"You write me as you would a flower,

All delicate prose and soft words.

When you write me as you would a hawk,

Then I’ll know you see me as I am."

–The rejection of suitor Xlan

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“Hi. Everything okay? You’re staring,” the young woman asked with an arch of her eyebrows. Her ocean-blue eyes danced in the sunlight.

Callam hadn’t been, actually; he was sure of it. And if he was staring, it wasn’t his fault. There was simply no easy way to explain the situation he was in, short of telling the truth, and he definitely wasn’t about to do that.

“I, —” he started. “Can you––? That key. By the steps?” He shrugged his shoulders and wiggled the cuffs on his hands for good measure.

“Oh. Uhm,” the girl mumbled, appearing a little alarmed. Callam's heart sank at her tone, fearing she might refuse to help, or ask him some prying questions. To his surprise, however, she laughed, then poked a massive teen to her left. “Moose. By your shoe! Can you grab that?”

“What? Speak up! Crow’s foot, it’s miserable in here,” the giant belched. At two heads taller than the rest of the crowd, the boy towered over his small group. He cradled a stack of sandwiches in his hands that he was consuming two at a time, and was already balding, as if his hair feared the altitude. “Need enhanced hearing or some—”

“Seriously! Moose, eat with your mouth closed!” the girl chided. “Look, just pass him that key, alright?” she added, pointing to the floor. Grinning at Callam, she lowered her voice to say, “Don’t mind him. He’s a little deaf. And very dense. But sweet. Like chocolate, you know?”

“Dense?! I can readt rlips!” the mountain of a boy said with a scowl, mid bite. Whether that was true or not, Callam had no idea, but he was relieved to see the giant lean over and grab the key.

“Was topt of our clath too,” Moose added, still chewing. Eyeing the handcuffs, he smirked. “Long night?”

“Gods! Who asks that?” The girl glowered at Moose. “Sometimes, I wish –”

“That you were bound too?” Moose interrupted with a laugh. Ignoring the girl’s stammering, he suddenly froze. “Wait…we’re not aiding and abetting, right? Heard they need to cart cowards here sometimes. Worse than desertion, dodging Binding Day.”

The atmosphere grew tense, but Callam was spared a response by the announcer's lifeless voice. “Attention, unbound, this is your ten-minute warning,” it blared out. “Ten minutes remain until grading begins.”

“Grading makes it sound so creepy,” the girl said, her smile slipping. Her eyes lost a little of their light, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “What are we? Chattel?”

The young woman’s words hung in the air for a long moment.

She wore a distant expression that Callam couldn't place. He tried to formulate a response but none came easily—he was unsure if either of these teens understood the irony and truth behind what had just been said.

In the end, he decided to stay quiet. He waited awkwardly for Moose to unlock the manacles, then voiced a hurried “thanks,” when they finally released. A quick nod of his head at both of the teens later, and Callam was scurrying down the steps.

He was thankful to have found a way out of the uncomfortable silence.

More than that, he was glad to have some distance from the group. An ache had built within him as he watched the way the two friends had bantered back and forth. They’d reminded him of what he’d lost—of what he desperately wanted again.

His new clothes, once comfortable, now felt a size too big.

“Hey! Wait!” the girl called out, but Callam had traveled too far to hear her.

~~~~

Callam descended from the rafters into a horde of teens standing shoulder to shoulder as far as the eye could see. Most of the unbound were dressed practically; tunics and breeches for the boys, smocks or kirtles for the girls—clothing good for running, fighting, and whatever else the trials might throw at them. A few had broken convention by wearing their Sunday best to the ceremony, and Callam briefly wondered how they’d fare. All were sweating in the overhead sun, and none paid Callam any attention.

“Unbound approach! One at a time!” a registrar shouted over the din; Callam watched as she funneled those at the front into curved holds for check-in. Scriptors and mages marched by on his left, watchdogs with dark robes and lit grimoires. They laughed, joked, and otherwise maintained the illusion of festivity, but Callam knew their purpose: to make sure everyone toed the line.

Anxiety began to eat at Callam as he looked around, and the waiting only made it worse. He shoved his way to the sidelines, intent on finding something to settle his nerves. His progress was slow, the masses indignant as he moved against the flow of people.

“—careful! Watch it, prince,” a stocky boy barked, sizing Callam up before his friends dragged him away.

Those words were still registering when a girl tripped into Callam, as if to give him a firm hug. Lithe hands searched him for a purse, only to come away empty.

What? Callam thought. A split-second later, he understood: he was wearing the Writ’s clothing and insignia, so he’d been mistaken for a noble. Everything about his outfit spoke of wealth, from the cut of his shirt to the sew of his pants. To his surprise, they were still clean, having repelled the dirt from when he’d fallen to his knees earlier.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

That’s why Moose and that girl treated me well, he realized with a start. They likely hadn’t expected that anything was amiss even with the handcuffs.

Finally, the crowds in front of Callam opened up, revealing a ring of stalls where shopkeepers had wheeled their carts into place. Smaller operations served food from hand-drawn trolleys, while larger ones vended from wagons packed with delicacies. Together, they fed the gathered unbound and their families.

Callam’s stomach growled; the air was thick with the scent of broth and spiced meat.

“Breads and pastre, fresh or day-old!” one eager woman with red hair shouted at Callam, clearly thinking that he could afford either.

“Crown’s cobbler and mapleberry mead,” another called out, just as enthusiastically.

Callam frowned, then walked away from both merchants. Had he showed any interest, real or feigned, they would have hounded him further. Better to pretend he didn’t care.

He passed by the remaining vendors in a similar fashion, all the while acting like he was growing more off-put. Only once he’d done a full sweep did he visit the first stall again. This time he tapped his fingers on his linen pants in feigned annoyance; anything to appear even more like a spoiled noble peeved by slim pickings.

Hoping to win his business, the baker didn’t press Callam as he browsed—didn’t notice when he slipped a hand into her pastry tray. She even offered him a complimentary drink of water when he appeared to change his mind with a shake of his head.

After stepping far enough away from the vendors, Callam bit into the flaky dough. The stolen treat was covered in honey and a tad too sweet, so he was thankful he had the water to wash it down.

As he ate, the line of unbound thinned before him. One by one, they were collected by a mage with sunken eyes and the whiskery beard of a goat.

Soon it was Callam’s turn, so he migrated with the remaining teens towards the registrar. While he walked, he itched at the stain on his finger—the behavior was quickly becoming habit. A glance downwards confirmed that the scar had not changed at all. The Seedling was still stubbornly dormant.

“Next!” a voice commanded, and Callam stepped up to the white dais. It looked remarkably like a pastor's pulpit, and was manned by a stern woman in a drab cassock who checked each conscript off a flowing list.

“Name and birthdate?” the lady snapped, clearly in no mood for delays.

“Callam Quill, June 1st,” Callam said.

“Height and weight?”

“I…don’t know? Been a while since I was last measured,” Callam replied sheepishly. Weigh-ins weren’t exactly commonplace in the orphanage.

“Well, step up, then,” the registrar said, gesturing impatiently. She reached a hand into a brown bag that was lying by her side and pulled out a dull grimoire and a small reading stone.

“Let me see here. Indango,” she chanted. Strains of white light condensed in the air, spinning together in what looked surprisingly like a ball of yarn before settling in the center of the lens.

“Callam Quill… Callam Quill… Ah. Here we are. Five feet, seven inches. One-hundred and forty-two pounds,” the registrar announced, then her demeanor suddenly darkened. “Ward of the state. A thief too, by the look of your clothes,” she accused loudly. “No matter,” she said, her mouth shifting into a thin line. “The Book binds all and judges accordingly. You will get the comeuppance you deserve. Next!”

With that, Callam was ushered over to the fenced proving ground; he tried his best to hide his flushed face. He knew shame and thought he’d mastered it. As a kid, his cheeks had burned whenever he’d been forced to beg, and his stomach had knotted with every bite of stolen bread.

This was different. Being dismissed on the streets was one thing; strangers would see his tangled hair and dirty knees and shun him silently. They would not out him publicly, as the registrar had just done—she’d taken from Callam what little dignity he had left.

Dejected, Callam paced the perimeter of the trial grounds. His mind was such a whirlwind of bad memories that he barely registered his surroundings. He walked past dozens of palisades that littered the arena, shading hundreds of unbound that sought respite from the sun. Callam coughed as his pacing kicked up dust, then scowled when he noticed how dirty the arena floor was.

“As downtrodden as a Ruddite’s spirit,” his sister would have said. She’d always been clever with words like that.

Callam was still sorting through his feelings when several people around him pointed to the sky—it darkened at once, as if night had fallen early. Suddenly, the arena was in uproar. Hundreds of thousands of spectators surged to their feet, cheering, “The Blessed Few! They are here!”

Seven Scriptors descended from the heavens. Dressed in black and red vestments, they all held a tome in one hand and a scepter in the other.

Granite columns rushed up to meet them, each taller in turn than the last, until the middle Scriptor found her place on the highest pillar. Green and orange banners unfurled down the monoliths, glyphs and runes drawn across them.

“Welcome, unbound, to your coming of age,” the lead Scriptor proclaimed, her words echoing throughout the coliseum. She was smaller than the other six, with a crackly voice that spoke to her age. “Twice a year we gather in this ceremony, a communion between our people and our Prophet. Today, the Fated Few find their place by his side, while the rest of you fall from his grace. By his whim, may you touch magic. For his gift, you shall toil. Do not disappoint.”

The old Scriptor paused for a moment, and the entire auditorium went silent.

“I see that I am heard. Good. Recrea Veuocare,” she chanted and the six other Scriptors echoed her call. Each of their tomes burned crimson, then tendrils spewed forth from the spellbooks, biting and snapping as they eroded the coliseum floor.

Unbound scrambled in an effort to avoid the magic; it carved through the grounds and ripped it anew. The earth broke in one corner of the arena, stone cisterns erupting upwards and outwards, their basins filling with silver liquid that glimmered in the sunlight. In another corner, obstacle courses appeared, each with structures that wound up dozens of feet in the air. Circles formed in the last zone, each resembling showman’s rings. Callam knew that area well; it housed the head-to-head grappling matches and was a favorite among spectators.

Once the magic had finished its work, the old woman declared, “You will each partake in three games before you attempt to bind. One to measure magic. One to test wit. And one to prove your brawn. Those who perform best will be allowed first pickings from the grimoires.”

Another voice spoke up, this one male and gravelly, “The top five contestants will be allowed to bind twice, should their first attempt fail. I’m sure none of you need telling how rare a privilege this is. But remember—a second failure always results in death. We value life over carrion, so only the best among you will earn this opportunity.”

In unison, the Scriptors closed their grimoires and each uttered a phrase Callam could not understand. Magic spiraled upwards and the skies came ablaze with moving images of armies at war. The legions spanned for leagues as they battled with tides of beasts. Then, the scene shifted to nighttime, portraying a man who climbed a tower that reached the stars.

Suddenly, the shadow of two wings blotted out one of the moons. A maw with teeth the size of horses shone through the darkness.

“We, the Fated Few, fight against the Winged One and her reign of darkness,” seven voices shouted out. “Our Prophet, blessed is he, sacrificed to ignite the first of the twin lighthouses. By his grace, we have become a beacon of hope for this world.”

The crowds exploded at the words. Cheering resonated throughout the trial grounds, so enthusiastic that even Callam was caught in it.

“Each year, we lose more of our number. Yet, through this rite, we replenish. Let the trials begin!”