Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

They watched in helpless silence as the two shapes tangled above the ridge—one large and laborious, the other sleek and desperate. Ilya’s raven was faster, sure, but it couldn’t corner the cranecrow. Not in open air like that. Every time it tried to force a turn, the gangly intruder just rose higher, flapping its wings like a tent caught in a storm. The smaller raven was giving it all. But it was just one bird.

Until suddenly, it wasn’t.

With a sharp crack of frost splitting air, the raven multiplied. One became five. Not duplicates exactly, but mirror-ghosts sculpted in semi-solid ice, cold constructs that dove with shared instinct and a blur of feathered precision.

“Whoa,” Dubbie gasped.

“Did . . . did it just Ice-split itself?” Fabri squinted up, shielding his eyes from the glare. “That familiar can use Ice-based Thaumaturgy? But it can’t even chant mnemonics.” He had never heard of familiars smart enough to cast spells themselves, much less employ advanced magic like cloning.

But Fabrisse was already scanning the ridge. Sure enough, not far off, a figure stood with one hand held out, arm extended, pointing a wand like a conductor’s baton. The other hand? Holding a half-eaten baguette.

“Ilya,” he muttered. “Of course.”

The wand sparked faintly blue, mist curling at its tip as she guided the crow and its illusory siblings like pieces on a board. One dove. Another flanked. A third forced the cranecrow into a sharp spiral it hadn’t meant to take.

Most thaumaturges he knew avoided wands, staff, whatever. There was a whole stigma around enhancement artifacts, like it meant you couldn’t do the theory work, or were compensating for a weak casting core. But Ilya didn’t seem to care. She wielded that thing like it was a dinner fork.

Then she took another bite from her baguette as she sauntered, completely unhurried. Look at her sluggish pace! Surely retrieving my Stupenstone is a little more important than a baguette.

The five ravens flew with bizarre synchronicity, weaving around the larger bird like slivers of stormlight. The cranecrow shrieked and thrashed its wings under the sudden assault. Each time it veered left, one crow zipped past its eye. When it spun right, another bluffed a dive. They weren’t strong enough to hurt it, but they were real enough to spook it. And together, they steered it downward.

The bird was being herded.

Dubbie said, squinting into the glare. “It’s heading into range. Fabri. Now’s your shot.”

“Shoot it?” he balked. “I can’t shoot a bird!”

“Then shoot the stone, genius!”

He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “You think my aim is that good?”

“I think we’re about to lose that thing forever!” She pointed at the cranecrow, who had now dove low enough that it was only a head above Fabrisse. It tucked its wings and dropped suddenly, trying to shake the ice-ravens swarming its flank. One sharp arc and it would be well in the open, and the other crows would trail behind it by a fair distance as it headed over the ridge.

But the creature was only three meters away from Fabrisse.

His fingers closed around the smoothest of the pebbles in his pouch, sleek as polished riverglass. Maybe this one would hurt the least.

He drew a quick breath.

The pebble left his hand in a neat arc. It looked beautiful. A high, clean curve; a lob that would’ve been perfect if the cranecrow had been moving at a walking pace.

It wasn’t.

By the time the stone reached the apex of its arc, the cranecrow had already passed beneath it.

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Fabri’s eyes widened. “No, no, no—”

The pebble slammed into one of the trailing ice-ravens instead. A sharp crack rang out, and the ice-familiar exploded like brittle glass underfoot. The shards vanished in the air.