Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

"Endure the hand that beats, for it’s the one that feeds."

Preachings of the Son’s Solace.

“Leave it alone!” a young man shouted, storming into the study.

Pressed up against a crack between the wardrobe’s door, Callam could barely make out a boy’s green robes and sharp face as he paced back and forth. He looked close to Callam in age, slightly older if his blond stubble was any indication.

Poet’s hand, Callam thought, trying his best not to make a sound. If I’m caught here, I’ll get the noose. Dust caked the floor under him and teased the back of his throat. He fought to keep in a cough. The walls, the stale air, and the image of the hanging post made the space suffocating. Any movement at all and he’d be overheard.

“Master Writ,” called out a man, who seemed quite timid and deferential. “Your father mandates it! Please understand, sir. It’s not up to me. I swear.” The voice's owner came into view: a short, chubby man wearing the black and whites of a scholar. He labored to catch his breath.

“I may be in your charge,” the youth responded scathingly, “but if you think to condemn me to peasant work, then you, Father, and the Prophet himself can go to the Heathen’s Haven!”

Hearing the curse, Callam felt his chest tighten. Orphans swore like beached sailors, but they learned quickly where not to step. Nothing good comes from taking the Prophet’s name in vain. The Sisters made sure to beat-in that rule.

“Do–don’t speak such h-heresy, young master,” the man stammered, his round cheeks pinched. “If your father hears you…”

“He’ll do what?” the boy spat. “Father’s left me out to dry. He knew I did not care for a standard binding, yet forced me into one anyway. He could have gifted me a scripted grimoire. Saved me from fighting in the Tower. Instead, he sends me there to risk my life.”

“Master Writ,” the scholar said firmly, as if he’d found his legs, “your father wishes for you to conquer the Seeker’s Tower. To write your own path. He is not alone in this; many believe the trite magic of a scripted grimoire comes at a cost. And, a man of his station ca—”

“Can speak for himself,” a stern voice interjected.

Callam’s mouth dried. He knew men like this one. Men who spoke with born authority. Men who face no consequences, only inconveniences. Around Callam, the wardrobe now felt like a coffin. He fought to stay still, to not bury himself among the coats. Surviving the streets meant avoiding callers like this man. Avoiding their sunken cellars and sickly smiles that never quite reached their eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Orsal,” the man said. “Sebastian, your petulance has gone on long enough. Your mother has turned a blind eye, but it is clear that you are stunted. I will not tolerate your cowardice any longer.”

“Father, why can’t you just–”

The sound of a slap cut through the study. A long quiet followed, so tense that Callam could hear it. This man views his child as a prize, not a person, Callam realized. It twisted his stomach.

“Da…”

“Not another word.” the man commanded. He walked past the wardrobe, stopping to straighten the cuffs of his velvet shirt that hung loose around his shoulders. Disgust wrinkled a hawkish face with a curved nose and furrowed brow.

“You will address me as Scriptor Writ,” he said, then took a measured breath. “Just as you will scale the Tower and earn your own way. Should you progress your grimoire, you may return home. Until then, you will earn our family’s name with bone and with blood.” When no response came, the man continued, “Good. Now, let’s deal with tonight’s other nuisance.” He turned to stare directly at the wardrobe. “Enjoying the show, boy?”

“Halluk!” the man incanted, his words reverberating with power. Hundreds of shadows erupted from a pouch at his waist, arcing through the air as they congregated in front of the wardrobe. They wriggled together like a knot of ravenous eels. Then they burst through the crack in the doors.

Callam had no time to process what was happening. The magic strands lassoed his body and pulled—too late, he tried to dig in his heels, desperately grabbed for the coats, failed, and was tossed into the air. He barely managed to get his arms underneath himself before he hit the study floor. Hard.

Pain blared and pushed all thoughts out. Callam lay prostrate, face pressed against the ground, knees bruised, his heart in his throat. He worked to gather himself, but panicked as the iron grip of magic pulled him upwards. Callam fought against it—drew deep from the well of stubbornness he’d built over the years.

It was useless.

A scream escaped his lips as the spell contorted his body, stretching his arms outwards and splaying them like the wings of a bird. Terror threatened to overwhelm Callam and he felt his heart thud in his ears as the mage approached. The man’s composure was at odds with his son’s bewildered expression. The elderly scholar recovered a moment later and pushed his glasses up with a surprised, “Ah.”

“What have we here?” the mage asked as he circled Callam. “I thought I felt a rat in our garden. Now…who’d be stupid enough to let you in?” The man glanced at his son. When the boy didn’t react, he continued. “Or maybe you climbed the rocks, eager to taste our treasures here at the top?”

Callam stayed silent and stared the mage down. Words carried power, and he would not give this man his. Callam had felt this small once before, when as a little boy the Sisters had found his cot wet. He’d broken down then. Never again, he’d told himself. He would not allow this mage to see his fear.

Or to learn how desperately he needed a grimoire.

“Yes,” the mage whispered. “That’s it. Unbound. No magic signature at all. Tell me…which forbidden fruit had you set your foolish sight on?”

Callam didn’t respond—instead, he hawked onto the man’s shoes. Despite the defiance in Callam’s eyes, the action hadn’t been intentional. The spell he was under pressured his stomach and his silence had earned more pressure still. Bitterness filled his mouth; he’d coughed up dark bile. Still, to everyone watching, it appeared the stupidest, bravest thing he could have done.

The mage recoiled in disgust, then quickly regained his composure. “Sebastian. Come,” he called out. “It seems the gods favor you after all. They’ve gifted you the opportunity to wet your tome.”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Sebastian stuttered, visibly confused by his father’s sudden attention.

The mage’s face contorted at the answer. He grabbed his son and pulled him close. “I mean for you to kill the boy,” he said. “Prove that the Prophet’s gift is not wasted on you. Show me that you understand the way of His world. That you know your place is on top of it.”

Enunciating those final words, the mage lifted his free palm upwards. Pure energy crackled around his hand and morphed into various shapes and sizes. “This tool should suffice,” he said, a dark blade materializing above his fingers.

Claustrophobia enveloped Callam as he watched the blade appear. He pushed and pushed against the magic hold, but it was as sure and stable as steel. All he could do now was recoil deeply within himself. He hid in that inner sanctuary that keeps survivors sane, a warm, walled place built on long nights spent gorging water just to feel full.

From that detached place, the world unfolded as if he was viewing it through a thick pane of glass. Callam watched Sebastian stride over to his father; the noble boy’s face betrayed his fear and wonder as he reached out to seize the blade. The moment he touched the hilt, Sebastian’s eyes widened and he immediately attempted to withdraw his fingers.

His father didn’t allow it. The mage ruthlessly grabbed the youth’s wrist and forced the boy’s hands back upon the weapon. Sebastian screamed, but the mage didn’t care. “Enough,” he snarled. “That pain you feel is the burden we Scriptors carry. The burden that those who wish to master magic must overcome. Embrace it. Understand what you are and what they will never be.”

It was a statement born from cruelty—the blade Sebastian clutched was no soldier’s tool but a weapon that fed on the noble boy's arm, blistering his skin like meat in a pot. What father does that to their son? Callam thought, his mind reeling. The question came to him slowly, as if passing through a dense fog. It quieted the fear Callam dared not confront: what was going to happen to him?

Somehow, Sebastian firmed his resolve and brandished the blade even as it festered his flesh. Disdain marred his boyish face. Callam locked onto the youth’s gaze, knowing defiance to be his last protection from the sword. For a moment, uncertainty overtook the venom in the noble boy’s eyes.

It was a false hope. Sebastian regained his composure and reached his unoccupied hand into his green robe. In a fluid motion, he pulled out a thin grimoire, then flipped it open.

“Reforma Experia,” he invoked. The sapphire tome he held bloomed to life, brackish water and dark algae streaming out from its seams. Sebastian had spoken in the language of mages, but the words he’d said were so infamous that even Callam knew their meaning—Sebastian aimed to expand his spellbook by writing a chapter with the lifeblood of another.

“Imparte,” Sebastian mouthed to finish the spell. By that point, his swordhand had started to char.

The tome responded to his words, its surface turning rigid as the placid algae became wiry. The vegetation shot outward and, finding Callam, began to constrict around him; the frigid, oily vestiges drew a gasp from his lips as the plant sought nourishment.

With a strained smile, Sebastian raised the sword and swept it down at Callam’s neck.

No! Callam's mind howled. His body began to tremble—fear breached the walls he’d built to keep reality out. The stanzas said that “a life of providence should be lived without pride,” but Callam had always wanted more. He’d promised her that he’d be more.

Yet, it seemed his future was already written.

Callam felt the burn of the blade first. It consumed him, the pain bright and the smell acrid. It was everything he knew. All he could ever know.