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—”

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.

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“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—they 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—she… 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—the 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.”