Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

The parlor was perfectly round. There weren’t any corners, which meant there weren’t many shadows either. Light filtered in from a domed ceiling etched with converging golden runes, none of which appeared decorative.

And at the center of the chamber was the most terrifying man Fabrisse had ever seen.

Magister Elon Montreal.

Magisters were high-ranking administrators or executive specialists. They typically handled department leadership, sensitive diplomatic roles, or oversight of dangerous magic (like the Eidralith). Magisters weren’t members of the Synod, but often worked under the Order directly. And anyone who worked under the Order was, by definition, scary.

Elon wasn’t tall, but the room deferred to him. His robes were a dark navy that refracted like deep pressure stone under the spelllight. His hands were bare, resting atop a thin walking rod carved from something glossier than obsidian, a material Fabrisse couldn’t name.

His eyes didn’t rise immediately. That, somehow, was worse.

“Fabrisse Kestovar,” he pronounced his name flawlessly without a hint of emotion. “You’re the one who caught the Eidralith with his face.”

“Magister,” Severa said. “It is him.”

You don’t call your father ‘father’? Fabrisse thought, not daring to turn to Severa.

Elon didn’t stand. “I didn’t expect him to be . . . short.”

Fabrisse made the mistake of dropping eye contact.

The Magister’s voice cut through the air like fine wire. “If you are spoken to, Mr. Kestovar, you are expected to remain present. I know Earth Thaumaturges are taught patience. Try to apply it to your attention span.”

“Yes, Magister. Sorry, Magister.” He knows I’m just enrolled in the Wing of Stratal Studies too.

“Don’t apologize,” Elon said mildly, “unless you mean it. And if you mean it, fix it.”

Fabrisse’s brain scrambled for something dignified.

And then—

[PHASE 3: Imprint Recognition and Response]

Objective: Re-engage with a previously identified Imprint and successfully resonate through an intuitive response.

Instruction: An Imprint can be:

– Emotional traces (e.g. grief, pride, regret)

– Physical imprints (a collapse, burial, impact)

– Aetheric saturation events (like rituals or battles)

Warning: Your prior attunement has unlocked System Leveling.

New Feature Unlocked: EXP | Levels

Completion Rewards:

✦ Unlock XP Counter ✦ Elemental Progression: Hidden Threshold Unlocked

[SYSTEM NOTE: Listening opens paths. Speaking completes paths.]

Levels? Fabrisse thought. What does that mean? Like . . . power levels?

Elon Montreal’s voice snapped him out of it.

“Fascinating,” he said. “You’ve been in my presence for less than two minutes, and already you’ve drifted into private thought. Severa, I trust this is the strategic intellect the Order believes warrants an artifact’s attention?”

Severa’s jaw didn’t move. “He’s under observation.”

“Mhm. So is moss. Which begs the question.” It was the first time the Magister lifted his gaze, and it didn’t land on Fabrisse. It landed on Severa. “Why aren’t you under the Order’s observation?”

“Because I report to my mentors, not my bloodline.” Her voice wasn’t sharp, but it was exact, the way a scalpel is exact. The meaning of what she said though . . . Fabrisse struggled to understand. He didn’t handle vagueness well, and that line was a solid 8 on the scale of vague.

Elon tilted his head slightly. “Ah. So that’s how we’re branding independence now.”

He finally rose.

The staff came first. He pressed it once against the floor and the sound it made wasn’t loud, but final like a full stop.

Fabrisse thought it would feel like standing in front of a senior instructor or a headmaster.

It didn’t.

It felt like standing in front of the reason headmasters went gray.

Elon Montreal circled the edge of the room as if he was checking the perimeter of every vault. He didn’t speak for several breaths. When he did, his tone was as neutral as before. “You were holding a stone when the Eidralith made contact.”

Fabrisse stiffened. “Y-yes, Magister.”

“What kind of stone?”

“A Stupenstone, I think, Magistrate.” Fabrisse resisted the urge to gulp. He should’ve gone with the scientific name.

At least, the Magistrate didn’t seem to mind. His voice slowed. “You think? Or you know?”

Fabrisse’s throat worked. “I—I know. I brought it with me.” He didn’t know why he lied.

“Describe its resonance profile.”

Fabrisse gulped now. “It had a low static signature and a mild echo imprint. I didn’t feel any spike until after the Eidralith, I swear—” He stopped himself, realizing the moment he said ‘swear’ he sounded guilty. He braced for the Magister’s retort.

Elon Montreal turned slightly to Severa. “You brought him here to explain the stone?” he asked.

“No. I brought him here because I need your guidance on the Eidralith’s current behavior. It's still dormant, and I’m afraid we do not know what it wants. I believe it’s binding to him.”

“You believe,” Elon repeated, the phrase almost flavorless. “And you thought my parlor was the appropriate venue for discussing premature artifacts and accidental entanglements?”

Severa’s jaw tensed. “You’re the only one with a pre-binding codex and a Rank VIII disjunction record.”

A pre-binding codex? He can understand the metaphysical architecture of artifacts even before they fully bond? Some people actually study Earth Thaumaturgy as their secondary affinity for decades just to get to know some artifacts better, and they don’t have access to that. But still, it’s the Eidralith we’re talking about.

“Ah. So we’ve arrived at flattery.” He looked back at Fabrisse. “Do you wish to be unbound, Mr. Kestovar?”

Fabrisse opened his mouth, but snapped it shut. He needed to think harder.

Do I want to be unbound? Absolutely flaming not!

Not when this glyph had finally broken the dam that kept his magic from going anywhere beyond simmering sparks and useless pings.

He glanced sideways at Severa. She was still composed, spine straight. but her eyes didn’t meet his. They were fixed on her father.

They weren’t close. He knew that now.

And maybe . . . maybe that was the lever.

Fabrisse straightened. “I don’t want to be unbound,” he said evenly. “I want to understand it. And if anyone feels like they’re more qualified to bind with the artifact . . .” He looked directly at Elon, and then—deliberately—at Severa. “Then they’re free to impress it, and take it from me.”

Severa turned to him, slowly. The look in her eyes was not immediate fury. It was colder, deeper, like something unspooling inside her with surgical control. But there was no mistaking it: beneath her restraint, rage simmered.

Elon raised one brow. “Very well. The binding stands, for now. I have no interest in prying apart resonances on behalf of wounded pride.” He gestured once toward the door. “You may go.”

“Thank you, Magister.” Fabrisse walked first, before anyone could realize his fingers were shaking.

The head butler was waiting for them by the door. He widened his eyes for a second when he saw Fabrisse walk out first, but immediately reassembled his expression into polished neutrality.

“Miss Montreal, and her companion,” he said, bowing with the exact degree of formality required for people who had not, technically, disgraced themselves but were also not likely to be invited back anytime soon.

Fabrisse nodded stiffly. “Thank you,” he said.

Severa hadn’t spoken.

She moved like a drawn blade held just inside its sheath. Even her cloak moved with discipline, catching the enchanted breeze from the hallway wards without fluttering.

Fabrisse didn’t speak. He didn’t even breathe too loudly.

Only once they were outside the manor gates—past the shadowhewn myrrenwood doors, past the ancestral sconce-portraits, past the fourth-dimensional chessboard and its smug knight still winning diagonally through time—did Severa stop.

“What in all the shriven echoes,” she said quietly, “was that.”

Fabrisse opened his mouth.

“No.” She finally turned, and her voice was cold steel. “You don’t get to play stupid. You knew exactly what you were doing.”

She didn’t fume. She looked at him the way a sculptor looks at a block of clay that refuses to shape.

She stepped forward, stopping just short of his shoulder. Her voice never rose. “You’re not clever,” she said. “You handed him the bow, and you let him string it with me. And you think walking away with that artifact bound to your stupid head makes you the winner?”

He said nothing.

“I must admit, I have underestimated you, Kestovar. But now I know you’re hiding something.” Her voice barely rose above a whisper. “You will regret it. I will make sure of it.”

Her eyes burned. He saw sparks of crimson looming over her head—rage.

That was when Fabrisse realized this might have been a mistake. If he had been more graceful . . . he could’ve delayed the unbinding and not risk making a powerful enemy.

“Enjoy your artifact, Kestovar.” She stormed off in silence.

Fabrisse stood very still, feeling the non-existent warmth of the glyph at his shoulder. That was a tactical error. He should have buffered for her pride.

But he couldn’t dwell on that mistake for too long. He had more important things to attend to.

“I need to feed the clucklebeak,” he said to himself.