The woods around Saul teemed with life. Birds sang in the trees, and the air hummed with the buzz of insects. The new grass was growing in the sunlit spaces between the ancient oaks and pines, and the thick moss and hanging lichens that colonized every surface glowed with vivid colors. Ferns were putting out their first curling fronds in the shade, and blue and white flowers burst with color between the grasses.

It was the spring of Saul’s second year in his new timeline, and the swift change of seasons that distinguished the mountain climate was in full flow.

Saul was crouched next to the stones of the ruined tower, where he and Brand had fought the forest trolls and the goblins. That fight was some time ago now, but something about the encounter that had troubled Saul ever since.

He kept remembering the image of the warlock running away, empty handed. Why had the man left his bow?

The weapon had been leaning against the rock where he’d been hiding, but it was a small thing, designed for use in the forest, and not something that would be a hindrance to a fleeing fighter.

Saul kept coming back to the thought that the warlock should have taken the weapon with him but had not. Now, the strange item was locked in a wooden chest in the corner of Captain Jerryl’s room on the upper floor of the Harkin’s Holdfast barracks.

It had been months since Saul’s conversation with Jerryl about his past. The winter had well and truly finished, and there had been no enemy activity in the forest, but a feeling of impending danger had been steadily growing in Saul’s mind.

At first, he thought it was to do with having told Jerryl the fantastic story of his reincarnation and his strange fate. But, in time, Saul reflected on it and realized this was not the source of his trepidation.

It had not been Saul’s desire to share his secret, but the young captain had guessed. On reflection, Saul did trust Jerryl and, so far, this trust had been justified. Jerryl had promised to keep the secret, and as far as Saul could tell, he’d been as good as his word.

Saul looked up at the blue sky through the trees. His hand rested on the cool stone of the ruined tower where the warlock bow had rested.

The previous night, a strange experience had happened to Saul. He’d been in his Workshop, sitting in the chair by the fire with a vial of Arcane Dust in his hand, thinking about his fate, and he had—for the first time in the Workshop—drifted into sleep.

He’d dreamed of the warlock’s bow leaning against the rock, and that feeling of impending danger had pressed on him more strongly than ever. When he woke, troubled by the dream and the continuing sense of danger, he’d left a message for Zorea and Brand that he would not be joining them for the morning training today and had headed out early into the forest.

Now, he sat in the ruin, sending his thoughts outward into the forest, trying to sense any presence. He felt nothing near, nor did he see anything unusual.

Of course, there was no sign of the battle they had fought here last year. Straight afterward, the corpses of the goblins had been brought back to Harkin’s Holdfast and burned in a pit to the south of the village.

The corpses of the forest trolls had, as the bodies of trolls will do, returned quickly to the elements. Within days of the battle, there was no sign of the forest trolls. Now, Saul saw with interest that the rocks he’d flung during that battle—and the pile of stones that had been his own summoned rock troll—were all still there.

That was interesting. There was possibly some use in that. If the rocks he created with magic were permanent, he could see a situation where he might be able to create rocks by magic that could then be shaped and used for building.

Smiling, he tapped experimentally at one of the stones that had been the summoned rock troll. Hard, compact, with a good grain to it. Saul knew a bit about building, and this seemed like good stone.

He chipped at it with another stone. It was hard, but a little came off. With the right tools and expertise, this was a kind of stone that could be shaped.

Maybe I can build a village of my own with this rock one day, he thought, smiling.

The sense that there was something he needed to do here would not leave him alone, so he left his experiments with the stone and moved deeper into the forest. Following his instincts, he waded through the trees, heading north and a little east.

In this direction, the forest was flat, the undergrowth thick, and there were no paths except the few tracks made by wild animals.

Saul wore a sword, one of the short narrow-bladed stabbing swords favored by the Xornian foot soldiers. His clothing was good wool with a light leather jerkin and solid mountain boots. His body felt strong and healthy, his senses sharp.

He had come a long way from the ragged, emaciated condition in which he’d begun his adventures here in the northern borders of Xorn.

As he delved deeper into the forest, he sensed he was drawing close to an objective. There was something out there, he was sure of it. Every sense on the alert, he snuck along as if stalking unseen prey through the forest.

And then he spotted the clue he was looking for. It was only a small trace, but it was enough.

On the muddy bank of a little stream that gurgled through a deep, moss-bound channel, there was a single fresh boot print.

Along with the blade, the soldiers had also gifted him with light armor in the style of the Xornian infantry. It consisted of a knee-length chainmail hauberk and a sturdy leather tunic, with a steel helmet, heavy leather gauntlets reinforced with steel studs, good woolen trousers, and sturdy boots.

At the moment, he was wearing the leather tunic and the gauntlets but not the helmet or the chainmail. He had not expected to have to fight today. But if he did, the thick, hard leather of the tunic would have to be enough for protection. He was not about to go back for the rest of his kit.

With a smooth movement, he reached down and loosened his sword in its sheath.

He would use magic if he had to, but if he came upon a scout, his blade would be quicker and quieter. In time, his magic would once again become his default weapon.

He missed the days when he could wade into battle with no weapon but his enormous magical ability. He would regain that ability, but he was not there yet and, over the winter, progress had been slow. Saul had advanced through Level 7 and 8, but neither had opened up a new School of Magic.

The leveling process made him feel refreshed, and he noticed that, afterward, his body was stronger and faster, and his existing spells a little more powerful, but he was not quite at the point of unlocking the next spell school yet.

A little way on, he found another footprint, this time in the soft earth at the base of a tree. A little farther still, a branch hung, recently broken off the side of a young sapling. The bark had peeled away, and the wood underneath was still wet.

Saul was getting close.

There. He crouched quickly behind a bush, peering through the undergrowth at two figures shuffling through the trees up ahead.

Black robes, gleaming white runes on the cloth.

Warlocks.

Saul moved round behind the warlocks, staying well out of their line of sight but keeping them in view. They were walking without much caution, as if they did not expect to be seen or followed. Their hoods were up, covering their faces.

He followed them carefully for a short while, but they seemed to be making for the deeper woods, and he did not want to get drawn too far from the village.

Instincts and caution warred within him. He greatly desired to follow the warlocks and see where they were going, but he also did not want to get too far from the village. At last, clenching his teeth, he turned away from his pursuit, retracing his steps.

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It did not take long for Saul to be certain he’d made the right choice.

As he once again approached the ruined tower, a sudden scream rang out through the forest. It was the voice of a woman in terror, and it pierced the stillness like a blade slashing through silk.

Saul’s sword was in his right hand, and his spell list hovered in front of his vision as he dashed silently as an arrow toward the sound.

In a rush, he burst into a clearing. A tight knot of black-clad, armed men pressed down on the single figure of a slight, dark-haired woman whose black eyes were filled with a wordless terror. Blood sheeted down her face from a head wound, shockingly red against the pallor of her skin.

Zorea.

Saul activated the Burning Hand spell from the School of Fire. He had no idea what the effect would be, but it was a melee spell, and he was charging into melee.

The letters of the spell in his vision swelled and glowed brightly for a moment. Saul’s hands tingled as the spell activated, and there was a crackling sound like fire rushing through dry grasses.

Heat crept up his hands and arms. It was not intense or unpleasant, but it flared suddenly and was accompanied by a loud whoosh. A blaze of fire suddenly coated his hands and forearms and the sword that he held.

As Saul rushed onto the scene, Zorea saw him. His presence gave her new strength, and she lashed out with the sword she held, cutting down one of the tall, strange figures that menaced her.

She was armed with a longer sword than was usual for the Xornians, giving her good reach. Saul had trained her in longsword techniques as well as short, at her request, and she was effective and deadly with her blade.

Her sudden ferocity took her enemies by surprise. The long blade took off the head of one man and cut into the shoulder of another before her attackers could react. Her two targets fell to the ground, opening a gap in the circle of enemies that pressed on her.

Saul steamed in. He slashed downward with his fiery sword. The blade cut into an enemy, and he was amazed to see a sudden flowering of flame in the wound.

The flames rushed across the body of the man, engulfing him in a sudden violent conflagration. Raising his arms and dropping his curved sword, he staggered a few steps, engulfed in flames, before dropping to the ground and lying still.

Zorea ducked and—using a move Saul had drilled her in repeatedly—feinted to one side before attacking the other when her enemy tried to block. The man stumbled backward, blood pumping from a wound in his chest.

These were strange enemies. They were not the same as the regular warlocks.

No glowing runes illuminated their black robes. Their hoods were tall and pointed, and they were armed with long, curved swords whose blades were lacquered black.

As they died, Saul glimpsed a shimmering shape on their chests that glowed brightly with a ghostly pale light, and then rose into the air and vanished.

Sigils.

They had Sigils on their bodies that vanished when they died.

He grabbed another of the enemies, this time gripping him around the throat with his left hand. Again, flame rushed out from the point of contact, covering the body of the enemy. The flame did not seem to burn the men, exactly. They were not charred or blackened, but it took something out of them.

It was as if the flames burned their souls away, burned out their life force rather than actually damaging their flesh.

Only three remained.

In that moment, Saul felt the rush of awareness that had alerted his senses back in the clearing at the coven’s hideout, and again in the fight when he’d killed the goblins. It was a sense of someone else’s control spell, an awareness of a magic stretched out across the space he was within, dark fingers reaching out to control the enemies.

“Zorea,” he said quickly, “we need to finish this now. We need to get out of here.”

She did not question his words. Saul took out another two enemies, and Zorea cut down the last one with her unusual blade, then turned to finish off one more who had been wounded but was not yet dead. She drove her blade quickly in and out of his throat, and he twitched for a moment and grew still.

Saul took a moment to push up the hoods of two closest enemies. Their features were oddly empty and uniform, as if they were people who had no lives of their own. They all had long, pointed black beards and thin, sharp-featured faces, very unlike the usual stocky, broad features of mountain people.

He stood, looking around. The reward resources for the destruction of his enemies appeared, and he selected ­Absorb to Workshop almost instinctively. There was a threat nearby still, and he had no time to linger.

“Let’s go,” Saul said, feeling the groping fingers of the dark power reaching out through the clearing.

Saul led the way, keeping low and darting from tree to tree as he moved in a zigzag fashion back in the direction of the village.

As he hurried through the forest, drawing ever closer to the village, he became aware that he and Zorea were not alone.

“There is someone here,” Zorea hissed, and they flung themselves into the undergrowth.

Sure enough, there were shadowy figures moving stealthily through the trees around them in the direction of the village. From what Saul could see, these seemed to be a mixture of the strange, pointy-hooded men moving in squads of five to ten, each with a warlock in charge of them.

The warlocks were smaller figures than the strange, bearded fighters and had glowing runes on their robes.

Saul motioned with his hand for Zorea to stay down. From the undergrowth, they watched the squads of warlocks and their strange companions pass.

After a few minutes, the majority of the enemies seemed to have gone, and all was still around them. They felt a little safer.

Saul sat up and looked at Zorea. She had wiped the blood from her face. The wound on her head was bleeding freely as scalp wounds will do, but he could see the cut was not deep. Zorea looked grim and determined, though her face was pale and drawn.

“They’ve passed on for now,” Saul whispered. “You all right?”

She nodded, sat up, and proceeded to bind a long, dark strip of cloth around her head to stanch the bleeding. She was dressed all in dark green linen garments, loose enough to give her flexibility of movement without getting in the way of her agility.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “You saved my life.”

Saul shook his head. “There’ll be time for all that later. The warlocks were heading for the village, but what were those things we fought? They looked like men, but they didn’t feel like men.”

“Thralls,” Zorea replied. “It’s a warlock magic we’ve come to know all too well over the years. The warlocks have this spell that causes other humans to come completely under their control. I’ve seen various iterations of it on my travels through the years, but mostly it’s just used as a temporary measure. But the warlocks of the northern mountains have found some way to make it permanent. These men—you saw how they look so different from any other northerners?”

Saul nodded.

“That’s because they’re not northerners,” Zorea continued. “They’re men who were taken in a raid a long time ago, men from an eastern province of Xorn’s mountain borderlands. The warlocks have kept them for a long time as servants and slaves, for so long that the thralls have forgotten any life they had before.”

“That explains the Sigils that rose from their bodies when they died.”

She nodded. “The warlocks use Sigils to make the spell permanent and to exert control over the Thralls.”

“How do you know all this?” he asked.

“My mentor taught me about warlock magic,” she answered. “She knew about it from…well, from her own past.”

Saul nodded thoughtfully. In his old life with Emperor Karak, he had known a similar spell. Thrall magic was not particularly complex or draining, but it was dangerous because of all magics it was one of the most open to abuse. As such, it was rarely taught.

Saul had used it to great effect, but not like this. He had used it to control and divert enemies for a short amount of time, but to take control of a whole group for years and years. That was a new thing.

“It looks like the warlocks are about to use the thralls as fighters to siege the village,” Saul said. “We’ve stumbled on an attack that’s been long-prepared, and we just happen to be on the wrong side of the wall. We need to get back and help the others, but there’s something I need to do first.”

She looked at him inquiringly.

“I can’t explain fully,” he said, “but I’m going to need to lie here quietly for a few minutes. I’ll likely go very still, as if asleep. I won’t be aware of what’s going on in the world around me, so I need you to keep guard over me. Can you do that?”

Her eyes had widened, but she nodded. “I can do it.”

He met her gaze for a moment, and then laid down in the undergrowth. The recent fight had delivered more rewards, and he felt that there was something waiting for him in the Workshop. If there was going to be a battle, Saul wanted to upgrade before he got into combat, not after.

With her sword in her hand, Zorea came and crouched beside him. From where they hid, no one would see them unless they literally tripped over them, but still, Saul wanted to be as quick as he could in his Workshop.

“Ready?” he asked Zorea, and she nodded.

“Right,” he said. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

With that, he laid flat on his back and called up his System options and selected Activate Workshop.

The unpleasant transition from the normal world into the strange, magical space of the Workshop had not improved with use, but at least Saul had gotten used to it.

One strange thing he’d noticed was that he never seemed to enter the Workshop at exactly the same place. This time, he appeared near the window.

As always, the rain was beating on the glass outside, obscuring any view of what might lie beyond. The fire crackled in the hearth, the spell-tree glowed with its serene light, and there was no sign that anything had changed. The worktables were all in their place, and the sinister obsidian door still glowed strangely in its place.

A glance around gave Saul the impression of other items of furniture in the Workshop beyond the worktables he could see. In time, he was sure these would be unlocked to provide new options and abilities to add to his arsenal. He had little time to ponder the mysteries of the System today, however.

He glanced at the spell tree, where the deep red sphere of the School of Fire and the dark wet-slate gray sphere of the School of Stone hovered clearly in the trunk, their Sigils flickering on their curved surfaces.

Above, there hung the gleaming, pure white sphere of the School of Air, not yet unlocked but awaiting its Sigil.

Saul made his way to the Resource Table, where a generous pile of XP coins lay alongside five Arcane Dust vials, one full and one half-full, all neatly arrayed and waiting for him. He carried the XP to the Sigil Crafting Table in a hurry and laid it in place.

Workshop: Sigil Crafting Table

Experience Points (XP) Available: 950 (Gold)

New Sigil Available: Level 9

He selected the option and was immediately rewarded with the dramatic cracking of lightning. The Sigil emerged quickly—the Workshop seemed to feel Saul’s urgency. He reached forward and absorbed the Sigil.

Power flooded him as he leveled up, but he resisted the urge to revel in the sensation and swiftly focused on crafting his spell unlocking sigil.

There was a fight coming, and he would need all the tools he could get at his disposal.