They called him Tidebreaker; the Calamity, bringer of the Sea,

But before any of that,

He was my friend.

And your prophecy stole him from me.

~~The Poet of Promises

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“Protect the… band,” Callam whispered to himself in a daze. Niles raced in from the right, a grin stretching the redhead’s features thin, while Phiry approached from the left. Together they were a blur of movement, two sets of hands reaching out as one, so Callam did the only thing he could: he dropped to the floor.

In one smooth movement he brought his chin to his knees, then repeated the thought. Protect the band. He hugged the white cloth tied across his chest, knowing he’d somehow have to keep hold of it to finish in the final five—with three rings of ten battling it out, only the first place in each pod would be guaranteed a spot. Niles and Phiry closed in, their gazes cold. Callam could see his reflection in those eyes, huddled and weak, as he braced himself for the pain he was sure would come.

And come it did. Callam bit back a scream when Niles pushed on that point between the shoulder blades, his fingers like needles to Callam’s skin. Electricity shot through Callam’s body and he instinctively arched his back—Phiry’s hands were on him now, working the knot across his chest. I’m going to lose, he realized in horror, and thrashed his arm about in an effort to defend himself, but the girl proved too agile. Niles, meanwhile, moved down to pin Callam’s legs; Callam tried to resist, knew he needed to keep his defensive position or Phiry would have an even easier time of it, yet had no leverage. Defeat felt inevitable, and…

A victorious sneer twisted the brunette’s face. White cloth rubbed into Callam’s back as she managed the knot and tugged, the band whipping from its place around his shoulder. One end of it flew by as it uncoiled, and at once Callam felt awake, no longer dizzy, the taste of copper from his bit cheek fresh in his mouth. Adrenaline flowed through him. He grasped the loose end of the cloth before it could be pulled completely free, heard the shouts of the crowd, heard Phiry scream, “Pin him!” yet managed to hold firm. With a clear head, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

He needed to hunker down, to…to…

Clarity came when Phiry knelt on Callam’s wrist, bringing her full weight to bear. Ligaments tore, and he screamed himself hoarse, almost losing himself as he fought to keep a grip on the white cloth.

Somehow he managed it, and he could think clearly again. He needed to be dead weight—he knew how hard it was to move a limp body. All orphans did; they were made to cut their own free from the gallows, after all.

Callam’s neck went rigid as he took an elbow to his thigh. It was a distraction but the pain was very real. A knee slammed into his back next, and he found it hard to stay in that focused place where he could think—they’d been told that punches and kicks were not allowed; knees and elbows, on the other hand, were fair game. Callam’s tongue felt heavy now, and his eyelids drooped. Two blurs on the edges of his vision pushed and prodded him viciously, yet he paid them no mind. He kept his body loose and heavy where possible; only his grip on the cloth was iron.

They’ll get bored eventually, he thought. Try to toss me out, and—

“Your win is not written,” the honeyed words reached Callam’s ears, and he knew at once that something was very wrong. A hand cupped his head and nails cut into the skin by his neck ever so slightly…

Pain. Pain the likes of which Callam had rarely known coursed through him. He couldn’t breathe and felt his form convulse. Blackness crept in; his will started to fade. All this fighting, and for what? He could give up here, lose his top placement, and Bind successfully anyway. This girl was willing to cheat and had brought a poison of some sort, all for a slightly better chance at a top Binding—who was he to dare stand in her way?

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

I tap! The words came to Callam quickly, yet he did not utter them. He tried again… but his jaw would not comply. Another wave of pain hit; Phiry had clipped the edge of his chin with her nails this time, and a sensation akin to the crack of a lash wracked Callam’s body. Wetness dampened his cheeks. He curled in closer, eyes closed, face cold against the dirt, and whimpered. Part of him desperately wanted to let go of the band so it would be all over—but no, surely a Scriptor would soon stop this madness?

The third cut was more gentle, a pinch to his ear. In that brief moment of fear before the pain overwhelmed him, Callam realized his only option: if he couldn’t speak, he’d have to tap physically. He lifted a leg and—

‘Stand tall where others falter.’

Like the first bell at dawn, the memory of his sister’s voice broke through the darkness. He could hear her reciting her favorite stanza, his head on her lap, just as she had done when his nightmares had kept him up all night. And with her voice came Callam’s resolve.

This test was his best chance at Binding, fulfilling his promise, and proving that just because he’d been born to blighted parents did not mean he was fated to become a Ruddite. He would score in the top five, secure those two chances to Bind, and by the Seedling on his hand and everything that was written, he would see to it that the ink took.

To that end, Callam flailed with wild abandon. He wanted the duo’s guard down and knew they would never fall for him playing dead.

So, he played desperate instead—he wanted them to think him in that crazed place where condemned men go right before giving up—and the instant he felt Niles recoil, Callam kicked with everything he had. Simultaneously, he twisted his shoulders, ignoring the fresh pain from Phiry’s nails, and bucked Niles off. Quick on the uptake, Phiry moved from kneeling and torturing Callam to tugging hard at the end of his band—anything to keep him within her reach. Until that moment, she’d been one step ahead of the fight, but when she yanked, Callam followed, using her force to bring himself to his feet. He stepped over her still-kneeling form and saw recognition flicker across her face as she tried to adjust her grip. Then he was finally free of her, his white band clutched firmly in his right hand.

One step turned to another. With each pace, Callam’s momentum grew, until he was half-falling, half-running towards the edge of the ring. Rounding the perimeter, he didn’t stop at the sight of Niles and Phiry approaching from opposite sides of the circle, east and west.

Stand tall where others falter, Callam thought. He charged.

Fifteen armspans, ten. The duo grew nearer, their infuriating smiles all teeth. Callam was sick of these two, hated the way they looked at him, the way they mocked him, the way they chanted his name… no, that’s the crowd, he realized as the buzz in his head began to fade. A roar reached his ears, and in it, a chorus of small voices made his eyes go wide.

“Bookblessed, Bookblessed, Bookblessed!”

There was no measure to Callam’s stride as he commanded himself onward, nor any metered play of lunge and dodge. Just pure force of will. Eight armspans, six. They had cheated, but he would win here. For the orphans. For Siela.

He had to.

With each step, he looked for any weakness. Boy and girl were both three armspans away. Two. His body was exhausted, his wrists shot, and his mouth dry. Sweat-slicked didn’t begin to describe his state. His eyes met Phiry’s; he tried to hold her gaze hostage.

Poet’s hand… she won’t even… blink! he thought, throwing himself to the left to dodge an outstretched hand. Another heavy step in her direction—he was in her space now, so he reached for that white cloth around her navel, yet had no real way to untie the knot with one hand.

“Thirty seconds remain!” The Scriptor’s shout was equal parts relief and blow. At least, Callam thought with a gasp, staggering, there’s a time limit. Although in a fight, thirty seconds felt more like a year.

Two strong arms took Callam under his armpits and heaved him upwards. At once he was airborne, and his only focus was on dragging Phiry down with him.

Chin to chest, he thought, then was slammed back-first onto the arena floor. Immediately, he rotated over to Phiry, pinning her. This was his chance—his band went into his mouth, his hands found her knot, and he worked it, fumbling. Cloth went up and under as he undid the ends in a figure-eight motion…

“Twenty seconds!”

“Niles, make him spit it out!” Phiry screamed from underneath Callam. She scratched at him indiscriminately, and his mind went white with agony. Twice he felt himself starting to let go, and he almost spat his cloth out when his body demanded air.

Yet, Callam’s hands functioned on instinct; he was a dock-boy, after all, and this was a poor excuse for a sailor’s knot.

“Fifteen seconds!”

One arm lifted, white cloth in hand. One arm reached for the ground. Callam’s vision blurred, but he heard the Scriptor shout, “Salvios, Phiry, out!” and, at once, Callam tapped.

He didn’t need to see Niles’ face to know he wouldn’t have survived those last few seconds if he hadn't.