“What are beasts but men who cannot read?”

Tobias Kingskin, the Auctioneer’s Stand, Circa 800 AB.

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Dive! Callam’s instincts screamed. He threw himself into a roll, slamming his shoulder on the hard arena floor. Not a second later, something silent whipped overhead, identifiable only by the raised hairs on his arms and neck.

Where are the Scriptors? Coming to his feet, Callam looked around in desperation. Ruddites were shrieking and scrambling in every direction; many headed towards the pulsating light at the center of the storm of books. He understood their reasoning: from a distance the glow looked inviting, doubly so when compared to the Broken.

“... STAY BEHIND… US!” a shout cut through the wind.

There!

A dozen or more Scriptors had taken to the skies, though their commands were barely audible over the clamor of the unbound. Callam sprinted their way, keeping himself low. His only thoughts were of survival.

Too late, he realized the danger he was putting the Ruddites in.

Another silence where none should be, and Callam leapt to his right, narrowly avoiding a branch of blackness. Ink splashed from it with a hiss. He landed on all fours, one elbow bent, one straight. Ignoring the jolt of pain, he frantically pushed himself onward. He could not let this thing catch him.

Others had not been so quick. A piercing cry forced Callam to glance over his shoulder. There he saw a man suspended in darkness, only the whites of his face visible: teeth and eyes.

“HELP!” begged the Ruddite. Callam spun so that he might—

“Luthxia!” incanted a deep voice, followed by a softer “Utia!” and a quickly strung together “Dim innet eum!” Three spells shot into the Broken with the sound of two ships smashing hulls. The lead mage, a three-star Scriptor with blond hair and a woven beard, sliced vertically with his hand, and where his fingers moved, magic flowed, carving a human-size hole into the thing.

“We’ll hold it off, Arlie!” he shouted. “Get the unbound to safety!”

“On it, Sir!” replied the Scriptor Callam had met earlier, throwing herself between him and the beast. “Everything all right?” she asked, peering at him with a wild grin. Her trademark yellow hat had been switched for a more festive magenta, and she appeared to be brimming with adrenaline.

“Uh…” he managed to get out, his eyes fixed on the looming shape of the Broken. It was a streak of black paint on wet canvas, dulling out its surroundings. Despite their leader's confidence, Arlie’s companions were definitely not able to handle the thing. Their spells had barely managed to free the Ruddite—ink was already filling the Broken’s wound. Even worse, it was preparing for an attack, its tendrils spreading out to draw in air…

“We need to move!” Callam yelled. They’d made it less than ten feet when an ear-splitting howl filled the colosseum. A sour, burnt smell permeated the area, and a frigid draft set in, sterile and devoid of life.

“#%\>~ … See… l.. ng ~

Each letter was a garbled mess from the creature's throat, yet to Callam the message was clear. The Broken hungered for his Seedling.

Two more explosions rattled the colosseum—Callam guessed Arlie’s team had taken the opportunity to coordinate an attack. Silence stretched and his hopes rose, only for him to hear more words.

“#%\>~ I… B… ind… Th…~

“Crow’s foot!” Arlie swore as they raced past a cluster of cowering Ruddites. “It's no use. Our spells aren’t doing a damned thing!” Callam agreed. They needed the help of the elder scriptors.

By mutual understanding, he and Arlie gave the crowds as large a berth as possible; there was no telling what the beast would do to the illiterate. Eat them, probably. More spells connected with the monster—Arlie turned to fire every few feet while running, but she was a levee against a flood.

And the waters were crashing through.

“Callam…Why’s it after y—EXTROMA!” she bellowed, her words clipped and her grin now a grimace. Green sparks shot from the yellow satchel around her neck, winding their way to the Broken. They boiled some of the ink across its abdomen, then fizzled out before doing anything more.

“I don’t know!” he lied—he wasn’t about to tell anyone the truth. The Sisters taught that the Broken were the weak husks of those who had shed their duty. Clearly, they’d been keeping secrets too.

Niles was just ahead now. Callam could see the boy’s outline in the distance, his form wavering with each pulse of light from the book in his hands; a surge of energy burst forth from the grimoire every other second, nearly blinding Callam as he closed in. Twin concentric domes surrounded the unbound, both translucent, with the larger of the two spanning over fifty feet.

“Rush the inner barrier!” Arlie called out. She was airborne again, sparks of magic flaring from her feet. “I’ll signal for them to let you…” her voice grew fainter as she shot toward the far side of the arena.

“Oh, and Callam!” she added, suddenly phasing in on his left. “You’d better pray they hold this beast off, otherwise…”

I’ll be bait.

~~~

Plans are paper without ink.

Callam tumbled through the air, the stanza bright in his mind. Everything around him was a blur—then he crashed into the ground, rolled once, and came to a stop.

Cheek to the floor, he worked his jaw. No loose teeth, but he did hear an odd clicking noise. I was so close, too. The Broken had caught him at the last possible moment, its vine lashed him mid-way through the first barrier and threw him aside.

Groaning, he muscled himself onto his elbows. He should have known better—all street kids learned young to expect the unexpected. They had to, or they’d end up in a noose.

Behind him, the beast roared again, a horrible sound that echoed off the stands and hit Callam from all directions. He didn’t plan on staying around long enough to find out why it was doing so now.

Instead, he pushed himself up and raced to the first of the two domes. “LET ME IN!” —Not the most heroic of requests, but it didn’t need to be. A Broken larger than legend was on his tail, and he didn’t want to be eaten.

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Miraculously, heavenly, the magic barrier flickered, then fell. Ten Scriptors stood inside the barrier, their grimoires raised.

Callam didn’t need to be told to duck.

A barrage of spells shot overhead—icicles the size of wagons that warped his reflection, jets of twisting dragon-flame, and a stampede of moth-like leaves pelted toward the beast.

Then Callam cleared the golden line on the ground, and the dome shimmered back into existence. He kept on running, straight towards the inner barrier housing Niles and dozens of other huddled unbound. To his left and right, others were doing the same; several had seized the opportunity to enter the sanctuary.

They didn’t make it far. Another blast of light shot from the grimoire, eliciting screams and forcing Callam to cover his eyes and slow down. Once the spots cleared from his vision, he could see exactly how badly the forced Binding was going, if the scene over the past few minutes weren’t enough of an indication.

Even from forty feet away, Niles looked dull. Everything about him was muted—his skin was ghostly white, his red hair more copper than scarlet, and he had shrunk several inches. Occasionally his mouth moved, but no words came out. White ribbons of ink bridged him and the book, hundreds of them covering both his arms and legs. The tome itself appeared… defiant? It fluttered this way and that, flapping its cover angrily. Beads of darkness entered it every second, and it twitched with each one.

Why isn’t anyone inter—

“Ruddite and unbound!” shouted a thin Scriptor, cutting Callam’s thoughts short. “Make for the inner ring! You don’t want to be caught in the crossfire.”

“What of that boy, sir!” asked an older man with a white ponytail and the impressive paunch of a merchant. “And what of our goods?” he added a second later, his face pinched.

“What of them?” growled another Scriptor, this one broad as an ox and about as tactful. “Be thankful you’re alive.”

As if to accentuate the point, the Broken chose that moment to smash its strands against the transparent ceiling. The whole arena shook, each swing of the dark vines against the dome like the beat of a massive drum. Callam watched as it alternated its rhythm, looking for any cracks or weakness. Finding none, it shifted instead to battering the thousands of books swirling and diving by its head.

“Ye–yes, Sir!” the older man said nervously, only for him to grumpily mumble a second later, “Could ‘ave retired at seventy, I could ‘ave, but no… ”

Together, Callam and the man reached the inner sanctuary. From there, Callam strode past the unbound, past Lenora, who seemed to be caring for some friends, and straight to the elder Scriptors. Five of them were standing in a circle, their hands and tomes raised to the heavens. To Callam’s shock, none of them looked particularly concerned about the Broken’s rampage.

“Why aren’t we fighting?!” he demanded, his anger rising. Ruddite were at risk of dying, and the city's most powerful Scriptors were standing around, doing nothing to help. Why were they prioritizing a hundred innocents over thousands?

“People die every day, boy,” replied the eldest Scriptor, her voice raspy and emotionless. “Do not presume to tell us about duty. We live to protect the next generation of the Fated Few.” Suddenly, Callam understood—the majority of the vulnerable outside the dome were Ruddites, while the unbound cowering here still had potential to Bind.

He saw red.

“So what of their families,” he spat, pointing to gathered teens. “What of him?” he nodded at Niles. “Will you sit back and watch them die?”

“There is no heroism without casualties,” spoke another of the Seven. He was bright-eyed, and his voice was off, sand to Callam’s ears. “And that unbound chose his path—we will not interfere and risk the tome. It is invaluable. Time alone will show if he is fated.”

“I dare you to speak again with such insolence,” threatened a third. Then, all three resumed their incantations.

So what, Callam thought, seething, we’re trapped until the lackwit succeeds or dies, and the Ruddite are chased by the Broken in the meantime? He’d seen the way that monster absorbed people, and Poet be damned, he refused to sit around. He had to do someth—

“P…please… I… Phi…ry,”

Callam whirled to see Niles now on his knees, his jaw slack. His body looked aged and wrinkled, yet no one seemed to notice his begging. All five Scriptors had turned their backs to him, robes draped and hoods up. Phiry was nowhere to be seen, likely trapped outside the protective domes.

“He... lp,” the boy coughed. “ I’m… S.. s… sor… ”

There was desperation in the stupid boy’s eyes. Remorse. Sorrow and… terror. A deathly fear that Callam recognized, having seen it through spellworked glass ten years before.

Before Callam knew what he was doing, he’d stormed up to the Scriptors and demanded they tell him how long Niles would suffer. Whether it was her shock at his tone or a grudging respect, the eldest answered. “Hours, as is fitting.”

Callam found himself sprinting. There was no grace to his steps, just the pounding of foot on floor as his strides ate up the earth. He was no practiced soldier; his arms did not pump by his side but flailed with the frantic urgency he felt in his chest. Each heartbeat brought him closer to the boy.

To the book.

And to those words he’d sworn so long ago.

Sliding to a stop, Callam threw his hands onto Niles’ back and tore at the thousands of hair-like ribbons anchored there. The white ink of the four-star grimoire burned his flesh; he was nowhere near powerful enough to withstand it. Bubbles formed on his skin and he screamed—yet he did not stop. He grabbed handfuls more and tugged. Part of him expected the Scriptors to intervene.

To curse and smite him.

He had not expected them to watch and whisper. Looking down, he understood. His right hand was alight with magic, and while it burned, it did not boil like the rest of him. His Seedling had awoken, and he used its magic to help him pull more and more pigment free.

“You will not kill him!” he shouted. He poured all of himself into the plea. All those nights he’d cried in the chapel’s commissary when everyone else was asleep, every time he’d bumped into someone with similar eyes and thought for a moment his sister was alive, the dozens of stanzas he’d memorized in her name because she loved them and she was the closest thing to a mom he’d ever known—all of it came out of him now.

He hated Binding Day. This ceremony had cost him everything, and he refused to allow anyone’s brother or sister to suffer the way he had.

To Callam’s amazement, the tome responded. Where earlier it had been cold and earthy, now it turned light, almost golden.

It’s not angry, he realized. It’s desperate. Instead of flapping its cover in a malicious way, it hovered motherly. Yes, it went rigid every time a blot of darkness left Niles, but not from glee. From concern.

Callam redoubled his efforts. He yanked and he peeled, managing to clear one of Niles’s arms from the tendrils. He started on the other one, using the linen of his tunic to cover his skin wherever possible.

Two done. Callam had a pattern of burns now, but he ignored the pain and focused on Niles’ legs. The boy was getting weaker by the second. The tome did its best to help—it fluttered around his head, pulling against its own strands with all its might.

For a moment, Callam foolishly thought they’d make it. His heart fell when a beacon of light burst forth from the tome—the very same light that had been blinding everyone earlier. The book reacted immediately, trying to shut its own cover, but its efforts were for naught. Thousands of new strands of burning ink found their way to Niles. The unbound sagged to the ground, no longer able to keep kneeling.

What am I to do? Callam knew there was only one option left, and by the way the book kept bumping into him, it was trying to communicate that too.

It needed a substitute.

Trying to bind a four-star grimoire was madness, Callam knew—failure could mean death. Yet if he did nothing, Niles was sure to die. At least I won’t prolong the rite, he thought, and swiped the tome out of the air. This one was not a forced binding, after all.

His palm touched a blank page, and pain splintered Callam’s mind. He was but a knot in the tapestry of life. Ideas and memories all slipped away. He floated in an ocean of agony, untethered and weightless, where time had no meaning. Muscles failed him, and he felt his control over language flee. His last thoughts were full of despair. He was not special—who was he to hope the ink would take?

Callam awoke screaming. Bright light surrounded him, and every inch of him was on fire. He had no sense of how much time had passed; all he knew was that he was in a rare moment of clarity through the pain. Fatigue nearly took him back to that dark place, but he mustered up his energy and looked to his right. Niles was still covered in deadly tendrils.

So Callam did what he always did: he tried to bind again.

Failure meant certain death—but this time things went differently. First, the tome spun and twirled in welcome. Then, it opened its cover and strands of white pulled him close. They danced along his skin, friendly, excited, almost child-like. His body responded, accepting the tendrils without complaint; ink passed both ways and all of his pain dissipated.

Exhausted, he shut his eyes, only to gasp out loud a second later. Images played on his lids—but where he normally saw stars and shapes, now...

He saw words.