"Endure the hand that beats, for it’s the one that feeds."

  ~~Preachings of the Son’s Solace.

  “Leave it alone!” shouted a young man as he slammed open the door to the study.

  Pressed against a crack in the wardrobe’s door, Callam could just make out a boy with green robes and a sharp face, pacing back and forth. They looked to be close to each other in age, the youth slightly older if his blond stubble was any indication.

  “Poet’s hand,” Callam mouthed, fighting to keep in a cough—dust caked the floor and teased the back of his throat. If I’m caught here, I’ll get the noose. The walls, surrounding shirts and coats, and the image of the hanging post made him feel suffocated. So too did the knowledge that any movement would be overheard.

  “Master Writ,” called out an older man. “Please understand, it’s not up to me. Your father mandates it!” The voice's owner came into view: short, and chubby, he wore the black and white of a scholar and labored to catch his breath.

  “I may be in your charge,” the youth responded, “but if you think to condemn me to peasant’s work, then you, Father, and the Prophet himself can go to the Heathen’s Haven!”

  At the curse, Callam's chest tightened. True, orphans swore like beached sailors, but they learned quickly where not to step. Nothing good comes from taking the Prophet’s name in vain. The Sisters had made sure to beat that rule in.

  “Do–don’t speak such heresy, young master,” the man stammered, his cheeks pinched. “If your father hears you…”

  “He’ll do what?” the boy spat. “I am his third son, yet he forced me into a traditional binding. He could have gifted me a scripted grimoire. Saved me from the Tower. Instead, he sent me to risk my life.”

  “Master Writ,” the scholar said firmly, as if he’d found his legs. “You know well as I that your father wishes for you to write your own path. He is not alone in this; many believe the trite magic of a scripted grimoire comes at a cost. And, a man of his station ca—”

  “Can speak for himself,” a stern voice interjected.

  If Callam had thought his mouth dry earlier, now it tasted like brine. He knew men like this one—men who spoke with born authority. Men who face no consequences, only inconveniences. The wardrobe, once a shelter, now felt more like a coffin, and he had to fight to stay still and not bury himself among the coats. Surviving the streets meant avoiding callers like this man. Avoiding their sunken cellars and sickly smiles.

  “Thank you, Orsal,” the man said. “Sebastian, your petulance has gone on long enough. Your mother has turned a blind eye, yet you are clearly stunted. I shall not tolerate your cowardice any longer.”

  “I… Father, if you would just—”

  The sound of a slap cut through the study. A long quiet followed, so tense Callam began to sweat. This man views his child as a prize, not a person. The knowledge twisted his stomach.

  “Fa…”

  “Not. Another. Word,” the man commanded. He walked past the wardrobe, stopping to straighten the cuffs of the velvet shirt hanging loose around his shoulders. Disgust wrinkled a hawkish face with a curved nose and furrowed brow.

  “You will address me as Scriptor Writ.” He took a measured stride forward. “Just as you will return to the Tower and earn your own way. Should you manage to progress your grimoire, you may return home. Until then, you will earn our family’s name with bone and blood.” When no response came, the man turned away from the wardrobe. “Good. Now, let’s deal with tonight’s other nuisance.

  “Enjoying the show, boy?”

  Callam’s breath caught.

  “Haelav Enil!” the man incanted as he spun, his words reverberating with power. Hundreds of shadows erupted from a pouch at his waist, arcing through the air as they congregated in front of the wardrobe, where they wriggled together like a knot of ravenous eels.

  Then, before Callam had the chance to fully process what was happening, the strands burst through the crack in the doors.

  At once, he dug his heels in the wardrobe’s floor, felt the magic lasso his body, grabbed for the nearby coats, failed to get a strong-enough grip, and was tossed into the air. A piece of red fabric tore as he flew. He’d barely managed to lock his arms underneath himself when he hit the study floor.

  Hard.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Ringing filled his head. Wood pressed up against his face and a headache set in where his temple met his ear. Yet, even as he lay prostrate, his eyes darted to the corners of the room.

  If I—

  Magic crushed what thoughts he’d had of escape; at once it yanked him upwards, contorting and splaying his body until his arms resembled the wings of a broken bird.

  “Thought I’d sensed someone trudging through our garden,” the mage chided as he approached, his composure at odds with his son’s bewildered expression. “To think my son stupid enough to befriend the rabble…” He glared at Sebastian. When the boy didn’t react, the mage changed his course. “Not a thief of opportunity, then. You must have climbed the rocks…”

  Callam knew better than to respond. He stared the man down—words carried power, and he would not give this man his.

  “Yes.” The mage’s nose flared even as he kept up a thin smile. “That’s it. Unbound. No magic signature at all. No wonder the guards couldn’t sense you. Tell me, boy, which forbidden fruit have you set your sight on? Food? Or perhaps… our books?”

  Callam hawked onto the man’s shoes. Despite the defiance in his heart, the act wasn’t fully intentional—the man’s spell had put pressure on Callam’s stomach and his silence had earned more pressure still. Bile splattered on the floor.

  Scriptor Writ recoiled in disgust.

  “Come, Sebastian,” he said. “It seems the gods do favor you, after all. They’ve gifted us the opportunity for you to whet your tome.”

  “I… what…?” This time, the boy flinched when his father turned his way.

  “I do not sire fools. You know exactly what I mean. Prove to me the Prophet’s gift has not been wasted on you. Prove you deserve your place in this world and will labor to keep atop it. Do so and I shall allow you to skirt your responsibilities in the Tower.” Energy crackled above the mage’s hand and began to solidify into a weapon. “This tool should suffice.”

  That’s a…

  Fear threatened to freeze Callam as he fought to move. Throwing himself against his bindings, he searched for any weakness in the spell. He did not have to guess at this sword’s purpose—any thief could recognize a blade meant to cauter and cut.

  The magic’s hold was sure and stable as steel.

  Nauseous, Callam glanced at his hands. Ten fingers. For sixteen years, he’d kept them all. Kept them despite. Oh, he’d failed as a cutpurse plenty of times, but had always gotten away in the end. Not today. He’d certainly lose at least one. All he could do now was hide in that inner sanctuary that kept all survivors sane: that warm, walled place he’d built deep within himself during long nights spent gorging water just to feel full.

  He hated it there—returning to that refuge always made him feel so powerless. Yet he needed the distance from his emotions, for he’d only felt this small once before, when, as a boy, the Sisters had found his cot wet. Back then, he’d broken down.

  Never again.

  In front of him, the world unfolded as if viewed through a thick pane of glass. Callam watched Sebastian stride over to his father, the noble boy’s face betraying both fear and wonder as he reached for the blade. Skin met hilt, and the youth gasped, wide-eyed, then immediately tried to withdraw the outstretched hand.

  Scriptor Writ didn’t allow it. In a smooth motion he grabbed his son’s wrist and pressed it down upon the weapon. Sebastian screamed. “Enough,” the mage demanded. “This pain you feel is the burden we Scriptors carry. One that all those who wish to master magic must overcome. Embrace it. Understand what you are and what Ruddites will never be.”

  It was a simple statement, yet one born from cruelty. Callam winced when Sebastion’s skin began to boil—the weapon the boy brandished was no soldier’s tool, but an executioner's blade meant to punish criminals by burning through whatever it touched.

  Twice-seared meat looked less blistered.

  What father does that to his son?

  The question came to Callam slowly, quieting a fear he’d yet to confront: what if this mage demanded more than his fingers? Sebastian gave him no time to dwell. Anger marred the young noble’s face as he firmed his resolve and lifted the blade.

  Anger… and something else. Pity, maybe? A quick step, then another, and the boy readied a cut.

  Callam set his jaw, refusing to cower here. The promise he’d made to his sister, the laughs and cries of the younger orphans, and the retired dock he called home all shot through his mind. These were his moorings. They gave him humanity and made him more than thief or pauper.

  Sebastian took a step back.

  Uncertainty overtook the venom in the boy’s eyes, and for a moment Callam had hope. Yet the noble regained his composure as quickly as he’d lost it, and reached a hand into his robe to pull out a sapphire grimoire.

  “Reformenae Expir Reia,” he invoked. The tome bloomed to life, brackish water and dark algae streaming from its seams. Sebastian had spoken in the secret language of mages, but the words were infamous enough that anyone could guess their meaning—the noble aimed to advance his spellbook by writing a chapter with the lifeblood of another.

  “Solvyn,” he finished.

  Algae grew and became wiry as the grimoire responded to the command. Vegetation shot outward and, finding Callam, constricted around him, the frigid, oily vestiges drawing a stunned gasp from his lips as the plant sought its nourishment.

  The blade lifted and swept down.

  Not at Callam’s hand, but at his neck. This was no act of mercy, and fear soon breached the walls he’d built to keep reality out. The stanzas claimed “a life of providence should be lived without pride,” but that had never sat well with him. He’d always wished for more.

  Promised his sister he’d be more.

  More than a slave. More than some thief, stealing scraps to eat. For years he’d dreamed of binding, of being first among the orphans to become tomebound.

  Yet his future, it seemed, had already been written.