Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

You could always find Cuman Gollivur in the Kinesthetic Ring.

It was his natural habitat—half athletic arena, half performance stage. At any given hour, he was sparring someone dumber than him or bullying someone quieter than him, grinning like the idea of humility was a stupified Stupenstone.

Right now, he was juggling spellflares.

Three glowing spheres of compressed aether floated between his hands in a smooth loop. It didn’t look impressive unless you knew how hard it was to hold a flare that long without scorching your fingertips or throwing off the balance of the ring. Miro wasn’t around.

Fabrisse watched from behind a low hedge. “He juggles now?”

Tommaso crouched beside him, chewing the stem of a conjured mint leaf. “He juggles pride. One of these days, someone’s going to drop it for him.”

“Someone like you?”

Tommaso patted his shoulder. “Like you, dude. It’s your show. I brought the mitts. You bring the motivation.”

Fabrisse stared at the glyph in his peripheral vision.