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

Uh oh. Fabrisse realized he'd said something he shouldn't have said.

He gawked at Lorvan and attempted telepathic screaming by wiggling his brow. How much do I tell him? How much do I tell him?! It did not seem to work.

Rolen leaned back in his chair and set his teacup down. He regarded Fabrisse with the expression of someone watching a cat slowly roll itself off a table and pretend it meant to do that. "The Eidralith told you?" he repeated. "That's a new one."

Fabrisse wilted slightly in his seat. "Um. Yes. Technically."

"Well, you're in luck, Kestovar. I happen to have one." Rolen raised a brow, turning slightly to glance at Lorvan. "Did you know he was receiving divine instruction from within a pocket artifact?"

"I had suspicions," Lorvan said dryly. "He was staring at walls with increasing intensity."

Fabrisse flailed. "It's not divine. It's just, uh—" Then Lorvan also appeared to telepathically scream at Fabrisse by wiggling his brow back. Fabrisse dared not say more.

"And what does touching my nose accomplish for you?" Rolen asked.

"Well, the Eidralith didn't say why. It just said 'touch the nose.' I thought it'd be rude not to."

And you're telling me this now . . .

Fabrisse's eyes twitched. You could've implied louder.

Rolen shrugged. "Well, if the artifact told you to touch my nose, I can only assume it's scentient." He waggled his brow.

The room fell into silence. Nobody said anything.

"Not 'sen'. Scent. As in smell."

Still, nobody said anything.

Rolen squinted, suddenly serious again. "Hold on. So you're telling me you can talk to this artifact?"

Lorvan squinted, aggressively. Fabrisse gulped.

Rolen continued after not receiving an answer, "Well. I suppose it's not the worst divine instruction I've heard. Last year, someone claimed their earrings told them to duel a wyvern."

"Wait. This has happened before?"

"Yes. But I didn't know the Eidralith can communicate verbally. There has been no existing account of that yet, but there's very limited existing account of what happens to an Eidralith-bound spellcaster. Maybe they're just more tight-lipped than you are." He waited for a few seconds for an answer, and continued again after having received none, "In any case, just know I'm a line of contact." He reached into one of the drawers, rummaged past a pile of tangled glyph panels and an enchanted spoon.

"I can personally vouch for Archmagus Rolen, Kestovar," Lorvan spoke. "He's the reason you weren't locked in a vault under the Synod after the binding incident."

"H-how so?" Fabrisse asked.

Rolen, still rummaging through his drawer, replied offhandedly, "Yes, well. Fullmann and I blocked the motion to contain you. Barely. Synod needs a majority from the five, but two votes are enough to require a re-vote. Two votes against, and they have to reschedule. Tiresome business."

Fabrisse almost tuned out at the words 'block' and 'votes', but he managed to keep his concentration. "Block?"

"Of course. You're either uniquely gifted or dangerously unwell. Either way, far too interesting to bury under reinforced granite. They also wanted to keep you inside a locked chamber after your return to the Synod, too, but we've also blocked it for now."

"But why?" Rolen, he could understand. But Fullmann?

Fabrisse paused. Actually . . . he didn't know why he'd thought that. He didn't know anything about Fullmann.

He was one of the four Archmagi of the Synod—technically. But Fabrisse had only ever seen his name on formal decrees and attendance lists. He couldn't recall a single in-person meeting. The man was almost always listed as 'on expedition,' 'in field containment,' or 'unreachable due to planar interference.' Once, someone had claimed Fullmann had been seen riding a moss dragon through the outer rings of the Glasium Expanse, but that had turned out to be a poorly translated field report about a completely unrelated disaster.

Fullmann was less a person and more a recurring footnote.

"Because that is no way to treat a human, Kestovar."

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Ah. So Rolen and Fullmann are solely responsible for the Synod's academic incompetence on the grounds of 'human rights'. He didn't understand much about political plays, but locking him up seemed to be exactly the right play from a pure strategic standpoint.

Finally, Rolen pulled out a small, palm-sized slate etched with glimmer-thread runes. He tapped its corner twice. A new string of glyph characters burned across the center in clean strokes. "This is my private glyph address," he said, holding it out to Fabrisse. "Use it if something happens."

Fabrisse took it with both hands, like he was being handed a relic.

"But only," Rolen added, fixing him with a raised brow, "if something actually happens. Anything to do with pocket realms, spontaneous resonance collapses, or people trying to extract forbidden aether from your spine."

Fabrisse nodded quickly. "Yes, Archmagus. Life-threatening only."

"And failing your classes," Rolen said, "is not life-threatening."

Fabrisse wilted. "I didn't say anything—"

"You were thinking about it."

Fabrisse clutched the glyph panel tighter, suddenly unsure if he should write thank you or sorry on it.

"Don't fail classes anymore. I can't have you break my record one more time."

"What do you mean by that?" Fabrisse tried to not raise a brow, but he did so anyway.

Rolen leaned back again. "Do you know who last held the record for most consecutive years failing Basic Thaumaturgy I?"

He paused. For dramatic effect, Fabrisse thought. Possibly too long.

"It is yours truly," Rolen declared with a small, theatrical bow of the head. "Archmagus of the Independent Concord and Supervisor of Two and a Half Realms."

Fabrisse stared at him. "Wait. Seriously?"

"Oh, absolutely. Took me four tries to pass my first incantation exam."

That made Fabrisse laugh. It slipped out before he could stop it.

Rolen gave him a sideways smile. "So keep your head up, Kestovar. Maybe you just haven't found your talent yet. Doesn't mean you won't."

Fabrisse's shoulders eased. For a brief, shining moment, he felt okay.

Then Rolen added, "But I didn't fail Flame Invocation I. You should at least be able to perform that much."

He didn't feel okay anymore.

"In any case, you are the rightful Chosen One of the Eidralith, Kestovar, whether people like it or not. It is my duty as an Archmagus to ensure . . ." Rolen picked up a quill and tapped it against the rim of his inkpot. " . . . that justice, safety, and the bare minimum of functioning social behavior are upheld."

"Is that an official creed, Archmagus?"

"No. It's mine. The other Archmagi are less fun." He dipped the quill once, scratched something onto a half-folded sheet lazily.

"Thank you, Archmagus." He'd definitely write thank you now.

"Ah. And before you go," He reached into the drawer, pulled out a small pinch of skin powder, and dabbed it across his bridge. "Now you can touch my nose."

Fabrisse stared at his quest rewards as he walked out into the extension of the Archmagus Hall.

He checked his total Stealth Mastery accumulation to see if it was enough for any upgrade. He only had a total of 7 Mastery Points so far.

That was the only thing he could do, because he and Lorvan weren't talking. His mentor had been eerily quiet, even for his usual self. The space between them was exactly two paces apart, like Lorvan had calibrated the distance with a ruler. The only sound that lingered was the rustle of his outer mantle as he turned corners, never once looking back.

When they nearly reached the entrance, he finally stopped, looked up at the privacy glyphs mounted on the door, and asked, "Do you know why I brought you to him?"

"I don't, Mentor," Fabrisse replied.

"Have you seen that dimension expansion spell cast before in your life?"

"I have not, Mentor."

"You shouldn't." Lorvan stopped for a second. "Because it's a forbidden spell."

Fabrisse's stomach did a full somersault. "Forbidden?" His voice came out thinner than he intended.

Lorvan turned enough for Fabrisse to see the sharper edge in his otherwise serene expression—like a petal with a blade pressed beneath it. "Treaty-Restricted, cross-disciplinary consensus forbidden. And they're resonating with the element Void."

Fabrisse stiffened. "Void?" he echoed. The word alone felt like it pulled the warmth from the air.

Lorvan nodded once, slow and grim. "Void is not an element in the traditional sense. It doesn't correspond to nature, cycle, or construct. It resonates with absence. With hunger. It responds to fear, despair, envy, hatred—anything that hollows a person out. That's why it's not taught. That's why it never will be."

Every accredited academy in the Accorded Realms teaches the same rule from day one: the elements are bounded. Aether bridges them. Void is not one of those elements. It never has been. And if you encounter it, you don't study it. You report it.

Lorvan continued in a more hushed tone, "There has been one recorded case of forceful unbinding of Eidralith in history. It is possible. Some people might think you're an easy target." Then finally, he turned around and met Fabrisse's eyes. "Please, do not talk to anyone about this apart from Rolen."

"Not even the other archmagi?"

Lorvan looked down the hall. "Especially the other archmagi."

Okay . . . Not like I'm going to have a heart-to-heart with Headmaster Draeth.