A spark fell onto the stone at the foot of the stove. They’d kept the grate open to cast a little extra light. After the robbery, sitting in the darkness had been too much to ask. The front door wouldn’t close properly despite both of them having spent ten minutes coaxing it into place. The drafts stole most of the heat away, ruining much of their previous comfort.

None of those things truly mattered. Listening to Mags sob beside him, so enraged she couldn’t speak, had been unbearable.

Marek sat through the worst of it. He kept the fire going and watched the door in case some other tragedy decided to crash in on them. He listened to Mags breathing, rhythmic now that she’d tired herself out and fallen asleep. The rain’s steady patter and the leaky roof dripping in the corner of the cabin joined the girl in her mournful song.

The potions, the tent, the bedrolls, our spare clothes, and our rations, he listed again. They stole poor Lydia too. Only missed Mags’ shortsword ‘cause that buffoon was too careless for a real search. One blade won’t turn the odds, though. How can we make it to Swiftwall, let alone survive the pass into Shirgrim? Might as well turn back now… or maybe camp out for a week or so until the Casterans are gone.

He’d avoided using Intuit—he couldn’t face the obvious answers it would give him—yet too angry and desperate to push it off any longer, he used the Skill, informing the query by highlighting their complete lack of supplies. A sequence of images soured his stomach. He and Mags killed by kobolds during a raid. Mags gored and bleeding out after she’d failed to kill a boar with the sharpened fire poker. The two of them frozen in an early snow, dead from starvation or sick after eating the wrong plant.

Marek dismissed his Skill.

It was useless. They’d need to consider other options. Perhaps they could sneak into Misthearth and ask for more support from Mirrin and Rauld. The Archmage would have coin stored away, though it irked him to ask. Or we could steal from a farmstead, he thought bitterly. This brought his mind back around to the three rogues that had ridden off with Lydia. Pain in the back that she was, he’d grown fond of the mule. Surely, they’d sell her at the next town. She’d have a new owner, would survive. He felt responsible, though, almost like he’d betrayed the stubborn girl.

The rain stopped suddenly. So quick was the transition that Marek withdrew from his dark thoughts. A sliver of pale light fell through the open window and illuminated the floorboard near his foot. He then felt a chill not caused by the cold. He sensed something, or perhaps someone. Acting unconsciously, he tapped into the Skill he’d most often used since the Crucible. Over the drips of the cabin, he heard a faint, rasping voice.

“Call to me, Mage Lord,” it whispered. “I’ll protect them—my son, my wife. Call and I will answer.”

The spectral voice was terrible, all but stripped of its humanity and hoarse from who knew how many years of wandering. Strangely, though, Marek found it familiar, almost comforting. Some brave soul had died nearby, perhaps given their life protecting this farmstead. Who had they been? And were they successful? Did they manage to save anyone? These were questions he couldn’t answer but pondered still. There was something implicating in the spectral voice. Or, more than likely, it was only his own heart raging in his chest to be heard. It asked a single question that felt more relevant and dire than any others he could muster.

If they can do it, why can’t I?

A righteous anger bloomed in his chest, hot and self-directed. I have tools I can’t afford to ignore. The madness be damned! If I don’t use my skills as a Remnant Mage, I’ll only delay the inevitable. But if I use what was given to me, if I… One thought sparked another, and Marek closed his eyes. He activated Intuit once more and added new information to the query, Ether Siphon, the wandering soul outside, the shortsword lying beside him, and Spirit Body.

Can I kill the three men if I ambush them? Marek gasped when he witnessed the results. The first vision showed him slashing into the huge man’s back, only to die after being hit with an arrow, head caved in by the mace a second later. Marek shuddered but refused to release the Skill. The next vision proved informative. The images showed him using Empath’s Gaze to track the men to their camp before springing the ambush. He watched himself rifling through his stolen gear and pulling out the vial of poison, then attempting to slip it into the kettle at the center of the men’s camp. In this iteration, he was discovered and killed by the leader. The brutal greatsword cut halfway through his body before cracking into the base of his spine. Finally, Marek viewed himself slitting one of the men’s throats when the other two had fallen asleep. Slinking over to the archer, Marek thrust down at the man’s throat. The archer woke a second too early, however, and shrieked in alarm. The big man woke nearby and rolled out of bed, snatching up the mace. Marek watched as the heavy weapon pounded against the side of his ribs. His Spirit Body armor shattered, and the mace only knocked him aside. He slashed at the enemy’s stomach, and the shortsword carved through flesh—but not before the mace found him a second time.

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Unnerved by witnessing his third predicted death, Mark dismissed the Skill. He breathed deeply until his heart slowed. Then he glanced down at Mags. Conviction hardened in his chest. If I’m doomed to die of insanity, what’s wrong with risking my life? Better to save my friend and try for a chance to save Mirrin as well. Besides, if I tweak a few things, I might get lucky and live to see tomorrow.

Marek dressed as quietly as he could. Then he picked up his boots and the shortsword. The door will wake her without a doubt, he thought. The side window, then. Holding his breath, Marek crossed the small room to the widow furthest from Mags. Like the other beside the front door, this window had no panes of glass or paper remaining. Only a tattered scrap of linen hung from the frame to stifle the wind. He unfastened the flap and sat on the frame, wincing as the wood creaked. Mags breathed in sharply and turned her head toward the fire. She hadn’t woken. Relieved, he swung his feet around and hopped to the soggy ground.

The sensation of his nearly dry socks soaking nearly broke him. It wasn’t the time to think of comfort, however. He sat down in the muck and fastened his boots before walking around the side of the house, where the tracks of the three riders could easily be seen in the churned mud. The moon was bright enough to easily follow the trail. That might not be the case once he reached the road, however.

“I’ll have to assume Empath’s Gaze can help with that too, like it did in my dream. But first…” His vision altered slightly, the moon seeming a little brighter. At his feet, he could see the tracks of the bandits, but they didn’t glow like they had in his vision. He ignored that problem for now and scanned the path behind him. A pale face stared at him, the skin of one cheek peeled away and entrails draping from a wound in its stomach.

The spirit reached its frail hand toward Marek. “Has the caravan escaped? Did they find refuge?”

Reminding himself he wasn’t in danger, Marek faced the tormented soul directly. He felt their link, not yet fully formed but there nonetheless. Spirits were of his domain. Marek felt a strange kind of obligation to the spirit, the weight of responsibility as well as compassion. Its visage was as horrendous as its rasping voice had been. Anxiety etched deep lines in the remaining half of its face. “So it was a caravan you died to protect. You weren’t from this farmstead after all… I wonder when you passed.”

Marek didn’t know the answer to the spirit’s question, but he saw no reason to admit that. His Skill allowed him to communicate with lingering souls, not just listen to their lamentations. In a voice sounding more confident than he felt, Marek said, “They did. The caravan reached Misthearth and all survived.”

The ghost wavered in an unseen wind. A chill ran along Marek’s shoulders. When the spirit solidified again, it stood tall, its face peaceful. It now held a stout branch in one hand. “I will stand with you, Mage. My staff be yours.”

“I would take it if I had the power,” Marek said. “Perhaps I’ll unlock Command Spirit soon, but for now, rest. You’ve earned your peace.” Reaching out, Marek drew on Ether Siphon and released the soul from its connection to this plane of existence. As the power flooded him, he knew he hadn’t destroyed the spirit. He was only claiming its ether and allowing it to pass on to someplace else.

The being exhaled, tilting its head back in surrender while its body uncoiled into ropes of ether smoke. In half a breath, the spirit was gone.

“Alright, now for the hard part,” he said, body thrumming with the influx of ether. “Hope that was enough energy. I have a feeling I’m going to need it.” Marek didn’t know how far the bandit camp was. They had mounts, and so could very well be several miles from here. Such a trek wouldn’t be easy, yet doing so with an empowered body? That seemed a lot more plausible.

Spirit Body drew ether from the reservoir in his chest. Each part of him was soon covered, and again he had the uncanny experience of walking above the ground, as if he wore an immense pair of armored boots. When the Skill was complete, Marek stood tall. Power surged through his body and soul. His Core had ether to spare, so he invested a great portion into his suit of armor. Strength built in his limbs until he felt capable of knocking down a hill troll, and still he poured more ether in.

Something changed then: The strength and aptitude of his body stopped increasing but his senses heightened. Marek’s eyes took in details around him he hadn’t seen before, the texture of a shaft of grass lit only by the silver moonlight. And more to the point, he now saw the ghostly outline of tracks in the mud. Those closest to the shed where Mags slept were already fading, yet it was enough for him to follow. The smile on his lips faded when he suddenly felt he wasn’t alone. Kill, the voice in his head called. Slay. Destroy. Bind their souls.

Yes, Marek answered. Let us do just that.

A calmness settled over the young man’s emotions. Icy resolve and detachment draped across him like a mantle. The world felt distant, apart from him somehow, and quite manageable. It was like the Crucible, if not more profound. His emotions weren’t behind a partition. They were all but stomped out.

Marek started his pursuit at a brisk walk. His feet impacted the ground indirectly, not quite silent but dampened. He left overly large footprints in his wake, though he might not have seen them if not for his enhanced eyes.

A malicious joy filled his limbs—one that wasn’t muted by his powers in the slightest. He’d been wrong. Those men had taken what wasn’t theirs, and they’d made his friend Mags cry. Their souls are mine to claim.

Increasing his pace, Marek’s walk became a jog and then an outright sprint. He was soon moving nearly as fast as a horse could comfortably run, the night air rushing past him, a frigid energy fueling his every step.