Chương 13: THE RIVER IS ON FIRE AND THE STONES ARE GOSSIPING ABOUT YOU!

Fabrisse had been dreaming of rocks again. In the dream, he was knee-deep in the riverbeds outside the outer boroughs. Sunlight glinted off something tangled among a jumble of shale. He knelt and brushed the grit away. The stone beneath him was no ordinary river quartz. It was aetheric-conductive, or in other words, magical. Its crystal faces met at exact angles, allowing metallic threads to run through it and carry aether with exacting efficiency. His finger trembled as he traced the metallic filigree.

Edvaheir Prime, Variant Theta-7. Its density measured 4. 32 g/cm³, thermal resistance stable to 1, 200 kelvin, aether conductivity rating at 0. 87 on the calibrated scale. Metallic veining aligned with its internal axes, channeling residual aether with minimal decay. Its hardness sat at 7. 5 Mohs, fracture planes perfectly straight, reflective index 1. 55. No ordinary collector, scholar, or thaumaturge had ever documented a specimen like this in Westris.

He could already map its potential for energy storage, resonance focus, even for minute-scale enchantments that wouldn't drain conventional stones. No journal in Westris contained anything remotely like it. By morning, several would be wrong. If even half his calculations were right, every geological journal in Westris would have to be rewritten. This was legendary. White glyphs blossomed across the sky. [Congratulations!] [Legendary Geological Specimen Discovered.] [Historical Achievement Recorded.] [You are now recognized as the Greatest Geological Researcher of the Age.] Yes! The Eidralith agreed. He was now— The sky bellowed, "FABRISSE KESTOVAR! THE RIVER IS ON FIRE AND THE STONES ARE GOSSIPING ABOUT YOU!" What? Rivers cannot be on fire. Water does not combust. Even with residual aether, the thermal threshold required to ignite a flowing river would exceed the boiling point of most stones nearby. Rocks also do not possess sentience in any documented classification.

Anthropomorphizing geological specimens is nonsensical.

"WAKE UP! IT'S THE NINTH BELL! YOU'RE GOING TO MISS THE GOSSIP!" Ah. Of course. Auditory source: horizontal plane, slightly left. Not sky. Definitely… human. Logical deduction: Dubbie. Fabrisse finally opened his eyes to the urgent sound of knocking outside. He squinted at the ceiling, mentally running calculations on the energy required to move a human body from bed to door. He groaned, dragging a hand across his eyes.

"Go away, Dubs. The Air Thaumaturgy Practical is tomorrow, not today." The knocking didn't stop.

"Tomorrow isn't today! You asked me to wake you at the ninth bell! I'm doing my job! You said there's this Fire lecture you cannot miss!" He curled his toes against the blanket. Logical assessment: argument invalid. She was technically correct, but also persistent beyond recommended thresholds. He sighed.

"I've told you I'm on medical leave…" The soft click of the door unlocking echoed, followed by the sound of Dubbie violating his private space.

"You said that last time as well, Mr. Fabri-cated excuses."

"But it's true this time..."

"You really want me to believe they just let you go on vacation after you bonded with their great artifact? Now get up. I've brewed you tea. Don't go back to sleep." Then she left. Petite, with perpetually sleepy-looking eyes, she had the kind of face that made grandmothers coo and shopkeepers offer her extra stamps.

To be fair, she was always the kind to nap a lot, but weirdly never went to sleep on time, and even more weirdly, somehow managed to function perfectly well on what looked like an entirely insufficient amount of sleep. At least she was good at handling her personal relationships, unlike him. The only romantic relationship he'd ever had had been initiated by a girl, and he had only realized her affection for him after she'd practically shouted her confession in his face.

He groaned again, sitting up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. He unfolded the note inside his pocket from yesterday: Enjoy your vacation. For when you return: This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. 43. 78214° N, 119. 40687° E Keep this a secret, won't you? Dubbie was right. They wouldn't have let him gone home otherwise. It only made him even more curious about the mysterious figure behind this message. Fabrisse let out a long, reluctant sigh, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

His mother was on shrine duty again, but Dubbie's no-nonsense oversight made the house feel the same anyway. He pinched his nose and murmured, "At least one of the parental units is present to enforce compliance." He stepped forward, dodging a small pile of shale samples scattered where he'd been sketching last night. His eyes swept over the desk, where a mountain of notebooks teetered against jars of tiny mineral fragments, stray pebbles glinting like a miniature constellation.

Carefully, he shifted a stack of labeled stones aside. White glyphs unfolded neatly before him. [Welcome Back, Apprentice Kestovar_28.] The floating text was still here; still real. He was still statistically more likely to be mad than the average citizen, but the hallucinations at least possessed remarkable consistency. I have to test it for myself. [Skill Unlocked: Stonesway (Rank II)] He lifted the stones again. They stayed up for seven seconds. Not six; seven. This was indeed the Rank II version, not Rank I.

He had progressed in a single day. It wasn't a dream. Fabrisse stepped out onto the small back patio. Dubbie was already outside, crouched in the herb bed, frowning at a patch of soil. She squinted as she caught sight of him.

"Your hair," she said.

"You look like you've wrestled with a porcupine. And your robe is completely crooked." His hand twitched.

"I like that angle..."

"Nobody does that. Not even your Headmaster." Before he could protest, the brush lifted from Dubbie's hand and hovered in the morning sunlight, guided by nothing but a gentle current of air magic. Fabrisse winced as the bristles began combing through his hair, perfectly following the natural part he'd spent years calibrating. His scalp tingled where the aether skimmed too close. That was too fast! She would ruin his natural curls. He tried to squirm his way out.

Dubbie scolded him as if he were a particularly fussy cat,"Stop it. It's aligned. Now drink your tea before it gets cold." She had definitely ruined his natural curls. Fabrisse plopped to his chair that he'd mentally designated himself. He wondered if he should just quit the Synod altogether. Watching Dubbie effortlessly cast air spells set off some sort of negative feeling that he couldn't name. Dubbie returned a few moments later, carrying the tea on a small tray. Fabrisse flinched at the sight.

He'd told himself last time: if he couldn't wake early enough to brew his own tea, he would at least come get it himself, rather than letting his sister fetch it. And yet, here he was, failing even that simple standard. She set the tray carefully in front of him and sat across the table. Without a word, she lifted a slender hook and a spool of thread, letting the air currents lift the crochet and guide it through her fingers. The movement was so precise, so fluid, it seemed almost thaumaturgical.

On second thought, it was thaumaturgical; she just decided to apply it to domestic art: baking, stitching, shaping. The thought slipped out before he could stop it.

"You really should've gone to the Synod instead of me."

"Unlike you," Dubbie said, without a change in expression, "I'm not afraid of disappointing Mom." He pinched the bridge of his nose, swirling the tea absently. Four terms in a row he'd failed the last practical, and he hadn't summoned the courage to tell Mom yet. The supposed graduation date—and with it, the scholarship expiration—was next year. At this rate, he would either have to conjure forty thousand Kohns out of thin air or finally confess his academic failure. Neither option was appealing.

Dubbie didn't look up from her crochet.

"If you really don't want to study anymore, I can be the one to tell Mom." Fabrisse shook his head.

"You get along with Mom even worse than I do."

"Who's that senior of yours? Cakil? Didn't he offer you a job as a Junior Field Surveyor?" Dubbie's voice trailed.

"Yes."

"How often will you get to come home if you take it?" He didn't answer. The job would barely pay. And he'd have to travel across the lands to the basalt-rich zones, cataloging veins, sampling outcrops… as would be the case for all non-thaumaturgic positions. It would be a life of hardship, the kind that demanded early mornings, long days, and nights in wind-bitten villages or by lonely riverbeds. But there was a spark in that path. At least he wouldn't have to keep dodging Mom's disappointed gaze.

But then he'd just be like Dad. Dad hadn't returned in three years. Fabrisse remembered his father's last words before he'd left for the borderlands: he would only dare to return once he'd earned enough money to give their family a new life. He could still see Dad's back as he vanished over the crest of the hill, the sunset purple glow of residual aether stretching across his shoulders.

A good thaumaturge could have suppressed emotional color bleed, could have kept it from spilling into the world, invisible and controlled. Evidently, Dad hadn't been a good thaumaturge. Otherwise, their family wouldn't still be living in this drafty house, with cracked plaster and a garden that begged for attention. Dubbie shrugged.

"Well, you have a... floating imaginary text with you now. I'd imagine it'd help with your casting." Right. Yesterday's Fabrisse didn't. Today's Fabrisse did. Why was he still worrying like nothing had changed? He wasn't doomed anymore. He simply had to stop getting himself expelled. Downstairs, something clattered. He winced. That sounded like kitchen displeasure.

"Huh? Is Mom still home?" he asked.

"Never said she's left. Maybe you should actually say 'hi' to her before having your morning tea," Dubbie said.