REMNANT MAGE

THE TWIN REALMS APOCALYPSE BOOK 1

TJ REYNOLDS

MAP OF THE TWIN REALMS

1

MUSTY BUT SAFE

In the dusty cellar of a mage tower standing upon Misthearth’s southern shore, a young man named Marek read the pages of an old yet popular novel. The only thing unkempt about him was his hair, tousled by a restless hand.

The reading had been especially trying that day.

Lord Tirega led the charge, five hundred Casteran cavalry at his back. Their beasts most bold churned up the bountiful turf, eager for Ardean blood.

Though many had disbanded and fled to seek sanctuary in Stillwood Forest, the young Lord Calleus refused to cower. Inspiring courage in his comrades few…

Marek shuddered, holding the page with a finger. “Will you give us a break, Timlus?” he muttered. “Every time a scribe calls themselves an author, they fall in love with the sound of their own voice. Just tell the damn story!”

An urge to toss the novel aside nearly claimed him. Inwardly, he reminded himself that A River Crimson held value. Poorly written as it was, the facts included were backed by several sources. Leaning forward, he adjusted the wick of the oil lamp. For a moment, he delighted in the space he’d claimed. Perhaps his favorite place in the world, the corner of the tower’s cellar was quiet. Tucked away as he was, Marek felt safe here… and so very alone.

Marek read on with renewed determination. He managed to finish another two paragraphs that made his skin crawl. Both were extended metaphors, one to describe the might and greed of the invading force, the other to portray Ardean courage.

Relief flooded him when he found the section he’d been hunting for.

Half a day fate granted to wise Calleus. Not an hour did he spend idle. Mounting the hill, Calleus did survey the silver snaking river. “Fetch the spades!” he cried, and his ragged band obeyed. Five hours to divert the brook, two more to flood the plain.

“Stand with me!” Calleus shouted, his voice brazen and clear. “Stand against the tyrant and his host of thieves! Stand for Ardea, and let it be their wives that grieve!”

That familiar longing filled Marek’s heart. Acts of courage always stirred something in him he’d never given in to. With his Constitution, Marek wasn’t exactly the type to heft a spear. To do so would only invite pain and disappointment. Marek suppressed his stoked ambitions, furrowed his brow, and skimmed on. More focused than ever, he isolated the facts he came across.

Two ranks of ten macemen forming the front. Two groups of twenty spearmen on the flanks. Fifty archers at the rear.

“Loose!” Calleus commanded. “Let the River of Grass run red!”

For every knight that rode to slay them, a dozen arrows rained.

Marek let his mind wander for a moment. Witnessing the events in the sanctuary of his mind was always his favorite part of reading. For some reason, he could imagine the sight of battle with absolute clarity. Almost as if he’d stood on a muddy field himself in the distant past.

What would it sound like? he wondered. Then, suddenly, he could hear a chorus of tinny thwacks, heavy iron bodkins plunging through tempered steel.

Goosebumps covered his arms.

He read the end of the chapter then, no longer bothered by the author’s flamboyant style. It was the story he needed, and the historical facts buried in the novel all waiting to be plucked out like gemstones.

Seeking to end a pointless war, Calleus charged the hampered foe. Macemen cracked down, shattering bronze helms of a foreign court.

The spearmen thrust from either side, hungry like the jaws of a bear. Men oppressed oft crave redemption, and that day it was served rare.

In less than an hour, it was done. The War of Thorns would end with the tyrant Tirega.

The fiend was cut down by Calleus’ stern blade, surrender given, and at last peace was made.

Marek closed the book. Sighing in satisfaction, he sat up and stretched his back. As sore as his spine was, Marek considered the evening well spent.

Briefly, he pictured himself hefting a mace and charging a knight on horseback. Even if the horse was stuck in a pool of muddy water, the act seemed reckless. No matter how many times he thought of it, Marek couldn’t quite imagine himself as a soldier of the line.

He wasn’t like Mags. For some reason, his best friend yearned for battle. She’d been seeking it out her entire life. There was another role Marek did yearn for, though. One that inspired him as much as it disturbed him.

Using a river as a weapon, he thought. If that isn’t a stroke of genius, I don’t know what is. Outnumbered and without cavalry, he still managed to win. Wonder what I would have done in his place.

As strange as his previous vision had been, Marek had no trouble picturing himself at the head of an army, sword held aloft. His voice commanding legions. His will dictating the fates of men.

Marek chuckled and set the book aside. “Ridiculous,” he chastised himself. “A commander needs to be strong enough to hold a damn sword in the first place. Let’s be realistic.”

He leaned back, finding a cozy nook between the old pillows Rauld had stored here long ago. Then he closed his eyes and completed his evening’s study.

As a Sigilist, many would expect him to level his Class by crafting sigils. He would have preferred it that way. Yet Marek wasn’t so fortunate. His uncle had encouraged him to take a Common Skill, one that Scholars and Administrators used. Intuit wasn’t flashy by any means. When it was used, none but the user could tell anything had happened.

Despite all this, Marek was proud of the Ability. It had become a lens with which to view the world. A way of interpreting information and analyzing situations or problems effectively.

Sure, he could more easily make a living with Imbue, the most basic Skill of his craft. It gave the ability to augment an object temporarily with a given Attribute. Had he gone that route, however, Marek would have bottlenecked indefinitely at Level 1. Lacking as his mana was, the young man couldn’t cast Imbue even a single time.

As bitter as his path had been, he’d made progress over the years. Through long hours of study, and by helping his uncle, Marek had risen to a Level 8 Sigilist. Two more would allow him to unlock his second Class Skill. It was slow going. In fact, he’d been at his current level for well over a year. He felt on the cusp of a breakthrough, though, and he hoped tonight might be enough.

Marek quieted his mind. He relaxed his shoulders and filtered out all sensations. Then he grasped the knowledge he’d scrounged in his reading. The clipped historical accounts of the battle as well as the relevant section of the novel. Details most would overlook, Marek relished. Each fragment was valuable.

He ran a few of these through his mind to freshen the knowledge, reciting them from memory.

The Ardean mace was a notable addition in the Kingdom’s military history. Due to the evolution of the Brawler Class during the Quelling Rebellion, the newly enhanced Maceman Class became much more capable of wielding its chosen weapons. This competence led to a lengthening of the shaft, made possible by the strength of ironwood, a resource once common in Northern Ardea…

And on he went.

Marek knew if he had to write the information down, the wording wouldn’t be exact. Yet he’d studied the varied weaponry of the Five Kingdoms obsessively. The material never ceased to fascinate him.

He ran through several other notations he’d read regarding the equipment most likely worn during the famous battle: The weight of the plate armor the Casterans wore as well as that which clad the chests and flanks of their warhorses. The length and heft of the lances they carried. Oppositely, the specifications of spears as well as the draw weight and range of the Ardean Longbow.

When he felt all the threads of information come together, he could picture what the battle would have been like. Only then did he introduce a query—a “problem,” as he liked to call them. Such was the method in which he most commonly triggered his Skill to activate.

Would the Ardeans have succeeded if they’d not been able to flood the field?

Simple, sure, but those were the questions that often led to the best results. Intuit tingled at the back of his skull, a thread running down his spine. A brief sensation of cold stirred in Marek’s belly. A portion of his personal mana drained from his Core to fuel the Skill. Then, in a flash of images, Marek knew his answer.

Arrows smash through armor. Too few perish, leaving hundreds of cavalry afield. The Knights trigger Charge, the Skill simple but terribly effective, speeding up their mounts and creating a spear of energy around the tip of each lance. Ardean Spearmen and Macemen tighten their line. They activate their own skills, Rampage and Inspired Blow chief among them.

In moments, the Ardean line has broken. Men skewered like squirrels and trampled under iron-shod hooves⁠—

Marek cut off the stream of images. A shiver ran through him. They were more like visions. Graphic ones.

When he’d recovered, he threw a second query at his Skill. This time, he considered whether or not the spearmen forming the front line might make a difference. This time, more Casterans died in the initial charge, but the battle ended even quicker than before.

Marek tried twice more, adjusting variables. Only the second proved interesting. He’d been curious if the rate of flow of the river might change the results more dramatically. Surprisingly, a faster river slowed the irrigation, leaving them unable to finish their task in time.

He tucked away his insights, more out of habit than necessity. Each attempt drew power from his reserves. After the fourth, his hands were trembling.

“That’s it for the night,” he muttered as he rose on unsteady legs.

He wished he could see how much progress he’d made toward leveling his Class. His efforts had counted; that alone was his consolation. “Tomorrow it is, then,” he said, holding onto optimism like a shield.

A creak of wood interrupted his wandering thoughts. Slow steps descended the stairs into the cellar. Then an ancient voice, both kind and familiar, filled the cellar. “Marek? Did you nod off again, or is your nose still trapped between the pages?”

2

AN END TO BANTER

Eying the mage through a gap among the cluttered shelves, Marek answered, “I don’t nap as often as you think, old man! My Skill works best when I close my eyes!”

Rauld’s chuckle was as muted as his voice, the crowded cellar absorbing much of the sound. “Oh, yes! I’m the same. In fact, my powers grow significantly if I close my eyes many times a day. That’s the secret of the mages of this world. Many think battle and arcane knowledge allows us to progress. Fools! Napping, though—that’s real power leveling.”

Marek sat up and scoffed, but the broad smile on Rauld’s face reflected his own. Rather than continue the banter, the young man hopped down from his perch and landed on cold stone. His ribs ached, and standing to his full height triggered a fit of coughing.

“The damp down here isn’t good for you,” Rauld said for the thousandth time. “Regardless of the enchantments I placed on the tower, it’s still a pile of moldering stone. You shouldn’t stay down here so long.”

Marek rolled his eyes. “My own house sits below the falls. Principalities, Rauld, half of it is coated in moss! Should I not spend much time there either?”

The mage shrugged, his thin shoulders jutting up through the faded fabric of his brown robe. “Anything juicy?” he asked, brows flashing.

Marek tidied the tomes he’d been reading and snuffed the lamp. The cellar was immediately lit by a tiny, conjured sphere that hovered above the top of Rauld’s staff. “Yes and no. Ran through a few queries of the Battle of Grass River. It was…”

“I can imagine,” Rauld picked up. “Amazing how much a single battle has been studied. Even in my short life, there’ve been encounters with Casteran cavalry that were more significant in political outcome.”

Marek snorted as they headed for the stairs. “Your short life? Aren’t you three hundred years old, Rauld?”

The wizard jabbed him with a sharp elbow. “Watch it, boy. What if I was? Don’t be an ass.”

They giggled together and ascended the tower. After a few more pleasantries, Marek waved his friend goodbye and stepped outside, the tower door closing soon after with a hollow boom. Marek stared up at the stone structure and imagined Rauld tottering up the many stairs to his bedchamber.

It had been a long day of work and study, and he found his own bed was calling to him despite the early hour. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Marek turned up the street toward home. He headed west through the Southern District until he came to the last of four bridges. The smallest and least used, Baghem’s Bridge, was the only way to approach his uncle’s house.

The moon was bright. The wind carried the crisp chill down from the Shirgrim Mountains, but he delighted in the clarity of mind it gave him. Soon, he felt the cling of mist as he drew near the ever-flowing falls. Ahead, Marek spotted the dim sigil lamp his uncle kept lit at all times. It required Mirrin to invest a bit of mana each day, a cost which added up. The old Sigilist was adamant about the tradition, however, insisting that it was his duty to provide service to anyone in need, regardless of the hour. Without the lamp, few could find their way after dark.

Marek found the path ahead impeded. Leaning against the wooden fence nearby, a small and profoundly proud figure stood. Pitch black hair bound in a braid thick enough to haul an oxcart, her complexion pale as cream, his best friend Mags stared him down “I don’t get it, Elbows. You’re the sickly nephew of a prominent elder in town. Yet each day you work like it’s your last. So boring.”

“Shut up, Magpie,” Marek countered, using his pet name for his oldest friend. “Not everyone is fine with shucking ambition. Besides, it’s not like we have any coin tucked away.”

The young woman stood not a quarter-inch over five feet. The punch she landed on his shoulder was hard enough, though. “Hey! I’m the most ambitious person in Misthearth!” she protested. “Not my fault I can’t unlock a Class!”

“Restraint save you!” Marek growled, rubbing his tingling arm. “Do you have to hit the nerve every time?”

Mags quirked an eyebrow. Her body shifted ever so slightly, giving her intention away. This time, when she threw a punch at him, Marek sidestepped the blow as well as the two others that followed. Marek wasn’t strong. He wasn’t tall, nor was he quick or skilled in combat. Yet it couldn’t be said he didn’t learn fast.

“Hold still so I can hit you!” she said, trying to fight the smile overtaking her features.

Marek swatted aside one final punch and dashed up the hillside. “If you wanted to beat me up, why’d you spend all that time trying to train me?” he shouted over his shoulder as he fled.

She followed on his heels, climbing the first of several flights of stone stairs. Like usual, she made it to the top before him, and he was forced to slow to a walk as his lungs protested.

Patient as ever, Mags waited for the fit to pass and said, “Sounds worse than normal. That musty tower isn’t good for you, Marek. Maybe you should study somewhere else?”

He rolled his eyes and groaned. “I’ve been sick my entire life. Fevers and chills year-round, shoddy joints, and weak lungs.” He shrugged his annoyance. “I take my cursed medicine every day and let my uncle and Healer Tilda look me over every week. Nothing they do helps, Mags. I’m sickly. Nothing more to it.”

Thankfully, she backed off. Mags was a good friend like that. She respected his stubborn pride as much as he did hers. In fact, disparate as they were in so many ways, he and Marigold Strongtower had much in common.

They reached the second lamppost, this one brighter than the first, for the final flight of stairs were notoriously slippery given the film of mist that clung there most of the time. Marek paused to catch his breath, then laughed. His friend’s face was swollen on one side—namely her left eye and lip. “Who hit you this time? Or, let me guess: You were hard at work all day as usual, and when a stallion got out of hand, you saved the Ferrier from a grievous wound by catching the hoof with your face.”

Mags didn’t react in the slightest to his prodding. Her eyes lit up as she dove into a story. “This morning, a group of trappers were passing through, you see. They stopped for supplies before heading north. All were high Level, Marek, no doubt about it. And truth be told, too old and boring to be bothered. They had an apprentice with them, though. Let me tell you, this little worm thought he was a prodigy!”

Marek watched his friend’s face move as she spoke. Few in Misthearth were as animated as Mags. As the story progressed, he was reminded that fewer still were as quarrelsome.

“Found him tossing marbles with a few kids. There he was, a man grown, stealing coppers from grubby urchins. The nerve! So, I thought it would only be fair to challenge him.”

Marek nodded along and strode up the stairs, ignoring the twinge in his back and the burning in his legs. “Why do I have the feeling you didn’t challenge him to marbles? Or did you slip on one?”

Mags snorted. “He wished I would have. No! I threw against him, of course, several witnesses to prove I kept myself honest. And you believe it, I stole every bent copper he had in five rounds!”

“Made a friend, then?”

Cackling, Mags shook her head. “More like he challenged me to a bit of sparring.”

Marek shook his head, puffing as he ascended the last step. Standing with hands on hips near the entrance to his uncle’s home, he waited for the dramatic conclusion.

“Long story short, even though his wits were slow, his fists weren’t. Still, it was worth it. Should’ve seen his face when one of mine landed! I popped him right on the nose, and his eyes wept like twin rivers!”

“Then he punched back?”

“Yep!” Mags said proudly. “I might have taken the worst of it, but the jerk was six foot tall. Not much to do about it.”

“And the coin?” Marek asked. “You lost it all in the bet?”

Mags scowled like a thunderstorm. “Who said I made a bet?” She plucked out a handful of coppers and grinned, her lip splitting slightly, a drop of blood dripping onto her chin. “Like I said, I cleaned him out.”

Marek laughed at the irony his friend always managed to stir up. “Didn’t think to give it back to the urchins?”

“Hold, now! There are lessons that need learning. I’m not the sort to deprive such instruction. Anyhow, I need it more than they do. The lot of them would’ve spent it on sweets.”

Marek opened the front door and stepped into the orange glow of his home. “Generous of you, Magpie. Offered them wisdom instead of fickle coin. Downright sagacious.”

“Don’t use big words, Bones,” Mags shot back, using another of the nicknames she’d assigned Marek over the years. “They make you look daft.”

A sudden cry split the air. It cut through their banter in an instant, causing a riot of goosebumps to march across Marek’s skin. The sound was nearly inhuman, haunted and desperate. Most would have imagined a banshee had invaded the old cabin, yet Marek knew precisely what they’d walked into.

“Uncle,” he whispered hoarsely, leaving his friend in the doorway as he dashed through the house.

3

A VISION OF MADNESS

Mags latched the front door behind him just as Marek stepped inside his uncle’s bedroom. He found the old man sprawled on the floor, dressed only in the remnants of a torn under-robe. The garment was stained gray with sweat, and it was twisted around his legs.

Writhing on the ground, face drawn in agony, Mirrin screamed, “They come with fire! They come in droves!” The whites of the old man’s eyes shone in the dim space, contrasting with his tawny Casteran complexion. “The hills are aflame! The beast, he roves!”

“You’re all right!” Marek called in a firm but calm voice. “There’s no fire, Uncle. No beasts in the house, alright? It’s just me and Mags.”

“Fire, horns, the scale-born!” Mirrin raved. Cataract whites stared manically into Marek’s face, bony hands like claws biting into the flesh of the young man’s shoulders. “They will rise from their shadowed halls. With cold of unearthly fire will they burn us all!”

Marek gripped his uncle firmly but kindly. Then he shook him. “Uncle Mirrin! It’s Marek! I’m here, okay? Nothing is coming for us! Snap out of it already!” He flicked his jaw at the table in the corner of the room, instructing Mags. “That bottle there—the blue one, beside the candlestick. Hurry.”

His friend navigated the cluttered room expertly. She returned to Marek’s side in a moment, uncorking the mulled spirits.

Marek’s uncle began to tremble then, the familiar spasms taking hold of his frail body completely. Using all of his lacking strength, Marek forced his uncle onto his back and pressed one knee into Mirrin’s right shoulder. “Hand it over,” he said softly, and Mags complied.

Knowing the drill, she used one hand to hold Mirrin down while the other clamped over the old man’s jaw, whispering an apology before leveraging her weight to pry clamped teeth apart.

“Open up,” Marek said sternly. “Principalities, Uncle, you need your medicine! Open just a little… There we go.”

A mouthful of the liquid splashed into Mirrin’s mouth. He reflexively swallowed and then coughed. Sputtering a few times, Mirrin tilted his head to one side and gasped.

The two friends waited out the fit. The hard part was over. They only had to hold onto Mirrin’s arms and prevent him from hurting himself. Thirty tense seconds passed before Mirrin’s thrashing subsided. Then, mercifully, his frail body went limp. Briefly, before succumbing to the potent medicine, Uncle Mirrin’s face softened as he found Marek above him. He cupped his nephew’s face. In a hoarse tone, he whispered, “Sorry, my boy. I seem to have done it again, haven’t I?”

“That you did,” Marek said with a sigh. “No need to apologize. Just get some sleep. Tomorrow will be better.”

Mirrin chuckled, throat rattling with mucous. “Judgment might disagree with you, but I admire your optimism. Strong like your father,” he said, the lids of his eyes drooping. “Damn, but I do miss my big brother Rorin.”

And then he was asleep.

Working together, the two hefted the thin man onto his cot. He was so frail from illness, the task wasn’t altogether difficult.

Marek threw a blanket over his uncle’s shivering form. Then he snuffed the lantern in the corner, leaving only the tiny sigil lamp Mirrin had placed above the doorframe to light the room.

Stepping out, he joined Mags before the hearth where she was adding a few pieces of oak to the fire. She smiled at him sympathetically. Young and stubborn, like Tenacity in the flesh, she always knew what he needed. After one of his uncle’s fits, silence was often the best gift. Warming his hands, Marek stared into the dancing flames. He tried to relax but found the task difficult. His uncle rarely mentioned his father, a man Marek had no memories of. When his guardian slipped, Marek would add whatever fragment of information he could scavenge to the scraps he’d assembled over the years.

So far, he had only a scant few details.

Strong, he thought idly. So, my father was a strong man. Did you mean physically? Or mentally? Could have been his mana, but then why would Uncle compare him to me?

Too tired to remain frustrated, he let it all go with a sigh. “Thank you, Mags. Appreciate your help.”

“Don’t.”

Marek shrugged. “I mean it. That was a bad one. If you hadn’t helped, he’d have kept on another hour at least.”

His friend pressed her lips together in a thin line, nodding slightly. “Yeah, I know. Still don’t need to thank me. Mirrin’s about all I have in Misthearth to call a friend other than you.” She cracked a grin. “And Principalities know I’d have gone mad long ago if I had you alone.”

“You mean you’d have signed up with a crafter and gotten a real job?” Marek shot back, appreciating the levity.

Mags stirred the fire once more and then set down the poker. She sat and folded her legs before letting out an exaggerated groan. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I already have a real job, and tomorrow I’m scraping hides again for Tavins. Absolute torture, Marek. You can’t imagine it.”

“You’re being dramatic. Shem Tavins is one of the kindest men in Misthearth. You shouldn’t be complaining with how much he pays you.”

“Don’t go spouting sense at me, Marek. Pragmatism is an unforgivable flaw. You should do more to hide it.”

Marek laughed. Mags had a way with words. She would’ve made an excellent Scribe if she were able to sit still for longer than half an hour. As it was, he was happy to absorb her inspired rants as they came.

The warmth of the fire seeped into his hands and feet, and some of the anxiety his uncle’s fit had inspired eased. “Not sure I put much stock in what you call flawed. Still, look on the bright side. Isn’t tomorrow your pay day?”

Mags’ brows lifted involuntarily. “Oh, well, there is that, isn’t there? Four silvers for four mornings of my precious life. Why does it only seem worth it on pay days?”

They fell into a comfortable silence. The fire crackled, and Marek stood and walked to the kitchen. He found sliced bread and a plate of cheese and grapes. Returning to the hearth, he shared the meal with Mags, and they both ate their fill.

Mags finally stood and brushed off her backside. “Well, I’m gonna head out. We still on for tomorrow afternoon?”

Marek smiled and nodded. “I’ll meet you at Baghem’s Bridge! Hope we finally catch that big bastard.”

Mags shook her head and stared up at the ceiling. “Don’t go jinxing us, Marek. I swear, for someone that’s fished his entire life, it’s like you don’t pay attention to any of the rules.”

Marek walked his friend to the front door and unlatched it. “And for someone that likes breaking rules,” he said with a wink,” you’re awfully good at making them up. Good night, Mags. Be safe.”

She stepped into the night and spun around, backing away with a broad grin. “Like anyone’s gonna mess with me. I’m the tallest, strongest, meanest lass in town,” she said, flexing her arm and giggling. “Night!”

He watched her spin round and race toward the steps. Her Ardean black braid was the last thing Marek saw as she danced down the stairs.

Marek closed the door. He latched it securely, then moved through the house, closing each of the shutters against the night’s chill. He dampened the fire by closing the cast-iron doors and cutting off the air that fueled it. They squeaked loudly, but knowing how potent his uncle’s medicine was, Marek knew the old man wouldn’t be bothered.

He washed his face and cleaned under his nails before scrubbing his teeth till they gleamed.

Finally, he found the small bottle of his own precious medicine. It seemed especially bitter just then—not only the taste of the unknown reagents, but the fact that he had to consume them day in and day out. He was supposed to open his mouth and allow ten drops to spill down his throat. It would burn his tongue and warm every inch of the throat. Marek would cough as the fumes tickled his lungs, and a familiar numbness would spread throughout his mouth. Then he’d have but a few minutes before he’d be as dead to the world as his uncle in the other room.

Angry at the fate he shared with the old Sigilist, Marek set the bottle down unopened. Rarely did he skip any step in his many routines. To refuse this task, however, was an act of utter defiance. Yet he couldn’t fathom it. Not tonight. Promising himself he’d take the dose tomorrow, Marek crawled beneath his blankets and closed his eyes.

His mind spun round and round. It wasn’t accustomed to the natural process of falling asleep. His body was tired from the day, though, so eventually his breathing deepened.

Darkness seeped in around him.

Moments before drifting off, the soft thuds of footsteps caught his attention. He opened his eyes to see Mirrin standing in the doorway. In the light of the moon streaming in from the window behind him, the old man’s milky eyes shone like white marbles.

“Uncle, you scared me half to death,” he complained, lifting his head from his pillow.

Mirrin’s answer sent chills running down Marek’s spine. No longer did he howl and rage. Every word spoken was clear as day, haunting and rhythmic. “He comes for us all,” Mirrin said. “The veil soon will fall. The sage grows weary from years afoot, the staff too heavy but for the mage to bear.”

Marek sat up, chill bumps running down his arms and the nape of his neck. “Uncle, you should be in bed. Please, just⁠—”

The old man’s words cut through his own with uncanny precision. It was with cold confidence that Mirrin finished, “The Remnant Mage must answer the call, the immutable standing at his side, for that which haunts the veil will soon leave its pall.”

4

PRACTICAL APPLICATIONS

Marek’s sleep was anything but restful. No amount of exhaustion could dull his anxiety after his uncle’s telling. He was even tempted to use the numbing effects of the medicine, yet doing so would feel like a defeat he couldn’t stomach.

Though Mirrin wasn’t a true Seer, lacking the requisite Class, the old man nonetheless possessed an intuition even pragmatic Marek couldn’t deny. And over the years, he’d witnessed his uncle perform a true telling, a prediction of future events. Such things were known to happen.

The first of these was when Mirrin had told of the drowning of a child of Misthearth, which turned out to be one of Mags’ younger siblings. The boy had fallen from Westward Bridge and been unable to withstand the frigid waters long enough for help to arrive. Last night’s telling was much the same, if only in manner and tone. Uncle Mirrin’s voice had held the same creepy cadence that made Marek’s very Core tremble with certainty—an intuitive knowledge that what he was hearing was true.

What did all that mean, though? he wondered half the night. How am I to interpret any of that? Sage and a staff? A Remnant Mage and a monk at his side? It sounds like the plot of a romance novel! None of this half-wrought fable fit into Marek’s logical mind, and it disturbed him to his bones.

He did sleep a little. Yet all too soon, day arrived, and his habit-driven mind woke of its own accord.

Rising sore and groggy, Marek took consolation in his most sacred routine. He stoked the fire and filled the kettle to the brim. While he waited, Marek brushed his teeth. Hanging the clothes he’d worn the previous day on a line in his room, he took out a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt. He made his way back to the stove, where he yawned and stretched until the water boiled.

“Two cups of tea and just enough water for a wash,” he said, methodically filling his and Mirrin’s favorite mugs to the brim. Next he washed in his basin, dressed, and pulled on his boots. Only then did he finally feel ready for the day.

He took his morning tea quickly, then joined his uncle in the workshop attached to the backside of their home. It was small—only a single room with a private entrance—yet within were all the materials needed for sigil crafting.

Mirrin smiled up at Marek, his eyes lidded and groggy as he sipped the Springdown Tea they both enjoyed. “Morning, Nephew. Finished with your routine already?” Before Marek could answer, Mirrin added, “Sorry about my fit. I felt it coming on all afternoon, and sometimes there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“It’s okay,” Marek replied, taking in his uncle’s face and searching for any sign the old man remembered his telling. “Can’t keep the sun from rising, am I right?”

His uncle nodded in agreement, then patted the stool beside him. “Right you are, boy. Now come and sit. I have a project you might be interested in—if you have the juice to spare, that is.”

“I can manage,” Marek said, tasting his own tea and surveying the charcoal sketch in Mirrin’s hand. “This for an oven?” he asked, brow furrowed. “Or a forge, maybe? No, it wouldn’t be hot enough. And yet… it’s way too advanced to be an enchantment for some rich Southshore wife. Danick order this?”

Mirrin cackled in delight. “Clever boy! There are three other bakers in town, though… How’d you know it was Danick?”

“Well, the others all think you’re raving mad, for one,” Marek said truthfully. “Also, Danick’s been loyal to you for years.”

“A clever boy, but too honest for his own good,” Mirrin said in mock disapproval.

“I’ll be twenty-one in a few months, Uncle. When are you going to stop calling me boy?”

“As soon as you can grow a real beard; that’s when,” Mirrin said, nudging Marek with his elbow playfully. “Don’t pester me, damn it. Read the design and tell me if it’ll work or not. Haven’t got all day.”

Marek scoffed but held his tongue. Quieting his mind, he took in the “problem” before him. A rectangle form filled the parchment, the letters Tu scratched in the corner. Tuvium was one of Mirrin’s favorite metals due to its high mana conductivity. It also had high mana durability, which made it superior to other common metals like copper.

From right to left, the three Command Sigils were Accumulate, Circulate, and Stability. Acting as Binding Sigils, two symbols for Joining sat between the three. At the bottom of the diagram lay a single Guiding Sigil. “Heat makes sense, but why not Fire? Might’ve been more effective, given that’s the source of the heat.”

“Mmm, perhaps, but from my experience, Fire is a sigil best used for combat. Too reactive. Last thing we want is to burn down half the town. Now quit dallying, boy. Do your thing.”

Marek nodded, happy to oblige. He closed his eyes and pictured the sigil array in his head, taking into account what he knew about tuvium, the selected sigils, and ovens. Before activating his Ability, Marek paused. “Tell me more about Danick’s oven. A single fire beneath or multiple? How much volume inside? And where will you place the array?”

His uncle groaned dramatically. “I swear, you’re as spontaneous as a mule. Once upon a time, I regretted not choosing Intuit as my Novice Skill, but having you in my life cured that nonsense long ago. I’ll take a hasty Imbue any day if it means getting to the point.”

Marek waited patiently.

“Two burners beneath,” Mirrin grumbled. “Coal as a fuel source. Not a blasted clue about the volume, but he bakes twenty loaves at a time with room to spare. As for the placement, I was thinking either the top, directly in the center, or else the back wall.”

The young man nodded. He took in the new information and prompted his Skill.

Immediately, his mind went to work. The vision came, and he found his uncle’s work was partially successful. The oven would become more efficient and use less coal, but the imaginary bread cooked faster on the top racks.

He repeated the exercise with Mirrin’s alternative placement, the array at the back of the stove, and found again an uneven bake. “The array is focusing the heat near itself. Danick would have to rotate the loaves to make it work.”

“Well that’s useless,” Mirrin grumbled.

“A little. But why not place it in the middle? Could you suspend the array from a rod in the very center?”

Mirrin muttered under his breath, dragging his fingers through his wispy white beard.

Marek studied the man briefly. Mirrin’s skin was darker than his own, yet both men had the same bronze tones of Casteran blood. Marek’s had been lightened a little—his mother’s influence. She, if Uncle Mirrin could be believed, had come from Ardean stock.

“I didn’t want to go that route, but I believe you’re right. Still, Danick won’t want to configure the oven around a central point. That gives him less space to work with.”

More muttering, and then Mirrin sat up straight. “I’ve got it! If I add a fourth Command Sigil—Disperse, for example—I can ensure an even bake. Thoughts?”

Marek narrowed his eyes. “Tuvium is too conductive. You told me yourself that I should never use more than three Command Sigils when working with tuvium.”

Mirrin waved his hands as if batting away a cloud of flies. “Stay with me a moment, will you? Do you remember that mercenary that came through a few years back? The one with a very large bag full of useless ore.”

Marek could easily recall the mercenary. Face covered in scars and spite, angry upon hearing the news that the “exquisite ore” he’d secured in Northern Shirgrim would make for lousy armor. It was too funny to forget. “The tantalum bars!” Marek said, understanding his uncle’s idea instantly. “Too soft for armor, but capable of holding a larger array! Yeah, that would definitely work! And I’m sure old Kuro will be thrilled to get rid of some.”

Mirrin chuckled wickedly. “Go ahead and do your little mind trick again and tell me I’m wrong.”

Marek was tired from the night before, and he knew this third use would tax him dearly, yet he was invested at this point. And sure enough, Intuit predicted a flawless execution. Not only would the loaves cook evenly, but the expanded sigil array was even more fuel efficient than before.

The rest of the day went by in a blur of motion.

Marek bartered for the tantalum himself, securing enough for a few projects at minimal cost. After a light lunch, the two fell to the sigil craft, though Marek could take no direct actions in the making of the array. It was midafternoon when they finished. Together, uncle and nephew admired the shining tantalum plate. Overall, it was fine work, though Marek’s eye discovered a few small mistakes.

His uncle was getting old, or rather, the illness they shared had aged the Sigilist faster than nature intended. Uncle Mirrin shouldn’t have white hair, he reminded himself. Is that what I’m going to look like at forty-nine? Will I even live that long?

Mirrin giggled as he ducked out the door. “I’ll be back tonight! We’ll have a little celebration, just you and me!”

Marek walked to the window and watched his uncle go. Draped in Casteran robes, the Sigilist stood out like a jay among crows so deep in Ardea. As fastidious as Marek in his attire, Mirrin wore his native clothes with pride, regardless of how threadbare they’d become.

The thought pulled Marek’s eye to the faded curtains and the workbench nearly broken from overuse. Things had only been this bad a few times in Marek’s life, and he couldn’t help but feel it was his fault.

Placing a hand over his stomach, he whispered a curse he’d uttered far too many times to count. “Stupid weak Core. Why did I have to be born with a stunted mana pool? I could’ve helped Uncle retire by now. I could have…”

He caught himself, stopped that surge of negativity that inevitably followed such thoughts. Still, it was hard not to feel bitter. After unlocking the Sigilist Class at age twelve, a feat rarely heard of, he couldn’t help but be frustrated with his slow progress. Just two more, he told himself, a mantra at this point. When I reach Level 10, I can finally choose Imbue. I’ll be strong enough to cast it, even if only once a day.

Marek had invested nearly all of his gained Attribute Points into Intelligence, raising it to 14. He’d have pushed it higher had it not been for his health. Marek likely wouldn’t have lived had he not invested a little in Constitution and Strength.

“Can’t progress if I can’t draw breath,” he muttered, plucking up a thread of optimism.

A muffled voice called from outside the shop—a woman’s voice, he judged by the inflection. “Hello. I’ve come to speak with Mirrin.” The woman opened the door and peered inside, and Marek’s stomach dropped.

It was Tilda, the town Healer, someone who rarely brought good tidings.

5

DIRE INDEED

“Sorry, but Mirrin just stepped out.”

Tilda smiled, but Marek noted a hint of strain on her brow. “Umm, actually, I’d like to talk with you while your uncle is away. Do you have a moment?”

Marek studied the Healer a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected visit and strange request. He thought of the tincture he’d neglected to drink the night before, and fear blossomed in his chest.

No, that can’t be it. It’s something else. Did Mirrin try to court her too?

The idea was preposterous, and Marek immediately dismissed it. Tilda had thirty winters, and for five of them she had been Misthearth’s main Healer. She was a handsome woman with fair skin and bright eyes, which had drawn too many suitors to count. Chief among them was Danick, the baker they were even now crafting a sigil array for.

Is that why she’s come? No, but then why speak with me and not my uncle?

“Sorry,” she said, perhaps understanding his trepidation. “It won’t take long. It’s about his health.”

Marek sighed, his anxiety shifting in a new direction. “Of course. Come in and sit down. And, oh, do you want some tea?”

She declined politely with an upheld hand. Instead of meeting him at the small table for customers, she remained where she was. The slightest crease deepened between her stark brows. “Like I said, I won’t waste time with too many words. I’m not very good at that anyhow. I’m worried your Uncle Mirrin’s condition is worsening. Without his medicines, he would already be among the Principalities, yet they will never cure him.”

The young man nodded, unsurprised.

“Only problem is, a few of the herbs I use to make the tonic are costly and rare,” she said, clutching the fabric of her dress tightly in one hand. “You work daily in Mirrin’s shop, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Marek replied, his concern deepening.

“Then you hear the gossip. Kobolds raiding Ardean lands for the first time in decades. Unrest between the Haikini and Druskin peoples. And of course, the never-ending tension between our kingdom and our neighbors, the Casterans.”

She paused and wet her lips, eyes flashing with emotion. “Some even claim a Death Mage has risen among them, blast their ambitions. I don’t think I need to explain the severity of that situation should it prove true.”

Marek had indeed listened in on several heated discussions among Mirrin and the old man’s most trusted friends. Yet this last bit surprised him.

“What does this have to do with my uncle?” Marek asked.

Tilda smiled, breathing out through flared nostrils and visibly calming herself. “Apologies, Marek. My point is that for the past few months, the goods coming into our little corner of Ardea have decreased… drastically. Food, we have plenty of. But⁠—”

Marek understood. “But herbs are another story. How long till he runs out?”

The woman blinked a few times and chuckled bitterly. “You’re as clever as everyone claims. Clever and strong of heart.”

Her words echoed what Uncle Mirrin had told him the previous night, and Marek’s chest twanged like a bow string. He clenched his jaw and steeled himself.

Tilda reached into her leather satchel and took out a bottle. She gave it to Marek. “This is all I can give you, at least until the summer. My contact from Swiftwall said they hope to establish peace with Casteras in a few months.”

She stepped closer, blocking out the light from the window behind her. Wreathed in golden motes, her features were both severe and benevolent. Grasping Marek’s hand between her own, she whispered, “Take a care to ration this as best you can, Marek. It must last.”

The woman turned and stepped through the door. Hem fluttering in the wind, she left Marek drifting in a tempest of emotions.

Outwardly, one would only see a solemn young man, five and a half feet tall, eyes ringed black and features gaunt. But inwardly, Marek wrestled with fear and the threat of a grief he wasn’t at all certain he could manage. Marek was resilient, though. He turned his attention to the bottle in his hand. It was half as large as the previous delivery. Steeling himself, he held it up and stared into the dark liquid.

He’d given the customary dose to Uncle Mirrin countless times. On good days, the old Sigilist needed a tablespoon. When things took a turn for the worse, a second or even a third dose was needed. Marek cursed himself for insisting Mirrin take a third helping after waking him last night. Yet from the fever in Mirrin’s eyes, Marek knew he’d made the right decision at the time.

He estimated as best he could, not at all liking the results.

“Thirty or forty days,” he said, disquieted. “Maybe two months if we’re lucky. Less if we’re not.” Clutching the medicine to his abdomen, Marek donned his cloak and began to lock up the workshop. Walking to the front of the building, he entered to find the house empty.

He deposited the bottle on the highest shelf behind the honey jar. Knowing there was nothing to do about their predicament, Marek did his best to leave his fears there too. Sighing, he scrounged the pantry for a snack to share with Mags. His friend would cheer him up, and she might even have a solution.

The sun had begun its descent by the time he headed out, the sky vivid as the day waned. The wind tugged at his cloak playfully, drawing his eyes up to the branches of the red pines that rose like sentinels around the house.

“We’ll be fine,” he told himself. “Just need to ration, and if worse comes to worst, I’ll convince Mags to head out on a little adventure of our own. After all, medicinal herbs do grow in the wild.”

As he’d half-expected, Mags was nowhere in sight when he made it to their meeting spot. She was one to sleep in, and in so doing, had to work late. He walked through town, intent on finding Mags in due order.

Kioko, the Armorer’s daughter and apprentice, pulled a short blade from the forge. It glowed a bright orange and trailed a bit of smoke behind it. The girl was only sixteen years old, yet she wore an immutable scowl that terrified half the men of Misthearth. Spotting Marek, she nodded once.

He suppressed a chuckle. Kioko nods like a hammer striking steel, he mused, nodding back.

Marek liked Kioko. She and her family treated him well. Many in Misthearth were less generous, and he’d long ago gotten used to the half-guarded scowls and whispers. Being half Casteran didn’t help his cause by a long shot. Coupled with his sickly nature and lack of wealth, it was a foregone conclusion that Marek wasn’t exactly popular.

Confident she’d likely know his intentions, Marek slowed his pace. He wanted to see the next step in Kioko’s process. Sure enough, the girl held the glowing blade above the quench barrel, gripping the tongs in one hand. Then, whispering something he could not hear, she activated Temper. One of the first Skills any smith learned, it wasn’t advanced or elaborate. Yet Marek thought it fascinating when the girl’s eyes lit up with the ethereal blue of pure mana, a single bead of the energy forming on the tip of Kioko’s outstretched finger. It clung for a moment before skipping through the air and splashing against the hot steel. The mana was absorbed almost immediately, and soon after, a faint shimmer surrounded the metal. Only then did she plunge her work into the cool water. A small puff of steam rose, and Kioko’s mouth twisted upward ever so slightly.

Not wanting to offend, Marek picked up his pace and continued his quest. The streets were lively this time of day. Half the shops were closed, yet the workers that manned them bustled about, finishing errands. The weekend meant a time of rest, especially in Southshore, and it was obvious everyone was in a hurry to be done.

Long ago, Southshore had been the entirety of Misthearth. The settlement had hid behind the rushing river, using it as a natural defense against kobold raids and the threat of Casteran invasion.

As the town grew, Northshore was born out of necessity. That neighborhood lacked the solidity of its southern sister, the buildings made of wood instead of stone. Many that lived there were uncouth and lacked any shred of elegance. Yet Marek preferred the folk of Northshore. Mags’ family lived there, after all, and the Strongtowers were some of the very best people around.

His friend’s slim figure emerged from the tannery moments before Marek could reach it. She turned, braid swinging behind her as she spotted him. “Oi!” she called, thickening her Ardean accent to ridiculous proportions. “Have a mind to catch some wrigglers?”

Marek’s face split into a grin. Then he and his best friend were jogging through town, headed for Milly’s Market. The grocer was closed, but the treasures they sought were found behind the building. A few heaps of rotting produce greeted them, and a dog scampered away at their approach.

“Did you bring the spade?” Marek asked hopefully.

Mags rolled her eyes. “Don’t be a wimp. Just a little refuse, Marek. Won’t kill you.”

Without ceremony, she dug her hand into the dark soil. Marek wrinkled his nose, but he knew his friend was right. She’d chosen an older mound, and by now, none of the roots, eggshells, or corn husks were fresh enough to be truly disgusting. Still, he knew he’d always lack the enthusiasm Mags had for this task.

“Loads!” she cried, clinging to the O sound dramatically. “Can ya believe it, Marek!? Could feed half‘a Swiftwall wuthis!” A pile of red worms writhed in her palm. She tossed them in a leather pouch at her hip and grinned widely.

Marek shook his head in disapproval. “You’re crazy, Mags. Nobody should like worms this much. And your accent is ridiculous. Nobody talks like that.”

“Aye’ve cousins that would resent that comment!” she exclaimed, eyes bulging as she feigned drunkenness, amping up her performance. “An’ they’re beggar men ‘an yoooo!”

Marek sighed, unwilling to encourage the woman further.

She stood up straight and grunted. “You’re no fun. I pity your future wife. Nobody deserves such a dreary spouse.”

He leveled a hard look at his friend. She knew better than to mention any prospective romantic interests. It was a touchy subject for Marek, nearly as much as gaining a Class was to Mags.

She snickered and walked past him, standing as tall as her five feet could manage. “Anyhow, let’s go. I stashed the poles in the bushes near the bridge. We should have time to catch a few before it’s dark.”

Marek followed as she walked down the alley toward the street. His mind had moved on to thoughts of colorful trout when three figures blocked the alleyway ahead. Marek’s shoulders sagged, knowing full well what the sneering faces would mean for his fishing day.

“Grubby little girl,” Isaac spat, resting his hand on the pommel of his ridiculous sword. “Been digging in the dirt like a boar again?”

6

WORTH THE SQUEEZE

Mags inclined her head pridefully. “Pigs are clever creatures,” she said in defiance. “Clever and cute—both qualities you sorely lack, Isaac. Now, get out of our way. We’re busy.”

Marek was impressed by how curtly she’d dismissed the man. Isaac had been a thorn in their sides since childhood, only abating when he’d left to train in the Ardean army. That reprieve had been sweet, if only for a time. Sadly, he’d returned a year ago to serve alongside his father Callum Fray, the captain of Misthearth’s guard. More irksome to Mags was the fact Isaac had unlocked the Fighter Class during his short and uneventful service. Unlike the fool standing before her, Mags had faced real dangers, had crossed blades with one of Ardea’s enemies.

Normally, she’d trade words with Isaac until her face was blue. To Marek’s displeasure, the two had done so several times in recent months. Pouch full of red worms, however, she was apparently as eager to fish as Marek.

Isaac, on the other hand, seemingly had no such plans. He nodded to Frim, the dimmest torch among the three. “Did you hear, Frim? Little Marigold here begged a Trapper to take her on as an apprentice.”

Frim chuckled on cue. Corrigan, however, only frowned and glanced at Mags. “Is that true? You’re leaving to become a Trapper?”

Isaac let out a belly laugh. “She would have, if she hadn’t been turned down. No, little Marigold not only lowered herself to beg but she was outright refused.”

Mags bristled. She hated her full name, considered it far too feminine for her liking. The addition of “little” only dug deeper in her ribs.

“Easy, Mags,” Marek tried. “Ignore the bastard.”

“What was that?” Isaac snapped. “Slander from the Casteran? You know, I should report you, Marigold. Fraternizing with the enemy is high treason.”

“Marek is Ardean, through and through. Your dad knows that and so do you. Now, if you don’t mind,” Mags said dismissively. She caught Marek by the elbow and made to push her way through the trio.

Corrigan stepped aside, giving her passage. Marek caught the briefest flash of anger pass through Isaac’s eyes. Before he could warn Mags, however, Isaac snaked out his boot and tripped her.

She stumbled but didn’t fall, correcting her stride quickly and spinning around to face the man. “Back off, Rift spawn! I’m warning you!”

Corrigan, nearly as angry as Mags, nudged his friend. “Leave off, Isaac. We’re supposed to be on a patrol, not harassing a citizen.”

“Can you really call the Northshore folk citizens, Cor? We all know they shirk taxes. Most are too lazy to work.” As he spoke, he tallied the imagined offenses on a finger. Lifting a third, a sneer glued to his face, he added, “And none seem noble enough to stick it out in the army.”

The insult was low, and even Frim’s brow creased in disapproval.

Marek let out a breath. He’d been privy to much of what Mags had endured in her enlistment. He knew of her sacrifices, the close calls, and the great disappointment of being discharged after failing to unlock a Class.

Mags stood her ground. Her fists knotted, she spat out, “Big talk coming from a brat that came back to serve as a guardsman after unlocking a Class. I’d rather be lowly than live the coward’s life any day.”

Isaac’s grin faded. He stared back at Mags, equally offended and perhaps regretting his choice to pick a fight with her. Marek knew the man’s pride wouldn’t allow him to back down, though. Isaac was too young and stupid for that. He wanted to haul his friend away, but the cogs of fate were already in motion.

Isaac waited a few seconds before responding. The din of Southshore hung in the air around them, the afternoon light fading into evening. “Did I hear that right, boys?” he asked cooly. “Is she calling me a coward?”

Mags let out a bark of a laugh. Loud and proud, she answered, “I call you ugly, a half-wit, and aye, a damned coward. And I’m not the only one. Go ahead and ask your friends, Isaac. Ask them what the men say about you at the taverns.”

Isaac’s jaw twitched. He nudged Corrigan with his elbow. “You second me?”

The young man’s hand remained atop the hilt of his polished sword. Mags stepped back in response to the simple question that contained so many implications.

Anger flared in Marek’s chest. The situation was absurd, not to mention dangerous. They weren’t children anymore. Yet ever since Isaac had come home, he’d picked up where he’d left off as an adolescent. Only this time, the ass had a sword and a Class to call his own.

Corrigan frowned. Giving his companion a terse shake of the head, he hissed, “Stop it, Isaac. You can’t challenge her to a duel. She’s unclassed, not to mention a citizen supposedly under your protection. Don’t be foolish.”

“I’ll do it,” Frim said a heartbeat later. “I heard what she said. I’ll second ya.”

Isaac chuckled cruelly before leveling a gaze at Mags. “You don’t have a sword or a Class. No point in challenging anyone, Frim. No point in wasting breath on the Tiny Tower. Besides, her parents would be heartbroken if they lost another whelp. I hear they still mourn their precious Nyan.”

Marek winced, not having to look at his friend to know her reaction. Isaac was indeed an ugly coward, but he wasn’t dimwitted. He’d played Mags like a fiddle, knowing this was the only way he could draw her into a fight and not be punished. As Mags stepped toward him, fists balled at her sides, he muttered, “And there she goes. Principalities, protect her.”

Mags let a string of curses only a soldier could dredge up before belting out a proper response. “Keep his name out your Rift-cursed mouth! I don’t need a sword, Isaac. Fists’ll do just fine!”

Isaac cracked his neck and smiled like a jackal. “Alright, Marigold. I wouldn’t say no to a lady.”

Mags spat on the ground between them. “I’m no lady! Now shut up and fight me… if Restraint hasn’t removed your spine completely?”

In the moments that followed, Marek surveyed the scene with cold detachment, as though it were just another puzzle to solve in his uncle’s workshop. Isaac removed his sword belt and tossed the weapon to Corrigan. Mags loosened her shoulders and began bouncing on her toes. Can Mags beat Isaac with her fists? he asked, and Intuit went to work.

In a sequence of images, he saw the two brawl. She was quicker, more practiced and skilled at Ardean boxing than Isaac, yet his reach and the eighty pounds he had on her were too much. After landing a few punches, Isaac would inevitably counter. Catching her on the chin with a solid punch, he knocked her down. She’d be up again in a flash, of course, but the result was inevitable.

Marek’s nape bristled as an urge to rush the bully nearly seized him. Holding himself back, he considered using his Skill again. Strangely, he didn’t feel as weary as he should. He’d triggered Intuit three times that morning, and had just done so a fourth time—yet for some reason, he felt capable of one more use. Marek’s eyes flicked to the sheathed sword, and he modified his query. What if I intervene?

He watched himself dash past Mags, ducking beneath a lazy punch from Isaac. Drawing the ornate sword, Marek twisted away from a shocked Corrigan. Then he thrust, the point of the stolen blade driving up through Isaac’s gut with terrifying ease, the tip emerging crimson. When Frim attacked next, Marek kicked off the stunned Isaac’s thigh, sending the young man to the alley floor. A quick slash opened Frim’s throat.

The brutal scene ended soon after. Corrigan’s eyes and limbs flashed blue as he activated Charge. Quick as the Skill made him, Marek had no time to react. The bigger man crashed into him with a lowered shoulder, flinging him into unforgiving stone. Marek felt the ghostly impression of his body shattering in several places: a handful of ribs, the humerus of his outstretched arm, the delicate bones of the wrist, and finally the arch of his brow, which caved in as his head met the corner of the wall.

Vision subsiding, Marek reeled internally. This was a side of him he’d suppressed all his life, one that didn’t match up with the meticulous crafter he thought himself to be. Hands trembling, the loss of mana taking its toll at last, he forced the horror of what he’d witnessed down into the quiet of his mind.

And knowing his interference would only make the situation worse, he did what he had to. He clenched his jaw and watched the predicted fight unfold. Watched Mags crack her knuckles into the side of Isaac’s jaw when his first half-hearted jab missed. Isaac’s face crinkling in resolve as the real fight began. The larger man throwing wide, arcing hooks, all but one of which Mags dodged. She took the hit in her ribs and blunted it by dropping an elbow to shield herself.

The grunt that escaped her lips broke Marek’s heart.

Mags made Isaac pay for his blow, landing two more punches. One sank into Isaac’s belly while the other tapped the fool square in the nose. It wasn’t a hard hit, but Isaac’s eyes flooded nonetheless.

“Ugly little bitch!” Isaac shouted, blocking a third attack. Enraged, he slammed one fist into Mags’ stomach and the other across her chin.

Mags’ legs gave out. She collapsed in the alley, clutching her belly.

Isaac backed away, wiping the trickle of blood that leaked from his nose. “That’s what you get, Marigold! Watch your tongue around me, and tell your bastard brother to quit stealing from my father’s orchard!”

Mags growled and rose to her feet.

A chill ran up Marek’s spine when he saw a pale blue gleam enter Isaac’s dark eyes. Marek knew the outcome should she fall upon Isaac again. The asshole would use a Skill, Marek had no doubt. He didn’t need to rely on an Ability to predict that.

Fear overtaking him, he rushed his friend and bound her in his arms, holding her back. “Leave it,” he hissed in her ear. “Leave off, Mags. It’s over, okay? The fight is over!”

Isaac laughed and threw his arms around his friends’ shoulders. Corrigan shrugged out of the embrace and glanced down the alley. The tall youth’s face was a mask of concern. Marek knew Corrigan’s feelings for Mags, and knew also how bound he was to the Frays. Callum’s father had given Corrigan a post in the town guard when he’d returned with Isaac from the army, saving his family from financial ruin.

Despite understanding Corrigan’s reasons, Marek was in no mood for misplaced pity. “We’re fine!” he shouted at Corrigan. “Just leave us!”

A few moments later, he did.

Mags panted like a caged animal. She tore free of Marek’s grasp, turning away from him. As always, she mastered her emotions quickly. Smoothing her tunic and adjusting her belt, she said, “You coming? Only have an hour of daylight, so we best hurry.”

Marek caught up, matching her stride. He didn’t mention the hitch in her step, her short ribs bruised and cramping. And he didn’t point out the welt surfacing through her fair skin on the side of her jaw. She’d scrapped before, and this wouldn’t be the last time. The best he could do for Mags now was walk beside her and keep quiet.

Soon, they reached their meeting spot. The southern side of the old bridge where a thicket of bright berries grew, blocking the long-forgotten trail that led to the riverbank. Marek spotted the two rods Mags had stowed away and plucked them out of the thorny bush before brandishing a smile.

Mags’ face was lopsided from the fresh bruise, one eye nearly squinted shut. But her smile was no less genuine. “After you, Bones,” she quipped, pulling back the bright berry canes.

And just like that, they were children again, jogging up the trail toward their secret fishing spot.

7

A PLACE NEARLY OUR OWN

Reaching the base of the rocky slope, Marek greeted the chill, misty air at the river’s edge. Blue-black water rushed past. The Silverdown River stretched across a great span of Northern Ardea, placid and lazy. This close to the mountains, though, it ran deep and swift.

Mags stopped at the water’s edge and sighed. Despite the history her family had with the river, she loved the Silverdown even more than Marek.

She laughed, sounding like the little girl Marek had grown up with. They shared a look of childish excitement. Then, leaping from boulder to boulder, the two worked their way up the riverbank. Marek’s face was soon covered in dew, the mist from the falls ahead filling the air so completely it shone like liquid amber. The river curved back and forth, then finally opened up to a deep pool.

Though rarely frequented, it wasn’t the “secret spot” Marek and Mags claimed it was. If rains fell suddenly, the riverbed would flood. But there were a few brave souls, Marek thought as he spotted an old friend fifty yards ahead, pulling in a drop line, furry hands working at a rapid pace.

“Oi! Bring in any big ones?” Mags belted out.

Yishra bared his fangs and shook his head. “The loud one asks about big fish. Always wanting big but not many? Foolish and far too loud.”

Mags was, of course, pleased by the banter. Her entire family thrived on conflict. “Loud and proud! Well, you catch all the little ones, then, and we’ll have at the big bastard. I know he’s still in here, and I will get him one day.”

Yishra dragged the end of his cordage in, and three trout flopped about the rocky shore. The Druskin hissed out his strange laugh. In moments, he’d thwacked each fish on the head and strung them on the belt at his waist, adding to his already-generous catch.

“What’s that, nine you got?” Marek asked.

“Eleven,” Yishra corrected. He tilted his head from side to side, padded feet pumping in excitement. “My litter mate will be pleased. Srashai frowns on you. Come to fish too late and after Yishra takes the best.” The Druskin tsked in mock disapproval, coiling his cordage with deft hands and stowing away the large cork float and hooks.

Mags snorted, hand buried in the pouch on her hip. As she plucked out a worm, she said, “Don’t think so, Yishra. The Strongtowers remember the Old Gods, and they happen to like me.”

Yishra tilted his head side to side again, a gesture that seemed to have many meanings to a Druskin. He set aside his tackle and plodded to the water’s edge. Producing a small knife, he used a Skill. The blade shimmered blue, and his hands blurred. In five seconds, he’d filleted the first fish.

Mags continued to prepare her rod, but her eyes remained glued on the Journeyman Fisher. It was a common enough Class, but few reached Journeyman. Yishra hadn’t told either of them, but he was at least Level 21. They’d only learned of his status as Journeyman from the town’s fishmonger.

After a minute of careful work, Yishra had finished. Humming to himself, he stowed the fillets, spines, and even guts. To a Druskin, no part of a fish was wasted. He’d likely sell the fillets in town and bring the rest home for supper.

“See you next time,” Marek said, watching Yishra go. Cat ears glistening with dew, the creature nodded back and plodded down the bank. Marek wondered what it would be like to see a Druskin village in person. The beast kin took on various forms, either wolflike, catlike, or some combination of the two.

“Whatcha think, Elbows?” Mags asked, pulling him back to the present. “We gonna catch him this time?"

Marek laughed as he wove a fat worm onto his hook. “You always ask that. I don’t know, Magpie. If we do, will the string hold up? That’s what I want to know.”

She scoffed, swung her hook in a tight circle, and flung it far out in the pool. Loops of string uncoiled as she released them. The hook, worm, and small leaden weight vanished in the pool, though the sound was swallowed by the crashing water. “String’s as tough as we can afford. If the time’s right, we’ll hook him, and we’ll land him.”

Her confidence astounded him. Ever since he’d met the girl in school, he’d admired that about her. Mags could talk a bull out of charging, if it suited her.

With little light remaining, they got to it. They fished intently, letting the river speak for them. Marek caught the first. It was a small brook trout, eight or nine inches but fat from the swarms of mayflies that had come in early spring. He stored the fish away for supper and cast again.

“Ha!” Mags cried suddenly. Her pole bounced manically, the string cutting a swath through the water. Marek knew at once she’d hooked a big one. “Might’ve got him! Oh, Marek, he’s strong as a Rift spawn! Get ready!”

Marek wedged his rod between two stones and ran to the water’s edge. He stared into the dark water and, after half a minute, saw the bright flash of the fish’s scales as it turned. He gasped, the curving silver reflection far larger than any he’d seen before. A loud crack announced the demise of Mags’ line. The sinew string drifted to the water’s surface, then sunk along with their hopes.

He smiled sympathetically at Mags.

Her shoulders slumped forward. Brows raised in shock, she wrestled with disappointment for a beat. And then, with the grace and humility of a Strongtower, she laughed. Slapping her thigh, she threw back her head and groaned. “Blast it, if he wasn’t big! Did you see the flash, Marek? I think that was him!”

“It was big,” he admitted. “Not sure how big, but I’d say at least two feet long. Still, you think it was our fish?”

Mags nodded. “Absolutely. Same bump, bump, BUMP! Then he ran with it. I thought maybe I could tire him out, but he did that same trick again. Came in at an angle and turned hard, going full out. Oh, Prudence knows, but we have to buy some enchanted string!”

Marek agreed, leaning into their shared tradition. The cost of such a purchase would be outrageous—at least a gold coin—and just to catch a fish they could buy for a few silver? They could always daydream, though. For dreams were free.

After they’d pulled in several more fish, enough to add to the Strongtower family dinner, they gave up. Mags wound up her line and sighed. “Isaac the Asshole. Can’t believe he said that about Nyan. Even for him, it was low.”

Marek shook the handle of his fishing pole and ogled his friend. “Magpie! He was stringing you along like a stupid fish! You can’t take his bait. Like it or not, Isaac the Asshole isn’t someone you should tangle with.”

“I know. You’re right. Still, will he ever stop using that nickname? I’m not that small!”

“I’m afraid you are—and he’ll never stop if you keep getting pissed off when he says it,” Marek said honestly.

She groaned and shouldered the pole. “I wish it wasn’t such a good one. I mean, how do I make fun of Fray? None of the puns are scathing enough.”

“I’m a-frayed I don’t know what you mean, Mags. Seems like plenty of options to me.”

“Really?” Mags asked, swollen face scrunched. “The prodigy of Misthearth’s only Sigilist and you use that one?”

Marek shrugged. “Only puns I like are the dumb ones. The only people that use clever puns are people that want to be considered clever. That irks me something fierce. Trust me, it’s all about the low-hanging fruit.”

She chuckled as they headed downstream but didn’t say anything more.

Marek wanted to tell her about his uncle, about what Tilda had told him that afternoon. The moment was too good to spoil, though. Somehow, he knew their evenings spent alone at the secret spot were limited. They might not have another quite like it. Rather than open up and share the burden on his heart, Marek chose to walk beside his best friend in the falling dusk. A subdued smile on her bruised face told him she might feel the same.

So the unlikely pair strode across town in comfortable silence. They didn’t speak a word as they passed into Northshore, heading to a fish fry at the Strongtowers’ chaotic home.

8

THE STRONGTOWER WAY

“Pass the curds!” Petar shouted over the din, reaching with grubby hands. Marek, long past overwhelmed, handed the child the requested dish. At ten years of age, he was already as troublesome as the rest of the Strongtower offspring and completely bereft of shame.

Nira, the Strongtower matriarch, snatched the plate from the menace’s hands and smacked him on the back of the head. “Look at them fingers! Off with you, Petar Strongtower! Go and scrub up proper now!”

This amused young Quentin. He was the youngest of the brood at seven, and round in the belly and cheeks. He cackled in delight, bouncing beside Marek as he kicked his feet rhythmically beneath his chair.

Mags winked at her friend but didn’t comment. With the leg of a chicken in one hand, a wooden cup filled with mead in the other, she was content—and having grown up in this madness, well used to it, a resilience Marek had never acquired.

“Aye! And who goes about shouting for curds anyway?” Liam added. “Sounds a bit sideways, doesn’t it?” Despite his weak jibe, the man held his hand out before Nira and shifted the tone of his voice to sound as obnoxiously polite as possible. “Mother dear, mayhap will you lend the cheese curds to a starving youngster like myself? Promise I won’t eat ‘em all.”

Nira snorted and rolled her eyes. “Twenty-four, Liam, and still not married. You’re not a youngster anymore. You’re tardy.”

Fingers steepled at the head of the table, Nolan said, “How did we raise such pagans, Nira? Didn’t we instruct them about the six Principalities? You’ll have to forgive us, Mr. Theeras. I’d like to say us Strongtowers aren’t usually like this, but I’d be lying. Judgment knows I won’t be caught in that sin.”

“Eww!” Mags complained. “I hate it when you use his last name like that. His name is Marek; don’t be fancy!”

Earning the disgust of his only daughter, Nolan laughed heartily and resumed his meal. Nira frowned at her husband, scowl fierce enough to kill a bear. “She’s right, ya know? Fancy is a coat that doesn’t fit you. And quit spinning yarns, Husband—you raised a pack of pagans ‘cause we are pagans!”

“Oh, and praise the Old Gods for that,” Mags muttered under her breath between bites.

Marek ate in relative silence. The food was good and the company better, but the Strongtowers were cheeky this night and he never relished being the center of attention on such occasions. Eating with Mags’ family came with a degree of chaos he’d long ago accepted. Sometimes, when the oldest child Jonai was in town, it would become so loud that Marek would ask Nira for cotton balls to stuff in his ears.

From oldest to youngest, the surviving children of Nira and Nolan Strongtower were named Jonai, Kylum, Liam, Marigold, Ollin, Petar, and Quentin. The aging couple liked to joke that they’d stopped at Q because, after the impracticality of the letter, they’d simply run out of ideas for names. And when someone wondered aloud why they’d skipped N, Nira would whisper a prayer to The Mother and Nolan would shake his head and answer gravely, With a Nira and a Nolan, shouldn’t’a named the lad Nyan. Our fault, through and through. Their boy had drowned long ago, yet the family still bore the scar. Marek couldn’t help but respect the honesty of their grief. Some people tried to hide their wounds, but the Strongtowers kept their hearts on their sleeves.

As Marek scanned the room, his eyes landed on the plate positioned to Nira’s left at the end of the table, laden with a small portion of meat, potatoes, and greens. Nyan was always with the Strongtowers. And Marek suspected he would be till Nolan and Nira passed.

“You gonna eat that or just stare at how it rests on your fork?” Mags asked, nudging him from his reverie.

He tried to recover the mask he’d worn all day, but his friend knew him too well. They’d spent enough time together that she knew his quirks and habits through and through. Her mischievous smile slipped. Then, in a quieter voice, she asked, “You okay?”

Marek nodded and stuffed the food in his mouth, trying to smile convincingly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

Mags chewed her lip briefly, Ardean gray eyes searching his face. “Liar,” she said, quiet enough to keep the comment private. “Feeling sickly again? Or is it Mirrin?”

He laughed bitterly, not surprised she’d narrowed in on his predicament so quickly. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Promise. Let’s just enjoy the food for now.”

Holding his gaze a little longer, she broke the tension by bouncing the corner of her lip twice. Crossing her eyes briefly, she clicked her tongue. “Fine, but no brooding secrets, Mister. You’ll tell me tomorrow or I’ll pull it out by force.”

The rest of the night passed pleasantly enough. Nira kept the hearth stoked to blazing on nights when any of her eldest children were present. Seconds and sweets were shoveled onto every plate until even stout Liam refused another bite. Only then was Marek allowed to take his leave.

He ducked out into the chill night, and the chatter died as the door closed. Then he was alone. Mist was beginning to cling to the edges of the buildings in Northshore. And though a few taverns remained well in the swing of things, much of the neighborhood had gone quiet. Soon after heading on his way, the weight of his uncle’s crisis pressed down on him harder than ever. The optimism he’d manufactured earlier in the day felt trite now. Impractical. How can Mags and I succeed in finding medicines in the wild when every herbalist in Misthearth will be doing the same? It’s no less a dream than catching that legendary fish.

His friend was resourceful. Aside from her work at the tannery, Mags also took short forays into the nearby woods to collect reagents for Tilda. She could identify a variety of native herbs, and even a few types of mushrooms—yet if the hills had already been stripped of the rare resources, what could they hope to find?

Marek’s anxiety wrestled with his fatigue. Only once had he used Intuit four times in a single day. That was two years ago, after increasing his Intelligence Attribute. He’d hoped to gain enough mana to pull off the feat, but in the end, he’d spent the entire following day in bed with chills and a headache.

“Feel okay now, though,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll be damned. Maybe I should skip my medicine more often.”

Throwing caution to the wind, he formed a query. What would happen if Mags and I traveled to the mountains on our own to collect medicinal herbs?

The vision flooded his mind. Marek watched a version of himself tripping over a rock, badly spraining an ankle. Their travel afterward was slowed. Snow and rain and hail assaulted them as they traveled and tried to sleep at night. Rations spoiled and began to run out. Then finally, a troop of kobolds ambushed the pair, exploding from the forest with flint-tipped spears and bows. Marek stopped the Skill before the inevitable gruesome end came.

The predictions were frustrating, but none were truly a surprise. He was a man of twenty, and Mags a woman of twenty-two, yet despite their maturity, neither could survive the trip without significant investment and support. Mags had drilled with the army, had traveled south for her training at the age of seventeen. Hells, she’d even completed it and been sent north on Initiation. Her field assignment had sent her straight to the northern border, where Ardea abutted Shirgrim. There, she’d skirmished with kobolds on two separate occasions.

Mags was tough. She’d survived and carried her own weight during the action. She’d been supported by leaders classed as Fighters, Mages, and Rangers, though. Marek couldn’t back the woman up, not even if he was healthy and strong. Unlike Mags, he’d unlocked a Class, yet he was a simple crafter, not a warrior. Not even a woodsman.

The young man shivered. The cold seeped through his clothes, and he wrapped his cloak tighter around his neck, glancing to the east. A quarter-mile in that direction, he’d find Mason’s Bridge. That was the quickest route home. No part of him looked forward to the talk he’d have with Mirrin, though. He sighed. The cold bit the back of his throat, and he coughed. His lungs sounded rough. No way around it—he’d need to take his medicine tonight.

Pragmatism pressed on his shoulders. He knew he should go home, but pride bucked within him. Seeking the only alternative route he knew, Marek bit his lip and turned westward. He picked up his pace, walking in long strides and then jogging. He traveled to the edge of town, where a path veered south again and looped back toward Mirrin’s cabin. Abandoning the path altogether, he jogged up the hillside, not stopping till he came to the ancient stone wall that protected Misthearth to this day.

Marek slowed to a walk, unsure of why he’d come here. Full of rage and fear and a persistent grief at being so incapable of mending his life, the young man wanted nothing more than to scream into the night. Only the knowledge that he’d likely fall into a coughing fit stopped him. “Can’t even shout like a proper man,” he said bitterly. “Principalities above, what am I supposed to do?”

His heart ignited with rage. Uncaring, he craned back his head and let out his frustration, screaming into the night. The sound he produced was respectable, but no amount of pride could prevent the coughing fit that came. As he’d guessed, Marek found himself doubled over and clutching his ribs. Lungs rattling, he hacked until his vision swam before the fit finally abated.

“Damn fool… Only thing I’ll find out here is a cold,” he chastised himself, sitting and leaning his back against the cold stone to catch his breath. “Well, suppose there is the view.”

The moon shone bright above, illuminating the rolling downs leading to Misthearth. Beyond, the amber lights of town speckled the horizon, a pleasant sight. Marek’s eyes were drawn to the countless barrows. Covered in grass, they appeared mundane. Long ago, many Ardeans had chosen to be buried near the place of their death. Mags had told him why once. Rhiley, the war goddess many called The Hero, had ascended to the heavens after sacrificing her life to save a village. Her last words had been a request to be buried near the wall she’d given her life defending so that her spirit could guard for eternity.

Rhiley’s followers took the same burial rites.

Marek took them in, as he’d done many times before. In his youth, he’d thought they were mere hills. Armed with knowledge, however, Marek couldn’t help but see the barrows for what they were: the graves of many thousands. The dead were all around, and the Sigilist’s nephew felt their presence more distinctly than ever before.

Goosebumps rose on Marek’s forearms, and a chill rippled up his spine. Senses sharpening, he focused on a strange sound. It was faint at first, but distinct. Clicking, like dry bone tapping against stone.

9

AWAKENING

Click, clack, click, the sound continued, drawing Marek’s focus south, further down the wall.

For some inexplicable reason, he wasn’t afraid. It wasn’t as if a bandit or a kobold would tap on the stone to distract him. They could just as easily slit his throat while he wheezed and caught his breath. Then what is it? he wondered. A mouse crunching on a dried twig? No, that wouldn’t be nearly so loud.

He squinted into the darkness that clung to the wall. All else was illuminated by silver moonlight, taking on the pale blue and white cast. The shadows remained black as pitch, though. “I must be exhausted,” he muttered in disbelief. “Almost looks like the darkness is expanding.”

Marek’s eyes shot to the sky. Sure enough, a bank of clouds was blowing in from the northern passes of Shirgrim. The moon slowly vanished.

The young man stood. His logical mind told him it was well past time to go, that his uncle would worry, and that he’d most certainly catch a cold or worse. Marek’s instinct, though, drew him in the opposite direction. He felt a distinct desire to explore further down along the wall. He wanted to wrap the shadows about his shoulders like a mantle and stay here indefinitely.

Unsure why and uncaring, he strode along the wall and traced his fingers over the rough stone. The clicking didn’t stop; in fact, the cadence became more insistent. His head swung right and left, but try as he might, Marek couldn’t see anything that might be making the noise. Like bones tapping on stone, he thought once again, unable to shake the impression. Like fleshless fingers…

The image that accompanied the thought finally broke through his reverie. He shook himself and glanced back the way he’d come. Don’t be foolish. Probably vermin is all. Get home, Marek, and be done with it.

The fear his mind had suppressed returned in a rush. Heart pounding, he turned on his heel and took a single step along the wall’s path. Then he froze, ears picking up on a rasping voice. Call us, said the voice, as if whispered over his shoulder. Call for the aid of many, and we will come.

Marek’s legs became pillars of ice. Hands trembling and eyes wide, he dared not look around. It was only your imagination, he told himself. Trick of the wind.

As if summoned, a gust of wind poured over his shoulders and penetrated his cloak. Marek’s lungs rattled and popped as he was forced to clear them. His shoulders bunched, muscles knotting, the cold seeping into his bones. A surge of will unmoored his feet at last, and he resumed his walk. It took all of his concentration to ignore the cramps in his legs and back. Spasms were one of the signs his body was giving out. His own illness was similar to Uncle Mirrin’s. Marek lacked the hallucinations and visions that haunted his guardian, yet as he trudged homeward, he couldn’t help but doubt that assumption.

He promised the Principalities above never to skip another dose of medicine again. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what had been so important as to ignore the necessity. Surely, any sense of agency and defiance he’d gained wasn’t worth the apparent cost.

The silver light of the moon returned, and some of his fear abated. Marek picked up his pace, and soon he’d found the peaked flagstone that marked the trail leading eastward over the barrows to Misthearth. He strode toward town, ears refusing to acknowledge the clicks that sang like a chorus of fell crickets. It’s only a hallucination. You’ve seen Mirrin have hundreds of them. It was only a matter of time before they came, and we’ve a Healer in town that can help.

Marek kept up this internal monologue every step of the way, yet movement soon caught his eye. Ahead and down the hill, a plume of mist swirled up from a turf-covered down. Glowing silver and blue, Marek thought he made out the shape of a skull within the swirling mist. Two silver points of light stared at him from its deep sockets, watching him approach. Marek blinked but the creature remained. It lifted a skeletal hand and pointed at him, jaw opening wide. A faint gust of wind shattered the visage into fragments, but not before it managed to speak. The ghostly voice was filled with conviction.

My blade is yours, my lord. Take up thy staff and command me, and my blade will be yourssss.

All attempts to remain calm were thrown aside. Marek broke into a stiff and painful run. Thoughts of his conversation with Tilda returned suddenly; she’d mentioned the rise of a Death Mage in Casteras. Was this all just a series of hallucinations, or was he instead witnessing the onset of a ghastly attack?

Marek, like most commoners, knew little of the dreaded sorcerers. His knowledge was limited to the rumors of the townsfolk, though he’d learned a few things from Rauld himself. The Death Mage Class was inherited, taking the souls of corruptible men and women and turning them into agents of destruction. They wielded the magic of death itself. Capable of resurrecting the deceased, they forged constructs made of rotting flesh and bone. Their Spells could rot the body of a strong warrior in seconds, and all those who had faced one remembered the encounter with utmost fear and respect.

By the way Rauld’s whiskers had trembled in the telling, Marek suspected he might have faced one long ago.

“Rauld,” Marek said between clenched teeth as his feet pounded along the uneven path. “He will know what to do. I only have to reach his tower.”

Perhaps half a mile away, Marek saw the silhouette of the crooked mage tower. He had only to hold out a little longer. His muscles twitched and protested, and twice he was forced to hunch over and hack up mucous and flecks of blood. Ignoring the clicks and moans and breathy voices around him, Marek drove himself up and over the last cluster of barrows. His foot caught on a knot of turf at its zenith, however, sending the young Sigilist tumbling across damp grass.

A rush like pounding surf against the shore filled his ears. Rising on hands and knees, he trembled as what he thought was the rush of blood and wind turned into something else. The wails and frustrated howls of the dead, countless in number, rose like bubbles in a mire. Translucent spirits drifted up from their graves, eyes hungry and hands reaching. With a single purpose, they spoke to him.

Call us, Lord Mage, and we will answer. Our purpose is to fight, to lend our strength to quell the foe. Blade and hammer and spear be yours. Please, Lord Mage, command usss.

Blind panic reared its head. Grunting in pain, Marek rose to a knee and stood on trembling legs. His usually solemn expression was frozen in a grimace as he took in the army of spirits closing in on his position. They wore every variety of armor one could think of, bodies torn and broken or little more than a shamble of bones and sinew. All glowed with the same green-blue translucence.

All yearned for him alone.

Half mad with fear, he shoved off his back foot, yet before he could take another step, a mass of spirits burst up from the barrow beneath him. Mouths yawning, they grasped him at last.

An icy cold he’d never experienced penetrated his body from a hundred points. All frigid like the Silverdown, these rivers coursed deeper within him, carving pathways through his flesh. Marek thought he might be screaming, but the wail of the dead was all he heard. And still, the cold invaded until he noticed it was gathering into a vast pool.

In the center of my chest, he thought distantly, Where my heart should be.

Darkness stole over him at last, a booming voice echoing in the chambers of his mind, The Crucible of the Remnant Mage begins.

10

EXPANSIVE INTERIOR

Marek blinked lazily up at the sky. He couldn’t see the moon anymore—or much of anything, really. A heavy pressure throbbed at the back of his head. He opened his eyes wider, rubbed them, but when he stared up again, nothing familiar was in sight.

Not a sky at all, he realized then, but an expanse of gray stone stood some fifty feet above. “That’s weird,” he said, sitting up. His voice bounced sharply off the walls around him, making him flinch.

By the time the sound of his own voice had faded, Marek had discovered three things. The first was the shocking and complete lack of pain. In fact, his body felt amazing, strong and light, a novel experience. And the pressure in his head didn’t bother him in the slightest; it only felt strange and a little distracting. Secondly, Marek’s emotions were… displaced. He found them eventually, wailing frantically behind some barrier within his mind. The terror and shock were easy to distinguish. They simply felt muted and distant, partitioned away.

The last discovery caused Marek to gasp and clutch his chest. He wasn’t alone.

A boy wearing stained trousers and a pair of dusty sandals squinted at him from the corner of the stone chamber. He couldn’t have been a day older than ten. The child’s shorn head and beady eyes reflected the strange gray light of the chamber. Marek stared back, unsure of what the kid wanted. The way he’s just staring—it’s kinda creepy, he thought, trying not to show his reaction outwardly.

“We’re in your mind, stupid,” the boy hissed. “I can hear every thought that passes through that skull of yours.”

Marek was left simultaneously curious and offended at the child’s words. He stood and looked around, hoping to find someone else—an adult, maybe—that could tell him where he was and what in the Coherent Realms was happening. His only guess was that he’d fallen into a barrow, but the pristine stone chamber he stood in defied that explanation. No moldy grave would be so expansive or tidy.

The boy let out a sigh so deep and remorseful even old Rauld would have been put to shame. Rubbing one grubby hand on his forehead, he said, “This one is even dumber than the last. Skinny, short, and dumb. Great combination. Exactly the qualities one seeks in a hero!”

“Hero?” Marek asked. “You think I’m supposed to be a hero?”

“Well, not ‘The Hero,’ but the Remnant Mage has a big part to play, maybe even the biggest. And the word doesn’t quite feel right, does it? I’d say the antihero archetype fits a little better. People are too creeped out by all the death and gloom to actually like one of you.”

Marek’s mouth hung open. Too many questions popped up in his already-confused mind. Shaking them off, he asked the one that scared him the most. “Death? Are you saying I’m a Death Mage?”

The boy stood and blinked sullenly several times. His scowl deepened as he crossed his thin arms over a bare chest. “Child of Kaiteras, pay attention. I’ve already told you you’re a Remnant Mage. The Death Mage is your opposite, your antithesis. Opposition?” The boy tapped a finger on the side of his bald head, pondering that. “Inverse, really, but there’s more to it. What’s the word for something that’s twisted round and reversed? Ugh, semantics are always a waste of time. Anyhow, the Death Mage isn’t the problem. Not at the moment, at least. Now, will you please focus?”

Marek drew in a breath, preparing to ask another question, but he merely gasped when a pulse of blue light leapt from the boy’s eyes. Quick as a dancer, the child tapped Marek’s forearm. A wave of chill energy rippled down the young man’s body, ending in a tingle of the fingers and toes. Marek flexed his hands and stared at them, worried he might find some sign of an injury.

“Just a quick scan,” the boy said. He dropped his arms and began walking around Marek, examining him.

His eyes are too observant for someone so young. He reminds me almost of Mirrin when the old man gets a new project.

The boy chuckled. “I am young and very, very old. That’s of no concern. I’m more disturbed by your Attributes. 13 in Intelligence… 17 in Willpower… Respectable, especially the latter, but gods are the rest lacking. Charisma, 10. Dexterity, 7. Strength, 6. Those really are shit numbers.”

“Hey!” Marek cut in. “That’s hardly fair. I’ve been sickly my entire life. Tilda says I’m lucky to be alive.”

“With a Constitution of 2, she’s right.”

Marek gaped. “2!? I was read by a traveling Priest last month, and she told me my Constitution was 5!”

“After spending 3 Attribute Points, sure. Lucky you did, or I doubt you’d have seen your sixteenth birthday… You are at least sixteen, aren’t you?”

Even with the partition in his mind, the anger that blossomed in Marek’s heart was tangible. “I’m twenty!” he shouted, wincing when his echo crashed against his eardrums.

The boy’s eyes practically fell out. “Twenty years old and you look like an unwatered weed at the side of the King’s Road. Logic shine your wisdom down on me, but I cannot fathom why you were chosen… regardless of who your forefathers were.”

“Chosen? Chosen for what?”

The boy didn’t answer. Instead, he sighed for the second time and walked away. Heading to the far wall, the child flung out a hand and the stone parted, grating together raucously as a door appeared where there hadn’t been one.

Marek groaned and jogged after. “Will you at least tell me your name?”

“Serin, among others,” the child answered over his shoulder. “Don’t bother telling me yours. I doubt you’ll survive long enough for it to matter.”

Fear pounded a little harder against the partition in Marek’s mind. “What does that mean? Wait, no, where am I? Tell me that first, and where are you taking me?”

“This is the Crucible of the Remnant Mage. But you know that already. And I’m taking you to where you need to go.”

“I… Okay, fine, this is a crucible, but where is it? Did I fall underground or something? And were you just waiting for me?”

Serin stopped dead in his tracks and spun around. “Sadly… I was waiting. For far too long. We’re inside your Soulspace—or, if it’s easier to conceive of, a portion of your mind. Your body is lying on the grass, gathering dew where you left it. You’ll be able to get back inside that skin of yours if you pass this test.”

Marek glanced down at his body. He pressed his hands against his tunic, feeling warm flesh beneath. He felt real enough, but apparently this was all an illusion of sorts. Then the last of Serin’s words caught up with him. The boy passed through the door into a dark tunnel. Marek ran to catch up, hollering for the boy to wait. “What happens if I fail the test? Will my body be destroyed? Am I in danger?”

“Questions,” Serin hissed in annoyance. His small form flickered briefly in the dim lighting. For a moment, Marek imagined the child as a serpent, scaled and malevolent. Stone grated on stone once more, and a second door opened, allowing light to pour into the tunnel. A motley of blending colors—purple, green, and bright crimson—assaulted Marek’s eyes.

Serin walked through the door into the colorful chamber, his answer coming at last. “Don’t worry, aspirant, your body is quite safe. Should you fail, not a scratch will mar your chaste skin… It’s your soul that will shrivel and die.”

Marek stumbled after the boy. The resurgence of anger rising in his gut was drowned in awe. Both emotions ebbed, draining behind the partition like water seeping through a grate. As the dregs of his awe left him, Marek studied his surroundings. The chamber they stood in was vast, the vaulted ceilings covered in glimmering crystals and towering at least a quarter-mile above them. The distant walls stood just as far away.

Momentarily, Marek wondered how such a chamber had been built, but then he remembered Serin’s words. My Soulspace, he thought. It… it’s beautiful.

As Serin looked at him now with that hard gaze, Marek found for the first time a hint of what might be respect.

The boy nodded and walked onward, weaving between massive pillars of stone. As Marek followed, his ears caught the lilting cadence of a song. At first, he thought it must be a memory from his past, for the boy had told him they were within his mind. As it grew louder, though, Marek found it was coming from Serin. The boy hummed a simple, innocent melody, like something one might sing to a child. Yet the song was undeniably haunting. There was something familiar about the tune. Marek couldn’t quite place it, but he’d heard it before, hadn’t he? Long, long ago.

“Not you,” Serin said, pausing his song for a moment to lock eyes with Marek. “A version of you. And you’re right; it was a long time ago. So many years.”

Whoever this child was, he’d seen and experienced the world. Ancient was all Marek could dredge up to describe the person lurking in the depths of those dark eyes.

Their journey continued. The pillars converged, and the three colors reflecting from every surface grew brighter and more vivid with every step. The rich hues poured out from between a dozen or more central columns. Shafts of purple, green, and red streaked through the air.

Serin didn’t slow as he stepped through a crimson beam, his body momentarily suffused with light. “Come, Remnant Mage. This is the end of our journey.”

Marek shielded his eyes as he crossed an invisible threshold. Now standing amid seven pillars, all white but for one that gleamed darkly like onyx, Marek’s eyes were drawn immediately to three imposing figures standing across from him.

All held staves aloft, their bodies and armor carved from marble. Large crystals fixed at the ends of their staves burned intensely. Each emitted a different color. A theme I noticed all around me.

Purple. Green. And red.

“Here we are at last,” Serin said, the ghost of a smile on his face. The boy held out a hand to the statues, each three times his height. “It is time, my hopeful aspirant, for you to choose a Subclass.”

11

GLIMPSES OF GREATNESS PAST

“I know what you’re thinking. Something reductive about this part, am I right? The legendary Remnant Mage Class divided up and stylized like some customizable suit of armor…” Serin held his chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger. “Obviously, there’s only one real choice here anyhow. As soon as you observe the dream sequences, you’ll understand.”

Marek realized his jaw was hanging from its hinges. He scrambled to collect himself, grateful for the emotional repression his Soulspace offered. Soon, his logic alone remained, allowing him to ask simply, “Dream sequences?”

Serin’s look of scrutiny and reverence faded into annoyance. “Could you at least try to sound bright?”

“I’m plenty intelligent,” Marek said, an edge of defensiveness sharpening his words. “Not every day you tumble into your own mind after being surrounded by ghosts begging you to summon them, only to have a shirtless little brat scold you for acting surprised! Give me a little grace, will you?”

Marek’s question rang in the vast space, echoing endlessly off the countless pillars.

Serin’s eyes widened a little, his mouth closed firmly. After a long beat, the child smiled. “Fair enough,” he said, conceding the point. “The dream sequences show you the potential of each path offered to you. Touch one of the crystals, and you’ll be given a glimpse of one of your predecessors at the height of their power.”

Marek stepped closer to the figure whose staff gave off a rich purple hue. He studied the statue’s face and body briefly, but its features were as vague and unfinished as the other two. Marek stretched out his hand. It didn’t tremble in the slightest as he touched the crystal.

The chamber darkened, and the purple light burning through his fingers expanded until he could see little else. Serin’s slim form blurred in the corner of his eye. The child grew taller, darker, like a writhing shadow. “Excellent,” it hissed. “A wise choice.”

Then, in a flash, Marek was in another time and place.

“I will say this only once more!” a voice bellowed. “Turn back and return to your king! There will be no glory for you in Ardea—not while I draw breath!”

Marek’s vision slowly solidified. He observed the scene through the eyes of a soldier, one standing among many. I am Ignathis, twenty-seven years old and husband to Dasia, he knew intuitively. I’m one among a thousand strong. Five hundred men of the line, two hundred on horseback still hidden in the tree line, two hundred with Casteran crossbows, and a hundred mages for support. Glancing to his right and left, he admired the polished steel armor of his companions.

Another man spoke in the tense stillness, voice steeped in confidence. “We waste words, Mage. If you wish me gone from your lands, try your best. Powerful though your kind may be, I will not return to my king until we’ve reclaimed the northern reaches.”

A surge of pride swelled in the soldier’s heart, soon followed by fear. Marek felt both as if they were his own. Honor is costly, a voice said in his head. And should I fall, Dasia will be taken care of with my death pension.

It was the soldier he occupied, Marek realized. It was uncanny, sharing a body and mind.

Recalling his purpose was to witness the potential of one of the three paths of the Remnant Mage, he quietened his mind. As strange as the experience was, Marek was only an observer here. The two leaders ceased their banter and the mage returned to the Ardean army, lowering the white banner of parley. The mage was short, broad of chest and shoulders, with a tangle of dark hair partially concealed beneath a black cloak. A strip of purple fabric lined the hood and hem of the cloak. Strangely, the man wielded nothing but his staff and the dagger strapped to his thigh.

Horns were blown, orders shouted in High Casteran. Marek marveled, for he understood all that was spoken. Then the invading force advanced. No more than a hundred soldiers blocked their way. All were on foot but for the mage. The Ardeans had some cover, but the wall stood only three feet high in some places.

They don’t stand a chance, the soldier told himself, fear spiking as the twang of longbows sounded beyond the wall. Arrows fell, and the soldier hefted a shield, catching one of the projectiles and continuing onward.

As the army came within fifty yards of the wall, the commander shouted an order they’d all been expecting. “Charge! For King Laedis and Casteras!”

The soldier jogged toward the wall. He kept in line with his companions, all with shields at the ready and spears tilted forward. In his periphery, Marek saw the cavalry sweeping wide to flank the defenders. The crossbowmen were in range, and their first volley would fell at least a dozen men. It wouldn’t be so bad after all.

But the great mage the soldier had heard the other men whispering about each night had other plans.

The Ardeans parted, leaving the middle of the wall unmanned. The mage held aloft a dark staff. A large gemstone glowed at the tip, emitting a purple glow. Swirls of purple mana rose around the figure, and Marek could hear the mage’s voice as he conjured some arcane Spell. Without warning, two ranks of ethereal warriors appeared from thin air. The ghostly figures of fallen warriors absorbed the threads of mana surrounding the Remnant Mage, borrowing the man’s power. Most were common soldiers, bearing similar attire and equipment to their fleshy comrades. Three, however, soon stood apart.

The spirit soldiers clambered over the wall and into the Casteran lines, movements swift and feral. Soon, the shouts of men dying filled the air. Three great warriors caught Marek’s eye, emerging from the back ranks of the summoned creatures. One at a time, they grew taller, the energy that comprised them burning brighter. Each carried a large battle axe.

When the hulking warriors reached the wall, they let out howls of rage and crashed through the center of the Casteran forces. Marek looked to his right and saw the commander cut in half by a ghostly axe. Fear pierced the heart of the soldier, and the man nearly bolted. A shout from an officer behind him held him firm, however, and he prepared to engage the spirits.

The battle still might have been managed had that been the extent of the mage’s tricks. One of the apparitions broke apart with a shriek after a Casteran spear pierced its glowing heart. The creatures could be killed, even if they were ghastly and terrifying to encounter. Yet the ghosts were increasing in number. Every time a Casteran fell, the enemy gained an ally.

Staff held aloft, the mage cast another Spell that spread out in a wave all around him. The Ardean soldiers were blanketed with purple mist. Their eyes shone as they shouted the mage’s praise. A small force of them charged into the hole created by the spirit soldiers, and Marek couldn’t help but marvel at the speed and power of their movements. They’ve been… enhanced? How is that possible? Only a mage with a support Class should be able to do that.

These enhanced warriors outmatched their foes. They even withstood some of the Spells thrown their way from the Casteran mages hidden within the invading army. A few of the magic wielders buffed their own soldiers, allowing the Casterans to match their enhanced foes. Despite this, the soldier Marek viewed the battle with began to despair… for the terrible Ardean mage was still not done meddling.

“Allon Kazeniel! Take form and feed!” the mage cried. More power poured out from the man’s staff, filling the air. Then a blackness darker than night joined it. It consumed the offered power and took form. Where there had once been a shadow, now a terrible creature coated in sable scales soared above the ground. It opened leonine jaws, roaring in outrage.

The fell spirit picked up speed and flew at Marek. The soldier he occupied froze in place, arms and legs rigid with terror. So frightened was the Casteran, he couldn’t even scream when the wraith took him.

Marek gasped, stumbling back and touching his chest where imagined fangs had pierced him. “Principalities!” Marek cried. “That was terrible!”

“And inspiring,” Serin said beside him. “The Soul Singer is of course the most radiant of the three Subclasses. No doubt you’ll choose the purple. It is the only logical choice.”

Marek’s Soulspace quieted his emotions. In moments, his heart slowed and he turned to the shirtless boy. “If it’s the only choice, why is there a choice at all?”

Serin rolled his eyes. “Well, Calamity Mage and Death Knight appeal to some. Although the mage you just viewed was the most recent user for the Soul Singer Class, the first heir of the Remnant Mage Class was also Soul Singer. Let that inform your decision.”

Marek would consider the information, but he was not yet done seeing the offered dreams. First, he thought he might clear up a few things about what he’d just witnessed. “Soul Singer, the path I just witnessed—it specializes in commanding the dead? Like a Death Mage? Yet it can also empower allies?”

Serin sneered at Marek. “Death Mages deal in flesh. They’re common necromancers and quite disgusting to deal with, though arguably powerful if left to grow in power. They are the Remnant Mage’s unfortunate opposition; don’t forget it. And yes, Soul Singer is a both a summoner and support Class. Enhancing the strengths of allies and filling the ranks with spirits is the Subclass’s bread and butter.”

“And that… shadow thing?” Marek asked, recalling the wraith.

“That thing was what some fools call a familiar,” Serin answered. “More properly a companion. It’s a being bound to the Soul Singer. Simple and weak at first, the daemon grows in power along with its master.”

Marek took in the information. His logical mind worked at full speed, unhindered by worry or distraction. He would miss the Soulspace’s muting of his fear and doubt. “Demon, like the Rift born?” he asked, approaching the next statue.

Serin pursed his lips in thought. “Dae-mon,” he pronounced carefully. “And to answer, sort of. It’s… a lot to explain. For now, know the daemon is a spirit the Soul Singer can always summon. One that can survive death time and again.” The boy studied Marek, seemingly disappointed that the young man would even glimpse the other dream sequences.

Marek hadn’t come here for the boy, though. Somehow, he’d been given a remarkable opportunity. Under the strange effects of the Soulspace, he held no room for doubt. He would become the next Remnant Mage, a Class most considered to be myth. And given the weight of the choice before him, Marek knew he needed all the available information.

“Which Subclass is the green called?” Marek asked, lifting his fingers to hover above the crystal.

“Calamity Mage,” Serin remarked dryly.

As before, the chamber fell into darkness, and Marek was given a glimpse of the past. This time, the Remnant Mage was a woman, tall and beautiful despite a scar bisecting her face. She was Casteran, a fact that puzzled Marek. Yet after some thought, he had to admit it would be stranger still if the Class were unique to a single kingdom.

This dream sequence was shorter than the last. The Calamity Mage rode to the front of a vast army. She passed by rank upon rank of soldiers until she stood facing a towering castle protected by fifty-foot walls of stone. Moat filled with a single bridge giving access to the castle, the siege would be costly.

Marek occupied the body of Tissuman, the mage’s assistant that led her through the host. They came to the commander of the forces, a gaunt man that was visibly relieved to see the mage’s coming. “Thank the Crown you’re here. I wasn’t sure if the King would send you.”

“I’m here,” the woman said simply. “I assume this is the siege you want me to break?”

The commander stammered and blinked his copper eyes a few times. “I… Yes, Mage Lord, that is what I had hoped. I don’t mean to presume on your powers, but… do you think it possible?”

The woman smiled. A coldness in her eyes sent a shiver up her assistant’s spine. “Yes, I think it possible. I need a force of men to accompany my spirit warriors. Men willing to give the ultimate sacrifice to their king.”

Again, the commander was caught off guard. He consented, however, and a short time later, twenty men with large tower shields were brought forth. The Calamity Mage nodded and began her work. Verdant mana filled the figures of half a dozen spirit soldiers. These were of the common type, and Marek couldn’t understand why the mage thought so few would be enough. Yet the woman’s confidence didn’t falter.

She poured mana from her staff, bathing the spirits in power. Their ethereal forms grew brighter and brighter, and after a time they began vibrating. A hum filled the air, and the Casteran allies backed away in fear. Tissuman’s fear spiked to such a degree that Marek had to brace himself. He found his borrowed hands shaking uncontrollably.

“They are ready,” the mage said at last.

The men charged the distant wall, the spirits walking in their midst, shielded from the arrows that would come.

Marek watched the defenders respond almost sluggishly. Such high walls must have lent them a great deal of confidence. Still, a horn was sounded, and archers fired on the small force as it neared the bridge. A few Casterans fell as they crossed, yet they eventually reached the wall.

The defenders moved great pots of oil across the top of the wall to spill across the Casterans’ backs. Marek doubted any would survive.

Before that could happen, the course of the battle shifted indefinitely. An explosion, the likes of which Marek had never witnessed, ruptured the horizon. A hundred feet of the wall buckled, a pillar of green flame and smoke rose into the sky, and a ripple of power flew out across the empty plain in a ring.

Gasps could be heard all around, though these were soon drowned out by the boom that swept over them half a second later.

The Calamity Mage smiled at her work. Her assistant shook in fear, questioning how many had died in the single attack. Surely hundreds. I cannot fathom why the King relies on her, let alone allows her to take in breath. She’s evil incarnate.

Marek sympathized with the mage’s assistant, but even so, he found the woman impressive.

Her power was undeniable.

“Shall I conjure Fog of Death, or perhaps Derangement?” the Calamity Mage asked cheerfully. “If those are too banal, I could always drum up a Fetid Bog or two. Those are quite effective if you’re hoping to starve out the enemy. My less direct methods take a while to work, but their efficacy is undeniable. With time, I could eradicate them all.”

The commander stared up at the woman, eyes wide and pupils dilated to pinpricks. “No,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that won’t be necessary. The king would rather have more subjects than a vast graveyard as a prize. Th-thank you, Mage Lord. That will be all.”

The woman nodded before turning back the way she’d come.

Marek swallowed his revulsion when he returned to the chamber. He desired power—that, he wouldn’t deny. His entire life, he’d dreamed of commanding an army, of seeking glory on a battlefield. To do so would require power. “But not like that,” he whispered. “Principalities, I won’t become that.”

Serin hummed nearby. The two exchanged looks, and though the boy’s blank expression remained, Marek knew Serin was pleased by his reaction. “Time is slowed in your Soulspace, but the Crucible must be completed before dawn in the waking world. Observe the last, if you must”—Serin nodded to the crimson gem—“then make your decision.”

12

AMBITIOUS

A press of desperate bodies. The clash and grind of two armies, two wills competing. Exhaustion and fatigue and raging emotions. Marek swam through it all for long, agonizing minutes, and still, he had not seen a glimpse of the Death Knight.

The soldier he inhabited was Basari. Wounded and half mad with fear, the man fought like a caged animal. Marek still wasn’t sure what kingdom the opposing army served, for the armor was so old in style, it was hardly recognizable. Bronze axes and spears made up the majority of the weapons, and most soldiers had little armor besides thick pads of rolled fabric strapped across thighs, arms, and abdomen.

Nearby, someone shouted in Basari, “Hold strong! The rebels are weak of heart! Hold, men of Basar! Hold!”

Marek digested the information. Rebels? No Basari rebellions were this intense. Most uprisings were quelled quickly. Not since… His thoughts quieted, a sense of awe overcoming him. He recalled then a thread of history he’d come across in one of Rauld’s books. Once, there’d been only three kingdoms in the Coherent Realm: Basar to the east, abutting the border of the Unbound Realm; Shirgrim, vast and spanning thousands of leagues; and Aiel in the far west.

Casteras was the first to rise up. They rose to power in the western portion of Basar, carving out their own kingdom and taking the most fertile lands for themselves. But that was… almost nine hundred years ago!

Someone screamed nearby, drawing Marek from his wandering thoughts. A soldier wreathed in crimson flame shrieked in pain, flailing his arms and crashing between the Basari. The man died a moment later. The terrible fire continued to consume his flesh at an unnatural pace. Then a figure riding on horseback filled Marek’s vision. A man covered head to toe in black armor, the immense sword in his hands made of shimmering red light.

The warrior shifted his grip on the blade to hold it in one hand. Marek was shocked to find he recognized the hilt of the infernal sword. It jutted out a full two feet, and it was made of gnarled wood. Barely visible within the sword’s fire was the rest of the staff.

Opposite hand held out, the Death Knight unleashed a gout of crimson flame. It bathed a dozen soldiers, cutting a swath through the crowd. Then, spurring his mount, the Death Knight charged deeper into the fray. His sword blurred every now and then, each time taking the head from one of Marek’s allies. After twenty Basari had fallen, the Death Knight cast a Spell. A pulse of crimson light emanated from the figure, causing the space above the fallen bodies to glow.

Marek expected the men’s spirits to rise and join the fray. Instead, streams of power returned to the Death Knight, absorbing into the man’s chest. Whoever was hidden behind the stark black helm screamed, yet the sound conveyed ecstasy, not pain.

As the Basari attempted to recover, a trio of mages strode from their midst to Marek’s left. The men flung Spells at the Death Knight: two were bolts of blue mana, and the third, a wall of conjured water. The Spells crashed into the dark mage, but they seemed to strike an invisible barrier. Surrounding the Death Knight’s body was a second layer of armor, this one forged of pure energy. It, rather than the mage, took damage, and the attack proved insufficient to shatter that protection.

Leaping down from the horse, the Death Knight confronted the attackers. He swung his sword in a broad slash. The blade lit up, and a swath of crimson power arced from its keen edge. The mages died, bodies bisected by the fell magic. The soldier Marek inhabited screamed as the arc continued well past its mark. The attack cut through the Basari like a scythe through wheat. Marek’s point of view shifted as the top half of the soldier’s body crashed to the ground. As the vision began to fade, the black-clad terror seemed to blur and skip through space. Emerging ten feet away, four more soldiers died when a ring of crimson energy blasted outward from his chest.

Stomach searing with pain, Marek yowled as he emerged from the vision. The lingering sensation of being cut in half stayed with him for a few agonizing seconds. “Gods, old and new! Blasted hells!” Marek cried, clutching his stomach and kneeling before the third statue of the Remnant Mage. “Why didn’t you warn me? Feels pretty damned awful to keep on dying like this!”

“You only died twice,” Serin said in a flat tone. “I’ve done it thousands of times. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Marek scoffed. He wanted to shout at the boy, to smack him upside the head, his age and true form be damned—but of course, the numbing effect of his Soulspace rapidly eased his anxiety and snuffed out the flames of his anger.

“Don’t think many reactions can be considered dramatic when it comes to dying,” Marek replied. “Pretty sure everything is fair game at that point.”

Rising to his feet, Marek walked away from the three statues. He studied their blank visages, knowing he couldn’t delay much longer. There was a sense of urgency building within him. As Serin had said, time here wasn’t infinite, just extended.

“Calamity Mage is out,” he said firmly. “I want to command men, not slaughter entire cities.” He shivered. “That’s too dark a path for me.”

“Depends on who you slaughter. The Subclass is repulsive, I admit, but it’s how one wields the sword, not the sword itself, that dictates right and wrong.”

Marek nodded. “Point taken, but still, I don’t want it.”

As if his decision were final, the green light in the second statue’s crystal winked out. Purple and crimson remained, and Marek felt his desires warring for dominance. The choice weighed heavy, feeling like the most important decision he would ever make.

“Lead men and an army of spirits,” he said under his breath, holding out his left hand with palm facing up, “or fight like a Rift born and become an army of one. Damn, but this is tough. I’ve always wanted to command, but those dreams were shaped because my body was too weak to wield a sword effectively. If I had the strength of a Death Knight…”

His voice trailed off and he sighed. Either way, he’d be giving up something dear. “Principalities guide me, if I could only have both.” He laughed at the audacity of his words… then paused and pushed off the pillar with a kick of his boot, mouth hanging open. “Wait! Serin, can I choose both? Is that an option?”

The boy rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Of course it’s not! You can’t just… Oh!” Serin’s eyes widened. “Actually… well, why has no one asked that before?” It was almost as if he were having a conversation with an unseen party. He waved his hand dismissively and said, “Can’t advise you do so. Good chance your soul will be destroyed in the process, and really, it’s a dishonorable path, so I suggest you⁠—”

Abruptly, Serin’s voice cut off. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling for a long and awkward moment. Then he nodded in obvious annoyance. “Okay! Fine, I’m not here to give my opinion. I’m just a guide. I get it!”

Marek frowned, eyes following Serin’s. “Who are you talking to?”

The boy groaned, shoulders slumping. “Oh, only myself… sort of. Anyway, it doesn’t matter and I can’t tell you anyway. Apparently, there are rules!” His final words became a shout.

A dozen questions cropped up, but Marek chose to listen to the boy. Truly, it didn’t matter—not in the face of this decision, at least. Coming to that conclusion, he asked, “So, I can choose two?”

Serin shrugged. “Yep! Guess so. Nobody told me that, but yes, Kaiteras whelp, you can.”

Again with the strange name. Marek shoved the distraction aside and ignored the cold fear pressing against the wall in his mind, seeking to dissuade all risks. “And what about my soul… Will it be destroyed or not? Can you clarify?”

“You’ll probably be fine. Progressing two Classes at once comes with a price, though. You won’t gain more Spells and Skills; rather, you’ll be able to select them from a wider pool of options…” Serin was muttering now, sulking like a child and refusing to meet Marek’s gaze. For the first time since Marek had entered the Crucible, the boy actually looked his age. It was an uncanny shift that left Marek uneasy.

He’d gotten his answer, though. Marek decided to take advantage of his altered mental state. Unhindered by fear and doubt, he could process everything with startling clarity. He considered what had just transpired. Someone or something had interrupted Serin, cut off the boy from giving his advice, almost as if it had wanted Marek to make this choice. Or, at the very least, have the opportunity to choose two Subclasses. If his life’s path was taking such a dramatic shift, Marek had the feeling there would be plenty of danger to come. He might as well get used to taking risks. And his intuition was telling him this would be worth it.

Besides, I want every shred of power I can get, he thought, hardening his resolve. He cleared his throat and answered, “I choose Soul Singer and Death Knight as my Subclasses!”

No sooner had he spoken than the two sources of light slipped free of the crystals that held them. As if moving on the faintest of breezes, the purple and red torches floated toward one another. Their vivid hues blended, creating a reddish-violet glow. Marek found it breathtakingly beautiful.

Then things took a turn for the worse. A warbling filled Marek’s ears, growing louder at a startling pace. Pressure built within his ribcage. Soon, he found it hard to breathe. Body weakening, tingles spreading down his arms and legs, he fell to his knees. Helpless, he could only endure and watch the colors blend into one.

The moment the two spheres of light touched, reality came apart at the seams. Pain unlike anything he’d experienced took hold. It wore him like a glove, filled him body and soul, leaving no room for thought or regret. His awareness trembled amid a sea of agony. He felt so incredibly small. The ocean he was drowning in stretched wider and wider, its waters deepening.

Every inch it expanded, Marek paid for.

A moment or a lifetime later, the ocean’s tide calmed. Marek sensed the partition at work again. It soothed his frayed nerves and lapped up the agony. “Where was I?” he asked no one in particular.

Serin responded, startling the man who’d forgotten the Crucible, the choice of his Subclass, and the boy’s name. “Your Ether Core. It was forced to greatly expand. I knew your choice wouldn’t come easy.”

It all returned to Marek in bits and pieces. He touched his chest, where the pain had been concentrated. “My Ether Core… This is where I store my power? How is it different from my Mana Core?”

“One holds ether, the other mana,” Serin answered. The boy wasn’t annoyed as he had been before. In fact, he looked at Marek with what could almost pass as begrudging respect. “And if you’re going to ask, your Soulspace differs in that it is not a physical space, but a construct of your own mind—a little perk of the Remnant Mage Class.”

Marek nodded. “Thank you, Serin,” he said before turning his awareness inward. “My body—it’s changed. I…

“You’ve created something new. Combining Soul Singer with Death Knight, you’ve become the world’s first Soul Knight. Congratulations.”

Marek stared down at his hands, fingers splayed. Potential both endless and alluring called to him. “Soul Knight… damn, if that doesn’t sound fantastic. And I have new Abilities, yes? I can feel them, waiting for my command. Principalities, how strange is that?”

His guide kept quiet, no doubt knowing what Marek needed: time to adjust and experiment with the powers he’d inherited. The young man couldn’t repress a laugh. “What is Mirrin going to say? I’ll bet he never thought his sickly nephew would unlock a rare and powerful Class! When I leave this place, I’ll be strong enough to go anywhere in the Coherent Realms! Won’t be but a chore to head up into Shirgrim for some herbs. Maybe I can even bring enough back to cure him! Then we can both be a little happier.”

Serin scoffed. “Big talk for someone that hasn’t even survived the Crucible yet. Might want to keep your expectations in check until then.”

Marek laughed again, unable to help himself. But Serin was right. He shook himself free of fantasies and daydreams. He could sense the ending of something. Time was running out, and he needed to familiarize himself with his newfound Spells and Abilities.

The strangest part was… he knew them all intimately. The Remnant Mage Class came with two Passive Abilities, the first of which he’d activated instinctually.

Remnant Mage Passive Abilities

Empath’s Gaze: You can see and communicate with the spirits of the dead as well as gaze inwardly at your Cores, Class information, and Attributes.

Soulspace: You’ve gained the ability to enter the sanctuary of your own mind. This is a place of refuge and tranquility which grants the Remnant Mage clarity of mind, and may even offer escape from certain maladies.

“Amazing!” Marek cried out, reading the information like it had been drafted in his mind. “If I can see my Passive Abilities, then…” His voice trailed off as he shifted his focus, and just like that, a list of Spells cropped up.

Active Abilities: Subclass Soul Knight (Available during Crucible)

Command Spirit - From Soul Singer Subclass

Elevate Champion - From Soul Singer Subclass

Spirit Body - From Death Knight Subclass

Dreadful Cut - From the Death Knight Subclass

Ether Siphon - From Death Knight Subclass

Ravening Flare - From Death Knight Subclass

After staring in shock at the information for far too long, Marek threw back his head and cackled. It wasn’t hard to guess which of the powers from the dream sequences were now his. “Oh, Mags is going to hate me when I show her what I can do! This is wild! I wonder if even Rauld could keep up with me now? Oh, Serin, the old mage is going to lose his wits when he learns that little Marek, the Sigilist’s nephew, has become a great and powerful wizard!”

Serin growled, visage melting, causing Marek to shy away. The boy’s legs and torso vanished next, transforming into a cloud of liquid smoke.

“Hey, what’s the deal?” Marek squeaked. “What are you doing?”

“You’ve pushed the limits of my patience!” Serin answered, voice deep and booming. The shape of the daemon Marek had seen in his vision coalesced before his very eyes. “First off, you aren’t powerful yet, nor will you hold a candle to the Archmage’s strength, even if you survive. Secondly, there’s no such thing as a Wizard Class!”

All but a single arm of the once innocent-looking child was gone. The arm snapped its fingers a moment before the limb turned into slick, black shadow. “Good luck, Soul Knight,” the daemon voice said. “You’ll need it.”

As the snap reverberated in the vast chamber, the great columns evaporated. A fine white mist filled Marek’s vision. When the world returned to him, it had changed entirely.

“Principalities,” he whispered, surrounded on all sides by darkness.

13

THE CRUCIBLE

A vision more pressing and real than anything Marek had seen so far unfolded before his eyes. The blackness slowly gave way as his eyes adjusted to his dark surroundings. No, not a vision, he thought, moving the fingers of his right hand. This time it’s just me in here. The body Marek possessed obeyed his will, not that of another. Yet his optimism faded when he discovered that body was in a great deal of pain.

He groaned, nearly overwhelmed by the white-hot agony blossoming in his torso. A few ribs on the right side of his chest were broken. The bones scraped together when he tried to move, which quickly dispelled the idea of sitting up. Panting shallowly, Marek instead observed the room around him. Lit by a single torch fastened to a nearby wall, the stone glistened wetly. Just discernible in the glow was a sequence of vertical bars.

Excellent, he thought. I’m in a dungeon.

Thankfully, the partition in his mind still aided him here. The wild panic that threatened to consume him was held at bay. Marek was indeed afraid, for he knew the gravity of the situation; he was simply afforded the ability to think and process it all from a safer distance.

I’ve been sent here by Serin, or whatever that thing was that wore him as a costume. I have to figure out what to do next. This must be the Crucible, and I doubt I can pass the test by lying here. Why didn’t he at least give me some instructions?

Summoning his strength, Marek gritted his teeth. No matter what his course of action would be, he needed to sit up. Again, he was confronted with intense pain. There were at least two sources: his ribcage and left shoulder. In addition to the fiery pain, Marek felt resistance as well. Something’s holding me down. It’s like my back is bolted to the ground. He gave up, head smacking against wood. Then he heard a grunt, saw the silhouette of a man rise from the corner of the room, and footsteps came closer.

“The little mage is awake,” the man said, his voice sounding strange. “Awful tame now, aren’t you?”

Marek’s mind spun for a solution. Can I bribe this man? Convince him to help me escape? What’s the blasted goal of this Crucible? Wishing in vain he’d been told his purpose here, Marek fell back on the only training he’d received for such encounters. Unfortunately for him, those were the actions of fictional men in the pages of popular fables. “Please,” he croaked out, throat raw—no doubt from screaming. “Help me and I’ll reward you handsomely.”

The man only laughed, and Marek had the urge to smack himself in the head. I’ll reward you handsomely? Come on, Marek. Think! “I… I can give you gold,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Or anything else you want?”

“What I want is to see you interrogated by the priests,” the jailor said. “Humble men by day, but nasty buggers at night.” None of the man’s face was visible, but Marek could smell the rot of neglected teeth. “Stay down, or I’ll put another nail through you,” he hissed, voice rattling with phlegm.

Marek’s mind immediately reacted to the statement. What does he mean by nail?

His captor’s heavy hand fell on his left shoulder. “Best I be cautious,” the man said. “Boss said you were a feisty one.” Then, before Marek could speak a word, a hammer clanged. A jolt of pain tore through the joint between shoulder and collarbone.

Marek listened to his body scream. He’d been right after all. The man’s threat had been quite literal.

The jailer chuckled grimly and left Marek to writhe on the table.

Time passed, and the mercy of numbness soothed his pain. Marek came to an obvious conclusion. Okay, we don’t talk to that asshole. Then what? It’s not like I can use Intuit just to imagine a hundred novel ways of remaining nailed to this table. But wait… Principalities, throw me in the Rift. I have other Abilities now, don’t I?

There was no point in scolding himself. He’d woken in a dungeon, nailed to a blasted table by two huge spikes. He could afford some leniency. Soul Knight, he thought, jogging his memory. I can see my Class Abilities; that’s one of the passives I gained.

He flicked through the six options, one immediately drawing his eye. Ravening Flare! he thought, remembering the crimson fire devouring the soldier in the Death Knight’s dream sequence. I can melt the bastard and be done with it! But… but then what? Who will let me out? Besides, he thought grimly, I don’t think I can cast a Spell right now. Not that one, at least. I feel drained.

Marek knew the Spell was costly. He couldn’t sense his mana, though whether it was due to some absence in this body or the Crucible itself was unclear. His ether, though… That’s what Serin called it. My Ether Core—it’s nearly depleted, but I do have a little. Enough for…

He again sifted through his options. Devastating Cut and Spirit Body both required a hefty investment of power as well, though less than the fire attack. Those were out of the question for the time being. Marek wasn’t sure exactly how Ether Siphon functioned, but when he considered it further, intuitive knowledge flooded his mind. He read the description as if it had been written in a book.

Ether Siphon: Draw upon a lingering spirit’s ether, claiming the power for yourself. Siphoned ether can be used to replenish your Ether Core or fuel other Abilities.

Damn! Empath’s Gaze is so convenient. Wish I’d been able to use this years ago, though not sure what I’d have done with it.

Not seeing a handy spirit anywhere, Marek glanced at the jailor. The bastard stubbornly refused to die on the spot, so Marek nearly abandoned the line of thinking when his mind leapt to another possibility. His torso was affixed firmly to the table, but his head wasn’t. Straining a stiff neck, Marek twisted his head to the left as far as it would go.

The jailor sat on a bench, arms folded and chin resting on his chest. Thick-armed and soft in the middle, Marek sized up his captor. After surmising the man was a minimal threat, armed only with a belt knife, Marek’s eyes continued to wander. A few whips, tongs, and barbed implements of torture hung below the torch nearby. Craning his neck up, Marek found only another stone wall. He looked down between his feet. The bars of his cell were there, and a door cut from the same crude metal.

Finally, Marek twisted his head to the right, wincing as he did so and ignoring the spasm that flared in his neck. Taken aback by what he saw, Marek’s whole body jerked in reflex. Pain erupted through his body, forcing out an unbidden groan.

The jailor snorted but thankfully didn’t wake.

There, pacing back and forth along the wall, was what his Ability called a lingering spirit. The poor creature had a disheveled look, wisps of hair sticking up in patches, eyes wide in a sunken face. So ragged was its attire, and so ravaged its form, that Marek couldn’t even tell what sex it had been when alive. Unlike the souls he’d seen rising from the barrows, this one was covered in flesh. Somehow, the gaunt creature was more harrowing to look at than the skeletal figures had been.

Marek’s heart slowed, and he observed the thing cautiously. The spirit just carried on pacing as if Marek weren’t there, wringing its thin hands anxiously. Okay, then I guess I can use it? he wondered, looking at the spirit from a different perspective. His first instinct was to activate Ether Siphon, but he restrained himself.

Even if he slew the guard, he remained trapped in the cell—and worse, stuck to the table. There was a chance he could tear himself free, but that idea left Marek shuddering.

That left only one other option.

Normally, it took hours of practice to activate a new Skill, and sometimes years to hone. The Crucible of the Remnant Mage apparently came with certain advantages, however—one of them being an easy mastery of his Abilities. Whispering Command Spirit mentally, Marek performed the first of his miracles.

An invisible link joined him to the creature immediately. The pacing spirit stopped and faced Marek. Shoulders relaxing a little, it waited to be told what to do. Suddenly, Marek knew many things about his spirit. It was weak, physically inept compared to an average man, and it lacked the skill to wield a weapon effectively. Marek sensed complete obedience, however. It would attempt anything he commanded, which was fortunate. He only needed the thing to perform a simple task.

Speaking with his thoughts, Marek uttered his first command.

And the spirit obeyed.

Soundless, it flitted to the side of the table. Each hand gripped the head of a spike, and before Marek could suggest it might do so carefully, the spirit yanked both nails free of the table. Marek screamed as the pocked metal tore from his shoulder and abdomen. He clutched his ribs with his right arm, his left now dangling numb and useless at his side.

Marek’s vision shrank. He nearly lost consciousness, but he drew a deep breath, fighting to stay present. Now wasn’t the time for a nap.

For the jailor’s part, the man had sprung to his feet and was screaming in horror and surprise, as he too apparently saw the apparition. Though Marek’s creature only stood and awaited another command, it would be an awful thing to see when first waking. The spirit stood rigid, eyes bulging, holding a long, bloody spike in each hand.

The man responded how many would in his place, cursing up a storm. Marek knew he had a choice. He could send the spirit to attack the jailor—it was indeed armed—yet he’d seen that even the remnant dead could be killed. Small as the jailor’s knife was, it could destroy the spirit. Without further hesitation, Marek cast Ether Siphon. No unholy scream came from the creature, and it didn’t thank Marek for releasing it from its tortured existence. The spirit’s form merely dimmed as a stream of power poured into Marek’s outstretched hand.

Icy power raced through Marek’s veins. He filled his lungs in a gasp, ribs popping into place. The wounds in his body began to knit themselves shut.

The spirit vanished altogether. No longer held aloft, the spikes fell to the ground.

Two things happened then, one after the other. The first occurred in Marek’s mind. As he stood up from the table and arched his spine, his injuries almost completely healed, he reveled in a peculiar sensation that he’d been denied his entire life. He was healthy. His body was strong.

Marek felt absolutely capable.

Next, the inevitable transpired. Yanked back to the reality of the situation, the jailor drew his knife and attacked. The man had the blunt hands of a laborer. He was undoubtedly strong—Marek could judge that at a glance—yet he wasn’t skilled in fighting.

Rather than a straightforward thrust, the jailor lifted the blade above his head and brought it down in an arc. The knife would have sunk into the top of Marek’s shoulder, near the neck.

The Sigilist’s nephew didn’t feel like being stabbed, though. Marek figured he’d had enough steel in his body for one day. And unlike the jailor, he knew the basics of close combat. Having a friend like Mags made that fact a foregone conclusion. Despite his ever-present frailty, Mags had dragged him through more hours of sparring and drills by the time he’d turned fifteen than some soldiers. And compared to his nimble friend, this brute was sluggish and clumsy.

Marek stepped into the attack. Left hand flicking up, he caught the jailor’s forearm. Rotating his hips, upper body twisting rapidly, he pulled the jailor’s hand toward him for leverage. Then Marek’s elbow found its mark. It landed like a hammer blow, and he heard two sickly pops. As the jailor collapsed to the floor, he saw his opponent’s cheekbone had shattered. Half of the bastard’s face was caved in. And judging by the hideous angle of the jailor’s neck, the spine had gone as well.

All was quiet in the dungeon. Only the pounding of Marek’s heart and the faint rasp of his breath interrupted the silence. He stared at the hands attached to this borrowed body, unable to believe how quickly the fight had ended. “By the Old Gods,” he whispered. “Is this what it feels like to be strong?”

He fought down the urges to scream in joy and triumph, to weep for the misery he’d endured in his normal life. The rest of the Crucible awaited. Thus, he clamped down on the ecstatic energy roiling through his veins. Soon it vanished behind the partition, leaving him calm and steady.

He glanced down at the corpse at his feet and saw a spirit worming its way free. Without hesitation, he drew in the being’s ether. A portion of his Ether Core filled with power.

Then he searched the jailor’s body.

A minute later, Marek was creeping down a dark hall, a set of keys in one hand and a knife in the other.

14

EXECUTIONS

Marek killed one other man in the course of his escape. A drunken guard had been sitting outside the dungeon, and the poor lout hadn’t recognized the danger until Marek dragged the stolen knife across his throat.

Rather than claim the pathetic spirit, Marek decided to invest once more in his own power. Ether Siphon drained the guard’s spirit in seconds, filling Marek’s Core further.

He took the man’s cudgel and left the dungeon behind.

I’m in a keep of some kind. Wish I knew what my goal was. Serin could have told me that much. Despite his thoughts, he couldn’t summon anger toward the… thing that had guided him through his Subclass selection. Fear had always been a constant companion. Now held at bay, his body stout and true power at his fingertips, Marek felt alive.

Thankfully, the emotional sponge that was his Soulspace absorbed his excitement too. It had likely saved him from rushing ahead into danger. He settled for a slow jog and crept through the gray stone buildings, coming to an alley. Marek trod over grime-covered stones, slowing when he heard something ahead. Were those voices?

Wind blew through the alley, kicking up leaves, and the sound was lost. Unsure of what to expect ahead, he walked heel to toe to the end of the alley and peered around the corner. He found an open courtyard between four tall buildings. It was largely abandoned but for three men. The first was a priest, who was kneeling over the corpse of someone freshly beheaded. Last rites, if Marek had to guess. Another was the executioner himself. A big man with shoulders as wide as an oak, he ran a cloth along the length of the large sword, cleaning it meticulously.

“Sir, I’m afraid the task is not possible,” the third man said, voice barely audible from where Marek observed. “There’s too much blood soaked in! I don’t know where the blood stops and the wood begins!”

The executioner grunted, eyes focused on his task. “Clean it as best you can, Irwin. Don’t be so damn literal. It’s a chopping block. Of course you won’t get all the blood out of it.”

Finishing the rites, the priest crossed his chest, forming the six-pointed star of the Principalities in the air before saying, “Very good, then. Sir Rhinweld, you’ll be expected at the chapel shortly. Do make sure you clean up a little. My senior asked to make sure you were presentable.” Robes fluttering, the priest left the others behind.

Marek had other plans. Aside from the three living souls in the courtyard, his Empath’s Gaze picked up on many more that had expired some time ago. The spirits floated or shambled around the short stage that held the chopping block. All were in different states of decay, and Marek wondered if perhaps their appearance had more to do with how long they’d been deceased rather than their condition at the time of death.

He tucked aside the thought, intending to ask Serin about it later, and called upon what was rapidly becoming his favorite Spell. Better not to waste resources, he thought, unaware of the chilly pragmatism of the idea. I think the good priest might be delayed.

Marek focused on a tall, skeletal ghost shambling a few paces in front of the priest. It held an impressive mace in one hand. He wondered why some of the spirits wandering the courtyard were armed and others not, then decided to command the creature to do his bidding and be done with it. The apparition brightened after Command Spirit did its work, becoming visible for all to see. The priest shrieked once before his head popped like a grape. Attack the man with the sword, he told the spirit. And as the executioner glanced at where the priest had fallen, Marek charged.

Thirty yards was a short distance when running in such an athletic body. Even so, the three spirits Marek awakened near the unwitting Sir Rhinweld ended the knight long before he closed the distance. The executioner’s assistant died last. The young man stared at the remnant that stabbed him in the throat, too frozen with fear to move an inch.

Marek slowed and then stopped dead in his tracks. “Well, that was… underwhelming,” he muttered, observing the carnage. “With the powers I have, I can’t really see how this Crucible could be considered challenging.” He winced, hoping Serin—whatever the boy was—couldn’t hear him. He didn’t want to curse his luck.

Still, Marek was dumbfounded by the efficacy of his powers. I haven’t even seen the extent of what I can do. This is only a sample of a Soul Knight’s potential Abilities. What Level do I need to be to unlock them? Is there a particular order, like some Classes have? Tiers of power?

Marek sighed and let his frustration go. It didn’t serve him in this place.

All had fallen silent in the courtyard. The four spirits he’d claimed stared with glowing eyes, awaiting their orders. He paused then, aware his next decisions would prove crucial. “Okay, might as well thin out the crowd,” he thought aloud. “Not all of these look particularly useful in a fight.” Marek drained the assistant first, his soul drifting out from the fresh body. The young man wasn’t as weak as the spirit back in the dungeon, but he was nearly as unskilled.

Scanning the crowd of spirits, Marek found four more that were smaller than the rest. On closer inspection, two were more boys than men. The others were elderly, judging by their curved backs and drooping faces, though little enough remained of the ghostly flesh to judge with certainty.

He was left with twelve minions, all more or less capable of combat, counting the executioner. Five, along with the mace wielder, would be nasty opponents. They had the feel of thugs or bandits. Their souls had a tarnished feel to them. They’d been brutal men.

The executioner turned out to be quite the opposite. As he awakened the big man’s soul, Marek became distinctly aware of the skill the knight had once had. This was a capable spirit, drilled and disciplined by fine masters of sword, spear, and javelin. And unlike the rabble, his soul felt… well, noble. Several others in the group gave off a degree of goodness, as it were, but to far lesser degree.

Smiling to himself, Marek whispered under his breath, “Time to test out another Spell, I suppose. What will become of you, Rhinweld? Will you live up to your title?” Elevate Champion turned out to be an incredibly costly Spell to cast. He’d known as much before casting it but was still surprised when nearly all of his newly acquired resources drained away.

Despite this sacrifice, Marek was impressed by the results. Sir Rhinweld grew in stature, like the three warriors in the Soul Singer’s dream sequence. The ethereal sword he held grew brighter and more distinct. Through his link, Marek marveled at the increase in potential. This minion was incredible. When the Spell completed, words appeared in Marek’s mind, labeling the executioner as Sir Rhinweld: Minor Champion.

“Minor? Principalities, I wonder if I could elevate him again? And how many tiers of power are there?”

Marek sighed, wishing his strange guide had accompanied him on this quest. His thoughts were interrupted when he picked up on the sound of boots treading across stone in the distance. Two alleys opened up on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Marek cursed under his breath and commanded his flock of minions to line the wall behind the stage. Then he jogged on the balls of his feet toward the first alley. Nothing but debris could be seen that way. When he peered around the second corner, however, his eyes landed on a troop of soldiers marching in formation. Ten strong at least, and fully armed. Thankfully, they were further than he’d feared, the echoes of stomping boots carrying far due to the stark walls. He had time—only a little, but it was better than nothing.

Backtracking, Marek scrambled to come up with a plan. He had thirty seconds to prepare for a serious fight. And even though several of his spirits were strong, he feared the well-trained and armed soldiers could outmatch them. In a fair fight, he amended. And there’s no rules that say we have to do this on even footing.

Hopeful, Marek tried commanding one of the spirits to enter the stone wall. It comically pressed itself against the stone obediently but couldn’t enter. Damn, probably because Command Spirit gives them tangible bodies. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to kill or be killed.

Abandoning the idea, his eyes fell on the stage. Standing only four feet off the ground, and spanning twenty feet across, the shadows beneath were the only cover available. It certainly wasn’t a dignified plan, but his long illness had cured him of that need long ago. Marek gave his squadron of ghosts their orders, drained two more of the creatures, and walked back to the alley.

The soldiers were closer now, marching at a quick pace. His time had run out. Steeling his nerves, Marek stepped out to block their way and brandished the four feet of glimmering steel he’d borrowed from the late Sir Rhinweld.

Predictably, the troop halted at once. Their leader, a man distinguished by the red plume jutting up from his helm, shouted, “Halt! Who goes there?”

Marek nearly sighed in exasperation. “Who wrote this script?” So far, everyone he’d encountered spoke like they were characters in a fable. Figuring he was at the very least well versed in such nonsense, he shouted a fitting response. “It is I, the great and terrible Remnant Mage. I’ve come to kill you all!”

Then he retreated into the courtyard, cackling as the soldiers gave chase.

15

AMBUSH AND ALLIES

Principalities! Mirrin would die on the spot if he could see me now, Marek thought as he ran from the soldiers, eyes bright and focused. Given more context, though, Marek fancied his uncle might be proud.

Marek shot across the courtyard, sword clutched awkwardly in his hands. He was grateful no crossbowmen were among the guards. That would have put a notch in his plans. As it was, unencumbered by armor or any real weapons, he easily outpaced his pursuers. He even had to check his speed toward the end of the foot race so the men weren’t too far behind.

“Stop at once!” the leader shouted. “The priests will hang you, Mage!”

They were nearly where he needed them. Marek’s heart pounded in his chest, and he feared the soldiers might stop and ruin his ambush. His fears weren’t warranted, however. These imaginary men, part of a Crucible held within his own mind, hadn’t been given much cunning. Perhaps he’d been right. They might simply be following some prewritten script; he didn’t know. All that mattered was that the soldiers followed him closely as he passed by the execution stage.

Now! he screamed mentally. Ghostly hands thrust out from under the wooden scaffolding, catching hold of ankles and legs. The unlucky soldiers closest to the stage fell hard, shields battering the backs of their companions and toppling them as well. A once orderly formation fell into disarray. Six of the men were down in a blink, one killed as he was dragged under the stage and silenced with a ghostly blade.

Marek’s spirits swarmed out from their hiding place to finish the bloody work. His champion shoved through the mess of limbs and spears, eager for a bit of the action. Unsurprisingly, Rhinweld was a terror. His longsword beheaded two soldiers in seconds flat, and he pushed two others back, their spears flicking out defensively as the champion pursued them.

Marek noted that the fight would soon be over. No doubt, the Crucible only cared that he defeated his enemies, not how he did so. Yet he loathed the idea of being completely left out of the action twice in a row. It just felt wrong somehow. So he ran at the leader, greatsword in hand. The officer blinked at the slaughter behind him and then at Marek charging. Finding an admirable dose of courage, the leader shifted his weight and thrust his long spear at Marek’s belly. At the last moment, a flash of blue filled his eyes. The incoming weapon doubled in speed.

Damn, a Skill! Marek thought, dodging to one side. The man’s attack had been lightning quick, though. The steel spearpoint bit into Marek’s side, grazing his ribs. Pain shot down his right leg and up into his armpit, the spear cutting all the way to the bone. Marek cursed his negligence. He’d somehow forgotten the use of Skills and Spells. So far, his opposition had been cut down well before they had a chance to use any Abilities. This fight would be different.

Teeth bared in pain, Marek held his stance. Briefly, he considered using Ravening Flare, but the Spell would drain valuable resources. Besides, he’d chosen to fight this man for the chance to gain familiarity in armed combat, not roast his enemy with a flick of the hand. Leaping back, he surveyed the scene. His spirits were finishing the soldiers, and even as he looked, Sir Rhinweld stabbed one of his foes through the belly, kicking the man’s body off his blade so it crashed into another victim.

Clearly, the battle was his.

Deciding to make use of the experience, Marek held to his decision to fight the leader alone. Stay close, he commanded his forces. Kill him if I’m badly injured.

There was no reason to take more risk than was absolutely necessary. Marek felt certain the hardest part of this challenge was yet to come. He wanted to wet his blade, to test his abilities and the strength of his body. For all the time he’d spent playing soldier with Mags, they’d all been experienced in an immature and feeble body. He needed to understand how far he could push himself before great challenges came.

The officer pursued. His spear flicked out like the tongue of a snake, never overcommitting and always harassing Marek. The tactic was effective.

Marek evaded three more thrusts and took another blow to his thigh before he decided to invest some of his ether in a little protection. Spirit Body manifested in a flash of light, plates of dimly glowing armor covering every part of his body in seconds. The man attacking him gaped, spear slowing for an instant as he took in the transformation.

Regardless of what his opponent saw, Marek decided the Ability was worthy of praise. His intuitive knowledge told him he could invest more of his power and continue to bolster his defenses. Even in its base form, however, Spirit Body gave Marek a sense of invulnerability. Without the weight of carrying it, he was in essence covered head to toe in plate mail.

It was Marek’s turn to press the attack. He dashed in, sword point tilted forward and down to intercept the guard’s spear. Sure enough, the officer reacted with a thrust. Marek turned the spearpoint and lunged closer. He pivoted and slashed at the man’s leading leg, but his target backpedaled.

The contest then began in earnest. As Marek fought the leader, he thought of Mags, the one who’d taught him everything he knew of combat. She’d only been able to instill so much, given the limits of his frail body, yet already he was pushing himself beyond her training. The officer was as fine a sparring partner as he could have asked for, more skilled by far than Marek. Had he not conjured his armor, Marek would have fallen to countless small injuries. Each time the soldier landed a hit, the blade bounced off the invisible protection. A tiny thread of his ether drained as well as it worked to repair the damage. Regardless, it wouldn’t hold much longer. Marek guessed that if the leader used another Skill, it might be strong enough to shatter one of the plates.

He waited, trading blows with the man, until a blue flash colored the officer’s gaze. Now, he told himself, stepping into the attack. Marek twisted his body, swinging his sword in a two-handed slash. The spear pounded into the side of his armor, and sure enough, it gave way. Searing pain lit up the front of his body, the spear carving a gash across the muscles of his chest. He took the injury in stride. His tactic had paid off. Momentum carried the officer forward, his arms extended, committed to the thrust. Marek’s slash completed its arc at the perfect time.

The officer found the limitations of his own defenses then. The chainmail shirt the man wore held up admirably, mostly blunting the attack, yet the man’s ribcage paid the price beneath the steel mesh. Bones cracked under the punishment the massive blade doled out. His opponent staggered to the side, left arm falling limp, and the spear he held sagged.

Marek didn’t wait to see the man recover. He drew back his sword and thrust, stabbing cleanly through the officer’s chest. More a display of office than a practical weapon, the executioner’s sword was a clumsy instrument. In Marek’s strong hands, it was also deadly.

The man’s face paled. Eyes wide, he opened his mouth. Only a gurgle came out. He died in seconds flat, heart likely cleaved in two. Marek tried to copy what Rhinweld had done by stomping his foot on the man’s chest. He failed to remove his sword with half as much grace, but after a few yanks he pulled it free.

Marek panted. Sweat dripped from his brow, and blood pattered to the stone paving. He surveyed the aftermath of the battle and was pleased with the results. A quick count told him only two of his minions had been killed. The rest awaited his command. More importantly, a host of newcomers drifted about the courtyard aimlessly. Each of the fallen soldiers’ souls was valuable, not as potent as the knight’s but capable and strong.

“Good,” he said after catching his breath. “If things keep ramping up like this, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

He went to work, gathering his resources and building a larger force of spirit fighters. When he’d finished prioritizing his potential allies, Marek drained several to fill his reserves. In total, he commanded seventeen fighters, ten common soldiers, five of his previous warriors, and two heavy hitters. Sir Rhinweld was joined by a second imposing figure known as Officer in Red: Minor Champion.

Marek eyed the plumed spirit doubtfully. “Don’t think I could best you like this,” he said as he appraised the officer’s increased stature. “Not without using more of my Abilities. Still, can’t help but feel sad. You weren’t exactly given honor with that name of yours.”

The ghost stared blankly back at Marek, devoid of intelligence.

Marek sighed. “Oh, well. Let’s get on with it, shall we, Officer in Red?” He issued mental commands, and his minions wheeled round and shambled toward the alley the soldiers had come from.

Anxiety and excitement boiled behind the partition in his mind, ever present but subdued. Marek was grateful. He didn’t have need of his emotions at the moment. He only needed to gain power. He needed to complete the Crucible. So he marched through the castle grounds, host in tow. Occasionally, what appeared to be a common villager would have the misfortune of greeting the fell company. Marek acted pragmatically. He slaughtered the innocent and claimed their souls, topping up his Core to near bursting by the time he entered what could only be the end of his trial.

The energy would be sorely needed, he thought, as he took in the enemy. Rank upon rank of soldiers stood guard on the opposite side of a bridge. Behind them, a handful of priests worked on the steps leading up to a small stone chapel.

Marek didn’t know what he’d come across, but he suspected he’d soon find out.

16

FALLEN PRIESTHOOD

Up to this point, the Crucible had been linear, his progression straightforward. Marek had the suspicion that even if he’d taken the other alley, he and his forces would have ended up at the chapel eventually.

Solidifying this notion, a prompt suddenly filled Marek’s vision. Stop the High Priests from summoning the demon Azinai or defeat the demon if summoned. Time until summoning: 10 minutes.

Marek felt his palms grow damp against the hilt of the greatsword. It wouldn’t be easy to stop the priests. He counted six of them standing in a ring at the top of the steps leading up to the chapel. Standing guard some twenty feet below were at least thirty soldiers like those he’d killed near the executioner’s block. These couldn’t easily be ambushed either, since they stood in orderly ranks on the other side of the small bridge.

A stream ran below the bridge, the water swift. He guessed it was fifteen feet across. Closer to his position, several pillars of stone thrust up from the paving stones, two connected by archways of carved stone that climbed well over forty feet high. No pathway Marek could see led to the chapel but for the one that lay before him.

A bridge battle where I’m outnumbered? he thought, chewing his lips. Bad odds to say the least. I do have two champions. They’ll tip the scales a bit, as will I. Still, there are, what… three —no, four officers to contend with? The red plumes were easy to spot at a distance. And though he had trouble confirming the exact number of soldiers, he was able to count four ranks in total. I’ll assume forty, he concluded. And the priests might make forty-six, if each turns out to be a magic user.

The five robed figures chanted rhythmically. As he watched, they held out their hands. Threads of coiling black mana extended inward to form a six-sided star, the hexagram of the Principalities. No, not quite, he thought. This hexagram is tilted. One point stands at the top where there should be two. Is this some kind of cult?

The complexity of the scenario astounded him. If this whole test was merely about him unlocking his powers, why the depth, the lore, the script? Logic told him it might do some good to remember as many details as possible, so he let his eye wander over the scene for another full minute in the hopes of discovering any other information. Marek figured it was a good investment. There was little chance he could get through the soldiers in time to stop the summoning. Besides, it wasn’t his way to rush into things. With the calming influence of his Soulspace quelling his emotions, his methodical nature prevailed.

He examined the bridge, the scenes of battle scrawled into the pale stone above the entrance to the chapel, even the symbols etched on the soldiers’ round shields. Wait, those are sigils! he thought. And they’re… He swallowed hard, nausea sweeping over him. The crest was simple and cleverly shaped. A pair of sigils were woven together intricately to form a single shape. The first sigil was that of Tenacity, the sixth Principality. The second read Death. Few occasions called for the cursed mark. Only a handful of times in his life had he watched Mirrin use the sigil, and only for one purpose: to mark an enchanted gravestone. Preservation Beyond Death was the three-sigil combination commonly used on tombs or gravestones. Only the wealthy could afford it, though, so in a place like Misthearth, it was rare.

Marek saw the priests wore the dual sigils as well. That won’t help me now, he thought, shaking his head. What am I missing? What can help me win this?

And then his eyes landed on something much closer at hand. A cluster of gnarled vines, each as thick as a man’s arm, climbed up one of the closest pillars. The vines were connected to several other pillars all around the courtyard, their blossoming streamers dangling above the path.

The blossoms didn’t concern Marek. It was the arch the main vine climbed up to that set off his instincts. It would be a long shot, but he couldn’t afford to lose any more time. A plan solidified in his mind. Marek paused, remembering he was also a Sigilist. Could he not use Intuit to ensure success? When he attempted it, he was rewarded only with a headache and another prompt. Class Abilities other than those given to Remnant Mage Subclasses are not permitted during the Crucible.

With that out of the way, he withdrew. Marek quickly sorted out which of his warriors were best suited for the various roles he had in mind. Commands were given, three groups formed. Then he marched out with his champions flanking him, so that all could see his approach. The soldiers he’d converted marched close behind in two small ranks. He was spotted almost immediately.

“The Remnant Mage is loose!” a priest shouted. “Defend the Church of the Second Dawn! Guards, keep that fiend at bay until we finish the ritual!”

All went according to plan until a cluster of five crossbowmen emerged from the formation, taking aim at Marek and his champions. Gotta speed things up. Hoped I could taunt a few soldiers into attacking, but no such luck. With ranged fighters on their side and a direct command to do otherwise, he abandoned the idea. To the front, he ordered the ten soldiers.

His minions marched toward battle, their boots and armored figures passing silently. It was an eerie sight that had goosebumps rising from Marek’s forearms. The sharp snap of firing crossbows echoed throughout the courtyard. Oddly muffled thunks followed as Marek’s soldiers intercepted the bolts with ghostly shields. Marek watched his minions advance. They’d made it halfway across the bridge before the enemy took action.

“Defend the bridge!” an officer bellowed. All four ranks marched forward. Half a dozen soldiers crowded shoulder to shoulder to block the end of the bridge.

Then the two forces clashed. It wasn’t the headlong charge one imagines in a famous battle; both sides were well trained in the same tactics, and Marek had ordered his warriors to fight defensively. It wasn’t time to press the attack.

Not all the pieces were yet in play.

Time ground by at a painstaking pace. The crossbowmen fired intermittently at Marek’s warriors but could do little but distract them, given the poor angle they had to fire from. The front rank of their men stood too close to risk it, and the second stood ready with shields high.

Every now and then, a defender or one of Marek’s spirit soldiers would be wounded. His apparitions were resilient. The creatures wouldn’t quit until they’d depleted their life force. And they kept fighting as if uninjured, unlike the humans. One among the enemy would fall soon enough; Marek was sure of it. He stuck to his plan, however, confident it was his best option.

Then it happened. The five strongest souls he’d awakened at the executioner’s courtyard leapt down from the archway they’d climbed across. The clamor from the fight was so loud none heard them as they charged the enemy flank. Almost at that exact moment, one of the enemy soldiers died from a spear through his throat.

Now, Marek thought, using Command Spirit on the fallen soldier. The appearance of an unfriendly ghost in their midst disrupted the front line, throwing it into chaos. His warriors attacked from the side seconds later, surprising all but a few of the men. In seconds, the first two ranks broke formation.

Marek didn’t let up. He had gained a bit of momentum, and it was time to capitalize on it as best he could. His trusty Officer in Red trudged forward, weaving through the front-line fighters. He crashed into the chaos, killing two more in moments. These joined the fight immediately after, falling upon the men who’d seconds ago been their allies. It was terrible to watch. More terrible still was the satisfaction Marek took from his ploy. His spirit soldiers were dying as well, but their numbers replenished continually, something that couldn’t be said for the enemy. Minutes after the battle had started, half of them were down, souls awakened, the back two ranks giving ground to form a ring around the priests.

Crossbowmen, spread out and pepper the men standing lowest on the steps. Soldiers, attack the flanks as a distraction! Officer in Red, punch through and kill the priests!

His minions obeyed, and the enemy died screaming.

Marek watched from the apex of the bridge. Sir Rhinweld stood silent and resolute beside him. Marek was beginning to wonder if he and the executioner might not be needed after all. The Officer in Red ran headlong at the two soldiers standing in his way, both wounded by crossbow bolts that jutted out from their armor here and there. Another mental order was given, and the minor champion triggered the same Ability he’d used against Marek. Another soldier died, his companion falling onto his back inside the ring of defenders.

The priests eyed the champion nervously, and Marek smiled. Busy as they were, none appeared capable of lifting a hand in their own defense.

A pinprick of light illuminated the hexagram formed by the mages’ dark mana. Marek’s stomach filled with ice as he watched it expand rapidly in a sphere of white and black. As his champion drove a spear through a priest’s heart, the sphere exploded. The stone beneath Marek’s feet shook, and the young man stared in awe at the being standing on the stairs, nine feet tall and radiating power. Gray skin stretched taut over too much muscle and sinew. Its torso was unnaturally tall, its eyes inky black. Other than these features and its enormous size, the demon might have passed as human.

The nearby priests and soldiers had been knocked to the ground, some likely dead or dying, yet his own forces didn’t seem greatly affected by the explosion. His champion was within range, and Marek wasn’t about to throw away the opportunity. Kill it! he ordered frantically. Then he raised five more souls that had died in the seconds prior.

Marek bit his lip as the minor champion flung the priest from his spear. He closed the distance to the demon in two strides. Tapping into the rest of his power, the champion triggered the Unwavering Thrust Skill once more. The champion’s attack struck gray skin. Even from Marek’s point of view, he could tell the blow was devastating, penetrating deeply and likely punching out through the creature’s back.

Marek’s champion moved with purpose. Tearing the spear free, the Officer in Red struck again, this time aiming for its foe’s head.

Then the demon moved. Its arm swung up to connect with the shaft of the spear. Wood shattered and splinters flew in all directions. Before the champion could withdraw, the demon stabbed a hand forward as if it were holding a dagger. Blade-like, the appendage drove through the smaller warrior’s spine. The Officer in Red stiffened, the bright energy burning within its form dissipating as it died.

No blood was spilled, but Marek still considered the sight gruesome. In the blink of an eye, one of his most powerful allies had been destroyed.

Marek stared in shock as the demon dashed here and there, moving at incredible speed and seemingly unbothered by the gaping wound in its belly. Every time it attacked, a spirit soldier was destroyed. Not a single movement was wasteful, and few attacks were blocked. So frenzied was the monster that not even the soldiers sworn to protect the demon were spared. The creature slaughtered all within range, either uncaring of who was friend or foe or unable to tell the difference. Marek raised the dying soldiers in the hopes of overwhelming the monster, but none did more than scratch its gray hide.

These weren’t real men dying, but Marek nevertheless despaired. To a Remnant Mage, each spirit destroyed was a tremendous loss. These were resources he couldn’t replace. For the first time since he’d left the dungeon, Marek feared for his chances. The dread and anxiety churned beyond the barrier, so insistent some leaked through and chilled the young man’s heart.

The demon turned its back on a trio of dead soldiers, ceasing its slaughter momentarily. Marek ripped himself from fear’s clutches and added up all that remained. Five crossbowmen. Two spirit soldiers. Nine souls newly slain. Damn, but that thing works fast!

Cursing under his breath, Marek had no choice but to fall back on plan B.

Draining the souls nearest to the demon first, Marek filled his Ether Core to bursting. Only when he sensed danger did he relent. Then he faced Sir Rhinweld and cast Elevate Champion a second time.

Again, the executioner grew in size, and again, the fell light pouring from Rhinweld’s form brightened. The greatsword in his hand suddenly burst into ghostly flame. Standing a full eight feet, he was nearly a match in size for the demon. And when Marek sensed the addition of a new Skill, he knew he’d made the right choice.

The singular enemy glared down from its perch on the chapel stairs. Its feet were smeared red, its clawed hands dripping with the blood of its followers. Hissing, the demon bent its knees and vaulted clear across the battlefield, landing at the base of the bridge.

Marek took a calming breath, then drained the five crossbowmen that remained and cast Spirit Body.

17

THE NIGHT AND THE KNIGHTED

Marek backpedaled, keeping his distance from the demon. He commanded Sir Rhinweld to do the same. It wouldn’t do to lose his only ally so early in the fight.

The demon hissed in anger. Stopping at the crest of the bridge, it held out one great hand, summoning a spear forged from darkness.

“Not fair! That thing is huge! Its reach is way too much for me to handle, and all I have is a sword!”

His opponent didn’t seem to care about fairness. Baring its teeth, the demon attacked again. Its spearpoint drove toward Marek’s chest, and the young man barely had time to dodge. The next attack shot high. Marek ducked, but his reaction was too slow. Demonic steel clanged off ghostly armor, and the helm cracked and fell to the ground in chunks.

Head spinning and growing desperate, Marek commanded his champion to attack from the demon’s flank. That would at least buy them both a little time. Yet before Rhinweld finished the sweeping slash, the demon revealed one of its Abilities: A flash of black flame erupted from the demon’s form, and then it disappeared… only to emerge less than a second later by Marek’s side, fist glowing with power. The punch slammed into Marek’s Spirit Body, and the chest section cracked. Marek flew through the air, too stunned to cry out in pain. Then he crashed into the stone railing of the bridge. Bits of stone peppered the sky, and a small cloud of dust rose around him. Marek’s Spirit Body shattered like glass before dissipating.

Marek’s vision swam. His ears rang, and he tasted copper on his tongue. He gaped like a fish, mouth working and throat straining. Defend me was the only command he could think of. Sir Rhinweld did his very best. The champion engaged the demon with wide, sweeping slashes. The tactic was common with longsword fighting, its intent not to inflict harm but to create distance. Marek was grateful for his companion. If not for the knight’s skill and power, he might have died before his lungs had recovered. Several seconds later, he gasped as precious air filled his chest at last.

The demon soon tired of giving ground. Resummoning its spear, it made a thrust at Sir Rhinweld’s helm. When the knight blocked, the demon teleported once more, appearing to the side and well behind the champion’s guard. Fist glowing, the bastard was going to throw another of its empowered punches.

Swift Parry! Marek commanded, urging the champion to expend yet more precious ether. Sir Rhinweld’s form shimmered, and then the executioner’s sword blurred in the air. Marek couldn’t believe his eyes. The champion managed to sidestep the punch and throw a counter at the same time. Glowing with ethereal power, the knight’s sword nearly severed the demon’s arm just below the shoulder. The white of the creature’s bone lay exposed when the knight withdrew.

That’s what you get for trying the same trick twice, Marek thought. He swallowed a mouthful of blood and forced himself to stand. Rhinweld had already surpassed his expectations, but the champion couldn’t kill this enemy on his own.

As Marek steadied himself and prepared to reenter the fight, he ordered Rhinweld to attack. He was hopeful the champion might at least inflict a little more harm before the inevitable occurred. The knight came within range, and Marek’s heart dropped. The towering enemy didn’t give way, nor did it attempt to block. Instead, it activated yet another Ability. Clutching its wounded arm, nose wrinkled to bare black teeth and a crimson tongue, the demon unleashed a torrent of purple and black flame. It wrapped around Rhinweld’s form, rapidly eating away at the knight’s armor. His champion couldn’t take the punishment for long.

Pull back! Marek commanded, tapping into his reserves and resummoning Spirit Body. This time, he invested more energy. As the ether poured from his Ether Core, he felt the armor’s power increase. Marek also sensed something new—additional strength and dexterity he hadn’t previously possessed filled his limbs. It was intoxicating. His ghostly armor, it would seem, had more than a single purpose.

Sir Rhinweld stumbled back, sword held up to shield against the lingering flames. Large holes pockmarked the knight’s chest and arms. The spirit wouldn’t be hindered by its wounds, but Marek knew his champion was close to death. Even one more blow would destroy his only remaining ally.

Stubbornly, Marek threw himself back into the fight. Moving faster, he attacked from the demon’s flank. Swinging the greatsword high in a feint, Marek withdrew as his foe moved to block. Then he activated Dreadful Cut for the first time. Similar to the Officer’s thrust, his sword flashed red with power, slashing at an impossible speed. His blade cleaved straight through the demon’s thigh. The creature wobbled and threw back its head in a roar.

Champion, attack! Marek swung again, hoping to hold the demon’s attention while his knight landed another hit.

The summoned monster disappeared in a cloud of black flame, then reappeared twenty feet down the bridge. The monster panted as it clutched the railing to support its bulk. Dark blood poured from its severed leg.

Must be the limit of the Skill’s distance, Marek thought. Or it’s running out of power. Either way, best finish this quick.

Leering, the demon looked between Marek and Rhinweld’s advancing forms. Its whole body shuddered briefly, and then the flesh of its thigh began to glow. For the second time in the battle, Marek cursed the unfairness of the match. They’d thrown everything they had at the Rift-born monster, and now it was healing itself.

Marek swallowed his frustration and charged. He outpaced his champion and reached their foe first, slashing at the creature’s opposite leg. Predictably, the demon teleported again and reappeared ten feet away, clutching the opposite railing. Marek held up his right hand and drew a massive portion of his remaining ether. Ravening Flare erupted from his palm and splashed across the monster’s chest and face. Marek’s fire was the color of light cast through a ruby, like living blood. It lacked true heat, but damn, if it wasn’t beautiful. And more than that, it was deadly. Marek fought the urge to reel back from his own conjured flames. His body feared its power.

When the fire winked out, Marek was struck dumb. The demon seemed mostly unharmed, only a few blisters marring its gray skin. Worse yet, its mouth was open wide, and Marek watched as a plume of its own magical fire came forth. Tit for tat, he thought as he dashed right to evade. A terrible heat seeped through his armor, and he could hear his only protection creaking like a ship at sea. Thin cracks formed along his left side, where the demon fire burned the hottest.

The attack finally abated, yet Marek’s relief died when the demon smashed the bridge with an enormous foot—the one it had apparently finished regrowing. Then it charged Marek, fist wreathed in dark fire. Marek didn’t have time to evade, so he commanded Rhinweld to use another Skill. Honorable Rebuff had a limited function, yet it proved invaluable. The knight’s blade slashed in an arc, leaving behind the afterimage of a shield hovering above the ground. The demon’s punch bounced off the shield, and the creature staggered back a pace.

Marek gritted his teeth. Now, he thought. We end it now.

Tapping into the last of his reserves, he threw a Dreadful Cut at the demon’s neck. His sword slashed deep into the creature’s flesh. Cold steel grated against the bone of an enormous spine. Black blood misted the air. The demon roared silently, no longer able to produce sound with a severed windpipe.

Marek gave his final command. Execute! he screamed, activating the champion’s newly acquired Skill. Sir Rhinweld’s blade hummed with power. The executioner moved in a blur, sword slashing at the demon’s neck. A wet crack rang out. An ugly head tumbled to the ground. It smacked the stone bridge wetly and rolled to a stop at Marek’s feet.

He’d done it. He could hardly believe his eyes, but he’d killed the damn thing. Chest heaving, Marek sighed in relief. Then the body, the decapitated head, and the pool of black blood vanished into thin air.

The young man stared blankly as the scene grew yet more confusing. Rhinweld disappeared next, Marek’s greatest minion lingering only long enough to give a salute with the flat of his blade to his forehead. The courtyard, the chapel, the stone arches, and finally the bridge itself burned away into a white fog. Marek soon found himself floating in a sea of whiteness. His body disintegrated last of all. Unable to move or speak, only his awareness remained.

Then a voice trembled in that eerie place, both wise and ancient. Well done, Marek Kaiteras. You have survived the Crucible and become the next Remnant Mage. The world cannot wait any longer. Seek the Monk and the Hero who will fight with you at the End. It is time one of my progeny finishes the work I started so very long ago.

Marek’s mind spun, trying desperately to decipher the words he was hearing. No explanations were given. Serin didn’t make another appearance, nor was Marek returned to the grand hall with three statues. He waited long moments, perhaps hours, until the voice spoke again.

Wake, Soul Knight, heir of Logaine Kaiteras, the first of three lines of succession. Wake and seize your power as the first Soul Knight in existence. Wake and claim your destiny. Save the Coherent Realm and save this world.

18

A DREAM’S AFTERMATH

Marek woke as Serin had predicted. Before the first light of dawn touched Misthearth, Marek tumbled into wakefulness, soaked with dew and chilled to the bone.

His body ached as he sat up. Groaning, he rubbed his temples, hoping to drive away some of the fog. Logic, help me, but that dream was insane. Horrendous, exciting, terrifying! Marek swallowed hard as he finally allowed himself to take in his surroundings. The sloping barrow downs stretched out on all sides. The ancient wall stood mutely, seeming to cast judgment. “Was it a dream? Surely, it had to be.”

A thought sprang up in his mind. He grabbed hold of it, needing something concrete to moor him to reality. “If it was real, then I would have Empath’s Gaze. I’d be able to examine one of my new Abilities at will. Like… Spirit Body.”

Marek allowed his intention to guide the action. He let his will be known, a desire to read a description of the Ability. Words sprang up across his vision, the letters glowing in his mind’s eye and overlaying the tangible world around him.

Spirit Body (Tier 1): A conjured suit of ethereal armor that encases the Remnant Mage head to foot. The durability of this armor depends on the amount of ether invested. Movement speed and strength may be enhanced with greater degrees of investment. Armor will become invisible after conjuration and will sustain itself by feeding from the mage’s Ether Core.

Marek slapped both hands over his mouth, his muscles trembling more from fear than the deep chill his body had endured. “My gods,” he whispered, fearful of his own words. “It’s all true.”

For a moment, the young man wanted nothing more than to forget the past twenty-four hours and resume his mundane life. It was tempting to lie back down and close his eyes. Instead, he thought perhaps he’d imagined the description of Spirit Body. Perhaps he was merely febrile and in need of rest. Recalling another of the powers he’d wielded in the Crucible, he thought of Dreadful Cut.

This time nothing happened. Marek frowned and rubbed at the center of his forehead with two fingers. I saw what I saw. No point in playing games, Marek. Might as well accept it… but how? This is insane! How could I have possibly gained Abilities from the Remnant Mage Class?

His thought didn’t go unnoticed. Sensing his intent, Empath’s Gaze activated a second time, drumming up a list in his mind.

Remnant Mage (Soul Knight) Abilities

Passive: Empath’s Gaze

Active: Ether Siphon, Spirit Body

No amount of denial could help him now. Panic swallowed Marek whole, and he was up and sprinting toward town before he knew it. He ran as fast as his stiff legs could bear him. No concern for injury crossed his mind. He held fast to one concept, a thought that promised a degree of comfort in this strange new reality. Mirrin will know what to do.

He ran on until he’d come again to Northshore. Finding Mason’s Bridge, he veered south. Marek passed a few townsfolk who’d risen early and ignored their looks of concern.

It was a harder task to ignore his body. His world blurred with pain. Biting cold lingered in the tips of his fingers and toes, a throbbing ache slowly overtaking the numbness he’d woken to. His legs burned nearly as much as his lungs. Not in years had he run like this, and as he neared the mage tower, Marek felt the consequences in every fiber of his being.

Panic drove him onward like a frenzied horse. Twice he stumbled and fell, but he only rolled back up to his feet and continued.

Passing by the steps leading up to the stone tower, Marek spied Rauld in the flesh. It was abnormal for the old man to wake so early. Unlike most elderly folk, the mage preferred to sleep late and stay up late, a fact he attributed to a “keen intellect.” Yet here the mage was, leaning on his gnarled staff, free hand tucked into the opposite sleeve of his robe as was his custom. Rauld’s demeanor was stranger still. The man glowered down at Marek. His eyes brimmed with accusation.

Now you’re inventing things, Marek told himself. There’s no way he knows what happened. The Crucible took place in my mind; Serin told me so. Regardless, the young man’s instincts disagreed. Marek waved clumsily at his friend and broke eye contact. He couldn’t explain a thing to Rauld. As much as he loved the mage, Marek needed to speak with his uncle first.

Sometime later, Marek found himself at the top of the stairs before his uncle’s home. The muscles of his legs writhed like snakes beneath his skin. His lungs rasped. Fear still hounded his heart, but relief that he’d soon be safe at home comforted him.

He could scarcely stand as he stumbled to the front door and pounded against the wood with the heel of his fist.

“Marek!” Mirrin called within. “Is that you?” The old man unlatched the door and drew it back, eyes narrowed in worry. “Where have you been?”

Marek couldn’t utter a word. He’d need to catch his breath first. More important was the need to shut out the world. He rushed inside and slammed the door shut, latching it behind him. Only then did he allow himself to collapse in exhaustion.

“What’s going on, boy?” he heard his uncle ask. “You’re shaking and… You look a mess, Marek! Hold on, I’ll fetch your medicine. Just hold on.”

Mirrin left his nephew panting on hands and knees and returned a moment later. He uncorked the bottle of tincture and steadied his hands as he poured a small portion into a kitchen spoon. “Sit up, boy. Let’s get some in you, and then you can⁠—”

Perhaps the medicine would have alleviated Marek’s symptoms. The tincture hadn’t been administered in time, however, and before Mirrin could touch the spoon to Marek’s lips, the young man’s entire body seized and convulsed. His back straightened violently and his arms swung wide. Incidentally, this knocked Mirrin to the ground. The Sigilist landed with a grunt. The tinkle of glass and splash of liquid followed but were scarcely audible over the low growl that filled the small house.

It’s my voice, Marek noted distantly. That’s the sound of my body failing me at last. His legs cramped. Sweat poured from his skin, soaking his clothes in an instant. Perhaps it was a dream after all. A fever dream. And now I’m dying. Marek lost hold of his mind then. His thoughts flitted through the experiences of the night before, recalled the visions of the three Remnant Mages, his conversation with the boy that was also a shadow, the slaughter of forty soldiers and six monks, all at Marek’s command.

He recalled what he’d tested upon first waking: Spirit Body. The Ability’s description had been burned deep into his memory.

“Oh, my,” Mirrin said from somewhere nearby, gruff voice lost in the haze that surrounded Marek. “Can it be? Has it all been for nothing?”

Then Marek was standing, his arms and legs moving of their own accord. Plates of shimmering armor encased his body in the span of a single breath.

He saw the faces of the spirits he’d summoned. The clashing of soldiers at the end of a stone bridge, one side ghostly and terrible, the other composed of four ranks of common men. Spears seeking flesh. Blood spilling from bodies as fragile as his own. More terrible still was the remembrance of Marek’s tranquil mind. Had he truly done such things without remorse? He didn’t know for certain those men were illusory. What if his soul had been transported to another part of the world? What if he’d slaughtered a host of men and thought nothing of it?

The image of a demon’s face came next. Black and bottomless eyes. Gray skin, black fangs, a crimson tongue. The desperate fight against a foe much too strong for him. Sir Rhinweld fighting at his side and helping him butcher that evil thing.

Suddenly, he was back in his uncle’s house. Taller than he should be, body somehow strong and protected, Marek looked down at the old man that had raised him. Fear was carved into every feature of Mirrin’s face.

Marek’s eyes flitted to a trio of spirits hovering near the hearth. A mother and two daughters, their spirits reduced to skeletal remains draped in loose dresses. These were goodly souls. They’d lived here before Mirrin had come, been slain in the night by thieves seeking to take advantage of their vulnerability. The mother reached out her hand and called to Marek. He couldn’t understand her words. They blended together in a horrible drawl. Screams, Marek realized. The spirits are screaming.

Exhaustion overcame Marek then. A sense of emptiness within his chest that chilled him to the bone. He collapsed in a heap of limbs at his uncle’s feet, his ether expended, no longer able to sustain his unbidden powers.

And as blackness seeped in around him like a rising tide, he heard the voice of his uncle. “It’s finally happened. My poor boy’s power has awoken. Principalities, save us all.”

19

LOVING BETRAYAL

Needless to say, it was a good long while before Marek came to, and longer still until he was in any shape to have the talk he so desperately wanted. By the good graces of the Six that govern from above, his uncle was a patient and nurturing man.

Marek drifted in and out of consciousness. Each time he awoke, some detail had changed. Warmth against his pallid cheek, the pop of oakwood in the hearth beside him. His damp clothes removed to dry and blankets wrapped snuggly about his frame. Pillows propping up his head and legs. Mirrin tottering about like a decrepit angel, muttering, “Should have told you years ago,” and “All for nothing,” and “Owed him the truth, I did; I just didn’t have the courage.” More than once, Marek questioned these unfinished statements. And every time he did so, Mirrin would wave him off, promising to explain it all as soon as he was stable.

Eventually the fire, the blankets, the cup of wine mulled with herbs, and strong tea did their work. Marek didn’t know what time it was, but his shivering ceased. The discomfort of his body persisted. Strength returned quicker than he’d hoped, however, and at last he remained awake long enough to persuade Mirrin to answer his burning questions: “What happened to me? Why did I become a Remnant Mage?”

Mirrin perched on a cushion of his own, face troubled. Mercifully, he began his explanation. “Much of the histories taught in Ardea aren’t accurate. The three kingdoms governed by men are particularly skewed in their… interpretations of our world,” Mirrin said, his smile rueful. “For instance, the Principalities aren’t gods! I know what you’re thinking. Judgment forbid a priest overhear me, but I promised you the truth and here it is. The Principalities, though nearly all-powerful and immortal, are more like aspects of the system that govern the Coherent Realm.”

Marek finished his drink and rolled to his side, observing as the old man narrated a version of history he’d never heard before.

“One cannot simply gain enough power to become a Principality. A great sacrifice, one that upholds the principle the man or woman lived by, must be made. Each of the Six are different in age and character. Logic came first, or so the historians of Casteras claim, and oddly enough, the Ardeans actually agree on that point. Indeed, it was more than ten thousand years ago. The others came after at various times.”

Mirrin paused and set his cup aside. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small object. Studying it in his palm for a time, Mirrin leaned closer and handed it to Marek.

“A sigil stamp?” Marek asked, recognizing the heavy lump of metal, one side flat and smooth, the other holding the familiar shape of a sigil. “Tenacity… I see where you’re going now, Uncle, but you sure have a way of taking your time getting there.”

Mirrin chuckled. “I suppose you’re right. It’s the best I can do, so settle down and ponder the stamp I’ve given you. Tenacity is the source of everything I’m about to tell you. The stubborn bastard was born over a thousand years ago, before the Rift was formed between the Coherent and Unbound Realms.”

Marek’s eyes widened. “Uncle! Retelling the histories and now blaspheming one of the Six? You’ll call down a curse on the both of us!”

“Pah! Tradition and culture are fine things. Superstition is a blindfold that leads nowhere. Now, listen. I need to tell you more about progression and how one reaches the higher tiers of power. It’s all connected like a net, boy. Be patient.”

Loosening his palate with another sip of wine, Mirrin continued, “As you know, an Apprentice ranges from Levels 1 to 9. Novice spans 10 to 19. A Journeyman in a given Class is anywhere between Levels 20 and 39, and of course Master is 40 to 79. Next comes Artisan, which is a massive leap in power; it stretches from Level 80 all the way up to 120!”

Marek’s heart practically skipped a beat. He tried to lift himself and instead triggered a fit of coughing. Only when he’d settled down again did Mirrin chastise the young man. “Apologies, but you’ll need to forgive me! I thought Master was the highest tier! There are so few in Misthearth, and even Rauld is only a Master.”

Mirrin chuckled softly. “Misthearth is small, Marek. And Rauld is more than he appears. No, don’t question me further. If the mage wishes you to know the extent of his power, he’ll tell you himself. Now, before your eyes fall out of your head, quiet down. I’m not done.

“Level 120 acts as a natural cap of power that few can surpass. Few prove capable of reaching higher. To do so, one must understand their Class completely. Not only must they gain mastery over every aspect of the Class, but they must also gain a novel perspective. Every once in a great while, a prodigy comes along with sufficient insight to forge what is known as a Unique Class. Only a few dozen live in all of the Coherent Realms that can boast such an accomplishment.”

“So,” Marek said, his mind catching up at last, “if someone makes a Unique Class, they level even higher, and after a certain point become a Principality?”

Mirrin shook his head. “Not quite. If you’ll remember, I mentioned a great sacrifice is required. The sire of our shared lineage”—he touched his chest and extended his fingers toward Marek—“had his Unique Class transformed when he too sacrificed everything to uphold his principle: the ideal of Tenacity.”

The Sigilist held up his wrinkled hand and counted off his fingers. “One that rises to Level 120 and gains inspiration creates a Unique Class. After ascending to Level 150 in said Class, if a sacrifice upholding an ideal is made, that Unique Class will be passed down through the ages. Currently, only six are in existence, and you, my boy, have just inherited one of these.”

Understanding dawned on Marek. The jumbled bits he’d clung onto since and during the Crucible reordered themselves like puzzle pieces snapping together. “One Unique Class is passed down from each of the Principalities. Remnant Mage was created by the man known now as Tenacity. It makes perfect sense. This Class utilizes the remnant spirits of the fallen, a tenacious form of power.”

For the first time that night, Marek felt a bit of excitement stir in him. This was kept in check by his uncle’s solemn demeanor. “This is a good thing, then, Uncle… is it not? Why do you look like you’ve swallowed a fly?”

Mirrin didn’t immediately answer. Lips pursed, he frowned at Marek for a full minute in absolute silence. Then the old man stood on shaky legs. His formal robes were wrinkled and would soon need a wash. The state of disarray did much to convey the state of his health. Few in Misthearth were as formal, hygienic, and frankly overdressed as Mirrin.

The Sigilist turned away from his nephew, shoulders drooping. “Wither Marrow,” he said in a voice as grave as the dead. “An herb that acts to enhance one’s natural flow of mana. It’s used for many things but primarily to treat mana exhaustion. Such a condition is quite common, especially during battle, for few have the luxury of holding back when life is on the line. As such, it’s a reagent favored by many.”

Marek frowned as the old Sigilist clutched the sleeve of his robe and lifted it a little, almost like he was considering baring his upper arm. In Casteras, the merchant class observed propriety to the extreme. Covering the body with long, thick garments was one such practice. Though Uncle Mirrin was technically a crafter, he clung to the tradition religiously. Marek figured it was the man’s way of honoring the Kingdom and the life he’d left behind.

“Duskleaf,” Mirrin said, dropping the sleeve and resuming his explanation, “inhibits stagnation of mana. A skilled alchemist can craft Dispel and Cure-all potions using the herb, making Duskleaf invaluable in times of conflict. More fall on the battlefield to lingering magical effects than to the naked blade.” Mirrin sighed, the rattle of phlegm sounding too much like skeletal fingers tapping on stone. “I am a Sigilist, Marek. I’m capable of enchanting items in countless ways. They can be used for good or for ill. When fleeing Casteras long ago, with my brother’s child under my care, I took great measures to prevent you from inheriting his terrible legacy. Of all the fates, his was the worst. I… I loved you too much, Marek.” The hem of his robes betrayed the tremor that passed through his body. “You’re my nephew in blood, but in my heart, you’ve always been my son.”

Marek swallowed hard. “Mirrin, I don’t understand. Just tell me.”

When his uncle spoke again, the old man’s speech was thick with anguish. “Tilda is a skilled Healer, good enough to climb the ranks of the army should she wish. She tried to heal you, Marek.” Mirrin turned, cataract-stricken eyes keen with emotion. “She couldn’t succeed, though, you see? She could not heal a sickness that did not exist. Tilda is not to blame.”

Marek was on his feet before thinking to command them. He froze halfway to the man he’d loved since childhood, terrified of what his logical mind had already worked out. “The sickness does exist, though. Right, Mirrin? Surely, you’re making some other point that actually makes sense.”

Mirrin picked up his speech without regard to Marek’s question. “It wasn’t hard for me to use a simple inversion rod on the medicine she crafted for you. The opposite of Wither Marrow and Duskleaf, in combination, produces a feeble body, a clouded mind, and most importantly a shrunken and deformed mana pool. It was a miracle you were capable of unlocking any Class at all, really.” Tears spilled from Mirrin’s white eyes, and his breath caught in his chest, as if the truth he released was too painful to speak aloud. “Let the Rift take me, Marek, but I’m sorry. I only meant to subdue the Class I feared you would inherit. I only wanted to protect you.”

Fury overtook Marek’s senses. He rushed forward and gripped Mirrin by the shoulders, fingers biting deep and pressing into thin bones. “What are you telling me? Say it, damn you! Say what you mean!”

“You aren’t sickly at all, my boy,” Mirrin said mournfully. “I’ve been poisoning you since you were a child. Please forgive me.”

20

LEGACY

In the twenty years of his life, Marek had never truly shouted at his uncle. They’d squabbled, and the young man had gone through the usual rebellious stage of adolescence… but screaming at the man who’d loved him so dearly felt fundamentally wrong to Marek.

Hearing this revelation relieved him of such reservations. Marek raged, cursing Mirrin and everything under the sun. He wanted to tear the flesh from his uncle’s bones, to throw the bastard to the ground then and there and beat the Sigilist half to death. Eventually, he had to settle for clawing the air impotently and gritting his teeth. No matter how much he resented the man in that moment, he couldn’t harm him directly.

“Please, don’t hate me.” Mirrin pleaded. “I didn’t want to! I know it is an awful thing I’ve done, but it wasn’t for no reason. I was trying to save you!”

“Save me with poison? By ruining my chances of becoming a true Sigilist? By turning my entire life into an unending nightmare of infections, fevers, and weakness?”

“Side effects, my boy. The purpose was to delay and hopefully prevent your⁠—”

Marek’s shout cut through Mirrin’s words like a blade. “Then you ask me not to be angry!”

“I’ve done as much and more to my own body, Marek. The fate your father suffered was far, far worse than the pain we’ve endured. And I would do the same again, boy! Just look at me! I’m not yet fifty years old and already I’ve the body of one twice my age.” Mirrin held up his arms, robes falling down to expose his wrists. Wrists no thicker than a broom handle. Skin thinner than parchment. A weak pulse throbbed in the blue veins beneath.

Under normal circumstances, such an admission might have disquieted Marek. Here and now, it only confused the matter further. None of Mirrin’s behavior made sense. Marek shouted the questions his mind demanded, unable to figure them out on his own. “What was so awful about my father’s fate? Why not just let me inherit the Class? You act as if it’s a curse!”

“It is,” Mirrin said calmly, despite his anguish and tears.

The gravity of the statement quelled a little of Marek’s rage. The young man let out a long, shaky sigh, waiting for some kind of explanation.

“After your father unlocked the curse of Kaiteras,” Mirrin said, using the strange name Marek had heard within the Crucible, “the King claimed Rorin, took him in to become a war mage.”

“So what?” Marek asked. “Many fight for their kingdom. What are you not telling me?”

Mirrin swallowed hard, his bleary eyes pleading, head wobbling side to side urgently. “The legacy of a Remnant Mage is violent, horrendous, and short-lived. Our father had been instructed by his father on only a little of what could be expected should one inherit the Class. Rorin was told he should craft and bind an ironwood staff, which would fasten his spirit to the mortal realm… yet the manner in which this staff must be crafted was lost long ago.”

Marek saw again the dark staves wielded by the three Remnant Mages he’d witnessed during the dream sequences. He recalled the nearly black wood, the twisted grain, and the crystal affixed at its end.

“When the King took Rorin,” Mirrin continued, “he deprived my brother the chance to seek out that lost knowledge. Without a staff to bind, a Remnant Mage must walk a cruel and inevitable path. But a few years after he’d joined the Casteran army, Rorin returned to my shop. And his eyes, Marek… Those kind green eyes—they were all but lost to the madness. I tried to calm him, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it. With a cold authority I didn’t recognize in him, he gave me clear and unwavering instructions. Rorin’s commands were simple: ‘Take my bride and the child she bore. Flee to Ardea. Do not wait for nightfall.’”

Marek let the better part of his rage go then. He still didn’t understand the story his uncle was telling, but he could see now that there was a depth to this tale, so he sighed and pictured the scenes as Mirrin described the past.

“The sound of a troop of soldiers at march came nearer. Rorin stepped outside and thrust your mother, Iria, into my shop. Then he was gone. Not a word more, and with my heart pounding and Iria’s eyes wide with fear, a babe in her arms, I wanted nothing more than to hear Rorin tell me everything. He fled the shop as if chased by a host of spirits. Never had Rorin commanded me, not once in our shared lives. It wasn’t his way. Given such an urgent task, my elder brother’s green eyes fervent and desperate, I couldn’t disobey him. So I told Iria to stay put while I packed enough food and coin for the trip along with some essential equipment for my craft.” Mirrin swallowed and closed his eyes.

Marek felt relief at not having to see the depths of sorrow whirling in his uncle’s gaze. Somehow, despite all of the grand and wild revelations that had been dropped in his lap over the last day, he knew the worst was yet to come. He could feel a tension building in the air. Whatever Mirrin was about to tell him would hurt more than all the rest combined.

Wetting his lips, the old man finished the story in a hoarse whisper. “Iria—she… she handed you over, kissing you three times on the forehead as she did so. She told me she would convince Rorin to come with us. Before I could protest, she followed her husband. I watched her disappear into the crowded street, racing after the soldiers and the man she loved so dearly.” Mirrin’s smile was devastating. “I left the city as the sun was just setting. You and I traveled at a slow pace, but I didn’t once stop. Not an hour later, a great explosion shook the ground I walked upon. My blood ran cold as I looked back. I can see it to this day, dream about it often—the pillar of green fire that rose a mile into the night sky above Tolencia.”

Mirrin bowed his head and sobbed without restraint, no longer trying to hold back his emotions. He sounded like a dying thing, miserable and helpless.

Marek couldn’t offer the man sympathy. His mind spun, unable to avoid the implications of what he’d heard. Calamity Mage, Marek thought, his belly cold as river water. My father chose that horrible path. And his madness led him to… He couldn’t finish the thought.

Mirrin ceased his weeping. Head bowed, the Sigilist said, “Rorin was a good man, I promise you, Marek. He’d never hurt a fly. But in his madness, he laid waste to our home, destroying Tolencia and all those within.”

Marek’s stomach twisted, and his gorge rose. Clamping his hand over his mouth, Marek closed his eyes and tried to calm himself. He steeled himself for the only other question that mattered. “What of Iria?” he asked. “What happened to my mother?”

Mirrin’s legs gave out. His thin frame pitched forward, dropping sharply. Marek caught him under the arms, and they both crashed to the floorboards on their knees. His body shook weakly in Marek’s embrace. Another fit had come despite the medicine.

Yet he found the resolve to answer.

“As I said, Marek,” Mirrin managed between sobs, “all of Tolencia perished, even the powerful mages and soldiers that had accompanied Rorin.” He coughed, blood painting his lower lip. He smiled weakly before adding, “She was a loyal wife. She loved him too much to leave his side.”

21

BUSY IN BODY

The following days passed in a blur. Unsurprisingly, Marek caught a cold. He shivered and dozed most of the first day, waking in starts when confronted with images of spirits and a black-fanged monster.

He recovered quicker than normal. A typical cold would put him down for a week or more, sometimes a month. Yet even in the throes of sickness and fatigue from the exertion of his trip to the wall, Marek felt a change overtaking his body. The Ether Core thrumming in his chest gave him strength. Though he lacked the courage to examine it more closely, he knew for certain it far outstripped his Mana Core.

Mirrin remained distant. The old man’s eyes were haunted. Marek could only imagine how much it had cost his uncle to confess everything, to admit to the crime he’d committed while trying to save Marek. He appreciated the space. Though he’d already forgiven the man, it wasn’t easy to return to normal life after hearing your closest friend and relative had been poisoning you for years.

And the more Marek thought about it, the more he realized “normal life” would never be the same again. Like it or not, he was a Remnant Mage. Before the Crucible, the title had meant little to Marek. One of the many fables that spread from table to table in a pub late at night. Some were true, others not. In a place as humble as Misthearth, few could confirm these tales.

To distract himself, Marek read through several texts he’d borrowed from Rauld the previous week. His focus sharpened as he pushed himself harder. On the second day of study, he finished the stack of books. Shortly after, having used the Skill nine times in a row, Marek had a breakthrough. A warm tingle of energy, beginning in his Core and rippling outward, informed him he’d reached Level 9 of his Sigilist Class. Normally, such an occurrence would’ve been celebrated, yet Marek was in no mood to do so.

Without thinking, he nearly deposited his free Attribute Point into Intelligence. No, better hold off. I doubt my mana pool will fully recover, but something is changing. I’d rather wait to invest the point in another Attribute more lacking. Principalities know I’ve got room for growth. He thought of Serin’s harsh criticism, mocking him for his low Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution. With a score of 10, his Charisma was fine as it was. It wasn’t precisely average; a score of 10 denoted an Attribute of an average person if they’d been fed well and remained in peak health. Many never actualized such potential. They’d been born sickly, suffered disease or some great injury. Even the misfortunate of enduring a few seasons of scarce food could blunt one’s growth.

Sick of his convalescence, and feeling guilty for his dour mood even in the face of an increase in Level, Marek forced himself out from under his blankets.

Stepping from his room, dressed and manicured, he thought to slip out without his uncle’s notice. The old man rose from his favorite chair and smiled at Marek. His uncle was trying to hide the pain, but having lived with Mirrin his entire life, it wasn’t hard to see what lay beneath the crooked grin. “Morning, Uncle.”

“Up and out of bed! And in less than a week! I’m impressed. Are you heading out on an errand? Or to spend a little time with Mags?”

Marek took his cloak from where it hung near the door. Slipping it on, he said, “Mostly to stretch my legs. I’ve a lot to think about, and walking always helps clear the fog.”

Mirrin nodded. “That it does. Uh…” Smile faltering, he cleared his throat. “I’ve told you already, but forgive me, Marek, I must repeat myself. Your new… powers—your Class, that is—it’s best you⁠—”

“I won’t use them,” Marek cut in. “I promise. I’m not eager to learn what madness feels like.”

Mirrin laughed. It sounded hollow and tired. “Very well. I’ll be in the shop when you come home. Good luck on your thinking, boy.”

Marek was true to his word. He walked through the town of Misthearth, taking every back street he knew, avoiding his friends and neighbors. As he strolled along, he honed the fledgling plan he’d been forming for the last few days. Marek couldn’t stay here long. He wanted, no, needed to leave on a grand adventure. Truly, there was no way around the matter. For himself and his uncle’s sake, the open road called to him.

I’ll scour the hills near the border of Shirgrim. Surely up there I can find a few rare herbs. Even if it takes weeks, I’ll collect what Mirrin needs, then return.

He thought again of Mags. His best friend was twice the woodsman he was, yet given the curse he bore, he refused to involve anyone else. More than likely, I’ll just get her killed, he thought, before the image of a tower of green flame filled his mind. He stopped in the middle of the road, stomach twisting into a knot. It took a force of will to push the memory of the dream sequence—and the knowledge of the ending of his unknown parents—out of his mind.

Once I secure the herbs, I’ll give them to Tilda to care for the man and excuse myself from society. Marek nodded, as if his thought were now an oath declared to the Six themselves. And perhaps it was. He wasn’t a fool. Marek didn’t expect to complete the journey, yet try he would. His quest would be singular. Find and unmask the secrets of his ancestral Class… or die of madness alone in the mountains. Marek chuckled bitterly. Solid plan. But I can’t survive in the woods with just the cloak on my back. I’ll need proper equipment. I only hope it doesn’t cost too much.

With hopes of leaving the following week, Marek’s stride increased as his meandering found purpose. In ten minutes, he’d crossed to Northshore and found his destination. Leaping up onto the porch of The Scorched Beetle, Marek entered to find Tivra Chopane stacking clean mugs onto the shelf above the bar. The only notable Basari in town, the woman was hard to miss. The whites of her eyes stood out starkly against her dark skin. A few in town were crude and called her ugly because she differed so greatly from the fair Ardeans. Marek disagreed. Tivra’s skin was the color of steeped tea with a drop of milk. A good woman by all standards, she’d worked long and hard for half a lifetime without much help. The labor showed in the deep creases at the corners of her eyes and the calluses on her hands. Even so, Marek thought she was pretty.

“What in the Unbound Realm are you doing here this early?” she asked sharply. “It can’t be your uncle, or you’d have gone to Tilda. Has Tenacity gotten his grip on you at last, Marek? Or have you simply lost your wits like me?”

Marek was grateful the woman had spoken without looking directly at him. Her mention of Tenacity caught him off guard, and his casual veneer faltered. He reminded himself that, logically speaking, Tivra couldn’t have known he’d descended from the man who became Tenacity. It was just a coincidence. She’d only meant to tease him for what she assumed was a strong work ethic.

Shoving aside his discomfort, Marek dropped his coin purse on the counter. “I’m just crazy like you,” he said, then tilted his head to one side. “This is a strange request, but I am in need of a lot more of this. Work in the shop is steady, and I’ve been able to save up a bit over the years. Something’s come up, though, and I’m afraid I need more silver.”

Tivra laughed warmly, brows rising in incredulity. “You and me both, young man! Why do you think I work through both days of Restraint every weekend? More to the point, why are you telling me about your little problem? I have a hundred of my own. You don’t hear me telling you about the leak in the roof or how my husband’s feet smell like curdled milk!”

Marek steeled himself. He hated asking for favors of any kind, even if it was minor. “Don’t worry—I’m not asking for a loan.”

“Good! I’m always willing to say no, but might as well save the trouble of even asking.”

He brushed her jest aside and barged ahead. “I’m not very strong. I’m reliable, though, and trustworthy. I have a few skills, like arithmetic, and my hand script is near to mastery as well. Do you have any work that needs doing, Tivra? Help with your ledgers, perhaps, or handling bills?”

“Really, Marek? Numbers? That’s what you offer?” The woman scoffed and shook her head.

Marek suppressed his disappointment and tried again, hoping to make a case for himself. “You’d be surprised! Before my uncle let me take over his ledger, he was wasting five silver a month by overpaying taxes. Also helped him organize his receipts.”

Tivra didn’t seem impressed. “I have a system that works, and it took me years to make it. I’ll be damned if some half-grown Sigilist will get his hands on my books. Sell your craft elsewhere. I don’t need it.”

“Correspondence, then,” Marek tried again. “If you have any official letters that need drafting, I’ll⁠—”

“Take the no or move along. You’re ruining the only bit of peace I’ll have this morning. You should be paying me at this rate!”

Marek sighed, tapping his purse lightly as he thought. He had a few more ideas but Tivra had been at the top of his list. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he said with a nod. “Anyhow, if you hear of any work that needs doing, I don’t mind getting dirty or working hard. Really, anything you can think of. ”

Tivra pushed the last mug into its place and spun to face him, hands propped on her bony hips. “You should have started with that one. The pigs, hens, and goats shit faster than I can clean. I usually give the task to Lim Tavins to cover his night of drinking. He can go without for a day, though. I’ll give you one silver to tidy all three pens.”

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Marek put on a brave face. “I don’t mind the muck. I’ll do it. Any way you can pay a little more?”

“I knew you’d ask as much,” Tivra said with a frown. Her dark eyes searched his. The woman’s keen mind whirred behind a veiled expression. “I’ll give you a second silver if you bag the manure and stack it near the gate. A few farmers come by on the regular to pick it up, and they pay well enough to cover the cost.”

Marek smiled, proud he’d managed the small victory. “Thank you, Tivra. You won’t regret it. I’ll be back first thing in the morning to see it done.”

Tivra scoffed and turned her back on him to see to another task. “Don’t shout my praises till you see the piles of shit waiting back there! Good luck, little Sigilist! You’ll need it!”

22

NOT AN ASS

Marek didn’t relish the prospect of an afternoon spent mucking around in filth. Optimism was a strength of his, however, and he took satisfaction in securing his first side job. One for one, he thought, stretching out his legs as he loped through town. Warmed up from his meanderings early that morning, Marek noticed more subtle differences in his body. It wasn’t merely a matter of strength or stamina. His limbs moved differently. He might be tempted to use the word nimble if he hadn’t experienced combat in the powerful body he’d occupied in the Crucible.

“I’ll be thrown into the Rift, but I feel good!” he said joyfully. “Almost like I’m not a man heading for madness and doom.” Giggling, Marek jogged and then ran, streaking across to the eastern edge of Northshore. Not once did he stop along the way. His lungs heaved when he reached his destination, yet they didn’t burn as they used to. And he didn’t trigger a coughing fit.

An odd sensation came to his awareness then. As he slowed to a walk, Marek experienced a series of pulsing zaps worming down his legs and into his feet. Feels like my nerves are being plucked like lute strings, he thought. Hope that’s a good thing? Maybe Tilda will know.

He sighed, dismissing the idea as quickly as it had come. Marek needed to keep his new Class and Abilities a secret. Mirrin had the notion the blasted King of Casteras might be looking for him. His stray thoughts cleared and his breath slowed when he spotted Wick Wick’s one straight ear peeking up over the fence.

Then he cleared his throat. “Umm, Wick Wick? Are you⁠—”

An explosive hiss emerged through the gaps in the fence. The scrape of claws dragging over oakwood. Then a pair of pink eyes glared down at Marek, annoyance filling them to overflowing. “Why the sneaks?” Wick Wick snapped. “Much early and little sun! Why sneaking around Wick Wick’s?”

Marek held up his hands, showing his teeth in an apologetic grin. “Didn’t mean to sneak. Sorry if I scared you.”

Wick Wick’s frown somehow deepened. He opened his mouth, exposing the flat, blunt teeth so prominent in the Haikini people, and hissed a second time. The rabbit kin dropped from the fence and landed with a soft thud. Then he promptly ignored Marek, the swish of a brush dragging across a horse’s back the only sound. Wick Wick continued to tend to the animal, and soon Marek realized the Haikini man held no intentions of speaking to him. Truly, these were a strange people. Or maybe Wick Wick’s just rude, he thought.

Steeling his nerves, the Sigilist tried again. “I’m here on business,” he said hesitantly. When his statement garnered no response, he thought to be more specific. “I need to buy a horse in the next few days, and I trust you more than the Southshore farriers.”

“Southshore’s filled with thieves,” the rabbit kin muttered. “Prices high! They steals and robs, Wick Wick knows.”

Marek frowned and suppressed a disheartened sigh. He’d have to be blunt. “I have silver—for the horse, I mean... and maybe a little gold.”

The brush strokes ceased the moment Marek uttered the final word. “Gold is good,” Wick Wick said quietly. A moment later, the rabbit kin walked to the gate and stepped outside, latching it behind him to keep the animals inside. He stopped before Marek, studying him head to foot. Wick Wick was shorter than Marek but tall for a Haikini, who ranged from four to five and a half feet. One tall ear jutted up like a spear from atop his white scalp. The other toppled forward, bent at the base. The rabbit pressed his blunt fingers together and grinned. “How much gold does the small man have?”

Marek winced. Compared to the price of a good horse, he knew he didn’t have much. He’d heard of nobles paying thousands of gold for a single horse, though war mounts were of a different stock entirely. I don’t need a charger, Marek reminded himself. I don’t even need a common plow horse. Just one strong enough to carry me. I’m sure he has a mount I can afford.

“A bit,” Marek said, sidestepping the question as best he could. “Do you have any horses you can sell at the moment? I’m going on a short journey into the hills north of here and need a way to travel faster.”

Wick Wick tsked with annoyance. “Little man can die here in town. Fall in river! Jump from roof! Save time and save horse. Why go to hills to die?”

“I… I don’t plan on dying,” Marek said defensively.

Wick Wick chittered. His laugh was strange, shrill and manic in its pitch. The antics alerted another of the Haikini, one Marek had seen in passing a few times but couldn’t immediately place.

A few inches shorter than Wick Wick, the other Haikini tottered up. “Why the laughing, Wick Wick? You will wake our Sheerka.”

Our Sheerka? Marek wondered before it clicked. Oh, this must be the other husband. Principalities, but that’s a strange custom.

“Little man will buy Wick Wick’s horse and ride into hills.”

The second Haikini tsked. “To die? Why he wasting a good horse? Much easier to do the dying here in Misthearth.”

Wick Wick chittered again. “As I says to him! Listen to Crin Caw, human. Wick Wick’s husband is wise.”

Marek bit his lip, tamping down on his frustration. The Haikini were an odd folk, but they were reasonable after a fashion. He only had to figure out how to reason with them. “I won’t be traveling far, hopefully. Just a week or so from town. I have business that can’t be delayed.”

Crin Caw shrugged, his two brown ears twitching as he did so. “Kobolds kill and eat you,” he said matter-of-factly. “Or little man be taken by Druskin or Haikini. Tribes fighting in hills. Foolish to ride there now.”

As the brown-furred creature left, Marek decided to swallow the wisdom that was being handed to him. If anyone in Misthearth knew of the goings on in the hills north of town, the Haikini would.

A third figure emerged from the same barn Crin Caw had. A short, broad female gave Crin Caw a little pinch on the arm before falling in beside Wick Wick. “Should pinch you too! Wick Wick complains no humans and no gold. Then warns first who comes all week. Maybe small man will not die as you say. Maybe it wants to spend gold at Wick Wick’s!”

She’d placed obvious emphasis on want—enough for the stubborn Wick Wick to deflate a little. “Wife Sheerka is right. Tiny man may see horses now. If he has gold, he may come.”

“How much does it have?” Sheerka asked bluntly.

Marek blinked a few times, taken aback. His pride stung from how often the Haikini had pointed out his modest stature. Tiny? That’s a bit much. I’m not that short! And to be asked so directly about his finances… Ardeans were a private bunch when it came to personal matters, and of course, finances were quite personal. Regardless, he’d come here for a reason, and he shrugged off his discomfort. “Not much,” he admitted. “I was hoping you might have a horse for one or two gold?”

Wick Wick huffed, but his companion didn’t miss a beat. She twitched her head to one side and said, “Cheap gold for cheap horse. Come, small man. We have one for you.”

Marek thanked the Haikini wife who chose to lead the way. They passed several barns housing a variety of steeds. Most were of common stock, neither tall nor handsome, though Marek recognized their worth regardless. These would be used to pull carriages or bear single riders from town to town. Others were shorter and thickly muscled, a few stout oxen among them. Beasts of burden meant to draw plows or haul wagons full of stone. Finally, Sheerka stopped at the entrance to a small, dilapidated barn.

She twitched her head again, indicating the sorry animal within. “Old old, bad back, teeth missing. Will live long enough to die with you in mountains. You may buy for one gold, ten silver.”

Marek tried to conceal his reaction but apparently failed. Wick Wick tsked, pointing a clawed finger at Marek. “You give cheap gold. I don’t give horse away. You want better horse? Pay better gold.”

Marek nodded. “I… I can part with two gold. That’s as much as I can spend, though. I’m sorry. Is this the only option?”

Sheerka waved him closer as she entered the barn. She pointed to the animal’s back and curved hooves. “Just get her in two days ago. I clean, brush, fix hooves. Still old and tired more years she lives. Strong enough to carry small man.”

Marek frowned at Wick Wick’s wife, not at all appreciating the ruse the Haikini was trying to play. “That’s a donkey!” he complained when Sheerka’s demeanor didn’t falter.

Sheerka tsked, then whispered to her husband in the airy language of the Haikini. Clicks, snaps, and hissing—it was an odd tongue to Marek’s ears, completely indecipherable. Wick Wick grumbled under his breath, then finally turned and left his wife to finish the business. Sheerka bared her front teeth in an approximation of a human smile and said, “Mule, not donkey! Short and ugly but mule strong. Strong enough to carry small man... Two gold, six silver.”

Marek sighed, blowing out his frustration and accepting the fate that had come his way. He stepped a little closer to the beast and held out a hand. The beast swung its head around angrily and stomped again. Then its mouth opened. The whites of its eyes grew as it snapped at Marek’s leg. He leapt back and cursed the creature.

“Mule mean mean,” Sheerka said in a quiet voice that held a tone of respect. “Two gold, five silver.”

Marek laughed despite his anger. The Haikini were always interesting to interact with. Still, the mule did look healthy, and he’d worked with stubborn mounts before.

He left after paying half the cost, promising to return with the rest when he planned on leaving Misthearth. The loss of such a large portion of his coin stung, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that this had been his most expensive purchase. Marek crossed a bridge to Southshore, and by the time he’d reached Tilda’s shop, the sun was warming the cobblestones. The folk of Misthearth were up and about, the district busy as ever.

Unfortunately, the Healer wasn’t in. Marek decided to take a gamble, heading to her home not far away. He found the woman just as she opened her front door and stepped outside.

“Oh! Hello, Marek,” she said with a pained smile. “How was the talk with your uncle?”

23

ASPIRING HERBALIST

“Actually, it hasn’t really happened yet,” Marek admitted sheepishly. Feeling the Healer’s disappointment tangibly, he poured out an explanation. “I plan on telling him today when I get back. I promise. Things have been complicated... Mirrin had another fit. A bad one.”

Tilda inhaled, nostrils flaring, and Marek imagined she was preparing to bolster Marek’s courage and remind him of the necessity of honesty. She’d have been right, of course, and considering she didn’t know his secret, likely thought him irresponsible. Marek blundered forward before she could speak.

“I promise I’ll let him know,” he said more firmly. “Just as soon as I’m home today. But will you please hear me out? I didn’t come to talk about Mirrin.”

“Bold of you, Mr. Theeras. I expect more from a grown man and active apprentice. Now you’ve come on another errand without completing the simple, albeit uncomfortable task I gave you?”

Marek felt his cheeks heat with a flush of anger. He held his emotions in check and continued calmly, “There wasn’t an opportunity, I assure you.”

Tilda sighed, and the tension abated. “Very well. If you say so, I’ll take your word, Marek. What is it you want, then?”

Anger turned to anxiety. It wasn’t hard to guess what the Healer’s reaction would be. Tilda spent her days and nights preserving the lives of the townsfolk, yet Marek was about to risk life and limb on what most would consider a fool’s mission. Regardless, he knew no one else as qualified to ask. She could react how she wished, but Marek’s mind was fixed. Or, as Rauld sometimes said, the cobblestones had already been paved.

“I’m leaving town in a few days. I’ll travel north and then veer west into the hills near Shirgrim. Once there, I’ll⁠—”

“You mustn’t!” Tilda cut in, brow furrowed in worry. “A journey like that will be extreme. Marek, with your health, you⁠—”

“My health,” he said, reclaiming the thread of conversation, “is my own concern. I’ve given it a great deal of thought lately, and there’s simply no other way to amend my predicament.” Marek’s gaze softened, and he added, “It should comfort you to know I’ve undergone an improvement recently. I’m stronger than I have been in years.”

Tilda didn’t look the slightest bit convinced. Marek sighed and dropped the formalities. This woman had seen him back from the brink of death several times. She’d earned his bluntness if not complete honesty. “Tilda, you have to trust me. I don’t take unwarranted risks—you know that! Besides, I didn’t come for your blessing.”

The woman folded her arms. “Then why did you come? Thought I needed one more thing to keep me up at night? I’ve enough to worry about as it is.”

Marek paused only briefly before answering. In a level tone, he laid it all out. “My Intuit Skill can aid me in a wide variety of tasks, but it’s useless without information. I’ve come to ask about the herbs. Which can be found in the wilds near Misthearth? Are any more or less critical to Mirrin’s health? How can I recognize the plants when I see them? Oh, and I need to know how to harvest them.”

The Healer chewed her lip so intently Marek thought it might bleed at any moment. Her eyes dipped, face screwing up tighter. She was thinking it over, which gave Marek some sense of relief. He’d expected more argument. Something had shifted in her mind, though—perhaps the realization that he was more stubborn than a mule. Either way, he suspected she’d no longer try to dissuade him. Or else she’ll approach Mirrin later. Doesn’t matter as long as she tells me what I need to know.

“Your request is anything but simple,” she said at last. “Your uncle’s tincture is more complex than your own. I include six lesser herbs just to bolster Mirrin’s health enough that he might endure the primary medicine!”

Marek held his breath, watching the wheels turn in Tilda’s sharp eyes. “If you’re set on this goose hunt, then you must focus on the few mandatory reagents. The rest, I can come up with on my own. I’ve used Wither Marrow and Duskleaf as the backbone of the tincture for years now. Ask any tradesmen you come across if they’re willing to sell any. I doubt you’ll have success for the reasons I mentioned yesterday, yet it is worth a try. Don’t waste your time searching for them, though. Neither grow within five hundred leagues of Misthearth.”

“I’ll travel five hundred leagues if I must. Mirrin’s still young, and I have no other family in this world, Tilda. I’d do anything for my uncle.”

Tilda held up a hand, silently asking for patience. “I don’t need convincing, young man. Being willing to travel five hundred leagues is one thing. Hoping your uncle will live long enough to see you again is quite another. Be quiet and let me speak. What I was going to say is that I know of a handful of items you might be able to find within a reasonable amount of time.” She paused, eyes flicking to his hands. “Well, are you going to write anything down or rely on your memory?”

Marek smiled, the last of his anxiety ebbing. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out the small notebook he used when taking orders for sigilcraft. “I’m ready when you are.”

Tilda held out her hand and snatched the book when Marek offered it. Kneeling on the porch, she scrawled on a blank page. “Frosthorn. They look like the antlers of a deer. Red to purple in color, the fungus grows no higher than two or three inches. Take care to move slowly when searching for them.” The Healer drew a simple sketch below the description before turning the page. “Whiskers of Yalfan is next. You know those wispy clusters of lichen that grow from the branches of red pines in the mountains? Principalities, why would I ask that? I know full well you’ve never traveled so far from Misthearth! Anyhow, when combined, these two create a viable substitute for Wither Marrow. Rather than enhance the flow of one’s mana, they stabilize and prevent mana decay within the Core. Ostensibly, this should have the same effect in preserving your uncle. In fact, I rather think it might improve on my original formula.”

The woman sighed and glanced up at Marek. She blinked, seeming suddenly self-conscious. “What? Never seen a frantic woman before? Take it in, Marek. Take it in… Onyx Chanterelle,” she said, drawing out the words as she drove onward. “It’s a damn well dangerous reagent to work with, yet so is Duskleaf if not utilized with care. The mushroom grows in highly acidic soil and, like the other two, prefers colder climates at high altitudes. The red pines shed their needles year-round, which creates soil so acidic most other trees or shrubs can’t flourish beneath them. Quickleaf is the last of the items you’ll need to find. Little knee-high bushes with three leaves per stem. Leaves of three, leave them be, right? Well, not these ones. Mountain folk coat their boots in Quickleaf pitch. They’re so resinous that the frost, snow, or even mild forest fires can’t harm them. You’ll know you have the right plant if it smells like sage and dog piss.”

She blew on the parchment, drying the ink on the last page. Marek observed Tilda, thinking she’d make a fine wife one day, if she ever found the right person. For his sake, he was only grateful to have the Healer’s aid. She’d do anything and everything for the people she cared for. Not enough credit, he amended. Tilda has done everything.

Satisfied, she handed back Marek’s notepad. “All four can be found in the mountains north of here. That should give you a reasonable chance of gathering them and returning in time. Nothing fancy needed to harvest them. Take the fungus whole and store them separately. The lichen and the Quickleaf are less volatile. Just be sure to grab enough to fill a salad bowl. Might as well be thorough while you’re at it.”

“Thank you,” Marek said, feeling a knot form in his throat. “Appreciate your trust—I really do.”

Tilda scoffed. “Don’t thank me yet. It’ll be a hellish trip, I’m sure. If you’re lucky, you might locate them in Ardea, far to the north, yet I believe you’ll need to travel into Western Casteras if you’re to be successful.”

“But the war,” Marek said impotently. “Won’t it be hard to cross over?”

Tilda shrugged. “I can’t image you surviving a trek into Shirgrim either. The mountains of the pass are brimming with beast kin, and though they’re folk like you and I, many survive by preying on travelers between the two kingdoms. Casteras is your safest bet; I promise you that.”

Marek nodded, his stomach twisting in on itself. The notebook seemed like it weighed ten pounds. Tilda’s strategy wasn’t hard to surmise. She was a right clever woman. Knowing she couldn’t dissuade him with words, she’d instead highlighted the magnitude of his project and the inevitable risks. It served the purpose of dulling the edge of his optimism. It wouldn’t make him back down, though. “I’ll keep all this in mind when I leave town. Thank you so very much.”

“When do you leave?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

“A week at most. Soon as I can, really, but I have a few things to do before I’m off.”

Tilda drew in a sharp breath. Tears glistening in her eyes, she darted forward and placed a kiss on Marek’s forehead. “Take care to return, young man. You’re needed in Misthearth.”

Then she brushed past him, boots clacking on the cobblestones as she turned left on the street.

A throbbing pounded in his ears as he returned to Northshore. His footfalls marched along to the rhythm of his own terrified heart as he headed back to his uncle’s house.

By the Principalities, he thought grimly, how will I ever pull this off?

24

FEELING CLASSY

Daunting as his journey might be, Marek still found his mood lifting as he returned home. The many stairs leading up to the house caused no cramps, no burning in his lungs. In fact, he didn’t even have to stop for a break. Not even once.

Marek reached his destination and stepped up onto the porch. Yet he paused there, hand stopping an inch before touching the weathered brass knob. The sun on his shoulders and the warm breeze tugging at his cloak were too pleasant to abandon quite so soon. He also wasn’t quite ready to tell his uncle the bad news.

Letting out a sigh that best expressed his bittersweet emotions, he sat on the stoop and hugged his knees to his chest. For the first time in ages, Marek was confronted by the incredible view. It’s not easy for people to see beauty, let alone appreciate it, when they live in near-constant pain. He saw everything clearly now, and it was breathtaking. “Judgment spurn me if today isn’t better than most,” he said, combing a strand of auburn hair from his eyes. “It won’t be easy leaving all this behind.”

Elevated above Misthearth, the view from his home was spectacular. Only Rauld in his high mage tower might claim to surpass it. Even so, Marek would choose this vantage point. One could view the plumes of illuminated mist rising from the base of the falls. Northshore and Southshore were both partially visible, as was the stone tower. From here, he could even distinguish the slight angle in which the tower leaned—two degrees, according to Rauld, a not insubstantial number when it comes to stacking stone on stone, the mage was fond of saying. Marek breathed it in for a time, allowed the moment to seep into his bones and congeal into what he hoped would be a lasting memory.

The moment did pass eventually, but Marek still hadn’t summoned the courage to face Mirrin and tell the old man Tilda’s news. Given the clarity of his thoughts and the freedom of time, his thoughts drifted inevitably to the mysterious Class he’d inherited. Remnant Mage—a strange name. I suppose the spirits of men can be considered remnant, yet why not call it Spirit Mage, then? And I wonder how similar my Abilities will be to a Death Mage’s. Another question struck Marek with the precision of a jeweler’s hammer. Wait, is Death Mage another inherited Class? Serin said the Class was the opposition of the Remnant Mage, but he didn’t explain much of anything. What I wouldn’t give for a long talk with him.

Marek shifted his focus to what he could study. Himself. He’d learned quite a bit about his inherited Class in the Crucible, yet he suspected his powers and how they functioned wouldn’t be the same as they had been during the trial. What more can I learn without tapping into my power? he wondered. Surely, just using Empath’s Gaze won’t harm me.

He recalled Mirrin’s words. His uncle had stressed the point over a dozen times since their long talk the other day. He was worried that Marek dabbling in the darkness might expedite the madness to come. “What does Mirrin really know about the Class, though? He admitted that little is known about the Remnant Mages that came before me. How much can he know?” He chewed his lip, deciding to take a small risk for the sake of figuring out even a bit more of who he was and what he could do.

Marek closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He wasn’t sure which Ability to attempt, but Command Spirit didn’t sit well with him. Surely, it had to be a greater risk. And he didn’t have the spine to search for spirits to siphon power from. Marek decided Spirit Body and Empath’s Gaze were the only safe options.

“I’ll try the first. I activated Spirit Body after coming back from the wall, but I didn’t even mean to. Can’t go using magic on accident, so seems like as good a place to start as any.”

The only question remaining was how to do that. In the Crucible, he had but to think of the Ability and it activated. Such control didn’t often come so easily. There were many methods to trigger a Spell or Skill. Visualization, evocation, or more symbolic means like the burning of glyph scripts, for instance, allowed for the exploration and use of Skills. When Marek used Intuit, he relied solely on a mental command. Mirrin verbalized all his Skills. The general consensus in Ardea was that such methods were a sign of incompetence. His uncle wasn’t Ardean, however. Marek could practically hear Mirrin’s voice, as if he was standing right beside him. The Ardeans strive to achieve total competence of self. For them, speaking the Skill’s name as a catalyst is a failure. Yet in Casteras, most crafters prefer this method for one simple reason: Calling the name of a Principality-given Skill is viewed as an invocation. It’s akin to a prayer uttered to the Six themselves. Do not scorn the practice, Marek. To do so is a minor but meaningful blasphemy.

Deciding he’d start with verbalization, Marek reached inward for his pool of mana. It remained small, but the power was potent and eager nonetheless. Then he whispered the words, “Spirit Body.”

Marek held his breath, nose wrinkling in anticipation.

Nothing happened.

He groaned and shook out his arms, then stood to try and relax. One couldn’t force a Skill to activate. Not without understanding, at least. If he wanted to do this, it would only come if he eased into it. Once more, he tapped the pool of mana that stirred in his belly. “Spirit Body,” he said again, more confidently and with less fear.

Again, nothing happened.

He cocked his head to one side, confused. “Okay, I guess I’ll try the other one? I did it once. Should be able to do it again, right?”

Empath’s Gaze was an incredible Ability all on its own. Marek wasn’t a Cleric or a Seer, nor was he an advanced Fighter that had taken a leadership Class. Those and a few other Classes were granted visual representations of the system that governed the Coherent Realm. He’d heard it described as seeing Attributes, Abilities, and information about others as if reading a scroll in the mind. Marek had read the description of Spirit Body upon first waking from the Crucible. He didn’t need to read any more descriptions, though. Empath’s Gaze was versatile. It allowed him to see spirits as well as communicate with them. That wasn’t a path he wanted to take any time soon.

Eyes pressed shut, Marek used a mental command as before, guiding the Ability with his intention. Suddenly, he saw himself from a third point of view. He couldn’t see his face or clothes, yet he saw the inner working of his magical body. He found his Core first. A swirl of bright mana, though smaller than it should have been. It looked a little like a snake eating itself. Looking closer, he found a few places in the flow that seemed obstructed. Perhaps with time it might heal?

Moving on, Marek shifted Empath’s Gaze so that he viewed his entire body once more. A series of channels ran up and down his spine, branching off to feed mana to his limbs. One of these tiny rivers flowed to his head as well. If I look close enough will I see smaller ones in my fingers and toes? The theory was confirmed a heartbeat later.

Marek didn’t open his eyes, but he allowed himself to grin. The thrill of discovery never got old. Fascinating. Wonder what else I can find? He swept his gaze back and forth along his arms, then up and down his body. As his attention crossed his chest, he paused. Something was different there, though at first he couldn’t discern precisely what.

And then he remembered. Behind his ribs, surrounding his beating heart, something quite new had taken root. Similar to his mana pool, a source of energy swirled within. Focusing on it now, Marek could sense the power, feel it intimately. It was bitter cold, completely unlike the warm and invigorating tingle of mana. So this is ether. My Ether Core is impressive, he thought. Similar to his Mana Core, it constantly flowed, yet the ring had been twisted so that it formed the symbol of eternity. Wonder if that’s what happened when I chose two Subclasses.

Marek had seen enough. He let go of any chagrin he felt at forgetting about his Ether Core. All of this was new territory, and his perspective in the Crucible had been greatly altered. So, guided by his intuition, Marek attempted to activate Spirit Body once more. Focusing on his Ether Core this time, he whispered the name of the Ability and held his breath.

Three rivers of ice poured from the center of his chest. Two flooded outward to fill his arms and hands with energy, while the other ran down his torso and split at his hips to infuse his legs as well. In mere seconds, his entire body was filled to bursting with the frigid power.

He gasped as a glow filled his vision. Marek felt himself lift off the ground as segments of armor covered his legs and feet. He glanced down and chills spread across his body. The armor disappeared almost immediately after being conjured, and now it looked very much like Marek was floating. His feet stood six inches above the stone threshold.

“Amazing,” he said, grinning like a fool. “I feel so… powerful!” There was no other way to describe it. In the Crucible, his excitement had been subdued like all his other emotions. He couldn’t believe how intoxicating this felt. “I can do anything.”

Marek imagined his trek into the wilderness, and he felt a shred of confidence this time. He wasn’t powerless. In fact, Marek knew instinctively that he could best someone like Isaac with little trouble, even without using his other Abilities. Thinking of the bully triggered something inside him. An image of Isaac lying in a pool of blood flashed in Marek’s mind. More terrifying was the foreign urge that overwhelmed him at the same time. A whisper at the back of Marek’s mind gave voice to this craving, rasping like a blade on flint. Hunt, subdue, cut, slay, conquer! the voice chanted, repeating the words in a loop.

25

PERSPECTIVE

“Principalities, save me!” Marek cried, letting go of the Ability. The icy power abated, and he crashed roughly onto his backside. He let out a yelp inadvertently and twisted around to rub his tailbone.

As soon as he released Spirit Body, the voice stopped its mantra. The memory lingered, however, and it filled him with dread. The urge to kill wasn’t foreign. Everyone had such thoughts briefly. It was the same instinct to join the fight he’d felt with Mags after using Intuit.

Marek consoled himself with a single important fact. I didn’t listen to it then, and I didn’t listen to whatever that was just now. All men have urges. The distinction of character arises when we choose not to heed them.

The rattle of the knob behind him made him shriek. He jumped off the stoop and twisted halfway in the air, eyes bulging like a bee-bitten hound.

“Impressive!” Mirrin said cheerfully. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

Marek huffed. “The body is capable of many things when it thinks it’s in danger. You nearly made me give up the ghost!”

Mirrin arched a bushy eyebrow, holding his nephew’s gaze. “Interesting choice of words, boy. Seems likely you’ll come to know more than most about ghosts in the weeks and months ahead.”

Marek scowled. “Feeling better, are we?”

Mirrin stepped to one side and bobbed his head merrily. “Oh, don’t be so sensitive. I’m halfway dead myself, and you don’t see me complaining.”

“You’re not destined to go mad and maybe kill everyone around you!”

Mirrin chuckled and stepped to the side of the door, waving Marek in. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Think about it, boy—things can only improve from here. The worst has already come to pass. If you cannot master your Abilities, you’ll at the very least die on your own terms. That’s a fate most men are denied.”

A pitiful laugh spilled from Marek’s lips. Unable to deny the old man’s logic, he obediently entered. The smell of freshly cooked food eased his frayed nerves further still. Soon, the two were eating a hearty meal. Eggs, herbed sausage, and a skillet of potatoes were just the thing to stem off the uncertainty and fear that threatened to swallow Marek whole. In fact, he greeted the meal with a ravenous appetite. His dour mood lifted as he loaded his plate a second and third time.

Mirrin smiled as he watched his nephew indulge. “You’re healing,” he said fondly. “I dare say it fills me with hope. I assumed we’d both die in the next few years. Now that you’ve become the next Remnant Mage, might as well enjoy the benefits?”

“Benefits? Your optimism is perverse, Uncle,” Marek pointed out, words garbled by potatoes and sausage.

“Don’t be contrary. Your father was only with us for a short while before the King took him, but I remember clearly how he changed. Got stronger, more… commanding, in a way. Hells, he even got taller. With all your body’s been through, I imagine you’ll have quite the dramatic transformation!”

Marek arched an eyebrow. “You mean what you’ve put my body through?”

Mirrin grunted, acknowledging the fact nonchalantly. “Just so. And now that I’m not poisoning you regularly, your only task is to figure out how not to go insane. If you do as I ask, and avoid using your Abilities, you might have a chance to trick fate.”

Marek paused his chewing, then swallowed. He hadn’t yet recovered from the fright of hearing a voice lusting after violence in his own head. Guilt at having disobeyed Mirrin filled him then, and he grimaced, staring at his half-empty plate.

“Don’t be so touchy,” Mirrin said, mistaking Marek’s expression. “I’m trying to see the bright side.”

“Don’t be such an ass, then,” Marek countered. He managed a smile and added, “Imagine if the tables were turned.”

Mirrin shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind, actually. As I see it, you have a bit of time. This way, you at least have a fighting chance, boy! You can head off on a grand adventure and see some of this vast, terrible, majestic world we live in! Better than crafting trinkets and enchanting plowshares in this dusty little town until you die.”

Marek’s stomach felt suddenly tight. He sighed and set down his fork. “You have a point, I suppose. Still, I wish this grand adventure didn’t include the potential of both of us dying.”

“Both of us?”

“You heard me,” Marek said mournfully. “I meant to tell you sooner, but…”

“But a lot has happened,” Mirrin finished when Marek’s voice trailed off. “Go on, then. What do you have to tell me? Let me guess—did Tilda stop by?”

Marek’s fork clanked against his plate. “She did… How’d you know?”

Mirrin sighed deeply and rubbed his hands together. “Not the first time there’s been trouble in Northern Ardea. First supplies to get nabbed up by the army are herbs, medicines, and various metals for armor and weapons. Next there will be a great shortage of young men.”

Marek set down his plate, shoulders tensing. “You think there’ll be a draft? What about Mags?”

“Marigold knew what she was doing when she enlisted. All of us are pursued by fate. If it lends you comfort, know she won’t be selected on the first round. She didn’t unlock a Class, and that makes her less valuable.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the cabin. Marek’s belly gurgled loudly, and he chuckled. Drawn back to the topic at hand, he said, “About Tilda. She told me where to find a few reagents that will help, some less sought after than Duskleaf and Wither Marrow.”

Mirrin perked up. “Oh? I’m not a learned man in the realm of medicinals. What did she say?”

Marek told his uncle about the herbs, even reading a few details from his notebook directly. When he finished, he ended with the confession of the plan he’d settled on. “Tilda said there should be reagents in the mountains of Western Casteras. It’s my best bet, Uncle. The best part is that I won’t have to risk the pass leading into Shirgrim itself to get to them. At first, I considered asking Mags if she’d come, but given my condition, I’ll be going alone.”

A long, uncomfortable pause followed. This extended until Marek thought for sure he’d need to repeat himself. His uncle seemed sharp that day, but the old man had lapses every now and then, a side effect of his long illness.

Finally, Mirrin drew in a sharp breath. “The Casterans love war and conquest as much as Ardeans love mead. Tilda may be wise, but she knows nothing of your plight. You can’t go anywhere near that cursed kingdom, boy. If the King or his men find you, you’ll spend the rest of your days in unending slaughter.”

Marek pushed back, not wanting to relinquish his position so quickly. “Are you so certain they’ll come for me? What ruler would risk using such a deadly tool? If what you said about my father’s death is true, and he destroyed the city of Tolencia, why would the King of Casteras repeat the mistake twice?”

“A kingdom is made of many cities,” Mirrin hissed bitterly. “Much is left out of the histories, Marek. The last war between Ardea and Casteras was far more eventful than our king likes to admit.” Mirrin held his nephew’s gaze, one brow arched. “In a few short years, your father led a three-pronged campaign. Casteras claimed thousands of acres of land from Ardea, their southern neighbor. They pushed the Tree Lords of Tashkal back into their forests, expanding their northern border. And the bastards stole the eastern slopes of the mountains from Shirgrim! The price of Tolencia was easily weighed against such profits. At least from the perspective of a warmonger!”

The old man allowed the words to sink in. When he spoke again, it was in a calmer tone. “My dear nephew, I left our homeland behind along with my past. I spent most of my fortune hiring the services of underground mages in Swiftwall. With their help, our signatures were augmented and our last names changed to Theeras. I gave up everything, including my health, to prevent Casteras from finding us. That twisted king will come for you now that your Class has awoken. No amount of magic can hide it from his Augurs.”

Marek nodded, frustrated but beginning to see his uncle’s perspective. A few words of Mirrin’s rant surfaced then, and he fixed his uncle with an inquisitive gaze. “You were poisoning yourself as well?” he guessed. “That’s what you meant by giving up your health?”

Mirrin smiled wistfully. “Always a clever boy.”

“I’m not a boy, Uncle,” Marek said, surprised at the steel in his voice. “I survived the Crucible. I’m twenty summers old, and I’ve lived through more pain and suffering than most men thrice my age.”

“I will try to remember that,” Mirrin said. “Sorry, Marek, I raised you. It isn’t easy to change how I view you.”

Marek understood, but he doubted Mirrin understood him. “Listen, I know you sacrificed much to avoid capture, and to prevent me from being taken. As you said, though, the worst has come to pass. I am the Remnant Mage! I’m still tempted to heed Tilda’s advice. Casteras is closer, the journey less arduous, and I can come back in plenty of time to save you.”

Mirrin’s calm demeanor exploded. Face contorting with rage, he screamed at Marek, “I’m not the one that needs saving! My fate’s been sealed for decades, damn you! Why won’t you just listen?”

“I have!” Marek shot back. “And I appreciate your wisdom, but Mirrin, I’ll decide my own path.”

The flames of Mirrin’s anger dwindled, leaving him deflated and small. He shook his head and touched his chest with one trembling hand, then stood. “Come. I’ve something you should see in the workshop. Something I wasn’t brave enough to show you yesterday.”

26

GUILT IN REVELATION

Marek followed close behind his uncle, observing him warily. Mirrin was an eccentric man. Not only was his Casteran culture deeply engrained in his mannerisms, speech, and customs, but the old Sigilist had a flare for the dramatic and the absurd. Quick to laugh and quick to anger, Mirrin embodied the archetype of the absent-minded master perfectly.

Given how varied his moods were, to see the man subdued and solemn made Marek wary. What can he have possibly held back? he thought. Is he going to tell me he’s the King of Casteras? Or that we’re related to kobolds?

Marek kept his anxieties to himself, knowing Mirrin would open up in due time. Soon, the two would be apart for the first time in a long time, the last instance being when Mirrin had traveled north to Swiftwall some years back. Marek would miss the old man dearly.

Heading to the back of the workshop, Mirrin opened one of the large, dusty chests tucked beneath a workbench. The old man muttered to himself, the words too muted for Marek to catch, and pulled out a polished wooden box the size of a loaf of bread. Eyes downcast, he set the box on a table before Marek and pointed to a stool. “Sit, Nephew, and open it.”

Marek did just that. His heart pounded as he thumbed open the silver clasps one at a time. Opening it, he let out a confused, “Huh… Why are you showing me this?”

“First good set I commissioned,” Mirrin explained. “These are elementary at best, but they’re well crafted. These tools served me for over five years until I upgraded and expanded. A blacksmith in Tolencia made them. Believe it or not, cost me twenty-three gold—a fortune at the time.”

“Twenty-three?” Marek shrieked. “That’s a fortune!”

“No, it isn’t,” his uncle said flatly.

Marek blinked in surprise, examining the tools more closely.

Mirrin cleared his throat and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Recall the fundamentals, Marek. These are brands, used to sear a material in a quick but superficial manner. Sigilists rely on these for Imbue. One could utilize a brand for the more powerful Engrave Skill, but gravers would create a stronger connection between sigil and material.” Mirrin grasped one of the four carving tools. “Gravers have a ‘handle,’ which I’m holding, of course. This here is the ‘tang,’ and this the ‘side.’ The long section is called the ‘shaft,’ which leads to the ‘point.’ The little flat part here is known as the ‘face,’ and the underside we call the ‘belly.’”

“I… I remember,” Marek said confusedly. “Uncle, you taught me this when I was five years old. What are you on about?”

Mirrin sighed. “Humor me, boy. Now, as you may recall, gravers do the engraving. These two are flat gravers, one a wide and the other a small rib. The blunt ends lend flat gravers strength to withstand hard stone and metals. The round graver is used primarily on metals like copper or bronze as well as softer stone. And this”—he handed the third tool to Marek—“is a V-point. It’s good for wood, leather, flesh, and bone.”

Marek watched distantly as his lifelong companion lifted the soft-headed mallet from the box, continuing his dialogue. Mirrin’s voice became an undistinguishable drone. Marek observed the man, terrified not of what they discussed but what was being concealed. After the revelation of his father’s downfall, Marek couldn’t fathom what could be harder for Mirrin to say.

Then a fragment of information stuck out like a root along the pathways of his thoughts. Marek stumbled over it, eyes widening. He seized the box in both hands and locked eyes with Mirrin, who stared back fearfully. “Hold on!” he said, interrupting Mirrin’s diatribe. “Did you say flesh and bone?”

Mirrin let out a miserable sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. The old man released the box into Marek’s grip and stepped away. “Aye, I did. I need you to understand the extent of my sacrifice. I need you to fear the King as I do. He’ll wield you like a cleaver against all of the Coherent Realm. Rumor claims a necromancer aids them already. Should a Remnant Mage and Death Mage fight united, none could stand against Casteras. The entire world would suffer.”

“But how would they bind me?” Marek asked, wanting to deny the obstacle in his way. “They can’t force me to fight.”

Mirrin angrily hissed over his shoulder, “They damn well can! I haven’t a clue how, but there are hundreds of Classes in the Coherent Realm. I know little about most, but I knew Rorin! Your father was neither weak nor violent in nature. He was forced into submission, and rather than attempt to salvage his sanity, he slaughtered tens of thousands!”

Never in Marek’s life had he heard his uncle so bitter. He didn’t sound like the same man. The withered Sigilist fumbled at the bonds of his robes with trembling hands. Teeth clenched, the sinew of his jaw twitching, Mirrin exposed his pale chest. “Look upon my work! See the price I paid to refuse repeating my brother’s fate!”

Stunned, Marek stared at his uncle’s bare torso for the first time in his life. He’d always assumed it was the old man’s propriety that kept him fully dressed at all times, yet the gruesome sight before him told of a different story.

Five sigils stood in stark relief on Mirrin’s sternum. Three down the center, one to either side. The old scars were puckered and ugly.

“You know the names of these marks, but I will ask you to memorize their placement and sequence,” Mirrin said. “You will go to Shirgrim, damn you, and you’ll forge the ironwood staff. This, I pray you can achieve. Yet if you fail…” He blinked several times, lips pinching tightly. “And your mind begins to falter, you have but two choices. End yourself in isolation so that no one else will suffer… or Imbue your body as I have, with the Mark of Tenedor.”

Marek gaped. He tried twice to force words from his mouth. Only when he swallowed and averted his eyes could he manage the task. “The sigils,” he muttered weakly. “Those are the cause of your illness.”

“Just so. And may Prudence herself guide your hand to do likewise should the need arise.”

Marek’s defiance faltered at last. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted your word. And… I’m sorry for how you’ve suffered.”

Mirrin shrugged off the sympathy. Tapping the centermost scar, the sigil of Source—a sigil of power—he said, “Each marks not only my flesh but the bone beneath. I studied dark arts to prevent the enemy from controlling me. I’ll be damned if I let you throw away my sacrifice.”

The Sigilist closed his garment, then lifted his chin proudly and held out his hands. “Give me the box again. Hand it over.”

Marek did so.

Mirrin’s nostrils flared in what might have been disgust. His fingers slid along the bottom of the toolbox, finding levers Marek hadn’t noticed at first. A click sounded, then a drawer popped out from the stained wood. Within was a book the size of a prayer bible, small enough to fit in one’s pocket. Mirrin took up the book gingerly and handed it to Marek. “Raikem’s Compendium of Corpus Sigilry,” he said gravely. “The only known manuscript on the forbidden arts of corpus and oseo sigilcraft. When you leave, you’ll take this with you. Always keep it hidden, and destroy it should your capture become inevitable.”

“Why?” Marek managed, disgust and intrigue both seizing his heart.

“So if you’re given no other choice, you may do as I have done. Tenedor was a butcher, a twisted Sigilist that sought to punish his fellow men. His mark was laid upon many in Ardea long ago, which is why corpus sigilry is forbidden to this day.” Mirrin snatched the manuscript from Marek’s grip and returned it to its hiding place. He showed Marek the two concealed levers. Finally, he closed the drawer and stared into Marek’s eyes. “Osteo sigils are an abomination. You know me, Marek. I am a man of tradition. I pray first to Logic and then Restraint, every morning I wake. Yet fearing I might inherit the Class, fearing the madness and the possibility of being used as a weapon, I mastered terrible magic in order to ruin my body. I would have easily ascended to Artisan, perhaps even risen high enough to forge my own Unique Class.”

Marek gulped as his uncle scrambled close.

Clutching the young man’s robes, Mirrin rasped, “Do not take this curse lightly, nor the risk the Casteran king represents, my sweet, sweet Marek. You were not born to carry out his butchery.”

“I understand,” Marek replied, and truly he did. He’d been rocked to his core yet again. So much about Mirrin made sense now, and so much of it was heartbreaking. “Should I study the compendium, then? In case I…”

Mirrin shook his head. “First you must reach Level 10 in Sigilist. Your Mana Core should be expanding, though it might take time. Focus on leveling any spare moment you can, Marek. Use Intuit in novel and challenging ways. Hopefully, you can unlock Imbue before you leave, if not soon after. And when you do, then, Marek, you’ll need to study the book.”

27

VETERAN ADVICE

To say Marek’s mood was turbulent the rest of the day would be an understatement. Neither his increasing strength nor recovering Mana Core could steady him. Pragmatically, Marek decided to use the anxiety and shock to fuel his progress. Much needed to be done, and time was in short supply.

He spent the rest of the day in the workshop. He knew he should return Rauld’s books and ask for new ones. Mirrin had a small library of his own, however, and though Marek had read every book, he hadn’t done so in many years.

Curiosity about the origin of the Sigilist Class drove his research. He began with Sign, Sigil, and the Signified by the theorist Fergum Sausyure. It outlined the broad-stroke concepts of what Marek’s Class meant, how it functioned within the known system of the Coherent Realm, and the philosophy behind sigilcraft. Lofty and dry, Marek had never put much stock in the theories discussed within. He’d picked it up first when scanning the top shelf of Mirrin’s bookcase, and intuition urged him to take a look.

Marek found himself reading one passage several times over. Sausyure used the example of the simple sigilcraft used to heat water to explain a deeper theory. “To etch the previously signified subject with a new and contrary sign, the Sigilist diverts the very fabric of reality. If a Sigilist works responsibly and with forethought, he does so with knowledge: Knowledge of the sign—in this case, the sigil we call Heat—as well as knowledge of the signified, the water pump to be enchanted. To modify the framework of the Coherent Realm without sufficient knowledge is to herald one’s downfall.”

Marek compared the passage with another text: Elemental Objects and Their Relation to Sigilcraft. He’d read this book first of all and many times over at his uncle’s insistence. So basic were the principles within that he’d all but forgotten it existed. “If I’m going to unlock Imbue soon, and I have to assume I will, I need to gain true knowledge of the objects and materials I might enchant,” he told himself. “What should I start with? Materials?” Marek thought it over, deciding to reflect on the various common types of wood. Each could be used by a Sigilist, but oak and pine were drastically different in how they received sigils. Deciding he’d found a good starting place, Marek began a thorough study.

He studied common woods, stone, and metal. Parchment next, and even various types of clay. Afterward, he moved on to the specific objects outlined. A plow, for instance, was an archetypical object that had been around for thousands of years. Imagining his journey ahead, Marek focused on a few specific objects, largely weapons and armor. The bo staff, the long bow, the sword, the spear, and so on.

After each object, Marek used Intuit to imagine various configurations in his mind. He knew it would have been better to use the Skill with actual materials on hand, but he owned no such weapons.

Marek worked late into the night. He didn’t gain a Level as he’d hoped, but he felt much more confident should Imbue become a Skill of his in the near future. He was also pleased to learn he could use Intuit a total of nine times before he’d exhausted his Core. Dropping into a heavy sleep, he dreamed of diagrams, materials, and the symbols of his craft.

Another dream came to him in the early morning. Like the vision of a past life, a scene of chaos and butchery played out in his mind. Two armies clashing, one side slowly crushing the other into submission. Dozens dying every minute. Hundreds already slain. He was a specter walking among the fray, unseen and aware of everything. The spirits begged and pleaded. Marek relented, raising the lingering souls and sending a tide of death against the superior force. In moments, the course of battle changed.

More died, more gave their souls and ether to Marek. He raised an army of his own. His minions consumed the enemy, spilled the blood of countless men, slaughtered all resistance.

The sound of it rang clearly in his ears, and it sounded beautiful.

Marek woke covered in sweat. Heart pounding, he lit a candle by his bed to burn away the images of the dead and dying. “Principalities,” he whispered. “Might as well start early. Not like I’ll sleep again after that.”

He left his uncle’s house half an hour before sunrise. By the time he made his way back to the Scorched Beetle, he almost looked forward to the hours of mucking about in the innkeeper’s pigsty. It proved hard work, as she’d promised. Marek pushed himself, though. This would likely be one of the last times he had to earn coin in such a manner, so he scraped and shoveled until Tivra’s pens nearly looked new again.

The Basari woman was so impressed she said she’d give him an extra silver as a thank you.

Marek cleaned up in her washroom before delivering the manure. This took a few hours by itself, and carting the waste about Misthearth earned him many a look. He ignored the townsfolk, as per usual, yet he couldn’t help but feel uneasy. He worried he’d run into Mags. She could sniff out his bullshit better than anyone, and if she found out his intentions, she’d want to join him. Yet how could he, in good conscience, allow her to do so? His quest was dire. Sure, she’d increase his odds of succeeding, but it was the prospect of failure that stayed his hand. With the full knowledge of how his father and mother had passed, Marek simply refused to keep someone as precious as Mags at his side.

When the deliveries were finished, Tivra deposited five silver into his grubby hand. He thanked her and then headed to Sal’s. Sal, the owner of the shop, had bizarre tastes and a habit of collecting things he found “interesting.” This had transformed his general goods store into a place to find curiosities.

Marek studiously ignored the exotic pelts, lavish bone jewelry, and inexplicably complex instruments that few knew the function of, least of all Sal. Knowing he’d lose hours trying to find anything useful, he approached the owner directly. “I need supplies. Rope, a small tent, a fire kit, a small kettle and pot.”

Sal quirked an eyebrow, scratching his beard with his left hand. “The Sigilist apprentice is heading out on a journey into the wilds? Suppose my saying it’s a terrible idea won’t slow you down.”

“Not a chance.”

Sal nodded, a roguish smile tugging at the corner of his whiskered mouth. “I’m sad to hear that. You can only lose your right hand once, lad. Trust me, I speak from experience. Even if you’re not going far, you’ll be in danger of that or worse.”

Marek chuckled uncomfortably. The man had a way of bringing up the injury that had ended his career in the infantry over ten years past. “I’m just heading south a bit. Keeping away from the mountains and the kobolds, so don’t worry.”

Sal scrutinized him for nearly a minute before shrugging. “None of my damned business. But if it’s a journey you’re headed on, let me give you a bit of guidance. You’ll need rope, but you don’t need anything heavy. Enough for your own body weight, though you’ll mostly use it for shelters and to lift your pack and food off the ground…” Sal’s words declined in volume as he leaned over the counter and arched an eyebrow at Marek. “You know that’s a good idea, right? No matter how tired you are, cook and eat away from where you sleep. And hoist your gear and foodstuffs high into the air. Alright?”

The young man found himself laughing nervously for the second time in their short exchange. “Of course! I know lots of stuff about camping out. I read all about bushcraft.”

Sal scoffed. “Books on bushcraft… Judgment save your skinny ass, Marek. But aye, I won’t patronize. Just want you to do what you can to protect yourself. You and I aren’t friends, but we might be someday, if you come back alive. And truth be told, I owe your uncle a favor. He’d kill me if I didn’t do what I could to help you out.”

Swallowing his pride, Marek dedicated the rest of the little daylight that remained to learning from Sal. The man had been a campaign soldier for over twenty years, after all.

In the end, Marek spent every coin he’d earned from Tivra and then some. He felt the investment well worth his time, having acquired enough supplies to live comfortably in the wild for weeks, if not longer. Just have to stay alive long enough to make it worthwhile, he thought bitterly as he hobbled out into the dark street.

Finally, Marek trudged back to Wick Wick’s place. He nearly emptied his coin purse as he bought the mule, thinking it might be a good idea to work with the animal for a few days before departing. Predictably, the mule tried to bite him, but he prevailed and saddled it for the first time.

He felt proud of his achievements. The day had been grueling, and he felt tired to the bone. Yet he’d achieved much. Just a few more days to level up and earn a bit more in case of emergencies. Marek led the mule in the direction of his uncle’s. After walking half a mile, however, he felt the irritating itch on the back of his skull that told him his friend was attempting to communicate through a Spell. Messenger Bird was an uncommon Skill for a mage to acquire, but Rauld was an uncommon man, so Marek had never thought twice about it.

Marek continued to walk while accepting the message. He only had to concentrate on the sensation to tap into the Spell, and then Rauld’s voice could enter his mind.

Greetings, young man! I’m in my tower with your uncle. We’re sharing a bottle of my sour plum brandy. Why don’t you stop by?

The invitation would normally cheer Marek up, but tired as he was, he wanted nothing more than to go home, wash up, and pass out in his bed. Umm, I can do that, he said reluctantly. Any way we can push it off till tomorrow, though? I’ve had a long day.

Rauld’s hearty laughter rang out in Marek’s mind, causing him to flinch. Not a chance! Get your scrawny ass over here! I’m afraid this isn’t a casual call. Come soon. I have news for you you’ll want to hear.

Without warning, the mage released the Spell. Marek hissed as the tingling itch shifted to a burn that slowly dissipated. He cursed a few times but ultimately changed course.

Ten minutes later, he approached the base of the stone tower. He hitched the mule to a post out front before twisting his back side to side, eliciting a sequence of pops. After unburdening the creature, he fed it a lump of crystalized honey Sal had sold him at a discount. The mule swished its tail, its dour face seeming regretful that it lacked the excuse to kick its new master.

“Don’t be so grumpy,” Marek said, stroking its forelocks cautiously. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together. Might as well figure out how to like one another.” He sighed, imagining the long journey ahead. “What should we call you, anyhow?”

Marek felt like a fool when he stooped down to check the animal’s underside. “A lady mule, then,” he said with a terse nod. “Hmm, how do you like Lydia? That’s a nice enough name.”

The mule chuffed and swung its snout at Marek. He dodged the awkward attack and chuckled. “You’re an ass, you know that?” he said, rolling his eyes after at the accidental pun. “I’m sure you do. You seem the kind that takes pride in cruelty. Well, get used to me, Lydia. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’ve got a better name, I’m all ears.”

The young man hauled his gear inside and released another heartfelt sigh as he eyed the bottom of the spiral staircase.

His bones ached, and his muscles complained. He was ready to tear into the old men who’d ruined his evening of relaxation. As he reached the top of the stairs, however, he overheard Rauld’s voice, which sounded… odd. The words were spoken in a hushed whisper, and Marek detected something in his friend’s voice he’d rarely heard before.

Rauld, the most powerful man in Misthearth, was afraid.

28

UNTIMELY INTRUSIONS

The door to Rauld’s study stood ajar. The golden light of the mage’s elaborate sigil lamp poured through the gap. Not wanting to snoop, Marek pushed open the door. The old men sat back in their seats suspiciously. “What’s the conspiracy?” Marek asked as he found an empty chair opposite Mirrin and Rauld.

“Don’t try to be clever; those that make an effort of wit rarely succeed,” Rauld said.

Marek didn’t miss the shift in his tone, yet he wasn’t given time to press the matter.

Without warning, the mage stood and left the room, his long robes billowing behind him. He stepped into his observatory a moment later. Head popping back through the door, Rauld snapped, “Do follow, Marek! I’ve been waiting on you all day!”

Mirrin chuckled and waved Marek after the departed mage. “You heard the man.”

When Marek entered the observatory, he was immediately ushered to the corner of the room. There, he was placed atop a thick slab of bronze. Unsurprised yet a little annoyed, he asked, “Gonna tell me what this is all about?”

“The ring, of course!” Rauld snapped. “I need your signatures to bind the ring, and you’ll certainly need the ring for that quest of yours. Quiet down, now… I’m concentrating.”

Marek sighed and gave up on trying to understand either of the elders. He was exhausted and covered in filth, and he lacked the strength to resist.

Mirrin grumbled, swatting at the sleeve of his robe. “I take it you finished the tasks for Tivra. Well done on the initiative, but you could have left some of the shit in the stables.”

The mage, standing on a matching bronze plate twenty feet away, eyes closed in concentration, sniffed the air scornfully. “And you tracked it all through my tower.”

Seeing an opportunity, Marek asked, “If I promise not to touch anything, will you cast Rejuvenation on me? I’m dead on my feet.”

Rauld didn’t answer. He stood perfectly still for so long that Marek nearly forgot his request. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction and opened his eyes. “Not the first time I touched the magical signature of an Ether Core, but damn if it isn’t strange. Utilizing ether as a power source is downright disturbing.”

Marek glanced at his uncle and received no explanation. Obviously Rauld knows, he thought, but how much? Speaking his second question aloud, he asked, “What do you mean? You met my father? Or did you encounter another Remnant Mage in the distant past?”

Rauld sighed. “Too many questions. Let me top you up a bit, and then, after I bind the ring, I’ll tell you.” Barging ahead, he made a few dramatic swishes with his hand and said, “What is broken, sore, or blue, mend and make anew!”

Marek sighed in relief as mana flooded his body. The cramps and aches abated, not diminishing entirely but giving him more comfort than he’d felt in months. “Thank you,” he said with genuine emotion. “I owe you one.”

“In my estimation, you owe me hundreds,” the mage replied with a wink. “Let’s not keep track, though. It’s uncouth.”

“What’s uncouth is your mockery of invocation,” Mirrin spat. “And that thing you did with your hand. Have a little shame, Rauld. Aren’t you an Artisan Mage?”

“Bah! I’m so old I’m liable to die of boredom. You’d deny me a little fun, and for what, to honor your precious Principalities?”

Mirrin grumbled, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation. “They’re yours as much as mine. Good to know blasphemy cures your boredom so effectively.”

The old men bandied about, trading insults like drunkards sparring with broomsticks. Marek let them have their moment since they obviously enjoyed the invented conflicts. Having satisfied their need to quarrel, Mirrin sat on a stool near a table laden with scrolls, and Rauld retrieved an odd contraption from a chest nearby.

Marek watched Rauld assemble a stand with three legs, crafted entirely from bronze. His patience wore thin, and despite how much better he felt, he interrupted Rauld’s work. “The wit doesn’t fool me. I heard you two talking before I came in. You weren’t making jokes then. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been busy crafting you a gift,” Rauld said, twisting a knob atop the tripod, which in turn clamped onto an ordinary-looking brass ring. “Didn’t I mention the ring?”

Mirrin turned his wrinkled face to Marek. “Leave Rauld to his work,” he said with a sad smile. “We’ve had some bad news. I thought you’d have another week, perhaps two, but Casteras has other plans, it would seem.”

“Then the timeline has changed?” Marek guessed.

“Just so. Rauld heard from a contact. A contingent of soldiers was seen heading to Misthearth. They could be here in as little as two days.”

Rauld grunted, returning to his bronze plate and rubbing his hands together. “Indeed, you’ll need to leave tomorrow or the day after at the very latest.”

Marek chewed his lip. Something was nagging at him, and he’d yet to discern what it was. Then it hit him. “So you knew?” he asked bluntly. “You knew I might one day inherit the Class? And you knew of what Mirrin did to…” He swallowed, unable to finish the question.

“I did, on both accounts,” Rauld admitted. “Apologies for the deception, but we’d rather hoped you’d never have to learn of your dark past.” The mage’s tone grew somber as he finished. “And if you hold any resentment against Mirrin, you can blame me as well. I might not have agreed with your uncle’s methods, but I supported his intention to prevent you from unlocking the Class.”

Briefly, anger flared in Marek’s chest. He took pride in his intellect, demanded his autonomy and agency. Having both deprived in such a basic and perverse way his entire life would take years to fully accept, let alone forgive. In the end, however, he trusted the old men, so he forced down the resentment.

He sighed, releasing the emotions. Brow furrowing, Marek asked, “And the plan Mirrin suggested? You agree that I should head into the mountains?”

“Unfortunately, I do. I can’t see any other way to proceed.” Rauld’s eyes grew distant as he stroked his whiskers. “Taking the Quartz Road will be best. Well-traveled though it is, only a fool would head into Shirgrim when the beast kin tribes are at war.”

Marek chewed his lip, not liking what he was hearing. “So it’s true? Tilda mentioned the rumor, but I was hoping she was wrong.”

Rauld shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The kobolds are raiding more aggressively than usual, and I heard from a credible source the Druskin and Haikini are at it again.”

Mirrin grunted and waved his hand lazily. “The beast kin are always quarrelsome.”

“Forgive me, Mirrin, but you misspeak,” Rauld countered. “What most take as an ongoing war is, in actuality, something like a cultural dance. More often than not, the beast kin skirmishes end without loss of life. They are a means of initiating young warriors and practicing their martial prowess.” The mage paused a moment and spread his arms wide. Twin spheres of mana filled his upraised palms, and in a blink, they zipped across the room. One sphere struck the ring, and the other flew at Marek’s chest.

Marek scarcely had time to squawk, let alone properly react. The energy splashed into his body. Warmth spread across the surface of his skin, prickling as it did so. “Hey!” he shouted at last. “Not even a warning?”

Rauld repeated the action, spreading his arms to fill both hands with mana. “As you know, the Haikini rabbit folk are covetous of anything that shines. They’re thieves, through and through, yet honorable ones. Haikini culture values cleverness and deceit above strength. Anyhow, a young warrior stole an artifact from a Druskin war chief. This prompted retaliation. Rather than retrieving the stolen item and dueling the one who took it, a more grievous blow was dealt.”

Marek gasped again, another sphere of mana pelting him. “This demands a great deal of trust, you know?”

Mirrin ignored Marek’s question and asked one of his own. “The Druskins—they killed someone important and started a war?”

Rauld laughed bitterly. “More like an entire village that housed several of the heirs to the Haikini Warlord herself.”

“Restraint, save them,” Mirrin muttered.

“The beast kin do not bow to the Principalities; they worship the Old Gods and live by a code of honor,” Rauld replied, sending the third volley of mana across the room.

Marek rubbed his chest, eying Rauld suspiciously. His friend didn’t seem prepared to assault him with magic again, but he kept his guard up. Becoming frustrated, he asked, “If it’s so bad, why are you both insisting I go to Shirgrim?”

The mage shifted his focus onto Marek, then stood, sobering suddenly, the mirth having drained from his face. “Let there be no confusion. I am with your uncle. Casteras should be avoided at all costs. The king will break you, then burn away what remains of your life like an oil-soaked torch.”

Marek nodded before asking, “What about Bayas?”

“The ironwood,” Mirrin said sternly. “That is your primary goal.”

“Then south to the capital. I’ve heard one can trade for anything in Kithwynn. Shouldn’t I be able to find ironwood there?”

Rauld’s stern face softened a little. “A Remnant Mage can’t craft their staff from a scrap of wood long dead. The tree must be living.”

Marek exchanged a look with his uncle. “Sorry, boy. There wasn’t much time to explain it all, and much of what I know came from Rauld. Thought it would be best heard directly from the dragon’s maw.”

“Fine, but damn if this doesn’t chafe,” Marek grumbled. “I’d have appreciated you letting me in on all this a long time ago. I know you say it was an attempt to protect me, Uncle, but it feels more like a lack of trust.”

Rauld arched an eyebrow a moment later and said, “I said as much myself, Mirrin.”

Marek found he couldn’t remain angry. After all he’d been through—the Crucible, his disturbing powers, and his family’s fate—he decided to let it go for now. It wasn’t as if there weren’t bigger things to worry about.

Marek nodded to Mirrin and said, “I trust you did it with the right intentions. Assuming your plan to subdue my Class is decades old by now, how exactly did Rauld become a part of it? Did you seek him out, Mirrin?”

Rauld spoke first. “Not at all. In fact, it was the other way around. But, oh… do you hear that? Hush, everyone quiet a moment.” The mage closed in on the ring and bent at the waist to inspect it. “Aha! I’ve done it! Thank heavens—I thought I might have to attune it a second time. Seems like I still have a knack for enchantment.”

Marek’s ear caught the faintest hum. It not only seemed to be coming from the ring, but its monotone song got louder and louder by the second. “Logic preserve my wits… I swear I’m losing it. First the ring starts humming and now it’s giving off light?”

Rauld chuckled. “Logic is a stuffy, querulous old fool. Trust me—he doesn’t give a damn about your wits, young man. But yes, this little piece of craftsmanship, a project I’ve been working on for a while now, is finally finished. Just needs to cool off a bit.”

Marek frowned, his friend’s response containing too many hidden threads to untangle. “Hold on!” he said, a spark of anger blooming in his chest. “Will you stop with the cryptic nonsense, Rauld? Please, would you slow down and explain yourself!?”

“And what,” Rauld said with an annoying smile, “should I explain?”

Marek laughed, throwing up his hands. “Oh, I don’t know. How about why you sought out Mirrin, for instance. Or how in the world a mage is capable of enchanting? And let’s not forget that bit of blasphemy. Have you met Logic in person? Or is this just a bit of old-man humor?”

Mirrin chuckled and folded his arms. “He isn’t wrong, Rauld. Your tongue is especially loose tonight. Might have been the brandy.”

Rauld didn’t respond with anger or sarcasm, as Marek would have predicted. The man’s face hardened. He stood up straighter, eyes sharper than spears. Gone was the kindly elder. In his place stood a figure more noble than a king, shrouded in wisdom and authority. “I’ll answer your questions in reverse order, Marek. You have earned my trust. Yes, my young friend, I’ve met the man that became Logic. Not in person, mind you. He’s so old even I feel like a spring foal in his presence.”

Marek’s palms broke out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I am capable of many magics,” Rauld continued. “My Class is as powerful as your own, though less suited for combat. As Archmage, heir of Shemenias Thildras, the revered Logic himself, I’ve mastered a great many Classes. You can think of me as a curator and warden of magical knowledge.”

In Marek’s place, some would have laughed at the claim. Yet the Sigilist’s nephew had eyes to see. His observations of the quirky old man over the span of two decades suddenly came into focus. Rauld had always seemed to know a little too much about sigilry, enchanting, potion making, and the various mage Classes that were common in Ardea. Marek had chalked it up to a deep love of scholarship, yet he suspected Rauld might have tampered with his perception. Otherwise, he’d have noticed that Rauld not only knew such things but practiced them in private.

Eyes narrowing, Marek asked, “You were shielding yourself? That’s why you now look stern and scary enough to cut down an army?”

A flicker of emotion flitted across Rauld’s brow. “No,” he said, voice hard and filled with gravel. “I am not capable of cutting down an army or even a common foot soldier. That is not my domain, nor will it ever be. You’re the one cursed with such a fate.”

“Easy, my friend. He didn’t choose to become who he is,” Mirrin said, taking a step toward the pair. “He’s still the boy you know him to be, nose buried in books and head wandering in the clouds.”

Rauld sighed, and the tension in the room eased a little. “Indeed, you are right. Both of you. Apologies, Mirrin, I haven’t forgotten your nephew’s heart. And yes, Marek, I have been shielding my Core and essence. Returning to your other questions, I caught word that a Sigilist from Casteras was seeking information about the Remnant Mage. I sent for Mirrin, and we’ve been conspirators ever since.”

Rauld’s bright eyes flitted back and forth, seeming to search for Marek’s very soul. Then his features softened. Turning around, the Archmage left Marek to inspect the ring in the center of the room, becoming his normal disarming self once more.

Marek filled his lungs and held in the air, lips parting, tongue too confused to articulate a single word. Mirrin gave him a sympathetic smile. Principalities, he thought, head in a vortex. I can’t believe I’ve been friends with the Archmage my entire life!

A desperate idea came to Marek then. He feared what Rauld might say—in fact, a part of him knew what his friend’s answer would be. Regardless, he found himself speaking in a whisper. “Why don’t you come with me? Nothing in the wilds could harm me if you were there. Even if you can’t fight directly, surely you know countless ways to avoid danger.”

“Marek,” Mirrin interrupted, “you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“If this quest is so important, shouldn’t he come?” Marek insisted. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t make sense!”

He heard Rauld’s raspy sigh. Then the Archmage was laughing, eyes twinkling with mirth as he studied Marek over the top of the newly crafted ring. “Marek, you’re a young man. You must think I’m quite ancient, do you not? If you had to guess, how old would you say I am? And don’t be shy. I promise you won’t hurt my feelings.”

29

ANOTHER ARCHIVIST

“Odd way of answering me,” Marek said. “Is this really necessary?”

Rauld shrugged, clasping his hands and giving the impression he’d wait a lifetime.

Marek groaned. “Fine. I don’t know, maybe ninety? Or a hundred? You’re in good shape still, but I heard some mages live longer than others. Am I close?”

Rauld’s laughter echoed in the spiral staircase, the sound deepening and taking on a haunted tone. “I’m flattered you think so, but Marek, I’m nearly three hundred years old. I bound my soul to this tower on my two hundred and fifth birthday. One of the many tricks a mage can use to prolong his or her life. Yet it comes with a cost… If I leave Misthearth, I will perish.”

Marek’s eyes flitted to his uncle, who sat hunched nearby with a face that nearly matched Rauld’s. It was Mirrin’s turn to laugh. “Well damn, boy! You don’t have to be so transparent. I know I look like shit for my age. Hells, if it wasn’t for Tilda, I’d have died years ago.”

“Sorry, Uncle, I…”

Mirrin waved him off. “It’s fine. Besides, we can’t all be so dapper as Rauld. He’s cheating, if you ask me.”

“Fair!” Rauld shouted back. “I’d never deny it. Like I said, mages have many tricks to cheat death.”

The mage strode across the room and thumped the surface of an imposing desk nearby. It held a mess of small implements, books, scrolls, and even glass containers filled with who knows what. “Fear not, Marek. We’ll not send you on a quest emptyhanded. In here”—Rauld tapped the topmost volume in a haphazard stack of books—“is every scrap I could find on the Remnant Mage Class, the madness that will come, and the staff you must forge.” He hefted a leather sack leaning against the books. “I’ve also dredged up a few potions and medicines you’ll undoubtedly find useful.”

Marek eyed the books and the pouch dubiously. “Rauld, I appreciate all the help, and those potions do sound handy, but I’m not sure about the books. Those must weigh over twenty pounds! They’ll be a burden, not to mention hard to keep dry.”

“My, but you’re awfully easy to lead about by the nose, aren’t you?” Rauld said merrily. Marek’s intended jibe was cut short when his friend thrust an arm into the air. “Behold, the third but certainly not least Archivist’s Ring in existence! There used to be more, of course, but warring kingdoms have a way of ruining things.”

Marek blinked in surprise. He hadn’t even seen Rauld remove the brass ring from the device. His friend tossed it to him, and Marek snatched it from the air. He walked to a nearby lamp to study the item but found it mundane in every way.

“I received my own Archivist’s Ring long ago. My mentor bequeathed it when I left to attend the mage academy in Kithwynn at the age of seventeen. Go ahead, put it on, and I’ll show you how it works.”

Marek frowned, curious but keeping his excitement in check. When the cold brass slid over his finger, the band tightened slightly so that it fit snugly in place, and a subtle zap of mana entered his hand. He gasped, fighting the urge to fling it from his hand.

Rauld laughed, his piercing eyes shining with amusement. “It has a bite, doesn’t it? No worries—it’ll come off easily if you want it to. Now, concentrate on the ring and touch the stack of books.”

Marek’s heart beat faster, his eyes widening a little. “No way. It… It’s a storage ring?” he whispered, almost afraid to utter the words.

“Of a sort. Now, do as I say.”

A moment of focus was all it took to activate the Archivist’s Ring. Then the stack of books disappeared.

Mirrin cackled in delight, and Marek joined him. Storage rings were rare, and in a backwater town like Misthearth, they were nearly unheard of. Those that did exist were kept secret, for anyone with a storage ring was apt to keep their prize possessions within.

“Sadly, you can’t toss anything you’d like in there. As I said, it’s called an Archivist’s Ring. It is designed to contain information. Books, parchments, scrolls—all of these work fine. The implements of the trade as well, so inside you’ll find an inkwell and a few quills as well as a box of candles and an oil lamp.”

Marek’s grin stretched so wide his cheeks hurt. Without thinking of his actions, he crushed the old man in a hug. “Thank you, Rauld! Thank you so much!”

A moment later, his senses returned. He awkwardly released the mage and backed away. Neither he nor Rauld much appreciated being touched, and other than a single instance in his childhood, they’d never embraced. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t mention it,” Rauld said. “In fact, if memory serves me, I did the same when my master gave me my ring.”

“Your Sigilist tools should fit inside as well,” Mirrin added. “At least Rauld thinks so. Sigils are an antiquated form of lettering, so the ring will likely accept them along with a variety of materials.”

The mage pointed to the pouch still in Marek’s hand and added, “These will need to be carried, along with your mundane goods. I have a responsibility to Misthearth, so I didn’t send all I own, but these will be invaluable, I’m sure. The two red ones are Lesser Healing Potions; the green is an Elixir of Concealment. The yellow is a vial of Cure-all, useful to rid oneself of a variety of ailments. Finally, the tiny black one is poison.”

“Poison?” Marek questioned, taken aback. “That’s a coward’s weapon! Why would you give this to me?”

Rauld sighed. His old eyes held so much compassion. “First off, when facing your death, any weapon can be valuable. Honor be damned. Secondly… the poison is for you. I know Mirrin told you how to nullify yourself. Yet such is a cruel existence—one that will kill you over a longer period of time. This, however,” he said sadly, “will be swift if not painless. It’s an extract from a plant called Sorrowberry. Enough in here to kill a hundred men. The best part is that none of the bodies left behind can be claimed by a Death Mage,” he added pointedly. “Unfortunately, if you achieve your goal of creating and binding a staff, this will become valuable information to you.”

Sweat broke out on Marek’s brow. He turned from his uncle and the mage who’d guided his research for over a decade. He wanted nothing more than to toss the ring and pouch aside and run from the tower. Even now, however, he could feel the icy threads of his newfound power flowing within him. This wasn’t a fate he could outrun.

The calming effect of his Soulspace seemed especially attractive at that moment. Marek didn’t have the time to explore that aspect of himself, and he suspected both men would discourage the practice in case it sped up the onset of his madness. Grabbing his courage in both hands, he decided it was time to learn what he could about his supposed enemy. “I was told the Death Mage is my opposite. How can that be? If each Principality passes down a Unique Class, then where does this opposition come from?”

Rauld’s smile was a proud one. “Good question. I’ll answer by telling you about my own nemesis. My ancestor, Shemenias Thildras, forged the Class known as Archmage. For thousands of years, it was passed down through the sprawling branches of my lineage. When Order ascended, the High Cleric Class began to show up in the Coherent Realm. Prudence spawned the Grand Oracle, Judgment the Veracity Paladin, and Restraint gave us Honorbound.”

Marek rubbed his forehead. These were the names of mythical Classes. Other than the well-known Grand Oracle, nobody really thought they were real—no more real than Archmage, anyhow. To learn they existed, that common men had inherited them for millennia, pushed the limits of Marek’s beliefs.

“And Tenacity,” he said, voice emerging calmer than expected, “created Remnant Mage.”

“Precisely! Now, to answer your original question, you should know that there were no oppositional Classes. The abominations appeared when Serin Kaiteras ascended. Tenacity gave his life to save our world, and he did so by creating the phenomenon known as the Rift. There’s a book in that collection that elaborates on the subject when you have time. For now, know that the Death Mage rose from the harrowing souls trapped inside the Rift. These perversions of inherited Classes are rare, yet each is capable of immense destruction.”

Mirrin broke in, a dark tone coating his words. “They’re particularly dangerous when backed by a king. Casteras has long had dealings with them, the Death Mage in particular.”

Marek struggled to process it all, to make sense of his new reality. It wasn’t something that could be accomplished in an afternoon.

Rauld cleared his throat. Eyes downcast, he said, “The Archmage is opposed by the Sorcerer. I met and conquered my twisted doppelgänger over a century ago, and I wear the scars of that battle to this day. You’ve been charged with a heavy responsibility, Marek, and you have the disadvantage of being cut off from the knowledge that was meant to be yours. Each Unique Class comes with steep restrictions. An Archmage, for instance, may not engage in direct combat. If I kill, no matter how noble the cause, my soul will be destroyed.”

Marek gestured at the tower around them. “Then how can you defend yourself, your tower? How have you lived this long, and how did you slay the Sorcerer?”

“I never said I killed the man,” Rauld said cryptically. “And there are many ways to defend yourself that do not involve killing. That matters little right now, though, for it is you we are—” Rauld cut off abruptly. The twinkle in his eye vanished, and his entire body went still. “Damn!” he hissed a moment later. “How did they reach us so fast? Someone must have opened a portal to shorten their journey.”

Mirrin stood suddenly, milky eyes flaring wide. “The Casteran hunters are here already?”

Rauld held up a hand. “Be calm, my friends. All is well,” he said firmly. “Marek’s timeline has merely been accelerated. The Augurs can see much, and apparently pinpointed the birth of the Remnant Mage with precision. They cannot track Marek directly, though.”

“How should we stay calm?” Mirrin shouted. “My nephew is in danger! I… I’ll confront them if I must. I won’t last long, but I have a few nasty tricks up my sleeves!”

The Archmage spoke to the Sigilist in a commanding voice. “Sit down and be calm, Mirrin Kaiteras! I placed the wards at the edge of my influence, several miles from town. Marek has ample time to gather his things and leave. Besides, the Casterans approach from the north. All our boy needs to do is avoid them. When they come asking, I’ll tell them the truth, that you left south. A bit of misdirection is all we need for the hunters to travel south to Garrehall.”

Mirrin’s face was a mask of grief. As quickly as it had overcome him, his fear was gone. In its place stood a mountain of sorrow. He glanced at Marek, eyes welling. “I… I thought we’d have a few more days.”

Marek bit his lower lip hard, fighting to control his own emotions.

Rauld stepped between the two, lending his warm smile to uncle and nephew in turn. “Embrace, you fools. This isn’t the time to say goodbye. We must have a little faith in the Principalities. You’ll see one another again.”

Marek tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. Rather than speak, he took his uncle in his arms and held him close. “I will come back,” he said, voice cracking. “I promise.”

“Make sure you do, boy,” Mirrin replied. “And I’ll promise not to die in the meantime. I love you, Marek, so very much.”

“I love you too, Uncle.”

They drew apart and Rauld cleared his throat. “Come now, that’s enough tears. It’s time for strength and stubborn will. Gather what you need from your uncle’s house and leave.”

Marek hardened his resolve and nodded his head. “How long do I have?”

The mage shook his head sadly. “An hour, maybe longer, but let’s not assume so. These hunters travel quickly on foot. They’re approaching from the north, so keep to Southshore. Take the eastern road, my friend, and do not stop to rest until noonday tomorrow.”

Mirrin pressed the leather pouch into Marek’s chest. “Rauld has given you knowledge and magical supplies. I’ve given you the tools of your first Class. There’s a little coin in there as well, as much as I could spare. May the Principalities guide you.”

Rauld chuckled and ticked his head to the side, looking ever so much like a crow. “Your fate has come knocking, my friend. It’s time you answer.”

30

CHANGE OF PLANS

The house brimmed with chaos when Mags entered. A couple Strongtowers in the kitchen shucking corn, two setting the table and arguing about the “right” placement of the big spoon, a few more antagonizing the matriarch.

Needless to say, it was business as usual.

Mags stomped through the house, ignoring the pleading eyes of her mother. “Can’t right now!” she called over the din. “I’ll be out back!”

Nira groaned, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepening as she threw back a retort. “Just ‘cause you’re in a temper doesn’t mean you’ve gotta drag mud through my house! Learn some manners, young lady!”

Don’t say anything, she coached herself. She doesn’t deserve your anger. Mags hadn’t shouted at either of her parents in years. It made her feel awful. Born with the Strongtower gift of the gab, it was a testament to her frustration that she couldn’t dredge up any snark. She didn’t even throw off her day pack, just walked down the hall and straight out the back door.

Pumping a little water, she scrubbed her hands with lye soap, wanting to rid her fingers of the vile smell of uncured deer hide. On an average week, she reserved all her days of Restraint for mischief and idle time. Much of that she’d spend on training with bow or blade anyhow, but to Mags, the practice had become a meditation. Today, however, Shem Tavins had sent for her. Apparently, a gaggle of hunters had come in late the night before with a pile of hides so tall Mags couldn’t see over the top of it without rising to her tiptoes.

The soap burned her hands, and so did the hard-bristled brush as it scraped away the filth of decay. She embraced the discomfort, for it harmonized with her bitter mood.

Cursing, she listed everything she could have done instead of earning the measly two silver Shem had given her for over ten hours of hard work. “Fish all day and lay about in the sun? Nope! Who’d want to do that? Hound Danick for chores and eat bread pudding as payment till my belly sticks out? Nah! Oh, I know! Spend the day scraping fat from dead flesh; that’s the best use of my free time!”

Mags scrubbed till she felt her fingers would bleed. Then she pumped icy water across them, washing the froth away. After, she sniffed them and growled. The stink wouldn’t come out no matter how hard she tried. “This all there’ll be? Work my fingers to the nub till I give in and marry some fat, ugly farmer and let him breed me like stock?” They were the same tired questions. Mags clenched her jaw and shook out her hands to dry them. Tears of frustration burned her eyes as she tilted back her head. She wouldn’t cry about this. “A Class, a life of my own, and a little adventure,” she said, the empty sky her audience. “Is that really too much to ask? Judgment knows I’ve worked hard to get it.”

Breathing deeply, she finally allowed herself to relax a little. Enough to drop her pack, at least, and pick up her bow and quiver. The first arrow slammed into a stump beneath the great oak tree behind her house. Filling her lungs, she retrieved a second arrow, placed it on the string, and drew. Mags released the arrow along with her breath.

Her aim was awful. She still landed the shot within the circle, if only just barely. Anything less would be laughable. Regardless, at twenty paces, she expected all arrows to hit the apple-sized inner ring. “Can’t just pull the arrow, damn ya, Mags. Focus. No way I’ll unlock Ranger if I don’t focus.” Stubbornly, she continued her training, unaware that many in town thought her half mad. Anyone else would have given up years ago.

The back door crashed shut. Apparently, the bodkin striking wood on her last shot had masked the sound of its opening. “Why the pissy mood, Mags? Another Hunter turn you down?”

“Shem bleeding Tavins!” she replied, pulling the string back, three fingernails lightly touching her cheek. The arrow hissed through the chill evening air and smacked home, a bit closer to center this time. “Two silvers, Liam! Two Rift-cursed silvers! Poor trade for the first day of Restraint.”

Liam folded his arms across his chest. As usual, he wore that smug expression that told her he could see straight through her lies. “Two silver is more than most make in a day,” he said casually. “Nah, it’s something else. It’s your Class that’s bothering you. Tell me I’m wrong.”

Mags clenched a fist and spun to face him. “Why, Liam, what Class are you speaking of? I’m afraid I don’t have one! So, sure, I’ll say it. You’re wrong, big brother!” The last few words came out louder than she’d intended.

He chuckled, amused and sympathetic. Three years her senior, Liam had always been the closest of her siblings. He was chronically full of crap and had the wit of a drunken kobold. Most of all, her brother simply loved her—a trait Mags was ashamed to admit had an effect. “It’ll come,” he said, his tone confident.

“When? I’ve put in the work! Principalities, Liam! I’m gonna be twenty-one this fall!”

Liam strode up and hugged her with one arm, his other hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers. With characteristic gentleness, he kissed her brow. “I know. And I suspect they do as well. Remember, I didn’t unlock Carpenter until my eighteenth birthday. Us Strongtowers take time to mature. Keep faith, Sister. It’ll come.”

She grunted lamely, causing him to laugh again. Then, smacking her between the shoulder blades, he said, “Come and eat when your shoulder’s good and tired. I’ll tell Ma you need some time.”

“Thank you,” she said, watching him go. “And tell her I’ll help clean up when the eating’s done!”

As she faced the target and nocked an arrow, she heard Liam grunt in agreement. Then she heard the door open, allowing Quentin’s voice to carry out to her ears. “Yes, I will! I’ll knock you on your ass, Petar! You’re a Rift-born jerk!”

Mags’ mother snapped at the young Strongtower a fraction of a second before the door slammed shut. “You’ll watch your mouth is what you’ll do. Now, quiet already and eat your⁠—”

Mags smiled, glad she was missing the squabble but happy she’d caught a bit of it. She loved her family fiercely. Chuckling reluctantly, a bit of her anxiety ebbed. When she loosed another arrow, it sank into the stump a quarter-inch shy of dead center. “Aye,” she whispered, “it’ll come. If I have to bribe every Hunter, Fighter, and Ranger in Ardea, I’ll get a Class of my own.”

Mags lifted her hand to draw another shaft of pine when a vile sensation crashed into her. A fierce itching spread across the back of her skull, a feeling that reminded her of a swarm of fleas besieging scalp. “The heck is that?” she asked aloud, touching the location gingerly. She expected to feel the wet warmth of blood, or maybe an insect sinking its pincers in her. When her fingers made contact with her scalp, something far more queer happened. Almost like a bubble bursting, the sensation ceased immediately. It left behind the distinct impression that her thoughts were no longer her own. Good evening, Marigold, a voice said in the chamber of her mind. You’ll have to excuse me for the intrusion, but I have a favor to ask that’s quite urgent.

Mags frowned, unnerved but also not entirely surprised. Marek had mentioned the mage’s odd habits more than a few times, and this mind speech was one her friend had complained about many times. Besides, she could recognize the voice: slightly hoarse, kindly, and always concealing a hint of amusement. “Rauld? That you in there?”

Who else? I haven’t much time, so listen good, will you? The ancient man spoke at a faster clip than usual, giving her the impression he was anxious, and that troubled her. Your good friend Marek is attempting to leave Misthearth as we speak. I’d been unsure about whether or not to inform you of his departure. Circumstances have changed, and unfortunately, there seems to be no choice.

“Wait, he’s leaving?” she said, interrupted the mage. “He never told me about no trips. Where’s he going?”

Like I said, we haven’t time to banter. Keep your voice down if others are near. Your thoughts alone are enough to communicate with me. Now, shut up, Marigold Strongtower, and listen!

She suppressed several responses, her caution outweighing annoyance. Aye, she thought back. I’m listening.

Marek is on a quest of great importance. He must be gone from Misthearth post haste. Unfortunately, I used my Messenger Bird Spell on him earlier this night, and the target cooldown hasn’t been reset. Hence why I’m calling on you.

Mags shook her head, unsure of what to say. “What do you want me to do?” she finally asked.

The mage hummed thoughtfully—a satisfied sound, if she’d read the tone correctly. I’m pleased you’re so quick to ask. Your friend will need you in the coming months, I’m afraid. His task is urgent, and it begins with escape.

Catching on, Mags thought, Escape? From what? Are Isaac and those jerks after him?

Much worse, I’m afraid. Casteran soldiers are entering Misthearth as we speak. They’ve split their forces, and one will intercept Marek in Southshore if you don’t intervene.

Mags’ brow sprouted chill sweat. She stared at the turf between her feet, unsure of what to do. Soldiers? Is Misthearth under attack? Why don’t you inform Callum Fray? The Captain of the Guard is almost a Master in his Class. He’s a lot more qualified than⁠—

Hush, child! Rauld snapped. Marek will explain. The Casterans will be coming under a banner of peace. Yet the fact that they divided their forces worries me. I have good reason to believe they’re after Marek. He’ll explain in the days to come. I charge you with a quest of your own: Don’t let our Marek die.

Mags’ stomach was a knot, empty from having skipped lunch and thrumming with nerves. I… I won’t, Rauld, but what is all this? You’re scaring me.

When Rauld answered, his voice was softened with compassion. Good. Fear is ever an ally. Without delay, you must take up your things, all you need to survive in the wilderness, and as much food as your family can spare. Marek will be leaving his uncle’s any moment now. Find him and leave Misthearth on the southern road. His pursuers are heading to the eastern road, then likely down Pub Street to sweep Southshore. Be swift, Marigold! And for Principalities’ sake, avoid the Casterans at all costs!

Some would have spent precious minutes scratching their head and pondering the mage’s strange request. Mags hadn’t survived military training for nothing, though, and Rauld wasn’t one to jest. Taking the mage at his word, she flew into action without delay. Her breath plumed in the chill air as she ticked off a mental list of preparations. Less than a minute passed before she’d decided her course of action.

Mags began with the obvious and close at hand. She retrieved the arrows and ran to the side of the house. Gritting her teeth, she shimmied up to her room window on the second story, using the chimney as a ladder. A few of the stones were hot, and she cursed under her breath, knowing she’d likely earn a few blisters from the climb.

Prying the window open, Mags quietly slid inside. She fumbled around in the dark. After a moment, her groping fingers found her sigil rod. “Come on,” she whispered. “No funny business.” When the rod sparked, she lit an oil lamp and sighed with relief. With light to see, Mags got to work.

In five short minutes, she’d stuffed her things into the large backpack she’d taken with her after leaving the King’s army. Bracing a foot against the wall, she lowered the pack from her window, using a length of rope. It took all her hand strength to do so, letting it down slowly to avoid making any noise that might draw attention.

When she finished, Mags threw a leg over the sill to follow but paused. A foul idea had come to her—one she couldn’t ignore. “Damn, but Liam’s going to kill me.” Guilt gnawed at her conscience as she snuck down the hallway and ducked into her brother’s room. He only spent half his days at home, yet they kept his little room available at all times. As she’d suspected, Mags found Liam’s shortsword in its scabbard near his bed. Sighing, she took the weapon along with the sack of beans, grain, and dried fruit he’d packed for his upcoming trip. “Sorry,” she whispered, glancing back at her brother’s bed in regret. “I’ll pay you back. I promise.”

When Mags closed the door behind her, a creak in the hall floorboards sent a spike of fear lancing up her spine. Yet when she confronted the spy, she found only little Quentin holding a candle in one hand. Eyes wide, the boy asked, “Whatcha doin’, Mags?”

She let out a relieved breath and leaned down. Close up, she could make out twin trails on his round cheeks where tears had cut through the day’s grime. “Going on a big adventure. Do you think you can do me a big, big favor, Quentin? It’s really important.”

He nodded eagerly. The boy revered his older siblings—all but Petar, at least, who spent most of his days pestering him. Mags was no exception. “Yeah, I can do that. I… I don’t know how to use a sword, but I’ll try.”

Mags winced and shook her head. “No, nothing like that. You’re to be my messenger.” Miraculously, Quentin’s eyes managed to get even wider. “I need you to wait until Liam heads upstairs to go to sleep. Then tell him I left, that I took his sword and some food.”

“His sword?” Quentin asked. “Mags, he’ll kill you!”

She shushed him, then nodded. “I’m only borrowing it, okay? He’ll understand. Liam’s gonna get good and pissed, and when he does, I need you to ask him to trust me enough not to try to follow. Understand?”

Quentin stood with his mouth hanging open, fear blossoming in his big eyes. “But where ya goin’, Mags?” he asked, nearly echoing his first question.

She kissed him on the cheek, her lips coming back wet with the salt of his recent tears. “Like I said, just a little adventure. I need Ma and Pa not to find out till the morning, though. Can you do this for me? Will you be my messenger?”

Ultimately, Quentin had no defense for such a request. He nodded so vigorously he jostled the candle, and a bit of wax spilled to the floorboards. Mags steadied the candle and smiled, forcing her memory to keep this image of her little brother. In his eyes swam the admiration and longing so many younger siblings held for those that had come first. “Thank you,” she said, pinching off the emotions that threatened to well up. “I will see you soon, little brother. Promise, promise.”

31

AMIDST MISTHEARTH

Mags took every shortcut she knew as she cut across Misthearth. Her boots pounded on the cobblestones, the weight of her backpack making her clumsy. She knew anyone unlucky enough to see her tromping past would have a laugh at her expense. Her gear weighed half as much as she did, if not more, and though she hated to admit it, she wasn’t as fit as she had been during her brief enlistment.

Mags forced the self-conscious thoughts from her mind. Focusing on her task, she quickly crossed to Southshore. No sign of Marek, so she pressed on until the stone railing of the last bridge came into view. She stopped in the middle of the road, breath pluming in the chill air, and searched all around. Terror gripped her heart mercilessly.

“Shouldn’t have packed anything!” she wheezed. “Oh, Marek, where are you? Damn, if I’d only come straight away, I might have…”

A distant flame caught her attention, and she held her breath. Mist covered the ground in patches, having burned off the river in the afternoon and settled onto the cooling streets. Mags squinted, waiting for the wind to clear her view.

At first, she thought it was a torch, perhaps a patrolling town guard making the rounds. Then a patch of fog shifted, revealing a lantern swinging gently side to side. Mags flitted to the side of the road, stepping clear of the ruddy light cast from the nearest sigil lamp. Ducking behind a hedge, she waited to get a better look at whoever was coming her way.

Soon, the figure came nearer. Hooded and leading a horse, a small lantern dangling from one hand, the man or woman shuffled along nervously. Is that him? she wondered, not daring to speak a word, for sound traveled unpredictably far in such conditions. Can’t be. And if so, when the hells did he get a horse? Haven’t seen the jerk all week, so maybe he did get one and I didn’t know. Little by little she perceived more of the situation. The beast she’d assumed was a horse turned out to be a donkey, and the figure leading the donkey had a build and height similar to Marek’s. With such a deep hood, she couldn’t tell for certain, though. This hooded stranger clutched a short walking staff in their offhand. It was pale, and the wood rough-cut, revealing it had likely been carved recently.

Mags chewed her lip, worrying she might have to reveal herself before learning the stranger’s identity… until the figure coughed. A hacking thing, phlegm rattling in a young man’s throat, and a whispered, “Principalities, it’s cold.”

Relief swept over Mags in a rush. She stepped out from her hiding place and whispered, “Marek, it’s me.”

Her friend skittered away from her and to the side, bumping into the mule. The beast chuffed and headbutted him in the backside, prompting a grunt of pain. The lantern in Marek’s hand clattered noisily, and Mags winced, hoping the sound might be dampened by one of the fog banks. Staff clutched to his chest like a maiden in distress, her friend found his voice.

“Mags, you scared me half to death! What in the Coherent Realm are you doing here?”

Mags tilted her head and pointed, a gesture she’d gained from her mother, and said, “I should ask you the same. Since when did you have a donkey, and what’s this about you leaving town in a hurry?”

He portrayed a little humility, clearing his throat and shrugging, before his eyes flicked to the pack she bore. “It’s a mule,” he said reflexively. Then, noticing her scowl, he blurted out an explanation. “I’m sorry, Mags. I didn’t want to have this talk, but you can’t come. I’d want you to, of course. Something happened to me—something real big-like—and I can’t stay here. Ugh, it’s hard to tell it all quickly, and I don’t have much⁠—”

“Shut it!” she snapped. “Rauld contacted me with his itchy mind trick. It was his idea that I sneak out from my house before supper and come find you. Apparently, we’re going on a grand quest, and Marek, you’re in danger! He said soldiers are coming for you; did you know that? Casteran soldiers!”

His eyes widened, head swiveling behind him instinctively. Seeing they were still alone, he sighed. “I know. Rauld and Mirrin told me to leave through the east road, and… well, I’ve been preparing to head off for a few days now. I couldn’t tell you, and Mags, you gotta believe me, I have to go it alone!”

Mags pointed in the opposite direction. “Rauld said they split up into two groups. One is coming down from the east road as we speak. You can spill the beans later, but right now we’ve got to head south, and quick!” She jogged ahead, knowing he might waste more time arguing. Sure enough, she heard him shuffling after her, cursing under his breath. Happy to see you too, she thought, dashing across the open street. We’re so close. Just a quarter-mile and we’ll be in the clear.

The street was largely empty, but a merchant locking the front door eyed her suspiciously. She smiled broadly and waved, standing a little taller so as not to appear like a skulking thief. Her effort didn’t quite land, but the man was complacent enough to simply shrug and walk in the opposite direction. Ahead, the road forked south. A wide swath of cobblestones lay illuminated beneath two large sigil lanterns. That was their target, and she increased her pace in the hopes they could avoid any sort of trouble.

Her eyes caught movement beyond the lantern light, and she staggered to a halt. Mags flung herself against the nearest shop, waving Marek to do the same.

Then a pair of men entered the light. Both holding spears and wearing strange armor, their feet didn’t make a sound as they trod over the cobbles. It was eerie to see, and Mags guessed the party had a Hunter or Rogue Class with them—someone with the Ability to cloak the sound of movement in a party. More men followed, though she couldn’t see them all.

Backtracking, Mags snatched the mule’s reins and yanked the beast and her friend along with it toward the mouth of a nearby alley. The trio plunged into darkness. Heart pounding madly, the woman prayed to her patron god, Neckenai the Traveler, that they’d not been seen.

Mags crept to the end of the alley to spy on the Casterans. “What happened?” Marek whispered in her ear. She turned and held a finger to her lips. Reaching down, she closed the little window on Marek’s lamp and waved him off, gesturing for him to retreat a little further down the alley.

Then she waited, body pressed to the cold stone wall behind her, eyes trained on the road ahead. The Casterans had been close to two hundred feet from her, which was quite the distance in this darkness with fog to obscure things, yet if they had a Scout Class among them, there was a chance they’d been spotted. Soon, their pursuers came into view, striding into a pool of bright light from another sigil lantern. Mags thanked the gods, for the brightness would dampen the men’s eyesight, giving her and Marek a better chance of escaping notice. Mags counted fourteen in total, seven ranks of two men. Rauld had described the men as soldiers, but something felt off about that description. The Casterans walked without cadence, showing discipline in their movements but far too much individuality. Stranger still was the assortment of weapons they bore. Most had spears like the two at the head of the party, but at a glance, Mags spotted shortswords and daggers strapped to belts, longswords attached to back or hip sheaths, and a few of the Casterans even held bows, arrows on strings and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.

When the last soldiers stepped into view, one of the men peered into the dark shadows that concealed her. Every muscle in Mags’ body stiffened. She thought for certain they were caught, but the man’s head turned in another direction as he continued to scan the shadows.

And then the Casterans were gone.

She waited a full minute before sighing in relief. “Let’s go, Marek. We can sneak out and be gone from Misthearth before anyone’s missed us.”

“And why would you be leaving town?” an icy voice asked from deep shadows at the far end of the alley.

Mags clenched her jaw and condemned her cursed luck. The speaker’s snide condescension couldn’t be mistaken. “Isaac,” she said wearily, turning to face the Captain of the Guard’s favored son. “What are you doing here?”

Flanked as usual by his two companions, the young man smirked. “I asked you a question first. Were you hiding from those soldiers? Suspicious behavior, if you ask me.”

Marek touched Mags’ shoulder, probably with the intent of calming her. His effort failed completely.

“Nothing suspicious about it. You saw ‘em! Those weren’t Ardeans by any means, and if I had to guess, I’d say they were mercenaries.” Then, steeling herself for the inevitable confrontation, she warned, “Leave us be, Isaac. Rauld sent us to complete a little task, that’s all.”

“Why would you hide from a foreign envoy, then?” the man persisted, cradling his chin in thought. “Seems quite strange, doesn’t it, Frim?”

“Mighty strange,” the thug echoed on cue.

“What she said is true,” Marek said in an uncharacteristically firm tone. “Rauld himself gave us a quest. We aren’t lying.”

Isaac’s brows rose dramatically. “No? First the Tiny Tower said it was a little task, and now you speak of a quest? You’ll have to forgive me, but this isn’t adding up.”

Corrigan cleared his throat. “Let’s leave them be, Isaac. Anyone with sense would avoid that group, and besides, you already gave her a beating the other day.”

Isaac puffed up with pride. “That I did. A keen memory you have.”

Corrigan’s eyes flitted to Mags briefly. The man was in his guard uniform, though his tunic was untucked, as if his shift had passed hours ago. He gave her the faintest of nods before adding, “Also, that new bard will be starting up soon at the Fletched Arrow. Thought you wanted to hear him.”

Isaac’s malicious smile didn’t falter. “It’ll be a grand show. Still, what’ll it cost us to raise the alarm? I simply must know why you two are hiding from a squadron of Casteran foot soldiers.”

The young man’s smile fell as he raised cupped hands to his mouth.

Mags watched in horror as Isaac’s chest expanded. She grasped the hilt at her hip, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough. She’d be too slow to stop the jerk, let alone strike him down with friends on either side. Marek stood closer to the bunch, but even he would be too late to stop Isaac’s shout.

Then something Mags never could have expected happened. Corrigan’s eyes filled with light, and he blurred with uncanny speed. She only caught the final movement as the big man struck Isaac in the ribs. A pulse of golden light emerged from Corrigan’s fist, illuminating the alley. Isaac’s mouth flared wide as he fell, yet he didn’t so much as gasp. He slumped to the ground, unconscious before his tunic was soiled in the dank alley.

Mags was astonished. She’d seen Corrigan in the practice yard, and thus knew the young man had just employed one of his most impressive Skills. It was called Sap, and it subdued a man’s mana for a handful of minutes, doing no physical harm but instantly and silently removing him from a fight.

Frim flinched, the oaf’s eyes gaping as he stared first at Isaac, then at the ally that had attacked. The brute pointed a blunt finger at Corrigan, face clouding with anger. “You traitor,” he growled, hand moving to the weapon on his belt. “Try that against me.”

Again, Mags cursed at her positioning. She was too far away to do a thing. Surely, if two swords clashed, the Casterans would hear and come running. It seemed fate had other plans, however, and she found herself shocked a second time when Marek swung his staff. The blow clacked against bone, striking the fool on the side of his skull.

A second body accompanied the first on the dank cobblestones of the alley.

Marek and Corrigan exchanged shocked looks. Then the larger man nodded in acknowledgment before his eyes flicked to Mags. “Shoulda never hung out with that asshole. Sorry, Mags. I don’t care how much I owe his father; Isaac is trash.”

She blinked in surprise a few times before waving a hand. “Don’t… worry about it, I guess. What are you going to do when he wakes, though?”

Corrigan huffed out an enormous sigh and shook his head slowly, staring down at the man at his feet. “Hell if I know. But I’ll deal with it. Callum’s not as much of a jerk as his son. I’m sure he’ll see reason when I explain what happened… You were telling the truth, though, weren’t ya? About Rauld?”

“We were,” Marek said evenly. “Ask him to talk to Callum, and I’m sure all will be well.”

Mags hesitated a moment while a heavy silence filled the space between the three. Then she stepped forward and gave the man an awkward hug. “Appreciate it, Corrigan. I knew you weren’t like him. We’ll thank you proper when we get back, yeah? First round on me.”

He stammered a moment, clearly flustered, before asking, “Where are you going? And why were you hiding? Foreign envoys have come to Misthearth before. They’re probably on official business. Are you okay, Mags?”

She gave his thick arm a squeeze. “Just a little quest is all. Nothing strange or dangerous. I’ll catch you up when we return.” Not daring to delay, she silenced Corrigan’s mouth with a quick peck to his scruffy cheek. “Thank you,” she repeated, lingering just long enough to witness the man’s body betray him as he turned into a great, blushing statue.

When Marek arched an eyebrow in her direction, she rolled her eyes and jogged ahead. Peering from the alley, she found the street empty.

Mags shook out her hands and tried to relax her shoulders. Then she strode from the alley with her head held high.

Marek caught up, the mule trailing behind. The two made for an awkward sight, their attempts to look casual not helping their cause in the slightest. None but a stray cat and a tall young man holding his cheek witnessed their departure.

32

RESTLESS

The dull gray of dawn burned away rapidly. A spear of sunlight lanced across the sky, causing Marek to look up from the fire crackling before him.

“You finish up,” Mags said abruptly. “I’m gonna go check on the snares. Be back in half an hour.”

Marek stood, swallowing a mouthful of oats. “You sure? I can come with you. Makes sense that we stick together, right? I mean, if the Casterans are after us⁠—”

The woman snatched up her bow and quiver, giving him a quick shake of the head. “Finish your meal and be ready to go when I get back. Maybe close your eyes a bit. No offense, but you look like something Lydia spat out.”

“Rude!” Marek called, his body already thanking him as he sat again and leaned against the tree trunk. “What do you expect? We haven’t slept in three days!”

Mags quirked a grin and strode from camp. A flip of her braids was all he got in response.

“Prideful woman,” he muttered under his breath. “The audacity to wake up refreshed after four hours of sleeping on the ground.”

His friend had long ago gotten used to such conditions. In fact, he was quite certain she’d taken a larger share of the guard shift the night before, allowing him more sleep than he deserved. Yet other than her slight grubbiness, Mags looked no worse for wear. Three nights, including the first when they’d fled Misthearth, and the duo were at last heading in the right direction. Their path took them almost due north, curving eastward as the Quartz Road into Shirgrim came closer by the day. Mags had set a grueling pace. Marek appreciated it, for they both feared pursuit. Despite the constant vigilance, and jumping at every cracked twig in the night, the Casteran hunters never showed their faces. This made some sense. Rauld would’ve sent the soldiers in the opposite direction, and given the mage’s reputation, he would be the only other man to speak with other than Isaac’s father. When his thoughts touched on the asshole Corrigan had knocked senseless, Marek felt queasy. He wouldn’t put it past Isaac to tell the Casterans everything he knew of Mags and himself.

That doesn’t make sense, Marek chided himself. They probably left Misthearth before that jerk woke up. This quest is hard enough as it is without paranoia. Keep to the plan, and all will be well.

Left alone, Marek decided to do precisely what Mags had suggested. He finished the hasty meal and cleaned the bowl. Packing up all but his bedroll, he lay down near the fire and closed his eyes. His body ached in a multitude of ways. Not only was he weary from travel and poor sleep, but it felt like he’d been tied between a team of horses and an oak tree. Every joint throbbed incessantly. His tendons were aflame, making every task arduous. Tilda was fond of reminding her patients that pain was often a sign of mending, so Marek decided to take it all in stride.

Too anxious to sleep, he rested his bones and allowed his thoughts to wander. Unsurprisingly, his Class rose to the forefront of his mind. He intended to read every book Rauld had given him… when there was time. Their flight from Misthearth had dragged them past farmsteads, through orchards and every wood and bramble in between. Circumventing their hometown without using any of the convenient roads wasn’t easy, yet Marek and Mags agreed it was the best option. Only yesterday, an hour before nightfall, they’d struck Rollins Road, the main route northward.

Maybe I should experiment again, he thought. If something goes wrong, that’ll be my only shot of defending myself. Even with my staff, I’m dead weight. He thought of his Level 1 Soul Knight Abilities and considered which would provide the most support in a drawn-out fight. Spirit Body, he decided almost at once. The Skill could provide him with enough protection that he could ignore damage and focus on offense. That reminded Marek of the calls of the dead he’d heard at the wall and the wailing spirits in his uncle’s house. And the voice. Can’t forget that, can you? The urge to commit violence had scared him. It was far too powerful to take lightly.

A shiver ran down his spine. He inched a little closer to the fire and held a blind hand up to the flames to feel the warmth. Determined not to waste time, he chose another way to examine his powers. Might be too risky to use an Ability, but maybe I can gain a better understanding of my Ether Core. As he’d done on his uncle’s stoop, Marek imagined viewing his body from the outside. He pictured his chest, and an image of the swirling energy behind his sternum came into view.

Comparing it with his Mana Core, Marek glanced between the two power sources and made two observations. My Mana Core is getting bigger; I was right about that. And as expansive as my Ether Core is, it seems almost stagnant. He thought back to the first time he’d viewed it. Marek couldn’t tell for certain, but if he had to guess, he’d say his Ether Core held the same amount of energy, perhaps less. It wasn’t as if it could be quantified. More so he had a sense of his ether’s potential. The circulating double loop was visually impressive; that much couldn’t be disputed. But I have the feeling I’m not even close to being topped up. If only I had a few spirits around to siphon.

Unwilling to go searching, Marek pushed the mental view of his Core aside and willed his mind in another direction. In the world of Classes, few were capable of viewing Attributes or information about Skills and Spells. He’d already done the latter several times already, however. Marek couldn’t help but wonder what else he could see with Empath’s Gaze. With a goal in mind, he tried to instigate a new function of his Ability with thought alone. His efforts produced no results. Not knowing what else to try, he experimented with a variety of mental commands. View Marek Theeras. Recalling the name he’d heard in the Crucible, he tried, View Marek Kaiteras next only for it too to fail. Marek continued. View Self. View statistics. Examine Self. Examine potential... Examine Remnant Mage Class.

He gasped as a haze of ethereal words filled his mind’s eye.

Primary Class: Remnant Mage

Level 1 Apprentice

Class Skills: Spirit Body, Empath’s Gaze

Attribute Points Per Level: 2

Marek sat up, eyes fluttering open. “Principalities! I gain two Attribute Points per Level with Remnant Mage?” he cried out, causing Lydia to lift her head from the clover patch she was combing over to chuff his way. Checking his volume, Marek apologized to the mule, shrugged, and immersed himself once more. “Okay, so that worked. What other information can I learn about myself…? I pretty much know what my Abilities do, and I know my other Class. Still, why not test to see if the command is universal? Examine Sigilist Class.”

Sure enough, he confirmed what he already knew. Sigilist was at Level 9 Apprentice. His only Skill was Intuit, and as he’d known he gained only a single Attribute Point per Level. Biting his lip, Marek moved on to further examinations. After eleven failed attempts, he succeeded by uttering, “Examine Personal Attributes.”

Name: Marek Kaiteras

Strength: 7

Dexterity: 7

Constitution: 6

Intelligence: 14 (Affliction: Core Atrophy, 82% Reduction)

Willpower: 17

Charisma: 10

Available Attribute Points: 2

Marek was up on his feet in a flash. Seeing the terrible wound his uncle had dealt him, written out in Ardean script, set him aflame. “Oh, if you were here!” he shouted. “Intentions be damned! I swear, Mirrin! You arrogant, cantankerous, ugly old son of a⁠—”

Lydia chuffed again, swishing her tail with annoyance.

Marek growled back, tempted to find a stone to hurl at the beast. “Who asked you?” he snapped. “I’ll curse my uncle if I damn well please!” His cheeks burned fiercely, and only the recollection he was technically a hunted man subdued his urge to scream. Clenching his jaw, he spoke the affliction aloud. “Core Atrophy! 82%! No wonder my damn Attribute Points don’t matter!”

Marek paced back and forth several times to soothe his emotions. One thought trickled through the cloud of anger, calming him a little. His Core had been recovering, if slowly. Perhaps the affliction would decrease over time. Then, who knows, he might have an ordinary pool of mana someday. “And I have an Ether Core,” he added. “That’s something nobody else has. Well, unless maybe the Death Mage. Ugh, calm down, Marek. Let’s keep things positive. My Constitution and Strength both gained a point on their own, which explains why I feel stronger since awakening my Class. Also, I’ve two unspent points…”

Marek wasted no more time. He’d mulled over where to place his Attribute Points while they traveled. Constitution and Intelligence were at the top of his list, but considering his time in the Crucible and Serin’s reaction to his high Willpower score, Marek suspected that Attribute would become more significant. With speedy travel his highest priority, Marek chose the quickest way to improve his odds of survival.

Investing two points into Constitution, he braced himself. A hot flush coursed through his limbs, the intensity of it dropping him to his knees. Marek’s vision faded next, and both ears pounded like struck gongs. His muscles writhed and cramped. All Marek could do was groan.

After a minute of painful spasms, the transformation settled.

Marek flopped back onto his bedroll, sweat beading his brow. “Maybe just one at a time,” he panted. “That might be a good idea moving forward.”

Lydia’s hot breath tousled his hair. The mule was hovering above, one great brown eye staring. “Like you actually care,” he snapped. “Don’t pretend you like me. You’re just worried I won’t give you any more sweets.”

The mule huffed in his face and pawed the ground stubbornly. Then she wandered off to feed again.

Soon, Marek caught his breath. He sat up, eyes widening. Dirty, disheveled, and sweaty, he allowed himself to notice what had changed. The aches in his body were diminished, and more strikingly, he felt energized. He wasn’t precisely stronger; no, it was more that his feebleness had abated.

Significantly.

Perspective shifted, a little guilt touched his consciousness. Rarely had he cursed his uncle’s name. Marek shrugged, too pleased to linger on the worry. “He did poison me for nearly two decades…”

Invigorated, he got busy. He shook out his bedroll and bound it tightly to his pack. Then he fought with Lydia to secure the gear to either side of her saddle. Twice, he had to dodge gnashing teeth.

When he’d finished packing, Marek dampened the fire by tossing soil over the coals. Mags was still gone, which worried him a little. He trusted his friend more than anyone, though, and he figured she’d return soon enough.

With a little more time to kill, he found a good rock to sit on and focused his attention on the greatest gift he’d ever received. Thinking fondly of Rauld, Marek tapped into the Archivist’s Ring.

33

IMBUED WITH LOVE

Marek skimmed titles in his head, delighted at how convenient the ring was. With a bit of focus, he could browse its contents mentally and select what he needed. What will help me today? he asked, knowing he and Mags were in the midst of a crisis and hoping to improve their odds. Unique Paths to Power? No, that sounds fascinating, but I’ll save it for later. Classes of Our Ancestors: The Enduring Unique Classes of the Six… Damn, if it isn’t tempting. No, he thought firmly, that isn’t going to help me at the moment either. Given the circumstances, Marek made his decision a minute later.

With a thought, he summoned Northern Woodcraft: Terrain, Flora, and Fauna. It was a thin volume with a plain and ratty cover. He opened the book and found a crude map on the first page. It took him a while to decipher until he spotted the dashed line separating Ardea from Shirgrim. The map all but ignored political geography and focused on the mountains themselves, which made sense given its title. They were traveling by road, and he most certainly wasn’t going to be the one hunting for the group, so Marek skipped ahead to the section labeled Flora.

In moments, Marek was lost in the descriptions of notable plants in the area. He knew many, since Mags had taught him a few things in the past. It didn’t take long for him to learn of several new species of herbs and berries he might find in northern Ardea. Each description was followed by a sketched image, which reminded him of the shopping list he’d been given by Tilda. Marek was about to turn the page when something triggered in his memory.

“Hey, I’ve seen you, haven’t I?” he asked, pressing his finger on the sketch of an herb called Dilly’s Chalice. “Just over… there!”

He ran across the clearing and found a patch of weed, all producing tiny orange flowers. The blossoms were shaped like fluted cups. Marek reread the description and smiled. “These can be used to make a poultice… increases the flow of mana in and around the wound… speeds up recovery and slows the effects of some poisons,” he read aloud, skimming the information at a fast clip. “Apply to open wounds. Ten blossoms for every five pounds of body weight. Mash into a pulp, then combine with water and clay. Substitute clay with crushed charcoal if not available… and that’s it!”

Marek had been a scholar ever since he’d learned his letters at the age of four. He loved reading for the sake of reading. Yet he was far from Rauld’s cellar, and his health was improving, if slower than he’d have preferred. So for once, Marek set the book aside. Storing it in his ring, he threw himself at the task of harvesting the herb. He was careful only to take the flowers, for the stems were useless, apparently. In five minutes, he’d gathered what he guessed could treat a man of his size and weight. He wanted to harvest more, but his imagination was running loose. Tucking the herb away in a spare pouch on his pack, Marek folded his legs and closed his eyes.

He reviewed the information he’d taken in as well as the image of the patch of Dilly’s Chalice he’d been harvesting from. Then he drummed up a query. How many children could I treat with the blossoms in that patch?

Intuit failed to respond. He shook his head, knowing his error immediately. Given that each child weighs sixty pounds, and each has a cut six inches long, how many of the children could I treat with all the blossoms in that patch?

The images that filled Marek’s mind were interesting. A line of children standing in a row, seventeen in total, all bearing a cut across their bellies. Eerily, his imagination apparently struggled with individuality, for each of his conjured patients wore the exact same pair of brown trousers, the same white tunic, and had the same blurry patch of gray instead of a face.

He was about to release his Skill and try to imagine another query, one that might spawn a result that didn’t creep him out, when a burst of warm power bled out from his Core. It rippled up his torso and down his legs, along the length of his arms, and ended with tingling fingers and toes. Marek threw back his head and laughed in delight. “Another level up! Damn, I wish Mirrin could have seen this!” He chuckled again, this time at the irony of cursing the man and wishing he were here in such a short span of time.

Marek wanted to get up and dance around the camp site, but he held his celebration in check for the time being. He’d made enough of a racket this morning already. And besides, Marek wouldn’t be able to choose his next Skill without the assistance of a Master Sigilist. “Doubt I’ll find one anywhere on this journey. I’ll bet there’s a Class Master in Swiftwall… It would cost me, but there’s always an academy in the bigger cities.”

In addition to unlocking a Class, one could also evolve that Class or unlock a secondary. Class Master was an example of the latter. Rare but so useful that many attempted the transition, it required a Scholar to reach Level 41 and then display proficiency in at least five other Classes. Doing so would unlock the secondary Class. Class Master was reserved for non-combat Classes, Master of Arms for physical combat Classes, and Master of Magic for the casting disciplines. Marek had once dreamed of completing the achievement himself, yet now the goal lacked the luster it once held.

“Wait,” he said, the hint of a smile touching his lips. “Do I still need help with this? Empath’s Gaze lets me see and interact with the system directly. I wonder…” Marek closed his eyes and guided his will. After a few failed attempts, he found the right phrase. View Class Progression. Success came to him in the form of a message—one with a different tone than those prior.

Congratulations! Apprentice Sigilist has been promoted to Novice Sigilist!

Current Rank: Level 10

Skills: Intuit (Miscellaneous Skills Tree)

Available Skill Slots: 1

Available Class Skills: Imbue, Diffuse, Minor Elevation

Available Miscellaneous Skills: ?

Marek read the message several times over, disbelief only barely quashed by a burgeoning excitement. I know what Imbue does, at least in theory, and Mirrin told me that Diffuse was a specialty Skill Sigilists learned to remove enchantments without ruining the host object… Minor Elevation? I’ve seen Mirrin use Elevation. Probably just a lesser version of that Skill.

Always seeking more information, Marek guided Empath’s Gaze as he’d previously done for Spirit Body.

Minor Elevation: Improve a work of sigilcraft by a small degree. Skill only applicable on items altered with Imbue, Brand, and Engrave.

Marek possessed few enchanted items. All had been gifts from Mirrin; the last, he’d received the day before he left. Dismissing his Ability, Marek tugged on his belt to see the two sigils branded on the inside of the leather. Roughly translated, the sigils read Endure Force. It was a broad-spectrum enchantment that essentially made his belt nearly indestructible. Cuts and wear and tear from friction were negated. He’d need to hack at the thing with a sword to overcome the simple yet effective enchantment.

His cloak was modified as well, more effectively keeping out wind and rain. Marek’s belt knife dulled at such a slow pace he’d only had to sharpen it once. None of the enchantments he had with him added up to much, but they were precious nonetheless. Not only were their small benefits welcome, but as Mirrin had suggested, Marek could sell the items in case he needed additional coin.

“Wouldn’t take me long to run through the lot of them,” Marek said, rubbing the oiled leather belt methodically. “Mags probably has a couple items herself. I’d still end up with nothing to use Minor Elevate on in a week or so… and I can’t level a Skill without practice.”

Diffuse was an even more impractical choice. Only a Sigilist with access to an active workshop needed it, and even then, most considered it a luxury.

Marek brushed aside the desire to know what else he might gain from the Common Skills Tree. He’d end up having to wait for a master again.

Why am I stalling? I’ve wanted this for years! Marek fell into a meditative state. Learn Class Skill Imbue. His reward was immediate. No trials were needed to perfect the wording. Instead, another wave of heat flushed out from his Core. This time, the sensation burned a little, and it settled in his hands. He felt the knowledge a moment later, instinctually grasping how to perform the Skill. He knew it would take practice to master, but Marek was a quick study by all accounts. Besides, he’d rehearsed thousands of times, practicing with the basic Sigilist tools, so that one day he could quickly advance with Imbue when he unlocked it.

Marek’s eyes shot open, and he ran to Lydia’s side. He tugged out the walking staff he’d tied to his pack and sifted through the Archivist’s Ring until he found the box of tools his uncle had given him.

Minutes later, Marek knelt near the remains of their campfire. He’d excavated a few coals and rekindled a small blaze. He waited for the sigils to heat sufficiently, all the while trying desperately to calm his nerves. In the end, he accepted the fact that his hands would tremble if they pleased.

Finally, the sigil brands were ready. Included in the set of gravers were files, three small hammers of various sizes, and a branding kit. Imbue wasn’t a technique-specific Skill like Engrave or Brand; he could use several methods and still achieve the same outcome. The catch was that Imbue only granted a temporary enchantment. Eventually, it would wear off, and the host object could rarely be enchanted again.

Marek withdrew one of the sigil brands from the fire with a pair of tongs. Carefully, he fixed the sigil into the brand encasement. He could fit up to four sigils in the tool, though he dared not attempt a project so complex. After dropping the second sigil twice, he succeeded in placing it too in its given slot. Then he tightened both sides of the vise, locking the sigils in place.

Lifting the brand encasement by its handle, he found a flat patch of wood along the side of his staff. Then he pressed the hot metal against it. The sigils hissed as they cooled. Trails of smoke rose as the brand set in, and Marek quickly drew on his mana. He whispered the command word and guided the Skill with intent. “Imbue.”

Marek sighed when nothing happened. Thankfully, the failed attempt didn’t use any mana, so he could always try again. “Probably waited too long,” he said, removing the sigils and placing them back in the coals. Unsurprisingly, he failed a second and a third time.

Such was the way with newly acquired Skills. Marek didn’t even waste his breath on a curse. He merely repeated the process diligently. In fact, he expected a fourth failure, so when a hum filled the air and the twin sigils burned into the butt of the staff glowing faintly, he nearly dropped his handiwork.

“I did it!” he said, standing so quickly that he had to bend his knees when a spell of light-headedness overtook him. Marek chuckled in delight, clutching the staff and trying to see if he noticed its effect in any way.

He shrugged and looked at his work again, studying the symbols. One was the sigil Fortitude, the other Bearer. A laughably basic enchantment, he knew it would likely make a huge difference in the end. If the staff helped him walk even a quarter-mile more each day, Marek would take it.

“Amazing,” he said under his breath, mind whirring with possibilities. “Wonder how long it’ll hold. Hopefully a few weeks at least… I wonder, would Mags like a staff? Or would she rather me try to enchant her bow or quiver?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” the woman in question said, eliciting a piercing yelp from Marek. “I don’t find you even slightly enchanting.”

34

ADMISSION

“Magpie! Sneaking around like a Rift-born bastard!” Marek complained, cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Can’t you at least warn me next time?”

“Thought you’d be snoring,” Mags replied with a shrug. “Besides, it’s not my fault you’re so clueless. A blasted golemite could have snuck up on you.”

Mags strutted up with a mocking smile, then reached out to pinch his cheek. “Aww, I didn’t mean to make the lady blush.”

He scowled her way. “I ain’t blushing, Mags, and I’m not a lady. Quit heckling me.”

“Sure sounded like one,” Mags replied with a wink.

“Probably,” Marek admitted with a groan. “A man’s liable to make such noises when his soul leaves his body. Anyway… did you at least make good use of your time? Or was this all a ploy to hear me shriek?”

The woman turned, exposing three skinned hares dangling from a stick over her shoulder. “Of course, my love! Caught us lunch and dinner both. You’re welcome.”

Marek nodded, already returning to pragmatism. He never had been able to match Mags’ hunger for conflict. “Good. Well, once I snuff the fire again, we’ll be ready to go. Packed the rest up while you were gone.”

Mags tilted her head to one side in mock astonishment. “Wow, you packed your bag and put out the fire. Well done, Mr. Sigilist. How would I survive without you?”

Marek was incapable of throwing a quip back her way. He was still too giddy with the thrill of achievement to hold back. “Mr. Sigilist is an appropriate title. I appreciate you giving it to me. While you were murdering these innocent creatures, I was busy with my craft.” Dropping the sarcasm, Marek gripped his friend by the shoulder and pulled her close. “Mags, I reached Level 10! I’m a Novice Sigilist!”

Her jaw crashed down like a drawbridge. “No way. You are teasing me, aren’t you?”

Marek cackled like a madman. “I’d never joke about Classes—not with you,” he said earnestly. “I’ve been busy. Packed up, read a little of a book Rauld gave me, then found a patch of medicinal herbs. I harvested some and came up with a solid query, and bam, I hit Level 10!”

“Damn,” Mags said, eying the three rabbits again. “And I thought I’d be the one surprising you.”

“That’s not all! Look! Look what I made with my new Skill!”

She took the offered staff, brows knit. Frowning, she shrugged. “Explain it. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Marek sighed. “Yeah, it’s a subtle thing. I enchanted my staff so that anyone walking with it has a slight increase to stamina. It’ll help me march further each day.”

“Impressive. Maybe if you craft ten of them, you’ll be able to keep up with me.”

He yanked the staff away and shoved the woman. “Don’t be an ass. It’ll help you too. I figure one of us rides, the other walks. The one who’s walking gets the stick.”

Mags chewed her lip and eyed the staff sidelong. “If you say it works, I’ll believe you. Good work, Novice,” she said, eyes twinkling. “You ready to go, then?”

After coaxing Lydia with a sweet, the two adventurers got moving. The road was their own, and few travelers were spotted heading in either direction. Despite a sense of safety that pervaded the day, both kept an eye out. Any time riders were heard, they found cover on the side of the road. The Casterans had been on foot in Misthearth, but both Mags and Marek thought it more than likely the hunters had only been keeping their mounts on the outskirts of town.

An hour passed in pleasant silence. Marek’s guilt for riding Lydia gnawed at him, yet he didn’t have the heart to tell Mags about his increased Attributes and recovering body. She’d welcome the good news as she always did. His friend had a sore spot for Classes, though, and he hated to see that spurned look in her eye when the topic arose. Avoiding it all wouldn’t help in the long run, yet Marek knew it to be both inevitable and necessary. He only wanted to wait for the right time. Gods, but I haven’t even told her about my new Class! I have to do it soon. Tonight, when we break camp. That way she can have space to adjust to everything if she needs it.

Hopping down from Lydia, he decided to mollify his guilt. “Why don’t you ride for a bit? I’m not that tired anymore, and I need to stretch my legs.”

Mags frowned, eying him suspiciously. “Oh, yeah? Feeling perky?”

He shrugged.

“Marek, when I left the camp this morning you looked like you’d been stung by a cull snail. Something’s going on with you, isn’t there? What’s the deal, Bones?”

Marek shifted from one foot to the other. Knowing it was likely pointless, he hedged. “I’ll tell you tonight. I’ve… changed in a few ways, and there are a few things you should know about this journey of ours. Seems best if we wait, though, and focus on traveling while we have daylight.”

Mags crossed her arms, obviously unconvinced. “No, I think not. I’ve waited long enough. It’s past due you told me exactly what in the Rift is going on here. One moment I’m at home practicing archery, next, Rauld’s in my head telling me soldiers from another kingdom are after you! I buy it we haven’t had much time since—it’s been a damned foot race these last three days—but from where I’m standing, looks like we have all the time in the world. Come on, Marek. Spit it out.”

“It has to do with my father.”

“Told me that already!” Mags snapped. “Spit it out, Theeras. Since when do you have the guts to hit a man with a stick? Why do you seem stronger than ever after three days of hard travel? And what’s the deal with that ring you keep spinning around your finger?”

Marek sighed. As much as he wanted to delay, she was right. “Fine, but do you promise not to get mad?”

“No! Only a fool would promise that!” Her retort was delivered with vigor, yet the corner of her mouth betrayed her good humor, lifting to reveal the echo of a smile.

Marek nodded to Lydia. “Get on and I’ll tell you everything, start to finish.”

Mags rolled her eyes, but she did as he suggested. When she’d mounted, she tapped the mule’s ribs with her heels and shot a glance his way.

Knowing the strange occurrence at the wall would undoubtedly be hard to swallow, Marek began with the story of his father and Mirrin in their youth. He told her every detail he could recall, even adding in a few of the bits and pieces he’d gathered from his uncle over the years. By the time he told Mags about the destruction of Tolencia, her expression had shifted dramatically.

“Damn, Marek, but that’s horrible. I’m so sorry.” Mags was a good friend. She had a way of saying what needed to be said without coming across as patronizing or belaboring the point.

Marek nodded and moved on to the rest.

Fifteen minutes later, Mags stopped dead in her tracks and faced him. “That’s it, then, huh? All this”—she gestured at the road, the mule, and the both of them—“it’s about you gaining some fancy secondary Class?”

“It’s technically my primary Class now, but yes, that’s the short of it.”

The woman turned Lydia sharply, guiding the beast with her heel. Leading the creature to the edge of the road to graze, Mags slumped in the saddle, back facing Marek. He watched her tense shoulders rise and fall. She was doing her best to put everything into perspective, and Principalities, he knew it was a lot to digest. Briefly, he considered going to her, but compared to Mags, Marek was awkward in such situations. He’d likely make things worse. Still, after a few minutes of tension, he decided to try anyhow.

That was when the young woman threw back her head and laughed. Bitterness and amusement blended perfectly as she let it all out. She twisted in the saddle to face him, right hand resting on the pommel of her brother’s shortsword. “Praise Restraint, Marek! Who even gets two Classes? If it wasn’t for the fact one was trying to kill you, I’d kick your scrawny ass!”

She laughed again until a few tears spilled down her cheeks. He joined her, and when the fit had passed, she wiped her face and sighed. “Okay, so is that it, then?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, thrown completely off guard by the question.

“I mean, how much do we know about how to fix this? How do you make this fancy staff, and where do we find the ironwood tree? And hells, how’d the Casterans know where to find you in the first place?”

Marek shook his head, wishing he could give her better answers. Humoring his friend, he replied in order. “Don’t know. Somewhere in the Shirgrim Mountains, probably high up and hard to get to, and… don’t know.”

Mags clearly wasn’t satisfied. She shot a half-dozen more questions his way, and when it became clear his ignorance was as great as her own, she relented.

“I do have books,” he said to lend some hope. “Rauld sent a big stack with me, which is what this ring’s for. It’s an Archivist’s Ring—not a normal storage ring like I’d hoped, but one specifically for holding items and materials useful for that profession.”

“Okay, then,” Mags said. “Give me one of the books and I’ll read it while I ride. Might as well put in some miles. If you gained three points in Constitution since we left Misthearth, it’s time you act like it.”

Marek removed the same volume he’d been reading and handed it to Mags. “Here you are, my lady.”

She snorted, taking the book and kicking Lydia in the ribs. “I’m not a lady,” she said, smirking over her shoulder.

Lydia didn’t enjoy her rider’s enthusiasm, and rather than speed up, she dug in her hooves and stopped so abruptly that Mags’ butt lifted off the saddle before slamming down again. She squawked indelicately, then immediately began pretending nothing had happened.

Marek laughed. “Sure sounded like one,” he said, delighted that fate had brought them back to the same juncture once more.

She snickered, her pale face a deep crimson. Too flustered to come up with a witty reply, his friend left him standing in the road after coaxing the stubborn mule with a gentler prod of her heels.

He watched her for a little while, smiling fondly. Then he fell into a slow jog. Enchanted staff in hand, Marek’s legs warmed up as he grew accustomed to the pace. Soon, they crested a hill and descended into a wide valley. Wildflowers cropped up on all sides, and river swallows trilled in the branches of a nearby grove of ash trees.

With the sun warming his face, a best friend riding beside him, Marek had no choice but to enjoy the moment.

Filling his lungs deeply, he thought, Who knew traveling was so enjoyable?

35

THE JOYS OF TRAVEL

“Curse the rain! Curse this miserable mud! And curse the man who sold me these boots!”

Another thunder cloud rumbled in the distance, seeming to respond to Marek’s discontent. Mags echoed the rumble with a growl of her own. “Quit it. You’ll only curse us if you keep that up. At least you have the staff. It’s not much, but it helps take the edge off the fatigue.”

Marek refused the positivity. He trudged on, boots laden with muck. The road was hard-packed as one might expect of a route so often used. A thick layer of dust coated its surface, however, which had turned to a viscous slime. Everyone’s footing was suspect, and Marek had fallen twice already that morning.

The day had begun with a thorough drenching. Sheets of rain had soaked them even where they’d taken shelter under a copse of trees. Marek had been twice as irritated, because although his Mana Core had recovered from a night of sleep, he couldn’t practice Imbue like he’d grown accustomed to. He’d wanted nothing more than to grind away at his craft until he leveled up again. He’d reached Level 11 on his third day after enchanting Mags’ cloak to resist water like his own, and then had the foolish notion to keep his base stats even, at least until they reached a respectable range. So instead of investing in Constitution or Strength, both of which would have helped him presently, he’d raised his Dexterity to 8. With little else to do, they’d huddled together and shivered in the early morning until the downpour let up.

Marek and Mags had taken advantage of the reprieve, departing immediately in the hopes they could make good time. But given the mud and their bedraggled state, the going was slower than expected.

Marek was blistered, chapped, and sore, head to toe. His friend wasn’t doing much better. Mags sniffled loudly, peering down from Lydia’s back. Her eyes were puffy and red. Stubborn pride shone in her eyes, though.

“Ready to trade?” she asked for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Marek rolled his eyes. “You’re getting sick. You need the rest. Don’t be stubborn. I can keep going, and if you get any worse, we’ll have to stop for a few days.”

Pouting, she said, “I’m not sick. Just feeling a little under the weather.”

“That’s exactly what under the weather means! Give me a moment of peace, woman, or I swear I’ll…” Marek trailed off when he heard his friend chuckling. On any other day, he’d have laughed with her. A week of spring rains had cured him of all fondness for her endless quips and hard-headedness, however. “You’re an ass,” he grumbled.

“An ass on a mule, huh? Strange coupling, but I’ve heard worse.”

Marek groaned. Sick of her company, he urged his limbs into motion. Picking up his pace, he found a comfortable jog—or at least, one as comfortable as could be with weary muscles and blistered heels. His body had improved further over the past week, his endurance increasing despite the constant travel. A feeling of triumph bolstered his mood as he ran along the road, though it lasted precisely as long as it took Mags and Lydia to trot past.

“By the way you’re waddling, seems like it’s your chafed ass that could use a break, Marek. All you got to do is ask!”

Despite knowing full well he was now the one being stubborn, Marek carried on for several minutes. Soon his lungs burned, and his left leg was begging to cramp up. He stopped and bent over at the waist to catch his breath. Wheezing, his left ribs twisting into a cramp, he waited for his heart and lungs to recover.

The clop-clop of Lydia drawing near was hard to ignore.

Mags’ sniffling, harder still.

“Marek,” his friend said in a subdued tone, “it’s great that you’ve unlocked a new Class and gained three points in Constitution. I’ve been training my body for years, though, and wasn’t poisoned every day of my damned life. Last I checked, my Strength was at 8, and my Dexterity and Constitution both at 12. Sniffles or not, it isn’t fair to expect yourself to keep up with me… not yet at least. Okay?”

“I prefer you when you’re mean. You’re unbearable when you try to act kind. Makes it hard to hate you.”

She chuckled. Her boots crashed to the gravel road beside him. Then her hand was on his back. “I’m serious, Marek. If we’re going to last long enough to actually get to Shirgrim, we’ve got to take care of ourselves. In a couple of weeks, you’ll probably be able to outrun Lydia. Be patient in the time being, yeah?”

He nodded, watching the sweat drip from his nose and patter against the tamped soil of the road. “Okay,” he conceded. “I’ll ride.”

“Thank you for reconsidering,” she said, punctuating her smile with a wink. “We can cover a couple more miles, and then I’ll show you the best trick I ever learned as a soldier when we stop for the evening.”

Marek took out one of the last remaining lumps of cured honey and offered it to Lydia. After a few more mishaps, they’d grown accustomed to doing so every time either of them mounted up. It was now affectionately called the honey toll. Marek only worried what they’d do when their store ran out.

“Oh, yeah?” he said, trying and failing to throw himself into the saddle with as much grace as Mags. “Finally gonna show me how to pretend I’m a foot taller than I am? Surely, you learned that as a soldier.”

Mags warned him with an arched eyebrow. “Easy there, Elbows. I think we’re too grumpy for snark. Let’s play nice.” She strode ahead with her typical swagger before answering, “No, that’s not the trick I meant. I was talking about how you can soothe that sad arse of yours. Don’t get defensive! Can’t march in the rain without consequences. Trust me, you’ll appreciate the lesson.”

Marek’s face flushed, but as he winced to reposition himself in the saddle, he hoped whatever solution his friend might offer would help. There was only so much a man could take, and a chapped backside proved most challenging indeed.

A horse whinnied some distance behind them. The sound was so faint he nearly missed it. A jolt of panic shot up his spine, and quicker than he’d mounted, Marek was off again. He dashed to the side of the road, tugging at Lydia’s reins. “Mags,” he hissed. “Riders behind us!”

A hasty scramble brought the group to a tall clump of holly bushes, where they promptly hid. He and Mags flanked the mule and peered through the prickly leaves. Marek winced as he realized how thin their cover was. The center of the bush was easily dense enough to hide them. On the edges, however, he feared someone might be able to spot them if they looked at just the right angle. Their hide was also positioned far closer to the road than desirable. Nothing to do for it, he told himself as he slowed his breathing with a force of will. Have mercy on us, Judgment. We’re in no shape for a confrontation.

As the riders drew near, Marek fought to suppress a disturbing thought. Would Judgment protect the line of Tenacity? Do the Principalities work together, or are they jealous like the Old Gods?

When a flicker of gray caught his eye, his mind stilled. One, two, and then three riders emerged from the grove of oaks two hundred feet to their south. Marek studied the group as they traveled at a steady pace so quietly it gave him the chills. For some reason, he could scarcely hear the clop of hooves, and not a single clang or jingle could be discerned. He recalled how the Casteran hunters had moved in Misthearth. Mags said they might’ve had a Ranger with them, or a stealth Class. Maybe these three do as well.

It wasn’t easy to travel quietly. Even with one mount, their own party made far more noise than the men passing by. Mags had tried to silence their baggage. Since Marek’s pack wasn’t crafted with soldiering in mind, however, the many clasps made her efforts less than successful. His second Imbue project had been to further dampen the noise given off by his jostling pack, but the enchantment made little difference.

Dressed in grays, browns, and faded greens, the cloaked figures were tall and broad of shoulder. Two wore half-helms, though by the thickness of their arms, Marek assumed they too were men. The third rode at the rear, a tumble of auburn hair draping down his back. Like his companions, his body was adorned with studded armor.

Definitely not Casterans, Marek thought. Their armor looks nothing like the hunters we saw. And they ain’t official Couriers, either. Nobody needs to be so well-armed to deliver letters.

The lead rider, by far the largest of the three, sat with a ridiculously huge mace resting on his thigh. A spattering of crooked spikes adorned the weapon. Directly behind him, the second man wore a trio of daggers along his right hip. The curve of a longbow jutted out from his lap, and though Marek couldn’t see for certain, he had the feeling the man had an arrow nocked, ready to draw at a moment’s notice.

As deadly as these two seemed, it was the third and final rider that inspired the most fear. Marek’s intuition urged him to flee, to run far from the dead-eyed man. Once handsome features had been worn to leather by hard travel under the sun. Buckled at his waist was a greatsword. Two-handed, to be certain—that much Marek could tell even from a distance, for the handle was over a foot long.

The weapon drew Marek’s eye for some reason. Every inch of the sword and scabbard was black; whatever paint or treatment colored it lent no shimmer to the steel. It was an ugly thing, by no standard elegant or attractive. Well-worn and well cared for, Marek had the feeling the blade had ended a great many lives. A long spear strapped to the pack on the horse’s rear jutted up at an angle. Like he needs that too! Please, just pass us by. Go and murder someone else.

And mercifully, the group did just that. They trotted north, heads fixed to the road ahead. Twice, Lydia’s tail swished the air. Marek’s stomach dropped both times. None of the riders budged an inch, however.

A minute later, all sound of their passing had faded.

“Rift Wraiths take us,” Mags whispered. “Those are nasty ones.”

Marek eyed his friend, surprised she’d used such a hated curse. Few evoked the dark creatures that inhabited the Rift directly. Given the circumstances, it was justified. “What should we do?” he asked. “Wait a little longer before we move on?”

Mags sighed. “We have to. Wish Rauld would do that itchy head Spell again and tell us the Casterans went south. I wouldn’t be so jumpy if we knew them hunters weren’t on our tail.”

“He said he’d do it,” Marek repeated, “and I trust Rauld with my life. I’m more worried about that lot. Those men were hard, and I want nothing to do with them.”

“Aye,” Mags said, standing to full height and stretching her back. “Let’s eat a little and then go. Can’t cook the rabbits yet, but if we can find some actual shelter, maybe we can risk it tonight.”

They staked Lydia near a thick cluster of wildflowers and sat in the grass behind the holly bush. Nibbling on the last of their fresh fruit and a few handfuls of oats, they each took a nap. An hour later, the clouds darkened and the rain returned at last.

Frightened as they were, neither complained as they trudged through the drizzle. As dusk approached, the storm’s passion increased. Soon they were forced to abandon the road. Mags led them up a gentle incline toward a promising pair of oaks. When they reached the hilltop, she gasped in delight.

“Look! Oh, I can’t believe it! Thought this place would have fallen down by now! I didn’t even think to look out for it!”

When Marek led the mule down the other side of the hill, he spotted a wooden house leaning at a precarious angle a quarter-mile ahead. A quaint stream trickled past on one side and a tiny, open-sided shack stood nearby, just big enough for a few donkeys or one quarrelsome mule.

His clothes were soaked. His teeth rattled constantly, his entire body shivering. Saddle sore and bedraggled as he was, Marek grinned wide as he and Mags approached the abandoned farmstead.

They’d sleep dry tonight.

36

WARMTH WITHOUT WARNING

Marek indulged in that indescribable relief that comes when one knows the end is in sight. The cramps in his legs hadn’t abated, but he no longer seemed to mind. Carried onward by a downhill slope, he followed Mags as she led Lydia toward shelter.

“Stopped here a few nights when I was enlisted,” she prattled on. “It’s a known shelter for the Ardean Scouts, and when I traveled north to fight the kobolds, my sergeant let us rest up a bit before heading into the forest to the northwest.”

Marek was pleased to see his friend in such good spirits. Her shoulders were relaxed, her stride easy as she closed the distance. Leaping up onto the ruined porch, Mags stomped here and there a few times, even giving the support beams that held up the awning a shove.

“Ain’t gonna collapse tonight!” she declared triumphantly. “Come on! Unless someone’s gutted it, should still be a stove inside.” She growled when the knob didn’t work, so she bashed the front door with her shoulder. On the third go of it, the door slammed open with a bang and the woman stumbled inside. A moment later her head popped out. “Yep! Still here! Even a little pile of dusty sticks to burn. Tie Lydia in the shed, will you? I’ll get a fire going so we can cook a proper supper and dry our clothes.”

Marek was only too pleased to oblige. A burst of energy fueled his work. Even Lydia gave him no trouble as he led her into the shed and tied off her lead. Unburdening the mule, he shook out her wet saddle blanket and brushed her coat. Then he practically skipped to the nearby stream. The storms had swollen the creek so that it overflowed its banks on all sides. There was nothing to be done for the brown water, so he stooped over the shallows and filled all of their skins. Returning to Lydia, Marek let her drink and fed her some oats before heading inside to tend to his own needs.

Mags stoked a fire in no time at all. The cabin’s interior, drafty though it was, warmed quickly. Time passed pleasantly as they stripped down and cleaned up. Clothes dripping from a rope hung across the mantle, the two ate an entire rabbit Mags had killed the day before. Dressed only in their small clothes, the young man and woman might have drawn suspicion from an uninformed onlooker. From Marek’s vantage point, though, Magpie was only a sister to him—a best friend, a companion he could see in no other way.

He added another log to the fire and took out his box of tools again. It was the perfect chance to practice, and he’d come up with a clever way of potentially enhancing his stamina-increasing staff concept. Mags, on the other hand, took it upon herself to eradicate any shred of silence that might threaten them.

“Timmons was like that,” she said, grease dripping from the corner of her mouth. “Everyone was so sad to see him join the company. Not only bird-chested, but awkward and accident-prone. Even had an issue with coordination. He was always in his head, you see? So damn anxious that he fumbled every task.”

Marek wriggled his toes before the fire, beyond pleased his feet were dry. Toolbox in his lap, he sifted through the implements and took out the V-point graver. He recalled Mirrin’s lesson, telling him the tool was good for wood as well as flesh and bone. He swallowed a lump in his throat and said, “Nothing wrong with being skinny and anxious.”

She snorted. “There is when you’re signing up to fight raiding kobolds or Casterans. Don’t be so sensitive. Would you be up to the task if you didn’t have your fancy Classes?”

“Don’t think I would with them,” Marek admitted. “Mirrin says the Remnant Mage Class is deadly. I haven’t really tapped into its potential, though, and to be honest, I’m afraid to… Besides, my Abilities aren’t well-suited for group combat.”

“No? What do you mean? Haven’t really told me much about the Abilities that come with this Class. What’s so special about ‘em?”

Marek took a deep breath. He set the V-point and an appropriate hammer beside him and stored the box away for safekeeping. Then he leaned over and picked up the newly carved walking stick he’d cut from deadfall two days past. “Not sure I’m ready to tell you. Don’t you know any of the stories? Even children have heard of the terrible Remnant Mages.”

Mags narrowed her eyes. “I guess so. My father talks more about the Death Mage. I thought Remnant Mages were a myth. Most fanciful stories of impossibly powerful Classes are.”

“And?”

“And what?” she shot back.

Marek tapped the backplate of the graver, peeling away a thin strip of wood. The line he’d cut was perfectly straight, and he smiled. Glancing up at Mags, he arched his eyebrow. “And… what fanciful stories have you heard?”

Mags chuckled and counted off the fingers of one hand. “Fine, I’ll play along. They can outmatch any Pyromancer and can blow up half a city with a thought. Heard from a sailor once that a Remnant Mage is so strong and skilled with the sword that he can cut through an army single-handed. Oh, and how about this one. A kid I nabbed a few coppers from playing dice once told me a Remnant Mage has the power to raise an army of angry spirits and sweep across the land like a tide of death.” Her laughter faltered when Marek didn’t so much as smile. She cleared her throat, and Marek cut another groove. “Oi! Did you hear me?”

Marek nodded and tapped the graver a third time. Just like that, he’d formed the sigil for Bounty. “I did,” he said flatly.

“Well, now’s the time to tell me all that is nonsense! That you can’t do that stuff, and nobody can! Don’t just sit on your ass and play dumb!”

A strange mixture of shame and anxiety troubled him. He couldn’t help but worry that his friend might not see him the same should she learn of his true potential. Marek took his time in answering. He searched for the right words, focusing on the next sigil while he did so. Finishing Replenish, he paused his work and cast his vote in Mags’ favor. She’d loved him as a scrawny weakling. She’d love him as a battle mage… Wouldn’t she?

“Each of those holds truth,” he explained. “There are different paths, different Subclasses of Remnant Mage. I chose two of those Subclasses and combined them into one. I am a Soul Knight—one part Death Knight, one part Soul Singer.” Mags had gone still, her typical restless energy visible only in her eyes. Marek blew out a breath and shrugged. “I guess you could say the Death Knight represents that which cuts through an army single-handedly, and Soul Singer is a whole army of angry spirits. I haven’t even begun to develop my powers, but eventually I’ll be able to summon spirit soldiers, empower myself and my allies, and do a great many other things.”

The change that overtook his friend’s face was subtle, yet he found it unbearable. He returned to his task and began work on the third and final sigil. It was easier to make the lines and curves immaculate than it was to see fear in his oldest friend’s eyes.

The wood in the fireplace popped, and a gust of wind jostled the ratty shutters. He tapped with the hammer, concentrating with his entire being. Marek finished the last arc of the sigil Endure when Mags rose to her feet. He froze, terrified she might reject him then and there. Mags crouched at his side and laid a hand on his forearm. Her fingers were greasy from the rabbit, but her touch tender.

“Marek,” she whispered, “look at me.”

He found the courage to lift his gaze.

“Is your heart filled with bloodlust? Do you revel in the misfortune of others? Are you greedy enough to steal what’s not yours?”

Marek’s face wrinkled in a scowl. “No! Why would I ever⁠—”

“Didn’t think so,” Mags said, giving him the same smile she did her youngest brother. “No, Marek, you aren’t mad for power. That isn’t who you are. You’re gentle, cautious, and kind… Those are the features that make me love you so much. You’d rather waste away in a tower’s dank basement reading books than play with swords.”

“Nothing wrong with books; they’re every scholar’s best friend, I’ll have you know,” Marek said, using wit to conceal his relief. “In fact, you might benefit from a little extra reading yourself.”

Mags squeezed his arm harder. “Don’t brush me off. So you have a right scary Class, and one day you might be able to kill half of Ardea. The reason I don’t care overly much is ‘cause you wouldn’t do that! I trust you, Marek. Don’t forget that.”

She left him there, staff in hand and tears welling in his eyes. As if nothing at all had happened, Mags slumped near the fire and snatched another bit of rabbit meat. “You did have a point about Timmons. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. There’s one thing worse than a scrawny goof of a soldier. Branoa was a right prick if I ever knew one, but worse than being rude, he had this endless desire to prove himself. Ever know someone like that? Usually, it’s annoying as hell, but when some fool gives that person command of a squad of soldiers, things can get ugly quick.”

“Oh?” Marek asked, spurring the conversation on and away from his Class. He wanted to hug his friend, but he feared he’d lose his grip on the emotions sloshing around in his chest and throat.

“Oh, yeah!” Mags said as she continued her story. “One day, we was just doing a regular patrol. Nothing fancy and no sign of danger to be found. But what do we find along the way? A single kobold print, dried in the mud near a creek, probably several days old.”

Marek listened to the woman tell her story—one he’d already heard, of course. He cleaned up the sigils with a finishing knife and blew off the excess. Closing his eyes, he willed his mana into motion and whispered, “Imbue.”

He smiled down at his handiwork when the sigils lit up, all three empowering the same purpose. And ordered and linked as they were, the stronger enchantment would not only lend its holder a greater amount of stamina, but replenish it faster too. This was something to be proud of, he knew, and when a tingle of warmth spilled out from his Core, it was all the better.

Mags sat up, eyes fixed to the staff. “Nice! Is that one like the last?”

“Not quite,” he said with a grin. “This staff is quite a bit better. Just you wait till⁠—”

A heavy knock shook the door, and Marek’s mouth clamped shut. Mags practically jumped out of her skin, eyes wide as saucers as she stared first at the door, then at Marek.

“Open up, little birds!” a gruff voice called. “No need to be shy.”

Mags crawled toward the door where she’d stowed her shortsword. Marek stood where he was, holding the staff defensively and wishing he was fully dressed. A boom sounded, and the door crashed open. Droplets of water and a gust of cold air invaded their cozy space. In the dark of night, little could be seen other than a boot and the white teeth of an enormous man. He stepped inside, a great mace clutched menacingly in one hand. It was the lead rider they’d seen earlier that day.

Marek’s stomach dropped. He knew full well the staff was next to useless. He held onto it anyhow, praying like mad things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

Lydia brayed, and a muffled voice cried out, “Bite me again, and I’ll cut your damn ear off!”

A second man stepped into the cabin a heartbeat later, filling the space beside the first. Though a full head shorter, Marek recognized him immediately as the greater threat. He hadn’t even drawn that ugly black sword at his hip.

Smiling grimly, the man said, “Despite how we look, my crew and I aren’t scoundrels. We’ll leave you two lovebirds with your boots and clothes. The rest is coming with us, though. Don’t make a fuss and you might even get a bit of sleep, alright? Tregan, grab their packs and anything valuable you see lying around.”

Mags growled. She’d withdrawn when the door opened, unsuccessful in retrieving her weapon. Spotting the poker near the fire, she snatched it up and pointed it at the big man’s face. “Come near my stuff and I’ll stab you in the eye, you ugly bastard!”

Marek’s Intuit could predict the outcome of a situation with near-perfect precision, but he didn’t need to use a Skill to know his friend was close to getting them both butchered. Calmly, he held out his hand and gripped Mags by the shoulder. “No… you won’t.”

She frowned in confusion, likely not used to hearing such firmness in his voice.

Before his friend could recover, Marek took up the rest of the hare hanging above the stove. He handed it to the giant and stepped backward to stand beside Mags. Then he took her forearm in his hand and held it firmly. “Take what you want and leave us be. The rabbit is a gesture of good faith.”

The leader’s laugh was wicked and cruel. “Clever lad! A gesture of good faith! Not something I’ve heard before, but I appreciate the gesture. I’ll gladly accept your fine gifts.”

Tregan hoisted both packs in one hand, gripping his mace and the skewered hare in the other. He lumbered out into the night and left Mags and Marek alone with the dark man.

“We’ve got a camp of our own,” he said coolly. “See this as a mercy. Most would take your clothes, your fire, and your lives too. Be sure to keep your heads and go back to whatever home you left behind. This far out is dangerous parts.” Mags strained against Marek’s grip briefly, but he held her fast. The man studied her briefly, eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Honey badger, this one. You’re lucky, lad. Feisty wives should be treasured.”

Mags spat, punctuating the man’s words.

He laughed again, thick brows lifting. “Pleasure meeting you, Honey Badger. Come find me when you outgrow your man.”

With a crooked smile, he stepped out into the rain.

Marek’s heart pounded in his ears. Mags panted beside him like an animal, enraged and likely humiliated. The crack of leather over horse flesh and a jeering shout cut through the patter of rain. The group galloped away. The last thing they heard was poor Lydia braying in distress.

Then Marek and Mags were alone in the now chill cabin, with no gear, no mount, and no prospects of achieving their lofty quest.

37

FIGHTING SPIRIT

A spark fell onto the stone at the foot of the stove. They’d kept the grate open to cast a little extra light. After the robbery, sitting in the darkness had been too much to ask. The front door wouldn’t close properly despite both of them having spent ten minutes coaxing it into place. The drafts stole most of the heat away, ruining much of their previous comfort.

None of those things truly mattered. Listening to Mags sob beside him, so enraged she couldn’t speak, had been unbearable.

Marek sat through the worst of it. He kept the fire going and watched the door in case some other tragedy decided to crash in on them. He listened to Mags breathing, rhythmic now that she’d tired herself out and fallen asleep. The rain’s steady patter and the leaky roof dripping in the corner of the cabin joined the girl in her mournful song.

The potions, the tent, the bedrolls, our spare clothes, and our rations, he listed again. They stole poor Lydia too. Only missed Mags’ shortsword ‘cause that buffoon was too careless for a real search. One blade won’t turn the odds, though. How can we make it to Swiftwall, let alone survive the pass into Shirgrim? Might as well turn back now… or maybe camp out for a week or so until the Casterans are gone.

He’d avoided using Intuit—he couldn’t face the obvious answers it would give him—yet too angry and desperate to push it off any longer, he used the Skill, informing the query by highlighting their complete lack of supplies. A sequence of images soured his stomach. He and Mags killed by kobolds during a raid. Mags gored and bleeding out after she’d failed to kill a boar with the sharpened fire poker. The two of them frozen in an early snow, dead from starvation or sick after eating the wrong plant.

Marek dismissed his Skill.

It was useless. They’d need to consider other options. Perhaps they could sneak into Misthearth and ask for more support from Mirrin and Rauld. The Archmage would have coin stored away, though it irked him to ask. Or we could steal from a farmstead, he thought bitterly. This brought his mind back around to the three rogues that had ridden off with Lydia. Pain in the back that she was, he’d grown fond of the mule. Surely, they’d sell her at the next town. She’d have a new owner, would survive. He felt responsible, though, almost like he’d betrayed the stubborn girl.

The rain stopped suddenly. So quick was the transition that Marek withdrew from his dark thoughts. A sliver of pale light fell through the open window and illuminated the floorboard near his foot. He then felt a chill not caused by the cold. He sensed something, or perhaps someone. Acting unconsciously, he tapped into the Skill he’d most often used since the Crucible. Over the drips of the cabin, he heard a faint, rasping voice.

“Call to me, Mage Lord,” it whispered. “I’ll protect them—my son, my wife. Call and I will answer.”

The spectral voice was terrible, all but stripped of its humanity and hoarse from who knew how many years of wandering. Strangely, though, Marek found it familiar, almost comforting. Some brave soul had died nearby, perhaps given their life protecting this farmstead. Who had they been? And were they successful? Did they manage to save anyone? These were questions he couldn’t answer but pondered still. There was something implied in the spectral’s voice. Or, more than likely, it was only his own heart raging in his chest to be heard. It asked a single question that felt more relevant and dire than any others he could muster.

If they can do it, why can’t I?

A righteous anger bloomed in his chest, hot and self-directed. I have tools I can’t afford to ignore. The madness be damned! If I don’t use my skills as a Remnant Mage, I’ll only delay the inevitable. But if I use what was given to me, if I… One thought sparked another, and Marek closed his eyes. He activated Intuit once more and added new information to the query, Ether Siphon, the wandering soul outside, the shortsword lying beside him, and Spirit Body.

Can I kill the three men if I ambush them? Marek gasped when he witnessed the results. The first vision showed him slashing into the huge man’s back, only to die after being hit with an arrow, head caved in by the mace a second later. Marek shuddered but refused to release the Skill. The next vision proved informative. The images showed him using Empath’s Gaze to track the men to their camp before springing the ambush. He watched himself rifling through his stolen gear and pulling out the vial of poison, then attempting to slip it into the kettle at the center of the men’s camp. In this iteration, he was discovered and killed by the leader. The brutal greatsword cut halfway through his body before cracking into the base of his spine. Finally, Marek viewed himself slitting one of the men’s throats when the other two had fallen asleep. Slinking over to the archer, Marek thrust down at the man’s throat. The archer woke a second too early, however, and shrieked in alarm. The big man woke nearby and rolled out of bed, snatching up the mace. Marek watched as the heavy weapon pounded against the side of his ribs. His Spirit Body armor shattered, and the mace only knocked him aside. He slashed at the enemy’s stomach, and the shortsword carved through flesh—but not before the mace found him a second time.

Unnerved by witnessing his third predicted death, Marek dismissed the Skill. He breathed deeply until his heart slowed. Then he glanced down at Mags. Conviction hardened in his chest. If I’m doomed to die of insanity, what’s wrong with risking my life? Better to save my friend and try for a chance to save Mirrin as well. Besides, if I tweak a few things, I might get lucky and live to see tomorrow.

Marek dressed as quietly as he could. Then he picked up his boots and the shortsword. The door will wake her without a doubt, he thought. The side window, then. Holding his breath, Marek crossed the small room to the window furthest from Mags. Like the other beside the front door, this window had no panes of glass or paper remaining. Only a tattered scrap of linen hung from the frame to stifle the wind. He unfastened the flap and sat on the frame, wincing as the wood creaked. Mags breathed in sharply and turned her head toward the fire. She hadn’t woken. Relieved, he swung his feet around and hopped to the soggy ground.

The sensation of his nearly dry socks soaking nearly broke him. It wasn’t the time to think of comfort, however. He sat down in the muck and fastened his boots before walking around the side of the house, where the tracks of the three riders could easily be seen in the churned mud. The moon was bright enough to easily follow the trail. That might not be the case once he reached the road, however.

“I’ll have to assume Empath’s Gaze can help with that too, like it did in my dream. But first…” His vision altered slightly, the moon seeming a little brighter. At his feet, he could see the tracks of the bandits, but they didn’t glow like they had in his vision. He ignored that problem for now and scanned the path behind him. A pale face stared at him, the skin of one cheek peeled away and entrails draping from a wound in its stomach.

The spirit reached its frail hand toward Marek. “Has the caravan escaped? Did they find refuge?”

Reminding himself he wasn’t in danger, Marek faced the tormented soul directly. He felt their link, not yet fully formed but there nonetheless. Spirits were of his domain. Marek felt a strange kind of obligation to the spirit, the weight of responsibility as well as compassion. Its visage was as horrendous as its rasping voice had been. Anxiety etched deep lines in the remaining half of its face. “So it was a caravan you died to protect. You weren’t from this farmstead after all… I wonder when you passed.”

Marek didn’t know the answer to the spirit’s question, but he saw no reason to admit that. His Skill allowed him to communicate with lingering souls, not just listen to their lamentations. In a voice sounding more confident than he felt, Marek said, “They did. The caravan reached Misthearth and all survived.”

The ghost wavered in an unseen wind. A chill ran along Marek’s shoulders. When the spirit solidified again, it stood tall, its face peaceful. It now held a stout branch in one hand. “I will stand with you, Mage. My staff be yours.”

“I would take it if I had the power,” Marek said. “Perhaps I’ll unlock Command Spirit soon, but for now, rest. You’ve earned your peace.” Reaching out, Marek drew on Ether Siphon and released the soul from its connection to this plane of existence. As the power flooded him, he knew he hadn’t destroyed the spirit. He was only claiming its ether and allowing it to pass on to someplace else.

The being exhaled, tilting its head back in surrender while its body uncoiled into ropes of ether smoke. In half a breath, the spirit was gone.

“Alright, now for the hard part,” he said, body thrumming with the influx of ether. “Hope that was enough energy. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.” Marek didn’t know how far the bandit camp was. They had mounts, and so could very well be several miles from here. Such a trek wouldn’t be easy, yet doing so with an empowered body? That seemed a lot more plausible.

Spirit Body drew ether from the reservoir in his chest. Each part of him was soon covered, and again he had the uncanny experience of walking above the ground, as if he wore an immense pair of armored boots. When the Skill was complete, Marek stood tall. Power surged through his body and soul. His Core had ether to spare, so he invested a great portion into his suit of armor. Strength built in his limbs until he felt capable of knocking down a hill troll, and still he poured more ether in.

Something changed then: The strength and aptitude of his body stopped increasing but his senses heightened. Marek’s eyes took in details around him he hadn’t seen before, the texture of a shaft of grass lit only by the silver moonlight. And more to the point, he now saw the ghostly outline of tracks in the mud. Those closest to the shed where Mags slept were already fading, yet it was enough for him to follow. The smile on his lips faded when he suddenly felt he wasn’t alone. Kill, the voice in his head called. Slay. Destroy. Bind their souls.

Yes, Marek answered. Let us do just that.

A calmness settled over the young man’s emotions. Icy resolve and detachment draped across him like a mantle. The world felt distant, apart from him somehow, and quite manageable. It was like the Crucible, if not more profound. His emotions weren’t behind a partition. They were all but stomped out.

Marek started his pursuit at a brisk walk. His feet impacted the ground indirectly, not quite silent but dampened. He left overly large footprints in his wake, though he might not have seen them if not for his enhanced eyes.

A malicious joy filled his limbs—one that wasn’t muted by his powers in the slightest. He’d been wrong. Those men had taken what wasn’t theirs, and they’d made his friend Mags cry. Their souls are mine to claim.

Increasing his pace, Marek’s walk became a jog and then an outright sprint. He was soon moving nearly as fast as a horse could comfortably run, the night air rushing past him, a frigid energy fueling his every step.

38

THOSE KIND OF MEN

His physical body felt no fatigue as he thumped along the empty road. A quick inward scan showed him the true cost of his exertions. The large pool of ether in his chest was draining, a trickle of power feeding his Spirit Body every time he moved.

He had a good reserve, however, and the drain wasn’t terribly fast. Marek could keep up this pace for an hour, possibly longer. As it turned out, he needn’t do so. Five or so miles north of the shack, the trail of ghostly prints veered off the left side of the road. They followed the bank of a small stream and vanished into the forest a half-mile away.

Marek slowed his approach to a jog, grateful for the burble of the creek. As he crept toward the oaks and red pines, he could scarcely hear the sound of his footfalls. If I had a little training, I’d be undetectable. Mags would kill for an Ability like this.

Soon after delving into the trees, harsh voices drifted to his ear. The orange glow of firelight came next. Thanks to his keen senses, it took a full five minutes more to reach the clearing where the men had broken camp. Marek covered the last two hundred feet in a low crouch and poised behind a broad cedar. Before him, arrayed around a blazing campfire, the three men feasted. Their choice of shelter betrayed a knowledge of the area. Rather than pitch camp under the cover of the forest, they’d sought out a tall pine that had fallen on its neighbor and retained enough roots to survive. It offered a generous shelter of tangled branches and needles some twenty feet above the fire.

Marek spotted movement, and his eyes landed on Tregan. The brute had finished picking the bones of the rabbit he’d taken, and he now tossed the remains into the forest with an exaggerated grunt.

“You should bury it,” the archer said beside him. “Gonna bring in wolves or maybe even a bear. Ain’t proper.”

Tregan spat into the fire. “If they come, I’ll kill each and every one and eat them too. Oh, to taste a bit of bear right about now… Greasy, but in a good way.”

The leader was subdued, staying out of the banter. Marek could only see the man’s back. The archer’s drunken features were well lit by the blaze, however, and the man was as ugly as he was rude.

The horses stood at the edge of the clearing, their reins tied to a stump. Lydia stood with them. The mule’s head hung low, her hide twitching every now and then as if she were frightened of the bigger animals. Seeing the men seated before him, a thread of doubt touched Marek. Can I really do this? he thought. No, not can, he corrected. Will I? The blanket of numbness had lifted a little. Reminders of Mags and Lydia, and remembering that though they were scoundrels, these were living, breathing men had stirred up a variety of emotions.

Tregan coughed and lifted a dark bottle, drinking deeply. He wiped his face and groaned. “I don’t know. What’s the point of being bandits if we can’t have a little fun? That girl back there could have been entertaining. ”

The archer withdrew a stick from the fire and traced a lazy circle in the air with the orange coal at its tip. “Skinny, though. I like the fat ones. The way it all moves when you’re poking ‘em. Nothing beats it.”

The leader’s head swiveled calmly. “You’ll have entertainment enough when the war starts,” he said in a cold voice. “Women to spare in those times. And you don’t have to remind us, Riggs. Everyone in Swiftwall knows you like fat women.”

The archer cackled, slapping his thigh. “Point taken, but just to be clear, Leyan, I’m with the big guy. Not too late to backtrack and have a bit of fun. She looked mean, too. Woulda put up a good fight.”

Tregan guffawed, handing the bottle to the leader.

Leyan’s shoulders rose and fell as he sighed. “If you hadn’t joined up with me, you’d have both been hanged years ago. We’re high-leveled for this area, and I’m sure we could gut most folk around here without trouble, but you two need to remember, there’s nothing worse than a posse of fools. All we need is an ambitious Sheriff and a dozen men with axes and pitchforks after us.” Leyan sipped from the bottle and passed it back. “No, we press on. And when the war breaks, you can spend your days working over Ardean refugees. Logic knows there’ll be plenty.”

Marek’s anger iced over. Within his summoned armor, his emotions were transmuted yet again. This time, they weren’t fully subdued, but changed. Instead of fear or reckless anger, a deep and unshakable resolve settled in his gut. A resolve tempered by steady logic. He didn’t need to hear any more from the bandits. So as the men talked and drank around the fire, Marek let his mind absorb every useful detail.

His position behind the tree was around fifty feet from the men. All had been drinking, but none were intoxicated enough to be unable to fight. Tregan’s gone too far, though. I should worry about him last if I can. Since Marek couldn’t see Leyan’s longsword anywhere, he had to assume it remained fastened to the leader’s belt. Can’t find the archer’s bow either, he thought. That could be troubling. Oh, but there’s Tregan’s mace, leaning against their packs. That’s what… six, seven of his huge paces away.

He looked next to the horses. One of the beasts was unlike the other two. It was stout in the chest and limbs, well-muscled and aggressive, judging by the way it shoved its companion. The other horses stretched their leads to give the beast as wide a berth as possible. A warhorse? he wondered. I’ll have to be careful with him too, then. Some mounts will fight with their rider. It’s probably Leyan’s.

Marek studied the scene as intently as a sigil schema. He used Intuit no less than three more times to formulate a solid plan. No matter how he worked things over, though, the outcomes were bloody and fraught. Nothing promised clear victory—not until Riggs stood and stumbled toward the packs, anyhow. The archer flopped down amongst the strewn gear and announced for all to hear he’d see them in the morning.

That leaves two. If I can get the drop on one, that’ll even the odds a bit. Damn, but I wish I knew their Levels and Classes. Marek’s instincts still warned against anything brash. He considered waiting until all were asleep, but he doubted that would happen. Leyan would surely keep a guard, and he’d rather seek an opportunity in which the two before him were separated. His head swung to the horses again. Marek altered his plan one last time and trusted his gut. Intuit was fallible and took mana, which he was dangerously low on after crafting the staff. I’m done planning. Now it’s time to see how strong Remnant Mage really is.

Marek withdrew from the edge of the clearing and picked his way toward the horses. Five tense minutes later, he was close enough to act. Marek inched out of the trees, low to the ground and shielded by the horses. One of the beasts whinnied and stomped its hoof at his approach. Marek froze in place and ducked lower still. His shortsword trembled in his grip.

“The fuck is that?” Tregan barked.

“Only thing big or dumb enough to attack our horses would be a bear, or a mad cougar,” Leyan grumbled. “Go check it out.”

The big man stood and then faltered, sitting down again abruptly. “Ugh, if it’s a bear, you know I’d kill the thing… ‘cept my legs ain’t so good right now. Might be best you do it.”

Leyan sighed, long, loud and weary. “Tregan, you’re a waste of whiskey half the time. If you weren’t so good at killing, I’d stick you in your sleep.”

Marek watched Leyan stalk closer through the gaps between the horses’ legs. Only the man’s silhouette was visible with the campfire burning behind him. Leyan checked on the warhorse first. Calming the beast, he whispered in its ear before moving on to the next. “What was it that scared you?” he asked the animals in a deceptively kind voice. “Something spooked ya? If it’s a damned raccoon, I swear…”

Marek tracked the movement of Leyan’s legs beneath the horses. He moved in the opposite direction and ducked behind Lydia, praying the mule wouldn’t give him away in a foolish attempt to bite him. He touched the mule’s flank to still her trembling, and the stubborn creature acted civilly for once, only nudging him with her snout.

Leyan finished his cursory search before stooping to the knot of reins bound to the stump. He fumbled with the leather cords to confirm all was secure. Then he cursed and turned around. The man took three strides before Marek made his move. Pulse racing, he rose from his hiding place, swinging the shortsword with all his might.

Speedy though the attack was, Leyan reacted quicker than imaginable. The man spun on his heel and blocked with his forearm. A shimmer of power rippled across Leyan’s form and solidified on his upheld appendage. Then Marek’s blade struck. The Skill the bandit had used likely would have blunted most attacks, yet empowered as it was by Marek’s Spirit Body, Leyan’s defenses were overcome. The shortsword hacked clean through the man’s appendage and sank into his neck.

Leyan tried to inhale, but the blade was lodged in his spine, cutting off his wind. A gurgling hiss rose from the wound, however, the sound so distinct and horrible Marek would never forget it.

Crashing into the larger man, Marek found himself gripped by the bandit’s remaining hand. It made contact with his body, though the pressure was blunted by his spirit-forged armor. Leyan’s eyes stared into Marek’s, wide and wild. Marek shoved the man and yanked his sword free. Blood spilled to the ground. The horses reared, and Leyan’s bubbling cry pierced the night.

“Oi! All right over there?” Tregan shouted. This time, when the big man rose, he was steadier on his feet. Fighters were like that. Marek had observed several men sober the moment a fight started. The warhorse stamped and reared up, but Marek had already retreated into the woods.

The sound of Tregan’s heavy boots blended with a horse’s neigh and the last curdled sigh of a dying man. Marek didn’t waste a second as he dashed through the trees to the other side of the camp, seeking his next target.

39

TWO AGAINST ONE

Prudence help me, but I have to get to that archer! Marek thought as he tore through the wood line. Tregan would have his mace and was likely only now reaching Leyan’s position. That means I have a tiny window to kill the other. Maybe he’s too drunk to have found his bow?

It didn’t take more than twenty seconds for Marek to circumvent the clearing. He burst from the trees nearest to where he imagined the scrawny archer might be. Two dozen strides away, kneeling beside a pack, was the man in question. Riggs had apparently found his bow, for the weapon was drawn and aimed at Marek.

The bow twanged, and an arrow zipped up into Marek’s face. He flinched and awkwardly stumbled to his left, but the shot was too close to avoid. The arrow cracked against the invisible helm protecting his head and face, leaving behind only a thin crack inches from Marek’s eye.

“Blast it, I forgot my armor,” he muttered under his breath.

The archer drew another arrow from the quiver leaning against his thigh. Hand deft and far too fast for Marek’s liking, the next shot would land before he had a chance to continue his charge.

It was time to trust his instincts and the powers he’d gained. Rather than prepare to evade or head back into the trees for cover, Marek sprinted at the man holding one forearm in front of his damaged face shield. That was when he noticed something odd about the archer’s bow—a detail he found quite troubling. Riggs’ weapon was beginning to glow a deep emerald hue. Strands of mana wormed out of the archer’s chest, coiling around the bow’s shaft and gathering in a bright point at the tip of the arrow.

Marek closed half the distance by the time the Skill activated. He saw half the archer’s face contort in a leering grin. The arrow leapt from the bow, and the green mana suffused its entire length. His foot struck the ground, and he used all of his enhanced strength to shove himself forward and left. The green streak flew lower than Marek anticipated. It went past his upraised arm and smashed into his left hip. An explosion split the night air, and then he was spinning, neither foot touching the ground. Marek landed on his shoulder. Something high in his chest popped. His right arm tingled from shoulder to fingertips, and he felt blood on his lips.

“Aye, Tregan! I nailed him with Blast Arrow!” Riggs shouted. “Probably dead, but get over here anyway!”

Marek’s head spun, and he remembered the demon on the bridge, the final battle of his Crucible. He’d had a champion then. Now he was completely alone. He knew his body had been broken, and didn’t have time to consider where or how bad the damage was.

Fear drove him to action.

The burgeoning Remnant Mage flooded his armor with power. Ether restored the shattered hip and thigh. Granting his body strength, Spirit Body lifted Marek from the ground. And then he was moving again.

Riggs cursed and retrieved another arrow. Marek took the shortsword in his left hand, leaving his right arm dangling. His armored feet pounded closer. The archer lifted his bow and drew. At the last second, Marek fell to his flank and slid feet-first across the ground. He slashed up in a clean arc. The bow cracked as it was cut in half. Something, either the snapping string or a fragment of the bow, struck Riggs in the face. At the same time, Marek’s feet hit the pack beside the archer, and he threw himself up to one knee.

“Rift-born beast!” he screamed, hands clutching an eye. “I’ll kill you! I’ll⁠—”

Marek’s thrust didn’t falter. His sword sank deep, the strike powered by momentum and his enhanced arm. The blade cleaved through fat and flesh, and a jolt ran up Marek’s arm as it severed the spine last of all.

Riggs doubled over, somehow remaining upright. Marek watched steam rise from the end of Mags’ shortsword as it rose from the archer’s back. Then the man’s legs gave out and he pitched forward.

This sudden shift of weight threw Marek back. He twisted and shoved the man away with his shoulder. When he tried to pull the shortsword free, the blade wouldn’t budge. It was lodged in Riggs’ spine.

Boots thumped closer. Tregan cursed, likely seeing what remained of his last ally. And Marek yanked on the hilt again to no avail. His strength was gone. The hollow ache in his chest told him he’d depleted his Ether Core.

“You!” Tregan roared, and Marek looked up to see a sphere of spiked steel reflecting the orange glow of the campfire.

He had only a single course of action. As Riggs’ soul emerged from the corpse it left behind, Marek drank in its power greedily. The bone in his chest clicked into place and reknit. It was his clavicle, he realized, and along with it, a mess of muscle, nerve, and sinew healed as well. The feeling in his right arm restored, Marek ripped the shortsword free at last.

Tregan’s mace descended like a meteor. Marek kicked off the ground into a roll. The mace thumped beside him, sinking half a foot into wet soil and spraying mud in all directions. Marek rose to a knee, but Tregan hefted and swung the giant mace again with terrifying speed. It pulsed crimson, betraying the use of a Skill. He dove into another roll, narrowly avoiding his end.

“Hold still, maggot! Quit squirmin’!”

Investing a burst of ether, Marek found his feet. He spun around to face the brute glowering at him. Tregan bared his teeth and pointed the mace at Marek’s chest with one arm. The weapon hung in the air, not wavering an inch. It was a staggering feat of strength.

“Look here. You killed my friends. Don’t care what kind of Rift-born slag you are—I’m gonna kill you!” Tregan ended his speech with a roar. Crimson mana the color of pooled blood poured from the bandit’s skin. His scream continued until his entire body glowed a deep red, eyes burning like a demon’s.

Principalities, Marek thought, taking a step back, he’s a blasted Berserker!

The fight resumed at a frantic pace. Marek dodged Tregan’s mace once and then twice. His enhanced movements were barely enough to keep him out of harm’s way. Though fairly common in the distant south, the Berserker Class commanded respect throughout the Coherent Realms. Few who bore it lived to old age, but they felled many in the time they had. Their strength, the brutality of their attacks, and the resilience to pain and injury were only part of what set them aside on a battlefield. As Marek continued to evade, he stared in horror at the deadliest of Tregan’s traits: Each second the big man fought in a Rage state, he became faster and more deadly.

The twenty inches of steel he’d borrowed from Mags felt completely inadequate. If he’d had a spear, the contest might’ve been less one-sided, but as it was, Marek knew he couldn’t hold out much longer.

He waited until his opponent committed to a two-handed swing. The mace careened past Marek’s face, and in the small window that followed, he attacked. His sword slashed low at Tregan’s exposed thigh. The blow landed six inches below the bandit’s hip, the blade cutting through a slab of dense muscle.

Tregan growled, not so much as flinching from the pain. Teeth bared, the brute reversed the direction of his mace and swung backhanded.

Marek’s teeth rattled as the oversized weapon slammed into his shoulder. His Spirit Body exploded, and the bone of his upper arm and at least one rib cracked audibly. The ferocity and speed of Tregan’s Rage had easily overcome Marek’s defenses, but thankfully the blow hadn’t been enhanced by a Skill. He didn’t fly through the air as he had when the arrow exploded, and his body was far less injured. Despite staggering to keep his footing, though, Marek still found himself staring up at the stars.

“Ha!” Tregan bellowed. “Quick little bastard, but ain’t so tough. How about another taste, boy?”

The bloodied mace rose high.

Marek’s hands were empty, and he didn’t even know where the sword had fallen. He was no longer confident he could effectively evade with a roll and sure he wouldn’t stand again—not without being hit. Simple and effective, he thought, remembering a lesson he’d received long ago. Mirrin had been discussing sigilcraft, but the rule applied to most things in life. Pushing through the pain, Marek shoved the ground with one foot and spun a quarter-turn to align himself. Then he kicked with all the ether-given might in his possession. Tregan’s knee bent backwards, tendons tore, and the Berserker bellowed.

The bandit dropped his mace and flailed sideways. No doubt, Tregan was trying to stay upright. But when he hopped three times on his good leg, it only carried him far enough to crash headlong into the campfire.

A plume of sparks rose high in the air.

Marek grimaced as he forced his agonized body up one last time. The Sigilist turned from the flailing man, nose recoiling at the stench of burning hair and flesh. Bones in Marek’s ribcage ground together sickeningly as he stumbled to the baggage. He tore Leyan’s spear free with his good arm.

When he returned to finish what he’d started, an unholy sight greeted his eyes. Teeth bared, a man half mad and barely alive drew up from the fire, one hand still buried in coals.

Tregan’s flesh was scorched and ruined. His eyes were terrible, bereft of humanity. A guttural moan poured from the bandit’s lips. He’d become a feral thing, no longer fierce but horrified at the onset of its own death.

Don’t stop now, Marek told himself. Finish what you came for. Kill him.

He gripped the spear’s haft and shambled forward. The steel point drove through Tregan’s sternum a heartbeat later. The creature that had been Tregan gaped like a fish. Twice, his angular jaw worked. Not a whisper came out. His good leg spasmed a bit, and then, with a crash, he fell back into the fire.

Marek dug in his heels, and the spear tore free with a squelch. He collapsed to one knee. Head craning back, he stared up at the open sky. His panting breath was shallow from the broken ribs.

He closed his eyes and slowly returned to his senses. Horses nickered and stamped the soil nearby. A chorus of crickets sang to the indifferent moon above. Fat crackled over open flame.

He’d finished his gruesome task.

Now, Marek only had to learn how to live with it. Yet the guilt never came. They deserved it, he thought calmly, and I had no other choice. I’d do it all again.

A tall and ugly spirit drifted up from the raging fire. Marek drank it in with Ether Siphon. His body healed, and no longer needing it to stay upright, he dismissed Spirit Body.

He strode through the bandits’ camp casually. The horses had calmed a little, and Lydia swished her tail when she saw him coming. “I’ll get to you next,” he told the mule. “Something else I need to do first.”

Marek found Leyan where he’d fallen. The moon reflected darkly off a wide pool of blood. Bending down, he unclasped a bronze buckle. In one smooth motion, he pulled a thick studded belt free. Then, with a grim smile, Marek bound it around his own waist. He stared Leyan’s spirit in the eyes as he rested his hand on the pommel of the black sword. “Looks better on me anyway,” he said, drinking a third decrepit soul.

A series of icy tingles rippled outward from his chest. He’d leveled up his Remnant Mage Class, and more than once by the feel of it. Marek pushed aside his advancement for the time being.

Before he could, he had to loot corpses for the very first time.

40

ONE MAN’S TREASURE

The smell of Tregan burning made Marek’s task all the more unpleasant. Deciding there was no way he would attempt to drag the man from the fire pit, he worked around the problem. He stole a few logs from the fire and started another at the far edge of the clearing. This was soon a blaze when Marek added three soiled bedrolls.

So, by the light of the silver moon and a bonfire, he went about the work of collecting weapons and valuables.

Perhaps an hour after the fight ended, Marek stood over a heap of goods, much of which far surpassed the quality of his and Mags’ equipment. A fine axe and a hatchet lay beside an enchanted fire kit. All three would make the process of collecting wood and starting fires much easier. The three saddles were of good quality as well. Same with the skinning knives wrapped in a leather pouch in Riggs’ pack.

Stored in Leyan’s gear were the true prizes: fifty feet of rope enchanted to prevent cuts or fraying as well as a large oilskin tarp with two sigils stitched into one corner, rendering it waterproof. He also uncovered a large leather sack amongst Leyan’s gear. The weight and clink of metal within gave away its contents. The bandits had been busy.

“Time for the fun part,” he said, taking in the arrayed weapons and armor. “Principalities, but these three were armed to the teeth. You could equip a squad of soldiers with all this.”

Tregan’s mace outweighed nearly all the other weapons combined, but the giant man possessed few other tools of war. An ugly dagger and a pair of knobby fist weapons were the extent of them. A quick glance was all Marek needed to discard these. The dagger was pocked with rust, and the knuckles were massive, likely crafted to fit Tregan’s hands. The immense mace gleamed wetly on the ground. Marek ran a finger along one of the spikes and came back with a bit of his own blood.

“Nasty thing,” he whispered. He wouldn’t soon forget the mace’s bite. “Same as with the fist weapons. Too recognizable, and even bandits have friends.”

A thought struck Marek then, and he arched an eyebrow as he took in the weapon. Empath’s Gaze was but a thought away. He focused his intent on the mace and tried a few command phrases. Nothing happened, which didn’t surprise him since he couldn’t find a sigil, gem slot, or any other means of enchantment. He was about to move on when his eyes landed on the handle. Three tiny sigils were etched into the leather thong that bound it.

“What do we have here?” he wondered, finding a small clasp and unwinding the wrap. When Marek tried again, his vision filled with glowing words that described the simple yet promising item.

Item Name: Smithie’s Helper

Description: Eighteen inches of ox hide leather crafted to wrap the handle of a large forge hammer.

Quality: Fair

Properties: Reduces the weight of any tool to which the cord is bound by 25%. Mild resistance to heat.

Marek grinned, an idea brewing in the back of his mind. He set the wrap aside and moved on to Riggs’ equipment. Among the archer’s possessions, he’d uncovered a second bow wrapped in a watertight skin. Several other items were of note, but only the bow held magical properties. Rather than bearing sigilcraft, the wood it was made with had been steeped and cured in a special manner. Marek marveled at the amount of information his Ability gave him at a single glance. All it took was intention and the command phrase Examine Weapon. In time, he’d not even need that.

The bow’s magical properties were pragmatic to the extreme. Judging by how often Mags complained about her own bow’s condition, he knew she’d fall in love immediately. Water, Heat, and Cold Resistances, all of which affected the string as well, would offer a consistency of function through all types of weather that simply wasn’t possible with a mundane bow. Can’t imagine how good the man’s main bow must have been. Too bad I killed that too. Combined with the silver ring he’d taken from Riggs’ finger, his friend’s hunting skills would soon become legendary. The enchantment was minimal, the description claiming it granted a minor boost to arrow speed. Regardless, Marek couldn’t wait to see Mags’ face when he gave it to her.

Finally, Marek stepped over the pile of gleaming steel he’d removed from Leyan’s pack and person. Throwing knives, a trio of matching daggers, a heavy-bladed shortsword chipped and marked from extensive use were but a portion. He also found a flail, nearly two feet of chain connecting the wooden handle to a ball of steel the size of a crab apple. Compared to the crude instrument Tregan had wielded, it seemed pathetic… yet in the hands of a skilled warrior like Leyan, such a weapon could shatter a kite shield, not to mention a skull.

Marek inspected the final three items. He’d saved the best for last, and they didn’t disappoint. Leyan’s spear came with an increase to piercing damage as well as resistance to rust or corrosion. Then there was the small chainmail jerkin he’d found under the bandit’s tunic; it was too large for him, but he was tempted to wear it anyhow. Crafted of a strange alloy and enchanted to further reduce piercing and slashing damage, it was a fine prize.

Last of all, Marek turned his skill to the black sword he’d been wearing on his hip. Unsheathing the sword, he laid it before the bonfire. No light reflected from its surface, which was an eerie sight to say the least. “Almost like it eats the light,” he whispered. “Damn, almost afraid to look.”

Item Name: Vorgaine’s Shadow

Description: A greatsword crafted entirely of Scorch Steel. Flawlessly balanced with a trio of fullers, it was forged to cleave flesh, bone, wood, and common steel with ease.

Quality: Fine

Properties: Greatly reduced light refraction. Wielder gains +2 to Dexterity and +1 Strength. Significant increase to piercing and slashing damage.

“Vorgaine’s Shadow,” Marek repeated, both mesmerized and disturbed. “Did this belong to some hero named Vorgaine? Or is that a city or region I haven’t heard of?”

A queasiness filled his gut. There was no way he’d leave the sword behind, but it was a named blade. Such treasures were well-known. Who might he anger, should he be found carrying the sword by someone who knew its legacy? What if Leyan had murdered an officer in the army—or a noble, even.

“Best see my plan through, then,” he said as he reached for the leather cord nearby. Marek unbound the black sword’s hilt and tossed the stained cordage aside. Then he wrapped Smithie’s Helper around the hilt. It wasn’t a perfect fit since Vorgaine’s Shadow had such a long handle. In time, he’d disguise the blade further. It would do for now, however.

He slid the blade back into its sheath and stood. “I’ll modify the pommel and the scabbard later. Maybe Mags will have some ideas as to how I can pull it off.”

Other than packing up and returning to the farmstead, Marek only had one more thing to do. Gritting his teeth, he approached the horses. He wasn’t gifted with animals, nor did he have much experience as a rider. The warhorse terrified him. The beast’s hide twitched and shook, its dark coat reflecting the moonlight. The whites of its eyes were stark in the darkness. Marek held out his hands, trying to calm the beast. It stamped the ground in warning and butted the air with its head.

“Alright,” he said gently, “I ain’t gonna leave you tied up. You’ll starve, and that isn’t a good way to go. Wish you weren’t so prickly. What a mount you’d be.”

The warhorse snorted and kicked one of the other horses in the flank. This caused a stir among the mounts, and the beasts strained against their leads. Things were about to go badly, he knew. The leads could snap and allow the horses to escape. The war mount might kill Lydia or seriously injure one of the horses.

“And that’s not mentioning what it could do to me,” Marek whispered. “Damn if I’ll fight a horse. Not tonight, and hopefully never.”

The volatile creature would be worth a small fortune—there was no doubt about it—yet it was late, he was exhausted, and he refused to leave it tied to the stump. So Marek drew the black sword.

The warhorse stilled, and its eyes widened further. Quiet as a shadow, Marek took a single step toward the stump and nicked the lead bound to the warhorse with his stolen blade. Leather parted soundlessly. The tension on its lead giving way triggered something in the warhorse’s mind. It reared up on its hind legs and pawed the air. Marek stumbled back with the sword poised to strike, but the horse crashed to the ground and bolted. A few branches snapped, and then all he could hear was a thunder of hooves as the horse tore through the forest.

He sheathed his sword and breathed deeply, waiting for the other beasts to calm. He saddled the larger mounts and loaded them up with everything he planned to take. He tied them so they could be led in a single file. Then Marek climbed atop Lydia’s back, handed the mule an apple he’d taken from the bandit’s food stores, and left the clearing behind.

The sky would soon lighten, and he didn’t intend on running the animals. They’d suffered enough tonight already. Sighing, the mage looked inward at last.

It was time to see what had become of his Class after killing three high-leveled warriors.

41

PROGRESS UNDER THE PALE MOON

The clop of Lydia’s hooves and the song of a nightbird made for an odd counterpoint to Marek’s revelation. The sounds were so ordinary, and yet he stared at the message he’d teased out with Empath’s Gaze with unbelieving eyes.

Congratulations! Apprentice Remnant Mage has been promoted to Novice Remnant Mage!

Current Rank: Level 12

Skills: Empath’s Gaze, Spirit Body, Ether Siphon

Available Skill Slots: 2

Available Class Skills (Soul Knight Subclass): Command Spirit, Summon Familiar, Distort Soul, Rending Cut, Bind Ether, Mitigate

“I gained eleven levels! I gained… Novice… I… Gods, but how?”

Lydia chuffed in annoyance. From her vantage point, he likely just seemed like an unnecessary rider that should know when to keep quiet. Marek scratched her shoulder and began the process of learning what each potential new Skill could offer.

Command Spirit came with no surprises. It allowed him to enlist the aid of a wandering soul and command it to do anything within its power. There was no time limit to his control, nor did the Spell drain his Ether Core after he cast it. “Can’t imagine anything else will be better at this point. I’m saving a Skill Point for that.”

Moving on, he read the description for Summon Familiar and Distort Soul, both of which held immense potential.

Summon Familiar: Recruit and bind a daemon. Kindred of the demons within the Rift, the daemon are those who refused their master’s dark call. By binding their soul to a human, the daemon loses much of their power and abilities. As their master grows in power, so too does the daemon. With time, such familiars transform into terrifying beasts of darkness. While summoned, a modest portion of the Remnant Mage’s ether will be consumed. Siphoned spirits will likewise be divided between master and familiar.

Distort Soul (Tier 1): Gaining a greater sense of one’s soul, the Remnant Mage learns to manipulate the ether trapped within their own corporeal form. In its base form, the mage may master the ability to project their soul to deliver attacks as well as shield against them. Tier 1 allows a maximum projection of three feet from any point on the body, though the chest may be the easiest place to master. Each use consumes little ether, but successful strikes and blocks draw significantly more power.

Marek blew out a breath that fogged in the night air. “Maybe I spoke too soon? How can I say no to either of these? Not sure exactly what Distort Soul does, but if it increases my attack and defense… and who doesn’t want a familiar?”

The last three Skills would be useful as well, though he was almost grateful they weren’t as tempting as the others. Rending Cut appeared to be linked to Devastating Cut, the Skill Marek had been given in the Crucible. It was listed as an evolvable Skill rather than Tier 1. So when I increase it, I’ll be given more than one choice? Or does it progress through mastery and practice rather than investing more Skill Points?

He pushed the questions aside, wishing he’d been given a Class guide—something most could find or were flat out given when they unlocked their Class. A resource like that would surely answer all of his basic questions. He guessed he’d likely learn more if he chose it, but the Ability wasn’t crucial at the moment. Bind Ether wasn’t either. It let him drain his Ether Core and form crystals of concentrated power that he could store. In such a way, he’d be able to expend vast amounts of ether in a single fight without having to rely on siphoning more. Mitigate offered damage absorption, consuming his ether as a tradeoff. A passive Skill, the benefit here would be protection at all times. Marek could be stabbed in his sleep and the Skill would activate.

He shook his head and dismissed the description. “Not as versatile,” he thought. “Okay, then, I’ll choose Command Spirit and Distort Soul.”

Unlike the warmth he experienced when gaining a Skill connected to his Mana Core, the sensations that reverberated through his body were cold, cutting, and left his limbs partially numb. He muttered a thanks to Lydia, for he wasn’t sure he’d still be standing if the mule wasn’t carrying him.

An urge to experiment with the Skills nearly overtook his better judgment. There weren’t any spirits at hand for the first, and he doubted Distort Soul would come easily. Then he remembered he’d yet to assign his Attribute Points. “What’s wrong with me? Shoulda been the first thing I did.” Marek called up his personal information and groaned when he saw no less than 22 Available Attribute Points. “Two for each level,” he said, remembering the remarkable pace of advancement his primary Class offered. “Insane…”

He spent a few minutes playing with numbers. His predicament was a happy one, and Marek had already thought over his future advancements. Regardless, he hated to rush such an important moment.

Double-checking his math and confirming, Marek went down the list, increasing one Attribute at a time. “Invest two points in Strength,” he said, adding his intention to the words. He winced, expecting horrendous pain like when he’d dumped two points into Constitution a while back. The resulting cramps and twitches of his muscles didn’t compare, however. Marek endured by slumping over the saddle and breathing through the discomfort. Next, he added 4 AP to Dexterity, dividing the advancement by assigning two at a time.

Marek increased his Constitution by an equal measure. This proved to be the most agonizing increase despite breaking it up, and he thought it might be due to the nature of the Attribute itself. Of the last three, the young man decided to skip Charisma altogether. He had a score of 10, which was good enough by most standards. Besides, he wasn’t a Bard or a Merchant Class. He relied more heavily on Intelligence and Willpower. Into the first of these, he deposited 4 AP. This resulted in two headaches, both of which lasted a full minute before they passed.

And finally, Marek poured the 8 remaining Attribute Points into his Willpower. Testing the advancement with two, he found the experience almost pleasant. Icy power burned in his lungs, and it felt as if he were stretching muscles long kept dormant. He grinned and took a risk. The last 6 points were assigned, and Marek clenched his fists and jaw.

A storm of lightning and frigid waves crashed through his chest. Pushing outward in all directions, he reveled in the expansion of his Ether Core. Though his body quaked, he didn’t regret the choice. There was something primeval about this source of power.

“It’s the energy of life itself,” he said. “Of course it feels familiar. I’ve had a soul my entire life, haven’t I?”

He’d completed the necessities. Ahead, a tall hill rose up before Lydia, and in the deep gray of early dawn, he spied a thin trail of smoke rising in the air. Marek had nearly finished his return journey.

“One last thing,” he said with a cocky grin. “Let’s see what it all looks like together.”

Name: Marek Kaiteras

Primary Class: Remnant Mage Level 12

Subclass: Soul Knight

Skills: Empath’s Gaze, Spirit Body, Ether Siphon, Command Spirit, Distort Soul

Secondary Class: Sigilist Level 11

Skills: Intuit, Imbue

Strength: 10

Dexterity: 12

Constitution: 12

Intelligence: 18 (Affliction: Core Atrophy, 39% Reduction)

Willpower: 25

Charisma: 10

“By the Six, Uncle would collapse if he could see this. My core is halfway recovered already, and by the gods, my Willpower! So many changes, and in such a short time, too…” Marek read the information several times over, then sighed, suddenly dizzy with the implications. He dismissed his personal information and said, in a voice bereft of ego or conceit, “What will I be a year from now?”

They crowned the hill and turned left. One of the horses behind him chuffed, and Lydia shook her head as she clomped straight toward the little shed. The mule brayed when Marek reined her in, but she allowed him to dismount. “Easy, girl. You’ll get your rest soon enough.”

As his boots hit the ground, the door of the little cabin screeched open. Mags ran out onto the porch, feet bare and face white as a sheet. “Marek! What have you done?”

He shrugged. “I found a couple horses and some gear. Should make this little quest of ours a whole lot easier. I’ll be happy to show you everything after I get a little sleep.”

His friend stammered, her face a mask of fear, confusion, and something close to awe.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Marek said, nodding to the animals and gear. “I’m exhausted and could use a little help.”

42

CHARACTER REVEALED

After feeding the mounts and hauling everything inside the shack, he crawled under his blankets and curled up before the little stove. Mags spoke to him, but sleep stole him from the world of the living.

Dreamless and heavy, Marek’s sleep went to work on his ragged body.

Sometime later, he awoke. He knew at once something was wrong. His body ached, sweat soaking his clothes so thoroughly they clung to his skin. And he was so very cold. He found he was shivering uncontrollably. The world seemed blurry and surreal when he tried to open his eyes.

"Marek, you're scaring me. Wake up, will you? Marek!"

The voice faded, and he slipped back into darkness. This time, he wasn't alone. Marek stood in a dark forest. Fires flickered all around. Men bound to stakes burned, their skin peeling away in strips. Marek saw a path that led from the hellish landscape.

Then he was running, sparks burning his skin. His escape was near; he could feel it. Only a few more steps and he'd be free to leave this place and find his uncle. Then a figure stepped out from behind one of the trees.

Marek crashed into a muscled chest. He fell onto his back and stared up into the hateful eyes of a man wearing a black sword. The stranger extended a hand, and Marek took it. The limb fell off as he did so. Blood sprayed across Marek's chest and neck. The man opened his mouth, but no words came out. Only a stream of hot blood emerged.

Marek tried to crawl backwards, but the man stomped on his chest and pinned him to the forest floor. Leaning over Marek's face, the man's blood cascaded into Marek's mouth and eyes.

Panicking, he wiped the blood away. When he could see again, it was his own face he encountered.

“Well done, Marek. I hope you’re proud.” The figure wearing his face smiled wide. “Murder looks good on you."

Marek sat up with a start. The light entering the cabin had the same dull gray of early morning. Somehow, he'd only slept a few minutes. His body trembled, and he wrapped the blanket tighter around himself and turned to see the stove was cold, not a single coal left burning.

"Finally," Mags said. His friend crossed the room and knelt beside him. "Marek, you look like shit. I thought you were going to die. Principalities, you sure know how to make a friend worry."

Teeth chattering, Marek only managed two words. "The fire?"

Mags sighed and shook her head. "Sorry, I let it go out. Things are... Well, I'll explain it all soon. When it’s nightfall, I'll light a small fire and we'll get some tea in you. I think you caught a cold when you..." She shook her head again and averted her gaze. "Anyway, you should change your clothes. You're soaking wet, and you can't warm up like that."

Marek complied, and a few minutes later he'd slowed the ceaseless shivering. Now with dry clothes, thick socks, and Mags' blanket draped over his shoulders, he regained the power of speech. "How long?" he asked, eyes flitting to the window and noticing it was darker outside, not lighter. “I slept all day?"

"More like two," Mags corrected. "Like I said, I thought you might be dying. You passed out and didn't move for hours. That’s when the fever hit. You've been rolling around and groaning ever since.” She paused, worry written plainly across her face. "Marek... who's Leyan?"

He remembered the man in his dream. Leyan, the deadly swordsman and bandit, the first mortal Marek had ever slain. "He was their leader," Marek answered flatly. "The man I took the black sword from."

A long pause stretched out between them. Finally, Mags laid a hand on Marek's shoulder and drew in a breath. "Those men didn't strike me as the generous type. How did you get this Leyan's sword? Please don't tell me you stole it."

Marek's stomach groaned. It was empty and cramping, and bile threatened to rise in his throat. He pulled the blanket tighter. "After you fell asleep, I followed the bandits and found their camp. Then I ambushed them… They're all dead, Mags. They won't be coming after us any time soon."

His friend didn't react as badly as he'd feared. She pursed her lips and blinked away a few tears, then squeezed his shoulder. Finally, her composure crumbling, she crushed him in a fierce hug. "Okay," she said in his ear. "That's alright, Bones. Sometimes, killing needs to be done. We're alright now. We’re alright.”

Marek pressed a hand to his sternum. It felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. It was a strange phenomenon, expecting rebuke and disgust only to be confronted with acceptance by one he loved. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so unworthy of grace. And here his friend was, handing it out freely.

Anguish and gratitude ate through the ice shielding his heart. Whatever force had numbed him the night before fell away in that very moment. No longer suppressed, his emotions flowed like liquid steel. It was overwhelming. Like when one’s hands are warmed after being numb for hours, his heart ached with the return of feeling.

His eyes burned. His chest heaved. Marek realized he was sobbing. Mags held him tight, not speaking a word. She didn’t loosen her hold on him until the fit passed a minute later.

When it did, she withdrew and sat before him, eyes red and hair tousled. "Same happened to me after I killed my first kobold," Mags said with a sad smile. "I wasn't so brave, though. I waited until everyone was asleep before I let it out. Strange, ‘cause it wasn't like I had any regrets. The kobold was part of a raiding force. He almost seemed to seek me out. We traded blows for a while, and then, just like that, the kobold slipped." Her laugh was bitter. "Probably a bit of mud that saved my life. Soon as I saw the opening, I slammed my spear into his chest. I didn't do much more killing after, but I don't think it really matters. Once or twice is enough."

"Or three times," Marek said. He wiped his cheeks and sighed. "Oh, Mags, it's downright terrifying."

"I know."

"No, not the killing," he said. "My Class—it does something with my mind and emotions. Last night was... Judgement take me, but it was easy. Not the actual fight, mind you. That was damned brutal and a close thing. The decisions, though, were simple and clear. Even the cleanup was easier than it should have been. I looted them, Mags, like they were enemy soldiers on a field of battle. I emptied their pockets and took their keepsakes… The only thing I felt other than a bit of fear was a burning thrill."

He could tell Mags was trying not to react. He knew his best friend too well, however. The slight twitch at the corner of her eyebrow and a softening of her eyes. Again, she seemed afraid of him. "Didn't your uncle tell you not to use your abilities?"

Marek nodded.

"Why’d he say that? You didn't explain it to me. Are your powers evil? Is your soul in danger or something?”

"It's because of the madness," he said. "That's why I need to find an ironwood tree quickly. Mirrin thinks if I use my powers, the madness will set in faster. Not sure if he's right, but after last night, I think he might be."

"Then why do it?” she asked calmly. "Don't get me wrong, now. I'm pleased you got Lydia and our supplies back, but we didn't need riches. We might have been able to go back to Misthearth and replace what was lost. Was it really worth it?"

Marek's response came immediately. "It was. We couldn't complete any of our goals if I hadn't. Chances were too high I’d be caught if I went south again. Besides, without your bow, we’d probably starve.”

“That reminds me,” Mags said as she got to her feet. “Reason I let the fire go out is the same as why we’re changing our route. I saw a wagon pass yesterday afternoon, and a pair of riders this morning. The road isn’t as safe as we’d like to think it.”

“So what do you propose? We must go north,” Marek said firmly. “That isn’t an option.”

Mags began rifling through the baggage in the corner of the room. She answered with her back turned. “Aye, we will. There’s an old trapper’s trail we can reach if we travel through the forest a ways. It’ll take us longer to reach the Quartz Road, but we’ll get there in time.”

“I don’t know, Magpie. If you’re talking about the forest to our west, I think we might be worse off. Kobolds could find us, not to mention the beasts.”

The woman returned and sat back down. She held a large leather pouch in one hand and some bread and an apple in the other. She handed him the food and said, “Those bandits were worse than any kobolds. And I think we’ve been foolish to think the Casterans will leave us be for long. Besides, what happens if them fellows you killed have friends? I want to get as far from here as possible by the time someone notices they’re missing.”

Marek considered her words before responding. “I was thinking we should sell some things at the next town. Some of what I took wasn’t so easily identified.”

Mags arched an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Seems like this might draw some attention.” She let the sack of gold and trinkets thump on the floorboards. “Eat, Marek, and drink some water. When you’re finished, the two of us are gonna figure out what we should do about the treasure.”

43

GIFTS BEFORE JOURNEY

The sack of shiny things Marek had taken from the bandits contained a relative fortune. Two hundred and seventy-three gold, three ten-ounce bars of silver, and a pair of rubies tucked away in a velvet pouch. Considering Leyan and the other bandits' coin purses, Marek and Mags decided everything they’d recovered should be considered stolen. The coin and silver bars seemed like fair game to Mags, and Marek agreed with her. Neither felt comfortable, however, with the necklaces, brooches, rings, belt buckles, or seven gold teeth.

They made a tentative plan to head toward Middlebrook, a small city and prominent trading post that should have a Sheriff or Constable—someone to make the decision for them.

Afterward, Marek’s hunger awoke again, and he ate like a starved man. Mags had ordered him to sleep again, promising to wake him at midnight. As soon as darkness fell and a fire was lit, Marek slept soundly.

As she'd promised, the Strongtower girl shook him several hours later. "Oy! It's time.”

Marek sat up and rubbed his eyes. His body felt better. Little pain bothered him, and his mouth wasn't parched. He was grateful he'd refreshed himself before sleeping again. "I'm up," he said when Mags cleared her throat.

She held out a hand, helping him to his feet. When he stood, she let out a squeak of fright and stepped back a few paces. "Dalen's beard, Marek! You got bigger!"

Everything in the cabin looked a little different to Marek. And sure enough, his short friend seemed even smaller than usual. "Don't know about half a foot," he said, staring down at his legs, “but I think you're right. I'm two inches taller at the least! You look⁠—"

"Don't say it!" Mags snapped. "What's this about? Ah, probably gained a few levels after the fight. Is that it?"

Marek smiled sheepishly. "I did, but more than a few. More like eleven."

Mags’ eyes practically fell from her head. She threw up her hands and stomped to the door, yanking it open. "Eleven! You're telling me you gained 11 Attribute Points overnight? Guessing you dumped most in Constitution, which explains why you sprouted like a stalk of corn!"

Marek said the next words as gently as possible. "22 AP, actually… Remnant Mage gains two each level."

“Sure!” Mags cried. “Why would you progress a little at a time? Why not power level two Classes at once? Makes sense to me? In fact, why didn't I think of it!? I should nab up a primary and secondary as soon as I can and get to work!"

The rant continued. In proper Strongtower fashion, Mags spun a yarn of bullshit so fine it would have glittered in the sun. Marek held back any hint of a reaction other than a smile. He let the woman vent. Her frustrations were good and truly justified.

Marek pulled on his boots, washed his face, and was ready to leave minutes later. Mags had readied everything else, which was fortunate. Instead of letting his friend keep hold of her dour mood, Marek had other plans. He dug into the pack designated for weapons, fishing around for a few items in particular.

When he looked up, Mags was red in the face. Marek laughed, which was permitted. She had that gleam of self-conscious humor in her eyes, which meant she wasn't truly angry. He decided to prod her a little before he revealed his gifts. "Have you thought of applying yourself? Classes don't come easy, Marigold. You might consider trying a bit harder to achieve your goals."

Mags jabbed a finger in his direction. "Watch it," she warned. "Tease me all you like, but don't call me that, damn you!" Marek sauntered toward his friend, two hands hidden behind his back. She frowned, eyes narrowing. "What do you have there? You know I don't like surprises. Not another bag of stolen heirlooms, is it?”

"Since you've been so pissy since I woke up, I'm assuming you didn't search the baggage,” he said with a wry smile. “I did steal these, but I doubt they’re heirlooms.”

Mags took the tinderbox and skinning purse presented. She tucked the box under her arm and unfastened the string that bound the leather case. Carefully, she unfolded the contents, and the faintest smile caressed her lips. "Skinning knives," she said, voice still holding its edge of faux anger. "Alright, I admit these are fine tools."

"Check the other one," Marek prodded.

She wrapped up the knives and set them on the floor at her feet. Then she cracked open the lid of the box. Her eyes lit up a moment later. "Wait! Just hold on, will you!? This is enchanted?"

"It is."

"The box and the fire stick? They're both enchanted?"

"Mmhmm."

Mags giggled and bounced on her toes. "What does it do? I know shit about sigils."

A deep sense of joy filled Marek's chest. He tapped the side of the box, where four sigils had been engraved into the polished wood. "Four sigils isn't easy to pull off. This was crafted by a Journeyman Sigilist or higher. The enchantment makes the box completely waterproof. Even the air inside the box will remain perfectly dry no matter how humid the weather is. Oh, and it’s fireproof as well."

"And the fire stick? How can it be improved?" she asked, all traces of her grumpiness replaced by enthusiasm.

"The handle has only two sigils. The enchantment increases the amount of heat produced by the flint’s sparks while also reducing the amount of flint expended. Essentially, it'll start fires easier and won't wear out for years if you're careful."

Mags leaned back her head and let out a sigh of utter contentment. “Beautiful, blasted beautiful.” Eyes snapping open a moment later, she pointed. “And what have ya got in that one?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Marek said, handing over the silver ring.

She took it and slid it over her finger. Some of her excitement ebbed and she shrugged. "I don't get it. Not keen on wearing some lady’s engagement ring, Marek."

"If you had Empath's Gaze like I do, you'd notice it isn't an ordinary ring. Nothing fancy, but I figured you'd prefer to keep it. The descriptions claims it increases the speed of any arrow you fire."

"Oh!" Mags said, splaying her fingers and ogling the jewelry in a new light. "That... that'll change a lot! Further distance, better aim in wind and even rain, and damn if it won't kill stuff better."

"Only says a minor increase, but yeah, sounds like it'll turn you into a terror. Imagine how fierce you'll be with your new bow as well."

His friend's mouth fell open. "That's right! One of those bastards was an archer! Probably a Ranger Class, or maybe just a Bowman." Mags made a visible effort to contain her emotions—something Marek always found endearing, for she was terrible at it. "My bow isn't low quality," she said. "You sure the other one is better?"

Marek nodded his head toward the pack he'd taken the other items from. "See for yourself. It’s in an oilskin strapped to the side there."

Mags set the tinderbox beside the knives and tore across the room. She had the bow out and strung in no time. She inspected it thoroughly, and if Marek could guess right, she was impressed. "Thank you," she said, a note of reservation in her tone. "It is nice. The pull is harder, but I can manage it, and it'll increase my range even without the ring."

"Yep!" Marek agreed. "I thought you'd like it. And good thing it's resistant to water, too. That means you can keep it out while we ride at night and not worry about the dew.”

He turned and began rolling up his blanket and bedroll as if nothing was amiss. It took an effort of will not to react to the sharp inhalation he heard over his shoulder. He knew her mind would be whirring at top speed.

"Stop…"

Marek shook his head. "The enchantment extends to the string as well."

"Stop!" she said again, nearly shouting.

"Oh, and it’s resistant to heat and cold as well. Anyhow, you ready to get going, or what?"

Marek stood up and turned just in time to receive a tiny woman. Mags knocked him back two paces, laughing in his arms. "Alright!" she said, pulling free and punching him in the shoulder. "I owe you one, Bones. Suppose I'm not sore any longer."

He rubbed where her punch had landed. "I'm going to be, thanks to you."

Mags rolled her eyes. "Come now. You're a dual-Classed Novice. You'll survive. Now, unless there's any more treasures you want to drop in my lap, I say we get going. The moon is full tonight, and we can make it to the trail if we leave soon."

And so the two fell to work. Mags took a liking to one of the horses, a mare with a red-and-white coat. The mare let her ride without complaint, but when Marek tried to do the same with the gelding, he nearly lost a finger.

A few hours before sunrise, they left the farmstead behind. He rode on Lydia, Mags at the front and the gelding in the back carrying most of their cargo. They rode north at a canter, taking full advantage of the even terrain and moonlight. Ten miles or so past the bandit camp, Mags called back to him, "Take this part slow. Lydia will know what to do, so don't fight her."

Then she spurred the mare down a steep embankment. Sure enough, the mule managed as easily as the horse, if not as gracefully. Marek's stomach flipflopped a few times when he realized the drop was greater than he'd imagined. They descended some fifty feet down the side of the hill before the trail leveled out. Seeing he'd made it, Mags continued along the narrow path.

A half-mile of easy riding in the open gave way to a less pleasant journey. They entered the forest, and Marek had to lie flat over Lydia's neck to avoid being scratched by unseen branches. The trees grew densely, making their progress slow to a crawl. Soon, Mags and Marek dismounted and led the horses on foot.

Thankfully, the sky eventually lightened, and they had an easier time avoiding the low-hanging branches. By the time the sun was up, the trail had widened a little, and the two adventurers mounted up.

Mags rode with her new bow at the ready, poised on her lap much as Riggs had done.

They'd traveled through the night, yet Marek felt refreshed and energetic. Even his saddle sores had healed, and his health had never been better. If I have nothing better to do, he thought, I suppose I'll have to practice my new Skill.

Lips turned up in a gentle smile, eyes closed and face relaxed, Marek drew upon the instinctual knowledge he'd gained. Then he whispered the words, "Distort Soul."

44

VEXING SOUL

A dim, foolish, uninspired part of Marek’s mind had hoped this Skill would be like the others. He thought it might come naturally. He was the Remnant Mage, after all.

Ether Siphon, Spirit Body, and Empath’s Gaze presented little challenge. It was almost as if he’d been born casting them.

When he failed to activate Distort Soul for the twentieth time in a row, however, Marek knew how shortsighted he’d been. Stubborn as the mule he rode upon, the young mage made dozens of attempts, then hundreds. The first day of travel came and went, Marek diligently working all the while. He even kept it up while Mags took a nap at midday.

And that was just the beginning of his efforts.

After three days of failing miserably, Marek changed tactics. He fell back on his upbringing. Books held answers most people didn’t know they needed, so he invested a day in study, trusting Lydia to keep close behind Mags as he read. While his nose was pressed to the page, Marek learned how little was known of his Class. It was as if a hole had been carved in history. There must have been records, some documentation of the many mages who’d shaped the face of the Five Kingdoms…

Yet the knowledge he sought had either been burned years ago or else was kept in some hidden archive Rauld knew nothing about.

An hour before sundown, Marek came across a collection of narratives. Transcribed by the editor herself, the woman had interviewed common folk who’d claimed to have seen the mysterious Remnant Mage. One such commoner told of a “power most strange,” in which he saw a man on horseback accompanied by a company of ghosts.

I was high in a tree, hunting for deer, when I saw them marching. Course, I kept still. Even held my breath! They nearly passed me by when the man conjured terrible magicks!

Put both hands on his chest, right? Then he drew them away, and I seen something vile! Purple as a plum it was. All liquid and squirming like an eel, it poked out the middle of his chest and rose above his head. Believe me or not, I swear it. The damned thing spread out like a lady’s parasol!

Queer, I tell you, a queer thing it was! No sooner did the mage pass than the sky opened up and rain came pouring down. Suppose the fellow only wanted to stay dry, but if that’s the case, why not use an oilskin?

He compared the story to the information Empath’s Gaze had lent him for Distort Soul. It wasn’t much to go on, but gleaning even a fragment of a physical description gave Marek enough confidence to try again. Despite this, Marek made no remarkable progress. After all his attempts, he still hadn't drawn out even the smallest thread of his soul.

Hours of frustration melted away the instant he touched it. His soul was there, as he'd thought, a presence within his chest, yet deeper than he'd imagined. Like an intimately familiar warmth, Marek made contact with his own soul and was overcome with awe. Small and vast. Foreign yet completely his own. It filled him completely with gratitude. This is my soul, he thought, tears welling in his eyes. Principalities, it's beautiful.

Of course, his swelling emotions momentarily broke his concentration, and he lost contact. Marek resolved not to allow anger to taint the experience. I'll only learn to know and touch and manipulate my soul once. I refuse to rush through it. Everything else has been poured down my throat. This, I'll keep sacred.

Rather than try again, Marek took the rest of the day off. He rode in uncomplicated silence for an hour. The sun poured across his back like warm honey. Squirrels waged a war against a pesky crow. Mags sang quietly, too embarrassed to let her talent be known. She swayed in her saddle, her timbre rich and bright, giving voice to every lilting phrase of Day Mother.

Hours later, when the daylight was just beginning to wane, Mags called a stop to their travel. "Looks like an old cart ahead," she whispered, riding backwards in a loop to inform Marek. "Let's dismount and sniff it out together."

"You getting a funny feeling?" Marek asked. He'd long ago learned to trust intuition. The hidden mind knew much, and only a fool would ignore unexpected fear or suspicion.

Mags shook her head. "Not really. Still makes sense to be cautious, though. Trees kinda bunch up down there, and the trail either turns or dips out of sight. Either way..."

Marek finished her thought. "It would make for a decent ambush point. Alright, let's go have a look."

They walked side by side down the trail. Marek held his improved staff, hoping he might appear like a caster. Mags with her bow would give someone pause, but he wished his attire was more formidable.

A hundred paces ahead, Marek stopped at the edge of a wide puddle. Sure enough, the trail dove down a gentle hillside. The wreckage of a small cart lay strewn about the puddle, two broken wheels and the rough-hewn planks of the cart to one side, the curved poles and harness to the other.

Mags let out a breath and eased the tension on her bowstring. "Well, no ambush for us today. Can't say as much for whoever died here."

"Died?" Marek asked. "Maybe they just..." His eyes landed on the faded fletching of an arrow sticking out from the side of the cart. “Ah, I suppose you're right, Magpie."

"Aye. I'm gonna search about the cart. Maybe we'll find something useful."

Marek grunted a response, his mind too distracted to do more. He bit his lip and took a steadying breath before activating Empath's Gaze. Twenty feet off to his left, he spotted an eerie glow. The spirit turned its harrowing eyes on him. For some reason, it didn't speak or wail, only observed him from between two holly bushes, face sunken and clothes drooping from its thin frame. Her thin frame, he amended. She’s wearing a dress.

Marek smiled at the soul and shouted to his friend, "I'm going to practice one of my Skills. Don't freak out, alright? You'll see a spirit appear out of nowhere, but it isn't vengeful, and it'll be under my control."

"The hells did you say?" Mags asked, dropping a plank of wood and glaring at him.

"You heard me. Don't look if you'd rather not see. I need to use the Skill, though. It might save our hides one day... Only if I can cast it properly, though."

Mags picked up her bow and sighed. "Fine. Do what you have to do. I'll shoot the blasted thing if it attacks... Wait, can you hurt a spirit?"

Marek smiled at his friend, infinitely grateful for her company. Who else in the world would react like this? "No, not normally. When I use Command Spirit, though, a portion of my ether solidifies the spirit. Still look like a ghost, but they can stab stuff and be stabbed."

"Good to know," Mags muttered.

Marek cleared his mind and focused on the innate link to the spirit. He felt the woman's emotions faintly. Not anger and not sadness, only a deep sense of confusion. As he'd done in the Crucible, he held the concept of Command Spirit firmly in his mind. Then he whispered its name.

The spirit gasped as a stream of ether poured from Marek's chest. Mags let loose a fine string of curses that would've earned a proper cuffing from her mother. Marek basked in satisfaction. He'd been terrified that this Skill, too, would elude him, yet he'd bound the woman's soul with ease.

"I'm going to give her a few commands. Don't shoot."

Mags snorted. "I'll shoot the Rift-born thing if I damn well please!"

Marek decided on a task that was less likely to startle Mags. His companion had nocked and drawn an arrow; he didn't doubt she'd kill the spirit if it made any quick movements.

Turn in a circle, Marek commanded. The spirit tilted its head to one side but otherwise didn't budge an inch. He slowed his breathing and focused before trying again. Turn in a circle.

Again, the spirit only stared back in confusion.

He scratched the back of his head and mulled it over a few times. "Maybe she needs more than words," he muttered. Visualizing the spirit spinning in a slow circle, Marek issued the command a third time.

"It’s moving!” Mags shouted. "I'm gonna shoot it!"

Marek walked to his friend's side and laid a hand on her forearm. "Don't," he said firmly. “She turned around is all. I told you I was going to try a few commands. It's harder than I'd hoped, so calm down and give me a minute!"

Mags groaned and lowered her bow.

Daylight wouldn't last much longer, and Marek knew Mags would prefer to camp as far away as possible. So he wasted little time. He made the spirit crouch and then crawl low across the forest floor. Hoping to learn more of its capabilities, Marek asked it to tear up a sapling. An inch thick, the young pine would present a challenge for most people.

Straining only briefly, the spirit yanked up the sapling and held it awkwardly.

"Alright," Mags said, “you can make it do stuff. Now will you please make it go away? It's terrifying!"

Marek eyed the woman, finding their difference in reactions strange. Must be my Class, he thought. Else my family line's just fond of ghosts. “Fine, but if we're unfortunate enough to get into a real fight, you'll come to appreciate them."

He released the woman's soul and absorbed her ether. Moments later, the spirit was gone.

Mags shuddered. "Let's check for tracks and get out of here. Damn you, Marek, but I'm gonna have a hell of a time sleeping tonight." Shaking her head, she walked to the puddle's edge and hunched low.

Mud kept records of the past. The cart appeared to have been here for quite some time, yet if any signs of struggle could be found, it would be here. Marek veered left, eyes downcast as he studied the patterns. The thin scrapes of racoons. Deep but dainty footpads of a fox.

He froze mid-step. There, splayed in the dried edge of the puddle, he found a different kind of track. It wasn't a bear's, though the print stretched nearly as long. Narrow at the heel, with one deep hole at the end of three immense toes, some common folk might not recognize the spoor. Those that grew up in Misthearth were another sort, however. If a town’s attacked for hundreds of years by the same monster, the folk are unlikely to forget.

"Mags," he said quietly, “you're going to want to see this."

She hurried to stand beside him. When she saw the print, Mags lifted her bow and spun round, searching their periphery. Only when she'd confirmed they were alone did she relax. “Blast it, Marek. We've found them after all!"

"Maybe not," Marek said hopefully. "The track isn’t fresh, and maybe there's only one."

Mags gripped his sleeve tightly and drew him closer. "Wrong, Marek. Where there's one kobold, there's many. Never forget that."

45

PAST THE RAPIDS

Two days and two anxiety-filled nights passed where they'd slept with their boots on. Not a single fire was lit to warm their food or steep a cup of tea. All the while, Mags harbored a constant bellyache. Her nerves were like that. Some practically thrived on tension. She was the lucky sort that could hardly keep down food in times of crisis.

No signs since, she told herself for the tenth time that morning. Don't curse our luck before the dice have settled. If kobolds attack, they attack. In this fashion, she tussled with her thoughts until the trail widened and they came upon open countryside.

Up ahead, a silver ribbon curved and swayed. "The River Layton," she said, a rare smile on her face. "Should be a crossing straight ahead! Marek, we're close! Even if we move slow, it won’t be long till we make it to Middlebrook!"

Marek rode up beside her, reining Lydia in so the mule didn't bite Mags or her mount. "Then we'll hit the Quartz Road... today? Or tomorrow morning?"

Pride overflowed in Mags' heart. Her gambit to use the old trail had worked. Not only had they avoided the open road, but they might even have shaved off a portion of their journey. "This afternoon at the latest. It’s been a long while, so can’t remember exactly. I’d guess a couple hours’ easy riding once we cross."

Overcome with excitement, she spurred Cinnabar. The mare dashed toward the river. Nimble and responsive, Cinnabar was the finest mount Mags had ever owned. Not the fastest, Mags thought as she hunched over the horse's back and lifted up off the saddle, but damn if she isn't quick. Nearly a gallop in a few seconds!

"Ha!" she cried. "Ha! Show us what you've got, girl!”

Marek hollered a ways back, probably stressed she'd abandoned him with Lydia and the gelding. They were in open country, though, and Mags didn’t intend to go far. Soon, the rush of deep water could be heard. Mags drew Cinnabar in and wheeled about.

Trotting in a wide circle, she waited for the fabled Remnant Mage to catch up. He rode high in the saddle. For a moment, he almost looked the part, noble and composed despite his disheveled travel clothes and hair. Then Lydia brayed and picked up speed, seeming drawn to the fresh grass growing beside the river. Marek tottered back in his saddle, eyes bulging momentarily, before he grasped the horn in both hands. There he is, she thought. May the Old Gods watch over him—there’s my awkward best friend.

“What was that? Thought you’d have a bit of fun, huh?”

Mags shrugged. “Suppose I did. Cinnabar needed to stretch her legs anyway. And by the looks of it, we weren’t the only ones excited to make it out of that trail.”

Marek fought with Lydia until the mule stopped her headlong charge. Then he dismounted and let her be. “Go on, then,” he said lovingly. “Go eat yourself some clover. You’ve earned it twice over.”

The mule performed a silly jump, her front hooves only clearing a few inches as she kicked the air in triumph. Then she chuffed, shook her head, and barreled toward the stream. The gelding followed close behind. He was more reserved, but after days of pushing through brush along an overgrown trail, the animals were in a mood to celebrate.

Mags leaned over and scratched the mare behind the ear. “What about you? Don’t want to join the others?”

The horse sniffed the air and walked to the nearest clover patch. Apparently, she’d gotten out her excess energy on the gallop.

Marek kicked out his legs and smiled up at Mags. “What’s next? You said we could ford the river here?”

“Yep! Should be a sturdy rope bridge ahead. It’s a little scary when it sways, but the ropes were tough last time I was here.”

Mags dismounted and left Cinnabar to graze as she wished. Then she joined Marek and headed to the river. The mounts weren’t the only ones excited to rinse off their feet and wet their mouths.

Her spirits wavered when she crested the high bank and saw the remains of an old bridge clinging to the opposite side of the river. “Damn,” she muttered. “That changes things.”

Marek stooped near one of the posts and held up a few feet of frayed rope. “I was worried they’d been cut, but looks like it wore out. This rope is old.”

Mags frowned as she took in the scene of disaster. “Aye. I guess the Scouts gave up on repairing it a while back. The trail was awfully overgrown, so that adds up.”

“What do we do, then? If we follow the river downstream, won’t we come to the Quartz Road eventually?”

“Yes, but it curves due east at several points. It’ll take us days to get to Middlebrook that way.” Mags tried to weigh their options. The river was swollen from the recent rains, but she’d seen others cross unaided just to please their mounts. “The river can be crossed, but you and I aren’t the best riders… and then there’s Lydia.”

“Damn the gelding,” Marek complained. “Lydia wasn’t meant to carry a rider like this, not all the time. It’s wearing on her. If I could ride the big fellow, she’d be able to swim across.”

Mags glanced upstream. A series of gentle rapids tumbled down an incline. That would make for an even greater challenge. Perhaps half a mile from their position, however, she spotted a copse of ash trees jutting up from the riverbank. “How about I go scout up there? Maybe there’s a better crossing beyond that grove.”

Her companion’s frown was answer enough. “Not a good idea. I’d rather not split up if we can avoid it.”

Nodding to the mule stomping a hoof in the river, she said, “Point taken, but can you put a stop to that kind of joy in good conscience?” Marek laughed, though his eyes remained troubled, and she could understand why. “You’re right. Caution never killed anyone, but how about this?” She waved Marek to follow, and they found Cinnabar still chomping away. “Take my old bow and keep watch. Cinnabar and I will take our time and do a little scouting. I won’t even get out of earshot—promise.”

Marek agreed and took the bow she handed him. He wasn’t much of an archer, yet two bows was better than one. She strung the bandit’s bow and tied the quiver on her hip opposite the shortsword. Then she smiled at her friend and studied him a moment.

His hair was unruly and had grown much in the short time since their departure. She guessed it was a product of his increased Constitution, same as the ridiculous jump in height. He’d changed in other ways as well, some good and others not so much.

Marek had that heavy look in his eyes that worried her. Almost like he saw a different world than she. He’s half in the shadow sometimes, she thought. My sweet Marek, why did it have to be you?

Her friend chewed his lip before asking, “No further than the ash grove, right?”

Mags nodded. “We’ll head in and peek to see what’s on the other side. I’ve a feeling the river flattens out up there. The rapids are wide at the top, so could be a shallow section with our names on it. If not, we head downstream when that girl of yours settles down.”

Marek shifted his belt, checking the position of the stolen blade before taking a few arrows from Mags’ quiver.

With their strategy settled, Mags mounted her mare. They kept to the shore where a game trail cut through the grass and bushes. She spotted a small berry patch, but most of the fruit had been picked clean by birds.

I'll bet quail come through here, and pheasants too, she thought. Too bad I can't ever seem to get the drop on anything. I'm itching to use this bow. Ever since Marek had shown her the bandit's weapon and the silver ring, she'd been unable to quash a burgeoning sense of hope. It happens, as Liam would often put it. Sometimes all it takes is for someone to perform an action aided by better equipment to unlock a Class.

She thought back to the enchanted swords and spears she'd been allowed to use during training in the army. Not only had it boosted her morale and filled her comrades with a sense of pride and urgency, but there had been benefits. Mikael had unlocked Fighter on his second day with the enchanted longsword. I didn't have the same luck, not with any of the weapons we worked with, but that doesn't mean there's no hope.

Liam would be proud of her stubborn optimism. Thinking of her brother's cocky grin sent a pang of guilt through Mags' gut. Stealing his most prized possession wasn't the kindest favor she'd done the man. I'll return it in one piece, she swore. And I'll give him something nice and shiny to go with it. Marek made us practically rich. I can buy Liam a trinket in Middlebrook that'll help with his Class.

Mags cleared her mind forcefully and shrugged her shoulders. Peering ahead, she scanned the shadows between the ash trees. Nothing was about, yet she shouldn't be overconfident. The tall grass in the grove could easily conceal a boar or mountain cat. As Cinnabar came within twenty strides of the ash grove, Mags dismounted. She nocked an arrow and clicked her tongue. "Follow me, girl," she whispered. "Let's go nice and slow.”

She crept into the wood on silent feet. The dense growth subdued the sound of the rapids nearby, and she felt calmed by the quiet space. Sunlight filtered down through the leaves, painting her face green.

Mags kept her eyes fixed to the game trail. Every now and then she stopped, took a good look around, and listened for any sounds of movement. Ahead, one of the ash trees had fallen, partially blocking the path. She reached back and took Cinnabar's harness, intending to lead the horse around through the brush. Before she'd taken another step, however, she hesitated. A great uneasiness settled over her shoulders and neck.

The wood was quiet. There should be birds or squirrels or something flitting about so near the water. Something’s wrong.

She released the horse and placed a hand on her bowstring. Turning on her heel, her eye picked up on a flicker of movement. There, in the deep shadow behind a holly bush, she'd seen… something.

A twig snapped behind her. Spinning and lifting the bow automatically, Mags came face to face with a too-familiar creature that stood not twenty feet away. The scaled face, the circular yellow eyes under a ridged brow, the clawed hands that gripped a short bow—all were exactly as she'd remembered.

Mags moved and took aim. A flash of golden light surrounded the kobold’s bow. Then a twang broke the eerie silence.

The arrow moved too quickly to see, yet she felt it. It shoved her off balance before heat and a cascade of tingles poured down her left arm. Staggering, she looked down to see a short arrow jutting from the muscle of her left arm. Numbly, she wondered why it didn't hurt.

The arrow had passed through her upper arm and stopped halfway. Mags studied the wooden shaft as it pulsed with yellow light. A moment later, a gush of blood poured from the wound, and a spike of fear pressed against the bubble of calm that had surrounded her. The kobold was Classed, and she’d been hit with a bleed arrow.

Wonder what bird they killed for the fletching, she thought, her mind absorbed with minutiae. That's a beautiful blue, isn't it?

46

SANGUINE

The hollow clack of arrows jostling against one another thrust Mags back into the present. She was in danger. Her mind stilled and her body moved.

Taking one more step to her right, she drew and fired. Her arrow smacked against bone and hide armor. She blinked, drew another arrow, and raised her bow. Yet she needn’t fire. The kobold archer fell to its knees in the high grass, dropping its bow to clutch the arrow in its chest. The golden mana enveloping its hands faded. Then the creature collapsed.

A rustle of grass behind her warned Mags that the fight wasn’t over. She spun with bow already drawn. Where she’d seen movement earlier, now a kobold stood, armed with a javelin. It had snuck closer in her distraction and was just about to release its weapon. Cinnabar raised her front hooves to kick the creature in the face. The kobold hissed and dove to one side.

Just like that, it was gone from sight, though the faint rustle of leaves and grass could still be heard. Her arm and side were coated in a sheen of blood, and she could barely feel the wounded appendage now. She thanked the Old Gods she didn’t carry a longsword. One arm was about all she had at the moment.

Mags cursed and tossed down her bow. She’d once seen an archer die for refusing to do so. This wasn’t the space for careful aiming, not when she could be attacked from any angle. Mags had a feeling the kobold would soon be on her. In one fluid motion, she drew her shortsword.

Mags crouched at Cinnabar's side. Her heart pounded a steady cadence, so loud in her ears she could hear little else. A breeze shivered through the branches above, and the kobold made its move. It emerged from a bush nearby with javelin poised. The creature was terribly quick as it thrust at her leading leg. Mags countered rather than giving ground, shifting her footing and dipping her knee inward to avoid the blow. At the same time, Mags swung her shortsword down at the kobold's weapon. Steel found tempered wood, and a crack echoed in the ash grove. The kobold growled when the tip of its javelin fell away. The weapon had been compromised, which left her enemy fewer options.

True to its nature, the scaly monster didn’t so much as consider retreating. It drew a pair of bone daggers and leapt at Mags. She backstepped a little, dragging her lead foot. Then, in a graceful thrust, she pierced the kobold's throat with Liam's blade.

The vivid orange blood of the dying creature sprayed across Mags' arm and face. She continued to give ground to avoid being knocked down. Whipping her arm back, Mags withdrew her sword and stepped away from the kobold. It thrashed before her and shrieked. She must have narrowly missed its windpipe, though blood spurted rhythmically from the artery she’d opened. The kobold wouldn’t live much longer.

Stubbornly, it dropped one dagger and threw the other in Mags' direction. She easily dodged, but panic filled her when the kobold lifted a small horn dangling from a leather thong around its neck.

Mags thrust off her back leg and committed to a deep lunge. The horn blared. The throaty sound cut off a second later as her sword drove through the kobold's sternum. "Rift-born bastard!” she cursed. "Not good. This is not good."

Body beginning to tremble, Mags refused to let Marek down. She tore her sword from the corpse and sheathed it. It would make for a right mess later, but she didn’t have time to spare cleaning it. Cursing repeatedly, the woman found her discarded bow half a minute later.

She tried to grasp the saddle horn with her injured arm, and a spurt of blood poured from the wound. Her head swam. Mags clutched Cinnabar’s mane and breathed deeply. “You can do it,” she told herself. “Can’t pass out now.”

Her second attempt went a little smoother. After securing the bow to the saddle, she hefted herself up with one arm. Mags crouched to avoid the overhead branches and spurred Cinnabar. As soon as they were clear of the ash trees, she cried out, "Ha! Run, Cinny! As fast as you've ever run before!"

The pounding of hooves sent shockwaves of pain through Mags' body. She folded over the saddle and held on. Each time the horse lurched, a white flash filled her vision. For the first time in far too long, she prayed to Rhiley the Bold. The huntress god lent strength to brave souls in need. The pain had now gotten so intense that Mags wasn’t sure if she could remain conscious. She most certainly had a need for strength.

Horns rang out some distance behind her. Three? Or was that four? she thought as she raced back to Marek.

"Mags! Principalities, you're bleeding!"

Cinnabar had slowed, apparently, and Mags had the sense she'd fallen under for a moment. "I'm okay," she said, sitting up and looking back. "We have to go. Kobolds. Lots of 'em."

Marek’s face hardened in a way she’d seldom seen. With one hand on her leg, he gestured to the arrow. “I’m going to remove it. If we don’t patch you up, you won’t be able to ride—kobolds or not.”

“There isn’t time!” she protested.

Mags turned her head to look back, but everything started to spin. They were in a bad spot—that much was clear—and though she couldn't see them, Mags was certain the kobolds would attack at any moment.

"Hold still!" Marek snapped. "I'm going to snap off the fletching and pull it through, okay?"

"I'll just bleed after."

Her friend groaned, his eyes filled with worry and impatience. "You're already bleeding! Now, shut up and hold still!"

A splash of pain shot down Mags' shoulder and into her armpit. She heard herself cry out, and again, the darkness threatened to swallow her whole. Someone slapped her cheek, and then she was staring into Marek's copper eyes. "You hit me!"

“I did. Drink this, Magpie. Hurry and drink the potion so we can get moving!" She reached out a trembling hand, but Marek ignored it. He grabbed her rudely by the jaw and shoved her head back. "Open up and drink it all, okay?”

A cool liquid dripped into her mouth. It was thick and bitter, but an overpowering sweetness followed. Mags gasped, her throat seizing. Her eyes widened as she was overcome by a cascade of sensations. It felt like a dozen fiery rivers were carving their way through her body. Pain and relief blended seamlessly.

Suddenly, her vision was clear. Horns echoed off the far hills. The pain in her arm was gone and so was the arrow. No longer confused, she saw Marek standing before her, observing every movement.

“Are you okay?”

Mutely, she nodded.

The mage sighed and dashed away. Mags finally had the courage to glance back again. Her heart skipped a beat when she spotted not a few, but at least a dozen kobolds emerging from the ash trees a half-mile away. The monsters were quick on their feet but no match for a horse or even a mule. The problem was, some of the kobolds weren't on foot. Several rode on the backs of massive boars, two on each mount. The pigs were hard to train, or so she’d heard. Only the strongest tribes could tame them. This, combined with the knowledge she’d fought a Classed kobold, told her they were facing hard opponents.

Mags fumbled at her waist and thankfully found her quiver where it should be. She plucked three arrows from the bunch and rolled her left shoulder. The joint popped and then moved smoothly. Her hand still tingled a little, but the agony had vanished along with the stiffness.

They needed to get moving—and quick. If only we could cross! Those boars are fast, and they don't tire easily, she thought. We'll need to hope for a better place to ford downstream.

Marek surprised Mags for the second time that day. The young man, taller and more confident than when they'd set out, shouted, “Be still, damn you! Calm down or you’ll be butchered as well!” Somehow, he’d mounted the gelding! The horse pranced sideways, angry at its rider's presence. When Marek settled the beast, he cried, “You lead Lydia, and I'll pray he doesn't buck me off midstream! Let's go!"

She spurred Cinnabar over the crest of the riverbank, catching Lydia's lead as Marek tossed it. The gelding splashed into the swift waters, hooves knocking boulders loose with every step. Then Mags felt the bite of icy water as Cinnabar waded into the River Layton.

47

THE KOBOLD RACE

Miracle upon miracle occurred in the following minutes.

Marek wasn’t thrown from the gelding’s back, Mags and Cinnabar managed to coax the stubborn mule into crossing, and Lydia didn’t drown. The last of these was a close thing. The poor girl turned a hoof midway through the river and slipped. Head splashing under, she bobbed up four feet downstream, braying like she’d been betrayed by the laws of nature themselves.

Best of all, the kobolds didn’t give chase. Apparently, the short-legged boars weren’t such good swimmers. More likely the kobolds themselves might get swept off, Mags concluded. Doesn’t mean they won’t find another place to cross.

Trudging up on the opposite bank, shivering and wet, the animals took a bit of encouragement to keep moving. Even Cinnabar seemed hesitant to obey.

“What’s wrong with them?” Mags asked. “The water wasn’t that cold. They should be fine to run.”

“I think that might have something to do with it,” Marek said. He pointed to the northwest in the direction of Middlebrook. Smoke rose in several places. Only then could Mags smell it for herself.

She leaned over her saddle and stroked Cinnabar behind her ear. “Everything’s gonna be okay, girl. We can’t stop here, though. Enemies behind and more that way. We’ll be safe if we get to the road.”

Mags wasn’t the type to think horses could understand common speech. She did believe them intelligent enough to glean tone and intention, however. She soothed the animal for a full minute before rising up in her saddle and taking the reins firmly. “Ha!” She dug her heels into Cinnabar’s flanks, harder than she’d done before.

The mare responded, driving up the hillside, and Lydia followed her example. Mags heard Marek cursing, but eventually the gelding caught up. A few minutes later, the group was moving at a slow canter across an open field.

The trail was no longer distinguishable, so Mags led them directly away from the kobold riders. In her experience, the creatures rarely gave up a hunt once they’d committed. One of her sergeants had told her kobolds were surprisingly docile most of the time. Their society survived on the fruits gathered from raiding, however, so every once in a while, they'd stoke their blood and wreak havoc on anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path.

As they rode, Mags kept an eye on the party as best she could. Marek and the gelding were keeping up easily; in fact, she was pretty sure her companion's horse could easily outstrip Cinnabar. Lydia, though... blast it, she's not doing well. Come on, girl, hold out a bit longer. A few more miles. The mule's limp was worsening. Nothing looked terribly amiss, but Mags suspected the turned hoof was sprained, or else the hoof itself had been injured. It was common for a mount to bruise the tender sole if they stepped on something sharp. Nothing to do about it now. All we have to do is keep ahead of the kobolds and we'll be fine.

Mags spurred Cinnabar again, increasing their pace slightly. Soon, they came to the culmination of the field. The trail could be seen again, veering left to the northwest. That would lead to Middlebrook. The sky in that direction was filled with dark smoke. In the other direction, a valley sloped down to the northeast. It wasn't a proper trail, but the terrain was comparable.

Mags reined Cinnabar in and called to Marek. "Toward Middlebrook and whatever's happening there? Or the Quartz Road? My vote is for the latter."

"Don't have to convince me. There has to be shelter in the city, but we’d ride up on the backside of the raiders. Rock and a hard place.” Marek nodded to the valley. "If we can reach the road, we'll be able to head in either direction, and we might even come across another party.”

A pair of warbling horns shattered any sense of peace they'd found since crossing the Layton. Mags stood in her stirrups and spotted no less than four boar mounts charging after the group. She didn't waste any time in guiding Cinnabar down the valley.

Mags drew three arrows from her quiver, laying one on the string and clutching the other two in her grip. Finding their pace again, Mags prayed Lydia could manage to keep up as she drove the group faster still. A slow gallop was fast enough to at least make the chase last a good deal longer. The mule carried the majority of their gear, so leaving her behind would be a disaster. And though Lydia was a proper pain in the ass, Mags had taken to the creature.

With the goal of keeping all alive, Mags worked out a decent plan. She waved at Marek and gestured her intention, then fell alongside the left flank of the pack mule, Marek taking the right. The valley was wide enough to accommodate them all, and she hoped the formation might prevent the raiders from flanking them. Besides, they had two bows. She was the better shot, but it made sense to allow both her and Marek line of sight.

A few short minutes later, her theories were put to the test.

Three pairs of raiders drove at their heels while the fourth held back. Mags waited till they came within range. Glad my bow's better than yours, she thought as she took aim. Cinnabar hit a dip in the terrain the moment she loosed, and the arrow flew high. Mags had another on the string in the span of a single breath. She drew and released on the exhale. Her second shot struck a kobold in the shoulder. The creature hunched over but didn't fall off.

A glance at Marek eased one of her fears. He'd only taken five arrows from her quiver, and wisely was waiting till the enemy was close enough to spit at. Marek could hit a target at fifty paces, but only just, and doing so while riding made the task nearly impossible.

Mags drew again and waited for the right moment. Your aim is still high. Hit the damn pig, why don't you? That'll work as good or better. Shifting her tactics, Mags fired at the closest boar. Her shot fell true, and the arrow sank into the shoulder of the big mount. The beast squealed and stumbled. In a flurry of movement, it rolled, crushing both riders. Tough as an ox, the boar got up and limped around its fallen masters.

Before she could celebrate, the inevitable happened. Coming within fifty feet, the kobolds returned fire. The creatures seated to the front kept hold of the boar's reins while those in the back stood up precariously with bows drawn. Mags turned Cinnabar to the left, swerving in anticipation of the incoming arrow. Her efforts paid off—after a fashion. She grunted as a rib cracked near her right shoulder. Mags cursed her luck for being hit twice in one day, yet her injury was more painful than disabling. Had she not turned, the shot would have hit her square in the spine.

A startled whinny drew her attention. The gelding had taken an arrow in its haunch. Apparently, the kobolds had the same idea she’d gotten. Thankfully, the angle was off, and she doubted the arrow had hit the horse's joint.

As it was, Marek struggled to contain the horse. It sped off ahead of the group, panicked and galloping with a chaotic rhythm, its hind leg hitching with each stride.

Mags fired at the archer taking aim at Cinnabar, and though she missed, so did the kobold. Just a bit longer. We're almost at the end of the valley. We've got this! Mags took aim at another boar, hopeful she could repeat her previous success. Her arrow flew a second before the kobold archer’s. It pounded into the head of the boar, and she nearly shouted for joy. The pig only wavered slightly, however, and kept on its path. Even so, this threw off its rider's aim and spared Cinnabar from another grievous injury. The mare only flinched as the arrow cut a groove across her ribs.

A twang from the opposite side of the group told Mags that her mage was back in the fight. His shot went wide, but it served to slow the rider directly behind the gelding. Marek drew again and fired. This time, his aim was better. The kobold archer tumbled off the back of its mount and didn't rise again.

That left three boars, one without an archer, and two still trying their best to target Cinnabar and the gelding. The valley ended in only a half-mile. They'd ride into a cluster of trees that, if Mags guessed correctly, would quickly open up onto the Quartz Road. Behind them, the kobolds performed an admirable maneuver that impressed Mags as much as it frightened her. The solitary rider pulled left, leaving an opening for the rear boar to catch up. In moments, there would be two kobolds in range once more.

Mags nocked an arrow and prayed to Rhiley that her aim be true. She loosed, and the mount directly behind her squealed. Rather than falling, the creature lurched sideways, crashing into its fellow as it came up along the side. Both boars were thrown off course, however. The kobold archer behind Mags fired one last time, but she ducked beneath it. The arrow hissed over her head, and Mags whooped as their pursuers fell behind.

She faced the trees ahead and slowed Cinnabar. “This is gonna get messy,” she muttered under her breath. The trees grew far too close together to allow for easy passage. Thankfully, Cinnabar found a game trail, and seconds later they drove into the forest.

Trail or no, the going was rough. Mags winced as a branch scored a deep cut across her cheek. Her mount flinched when another snapped on the horse's shoulder. Another slammed into Mags' thigh, just above the knee, and she yelped in pain. Shattered wood jutted from her leg and blood saturated her trousers.

And then they were out. The shadows of the woods gave way to bright sunshine. Cinnabar's hooves clattered on hardpan, and Mags blinked in surprise to find they'd done it. "The Quartz Road!" she shouted. "Marek, this is it!"

The man smiled despite blood dripping into one eye. He'd fared nearly as badly as she in the trees, it seemed. Marek pointed to the west. "Look! A caravan! If we can reach them, we'll be safe!"

One more race, another short sprint until they'd be among fellow humans. As much as they'd tried to avoid strangers, in a kobold raid, anyone human was an ally. Mags turned Cinnabar, and they were off again. Less than a mile, and they'd make it. A circle of wagons surrounded by people—that would be their destination. Even at this distance, Mags could see the caravan was holding up well. They likely had hired guards among them, and with numbers on their side, the kobolds would be no match.

Lydia hobbled behind her. Marek took up the rear. Mags bit her lip as they trudged down the Quartz Road. As much pain as she was in, she couldn’t help but feel elated.

A blur to her left startled Mags. A bush opening up like a mouth and vomiting a boar bearing two kobolds. The sudden reappearance of the enemy nearly stopped Mags' heart. There was no time to react or take aim.

The boar crashed into Cinnabar's front legs, and the horse pitched forward. Then Mags was sailing through the air.

48

STAUNCH REFUSAL

"Mags!" The word came tumbling out harsh and desperate, as if it might drag out Marek’s guts along with it. He couldn’t believe what had befallen his friend. One minute, the mare had been moving at a good clip bearing Mags to safety—the next, a kobold-covered boar had hurtled out from the tree line and collided with the horse.

Before Marek could so much as cry out a warning, the horse fell, and Marigold Strongtower went hurtling down the road. Watching her slim frame crash against packed dirt and gravel brought to mind the first time he’d seen Mags take a hit. She’d been six years old and fearless. Isaac had foolishly pegged her as an easy mark. Who’d think such a little kid could have spine? Yet she’d punched the bastard in the nose after he’d shoved her. Isaac had bloodied her good after, yet the experience did nothing to blunt her ire.

Since then, the girl had fought a number of people, mostly boys, and all bigger than she. Mags hated a bully, and because she'd been born with implacable morality, she hadn’t once backed down from a fight.

None of the beatings she'd taken could have prepared Marek for the sight of his childhood friend thrown from horseback and battered to a pulp. In the span of one horrifying second, her tunic ripped, soaked through with blood, and she lay limp in a messy pile in the middle of the Quartz Road.

Marek’s ears pounded. The world took on a strange haze. He didn't know if it was his impending madness calling, or if this was a simple response to their situation. Marek stopped thinking, stopped caring. He would not let his friend die.

A crash of branches announced a second boar as it thundered down the hillside. The rider veered toward Marek and the gelding. Marek yanked on the reins, pulling the mount's head back and to the right. Such an aggressive and sudden maneuver was risky at best, but he didn't have time to analyze or Intuit his way through this. The gelding staggered before spinning right and kicking at the incoming boar. Marek lost sight of the enemy but still heard the wet smack of hoof on flesh.

The gelding finished its turn. Marek watched the great boar slide across the dirt road, leaving a swatch of dark blood behind it. One of the kobolds flew from its saddle and smacked its face into the ground. He doubted the monster would rise again. Its fellow rider proved more resourceful. The kobold performed a nimble roll and was on its clawed feet far too quickly for Marek's liking. It glared up at him with yellow eyes filled with rage. Then, to Marek's horror, it turned to join its fellows down the road. All three were on foot and surrounding the bloody lump in the road that was Magpie.

Marek drove his heels into the gelding’s flanks. A storm rumbled in his chest—not the icy cold of ether, but an intense rage. His horse galloped toward the kobolds, picking up speed until he was nearly upon them.

He leapt from the horse's back and triggered Spirit Body. The armor clicked into place while he soared through the air. Then Marek drove his knee into one of the kobold's backs. Bone cracked, and the unlucky creature spat out a stream of blood when Marek's full weight crushed ribcage and lungs. He drew the black sword and charged the second kobold.

This one managed to aim a bow at his face. Marek dodged to one side and lunged. The arrow clanged off the side of his helm harmlessly as the dark blade pierced the kobold's skull like a melon.

The final monster stood ten feet away with a small axe in one hand and a buckler in the other. It pivoted fluidly, turning the shield toward him to provide a bit of defense while it hefted its axe above the fallen rider. The cursed thing is still trying to kill Mags! Damn you! He couldn't reach the kobold in time, so he hurled the greatsword with all his might. Few would be foolish enough to discard their main weapon—and thus, the action surprised the kobold enough to stay its hand. With admirable skill, the kobold deflected the sword before hissing a string of harsh words. Marek suspected they were a curse or threat. In the end, it didn’t matter.

While most fighters relied on their weapons, he had other resources. Marek poured as much ether as he could invest into his spectral armor. A second later, he drove his shoulder against the buckler. The creature shrieked as its feet left the ground. It crashed and rolled across the road before rising again. The kobold still held its axe, but not the shield.

Marek flew at the creature. When it swung its axe, Marek caught the weapon on his forearm and grasped the kobold’s skinny neck. Clamping down with all his might, he yanked the monster closer before driving his head into its face. Blood and bits of teeth slid down the invisible plate of his helm. The kobold might very well have been dead, but the mage had little reason to take chances. He twisted and slammed the kobold against the hardpan road. Growling like a feral dog, he swung his elbow down in an arc and crushed the monster’s skull.

Orange blood dripped down the visor of his invisible armor. A mess lay underneath him. Scales, bone, and flesh crushed to a pulp. He might have vomited if his stomach was full.

The grind of gravel under foot warned him he couldn’t yet rest. Marek rolled to one side just in time to avoid death. A large warhammer, glittering stone fixed to a wooden handle, pounded into the road. An explosion threw him further, and dirt pelted the side of his body. The plate covering his thigh shattered.

He twisted and tried to get up, but whatever was attacking him was determined. The head of the hammer rose and fell once more. For a second, Marek recalled Tregan and the terrible mace the bandit had borne. He backed away in a crab crawl, narrowly avoiding another blow.

That was when he saw the face of his attacker. Twisted and enormous for its race, the kobold shrieked in outrage. Marek swept his gauntleted hand across the road, spraying its eyes with dirt. This bought him enough time to stand. He hadn’t a clue where his sword was, however, and the kobold recovered too quickly.

It swung the hammer sideways. Again, the head lit up with mana. Marek didn’t think he could avoid it this time, so he pivoted and kicked the long handle. The blast shattered his leg plate instantly, and he winced in pain. Lacerations spread down his right leg. Nothing was broken, however, except the oversized weapon.

The kobold stood only five and a half feet tall, but it was thickly built. The creature hissed and tackled him to the ground. In half a second, it freed a dagger from its belt and swung down with impressive strength. Marek caught the kobold’s arm. Staring up at the trembling knife point, he threw a punch with his opposite hand. His own arm was blocked, and the two opponents were locked in a stalemate.

Then Marek remembered a weapon he’d thus far neglected. He hadn’t come close to mastering it yet, but he didn’t need much. Focusing his will, Marek tapped into the Ability. A tiny spike forged of his own soul punched through his palm and into the kobold’s forearm. The monster shrieked, its yellow eyes widening at the sudden pain. With a split second to act, Marek caught the dagger as it fell and drove it into the side of the kobold’s skull.

Panting, Marek shoved the monster off and sat up to get his bearings. The enemy lay dead on all sides. The final boar had abandoned its dead masters to run back into the woods.

In the distance, the caravan continued to fight with a handful of raiders. He could detect no other danger nearby.

“Thank Tenacity,” he said before realizing the irony of his words.

The mage nodded, feeling he’d been right to give praise to the Principality that had given him such power. Without it, we’d already be dead. Then again, without them, neither of us would be in this mess. A terrible sound drew him back to the present.

Mags was attempting to speak. She tried again, and this time he understood. "Marek," she rasped. His eyes found the battered form nearby. She looked a proper mess, yet he was relieved to see her sitting up on her own.

Her clothes were torn. A dozen or more scrapes mottled her arms and legs, all raw and bleeding. The arrow that had struck her back was gone, but a large patch of her tunic was soaked in blood. None of these details alarmed him as much as the terror in her eyes.

He ran to her side and knelt. "Are you okay, Mags?"

"Gods, Marek…” she croaked. “What have you become?" Then her eyes lost focus and her head swooned to the side.

He scooped the woman into his arms and, with a force of will, swallowed the bile rising in his throat. It wasn’t time to dwell on what had just changed between him and Marigold. They’d work it out once they were safe.

“Gather the animals,” he told himself. “Get Mags on a saddle. Ride to the caravan.”

He found Cinnabar close by. The mare had been bloodied too, and she kept lifting her front-left hoof like it was giving her trouble. “Good enough,” he said and rushed to the mare’s side. She shied away from him, but thankfully Mags came to again and reached out a hand.

“It’s okay, Cinny. Keep calm!”

Every second felt like an hour, but eventually Marek got Mags into the saddle. He recovered his greatsword and wiped its dark blade clean before sheathing it. Then he ran to the gelding. When the horse spooked, Marek realized he still had Spirit Body active. Can he see the armor? he wondered. Logic crept in a moment later. He can see the blood coating it, at least. Wake up, Marek, and get moving.

Marek released the Skill, and orange gore spattered the ground around him. The gelding allowed him to mount, and soon he and Mags were closing in on the caravan.

Lydia had bolted down the road, but they’d overtaken her. All that remained was to reach the safety of the caravanners. The dregs of a battle raged ahead. Several men with spears kept three raiders at bay. Their boar mounts bled from dozens of wounds, and still they continued to harass the men.

Marek cursed. He didn’t want to use his powers in front of these strangers. Mags was in no condition to fight, however, so he took her bow and a few arrows. He fired at the kobolds’ backs a few times. One landed true, and the raider crashed to the ground. The boar it was riding died soon after with a spear through the chest. The other raiders wheeled around and charged Marek. He fumbled with another arrow, and was just about to lead the kobolds away from Mags when a figure emerged from the defenders. A stout man in bronze scale armor wielding a polearm Marek had never seen threw himself at the raiders. Distracted as they were, neither saw their deaths coming.

Both lost their heads in a matter of seconds.

The man ran up to Marek and waved toward the caravan. “Quick, inside!”

Marek detected the trace of a Basari accent, and the stranger’s dusky features were worn with travel. It was hard to trust someone he knew nothing about, yet he wasted no time in considering it. “My friend,” he said. “Help her first.”

The man nodded and took Cinnabar’s harness. Then he shouted to the others to part, and they made space for Lydia and the horses to enter. Within a wide ring of wagons, a throng of solemn travelers huddled. Most were human, yet Marek spotted a few Haikini and, interestingly, the bulky figure of a golemite.

Marek slid off the gelding’s back and met the stranger at Cinnabar’s flank. “Mags!” he shouted as he squeezed the woman’s leg. “Mags, stay with us! We’re safe now!”

His friend’s gray eyes opened. She was in a bad way; that much was apparent. Her bottom lip had split, causing blood to stain her white teeth. Confused, she blinked lazily before gathering her wits. “We are?”

Marek was about to reply, but the stranger beat him to it. “Aye, ma’am,” the man said as he reached up and grasped Mags around the waist. He hauled her from the saddle and turned, allowing her feet to reach the ground. “You’re as safe as can be.”

She blinked at the Basari holding her upright, noticing him for the first time then. Eyes wide and mouth parted, she seemed at a loss for words. Finally, the woman sighed before muttering, “Oh, well, that’s nice to hear.” Then, unceremoniously, she lost consciousness once more.

49

AN ODD INVITATION

A large fire blazed in the center of the ring of wagons. Marek lost himself in the roiling flames after finishing the warm meal he'd generously been given. After being allowed in, he didn’t expect much of anything from these strangers. He’d quickly learned most of the people bound in this strange alliance hadn’t been acquainted before the raid. Several groups had simply joined into one out of necessity.

The raid had ended hours ago. Every kobold lay cold and dead or had ridden off with whatever spoils they could carry. Despite this good news, the leader of the caravan refused to break up their defensive ring until morning. The old man was staunch in his efforts to protect those in his care. Guards were posted, and the bonfire stoked to burn away the shadows that might conceal a stray band of kobolds.

Warmth and company and a generous helping of stew eased Marek’s nerves greatly. Mags was in bad condition, though. Aside from gashes, cuts, and the arrow wound, Marek suspected the woman suffered from a head injury. Those were scary, for someone could seem to be in good health only to perish unexpectedly. She sat beside him, prodding a chunk of meat at the bottom of her bowl dubiously.

"You can do it," he encouraged with a smile. "Finish it, and you'll be thankful tomorrow."

Mags curled up the corner of her lip like a dog snarling. Though her eyes had cleared, the woman’s pallor remained troubling. She was Ardean in every sense, so her skin was as fair as it came. Despite her lack of tact, most considered the woman beautiful, though not at all in a delicate sense of the word. Right now, though, her cheeks had a yellowish-gray tint that made her seem on the verge of passing out or vomiting at any time.

"If I toss it up, I'm gonna do so on your lap, Marek."

Still, Mags finished her stew and groaned. She dropped the bowl, then slumped against Marek's thigh.

He brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Good job, Strongtower. Rest a bit now, but remember..."

"Aye, how could I forget? Why would I want to sleep anyway? It's a right pleasure to stay up all night after being ground to bits on the Quartz Road."

Marek sighed. There was nothing he could say that would help, so he offered his lap and promised himself to remain alert so that she didn't drift off. Inwardly, he cursed their luck. Blasted kobolds hit us hard when we least expected it. Why did Mags have to take the brunt of it?

He’d been tempted to give her another potion. The cost was too steep, though, and drinking two in a short span of time could be dangerous. Mana toxicity was a major cause of death in times of war. But damn, it's hard seeing her like this… he thought as he clenched his jaw. I have to advance my Class faster. If I gain a few more Soul Knight Skills, I'll be able to protect her.

In the end, he took solace in knowing he'd done all he could. Hours of hard work had followed the raid, Marek taking part throughout. He regretted not having had a chance to thank the valiant stranger, but as soon as the dust had settled, Marek had pulled out the Dilly’s Chalice he’d harvested along the journey. Two women—wives of the caravanners, he suspected—had already been at work making poultices, so he'd introduced himself and handed over the herb. He’d promptly made two new friends, and the women had added his herbs to their own medicinal stock, recruiting him to speed up the process. His efforts taught him many things, including how Dilly’s Chalice could be made more potent with the addition of Yellow Cedar Gum and Rye Thistle. After the poultice was finished, a large pot of Willow's Bark and Quickberry had been boiled until the water turned a vibrant red.

Finally, the impromptu healers had told Marek it was time to do the real work. Working with the women, Marek had treated over a dozen caravanners. He’d scrubbed out wounds with rags soaked in the strong tea, and the injured had been encouraged to drink a little as well. Afterward, they’d applied the poultice. Mags had enjoyed the greatest portion, for she was bloody from head to heel. Marek could even now smell the pungent aroma of the poultice wrapped around her ribs.

The kindly voice of Una cut through the fog occupying Marek's head. "Hello again, young man. Sorry to bother, dear, but I wanted to thank you again for the Dilly's Chalice. We don't see much this far north."

Marek greeted the older woman with a smile. Her face had been etched by sun and wind, her tawny skin highlighting the intense blue of her eyes. Una reminded him of Mags' Nana, who’d passed nearly a decade ago. "Please," he said, grasping her hand, “don't mention it. I'm grateful for everyone here. Some might not have opened up their line like that to let in strangers."

Una's sigh held a multitude of stories. "I wish that weren't true. It breaks my heart to see men and women treat each other like animals. It's one thing to compete—my husband and I have run our caravan for twenty-nine years, so believe me, I understand! Why some feel the need to cut their neighbor's throat for a bit more bread, though—that’s beyond my understanding.”

Marek knew the type well. There were the Isaacs of this world, men who were cruel because it made them feel big or because they were twisted enough to enjoy suffering. Then there were others that simply desired more. "Speaking of food, please tell Patricia we said thanks for the stew. Was that pork I tasted?"

Una chuckled. "We harvested five of those monsters the kobolds rode in on. If you stay on with us as we return to Swiftwall, you'll get your fill of pork." The woman leaned over and whispered, "That's the real reason I came to speak to you. Not sure what Classes you two have, but we're always in need of extra hands.” She raised a finger, perhaps reading his expression. “Let me finish! You two survived a nasty bit of fighting. You've fine horses and weapons as well. I won't ask you your business, young Marek, but if you're looking for a job as a caravan guard, keep old Una in mind, eh?"

"I will, thank you," he said, honored she’d consider him worthy of such a position. “I appreciate the offer, though we’re headed in the opposite direction.”

“Into Shirgrim?”

Marek sighed. “I know the dangers, Una. We’ll be careful.”

The old woman pressed her lips into a scowl. “I won’t waste my breath trying to convince a young man of anything he’s set his mind to. Do me a favor, though, and don’t travel alone. Most of these folk will be headed east again after doing business in Middlebrook. Yet a few still travel into the mountains, and those tend to be a tough sort.”

“Thank you,” Marek said. “I’ll keep that in mind. Oh, there’s something else I meant to ask you. Do you know anyone in Middlebrook that…”

“That what?” she asked, eyes askance. “Didn’t take you for the unsavory type, especially since you’re traveling with a wife.”

Marek’s cheeks burned. He shook his head in a hurry. “No! Not that! And Mags is my friend, not my wife!”

The person in question stirred, glaring at Una through one squinted eye. “Don’t be gross. Nobody would marry Bones over here. Ugh.”

Una chuckled, apparently amused by their reactions. Before anger took root, Marek said, “We recovered some goods along our way. Leave it to say that Ardea’s been relieved of a few bandits.” Una’s brows raised a full inch, but he continued, lowering his voice further as he spoke. “My actions were just, Una. Heard directly from their mouths they were murderers and worse, but still… I’m loath to draw undue attention. Do you know anyone in town that’s discreet and might know what to do?”

She folded her arms and studied his face for nearly a full minute. Finally satisfied, she nodded once and leaned close to his ear. “Mr. Shutterkeep. Only shop in the Merchant District with a purple door. Keeps a fat mouser that sleeps all day in the window. In case he doubts your intentions, tell him Una sent you, and that his cat’s name is Pickles.”

“Really? A cat named Pickles?”

Una chuckled and shrugged. “I’ve heard worse in my days.” The woman’s eyes flicked up, and her expression shifted rapidly. Guarded and uncomfortable, Una said, "Well, I'll be getting back to the cookfires. Keep an eye out for skewers of bacon. Should be coming around soon."

Marek froze when he felt a looming presence above him. He looked over his shoulder only to find a pillar of dark, glittering stone. “Rift take me!” he said, neck craning as he tried and failed to take in the golemite creature.

Mags gasped and sat up with a start, which prompted her to clutch her forehead and groan a second later.

Then the air vibrated with the deepest voice Marek had ever heard. “I pray to the Shard Fathers you never feel the Rift’s touch,” the golemite said. “Apologies for the fear my presence may have inspired. My heart is gentle, but we of the stone are not so small or soft as humans. Fear grows like salt crystals every time we speak to the other races."

Marek blinked a few times, but when the looming mountain didn't vanish, he stood to face the creature.

"There's a lot of you to be afraid of," Mags said. Unsurprisingly, she'd found her wits before Marek—even with a head injury. "Did you come to warm up by the fire?"

A sound like boulders churning under a waterfall emerged from the golemite. It seemed to resonate from its entire body at once. "We born of the stone have no need of fire. We only burn for the beauty and to warm the small soft ones we bond with."

Mags nudged Marek in the side of his leg. "I think that was a laugh," she muttered. "Imagine what he sounds like when he's angry?"

"I am not he, and I am not she," the golemite said stoically. "And I have not been angry in seventy-four years."

Mags snorted but cut off her laughter when it became obvious no joke had been made. She nudged Marek again and cleared her throat.

Marek shrugged awkwardly. "So, why did you come over? Just wanted some conversation?"

The creature took a step backwards. One enormous leg somehow managed to bend, and the golemite performed what could only loosely be described as a bow. With its head closer to the ground, its enormous eyes were suddenly more present and imposing. Each larger than a man’s head, they shone with an inner glow, the glass-like surfaces reflecting the firelight.

The golemite people didn’t have a single body type. They were creatures of stone with two legs and two eyes, yet that was the extent of their uniformities. They ranged in size, in shape, and in the color and density of their rocky bodies. Some had one arm, or several, but this one had two. And like most, the golemite bowing before Marek lacked any semblance of a neck. Each leg was as thick as the trunk of a cedar, and three large fingers sprouted from each hand. Seemingly cut from a single dark gray stone, the creature baffled the eye when it moved.

Its mouth opened, and Marek couldn’t help but stare. Four large teeth rested along the roof of its mouth, wide and flat. “Ashurai spoke of the fight you had with the kobolds,” it said, the words startling Marek back to the present. “Most do not have eyes to see so far, but our Ashurai is exceptional. Will you come with me? Some in my camp wish to meet you, and we can help the little woman's head as well. It looks like someone dropped her.”

Marek stammered and glanced down at Mags. She shrugged, eyes widening with the universal don't look at me gesture. "We would be honored," he said, unsure he could deny such an offer. "Lead the way and we'll follow."

50

STRANGER STILL

The golemite stomped toward the far corner of the makeshift encampment. There wasn't far to go, and the creature stood at least ten feet tall, so it reached its destination in no more than seven steps. Then it plopped down abruptly, a cloud of dust billowing out around it. Three humans sat with the creature around a small fire of their own, and a large dog lay on the ground among them.

Marek helped Mags up and whispered in her ear, "He said that man saw me fight. Think that means..."

"That they know you're a monster like I do?" Mags’ smile faltered, and she elbowed him a moment later. “Oh, don’t be like that. It's fine, Bones. We're fine, okay? Quit looking at me like I'm going to leave you high and dry. Like it or not, you're stuck with me."

He sighed, and a bit of the tension he’d been holding onto eased. "Thanks for saying that. Anyway, I guess we should go say hi?"

Several of the caravanners watched them go, but the attention didn't last long. Before the pair reached the golemite and its friends, an elderly couple had taken their place by the bonfire.

Marek stopped a few feet from the group and waited to be addressed. The Basari man—Ashurai, Marek supposed—bowed his head. "Please, sit with us, and Niamh will heal the woman if she consents."

Mags looked around in confusion. Marek wasn't sure who this Niamh was, but he figured all would be revealed in due time. Nodding to Mags, he sat opposite the men. At a glance, Marek decided it was an odd bunch, not only for holding company with a golemite but because each was as odd as the last.

The Basari sat rigidly, the elaborate scales of his chest armor shining in the firelight. The clothes beneath the mail were dark in color, a deep gray or brown, and rather than the loose garb favored in Ardea, they wrapped tightly about his frame.

Marek supposed the man might have a handsome face—not that he was any expert—yet Ashurai’s expression was as hard and unreadable as a desert plain.

Beside him sat a cloaked man whose head bobbed side to side as if animated by unheard music. Every part of his body was clothed in bright reds, greens, and blues. No skin was visible, and were it not for a lack of breasts, Marek wouldn’t have known his sex. It was disconcerting, confronting a stranger so concealed. Even his face and hands were covered.

The third figure was that of an old man wearing faded brown robes. He held an elaborate walking stick in his lap, secured by thin fingers. He’d have passed as any other aged traveler were it not for a lingering smile on his tanned lips and the thin strip of cloth binding his eyes.

The golemite thrummed beside them. “Hmm, introductions are in order. I am called Gorb. Hamin wears the cloak and mask. Ashurai is the great warrior from Basar. Oh, and our panganid friend is Rushi.”

Mags smacked Marek across the chest so hard he nearly toppled over backwards. "Excuse me, what?" she blurted out. "Did you say panganid? That animal there is a panganid?"

Gorb vibrated the air with its uncanny laugh, and for half a second Ashurai, the man that had helped them, smiled. Just as quickly, the warrior grew solemn again. He nodded. "Yes, my Rushi is panganid. Many mistake her for a common dog, which is favorable. Her kind are revered by too many cultures for their scales and organs."

"That's horrible,” Mags said with a smirk. “Let me guess, some nonsense about gaining strength or reviving old men's pricks?"

Ashurai coughed and cast his dark eyes downward in obvious embarrassment. The old man seated beside him cackled in delight. "A heart of fire and a venomous tongue. Low-born empress indeed."

Mags frowned and checked her excitement. "What was that?"

Ashurai asked, "Do you wish to speak, wanderer?”

The old man batted the air before him. “Ah, but I gave up speaking years ago. Abominable waste of time."

Sighing, Ashurai met Mags' eyes again. "You have the right of it. Rushi is a treasure far surpassing the whims of men, so I keep her close.”

Marek watched his friend out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at the furry animal with desire, and he knew she'd soon want to pet the damn thing. Panganids were fierce creatures capable of felling a small bear, not to mention a human. Keep it together, Magpie, he wanted to say. We don't know these people. Hoping to maintain control of things, he directed the conversation toward a more favorable topic. "You mentioned a Niamh? I assume that’s this… wanderer’s name?”

Ashurai sat up a little straighter. “No. Unfortunately, the old one wished to keep his name to himself. Wanderer seems to serve just fine.”

“Fortune will find you in time, Ashurai,” the old man mumbled. “Patience and a pinch more flesh to sacrifice, and you’ll find it.”

Marek wasn’t sure what to say to that. The old man was quite obviously mad, and yet they treated him as if he’d been their companion for years. Brushing the mystery aside as irrelevant, he said, “Well I hate to be rude, but you mentioned a healing? My friend isn’t well. She suffered a head injury, and I’m concerned… May we meet this Niamh?”

Gorb rumbled in response. "Our Niamh does not wish to be seen. She's shy around so many humans. Please forgive her. She prepares to give this one a blessing of root, stem, and leaf, however. Does the woman welcome this blessing heart and soul?”

"I'm sorry, what?" Mags asked groggily. “Can’t you just say it straight?”

Marek sighed. Everyone present had an interesting way of speaking. Gorb talked like a scholar that lived three hundred years ago, Mags had the mouth of a soldier, and Ashurai acted far too formal. Then there's the old guy. Drops a few bizarre phrases and now he's asleep again? Repressing his frustration, Marek explained, “He's asking if you agree to be healed."

Mags closed her eyes and nodded once. "Oh, okay. Gotcha. Gorb’s an it, Marek, but my answer is yes. I'd be a Rift-born bastard to say no, wouldn't I?"

While Ashurai averted his gaze once more, Gorb shook the ground and made the tongues of flame dance with his laughter. Then a pinprick of light burst over Mags' head. A shower of pale blue sparks fell over the woman, whose eyes had gone wide in shock. Mana rippled up and down her arms.

Then Mags wrapped her arms about her shoulders. "It tickles!" she exclaimed, cursed a few times, then giggled again.

Marek’s instincts urged him to leave these people there and then. Everything felt at once familiar and comfortable, almost like he and Mags had known these people in a previous lifetime. That worried him to no end. These are strangers, he told himself. We thank them for the blessing and then move on as soon as we can. Mags and I didn't come here to make friends.

"I'm so glad we've found a few friends," Mags said. "Thank you so much. I feel... ugh, myself again." When she turned to Marek, he saw the truth of her words. The color had returned to her cheeks; in fact, a flush of vitality covered her face and arms. “Better, in fact! Wait... Marek, I think we talked about this, but I feel like I just woke up from a weird dream. How is Cinnabar? Is she okay?"

"She's with the caravan's farrier. Don't worry—I had a chance to talk to him briefly before we ate. Cinnabar will be fine. She strained a muscle in her neck, and she's going to have a few scars like you, but nothing time can't fix."

Mags blew out a breath of relief before eying the strangers suspiciously. "Okay, my memory is a little off. I remember your names, but I still don't know why we're here. What's going on?"

Good, Marek thought, relieved he wasn’t the only one hesitant to trust. I’d rather her be rude than scatter-brained. Whoever or whatever healed Mags did a good job of it. Now, if we can only figure out how to get away without revealing too much.

For the first time, the man named Hamin spoke. His head tilted to one side, but otherwise, he didn’t move an inch when he said, "Ashurai has a gifted eye. He saw a man and a woman riding horses, a pack mule at their back. Then he saw the boar that tripped your wife and horse."

"We're not married!" Mags snapped. "Eww! Why does everyone keep saying that?”

"Your... friendly companion," Hamin corrected.

Ashurai leaned closer to the fire. Picking up where Hamin ended, he said, “You fired a bow outside the caravan, fought a greater kobold single-handed and came out on top, and that greatsword you wear is a mystery unto itself. Even my blind friend can see you hide a great deal from the world.” The warrior's eyes burrowed into Marek’s. After an awkward silence, he added, "May I ask what Class you have received?"

Shit, now I have to lie, and I'm terrible at it. Half-truth? Maybe that'll work.

Mags surprised him by piping up. "Pretty sure it’s rude to ask about those kinds of details. Sure is in Ardea. Are things different in Basar?"

Ashurai inclined his head. Indignance exuded from every pore on the man's face, but when he answered, he did so calmly. "You have spoken true. I beg forgiveness if I have offended."

"We're not offended; we just prefer to keep our business private," Marek said. "We came to Middlebrook for trade, and to purchase a few things for my uncle's farm. Then we'll be on our way again. Our Classes, abilities, and personal information are our own."

"There is wisdom in discretion," Ashurai said calmly. "I can respect that. What I cannot say is whether or not I was the only one to witness your... actions. You fight with little skill but move with the speed and power of a Tai Lan monk." The warrior's gaze softened then, and the tension eased. "Take care to hide such power, Marek. The next stranger to take an interest in you is unlikely to be so benign.”

The old man opened one eye and chuckled. “Secrets may help, and they may hinder. The wise cicada knows when to chatter and when to speak in silence. May your ears know the difference!”

“Wow,” Mags muttered beside him. “And there he goes again.”

Gorb shifted one leg, and its great eyes found Marek’s. “My friends will not pry. It is late, and soon the humans will sleep. Do you and your companion wish to stay with us? I have little need for rest, at least not in the way of mankind. I will gladly watch over you.”

Marek stood, deciding he’d heard quite enough from these strangers. “No, thank you,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist. “I’ve promised Una we’ll stay with her family tonight. Good luck on your own journey, and thank you so much for healing my friend.”

Mags waved awkwardly, eyes searching the air above the fire. “What he said. Thank you, Niamh, wherever you are. I feel so much better.”

“That reminds me,” Marek said. “If you don’t mind waiting a bit, I’d like to pay you for your kindness. The cost of a healer can be expensive.” He hoped he hadn’t overlooked the obvious. Perhaps these people were only offering a service, and here he was about to leave without paying. “Is two silver enough?”

Ashurai stood abruptly. The warrior placed a hand on the pommel of his sword and pursed his lips. “Now it seems you are the one walking the line of etiquette.”

The panganid roused, lifting her head and licking Ashurai’s hand with a long, red tongue. Black and yellow scales covered the creature’s chest and ran down the length of her spine. More grew on her cheeks, forehead, and neck. Every part of the panganid not armored sprouted a vivid orange and red fur. Ashurai stroked his pet’s brow and left the campfire, then headed off with the creature in tow, passing between the caravan guards and disappearing into the night.

“None have asked for payment,” Gorb said kindly. “Niamh delights in your offer. Her kind care little for coin, though. Should you find anything pretty in town, she’d gladly accept.”

“Very well. Like I said before, thank you, and good luck on your travels.” Marek left with Mags at his side. They walked immediately to find Una and the two cots that had been offered. “I’ll keep first watch.”

“No need,” Mags said. “I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.”

Marek nodded. His back and hips ached from the day’s actions, and his eyes burned. “Fine. Wake me at midnight, though. We both need rest. We leave for Middlebrook at first light.”

51

ANOTHER ARDEAN TOWN

Marek glared at a stone bridge spanning the river. Beyond, he could see a discernible shift in the architecture of the buildings. More elaborate structures, more windows, and an abundance of paint denoted the entrance into the Merchant District. He huffed, unable to deny a growing sense of disappointment. "I thought it would be different somehow. Not sure what I expected, but we did travel quite a bit, and yet... it looks so much like home."

Mags laughed beside him, and a few crumbs spattered the front of his shirt. In a voice muffled by biscuits, she said, "It's probably the bridge."

"Well, of course it's the bridge. But the people are dressed the same, and... I don't know, other than the size, feels like just another Ardean town to me."

His friend wiped a streak of honey from her chin and shook her head. "Logic have mercy on your dumb, sheltered soul. Marek, this is just another Ardean town! Only Swiftwall can be called a proper city. Every other settlement in the north was seized by Casteras in the last war."

Marek's frown only deepened. "Good to know the Kaiteras legacy has done so much for our country."

Mags gave him a shove and plodded ahead, stuffing the last honeyed biscuit into her mouth. She grinned at a passerby, who scowled in return and shifted the pack on her shoulder. They’d only brought the items they wished to sell or trade, including the bag of stolen loot. The rest, they’d left in the room they’d be staying in at one of the town’s taverns.

"You've a gift for making friends," he said as he fell in line with the woman. "So well mannered."

Ignoring him, Mags brushed off her trousers and licked the fingers of her right hand obnoxiously. When she'd finished, she arched an eyebrow and asked, "So, you gonna tell me what fancy new abilities you got in that last fight?"

"I..." Marek tried before clearing his throat. "Haven't chosen any yet. How'd you know⁠—"

"At this point," she said, interrupting him, “I figure if you fart loud enough, you'll gain a level or two. And you did cut down a number of kobolds."

Marek grunted. “Only one was Classed. Don't think it's that big of a deal."

"Thank the Old Gods the kobolds rarely unlock Classes," Mags threw back. "Otherwise, we'd have been butchered by a barrage of Spells or attack Skills. Most might have been mundane, but every one of those kobs were veteran fighters... Marek, few soldiers kill so many in their entire careers!"

Marek stopped in his tracks and faced the woman with hands on hips. "Don't bullshit me. I only killed a few."

“Six!” Mags retorted. “Six of the bastards, which isn't a heroic feat, but four you took on alone and on foot. And I watched you wrestle with a greater kobold and beat it unarmed!”

He glanced to either side, not comfortable with the volume of her words. "I did level up," he admitted at last. "Three times. I'm Level 15 now, and for some reason, I gained two more Skill slots. So... yeah, I have a couple of choices to make."

Mags punched him in the arm, immediately deadening the nerve running to his palm. "That's what I'm talking about! You've got to quit doubting yourself. You're the…” She bit her lip, eyes shining with mischief. In a whisper, she finished. "You're the blasted Remnant Mage. If you're going to save all of Ardea, you'll need a lot more than a few levels. Now, tell me what choices you have so I can help guide you a bit."

"I don't need your guidance, Magpie," Marek shot back with exaggerated indignance.

"Right. Well, humor me then. Let's hear it, and we'll both put our heads together so you've got the best shot at not dying. Unless you plan on using that boring Skill of yours.”

“Intuit works best with concrete information. I doubt it would help much.”

When Marek offered no other objections, she dropped the sarcastic tone. "Listen, you did save my life. I'd have been cooked and eaten by now if it wasn't for your freaky powers. I want to help in any way I can. That's all."

Marek pursed his lips in thought. Then he took a step closer and asked, "You sure? I thought you were, I don't know, having a hard time with it all?"

Mags snorted. "I'm still jealous, if that's what you're after. Hells, I'm jealous of any asshat with a Class to their name. Doesn't mean I resent you for it. I'll either get one or I won't. In the meantime, the stronger you become, the better my odds of not being digested by a kobold.”

"Point taken." Marek wrapped an arm around the woman's shoulder and strode into the Merchant District. As they passed shop after shop, he told her the choices he'd been given. "Summon Familiar is the one I won't budge on. I'm terrified of it, not gonna lie, but what could be more versatile than a hungry little monster to call my own?"

"Not exactly subtle," Mags noted. "I take your point, though. You'll need to be careful when and how you use it. Seems like the perfect way to expose yourself."

"Yep, I agree. Anyway, with the last Skill Point, I'm torn between Wraith Step, Phantom Bolt, and Wailing Chains. The first is a movement Ability that grants instantaneous travel up to forty feet. It also stuns or even harms creatures I pass through while using it. Phantom Bolt is tempting ‘cause it's a ranged Ability, the only one I'd have other than fumbling with your old bow. Basic in a way, but I'll be able to blast stuff with ease, and it doesn’t cost much ether. Oh, it's also an evolvable Skill, which I think means I can choose various paths of progression when I reach certain thresholds."

Mags sighed. "You don't know much about any of this, huh?"

"No, I don't. Most everything feels like a guessing game at this point."

The woman pinched the top of his shoulder and gave him a little shake. "Ah, let's not worry about that. I mean, there's a Death Mage lurking about, you're in the process of going mad, and an entire kingdom is hunting you down. Who cares about a little ambiguity? Now, what about the third one?"

Marek chuckled. "You're a horrible person; you know that? Anyway, Wailing Chains is just bonkers. I can fling a pair of ghostly shackles on an enemy and bind it in place. The range is way shorter than Phantom Bolt, only fifteen feet, and it doesn't cause immediate damage, but over time, it leeches a portion of the target’s life energy back to me."

"Nasty!"

"Mmhmm."

Mags nodded as she considered the three options and finally gave her opinion. "Okay, well, it might feel awkward to use a bow, but you can do it. You killed a couple monsters and you haven't even practiced recently. Save the ranged Skill for later. And the chains are... well, creepy, disturbing, and downright incredible. From what you've told me previously, though, don't think you need much more ether unless we find ourselves in a real battle."

"Wraith Step?"

"Yessir. Movement abilities never sound as impressive as they really are. Most only speed up movement, and few cover much ground.” Solemnly, she added, “Forty feet is impressive, Marek. If you use it right, you'll be a proper murderer in no time."

Marek groaned. "Again, Mags, you reveal yourself to be utterly lacking in tact or principle. I was thinking Wraith Step as well. That settles it, then, and… would you look at that?"

"Purple door," Mags said. "Not much on the outside, but hey, it is positioned between Lysander's Linens and The Ship Charcuterie. It must be reputable!"

Marek blinked at the shop to the left of the purple door. Outlandish in the extreme, he was nearly overcome with a desire to investigate. "A nautical-themed charcuterie store. Think they sell boat-shaped cheese?"

"They better. If not, it’s just wasted potential.”

Marek drew in a lungful of air and eyed the purple door. The window of the shop had a slight haze to it, textured so prying eyes wouldn't be able to see into the depths of the store easily. Despite this, he found the cat he'd been told about. "Hello, Pickles," he said before grasping the knob and stepping inside.

The enormous cat pranced across the aisle before them, pausing just long enough to toss a slow and deliberate blink their way.

Then a disheveled gentleman emerged from a back room. "Hello there!" he called. "Up and about your business early, are you? What brings you to Middlebrook Miscellany?"

Marek cleared his throat. Only when Mags had shut the door behind him did he answer. "Una sent me," he said calmly. "She told me I'd appreciate meeting a Mr. Shutterkeep. Is that your name?"

The man's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Una, you say? I didn't know her caravan had arrived yet."

"Things have been chaotic since the raid," Marek said, hoping to win the man over with logic. The cat brushed up against his leg, reminding him of Una's words. "Hey there, Pickles. You're just as cute as she said."

The shopkeep barked out a laugh, the sound jarring in the small confines of his store. "If by cute you mean fat, maybe! Ah, very well. If Una trusted you with my name and that of my rotund familiar, I suppose I should trust you as well."

Shutterkeep scuttled toward them, his movements precise and calculated. Stopping a few feet away, he surveyed the two travelers at length. A smile crept up to his mouth, where it perched like a wary bird. He smoothed his wrinkled vest, sharp eyes sparkling. “Why don't you two come with me? Best speak of private things where prying ears can't reach us, eh? I'm sure you've much to discuss."

The shopkeep waddled past and out the front door. As he held it open for Marek and Mags, the cat slipped out ahead of them. With few options, they followed Mr. Shutterkeep up the street.

Proud and stepping lightly, Pickles accompanied them along the way.

52

KEEP YOUR STORY STRAIGHT

Halfway through the Merchant District, down five alleys, and across a shoddy rope bridge that hung low over the Layton River, the group arrived at a solitary home. Shutterkeep winked at Mags and Marek while he jangled an imposing set of keys. The man took his time unlocking the knob and three separate latches above. And though his actions were subtle, Marek caught Shutterkeep deactivating a sigil lock as well by tracing the tip of one finger across the hidden mechanism.

"Here we are!" the man announced as he flung open his door and stepped inside. Before Marek or Mags could enter, however, Shutterkeep stopped again to fastidiously clean his shoes on a bristled boot scraper. "Mind you do the same, now," he said with a tone reserved for those needing guidance. "Please, take no offense, I'm simply not accustomed to living like a mongrel. I swear, half my neighbors don't brush their teeth most days!"

Marek cleaned his boots and admired another piece of clever enchantment. He couldn't puzzle how, but every bit of mud that fell from his foot was drawn toward the center of the scraper, where it then fell into a trap below. Mags took her turn next, and only then were they allowed to truly enter Shutterkeep's home.

Mags whistled as she scanned the walls, which were cluttered with oddities. "Bet your neighbors don't squirrel away so much stuff either."

Marek elbowed her, but their host only laughed. "That they don't. They can't afford it, and even those that do lack the understanding to know which items are worth collecting and which are little more than junk. For instance!" He thrust a finger in the air, then reached one hand back and removed a small book from a shelf behind him. Three rapid clicks followed, and then something moved in the corner of Marek's vision.

He pivoted to find a crossbow emerging from the wall. Two more popped out nearby a second later, and a humming filled the air. "Hey! What do you think⁠—"

Shutterkeep interrupted with a high-pitched whistle. "Be still! You're not under attack, but I'll kill you on the spot if you don't answer a few questions!"

Mags growled beside him, arms raised but fists balled. "And here I thought you weren't a jerk."

"I'm not and I am, like anybody else, young lady... Now, as I was saying... For instance, my neighbors lack the wits to remember most folk can't be trusted, those that come with smiles on their faces even less. Tell me, what color are Una's eyes?"

Mags turned to Marek anxiously. He was the only one in the situation that had any power or means to defend against crossbow bolts. His intuition told him he could trust this man for some reason, but he didn't enjoy negotiating on such uneven footing. Reaching inward, he tried to activate Spirt Body. Neither his Skill nor his ether were accessible. A faint throb bloomed at the back of his head, and the humming seemed to intensify.

"Ah, so you're Classed! Won't help you right now, so I suggest you answer my questions and we can move on to more amiable discussions."

The muscle at the side of Marek's jaw twitched. He held onto his emotions and decided it would be best to comply. Besides, the question hadn't exactly been a riddle. Marek sighed and gave his answer. "Her eyes are the brightest blue you could find. Is that all?"

"What's the name of her husband, the man who runs the caravan?"

"I..." Marek tried, mind scraping about for an answer. "She didn't tell me," he said honestly. "Listen, we didn't travel with their caravan at all, not even a mile. The kobolds rolled in, we barely reached their caravan, and then I helped Una, Lianne, and Shespa make poultices to treat the wounded."

Shutterkeep's narrowed eyes relaxed a bit after Marek named the other women. He twisted a strand of his beard for a moment, looking at the fat feline lounging lazily in the middle of the room as if nothing at all were wrong. "Fine. Many could name Lianne, for she's well known, but Shespa is a shy one that keeps to herself. One more and I'll be satisfied."

"I'll have questions of my own after this," Mags said, her gaze steady and hard. "You treat everyone that comes to you with this courtesy?" She spat out the last word like a mouthful of vinegar.

Shutterkeep's demeanor didn't falter for an instant. "No, I don't, but once we're acquainted you'll understand my reasoning. You'll have my service and my apology once I learn the answer to a most intriguing riddle. How, young man, have you come to wear Leyan's dreadful sword?"

Marek tensed, and he cursed himself for bringing the weapon. The shortsword he’d left behind with the horses would have done little good in a real battle, but he should have been more cautious. He'd hoped the leather wrapping would help disguise the weapon, and he'd even covered the scabbard in cloth to conceal the filigree that adorned it.

"Answer now and answer quick," Shutterkeep said. "Leyan is a man of great reputation in certain circles. Are you in league with him and his ilk? And why did he part ways with his sword?"

Mags' anger faded a little, replaced by uneasiness. Marek tried to give her a reassuring smile, but his efforts were lackluster at best. If this man was a friend to Leyan, we're doomed. He didn't say as much, though. Only left his feelings ambiguous. Better play the cards I have and hope for the best. "Leyan was a bandit, as were his two companions. They robbed us and left us ill-equipped to survive, though I will credit the man that he did spare our lives. They were foul men regardless."

Shutterkeep inclined his head. "You didn't answer my questions."

"I killed them and took their horses, their weapons, and the stolen goods they'd horded."

The man betrayed only a hint of surprise, his head titling to one side ever so slightly. "I'd call you a liar if my array didn't tell me otherwise."

Marek frowned. "Your array?"

"I'm an Artificer. My specialty resides in the crafting of magical arrays that imbue spaces with a variety of effects. Some are used on battlefields—to deplete enemy casters of mana, for instance. The one you're standing in achieves two purposes. It blocks any Skills or Spells from being used, effectively silencing you, and it also relays information to me directly. I can detect a lie ten times out of ten."

Mags folded her arms and broke into the conversation. "You said you'd knock it off if he answered. He did, so I believe we've earned enough trust at this point to talk without having crossbows aimed at our Rift-blasted heads."

Mr. Shutterkeep chuckled, and Pickles the cat rolled over and exposed his round belly. The two were so at ease it irritated Marek to no end. Thankfully, the man didn't seem intent on playing with them.

He replaced the book. The humming ceased and the crossbows sagged from their holders. "I'll need to reset them manually before those will be tucked away again... in case the fiery one here thinks I'm not upholding my end of the bargain. Now, how about a little tea and cookies? I find conversation flows much smoother when it’s served with refreshments."

Turning on his heel, their host walked to another bookshelf and shoved at one side. It slid smoothly, making hardly a sound, and revealed a hidden door. "Come, follow me. If you've things to trade and acquire, you'll want to see my private selection."

Mags and Marek were left alone, dumbfounded. Surprisingly, Mags wasn't as angry as he'd supposed. She smiled and nodded her head toward the revealed entryway. "Bastard for pulling a slick one on us, but I'll be damned if he doesn't have style."

Marek couldn't argue with that. Led by the faithful Pickles, he and his friend followed after Shutterkeep. Down a short hall and a single flight of stairs, they entered a lavish basement. Fewer items were on display here, but they seemed finer somehow, and more purposefully arranged. "You've got a lot of tricks for a simple shopkeep," Marek said when he found the man sitting in an armchair, a pot of tea steaming on a table beside him.

"Ah, but I'm not a simple shopkeep, am I?" Shutterkeep chuckled and poured three cups before gesturing to a score of stools around him. "Sit! Sit! I'll tell you a bit about me, then you can tell me what exactly I can do for you."

Marek soon found the most frustrating thing about Mr. Shutterkeep was his unwavering composure. That and his apparent taste in fine tea.

"Damn, if this cup isn't spot on!" Mags chirped. "My Ma would kill for a pound of this. Let me guess, Basari Chai with a pinch of Chamomile?"

"Astute tongue you've got there!" Shutterkeep replied with a chuckle. "You missed the Fae Flower, but it's a subtle thing."

Marek cleared his throat, growing tired of the situation and preferring talk over tea. "Can we get to it? There are things we need to purchase in town, and we aren't long for Middlebrook."

The man shrugged. "Very well. My name is, of course, not Shutterkeep. It's not something you'll learn anytime soon, though. Shutterkeep is a title, a guise, and a passphrase. The townsfolk know me as Mr. Shuttersby, another alias. Those like Una have special privileges. She may be graying, but the woman has more dimensions than you might assume."

He sipped his tea, set the cup aside, and folded his hands in his lap. "I run Middlebrook's Thieves’ Guild. I prefer the term Reconnaissance and Reacquisition Guild, but it is what it is, eh?"

Mags choked on her tea and coughed a few times. "You're what? Marek, did he just say he's a blasted thief?"

Shutterkeep raised his hands, eyes bemused. "It's an honest job if undertaken by honest folk. Killing is wrong, but you don't see soldiers getting harassed for doing what is necessary, do you?"

"How is stealing necessary?" Marek threw back, not believing his ears.

"There's an old saying that answers that question perfectly. Gold begets gold, which of course means the wealthy have an easier time acquiring more wealth than those less fortunate. So, I steal from the right people, and in so doing, am able to support a broad network of support that would otherwise go unfunded."

Mags snorted. "Sounds like a pretty load of shit if you ask me."

"It really does," Marek added. "You want us to believe you're a good-guy robber?"

Shutterkeep smiled calmly. "Believe what you will; I was merely showing you my hand. Now, why are you here? Whatever you asked Una prompted her to send you my way, and she isn't a woman who makes brash decisions."

Marek looked to his companion. They used their long familiarity to communicate a few concise things. Mags' dead stare read as we seriously going to trust this asshole? Marek raised his brows a fraction of an inch, saying, do we have a choice? Finally, she rolled her eyes and faced Shutterkeep, drinking the rest of her tea in a swig.

Marek reached down and grabbed the pack she'd set beside her stool. Then he unloaded its contents methodically. Weapons, the enchanted chainmail, and finally the sack of gold, silver, and jewelry.

Their host scuttled closer and opened the sack, eyes lighting up with undisguised glee. "My, my! Our dear Leyan has been a busy man."

Marek stood and planted his hands on his hips. Despite his better judgment, he liked this strange man. Yet the reminder of the source of their riches brought him back to reality. “Even if we believe you that you’re some kind of noble bandit, Leyan wasn’t… In what capacity did you know him and his crew?”

53

THE LEGACY OF THIEVES

"Leyan hadn't been a good man for a long, long time. I only know a portion of his story, but it's a sad one in every sense." Shutterkeep dragged one of the stools closer and hunched over the gathered loot before continuing. "He was one of the original members of my guild, and once upon a time, Leyan held nothing but noble aspirations in his heart. He helped me forge a tiny empire in northern Ardea, and we thrived in the underground."

The guildmaster sighed and rested his head in his hands. Grinding at his temples with both palms, he took his time composing himself. "I'm afraid the last war broke him. He lost, well, everything imaginable. Love, relations, purpose, and eventually his conscience. In time, I learned to avoid his company. We parted ways officially, and in the last five years, Leyan and I became discreet enemies. He broke our code, and that is something I simply cannot forgive in any man, no matter how deep my affections may run."

Mags nudged a dagger on the floor with the toe of her boot. "Your code?"

"It's simple as can be. Never," he said sharply, “and I mean never, steal from those less fortunate than yourself. It defied the purpose of our guild. Anyhow, that's the long and short of it. Leyan was once a brother. Then he was broken. And over time, I learned to fear him."

Mr. Shutterkeep then raised his head. Unshed tears shone in his eyes, and a terrible resolve lurked in the man's gaze. "Marek, is it? How in the Coherent Realms did you manage to kill such a man? He fought like a Rift-wraith, and his men were strong as well."

Marek drew in breath to steel himself. Twice in less than a full day he was being asked about the source of his power. "I ambushed them and killed Leyan first. That was more or less luck and good timing. The other two weren't easy to kill, and I nearly failed. I managed it, though. That's all I'm willing to share."

"Fair," Shutterkeep said. "Thank you for laying my dear Leyan to rest. I resolved to kill him years ago, but the task wasn't easily done. I owe you a great deal... What are your plans, then? You've come to Middlebrook to cash in this bounty? Are you headed to Swiftwall with Una? Or will you travel to the capital in the far south?"

"We are headed into Shirgrim," Marek replied. "And again, that's all I'll share. I know the dangers: the warring tribes, kobolds and monsters, snowstorms and bandits. We are resolved."

The man wiped his eyes and smiled wearily. "The courage of youth never ceases to amaze me. I'll give you only a single piece of advice. Do not travel alone if you can avoid it. Wait for a caravan to cross the mountains and join them. No matter how strong you are, young man, or how lucky, the mountains will not abide such a small party crossing unhindered. They're old, hungry and bitter cold."

Mags nudged Marek and asked, "Have you heard of the golemite named Gorb and the caravan it travels with?"

Shutterkeep nodded, his shoulders softening. "Good folk, from what I've heard. Weird as riftlings, but honest. They make runs between Swiftwall and Domhan Morga, the holy place of the golemite peoples and the true seat of power in Shirgrim. Its capital is technically Faerest, but that city is both smaller and less secure. If Gorb would have you, take the offer. I could think of few parties more capable of surviving the passes."

All of this was valuable information, and Marek was glad he'd both trusted Una and listened to his gut in trusting Shutterkeep. He still held reservations about the concept of a noble thief, but he and Mags needed allies more than strict morals or more enemies. "Thank you. We'll heed your advice if possible. About this loot, though. Obviously, it would help Mags and I a great deal… but if these were heirlooms stolen from commoners, I don't think I could stomach it. Is there any way..."

Shutterkeep stood and clapped his hands. "Good hearts and steady wits! Little wonder why Una took a liking to you! Yes, yes, I can identify much of this, I'm sure. Give me a moment."

He pulled out what Marek took to be a pocket watch, attached to his belt by a long brass chain. Shutterkeep twisted the circular device, and it popped open. Not a pocket watch at all, but a monocle with a thick lens and thin frames to hold it in place, the item was astounding in its intricacy. "Gorgeous piece, is she not? One of my finest creations. I was given help by a prominent member of my guild, I must add. Even my Skills are limited."

The man they'd run into that morning was unique to say the least. His hygiene and mannerisms were precise and flawless. His clothes were rumpled, though, almost like he'd fallen asleep in them the night before. And now, faced with a task he obviously found interesting, his carefully assembled composure fell away completely. Mr. Shutterkeep knelt on the ground, face going slack as he adjusted the lens on his face. So absorbed and eager was the man that he reminded Marek of a child staring at a new toy. The first thing he touched was a necklace of gold and pearls, a large tiger's eye gemstone embedded as a centerpiece.

Shutterkeep held it for a moment before throwing back his head. "Serves you right, Baron Wimpledown! Who sends their wife and daughters along the Quartz Road dressed in finery? Practically gave this one away.”

He set the necklace aside before examining another. "Hmmm, I wonder." Turning the bracelet over, Shutterkeep giggled. "Yes, yes. Of course he should pay a visit to Shirbrook Manor. I'll bet half of this was nabbed from the old crone."

Again and again, the guildmaster examined items and moved them aside. Marek had attempted to do the same with Empath's Gaze, but since none of the items were properly enchanted, no information was given. That monocle of his must be priceless, especially to one of his vocation. Wonder what information it's giving him?

Unsurprisingly, Mags was the first to lose patience. "What are you doing? Can't you explain it while you work?"

Shutterkeep moaned, the sound trite and annoyed. "A minute longer. Patience, child."

So they waited, and sure enough, it didn't take the man long to finish. Most of the jewelry had been placed in a pile to his left, joined by much of the gold and the silver bars. A smaller pile of mixed coinage and less-valuable rings and pendants sat in the middle, while on his right, he’d organized the weapons and armor.

"These here," he said, hand hovering above the finest of the jewelry, “are easy to identify. Leyan lost his compass overall, but he still prioritized robbing the rich, even at the end. The payoff is simply too rewarding not to. Anyhow, my suggestion is to keep every single one of these, or else trade them to me. Most were taken from Shirbrook Manor, a rich estate on the outskirts of Swiftwall. The rest were stolen from carriages, the items lifted from noble ladies and gentlemen while they traipsed to a rival's estate for tea or some such."

Shutterkeep winked at Marek, his smile warm and genuine. "If you knew those they'd been taken from, you'd be as happy as I am. Your choice of what to do, however, I won't presume. All of this in the middle here," he said, returning his attention to the coins and smaller items of jewelry, "I get a bad feeling about. None show up in my monocle. They're not all worthless, but they're crudely made and the gemstones are less valuable. Unfortunately, I believe every bit of this was stolen from commoners like yourselves."

"And the rest? The weapons and the chainmail coat—those belonged to Leyan and his men?"

Their host nodded at Marek's question. "More or less. That sword you have on your hip is a mystery I can’t explain. Leyan showed up one day nearly ten years ago wearing it like it was his by right. I've done some digging myself but haven't learned who this dreaded Vorgaine was. Not sure I want to know, truly. Scorch Steel is rare in any part of the world, let alone so far from the Rift. The ore is mined only in the Unbound Realms, which of course hasn’t been accessible in quite some time thanks to the Rift.”

"What?" Mags and Marek spat out simultaneously.

"What, indeed," Shutterkeep said. "Anyhow, I can help you disguise the blade better than you have already. Not doing so invites trouble you're likely unprepared to deal with. The other weapons may or may not have been stolen but there's no way to tell. The chainmail certainly was taken. Leyan won it in a sanctioned duel from Prince Raithon himself, the fifth child of the late king. That's a story for another time. For now, would you hear my suggestions?"

Marek nodded, and the guildmaster found his seat again and removed the monocle. "Take the finery, the weapons, and the chainmail if it suits you. You killed a fiend, young Marek. For that alone, you should be handsomely rewarded. All that was taken from commoners, however, I would encourage you to return." He held up a hand to brook any interruptions. "It won't be possible to track down every farmhand and traveling merchant Leyan held up, but that's where I can be of service. Give it all to me, and I'll send it with Una. She's one of my liaisons responsible for relaying messages and distributing wealth among my thieves’ network."

Mags' frown could have wilted a rose. "And why should we support a network of bandits?"

"Thieves!” Shutterkeep corrected, matching her ire with equal intensity. "We're Classed, bound by a code of conduct, and commit no inhumane crimes. Why, you ask? Because our efforts support no less than three orphanages, five feeding houses, and the largest public mage school in northern Ardea, Swiftwall's very own Medica Magica. If you haven't heard of it, the school educates any willing to learn the healing arts and provides free healing to those in need."

Marek's eyes practically rolled at the mention of his school. "Medica Magica? Are you serious?"

"Deadly."

Mags blew out a long breath. "Sorry," she said, nodding solemnly, “this is a bit much to swallow, but you've been open and honest with us about a great many things. Still not sure I want to trust you with my boots and belt knife. Una and everyone with her saved my ass, though, and if she's with you, I'll shut up and calm down."

Shutterkeep chuckled warmly. "Please don't. Banter keeps the wits sharp, and you're gifted in that department. So, what will it be?"

"We'll take your suggestions under one condition. I'd like some of our share given to Una directly for the sole purpose of bolstering her caravan. They're good people, and like Mags said, we owe them."

The guildmaster nodded. "Done. Pleased we finished the boring part. More exciting is the bit where I either hand you a glittering pile of gold or..." He trailed off, eyes almost squinting shut in a devilish grin.

Mags took the bait. "Or?"

"Or you can choose a few choice items from my vault. I doubt you'd refuse upgrades to your equipment… or did I assume incorrectly?"

Marek let his eyes wander for the first time, spotting swords, spears, bows, and an assortment of armor alongside more commonplace items. He scratched his chin and felt a giddy delight rise in his belly. I might be slipping closer to madness every day, but I'll be damned if I won't enjoy the process. "Tell me, Mr. Shutterkeep—you wouldn't happen to have enchanted boots, armor, or anything else that might help in the mountains?"

54

PIE BEFORE PANIC

Marek drifted across town, dizzy from excitement. The woman chattering beside him fared no better. She practically hugged the prizes Shutterkeep had sold her. And though Marek had been present the entire time, she seemed compelled to remind him of every detail.

"Admit it! You love my new bow, don't you? Ugh, what a week! The bandit's was amazing, and I appreciate you going out of your way to kill a pack of thugs for me, but Principalities, Marek, just look at it! And the quiver too? I don't know which I like more. Do you think I should name them? Best get to it. If I don't give them names, I'll just jinx my luck. What do you think about Simon and Sally? Horrible! Sarah and Scottley... No, I'm coming at it all wrong."

He let her ramble. She’d almost died yesterday, and he'd be damned if he would do anything to quash her good mood. Besides, the bow Shutterkeep had sold her would make any Ranger green with envy. Not only did it have a similar weather-proofing enchantment, but a few small gems were set in both the upper and lower limbs. These had been crafted by a proper Gemsmith. They drank from the archer's mana to empower the draw, which allowed someone Mags' size to fire the heavy bow. Despite her being unclassed, she could utilize the enchantment, for all living beings had some degree of mana.

"I've got it!" she shouted. "Sinister and Silence! Ooh, it's so good!"

"I agree. Silence is the quiver, I take it?"

Mags giggled. "What a concept! My quiver dampens the sound of movement? It’s a nasty cheat, if you think about it."

Unable to resist, Marek was swept up in Mags’ enthusiasm. "What about the armor? Leather trousers and vests, proper bracers and chainmail shirts? The best part is how they were made to look like ordinary travel clothes."

"Ha! The best parts are the enchantments."

"True. Our trip up the mountains is going to be so much more comfortable now. When we come back through Middlebrook, we have to stop by Shutterkeep's again and thank him."

Mags spun in the street, drawing a few looks as she tested the nimble boots they'd both acquired. "He did make a small fortune," she reminded him. "I like the bastard too, but in the end, he's still a crook.”

Marek shook his head. "Sure, he probably earned a bit of coin, but he also took the burden of selling stolen goods. Anyway, calm down, woman. We're almost there."

His friend rolled her eyes, and they settled into a steady pace as they approached the Weary Wyvern. They'd already purchased a room and stored the rest of their gear that morning. Marek was grateful the inn had a back entrance. Even this early, townsfolk would be eating in the tavern. The upper floor was reserved for folks staying the night, and though the price had shocked Marek, their room came with a sturdy lock and two clean beds.

After unlocking the door and checking to see if their baggage was undisturbed, they piled up their armor, a handful of potions, and Mags' new bow and quiver along with the stack of mitrium arrow shafts Marek hoped to level his Sigilist Class enchanting. Finally, they tossed in the rolled-up tent Shutterkeep had given them for free. It was enchanted to block out all wind and rain, and it had a separate enchantment to increase the ambient heat within. The guildmaster had insisted it was an item they couldn't do without, should they get stuck in the mountains when winter struck.

"Let's get to it," Mags said, rubbing her belly. "Hope the food's as good as everyone says. I'm starved."

"You ate breakfast, half a pound of honey biscuits, a fistful of Shutterkeep’s cookies, and you're still hungry?"

"Strongtower blood. Can't help it. We're tough and beautiful people. You wouldn't understand."

Marek chuckled and stepped into the common room. He spotted a few of the caravanners eating at a table nearby and returned their wave.

The barkeep watched them closely but didn't speak until they'd taken a seat on the high stools. "Food or drink?"

"Both?" Mags ventured.

"Last night's stew for half a silver, or mutton pie for a full?"

Deciding he should enjoy some warm food while it was available, Marek said, "Two pies, please."

His friend elbowed him in the ribs. "Three, please! What do you have on tap? Anything good?"

The barkeep's heavy features brightened a little. "Well, then, woman after my own heart. We've a few reds and whites if it’s wine you're after. If you're honest folk, I'll mention we make the best stout to be found in Ardea. Strong and thick enough to stick a fork in."

Mags moaned indulgently. "Stout for me! Ugh, what a town. Misthearth ain't got a local stout! Have to pay outrageous prices for the crap they haul in from down south."

The barman leaned over the counter and held out his hand. "Name's Gerald. Nice to meet you, young lady. One Layton Stout for you, ma'am. What'll your husband be having?"

Marek sighed. “We’re not married. And I'll have some mulled wine if you have any. I feel a sore throat coming on."

Gerald shrugged and left them alone, returning soon after with the stout and their food. "Missus is warming the wine now. She's a nice touch with spices, so the wait'll be worth it. Now tell me, what are a couple of Misthearthers doing up our way?"

"We trade a little—herbs, mostly," Mags said. "My friend has an eye for medicinals, and I plod along behind him and make sure nothing mean eats him. We make a good team."

Gerald laughed, and the two chatted a bit while Marek ate. He never ceased to be amazed at how easily the Strongtowers lied. No doubt, Mags would insist she hadn't. Just a bit of fabrication, she'd say. Never hurts to have a bit of fun.

When he'd finished his pie, Marek brought up one of their final bits of business. "Mr. Shutterkeep told us you might need a trusty mule. We came north with one but purchased horses along the way. We're headed into hard country, and our Lydia should have an easier life than what she'll get if we drag her along with us."

"Shutterkeep, eh?" Gerald said skeptically. "I don't need no mule, but I know someone who does. Old Lady Hoster comes to town every day, and the beast that's been hauling her little carriage is downright haggard! She told me to keep an eye out for a trusty mount, but the woman doesn't have much in the way of coin. If you want a good profit, I suggest heading east to Swiftwall."

"Profit doesn't matter as much as finding a good home for Lydia. She's a stubborn thing, if a bit rude. After eating a pound of sugared honey, she's gotten sweeter. And she's plenty strong enough to pull, as long as it isn't a heavy load."

Gerald smiled and shook hands with Marek. He thanked them and promised Lydia would be well cared for. They settled on a price that was half of what he'd paid, but even so, Marek was happy to have found the mule a good home.

When the business was settled, Gerald brought Marek his mulled wine and gave them space to finish eating. Mags stuffed her face greedily while Marek closed his eyes and listened. They were in a new town, and eavesdropping had many benefits. Most of the conversation was too subdued or far away to glean, but a pair of townsfolk sitting on the opposite side of the bar proved an exception.

"Mighty queer, if you's asking me, Lenn. No ifs or ands about it. Ever since we found old Jarbon floating in the well, things have been mighty queer!"

"Aye, won't see me arguin'. I'm with ya all the way. Jarbon was a right ass. Wouldn't have wished a death like that on anyone, though! And then Brisa up and vanishes last week! Like you said, Harry, mighty queer happenings!”

The drunker man—Harry, if Marek had heard right—belched in his fist and nodded solemnly. "Some was trying to say Brisa visited her folks. I won't buy it. Girl like that traveling on her own without telling nobody. Too damn queer for me." 

And on they jabbered.

Marek tuned them out, committing the details he'd gained to memory before moving on. Soon, he gave up on hearing any other news. Something bothered him about the common room. Something he couldn't immediately identify. Mighty queer, he repeated in his head. They're drunk fools but I won't disagree with them. Something feels off.

He spun on his stool and leaned on the bar with both elbows. Trying to seem discreet, he said, "Weather's been nice, hasn't it? Think it will hold?"

Mags stopped with a bite of pie hovering in front of her mouth. "The hells you talking to me about weather for?"

"Just idle talk. Trying to enjoy myself, which isn’t easy sitting next to a shrimp like you.”

“Meh, you can’t upset me while I’m eating. Besides, better to be short than a lanky freak like you.”

Marek chuckled and tried again. “Like the food?"

That did the trick. Immediately, his companion dove into a diatribe about the better qualities of meat pies and what distinguishes the great from the mediocre. Marek relaxed and studied the people eating and drinking around him. Most appeared so natural and at ease they were all but invisible.

Curious if it might point him in the right direction, Marek made mental notes of everyone seated around him. Then he closed his eyes and queried, Which of these people stands out?

A few succinct images later, he found them. Two were a man and woman seated near the front door. Their postures were rigid, and the woman's eyes were red and swollen. A breakup? he wondered. Or maybe they lost someone close. A baby or a relative. He dismissed them and let his eyes pass over the third person. A man with a sun-bleached cloak and hard features sat still and quiet, nursing a glass thimble of spirits.

Answering Mags' deep and philosophical question, he said, "I don't mind a pie with cheese in it, actually. Tastes nice to me."

"See, that's where you're wrong. Cheese shouldn't be necessary. It's all about how tender the meat and vegetables are. Trust me, Marek—cheese is a sure sign of a poor cook."

Half-listening, he triggered Empath's Gaze. No sooner had his vision changed than a piercing wail filled his ears. He flinched, then coughed into his fist to cover the unintended movement. When he'd composed himself, Marek glanced up the stairs to find a young woman pacing back and forth along the banister, screaming at the top of her ghostly lungs. The poor girl's neck was cut wide open, her evening dress soiled. Marek breathed to steady his nerves and thought, And there's the missing Brisa. Wonder who killed her.

The tormented spirit wailed ceaselessly. Her eyes bulged in perpetual fright, and her movements were frantic. Marek couldn't stomach the sight. A deep sense of compassion overwhelmed him, and he reached out and tugged on the link connecting him to the soul. Then he breathed in her ether and released the wretched girl from this harsh and terrible world.

Several things happened at once. Her screaming abated, leaving his ears free to hear the room around him again. Mags nudged him. "You listening or what?" And the stranger Marek had noticed stood abruptly and walked toward the front door. He'd left half the shot of spirits behind, and the second before he ducked out the door, the man casually looked back at Marek. Nothing was betrayed in those steady, hard eyes, yet the timing had been too precise to be coincidence.

Chills cascaded down Marek's arms, and he got to his feet. "We have to go," he said, ignoring whatever question Mags had asked him.

"I've got a bit more to go," she said. "Besides, I was gonna ask what else they got in the kitchen."

Marek leaned close and whispered in his friend's ear. He told her of the invisible events that had transpired, and of the man who'd fled the tavern immediately after. Her face paled, and she nodded. Stuffing one more bite in her mouth, Mags tossed some coins on the counter and waved at Gerald.

"Thanks for everything! We'll be back in a few hours for an early supper!" she called, a smile fixed neatly on her face. "Tell your wife I said thanks for the meal!"

Both walking as slow and casual as possible, they left the way they'd come. And as soon as they’d departed from the view of any onlookers, Mags and Marek ran up the stairs, hauled every scrap of gear from the floor, and trudged down to the stables. As much as Middlebrook called to both of them, their time here had ended.

As hard as the path ahead might be, the Quartz Road and the Shirgrim Mountains were the only true sanctuary they had from the Casterans, or whoever that man worked for.

55

THE QUARTZ ROAD, FINALLY

"Sure that's everything?"

Mags grunted as she yanked on a strap, securing Cinnabar's saddle. "Swept the room twice, like I said. Not that we had time to spread out and get comfortable. What's going on?"

Marek patted Lydia's neck, feeding her a fourth lump of dried honey. She didn't once try to bite him. "I'll explain on the road. We have to get moving. I don't know if I’m overreacting, but I’d rather not find out.”

His friend prodded his shoulder, apparently not willing to delay the confrontation. "Tell me now. A little at least. You're scaring me, Marek, and if it isn't that big a deal, then I'll be pissed you deprived me of a hot bath and half a dozen more pies.”

Sighing, Marek gave in and tried to condense the story. “There was a spirit in the tavern,” he began. “People were talking about a missing girl, so I used my Ability. The poor girl’s scream nearly knocked me off my stool. She was so sad, so damn miserable, I... I used Ether Siphon and absorbed its energy."

Mags shrugged. "And? What's this have to do with some man that left the tavern? Nobody else could see what happened. You're the only one with the Ability, right?"

Marek pursed his lips. Scratching Lydia's forehead, he slowly leaned close and kissed her once. The mule nudged him back and stamped the ground. "Last one," he said, offering the sweet. “I’m all out after that.” Then, feeling a surprising stab of sadness, he made his final farewell to the beast and faced Mags. "I don't know how, but he sensed it. The stranger took off the second I released the spirit, and before he left, we locked eyes. He wasn't a friend, Mags. You need to trust me."

“Sure it wasn’t coincidence?”

“The timing was too uncanny,” he said urgently. “Also, reminded me that Rauld and Mirrin said the Casterans had the means to track me. They sensed when my Class awoke, and it didn’t take them long to find us in Misthearth, did it?”

The woman's sigh was laden with regret, but she didn't raise another argument. She too said goodbye to Lydia, surprising the mule with a pressed cube of sugar Marek suspected she’d taken from the Weary Wyvern.

Then, without further delay, they mounted up.

Marek kept the gelding at a steady walk as they made their way to the road. He remembered he still hadn't assigned the two new Abilities, and he whispered to Mags, "Take the lead. I'm going to confirm the Skills now, and I'm not sure what'll happen."

She nodded and urged Cinnabar ahead. Marek took a deep breath and wrapped the reins around one hand. Something about the Summon Familiar Ability troubled him. Perhaps it was the memory of the terrible wraith he'd witnessed in the dream state of the Soul Singer, or simply the intimate nature of the Spell. It would permanently link his mind to that of another. My enemies won't give me time to find the ironwoods peacefully. If we're attacked, I want... no, I need… to be stronger.

Eyes closed, he gave the mental commands to finalize his decisions. The same intense sensations coursed through him, and relief swept over him. Not so bad, he thought before being assaulted by pain. It was as if an icy blade tore across the top of his head. He stifled a shout and slumped forward. His vision blacked out.

"You okay?" Mags hissed under her breath. "Marek, you look like shit. What's⁠—"

He waved her off, filling his lungs as the pain subsided and the world around him slowly came back into view. The periphery of his vision remained hazy, but he hoped it would clear with time. “I, uh… I think I'm okay."

No sooner had he affirmed his friend than a hoarse laugh echoed in the back of his mind. Bold words for a Remnant Mage. What Kaiteras has ever been “okay?”

Marek stiffened. Back rigid and eyes peering about, he could see no sign of the speaker. Mags frowned at him over her shoulder. No, he told himself. You didn't hear that out loud. It came from inside. Just like it had in the Crucible... Serin? Serin, is that you?

The presence made a disturbing rattle, like a fell lion. Serin is old and all but dead. I am and was Allon Kazeniel, born of the Rift. Perhaps last to do so—if you fail to complete your task, that is. Will you fail, Kaiteras? You don't smell particularly strong.

Hello, Allon, Marek thought awkwardly. I take it you're my new familiar?

The daemon rasped out a harsh laugh. It indulged itself, cackling at length. Marek's lips curled, unable to withstand a thread of disgust. This being inside him felt... deranged. I'm about as new as the bones of the Great Mountain! New to you, I suppose. Yesss, new to you.

An uncomfortable silence stretched, and Mags called back, "We're almost there. You need to stop? You’re green in the gills.”

"Keep going,” he urged her, “and keep an eye out for the man I told you about. If he intends to waylay our departure, he’ll do so when we leave town.”

Mags slipped an arrow from the quiver on her hip and held it casually in her lap with her new bow. Marek didn't trust himself with a ranged weapon at the moment, but he placed a hand on the newly embellished pommel of the black sword.

Shutterkeep had kept true to his word. The Artificer had gifted Marek a device that latched onto the base of the sword’s pommel. Steel bands encased it in an elaborate swirl. Scaled and intricate, they were crafted in the likeness of a snake’s body. The enchantment it added was minimal but welcome, perfecting the sword’s balance. He’d also thrown in a new scabbard and wrapped the hilt properly in woven silk to lay beneath the leather cordage of Smithie’s Helper. If Marek drew the sword, the Scorch Steel would be immediately recognizable, but all else had been properly disguised.

An ugly pretty thing you've got, Allon muttered. Many souls it's claimed. My, what a soiled blade.

You can sense it? Do you know anything about the sword?

The daemon chuckled in delight. I know that it will spill blood soon enough. That’s good enough for me.

Marek pressed the creature, hoping to gain some insight into the weapon. But what of its creation? Where did it come from? No response came, and Marek felt the presence sink deeper into his mind and go still.

He sighed, unsettled and a little frustrated. Seeing the open road ahead, Marek decided it would need to be dealt with later. "Hold up!" he called to Mags. “I want to speak with the guard before we go."

His friend fell in beside him, and they trotted toward the solitary figure standing at the entrance to Middlebrook. The man nodded to them as they rode up. "Good day, sir! Enjoy your stay in Middlebrook?"

"We did! Gerald's wife is quite the cook."

The guard chuckled and slapped his belly. "I'm afraid I know that intimately. My wife's forbidden me from visiting the Weary Wyvern until my belt shrinks two notches."

Marek cleared his throat, fighting to keep his distress from showing. "I wonder, did you see a gentleman leave recently? A man on foot, or a single rider, perhaps?"

"Nothing of the sort. I'd have seen him if so. You tracking down a bounty?" he asked, chuckling at his own bad joke.

"Not exactly. Just looking for an old friend before we go. Anyhow, I've one more for you if it's not too much. Have any caravans headed west this morning? We were hoping to find some companions to travel with."

The guard's face lit up. "Yes, yes! One left half an hour before sunup. They'll have several hours’ start on you, but the carriage was drawn by a golemite fellow that rolls through occasionally. Blasted creatures creep me out. Kindly, I've been told, but I can't get up the nerve to so much as look at one!"

Mags smiled stiffly and said, "Well, hey, you can't love everyone, am I right?"

The guard completely missed the jab and nodded in agreement. "True enough! Next thing you know you'll be friends with one of them Haikini buggers! I heard they carry disease, ya know?”

"Thanks for the warning," Marek said, speaking before Mags could unleash her tongue. “Anyhow, we have to get moving. Hope you have a good day."

They left town and moved west slowly at first, wary for any sign of the man who'd fled the tavern. Eventually, Marek urged them to pick up the pace in the hopes they could reach the caravan while the sun was on their side. Trotting a mile and then walking the horses half that distance ground away time steadily.

Lydia's absence was acute. It was strange how short a time he'd owned the mule and how much he'd disliked her to begin with, only to wind up missing the stubborn beast. Combined with the anxiety of the scare in Middlebrook and the unsettling conversation he'd had with Allon, Marek found it hard to keep his spirits high.

Mags helped in her usual fashion. Any time they weren't trotting the horses, her mouth was running at full clip. By the time the sun was setting, Marek had reheard several Strongtower family legends as well as a few tales he suspected his friend had made up on the spot.

They pushed the horses for another half an hour, galloping while the light remained. When they slowed once more, Marek sighed. "Maybe we'll catch them tomorrow. Gorb's faster than I'd have thought. Figured Cinnabar and the gelding could have overtaken them by now."

"Let's keep an eye out for a good place to camp, then," Mags replied. Then, sounding annoyed, she asked, "When you gonna name him anyway? Can't just call him gelding."

"Why not?"

The woman gaped at him. "Because it's damn well rude! Would you like your name to mean horse with his nuts cut off?"

Marek laughed for the first time since leaving Middlebrook. "When you put it that way..." He thought it over, considering the horse's coat for inspiration.

The gelding was a dark bay, its flanks a rich reddish brown that faded to black. Nothing came to him immediately, so he moved on to the beast’s temperament. “He's a prickly one," Marek said. "Could give him a name like Stubborn or Prideful.”

"That horse saved your ass; give him a good name," Mags demanded.

Marek shrugged. "I was thinking Shadow for his coat, but that's too common. What about Shadow Fire? Shade Spark?” He listed more as they came. “Dark Flame. Bright Shade. Ember Dusk... Ember Shade?" Marek smiled and looked to see Mags' reaction.

She only shrugged. "It's your horse. Better than gelding, at least."

"Ember Shade," Marek said, feeling the rhythm of the words on his tongue. "Ember for short. I like it."

Mags suddenly turned Cinnabar to the right and gestured to Marek. “Not bad, but speaking of embers, I think I saw a fire through the trees there."

Marek wheeled Ember around and squinted. A moment later, he caught the rising orange ripple of flame a hundred strides off into the trees. "I see it too. Think it's them?"

Mags hung her bow from the saddle horn and dismounted. Taking it up again, she nocked an arrow and said, "Only one way to find out."

As they approached the camp, Marek's heart beat faster in his chest. He unsheathed the black sword and held it in one hand, leading Ember with the other. Mags set the pace and moved quietly. Soon the fire became easier to see, and they heard voices speaking in low tones.

"Hold up," Marek said. "I think we'd best announce ourselves. Might save us a bit of trouble."

Then a sharp point sank into Marek's rib, and a deep voice spoke before Mags could. "Seems like a wise decision to me. Drop the sword and bow, and perhaps there won't be any trouble."

56

FRIENDS ON THE HIGHWAY?

Ashurai brought them to where the caravan's horses were tied, and Marek and Mags did the same with their mounts. His eyes shone dark and intense when he told them, “You can see to your mounts once we've settled matters. Nothing is decided without a vote. Come, we will speak to the others."

The camp was situated between four trees with enough room to fit everyone, and Gorb and the others were waiting in silence. Apparently, their approach hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Friends are best received in the full light of day," the golemite said in its rumbling tones. "Ashurai predicted we might see you two again, so we are not surprised, but take care. My warrior friend is ever vigilant.”

Marek bowed his head slightly, smiling nervously. "Sorry, we did try to catch up sooner. Mags and I had to leave Middlebrook quicker than anticipated, and we didn't think it wise to rush headlong down the road. It's the first time either of us have traveled this far west."

Hamin hummed lyrically while twirling a wooden spoon. "We haven't seen the west yet,” he said. “Far, far the Old Highway goes. We've only just started down that road."

Mags perked up a little. "I'm excited to see Shirgrim. In fact, one day I hope to see the elvish kingdom of Aiel. I've heard too many stories from my folks. We're of the old blood of Ardea and worship the true gods—those most overlook these days."

The driver tittered, his head flopping side to side awkwardly. “True gods? Old blood? Perspective is a strange thing among humans.”

Strange comment, coming from someone presumably human, Marek thought. Wonder what he’s hiding beneath his cloak and mask.

Gorb shifted his bulk so that his huge and wondrous eyes could see Ashurai. “I sense your anxiety, friend. We will make this part quick so you may resume your duties. Do you object to the travelers joining with us?"

"I prefer to know the intentions of my companions before I travel with them," the warrior replied sternly.

Hands folded serenely in his lap, the old man seated at the far edge of the clearing inclined his head. "Intentions? My young Ashurai, you know nothing of me or mine and yet we have been companions for several years. It’s unlike you to pry.”

Marek sensed the warrior tense beside him and cleared his throat. “I don’t feel it’s prying when indeed, we do wish to accompany your caravan across the mountains. Mags and I don't need to know your business and we do prefer to keep ours private, but in good faith, I'll gladly tell you our objective." The attention of all present fell on the young man. He shuffled his feet nervously and threw out the best white lie he could come up with. "My uncle is a sickly man. He's in great need of herbs, and my friend and I agreed to travel deep into the Shirgrim Mountains in search of rare medicinals. That is our goal.”

Ashurai frowned, his wariness palpable. "Why not search in Ardea or Western Casteras? Both would be easier to access."

Mags stepped in, likely not trusting Marek's ability to move beyond half-truths. "The hills in the northern parts of Ardea have been combed over. Everyone with a nose for Witch Hazel is snooping about to make coin on the impending war. Half our hometown had the same idea, it seemed. Also... we may or may not have pissed off a Casteran emissary on our way to Middlebrook."

Marek would have laughed at Mags' performance had its success not been necessary. The woman had not only nailed the tone of her speech perfectly, alternating from pragmatic to sheepish at the end, but also gotten the body language down. Mags dipped her head slightly and bit the inside of her bottom lip—a subtle tell most would overlook.

“They’ve a saying in the east… Trouble with the emissary is trouble with the kingdom," the old man said, blindfolded face turned to Mags. "She's clever with tongue and true of heart. I always welcome a tall tale told from one so small. My vote is they join. At the very least, our nightly meals won’t be so dreary.”

The blind wanderer's words twisted in loops, both in meaning and style of expression. His speech was lilting and coy, and it made one question which aspects were sincere.

Tall tale? Marek thought. Does he sense she's lying?

Ashurai grunted. Brow stern and unyielding, he looked between Marek and Mags before saying, “I’ve stayed too long. Rushi shouldn't be left alone on guard. You and Hamin settle things with these two."

With that, he left the clearing, hand grasping the hilt of a longsword hung at his belt. Marek's eye drifted to the opposite hip, where a shorter blade rested. The warrior wears two blades, he noted. I must have missed that in the chaos of the kobold raid. One was the size of a typical side sword, but its handle stretched almost as long as a greatsword’s. It was odd to see such a discrepancy. Marek wondered if it might be due to the warrior’s relatively short stature. Or perhaps the man preferred speed and dexterity over reach and power.

The shorter weapon curved slightly. Basari scimitars were the only common blades Marek knew of with such a design, though he’d heard the elves carried thin sabers with the same feature. Ashurai’s weapon looked like neither, however, far thinner than a scimitar and shorter than any saber. Strange combination. Then again, a Basari that travels between Ardea and Shirgrim would have odd habits. Wonder if he can fight with both at the same time.

"One of three has spoken in favor," Gorb said formally. "I will make the second, then. You will be allowed to accompany our caravan."

Hamin stirred his wooden spoon in a lazy circle at the bottom of an empty bowl. The veiled man nodded more than was necessary and added, "Join the caravan and join the guard, they say. We don't know you yet, so enjoy your sleep while it lasts.”

“Hamin is right,” Gorb added. “You will gather wood, tend the fire, and wash dishes at dawn to take up the slack."

"We don't mind," Mags said. Throwing a glance over her shoulder, she said more privately to Marek, "Should I see to the horses and gear? You can stay and get to know our new friends."

Marek suppressed a sigh. He'd been hoping to steal away. The group they'd joined up with was strange in the extreme. Though he didn't share the Middlebrook guard's bigotry for other races, he had to admit Gorb made him nervous. Coupled with the driver's covered face and strange antics, not to mention the old man's random remarks, he was anything but relaxed.

"Sounds great," he lied, baring his teeth in an approximation of a smile.

Gorb patted the ground with its massive hand. "Come, young adventurer. Let's hear a story of the life you left behind. Nothing like context to gain greater understanding."

Marek studied the flames in the little campfire. A pot of stew bubbled on the end of a tripod hanging above. Herbs and an odd spice he couldn't identify added to the aroma of the cedar grove surrounding them. "What would you like to hear?" he asked, baffled as to how one might entertain a golemite.

"You mentioned an uncle. What is this man's name and how would you describe him?"

This time, Marek couldn't stop the sigh that came out. Lying about Mirrin would be improbable at best. He’d need to tailor his words to exclude anything too revealing. “Well, my Uncle Mirrin is a Master Sigilist, the finest in all of Misthearth," he began. The driver and old man showed little signs of listening, and yet he sensed they were. As for Gorb, the creature stared intently with those luminous, unblinking eyes. "He taught me as well, though I'm still only a Novice. Mirrin is a complicated man. He's been sick for as long as I can remember, and yet he carries with him an unburdened soul. Mirrin smiles more than he should for all the agony he’s endured.”

As he spoke, Marek found he missed the old man he'd spent so much of his life with. Only a few times had he been absent from Mirrin so long, and with all the hardship and stress of travel, he hadn't noticed the homesickness.

“One of the last projects we worked on was an enchantment for a baker’s oven,” he continued. Keeping to safer topics, he gave the caravanners a portion of the life he’d left behind.

His new companions asked many questions, and while they studied him, he did the same in return. More and more oddities floated to the surface of his awareness. Gorb busied itself by consuming a few glittering rocks during Marek’s recollections. The golemite split the hard stones in its mouth and chewed them into grit as if it were the most natural thing in the world. For one of its kind, Marek had to assume it was.

Hamin, on the other hand, had even stranger eating habits. He pretended to eat the stew when it was served, chewing noisily after each imagined bite. Ashurai, who’d returned from watch long enough to fill a bowl, gave the excuse that the driver was fasting. Such restrictions weren’t odd in and of themselves, but the great diligence and attention to detail Hamin exhibited in consuming the imaginary bowl of food was. He even went so far as to belch when the meal was finished.

Seemingly intent on competing with his odd companions, the old man’s behavior was equally perplexing. At times, he sat quietly without moving an inch, while at others, Marek thought the old man might be praying when a faint, droning hum issued from his lips. And more than once, while the stranger sat with crossed legs and a straight spine, Marek doubted his original assumption about the stranger's age. The old man wasn't particularly worn in the face. No deep lines etched his cheeks or forehead, and his eyes were hidden by the blindfold. Yet as Marek perceived the stranger, his features read as younger or older at various times.

Marek chocked it up to fatigue and the effects of stress on his imagination. Mags returned eventually and picked up the burden of storytelling. She also got her first opportunity to pet Rushi—an act which obviously delighted her, though she was careful not to overstep or frighten the panganid.

Thankfully, the group didn’t stay up late. Soon, the fire was dampened and bedrolls were brought out. Marek slept fitfully, dreams shrouded in shadows, but he was grateful for the rest in spite of this. In the early morning, he woke to Gorb’s rumbling speech outside their tent.

Stretching his sore body in the chill of early morning, he left Mags to catch a few more minutes of sleep while he saw to the camp’s needs. He hadn’t a clue what to expect in the coming days. With a daemon lurking in the recesses of his mind, the Casterans possibly tracking him, and a tribal war in the passes ahead, Marek was certain they would be eventful.

57

SHIRGRIM POLITICS

Mags and Marek learned more of their companions as the days went by. After sharing the basics about themselves, where they'd come from, and the purpose of the caravan, Gorb and the others kept largely to themselves. Marek was grateful for this, for it meant they wouldn’t pry into his own business.

His familiar had stayed quiet since leaving Middlebrook, but the dark presence was ever-present. Marek felt the being at the edge of his perception, and occasionally he thought he saw movement in his periphery, always shadowed and obscure. Part of him regretted choosing to bind the daemon, yet he was undoubtedly comforted by the additional power Allon lent him. There would be no learning curve when it came to summoning the familiar. The knowledge rested at his fingertips, silently urging him to call it forth every second of the day.

Marek resisted. He was afraid of the inevitable challenge of controlling Allon once unleashed.

In fact, Marek neglected training all of his mage Skills but one. He worked with Distort Soul every morning and night when he had a few minutes alone, or when he took up the rear of their formation and felt certain no eyes were upon him. The rest of his time was spent delving into sigilcraft.

He'd already leveled Sigilist three times. Carving tiny sigils onto the arrow shafts he'd purchased from Shutterkeep, Marek pushed his skill to its limit. This focus as well as the quality of the materials allowed his secondary Class to progress rapidly. The arrows were made of Song Willow, a dense wood named after the flutes traditionally carved from it.

Marek could only fit three sigils per shaft. Even so, he could easily imagine dozens of applications. His challenge wasn't simply to enchant each arrow but to come up with something that would enhance Mags' ability to kill. So far, his best creation was one he called Arrow of Rending. The head was enchanted to shatter upon impact—a devastating effect all on its own—and by adding the sigil Converge, the majority of the fragments traveled in a flat arc. Mags tested one of the arrows on a tree branch as thick as a broomstick. A tiny pop was all they heard, yet the branch dropped immediately, cut clean through.

He'd also crafted two Arrows of Bleeding. These had yet to be tested, of course, for there were no enemies at hand and trees didn't bleed like men or beasts. Until his friend could go hunting, they'd need to wait to find out how successful he'd been. And finally, Marek's Arrow of Piercing showed promise as well. A simple shot at an oak tree sank so deeply they left the arrow where it was.

Little else of note occurred while they approached the snow-capped mountains. Marek did catch Mags spying on Ashurai, however. She followed the man one night after he’d left to train. Marek excused himself a little while later to check on Ember and Cinnabar, only to circle round and spy on his friend. He found Mags watching the warrior through the trees. Ashurai danced with two blades. Every move was careful and elegant in the extreme. Mags was so focused on the man she didn't notice Marek observing her. And just before he withdrew, she unsheathed her brother's shortsword and began emulating the warrior's technique.

Nothing wrong with training, he thought as he worked his way back around the camp. Wonder why she doesn't just ask to join him.

The next day brought them to the foot of the first real mountain. Their climb began in earnest. Gorb impressed Marek. The golemite didn't slow or ask to stop, even while drawing the carriage laden with goods behind it.

Marek rode at the rear of the column with Mags ahead of him. Ashurai was nowhere in sight. The warrior disappeared often to scout ahead, so all was as it should be. The forest was quiet, and the mist of early morning had yet to burn off completely. Marek was just thinking how beautiful the mountains were when a sharp cry split the air.

A moment later, the thunder of hooves sounded from all sides. Then Ashurai shouted from the head of the column, "Druskin riders! Arm yourselves!"

Gorb unfastened the leather straps hung across its great shoulders, and a gleam of power surrounded its fists. Mags had her bow up and an arrow nocked as Marek drew the dark sword, wheeling around to check their rear.

A chorus of yelps rose from the forest. Their shrill intensity set Marek’s nerves on edge. Then the creatures closed in. He spotted three riders weaving toward them at an angle. Other figures crashed through the tree line at the caravan's flanks. The Druskin warriors rode an assortment of beasts: great boars, wolves, and a few antlered deer. To say the riders looked fierce would be an understatement. Despite their war cries, none so much as raised their long spears. They simply rode in a wide circle around the caravan, howling and yipping.

Marek backed Ember so that he flanked Mags, facing the rear while she watched the sides of their group. Finally, two figures exited the ring and stopped before Ashurai. One Druskin stood a full head taller than the other, upwards of seven feet. He had a gray and black coat, spiky tufts of fur jutting up his back. Marek thought he saw thin tendrils of shadow surrounding the creature, but when he blinked his eyes, they were no longer there. He dismissed the observation, for too often had his senses gone awry since binding Allon.

The tall Druskin rode a proud stag, and though his mouth was that of a wolf, his speech only suffered a little when he addressed them. "Hail! I am Renga, Second War Chief of the Frost Fang Clan! Who leads these humans?"

"I speak for us," Ashurai answered at once. "We are simple traders heading to Domhan Morga to resupply. Why have you stopped us?”

The Druskin beside the leader yipped. He spoke in a harsh growl that made understanding his words much more challenging. "We do what we please! Our territory is vast, and the Frost Fang Clan decides who may and may not enter!”

"The Old Highway was paved by my people," Gorb said solemnly. "The golemite travel as they wish. Tell me, Druskin Lord, has the pact been revoked?"

Renga glared at his companion before promptly answering, “The pact remains… but war has come between the Druskin and the wretched Haikini. We will ask your business, then let you go."

"We trade in gems, various minerals, and ward stones purchased from the golemite people,” Ashurai said. “That is our only business."

The brown-furred Druskin beside Renga snarled. "You do not serve the Haikini, then? You are not spies of the rabbit peoples?”

Gorb's voice rose higher than Marek had ever heard. He felt each word vibrate across his skin from fifty feet away. "I am Gorbrashganvore, shardling of Grimbrashgan, Magdagnamore, and Shanrigrimvan! I am golemite, and as such, you should know I serve none but the teeth and claws and bones of the mountain! We take no part in wars, great or small!”

Renga fought to calm his mount, but the other standing with him failed in the attempt. The boar the Druskin sat upon skittered back into the ring of warriors despite its rider's commands.

Several of the Druskin raised their spears for the first time. All watched Renga, but the war chief remained composed. "No need for anger, ancient one. We mean no disrespect. You may go with the knowledge the Druskin here will bother you no more." Renga spun his hand in a tight circle, and the warriors began circling once more. The war chief spoke his next words not to Gorb or Ashurai, but to the group at large. Yellow eyes roving across the caravan, he said, "You have our peace, but be warned! Should I hear that any of you stray from the Old Highway and aid the Haikini, no amount of rumbling will stop my warriors from tearing you apart!"

Ashurai's face darkened, and the glow suffusing Gorb's hands increased. Before tensions rose further, the war chief howled three times in quick succession, and the party of Druskin departed. In seconds, they had disappeared into the forest.

Surprisingly, Gorb only picked up its harness and slung it in place once more. "We continue," it said calmly. Ashurai wasn't so composed, however. Face red and hands twitching, the warrior nevertheless obeyed.

A few minutes later, they were moving up the mountain once again. Marek's heart continued to pound, and it took an effort of will to sheathe the black sword. When he did so, a voice in his head hissed, Dissssappointing. I thought for sure we would taste blood. I haven't eaten in far too long.

We won't eat what isn't an enemy, Marek said firmly, adopting the daemon's phrasing. In fact, it's my hope you won't be needed at all during this journey.

Allon's laugh was like steel on steel. Don't be daft. No Remnant Mage has kept their hands clean, in fact. A sniffing sound echoed in Marek's mind. Yesss, I smell blood aplenty. Your soul's already been tainted, hasn't it? How many did you ssslay, Kaiteras? More than one, to be certain.

Marek steeled himself, grappling with anxiety and a strange urge to prove himself to this creature. I killed three men and some kobolds. All were necessary.

What is necessary is highly subjective, Allon answered in a mocking tone. Come, sssummon me, and we can ride the Druskin down. That pretty murder knife of yours would make quick work of them.

Instead of answering, Marek closed his eyes and focused his will. Then he pushed at the daemon's presence. Slowly, Allon lost ground, and Marek found his mind his own once more.

The group made camp that night near the peak of the mountain. Forgoing a fire, not wanting to be seen from afar, they ate a cold meal and prepared to rest. No one traded stories that night, yet an hour after nightfall, Ashurai roused Marek and Mags. He brought them to the edge of camp and pointed through a gap in the trees.

"Look to the west," he said. "The beast kin tribes may look as primitive as the kobolds. Do not let their furs and bone armor fool you. They have many Classed fighters among them, and their power is considerable."

Marek's stomach twisted as he watched the battle raging on the opposite peak. Faintly, he could hear howls and yips, and occasionally a scream of agony. Flashes of orange, red, and pale blue lit the mountaintop.

"They're casting Spells?" Mags asked.

Ashurai nodded. "As I said, the beast kin are powerful. Both Haikini and Druskin boast not only warriors but mages as well. You'll be fortunate if we finish our trip without learning firsthand."

The Basari's words hung heavily on Marek's heart as he crawled into the tent beside Mags. Not so long ago, he'd have feared being butchered by one of the beast kin. Now he only feared what he might become should he be forced to embrace his full potential.

58

EVEN THE STRONG MAY FALL

Untempered by wind and warmed by the noonday sun, the leavings of the battlefield reeked from half a mile away. Ashurai insisted they inspect the site, so Marek and Mags accompanied him as he veered off the Quartz Road to study the aftermath.

Haikini and Druskin bodies lay strewn across a rocky hillside. The outcome of the battle wasn't hard to discern: At least twice as many Haikini littered the battlefield.

"An ambush," Ashurai said definitively. "Strange how it occurred almost out in the open like this. I'd guess the Haikini were moving north to the Quartz Road when the Druskin attacked. Either they were greatly outnumbered, or the wolf lords did something to conceal their presence."

Mags sat atop Cinnabar, eyes squinting above her rag-covered mouth. "It's awful," she said. "I understand wanting to kill an enemy, I really do… but do they need to be so brutal? Do the Druskin always tear the defeated apart like this?"

The Basari warrior stood and scanned the bodies around him, brows furrowed. "No, they do not. Could have been scavengers, but it is as you say. The Haikini were ripped limb from limb, and little has been eaten. This isn’t the work of carrion birds.”

Marek kept quiet. Allon hadn't shut up since they'd come across the corpses. The daemon lurched and shoved against his defenses, and he wasn't sure exactly how long he could hold it back. At this rate, I'm sure you'll have your chance, he thought. But if you don't calm down, I won't ever trust you enough to summon you. Consider that, Allon.

The presence ebbed a little. Without the constant pressure, Marek was finally able to contribute to the conversation. "Isn't it also strange that none of the weapons were claimed? I see spears and javelins, swords and bows—easily enough weapons to outfit each of the dead."

Ashurai strode past Marek, apparently done with his examination. "The beast kin honor the dead by leaving their weapons behind. Most are crafted from bone, wood, or stone. They customize their weapons extensively and bond with them. To claim another's spear dishonors both the fallen and the one who takes it."

Marek stored the information away, grateful to learn anything new about the beast kin. He'd researched some of the Druskin and Haikini, but the tomes he'd studied were written by humans. Bias colored every page.

"Can we go, then?" Mags asked. "No point in sticking around if there's nothing to loot and we know what happened."

"Yes, I agree," Ashurai said as he neared his charger. Before mounting, the warrior froze in his tracks and dropped to one knee before the mangled corpse of a Druskin. He frowned at the body, leaning close. Reaching out a hand, he touched something on the fallen’s chest.

The Druskin’s maw opened wide, and it growled angrily. One clawed hand swung at Ashurai and cut deep into the man’s throat. The warrior staggered away and fell on his back. Mags drew and released an arrow, and the top of the Druskin’s skull burst apart as the Arrow of Rending did its work.

Ashurai clutched his neck and cursed. "Instrument of Dumhvala! It burns!” For the first time, Marek saw the warrior's stoic façade crumble. Ashurai stood and staggered backward, still clutching his wound.

Mags spurred Cinnabar closer and asked, "Ashurai, are you okay? How badly did it cut you?”

The man didn't answer. He swooned, his eyes glazing over. "Quick, we need to get back to the others. I... I need healing."

No sooner had he spoken the words than he stumbled and fell. Something caught in his throat, and he choked. Even from a short distance, Marek could hear the hiss of the man’s lungs straining to draw breath.

Marek threw a leg over the saddle and jumped to the ground. Rushing to Ashurai's side, the mage recoiled at the sight of dark gray liquid crawling up the warrior's forearm. The man's eyes were open, and he seemed lucid, yet subtle tremors ran up and down his body.

Mags reached down a hand and beckoned. "Help him up! Cinnabar will carry him back, but I need you to lift him!"

When Marek tried to heft the warrior, he knew at once he couldn't manage it. Ashurai was short for a man but bulky, body covered in thick slabs of muscle. Marek was still recovering from his long illness, and even with the addition of Attribute Points, it would take an act of heroism to lift the Basari in full armor and weighed down with weapons. Without any other recourse, Marek activated Spirit Body and took Ashurai around the waist. Then he hoisted the man up and over Cinnabar's neck. “Go! I'll catch up shortly!"

Mags spurred her mount and tore across the hillside with Ashurai in tow.

Following behind, Marek dismissed his Ability and prayed to Order that the warrior hadn't noticed him using it. They reached the caravan quickly, and Mags was off her horse before Marek had caught up, shouting for Gorb.

“He’s not breathing! He touched something, and it’s eating him! Where’s Niamh?”

The golemite stomped to Cinnabar and lifted Ashurai with one hand, setting him gently on the ground. Gorb sniffed the warrior, then pulled back in disgust. “Our friend has been cursed! Niamh, hurry! You must dispel him at once! Ashurai has been gray-touched!”

Something strange happened then. Though they’d yet to see the mysterious Niamh, Marek had assumed the being was merely cloaked somehow and traveling in their midst or else remained hidden within the carriage. The truth of the concealment became obvious when the driver’s form collapsed in a heap of clothing, cloak, mask, hood, and all. Then a tiny creature zipped free of the pile.

Marek heard the buzzing of small wings, and when the creature hovered above Ashurai, its true form was clear to see. Humanoid and just half a foot tall, Niamh flapped her wings and channeled mana into a Spell. A few seconds of powering it was all it took, and then the warrior was bathed in blue light.

Ashurai coughed, gasped, and vomited onto the gravel road. A thick gray sludge poured from his lungs.

Mags leapt down from her mount’s back. “I think Cinnabar was cursed as well! Her coat is sticky with that gray slime! Please, can you cure her too?”

The tiny Niamh, exposed but for a modest gown of pale green lichen, sighed in exasperation. “Oh, might as well. Nobody will believe my trick now anyway.”

Marek couldn’t believe his eyes. All this time they’d been traveling with a living, breathing feyling. Few in Ardea could say as much, and here he was, but a few weeks from home with one of the enchanted folk working magic in front of him.

Cinnabar had begun trembling, but almost as soon as the wash of fey magic touched the horse, she stilled.

Everyone stood dazed for a time, and Ashurai got to his feet. Niamh flitted this way and that, an expression of anxiety on her face.

Gorb spoke first, its voice far too upset for Marek’s liking. “Ashurai, how were you cursed? What caused you to be gray-touched? Tell me, were you attacked by a strange beast or beast kin?”

Ashurai shook his head. “I do not know what you mean by gray-touched, ancient one. We were inspecting the battlefield when I saw something odd on a corpse. It was… a grayish liquid on the creature’s chest, at once dark and shining with light. When I inspected it, the Druskin attacked me.”

Gorb rumbled long and deep. This was no expression of mirth or humor. The resonance that issued from the stone creature carried with it notes of dismay. “Only one abomination can deliver the gray-touched curse. To do so requires great sacrifice, so it is only a strategy the dying use as a final, desperate attempt to spurn the living... Niamh, how long has it been since the Graysouls walked among us?”

The feyling trembled and clutched her arms as if fending off a chill breeze. “Hundreds of years. Three hundred and nine, I believe, since the Haikini Priestess sealed the blade away and put an end to the spread of corruption.”

Too many questions rose in Marek’s mind. Allon perked up as well, showing far too keen an interest in the turn of events.

Their golemite leader pointed down the opposite side of the mountain. “Let us continue. If we are lucky, perhaps the young ones won’t need to discover what we speak of.”

Niamh froze midair, her body stiffening. Then she spun in a tight circle and shrieked. “I smell them! Gorb, the Graysouls! They’ve found us!”

A haggard roar was the only warning given as an enormous bear charged into their midst. Its body torn, brown coat covered in a spattering of gray slime, the beast’s eyes shone with a dim light that sent a flood of icy fear through Marek’s veins.

This, apparently, was a Graysoul.

59

RAMPAGE AND REVELATIONS

Souls! Strange and wrong and strong! Twisted souls, they come! Allon raged. The daemon was in a fit, crashing against the confines of Marek's mind like a caged beast. Release me, Kaiterasss! Relinquish control and let me drink from them!

Marek struggled to maintain control. His vision swam with ethereal shadows. His skin prickled and a cold sweat broke out. The horror on the outside matched the chaos within, and he grit his teeth, unable to move despite the danger. All he could do was watch the scene unfold.

The bear lunged at Ashurai, who stood nearest to the cluster of trees it had emerged from. Gorb moved faster than imaginable. With an open hand, the golemite swept the bear aside, shifting its trajectory and sending it tumbling down the slope.

Ashurai drew a small vial from his belt and uncapped it. Then he snorted its contents and growled as crimson mana suffused his entire body. The warrior's growl turned into a scream. In a flash, he drew two blades at once, and even as the bear staggered to its feet, Ashurai was upon it. Leaping skyward, he spun at an angle and brought both swords down, one impacting after the other. The bear's head was cleaved in two. Gray ichor splattered in all directions, and a terrible screech filled the air.

Something like a spirit emerged from the fallen beast. When Mags gasped and Niamh flitted up to perch atop Gorb's head, Marek thought they too might have seen the soul with naked eyes.

All the while, Allon howled in the background. Twisted! Bound to the beyond! A wrong thing, a tasty thing! Let me have it!

Movement from two sides warned Marek the attack was not yet finished. Three Druskin warriors and a pair of Haikini charged the group from both sides of the road. These too were haggard and tainted like the bear. One of the Druskin newcomers was outright missing an arm, though it held an axe in the other as it charged blindly at Gorb.

The clash of steel reverberated from the hillside. Ashurai raged among the enemy. His presence was quickly overwhelmed, however, and Marek became desperate. He focused on the dull shadow of a soul freshly risen from the bear's carcass and triggered Command Spirit. The entity did not respond. His error incensed the daemon bound to him. I says to Kaiteras, twisted and wrong, broken souls! He cannot control them! Only I can devour them or watch them flee to find another!

Gorb swatted away more of the attackers as they appeared from the tree line. Not once did it make a fist, though it’d summoned its mana as it had with the Druskin war chief. Its slaps dazed but never destroyed.

Nearby, Mags shouted something Marek couldn’t understand before unsheathing her shortsword and slashing at a Haikini spearman. The beast kin would have run Marek through had she not intervened. Mags snatched her bow from Cinnabar's saddle and ran toward the carriage. Soon, she stood atop the driver's seat, taking aim with the enchanted arrows Marek had crafted for her. An enraged Rushi clambered up after her. The panganid’s fur lifted like the hackles on a dog as she growled at anything that came near.

Enough! Marek shouted internally. Let me fight, and maybe I will let you free! Allon ceased thrashing, and Marek drew a sharp breath of air. His dark sword was in his hands a moment later. He lunged at a Graysoul that snapped its jaws at Cinnabar. His blade swept in a clean arc that sliced the badger in two.

More of the enemy came, and it was clear the battle would only grow more intense. Marek threw caution to the wind and summoned Spirit Body. He poured ether into the armor and urged his body to move. He only knew the basics of swordplay, but those he could effectively employ. With enhanced speed and strength, and the accumulation of overlapping enchantments, he was no longer the frail Sigilist from Misthearth. Marek had become deadly.

He cut through the swath of enemies, ignoring their burning gray eyes and disfigured bodies. He slashed and thrust and hacked the monsters apart. Soon he found himself side by side with Ashurai, defending one flank of the caravan while Gorb stood opposite. The Basari spared but an instant to glare at Marek. His eyes told much. He sees my power, and he knows I'm more than I've said. No Sigilist could fight like this.

Marek pushed the distraction away. It would only cost him. Already over a dozen of the tainted creatures lay dead, and yet their numbers never seemed to wane. The dark spirits that rose from the dead wailed at the sky before flittering across the ground and disappearing in the woods. Where they were going, Marek couldn't say. He only hoped the souls were gone for now.

A cry of pain from behind drew Marek's attention. Mags was in trouble. He dodged a Druskin's axe, then distorted his soul, forming a small buckler on the back of his hand. The next attack he blocked, which allowed him to stab the creature in the chest with his opposite hand. With a kick, he threw the monster off and turned to check on Mags.

The woman bled from one leg, though she stood in spite of the injury. Her bow twanged and another arrow collided with a Haikini’s neck. It must have been an Arrow of Rending, for the creature's head tumbled backward off the carriage. An enormous badger scrambled up the carriage and lunged at Mags, but Rushi tackled it. The pair of snarling beasts hit the ground with a thump and tore at one another.

That was when Marek’s eye found the form of the old wanderer sitting placidly in the back of the wagon. Four Druskin converged on the carriage at the same time. One flew at the blind fool. Marek wanted to scream at the bastard for distracting Mags, because of course she intervened. She dropped her bow and jumped at the beast kin. A moment before it reached the old man, her shortsword sank into the Druskin's skull. The strike killed it instantly, but the blade remained wedged firmly in the bone. As it toppled sideways, the beast kin's weight ripped the shortsword from Mags' hands.

Three more creatures climbed up the sides of the carriage. Mags was left vulnerable, eyes widening as she realized her predicament.

Niamh's voice boomed across the battlefield. "Ashurai! The girl is in danger!"

The warrior evaded a Haikini, kicked the creature away, and spun. In one fluid motion, he drew two throwing knives from behind his back and flung them. Each connected with Druskin. One felled its target while the other managed to slow the beast down. Mags staggered back and reached for her bow, only to trip and stare up in horror at the final wolf-headed warrior.

She'll die if I don’t reveal myself. I have no choice.

Marek hadn't been able to practice Wraith Step even once since he'd unlocked it. His connection to the movement Skill told him it wouldn't require endless hours of practice to activate, yet he couldn't help but worry that something might go awry if he was wrong. Ether surged though his arms and legs, and then the world vanished. Marek reappeared six feet from the Druskin. He slashed with Leyan's sword.

And missed.

In the sluggish flow of time, Marek knew what was wrong. Even though he could use Wraith Step, that didn't mean he could do so effectively. He'd traveled through the air and gone wide of his target. Not a shred of his being welcomed what came next, though there were no other options.

Feast, Allon! he willed the daemon. Kill it now!

The Druskin closed in on Mags, one arm drawn back to deliver a killing blow. Mags lifted her bow but wouldn't have time to even put an arrow to its string. Marek's chest burned, and a darkness erupted from his sternum. Allon closed the distance in half a second and crashed into the Druskin. The daemon latched on with its fangs and coiled its lithe body around the beast. The two flew over the opposite side of the carriage and hit the ground.

Mags stared in horror at Marek but didn't hesitate to stand and draw an arrow. She released two arrows at the fourth Druskin that had recovered from Ashurai’s attack. The wolflike creature howled when the first arrow sank into its chest, a few inches from Ashurai’s dagger. A gout of blood poured from the wound, giving away which of the enchanted arrows she’d used. The second took the Druskin in the neck, ending the monster’s life.

"Marek," Mags said through clenched jaws, "I can't… I..." His friend fell to a knee, gritting her teeth as she clutched her wounded leg.

With a surge of ether that nearly depleted his Ether Core, Marek jumped atop the carriage and stood guard over Mags. He hacked off the arms of a Druskin that was grasping at Mags. Then all was still. A half-dozen tainted souls writhed free of their borrowed corpses. Wailing at the uncaring sky, they fled into the woods as the others had.

Niamh frantically circled above Gorb's head. The golemite's massive body heaved, and its hands were covered in blood and gray slime. Ashurai limped across the road and passed the front of the carriage. Marek followed the warrior with his eyes. Then he too was staring at the being he'd summoned. Allon drank in the Druskin's soul. A deep thrumming emanated from the daemon, a sound too similar to a cat’s purr. When the tainted soul was fully devoured, Allon uncoiled its victim and rose. Body long like a snake's but indistinct and smoky, its purple eyes found Marek's. The daemon smiled and exposed row upon row of onyx teeth. "More," it rasped, rising in the air to search the battlefield.

No, I think you've had enough, Marek thought. Besides, I think everyone’s seen enough for now. He tugged on the link that connected him to the daemon. For a moment, Allon resisted, but Marek was too strong. In a swirl of black smoke, Allon returned to him. Icy power sank into Marek’s sternum, and the daemon was gone.

He breathed deeply and clenched his jaw. The battle was over. The monsters that had attacked them were dead; the shining gray souls had fled into the depths of the Shirgrim Forest. Ashurai and Mags were injured but none had fallen. Despite all of this, Marek couldn't help but feel he'd lost everything.

I suppose this is when they drive us out, he thought bitterly. Or else I'll have to fight Ashurai if they choose to attack.

Gorb shattered the tense silence with a great, "Hummmm! At last my eyes can see all of you. A Sigilist you may be, but each of us knew there was more beneath the surface.”

The old man cackled, still sitting peacefully in the carriage, face spattered with gore. "Many, many years it's been! A pleasure to travel, a gift to greet and know. Look, everyone, and cast your eyes upon the latest incarnation of the Remnant Mage!"

60

NEW ARRANGEMENTS

Everything changed after the Graysoul attack. Absolutely everything. Mags didn't mind most of the changes, though she found a few troubling. Gorb and its companions simultaneously treated her with a greater degree of respect and paid her less attention. After Marek's great unveiling, she couldn't blame them.

Ashurai treated Marek with equal parts respect and wary distrust. Among the caravanners, he knew the least about the fabled Remnant Mages. It wasn't as if the Class hadn't impacted his country as greatly as the other kingdoms, yet he was only human. From what Mags had gathered, a man of thirty or thirty-five years. His memory didn't span as far as that of Niamh and Gorb, both of whom had seen the passage of centuries, and during that span of time, the rise and fall of many Remnant Mages.

Ever since the attack on the hillside, Mags and Marek's duties had been altered as well. They were given guard shifts during the night, and more often trusted with taking point or rear position while the caravan traveled ever westward.

Most concerning to Mags were the shifts in Marek's personality. Summoning that thing had left a mark on her childhood friend. He spoke less and observed more. Marek’s eyes were haunted, as if two minds peered out at the world around him. She hoped it was only her imagination.

Marek practiced his Remnant Mage Abilities openly now. When riding near the carriage, Marek would leave Ember to trail behind Cinnabar while he went on foot. Wraith Step made no sound when activated, yet it caused a tangible disturbance. Time and again, he practiced the Ability until he'd expended his ether. Another change irked her to the bone: Ashurai began inviting Marek to attend his nightly practice with the sword. Mags practically boiled with envy, but she'd refrained from saying anything at all. Marek could use the training, she knew, though it was she who was drawn to Ashurai.

Something about the stoic warrior intrigued her. Annoying at times, and usually rude in his bluntness, Ashurai reminded her of the swordmaster she'd trained with while serving in the Ardean army. She only wished she could dance alongside him. Not once did he ask her to join.

A full week had passed since the Graysoul attack. Niamh seemed to know the most about the monsters, and yet she refused to tell them all she knew. Gorb filled in a few details, thankfully. For instance, the curse known as gray-touched was apparently rare. None of their party members were stricken during the attack, for apparently it required one of the creatures to sacrifice its life to inflict the curse. Even rare as it was, the gray-touched curse was feared, for those that survived a day or so would grow enraged and attack anyone or anything in sight. Once the curse was active, a single bite from one of these unfortunate souls was enough to pass the curse to another. If left unchecked, a plague could spread across the land.

Despite this explanation, they never learned more about where the Graysouls had come from. Niamh refused to answer any questions, and Gorb only said its knowledge was incomplete. This bothered Ashurai the most, yet Mags too was frustrated. If they encountered the monsters again, she wanted to know as much as she could about them.

The caravan stopped earlier than usual that day. Mags was put to the task of making a fire, a duty she often enjoyed. Unfortunately, Marek decided to practice his most disturbing Ability while she did so. Mags grimaced as she watched Marek drawing out the viscous substance from his chest. She tried to ignore him, but it wasn’t an easy task. We’re all supposed to believe that’s his soul? If that’s true, why is it so damn ugly? She arranged the logs in the fire pit Gorb had dug before giving up and watching Marek study the gleaming purple blob in his hand.

He extended it outward a full three feet and, brow creased in concentration, caused it to spread out in a circular disc. As Marek shifted his footing, the shield rotated along his arm and across the back of his shoulders.

Well, it’s certainly impressive—and it’ll come in handy if we're attacked again, she told herself for the hundredth time. Marek's still Marek. He's still kind and considerate. I have to remember that. But damn, if I don't miss the old version that talked endlessly about history and crafting. Will he ever be so naive and sweet again? Will I, for that matter?

That afternoon, the caravan came across a deep canyon filled with ancient trees. Gorb seemed happier than ever as it led them away from the Quartz Road to a clearing surrounded by boulders taller than the golemite. It hadn't explained why the site pleased it so much, but Mags suspected Gorb might fill them in during the evening meal.

Sure enough, as the light faded in the vaulted sky and her stew cooled in the wooden bowl in her hands, Gorb spoke of a time long past. "My people were many in those days," it rumbled. "The feylings too traveled abroad and openly, even visiting the newly formed eastern realm of Ardea. Niamh was young then, and I little more than a shardling." The golemite made the logs in the fire shift as its laughter shook the air. One collapsed and sent a pillar of sparks into the air that reflected in the golemite’s gaze. "How bright our eyes, Niamh Ilris Althenea. How empty our heads when we first met."

The feyling buzzed excitedly and landed on the tip of Gorb's foot. "Young, young!" she replied. "You were so ambitious. Your clastkeeper was so angry with you, always grumbling how you put action before thought."

"Mmm, and Krrgosh was right! I thought it would be a boon for all who traveled the Old Highway to have a place to meet and eat and sleep among these very old rocks." Again, the golemite laughed, its thrumming tones stretching for nearly a full minute. "My labor lasted three of the human months, and when I finished, I still wasn’t satisfied." Gorb's great eyes flickered with an inner light. "Perhaps I should have taken more time in choosing. These stones are old only by the standards of a young and foolish shardling."

Niamh giggled. Her body grew larger suddenly, so that she stood nearly two feet tall. Her slender frame sprouted a conjured coat of rough stone that glowed the pale blue of pure mana. Waggling her finger at Gorb, she said in a gruff voice, "My young Gorbrashganvore! You make a mess of this fine canyon! Holes here and holes there! And these fine stones exposed for no good reason at all! I should make you roll all the way to Domhan Morga!"

The feyling and golemite laughed as they traded stories of a time so old that Mags' great-grandfather hadn’t been alive to experience it. It was a humbling experience to say the least.

When their merriment died down, Mags said, "I want to know more about the golemite people if that's okay. You've used the word shardling many times, and I take it to mean a young golemite by context. And what is a clastkeeper?"

"Each shardling is born from a triune," Gorb said after a brief pause. “One invests. One dedicates themselves to the holding. And the third golemite stands guard. Their essences blend to make a seed of stone. It can take decades for shardlings to spring forth." The creature sighed deeply. "So much to explain and so many words that cannot be translated. Niamh, will you aid my explanation?"

The feyling returned to her usual shape and size. Jumping off Gorb's foot, she hovered above the fire. "Gorb will make it way too complicated. In human terms, golemite babies are called shardlings. They’re born from seeds created by a joining of three mature golemites. One invests their lifeforce, which I think is kind of sad. It expires during the creation of the seed. Another holds the seed and feeds it lots of mana. The one that stands guard buries the holder and stands atop the mound for a long time! There, I think that's enough."

"How many shardlings are born from each seed?" Marek asked. "If a golemite dies each time life is created, surely it’s more than one."

Gorb's answer was stoic, not betraying even a thread of sadness. "From one to many," it said simply. "My shard brood numbered three."

Niamh didn't allow for more discussion on the matter. She instead dove into a story of when she'd found Gorb sitting amid its special ring of stones, crying after being rebuked by its clastkeeper. "There's nothing sadder yet funnier than a golemite crying," she said, tittering. "I couldn't help myself. Gorb was so silly and cute I just had to bond with him. I sat on top of Gorb's big head and cried as well. When it finally stopped crying, we'd become best, best friends!"

Deep as bedrock and high as a brass bell, Gorb and Niamh laughed together until both were satisfied.

Afterward, the humans ate, Niamh dressing herself as Hamin in order to spin her wooden spoon around an empty bowl and pretend to join in.

Ashurai finished his meal quickly, as usual, and focused on Marek. "I am wondering why you spend no time searching for herbs in the forest. If your quest into Shirgrim is to seek medicine to heal a sick uncle, why is it only she who searches?"

Mags eyed her friend, interested to know his answer. She too had wondered the same. So far, she'd gathered plenty of two of the required reagents. Whiskers of Yalfan grew prolifically in the peaks, and after crossing into Shirgrim proper, she'd had no trouble locating and harvesting Quickleaf. Still, Marek hadn't once taken the time to scour the woods after stopping for the evening.

Marek's brows knit tightly. A darkness settled in his eyes, and for a moment, she thought he might become angry. "I'll admit it hasn't been on my mind as much as it should." He sighed, glancing at Mags briefly. "My abilities need to be honed. I... I'm changing, and there is something else I must achieve in the mountains. If I fail, I won't be returning to Ardea."

Ashurai grunted and stirred the fire with a stick. "What, then? We can all see how you change, but what other task are you keeping to yourself?"

"Ironwood," he said flatly. Marek's eyes flickered again, that darkness returning for an instant. "I must find the ironwood trees if I'm to survive. I can't say more, for I don't even know what I'm to do when I find them." The young mage shrugged. He looked so very lost in that moment that Mags wanted to reach out and hold him. "I thought maybe I could find an answer in Domhan Morga when we get there... Then again, I have been distracted. I suppose I should have asked Gorb first."

The golemite hummed and shifted its weight so its eyes could more easily see Marek. "Few ironwood trees have survived. Some grow to the south of Domhan Morga, and perhaps I could take you there. What do you need from those twisted trees?"

Suddenly the old man stood, spilling half the contents of his bowl into the fire. The stew sizzled and popped, but Mags hardly noticed. The stranger's arms and legs trembled, and his hands rose to the soiled bindings covering his eyes. Slowly, he removed them and blinked.

His eyes were bright and intelligent. A vibrant amber in color, they were so lively that Mags was shocked to see he didn't at all appear aged like she'd assumed. He can't be more than forty, she thought. And he isn't blind? Then why would he wear that⁠—

"Ironwoods!" the man shouted ecstatically. "I know much of ironwood trees. More than some and less than few. Trust Yuze! He will not let you down!"

61

WHAT YUZE KNOWS

“Yuze?” Marek asked. “Who’s Yuze?”

The not-blind man thrust both hands in the air. “Yuze is me! Ironwoods, you say… Well, I know enough. I know at least a little.” Yuze’s excitement waned, and he deflated. “I know… something." His hands trembled, and the rag he'd used to hide his eyes fell from his grip and drifted into the fire. As the cloth burned, his expression brightened again. "It’s a fact, oath sworn and witnessed by the western gods. Marek, you must trust me, for I was trusted! A heavy burden and a task worthy of a legend! Most important and pressing, it was. It is!"

"Old man!" Ashurai said, anger coloring his words. "How long have you been able to see?"

"Ever since I was born," came the answer. “Was it not the same with you?”

The Basari clenched his jaw and stood. "Why lie to us? You do little enough as it is but gather a bit of wood and ramble nonsense. Now you show us your true self, not blind at all! Why did you cover your eyes?”

Yuze stared at the Basari as if he’d been asked the dumbest question in the world. “Blind men don’t need to cover their eyes. I was blinding myself so that I could see all the better with my other senses. I’ve been searching a long time, you know.”

Ashurai’s confusion only deepened. He threw up his hands and said, “Fine! Then what is this of Yuze? Do you suddenly remember your name as well?"

The man in question blinked a few times and cupped his chin. Nodding, he said, "I am Yuze. That much I know for certain, though I've been called many other names over the years. Traveler, as you have called me. Drifter and beggar suited some. Those that admired me preferred Wandering Sage. Oh, but none of this matters… What was it we were talking about?"

Before anyone could answer, Yuze crouched and reached his bony hands toward Mags. "You! I see you, Marigold Strongtower, smallest of champions! Your heart is as fair as your tongue is foul! I've observed closely, and do you want to know something?"

Silence stretched uncomfortably, and Mags could scarcely answer. When she did, her voice sounded hollow in her ears. "How do you know my full name?"

Yuze threw back his head and cackled so loudly his voice echoed off a canyon wall in the distance. “Right to the heart of things. Even our stony friend here had yet to walk the Coherent Realm when I began this journey. I’ve searched endlessly! The traits were indisputable!” He thrust a finger into the sky like a dagger. “Strong he must be! Determined and stubborn as stone will she! A cold core stacked high with tinder waiting to receive its flame! Other characteristics as well, but none mattered so much as one.”

Pointing to her chest, eyes alight in a fit of mania, Yuze said, “That, young one, is all that truly matters. Answer me a single question. Your friend has bathed in darkness and even now converses with one not of this world. Untethered and drifting toward madness, his true nature horrifies you. Violent and cold and unforgiving. And yet…”

Yuze paused, and Mags looked to Marek. Her friend’s eyes were filled with sadness, but he didn’t raise a single objection.

Yuze calmed, and when he spoke again, his voice was solemn. “Knowing all this, would you consider leaving his side? Would you abandon Marek if his wits were lost? Will you leave the Remnant Mage?”

Mags swallowed. The stranger's rambling was no longer novel to any of them, yet this was the first time Yuze had focused on her. She opened her mouth, not sure what she might say. In the end, only a simple truth would do. “No. Marek is my brother, closer to me than anyone. I’m with him until the end—even if it means our deaths.”

Her cheeks flushed. The pressure of everyone’s gaze resting on her became nearly overwhelming. Ashurai most of all seemed to consider Mags anew. The warrior’s dark eyes reflected the firelight as he studied her. She wished Ashurai wasn’t so damn stoic, for in that moment she couldn’t tell if he thought her daft or admirable in her loyalty.

“Precisely,” the old man whispered. “Precisely what I thought.” Then, as suddenly as he had revealed himself, the old man withdrew. He recoiled from the fire and scrutinized the people around him, his features twisting with anger and confusion. Yuze snarled and spat into the fire. “Wasting my time, all of you,” he said, all levity gone from his voice. “The fire won't feed itself. If I neglect my task, the flames will die out completely. And then who will provide the spark? Do not bother me again!”

Yuze trudged ten steps from the campfire, each seeming to cost him dearly. Collapsing with a sigh that betrayed a century of weariness, he closed his eyes. His breathing soon settled, leaving only the faint hiss of inhalation. Yuze filled his lungs until his bony chest protruded.

Mags stared at the man as he exhaled. Her emotions were turbulent, her mind racing. “The hell was all that about?” she asked. “Principalities, how am I supposed to sleep tonight?”

"Much of his mind has been lost," Gorb said gently. “Or, more accurately, displaced. Yuze has traveled with me a great many years. Do not worry, Mags—he meant no harm. And Ashurai, do not bother the man, for the Wandering Sage needs not be explained.”

Nobody seemed capable of speaking after that. The lightheartedness of their gathering was gone, and Mags felt overcome with a need for sleep. Nothing made sense—not since Rauld had intruded on her life and Marek had usurped her very purpose.

She was just about to excuse herself when Marek stood. “I’ll be leaving tonight," he said firmly. "I found Graysoul tracks leading into the forest. I intend to hunt down and kill them while they’re far from the road—or worse, before they strike us in our sleep."

"If you seek battle with those horrors, I will come with you," Ashurai said, resting a hand on his sword.

Niamh buzzed nervously above the fire. “No! None shall go! Stay with the caravan! Only I can dispel the gray-touched curse. What if one of them infects you? Leave those monsters alone! I don't want to go near them, so please don’t ask me to come!”

Marek held up a hand. His demeanor changed subtly, and he wielded an authority Mags didn't know he possessed. "Neither of you will come. Be calm, Niamh. My familiar is capable of curing me. He can devour the taint directly along with their dark souls. All I’d ask of you is to explain what you know of them. How did the Graysouls come to be? What are they?”

The feyling shook her tiny fists on either side of her head, whimpering and trembling, her distress evident to all. Finally, Niamh alighted on Gorb’s head before growing in size. Her delicate features were easier to see like this: her sharp chin and angular face, wide-set eyes and a head topped with messy bronze hair. “I’ll tell you everything. Then maybe you’ll be smart and change your mind.”

Marek awaited the explanation, his expression so flat and withdrawn Mags wanted to box his ears. Why didn’t he tell me first? Aren’t we friends? Damn you, Marek—if you don’t die out there, I’ll kill you myself!

Niamh’s child-like voice lifted Mags from her spiraling thoughts. “The Irinai, what the humans call Greater Fey, created most of the races. They woke the first Durvhalem, the golemite lords, and crafted the Yalfan to shepherd the trees. Irinfallas, the fey capable of shifting forms, came next, followed by my kind. I am of the Irinhess—a sprite, you may call me, or simply a feyling. I cannot truly change form but am master of illusions. All of us lived in peace until the beast kin, the kobolds, and the humans came along.”

The sprite folded her arms and frowned. “That was when it all went bad. Wars upon wars. So much bloodshed that the lesser fey creatures retreated to Aiel. Humans claimed the eastern lands, but the beast kin remained close to those that made them. Long ago, the ambitious Haikini decided they wanted to rule the world over. They lacked the power, so they made a pact with the beings of the underworld. Trapped beyond the veil, the demons could only give the Haikini knowledge.”

Niamh shivered, and a plume of fog emerged from her lips. “The Culling Blade was forged. None recall how, for the smith who crafted it died when he quenched the sword, his very soul absorbed to fuel his creation. The Culling Blade is a hungry and terrible thing. Each life it takes births a Graysoul. Empty, a perfect vessel for an underling demon to possess. This is why you cannot control them, Remnant Mage. Perhaps your pet can eat them, and some strong mages can banish them… but otherwise they endure death after death.”

Pointing to the forest, she shouted, “Each of the souls that escaped will find a new host! They can animate corpses as well as living vessels. The Irinai themselves had to step in and banish the Graysouls during the Haikini Uprising. When it was finished, the Haikini High Priestess vowed to stand watch over the Culling Blade, made a blood oath never to use it again. I thought maybe, just maybe the story was only just a story, but…”

The sprite whimpered and flew down to a crook in Gorb’s shoulder to hide. The golemite finished for her. “But it appears someone has stolen the sword and begun the cycle all over again.”

Marek nodded, undoubtedly storing the information for later use as he always did. Mags perceived him then from a different angle. She staggered at how much he’d changed. Grown half a foot, face thin and hard, muscles broadening his shoulders and chest. Long gone was the sickly young man she’d grown up with.

He’s still my friend, she said stubbornly. He just also happens to be the Remnant Mage. I won’t forget that.

“Thank you,” Marek said, bowing at the waist. “I hope this cursed sword can be destroyed, or whoever took it can be stopped. All I can promise is that the Graysouls that ambushed us won’t be a threat any longer.”

Ashurai balled his fists. “It’s foolish to go alone. I must come.”

“No,” Marek said. “Do not follow, Ashurai, or I will be forced to leave you behind in the forest. This is my task, and I do it gladly. I need to gain power, and Allon must feed. I’ll see you all in the morning.”

62

THEIR FIRST HUNT

As disconcerting as it was to share a mind with a being as dark as Allon, Marek had learned much in recent days. The daemon had shared insights about various Abilities and confirmed one of Marek's suspicions regarding his Attribute Points. Intellect, for as useful it was for a common mage, did nothing for his own powers. And of the other Attributes, he and the daemon agreed on which would serve Marek the best.

Since leaving Middlebrook, he'd gained four levels in Sigilist and one in Soul Knight. Of the six available AP, four were invested in Willpower while the other two he placed in Dexterity. Marek's skill in combat, above all else, was lacking. Dexterity helped bridge the gap more than Strength or Constitution ever could, at least for his chosen Subclass. Were he strictly a Death Knight, things would be different. Marek didn’t intend to become a brawler, however. He was a summoner and a spellsword combined.

Marek was proud of the path he was forging. In fact, he’d been itching to steal away for a while. How else was he to gain levels?

He left the camp and the awkward stares of his companions behind, grateful to have the confrontation over with. Marek wasn't dim-witted enough to think the others hadn't noticed him changing. Mags most of all had taken note, and any time she looked at him, her eyes held the same loving concern her mother’s did when Mags came home after a fight.

She means well, he thought as he activated Empath's Gaze. She loves me. That much hasn't changed and I hope it never will. And who knows, maybe she'll get used to the new me or else I won't be so... removed when I bind the staff.

Mussst you? Allon asked. Seems you do just fine. Wait, Kaiteras. Wait till we find the twisted ones. You'll see! Effective we are when we hunts together. Why hinder progress with dumb staff?

Marek ignored the daemon. Arguing would do nothing. Instead, he treated the creature as he might a toddler, directing its attention to a more productive topic. I'll follow the tracks. Those are easy enough to follow. I need you to focus on our surroundings. There’s more than Graysouls in this forest. The last thing I need is to be ambushed by an unforeseen threat.

He summoned his familiar. Then, eyes downcast, he jogged through the dark, his enhanced vision making the task easy. Several Graysouls had come this way. Residual ether stained the game trail that wove through the trees. Two had cloven hooves, the prints small and deep. Boars, he guessed. Another was quite clearly that of a bear. At least two more he suspected to be Haikini, though it was hard to tell for certain. Until recently, he hadn't found the need to study the beast kin's footprints.

Soon, he and Allon were climbing the side of a small hill. The moon above illuminated much, and when he reached the hilltop, Marek spied a dark opening. A cave, he thought. I wonder what they're doing inside. Why take cover at all? What need does a possessed body have for shelter?

Allon didn't answer any of his questions, so Marek assumed the daemon didn't know. After agreeing to work with the creature, the rebellious beast within had been cooperative. Marek was grateful. Nothing would get him killed quicker than the distraction of having to grapple internally while he fought with sword or Spell.

The mouth of the cave was small, its ceiling just barely high enough to accommodate him without crouching. He removed Leyan’s spear from his back in order to enter. More tracks converged at the entrance. Marek calculated that at least a dozen of the Graysouls were hidden inside. Less if some came and went more than once. Or perhaps more. I don't know if any came here without a body to find whatever creatures might have inhabited the cave previously.

Marek clutched his stolen spear and crept deeper. Winding along a narrow tunnel, he soon came to a wider chamber. Rock formations dripped like candle wax from the ceiling. He was grateful to find a source of light ahead. It came from a fibrous plant dangling from the walls and rock formations. At least I won’t need a torch, he thought. One part of his mind thought to harvest a sample in case it held medicinal or magical properties, yet the other, frosted over in cold pragmatism and determination, insisted he focus on the hunt alone.

Marek heeded the latter.

Little could be heard but for intermittent drips falling from the ceiling. He paused when a far different sound confronted his senses. A throaty rattle reverberated from deeper in the cave. He would soon encounter the enemy. Twenty more paces in, the chamber floor began to slope downwards, and Marek's vision could suddenly penetrate much further. Four bulky shapes huddled together fifty feet away. The rattle came again. It was an odd sound—one he could almost identify.

Lungs filled with blood, Allon whispered in his mind. Creatures not dead and not living endure much. The Graysoul must have possessed a wounded beast. Matters little. We need only taste their souls.

Marek paused and slowed his breathing. His eyes adjusted further when he summoned Spirit Body and invested more ether. As his vision sharpened, he could more easily make out the scene ahead. Three hulking boars stood with snouts nearly pressed together. They gorged on something on the cave floor—something he doubted he'd want to see. One of the boars’ ribs rose and fell chaotically in sync with the rattle he'd heard. Allon had been right.

A fourth creature lifted its ugly head from between two of its companions. What the hells is that? Marek wondered as he studied its features. It had a large head topped by a crown of thin spikes silhouetted by the glowing plants behind it. Allon, do you know what that is? Blast, if only Empath’s Gaze could read the information from other living creatures!

Ugly it is, the daemon answered unhelpfully. And… stronger than the others. Maybe it has magic or just fast and strong. Kill this one first.

There was no point in waiting any longer. He had few Abilities that were effective against the Graysouls. This was a failing he intended to cure as soon as he reached his next threshold. Journeyman was but four levels away. With luck, and enough monsters to kill, Marek might just achieve that goal tonight.

Moving as quietly as he could, he shifted his footing, then hurled Leyan’s spear at the spiky-headed monster. The monster made its death inevitable when it stood upright at the sound of Marek’s movements. The spear drove through its chest and flung it backward out of sight.

Only one of the feasting boars seemed to have noticed, so Marek acted quickly.

Wraith Step, he thought. The dim world of the cave vanished, and when he reappeared, Marek stood three feet from the nearest boar. Fluidly, he thrust the black sword and punctured the side of the boar's skull. Marek pivoted, withdrew the blade, and brought it around in a tight arc. Ashurai had improved his footing, and the attack was smooth and effective. His target screeched a moment before its head fell to the ground.

The final boar charged. Four hundred pounds, if not more, with foot-long tusks and eyes that glowed like the shadows of the underworld, the monster would have torn him limb from limb—even Spirit Body would fail to prevent that outcome—yet its tusks met empty air when Marek triggered Wraith Step again.

Allon howled in delight as he pounced on the writhing Graysoul rising from the first beast. Marek appeared beside the third boar half a second later. He swung the sword with all his might, and the razor edge of the Scorch Steel bit deep. The boar's shoulder bone stopped the weapon, which caught Marek off guard. The boar thrashed in protest, flinging its tusked face at Marek’s thigh.

He backstepped and called upon his soul. A small shield emerged from his knee, taking the impact of the tusks. Marek stumbled but kept his footing. Drawing his shortsword, he drove it into the Graysoul’s chest.

"Eat," he said to Allon, “and do so quickly. One soul has already fled."

The daemon groaned in disappointment. His hunger was great, a fact he told Marek about constantly. It took time to devour the souls, though he'd already gotten better at gorging, more efficient. Allon's first victim had taken him nearly a full minute to consume, and in retrospect, Marek suspected the daemon might simply have been relishing his first meal. This time, Allon finished the first dark spirit in fifteen, maybe twenty seconds.

Another tainted soul zipped away toward the entrance of the cave. The last flew deeper into the cave, but Allon gave chase. Before it had gone twenty feet, he'd crashed into it and wrapped the soul in his black coils. Dragging it to the ground, Allon drank in its ether.

"Well done," Marek said. "When you finish, we'll see how deep this cave goes.”

The cavern tapered off into a series of tunnels. Marek didn't have to ask which would lead them to the enemy. A quick glance with Empath's Gaze revealed a messy corridor of glowing prints leading down the leftmost passage. Marek stalked ahead, greatsword in one hand, spear in the other. Both weapons dripped tainted blood.

As he stalked deeper into the hillside, he wondered what Mirrin would think of him. His actions, the old man would approve of. But what of how I'm performing them? Maybe it's different since I'm not killing men? Once these creatures were alive, though, and yet I feel... so very little. He remembered the first time he’d felt this. When fighting the bandits, his power had wreathed him in icy resolve. Few emotions could reach him once in this state, and ever since bonding with Allon, Marek had felt like this more and more often.

It is a sign of growth, Kaiteras. Embrace your heritage as I have. Eventually, you won't even think about the mortals you've left behind.

With an effort, Marek reasserted himself. He was in charge here, even if that control was tenuous. That is exactly what I'm afraid of, Allon. You might not think so, but my humanity is important. If I lose it, we'll be less than these Graysouls. We’ll be a scourge, a horror capable of untold slaughter. That, he told his familiar firmly, is not who we are.

Interestingly, the daemon paused before responding. Marek felt the creature's thoughts as they shifted. Allon’s hunger was great, but he too, Marek thought, might just be capable of salvation. I do not know humanity. I only know strength, and I know my purpose. I am here to make you stronger and to feed on those we kill.

Marek came to the end of the tunnel. Squeals, grunts, and growls echoed from a deeper chamber, all concealing another sound he didn't at all care for. Someone was... whimpering, crying out, begging to be spared.

Our purpose, he reminded them both, is to save those we can. Now quiet! We have killing to do.

63

THE SUM OF MANY

Steps dampened by Spirit Body, Marek entered a wide grotto. The ceiling rose tall enough to accommodate a small house, and a tepid pool in one corner reflected the light given off by countless glowing plants. The shadowy figures of twisted beasts were everywhere. And in their midst, he encountered an unholy sight. An enormous Druskin pinned one of its fellows to the ground.

The wolf kin writhed against its captor but lacked the strength to do more. "Please," it rasped. "Why are you doing this, Hirtane? I know you! You are a friend! Please, don't⁠—"

The Druskin's words ended with a scream. A Haikini Graysoul with a heavy bone sword was carving into the Druskin's body. Marek didn't know its purpose, but he'd seen more than enough. Attack anything that is tainted! he commanded Allon. Do not waste time on feeding. Harass, and injure as many as you can! You can feed after.

Five Graysouls stood in a row, all facing the debauchery.

Marek triggered Wraith Step. His being bled through theirs, and though the teleportation took less than a second, he felt their souls individually as he passed. A tainted Druskin, two Haikini, a stag, and a bear all felt his presence. Each grunted as they staggered, momentarily stunned. Their souls, not their bodies, were damaged in the process. While this effect was minor, Marek imagined it could quickly add up.

He appeared near the Haikini hacking at the only untainted soul in the cave. Marek flung his spear, trusting his aim with such a short throw, then tapped into his ether reserves twice more. In a zigzagging pattern, he blurred through the gathered Graysouls. When he'd finished, nearly ten had been stunned and wounded, and one Haikini twitched on the ground with a spear jutting sideways through its ribs.

Marek had never used Wraith Step so rapidly. Doing so had consequences, apparently, for not only did a sizable portion of his reserves burn away, but his sense of direction was momentarily skewed.

The point of a spear flashed out from the crowd. Marek blocked it with his left forearm, and the plate of ethereal armor protecting him shattered. Thankfully, Marek wasn’t alone.

Allon tore through the monsters and, sensing his master’s danger, scattered the Graysouls surrounding Marek. Small claws emerged from his snake-like body to rake fur and flesh and leather hide alike. Allon's jaws went to work when he targeted a buck wielding an imposing set of antlers. As dangerous as its horns may have been, the creature had no way to defend its long neck.

Marek’s sense of balance finally returned, and he cut down two stunned Graysouls in rapid succession. His mind sank deeper into that stifling blanket of indifference and resolve. He carved the beasts around him into more manageable pieces. In less than a minute, half the Graysouls had fallen.

Master! Allon shouted, his voice piercing the clamor in the cave. Thisss one is strong!

Near the edge of the pool, Marek spotted a hulking Druskin swatting at the air and narrowly missing a frantic daemon. There was something odd about the monster. Unlike the other Graysouls, this one’s body glowed. Fell energy surrounded it like an aura. Allon had indeed found a strong opponent, and Marek didn’t hesitate to charge.

He hacked off the leg of a Haikini rushing at him to clear the way, then dashed across the cavern. The creature must have heard or otherwise sensed him coming, for it turned to face him. Its eyes! They’re terrifying! Shining like beacons, the Druskin’s gaze was palpable. Marek ignored his racing heart and drew back his sword.

The Druskin bared its fangs in what might have been a grin. Then it lifted one foot and stomped the ground. A ripple of power surged from the being, breaking up the very rock of the cavern floor. Marek, who’d come within ten feet of the creature, was tossed in the air. He landed on his back, teeth clacking together. He tasted blood, and his vision swam with shadows. He urged himself to move, but his body responded slower than needed.

Marek managed only to roll to his side before heavy footfalls approached. The Druskin swung a thick-bladed sword crafted of bone directly at Marek’s skull.

Unable to do otherwise, the mage flickered out of existence, reappearing at the Graysoul’s back. The monster spun with uncanny speed and lashed out. Marek knew he couldn’t waste time or ether. Both, he feared, were running out. Rather than evade or teleport, he caught the sword on his own, using all of his strength to do so. Fragments of bone flew in all directions as the Druskin’s weapon exploded. Marek flung himself forward and drove his shoulder into the monster’s chest. At the moment of contact, he activated Distort Soul. A spear of his inner being drove through the Druskin’s heart.

Allon, still in a panic, screamed in Marek’s mind, Behind you! Kaiteras, another comes to feast!

Marek pivoted, ready to slash at anything he might encounter. An ear-splitting roar crashed through him, and somehow, his body locked in place. Limbs rigid, head spinning, Marek found himself completely vulnerable. Damn! Some of these things can use Abilities! I’m stunned!

A deep rending across his shoulders silenced his thoughts. Sharp claws shattered the back plate of his Spirit Body and sank into the muscle and sinew of his back. Marek gasped, then, finding the stun effect gone, blinked away with Wraith Step.

An eight-foot bear stood on its hind legs, crimson dripping from the claws of one paw. Its eyes burned with the same intensity the Druskin’s had. The monster crashed to all fours and charged.

True and desperate battle followed.

For the first time, Marek knew with certainty that he courted death. Not since he'd ambushed the bandits had he been in such danger, and even then, fighting under the open sky with trackable and knowable opponents couldn't compare to this. His black sword and the dark beast beside him were his only weapons.

Marek poured more and more ether into Spirit Body. The defense kept him alive, but the twisted monsters in the cave left him bloody and ragged nonetheless. The bear fell, and then other common Graysouls took their turn gnashing and clawing at the dark mage among them. Time passed. Marek's lungs burned, and his body grew cold from blood loss and an increasing lack of ether. Not once did he pause to rest, for the enemy wouldn’t allow it.

Spilling the bowels of a Druskin Graysoul, Marek spun in a full circle and didn’t find anything left to kill. Allon fed nearby, and the cave had gone quiet. A hopeful thought came to him, and he searched among the carnage. Too slow, he thought sadly. I was too slow. The Druskin that had begged for his life lay dead alongside his tainted brother.

Dozens of Graysouls rose all around. Warped and haggard corpses bled out in the eerie glow of the cavern. Allon fed from three of the tainted spirits before the rest escaped. Too many, Marek feared—far too many—would find another host soul and seek out prey once more.

A roar at the back of the cavern, nearly as loud as the bear’s had been, interrupted his meandering thoughts. “You’ve got to be joking,” he muttered. The battle, it seemed, was not yet over. Emerging from the depths, a fiend stomped toward Marek. Each step sent a ripple across the pool. Marek could feel it vibrate through his boots, and then it entered the light of the glowing plants. Marek’s blood froze in his veins.

As he watched the abomination approach, his sluggish mind put together the pieces of the strange ritual he'd stumbled across. Like a chimera from legend, its body was composed of several beasts. Its lower extremities had been carved from a Haikini, the powerful rabbit legs larger than they should have been, muscle swelling so greatly the soft fur had split in many places. Its chest and belly were stolen from a bear, as was one of its enormous arms. The opposing limb was Druskin, and its size too was exaggerated. And atop the horror's neck was a great antlered head.

Marek's courage wavered when the Graysoul opened its mouth and spoke. Each word held the echo of overlapping voices. "He only slows our progression. The blade is active, and more of my kin enter this world each day! Too late and far too weak, heir of Kaiteras! You will not defy the legion!" This thing that towered above him was host not to one but to many.

Allon drifted to Marek's side. His daemon hungered as always, and yet his familiar's fear was palpable. Shall we flee? Allon asked, a question that took Marek completely by surprise. The answer was simple. They could not. And yet Marek's Ether Core had been drained almost completely. His body, too, had taken a great toll. The enchanted armor he'd purchased from Shutterkeep hung in ribbons, and he scarcely had the strength to stand.

Marek hefted his sword and pointed at the monstrosity. "Attack," he said before tapping into Empath's Gaze. As he'd hoped, a single spirit floated above the dead Druskin. Marek was surprised he could feel a link to the spirit, unlike the kobolds he’d slain. He could command this being—however, that wasn't what he needed.

Marek drank in the offered soul at the same time that Allon flew into the monster’s face. The mage's body healed rapidly. Only a little ether remained to fill his core. It’ll have to be enough.

The daemon sank black fangs into the neck of the beast, who didn't seem bothered in the slightest. One great Druskin hand wrapped around Allon's neck while the clawed bear paw raked down his slithering length. Allon screeched in pain. His connection to Marek sang of torment and agony. And in a wave of darkness, the daemon was destroyed.

Marek sensed the being return to the depths of his mind, shaken and terrified. Thank you for your sacrifice, he told his familiar. That was exactly what I needed.

The monster lunged, crackling gray energy filling the palm of its bear paw, and the hair on Marek's neck stood on end. This Graysoul, ascended like the other two he’d fought, could command its fell energy. These were no mindless beasts. They had access to the Skills of their hosts.

One of those sacrificed to create this abomination must have been a mage, for the mana gathered in its paw formed into a sphere and shot through the air toward Marek.

Wraith Step thrust the mage straight through the monster's foul heart. The four demonic souls within howled at his passage. Far too little damage was done to the greater Graysoul, yet its senses were baffled for an instant. Marek slashed the back of the Haikini legs. Thick, corded hamstrings parted, and the monster crashed onto its knees. He cut once more at the beast's lower back, though the bear's spine refused to give.

Heat washed over Marek’s face, so intense that cracks raced across his visor. The monster’s entire body then burst into flames. Green and black and gray, the fire’s heat shattered the entirety of Marek’s Spirit Body.

The Remnant Mage vanished, avoiding a painful death. When he reappeared, his body hung above the monster. He extended his soul through his foot to form a shield to absorb some of the flame’s wrath. In an overhead strike, Marek brought his sword down. His shield moved up his body to remain between him and the Graysoul’s fire as he delivered his punishment.

The black blade swept through the stag's neck, and those terrible gray eyes winked out. The flames guttered out as well, and just in time, for Marek’s face and body were covered in blisters.

Four souls raged. Four writhing gray entities, demons within the husks of borrowed spirits, spun around Marek in a circle. They could no longer speak, yet Marek could easily sense their malevolence. In a rush of chill wind, they departed, racing up the incline and out of sight in the blink of an eye.

They would be back, he knew. And soon.

64

THRESHOLD BREAK

Congratulations! Novice Remnant Mage has been promoted to Journeyman Remnant Mage!

Current Rank: Level 23

Skills: Empath’s Gaze, Spirit Body, Ether Siphon, Command Spirit, Distort Soul, Summon Familiar, Wraith Step, *Elevate Champion

Threshold Break! By advancing to a critical stage of development, you have been rewarded with Elevate Champion. No Soul Knight should march into battle without a champion at his side.

Available Skill Slots: 3

Available Class Skills (Soul Knight Subclass): Rending Cut, Bind Ether, Mitigate, Wailing Chains, Requiem Explosion, Spirit Rend, Specialize Unit, Resonance Field, Spirit Ward, Spiritual Bulwark

Available Familiar Skill Slots: 2

Available Familiar Skills: Abyssal Shriek, Advantageous Hunger, Coiled Strike, Dark Visions

Available Trait Slots: 1

Traits: Choose any eligible Skill and bind it to your Ether Core. Chosen Trait will evolve this Skill as well as grant a passive Ability.

"Prudence be praised, this is insane!" Marek shouted. His voice echoed off the cavern walls, crashing against his ears in waves.

Something about hearing his words repeated back to him inspired a thread of self-awareness. He sat with folded legs amid a pile of corpses. Blood reflected wetly across the stone floor, and his clothes and armor were in ruins.

“I’m a proper mess,” he said, looking down at himself. “Glad Mags isn’t here to see it. She’d lose her shit.” He laughed and used much of the ether his core had replenished since the fight ended to summon his familiar. He’d taken the health potion and spent a good ten minutes staring into the void after slaying the last monster. There was little point hoarding his ether now.

Besides, the moment was too important to experience alone. “Allon, can you believe this? Three Skills to choose, one new Trait—whatever that is—and the system granted me Elevate Champion automatically!"

The daemon's response was underwhelming. "More power means more feasts to come.”

Marek checked his enthusiasm as best he could, realizing he’d been insensitive. "Sorry, I guess I forgot what you just went through. Was it... painful?"

Allon's laugh sent chills up Marek's spine. Like scales raking scales, it was a terrible sound, though it pleased Marek that the creature was showing signs of his usual self. "A compound Graysoul ripped my spirit in two, Kaiteras. You tell me, was it painful?"

"Dumb question," Marek admitted. "I should have asked, are you going to be okay?"

The daemon shuddered. Crackling purple mana ran along its length. "Yesss, I will endure. About your advancement. Why not invest your Attribute Points first? Those taste lovely. Every time you get stronger, so do I."

"That can wait. This is the fun part. I'll assign them when we finish. Besides, you'll gain two Skills as well. Doesn't that excite you a little?"

Allon bared his fangs. "Yesss, that is true. Sharper fangs makes Allon stronger.”

Marek wasn't sure what disturbed him more: hearing his familiar's voice aloud—something he'd rarely experienced—or the fact that it didn't seem to bother him much. Dismissing the thought, Marek began sifting through his available Skills. Several stood out immediately, and he read their descriptions. He soon discovered a few trends.

"Some of these are similar. Spiritual Bulwark, Spirit Ward, and Resonance Field all project ether in an area around me. The first is simple; it just absorbs all damage until the bulwark shatters. Useful, but limited. Spirit Ward only absorbs a portion of the damage but converts it to mana and stamina. Not bad, especially in the thick of things."

He reread the last, and knew he'd be torn either way. Resonance Field boosted the Abilities, healing, and stamina recovery of all party members within range. "So, what's your vote if we choose one of these? Full protection? Partial protection with a partial buff? Or focus exclusively on enhancing the party?"

Allon hissed. "These Skills useless! Nothing to sharpen fangsss!"

Marek chuckled. "I suppose you're right. If I wanted that, I could choose Rending Cut, but I'm still not convinced of that one. I have a sharp sword, and with time, Distort Soul might do something similar. Okay, what about these, then?" Wanting to entice his familiar a little, Marek read the Skills aloud.

Spirit Rend: A heavy cleaving attack that disrupts the soul of the target, preventing them from using special Abilities or magic for a short time.

Requiem Explosion: An area-of-effect attack that channels a vast amount of ether reserves into a thunderous blast that extends in all directions. Deaths created from this attack automatically convert souls into ether, replenishing a portion of the mage’s reserves.

"The last sounds tasty!” Allon said, flying in a tight loop above Marek's head.

Marek sighed. He couldn't agree more, but it was painfully obvious his familiar had a different perspective on combat than he did. "True, it does. Of the three, I'd lean more favorably toward Spirit Rend, however. The capacity to silence an enemy mage or stop a Berserker from activating its rage Ability would be devastating. It's also more versatile."

Predictably, the daemon shuddered, hissed, and called him unimaginative and boring. Moving on, Marek read the final Skill he'd saved for last. He prayed to Tenacity above it might be what he hoped.

Specialize Unit: Transform a bound spirit to take on a specialized role, granting it Abilities tailored to the chosen Class. The specialization lasts until the spirit is dismissed or destroyed. Each of the following roles may be chosen to provide unique combat or support capabilities: Defender, Mage, Healer, Rogue, Berserker, Archer.

"Say what you will about me and my lack of flare. In the end, it's about power. Am I wrong?"

Without delay, he selected Specialized Unit. Wailing Chains was his second choice. The silencing effect of Spirit Rend was tempting, but stopping an enemy in its tracks while also sapping its ether was too good to pass up. "I have one slot remaining," he said. "Of the others, which would you go for?"

"If you don't choose explosion, I will leave and bond with another."

"I thought you'd say that," Marek admitted. "All I can say is I'm sorry. When my Willpower is higher, I'll consider it."

Marek's third Skill choice was Phantom Bolt. It may have been unimaginative, but he desperately wanted a ranged attack. "Don't throw a tantrum," he told the daemon. "This one's evolvable. Eventually, it'll become a worthier Skill in your estimation, I'm sure."

He confirmed his choices and closed his eyes as his core and body adapted. When he opened them again, a very angry, very silly-looking daemon was hovering in front of his face. 

Allon hissed and snapped his jaws menacingly. “Of all the choices you forced me to consider, you only chose one. Why did we even discuss the others?”

“We’ll level up again. Right now, I needed to increase my chances of survival. Next time around, I’ll select a party buff or protection Spell, and maybe… maybe a big fancy attack.”

"Fine, Kaiterasss, you win,” Allon said bitterly. “But if you dare defile my choices, I will⁠—”

"You can choose what pleases you most," Marek said, interrupting the creature. "All I ask is that you consider my suggestions."

"Truly? You give me choices?”

Marek nodded. "Yes. It seems fair, and besides, you've already been an asset. I doubt any additional Abilities could take away from that."

Allon cackled far longer than necessary, but Marek indulged him. Quieting at last, the daemon said, “Advantageous Hunger and Coiled Strike. Those are the bessst choices.”

“Why do you say so?” Marek asked. “The other two have potential as well.”

“My existence is to consume. With first Skill, I can eat more, eat faster, and have energy to kill enemies!”

Marek smiled. His familiar might be single-minded, but the creature did think logically. “And the second?”

Allon snapped his jaws again and shouted, “Coiled Strike makes fangs sharper! If I kill faster, I eat sooner!”

Marek held back a laugh. Undoubtedly, the daemon would take offense, and that wouldn’t do if his intention to guide the evil beast was to be successful. “Coiled Strike doubles the damage of a single attack. I admit, that would help you kill stuff faster. Abyssal Shriek, however, could let you stun more than one enemy at a time, making them vulnerable. And… Dark Visions is more versatile still. By creating false images with your power, you could confuse and deceive your enemies.”

“Hunter does not deceive. Hunter has no fear.”

This time, Marek couldn’t help but chuckle. “Okay, I get your point. Tell me this, though—is there anything crueler and more malicious than striking terror in the hearts of your enemies and then killing them?”

Allon’s reptilian jaw slackened a little. Eyes widening, the daemon gasped. “Oh, Massster is devious! Yes, cruel is good! These are the Skills I want! More hunger and power to frighten and trick the enemy!”

“Excellent,” Marek said while finalizing the decisions.

Allon writhed and shuddered, and when the change was finished, the familiar sneered viciously. “Shall we hunt again?”

Marek shook his head. “You’re insatiable. Soon, Allon. We’ll hunt again soon, I promise. I’m not finished, however. I still haven’t chosen a Trait.”

The daemon slunk away in the cave and began summoning shadows, creating nightmarish images with his new Skill.

While Allon was distracted, Marek reviewed the list of eligible Skills he could bind to his core to forge a Trait. Wailing Chains, Ether Siphon, and Summon Familiar all came with impressive passive Abilities. The first would grant him the Trait Battlefield Jailor. Its passive would occasionally shackle nearby foes, greatly increasing his capacity to disable the enemy. Ether Siphon’s Trait was called Sophisticated Siphon, which included a passive to increase the speed and efficiency of absorption as well as allow him to direct life energy toward party members to heal them. Lastly, Summon Familiar could become Daemon Master, which would let him summon a second familiar.

One Allon was about as much daemon as he could handle.

All other considerations bled away when Marek read the Trait derived from Specialize Unit.

Spectral Commander: Assign up to six specialized units to a single squad, promoting one of them to the position of Squad Leader. Squad Leaders become semi-autonomous and can carry out complex orders such as Focus Fire, Support Allies, Defensive Formation, Flanking Maneuver, and Overwhelm.

Each unit type grants its own party buff when promoted:

Defender: Increased damage resistance and stamina.

Mage: Increased damage output and mana regeneration.

Healer: Continual health regeneration.

Rogue: Stealth bonus and increased critical hit chance.

Berserker: Greatly boosted strength.

Archer: Enhanced ranged damage and accuracy.

“This…” Marek said in a whisper. “This is truly the beginning. Restraint save me, but I don’t know if there will be any going back now.”

Marek chose the final option. The intuitive knowledge wove its way through his mind, and a cold smile formed on his lips. Wreathed in shadow and removed from doubt, he assigned his Attribute Points. He increased Dexterity significantly and added one point to both Charisma and Strength, just so he was technically above the average threshold. The rest he poured into his ever-expanding Willpower.

No caution or concern for comfort guided his hand when he finalized the decision. All fourteen points surged through his being. Pain and pleasure danced through Marek’s body and mind. He relished the experience, exalted in it.

A grating laugh issued from his nearby familiar. When the transformation was complete, Marek found a much-changed Allon. Twice as large, with longer fangs and two small arms dangling from its coiling body, the daemon was a terrible sight.

Marek got to his feet and began the walk back to camp. He stepped over corpses, his smile broad as he brought up his personal information.

Name: Marek Kaiteras

Primary Class: Remnant Mage Level 23

Subclass: Soul Knight

Skills: Empath’s Gaze, Spirit Body, Ether Siphon, Command Spirit, Distort Soul, Summon Familiar, Wraith Step, Phantom Bolt, Wailing Chains, Specialize Unit

Trait: Spectral Commander

Secondary Class: Sigilist Level 12

Skills: Intuit, Imbue

Strength: 11

Dexterity: 18

Constitution: 14

Intelligence: 20 (Affliction: Core Atrophy, 12% Reduction)

Willpower: 40

Charisma: 11

“Don’t worry,” he told the daemon floating beside him. “I feel the hunger as well. We won’t wait nearly so long to hunt again.”

65

SHADOWS AND SHAME

"Don't eat it all. You are worse than a pig, Rushi," Ashurai complained. "Keep it up and you'll have the belly of a drunkard." The panganid finished the squirrel and grunted. She pawed the ground, her way of asking for more, and the warrior chuckled quietly. "Fine, you can have the last, but four is the limit. I will not hunt again for you until tomorrow."

He watched his beloved companion gorge herself, and after sensing she'd indeed cleaned out her master's stock of squirrels, she curled up at his feet to sleep. "Brahli desh," he cursed, calling her a lazy ass in the tongue his mother had taught him so many years ago.

His watch had only begun, yet Ashurai found the passage of time oppressive this night. The camp was fraught with tension. He unsheathed Gela, the curved shortsword he'd been given by his swordmaster upon defeating the old man. Gela was a term of endearment some Basari housewives used for their children. It meant "little lovely" in Ardean, though Ashurai had never taken to the language. Every translation was somehow lacking.

Gela held a keen edge, and he'd already honed her thoroughly after the Graysoul attack. There was no reason he could not polish the blade, however, and so he did to soothe his mind and make the time flow easier. As he stroked the sword with an oiled cloth, he let his mind wander. Gorb and Niamh have not been so distressed since I began working with them. The old man's mind seems more frayed than usual... Is it the mage? Or am I placing too much on his shoulders? There’s the news of the beast kin war. That is troubling them as well, but it seems deeper than that. And they are not the only ones upset.

The young woman that traveled with Marek came to mind. Rarely had Ashurai seen a woman with such intense eyes. Much like me when I was young, he thought, chuckling bitterly. He too had been angry at the curse of not unlocking a Class. Unlike most, however, Ashurai had chosen to ignore the limitations of his power. He'd trodden paths few would consider, and though he'd succeeded by most standards, the price was still heavy to this day.

A stick snapped in the dark ahead of him. He crouched and placed a hand on Rushi's shoulder, alerting the panganid and preventing her from startling. Eyes focusing, he found the figure of a man walking toward camp. A patch of moving shadow floating above the man's shoulder, darker than the night itself, told him who was approaching. He relaxed a little but kept Gela in his hand just in case.

When the figure came within ten strides, Ashurai called out the challenge word. "Flint."

"Flowers,” Marek answered. “How goes it, Ashurai?"

The warrior sighed and rose to his full height. Sheathing his shortsword, he gave an honest reply. "I am bored, Rushi is still hungry, and the others sleep."

Marek stepped out of the shadow between two trees. The mage's familiar vanished, which comforted Ashurai. None in camp enjoyed the creature's company, and every time Marek summoned it, they all held their breath. A sliver of moonlight fell on the young man, and Ashurai had to suppress a gasp.

Marek held up a hand, as if sensing Ashurai's dismay. "I'm fine. Found the Graysouls and dealt with them. I need new clothes and armor, but I'm no longer injured."

Ashurai didn't know how to react. Normally, when a man's armor was ripped and tattered it meant his life was forfeit. Yet Marek walked steadily, not betraying any sign of injury. "How? How are you not dead?"

Marek's shoulders rose and fell. "My curse comes with a few benefits," he said darkly. "I healed myself. That's all you need to know." With that, the mage patted Ashurai on the shoulder and walked past him, pausing just long enough to add, "Thank you for the sword lessons. They saved my life tonight. Ah, and I learned something. The Graysouls are more complex than we thought. Some are greater, capable of using the host’s Abilities. They’re dangerous and smarter as well.”

“Mother’s blessing,” Ashurai whispered. “That isn’t good.”

“No, nor is the compound Graysoul that I killed. The monsters are assembling bodies from various creatures in order to contain more than one soul. The one I fought was made of four souls, and believe me, it wasn’t easy to kill.”

Ashurai bobbed his head, but Dumhvala had stolen his tongue. He couldn't speak a word after the exchange, as Marek headed towards camp. He could only listen to his heartbeat and the whistle of air passing through Rushi's front teeth as she slept. He had the urge to scratch his forearms, to dig at the scars wrapped beneath his clothing. Only discipline held him back. Gorb and Niamh must hear of this. I can tell them in the morning. But how he grows in power! What I wouldn't have done to receive his curse… Could I have survived a second, though? The one I was born with nearly destroyed my soul. And what of Marek’s soul?

Neither Srahesh, the Bound Father, or Surrghi, the Liberated Mother, would bless a power so dark. Their way insisted on remaining in the light. Ashurai had left their path years ago, and it was more than a little disturbing to witness a young man similarly tainting his soul in the pursuit of power. I had a choice in the matter, he thought, condemning himself yet again. That is what separates us... I had a choice.

A muffled cry rose from camp, and hurried footsteps followed. Someone staggered in the dark, foot catching on a rope or an unseen pack. Then the woman Mags appeared, stalking angrily past him. Her shoulders trembled, and she growled before pitching forward onto her knees. The sound of weeping nearly tore Ashurai's heart in two.

Rushi scuttled to the woman and butted against her backside. "Hey," Mags said, laughing a little. "Nice to see you too."

The panganid nuzzled Mags, earning the pet she craved. And since it was now clear the distraught Ardean had yet to notice him, Ashurai decided to speak up. "She shows her affection aggressively."

Mags started and clutched her chest. "Gods, Ashurai. I didn't see you. I..." Mags trailed off and sniffled. Stroking Rushi's bristled fur, she tried again. "Sorry, I didn't mean to make an ass of myself. I thought I was alone."

Ashurai stepped closer. "You did nothing of the sort. If I understand the situation, you are upset by the condition your friend was in?"

Mags stood. Her eyes remained hooded, but the curve of her cheek and neck were illuminated in the silver moonlight. "Something like that. He... Logic bless the bastard, but he said he didn't know why I was mad! Marek must have been chewed to pieces to have ruined that leather armor. He just piled it up in the corner of the tent, saying, 'I'll need to get better armor next time.'"

"He has the heart of a warrior," Ashurai said. "His body did appear strong when I saw him, if that gives you any comfort."

Mags chuckled, but there was no mirth in the expression. "Not really. I'm trying to get used to this. If you could have seen him two months ago, you wouldn't believe how much he's changed. Marek—he's not a warrior. He's not the fighting type at all. He likes books and crafting and taking care of his uncle."

The Basari waited before answering. Undoubtedly, the woman mostly needed to express her frustration and fear. This was understandable. "Marek sounds like a good man," he said at last. "Good men change after facing battle. Men and women alike. You know that much yourself, do you not?"

Mags rubbed her cheeks and sniffled again. She looked away, eyes cast up toward the moon. She stayed that way a full minute, hands resting on her hips, before she faced him again. "Suppose you're right. You know, you're kinda wise for a scary killer man."

Ashurai snorted. It was amazing how often this little woman managed to slip under his guard. "Scary killer man?" he asked. "How flattering a light you see me in."

"Not really an exaggeration, Ashurai. You should look at yourself in a mirror sometime. I pretty much hit it on the nose."

He laughed, and she joined a moment later. When the moment passed, Mags sighed and peered over Ashurai's shoulder. “When are we leaving here anyway? I’m afraid what will happen to Marek if he doesn’t finish his quest soon.”

“There is fighting in the passes ahead. Dozens of tribes have joined both sides, and the war wages hotly. Gorb will not participate, so it has chosen to wait here in the canyon a while longer. I do not know when we’ll leave.”

Mags’ frown was a sad and weary thing. He could just make out her pinched expression in the moonlight. Her heart was hurting, and this in turn caused him pain. "Hey,” she said, speaking in a soft voice only he could hear, “do you mind if I stay a little? I'll keep quiet, I promise."

Ashurai shrugged. "If it suits you, of course I don't mind. Rushi enjoys your company."

Mags sat and faced the wilderness a few feet from Ashurai's position. True to her word, she didn't speak again, which both comforted and saddened him. The tactical side of his mind knew they'd already made far too much noise while guarding the camp. The more human side of him, however, wished she might talk with him all night.

Rushi waddled up to Mags and flopped down in the woman's lap. She rested an arm over the scaled creature's back. Ashurai too found the silence, intimate and so very close, and joined the others in its warm embrace.

66

OLDER THAN THE GROVE

A sharp pain in her rib pierced the veil of her sleep. Mags groaned and rolled over, pulling her blanket over her head to block out the morning light. Again, something nudged her, and this time it was accompanied by a voice. "Rise, little thunder cloud. You cannot walk the path asleep!"

"The hells?" she grumbled, rising up on an elbow and peering through one eye. Her vision swam, blurry from lack of sleep. "Cut it out, Marek, or I'll..." The wide eyes of Yuze greeted her. They were bright and lucid, and the man's face appeared almost completely devoid of wrinkles. "Oh," she said dumbly. "What do you want? I'm trying to sleep."

"The stone is in the stream, the feyling convenes with her people, and the warrior instructs the mage," Yuze said in his typical elaborate phrasing. "Only you and I remain, and I can't wait any longer, curse you. Come and be enlightened!"

Unable to summon any sort of a reasonable reaction, Mags flopped her head down and curled up in the warmth of her blankets. "Don't need enlightenment, thank you very much. Just another hour or two of shuteye. Now, if you don't mind."

Something whacked the top of her head, and Yuze cackled. "Dim as a moonless night! Can’t you see I’m serious? Get up or I'll keep hitting you!" Another whack, this one hardest of all, finally drove the fatigue from her mind.

Mags flung off her blankets and threw open the flap of the tent. Squinting against the sunlight, she shouted, "Hit me again, old man, and I'll knock your weird ass out!"

Yuze giggled. Hunched over his gnarled walking stick, he had the mischievous grin of a child plastered on his face. "As if you could touch me." Quicker than any old man had a right to be, he flicked out his stick and struck her twice, once on the side of her arm and the next atop her hand after she'd raised it to block the first.

"Quit that!" she cried, eyes ablaze with anger. Few in her family had the gall to wake her so rudely. Mags woke with a temper most mornings, and it didn't go away till she ate something. "Listen, I don't know what you want, but leave off already!"

Suddenly composed, Yuze said, "Follow me and I will. You must come now. I have something to show you." When she made no move to follow, the devilish bastard flew at her again. His stick was a blur. Three strikes this time, and hard as a swordmaster's. Welts began to rise from her thigh, shoulder, and forearm. "Last time I ask, Tiny Tower. Come, eat on the way, and then listen with heart and soul. That's all I ask."

Mags' eyes widened and her nostrils flared. She gaped at Yuze, who was calmly walking off into the woods. "How'd you know… Who told you that awful name?” she hollered, but the man of course didn't answer. She wracked her brain and couldn't remember a single time Marek might have used the insult. He'd only done it a few times in their lives, and for good reason. Infuriated and confused, she balled her fists and shook them. "At least wait a bit! I need to put on my boots!"

Yuze cackled and lifted one unshod foot. "Shoes are for the weak!" he called back. "Come, the grass is soft, and the journey is short!"

Mags was so angry, and the situation so absurd, that she found herself laughing. Muttering under her breath, she said, "A right bastard, but he's got wit. Geezer always has a quick response, doesn't he? He’d fit right in at home.” At this point, she knew full well she'd never get back to sleep. Worse, she had grown curious. So wearing only her trousers and nightshirt, she jogged in Yuze's footsteps.

True to his word, Yuze didn't take them far. A quarter-mile up a short hill, he stopped under the broad boughs of an oak tree. It was an old thing, trunk so thick it would take ten men linking hands to wrap around it. "And here we are," Yuze said, staring up into the branches. "Did you know the Shirgrim Oak rarely grows from seed? Strange thing, if you consider all the acorns they shed."

"I didn't," Mags admitted. Frowning, she folded her arms and waited for something, anything to make sense.

Yuze dipped a hand in his robes and drew out an apple. "Eat!" he said cheerfully. "Then listen."

She caught the fruit as it spun her way. Its skin was bright red and the flesh firm. Where Yuze had gotten a perfectly ripe apple, she couldn't say. Her belly was empty, though, and the thought of eating superseded her better judgment. Mags took a bite.

The apple crunched loudly. Juice spilled down her chin, and she moaned in delight. "By Dalen's beard and the Old Gods beneath him! This is delicious!"

Yuze shook his bald head. "Dalen may be a god, but he certainly isn't old. Ask the Aiel and they'll set you straight. Now, about the oaks."

Mags was torn. On one hand, Yuze had just blasphemed against the deities she'd grown up with. On the other, her mouth couldn't abide a second longer without another bite. She gave in to her craving and crunched again.

"Similar to the Ardean Aspen that grows in the far south, the Shirgrim Oak duplicates itself time and again. Rather than doing so with fresh shoots that rise from the roots below, the oaks take advantage of storms, decay, and the inevitability of time." Yuze pointed to a limb on the far side of the tree. It had cracked under the immense weight of the bough, and one end lay on the leaf-strewn ground. "You see, eventually this grandfather will die, but one of its fallen boughs will set down roots of its own and rise toward the heavens in its image."

Mags finished the apple and contemplated eating the core. Never in her life had she tasted any fruit so delicious. Her tongue practically tingled with the sweetness, and every bite had been crisp and refreshing. In the end, she tossed the core into her mouth and chewed it happily.

Yuze chuckled. "Wise to consume all of the Divine Fruit. You'll thank your gluttonous heart later you did so."

"Divine Fruit?" Mags asked, her words garbled.

"Indeed. Plucked that centuries ago! Anyhow, that's the extent of your lesson. You're welcome. Now, catch." The old man flicked one foot forward, and a branch flew toward Mags.

She caught it on reflex. "I appreciate breakfast," she said, cheeks coloring with a thread of the rage Yuze had kindled earlier. "Best apple I ever had. Doesn't mean I'm good with you poking me, whacking me about, and flinging sticks at me."

Yuze lifted his walking stick and slammed it down with impressive strength. It sank half a foot in the soil. Then he began striding toward her. "Oh, young one, you're lucky I have such keen eyes. I haven't picked you out for your intellect—that's for sure."

Mags bit her lip. "Insults and injury. A random lecture on blasted oak trees with a touch of blasphemy! How did Gorb and the others tolerate you this long?"

"Because like you, Marigold, I am more than I seem." Yuze dashed in, robes billowing behind him. He changed direction at the last second and spun. Then, before she could so much as blink, he smacked her forehead with his open palm. "Fight me, little one! Or am I mistaken? Were you not born with a storm in your heart?"

Mags growled. Turning on her heel, she gripped one end of the stick like a blade and rose to the bait. "Quit! Hitting me!" she screamed. Mags thrust low, then high toward Yuze's chest. He dodged both with disturbing ease, which only infuriated her more. She slashed again and again at the old man, not once getting within an inch of his frail body.

Yuze laughed like the madman he was. After half a minute, he went on the offensive once more. A second time and then a third he slapped her forehead, cackling all the harder each time. "That head of yours will be the toughest part of you to break. My, you're a stubborn one!"

Face burning, Mags tried to counter Yuze's assault. She used every trick she'd learned, and none succeeded. Finally, she rushed him blindly and raised the stick high to bludgeon her pesky opponent. Yuze sidestepped the attack, dipped low, and swung a heel neatly around the back of hers. The ground greeted her enthusiastically.

Mags coughed, the branches above spinning a little. Then the bright eyes of the wanderer appeared a foot from her face. Yuze's grin was devious and kind at the same time. "I am older than the oak," he whispered, “and older than the grove itself. I've searched for you for a thousand years. Now, finally, the time has come."

"What are you talking about?" Mags asked, desperate for any kind of answer.

Yuze's smile fell away from his lips. Eyes still shining, he said, "It's time for you to wake." He tapped her forehead with one finger, and the whole world faded into white.

67

THE FIRST RING OF NINE

A white sky above a white plain, all pristine and unmarked; heat and cold at the same time; a river flowing and a moment frozen for an eternity—Mags lay suspended in it all.

She could have stayed there forever, knowing such peace. A second and a century later, however, a voice intruded on her tranquility. Remember this perfection, Yuze said, for it will be the last time you touch it until you've surpassed the Ninth Ring. Now is not the time for rest. Now you must be as the smith and the forge at once, building the foundation of something strong and lovely.

The white burned away like a curtain of fog under the sun. Mags grieved its going, mourned that absolute existence as it left her little by little. Shapes emerged amid the expansiveness, and there, sitting with legs folded neatly, was a young boy wearing simple white robes. Something about his round face seemed familiar. When he smiled, Mags remembered. Yuze? she asked, her words internal yet all around.

The boy giggled and wrinkled his nose. Got it in one! Welcome, Marigold. You've seen a glimpse of the sublime. May you cherish the moment as long as you live.

So... I'm not dead?

Again, young Yuze laughed. It was strange, watching his mouth move yet only hearing the echoes of his laughter in her mind. I'd say the truth is closer to this: For the first time, Marigold Strongtower, you live. Even beyond the Rift, in the vastness that is the Unbound Realm, few are given such an opportunity. Are you ready to begin?

Mags wasn't sure what the trickster meant. As long as she'd known Yuze, he'd not once explained himself. Despite the ambiguity that surrounded her, she felt pulled along by a deep and unrelenting curiosity. No, a drive, an urgency to do... something. So she told him a simple and earnest truth. I've always been ready.

The boy Yuze grinned. The outline of his body flickered, and for a moment, she saw the aged being hidden beneath the façade, not sagging with decline but timeless, eyes so deep they rivaled Gorb's. He bowed his head sagely and said, Endure and enjoy what you can. The First Ring, like all the rest, knows the shape it must become. Your job is not to guide it but to provide essence, to witness, and to experience the wonder as it unfolds. It is the challenge that follows that will test your limits.

Her guide disappeared, and then an intense bodily sensation superseded all else. A pressure in her middle. Fire and a frigid wind stoking the flame. She had no mouth to scream nor a mind to express, so Mags took Yuze's words to heart. Her awareness was all. She endured, as he commanded, and at times, she did enjoy the process. The warm essence that composed her fundamental self poured into whatever magic was unfolding. It pooled, growing deeper and wider with every passing moment.

She witnessed the ocean of shimmering energy thicken and congeal. Watched the initial curve take shape and the perfectly formed ring it created as the miracle swept around to join and complete itself.

No sooner had the ring completed than a burst of energy flooded outwards in all directions. Mags marveled at the sight. Essence raced round and round the circle, gaining speed with every pass. It glowed brightly, and soon the pure white light was all she could see. The last thing she witnessed was the ring igniting with a holy flame.

Mags gasped. Her stomach spasmed, and her hands and feet burned. Has someone soaked me in oil and lit my soul on fire? she wondered. I’m here, aren’t I? A stone’s throw from Gorb and the others. I’m here and my body is my own. My, but that was…

The vision and journey of her First Ring came back to her. Overcome with too many emotions, she slumped to her side, chest heaving. She wept beneath the oak tree, face tight with a desperate grin. And Yuze the Wandering Sage sat with her while she learned to accept the truth of what she'd become.

Eventually, the emotions ebbed. She rolled to her side and found a hand holding hers. The tawny brown of parchment and dappled in veins, it was perhaps the kindest hand she'd ever held. "Yuze?" she asked. "Is that you?"

The old man chuckled, and his grip tightened. "That is part of my name, yes. For the foreseeable future, however, I do believe it best if you call me Kiyashi."

Trembling and dewy with sweat, she sat up and allowed her eyes to adjust. Seemingly little time had passed. The sun was high above, and she could make out no discernible evidence she'd been out for long. "Kiyashi? Was that your name when you were young?"

Yuze shook his head. "It's a name and a title both, one every Cultivator strives to achieve in their lifetime. It means both master and guide. I'm to be your teacher, Mags," he said, using her nickname for the first time. "Are you ready for your first lesson?"

Mags held up a hand. Her mind was clearer than it had ever been, but all of these changes and revelations were too much to accept and move on from without a shred of context. "Hang on a bit. What's a Cultivator? And what are you going to teach me?"

"Both answers are branches of the same tree. I'm to teach you to grow strong, tall, and straight. Your First Ring has formed, which makes you the first of your kind. Never has a Cultivator been born in the Coherent Realms, and yet here we are." Yuze's brows bobbed on his forehead. "A Cultivator is one who strives to ascend ever higher. Similar to unlocking a Class and yet infinitely different, Cultivation is nonetheless a method of achieving power. One difference is that a Cultivator derives their power from essence, which is the cousin of mana. Both of these combine to make ether, the life force that animates the world."

Mags blinked, her mind churning faster and faster. Doubt and anxiety joined the excitement and joy she overflowed with.

Yuze cut through her panic by saying, "Your response is a perfect introduction to the First Principle. How can you understand my teaching if you lose yourself to worry and misperception? Listen and listen well. The First Principle is this: to achieve governance over the enemy, one must first achieve governance over oneself.”

Mags frowned. There was sense in his words, but as usual, little context was given to orient them.

"Still your thoughts. Guide the body," Yuze continued. "To achieve agency over the mind is the first step along your path. Without it, all power is but an illusion. This is the task I set before you." The Cultivator closed his eyes, drew in a breath through his nostrils, held it a moment, and then exhaled. He turned one hand up, and a small white flame blossomed in his palm. It burned perfectly, untouched by the wind and too bright to be dampened by the noonday sun.

Yuze snapped his hand shut and hopped to his feet. "Get comfortable, Marigold. It may seem simple, but believe me, to summon the Pristine Flame for the first time is no easy task." He swatted her on the shoulder as he strode toward camp. "Good luck!"

"Wait!" she called. "You want me to magic up fire in my hand? That’s my special task? How the hells is that possible? Yuze? Yuze, wait a second!"

The old man stopped on the fringe of the oak tree's shadow and turned. "Kiyashi," he said firmly. "Address me as Kiyashi from now on. And yes, I want you to magic up fire," he repeated, mouth crooked in a smile. “Reach within and grasp your First Ring, draw out a thread of its ever-burning fire. Only then will you advance.”

Yuze looked skyward, gaze relaxed and almost sleepy. “I summoned my first in a single day, though it may take you much longer. The Divine Fruit still burns within your belly. You won’t need sustenance, neither food nor water, though your body will crave both in time. I’ll check on you tomorrow at the same time. Oh,” he said, pointing a bony finger her way. “Don’t leave the shadow of the oak tree before completing your task. If you do, the spark I’ve given you will go cold.”

Mags stared at the old man's back as he plodded away, humming a whimsical tune. His head bobbed side to side, and for all the world, he looked like an elder on his way to meet up with friends for a game of tiles. Mother Querine guide me, she thought, taking a deep breath to calm herself. I've either lost my mind or I'm going to become a Cultivator, whatever that is.

The confusion and frustration that coiled around her mind softened. Yuze’s instructions rose to the surface of her consciousness, a trail of breadcrumbs. Her objective was simple: to master her body and mind enough to summon the Pristine Flame.

And as she closed her eyes in search of that bright ring within, hope rekindled in her heart.

68

HEEDING THE HUNGER

Ashurai's sword cut high, and Marek swung to block. At the last second, the incoming attack changed course, and Marek grunted as the length of wood pounded into his exposed ribs. "Eyes on me, not my weapon!" the warrior shouted. “See the man and not his parts, Marek. Control your damn eyes, or you'll never master the basics!"

Marek rubbed the bruise under his arm, wincing. "Pretty sure I have the basics down. Mags and I have been training for years."

The Basari snorted in derision. "She has some mastery, I'll admit, but you fight like an overgrown infant. Your footing is horrendous! How can you claim to have any mastery of the sword when you practically trip yourself every time you fight?”

Allon's rasping chuckle in the back of Marek's mind did nothing to cool his anger. He walked back to his starting point and shook out his right arm until the tingling abated a little. Then he chastised the daemon as well as his own aberrant emotions. He's right. I don't have time to waste on pride. Learn what I can while I can.

Marek opened his eyes and confronted his opponent. Like himself, Ashurai wore neither boots nor armor. Both wielded wooden practice swords Ashurai had supplied. Unlike Marek, the Basari was composed. Not a drop of sweat beaded his forehead, and the knot of coiled black hair at the back of his head was as tidy and undisturbed as when they'd begun their sparring.

"Once more," Ashurai said, and Marek bowed at the waist.

They came together amid the ring of stones. Marek did as Ashurai had instructed. He softened his gaze, taking in all of his opponent rather than focusing on any single aspect. Mags had taught him to watch the shoulder and lead foot, and his own habit was to track his opponent's weapon. Neither approach pleased the Basari, and after seeing the man fight, Marek decided it was best to take Ashurai's advice on every point.

Their swords clacked time and again. Marek felt clumsy fighting with bare feet. He was also deprived of several enchantments, those on his black sword as well as his boots and mail shirt. They'd been propping him up, he realized now, by adding to his Dexterity score, movement speed, and footing. Despite the difficulty he'd encountered in the first few days of sparring, Marek could already see improvements in his swordsmanship.

Marek pressed the attack. He worked to push Ashurai back with a series of sharp blows, and just when he thought he was succeeding, Ashurai slipped away and took position in the very center of the ring. Then, with a flurry of motion, the warrior swatted aside Marek's thrust, pounded the top of his wrist to disarm him, and tapped the side of his throat with the practice sword.

"Well done," Ashurai said with a shallow bow. "Much improved since yesterday."

Marek took the compliment at face value. His chest rose and fell, and a streak of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose. Regardless of his fatigue and his obvious defeat, he couldn't resist a smile. "Thank you, Ashurai. Once again, I'm humbled."

The Basari laughed before stooping to retrieve Marek's practice sword. "I pray to the Bound Father you remain so. You and I both know your true capabilities. If you continue to train until your skill matches your power, I wouldn't last a minute against you."

Hearing the truth spoken aloud made Marek squirm with discomfort. Never had he imagined a life where a man like Ashurai could consider him powerful. It was all so very new still. He was grateful to have Allon with him, for the daemon alone understood his innermost feelings. "It'll take years to come near your skill," Marek said. "Where did you learn to fight like you do? Your style is so different from what I've seen in Ardea."

"I've been fortunate enough to train under three swordmasters. The first was in childhood. The village I grew up in was home to an old veteran. He was blind, which worked in my favor, for he allowed me to train with his other students despite my relative weakness." Ashurai's eyes looked through Marek, as if he were glimpsing a scene from his distant past. "Eventually, I bested the others and then my master himself. On my sixteenth birthday, he sent me to the city where I found another master."

Shrugging, the Basari said, "Fifteen years of tutelage gave me the foundation I needed. Afterward, I left on a quest to find myself. I had to create the man you see before you. Believe me, it was not easy. The real world tested me at every turn, but I learned more on that journey than some do in a lifetime. Life is the great teacher, they say. Our limitations, the bodies we’re born in, and the beliefs we accept, adapt, or supersede define us. That's a lesson I believe you've already learned."

Marek eyed Ashurai, curious how the man had guessed about his past. He decided to share some of his own story when time permitted. A pervasive hunger surged within him then, a pertinent reminder that there wasn't any time to spare. He and Allon shared that hunger. It was urgent and insatiable. They needed to hunt, to fight, to kill. Marek had tasted the forbidden fruit, the thrill that accompanies battle, and now that he had… he couldn’t go without.

Forcing the urge aside, he admitted, “I learned more than most in some areas. I know pain and suffering well. I know defeat and loss. Still, I'm unexperienced and naive as well."

Ashurai smiled, a rare occurrence. "Aren't we all. Ah, but my stomach is angry. Even a warrior must succumb to hunger. Will you eat with me?"

"Sorry, I think I'll be taking my lunch on the go. Yesterday I found more tracks. I need to hunt again."

Brow creasing, Ashurai walked to the edge of the ring and retrieved his belt. He fastened it about his waist, all the while studying Marek. "Graysouls?" Marek nodded as he pulled on a boot. "And you will refuse company as you did last time?" When Marek confirmed, Ashurai sighed. "Do as you must, but take care not to die. Your friend worries for you... as do the rest of us."

This surprised Marek. He hadn't thought any of their traveling companions cared enough to worry. Mags, he'd known about, of course. She wore her emotions like a cloak tied about her neck. Anyone could see she was suffering. Marek stood and brushed off his clothes. They walked the short distance to camp in silence. A quick look around told Marek that Mags had yet to return. He didn't quite understand what Yuze had done to her, yet he trusted Mags to take care of herself. And if there was any chance she could gain some kind of power in these unforgiving mountains, he was for it.

Ashurai greeted Rushi, who was splayed out in the sun. Scratching the panganid’s belly, he muttered a few words in Basari.

Marek took out the folded paper he'd been keeping in his pocket. He would have preferred to give it to Mags directly, but Yuze had been clear: His friend was on some kind of journey, and she couldn't be disturbed. "Here," he said, handing the paper to Ashurai. "Will you give this to Mags? I'll be gone a few days.” Swallowing a lump of guilt, he continued, “As you said, she’s been worried. Wanted to talk to her in person, but maybe this is better. I communicate better in writing than I do out loud, so maybe this is a blessing. Anyway, will you give it to her?”

The warrior took the note and nodded. "I'll deliver it as soon as she’s back from the oak tree.”

“Speaking of the oak tree… what is she doing? Yuze yammered on about a test, a task, some nonsense about a fruit sustaining her. Do you know what he means?”

Ashurai shrugged. “I rarely do. Gorb told me to trust Yuze, and so I will. The golemite has never spoken a lie in my presence.”

Marek bit his lip, a touch of anxiety managing to worm its way through his shroud of indifference. “She’s… she’s okay, though? Do you think she needs my help?”

“She needs you to care for yourself,” Ashurai said firmly. “Forgetting the ones you love and relying on your power only to ignore the limitations of your skill is a quick way to die."

Marek forced himself to digest the words. In the end, he decided he needed to trust his friend as he hoped she could trust him. He thanked Ashurai and then made his way to his and Mags' tent. There was no point in wearing the leather armor Shutterkeep had given him, but the bracers and the mail shirt still provided some protection. He dressed and packed a small bag with food, water, and a healing potion.

All else he left behind for Mags to care for.

After a hurried farewell to Niamh and Gorb, Marek waved to Ashurai and left camp on foot. He walked a ways and then ran, using Spirit Body to increase his pace. He became the hunter again, streaking across the countryside toward his prey, a creature of darkness swirling impatiently above his head.

69

THE PLOT REVEALED

After nearly a full day of traveling, tracking a single Graysoul as it meandered through the mountains, Marek found what he'd been looking for. A group of tracks converging with the one he’d been following, all partially faded now but still plenty bright enough to follow.

Allon hissed in pleasure when Marek sprinted along the path. Weaving through trees, they reached a hilltop strewn with the spoor of dozens of beasts. The grass and wildflowers had been trampled completely, and even the smaller trees lay flat, cracked at the base by some clumsy Graysoul. "They were here," he said excitedly. "Not so long ago. Maybe as recently as last night."

"Their smell is thick in the air," Allon said, teeth bared in disgust. "Why will they not stay put and fight us?"

"I don't think we're a priority," Marek said, searching the far side of the hill for another trail. "It’s the beast kin they're hunting; at least, that's my guess. Ah, there it is. Come, maybe we'll find them today if we're lucky."

Marek raced down the hill along the ever-widening trail of Graysoul tracks. Signs of their passage had become so obvious he no longer needed the aid of Empath's Gaze to track them. They crossed a narrow valley and leapt over the chill waters of a stream. Then, three hours after noon, he heard a distant cry ahead. More accompanied the first, and his heart began to race.

"Battle," he said, as thrilled as the daemon beside him. "Come, Allon. They're close."

Soon, he came to the edge of a clearing. Peering out from between the trees, Marek spied the site of a small battle. Bodies lay here and there among the boulders that paved the bank of a great river. From beyond them, concealed by a thick grove of cedars, came the shouts and screams of fighting.

"Let us feast!" Allon hissed impatiently. "Quickly, before the battle ends!"

Marek soothed the daemon through their link. "Patience. Let's see if they left anything we can use." Triggering Empath's Gaze once more, Marek scanned the dead. A smile crept to his lips when he found two Haikini spirits wandering among the bodies.

They noticed him at once, and one cried out to him, "The crossing went badly! Ambushed when half our war party had crossed. We fought long for the others. Many make it over, but Tinrick don't know if kin survived! Spirit mage, let Tinrick fight! Let us avenge the fallen!"

The other spirit kept silent. Marek felt sick when he realized it was far younger than it should have been. Four feet tall at most, it trembled above a bloody corpse near the waterside.

Marek acted quickly. If the fighting was still going on, he might yet have time to learn what was really going on with the Graysouls. "Young one, be at peace," he said, absorbing the spirit's ether and filling his core. When he'd finished, Marek used Command Spirit on the other. As power entered the being, the spirit bowed before him. "Thank you, spirit mage. My spear is yours.”

"Your spear is welcome," Marek said before activating another Skill. For the first time in this world, he used Elevate Champion. Something strange and unexpected occurred. A prompt filled his vision, giving him the following option.

Elevate Champion: Available Subtypes

Tinrick: Haikini War Chief—Wielding a spear and hide buckler, this minor champion's strength lies in speed, stealth, and increased chances to land critical attacks. Few can withstand his spear when taken by surprise.

Sir Rhinweld: Knight Executioner—Greatsword in hand and protected by full plate armor, this minor champion's strength lies in an implacable defense. His mighty blade remains capable of doling out justice, giving him the ability to execute enemies nearing death.

"Sir Rhinweld! How in the Coherent Realm? All this time, I could have summoned you again?" Marek's head spun, and he couldn't help but wonder if the minor champion might remember their time together in the Crucible. But how could that be possible? He was only a construct, right?

A horn ringing out beyond the cedar grove drew Marek back to the present. He'd have time to ponder it all when the fighting was done. For now, he needed to make a decision. "Ambush is the best chance we've got," Marek said. "I'm going with the war chief."

He finalized the decision, and the Haikini spirit gasped as ether flooded its form. Brighter, taller, and with an imposing spear stretching at least a dozen feet above the ground, Tinrick stood proudly beside the river.

"Let's go," Marek said as he backed up from the edge of the river. "Good thing I didn't bring Ember Shade." Summoning Spirit Body and augmenting the armor with ether, Marek dashed toward the water's edge. He jumped with all his strength and flew through the air, crashing atop a boulder over twenty feet away. Allon and his minor champion crossed far less dramatically, and then the trio raced toward the sounds of battle.

Marek came upon a scene of utter carnage. Dozens of Druskin and Haikini dead littered the ground. Their blood had soaked the pristine grass of what must have been a quaint glen. A force of Druskin warriors were engaged in the business of slaughter. Half their numbers were Graysouls, some beast kin and others wearing the bodies of forest animals. The glen stretched two hundred feet before the trees closed in again. And though the enemy blocked much of his view, Marek spotted a small band of Haikini warriors holding their ground. They'd taken cover behind a thicket of brambles—a wise decision, for it reduced the enemy's advantage by forcing them to engage on a narrower front line.

Marek wondered why the Graysouls hadn't simply flanked the Haikini by going around the back of the choke point. Maybe the brambles cover their backs as well. Awfully convenient.

Insight came as a patch of brambles suddenly grew several feet taller, wrapping around the frantic body of a Graysoul wolf that had tried to leap over the defense. The Haikini have a caster! Damn, I don't have time to waste.

Marek counted the enemy. Over twenty strong, they presented a significant threat. Fortunately, none were compound. Three glowed with a powerful aura, however, giving away their status as greater Graysouls. Observing the battle with his specialized vision, Marek found a crop of souls, two Druskin and five Haikini, awaiting harvest. The spirits raged and howled in dismay. None were coherent in the slightest. Thinking quickly, he bound the five Haikini spirits and commanded them to join him and the others in the tree line.

Practically vibrating with excitement, Marek drained one of the Druskin spirits and used the ether to raise his first spectral squad. "Rogue. Rogue. Berserker. Berserker. Healer," he said, identifying and assigning each new spirit soldier to their specialized role. Then he selected the first Rogue and promoted the Haikini to the position of Squad Commander.

As soon as the choice was made, the Rogue fell to a knee. “Give us orders and we will obey.”

“I will cause a distraction to allow your squad to get close undetected. Approach the enemy in stealth. Focus your attacks on the rear of the enemy formation and attack the three strongest targets first. You can identify them by their auras. I want your healer to stay behind and support the group while they work, healing all allies, including the ones I raise after."

Marek winced, worried his orders might be too complex. The Rogue only stood and pounded his chest in response. "It will be done."

The squad left the cover of the trees, creeping quietly across the glen. The enemy raged on, unaware of the danger approaching. Marek walked beside Tinrick and used Ether Siphon to drain the final spirit. With his reserves topped off, he felt ready for anything.

Allon, I need you to deceive the enemy. How about you test Dark Visions to see how useful it truly is?

The daemon hissed in excitement and swam across the glade in a black streak. Marek issued a few directions but otherwise left the ruse to his familiar. Allon flitted wide around the attackers and descended atop a pile of brambles. As he did so, he suddenly grew in size. Wings sprouted from the daemon’s back, and he opened his mouth.

A few of the Graysouls shrieked in fright while the strongest among them fought to maintain order. From their point of view, a ten-foot black dragon had just attacked, a plume of violet flames pouring out over their heads.

A few tense moments later and the ambush was sprung. Both Rogues attacked first, the daggers they carried landing killing blows on a pair of Druskin warriors, both greater Graysouls. The Berserkers waded in after. Screaming their fury after stealth had been lost, they tore into the enemy and hacked away with heavy axes, each blow devastating. One of the Berserkers was killed almost immediately, the third greater Graysoul cutting the spirit in half with a mana-empowered slash. The other took critical damage simply by standing too close to the Ability’s radius. This prompted the squad's Healer to fling up her spectral hands and heal the Berserker, who in turn sank its ethereal axe into the monster’s neck.

And thus the battle began anew.

Marek raised the souls of the untainted Druskin as soon as they'd fallen. The Graysouls, however, couldn't be bound. In fact, a minute into the fighting Marek learned the importance of acting quickly. He delayed a second too long and a Graysoul possessed a fallen Druskin, rising to fight once more.

After half a dozen enemies had been cleared away, a tall Druskin in the center of the formation came into view. He locked eyes with Marek's spirit soldiers before shouting commands. The warriors and their Graysoul allies quickly recovered from the surprise attack and countered aggressively.

Marek pointed to the leader. "Tinrick, kill the leader and then withdraw. Try not to die."

The war chief sprinted across the glen at full speed. Six and a half feet tall, the Haikini was relatively massive for his kind. And damn if he's not strong, Marek thought as he watched his champion leap over a tainted bore, spear flashing down into the chest of the Druskin he'd ordered dead. And as quick as that, the enemy had been deprived of leadership.

Tinrick obeyed, retreating at once. It was Marek's turn now, and as his Haikini champion returned, he bound the emerging Druskin spirit, commanding it to attack its previous allies. Few of the enemy remained—less than ten, to be certain. Several clashed with the Haikini trapped within the brambles. The others fought Marek's forces with increasing desperation.

When the mage entered the fray, all semblance of resistance shattered. Marek pelted the enemy with Phantom Bolt. As he'd thought, the blasts of dark energy caused little damage. Each the size of an apple, the projectiles scorched the fur and hide of their targets. The bolts weren’t deadly but provided perfect distractions at critical moments. More of the enemy fell each second.

Wishing to test the Ability before the battle was over, Marek flung six Phantom Bolts into the backside of a Druskin. The wolf kin howled in pain and collapsed under the barrage. So they can kill, he thought with satisfaction. Good to know.

Twice more, a Graysoul claimed one of the risen before Marek had a chance. Neither made much of a difference, however. Allon feasted on tainted souls. One Berserker fought on, injured but still standing thanks to the Healer. The rest had fallen but were replaced by half a dozen spirit soldiers. As the last of the enemy died, Marek ordered his troops to withdraw. He approached the brambles, hoping he might have spared at least one of the Haikini defenders. A few of the fallen were raised as spirit soldiers and sent back to stand with their fellows. Others had sadly been corrupted by Graysouls. Since they’d fallen beyond his sight, Marek hadn't been able to spare them.

The smell of blood, fur, and innards would have once churned his stomach, but he now walked through the carnage cool as a shard of ice. He searched the defenders, hopeful he might find a survivor. Marek could likely question the spirits he'd bound, but he suspected they had limits the living did not. Few in his experience had displayed the same level of lucidity as Tinrick.

He sighed in relief as he spotted the creature. On the far side of the ring of brambles, huddling behind a pile of its dead kin, cowered the small form of a Haikini. Its white fur was spattered with blood, yet Marek could tell it would survive. "You're okay," he said, kneeling a few paces from the terrified Haikini. "You're safe now, I promise.”

The Haikini trembled, eyes wide with suspicion. It would take time, Marek knew, but eventually he'd earn its trust.

70

THE FLAME BELOW THE OAK TREE

Time had always been a tormenter to Marigold Strongtower. It rushed past in a blur when joy burned in her heart. It slowed to a crawl when boredom came, crushing her with a heaviness she couldn’t shake or ignore. She could never remember the days and dates of important events or commitments she'd made. Almost every year she forgot Marek’s birthday or those of her siblings or parents. Time felt as abstract and obscure as the mystery of one’s soul or the gods above. It just didn’t feel real to her in the way it did to everyone else.

These were common experiences, and yet few seemed so consistently plagued by them. It made her feel useless, and at times broken.

When Yuze left her beneath the oak, Mags prayed she might be wise or exceptionally skilled. If Yuze had performed the miracle in a day, perhaps she would as well. She wanted so badly to be done with this test as quickly as possible. Who knew what secrets the old man would reveal if she managed it? And yet time pressed her down as it so often did, and every minute that passed only added to that weight.

Mags labored through the first night, warmed only by the slowly burning coal of the Divine Fruit. It was most certainly more than an apple, for her teacher was soon proven right. Despite hunger and thirst nagging at her, Mags carried on through the next day as well, and not once did she faint or weary. During the second night, Mags made progress. Focusing deeply, she found the ring of fire she'd seen in her vision. It was right there in her belly, burning bright and fierce. Yet when she tried to do as Yuze suggested, to remove a thread of that fire, Mags failed completely. What thread? There are no threads! It’s just light and liquid and energy! How am I supposed to do this without learning what I'm doing?

Rain fell in the early hours of the third morning. Her clothes soaked through, and she shivered endlessly. Desperation gave way to anger and then a deep, abiding fear. What if I fail? she couldn't help but wonder. I’ve failed at everything else in my life. What if I'm too stupid or too broken to accept this gift? It is a gift, right? Yuze said I'd be able to get stronger, like one of the Classed. This is what I've dreamed of for years! Why can't I just figure it out?

Her anger boiled over and she got to her feet. Mags paced the width of the oak tree, walking back and forth like a caged beast. She knotted her hands till they cramped, pulled her hair to soothe her frayed nerves. Finally, an hour before the sun came up, she hit a breaking point. Mags fell to her knees at the edge of the oak’s great branches. Digging her fingers into the mud, she screamed like a wraith. The terrible sound of her own suffering frightened her, and one scream begat another. Mags continued until her voice cracked and all she was capable of producing was a hoarse and stifled moan.

She fell to her side, uncaring of the mud, allowing her body to shiver. Exhaustion pulled her under, and she reassured herself, He never said I couldn't sleep.

Mags woke with a ray of sun burning on her eyelid. She recoiled and then coughed. "Gods help me," she said in a haggard voice. "I feel like I've been buried alive." Mags coughed and spat before slowly getting to her feet. Just over there, she thought. I could walk a little ways, sit near the fire and dry myself, and be fed.

The eagerness with which her heart longed for just that stirred her anger once more. She decided to make better use of the emotion, walking to the base of the oak tree and sitting with her back against its rough bark. She closed her eyes. Rather than attempt to conjure the ring as she'd done previously, Mags repeated the First Principle again and again in the sanctuary of her mind. To achieve governance over the enemy, one must first achieve governance over oneself.

When she'd done so several dozen times, Mags thought more closely about what the words actually meant. "What Yuze means..." She stopped herself and cleared her throat. "What Kiyashi means is that in order to defeat your enemy, you have to defeat yourself." Something was wrong with her interpretation. Governance wasn't a commonly used word, but its meaning wasn't elusive. She tried again. "To control your enemy, you must control yourself? That's closer."

Mags felt a thread of hope return. Control wasn't an exact definition. She knew she was lacking nuance, and yet she felt it would be enough. "I have to control myself—my body and my mind. Did I really think I could try hard enough and force my way through?"

She didn't waste time chastising herself. That would serve no purpose. And she pushed away all thoughts of what this gift might mean in the coming days. Instead, she focused exclusively on the moment, her breathing, the wind tugging at a strand of hair hanging loose from her braid, the cool press of the soil beneath her. Only when she'd reached a state of absolute calmness did Mags look inward.

There it was. The ring in her belly burned as strong as it had the first time she'd seen it. She considered Kiyashi's description, imagined she might observe tiny threads forming a rope. Looking closer, Mags saw only the liquid, surging fire as it circled round and round. I'm being too literal. Perhaps I can draw out only a little, the smallest bit of that light. Maybe if I'm careful and quiet, if I'm still, I might...

Even as she thought it, a strand of white essence coiled out from the ring. She stamped out the flare of excitement that threatened to shatter her progress. Guiding the thread with her intention, Mags willed it to emerge. Briefly, she thought to draw it out directly from her stomach. Her intuition fought the urge, however, and so she allowed the thread to take a more organic flow through her body.

Up through the chest and into the right shoulder. Down her arm past the elbow. Finally, Mags plucked it from the palm of her hand. She pictured the white flame Kiyashi had made. Its stillness, its light, its insistent glow.

Slowly, she opened her eyes. There, burning still and perfectly, was a tiny white flame.

"Well done," Yuze said, causing her to gasp. When she looked again, the flame was gone. "Do not worry. Once summoned, the flame will respond with greater ease when you have need to do so again.”

Mags grinned and leaned forward, pressing her hand on the ground to rise. She wanted to smash the old man in a bear hug. A flood of heat rushed outward from her ring so intensely she froze in place and inhaled sharply. Power, untamed and boundless, surged through her arms and legs, crackled along every inch of her body. Mags didn't cry out, for the sensation wasn't painful. It was intoxicating.

When the warmth began to fade, she was overcome with joy. Anything was possible, she knew in that moment. For the first time in her life, the future was hers for the making.

Mags bounced to her feet, giggling like a child. "Yuze, I… I mean, Kiyashi… I did it! I feel amazing! Is this what being a Cultivator feels like all the time? This power? Kiyashi! I feel like I could run down a horse!"

Oddly, the man who'd given her this boon deflated. The once joyous eyes dimmed, and his back hunched. Smiling weakly, he said, "Some have certainly tried. The hare exalts in the strength of his legs, but he'll never catch the horse."

Mags tilted her head to the side, frowning. "Are you okay? You don't look so good."

Yuze scowled suddenly and withdrew from the hand she'd extended. "Don't touch me," he said in a strained voice, one seemingly foreign in his mouth. His eyes scrunched closed, and he released a shuddering sigh. "I need to rest," he said at last, once again her Kiyashi. "Celebrate as you see fit, young Marigold, and don't worry about me. I'll be myself again tomorrow."

He left her as he had previously, dumbfounded below the branches of the oak tree, heading away from camp at a slow pace. She didn't understand what had happened. Her Kiyashi showed many signs of madness, and she supposed this was simply another of his quirks. There was nothing she could do about it anyhow.

Regardless, Mags found it was impossible to suppress her mood. She bounded toward camp in the hopes of sharing her good news. Only Gorb was present. The golemite waved as she approached.

"You are brighter than the last time I saw you," it said. "Yuze found his disciple at last."

"I am!” she shouted. "Pain in the ass, I'll tell you, but I did the damn thing! But wait, where's Marek?"

"Hunting the Graysouls. He left two days ago, promising to return when he could."

Mags' stomach knotted. She sighed, fighting hard not to lose hold of the excitement brimming within her. "Oh," she said, unable to conjure a better response. "Well... I hope he's alright." She scanned between the tents and found no signs of Ashurai or Rushi either. This wasn't at all what she'd been picturing. After three days of withering away in the elements, Mags had wanted… something.

Determined to celebrate, Mags asked, "The stream—it's down that way, isn't it? Beyond those pine trees?"

Gorb rumbled in confirmation, and Mags left the golemite alone in camp. She ran through the forest, delighting in the strength of her new body. True, she'd be no match for a horse, yet Mags couldn't imagine anyone without a Class keeping up with her now.

Mags barreled into the clearing beside the stream, giggling with joy. She tore off her tunic and pried at the laces of her boots. Flinging them aside, Mags unfastened her belt and was about to shrug out of her trousers when the sound of splashing water drew her attention. She froze and covered her breasts, eyes going wide as someone emerged from the pool.

Ashurai stepped free of the water. His body glistened, corded muscle and sinew rippling with each step. Yet it was not the warrior's physique or intense gaze she gaped at. Nor was it his nakedness. Mags' eye was drawn to the countless scars that adorned Ashurai's body. Not just the puckered scars of battle, but others more hideous.

The Basari's chest bore the greatest of these scars.

Not once did Ashurai dip his head in shame. He strode calmly from the water to where his clothes lay neatly folded on a rock nearby. He stooped to retrieve a bundle of cloth, then began methodically wrapping his legs.

“Ashurai,” she said with eyes averted. “You are⁠—”

“I was,” he replied before she’d completed her thought. “I am as you have met me, the man named Ashurai that travels with Gorb and Niamh.”

Mags clutched her chest, feeling her heart pound beneath her sternum. His proximity, and the unexpected and uninvited revelation, had stunned her. She felt his eyes on her, and after a few moments, she found the courage to meet his gaze, but by the time she had, his focus rested exclusively on his task. Ashurai’s movements were mechanical and precise, as if he’d repeated them thousands of times and kept them sacred like a ritual. Each limb was bound tightly, first his legs and then his arms, until he’d concealed every sigil.

Marek had mentioned these—the sigils burned or carved into flesh and bone. He'd told her their making was an abomination, a forbidden art his uncle had mastered in order to quell the curse of the Remnant Mage Class. She saw that they were ugly things, dark red and brown, running up and down his limbs and torso.

After wrapping his second arm, the warrior stood, his demeanor severe and dignified like a fallen god. His eyes hold so much pain, she thought. So much shame and heartache. Yet in them too was a deep and unshakable acceptance of self. Ashurai had chosen his path long ago, had defied the laws of man to craft a version of himself that few could have imagined possible. Silently, he held her in that terrible gaze. Then he finished the ritual, tightly sealing away the lifetime of scars that covered his chest.

The man pulled on his trousers and tunic. Picking up his boots and belt, he bowed at the waist and left her there. "The pool is yours, Mistress Mags. I'll make certain you aren't bothered."

71

ABIDING FATE

With the enhanced vision Spirit Body lent him, Marek spied each of his traveling companions. Gorb was digging a massive hole just outside the ring of stones, for some reason, and a pile of soil rose up behind him. Niamh's tiny form flitted this way and that above the golemite. Ashurai wrestled with Rushi near the ashes of the fire pit. The panganid writhed on her back, kicking up dust and snapping at his hands.

Mags and Yuze were on guard together, positioned on the far edge of camp facing the forest. Upon closer inspection, Marek noticed his friend stood on one leg. Something wobbled atop her head. Yuze watched on, body still and face serene.

Almost like they didn't miss me at all, he thought. Perhaps I should leave them be. If I do, there's a much better chance none will be hurt in the coming conflict. His daemon purred in approval but didn't speak. Allon’s reaction was enough to clear Marek's mind. The creature hungered for any excuse to leave everyone behind and commit to a life of endless slaughter.

Marek couldn't blame the creature. Born of the Rift, Allon was demon kin. He'd told Marek briefly of the creatures that spawned in that forsaken place, of their violent nature and the constant craving for power. Apparently, demon hierarchy was a tumultuous thing. The most powerful of their numbers alone found stability, ruling for centuries or longer. Those of lesser rank fought and schemed and devoured one another in a constant cycle. According to Allon, this was only natural, for it allowed the strong to rise quickly.

Gathering his resolve, Marek glanced at the little Haikini beside him. "Are you ready to finish our journey? I have friends I want you to meet."

Tessin Lin’s ears twitched. "I am ready.”

The Haikini was withdrawn, and still likely in shock from the slaughter of her companions. Marek had been surprised when Tessin Lin spoke just minutes after he'd rescued her. She was smart and brave, and not quite as young as Marek had originally presumed, an adolescent of thirteen years. Once she’d crawled onto Marek's shoulders, the two ran down the hillside. Her furry paws clutched his chainmail shirt as they picked up speed. Marek's silent company ran behind. Their legs knew no fatigue, so he didn't have to worry about slowing or stopping for breaks. Minutes later, he came to the ring of stones.

Mags was the first to spot him. She called out his name, and whatever she'd been balancing on her head fell to the ground. "He's back!" she called to the others in the camp. "Marek's back!"

Ashurai, Gorb, and Niamh came out to meet him. All looked shocked when he set the Haikini girl down. She promptly stepped behind his back and peered at everyone with wide eyes.

"This is Tessin Lin," he said. "She's a Briarmancer—and quite a powerful one, I might add."

"And her people?" Ashurai asked, gaze hard and knowing. "Ah," he said, reading Marek and the girl's reaction adeptly. "I see."

Marek knew the next part would cause friction, so he got it out of the way. "We're not alone. I have a few soldiers with me, all loyal and none dangerous to any of you. Please, do not attack them." Mags frowned, suspicion etched in her features. "This is Tinrick, my champion, and the others are Haikini spirits that wished to avenge their fallen. Their souls are good and honest, and they died well," Marek said solemnly. "Treat them with respect."

Seven bound spirits marched into view, five forming his newly organized squad. After the partial destruction of the first, Marek had learned the flexibility of his Spectral Commander Trait. He'd been able to promote a new leader, this time an Archer. Three of the spirits held ethereal bows. The Healer had survived and assumed his previous role, while the fifth member was Marek's first Defender.

Tinrick and the seventh soul stood apart, both bowing while the squad remained still and vigilant.

"Tinrick was a great war chief that helped me defeat a party of Graysouls. He's my champion, which means he's not only more powerful but seems capable of greater autonomy and intelligence. The spirit beside him is Tessa Rin, Tessin Lin's late mother and High Priestess of the Fabled Leaf Clan."

None, not even Gorb, seemed capable of a proper response. Marek nearly chuckled. What did he expect, after all? He'd just introduced his friends to a group of lingering spirits. It was Mags who broke the awkward silence.

She stepped forward and bowed, placing a hand over her heart as she did so. "I'm Mags Strongtower. Pleasure to meet you all."

The gesture allowed for a swifter end to the reunion, which Marek was infinitely grateful for. He ordered the spirits to stand guard around the camp in groups of two and three, and everyone gathered around the campfire. As the sun faded in the sky and a newly kindled fire warmed them, Marek and his companions began a much-needed conversation. He told them of his resolve to join the Haikini and seek to destroy the Culling Blade. His logic was simple: Tessin Lin and her mother had informed him that a stand of ironwoods grew among a sacred grove in their territory. The conflict with the Druskin and the great battle that would soon be fought stood in his way.

He ended his short speech by presenting them with a choice. "You may come with me, but I understand if this isn't your fight. Take your time to decide. I'll be leaving in the morning."

"I will go," Ashurai said at once, “as will Rushi."

Mags, red in the cheeks for some reason, spoke after. "I'm with you, of course. Shouldn't have to ask." Yuze bobbed his head beside her and stepped closer to the woman, giving his own response silently.

Gorb hummed deeply, its luminous eyes dimming. "I am golemite. I will not partake in the wars of men or beast kin. Niamh won't either, though I do believe she would agree to heal the injured when the battle is finished."

"Healing, yes," she said quietly. "But never hurt!"

"We will come with you," Gorb added. "If the battle will occur in the mountains ahead, we might as well keep traveling as a group."

Marek nodded. "Then it's decided. Thank you all. Now, I'm going to speak with my spirits before the stew is finished. I'll be back shortly."

He left and Tessin Lin followed, a quiet shadow at his side. Before he'd gotten fifty feet from the ring of stones, Mags caught up. Her cheeks burned brightly, and she shoved him in the chest.

Marek frowned in confusion. "What's wrong? You seem upset."

"Upset!" she shouted. "Damn you, Marek! I'm furious! You keep leaving to kill stuff on your own. Every day you're more powerful than the last—taller, darker, scarier! And that look in your eyes! Can’t you see? You're losing yourself!"

He swallowed hard. Something shifted in his chest, melted just enough to allow her words to sink in. "I... I'm doing the best I can."

Mags shoved him again before pressing her body into his. Her arms trembled as she embraced him, and tears soaked his tunic. His friend felt different, her arms stronger, and there was an intangible power exuding from her body.

"Damn you, Marek," she repeated, quietly this time. "I know you’re trying, but please, try harder." She drew back and looked up into his eyes. He realized she was right. His friend seemed tiny in his arms, shorter than ever, which was proof he hadn't yet stopped growing. "Promise me one thing?" she asked.

"Anything. What is it, Mags? If I can manage it, I'll do it."

She wiped her cheeks and pressed a hand to his sternum. "Don't leave," she said. "I feel you pulling away. I feel you withdrawing deeper and deeper into yourself. Fight it, Marek. Stay with me. Just a little longer. After this battle, we'll find the blasted ironwoods. Stay with me a little while longer and we'll both be fine, okay?”

A lump swelled in Marek's throat. Tears welled in his own eyes as a trickle of warmth swam amid the blocks of ice that had formed around his soul. He pulled her close again. Then he whispered an oath more sincere than any he'd made before. "I will, Magpie. I won't leave you—I promise."

72

ANOTHER RIVER OF GRASS

According to Tessin Lin, a Great Council of the Tribes was to be held atop Mount Kayan in three days, some forty miles west along the Quartz Road. That distance was measured peak to peak, however, and didn’t account for the meandering path the road took. Ever since entering the high mountains, the caravan’s pace had ranged between twenty-five and thirty miles. Given the indirect travel, Gorb estimated the caravan couldn’t reach the council for six or seven days.

The journey wasn’t possible.

Gorb surprised everyone by suggesting they stow the carriage in the woods and cover it up with deadfall. Marek’s Haikini guest improved this plan by volunteering to grow a briar patch over the carriage instead. An hour after sunup, the group was heading west, all on horseback but for Gorb. Marek worried the golemite might slow them down, but the horses proved the limiting factor. Gorb trudged ahead at an incredible pace, tossing gravel and dust in all directions.

Thankfully, Niamh provided a blessing to increase the stamina of the horses. Under these improved conditions, their journey became a race worthy of story or song. Yuze, riding behind Mags, added to the mythology of their feat by drugging his disciple with strong herbs. Mags’ legs were bound to the saddle, and Yuze held her tightly. A day and a half later, the old man announced the good news: Marigold Strongtower had purified her First Ring, preparing for the next tier of her ascension.

Marek knew little about the ways of Cultivation. He’d come across a few passages that discussed those warriors who lived on the eastern side of the Rift. Not in a thousand years had they been spotted in the Coherent Realm, however, so most information was next to useless. Still, he’d heard of these so-called rings. Cultivators didn’t level like a Classed individual; instead, they enhanced their power by forging their core one layer at a time.

Seeing Mags recover from a state of near-death alleviated Marek’s concerns. He still didn’t trust Yuze completely, but for some reason, Mags did. And that would have to be good enough.

The group arrived at their destination two hours after nightfall on the second day of travel. They were nearly attacked on sight, but Gorb and Niamh’s presence stayed the hands of the Haikini sentries. All were made to wait outside the perimeter until someone of authority could verify their story. A war chief, his honor guard, and a High Priestess met with them soon after.

Before any negotiation occurred, Tessin Lin once more proved invaluable. The little priestess rushed out from where she’d been hiding beside Marek and embraced the elegant Haikini woman. “Aunt Nabin! It’s me!”

The High Priestess fell to her knees and embraced Tessin Lin. “You survived, my Tessin, but how?”

The Briarmancer turned and pointed at Marek, who sat upon Ember Shade’s back. “He saved me. He’s dark and scary but good in his heart.”

After the exchange, the Haikini allowed everyone inside. Their horses were led away to be groomed, tended by healers, and fed.

Walking through the large encampment was disheartening. The number of allied warriors wasn’t nearly as great as it should have been. A large tent had been erected near the center, within which could be heard the groans of the injured and dying. Worse yet was the graveyard freshly dug. Dozens of mounds littered the ground, packed tightly together. The beast kin had suffered greatly, Haikini most of all, but the Druskin were the ones bearing the brunt of the Graysoul infestation.

Marek didn’t want to consider how many on their side were dead and controlled by demons. He bowed to the recently fallen as the party passed before entering a tent where they could all eat and finally rest.

The next morning, all awoke to attend the Great Council. Marek’s nerves were shot by the time the meeting began, his anxiety wearing on him even through the haze of indifference that cloaked him. Eight War Lords with accompanying High Priestesses attended, each pair representing the eight surviving tribes of the Haikini. Three Druskin War Lords had come as well. Only these had defected from the Graysoul-infected army. Most of their kin had fallen to temptation.

A burly Haikini named Rifga was first to speak once all in attendance had been seated around a vast fire pit. “For those who just arrived, know that most of us have planned and plotted with each other for many days. Grashmor of the Flame Pelts and the other Druskin were with us as well. Our plan is a desperate one, and there will be much danger for us all. Not even the wisest whiskers among us could sense a better way. We meet as one now to ensure every paw among us is put forth.”

The War Lord beckoned to a slender Haikini standing nearby and said, “Alif, the Visionary, will show us the strategy. Only when his work is done will questions or objections be heard. Save your screeching and barks until then!”

Marek found the Haikini’s manner of speech interesting. All was easily understood, and compared to Wick Wick in Misthearth, it was clear the leaders were more educated if not outright more intelligent.

Alif sat before the fire pit and opened a pouch at his hip. Tossing a handful of powder into the flames, he held his hands wide. A brilliant glow enveloped the creature, and then an image rose from the fire for all to see. Marek’s interest was piqued as he made out a valley surrounded by tall trees with a lake along one side. Several adjacent mountains appeared as well, some featuring dramatic cliffs, others abutting deep canyons or cave systems. As Rifga spoke, the image depicted each action of the strategy.

“We keep to the southern portion of the valley. The enemy’s army has five times the number of warriors as our own, and the Graysouls too walk among them. If our army holds ground where the valley is narrow and uses the lake and the dense woods to confine the enemy, our odds will improve!”

Grashmor addressed the group, his voice deep and coarse. “My wolves will stay hidden in the trees. We will flank with arrow and spear. I agree with Rifga—this is our best hope.”

The image of the battlefield faded, and then chatter broke out on all sides. The War Lords and High Priestesses discussed things, and then suggestions were given: We can fell tall trees to crash on the wolves’ heads; if we build machines of war, we can slow their progress further; and hiding mages instead of archers would be best, so more will fall when the flanking maneuver is made.

Marek listened to it all, his impatience building by the second. Finally, he stood and entered the ring of leaders. By the gasps that rose from those gathered, he assumed he’d broken etiquette by doing so. In the end, he didn’t care. Surviving this battle mattered more than manners. “Apologies—I know my voice is not wanted here—but I cannot sit by and allow this. The plan will fail!”

“Just because you saved Tessin Lin doesn’t give you leave to speak here, human!” Rifga snapped. “Sit down and be silent!”

“No,” Marek said firmly. “One of my Abilities allows me to predict outcomes. Intuit is its name, and it has rarely led me astray. Every outcome of your plan, including any of the suggestions, leads to ruin!”

Grashmor and Rifga stalked toward Marek. The Druskin War Lord shouted, “Who are you to interfere! If you will not leave, your whiskers will be clipped, and you and those with you cast out!”

There wasn’t time to convince the beast kin. He couldn’t use logic to reason with them. They were right to be offended. Marek had no authority to interrupt their war council. And yet he had no choice. With a thought, he summoned Allon. Shadow poured from Marek’s chest, and the War Lords approaching him recoiled.

“Again, I apologize for dishonoring your tribes!” Marek boomed. An icy power filled his voice, and those gathered fell silent. “I cannot sit by and do nothing! You ask who I am? What other Class in the Coherent Realm grants the Ability to summon a daemon? I am not a common human, I promise you. I am the Remnant Mage!”

More gasps and a few shouts rose until Rifga silenced the gathering by slamming a staff on the ground, sending a small bolt of lightning arcing through the air. “How is this true?” he asked. “Other than this wraith, what proof do you have?”

Marek had them. After a brief pause, he said, “I command seven spirits that lurk in the forest where your sentries cannot see. If you agree not to kill them, I’ll order them to come and show themselves.” An anxious clamor erupted, and Marek raised his voice to be heard. “Tinrick is among them! Your war chief that fell during the battle where I saved Tessin Lin! Ask the Briarmancer, and she will vouch for my words!”

Long minutes passed after word had been given to inform the sentries. Marek strained his mind and contacted his champion. The Haikini spirit came at once, and with him the six spirit soldiers. Not a single voice protested when the champion bowed before Marek and said, “What is your command, spirit mage?”

Rifga’s frown remained deeply etched on his scarred face. His long rabbit ears twitching, the War Lord said, “Will the outcome not be more favorable should the Remnant Mage fight on our side? How can we lose?”

“Even with my help, the battle will be horrendous,” Marek said. “The Graysouls are dangerous. I’ve fought some that are more powerful than others, ones that can command the Abilities of the souls they’ve stolen.”

“We have seen this too,” Grashmor said. “They are stronger but die like the others do.”

“And what of the compound Graysouls?” Marek challenged. “Have you seen the abominations they can create by combining the bodies of several creatures? Stronger, more intelligent, and with a variety of Abilities, these are even more deadly.”

Both Rifga and Grashmor deflated.

Alif, the Visionary, broke the tension by saying, “I have seen them in my dreams. The spirit mage does not lie.”

High Priestess Nabin entered the clearing and bowed to Rifga and Grashmor before turning to Marek. “You’ve convinced us you belong. If you wish our army to act otherwise, show us how clever you are. What alternative do we have?”

Marek sighed in relief. He’d fought and earned an opportunity. Now all he had to do was show them. “Alif, can you summon the battlefield again?” The Visionary did so. “Long ago in Ardea, a battle was fought against the rival kingdom Casteras,” he began. “Outnumbered and facing a large number of Knight Class warriors, the Ardean leader saw that his forces were doomed. Rather than retreat or lead his men to certain death, he chose his battlefield wisely, and in so doing, used the terrain itself as a weapon. He flooded a field of grass by diverting a river. This became a watery grave the charging Casterans didn’t notice until it was too late.”

Marek waited a moment for the assembly to digest his words. Then he said, “Alif, can you shift your perspective on the map? Can you make this area here larger?”

The Visionary made the alterations: The narrow end of the valley was no longer in sight. Instead, a saddle of land between two shorter mountains came into view. At one end was a long slope leading up from the valley with the lake. At the other was a cliff wrapping around a small, open plain. “Here is where you should stage the battle.”

Rifga snorted and shook his ears. Grashmor growled in frustration and dug a furrow in the ground with his clawed hind feet. Again, High Priestess Nabin found her words before the others. “Why here? This is a death trap! Remnant Mage or no, our peoples do not wish to die penned in on all sides only to feed your army of spirits!”

“Look closer, High Priestess,” Marek said calmly, “and listen to my plan.”

73

CARROT ON A STICK

An army marched up the sloping hill, from this distance, seemingly at a crawl. An army! Mags thought, wanting to scream or hide or run away. Anything but stand here and watch it come on like a tide of death. A real Rift-cursed army! What am I doing here?

“First and foremost, Marigold, you are here to learn,” Yuze said beside her, seeming to read her thoughts as he so often did.

The old man wore his usual robes. Leaning on the shoddy old walking stick, he appeared anything but intimidating. She couldn’t imagine how he’d fight with that thing. It stood less than four feet tall, and though she could attest it was strong enough to raise welts, Mags doubted it would last a single blow against a shield, let alone a sword.

Mags blew out a breath she’d unwillingly been holding onto. “Think it’s better to say survival comes first and foremost. Not sure about you, but I don’t fancy becoming one of them ugly bastards. Look at them! All creepy and gray and—ow!”

A stinging welt rose from the exposed skin above her bracer. Yuze chuckled and set his cane back down. “Hush. You sound like a mewling child. Your priority is to learn. The next tier requires courage, Marigold. The Second Principle is quite literally not for the weak of heart.”

She rubbed at her arm and looked sidelong at her Kiyashi. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, he was about to deliver a lecture. She felt it like the gathering of rain clouds—Yuze was going to teach her the next principle she’d need to master, and he was going to do it here and now on the field of battle.

Only when she’d found stillness did the old monk speak again. “The Second Principle is this: governance of one’s fear is the first step toward victory. Think on that, Marigold. Not to conquer or master your fear, but to guide it, control it.” Yuze groaned and stamped the ground with the butt of his walking stick. “Ardean common speech is crude. So little can be translated efficiently. In the Unbound Realm, hundreds of Sects can be found. Each Sect follows a unique path. Each has a philosophy that informs this path and shapes their Cultivation. When you agreed to follow me, you joined a Sect of two, a Sect that was once vast and powerful. Its name is Dominion of the Flowing Storm.”

Horns blared, rising from the countless ranks of the enemy. The closer they came, the more distinctly Mags could make them out. Thousands of Druskin marched beside beasts of every kind imaginable. Dust rose from their passing, and it gathered in a gray haze that obscured the rear of the army. Mags’ heart pounded frantically in her chest, but she held on to every one of Yuze’s words. Dominion of the Flowing Storm, she thought. Beautiful and strong. Why couldn’t he have told me this yesterday, though?

Yuze pointed at the snarling face of their enemy. “Ferocity can be potent! The storm is fierce, is it not? Yet what happens when one cannot guide the storm clouds? What if one encounters another more powerful? The philosophy that guides Dominion of the Flowing Storm can be summarized in a single word. Zhinquan. The term comes from the Hong Shan Province of the Unbound Realm and translates roughly to self-governance, agency, control. All three of these words combined are required to explain Zhinquan effectively.”

“So fear is one factor a Cultivator must learn to control,” Mags said, linking the lecture to the Second Principle.

Yuze hummed in appreciation and bobbed his head. “Precisely. Now, Marigold, let us test ourselves. We must ask, how much control do we possess? Will the fear win out and break us? Will we lose grip on the howling winds of our storm? Let us find out.”

With no further explanation, and no thought spared for the oncoming army, Yuze dashed away from the Haikini front line. Mags gaped at the old man’s back. Feet bare and armored in a faded brown robe, her Kiyashi’s madness came into sharp relief.

“Wait! Kiyashi, what are you doing?”

Panic rose within her, threatened to overcome her faculties and render her weak and helpless. Her mind spun as she tried to imagine what action might be fitting for such an absurd and unhinged moment. Surely she couldn’t follow. Could she?

Cold sweat beading her brow, hands trembling, Mags gripped her bow tightly, nocked an arrow, and ran in her teacher’s wake.

Mags hurried to catch up with Yuze. The old man cackled in delight when he saw her. This did nothing to alleviate her fears. Not in her worst nightmares could she dream up a more horrifying scenario. Thankfully, Yuze stopped a hundred feet from the first rank of Druskin. “Ah, I see I still possess a disciple! Well done, Marigold. But do you see their faces? They are enraged. All demons and those that flock to them are prone to losing themselves in anger’s hot flames. Our foes are powerful and yet completely lacking self-governance. What silly fools.”

Mags held her bow before her, eyes flicking right and left across the enemy line. She didn’t know where to attack, or even if she should.

“What is our goal in this stage of the battle?”

Mags blinked, trying to engage her mind. “I… We’re to pretend to engage them in earnest, only to withdraw tactically soon after the armies make contact.”

Yuze nodded. “Many will be lost if we allow things to flow as they might. Would it not benefit the Haikini cause to guide our enemy’s hand?” A stray arrow flew at Yuze’s head, and without a second thought, he smacked it from the air with his stick. “You and I are but two in a sea of combatants. The Dominion of the Flowing Storm Sect can serve most effectively by defeating the enemy’s self-control. See that group of archers?”

Scanning the left side of the front rank, Mags found a throng of Druskin archers. They hid behind a row of Graysoul bears trudging uphill at a steady pace. She nodded.

“Let us strike our first blow there. Follow close behind, and when I give the signal, make use of that bow of yours.” Yuze thrust his open palm at her, and strange symbols appeared in the air around her. They shone with the white of essence before fading. “That should do,” he said before swatting three more arrows from the sky, then dashing toward the archers.

Mags scrambled after, praying to her gods to be spared in this madness.

A great horn blared three times, and the Druskin forces stopped their advance. The muted cry of a Druskin warrior could be heard, and then a volley of arrows filled the sky like a flock of birds. Mags tensed, convinced her death had already come. Yet the arrows flew up and over her head. The Druskin are ignoring us, she realized. Guess that makes sense. What threat could two mad idiots pose against that horde?

The clamor of arrows crashed into Haikini shields behind her. Shouts of pain accompanied the primal song. Before a second volley could be released, Yuze fell on the first enraged bear to stand before him.

Her Kiyashi had taught her little of combat. Since she’d begun with a foundation of swordplay and hand-to-hand fighting, he’d decided to focus exclusively on other, more fundamental skills. Yuze had trained her balance, her focus, and her control of essence most of all. Mags thought they’d have had more time to learn actual fighting skills and techniques, anything that might increase her prowess in battle, yet here she was feeling anything but prepared. Facing so many, her enchanted bow and her brother’s shortsword seemed pathetic and insufficient.

Yuze extended his arm, and the walking stick transformed. It stretched to six or seven feet long, revealing its true nature as a sleek bo staff shimmering with the pure white of the Pristine Flame. A bear rose up on its hind feet and slashed at the old man. Yuze’s form blurred, then the beast was shattered, its arm folded in two where the staff connected. The bear’s left leg buckled inward at the knee a moment later, and then its head was cracked open like a gourd.

Mags drew her bow and stared in awe at the devastation Yuze wrought upon the enemy. He’d dismantled the hulking creature in the blink of an eye. Three more bears fell just as quickly, and then he was among the archers. The Druskin howled their outrage. None were prepared for a direct fight, however, and they broke like a stand of saplings under the harsh winds of a storm.

“Now!” Yuze shouted from within the enemy ranks. “Slay their leader, Marigold! For he is the one that guides them!”

She spotted a tall, gaunt Druskin in the center of the formation. He was shouting at his archers, directing them to attack Yuze. She didn’t give it a second thought. Taking aim, she released an Arrow of Rending. A heartbeat later and the side of the Druskin’s head parted in a spray of blood.

Yuze thrust his staff in the air and laughed. “That’s it! Now, let’s see what else we can do to blind them!”

Her Kiyashi evaded several arrows before laying into the Druskin forces once more. He slaughtered everything in his path as he left the archers behind to carve a path toward the opposite side of the army.

Mags went to work with her bow. Arrows and javelins flew toward her, but every time they came close, an invisible force diverted them. Yuze’s technique, she thought as she targeted another tall wolf kin shouting orders. When will he teach me this? Damn convenient, that would be.

A minute passed as enemies died at a horrifying pace. Briefly, Mags wondered if Yuze couldn’t simply kill them all himself. Everyone had limits, though, even this ancient madman that had chosen her. He emerged again, his face and robes miraculously untouched by blood or gray slime. In fact, her Kiyashi was smiling pleasantly, his eyes bright and lucid.

Yuze ran up the slope and waved her on. “Come! We’ve done our work, Marigold. Let’s pull back and observe the outcome.”

She staggered after the monk and ran at his side. A volley of arrows hissed behind them, and Mags turned in horror to find these were in fact aimed at the two instigators. She tensed and waited for the invisible barrier around her to shatter. Yuze didn’t spare a glance. He flung a hand back casually, and a wave of energy splashed against the arrows. They landed upon the grassy slope to either side of Mags and Yuze, sprouting like stalks of wheat. Soon, they’d reached the Haikini, and both she and Yuze were greeted with shocked stares and whispers.

Yuze paid their allies no mind. He merely assumed his accustomed Kiyashi stance by leaning on his walking staff and folding his opposite arm behind his back. “See now? How fearsome this foe! How plentiful and strong! Tell me, though, young Strongtower, how long will these demons survive now that they’ve lost all sense of control?”

And she saw that it was true. What had been an orderly advance had been thrown into disarray by Yuze’s antagonism. The archers fired without coordination. A contingent of Druskin warriors charged ahead of their companions only to be greeted by Haikini arrows. The warriors in the middle of the front line had stopped altogether, seemingly waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

The Haikini rained death down upon the Druskin army. Arrows, javelins, and stones hurled by slings felled hundreds. Soon they would recover, Mags knew. Far too many of their foes had yet to take the field. More importantly, far fewer of their allies fell in the initial charge.

Yet despite all odds, she had indeed learned a lesson. One she would never forget.

74

WHAT RISES FROM BELOW

Marek had seen it all from atop the makeshift tower, watching the tumult of a great battle unfold. He saw the seemingly endless sprawl of the opposing army’s advance. He witnessed the initial clash, which had gone favorably despite the fears of the War Lords and High Priestesses. And he observed the chaos with which Yuze and Mags interfered. Their brief work had done a great deal to destabilize the front line. By the time the two armies clashed, the Druskin couldn’t match the Haikini order and discipline.

Hundreds of the enemy fell in the first quarter-hour alone. Yet they did inevitably recover. Several thousand Graysouls and Druskin fighters drove past their fallen and crushed the Haikini front lines.

The tactical retreat began as planned. Volleys of arrows and Spells pelted the opposition, the Haikini giving ground before turning to reform the line all the while. Repeating this many times, they drew back up the slope, inviting the enemy in.

This part, most of all, had been agonizing to watch. Sitting idly by while allies were slaughtered ate away at Marek’s heart. His presence needed to be hidden, though. His part would come, and so rather than claim the souls of their dead, he was forced to watch the Graysouls refresh their ranks by possessing the dead Haikini. The enemy soon gained momentum and drove up the long slope efficiently, forcing the rabbit kin into the field below the cliffs.

Just a little longer, he thought. A few more minutes at most.

Allon circled Marek’s legs endlessly, hissing and ranting, eager to taste the tainted souls. The daemon was so distraught he didn’t seem capable of speech. Marek comforted him through their link—something that would have disturbed the mage not so long ago.

He’d come to know his familiar well in a short time, however. Marek understood the creature’s hunger. He empathized with Allon’s longing for power and the chaos of battle. They were of the same ilk; he could see that now.

Flashes of light and colors emerged from both armies. Most of the Spells and Abilities were Haikini, but the greater Graysouls had shown themselves at last. They’d pushed forward in the Druskin ranks, seeking violence. The battle had begun but an hour ago, and already the Haikini had lost over two hundred of their finest. If not for the elaborate protection wards and the hidden ranks of healers situated in the rear of their forces, that number would have been several times higher.

Rifga and the Haikini leaders would consider their progress successful. Losing close to a fifth of their forces in order to draw the enemy into position was justified, Marek knew. This aspect of leadership would never be easy for him. With his Abilities as a Soul Knight, he would soon be capable of fielding an army on his own. An army of willing souls, already dead and beyond the concerns of pain or loss.

So like a hawk with clipped wings, he stood atop his perch and waited. The Visionary had cast a Spell of obfuscation to hide the tower made of cedar trees, allowing him to go unseen while also providing a position from which to command his forces when the time was right.

The Haikini pulled back until the entirety of their army was ringed in by the cliffs. Druskin and Graysouls pressed ever nearer, striding over corpses and the crushed grass of the field.

And then, finally, it was his turn.

The enemy was in position. They howled and yammered and cursed, unaware of the trap they’d walked into. Closing his eyes, Marek contacted the ten Squad Leaders arrayed across the battlefield. Each in turn signaled the spirits that followed them. And as a tide of death, fifty spirit soldiers rose from their shallow graves. Six squads were Rogue-led, each squad containing four Rogues and a single Berserker. These had the most profound effect, and in seconds, the enemy felt the bite of Marek’s presence like a dagger to the heart.

With enhanced critical attack damage, the Rogues killed dozens of the unwary foe in moments. Marek channeled his ether and triggered Command Spirit as rapidly as possible. His ether reserves drained swiftly, only to be replenished by Ether Siphon. Alternating between the two, Marek raised a hundred newly recruited spirit soldiers within the first minute of his ambush.

These joined the souls he’d bound at the Haikini graveyard. The beast kin were hesitant at first, but the spirits pleaded on their own behalf. They wanted to avenge their people.

Inevitably, the ratio of ally to enemy slowly began to shift.

Marek called to the throng of champions awaiting orders at the base of his tower. “Go! Spread out along the front line and support the Haikini!” Ten Sir Rhinweld champions pushed forward. While they advanced, Marek focused his efforts on elevating them to the second tier of power, one at a time. With an endless supply of fresh souls, and Ether Siphon to replenish his reserves, the task was quickly done.

Soon, the presence of the hulking champions was felt. Exhausted Haikini warriors were allowed to withdraw and recover while others fought on at the champions’ sides.

He had one more tile to play. “Now, Allon! Feast to your heart’s desire! Ignore all but the Graysouls that emerge from the slain! Devour them!”

His daemon rushed from the tower, diving into the sea of combatants. Seconds later, Marek felt the cool rush of ether that flowed from Allon’s core to his own. For every soul the daemon consumed, a small portion of its life force would leech away in twin streams, one empowering Allon himself, the other Marek.

The influx of power exhilarated Marek. His blood became a river of ice. The Remnant Mage reaped his harvest, and his army grew. Ether Siphon and the power gained from Allon’s feasting filled his Ether Core to bursting. Another hundred, and then two, the ranks of his ethereal army grew.

Marek indulged himself and raised a half-dozen more champions. All constructed from the Tinrick archetype, they became vengeful ghosts among the throng. He cast Elevate Champion on all six, and then, because the influx of ether was endless, he raised them not one but two ranks higher. As tall as the second-tier Sir Rhinwelds, they gored the enemy with immense spears, becoming so powerful they could challenge even the greater Graysouls.

His vision grew hazy as shadows filled his periphery. Nothing could stop him, not with so many resources, so much richness to be found. The battle raged, and Marek became giddy at the prospect of the thousands of spirits he would soon command. In half an hour, he’d become general over a small army—one that swelled exponentially.

“This is my birthright,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “This is my domain.” The field of battle swam with shadow. He could no longer feel his arms or legs, the icy ether flowing through him sapping all sensation. “How foolish they are. Don’t they know who I am?”

“Marek,” a voice spoke beside him. He ignored it, a minor annoyance that might distract him from his conquest. “Marek, listen to me!” Someone grabbed his arm and shook him.

Raising his opposite hand, he released a Phantom Bolt in the annoyance’s direction.

Then his vision flashed, and a sting lit up the side of his face. “Marek, it’s me, damn you! It’s Ashurai! Calm yourself!”

He touched his cheek and stared at the Basari. Some of the haze had lifted from the edges of his vision, and Marek could clearly see the reality he found himself in. “I’m sorry,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say. “I… Principalities, but I nearly lost myself.”

Ashurai gripped him under the arm and said, in a soothing tone, “This is why I accompanied you here. I can join the fighting when the time is right. For now, I need you to keep hold of your mind. Look, the battle has turned! There’s no need to lose your sanity. Pace yourself, Marek. If things continue as they are, the battle will soon be over.”

Marek breathed long and deep. His core was filling with more and more ether as his daemon drank in yet another Graysoul. The spectral army stood strong, easily withstanding the Druskin might. Ashurai was correct: Marek needed to slow down and remain grounded. If he lost himself entirely, he could very well end up destroying both armies. He shivered, remembering that had been precisely his desire before Ashurai had intervened.

He nodded to the warrior beside him and surveyed the field below. “You’re right. I’ll be careful from now on, I promise.”

His connection to Allon was suddenly lost, and the daemon returned to his mind. Summon me again! the creature screamed. I was killed by the wretched, twisted one! Summon me to drink again! Sssummon me!

Marek pressed his will against the familiar’s presence. Calm yourself, Allon. The battle will go on for a long while yet.

But Master!

No! Marek chastised. Your emotions sway my own. Calm yourself or I will not summon you again. We must remain in control of ourselves—is that understood?

The daemon whimpered. Sorry, Master. I’m so hungry. I only wish to feed and grow strong.

I know. So do I. Steady yourself and you’ll have a chance to hunt again. Marek waited until his familiar fully understood, and only then did he summon Allon a second time.

With Ashurai at his side, Marek reassessed the battle. Many of his spirit soldiers had died in the short time since the warrior had intervened. Regardless, Allon had consumed dozens of tainted souls, none of which were able to refresh the Druskin army as they otherwise would have. Hundreds more of the enemy had fallen as well. The tide had indeed shifted.

Scanning the chaos, Marek tried to think more tactically. It was obvious he couldn’t immerse himself in his powers, so he fell back on old habits. He analyzed the number of enemies, their types and abilities, and their position arrayed on the field. Then he did the same with his own forces. Forming queries, he used Intuit several times in a row. In this way, he learned which of his forces might aid the cause the most as well as where they were needed.

In the southern portion of the field, along the cliff wall, a large force of Druskin bearing war hammers had broken through the Haikini front line. He focused on this area first, binding a total of twelve souls. He siphoned several more to raise a half-dozen Sir Rhinweld champions and an equal number of Defender-type specialized spirits. No sooner had they arrived than the front line was restored. The Druskin hammer wielders were pushed back, and more of the Graysouls died with them. He commanded Allon to feast in that area alone.

Marek then moved on to the next greatest threat. A cluster of mages stood roughly a hundred strides from his position. They were ringed by greater Graysouls tasked with protecting them. The mages hurled deadly Spells that were quickly thinning out the Haikini forces in the center of the front line. They needed to be stopped.

Command Spirit. Command Spirit. Command Spirit. He bound twenty newly slain souls and ordered them into a large group. All were specialized as Archers before he promoted them to Squad Leaders. Focus your fire on the mages, he commanded. Shoot only them until all are dead. Then harass the enemy at will.

Marek watched as his orders were promptly carried out. Two of the souls died while grouping up, but then the volleys began. At first, the mages defended against the spectral arrows, throwing up a wall of fire and then a sheet of ice. Eventually, however, the continual storm of arrows broke through. First one and then another of the enemy mages died. The arrows continued to fall. And seeing a new resource revealed before him, Marek greedily claimed it.

He bound the mages one by one and raised them to champions. This quickly unlocked several new archetypes. Soon, it was Marek who commanded Thristen the Frost Mage, Hargo the Pyromancer, and Reshi Varr the Stone Slinger. Dranhesh the Mender excited him the most, for the mage was capable of healing not only the spirit soldiers but the living as well. Casting his awareness across the battlefield, Marek raised ten Dranheshes, and the Haikini injured were restored.

Glancing back to the small island of magic-using champions, Marek summoned three Defender-type squads to take up position around them.

The enemy ranks shattered.

“Stay with me,” Ashurai said, squeezing Marek’s arm.

Marek placed his hand on Ashurai’s. “I’m here,” he said, breathing slowly until a few of the shadows lifted from his ever-darkening vision. He blinked a few times, and then realized some of the haze wasn’t coming from his madness. “Ashurai… you see this too? The gray fog?”

The Basari grimaced. “That I do. I think you should conserve your energy. Something terrible is coming our way.”

At the back of the Druskin army, now less than half its original size, a storm of thick gray fog cloaked the rear guard. The air crackled with mana as it drew nearer, and Marek could taste something foul on the wind.

And then he saw them. Compound Graysouls, dozens of the hulking creatures lumbering forward. All towered over ten feet tall, impressive and macabre, more powerful than the one he’d faced in the cave.

Ashurai had a point. Marek organized his spirit soldiers into squads, then gave their leaders orders. He assigned Attribute Points, all to Willpower and Dexterity, from the levels he’d gained so far.

Then he waited for the fight that would soon come.

75

GIANTS AMONG THEM

Rushi lapped at his palm, the familiar warmth of her tongue rooting him in that terrible moment. Dumhvala had reigned supreme all throughout the day. None but the god of chaos and vengeance could have blessed so much pointless slaughter.

Ashurai stood vigil at Marek’s shoulder. The mage’s power terrified him more than anything he’d seen in his long travels. No Sorcerer, no corrupt and fallen Knight could have impressed him more. He was certain that many existed throughout the Coherent Realm that outstripped Marek in power—he wasn’t invulnerable by any means—yet on a battlefield like this, the young man’s potential was staggering. And in a year’s time? In three? Srahesh save us if he lives that long. I must believe Marek will find a way to cure his madness. Otherwise he’ll be the end of kingdoms.

The black daemon floated nearby, recalled by his master. Then a burst of energy flowed out of Marek and into the creature, and before Ashurai’s very eyes, it grew. Jagged spines sprouted from its back. The daemon’s arms grew long and stout, and the claws that extended from each cursed hand transformed into curved daggers.

He’s gained levels, Ashurai reminded himself. Damn, but the Classed never cease growing in power.

“I’m going to fight them myself,” Marek said suddenly. “Keep an eye out for Mags, will you? Yuze should protect her. He’s certainly capable. But just in case.”

Ashurai’s anxiety spiked. He had the urge to hold Marek back or to slay him then and there with Gela. He’d decided his course already, though, and so the Basari merely bowed his head. “Remember who you are, Marek of Misthearth. Do not forget those you fight for. All will be lost if you succumb to the madness.”

Marek gave him a sad smile and squeezed his shoulder. “I will. Good luck and don’t die. I don’t think Mags would appreciate it if you did.”

Ashurai looked on as the mage faced the scene of battle and stepped from the tower. Falling twenty feet to the ground, the man landed gracefully, whatever power he possessed to protect his body easily withstanding the fall. Then Marek unsheathed that ugly sword and ran toward the monstrosities in the near distance.

Turning northward, Ashurai found Mags and Yuze battling atop a small rise against the base of a cliff. Haikini warriors flanked them. Yuze’s movements were hard to track, but with his heightened senses, Ashurai could manage it.

Few warriors could move like the old man. None fought with as much skill. Like a sentient storm, Yuze cleaved down the enemy with seemingly little effort. He shifted direction, feigned attacks only to withdraw and slay another. None of the Graysouls could land a hit on the monk, for when they came near, he would divert their course with a splash of bright energy.

Mags possessed no such ability. She did fight admirably, however. Her shortsword had been lost, apparently, but she’d recovered a bone-tipped spear from the battlefield. Mags had the harsh movements of a soldier, efficient though lacking grace. It hindered her little, and time and again, she cast down one of the enemy. She’d gained considerable power; that was plain to see even from where Ashurai stood a quarter-mile away. Is she truly a cultivator now? Praise the holy ones, but I never thought I’d see the day. And Yuze… I’ve known him for years, and never once did I suspect his origin.

A roar split the sky ahead. Ashurai turned to see the greatest of the compound Graysouls wreaking havoc on the group of mages Marek had summoned. It towered above all else, fifteen feet tall at least. Its body was composed of various creatures, only some of which Ashurai could identify. Its legs… Have the Graysouls slain a true giant in their conquest? I didn’t even know they still existed!

The recluse race had been slaughtered and hunted down hundreds of years ago. Gorb had told Ashurai of their famed strength around the campfire when he’d first joined the caravan. The giants were primitive folk but commanded speech as well as magic. It had claimed they alone grew taller than the golemites, though none were so massive.

Legs of a giant, body of a bear. Heavens knows what it has for a head and arms. The limbs were wreathed in shadowy power. Only the enormous claws could be discerned clearly. Atop its shoulders lay the head of a fanged beast. Whether Druskin, bear, or mountain cat, Ashurai couldn’t be certain. The skin and fur covering the skull had torn in several places in its unholy growth.

Spells pelted the monster, and it roared again. The group of casters froze in place, apparently stunned. None recovered quickly enough to save themselves. With a single swipe of its claws, three of the mages died. The rest followed soon after.

Two more of the compound Graysouls cut a path through the Haikini. They headed straight for the largest group of healers in the allied army. These creatures weren’t nearly as powerful as their leader, but at ten or twelve feet tall, both wielding war hammers, few could so much as slow them.

A figure flashed into existence near one of the monsters. Marek’s purple and black mana was easy to identify as he reached the first of his intended targets. Ashurai tensed as Marek engaged. It’s you who cannot die. Mags loves you more than anyone. Do not let her down.

Marek flashed away from the sweeping hammer and appeared directly in front of the monster’s face. Tiny bolts of shadowy mana crashed into the creature’s eyes. Marek teleported again, and this time the enemy couldn’t stop his approach. With one swing of the black sword, the compound Graysoul was beheaded.

Its companion howled in anger, then hefted its hammer and lunged at Marek. The mage flung out a hand at the same time and a coil of dark chains emerged from his palm. They draped the Graysoul and bound him in place. Each length sank deep into the ground. The monster fought against the restraints but failed to break free. Wisely, Marek left the Graysoul to its fate to seek others nearby. In half a minute, countless Spells, arrows, and Haikini spears brought the monster to the ground.

Ashurai watched Marek dispatch or subdue several others. The mage’s trajectory was made evident. One defeated compound Graysoul after another, Marek worked his way toward the greatest threat. That will be an unholy match. May Srahesh guide you, Marek Kaiteras.

Rushi headbutted Ashurai’s leg and whined, anxious for some reason. Then he remembered his task. Peering north, he found the hill Mags and Yuze fought to control. All those that had stood with them were gone now, and three compound monsters covered in plate armor faced them. Yuze’s attacks seemed slower than before and, against these enemies, were far less effective. The monk is tiring, Ashurai noted. He’s pushed himself. Without his protection, Mags can’t survive on her own.

One of the Graysouls stomped the ground with a fist. A spike of stone erupted beneath the woman’s feet a half-second later. Mags flew into the air and landed on the ground a short distance away.

Ashurai’s mind sped up, and his body moved on instinct. He took two vials of Kamena Powder, more than anyone should ever take, and snorted them in turn. His lungs burned, and his vision turned red. Power surged through his limbs, giving him the strength he needed. “Stay!” he shouted to Rushi before jumping from the tower.

He landed with a roll and sprinted toward the hill. As he weaved across the battlefield, he drew Gela and slashed his inner forearm, sundering one of his forbidden enchantments. Puissance, the sigil read, or so the carnal Sigilist had told him. Strength exploded within him, and he doubled his pace. Two more slashes destroyed Speed and Agility, the two enchantments he favored most. Their destruction amplified his attributes, Dexterity, Strength, and Constitution rising to incredible heights.

Surrghi spare her, he prayed. May I be swift! May my blade’s edge be sharp enough!

The crowd of combatants thinned, and Ashurai entered the clearing surrounding the hill. One of the Graysouls had been wounded, it seemed. Yuze flew into the air above the fallen creature and swung downward with his staff. A great arc of white energy emerged, cutting deep into the Graysoul. Its wolf’s head parted in two, the steel helm it had worn insufficient to defend against such an attack. The Graysoul beside it swung its club at the monk a moment later. Yuze diverted the attack but hadn’t acted swiftly enough.

Ashurai’s stomach dropped when the monk tumbled across the grassy slope.

One more. I have nothing to lose, he thought. If I fail now, what purpose do I serve?

He slashed a fourth sigil, tapping into more nascent power. He’d surpassed his limit long ago, and as another flood of energy was released, he screamed out his challenge.

The Graysoul nearest the two lifted its massive war hammer. Yuze stood shakily and erected some kind of shield. The hammer shattered the barrier into pieces, and Yuze staggered on weakened legs. The monster prepared to swing again but lacked the time to deliver the blow.

Ashurai entered the fight like Dumhvala himself. Dashing behind the Graysoul’s back, he spun, using his momentum to cleave through the back of the Graysouls leg. Hesshana, his priceless longsword, cut all the way to the bone. The monster’s hamstrings were rendered useless, and it pitched forward to its knees. Beautiful Death, he’d named her in Basari, and she deserved the title. Climbing the monster’s back, Ashurai found another gap in the Graysoul’s armor between the helm and its gorget. Hesshana sank through an oversized spine, and the monster fell limp.

“Behind you!” Mags shouted. She’d gained consciousness, a good sign, and in so doing spared Ashurai a grievous wound.

He dove from the Graysoul’s back just in time to avoid the club. The weapon still made contact, however, clipping his scaled armor hard enough to throw him a dozen feet further. Ashurai landed hard, and his right arm broke on impact. Hesshana fell from his grip.

The warrior rose, dazed but self-aware. Common Graysouls had rushed the mound on the southern side. Yuze confronted them, weary but unbroken. Mags was standing as well, though her posture indicated serious injuries. She’d likely broken bones in her fall as well.

The Graysoul stomped closer to Ashurai, its eyes burning with that terrible light, and opened its mouth. Ashurai expected spittle, venom, perhaps mana hurled in the form of a fireball. What he didn’t expect was speech. “Powerful soul,” it said in a chorus of voices. “We will harvest it when we finish you.” It lifted its hand, palm open, and a spear of condensed wind flew at Ashurai.

He dove forward, grasping Hesshana’s hilt in his left hand as he did so. The wind attack sliced through his precious armor and into the skin of his back and ribs. Ashurai growled as he forced himself to a knee. Shrugging free of his cuirass, he raked his sword across his chest. Three more sigils were destroyed: Constitution, Resilience, and the last of his Speed enchantments. The bone in his arm snapped into place and healed instantly. His skin knit itself closed, as did the cuts he’d made to rend his sigils.

The Graysoul pounded its chest with a fist, activating another Skill. Its bulk trembled, and then a red sheen covered it head to foot. When it attacked again, it did so at incredible speed.

Ashurai could have laughed. The club whistled through the air, the attack powerful enough to shatter a castle wall, yet from his perspective, it moved sluggishly. Seven sigils destroyed. Seven fonts of power that would soon burn through their energy. In that moment, he was nearly immortal.

The Basari sidestepped and weaved under the club. He lunged after it passed, the tip of his longsword catching the Graysoul on the wrist. Flesh parted and gray ichor sprayed the air. Then he closed with his enemy in three strides. Ashurai slashed neatly through the side of the Graysouls unarmored boot before spinning behind it and drawing Gela from her scabbard, slamming the shortsword into the monster’s hip.

It teetered to the side and caught its bulk with one hand. Ashurai danced out of the way and leapt skyward. Rising eight feet above the ground, he swept Hesshana up in an arc as perfect and lovely as could be desired. Some treasured pearls or trinkets of gold—Ashurai coveted only the sanctity of combat. As if observing the act of another, he saw Hesshana deliver a death most beautiful.

Six souls screamed in torment as the Graysoul’s head slid free of its shoulders.

Ashurai didn’t watch the spirits flee to seek more souls to inhabit. Nor did he clean his precious blade. He paused only long enough to recover Gela before charging up the hill. Two blades in his hand, he decimated what remained of the twenty or so Graysouls harassing Yuze.

The hill was dappled with corpses. Blood soaked the green grass all around. Yuze collapsed to his knees, resting his staff in his lap, eyes distant.

Mags stood beside her teacher, bleeding but not dead. Her face quirked into a half-smile as she saw the Basari. “Ash,” she said quietly. “You came for us.”

He strode up the bloody hill, and when he stood before her, said, “No, Mags. I came for you.”

Together, they surveyed the final moments of the terrible battle.

A daemon forged of shadow consumed shrieking souls that fled in all directions. Marek raised hundreds of spirits, depriving the Graysouls of the hosts they required before clashing with a foe ten times his size. Leaving clouds of purple and black mana in his wake, he dismantled the monster, robbing the Druskin of their greatest champion.

Last of all, they saw the Druskin War Lord who’d started it all surrounded by five High Priestesses, the Culling Blade he carried downcast and broken with their combined might.

With the destruction of the blade, the demons could no longer abide the world of the living. The wretched were cast out, shrieking in pain and torment. The bodies they’d inhabited fell dead. The Druskin army surrendered immediately after.

Mags sighed heavily beside him. “It’s over. Thank Querine, it’s over.”

Ashurai frowned, one final anxiety disturbing his relief. “Perhaps,” he replied. “We’d better check on Marek. It may not yet be over for him.”

76

SONG AMONG THE IRONWOODS

With smooth black bark and a crown of green leaves the size of copper coins, the ironwood tree wasn’t nearly as majestic as Marek had expected. Its twisting branches rose only ten or so feet high. The mana surrounding it felt thick and potent, and yet in the end, it was just a tree.

Marek’s shoulders threatened to buckle under the weight of disappointment. He wasn’t sure if he could face Mags, tell her of his ultimate failure. She’s going to be heartbroken. She’ll never forgive me, but if she won’t gather the rest of the herbs and return to Misthearth, I’ll leave her behind along with all the rest. Find an end for myself somewhere deep in the mountains. I will not destroy her in my madness.

Why mussst we die? Allon asked, his voice timid and afraid. We can hunt in the wilds. Grow stronger and feed. This is good.

No, Marek said. I don’t trust myself. The battle was… I almost lost everyone, Allon. I won’t become a monster.

Flashes of a battlefield filled his mind. Summoning hundreds of spirits, raising their power and organizing dozens of spectral squads to mobilize and crush the enemy. Facing down a giant beast capable of destroying a town in a single night and hacking it to pieces systematically. He watched the scenes as if from a distance. His memories seemed borrowed, gleaned over the shoulder of someone else. How could he have done any of those things? He was Marek, Mirrin’s sickly nephew. He wasn’t the shrouded terror that led an army and defeated monstrosities in single combat.

If not for Mags, Marek knew he’d have drifted too far into the shadows. She’d been the first and only one to approach him. She’d found him surrounded by a throng of spirits, covered in blood and Graysoul ichor. Mags had pushed her way through the mass of souls to reach him. Despite the fear she’d undoubtedly felt, despite the risk he’d confuse her for an enemy and command his horde to tear her apart, Mags had found him.

All he remembered was shifting darkness. Then rough, callused hands held his face, and sweetly, she’d called his name. Not Marek Kaiteras, but Marek Theeras, the name they’d both known as his for so many years. Her gray eyes were the first thing he saw when he surfaced. But though his friend had rescued him, the shadows lingered. His periphery swam with them. The voices of the dead whispered endlessly. He’d released the spirits, worried he might lose control and use the terrible weapon against those he loved.

Some hope returned when Tessin Lin and her aunt agreed to lead Marek to the sacred ironwood grove. And now here he was. Mags, Gorb, Niamh, Ashurai, and Yuze waited for him half a mile away. He sat beneath the largest ironwood in the grove, staring up through the black branches at an indifferent sky, unsure of what to do next. The tree didn’t speak to him. His Class didn’t react, nor did Empath’s Gaze acquire so much as a description of the ironwood. He touched the tree, carved into it with the black sword. He’d even dug in the soil and grasped the roots with desperate fingers.

Nothing had happened. Not a single insight gained.

Marek had read everything Rauld had given him. As interesting as they might be, the books were next to useless. Songs and rumors and second-hand reports. The staff was mentioned dozens of times, but not one entry included the manner in which it could be forged and bound.

Maybe the golemites will know? I could go with Gorb to its sacred city and beg the oldest of them for the knowledge. If not them, then perhaps the fey. Would they listen to me, though? Would they allow me into their fabled courts or simply kill me when I cross the border?

His daemon whimpered in the back of his mind. Poor Allon had never expressed such fear before, not even after being ripped to shreds by the compound Graysoul.

Marek sighed and, resolving not to give up, closed his eyes to meditate.

His mind was scattered, his thoughts frantic, so he focused only on the sensations around him. The ironwoods had a complex fragrance. They bled sap from the base of their branches that smelled like pitch and crushed sage. The soil was dark and soft beneath him. A thin layer of dried leaves covered the ground and crunched faintly every time he shifted. Wind blew from the east. The branches whispered to one another, and Marek yearned to know their language. If he did, he could simply ask the trees.

“Have you tried asking?”

Marek jumped and pressed a hand to his chest. “Principalities, Yuze. A little warning would have been nice.”

The old man sat beside him, laying his battered walking stick across his lap. Closing his eyes, Yuze began the deep and careful breathing pattern he so often used. With little else to do, Marek joined him.

The technique was harder than Marek guessed. Each inhalation lasted for what seemed like an eternity. The exhalation was split into three, the breath held for ten or so seconds between each. It took Marek several attempts to match the old man breath for breath, and even so, he felt his head begin to spin from lack of air.

Time passed, and Marek took hold of the threads of hope that were left to him. He would visit the golemites, then the Greater Fey should that plan fail. It had taken his father years to go mad. Surely, Marek had a few weeks left, a few months if he was lucky.

Yuze broke off the exercise and began humming softly. The wanderer was an enigma Marek knew he’d never understand. Old and wise, broken and angry, young and childish—all of these characteristics described Yuze. And at any given time, one couldn’t predict which aspect they might encounter. After casually displaying mastery over his body, the monk was now humming a childish tune. It was lilting and seemingly without direction. Marek nearly laughed at the absurdity of the moment.

And then the melody progressed to what Marek assumed was a chorus. A repeating melody, bright yet sad. Hearing the song sent a flush of goosebumps racing across Marek’s bare arms. His eyes shot open and he stared at Yuze, who sat complacently and smiled.

There was no doubt. He’d heard the song before. Heard it whistled in the dark corridors of the Crucible.

“Yuze,” he said, hearing the quiver in his own voice. “Yuze, where did you hear that song?”

“Hmm?”

Marek raised his voice and clasped Yuze’s arm. “The song you’re humming—where did you hear it?”

The monk chuckled but didn’t open his eyes. “My mother sang it to me when I was a child. Silly but also beautiful, is it not? My good friend Serin enjoyed it too… or was he my enemy?” Chuckling again, he said, “There isn’t always a distinction between the two, is there?”

Marek reeled internally. He gaped at Yuze, who’d begun humming the tune once more. After several long moments, he regained the ability to speak. “Serin Kaiteras?”

Yuze’s eyes did open then, and they were keen as the edge of the black sword. “Why yes, yes, that’s right. Serin was a good man. Stubborn and ambitious, but in the end, he died to save us all. But… who are you, young man?”

Marek frowned. “I’m Marek. Marek Kaiteras, the Remnant⁠—”

“You’re Serin’s heir? You? You!” Yuze leapt to his feet, laughing. “Gods, but I’ve remembered my task after all. I was certain I’d lost it for good this time. How long has it been? Ah, around a thousand years, I suppose.”

Standing on trembling legs, Marek asked, “What task? Are you going to teach me to bind the ironwood and create a staff? Please, Yuze, tell me you know how!”

Yuze shook his head. Gaze burning with emotion, one tear rolling down his tanned cheek, he said, “There’s no need, young man. Serin asked me to give you his instead.”

And with that, Yuze handed over the walking stick.

Marek took it, confused and disappointed. As soon as it touched his hand, the outline of the stick shimmered a brilliant purple before transforming. It grew to just over five feet in length, its wood twisting and darkening to the same color of the ironwood before him. A shattered crystal appeared at its top, bound in place by strips of ironwood that appeared to have grown around it organically.

His hands shook as he held the heirloom gently. Here it was, waiting for him to bind. Letters filled his mind, asking him a simple question.

Ironwood Staff: Remnant Mage Class

Do you wish to bind this weapon to your core?

Marek answered with a thought. Yes! And as his ether made contact with the magic of the staff, a terrible cold pierced him flesh and soul.

He didn’t even have a chance to scream as a tide of ether swept him away. Blackness engulfed everything—the sun and sky, the ironwood tree, the weeping monk beside him, and the countless shadows lurking in his periphery.

77

REUNIONS

Dust motes drifted through a beam of sunlight that spilled through a window too familiar to mistake. The smell of wood shavings, leather, and various other materials inspired a bout of nostalgia. Marek searched the workshop but sighed when he didn’t find any sign of Mirrin.

A voice deep and rich broke the silence. “The workshop was easy to replicate. Summoning a mortal to this place, however, another story entirely.”

Marek turned to find a man of thirty or so years sitting on one of the stools. Wearing a set of fine black armor, a dark cloak wrapped about his shoulders, the stranger cut a dashing figure. And there was something about the man’s eyes that spoke to him.

“Your father had the same eyes, as do you,” the man said with a smile. “Kaiteras blood is a potent thing. I hated how similar I looked to my own father, so I understand if you’re disappointed.”

Marek sat on his accustomed work stool and studied the man. “Serin?” he asked after a time. “You’re him, aren’t you? Tenacity… Serin Kaiteras, my ancestor.”

The man nodded. “Clever to put it together so quickly. Yes, I am he.”

“What are you doing here?” Marek asked. “Better yet, how did I get here?”

“You bound my staff, the one poor Yuze should have given you upon first sight. He gave much to save your world. Forgive him his failings.”

“And the workshop?”

Serin shrugged. “Thought it might be nice for you to see it again. We are, of course, not here in the physical sense.” He laughed as if he’d made a joke. “Not that I can be. I left the world of the living a long time ago.”

Marek narrowed his eyes. This was Tenacity, one of the Principalities, a god of the Coherent Realm. He should know whether or not… “Mirrin—is he⁠—”

“Not dead, if that’s what you want to ask. The Sigilist lives, though for how much longer, I cannot say. But we meander too far from what’s important. Time flows differently here, and the world will not wait on us. I only have a few moments to speak with you.”

Marek fought to quell the myriad questions he’d always wanted to ask a god should he happen to meet one.

Again, Serin laughed. “Sorry, I know it is tempting to pose the biggest questions. For now, however, it is I who need to speak.” He gestured with his hand, and the ironwood staff appeared on the worktable before Marek. “The crystal was shattered when Yuze and I rendered the Rift. You will need to acquire a new one. A Diadem Crystal, once used to enchant the crowns of royalty, now far too precious to spare for such uses. Few exist in Archaius. All you need is one, however. Do so as quickly as possible, for you cannot stand against the darkness without the full power of your staff.”

Marek ran his fingers along the smooth black wood. “The staff enhances my Abilities, then?”

“In a sense, though not how you might imagine,” Serin answered. “Its greatest function is to secure your soul to the realm of the living. I’m sure you remember how close you came to losing contact entirely. The staff’s other functions are yours to discover. You haven’t reached a high enough tier of power to access the staff’s interface, but I suspect you will soon enough.”

Marek stared at the length of ironwood and bit his lip. Shaking his head, he ventured, “Mirrin told me my mother’s fate. He wasn’t there to see it, though. My father… Did he really⁠—”

“Your father had no control over what happened. It wasn’t an action of his will, so let that go, Marek. The fault lies with the king of Casteras, an evil man and a problem you’ll one day need to sort out. The tomes that contain the knowledge of your Class, how to create a staff, the limits and extent of your powers, all can be found in his vaults.”

“Bastard,” Marek hissed. “I should go there straight away. I could gain plenty of levels by slaughtering his soldiers.”

Serin’s eyes hardened. “Most of those men have done no harm. Direct your wrath with care. But alas, you need not worry about gaining power, nor will you step foot in Casteras any time soon.”

“What do you mean? After I deliver the herbs to Mirrin, I planned to head north immediately.”

“Your path leads elsewhere. Our time is done, young Marek. I shall tell you one last thing. You must trust in Yuze. Heed the wanderer’s guidance. He will not lead you astray, no matter how frayed his mind might seem.”

The workshop began to fade, Serin Kaiteras along with it. “Wait! What Abilities should I choose when I reach the next Threshold? Don’t leave yet! I have more questions!”

“Follow your intuition and listen to those that love you the most. Goodbye, Marek. May your soul stay bright.”

All vanished, and then Marek’s eyes fluttered open. He heard people talking nearby, their words unclear. Sitting up, he found himself in a sickbed. The injured rested in a long line beside him. A healer shouted something in the Haikini tongue and ran out through the flap of the tent.

Marek groaned. He wasn’t in pain exactly, but everything was blurry, his mind filled with fog and his limbs heavy.

Marek, you are awake! a voice called inside him. I waited! It was hard, and I’m so hungry, but I wait very good.

His familiar’s voice hadn’t changed in tone. It still held the raspy, dark quality it had before, yet the being that spoke them was different somehow. Allon, is that you? You sound… well, less evil.

The daemon’s laughter rasped like a metal file. Still a little evil. Not so wrong in the head. The staff pulled my soul out of the Rift completely. Now the darkness does not touch me. But I’m still hungry, and my fangs are sharper than ever. Will we hunt today?

It was Marek’s turn to laugh. Sure enough, his familiar was the same one with which he’d first bonded, insatiable and not such a deep thinker.

“Marek!” Mags shouted from across the tent. She wore simple clothes fashioned from leather, and she carried not a single weapon on her person. Her eyes shone bright, less burdened than when he’d seen them last. “You Rift-bred bastard! I thought you’d never wake up!”

A healer scowled in Mags’ direction, but the woman didn’t so much as notice. She ran past the Haikini and flopped onto Marek’s hospital bed. Then, of course, she punched him.

“Ow! This how you greet the sick?” he asked, rubbing his shoulder.

Mags giggled and gave him a gentle shove. “Oh, shut up and look at me.” Peering into his eyes, she searched them for a long while. Finally, her smile broadened and tears fell down her cheeks. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re back. Gods, but it’s good to see you.”

Summon me! Allon urged, pulling Marek back from the tearful moment he was sharing with his best friend. I must speak to the Mags!

When the daemon wouldn’t relent, Marek gave in. “Allon wishes to say something,” he warned her before summoning the familiar.

Allon swirled into existence. His inky form startled several of the medical tent’s occupants, and Marek apologized. After explaining Allon meant no harm, the daemon swirled around Mags’ head and smiled his terrible toothy grin in her face. “Lady Mags must be thanked. Master’s soul would have rotted, but you pulled us out of deep dark. Thanks for Lady Mags.”

“Well, I appreciate that, Allon. Are you not evil anymore?”

The daemon growled. “Still evil and very strong!”

Mags held up her hands, trying not to smile. “Oh, yes, I can see that clearly. You’re really scary, too.”

Allon’s purr thrummed, and he beamed. This was a ghastly sight, thin reptilian lips pulling back to expose black teeth and gums and a tongue of liquid shadow lolling out. “It is good you have such a strong brood mate. She will produce many strong spawn for Master!”

Mags and Marek recoiled as one. She swatted at the daemon, shouting, “Don’t be gross!”

Marek merely grimaced.

The daemon tried to defend himself, but Marek decided the creature had taken up quite enough of this reunion. Drawing Allon back into his being, he chuckled at Mags, cheeks bright red. “So tell me, what have I missed?”

78

ON THE WAY TO DOMHAN MORGA

As it turned out, he’d missed a great deal. Seven full days had passed while he slept, and during that time significant changes had reshaped the beast kin of the Shirgrim Mountains.

The Druskin, for one, had united their clans. Each of the War Lords of the three clans allied with the Haikini were elevated to kings that ruled much larger domains. All those that joined the Graysouls were made to swear fealty to one of the kings. Both sides swore to meet once a year to trade, negotiate, and feast in order to maintain a lasting alliance.

The Culling Blade, which had been broken but not altogether destroyed, was dealt with as well. Gorb and Niamh oversaw its final destruction, both creatures lending their considerable mana to empower a group of nineteen Druskin and Haikini High Priestesses. The evil weapon was finally melted to slag under the combined might of so many casters, its remnants buried deep in the mountainside.

Afterward, Gorb had left to retrieve the carriage they’d covered in briars. Mags spent every minute she wasn’t training with Yuze learning from the Haikini and Druskin warriors. She happily reported that her bowmanship, her skill with the spear and axe, and even her woodcraft had all improved.

Of all the party members, only Ashurai had suffered greatly from the battle. Though not told precisely how, Mags informed Marek that the Basari had expended much of his power during the fight, and that he’d done so to save her and Yuze.

When Gorb finally returned with the carriage the following morning, the golemite invited Marek and Mags to continue their journey to the sacred city of Domhan Morga. Marek wanted to get back to Mirrin as quickly as possible now that his primary task had been completed, but since the golemite city was but two weeks away, and they’d yet to secure the last of the four reagents, he’d agreed to go.

The Haikini nobility gathered around the carriage as the group prepared to depart. Rishgan, the son of Rifga, made a fine speech. Though his father had fallen in the battle, Rishgan insisted none should mourn the passing of the noble Haikini. “War Lord Rifga took a risk in trusting you, and it paid off tenfold. My father, and all those that fell in the war, will be honored next year during the meeting of the clans. It would please the Haikini if you come and celebrate with us. For now, accept these gifts.”

He presented Gorb with a collection of gemstones. The golemite exalted in the gift, plucking an egg-sized sapphire from the collection and tossing it in its mouth. To the horror of the Haikini, Gorb crushed the gem to dust and consumed it on the spot. A flush of mana surrounded Gorb’s body, and then, miraculously, it grew half a foot in size. Seeing the gem was not wasted after all, the Haikini cheered.

Yuze received a bo staff of ironwood, enchanted and nearly indestructible.

Ashurai accepted a powerful bone dagger to add to his already-sizable collection of blades. The enchantment laid upon the dagger was more than a little impressive. Each time Ashurai struck an enemy down, it would collect a portion of their mana. This would, in time, allow the weapon to increase in power and evolve alongside the warrior.

The Haikini gave Niamh a collection of feathers, stones, and bits of colorful ore. A tiny necklace had been crafted for her as well. Made of finely spun gold and decorated with pearls, Niamh considered it a perfect shiny and put it on immediately.

“To the warrior Mags, we replace the bow that was broken in our service,” Rishgan said. Mags accepted the item and blushed furiously at all the attention. “May your aim always be as true as your heart.”

When the War Lord withdrew to retrieve one final gift, Mags sidled up to Marek. It wasn’t hard to know what she wanted. Activating Empath’s Gaze, he read her the description of the bow.

Item Name: Horned Bow of the Beastkin

Description: Crafted with the mana dense horns of Alpha Shirgrim Elk, this enchanted war bow is peerless among the beastkin.

Quality: Exceptional

Properties: Impervious to all environmental conditions. Greatly increased range, arrow speed, and damage. Attunement to the wielder Marigold Strongtower grants the passive buff Steady Hands.

Steady Hands: Aim and firing speed are aided by an unwavering calmness that steadies the archer’s hands.

Mags’ eyes widened further and further until she squealed in delight. The Haikini relished her excitement, but then all fell silent when Tessin Lin approached Marek last of all, her arms clutching a folded garment.

“This is for you,” the girl said quietly. “For helping me and my people even though you didn’t have to. Thank you, Marek.”

Rishgan’s voice boomed. “To the Remnant Mage, we give a cloak of the finest weaving. Drakescale and Fey Silk combined, you will not find its equal. May it protect you for years to come.”

The gathered crown roared when Marek threw the cloak around his shoulders and fastened it in place. The scales gave off a subtle sheen that obscured and confused the eye. The inside of the cloak was smooth leather. It fell past his knees, giving Marek a dark and regal look.

Marek thanked Rishgan and Tessin Lin. All waved goodbye, and Gorb boomed out a final farewell. The caravan then mounted up. Flanked by a small honor guard of spirits Marek had been encouraged to bind from the graveyard, they left the camp behind. The Quartz Road greeted them as old friends.

Greedily, Marek assessed his cloak at last, eager to see what he’d find.

Item Name: Dire Drake Mantle

Description: Woven from the hide of a Dire Drake, infused with the thread of Fey Silk, few cloaks in existence are its equal.

Quality: Masterful

Properties: Fireproof. Greater resistance to slashing and piercing damage. Willpower increased by +8. Attunement to the bearer Marek Kaiteras grants the passive buff Nightwalker.

Nightwalker: A minor increase to concealment during the day. When the sun falls or when hiding in deep shadow, the cloak blends with the darkness to make detection nearly impossible through visual means.

“Principalities,” he whispered. “The Attribute increase alone makes this priceless. I can’t wait till nightfall to test it out.”

Mags rode up beside him and winked. “Nice cloak!” she called over the sound of hoofbeats. “Though a bit melodramatic, if you ask me.”

He rolled his eyes and earned a laugh. The two chatted like the old friends they were, and then, after a time, the steady pace of travel consumed them. Marek let his imagination run loose. For the first time in weeks, his mind was his own again. His curiosity and hunger for knowledge was back, and he couldn’t wait to get to Domhan Morga. There, he’d seek out the finest materials he could acquire and dive into sigilcraft once more.

Soon, he’d rank up his secondary Class. At Journeyman, he could acquire another Skill and would be capable of producing items of much higher quality. Items that could benefit his and Mags’ return journey.

Marek’s daydreaming ended abruptly when a blast of energy exploded at the head of the caravan. Marek’s hackles rose, and he drew his sword on reflex. A dozen or more soldiers charged the group, their armor distinctly Casteran. Marek spotted two mages as well, one gathering a large sphere of mana.

Gorb lay on its side, the straps of the carriage torn to shreds. Smoke trailed up from the creature, and the road was strewn with the dark rock of its body. Apparently the other mage had targeted Gorb in the initial attack.

Marek sent an order to his Defender Squad Leader, and the spirit led four of its companions into the oncoming Casterans. They managed to get into position between Gorb and the attackers, but the second mage hurled a sphere of roiling fire and ice that collided with the Squad Leader’s spectral shield. Upon detonating, the Spell destroyed every one of Marek’s spirits.

Gods, they’re strong! Allon, attack the mage if you can. Use Dark Visions to get close enough. Sending orders to the second of his Squad Leaders, Marek prayed the spirits might do more good this time around. And while his daemon flew into action, Marek leapt from Ember’s back and triggered Wraith Step. Twice he teleported, entering the range of one of the Casterans.

The man betrayed no sign of fear as he closed with Marek. His body pulsed blue, and then he dashed past Marek’s attack in a blink. Appearing beyond Marek’s guard, he thrust his spear at the mage’s ribs.

Another Wraith Step spared Marek, but two more of the soldiers hemmed him in. A bow twanged, and an arrow sank into one Casteran’s chest. He stumbled to a knee.

Allon shrieked in Marek’s mind and returned. The mage had destroyed his familiar with ease, it seemed.

The Casteran soldiers both activated Abilities at the same time, one igniting his spear in orange flame while the other slashed the air and sent a volley of mana darts hurtling in Marek’s direction. He teleported out of range and assessed the situation from a distance.

Ashurai fought a losing battle against one soldier. The warrior’s skill remained, but his attacks were sluggish.

Yuze danced between two soldiers, staff a blur as he worked to defend against rapid spear thrusts. Mags fired her bow from Cinnabar’s back yet only managed to harass the enemy. Marek had but a single spirit left standing. Tinrick, his champion he’d resummoned, clashed with an enemy sword bearer. Even as he watched, the Casteran triggered an Ability, and Tinrick’s body was cut in half by an empowered slash.

Over a dozen Casterans swarmed the caravan. Only one man had fallen, and already Marek’s party was worse for wear. These were no common foot soldiers. They were high-leveled and far too powerful to underestimate. He suddenly regretted his choice to put off choosing his new Abilities. After the madness, Marek had simply been too afraid to do so.

When a form entered his periphery, Marek teleported twenty feet to one side. Upon reappearing, he raised a hand and sent a volley of Phantom Bolts at the caster. A barrier lit up as it absorbed his attacks. Leering, the man swung his staff in Marek’s direction. Glittering like silver thread, a mesh net flew through the air and surrounded Marek. He activated Wraith Step, but nothing happened.

Marek had been silenced. Fear lanced his heart as he watched the mage face down his friends, hands raised and mana gathering in a small storm between them. He gripped his sword and dashed toward the man, but then a voice as deep as the mountain itself boomed.

“Enough!” Gorb shouted. “You will not have him or others!” The golemite, standing in the center of the skirmish, spread its arms wide. Gorb clapped two massive hands together, and a burst of mana enveloped the creature.

The mage pointed at Gorb and shouted, “Kill the stone man!”

Before the Casterans could reach the golemite, Gorb pressed the tips of its fingers to the road. A ripple of mana surged through the road, and as if sinking into sludge, all of the Casterans fell waist-deep into the ground. They writhed and cursed, but not even the mage could free himself.

Panting, Gorb called out in its rumbling voice, “Yuze! Use the waystone! Use it now and take them far from here!”

The monk frowned in confusion before shaking himself. “I… Yes, you’re right, Gorb. We will see you when the Principalities will it!”

Yuze reached inside his robes, then traced a half-circle in the air. Strange symbols glowed in an arc around him. A shimmering wall of mana filled the arc, and as it dissolved, a swirling portal of light appeared in thin air. “Niamh and Gorb can take care of themselves! Ashurai, Marigold, Marek, come quickly!”

Confused but unwilling to stall, Marek ran to Ember and left the furious mage behind. The Casteran, apparently silenced as well as immobile, gripped his staff impotently. “The Death Mage will sense your travel! He will find you, Kaiteras!”

Marek fell in behind Ashurai a moment before the warrior disappeared through the portal. Mags had already ridden through. Sparing one last look at the golemite that had saved them, he entered the golden light, and the Quartz Road was no more.

79

A NEW DIRECTION

The portal closed, leaving nothing behind but a spray of golden mana sparks swirling in the wind. Yuze stood staring at where it had been, his face a mask of worry. He came to a moment later and smiled at Mags. “Gorb and Niamh hold tremendous power. Their bond makes them impervious to all but the strongest in the Coherent Realm.” He sighed and nodded his head, seemingly trying to convince himself. It did little to inspire confidence.

“That mage was powerful,” Marek said. “And the soldiers too. They must have been close to Level 100, all of them.”

Yuze’s brow furrowed. “Yes, but we must trust our friends. Without you there, Marek, they’ve no reason to fight them. Besides, this has been planned for longer than any of you have been alive. Enough talk—we need to ride.”

Marek’s frown mirrored Mags’ own. “What’s been planned? Yuze, you’re not making any sense.”

The monk ignored the question and trotted to Cinnabar’s side. Swinging up into the saddle, he pointed east and said, “Do you see the gap between those hills? That is where we are headed. Go, Marigold. Go at once and do not question me.”

She glanced to Marek and Ashurai, both of whom seemed confused. Yuze had proven himself time and again, so in the end, she obeyed her Kiyashi and spurred Cinnabar. They galloped across a dusty plain, passing clumps of bushes and a few sun-scorched trees. Mags had no clue where they’d traveled or how, for that matter. Yuze had a waystone, whatever that was, and he’d brought them far from the Shirgrim Mountains. Far from Ardea too, she thought. I’ve never seen somewhere like this before—more sand than soil, and no proper trees in sight.

Finally, her curiosity won out. “Respectfully, where the hells are we, Kiyashi?”

Yuze hummed in her ears, his thin arms wrapped about her waist. “Only Ashurai is likely to recognize these plains. This, my dear, is Basar, gateway to the Far East.”

“Far East? Only thing east of Basar is the Rift!”

The old man sighed. His arms trembled slightly, and his weight sagged forward. In a voice scarcely loud enough to be heard over the drum of hoofbeats, he said, “That is quite the misperception, Marigold. Much and more lies to the east. Lands grander and richer than anything the Coherent Realm has to…” Yuze’s voice trailed off, his hands slipping from her waist.

She felt his weight shift sideways, and she gripped his arms tightly. “Kiyashi!” she shouted. “Kiyashi, are you okay?”

He’d lost consciousness, though his breath still warmed her back, proof the old man was alive. Securing him as best she could, she continued eastward toward the hills he’d indicated. Evening came quicker than she’d expected. Morning in Shirgrim, as it turned out, was afternoon in Basar. And after several hours of riding, she arrived at a low depression between the two hills, a small spring-fed pond in their midst.

Yuze came to then. His voice was startled and a little embarrassed when he apologized for slipping away. “The waystone functions by linking the leylines. It provides the direction and possibility of travel, while the energy to do so comes from the one who uses it. I’m afraid I’m quite exhausted.”

Mags helped him down from the horse and into his bedroll. It was strange, aiding the frail man who’d so recently destroyed at least a hundred warriors on the field of battle. Her Kiyashi was like that, always shifting about, unmoored in a way. As his eyes rolled shut, she watched his breath even out as sleep took him. What happened to you? she wondered. How can a man live so long and embody so many contradictions?

Leaving him there, Mags joined Marek and Ashurai as they made camp near the pond. They asked about Yuze’s plans, but she could give them nothing tangible. Explaining what he’d said about the waystone, everyone agreed Yuze deserved some respite. They could speak with him in the morning.

Ashurai and Rushi took first watch, and Mags crawled into her bedroll between Marek and Yuze, falling asleep beneath a starry sky that looked nothing like the one she’d known in Ardea. The next morning, Ashurai asked for a much-deserved explanation.

Yuze giggled as he spooned out the last of his porridge. “East where the fire first lights the sky! East we ride, by and by!”

“Come on, Yuze,” Marek pleaded. “We were on our way to Domhan Morga, then you portal us all the way to Basar! Now we’re… what? Riding around on this desolate plain for fun? Please, tell us what’s going on!”

The monk’s smile melded into a scowl. He crouched so close to Marek’s face that the young man was forced to withdraw a little. “We go nowhere! I have no freedom, boy! If you want answers, ask your precious Tenacity. Serin always has answers!”

Yuze refused to say another word. Falling mute, he waited for the others to break camp before climbing atop Cinnabar’s back and nodding to Mags. She sighed and mounted up. And when Yuze’s arm pointed east, she obeyed the silent command.

They rode without stopping until early evening. Then, once again, they made camp at Yuze’s insistence. His dour mood hadn’t lifted yet, but he was at least forthcoming with his expectations. Ordering Ashurai and Marek to spar, he led Mags to a small bluff facing the setting sun.

“You fight as gracefully as a block of stone, Strongtower. I don’t have the time to mend your poor habits. Yet I’ll show you a few things to begin that process.” Mags was of course offended. After witnessing Yuze’s peerless skill, however, she didn’t object. Yuze took a fighting stance that looked nearly identical to the one she’d learned in the Ardean army. Scowling, he said, “Stiff in the legs, heavy in the heels—this is how a brawler fights. Try this instead.”

The monk slid his back leg forward until it was almost parallel to the other. He lowered his hands to chest height, softening his elbows and wrists, hands opening in a relaxed posture. “We do not stand indomitable like the Mountain of Iron and Stone Sect, nor are we fleeting and ethereal in our movements like the Winds of Wandering Sect. Dominion of the Flowing Storm seeks neutrality. One cannot govern their enemy when committed to attack or defense alone. Balance, adaptability—those are the qualities you should seek.”

Mags was a Strongtower, stubborn to a fault, but she was also ambitious. She knew the quickest way to ascend was to shrug off her preconceptions, so she quieted her mind and adopted the stance Kiyashi demonstrated. Then he began his instruction in earnest.

The two covered an assortment of strikes, all simple yet graceful. Punches and kicks, blocks and evasions, the first techniques of their shared Sect. After two hours of intense practice, Yuze nodded in satisfaction and sat on the edge of the bluff, facing the west. Folding his legs, he patted the dusty hardpan beside him. “You fought well in the battle—better than I hoped. You’ve already acquired sufficient essence to fill your Second Ring.”

She raised her brows, taken aback by the statement. “I have? Why has nothing changed? Shouldn’t I be stronger, like I felt after forming the First Ring?”

He hummed in that sagacious way of his and held back a response for a good long while. Finally, he turned his eyes on her. “Each ring is unique, each tier of power carrying different requirements. There is no easy formula to follow.” He sighed and lowered his gaze. “Would that I could remain at your side and lead you through each gateway. No matter. When next you take your rest, meditate and peer within. See the essence gathered around your First Ring. Rather than instruct the essence, allow it to coalesce as it will. Your intention and observation are required, however. For as long as it takes, witness your own transformation. In this way, you’ll form the Second Ring.”

She nodded, confused as usual but willing to go on faith. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder about his wording. When next you take your rest? Why not just say tonight? She let it go for the time being. With her Kiyashi, she’d come to expect the unexpected.

Yuze patted her leg. “This won’t prove much of a challenge. The cleansing of the Second Ring won’t either, though it will require time. When you finish, you’ll find yourself at the first bottleneck of power. Many Cultivators in our Sect’s past failed to surpass this stage. Most paths are easier to walk until the Fourth or even Fifth Ring. This is foolish, however, for it leads to restricted power in the higher tiers.”

She considered his words, allowing her mind to flow where it wished. “So we’re more powerful later on? Does that mean I’ll be weaker than other Second Ring Cultivators?”

Yuze smiled. “Most likely, yes. Power means little for a newly awoken core. Relying on cunning and skill will serve you better than leaning on any advantage power might give you.”

After the brief lesson, they sat in silence until night fell. Mags shivered, the breeze sapping her body heat away. Yet Yuze kept quiet. He guided her through his accustomed breathing technique until the middle of the night. Only then did he speak again. He told her the Third Principle, then insisted she remain on the bluff without sleep to meditate on his words.

Alone, she sat with her thoughts. Moisture from the sky fell on her shoulders and soaked her tunic. She shivered through the night, eyes closed as she meditated on the Third Principle. It was confounding, the concept so foreign and ridiculous she didn’t think she’d ever figure it out. Regardless of her doubts, Mags remained where he’d left her, legs folded, joints and muscles growing stiff, her body shaking from the cold of the Basari plains.

When the first rays of the sun touched her back, she nearly cried with relief. The warmth suffused her skin and gave her hope. She wondered if things might be easier when Yuze allowed her to rest, gave her an opportunity to form her Second Ring. Only time would tell.

“Do you mind if I join you?” Ashurai asked, his voice quiet yet still managing to startle her.

She opened her eyes and forced a smile. “How do you move like that? Could’ve put a knife in me without my noticing.”

Ashurai chuckled. “I doubt that. Stab wounds do tend to hurt.”

“I don’t mind. Didn’t happen to bring a cup of hot tea, did you?”

The warrior sat and smiled apologetically. “Yuze forbid fires again. Sorry. You still don’t know what he intends? Does he not hold council with you?”

Mags rolled her eyes. “My Kiyashi is as forthcoming as a stubborn child. No, I don’t know what he intends or where we’re going. I do trust him, though.”

“As do I.”

“The Third Principle,” she said, her face scrunching in frustration. “To achieve agency over the mind, one must acquire governance over the body… How the hells am I going to do that?”

Ashurai sighed, and when he spoke, she detected a trace of humor in his tone. “My masters told me no such principles, but I nonetheless learned that lesson many years ago. To master the blade, one must master their body. Pain, fear, discomfort—all are distractions.”

“He told me I must command my body on every level. Speed up my heart to warm myself, slow it down to conserve breath, master my senses, all of it!” Mags groaned, a shiver running through her as the last of the night’s cold burned away. “My first bottleneck,” she said. “Suppose I should be glad I’ve gotten this far.”

“That you should. Without my sigils, you’d be my superior.” He laughed bitterly. “In fact, not sure if you’ve noticed, but you likely already are. I lost a great deal of strength during the battle.”

Mags cursed under her breath. She turned toward him, pins and needles racing down her legs as she did so. “Gods, but I’m a right ass. I never told you, did I?”

He raised his brows and waited for an explanation.

“Thank you,” she said, meaning the words as deeply as she’d ever felt. “Fighting to save a friend is easy to understand—it’s natural—but destroying a part of yourself in order to do so… well, that’s deserving of a proper thanks.”

She leaned over and hugged the man. His body stiffened, and then he relaxed a little, one arm curling to embrace her. “Thank you, Ash,” she said in his ear. “Thanks for sacrificing yourself to save my bony ass.”

When she drew away, Mags found herself face to face with a blushing warrior. Seeing him like that was more than a little endearing, and she chuckled.

Then he surprised her by arching an eyebrow and tilting his head to one side. Eyes dropping briefly, Ashurai said, “Oh, I wouldn’t describe it as bony at all. And of course, Mags. It truly was my pleasure.”

He turned his gaze to the rising sun, the glint of a smile in his eyes, politely ignoring her own creeping blush.

80

EVOLUTIONS

Three days after leaving Shirgrim, Yuze finally revealed at least part of his intentions. After traveling the better part of the day, he gathered the party and told them, “This will likely be the last day we rest and train. A storm approaches. Darkness will come, and when it does, we must be prepared for anything.”

Mags glanced skyward. “Why the riddles? What are you talking about, Kiyashi? If you know something, tell us!”

“I’ll tell you what is needed and no more. Use your time wisely and prepare. We’ll reach our destination in another day’s travel, and by Tenacity, I promise it won’t be uncontested.”

Marek blew out a breath, his frustration rising. “You’ve dragged us to Basar, taken us half the world away from our companions and the journey Mags and I began well before we met you. Tell us, Yuze, where are we going and what is this darkness you speak of?”

The monk inclined his head. Eyes closing, he replied, “My reasons aren’t only my own. You’ll see this in due time, I promise. As we’ve done previously, we will train this evening and then travel in the morning at first light. Trust me as Gorb and Niamh did.” When Marek pressed the monk for a deeper explanation, Yuze answered minimally. “Sanctuary lies to the east. This alone I’ll tell you.”

After refusing to reveal more, Yuze took Mags off for another of their nightly sessions. Marek and Ashurai tired themselves by sparring. Afterwards, Marek headed off alone to spend a little time with his daemon before night fell.

“This is no hunt!” Allon complained. “Skinny rabbits have skinny souls! I am a daemon of the Rift! I need to eat!”

Marek groaned. “We’ve been over this. Look, can you see any enemies around? There isn’t a soul in sight for miles! What do you suggest? Should we ask Ashurai if he minds letting you devour his spirit?”

Allon stilled, his creepy eyes widening a little. “Oh, Massster! Do you think he would⁠—”

“No!” Marek snapped. He laughed and swatted at the daemon’s head. “No, he would not let you do that. Calm down already and be grateful for the few hares we’ve found. This is good, Allon. We handle the camp’s need for food each night, and you get a snack as well.”

The daemon growled and then swooped down from the mound Marek stood upon. Seconds later, Marek heard a shriek in the underbrush. Allon floated back with a lifeless rabbit in his jaws. Dropping it at his master’s feet, he rasped, “If not hunting men or monsters, can we at least get stronger? How many levels did Master gain? Why wait? Why not give Allon more power?”

Marek sighed. His familiar had a point, but he hadn’t recovered from that darkness that had nearly swallowed him whole. “I’m sorry, Allon. There’s no excuse. I know I have the staff now, but… . I’m simply afraid.”

“Fear nothing!” Allon howled. “Staff to make safe. Levels to make stronger! Please, Master!”

Marek closed his eyes. He saw flashes of swirling shadows, an army summoned by his own addled mind, power beyond belief and yet no control, no awareness. He’d come so very close to destroying his friends and allies.

“Must be stronger,” Allon said in a calmer tone. “The old one is afraid. Of what, Master? We must grow and sharpen our claws.”

The logic of this statement was irrefutable. “Fine,” he relented. “We can take a look, but I’m not promising anything but the Attribute Points.”

Allon yowled in glee and swooped above Marek’s head in a spiral of flowing shadow.

Chuckling, Marek examined the changes that had taken place since the great battle’s conclusion. Immediately, he was struck dumb. He knew much of his memory of the great battle was lacking, but the extent of this loss staggered him.

Congratulations! Journeyman Remnant Mage has been promoted to Master Remnant Mage!

Current Rank: Level 45

“If you’re watching this, Tenacity, I hope you’re proud. Damn, Allon! We gained over twenty levels in a single day!” His eyes bulged as he sifted through a slew of information. It was overwhelming, to say the least. “Gods, this is a lot to think over. A second Trait, six available Skill Points, and I’ll be damned! Hitting the Master Level Threshold Break awarded me with two Skill Evolutions! Looks like Spirit Body is finally going to hit Tier 2!”

Another bit of good news startled him more than anything else. “Achievement? I haven’t even heard of those. Look, Allon, you gained one too!”

Achievement Unlocked: By binding over one thousand spirits in a single day, Marek Kaiteras has earned the title and perk Mad General.

Mad General: Allows for instantaneous use of Command Spirit and significantly decreases casting time of any summoning Spells, including but not limited to Specialized Unit and Elevate Champion.

Familiar Achievement Unlocked: By devouring over one hundred souls in a single day, Allon the daemon has earned the title and perk Monstrous Maw.

Monstrous Maw: Allows for faster consumption of souls and increased physical damage of biting attacks. A larger portion of ether derived from consumed souls will supply both familiar and master.

The daemon purred in delight. “I tried to tell you, Kaiteras! Feeding Allon is best. Bigger mouth, more souls to eat, stronger we become!”

“It’s a really good achievement. I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you’re right, Allon. Letting you feast was a good idea. My own perk is exciting too. Quicker summoning means more time to act. Now, what shall we decide next? Personally, I’d like to look into what options I have for new Abilities.”

“Points!” Allon roared. “Give us the points, Master!”

Marek laughed as he brought up the relevant screen. One of his last clear memories was of assigning 26 AP from thirteen level gains before he entered the fight directly. Those were responsible for Allon’s growth, and now that he had 18 more to assign, he couldn’t imagine how immense his familiar would become.

He’d spread out ten of those points evenly between Dexterity and Constitution. The rest had raised his Willpower to a staggering 53, and that didn’t include the bonus his new cloak lent him.

Marek tried to remember key moments in the fight—the clash with the immense compound Graysoul, for one. Little came back to him other than the importance of Spirit Body. “Nearly everything comes down to Willpower,” he said, stroking Allon under his chin. “Do you have anything against dropping it all in that Attribute?”

His familiar’s response came immediately. “All are good, but Strength feeds me directly. If Master allows, maybe some there too?”

Marek’s measly Charisma of 12 was laughable, but he’d decided to leave that well alone. The debuff to his Mana Core had reduced significantly as well, so Intelligence was also out of the question.

Assigning and confirming his available points, Marek endured the electric storm of enhancement. Without the blanket of his madness, the experience wasn’t nearly so enjoyable, yet in the end, it was over soon enough. Strangely, Allon didn’t change much at all. After a brief spurt of growth, the daemon leveled out. This brought up a few questions, but Marek decided to check on his status before looking into it. A mischievous laugh fell from his lips when he saw his Attributes listed. Little wonder the world fears my Class. When I started this, I was weak in every way. Principalities, a Willpower of 61! It’s hard to imagine how I can get any stronger!

Despite how much pride Marek felt about his accomplishments, his daemon had fallen into a pitiful fit. Thrashing about, the creature snapped and growled incessantly. “Not fair! Why not stronger? Master, what is wrong?”

Using Empath’s Gaze, Marek managed to poke around until he found the command phrase Familiar’s Status. When he read the information, a smile spread on his lips. “Oh, I don’t think you should fret, my friend. I’ve plenty of good news for you.”

Congratulations! Your familiar has reached a critical stage in growth. The following evolutionary paths have been unlocked:

Shadowbound: Further linking his core to the darkness he came from, your familiar will gain Attributes and Abilities linked to deceit, corruption, and stealth.

Dragonkin: Further linking his core to the dragonkin that inspires the physiology of daemons, your familiar will gain Attributes and Abilities linked to destruction, strength of body, and physical resilience.

Psionic: Further linking his core to the psychic connection of his master, your familiar will gain Attributes and Abilities linked to intuition, telekinesis, and resilience to all non-physical damage.

Allon quieted immediately upon hearing his choices. Never had Marek witnessed such intense focus from the creature. And though he knew which direction the daemon would likely desire, he waited to hear it from Allon directly.

Shyly, the shadowy creature whispered in Marek’s ear.

Marek laughed so hard he offended his familiar, and then laughed again when Allon scowled at him angrily. Before the poor thing could raise any complaints, however, he finalized the selection and sat back to watch a miracle unfold.

Rather than merely grow, the daemon’s form evolved completely. Allon’s head changed first, more visible scales rippling backward to cover his snout and skull. Two long horns thrust from the top of his head, splitting into three prongs that swept backward to protect his neck.

The obscure, shadowy body was next to transform. Large, hand-sized scales rose to the surface of Allon’s chest and torso, running down to his forelegs. A sturdy set of rear legs appeared soon after, followed by a long, sweeping tail. When Marek thought the evolution was complete, he was startled by two vast wings bursting from Allon’s shoulders. Sable and smokey, they appeared cut from the fabric of the night sky.

Fifteen feet in length, Allon wasn’t perhaps the largest dragon in existence—not that Marek had ever had the displeasure of meeting one firsthand—yet he most certainly looked ferocious.

As if to punctuate this point, Marek’s familiar flapped his wings and rose higher on the breeze. Opening his scaled maw, Allon roared loud enough to rattle Marek’s senses.

“You ready to choose your Abilities, then? Some of these are going to make you quite happy.”

Surprisingly, the daemon refused the offer, sweeping down and smashing Marek in the ribs with his armored head. “Show the others! Show Master’s mate! She will be proud of Allon! Come! They mussst see my scales!”

Marek shoved the beast away and rubbed his bruised side. “Alright! Alright, we’ll show them. Do us both a favor, though, and don’t call Mags that again. I don’t care how strong you are—she’ll knock you senseless if you’re not careful.”

Without waiting on Marek, the daemon dove into the air and flew toward camp. Shortly after, Marek heard a scream that most certainly came from his best friend. Chuckling to himself, he jogged back to explain and apologize to his companions.

81

FORBIDDEN ARTS

By the time Marek caught up, his companions had already figured out the mysterious appearance of a strange and friendly dragon. Allon quickly charmed those he’d just terrified by preening shamelessly.

Mags shot Marek a barbed look but immediately shifted her attention back to the daemon, saying, “Truly, I’ve never seen scales so fine. They’re the deepest green possible! Tell us, how’d you get them?”

“Evolution!” Allon declared loudly, his rasping voice childishly enthusiastic. “I eat the most Graysouls and earned a perk, too! Monstrous Maw! Tell them, Master!”

“Oh, I’m afraid everything he’s telling you is true,” Marek admitted, taking a seat near the newly kindled fire. “I’m just sorry everyone had to find out so abruptly.”

Yuze chuckled and reached out a hand to stroke the daemon’s neck. “Don’t be. In my homeland, we were accustomed to creatures like this. Smaller than the great dragons of Aiel and Western Shirgrim, the eastern varieties were beloved by many. Fierce but friendly. In fact, I was friends with one once upon a time.”

The old man began telling a story of his life long ago. Allon, predictably, grew bored. The daemon pretended to pay attention but secretly reached out to Marek. What Abilities should I choose?

Marek listed the options, all different than the last time around, shaped by the recent evolution. Well, as I agreed before, you can make that choice. If it were up to me, however, I’d recommend Wing Blast, Veridian Flames, or Resilient Growth.

Not Tyrant of the Sky? Allon asked. Attacking from above with sharp claws would be deadly.

True, and it is a good Skill. I like Wing Blast because it allows you to stun a large group of enemies. That too would be deadly. Veridian Flames speaks for itself. The description says the fire has a lingering effect, sticking to enemies and causing damage over time. It would also let you damage structures as well, in case we’re ever fighting in a city. Marek waited for his familiar to respond, but when Allon revealed he’d been swept up in Yuze’s story, he waited patiently.

“Ranthin was of the water dragon variety, long and sleek. Less deadly than the earthen or fire-breathing types, but that didn’t matter to me. She was kind and clever, and an excellent partner when playing Makhanda.”

Mags interrupted. “What’s that? A game or sport?”

Yuze hummed delightedly. “Both, according to some. Similar to Bridges, Keeps, and Valleys Deep the Ardeans play, but only in principle. Makhanda sets are constructed of iron or stone, so that the weight of each movement is felt by the player. Anyhow, I met Ranthin one day when she was sun-bathing near the Wulin River.”

Apparently, Allon’s interest waned, for he nudged Marek again. Why Resilient Growth? I’m already hard to kill. It isn’t nearly as fun as the others.

Then don’t choose it. All are good options; I only thought you might want a means of recovering from injury.

In the end, his familiar selected Veridian Flames and Tyrant of the Sky. Finalizing the selections, Marek indulged in reviewing his own options. He’d decide his Skill evolutions and Trait after selecting his new Abilities. Yuze’s story droned on, and then Mags shared one of her own. Marek had selected and finalized three of his options as well as one Skill evolution by the time she finished.

Rending Cut, Requiem Explosion, and Efficiency Aura would diversify his Abilities greatly, the last of which making the costly Requiem Explosion much more plausible. Marek read the description one last time before finalizing his choice.

Efficiency Aura: Refining the manner with which ether is channeled, this passive Ability significantly reduces the cost of all active Abilities.

Simple, and as Allon would likely put it, boring. Yet Marek couldn’t wait to see how big an effect it had on his fighting style. He’d be able to rely less heavily on Ether Siphon, which in turn would free up more spirits to use as soldiers.

He turned his attention to the Skill evolution he’d landed on. Spirit Body Tier 2 would be chosen no matter what the other options were. No other Ability, with perhaps the exception of Command Spirit, could compare to the utility of Spirit Body. Advancing that Skill would be invaluable.

“Marek,” Mags said, cutting through his thought process.

He blinked, glancing between the others as he noticed all were looking his way. “Sorry, I’m a bit distracted. What is it?”

The woman’s smile did little to hide the strain in her eyes. He’d missed something, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it was. In the end, it was Ashurai who answered, not Mags. “I have a favor to ask of you—one you will not appreciate. Forgive me, Marek, but I have no choice.”

The Basari’s tone sent a chill through Marek. Ashurai wasn’t the dramatic type. If he meant to ask a favor so displeasing, Marek wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He shrugged anyhow, and asked for the second time, “What is it? You’re scaring me, Ashurai. If you need something, just ask.”

Ashurai sat rigidly across the fire, spine refusing to yield to whatever discomfort was oppressing him. Mags reached out a hand and placed it on the warrior’s shoulder. At her touch, he softened inwardly. Shifting forward and resting his weight on his elbows, Ashurai found his courage. “I am not the fighter I was when we first met. In Shirgrim, I made a choice—one I do not regret, yet now I am weaker than I have been in many years.”

Marek was confused by the direction Ashurai had taken. He’d been told these things, and yet still didn’t know why the Basari had diminished in power, what had injured him.

Untucking the cloth wrap around his left wrist, Ashurai unrolled a section of it. Then he turned up his forearm and exposed a freshly healed scar. The gash cut deeply into his cinnamon skin, bisecting a familiar symbol Marek recognized at once.

The Sigilist gasped, drawing back his head in revulsion. “You were marked by a Caro Sigilist? Who did this to you? And why would you allow it?” Mags scowled his way, but Marek ignored her. His gaze remained on Ashurai, a man who very much needed to explain himself.

Sitting tall and proud, the sinew in his jaw flexing tightly, Ashurai defended his position. “Everything I’ve done in life to become what you see before you has undermined tradition.”

“Undermined the law!” Marek shot back.

“That too. I regret nothing, and were it not for my decisions, our paths would never have crossed. And for that matter, your friend would no longer be alive.”

This blunt statement checked Marek’s anger. He breathed deeply and tried to let it go. A vision of his uncle’s mangled body filled his mind, revealing the true source of his rage. “Sorry, I’m not a Priest of the Principalities, and I’m not a Lawman. Your choices are your own. What’s this have to do with me, though? I still don’t follow.”

Ashurai said, “I destroyed my speed, my strength, my endurance. I am your better with the blade by skill alone, Marek, and I’ve trained for as long as you’ve been living. I ask of you a horrible favor I don’t expect you to accept. And since there’s no point in delaying, I’ll say it clearly. Use your Class to return a portion of my power. Even four or five Caro Sigils will be enough to⁠—”

“Absolutely not!” Marek shouted. He realized he’d gotten to his feet. His fists were clenched, and everyone was looking at him with shocked expressions, Allon included. “Mirrin is my mentor! He told me never to commit this abomination. He only gave me instructions to do so in case I might need to render my body useless, to hinder my mana and stifle the madness! Mags, how could you tell him I’m capable of this!?”

“It’s not a big deal!” she yelled. “You’re a rifting Remnant Mage, Marek! You killed hundreds a week ago, slaughtered countless Druskin! What’s a worse crime of nature? Murder or this?”

Marek trembled in the effort to restrain himself. He’d never been so angry at his friend, so resentful. Speaking through clenched teeth, he said, “I haven’t murdered anyone.”

Mags flushed a deep crimson, and regret creased her brow. “Sorry, Mar, I didn’t mean⁠—“

“Obviously you did!” Throwing up his hands, Marek spat into the campfire. “You said what you said, and I’m done with this conversation. Let’s go, Allon. We can find somewhere else to rest tonight.”

A voice steeped in countless years halted his retreat. Yuze, practically growling the words, said, “The mage we encountered did not lie. Even now, a dark enemy searches for us. I know not if we’ll encounter him, but I’m certain the Death Mage is hunting us. Twice in my life I have fought to subdue and destroy one such as him… and twice I nearly died in the attempt.”

Marek’s anger guttered out, quenched by a river of fear. “The Death Mage? Yuze, why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

The monk snatched his bo staff and tapped a log in the fire. It collapsed and sent a burst of sparks into the air. His response was spiteful and desperate. “Half the time my mind isn’t my own! More than half! Of all people, Marek, you should understand my plight. And when I have possessed my faculties, I’ve used them to their fullest to bring us closer to safety, to track the unseen enemy, and to prepare my Dai’shu for the future!”

A bout of emotion wracked the ancient man’s frail body. He dropped his staff and teetered in place, Mags rising swiftly to catch him under the arm. Patience and remorse then returned to Yuze. He smiled at Marek, a sadness so dire in his eyes it stole every last shred of anger from the young mage’s heart. “Do as your companion asks. He knows it not, but Ashurai belongs to an old tradition, one that wasn’t always loathed in the Coherent Realm. They were known by another name but are often referred to as Body Enhancers. A childish king forbade caro and ostea sigilcraft centuries ago—not because it offends the gods, but because it threatened his tenuous rule.”

Yuze sat, shoulders sagging beneath an unseen weight, and repeated himself in a whisper. “Do as your companion asks, Marek. If you deny him, he will not survive the coming days. Now, please excuse me. I need rest. Marigold, sleep and form your Second Ring tonight. Wake me when it is done. I have things to tell you.”

Marek watched the monk totter away, collapse into a bedroll, and curl up. Guilt, anger and shame clawed for dominance in his heart. In the end, he knew his course of action, and he faced it head on.

Recalling Allon, he touched the ring Rauld had given him. He sat before the flames and removed his box of tools. While Mags and Ashurai observed, Marek studied the manual Mirrin had given him so many months ago. Then he withdrew the sigil brands that would best serve Ashurai. “Speed, Dexterity, Puissance, Constitution… which do you require most?”

Ashurai’s response was immediate. “All but Puissance. Strength is useful but not a priority.”

“Which first?” Marek asked, removing one of the sigils he’d chosen.

“Speed.”

Marek fixed the symbol in the brand handle and placed it on a stone, positioning the end among a cluster of coals. “The process is simple, but as you obviously know, it will be painful. I possess only the weakest of the Sigilist Skills. Imbue will grant you a temporary increase, but I cannot say how long the enchantment will last.”

“I understand.”

Meeting the warrior’s gaze, Marek waited for the brand to heat. “The book says nothing about what this will do to your body, your core. Do you know how many you can take?”

Ashurai nodded solemnly. “The most I’ve received in the past was three. If you’ll consent, I would ask for one more than that. I think I’m strong enough to endure it.”

Marek didn’t question his companion’s resolve. He merely consigned himself to completing the task to the best of his ability. A few minutes later, he checked the brand. It glowed brightly. Gesturing to the space beside him, he said, “Come. Let’s do what we must.”

Ashurai knelt and uncovered a smooth patch of skin below his left elbow. Silently, he waited.

Marek allowed the brand to cool until its color was ideal, the precise middle between orange and red. Then he held the brand over Ashurai’s arm. Focusing his mind, Marek aligned his intention with the chosen sigil. And in one smooth motion, he activated Imbue and applied the brand.

The hiss of cooling metal on flesh and the stench of burned skin were the only sensations present in Marek’s world. His gut twisted, but he refused the guilt that threatened to consume him. Mirrin would do the same if need be. He will understand.

Ashurai bore the mark without so much as grimacing. When the mana poured from Marek’s core, the warrior’s eyes dimmed slightly, as if he’d been hit with a flood of exhaustion. Three consecutive ripples pulsed outward from his core, each announcing an increase in level. Apparently, committing abomination is a rewarding act, he thought bitterly.

The act was done, and after half a minute, Ashurai said, “Another of the same, please.”

Marek placed the brand back into the fire. Ashurai rolled up his opposite sleeve and waited with absolute patience. Mags’ eyes welled, her unshed tears reflected orange with the firelight. She smiled at Marek, thanking him and apologizing at the same time.

The Sigilist only nodded, withdrawing the brand and inspecting its heat, preparing to repeat the process.

82

CLAIMING THE HIGH GROUND

Ashurai proved capable of receiving all four sigils. Two of Speed, one of Dexterity, and one of Constitution. When Marek finished, the warrior stumbled to his own bedroll and fell in beside Yuze. Mags thanked Marek but he silenced her with a hug.

“You were right,” he whispered in her ear. “We’ve all bloodied our hands, and I doubt this will be the worst of my actions. Get some sleep. Allon and I will pull the first guard shift.”

She kissed him on the cheek and hugged him harder. Then she left him alone with his thoughts.

Marek walked to the edge of the firelight and summoned Allon. When the daemon swirled into existence, green-black scales shimmering faintly, he said, “Fly in a wide circle around us, and be watchful. Report anything of note you see. Yuze said an enemy is close.”

“What will you do, Master?”

“I must focus, Allon. We’ll be facing the Death Mage soon, my opposite, and I need to be as prepared as I can be.”

Marek’s familiar flew away, and he looked inward. Settling on the first of his choices, he confirmed the evolution of Spirit Body. The improvement was remarkable.

Spirit Body (Tier 2): A conjured suit of ethereal armor that encases the Remnant Mage head to foot. Tier 2 of Spirit Body allows the armor to be elevated as much as four levels by augmenting it with increasing amounts of ether.

Level 1: A basic level of protection and a minor increase to movement speed and strength.

Level 2: Allows the mage greater motor control and increased senses, perception, and reflexes.

Level 3: Advanced armor that can absorb an increased amount of damage as well as greatly increasing strength, movement speed, and dexterity.

Level 4: The final stage of advancement, the armor developing a spiteful aura that deals passive soul damage to enemies within melee range and causes a minor knockback effect when struck directly.

It went without saying that he’d had a long and trying day. He’d traveled hard, overcome the fear of his own Abilities, committed an act he’d sworn to Mirrin he never would, and discovered he would soon confront a terrible enemy.

Yet here he was, face to face with an undeniable reality: His power was growing exponentially, and he relished every advance.

“I don’t know who you are or when I’ll fight you, Death Mage, but you’d better be as strong as everyone says you are.”

The night wore on, and Marek considered each of his decisions. In the end, he blended diversification with a heavy reliance on what had worked in the past. Shoving all doubts and hesitation aside, he finalized his advancements.

Giddy and in need of sleep himself, Marek brought up his status and gaped at the proof of his progression. There was a lot to see, including an update to the affliction on his mana core. It was finally gone.

Name: Marek Kaiteras

Primary Class: Remnant Mage Level 45

Subclass: Soul Knight

Skills: Empath’s Gaze, Spirit Body (Tier 2), Ether Siphon, Command Spirit, Distort Soul, Summon Familiar, Wraith Step (Tier 2), Phantom Bolt, Wailing Chains, Specialized Unit, Rending Cut, Spirit Ward, Spirit Rend, Requiem Explosion, Efficiency Aura, Soulforge Creation

Traits: Spectral Commander, Shadowmancer

Secondary Class: Sigilist Level 19

Skills: Intuit, Imbue

Strength: 30

Dexterity: 20

Constitution: 20

Intelligence: 20

Willpower: 63

Charisma: 12

Once Allon returned from another circuit of the camp, he recalled the daemon. Even the tireless familiar needed rest, and with the promise of a hard day ahead, so did he.

Marek found Mags already awake. Her eyes shone in the pale moonlight, and he sensed another change in the woman. She stood and embraced him, stifling a giggle as she bounced on the balls of her feet. Shoving him playfully, she said, “Gods, but you’re tall. Think you’re six feet yet?”

He shrugged, smiling down at his tiny friend.

“I formed my Second Ring, Marek. Dalen’s beard, I’m strong. That Isaac couldn’t lay a finger on me now.”

Surveying the woman, Marek nodded appreciatively. “I can feel it pouring out from you. Not mana or ether, but something else. I don’t doubt you’re right, Magpie. Isaac would shit himself if he traded blows with you.”

She beamed in unrestrained joy. “Essence. That’s what a Cultivator uses. Essence and mana combine to make ether. They’re two halves of the same thing. Anyway, sleep while you can. Yuze and I will keep an eye on things. Well, he will while I’m no doubt doing something painful.”

Mags squeezed Marek’s shoulder before stooping over her master. Shaking him gently, she woke the old monk, and the two retreated a distance away.

Marek crawled inside his bedroll and fell asleep in moments.

Morning arrived all too quickly. Marek woke to a hearty breakfast, and then he and his companions mounted up. Mags overflowed with energy despite sleeping little. Her unlocked power exuded from her being, manifesting in every action she took. Ashurai had recovered, and as the sigils’ power took effect, he seemed himself once more, nearly as potent as the man Marek had first met near Middlebrook.

Traveling due east in a column, the party raced across the plain. Two hours after sunrise, Marek noticed a dark smudge on the horizon. At first, he assumed it was a trick of the eye. When it became more distinct, Marek thought it might have been a dust storm tossed up from the plain by strong winds.

Pausing briefly at midday, Yuze unveiled the mystery. He stated it plainly, as if nothing at all were strange or abnormal about the revelation. “The Rift is massive. One can see it for miles away, and it never fades or falters.”

Mags coughed on a piece of half-chewed rabbit meat. “Did you say the Rift? Blasted hells, Kiyashi, you’ve got to build up to something like that!”

“That’s our destination?” Ashurai asked in a more pragmatic tone.

Yuze shrugged noncommittally—whether in response to Mags’ or Ashurai’s comment, Marek couldn’t tell. “We have an hour, perhaps two, and he’ll make himself known.” Pointing east, Yuze said, “We’ll take a stand at the edge of the ancient battlefield. No doubt, many of the spirits that once lingered there will have left this world behind. Only the most vengeful will have remained this long. Regardless, I’m certain it will be enough to supply our Remnant Mage with the soldiers he needs.”

The group ate in silence and drank their fill of water, allowing the horses to graze and rest. When they mounted up, Marek asked the question he’d been holding back since the previous day. “You say you’ve fought a Death Mage before… What Abilities do they have? What can I expect, Yuze? I’d rather know my enemy before facing him.”

“The Class is a perversion of your own. Instead of recruiting willing souls, the Death Mage deals in flesh. Thankfully, he cannot animate mere bones, so the battlefield we seek will supply only you.” Yuze paused, his tawny face peering eastward. “Like your Class, the Death Mage does not manifest in a singular fashion. In the past, some have recruited the dead to form vast hordes. Those derive power from sheer numbers. Other Death Mages craft horrors by combining corpses much like we encountered with the compound Graysouls, only more hideous and diverse in form. The deadliest I have personally faced turned his powers on the living.”

Yuze grimaced as he faced Marek. “An entire city fell sick from a single curse. Days later, every man, woman, and child had been converted. All became fodder for the dark mage, an army to command. Unfortunately, I can’t say which powers your enemy will possess. Expect any or all of these. The best we can manage is to find a favorable position and hope we can secure it before the Death Mage appears.”

Ashurai asked the other pertinent question before Marek had a chance to. “And how will he appear? This enemy holds a waystone like yours?”

Yuze nodded. “The King of Casteras has many resources. The men that attacked us in Shirgrim had likely been tracking us since we left Ardea. Now that I’ve used the waystone, the enemy will have sensed our passage. The Death Mage will come with allies—an Augur, undoubtedly, and other castes as well as elite soldiers like those who ambushed us on the Quartz Road.”

The monk was the first to mount up. When Mags joined him, he ended the conversation with a handful of solemn words. “The waystones are linked. Rather than expend the reserves of a single man, as I was forced to do, they’ve been accumulating the mana required for days now. Let us ride while we still can. There isn’t much time remaining.”

They drove the horses harder than ever before, the wall of darkness rising higher along the horizon, stretching as far north and south as the eye could see. The plain remained unbroken in all directions, but after an hour, they came to a series of great mounds. Here and there, ravines scored the landscape like unhealed scars.

Yuze led them to the top of the highest mound, one that rose from the plain like an immense barrow. Marek confirmed the comparison was apt by triggering Empath’s Gaze. Strewn across the mass grave were a dozen wandering spirits. Wearing the armor of a time long past, the fallen warriors called to him as soon as they appeared in his ethereal vision. Command me, Lord Mage! a knight on the back of a skeletal horse cried. My sword is sharp. I must avenge my comrades!

Other voices blended with the spirit, and Marek was nearly overcome by their incessant demands.

“Here!” he shouted to his companions. “This is where we’ll fight!”

Yuze grunted in agreement. “We have no advantage but the high ground. Summon your forces, Marek. The rest of us will prepare as best we can.”

Marek leapt down from Ember Shade’s back. The horses were led to the bottom of a shallow ravine where they would be protected. Turning to the ghostly remnants stalking the plain, he began his work in earnest.

Organized squads soon surrounded their position. Thrice-elevated champions stood behind, several taking the form of Sir Rhinweld, to bolster Marek’s defenses. Alongside these, he bound the Druskin mages he’d acquired in the great beast kin battle. Expending a large store of ether, Marek conjured a few powerful weapons using one of his recently acquired Abilities. It was a risk, investing so much in an untested Skill, yet there wasn’t time or room for doubt. He was the Mad General, after all, and for the first time, it was his forces alone that would decide the battle.

Eventually, every wandering soul in range had been recruited or else siphoned to refresh Marek’s reserves. Silently, they waited. The wind buffeted their position. The Rift towered in the near distance, a brooding presence watching over them.

Then a burst of light scored the sky a quarter-mile away. A portal opened. Casteran soldiers poured out, forming three ranks of twenty. Five mages followed immediately after, and then a tide of the dead spilled through. More than a hundred walking corpses soon flanked the soldiers. Their bodies were disfigured, and even from a distance, their stench filled Marek’s nose.

Last of all, a single figure draped in black appeared. Marek knew his enemy at once.

At last, the Death Mage had arrived.

83

FOR THE LIVING

A wave of undead charged the mound. Their movements were hideous, shambling and erratic yet far faster than any ordinary human’s should be. Marek waited beside his companions. The enemy moved forward, the dark mage claiming a smaller mound of the long dead a few hundred strides away. He’d sent half of the dreadful fodder into the fray. In seconds, they would clash with the first of Marek’s squads.

Archers, target the center of the horde. Fire! Two squads of the ranged spirits released a volley of arrows. Mags aided their efforts, firing three arrows for every one his Archers released. Her war bow had incredible range, and each shot landed in the center of a corpse’s skull. A score of undead crashed to the ground, the others clambering over them, heedless of the losses.

Drawing on his mental connection, Marek commanded the spirits manning all four of the ballistae he’d crafted to fire. Using Soulforge Creation, Marek had been given the choice between half a dozen siege engines, the Skill allowing him to channel ether into the creation of various structures. He had no need for a bridge, but the ballistae immediately proved their worth.

Shimmering bolts five feet long hurtled across the plain. Each found purchase in a corpse’s chest, hitting so hard the dead exploded. Two or three fell for every bolt. He ordered the ballistae reloaded as the three squads of Defenders absorbed a wave of shambling dead. Seeing his siege weapons would be of no use at such close range, he directed them elsewhere. Ballistae one through three, target the remaining horde. Ballista four, aim for the Casteran soldiers.

With the shifting focus of a commander, he directed the skirmish below him. Healers, keep the Defenders standing. When the enemy begin to thin, Berserkers wade in and finish them!

The ballistae thunked as they flung another volley of bolts. One flew wide but two more crashed into the waiting undead. The fourth speared two of the Casteran soldiers. Seizing the opportunity, Marek triggered Command Spirit twice, both completing instantaneously thanks to his Mad General perk. As soon as they were bound, he cast Elevate Champion. Both Tinricks, he ordered them to cause as much chaos as possible.

One champion drove into the unwary soldiers, killing three more in seconds. The other, however, was hacked apart—not by the living, but the newly resurrected dead. Marek cursed as he seized more souls, siphoning one and raising the other two. Damn, it’s like the Graysoul fight all over again except we aren’t competing for the same resource. The Death Mage uses what I leave behind. He truly is my opposition.

Another volley of ballista bolts landed successfully before the enemy mages erected substantial defenses. The second wave of corpses rushed forward while the Casterans slaughtered the other Tinricks Marek had elevated. They’d lost ten of their number, but these were commanded to join the fodder in the second charge.

His Berserkers were still exposed, fighting the last twenty or so undead. Several spirit soldiers had died already, and he was loath to lose more so early in the fight. “Mags, Ashurai, Yuze! Can you help the Berserkers pull back?”

It was strange, commanding his friends as well as his minions. Yet none so much as hesitated. Yuze had been insistent: If they were to survive this conflict, the Remnant Mage would need to be in full command.

Mags led the others through the throng of spirits. A moment before they crashed into nearest of the corpses, Marek cast Spirit Ward for the first time. Ether poured from his Ether Core, and a ghostly banner fell from the sky, pounding into the base of the mound. A half-sphere expanded outward and surrounded all allies within a twenty-foot radius of the banner. Its effects were immediately noticeable. Several of the injured Berserkers regained health when incoming attacks were absorbed by the ward.

Ashurai and Mags carved through a swath of undead, and Yuze did the same on the opposite side of the Berserker squads.

Seconds before the rest of the horde arrived, all had withdrawn and the Defenders were in position, their shields held high. Three died quickly, the wall of bodies too immense to withstand. Spotting two others near death, Marek siphoned their ether to refill his reserves, then commanded the Healers to focus exclusively on the Defenders.

Mags panted at his side. Though he felt the pressure of her gaze, his focus never faltered. He knew the story her eyes would tell. That same look she’d given him after butchering the kobolds and upon summoning Allon for the first time. Mags no longer saw the scrawny young man from Misthearth. She saw him completely as he was now, garbed in power and bearing the weight of his ancestral Class. She was looking at the Remnant Mage.

He didn’t have time to indulge the thought. He was in his element, observing the fray between Defenders and the horde of sixty or so animated corpses. A pulse of mana in the distance drew his attention. Five beams of black energy coursed across the battlefield, crashing into the backs of the undead. Five of the creatures roared as their mangled bodies were wreathed in black fire. And moments later, five monstrosities crashed into the Defenders. Each growing to ten feet tall and swelling just as wide, the bloated horrors pounded through the spectral shields with ease. In ten seconds, they’d slaughtered half of Marek’s remaining Defenders.

To make matters worse, the Death Mage capitalized on the momentum his creations had gained. All but a single rank of twenty Casterans rushed across the plain, seeking to overwhelm Marek’s defenses.

His ballistae fired, thinning out the oncoming soldiers. Rather than raise the newly risen spirits, he absorbed every last one. Then he nodded to his friends and waded forward. Mags, Ashurai, and Yuze strode before him as his honor guard. Marek reached inward and seized another of his newly acquired powers. Upon binding Phantom Bolt to his core, he’d unlocked the Shadowmancer Trait. This passive drastically improved the base Skill, turning Marek into an instrument of death. He raised his ancestor’s staff and poured ether into an attack. A beam of shadowy mana blasted outward and struck the centermost horror in the chest. The monster’s body burst in a shower of gore.

Again and again, he triggered the Ability, each use consuming a sizable amount of his ether. Marek regretted nothing. By the time the living soldiers arrived, all of the monstrosities had been blown apart. The Casterans pounded into the last squad of Defenders. The spirits died quickly, as did the Berserkers who rushed in to support them.

Fearing the front line would soon collapse, Marek ordered his caster champions to unleash every Spell they had against the elites. Thristen the Frost Mage and Hargo the Pyromancer hurled ice and fire into the Casterans. The soldiers howled in pain, several dying instantly. Marek raised the spirits as champions, all Sir Rhinweld archetypes in the hopes of solidifying their defense. Of course, fresh corpses joined the battle as well. The Death Mage was never far behind.

Three more bloated horrors swelled the enemy ranks, but Marek commanded Reshi Varr the Stone Slinger to destroy them with conjured boulders. Marek cleared out two more soon after, then siphoned several spirits to refill his Ether Core to bursting.

The battle was turning ugly for both sides. At this rate, both armies would be destroyed, and that would leave Marek and his living allies against twenty fresh elites, five mages, and the Death Mage himself. It was time he indulged the other half of his joint Subclass.

Marek shouted to his companions, “Kill as many as you can but keep an eye out for the dead as well! Don’t be caught off guard!”

He vanished and reappeared in the midst of the throng. Tier 2 of Wraith Step had fully unlocked the movement Ability. Every soldier he passed through was stunned for a full two seconds. The undead, of course, lacking souls, were unaffected. In three passes, Marek stunned nearly the entire group of Casterans, however. No longer limited to forty feet, he could teleport up to three times that distance. If he had to, he could cross the plain in three or four blinks and face the Death Mage head on. Such a power lent him a sense of confidence he hadn’t felt before. No one on the battlefield was safe from Marek’s wrath.

Mags and Ashurai fought side by side. His skill and her increased power were a complementary match, and Rushi weaved between them like a vengeful spirit, tearing into the ankles and hamstrings of the enemy. Mags’ fighting style had already evolved from the few training sessions Yuze had given her. She wielded a long bone spear the Haikini had gifted her, lopping off heads and gutting Casterans with nearly every attack.

Yuze, on the other hand, only exerted himself defensively. Gone was the boundless power the monk had displayed in Shirgrim. Using the waystone had indeed depleted his core.

Marek himself quickly emerged as the true terror of the battlefield. Wraith Step made him all but invulnerable to attack. Having poured ether into raising Spirit Body to Level 4, he carved through the elites with ease. Clutching his staff in one hand and his two-handed sword in the other, Marek alternated between slashing attacks and bursts of Phantom Bolts, the volleys fired so quickly they ate through Casteran steel almost instantly.

A few of the soldiers emerged as stronger than the rest. They triggered movement Abilities that allowed them to outmatch any of Marek’s remaining champions. Too fast, he thought. And more than I want to handle right now. With a thought, Marek cast Wailing Chains on each of the powerful soldiers. Bound in place, they only managed to survive a little while under an onslaught of Spells from Marek’s casters.

After flashing through the ten remaining soldiers, Marek destroyed the last of the horde in short order. Flickering into the center of the decaying mass, he triggered Requiem Explosion. A blast of ether tore out from his abdomen, tearing every one of the corpses into pieces. And then he and his companions, along with a handful of bound spirits, were left standing. Marek located three souls rising from Casteran corpses. He siphoned them, then ordered the mages to blast the undead the Death Mage resurrected.

Taking account of his forces, Marek faced the distant mound and met the hard gaze of the Death Mage. “It’s your move,” he said, sweat dripping from the tip of his nose. “Waste the lives of your allies or retreat?”

From this distance, Marek could only just make out the man’s sharp features. Thinly built and tall, the Death Mage stood as still as the dead. Then the man’s head swiveled sideways. He must have spoken a command, for the five mages moved in unison. Marek frowned, a memory he could never forget triggered. The mages, along with the Death Mage himself, crafted a six-sided star. Mana glowed as beams of connection formed between them.

Panic rose in Marek’s chest. “They’re summoning a blasted demon! Allon, attack them! Don’t let them succeed!”

The twenty Casteran soldiers formed a ring around the summoning. Marek’s daemon flew from his chest and soared high in the air while he himself blurred across the battlefield, leaving his companions behind with a final order. “Catch up when you can! Everyone, charge!”

In the Crucible, Marek had been given a full ten minutes to stop the Priests from summoning their demon. In the waking world, apparently, no such grace was granted. Even as he crossed into the ring of soldiers, a blast of fell energy rippled outward. Marek’s Spirit Body armor cracked from the power of the explosion, and he tumbled fifty feet across the plain. His armor fell away in pieces when he rose again. Mind whirring, he watched the horrible scene unfold. All twenty remaining Casterans screamed as they died, body and soul, to feed the fiend in their midst. Twice the size of the demon of the Crucible, the creature drank in its allies’ life force. No sooner had it lapped up the offering the soldiers unwillingly gave than it extended five more threads to consume the lesser mages as well. Each of the five men howled in pain. Looks of outrage and betrayal crossed their faces, quickly replaced by horror.

The Death Mage flung his cloak around himself. His body became as indistinct and ethereal as liquid shadow. Then he flitted fifty feet away to stand upon another mound nearby.

Marek ground his teeth. His enemy was a coward—that much was certain—but the bastard had dealt one hell of a final hand.

The pounding of feet could be heard, his companions and the spirits with them catching up. Thankfully, Allon was alive as well. The dragon flew a hundred feet above the plain, circling. Marek resummoned Spirit Body and invested enough ether to elevate the armor to Level 3. That would grant him the greatest degree of power without wasting any. The final fight would be against a few strong enemies, not an army.

Allon! Now’s your chance to use those new Abilities. Keep the demon busy with your fire, and when you see an opening, use Tyrant of the Sky. Trusting his other allies would know where to focus their attacks, he steeled his nerves and teleported back into range.

The demon’s attack was nearly imperceptible. Long claws blurred through the air. Marek blocked with Leyan’s sword. It clanked loudly and sent sparks flying. Twice more, the demon attacked, the last blow landing so hard Marek lost his grip on the sword. It flew across the plain and clattered in the dust.

A set of Wailing Chains emerged from Marek’s palm. The demon roared when it found its movement restricted. Allon unleashed a cone of green flame that bathed the monster head to foot. Black fire burst outward from the demon’s body, melting the chains and driving Allon higher into the sky. It then held out both hands and summoned a pair of enormous swords.

Blast it with every Spell you have! Marek commanded the spirit mages. Timing it as best he could, Marek blinked closer, recast Wailing Chains, and ordered the ballistae to fire. Four bolts pounded into the demon’s chest and a riot of Spells lit up the creature, forming a cloud of mana and dust around it.

Marek sighed in disappointment when the demon’s roar told them all the outcome. They’d angered the cursed thing, but it was far from dead. The demon flung one of its greatswords into the cluster of mages, where it ignited with black fire and exploded outward. Marek’s spirits vanished from this plain, leaving only the common spirit soldiers commanding his ballistae.

Knowing their attack had done far less damage than required, Marek siphoned their ether and faced the fiend with his Ether Core filled. His friends now flanked him, though he worried for their safety. Only he had the protection of Spirit Body.

Allon flew above the demon and poured out more of his veridian dragon fire. It would only distract their enemy, but for now, that was enough.

“Yuze, can you do anything to help me? I know I can hurt it, but it’s damn strong. I don’t think I can kill it alone.”

The monk nodded curtly. “If destroyed, the waystone can easily send that thing back to the hell it came from. We only need to figure out how to do that without one or all of us dying.”

Marek held out his hand. “I can manage it. Are you sure it’ll work?”

Again, Yuze nodded.

“I thought the waystones were invaluable?” Mags asked.

Her master shrugged. “So are the lives of men. It must be done. Marek, do not fail—we have only one.”

Marek caught the stone in his gauntleted hand and then faced the demon. It had resummoned its second sword and was walking across the plain toward them. Speaking a few commands to his daemon, Marek teleported into range. The demon predicted Marek’s movement perfectly. A black sword crashed into the mage’s chestpiece, shattering it and sending him hurtling through the air. Marek triggered Wraith Step again and this time managed to appear behind the creature. Requiem Explosion sent a burst of ether into the demon’s back. It roared in pain and swung its sword in an arc.

Marek teleported away just in time, flung Wailing Chains at the fiend, and shouted to his familiar, “Now, Allon! Do it now!”

The demon yanked against the restraints, snapping them one at a time. Marek hurled the stone at its feet as Allon descended from the sky. Teleporting to the full range of his Ability, Marek spun in the air to see his daemon’s attack land.

Head lowered, horns flaring a bright green, Allon pounded into the plain at the demon’s feet. The stone detonated. Brilliant gold energy expanded outward rapidly, fully enveloping the demon. Then, as quickly as it had emerged, the waystone’s mana pulled inward. A hole in space formed, and the demon was torn from the mortal world, howling in outrage.

Marek comforted his familiar who’d been destroyed as well, praising the daemon’s bravery.

The Death Mage stared on silently.

Wind sent a curl of dust rising from the plain. Bowing their head, Marek’s enemy spoke for the first time. “Well fought, Remnant Mage. Next time, I’ll be sure to come with a full horde.”

“No need for a next time!” Marek shouted. He channeled ether into Spirit Body, increasing its level. Marek flickered into attack range, sword already moving in an empowered slash. He triggered Rending Cut, and the black sword vibrated in his hand. The still form of his enemy remained perfectly still. A thin arc of crimson ran down the length of his blade, and he slashed at the Death Mage’s robed shoulder. The figure blew apart in a cloud of black smoke. Marek slid across the hard-pan, searching all around him.

The smoke stank of burning flesh, an all too familiar smell. It thickened around him, blotting out his vision. Intuition flaring to life, and not knowing where the attack might come from, Marek teleported ten feet away. Now outside of the smoke screen, he watched his enemy complete a thrust. Then the mage dropped into the ground itself, vanishing from sight once more.

Damn, he has a movement ability, and he’s controlling the smoke, I know it! Marek back-pedaled, preparing to teleport in a moment’s notice as he reassessed his enemy’s capabilities.

The Death Mage materialized twenty strides away. He stepped clear of the smoke and flung out an arm. A portal, like the one Yuze had opened, appeared in the sky.

“No!” Marek screamed. “We settle this now!” He teleported toward the mage and swung Leyan’s sword. The Death Mage caught his attack and turned it aside efficiently. Then the figure seemed to blur before Marek’s eyes. A bony hand slipped past his guard, and two fingers tapped the side of his neck, sending a jolt of pain up into his head and down his shoulder.

“I’d rather not,” the mage answered, chuckling dryly and stepping toward the shimmering gold portal.

Marek staggered back, his right arm going numb from the strange attack. His sword clattered to the ground. Growling, he raised his staff and unleashed a volley of Phantom Bolts. Yet the Death Mage had already stepped through. Marek’s attacks burst against the shimmering gateway. Clenching his teeth, he was forced to stand idle and watch the portal shrink.

In the last moment before it closed, his enemy turned and exposed their face.

Marek’s eyes widened as he beheld the elegant features of a woman, not a man, within the dark cowl. Her smile was the last thing he saw before the portal vanished.

“The Death Mage is a woman,” he muttered, somehow vexed at the revelation. It disturbed him to think of a woman taking up such an evil mantle. He grunted, hand beginning to throb. The side of his neck ached, and a burning sensation crept up onto his cheek, the curse spreading.

Mags ran up beside him then, panting from the run. “Marek, your face! It’s turning black! What happened?”

He didn’t want to know what his neck and face looked like. A necrotic stench made his eyes water, and he knew it was coming from the wound. “The Death Mage happened,” he said.

Summon me, master! Allon shouted. I can consume the taint! Similar to the graysouls’ curse but stronger! Summon me quick!

Still staring at the place where the portal had closed, Marek did so. The daemon emerged from his chest, and whirling around him, breathed in the wretched stain the Death Mage had left behind. Ashurai, Mags, and Yuze stood in a half circle, every face creased with worry. Marek knew his own looked the same. “I’m fine, thanks to Allon.”

Ashurai took a tentative step closer. “And the Death Mage?”

Marek shook his head. “I couldn’t even land a single blow, I’m afraid. The enemy will need to be dealt with another day.”

84

WHAT LURKS WITHIN

Soon after the battle ended, Yuze insisted the group travel further east. Mags assumed they were heading to some sacred tomb hidden in one of the ravines. Nothing else made sense, for only the Rift could be seen in that direction. Surprisingly, Marek made no objections. He volunteered to retrieve their horses, and then the party trotted across the hardpan in silence.

Bringing them to the brink of the black storm that composed the Rift, Yuze dismounted and sighed heavily. Briefly, he slipped into one of his tormented mindsets. Whispering so quietly she couldn’t hear, the monk eventually shook his head and growled in anger, “I must! There’s no choice, damn you!”

Then, younger and more naive in spirit, Yuze tugged at the hem of Mags’ tunic. Sheepishly, he handed her a delicately braided silver bracelet. “We can’t leave, can’t go home. We were broken too. Nothing’s been the same since our friend Serin died.”

Marek spurred Ember closer, his gaze intent on Yuze, absorbing every word.

Another shift overtook the man. Her Kiyashi emerged, eyes sharpening. “My soul was broken in the creation of the Rift. I’ll never see my homeland again, so you must take this, Marigold. With it, we may communicate while you’re away.”

She felt Marek’s eyes on her as she replied, “I’ll do what you command. But Kiyashi, how can any of us leave? What are you talking about?”

“The Death Mage will return with Casteran might and more of the undead behind him.”

“Her,” Marek cut in. “The Death Mage is a woman.”

Yuze’s brows rose in surprise. “Truly? That’s never happened before. Rare for a woman to be drawn into one of the inverted classes. It’s no matter in the end. Marek is not ready to face that creature, regardless her sex. And you must grow as well, Marigold.” Nodding to the swirling wall of darkness, he said, “I alone can command the Rift, though only partially. I will create a way where there is none, and you and Marek will escape to the Unbound Realm.”

“I can’t leave,” Marek said. “What of Mirrin? I’m just supposed to give up on him? Let my uncle die?”

“I promise to see to your uncle. There’s more than one way of healing a sickness,” Yuze said before holding up a finger. “And I know the waystone is gone, but there are other ways of traveling swiftly. I am the Wandering Sage, after all.”

Marek still didn’t seem convinced. “But it’s my duty to stay and defeat the Death Mage! Serin’s daemon told me in the Crucible that I am supposed to save the world. How can I do it if I leave? Are you certain, Yuze?”

“The world is not limited to the Coherent Realm, Marek,” Yuze replied sharply. “You must save its sister half as well. Both are bound by the same fate. To save one is to save the other.”

Stepping closer to the inky black sea, Yuze addressed them both. “It was written in fate long ago. Serin and I formed a contract. He sacrificed his life and ascended while I lingered behind and parted with a fragment of my soul. We did so in the hopes that one day we’d both pass on our power to those better suited to heal this terrible scar. The demons cannot forever be bound by the Rift’s magic. It’s been deteriorating for centuries, and you must be the ones to finish our legacy.”

Mags exchanged an anxious look with Marek, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he too feared Yuze’s madness. “Kiyashi,” she said calmly, “forgive me, but I don’t understand. You want us to go to some other place, and what? Figure out how to get rid of the demons? How to fight them?”

“Your quest is simple and nearly impossible. You must travel to the Temple of Hailan in the Iron Hills of Hong Shan Province. There, should they still exist, you will find the Cultivators that preceded our path. The Mountain of Iron and Stone and the Winds of Wandering Sects share the temple and have protected it for ages.” Yuze’s face sagged, the heavy burden of time suddenly dragging him down. “They were the ones that guarded the scroll my brother took, the scroll he used to summon the lords of the underworld. He wanted more than anything to win the war between the realms. His ambition led him to darkness.”

Turning to the Rift, Yuze shook his upheld arms. “His ambition led to this. I betrayed my brother, my Sect, and my homeland when I joined with Serin. Yet in so doing we saved everyone. Our combined might created the Rift. It acts as a separation, but its greater purpose is containment. Countless demons call the Rift their home. And if the world is to survive, you and Marek must find the scroll, seal the door that has been opened to the underworld, and banish the Rift along with all who dwell there.”

Yuze’s shoulders lifted and fell. Then, before anyone could stop him, he reached out a hand and touched the darkness. A tunnel burrowed into the sea of shadow. It ran deep into the black fog, and soon after, an exit appeared a few miles away. A pinprick of daylight shone at the end of the passage.

Cinnabar’s hide twitched beneath her thighs. The horse undoubtedly felt the same unremitting dread Mags did. This was a terrible place, and though Yuze had carved out a path for them, none in the party seemed ready to tread it. “Kiyashi,” she protested, “this is madness! We should stay and train and prepare for war with Casteras. I’ll be damned if I’m going in there!”

“You must! It won’t hold for long, and I cannot open the way again. Tell her, Marek! You spoke with him, did you not? Tell her what the Principality said!”

Mags turned to the tall mage sitting atop his dark horse. Marek’s heavy sigh spoke volumes. “I did. When I bound the staff, I had a vision of Serin Kaiteras. We only spoke a little, but he told me to trust Yuze. He said I had to ‘heed the wanderer’s guidance’ before disappearing. I didn’t think it was literal, but here we are. Mags, I want to stay as much as you, but I don’t think we have a choice. As awful as that tunnel looks, my intuition is telling me we must.”

She clenched her jaw so tightly she imagined her teeth might shatter. Closing her eyes, she grasped the Second Principle and nodded her head. “Fine, you and I will go on this blasted quest. This stupid bracelet better work, though, Yuze, or I swear I’ll kick your ass when we get back!”

The monk cackled and tilted his head. “Kiyashi!” he corrected. “The enchantment will work even through the Rift’s distortion. You can reach out to me at any time. Submerge yourself in meditation while wearing the bracelet and call to me. I will answer.” His smile was as warm and kind as the morning sun. “You’re my Dai’shu,” he went on. “My flame, my spark. I’ve passed my power on to you, and as you grow, so too will I diminish. This gift can only be given once, Marigold. I promise I will not abandon you.”

“If we’re going, we should do it now,” Marek said, eyeing the tunnel.

Yuze smiled sadly. “Just so. On with it, you two. Be quick, and do not touch the shadows of the Rift!”

“Hold on!” Ashurai said, scowling like an angry bear. “I’m going as well.”

Mags locked eyes with the warrior, overcome with gratitude and worry. “Ash, no. Marek and I have to do this. No point in dragging you into the shit as well.”

He spurred his horse until it brushed against Cinnabar. “I will go, Mistress Strongtower. Someone on this fool’s journey needs to have a head on their shoulders.”

Yuze gasped and thrust a finger in the sky. “Aha! I thought it just a silly song, but I suppose the bards were right. The Hero, Monk, and Mage will ride beyond the sage. To conquer untamed lands, riding into fate’s cruel hands. I think Ashurai is correct. He will join you, for three is stronger than two.”

Mags blew out an exasperated sigh. Her teacher had given her a command—a mad one that baffled the mind, yet she’d see it through nonetheless. “Fine,” she snapped. “But you’re not allowed to die!”

In a rare display of emotion, Ashurai smiled broadly, his face softening as he did so. “Then it’s settled! To the Unbound Realm we go!” Spurring his horse, the Basari commanded Rushi to follow before plunging headlong into the tunnel.

Marek blinked in surprise and then bowed to Yuze before urging Ember Shade to follow.

Left alone with her Kiyashi, Mags wanted to scream, to cry, to jump down and hug the old bastard at least one last time. “I… Thank you,” she said at last. “For everything.”

Yuze bowed deeply at the waist. “Good luck and be brave, Dai’shu. You bear my spark. Stoke it to a bright flame, Marigold. And don’t come back until you’ve done as I commanded.”

Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry at their parting. That would make this a goodbye, and she wasn’t ready for that. She bowed in return and promised, “It will be done, Kiyashi. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

She kicked Cinnabar’s flanks, and they plunged into shadow. Her skin prickled as soon as they entered the tunnel. Everything went dark, and the sound of her mount’s hooves was swallowed by the mist.

“You’ve got this, Cinny,” she said, hunching over the horse’s back and placing both hands on her shoulders. Mags held the beast as it galloped behind Marek and Ashurai. She could scarcely make them out far ahead, and the pinprick of daylight grew larger and larger.

A heavy dread touched her heart. Mags felt the weight of two realms on her shoulders, and it was crushing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of light. She turned her head to search the darkness, and in its depths she beheld the face of a man. The shadows swirled around him, and two great wings held him aloft. Eyes darker than night stared at her, delivering more than a simple threat.

I will consume you, they seemed to say. And when I’m finished, I’ll devour the entire world.

Mags spurred Cinnabar again, shouting at the mare to hurry, unable to endure a second longer of that harsh and terrible gaze.

85

A FUTURE VAST AND BRIGHT

Kaiteras! the voice screamed, so loud in Marek’s mind that he feared his head would shatter. Kaiteras! I see you! I smell you! I taste your ether! You’re too weak to challenge me! Kaiteras!

Marek held Ember’s reins in a desperate grip. The voice taunted him, threatened him, relentless in its torment.

And then he was out, the tunnel left behind. He allowed the horse to run for another minute, grateful for every stride Ember Shade took, bearing them away from the cursed miasma of the Rift. Steeling himself, he glanced over his shoulder and sighed in relief to see Mags riding behind him.

Ahead, Ashurai rode to the peak of a small hill and wheeled round. “We made it!” the warrior called. Pale in the face, his stallion jittery as it trotted in a tight circle, Ashurai looked every bit as disturbed as Marek felt.

“I guess we did.” He drew in his mount and slowed the gelding.

They reached the apex of the hill and followed Ashurai’s lead. Both riders circled the hilltop until Mags joined them. The horses slowly calmed, their chuffing chaotic, mouths frothing with spittle.

Ashurai dismounted first and looked to his companions. “I wasn’t sure we would survive.”

When Mags slid from Cinnabar’s back, her legs nearly buckled. “Only by the Mother’s grace. Damn it all to hell, that was awful! That monster stared at me the whole time, and Cinnabar must have seen him too. She started shaking so bad she nearly fell toward the end.”

“You saw him?” Marek asked, chills running up his spine. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Some rifting joke! I’m wrong in the head, Bones, but I ain’t that broken,” she said as she shook out her hands. “Wait, you didn’t see him? The creepy bastard with black eyes and enormous wings?”

Marek shivered. To hear a description of the creature that had shouted at him during the crossing didn’t ease his nerves one bit. “No, I saw nothing but the light ahead and Ashurai’s backside. But it—no, he—broke into my mind. Shoved Allon aside like the daemon had never been there and screamed in my head the entire time. Hold on, I…” He held up a hand and spoke to his familiar. Are you there? Allon, answer me. Are you okay?

When the creature didn’t respond, Marek activated Summon Familiar. The daemon shot from his chest and flew straight into the sky with a hiss, every scale on his hide vibrating. “Massster!” he called. “The Mighty One touched me! I felt his stain! It hurts, Master! It hurts!”

“Allon, come back! We’re out of the Rift! It’s okay!”

The daemon reoriented and flew back only to circle Ember Shade’s legs. This in turn frightened the horse, and Marek feared the mount might rear up or bolt. With an effort of will, he wrestled with Allon’s panicking mind and recalled the daemon.

So strong, so fierce! Allon complained. We aren’t strong enough to face him! Master, he’s too powerful!

Marek communicated calmness through their connection to soothe the daemon. I know, but we don’t have to. Not yet at least. Calm down, Allon. We’re safe for now.

Ashurai stared at the storm of swirling black mist they’d left behind. “I saw and heard nothing,” he admitted. “I felt him, though. More wicked than Dumhvala himself, I felt its dark touch.” Rushi practically clung to his horse’s rear leg, her armored plates shivering in fright. It seemed she too was disturbed by the passing.

Marek dismounted and pressed his palms to Ember’s chest. The gelding’s heart pulsed rapidly. No one spoke for a time. They soothed their animals and worked to soothe their minds.

He strode to the center of where the horses stood and waited for Ashurai and Mags to join him. When they did, he rested a hand on each of their shoulders. “That thing, what Allon called the Mighty One, is trapped in there. If our quest is to rid the world of the Rift and the demons, then we might have to fight him. That isn’t going to happen any time soon. For now, we need to focus on our quest.”

Ashurai nodded sternly. “Well spoken, mage,” he said, and Marek thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in the warrior’s voice. “The Hong Shan Province is far from here. Thousands of leagues, in fact. Our journey is straightforward. We travel east and always east, but it’s foolish to think we will make the trip in a straight line.”

Mags quirked an eyebrow. “What are you saying? Wanting to stop and explore, maybe visit a tavern or two?”

The Basari frowned at the woman. “Srahesh’s precepts forbid the drinking of alcohol. I was suggesting no such thing.”

Marek looked between the two, one a tiny monk with a big mouth, the other a burly warrior far too serious for his own good. “This is going to be a long trip. Magpie, shut your trap for a bit, won’t you? Ashurai, what did you mean?”

“In Basar, the Unbound Realm isn’t so distant and mythical as they view it in Ardea,” he said. “Some remember this world, for travel between realms was once possible and a frequent practice. My first swordmaster taught all of his pupils everything he knew. Three provinces: Yu, which we stand in now, Hua in the south, and Hong Shan in the far east. I know only a little of each, but the provinces aren’t like our kingdoms. They aren’t nearly so united, or at least they weren’t before the Rift was formed.”

Marek listened intently. Every word seemed precious, for it added to the paltry store of information he had on the Unbound Realm.

“Sects hold all power here. Some rule over vast territories while others remain small and hidden. I have no idea what to expect here, but I know where we should begin.”

Mags’ shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. Her humor so often masked her true emotions. She was scared stupid, and Marek considered that to be a good thing. He was as well. If they were to survive in this new land, it would require strategy as well as luck.

Ashurai glanced to the east and pointed. “A great mountain range separates Yu from Hua Province. We will need to cross it, for the only other option is to travel north to the border of Hong Shan directly. Unless the landscape has changed, a great desert lies in the north, and I’d rather avoid it if you both agree.”

Mags grimaced. “I’m pale as a daisy. I’d die in a day if we come across a desert. Marek?”

“So, due east?” Marek asked. “I’ll follow your lead in that regard, but I’m worried about a few things. Only you speak Basari,” he said, nodding to Ashurai, “and chances are few people in this place share that tongue. We might find ourselves cut off completely, and there’s no way we can make it thousands of leagues without supplies.”

The corner of Ashurai’s mouth twitched upward just a little. “Clever as a sand fox,” he said. “My suggestion is we ride east until we find the first town. From there, I’ll do my best to get directions to a city. If we can buy a few language tomes, we won’t have to waste months learning new languages.”

“Those are damn expensive!” Mags objected.

“They are,” Marek threw in. “But if you remember, you and I are damn near rich. Currency will be different, but gold is gold. Or is that not valuable here, Ashurai?”

The warrior chuckled bitterly. “We’ll find out. So, we agree on the plan?”

Mags and Marek nodded.

With this settled, Marek glanced to the sky. “We have five or six hours till sundown. What do you say we get moving? I’d rather not spend the night near the Rift if we can help it.”

“Agreed,” Mags and Ashurai said together.

The three mounted up and faced the east. Their horses standing shoulder to shoulder, they peered across an expanse of open grassland. A moody breeze buffeted the landscape, causing ripples in the sea of grass. Several miles away, the silver coil of a river could be seen, and along its border tall stands of trees grew in clusters.

Marek sighed deeply. The terror of the crossing had lifted, and the burden of their impossible task seemed distant. In that moment, he could think only of what lay ahead. “It’s beautiful,” he said.

Ashurai grunted, and Mags laughed and slapped her thigh, saying, “Aye, that it is. Might be a horde of monsters ahead, but I can’t disagree, Bones. It is damned beautiful.”

Face splitting into a grin, Marek spurred Ember onward. “Let’s go, Ember! Ha!” he cried, and the gelding galloped down the far side of the hill. His companions riding on either side, they tore across the open plain, heading due east to seek what fate had planned for them.

~This is the end of Remnant Mage: The Twin Realms Apocalypse Book 1.

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Cultivation Novels

Dungeon Corps

GameLit, LitRPG, Xianxia, and Wuxia

Gamelit Society

LitRPG Books

Western Cultivation Stories

LITRPG

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