In the Seeker’s Tower, a secret stirred,
We climbed the floors, uncovered their lore.
Words were a key, their gift: literacy.
But there is a weight to newfound skills,
And a heavy toll we had to fulfill.
~~Recollections of the fourth Poet.
----------------------------------------
Welcome, Callam Quill, of the chapelward on Vela Hill. You are Tomebound.
I—I can actually read? Callam pored over the sentence again and again, his breath catching in his chest. He fought the urge to open his eyes, unable to shake the feeling that it was all a dream: he was certain his budding literacy would vanish with the slightest movement. Yet the characters remained—they were equal parts beautiful and surreal, the calligraphy penned by a painter's hand. The magic in them teased at his understanding, and he knew with time he could harness and master it. So intense was his focus that he panicked the moment the words began to fade, only for a new sentence to form before him.
Where ink flows, power resides. Hold your Grimoire, let it be your guide.
For just a second longer, Callam resisted opening his eyes—if it was a dream, it was a good one, and he wanted to remember it. He let himself imagine he was a great earth mage, climbing the tower and casting spells that raised the very stones. Or maybe he was a windsinger, calling lightning and thunder from the heavens themselves. Then he reluctantly allowed the darkness to fade. Around him circled several Scriptors, their shocked expressions mirroring his own. Flashes of red and green confirmed the battle was still in full force, while Niles’ labored breathing was proof enough that he lived—but Callam had no mind for that. He used the few loose strands still connecting him to the tome to pull it close. At some point it must have fallen from his grasp, and now it floated shut.
Mesmerized, Callam let his fingers linger on the brown grimoire—his grimoire. First, he traced the carved skyline on the cover, finding the nooks and crannies warm to his touch. To him, the earthy tones were more vibrant than muddy, giving the cityscape life. Next, he breathed in. Woodsmoke teased his senses. Callam recognized the smell as birchwood—a favorite cure among leather merchants for its sweetness. Tanneries kept their workshops warm, and Callam had spent more than one night huddled against their rooftop chimneys, shrouded in that smoke to stave off the chill. Lastly, he marveled in the feel of the book; it was hefty, with a weight far greater than its size, and when he split the binding, words spilled onto the white canvas, as if written one by one. Callam was half convinced that time slowed.
Foreword: For Callam Quill, bonded companion.
Callam Quill, Mage, Level 0.
Grimoire Type: Unknown.
Star Level: Four.
Skills: Literacy.
Talents: Streetwise—puzzles come easily to you.
Spells: Unknown.
“Wow,” he whispered, still amazed that reading now felt like second nature to him. He raised his brow in confusion a moment later. Skills? Talents? Most of these terms were entirely new to Callam, being tightly guarded secrets. Some, he’d deduced; the orphans traded in information, so they paid close attention to any war-weary drunks at the taverns, both for the easy marks and the free education. Plenty of gaps in my learning remain, he thought, struggling to wrap his head around everything. Soon, new words replaced the old.
Prologue: Your first spell
Life grants magic and misery in equal measure.
All Seekers start somewhere. For some, the words come easy. For you, they do not. Level the source of power in your heart or you will fail to find your start.
Incantation: Infer Atrea Intus
Timeline: Sixteen days from first reading
I have a timeline to learn a spell? Callam grimaced—he had no idea where to begin. He’d opened the tome right away with the childish hope of learning magic immediately. Now, he wished he’d waited a little longer. Searching for some hint on his next steps, he turned the page. One sentence was written there.
Proceed to the Eastern Lighthouse (The Seeker's Tower) to unlock future chapters. May your magic be as endless as your prose.
No help. He’d just have to figure it out himself. Gently, he closed the grimoire and, after a second, decided to carry it by his side. The tome’s leather heated his hands like a fanned ember and quickly became uncomfortable to hold. I’ll have to steal a bookba—
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“Few are Fated, child,” spoke the eldest Scriptor. Distracted, Callam had not noticed her approach, nor that of the six other elders surrounding her. She moved slowly, her ancient body cocooned by her black shawl, each step precise and deliberate. Her head turned slightly from side to side, and the dark pupils of her eyes gleamed. A sharp smile crept on her lips, sending goosebumps down Callam’s spine.
“To interrupt a binding… secure your destiny… and trample over an enemy’s all at once. The Prophet prospers within, indeed.”
Trampled? Callam worked to keep the anger off his face—the elders had done nothing to help Niles or to save the thousands stuck outside the protective barriers. Even now, as the battle with the Broken raged on, they chose instead to lecture him.
“I saved his life,” Callam finally said, then swallowed his pride and added, “ma'am.” The last thing he wanted to do was make enemies after such an unconventional binding.
“All good intentions are fraught with self-deception, boy. Better to be honest with desires of the heart than to mask them with the lies of altruism,” she said. “You rose where he fell.” Turning to face her entourage, she added, “prepare Niles for the auctioneers. I’ve deemed his second binding forfeit—he took his chance. And he failed.”
At her words, two of the elders shot forward, grimoires in hand. Blue light radiated from one of the books, only to dim when she spat. “No healing! Let his crippling serve as a deterrent to others. Now, the four-star is secure. Let us end this farce.”
“As is written,” and “With pleasure,” murmured the remaining elders. One of them snapped two bony fingers, and Callam watched as the smaller of the shields fell. The sounds of spells whistling through the air, the fanning of a thousand angry books, and the screams of Ruddites crashed in all at once. They must have muted the fight so I could bind in peace, Callam realized.
He had no idea why.
“Scriptors, we have finally consolidated our power and are ready to end this battle. Your mission is to protect the Ruddites at all costs. Remember your duties to the people. Remember who you serve and remember why they deem you their masters,” barked the lead elder, her voice cutting through the noise.
Propaganda. Callam’s mouth soured, but he was unsurprised—he’d never bought into the idea that Scriptors worked for the people. “All stories carry two meanings,” the stanzas said. “One that’s told and one that’s heard.” The elder only proved that true.
“Begin!” she barked, and as one, the elders pulled four-star grimoires from the folds of their dark robes. Then they gestured for Callam to join a group of unbound hiding behind the elevated stone chassis. He did as instructed, the teens parting to let him through with a reverence he found uncomfortable.
Once he was safe, the elders tore down the second shield. What followed could hardly be called a battle.
“Elus nera alkia,” the eldest Scriptor shouted, her onyx grimoire held tight. Blackness rivaling that of the Broken coiled around her before shooting out toward the towering beast. Callam watched, his eyes wide. It wasn’t her spell that surprised him, but his own mind. He’d understood her perfectly, somehow having translated her words to commonspeak: “Where shadow touches, I control.”
How do I know this? Is this the power of Scriptors? he wondered. Everyone knew that Seekers and Scriptors shared a language only they understood, but even still, it seemed a bit much.
Unless…
He glanced down at his right hand and rubbed the Seedling scar. He hadn’t been imagining it, had he? His fingers had lit up and resisted the burning from the tome. Certainly, the Scriptors had noticed—they’d stayed quiet during the whole ritual, and instinct told him it wasn’t out of respect. He’d bet his only good shirt that the elders were opportunists to the last of them.
So why didn't they interfere? An unbound with a Seedling bordered on heresy.
Whatever the reason, it can’t be good, Callam decided, watching a barrage of spells collide with the Broken. I’ll need to learn as much as I can about the ring. Both to protect myself and to discover how generic my gift with languages is.
Another volley crashed into the beast, more loudly this time. They rippled across its body, then dug into its skin, feeding the pigment there until the monster swelled like an overstuffed scarecrow, full of ink instead of straw. The cyclone of books came next, diving down and cutting into the Broken with razor-sharp paper.
“Bin... d me... fre... e,” it howled, only to be silenced by a branch of woven spines that wrapped around its mouth-tendrils and pulled taut. Ink gushed from the wounds as the monster fought to free its voice. It whipped its massive strands back and forth, trying to send its assailants flying, but small shields intercepted each hit before they could land. When its attacks failed, the Broken withdrew and tore at its muzzle. Agony replaced the hunger on its features. More spells landed, this time piercing the inflated monster and flooding the floor in black. Soon, the creature had shrunk to the size of a man. Then the last of the pigment fell away, leaving behind a teen clothed in a cowl and shawl, with a dozen dead Ruddites at his feet.
The Elders were quick to move the bodies and restore order. Death, while not commonplace in the port, was not unusual—any visit to the shore passed the makeshift gibbots of thieves and pirates. Beast attacks were more frequent, so the populace had learned to adapt quickly to chaos. Within an hour, the Binding Ceremony resumed, the auctioneers and aristocrats finding their seats. The stands were eerily quiet.
Callam’s trip home was a blur. Three Scriptors escorted him through the portals and to the chapelward, then spoke to the Sisters there about what had happened. There was no celebration, not tonight at least—his body needed the rest. He was given a room reserved for Church guests, and while it was bare, with furnishings as austere as the Sisters themselves, it was clean and private. Having spent the last few years living under the docks, Callam was grateful.
Left alone, he took a deep breath. Tomorrow would be a new day. His first as a Seeker. There were so many things to do: visit Siela’s grave, go to the parts of town allowed only to mages, learn more about the Seedling, and pay back the few debts he owed. Not to mention prepare for the Tower.
But first, he needed to sleep.
Crawling into bed, Callam felt a weight leave his shoulders. Tears soon wet his cheeks, and try as he might, he could not hold them back. These were not the happy tears of a man about to marry, nor the quiet ones of a boy grieving his late sister. They were the wild, broken sobs of an orphan who’d spent a lifetime dreaming without ever daring to hope his dreams might come true.
----------------------------------------
A quick note, since many don't read end cards. On patreon, I use a different font for the text in Callam's book, as I plan on doing for printed copies of Tomebound and KU. I'm working with an artist to create a drawing of stats page in Callam's book as well, so bear with me. I wish I could make the text prettier, but RR has limitations on which fonts we can use.