Flinging Rocks at Bureaucrats in a Magical Academy

Thursday came. Fabrisse was confident he had something to show to Liene. His mastery progress had gone up to 34%, but there was something else.

SYN (Synaptic Clarity): 4

His Synaptic Control had risen to 4 after Veliane’s guidance. He didn’t know when it happened; he must’ve missed the notification. And it wasn’t like he felt he was doing anything much different. He just put in a bit more effort than he would normally.

Was Veliane a better teacher than Lorvan? Unlikely. Fabrisse didn’t progress at all before Lorvan. He was sure most of his gains in INT before he bound with the Eidralith had to do with his mentor. Lorvan must’ve found a direction for him and tried to mold him in that direction.

Then, is the Eidralith actually speeding up my improvements?

The pond’s surface mirrored the sky in broken shards where reeds poked through. He stood by the North Pond, feeding Mercy (yes, the clucklebeak had a name now) as he waited for Liene. Mercy caught the bread in one snap, honked in smug satisfaction, and paddled off like a baroness returning from war.

The pond had been part of the landscape long before the Synod arrived—older than the buildings, older even than the first annotated maps of the region. According to certain records, it had formed centuries ago after an aetherquake, a surge event where underground channels of raw aether ruptured to the surface, warping the terrain and leaving behind shallow basins brimming with thaumaturgically charged water. Unlike regular water sources, the pond retained a low, passive aether signature that altered with the seasons.

The Synod had discovered the site during early campus expansions and nearly drained it to make room for additional housing. But when a junior researcher—tasked with soil surveying—found that certain plant and animal species had begun to exhibit low-level aether traits merely by proximity, the plans were scrapped. What began as a footnote in a logistics report eventually became a formal directive: preserve the valley ecosystem for long-term observational studies. It was deemed one of the rare naturally occurring environments where ambient aether was both stable and strong enough to support the emergence of herdable, aether-infused creatures. No one had domesticated them yet, not in any reliable sense. But they showed patterns like strange migratory behaviors, limited empathic bonding with handlers, and spontaneous ritualistic movements that some insisted mirrored old spell rhythms.

Fabrisse knew none of this. Thaumazoology wasn’t his department, and his last attempt at creature-related coursework for extra credits ended in allergic hives and zero extra credit.

[Perfect Resonance Progress: 63%]

He let the number sit in the back of his mind, along with the low ache in his shoulder from too many late-night throws. He’d managed to land hits from three meters out now. One of them had even curved mid-air to tag the edge of a mock target.

Liene is kinda late today, he thought. Last time they practiced late together, Lorvan had demanded both of them to report to him if they arranged the session next time, followed by a reminder that unsupervised training past sunset, even on Synod grounds, came with certain expectations.

They’d reported it formally after that. Signed the registry scroll, filed the timestamped field declaration, and even vouched they would return before eight.

Fabrisse heard the grass shuffle behind him.

“Fabri!” Liene’s voice chimed across the quiet. He turned, already half-smiling.

And then the smile froze.

Because in her hands was a thin, soft-backed field manual with a bright yellow cover he recognized instantly. The Beginner’s Handbook to Stone-Form Aether Alignment.

He knew it because he’d read it five years ago. Twice. And he remembered the theory.

“Is that . . .?” he began.

Liene blinked at him rapidly, then turned the book right-side up. “Oh, this? Yeah. Thought I’d brush up.”

“Brush up?” Fabrisse echoed, stunned. “You don’t read.”

Liene pouted. “Rude. I read.”

“You read pie labels.”

“You say that, but that means I’m well read enough to read through this, um . . .” Liene rubbed her fingers together with the hand not holding the book. “Well. I’ve been reading through it. Sort of. Skimming, really.”

“You’ve been skimming Stone-Form Aether Alignment?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. There’s a diagram on page twelve that looks like a sad egg. I paid full attention to that one.”

“Okay, and?”

“And . . . I realized, your little flinging spell thing? It’s not in here. There’s nothing about emotional imprint curvature or impact vectors. But I did find something kinda close. Page twenty-two. It talks about anchored pivot tosses, whatever that means.”

Fabrisse smiled. There was something genuinely earnest about the way she said ‘pivot tosses’ like it was both mysterious and made-up. And when she flipped the book open to show him the page—upside down for some reason—he thought, She’s kind of adorable when she’s trying this hard.

Liene tucked the book under her arm and said, “Anyway, I thought, why not test it? I practiced with the thing you do—y’know, the charge-lift bit.”

“You practiced?” Fabrisse asked, incredulous. “As in, trained?”

She huffed. “Yes.” She reached into her robe pocket and pulled out a rounded stone with chalk veining.

“I don’t have that cool arc you do,” she said, “but I figured if I threw it just right, it might arc a little. Watch.”

She squared her shoulders, wound up, and extended her palm. A white spark splashed, and the stone launched in a clumsy and skewed arc. It hung just long enough in the air to show it had caught something and curved lazily to the right before thunking into the grass near one of the marked circle posts.

Fabrisse pursed his lips. “That actually went far.”

[Note: Third spell not detected. Reward not triggered.]

Wait. That objective thing was still going . . .

“I know, right?” She looked pleased but somehow also a little embarrassed. “I spent fifteen minutes in the courtyard behind the eastern dorm trying to get it to curve like yours. Nearly hit a squirrel.”

He stared at her. “You really practiced.”

Liene crossed her arms, exhaling. “Stone Thaumaturgy is stupid. It’s heavy and stubborn and won’t flex when you ask it to. I’ve always heard it was unpopular, and now I get why.”

“Because it’s hard.”

“Because it doesn’t want to help you,” she said. “Like it has this grudge against being useful.”

Fabrisse laughed. “Yeah. It kind of does.”

“But,” she added, straightening a little, “if you’re going to master it, I figured I might as well try to keep up.”

He stared at her, and for a moment, the words didn’t come out. Veliane Veist wouldn’t have done this for him.

“So,” she said, spinning once for no real reason, then nudged him with her elbow. “Are we gonna test your fancy flinger now, or what?”

“Yay! That’s a hit!” Liene announced.

The pebble zipped through the air and struck the scarecrow square in the collarbone. Fabrisse didn’t whoop or cheer. He just let the moment sit in silence for a beat, chest rising with quiet satisfaction.

[Mastery Training: Stupenstone Fling (Rank II)—Progress to Rank III: 40%]

[Stone-Based Thaumaturgy—Resonance Alignment Improved]

[Synaptic Clarity +1 | Current: 5]

[SYSTEM NOTE: Exponential growth might occur when you train an innate spell in your foundational element.]

Yes. I did it. I met the Casting Requirement!

He made a little jump at the revelation. So the floating glyph really wanted him to train in Stone Thaumaturgy and would even reward him for that.

Liene gave a soft, approving nod and clapped once. “See? You’re getting good. Soon you’ll be launching rocks into people’s heads without even trying.”

“I think that’s exactly the kind of sentence they warn us about in orientation,” Fabrisse said, stretching out his throwing arm with a small wince.

“Well, you’ll be fine,” Liene said. “You’ve got good aim. And Mercy likes you. That’s a mark of character.”

The clucklebeak honked from somewhere nearby as if on cue.

He was getting better. But was he good enough to successfully hurl a stone at Cuman’s head yet? He didn’t know.

[SIDEQUEST INCOMPLETE: Rock and Retaliation]

Time remaning: 3 days

Liene’s voice pulled him out of his train of thought, “Maybe you can show off to that girl who instructed you during your next class.”

“Huh? Oh. She’s not in my class.”

“So how did you come to know her? I thought you were . . . how do I put it?” Liene touched her forehead with her knuckles. “A bit intimidated by poker-faced girls.”

He didn’t know why she bothered with questioning him, and sure as heck had no clue why she acted like she didn’t know about the confession. Maybe Tommaso hadn’t actually told her? In any case, the idea of bringing up that topic captivated him as much as the image of Headmaster Draeth trying to explain a cringey joke to a room full of sprites, so he went for the next best truth. “We go to a few lectures together. There are a couple that I’m behind, so I have to attend with the juniors.”

“Well, I’m not that surprised, I guess. If you weren’t so emotionally incompetent, you’d be popular with the girls.”

He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Was it a compliment?

She reached over, stopping for a second, probably thinking about whether she should pinch his cheek or ruffle his hair, and settled for the hair. “And maybe just a smidge taller.”

“You didn’t need to add that.” Seriously, though, popular with whom? They were in the Synod. People were only ever into those who could cast successful spells without embarrassing themselves.

A bell rang from afar. Fabrisse realized it was the eighth bell. “Let’s go back.”

“Aight!” Liene stood.

[Training Completed: +18 EXP]

[Progress to Level 5: 958/1500]

The glyphlights had already lit as they strolled back across the east quadrangle, but half of them flickered like they were losing charge.

“Is it just me,” Fabrisse muttered, adjusting his satchel, “or is it getting darker earlier than usual?”

Liene tucked her hands into her sleeves. “That’s just what happens when someone makes you throw rocks for an hour past when you should be eating.”

“I’m serious.”

“Fabri, we’re still inside Synod grounds. What’s going to happen? Someone mug you with a spell license?” She nudged him playfully. After a short walk, she veered toward the southern dorm complex, already waving goodbye. “Get some rest, Stoneboy. Thursday’s over! Remember to eat your dinner!”

He watched her turn the corner, humming as she disappeared into the sandstone arc of her dormitory stairwell. The tune stayed a moment longer than she did, light and carefree. But when it faded, the silence that followed felt heavier than it should’ve.

For the first time in days, he felt alone.

Fabrisse turned and kept walking toward his own dorm, across the old cobbled corridor that passed through the ridge of Myra’s Spine, an older section of the Synod no longer used for class traffic, barely lit, and too far between glyphlights. The moss here was thick, and the wards old enough to pulse a second out of rhythm.

He was halfway between lanterns when the glyph at his collar flared.

[PRAXIS-NODE Auto-Defense Activated]

[Proximity Alert: Hostile Pattern Detected]

[Caution: Containment Barrier Forming]

He stopped walking. “What—”

Before he could finish, the world seized.

A force he couldn’t explain wrapped around his legs and chest in a choking pressure. Aether shimmered across his field of view in an unfamiliar hue, not red, not gold, but something that burned sideways in the eyes. It felt unrooted from any known spectrum, like the spell had no allegiance to elements at all.

He tried to cry out, but his voice didn’t leave his throat. Even his thoughts felt muffled.

Something pitch black erupted from the aether. It was the blackest shade of black he had ever seen, a hue that made the deepest night sky look like a pale grey in comparison. The world around him folded like space itself was being pulled apart.

What is this?

He was being dragged.

Backwards, toward an alley knot of trees and stonework where no light reached.

His arms were pinned. He couldn’t move, couldn’t cast spells, couldn’t even think straight.

This isn’t a prank.

His mind tried to seize on anything—any of the thousand protocol briefings, any of Lorvan’s drills, any half-remembered defense glyphs from classroom walls. But nothing surfaced. Every thought stuttered. The glyph at his shoulder buzzed again, and he couldn’t even see it.

Why would anyone target me?

And then a worse thought surfaced.

Do they want the Eidralith?

No. No, no, no. I can’t let them take it. I just got it. I just started getting better—

As the pressure intensified around his chest, Fabrisse forced his heel to grind against the cobble under him. He twisted, teeth clenched, sweat breaking cold along his spine. His body screamed against the resistance. It was an insanely difficult business, but he managed to turn just enough to glance over his shoulder.

And what he saw carved itself into his mind.

The alley behind him—no, not an alley, something beyond it—was distorting.

The stone arch and wall segment nearest to Myra’s Spine bent in ways stone should never bend, angling slightly inward, like space itself was being sucked toward a fold in the center. Lines wavered. The light from the glyphlamps didn’t fall on it—they fell into it, vanishing without reflection. Even the faint moss-glow nearby dimmed the closer it got to the collapse point.

What is that?

With a snap like torn silk through water, the spell shattered.

Fabrisse stumbled forward and nearly hit the stones. The air flooded back into his lungs all at once. His knees buckled, and he dropped into a crouch on instinct, heart pounding like it was trying to dig out of his ribs.

An explosion of sigillight lit the path behind him. Spell-sound echoed off the walls, mangling the air in blinding bursts.

Footsteps approached from the side.

“Kestovar!” came the voice. “Are you alright?”

Fabrisse turned his head just as a pair of boots stopped beside him. His coat was partially unfastened and the rings on two of his fingers were still glowing.

It was Lorvan.

Another burst of light hit the air. It made no sound.

“Stay down,” Lorvan whispered. “They weren’t expecting counterfire.”