Basic Thaumaturgy for the Emotionally Incompetent

Chapter 48.6: Who cares about someone else’s friendship?

Fabrisse thought as a servant approached with a bottle of red wine. Fabrisse gave a small nod, the kind that was meant to be polite but probably looked more like a mechanical tic. The servant filled his glass halfway, and Fabrisse tried to match the expected social script with a wry smile.He hadn’t touched alcohol since the confession incident with Veliane. That had been enough lesson for one lifetime. If fermented grape juice made him think was a sound idea, then abstinence was the superior strategy.

This servant actually knew how to smile, made apparent by the fact he’d just smiled at Fabrisse. The presence of someone so close to him distracted him from his line of thinking.

“It is the same boy, but that does not mean we weren’t friends before,” Severa said as another butler came over and poured wine for her.

“She didn’t help me bind with the Eidralith or anything like that,” Kestovar blurted.

Severa froze with her wine glass halfway to her lips. Time flowed in slow motion as she turned her head his way. Severa’s brother, meanwhile, had that look of mild, cultivated amusement, the way children look at a fire ant hill right before they decide to poke it with a stick just to see the chaos unfold.

Great. The one time he decided to be proactive and changed his narrative, she somehow also changed her narrative to directly clash with his.

Beneath the table, her foot found his ankle. Her smile remained perfectly shaped, but her eyes had the glacial precision of a spell about to detonate. He gulped.

Severa widened her smile a fraction, the sort that looked dazzling to everyone but promised retribution to its recipient. “What my dear friend ,” Severa said sweetly, “is that I didn’t help him bind the artifact. We were merely—ah—academic acquaintances at the time, weren’t we? He had spent months preparing for the Vothiculum too, as did anyone. It was a shame he wasn’t called up to perform, but fate has chosen him nonetheless.”

She smiled at him, and when he hadn’t spoken up, her smile grew wider and slightly more strained.

“Yes,” he said at last. “Acquaintances. Who are friends now.”hing led to another. Mutual respect was re-established and the friendship was rekindled. It’s hardly a saga, but you did ask for a timeline.”

Her boot grazed just past his. He couldn’t tell if it was her cue for him to speak up, or just an unintentional touch.

He spoke anyway, “Yes, Sir. She even apologized after the ordeal.”

Silence ensued. Severa’s legs shook.

Forsing’s brows arched, slow and predatory. His glass resumed a lazy turn between his fingers. “Did she now?” he murmured. “Good on you, sister! You’ve learned the art of apology. How progressive of you.”

Her smile did not move, though her foot connected with Kestovar’s ankle again, harder this time.

[Damage Received: Slight Bump on Ankle]

“Oh, I wouldn’t exaggerate, brother,” she said airily. “It was less an apology and more a—mutual acknowledgment of error.” Then she turned to Kestovar. “I’m so glad my words on you made an impression, isn’t it so, Kestovar?”

“Yes, yes,” Kestovar said too quickly.

Forsing’s grin deepened. “How magnanimous. I must say, it’s encouraging to see such in you, Severa.”

She lifted her glass again, the gesture graceful, her knuckles white. “Growth is a relative concept,” she said, “particularly when one must compensate for the deficits of others.”

The Magister’s gaze had turned toward Kestovar now, sharp as glass shards beneath the chandelier’s reflection. He could almost feel the pressure radiating across the table. he thought desperately.

But the Magister chose to target Severa instead.

“You might have spent more time socializing than I gave you credit for, Severa,” he said, almost indulgently. “You’ve managed to persuade an academy mate to join you here tonight—how remarkable. Or perhaps,” his smile thinned, “coercion proved the more effective art? That would be quite an achievement for you.”

She smiled. “Coercion, Magister?” she echoed softly. “If I possessed such persuasive talents, I assure you, I would’ve applied them toward more meaningful ends.”

All the ambient context fell away. Whatever this was had stopped being dinner. They were no longer talking about him or even to him. It was something else now: some intricate, invisible game unfolding across the table, made of smiles and double-meaning sentences and tonal shifts too small for him to parse.

He was pretty sure they’d switched to four-dimensional chess. And he’d never even played regular chess.

The Magister’s smile deepened a fraction as he said, “But you see—”

“Magister,” the older woman from across the table finally spoke. Her tone was neither raised nor sharp, yet it was enough for all heads to turn. “With all due respect, tonight is a celebration held in my honor. I have been invited as the guest of distinction, and I believe our focus ought to remain upon that.”

The pressure diffused, like someone had opened a release valve. Conversation rerouted itself around the interruption with seamless etiquette.

Fabrisse blinked. He wasn’t sure what exactly had just happened, only that the vector of danger had changed direction. Someone had stepped between Severa and the Magister—deliberately, he thought. Like interference in an aether field.

The Magister inclined his head slightly, the ghost of a smile still playing at his lips, but he yielded. “Of course, Prefect Halveth. I merely sought to understand the story behind such . . . promising young company. After all, few know better than you how selective my daughter can be in her associations. This is quite a development.”

“Speaking of development,” Halveth intercepted once more, “I imagine the Council will soon need to address the resurgence of goblin movements along the eastern borders. Their incursions near the Arget Pass have doubled since midsummer.” Her tone made it sound like the continuation of a polite dinner topic, but it landed with the precision of a saber edge. “Which means, of course, that quality armaments are once again in high demand. Dungeoneers, mercenary guilds, the Borderwatch—all require dependable craftwork. This, I believe, is a ripe time for .”

That was his cue to stop pretending he understood any of this.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The sound of the Aetheric Feline Detector threaded through the conversation like a metronome only he could hear. He turned his attention to the far corner of the room—there it was. The cat-thing, gliding along the marble baseboard like spilled ink trying to remember how to be solid. Its front limb phased through a chair leg as though testing local geometry for weaknesses.

The cat paused near the doorway, raised a hind leg, then started licking its butthole.

He rubbed his forehead. Did aetheric physiology even require hygiene? Was it instinctual? Symbolic? A low-level mana discharge protocol?

The thing gave no indication of embarrassment. It just carried on, completely unfazed by decorum, hierarchy, or Magisters.

Severa plastered on her most gracious smile and rose lightly to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment,” she said, her tone all practiced politeness. “I believe one of the servants needs clarification about the seating arrangements. Kestovar, would you be so kind as to assist me?”

Confusion rose from his expression like mist. His brow furrowed as though she’d just asked him to define . “What’s wrong with the seating arrangements?”

“Shhhh.” She glared daggers at him, and that got him to shut up.

“Now,” she added sweetly through clenched teeth, “if you please.”