Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 46
🕑 Added 2025-07-01 16:36:44 +0000 UTC“So you’re going to stay for the next three months?” Fabrisse asked before shoving the last piece of pie into his half-stuffed mouth. He balanced his pie tin on one knee, while Tom sat cross-legged beside him, absently flicking sparks between his fingers.
“Yeah,” Tom said. He wasn’t eating any pie. He didn’t even like pie.
They were slouched in their usual spot, a semi-forgotten maintenance balcony halfway up the east tower overlooking the glowvine-lit atrium below. It was just high enough to discourage surprise visitors, or to practice pyromancy tricks without accidentally burning anything down. Someone, years ago, had dragged two mismatched chairs and an old sigil-console up here and declared it furniture. Probably Tom.
Fabrisse claimed the sturdier chair.
“Are you guys even allowed to take a vacation that long?” Fabrisse asked.
“I still have work to do. There have been bizarre fire resonance phenomena inside the Synod, and I’ve been sent back to have a closer look.”
“What phenomenon?”
“That’s classified,” Tommaso gave him a toothless grin.
“Oh. You’re keeping secrets now that you’re a magus?”
“Speaking of secrets, I should be asking you.” Tom nudged him with his elbow. “The Chosen One, huh? What’s your ultimate spell, dude? I know you can conjure an entire ballroom full of illusory chickens now. Spill it.”
“Well . . . I have this one.” He took out a Stupenstone from his satchel. “Turn around.”
Tommaso chuckled and obliged.
Fabrisse raised the Stupenstone, muttered a few choice syllables under his breath—most of which probably weren’t magical—and released the spell.
A bolt of shimmering force zipped through the air.
And he missed.
The spell zipped past the pot, just grazing the wall behind it with a harmless fizz.
Tom turned back around just in time to see the wilted plant wobble from the near miss. “Huh. Not bad. Though this is what you’ve been spending time on? Where are the obligatory fire spells?”
“I haven’t learned them.”
“How did you pass the exam?” Tommaso furrowed his brows.
“You need a 50 to pass. 50% of the test was theory. I scored a full 50 in theory.”
“You passed on a technicality?”
Fabrisse shrugged and shoved the now-empty pie tin under his chair. “It’s not a technicality if it’s in the rules.”
“Then how much did you get for the actual spellcasting portion?”
“Seven. Lorvan said my form was acceptable.”
Tommaso let out a long, slow exhale and rubbed his temples. “You’re the Chosen One.” He paused for another second. “Look. Final year subjects won’t be like that. The theory itself gets harder and they won’t let you pass without a sufficient cast. Maybe we can transform whatever knowledge you’ve accumulated into practice. You don’t keep that old notebook with you anymore?”
“At home. It’s so tattered it can turn into dust if I touch it too hard.”
“What about your lucky charm?” Fabrisse had once found a shard of lunarglass hematite. That rock was aether-reactive and could resonance channels during incantation
“I left it with Dubbie.”
“You’re kidding,” Tommaso snorted. “It actually offers a boost to your Aetheric Resonance Control, so you should bring it along with you. Dubbie doesn’t even practice Thaumaturgy. You, on the other hand, need some help.”
Speaking of help . . . He had a quest which would run out in two days. During those two days, he had to throw a rock at Cuman’s face. It was imperative that Cuman got stoned.
“I know this might be a long shot . . . But do you know of any way for me to improve my rock flinging in two days?” Fabrisse asked, sheepishly.
“Rock flinging, huh?” Tommaso put a finger on his chin. “I have just a thing for you.”
***
[You have equipped the Thaumaturge’s Throwmitts of Misguided Bravado]
Description: SYN + 3; ARC + 3
Also passively increases your likelihood to pick fights you probably can’t win, if you FP drops to lower than 30% of the total amount.
[Warning: These will take up 2 Inventory slots]
“I made them myself! You likey?” Tommaso boasted the moment Fabrisse got the mitts on. He wore a particularly pompous puff of pride on his face.
“What did you imbue into this?” Fabrisse asked, but he knew the answer was probably arrogance.
“Spellthreaded aetherhide, and a bit of attitude.”
“Ah.”
Spellthreaded aetherhide was a pliable leather harvested from dusk-antlered hornbeasts, creatures not extinct but rather hard to herd without someone losing a limb. But during the crafting process—particularly at the stage of infusion—these materials became highly impressionable.
In Tommaso’s case, that emotional imprint had baked in an unwanted side effect, nudging the wearer towards unwise but theatrical acts of magical aggression.
Fabrisse stared down at his mitts. The weather was still much too warm for such thick gear, but he appreciated the lunarglass mesh that etched along the knuckles. It caught the light like frost. If only these mitts weren’t . . . orange in color. Bright orange, like someone had tried to enchant confidence and ended up with safety cones.
“Alright, let’s see it.” Tommaso tapped Fabrisse’s satchel. “Grab a stone and aim for that shriveled patch on the root.” He pointed at the wilted plant.
Fabrisse reached into his satchel and pulled out one of his smoother stones. The weight felt denser somehow, like the mitts had synchronized with it. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
He channeled a reasonable amount of resolve, and the air around the stone grew ivory-tinted.
Then he flung it.
The stone zipped through the air in a perfect arc and struck the exact spot with a sharp thwack, sending a puff of dry soil into the air. The wilted plant shuddered in its pot.
“Woah.” Fabrisse stared at his own hands. He did not just make a shot that clean.
[Mastery Training: Stupenstone Fling (Rank II)—Progress to Rank III: 41%]
→ Trajectory Curvature: Stable ~ Consistent
→ Estimated Launch Velocity: 5.6 m/s (72% max)
→ Accuracy Deviation: ±3.2%
System Note: Good. Next time try it without cheating.
I can complete the quest now. But I shouldn’t be so full of myself.
There would be no way Cuman would just let a stone flying at his face without blocking it. He needed a distraction.
As Fabrisse walked over to pick up the stone, he spoke to Tommaso over the shoulder, “Tom. I have something I need your help with.”
“Spit it. Nothing your best buddy can’t handle.”
He really wanted to tell Tommaso about the quest, which would mean his friend needed to learn about how Eidralith worked. But Lorvan had told him to not tell anyone, even his best friends.
“What you’re about to say, dude? Don’t backtrack now,” Tommaso urged.
He should’ve opened his mouth to tell Tom everything—the glyph, the system, the sidequest. However, what came out was, “I’m being bullied by sixteen-year-olds.”
“For real?” Tommaso’s voice cracked with disbelief, stretched between stifled laughter and genuine confusion.
Why did I say it like that? Now it sounded even more humiliating.
