Marek indulged in that indescribable relief that comes when one knows the end is in sight. The cramps in his legs hadn’t abated, but he no longer seemed to mind. Carried onward by a downhill slope, he followed Mags as she led Lydia toward shelter.

“Stopped here a few nights when I was enlisted,” she prattled on. “It’s a known shelter for the Ardean Scouts, and when I traveled north to fight the kobolds, my sergeant let us rest up a bit before heading into the forest to the northwest.”

Marek was pleased to see his friend in such good spirits. Her shoulders were relaxed, her stride easy as she closed the distance. Leaping up onto the ruined porch, Mags stomped here and there a few times, even giving the support beams that held up the awning a shove.

“Ain’t gonna collapse tonight!” she declared triumphantly. “Come on! Unless someone’s gutted it, should still be a stove inside.” She growled when the knob didn’t work, so she bashed the front door with her shoulder. On the third go of it, the door slammed open with a bang and the woman stumbled inside. A moment later her head popped out. “Yep! Still here! Even a little pile of dusty sticks to burn. Tie Lydia in the shed, will you? I’ll get a fire going so we can cook a proper supper and dry our clothes.”

Marek was only too pleased to oblige. A burst of energy fueled his work. Even Lydia gave him no trouble as he led her into the shed and tied off her lead. Unburdening the mule, he shook out her wet saddle blanket and brushed her coat. Then he practically skipped to the nearby stream. The storms had swollen the creek so that it overflowed its banks on all sides. There was nothing to be done for the brown water, so he stooped over the shallows and filled all of their skins. Returning to Lydia, Marek let her drink and fed her some oats before heading inside to tend to his own needs.

Mags stoked a fire in no time at all. The cabin’s interior, drafty though it was, warmed quickly. Time passed pleasantly as they stripped down and cleaned up. Clothes dripping from a rope hung across the mantle, the two ate an entire rabbit Mags had killed the day before. Dressed only in their small clothes, the young man and woman might have drawn suspicion from an uninformed onlooker. From Marek’s vantage point, though, Magpie was only a sister to him—a best friend, a companion he could see in no other way.

He added another log to the fire and took out his box of tools again. It was the perfect chance to practice, and he’d come up with a clever way of potentially enhancing his stamina-increasing staff concept. Mags, on the other hand, took it upon herself to eradicate any shred of silence that might threaten them.

“Timmons was like that,” she said, grease dripping from the corner of her mouth. “Everyone was so sad to see him join the company. Not only bird-chested, but awkward and accident-prone. Wasn’t even an issue with coordination. He was always in his head, you see? So damn anxious that he fumbled every task.”

Marek wriggled his toes before the fire, beyond pleased his feet were dry. Toolbox in his lap, he sifted through the implements and took out the V-point graver. He recalled Mirrin’s lesson, telling him the tool was good for wood as well as flesh and bone. He swallowed a lump in his throat and said, “Nothing wrong with being skinny and anxious.”

She snorted. “There is when you’re signing up to fight raiding kobolds or Casterans. Don’t be so sensitive. Would you be up to the task if you didn’t have your fancy Classes?”

“Don’t think I would with them,” Marek admitted. “Mirrin says the Remnant Mage Class is deadly. I haven’t really tapped into its potential, though, and to be honest, I’m afraid to… Besides, my Abilities aren’t well-suited for group combat.”

“No? What do you mean? Haven’t really told me much about the Abilities that come with this Class. What’s so special about ‘em?”

Marek took a deep breath. He set the V-point and an appropriate hammer beside him and stored the box away for safekeeping. Then he leaned over and picked up the newly carved walking stick he’d cut from deadfall two days past. “Not sure I’m ready to tell you. Don’t you know any of the stories? Even children have heard of the terrible Remnant Mages.”

Mags narrowed her eyes. “I guess so. My father talks more about the Death Mage. I thought Remnant Mages were a myth. Most fanciful stories of impossibly powerful Classes are.”

“And?”

“And what?” she shot back.

Marek tapped the backplate of the graver, peeling away a thin strip of wood. The line he’d cut was perfectly straight, and he smiled. Glancing up at Mags, he arched his eyebrow. “And… what fanciful stories have you heard?”

Mags chuckled and counted off the fingers of one hand. “Fine, I’ll play along. They can outmatch any Pyromancer and can blow up half a city with a thought. Heard from a sailor once that a Remnant Mage is so strong and skilled with the sword that he can cut through an army single-handed. Oh, and how about this one. A kid I nabbed a few coppers from playing dice once told me a Remnant Mage has the power to raise an army of angry spirits and sweep across the land like a tide of death.” Her laughter faltered when Marek didn’t so much as smile. She cleared her throat, and Marek cut another groove. “Oi! Did you hear me?”

Marek nodded and tapped the graver a third time. Just like that, he’d formed the sigil for Bounty. “I did,” he said flatly.

“Well, now’s the time to tell me all that is nonsense! That you can’t do that stuff, and nobody can! Don’t just sit on your ass and play dumb!”

A strange mixture of shame and anxiety troubled him. He couldn’t help but worry that his friend might not see him the same should she learn of his true potential. Marek took his time in answering. He searched for the right words, focusing on the next sigil while he did so. Finishing Replenish, he paused his work and cast his vote in Mags’ favor. She’d loved him as a scrawny weakling. She’d love him as a battle mage… Wouldn’t she?

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“Each of those holds truth,” he explained. “There are different paths, different Subclasses of Remnant Mage. I chose two of those Subclasses and combined them into one. I am a Soul Knight—one part Death Knight, one part Soul Singer.” Mags had gone still, her typical restless energy visible only in her eyes. Marek blew out a breath and shrugged. “I guess you could say the Death Knight represents that cutting through an army single-handedly, and Soul Singer the whole army of angry spirits. I haven’t even begun to develop my powers, but eventually I’ll be able to summon spirit soldiers, empower myself and my allies, and do a great many other things.”

The change that overtook his friend’s face was subtle, yet he found it unbearable. He returned to his task and began work on the third and final sigil. It was easier to make the lines and curves immaculate than it was to see fear in his oldest friend’s eyes.

The wood in the fireplace popped, and a gust of wind jostled the ratty shutters. He tapped with the hammer, concentrating with his entire being. Marek finished the last arc of the sigil Endure when Mags rose to her feet. He froze, terrified she might reject him then and there. Mags crouched at his side and laid a hand on his forearm. Her fingers were greasy from the rabbit, but her touch tender.

“Marek,” she whispered, “look at me.”

He found the courage to lift his gaze.

“Is your heart filled with bloodlust? Do you revel in the misfortune of others? Are you greedy enough to steal what’s not yours?”

Marek’s face wrinkled in a scowl. “No! Why would I ever—”

“Didn’t think so,” Mags said, giving him the same smile she did her youngest brother. “No, Marek, you aren’t mad for power. That isn’t who you are. You’re gentle, cautious, and kind… Those are the features that make me love you so much. You’d rather waste away in a tower’s dank basement reading books than play with swords.”

“Nothing wrong with books; they’re every scholar’s best friend, I’ll have you know,” Marek said, using wit to conceal his relief. “In fact, you might benefit from a little extra reading yourself.”

Mags squeezed his arm harder. “Don’t brush me off. So you have a right scary Class, and one day you might be able to kill half of Ardea. The reason I don’t care overly much is ‘cause you wouldn’t do that! I trust you, Marek. Don’t forget that.”

She left him there, staff in hand and tears welling in his eyes. As if nothing at all had happened, Mags slumped near the fire and snatched another bit of rabbit meat. “You did have a point about Timmons. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. There’s one thing worse than a scrawny goof of a soldier. Branoa was a right prick if I ever knew one, but worse than being rude, he had this endless desire to prove himself. Ever know someone like that? Usually, it’s annoying as hell, but when some fool gives that person command of a squad of soldiers, things can get ugly quick.”

“Oh?” Marek asked, spurring the conversation on and away from his Class. He wanted to hug his friend, but he feared he’d lose his grip on the emotions sloshing around in his chest and throat.

“Oh, yeah!” Mags said as she continued her story. “One day, we was just doing a regular patrol. Nothing fancy and no sign of danger to be found. But what do we find along the way? A single kobold print, dried in the mud near a creek, probably several days old.”

Marek listened to the woman tell her story—one he’d already heard, of course. He cleaned up the sigils with a finishing knife and blew off the excess. Closing his eyes, he willed his mana into motion and whispered, “Imbue.”

He smiled down at his handiwork when the sigils lit up, all three empowering the same purpose. And ordered and linked as they were, the stronger enchantment would not only lend its holder a greater amount of stamina, but replenish it faster too. This was something to be proud of, he knew, and when a tingle of warmth spilled out from his Core, it was all the better.

Mags sat up, eyes fixed to the staff. “Nice! Is that one like the last?”

“Not quite,” he said with a grin. “This staff is quite a bit better. Just you wait till—”

A heavy knock shook the door, and Marek’s mouth clamped shut. Mags practically jumped out of her skin, eyes wide as saucers as she stared first at the door, then at Marek.

“Open up, little birds!” a gruff voice called. “No need to be shy.”

Mags crawled toward the door where she’d stowed her shortsword. Marek stood where he was, holding the staff defensively and wishing he was fully dressed. A boom sounded, and the door crashed open. Droplets of water and a gust of cold air invaded their cozy space. In the dark of night, little could be seen other than a boot and the white teeth of an enormous man. He stepped inside, a great mace clutched menacingly in one hand. It was the lead rider they’d seen earlier that day.

Marek’s stomach dropped. He knew full well the staff was next to useless. He held onto it anyhow, praying like mad things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

Lydia brayed, and a muffled voice cried out, “Bite me again, and I’ll cut your damn ear off!”

A second man stepped into the cabin a heartbeat later, filling the space beside the first. Though a full head shorter, Marek recognized him immediately as the greater threat. He hadn’t even drawn that ugly black sword at his hip.

Smiling grimly, the man said, “Despite how we look, my crew and I aren’t scoundrels. We’ll leave you two lovebirds with your boots and clothes. The rest is coming with us, though. Don’t make a fuss and you might even get a bit of sleep, alright? Tregan, grab their packs and anything valuable you see lying around.”

Mags growled. She’d withdrawn when the door opened, unsuccessful in retrieving her weapon. Spotting the poker near the fire, she snatched it up and pointed it at the big man’s face. “Come near my stuff and I’ll stab you in the eye, you ugly bastard!”

Marek’s Intuit could predict the outcome of a situation with near-perfect precision, but he didn’t need to use a Skill to know his friend was close to getting them both butchered. Calmly, he held out his hand and gripped Mags by the shoulder. “No… you won’t.”

She frowned in confusion, likely not used to hearing such firmness in his voice.

Before his friend could recover, Marek took up the rest of the hare hanging above the stove. He handed it to the giant and stepped backward to stand beside Mags. Then he took her forearm in his hand and held it firmly. “Take what you want and leave us be. The rabbit is a gesture of good faith.”

The leader’s laugh was wicked and cruel. “Clever lad! A gesture of good faith! Not something I’ve heard before, but I appreciate the gesture. I’ll gladly accept your fine gifts.”

Tregan hoisted both packs in one hand, gripping his mace and the skewered hare in the other. He lumbered out into the night and left Mags and Marek alone with the dark man.

“We’ve got a camp of our own,” he said coolly. “See this as a mercy. Most would take your clothes, your fire, and your lives too. Be sure to keep your heads and go back to whatever home you left behind. This far out is dangerous parts.” Mags strained against Marek’s grip briefly, but he held her fast. The man studied her briefly, eyes sparkling in the firelight. “Honey badger, this one. You’re lucky, lad. Feisty wives should be treasured.”

Mags spat, punctuating the man’s words.

He laughed again, thick brows lifting. “Pleasure meeting you, Honey Badger. Come find me when you outgrow your man.”

With a crooked smile, he stepped out into the rain.

Marek’s heart pounded in his ears. Mags panted beside him like an animal, enraged and likely humiliated. The crack of leather over horse flesh and a jeering shout cut through the patter of rain. The group galloped away. The last thing they heard was poor Lydia braying in distress.

Then Marek and Mags were alone in the now chill cabin, with no gear, no mount, and no prospects of achieving their lofty quest.