Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Fabrisse’s heartbeat surged. He didn’t know if they were ahead. He didn’t care.

He just wanted to reach it.

Liene gasped. Fabrisse immediately felt a hitch in the current. A stumble in the spell’s momentum. The petal wobbled on its final arc, as though the slipstream had faltered beneath it.

She was reaching her limit.

This kind of harmonic casting drained from the steady stream of FP, if he remembered the description of the spell from the System correctly.

And someone else’s petal had already made it.

He didn’t know whose. Severa had called a name he didn’t recognize—someone from the outer rings, maybe a fourth-year Invocation adept. The final relic was spoken for.

Liene choked on her breath, and her hands jerked. She had to let go of Fabrisse to try and maintain her control.

Maybe she thought that was it. That without a win, there was no point.

Fabrisse grabbed her by the arms and pulled her closer to him. “Liene,” he murmured. “Keep going. We’re almost there.”

No reply.

“I believe in you,” he whispered.

“O-okay.”

Her grip steadied. She leaned further forward, almost using his back as her support.

The petal shook, then surged forward with one last push of spiraled air.

Ahead, the bowl-bearers were already moving. One hand extended toward the pedestal—Langley, in purple, solemn-faced. It was the same ceremonial gesture they used to retrieve the bowl before sealing the prize.

“No no no no no,” Fabrisse breathed.

The bowlbearer’s hand was now fully on the base. The glimmer of a withdrawal glyph activated. The lines pulsed beneath his palm.

Liene swung her arms. One arm slapped Fabrisse in the face.

Ouch!