sick, chapter is editors hands.will get to it today. Sometime.

  ‘We are tired.’

  Three words so often ignored.

  Yet the poor don’t mobilize from discomfort.

  No. Only the truly exhausted,

  Find the energy to fight for change.

  ~~ Scriptor Markus, on the treatment of Ruddites

  Callam’s legs gave out and he slid down the training yard’s wall. Thirty others joined him in the shade of a line of Mellowbarn trees.

  Irem had assigned them laps with the vengeance of a woman scorned. Siela would have bristled at that phrase, but no other term fit the fire in the woman’s eyes. Five laps around the castle had been their warmdown.

  Then she’d threatened to have them race the prairieplights if their stamina didn’t improve soon.

  All of them were out of breath, even Lenora and Tige, who—in the month since they’d started class—had already mastered drawing in their mana and had now advanced to Scripting, the process by which a Seeker learned to expel magic with every movement. Each step those two took covered twice as much ground. Melvin, Feliv, and Medea had all made measured improvements as well.

  Callam had not.

  Outside of casting, his mana refused to flow easily, and if not for his years of experience as a Sootskin, he’d never have been able to keep up with the rest of the four-stars. As it was, his breaths came in ragged pulls. Sweat soaked his shirt from collar to hem. He stunk of it.

  And of envy.

  He’d never been one to feel jealous, but after several weeks of trying and failing to progress his techniques, frustration and envy had started to simmer. It festered underneath his tired grimace. Irem had said these techniques were pivotal to learning how to fly, and the boy inside him desperately wanted that.

  He closed his eyes in exhaustion. To soar was to touch the stars. It was silly, and yet…

  “Back to the inner square!” yelled their professor, the flowing ribbons on her red robes straightening to a point. Once the students had formed up, she continued, “We begin combat today. Physical only. No spells for now.” She shot Callam a piercing glance. “Four-stars, you’re first. Show the class what separates Scriptors from Seekers.”

  Irem’s words were a direct jab at him, he knew. First-year four-stars were generally weaker casters than their peers, since their chapters were longer and their spells more taxing. Their strength came through their greater mana manipulation and ability to Script. Which were both advantages he lacked.

  He’d look the fool.

  Keeping his face still, he followed the group down the outdoor corridor and past the statues of the Prophet and the Poet. Both towered overhead, their expressions every bit as cold as Irem’s. Yet he did not shrink nor slow. His professor, he’d decided, would not get to him. No matter what she said. He needed to do more than endure here; if he was to keep his promises, he had to excel. Funny, how a willow burning had brought fresh drive to his heart.

  Orian.

  The conditioning hall met them in all its dusty glory, its usual obstacle course now neighboring two square, wagon-sized outlines some Ruddite had freshly painted on the floor. A small, wooden waste bin had been placed between them as had an oak water barrel. Several students rushed to it.

  Callam did not join them, certain he would be called on first.

  Sure enough, Irem shouted, “Callam, Tige, take your places to my left. Malvin, Feliv, to my right. Lenora, drink while you can.”

  All five of them did as told. Light from the overhead windows blinded Callam as he stepped across from Tige. His fingers twitched his sides. He hoped the golden streaks hid his thin smile.

  If Irem thought this a chance to humble him, she’d be disappointed. Sparring wasn’t about skill—not at this level at least, where they weren’t out to kill each other. No, it was about stubbornness. About not giving up or tapping out despite being disadvantaged. And that was a bout he would not lose.

  “Till my say or until concession. Begin!”

  The slap of foot on stone rang out as Tige shot forward. Had Callam expected her to hesitate, or hold back, he’d have been sorely disappointed. She was as relentless as she was quick, her steps light on the ground. Each movement exuded mana—a sheen of it covered her skin. Shifting her weight, she reached out with her right arm.

  She missed.

  Callam had dodged to her left just in time. Careful steps ensured he stayed within the perimeter. Nobles, he’d learned, always favored their swordarms. And he’d watched her condition often enough to know she’d been classically trained.

  “That won’t work once more,” Tige snarled as she circled. To Southerners, those who ran lost face.

  He didn’t care. All he needed to do was buy time until she lost control of her Scripting.

  With a swerve left, he slipped under her next attack. Predictably, she’d switched things up. Two more close misses later, he saw his chance: a flicker around her leg. He took it. With a duck down, he went in for a pick.

  A knee slammed into his face.

  Stars burst in his vision as he fell to the ground. Iron filled his mouth. His hot blood contrasted the cold stone. Lying flat on his back, he watched the energy condense around Tige’s body.

  Tricked. The thought crawled.

  Tige reached him in the span of a breath. Vise-like hands gripped his shirt as she tried to get atop of him. Only quick thinking kept her at bay—in her haste, she’d put too much strength into her lunge, and light as she was, a pivot of his hips turned her momentum against her and sent her flying.

  But it didn’t drive her out of the square.

  Out of the square.

  Something Irem had said last cycle clicked. ‘Look beyond the edges.’ He’d dismissed the words as condescension, but it matched the military Scriptor’s advice on Binding Day: the Tower required fresh solutions.

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  Chest hammering, he pushed himself to his feet as Tige burst out of a tight roll and spun to face him. He feinted a rush at her before she’d fully gotten her bearings, and when she braced, he turned heel and sprinted for the white line. In this match, they’d never been told not to cross it, meaning he didn’t have to fight in these close quarters.

  He could dodge and circle to his heart's content while he waited for her concentration to break.

  “Lenora, stand in!” Irem shouted before he’d taken more than five paces. A slash of her pale arm emphasized the command. “Callam, rest!”

  The mix of approval and warning in the professor’s eyes told him he’d best keep his mouth shut.

  A question creased Lenora’s brow as she walked up. Mana rippled along her form, pooling at the small blue sash tying off her waist. Earlier, she’d traded her morning dress for a loose black tunic and had swept her hair up and out of the way. The sliver of her profile Callam could see looked calm yet distant. Gone was that hesitancy she’d first expressed when killing prairieplights.

  Rocking on the balls of her feet, she found her stance…

  And sprang into motion at Irem’s shout. The two girls clashed with sudden strikes and measured steps—Tige opening with a feint for an early advantage, and Lenora countering with a swipe at the leg.

  Callam watched intently, chest pounding like a bellow as he lifted the ladle for a sip. Excess water trickled down his neck. He swished the first mouthful around and spat it out, aiming for the waste bin. Blood coated its rim.

  All this toil, and he’d still have to advance his mana control if he was ever to compete.

  Mastering absorption felt nearly impossible, but releasing it? It should have been easy, since it mimicked the process of casting. But even here, he noticed marked differences between his current process and that of his peers. Shivers gripped his body whenever he released a spell—but Tige and Lenora were still sweating despite their augmented strength. It confirmed what Irem had told them: Scripting required expelling as little mana as possible so as to not contradict the body's natural rhythms.

  My control doesn’t allow for that.

  His body was a dam, slowly building up a reservoir until he let it all through. What he needed was a keystone. A wedge he could slam in place to stop the flow once the exertion began.

  Or a key I can insert to allow out a trickle.

  Both concepts had their issues. While the latter seemed simpler—spells already worked as pin-triggers that released pent-up energy—the former was much easier for him to visualize. He could picture biting off a spell halfway to prevent it from fully draining his mana like his regular casts did.

  Yet neither would allow for the seamless Scripting Tige and Lenora were demonstrating. When Tige shot up from the ground, arms stretched out, dust kicking up by her feet, black hair flowing behind her, she did not utter a word. Likewise, Lenora could never have wrapped her arms over the girl’s back in a reversal had she stopped to think about the steps required to empower every action.

  He sighed and sat down. Even as he thought them up, he knew his solutions impractical, should they even be possible. And he wasn’t so sure that they were possible. He’d already learned that a spell released halfway fell apart without expending any resources. That was what had occurred when the prairieplights stole his book.

  Though… I did feel a drain when my grimoire wasn’t near.

  It was worth looking into.

  Anything was, so long as it gave him a chance to fight on even ground. If he’d learned one thing over the years, it was that tricks and strategy rarely bought respect or safety. Whereas action often did. Tige and the others wouldn’t understand that he’d been trying to gain distance during his match. They’d just think him a coward.

  The look they tossed him when Irem called for another break confirmed it: they thought he’d run. Only Lenora smiled his way.

  ~~~

  The lunch hour continued to be the loudest time in the castle. As a result, it remained Callam’s favorite meal of the day. The food always drew a crowd, and the shouts, laughs, and occasional jibes provided the perfect cover for whatever he wished to discuss.

  Such privacy was hard to come by inside.

  “So…?” he whispered, then slipped a rind of cured bitterbark cheese in his mouth. It was tough and pungent, exactly how he preferred it. Rind was all he’d known for years. “What do you think?”

  Lenora tilted her head. Her dark hair hung loose where she’d braided it in haste. She’d again donned the pendant from that morning, and she looked more exhausted than he felt, having been pulled into three subsequent bouts before being allowed to go change. Only after she’d finished a bite of waybread did she speak. “It’s hard not to think it a distraction. Seedlings are things of legend, are they not?”

  Callam coughed at that. “The leaflet claims this man had one. Several times.”

  “Well, that proves something, at least. The writer’s mad—be it Olenid or not.”

  “How are you so certain?” The text was scattered. Unstable. And yet the part about the Seedling rang true.

  “We’d have records of a Seeker with a Seedling, wouldn’t we? Murals, or statues.” She bit her lip.

  “Not if both kept it a secret.”

  That thought hung in the air between them as they ate. Shouts continued to bounce off the messes' walls, loud as ever. Quietly, Callam added, “Who else do we know that speaks in riddles?”

  “All my female friends, if Moose is to be believed.”

  This time Callam’s cough was not forced.

  “The burdens men must bear,” she said sheepishly, then rubbed her temples. “Sorry. I’ve had very little sleep and far too much Moose.”

  He softened his voice. “You asked if we were set for tonight, but are you?”

  “Yes.” Her brow furrowed and her gaze fell to her glass. Shadows from the nearby stonework wavered across the water. “I couldn't rest if I wanted to, this close to my second chapter. I’m like a child pacing the hall before winter festival…” She trailed off. “I’m too nervous, you know?”

  Callam didn't. While he hated the colder months, he’d always slept well during the holidays. It was the one time of winter when the constables were kind to beggars, the Sisters were generous with treats, and the chimneys were warm enough to huddle against.

  Pockets were fullest on Kindling Day too.

  He nodded in Lenora’s direction anyway. Then, in an effort to seem nonchalant, he picked at the greens on her plate and tried some. They weren't to his taste. “Say it is Olenid’s ramblings… what do we do?”

  “What can we do? Class finally starts next week.”

  A chill prickled the back of his neck.

  For weeks they’d shown up to Puzzlework, waiting quietly for others to solve the riddle. Now, he wished he’d shared the solution with a few others. As it was, Tuesday promised to be a classroom of three, and he was growing more confident by the minute that one of them had killed for a Seedling.

  That didn’t bode well, and the unease in his stomach lingered all throughout Penmanship.

  The class proved boring as ever, and Callam was relieved when their teacher announced the introductory class would soon be coming to an end. He still loved reading, of course, and was happy his writing no longer looked like chicken scrawl, but was eager for what came next: they were told to choose a half-span class to pursue for the rest of the semester.

  Callam selected Scribing.

  Rumor had it that even first-years could find part-time summer work helping the more-successful shops with their inkbooks. He planned to start this Sunday. The day was a free period after all, and the chapelward wasn’t about to rebuild itself.

  Third bell announced the end of classes.

  “Where are we meeting Moose?” he asked Lenora as they packed their things. All the students around them had pushed back their chairs and were already making for the door.

  “By the statues,” she replied, gathering her quills—she’d chosen Printing, though she didn’t look excited about the idea of copying hundreds of existing manuscripts. Still, her features smoothed as she stood up and led the way to the Poet and Prophet. Her bookbag hung at her side, a small brooch of an inkwell adorning the fabric.

  Both monuments looked down at them as they waited for the second-year to arrive. Winds rushed between the figures’ massive fingers and raised tomes, then ruffled the red leaves of the surrounding Mellowbarn trees and howled down the arched passageways. Callam found the sound a fitting echo to the exhausting week he’d had. He was growing tired of the constant good weather.

  Can’t it ever storm?

  Moose arrived ten after the belltoll, having had to cross the grounds. The grin on his face and the crumbs in his dark beard made it clear his mood had improved.

  So did the green sash he’d chosen to wear. It complemented the brown bag he's strapped around his midriff, and the giant shield he carried on his back. The thing spanned two arms’ lengths. “How many plights ya got left?” he asked as he approached, never one for typical greetings.

  our discord is here. We might be playing dnd soon.