Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

From the twig, we take the leaf.

From the bark, we make the paper.

With our blood and with our heart,

We sow the ink that gifts us power.

But on the rare occasion that she listens,

We find her words born anew.

For in a mother’s promise,

A Seedling’s magic blooms.

Acorns of the Omen Tree, Verse One.

“Quill, Callam, tapped out! Your victor is Veldon, Niles!” shouted the Scripter as he rushed into the ring. His words fell over a hushed crowd. “So concludes this final instance of the Trial of Brawn!”

Callam glanced up from his place in the dirt, understanding the audience’s quiet—he too would have wondered why he’d tapped. He took a breath to allow his adrenaline to fade, and felt his anger going with it. He was weary to the bone. Niles, on the other hand, had a look of fury about him that stretched from his clenched fists to his flared nostrils, while Phiry sat with her head in her hands, clearly unwilling or unable to believe the results of the match.

With a whispered groan, Callam forced himself to his knees—his arms shook at the exertion, but he ignored them. Screamed congratulations were sure to start any second, so he needed to level his accusations now or risk getting drowned out by the crowd.

“Sir,” he said, “I—”

“Blessed is he,” a raspy voice cut through the colosseum, “who finds his feet upon the folds of Fate. That was quite the match indeed.” The very dust seemed to compress as shadows pooled where none should be. Then the eldest Scriptor—the leader of the Fated Few—appeared, her frame a heap of cracked porcelain. With two small claps she woke the crowd, and soon a drumming of hands on knees built within the stands. Hollers began, only to be silenced as the woman spoke again. This time, she directed her words at Phiry.

“Aklin paint on the nails… Unexpected, but not forbidden. Tricks the mind to think it’s in pain. Clever girl.”

Callam felt his anger rise at the old hag’s words; he seethed when she turned towards the stadium and continued, “It is just to use our privilege, power, and luck to cement our rule. That is what separates man from beast, Scriptor from Ruddite, master from student. But,” she said, with a side-ways glance at Callam that spoke of a curator inspecting an oddity, “just as it is natural to use one’s advantages to pull ahead, so too should we commend those who find the resilience to stand above their natural-born positions.”

It's as if I’ve come to them with tin in hand. Callam's face darkened. She sees me as charity. It was not her words he found hard to swallow but her off-hand dismissal of Phiry’s cheating. He refused to quietly accept his poisoning—he’d only played fair during the match because he’d been confident the duo would be disqualified. He should have known better; the rules for orphan boy and highborn scion were not the same.

Niles' self-righteous expression made the loss even worse.

Prophet be damned. I should’ve kicked his ston—the Scriptor turned, and the arena shifted. At once, the Trials unwound in a whirlwind of wood, stone, and ichor. Callam watched as a forest’s worth of trees and rocks flew through the air, tossed by some grand spell. Ichor followed, splashing and surging in a cascade of silver. Carried by the wind, golden leaves drew every eye.

The sound of chimes filled every corner.

They’re announcing placements now? Judging by the shocked looks around Callam, he wasn’t the only one who’d been caught unaware. Usually, there was a period of respite after the final trial to allow the competitors to be healed. Callam needed those healers—his torn wrist throbbed and his thoughts came slowly. Yet he could feel the crowd’s eagerness. Their excitement. Commoners were on their feet, pointing in awe at the hundreds of kites dancing in the Trial’s grand finale, while in the distance, elites had begun to file their way down to the auctioneer’s podium.

“By the Prophet’s will,” bellowed seven voices in unison from across the colosseum, “we welcome Queenskin, Zallorin, of noble blood. Leadership demands from a man three things: great talent, a mind for trickery, and the physicality to topple those who rise against him. With a magic score of eight out of ten, a time under four minutes, and a first-place finish in his instance of the Trial of Brawn, it is of no great surprise that a man of Queenskin’s stature stands tallest among this year’s crop.”

Standing in a nearby corner of the arena, a boy with broad shoulders and a sharp nose had his features magnified across the sky. As one, the crowds screamed his name—the Queenskins were famous around the port, and infamously callous. All street kids avoided their warehouses for fear of losing a hand or worse.

“And in second, of Freeman blood and holding this year’s highest magic-aptitude score—Lenora Page!” A young woman’s face filled the sky amid the roar of the stands. Her flowing brown hair had clearly been tamed into a quick braid, and her eyes so wide with excitement that Callam almost lost himself in them. She made it! he couldn’t help but think, smiling widely.

Finally, he knew her name.

Third place went to a Chloe, Penbroke from out of the city. Callam had never heard of the Volin Mires, but the crowd's uncomfortable silence at seeing an outsider take a top spot did little to quell Callam’s growing nerves. Three groups had made it to the rings of ten. Of those, three unbound took first, and three took second, so Callam’s second-place finish didn’t guarantee him a spot… His stomach dropped, certain he’d just jinxed himself. The Poet had a way of stealing wishes before they came true.

“In fourth, demonstrating great wit and superior strength, this city’s very own shipping heir, Fleetrest, Niles!” Hearing his name, the redheaded boy looked up from where he stood stiff-necked and narrow-eyed, and flashed the skies a broad smile. Callam was pacing now, no thoughts for the mask Niles had just put on, oblivious to anything but the thudding in his own chest. His left hand rubbed the Seedling’s scar as he clung to his stanzas, repeating them over and over for good luck…

“And, finally…!” the seven Scriptors said as one. Callam’s heart was in his throat now—orphans never made it to the top five. He’d watched the Trials dozens of times, and only his sister had ever come close.

“In a Port Cardica first, hailing from the Chapelward on Vela Hill, QUILL, CALLAM!”

Callam’s spirits soared—the crowds screamed, and he found himself covered in goosebumps. Everywhere he looked, people were chanting his name. Cheering for him. I did it, he thought, his hands in his hair. I’m in the top five! He’d made history. With a smile so broad he couldn’t hold back, he spun in a small circle, his shock and joy obvious to the world.

“Guess everyone knows I’m a street kid now,” he whispered a moment later, once he’d regained his composure. Gambled coins were sure to be changing hands at the news, but that was neither here nor there.

Looking around, Callam stood a little taller. Pride swelled inside of him. By the Prophet’s will, he’d done right by his sister.

He had not faltered. Now, all he had to do was Bind.

~~~~

The Seer drank deeply from the seeing well, his robes ablaze with power. Magic flowed from hem to lapel, the current lifting his cloak. In an instant he saw what they could not. He knew that once again, their efforts would be for naught. This centennial’s chosen would fail, as had all before him.

The bindings are of the Prophets’ design—of my grand design. Even now the thought cooled his pride. The bond will come in vestiges of white; the boy’s heart will share its darkness, and its plight.

Ink will form and fail to take.

“He will scream,” the Seer spoke out loud. He averted his hollowed eyes. “And fight. And break.”

Around him, the Endless ones shuffled their long limbs. Sorrow filled the in-between spaces where their flowers and smiles had once been. Their hope had departed long ago.

Dozens of potentials, tried and failed. Thousands of years of despair.

Why had he not bent the knee back then? Why had he not chosen to die, so that the unbound could be free?