Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 105
🕑 Added 2025-07-27 02:23:19 +0000 UTC“You cannot be serious.” Fabrisse stared at Greg Johnson in disbelief. Liene burst out laughing so hard that she started snorting like a piglet.
“I-is that a person?” Celine said, this time in a hoarse whisper. She had now abandoned her poise and simply stood rooted to the ground like a miscast petrification spell had taken full effect.
“I just said his name. . .” Fabrisse murmured.
It wasn’t like this was the first time Fabrisse had seen Greg shirtless. Greg was his roommate, after all. But it felt like the first time every time. Like Greg was hiding some cursed-level glamor spell that only wore off under very specific, sweat-drenched conditions.
Fabrisse had lived with the guy for nearly a year. He’d watched him go to class, go home, read theory, go to class again, annotate entire textbooks with incomprehensible sigils, and repeat the cycle without deviation. Greg’s diet was exclusively functional—grains, broth, nutrient bricks, and one alarming week where he subsisted entirely on fortified jelly cubes for ‘cognitive clarity.’ He never trained, never lifted, never so much as touched a resistance charm.
That was not a body built on fortified jelly cubes.
“Why are you outside, Greg?” Fabrisse asked.
Greg narrowed his eyes, as though the question had to travel through several layers of analytical filtration before reaching an answer.
“I live here,” he replied.
“Then why are you . . .”
“Naked at the top?” Greg glanced down at his bare chest, then back up at Fabrisse, blinking slowly like he was the one confused. “I removed my shirt to regulate core temperature while drafting my essay on emotional sweat as a regulatory mechanism in thaumaturgic focus.”
Celine made a soft strangled sound in the back of her throat. Liene wheezed.
Fabrisse didn’t answer.
Greg continued, “It’s titled Perspiration and Precision: Cognitive Clarity through Dermal Venting. Preliminary results are promising. The clarity spike post-sweat onset was statistically significant.”
Fabrisse didn’t answer.
“Now, if you no longer have any questions, I’ll be on my way. I need to annotate the results before the perspiration dries.”
“Hi Greg!” Liene waved at him in a voice that sounded suspiciously cheerful. “Remember me? I scaled the window and climbed into your dorm room the other day!”
“Oh, yes.” Greg looked her way. “You’re Fabrisse’s girl . . . friend.”
“There’s a friend over here that really wants to get to know you!” Liene chirped. “She’s just a little bit shy and doesn’t talk much, but she’s really into writing essays on dermal venting!”
Celine yelped as Liene shoved her forward with both hands. She stumbled a step and immediately clutched her chest.
“Hi!” Celine said.
“You also conduct perspiration analysis?” Greg asked.
“Yes. I mean. I could. Under the right mentorship.”
“Good. I need a subject for my perspiration consistency log. Preferably one who exhibits strong emotive outbursts under social stress.”
“You guys could perspire together!” Liene added. Celine glared at her with reasonable murderous intent.
Fabrisse slowly walked backward inside the dorm.
Unfortunately, Celine saw his backward shuffling and dashed at him, grabbing his arm like a lifeline. “Fabrisse! I need you for something!”
“What?”
“It is something important and we really need to talk between ourselves, away from outside influence,” she spoke as loudly as possible, preferably for everyone to hear. Her words came out at a volume so loud that maybe even Lorvan (who’d strategically vanished from the scene) could hear it from inside his quarter.
“Okay . . . But I need a third-party observer.”
“There’s your observer!” Celine pointed to the far end of the road. Ilya Snezhnaya showed up just in time, this time with a donut on her hand, to deny Fabrisse any chance of backing out.
“Sure.”
“Let’s get out of here . . .” Celine hurriedly pushed Fabrisse away from the horror scene.
Liene called after them as they jogged off. “Celine! Next time we come over, make sure to strike a pose and say ‘we’re just academic partners’!”
***
Fabrisse had thought Celine only needed an excuse to remove herself from that embarrassing mess she’d gotten herself into, but it turned out she actually had something to talk about.
“I asked Anabeth if she had any book on Stone Thaumaturgy that she could give you. Here’s what she’s got.” She sat down next to him at the bench as she gave him the book.
Fabrisse glanced at it. It was small, bound in faded ochre leather, and entirely unmarked—no title, no author, no publisher’s insignia. Only when he tilted it into the light did faint embossing emerge along the spine: Sedimentary Syntax and the Secrets Beneath.
He whispered, “I’ve never heard of this.”
“You wouldn’t have.” Celine put her hands behind her back. “It’s not in general circulation. Anabeth said this one’s passed down through her bloodline—Stone-bonded inheritance or something like that. So don’t go lending it out or dropping it in a magma vent.”
“Reassuring confidence.”
“I mean it.” She looked over, unusually serious. “One week, alright? Then I return it before she notices. There’s another one she owns that’s even more restricted, but you’d basically need her surname to access it.”
“I don’t think I’ll be applying for that scholarship anytime soon.”
Celine shrugged. “Your loss. I hear the family dinners are all rock puns and ritual incantations.”
“Thank you for this, anyway.” It seemed like she was still trying to compensate for the guilt she felt, but Fabrisse wasn’t about to question that now.
“You’re welcome. ”
Fabrisse flipped the book open, careful with the aged pages. The text inside was written in tight, precise script, with diagrams that looked like someone had sketched them in charcoal and pressed them into the paper with sheer will.
He muttered, “She even writes like she’s throwing stones.”
Celine raised a brow. “Huh?”
“Nothing.”
He turned another page, but his mind wandered. Anabeth seemed like a caricature of herself—stoic, blunt, and with a truly supernatural ability to hit her mark with whatever rock happened to be nearby. It was oddly admirable. If there weren’t any exclusive skills to be learned or no hidden lineage secrets or buried branches of Stone Thaumaturgy, then maybe, at the very least, he could learn how to channel aether into stone like she did.
“Is Greg into cuteness?” Celine asked suddenly, cutting through his thoughts.
“What?”
“I mean,” she said, gesturing vaguely at herself, “does Greg like the cute aesthetic? That’s all I have.” Her features were undeniably cute—big, earnest eyes, soft cheeks that dimpled when she spoke, and a mouth that always looked like it had just finished saying something kind. It gave her this approachable, sunlit energy, like someone who should be carrying armfuls of fruit in a watercolor pastoral scene. Only her nose threw things off a little—just a bit too prominent for the rest of her face, like it had been borrowed from a different blueprint. But we can’t all be sculpted by the Goddess, and frankly, it made the rest of her charm feel that much more human.
“I’m not sure if Greg’s into anything . . .” Fabrisse replied, narrowing his eyes slightly. She shouldn’t have asked that question. That made her seem like . . . him. Second-guessing herself wasn’t what he had in mind when he thought of Celine Moose as a person, much less for a guy she’d just seen for the first time fifteen minutes ago. “He’s into quiet, I guess. He likes quiet and hates badgering.”
“Oh. Is that so? Good thing I’m not the badgering type.” She laughed.
What does that mean? I never said she was. Though she could very well be . . .
“Is he enrolled in the Synod?” Celine asked again.
“You’re supposed to be a news hogger.”
“Just answer the question.” She nudged him in the elbow.
“Yeah. He just never shows up anywhere.”
Being the master of randomly changing topics she was, Celine continued, “I have a few spare tickets for a jousting competition next weekend. You and Liene and Greg should come too.”
“I can’t leave Synod grounds though. And I have to study.” Speaking of studying . . . “Do you have some spare time? I really need help with some new Stone Thaumaturgy skills I’ve just learned.”
Celine gave an awkward smile, the kind you do when you’re about to refuse someone. “I’d love to help you out, but . . .”
“I can convince Greg to go to the jousting competition.”
Celine immediately snatched his book before he could react, flipping it open with a snap. “I sense great potential in you. We must study. Training starts now.” She grabbed his arm and stood, pulling him up with her. “I want you to cast five stone spells. Now. Chop-chop-chop. We’re not going home until you’ve shattered at least one bench, scared three pigeons, and carved my name into the cobblestones.”
“You didn’t have to be that enthusiastic—”
“Shush!” She put a finger over her lips. “No talking. Throw stones. Now.”
Comments
topley
Greg is the magical equivalent of a gymcel
