A gust of wind kicked sand against Marek''s legs, adding to the pile that had been building all morning. Allon’s jade scales, warm from the sun, rose and fell like a pillar of living stone at his back. A deep vibration ran through the creature, and a few stray thoughts drifted to Marek. Smells nice! Nice to eat and… mmm, no, wings won’t help. Allon strong… Nothing followed but another shuddering exhale.


    Marek paused his work just long enough to glance at at the daemon he was leaning against and chuckle. Sharing a mind with a sweet and murderous beast was rarely resulted in a dull moment.


    He sighed, reflecting on the enormity of it all. Here he was, on the edge of another world, using a bonded daemon as a pillow while carving sigils into an arrow shaft. So much had changed in so little time. No longer was he compelled to perform the same strict ablutions each morning, their order, manner, and timing precise. No longer did he attend Mirrin in the workshop, using the one Skill he could command. No visits to the wizard’s tower in the hope of losing himself in grandiose tales of adventure and conquest. Those days were behind him now. As they would always be. One couldn’t become the Remnant Mage and return to ordinary life.


    Marek recalled the vastness of the Druskin Graysoul army, the churning violence as two armies tried their best to consume one another. He remembered the host of spirits he’d raised, and the terror he’d become when entering the fray directly. Such memories were faded and obscured. None of those experiences felt like his own. They were tainted by the madness he’d barely escaped. No, I suppose things will never be like they were before I inherited Tenacity’s Class. Unless, he posited, some shred of hope remaining. Unless we complete our quest. Such a notion was absurd, of course. How could anyone save a world that didn’t seem inclined to save itself?


    Marek shook free of the cloying doubts and breathed in crisp morning air, took a moment to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his shoulders. Allon appreciated it more than anyone else, and every morning, the familiar insisted he be summoned to absorb the potent sun of the Unbound Realm. Little more than a week ago, they’d crossed the Rift, and ever since, the three adventurers had noticed an array of changes.


    Most were so subtle. Others, not so much.


    In the near distance, the clack of practice swords blended with occasional grunts, the only sound other than the whispering wind. The rhythm helped Marek refocus. Biting his lip, he pressed the graver forward in small increments, timing each movement to sync with Mags and Ashurai''s song. Back hunched, brow furrowed, he carved the last of three sigils.


    True-Flight, Gliding, and Guidance. The sigil array was simple but elegant, or so Marek thought. He hadn''t come across its precise usage in any of his studies. And why would I? Who''d anticipate the need to fire an arrow so damn far? His mind wandered as he cleaned up the edges of the Guidance sigil. Longbowmen have little need of accuracy when raining death on the enemy''s heads. Rangers and Marksmen have Skills to guide their shots. Wonder if Mirrin would think me mad or clever.


    Images of the kindly man caused an influx of conflicting emotions. Mirrin had shown Marek kindness, affection, and infinite patience. He’d taught Marek the meaning of love and sacrifice and diligence. Yet it could also be said that no one had ever betrayed or wounded Marek so deeply. The years of lying, the poisoning, were a stain upon their relationship. Sure, such were the acts of a desperate and half-mad man, but that didn’t lessen the sting. Deep inside, Marek knew such actions could never be truly pardoned. He only hoped that enough time and perspective might allow him to forgive the man that had inflicted such pain.


    The scrape of a boot heel on hardpan followed by a stifled curse interrupted the young man’s rumination. His eyes flicked up to see Ashurai shaking a hand, teeth bared in a grimace.


    “Oh, come now,” Mags jibed. “It was just a love tap. You’ll be fine.”


    Ashurai’s chuckle sounded forced. “I do not need your encouragement, girl. Nor do I need mercy.”


    Mags’ eyes lit up from within. The two crashed together with renewed vigor. Marek studied his friend’s body as she moved. He’d seen her at all stages in her growth as a fighter, the fumbling eagerness of an ambitious child followed by the brutal efficiency of a novice soldier. Lacking a master, Mags had scarcely refined her technique, despite endless hours of effort. Ashurai’s influence could now be seen. The sweep of her sword was more elegant, and she wasted less energy on stance and footing, allowing her body to shift as needed.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Most profound was the mark Yuze had left behind. In a short time, the old monk had transformed the manner in which Mags fought, moved, and even breathed. After the fog of his madness abated, Marek had been angry at Yuze for not showing Mags more. Surely, the great Wandering Sage could have shown her one of his impressive cultivation techniques. In moments like this, Marek could clearly see the intention of Yuze’s actions, however. The ancient warrior had instilled in Mags an immaculate and unshakable foundation.


    Ashurai’s boots slid smoothly across the soil. His sword flicked up and down across Mags’ torso, both strikes serving to keep her at bay. Then without betraying his intention in the slightest, the warrior lunged. Mags pivoted on her heel. Balance impeccable, she redirected the tip of Ashurai’s sword with a downward slash. Just as quickly, the fledgling monk flicked her sword back up again, countering the thrust with one of her own.


    Ashurai’s eyes widened ever so slightly as he doubled over, the point of Mags’ sword in his belly. Ashurai hit the ground a second later.


    A tense silence hung in the air. Ashurai glowered at Mags. She could be a right pain in the ass, but wasn’t cruel by any means. The woman threw no barbed words at her companion this time. Rather, she offered her hand without comment. Ashurai found his feet on his own, eyes twin bonfires that rivaled the sun. Jaw twitching, he regarded Marek and Mags both in turn before facing the horizon. His shoulders rose and fell, and only when he''d cooled his ire did he turn and nod. "My apologies. I''d hoped Marek''s work would have taken better than this. Maybe it is the Unbound Realm. My body feels so unresponsive and sluggish."


    Marek sighed. "You''re not exactly alone in that. My mana core aches, and I still can''t seem to focus longer than a few minutes without losing my train of thought... almost like this place would love nothing more than to spit me out.”


    The men both turned to Mags at the same time, and she shrugged defensively. "Don''t look at me like that. None of this is my fault! Look, I’m not about to lie to either of you. My body''s stronger than it ever has been. But keep in mind, we''re on the same side."


    "Perhaps the gods of this land prefer cultivators," Ashurai said, repeating the sentiment yet again.


    Again, Mags shrugged. “Not like any of them is coming down for a chat anytime soon. Besides, I never felt particularly loved by the gods of the Coherent Realm. Doesn’t really matter though, does it? Focus, Ashurai! Don’t neglect the path before you for staring at the clouds!”


    The warrior chuckled. His polished veneer softened a little, and he nodded. “Wisdom from a woman’s tongue is twice revered.”


    Frustrated, Mags rolled her eyes. “Don’t give me shit, Ash. You’re supposed to be the serious one, remember?” She smirked playfully at the man before tossing the practice sword to the ground. Resting hands on hips, she scowled at Marek. “You almost done? I''m getting ansy and don’t want to lose track of them deer.”


    Marek held his breath as he curled one final strip of wood from the shaft. He closed his eyes and activated Imbue. The sigils took, an outflow of mana poured from his core, and his shoulders trembled at the cost. The familiar pulse of warmth followed. He’d reached Level 20 in his Sigilist Class, not that he had the stomach to celebrate at the moment.


    A light hand fell on his shoulder. "Sorry," Mags said under her breath. "Thought you were exaggerating a bit. It hurts that much?"


    He breathed deeply, and soon the cramping lessened, leaving behind a throb of pain that would stay with him the rest of the day. "All good," he said at last, handing the trio of arrows to Mags. "Doesn''t hurt much if I don''t concentrate on it, and it’s not like I haven’t had worse. I’ll be fine."


    Ashurai met them as Marek got to his feet. The warrior''s brow had softened. "I know this isn''t your doing, Mags. I will simply need to adapt and work harder."


    She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Ash, you work too hard as it is. Maybe you''ll both adapt in time. It''s only been ten days, after all. Like my mother used to say, Patience is like a pinch of salt. A little goes a long way."


    Marek chuckled, glad for the reminder of the life they''d left behind. "Wonder what the Strongtowers are up to this morning."


    "If it’s morning in Misthearth, they''re likely quarreling. Few in the Coherent Realm can match my kin in that respect.”


    Ashurai nodded toward the distant grove of acacias surrounded by a ring of tall grass. "Too bad you''re not as good with that bow of yours," he said with a wry smile. "I was hoping for some venison last night.”


    Mags'' fist thumped against Ashurai''s shoulder half a second later. "Let''s see you try hitting something slim and flighty from four hundred paces! It''s one thing to pelt an army from high ground and quite another when hunting! Oi, no laughing either! Last thing I need is you two teaming up on me."


    A mischievous grin tugged at the corners of her mouth as she walked to Cinnabar’s side. With a practiced motion, she swung up into the saddle and winked at Marek. “You coming, Bones? Or too worried your handiwork is destined to fail?"