Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

"They claim the mark of a man is in his actions.

But I have killed in a second,

and spent a year finding the words to tell you why."

–The Hanging of Zaled

Callam did not take well to the emptiness of space, he decided.

The guards had hoisted him over a shoulder, loaded him onto the haybed of a wagon, unloaded him thirty minutes later, and then walked him through one of the port's various transport portals. Callam’s disorientation only worsened when they'd arrived—thousands of deafening noises had immediately rushed in to fill the void. Shouts of “Out of my way,” and “Over here!” had been drowned out by the cries of shopkeepers peddling everything from “Fae Fritters, puffed or popped,” to “Eversight Monocles—Port’s best.”

“Welcome to Binding Day,” the older guard jeered. His voice was barely audible over the cacophony. “Try not to soil the Master’s clothes when you fail,” he added, shoving Callam forward.

At the push, Callam stumbled, managing a single stride before his sandals caught on the terraced steps. He almost lost his footing, and had to fall awkwardly to his knees to stop his momentum. He’d started to shift his position so that he could get his legs in front of himself, when Tawn hollered, “Catch!”

Callam watched as a little, glimmering piece of metal flew through the air. He groaned, certain that this was the key that would unlock the handcuffs. Part of him wanted to stand up and chase it, but he suppressed the urge. The world was full of people who loved to humiliate others, and he would not let them see him scramble like a dog. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the key.

It landed soundlessly fifteen or sixteen rows away, any clink it might have made lost in the excitement and fear filling the massive amphitheater. And it was massive—at a half mile wide, it was the largest structure in the city. Thousands of aisles had been dug deep into the ground, tiering downwards, and were now filled by hundreds of thousands of teens and their families. Vendors worked the in-between spaces, somehow navigating their wares through the throngs of people. Some sold food, carrying everything from local delicacies like mutton cake and pureed pumpkin, to holiday staples like elf cider and roasted peanuts. Others peddled charms and trinkets, preying on the gullible and desperate alike.

Above, kites filled the sky, crafted in homage to the Tower’s beasts. Paper dragons whizzed back and forth on gusts of wind, while the occasional griffin dove down and then soared, perforated paper wings seeming to flap in the breeze.

Far down in the middle of the coliseum, Callam could just make out the entrance to the Triad Trials. Lines of hopefuls already congregated there; they meandered like ants in the sand, their nervous energy coursing through the amphitheater. Nearby, spectators bartered over spellworked glasses, eagerly buying anything that might help them better see the upcoming competition.

None of it could distract Callam from the weight of Binding Day. He shifted uncomfortably; his legs felt tender, and he concluded that bruises had already formed on his shins. Honestly, he expected that the only reason he wasn’t in more pain was because of Tawn’s magic—magic, Callam realized with a start, that might also be numbing some of his emotions.

“That explains it,” Callam murmured to himself. He stared out over the crowds. Today was the most important day of his life, so he should be full of butterflies, or have a stomachache. Feel afraid. Or even eager, like he’d been when he’d inspected his hand earlier that morning. Instead, he was overwhelmed, his head full of questions about the unknown. What would happen if he failed to bind?

Would the Seedling die on his finger, leaving him with only an ugly stain?

Nothing is worse than having no answers, Callam thought, and slumped a bit on the steps. It didn’t help that he could hardly think with so much going on.

Everywhere he looked, there was a blur of activity, from parents chatting among themselves, to children chasing each other up and down the coliseum's tiered walkways. Twelve summers now Callam had been coming here, and was convinced he’d never understand everyone’s excitement. To him, the whole thing seemed like a charade. It always had, the sentiment having taken root the first time the Sisters had dragged him to the ceremony. They’d treated Binding Day as a grand spectacle. Twice a year, they’d dress all the orphans up in new hand-me-downs, then herd them to the amphitheater as if they were off to watch a play or celebrate a holiday.

Sudden, sharp pain drew Callam’s attention to his fingers; without realizing it, he’d been clenching his manacled hands to the point of cutting off circulation. He’d never forget the fervor with which the Sisters had urged him to celebrate each failed binding. They’d insisted that this ceremony was the Prophet’s way of selecting his “Fated Few,” and that unbound should be grateful to participate, even if they became Ruddites. Callam had quickly learned to clap whenever Ruddites were carted from ritual to auction block, and then to cheer when those same Ruddites were subjected to the eager haggling of guilds and nobles, all of whom were desperate to secure new indentures.

A little while after witnessing his first ceremony, Callam had retched. He’d done so quietly, having rushed to the privy to hide his reaction as if it was a fault.

“Unbound, report to the trial grounds,” a piercing voice interrupted Callam’s thoughts. “This is your thirty-minute warning. I repeat, all unbound, make your way to the trial grounds. Tardiness will not be tolerated.”

Thousands of teens stood in unison at the speakers' words. They crowded the walkways, shoving and shouting in their eagerness to comply. Callam moved to join them, edging his way down the rows to where he’d seen the key fall. A sour taste had filled his mouth that had nothing to do with space-sickness. He swallowed heavily, then grimaced; it seemed his emotions were not as muted as he had thought.

~~~~

Navigating the rafters proved harder than Callam had expected. He was jostled back and forth, unable to push his way through the crowd with his hands manacled behind his back. At one point, a little boy darted in front of Callam, nearly sending him flying. He then was forced to weave around a group of clamoring unbound, only to find himself stuck behind a sullen family of seafarers, each dressed in sailor whites. Soon after, he tried to squeeze past a short teen and her graying mother, who were wrapped in a long hug. The older woman fussed over her daughter’s hair, ensuring each blond strand was perfectly placed, before kissing the girl on the forehead and making her promise three times to stay safe: once in Reldar, the language of common folk; once in Feldic, used only during sermon and taught by the church; and once in words Callam didn't understand, but whose meaning he could discern from the tender expression on the girl’s face,

It was a small thing, but watching the two gave Callam pause. It helped him to realize that it wasn’t the festivities he hated. He understood why a parent might want to celebrate their child’s opportunity to earn magic.

More than that, he could understand why a child might want to make their parents proud.

“No, it's how they treat the poor…” he muttered to himself a moment later, while checking the fifteenth row for the key. He despised how only those with nothing were forced into blind bindings. Sure, wealthy families would often send their second and thirdborn off to Binding Day, but that was a matter of choice. They owned scripted grimoires, after all, so they could ensure a successful binding if they wished. They only opted for blind bindings because scripted grimoires did not allow for customized spells and abilities. And it didn’t really matter if their children failed—wealthy Ruddites always found positions among their own, or with similarly highborn families.

That never happens to us, Callam thought. We are sent to the mines or the front lines.

Still, his complaining would change nothing. The only thing Callam could do now was hope to bind successfully. Unfortunately, he was running out of time. He sped up his search for the key and finally spotted it midway down the sixteenth row. It glittered in the sunlight, visible only because so many unbound had already vacated the stands for the trial grounds.

Callam settled himself down on the steps near the key, and fished for it clumsily. His numb, manacled hands fumbled behind his back as he tried to pin the metal implement against the step. All he managed to do was scratch his knuckles. Then, he accidentally knocked the key down a few rows.

It landed at the feet of a cluster of students who chatted away as though they didn’t have a worry in the world. Each was dressed in robes bearing the insignias of powerful families. A few even carried Seeker’s pouches, a sure sign of their literacy. None seemed to notice the key, or Callam, when he approached.

An ember flared in Callam’s chest when he heard how they laughed. The ease with which these teens joked made it clear that they neither feared the ceremony, nor understood why others might.

Clearly they were the type to treat Binding Day as a holiday.

Resignation crept into Callam’s shoulders as he called out, “Excuse me?” Receiving no response, he raised his voice. “Excuse me!”

A young woman glanced over, and met Callam’s gaze. Chestnut hair fell to her waist and framed her oval face, while little freckles danced on a button nose. She wore fitted blue robes that matched the hue of her eyes and a small bracelet on her wrist.

“Yes?” she said, then smiled.