Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

He still needed to practice his Stupenstone Fling, but with Liene gone, there were no more moving targets. He wasn’t about to start flinging rocks at the frogs loitering near the North Pond either. That would just be rude and karma-inducing. He didn’t believe in karma, but he believed in not harming amphibians.

Let’s return to the dorm room first and see if I can manufacture a moving target.

So, he trudged back toward his dormitory, fingers absently brushing the aggressive-looking Gravelkin in his satchel (that Liene had returned to him).

Somewhere along the way, he noticed a raven.

It was doing typical avian activities: waddling near a tree stump, pecking at the dirt, fluttering up to a low branch, preening. It even gave a noncommittal squawk when a breeze rattled the branches above it, the way normal ravens sometimes commented on the weather like bitter old men.

Fabrisse slowed anyway. That particular shade of grey in its feathers and the fraying tip on one wing gave it away.

That was Ilya’s raven.

Tommaso hadn’t followed him today. Neither had Ilya, at least not in person. Which meant they had probably delegated.

The raven met his gaze briefly. It hopped, tilted its head at nothing, and resumed being perfectly ordinary.

Fabrisse was just about to keep walking when the communication glyph stitched onto his sleeve flared black.

A classified reply.

No sender name displayed, but he knew that signature weave. Archmagus Rolen didn’t sign his messages, and no one else would bother sending a classified message anyway.

He was about to resume walking again, when another thing happened: shadows trailing from the windowsill of the Department of Aetheric Resonance Research across the path. Inky streaks of darkness slipped out in slow ribbons, tendrils folding over one another like eel-slick cords being fed through invisible pulleys. Fabrisse squinted, instinctively lowering himself into a quieter step. He couldn’t see the caster—whoever was inside hadn’t stepped into view—but he could see the afterimage of practiced dark-element shaping. Judging by the dull gleam along the shadow’s edge, it wasn’t beginner level.

The raven gave a single flap and glided down from its branch, landing on a cobblestone uncomfortably close to his foot. Its claws clicked once.

Fabrisse jolted.

Do not be alone at any time. Lorvan’s warning resurfaced with perfect clarity.

And if he didn’t heed the warnings, the least that would happen was running into Cuman again.

He started walking, all the while muttering to himself, “I’m suddenly the Synod’s hottest prospect, for real, huh?” He just wanted to practice throwing rocks.

He advanced exactly three steps before someone stepped into his path—a figure in deep navy robes, hood pulled back just enough to show cropped silver-blond hair and the gleam of official academy trim along the collar.

The man gave a shallow nod. “Fabrisse Kestovar?”

Fabrisse froze.

The man continued, “I’m High Magus Kairon, in service to Archmagus Iveta Monasterie. She’s requested your presence.”

“The Moonbear Archmagus?”

“Yes, but please don’t refer to her that way.”

“I’m sorry.”

It was no longer in doubt: the universe had conspired for him to not fling another Stupenstone today.

“Why?”

“It concerns the offer she’d made to you the day before.”

“Ah.”

The raven cawed once.

Kairon knew about the offer Monasterie made to Fabrisse, which could be read as a sign he was trustworthy. However, his mentor Lorvan had introduced him to Rolen, which intuitively would make Rolen the safer option.

“I need to tell my roommate I’ll be late, if you’d permit me?” Fabrisse asked.

“That is permitted,” Kairon said.

“Okay. Just a moment.” Fabrisse gave an apologetic smile and stepped off the path, pretending to fiddle with a ward glyph sewn into his sleeve cuff.

The moment he had his back partially turned, he exhaled and tapped twice on the comm-thread just beneath the black-flared weave. He pressed a fingertip to the edge and started writing on the glyph that surfaced, “Archmagus Rolen. I’m currently en route with High Magus Kairon, under the name of Archmagus Iveta Monasterie. She says it’s about her previous offer. I’m just outside East Annex, taking the main path toward Central Hall. Will respond if able.”

The glyph faded as soon as he finished.

They moved.

High Magus Kairon didn’t lead him toward Central Hall as expected. Instead, he veered toward the side arcades, where the stone archways opened into quieter walkways, then up a slope where it got inexplicably foggy.

Fabrisse glanced around. Wards on the lamp-post sigils buzzed faintly, the enchantments aged and slightly out of tune. He looked down. The bricks underfoot grew older and more uneven. He could tell from the material of the bricks that they were not used to build the newer buildings after the Synod reconstructed their main divisions, which meant these bricks should be at least a few decades old.

His extensive knowledge of building materials told him that something was amiss. This isn’t Synod grounds anymore, he thought. Or it is—but not a version I remember.

And the raven was gone.

He stared at Kairon’s back. The man walked briskly, confidently, but too quiet. His steps made no sound on the stone. He didn’t turn to check if Fabrisse followed, nor did he speak the entire time.

Panic rose fast, bubbling to his throat like a volcano waiting to burst.

No. He forced an exhale, steadying his pace. No. Think like a caster.

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“A good spellcaster doesn’t panic,” he whispered under his breath. His mind ran the numbers.

There were three viable options: forward, toward wherever Kairon was taking him; left, down the sloped arcade that seemed to spill into a courtyard shrouded in fog; or back the way he came

If he could time a Liminal Presence Drift right, he might be able to get out of here in time.

Darkness lurched from below. Puddles of inky darkness surged from the bricks like grabbing hands.

But they didn’t go for him. They went for Kairon.

Kairon reacted instantly. He swung his arm, and a barrier glyph flared across his sleeve, hexagonal and shuddering violet.

“H-how?” Kairon barked. “How did you get in my—” The magus had already been pulled halfway to the ground.

Now. Executing Scoot of Dire Retreat.

His skills activated at once.