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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Chosen? Chosen for what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All held staves aloft, their bodies and armor carved from marble. Large crystals fixed at the ends of their staves burned intensely. Each emitted a different color.

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.”