eye. When it spun right, another bluffed a dive. They weren’t strong enough to hurt it—not really—but they were real enough to spook it. And together, they steered it downward.

The bird was being herded.

Dubbie said, squinting into the glare. “It’s heading into range. Fabri. Fabri, now’s your shot.”

“Shoot it?” he balked. “I can’t shoot a bird!”

“Then shoot the stone, genius!”

He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “You think my aim is that good?”

“I think we’re about to lose that thing forever!” She pointed at the cranecrow, who had now dove low enough that it was only a head above Fabrisse. It tucked its wings and dropped suddenly, trying to shake the ice-crows swarming its flank. One sharp arc and it would be well in the open, and the other crows would trail behind it by a fair distance as it headed over the ridge.

But the creature was only three meters away from Fabrisse.

His fingers closed around the smoothest of the pebbles in his pouch, sleek as polished riverglass. Maybe this one would hurt the least.

He drew a quick breath. 

The pebble left his hand in a neat arc. It looked beautiful. A high, clean curve—a lob that would’ve been perfect if the cranecrow had been moving at a walking pace.

It wasn’t.

By the time the stone reached the apex of its arc, the cranecrow had already passed beneath it.

Fabri’s eyes widened. “No, no, no—”

The pebble slammed into one of the trailing ice-crows instead. A sharp crack rang out—and the ice-familiar exploded like brittle glass underfoot. The shards vanished in the air.

[DAMAGE DEALT: Critical damage. Ice clones are not built for resilience.]

Dubbie said, “You hit the wrong bird.”

“I know!” He wasn’t trained for aerial velocity calculations.

The cranecrow beat its wings and rose. One of the ice clones dove at its shoulder. The cranecrow spun midair and smacked the clone with a full-body lurch. The impact shattered the bird with a brittle crack, and the shimmering shards vanished before they hit the ground.

Thanks to Fabrisse, it had learned.

The remaining ice-crows veered back, hesitant. Ilya adjusted her wand, trying to clone a few more while biting the biggest bite Fabrisse had ever seen anyone biting on a baguette, but it was too late.

The cranecrow barrelled toward the ridge with a sudden burst of momentum. It cut through like an arrow, and any ice clone coming close shattered. 

 The illusion birds scattered, more defensive than aggressive now, and the sleek shape of the cranecrow arrowed through the gap like it had punched a hole in a fence.

Fabri broke into a run, boots thudding against loose gravel, one hand still clutching his pouch of stones like he might get another chance. But he was too slow. The crows must’ve had at least 30 DEX.

The ridge came up too fast, and by the time he scrambled to the top, all he could see was a speck disappearing into the clouds, wingbeats steady and mocking.

Gone.

He stood there panting, cold wind tugging at his coat, fingers numb with more than frost.

[SIDEQUEST FAILED: The Stupenstone Heist]

[SYSTEM NOTE: A stone lost is a bird’s gain.]

[Combat Completed: + 14 EXP]

[Progress to Level 6: 1513/2750]

[Congratulations! You have reached Level 5.]

[You have gained: +3 Attribute Points]

[SYSTEM NOTE: Please visit your Profile for attribute distribution.] 

“Curses . . .” He bent over, hands on his knees, lungs scraping for air like the whole world was uphill. Sacred socks and dragon scales, that duck-thing hadn’t gone down easy. He’d fought tooth, claw, and combustible pond muck to pry that damn Stupenstone from its frothy little shrine—and now? Gone. Fling-launched like a poorly-timed carnival stunt.

His knees trembled. All that scheming. All that sneaking. All that fighting. For what? To miss the throw by a sky-length and nail the wrong bird?

[SIDEQUEST RE-ENGAGED: The Stupenstone Heist]

Objective: Retrieve the Stupenstone from the Cranecrow before it escapes the valley bounds. 

Reward: + 1 Air-based Thaumaturgy Mastery Point

Bonus Objective: Recover your dignity by doing it without getting pecked more than twice.

Bonus Reward: + 1 Inventory Slot

What? What do you mean re-engaged?

A whistling wind answered.

He whipped his head up just in time to see something zip across the sky like a misplaced arrow from a fantasy cartoon.

A boy. No. A man. No. A Tommaso.

Tommaso burst over the ridge, arms outstretched like wings, knees bent in a precarious surfing crouch atop what looked very much like a lacquered slab of hardwood powered by bursting sparks of green, hovering midair and trailing a mixture of green and sky-blue aether in its wake.

“Reinforcement incoming!” Tommaso dipped one hand, carving an arc through the sky that made the board wobble just shy of catastrophic. And behind him—like obedient but confused ducklings—came both the cranecrow and Ilya’s familiar.

Would you be interested in exclusive side character POV chapters? If so, which characters would you like to see? (Multiple choices allowed)

Chapter 88

Dubbie Kestovar had a rather unfortunate habit of getting swept up in random razzmatazz.

Once, she and her airhead brother spent an entire afternoon trying to catch a frog that had allegedly mastered teleportation (it hadn’t—it was just very good at jumping and Fabrisse kept sneezing). Another time, Tommaso roped in her and three other kids from their commune to help build a rudimentary wind-powered ice cream churn using only salvaged spell-cores and a stolen fan. They’d also once declared a ten-day “Research Expedition” into a nearby willow grove to determine if trees could, in fact, hold grudges. It was concluded that trees didn’t have emotions.

Today, she was dragging around a miniature lantern tied to a stick with conjured twine, so her brother could throw rocks at it for ‘precision spell targeting.’

“Dubbie! Can you run faster?” Fabrisse shouted as he flung a rock at her. It grazed the lantern’s bottom edge before bouncing off and landing in a clump of soggy pine needles.

“That was literally a perfect throw,” Fabrisse muttered, already rummaging in his pouch for another.

→ Trajectory Curvature: Stable

→ Estimated Launch Velocity: 6.9 m/s (93% max) → Dipped mid-way to: 5.0 m/s (70% max)

→ Accuracy Deviation: ±22.7%

Okay. Maybe not that perfect.

He blamed it on the Stupenstone. He’d accidentally thrown his glowing Stupenstone, and that must’ve messed with his concentration.

His sister was already huffing as she stopped to catch her breath. “Why do I have to be the moving target? Can’t we tie it to a squirrel or something?”

“Unethical,” Fabrisse said immediately, squinting as he adjusted his grip on the next rock. “Also, squirrels are statistically harder to track. You’re moderately predictable.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now pick up the pace. I’m calibrating my arc control.”

Fabrisse exhaled slowly, planted his feet, and this time channeled the full extent of his strength stat—a truly awe-inspiring 8. He wound back and let the rock fly, gritting his teeth as it arced through the air.

The stone sailed forward, skimming low over a rise in the ground. Dubbie surely couldn’t have noticed the epitome of skills until the last second.

The rock clipped the side of the lantern dead-on, sending it spinning on its twine like a drunk firefly. Dubbie squeaked and nearly tripped.

[Mastery Training: Stupenstone Fling (Rank II)—Progress to Rank III: 96%]

[SYSTEM NOTE: The faster and more unpredictable the moving target, the more progress you gain if you can hit it with intent.]

“Yes!” Fabrisse crowed.

Dubbie straightened, rubbing her arm where the twine had slapped her. “You could’ve warned me that one had actual murder intent.”

“It wasn’t aimed at you. It was aimed at success,” Fabrisse said smugly. Then added, “Although your shoulder was a strong secondary target.”

“That’s it. I’m done being your glorified lantern mule.” Dubbie yanked the twine off the stick and flopped onto the nearest half-rotted log like a disgruntled towel.

“Field training is over,” she declared, cradling the abused lantern in her lap. “The pack mules have unionized.”

[Training Completed: + 19 EXP]

[Progress to Level 5: 1498/1500]

2 EXP left?

“Wait, no!” Fabrisse yelped. “We can’t stop here!”

High up on a crooked branch, Ilya’s dark-feathered crow tilted its head. One of its eye glinted like glass in the shadows, locked onto him with avian stillness.

“Why?”

“I’m about to level up,” he said. His voice cracked under the weight of sheer existential frustration.

“And . . . you’re panicking because . . .”

“I can use the extra attribute points for SYN and ARC, Dubbs! SYN and ARC!” He pinched his fingers as he shook them up and down.

That did not seem to bring any clarity to Dubbie’s face. “Fabri . . . I know nothing about your bond with the artifact aside from the fact that it generates air from your armpits.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but she held up a firm hand. “Fabri. Listen to me for a second.”

Fabrisse stopped. He knew that tone. 

He set the rock down slowly. “What is it?” He wandered over, brushing dirt off his hands. “You didn’t even tell me you were coming today.”

They settled in the hollow between two sloping hills, where the ground dipped just enough to cradle them in a quiet pocket of earth. This was the most unclaimed, unbothered part of campus—more natural than the manicured ponds or ornamental gardens, which shimmered faintly with containment glyphs and caging aether to keep the animals from wandering too far. The wind didn’t bite as hard here, buffered by the natural curve of the valley. Wild grasses, browned from the cold, rustled around them, and a few stubborn stalks snapped underfoot as Fabrisse settled down next to Dubbie.

[REMINDER: Don’t forget to retrieve your Stupenstone. Total time unretrieved: 2 minutes]

“I know.” She picked at the moss-padded bark beside her. “I didn’t want to risk you saying no. But it’s something I’ve decided.”

That startled him more than the rock to her lantern. She never used that voice unless it was something serious. Or serious-adjacent, like the time she thought she was in love with a bard who turned out to be their tax collector, but in a trench coat.

“You . . . talked to Mimi about it yet?” he asked. Mimi was her best friend, Milein Hoggs.

Dubbie shook her head. “No. She’ll tell me to quit it.” Dubbie hugged her knees to her chest, voice low but steady. “But I’ve decided. I’m eighteen now. I want to work in town.”

Fabrisse’s eyes widened. “You mean Aurelienth?”

There was only one town anyone from around here meant when they said the town—Aurelienth, a sprawling sun-warmed valley hub laced with canals, tethered airship docks, and floating trade pylons. All the communes, like theirs, sat in a great irregular ring around it, divided by ancestry or old work factions. Technically independent, but everyone knew the rhythm of life pulsed out from Aurelienth like it owned the land. Because it did.

“I mean it,” she said. “There’s nothing left for me out here except empty chairs and faded paint. Everything’s in town now.”

But isn’t that what she wants? Dubbie had always hated crowds. All she had ever wanted was to stay home, read, knit, and ambush wandering bards into teaching her the harp.

“Did you and Mom argue again?”

“Maybe.” he shrugged, but the kind that meant yes, obviously.

Their mother, Madlen, never seemed to want the finer things in life for herself, but insisted her children should. She’d had no problem sending Fabrisse to the Synod despite his lack of talents, and had spent years pushing Dubbie there too, practically flinging her at old loremasters and scholarship representatives like a baker pitching bread at pigeons. 

“There are grants,” Madlen had always said, as if that were a magic spell. “You have a chance. Do something with it.”

Free commune-adjacent student grants had only been around for fifteen years. No one knew how long they’d last, and their mother treated them like a ticking clock.

“But why did that end with you getting a job?” Fabrisse asked again.

Dubbie, of course, had dodged every effort to educate herself in anything remotely official. She spent that time learning to knit complicated patterns by touch and selling her finished work—blankets, charm-hats, hexwarmers—door to door or through the barter stall. It worked, sort of. But it wasn’t the kind of life that could stretch very far.

Dubbie shrugged one shoulder. “I want to register as an artisan, with pay dues and get listed. Maybe apprentice somewhere serious, like one of the textile houses that still use handwork. There’s a loom master near the canal quarter who doesn’t hate commune folk, apparently.”

“That’s not just a job, that’s a life overhaul.”

“I want a life overhaul.”

He rocked back on his heels. “How do you expect me to help you with that? You know how well I’m doing at the Synod.” He gestured at himself, covered in twigs and unsuccessful enchantment soot. “I just threw a rock at my own lantern.”

“I don’t want you to get me in,” Dubbie said. “I just want your help being brave enough to try. You’re the most headstrong person I know.”

“Huh?”

“You stick to things, Fabri. I admire your ability to persist with your rock categorization even after failing five consecutive exams.”

“Aww,” he said, touched. Then he frowned. “Wait.”

She smiled a little. “You can come with me in the summers, you know. Aurelienth has guild-backed scriveners and surveyors who work with the canalworks and restoration projects. They hire people with a sharp eye for mineral grading and enchantable stone. There’s even a lapidary shop that takes apprentices.”

Fabrisse looked up. “Lapidary?”

“Yeah. You already know the elemental saturation points of half the rocks in this valley by heart. Imagine getting paid to sort and carve the ones that can hold spell-channels properly. They’d actually want your opinion.”

“That’s terrifying.” And potentially a decent pivot if he could never make it out of the Synod. He actually entertained the idea for a second.

“You don’t have to keep studying just because people expect you to graduate, Fabri.” Dubbie reached out and nudged his boot with hers.

“No.”

“No?” Dubbie looked at him like looking at a raccoon that’d learned how to fly.

“I’ve got something they want now, Dubbs. The Wing of Stratal Studies actually asked for me.” He spread his arms, still streaked with soot and leaf litter. “Me. And I’ve got a rock-throwing test in two days.”

“A what?”

“It’s good practice. Next week, if I don’t mess up, I’ll be sustaining flame.” His voice tipped upward, almost giddy. “An actual flame, Dubbs.”

Dubbie opened her mouth, then closed it again. By the time she finally spoke, her voice was tiny. “I . . . never heard you talk about Thaumaturgy like that.”

Then she gave a slow nod, like she was weighing something heavy and deciding to set it down. “Still, visit me in the summer, okay? I’ll be staying with Mimi’s aunt. She lives not far from here. I’ll write you.”

Fabrisse nodded, dazed. A week ago, he’d been recollecting the rocks he’d dropped on the sanctum floor. Two weeks ago, Dubbie was reading books at home waiting for Mom to nag her into shrine duty. Neither of them had any clue what they were doing.

Now she had plans and he—well. He had a game of Arc Pebbles.

And maybe for once, things were actually—

[REMINDER: Don’t forget to retrieve your Stupenstone. Total time unretrieved: 7 minutes.]

What? Why keep reminding me? Who’s gonna steal my rock? he thought. Who even wants it?

[WARNING: [Wild Cranecrow] has stolen: Stupenstone (Rare)]

What?!

[SIDEQUEST RECEIVED: THE STUPENSTONE HEIST]

Objective: Retrieve the Stupenstone from the Cranecrow before it escapes the valley bounds. 

Reward: + 1 Air-based Thaumaturgy

Bonus Objective: Recover your dignity by doing it without getting pecked more than twice.

Bonus Reward: + 1 Inventory Slot

“The what?” he said aloud.

A sharp cry split the air.

He turned just in time to see something flapping heavily into the sky—a bird, but not like Ilya’s crow. It was bigger; stranger. Its joints were too long, its beak too flat, and its wings fanned out like drapes caught in a gale.

And in its claws, a glowing rock. His Stupenstone.

“A cranecrow?” Fabri sputtered. No. He couldn’t lose that Stupenstone. That thing was Rare-graded.

High above, a second shape streaked after it in furious pursuit—sleeker, faster, and shrieking bloody murder. Ilya’s crow. He dove with surgical precision, wings slicing the air as he tried to herd the intruder, snapping at its tailfeathers and banking to keep it from breaching the valley’s natural perimeter.

It was working. Almost. The cranecrow veered, wobbling off-course with a confused croak, but it was still climbing—one strong gust from clearing the ridgeline entirely.

Fabrisse didn’t have long. Once it crossed that ridge, it’d be gone for good.

He stood.

“I knew I should’ve put a leash on it,” Fabri muttered, eyes locked on the ascending speck of glowing theft. “Like a little rock harness with a bell.” Then he ran after the cranecrow without looking back. “Help me get my rock back, Dubbs. That bird stole my rock!”

Dubbie, still clutching the lantern behind him, murmured, “What am I to do? We can’t fly.” But she stood anyway.