The first time she saw Fabrisse Kestovar was by the North Pond. And the second. The third. The fourth. The fifth.
Severa had assumed he was just skipping stones, but by the third time she met him, she noticed that it wasn’t random. He was running some sort of test—a controlled one, even. She’d wasted twenty full minutes observing him, twenty minutes of her life that could have been spent perfecting her Infernal Cataclysm form, just to see what in all the Realms he was doing.
Fabrisse Kestovar had terrible spatial awareness. He never looked up once; not a glance over his shoulder to see if he was being watched. It was as if the world had narrowed to that patch of water, that line of pebbles, and whatever quiet logic only he could hear.
And what made her fingers twitch with the urge to scorch the grass, was that he was wasting his time on Earth, of all things. Dirt magic. Static, inert, pedestrian Earth; the element everyone had warned students to not pursue because of how non-responsive it was to the aether.
Meanwhile, she’d pushed herself into Fire Thaumaturgy II a full year early, because she’d seen his name on the roster. Only to discover that he never even bothered showing up. He only attended the theory lectures, apparently, though she couldn’t fathom why. No one learned Fire from a desk. She’d tried attending one once; it was forty minutes of diagrams and passive verbs, and not a single spark thrown. Practical sessions were where the real work happened, where the Instructants turned a blind eye so long as you didn’t burn the place down. She could practice whatever form she pleased. And he—he was off somewhere at a pond, rearranging stones like a lunatic.
She had skipped the Fire Thaumaturgy II practical lesson too, because she knew she’d find him here.
The thought alone made her angrier. The more she watched him, the more her own reasoning twisted itself into knots. She shouldn’t care what he was doing. She shouldn’t care that he was wasting his talent—if he even had any—on the dullest branch of thaumaturgy imaginable. And she certainly shouldn’t be standing here like an idiot, heart rate rising every time he leaned closer to the water as if it were about to whisper some grand secret back.
Before she realized what she was doing, her mouth betrayed her. “Kestovar.”
He turned slowly. And for one disorienting moment, she froze.
Those eyes, the kind of grey that lived in granite, in minerals pressed so long beneath the earth they’d forgotten warmth. Steady, unblinking, almost reflective, they made her feel like she’d interrupted something ancient and perfectly self-contained.
Kestovar was quite a pretty boy.
She forgot what she’d meant to say, so they just stared at each other.
For an instant—or maybe longer than that, she couldn’t tell—neither of them spoke. Severa expected him to say something, anything, but he only regarded her with that same flat, mineral gaze, as though measuring how long she’d last before flinching. But she didn’t flinch, so he didn’t speak. Read full story at novel⚑fire.net
Then, without a word, he turned back. He crouched again by the pond’s edge, reaching into a small satchel by his knee. Out came a collection of odd, earth-stained instruments: a narrow glass rod capped with runes; a sliver of polished brass; and something like a tuning fork but made of stone. He set each one down with excruciating care, then he plucked another pebble from the ground and held it in his palm as if listening to it.
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Her composure returned the moment his gaze was no longer on her. The ridiculous flutter in her chest went silent, smothered under habit and poise. She straightened, smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve, and said, “You’ve been conspicuously absent from practicals. Instructant Tan is under the impression you’ve vanished.”
He was still holding the pebble, weighing it, or perhaps measuring something unseen. When he finally spoke, his voice was so calm, to the point it was devoid of emotion. “I see no marginal gain in attending practicals. Tan’s format is repetition of material already covered. Here, however, my understanding increases by a measurable percentage. Not large, but non-zero.”
That was . . . a perfectly ridiculous answer, and yet delivered with such grave sincerity she almost believed it. She wanted to ask—what sort of understanding? What exactly was he measuring? How did a pond and a handful of pebbles advance one’s mastery of thaumaturgy?
Compose yourself. She told herself. It is merely a conversation, nothing more. Just maintain a light, measured tone.
“And precisely which branch of madness convinces a student that poking at rocks by a pond constitutes progress?” She asked. That did not sound light and measured.
“Progress is measurable,” he said. “Each pebble has a resonance signature. By comparing them, I can determine subtle variations in density, composition, and aetheric responsiveness. Repetition of practical exercises in Fire does not yield new data.”
That’s an even more ridiculous statement. He is very possibly trying to prompt a reaction out of me. I must exercise restraint and meet it with a tender reply. She thought as she said, “That stems from your singular obstinacy in declining to learn any new spells.”
Severa ran a hand over her own hair, frustrated at how aggressive that sounded. She exhaled, letting the sharpness in her tone fade just enough to make the moment feel less confrontational. She then lowered herself onto the grass by the pond, keeping a respectable distance from him. He had fallen into silence once again.
Fine. Okay. This question shall be completely normal. She asked, “Is solitude your usual company out here?”
“You’re alone, too.” Kestovar said. He had a habit of answering a question with a loosely-related factual statement.
“I am not usually alone. I am here to fetch you. Instructant Tan is expecting.”
“He shouldn’t expect more.”
The words echoed in her mind with an irritating finality. Defeatist. Absolutely, irrefutably defeatist. She imagined delivering a perfectly polished reprimand, phrased with every nuance of civility and disdain she could muster.
But they were little more than strangers. Even she knew better than forcing her presence upon him.
“And of the Fire Thaumaturgy curriculum,” she inquired, “how many spells have you actually committed to mastery?”
“Zero,” he said plainly.
Zero? Hasn’t he spent two semesters on Fire Thaumaturgy already?
“Why so?” She asked, baffled.
Did he just not bother learning at all? Then why is he here, in the Synod?
Severa’s first impression of Kestovar had been different. Even now, he carried an almost effeminate kind of charm about him, with an intensely focused gaze that made her think he’d be someone who would come to class and attempt their very best to ace it. Someone driven, someone serious.
Even now, as he was holding a pebble and spinning it around in various directions along a vertical axis, he still seemed committed, just . . . on entirely the wrong thing. Which meant he wasn’t completely hopeless.
She watched him longer, studying the meticulous way he worked. The way his wavy hair fell just so over one side of his face, covering his ear whenever he tilted his head to examine a new quartz sample. The careful precision with which he extracted each fragment, held it up to the light, and then returned it to its small compartment. He jotted notes into a leather-bound personal notebook with deliberate strokes, pausing occasionally to turn a page. She caught glimpses of the inside: pages upon pages of observations, diagrams, and calculations, neatly organized and even color-coded with at least three different inks.
He has passion. I can fix him, she thought to herself.