ã€ŠRemnant Mage: The Dual System Apocalypseã€‹


 Chapter 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 cow. 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 waited 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. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    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 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¡ªa ¡°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 smashing 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 was 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?¡±

 Chapter 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¡ªthat¡¯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 jagged 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!¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    ¡°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, ¡°Sound 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¡ªnamely 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 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.

 Chapter 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¡ªthe 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.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

    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¡ªnot 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¡ª¡±

    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.¡±

 Chapter 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¡ªan 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¡ªonly a single room with a private entrance¡ªyet within were all the materials needed for sigil crafting.

    Mirrin smiled up at Marek, groggy in the eyes 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¡ªif 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.¡±If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    ¡°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¡ªhis 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¡ªDisperse, for example¡ªI 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¡ªa 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.

 Chapter 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, and 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¡ª¡±

    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.If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    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 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 entirely 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 and family people 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, Mads. 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?¡±

 Chapter 6: Worth the Squeeze

    Mags inclined her head pridefully. ¡°Pigs are clever creatures,¡± she said in defiance. ¡°Clever and cute¡ªboth 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 had 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.¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    ¡°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¡ªyet 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 this reason, Marek was in no mood for misplaced pity. ¡°We¡¯re fine!¡± he shouted at Corrigan. ¡°Just leave us!¡±

    A few moments later, they 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 berry 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.

 Chapter 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 are 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 tisked 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.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

    ¡°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¡ªat least a gold coin¡ªand 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¡ªand 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. Only people that say clever ones 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.

 Chapter 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¡ªand 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.¡±

    ¡°Ew!¡± 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¡ªyou 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.¡±If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    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¡ªyet 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¡ªhe¡¯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.

 Chapter 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, 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.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    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.

 Chapter 10: Expansive Interior

    Marek blinked lazily up at the sky. He couldn¡¯t see the moon anymore¡ªor 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¡ªit¡¯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¡ªan adult, maybe¡ªthat 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.¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

    ¡°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¡ªor, 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¡ªpurple, green, and bright crimson¡ªassaulted 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.

    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.¡±

 Chapter 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¡ªnot 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 quieted 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.Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    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. The first heir of the Remnant Mage Class was a Soul Singer, though. 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¡ªit 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 though, 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 and 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¡ªthat, 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¡±¡ªSerin nodded to the crimson gem¡ª¡°then make your decision.¡±

 Chapter 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 are 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¡ªbut 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¡ª¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    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¡ªnot 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 him. 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 Spirit 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 Spirit 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¡ªa little perk of the Remnant Mage Class.¡±

    Marek nodded. ¡°Thank you, Serin,¡± he said before turning his awareness inward. ¡°My body¡ªit¡¯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 Armor - 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.

 Chapter 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¡ªno 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 Spirit Core¡ªit¡¯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 Spirit Core or fuel other Abilities.You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    ***

    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¡ªand 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 certain advantages, however¡ªone 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 seemed to wait 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¡ªit was indeed armed¡ªyet 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¡ªMarek could judge that at a glance¡ªyet 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 Spirit 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.

 Chapter 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 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¡ªwhatever the boy was¡ªcouldn¡¯t hear him. He didn¡¯t want to curse his luck.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    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 less a 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 ghosties 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¡ªonly 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.

 Chapter 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 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 Armor 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.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    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 Armor 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.

 Chapter 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 ¡ªno, 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.Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    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 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 a bit of momentum now, 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 Spirit 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 Armor.

 Chapter 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 Armor, 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 Armor 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 Armor. This time, he invested more energy. As the ether poured from his Spirit Core, he felt the armor¡¯s power increase. Marek also sensed something new¡ªadditional 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.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    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¡ªthe 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.

 Chapter 18: A Dreaméˆ¥æªš 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 Armor.¡±

    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 Spirit 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 Armor

    ***

    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.Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    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¡ª¡±

    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.¡±

 Chapter 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.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

    ¡°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¡±¡ªhe touched his chest and extended his fingers toward Marek¡ª¡°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 array 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.¡±

 Chapter 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¡ª¡±

    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.

    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.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

    ¡°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¡ªthey 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 closed his eyes and pictured the scenes Mirrin described.

    ¡°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¡ªshe¡­ 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¡ªthe 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.¡±

 Chapter 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 Spirit 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¡ªyour Class, that is¡ªit¡¯s best you¡ª¡±

    ¡°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 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.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

    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¡ªand the knowledge of the ending of his unknown parents¡ªout 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¡ªI¡¯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¡ª¡±

    ¡°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!¡±

 Chapter 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¡ª¡±

    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¡ªfor 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 tisked 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.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

    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 tisked. ¡°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¡ªenough 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 tisked, 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 tisked, then whispered to her husband in the airy language of the Haikini. Clicks, snaps, and hissing¡ªit 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?¡±

 Chapter 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 last night and is probably still sleeping.¡±

    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¡ª¡±

    ¡°You mustn¡¯t!¡± Tilda cut in, brow furrowed in worry. ¡°A journey like that will be extreme. Marek, with your health, you¡ª¡±

    ¡°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¡ªyou 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¡ªperhaps 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.¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

    ¡°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¡ªI 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?

 Chapter 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¡ªtwo 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¡ªa 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.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

    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 Spirit 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 Spirit 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 Spirit 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 voice 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.

 Chapter 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 Armor, 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 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¡ªthings 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 contrite. 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.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    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¡ªdid 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.¡±

 Chapter 26: Guilt in Revelation

    Marek followed close behind his uncle, observing him warily. Mirrin was an eccentric man. Not only were 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¡ªa 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¡±¡ªhe handed the third tool to Marek¡ª¡°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.¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    ¡°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¡ªa sigil of power¡ªhe 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.¡±

 Chapter 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¡ªin this case, the sigil we call Heat¡ªas 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.This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

    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 a bizarre taste 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 her 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.

 Chapter 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 a Spirit 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.¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

    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 contered. ¡°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 reaction. 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¡ªthey 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¡ªthe Crucible, his disturbing powers, and his family¡¯s fate¡ªhe 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¡ªI 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¡ªhe 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 chocked 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¡ªin 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.¡±

 Chapter 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¡±¡ªRauld tapped the topmost volume in a haphazard stack of books¡ª¡°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¡ªit¡¯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¡ªall 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.¡±A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    ¡°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¡ªone 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¡ªno 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 doppelg?nger 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¡ª¡± 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.¡±

 Chapter 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 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 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¡ªa 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¡ª¡±

    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.¡±Stolen novel; please report.

    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¡ªa 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¡ª

    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¡ªone 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¡ªall 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.¡±

 Chapter 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. Cudgel 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 betrayed 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¡ªsomething real big-like¡ªand I can¡¯t stay here. Ugh, it¡¯s hard to tell it all quickly, and I don¡¯t have much¡ª¡±

    ¡°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 on 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¡ªsomeone 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.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    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 usually 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 cudgel. 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.

 Chapter 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¡ª¡±

    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 Spirit 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 Spirit 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 Spirit 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.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

    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 Kaiteras. View Self. View statistics. Inspect Self. 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, Eyes of Ether

    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¡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 a Spirit 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, 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.

 Chapter 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 make 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 poison,¡± 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¡ªone with a different tone than those prior.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

    ***

    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 it, 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 glowed 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.¡±

 Chapter 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¡ªnot 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.¡±Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!

    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, another and Rauld¡¯s in my head telling me soldiers from another kingdom are after you! I buy it we haven¡¯t had much time since¡ªit¡¯s been a damned foot race these last three days¡ªbut 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 cudgel? 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¡±¡ªshe gestured at the road, the mule, and the both of them¡ª¡°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¡ªnot 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?

 Chapter 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 could 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 had 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¡ªor 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.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    ¡°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¡ªthat 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.

 Chapter 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¡ªa 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. Wasn¡¯t even 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?This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

    ¡°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¡ªone 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 cutting through an army single-handedly, and Soul Singer the 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¡ª¡±

    ¡°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¡ªone 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¡±

    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.

 Chapter 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¡ªhe couldn¡¯t face the obvious answers it would give him¡ªyet 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¡ªmy 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 implicating in the spectral 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¡ªbut not before the mace found him a second time.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

    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 widow 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¡ªone 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.

 Chapter 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.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

    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¡ªnot 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 and 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.

 Chapter 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¡ªa 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 Armor 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¡ª¡±

    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.This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    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¡ªI¡¯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 Armor 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¡ªnot 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.

 Chapter 40: One Manéˆ¥æªš 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.Stolen novel; please report.

    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¡ªor 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¡ªthere was no doubt about it¡ªyet 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.

 Chapter 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?Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

    He pushed the questions aside, wishing he¡¯d been given a Class guide¡ªsomething 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.¡±

 Chapter 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 in 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."Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

    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¡ªit 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.¡±