After Fabrisse had accepted the directive, Draeth reached into the inner pocket of his robe and produced a narrow, vellum scroll. He handed it over without a word. The edges gleamed faintly where wards had been etched along the seams.

“Non-disclosure,” Draeth said. “Mentorship, method, and my existence as a Stone Thaumaturge. You sign, you obey. You leak, you forfeit all rights to grants, scholarships, or institutional favor. Until a minimal level of mastery is demonstrated, nothing else will be offered.”

“But I won’t have any scholarships anymore,” Fabrisse countered.

“I will grant you a partial stipend,” Draeth said, voice measured. “Eight thousand Kohns. If your tuition is fully covered by other means, this will suffice for your living expenses. You will not receive additional grants or scholarships until your mastery under me is acknowledged. Your focus is not to be divided; distractions are a liability.”

That meant he had eleven thousand saved up now; almost half of his required tuition. Maybe passing all his practicals would give him grounds to ask for further partial grants.

Fabrisse’s fingers flexed around the scroll. “So . . . I’ll have to fund everything else myself until I prove myself?”

Draeth’s gaze didn’t waver. “Yes. How do I know you will not just laze around again?” Then the headmaster turned to face Lorvan. “And you, Mentor Lugano, how is it that a student under your supervision has become so accustomed to leniency? Too often, I find our prodigies allowed to skirt responsibility. You have only seventeen students under your wing. Seventeen. That is scarcely a number to occupy your attention, yet somehow, guidance is neglected.”

Only seventeen? Fabrisse thought. Do you know how much time it takes to tutor even one properly? Mentors are stretched thin as it is . . .

Lorvan opened his mouth. “We both agreed he could earn a position as a theoretical researcher after completing the previous cycle of studies. That would have allowed him to—”

“That is no longer sufficient,” Draeth interrupted, voice cutting through the room like a chisel. “My student must cast spells. Action is the measure of worth, and I will accept nothing less.” Then he turned back to Fabrisse. “Now read your contract.”

Fabrisse unfolded the scroll, eyes scanning the tight script. It was a legalistic maze of clauses, curses, and layered bindings, each line a minor test of attention.

“Any questions?” Draeth had already asked when Fabrisse had barely read past the second paragraph.

“Uh . . . Is Miss Aldith atte Mere really your niece?”

“Yes,” the Headmaster pinched his nose. “Any contract-related questions?”

Kaldrin stepped forward quietly. He leaned just enough to peer over Fabrisse’s shoulder. “Hmm,” he murmured, eyes flicking across the wards and runes. “This clause here—‘all communication regarding mentorship shall remain sealed until mastery is demonstrated’—that’s rather restrictive. Too broad. It could technically prevent you from even consulting on a group assignment, or asking for clarification on technical components outside the Headmaster’s direct supervision.”

Fabrisse’s brow furrowed. “I noticed that too. But it seemed . . . unavoidable.”

Kaldrin shook his head. “Not unavoidable. Overly rigid wording is often a test of comprehension as much as obedience. The key is that ‘communication regarding mentorship’ refers solely to Party A, Draeth, and any other discussion outside that—like with peers or for purely procedural matters—doesn’t fall under the restriction.”

Fabrisse swallowed, feeling the weight of Kaldrin’s words. Should I point this out? he thought, fingers brushing the runes. Or is it a trap to see if I question authority?

He looked up at Draeth, whose eyes were already fixed on him, immovable.

“I . . . I see the clause,” Fabrisse said carefully, keeping his voice neutral. “It might restrict practical questions outside direct supervision.”

“Noted,” Draeth said finally, flat and absolute. “The wording stands. Comprehension is part of mastery. You will learn to read contracts properly and to operate within these boundaries.”

Kaldrin exhaled, stepping back. “You should be fine. You can still communicate and learn from any other thaumaturge within the Synod. Just don’t talk to anyone about your mentorship with the Headmaster, or any subsequent spell you will learn under him. Don’t show them to anyone.”

That sounds about right. The Headmaster probably doesn’t care enough about me to enforce every rigid restriction in this clause, he thought. It’s a test only.

And . . . he could actually learn Stone spells—real, practical ones, things he hadn’t even seen in the tomes or in demonstrations. Spells that could manipulate foundations, artifacts, maybe even things beyond standard thaumaturgy. The thought sent a spark of excitement through him. Even if it had to be under Draeth’s strict supervision, even if it meant navigating a minefield of restrictions, the chance to access knowledge like that—he couldn’t pass it up. Not after he had locked himself in this path.

Fabrisse folded the scroll along its original creases. Draeth continued, “I do not offer this lightly. The world doesn’t reward curiosity—it punishes exposure. Consider this a test. Your discretion, your focus, your obedience: these are as critical as any spell you will learn under me. Fail in this, and no foundation, no artifact, will save you.”

Fabrisse folded the scroll carefully, though his fingers lingered over the wards as if the lines themselves might whisper secrets if pressed hard enough. He understood the practicalities—tuition, stipend, restrictions—but what weighed heaviest wasn’t numbers or clauses. It was the phrasing, the tone, the insistence on obedience.

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Obedience, he thought. It had a weight, a kind of absolute finality that didn’t sit comfortably in his mind. Draeth had shown him things with stone he hadn’t thought possible. If the Headmaster hadn’t demonstrated feats that transcended his expectations, Fabrisse might have balked. But Draeth had.

Fabrisse considered it carefully. Maybe he could get more than eight thousand Kohns. He didn’t have a problem with learning more thaumaturgy so long as he was allowed to study rocks, but rigidity should not come at the cost of basic sustenance, nor should obedience be a lever for underpaying someone expected to dedicate themselves entirely.

His fingers brushed the vellum again as he tried to shape his words. “Um . . . Headmaster, about the stipend—if I may . . . eight thousand Kohns will cover living expenses, but . . . considering the time and risk involved, might it be possible to—”

Draeth cut him off with a dismissive hand. “No. Any more, and you will forget to try. You will retreat into comfort, shielded by excess, and fail to cultivate the necessary discipline. You will not be coddled, nor will you allow distraction to masquerade as learning.”

Fabrisse swallowed, steadying himself. He could feel the words forming more firmly in his head: It’s not indulgence; it’s practicality. Survival is part of mastery. I can argue this logically.

“I understand,” he said aloud. “But even under strict supervision, I’ll be dedicating plenty of my time to practical Stone work. Eight thousand Kohns leaves very little margin for contingencies.”

Kaldrin, who had been quietly observing, cleared his throat. “Headmaster, Fabrisse is correct. The increase is modest, and he isn’t asking for luxury, only a practical allowance commensurate with the workload. It keeps him capable, not complacent.”

Lorvan also said, “I can list all the new spells he has been able to cast just over the past month alone.” And he went on to list them: Glasveil, Basic Combustion Funnel, Cindermark, Tremblehold. He finally ended it with, “I heard from Miss Von Silberthal that he even managed to channel his aetheric input into completely inert stones. He is showing capability, Headmaster.”

Draeth’s eyes narrowed, pinpoints of sharp gray assessing the weight of Lorvan’s words, the subtle authority behind Kaldrin’s interjection, and, most importantly, the reasoning Fabrisse had just articulated. It has to work, right? In no way am I asking for too much.

Finally, Draeth’s voice rang out, calm but steel-edged. “Twelve thousand Kohns. That shall be final. You will operate within this allowance, and your focus must remain absolute. Let this serve as both sustenance and a test of resourcefulness. Mismanagement will reflect on your discipline, not my generosity.”

Fabrisse exhaled, relief and a spark of excitement threading through him. That should be enough. Getting a partial grant for passing practicals should be much easier than contesting for a full grant.

He glanced at the scroll again. Obedience. Discretion. Focus. The words felt heavier now than before, as though the vellum itself pressed against his chest. Do I want this? he asked himself.

In an almost casual motion, Draeth drew a fistful of dust from the floor. The granules trembled, lifted, and began to swirl around him, coalescing into a serrated pattern that arched above his head like a miniature foundation. A shard of stone suspended upright alongside it, perfectly balanced on a single point, spinning so rapidly that faint aetheric veins traced along its surface like lightning in slow-motion. Gradually, more fragments followed, rising and shifting in perfect harmony, assembling a formation that radiated quiet power and artful beauty.

Fabrisse’s eyes widened in awe. The display was casual, almost dismissive, yet it was a feat beyond anything he had imagined. No doubt, this was the impossible knowledge Draeth could impart on him.

He needed no further convincing.

Fabrisse signed with a carefully controlled flourish. The scroll snapped shut and vanished into Draeth’s sleeve as if swallowed by shadow. He felt the system pulse in his mind.

A brief nod from Draeth, then silence. Fabrisse exhaled, the weight of the commitment sinking into him. Every future choice had now folded into this single path.

The study door swung shut behind him, and Fabrisse stepped into the muted light of the Lightfold. The pale illumination of the leyfield filtered through the translucent ceiling, casting geometric patterns across the floor. He squinted until his eyes got used to the sudden change in brightness.

On the far side, Aldith atta Mere was leaning casually against the archway with a mischievous grin already in place.

“So?” she asked. “How did it go?”

Words lodged somewhere behind his teeth. He decided to say nothing. He couldn’t risk violating any NDA clause three seconds into walking out of the Headmaster’s study.

Aldith’s grin widened. “Can't say it out loud?”

Fabrisse simply nodded.

She tilted her head. “Then perhaps we can have a natter over messages. So . . . your glyph contact then, handsome? Or are you going to keep playing hard to get?”

Fabrisse’s mind scrambled. There’s nothing here about personal communications regarding social pleasantries. Nothing at all. But technically—if a message references a magical process or a glyph—it might count as mentorship-related. And if it counts, then—oh, I might be breaching the non-disclosure. Even a joke about a spell could be considered a procedural comment. Best not to speak.

He finally said, in the most neutral tone he could muster, “I am not permitted to comment.”

“Because of my uncle?”

“Yes.”

“He made you sign a scroll?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be serious about my uncle blocking this?”

“Yes.”

Aldith huffed, but very quickly composed herself. She tilted her head once more. “Well, if we’re talking purely mundane matters, one needn’t mention the glyph or the Headmaster at all. Nothing in your precious scroll forbids exchanging a simple contact for, say, tea arrangements or library meet-ups, does it?”

No mention of mentorship, no reference to spells or glyphs . . . strictly mundane. That doesn’t breach anything. His mind ticked rapidly. Yes. Then he could exchange contact without technically violating the NDA.

He looked at her cautiously, still maintaining a neutral tone. “If phrased as purely logistical—meeting for tea, or library study sessions—then yes. That is permissible.”

Her grin broadened, eyes sparkling. “See? A little creativity, a dash of careful wording . . . and we’re golden. So, how about I happen to be near the Central pie shop tonight at nine and you happen to also be near the pie shop tonight at nine?”

“I—”

“Yes or no, magus. Yes or no.”

Logic tumbled over itself. Her insistence, that persistent tilt of her head, the spark in her eyes—it was infuriatingly effective. Why is a simple logistical question making my mind seize up?

“. . . Very well,” he replied before he had a chance to think about it. But what are we even going to do? Casually hanging out near a pie shop is an inefficient use of time. I won’t earn any EXP or Kohn from just hanging out.

“Brilliant,” Aldith said, clapping her hands softly. “I’ll expect you. For now, though, I ought to lead you to your friends. They’ve likely been wandering around wondering where on earth you’ve disappeared to. It’s already late afternoon, and I imagine they’re just about ready to start worrying.”