A dim, foolish, uninspired part of Marek’s mind had hoped this Skill would be like the others. He thought it might come naturally. He was the Remnant Mage, after all.

Ether Siphon, Spirit Body, and Empath’s Gaze presented little challenge. It was almost as if he’d been born casting them.

When he failed to activate Distort Soul for the twentieth time in a row, however, Marek knew how shortsighted he’d been. Stubborn as the mule he rode upon, the young mage made dozens of attempts, then hundreds. The first day of travel came and went, Marek diligently working all the while. He even kept it up while Mags took a nap at midday.

And that was just the beginning of his efforts.

After three days of failing miserably, Marek changed tactics. He fell back on his upbringing. Books held answers most people didn’t know they needed, so he invested a day in study, trusting Lydia to keep close behind Mags as he read. While his nose was pressed to the page, Marek learned how little was known of his Class. It was as if a hole had been carved in history. There must have been records, some documentation of the many mages who’d shaped the face of the Five Kingdoms…

Yet the knowledge he sought had either been burned years ago or else was kept in some hidden archive Rauld knew nothing about.

An hour before sundown, Marek came across a collection of narratives. Transcribed by the editor herself, the woman had interviewed common folk who’d claimed to have seen the mysterious Remnant Mage. One such commoner told of a “power most strange,” in which he saw a man on horseback accompanied by a company of ghosts.

I was high in a tree, hunting for deer, when I saw them marching. Course, I kept still. Even held my breath! They nearly passed me by when the man conjured terrible magicks!

Put both hands on his chest, right? Then he drew them away, and I seen something vile! Purple as a plum it was. All liquid and squirming like an eel, it poked out the middle of his chest and rose above his head. Believe me or not, I swear it. The damned thing spread out like a lady’s parasol!

Queer, I tell you, a queer thing it was! No sooner did the mage pass than the sky opened up and rain came pouring down. Suppose the fellow only wanted to stay dry, but if that’s the case, why not use an oilskin?

He compared the story to the information Empath’s Gaze had lent him for Distort Soul. It wasn’t much to go on, but gleaning even a fragment of a physical description gave Marek enough confidence to try again. Despite this, Marek made no remarkable progress. After all his attempts, he still hadn't drawn out even the smallest thread of his soul.

Hours of frustration melted away the instant he touched it. His soul was there, as he'd thought, a presence within his chest, yet deeper than he'd imagined. Like an intimately familiar warmth, Marek made contact with his own soul and was overcome with awe. Small and vast. Foreign yet completely his own. It filled him completely with gratitude. This is my soul, he thought, tears welling in his eyes. Principalities, it's beautiful.

Of course, his swelling emotions momentarily broke his concentration, and he lost contact. Marek resolved not to allow anger to taint the experience. I'll only learn to know and touch and manipulate my soul once. I refuse to rush through it. Everything else has been poured down my throat. This, I'll keep sacred.

Rather than try again, Marek took the rest of the day off. He rode in uncomplicated silence for an hour. The sun poured across his back like warm honey. Squirrels waged a war against a pesky crow. Mags sang quietly, too embarrassed to let her talent be known. She swayed in her saddle, her voice rich and bright, giving voice to every lilting phrase of Day Mother.

Hours later, when the daylight was just beginning to wane, Mags called a stop to their travel. "Looks like an old cart ahead," she whispered, riding backwards in a loop to inform Marek. "Let's dismount and sniff it out together."

"You getting a funny feeling?" Marek asked. He'd long ago learned to trust intuition. The hidden mind knew much, and only a fool would ignore unexpected fear or suspicion.

Mags shook her head. "Not really. Still makes sense to be cautious, though. Trees kinda bunch up down there, and the trail either turns or dips out of sight. Either way..."

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Marek finished her thought. "It would make for a decent ambush point. Alright, let's go have a look."

They walked side by side down the trail. Marek held his improved staff, hoping he might appear like a caster. Mags with her bow would give someone pause, but he wished his attire was more formidable.

A hundred paces ahead, Marek stopped at the edge of a wide puddle. Sure enough, the trail dove down a gentle hillside. The wreckage of a small cart lay strewn about the puddle, two broken wheels and the rough-hewn planks of the cart to one side, the curved poles and harness to the other.

Mags let out a breath and eased the tension on her bowstring. "Well, no ambush for us today. Can't say as much for whoever died here."

"Died?" Marek asked. "Maybe they just..." His eyes landed on the faded fletching of an arrow sticking out from the side of the cart. “Ah, I suppose you're right, Magpie."

"Aye. I'm gonna search about the cart. Maybe we'll find something useful."

Marek grunted a response, his mind too distracted to do more. He bit his lip and took a steadying breath before activating Empath's Gaze. Twenty feet off to his left, he spotted an eerie glow. The spirit turned its harrowing eyes on him. For some reason, it didn't speak or wail, only observed him from between two holly bushes, face sunken and clothes drooping from its thin frame. Her thin frame, he amended. She’s wearing a dress.

Marek smiled at the soul and shouted to his friend, "I'm going to practice one of my Skills. Don't freak out, alright? You'll see a spirit appear out of nowhere, but it isn't vengeful, and it'll be under my control."

"The hells did you say?" Mags asked, dropping a plank of wood and glaring at him.

"You heard me. Don't look if you'd rather not see. I need to use the Skill, though. It might save our hides one day... Only if I can cast it properly, though."

Mags picked up her bow and sighed. "Fine. Do what you have to do. I'll shoot the blasted thing if it attacks... Wait, can you hurt a spirit?"

Marek smiled at his friend, infinitely grateful for her company. Who else in the world would react like this? "No, not normally. When I use Command Spirit, though, a portion of my ether solidifies the spirit. Still look like a ghost, but they can stab stuff and be stabbed."

"Good to know," Mags muttered.

Marek cleared his mind and focused on the innate link to the spirit. He felt the woman's emotions faintly. Not anger and not sadness, only a deep sense of confusion. As he'd done in the Crucible, he held the concept of Command Spirit firmly in his mind. Then he whispered its name.

The spirit gasped as a stream of ether poured from Marek's chest. Mags let loose a fine string of curses that would've earned a proper cuffing from her mother. Marek basked in satisfaction. He'd been terrified that this Skill, too, would elude him, yet he'd bound the woman's soul with ease.

"I'm going to give her a few commands. Don't shoot."

Mags snorted. "I'll shoot the Rift-born thing if I damn well please!"

Marek decided on a task that was less likely to startle Mags. His companion had nocked and drawn an arrow; he didn't doubt she'd kill the spirit if it made any quick movements.

Turn in a circle, Marek commanded. The spirit tilted its head to one side but otherwise didn't budge an inch. He slowed his breathing and focused before trying again. Turn in a circle.

Again, the spirit only stared back in confusion.

He scratched the back of his head and mulled it over a few times. "Maybe she needs more than words," he muttered. Visualizing the spirit spinning in a slow circle, Marek issued the command a third time.

"It’s moving!” Mags shouted. "I'm gonna shoot it!"

Marek walked to his friend's side and laid a hand on her forearm. "Don't," he said firmly. “She turned around is all. I told you I was going to try a few commands. It's harder than I'd hoped, so calm down and give me a minute!"

Mags groaned and lowered her bow.

Daylight wouldn't last much longer, and Marek knew Mags would prefer to camp as far away as possible. So he wasted little time. He made the spirit crouch and then crawl low across the forest floor. Hoping to learn more of its capabilities, Marek asked it to tear up a sapling. An inch thick, the young pine would present a challenge for most people.

Straining only briefly, the spirit yanked up the sapling and held it awkwardly.

"Alright," Mags said, “you can make it do stuff. Now will you please make it go away? It's terrifying!"

Marek eyed the woman, finding their difference in reactions strange. Must be my Class, he thought. Else my family line's just fond of ghosts. “Fine, but if we're unfortunate enough to get into a real fight, you'll come to appreciate them."

He released the woman's soul and absorbed her ether. Moments later, the spirit was gone.

Mags shuddered. "Let's check for tracks and get out of here. Damn you, Marek, but I'm gonna have a hell of a time sleeping tonight." Shaking her head, she walked to the puddle's edge and hunched low.

Mud kept records of the past. The cart appeared to have been here for quite some time, yet if any signs of struggle could be found, it would be here. Marek veered left, eyes downcast as he studied the patterns. The thin scrapes of racoons. Deep but dainty footpads of a fox.

He froze mid-step. There, splayed in the dried edge of the puddle, he found a different kind of track. It wasn't a bear's, though the print stretched nearly as long. Narrow at the heel, with one deep hole at the end of three immense toes, some common folk might not recognize the spoor. Those that grew up in Misthearth were another sort, however. If a town’s attacked for hundreds of years by the same monster, the folk are unlikely to forget.

"Mags," he said quietly, “you're going to want to see this."

She hurried to stand beside him. When she saw the print, Mags lifted her bow and spun round, searching their periphery. Only when she'd confirmed they were alone did she relax. “Blast it, Marek. We've found them after all!"

"Maybe not," Marek said hopefully. "The track isn’t fresh, and maybe there's only one."

Mags gripped his sleeve tightly and drew him closer. "Wrong, Marek. Where there's one kobold, there's many. Never forget that."