Greg had left for his morning lecture by the time Fabrisse got back to his dorm room (yes, Greg was one of those people who would attend a 7am lecture). The silver needles of Fabrisse’s borrowed scale oscillated between weight and resonance as he set the scale to record not just mass but aetheric distortion potential. The scale itself was a relic, with two interlocking disks suspended above a resonance plate. The left needle measured mass, while the right measured spatial distortion amplitude: how hard an object’s aetheric boundary fought against compression. That last one was the real puzzle. Objects that were compact or uniform like stones, ingots, or sealed flasks would steer the right needle less, no matter their weight. However, clunky things, the kind with legs, handles, or gaps, threw it into erratic motion. A half-empty kettle could register triple the amplitude of a solid training weight. A chair legged its way into the readings like it was trying to occupy five places at once, or at least he thought it would.

Now his desk looked like a one-person salvage yard. Ten candidates, assembled in neat rows:

1. A Stupenstone shard (baseline).

2. A brass quillholder, dented but clean.

3. A small leather notebook.

4. A teacup.

5. A brass kettle (repeat test).

6. A stack of three books tied together with string.

7. A training weight borrowed from the corridor rack.

8. A collapsed tripod stand.

9. A wooden stool.

10. Greg’s globe, reluctantly included because of all the extra little things attached to it. This one was a self-turning, rune-inlaid cartographic model with continents sculpted from etched bronze and oceans filled with a slow, luminous vapor that shifted with magnetic fields. Thin aetheric filaments connected latitude rings to a central axis, glowing the entire construct even at rest. Now that was clunky.

The readouts would glow in two colors: white for physical weight, blue for spatial resistance.

The Stupenstone went first. Smooth weight, negligible distortion. He noted the readings:

0.8 kg; amplitude 0.02.

Slot cost: one.

Next, the quillholder. Slightly heavier, mildly asymmetrical since one of the handles bent inward.

1.4 kg; amplitude 0.05.

Slot cost: one.

The teacup, on the other hand, made the distortion needle twitch like it had opinions.

0.6 kg; amplitude 0.19.

Slot cost: two.

So far, it seemed that the spatial hold cared more about how clunky the object was and less about how heavy it was. To test that, he picked up the training weight. It had no handles and no joints. If the fold truly ignored weight, this one should have behaved beautifully.

He set it on the plate. The white line surged. The blue one barely moved.

Weight: 14.6 kg

Amplitude: 0.07

He waited for the pull of the Aetherfold as he sent it in. It resisted for a fraction of a second—heavier objects always did—and then vanished cleanly.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on NovelBin.

Slot count: three.

Fabrisse exhaled through his nose, equal parts satisfaction. “So mass still matters. Compact buys efficiency, but not exemption.”

He kept going.

Notebook: low weight, low amplitude, one slot.

Kettle: high amplitude, two slots.

Training weight: heavy, but low resistance, three slots.

Tripod: mid-weight, absurd resistance, four slots.

Stool: mid-weight, catastrophic resistance, four slots.

Globe: low weight, nearly bent the distortion plate, five slots.

The globe’s result was ridiculous.

Weight: 7.2 kg

Amplitude: 0.93

Slot cost: five.

It was not even that heavy; it was just unwilling to fold.

“Hi Fabri~ What are you doing?”

Fabrisse nearly dropped the scale.

He turned to see Liene beaming at him, leaning halfway through his window, elbows on the sill, her braid hanging down like a rope of sunshine in the morning glare. She wore the sort of expression that suggested she’d been there long enough to watch him mutter to himself at least twice.

He managed, “How long have you been—”

“The eyebags really suit you.” Liene interrupted, tilting her head. “You look . . . scholarly. Sleep-deprived, but scholarly.”

“I—what?”

“I mean it as a compliment. Sort of. Have you been muttering at kettles and globes all night or something?”

She’d clearly put effort into her appearance that morning. Her coat was neatly pressed, no quill or leaf was sticking out of her hair, and even the faintest trace of gloss on her lips suggested she wasn’t running straight from a lecture hall or library alcove.

Liene did look nice when she tried. It wasn’t that she didn’t look nice when she didn’t try, but he’d never really registered her presence in that sort of way.

But why did she dress up first thing in the morning? Also, why was she in this general area? The Light Thaumaturgy halls were on the other side of the Synod.

“I was wondering if you’re free, but . . . it doesn’t look like you’ve slept, so you should spend this time recuperating instead.”

“I can make time for you,” he said. He did have a private Fire Thaumaturgy session with Rolen, but it wouldn’t happen until 10. Rolen liked to sleep in.

“Oh, you would?” Her eyes twinkled.

She leaned a little further in until her nose touched the window glass. “I was thinking maybe we could do something together today.”

“Are we going to slide down some giant statue?”

“No! Unless you want to, but that’s not on the agenda.”

His brain tried to slot this into a familiar pattern. “Together, as in study? Or more broadly . . . like errands? Did Mentor Lugano ask you to do something?”

“Well, no. I just miss hanging out with you, that’s all.” She leaned a bit too hard into the window and the latch gave a sharp squeal before the whole pane swung open wider than intended. The latch should’ve rune-sealed the window if he’d latched it properly, but it seemed like he hadn’t. With a triumphant little whoop, Liene rolled through, landing on the floor in a low crouch like she’d meant to do it all along.

“What are you doing now . . .”

“Arriving!” she said, untangling herself and letting the leaves settle where they would. She didn’t brush them off. Instead, she carefully arranged a few in her braid and along her collar, tilting her head to admire the effect. “Perfect. I now look well-suited for some deep wood hiking. Let’s touch grass together!”

“What?”

“I’m inviting you to go outside and get some actual fresh air, Fabri.”

He stared at Greg’s globe that was floating on the aetheric scale. Her invitation hadn’t triggered any quest. He stared at the air, hoping for the Eidralith to give him a prompt. Nothing appeared. He sighed and leaned back against the edge of the desk, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Right,” he muttered. “Climb back out. I’ll get dressed and come down with you.”

Liene’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, you don’t have to.”

“You look nice today. I want to be presentable.”

Her mouth curved into a small smile. Her shoulders relaxed, and the corners of her eyes crinkled in the way he’d seen when she was amused or pleased.

“Alright, alright. Don’t take too long.” With a small, playful hop, she let herself slip back out the window, crouching low so the leaves in her braid and coat swirled like autumn confetti. “You better make it worth the wait!”

She gave him a cheeky glance over her shoulder before hopping down. Fabrisse watched her retreat and thought. Worth the wait?What exactly is she expecting to see?