Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

"Light cuts away the mystery. Shines through and leaves you bare. Can you write a story with what remains? Is there more to you than false promises and empty books?"

–The Rightbearer

“Unbound! This way!” shouted a mage to Callam’s left. The man had blond hair and a square, clean-shaven face that spoke of a stern demeanor. His right ear lobe was split down the middle, as was customary of a military mage, and he had a gold tag pinned to his green robes.

At his command, Callam and the nearby unbound marched to one of the waist-high cisterns now jutting out of the arena grounds. Each basin was deep enough to drown in and stretched back at least a hundred feet by Callam’s guess. To him, the cisterns looked remarkably like the port’s canals, except silver liquid pooled within the chambers instead of water. Wild roots clambered along the basins’ lengths, their wooden fingers strangling the stone.

“I’m Scriptor Norvek. You’re group twenty of sixty-four,” the mage said briskly, his tone silencing the group. “Lots of unbound this year. So, don’t get excited if you’re the best in this pod. Won’t mean much unless you’re better than the rest,” he said, then emphasized his point by motioning to the hundreds of teens circling the neighboring cisterns. “This trial tests your inherent magic ability. It does not guarantee binding. Only fate does that. High grades simply taper the penalty of contracting a powerful grimoire.” Pulling out his own, forest-green tome, he asked, “Everyone clear on our grading practices?”

The chorus of yeses did little to dissuade the man’s monologue, and he continued explaining things every contestant already knew. Callam traced the wishbone pendant as he listened. He tried his best to stay still, yet his nerves made him restless—Siela had scored highly on this trial, and it had been her downfall. She’d run up to him in the stands, all smiles and confidence, and had promised him that everything would be better soon. In return, she’d made him swear that he’d be okay no matter what.

Back then, Callam hadn’t understood her request; he’d just hugged her warmly, safe in her arms. Later, he’d learned that his sister’s innate magic was powerful enough for her to qualify to bind a three star grimoire. Unfortunately, binding stronger grimoires carried great risks and terrible odds, especially for those without magical bloodlines. Instead of one in ten successfully binding, fewer than one in fifty would.

Sometimes, people even died.

Siela had known, though, and had attempted to bind anyway. Anything to give me a better life. Callam's throat went dry. She’d even smiled and waved when her name had been called. All so I wouldn’t know she was terrified. He wanted to admire that quality in her but missed her too much.

The crack of the Scriptor’s voice roused Callam from his memories. “Unbound, approach!” the man commanded, his shout echoed by dozens of other administrators throughout the arena. Youths scuttled forward, and Callam joined them, releasing the necklace as he walked.

Imprints indented his hand.

“These chambers are filled with ichor, a magic repellent,” the Scriptor instructed. “The stronger your ability, the further the liquid will move. Try to empty it. Greenwood, Elera you’re up,” he beckoned. “May the Prophet prosper within you.”

Hearing her name, a willowy unbound wearing an amber dress neared the cistern. Her face betrayed the unspoken hesitancy that they all felt. She wasted no time, however, and slipped her hands into the liquid. Her body went rigid and a frown deepened on her line-less face. Sweat coated her brown skin and her arms began to tremble, lightly first, then more rapidly until they looked like they might snap. The ichor stayed still despite her efforts.

Callam had started to wonder if the test had malfunctioned somehow, when Elera uttered a small scream and a ripple broke the ichor’s surface. Droplets began to overflow the vessel, then leaked down its sides and condensed in a pool below. More and more joined their number, until Elera crashed to her knees.

“No!” She cried, trying to stand up. “I can…do more.” The Scriptor stopped her. “Three out of ten,” he announced. “Good for tomes up to level two. Faeble, Jake, you’re next.”

The stocky boy didn’t fare much better. He was able to get the ichor to overflow sooner, but in no greater quantity, and scored a three as well. In fact, no-one in their pod performed exceptionally. Callam watched as a Roryn Mistweather and a Sable Nibwell were called forward, and neither managed to get more than a few drops to fall; each scored a one.

Other pods had more success. One unbound created a swell in his cistern, the ichor rising up a good few feet before crashing down. Another created a small twister in his basin that traveled the length of the vessel. Callam hadn't heard that unbound’s score, but some of the members of his group had.

“Seven out of ten,” voiced a snobbish boy with red hair and a complexion to match. “Finally someone with skill. Pity, don’t you think?” he said, then motioned disdainfully to the rest of the group. “To be put in with the likes of them?”

It took Callam a few seconds to realize that the unbound was talking to him. The boy didn’t notice, and barreled on, his chin held so high it seemed as if it would hurt to look down.

“I’m Airster Firegale,” he announced, pushing his hair back with one hand and reaching out for a shake with the other. “From across the bay. Can’t believe they let the street wraiths in. An affront to the Prophet, in my opinion. Nobles should be allowed to bind first.”

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Callam focused on the trial. He’d met his fair share of boys like this one; they frequented the undercity’s taverns and acted as if others should be thankful to wait on them. Callam had been too young to do more than bus dishes, but his sister had occasionally served those patrons to earn extra coin. He’d never forget how touchy they got and how poorly they tipped.

Unfortunately, the boy didn’t let up. “That’s the Writ’s insignia on your shirt, is it not? My father has business with yours. Imports Firegale wheels.”

Growing irritated, Callam turned to face the boy. He was about to tell him off, when inspiration dawned—four times now, Callam had been mistaken for someone else because of his hand-me-down clothing. Why not take advantage? he thought, and shook the outstretched hand firmly. “Right! No, can’t say father’s ever mentioned a Firegale. Our stablehand did though. Warned she’s prone to fly right off her axel, mid rut.”

Unable to keep the sly grin from his face, Callam walked away. Part of him felt a bit guilty for taking his frustrations out on the boy, but only just—the boy had been acting like a jerk. Callam did hope, however, that Helana wouldn’t get into trouble for his actions.

He’d taken less than five steps when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

“Think you’re so funny, Writ? My family—” the boy whispered, tightening his grip. Then he appeared to reconsider his words, “No matter. You, and yours, will get your just desserts. Watch what a Firegale can do.”

For all his bravado, Airster wasn’t called up for another few minutes. The pale boy stood around, staring daggers at Callam as his rosacea marinated to a crimson hue.

“Firegale, Airster approach!” The Scriptor finally called, and the boy did not disappoint. Airster shouldered his way up to the cistern, then sunk both hands deep into the basin. The ichor reacted at once. It separated near him and cascading over the walls in continuous ripples until a third of the vessel's liquid had been freed.

“Six out of ten. Optimal for level three Grimoires.” The scriptor called out. “Great work, unbound.”

A small grin spread across Callam's face at the score; it seemed he might have made the Writs a formidable enemy, after all.

“Quill, Callam, you’re on deck,” the Scriptor announced, wiping the smile right off. Callam fought the itch to pace, and settled for tapping his foot. He tried to make the behavior as innocuous as possible. Tension crept into his shoulders. As was often the case with time, it lagged when he wanted less of it, and sped up when he needed more. Within a blink, it was his turn.

Callam walked up to the cistern with heavy steps, keenly aware of all the eyes on him. He rested his hands on its rim and felt the slickness of the basalt under his fingers; the stone was grainy and wet from where the ichor had overflowed. The basin refilled slowly, his reflection distorting in the swirling liquid. Brown eyes stared back at him. His normally thin face appeared wide and his strong jaw, long his favorite feature, looked round and meek. The soft scent of sulfur filled his nose.

“Well, unbound?” the Scriptor urged. “Any time now.”

The plunge chilled Callam quicker than breached river ice. He gasped as his arms went limp, the ichor drawing from his body’s warmth—he would have shivered, if he could have spared the energy. The liquid weighed on his skin, sticky and viscous, like a layer of mucus.

Callam pushed against it. He dug his heels in reflexively, and willed the ichor to move. To do anything at all. Tingling built in his extremities as he battled the freezing liquid and fought to keep himself from pulling his arms out.

I can do this, Callam thought. He’d endured pain much worse than this over the years; real pain, the type that he still carried with him. How embarrassing would it be if he failed here, on the first of the three trials? How could he fulfill his promise to his sister if he couldn’t even make this ichor move?

Tingling turned to burning as his pores battled the liquid. They repelled it, churning the ichor until it finally gave and sloshed violently over the edge. Bubbles broke the surface, simmering to a boil. His arms suddenly did not feel so cold, and he redoubled his efforts. The ichor began to twist, coiling into a deep, silent whir—

“Times up, unbound,” the Scriptor called out. “Four out of ten. Good for grimoires up to level two.”

Callam slipped, his legs shaking as he fell. He had more to give, he was certain of it, but the arena grounds were surprisingly comfortable under his back.

“Quill huh?” jeered a voice. Airster’s ugly sneer soon filled the view. “I’d heard the Writ’s were all bastards. Figured they’d at least let you keep your father’s name.”