"Fear not the flame of fortune, for the destined will stand and the forsaken will fall."

  –Pastor Rashi at the burning of City Rebla.

  Agony overwhelmed Callam. It spread through his body, reaching the deepest parts of him until he struggled to breathe, couldn’t think—then, just like that, the pain was gone. It was a transition so abrupt he feared he might be in his death throes. Having shut his eyes in those final moments, he wasn’t quite sure how he’d survived.

  Opening them, he understood.

  Sebastian stood in front of him, the boy’s disfigured grip slack where once it held firm. The blade he’d wielded teetered on Callam’s shoulder, having burned through the noble’s ligaments midswing. It fell and clanged loudly on the floor. A fresh scar remained in its place, stretching from neck to collarbone, the cauterized skin responsible for Callam's lack of pain.

  Its accompanying stench nearly turned his stomach.

  "To fail your first culling…” Disgust twisted Scriptor Writ’s face as he inspected his child’s lame arm. “Your eldest brother finished without hesitation. Even Raele managed in the end. But not you. Not… you." The mage’s disposition grew practical as he turned to face Callam next. Calculating.

  Cold enough to bring about a new swell of worried thoughts.

  Seconds ticked by. Finally, the Scriptor asked the scholar, “Binding Day is around the corner, is it not? Lock him up until then—let the books decide his fate.” Making for the door, he flashed a smile. “Food and water, Orsal; we wouldn’t want to deprive our port of its future labor.”

  Callam gasped and fell weakly to his knees in relief.

  For the first time since he’d been hexed, he inhaled fully. Sweat had condensed on his forehead, so he lifted a hand to wipe the droplets away. His skin was hot to the touch. Far, far too hot, he realized, as a shiver passed through his body. Nothing could have convinced him he’d survive the night, but it seemed the Scriptor was too pragmatic to…

  To...

  His vision shifted and he fell onto his side.

  The last thing he felt was wood cooling his cheek; the last thing he saw was the scholar pull out a red spellbook and run to the noble boy’s side. “Recru Paale Malis Finile Meri!” the man shouted, trying to tend the open wound. Sebastian only shook his head and violently pushed the scholar away. Pointing to Callam, he mouthed the same phrase over and over again.

  Callam didn’t hear a single word.

  ~~~

  His eyes flashed open as a cough rattled through his chest. He shivered. Everything was dark, so dark he feared he’d gone blind. Touching around himself in a panic, he found the ground to be hard and smooth, yet coarser than finished stone.

  A prison of some sort.

  Desperate for warmth, he pulled his knees to his chest—metal clanked at the motion, the sound reverberating off a far wall. It took some fumbling to confirm why: thick bands clasped his ankles, the iron so cold it had already stolen the warmth from his legs.

  No keyholes met his fingertips, so no chance of breaking out.

  He tried anyway, rattling each chain in turn. He’d not survive until Binding Day like this, and even if he did, he’d be in no condition to pass the accompanying trials.

  I’ll fail to bind for sure. I’ll…

  Thoughts slowed as exhaustion lured him back to sleep.

  When he awoke next, it was in a much warmer environment. “Where—” he blurted out, whipping his head around. He remembered being somewhere dark and freezing, yet found himself in a small room with austere, white walls that seemed to press in from all sides. In one corner, a bedpan and sink fought for space, while a desk dominated another, the furniture nicer than anything owned by the Sisters. Stranger still was the smell. Antiseptic and vinegary, it teased at a memory he couldn’t recall.

  “A dream, maybe…?” He tried to sit up and was stopped short.

  Manacles cuffed his wrists to the sides of a narrow cot and prevented him from doing much more than turn on his side. Even that proved a challenge, as once white bandages impeded his movement. They ran from his shoulder to his thigh, and it was clear by their stench they hadn't been tended to in some time.

  Foul, yet… oddly orienting. These wounds—and the persistent ache in his ribs—were consistent with what he remembered of the night before.

  The small bookshelf in the corner of his room? That was not.

  Seeing it, he felt his fingers began to itch. Books were rare, far too rare to share with inmates. That’s what I am, right? Callam was no longer so sure. This room was unlike any cell he’d ever visited; it looked more like one of the infirmaries scattered around Port Cardica’s Western Isle. Though… now that he thought about it, those places rarely carried cord or needle, let alone books.

  A simple explanation remained: this was the Writs’ private ward, and the novels were concessions for political captives, civilities meant to keep imprisoned mages sane.

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  Understanding only served to sour Callam’s mood—while he counted himself lucky to be among the living, gratitude remained a hard sell when forced to stare at books he still couldn’t read. That frustration grew as he tried and failed to distract himself from the upcoming ordeal that was Binding Day. Wiggling out of his cuffs didn’t work. Nor did rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling.

  Two days to go, give or take.

  A rough guess, at best—he’d no real way of discerning how much time had passed since being captured. What he did know was that he should feel afraid. Confused, at least. Yet he was too drained to process anything so complex.

  Two days.

  Two days from seeing if he was strong enough for a traditional binding. Two days before all seventeen-year-old unbound capable of passing the triad trials were compelled to swear on a grimoire in an attempt to unlock their magic.

  Some would die. Most would fail; it was a sobering reality that less than one in ten completed the rite. The unlucky would become Ruddites, slaves indentured for a minimum of a decade and a day.

  Or for life, if you’re like me.

  Grimacing, Callam tried to ball the thin pillow he’d been provided into something vaguely comfortable. Orphans like him had it worse; as a lower caste, they’d receive more dangerous tasks and longer sentences.

  “To the mines, or the front lines,” the saying went. He swallowed heavily. Poet’s hand, but it was unfair.

  Before he’d known the risks, he’d wanted magic more than anything—wanted to become a Scriptor more than anything. Flying overhead, they’d looked like birds to him, if birds walked on clouds or shot flames from their feet. They’d lit a fire in his mind that first time he’d seen them, and he’d dreamed of joining their number ever since. Of becoming equally untethered.

  It was a silly thing to latch onto, but hope always was.

  He could still remember the day he’d worked up the nerve to ask the Sisters to teach him magic. They’d explained how spellbooks worked to him then. “A bound tome imparts its power twice: once with every challenge earned, again with every lesson turned.” They’d also let slip that when mages passed away, their tomes became ‘scripted’ and could be bought or sold. Though expensive, these scripted grimoires were far easier to bind than regular spellbooks.

  Callam’s legs began to feel restless under the cot’s clean sheet.

  Even at six, he’d known scripted grimoires for what they were—a cheat for the wealthy—and in his anger, had kicked so many rocks he’d broken a toe. Only later did he learn these used tomes had a downside: no customization. New wielders remained stuck with whatever spells the first owner had mastered.

  A sacrifice I’d eagerly make.

  Despite his natural optimism, he held no delusions about his chances in the trials and subsequent Binding. No, more than likely, he’d be joining his peers on the docks. Sleepless and worn thin.

  It was as the Sisters said, “Fate laughs at our longings.” If only I’d boun—

  Grating sounds interrupted his thoughts. More of that familiar, antiseptic odor seeped in as a hidden door receded; he could almost put a finger on—

  His heart began to pound.

  Word on the docks was that young coincallers were vanishing, lured by a surgeon-mage bent on perfecting his trade. A Scriptor with an obsession for sterility and money to spare.

  The manacles suddenly made sense.

  “What is written?” asked a woman’s voice from behind the doorway. Not… exactly what he’d expected from a mad doctor. “What is written?” she repeated a breath later. He kept his silence. Those rumors could have always gotten the gender wrong.

  “Well aren’t you a stubborn one,” said a heavyset woman as she entered. She wore worker’s overalls and sported a healer's cap over red hair bound up tightly in a bun. Part of Callam relaxed when he saw her eyes—steady and kind, they held the promise of warm bread handed out on winter nights.

  “I’m Helena, but you can call me ‘ma’am.’” She motioned to the side of the bed. “Turn this way. As much as you can. Perfect.” With a steady hand, she probed his shoulder.

  “Crow’s foot,” he swore. A few harsher words, as well as the burning question of why he wasn’t in a dungeon, came to mind.

  “Well,” Helena said, “the Writs won’t get a bent copper in recompense for you in this state. You’ll need stitches after all.” Sticking her hands into sewn-on pockets, she pulled out a yellow grimoire. She also produced a thin needle, and where she moved it, thread followed. “It’s good Mrs. Writ insisted you be moved to the infirmary. Sweeter than a plum, that woman. And devout. Hold still, now—this will hurt. Sem,” she incanted, and the needle responded.

  It zipped back and forth along the length of his shoulder, stitching up the laceration in one fluid motion before looping around to tie a knot. Callam had grit his teeth, but if Helena had noticed how he tensed at the needle, or shied away from her touch, she said nothing.

  For that, he was grateful.

  “Th–thanks,” he managed to get out, wanting to be polite. Anyone who’d been stitched more than once would recognize her skill.

  “You’re very welcome. Shouldn’t be more than a day or two before you’re back in tip-top shape.” She looked him up and down. “Can’t have you looking like a skeleton, can we? Arthur!” she called out. “Plate some chicken, if you’d please!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” a high-pitched voice responded. A young blonde boy with freckled skin peered in from the opening in the wall. “Water too, ma?”

  “That’s my boy. Pull the big lever like I taught you.” To Callam, Helena whispered, “He just turned eight.” Crossing the room, she shifted open a small panel to retrieve a tray brimming with chicken and piled so high with rice the plate looked more mountaintop than meal. A fork had been jabbed into the mound and was slowly toppling over.

  Callam tried not to chuckle.

  “Pure as the Prophet, that one. Well, at least he remembered cutlery this time,” Helena said, and eyed Callam cautiously. “Don’t try anything funny, now. I’ve raised three sons and a husband. I know firsthand the bad decisions men make.”

  This time, Callam couldn’t help himself—he laughed, then hacked in pain. He lifted his shackled arms, palms up. The global sign of peace.

  “Hmmm.” Helena squinted and smiled. “The food’s cold—not much we can do about that. Everything gets prepared… well, up there.” She motioned to the door. “The staff are mostly Ruddites, bless their souls. By the time anything arrives here it's no longer warm.”

  “It’s perfect,” Callam replied, and meant it. Confused as he was by his good treatment, and exhausted as he was from his failed heist, he still was starving. Arthur had provided a kingly portion, and he’d not waste the meal no matter how hard it was to eat manacled.

  “Just like my eldest.” Helena brought over a jug of water. “Eats every meal like it’s his last too. Doesn’t matter how often I serve seconds—food’s always gone before I can sit down.”

  A chime rang.

  “I’d best take my leave,” the woman said, though she moved the bedpan closer to the cot before doing so. “Get some rest. The Binding Day trials will take a lot out of you.”

  Callam tried his best to ignore the reminder.