Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

As the second vessel was sealed and cleared away, the final bowl was brought forward on a raised stone pedestal etched in newer, less-worn runes. The third vessel had no visible latch or lining. Its crystal was pale, almost translucent, with an odd sheen that refracted like a bubble’s skin. It looked unused. Or maybe untouched.

Severa stepped into the ring again. Her tone dropped half a key. “The third verse will begin in ten counts. Prepare your petals.”

The students moved more urgently now. No one was slouching anymore, not after those relics. Even the students who had treated the first round like a lark were now drawing their names with razor precision. The only ones who didn’t seem to care were those who felt like they wouldn’t have a shot, and Greg, who was eating his second scone.

Fabrisse’s fingers lingered over the silver basin, hesitating just a second before reaching for the smallest petal left, a threadfern edge, pale-pink with speckled violet veining. It was light, delicate, and almost definitely cursed with a bad float profile.

He barely got his name inked before Liene was behind him again.

“Fabri,” she said, voice lower now. “What’s your most embarrassing memory?”

“That’s not a normal question.”

“We need to synchronize,” she said, not even slightly apologetic. “The emotion has to match.”

He gave her a side-glance. “How do I know you’re not just harvesting my trauma for sport?”

“You don’t,” she said. “But it might win you a relic.”

Fair point.

The third stream began to stir. This time, Langley didn’t even have to move. The basin responded to a whispered gesture, a more subtle spell that curved the water forward in a long, spiraled arc. The pace was now rapid, like the current had picked up the nervous tension of everyone watching.

Liene stepped in behind him, already adjusting her fingers into the mnemonic positioning.

“Petal Draft again?” he asked.

“Yes, but this time, don’t force anything. Let me set the rhythm.” She tilted her chin up. “You’re bad at rhythm.”

“Thanks.”

Fabrisse let his hands move into position, guided by hers. At least the joint movements felt smoother than last time. He tried not to overthink it. He tried not to notice how close she was, or how natural she seemed at something so wildly unnatural.

“Breathe in,” Liene murmured. “Works best at exactly two seconds.”

He did.

Then she began to move.

The chant was quiet again. Fabrisse’s sparks stuttered as he tried to match her cadence, and he didn’t know where to place his fingers since she hadn’t told him. Her current was already gliding, subtle, precise, feathered with restraint.