I cannot tell you why the boy dreamt—only of what.

He dreamt of fire on cold winter nights.

of flight, when the sky was bright.

of stars, and holding them tight.

But most of all, he dreamt of freedom.

Not of the type that is given or bought.

But of the type that is innate to life.

----------------------------------------

“WHAT?!” the long-faced boy exclaimed, then repeated the word twice more. He stomped his anger out on the floor, all interest in seeing his family seemingly forgotten. Callam found the boy’s tantrum rather embarrassing—the trial had concluded over five minutes ago. Plenty of time for everyone to adjust to the truth.

Airster and Elera, for one, had heard his score with tight lips and no complaints. That they’d yet to look his way was only upside, as far as he was concerned.

“Circle around,” the Scriptor said, and Callam stood slowly from where he’d been resting his head against the bark of a thick trunk. His heart still raced from his earlier endeavor; he’d taken to idly watching the flock of celebratory kites while he waited for his pulse to slow. Walking over to the mage, Callam allowed himself a smile—his gamble had paid off. If everything went well in this third trial, he’d be positioned to finish in the top five of Binding Day.

“Each of you has now been tested twice,” the Scriptor declared loudly once everyone was on their feet. “Your innate magic measured, your intellect deter—

“What intellect?” the words seemed to escape the angry boy’s mouth before he could think to hold them back. His eyes widened in shock, yet he was unrelenting. “This trial was a farce, a—”

“Forswin,” the Scriptor said, and in a step, loomed over the boy. “Insolence does not a Scriptor make.” In a voice so quiet Callam had to strain to hear it, the mage added, “Should you find it impossible to hold your tongue, the auctioneers will do so for you.”

The boy shrunk at the admonishment, looking as if he’d swallowed dirt. His words, however, had an impact; soon the blond girl who’d come in last spoke up. “Sir,” she said, her face crestfallen, “I—it would be helpful for me to understand. Why create a trial where someone wins simply by doing…nothing?”

The Scriptor regarded her, then each of them in turn. As he did so, his posture sagged slightly, and some of the ire behind his eyes cooled. The bags beneath them seemed suddenly more pronounced. “Unbound, the purpose of this,” he said, motioning to the maze and the stands in one sweep, “is to prepare the lucky among you for the responsibilities of Scripture. To some of you, Binding Day is a chance at a better life, to others it is a familial responsibility—”

And for many, a fast path to enslavement, Callam thought bitterly. Yet even he could see that the man was honest in his convictions.

“—to this nation and its prophet, Binding Day is more,” the man continued. “Scriptors carry the hopes and dreams of our people—a people that would crumble without our sacrifices in the Seeker’s Tower. You’ve seen the beasts. It is the duty of the Fated Few to fight and die for the magic needed to protect our walls.” A weary look came over the man once more, and the fervor drained from his words. To the long-faced boy, he said tiredly, “the Tower cares not for the whims of man. Its puzzles do not follow our rules—act as you did today, think the way you thought, and you will die. This Trial,” he said, turning to face the maze, “had several solves, yet only two promised a top score.”

“Callam found one of them. The other? Not a single unbound thought to check if they could use the same key more than once.”

A stunned silence fell upon them as the mage’s words sank in, broken only when Faeble, the stocky boy on Callam’s right, laughed and said, “Poet’s hand, but it’s obvious—don’t bring a torch when a flint will do.” Callam nodded, feeling foolish, and by the stricken look on everyone’s faces, he wasn’t the only one. All that risk, and… he shook his head. Mind wandering, he began to drift apart from the group. His mud-soaked pants were stiff from the heat, and he reflexively grimaced—Callam had enjoyed wearing something that didn’t chafe.

“Stealing the tide next, bookblessed?” a soft voice asked. Callam almost jumped. Bookblessed? Only the port’s orphans called the lucky that, the phrase catching on several years earlier when a foreign girl had struggled to find the word for bound and had used blessed instead; the street kids had laughed, but the term had stuck. The seaslang was another surprise, yet Callam immediately recognized the unbound behind him—and clearly, their shy demeanor had been an act.

“You still took second,” Callam replied, slowing to let the boy in the tattered smock catch up. Together, they walked past a few more obstacle courses, following the rest of the group across the grounds. “Almost had me too, I only figured the trial out in the last few minutes,” Callam said after a moment. “Why haven’t I seen you around the docks?”

“I’m from just north o’ the city’s solarium. Drunkards make easy marks but, um, scholars seem to get flustered when you rob ‘em—won’t report you to the guards.” The boy said, speaking so quickly his Relder dialect bled through. He must have noticed too, as he flashed a grin and added, “I’m Hans, by the way,” in perfect Cardic.

“Hans, what type of—”

“Unbound, listen up!” the Scriptor called out, cutting the conversation short. They’d approached the area’s final zone, where Callam could see dozens of small and large rings outlined into the ground.

“As always, the final trial on this blessed day is standings-based,” the Scriptor declared. “That means you will not be competing against this group; instead, you will participate in a series of winner-take-all matches against unbound who’ve performed similarly to you. Your performance now will dictate your final placement during the Binding Rite,” the mage said, his eyes scanning the group. “May the Prophet be with you all.”

Callam breathed in slowly. All right, he thought, suddenly aware of the dirt under his toes, the vastness of the sky above, and the immensity of the stands surrounding him. He felt the eyes of the crowd and knew that for the street kids among them, he was their hope. Bookblessed. The orphans always promised each other that if they survived a binding, they would help the rest.

Yet none had kept their word.

Selia would have, Callam thought.

“I’ll—uh, see you at the Tower,” Hans said, his voice resuming its soft and nervous tenor. He pushed his unkempt hair out of his eyes and nodded resolutely at Callam. The rest of the group was similarly rushing through their goodlucks and goodbyes, with the exception of Airster, who’d pulled Elera aside and was talking to her in a hushed tone.

This trial’s the most important, Callam thought, centering himself. It wasn’t long before the Scriptor started shouting out names and ranks—those with poor standings went first.

Within minutes, Callam’s name was called, and he learned he’d placed in the top hundred. The majority must have scored poorly in the first trial, he realized. That wasn’t uncommon; the priests likened magic potency to rain—just as some years there were floods and others droughts, so too were some generations of unbound blessed and others barren.

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“Fourteenth ring,” the Scriptor instructed Callam, then conjured a folded, white band with his grimoire.

Callam took it, confused. He threaded his way past several ongoing matches, covering his ears as he closed in on his grappling ring. The constant boos and chants of, “Grab her, push him—” and, “Stand fast!” were hardly muffled by his hands. He knew it would only get worse as the final trial progressed—Port Cardica’s people were nothing if not boisterous.

A side-step or two later, as well as one near collision with a bloodied young woman, Callam reached the fourteen notches carved into the dirt.

“QUILL?” yelled a female Scriptor in bright yellow robes and matching sandals as she jogged up to him. Her tome was slipped into a thin satchel worn loosely around her neck, and her left earlobe was cut to army standard.

“Yes?” Callam replied, dropping his hands from over his ears to avoid looking tense.

“You’ll… participating in… matches… when… prelims… finished,” she shouted, pointing at the ring.

“PARDON?” Callam shouted back. He was pretty sure she’d said that he’d be up after the preliminaries concluded, which was what he’d expected. Usually the first two rounds of the third trial acted as a way for those who’d placed poorly to catch up.

“The Prophet sav—Clamorix!” she enchanted, and a transparent bubble flowed out from her grimoire, expanding until it surrounded the two of them. With a small snap, its edges became rigid, and Callam could suddenly hear. “Really, how can they expect us to talk when it’s so loud,” the Scriptor said, then looked over her shoulder. “Best we keep this between ourselves,” she whispered conspiratorially, “Us Scriptors aren’t to use spells unless it’s strictly necessary—integrity of the ceremony and all that.”

Callam nodded dully; with her complete lack of military rigidity or Scriptor superiority, this mage was unlike most he’d ever met, and he wasn't exactly sure what to make of her.

“You’re up in three minutes. First round, it’s you versus her,” the mage said, pointing to a girl on the other side of the eight-foot ring. “Lose and you’re out. Force her to yield, knock her out of the circle, or take her white band, and you move to the next ring. That one’s a five-person, winner-take-all. From there, you’ll proceed to a contest of ten with the same rules. Do well, and you might place in the final five. Any questions?” she asked, only to hurriedly add, “Oh! No using the band as a garrote.”

Callam blinked, trying to take everything in. “Where do I tie this cord?” he said after a moment.

“Anywhere you’d like, long as it's touching you! Alright, healers are at the ready—give no quarter, Quill!”

After what felt like only a second, a nudge on Callam’s shoulder told him it was time. His stomach was in a knot; he’d learned the basics of fighting in an effort to protect his sister from her “suitors,” but lacked the training afforded to the wealthy and nobility.

As usual, the odds are fixed. Callam breathed in and out, trying to settle his nerves. His opponent across the ring looked prepared; clad in workwoman’s leathers, she’d also opted for kicking off her shoes. Her braid was tied up with… Is that the white band? Callam thought. Clever. Going after a woman’s hair was cheap, even by his standards, so he gave up on grabbing the band—he’d have to find another way to win this match.

“Unbound, step forward!” shouted a bald Scriptor in the distance, his voice magnified over the din. Out of the corners of his eye, Callam spotted dozens of unbound advance into their respective rings. He joined them, readying himself on the balls of his feet. Opening his palm, he unfolded the four-foot band of sturdy, rough cloth. A quick sailor’s loop over his right shoulder left it draped like a sash. Not the best, but it will have to do.

“Begin!”

The girl was on him quick as a hawk on a hare. She dashed across the ring, arms loose and ready to snatch his band. At once, Callam knew he was outmatched. Fear flickered in his heart; he fed the feeling, let it surface upon his face, and froze for the briefest moment. Then he leaned back just in time. His legs wavered, his body off balance… closer, he thought. A feigned stumble back on the hard ground, a gleam in the girl’s eyes as she rushed to pick his leg—

Callam side stepped, kicking his heel out. He felt it connect, and in an instant, won. The girl tripped, tried to catch her weight on her off-foot, and was eliminated the moment her toes crossed the white line. The line shone red, and her movements turned sluggish.

“Victor, Quill, Callam,” shouted the eccentric Scriptor in yellow as she ran up to the ring. A cheer broke out, and Callam wondered briefly if her words were being broadcast across the stadium.

“Your next match is by the Ruddite stand,” the mage said, her face darkening, though Callam wasn’t sure why. He followed her eyes to a ring on the border of the trial, right beside the auctioneer’s platform, and swallowed heavily. Two imposing stone chairs, one to celebrate the Prophet, the other his Poet, overlooked dozens of hounding stalls where placards were raised to place bids. So many of us will end up there, he thought. Paraded back and forth like drudgemare.

~~~

“Unbound, forward!” the bald Scriptor bellowed, and Callam stepped into the ring along with four others.

I’ll have to move fast to win here, Calam realized. The four other unbound—two boys, both blond, one heavy, one slender and gap toothed, and two girls, tall for their ages—glanced around keenly. It wouldn’t be long until they realized Callam lacked experience and determined him the short straw in the lot. He couldn’t give them that chance.

“Begin!” the mage shouted, and the line around the circle lit.

Leaping forward, Callam turned plan into action. He ripped his white band from where it hung around his shoulder, then ducked as a boy and girl reached for him—one set of thick-fingered hands came from his left, another set darted in from his right.

Callam spun, tossing the end of the white band out. It whipped through the air and wrapped around the approaching girl's leg. He caught its other end; a quick tug, and she tripped, landing hard on the line.

“Sail, Klavi, out,” the scriptor bellowed, and the stands erupted. Betting always became boisterous this close to the day’s end, either from people trying to double their winnings or make back what they’d lost.

Three left, Callam thought, lashing his band outwards—it had worked once, why not twice? The thick boy adapted, crouching down to center his weight. Callam circled him, careful to avoid the other two as they threw out a series of quick grabs and testing leg picks.

The husky unbound’s patience wore thin; he charged, seeing red. Yet his movements were deliberate. He was clearly trained, with reach rivaling an eagle’s wingspan. Callam jumped back, toeing the line—he had no choice or he’d be caught. Behind the boy, gap-tooth grappled the young woman to the ground, pinning her. Callam had a feeling she would tap. “Weavelight, Taven, out!” the Scriptor shouted a moment later, and the girl raised an arm in victory. The band she’d scratched free was clutched in her hand.

Two mor—Callam’s thought was interrupted as thick arms managed to grab hold of him, dragging him down. He wriggled, falling forward and to his side.

The boy was on him now, kneeling, his size giving him leverage. Callam’s heart pounded; he couldn’t breathe. His mind begged him to tap out. Not yet. He fought the urge to inhale, tightened his grip on his band, and—pain broke across his arm as the boy pinned it, prying at his fingers. He saw stars in his vision and tried to think of something, anything to… There! The tail of the white cord tied around the boy’s left thigh was just out of reach.

The boy didn’t know that, though. In desperation, Callam swung his unpinned arm out, and at the same time exhaled the last of his air in a triumphant, “Yes!” The boy’s face blanched. He shifted for Callam’s free arm, so Callam pushed his right hip up with all his might, flipping the boy.

The girl, meanwhile, dove onto the boy. Callam understood her thinking—together, they could take him out, but independently? Unlikely. He rolled over, and staggered to his feet… just in time to watch the heavy boy somehow sit up, then stand, one arm pinning the young woman against his chest. Seizing his opportunity, Callam lunged—his hands wrapped around the front of the boy’s sweat-slicked legs, then pulled upwards. A small slip, and the boy’s footing was fouled.

Callam heaved, dug his toes into the ground, and sent both the standing boy and the girl he was holding tumbling out of the ring.

“Ashford, Desmo, Blackwood, Lydia, out!”

Callam was onto the finals.

~~~

Elidin Dolor tried not to scratch at his skin. He sat in the stands, shivering, yet was covered head to toe in a sweltering brown shawl. The tremors rarely faded these days, and what little time he spent conscious, he spent scratching. He knew what he would see beneath his clothes, had he dared to look: veins full of ink, pulsing. Engorged.

How he wished he had not deserted his Binding Day. The compulsions always forced him here, and with each passing season the nights grew longer. Clarity came less frequently. Today would be his last—the Scriptors would kill him this time for sure.

How could I have thought myself special? he wondered, fighting the exhaustion that pulled at his eyelids. Labored breath after labored breath filled his hood.

Freedom from books. From magic—from Him. What a fool I was.

All that was left of Elidin was Broken.