Harvest 12, 855
Buu tried to keep the contempt from his face as he looked at his Thaumaturgy textbook. It waited in front of him, patient and mercilessly there. When it refused to stop existing, Buu shoved it aside, pulling his parchment and quill towards him instead as other students filed into the classroom.
To avoid seeing their curious stares, Buu dipped his quill in the inkwell he’d been given and tried to put his name and the date at the top of the page, the way he had seen in Idah’s notes. He’d learned to read and write (begrudgingly) with a chalk and slate, but he hadn’t finished the first letter before ink gushed from the quill tip, pooling black on his parchment.
Buu hurriedly rested the quill back in the inkpot, accidentally smearing the spilled ink across the page and leaving a black mark on his new clothes. His face grew hot as he felt the stares around him sharpen.
He covered the blotted page with a clean one and leaned back, crossing his arms to hide the stain. It’s not like writing in ink would have made the letters cooperate anyway, he reasoned, he would just have to pay attention and remember what he could. If he really needed things written down, he had a whole book of words in front of him that surely would have the ones he needed somewhere among the rest.
The other students stood or sat around the far edges of the room, giving Tuag plenty of space as he sprawled, languid, at Buu’s feet. After the tension in the square, Buu had the impression that the grimm wouldn’t be leaving his side anytime soon — a strangely comforting realization after his nightmare with Sister Moon.
The school’s mighty brass bell began to clang the hour at the same instant an older man swept into the room. He was handsome, as far as Buu could tell, with unfashionably short hair as grey as the lakes in winter, and a warm, bright complexion.
Any remaining whispers in the room died on the lips of their owners, all eyes settling on the man as he set down his bag beside the large desk at the front of the classroom. Those who had chosen to stand inched towards the desks surrounding Buu and settled uneasily into them with rigid postures.
The grimm opened a lazy eye and regarded each student with disdain before turning his own attention to the professor, who met Tuag’s gaze with a disdain of his own. After a long moment, the professor began his lecture.
“As you have all no doubt noticed, we have a new student joining us to learn the basic mechanisms of the universe.” He gestured to Buu. “But let’s not allow that to unseat our focus. Exams will come along regardless, so I advise you listen just the same as you would have yesterday.” After a moment’s thought he added, “Or perhaps a bit better.”
The professor — Professor Ryoh, Buu supposed — pivoted sharply to face the large, polished slate that dominated the wall behind him, plucking a stick of chalk from its edge with a flourish. Arms moving rapidly, he drew out a large circle, striking lines through it and labelling parts in a quick, precise hand. Around the room, quills burst into motion, copying down everything the professor did. Buu felt his cheeks warm as he became an island of stillness amid the bobbing heads and waving pens.
“Although I am sure our esteemed headmaster would have ensured that our new student had adequate primers before seating him in my class,” Professor Ryoh shot the room’s only door a pointed glare, “let’s do a brief rundown of the overarching principles of Thaumaturgy, just to be safe.”
The students released a collective sigh of boredom, cut short at a sharp look from their teacher. As the professor spoke, he rapped on the slate, accentuating his words with sharp taps.
“Everything we see is part of a larger whole, like threads in the fabric of the universe. For the most part, these threads cannot be manipulated. But some people,” Professor Ryoh waved an all-encompassing arm at his students, “act like burrs, catching on the threads and pulling at them.”
Buu felt his mouth going dry as he listened. The professor’s rapid explanation made some sense — Buu understood a burr catching at fabric well enough — but he could tell in an instant that he wouldn’t be keeping up for long.
“Learning magic is simply learning to take the loose threads and bend them to your will. Use them to create form or to execute a function. Many mages find that the most difficult thing about this process is how simple and easy it is. It can be difficult not to overthink it, but it simply comes down to believing that a thing will happen with enough certainty that the universe complies.
“It is so simple in fact, that some who study its deeper mysteries believe that many of the daily experiences we take for granted only happen because so many people believe they will. The sun rising, for example, or gravity holding an object to the ground.”
Buu didn’t realize that his face had scrunched up in skepticism until Professor Ryoh called his name.
“Buu, spit it out or swallow it — I don’t need children pulling faces at me like I don’t know my own subject.”
Sniggering echoed quietly through the other students, one boy directly behind Buu going so far as to mutter “bumpkin,” under his breath. Buu heard the boy shift and imagined he might have been about to kick Buu’s chair, likely thinking better of it with Tuag so close by.
Clearing his throat, Buu sat up straighter, trying to keep his focus on the professor and his lesson, rather than on his older peers. He began to fold his hands in front of him, but stopped as he remembered the stain on his sleeve, keeping his arms crossed instead.
“I was just thinking, if big things like the sunrise happen because people think they will, how come they keep happening when we’re not thinking about them? Or no one’s around to watch?”
Professor Ryoh inclined his head slightly with bored approval. In one grand motion he gestured to the board and the diagram drawn there.
“That is due to something known as the Sortilege Constant, covered on pages 35–48 of your textbooks. Developed by Hylis Byan more than a century ago, the Constant examines the lingering thaumaturgic effects on an area using Natya Rafi’s Parabolic Belief calculations…”
The tap-tapping of chalk on slate resumed as the quills around Buu burst back into motion. Buu listened so hard his ears ached, unable to decipher half the words spoken, nor milk understanding from the rest. After a while, his eyes wandered from the impenetrable wall of letters on the board to the meager view outside the window. This would be a long semester.