Chương 3: Every sentence you produce violates my ears

What is this? The words just... floated. They weren't attached to an anchor or projected to a wall. He tried reaching out, and his fingers passed through them without resistance. He waved his hand through the letters a second time. There was definitely no aetheric discharge. How? Cause preceded effect. The phenomenon had appeared precisely when the Stupenstone changed. Unless the laboratory had abruptly developed a passion for floating handwriting entirely of its own accord, the Stupenstone was responsible.

"Who writes magical revelations in such a hideous script?" The kerning was atrocious. The floating words declined to identify the author. There had to be a paper explaining this. Thousands of thaumaturges had studied Stupenstone before him. If it could project script into empty air, someone should have noticed. He should record— Oh no. The Fire Examination. Fabrisse hurried out of Laboratory Four. He could investigate impossible magical phenomena later.

Expulsion would make future research considerably more inconvenient. The fire wouldn't hold, and Fabrisse was running out of seconds. A small flame danced between his fingers. It never grew beyond a flicker, no matter how carefully he shaped it. The iron plate stood three meters away, waiting. His first target. He dared a glance. A single mark had already appeared on Instructant Tan's scoring glyph. It looked like ' Failed'. He prayed it wasn't'Failed'. He couldn't fail the same subject five times in a row.

Focus, Fabrisse. Throw it once, and it'll be all over. He gritted his teeth, clenching his fists around the ephemeral fire. Just conjure enough aether to fling it. Just a speck of magic. Please.

"Three seconds," the Instructant said, "Then your score is final." Fabrisse swallowed the lump in his throat. The flame shivered again, but he forced it into a narrow column. He had to throw it now. He flung the fire toward the plate. It held... for a meter. Then, the fire sputtered into a pathetic puff of smoke. Instructant Tan's voice rang.

"Next candidate." Every eye in the chamber seemed to find him at once. He wanted nothing more than to disappear into the cracks on the floor. There it was. He'd done it. Set a new record. The first student in the history of the Synod to fail Basic Fire Thaumaturgy five times in a row. Why do I have to do this again and again? I just want to study Earth magic. The Geological Wing taught Earth thaumaturgy. The Geological Wing also required Basic Fire II.

The relationship between those two facts remained one of the great mysteries of modern education. He barely had time to step back before the next figure entered. Severa Montreal. Her robes scintillated with thousands of living flickering flames as she entered. Every eye in the room followed her. The Instructant's pen hovered, caught somewhere between duty and involuntary admiration. She was a walking declaration. Great. She had chosen this precise moment to step forward.

Without so much as a word, Severa extended her hand. A column of fire sprang into form, arcing toward the first iron plate, leaping to the second one; the third; the fourth; the fifth. When the final flame struck its mark, Severa turned and dipped into a light bow. A few muted claps sounded from the back of the chamber. Fabrisse winced. Why was she even here? It made no sense. She had aced Fire semesters ago. Yet no one in the room dared question her. The Synod bent quietly for the Montreals, as it always did.

As she turned, she looked at him for a second. Then she walked on. Fabrisse wasn't sure how long grudges were supposed to last, but one year had clearly not been enough for Severa Montreal. He fled the room the moment the dismissal bell rang, keeping his breathing shallow until he cleared the chamber doors, the corridor, the archway beyond. Only then did he break into a run past the inner quad and straight to the North Pond. The river that crossed the campus slowed there before disappearing into the trees beyond.

It was so peaceful here; the nearest examination hall might as well have been a different world. Fabrisse crouched and began to search. His fingers finally closed around a familiar waxy texture. Another Stupenstone. He smiled.

"There you are." Discovering new stones always managed to calm him down. Rocks had never once suggested he reconsider his career. Speaking of rocks… His hand dug into his satchel, then drew out the transformed Stupenstone. The white glyphs appeared again. Only this time there were more of them. CALIBRATOR PROFILE Status: [LOCKED] Operating System Required"What?" Every individual word was perfectly ordinary Common. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Profile. Status.

Required. He knew all of them. Together, however… They appeared to have organized themselves into complete nonsense. Operating system? What system? Calibrator of what? The white glyphs flickered. Another line appeared beneath the first. Nearest Compatible Artifact: 482 strides Bearing: 17° East by Northeast Navigation Enabled A thin white line stretched away from the floating text. That's a coordinate system. The symbols looked strangely familiar.

The Geological Wing used almost the same notation on expedition maps. Fabrisse followed the line. Nearest compatible artifact. Compatible with what? He looked down at the Stupenstone. It remained rock-shaped. Fabrisse sighed, slipping it back into his satchel. The white line remained, passing straight through leather. He followed it across the North Pond and through the eastern gardens. Every so often he checked the floating text. The distance steadily decreased. 317 strides 191 strides 63 strides The line ended.

The white marble was impressive enough, but the crimson crystal dome above it even more so. By all rights, something that large should have crumbled under its own weight. Instead, it sat there, uncrumbled. Someone had solved an extraordinary materials problem and never thought to publish the result. Ordinary students weren' t allowed inside. Tomorrow, the Synod's finest would gather there to receive its highest academic honors. Fabrisse would be there too, as a spectator.

Why would an Earth-attuned rock point me here? Voices slipped through the bronze doors.

"…your best opportunity."

"…the Eidralith has not chosen an heir in forty-seven years…"

"…prove to the Synod." Fabrisse edged a little closer. Mentor Rubin stood beside the entrance, hands clasped neatly behind her back. Severa stood opposite her.

"…prove to your father," Rubin continued quietly.

"Prove that House Montreal chose wrong."

"I understand."

"If the Eidralith accepts you…" She smiled.

"…history will remember your name." Fabrisse frowned. The floating text had brought him here… for Severa? Surely not. That made even less sense than floating handwriting. He took a cautious step backward. A twig snapped beneath his heel. What? Why would there be a twig in the courtyard? The groundskeepers maintained the Sanctum courtyard with almost religious precision. They swept every path, every morning. Apparently, everywhere except the spot Fabrisse had just stepped on. Rubin turned. Then Severa. She frowned.

"Kestovar?" Fabrisse considered running. Statistically speaking, it was unlikely to improve matters. Mentor Rubin looked him up and down with the sort of disappointment normally reserved for cracked laboratory equipment. He'd never talked to the woman, yet he somehow felt Rubin carried some sort of instinctive disdain towards him for inexplicable reasons. Severa excused herself with a small bow before walking briskly toward Fabrisse.

"Did you follow me here?" He looked at the satchel. No. He absolutely could not explain this.

"I came to return something." He produced the pouch of Aetheric Catalysis Dust. Before he could hand it over— She shoved his hand straight back into the satchel.

"You ore-brained simpleton, did you replace your brain with hematite?"

"I don't think—""Stop thinking. Don't answer." She glanced toward the Sanctum.

"Are you trying to get us banned from artifact research a second time?"

"No…"

"Good. Then keep it." She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Don't you have Air Practical in..." She glanced toward the clocktower.

"…four minutes?"

"… Right." She knew his timetable better than he did.

"You were skipping again."

"…No."

"Oh? So you were merely late while carrying prohibited artifact reagents into the vicinity of the Synod's most heavily warded sanctuary?"

"I—""No." She held up one finger.

"Not another word. Every sentence you produce violates my ears. Do you possess the faintest instinct for self-preservation? You know what?" She extended her hand.

"Your rock collection."

"What?"

"The one you value most."

"Why?"

"Do not ask. Give it here." She had always been sharp. Always dismissive. But with him, her words had always seemed deliberately weaponized. Why would Severa care about rocks? She didn't even have an affinity with Earth. Very reluctantly, Fabrisse reached into his pocket and fished out his least valuable Stupenstone. She accepted the stone with almost ceremonial care, then slipped it into the inner pocket of her robe.

"No more excavations. No more cataloguing." She brushed her sleeve.

"You have precisely one responsibility remaining. Pass. Your. Next. Examination. Do yourself a favor. And I'd advise you to leave before any warden spots you lingering near warded buildings." Then she turned and rejoined Mentor Rubin. The two disappeared through the bronze doors. Only the distant trickling of the fountain and the rustling leaves remained, carrying on with the infuriating indifference unique to places that had never personally misplaced a favorite rock. She took my rock. You can't take it.

It's rare. But she already had. What was he meant to do—challenge her? With what magic? Fabrisse couldn't identify a practical method of forcing Severa Montreal to return it, angered as he was. So he simply crouched and reached for the nearest stone. It was a river-smoothed fragment of feldspathic gneiss, pale with darker banding where pressure had folded it back on itself. It would hold aether charge cleanly for a few seconds, then bleed it away without complaint.

He could tell the stone's property by glancing at it. That's my talent, not fire thaumaturgy. His fingers tightened around the stone. Right. If the Synod only recognized one way to progress, then he would have to find another. One that measured strength differently. He would get that stone back from Severa. He just didn't know how yet. As he stood, something caught his eye. The white line still stretched through the enormous bronze doors of the Sanctum.

Nearest Compatible Artifact 63 strides The distance hadn't changed even after Severa had left. That couldn't be right. The only artifacts housed within the Sanctum was a relic reserved for the Synod's most exceptional students: t he Eidralith. The crystal that had chosen the Synod's greatest thaumaturges for centuries. He would never be permitted anywhere near those artifacts. Tomorrow would be the closest he ever came.

"Student." The voice came from behind him. A Sanctum Warden stood several paces away, burnished umber trimmed with golden thread, one hand resting upon an engraved staff.

"This courtyard is restricted outside ceremonial hours," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"Off you go." As Fabrisse walked away, he glanced back one last time. The white line still stretched through the great bronze doors. It never moved.