It took Lorvan and Fabrisse another three tries to get the correct invocation to access [Skills], which turned out to be a mimicry of the old mnemonic for self-knowledge rites.

As the motion ended with his fingers touching the center of his palm, a tone rang out, softer than before.

Those look horrible already . . .

Below were more sub-sections. He carefully checked each of them and read them out loud to Lorvan.

“Why don’t you have a single skill that deals damage?” Lorvan finally asked, in that low, dangerous tone he usually reserved for disciplinary hearings. Fabrisse had just finished relaying the important information he had seen on the apparitions to his mentor.

You’re my mentor, you should know, Fabrisse thought, but decided not to vocalize it.

“I mean, I could throw the pebbles from Stonesway really hard,” instead, he offered. “That is, if I can achieve a better rank for that skill.”

“And all this slinking around and being slightly quieter than usual actually counts as a skill set now?”

“I didn’t ask for stealth,” Fabrisse said. “It’s just what my resonance is tuned to. Emotional echo, intent-manifestation symmetry—basic thaumaturgic theory. Apparently, shame has a strong aetheric imprint.”

To be honest, he was more than pleased those skills were recognized by the glyph. Many of the unofficial spells were labelled Wild spells by the Synod, as opposed to Formal Spells, the supposed optimal method of spellcasting. This showed that Thaumaturgy might be overlooking plenty of possible optimal spell combinations.

“Your primary affinity path is hoarding—and yet your skills are built around not being noticed. That sounds counterintuitive to me.” Lorvan pinched his nose. “But we could make it work.”

Fabrisse replied. “Think about it. If I’m collecting emotionally resonant objects, building magical charges based on history and memory, then stealth helps me increase my carry load without alerting anyone.” He stopped as he caught Lorvan’s face. That tone wasn’t curiosity. It was sarcasm—another one of those indirect social angles that always came half a second too late.

“I think you need to become some kind of intelligence-type mage with this skill set,” Lorvan mused as Fabrisse scrolled through the different sub-sections. “Or a professional carry mule.”

“Aetheric logistics specialist,” Fabrisse corrected, lifting a finger. “There’s probably a prestigious name for it in the archives.”

Then something showed up before him. “Hold on,” he said.

Fabrisse blinked at the glyph hovering in front of him, then turned to Lorvan with growing urgency. “We need to get back to the Sanctum of Emberrest.”

Lorvan’s brow furrowed. “Students can’t enter the Sanctum without permission, Kestovar.”

“You don’t understand,” Fabrisse interrupted, half-standing from the bench.

“No, you don’t understand,” Lorvan shot back, voice suddenly sharp. “The Headmaster is asking for you to return to the Synod. You’re meant to report to the Department of Aetheric Irregularities by next week. If they catch you sneaking into the Sanctum, they’ll reassign you to Theory. You’ll spend the next five years diagramming invocation drift curves in a basement office without windows.” He was threatening Fabrisse with a good time.

“I will be the first person to weaponize a Stupenstone!” Fabrisse shouted.

There was a long pause.

From the hedgerow, Liene’s voice catapulted over. “Yeah, go magic rock boy! Make history with your weird pebbles!”

There was an even longer pause.