Tomebound, a Litrpg Tower Climbing Adventure

The Poet promises that ‘he who writes lives forever,’

But life has taught me that all stories have an end.

Yet I pray that she is right and I, wrong.

For I’ve so many words left to pen.

The in-margin scribblings of a Scripted Grimoire

“Niles Fleetrest, approach the stage!”

A smile tugged at Callam’s lips as he watched the boy pale. It was a small pleasure, but he was glad to see Niles nervous; the unbound had expressed no remorse for his earlier actions, nor displayed any embarrassment about his missed predictions.

He’d even made a face when Lenora succeeded, as if affronted that a Freeman found success.

After that, he’d run his mouth throughout Chloe’s binding, acting as if he were some oracle and she his supplicant. “It is forbidden,” he’d said, sniffing loudly when she’d tried for a three-star grimoire, only to smugly state that “a loose page chooses not where it drifts,” when the ink had failed to take.

Callam hated him for those words—it was the exact stanza the Sisters recited whenever he’d questioned the Prophet’s decrees, always accompanied with time in penance. Poet be damned, I refuse to believe anyone’s win is predetermined.

“...may fortune favor you, unbound,” finished the man directing Niles. “Quill, step forward,” he added with a nod.

Callam did so, taking Niles' previous spot at the foot of the chassis. Behind him, Scriptors were herding the rest of the unbound into separate lines, ones Callam knew would move much more quickly. They had to—with hundreds of participants in this year’s trial, the binding ceremony was sure to go late into the night. Auctioneers and aristocrats would eventually tire, so any delays were bad for business.

“Grimoires of the tower!” the eldest Scriptor shouted, her voice like thunder. “Tonight, you have deemed one amongst us worthy so far. Poet’s willing, you will find in Niles the hero that you seek.”

As if in answer, the sea of tomes resumed their grand spiral in the sky. Thousands of splayed covers glittered in the moonlight, their movements a trance of mystery and magic. Power radiated from those pages.

Are they disappointed with our failures?

The question drifted through Callam’s mind untethered, and he latched onto it like a sailor would a buoy in a storm. He needed the distraction; he was next, and his stomach was already threatening to turn. For as long as he could remember, he’d been this way—the first purse he’d cut, his first heist, even the first lie he’d told had made him feel ill.

It’s not the acts I dread, he thought, gripping the chassis’ railing hard enough that his hands hurt. But the waiting. Movement always dispelled his jitters. But here, where he couldn’t pace or complete small acts of preparation?

His only option was to think.

Fears he’d ignored all day burst through. What if the Seedling had chosen wrong? What if he failed to bind? Callam was suddenly aware of how very parched he was. After all, orphans always ended up on the slaver’s block, so who was he to think himself any different? He knew the truth—that was why he’d tried to steal a scripted grimoire in the first place.

Callam looked up at the books. Their beauty appeared more lethal to him now, less enchanting than when Lenora had been on stage. Soon they’d finish their dance, judge Niles, and it would be his turn to face the ink. He’d be the one on stage, crumpled to his knees, pupils white, and hands…

“No,” Callam promised himself, gritting his teeth against his momentary weakness. The act grounded him. “No,” he said twice more. No one knew how the tomes chose their partners, meaning he should have as good a chance as any.

He’d asked the Sisters about it, of course. “The grimoires decide, boy,” they’d scolded him. “And few are fated.” To them, childhood was a time for chores, and adulthood a time for servitude. Curiosity had no place in either, lest he bind.

Siela thought differently. She’d encouraged his interests and, being closer to the Sisters, had pried in ways he could not. At night, she’d turned her learnings into wishtales about clever books and their bonded Seekers. Most she’d invented for his benefit, he’d known. But some carried the ring of truth.

The books began their descent. Where earlier they had been moths to a flame, they were now fish to a hook. They darted in and out, unsure if they should commit. Five books did in the end. A collage of colors, they flew down in unison, four large tomes circling a smaller one.

“Crow’s foot!” someone shouted. “Another four-star! Two in a season!”

“It’s true!” a high-pitched voice chimed in, and soon everyone was pointing in excitement, their heads swiveling to follow the books’ meandering path. Callam couldn’t help but feel envious. Usually two or three grimoires of that level were seen per year, and while he did not hope to bind anything so powerful, he still craved the opportunity. Besides, Niles had cheated him. The boy deserved nothing, let alone something so great.

For his part, Niles didn’t seem surprised. He’d kept his expression neutral throughout the Scriptors’ chantings of, “Bind him,” his red hair and lean face almost devilish in the moonlight. The four-star’s appearance seemed to only reinforce the boy’s aloof demeanor, drawing little more than a smirk from his features.

“Silence! Let the boy bind in peace!” shouted the eldest Scriptor.

All went quiet as the five tomes arrived at the dais. The larger four rotated once, then split off, their escort complete. Only a small grimoire remained, its cover a hand-span wide and the color of burnt earth—weak for a four-star. At first, the book circled Niles eagerly, then it paused a foot from his head and oscillated up and down. It held its ink back and tilted its cover forward.

Callam recognized that expression, having seen it on the Sisters countless times. Appraising. Down-the-nose. Dissatisfied.

Seconds passed in such a fashion, each feeling longer than the last. Eventually the book made its choice—and so did the boy. With a turn, the grimoire made to fly away.

Only for Niles to snatch it.

Several things happened all at once. A pulse of energy shot through the amphitheater, its heat rivaling that of a conflagration. Luckily, it lasted barely an instant; any longer and they’d have been scorched. Brightness followed, and Callam squeezed his eyes shut. When that didn’t work, he blinked rapidly, fighting off the afterimages. Everywhere he looked, blurry silhouettes were moving, the occasional appendage or expression firming into view.

Screams reached Callam’s ears next. Shouts of “No!” echoed through the coliseum, only to be deafened by the elder Scriptor’s screeching, “Stop that boy!” Her words were met with gasps of “Over there!” and Callam found himself swerving, trying to locate the stage. Cleverer unbound were already scampering away, desperate. I should leave too, he realized, then turned, rushing from the dais. What had Niles been thinking? Forcing a binding was heresy at best, suicide at worst.

More shouting. Another flash of light, this time skywards. Callam saw the books react, a flock of them flying low overhead. Immediately they took up their brethren’s call, swarming the beacon. Sheets of razor-like paper whipped in the wind—he did not want to go anywhere near either those grimoires or the people below them.

Wait, people? Why were Ruddites running this way?

“TURN BACK!” one of them screamed, and Callam almost tripped in his haste to listen. Hundreds of Ruddites were now streaming from the stands, panicked. “What’s going —?”

“BY THE POET, WHAT’S THAT?” yelled an unbound near Callam, and he suddenly understood.

Something hideous was rising from the rafters. The creature was thin, hard to pin down, its presence shifting when caught by Callam’s eyes. Whatever he did manage to glimpse was massive and grotesque, with muscles bulging in strange directions. Snake-like tendrils sprouted from its mouth and it had no arms, just dark strands that dragged at its side. With one arcing step that seemed to stretch on forever, it planted a foot on the arena floor. A second later, its body expanded like dye in a flask, staining everything between its two legs black.

Then the thing—a Broken of myth and wishtales, Callam realized—condensed, and where it had just been wide, now it was tall. It towered above Callam, thirty yards of it illuminated by the moonlight, its empty sockets searching. The monster's head swept left, a hunger to the movement. A shift in the air and it was looking right. It peered upwards, its chin pointing to the books and beacon, and the tendrils in its maw went rigid as knives. Downwards, and…

A wave of cold washed over Callam. There was something both alien and disturbingly human to the stare the Broken was giving him.

Need mixed with greed.

Callam couldn’t explain it, but he was certain that the monster had imprinted on him. He spent no time pondering its size—easily ten times that of the stories he’d heard—or its intelligence. Instead, he sprinted toward Niles and the Scriptors like his life depended on it.

Broken were those who had resisted the impulse to Bind. Without a tome in hand, Callam knew his life was at its end.