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

Fabrisse had clicked on 'Request More Information' on his way home, and he had spent his entire journey thinking about what he'd read.

Okay . . . He wasn't sure about binding with time or forming a pact with a demon or whatever, but he was pretty sure if he went with Leyline Tuning, he was essentially forgoing Corestream Forging.

He had to think long and hard about this. This wasn't like a sidequest where simply waving it off meant denying the quest.

Now wasn't the time for distractions. Now was the time for full commitment into levelling up his Stone Resonant Carry and expanding his existing capabilities.

"Hi, Fabri~" at that exact moment, his distraction arrived.

Liene was waving at him from across the path with the kind of cheery energy that should've been illegal in academic zones. One of her sleeves was a translucent mesh with stitched-on feathers (blue), the other a thick, velvet green bell sleeve that trailed dangerously close to the ground.

What is she wearing . . .

"Hey," he replied.

She bounded up to him, clasping her hands behind her back "Sooo. . . want to come with me to meet the Headmaster? Just the two of us."

Why does she word it like she's inviting someone to a ball . . .

She continued, "My friends' been asking about you. They want to invite you to a game of Arc Pebbles. We think you'll like it!"

"Who?"

"Ah, you know. Just some friends. And Celine."

Nope. Celine Moose ran the unofficial magical gossip network. She literally recorded and archived rumors in enchanted glyphscrolls. Yes, her last name was Moose.

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Arc Pebbles was a precision throwing game played with aetherically-infused glyphlights, meant to test subtle Stone-based resonance control. The fact they'd picked that specific game to invite him to could only mean one thing: it was a trap.

There is no way in the Twelvefold Flamus am I going to play a game of Arc Pebbles with Celine. I have to train and catch up in class.

No. Why? I don't want to go. But . . . I need those 2 Mastery Points. They'll let me finally upgrade a Skill.

"When's the game?" He asked.

"In three days! You better practice your stone throwing skills."

Guess I better bump Stupenstone Fling to the top of the practice list . . .

Liene continued, "But you know what's not in three days? The meeting with the Headmaster! It's in two hours, actually."

Fabrisse gulped.

"So, uh, lunch?" She asked sheepishly.

The pie shop smelled like pie. Fabrisse had been here with Liene dozens of times—maybe more—but today, the wooden benches in front of the shop felt weirdly close together, and he was suddenly hyperaware of the fact that they were sitting across from each other, sharing a slice of honeyed root pie and a jug of chilled elderfruit cider.

Like always.

Except not like always. Normally he would've ordered merryberry.

Every time the bell over the door jingled, Fabrisse instinctively sat straighter, like he was being measured for emotional vulnerability. Literally nobody was looking at them.

Liene, as usual, was oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. She was currently poking at the pie crust with the back end of her fork and humming some off-key tavern song that she probably thought was subtle. It wasn't. Especially not when she added in sound effects.

"Pew-pew!" she said, flicking a tiny piece of crust toward his plate.

"What was that?"

"Training! Arc Pebbles combat simulation. You need to be ready for ricocheting crumbs."

She struck a pose. "If you flinch during pie, you'll flinch during play."

"I'm not going to flinch—"

"There you two are," came a smooth voice from a figure approaching them.

Fabrisse flinched harder than he'd ever flinched at a ricochet crust.

Lorvan stopped just past the pie shop's threshold, arms crossed, dressed in his usual deep-grey robes trimmed with silver threading that made him look like he hadn't just walked across campus but descended from a stern lecture cloud.

"Listen carefully," Lorvan said, "if you wish to survive Headmaster Draeth."

No greeting. No warm-up. Just straight into soul-wrenching advice.

Fabrisse sat up straighter. "Yes, mentor."

He was bracing for it—that line. That one offhanded "So I heard you nearly proposed to my sister in a leyline basin yesterday." Or "Interesting choice of public resonance imprinting." Or even just a raised brow paired with a deeply judgmental sip of cider. What could be the twisted version of the event he'd heard? He prayed it didn't involve Liene sniffing him.

But none came.

Lorvan moved to their table and casually reached over to tear off a sliver of their pie. "Good crust," he said.

What? I thought he didn't like pie. Maybe he's grown an appreciation for good pastry, like the rest of us.

Liene gave her brother a cheery little salute with her fork. "You're late. We've already done the emotionally fraught part of the conversation."

"Have you?" Lorvan said.

She nodded. "Yup. He's flustered, I'm radiant, and we're both pretending no one's watching."

Lorvan said nothing for a moment, then responded, "Excellent. That should prepare you well for the Headmaster, who is flustered, radiant, and very much does assume everyone's watching."

Fabrisse made a quiet sound like a chair leg snapping in slow motion.

Lorvan finally turned his gaze on him. "Just answer what you're asked and don't elaborate. Answers with facts only and don't ever say, 'I think'. Do not give him a chance to tear your story apart."

"What if he asks about—uh . . ." Fabrisse rubbed his palms together so hard they started producing friction.

"If he does," Lorvan said coolly, "you'll know. And if he doesn't, don't bring it up."

There was a pause.

"No follow-up lecture?" Liene added.

"Do you want one?"

Fabrisse shut his mouth. Liene shook her head like a windchime during a storm.

Lorvan continued, "You've got one hour. Don't be late. Don't bring pie. And Miss Lugano."

"Yes?" Liene titled her head.

"We'll talk at home."

And just like that, he walked off without another word.

It was Liene's turn to gulp.