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

Fabrisse sat cross-legged on the floor, trying to discern the kind of stone that had been used to form the chamber's gleaming tessellated surface. From his satchel, he drew three Stupenstones, letting them hover lightly in the air before him. They remained suspended with a bit of effort, but remained suspended nonetheless for at least three seconds before dropping back into his satchel.

He had already checked earlier through his Affinity apparition to make sure Stone was still his innate element, but seeing it, feeling it under his own guidance, was different. He just had to confirm for himself.

Everybody had left; and Dir had asked Fabrisse to stay behind and look after Severa until a healer arrived to inspect them. His attention was now on the girl next to him, who had just slid the dagger back into its usual place on her belt. She was holding something pouch-shaped, wrapped in an elaborate length of silk—deep green with gold-thread embroidery so fine it reflected the chamber's mirrored walls in miniature. He had no idea what was in there; maybe food? Who would bring food to a fight to the death? Why would she put herself in a fight to the death in the first place? And how did she already wield a legendary weapon AND possess a legendary skill?

She was sixteen.

Sixteen.

What did they eat in the Montreal household? Sanctified posture enhancements? Raw political spite stirred into their tea?

Fabrisse had always wondered what posh upperclass people like her actually ate. Maybe Severa didn't even eat, aside from that one time in the pie shop. Every day she just woke up, inhaled some aether directly from the aetherrealm, and that would feed her for the rest of the day.

Severa must have noticed his stare, for her gaze tracked unhurriedly along the line of sight he had fixed on her hands. When her eyes returned to his, there was the faintest lift of an eyebrow.

Fabrisse could've stayed silent. He should've stayed silent. Instead, he blurted, "Do you . . . eat?"

"Eat?"

"Uh, yes. Food."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you mocking me?"

"What? No. It's a legitimate question. Some people have . . . regimens."

She gave him a slow, assessing look, the kind you'd give a suspiciously-shaped cake before deciding whether to cut into it. "Do you think I eat food?"

"Uh . . ." His gaze landed on the pouch-shaped object on her lap again. She noticed it immediately and raised it closer to his eye level.

"Oh. This? This is a bag of blood. I suck blood from the nape of people's necks for sustenance." She then wiped the remaining trace of blood on the corner of her mouth. "Would you like to volunteer yours?"

"I'm good."

"Shame," she said, tucking the bundle neatly under her arm again.

They hadn't talked much before, and after that. The silence stretched, filled only by the occasional whisper of Severa adjusting her grip on the silk-wrapped bundle. Fabrisse could tell she was circling something unsaid, although he had no actual physical cue to confirm. He already knew what it was about. Dir had told her to apologize. And Fabrisse didn't know if he wanted to hear her try. He figured he wouldn't like what she wanted to say, no matter how carefully she dressed it up in ceremonial Montreal poise.

"Did you fire that flare, Kestovar?" She finally said as she stared at the bundle.

Fabrisse nodded. His throat was dry. "Yes."

"That was a clean cast. I wouldn't have been able to find the void mouth had I not seen that flare. You saved yourself from . . . whatever that would've been."

Fabrisse just nodded again.

"I didn't know you'd mastered new Fire spells," Severa continued.

"I haven't quite mastered it," he said.

Severa didn't answer. Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she tried to stand, but ended up falling on her knees against the floor. He had figured out the material now: sableglass, a naturally aetherically-imbued stone with a dull glimmer beneath the polish. Not obsidian, though it looked similar. Fabrisse had read that sableglass was not inhibitively expensive to produce but still rumored to hold residual aether signatures. The theory was mostly outdated. But then again, everything about this place felt like a theory made real.

"You can learn. You have shown an ability to learn new spells. Which begs the question: why didn't you learn anything in all your previous years in the Synod?" Then she asked. Her voice was now thin and strained.

Fabrisse lowered his eyes to the tessellated floor. "Because I couldn't. I tried. I couldn't."

"Whatever your idea of 'trying' is, you haven't tried hard enough." She sat again.

"I had neither the talent nor the support you have."

Severa's lips thinned. "And there lies the very flaw of you. You clothed yourself in the certainty that you couldn't, and then dared to call it truth. Do you have any idea how maddening it is to watch someone in the Synod throw away their chance just because they'd rather cling to defeat than push through it?"

It was Fabrisse's turn to press his lips. Severa had a literal archmage stepping in to aid her just now. No one other than Lorvan came for him before the Eidralith. "Can you stop with the lecture? It's useless conversing with you." The words came out before he could stop them. He didn't know where the courage had come from. Maybe he felt empowered seeing Severa could barely stand. Maybe he'd had enough of her. Whatever the case, he wanted to take those words back now. He hadn't even thanked her for saving his entire thaumaturgical identity.

Severa let out a huff he'd never seen her make. "You know what? You're right. I don't know why I even lowered myself to this conversation."

The chamber sank into silence again. Fabrisse almost preferred it. Words only seemed to worsen everything between them.

Possibly because she was bored out of her mind, a diagnostic ripple passed from Severa's fingers in a shimmer of green-blue light, brushing over his frame like an invisible comb. Fabrisse tensed on reflex. It didn't hurt, but he hated being examined without knowing the parameters.

After a pause, she said, "No trace of damage nor aetheric lesions. You seem functional." She turned away, placing the last of the slates into its housing. "I did not know you needed the money. I had assumed you were once again frittering away your time with trivialities."

'Money'? Is she talking about my tuition situation?

"The Lore Clerk position at the Grand Library is now vacant, if you're still interested," she said, like she was reciting a memo. "There will be no further interference. You have my word."

"I don't want it anymore," Fabrisse said immediately.

She gave him a faint scowl that lasted for as long as it faded. "Take the position, Kestovar. You are merely being obstinate for the sake of obstinacy."

He let out the smallest sigh. Why would she care? He hated that ever since the Eidralith, she had cared enough to trouble herself with making his life harder.

"Are you aware that you may reapply for grants, provided you demonstrate exceptional advancement?" She asked.

"Huh?" Fabrisse's eyes widened.

"A handful of students over the years have lost their grants, only to regain them later."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"How does that even work? Even if I passed every exam, I'd never score high enough to be called 'exceptional.'"

"They compare your performance before and after. Synod grants are relatively easy to reclaim, provided one binds oneself to a Synod-assigned post after graduation. Losing your grant is harder than reclaiming it." Severa sighed. "You do realize the academy does not enrich itself from tuition, yes? Have you never wondered why they are so generous with grants in the first place? Their wealth comes from students earning fortunes through dungeoneering, trade contracts, and other sanctioned ventures, then channeling that wealth back to the Synod."

He was about to say something, but Severa had already spoken before him, "Consider the aetheric geologists the Synod employs. Hardly the most dazzling profession, but they scout for resonance faults and collapse-prone strata. A portion of your pay goes to the institution, but it's markedly easier for them to secure contracts under the Synod's auspices."

He sat in silence for a moment. Is it actually possible for him? If he pushes hard enough, will he not have to care about the money altogether? Then, with a cautious glance her way, he said, "Thanks for the pointers. But . . . why are you telling me all this? Didn't you tell me rocks are a waste of time?"

Severa didn't bristle; if anything, her poise sharpened. "They are, if you fail your examinations. I don't have a problem with rocks, specifically."

"So you have a problem with me specifically."

"I suppose."

None of them said anything.

It was again Severa who broke the silence, "Still, the Eidralith—and all the mire it has bound you to—are yours to keep and yours to bear. Did you think they'll let you collect rocks in peace now you've bonded with an artifact of this multitude?"

"I—" He had been aware of everything Severa just said. He had simply chosen to ignore it.

"The void faction is planning something, and it will only get more troublesome for us."

"Us?" Why did she insert herself into this conversation?

"If you hadn't noticed, I am involved in this also. As does Archmagus Dir. We had . . . suspicion, regarding Rubidi's animosity towards you, but no proof."

"So you used me as bait?"

"It was for your own safety. You should be safe for now."

That's her version of an apology, huh . . .

Hold on. She knew about this attack. Did that mean she'd also known about the ones before it? Or had she only stepped in now? Why interfere at this moment and not then?

The questions circled in his head, but none would take shape on his tongue.

He had heard nothing from Rolen nor Draeth about Archmagus Dir's involvement in this whole debacle, so it must have meant that two separate circles had individually come to the conclusion that using him as human bait was the optimal strategy. He didn't know what to make of it.

Finally, Severa spoke, her tone altered, smoothed down into something closer to concession than reproach. "How should I say this . . . I am not here to argue with you, Kestovar. For whatever reason you've chosen to apply yourself now, all I ask is that you keep at it. If not for yourself, then for others around you. You seem to have a healthy circle of friends, at the very least."

"What are you trying to say?"

"You don't plan on being a damsel in distress forever, do you?"

"No."

Severa tilted her head. She was looking above his head again before gazing back at him. "If you were given the resources, the same as anyone else in the Synod, would you still make that tired little excuse of 'I couldn't'?"

"No."

She smiled. "Good." Her smile looked fatigued. She lifted her hands and stared at the parts where the blood had dried across her palms. Then she called forth a trickle of moisture—small droplets condensed at each fingertip. They gathered and ran in rivulets down her palms, loosening the rusty stains until her skin gleamed pale again. She drew the length of green silk from her bundle, folded once, and dabbed away the streaks.

As the cloth shifted, Fabrisse finally caught a clearer glimpse of what lay beneath. That has to be food, right? Is it an actual bag of blood? What is it? I want to know.

Or that was what he thought. Beneath the silk was . . . another silk sheath, finer, thinner, a near-transparent veil concealing yet another pouch within.

What? What is that thing, and why does she need three layers of silk to cover it?

"The healer is taking their sweet time," she murmured as she dabbled away the last of the blood on her hand.

"Are you going to be okay?" Fabrisse asked. She was weak enough to need a healer, but she seemed to be perfectly calm about it.

"I know my limits," she spoke as her hand searched for something across her belt. After a few seconds, she pulled out yet another silk-wrapped item. This one, however, was shaped like a rock.

Is that . . .

Severa loosened the knot of silk. The fabric peeled away layer by layer until the lump inside revealed itself: a matte gray stone carried tiny crystalline veins like frozen lightning.

A Stupenstone.

His Stupenstone. The rare one.

She glanced at him once, then without preamble, tossed it at him. The throw was sloppy, more a half-hearted lob than a true cast. Fabrisse flinched, scrambling forward with an ungainly reach. The stone nearly clipped the floor before his palm closed around it. It was heavier than he remembered.

"This . . ." he stared at the rock. "You still keep it?"

"It sat in my room. Did you think I'd waste the effort throwing it away?"

"Huh."

"The least you could say is 'thank you'." She turned ahead, to the chamber entrance.

He frowned. He wasn't going to thank her for returning a rock she'd stolen, and her exerting herself to save him felt cheaper now that he'd found out she'd planned for him to be taken. Still, she did risk her life for him.

"Thanks," he said.

Fabrisse weighed what she had said. Severa was right; this wouldn't be the last time he was dragged into something bigger than himself. The Eidralith had made sure of that. The only way forward was either to become strong enough to defend himself, or to become so rich he could buy an army of magi to stand between him and whatever tried to kill him next. Of the two, strength seemed less impossible.

"What are my chances," he asked slowly, "if I passed all my practical exams?"

That drew her gaze back to him. "Would you like to try and see?"

"Yes."

Her lips curved faintly. "Then can I expect you in the next practical?"

". . . Yeah." The certainty in his voice faltered at the end.

"I have not forgotten your words to Magister Montreal."

He gripped the strap of his satchel. She hadn't just been insulted that day—she had sworn he would regret it.

"Come to our next practical if you want to taste regret," she said lightly, as if remarking on the weather. "Air Thaumaturgy II, I believe?" Then the door to the chamber opened, and she turned again. "Ah. The healer is here."

He gulped. What did that even mean? He instantly lost context the moment other people decided to speak in cryptics.

With great effort, Severa managed to stand. The healer who entered wore the Bureau's uniform-grey coat, its hem stiff with regulation wards stitched in silver thread. At his belt dangled a leather case so overstuffed with vials, scalpels, and etched bone charms that it rattled when they moved.

Fabrisse also stood, murmuring as if he wasn't sure he wanted Severa to hear it, "What kind of regret?"

"The kind that makes you wish you had never tried in the first place," she said, her steps faltering. "Are you going to stay here or must I force you to leave?"

The healer crossed the chamber with brisk, economical steps, the rattling of charms at their belt keeping time. Their hand went immediately to Severa's elbow, steadying her before she could mask the weakness in her gait. His eyes, sharp and ringed with sleepless red, shifted to Fabrisse. "You as well. Mandatory check."

Huh? How did I get quest rewards just now?

That has to mean one thing. The main voidcaster has been captured.