Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

The Lower Containment Annex sat beneath the older wings of the Synod, accessed through a narrow stairwell hidden behind a tapestry depicting some sort of binding ceremony—specifically, the enshrinement of a runaway aether-forged artifact, judging by the glowing manacles and far too many senior mages involved. It was a dramatic and slightly overcompensating piece of propaganda, which now functioned mostly to hide the most tightly regulated basement on campus.

For those who had no business being there, one needed a Visiting Student Permit of the highest order.

Or, in Severa Montreal’s case, a last name.

The guards stationed at the checkpoint didn’t glance twice when she presented her sigil-stamped documentation. It flared gold along the edge—Montreal House crest, Tier 2 Clearance, direct archival proxy request—and the wardstones parted without so much a murmur.

She stepped through like she belonged there. Which she did.

Fabrisse followed half a minute later, waving his borrowed pass like it might crumble in the light. He had no crest, just a meticulously forged ‘educational observation permit’ registered under the ‘Sanitation & Containment Documentation Fellowship.’ Greg had filled out the paperwork in full, citing interest in containment infrastructure cleanliness metrics.

Greg had helped him out after all. Severa hadn’t asked where he’d gotten it.

The moment Fabrisse passed through the main threshold, the temperature dropped five degrees. His ears tightened from the sudden chill, and it took him three full heartbeats to recalibrate his breath to the cold. Every breath came laced with the faint sharpness of stabilizing wards and old incense residue. The lighting was low, sourced from runes embedded into the basalt walls, and provided no heat whatsoever.

The elites must have some sort of unexplainable obsession with the cold.

Massive reinforced doors lined the hallway ahead, each etched with sealing glyphs and color-coded symbols.