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

Lorvan walked beside him back to his dorm, determined not to give Fabrisse the satisfaction of blaming time for his stress. They passed the Hall of Copper Stars, two empty fountains, and the statue of Pelrian the Arbitrary, who had once banned footwear inside lecture halls for reasons still unknown. Fabrisse remained quiet throughout.

After a while, Lorvan said, "You're unusually silent."

Fabrisse had been staring at his new, hard-earned spell, Cindermark. It had taken him two days just to unlock the Rank I version, but somehow it felt more than worth it.

The SYN requirement was just enough for him to cast even without help from the mitts nor the lodestone, so he just needed to get the mnemonic and the posturing right. Those two; he'd practiced diligently.

He stayed silent for another second before saying, "I'm doing maths."

Lorvan arched his brow. "For what?"

"For how to fit stone thaumaturgy, lectures, fire training, and my upcoming lorekeeping job into a 24-hour period."

"You haven't gone to the lorekeeping interview yet."

"Okay. How do I fit in stone thaumaturgy, lectures, fire training, and practical sessions then?"

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

They both knew he wouldn't go to practical sessions. He'd been so far behind that his classmates would just look at him funny, silently judging, whenever he entered one. Even the Instructants wouldn't mask their begrudgement from having to teach him spells he should've mastered at the beginning of last semester. He'd just make a fool of himself and get called names again.

Never again, he thought. When I return to my next Practical, I'll have something to show to them.

Lorvan allowed himself the thinnest breath of judgment as they walked up the stairs heading to his dorm room. "You know, you wouldn't have been under so much pressure had you been diligent with your Practical."

Fabrisse didn't answer. He let himself slide down the door with a sigh that had a higher EMO stat than he did.

He was met with sudden heat. Greg, wearing an apron, stood in the doorway with a look that said I warned you. The room smelled like burnt parchment.

"Just so you know," Greg said, stepping aside, "I tried."

Inside, Tommaso had upended two of the lounge chairs and built a makeshift arena out of rolled-up rugs and magical ward chalk. A dish of fire salts sat precariously close to the edge of a table. Dubbie, his sister, crouched beneath the other chair with a tea tray in one hand and a half-melted spatula in the other. She looked alarmingly focused.

Why's Dubbie here? Coming from the same commune, Dubbie used to hang out with Tommaso whenever Fabrisse hung out with the guy, though he doubted Tommaso went out of his way to bring his little sister over.

Tommaso grinned with the evangelical fervor of someone who had invented a game ten minutes ago and already declared it a tradition. "Okay, okay, new rule," he said. "If the flame hits above knee-height, you lose two points but gain a style bonus. Unless it sets something on fire. Then it's disqualified unless the item was flammable by design."

"You made that up just now," said Dubbie, not even blinking as she caught a flash of fire in her tray like a seasoned circus juggler.

"I'm adapting to the meta," Tommaso replied, deadly serious.

Fabrisse stared at the spectacle. "Why are you all like this?"

Lorvan stepped in behind Fabrisse and stared at Tommaso. "You have three seconds to extinguish whatever this is before I call Campus Safety and cite all of you for arson and terminal idiocy," He was already reaching for the room's emergency suppression rune.

Tommaso opened his mouth—likely to argue that controlled infernos built character—but Dubbie had already stood, tipped her tray, and doused the main fire source with a hiss and a small plume of smoke.

"Two seconds to spare," Lorvan said.

Tommaso clicked his tongue and rolled his wrist, all the while muttering some mnemonic. A gust of air spiraled through the room, snuffing out the last wisps of flame, lifting ash off the carpet, righting the chairs, and neatly herding the salt dish back to the table like a sheepdog for kitchenware.

Wow. He's also gotten much more finesse with Air-based spells.

Lorvan clamped a hand on Tommaso's shoulder. "Out. Now."

Tommaso sighed, but obeyed, brushing off soot from his sleeves as he stepped out into the hallway.

Fabrisse remained frozen by the doorframe, staring at the now-clean lounge. The silence after chaos always rang the loudest. Greg had returned to the kitchenette, stirring something with a nonchalance Fabrisse couldn't quite read. Either he'd adapted to Tommaso's entropy or given up trying to resist it.

Through the door, muffled voices drifted in. Lorvan, low and precise. Tommaso, louder, maybe defensive. They were probably arguing about his guardianship over him.

It really was his fault Tommaso was here.

If Fabrisse hadn't got himself entangled with the Eidralith, Tommaso would still be posted somewhere on the front, probably saving towns from goblins, sand serpents or collecting danger pay from setting controlled charges beneath collapsing ley points. He'd given up a lot for him—months of salary, actual recognition, a life away from student mess—and for what?

I shouldn't be dragging people down.

He was this close to getting his Stupenstone Fling to Level 3, and he needed it. The Arc Pebbles game was in two days. Basic synaptic control was finally stabilizing; his velocity was so close to 95%. That was a measurable improvement. And he was like, 21 EXP away from levelling up and gaining 3 Attribute Points. It had to start getting easier now.

"Aren't you going to say hi?"

Fabrisse blinked, still halfway trapped in his own head. Dubbie was standing over him now, tea tray in one hand, the melted spatula in the other like it was a weapon of emotional warfare.

He waved at her. "Hi."

She stared, then said flatly, "That was the worst hi I've ever heard. Are you concussed?"

"No."

"Is your soul temporarily detached?"

"No—"

"Did you look inside yourself again and find nothing but a thesis-shaped hole and the echo of responsibility?"

He didn't answer.

"Are you eating well?" Now, she started asking the right question.

She dropped the tray onto the table with a clatter, thunked the spatula into his hand like she was passing a baton, then arranged some good-smelling pastries on the table. A round, slightly lopsided merryberry pie sat on a scorched trivet, its crust a little uneven, the glaze a little too thick.

Fabrisse stared at it. "Is that—?"

"Yes," Dubbie said. "Merryberry. Your fourth favorite."

"That's oddly specific."

She crouched beside the table, inspecting a scorch mark on the rug. "Yeah, well, your first favorite is Mum's honey-crust almond tart, and she guards that recipe like a state secret. Your second is mingleberry pie. Your third is merryberry, but made by Mom."

"The glaze is—" He squinted. "Kind of sad." And she was also wrong. Merryberry was only fourth place, behind mulberry.

"I was going for rustic trauma chic," she said. "Eat. Then we can go for a short walk and let your roommate have his peace again."

Greg was already scraping the melted mess off the hearthstone (that wasn't in the room before) with a damp cloth.

He was about to nod until he remembered he was never supposed to be alone. Sure, Dubbie would be with him, but his sister wasn't going to provide him protection.

Then he saw Ilya's raven perching on a tree branch out the window.

That should be good enough, right?

"Yeah," he nodded. "Let's head out." Then he grabbed the merryberry pie on the tray.