"Sure that's everything?"

Mags grunted as she yanked on a strap, securing Cinnabar's saddle. "Swept the room twice, like I said. Not that we had time to spread out and get comfortable. What's going on?"

Marek patted Lydia's neck, feeding her a fourth lump of dried honey. She didn't once try to bite him. "I'll explain on the road. We have to get moving. I don't know if I’m overreacting, but I’d rather not find out.”

His friend prodded his shoulder, apparently not willing to delay the confrontation. "Tell me now. A little at least. You're scaring me, Marek, and if it isn't that big a deal, then I'll be pissed you deprived me of a hot bath and half a dozen more pies.”

Sighing, Marek gave in and tried to condense the story. “There was a spirit in the tavern,” he began. “People were talking about a missing girl, so I used my Ability. The poor girl’s scream nearly knocked me off my stool. She was so sad, so damn miserable, I... I used Ether Siphon and absorbed its energy."

Mags shrugged. "And? What's this have to do with some man that left the tavern? Nobody else could see what happened. You're the only one with the Ability, right?"

Marek pursed his lips. Scratching Lydia's forehead, he slowly leaned close and kissed her once. The mule nudged him back and stamped the ground. "Last one," he said, offering the sweet. “I’m all out after that.” Then, feeling a surprising stab of sadness, he made his final farewell to the beast and faced Mags. "I don't know how, but he sensed it. The stranger took off the second I released the spirit, and before he left, we locked eyes. He wasn't a friend, Mags. You need to trust me."

“Sure it wasn’t coincidence?”

“The timing was too uncanny,” he said urgently. “Also, reminded me that Rauld and Mirrin said the Casterans had the means to track me. They sensed when my Class awoke, and it didn’t take them long to find us in Misthearth, did it?”

The woman's sigh was laden with regret, but she didn't raise another argument. She too said goodbye to Lydia, surprising the mule with a pressed cube of sugar Marek suspected she’d taken from the Weary Wyvern.

Then, without further delay, they mounted up.

Marek kept the gelding at a steady walk as they made their way to the road. He remembered he still hadn't assigned the two new Abilities, and he whispered to Mags, "Take the lead. I'm going to confirm the Skills now, and I'm not sure what'll happen."

She nodded and urged Cinnabar ahead. Marek took a deep breath and wrapped the reins around one hand. Something about the Summon Familiar Ability troubled him. Perhaps it was the memory of the terrible wraith he'd witnessed in the dream state of the Soul Singer, or simply the intimate nature of the Spell. It would permanently link his mind to that of another. My enemies won't give me time to find the ironwoods peacefully. If we're attacked, I want... no, I need… to be stronger.

Eyes closed, he gave the mental commands to finalize his decisions. The same intense sensations coursed through him, and relief swept over him. Not so bad, he thought before being assaulted by pain. It was as if an icy blade tore across the top of his head. He stifled a shout and slumped forward. His vision blacked out.

"You okay?" Mags hissed under her breath. "Marek, you look like shit. What's—"

He waved her off, filling his lungs as the pain subsided and the world around him slowly came back into view. The periphery of his vision remained hazy, but he hoped it would clear with time. “I, uh… I think I'm okay."

No sooner had he affirmed his friend than a hoarse laugh echoed in the back of his mind. Bold words for a Remnant Mage. What Kaiteras has ever been “okay?”

Marek stiffened. Back ridged and eyes peering about, he could see no sign of the speaker. Mags frowned at him over her shoulder. No, he told himself. You didn't hear that out loud. It came from inside. Just like it had in the Crucible... Serin? Serin, is that you?

The presence made a disturbing rattle, like a fell lion. Serin is old and all but dead. I am and was Allon Kazeniel, born of the Rift. Perhaps last to do so—if you fail to complete your task, that is. Will you fail, Kaiteras? You don't smell particularly strong.

Hello, Allon, Marek thought awkwardly. I take it you're my new familiar?

The daemon rasped out a harsh laugh. It indulged itself, cackling at length. Marek's lips curled, unable to withstand a thread of disgust. This being inside him felt... deranged. I'm about as new as the bones of the Great Mountain! New to you, I suppose. Yesss, new to you.

An uncomfortable silence stretched, and Mags called back, "We're almost there. You need to stop? You’re green in the gills.”

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"Keep going,” he urged her, “and keep an eye out for the man I told you about. If he intends to waylay our departure, he’ll do so when we leave town.”

Mags slipped an arrow from the quiver on her hip and held it casually in her lap with her new bow. Marek didn't trust himself with a ranged weapon at the moment, but he placed a hand on the newly embellished pommel of the black sword.

Shutterkeep had kept true to his word. The Artificer had gifted Marek a device that latched onto the base of the sword’s pommel. Steel bands encased it in an elaborate swirl. Scaled and intricate, they were crafted in the likeness of a snake’s body. The enchantment it added was minimal but welcome, perfecting the sword’s balance. He’d also thrown in a new scabbard and wrapped the hilt properly in woven silk to lay beneath the leather cordage of Smithie’s Helper. If Marek drew the sword, the Scorch Steel would be immediately recognizable, but all else had been properly disguised.

An ugly pretty thing you've got, Allon muttered. Many souls it's claimed. My, what a soiled blade.

You can sense it? Do you know anything about the sword?

The daemon chuckled in delight. I know that it will spill blood soon enough. That’s good enough for me.

Marek pressed the creature, hoping to gain some insight into the weapon. But what of its creation? Where did it come from? No response came, and Marek felt the presence sink deeper into his mind and go still.

He sighed, unsettled and a little frustrated. Seeing the open road ahead, Marek decided it would need to be dealt with later. "Hold up!" he called to Mags. “I want to speak with the guard before we go."

His friend fell in beside him, and they trotted toward the solitary figure standing at the entrance to Middlebrook. The man nodded to them as they rode up. "Good day, sir! Enjoy your stay in Middlebrook?"

"We did! Gerald's wife is quite the cook."

The guard chuckled and slapped his belly. "I'm afraid I know that intimately. My wife's forbidden me from visiting the Weary Wyvern until my belt shrinks two notches."

Marek cleared his throat, fighting to keep his distress from showing. "I wonder, did you see a gentleman leave recently? A man on foot, or a single rider, perhaps?"

"Nothing of the sort. I'd have seen him if so. You tracking down a bounty?" he asked, chuckling at his own bad joke.

"Not exactly. Just looking for an old friend before we go. Anyhow, I've one more for you if it's not too much. Have any caravans headed west this morning? We were hoping to find some companions to travel with."

The guard's face lit up. "Yes, yes! One left half an hour before sunup. They'll have several hours’ start on you, but the carriage was drawn by a golemite fellow that rolls through occasionally. Blasted creatures creep me out. Kindly, I've been told, but I can't get up the nerve to so much as look at one!"

Mags smiled stiffly and said, "Well, hey, you can't love everyone, am I right?"

The guard completely missed the jab and nodded in agreement. "True enough! Next thing you know you'll be friends with one of them Haikini buggers! I heard they carry disease, ya know?”

"Thanks for the warning," Marek said, speaking before Mags could unleash her tongue. “Anyhow, we have to get moving. Hope you have a good day."

They left town and moved west slowly at first, wary for any sign of the man who'd fled the tavern. Eventually, Marek urged them to pick up the pace in the hopes they could reach the caravan while the sun was on their side. Trotting a mile and then walking the horses half that distance ground away time steadily.

Lydia's absence was acute. It was strange how short a time he'd owned the mule and how much he'd disliked her to begin with, only to wind up missing the stubborn beast. Combined with the anxiety of the scare in Middlebrook and the unsettling conversation he'd had with Allon, Marek found it hard to keep his spirits high.

Mags helped in her usual fashion. Any time they weren't trotting the horses, her mouth was running at full clip. By the time the sun was setting, Marek had reheard several Strongtower family legends as well as a few tales he suspected his friend had made up on the spot.

They pushed the horses for another half an hour, galloping while the light remained. When they slowed once more, Marek sighed. "Maybe we'll catch them tomorrow. Gorb's faster than I'd have thought. Figured Cinnabar and the gelding could have overtaken them by now."

"Let's keep an eye out for a good place to camp, then," Mags replied. Then, sounding annoyed, she asked, "When you gonna name him anyway? Can't just call him gelding."

"Why not?"

The woman gaped at him. "Because it's damn well rude! Would you like your name to mean horse with his nuts cut off?"

Marek laughed for the first time since leaving Middlebrook. "When you put it that way..." He thought it over, considering the horse's coat for inspiration.

The gelding was a dark bay, its flanks a rich reddish brown that faded to black. Nothing came to him immediately, so he moved on to the beast’s temperament. “He's a prickly one," Marek said. "Could give him a name like Stubborn or Pridefall.”

"That horse saved your ass; give him a good name," Mags demanded.

Marek shrugged. "I was thinking Shadow for his coat, but that's too common. What about Shadow Fire? Shade Spark?” He listed more as they came. “Dark Flame. Bright Shade. Ember Dusk... Ember Shade?" Marek smiled and looked to see Mags' reaction.

She only shrugged. "It's your horse. Better than gelding, at least."

"Ember Shade," Marek said, feeling the rhythm of the words on his tongue. "Ember for short. I like it."

Mags suddenly turned Cinnabar to the right and gestured to Marek. “Not bad, but speaking of embers, I think I saw a fire through the trees there."

Marek wheeled Ember around and squinted. A moment later, he caught the rising orange ripple of flame a hundred strides off into the trees. "I see it too. Think it's them?"

Mags hung her bow from the saddle horn and dismounted. Taking it up again, she nocked an arrow and said, "Only one way to find out."

As they approached the camp, Marek's heart beat faster in his chest. He unsheathed the black sword and held it in one hand, leading Ember with the other. Mags set the pace and moved quietly. Soon the fire became easier to see, and they heard voices speaking in low tones.

"Hold up," Marek said. "I think we'd best announce ourselves. Might save us a bit of trouble."

Then a sharp point sank into Marek's rib, and a deep voice spoke before Mags could. "Seems like a wise decision to me. Drop the sword and bow, and perhaps there won't be any trouble."