Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotional Incompetent [A Magical Academy LitRPG]

Lorvan had said there was nothing Fabrisse could do about the lore clerk situation. That it was political, above his clearance, best left alone. But Fabrisse had spent the entire night lying awake, watching the cracks on his ceiling shift with the moonlight, thinking about it over and over again. He had tried his best to distract himself by practicing his Stone Resonance Carry, but with his concentration lying elsewhere, the training was ineffective.

By morning, he'd decided—no, resolved—that there was one thing he could do.

He knew Severa Montreal's schedule. Everyone did, if they were paying attention. Monday morning: open-air thaumaturgy practical, then came her private session in the mirrored tower. There existed a thin gap of time between them, just enough to intercept her without a crowd.

The pulse in Fabrisse's chest raised as the practical ended and the class began to disperse. He could see her already walking away, one of her aides trailing behind like a shadow. He moved quickly to close the distance, his mind running through the plan on repeat.

Stay calm. Be firm. If it turns angry, fine. Just don't lose your words. Don't look small. Don't give her silence.

He reached the edge of the practice grounds just as she stepped past the eastern gate. The sky was wide and open above them, a wash of pale blue, and the air still perfused with sparks from the spellwork earlier.

"Montreal," he called.

She turned.

That was all it took.

The moment her poised gaze locked onto him, his throat tightened. His fingers, so tightly clenched a second ago, began to shake. Just a tremble at first, then worse. He tried to hide it by tucking his hand into his coat, but it was too late. He knew she saw it.

She always saw too much.

She said, as if amused, "Is something the matter?"

Fabrisse closed the distance in a few quick steps. "Yes," he said, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. "There is."

He inhaled, steadying himself. The words were there. He'd practiced them in the mirror, muttered them into his pillow, rewritten them in his notebook so many times the ink had bled.

He forced his voice to work.

"I saw you the other morning," Fabrisse said. "Outside the registry antechamber at the Grand Library. You were with—"

"Ah," she interrupted breezily. "You must mean Renalt. My house assistant."

"Your house assistant was just appointed as Lore Clerk." His tone stayed level, but his pulse was a drumbeat in his ears. "He doesn't even attend the Synod."

"Oh. Is that what this is about?"

Fabrisse gritted his teeth. "You know exactly what this is about."

"I really don't," she said, tone light as air. "Lore Clerk, you said? Hmm. I had no idea he'd even applied. How ambitious of him."

"You expect me to believe," Fabrisse said, voice sharpening now, "that a non-initiate, a house aide with no academic citations or certifications, just happened to secure an appointment within the Synod—and you had nothing to do with it?"

"I expect nothing from you, Kestovar." Her smile was measured, glacial. "And frankly, you give me too much credit. If I had that kind of sway, I wouldn't be wasting it on my butler's butler."

Fabrisse narrowed his eyes. "You were standing right there. You watched him accept the folio."

Severa lifted one shoulder in a dainty shrug. "Oh, I might've glanced up. But I was reading, Kestovar. You'll forgive me for not committing your emotional spiral to memory."

His hands curled into fists. "Stop lying."

Her smile didn't waver. If anything, it grew ever so slightly, glimmering at the edges like polished ice. "It must be stated, for the record, that I bear no personal hatred toward you, Kestovar." She tilted her head, studying him as one might a cracked teacup. "If I had any influence over the matter—and I'm not saying I did—it was purely for your well-being."

"My what?"

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

She said, almost regretfully, "You've relied too long on the patronage of others. Your mentor padded the path for you. This little setback? Consider it an educational correction. You are a perceptive one, Kestovar, but it's time you learned how to stand on your own two feet."

He stared at her, stunned. His mind reeled, grasping for a reply—something sharp, something that would land. A retort, a rebuke, anything to break the poised, glacial calm in her voice.

But nothing came up.

"If it helps," she added with a flutter of her fingers, "I'm sure someone will hire you to shelve scrolls. You do seem to enjoy the library."

Before he could speak, a low voice interrupted from behind her. "Severa."

She turned to look at the figure on the other end of the room, and her expression immediately switched into something much more polished. "Mentor Rubidi," she said, inclining her head. "I was just finishing up a conversation."

Then, she turned to Fabrisse with a cool, departing smile. "If you'll excuse me—" But the words never quite finished.

Fabrisse didn't know where it came from. Maybe some subterranean vault of anger cracked open at just the right angle. But it surfaced whole, sharp-edged, and brimming with clarity. "You're worse than me, Montreal," he said, his voice flint-hard. "Way worse."

She paused.

"You have five different people tutoring you in their spare hours," he went on. "Pulling strings behind closed doors, setting up private reviews so you can jump ahead. And then you lecture me about patronage?"

For a moment, her face didn't move. And then it did, but not in the usual way. There was no smirk, no breezy dismissal, but the shadows of something tightly reined. Her jaw tensed for half a second and her gaze veered past him, but he wasn't sure where she was looking.

Fabrisse had never seen Severa Montreal speechless before.

It didn't last long.

Severa's mouth parted slightly, but when she spoke, her voice came quick, sharper than before. "You think you know what I've been given? Those tutors you mention? I earned every hour of their time. You think they just handed me their secrets out of kindness?" She scoffed, a brittle sound. "You have no idea what it takes to stay ahead."

Fabrisse took a step forward. "And you think those people handing you secrets got those secrets by politely queuing up and saying 'please'? You should see what kind of rot your tutors are hiding behind the scenes. The names they erase. Only then can you come speak to me about morals."

The proud line of her mouth faltered, tugging downward before she caught it. A faint furrow formed between her brows. Whatever retort she might've had caught somewhere behind her teeth, swallowed by something else. Something that was definitely not reflected in her response, "You have quite a tongue today, Kestovar."

"You didn't deny what I said."

"There is nothing to deny. I have done nothing wrong."

"If you're so morally upright, why don't you prove it?"

Her gaze lingered on him. Fabrisse had no doubt she knew he was trying to needle her, that she could see the deliberate goad in every syllable. But maybe she was too proud to give him the satisfaction of calling it out.

After that long second, she inclined her head the barest fraction. "Very well."

"And take responsibility for the damages you've caused, for once."

Severa said nothing.

Rubidi stepped forward, a long shadow cast across the cobbled path. "Montreal," she said, with just enough weight to it that she moved.

Severa straightened, turned her back to Fabrisse without a word, and let Rubidi guide her away. But not before the elder thaumaturge gave Fabrisse a sidelong glance, all disdain and condescension, as if trying to remind him of his place with just the angle of a brow.

He'd used up everything—his courage, his breath, whatever reserve of defiance he'd scraped together overnight. And now, with Rubidi's sneer still hanging in the air like smoke, Fabrisse looked away.

His heart was hammering. His hands trembled anew.

When he finally looked up again, Severa was nearly at the far archway, her posture collected but no longer effortless. Walking just a pace behind her now stood a man Fabrisse didn't recognize.

Tall, with a posture too formal to be local, the stranger moved with a precision that suggested military discipline, or maybe the etiquette of some far-flung court. His skin was a warm bronze tone, and his features were sharp in a way that made them look carved, not grown: hawkish nose, angled cheekbones, and eyes that gleamed with a gold-flecked amber even in the shade of the cloister.

He looked like someone who came from the Kingdom of Raza. He looked like he held a surname that didn't belong to any old houses in the capital.

He looked like High Instructant Ratuk Mustafa.

It took only a second.

One second where Fabrisse's eyes met the man's.

One second where memory flared, unbidden and feral: of iron pressure locking around his ribs, of the taste of copper in his mouth as his vision was swapped with darkness, of the streak of black that had flown at him like a spear.

And in that moment, those gold-flecked irises—so elegant, so composed—eclipsed into black.

Fabrisse couldn't breathe.

A dozen reasons for panic bloomed in him at once, too many to grab. His mouth opened, then closed again. No air came.

And just as quickly, the man looked away.

The wind suddenly sounded too loud in his ears.