Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 78
🕑 Added 2025-07-11 14:45:53 +0000 UTCThe entrance to Headmaster Draeth’s office wasn’t a door so much as a threshold in space that refused to be observed directly. One moment, Fabrisse was walking down a plain stone hallway lined with student achievement plaques and buzzing sconce-crystals, and the next, the temperature rose by five degrees and the air forgot how to carry sound.
The archway ahead shone with an angry crimson, Draeth’s favorite color. A plaque beside it read, in very tasteful serif runes: “Knock Only If You Know Why You’re Here.”
Neither Fabrisse or Liene knocked. They only looked at each other, and after Liene nudging him with his elbow, he decided to open the door.
They stepped into a space much too large to be a headmaster’s study. It reassembled into an antechamber lined with levitating glass tomes that slowly rotated, pages flipping against no wind. Their contents whispered in no language Fabrisse knew, but it still made his bones itch nonetheless.
Liene, beside him, muttered under her breath, “Creepy.”
That’s on-brand, then.
Past the whispering tomes, the antechamber narrowed into a long, sunken room with lights coming from the corners of the walls, despite there being no glyphlights. At the far end, three figures stood in partial silhouette near a floating projection of something schematic and spinning, overlapping leyline grids woven with glowing threads of spellform annotations. They were discussing something, but had deliberately kept their voice low even inside such a spacious room.
At the center of the floor stood a broad, shallow plinth, slate-colored and unmarked, resembling a decorative foundation for some long-removed statue or forgotten sculpture. It didn’t seem to serve a purpose, except perhaps as symmetry. Draeth seemed the kind of man to be into symmetry. For years, visiting students had sat around that central plinth, dismissing it as ornamental. Few had wondered why the podium grumbled on cold mornings. None had dared touch it.
Archmagus Terevin Sil was the first to turn to them, then whispered to the other two archmagi, “The students are here.”
Sil’s voice didn’t carry far, but it didn’t need to. The moment she spoke, the projection stilled, folding in on itself like origami retreating into a single glyph node before vanishing with a low chime.
Headmaster Draeth turned next. His silhouette resolved into something sharp and angular: an indigo robe layered over a carapace-like tunic, with half a dozen ceremonial clasps fastened asymmetrically down his left arm. He looked very extra.
Then there was Mikhael Rolen, who didn’t turn back, but didn’t need to turn back for Fabrisse to know it was him. He was juggling pink aether balls on his hands.
Draeth’s voice rang out the moment the projection vanished. “Do you know what you are here for?”
Fabrisse froze. He absolutely did not know.
Or rather, he knew too many possibilities. The Cuman incident. The voidtouched skitterwhit incident. The basin incident (there was NO hugging involved).
And he’d completely forgotten Lorvan’s advice.
Liene gave a polite nod and said, “We weren’t told, Headmaster. Only that it was urgent.”
“You would have known . . .” The Headmaster’s voice echoed even within the gigantic chamber. “Had you spent time observing the ritual and not each other!”
Ah. So the basin incident. He let out a small exhale, knowing Draeth probably hadn’t yet known about the skitterwhits.
Draeth stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back. “Mr. Kestovar. Describe what happened.”
“Yes, Headmaster.” Fabrisse stiffened. “We were trying to glide our petals to the finish line, as is the spirit of the ritual. We were trying to steer the petal, and we found it difficult to—”
“Stop,” Draeth said.
Fabrisse shut his mouth.
“I asked what happened. Not your justification of it. If you were trying to steer your petal, what spells did you cast?”
“I—Petal Draft.”
“Do you have the capabilities to cast Petal Draft?”
“N-no.”
“Then are you lying, Mr. Kestovar?”
Fabrisse cast his glance at the ground.
Draeth stared at him for a beat longer, then muttered, “Still wasting time with rocks, are we? You’ve had three years to abandon that nonsense.”
What? Why did he even bother to bring it up here? It has nothing to do with the petal ritual.
“Study Fire. Study Air. Even Water, if you must. Something with motion.” Draeth’s voice sharpened. “Stone is inert, Kestovar. It does not respond. That’s why the diligent leave it behind.”
Fabrisse’s throat closed up, but he said nothing. He didn’t want to argue. Fabrisse just wanted to understand why the Headmaster hated rocks so much.
“He was studying something else, Headmaster! He’s a diligent student.” Liene said, “He was channeling his emotion into my spell, Headmaster. We were harmonizing.”
Draeth let out a short, snappy, audible exhale. “The ritual calls for individual casting. Why did you harmonize?”
“I thought it would be more efficient—”
“It. Is. Not. Allowed.” Draeth bellowed. “So, your surname is Lugano, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Headmaster.”
“So you are Instructant Lugano’s sister. No wonder.”
Liene’s lips pressed together into a thin line.
Rolen let one of the pink aether balls bounce across his shoulders before finally speaking, his voice light as always. “The one chosen by the Eidralith was able to contribute to a harmonized spell, Headmaster. We should see it as progress.”
“And progress is what we would like to see,” Sil stepped forward before Draeth had a chance to respond. “The Order had received words about the . . . less than flattering academic prognostics of the newest Chosen One.”
Draeth’s hand curled into a ball. “Chosen or not, do you believe that rituals exist for show, Mr. Kestovar? That tradition is ornamental?”
Before Fabrisse could say a word, Sil raised a hand. “You should care less about the rituals, Headmaster,” she said plainly, her voice slicing across the room like a well-tempered blade. “I am not here on behalf of the Bureau or the Ritual Consulate. I am from the Order. And it would do you good to listen, Headmaster.”
Draeth’s molars ground together, but he said nothing.
Sil stepped forward fully now. Her boots made no sound as they crossed the glyph-etched floor. “I must remind you again. You have hailed the Eidralith as a cornerstone of the Order’s future. You wrote, in your own report, that it has shown signs of responsiveness unseen in a century. You claimed it would shape the next generation of thaumaturgy. We are still waiting for observable results, Headmaster. We cannot guarantee the grants to this branch of the Synod will be sustained.”
Wait. The Headmaster is banking on the success of the Eidralith?
But that doesn’t make sense. Okay, maybe I’m useless. Maybe the Eidralith binding to me is a waste of its talent. But even if I turn out to be a resounding success, I would just be a single case. How can it shape ‘the next generation’?
Unless . . . they’re trying to reproduce its properties en masse.
“We should not be discussing this in front of the student!” Draeth stared at Sil with bloodshot eyes.
“He is the Chosen One,” Sil didn’t glance his way. “How do you expect your little experiment to work without him knowing what he’s part of?”
“But the young lady—”
“Is she still here?” Sil interrupted, finally turning her gaze toward Liene. “Miss Lugano, you may be excused.”
Liene stared at nothing for a second. Fabrisse couldn’t quite tell her emotion; maybe she was offended, confused, hurt, or all three. She finally managed a stiff nod. “Of course, Archmagus.”
She turned on her heel and glanced at Fabrisse one last time before leaving.
Rolen finally stopped juggling. The pink aether spheres evaporated, leaving behind only a tiny whiff of aether.
Sil immediately continued, “The Bureau of Arcane Irregularities will arrive in ten days, possibly fewer. They are already displeased with the recent uptick in unsanctioned provocation of dormant artifacts. Another artifact awakening for the sake of optics, without measurable progress, will, and I repeat, will incur their wrath.”
Draeth’s fingers twitched. “The Eidralith is not for optics. It’s a cornerstone—”
“They are not interested in cornerstones,” Sil cut in. She raised a hand, then pointed it, without ceremony or softness, directly at Fabrisse. “Show us the study case.”
Oh no. At this rate, the Synod’s going to dissect my mind, the Order will dissect my soul, and the Bureau will dissect my spleen.
Draeth’s jaw clenched so hard it was audible. “The progress of a Chosen One is not measured in days. It is to be observed over a great span of time. You cannot rush the blooming of an arcane bond.”
Rolen finally stepped forward, his voice smooth and infuriatingly calm. “Then how about I accelerate that blooming?”
Sil arched a brow. Draeth looked like he’d just bitten into a lemon that cast judgment.
Rolen walked over to Fabrisse, hands now tucked behind his back with all the showmanship of a lecturer about to unveil a very flashy diagram. “Have him be under my tutelage,” he said lightly. “If the Order wants observable results, I’ll give them fireworks.”
Wait, what now.
Rolen turned his head slightly toward Draeth. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer another month of ‘let’s do nothing and see if the stars align.’”
Draeth opened his mouth, then shut it again, visibly weighing his options.
Sil, meanwhile, seemed very interested in the suggestion. “The Order would support that arrangement,” she said. “And we’d expect a full progress report before the Bureau arrives.”
Fabrisse, still reeling, barely managed to mutter, “I don’t suppose I get a say in any of this.”
At the far end of the room, wind surged.
A deep blue glow spilled, pulling along elongated shadows at its woke. Then came a trail of smoke, gathering low to the ground, then rose, twirled, and finally materialized into the shape of a man.
A second later, the smoke was gone.
And Archmagus Lellian Dir was standing there like he always had been.
Fabrisse’s jaws dropped. Did a trail of smoke just transform into him, or have my eyes been tricked?
Dir’s eyes, flat and grey like ash left in a hearth, swept across the room. Then he announced, “No. Have him be under my tutelage.”
Just as Dir’s words settled, the actual door—yes, the literal, physical door—clicked open.
Fabrisse turned around to see a woman stepping through. She wore robes the color of distant starlight, layered with stitched constellations that shimmered faintly in response to the shifting glyphlight. At her side padded an enormous creature that resembled a bear, if bears had horns, silvery fur, and eyes like polished opal moons.
That’s Archmagus Iveta Monasterie. And is that . . . a moonbear?
The moonbear huffed as it flopped into a seated position. The woman scanned the room, her head never moving an inch. Then she said, in a tone so casual it bordered on insulting, “No.”
She pointed at Fabrisse. “Have him be under my tutelage.”
