Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

"Fear not the flame of fortune, for the destined will stand and the forsaken will fall."

–Pastor Rashi at the burning of City Rebla.

Agony overwhelmed Callam. It reached the deepest parts of him until he couldn’t think, couldn’t move—then, just like that, the pain was gone. The transition was so abrupt that he feared he might be in his death throes. Callam had flinched his eyes shut in those last moments, so he wasn’t quite sure why he’d survived. Opening them, he understood.

Sebastian stood in front of him, the boy’s disfigured grip slack where once it held firm. The blade he’d been wielding had burned straight through his hand and now teetered on Callam’s shoulder. It fell a moment later, clanging loudly as it hit the floor—a fresh scar remained in its place, stretching from neck to collarbone, the cauterized skin seemingly responsible for Callam's lack of pain. The stink of burnt flesh reached Callam a few seconds later, and almost turned his stomach.

"To fail your first culling… as expected.” Disappointment laced Scriptor Writ’s words as he inspected his child’s arm. “Your brother finished without hesitation. Even Raele managed it, in the end. But not you." The man turned to Callam next, and considered him for a long moment. His eyes were calculating. Practical. Eventually, he said to the scholar, “Binding Day is around the corner, is it not? Lock the thief up until then. Food and water; we wouldn’t want to deprive our port of its labor."

With that, the man snapped his fingers. From its place on the floor, the blade surged upwards; a flare sparked on the weapon’s pommel and rode up the edge, transfiguring the sword into a black tome. The mage snatched it, whispered a word, and began to disappear into darkness. “Do make sure we get a captor’s credit for bringing the boy in,” he added before he faded out of sight.

Callam gasped and fell weakly to his knees on the study’s floor. He inhaled fully for the first time since he’d been hexed. Sweat had condensed on his forehead, so he lifted a hand to wipe the droplets away. He’d been certain the mage would finish what his son had begun, but it seemed the man was too pragmatic for that. A shiver suddenly passed through Callam’s body—he hugged himself reflexively. His skin was hot to the touch. Way, way too hot, he realized, as his vision shifted and he fell onto his side.

The last thing Callam felt was the smooth wooden floor against his cheek; the last thing he saw was the scholar pull out a red spellbook and run to Sebastian’s side. “Recrupa al Malis!” the man shouted, trying to tend to the boy. Sebastian shook his head and violently pushed the scholar away. He pointed to Callam, mouthing the same phrase over and over again.

Callam couldn’t hear a single word.

~~~

Callam's eyes flashed open. Everything was dark—so dark that for a moment he feared he’d gone blind. He touched around himself in a panic; the ground underneath him felt cold as ice and hard like stone. He coughed once, shivered, and tried to force himself to stay awake. His body lured him back to sleep.

He awoke in a much warmer environment. Whipping his head around, Callam tried to get a sense of his surroundings. He had fleeting memories of being somewhere dark and freezing, yet now found himself in a lit room with austere, white walls that felt as if they pressed in from all sides. His confusion was only heightened by the bitter smell, antiseptic almost, and by the craftsmanship of the bedpan, sink, and stool that all fought for space in a corner of the narrow room. Each was nicer than anything kept by the Sisters.

“A dream, maybe?” he murmured to himself and tried to sit up.

He was stopped short. Manacles cuffed his wrists to the sides of his cot and prevented him from doing much more than turn on his side. When he did, Callam’s eyes went wide and his fingers began to itch. A small shelf stacked heavy with books was in a corner of the room, frustratingly out of his reach.

Books were rare—far too rare to share with inmates. That’s what I am, right? Callam thought. He wasn’t so sure. His room was unlike any cell he’d ever seen, let alone heard of; instead, it looked more like one of the infirmaries scattered around Port Cardica’s western isle. Though those places rarely carried cord or needle—let alone books. Giving it some thought, Callam settled on a simpler explanation: the novels must have been concessions for captured mages, civilities meant to keep them sane. After all, only the bound could read.

Minutes passed. Callam tried to get comfortable. yet every position seemed to pressure his injured ribs. Eventually, he gave up and rolled onto his back. Two days until Binding Day, he thought while staring at the ceiling of his cell. Of course, that was only a guess; he had no real way of discerning how much time had passed since he’d collapsed. Some small part of him knew he should be afraid, or confused, but he was just too drained to feel much of anything.

Two days. Two days before the ceremony that compelled all unbound seventeen-year-olds to swear on a grimoire and see if they were lucky enough to gain magic. Most would fail, everyone knew that; less than one in ten unbound succeeded in a traditional binding. The unlucky became Ruddites and would be indentured as soon as the ceremony finished, typically for a span of ten years and a day. Orphan Ruddites had it the worst; as a lower caste, they’d spend the majority of their lives slaving for those blessed by scripture.

It’s incredibly unfair, Callam thought for what was probably the thousandth time. He grabbed the thin pillow he’d been provided and tried to ball it into something vaguely comfortable.

He’d never forget the first time he’d seen mages soar through the sky. They’d looked just like birds, if birds shot fire from their feet. The moment Callam spotted them, he’d raced to the chapel and begged the Sisters to let him learn magic, too. They’d explained how grimoires worked to him then. “A bound tome imparts its power twice. Once with every challenge earned, and again with every lesson turned.”

The Sisters had informed Callam that when a mage passed away, his tome became ‘scripted’ and could be bought or sold. These scripted grimoires were far easier to bind with than regular spellbooks, so powerful families hoarded them as gifts for future heirs.

Callam had kicked so many rocks on his way back to the docks that day that he’d bruised all his toes. Even as a six year old child, he’d seen scripted grimoires for what they were: a cheat for the wealthy. Their only downside, he’d later learned, was that their users couldn’t discover customized spells or chapters. They’d be stuck with whatever magic the previous owner had mastered. That was a sacrifice Callam would eagerly make; he had no delusions about his chances of succeeding in a regular Binding.

If I’d just touched one, I could magic my way out of here and—grating sounds interrupted Callam’s thoughts and drew his attention to a section of the wall. He watched the stone recede slowly until there was a dark gap large enough to serve as an entryway. As he waited for someone to enter, a terrible thought crossed his mind.

The mage had said to provide food and water. He’d never said anything about torture.

“What is written?” a woman’s voice asked from behind the doorway. That was… not exactly what Callam had expected. “What is written?” the woman repeated a few seconds later, but Callam kept his silence. He was reluctant to greet anyone who might be related to those who’d imprisoned him.

“Well aren’t you a stubborn one,” the woman said as she entered. She was heavyset, wore worker’s overalls, and sported a healer's cap over red hair that she’d bound up tightly in a bun. Callam felt himself relax when he saw her eyes—they were warm and held the promise of fresh bread handed out on winter nights.

“I’m Helena, but you can call me ‘ma’am.’ Turn this way,” she instructed, motioning to the side of the bed. “Good. As much as you can. That’s perfect.”

“Ow! Careful.” Callam protested when Helena probed his shoulder. A few choice words, and the question of why he wasn’t in a dungeon, came to his mind.

“Well,” Helena said after a moment, “looks like you’ll need stitches after all. The Writs won’t get a bent copper in recompense if you arrive to Binding Day in this state.” Sticking her hands into denim pockets, she pulled out a bright yellow grimoire. She also produced a thin needle, and where she moved it, thread followed. “It’s a good thing Mrs. Writ moved you to the infirmary when she did. Sweeter than a plum, that woman. Now, hold still—this will hurt. Sem,” Helena incanted, and the needle responded.

It zipped up Callam’s shoulder, stitching the skin in a fluid motion. Back and forth it traveled until it reached the end of the laceration, then looped around to tie a knot. If Helena noticed how Callam tensed at the needle, or shied away from her touch, she said nothing. For that, he was grateful.

“Th–thank you!” he managed to get out, wanting to be polite. He’d been stitched enough times to recognize her skill.

“You are very welcome. Shouldn’t be more than a day or two before you’re back in tip-top shape.” Looking him up and down, she added, “We can’t have you looking like a skeleton, can we? Arthur!” she called out. “Plate some chicken, if you’d please!”

“Yes, ma’am!” a high-pitched voice responded. A moment later a young blonde boy peered in from the opening in the wall. “Water too, ma?”

“That’s my boy. Pull the big wooden lever like I taught you,” Helena responded, seeming every part the proud mother. To Callam, she whispered, “he just turned eight.” Then, she crossed the room with the sure steps of someone who knew where everything ought to be. Callam tensed when she shifted open a panel in the wall, but he had nothing to fear—she simply retrieved a tray brimming with chicken and piled laughably high with brown rice. A fork had been jabbed into the mound, and was slowly toppling over.

“Pure as the Prophet, that one. Well, at least he remembered cutlery this time.” Helena chortled. “Now, don’t try anything funny,” she warned, eyeing him cautiously. “I’ve raised three sons and a husband. I know firsthand the bad decisions men make.”

Callam chuckled, then hacked in pain. Coughing, he lifted his shackled arms, palms up. The global sign of peace.

“Hmmm.” Helena squinted at him, then smiled. “The food’s cold—not much we can do about that. Everything gets prepared up…well over there.” She motioned to the door. “The staff are mostly Ruddites, bless their souls. By the time anything arrives here it's no longer warm.”

“It’s perfect,” Callam replied, and meant it. He was confused by his good treatment, and exhausted from his heist, but more than anything, he was starving. Arthur had provided a kingly portion, so Callam eagerly grabbed the fork. It wasn’t easy to eat manacled, but he’d learned early on not to waste a meal.

“Just like my eldest,” Helena said with a small smile. She brought over a jug of water that she’d just fetched from the wall panel. “Eats every meal like it’s his last too. Doesn’t matter how often I serve him seconds—food’s always gone before I can sit down.”

Before long, a chime rang and Helena took her leave. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said when she departed. “Get some rest. The Binding Day Trials will take a lot out of you.”