Those with power are often burdened with questions of “why?”

Yet we do not ask the Ruddite why he reaps the field,

Or the mason why he lays stone.

Privilege and power are natural to the Prophet.

Do not assume he needs a reason for his ruin.

~~Absol, high priest of Port Cardica

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

Why isn’t this working? Callam thought as he desperately tried to break the hold on his neck. When fighting the Oceanstriders, inspiration had struck. He’d been able to sense the mana around him and turn it into something actionable.

Now, that magic had abandoned him. He’d watched the rest of the Seekers unlock their first chapter quickly: the Journey of Dawn and Dusk. Lenora had even started glowing during her attempt, hinting that she had learned the first spell within the path.

Only he had failed.

After every attempt, his grimoire had remained cold to the touch. His Seedling had stayed equally dormant. He was no more a mage than an animal caught in a snare, the Prairieplight’s wood taut against his pull.

Move! his instincts shouted. He jerked his feet to the left just before a knot of roots erupted from the ground, missing his toes by inches. Yet it was a hollow victory—Callam was still being put through his paces. Pressure mounted around his airway as he struggled for footing.

“Innovate, Callam! To muster magic is to be creative!” Rote yelled.

Mind fogging, Callam did his best to comply. He played dead, going limp for a few seconds, then fought with everything he had to break free.

All he achieved was to jostle his bookbag and lose more air. The Prairieplight was not so easily fooled.

Salivating in anticipation, the beast released a foul sap from its fibers. The smell was putrid—acrid enough to sear the nose. Callam would have gagged had his throat not gone stiff. All sap-exposed skin had suddenly solidified.

Where before he’d managed to wheeze, now he couldn’t breathe at all…

He panicked.

In seconds, Rote was sure to step in and clear the skies as he’d done several times already. Callam’s knew this, yet his chest still heaved. He’d handled the lashes from the Prairieplight’s roots easily enough, having suffered worse at the hands of the Sisters’ reeds. The resin the beast had doused him in though?

Terror-inducing.

He was a fly trapped in amber, on display before his peers.

“Think, Callam!” Lenora’s voice cut through his hazy thoughts. Worry tinged the words. He could not see her—the edges of his vision were beyond blurry—but she lent him strength.

“Quiet, tomebound!” Rote snapped at her. “Coddled fowl do not learn to fl—”

Callam did not catch what the Scriptor said next. Blood pounded in his ears, and trapped air burned his lungs. The beast, sensing victory, doubled its efforts. It yanked at Callam’s throat, intent on sending him skyward. He resisted with everything he had, throwing his weight down.

Fear of failure gripped his chest.

Four times now he’d lost consciousness, only to be roused by Rote’s healing magic, then thrown back in with the monster. Each time the surrounding prairie had lost some of its tranquil touch. The winds no longer seemed serene. They tossed the grass, swaying it with the force of their will. Sunlight torched the pastures. It turned stems to straw that birds fed upon.

How do the flocks survive? The realization bubbled to the surface, demanding his focus. There was something there—a hint of understanding as faint as a game trail.

He only had to stay awake long enough to traverse it.

With a colossal effort, Callam dug his toes into the ground, pushing for the outer circle where the sunlight shone brightest. Roots creaked in protest, brambles bit his skin, yet the thicket did not give. He was well and truly stuck.

If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Worse, he’d used up the last of his air. Darkness overtook him.

A chill breeze brushed through Callam’s hair when he awoke. River water drenched him a moment later, and he sputtered out a mouthful.

“Well…” Rote said, inspecting him with twinkling eyes. Airster and Zallorin’s faces betrayed a more scornful amusement. “I’d say that went better, but…” He clapped his hands. “No worries. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Where the quick are witty, the slow are steady. A good teacher educates both.”

Callam said nothing. He wiped his mouth clean and struggled to his feet. A steading step later, he made for the nearest clearing shrouded in cloud cover. Daylight was fading fast and he refused to be the only tomebound without an unlocked chapter tomorrow—even if it meant wrestling the Prairieplight while still damp.

“Stand tall where others falter,” his sister had said. Sometimes that required never giving up.

The absence of rustling grass behind him made it apparent that no one was following. “I’m afraid we’re out of time, Callam,” Rote’s voice carried to him in the wind. “It’s almost dusk, and then the beasts will be out in full force. I’ll struggle to protect you. Best we can do is—”

“One more go,” he shouted back. Instinct told him that Rote was the type of teacher who valued stubbornness. Hopefully, he was right—else he was about to be in all sorts of trouble.

Clasping his bookbag to his side, Callam stepped into the cloud cover.

Creaking and groaning louder than any he’d heard all day echoed upwards from the plains. The grassland around him began to buck and heave as roots writhed underfoot. Small manabirds flew for the skies, and rodents hopped away in fear.

Any second now… This was his sixth attempt, so he knew what to expect.

Coils of wood spun up all around him. Gnarled and knotted, they teetered back and forth like a tumbleweed in a storm. Then, they whistled toward their meal, a whirlwind of movement far faster than he’d expected.

Callam sprinted until his calves burned, racing for the edge of the clearing, the roots like snakes at his heels. Only when he was confident of his lead did he dare look over his shoulder in search of the magic he’d felt earlier.

There!

A thread of light danced from the beast to his grimoire. It leapt from root tip to root tip, highlighting a pattern to the beast’s movements he had missed during his other attempts. Relief flooded his chest. The roots did not beeline for him; instead they aimed for where he had just been, or where they predicted he would be next. They struggled to guess his exact position.

Tremors in the ground? It would explain the beast’s lack of precision, and why the birds could eat here freely, though it didn’t address how the rodents survived nightfall. Still, it was something he could test, and he was so tired of being on the back foot. After skidding through a patch of dirt, he leaned over just far enough to pick up a stone and dodge under a web of roots.

A second later, Callam released the rock. One skip, two, and it landed untouched.

Tracks more than just movement, then. Perhaps heat? The moonheart constructs he’d faced at the Writ’s manor had tracked intruders by warmth. If these beasts worked similarly, then the local wildlife likely hibernated in the dark to avoid discovery.

Logically it made sense.

Unfortunately, he was breathing hard. Sweat drenched his clothes, and he didn’t have any mulch to lower his body temperature this time. Surviving long enough to make it to the lake at the bottom of the hill didn’t appear likely either.

He only had one option left to cool himself. “Infer Intus,” he gasped, “Ater, Infer Intus!” He had no real confidence it would work.

A wave of cold washed over him, its current pulling him to the depths of the abyss. Magic flooded in next, shocking his extremities as if he’d placed his frostbitten hands before a flame. Starlight flickered inside the root closest to him, then it snapped. Another crack of wood, and he knew his spell had snuffed out a root farther away.

Five more broke before his knees gave way. He shivered, cold to the bone, surrounded by brittle wood as the sun crept below the horizon.

Hopefully, I’m right about my assump—

Hundreds of roots tackled him before he finished the thought.

~~~

“Well, Quill, that beating ought to have built up quite the appetite,” Rote said after dumping another river’s worth of water on Callam’s head. “Shall we make for the castle’s commissary now, or would you rather try to die again?” He stretched out a hand, his teeth sparkling in the light of the lantern two second-years held overhead.

“Sir…” Callam asked, massaging his sore temples before accepting the hand up. His head pounded from the backlash of his spell, his skin was white from the cold, and he’d guessed wrong about the Prairieplight, yet he was thrilled. Warmth spread from the bookbag at his back, a sure sign as any that he’d progressed his grimoire. “Why don’t the Prairieplights eat the Tower animals?”

Smile lines aged Rote’s face. “Isn’t that a clever question? Why indeed? First-years,” he said, turning to face the rest of the Seekers, many of whom looked bored and hungry, “It seems Callam has found his spark of inspiration at last, even if the chapter he unlocked wasn’t the lesson I’d penned for today. Before he checks his spellbook for hints, any guesses?”