Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

Fabrisse closed the door behind him and immediately turned to Greg, who was sitting on the floor in front of his bookshelf, carefully re-categorizing their emergency snack inventory by expiry date.

“No,” Greg said.

Fabrisse paused. “I haven’t said anything yet.”

Greg adjusted his glasses. “You paused meaningfully in the doorway, looked contemplative, and made a beeline for me instead of your desk. That only ever means ‘Greg, I have a bad idea and need someone to help me.’ So: no.”

Fabrisse deflated. “Fine.”

He flopped onto his bed, mind awhirl with forbidden containment wings and ambiguous glyph quests, stared at the ceiling for a while, then rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. The faint scent of ink and chip crumbs clung to the fabric. He sat back up and stared at the floating glyph still hovering in his peripheral vision.

[QUEST PROGRESS: Incomplete]

Target Location: Chamber Seven, Lower Containment

Priority: Elevated (Path-dependent)

He squinted at it. ‘Path-dependent’ was a probably very ominous way of saying ‘you can ignore this if you want, but there will be consequences.’

He groaned, draped an arm over his eyes, and tried to brainstorm.

Could he bluff his way in? No, not with his face.

Could he sneak in? Maybe, though he didn’t think he was that good at slinking into places.

Maybe Veist could help? She was a research student doing an aquathaumaturgy project, if he recalled correctly. She’d actually spoken to him again just now, in the aquatics corridor. She was working on something about the resonance patterns in spiny kelpfish, but he was too anxious to pay attention.

Still, that would mean asking her. On purpose. Which was practically a confession of incompetence.

The first confession had stung enough.

Greg suddenly said, “Whatever you’re planning: not worth it.”

Fabrisse turned to him. “Huh?”

Greg didn’t look up from his book. “That girl’s planted some ideas in your head. Now you think breaking the rules is fun and games.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“So are you or are you not thinking about breaking the rules then?”

“That’s different.”

“If you say so.” Greg moved to his desk, and soon was off doing his own thing in silence again.

Greg had been right, even though he’d been wrong. Do I need to go that far for the quest? The glowing glyph couldn’t go away, and neither could the very inconvenient awareness that part of him wanted to pursue this. To see how far he could get.

His mother, Madlen, had always said that no one was unsuitable for magic. That magic didn’t belong to the brilliant or the bold, not really. “It’s not about being special,” she used to say while scrubbing ink out of his sleeves or adjusting the warped hem of his uniform during his Apprentice years. “It’s about listening. Magic talks, if you’re the kind of fool willing to listen long enough.” She believed it could belong to anyone stubborn enough to sit with silence until something answered. Though it was easy to talk magic when the only application you had for it was to make soup slightly thicker in a tightly-controlled kitchen environment.

But he still had four months left to become a better version of himself. He could definitely take this slow and wait for another quest to come up; an easier one.

Wouldn’t that save me from the trouble?

“Why now?” he muttered to himself. “Why suddenly now do I need to be some kind of magical prodigy?”

The glyph offered no answer.

Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he could keep doing things at his own pace.

“Don’t you have Aerothaumaturgy this afternoon?” Greg spoke again.

Fabrisse shot up from his bed. “Oh no.”

By the time he sprinted into the Aerothaumaturgy field, he was wheezing, one sock was inside out, and the instructor had already started outlining today’s skybinding array.

The open practice grounds stretched wide under a bleached blue sky, ringed by slowly rotating wind glyphs. High overhead, a few students were already airborne on controlled wind lifts, bobbing through the air like anxious kites.

Fabrisse tiptoed toward the group, trying to blend in behind a hedge of weather-stabilization runes. He didn’t quite make it.

“Ah! Mr. Kestovar. So good of you to join us,” boomed Magus Instructant Ovrien from across the field.

The wind picked up conveniently to carry his voice to every ear present. Fabrisse grimaced and bowed apologetically.

Someone chuckled.

It was Cuman. Of course it was Cuman.

Cuman Gollivur was lounging in midair at a precisely calibrated hover height, his robes catching the breeze with effortless flair. Sparks of green light from his triumph-aided amplification spell danced around his outstretched hands like miniature stars.

He was sixteen, the perfect age to act like a flairless bully.

“Look sharp, Rock Witch,” Cuman called out. “Wouldn’t want you floating away by accident. Or maybe you just didn’t want to fly today? Or ever?”

Miro Hirosagi, his ever-present tagalong, snorted. “Maybe he’s still recovering from the head trauma.”

Fabrisse gritted his teeth, trying not to rise to it. He moved toward his assigned rune circle, keeping his head down.

A gust hit him. But it wasn’t the wind.

A ripple of summoned current, tinged with a prank glyph. He felt it the instant before it struck, but he was not fast enough to respond.

The air puffed beneath his robes and launched him a full meter into the air. His arms flailed wildly, legs bicycling midair before he dropped with a squelch into a nearby puddle, left over from some weather manipulation exercise.

A small note appeared above his head.

[DAMAGE TAKEN: Minor Emotional Damage]

A muddy silence followed. Then a wave of laughter.

“Oh no! Downed already?” Cuman grinned, descending slightly for effect. “Thought the chosen ones were supposed to stay upright.”

Fabrisse lay there, staring at the sky, soaking wet, with grass in his ear and dignity leaking from his shoes.

Fabrisse groaned, rolling onto his side as mud squelched beneath his hip. The laughter was finally fading, but the humiliation lingered like water in his ears.

Magus Instructant Ovrien took a step forward, brow furrowing as he began to descend from the central casting platform. “Mr. Kestovar, do you require—”

“Allow me, Magus,” came a crisp voice from the other side of the circle.

Heads turned. Severa Montreal was already striding toward Fabrisse with an unflinching posture.

The Magus paused, mildly surprised. “Miss Montreal?”

Severa offered him a small, deferential nod. “I believe I can assist. A touch of elementary wind redirection, if you would permit me. It’s hardly taxing.”

There was a brief moment of hesitation. Students, and definitely High Distinction students like Severa, rarely volunteered to assist one another unless it was for extra merit points or to show off. But Severa looked neither eager nor boastful. If anything, she looked slightly bored.

“Very well,” said Ovrien. “Mr. Kestovar clearly needs a bit of help with basic lift stability. You may proceed.”

Fabrisse blinked rapidly as he looked up at her, dazed and still half-coated in sludge. “What are you—”

“Hush,” she said, kneeling beside him as she took out her wand. “Do you want to be embarrassed further?”

She lifted one hand and traced a precise series of motions in the air. A small spiral of wind gathered around Fabrisse. It did little to lift him, but was enough to ease the weight and dry the worst of the muck.

Fabrisse watched her warily. Severa Montreal did not do things out of kindness. If she was helping, it meant she was going to make a point—and she didn’t usually stop until that point was deeply and publicly made.

She twirled her wand. “Now. You will mirror this motion. Exactly. Do try not to trip over your own fingers.”

Fabrisse reached slowly for his wand, adjusting his grip. “I know the gesture. I’ve just—”

“Yes, yes. You’ve ‘just.’ You’ve just been tragically behind in every core subject. You’ve just barely managed to pass Basic Thaumaturgy last year, and the only reason why you’re in this class is because Lorvan, from the kindness of his heart, has enrolled you into Limited-Spot catch up classes. And now you’ve just stumbled into a bond with an artifact of incalculable value.” Her eyes narrowed just a smidge, but her voice remained sweet. “Some of us have trained since childhood for such an honor.”

Fabrisse’s grip tightened on his wand. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

“No, I imagine little you do ever is.” She smiled as if she were offering him a pastry. “Still, if you had a shred of dignity, you might consider stepping aside. An unbinding ritual can be performed cleanly if done early enough. I could even teach you a Rank II invocation or two as compensation. Something appropriate. Wind, perhaps. Suits your disposition.”

“I—what?” Fabrisse nearly choked. “You want me to give it up? Just like that?”

Severa lifted her chin slightly. “Don’t be so dramatic. I merely suggest what’s best for everyone. The Eidralith chose you, tragically, but it may yet be persuaded by competence. Artifacts of that class are better suited to those with proper training and discipline.”

Her voice stayed poised, but her eyes gleamed. “I, for instance, was selected—after rigorous evaluation, of course—to assist in the Will of the Origin research cohort. It is a highly competitive placement, but then, one must demonstrate aptitude.” Her wand twitched. “Now. Again. Wrist higher. You’re drooping.”

Fabrisse, cheeks burning, mimicked her gesture. He’d learned not to argue with people who sounded more confident than him. That never ended well.

A sliver of wind answered his call, sluggish and clumsy compared to hers. Still, it formed, and a thin ribbon of curled movement materialized from his palm.

“Oh, look,” Severa said. “It wiggles.”

His spell fizzled out.

Severa rose to her feet in one smooth motion and dusted imaginary dirt from her sleeve. “Magus, I believe that concludes my assistance.”

Magus Ovrien gave her a brief nod. “Well done, Miss Montreal.”

Fabrisse remained crouched on the ground, wand limp in hand, half-mud, half-mortified.

Severa smiled down at him one last time. “Chin up, Kestovar. Everyone loves an underdog. At least until they stop being amusing.”

She strode away.

He sat down. His face felt hotter the longer he sat. The sounds of the training field swirled distantly, but it all blurred.

Another sudden burst of air slammed into his back. He faceplanted again with a wet splat.

[DAMAGE TAKEN: Slight Grazing (Knee)]

[DAMAGE TAKEN: Advanced Emotional Damage]

Behind him, someone snickered. Probably Cuman. Definitely Cuman.

Fabrisse stared at the mud inches from his nose. This mud was cakey and too lightly-colored; possibly containing several rich nutrients.

Stop thinking about mud! Look at yourself! A voice screamed in his head. You’re nineteen, three years older than that little wretch, and you just let him dunk you in a puddle like a helpless pug.

How dare you think about taking it slow when you are this far behind.

“Did Severa say she’s a research student?” he mumbled to the dirt.

He rolled over slowly, eyes narrowing at the empty sky. The glyph still glimmered in his periphery.

She’s not the one with the Eidralith. I AM the one with the Eidralith.

“I will show you,” he muttered.

He staggered upright, slinging mud from his sleeves, and bolted, ignoring the calls behind him, sprinting after the silhouette receding toward the far end of the field.

“Montreal!” he shouted.

She didn’t stop. Of course she didn’t. She probably assumed he was coming to apologize.

“I said—do you want to bind with the Eidralith?”

That made her stop.