“You say men cannot change.

Yet judge a man by his wit,

And a boy by how far he can spit.”

~Overheard at a Ruddite Tavern

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“Callam, there is a common saying in the Western Isles,” Irem shared as the two of them walked the narrow corridor hugging the castle’s main hall. “The gods have tested you, and found nothing worthy.”

“I’m—”

“Quiet,” she demanded, her voice dropping to a whisper. A cold austerity cut through her features when she looked at him over her shoulder. “We teachers heard Arlie’s account of Binding Day firsthand. Of your hijacked grimoire.” Behind her, the ribbons of her robe whipped in the breeze coming from the nearby windows, snapping back and forth with each step she took. “Do not deceive yourself. You’ve strength and dexterity both, but lack the magical gifts needed for that spellbook. Even if placed among three-star tomebound, you’d soon fall short.”

Irem’s words fell like a hammer on Callam’s ears, and he felt a stiffness that had nothing to do with the morning’s workout. He fought back a retort.

How many teachers would look down upon him today? The stanzas claimed all ‘Fated prospered in His light,’ yet many still saw him as less than equal. Sure, he’d struggled with mana absorption during the combat class, but any conclusion drawn from a single lesson would be folly.

He said as much, once he trusted himself to speak calmly.

Irem pursed her lips. “This is not about feelings. It’s about reality. In the Lighthouse, a wielder climbs or leaves. There is no in-between. While perseverance carries weight with me, it is clear to most that you are not up to the task.”

So I’m to quit?

Callam kept the thought to himself, unwilling to betray his frustration. It was obvious by the way Irem crossed her arms that she had a point to make, and he wouldn't play further into her hands.

“With you… it is not so simple,” she said when it was evident he would not rise to the bait. “Either you learn to wade these waters, or watch the Quellers take you to their depths.”

“Quellers?” He must have heard wrong.

“The very ones. War’s about, Callam.” Irem stopped and turned to face him. Her gaze assured him how serious she was. “We tomebound bear the weight of a nation, and many believe that responsibility extends to culling our weak.”

“To what purpose?” he managed through a dry throat—earlier, he’d have bet good copper the conversation was not heading in this direction. “Grimoires can’t be progressed after the wielder’s death. Mine’s no exception. They’d get an empty book.”

It was poor reasoning and he knew it.

“Not all kill to acquire power. Appearances matter. Many would sooner quiet those who’d give our tomebound a bad name than allow any signs of frailty or impertinence. With your unusual binding, you’ve a target on your head. Like it or not.”

True. The Prophet only knows how far nobles will go to protect what’s theirs.

Whatever questions Callam had, he kept to himself. He understood Irem’s logic and didn’t need telling that she considered the matter concluded. With nothing more than a nod, she climbed the staircase at the end of the hall, leaving him to his spiraling thoughts.

What was he to do about her warning?

He pondered that question the whole way back through the castle’s north corridor. The walk felt longer now that he was by himself. Lonely. No paperfowl cooed above; only his footsteps echoed off the walls. They sounded hollow against the stone. Finding himself pacing under a granite archway bisecting a mural of the Prophet, he stopped to flip through his spellbook.

Less than fifteen minutes til second-period.

Not nearly enough time to wash and change, but plenty to stare at the bandage around his Seedling’s scar. The little piece of fabric had somehow held in place through the morning’s training.

Succeeded where he’d failed.

Callam’s mood soured further. He shoved his hand into his pocket, tired. Tired of waiting for his Seedling to do something. Of falling short. For a moment he allowed himself to dwell on those feelings. Then he forced a smile, and rubbed some of the rock-dust off his shirt.

He’d survived worse. Irem was right that no matter how hard he tried, his magic did not work as intended.

That would not stop him.

He’d already come this far—survived Binding Day, made friends, faced death. Even found a place that finally felt like home.

This is just another chance to stand tall where others falt—

“Callam!” The sound of Lenora’s breathless voice reached him before she did. Looking up, he saw her hands clutching a bookbag stuffed with clothes and stationary; its contents were askew as if she’d changed in such a hurry she’d forgotten to fix everything nicely. “I worried…” Red tinged her cheeks and she seemed to catch herself. “We’ve note-taking and history next. Talk about a bore.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Professor Irem wanted to give me some pointers, is all.” The lie came out before he could stop it.

“Oh?” Lenora raised an eyebrow.

“I’m to put in some extra hours.” That part was true, at least. He’d need to practice if he hoped to keep up.

By the glance she gave him, he’d have done better trying to bluff her in a game of Seeker’s Talent. Still… she did not push the issue while they walked to class, and for that he was grateful–doubly so since she knew where they needed to go. To him, the castle’s twisting halls, dark tapestries, and vaulted walls were more maze than map.

~~~

“Settle down, all,” said Professor Wisewick, an elderly woman with a stern face and more nostril than even the oldest, crankiest Sisters at the chapelward. Only her upturned lips hinted at a deeper kindness—a warmth their note-taking teacher had lacked.

That man’s wooden switch had been quick to correct bad form.

“One-stars in the back. Fours in the front,” Wiswick instructed, pointing a wand to the sixty or so desks spanning her classroom. “I trust you’re smart enough to figure out the rest. History,” she added, emphasizing the statement with a sweeping gesture, “is where legends meet fact. It is not a study for the faint of heart, for the superstitious, or for the common man. Indeed, any education spent on a Ruddite is an education wasted. An empty head is filled faster with sermons than sense.”

Callam stopped halfway to his chair, unable to believe his ears.

Did she really… ?

The incredulous look he shot around the class confirmed he alone was taken aback by Wisewick’s attitude. Everyone else was settling into their seats as if this were all normal. Even Lenora appeared unfazed, and she was freeman, not noble. Though her expression did seem darker than usual.

I guess it's no more heretical than Nahnie speaking freely of the Poet’s Plight.

Such casual impiety was still a lot to take in, and it weighed on his mind while he sank into the seat left of Lenora–so much of what tomebound said openly would be a hangable offense if expressed by a commoner.

He tried getting comfortable.

The chair’s wood made it impossible. It dug into his back, and there was little space on the desk for him to take notes. Writing, thankfully, had proved relatively easy for him to pick up.

“Not that we are pagans,” their professor remarked, and a line titled The Fated Few: a History of the Prophets’ Magic filled the green slate on the far side of the room. “It is our duty to filter through the drab the archivists drag out from the Roots and decide which truths hold merit. Remember, prejudice is needed most when dealing with those who tell no lies.” Tapping a three-star tomebound on the shoulder with her wand, she asked, “Venture a guess as to why?”

“Huh? Um, well,” sputtered the boy–Callam realized he was the taller of the two who’d grabbed him that morning. “Because, I…”

“Wiser words are rarely shared,” Wisewick interrupted. “Best to keep such gems to yourself, eh? What about you?” This time her wand shot across the room, circling twice before nudging an annoyed Airster in the arm. “Thoughts?”

The distracted noble did not flinch. “Any fool can tell you the thief hangs while thinking his reasons true,” he said, without looking away from the young woman he’d been whispering to.

“Exactly right.” Wisewick smiled. “The archivists here specialize in records—deciphering the intent behind what is written. No faulty ledgers, or intentional discrepancies escapes their notice. Yet it is obvious that all history is tainted by the author’s pen. A rabblerouser from the south could, for instance, bribe a scribe into sharing her story. Every word uttered might be her truth, but we’d know better than to trust her tales.”

“What better tools do we have, professor?” asked a brunette seated a few rows behind Lenora. Out of the corner of his eye, Callam noticed she clutched a two-star tome, its cover adorned by a shining sun.

“Hand,” Wisewick demanded, continuing only after the girl had reluctantly raised hers. “A good question, but one for another time. We’ve delayed enough. We start at the beginning: the Prophet’s war began with fire…”

The hour passed more quickly than Callam could have imagined.

At first he’d feared he would be bored, but the more their professor spoke, the more fascinated he became. It wasn’t just the material that kept his interest—much of the lecture covered scriptures every chapel kid had memorized—it was the presentation. With a flick of the wand, their professor brought the Sculpting to life on the slate, where Callam watched stone break as the gods carved Lorynthal from the sea to keep man safe from the tides. A similar swish rendered an image of Tellen–the god of Fate–molding the prophets from the world tree’s bark.

The deity’s mouth even moved when Wisewick recited the commandments he’d shared.

“To the First, greatest among you, wield our power to defend your walls.”

“To the Second, kindest of souls, bring prosperity to your halls.”

“To the Third, wayward of three, find your purpose to bring meaning to all.”

Callam hung to every word. Much of this, at least, was new to him.

Not everyone was so enraptured by the presentation. By the time their professor reached the start of the Beast War, Lenora had taken to yawning to stay awake—she’d placed her bookbag upon her lap, propped an elbow on it, and rested her chin in her hand in an effort to keep her mouth closed.

“The gods, in their wisdom, used the last of their strength to build the lighthouses that bridge heaven with mankind,” Wisewick said, continuing her hour-long monologue. “They tasked us to light the beacons and return them to earth. Yet the Prophets’ were betrayed… Third, in a bout of rage, consorted with the Winged One to kill the Second. Tell me, four-star tomebound, how the true Prophet responded?”

Callam didn’t know, so he nudged Lenora with his shoe. When she said nothing, he did so again.

Less gently.

“Was it not then that he scoured the Far Away for another to take the fallen’s place?”

“Brains and beauty. Good. That he did. Blessed is he that he found his Poet. She was his disciple. First among the Ruddites to bind and breathe in magic…”

Lenora scrunched her nose up playfully in Callam’s direction.

He didn’t see it—couldn’t have.

His whole attention was on his bandaged finger. Poet’s hand, but his Seedling burned.