Mags latched the front door behind him just as Marek stepped inside his uncle’s bedroom. He found the old man sprawled on the floor, dressed only in the remnants of a torn under-robe. The garment was stained gray with sweat, and it was twisted around his legs.

Writhing on the ground, face drawn in agony, Mirrin screamed, “They come with fire! They come in droves!” The whites of the old man’s eyes shone in the dim space, contrasting with his tawny Casteran complexion. “The hills are aflame! The beast, he roves!”

“You’re all right!” Marek called in a firm but calm voice. “There’s no fire, Uncle. No beasts in the house, alright? It’s just me and Mags.”

“Fire, horns, the scale-born!” Mirrin raved. Cataract whites stared manically into Marek’s face, bony hands like claws biting into the flesh of the young man’s shoulders. “They will rise from their shadowed halls. With cold of unearthly fire will they burn us all!”

Marek gripped his uncle firmly but kindly. Then he shook him. “Uncle Mirrin! It’s Marek! I’m here, okay? Nothing is coming for us! Snap out of it already!” He flicked his jaw at the table in the corner of the room, instructing Mags. “That bottle there—the blue one, beside the candlestick. Hurry.”

His friend navigated the cluttered room expertly. She returned to Marek’s side in a moment, uncorking the mulled spirits.

Marek’s uncle began to tremble then, the familiar spasms taking hold of his frail body completely. Using all of his lacking strength, Marek forced his uncle onto his back and pressed one knee into Mirrin’s right shoulder. “Hand it over,” he said softly, and Mags complied.

Knowing the drill, she used one hand to hold Mirrin down while the other clamped over the old man’s jaw, whispering an apology before leveraging her weight to pry clamped teeth apart.

“Open up,” Marek said sternly. “Principalities, Uncle, you need your medicine! Open just a little… There we go.”

A mouthful of the liquid splashed into Mirrin’s mouth. He reflexively swallowed and then coughed. Sputtering a few times, Mirrin tilted his head to one side and gasped.

The two friends waited out the fit. The hard part was over. They only had to hold onto Mirrin’s arms and prevent him from hurting himself. Thirty tense seconds passed before Mirrin’s thrashing subsided. Then, mercifully, his frail body went limp. Briefly, before succumbing to the potent medicine, Uncle Mirrin’s face softened as he found Marek above him. He cupped his nephew’s face. In a hoarse tone, he whispered, “Sorry, my boy. I seem to have done it again, haven’t I?”

“That you did,” Marek said with a sigh. “No need to apologize. Just get some sleep. Tomorrow will be better.”

Mirrin chuckled, throat rattling with mucous. “Judgment might disagree with you, but I admire your optimism. Strong like your father,” he said, the lids of his eyes drooping. “Damn, but I do miss my big brother Rorin.”

And then he was asleep.

Working together, the two hefted the thin man onto his cot. He was so frail from illness, the task wasn’t altogether difficult.

Marek threw a blanket over his uncle’s shivering form. Then he snuffed the lantern in the corner, leaving only the tiny sigil lamp Mirrin had placed above the doorframe to light the room.

Stepping out, he joined Mags before the hearth where she was adding a few pieces of oak to the fire. She smiled at him sympathetically. Young and stubborn, like Tenacity in the flesh, she always knew what he needed. After one of his uncle’s fits, silence was often the best gift. Warming his hands, Marek stared into the dancing flames. He tried to relax but found the task difficult. His uncle rarely mentioned his father, a man Marek had no memories of. When his guardian slipped, Marek would add whatever fragment of information he could scavenge to the scraps he’d assembled over the years.

So far, he had only a scant few details.

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Strong, he thought idly. So, my father was a strong man. Did you mean physically? Or mentally? Could have been his mana, but then why would Uncle compare him to me?

Too tired to remain frustrated, he let it all go with a sigh. “Thank you, Mags. Appreciate your help.”

“Don’t.”

Marek shrugged. “I mean it. That was a bad one. If you hadn’t helped, he’d have kept on another hour at least.”

His friend pressed her lips together in a thin line, nodding slightly. “Yeah, I know. Still don’t need to thank me. Mirrin’s about all I have in Misthearth to call a friend other than you.” She cracked a grin. “And Principalities know I’d have gone mad long ago if I had you alone.”

“You mean you’d have signed up with a crafter and gotten a real job?” Marek shot back, appreciating the levity.

Mags stirred the fire once more and then set down the poker. She sat and folded her legs before letting out an exaggerated groan. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I already have a real job, and tomorrow I’m scraping hides again for Tavins. Absolute torture, Marek. You can’t imagine it.”

“You’re being dramatic. Shem Tavins is one of the kindest men in Misthearth. You shouldn’t be complaining with how much he pays you.”

“Don’t go spouting sense at me, Marek. Pragmatism is an unforgivable flaw. You should do more to hide it.”

Marek laughed. Mags had a way with words. She would’ve made an excellent Scribe if she were able to sit still for longer than half an hour. As it was, he was happy to absorb her inspired rants as they came.

The warmth of the fire seeped into his hands and feet, and some of the anxiety his uncle’s fit had inspired eased. “Not sure I put much stock in what you call flawed. Still, look on the bright side. Isn’t tomorrow your pay day?”

Mags’ brows lifted involuntarily. “Oh, well, there is that, isn’t there? Four silvers for four mornings of my precious life. Why does it only seem worth it on pay days?”

They fell into a comfortable silence. The fire crackled, and Marek stood and walked to the kitchen. He found sliced bread and a plate of cheese and grapes. Returning to the hearth, he shared the meal with Mags, and they both ate their fill.

Mags finally stood and brushed off her backside. “Well, I’m gonna head out. We still on for tomorrow afternoon?”

Marek smiled and nodded. “I’ll meet you at Baghem’s Bridge! Hope we finally catch that big bastard.”

Mags shook her head and stared up at the ceiling. “Don’t go jinxing us, Marek. I swear, for someone that’s fished his entire life, it’s like you don’t pay attention to any of the rules.”

Marek walked his friend to the front door and unlatched it. “And for someone that likes breaking rules,” he said with a wink,” you’re awfully good at making them up. Good night, Mags. Be safe.”

She stepped into the night and spun around, backing away with a broad grin. “Like anyone’s gonna mess with me. I’m the tallest, strongest, meanest lass in town,” she said, flexing her arm and giggling. “Night!”

He watched her spin round and race toward the steps. Her Ardean black braid was the last thing Marek saw as she danced down the stairs.

Marek closed the door. He latched it securely, then moved through the house, closing each of the shutters against the night’s chill. He dampened the fire by closing the cast-iron doors and cutting off the air that fueled it. They squeaked loudly, but knowing how potent his uncle’s medicine was, Marek knew the old man wouldn’t be bothered.

He washed his face and cleaned under his nails before scrubbing his teeth till they gleamed.

Finally, he found the small bottle of his own precious medicine. It seemed especially bitter just then—not only the taste of the unknown reagents, but the fact that he had to consume them day in and day out. He was supposed to open his mouth and allow ten drops to spill down his throat. It would burn his tongue and warm every inch of the throat. Marek would cough as the fumes tickled his lungs, and a familiar numbness would spread throughout his mouth. Then he’d have but a few minutes before he’d be as dead to the world as his uncle in the other room.

Angry at the fate he shared with the old Sigilist, Marek set the bottle down unopened. Rarely did he skip any step in his many routines. To refuse this task, however, was an act of utter defiance. Yet he couldn’t fathom it. Not tonight. Promising himself he’d take the dose tomorrow, Marek crawled beneath his blankets and closed his eyes.

His mind spun round and round. It wasn’t accustomed to the natural process of falling asleep. His body was tired from the day, though, so eventually his breathing deepened.

Darkness seeped in around him.

Moments before drifting off, the soft thuds of footsteps caught his attention. He opened his eyes to see Mirrin standing in the doorway. In the light of the moon streaming in from the window behind him, the old man’s milky eyes shone like white marbles.

“Uncle, you scared me half to death,” he complained, lifting his head from his pillow.

Mirrin’s answer sent chills running down Marek’s spine. No longer did he howl and rage. Every word spoken was clear as day, haunting and rhythmic. “He comes for us all,” Mirrin said. “The veil soon will fall. The sage grows weary from years afoot, the staff too heavy but for the mage to bear.”

Marek sat up, chill bumps running down his arms and the nape of his neck. “Uncle, you should be in bed. Please, just—”

The old man’s words cut through his own with uncanny precision. It was with cold confidence that Mirrin finished, “The Remnant Mage must answer the call, the immutable standing at his side, for that which haunts the veil will soon leave its pall.”