Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 41
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 11:11:33 +0000 UTCThe teams had a minute to discuss the strategy. They formed a circle, and the first thing Severa said was, “We’re playing Power Rotation.”
Halma, a big burly guy, raised a brow, “Power? With him?” His tone was baffled. Power Rotation would mean no keeper, which would mean no backline.
Larna, a girl with curly blue hair that fizzled like static, eyeing Fabrisse, who stood awkwardly a few paces away, cradling his scrolls that he hadn’t found a place to put down yet. “Look, no offense,” she said carefully, “but if we’re being strategic, maybe Kastovar should anchor defense. Catch the ball if he can. It gives us coverage, and—”
“No,” Severa cut in. “He plays the flank.”
“Seriously?” Larna said. “He barely channels. And they’re gonna put Cuman there.”
Severa’s voice stayed level. “Then he’ll learn to stand in the wind.”
That shut them both up.
Fabrisse stood on the edge of the conversation, pretending not to hear. They weren’t even talking to him. Just about him. Like he was some fragile component in a ritual array.
Severa turned toward him at last. “You flank. Redirect only. No absorption. Understood?”
He swallowed. “Understood.”
They stood in formation. Larna was right. Cuman stood directly across from Fabrisse, enough to make eye contact. He gave Fabrisse a smug grin, like a blade freshly whetted.
The whistle blared.
With a single ripple of channeled wind, the silkball leapt into motion. Cuman surged first, riding a gust straight toward the ball. Severa countered with an elegant lateral stream that spun the silkball sideways, straight toward Fabrisse’s flank.
“Yours,” she called.
I can’t conjure a gust! I have to catch it by hand—
A gust slammed into his chest and knocked him clean off his feet.
He hit the grass flat on his back. The silkball skittered out of bounds with a sad wobble.
“Foul!” Instructor Aval barked. “Cuman! That’s not directional play—that’s player targeting! You want to disqualify yourself?”
Cuman shrugged. “He was in the way.”
Fabrisse groaned and sat up, ribs buzzing. Halma helped him up with a quiet “You alright?” but even he looked mildly confused.
Severa’s voice came in. “Kastovar. Stay on the flank. Redirect, don’t absorb.”
Redirect . . . I have a spell for that. Stillbrace.
He could cast focused dampening glyph that could calm air into a suspended shield of stillness for just under two seconds, which would be enough to form a low-tension surface that should be springy enough. But he’d need to successfully communicate an emotion to form that spell.
I can try.
The silkball spun back into play. This time, it arced low toward him again.
He braced, arms up, then extended his hand and tried to center the glyph. He used the most-basic emotion even the first year would have a level of command over: resolve. A glint of ivory materialized in front of him.
Before Fabrisse could even finish forming the glyph, a graceful spiral of air caught the silkball. It looped once, then curved gently backward, arced in a circle, then returned to Severa’s outstretched hand like it had never been meant for anyone else.
The entire team—and most of the class—turned to look. Fabrisse’s hand was still raised.
Severa caught the silkball one-handed, tucked it against her side, then cast a simple wind-based spell to pass it sideway to an advancing Larna. The ball zipped past Verryn before he could intercept, and Larna opened her palm and suspended the ball in the air as she carried it forward.
Fabrisse lowered his arm slowly. The spell collapsed. Stillbrace hadn’t even flared.
So much for redirecting.
Fabrisse repositioned like he was told. His role was clear. Stand here. Be a wall.
He hadn’t touched the silkball once.
Every time it even veered near his side, Severa swept in early, graceful and merciless. She arced gusts in precise loops that rerouted passes before they could test his reach. At one point, she didn’t even look, and only spun a brief cyclone with her heel and diverted the ball around Halma like it was tethered to her will. But it was also the reason why her team hadn’t been able to score a point.
Larna tried a mid-range volley once, channeling the air beneath the silkball in a zigzag surge, but it sputtered halfway and drifted into Rhel’s field like a falling leaf. Halma, for his part, lunged to intercept a side-curve, but his timing was off. The wind coiled too soon, and the ball bounced over his shoulder.
Halma and Larna weren’t dexterous enough to break through Cuman’s team’s backline. Rhel had really good sense of blocking, and he would manipulate the local wind currents to stop the ball in time. Meanwhile, Terrero was tall.
It was easy to defend when they knew Severa’s team could only attack on one side.
“You think you can keep covering for him?” Cuman laughed. “I’ll just bypass you both.”
Next play, Rhel drifted farther back, nearly outside the regulation zone. Cuman faked another advance, drawing Severa’s attention center. Then, in a sudden cut, Rhel snapped both hands forward and conjured a sharp draft aimed skyward. The silkball shot up into the air. It was ridiculously high, higher than any of them had launched it all session.
Fabrisse’s head craned upward.
“Out of my way, Chosen One.” Cuman leaped the quadrant gap in one bounding rush, and he zipped past Cuman in a second.
Fabrisse turned too late. His fingers twitched toward the glyphplate, but he wasn’t ready. He’d never been ready for plays this quick.
Cuman would reach the silkball. The goal was wide open.
A low howl sliced through the sky, fine as a whistle-edge. It wasn’t sound—it was movement, a wind current so tightly wound it could’ve cut ink from air.
[Spell Detected: Gale Severance — Rank IV]
Severa.
The gale was green. Her channel hit the upper altitude draft like a blade slamming into fabric. It tore straight through Rhel’s current, at its peak. The ball dipped, staggered, and spun helplessly backward.
Cuman shouted something that was swallowed by the wind. The ball didn’t reach him.
Instead, it floated downward on a thread of redirected air and landed lightly in Severa’s palm. She hadn’t even moved more than two paces from center.
She countered an upper-altitude aerial play in under a second, from centerfield, without moving? How good actually is she?
Severa turned on the ball of one foot, and extended her hand forward. A burst of dense, spiraling wind formed. It compressed and coiled like a spring inside a spell. Then she let it loose.
The silkball rocketed like it had been flung from a storm cannon. It screamed across the field in a straight line, faster than anyone expected. Especially since she was still standing at center. She was forty meters away from goal.
Terrero, Cuman’s last pick, stood in front of their net like a confused statue.
He realized too late.
He leaped and twisted his body through the air like a diver caught in a hurricane. With one hand outstretched, he fired a miniature wind dart from the tip of his index finger. The dart glowed charcoal—the color of fear.
A thread of air punctured the edge of the silkball just before it crossed the boundary.
It veered.
The ball struck the post, rebounded, and thumped into the grass outside the net. The crowd gasped audibly. There was even a whistle.
“Almost,” Instructor Aval muttered, loud enough for the class to hear. His voice had a rare edge of admiration in it. The score was still 0 - 0, with over two minutes left.
Terrero landed, gasping, face twisted with the kind of half-relief that looked like fear.
Cuman clenched his jaw so tightly his cheek twitched.
"You're kidding me," he muttered, just loud enough for those near him to hear.
Fabrisse had seen Terrero reaching. He’s good at blocking high angle shots. Does that mean . . .
As Verryn came to retrieve the ball, Rhel leaned over to Cuman and whispered, “She caught that upper-altitude stream like it was a handle.”
“I saw,” Cuman snapped before growling at Severa. “You little show-off. You think you can maintain your control for more than a minute?”
“I absolutely think so,” Severa replied.
“Snobby narcissist. I’ll smear the ball across your smug face,” he gritted his teeth.
Severa puffed her chest as Verryn brought the ball back in play. “Is it called narcissism if I actually am just better than everyone?”
Her statement earned an ‘oh’ from the spectators.
Fabrisse hadn’t moved.
Severa glanced at him once, then turned back to her other teammates. “Resume your positions,” she said.
