Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Fabrisse had tried to calm Lorvan by claiming that he had thought of a brilliant plan to end the assaults once and for all. Upon hearing the plan, Lorvan became unreasonably mad.

“Using yourself as bait? Do you actually think they will fall for that lousy little scheme?” Lorvan seethed as he rose from his desk. Fabrisse stood awkwardly near the doorway, begging for the rage to stop so he could retreat in peace.

Lorvan paced around in his room, crossing in front of the tall case displaying the miniature airships. Today, his quarters bore a strange dissonance. A partially unrolled scroll lay skewed across the desk, a blot of ink staining its edge like a spill of oil. One of the normally upright quills had fallen onto the floor. The glass display case of miniature airships remained untouched, but a clean cloth meant for dusting sat folded and unused beside it.

“I—” Fabrisse began.

“No. You didn’t think,” Lorvan’s voice was serrated. “You’ve equated recklessness with strategy, and worse, you think self-sacrifice is clever. I won’t dignify it by pretending it’s noble.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Do you want to die?” he asked.

“No. Not really,” he gulped. He had seen Lorvan mad, but he had never seen him this verbally mad.

He spun toward the desk, gripping its edge for a moment like he needed to ground himself. “What happens if they take the bait and bring backup? What if they cut you off into the Void realm which they could guard much more easily if you try to bait them into a vast and secluded area? Did you think about contingencies?”

Fabrisse stared at the inkblot on the scroll for a few seconds. In a tiny voice, he mumbled, “Both Archmagus Rolen and Professor Kaldrin approve of the plan. You should hear it first.”

Lorvan finally stopped his tirade. Then he let out an elongated, exasperated sigh, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Present your plan then.”

Fabrisse hesitated, then began to lay out the strategy he, Archmagus Rolen, and Professor Kaldrin had spent the day refining. Lorvan didn’t interrupt. His fingers remained at the bridge of his nose for most of it, and when they finally dropped to his side, his gaze had dimmed into something murky. He didn’t look convinced, but he wasn’t shouting anymore either.

“Rolen must know the aggressors can sense it when they’re baited,” Lorvan muttered. “They aren’t fools.”

“Of course they will. But from their reckless attack patterns, I suspect they’ll willingly walk into a trap,” Fabrisse replied. “They’re probably that confident in themselves. And if they don’t take the bait, then no one’s in danger to begin with.”

Lorvan’s lips pressed into a tight line. He turned away, pacing again, slower this time. “Fine. If you want to heedlessly risk your life and not regret it, you’ll need to rapidly improve. And you’ll need to rapidly improve in two days.”

The Grand Library of the Synod’s South Westris Branch stretched high above Fabrisse as he sat on one of the long benches tucked between towering shelves of polished ironwood. An awe-inducing sprawl of arching domes and luminous vaults, each surface of the Grand Library was painted with sprawling celestial diagrams and scenes of ancient scholars transcribing from memory by starlight. Light poured down from the glass oculi in soft golden shafts, illuminating dust motes that drifted like tiny spirits between the layered balconies.

Overhead, a mural of the First Scriptorium stretched from one end of the dome to the other, so masterfully painted that Fabrisse had to remind himself it wasn’t a window into another world. It made him feel small, but in a good way—like he was on the cusp of something meaningful.

He’d done well.

The interview had taken place in one of the quieter antechambers, behind a gilded screen woven with the Sigil of Records. Fabrisse had anticipated every question, from citation hierarchies to restoration procedures. His hands had not trembled once during the live book-handling assessment, and the Subcurate’s assistant had even murmured something close to perfect.

Now, with the bulk of nerves behind him, he simply let himself sit. He folded his hands, allowed himself a small smile, and exhaled.

His interviewer—the Deputy Subcurate of Lore Management—had told him to wait for the final result to be brought in writing. “Protocol,” she’d said with a brisk smile, already moving to sort the next candidate’s folios. “But between us, I’d say you’ve little to worry about.”

With newfound confidence, some time to spare, and both Lorvan and Ilya guarding nearby positions, he turned his attention to his total Mastery Point accumulation. Last time, he’d used 10 points to upgrade Gravelkin to Rank II. While it might have been the right decision, ideally he didn’t want to have to upgrade something without thoroughly understanding the long-term implications of such actions.