Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 40
🕑 Added 2025-06-30 11:11:12 +0000 UTCLorvan left. For a moment, the corridor held its breath.
Fabrisse realized how lucky he’d been. Lorvan knew approximately where he’d be and when he’d be home. Had he not reported his training to Lorvan, his mentor might not even have shown up.
Then came the faint rustle of wards warping, a second flare—if he could call it that, and the distant cracking sound of a shatter-bound sigil being disrupted. The flare—which did not seem like a flare but more like a pitch black that swallowed light whole, splintered outwards like shrapnel, each shard of energy momentarily carving a path through the air before dissipating.
Silence again.
Another minute passed before Lorvan returned, striding quickly but without the tension of combat. He slowed as he reached Fabrisse.
“They’re gone,” Lorvan said. “There was no signature left behind except that restraint weave, and even that’s beginning to fade. Someone covered their tracks well.”
He crouched slightly beside Fabrisse, scanning him with a quick aetheric sweep from a ring-glyph. “You’re not injured. But you were seconds from being pulled into a spatial pocket, Kestovar.”
“What’s a spatial pocket?” He asked, dumbfounded.
“That’s a high-level dimension expansion spell, opening up a new ‘pocket’ to trap someone in. Most Magi don’t have a good grasp of the technique,” Lorvan answered, offering no additional information, which only made Fabrisse even more anxious.
“Who—who would even try something like that on Synod grounds?”
Lorvan didn’t answer immediately. He looked down the path again, the lines at the corner of his mouth drawn tight. “We’ll find out. But you’re not walking alone again.”
***
Fabrisse met Severa for the first time since his visit to the Montreal residence. He hadn’t emotionally recovered from last night, and he wasn’t prepared for a tirade coming from the fiery queen today.
Who could it have been? Fabrisse had spent a sleepless night thinking, but he couldn’t figure out if it could be anyone he knew. The most obvious suspect would be Severa, but he didn’t know if she would ever stoop down that low. And that colorless magic? Even Severa couldn’t conjure a spell that powerful. So when morning came, Fabrisse didn’t get any closer to the answer. He only got closer to sleep deficiency.
I should’ve just skipped class, he thought, before extinguishing that very thought. He was trying to get better; to finally take practiced Thaumaturgy seriously for one. He couldn’t give up just because he was afraid some girl would stare at him too hard.
However, she didn’t look at him.
The wind thaumaturgy class had been moved to the southern practice fields for open-air channeling, which meant there was no wall, no row of desks, no sanctuary to hide behind. Only a ring of chalk-drawn invocation circles and the open sky.
Severa stood across the field, hair caught high in a silver band, her practice robe cinched with the symmetrical folds. She hadn’t so much as flinched when he arrived. Not when he stepped across the outer ward-line. Not when Replacement Magus Instructant Aval called roll. Not when a passing gust ruffled the paper scrolls tucked under his arm and sent them flapping like nervous flags.
He bit his lips. What was he expecting? That the best student of her class would spare him a glance now that he’d visit her home once?
Well, at least I didn’t get insulted.
Cuman gave a low whistle as he passed by Fabrisse’s circle. “Kestovar,” he said with cheer, “Still hiding behind girls with real talent, or are you planning to blow some air today?” Miro followed close behind him, tongue sticking out.
Fabrisse didn’t respond. He lowered his head, pretending to focus on the chalk symbols at his feet. The edge of one glyph had smudged. He traced it back with his thumb even though the line wasn’t the problem.
Magus Instructant Aval stepped into the center of the chalk-ring and clapped once for attention. “Alright, today’s practical will be a round of Skybrace. I’m sure you’ve seen it demonstrated by Instructant Ovrien before. We’re having two teams with four players each. The objective is to send the silkball through the opposing net using only wind-channeling. No hands, no feet. You’ll use precision gust control, arc flares, or sustained current if you can manage it. Bonus points for defensive deflection and airborne rerouting. You have three minutes.”
A few groans rippled through the class. Skybrace wasn’t easy. The silkball was enchant-light, sensitive to overcasting, and notoriously prone to veering off if too much force was applied. You needed balance, control, and the ability to read airflow like script. Most of the class was barely functional at that. A few were excellent.
Two especially.
Severa and Cuman.
Instructor Aval turned toward them. “You’ll lead. Take turns choosing your teams. Three players per side.”
Cuman grinned like a wolf handed a meal. “I’ll go first.”
Fabrisse exhaled with quiet relief. Cuman wasn’t going to pick him, not unless he wanted someone to anchor the sidelines with a nervous breakdown. And Severa . . . well, she definitely wouldn’t pick him. She plays to win.
Severa didn’t speak.
Cuman made his first pick. “Rhel.”
No surprise there. Rhel had strong channel control and a vicious streak. Severa responded, “Larne.”
Cuman called, “Verryn.”
Severa didn’t even pause. “Halma.”
Last round.
Fabrisse kept his head down. His fingers curled tight around his scrolls. Cuman gave a theatrical sigh and swept his gaze lazily toward the remaining group. “I guess I’ll take Terrero. He’s tall.” Fabrisse was surprised he didn’t take Miro, but maybe Miro wasn’t any good at air-based invocations.
For a moment, Severa didn’t say anything. Fabrisse dared to glance up, already bracing for someone else’s name.
Severa’s gaze lifted across the field and landed directly on him.
“Kastovar.”
A beat of stunned silence followed.
Fabrisse’s eyes widened. He wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Some students turned. Miro let out a small, exaggerated choke of laughter.
Fabrisse stood frozen for half a breath too long before realizing he was expected to move.
“Kastovar,” Severa said again, crisply. “You’re with me.”
He walked slowly toward her, scrolls still under one arm, pulse hammering like he’d been picked for ritual sacrifice. He passed Cuman on the way.
“Your funeral,” Cuman said with a smirk.
Fabrisse’s heart lurched. He wanted to disappear. But his feet, traitorous things, moved forward anyway. At least he’d grabbed a glyphplate and positioned it on his belt. A glyphplate is a personal channeling device inscribed with basic and intermediate runes. It would help reduce the cost of maintaining sustained glyphs like Stillbrace or Stonesway and initiate spells quickly without manually drawing glyphs each time.
He dared a glance at Severa as he stopped beside her.
She didn’t acknowledge him. Her focus was already on the silkball Aval had conjured into suspension at centerfield.
Her lips curved into a razor-fine line.
This wasn’t a strategy. It was a setup.
She’s going to make me fail, he realized. In front of everyone.
Comments
danielnewwyn
My mistake. I'll fix it here and in the subsequent version on Royal Road
Anton Lupanov
"Two teams of three players" but then the captains picked 3 players each beside themselves, which makes 4-player teams.
danielnewwyn
Yes, thank you for spotting the mistakes!
cdsx123
I think you meant once here: "He was trying to get better; to finally take practiced Thaumaturgy seriously for one." Also, I'm pretty sure his last name is spelled Kestovar right? 'Severa’s gaze lifted across the field and landed directly on him. “Kastovar.”'
