We were alive, yes.

  But had not yet lived.

  What we knew of the world,

  Could fill no book,

  And those dreams we had,

  Those meals we shared?

  Where Broken fast.

  ~~ The Fourth Poet

  They called it a night.

  It wasn’t Callam’s first choice, but he was too tired to argue. Nor was he able to do much the following day; his body was worn thin by conditioning.

  Irem was… not impressed.

  An hour came and went, and still no one else had solved Professor’s Olenid riddle. Several people had left early, and one student had come close to hurling his grimoire at the instruments in frustration. That would have been interesting. Yet, unless something changed, it was looking like it would be a classroom of two come Tuesday.

  Callam didn’t mind.

  He still wasn’t getting along with the rest of the four-stars. While they included him in conversations whenever Lenora was around, none made much of an effort to bond. Certainly not enough for him to share any hints on the puzzle with them.

  On top of that, he really hated Tige’s treatment of the Ruddites. The girl had insisted on acting as if the waitstaff were her personal errand boys that morning.

  Couldn’t she see how terrible it was for them to be trapped here?

  “Hey,” Lenora said as they stepped out of the Puzzlework classroom, her bookbag held high over her head—more powder had fallen from the rafters, though this time most of the students had thought to cover their hair. “Moose is free tomorrow, after third period. Shall I ask Sebastian if he is too?”

  Callam nodded. Their communication felt easier now. More carefree. For that, he was grateful.

  Late lunch was a quiet affair. The finer cuts of meat and honeyed pastries had been cleared away, leaving a simple potato-and-rabbit stew.

  They ate slowly. By the ease in Lenora's smile, he wasn’t the only one enjoying the food. Common fare, he’d found, was one of those things that was all the better for wanting. When it was all he known he’d dreamt of highborn meals. But now? After a long day of classes, or an afternoon chasing prairieplights?

  He craved simplicity more than anything.

  “Finishing your chapter today?” Callam said, resting his spoon in his unfinished bowl. The Sisters would have scolded such poor manners, but he’d never understood why used cutlery shouldn’t touch his food.

  Or for that matter, why he couldn’t rest his elbows on the table. What else were tables for?

  “We’ll struggle until I have,” Lenora said.

  That was true. At first he’d thought himself more eager to climb than she. Now he wasn’t so sure. And with her mana regeneration, she didn’t have to take the breaks he did.

  “What of yours? Any progress on finding the…?” Her voice got quiet.

  “None.” He’d revisited the poem in his grimoire last night and still had no idea what it meant. “Though I’ve a plan.”

  It was high time he visited the Roots.

  Seedling, spellforms, poetry. He needed books on all three.

  It took him the better part of twenty minutes to find the entrance. It wasn’t that it was particularly well hidden—to get there, all he had to do was duck under a tapestry of the first Poet sharing bread with some children, swerve around a group of tomebound loudly betting on a Seekers’ duel, and descend three sets of staircases that led to the castle's cellars.

  No, the difficulty lay in how the archivists had arranged things: they thought it funny to misdirect.

  Every sign in the dark tunnels pointed in a different direction. And the only lamp? It was at a dead end.

  Several turn-backs later, he reached the Roots. The home of the country’s most-valued records did not live up to its name. He’d expected an oak-like structure similar to the paintings he’d seen of the world tree, or a tangle of gnarled roots knotted together like a dozen prarieplights fighting for a meal. The reality? A heavy, steel-plated door that led him into a windowless room smelling vaguely of mildew. Two blond-haired girls manned a brown desk stacked high with books. A male Ruddite dressed in white livery stood in one corner. A doorframe loomed in another.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  Callam’s heart raced. Even weeks after learning how to read, there remained a magic in leather and paper he could not quite put into words.

  “What is written?” he asked as he approached.

  When neither student looked up, Callam cleared his throat. Finally, one placed down her quill. “Is foretold and forbidden. What can we do you for?”

  “Carry anything on spellforms? Specifically, advanced pentameters?”

  The upperclassman gave him a look. “Those are reserved for second-years and up, usually. Have you a writ of release?”

  “No. Just my birthright as a Fateborn,” he said, and intentionally smirked. He’d chosen this question for this very reason; it was unusual enough to expose the Root’s stricter policies without him needing to pry or reveal his interest in Seedlings. He kept his smile steady as he thumbed open his bag to reveal his grimoire, certain he looked every bit the obnoxious Seeker hoping to leverage a high star-level for goodwill.

  When the girl hesitated, he knew it had worked. “I see. Morn, lead him to level three, sixth burrow. Fetch him anything tagged both green and turquoise,” she said. “He’ll let you know which books he needs.”

  The Ruddite nodded, then passed through the doorway and gestured for Callam to follow.

  Callam did, heart pounding in anticipation for what lay ahead. Lichen lit the tunnel as it wound under the castle's foundation—Morn kept a quick pace, and dirt and rock soon replaced the stone floors. A chill crept into the musty air. Callam’s steps slowed as they entered a subterranean chamber so massive it put all of Port Cardica’s cathedrals to shame. Shadows cast the majority of the area in darkness. What few places they didn’t touch, the Scriptors had carved into reading nooks—they littered the walls, stacked dozens upon dozens high, each a burrow of plant and clay. Root formations snaked down from the ceiling, thick enough to act as bridges and ladders both. Thousands of tiny flowers dotted these twisting limbs. They acted as lamps, allowing students to study and scribble by the light.

  Most shocking of all were the books growing in the ground.

  Had he not seen it with his own eyes, he might not have believed it. Hundreds of spines had been tilled into neat rows between the cavern’s vast walls, each cover splayed open like the leaves of a lily in bloom. The inner pages fluttered hungrily, feeding on colored dust Archivists spread out by the handful. Three of them worked the gardens as he watched, distinct in their polished grey masks and form-fitting red robes.

  “How’s this possible?” Callam whispered, the books getting thinner as he followed them into the gloom. The distant tap, tap, tap of water on stone echoed overhead. Kneeling, he ran his fingers over one of the bone-white pages. Brittle and fibrous, it quivered at his touch. “I thought novels were written by hand? Or are these grimoires?” Common wisdom said that they were.

  When Morn didn’t reply, Callam realized his questions had sounded rhetorical. He asked them once more.

  The man shrugged and stepped out of the shroud into the light. There was a strange hollowness about his eyes as he gave a yawning grin.

  Callam nearly cursed.

  The Ruddite’s tongue had been snipped clean through.

  Guilt churned in Callam’s stomach as he stared, then the feeling quickly boiled to disgust. He flexed his hands. Only an animal silenced a man who could not read. What did they fear Morn would say? Or see?

  And why had no one given a voice to his silence?

  Why don’t I…? Siela would have.

  The thought seeped into his bones. For weeks he’d relegated the treatment of the Tower’s indentured to a far corner of his mind, accepting their lot as just another ‘way of the world.’ It was an easy thing to do, and practical too. It allowed him to focus on his goal of protecting the chapelward and defeating the beasts without costing him more than a moment’s unease. Sometimes, when with friends or in class, he’d completely forget the Ruddites who toiled to make his life easier here.

  It made him ill.

  And his shame? His was the type known only to those who’d seen wrong and looked the other way. A guilt he’d buried deep within himself—never quite realizing what such indifference would cost him—until one day he’d become the one thing he wasn’t. Someone who faltered.

  No longer.

  “Forget the books on spellforms for now,” he said. “Bring me some on Seedlings first. And poetry.” Whatever happened tonight, he would not leave without progressing his chapter or deciphering some element of his relic.

  ~~~

  Three volumes lay in front of Callam, each marked with black-and-yellow tags and each more useless than the last. The knot of a spellworked root bit at his back, so he shifted a cushion into place to get more comfortable before picking up the fourth book in the stack: Distribution and History of Seedlings. It was well past ninth bell, and his eyes stung as he flipped yet another cover open.

  ‘The Seedling is one of nature's most curious creatures—if a seed born of parchment can be called that. All records point to the World Tree as the origin and distributor of these artifacts, although why a sentient being with mana rivaling that of the Lighthouses would populate the earth with paper, one can only guess.

  Some hypothesize that this is part of the Tree’s natural reproductive cycle, and much like the Cardica Sea-snake needs a warm body to incubate its egg, so too are the Tree’s spores looking for an appropriate host to feed upon. Most morbid if true. Although, as in all things, we must remember that history is the decider of fact, not fable. As you’ve certainly read by now, historical figures thrive when paired with a Seedling.

  No, it is this poor scholar’s perspective that Seedlings are a variant of the budding tomes found in the Roots and seek their partners in the same way those Grimoire search for readers. These are harmonious relationships where both grow together, amplifying each other's strengths, until the seedling is large enough to be planted in a home of its own. /

  “So…” he mumbled, “the planted books are grimoires after all.” That made sense—though it didn’t actually tell him anything about the Seedlings themselves. Knowing he’d need a lot more clarity before the night’s end, he skimmed the next page for anything of substance. When nothing stood out, he jumped ahead.

  Then did it again.

  The whole book seemed more a biography of famous Scriptors than any type of exposition, and he’d nearly given up hope when he spotted a scribble in the margins.

  “Lass Cornlaine, was a quiet gal, as mages go, but had a way of knowing where to be without ever being told. Once, I saw her arrive an hour early to a briefing, only for her invitation to succeed her by the better part of the day. When I pressed Master Iroh, he assured me no other word of the venture had gotten out. The man had simply written the time and date, and sent a courier on his way. So, that begs the question, could Cornlaine’s Seedling read parchment? Or was this simply Scriptor magic?

  The snippet raised more questions than it solved, but provided answers too—Callam had long suspected his Seedling had domain over language: several times now, it had translated spells for him that others didn’t seem to understand. Stranger still, it had burned during History class, as if reacting to Professor Wisewick’s teachings.

  Now he knew that power wasn’t limited to him.