Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 49
🕑 Added 2025-07-03 14:47:19 +0000 UTCThe Hall of Conduct was far too dramatic for what it was designed to handle. The arched ceilings and polished runes on the walls were said to be powered from the aether pools contributed by the Archmagi themselves, tuned to detect lies. At the center were three curved benches of disciplinary authority. Behind them sat Magus Exemplar Nora Norraden, famed for breaking a blood-heir’s career with a single clause citation, but not much else. To her left, Instructant Aval. To her right, an administrative scribe whose only joy in life came from recording formal testimonies in perfect, indelible glyph-ink.
Fabrisse wasn’t late today. But he wasn’t earlier neither.
He kept his steps quiet, hoping not to echo too much. The polished volcanic glass floor had that effect—every shoe tap sounded like a threat. He spotted Tommaso and Liene near the lower tiers. Liene had a death grip on a folder of what looked like statements. Tommaso was slouched as usual, chewing some gum. Fabrisse didn’t know if that was allowed indoor. The moment Fabrisse reached them, Liene grabbed him by the sleeve.
“Where were you?” she hissed. “You were supposed to arrive ten minutes ago.” Then she looked him up and down. “Oh! This suits you! You look like an adorable chipmunk.”
Fabrisse was wearing his cleanest set of formal student robes.The fabric was a muted slate-gray with silver trim at the sleeves, just stiff enough to make him feel like he was wearing a folded tablecloth. He had tried to wear his old robe, and Liene had even tried to cast Minor Wrinkle Dismissal twice on him, but couldn’t make the scorch marks at the end disappear.
“I had to—my robe caught on a hinge and—”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear your excuses unless it’s ‘chip chip’.”
“‘Chip chip’?”
“That’s what chipmunks sound like. Anyway, I have prepared three versions of your defense, a backup index of clauses, and a diagram that proves your mitts were enchanted by someone who cannot legally enchant anything unsupervised.”
Tommaso raised a hand. “That would be me.”
“But I haven’t studied any of those notes. I won’t be able to remember,” Fabrisse ruffled his own hair.
“Just read from the notes.”
Fabrisse sank into his designated seat on the Defense side, still trying to remember if he’d brushed his hair. “How bad do you think it’s going to be?”
“That depends,” Liene said. “On whether the hearing board believes you were reckless, or tragically uncoordinated. Which, for the record, are legally distinct categories. Remember to read from the notes.”
Everyone got to their seats.
Seated awkwardly on the Defense side were Fabrisse and Tommaso. Tommaso, by contrast, sat reclined. His boots were up on the bench rail until Liene, now sitting one row behind them like an angry chaperone, kicked them off.
Cuman sat on the other side. His silk-bandaged forehead had been styled for maximum sympathy, and his robe was artfully tousled to imply recent struggle. Beside him, Rhel looked like a tree trying to shrink. He kept rubbing his arm and staring at the floor. Miro sat behind them, looking like he was forced to be there.
Norraden’s voice rang out. “This hearing is now in session.” The scribe’s quill scratched as she continued, “This matter concerns an unsanctioned magical altercation in the Kinesthetic Ring. I have received reports of reckless channeling, unregistered spell activation. And,” she added with a glance at Fabrisse, “a projectile to the face.” Norraden adjusted her sleeve cuffs. “All involved parties are present. Mr. Gollivur, Mr. Kestovar, Mr. Ardefiamme . . . and I see that Mr. Rhel is listed as a witness. Good.”
Tommaso leaned to Fabrisse and whispered, “You should really name that spell. ‘Stupenstone Arc: Direct Ego Disruption.’”
But it already has a name . . .
“Mr. Ardefiamme,” Norraden said while staring at her glyph-inscribed ledger, “do not speak unless addressed.”
Tommaso mimed zipping his lips. Fabrisse sighed into his hands.
Norraden steepled her fingers. “We will begin with a clarification of events. Mr. Kestovar, describe what happened from your perspective.” She looked at Fabrisse. “Begin.”
Fabrisse stood. He’d rehearsed his lines no less than five times. He could do it. “I wasn’t trying to escalate. Cuman had active spellflairs and stepped toward me in a clearly aggressive stance. I panicked and dropped the Stupenstone. Then after the explosion near the training dummies, I retrieved it and responded on reflex.” Then he remembered he hadn’t even opened Liene’s ‘note’ yet.
Cuman immediately leaned forward. “That’s not what happened! He was waiting to throw something! He had it ready before—”
Norraden didn’t even raise her voice. “Mr. Gollivur.”
Cuman stopped.
Norraden continued, “There will be no interruptions. You will be given your opportunity to speak when called upon. If you struggle with this instruction, I will assume you do not wish to be heard at all. Understood?”
Cuman sat back slowly, jaw clenched. “Understood.”
“Good.” Norraden returned her attention to Fabrisse. “Continue, Mr. Kestovar. What was your intent when you threw the object?”
Fabrisse swallowed. “To stop what I perceived as an incoming threat. I didn’t plan it. It just happened. I didn’t mean to injure him.”
Norraden made a small notation in her ledger. “Noted. Mr. Ardefiamme, I assume the explosion was your doing?”
Tommaso sat up straighter. “Yes, Magus Exemplar. Though it was not intended to damage property or escalate anything. It was a minor combustion channel meant to—ah—redirect attention.”
Norraden arched a brow. “Redirect attention.”
“To create a distraction, not a fireball. The damage to the dummy pile was . . . unexpected.”
Norraden tapped a glyph on her ledger. “Mr. Ardefiamme, you are a high distinction graduate of the Synod, now affiliated with the Northern Engagement Corps. You were expected to know the limitations of your spells, especially within Synod grounds. Do you dispute that expectation?”
Tommaso folded his hands. There was still a glimpse of boyish deflection in his grin. “No, Magus Exemplar. I don’t dispute it. I just overestimated the structural integrity of the practice dummies.”
“You’re saying they were structurally unsound.”
“I ran a low-yield ignition pulse with capped combustion spread. It was supposed to startle, not topple. The dummies weren’t supposed to light up like parade lanterns.” He glanced at his notes—real ones, jotted in margin-scrawl on the inside flap of his sleeve. “Based on the material specs posted on the Practice Grounds Manifest, the core stuffing is supposed to be non-reactive to standard spark spells. I calculated a sub-1% ignition risk.”
Norraden’s brows knit together.
“And yet,” Tommaso shrugged. “The padding combusted. I believe the internal insulation may have degraded. There were signs of brittling on the foam-ward lattice, possibly from long-term sun exposure or improper reinforcement glyphs. I’ll file a follow-up, of course.”
Fabrisse widened his eyes. That was either complete nonsense or extremely specific technical truth. Possibly both.
Tommaso smiled. “I accept fault for casting on school property without clearance. But the reaction wasn’t proportional to the energy delivered. The dummies shouldn’t have exploded.”
Norraden scribbled something briskly. “And your intention?”
“A diversion,” Tommaso said smoothly. “To keep eyes off the confrontation. At the time, Cuman had stepped forward with summoned spellflairs. My judgment—correct or not—was that he was going to make an example of Fabrisse in front of an audience. I chose spectacle to minimize injury.”
Aval tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.
Norraden gestured to the scribe. “Log the technical claim about the dummy materials for verification.”
The scribe made a pleased humming noise and began recording in aggressive, looping glyph-strokes.
Fabrisse turned enough to glance toward the gallery, where the observing faculty and designated mentors sat. In the second row, arms crossed, was Lorvan.
Their eyes met.
Fabrisse mouthed, Trust me.
Lorvan slowly closed his eyes, then opened them again, and gave a resigned nod. A sigh you could feel through posture.
Then he saw Liene sitting near Lorvan, flinging her arms wildly while mouthing, READ YOUR NOTES.
“Mr. Kestovar,” Norraden said, “this is not a spectator’s forum. Please focus.”
“Yes, Magus Exemplar.” Fabrisse turned forward again.
Norraden looked up. “Mr. Gollivur, your version of events. You may speak now.”
Cuman stood too fast. The chair scraped behind him, and the sound bounced off the marble walls like a warning klaxon. “Magus Exemplar, I was conducting a normal peer demonstration in the Kinesthetic Ring. I had summoned standard spellflairs—non-lethal, I may add—for kinetic form instruction. Fabrisse Kestovar entered my quadrant in a deliberate arc. I saw him holding a Stupenstone. I asked what he was doing, and he didn’t respond. Then I witnessed Mr. Ardefiamme detonate the dummy stack, which pulled everyone’s attention—”
“You were not affected?” Norraden asked.
“I—no. I was startled, of course,” Cuman said, voice tightening. “But my flairs were still under control. That’s when Kestovar launched a projectile at my head with no provocation. It struck me here.” He tapped his bandage, then realized he’d been tapping it too aggressively, so he tapped more lightly.
“And your response to his approach?” Norraden asked.
“I stepped forward to engage. Not aggressively! Just to intercept if needed. But I didn’t even get to that part. I was struck down in public, and humiliated. Deliberately.”
There was a pause.
Then Norraden said evenly, “You stated earlier that the spellflairs were non-lethal. Yet you admit they were active at the time.”
“Yes, but they weren’t aimed. I didn’t attack him.”
“You advanced toward a student with spellflairs floating behind you,” Aval added. “In a controlled space. During instruction time.”
Cuman’s jaw shifted. “It wasn’t an attack.”
“But it was enough for Mr. Ardefiamme to feel the need for a distraction?” Norraden asked. “Enough that witnesses believed a confrontation was imminent?”
Cuman glanced at Rhel. “Rhel saw everything.”
Norraden turned. “Mr. Rhel.”
Rhel stiffened.
“You were a witness,” she said. “State what you saw.”
Okay, it’s all good, Fabrisse exhaled. Rhel doesn’t like Cuman. He’ll back me.
Rhel swallowed. His voice was low but clear.
“I saw Fabrisse enter the Ring holding something,” he said. Then his voice dropped lower. “I could feel it. He was going to do something stupid.”
Cold sweat prickled along Fabrisse’s neck and down his back. It was like his blood had been swapped with melting ice.
Comments
ze96
"But he wasn’t earlier neither." But he wasn't early either.
