A stolen Verse carries on the wind.
Do not sing it. Commit no sin.
A Broken heart bears no ink,
It cannot rise or spread its wings.
Lore is what becomes of myth,
When djinn are caught,
And set adrift.
A Manarji wishtale, passed from father to son.
----------------------------------------
“... because they aren’t worth the effort?” answered a young woman standing near Zallorian, hand raised. She was pretty, with dark eyes and a green dress that hugged her shoulders, and was one of few to actually ponder Callam’s question.
“Right you are, Celsa!” Rote said, leading the group down the hills and through a crop of trees shrouding the castle. He walked with his grimoire held out in one hand, and radiant light poured from its pages. “But that begs a greater question: why aren’t they worth the chase? Enough crumbs will satiate even the largest…”
Callam half-listened, hit by a wave of exhaustion that made concentrating on more than what was in front of him difficult. Taking a steadying step, he looked ahead to the battlements and parapets poking out from behind the tree line. The castle looked beautiful at this hour, lit by hundreds of lanterns and guarded by massive statues of the Prophet and his Poet. Imposing and arcane, their presences exuded magic. Promised command over it. Even the shadows seemed to obey them, creasing their marble faces and bringing the stone to life in a trick of the light.
What treasures do they watch over? he couldn’t help but wonder. A part of him, that small, child-like voice nestled within all adult hearts, asked: Will I learn to fly inside those walls?
Not so many years ago, he’d traded stolen pennies for wishtales of adventurers casting grand magics. He’d treasured those stories—repeated them to the point of memorization, and used them to keep his spirits high on the darkest nights.
Now, as he watched the castle’s flag flap in the breeze, he felt a second-wind. The draft rustled the nearby trees, bringing along the earthy scent of smoke—the smell of home. Somewhere in that castle was a warm room with a big fireplace where he could open his grimoire away from prying eyes. Flickers of heat still spread from his bookbag, reminding him that his first chapter remained unread.
That his story was about to begin.
His fingers itched to open his grimoire again—he would have done so already if Rote had allowed it. The Scriptor had made clear that any further dallying could lead to serious danger.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Airster’s haughty voice traveled with practiced ease. It sounded as if he thought the majority of them dimmer than burnt-out wicks. “Tower monsters don’t carry natural mana. It is alien to them. They sense it around you, and track it like blind beasts to a beacon. Haven’t any of you picked up a book since your binding?”
Tilla Quellheart nodded subtly at his words.
“What I think our prestigious Firegale means,” Rote said, shouldering a branch out of his way, “is that Tower beasts crave human mana. Think of everything in here as a construct without a maker. They cannot leave unless they have a corporeal connection—and that requires mana from the outside world.” Nudging the small paperfowl now snuggling within his cloak, he added, “Felm here, for instance, is blood-bonded to me. Otherwise, her feathers would burn upon leaving the tower.”
“So…?” asked the chubby girl Callam had spotted earlier. She stepped down from a small boulder blocking the other, her breathing heavy. “The…the beasts here will try to… eat us so they can escape?”
“It does seem a bit gruesome when you put like that, doesn’t it?” Rote said. He lifted his grimoire so they could better see in the twilight. “But in essence, yes. Of course, not all animals have the same ambitions—Felm just wants to cuddle and coo. I imagine most predators dream of leaving.”
A tense silence met those words.
After a while, Lenora spoke up. “Have any of them successfully… you know?” To others, the question might have sounded casual, yet Callam noticed a slight hesitation in her voice. Absentmindedly, she began to play with her hair.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“Certainly not from this lighthouse,” Rote replied. “Some claim that the Winged One escaped from the Western Tower, forcing the prophets to light it first. Hearsay, in my opinion. Few stories of the Far Away can truly be trusted.”
That thought was ridiculous enough to draw murmurs from the class—the very idea that anyone could believe the Winged One had escaped from a Lighthouse bordered on the heretical. She was a monster intent on invading the Towers, not leaving them. Scripture said it was so.
Lenora alone frowned.
For just a breath she furrowed her eyebrows and slowed her pace. Her delicate fingers no longer traced patterns along her hair, instead braiding the ends. So subtle was the change in her mannerisms, that Callam might have missed it had he not been sneaking occasional glances her way.
Tomelight danced on her pale skin.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered, happy for any excuse to walk to her side. After having learned of the Archive’s Plight, he carried his own doubts about the sermon’s teachings.
“Oh…” A light blush warmed her cheeks, and she pursed her lips. Finally, she seemed to make up her mind. “Don’t laugh. It’s just… what of the books…? I mean, they can leave the Tower, before they’ve bonded. Can’t they?”
~~~
“What of the books?” Lenora’s words rang through Callam’s head as the group finally reached the castle’s outer gates. Green banners fluttered along the outer walls, each eerily similar to the ones he’d seen on Binding Day.
The two had walked the remaining distance in silence, both pondering her words. They were in strong contrast to the rest of the group—the class had become increasingly boisterous the closer they got to the castle, forcing Rote to shush them more than once. He seemed committed to spending every minute of the hike imparting something new: three times so far he’d urged the class to observe various landmarks and their histories. Thankfully, he had not followed through on his threats to teach them via song if they didn’t listen.
It came as no surprise, then, when he stopped them right before the drawbridge. A chipper, “Quick look to your left, if you’d please…” was enough to draw their attention to the claw marks etched along the castle’s balustrades. The walls were simply covered in them. “Ms. Quellheart,” he prodded, “tell them what they are seeing.”
The second-year stayed quiet. Some gentle pecking from Felm later, she relented. “Doubtless, you have learned enough to know that scaling the Tower requires slaughtering keepers and solving… puzzles.” Her northern accent hitched on that final word. “Not so on this floor. A fool and failure both can climb this story untested.”
“This floor’s keeper prefers, instead, to protect the entrance to the Roots,” Rote added, making for the castle’s iron gates. “He’s a fensphinx with claws the size of wagon wheels, a coat that’s nigh impenetrable, and the foul temperament of a pampered house cat. It’s true,” he said when many of them chuckled. “Scratches up everything. Thankfully, he won’t bother you unless directed to by the librarians. Or by me.”
On another day, Callam would have joined in on the laughter. He’d already planned on spending a lot of time in the Roots, and the idea that a beast of legend protected its entrance surpassed his wildest imaginations. That it was big enough to use the castle itself for a scratching post was simply… extraordinary.
Stories truly did not do the Lighthouse justice.
Not tonight though—tonight, Callam’s mind was elsewhere. As he stepped onto the drawbridge, he couldn’t help but feel that Lenora was right: it was strange that grimoires could fly from the Tower unbound.
If they can leave, who’s to say the beasts can’t?
With a creak and a shove, the wrought-iron gates swung open. Smells flooded out first: sweetbreads and meatpies tempted the mouth. He even caught a whiff of the port’s less-palatable offerings—stank suspiciously of fried seagull, and a sharp tang hinted at scouredwood beer, served only in the cheapest taverns.
Laughter followed, coming from a thousand voices at once.
The view came last, after he and Lenora had peeked over the rest of their gathered classmates. In front of them, a long hallway curved into the main hall, its arched ceilings lit by strings of floating candles that rose and fell like the spines of a grand dragon. Two murals were illuminated in their wake: one depicted a minstrel playing a tune, the other a beast in battle. Paper-fowl of all shapes and sizes soared through the corridor’s many doorways, chasing and playing with each other. Occasionally, they would hide among the shields and crests adorning the upper walls. Dozens of students chatted beneath them, all looking much warmer and fuller than he felt.
How they could hear each other over the roar of activity at the end of the hallway, Callam had no idea.
“Poet’s hand…” someone swore behind him. He had to agree.
His Seedling, his mother’s plight, and the Tower's secrets were all mysteries to be puzzled out, but…
… they were mysteries he could work on tomorrow.
Right now, he had a grimoire to read and food to eat. Better yet, unless he was completely mistaken, Moose and Lenora expected him for dinner.
A smile broke across his lips. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shared a meal with friends.
~~~ This chapter is dedicated to Duat. I'm so sorry for what your going through <3.