The sack of shiny things Marek had taken from the bandits contained a relative fortune. Two hundred and seventy-three gold, three ten-ounce bars of silver, and a pair of rubies tucked away in a velvet pouch. Considering Leyan and the other bandits' coin purses, Marek and Mags decided everything they’d recovered should be considered stolen. The coin and silver bars seemed like fair game to Mags, and Marek agreed with her. Neither felt comfortable, however, with the necklaces, brooches, rings, belt buckles, or seven gold teeth.

They made a tentative plan to head toward Middlebrook, a small city and prominent trading post that should have a Sheriff or Constable—someone to make the decision for them.

Afterward, Marek’s hunger awoke again, and he ate like a starved man. Mags had ordered him to sleep again, promising to wake him at midnight. As soon as darkness fell and a fire was lit, Marek slept soundly.

As she'd promised, the Strongtower girl shook him several hours later. "Oy! It's time.”

Marek sat up and rubbed his eyes. His body felt better. Little pain bothered him, and his mouth wasn't parched. He was grateful he'd refreshed himself before sleeping again. "I'm up," he said when Mags cleared her throat.

She held out a hand, helping him to his feet. When he stood, she let out a squeak of fright and stepped back a few paces. "Dalen's beard, Marek! You got bigger!"

Everything in the cabin looked a little different to Marek. And sure enough, his short friend seemed even smaller than usual. "Don't know about half a foot," he said, staring down at his legs, “but I think you're right. I'm two inches taller at the least! You look—"

"Don't say it!" Mags snapped. "What's this about? Ah, probably gained a few levels after the fight. Is that it?"

Marek smiled sheepishly. "I did, but more than a few. More like eleven."

Mags’ eyes practically fell from her head. She threw up her hands and stomped to the door, yanking it open. "Eleven! You're telling me you gained 11 Attribute Points overnight? Guessing you dumped most in Constitution, which explains why you sprouted like a stalk of corn!"

Marek said the next words as gently as possible. "22 AP, actually… Remnant Mage gains two each level."

“Sure!” Mags cried. “Why would you progress a little at a time? Why not power level two Classes at once? Makes sense to me? In fact, why didn't I think of it!? I should nab up a primary and secondary as soon as I can and get to work!"

The rant continued. In proper Strongtower fashion, Mags spun a yarn of bullshit so fine it would have glittered in the sun. Marek held back any hint of a reaction other than a smile. He let the woman vent. Her frustrations were good and truly justified.

Marek pulled on his boots, washed his face, and was ready to leave minutes later. Mags had readied everything else, which was fortunate. Instead of letting his friend keep hold of her dour mood, Marek had other plans. He dug into the pack designated for weapons, fishing around for a few items in particular.

When he looked up, Mags was red in the face. Marek laughed, which was permitted. She had that gleam of self-conscious humor in her eyes, which meant she wasn't truly angry. He decided to prod her a little before he revealed his gifts. "Have you thought of applying yourself? Classes don't come easy, Marigold. You might consider trying a bit harder to achieve your goals."

Mags jabbed a finger in his direction. "Watch it," she warned. "Tease me all you like, but don't call me that, damn you!" Marek sauntered toward his friend, two hands hidden behind his back. She frowned, eyes narrowing. "What do you have there? You know I don't like surprises. Not another bag of stolen heirlooms, is it?”

"Since you've been so pissy since I woke up, I'm assuming you didn't search the baggage,” he said with a wry smile. “I did steal these, but I doubt they’re heirlooms.”

Mags took the tinderbox and skinning purse presented. She tucked the box under her arm and unfastened the string that bound the leather case. Carefully, she unfolded the contents, and the faintest smile caressed her lips. "Skinning knives," she said, voice still holding its edge of faux anger. "Alright, I admit these are fine tools."

"Check the other one," Marek prodded.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

She wrapped up the knives and set them on the floor at her feet. Then she cracked open the lid of the box. Her eyes lit up a moment later. "Wait! Just hold on, will you!? This is enchanted?"

"It is."

"The box and the fire stick? They're both enchanted?"

"Mmhmm."

Mags giggled and bounced on her toes. "What does it do? I know shit about sigils."

A deep sense of joy filled Marek's chest. He tapped the side of the box, where four sigils had been engraved into the polished wood. "Four sigils isn't easy to pull off. This was crafted by a Journeyman Sigilist or higher. The enchantment makes the box completely waterproof. Even the air inside the box will remain perfectly dry no matter how humid the weather is. Oh, and it’s fireproof as well."

"And the fire stick? How can it be improved?" she asked, all traces of her grumpiness replaced by enthusiasm.

"The handle has only two sigils. The enchantment increases the amount of heat produced by the flint’s sparks while also reducing the amount of flint expended. Essentially, it'll start fires easier and won't wear out for years if you're careful."

Mags leaned back her head and let out a sigh of utter contentment. “Beautiful, blasted beautiful.” Eyes snapping open a moment later, she pointed. “And what have ya got in that one?"

"Thought you'd never ask," Marek said, handing over the silver ring.

She took it and slid it over her finger. Some of her excitement ebbed and she shrugged. "I don't get it. Not keen on wearing some lady’s engagement ring, Marek."

"If you had Empath's Gaze like I do, you'd notice it isn't an ordinary ring. Nothing fancy, but I figured you'd prefer to keep it. The descriptions claims it increases the speed of any arrow you fire."

"Oh!" Mags said, splaying her fingers and ogling the jewelry in a new light. "That... that'll change a lot! Further distance, better aim in wind and even rain, and damn if it won't kill stuff better."

"Only says a minor increase, but yeah, sounds like it'll turn you into a terror. Imagine how fierce you'll be with your new bow as well."

His friend's mouth fell open. "That's right! One of those bastards was an archer! Probably a Ranger Class, or maybe just a Bowman." Mags made a visible effort to contain her emotions—something Marek always found endearing, for she was terrible at it. "My bow isn't low quality," she said. "You sure the other one is better?"

Marek nodded his head toward the pack he'd taken the other items from. "See for yourself. It’s in an oilskin strapped to the side there."

Mags set the tinderbox beside the knives and tore across the room. She had the bow out and strung in no time. She inspected it thoroughly, and if Marek could guess right, she was impressed. "Thank you," she said, a note of reservation in her tone. "It is nice. The pull is harder, but I can manage it, and it'll increase my range even without the ring."

"Yep!" Marek agreed. "I thought you'd like it. And good thing it's resistant to water, too. That means you can keep it out while we ride at night and not worry about the dew.”

He turned and began rolling up his blanket and bedroll as if nothing was amiss. It took an effort of will not to react to the sharp inhalation he heard over his shoulder. He knew her mind would be whirring at top speed.

"Stop…"

Marek shook his head. "The enchantment extends to the string as well."

"Stop!" she said again, nearly shouting.

"Oh, and it’s resistant to heat and cold as well. Anyhow, you ready to get going, or what?"

Marek stood up and turned just in time to receive a tiny woman. Mags knocked him back two paces, laughing in his arms. "Alright!" she said, pulling free and punching him in the shoulder. "I owe you one, Bones. Suppose I'm not sore any longer."

He rubbed where her punch had landed. "I'm going to be, thanks to you."

Mags rolled her eyes. "Come now. You're a dual-Classed Novice. You'll survive. Now, unless there's any more treasures you want to drop in my lap, I say we get going. The moon is full tonight, and we can make it to the trail if we leave soon."

And so the two fell to work. Mags took a liking to one of the horses, a mare with a red-and-white coat. The mare let her ride without complaint, but when Marek tried to do the same with the gelding, he nearly lost a finger.

A few hours before sunrise, they left the farmstead behind. He rode on Lydia, Mags at the front and the gelding in the back carrying most of their cargo. They rode north at a canter, taking full advantage of the even terrain and moonlight. Ten miles or so past the bandit camp, Mags called back to him, "Take this part slow. Lydia will know what to do, so don't fight her."

Then she spurred the mare down a steep embankment. Sure enough, the mule managed as easily as the horse, if not as gracefully. Marek's stomach flipflopped a few times when he realized the drop was greater than he'd imagined. They descended some fifty feet down the side of the hill before the trail leveled out. Seeing he'd made it, Mags continued along the narrow path.

A half-mile of easy riding in the open gave way to a less pleasant journey. They entered the forest, and Marek had to lie flat over Lydia's neck to avoid being scratched by unseen branches. The trees grew densely, making their progress slow to a crawl. Soon, Mags and Marek dismounted and led the horses on foot.

Thankfully, the sky eventually lightened, and they had an easier time avoiding the low-hanging branches. By the time the sun was up, the trail had widened a little, and the two adventurers mounted up.

Mags rode with her new bow at the ready, poised on her lap much as Riggs had done.

They'd traveled through the night, yet Marek felt refreshed and energetic. Even his saddle sores had healed, and his health had never been better. If I have nothing better to do, he thought, I suppose I'll have to practice my new Skill.

Lips turned up in a gentle smile, eyes closed and face relaxed, Marek drew upon the instinctual knowledge he'd gained. Then he whispered the words, "Distort Soul."