Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

“I think you should learn this one.” Celine flipped to a specific page in Anabeth’s book with the confidence of someone who’d dog-eared it in her heart. Her finger landed beneath a spell diagram scrawled in rough charcoal: Pebbleburst.

“It’s so satisfying,” she said, practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “It’s like . . . like hurling a rock but it shatters midair and rains down as sharp little fragments. It’s great for crowd control, or just for flair. I used it to stop a thief once. He ran away swatting at his own face.”

Fabrisse leaned in, studying the glyphs. It did sound useful, and it had a certain chaotic elegance to it, but . . . he hesitated. The spell seemed to hinge on speed and flick reflexes, with lots of quick gestures and momentary targeting. It wasn’t the kind of grounded, structured magic he’d imagined himself pursuing, but more like something a sprinter would cast as they leapt.

“It’s so flashy,” Celine beamed, already flipping to a companion page. “It pairs perfectly with Cragscatter, look—”

“Celine,” he muttered. “You overestimated my athleticism.”

Fabrisse explained his expectations of the spells he wanted to learn. Celine listened intently until the end.

“Okay, okay,” she said, gently closing the page on Pebbleburst with a soft flap. “You’re more pressure-and-anchor than razzle-dazzle. Got it.”

She flipped a few pages back, then forward, then back again, muttering under her breath. “I don’t use a lot of trapping spells, but there’s one that might be up your alley.”

Her finger landed on a layered diagram titled Tremblehold.

“It’s kind of like setting a passive tension zone,” she said, tapping the corner. “You anchor it to the ground, and if anyone steps into the radius, the spell pulses and destabilizes their balance. It’s not a full trap like a snare or net, but it messes with footing. Super disorienting.”

“How is it different from Granule Drift?” He asked.

Celine perked up. “Good question! Granule Drift spreads stone into fine particulates, like sand or ash. It’s great for slowing people down, but it’s more of a surface effect. Tremblehold works deeper. It pulses through the ground itself. Like—” she wiggled her fingers, “—the terrain goes ugh under their feet. Throws off their center of gravity. It’s sneakier.”

Fabrisse raised an eyebrow. “Can you show me?”

Celine’s grin sharpened. “Sure.”

There was a beat of silence.

“. . . Not on me.”

Too late. She was already stepping back with a bounce in her heels, fingers weaving a practiced shape through the air. “Oh come on, you’re standing on the perfect patch of gravel. Just a small shove is all.”

“Celine—”

The glyph flared beneath him before he could finish. At first, nothing happened.

Then the ground betrayed him.

His stance wobbled. A deep thrumming rippled through the gravel beneath him, low and sudden, like a distant drumbeat striking through stone. Pebbles skittered against his boots without rolling. Fabrisse tilted left, then forward, then back, as if the terrain couldn’t decide which direction was ‘down.’ It felt like he was on a lurching boat.

He flailed, caught himself with a sharp inhale, then glared.

“That was rude.”

“No, that was Tremblehold, Rank II,” her grin widened.

Fabrisse adjusted his footing, still mildly rattled. “Can you do it again,” he said flatly. “But not on me this time? I want to see the shape of the cast.”

Celine clasped her hands behind her back, utterly unrepentant. “Sure, sure. For science.”

She scanned the nearby gravel, then stepped a few paces to the side. With a small breath, she rolled her shoulders and fluidly brought her hands up. Her fingers curled then swept down in a hooked crescent as her thumb flicked a sharp crosscut. The motion looked deceptively gentle, almost like she was coaxing a thread loose from the air.

The ground lurched with a subtle, traitorous pulse. The pebbles didn’t bounce so much as jitter. It was like watching a heartbeat travel through soil. Fabrisse could imagine the exact moment their balance would have shifted sideways.

“There’s no mnemonic?” He asked.

“Anabeth’s spells don’t ever have mnemonics. She just thinks about casting them because she’s just that above us,” Celine replied.