Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 83
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 07:19:25 +0000 UTC“What you saw was Subduction Glyph,” Lorvan said. “Advanced Darkness Thaumaturgy. It displaces the space beneath a target’s feet and pulls them through a shadow fold. Shields don’t always stop it unless they’re specifically tuned to collapse barriers.”
They were in Lorvan’s quarters, a room so precise it felt more like a meditation chamber than a living space. The walls were unadorned stone, smooth and pale, the kind that absorbed light without ever seeming cold. Every object had a place: scrolls aligned by height and ink origin, quills stored upright in appropriately dark-colored holders, a single cot folded with military precision. The only thing Fabrisse could feel was out of place was a glass display case, narrow and vertical, holding three intricately painted miniature airships. They had taut aether-sails, delicate brass fins, and every other little detail. One had a chipped wing, carefully repaired with gold leaf. Fabrisse never knew the man was into airships before he stepped into his mentor’s room for the first time. He’d never dared ask about it. The image of Lorvan, hunched over a paintbrush with surgical focus, haunted him more than any spell.
“I don’t get it. Where does the shadow fold lead to?” Fabrisse knew spatial displacement spells existed; powerful and terrifying and the world would definitely be better off without them.
Lorvan’s expression didn’t change. “That depends. Some shadow folds are shallow—they drag you into containment runes, magical null zones, prisons of layered ink. But the one you saw might not have been shallow.”
He let that hang in the air for a second too long.
Fabrisse’s throat tightened. “Then where?”
“To wherever the caster wants,” Lorvan replied. “If they’re powerful enough, they can create, say, a miniature darkness realm to entrap their prisoners there.”
“Then what about . . . the other spell?” Fabrisse asked. “The one fake Kairon used. It didn’t feel like Subduction.”
Lorvan didn’t answer at first. His gaze drifted to the edge of the room, as if searching for a word hidden in the mortar.
“I’ve been considering that,” he said eventually. “What you described doesn’t point to physical displacement. At least not in the traditional sense. Your body never moved.”
Fabrisse nodded slowly. “But the world changed around me.”
“Or you changed around the world.” Lorvan stepped closer to the scroll rack, but didn’t touch it. “I suspect it was a perception-altering spell—high-grade illusion layered with localized memory suppression. Possibly a Glass-affinity derivative.”
He doesn’t know for sure. And Lorvan knew everything. That alone scared Fabrisse more than the spell ever had.
Wait. Glass?
“Mentor. Earlier, Archmagus Monasterie used a Glass spell on me.”
Lorvan turned to him fully. The movement was small, but immediate. “Describe it.”
Fabrisse told him about the mirrored veil and the tap to the forehead.
And then, haltingly, he recalled the sensation—the clarity that had overtaken him. The sudden unraveling of arc patterns. The vivid geometry. The knowing. The spell that had named itself:
Lorvan said nothing for a long time. The silence grew cold.
“She cast that on you?” he asked finally, voice lower than before.
Fabrisse nodded once.
“That spell is restricted,” Lorvan said.
“She said I needed a glimpse,” Fabrisse murmured. “She said she erased my struggle.”
“Do you feel changed?” he asked.
Fabrisse hesitated. “No. I mean—yes. I think I still remember what I saw. A little.”
“It could’ve gone much worse for you.” Lorvan nodded. “But the Archmagus has a . . . complicated personal life, and whoever is in her private circle all enjoy a rather unusually unchallenging life for practitioners of their rank. She invests heavily in those she selects,” Lorvan continued. “And she selects them young.”
Fabrisse knew full well what that meant.
“I have not seen her cast a Darkness spell, but we can never be too safe,” Lorvan said. “We will need to inform Archmagus Rolen about this. The choice is entirely yours, but I would strongly recommend against accepting her offer.”
Fabrisse nodded. He might not agree with Lorvan’s methods sometimes, but he knew without a doubt that the man had his best interest at heart.
“Let’s go back to the topic of Darkness magic. There are a total of eight staff members within the Synod that can use Darkness magic, that I know of.”
“And they can freely teach Darkness magic to their students?” He had seen Rimmar cast darkness spells in a lecture room. It didn’t seem like Rimmar had gotten any repercussions from it.
“They can,” Lorvan confirmed. “They’re not supposed to, but they can.”
Fabrisse frowned. “But that makes no sense. The official Synod curriculum doesn’t recommend Darkness Thaumaturgy at all—some sections outright discourage it.”
“They do,” Lorvan said. “And yet, the moment a licensed practitioner uses it, that recommendation becomes conveniently optional.”
Fabrisse stared at him. “So why allow it at all?”
Lorvan exhaled through his nose. “Because the Synod isn’t a monolith. The Department of Curriculum Affairs leans conservative—they push for standardized, sanitized spellwork, mostly Light and Order affinities. But the Committee on Research Authorization? They’re another matter entirely. Most of the senior researchers on that side are Darkness-aligned. Or funded by those who are.”
Ah. So it’s politics.
Fabrisse shut his trap and just nodded along. The instant politics became involved, he lost interest.
“Do Void and Darkness stem from the same affinity?”
“Yes.” Lorvan nodded. “Both are hybrids of Water and Air. In fact, Void is the direct derivative of Darkness.”
That made it all the more concerning. Now they knew there was at least Darkness-type user actively trying to kidnap Fabrisse, and at least one actively trying to protect him.
Rimmar Ciemnosc couldn’t have been involved, could he? As creepy and potentially powerful Rimmar was, he was just a student. Fabrisse doubted he had learned the basic iteration of whatever that Shadow Hand spell was, much less had the ability to drag a person underground with it.
Lorvan suddenly glanced down at his communication glyph on his wrist, even though it didn’t seem to have given him any visible signal. “Archmagus Rolen wishes to see us. Now.”
“Now?”
“He’s already in the east wing,” Lorvan said, slipping into motion with fluid certainty. “He likely anticipated the conclusion of this conversation before it began.”
Fabrisse stood, his pulse quickening—but not entirely with fear this time.
At least now, he thought, I’ll finally get to know who’s been protecting me.
