Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 34
🕑 Added 2025-07-14 16:29:11 +0000 UTC“This,” Lorvan said as he adjusted his stance. His coat fluttered in the breeze, lined with glowing wards that darkened at the seams.
“is Synaptic Threading, Rank I. Mastering this is the first step towards casting under pressure.”
He raised his right arm in a wide arc that narrowed as it looped until his fingers hovered just above his shoulder line. No spell ignited, but Fabrisse felt a ripple of tension that passed his skin.
Fabrisse stood a few paces away, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly unsure where to put his hands.
“You should stop before you actually cast something. Stop at almost-casting. That’s the point.” Lorvan dropped his arm and turned to face Fabrisse. “Spellcraft isn’t just about knowing words or channeling energy. Your body betrays you before your mind does. Every misfire, every early release, every time your focus lapses in a duel—it starts here.”
Every month, Fabrisse could schedule up to five tutoring sessions with his mentor, with a minimum requirement of two, or he’d risk disciplinary action from the Department of Disciplinary Action.
This month was the first time he’d voluntarily requested a session in half a year.
And standing alone with Lorvan in a wind-bitten courtyard before the sun had fully risen, he was starting to regret it.
“Your turn,” Lorvan said. Fabrisse gulped.
His palms were clammy. His focus was jittery. He hadn’t even drawn a spellform yet.
[Synaptic Thread Recognition: +7% Progress]
[Reward: SYN +7 ~ +15; SYN attribute unlocked]
Lorvan watched him for a moment, then gave a faint sigh. “Well? Come on. Show me you’re really serious.”
Fabrisse nodded and stepped forward, planting his feet the way he'd been taught: shoulders squared, wrist raised at an exact angle.
Lorvan gave a slight tilt of the head. “Good.”
Fabrisse tried not to smile. He exhaled slowly, raised his right arm, and began the first arc.
He didn’t even make it halfway before Lorvan said, “Stop.”
Fabrisse stopped the moment his elbows bent at the most awkward angle.
“I didn’t flinch,” Fabrisse muttered.
“You did. Here.” Lorvan tapped the air just beside his shoulder. “You overcorrected the angle before your wrist could complete the path. Your motion stuttered. That means your focus stuttered.”
Fabrisse lowered his hand. “I thought I was supposed to sync it to the emotion.”
“We’re not practicing with emotions,” Lorvan said. “Right now, you just need to form a clean arc without letting your body fall out of alignment.”
Fabrisse lifted his arm again, slower this time. His shoulder was already aching. His wrist trembled just before he even reached midpoint.
His body wanted to give out.
And he understood, in that moment, exactly why his SYN rating had never risen past a six.
He had an innate inability to maintain composure under even the suggestion of scrutiny. His bones remembered failure before his thoughts had the chance to recover.
He tried again. Do it more slowly. No need to put too much stress on yourself.
He became . . . too slow. His elbow dipped before his shoulder adjusted, and the arc collapsed in on itself.
“Reset,” Lorvan said, already turning his back. “Do it again.”
Fabrisse reset.
Another attempt. Another misalignment. His wrist gave too early. His stance slipped.
“Again.”
His shoulder burned now. His arm shook, barely able to hold itself in the raised position, let alone complete a full arc.
Another failed motion.
This time, Lorvan didn’t say anything.
Fabrisse inhaled through clenched teeth and lifted his arm again. The same mistake. His body betrayed him before his thoughts could catch.
And still, no correction came.
He paused, panting.
Lorvan had stopped watching.
The realization hit like a gut punch. His mentor stood a few paces off now, arms crossed, gaze turned somewhere past the courtyard edge.
Fabrisse lowered his hand, fighting the wave of shame crawling up his spine. “You’ve already given up on this session.”
“No,” Lorvan said, voice cold. “You did.”
“Huh?”
Lorvan finally looked at him. “You told me at the start, ‘Mentor. No matter what, don’t let me take the easy way out.’ Did you mean that, or were you posturing to feel brave for five minutes?”
Fabrisse flinched harder at those words than any failed motion.
“Then get up.” Lorvan’s voice sharpened. “Raise your arm. Thread again. Fail again if you have to, but move.”
Fabrisse swallowed the breath that wanted to turn into an excuse. His legs trembled. They were about to give in now.
He got down to one knee and lifted his arm.
And tried again.
[Synaptic Thread Recognition: +8% Progress]
***
[Synaptic Thread Recognition: +15% Progress]
Two hours later, Fabrisse was sprawled on the ground, limbs splayed and breath coming in erratic bursts. The stone tiles of the courtyard pressed cold into his back. He couldn’t move his fingers anymore, and the only signals the muscles in his dominant arm gave now were dull aches.
For a total gain of 11%.
At this rate, it would take seven more sessions just to finish the basics of Synaptic Threading, and that was if he didn’t plateau again.
He didn’t have seven sessions.
He needed 45,000 Kohns to cover next semester’s tuition, and an apprentice’s monthly pay was only 8,000, before deductions. He had just five months left to make it work, including winter break.
The evaluation exam was in a month. He would pass the written components. But passing with theory alone wouldn’t cut it.
The top-tier paid apprenticeships didn’t want textbook scores. They wanted the kind of casting performance that made evaluators underline your name twice.
Maybe I should just drop out, he thought to himself as he stared up at the blue sky.
A shadow crossed over him, then Lorvan’s head entered his vision.
“You once said the practical portion of Synaptic Threading was impossible for you before. What changed?” He said.
“The glyph,” he muttered, then gasped for air before continuing, “If I can complete the full threading sequence, it’s projected to give me upwards of fifteen points in Synaptic Control.”
“How much is that?”
“For reference, right now I have like five.”
Even if it takes more than a month, he thought, forcing his eyes to stay open, the reward is more than worth it.
Lorvan sat down beside him, folding one knee and letting his long coat drape over the cold stone. “Fifteen points is a good reward then,” he said.
Fabrisse let his head roll to the side, just enough to catch the edges of Lorvan’s profile.
Lorvan went on, “But why now? Why start improving your spellcasting this late in the game, even if the reward’s tempting?” He glanced down at him, one brow lifted. “I don’t know Konan Kahn that well, but I’m sure she’d take in another apprentice if you showed heart and submitted clean theoreticals.”
Fabrisse let the sting of those words fold into his lungs. Then, he whispered, “Min Hajin.”
“Min?”
Fabrisse shut his eyes, still sprawled. “He’s not going to teach me Aetheric Grain Analysis unless I pass Synaptic Resonance I. It’s his condition.”
Lorvan gave a faint sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You’re starting to regret not taking Practical more seriously, huh?”
Fabrisse didn’t answer. The answer sat heavy in his throat, and he couldn’t turn it into words.
Yes.
Yes, he was.
Fabrisse closed his eyes again, willing the world to stop spinning around his bones.
Then, hoarsely, “Mentor. Please.”
Lorvan gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing.
“I know you don’t approve of boosters,” Fabrisse continued. “But just for training. Just enough to push past the limit. I’ve seen the listings—glyphplates tuned to Synaptic acceleration, even ARC stabilizers. I can rent one for two days. If I could just hold the form long enough to stop plateauing—”
“They don’t allow aid in Practical,” Lorvan said. “You know that.”
“I wouldn’t use it for the test, I swear. Just for prep, so my body can feel what alignment’s supposed to be like.”
Lorvan’s silence was louder than before. When he finally spoke, his voice was tired and firm. “And what happens when your body learns to cheat? When it stops learning to hold tension and starts leaning on the device instead?”
Lorvan glanced at the time glyph woven into the band of his sleeve, a small rotation of geometric runes. Fabrisse followed the motion with bleary eyes.
I know he has another student after this, Fabrisse thought as his heart sank. Whoever that student was, they were probably more of a joy to teach.
The silence stretched, longer than the usual kind that Lorvan used to let a lesson sink in. It twisted just past the line of discomfort into the edge of dread.
Fabrisse pushed himself upright, wincing as his arm screamed against the motion. “If you have to go, Mentor, I understand. I can—”
“Do you have another hour to spare?”
He stopped pushing. “Pardon?”
Lorvan finally looked at him. A few strands of his hair, usually parted with precise care, had come loose, weighted down by sweat and the wind. They clung to his temple, one lock half-veiling his left eye.
“This is for both you and me,” Lorvan said quietly. “If you keep failing basic Synaptic Control, what does it say about me?”
Fabrisse couldn’t find anything to say to Lorvan. The man had never, never talked about anything other than studies.
Fabrisse’s throat closed around the instinctive denial. “No . . . No. You’re great.” He really wasn’t strict enough. He acted rigid, but he let Fabrisse off the hook way too often.
Lorvan kept his hand extended, steady and expectant. His tone gentled, but not soft. “If you won’t give up, I won’t give up.”
Fabrisse hesitated only a second more—then took it.
Lorvan’s grip was strong, unshaking, and the pull to his feet was smooth.
“One more try,” Lorvan said. “Let’s get that first arc right.”
