Severa Book 1 (Chapter 5)

Fabrisse Kestovar was not a very good thaumaturge. Severa had shown him how to turn the bead of fire into spinning wheels countless times, but he still couldn’t replicate it. She couldn’t understand how he’d yet to be able to copy her. Marrieh Halveth used demonstration to teach Severa new spells all the time, and not once had it not worked. But patience was to be expected with Kestovar; the young man was far from unintelligent, but his motor functions and aetheric timing were severely below par. 

The training was completed an hour later without much progress. Now just outside the Academy’s training grounds, Severa settled herself on a weathered stone bench. She pulled from her pouch a small, sealed satchel of Endurite Paste—a thick, grayish concoction prized among thaumaturges for its potent blend of restorative herbs and alchemical essences. Though its taste was harsh and bitter, the price was steep, and wasting it was unthinkable. There was no time for leisurely meals; every minute counted if she wanted to be ready for her next dungeon run, which would be tomorrow afternoon, right after her mandatory lectures.

She squeezed a portion into her mouth and let the gritty texture crawl unpleasantly across her tongue as she chewed.

She looked up just in time to spot a familiar figure approaching from the far end of the courtyard. Fabrisse Kestovar, accompanied not only by Kaldrin but also by a couple of others—a lanky young man who seemed to be showing off with a flurry of exaggerated fire spells, sparks flying in chaotic loops around his hands—and a pale woman with striking white-blond hair that marked her as a foreigner from the northern realms.

They walked in easy camaraderie, laughing softly. Severa watched as Fabrisse moved confidently among them, as confidently as someone like him could. So he does have friends.

She took another bite of the paste, grimacing at the flavor. Friends are irrelevant, she told herself. A distraction at most. The only person who might care to check on her now was her aunt Merry—but Merry had weightier matters to attend to than visiting an academy kid with a questionable eating habit.

Severa set her jaw and fixed her gaze on the distant horizon. In less than a week, she’d turn seventeen. She cared little for frivolous social bonds; the only connection that mattered was the one she’d forged between her fireballs and the wyvern’s heart in her upcoming dungeon run. This was what she’d trained for: a perilous Tier III delve teeming with wyverns.

Not another minute of peace had passed before a man in his forties strode toward her general direction, accompanied by a young woman who moved with sharp precision. Most would have called the man impeccably styled—his robes cut with exacting tailoring, the faint scent of rare oils trailing him like a personal aura. Severa found it off-putting.

“Pleasant evening to you, Miss Montreal,” the man approached and extended a hand. “Have you had time to mull over my offer the other day?”

“Good evening, High Instructant Mavid.” Severa returned his handshake with a steady grip. “It has been quite a hectic few days, so please forgive me if I have been tardy.”

Mavid smiled. “Do please consider it. I’m prepared to become your personal tutor—and, by extension, your patron. Think of it as an investment in the future. I can guarantee you instant referral to a high position in the Department of Arcane Regulation upon graduation, exclusive access to restricted archives, invitations to the elite gatherings. Of course, if you can keep up your current trajectory academically.”

What’s so special about your offer? She thought. High Instructant Aval had offered the same thing last term, his pitch had even come with the added temptation of guaranteed placement within the elite Northern Guard battalion, and not the frontline kind. The generalship kind.

Severa inclined her head slightly, and picked from one of her various versions of ‘measured and noncommittal’. “I appreciate your offer, High Instructant, but I prefer to consider my options carefully before making any commitments.”

Mavid’s assistant, the young woman with the burnished bronze hair, stepped forward with a confident grace that caught Severa off guard. “Miss Montreal, with all due respect, this is an opportunity few receive. To have someone of High Instructant Mavid’s caliber as a mentor could accelerate your career beyond what you imagine.”

Severa’s eyes turned to Mavid, who subtly placed a hand near the assistant’s shoulder, a gentle but unmistakable gesture of closeness. His tone softened, careful and diplomatic. “I wouldn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position, Elira. Let Miss Montreal decide at her own pace.”

Severa fought the sudden urge to scrunch her nose at the sight—this was hardly the kind of closeness she appreciated. Elira was clearly half his age, and once his student. But it wasn’t Severa’s place to judge whether they felt comfortable with this arrangement.

Instead, she cast a quick look at Mavid. “Thank you both for your consideration. I will inform you should I decide to accept.”

Mavid’s lips pressed into a thin line for the briefest moment, but then masked it with a courteous smile. “Of course, Miss Montreal. Patience is often the best strategy in our line of work.”

Elira added, “It must be advantageous, coming from the Montreal family. I imagine you have a wealth of opportunities to weigh.”

It made her unreasonably angry, but she forced herself to keep her expression neutral as Mavid and Elira turned and walked away.

Advantageous, my arse, she hissed under her breath, the words sharp enough to sting her own tongue. This was the reason why she hadn’t yet chosen her new tutor. Everyone of them had some sort of agenda. At least, they couldn’t do much worse than her last tutor, who was literally a criminal banking on her support to further her criminal activities.

Severa kept muttering some variations of that line on her way home. She stormed past the grand entrance of her house just as the butler, Berrick, opened the door. “Miss Montreal, good evening—” Berrick began, but stopped short as Severa brushed past without slowing.

“Advantageous, my balls,” she cursed.

“You don’t have ‘balls’, Miss, but you have a delicate pair of feet so please do watch your step,” Berrick added. “The Magister just laid fresh polish, and it’s slippery as a serpent’s scale.”

“Thank you for your concern, Berrick,” she replied, then grumbled more quietly, “Advantageous, my buttocks.”

As Severa pushed open the door into the main corridor, a sudden muffled voice stopped her in her tracks. It was Aunt Merry—Merriah Halveth’s sharp, frustrated tone pierced through the quiet. “I told you, I won’t back down on this. You can’t strongarm me into compliance.”

Nearby, her older brother Forsing’s voice was calmer, but firm and unyielding. “Merry, this isn’t about strong-arming. It’s about securing the future, for Severa and for the family name. She needs to be transferred to the North Westeros branch of the Synod. That’s where the real power lies. The political patrons who can open doors to the offices that matter.”

Merry’s tone grew sharper. “You just want her out of your way so you can climb the ranks without interference.”

Forsing’s reply was cold and cutting. “I want what’s best for my sister. What good does she gain fighting monsters in some dungeon, chasing scraps of loot like a common mercenary? There’s a reason you’ll never command troops again, Aunt Halveth. The age of the battlemage is over.”

Severa gritted her teeth at how true Forsing’s words were. The aftermath of the Fifth Border Wars had reshaped everything. For the first time in decades, humans and goblins had signed fragile treaties, a tentative peace that held the skirmishes to mere whispers along the borders. Where once commanders had led massive campaigns against relentless goblin hordes, now their duties were reduced to managing these sporadic clashes—far less glorious and far less demanding.

As a consequence, the dungeons, once alive with the clang of battle and thrumming with the magic of competing thaumaturges and magi from every discipline, had begun to empty. To make matters worse, Muro Muradius’ recent hardline stance against the use and study of artifacts threatened to snuff out what little remained of the dungeon-diving trade altogether.

Severa’s breath caught as she hesitated at the doorway, intent on slipping away unnoticed. Before she could pull back, a ripple in the shadows brushed against her skin like a cold breeze. Forsing’s voice, calm yet laced with unmistakable authority, echoed just beyond the wall, “Severa. I know you’re there. Come in.”

If there was one aspect of Forsing’s thaumaturgy that still held undeniable mastery, it was his veil magic—an art that bent light and sound, muffling footsteps and silencing whispers. This specific spell, Nullmantle, was a tool designed not only to cloak but to isolate, snuffing out any chance of eavesdropping.

As Severa stepped inside, the door behind her creaked, and Aunt Merry appeared from a side corridor. Her sharp eyes assessed Severa with a measured glance, holding her gaze for just a second.

“We’ll discuss your next dungeon dive come tomorrow afternoon,” Merry said crisply, then turned and disappeared back down the hall.

The first thing Severa said as she entered the room was, “I will not transfer school, brother.”

Forsing’s gaze sharpened as he stepped closer. “Do you actually have meaningful connections in South Westeros, or are you only stubborn for the sake of being stubborn?”

Severa held her stare. “My connections are forged in the crucible of battle and trust.”

“Then why are you entering dungeons alone?”

She opened her mouth to retort, but Forsing cut her off, voice firm and unyielding. “You walk into dungeons alone because you have no friends in the Synod, and no-one wants to dungeon delve for no pay anymore.”

A thousand biting retorts formed on her tongue—accusations she could hurl back like daggers. You only climbed into politics to finally earn Father’s recognition. You traded your closest friend’s life for a seat in the office.

But none of it came out. Instead, her voice was quieter than she wanted. “Why are you saying this?”

“This is not a personal matter, Severa. It is for the sake of—”

“You were the only friend I had. You know this. Why must you say something like that?”

Forsing averted his gaze. His once-clean-shaven face was now framed by a neatly trimmed beard, giving him a more severe, almost calculating appearance. His dark hair was slicked back with meticulous care, the kind of polished style that seemed designed to impress rather than to express. Those sharp cheekbones, the tight line of his jaw, the controlled set of his lips—all the features she had come to loathe in him—made him look every bit the ambitious man she’d grown up resenting.

Without a word, he moved toward a far corner where a large, detailed map of the Kingdom of Raslan was pinned to the wall. After a pause, his voice lowered, steady and probing. “Why do you insist on becoming the best combat thaumaturge, Severa? What good do you get from that?”

She understood that much. Thaumaturgy, once the backbone of defense and power, was fast becoming obsolete. Even the Order’s leader, Muradius, had begun steering the discipline away from its martial roots. No longer was thaumaturgy the fierce art of battle and survival; instead, it was being reshaped into a ritualistic spectacle, flamboyant displays designed to entertain the King and his court rather than protect the realm.

Many branches of the Synod were pivoting, expanding into practical applications like irrigation systems powered by aetheric currents or the development of efficient aetheric engines to fuel industry. South Westeros remained stubbornly traditional, one of the few places still rigorously testing students on their combat prowess, demanding they prove their mettle in the crucible of battle magic. But even here, the tide was turning, and Severa knew the world she fought for was slipping away.

Severa’s eyes glued themselves to the map, tracing the glimmering borderlines and scattered settlements as if searching for a hidden truth in the inked lines. “To keep us safe, no matter what changes come.”

“You don’t even believe in what you’re saying,” Forsing laughed. He was right.

And for once, Severa couldn’t find words to say.

“Thaumaturgy is flawed from the start, Severa.” Forsing’s face darkened. “No matter how elaborate you dress it up, or how grandiloquent the oratory, you cannot deny that relying on emotion as fuel for your magic is an unsustainable source, at the very least. You can’t even control your emotions at a dining table. Why do you think you could sustain at the highest level?”

Emotional input was the crux of thaumaturgy, the very fulcrum upon which its power balanced. A single, well-harnessed surge of fury or devotion could render spell output manifold stronger than any rote incantation of the old schools. Unlike alchemical draughts, whose potency was measured in vials and powders, or glyphcraft that burned through finite reagents, or the costly reliance on artifacts—an entire branch of magic beholden to rare relics and fortunes spent acquiring them—emotion was, at least in theory, inexhaustible. It replenished itself with every human heartbeat, a renewable current tied not to supply chains but to the soul itself.

His words stung sharper than any blade. Severa opened her mouth, but nothing came; the retorts she would normally hurl so easily turned to ash on her tongue. Because he was right.

The only emotions she had ever been able to wield with certainty were rage and that dangerous, swelling confidence that made her believe she could not lose. And when those faltered, she filled the void with fantasies—constructs spun from her own mind. Devotion to figures she had never once met, reverence for spellcasters who existed only as gilded names in history. She had poured herself into the picture-perfect thaumaturgy painted in the tomes she devoured as a girl, shaping her heart around ideals that had never truly belonged to her.

“If you were that good at understanding emotions,” Forsing slowed down his words, just enough for them to cut deeper. “You would’ve been able to make a friend.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out. “Stop, brother.” She tried to steady herself, but her chest ached with the familiar suffocation of it, the desperate will to appear unshaken even as the foundation inside her hollowed out.

For a heartbeat, she thought he might relent. That he might hear the fracture in her voice and remember who they once were.

But Forsing’s eyes stayed cold. “I say this because I am your brother, dearest sister. From another, such a lesson would have come at a heavy cost.”

Severa didn’t answer.

Forsing looked at the corner of the ceiling, then to the chandelier overhead, then to the map. Anywhere but at Severa. “Fine, then. Be stubborn, Severa, as that is one of the perks of being a Montreal. No matter how stubborn you are, your bloodline can always offer you a safety net. I suggest you take a rest; you’re going to need to be in prime condition for your dungeon run.” He paused for a moment, and scanned past Severa as he turned to the entrance. “And fix your braids. The left one’s loose near the nape.”

He was the first to walk out.

***

Severa closed the door behind her and stormed toward her mirror table. Her fingers reached up instinctively to the tight braids that had been her armor for as long as she could remember. Every morning, before the first light, she had painstakingly woven each strand with meticulous care—a ritual as precise as any spell. The Magister demanded discipline in appearance, and Severa had never given him cause for complaint. Even on her worst day, she must look the best.

Her hands tore into the braids, yanking and pulling strands free in a storm of frustration. She clawed at her hair as if ripping it out, dismantling it, tearing through the careful order like a hurricane. By the end of it, she was left with a tempest of tangled strands. 

Severa collapsed onto the wooden floor, limbs sprawled. Her black hair fanned around her like a dark halo, wild and untamed after the furious dismantling. Not a single button on her finely tailored clothes was undone.

Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten all day, apart from the bitter sustenance paste clinging to her tongue. Her back ached from lying with the quartz still tucked inside her robe pocket. She took the rock out and held it high before her face until her vision blurred.

Whatever could this inert rock hold that could possibly change her life?

Severa’s fingers slipped on the smooth surface, and the quartz tumbled from her grasp. Time seemed to slow as the rock spun through the air before crashing against the bridge of her nose.

She growled, biting back a curse as the pain blossomed across her face. Maybe this inert rock couldn’t change her life, but it very well could change the shape of her nose.