"Take our wishes and our copper. We need neither.

  But take our books? Rob of us of our stories?

  That is how you rewrite culture."

  ~~Azin, herald of the West Isles

  As soon as Callam had regained his composure, he crawled through the manor’s shrubbery. Plants, laden with water, dripped onto his clothes, and he was well and truly soaked by the time he trudged into an open-air nursery at the end of the undergrowth.

  Coming to his feet, he navigated through a maze of wooden planters, a quick glance over his shoulder ensuring he wasn’t being followed. White night flowers hung overhead. Their bulbs shone like lamps in the darkness, illuminating red fruits ripe enough to make the mouth water. An aroma similar to that of amberling plums lingered in the air.

  Callam’s stomach growled.

  Those were a long time favorite and going a day without a meal was never easy, but he wasn't about to risk everything by eating something unknown tonight. Instead, he darted down the paving stones leading to the third marker—an outdoor foyer with carved benches and accompanying birdbath—slowing only when he approached the oak doors barring entry to the manor. Both gleamed in a lantern’s glow and were guarded by twin statues: the first a figure of the Poet, her hands clasping a tome, the second a sculpture of a wolf, two cracked moons in its maw.

  A silent curse escaped his lips as he stepped onto the stoop. Barely audible buzzing thrummed from both doors. A sure sign as any that they were spellwarded.

  “Crow’s foot,” he swore again.

  Weeks spent begging favors and eavesdropping at taverns, yet he’d never once thought to ask about this type of ward. They were useless trinkets in the face of magic, deterrents kept by poor tinkerers and merchants. Never by nobles.

  With their grimoires, they don’t need them.

  Callam’s mouth soured. The docks were strung heavy with the bodies of thieves who’d tried to steal from the gentry. Heavier still, with the remains of Ruddites who’d displeased their masters.

  He had no intention of adding to either of their numbers, so he slipped away from the doors, hoping to find another way in.

  He’d only made it a few paces when a low growl reached his ears. Stopping dead in his tracks, he turned his head, a jumble of panicked thoughts crossing his mind. This manor didn’t keep hounds—that, at least, he’d asked the taverngoers about.

  Another growl followed the first, deeper this time, the sound of two slabs of granite scraping together. Tensing reflexively, Callam waited for something to happen. Anything… Yet nothing did. His quick scan of the foyer confirmed there were no dogs, just the one statue of a wolf, an errant beam of moonlight upon its snout.

  A snout that wriggled alive as he watched.

  Creases deepened around the canine’s mouth and jets of steam escaped its nostrils. Flecks of paint flaked away. Callam instinctively took a step back, then another, his eyes locked on the statue. The wolf's whole body shook as more moonlight crept out from behind the storm clouds and further awoke it from its slumber.

  With a snort, the stony muscles in its neck contracted.

  Callam recoiled as he heard a scattering of broken marble hit the foyer’s floor. He’d have seen the beast crunch down on the moons in its mouth too, had he not already turned and run.

  Sprinting back to the nursery, he searched for somewhere to hide. The wolf was a moonheart construct—of this, he was certain. Everyone knew they tracked heat. They couldn't see well through the small rocks that passed for their eyes, and lacked any sense of smell. Evading one, therefore, required masking one’s warmth.

  A tree might work, if he climbed high enough.

  No. I’ll only strand myself. The nursery rooftop?

  Couldn’t reach it. And with its glass ceiling, it might not bear his weight. Sliding to a stop, he glanced around, and… “There!” he whispered, and sprinted toward a mound of dirt in the distance.

  Only at the last moment did he realize what the pile really was: a waist-high flower bench. Mud smeared his clothes as he dove underneath it and covered himself with mulch—sodden and heavy, it leached his heat.

  He hoped it was enough.

  The wolf he could evade; it was the guards he worried about—there was no way they’d missed the statue’s ear-splitting howls.

  One… two…

  Callam counted each second in his head, the waiting killing him. He fought not to move. Not even to shiver. Something small and wriggly had snuck inside his collar and had begun to squirm. Worse was the stench of the turned earth: it smelled like a graveyard. He hated graveyards.

  They reminded him of her. And of everything he stood to lose.

  Little Orian won’t survive the span without me. The city watch had already taken the boy’s finger. They'll cut at the wrist, nex—.

  “What’s it, girl?” Callam heard the woman’s words before her footsteps, and his palms immediately began to sweat. Two short barks and a rumbling woof was the response. “Steady now. Steady. Sense something in the gardens?” the sentry asked.

  Red and yellow blazed in a corner of the nursery—weak torch magic, Callam guessed. Twice the light passed overhead. Twice he mouthed the stanzas for luck.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Finally, he heard the woman say, “… must’ve been a false alarm.”

  The wolf whined. A thudding of steps, a branch snapping too close for comfort, and Callam’s breath hitched.

  “Anything at all?” The woman walked closer, the dark silhouette of her boots less than ten feet away.

  Cold prickled Callam’s back.

  “Come, come,” she said. “There’s nothing here… let's get you back.” The clip of boots on flagstone faded as she walked further away. A scraping of heavy paws followed shortly thereafter.

  After a minute of silence where no one else shouted or peered about, Callam rolled out from under the flower bench. Tension drained from his limbs as he looked around. His plan had worked. Better yet, the torchlight had illuminated a path into the manor. Dark ivy trailed up the nursery’s far wall, growing right next to a set of windows.

  Windows he knew how to open.

  Each was made of a dark, tinted glass and constructed from three panes. He was familiar with their style, as it was common around the docks—for reasons that would forever elude him, the port's pennypawners insisted on mimicking the fashions of the gentry. These windows were sure to be cut with greater precision and built from thicker wood, but he expected the same tricks would get him through.

  The secret is in the latches.

  Pieces of root fell when he tugged on the vines. These were not the thick growths that blanketed deserted mansions; this plant had been pruned back and would struggle to keep him up.

  Still, they would have to do.

  Leaning over, he picked up a pebble, then tossed it at a window. It bounced off soundlessly. “No surprises there…” he muttered as he climbed up to the nearest window. Shaded neverbreak glass was shatterproof, after all. It absorbed everything, even noise.

  Now he just had to pop the pane open.

  Positioning himself so that his feet balanced on a bottom sill while his hands gripped the thinner lip up top, Callam readied a kick. These windows would have been impenetrable, if not for a fatal flaw: they opened inwards to allow for a breeze on a hot day.

  And, while the glass itself was unbreakable, the latches locking the windows shut were not.

  His first kick sent a shock up his leg. Bracing himself, he struck again. He couldn’t reach those internal latches, but didn’t need to—with enough force, the window would do the work for him.

  Or so he hoped.

  When the pane held stubbornly firm, he tightened his grip on the top sill and pushed off the bottom one with both feet.

  This better work, he thought mid-swing. Custom bolts could surely be cast to solve this vulnerability—but that took time, and all workmen feared spoiling a noble’s good-will with delays.

  Feet met glass and the window gave.

  It opened with a pop as the pane’s magic tried to dissipate the incoming force in all directions, including into the poorly made latches. They broke under the strain, allowing him to push his way inside and drop to the floor.

  Landing in a crouch, he found himself in a dimly lit hallway decorated by paintings featuring an unknown family of six: a husband and wife, his arm resting easily around her pregnant stomach, and three young sons. All looked so happy with their easy smiles and shared affection. So perfect and…

  Focus.

  Tearing his eyes away, Callam snuck down the corridor, feeling more the intruder with every step. There was a quiet here that was different from that of the streets—a sense of safety that seeped from the walls. The lack of guards confirmed that the manor’s owners did not believe this place could be breached.

  Callam envied that feeling of security. Wished to share in it.

  He spotted the fourth marker—a carpeted staircase with polished banisters—under a chandelier and took the steps two at a time. At the top of the landing, drawn-back curtains revealed the largest private library in Port Cardica.

  When his chest tightened this time it was not from ache.

  A lifetime's worth of stories towered upward from floor to domed ceiling, the shelved books sorted by size and color. Everbright candles bobbed in the air and circled slowly as if lifted by a draft. By their light, he spotted the geometric patterns of the stained glass overhead, more intricate than any he’d ever slept under. Purple hardcovers filled the highest reaches of the room, the volumes accessible only by rolling ladders. Even at a distance, these books were intimidating—regal, with thick, gilded bindings, as if announcing they were too good for his patronage.

  I’ll steal one of those too, one day.

  Stacked upon polished tables and within easy reach lay hundreds of red books with warm covers. They all but begged to be read. Almost unconsciously, Callam touched one of them—it was a reflexive action from years spent hoping and wanting. And it made no difference. Without a successful binding he’d forever stay illiterate, the words sliding right off the pages of any book he opened.

  He wanted to read, though. Desperately.

  Everyone did, but dockside orphans more than most. They’d huddle by the piers and pinch together halfpennies to pay travelers for tales of far-off places, brave heroes, and outrageous villains—coins better spent on food. But stories cut the cold a little. Made the day’s aches hurt less.

  Over time, they’d learned that novels carried these adventures, and bought to life worlds the likes of which chapelward could only dream.

  And those books aren’t even grimoires. Novels do all that with just words.

  Rustling drew Callam’s attention upward in a panic, though it was only paperfowl nestling among the rafters. They cooed at each other. Made of parchment, the constructs sang melodies into the nooks and crannies of grand libraries—helped to make the spaces feel more warm and inviting. Paying them no more mind, he followed a set of carved balusters to a spiral staircase at the end of the library. Careful footwork ensured the steps made no sound as he climbed.

  Upon reaching the top, his eyes went wide.

  He raced down the vaulted loft without stopping to think, tearing past two doors and an armchair, before coming to a stop in front of a massive, mahogany wardrobe with tinted panels and ornate brass handles. Stored above it—about ten feet out of reach—were at least ten scripted grimoires, each a different color and each exuding a perceptible weight.

  All shared the telltale signs: ‘Air that shimmers like vapor. Stars and insignia embedded and bright.’

  Turning around in a daze, Callam searched for a way to reach them. If he could just touch one, he’d become a mage here. No more fearing Binding Day. No more trials.

  There wasn’t a ladder in sight.

  He’d begun dragging the armchair over when his instincts screamed at him to hide. Ignoring the impulse, he slammed his makeshift step into position, so close to his prize. With one foot balanced on the cushion, he reached for the grimoires and…

  Voices echoed through the library. Two of them. Coming closer. Getting louder.

  He’d never bind in time. Adrenaline surging, Callam shoved the chair into the nearest corner and rushed for the wardrobe doors. “C’mon,” he whispered as his fingers tugged on the smooth knobs. “C’mon.” Mages flogged unbound for the smallest of offenses.

  And trespassing is no minor offense.

  Wrenching the airmore open, he took shelter among some robes and coats. His heart hammered as he braced for the doors to squeak when he pulled them back in—but well-oiled hinges proved a godsend.