Chương 1: Bunsen was a good dog

"Your dog's dead, Kestovar! Kill the demon now!" Lorvan Lugano shouted as his student held his hand aloft, face twisted in some vague approximation of anguish. Fifty paces away, the practice demon waited with admirable patience. Fabrisse Kestovar needed to grieve a dog that was both dead and entirely fictional. That was the whole point of this spellcasting challenge: imagine his sad story, conjure grief, channel it into his finger, and unleash the Invocation of Mourning on the demon ahead.

But he had already failed at imagination. Focus on the story, Fabrisse thought. Focus on the dog. Bunsen was a good dog. Loyal and fiery-tempered, though not especially bright. He liked burnt sausages, hated thunder, and once peed on the Headmaster's boots in front of a visiting dignitary. That was a good day. They were walking home from the bakery, Fabrisse remembered. There'd been steam rising from the alchemy carts, just like always. Then— Wait. Where did his sad story start? Was it the bakery this time?

Or the river path? He squinted. The memory was fogging up again. Let's start from the top. Bunsen was a good dog, but he's dying. He has to die near the bakery this time. Do not let him die near the river path.

"Incoming!" Lorvan shouted. That was the cue; he had to fire the spell. Fabrisse's stance wasn't stellar, but it was serviceable. His weight stayed centered, wrist angled just so, and his grief-evoking phrases were chanted at the required decibel for proper silent mourning. Still, his fingertip gave off a sickly mauve glow. As with everything mauve, it was ugly.

"Come on! Time your emotional climax right! Do you want that demon to eat both of us?" Lorvan's shout grew more exasperated.

"Y-yes! I mean no. No for the question." Fabrisse realigned his finger with the demon standing still from afar. That demon hadn't moved for half an hour, but he couldn't land a hit.

"Replay your tragic memory! Show some commitment! Has your dog died yet?" Fabrisse flinched.

"Yes, Mentor! It's very dead!"

"Chant your mnemonic!" Lorvan roared. Fabrisse inhaled shakily, chewed the inside of his cheek, and muttered under his breath, trying to recall the words he'd scribbled into the margin of his practice journal last night.

"My heart is heavy, my tail no longer wags, Dog is gone, beneath the funeral flags. His bark is silent, his bowl stays dry, Oh merciful fire, let sorrow fly!" He had already made a grave mistake with his mnemonic. It implied he was a dog. He lifted his finger again, channeling as much manufactured anguish as he could muster. He pointed it at the demon and released the Invocation. A ripple of mauve light lanced out, then it dissipated into thin air.

Not even a whimper of magical contact with the demon was established. A single strand of straw fell from the unmoving demon. The demon was made of straw. It was a scarecrow. Lorvan sighed as he crossed the training field. The practice grounds had once been a pleasant meadow. Several centuries of thaumaturgical education had improved upon it by replacing much of the greenery with scorched stone and soil stained in colors that didn' t occur naturally and, according to several professors, ideally never would again.

The field was quiet. Most students were in lectures, leaving midday as the only hour Lorvan could spare for Fabrisse.

"You messed up your story again." Lorvan walked over to the dummy, picked up the straw, and stuck it back onto the figure's head.

"It's hard to imagine a dead dog I don't have!" Fabrisse protested.

"Well then, why are you studying Thaumaturgy?" Fabrisse didn't have an answer for that. Grief was a particularly hard emotion to summon for him. He had no tragic villain origin story, no slain parents, no burned-down village. More unfortunately for him, he'd also failed to invoke calm, triumph, rage, joy, pride, resolve, reverence, trust, compassion, passion, mischief, and hope, which made this the only viable emotion left for spellcasting. This one wasn't going any better. Fabrisse winced.

Lorvan's boots crunched closer on the gravel path behind him.

"Kestovar. You've passed Emotional Construction Theory with a 44 out of 50. Surely you have enough capabilities to translate that into practice?" Lorvan asked in a voice so sour it sounded like he swallowed a lemon. Mentor Lorvan was, by most objective measures, handsome, in the way a chrysanthemum was handsome: composed, symmetrical, and touched by a certain aloof grace. The man was elegant and slightly funereal in every task he performed.

It was widely acknowledged that he had received more than a few courtship offers over the years—some from within the Synod, others delivered by winged note. None had succeeded. His personality was not that of a chrysanthemum. At least, not during training. It was closer to that of a gargoyle that'd skipped breakfast. However, his mentor hadn't been grouchy back when he didn't fail examinees. Fabrisse glanced over his shoulder.

"I don't think so, no. I mean, I felt something. A… tug."

"A tug. You're supposed to feel aether coursing through your fingers, not a 'tug'." Lorvan folded his arms.

"Are you using the same story?"

"I changed the name of the dog," Fabrisse offered.

"He was Buttons last time."

"Fabrisse Kestovar. You must learn to interact with the scenarios in your head. If you reach the dog's death and the grief isn't there, stop and rewrite. Right then and there. You don't press forward with a dead scene and expect it to resurrect." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"But I can't fake pain," Fabrisse said, extending his palms.

"I either feel it or I don't."

"And I can't fake you a passing grade. Do you want to fail for the fifth time and set a new record?" Fabrisse felt a weird sense of prideful embarrassment as he became the only one to have failed Basic Fire Thaumaturgy II for the fourth consecutive year. His grasp of spell resonance was tenuous at best, and every mention of ritual focus somehow became a private discussion about pastries as soon as it entered his head.

When Fabrisse first joined the Unified Synod of Thaumaturgic Study, he had expected to learn chants, not playwrighting. Why did thaumaturgy feel the need to demand exact emotions even when the caster wasn't feeling it? Such was an inefficient way to cast spells. Apparently, the efficiency only existed for him.

Even the dead-eyed ones from wealthy districts with emotional palettes limited to 'mild condescension' and 'garden variety spite' could embellish their way into grief or rage with enough melodramatic flair to pass a practical. If he could have done at least that, Lorvan wouldn't have had a problem. Fabrisse plopped onto the yellowing grass. Lorvan followed suit. They sat in silence for another minute before Lorvan spoke, "The Grand Gathering is tomorrow.

And if, by some godforsaken lottery of fate, you are called up for a surprise demonstration in front of the Archmagi—" Fabrisse groaned.

"Please no." He was starting to feel real grief now. Maybe he should've imagined himself demonstrating in front of the Archmagi instead during training earlier, naked and wielding a celery stalk instead of a wand.

"—then you'll just say, calm and proper, 'I forgot my robe at home.' Then you try something from Mark VII, something so far beyond you I'll have to step in and say you got a bit ahead of yourself. Foolish, sure, but in a charming way. People are surprisingly forgiving of confidence."

"Mhm." Fabrisse nodded without looking up.

"I know that 'mhm,' Kestovar. You're about to do something regrettable. What are you—" Lorvan turned. Fabrisse had stopped paying attention, and instead found satisfaction in watching a figure crossing the edge of the training field with a cloth-covered tray. Even at this distance, the steam smelled of butter and sugar.

"Pastries," Fabrisse whispered. Sugar was great for bending things into a known pattern.

"I haven't tried the new batch they started hiding in the scullery."

"Kestovar." Fabrisse was still staring. Lorvan scowled.

"Do not tell me you're about to abandon a live training session for grain."

"I wasn't going to abandon it. I was just… taking in the sight."

"Of grain."

"Of grain." The bread-carrying figure stopped a few paces away and pulled the cloth back. Professor Cakil. Somehow the man always appeared precisely when Fabrisse's day threatened to become educational. Demir Cakil was a Professor from the Wing of Geology, and also a High Magus, though he'd never refer to himself as such. At barely 170 centimeters, he never looked particularly imposing. The illusion rarely survived the first conversation.

His hair was iron-grey and cut short, and his robe bore the layered sigils of a High Magus Instructant. The threadwork had faded with age, repaired again and again and again and again. He'd always insisted he'd earned every stitch.

"It's still warm," he said.

"I thought that might improve morale. So, Kestovar, do you fancy mingleberry or merryberry today?" Lorvan waved him off.

"Cakil. Now is not the time." Cakil glanced at the mauve residue still clinging to Fabrisse's fingertip. He lifted his brow.

"Oh. You're doing grief again."

"Yes," Lorvan said.

"Because it is on the curriculum." Fabrisse swallowed and reached for the merryberry pie.

"And going well, I see," Cakil said.

"You are disrupting my student." Lorvan smacked Fabrisse's hand away before it reached the basket.

"You will not eat in training." Cakil shook his head.

"Disrupted? That's the face of someone who's overdue for a proper break." Then he handed Fabrisse a merryberry pie.

"Good choice. Merryberries are in season." Lorvan retorted, "That is not your concern."

"On the contrary." Cakil set the tray down on a nearby stone and reached beneath it, producing a wrapped bundle. When he unfolded it, several rocks spilled into view. Fabrisse inhaled. Stones. And nestled among them, suspended between six tiny shards of granite, floated an aetheric logic lock. Fabrisse' s eyes lit up.

"Professor... you finished the new Roth-Keller design?"

"Prototype seven. The committee wanted something that would challenge this year's finalists. I thought I'd test the prototype on someone who's already emptied my prize purse once." Fabrisse had an unfortunate weakness for Aetherlocks. Professor Cakil, who served on the National Aetherlock Committee, had only made it worse by slipping him every new prototype "for testing." Lorvan liked to complain that Fabrisse spent more nights with puzzle boxes than textbooks. He never complained too loudly, though.

The tournament prize alone could cover a year' s tuition.

"You also hold the district junior record. Maybe this year you' ll make the regional competition." Fabrisse accepted the pie with one hand and the lock with the other. Six stone fragments circled the core. He rolled the outer ring beneath his thumb. It stopped after a quarter turn. A travel limit, this time. Professor Cakil was getting sneaky. Lorvan threw both hands into the air.

"There! This is exactly what I mean. The moment one of those infernal contraptions lands in his hands, I've lost him." Cakil snorted.

"He's good at them. And don't pretend you don't have hobbies. How's the airship collection?" Fabrisse turned the second ring, then eased it back. The core didn't move. So the rings could be reversed, but the mechanism couldn't.

"I've been reading his submissions," Cakil continued.

"He's identified three misclassified samples this term alone." Lorvan retorted, "That will never be acknowledged while he remains stuck in foundational classes. He has to pass Basic Fire Thaumaturgy before he's even eligible to enroll in Earth electives."

"Why should that matter if he already possesses the knowledge?"

"Are you planning to employ him yourself? Every research institute will ask where he studied. They'll see 'Foundational Student' and stop reading—""... Professor?" Fabrisse interrupted them. Cakil glanced over. Fabrisse held out the freed core." I think I've solved it."

"Already?" Cakil accepted the core, rotating it. He chuckled.

"Either I've made Prototype Seven too easy again, or you're already ready for regionals." He nudged the loaf toward Fabrisse with his foot.

"Eat before it goes cold. You're coming with me to the ley-bank survey tomorrow afternoon." Lorvan grumbled. Tomorrow afternoon? Fabrisse thought. He glanced up at Lorvan.

"… So, uh… If I accompany Professor Cakil, do I still have to attend the Grand Gathering tomorrow?" Both men answered at once.

"Yes." They looked at each other.

"Yes," Lorvan repeated.

"You will attend." Cakil smiled.

"And you can observe what thaumaturgy looks like when it's done for a reason, and decide for yourself if that's the reason you want to pursue. And Lugano, please excuse him from performing the Invocation of Grief if his name is called. He doesn't need that pressure." Lorvan stepped forward until he partially shielded Fabrisse from Cakil.

"He is here to learn, not to be reassigned because the process is inconvenient. You don't remove responsibility from a student because he struggles with it." Fabrisse was about to bite into the pie, then paused with it halfway to his mouth. Mentor Lorvan had fought to keep him after that first disastrous practical, insisting Fabrisse deserved another chance. Six years later, he was still making the same argument. Whether that spoke of faith or sheer stubbornness, Fabrisse couldn' t say.

For the moment, he had a more pressing decision to make. Crust first, or filling?

"Remove responsibility? I'm questioning whether you're assigning him the right one. You've kept him repeating the same invocation for years." Fabrisse took another bite of the merryberry pie.

"Because he wants to learn thaumaturgy," Lorvan said.

"He has told me that from the start. Every year since." He turned then, fully, and looked at Fabrisse.

"Do you want to keep learning Thaumaturgy?" Fabrisse was now three bites into the merryberry pie. His cheeks were full as a chipmunk's.

"… Excuse me," he mumbled, mortified. Lorvan sighed. Fabrisse finished chewing, wiped his fingers on his sleeve, and only then spoke.

"I… Maybe. I think. I just… don't think the academy wants me here." Lorvan looked at him for another second then softened his voice.

"Attend the Gathering. No one will laugh at you. I will make sure of it. Tomorrow, something great is bound to happen, and I want you to be there to witness what magic could do."

"So… just watch, right?" Lorvan nodded slowly.

"Just watch."

"And no Invocation of Grief," Cakil added. Lorvan stared at him like he was about to gouge Cakil's eyes out. Fabrisse put the rest of the merryberry pie into his robe pocket, then looked at both Magi apologetically.

"Okay… I can do watching."