Nobody said anything after the Lord's words, even though Maribel and another little brother sitting next to her giggled.
"Father," Anabeth warned. Her voice already sounded exasperated.
"Fixation, is it?" said one of the older brothers—a broad-shouldered youth with his sleeves rolled past the elbow. "Last week it was that girl from the rhetoric wing who claimed she could recite all three hundred verses of the Epic of Halverin backwards."
"And the week before," another chimed in, a sister with the same imperious eyebrows as Anabeth but a far less controlled smile, "it was the boy who swore he'd trained a dormouse to ring bells in pitch order."
"That actually was impressive," said the brother next to Maribel, solemnly. "Until the thing ran straight into the soup tureen."
Laughter rippled around the table.
Anabeth pressed her palm to her forehead. "I do not bring people home every week."
"Every other week, then," Maribel piped up, from two seats down, swinging her feet under her chair. "Mother says it's like you're conducting an endless audition for some secret project. A menagerie of oddities."
Fabrisse, meanwhile, wasn't here for family banter. An unfinished quest lingered in the back of his mind.
[QUEST RECEIVED: The Stonebound Archive (1)]
Objective: Register 1 new spell from the Von Silberthal archive.
Reward: +150 EXP
+2 INT
+2 Earth Thaumaturgy Mastery Points
He had knowledge to learn and stonecraft to unravel, not the stamina to survive a gauntlet of Von Silberthal wit. He was already thinking about which questions a normal person would prompt to appear curious without sounding overeager. "Thank you for the dinner, Lord von Silberthal. Now teach me a spell," crossed his mind, but it didn't seem like a good approach.
". . . and then the whole dueling field had to be shut down for an hour," the sister finished, grinning.
Before he could tumble any further into that line of thought, the conversation at the table had already moved on. Fabrisse pinched himself on the elbow. He had already missed the transition, letting the moment slip by like sand between fingers. Stay focused, he told himself firmly. He couldn't afford to drift into his own head, not here.
The doors at the far end opened, and two servants entered, bearing trays that gleamed with polished covers. The aroma of herbs and broth pushed through the din of chatter as they set the plates down. The lids lifted in quiet unison: steam rolled out, carrying the sharp green of mountain herbs, the sweetness of roasted root vegetables, and the heavy, mouth-watering perfume of a kind of meat that was too high-class for Fabrisse to tell.
Then came braided loaves with a crust dark as stone, bowls of thick cream soup veined with saffron, and a roast bird dressed in some sort of berry reduction.
Fabrisse's stomach gave a painful twist. He hadn't realized how hollow he was until now. All the aromas stacked atop one another, thick and overwhelming, making his mouth water so fiercely he had to swallow before answering if anyone spoke to him.
Lord Von Silberthal set down the decanter and fixed Fabrisse with a steady, appraising look. "Tell me, Mr. Kestovar. How did you and my daughter become acquainted?"
"She's my friend's friend, Lord Von Silberthal." This family is super animated for people who are supposed to study rocks . . .
Lord Von Silberthal's brows lifted. "You will have to specify which friend, Mr. Kestovar. Anabeth seems to collect them as diligently as she does specimens. We have nearly lost track."
Maribel chuckled.
Fabrisse tightened his grip on the arm of his chair. He hadn't expected to be cross-examined on basic acquaintanceship. "Liene," he said quickly, before they could press him further. "Liene Lugano."
"Ah." The Lord leaned back. It seemed the single name had explained everything for him. "But you happen to study stones too?"
Anabeth leaned forward, almost too quickly. "Father, yes—he studies stones. In fact, when he first arrived at the Wing of Substratal Studies, he already knew the classification of all common rocks on his first day." Her voice sharpened with something between pride and defense. "Isn't that wonderful?"
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Her mother gave her a small, indulgent smile. "Anabeth, you sound as if you've brought home an encyclopaedia." Fabrisse noticed this had been the first time the mother had spoken at all. She hadn't even offered her name yet.
"Mr. Kestovar," she said, folding her hands atop the tablecloth, "if you know the classification of common stones, perhaps you can tell me—what is the primary variety of quartz most often mistaken for marble in uncut form?"
The question landed with no warning. Fabrisse blinked once, then let the answer slide out. "Milky quartz. Its massive habit and lack of translucence often resemble low-grade marble until tested."
"And which quartz strain, when subjected to heat, gives rise to the violet shade prized in ceremonial cutwork?"
"Amethyst," Fabrisse said. He hadn't expected to be quizzed like this at the dinner table, but the pattern was familiar: questions, answers, clarity. Easier than banter. "Though the color fades if overheated. It can turn yellow—citrine—if the temperature is sustained."
Before she could speak again, Lord Von Silberthal lifted a hand. "Dearest, the food grows cold."
But his wife did not look away from Fabrisse. "One more." Her voice cut neatly across the table, unmoved. "What is the distinguishing fracture pattern of smoky quartz?"
"Conchoidal," Fabrisse answered at once. His mouth was dry despite the food inches away, but the word grounded him. "Like glass, though less even. It reflects the strain from natural irradiation." Of course it was conchoidal. He knew that fracture as surely as he knew his own handwriting. And yet, because it was Lady von Silberthal asking, and because her eyes pinned him like a core sample under a lens, doubt gnawed at the edges. What if it wasn't? What if there was some obscure exception, some family-specific taxonomy they used here, and he'd just humiliated himself by blurting too fast?
The Lady, however, simply gave the smallest nod, then turned her attention back to her plate as if the interrogation had never happened. She still hadn't introduced herself.
Fabrisse let himself breathe again. He reached for the bread, tore off a piece, and tried to ignore how badly his hands wanted to shake.
Anabeth wasted no time filling the silence. "That isn't even the most impressive part," she said brightly, her fork lifted like a pointer. "When he first came to the Wing, he could already channel aether into inert stones."
What? Fabrisse nearly dropped his fork. While that's true, she can't have possibly known that. She's just spewing whatever words she thought would make me sound remarkable, as if she's inventing credentials for a traveling performer.
The broad-shouldered brother leaned in, lips parting in disbelief. "Inert stones? Don't be ridiculous. That's fairy-story magic."
"It isn't ridiculous," Anabeth shot back without missing a beat, clearly enjoying herself. She extended her hands, gesturing towards Kestovar like a presenter in a magic show unveiling her star act. "He did it. He could fling Silico-Dormant Obscura, Grade Theta like his hand's a trebuchet!" Before Fabrisse could stop her, she snatched up a bread roll from her plate and cradled it in her palm. "Like this! Watch!" She wound her arm back, eyes wide with relish, and then swept it forward in a dramatic arc, her wrist snapping at the end. "Pew!"
The bread sailed a very short distance before thudding against her brother's shoulder. The bread roll toppled into her brother's lap, setting off another ripple of laughter.
He definitely did not throw like that.
"Anabeth!" her mother scolded, but Anabeth only grinned wider, unfazed.
"Come on, Kestovar," she urged, twisting in her chair to face him fully, her braid swinging like a pendulum. "Show them! You can throw a stone at that over there!" She jabbed her fork toward the far corner of the dining hall, where a wide stretch of tiled wall sat between two tall windows. "That is our safe spot. Stones don't bounce back there."
Safe spot? They have a designated target zone in the dining hall?
"Yes, go on." Her voice got even more gleeful.
"But I don't bring my stones with me," he confessed. And he hadn't even gotten a taste of that mysterious meat! What kind of meat could that possibly be?
For the first time that evening, a wrinkle of dismay crossed Anabeth's features. She lowered the bread roll she'd snatched as her prop and placed it primly back on her plate, brushing her fingers on the napkin as if to erase the evidence.
"You didn't bring your rocks?" She finally looked to his side, where the satchel usually sat. "But Kestovar, the whole point of being here is to showcase."
Fabrisse's ears burned. Right. The satchel. He'd left it in Liene's keeping. She'd said it would look out of place at a dinner table like this, and he'd agreed. At the time, it had felt reasonable. Now it felt like he'd turned up to a symposium without notes.
Thank every layer of bedrock, maybe it was for the better. The mere idea of performing in front of this entire royalty bloodline of stone academia, flinging rocks like some novelty act for their after-dinner amusement, made his stomach twist harder than hunger ever could. He could already feel the heat of their scrutiny, the way their eyes would sharpen, weighing technique, control, fracture patterns. He wasn't sure which would be worse: failing in front of them, or succeeding and being treated like some prodigy specimen to dissect.
"I—" His hand fluttered toward his side, finding only the fold of his robe. "I left them in my satchel."
From farther down the table, Maribel piped up in her sing-song voice, "Aww, shucks. We can't see the throwing game!" She swung her legs under her chair, clearly disappointed.
"Oh, but we do keep a jar of Silico-Dormant in the house," Anabeth cut in brightly, her eyes lighting with mischief. "Grade Theta, Father had it set aside as a collector item. We could fetch it—"
They have a JAR of Stupenstone? "What? Why would you keep something like that in a dining hall?" Kestovar gulped. I will have to perform.
"Not in the dining hall, Mr. Kestovar," Lord von Silberthal said dryly, carving neat slices from the roast bird. "It is secured, as any specimen should be. Such things are not for table sport."
Kestovar exhaled a sigh of relief. I won't have to perform, after all.
But before the next chuckle could ring out, Lady von Silberthal spoke for only the second time that evening. Her tone was calm, but her eyes had kindled with, unfortunately, interest.
"I wish to see him throw that stone," she said.
Kestovar gulped once more.
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