The door to Rauld’s study stood ajar. The golden light of the mage’s elaborate sigil lamp poured through the gap. Not wanting to snoop, Marek pushed open the door. The old men sat back in their seats suspiciously. “What’s the conspiracy?” Marek asked as he found an empty chair opposite Mirrin and Rauld.

“Don’t try to be clever; those that make an effort of wit rarely succeed,” Rauld said.

Marek didn’t miss the shift in his tone, yet he wasn’t given time to press the matter.

Without warning, the mage stood and left the room, his long robes billowing behind him. He stepped into his observatory a moment later. Head popping back through the door, Rauld snapped, “Do follow, Marek! I’ve been waiting on you all day!”

Mirrin chuckled and waved Marek after the departed mage. “You heard the man.”

When Marek entered the observatory, he was immediately ushered to the corner of the room. There, he was placed atop a thick slab of bronze. Unsurprised yet a little annoyed, he asked, “Gonna tell me what this is all about?”

“The ring, of course!” Rauld snapped. “I need your signatures to bind the ring, and you’ll certainly need the ring for that quest of yours. Quiet down, now… I’m concentrating.”

Marek sighed and gave up on trying to understand either of the elders. He was exhausted and covered in filth, and he lacked the strength to resist.

Mirrin grumbled, swatting at the sleeve of his robe. “I take it you finished the tasks for Tivra. Well done on the initiative, but you could have left some of the shit in the stables.”

The mage, standing on a matching bronze plate twenty feet away, eyes closed in concentration, sniffed the air scornfully. “And you tracked it all through my tower.”

Seeing an opportunity, Marek asked, “If I promise not to touch anything, will you cast Rejuvenation on me? I’m dead on my feet.”

Rauld didn’t answer. He stood perfectly still for so long that Marek nearly forgot his request. Finally, he nodded in satisfaction and opened his eyes. “Not the first time I touched the magical signature of an Spirit Core, but damn if it isn’t strange. Utilizing ether as a power source is downright disturbing.”

Marek glanced at his uncle and received no explanation. Obviously Rauld knows, he thought, but how much? Speaking his second question aloud, he asked, “What do you mean? You met my father? Or did you encounter another Remnant Mage in the distant past?”

Rauld sighed. “Too many questions. Let me top you up a bit, and then, after I bind the ring, I’ll tell you.” Barging ahead, he made a few dramatic swishes with his hand and said, “What is broken, sore, or blue, mend and make anew!”

Marek sighed in relief as mana flooded his body. The cramps and aches abated, not diminishing entirely but giving him more comfort than he’d felt in months. “Thank you,” he said with genuine emotion. “I owe you one.”

“In my estimation, you owe me hundreds,” the mage replied with a wink. “Let’s not keep track, though. It’s uncouth.”

“What’s uncouth is your mockery of invocation,” Mirrin spat. “And that thing you did with your hand. Have a little shame, Rauld. Aren’t you an Artisan Mage?”

“Bah! I’m so old I’m liable to die of boredom. You’d deny me a little fun, and for what, to honor your precious Principalities?”

Mirrin grumbled, the corner of his mouth twitching in irritation. “They’re yours as much as mine. Good to know blasphemy cures your boredom so effectively.”

The old men bandied about, trading insults like drunkards sparring with broomsticks. Marek let them have their moment since they obviously enjoyed the invented conflicts. Having satisfied their need to quarrel, Mirrin sat on a stool near a table laden with scrolls, and Rauld retrieved an odd contraption from a chest nearby.

Marek watched Rauld assemble a stand with three legs, crafted entirely from bronze. His patience wore thin, and despite how much better he felt, he interrupted Rauld’s work. “The wit doesn’t fool me. I heard you two talking before I came in. You weren’t making jokes then. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been busy crafting you a gift,” Rauld said, twisting a knob atop the tripod, which in turn clamped onto an ordinary-looking brass ring. “Didn’t I mention the ring?”

Mirrin turned his wrinkled face to Marek. “Leave Rauld to his work,” he said with a sad smile. “We’ve had some bad news. I thought you’d have another week, perhaps two, but Casteras has other plans, it would seem.”

“Then the timeline has changed?” Marek guessed.

“Just so. Rauld heard from a contact. A contingent of soldiers was seen heading to Misthearth. They could be here in as little as two days.”

Rauld grunted, returning to his bronze plate and rubbing his hands together. “Indeed, you’ll need to leave tomorrow or the day after at the very latest.”

Marek chewed his lip. Something was nagging at him, and he’d yet to discern what it was. Then it hit him. “So you knew?” he asked bluntly. “You knew I might one day inherit the Class? And you knew of what Mirrin did to…” He swallowed, unable to finish the question.

“I did, on both accounts,” Rauld admitted. “Apologies for the deception, but we’d rather hoped you’d never have to learn of your dark past.” The mage’s tone grew somber as he finished. “And if you hold any resentment against Mirrin, you can blame me as well. I might not have agreed with your uncle’s methods, but I supported his intention to prevent you from unlocking the Class.”

Briefly, anger flared in Marek’s chest. He took pride in his intellect, demanded his autonomy and agency. Having both deprived in such a basic and perverse way his entire life would take years to fully accept, let alone forgive. In the end, however, he trusted the old men, so he forced down the resentment.

He sighed, releasing the emotions. Brow furrowing, Marek asked, “And the plan Mirrin suggested? You agree that I should head into the mountains?”

“Unfortunately, I do. I can’t see any other way to proceed.” Rauld’s eyes grew distant as he stroked his whiskers. “Taking the Quartz Road will be best. Well-traveled though it is, only a fool would head into Shirgrim when the beast kin tribes are at war.”

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Marek chewed his lip, not liking what he was hearing. “So it’s true? Tilda mentioned the rumor, but I was hoping she was wrong.”

Rauld shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The kobolds are raiding more aggressively than usual, and I heard from a credible source the Druskin and Haikini are at it again.”

Mirrin grunted and waved his hand lazily. “The beast kin are always quarrelsome.”

“Forgive me, Mirrin, but you misspeak,” Rauld contered. “What most take as an ongoing war is, in actuality, something like a cultural dance. More often than not, the beast kin skirmishes end without loss of life. They are a means of initiating young warriors and practicing their martial prowess.” The mage paused a moment and spread his arms wide. Twin spheres of mana filled his upraised palms, and in a blink, they zipped across the room. One sphere struck the ring, and the other flew at Marek’s chest.

Marek scarcely had time to squawk, let alone properly reaction. The energy splashed into his body. Warmth spread across the surface of his skin, prickling as it did so. “Hey!” he shouted at last. “Not even a warning?”

Rauld repeated the action, spreading his arms to fill both hands with mana. “As you know, the Haikini rabbit folk are covetous of anything that shines. They’re thieves, through and through, yet honorable ones. Haikini culture values cleverness and deceit above strength. Anyhow, a young warrior stole an artifact from a Druskin war chief. This prompted retaliation. Rather than retrieving the stolen item and dueling the one who took it, a more grievous blow was dealt.”

Marek gasped again, another sphere of mana pelting him. “This demands a great deal of trust, you know?”

Mirrin ignored Marek’s question and asked one of his own. “The Druskins—they killed someone important and started a war?”

Rauld laughed bitterly. “More like an entire village that housed several of the heirs to the Haikini Warlord herself.”

“Restraint, save them,” Mirrin muttered.

“The beast kin do not bow to the Principalities; they worship the Old Gods and live by a code of honor,” Rauld replied, sending the third volley of mana across the room.

Marek rubbed his chest, eying Rauld suspiciously. His friend didn’t seem prepared to assault him with magic again, but he kept his guard up. Becoming frustrated, he asked, “If it’s so bad, why are you both insisting I go to Shirgrim?”

The mage shifted his focus onto Marek, then stood, sobering suddenly, the mirth having drained from his face. “Let there be no confusion. I am with your uncle. Casteras should be avoided at all costs. The king will break you, then burn away what remains of your life like an oil-soaked torch.”

Marek nodded before asking, “What about Bayas?”

“The ironwood,” Mirrin said sternly. “That is your primary goal.”

“Then south to the capital. I’ve heard one can trade for anything in Kithwynn. Shouldn’t I be able to find ironwood there?”

Rauld’s stern face softened a little. “A Remnant Mage can’t craft their staff from a scrap of wood long dead. The tree must be living.”

Marek exchanged a look with his uncle. “Sorry, boy. There wasn’t much time to explain it all, and much of what I know came from Rauld. Thought it would be best heard directly from the dragon’s maw.”

“Fine, but damn if this doesn’t chafe,” Marek grumbled. “I’d have appreciated you letting me in on all this a long time ago. I know you say it was an attempt to protect me, Uncle, but it feels more like a lack of trust.”

Rauld arched an eyebrow a moment later and said, “I said as much myself, Mirrin.”

Marek found he couldn’t remain angry. After all he’d been through—the Crucible, his disturbing powers, and his family’s fate—he decided to let it go for now. It wasn’t as if there weren’t bigger things to worry about.

Marek nodded to Mirrin and said, “I trust you did it with the right intentions. Assuming your plan to subdue my Class is decades old by now, how exactly did Rauld become a part of it? Did you seek him out, Mirrin?”

Rauld spoke first. “Not at all. In fact, it was the other way around. But, oh… do you hear that? Hush, everyone quiet a moment.” The mage closed in on the ring and bent at the waist to inspect it. “Aha! I’ve done it! Thank heavens—I thought I might have to attune it a second time. Seems like I still have a knack for enchantment.”

Marek’s ear caught the faintest hum. It not only seemed to be coming from the ring, but its monotone song got louder and louder by the second. “Logic preserve my wits… I swear I’m losing it. First the ring starts humming and now it’s giving off light?”

Rauld chuckled. “Logic is a stuffy, querulous old fool. Trust me—he doesn’t give a damn about your wits, young man. But yes, this little piece of craftsmanship, a project I’ve been working on for a while now, is finally finished. Just needs to cool off a bit.”

Marek frowned, his friend’s response containing too many hidden threads to untangle. “Hold on!” he said, a spark of anger blooming in his chest. “Will you stop with the cryptic nonsense, Rauld? Please, would you slow down and explain yourself!?”

“And what,” Rauld said with an annoying smile, “should I explain?”

Marek laughed, throwing up his hands. “Oh, I don’t know. How about why you sought out Mirrin, for instance. Or how in the world a mage is capable of enchanting? And let’s not forget that bit of blasphemy. Have you met Logic in person? Or is this just a bit of old-man humor?”

Mirrin chuckled and folded his arms. “He isn’t wrong, Rauld. Your tongue is especially loose tonight. Might have been the brandy.”

Rauld didn’t respond with anger or sarcasm, as Marek would have predicted. The man’s face hardened. He stood up straighter, eyes sharper than spears. Gone was the kindly elder. In his place stood a figure more noble than a king, shrouded in wisdom and authority. “I’ll answer your questions in reverse order, Marek. You have earned my trust. Yes, my young friend, I’ve met the man that became Logic. Not in person, mind you. He’s so old even I feel like a spring foal in his presence.”

Marek’s palms broke out in a cold sweat. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I am capable of many magics,” Rauld continued. “My Class is as powerful as your own, though less suited for combat. As Archmage, heir of Shemenias Thildras, the revered Logic himself, I’ve mastered a great many Classes. You can think of me as a curator and warden of magical knowledge.”

In Marek’s place, some would have laughed at the claim. Yet the Sigilist’s nephew had eyes to see. His observations of the quirky old man over the span of two decades suddenly came into focus. Rauld had always seemed to know a little too much about sigilry, enchanting, potion making, and the various mage Classes that were common in Ardea. Marek had chocked it up to a deep love of scholarship, yet he suspected Rauld might have tampered with his perception. Otherwise, he’d have noticed that Rauld not only knew such things but practiced them in private.

Eyes narrowing, Marek asked, “You were shielding yourself? That’s why you now look stern and scary enough to cut down an army?”

A flicker of emotion flitted across Rauld’s brow. “No,” he said, voice hard and filled with gravel. “I am not capable of cutting down an army or even a common foot soldier. That is not my domain, nor will it ever be. You’re the one cursed with such a fate.”

“Easy, my friend. He didn’t choose to become who he is,” Mirrin said, taking a step toward the pair. “He’s still the boy you know him to be, nose buried in books and head wandering in the clouds.”

Rauld sighed, and the tension in the room eased a little. “Indeed, you are right. Both of you. Apologies, Mirrin, I haven’t forgotten your nephew’s heart. And yes, Marek, I have been shielding my Core and essence. Returning to your other questions, I caught word that a Sigilist from Casteras was seeking information about the Remnant Mage. I sent for Mirrin, and we’ve been conspirators ever since.”

Rauld’s bright eyes flitted back and forth, seeming to search for Marek’s very soul. Then his features softened. Turning around, the Archmage left Marek to inspect the ring in the center of the room, becoming his normal disarming self once more.

Marek filled his lungs and held in the air, lips parting, tongue too confused to articulate a single word. Mirrin gave him a sympathetic smile. Principalities, he thought, head in a vortex. I can’t believe I’ve been friends with the Archmage my entire life!

A desperate idea came to Marek then. He feared what Rauld might say—in fact, a part of him knew what his friend’s answer would be. Regardless, he found himself speaking in a whisper. “Why don’t you come with me? Nothing in the wilds could harm me if you were there. Even if you can’t fight directly, surely you know countless ways to avoid danger.”

“Marek,” Mirrin interrupted, “you don’t know what you’re asking.”

“If this quest is so important, shouldn’t he come?” Marek insisted. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t make sense!”

He heard Rauld’s raspy sigh. Then the Archmage was laughing, eyes twinkling with mirth as he studied Marek over the top of the newly crafted ring. “Marek, you’re a young man. You must think I’m quite ancient, do you not? If you had to guess, how old would you say I am? And don’t be shy. I promise you won’t hurt my feelings.”