Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

The parlor was perfectly round. There weren’t any corners, which meant there weren’t many shadows either. Light filtered in from a domed ceiling etched with converging golden runes, none of which appeared decorative.

And at the center of the chamber was the most terrifying man Fabrisse had ever seen.

Magister Trastin Montreal.

Magisters were high-ranking administrators or executive specialists. They typically handled department leadership, sensitive diplomatic roles, or oversight of dangerous magic (like the Eidralith). Magisters weren’t members of the Synod, but often worked under the Order directly. And anyone who worked under the Order was, by definition, scary.

Trastin wasn’t tall, but the room deferred to him. His robes were a dark navy that refracted like deep pressure stone under the spelllight. His hands were bare, resting atop a thin walking rod carved from something glossier than obsidian, a material Fabrisse couldn’t name.

His eyes didn’t rise immediately. That, somehow, was worse.

“Fabrisse Kestovar,” he pronounced his name flawlessly without a hint of emotion. “You’re the one who caught the Eidralith with his face.”

“Magister,” Severa said. “It is him.”

You don’t call your father ‘father’? Fabrisse thought, not daring to turn to Severa.

Trastin didn’t stand. “I didn’t expect him to be . . . short.”

Fabrisse made the mistake of dropping eye contact.

The Magister’s voice cut through the air like fine wire. “If you are spoken to, Mr. Kestovar, you are expected to remain present. I know Earth Thaumaturges are taught patience. Try to apply it to your attention span.” New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on novel{f}ire.net

“Yes, Magister. Sorry, Magister.” He knows I’m just enrolled in the Wing of Stratal Studies too.

“Don’t apologize,” Trastin said mildly, “unless you mean it. And if you mean it, fix it.”

Fabrisse’s brain scrambled for something dignified.

And then—