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—in this case, the sigil we call Heat—as 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.

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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.