Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

It’s always there, magic.

We might age—might miss it in the corners of our tired eyes.

No longer see it in the wind, in the trees, or in summer breeze.

But children do.

They pick up a book and know its truths.

To them, those battles, spells, and djinn are very real.

While we distrust what we cannot touch.

~Archives from before the First Bindings, V3

Zallorin, youngest kin to Tolbin’s maiden queen, crumpled to his knees and hit the stage with finality. Stains spread from crimson tome to boyish hands, then upwards to his hawkish face. The royal’s cloak, pinned high above his left shoulder, shook with each of the boy’s convulsions.

“Th—the ink’s not taking!” someone yelled. “Prophet have mercy!”

Callam’s fists whitened. Shouts filled his ears, and hundreds of unbound pressed up against him, yet he barely noticed. Nothing could tear his eyes away from the podium and that slumped body.

Images shot through Callam’s mind like arrows:

Siela, hours before binding, nervously trying on their mother’s one surviving dress.

Siela climbing the chassis, wearing a smile he now understood was for his benefit.

Siela’s face lighting up in childlike excitement when the three-star tome chose her—even as a boy, Callam knew his older sister didn’t often get to be young.

The sound of her screams when the blue ink splattered. That haunted expression on her face… and the painful cuts from the seeing-goggles he’d shattered in his hands when brotherly pride turned to heartbreak.

“Elsefern! Fabien! Help the boy!”

Just as tinder sparks ember into flame, so too did the elder’s shout rouse chaos into action. Twin Scriptors ran up to the royal, tomes open and ready, unknown words spilling from their tongues as they incanted the secret language of the Seekers. Three menders joined in moments later, identifiable by the healer’s irons sewn onto their robes and by the leech-and-staff insignias on their grimoires.

At once, five spells intercepted the floating book.

Of course—royalty won’t be allowed to die tonight. Deaths were rare during the rite, and even more so among the gentry.

“Well,” Niles sneered. “Twice today the pen has slipped.”

Callam wheeled to face the boy. “That is what you care about?” He had half a mind to run onto the stage to help Zallorin himself. Likely would have too, if the five mages hadn’t already sundered the crimson lashings between the book and the boy and moved on to resuscitation.

“Oh, so you’ve loyalty to the Queenskin? Desperate, perhaps, for their handouts? Or hand-offs? I’ve passed the stocks before. My, how that family punishes thieves and urchins. Inspired, really.”

Bastard. Callam met Nile’s gaze. A solitary vein bulged on the merchant boy’s forehead, and he wore a smile just begging to be punched.

Tension stretched between the two. Callam ground his teeth. Siela would want me focused, he reminded himself. Not rising to jibes or distracted by nobles.

Callam glanced away, only to find Lenora staring at the stage, where two healers were helping the royal to his feet. Her lips were slightly parted—sure signs of a person lost in thought. The raised lines of her brow hinted at shock, but where someone afraid for themselves might go pale or flinch, her expression was warm and full of worry.

“You alright? I know you're up next. That’s a lot to take in,” Callam asked her.

“Hmm?” she mumbled, then blinked rapidly as if noticing him for the first time. His cheeks burned—he’d met this girl only once, why was he checking up on her?

“…yeah. The books make the choice in the end. I… well, a lot’s riding on this. My grandma, Moose—sorry, that boy you met earlier—they’re all depending on me.”

“Moose, he’s, uh, bound already, isn’t he?” Callam winced. No one would accuse him of being a wordsmith, that was for sure.

Lenora gave him a small smile. “Mmhm. Last season. We’ve, um, been best friends since before we could talk.” She paused, as if considering her words carefully. “My family hired his to do our Readings. Mom’s a Freeman, so…”

“Zallorin Queenskin has failed his first binding! May his later attempt bear fruit. Stand, Lenora Page!”

A stricken look crossed the girl’s face at the sound of her name. In quick succession, she smoothed out her robes, took several breaths, and loosed a few choice curses. Then she made for the dais, her chin held high.

“It is written… it is written.” she whispered as she walked, before gasping and making a quick about-turn.

“Forgive me, where are my manners? May the books sing your stories,” she said stiffly to Niles. More sweetly to Chloe, she added, “Alethesa es mhela.”

To Callam, she offered a hand and smiled slyly, “I’ll be seeing you, Callam Quill of the Chapelward on Vela Hill.”

He took it and shook, confused by her sudden shift in demeanor—it was completely at odds with the nervous girl moments before, or the casual and slightly crude one he’d encountered in the stands. Women were ever an enigma to him.

Then Lenora was off, for real this time. He watched her go, enveloped again by that strange sense of loss he’d felt earlier in the day.

After shoving his fingers into his pockets, Callam shifted his attention to the stage. An outstretched hand could mean many things on the streets: an incoming blow, a crude gesture, or a soon-to-be empty-pocket. Rarely did it lead to friendship.

He really hoped she would bind.

~~~

“Tomes of the Tower,” proclaimed the lead Scriptor a few minutes later. “You have seen the greatest among our youth and found him lacking. We hope this Freeman is better suited for your stories.”

Lenora stood on the stage with her palms outwards and eyes closed. If she was bothered by the Scriptor’s tone, she didn’t show it. Callam had winced at the announcement; he’d prefer not being introduced that way.

She’s likely used to it.

Where a beggar was a peasant you could kick, a Freeman was a merchant you could scorn. Every tavern Callam had ever frequented was full of jokes about their creed. Why? Because Freemen bought out their indenturement contracts rather than working them to completion. Doing so required saving every coin tossed to them by their masters, while moonlighting as courtesans or cutthroats. The result was that many considered them unclean.

Callam knew the sentiment for what it really was: jealousy. He’d crossed the crickety pathways to the undercity’s roof-top markets, and met the misers, criminals, and ladies of the night who called it home. Few of them had the smarts to make it as legitimate shopkeepers, yet even they threw stones at the Freemen.

Whatever prejudice the crowds might have felt, they were not expressing it now. “Bind her!” the chant began anew, though less enthusiastically this time. “Bind her,” shouted the seven Scriptors. “So she might read and she might grow!”

Above, the floating tomes circled. Callam watched them eagerly, curious to see what Lenora would get—from the mutterings he’d overheard earlier, her innate magic talent rivaled that of heroes and queens.

At first, the books drifted toward her slowly, as if testing the waters. They twirled and spun, each a light against the darkening sky. Then the wind howled. Lenora’s eyes shot open; she was the moon drawing in the tide. Hundreds of tomes surged downwards in a dash to reach the dais.

Crimsons, sapphires, onyxes, emeralds, and several colors Callam could not name dove toward the girl. They swooped and plummeted, their pages drumming like frantic wings. Two, ten, then more than Callam could count, shot over the crowd—not leaving from disinterest, no: they were unable to keep pace. The rest weaved as one, then dipped close enough for the unbound to see their stars on their covers before coming to a stop in front of the girl.

Her expression said everything.

Lenora’s eyes were wide, and Callam would have sworn he saw tears. He understood that feeling—he could only hope to be given such a choice. Her mouth moved, but whatever she might have been saying was drowned out by the roar of the stands. They’d clearly never seen anything like this.

“Silence! Let the girl choose,” the elder Scriptor said, her voice carrying none of its earlier spite. If anything, Callam heard respect.

And what a choice it was. After several tomes flew away, no less than thirty remained in front of the girl, each having found her worthy. Of them, one caught Callam’s eyes. It was golden, with wings of silver etched upon its cover, and stood at twice the size of the others.

Four stars brightened its binding.

Lenora didn’t hesitate; she reached out and grabbed the book. Thousands of ribbons flowed out to meet her, gold ink swirling around her hands, arms, and face. From a distance the pigment seemed curious, even playful. Threads of it climbed on her shoulders. Tugged gently at her hair. Even poked her politely on the stomach until she couldn’t help but break out in a fit of laughter.

Where Zallorin’s first touch had looked like torture, hers looked like an embrace.

“All welcome Lenora Page—Port Cardica’s first four-star Scriptor of the season!”