“Odd way of answering me,” Marek said. “Is this really necessary?”

Rauld shrugged, clasping his hands and giving the impression he’d wait a lifetime.

Marek groaned. “Fine. I don’t know, maybe ninety? Or a hundred? You’re in good shape still, but I heard some mages live longer than others. Am I close?”

Rauld’s laughter echoed in the spiral staircase, the sound deepening and taking on a haunted tone. “I’m flattered you think so, but Marek, I’m nearly three hundred years old. I bound my soul to this tower on my two hundred and fifth birthday. One of the many tricks a mage can use to prolong his or her life. Yet it comes with a cost… If I leave Misthearth, I will perish.”

Marek’s eyes flitted to his uncle, who sat hunched nearby with a face that nearly matched Rauld’s. It was Mirrin’s turn to laugh. “Well damn, boy! You don’t have to be so transparent. I know I look like shit for my age. Hells, if it wasn’t for Tilda, I’d have died years ago.”

“Sorry, Uncle, I…”

Mirrin waved him off. “It’s fine. Besides, we can’t all be so dapper as Rauld. He’s cheating, if you ask me.”

“Fair!” Rauld shouted back. “I’d never deny it. Like I said, mages have many tricks to cheat death.”

The mage strode across the room and thumped the surface of an imposing desk nearby. It held a mess of small implements, books, scrolls, and even glass containers filled with who knows what. “Fear not, Marek. We’ll not send you on a quest emptyhanded. In here”—Rauld tapped the topmost volume in a haphazard stack of books—“is every scrap I could find on the Remnant Mage Class, the madness that will come, and the staff you must forge.” He hefted a leather sack leaning against the books. “I’ve also dredged up a few potions and medicines you’ll undoubtedly find useful.”

Marek eyed the books and the pouch dubiously. “Rauld, I appreciate all the help, and those potions do sound handy, but I’m not sure about the books. Those must weigh over twenty pounds! They’ll be a burden, not to mention hard to keep dry.”

“My, but you’re awfully easy to lead about by the nose, aren’t you?” Rauld said merrily. Marek’s intended jibe was cut short when his friend thrust an arm into the air. “Behold, the third but certainly not least Archivist’s Ring in existence! There used to be more, of course, but warring kingdoms have a way of ruining things.”

Marek blinked in surprise. He hadn’t even seen Rauld remove the brass ring from the device. His friend tossed it to him, and Marek snatched it from the air. He walked to a nearby lamp to study the item but found it mundane in every way.

“I received my own Archivist’s Ring long ago. My mentor bequeathed it when I left to attend the mage academy in Kithwynn at the age of seventeen. Go ahead, put it on, and I’ll show you how it works.”

Marek frowned, curious but keeping his excitement in check. When the cold brass slid over his finger, the band tightened slightly so that it fit snugly in place, and a subtle zap of mana entered his hand. He gasped, fighting the urge to fling it from his hand.

Rauld laughed, his piercing eyes shining with amusement. “It has a bite, doesn’t it? No worries—it’ll come off easily if you want it to. Now, concentrate on the ring and touch the stack of books.”

Marek’s heart beat faster, his eyes widening a little. “No way. It… It’s a storage ring?” he whispered, almost afraid to utter the words.

“Of a sort. Now, do as I say.”

A moment of focus was all it took to activate the Archivist’s Ring. Then the stack of books disappeared.

Mirrin cackled in delight, and Marek joined him. Storage rings were rare, and in a backwater town like Misthearth, they were nearly unheard of. Those that did exist were kept secret, for anyone with a storage ring was apt to keep their prize possessions within.

“Sadly, you can’t toss anything you’d like in there. As I said, it’s called an Archivist’s Ring. It is designed to contain information. Books, parchments, scrolls—all of these work fine. The implements of the trade as well, so inside you’ll find an inkwell and a few quills as well as a box of candles and an oil lamp.”

Marek’s grin stretched so wide his cheeks hurt. Without thinking of his actions, he crushed the old man in a hug. “Thank you, Rauld! Thank you so much!”

A moment later, his senses returned. He awkwardly released the mage and backed away. Neither he nor Rauld much appreciated being touched, and other than a single instance in his childhood, they’d never embraced. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t mention it,” Rauld said. “In fact, if memory serves me, I did the same when my master gave me my ring.”

“Your Sigilist tools should fit inside as well,” Mirrin added. “At least Rauld thinks so. Sigils are an antiquated form of lettering, so the ring will likely accept them along with a variety of materials.”

The mage pointed to the pouch still in Marek’s hand and added, “These will need to be carried, along with your mundane goods. I have a responsibility to Misthearth, so I didn’t send all I own, but these will be invaluable, I’m sure. The two red ones are Lesser Healing Potions; the green is an Elixir of Concealment. The yellow is a vial of Cure-all, useful to rid oneself of a variety of ailments. Finally, the tiny black one is poison.”

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“Poison?” Marek questioned, taken aback. “That’s a coward’s weapon! Why would you give this to me?”

Rauld sighed. His old eyes held so much compassion. “First off, when facing your death, any weapon can be valuable. Honor be damned. Secondly… the poison is for you. I know Mirrin told you how to nullify yourself. Yet such is a cruel existence—one that will kill you over a longer period of time. This, however,” he said sadly, “will be swift if not painless. It’s an extract from a plant called Sorrowberry. Enough in here to kill a hundred men. The best part is that none of the bodies left behind can be claimed by a Death Mage,” he added pointedly. “Unfortunately, if you achieve your goal of creating and binding a staff, this will become valuable information to you.”

Sweat broke out on Marek’s brow. He turned from his uncle and the mage who’d guided his research for over a decade. He wanted nothing more than to toss the ring and pouch aside and run from the tower. Even now, however, he could feel the icy threads of his newfound power flowing within him. This wasn’t a fate he could outrun.

The calming effect of his Soulspace seemed especially attractive at that moment. Marek didn’t have the time to explore that aspect of himself, and he suspected both men would discourage the practice in case it sped up the onset of his madness. Grabbing his courage in both hands, he decided it was time to learn what he could about his supposed enemy. “I was told the Death Mage is my opposite. How can that be? If each Principality passes down a Unique Class, then where does this opposition come from?”

Rauld’s smile was a proud one. “Good question. I’ll answer by telling you about my own nemesis. My ancestor, Shemenias Thildras, forged the Class known as Archmage. For thousands of years, it was passed down through the sprawling branches of my lineage. When Order ascended, the High Cleric Class began to show up in the Coherent Realm. Prudence spawned the Grand Oracle, Judgment the Veracity Paladin, and Restraint gave us Honorbound.”

Marek rubbed his forehead. These were the names of mythical Classes. Other than the well-known Grand Oracle, nobody really thought they were real—no more real than Archmage, anyhow. To learn they existed, that common men had inherited them for millennia, pushed the limits of Marek’s beliefs.

“And Tenacity,” he said, voice emerging calmer than expected, “created Remnant Mage.”

“Precisely! Now, to answer your original question, you should know that there were no oppositional Classes. The abominations appeared when Serin Kaiteras ascended. Tenacity gave his life to save our world, and he did so by creating the phenomenon known as the Rift. There’s a book in that collection that elaborates on the subject when you have time. For now, know that the Death Mage rose from the harrowing souls trapped inside the Rift. These perversions of inherited Classes are rare, yet each is capable of immense destruction.”

Mirrin broke in, a dark tone coating his words. “They’re particularly dangerous when backed by a king. Casteras has long had dealings with them, the Death Mage in particular.”

Marek struggled to process it all, to make sense of his new reality. It wasn’t something that could be accomplished in an afternoon.

Rauld cleared his throat. Eyes downcast, he said, “The Archmage is opposed by the Sorcerer. I met and conquered my twisted doppelgänger over a century ago, and I wear the scars of that battle to this day. You’ve been charged with a heavy responsibility, Marek, and you have the disadvantage of being cut off from the knowledge that was meant to be yours. Each Unique Class comes with steep restrictions. An Archmage, for instance, may not engage in direct combat. If I kill, no matter how noble the cause, my soul will be destroyed.”

Marek gestured at the tower around them. “Then how can you defend yourself, your tower? How have you lived this long, and how did you slay the Sorcerer?”

“I never said I killed the man,” Rauld said cryptically. “And there are many ways to defend yourself that do not involve killing. That matters little right now, though, for it is you we are—” Rauld cut off abruptly. The twinkle in his eye vanished, and his entire body went still. “Damn!” he hissed a moment later. “How did they reach us so fast? Someone must have opened a portal to shorten their journey.”

Mirrin stood suddenly, milky eyes flaring wide. “The Casteran hunters are here already?”

Rauld held up a hand. “Be calm, my friends. All is well,” he said firmly. “Marek’s timeline has merely been accelerated. The Augurs can see much, and apparently pinpointed the birth of the Remnant Mage with precision. They cannot track Marek directly, though.”

“How should we stay calm?” Mirrin shouted. “My nephew is in danger! I… I’ll confront them if I must. I won’t last long, but I have a few nasty tricks up my sleeves!”

The Archmage spoke to the Sigilist in a commanding voice. “Sit down and be calm, Mirrin Kaiteras! I placed the wards at the edge of my influence, several miles from town. Marek has ample time to gather his things and leave. Besides, the Casterans approach from the north. All our boy needs to do is avoid them. When they come asking, I’ll tell them the truth, that you left south. A bit of misdirection is all we need for the hunters to travel south to Garrehall.”

Mirrin’s face was a mask of grief. As quickly as it had overcome him, his fear was gone. In its place stood a mountain of sorrow. He glanced at Marek, eyes welling. “I… I thought we’d have a few more days.”

Marek bit his lower lip hard, fighting to control his own emotions.

Rauld stepped between the two, lending his warm smile to uncle and nephew in turn. “Embrace, you fools. This isn’t the time to say goodbye. We must have a little faith in the Principalities. You’ll see one another again.”

Marek tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. Rather than speak, he took his uncle in his arms and held him close. “I will come back,” he said, voice cracking. “I promise.”

“Make sure you do, boy,” Mirrin replied. “And I’ll promise not to die in the meantime. I love you, Marek, so very much.”

“I love you too, Uncle.”

They drew apart and Rauld cleared his throat. “Come now, that’s enough tears. It’s time for strength and stubborn will. Gather what you need from your uncle’s house and leave.”

Marek hardened his resolve and nodded his head. “How long do I have?”

The mage shook his head sadly. “An hour, maybe longer, but let’s not assume so. These hunters travel quickly on foot. They’re approaching from the north, so keep to Southshore. Take the eastern road, my friend, and do not stop to rest until noonday tomorrow.”

Mirrin pressed the leather pouch into Marek’s chest. “Rauld has given you knowledge and magical supplies. I’ve given you the tools of your first Class. There’s a little coin in there as well, as much as I could spare. May the Principalities guide you.”

Rauld chuckled and ticked his head to the side, looking ever so much like a crow. “Your fate has come knocking, my friend. It’s time you answer.”