Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

Some time had passed since the vault. Probably around forty-seven minutes.

Fabrisse had left Severa’s presence before she could ask more questions he didn’t have the answers for. She hadn’t followed, thank the flame. His hands still tingled faintly from the invocation, and his neck ached a bit even though he hadn’t hit anything.

[SYSTEM NOTE: Concordance spells might leave a trace. It might not be in the form of sparks; it can be felt.]

The spell was done, but it was like his shame had left a splinter behind.

He needed somewhere quiet. He did not find it.

The far-west quad, nestled between a runoff channel and the disused sparring bleachers, was mostly empty these days.

Except today.

Fabrisse turned the corner and walked straight into a very stupid ritual involving Cuman Gollivur, Miro, a levitating training dummy with crude charcoal grin smeared across its face, and—because humiliation wasn’t complete without poor taste—a sloshing bucket of possibly enchanted pondwater hovering in the air.

The dummy was strung up between two weathered training poles, bobbing unevenly with each idle flick of Cuman’s fingers. Miro stood nearby, incanting spells that Fabrisse recognized from Thaumaturgy for Brats: entry-level motion nudges and color bursts, the kind you weren’t supposed to weaponize but that every under-disciplined student did anyway.

Fabrisse stopped.

This is what these two do for fun?

His body tensed before his brain caught up. He could already sense the shape of what would follow.

He took one cautious step back.

A sudden whine rang out near his ear, high, thin, and needling. He didn’t know what made the sound.

Too late.

“Speak of the pebble,” Cuman said without turning, “and the gravel creeps forth.”

How did he know it was me?

For his build and general crudeness, Cuman had sharp senses. He was one of the first in their year to figure out how to cast without over-channeling, and one of the few who could do perception-based invocation with a smirk. His spells didn’t come from focus—they came from confidence, from that bloated, glimmering kind of self-certainty that made Thaumaturgy bend around him like it didn’t want to disappoint. Or, as the sanctioned phrasing in the thaumaturgic canon went: Pride and Triumph as anchoring emotions.

He snapped his fingers.

A spark of light shot from them, tinged with triumph magic and just enough amplification to echo. He thought this one was green-tinted, but the color was more mossy.

Fabrisse felt the spell touch him, like an invisible spotlight had just fixed on his spine. A whining noise resounded as he collided with the spell.

[Cuman Invocation Detected — Affinity: Air (Sound)]

[TRIGGER EMOTION: Triumphant Arrogance]

[EFFECT: Localized Attention Anchor — Target Designated]

Ah. So that’s how he knew. Cuman had literally spelled the space to alert him when someone ‘lesser’ arrived. It probably only pinged when the right amount of inner inaptitude crossed the threshold.

He had used Sound magic. Sound was a sub-element of Air, and could be manipulated once the practitioner was at a decent level of proficiency in Wind Thaumaturgy. However, it was as difficult to master as much as it was overpowered. At least there would be a linear and recorded path of progression for Sound, unlike things such as Dust, which required specific knowledge in both Earth and Air Thaumaturgy to hybridize.

Cuman finally turned, and his grin was wide and deliberate, like he was preparing for a monologue. “Look at that. Kestovar the Quiet. Still gathering rocks for your sad little spells?”

Miro laughed on cue.

“I’m leaving,” Fabrisse muttered, already turning to go. His fingers curled around the edge of his satchel where the glowing Stupenstone rested.

“But you only just got here,” Miro said as he grinned. “C’mon, join us. It’s not everyday you see a training pole smuggled outside of the training field.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to—” Fabrisse replied.

But Miro had already interrupted him with his mnemonic.

“Cling and cling, light as thread, bind the foot and mock the tread.”

He recognized this spell: Featherbind. It could be cast without mnemonic, but Miro probably hadn’t mastered the spell to that level yet.

A gleam of haze-mint aether appeared before Fabrisse’s vision—the color of mischief.

A light arc of magic smacked the back of Fabrisse’s knee. His right sleeve fused to his left boot.

He pitched forward like an unstrung marionette and hit the ground.

[DAMAGE TAKEN: Light Grazing, Elbow]

That kind of hurt.

“Gotcha!” Miro whooped. “Didn’t even need targeting glyphs.”

Cuman chuckled. “You have to chant? Miro, remind me to thank your mother for birthing you just unskilled enough that I never feel threatened.”

If only Tommaso was here, Fabrisse thought. He’d know how to punish these punks.

Fabrisse yanked his sleeve free and stood, mud already streaked across one elbow. His teeth clenched. His satchel rustled.

“I’ve unlocked spells,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. “I have spells. This time I’m not just a wet goblin with rock feelings.”

“What did you just say?” Cuman put a hand behind his ear and leaned forward. “Speak louder.”

He reached into the satchel, fingers closing around the Stupenstone.

“Fling,” he whispered.

[SPELL CAST: Stupenstone Fling (Rank I)]

Emotion Registered: Embarrassment

It flared a vibrant amber, with resonance, intent, concordance! Then arced into the air with the velocity of a politely tossed muffin.

It missed Cuman by three feet and landed with a splat in the bucket of pondwater.

The problem, as usual, was velocity. Or maybe intent vectoring. Or maybe he just sucked at throwing.

Oh, wait. The damage and arc scales with innate resonance. My innate resonance is horrific.

The laughter this time came in waves.

“Was that a warning shot?” Miro gasped, wiping tears from his eyes.

“Hey, hey!” Cuman gestured at him like calling a puppy. “Come closer. We promise we’ll stand still for you to practice throwing rocks at us.”

Fabrisse opened his mouth to say something, but—

“If you want to duel,” Cuman added with a smug smile, “I don’t duel up the ladder. House rule. You wanna fight, talk to Miro.”

Miro, who had just stopped laughing, said, “I’d really rather not, actually.”

Cuman clapped a firm hand on his shoulder and leaned down with a grin sharp enough to slice parchment. “Miro, my dear friend. You already cast first. Would be unsporting not to follow through.”

“That’s not a rule,” Miro muttered.

“It is now,” Cuman said cheerfully. “Besides, you said you were getting rusty with motion glyphs. This’ll be great practice.”

Miro turned slowly toward Fabrisse, and his earlier mischief had all but gone. “So. Uh. Duel?”

Fabrisse took a step back. “I’m not accepting a duel.” His best skill was Stealth. He couldn’t duel.

Miro gave a weak laugh. “Again, really not—”

“Miro,” Cuman said.

Miro sighed and raised one hand. “Okay, okay. One cast. Then we’re done.”

He muttered a familiar mnemonic under his breath. It was Air-based, probably a basic Disruptive Gust. But Fabrisse noticed it lacked the usual springy sharpness of Miro’s spells. The wind he summoned hiccuped as it formed, curling around his fingers, but wouldn’t launch.

A flare of aether coalesced at Miro’s palm—bluish-white, with frayed edges. He lurched forward, forcefully sending it Fabrisse’s way.

Fabrisse barely managed to sidestep. The gust flew past his ear and slapped into a nearby wall of ivy with a wet flutter.

“You’re losing your spark,” Cuman called out, disappointed. “You can’t prank like you used to when you’re this nervous. Honestly tragic.”

Miro’s jaw tightened. Without waiting for acknowledgement or permission, he lifted his hand again, this time with more force.

“Wisp and whip, stumble and slip—”

He muttered, the mnemonic rushing out sharper than before. His fingers traced the shape of a spell he probably didn’t mean to cast so hard.

This time, the air shimmered with a different texture. Not clean mint like before, but something dulled and smoky, tinged with the faintest hue at the tail. Burnished ochre? No, not quite. Not his amber. This wasn’t the bright flare of Concordant shame, but something muddier, confused, creeping in from the edges of emotional instability.

Fabrisse saw it immediately.

The spell fired more erratically in trajectory, but heavier. The gust spun off-kilter, veering sideways as Fabrisse side-stepped it. The blast missed again, ruffling his hood and kicking dust off the path behind him.

“Seriously?” Miro blurted.

His stance shifted from casual to committed.

“Oh no,” Fabrisse muttered.

Miro flicked his wrist again.

“Skip the rhyme,” Cuman called.

Another harsher burst of aether shot from Miro’s palm, streaked with that same dull ochre glow.

Fabrisse dodged again, but he misjudged the direction of the spell. It hit him on the cheek, and he felt a slap so hard his head turned sideways.

[DAMAGE TAKEN: Reddened Cheek]

He stumbled back a step, winded. His back hit the side of a mossed-over bench. His breath came ragged and sharp. Not good, but I can move out of the way next time. Miro’s wind cast had a two-beat lag, and it always moved with the same cadence. Fabrisse could time that.

The second gust came immediately after, but this one was worse. It had spin. Fabrisse dropped low, felt the air whistle above his shoulder, and barely avoided the strike.

Dust scattered behind him. A nearby lantern rune buzzed in protest.

“Hey—!” Fabrisse coughed, waving a hand. “That’s enough. You’re going too far.”

He looked up. Miro’s expression faltered for half a second, caught between rising anger and uncertain guilt. Miro was actually glancing at him now, as if he was deciding whether or not Fabrisse had felt too much discomfort.

“Don’t be a wimp,” Cuman said, still leaning back like a spectator. “No one’s getting hurt.”

Fabrisse wiped his sleeve across his mouth and glanced at the fading ochre trail left in the air. That was no ordinary schoolyard cast.

“Come on,” Cuman drawled. “Don’t let him psych you out, Miro. You’re not going to let the Rock Witch tell you what’s too far, are you?”

Miro swiveled his wrist. The ochre haze hadn’t fully dissipated from the last cast, and another glyph circle was already glinting into form beneath his palm. The air grew taut.

“Miro—” Fabrisse warned.

But Miro didn’t stop. His fingers began to trace the first arc of another spell.

Then the world flashed white.

A searing pillar of pale-gold light split the quad, clean as a courtroom verdict.

Miro yelped and jumped back, and the half-formed spell in his hand fizzled out instantly. His feet tangled, and he stumbled onto one knee.

Fabrisse shielded his eyes, blinking rapidly against the afterimage. That’s light-based thaumaturgy. In the floating glyph, it would probably be classified as a sub-type of Fire, but in Thaumaturgy theory, it was its own element.

He didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

“That’s enough sparring, boys,” came Liene’s voice. “Or should I call it what it actually is—magical bullying with poor spell control?”