Daniel Newwyn
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Chapter 73
🕑 Added 2025-07-10 15:56:38 +0000 UTCSevera’s staff struck once more, signaling the closing of the first round and the beginning of the next.
“All recipients clear the sanctum,” she called, her voice echoing with trained ritual precision. “Second verse initiates in ten counts. Participants—ready your petals.”
Around the circle, students bent over the silver basin once more, collecting a new round of starpetals and microglow quills. The ritual ink shimmered faintly violet this time, and the petals were smaller and more delicate than the last batch. Fabrisse was afraid they’d be harder to control.
Fabrisse picked up a petal of his own, and for some reason, Liene had to be right behind him for this part of the ritual as well, as if he’d run away if she strayed too far. His hands weren’t shaking, but they weren’t exactly calm either.
The tri-looped ribbon of water still curled and shimmered like glass thread, but now its pace had increased. Not dramatically, but enough that it required sharper coordination. Less luck. More clarity.
Fabrisse bit the inside of his cheek. His eyes hadn’t left the second stream since Lyessa Halden walked off with her fancy SYN-boosting relic like she hadn’t just won the arcane lottery.
The competition was too steep. There was no way he could win.
He didn’t have a single spell that could help. He had no targeted current guides nor any specialized petal-buoyancy techniques. There was nothing in his current loadout that could substitute for an actual channeling ability.
He wracked his memory. Water-based Thaumaturgy would work best, but he sucked at it. Wind Thaumaturgy might work in theory. Specifically, Basic-level skills like Gust Nudge, which could nudge petals in the direction he wants But the last time he tried, he’d knocked over someone’s notes and got hexed with hiccuping sparks for an hour.
That’s when Liene’s voice brushed over his shoulder.
“Fabri?”
“Hmm?”
“You look like you want to win.”
He hesitated. “Well . . .” He sighed. There was no shame in admitting the truth. “I can’t win with what I have.”
Liene didn’t answer right away. A second later, she said, “Would you like some help?”
“What do you mean?”
She smiled. “I mean, do you want to see if we can win with what we have?”
Before he could process that, she moved behind him.
Oh no. Nope. Absolutely not prepared for this.
He went still as her arms came around him. Her hands lightly overlapped his, guiding his fingers into a specific shape. He recognized this particular stance. It wasn’t something as simple as Gust Nudge. It looked like they were attempting Petal Draft, a finesse variant of Wind Thaumaturgy—one that used microcurrents, not bursts. It was usually taught to Invocation majors who specialized in mid-air sigilcraft, and it got its name because students had to specifically practice on petals. Definitely not beginner level. Definitely not something he should be doing right now.
Langley tilted the crystal basin anew. The other two High Magi followed, setting the flow in motion.
The streams arced with a more aggressive lean, and the petals would have to contend with tighter turns and sharper convergence angles.
The ritual circle dimmed, and a shimmer passed through the air as Severa lifted her staff again.
“Release your petals,” she intoned.
Liene’s breath tickled the edge of Fabrisse’s ear as she leaned close. “You’re not pushing the air,” she murmured. “You’re inviting it. You’re shaping its attention.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” he whispered back.
“Just follow my lead.”
He nearly choked on a reply but shut up when her hand nudged his thumb into alignment. A warmth stirred in his wrist: faint aether movement.
Liene began to chant.
It was soft, almost melodic. Not a standard incantation, but the barebones mnemonic structure for wind-channeling. He recognized the cadence from his first-year theory texts, the ones he’d skimmed and abandoned because his execution was always half a beat late.
But now his hands weren’t moving on their own.
They were moving with hers.
And she wasn’t rushing.
“Breathe in,” she said gently. “Don’t think about the spell. Just think about happy memories, okay? Can you invoke joy?”
“Uh, yes, but only when I’m sprinting.” He had a skill literally named Joy-Sprint.
“Uh . . . okay. Don’t sprint. Just think of a happy moment that’s happened recently.”
“Well . . .”
“You must have one happy moment in your life, right?”
“Yes.” He thought about mingleberry pies. For a moment, it seemed like the emotion was surfacing.
Fabrisse watched his petal hover for a brief second on the surface of the Grace Stream, wobbling like a coin caught between flip and fall. His hands were still guided in Liene’s shape—fingers open but curved, elbows gently bent inward.
The spell responded, kind of. He could feel just an iota of aether now, or at least what he thought was aether. It wasn’t that the petal didn’t move—it did—but not in the direction he wanted. It veered left when he meant right, spun like a dizzy leaf instead of gliding. Every time he nudged it forward, Liene’s control pushed back, and the two flows cancelled each other out.
The petal twirled in place.
Some other petals began to overtake it.
“I’m trying,” Fabrisse hissed. “You’re oversteering.”
“I’m not,” Liene whispered through gritted teeth. “You’re underthinking. Or overthinking. Or—just—hold the wind, not choke it. Think about your happy memory and push your aether exactly onto the back of the petal, okay?”
He could feel her trying to adjust for his lag. Her current shifted downward, trying to stabilize the petal’s wobble. But it was too late. The swirl unbalanced, and their blossom started to slow.
This was harder than throwing rocks at Cuman. At least Cuman didn’t spin out of control when you hesitated.
Liene’s sky-blue sparks flared suddenly into a sharp orange. She was annoyed now.
Fabrisse couldn’t blame her. He was annoyed with himself. He couldn’t even follow a shared mnemonic without smothering it.
“You’re still not syncing,” Liene said. “Try again. Breathe in. Actually, don’t even think about trying to push the back anymore. Let the current remember where it wants to go. I’ll push wherever you push.”
“I don’t think currents remember things—”
“Fabrisse.”
“Right, right.”
She leaned in closer. Too close now. He was pretty sure they were full-on back-to-chest, arms aligned, one of her knees braced gently beside his for stability. This would’ve been a deeply formative moment for someone less confused by aether pathways.
“What are you two doing?”
They both jumped. Liene released her hold on him faster than a goblin spotting a forgotten coin.
Fabrisse twisted around, startled, and saw . . . Greg, standing casually just behind the ritual circle. His hair was a mess, and he was holding a scone.
“What,” Fabrisse sputtered, “since when are you even here?”
“I’m on kitchen supply duty for Ritual Support.” He bit the scone. “Also, I’ve been watching for five minutes.”
Liene looked half a second from strangling someone with grace.
But the moment—that exact emotional spike—registered inside Fabrisse’s system like a new input.
[Emotion Identified: Embarrassed Panic]
Amber-colored sparks exploded from his fingertips like flares. His hands moved instinctively, without rhythm, but with sheer force. The petal obeyed.
For two glorious seconds, it surged forward across the Grace Stream like a comet with somewhere to be. It passed one, two, three, four petals.
Then it dove headfirst into the water.
The force he’d pumped into it was too uneven, too blunt. The petal’s edge caught the wrong microcurrent, dipped once, and vanished under the stream’s surface.
It drowned.
“Oh,” said Greg.
“Sorry, ” Fabrisse turned to Liene. She was glancing up at the sky, looking at nothing in particular. Her ears were all red.
[Emotion Identified: Embarrassed Panic x2]
Oh, so she’s embarrassed now also . . . I’m not the one coming up with the idea of clinging on to myself . . .
[Second Attempt — Disqualified]
[Remaining Chances: One]
The stream didn’t stop just because Fabrisse’s petal drowned.
All around the circle, petals still rode the arcing spiral of aether-charged water, gliding and jostling for position. Some were steady, others jittered from misaligned currents or overcompensated nudges. Many were fighting too hard, pushing with too much aether and not enough grace.
One petal, though, stood out. Not because it was flashy or fast, but because it was composed.
It hovered a full arm’s length from the main spiral, yet kept pace with the leaders like it was gliding on rails. Where the others oversteered, bobbed, or wobbled, this one moved in near silence. No sparks trailed behind it, nor any visible incantation. It almost looked passive. But the water around it had circular ripples that weren’t present around the others.
And then came the quake.
Just as the leading cluster of petals entered the final arc, the path wobbled. The petals closest to the lead—some of them already tilted forward in preparation to break toward the bowls—tilted too far. They clipped the edge of the current or veered into side eddies. They spiraled, staggered, sank. One petal was even launched clean off the stream like a leaf flung from a window.
All except one.
That same quietly composed petal, the one Fabrisse had been watching, sailed through the disruption. It didn’t even accelerate. It simply advanced like it had never been subject to resistance at all.
The crowd gasped. A couple of students even clapped—unsanctioned, spontaneous applause that earned them a glare from Severa. But the awe was real.
“Second recipient selected,” Severa intoned, voice still steady, but her brow noticeably furrowed in thought.
She lifted her staff again and summoned the petal’s inscription to air.
✦ Veliane Veist ✦
A second round of gasps resounded, Fabrisse’s included.
“She’s a second-year,” someone whispered from the left ring.
“No way she made that petal move from that far,” someone else murmured.
But she had.
Veist stood near the back of the ritual field, hands folded behind her back, motionless. And somehow, she hadn’t just guided the petal. She had commanded it, even from across the field.
Fabrisse’s stomach twisted in on itself.
Veliane Veist.
Of course it was her. Of all the students here, she was the one person he’d personally ensured would never forget him, for all the wrong reasons.
The memory surged without mercy. After his drunken confession, he’d excused himself from the courtyard by walking straight into a broom closet.
Look how great she is. And I don’t even know if I belong here.
He could see her now approaching the second vessel, just as Lyessa had before. The lid of the bowl bloomed open under her touch, this time with a low harmonic chime that resonated in his chest.
[Emotion Detected: Humiliation (Persistent)]
[Classification: Shame / Recalled]
[Sparks Manifested: Amber]
Actual amber sparks hovered in front of his eyes now, static-sharp and slow-turning.
Fabrisse blinked rapidly to try and scatter them, but they lingered like they wanted to start a support group.
Great. His shame now had visual aids.
Another relic floated, this one shaped like a crescent moon with a faintly glowing line of silver across its spine.
[System Notice: Synod Blessing Vessel #2 Opened]
[Reward Analyzed – Trinket: ‘Arcline Fragment’]
[Grade: Epic]
[Type: Passive Accessory – Soulbound]
[Effect: +12% ARC | +4% FOR]
[Bound to: Veliane Veist]
[Cannot be traded]
“Fabri,” Liene said suddenly beside him. She’d been quiet during the applause, but now her voice was soft and oddly clinical. “Your emotion . . .” She tilted her head, studying the residual spark flickers around his fingers.
He braced for teasing, or sympathy, or both.
But she just watched the aether ripple off his shoulder and then nodded slowly, thoughtfully, like she was watching a lab flame turn blue.
Then she said, “For our next round,”—and here, her tone changed, lifting into something that was both amused and oddly sincere—“let’s harmonize shame.”
“What?”
[Remaining Chances: One]
[Target Bowl: Third Vessel]
[Quest Objective: Touch the Third Bowl During Verse Three]
Wait. He read the objective again.
It doesn’t say ‘touch it first’. It only says ‘touch it’.
