“What do you plead?” they asked the girl upon her pyre.
“Witchcraft? Heresy? Tell us now and the burning shall be swift.”
“No water can quell these words that I sing,
No fire can cauterize your sins
For when the angels come, they’ll see.
That it mattered not to you,
Who sinks and who swims.”
—A song of flame and wonder, before the first Binding
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Nine unbound joined Callam in the twenty-foot-wide ring. All were strangers—he’d vaguely hoped to see Hans or that pretty girl he’d met in the stands—and all were worse for wear, their brows matted with sweat and their arms and legs a patchwork of bruises.
Yet despite their worn appearances, Callam knew he was bound to lose.
The three girls and six boys each appeared taller, stronger, or faster than he. He’d only managed to win his previous matches through quick thinking and trickery, and by the looks the other unbound were giving him, word had spread of his methods.
This match isn’t about winning.
Callam took a moment to clear his mind. It’s about enduring. Surviving the Port meant adapting to fights like this. Angry drunks, petty guards? They enjoyed the kick and chase, but Callam had learned young that if you cowered long enough, and took the beatings quietly, tormentors eventually got bored. He’d lived through shattered bottles and studded boots. Today, he’d outlast these unbound.
“Begin!” shouted the Scriptor before Callam could dwell any further.
Three steps in a half-circle. Three quick breaths. Callam put distance between himself and the rest of the unbound, his back to the crowd. Thousands were watching. He just needed to wait. To brave these first few seconds, to—now!
A brunette girl and a redheaded boy sprinted for the middle of the ring; Callam rushed towards them, intuition telling him what they planned to do… but a stout arm blocked his path, seeking the band tied off around his midriff. Callam dodged the hand, then almost tumbled over an outstretched leg. He tried to leap it, chest pounding, and tripped in his haste. He hit the ground hard—it had been either that or risk spraining an ankle. As if Callam were chum in the water, a dozen eyes turned on him.
He had to get to the middle of the ring, fast.
Callam jumped to his feet, moving desperately. Seven feet away, six… He watched as the duo claimed the center, proving his earlier intuition right—they turned back to back, their bodies shielding each other as they established control over the ring. White bands hung loosely across their chests. They crouched low and spun...
Like water filling a hollow, three unbound engaged the duo. Two other boys cut Callam off, one stocky, one wide-faced. Even as Callam picked up speed, he knew he’d never make it.
“Out, Sadin, Lenon!” the Scriptor yelled.
Callam raced forward, turning distraction into opportunity. He shouldered past the muscled boy, feinting a grab at the cord tied around the teen’s neck. Two strides later he’d reached the duo—they were a wall of red and brown, splitting the ring in half. The girl grappled a short boy with hair drawn back in the Kalpechi style, the boy wrestled a pair of sleek unbound brandishing sneers. A series of quick kicks, an overhead grab, and—
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Solstice, Jear, out!”
The audience howled their approval. Callam nodded his head in recognition; the redheaded boy had managed to rip free an attacker’s band while scrapping two versus one.
I only have a few seconds. He breathed deeply. Hopefully, these two will focus on helping each other.
Feeling some of his confidence return, Callam engaged a tan unbound. Even mid-combat, the boy was quick-mouthed and full of verbal jabs. Callam ignored a shouted insinuation that his mother was more threadbare than the sheets she kept company on—as long as he kept his cool and stuck to the center of the circle, he’d be safe.
He just needed to outlast everyone else.
“Scrale, Orion, out. Mystebloom, Sylvie, out.”
Six left. Callam weaved under the grasp of an approaching unbound, then stood up quickly to throw off his would-be attacker. Staying in the ring had proved easier than he’d first expected; he’d worried the duo would turn on him the second they’d finished their battles, but it was not written.
Of course, they’d still gang up on him before the trial’s end.
“—Phiry, to your left!” called out a deep voice behind Callam. He ducked just in time to see a set of lithe hands reach through the air where his head had been. Spinning, he faced the willowy boy who’d tried to trip him earlier—at the warning, the boy had shifted his attack towards Callam instead of the duo.
Callam kicked off the ground, slipping inside the boy’s reach. The boy reacted immediately, pulling his arms back, all elbows and awkward angles, but it was too little, too late. Phiry, the girl of the duo, jammed her shoulder into the boy’s ribcage and sent him tumbling out of the ring.
“Alden, Page, out!” Five lef— “Leona, Winterbite, out!” the Scriptor shouted over Callam’s thoughts, only for his words to be drowned out by a “Is that all that’s written?!” roared by the redheaded boy behind Callam’s back.
And then there were four. Callam rolled forward, knowing the redhead would come after him next. Floor met back and Callam was on his feet once more, pushing off as he pivoted his momentum towards a far side of the circle. The duo were on him at once, chasing him round and round the ring. He could taste the kicked-up dust. Would have sworn he could feel their breath on his neck.
The crowd was in an uproar—their shouts like torches in a fog. Screams of Phiry, Thaven, Niles, and… even Callam cut through the din. In front of him, the fourth unbound—a blond with noble garb and eyes like ice—tackled Phiry to the ground.
This is it, Callam realized, knowing what would happen next: Niles or Thaven—Callam wasn’t sure who was who—would jump in to help his teammate, leaving themselves exposed. Callam dashed forward, his hands reaching out, his fingers scraping against a tunic as they sought out a band. All he had to do was seize one, and finishing in the top two would be within his grasp. Top one, maybe. He’d fulfill his promise to his sister. He’d stand tall where others faltered.
He’d—
Rough fingers gripped his arm, and the world went upside down.
Callam was on his back, seeing stars. Ringing filled his ears—the Scriptor stood feet away, shouting, but Callam couldn’t hear a thing. He tried to sit up, only to taste bile. He fought through the nausea, glancing around to find he’d somehow managed to stay in the ring. The three unbound lay in a pile of hands and feet, proving the fight was still on.
Why they hadn’t worked together to toss him out of the ring or remove his band was a mystery for another time.
Pushing himself into a crouch, Callam winced. Each movement shot fresh pain through his head. He staggered over to the pile, unsure of what to do, incapable of coming up with any plan more sophisticated than falling on top of them. He saw no knots—they… they’ve all shifted their satchels to make them inaccessible.
Callam blinked slowly. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“Thaven, Bookwell, tapped out!” the Scriptor bellowed. The noise set Callam’s head ringing, and it took him a moment to realize he could hear again.
A disoriented step later, a dazed glance around, and what Callam saw sent shivers down his spine.
Girl and boy—Phiry and Niles—were on their feet and advancing, a flat expression shared between the two. Earlier, he’d thought them allies of opportunity, but by the way they walked in stride, hips and shoulders in coordination, it was clear that they had greater training than the others.
With a start, Callam’s foggy mind understood. These two were elites, born to families who saw Binding Day as more than a path to power—it was the highest form of prestige. To them, winning was proof that the Fated Few were destined to rule. They were not fools like Airster. They’d seen right through Callam’s nice clothes and known him for what he was all along: an easy target they could leave for last.
And right now, he stood between them and their prize.
“I’ll go for his sash, you go for the tap,” Phiry whispered, speaking for the first time all match. To Callam, her voice was like a honeycomb, sweet and promising a sting.