Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Fabrisse knocked once, then twice more, before the door opened on its own with a grinding sound, like stone relenting. The room beyond was about the kind of cold that he’d expected, and smelled faintly of chalk, dried clay, and polished brass.

The first thing he noticed about the Terra-Resonant Archive were the walls. Every surface had been deliberately shaped, etched, or inlaid—some with geomantic glyphs, others with strange sigil-stamps he couldn’t quite read. One side of the room was taken up entirely by a modular shelving wall, the kind that extended both vertically and underground, and marked clearly by a chained rune switch labeled ‘Subterranean Archives: Authorized Access Only.’

This place looked like his dream coming true. If only he knew the Earth Thaumaturgy department was like this, he would’ve applied for an apprenticeship a second time. His first application was rejected, and if it wasn’t for Lorvan’s recommendation, they wouldn’t have so much as glanced at his second.

But before he could take a step further inside, someone looked up from a slate table near the back.

Seated there was a man perhaps Fabrisse’s age, maybe a little older. He wore the modest grey-trimmed robe that was supposed to be of the young apprentice, but his posture radiated the kind of precision most students didn’t even fake. He was tall, narrow-shouldered, and gave off the impression of someone who did not speak unless directly addressed. A small silver emblem with two concentric circles with a downward-pointing arrow gleamed on his collar. Not a full Earth sigil, but close.

“Magus Assistant Min Hajin,” he said with a polite nod, as though Fabrisse should have already known. “You must be the student Instructant Lugano spoke of.”

“Fabrisse Kestovar,” he replied, trying not to fidget. “I’m . . . interested in Earth Thaumaturgy.”

Min inclined his head. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

That wasn’t meant to be hostile, Fabrisse thought. Just honest. Maybe even hopeful, in a slightly withering sort of way.

Then Min stood, gesturing to the room with an economy of movement that seemed designed not to disturb the dust.

“You may look around. Magus Exemplar Konan is below, calibrating the Strata Core. She’ll be with you shortly.”

Fabrisse did just that.

He turned to the shelving wall again and realized it wasn’t just modular. It was categorized, beautifully so.

On the left, neatly stacked in padded alcoves, were Sample Classifications: Metallic and Semi-Metallics—complete with cross-referenced index glyphs detailing thaumaturgic conductivity, natural resonance retention, and shatter thresholds. The center columns contained Sediment Strata Cores, each labeled with provenance dates and imprint depth notations. There was even a color-coded sigil system—green for inert, yellow for volatile, red for cursed.

He crouched before one labeled ‘Zharek Composite: 3% Soulstone Contamination — Do Not Touch Without Rites.’

Even the warning tag was elegant.

To the right, on narrow drawers with smooth gliding tracks, he spotted Aetheric Echo Fossils, Claybound Relics, and what looked like compressed geomantic song tablets—likely used for harmonic resonance training. Some of the pieces were so fine they looked like sculptures. Others were just rocks, but rarer than those he could find inside the caves he usually frequented.

It was all absurdly well-kept.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until Min asked, “Are you enjoying the view?”

Caught off guard by the question, Fabrisse jolted. “Yes,” he said, a little too quickly. He winced; he hadn’t meant to sound surprised by his own interest. “I didn’t think the Archive would be this organized.”

Min gave the faintest of nods, either approval or indifference. It was hard to tell. “Not here to be beautiful, these earths. But Earth work tends to become beautiful by accident, if done correctly.”

He moved with quiet steps toward a smaller shelf near the outer curve of the chamber—shorter, more accessible, and without any security glyphs or warning etchings.

“You’ll start here,” Min tapped one of the brass plaques with the back of his knuckle, and made a sound like a miniature chisel striking. “Introductory resonance cores and aether-storing stones. Simple to handle and less reactive to stray emotion, they are. You’ll train with these until Magus Konan says otherwise.”

Fabrisse stepped forward and squinted at the tags. “These look like . . . quartz?”

“Quartz, basaltite, some resonant sandcast variants. Don’t let their dullness fool you. They’re the only reason most first-year apprentices don’t lose their hands.”

He leaned down beside Fabrisse and slid open a sample drawer. The felt lining made a tiny frictionless squeak. Satisfying.

Inside lay an assortment of dull-colored stones, each nestled in its own padded recess and marked with a stamped brass tag:

Clear Quartz — Tier I Reservoir

Rivercut Feldspar — Low Yield, High Stability

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Redline Obsidian — Do Not Agitate (Current Charge: 22%)

Min continued, “These respond to clean, steady mnemonics. Earth doesn’t reward enthusiasm. It rewards consistency.”

Fabrisse exhaled. That, at least, sounded doable.

Then Min looked at him fully for the first time and added, “Try not to be interesting, Kestovar. Rarely last long, the interesting ones.”

But Min seems like an interesting guy, he thought.

Before Fabrisse could decide whether that was a threat or good advice, the floating glyph jumped at him.