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.
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It was a harder task to ignore his body. His world blurred with pain. Biting cold lingered in the tips of his fingers and toes, a throbbing ache slowly overtaking the numbness he’d woken to. His legs burned nearly as much as his lungs. Not in years had he run like this, and as he neared the mage tower, Marek felt the consequences in every fiber of his being.
Panic drove him onward like a frenzied horse. Twice he stumbled and fell, but he only rolled back up to his feet and continued.
Passing by the steps leading up to the stone tower, Marek spied Rauld in the flesh. It was abnormal for the old man to wake so early. Unlike most elderly folk, the mage preferred to sleep late and stay up late, a fact he attributed to a “keen intellect.” Yet here the mage was, leaning on his gnarled staff, free hand tucked into the opposite sleeve of his robe as was his custom. Rauld’s demeanor was stranger still. The man glowered down at Marek. His eyes brimmed with accusation.
Now you’re inventing things, Marek told himself. There’s no way he knows what happened. The Crucible took place in my mind; Serin told me so. Regardless, the young man’s instincts disagreed. Marek waved clumsily at his friend and broke eye contact. He couldn’t explain a thing to Rauld. As much as he loved the mage, Marek needed to speak with his uncle first.
Sometime later, Marek found himself at the top of the stairs before his uncle’s home. The muscles of his legs writhed like snakes beneath his skin. His lungs rasped. Fear still hounded his heart, but relief that he’d soon be safe at home comforted him.
He could scarcely stand as he stumbled to the front door and pounded against the wood with the heel of his fist.
“Marek!” Mirrin called within. “Is that you?” The old man unlatched the door and drew it back, eyes narrowed in worry. “Where have you been?”
Marek couldn’t utter a word. He’d need to catch his breath first. More important was the need to shut out the world. He rushed inside and slammed the door shut, latching it behind him. Only then did he allow himself to collapse in exhaustion.
“What’s going on, boy?” he heard his uncle ask. “You’re shaking and… You look a mess, Marek! Hold on, I’ll fetch your medicine. Just hold on.”
Mirrin left his nephew panting on hands and knees and returned a moment later. He uncorked the bottle of tincture and steadied his hands as he poured a small portion into a kitchen spoon. “Sit up, boy. Let’s get some in you, and then you can—”
Perhaps the medicine would have alleviated Marek’s symptoms. The tincture hadn’t been administered in time, however, and before Mirrin could touch the spoon to Marek’s lips, the young man’s entire body seized and convulsed. His back straightened violently and his arms swung wide. Incidentally, this knocked Mirrin to the ground. The Sigilist landed with a grunt. The tinkle of glass and splash of liquid followed but were scarcely audible over the low growl that filled the small house.
It’s my voice, Marek noted distantly. That’s the sound of my body failing me at last. His legs cramped. Sweat poured from his skin, soaking his clothes in an instant. Perhaps it was a dream after all. A fever dream. And now I’m dying. Marek lost hold of his mind then. His thoughts flitted through the experiences of the night before, recalled the visions of the three Remnant Mages, his conversation with the boy that was also a shadow, the slaughter of forty soldiers and six monks, all at Marek’s command.
He recalled what he’d tested upon first waking: Spirit Body. The Ability’s description had been burned deep into his memory.
“Oh, my,” Mirrin said from somewhere nearby, gruff voice lost in the haze that surrounded Marek. “Can it be? Has it all been for nothing?”
Then Marek was standing, his arms and legs moving of their own accord. Plates of shimmering armor encased his body in the span of a single breath.
He saw the faces of the spirits he’d summoned. The clashing of soldiers at the end of a stone bridge, one side ghostly and terrible, the other composed of four ranks of common men. Spears seeking flesh. Blood spilling from bodies as fragile as his own. More terrible still was the remembrance of Marek’s tranquil mind. Had he truly done such things without remorse? He didn’t know for certain those men were illusory. What if his soul had been transported to another part of the world? What if he’d slaughtered a host of men and thought nothing of it?
The image of a demon’s face came next. Black and bottomless eyes. Gray skin, black fangs, a crimson tongue. The desperate fight against a foe much too strong for him. Sir Rhinweld fighting at his side and helping him butcher that evil thing.
Suddenly, he was back in his uncle’s house. Taller than he should be, body somehow strong and protected, Marek looked down at the old man that had raised him. Fear was carved into every feature of Mirrin’s face.
Marek’s eyes flitted to a trio of spirits hovering near the hearth. A mother and two daughters, their spirits reduced to skeletal remains draped in loose dresses. These were goodly souls. They’d lived here before Mirrin had come, been slain in the night by thieves seeking to take advantage of their vulnerability. The mother reached out her hand and called to Marek. He couldn’t understand her words. They blended together in a horrible drawl. Screams, Marek realized. The spirits are screaming.
Exhaustion overcame Marek then. A sense of emptiness within his chest that chilled him to the bone. He collapsed in a heap of limbs at his uncle’s feet, his ether expended, no longer able to sustain his unbidden powers.
And as blackness seeped in around him like a rising tide, he heard the voice of his uncle. “It’s finally happened. My poor boy’s power has awoken. Principalities, save us all.”