Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Fabrisse closed the door behind him and immediately turned to Greg, who was sitting on the floor in front of his bookshelf, carefully re-categorizing their emergency snack inventory by expiry date.

“No,” Greg said. Thɪs chapter is updated by novel✶fire.net

Fabrisse paused. “I haven’t said anything yet.”

Greg adjusted his glasses. “You paused meaningfully in the doorway, looked contemplative, and made a beeline for me instead of your desk. That only ever means ‘Greg, I have a bad idea and need someone to help me.’ So: no.”

Fabrisse deflated. “Fine.”

He flopped onto his bed, mind awhirl with forbidden containment wings and ambiguous glyph quests, stared at the ceiling for a while, then rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. The faint scent of ink and chip crumbs clung to the fabric. He sat back up and stared at the floating glyph still hovering in his peripheral vision.