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

Fabrisse's heartbeat surged. He didn't know if they were ahead. He didn't care.

He just wanted to reach it.

Liene gasped. Fabrisse immediately felt a hitch in the current. A stumble in the spell's momentum. The petal wobbled on its final arc, as though the slipstream had faltered beneath it.

She was reaching her limit.

This kind of harmonic casting drained from the steady stream of FP, if he remembered the description of the spell from the System correctly.

And someone else's petal had already made it.

He didn't know whose. Severa had called a name he didn't recognize—someone from the outer rings, maybe a fourth-year Invocation adept. The final relic was spoken for.

Liene choked on her breath, and her hands jerked. She had to let go of Fabrisse to try and maintain her control.

Maybe she thought that was it. That without a win, there was no point.

Fabrisse grabbed her by the arms and pulled her closer to him. "Liene," he murmured. "Keep going. We're almost there."

No reply.

"I believe in you," he whispered.

"O-okay."

Her grip steadied. She leaned further forward, almost using his back as her support.

The petal shook, then surged forward with one last push of spiraled air.

Ahead, the bowl-bearers were already moving. One hand extended toward the pedestal—Langley, in purple, solemn-faced. It was the same ceremonial gesture they used to retrieve the bowl before sealing the prize.

"No no no no no," Fabrisse breathed.

The bowlbearer's hand was now fully on the base. The shimmer of a withdrawal glyph activated, the lines pulsing beneath his palm.

Liene swung her arms. One arm slapped Fabrisse in the face.

Ouch!

The petal flew. It drifted upward, caught in the lift of the final slipstream.

The Magus lifted the bowl—

And the petal brushed the rim.

Fabrisse stared at the bowl as it was lifted into the bearer's arms.

He'd done it.

They'd done it.

Then Liene collapsed onto his back.

He twisted, catching her as she sagged against him, her legs threatening to give out. His arms wrapped around her, steadying her until she could find her footing. "You're the best, Liene," he grinned.

"Am I now?" Her smile got so big it turned her eyes into a thin, bleary line.

"You are."

She looked up at him. Her eyes were already half-closing as she gave him a silly grin. "You idiot. We lost. Why did you want me to keep going?"

I can't say a floating box told me to. "I—I dunno. Felt like you'd hit me if I gave up first."

She broke into a soundless laugh. "If I had any strength right now I'd—" Then she looked around. And he looked around.

They were still tangled together, with her loosely draped over him, his arms awkwardly around her waist like he wasn't sure if he was catching her or holding her hostage.

Everyone around them was staring.

Even Greg had stopped eating his scone.

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

"Oh stars," Liene whispered. "Are we hugging? In public?"

Fabrisse's brain tripped over itself. "Technically—uh. You fell. I was—this is medical."

Liene looked up at him, still faintly flushed. "Okay. Let go. People are seeing things."

He immediately released her like she'd turned into a molten spellcore. She nearly stumbled again and smacked him lightly on the chest for it.

"I said let go, not drop me, you disaster."

"S-sorry," he muttered. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, unsure if he should offer support again or just dive straight into the water. "Uhhh. It's fine as long as Headmaster Draeth doesn't find out, right?"

"Kestovar!" A voice like cracked lightning shot across the courtyard. "What in the Flamus are you doing in this sanctioned evaluation ring entangled in a classmate?" His brows were already halfway into his hairline, and his hand was pointing directly at them like a divine accusation.

Fabrisse spun around so fast he nearly yanked Liene down with him.

Liene was too drained to speak loudly. She whispered in his ear, "Say I fell. I collapsed. It was an emergency."

"I—uh—she's not my classmate," Fabrisse stammered.

Then came the softest of murmurs from Liene, "You absolute idiot . . ."

Everyone broke into a laugh.

"Silence!" Draeth bellowed. A crimson gust blew past, sweeping all the remaining petals still on the stream to the sky.

Everyone ceased laughing.

"Do you understand the seriousness of compromising the integrity of a tri-phase spellring, Mr. Kestovar?" Draeth thundered, already storming down the steps of the observation dais like judgment in robes. "This is not a playground for dramatic entanglements! This is a ritual space dedicated to—"

Oh look! I got so much experience from the activity earlier.

Rolen appeared at the headmaster's side like a shadow. He leaned in and whispered something too low to hear.

Draeth's expression didn't change at first. His brow just twitched slightly. Then he stared at Fabrisse like he was ready to bore a hole into his skull.

Draeth straightened, clearing his throat with all the grace of someone professionally swallowing his outrage. "We will resume the ceremony." His voice rang out again, controlled now, but still as sharp as flint. "Mr. Kestovar."

"Yes, Headmaster?" Fabrisse said, already bracing.

"You, and the young lady next to you, are to report to my office immediately after this ritual. Do not attempt to detour."

Fabrisse nodded stiffly. "Understood, sir."

"Headmaster."

"Understood, Headmaster."

"But it's lunch time, Headmaster," Liene murmured. "You will be hungry."

Draethe coughed. "I will allow you three hours. At the second bell, you are to be present at my office." He then turned on his heel, robes snapping behind him like a judgmental banner.

Liene leaned slightly toward Fabrisse again, barely keeping upright. "What did Rolen say?"

Fabrisse swallowed. "I don't know. But I'm either in more trouble . . . or way, way less."

The ceremony resumed in awkward silence as the final petal was collected from the stream and placed into the crystal basin. The last student, a third-year named Ellisan, stepped forward with the stiff posture of someone trying not to gloat. Severa handed him the relic with great care.

But it wasn't an artifact. Not even close.

Inside the basin, caught between the crystal seams and barely visible in the shifting light, was a single strand of ley-thread—a glimmering golden ribbon of ambient aether, so thin it could've been mistaken for a hair suspended in oil.

Gasps fluttered through the crowd.

Draeth stepped forward again, drawing himself to full ceremonial height.

"Behold," he intoned, "a most rare and ancient manifestation of natural aetheric potential. This ley-thread is not conjured. It is not manufactured. It is found, witnessed, and honored. The Eidralith has deemed this current sacred."

He paused, dramatically.

No one interrupted.

"And yet," he said, voice lowering just slightly, "let us not mistake rarity for possession. The ley-thread cannot be owned. It cannot be taken. It exists in a space between belonging and observation. A fleeting note in a song older than the Flaring Age."

Ellisan's jaw didn't move as he spoke, like it was locked in place. "So . . . what do I do with it?"

"You do nothing," Draeth said, sharply. "You witness it. You reflect upon it. You learn from it. Perhaps, if you are diligent enough in your studies, you may even remember it."

Ellisan's face dropped.

Rolen, standing behind the headmaster, cleared his throat quietly. "Perhaps . . . let the student bask in the presence of it for a moment before we seal the bowl."

Draeth nodded. "Of course. Bask."

Fabrisse, still standing with Liene half-slumped at his side, squinted at the vessel.

This was just a strand of magic so fragile and untouched that even touching it would ruin it.

He muttered under his breath, "This bowl is the most useless. Why did the Eidralith want me to touch it?"

"What?" he said aloud.

Liene, barely upright, glanced at him. "You okay?"

That's it? That's the lesson? And you wanted me to touch an ancient holy bowl hundreds of others are fighting for, during a sanctioned ritual, while actively compromising a tri-phase casting ring, nearly getting myself expelled, and possibly initiating an international relic-handling incident for this?

Fabrisse buried his face in his palm.