Chapter 41: Is it narcissism if I am actually just better than everyone?
The teams had a minute to discuss the strategy. They formed a circle, and the first thing Severa said was, “We’re playing Power Rotation.”
Halma, a big burly guy, raised a brow, “Power? With him?” His tone was baffled. Power Rotation would mean no keeper, which would mean no backline.
Larna, a girl with curly blue hair that fizzled like static, eyeing Fabrisse, who stood awkwardly a few paces away, cradling his scrolls that he hadn’t found a place to put down yet. “Look, no offense,” she said carefully, “but if we’re being strategic, maybe Kestovar should anchor defense. He can catch the ball if he can. It gives us coverage, and—”
“No,” Severa cut in. “He plays the flank.”
“Seriously?” Larna said. “He barely channels. And they’re gonna put Cuman there.”
Severa’s voice stayed level. “Then he’ll learn to stand in the wind.”
That shut them both up.
Fabrisse stood on the edge of the conversation, pretending not to hear. They weren’t even talking to him. Just about him. Like he was some fragile component in a ritual array.
Severa turned toward him at last. “You flank. Redirect only. No absorption. Understood?”
He swallowed. “Understood.”
They stood in formation. Larna was right. Cuman stood directly across from Fabrisse, enough to make eye contact. He gave Fabrisse a smug grin, like a blade freshly whetted.
The whistle blared.
With a single ripple of channeled wind, the silkball leapt into motion. Cuman surged first, riding a gust straight toward the ball. Severa countered with an elegant lateral stream that spun the silkball sideways, straight toward Fabrisse’s flank.
“Yours,” she called.
I can’t conjure some gust! I have to catch it by hand—
A gust slammed into his chest and knocked him clean off his feet.
He hit the grass flat on his back. The silkball skittered out of bounds with a sad wobble.
| [DAMAGE TAKEN: Minor Back Pain] |