Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

The codex dimmed as its final thread faded into stable anchoring. Lorvan stepped away without a word, which, for him, was the closest thing to ‘Good job’ they were likely to get.

Veliane rolled her wrist once, stretching the tension out of her fingers. Fabrisse finished recording the final harmonic note and closed the annotation slate with a quiet tap.

[Observation Completed: +19 EXP]

[Progress to Level 5: 910/1500]

They didn’t speak until they were down the steps and back in the corridor beyond the office. The hallway was quieter now, flooded with late daylight from the lattice windows.

“So, Kestovar.” She glanced sideways at him. “Back in the training yard. What were you doing?”

Fabrisse rubbed the back of his neck. “Just trying to get control over a new Stone Thaumaturgy spell. A fling-type projection, using a, well, useless type of stone. It’s not complicated, but it’s . . . really hard to make it behave.”

Veliane shrugged. “I’ve never studied Earth alignment.”

“You haven’t?”

She shook her head. “Never needed to. Most of the spell patterns I work with are Aether-flexible. Stone-based alignment’s too slow for multi-thread chaining. But accuracy is accuracy.”

He turned to her, curious. “Are you offering to help?”

She gave a slight shrug, the corner of her mouth tipping up. “You’re already familiar with spell timing. I can help with the aim. You’ve seen my arc glyphs.”

“Only from a safe distance.”

“Smart.”

They crossed into one of the shared outdoor training fields, the kind reserved for general-use thaumaturgic exercises. It was a wide swath of grass, lightly flattened in places from combat footwork drills.

Several marked circles were drawn in sand or salt, and in the far corner a pair of water-aligned students were halfheartedly levitating a droplet between them like a bored contest.

“Do we need to book this?” Fabrisse asked.

Veliane waved a hand. “Not after class hours. First come, first scorch.”

“Good to know.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled out one of the practice stones he’d been using earlier. It was smooth and faintly warm from contact, still holding a trace of focus residue.

“Okay,” he said, gripping the stone. “Watch this. If it works, the pebble’s supposed to home in on emotional signature. If not . . . it’ll hit my foot.”

Fabrisse inhaled, tapped the glyphplate at his shoulder, and flung the stone forward.

It sailed awkwardly, curved left, and dropped unceremoniously three meters short of the scarecrow target.

“You’re still far off,” Veliane stated the obvious.

“That was seven percent progress,” Fabrisse muttered, trudging over to retrieve the pebble again.

She followed, arms folded. “Show me your grip. No—stop. Here.”

Without waiting, she reached out and adjusted his fingers over the stone. Her thumb curled against the side. Her hand brushed his.

His first instinct was to step back. He overrode it with effort. This was fine.

She didn’t seem to notice.

“Don’t grip it so tight,” she said. “You’re wasting all your strength on the grip, when it should be spent on the push through the forearm and the follow-through from the shoulder. Stop gripping it so tightly will give the throw more force and let you release the stone when you want to. You can’t grab magic. Just give it a frame and let the rest follow.”

Fabrisse stared at her—not just because of the words, but because she’d said them with such ease, like she wasn’t even trying to be insightful. Her hand still hovered near his, warm from the adjustment, and for a second, he wondered if this moment meant anything to her at all. “That’s surprisingly poetic.”

“I read,” Veliane said.

He tried another throw. The stone arced cleaner this time. It didn’t hit the scarecrow, but it didn’t hit the grass either.

A few students passed by in the distance, not watching, but Fabrisse suddenly became very aware of how visible they were. He kept his voice low. “I didn’t think you’d want to hang around me, after what happened last—”

Veliane shook her head once. “You’re stronger than you think. And more relevant than you realize.”

“That sounded like a quote.” He couldn’t imagine an actual human being saying that.

“It is.”

“From where?”

“Avon McClay.” She stepped back to give him room for another shot. He had no idea who that person was.

Fabrisse loosened his hold on the stone a little.

Maybe this wasn’t about pie or training. Maybe she was just curious. Or maybe something had changed.

Either way, he took aim again. A quiet flicker of shape behind the scarecrow caught his eye—the way the field lines bent around a low-anchored rune. Probably defensive. Probably old. The glyph didn’t glow, but his gut said it was there.

Maybe Arcform Sense was in the works.

He charged the stone to the maximum. Hold it loosely, so I can release it better. Focus on the swing.

And this time, when the Stupenstone launched, it curved mid-flight.

A perfect hit. The scarecrow’s head popped off with a puff of straw.

[Mastery Training: Stupenstone Fling (Rank II)—Progress to Rank III: 17%]

→ Trajectory Curvature: Stable

→ Estimated Launch Velocity: 8.4 m/s (63% max) + 12% (Celestial Hoarding) + 5% (Stoneborn Synapse)

→ Accuracy Deviation: ±4.5%

“It . . . it worked,” he muttered, staring at the scarecrow.

Veist didn’t cheer. She nodded once.

“Better,” she said.

The speed was terrible, and that accuracy could definitely use some tightening. But it was real progress.

Still, he could only achieve 63% of the maximum velocity. He wouldn’t be able to clear 70% if he couldn’t get his SYN to 5 or above.

He turned to her, maybe to say thank you, or maybe to joke that she made a better Earth Thaumaturgy tutor than all the geomancers he’d met (which would be one), but then he saw her eyes had shifted to something past his shoulder.

Fabrisse turned.

There, at the edge of the training field’s salt-marked border, stood Liene Lugano. Her arms were crossed, but not tight, and her posture looked relaxed in a way that somehow was not quite at ease with herself like she normally exuded. A breeze caught at the hem of her Synod uniform robe, flicking it against her legs like she wasn’t moving.

She wasn’t alone. A fellow student was beside her and saying something to her. But whatever he was saying faltered when Liene didn’t respond.

Her gaze was fixed on Fabrisse.

Fabrisse looked at her.

Then she looked at Veist.

There was a pause, then Liene broke it. She gave her companion a brief word and a polite touch to the sleeve. He nodded and peeled away.

Oh, great . . . She’s feeling cheated because I’m training with someone else.

Veliane seemed perfectly calm, save for the way she adjusted her gloves by the wrist, and tugging once, unnecessarily.

Liene stopped at the field’s boundary, right beside the spare stones Fabrisse had gathered in a canvas bag.

“Hi, Fabri! Training?” she asked him, her voice lighter than usual. She looked at the scarecrow, then the still-glowing pebble, then Veliane again. “Hi, you!”

“Trying to improve consistency,” Fabrisse said. “I’m still missing half my shots.”

Veliane nodded politely. “Veliane Veist.”

“Liene Lugano,” she replied, brushing a curl behind her ear. “We’ve never officially met, I think.” Liene knew about Veliane Veist, though. Tommaso had tattletaled to her all about his failed confession attempt, because you could never expect Tommaso to keep a secret. Fabrisse didn’t even know how Tommaso had known the exact details, especially since he hadn’t told anyone about it. Maybe the fact that he’d confessed in the refectory while drinking, underaged, and reciting the Headmaster’s speech in reverse had probably gathered some attention. The worst thing about it was that the confession had been Tommaso’s idea. Fabrisse wasn’t happy about how the whole thing went down, but it wasn’t like he had voiced his opposition when his best friend laid out his failproof plan.

“Are you the Mentor’s sister?” Veliane raised a brow.

Liene laughed lightly. “Oh no, I only look like him when I’m scowling, which isn’t often.” Then she added, in that same cheery tone, “I’m his sister, yes. Liene Lugano.”

“I see.” And then, with careful diplomacy, “He speaks of you.”

“I’ll assume that’s a good thing.” Liene crouched and picked up a stone, giving it a small toss in her palm before looking at Fabrisse. “So. You swapped partners and forgot to tell me?”

Fabrisse flushed. “It’s not like that.”

“Sure.” She twirled the stone once in her fingers. “I was supposed to drag you through the synaptic control, remember? We had a vague plan.”

“Well . . . we’re still going with that plan.” Fabrisse scratched the back of his head. “We haven’t set the date up yet.”

“Guess it can be hard to set up plans now you have more things to worry about.” Liene tossed the stone once and caught it. “Glad you’re getting help, though. I can’t compete with real effort.”

“You’re . . . really good at feedback,” Fabrisse mumbled, which wasn’t helpful. Why did that last line from her sound so aggressive? I haven’t done anything that wrong, right?

“Mm-hm.” Liene smiled. “So we’ll have our next session on, say, Thursday?”

“I’m free on Thursday.”

“It’s settled, then! We’ll see how much you’ve improved. See you around.” She turned to Veliane. “Bye!” She waved and wandered off without waiting for a reply.

Veliane said nothing for a moment, then adjusted her gloves again. “Ready?”

He wasn’t. But nodding was easier than explaining the noise still rattling around behind his thoughts.

Fabrisse swallowed and tried to focus. The scarecrow wasn’t the only thing under target today.

By the end of the session, Fabrisse gained another 30 EXP.

[Progress to Level 5: 940/1500]