"Only a fool spends money saving face."

~~Mephra Page, Freemen President

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That arrogant bastard.

Sebastian stared at the earthenware bowl in front of him, appetite souring. Again that chapelward had made him look the fool. It was bad enough that he had to suffer the Tower and its food–now he'd been swindled in cards by a commoner. By a cheat, he corrected himself.

“I’m off for seconds,” shouted a male at the end of the table. Similar sounds of enthusiasm from his neighbors drove Sebastian to take a bite.

The soup burned his tongue.

Scorching broth, served with a cold spoon. A mockery of etiquette, and one of many reasons why he hated it here. His thirdborn peers back home were acting as they should: staying away from the Tower, dancing and dining at the capital, and vying for power. Frequently and vigorously. Each had received scripted grimoires strong enough to run their estates.

The low royals among them were bestowed four-star tomes.

Yet, here he was–risking his life to progress a three-star spellbook so his father could secure yet more power for the family. Two fresh tomes, the ones wielded by his brothers, hadn't satiated the Scriptor’s greed, and he'd insisted his thirdborn bind blindly as well. No consideration had been given to Sebastian’s wishes, or to the family’s bloodline, which got weaker with each subsequent child and made binding more dangerous.

Mother's begging didn’t change his mind either.

She'd tried everything to spare him the ceremony. First, he’d heard her say it wasn’t prope–the Prophet did not want thirds to climb. Then she’d argued it wasn’t fashionable for a young noble, and finally she’d claimed he was too sweet-tempered for the ink to take.

His father had not given in.

Instead, Sebastian had spent five days in the infirmary, waiting for the Scriptor to visit him after he’d somehow survived the ceremony.

The crows have him. Bitter at the memory, Sebastian stood and dropped his napkin into the uneaten soup. His sword-hand shook as he made for the kitchens south of the commissary. This meal would not do–he needed meat if he was to recover from his encounter with his father’s blade. So the Tower’s one-star cooks thought themselves chefs, did they?

He’d put them to the test.

A group of first-years were crowding the far end of his bench when he returned from the kitchens, tray full with fresh greens, curried carrots, and spiced lamb. All it had taken was a bit of yelling for the help to magically learn how to season food.

“Slightfiend Keeper spotted on floor three,” called out a blond girl while placing a tile down on the stack in the center of the table. “Melin, it's your roll.” Slim and heart-faced, she struck Sebsastian as pretty for a merchant–most of them could pass for a mare and stunk worse than a horse. Her group was mid-round in Tilted Tiles, a game meant to teach climbers about the monsters on the first twelve floors.

A game he had no patience for.

The girl must not have realized. “Join us?” she asked, catching his eye. “We’re waiting on one, and have space for two.”

He nearly snorted. Climbing the lighthouse was bad enough already without spending his leisure hours playing pretend. Withdrawing a knife, he began cubing his food.

“Next time, then–ah! Zallorin. Finally, you’ve made it!”

Sebastian’s eyes snapped up from his plate. Surely, he’d heard wrong. Yet there the broad-shouldered royal was, bookbag and all. It was an impossibility–Queenskin didn’t mix with petty nobles and commoners–and an opportunity. No mage in their right mind would force a son with royal ties to climb.

Not even Scriptor Writ.

“I’ve second-year river magic,” Sebastian blurted out before the group could withdraw their invitation. Gathering his tray, he moved next to the pretty merchant. “Have you extra witches’ dice? I’d use my own, but left them in my suite.” Sure, it was a tactless flaunt of his family’s wealth, but it was necessary–so to drive home the point, he winked. Anything to appear more the flirt and less the sycophant.

Father would be proud. For all his faults, the man was no fool.

Sebastion wished he could say as much about himself. Grabbing the ivory dice offered to him, he rolled a six. At once the Slightfiend the group had cornered reared on its hind feet and howled. Poison-filled spittle flew from its mouth–dice throws were still as close an approximation of the Tower beasts’ random attacks as they had.

His miniature would not be outdone.

It cast a copy of his most-powerful spell: undea temun sa ty nunci ventis. Water flooded the tiles below the beast and waves shook the stack’s walls. Small pops followed by tendrils of vapor indicated the liquid had begun to boil. With a splash, the Slightfiend lost its footing and fell in.

Sebastian grinned.

In his head though, his own words taunted him. That same phrase he’d uttered a month ago repeated itself over and over again, as it always did whenever he had fun:

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“Save the boy first!”

He’d met Ruddities less stupid. Had he just told Orsal to hold off, that bastard orphan would have died. His first culling would have been a success, and he wouldn’t have lost all of his father’s respect. Better still, he’d be up a rhymer. That was an entire day’s spending money, lost.

“Any here practitioners?” he asked the group. “Healers and lyricsts are needed to survive the fourth floor.”

Two hands shot up across the bench.

Fifteen minutes later it was his turn to roll again. He’d just tossed the dice when an urgent tap sent pain lacing down his arm. “Careful!” he snapped, before calming himself–it was just some first-year trying for his attention.

“S-seeker Writ?” Stout and balding, the messenger had a stutter that gave away his low-star rating. In different company, Sebastian would have ignored the runner, but today he couldn’t afford to be rude.

“Speaking.”

“Scriptor Olenid wants to see you. Said ‘you’d know what about.’ ”

Sebastian did not, in fact, know what it was about. But he wasn’t going to admit as much. “You’re to ferry me, then?”

A tilt of the chin from the boy prompted Sebastian to glance back at his group. “Burn the weeds before engaging the Keeper, else she’ll call her young. Presspick, Felt, Seafare, Wickwind, Queenskin.” He used their surnames intentionally, nodding to each player in turn. “Thanks for the game. Grab me for the next one.”

Titles mattered. Especially to the highborn.

The runner led the way, and he followed. What could the Head Riddleist want from me?

~~~

“Yes, Yes. Come in. And close the door behind you, before my dandelions try to escape.”

Dandelions? The weed?

Sebastian knew the kook in front of him was going insane, but to think the sunken-eyed professor had fallen so far as to believe his plants sentient? It almost invited pity. Almost. Only last year, this man had given their orientation speech. He’d then proceeded to lead the ascent on the eighteenth floor, fighting so well some had called him the Prophet’s prodigy.

The country’s last hope, even.

Now the dumpy man looked like he’d aged ten years. He’d quit climbing; instead, he raised plants and played with paper cranes. Sebastian could see him folding a black dragon right now, each crease molding the body from paper. Four smaller creations fluttered around the battered brown coat he’d hung off his guest chair.

“Do you expect it to move on its own? The door, that is.” The Scriptor had spoken so softly it had been hard to hear him. He did not look up from his desk, nor did his hands stop working on his project.

“Of course not.” A hard shove and the heavy oak slammed shut–a little more loudly than was proper.

“...not all questions are rhetorical, you know. Who’s to say the wood has lost its spring?”

“Pardon?”

“The Worldtree’s heart beats. This we know. Yet we assume our doors are dead? A logical oversight, maybe…”

Sebastian’s cheek twitched. How was he to respond? This man was a nut, fit for the nursery.

“No matter.” At last Professor Olenid put down his finished paper mache. The little dragon tried to blow fire, only to char its mouth instead. “Rote informed me he’s in need of another second-year to oversee the firsts. I’ve put you up for it.”

“I–impossible, but thank you. Father needs me to–”

Wind slammed into Sebastian. It stole his breath and shattered a nearby terrarium. Then the kook waved once and the noble’s body betrayed him, his legs moving backwards all on their own. Picking up a fresh sheet of paper, the man returned to his craft–his stature made clear that he considered the conversation finished.

Sebastian did not agree.

Again he tried to speak. His lungs burned, so he settled for cursing the lunatic in his mind instead.

Should he be given any first-years to lead but Zallorin, he’d take this farce straight to the headmaster.

~~~

Callam

To the first-years’ credit, they quickly caught onto what was happening in the classroom. Many seemed content to stand by and watch, though not all. Lenora was the first to reach him–within moments she was kneeling by his side, her ear to the largest shell.

Callam couldn’t blame her for leaving the spiky one to someone else.

After a few more chimes, the room quieted, only for a crash to catch them all by surprise. The flute had fallen onto the drum-helmet. It was as clear a sign as any that the instruments played a role in the second stage of the riddle. He was sure of it.

How, though?

Apart from looking like weapons, there was nothing too unusual about them. They were broken–that realization had spurred him to listen to the seashells in the first place.

To find a novel source of music.

Lenora seemed equally confused. “The makings of…” Her nose crinkled. She tried to lift the massive shell by its spire, and failing to do so, bit her lip. “What if…” she started, only to trail off again.

He tried not to stare.

Focus. This wasn’t any different than the Seedling’s challenge or the second trial. An obvious solution had to exist.

Must it?

The military Scriptor had warned that puzzles in the Tower came with higher stakes and greater difficulty. The first couldn’t apply here–they were perfectly safe and under no time constraints–so Callam had to assume the second part was true. This would prove no simple task.

He had to be the first to solve it.

Scanning around for any other hints, his eyes settled on the cards drifting near the shelf in the room’s far corner. He approached swiftly, content to leave the chalkboard to Lenora.

The cards refused to be caught.

They bit at his hands and shot between his legs. One sliced his ear. For the first time in a long while, he felt uncoordinated. Sore. An orphan again, jumping for thrown change during Wintersail. The rest of the four-stars were sure to start staring at him soon, if they hadn't already. Heat climbed the back of his neck. A big part of him wished to curse the constructs–to see if his spell would stun them. Only fear of backlash kept him from doing so.

Crow’s foot! This was a waste of effort.

A pleasant, tingly feeling that had nothing to do with embarrassment tickled his core. It was his streetwise talent, telling him he was onto something.

If not these cards, then wha–?

The mid-hour bells tolled. Immense pressure followed. Callam could barely think. Struggled to stand. All around him, Tomebound groaned. Lenora gasped and fell to the floor. He was half-certain his own bones would splinter.

Scratching sounds cut through the clamor. The chalkboard! he realized, just managing to squint upwards. He could not move his neck.

One word had been scribbled under the prompt.

Misery.

The first making of man.