Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

Severa bowed lightly toward Min, posture composed, voice smooth with the grace Fabrisse could never hope to replicate. “Magus Assistant Hajin,” she greeted with a respectful incline. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything critical.”

“What business do you have?” Min asked.

Severa met his gaze. “I need to borrow Apprentice Kestovar—briefly,” she said. “A personal matter, but one that intersects with institutional relevance. If it helps, Exemplar Konan is likely already aware of what this concerns.”

Min said plainly, though without particular heat. “I need to see proof of Exemplar Konan approving displacements of first-session apprentices.”

Severa inclined her head again, expression unruffled. “Of course. And under ordinary circumstances, I’d never presume to extract a new apprentice without formal clearance.” She stepped lightly forward, just enough to meet Min’s gaze at the proper angle of deference. “But I believe this qualifies as a gray-zone prerogative under Interdepartmental Clause 8.4b,” she continued, tone calm but precise, “which allows for provisional removal of a student in the event of a time-sensitive matter involving arcane resonance. You must have heard of the recent . . . incident.”

Clause what? Synod Magi really need to stop citing rules. It turns everything into a threat.

Min regarded her in silence for a long moment, then nodded.

Then Severa turned toward Fabrisse. “Let’s go, Kestovar.”

Fabrisse didn’t move.

He didn’t even blink at first. His hand was still resting lightly on the drawer of layered sediment samples, his hat slightly askew. But I was about to move on to minerals. And I don’t want to meet your father.

[EMOTIONAL TRACE DETECTED: Reluctant Belonging]

“Can this wait?” he asked, the words slow but deliberate.

Severa walked over in three decisive steps and clasped his wrist—not forcefully, but with a grip that brooked no argument.

“You can keep the hat,” she said. Then she tugged him toward the door.

As they stepped into the hallway, Severa released his wrist but kept her stride brisk enough that Fabrisse had to jog a little to catch up. Her expression didn’t change, but her voice dropped to a low, efficient cadence, the same tone a well-prepared scholar might use before a presentation that determined whether or not you got expelled. “First, don’t bow unless my father bows first. He won’t. Second, speak only when addressed. He’ll expect full answers but short ones. Don’t self-deprecate. He considers modesty a cover for dishonesty.”

“That’s a lot for a greeting,” Fabrisse muttered.

“Third,” she continued, unfazed, “do not touch anything in the room unless asked. Do not sit unless told. Do not contradict him, even if he says something wrong. Correct him only if you can do it in fewer than seven words and with evidence.”

They turned a corner. The hallway narrowed slightly, the stone underfoot transitioning to veined marble etched with warding sigils. The lighting dimmed by degrees.

Fabrisse exhaled slowly, shoulders bunching as he clutched the rim of his satchel. “Do I really have to do all that? It’s not like your father’s going to think I’m royalty. I’m just a guy from the commune.”

Severa gave him a glance that might have been dry amusement, or maybe just mild pity. “Please follow the instructions to the best of your ability. You’re capable of that much, right?”

Fabrisse noted the condescension and filed it under ‘Not Worth Responding To—Yet’.

He reviewed the instructions like a checklist, trying not to resent the fact that he might actually need them. Let the man have his throne. I just need to get in, nod at the right time, and get out without getting vaporized. Maybe I’ll find something that can further my skills in there, and it’ll do me good not antagonizing myself in front of them.

He adjusted the crooked claybound hat on his head like it might shield him from scrutiny.

They reached the end of the hall. The doors here weren’t opaline or marble. They were shadowhewn myrrenwood, a deep, obsidian-toned timber harvested from pre-aetheric groves long sealed by the Order. On the doors, copper inlay traced through the grain like quiet lightning, framing the inverted triangle crest of the Montreal line: sharp, deliberate, and pointed straight down like a spear mid-descent. Fabrisse didn’t know how much myrrenwood cost, not to mention this variant, and the fact he didn’t know probably meant it cost a lot.

“Oh, and one last thing,” Severa said as she opened the door. “Don’t talk about rocks.”

“I won’t.”

The foyer opened into the vaulted space of the Montreal residence. Enchanted sconces floated several feet from the walls, not because there was a shortage of space, but because the walls were currently hosting curated ancestral illusions: projections of regal-looking Montreals in flowing robes, each accompanied by a hovering caption in old Auric script. One of the ancestors had a staff made entirely of geodes.

A butler emerged immediately from the left vestibule. He was pale and starched, with a monocle so polished it practically cast a beam. “Miss Severa,” he said, then turned to Fabrisse, then said nothing.

“Head Butler,” Severa replied. “Where are the others?”

“I will call in the butler assistant.” The ‘head’ butler waved, and a younger butler rushed in from the side hall holding what looked like a glowing clipboard made of smoked glass. “Apologies, Miss Severa,” he said breathlessly. “Master Montreal is currently attending to the final movement of the parlor orbit. He’s requested an additional minute.” This butler did not wear a monocle.

“Yes,” said the first butler, his voice as still as ice, “and you are now late in delivering that update. Please inform Master Montreal that Miss Montreal has arrived and has brought . . .” His eyes flicked again to Fabrisse. “A secondary.”

“A guest,” Severa supplied.

The younger butler vanished in a puff of wind.

Why do they have a butler for a butler?

They were led down a hallway lined with porcelain-inlaid book spines that weren’t books, but decorative replicas of texts that didn’t exist yet. Fabrisse passed a chessboard that played itself in four dimensions and a silence orb—a floating sphere that absorbed all sound for five seconds every minute.

That chessboard is probably made of some kind of lavastone, Fabrisse mentally noted. It can withstand heat of up to 1200 degrees Celsius. It’d be great for when you need to play chess inside a volcano.

He resisted the urge to chuckle to himself.

“Master Montreal is a man of many inventions,” the head butler said a single line to Fabrisse before proceeding to saying nothing else. Even Severa hadn’t been talking.

Fabrisse reached toward a glowing brass filigree that looked like a lever. Severa smacked his hand.

Finally, they were brought to the main reception chamber.

A gold-framed plaque hung outside the door.

MONTREAL | PARLOR | ACTIVE CONVERSATION RATE: 17.3 WORDS/MINUTE

(Exceed at your own peril.)

Fabrisse was suddenly very aware of how often he muttered to himself.

Then the butler opened the door. Light spilled from the parlor.

And there he was.

Severa’s father.