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

"You will not get to know who's been protecting you," Inside his room again, Rolen said as he walked past a perfectly good set of chairs and instead perched sideways on the edge of a bookshelf like a contemplative cat.

"B-but why?" Fabrisse asked. He sat on the same seat he did last time he was in Rolen's room, only that this time there was no need to touch his nose. Lorvan, silent as a shadow, had also taken his seat, again near the emerald ball game table.

Rolen didn't answer immediately. He was too busy trying to balance a steaming teacup on his knee without using his hands. It wobbled with each breath he took, yet somehow didn't spill. Fabrisse couldn't detect any aether manipulation involved.

"They're not Synod staff, Mr. Kestovar," Archmagus Rolen sighed. "We are having to go to great lengths to ensure your safety."

"Ah." Fabrisse turned the word over in his mind. A simple sound, but it held far too many questions.

At least this rules out Rimmar Ciemnosc. Rolen is deliberately not getting the Synod involved. But why? Draeth seems like an insufferable old hag, but is he untrustworthy?

It only made sense that the Synod would protect him. So why?

"Are you going to report this incident to Archmagus Terevin Sil? She asked us to," Fabrisse enquired.

"Sil is the best Darkness Thaumaturge in the Southern reaches of the Order, Kestovar."

Ah. That's why. His attacker could come from within the Synod itself. That might have been why blatant attacking attempts had been ignored completely. It would make sense there were better protection programs in place otherwise.

"Right. No, then. But I've got a question. Did the earlier magi bound to the Eidralith receive protection?"

"No." Rolen shook his head. "There were no known methods of artifact unbinding back then. It seems that this might have changed, judging from the circumstances."

Four archmagi ran the administration: Headmaster Draeth, Iveta Monasterie, Karius Fullmann, and Mikhael Rolen. Draeth hated his guts, Iveta's help would come with conditions, and Karius . . . he had never seen Karius do anything about anything. He wasn't sure if Karius was present during the Vothiculum ceremony itself.

Fabrisse looked between the two seniors in the room and felt his stomach twist. He clenched the edge of his robes, wishing he could shrink into one of its multiple pockets like a tortoise.

This was getting too big. He only wanted to fling stones and feed ducks.

Lorvan, Tommaso, and now even an Archmagus were involved—all because he, Fabrisse Kestovar, couldn't even fend off a shadow strike without someone saving him.

How many more people were going to be dragged into this mess on his behalf?

For a fleeting second, he didn't want the Eidralith anymore. He didn't even want to be a Thaumaturgy student anymore.

But isn't this my chance? My chance at something bigger in life? He stared at Lorvan, who wasn't staring back at him. 'Only in deep discomfort can you bloom', his mentor had told him.

"Do you have any idea who may have been targeting you?" Rolen asked.

One name immediately jumped to mind. "I've met Magister Elon Montreal once and learned that he possesses the Pre-Binding Codex."

Rolen nodded as he looked up to the ceiling. "I got the same information. Montreal is a man of deep passion for research, and he doesn't seem to let nuisances like governing laws get in his way. He's been taken to court once over an alleged dispossession of an existing Codex. He claimed it was within his right to peruse any unanchored artifact for research. The tribunal dismissed the case—insufficient evidence, they said. But the scholar whose vault he 'investigated' was never seen on campus again. He seems to be alive and living okay, though, just no longer an employee. I'll make sure to keep a closer look on him."

Magister Montreal would definitely be interested. But he had respected Fabrisse's wishes before, so why would he go out of his way and potentially ruin his career and reputation stooping down this low?

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"Kestovar. Whatever edge the Eidralith gives you, you may want to capitalize on it now," Rolen said. "You will need to get good, and get good fast." The way he pronounced 'get' made it sound like 'gid'. "I expect you to be able to form an elemental weapon in three months' time."

"Can we start with basic synaptic control?" Fabrisse asked immediately.

"Synaptic control?" Rolen arched his brow.

"Yes. I need to learn to move my arm in a perfect arc."

Rolen turned to look at Lorvan. Lorvan sighed exasperatedly.

"I thought you passed Synaptic Control I?" Rolen asked.

"I scored a 12 in Practical. I wish to change that."

Rolen stayed silent for a moment, then said, "It's never too late to start."

Then Rolen moved.

His motion was almost identical to Lorvan's standard form: right arm lifted, curve narrowing in at the shoulder. But where Lorvan's had been precise, Rolen's looked loose, offhanded, almost lazy.

And yet—

Fabrisse felt the aether shift instantly. They pulled him closer, almost physically, as shades of pink bloomed around Rolen's arm.

Then the aether disappeared the moment he finished his arc.

Fabrisse's breath hitched. "You released aether from a synaptic control exercise."

Rolen shook out his hand, inspecting his fingernails like he'd been swatting dust. "Now you try it."

Fabrisse stood and moved to a less cluttered space. He closed his eyes, felt for the thread. He lifted his arm.

And this time, it felt different.

The arc came naturally. His 99% progress made him see things clearly now.

There was a subtle tension at the elbow he hadn't noticed before, and he adjusted for it while rolling in motion. His shoulder aligned without protest. Even his breath seemed to match the movement, as if his body and the thread had agreed on a rhythm.

Fabrisse reached the apex of the arc and began the downward glide. He could feel the aether curling at the edge of his palm, soft and light like a pre-dawn mist. He had control.

Long fingers reached out and pinched his scapula between two knuckles. A jolt went through Fabrisse's spine—not magical, just anatomical.

"You're off," Rolen said.

"Huh?"

Rolen's hand ghosted along his back, tapping once below the shoulder blade. The correction was already sinking in.

Fabrisse drew his shoulder back and shifted the tilt of his wrist by a degree to compensate. As his arm dipped through the final stretch, a whisper of aether stirred at his fingertips, not imposed or dragged, but rising of its own will. He had called forth the aether.

The reward was on the lower end, but it didn't matter. He'd done it.

"Lugano," Rolen turned to Fabrisse's mentor. "Don't hesitate to physically correct form—after asking for permission, of course."

But you didn't ask me . . .

Archmagi seemed to have a rather big problem with consent.

Before he could speak the words aloud, Rolen turned to face him fully. "I want you to train under me, Kestovar," he said, tone neutral, but the weight of it made Fabrisse's chest tighten. "Not indefinitely—just until we can be sure you're no longer an obvious target. You'll continue your other studies, but I'll supervise your synaptic threading and spellcast forms, and—if you prove worth the effort—emotional modulation."

The last phrase felt like a test. Fabrisse didn't answer right away.

Behind Rolen's shoulder, Lorvan gave a nod. Then, as if afraid Fabrisse didn't see him the first time, he nodded again. His mentor hadn't spoken a word since Rolen's demonstration, but his eyes were serious now, almost stern with urgency.

This is the safest path for me, Fabrisse realized.

Fabrisse bowed his head slightly, the words catching in his throat before finally emerging, quiet but certain. "It would be an honor to study under you."

Rolen didn't smile, but he looked slightly more satisfied than before. "Good. Let's start now." He raised one hand, palm angled downward. A soft pop echoed in the air as a flame sparked to life at his fingertips without mnemonic. The fire didn't roar or surge; it hovered, balanced, like a candle flame that had learned restraint. He rotated his wrist slowly, and the flame coiled into a tight spiral in precise twists. "My brand of magic . . . starts with fire control."