Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

Fabrisse Kestovar should’ve known he had no talent for Thaumaturgy the moment he failed his first affinity test.

He was thirteen then, standing in the stifling chamber the proctors called the Ember Hall, a cavernous vault where braziers roared like caged beasts and the walls blazed with mosaics of fire so vivid they could leap free. The fire test was supposed to be the easiest, for it was the one test students spent years studying towards. A brass bowl, a wick soaked in resin, the Examiner’s clear, patient instructions: focus, extend, coax the flame toward you as if it were already a friend. The flame was meant to lean closer, brighten, or at least flicker in acknowledgment of the student’s will.

Fabrisse watched the others take their turns. One boy barely lifted a hand and the flame leapt toward him as if on command, swelling brighter. A girl closed her eyes, whispered a steady breath, and the wick bent eagerly in her direction. Each success was met with nods of approval, as though this were no harder than reciting letters from a slate.

They make it look so easy, he thought to himself.

That was how the system worked: either you resonated with the aether—the current of existence from which all magic was drawn—or you didn’t. Out of every ten candidates, eight would show at least an ordinary affinity with fire, enough to pass the threshold required for further study.

As for the other two . . .

He saw it happen not long before his turn. A girl with dark braids leaned forward, determination stiff in her shoulders. She whispered over the resin wick and stretched her hand out. She tried once, twice, then a third time. Each attempt ended the same: the flame sat still, refusing even the courtesy of a tremor.

The Examiner’s expression softened, but his words carried the same rehearsed weight they always did. “You would do well to consider another path. Artisan, merchant, scribe; there are many ways to serve the Kingdom of Raslan.”

It was said gently, but perfunctorily, as though spoken countless times before. The girl’s lips trembled; she burst into tears as she hurried out, her sobs muffled against her sleeve.

He knew he would be next. After all, he had tried hundreds of times himself at home. Nothing ever answered him.

And now, with the entire hall watching, he felt the familiar weight settle in his chest. He already knew what would happen. The wick would burn in place, stubborn and unbothered, while the Examiner waited for a sign that would never come.

Still, when his name was called, he stepped forward. Because what else could he do?

He stepped up to the brass bowl, feeling the heat sting his cheeks. The Examiner gave the same calm instructions he had given to everyone else. Fabrisse stretched out his hand, breathed in, breathed out, tried to imagine warmth flowing into his palm.

The flame did nothing.

He tried again, and the result stayed the same.

The Examiner looked at him and sighed, soft but unsurprised, then repeated the familiar words. “You would do well to consider another path. Artisan, merchant, scribe; there are many ways to serve the Kingdom of Raslan.” Then, after a pause, he added, “Would you like to return your cloak now?”

His throat burned, but not from the heat. His fingers found the hem of his cloak and gripped it tight. Then he lifted his chin, met the Examiner’s gaze, and said, with as much steadiness as he could muster, “I still have the Air and Earth tests left.”

“You’ve already failed Water,” the Examiner reminded him, almost gently. “And those who fail Fire rarely, rarely, pass the others.”

“Then I’ll be the first,” Fabrisse said.

The Examiner only shook his head, the faintest trace of pity in his gaze, and moved to call the next name.

He stepped aside with the hem of his cloak still clenched in his fist, and walked stiffly toward the side door where an attendant waited to guide him to the next chamber. The Ember Hall’s heat clung to his skin, but it was the weight of silence from the other candidates that pressed hardest against his back.

Why? Am I that naturally inert? Do I just have zero inner resonance with the elements?

Of course he wasn’t naturally gifted, at all.

The Unified Synod of Thaumaturgic Study sent their agents across every corner of the realms, seeking children with the spark of aetheric resonance. They came to the Kestovar household too, carrying scrolls embossed with the sigil of the Synod and words heavy with promise. The invitation had been for his sister, Dubbie. She was the one who had shown instinctive resonance, the one who had once teased a candle flame into a lazy spiral while yawning.

But Dubbie wanted nothing to do with Thaumaturgy, so his mother, reluctant but hopeful, let him take her place.

It had seemed so simple then; opportunity handed to the child who wanted it most.

Unfortunately, it wouldn’t take long for him to discover that want and will alone counted for very little in the Synod’s halls. He could study, he could memorize, he could practice until his fingers cramped and his throat went raw. But when it came to resonance, he was terrible at it.

For the last three years, he had subjected himself to the flame. In class, the exercises had been simple—at least for most others. Students were made to sit in front of a controlled flame, usually a resin-lamp or candle, and practice drawing it closer by breath and will alone. Later lessons paired them with braziers, where they were told to ‘resonate’ with the heat, to let their inner warmth find rhythm with the movement of the flame. Other exercises involved tracing flame with their hands, controlled inhalations over a lit wick, passing lit brands around circles. None had worked for him.

There were training chambers in the Junior Archive designed to simulate elemental climates. He’d requested hours in the heated rooms, starting at thirty degrees, then forty, then fifty, until the air itself scalded his throat. He made himself sit still, recording in neat columns how his body reacted as though cataloguing would coax fire into recognition.

Some days he placed his hand so near a brazier that the skin blistered, then healed, then blistered again. Other days he lay awake on the dormitory floor, candles ringed around him, trying to breathe the rhythm of their flicker until his chest ached from smoke. He thought if he immersed himself long enough, if he made fire a constant companion in sensation if not in spirit, something in him might finally ignite, as it should.

It never did.

He didn’t fare any better with Air.

After three strained breaths that moved nothing but the dust motes in the chamber, he knew the outcome before the Examiner even spoke. The wick did not sway and the incense smoke did not bend.

The Examiner’s eyes softened with the same practiced pity he had seen in the Ember Hall. The words came in the same cadence, as if passed down like a liturgy, “You would do well to consider another path. Artisan, merchant, scribe; there are many ways to serve the Kingdom of Raslan. Would you like to return your cloak now?”

“I still have Earth left,” Fabrisse said, the words sharper than he meant.

The Examiner’s brows lifted, not in surprise but in wearied recognition of the line. “Earth?” His tone was careful, tempered with the same detached courtesy. “Only one in seven hundred awakened Earth as their sole element. Do not anchor your hopes there, boy.”

Fabrisse held his cloak tighter at the hem before walking without a word. One in seven hundred. Smaller than the chance of being struck by lightning in a storm, smaller than the chance of a child surviving the plague without a healer, smaller than the chance of a coin landing on its edge and staying there.

To make matters worse, Earth hardly even counted as a discipline in the Synod’s halls. Fire and Air took the lion’s share of prestige, their chambers gleaming with braziers, lanterns, incense, and every manner of curated exercise. Water at least found its place in the healing wings and in the ornamental fountains where novices learned to bend ripples like strings.

The ‘training’ amounted to little more than lifting rocks from the garden beds, shifting gravel along marked channels, or sitting cross-legged in the damp archives and being told to ‘listen to the weight of silence.’

But he’d spent three years here. Three years. If there was so much a glimmer of hope, he had to try—

His forehead cracked against another body. Pain knifed through him at the bridge of his nose, and he staggered back, clutching the hem of his cloak tighter as if that alone might steady him.

When he blinked up through the sting, he found himself staring at a young magus in Synod staff uniform. The man’s hair was cleanly side-parted, every strand set in place, his features so finely balanced they looked less carved than opened, like the first bloom of morning.

The man steadied him with a gloved hand before stepping back, his gaze flicking once to the cloak Fabrisse clutched. “What’s your name, Adept-Apprentice?”

“Fabrisse Kestovar,” he said, his voice muffled against the sting in his nose.

The magus’s eyes dipped to the hem of the cloak again. “You are still wearing the Synod’s colors. Then tell me—what have you passed?”

Fabrisse felt his throat work. “None,” he admitted. “I failed all three.”

The man was left with a pause as if he hadn’t expected honesty. His brows rose, finely shaped and just shy of amusement. “All three? Then you’ve only Earth left to stand on.”

Most students would have handed back their cloak at that point—he knew the man was thinking it. He’d heard the same words before.

“I am determined to pass.”

The magus tilted his head, studying him for a moment with eyes caught somewhere between pity and intrigue. Then he spoke, voice even, precise. “I don’t have an affinity with Earth myself,” he admitted. “But I know this much: Earth doesn’t yield. You cannot beckon it as you would Fire, or draw from it as with Air. It doesn’t sway, it doesn’t bend. It simply is. If you want Earth to move, you don’t ask it. You endure it, you outlast it, until it accepts you.” He held Fabrisse’s gaze, as if weighing whether the boy understood.

The magus’s words clung to him like burrs as he left the corridor behind. Earth doesn’t yield. It simply is. Endure it. Outlast it.

The Earthen Hall was smaller than any of the others and had a distinct lack of roaring braziers or incense haze. It was just a square chamber with walls of packed stone smelling of dust and damp moss, its only adornment a series of plain wooden shelves stacked with rocks of different shapes and sizes.

The attendant gestured him forward, disinterested. Fabrisse stepped into the basin and lowered himself before the stones. He had been taught the technique a dozen times: regulate the breath, focus on weight and rhythm, extend one’s inner resonance like roots searching for soil. None of it had ever worked. None of it ever would.

So this time, he didn’t bother.

He set his hands on his knees, dug his fingernails into the fabric of his cloak, and tried something else. He thought of the magus’s voice, precise and steady. You don’t ask Earth. You endure it, until it accepts you.

His lips parted, but no ritual phrase came out. Instead, his thoughts pressed into the stone like a whispered confession. I am desperate. If you can sense me, please take me.

The stones did not stir.

His chest tightened. He tried again, harsher this time, clenching his fists so tightly the cloth cut against his skin.

I have nothing else. I’ve given everything. Don’t cast me aside.

Still nothing. The rocks lay silent, as mute and unbending as ever.

His throat ached. Shame pooled at the corners of his eyes. He drew one last breath, not steady, not measured, but ragged with despair.

Then hear me. I will not stop. Break me if you must, bury me if you must, but I will not leave. I will endure. I will endure.

The dirt lifted.

A single patch of dirt rose from the basin, trembling against its own weight. It hovered in the air, no higher than his knuckles, but undeniably aloft.

Fabrisse stared, heart hammering, hardly daring to breathe. It was small, fleeting, fragile as a coin balanced on edge. But it was real.

The attendant, who had lounged against the wall with glazed indifference, straightened at once, eyes narrowing. The silence in the chamber seemed to sharpen. From the doorway, the Examiner observed without a word, then raised his hand and gave a single clap that echoed through the bare stone room.

The Earth had answered.

Fabrisse’s whole body felt locked in place. He didn’t grin, didn’t laugh, didn’t leap as others might have. His mouth stayed tight, his shoulders rigid. But his eyes lit and danced in a way they never had before, sparking with a restrained brightness that spoke louder than any shout could have.

The patch of dirt wavered, then dropped back into the basin with a dull thud. Fabrisse exhaled shakily, clutching the hem of his cloak with white knuckles, anchoring himself to the moment.

The Examiner stepped forward at last, his expression measured, voice even as he spoke the verdict, “Affinity: Earth—Average. Sufficient.”

A foothold, at last.

Fabrisse bowed his head, words catching in his throat. He had no smile to show, only the faint tremor of relief in his hands and that restless gleam in his eyes. For him, it was triumph enough.

As the attendant recorded the result, Fabrisse stepped out of the chamber, the dust-smell clinging to his clothes.

And there, in the corridor, the magus was passing by. Fabrisse didn’t know if he had been waiting or if chance had brought him there again. Their eyes met, just for a heartbeat.

The magus might have caught the gleam in Fabrisse’s eyes, for he slowed and asked, “Have you passed?”

“Yes,” Fabrisse blurted, louder than he meant to.

“Very good,” the man said. His gaze lingered, as though measuring him anew. “But with only Earth to anchor you, your path will be arduous.”

He paused, considering. Then, as if adjusting invisible notes on a ledger, he added, “Still, you have passed. You have time. Perhaps . . .” His eyes narrowed in thought before he turned, already consulting some inner schedule. “I will be delegated as Junior Instructant next week. Speak to your office and ask for Instructant Lugano. I will make time for you. Perhaps you can be my first mentee.”

Fabrisse’s mind snagged on the words first mentee. The syllables clattered around inside his head like loose stones in a jar. His lips parted, but no sound came; he was still trying to decide if he’d misheard, or if this was some stray kindness that would vanish the moment he reached for it.

The magus seemed to take his silence for doubt. His tone shifted, lighter, almost wry, though still measured. “Don’t worry. The worst has passed. Thaumaturgy rests on two cornerstones: resonance input and emotional input. I have yet to see a student wholly incapable of both. The odds of such a case are one in a million. You will do fine.”

The words reached him. The knot in Fabrisse’s chest loosened, and for the first time in years, the future did not look like a wall but a door, cracked open. He gripped his cloak tighter, not to anchor himself but to hold on to the spark that had taken root inside.

The magus moved on without waiting for thanks, cloak whispering against the stone floor, leaving Fabrisse standing in the corridor, heart pounding with a different weight than before.

I will become a thaumaturge, he told himself. Not a wish, not a question. An oath.