Daniel Newwyn
patreon
Fabrisse Book 2 (Chapter 11)
🕑 Added 2025-08-14 13:30:46 +0000 UTCTommaso strode into the courtyard with that breezy, nothing-to-see-here gait he used whenever he was absolutely hiding something. His jacket hung slightly lopsided, the right pocket bulging in a way that would’ve gone unnoticed if he hadn’t kept patting it like a guilty street vendor guarding stolen pastries.
He didn’t come bringing fireworks, but he did bring Ilya. Her sleeping eyemasks were still covering her forehead as she trudged along, a small distance behind Tommaso.
“Evening, dudes and dudedettes,” he said casually, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Too deep.
From the corner of his pocket peeped a thin cord, glinting faintly under the moonlight before he quickly stuffed it down. Fabrisse caught the briefest glimpse of polished greenish-blue—amazonite, maybe? Or chrysocolla—set into some kind of hand-twisted silver wire. Tommaso saw Fabrisse staring and shoved the thing back in.
“It is criminally late hours for socializing,” Ilya said as she popped open a small vial of absinthe.
Tommaso leaned back against the courtyard rail like he had all the time in the world. “So,” he began, “tell me—did you ever finish that, uh, Synaptic Threading exercise Celine’s been making you do?”
“That’s what Kaldrin’s making me do,” Fabrisse still stared at Tommaso’s pocket.
Tommaso cleared his throat. “Right. Well. You’d be proud to know I just beat my own record in the Flameboard sprint—”
“Show me what’s in your pocket.”
Besides Fabrisse, Liene buried her head in her palms.
“Nope. Conversation first. Warm-up the mood. Savour the moment.”
Liene glared at Tommaso as she whispered to Fabrisse, “Act surprised.”
“It’s for me,” Fabrisse said.
Tommaso grinned. “And if it is, you’re still not getting it until . . .” he glanced at the moon, “. . . another twenty-six minutes.”
“Oh, come on. What difference does it make?”
Tommaso put on his best sage expression. “The difference,” he said, “is spiritual. Cosmic. You don’t just give a birthday gift early. That’s cheating the universe. Throws the whole thing off balance.” Ilya rolled her eyes.
“It’s twenty-six minutes,” Fabrisse said.
“If you get it early, it’s technically just a Thursday gift. Nobody remembers Thursday gifts. But at the stroke of midnight? That’s mythic timing. That’s when the story begins.”
“Oh. Just give it to him,” Ilya said. She stepped forward, holding out the tiny absinthe vial.
“Here. Happy birthday,” she said.
Fabrisse took it, blinking. “Uh . . . thank you.”
“Oh, wait. Wrong hand.” She switched, producing from her other palm a slim, flat box wrapped in dark green paper and tied with neat string. The absinthe stayed dangling between her two fingers.
“This one’s the actual present,” she said, passing it over without ceremony.
Fabrisse carefully untied the string and lifted the lid.
Tiny, perfectly sculpted mini snowmen—no bigger than his thumb—tumbled out, bouncing harmlessly against the box’s interior. One even wore a minuscule scarf, spun from a single strand of silver thread. They turned into puffs of snow the moment they met the air.
“Oh,” Fabrisse murmured, trying not to let a smile slip. “I . . . wasn’t expecting—”
Ilya’s lips twitched. “I thought you’d appreciate a warm-up surprise.”
He lifted the paper insert, and beneath it lay a small, smooth charm carved from pale moonstone.
[Item Received: Moonstone Charm]
Grade: Common
Effect: None. It looks nice.
Fabrisse held it in his palm. The moonstone looked nice, polished, and luminous under the courtyard light. It was a simple gift, but he was surprised Ilya had gotten him a gift at all. He didn’t even know when her birthday was.
“Thank you,” he said.
Fabrisse’s gaze picked back up, half-expecting Tommaso to still be leaning casually against the rail, hands buried in his pockets. He raised an eyebrow, a silent you’re not seriously keeping it in there, are you?
Tommaso threw his hands up. “Ah, fine! You’ve stared enough. Happy birthday, Fabri.”
He produced a small, irregularly shaped pendant, glinting faintly in the moonlight. The stone was deep midnight blue, flecked with tiny silver specks that almost seemed to swirl when the light hit them right. It was set in a thin, hand-twisted silver frame, tied on a simple cord.
[Item Received: Midnight Aetherstone Pendant]
Grade: Rare
Effect: Increases Focus Points (FP) by 10% when worn.
That’s an Aetherstone, he thought. The greenish tint came from the hand-twisted silver wire it was set in, but not the stone itself. It’s got that name because it’s literally the first stone they found to be able to store a small amount of aether in it.
Aetherstone wasn’t the most abundant, and as such, they weren’t cheap. Aside from mines sanctioned and controlled by the kingdom, they could only be found in Dungeons. The effects varied widely and could only be verified after a purification process, so even though some stones may have boosting effects helpful to the mass like this item, aetherstone harvesting had never been a serious business outside of wartime.
“Yeah, I know. It’s better than snowmen,” Tommaso’s grin grew wider. “I’m just that thoughtful, aren’t I?”
Fabrisse took it, his fingers brushing the polished surface. The weight was just enough to feel substantial, the smooth coolness grounding.
After Tommaso’s dramatic reveal, Fabrisse tucked the Midnight Aetherstone Pendant into his pocket, still turning it over in his hand. Liene stood, hesitating, then stepped forward with a small, neatly wrapped package.
The shape was unmistakable: a slim rectangle with the weight of pages.
“Uh . . . this is for you too,” she said, holding it out carefully. “But . . . only open it at home.”
Fabrisse took it, noting the smooth texture of the wrapping and the deliberate care in its folds. The corners were crisp, the ribbon tied tight but not fussy.
“Thank you,” he whispered, turning the package over in his hands.
Tommaso stretched his arms with a grin that seemed to take up half the courtyard. “The last day of my leave is spent celebrating my buddy’s birthday! How good’s that? I say we make it memorable—something dangerous, preferably overnight. I’m thinking cliffside sprinting under moonlight.”
Moonlight sprint along the cliffside: thirty minutes there, thirty minutes back, plus changing into suitable gear—forty-five minutes. Travelling from and to would take another thirty. He’d get only five hours of sleep.
Fabrisse’s hands tightened around Liene’s gift. “I have to sleep. I’ve got a lecture and two tutoring sessions tomorrow.”
Tommaso gasped incredulously. “You go to lectures on your birthday?”
“It’s Wind Thaumaturgy.”
“Huh. You’re . . . really committed to that, aren’t you? Fine. Lecture first, birthday shenanigans later. But we will do something wild before the night’s over. I’m not letting this birthday slip by without at least a little chaos.”
Fabrisse thought to himself for a moment, and shrugged. Might as well have fun today. This might be the last relaxing night he’d get in another while.
“I want to go back to sleep,” Ilya said.
After some back-and-forth about whatever that chaos could be, they agreed on the activity with just the right amount of chaos: Tommaso lit a fire, and they sat down and ate marshmallows.
Then the clock struck twelve.
“Happy birthday to you—” Tommaso began, dragging the others into a slightly off-key rendition of Happy Birthday, Liene clapping politely and Ilya trying not to look like she was enjoying herself.
Fabrisse flushed slightly, unused to the attention, but allowed himself a small, amused grin. Then he saw a pair of glowing eyes looking at him.
Two deep, crimson-red irises, luminous and intense, were fixed on him from the far edge of the yard.
What . . . what is that?
His Auditory Dissipation Field cast even before he registered it.
The pair of eyes closed in until the silhouette of their owner shaped itself. Then Liene saw them too.
“Eeek! Demon!” Liene pointed at the pair of eyes.
Fabrisse squinted, and realized the silhouette looked familiar.
“That’s not a demon,” he said. “That’s just Severa Montreal.” But it was midnight. Why was she outside?
Severa’s silhouette sharpened in the moonlight, but something about her stance was off. One shoulder sagged a fraction, a hand resting lightly against her belt for support. Her ensemble had the air of someone prepared for serious thaumaturgical work: Small, empty potion vials clinked faintly along the belt, each secured in its own loop. A thin coil of mithril wire peeked from a side pouch, gleaming as it caught the firelight. Across her chest, straps crisscrossed over a leather jerkin, holding delicate instruments: a silvered compass-like device engraved with runes, a miniature magnifying lens, and a small, polished crystal prism. At her hip hung a sheath that might normally carry a dagger or ceremonial stylus, but he couldn’t see the actual dagger anywhere.
A steady glow bloomed from behind Severa. The light traced the edges of her form, glinting off the mithril coils and silvered instruments on her chest. Fabrisse didn’t recognize the caster—just a figure dressed in the precise, armored style of a vanguard or field thaumaturge—but Liene’s eyes immediately narrowed.
“That’s an aetheric sustenance spell,” she murmured. “It’s keeping her standing.”
Tommaso turned around, and his grin slowly faded. “You reckon she’s injured?”
She didn’t look hurt though. A bit strained, maybe, but nothing that suggested critical wounds.
“She looks pale,” Ilya said. “Like frostbitten marrow kind of pale.”
That sounded pretty serious. Frostbitten marrow hadn’t been mentioned in any of his lectures, so this must be real combat knowledge.
“Maybe we should come over and see if she needs help,” Liene said.
“You want me to fetch our teach?” Tommaso stood. By ‘teach’, he meant Lorvan.
“I don’t think she’d like that. But it won’t hurt asking,” Liene replied. “Don’t go anywhere yet.”
Severa was clearly walking toward their direction, but she stopped as she was roughly a dozen paces apart.
Liene glanced at Fabrisse. “Fabri . . . you come with me. At least you’ve spoken to her before.”
Fabrisse stood hesitantly, but followed her anyway.
Severa paused as Liene and Fabrisse approached, glancing over her shoulder at the glowing figure behind her. A single nod passed between them, before she turned her attention to the two students advancing across the courtyard.
Liene stepped forward, keeping her tone gentle and measured. “We noticed . . . and we were wondering if you might need any assistance?”
Severa’s posture remained slightly strained and her shoulder sagged even more than before, but her voice was calm and measured, almost rehearsed in its politeness. “Thank you, but it won’t be necessary. I am quite all right.”
Liene peered in a bit. “Are you certain? You don’t seem quite yourself.”
“I assure you, I am fine.” Then she turned to Fabrisse. “Kestovar.”
Why’s she addressing me? His mind raced through possibilities, none of which seemed to fit the quiet, formal tone she carried.
“Kestovar,” she repeated. “I need a word.”
Fabrisse and Liene exchanged a brief glance. Her eyebrows arched slightly, and his mouth was set in a thin line of curiosity and caution.
Liene exhaled, straightening her posture. “Okay,” she said as she pointed her thumb toward the fire Tommaso’d lit earlier. “If you need anything, though, we’ll be right there.”
Fabrisse shuffled his feet, and his fingers rubbed on his stone satchel again. His chest felt tight—part nervous anticipation, part unease. He’d never seen Severa like this before. Usually, she carried herself with that unshakable poise, precise and unyielding, the kind that made her seem almost untouchable. This was somehow worse.
He also couldn’t shake the memory of her temper on bad days, and he sure didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that tonight.
Severa’s gaze held him in place, unwavering yet a little unfocused, as if her attention was anchored somewhere beyond him. Then the figure behind her—a woman in her forties—pressed a hand gently against her arm. Even as the older woman took a step aside to maintain the spell, her motions were precise, economical, and purposeful, like someone drilled for years in field maneuvers.
The light from the aetheric sustenance spell bloomed brighter, illuminating Severa’s face and the delicate instruments on her chest. Fabrisse noticed the brief wince she tried to mask.
When Severa eventually spoke, her voice was surprisingly light and gentle, if not a bit weak. “I will be unable to conduct our tutoring sessions this week. I do hope you will understand.”
“Of course,” he nodded.
Severa’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment. “Please, I would ask that you pretend you did not see me here tonight. I trust that is something you can do, Kestovar?”
“Yes,” he said carefully as he nodded again. “I can do that.”
Her shoulders seemed to relax slightly. The light from the spell behind her softened, bathing her features in a gentle glow, and for a moment, she looked almost entirely herself again.
Then she said, “On an unrelated note . . . Happy birthday, Kestovar.”
She knows? How does she know? Of all people, Severa?
“How do you know?” he finally managed, his voice betraying a mixture of genuine shock and disbelief.
“I must take my leave now. I hope I haven’t spoiled your evening, Kestovar.”
Severa gave a curt nod, then began to move away, her pale form gliding with an urgency that belied her delicate posture. Fabrisse just stood frozen, staring at her retreating figure until she was out of sight.
Comments
topley
Did Severa brush up on her Fabrisse knowledge after their little spat over his job at the library or did she always pay attention to him?
