Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

Severa’s robes scintillated with thousands of minuscule interwoven wardthreads as she ambled up the dais. She bowed before the floating Eidralith with exacting reverence before commencing the Invocation of Concordance.

Unlike utility or battlecasting—where incantations were often raw, sharp, and focused on effect—the spells for Eidralith resonance were ceremonial in nature. They even made sounds! Which were, by the way, completely unnecessary and impractical in battle. These rites, taught only to upper-echelon students, were aetheric alignments meant to demonstrate fidelity to the Twelvefold Flame and the guiding philosophies of the Synod.

The first spell Severa coaxed into being was a simple luminance, a coaxed thread of gold that whispered between her palms in a respectful manner (or at least that was what Fabrisse had learned, since he couldn’t hear the sounds Severa made from this distance). It unfurled like the memory of light, symmetrical as prayer, its glow tracing a mnemonic known as “That which burns remembers its shape.” It was one of the Twelvefold Maxims, a canonical Flame verse. Gold was the color of devotion, and she had coaxed a perfect gold.

For Thaumaturges, emotions and mnemonics were equally important. A well-used mnemonic could become stronger with each use over centuries, like footpaths worn into existence. Meanwhile, the right emotion could strengthen the effect of the spell. As the old masters said, “Magic follows memory.”

Yet, Fabrisse couldn’t help but notice how rigid it all felt. Other schools of magic—traditional glyphcraft, fractal shaping, dreamweaving—spat out new spells every few years. Some burned out like sparks, but others caught and spread. Meanwhile, Thaumaturgy seemed to polish its old keys instead of forging new ones.

If only he had the funds to explore other disciplines. But any attempt to transfer now would expose his failures at the Synod, and instead of receiving a grant, he’d be saddled with a staggering tuition fee.

Next came the Spiral of Veneration, a kinetic mnemonic whose gesture-path traced the remembered orbit of the Second Moon during the Founding Alignment. Her footfalls resonated gently with the local weave, syncing with ward-lights that reverberated in affirmation. She was trying to channel her reverence.

There were four elements to a Thaumaturgic spell: technique, timing, intent (including emotions and mnemonics), and innate resonance. Headmaster Draeth had explicitly commended Severa on how her innate resonance was the best he’d seen in a long time, which basically meant she was born to be good at magic. All that was left was to nail the performance.

An indigo-violet color followed the path of her fingers, and with it, a full, round chime. All indicative of a flawless reverent performance.

Fabrisse muttered under his breath, “I pray she’d trip just once. Just to prove she’s mortal.”

He wasn’t jealous of Severa, and he had never wanted her kind of life to begin with, but he knew better than anyone that his neglect was one key reason for his lacklustre spellcasting performance. Nonetheless, he could not deny that Severa Montreal was already born a better spellcaster than he could ever be. One could train their posture, learn to time their spellcasting, and fake their emotions. But one could never refine their innate resonance. If she were a singer, she would be one born with perfect pitch and a voice like velvet. Nobody could replicate that voice of hers.

Everyone stared at Severa’s perfect performance. Fabrisse turned his head, almost against his better judgment.

There, two rows ahead, sat Veliane Veist, the person who had rightfully rejected his confession.

Of course.

She angled forward ever so slightly, chin resting on her fingers, gaze locked on Severa like she was watching the moon unveil its second face.

Veliane had always admired competence. He watched her now, soaking in every elegant gesture Severa made, every perfect pivot in the Spiral of Veneration, and something in his chest wrinkled with fossilized hope. If only he had known how worlds apart they were before he made that confession.

If circumstances allowed, Veliane Veist would have been a prodigy. She was only eighteen, which meant she was still technically studying with a few sixteen-year-olds, though she never mentioned it, and no one ever questioned it. She was a semester behind him in Structured Invocation, but she’d done in three years what it had taken him nine. It was astonishing to learn she only entered the Synod once she was fifteen, four years later than everyone else, and she had caught up so quickly. Fabrisse didn’t know why Veliane had enrolled so late, and he respected her enough to not dig into it. People had all kinds of reasons for delayed commencement of their education, and the reasons were more often than not unfortunate.

But Veliane was watching her idol fail today.

Despite the most beautiful spellwork Fabrisse had ever seen from Severa, the dumb box didn’t open.

A ridiculously low subharmonic tone vibrated through the sanctum, enough to send a few banners swaying. Everyone else waited, and waited.

Nothing else happened.

Severa’s poise of victory gave way to something just barely short of disbelief.

Archmagus Draeth’s expression didn’t change. Neither did Rubidi’s.

Draeth waved Severa off, and she retreated with her head down, before seemingly realizing she needed to keep her chin up. Rubidi stepped forward and offered her a ceremonial clasp of forearms. “You have brought honor to the Synod,” she said, just loud enough for the entire chamber to hear.

“The Eidralith has responded,” Draeth’s voice was heavy with gravitas. “Enough to confirm that its slumber has ended.” He lifted his chin. “Not since Thaumarch Iriadel of the Ninth Flame—two full spans ago—has the Eidralith acknowledged any entreaty. And now, after forty-seven years of silence, it has answered.”

A murmur rippled through the congregation. One could almost hear the rewriting of academic treatises in real time. A few of the elder magi nodded, as if this partial resonance were exactly what they’d predicted all along.

Yes, of course. The Eidralith has, for forty-seven years, done absolutely nothing, and in doing so, commanded the most reverence of all. Meanwhile, my stones are ‘geological droppings’.

Fabrisse figured that the spell-resonance was never going to open it. Not because the spells were wrong, but because they were too clean. The Eidralith’s structure sheared light like bismuth, with its stepped layers and prismatic armor. But the core looked fractured and uneven—hints of pyrite, fool’s gold, unpredictable in both alchemy and structure. Structured spellcasting might need to be accompanied by something rougher and dirtier, like a wild spell; a spell with no rigid casting sequencing. However, that was never accounted for in a trial like this, and Fabrisse had a feeling they would keep failing to stir the artifact until anyone dared to think outside the box.

Draeth’s voice rang out once more, regal and absolute. “Let all those of high distinction and rank among their peers come forward. Let them, too, be granted a Vothiculum, if the Eidralith sees fit to acknowledge more than one.”

Severa bowed once more, gliding to the side of the dais like a queen graciously allowing others to try the crown she already knew was hers.

There were more in line, of course. Each of the Branches had sent their best. And each, in turn, had entrusted a pupil to the Synod—the sacred academy charged with preparing them for resonance. Now, they would be tested.

“Cuman Gollivur of the Aeromantic Branch,” Draeth called. “Adept of the Sixth Tier. Step forward.”

Cuman, the bully? He gets to go second? What’s wrong with this school?

Cuman, broad-shouldered and dusted in the habitual chalk of someone who lectured more than he listened, rose. His ceremonial collar sat stiff and pristine, untouched by the heat. As he passed the front row, his gaze snagged briefly on Fabrisse. Fabrisse ducked his head and made a show of rummaging through his satchel of stones, fingers busying themselves with familiar shapes. He frowned. The satchel felt lighter than it should’ve. Had he misplaced one? Two? He couldn’t be sure.

Cuman was precise. His Spiral of Veneration was a touch slow, but his alignment aura shimmered a respectable cobalt-blue. Fabrisse didn’t know a brass thug like him could produce such a color, but he knew why he had to use Respect for his spell. The textbook had said no other emotion except for Reverence and Devotion would work nearly as well.

In theory, any combination of emotion and timing could produce something, but the outcome would be lacklustre or unpredictable. Formed spells are stable recipes developed through generations of trial and error. Some spells are known to be amplified best with these specific emotions. Wild spells are raw, intuitive, and dangerous. They burn more aether, often result in backlash, and are much harder to aim or repeat.

Spiral of Veneration was not paired with anger or angst for a reason. Someone had probably once tried, and it probably had turned into a sanctified combustion or something. This was why spells had names, diagrams, and sequences—because they encoded magical behavior in a way that could be repeated. You might cast something once by sheer emotional force, but if you couldn’t replicate it—if the timing or feeling changed each time—then it wasn’t stable. It wasn’t a spell.

Cuman concluded his performance. The Eidralith did not react.

Draeth gave him a short nod and dismissed him with a wave. “A worthy attempt.”

Fabrisse counted the number of rocks in his satchel. Ten. He was missing one.

“Aldren Ranan of the Branch of Obscurant Cabal,” came the next name. “Master of Glyphcraft and Binding.”

In most magical traditions, glyphcraft is studied like geometry or language. It seemed impossible something as rigid as that could draw from mnemonics and emotional alignment. In Thaumaturgic Glyphcraft, however, rather than being etched or drawn, glyphs are traced in the air with ritualized gestures that encode a concept or emotion.

Aldren, wiry and intense, moved like a lit wand. His Invocation was more aggressive, full of tight gestures and exacting syllables. He conjured a sigil wreath that was bright green—the color of triumph. It was difficult to sustain without fluttering, and his wreath collapsed just before the final bow.

Fabrisse tiptoed just a little, trying to spot his rock past the first row. Lorvan passed him a scowl, and he stopped tiptoeing.

An Archmagus shook his head once he heard the whimpering sound coming from the sigil at the end. Fabrisse hadn’t paid enough attention in class, but he figured that triumphant invocations were not supposed to whimper.

Still, he held his posture and exited with grace. The Eidralith remained inert.

Lorvan had directed his attention somewhere else. Fabrisse tiptoed again.

A third name was called. Then a fourth. Then countless.

The Eidralith, ever unimpressed, continued its cosmic silence.

At last, Draeth called, “Veliane Veist, Third Flame Honorific, Scion of the Veist Lineage. Step forward.”

Fabrisse stopped looking for his rock. He hadn’t known she’d been selected for a Vothiculum. She belonged to the class after Severa’s, and usually the juniors wouldn’t be called upon this year.

But it would make sense. She was a Scion; the descendant of House Veist, after all. If only he had known that before confessing, it would’ve spared him from embarrassment.

Veliane rose. Her emerald-colored hair was braided into a crown, and when she moved, it was like ink gliding across a spellcircle.

She approached the Eidralith and gave a measured bow. Her incantation was quiet, nearly whispered, the kind of resonance that operated with precision rather than spectacle. When her hands moved, they carved invisible glyphs through the aether-like calligraphy.

Her spell glowed an indigo which was a hopeful mimicry of Severa’s, but paler. There wasn’t any aural signature to finish off her performance.

She also failed.

Veliane held the final position of her rite for a few seconds longer than necessary. As she turned to descend, Fabrisse caught a tear in her eyes.

You’ve never cried before. Why are you crying? Crying didn’t fit the Veliane-template. The parameters had changed.

It hurt more than he expected to see someone like her cry. Sure, she might be a Scion, but she had been working hard. If she’d been scared, she could’ve just cast the Invocation of Emotional Disproportion. The color it summoned was a hideous charcoal, but at least the sound it made was funny.

Draeth, unshaken, stepped forward. “The Eidralith has chosen. Let us proceed to the next phase of—”

As Veliane walked past a ceremonial urn, Fabrisse caught a warty piece of Stupenstone nestled awkwardly between the ridged tiles and the obsidian pedestal.

There it was.

He glanced around. No one was looking at him now. All eyes were on Draeth, who had turned toward the altar’s far side to summon the attendants for the rite’s transition.

This was, of course, the part of the ritual where incense would be lit anew, the votive glyphs recharged, and the irrelevant bystanders escorted out of the sanctum.

The Eidralith stirred. A minute tremor passed through its geometric spine, like a key testing unfamiliar teeth in a lock. Most people wouldn’t notice.

He stared, fascinated. The core of that artifact definitely had some pyrite-like qualities. It wasn’t inert. It was stable under pressure and chaotic under intrusion.

There was a very small chance something with properties like that could react unpredictably to unsanctioned disturbances. All the more reasons for him to retrieve his rogue Stupenstone.

Fabrisse inhaled.

And executed the ancient, forbidden technique known only to a select, desperate few.

The Scoot of Dire Retrieval.

He ducked behind a column, did a shuffle, then finally, after a silent forward crawl, carefully timed with the swaying of incense smoke and the murmured mutterings of ceremonial magi, his palm landed on the stone.

His worst-looking Stupenstone, so ugly it brought a tear to his eyes.

A thrum shook the rafters.

The Eidralith smoldered like a white fireball, then screamed. Aether chains that had not so much as quivered in forty-seven years snapped loose. The velvet coverings were flung back.

A few of the bystanders joined in on the screaming. Rolen ducked behind his podium.

Fabrisse gasped, “Oh no, my rock—”

The Eidralith crossed the sanctum in a blink as it flew straight at Fabrisse.